companions. The boat danced wildly; nevertheless, I was in high
spirits--I was advancing. The boat was large and in good condition,
as the ferryman had assured me. All fears of capsizing disappeared
from my mind, thanks to my bright idea of the ballast, which now lay
gently grunting just in the centre of the boat. Besides, I had under my
command two men in reserve to relieve the two oarsmen in case of their
being exhausted, and we were provided with spare oars.
How long we pulled and struggled with the river I cannot say, for
I began to lose all idea of time. Twice already the oarsmen had
relieved each other, and in spite of this they began to show signs of
exhaustion. It seemed to me we were not advancing at all. Suddenly
the boat began to dance violently. From this I concluded that we must
be in the middle of the river. To cheer up the crew, I communicated
to them my nautical observations, but just at this moment a huge wave
raised us high up, and another, as in a fury of jealousy, struck us
vehemently. The boat made a terrible lurch. The frightened men raised
cries of terror, and--worst of all--the pig began to squeal horribly,
and, struggling with its bound legs, began to throw itself hither
and thither. I was frightened. I thought the struggling animal would
surely upset the boat; and in my turn I howled out, with a voice of
which I am sure a captain possessed of the strongest lungs would not
be ashamed, “Overboard with the pig!” But this command, instead of
ameliorating the situation aggravated it in the most unexpected way.
Its owner threw himself flat on the beast to protect it. The pig,
taken by surprise, and misjudging the man’s intention, redoubled its
tossings, and the man following each of them with his body, put the
boat in real danger.
Already I was prepared to give a new command, “Overboard with the two
pigs!” but hesitated for one moment.
At that time I had never killed anyone--though I must confess to having
afterwards sacrificed the lives of a few stupid Circassians who dared
to fight against the White Czar for their beautiful mountains and their
liberty--and I was glad that I hesitated. The man proved stronger than
the pig, overpowered it with his weight, and both man and pig lay still.
The boat recovering its buoyancy began again to follow the motions of
the waves. At the same moment I perceived the lights of Ladoga, but to
my horror those lights, instead of vanishing to the right, vanished
rapidly towards the left. I jumped on my feet and shouted, “For your
lives, men, pull stronger; we are drifting into the lake!”
A new struggle--a struggle for our lives--began. Each of us knew well
that once in the lake in such weather and darkness, we were lost. The
men threw their sheep-skins off. I did the same with my fur. We did not
need them--we were bathed in perspiration.
How long it lasted again I cannot tell. It seemed an eternity, and in
spite of our utmost efforts the lights vanished more and more to the
left.
Suddenly I felt something strike my head. My cap was snatched off,
and instinctively throwing my hand up to catch it, I struck a rope. I
seized it frantically, and shouted, “A rope! catch hold!”
The pig’s master was now the first to follow my command, and at the
same time I felt that the boat was striking something hard. This proved
to be a huge barge. A merciful Providence had guided us just under the
rope of her anchor. The rudder and the oars were abandoned; we all,
except the pig, clung to the rope, and began to call for help.
A voice above our heads shouted, “Who the devil is there?” and the
peddlers and the peasants, as with one voice, cried out, “It is a
_czinownik_!” (a government officer). This magic word proved no less
effective on sea than on land, and at once came the answer, “Hold
on--wait!”
In a few minutes a light appeared on the deck, some one threw us a rope
from the barge and we were dragged to the other side of the vessel.
I saw a man lying flat on his stomach and stretching down toward me
both his hands; another man held his feet. I seized the welcome hands,
or rather the welcome hands grasped mine vigorously, and I was hoisted
on the deck.
My companions followed me in the same way. What became of the pig I
don’t know.
My limbs trembled and almost refused to support me. From exhaustion and
excitement I was shivering all over. But I had no time to lose. I must
be on the shore as soon as possible, and my deliverers from an almost
certain death led me, supported on both sides, to the place where an
immense plank, some fifty feet long, connected the barge with the shore.
But if I could not walk very well on the deck, still less was it
possible for me to risk myself on this narrow plank. So I was seated on
it, and the boatswain of the barge pushed me over as carefully as if I
were a bale of most precious merchandise.
Once on _terra firma_ my legs recovered their elasticity as if by a
charm, and thrusting into the hand of the boatswain the whole contents
of my pocket-book, I ran to my lodgings.
With the help of my servant, who was fully initiated in all the
mysteries of an officer’s ball attire, it did not take me long to
get ready, but it was past two when I reached the house where all my
thoughts were concentrated. It was supper-time, and the servant led
me at once to the dining-room, brilliantly lighted and crowded to its
utmost capacity.
But I had no time to waste in reflections, and had scarcely tossed off
a few glasses of champagne in reply to toasts on my safe arrival when
the signal for the mazurka was given.
All who had both legs right did not wait for the end of the supper, but
seizing their partners rushed to the ballroom.
I need not say that I and my prize--I have the right to call her so,
for I had fought gallantly for her, and won her, not for life, but for
the mazurka--were at the head of all. We danced the mazurka, and danced
till six in the morning.
THE ACE OF HEARTS.
I never can see the ace of hearts
(Like a single splash of bright, red blood),
But a train of awful memory starts
And o’er me whirls like a seething flood.
I see the flash of a wicked knife
That settles for all the hot dispute--
A cruel end to a sweet young life,
A boyish face lying white and mute.
I can see it all--the lurid light
From th’ open fire on the mountaineers--
The far Sierras gleam cold and white,
And through the forest the wan moon peers.
My deal again--and again the ace
That horrid train of memory starts:
I can always see that dead boy’s face
And his cold hands clutching the ace of hearts.
_Edith Sessions Tupper._
[Illustration]
OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.
BY JOHN P. FOLEY.
No. II.
~Thomas Jefferson~, the third President, was, like Washington,
a member of the rich, slave-owning aristocracy of Virginia. His father
was a large landed proprietor, and bequeathed to him a handsome estate
in the county of Albemarle. It was called Shadwell, after a parish in
London. To another son, younger, he left a property on the James River,
named Snowden, which commemorated the reputed birthplace of the family
in Wales. The Jefferson homestead was on the Shadwell lands. At a
distance of about two miles from where it stood there arose a beautiful
forest-clothed mountain, which commanded a wide view of the surrounding
country. It was a favorite resort of young Jefferson. When a boy, he
and a youthful companion used to climb its rocky sides, and in later
years they repaired to it for the purposes of study and recreation.
Under the shadow of a splendid oak they read their legal text-books,
and, in the ardor of their friendship, resolved that whoever died
first should be buried at its feet, and that, when the time came, the
survivor should rest beside him. This young friend, Dabney Carr, who
subsequently married a sister of Jefferson, died in early manhood, and
the romantic compact of boyhood was faithfully carried out. Half a
century later the remains of Jefferson were laid by his side.
The story is told that during one of their frequent rambles on the
mountain, Jefferson unfolded to Carr his intention to build his future
home amid the scenes where they had spent so many happy hours.
This tale is probably true, for soon after Jefferson became of age, the
majority of his slaves were set to work clearing away the top of the
mountain, now called, for the first time, Monticello, and preparing the
site for the mansion which was destined to an eternity of fame, because
of the splendid achievements of its illustrious owner.
Jefferson was only fourteen years old when his father died. He had
been nine years at school at the time; knew the rudiments of Latin
and Greek, and had some knowledge of French. In a letter written in
his old age to a grandson, whose education he was superintending, Mr.
Jefferson refers to this sad event in his life, and describes the
perils that surrounded his youth as follows: “When I recollect that
at fourteen years of age the whole care and education of myself was
thrown on myself, entirely without a relative or friend qualified to
advise or guide me, and recollect the various sorts of bad company
with which I associated from time to time, I am astonished that I did
not turn off with some of them and become as worthless to society
as they were.... From the circumstances of my position I was often
thrown into the society of horse-racers, card-players, fox-hunters,
scientific and professional men, and of dignified men; and many a time
have I asked myself in the enthusiastic moment of the death of a fox,
the victory of a favorite horse, the issue of a question eloquently
argued at the bar, or in the great council of the nation, ‘Well, which
of these kinds of reputation should I prefer? That of a horse-jockey, a
fox-hunter, an orator, or the honest advocate of my country’s rights?’”
The temptations to which he refers beset him, in all probability, when
he was at William and Mary College and immediately after, while he was
reading law in Williamsburg, the then capital of Virginia. That town
was the centre of the most refined society of the province; the seat of
the legislature; the headquarters of the army; and it was only natural
that the objectionable characters whom Jefferson condemns should have
been attracted to it. A young man just graduated with the highest
honors from the university, with a reputation for the possession of
great intellectual gifts, the heir to a fine estate, of agreeable and
cultivated manners, Jefferson was at once admitted into the very best
society of Williamsburg. He lived in a style befitting his position. He
had his horses and slaves, in fact all the luxuries which a rich young
gentleman of the time could command. At this period he fortunately
fell under the influence of three men who helped to mold his career
and turn him toward those pursuits which were ultimately crowned with
the highest honors an American can obtain. They were the first men in
the social and political life of Williamsburg; the first men, in fact,
in the whole province. One was George Wyeth, his legal preceptor, a
gentleman of the highest order of ability; in after years a signer of
the Declaration of Independence and Chancellor of Virginia. The second
was Dr. Small, one of the professors in the college, “who made him his
daily companion,” and the third Governor Fauquier, “the ablest man,”
says Jefferson, “who ever filled that office.” At the table of the
governor, Jefferson, not yet twenty years old, was a guest as often as
twice a week. He was also a member of a little musical society which
the representative of royalty in Virginia had organized. Fauquier was
one of the most accomplished men of his time. He was of a distinguished
English family, courtly in manner, a brilliant conversationalist,
with a wide knowledge of the world. He loved high play, and, it is
said, lost his fortune in one night to the celebrated Anson, who first
circumnavigated the globe.
Jefferson’s father, as we have said, died when his son was only
fourteen years of age; but, says Mr. Randall in his biography of the
third President, he had already taught young Thomas “to ride his horse,
fire his gun, boldly stem the Rivanna when the swollen river was
‘rolling red from brae to brae,’ and press his way with unflagging foot
through the rocky summits of the contiguous hills in pursuit of deer
and wild turkeys.” From youth to old age riding was the one amusement
of which Jefferson never tired. At college he kept his horses, the
very best that could be had. His stable was the one extravagance of
which, while there, he appears to have been guilty. His expenditures
in this respect were so heavy that he requested his guardian to charge
them to his portion of the estate, so that his brother and sisters
should not suffer; but the guardian declined, on the ground that if
he had thus sown his wild oats the property would be able to stand it
without very great loss. His taste for fine horses lasted all through
life. He rode and drove magnificent animals, says Mr. Randall, and in
his younger days was exceedingly “finical” in their treatment. When
his saddle-horse was led out he examined him carefully. If there was
a spot on his coat he rubbed it with a white pocket-handkerchief,
and if it was soiled, the groom was reprimanded. He preferred the
Virginian racehorse. He did not ride, and was scarcely willing to
drive, any other. He usually kept half a dozen brood mares of high
quality. Although not a turfman--he ran only one race in his life--he
had all the fondness of the Virginian for the sport, and rarely missed
seeing what promised to be a good contest. While he held the office
of Secretary of State, and, later on, when chief magistrate, he was
frequently seen on the race-courses near Philadelphia and the federal
city. Jefferson was not satisfied with slow and spiritless animals.
