Trusty to his promise, the porter calls us at early dawn. The train is
rushing between massive walls of rock, rising to unseen heights and
confining the railway to the bank of a swift green river. The official
is already up, and standing upon the rearmost platform with closely
buttoned coat, for the morning is chilly in the shadows of these Alps.
“This is The Gap,” he explains, “through which Bow River comes out.
We follow it almost to its sources, before we come to Kicking-horse
Pass, through the central range, or Main Divide. Better have the ladies
called. We shall be at Banff in an hour, and they ought not to miss any
of this.”
He touches an electric button, directs the responding porter to summon
the Vassar family, and we return to the platform.
The Gap has now been traversed, and we can see the great mountains
on each side of it. Then we turn northward and run along the river
between gigantic upheavals. Their tops are half hidden in the lingering
night-mists, but rifts now and then reveal bristling, snow-crested
peaks, rosy with premonitions of sunrise, and tiers upon tiers of
cliffs bounded by long lines of snow resting upon narrow ledges, and
broken by gorges of unmeasured depth filled with blue shadows and
swirling fog. It is a wonderful, inspiring, never-to-be-forgotten
sight. Awakened and driven out by the skirmish line of the hosts of
the morning, the clouds reluctantly forsake their rocky fastnesses,
and more and more of the rugged grandeur and height of the bordering
ranges, right and left, come out. Soon far-away peaks show daintily,
“like kisses on the morning sky,” as one of the ladies expressed it,
in imagery chaste, no doubt, but rather cold; and finally, as we sweep
toward the face of the gigantic precipices of Cascade Mountain (which
seem to rise courteously and advance to welcome us), even the valley
shakes off its blanket of haze, and sunshine pours over the crystal
heights to sparkle upon dewy leaves and glistening river.
Under these brilliant auspices we step out of the car and into a
carriage at Banff, and are whirled away to a great hotel, built upon
the grandest site in Canada.
“This hotel is the Company’s property, and here you are to be my guests
for the day,” was the command of our genial official, as he registered
the names of the party. “It is too early for breakfast. Let us go to
the upper balconies and have a look at the mountains. This is Canada’s
National Park, you know, and she is proud of it.”
What a picture that north-western balcony opened to us! In the
foreground green rolling woodland dotted with turfed openings and the
red roofs of cottages or white dots of tents. Then the tortuous and
shining course of the Bow River, sweeping gracefully to the right. On
the left, steep and wooded slopes; ahead, high mountains--some with
their splintered spires towering above rugged and darkly forested
foothills, others more distant and breaking into jagged outlines,
gashed by blue gulfs and piled with snow, others still farther away,
filmy and white upon the western horizon, where the water-shed of the
continent rises supreme and superb. Nearer is the cliff-fronted mass of
Cascade Mountain, 5,000 feet high, its slender waterfall trembling like
a loose ribbon down its broad breast--the badge of its identity. Past
it, through a rocky gap, our eyes follow the lower Bow, sparkling with
ripples, parted by islets, shadowed by leaning spruces and cottonwoods,
to the green ridges where the railway runs, and on to where the white
wall of the Fairholme range, a massive rank of heights, upholds wide
spaces of stainless snow.
“Just behind that mighty wall, whose tallest peak--Mt. Peechee--is over
10,000 feet in altitude,” our friend tells us, “there is an immense
cañon, occupied by a narrow and very deep lake. The Indians believe it
to be haunted by malignant demons, and I don’t wonder at it. Cliffs
thousands of feet in height rise straight from its margin, and its
waters are shadowed by the Devil’s Head and other peaks, that can be
seen for a hundred miles out on the plains. To cruise upon its surface
in a canoe and catch the monstrous trout that lurk in its coves, while
the echoes of your talk and paddling wander from scaur to scaur, and
wild goats come to the edge of the crags to look down upon you, is an
experience not to be duplicated easily anywhere else in the world.”
“What is this lake called?”
“Devil’s or Devil’s Head Lake. We will drive over there this afternoon,
if you like. I think the views you get from that road are the best of
the whole park scenery, unless, perhaps, you except the view of Mount
Massive and the Main Divide from a boat on the Vermilion Lakes. Now let
us go to the other end of the building.”
“Here,” he continued, when we were gathered upon the south-eastern
balcony, “you are looking _down_ the line of the Rockies, instead of
up their length, as you were before. This is the valley of the Spray,
which joins the Bow just below the hotel.”
We could not see the river, but we could hear its rushing, and readily
believed our friend’s stories of the trout in its pools. On the left of
the valley long slopes of whitish limestone rose bare and glistening
with dew far above the forest, until they terminated in two sharply cut
peaks, from which fell suddenly away, for many hundreds of feet, the
precipices that we had half seen earlier that morning. This was Mount
Rundle--an excellent type of the mountains of stratified limestone,
shaped like wedges laid upon their sides, in parallel rows north and
south, which constitute the eastern half of the Rocky Mountain system
in this part of the world. The eastern aspect of all these ranges,
therefore, is a rank of precipices--tier upon tier of nearly or quite
level ledges of limestone, strongly indicated by banks of snow and
lines of trees--broken into separate headlands, and bordered at their
base by bush-covered slopes of débris. Here and there a great gap
allows you to pass to the rear of these headlands, when you find them
sloping back with much regularity into the forest-covered valley,
beyond which another rank of cliff-faced promontories again confronts
you, and so on until the central water-shed is reached.
“Why does that curious little cloud stay so persistently on the slope
of that hill?” asked one of the ladies, pointing to the right.
“That is the steam from the hot springs,” was the reply, “and after
breakfast we will walk up there.”
The hot mineral springs at Banff lie along the base of Sulphur
Mountain, where they flow from exits round which great masses of tufa
have been built up. The upper spring, some 700 feet above the river,
commands a wonderful view of “peak o’ertopping peak,” with green vales
and broken crags between. From this spring a large stream of sulphurous
water, at a warmth of 120° F., is conducted down to the hotel, to
supply the luxurious bath-houses. More plebeian arrangements exist
at the spring itself for bathing and drinking the waters, which have
proved wonderfully efficacious in curing a great variety of diseases,
especially obstinate cases of rheumatism and dyspepsia. Two miles
distant, up the Bow, are two other prominent springs--one an open
basin, and the other a large pool, occupying a dome-shaped cavern built
out of its own depositions when it was more copious, and this is now
a most curious place. Originally, the only way of reaching the water
was by squeezing one’s self through the chimney at the top of the dome
and sliding down a slippery ladder, like entering a Tchuckchi house
in Siberia. Now a tunnel has been bored through the side of the dome,
level with the surface of the diminished water, and you go straight in
from your dressing-room in the rustic cottage at the entrance. Another
pretty cottage admits to the open pool. In both the pool and the cave
the water is pleasantly warm, clear and almost tasteless, though highly
impregnated with salts, giving it a close resemblance to the Arkansas
Hot Springs. These improvements of the springs, and the good roads
throughout the Park, are the work of the Government, which is making
easily accessible all the most interesting localities and best points
of view.
We could have spent a week in this most delightful spot--rambling,
climbing, sketching, shooting (outside the Park limits), fishing and
boating. The beautiful river and lakes, and the falls, have hardly been
mentioned, even. But time presses, and next morning sees us reluctantly
resuming our journey.
[Illustration: MOUNT STEPHEN FROM THE WEST.]
From Banff we pushed straight westward through wooded defiles into the
upper valley of the Bow, where the scenery is upon an even grander
scale. On the left runs a line of magnificent promontories--prodigious
piles of ledges studded with square bastions and peaked towers. On
the right is a gray sloping wall, 5,000 feet high, of slaty strata
tilted on edge, and notched into numberless sharp points and splinters,
like the teeth of a badly hacked saw. Between the two, right in
the foreground, stands Castle Mountain, isolated, lofty, brown and
yellow, vividly contrasting with the remainder of the landscape, and
terminating in a ruinous round tower from whose top pennants of mist
are waving more than a mile above our heads. As we roll past its base
it gradually changes from a lone castle tower to an escarpment of
enormous cliffs. These can be climbed, and the expectation of what the
outlook would be is more than realized.
But we must not forget in the grandeur of the Castle the splendid
peaks fronting the valley on the left--Pilot, a leaning pyramid poised
high upon a pedestal of square-cut ledges; next to it the more massive
summit of Copper Mountain, to which you may almost ride on horseback
along an old road cut to the copper mines near its apex; then the green
gap of Vermilion Pass (into the Kootenay Valley), through whose opening
we catch alluring glimpses of many a haughty spire and bristling
ice-crown along the Continental Divide. To the north of this gap
stretches Mount Temple’s rugged wall, and beyond it, supreme over all,
Lefroy’s lonely peak--loftiest and most majestic of them all.
When Castle Mountain and the steel-pointed sierra behind it have
swerved to the right, we see northward the great glacier that nourishes
the childhood of the Bow with milky meltings, and in the midst of a
galaxy of hoary peaks the noble form of Mount Hector--a monument to
the first explorer of Kickinghorse Pass. Then, leaving the Bow, we
climb the gorge of a little creek and enter the jaws of a narrow gap
through the central range. Upon either hand rise rugged walls crowned
with Alpine peaks, framing a chaos of snow-fields, glaciers, and
sharp black summits westward--some close by, and showing the scars of
ages of battle with eternal winter; others calm and blue in the far
distance. Yet here in the pass it is warm and pleasant: trees flourish,
flowers bloom, cataracts leap and flash in the sunlight. Backward we
review in profile the line of mountains we have passed; beside us are
the crumbling terraces and turrets of the Cathedral, thousands of feet
straight upward; ahead, reflected in a lake whose waters flow east
to the Atlantic and west to the Pacific, the stately head of Mount
Stephen, brandishing cloud standards and carrying with royal dignity
its ermine mantle of snow and gleaming coronet of ice.
[Illustration: THE SELKIRK PEAKS.]
We have pierced the Rockies and are looking down the Pacific slope.
Range after range of blue-and-white crests, rising from valleys of
forest and prairie, burst upon our awed vision. The scene is past
adequate description; we do not say much about it to one another, but
only look; and when the descent has been accomplished, and some hours
later we halt on the bank of the Columbia (only 100 miles from its
source), we are almost stunned with the sublime panorama that has been
unrolled so rapidly before our eyes, each scene more astonishing in
its magnitude and beauty than the last.
Yet we have crossed only one of the three great subdivisions of the
Canadian Rockies. Just ahead lie the Selkirks, and beyond that is the
Gold Range. Then we shall cross a wide, hilly plateau region. Finally
we must follow the Fraser River in its profound cutting through the
Cascades range, before we see the coast of the Pacific. The whole
distance from the eastern base of the Rockies to the coast--Banff to
Vancouver--is done in thirty-six hours, and the night travel comes
where there is little loss of fine scenery; but it is too much to take
in at once. Our stop of only one day at Banff was not only a rest, but
allowed us to become acquainted with the mountains and prepared us for
what we should see ahead; and we mean to stop again at the summit of
the Selkirks.
The ascent of the Selkirk range from the east is begun in a regular
gateway, where the Beaver River pitches down some rocky stairs at the
bottom of a chasm, and is continued along the forested side of its
valley, gradually ascending until the track is a thousand feet above
the stream. Here the splendor of the Selkirks is manifest in the west,
where a rank of stately mountains, side by side and loaded with snow,
are grandly outlined. Then we turn up a branch cañon and enter Roger’s
Pass through the terrific cleft between Mount Carroll and The Hermit.
In another place[2] the present writer has described his first
impressions of these singularly impressive heights--the climax of the
transcontinental trip.