On the contrary, he always aimed to have fleet, powerful, mettlesome
creatures, and when these qualities could be obtained he was willing
to overlook a bad temper. Colonel Randolph, writing on this point,
remarks: “A bold and fearless rider; you saw at once from his easy and
confident seat that he was master of his horse.... The only impatience
of temper he ever exhibited was with his horse, which he subdued
to his will by a fearless application of the whip on the slightest
manifestation of restiveness. He retained to the last his fondness for
riding on horseback. He rode within three weeks of his death, when,
from disease, debility and age, he mounted with difficulty.” A servant
was rarely allowed to accompany him, for he loved solitude, and used
to say that the presence of an attendant annoyed him. In his young
days he never drew rein at broken ground, and when in haste he used to
dash into the Rivanna, even when it was swollen into a large and rapid
river by mountain torrents. His superb horsemanship served him well on
a memorable occasion during the Revolutionary War, when a detachment
of English troops visited Monticello in the hope of capturing him. He
had timely notice of their approach, and, having sent his family away
in carriages to one of his numerous farms, he ordered his horse to a
certain point, and returned to the house to secrete his papers. While
thus occupied a second alarm came, and he had barely time to mount and
dash into the woods, where he was safe from pursuit. Jefferson was
then governor of Virginia, and in after years his political opponents
charged that he ignominiously ran away from the enemy.
Mr. Jefferson’s classical tastes were indicated in the names of his
horses: “Caractacus” was one, “Arcturus” another, “Tarquin” a third,
“Celer” a fourth. Then he had “Diomed” and “Cucullin,” “Jacobin” and
“The General,” “Wildair” and “Eagle.” “Eagle” seems to have been his
favorite steed. He was fleet and fiery, and, withal, of a gentle
temper. This animal was ridden by Jefferson when he was so feeble
that he had to be assisted to mount. “Eagle,” it would appear, loved
his venerable master. The story is told that when a young kinsman of
Jefferson’s mounted the old horse to ride with a cavalcade to meet
Lafayette on his way to Monticello, in 1825, “Eagle” became so excited
by the sound of the drums and bugles that the young gentleman was
obliged to turn back and ride home. On one occasion, when Jefferson was
old and suffering severely from an injured wrist, a messenger brought
the intelligence to Monticello that a grandson of the ex-President
was severely ill at Charlottesville. Night was coming on, and the
sky was dark and threatening. Jefferson ordered that “Eagle” be led
to the door. His family, alarmed for his safety, vainly entreated
him not to attempt the journey. In the saddle, he gave “Eagle” a cut
which set him off at full speed. Mr. Jefferson’s family anxiously
listened, hoping that he would draw bridle at the “notch,” where the
mountain began to descend abruptly. The echoes of “Eagle’s” hoofs
over the rocks told them that the fearful speed was maintained. The
returning messenger was soon passed, and Charlottesville was reached
“in a time over such ground that would have reflected credit on the
boldest rider in Virginia.” “Arcturus” had the honor of being one of
the Presidential horses at Washington. His disposition was bad, and
he was exceedingly unmanageable. The crags of Monticello did not suit
him, and when he first arrived there he selected as a shying point a
rock which jutted out into the narrow road on the edge of a ravine.
The brute seemed to reason that his rider would not dare to punish
him at such a point. Jefferson indulged him two or three times, and
then determined to break him of the habit. The next time “Arcturus”
shied he punished him so severely that the animal was glad to put his
fore-feet on the rock and stand still. Mr. Jefferson kept a good stable
while he was President, although his political enemies were unwilling
to concede even that point in his favor. In one of the opposition
prints of the day we are told that he carried his affectation of
democratic simplicity so far that “he rode around the avenues of
Washington an ugly, shambling hack of a horse which was hardly fit to
draw a tumbril.” But this was a slander. There are conflicting stories
in regard to Mr. Jefferson’s inauguration. On the one hand, we are
assured that he rode to the Capitol alone, and, tying his horse to the
palings surrounding the grounds, went to the Senate chamber and took
the oath. Mr. Rayner, in his life of Jefferson, quotes the account of
the event by an eye-witness as follows: “The sun shone bright on that
morning. The Senate was convened. The members of the Republican party
that remained at the seat of government, the judges of the Supreme
Court, some citizens and gentry from the neighboring country, and about
a dozen ladies, made up the assembly in the Senate chamber.... Mr.
Jefferson had not yet arrived. He was seen walking from his lodgings,
which were not far distant, attended by five or six gentlemen, who
were his fellow-lodgers. Soon afterwards he entered, accompanied by a
committee of the Senate.... He took the oath, which was administered by
the Chief-Justice.... The new President walked home with two or three
gentlemen who lodged in the same house.” It is a well-known matter of
history that Jefferson abolished all the official and social pomp that
was so marked a feature of the administrations of his predecessors.
The levees were discontinued. He had only two days for the reception
of company--the 1st of January and the 4th of July, when he dispensed
a very liberal hospitality. The ladies of Washington bitterly opposed
this severe simplicity, and determined to make Mr. Jefferson return
to the old order of things. With that end in view, a number of them
visited the White House on the usual reception day. Jefferson was out
riding at the time, and on his return was informed of their presence.
A storm of wrath gathered on his brow, but was soon dispelled. Booted,
spurred, and covered with dust, he entered the room, and, riding-whip
in hand, chatted in the most delightful manner. The ladies saw they
were beaten, and never made a second attempt to get the levees back.
Mr. Jefferson on one of his solitary rides, while he was President, met
a feeble beggar sitting on the banks of a stream. The mendicant, not
knowing whom he addressed, asked to be helped across. Mr. Jefferson
directed him to mount behind, and carried him over. The pack was
forgotten, and Jefferson recrossed the stream for it.
From his youth Jefferson had an intense fondness for agriculture. The
care and management of his large estate devolved on him as soon as he
became of age. He was studying law at Williamsburg, but his summers
were spent at Shadwell. He kept a clock in his bedroom, and rose in
the early dawn. During the day he usually took a gallop, and in the
twilight walked to the top of Monticello. Nine o’clock in summer and
ten in winter were his hours for retiring. At a very early period he
introduced a minute and exact system into all his affairs. He kept a
large number of note-books. In one, “the garden book,” he recorded
facts and data about the vegetable world, more particularly information
bearing on the subject of horticulture. He also kept “a farm book,”
and books for “personal” and “general” expenses. Then there was a
meteorological register. In his account-books we find such entries as
these: “Paid 11d. to the barber; 4d. for whetting penknife; put 1s.
in the church box.” On the memorable Fourth of July, 1776, when the
Declaration of Independence was signed, he sets forth that he had “paid
Sparhank for a thermometer £3 5s.,” and “27s. for 7 pairs of women’s
gloves.” He gave “1s. 6d. in charity.” The weather record tells us that
on the same day at six ~A. M.~ the mercury stood 68° above; at noon,
76°, and at nine ~P. M.~, 73½°. Entries were made in this book
regularly three times a day. Special expenditures were set down by
themselves. All his outlay while President, for instance, is preserved
in one manuscript volume, which was among the literary treasures of the
late Samuel J. Tilden. A striking illustration of how Mr. Jefferson
could charge his mind with the smallest as well as the largest matters
of human concern is shown by the curious record which he kept of the
condition of the vegetable market in Washington during the eight
years of the Presidency. This table specifies thirty-seven different
articles, and gives the date of the appearance of each of them on the
table, or on the stands for sale. In his “garden book” he entered
the time of the planting, sprouting, and ripening of his multitude
of esculents. These entries were illustrated by diagrams, as neat as
engravings, of the different plots or beds. The rows are numbered,
and the seeds planted in them accurately given. Even small matters
concerning the household received his attention, and we are told how
much of this or that article will suffice for one person, or for a
family; how much oil will be required for a given number of hours;
the relative cost of oil and candles. His agricultural observations
were ranged under seventeen general heads, comprising more than fifty
subdivisions.
By birth and fortune Jefferson was an aristocrat, but his nature
revolted against the idle and voluptuous habits of the planter class
of that day. His ideas when he was about thirty years of age are well
expressed by himself, as follows: “Those who labor in the earth are the
chosen people of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he
has made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue. It
is the focus in which he keeps alive that sacred fire which otherwise
might escape from the face of the earth. Corruption of morals in the
aggregate mass of cultivators is a phenomenon of which no age nor
nation has furnished an example. It is the mark set on those who, not
looking up to heaven, to their own soil and industry, as does the
husbandman, for their subsistence, depend for it on the casualties and
caprice of customers. Dependence begets subservience and venality,
suffocates the germ of virtue, and prepares fit tools for the designs
of ambition. This, the natural progress and consequence of the arts,
has sometimes, perhaps, been retarded by accidental circumstances;
but, generally speaking, the proportion which the aggregate of the
other classes of citizens bears in any State to that of its husbandmen,
is the proportion of its unsound to its healthy parts, and is a good
enough barometer whereby to measure its degree of corruption.”
Mr. Jefferson was married January 1, 1772, to Mrs. Martha Skelton,
a rich young widow. The 1,900 acres inherited from his father he
had increased to 5,000 acres, all paid for, and his slaves numbered
nearly fifty. The farm yielded him about $2,000 a year, and his law
practice $3,000, which was a large income at that time. Mrs. Jefferson
inherited a fortune fully equal to that of her husband, so that when
the Revolution came he was a rich man. Shadwell house had been burned
down some years before, and the bride was taken to a wing of the new
one at Monticello, which was ready for occupation. The wedding trip
was inauspicious. The little phaeton in which the journey was made
became imbedded in the snow and had to be abandoned. The young couple
went the remainder of the distance on horseback, arrived at Monticello
at midnight, and found all the servants asleep. A small bottle of
wine, found behind some books in the library, constituted the bridal
supper. Jefferson, as we have said, began the erection of Monticello
when he reached his majority. The first work was to level the summit
of the mountain, which rose nearly eight hundred feet above the
surrounding country. This summit--an ellipsis of about ten acres--was
made perfectly smooth. The view from it is of surpassing grandeur and
beauty. At a distance of 100 miles, in some parts, the magnificent
ranges of the Alleghanies shut out the horizon on the west, and trend
away to the north and south. The Blue Ridge Mountains are visible
for 150 miles, while in the foreground of the picture lies a lovely
landscape of hill and valley, forest, stream and plain. The scene on
the east, to quote the words of Mr. Wirt in his eulogy on Jefferson,
“presents an extent of prospect bounded only by the spherical form of
the earth, in which nature seems to sleep in eternal repose, as if to
form one of the finest contrasts with the rude and rolling grandeur
of the West.” “From this summit,” says Mr. Wirt, “the philosopher
was wont to enjoy that spectacle, among the sublimest of nature’s
operations--the looming of the distant mountains--and to watch the
motions of the planets, and the greater revolutions of the celestial
spheres. From this summit, too, the patriot could look down with
uninterrupted vision upon the wide expanse of the world for which he
considered himself born, and upward to the open-vaulted heavens which
he seemed to approach, as if to keep him constantly in mind of his
great responsibility. It is, indeed, a prospect in which you see and
feel at once that nothing mean or little could live. It is a scene fit
to nourish those great and high-souled principles which formed the
elements of his character, and was a most noble and appropriate post
for such a sentinel over the rights and liberties of man.”
The mansion was probably the finest country residence on the continent
at the time. The main structure is one hundred feet in length and
about sixty feet in depth. The basement story rises six feet above
the ground. On it rests the principal story, twenty feet in height.
Above this is an attic eight feet high, the whole crowned by a lofty
dome twenty-eight feet in diameter. On the north and south fronts
were piazzas, opening on a floored terrace which ran one hundred feet
in a straight line, and then another hundred feet at right angles,
terminated by pavilions two stories high. The offices and quarters
of the servants were ranged under these terraces. The style of
architecture is Doric with balustrades on top. The main entrance opens
on a magnificent hall which is surrounded by a gallery connecting
the upper rooms of the house. An American eagle in bas-relief,
encircled by eighteen stars--the number of States when Jefferson
was President--looks down from the ceiling, and holds in its claws
a ponderous chandelier. This hall contained an immense number of
statues and busts, so arranged as to exhibit the historical progress
of sculpture from the rude attempts of the red Indian to Caracci’s
finished statue of Jefferson himself. There was a vast collection of
Indian paintings, ornaments, weapons, statues and idols, together with
a profusion of natural curiosities and fossils of every description.
The hall on one side opened on a spacious _salon_, through double doors
of glass. The design was Egyptian. Imbedded in the walls were Louis
XIV. mirrors, bought in France, while Mr. Jefferson was minister. It
contained many fine paintings, historical and scriptural. There were
portraits of Locke, Bacon, Newton, Jefferson’s “Trinity of great men;”
of Columbus, Vespuceius, Cortez, Magellan and Raleigh; of Washington,
Adams, Franklin, and other distinguished men of the Revolution.
Adjoining it was another splendid apartment, called the “tea room,”
fitted up in rich and becoming style. The southern wing was devoted to
the library, cabinet, and chamber of Mr. Jefferson. The library was
divided into three apartments, opening one into the other. In it, at
one time, was the finest private collection of books on the continent,
sold afterwards to Congress when the Capitol was burned in the second
war with England. The cabinet led to a greenhouse filled with rare
plants. In a room adjoining the study was a collection of mathematical,
scientific, and optical instruments, said to be the best possessed by
any private gentleman in the world. The erection and decoration of this
elegant home, and the improvement of the grounds surrounding it, cost
Mr. Jefferson more than $400,000. He was practically his own architect
and superintendent. The rough work was performed by American mechanics,
slave and free; but the decoration was wrought by foreign artisans,
who were brought for the purpose from Italy, Switzerland, and other
parts of Europe. Beneath the building are, or were, long subterranean
passages, cased with stone, through which a person could walk upright.
They were connected with the slave quarters and the stables, hundreds
of feet distant. The master of Monticello used to pass through one
of them from his bedchamber and mount his horse in the early morning
before the household arose.
All the appointments at Monticello were on a scale corresponding with
the style of the mansion. On the declivities of the mountain were
houses and buildings sufficient to make a small village. They were the
dwellings of his overseers and workmen; the quarters and workshops
of his mechanics. It was a little community complete in itself. Mr.
Jefferson’s millers ground in his own mill the corn and wheat raised on
his farms; his horses were shod by his own blacksmiths; the timber of
his woods was made into every article of use by his own carpenters, the
wool clipped from his own sheep was spun and woven by his own people.
He even made his own nails, and his mechanics were sufficiently skilful
to build his carriages.
The lawn and grounds, which were laid out under his direction,
were as beautiful as nature and art could make them. At the age of
twenty-three, according to an entry in his garden book, he planted a
great variety of fruit-trees, and about the same period he selected the
now historic burying-place where the young friend of his youth, his own
family, and himself are buried. The book is filled with memoranda like
these: “What to do with the grounds: Thin out the trees; cut out stumps
and undergrowth; remove old trees and other rubbish, except where they
may look well; cover the whole with grass. Intersperse jessamine,
honeysuckle, sweetbrier and hardy flowers which do not require
attention. Keep in the park deer, rabbits, and every other wild animal
except those of prey. Procure a buck elk, to be, as it were, monarch
of the wood. Put inscriptions in various places on the bark of the
trees, and make benches or seats of rock or turf.” There are directions
for the shrubbery. “To be planted: Alder, bastard-indigo, flowering
amorphia, barbery, cassioberry, carsine, chinquipin, Jersey tea,
dwarf-cherry, lilac, wild-cherry, dogwood, redwood, horse-chestnut,
magnolia, mulberry, locust, holly, juniper, laurel, yew.” “Hardy
perennial flowers: snapdragon, larkspur, anemone, lily-of-the-valley,
primrose, larkspur, sunflower, flower-de-luce, daisy, gilliflower,
violet, flag, etc.” That Mr. Jefferson carried out his plans in regard
to the deer is evident from the account which has been left us by the
Marquis de Chastellux, who visited Monticello in 1782. The Marquis
says: “Mr. Jefferson amuses himself by raising a score of these animals
[deer] in his park. They have become very familiar, which happens to
all the animals of America, for they are, in general, much easier to
tame than those of Europe. He amuses himself by feeding them with
Indian corn, of which they are very fond, and which they eat out of
his hand. I followed him one evening into a deep valley where they are
accustomed to assemble towards the close of the day, and saw them walk,
run and bound.”
The lawn was filled with lofty willows, poplars, acacias, catalpas, and
other native and foreign trees set out so as not to obstruct the view
in any direction from the centre where the house stood. Many of them
he had planted with his own hand, and all of them were placed where
they grew under his immediate superintendence. No wonder he declined to
leave this beautiful and ideal home and accept the commission to France
when it was first offered to him. The death of Mrs. Jefferson, in
1782, was so severe an affliction, however, that he gladly went abroad
as a means of escape from scenes which so forcibly reminded him of
his loss. His important and often vexatious diplomatic duties did not
prevent him from noting and sending home to his numerous correspondents
every hint and suggestion likely to benefit the agricultural interests
of the country. Almost every one of his many letters contains some
reference to his favorite pursuit. He was a member of the Agricultural
Society of Paris and of the Board of Agriculture of London. In 1785,
he writes from Paris that he recently “went to see a plough which was
worked by a windlass, without horses or oxen. It was a poor affair.
With a very troublesome apparatus, applicable only to a dead level,
four men could do the work of two horses.” To another correspondent he
writes about a new invention--“the working of grist-mills by steam,”
and adds, “I hear you are applying the same agent in America to
navigate boats.” Then comes the prediction, “I have little doubt but
that it will be applied generally to machines so as to supersede the
use of water-ponds, and, of course, to lay open all the streams for
navigation.” This improvement of the plough was one of Mr. Jefferson’s
great problems, and it is said that he was the first to lay down a
mathematical rule for shaping the mould-board. The first mention
of it in his writings is found in the journal of his trip through
Southern France, which was made partly for pleasure and partly to
obtain information on agricultural and other subjects that would be of
value to his countrymen at home. He received for the new mould-board a
gold medal from the Société d’Agriculture de la Seine. With the same
object in view, he also made a tour of Northern Italy. In a letter to
the Marquis de La Fayette he writes: “In the great cities I go to see
what travelers think alone worthy of being seen; but I make a job of
it, and generally gulp it all down in a day. On the other hand, I am
never satiated with rambling through the fields and farms, examining
the culture and cultivators with a degree of curiosity which makes
some take me to be a fool and others to be much wiser than I am. From
the first olive fields of Pierrelatte to the orangeries of Hieres has
been one continued rapture to me.” Mr. Jefferson was captivated by the
olive. He wrote home that he considered it the most precious gift of
heaven to man, and thought it was superior even to bread. He strongly
urged its cultivation, and also that of the fig and the mulberry.
The Southern States are indebted to him for upland rice. In 1790,
he procured a cask of that variety from Denbigh, in Africa; shipped
it to Charleston, where, by his direction, a part of it was sent to
Georgia. He also shipped a large number of olive plants, which throve
admirably in their new soil. “The greatest service,” says he, “which
can be rendered any country is to add a useful plant to its culture,
especially a bread grain. Next in value to bread is oil.” While in
Italy, he procured the seeds of three different species of rice from
Piedmont, Lombardy and the Levant, and sent them to South Carolina,
together with the seeds of the San Foin and other grasses. He was not
in favor of the cultivation of the vine in the United States--not,
however, on account of his temperance principles, but because he
thought men might be more profitably employed in other departments of
industry. While there he bought Merino sheep for his farm at Monticello.
While he was sending these gifts to the country, greater and more
valuable, perhaps, than all the parchment treaties that have come
across the Atlantic since our diplomacy began, he was at the same time
extremely zealous in making known every new discovery and invention
within the whole circle of the arts and sciences. For the great staple
productions of the country he eagerly sought new outlets and markets.
He labored long and earnestly with the Count de Vergennes, the French
Prime Minister, to break up the tobacco monopoly, so that the American
product could be sold in France. He endeavored to convince the Italian
merchants that they needed our whale-oil and lard, and thus laid
the foundation of what afterwards became a profitable trade. In the
literary and scientific circles of Paris he was a prominent figure,
honored for his great attainments, the nobility of his character, and
his services in the cause of human freedom. His fame had preceded him,
and he was welcomed by the savants of France as a worthy successor to
the immortal Franklin. He discussed natural history with M. de Buffon.
“I have made a particular acquaintance here,” he writes to a friend,
“with Monsieur de Buffon, and have a great desire to give him the best
idea I can of our elk.” He requests his correspondent to send him the
horns, skeleton and skin of one, if it is possible to procure them. In
order to gratify Mr. Jefferson, a grand hunting party was organized
in New Hampshire by his friends, and, after a day’s hard chase, a
fine animal was captured. It was stuffed and shipped to Paris at an
expense of over fifty pounds sterling. Daniel Webster used to tell
the story that its arrival was celebrated by a grand supper, at which
Buffon was, of course, a guest, and that, at the proper time, it was
introduced as the scientific course of the feast. Mr. Jefferson also
added to the King’s Cabinet of Natural History, in charge of Buffon,
our American grouse and pheasant, which he asked Francis Hopkinson to
buy for him in the markets of Philadelphia. But he began to weary of
France. Writing to Baron Geismer in the fall of 1785, he says: “I am
now of an age which does not easily accommodate itself to new manners
and new modes of living, and I am savage enough to prefer the woods,
the wilds and the independence of Monticello to all the brilliant
pleasures of this gay capital.” He was not, however, released from
his post until three years later. On his way home from Norfolk, where
he landed upon his return, he received an invitation from Washington,
then President-elect, to become Secretary of State. He reluctantly
accepted, and entered on his new duties March, 1790, in New York, which
was then the seat of government. Mr. Jefferson was duly beloved by his
slaves, and his reception by them on his arrival at Monticello showed
the reverence in which they held him. His daughter, Mrs. Randolph,
writes: “The negroes discovered the approach of the carriage as soon
as it reached Shadwell, and such a scene I never witnessed in my life.
They collected in crowds around it, and almost drew it up the mountain
by hand. The shouting, etc., had been sufficiently obstreperous
before, but the moment it reached the top of the mountain, it reached
the climax. When the door was opened, they lifted him in their arms
and bore him to the house, crowding around and kissing his hands and
feet--some blubbering and crying--others laughing. It seemed impossible
to satisfy their anxiety to touch and kiss the very earth which bore
him. They believed him to be one of the greatest, and they knew him to
be one of the very best of men and kindest of masters.”