At the western extremity of Roger’s Pass lies the Great Glacier, where
the Company has built a beautiful little hotel, within twenty minutes’
walk of the ice. It would have been nothing short of criminal to have
gone past this point without stopping.
The path through the forest, the huge size of whose trees, and the
redundancy of whose mossy undergrowth, bespeak our nearness to the warm
coast, is along a brawling river gushing from underneath the glacier.
Presently the vast slope of creeping ice is before us, completely
filling the head of the gorge. All the glaciers we have hitherto seen
were near the very crest of the range, but this one comes far down into
the forest, so that flowers and shrubbery are sprouting all around its
lower margin, whence a dozen rivulets gurgle out to feed the river.
The rounded forefoot is broken, where blocks of loosened ice have been
sloughed off, and seamed with numberless cracks, the commencement of
further sloughings. These cracks and the freshly exposed faces are
vividly blue, while liquid turquoise fills all the cavities and deepens
to ultramarine in the shadows; but the general tone of the glacier, as
it slopes steeply upward in billowy undulations toward the head of the
ravine, is grayish white. Curving crevasses cross from flank to flank,
and longitudinal rifts gash the surface as if cut with a sharp knife in
an elastic substance. These crevasses may be as blue as the clearest
sky, or sometimes green as young grass, according to the light; and
between are often pure-white patches of fresh snow. Toward the top
(where the breadth is nearly two miles) the slope is still steeper and
the surface smoother; but along the very crest, jagged and hard against
the sky, thousands of fractures appear, indicating how the mass of
ice breaks, rather than bends, as it is pushed over the cliffs. These
breaks then reunite, and the chaos becomes the smoothly congealed and
undulating surface we see below.
[Illustration: A CAÑON ON THE ILLICILLIWAET.]
“This glacier,” the official remarks, “is only one of several overflows
from a _mer de glace_ occupying a plateau on the summit, scores and
perhaps hundreds of square miles in extent. It is continually crowded
over the edge through breaks in the rim of cliffs, and thus room is
made for the new deposits of snow annually heaped upon its frigid
wastes.”
For several hours we scrambled about the edges of the ice. On its right
is a huge moraine, which we climbed for a few hundred feet and thence
ventured out upon the glacier itself, but could go only a few steps,
for we had no spiked shoes, alpenstocks, ropes, or other appliances for
safety. Greater in size than any of the Swiss glaciers, its exploration
needs at least equal precautions. On one side a cave in the ice remains
to mark the former exit of some now diverted stream; and when we
entered it we found ourselves in an azure grotto, where the very air
was saturated with blue and we expected to be turned into petrifactions
of sapphire.
All the morning there rests upon the ice-slope the huge triangular
shadow of Sir Donald--a superb pyramidal pile of cliffs, shooting its
slender apex far above all its royal mates--Ross, Dawson, Carroll, The
Hermit, and Cheops--and cleaving clouds that have swept unhindered over
their heads. It is imperial in its grandeur and separation from the
rest, and nowhere shows more magnificently than when we look back from
a point far down the pass, and can see how royally this richly colored,
elegantly poised spire soars exceedingly sharp and lofty above the
group of lesser mountains--themselves monarchs of the range--grouped
sublimely about it. These were the pictures we saw as, refreshed by a
night’s slumber in the balsamic air of the spruce-clothed mountains, we
renewed our journey next morning, and from the foot of Ross Peak gazed
back with amazement at the tortuous descent our train had made around
the loops and trestles that had “eased” us down from Roger’s Pass and
Glacier Station to the bank of the Illicilliwaet.
This river, fed by unmeasured stores of snow and ice kept in a circle
of heaven-piercing peaks, rushes away down a series of densely wooded
and rocky gorges. With much ingenuity the railway follows it to the
Columbia, which has made a long detour around the northern end of
the Selkirks since we last saw it. Here is Revelstoke, a railway
headquarters, the limit of steamboat navigation, and the supplying
centre of many mines. Behind it are lifted the western outliers of the
Selkirks; before it, beyond the Columbia, is the Gold Range, some of
whose glacier-studded peaks constitute a grand view.
The Gold Range is easily crossed. Eight miles beyond the Columbia
bridge, we have risen into Eagle Pass, which is only 1,900 feet
above the sea, and are gliding past lake after lake nestling between
magnificent headlands. Trees 200 feet tall fill the pass and encircle
the lakes in a close and continuous forest, and wherever a ledge or bit
of easy slope allows soil to cling, the rocky crag-sides are clothed
with luxuriant foliage. It is the White Mountains, or the Blue Ridge,
doubled and trebled in scale. Each of these deep, still lakes is filled
with fish, and along the Eagle River, which leads us westward out of
the pass through a darkly shaded ravine, are many camps of sleepy
Indians fishing for salmon.
As evening approaches we escape from the hills and run along a
connected series of long, narrow and very deep bodies of water,
penetrating between hills and ridges covered with unbroken forest. This
polypus-like lake is called the Great Shushwap, and is as large as
Cayuga, Seneca, and all the other lakes in Western New York would be
were they connected by navigable straits. Fed by several strong rivers,
it forms the reservoir which guarantees a steady supply to Thompson
River, by whose side our train will run all night.
“These lakes are wonderful places for sport,” says the official.
“Salmon and several other fish are numerous, and every kind of game
abounds. It is an almost untouched field, too, although facilities for
getting over an immense region of wild country, by steamboat, sloop or
canoe, are exceedingly good.”
“What are we missing in the night?” asked Miss Vassar, as darkness
blotted out the landscape and the cheery lamps were lighted for the
last of so many jolly evenings together in this overland voyage.
“You don’t miss much until toward morning; and that you may get a fair
idea of by moonlight if you sleep on the right-hand side of the car.
We are getting entirely past and away from the mountains now, into a
plateau country of grassy hills where farming (except by irrigation)
has small success, but grazing is a great industry. At midnight we
go through the important town of Kamloops, the headquarters of this
grazing region, which extends for hundreds of miles southward, and is
interspersed with many gold and silver mining localities. Then we pass
Kamloops Lake and get into the cañons of the Lower Thompson River.
There the scenery is very curious. This is a dry country--looks like
California--and the rocks and earthen river-banks have been carved
by wind and occasional deluges into the most fantastic and gayly
colored of monumental forms, through which the waters of the racing
Thompson mark a sinuous line as green as the purest emerald. It’s a
very extraordinary, grotesque landscape, but having seen it once in
daylight, I, for one, am satisfied to go through henceforth by night.
After we leave the mouth of the Thompson at Lytton, however, and begin
to descend Fraser River, the scenery becomes very grand and beautiful;
so you must get up early once more.”
How shall I tell in a few words what those Fraser cañons are like?
They are not like the thin, abysmal clefts of Colorado, nor the weird
corridor through which the Missouri makes its way.
The Fraser is the main water-course of British Columbia, and comes from
the far northern interior. It is a broad, heavy, rapid stream, flowing
between steep banks sloping ruggedly back to the mountains, whose white
and shapely peaks stand in splendid array before us at Lytton. The
railway is at first on the eastern bank, and high above the turbulent
yellow river, which is soon compressed into a narrow trough, where the
hampered water rushes and roars with frightful velocity. Cliffs rise
for hundreds of feet with out-jutting buttresses that almost bar the
passage. Huge rocks, long ago precipitated into the water, have been
worn “into forms like towers, castles, and rows of bridge-piers, with
the swift current eddying around them.”
Near Cisco advantage is taken of a particularly narrow strait to cross
the river upon a huge cantilever bridge, the farther end of which rests
in a tunnel. The scenery here is savage, but the air is soft and the
sky clearest blue. As we proceed, the cañon rapidly becomes narrower,
deeper, and more terrific; the river, a series of whirlpools among
knife-edged rocks. The railway pierces projecting headlands in short
tunnels, springs across side-chasms, and is supported along sharp
acclivities by abutments of natural rock or careful masonry. Finally
the constantly heightening wall on the opposite side culminates in
the crag of Jackass Mountain, which rises 2,000 feet in a well-nigh
perpendicular mass--a second Cape Eternity. Nearly 1,000 feet above
the boiling torrent, and often overhanging it, the wagon-road built
years ago to connect the Fraser River gold mines with the coast creeps
about its brow; and the little party of Indians trotting along this
airy pathway look like pygmies or gnomes who have come out of some
stony crevice to see us pass. Yet four-horse stages were driven here
for many a year, and before the road was built men traveled afoot over
the trail which preceded it, passing places like these on swinging
pole-bridges, something like the foot-ropes under a ship’s yard-arm.
Thrilling stories of that trail and road in the fierce old mining days
of ’58 and ’64 are recorded in books and told by the “mossbacks” one
meets up and down the coast. But since the building of the railway the
wagon-road is little traveled, though the Cariboo district northward,
and other districts south of the line, still yield gold and silver
bountifully under systematic mining.
[Illustration: ON THE BROAD WATERS OF THE FRASER.]
As we roll steadily onward through long shadows projected across the
gulf by the rising sun the cañon alternately expands and contracts,
but never loses its grandeur. The queer little figures of Chinese
gold-washers dot the gravel-bars here and there (we can’t help
wondering how they got down there!), and on almost every convenient
rock near the river’s edge are perched Indians with large dip-nets,
industriously scooping in an eddy after loitering salmon. Their rude
bivouacs are scattered about the rocks; and their fish-drying frames,
festooned with the red flakes of salmon-flesh, among which the curing
smoke curls as lazily as Siwash smoke might be expected to do, add the
last touch of artistic color to the picture.
[Illustration: TYPES OF WESTERN STEAMBOATS.]
[Illustration: SCENERY OF THE FRASER CAÑON.]
But a painter will be attracted constantly by the form and color of the
bronze-brown chaotic rocks, the tawny, foam-laced river, the gaunt,
desperately rooted trees, and the brilliant azure of the sky. And
everywhere he will find handy a foreground-bit of “life”--gold-diggers,
mule-trains, Chinese red-labeled cabins, Siwash “wickiups” and
barbarically adorned graves, or some trim railway structure--to lighten
the composition with a sympathetic human touch.
At North Bend we get breakfast in a charming hotel, and then go on
again, past the important old town of Boston Bar (now abandoned to the
Indians) and over the bridge above Skuzzy Falls, which come sliding
down fern-strewn rocks in cataracts of lambent emerald. Gradually
the cañon walls grow high again, and encroach more and more upon the
channels. The railway passes from tunnel to bridge and bridge to tunnel
in quick succession, always curving and costly. It is one long gallery
of wonders. Ponderous masses of rock, fallen from the cliffs and long
ago polished like black glass, obstruct the current, which roars
through narrow flumes between them and hurls showers of spray far up
their sides. This is the Black Cañon of old settlers; and an idea of
its tortuous narrowness may be got from the fact that in freshets the
choked-up water will rise a hundred feet above the ordinary level.
At the foot of this cañon is Yale, an old trading post and frontier
town, ensconced in sombre mountains. As the head of navigation on the
lower Fraser, it was once the leading town of the Province, and still
has some 12,000 inhabitants. A few miles farther on is another similar
village, Fort Hope, which is at the limit of steamboating, and is
charmingly placed in front of a cluster of brilliant Cascade peaks.
At times the figure of a colossal anchor is marked in snow-banks upon
one of these summits; whence the name of the village--for is not the
anchor the emblem of hope? In these mountains rich silver lodes await
development.
Gradually the cañons and cliffs are left behind, and we gather speed on
a level track through woods of prodigious growth. The river becomes a
broad and placid stream, “backing up” here and there into lagoons, and
making prairies utilized for herds of cattle. Beautiful mountains show
themselves in every direction--last and finest of all, Mount Baker,
fifty miles away.