Mr. Jefferson did not lose his interest in agricultural pursuits while
he was a member of the Washington administration. He made frequent
trips to Monticello, and directed the operations of his farmers,
laborers, and other workmen. In June, 1790, he writes from New York to
one of his daughters: “We did not have peas or asparagus here until the
8th day of this month. On the same day I heard the first whip-poor-will
whistle. Swallows and martins appeared here on the 21st of April.
When did they appear with you, and when had you peas and strawberries
and whip-poor-wills in Virginia? Take notice, hereafter, whether the
whip-poor-wills always come with the strawberries and peas.” When Mr.
Jefferson retired from the Washington Cabinet he immediately began to
repair the damages his long absence had caused on his estate. He then
owned 10,000 acres of land, of which 2,000 were under cultivation,
but they had been sadly mismanaged by his overseers. All the cleared
land was divided into nearly four equal parts, each containing about
280 acres. These were subdivided into fields of about forty acres in
extent, separated from one another by rows of peach-trees, 1,151 of
which were planted by him in one year alone. He had 154 slaves, 249
cattle, 390 hogs, 5 mules, and 34 horses, 9 of which were required
for the use of his household. To quote his own words at this time, he
gave himself up “to his family, his farms and his books.” His farming
operations were conducted on the most approved scientific principles,
and the first threshing-machine seen in Virginia was on his estate.
But in a short time his election to the Vice-Presidency recalled
him to the political arena, and “the rocks and wilds” of Monticello
were once more abandoned. Four years, and he became President. The
young capital, Washington, was then slowly assuming the form and
appearance of a town, if not of a city. Jefferson, who, as Secretary
of State at Philadelphia, had supervised the plan of its streets and
the architecture of its public buildings, took a keen delight in the
work of building and beautifying it. One of his biographers, writing
shortly after his death in 1826, says: “Almost everything that is
beautiful in the artificial scenery of Washington is due to the taste
and industry of Mr. Jefferson. He planted its walks with trees and
strewed its gardens with flowers. He was rarely seen returning from
his daily excursions on horseback without bringing some branches of
tree or shrub, or bunch of flowers, for the embellishment of the infant
capital. He was familiar with every tree and plant, from the oak of
the forest to the meanest flower of the valley. The willow-oak was
among his favorite trees, and he was often seen standing on his horse
gathering the acorns from this tree. He had it in view to raise a
nursery of them, which, when large enough to give shade, should be made
to adorn the walks of all the avenues in the city. In the meantime he
planted them with the Lombardy poplar, being of the most sudden growth,
contented that, though he could not enjoy their shade, his successors
would. Those who have stood on the western portico of the Capitol and
looked down the long avenue of a mile in length to the President’s
house, have been struck with the beautiful colonnade of trees which
adorns the whole distance on either side. They were all planted under
the direction of Mr. Jefferson, who joined in the task with his own
hands. He always lamented the spirit of extermination which had swept
off the noblest forest trees that overspread Capitol Hill, extending
down to the banks of the Tiber and the banks of the Potomac. He meant
to have converted the grounds into extensive parks and gardens. ‘The
loss is irreparable,’ said he to a European traveler, ‘nor can the evil
be prevented. When I have seen such depredations I have wished for a
moment to be a despot, that, in the possession of absolute power, I
might enforce the preservation of these valuable groves. Washington
might have boasted one of the noblest parks and most beautiful walks
attached to any city in the world.’” The Washington of even 1830 has
long since passed away. Where the long line of shade-trees from the
Capitol to the President’s house stood, the parallel rails of the
street-cars have long been laid, while the stream of classic name has
been inclosed in brick and stone, and made to serve the ignoble purpose
of a great drainage conduit. Jefferson’s dream of a beautiful capital
has been realized, however; and could he return to it he would not find
much to condemn in its avenues and parks except some of the statues
that disfigure them.
Mr. Jefferson’s long political service came to an end in March,
1809, and with it his final retirement to Monticello. He was then
sixty-six years of age. The journey to his home was one long triumphal
procession, the inhabitants of every town and village through which he
passed welcoming him with complimentary addresses and resolutions. He
had been forty years in the service of the public. His intellectual
powers were undecayed and his bodily health good. Seventeen years of
life were yet before him. The restoration of his property was his first
care. His lands were not in a compact body, and a great deal of riding
to and fro was necessary. One of the principal farms was in Bedford
County, more than a day’s journey from Monticello, and he usually spent
six or seven weeks there every year. In private as well as in public
life, Mr. Jefferson had made it a rule to be out of bed with the sun,
and to transact a large amount of business before breakfast. To this
rule he adhered even in his old age. In a letter to ex-President Adams,
in 1820, he says: “I can walk but little, but I ride six or eight
miles a day without fatigue; and, within a few days, I shall endeavor
to visit my other home, after a twelvemonths’ absence from it. Our
University, four miles distant, gives me frequent exercise, and the
oftener as I direct its architecture.” The building and equipment of
the University of Virginia was the crowning work of Mr. Jefferson’s
life. He visited it nearly every day, and when compelled to remain at
home, watched the workmen through a spyglass from his veranda. The
usual routine of his life at this period is thus described by one of
his biographers: “He rose with the sun. From that time to breakfast,
and often until noon, he was in his cabinet, chiefly employed in
epistolary correspondence. From breakfast, or noon at the latest, to
dinner he was engaged in his workshops, his garden, or on horseback
among his farms. From dinner to dark he gave to society and recreation
with his neighbors and friends; and from candle-light to bed-time he
devoted himself to reading and study.” A granddaughter has left us this
picture of him in the last years of his life: “He loved farming and
gardening, the fields, the orchards, and the asparagus beds. Of flowers
he was very fond. I remember the planting of the first hyacinths and
tulips. The precious roots were added to the earth under his own eye,
with a crowd of happy young faces of his grandchildren clustered around
to see the process and inquire anxiously the name of each separate
deposit. In the morning, immediately after breakfast, he used to visit
his flower-beds and gardens.” His retirement was invaded by a multitude
of admirers and curiosity seekers, whose entertainment became so great
a drain upon his resources that, coupled with other financial losses,
he became deeply involved in pecuniary difficulties. His creditors grew
clamorous, and he was compelled to ask the Legislature permission to
dispose of his property by lottery. The scheme embraced three great
prizes, namely, Monticello, valued at $71,000; the Shadwell Mills,
adjoining it, $30,000, and the Albemarle estate at $11,500. Public
attention having been thus called to his distress, meetings were held
in nearly all the principal cities of the Union, and a large sum of
money was subscribed for his benefit. But his life was now drawing to
a close, and he experienced very little relief from these voluntary
offerings. In the summer of 1826 he became very feeble, and he died on
the 4th of July, at ten minutes to one o’clock, “the day on which he
prayed that he might be permitted to depart.” Fifty years had passed
away since the great Declaration had been given to the world, and the
political independence of the Thirteen Colonies proclaimed. Away in
distant Quincy, noble old John Adams died almost at the same hour,
thanking God that “Thomas Jefferson still lives.”
MAN’S THREE FOLLIES.
A woman said to sage Voltaire:
“You men are really famous
For just three follies: they’re your share;
For more than three you blame us.
“Man never waits for fruit to fall,
But shakes the tree or beats it;
While woman, in no haste at all,
When fruit has ripened--eats it.
“Men rush to war, defying fate,
And fight as if for pleasure;
When death would come, if men would wait,
And take them at his leisure.
“Man follows woman: foolish chase,
For if he only knew her,
And would but turn from her fair face,
He need not thus pursue her.
“If she once thought man meant retreat,
All scruples she would swallow;
Grass would not grow beneath her feet,
So quickly would she follow.
“We’re not afraid this truth to tell
To men who oft deceive us
We’ve learned their ways, and we know well
That they will not believe us.
“Man will not, cannot turn away
From the fair face of woman;
Her sceptre she will always sway--
At least while man is human!”
_Egbert L. Bangs._
[Illustration]
THE LADIES’ EASTERN TRICYCLE TOUR.
FROM THE MERRIMAC TO NAUMKEAG.
BY DAISIE.
[Illustration]
“Ohne Hast” was our motto as, in the month of October, we cycled from
the banks of the Merrimac to old Naumkeag. We borrowed but one-half of
Goethe’s motto, for we did not care to add the “Ohne Rast,” and live up
to it. He gets much out of a cycle tour who wheels leisurely through
the country, for he exerts himself far less than does the pedestrian or
the equestrian; he sees no less of what is around and about him, and he
travels farther in a given time. There are those who derive no pleasure
from cycling unless they rush along, bent only on making quick time
between points; but this idea has never animated the ladies who yearly
wander awheel along the rocky coast of Northern Massachusetts.
“The Ladies’ Annual Tricycle Tour to the North Shore of Massachusetts”
is our rather cumbersome but all-inclusive title, and under it we
have had four very delightful outings. This tour was evolved during
the fall of 1885 from the mind of Miss Minna C. Smith, then on the
editorial staff of ~Outing~, and the first tour was carried
out under her direction, and became the subject of an article in this
magazine at that time--(the Ladies’ Tour to Kettle Cove, vol. vii.,
p. 431). Minna’s first idea was a tour for ladies alone; but she very
soon discovered that the ladies would not go without their husbands and
sweethearts, and it occurred to her mind, also, that the masculines
would be very handy in screwing up loose nuts, or repairing damages to
the machines. And so it was a mixed company that first essayed to run
awheel from Middlesex Fells to Kettle Cove. And it has come about that
ladies with gentlemen have composed all the succeeding tours, three
in number, though the ladies have always been in the majority, and the
rule that no gentleman can participate unless he is escort to a lady
has been rigidly adhered to. The gentlemen pay for the privilege of
attending the tour by arranging all the details and liquidating the
bills, and find their reward in the supreme satisfaction of which the
ladies give evidence in look and manner. Before I tell you how we went
and what we did, let me invite your attention to our itinerary.
Wednesday, October 3d.--By train from Boston to Newburyport--special
car to carry our cycles. Night at the Wolfe Tavern.
Thursday, October 4th.--Ride from Newburyport to Gloucester,
thirty miles. Through Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich, Essex Woods,
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Magnolia, and Gloucester.
Friday, October 5th.--Around Cape Ann, through Rockport, Lanesville,
Annisquam, Riverdale, West Gloucester, and Gloucester.
Saturday, October 6th.--A forenoon at Magnolia. In the afternoon, ride
to Salem, through Manchester-by-the-Sea, Beverly Farms, Beverly, and
Salem.
Sunday, October 7th.--A forenoon at Nahant, dinner at Lynn, and the
homeward ride in the afternoon.
There were twenty-four of us in all. Eight wives assisted their
husbands in pedaling eight tandems. Two pairs of girls propelled two
tandems. The veteran and his wife rode a tandem bicycle. One young lady
rode a single tricycle. One solitary gentleman rode a bicycle.
Our tandem bicycle was a seven-days’ wonder for the rustics on the
route, and they viewed it with open-eyed astonishment. They never
expected to see a lady on a bicycle, and they could hardly believe what
their eyes told them.
There were some who protested against travel by rail on any part of
a cycle tour, and spurned the idea of going to Newburyport in this
way. They were allowed to exercise their own sweet wills, so four of
the tourists wheeled forty miles to the rendezvous the day before the
start. We were quartered at the Wolfe Tavern, in front of which hung
a sign placed there in the last century, and bearing a portrait of
General Wolfe. It was an ugly daub, but interesting and attractive,
nevertheless. Hector thought it strange that a tavern should encourage
the presence of a “wolf at the door,” and suggested that the landlord
would have our assistance to drive him away when we came to pay our
bills, or “pay the shot,” as he put it.
Newburyport is a quaint old place, and on every hand are to be seen
suggestions of bygone days in the forms of a gambrel-roof house, a
colonial door, or the more common outside steps which follow the
front lines of the house and take one in at the front door by a turn.
Here is the mansion house of Lord Timothy Dexter, who sent a cargo of
warming-pans to the West Indies and made a large sum of money, not by
selling them for bed-warming purposes, but for the use to which the
natives quickly turned them of dipping up molasses from the vats. It is
told, also, of this eccentric individual, that he had a mock funeral
pass through the streets while he himself occupied the coffin, which
was carried in a hearse. The picture of his great house, in front of
which is a high fence with huge posts, each post a pedestal for a
statue, has become familiar in cheap prints.
Hector and I were up early and strolling through the town. Our riding
suits attracted no little attention, but one gets used to being
stared at after cycling experiences of a few months. Gentlemen in
knee-breeches are no uncommon sight in these days of tennis, baseball
and cycling, but legs clad in knee-breeches appearing below an overcoat
suggest an inharmonious grouping of garments, and I do not wonder that
they provoke a smile. We made straight for the cemetery, of course,
for in these quaint old places the cemetery is always interesting.
We found it hard-by the jail, and I thought their juxtaposition not
inappropriate. We read many epitaphs written a century ago, and could
not but smile at the queer ideas expressed.
The natives turned out in force to see us start. They had possibly seen
ladies ride tricycles before, but a large party like this, and one
couple on a tandem bicycle, was a decided novelty. Good Mother Nature
was kind to us on this the first day of our tour. She had been frowning
for weeks before and sending down rain, rain, till we began to think we
should have to tour in an ark instead of awheel. The gentlemen forgot
what a glorious riding year lay behind them, and I heard many remarks
more emphatic than polite. The frown on the face of the heavens changed
to a smile the night before the eventful day, and we started our wheels
toward Gloucester under pleasant skies. Molly was our pacemaker,
while I staid behind to help along the laggards and to signal Molly in
case of accident, and the Doctor’s wife looked after the drag which
conveyed our luggage and a few spare machines. We had a whistle code
which nobody took the trouble to learn, and our rules were very strict,
though nobody seemed to pay much regard to them. Six miles an hour was
the pace cut out by Molly, and this did not violate the motto, “Ohne
Hast,” except in the minds of the horses on the drag. Do we mind the
hills? Bless you, no! If the hill has a good hard surface we do not
mind it nearly so much as we do a level, sandy stretch.
It were useless to attempt to tell the delight of a tricycle ride
through a pleasant country, where Nature invites the eye to dwell upon
her charms, where the roads are firm and smooth, when the whole body
tingles with exhilaration born of quickened circulation and speedy
movement through the air. To experience is to know. The half cannot be
told.
We left the old town behind us and soon came to the river Parker (don’t
call it Parker River in the presence of a Newburyporter). On the
farther bank we were greeted by an old resident, who gave us apples to
eat and entertained us with stories of the old house in which he lives,
which, by the way, is the homestead of the Poor family, of which the
noted Ben. Perley Poor and our friend are members. To-day we see Cape
Ann under its rural aspect; tomorrow we shall see the bold shore and
the open sea.
A boy shouts after the gentleman from New York: “Say, mister, your
wheel’s goin’ round,” and the man from Manhattan nearly falls off his
wheel from the effect of this very new joke.
At Bean’s Crossing we stopped for a drink of cold water at the well,
and, if you will believe it, many of the ladies preferred to drink from
the old oaken bucket, and spurned the drinking-cups gallantly offered
by the gentlemen. The bucket was clean, however, without a suspicion of
dirty moss on it. The ride through Essex woods was a poem in cycling.
The summer residents have bought up large tracts of land in these woods
and perpetuated this beautiful driveway. The road-bed is good, and one
passes under arching trees for miles seeing nowhere any disturbance
of nature due to the hand of man, save only the path he is traveling.
Drink in this scene if you can, and garnish it with the glory of the
autumnal foliage.
Just before we entered the woods we were met by the Poet and the
Artist, who rode over from Gloucester to meet us and escort us on our
way. They approached us down-hill, as we ascended. Just before we came
up to them they performed a most artistic header in full sight of the
party, which we all enjoyed, after we had discovered they had come out
of it without injury. The poet dived through the air and alighted on
the grass many feet in front of the machine, while the artist found
himself under the machine, which illustrated the total depravity of
inanimate things by jumping on him and pinning him to the sod. At
Ipswich we drank again. Every pump is patronized by cycling tourists,
and I dare not estimate the number of glasses of spring water that
are consumed on a trip of this kind. Let me say that our tourists are
teetotalers. I know this, because I heard one of the gentlemen say,
after we had drunk from our fourth or fifth spring the first day, “I
never saw such a lot of teetotal drinkers as cyclers are.”
Just out of Ipswich there was a breakdown. The Doctor’s axle yielded to
his tremendously powerful pedaling, and a wrecked machine was cast upon
the road. Here came in the usefulness of the drag with its cargo of
spare machines. The wreck was taken on board and new machines were soon
under the castaway crew.
Dinner was taken in picnic style, under the trees, in a nook of the
Essex Woods, and ham sandwiches, chicken and eggs were washed down with
water from a neighboring spring. At four ~P. M.~ we drew up in
front of the Pavilion, at Gloucester. Then came the discussion over the
distance. ’Tis with our cyclometers as with our watches, none go just
alike, yet each believes his own. Some told us we had ridden thirty-two
miles, others said thirty. My fatigue indicated a ride of a short
distance, my hunger pointed to figures much larger than any cyclometer
told.
That night there was music and dancing in the parlor. To see that merry
company, who would think they had pedaled their “go-carts” over thirty
miles of good, bad, and indifferent roads during the day? Molly favored
the company with a number of recitations, the Doctor’s wife read an
original poem which teemed with personalities, and Mrs. Manhattan
played while we danced. We slept the sleep of the innocent that night,
lulled to slumber by the breakers on the beach, just beneath our
windows.
The second day is always the most important of the tour, for on it
we circle Cape Ann. The road runs out of Gloucester at the north,
belts the cape, and returns to Gloucester again from the west. Cape
Ann projects into Massachusetts Bay, as though nature had given a
great nose to the Old Commonwealth. The road follows the shore-line
northward, then turns inland, and takes the visitor through a country
of hills to the starting-point. I cannot believe that money or material
wealth in any form could tempt a cycler to travel this road if it were
not for the scenery. The length of the belt is only fifteen miles, but
experienced riders suffer more fatigue in traveling these, than forty
miles of ordinary roads would bring. A Boston newspaper pronounced it,
a few years ago, an unfit road for ladies to ride over. And yet we have
conquered it four times. Hill succeeds hill in constant succession,
and sandy surfaces make the levels hard to ride upon. But we must pay
for the good things of this life, and we cannot have Cape Ann scenery
without compensation.
Twenty of us responded to the call of the pacemaker at nine o’clock
Friday morning, and the drag was in position. Hector presented a
pretty spectacle this morning behind the white wings of a dove which
ornamented his tandem. The Doctor’s wife was suspected of this trick,
perpetrated to show her appreciation of the way in which Hector
sang his favorite song of “White Wings” for the entertainment of
the company. If Hector’s beauty ranked with his inability to sing
he would be another Adonis. The tourists were well avenged for the
peace-destroying notes that had been forced upon them, for every
shrill-voiced boy on the road that day--and we met several groups just
let loose from school--saluted the decorated machine with the chorus of
the well-worn song.
We went out of Gloucester with bright colors to the fore--on the
cheeks of the ladies. Leaving Gloucester, we passed the old stone barn
at Beaver Dam, then to Rockport, where we spent a pleasant half-hour
at the quarries, looking down from the stone bridge that carries the
roadway over the cut, into the great depths with the palisaded sides of
still unquarried granite. Some of the great blocks but recently taken
out were said to be twenty-five feet long and twenty tons in weight.
We took the statement on faith, for we had neither measuring rod nor
scales. A native took us to see a curio that is shown to visitors. A
schooner ran into a sloop. The jibboom of the former went clear through
the mast of the sloop and staid there. The mast with its unceremonious
visitor lies upon the wharf to excite the wonder of those who behold
it. “His Grace the Duke” cracked a very poor joke when he spoke of the
masterly stroke of the schooner, and one man said that schooners had
run into him without any such effect.
We were doing more walking than riding, for there are more hills than
levels in that district, and many hills make pedestrianism a charm.
Pigeon Cove came next in view. We saw several flights of ducks, but
no pigeons hereabouts. Here, on the extreme easterly point of Cape
Ann, we halted for lunch. An accommodating innkeeper, who had closed
his hostelry, and who was the sole occupant except his family, kindly
loaned us a table and the use of his range for the making of coffee.
Molly made the coffee, and proved herself an artist in beverages.
After dinner we strolled and climbed upon the rocks which were piled
up upon the point. Great slabs of granite that weighed ten, fifteen,
and even twenty tons, were shown us, and we were asked to believe that
they were thrown up by the sea, or moved rods away from their former
positions by the gale of March, 1888. It was a great tax upon our
credulity to view these massive stones and accept the tales that were
told of the sport which the waves had made with them. The landlady
showed an ugly and repulsive horned toad that had recently been sent
her from California. It was still alive, and several of the ladies were
courageous enough to take it in their hands, though the general verdict
was, “Ugh!”
Leaving Pigeon Cove behind us, we rode on to Folly Cove. Here the scene
is altogether different. The cove is surrounded by high land, from
which we looked down upon white-capped waters and saw white-winged
plyers of the deep in the middle ground and on the horizon, while just
beneath us fishermen were tending their nets, and lobster-catchers in
dories were hauling in their pots.
At Annisquam we visited the great boulder. Near the summit of a great
hill lies this mass of rock, not less than fifty feet in height and
width. Who put it there? Let the icebergs tell the story in scratches
on its side. A few venturesome ones, who were shod with rubber, climbed
to the top, and the photographer snapped his shutter and caught us as
we stood about the rock. Off in the distance is Coffin’s Beach. Two
schooners are on the sands, one at low-water mark, and the other far
above the waters. They were thrown up there from the sea by the gale of
last March, and they wait for the sands to engulf them. It will not pay
to save them, so slowly but surely they are sinking into the sands, and
before many months they will have gone down out of sight.
The Veteran brought pickled limes for our entertainment on the road.
There should have been a few left when we got to the boulder, so one of
the young ladies clambered into the drag to refresh herself, and soon
had the box in her lap. There was a screech from the drag and a rush of
the gentlemen toward it. When the maiden opened the box, she had found,
not pickled limes, but the horned toad from California, who winked his
ugly eyes at her as daylight was let in upon him. It appeared that
the Doctor’s wife had begged him from the landlady at Pigeon Cove and
without our knowledge had made him one of the party. He went with us
to the end, and the ladies soon gained courage enough to feed him with
flies.
We were back at Gloucester at half-past four. Then, after dinner, we
had more fun in the parlor during the evening, more song and more
story. Does anybody say we ought to have been tired after our long and
difficult ride? Bless you, we never think of being tired on these tours.