At Agassiz many passengers leave the train to visit the Harrison Hot
Springs, at the foot of Harrison Lake, five miles northward. This
is one of the pleasantest watering-places on the coast, and a most
interesting spot for sport and amusement. Harrison Lake and its outlet
into the Fraser, with other lakes and portages, formed the foremost
route to the northern interior twenty-five years ago. Its waters were
then alive with steamboats, and the roads with wagons and pack-horses;
but now the route is quite abandoned, and its wayside habitations have
fallen into decay.
At noon we scent the saline odor of the ocean, and presently come with
eager curiosity to the shore of Burrard Inlet. Half an hour later we
are at Vancouver, and our transcontinental trip has reached its western
terminus.
Two years ago a saw-mill represented civilization, and a dense forest
covered the peninsula between Coal Harbor (a widening of Burrard Inlet)
and English Bay (an offshoot of the Gulf of Georgia), where now a city
of 5,000 people is established. The town is crescent-shaped, rising
with gentle ascent to the ridge overlooking the open gulf, the heights
of Vancouver Island and the Olympic and Cascade ranges in Washington
Territory. Upon this high ground a group of residences has already
arisen, whose windows command a wonderfully beautiful view of water and
mountains.
The town has been built with great rapidity, but the wooden houses
first thrown up are fast giving place to substantial buildings of
brick and stone. All the improvements of modern civilization have been
introduced; business and agriculture flourish; mining and the fisheries
are engaging more and more capital, and the foundations of a great and
beautiful seaport have been laid.
Thus the Canadian Pacific Railway is, in fact, a new way round the
world!
[2] “Mountaineering in British Columbia.” A lecture delivered
before the American Geographical Society, in Chickering Hall,
January, 1886.
A CRITICAL SITUATION.
BY S. SMITH.
As I was walking through one of the principal London streets the other
day, on my way to fulfil a business engagement, my attention was
attracted by one of those huge posters which plentifully besprinkle
the walls of the city. In resounding tones of red, blue and bright
vermilion, it called the attention of the public to the fact that the
stirring sensational melodrama, of deep domestic interest, entitled
“For Life or Death; or, the Grave’s Witness,” was then being performed
to overflowing audiences at the Royal Lorne Theatre. Just above
the printed announcement was a picture representing one gentleman
apparently in the act of boring a hole in the floor with another
gentleman’s head, and which I took to bear reference to the printed
notification below.
My momentary curiosity satisfied, I turned to proceed on my way, when
my eyes encountered those of a man standing by my side--a man whom
I had not noticed before, and who might have been the very ghost of
a sandwich man instead of a sandwich man in the flesh, so suddenly
and quickly had he come upon me. Yet, there he unmistakably was, his
tattered old frock-coat, once the pink of fashion, frayed at the
edges, worn to shreds at the seams, and bulging at the elbows; the
trousers darned and patched in a dozen different places, but now gone
far beyond the last stage of repair; the patent-leather boots broken
and down at heel, and almost soleless; the battered white hat, with
black band round it, and the brim all but gone; the bulbous red nose,
the trembling mouth and the bleary eyes that told their own tale.
I stood for a moment staring at this sudden appearance without any
particular reason, and he, in his turn, staring at me. The pause,
awkward enough in all conscience, was of that character in which one
of the parties feels impelled to make an observation of some kind in
order to get decently away. Before I could open my lips, however, my
companion anticipated me.
“Striking sort of picture, that,” he said, in a dry, husky voice, and
with an apologetic kind of sniff.
“If coloring has anything to do with it, I should certainly say it was
striking enough,” I replied.
“Ah!” he returned, “you seemed interested in it; but I’ll warrant
you’re not half so interested in it as I am. There’s not a soul in
all this city that understands that picture as I do. The worst of it
is, when I once start looking I’m unable to leave it for thinking of
what this play once did for me. Then the police have to move me on, and
that gets me into trouble. Even if I would forget the past, I may not,
for--look here!”--he pointed to the two boards slung over his shoulders
as he spoke, and showed me the inscription, “For Life or Death,” in
lightning zigzag letters.
“Many people stop to look at the posters here and elsewhere, but there
is not one of them to whom it means what it does to me. To you and them
it is only a picture badly designed, clumsily cut, and worse colored.
To me it is the story of my life’s ruin. Perhaps you’ll wonder what I’m
driving at. If you care to listen for a few moments I can tell you.”
He glanced at the open doorway of one of the old city churches near at
hand. “Come in here,” he said; “it’s quiet and shady, and when there’s
no one about they sometimes let me go in there for a rest. You may like
to hear what I have to tell, and I shall be glad to get these infernal
boards off my shoulders for a few moments.”
Thoroughly interested already in spite of myself--perhaps more by the
man’s manner than anything else--I followed him. Entering the porch,
he took the boards off his shoulders and placed them against the wall,
and taking his seat on the bench just inside the doorway, drew a pocket
handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead with it.
“To begin with,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “let me tell you
that my name is Edward Morton. Perhaps you will not believe me if I
say that I was once upon a time--what of all things in the world do
you think--a dramatic critic! Yes, it’s true. What is more, a dramatic
criticism was the beginning and end of my downfall; and this is how
it happened. It was about ten years ago, and soon after I started
my journalistic career in the provinces, that I took a situation on
one of our great daily papers--_The Blunderer_, to wit. This I had
succeeded in obtaining through the influence of a friend at court,
and, for a youngster just entering the profession, it was looked upon
as an immense piece of good fortune. However that may be, up to town
I came, and not being quite a fool, turned my chances to such good
account that I was soon spoken of on all sides as ‘a promising young
man.’ I might have gone on in this way, and ultimately attained
to a bald head and a sub-editorship at fifty or so, but for doing
two exceedingly foolish things. I made the acquaintance of Charlie
Dashwood, and I fell desperately in love with a pretty actress, and one
who was quite as clever and good as she was pretty--Lizzie Rayburn--you
remember her? This Charlie Dashwood was a journalist like myself--a
wild, harum-scarum fellow of the speculative sort--you’ve met his
prototype, I daresay; always going off at a tangent, or breaking out
in a fresh place when least expected; full of extravagant ideas about
the undiscovered possibilities of the press; always vaporing about the
reforms he intended to originate, if ever he should edit a paper of his
own. I, at that time, admiring and looking up to Charlie, not only as
the best of good fellows, which he really was, but as the very prince
of journalists and an original genius, which, only too late, I have
discovered he was not, firmly believed in and held to him in spite of
the ridicule and chaff of older and wiser heads.
“At last, one day Charlie came to me at the office in a perfect frenzy
of excitement with the news that he had just taken the management of a
new weekly paper called _The Bullseye_, which would make its appearance
the following week, and which had, as usual, been started to fill the
not particularly noticed void. ‘We’re all full up with the exception of
the dramatics, and Teddy my boy, you’re the very man! I know you have
ideas of your own about the way that sort of thing should be done, and
here’s the opportunity. Between us, we’ll make the paper the biggest
“go” in London.’
“What Dashwood said was true. I had long possessed secret yearnings
that way, which I had at times confided to Charlie. For a moment
considerations of prudence came to my aid, and I ventured the mild
suggestion of a doubt as to whether I was quite fitted for that line of
work.
“‘Nonsense, my boy!’ said Charlie; ‘I know your proper capacity. You’re
sure to make a hit.’ It was a curious fact that Charlie possessed the
most remarkable intuitive faculty for discovering everybody’s proper
capabilities except his own.
“‘Besides,’ he added, ‘think of Lizzie!’
“That settled it. Without further ado I closed with the offer, and a
fortnight later saw me installed as dramatic critic of _The Bullseye_,
with the title of that publication inscribed on my cards underneath
that of _The Blunderer_. The plan of operation I proceeded to act
upon was this: I had long had a wholesome contempt for that class of
dramatic critics forever hanging round stage doors and hotel bars, and
drinking with managers and actors, so I resolved to set an example
in the opposite direction by keeping religiously aloof from all
association with the profession--with one exception. This was Lizzie,
who insisted on receiving her little paragraph of two or three lines
regularly every week, and with whom I spent each Sunday afternoon and
evening at her father’s place in Twickenham, whither he had retired
to spend the rest of his days, free from the smoke of Aldgate and the
cares of the grocery business. There had once been some talk of a Mr.
Loydall, a huge, beetle-browed, hoarse-voiced tragedian, who played
heavy lead to Lizzie’s juveniles at the Olympian, but he soon found out
that he had no chance with me, and after one or two tussles retired
from the battle, leaving me to walk over the course at my leisure.
“As you will guess, matters were pretty well settled between Lizzie and
me, and we obtained old Rayburn’s consent to our marriage whenever the
_Blunderer’s_ management should recognize my merits sufficiently to
advance my salary, and enable me to take Lizzie away from the stage.
_The Bullseye_, contrary to everybody’s expectations--everybody, that
is, outside the office--showed signs of becoming a pronounced success.
My dramatic criticisms was soon one of the leading features of the
journal. I had always had a notion that the withering, sarcastic style
of writing was best suited to me, and this was the line I took, with
such effect, that at times it became difficult to find out whether I
had been praising or ‘slating’ a piece or an actor. Some people were
unkind enough to say that they would prefer the latter process to the
former. Needless to say that, as the power and influence of the paper
increased, I soon became an object of hatred and dread to the whole
profession. This only tickled my vanity the more, and I would strut
along Fleet Street and the Strand of a morning meeting the scowls of
passing ‘pros.’ with a stare of supercilious indifference.
“One night, entering my club at the usual hour, just before starting
for the Lorne Theatre, where a new piece, entitled ‘For Life or Death,’
was to be produced that evening, I found a telegram lying for me in
the rack. It was from Lizzie’s mother, telling me that Lizzie had
been seized with a dangerous illness that very morning, and begging
that I would proceed to the house at once. For a moment I was in a
serious dilemma. At all hazards I must see Lizzie that night, yet it
was imperative that I should attend the first night show at the Lorne,
having for that special occasion undertaken _The Blunderer’s_ notice in
place of the regular man, who was absent through indisposition.
“Then an idea struck me as I caught sight of Scrubby, the dramatic
critic of _The Scorcher_, at the other end of the room, already
preparing to leave. Scrubby was a reliable man, I knew, and the best
available for the purpose I had in my mind. Crossing over to where he
was, I showed him the telegram, and explained my difficulty.
“‘Nothing easier, my boy,’ he exclaimed, clapping me on the back.
‘Trust to me. I’m going down to the show, and will leave you a program
here, marked with my notes, on my way to the office. If you’re back
here by half-past ten, you’ll find it waiting. Then you can scribble
your notices for the two papers from my notes, and send them in in the
usual way.’
“Warmly shaking him by the hand, I accepted his offer, and hastened
away to Twickenham. When I reached the house I found my darling already
delirious in the first stages of a high fever, and calling for me. I
remained by her side, holding her hand in mine and soothing her as
best I could until she had fallen off into a fitful doze. Then I stole
quietly away, whispering to Mrs. Rayburn that I would return as soon as
my business in town was concluded.
“When I got back to the club I found, as I expected, the program lying
in the rack, inside an envelope addressed to me. Scrubby’s analysis
of the production, play and acting, was distinctly unfavorable, his
marginal notes having such a bitterly acrid flavor that I concluded
it must all have been very bad indeed; and so I followed suit with
good interest, cutting up everything and everybody concerned in the
most unmerciful manner. The notices written, I put them into separate
envelopes, the one addressed to _The Blunderer_, the other to _The
Bullseye_, and sent them to the offices by the club messenger. This
done, I went back to Twickenham.