Saturday morning brought clouded skies. Out upon you, Mother Nature,
for marring our tour! It never yet rained on our touring days, then
why spoil the record? Weatherwise natives told us that it would not
rain long, and said that fair weather was ahead. Hector sententiously
remarked: “He who rides a cycle needs no reins.” We started for
Magnolia in a drizzle, and in a drizzle we did the place. Our wheels
were housed at Willow Cottage, and the tourists strolled over to
Rafe’s Chasm. It was a good day for surf studies, and the chasm is the
ideal place for this. The waters rush up into the great cleft and come
tumbling back white with anger, the waves beat upon the rocks, and the
spray is sent high in air. We looked at the iron cross erected to the
memory of Martha Marvin, who was washed into the sea from these rocks
a few years ago; and lying right before us was Norman’s Woe, whereon
the schooner _Hesperus_ was wrecked.
Meantime the heavens put on a thicker coat of gray, foreboding trouble
ahead for any who should dare venture unprotected beneath them. Two
o’clock was our hour for starting, but at that time the rain was
falling in torrents. No matter; let us drive on. It will not hurt us
to get wet, for our work will keep us warm. Let me choose between a
high wind and a rain-storm and I will take the rain in every case, and
so think all cyclers. Keep the body warm by quick action on the wheel,
change clothing at the end of the ride, and rub yourself well with a
coarse towel, and there is no evil effect from a ducking of this kind.
We rode twelve miles to Salem. The roads were heavy, and we had to
take the sidewalks wherever we could, without paying any regard to
the law prohibiting sidewalk riding, for the blue-coated guardian of
the peace could never be so cruel as to arrest ladies for riding on
the sidewalk when the mud was six inches deep. It was: Go at your own
pace now; no matter about precedence. The word was: Get to Salem as
quick as you can! It was a race warm-bathward, as Miss Rives would say.
The tandem bicycle reached the hotel first of all, but close behind
were the Misses K---- on their tandem. Good English and Scotch blood
flows in the veins of these two young ladies, and they have the brawn
and sinew to put their machine over the road faster than many of the
gentlemen care to ride. We must have presented a ludicrous sight as
we passed through the villages drenched with rain and dropping water
from every projection. “Why don’t you drop it and run?” called out a
youngster after us as we hurried onward. When we came to the river,
Hector suggested that we should ride through it, “for,” said he, “we
can’t get any wetter than we are, and the experience will be novel.”
Declining the suggestion, we took the bridge. Only the week before they
had celebrated the centennial anniversary of the structure--old Beverly
Bridge--and we wondered if ever a stranger company had crossed from
shore to shore than this rain-drenched party of cyclists. The Doctor’s
wife tired of riding in the rain before half the journey was completed,
and she found a way to take solid comfort and keep dry. She got into
the drag and left her husband to pedal a double-seated machine alone,
but taking pity on him shortly, she threw him a rope and an umbrella.
The rope he attached to the machine and the umbrella was raised for
shelter. Thus was he towed along, to the delight of the small boys who
witnessed the peculiar spectacle. Salem was kind to us. Warm fires were
ready, and soon we were in dry clothing, with our wet garments hanging
before the fires. Thus was marred the afternoon of our third day.
We held a council of war in the parlor, and decided that the tour
should continue if the morning proved fair, otherwise it was to be
considered at an end. Morning came, and the rain was still falling. We
bade farewell to each other, and sought our homes as each deemed best.
A few of the more reckless riders mounted their wheels for another ride
in the rain, but this time home was their destination. Many went home
by train, and a few remained at Salem to await fair weather.
Thus ended the fourth North Shore tour of the ladies. We had two
glorious days and much pleasant experience. We had one half-day of rare
enjoyment on the rocks at Magnolia, and the monotony of our delight
was relieved by our cycle bath. They were red-letter days for us all.
Ye who tour by rail, by boat, or by carriage, know not one half the
delight one gets on the wheel. If you would be convinced of this, come
with us next year when we embark on the fifth annual tour.
[Illustration: Newburyport. Gloucester. Rockport. Magnolia. Beverly.
Salem. Boston. Finale]
A LOVE LETTER.
Here is her note. See how the courier pen,
All dizzy with delight, went zigzag down
The road that leads to Eros’ happy town!
See, here a steady pace; and here again
A sudden forward bound, as if, just then,
Her heart beat faster for the precious noun
That brought him near! and there, to match a frown,
A wavy course, as if doubt blurred his ken.
So, ever nearer to the self-same spot,
Bearing the message of my sweetheart true,
Her courier went rejoicing in his lot
To have for heavens eyes of tender blue:
Ah, Heart of mine! see, here’s a tiny blot--
A cloud for him--a tender tear for you.
_Frank Dempster Sherman._
[Illustration: Editor’s Open ~Window~.]
THE PAST CRICKET SEASON.
~The~ visit of the team of Irish amateur cricketers to the
United States this past season resulted in affording further proof
of the fact that Philadelphia is the home of cricket on this side of
the Atlantic. While the Irish gentlemen had almost a walk-over in
competing with the resident English cricketers of Canada, and were
successful without difficulty against the selected teams of Boston and
New York--though Boston gave them quite a close push--in Philadelphia
alone were they opposed by elevens of native American cricketers only,
whom they found their match. The success of the Philadelphia gentlemen
in winning both of their games with the Irish visitors should encourage
them to get up another team of American amateurs to cross the Atlantic
again in 1889.
* * * * *
~A noteworthy~ fact in local cricket this past season was that
the old St. George cricket field was once more the scene of a match
between elevens of the St. George and Manhattan clubs. The members of
the St. George Cricket Club have of late years become so absorbed in
lawn tennis that they have sadly neglected the old, manly English game
of cricket, which was the basis of their organization over thirty odd
years ago.
~Henry Chadwick.~
* * * * *
IN THE FOOTBALL FIELD.
~For~ years before the adoption of the game of football in
America our autumn season had no sport distinctively its own. Baseball
dragged out a lingering existence as the hands grew numb in the frosty
air. Boating shivered along into November in sweaters, but its life
was frozen. Until the advent of football many of our best athletes,
finding nothing to train for, strayed away from the strict regimen and
early hours to the seductive tobacco and beer and all-night cards.
Nor did they always return, for many refused to tear themselves away
when the spring came, while still others, after the first few days of
effort in the warm May weather, were so overcome with the longing for
the flesh-pots that they would fall out of the ranks, never again to
reappear. The athletes of to-day have an autumn sport the equal of any
in enjoyment and the superior in helping symmetrical development. Nor
is this the sole attraction. There is the generalship of a sport with
room for all the planning of a real campaign. Its tactics are but half
developed, and every year adds some new strategies.
The season of 1888 brought in a change of rules whereby there is a
marked increase in the liberty allowed to comrades assisting a runner.
Formerly the amount of aid they might render to one of their own
men when he had the ball was so small that it was seldom attempted
except in a crowd. The practice was to have all this done under the
cover of the rushing and surging line of forwards, and at the time
of the snap-back only. This led to many complications as the amount
of interference grew gradually greater, owing to the leniency of
umpires, until last season, when the play of all the teams in the
field was characterized by the most marked and deliberate holding in
the rush-line, oftentimes a runner was given an absolutely clean path
through the forwards by having these opponents dragged out of the
way by the men in front of him. Such was the state of affairs that
the question of the day bade fair to become whether or not all the
rushers could not be held so that the backs and halves would be the
only ones left to tackle. This line of development was manifestly a bad
one. Every move in that direction increased the personal contact of
players who did not have the ball in their possession. It is and has
been a noticeable fact in the history of the game in this country that
whenever a rule has been passed which admitted of an increase in the
liberty of laying hands upon a man who had not the ball, we have had a
greater amount of “squabbling and slugging.” It seemed best, therefore
to the Graduate Committee, who last year made the rules, to put forward
changes which should effectually end this hand-slapping, pushing, and
holding in the rush-line. In doing this, however, they wished to put no
check upon what seemed by no means an objectionable feature, namely,
assisting a runner by going alongside him and acting as an obstacle in
the path of those advancing to tackle him.
The rules were altered accordingly, and the alteration has marked
a decided advance in the sport. It has made the game more open by
increasing the chances of a successful run. Nothing so delights the
spectators as a long run. So keen is the excitement that it cannot be
pent up, but must out, and while the partisans of the side against
whom the run is being made stand holding their breath in fear lest the
runner reach the goal, his sympathizers are crying out encouragement
to him from all sides, and when at last he is brought to earth by some
determined tackler, the sympathizing shouts are in their turn fairly
drowned by the yell of exultation which goes up from the throats of the
other party. While the kicking game is always a beautiful one to watch,
it can never equal in excitement a game where long runs are made. The
tedious game is the one which was played when the rules admitted of
what was known as the “block game”--that is, where the ball was never
advanced more than a yard without a “down,” and all the playing was in
the centre. This style has fortunately been completely eliminated by
the rules. The change of rules this year has again demonstrated the
fact that the game is steadily advancing, and that every year brings it
nearer and nearer that point of perfection so earnestly sought after by
all its steadfast disciples, for no sport has more hearty, whole-souled
followers, nor is there any so richly deserving them.
~Walter C. Camp.~
* * * * *
COLLEGE SPORTS.
~The~ limited time which students have had since their return
from the summer vacation to indulge in their favorite pastimes, has not
been productive of any achievements worthy of special mention. Many
noted athletes were graduated in the class of ’88, and the Freshmen
have hardly had the opportunity to show their mettle. To be sure,
those semi-barbarous struggles known as rushes have taken place, and
in many cases sophomoric dignity has had to suffer from freshman zeal,
but such practices are frowned upon by college authorities and upper
classmen. Very often serious injuries are inflicted, and what good is
accomplished? None whatever. Want of organization always seriously
interferes with the success of the new comers, and the frantic
struggle, continued often for hours, to gain possession of and hold a
two-foot cane can scarcely be called sport. Much better, because more
satisfactory, are the class games of baseball and football. Here the
freshmen are not so handicapped, because many of the men who go to
college have received excellent preliminary training in the preparatory
schools, and furthermore, these contests develop material for the
college teams. Thus class feeling serves to call attention to and
bring out men who can reflect honor to the college they represent in
intercollegiate sports. A word with regard to these.
It is the opinion of many noted educators that such contests are
detrimental to good scholarship. In the first place, the few who
participate in them do not fairly represent the athletic development of
their respective colleges. The majority of students, after a week or
two of enthusiasm for sport immediately after college has begun, do not
go near the gymnasium, and can hardly be said to take any interest in
sport at all. Again, it is claimed that when the time for the holding
of these contests approaches, studies are neglected, because interests
centre in the success of the teams.
The readers of ~Outing~ will be interested to learn the result
of an investigation recently made at Cornell of the records of men who
engaged in intercollegiate sports since the opening of the college.
The result showed that the average scholarship of each man who rowed
in the crews was 70 per cent., that of baseball players 73 per cent.,
and that of track athletes 76 per cent., a standard of 70 per cent.
being necessary to graduate: 54 per cent. of all these men graduated,
which is 7 per cent. above the University percentage of graduation.
According to these figures, general scholarship does not suffer from
intercollegiate contests, provided they are kept within reasonable
limits. The standing in scholarship of noted athletes from Yale,
Harvard and Princeton also shows that they are not strangers to hard
study, while many of them are honor men and the winners of prizes in
special departments of study.
~J. C. Gerndt.~
* * * * *
DOG CHAT.