“Returning to town the following morning, almost the first person I
met was Charlie Dashwood. I made to speak to him, when, to my utter
bewilderment, he stopped me short with a motion of his hand, looked me
full in the face, and slowly drew a copy of that morning’s _Bullseye_
from his pocket. Opening it, he pointed to my criticism of the
production of ‘For Life or Death,’ at the Lorne Theatre, and held it up
close to my eyes, then, deliberately turning his back upon me, passed
on without uttering a syllable. I stared after him in a kind of daze as
he rapidly disappeared. What on earth could he mean? What could he be
driving at? In all my experience of him I had never known him to act so
strangely. Could he be going off his head, or was I going off mine, or
what?
“If I wanted an explanation I had not long to wait for one. As
I entered the office, the hall-keeper handed me a letter, the
superscription of which I recognized as that of the editor. I opened
the letter with an unaccountable trembling at the fingertips. What I
found inside was a check for three months’ salary, with a notification
to the effect that in consequence of my great success in having that
morning made _The Blunderer_ the laughing stock of all London, the
proprietors considered it due recognition of my talents that I should
not enter the office again. For explanation I was referred to the
enclosed cuttings from that day’s daily newspapers. I lifted one of the
slips from out of the envelope, and what then met my eyes caused me to
stagger back speechless and breathless against the wall, for there in
that brief announcement of the postponement at the last moment of ‘For
Life or Death,’ I saw the evidence of the horrible treachery of which I
had been a victim. The evidence of my own ruin, utter and irremediable,
stared me in the face. I had actually written a detailed report and
criticism of an audience which had never assembled, of actors who had
never appeared, of a piece which had never been produced!”
* * * * *
“What need is there for me to tell you more, when you can guess the
rest for yourself? You don’t want to hear that I and the papers with
which I had been connected became the by-word and scoff of England,
and that _The Bullseye_ in particular never survived the shock. Nor do
you need to be told that the few hundred enemies whom I had contrived
to raise around me by my exceeding smartness turned the story in
all ways so as to tell to my disadvantage, or that my journalistic
career, which meant my livelihood, was practically at an end, if you
can understand the charitable eyes with which an editor would be
apt to look upon that kind of mistake. Whatever I tried, wherever
I went, London or the provinces, it was always the same--the black
shadow pursued me and closed every door in my face. Lizzie, of all the
world, was the only one who clung to me in my trouble, and insisted on
carrying out her promise and marrying me in the teeth of her parents,
who threw her off when they found her bent on allying herself to a
pauper. She struggled on by my side for two years, comforting and
sustaining me in our bitterest adversity with her love and faith, until
one day she died in my arms, and the light of my life went out. Then,
having nothing else in the world to cling to, I clung to the drink the
while it dragged me down, down, down to what I am.
“One thing more I have to mention,” said the sandwich man, as he rose
from his seat and proceeded to hang the boards over his shoulders
again; “it was one day some months after the events described that I
met Scrubby. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how you came to
fall into that terrible blunder,’ he said, ‘especially after the note
I left for you, telling how we had all gone down to the theatre on a
wild-goose chase, only to find that the piece was postponed until the
following week.’
“‘Note! Left for me by you!’ I ejaculated.
“‘Yes!--No! now I come to think of it, I didn’t leave the note. I
wanted to go down to the Parthenon to see the new burlesque, but I gave
it to a man who said he would be passing the club and would hand it
in. Let me see. Ah! I have it now--you know him--Loydall, the Olympian
heavy lead.’”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A VISIT TO DEATH LAKE, FLORIDA.
BY LIEUT. W. R. HAMILTON.
Some years ago, I was stationed at Fort Barrancas, on the west coast of
Florida, and at the mouth of Pensacola Bay. It was the custom of the
military authorities every summer, as the sickly season approached, to
order all the troops stationed in garrisons along the southern coast
into camps among the pine-trees to escape the fatal yellow fever. The
camps were selected with a view to health and isolation combined.
In the year of which I write, we were ordered up into the pine woods
about thirty-six miles north-west of Pensacola. The camp was several
miles from the only line of railroad then existing in that country,
and fifteen miles from the nearest settlement, which happened to be
a railroad and telegraph station also. The yellow fever had already
broken out with terrible violence in New Orleans, and all the southern
coast was alarmed. Of course, we were obliged to maintain the strictest
quarantine to prevent any communication between our camp and the
outside world. This was necessary, as the country soon became filled
with refugees from the plague-stricken districts, yet it made our
existence particularly doleful. We received fresh meat only once a
week, and, as it was brought in an open cart thirty-six miles in the
hot sun, the term _fresh_ was about all there was of that significance
about it. We lived on potted meats and canned vegetables and fruits
almost entirely. Nothing was allowed inside the lines except the mails,
and even they had to be disinfected outside before admission. News of
the outside world was from a week to ten days old, and as the weather
was extremely hot, it can be easily imagined that our existence was not
particularly rose-colored.
Judge, then, of the delight and pleasure we all experienced when, one
sultry evening, when the very air was quivering and dancing with heat,
an old man came into camp with a large basket full of beautiful little
fresh-water fish. How he passed the line of sentinels no one cared to
inquire, the probability being that the guards, knowing what a boon
he had in his basket, winked at his passing. He came direct to the
line of officers’ tents, and in five minutes had sold all his fish at
a good price. We asked him where the fish came from, and he answered
“Death Lake.” I had heard of “Death Lake” a number of times, and the
negroes in the neighborhood always spoke of it with bated breath and a
mysterious air, so that my curiosity concerning it was much aroused. I
therefore asked the old man to my tent, where I could talk to him about
it. After he had seated himself and taken a drink of cool water, fresh
from the spring, I asked him the name of the fish and when and where he
caught them.
“They be brim, mister, and they wuz caught by me early this mawnin’ in
the lake.”
“But where is the lake?” I inquired, “and why is it called Death Lake?”
“Wal,” he answered, “it lies about six miles from here, in the middle
of a big swamp, and it is called Death Lake, I reckon, because no one
can’t git there without losing his life.”
“Yet you have been there, and you are alive,” I replied.
“Yes, but I’ve most lost my life as much as a dozen times, and I’m only
forty years old.”
He looked fully seventy, and he was much bowed and broken. His eyes
were deep sunk, and had a watery opaqueness; his cheeks were sallow,
and there were only a few straggling white hairs on his head. His
answer surprised me, and I pressed him to tell me his story, which,
after a while, he did, although he was much averse to it. After a time
I prevailed upon the old man to take me to the lake next day. “But it
is at your own risk, young man,” he said; “remember, if you dies, I
told you all about it, and you can’t blame me.”
“Not if I die,” I replied; “but I am strong and healthy, and willing to
take the risk.”
I easily obtained the necessary permission to leave the camp, as
I was not going near the settlements, or where the fever existed,
and I moreover promised to bring back a good string of fish for the
commanding officer. The next morning I met the old man at daybreak,
just outside the lines, and off we started together. He carried his
large basket and a couple of fish-poles made of reeds he had cut in the
swamps. I carried our lunch and a coffee-pot.
We tramped for about two hours through the woods, till we came to a
small river called “Perdido,” from the Spanish word for “lost.” “Lost
River” was a very good name for it, as it had its origin in Death Lake,
and lost itself completely in the swamps after many turnings. Close to
the bank, the old man had a flat-bottomed skiff moored, in which we
paddled up the stream for a half-mile, when we reached the confines of
the large swamp in which Death Lake is situated. The scenery here is of
the typical Florida nature. On either side the stream was bounded by
the swamp. Huge cypress trees lifted their weird limbs upward, and long
streamers of trailing moss floated from them, and even at times formed
a swinging arch across the entire width of the stream. The water was
dark and sullen, and on the banks, wherever a little sunshine happened
to strike, half a dozen alligators might be seen basking, which, on our
approach, would flop into the water with a tremendous splash. After
paddling up the sides of the swamp for a couple of miles we came to an
archway, which appeared to have been cut by man through the foliage of
trees and vines. It was not over four feet high and about eight wide,
and from it the water flowed with a scarcely perceptible current.
“Now, Loot’nent,” said the old man, “we’ve got to go up this creek,
and you’ll have to kneel down like this, for we have to stoop pretty
low in places.”
Once inside the arch, it became very dark, for though the sun was
shining brightly outside, it could not penetrate through the dense
foliage of the vines. The little stream turned and twisted in the most
tortuous channel I ever saw, and often it was with difficulty that we
managed to turn the boat round the sharp and narrow corners. At length,
after paddling in this fashion for over half a mile, we emerged into
the famous Death Lake.
Right well had it been named, for the very feeling one had in breathing
its atmosphere was of death. It seemed more like a river than a lake,
for though by its various windings and twistings it was several miles
long, it was never, in its broadest part, over sixty yards wide, and
throughout most of its length not over twenty yards. The banks were
lined by immense cypress trees that towered upward to a height of
eighty feet or more. From their branches hung long festoons and trails
of Florida moss, while the roots of the trees, half out of water,
assumed such weird and fantastic shapes that they seemed like immense
serpents that had become suddenly petrified in their writhings. So
dense was the foliage that it formed an impenetrable wall to both sun
and wind, and the sunlight never touched the water except between the
hours of 12 and 2 ~P. M.~ Not a breath had stirred the waters
for years, and they were covered to a depth of several inches with
a green vegetable slime, so that the first appearance was that of a
beautiful level floor, on which one might walk.
We reached the lake about ten minutes before the sun, and there was
consequently a very strange light over the water. It had much the
effect of a twilight above, through which the sun was breaking, while
close to the water hung a mist, heavy, silent and motionless. But the
tops of the trees the sun had touched with his master-strokes, and
created tints more beautiful than could any painter’s brush. So still
was the place that the silence was actually oppressive, and, though we
were startled at the sound of our own voices, we would have been glad
to have heard the noise of some animal life.
But all round us was death; no sign of life anywhere. No birds in the
trees; no insects in the air. Even the reptiles and snakes avoided the
fearful place. To breathe such air for an hour, except when the sun
was directly over the water, would be death to any living creature.
Even the water was lifeless, and the trees and all vegetation were
dead, except the moss, which lived at the expense of all else. The old
man had told me in his queer parlance that the lake had no bottom, for
although he had dropped 900 feet of line, he had never touched. I had
taken the precaution to bring with me two of my sea trolling-lines,
and fastening them together, I had a line 250 feet long. With this I
sounded in several places, but only proved the old man’s words, for I
never touched bottom. I afterwards learned, as the explanation of this,
that all Western Florida is of a limestone formation, and so I presume
this lake is one of those wonders that have their sources far away down
in the bowels of the earth.
As soon as the sun touched the water we let our fish-lines down to a
depth of about thirty feet, and soon began to pull out very quickly
the “brim”--a corruption of the name of bream. Although, when the hand
was thrust through the slime, the water had a horribly slimy, warm
feeling, the fish came up cold and firm, showing that below the water
was clear and cold. The fish had the same dull, opaque eyes as fish of
subterranean caves, proving that the vegetable mould on the water’s
surface had for many years formed a bar to any light in the water.
In the two hours we managed to nearly fill our boat, for the fish bit
as fast as we could throw the line overboard; so about two o’clock
we stopped, and paddled out as quickly as possible to avoid those
poisonous vapors that killed all animal life. Notwithstanding the
sport, so weird and unearthly strange was the place that I was glad
to leave it. I could well understand its name now, and as we passed
through the tortuous archway, I thought of the many negroes in the old
slavery days, that escaping to this swamp to find liberty found death
instead.
After reaching the river, the old man suggested our stopping at a place
on the banks, where the ground rose in a little knoll, and cooking
some of our freshly caught fish. I agreed to the proposition, and as
we reached the bank I jumped out and took three or four steps inland,
when the old man sharply cried, “Look out, Loot’nent! See there!”
at the same time pointing, as he stood up in the boat, to something
directly in front of me. I looked and beheld, about a yard from me, a
huge moccasin snake, the most deadly poisonous reptile of the South
upreared to strike me. I involuntarily took a step backward, and as I
did so I heard another hiss behind me, and then others on all sides.
One quick, horrified glance showed me that I was surrounded by at least
a dozen of these fearful reptiles, all coiled and ready to strike. For
an instant I was paralyzed and unable to move, and it was, perhaps,
well that it was so, as I should probably have stepped on one and been
bitten.
“Move carefully and come away,” the old man cried. “If you don’t git
close to them they can’t hurt you; they’re casting their skins.”
So it proved. It seems that this spot of ground, being drier than its
surroundings and more exposed to the sun, had, by the natural instinct
of the creatures, been selected as the place for the annual changing of
their skins. While this process is going on they are almost incapable
of motion. As a rule they will move off when disturbed, provided they
are not attacked, but in this case they could not; but had I got
within striking distance they would have bitten me. I picked my way
out very daintily, and stepped into the boat, with no further desire
to eat fish till I got back to camp. Indeed, I felt quite faint as I
realized my narrow escape. We paddled down the river, soon reached our
landing-place, and then made a bee-line for camp, which we reached just
at dark. With such a string of fish, my return was heartily welcomed;
but after hearing my adventures, no one else seemed anxious to make the
visit to the lake.
I wanted to revisit the lake, till one morning, about two weeks after
my visit, I was taken suddenly ill, and before the day was over I was
unconscious with the terrible “swamp fever.” I had a long and hard
fight for my life, and though I conquered in the end, I lost all desire
to ever see the horrible place again.
[Illustration]
AMERICAN COLLEGE ATHLETICS.
I.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
By J. MOTT HALLOWELL.
[Illustration: ~The Harvard Boat-houses.~]
At Harvard, and at nearly all other American colleges, athletics are
managed on a plan entirely different from that adopted by most of the
amateur athletic associations of this country. As a rule, an athletic
association has control of all contests played upon its grounds, track
and field athletics, boating, football, baseball, and all other games;
but at Cambridge, the origin and growth of each branch of athletics has
been so distinct in itself, and has had so little direct connection
with the development of the others, that, as a result, each athletic
sport is managed by a separate organization--the Harvard University
Boat Club managing the boating interests, the Baseball Club taking care
of the nine, while the Athletic Association has control only of the
winter meetings in the gymnasium and the track and field meetings out
of doors.
Of all the Harvard athletic clubs the Athletic Association deserves
first mention as the club which each year opens the athletic season.
If on the first Saturday in March, a little after one o’clock in the
afternoon, a stranger should happen to pass by the Hemenway Gymnasium,
his attention would be attracted by an incongruous, closely packed
crowd, patiently waiting upon the porch and steps. There are small
boys with pennies tightly clasped in closed fists, poking their
elbows into the sides of the “sport,” who is jotting down his last
entry in the book he has just made up on to-day’s games; a few of the
ubiquitous unwashed muddying the nicely polished shoes of some dainty
youths with big canes and high collars, and even a few poorly clad
individuals of studious mien, with perhaps a book under one arm, who
look as if they had crowded into the press in order to keep warm, in
marked contrast to the contented looking men, wrapped in large ulsters
and leisurely puffing cigars, who stand just at the edge. The crowd
is jolly--swaying, jostling, and cracking its jokes, while it eagerly
waits till the doors are opened to swarm into the gymnasium; for this
afternoon is held the first winter meeting of the Athletic Association.
Presently, by the time the first sparrers or wrestlers appear in the
ring, every seat is filled, and even standing room whence can be had a
view of the contestants.
This meeting is but one of seven that the Athletic Association holds
every year; two field meetings, the class games and university games
held every fall and every spring, and three winter meetings held in
the gymnasium. In 1873 the Athletic Association had not been formed,
and the only gymnasium for the use of the students was a wretched
little structure now used as a storehouse; now the Association leads
all the other colleges in its records, owns a hard cinder quarter-mile
track, and has the use of one of the best gymnasia, if not the best, in
America.
In July, 1874, at Saratoga, was held the first intercollegiate athletic
meeting between American colleges. Due notice of this meeting had been
sent round to the leading colleges, and the interest aroused by the
proposed contest led to the first athletic meeting at Cambridge. A
notice appeared in the Harvard _Advocate_ that, if sufficient interest
was felt by the students, some athletic sports would be held in the
Jarvis Field on the afternoon of Wednesday, June 17th. The program was
to consist of a mile running race, a mile walking race, a one hundred
yards dash, a three hundred yards dash, a running high jump, running
long jump, and a three-legged race; the entrance fee of 50 cents was
to be used in purchasing cups for prizes, and the notice ended with
an appeal to the students to give the games their generous support,
so that the college might be enabled to select representative men to
send to the intercollegiate games at Saratoga. No notice of the result
of these games appeared in the college papers, but their success was
sufficient to encourage four men to enter the Saratoga games, where
they succeeded in winning last place in most of their events, none
of their records being taken. The undergraduates seemed to have been
stirred up by this signal defeat, and in the fall of 1874 the Harvard
Athletic Association was formed for the purpose of encouraging track
and field athletics--unknown factors in college games at that time--in
order that the college might be fitly represented in intercollegiate
contests.
It is strange in the present period of great athletic interest, crowded
athletic meetings, and Faculty restrictions, to recall those days
only fifteen years ago, when the undergraduate had to be encouraged
to interest himself in athletic games. An editorial in the college
paper in the winter of 1874-5, speaking of the formation of the
Association, says: “While the bodies of the men now at the university
do not receive a tithe of the attention they ought, it is cheering to
note that more is being done towards inviting that attention than ever
before. In no other exercise than baseball and rowing has there been
any emulation, and never a general and systematic using of any set of
muscles sustained throughout the year. The average student has been
physically what he is now. At entering, President Eliot describes him
as of ‘undeveloped muscle, a bad carriage and an impaired digestion,
without skill in out-of-door games, and unable to ride, row, swim or
shoot.’ During his four or six years, short of a little spasmodic work
now and then, he does little towards becoming anything else, and with
just that body and most of these defects he starts into his life’s
work; and with growing labor and care, and little time to look after
his body, and no one by to spur him to it, that is just about the sort
of body he goes through life with, generally losing rather than gaining
vigor and power. A new door has been opened for the men who really mean
to be what they ought physically, and it is pleasant to see already
signs of a brisk rivalry in this direction. The legs--long neglected
members--are now to be put to their best, and at last we have the
various foot contests so well known in the British universities. They
began last fall, and the work done then was so little above mediocrity
that there is strong ground to hope for new winners in May. All the
running was slow, the jumping poor, and the walking nothing much.”
The Association when first formed was very primitive. Only about a
couple of hundred men belonged to it; members were given tickets of
admission to the games, which they could present to their friends,
while the admission fee, entitling a person to a life-membership and
free admission to all games ever held by the Association was only two
dollars. Gradually, as the games grew in importance, and interest
increased, the expenses of the Association became heavier; a track
costing about $600 was laid out on Jarvis Field; the necessary expenses
incurred in the winter meetings, held in the little gymnasium for
the first time in 1876, added an annual increase of expenditure (the
tickets of admission were then given away by members), until at last
the expedient was adopted of laying an assessment of fifty cents on all
members except Freshmen. The task of collecting this proved so great,
that, of the collectors appointed, some resigned, while the others
confessed their inability to proceed further.
[Illustration: THE HEMENWAY GYMNASIUM.]
In 1879 the Harvard Athletic Association, as well as the other athletic
clubs, received a great stimulus in the erection of the Hemenway
Gymnasium, the gift of Mr. Augustus Hemenway. Fifty years before, an
attempt had been made to found a gymnasium out of doors in the Delta
where Memorial Hall now stands, but the result had been unsuccessful.
Again, in 1860, a small gymnasium was erected at the corner of
Broadway and Cambridge Street, costing something less than $10,000;
but this building had become entirely inadequate for the needs of the
undergraduates, and in 1878 the ground was broken for the present
erection. When finished, it cost, including all its apparatus, over
$150,000, and is as complete as any gymnasium in the country. In the
second story is a rowing-room for the crew, fitted up with hydraulic
rowing-machines, while a gallery overlooking the main floor of the
gymnasium makes an excellent running track. On the floor below is the
gymnasium proper, fitted up with apparatus of every description, and
at one side, under the rowing-room, are lockers and bath-rooms. In
the basement is the “cage,” reserved for the winter practice of the
nine and the lacrosse team; but room is left for nine bowling alleys,
several hundred more lockers, a long open space for tug-of-war cleats,
and a room for the use of fencers and sparrers.
In 1880 the management hit upon the happy expedient of setting apart
one of the winter meetings in the gymnasium as a “Ladies’ Day,” on
which only such events as the light gymnastics, bar performances,
jumping, and light-weight sparring should be contested, the wrestling
and the heavy-weight sparring being reserved for one of the other
meetings. The next year another day was added as Ladies’ Day, so
that only one of the meetings remained open to men alone. At first
ladies were admitted free, the Association trusting to this additional
attraction to fill their coffers from the pockets of the men; but after
the success of Ladies’ Day was assured, the fair sex was put on an
equal footing with their escorts, and have since been obliged to pay
full price; indeed, they supply the principal source of revenue.
[Illustration: THE TUG-OF-WAR--“THE DROP.”]
From the date of their first admission, however, they inaugurated a war
against the sparring exhibitions which occur on one of their days. From
that time to the present they have continually protested against it,
and just as continually have they come in crowds to see it. There is
in the first President’s report (Harvard Athletic Association), after
the establishment of Ladies’ Day, a notice that “the ladies ought to
understand that if blood be drawn in the sparring, the men will not
leave the ring as they did last year;” and again in a report two years
later: “We decided last year to have light and feather weight sparring
on the first Ladies’ Day, and although there was at the time much talk
against it among a certain number of men, we did not find the apparent
interest of the ladies in any way less, or that their number decreased
from the year before, although it had been extensively advertised for
more than a month that there was to be sparring, and it is not to be
supposed that many of the ladies were ignorant of the fact that they
were to see it. Far would it be from me to force ladies to look at any
event that was distasteful to them, but I fail to see why the large
number who are entertained by sparring should be deprived of seeing
it in our winter meetings because certain others object to it, more
especially as the latter are in no way compelled to come unless they
chose to.” The “large number” has continued to come, and the sparring
still continues.
The financial status of the Association was assured by the success of
the winter meetings in the gymnasium, until, in time, it was able to
engage a track-master and trainer for the men, so that all competitors,
poor as well as rich, trying for places in the team which annually
competes for the intercollegiate cup, could have an equal chance of
responsible training. It was also able to contribute $1,000 towards
the construction of the hard cinder track round Holmes Field, finished
in 1883, and now is able to pay all the expenses of the team which
competes at the intercollegiate games. Besides the annual income
received from the winter games, it receives a large sum annually from
its membership roll. Though the fee is but small, only $3.00 for a
life-membership entitling free admission to all games, a regulation
forbidding any undergraduate to be present at the games unless he is a
member, annually forces nearly the entire freshman class to join.