~The~ present year will ever be memorable in the history of
American “dogdom.” In it the battle between the American Kennel Club
and its opponents has been inaugurated. The enforcement of “compulsory
registration” in the American Kennel Club Stud Book, finally aroused
the long suppressed popular indignation at the manifest incompetency
of that body to administer its self-assumed control of kennel matters.
The club’s action was, however, in a measure sustained by the brilliant
success of the Westminster Kennel Club’s show, which was selected as
the lists in which the initial contest of the rival factions was to be
fought. So far, so good, for the A. K. C.
* * * * *
~The~ dog _breeders_ and exhibitors of America, however, have
long felt that a body composed of individuals was necessary for the
proper guidance of the kennel affairs of the continent, and to guard
their interests. The American Kennel Club is a club composed of clubs.
The local clubs are almost entirely made up of “dog lovers,” so
called--men who own perhaps but one dog, many of them none, and who
are utterly ignorant of dog matters in general, with perhaps one or
two “prominent” dog-men who hold the reins of power. It will be seen,
therefore, that as these few individuals are able to use the club name
and influence, should they wish it, in the furtherance of their private
ends, a dangerous amount of power is placed in their hands. The large
majority of our leading breeders were unattached, many of them living
at long distances from the headquarters of local clubs. They were,
therefore, without representation in the government of matters canine.
To remedy this evil and for the protection of breeders--the A. K. C.
having exhibited a criminal want of concern in their interests--the
National Dog Club was formed.
* * * * *
~The~ President, Dr. J. Frank Perry, better known as “Ashmont,”
was the prime mover. In May last, acting in accordance with the wishes
of many prominent gentlemen, he wrote to about fifty of the best known
and most successful breeders and exhibitors in America and in Canada,
requesting them to become charter members of a club, the initial
meeting of which was to be held during the Boston show in April.
Upwards of forty at once assented.
* * * * *
~At~ first the intention was to limit the membership to fifty;
but it was afterwards deemed advisable to make it unlimited. Upwards
of one hundred and fifty members are now enrolled, and this number
includes a majority of the most prominent and reputable owners of the
continent.
* * * * *
~From~ the outset the infant organization has had to contend
against fierce opposition and prejudice, incited by the friends of the
older club. But the promoters were not men to be easily turned aside
from their purpose, and in consequence of their endeavors the most
brilliant success has been achieved.
* * * * *
~The~ first show under the N. D. Club’s rules was that held by
the International Fair Association, at Buffalo, and its enemies tried
by every possible means to accomplish its ruin. Not only did they
“boycott” the show, but they neglected no course by which they could
injure it. Their defeat was a signal one.
* * * * *
~The~ Buffalo show was the best in the quality of dogs entered
of any show ever held outside New York or Boston, and indeed was but
little behind those giant rivals. The management, it is true, was
execrable; but that cannot be cited against the N. D. C.
* * * * *
~Honors~ are easy, therefore, between the rival factions,
although the fair-minded onlooker cannot but admit that the members of
the N. D. C. have set an example by their temperate and gentlemanly
behavior in the contest which their rivals by no means followed.
* * * * *
~Yet~ another National Kennel organization has been born within
the year, namely, the Canadian Kennel Club. A meeting of Canadian
dog-men was held for the purpose during the London, Ont., Show, and
the club was organized with Lord Stanley (Governor-General), Hon.
President; Mr. A. Gibson, London (of McEwen & Gibson, the leading
collie breeders), president; U. S. Jackson, Toronto (of Bedlington
terrier fame), first vice; Mr. M. Baumgarten, Montreal, second
vice; Mr. Thos. Johnston, Winnipeg, third vice; Mr. F. C. Wheeler,
London, secretary-treasurer; and Mr. C. M. Mills, Brantford (owner
of the celebrated Brant Cocker Kennels); Mr. F. H. F. Mercer, Ottawa
(invincible in clumber spaniels); Mr. W. B. Wells, Chatham; Mr. W.
Hendrie, Hamilton; Mr. J. S. Campbell, Simcoe (widely known for his
Gordon setters); Dr. Niven, London (of Gordon setter and spaniel
renown); and Mr. F. Mills, Hamilton, executive committee. This array of
names, embracing as it does nearly all the most prominent Canuck doggy
men, may be taken as a guarantee of success, and I trust the new club
will fulfil its fair promise.
~Dogwhip.~
* * * * *
THE PAST BASEBALL SEASON.
~The~ success of the New York Club in winning the championship
of the League for 1888 opens a new era in the contests for the pennant.
From 1872 to 1876 the Boston Club held the professional championship.
But in 1876, under the auspices of the newly organized National League,
the Chicago Club went to the front, and since then that club has almost
monopolized pennant honors in the League, Boston winning but three
times since 1876, while Providence was successful twice. Now, however,
the trophy has come East once more. The struggle was virtually confined
to a quintet of the eight competing clubs, viz., the New York, Chicago,
Detroit, Philadelphia and Boston clubs. Finally the contest for the
pennant lay between but three of them, while Pittsburgh, Indianapolis
and Washington were tail-enders throughout of the eight competitors.
* * * * *
“~Four~ times winner” is the honor claimed by the St. Louis
Club, the champion winners of 1888 in the American Association. This
result was mainly due to the important fact that the St. Louis Club
was the only one which presented for the pennant race a well-managed
and ably-captained team, all the others being to a greater or less
extent merely picked nines of star players. In no season has the
fact that team work--alike at the bat and in the field--is the most
important element of success in winning championship honors, been more
strikingly illustrated than in the race for the American Association
championship of 1888.
* * * * *
~Among~ the many clubs organized for the promotion of healthy
outdoor recreation, no feature has been more conducive to the best
interests of gentlemanly sports in the metropolitan district than
the friendly rivalry between the Staten Island Cricket and Baseball
Association and the Staten Island Athletic Club. Both organizations
have secured handsome grounds and club-houses. During the past season
they have given their members attractive exhibitions of amateur play
on their baseball, football, lacrosse and tennis fields. The former
club, however, has had an advantage in its cricket team, a game the
Athletic Club has not yet developed. The greatest attraction in their
field games has been their baseball exhibitions, which have surpassed
those of any other amateur organizations in the country except the
representatives of Harvard, Yale and Princeton colleges.
* * * * *
~The~ national game has at last become fashionable as one of
the sports at Newport. During the autumn a syndicate of admirers of
the game among the Newport cottage residents was formed to purchase a
plot of ground and lay out a baseball park to be ready for the season
of 1889. A diamond field is to be made and a grand-stand erected. Match
games will be played there by the rival college nines of Harvard, Yale
and Princeton next summer.
* * * * *
~The~ Boston ball grounds were the most liberally patronized
last season of those only boasting a National League club. The
attendance at the Boston-Chicago games during the season alone reached
a total of 59,020 people. This shows that it has paid to construct the
handsome ball grounds.
~Henry Chadwick.~
* * * * *
SKATING.
~The~ season of winter sports has opened in a way that
promises greater opportunities for indulgence in the fascinations
of skating than have been afforded for the last few years. Whether
this fair promise will be verified or not remains to be seen, but
the enthusiastic skater must have been indulging in pleasurable
anticipation of the joys of his favorite pastime.
Great, however, as is the individual enthusiasm in regard to this
recreation, there seems to be a lack of concerted effort to give the
sport the prominent place which it deserves. In England the prospects
of good ice are anxiously watched every season, in order that contests,
not only between the great skaters of England may be brought off, but
also that international races between such champions as “Fish” Smart,
and the pick of the Dutch and Scandinavian skaters, may take place.
Considering the very limited chances afforded by English weather, the
old country may well be proud of the feats performed by her sons.
Why, then, may not America do far greater things? And not only in
the professional, or semi-professional field, is there a chance for
improvement, but there is a noticeable lack of energy in arranging
races between amateurs. Surely skating can be made the vehicle for a
winter athletic meeting, when running, jumping, etc., are put out of
the question by the severity of the weather. We hope to see during this
winter contests of this description taking place.
~Sporting Tramp.~
[Illustration: ~The Outing Club.~]
THE SCIENTIFIC VIEW OF THE CYCLE.
~Wheelmen~ will read with interest the following quotation from
Sir Frederick Bramwell’s address to the British Association at Bath,
England:
“Consider the bicycles and tricycles of to-day--machines which afford
the means of healthful exercise to thousands, and which will, probably
within a very short time, prove of the very greatest possible use
for military purposes. The perfection to which these machines have
been brought is almost entirely due to strict attention to detail; in
the selection of the material of which the machines are made; in the
application of pure science (in its strictest sense) to the form and to
the proportioning of these parts, and also in the arrangement of these
various parts in relation the one to the other. The result is that the
greatest possible strength is afforded with only the least possible
weight, and that friction in working has been reduced to a minimum.
All of us who remember the hobby-horse of former years, and who
contrast that machine with the bicycle and tricycle of the present day,
realize how thoroughly satisfactory is the result of this attention to
detail--this appreciation of the ‘next to nothing.’”
A YACHT-TRIP ROUND THE GLOBE.
~We~ are pleased to hear from Hong Kong that the American yacht
_Coronet_--the winner of the yacht race across the Atlantic last
spring--arrived safely at Yokohama, Japan, en route round the world. We
next expect to hear from the _Coronet_ at Singapore, then at Bombay,
from which latter port the yacht will proceed to England, via the Suez
Canal and the Mediterranean Sea.
FIGHT BETWEEN A VIPER AND A HEDGEHOG.
~The~ Copenhagen _Jagttidente_ recently contained the following
curious account of a fight between a viper and a hedgehog, as related
by Dr. Bilandt, a Danish naturalist:
“One hot day, about noon, on the Billeslund estate, I espied a hedgehog
in a meadow with its eyes fixed intently on some spot in a hedge close
by, and, by following its gaze, I saw a viper lying on the bank curled
up, sunning itself. I sat down on the grass to watch them. For quite
an hour the two combatants remained immovable, the hedgehog keeping a
steady eye upon his prey. Then suddenly the viper began to move exactly
in the direction of his foe. The hedgehog let it nearly pass, when,
swift as lightning, it darted forwards, and, having seized the viper
by the tip of its tail with its teeth, rolled himself up. The viper
writhed under the bite, and dashed its body repeatedly against the
quills of the hedgehog till blood flowed, and in a short space of time
it had practically committed suicide. The hedgehog then devoured its
prey, from the tail upward, carrying away what he could not consume.”
GLASS-BALL SHOOTING EXTRAORDINARY.
~An~ incident in rifle-shooting this season was the feat
accomplished by the well-known rifle-shot, Dr. F. W. Carver, who, in
October, at the Pittsburgh Exposition Park, surpassed all previous
efforts in rifle-shooting. Dr. Carver had made a bet of $100 with
Adam Forepaugh, Jr., that he would break six glass balls thrown into
the air simultaneously before they fell to the ground. The shooting
was done with a Spencer repeating rifle in the presence of a few
invited guests. Dr. Carver had not the slightest trouble in performing
the feat, repeating it four times in succession. The doctor was not
satisfied with this, but threw up seven balls at once, all of which he
perforated before they fell to the ground. The cartridges used in these
rifle-shooting exhibitions, however, are not simply made of powder and
balls. They are prepared with shot in the place of bullets. Even with
shot the feat is remarkable; with bullets it would be an impossibility.
THE NOVELTY IN WHEEL MACHINES.
~With~ a flourish of trumpets, the advent of the road-sculler
was heralded into public notice. How far the machine will attain the
great popularity which its sponsors expect for it remains to be seen.