[Illustration: THE HARVARD BASEBALL TEAM.]
There is not space in the limits of an article of this nature to
mention more than a few of the men who have been connected with the
rise and success of this Association. Some of them have already a
world-wide athletic reputation, while many stand at the head of all
college athletes. The fact that not until four years after Harvard’s
entry into the Intercollegiate Athletic Association did she win the
championship cup, but that then she won it for seven successive years,
shows the need that existed originally in the college for such an
association, besides demonstrating the success that has since attended
it. Mr. E. J. Wendell, ’82, did more in his day than any one else, not
only to increase its prosperity at home, but also to win laurels for
it in its intercollegiate contests; and the names of Soren, Goodwin,
Easton, Baker, Rogers and Wells show what strong representatives
the Association has had. Out of the twenty-four first prizes that
Harvard won the first four years she held the cup, W. Soren, ’83, won
seven; he gained first prize in every jump in the intercollegiate
program--running high, running broad, standing high and standing
broad--besides the pole vault, and in the standing high jump holds the
best amateur record in the world.
The following table shows the best records made under the Harvard
Athletic Association in events contested at the intercollegiate games:
100 Yards Dash 10s. E. J. Wendell, ’82.
220 Yards Dash 22s. W. Baker, ’86.
440 Yards Dash 50¼s. W. Baker, ’86.
Half-mile Run 1m. 59 1-5s. G. P. Coggswell, ’88.
Mile Run 4m. 38 3-5s. G. B. Morison, ’83.
Hurdle Race, 120 yards 17 3-5s. S. R. Bell, ’91.
Hurdle Race, 220 yards 26 4-5s. G. S. Mandell, ’89.
Mile Walk 6m. 59½s. H. H. Bemis, ’87.
Bicycle Race (2 miles) 6m. 2½s. R. H. Davis, ’91.
Running High Jump 5 ft. 10¾ in. H. L. Clark, ’87.
Pole Vault 10 ft. 5-8 in. R. G. Leavitt, ’89.
Throwing Hammer (16 lbs.) 93 ft. 2 in. H. B. Gibson, ’88.
Putting the Shot (16 lbs.) 40 ft. 1½ in. D. B. Chamberlain, ’86.
Running Broad Jump 20 ft. 10 in. W. Soren, ’83.
The following records have been made in other events:
125 Yards Dash 12 3-5s. W. Baker, ’86.
180 Yards Dash 18s. W. Baker, ’86.
Two-Mile Walk 15m. 10½s. H. H. Bemis, ’87.
Three-Mile Walk 24m. 24 2-5s. H. H. Bemis, ’87.
Seven-Mile Walk 58m. 52s. H. H. Bemis, ’87.
Standing High Jump 5 ft. 1¼ in. W. Soren, ’83.
Two days after Baker had graduated he made a record of 8s. in the
80-yard dash, 10s. in the 100-yard dash, and 47¾s. in the 440-yard
dash, all three of them counting as best amateur American records; but,
unfortunately, since he had received his degree, the Harvard Athletic
Association cannot claim these records. W. H. Goodwin, ’84, while he
was in college, also made a record of 1m. 56⅝s. in the half-mile
run, but as he did not make it in college games, this record was also
lost to the Harvard Athletic Association.
The tug-of-war is another event in which the Harvard Athletic
Association can hold no record, but in which it has had no rival. The
veteran anchor of the team, Easton, did more toward introducing science
into this seemingly unskilful sport than any other collegian in the
country. The amount of skill and team work cultivated in this contest
at Cambridge is shown by the fact that at the last intercollegiate
games, Harvard presented the class tug-of-war team of the senior class,
because the men had had long experience in pulling together; and this
class team defeated successively Princeton, Columbia, and Yale.
BASEBALL.
The game of baseball was first introduced into Cambridge in 1862.
Until that year no ball club had existed in the college, and no record
can be found of any games previously played. Baseball was brought to
Cambridge from Phillips Exeter Academy, by the class which entered
college from that school in 1862. “In December of that year,[3] George
A. Flagg and Frank Wright, members of the then Freshmen class, and
great enthusiasts over the game, established the ’66 Baseball Club.
During the spring of 1863 the interest in the new game and class
organization became very great, and the Cambridge city government
granted a petition for leave to use that part of the Common near the
Washington Elm for a practice-ground. Invitations to play were sent to
many of the colleges, and among the first to the Yale class of ’66;
but the latter replied that the game was not played by them, although
they hoped soon to be able to meet a Harvard nine on the ball field.”
A match was then arranged with the Sophomores of Brown University,
and was played on June 23, 1863. This was the first intercollegiate
baseball game ever played by Harvard, and resulted in the first of a
long line of victories. Following is the official score of the game, a
very different looking affair from our present complicated score card:
_Harvard, ’66._ _Pos._ _Outs._ _Runs._
Banker, H. 3 3
Wright, P. 1 5
Flagg, S. 5 2
Irons, A. 2 4
Fisher, B. 2 4
Greenleaf, C. 4 2
Nelson, L. 4 2
Abercrombie, M. 2 3
Tiffany, R. 4 2
-- --
27 27
_Brown, ’65._ _Pos._ _Outs._ _Runs._
Witter, P. 1 4
Finney, H. 4 2
Brown, S. 2 1
Rees, A. 4 1
Spink, B. 2 3
Deming, C. 4 1
Brayton, L. 2 3
Judson, M. 4 1
Field, R. 4 1
-- --
27 17
Umpire:--Miller, Lowell Club. Scorers, Harvard--J. J. Mason;
Brown--H. S. Hammond.
There were but few other college clubs at this time, and in order to
keep alive the interest in the game it was necessary to play an annual
championship series with the strongest local amateur nine that could be
found. The Lowell Club, of Boston, was then the best amateur club in
that part of the country, and the Harvards chose them for their regular
opponents. The games played on the Boston Common for the championship
and the possession of the silver ball offered as a trophy attracted
immense crowds, sometimes as many as ten thousand people; and not
only was college interest aroused, but also the worthy inhabitants of
Boston and Cambridge became eager and enthusiastic partisans of their
respective nines.
The first games with the Lowells were played by the class nine of ’66;
but in 1864 the other classes, having taken up the game, united their
forces and formed the University Baseball Club. The entire control of
the University nine, from its organization until the fall of 1866,
was left with the catcher, Flagg, and the pitcher, Wright--the former
managing the players in the field. The old ground on Cambridge Common
was abandoned, and the Delta, now covered in part by Memorial Hall, was
turned into a ball-field. The games with the Lowells were continued as
the principal event of the season until about 1870; for practice, the
nine playing against the various college and professional nines, and
occasionally getting a game with George Wright’s famous old team, the
Red Stockings of Cincinnati.
[Illustration: THE LAST LAP.]
In the summer of 1870 the nine spent nearly the entire vacation in
an extended tour through the West, playing all the principal amateur
clubs and many of the professionals, and winning forty-four out of
the fifty-four games they played. Their greatest victory was over the
Niagaras, in which they made 62 runs to their opponents’ 4, and 49
base hits with a total of 68, for 8 hits by the Niagaras. The latter
philosophically accepted their defeat, declaring that they could not
expect to play ball successfully against a nine whose reputation was
comparatively world-wide. The account in a contemporary paper, of the
game against the old Cincinnati Red Stockings is interesting as showing
what the general opinion at that time was of Harvard’s club. The Red
Stockings was the old champion nine in which the veterans George
Wright, Harry Wright, Leonard and McVey first made their reputations
as ball players. “Never before in the history of the Union Grounds
has so exciting a struggle taken place as that of yesterday between
the Harvard University and the first nine of the Cincinnati Club. We
heard many intimate that if the local favorites were beaten on their
own grounds, something hitherto unheard of, they preferred that the
deed of baseball glory should be accomplished by the gentlemen players
from Cambridge, rather than by the more dreaded professionals from the
East. The game was remarkably close, the Harvards outplaying their
opponents at the bat and in the field; but at a critical moment in the
last innings, professional training showed its superiority over amateur
excitability, and the Red Stockings won by 20 to 17.” The game at the
time was considered “one of the most remarkable on record--remarkable
for the inferiority both at the bat and on the field, of a club of
professionals who ought on their record to defeat their amateur
opponents easily. Nothing but sheer luck saved the Red Stockings from a
defeat which would have been honorable because administered them by the
Harvards.”
[Illustration: HARVARD INTERCOLLEGIATE ATHLETIC TEAM.]
This was what might be called the uncollegiate period of Harvard
baseball, for all of Harvard’s most important games were played with
other than college teams; indeed, there were none of the latter who
could compete with her. From 1867 until 1874 she did not lose a single
game to any college, although annually playing their best nines. Of
the many crack players during this period, A. McC. Bush, ’71, stands
head and shoulder’s over all others. He played in one hundred and four
games, was captain for one year, and his success in that office is
shown by the fact that Harvard never lost a game to an amateur club
during his captaincy.[4]
There is no time to trace further the development of baseball at
Harvard, and, indeed, there would be little point in doing so; for
the game there has simply kept pace with its progress throughout the
rest of the country. I have purposely given this short sketch of the
introduction of the game to show the early importance attached to it
at Cambridge, the prominent part that the latter took in introducing
the game among American colleges, and the general reputation that the
nine had at that time. The significant remark in the Cincinnati papers
about “the gentlemen players from Cambridge,” and many other comments
of a similar kind, were made at a time when Harvard played many games
against professionals--a privilege now forbidden.
Up to the present date, however, the game has retained its popularity,
although no longer can the college boast of seven successive years
without losing an intercollegiate game. After 1874 the team gradually
began to find more formidable opponents among the other colleges,
especially Princeton and Yale; but, nevertheless, Harvard won the
college championship in 1876, 1877, 1878, and 1879. Tyng and Ernst,
the famous battery of this period, still figure in the minds of the
undergraduates as traditional heroes. Then an Intercollegiate Baseball
Association was formed by a large number of the colleges; but not until
1885, under the captaincy of Winslow, ’85, and with the battery work of
Nichols and Allen, did Harvard again win the college championship; but
then she won every one of the ten championship games, and twenty-four
out of the twenty-five played during the whole season. Then followed
the withdrawal from the large college league, the formation of the
smaller one with Yale and Princeton, and the discomfiture of the
Harvard nine by the present Yale pitcher, Stagg. If any one wishes to
understand the position that baseball occupies in the college, it is
only necessary to go out on Holmes Field at the annual Harvard-Yale
match the day after Class Day. Games are played then which throw the
old Harvard-Lowell games on Boston Common completely in the shade.
A large part of the unpleasantly critical element is excluded by
enclosed grounds and an admission fee; but their places are taken by
thousands and thousands of enthusiasts, less critical, but even more
demonstrative.
To be continued.
[Illustration]
[3] The Harvard Book, vol. ii., page 269.
[4] Most of my material on the history of baseball I have taken
from an article by W. D. Sanborn, published ten years ago in
the Harvard Book.--J. M. H.
A RIDE TO A RUSSIAN WEDDING.
BY C. M. LITWIN.
A friend of mine sent me, not long ago, the recently published
translation of Count Tolstoï’s “The Snow Storm.” I had not read it
in the original, but the translation was a good one, and this little
picture of a ride in a snow-storm, drawn by a master’s hand, vividly
recalled to my mind many of my traveling experiences during ten years
of active service in Russia.