No one will attempt to deny that it has real merits; whether, however,
the machine has attained anything like its highest point of perfection
seems uncertain. During the contest between all the noted scullers of
the world at Madison Square Garden, there was undoubtedly far too high
an average of breakages, which, indeed, seriously interfered with the
interest of the show. But the average mortal is not such a creature
of thews and sinews as the grand specimens of humanity who entered
into that competition. Moreover, the ordinary use of the machine will
not be for racing purposes, but simply as a means of pleasure and
locomotion, and, therefore, the frailer parts of the mechanism will
not be put to such undue strain. The question also arises whether
the exercise is identical with sculling a boat, and the answer to
this appears decidedly to be that it only comprises a portion of the
muscular action necessary in sculling proper. At least two motions are
absent, viz., the act of feathering, and dropping the hands at the end
of the stroke. The action is a straight pull and a straight return. The
natural inclination on the part of an expert oarsman to drop his hands
was plainly observable, and possibly may have accounted for some of the
accidents which happened to the steel ropes. The general conclusion
will, however, be that the essential element which has gained rowing
such a prominent place among athletic sports--the exercising of every
muscle in the body, both arms and legs--is far from being lost, and
this is a point which is lacking in both bicycle and tricycle.
OUR THEATRICAL PLAYGROUND.
THE FRENCH PLAYERS AT PALMER’S.
~A French~ company headed by M. Coquelin of the Théâtre
Française and Madame Jane Hading, of the Gymnase, Paris, made their
American début at Palmer’s, October 8th. Palmer’s Theatre! How
strange the name seems as it appears in print! It takes the place of
“Wallack’s”--a name around which cluster the traditions of a playhouse
that was the delight of New Yorkers for over a generation. Well!
“the king is dead,” and close upon his burial came the comedians of
France, to entertain an American public with French works in the home
of English Comedy. M. Coquelin inaugurated the French season with
Molière’s “Les Prècieuses Ridicules,” a couple of monologues, and a
one-act piece, “La Joie Fait Peur,” made familiar to theatre-goers
by Boucicault under the title of “Kerry.” New York gave the foreign
players on the first night a welcome which assured them at once
of the friendly spirit of an American audience. The visit of the
Coquelin-Hading Company to this country, it is to be hoped, will
be productive of good results. It was refreshing to be able to
witness a dramatic representation by a good company, where scenery
and costumes were secondary considerations. Coquelin in his acting
demonstrates close study of his art in every detail. As a comedian, he
is unapproachable. But when M. Coquelin attempts the heroes of romance
he fails. The company engaged to support, though not particularly
strong, have acquired much of the spirit of Coquelin’s acting. When one
considers the elaborate productions of the American stage and compares
them with the freedom from such show with which similar plays may be
given, when acting is not subordinated to scenery and dry goods, the
question naturally suggests itself, Is not much of this extravagant
display in many of our theatres a mistake? The scene painter and
costumer of to-day are of more account in a comic opera, for instance,
than a prima donna. An opera may be produced with a prima donna devoid
of singing voice, if she has shape, good looks, and sparse raiment
to recommend her, but without elaborate scenery, and plenty of color
and show, it would not run a fortnight. A similar state of affairs
exists on the dramatic stage. It takes a small fortune to keep up the
stage wardrobe of any actress who is called upon to play the heroine
or a lady of fashion in modern plays. One of the brightest and most
accomplished actresses of the American stage recently, after a great
success in a part, on being complimented by a friend, accepted the
compliment graciously enough, but felt considerably piqued because
the critics did not notice the nice new frocks she had had made for
the part, and which she expected to see praised quite as much as her
acting. If the advent of M. Coquelin and Mme. Hading to this country
will tend to correct some of these weaknesses, their coming among us
will be of more benefit than was anticipated by their managers when the
engagement was projected.
RE-OPENING OF DALY’S THEATRE.
Augustine Daly opened the doors of his theatre, Tuesday evening,
October 9, with an adaptation from the French of the comedy “Les
Surprises du Divorce.” Mr. Daly calls his work “The Lottery of Love.”
It was enthusiastically received on the first night, and it grew
in favor with subsequent repetition. During the season it is the
intention of Mr. Daly to produce, in addition to the more pretentious
part of his plans, a number of short one-act comedies. They will
precede the important attraction of the night’s entertainment. These
“curtain raisers,” as some writer has christened them, are oftentimes
very enjoyable. One of the most pleasing recollections of the last
theatrical season was the presentation of “Editha’s Burglar,” at the
Lyceum.
“LORD CHUMLEY” SOTHERN.
Speaking of the Lyceum, calls to mind the success of young Sothern in
“Lord Chumley.” Since the first night he appeared in the comedy, he has
crowded the handsome little theatre with well pleased auditors. The
success is due more to the acting and personality of Mr. Sothern as the
young lord, who is not such a fool as he looks, than to the merits of
the play or the acting of the company. Young Sothern’s “Lord Chumley”
is as good in its way as was the elder Sothern’s “Lord Dundreary.”
The play of “Lord Chumley” is a piece of literary patchwork, rather
skillfully put together, and afterward run through the sieve of
thorough rehearsals. Daniel Frohman may be congratulated on the success
of his promising young star and the good fortune he has brought to the
Lyceum.
THE PROSPERITY OF “A LEGAL WRECK.”
William Gillette’s victory with “A Legal Wreck,” in the very
theatre--the Madison Square--in which his first play, “The Professor,”
was brought before the footlights was complete. “A Legal Wreck” is
not a great play, and Mr. Gillette did not aim to make it so. He did,
however, attempt to make an interesting drama, and succeeded. Since
its first night it has steadily improved. Judicious cutting down, and
alterations in the stage business, have made it an effective acting
play. When it is taken from the Madison Square Theatre and sent to
other cities, it will meet with as much favor as here. When “A Legal
Wreck” was first put on the stage it was not expected to be played
more than a few weeks. It has exceeded expectations, and will run Mr.
Gillette’s entire season out. A. M. Palmer’s follows with the regular
Madison Square Company in a revival of “Partners,” after which he will
produce “Captain Swift,” an English drama of the “Jim the Penman”
order, which is highly spoken of by people who have seen it in London.
~Richard Neville.~
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ~Among the Books~]
~A story~ of the rough life of the ranch in the Far West, clad,
so to speak, in “purple and fine linen,” appears at first sight to
be somewhat of an anomaly. In this case, however, the contents are
worthy of the binding, and the story is not thrown into a shadowy
background by its luxurious and sumptuous equipment. “Ranch Life and
the Hunting-Trail,” by Theodore Roosevelt, has already made its bow to
the public in a series of papers issued in the _The Century_ magazine,
and the verdict has been given in its favor. Now it is published in a
veritable _édition de luxe_ by _The Century_ Company. The story loses
nothing of its merits in the process, while Mr. Frederic Remington’s
spirited and characteristic illustrations, so familiar to the readers
of ~Outing~, are shown to the greatest possible advantage.
* * * * *
~With~ the advance of popular education has arisen a demand
for standard historical works, which, avoiding diffusiveness and
elaboration of details, give the reader broad inductions and concise
results. The student of the present day requires a book which may be
regarded as absolutely authentic, and which will present to him, not
elaborate historical dissertations on knotty historical periods, but
able summaries and careful generalizations of the whole subject. Such a
work is the “Cyclopædia of Universal History,” by John Clark Ridpath,
LL.D. (The Jones Brothers Publishing Co., Cincinnati, and Phillips &
Hunt, New York), and it is by far the most successful effort which has
been hitherto made to supply this want of the modern student and the
average American citizen. The handsome appearance of the three volumes,
and the copious wealth of excellent illustrations, numbering twelve
hundred, vastly enhance the effect and merits of the text.
* * * * *
~The~ South, at the present time, would appear to be the coming
nursery of our light literature. The novels which have, of late,
created the greatest stir--whether by their genuine merits or their
sensationalism we do not propose to decide--have sprung from Southern
brains. Yet another work--and this, we believe, is a maiden effort--by
an author who hails from Tennessee, lies before us. But in “A Seaside
Romance,” by William Perry Brown (New York: John B. Alden, 1888), there
is nothing of the morbidly sensational. Though hardly to be classed as
a notable novel, or likely to create a great stir, it is a pleasant,
healthful story of Southern life. The characters are well drawn, though
some are rather thinly delineated, and a certain lack of vigor is
discernible in the action in places. It is, however, essentially a book
to afford a reader a pleasant hour or two.
* * * * *
~A slight~ infusion of medical science into a novel often
proves both instructive and interesting. But experiments of this
character require to be conducted with great care and judgment.
Such can hardly be said to be the case in “From the Beaten Path,”
by Edward R. Roe (Chicago: Laird Lee, 1888). Medical horrors are
crowded into the volume, and the reader is confronted with _cholera
infantum_ (symptoms fully described), a most unpleasant affection of
the eyes, and blindness resulting from rheumatism, within the first
two chapters, while dislocations, sprains, fevers, consumption, and
drunkenness--culminating in _mania a potu_--with a slight spice of
body-snatching, are negligently scattered through the pages. Thrilling
incidents are pitchforked into odd corners, and the thread of the story
is quite disconnected. The motive of the book would appear to be the
disparagement of allopathy, and commendation of faith-healing allied
to magnetic influences. The extreme ease with which the cures are
performed will, however, prove a somewhat hard pill for most people to
swallow.
* * * * *
~Sportsmen~ owe a debt of gratitude to any one who facilitates
their quest of sport. This object should be vastly furthered by a
little volume entitled “The Sportsman’s Guide,” compiled and edited
by William C. Harris, editor of _The American Angler_ (New York:
The Anglers’ Publishing Company, Chas. T. Dillingham). The enormous
number of hunting-grounds from which the sportsman has to choose are
tabulated, and all necessary information regarding them given. The
reports appear to be very accurate, the material being, for the most
part, derived from personal letters from individuals acquainted with
the localities. The condition of the shooting, whether good, bad, or
indifferent, is plainly stated.
* * * * *
~The~ fascination of that charming amusement, amateur
photography, year by year enlists a vast number of recruits for the
already great army of amateur photographers. To such recruits, good
textbooks are an indispensable feature, and for this purpose we can
heartily recommend “The Photographic Instructor” (New York: Scovill
Manufacturing Co., 1888). The volume consists of “the comprehensive
series of practical lessons issued to the students of the Chautauqua
School of Photography,” edited by W. I. Lincoln Adams, editor of _The
Photographic Times_, with an appendix by Prof. Charles Ehrmann. It
forms one of Scovill’s Complete Photographic Series.
~A little~ handbook is issued by the Red Star Line of steamers
entitled “Facts for Travelers.” In the mixture of useful and amusing
matter contained in it, travelers are sure to find something worth
noticing.
* * * * *
~A souvenir~ of the Montreal Amateur Athletic Association’s Fair
has reached us, entitled “Athletic Leaves.” The editors are Samuel L.
Baylis and William H. Whyte, and they have produced a very bright,
readable little volume, with notably good illustrations.
[Illustration: Amenities.]
RONDEAU.
[Illustration]
~Her~ starry eyes, with lightning glance,
Arrest me like a swift-thrown lance,
As I ride down the narrow lane;
And backward on my wheel I crane,
Another glimpse to catch askance.
My fickle steed begins to prance,
And leads me such a lively dance,
That danger signals glint in vain,
Her starry eyes.