One of them--I don’t know why--presented itself to my mind with more
persistence than the others, and I have not been able to resist the
temptation of putting it on paper. I hasten to say, for fear of giving
a bad opinion of myself beforehand, it will not be an account of a
ride in a snow-storm, nor a description of such a storm, although I
have seen many and have often felt their embraces. Who, after having
read the Count’s little gem, would dare attempt a description of a
snow-storm? Would it not be the same as to attempt to paint a subject
treated by Rembrandt, or to mold another “Statue of Liberty?”
My tale is simply about an exciting ride taken in the winter, but early
in the season, with but little snow on the ground--for Russia--while
I was in a very excited state of mind over an event that was of more
importance to me then than the still pending Oriental question or
any other question of either hemisphere, namely, the wedding and the
wedding-ball of a girl with whom we had all been, or imagined ourselves
to be, a little in love. But I see that mature age is not always a
sufficient safeguard against excitement, and I confess that with this
glance back at those happy days I begin to feel something of that
youthful nervousness, always aspiring to something, always wishing for
something, and to put a check on it I begin my tale.
My headquarters were in Ladoga, the county seat of the district of the
same name, in the Province of St. Petersburg. The town is situated on
the Lake of Ladoga, at the mouth of the river Wolchow, which is large,
but very dangerous for navigation on account of its rapids. This stream
forms a link in the water-system connecting the Caspian Sea with St.
Petersburg and the Baltic.
The situation of Ladoga, its streets and buildings, have little of
picturesqueness, except the old church built on a slight elevation
just where the river enters the lake. On the high tower of this
church, almost at its summit, and on the side facing the lake, there
is a niche, protected from rain and wind by a pane of glass. Within
this niche is placed a picture of the Holy Mother, lighted by several
lamps burning day and night. These are kept there by the donations
of the fishermen and sailors, who hold the holy picture in great
veneration. They look for it from afar, not only with the eagerness of
a Cunarder’s captain watching through his glass for Sandy Hook or the
Fastnet lights, but also as worshipers, raising their eyes and hearts
to the Holy Mother with her Infant, imploring help and protection in
their lives of hardship and danger; for navigation on the lake is very
dangerous from undercurrents, and I have often heard marine officers
say that they would rather cross the ocean than make a trip on this
lake.
The town of Ladoga contains only a few thousand inhabitants, but, since
it is a county seat, all the government officers, military and civil,
are obliged to live there with their families. If you add the staffs of
the various regiments which are stationed there in turn, and several
wealthy landowners of the nobility, you can imagine that life in Ladoga
is gay.
In no other country than Russia are there so many private dancing
parties, suppers--or rather midnight dinners--and all sorts of
amusements, any one of which is, for the most part, a pretext for
eating, drinking and gambling. Even among ladies, every game of cards
is played for money, in a country where the paternal government says:
“You cannot read; I will read for you. You cannot write; I will write
for you. You cannot think; I will think for you.” Questions of public
interest there are none. If there is a vacancy in an office, every one
knows the Czar will make the appointment. If there is a famine, every
one says the Czar will send bread; thousands will die meanwhile, but
this is no matter. If there is a war, every one proclaims, “Our little
father, the Czar, will beat them; our mother, Russia, is invincible;
let him [the enemy] come, we will bury him under our caps.” One is
only permitted to think how to win more at cards, how to eat more
and not make himself ill, how to drink more and not be made drunk,
although this last condition is not considered at all degrading. On the
contrary, it awakens in every one charitable feelings, quite naturally,
for every one expects to be drunk himself, if not to-day, then, surely,
to-morrow. It is really edifying to see how a mantle of charity is
thrown over one who is drunk, and how tenderly he is carried home to
bed--more tenderly, indeed, than one who may have had the misfortune
to slip and break his leg. But the young men do not think merely of
cards, eating and drinking, although they do not lose much time before
entering upon these delights, and almost all show, very early, a
genius for them, probably by way of inheritance. The adherents and the
advocates of the theory of inherited inebriety would find in Russia
their task greatly simplified. In case of a hiatus in the genealogical
record, or in case of the utter impossibility of tracing one, they
would not be obliged to make a _salto mortale_ to Noah. Stretching out
their fingers triumphantly, they could at once point out son, father
and grandfather drunk in company.
There is, however, a time when a young man, even in Russia, thinks more
of dancing and flirtation than of anything else, and when he under no
circumstances would omit a dancing party or a ball, to say nothing of
a wedding-ball. A wedding and a wedding-ball were on the program for
the next day. I was young, recently graduated, held quite an enviable
office under government, and had been chosen by the bride to hold the
crown--not of diamonds, but of tinsel--over her head at the wedding
ceremony during her triple promenade round the pulpit, hand in hand
with her _fiancé_, which, according to the Greek rite, is a symbol of
the Gordian knot.
But something still better my stars had destined for me. It was that
the dear girl, just lost to all others except her husband, had selected
me from a score of aspirants to lead the mazurka with her at the
end of the ball. No sympathetic soul will wonder that, under these
circumstances, I thought myself of no less importance for the events of
the coming day than Bismarck for the Vaterland, and that while hurrying
on all the necessary preparations for my personal appearance, I was
plotting to prolong the mazurka at least one hour beyond the usual time.
Perhaps some one will question how it was that the honor of dancing the
principal dance with the bride was bestowed on me, and not reserved
for the bridegroom. Well, there were two reasons of the best kind. The
first--a secret I will not tell; but the other, known to all Ladoga,
was as follows: The groom’s left leg was shorter than the right. This
misfortune naturally prevented him from dancing that fiery dance.
Besides this, he belonged to that body of dignitaries entrusted by
the Father of all Russia with the power of deciding the fate of poor
delinquents, no matter in what category. Russia has her points of
etiquette. Was it possible for such a dignitary to hop for hours
through a mazurka? Certainly not. Even if both his legs had been of
the same length, he could not have done it, for his shoulders were
already loaded with a terrible weight of responsibility. To please his
own humane heart, and to please all the living steps above him, up
to the highest, who--no matter what Roman numeral is appended to his
name--is considered to be endowed with the most humane heart of all,
our dignitary had often to decide a question, frequently put to Russian
rulers: which penalty would be the most humane, several thousand
strokes of the knout, under which the sufferer might possibly die; or
twenty years in the mines, where he would probably die?
Now, since this subject is at present so eloquently presented before
the world in a work--for which, oh, so many thousands of hearts are
praying that it may bring the same blessed results as “Uncle Tom’s
Cabin”--I will only say that my bridegroom, being in a constant dilemma
himself on that point, carried his neck bent forward in addition to his
mismatched legs.
The evening before the wedding and the ball my preparations were all
accomplished to my satisfaction. My new uniform, new epaulets, new
boots, fitting so tightly that I could scarcely walk in them, but made
to my special order by the most reliable shoemaker in Ladoga, new white
gloves--in one word, everything new--lay spread about in my room on
tables and chairs. Imagine, then, my dismay, when, at five o’clock in
the evening, I received a dispatch ordering me to go at once on a very
important service to a place at a distance of ninety-six versts (about
sixty miles) from Ladoga.
In spite of my own excited anticipation of to-morrow’s enjoyment, I
must say that I was more tormented by the thought of the disappointment
of the poor girl. What would she think? What would she feel? Would she
not even consider my absence as a bad omen for all her future life?
To be absent! No, even for the Czar’s sake I was incapable of such
treachery. But what could I do? To report myself sick was impossible,
for in that case I could not appear at the ball. Delay was out of the
question. I was obliged to go. Fortunately I could calculate upon
performing my duties there before noon of the next day, and it only
remained to be sure if I could make the journey with the speed of the
wind. But I would not allow any obstacles to give me uneasiness. I
knew I could make the 192 versts easily in nineteen hours, and having
twenty-seven hours before me, I calculated upon having plenty of time,
both for the business and the journey.
So, without losing any time, I packed what was necessary for the trip,
sent at once for the post-horses, and ran to communicate the bad news
to my partner. As I anticipated, she was much startled, but by giving
her the most solemn promises that I would return _coûte que coûte_ in
time for the ball, at eight o’clock the next evening, I succeeded in
calming her.
As I have mentioned before, it was in the beginning of winter, so I
traveled in a sleigh. I left Ladoga at half-past six in the evening,
and arrived at my destination about three o’clock in the morning,
without any accident. Ordering at the post station a _samovar_, I
made tea for myself, drank several cups, gave orders that I should be
aroused at six in the morning, and without undressing, wrapped myself
in my fur cloak, and, pushing under my head my leather traveling
pillow, fell asleep on the station sofa.
I was aroused punctually as I had ordered at six, and after the
blessing of Russia--the _samovar_--had fulfilled its morning duty, I
hastened to mine. As I said, I had fully decided to rid my hands of
the unwelcome business in a very few hours, but I counted without my
host. Some individuals who were called as witnesses, but had not in
view a wedding hop, arrived late, and the village authorities, who
could not guess the reason of my feverish zeal in the Czar’s service,
moved and acted with the habitual slowness and apathy of the Russian
peasant. In short, it was already one o’clock in the afternoon when the
last document was duly signed, witnessed, and packed in my portfolio.
I rushed into my furs and through the door, before which the _trojka_
had been standing for more than an hour, the horses and the _jamszczyk_
shivering with the cold, and the bells tinkling.
I threw myself into the low, spacious sleigh, well filled with straw,
and shouted to the _jamszczyk_:
“_Poszol!_” (Go.)
A promise of one ruble if he would make the next station, a distance
of sixteen versts, in one hour, did not fail to produce the desired
effect. The horses, stimulated by the wild shouts of the _jamszczyk_,
and by the whip, on the end of which stuck the promised ruble, ran, as
the French say, _ventre à terre_, and the next village was reached at
but seven minutes past two.
The day was clear, but a strong northwester, blowing fiercely, made
the air bitterly cold. Snow having fallen some few days previously,
the road was excellent, and my only fear was that I might fail to find
horses at some station. In this case there would be no help. Every one,
even the Governor-general himself, if he arrives unexpectedly, must
wait till the return of the first span, and till the regulation two
hours for feeding the exhausted beasts passes away. But, trusting to my
good luck, and still more to the secret prayers of my partner in the
mazurka, I drove such gloomy anticipations as far as possible from my
mind.
The _starosta_ met me at the door of the station, which was at the same
time his house, invited me to enter and to warm myself with a cup of
tea. I declined, and having no heart to ask the question dreaded by
each traveler: “Are the horses at hand?” said that I was in a great
hurry and wished to go at once. He said, “All right!” and I entered the
room resolving to be polite and patient, knowing by experience that in
many cases politeness and patience produce more effect than shouting
and commands. Besides this, I was sure my former driver would not fail
to tell his comrades that I was a “good fare.” Scarcely ten minutes had
passed when the _starosta_ came in, announcing: “The horses are ready.”
With a light heart I hurried out, but my satisfaction was a little
checked by seeing that instead of three horses there were only two.
I asked the _starosta_ for the reason, and received the answer that
all the _jamsczyks_ were out, and that he would send his own boy, whom
he could not risk with a _trojka_. At the same moment a little bit
of a chap came out of the _izba_. He was not more than twelve years
old, but looked bright and smart: he was dressed in the full costume
of a genuine _jamszczyk_, and held in his hand his short whip, which
he snapped with the air of a connoisseur. Approaching the horses
deliberately, he walked round them, and imitating in every movement
an old _jamszczyk_, he began to examine and to try by shaking the
different parts of the harness, showing an especial fondness for the
big bell hanging over the head of the horse in the shafts. He was
evidently convincing himself that everything was in order for the
event--so important for him--of driving a real officer with a star on
his cap, instead of a simple peasant-delegate. Meanwhile the _starosta_
helped me into the sleigh, seated me on my leather cushion, and piled
heaps of straw round my legs and feet, pressing it so that it was
impossible for me to move. As the cold was increasing, I abandoned
myself to his tender care, which I could but consider as a mark of
atonement for the missing third horse.
Everything being ready, I said “Go!” and the little boy, faithful to
the end to the great rôle he was performing, took off his big cap,
crossed himself hastily thrice--as every Russian does before any
important, doubtful or dangerous occasion--seized the reins, threw
himself coquettishly on the front edge of the sleigh, leaving his short
legs hanging out, and in the manner of a well-bred _jamszczyk_, turned
toward me his merry face, without disturbing his acrobatic posture, and
asked, “Are you ready, sir?”
I gave a nod with my head just sticking out from the big collar of my
fur coat, and the _starosta_ said, “With God, Vaniusha [Johnny], and
take care.” Vaniusha replied, “All right!” and addressing the horses,
sang out with his silvery voice, “Eh, you, my little doves!” The doves
started, the bells jingled, and off we went.
Now, I must confess that in my heart I was wickedly glad to have for a
driver a child; “_cet âge est sans pitié_,” as the great fabulist has
said, and I knew he would not spare the little doves, even without the
one ruble _pour boire_.
The village being situated on a steep hill, the road from the station
went rapidly down at a grade which could delight only a tobogganist.
Besides this the road was not wide, and was bordered with _izbas_
and fences on both sides. The passers-by greeted Vaniusha, and the
village belles, attracted by the sounds of our chime, peeped out of
the windows. That the little rogue, being well aware of the general
admiration, felt himself in the seventh heaven, and was as proud as
a peacock, he proved by an impatience which brought us both within a
hair’s breadth of a bad end.
Not waiting to reach the plains, he began to tickle the tender parts
of the side horse with his short whip. The tickled horse, knowing
very well there are no flies in winter, instead of using his tail for
self-protection, used his leg and kicked fiercely. Unfortunately,
during this performance, the whiffle-tree became entangled in his
legs. There is no difference between the animals of a civilized and an
uncivilized country, and every one can easily guess what happened. The
kicks were redoubled; and the shaft-horse, alarmed by his neighbor’s
actions, kicked too, and both started on a wild race. The frightened
Lilliputian dropped the lines and grasped the sleigh with both hands.
I had no time to seize the reins before the sleigh tipped over. I was
imprisoned in my seat by the straw tightly packed round my feet, so
my body was forced to follow all the zigzags of the half-overturned
sleigh, dragged furiously downward by the runaway “doves,” which
seemed, indeed, to possess wings.
How long this lasted I cannot tell, for, thanks to the concussions that
I received, and the dizzy speed in such an unaccustomed position, I
lost all consciousness.
When I came to my senses I found myself stretched on the road.
Hastening to get on my feet as quickly as I could, I began to examine
myself, and was very glad to find everything all right.
I heard shouts of men running toward me, and perceived at some distance
behind me the poor boy, now without his whip and without his big cap,
standing in the middle of the road, bitterly crying and nursing one
hand tenderly with the other. Far ahead spasmodic sounds of a bell
resounded, and turning in that direction I saw my horses running round
a mill which stood isolated beyond the village, just as if they had
been performing a chariot-race at a circus.
I rushed to the boy and asked what was the matter. His pitiful sobs did
not permit him to utter a single word, and I was afraid he had broken
his arm.
Meanwhile the _starosta_ and a crowd of _moujiks_ reached us. Little
Johnny was brought into the nearest _izba_ and undressed. A careful
examination by a _znachar_ (village quack), fortunately present in the
crowd, having been made, I was glad to learn from the mouth of the
oracle that the bones were sound, though the wrist was sprained.
Several _moujiks_, who had run to catch the horses, brought them to the
door, and my gun, portfolio, and other things scattered on the road
were soon recovered.
This restored me to my full consciousness, and I exclaimed, “The
mazurka!”
Without losing a moment, I thrust my hand into my pocket, gave to the
still sobbing Vaniusha a “blue” (five paper rubles), and, addressing
the _starosta_, said that I must go on at once.
The _starosta_, whose conscience now pricked him doubly for having
economized on the third horse (for use of which he had already pocketed
the post-fare), and for trusting a life precious to the Czar’s service
to such childish hands, declared at once that he would drive himself.
The station-house being now a half-mile away, not to lose time, he
snatched, without much ceremony, from the nearest bystanders, things
necessary to protect him from the cold, and we started.
Although this occurrence made me lose more than a half-hour, each
minute of which was precious to me, I rendered thanks from my heart to
Providence for my preservation from having my head split in two on a
fence or on the corner of an _izba_.
The wind increased constantly, and snow began to fall and to melt on my
nose, so I wrapped myself closely in my furs, and, feeling some fatigue
from the excitement, sat perfectly quiet. Not so my driver. At first he
was as still as a mouse, probably fearing or expecting some strongly
flavored words from me, which he was sure he had deserved; but, seeing
me so quiet, his own feelings began to wander in other directions.
He grew angry. Had he not enough reason? His poor boy injured, and
himself, instead of sitting in a warm _izba_ and sipping tea, obliged
to perform the duty of a _jamszczyk_. Who was guilty of all this?
Certainly the doves, and to them he now turned all his attention. The
whip, being now in the paternal hands, began to perform the paternal
duty of bygone times. The doves could make no mistake this time about
flies or mosquitoes, and had no time to kick. They ran at the top of
their speed.
As it always was, and probably always will be--the one suffers, the
other rejoices. So the doves suffered and I rejoiced as they devoured
the space, and I flew with the speed of a state messenger bearing to
the White Czar the news of a new victory of his army. In less time
than any tip could have brought it about, we reached the next village,
and, without any delay, I proceeded farther. The next stage was a
long one, twenty-two versts, and the road led through the woods. Once
in the woods, the wind could not be felt so severely. Darkness was
coming on, and I felt sleepy. Moving hither and thither on my seat,
and sliding down a little, I fell into quite a comfortable position
and began to doze. My dreams, which constantly represented to my mind
a brilliantly lighted hall, with its peculiarly scented atmosphere and
incoherent rustle, all the beauties in their ball-dresses, and my still
more beautiful partner of the mazurka, were interrupted by a sense of
the cessation of motion, and by a voice saying, “_Barin_ [sir], eh,
_Barin!_ do you see?”
“What is there?”
“Wolves!”
Indeed, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness, I perceived in
the distance some points of light moving to and fro. I could hear
indistinct howlings, too.
“The deuce!” thought I “what shall we do now?”
It seemed to me strange to meet, at this season, with a pack of wolves.
The frosts had only begun, the snow was not deep, and generally these
beasts venture out of their retreats only when driven by hunger. But I
knew very well, too, that in such an encounter the most dangerous thing
is to stop or to retreat. Even wolves respect courage. So, seizing
my double-barreled gun, I said to the _jamszczyk_, “Go! go fast, but
steadily, and do not stop under any circumstances.”
He started, but soon stopped again. Seeing that mildness would have
no effect here, I applied to his head the strongest argument that I
could, not neglecting, in spite of the darkness, to hit with my fist
the lurking-place of his nerve of courage, indicated by Lavater. This
plan worked, and, with the flash of an electric transmitter, he
passed on the blow to the running nerves of the horses. They flew.
The _jamszczyk_ thrashed them without mercy, the bells jingled madly,
and I, holding my gun in both hands, tried at the same time, by all
possible means, not to tumble out of the sleigh. The points of light
grew nearer, the howlings became more distinct, but it seemed to me as
if it were dogs.
So it proved. Soon we came on a gypsy camp.
It was after seven in the evening when we reached the next station,
and I had only one more before me. Being obliged to wait some time for
fresh horses, and seeing that it would be impossible to arrive at the
very beginning of the ball, I began to grow restless in spite of the
conviction that the dear girl would never doubt my intentions, and
would not pout her charming lips by way of punishing me for the moments
of suspense.
At last the horses were announced, and I could proceed, but a new
disappointment was in store for me. The horses, being still tired
from a previous trip, showed themselves provokingly obedient to the
regulation speed, and all my own and the _jamszczyk’s_ efforts to urge
them on proved useless. It was half-past nine when we reached the
Wolchow. I think I have forgotten to say that my route being on the
right side of the river, which was not yet frozen, I had to cross it.
There was no bridge, and I think there never will be. Communication
being made by a ferryboat, built and handled on the ante-diluvian
principles, but quite safe in calm weather, I had now to cross the
river on it once more. Generally it takes half an hour for the floating
apparatus to make each trip, but I was prepared for this.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the ferryman--a weather-beaten
ex-fisherman--who knew the lake and the river as well as his own five
fingers, announced that the ferryboat was on the other side, and in
such weather it could not cross the river.
Having made the last half of my way almost entirely through the woods,
I was not aware of the increased fury of the elements. But now, jumping
from the sleigh and approaching the river, I could convince myself of
its condition.
Indeed it was an ugly sight. The wind blowing a gale, and coming from
the lake, stopped the current of the river and raised its water. Not
only white-caps, but whole mountains of waves were rolling in fiercely,
throwing foam and spray high in the air. I saw there was no use
even in promising a kingdom for a ferry. My feelings fell to a point
below zero. So near to my goal, and at the same time so far from it!
Nevertheless, I turned to the ferryman and asked him if there was no
other way to cross the river. He said if I wished he would take me
over in his little dory. I had noticed the little nutshell before, and
always wondered how it could carry such a big sail without tipping
over. But to think of it now! The bold proposal of the tar made me
shudder. It was true that I might expect to be drowned that night, but
though the Wolchow bubbled, sparkled and foamed, better than the driest
product of the famous widow--it was not champagne.
Again I questioned the man whether there were no other means for
crossing. He replied that, if I insisted upon it, I could have the
large rowboat, adding that there were some men, who had already waited
several hours in the ferry-house, to whom he had refused the boat, but
that an officer must be accommodated, and that he was sure they would
be glad to row me and themselves over.
I hastened to the shabby ferry-house, and found the company scattered
about the floor asleep. Arousing them as quickly as I could, I
explained to them the situation.
They were four in all--two peddlers and two peasants. Unanimously I was
proclaimed captain, and we went to the boat at once.
I took the seat at the stern and seized the rudder. One of the peddlers
took one oar, one of the peasants took the other. The second peddler,
still half asleep, tumbled into the dancing boat, and we only waited
for the remaining countryman.
What was my astonishment when I perceived him dragging something that
did not wish to go? What was it? What new passenger? Before he reached
the boat, however, I could guess by the squeals and peculiar noises
which my ear caught amid the howling of the wind and the roaring of the
river, that it was a pig.
Now, this was too much. My very epaulets revolted against such a
thing. To go on a perilous expedition in company with a pig, and, if
successful, to divide the honors with the pig!
I protested hotly. The owner of the pig implored, and the crew--true to
tradition--revolted against the captain and voted for the pig.
What could I do? The chances were equal. Without me they could not have
the boat; without them I could not manage it.
Fortunately at that critical moment--for to resist would be to lose the
mazurka, and to yield to lose authority, and heaven knows of what those
Tartars would not be capable in case of danger, once in the middle of
the stream!--a brilliant idea struck me. I have acknowledged already my
ignorance of nautical principles, but I had read in my boyhood, like
every one else, some piratical novels, and the idea of ballast flashed
through my mind.
The pig would be our ballast! And with this in view, I ordered the men
to bind the pig’s legs and throw it into the bottom of the craft.
The ferryman having once more warned me to keep the boat constantly
headed to the southwest, said to us, “Now, with God!” the two
improvised oarsmen bent to the oars, and we started.