She inwardly shuddered; then a wave of old associations swept over her

mind. Beneath the austerity of the man, beyond his selfish nurture of

affliction, she--for the moment--remembered him as he once was, homely,

kindly, enthusiastic and true. Had _she_ indeed changed him to this?

Or was it not rather the imperativeness of a passion, unable to endure

or forget her preference of another? Whatever the cause, her heart now

ached for him, though she feared him.

“Come with us,” she said. “You were not made to live thus.”

“I cannot--I dare not. It will take months to undo the misery of this

meeting.”

“My husband--”

“Do not name him!” he cried fiercely; then abruptly lowering his tone,

he said, with infinite sadness: “Ask me no more. Yonder, by that white

cliff, lies the Swananoa trail you missed yesterday. The kindest thing

you can do is to forget that you have seen me. Farewell!”

He turned away and swung himself down the mountain-side into the

Dismal. She saw the rolling mists close over him, and remained

motionless in a reverie so deep that the boy spoke twice to her before

she turned her horse’s head and followed him.

* * * * *

Above the surveyor’s camp lay the Swananoa Gap, a gloomy, precipitous

gorge through which the river lashed itself into milder reaches below.

Mrs. Renfro found her husband absent. With a single assistant he had

started for the upper defiles, intending to be gone several days. They

told her that he would endeavor to secure the services of Herne the

Hunter as a guide, as one knowing more of that wilderness than any one

else.

Here was fresh food for wifely alarm. Herne had never met her husband,

yet the latter’s name would make known his relationship to herself.

She shuddered over the possibilities that might result from their

sojourn together--far from aid--in those wild mountains, and made

herself wretched for a week in consequence.

Meanwhile the transient fine weather passed; the rains once more

descended, and the peaks of Nantahalah were invisible for days amid a

whirl of vapor. The boom of the river, the grinding of forest limbs,

the shriek of the wind, made life unusually dreary at the camp. She lay

awake one night when the elements were apparently doing their worst.

Her husband was still absent--perhaps alone with a possible maniac,

raving over the memory of fancied wrongs.

Finally another sound mingled with and at last overmastered all

others--something between a crash and a roar, interblended with

sullen jars and grindings. Near and nearer it came. She sprang to the

tent-floor and found her feet in the water. The darkness was intense.

What could be the matter? Fear overcame her resolution and she shrieked

aloud.

A man bearing a lantern burst into the tent with a hoarse cry. Its

gleams showed her Herne the Hunter, drenched, draggled, a ghastly cut

across his face, with the blood streaming down, his long hair flying,

and in his eyes a fierce flame.

“I feared I would not find you,” he shouted, for the roar without was

now appalling. “It is a cloud-burst above. In five minutes this hollow

will be fathoms deep. The tents lower down are already gone. Come!”

He had seized and was bearing her out.

“Save--alarm the others!” she cried.

“You first--Alice.”

In that dread moment she detected the hopelessness with which he called

her thus, as though such recognition was wrung from his lips by the

pain he hugged, even while it rended him.

“My husband?” she gasped, growing faint over the thought of his

possible peril--or death.

“Safe,” he hissed through his clenched teeth, for his exertions were

tremendous. With a fierce flap the tent was swept away as they left

it. About his knees the waters swirled, while limbs and other floating

débris swept furiously by.

What seemed to her minutes--though really seconds--passed amid a

terrific jumble of sounds, while the rain fell in sheets. It seemed as

though the invisible mountains were dissolving. They were, however,

slowly rising above the floods. She heard Herne’s hard breathing,

and felt his wild heart-throbs as he held her close. Something heavy

struck them, or rather him, for he shielded her. One of his arms fell

limp, and he groaned heavily. Then she swooned away, with a fleeting

sensation of being grasped by some one else.

Later, when she revived, there was a great hush in the air. Below, the

river gently brawled; there was a misty darkness around, and the gleam

of a lantern held before a dear and familiar form.

“Husband--is it you?” she murmured.

“Yes, yes,” said Captain Renfro, “I thought I had lost you. You owe

your life to Herne the Hunter. In fact, but for him I would have been

overwhelmed myself.”

“Where is he?” she asked feebly.

“The men are searching for him. Just as one of them got hold of you, he

fell back--something must have struck him, and the flood swept him off.

I tell you, Alice, that man--crazy or not--is a hero. We were on our

way down and had camped above the Gap, when the cloud-burst came. We

knew you all would be overwhelmed before we could get round here by the

trail; so what does Herne do but send us on horseback by land, while

he scoots down that cañon in a canoe--little better than an eggshell.

Risked his life in that awful place to get here in time. I insisted on

going with him at first.”

“Just like you, George,” said the wife fondly, though in her mind’s eye

came a vision of Herne the Hunter battling with that Niagara to save

and unite the two, through whom his own life had been made a burden.

She sighed and clasped her husband’s hand, while he resumed:

“I was a fool, I expect, for the canoe would have swamped under both

of us. He knew this, and ordered me off with a look I did not like;

there was madness in it. Well, we hurried round by the trail with one

lantern; Herne took the other. When we got here, you were apparently

dead, Herne and two of the men swept off--the camp gone from below, and

so on.”

A cry was now heard. Several men hastened down, and soon lights were

seen returning. Four of them bore Herne the Hunter. One arm and a leg

were broken, and his skull crushed in; yet the wonderful vitality of

the man had kept him alive and sensible.

“We found him clinging to a sapling,” said one. “But he’s about

gone--poor fellow!”

Poor fellow, indeed! Mrs. Renfro felt the lumps rise in her throat as

she gazed upon that wreck, and thought. Presently Herne opened his

eyes--already filling with the death-mist--and his gaze fell upon her

face.

“Alice,” he whispered, “my troubles--are over. This”--he tugged at

something in his bosom with his uninjured arm, when some one drew

forth his Bible, drenched and torn--“ this saved me. I could have

killed him--” he glanced at Renfro, who amid his pity now wondered. “I

could--but--I saved you. And--now--Jesus--have mercy--”

These were his last words, for in another minute Herne the Hunter was a

thing of the past, and a weeping woman bent over him. After that there

was silence for a while. Then the wife said to her husband, while the

others removed the dead man:

“It was his misfortune, not my fault, that he loved me. Has he not made

amends?”

And the husband, with his hands clasped in hers, could find no other

heart than to say:

“Aye--most nobly!”

[Illustration]

AN OUTING.

Down country lanes,

O’er treeless plains,

And seas of prairie grasses,

I wheel along,

With cheers and song

To every breeze that passes.

I leave the town,

Walls bare and brown,

The bustling, sordid masses--

The business boom

Of counting-room,

The dandies, dudes, and asses.

Awheel, awheel,

The miles I reel,

Afar from heated highways,

And odors greet

Of verdure sweet,

Along the country by-ways.

By fields of grain,

O’er daisy plain,

Adown the pretty valley;

By drowsy kine,

By cot and vine,

So joyfully I sally.

O, healthful steed!

My only creed,

Beyond dissent or doubting,

Is Nature’s way,

In holiday

Upon a summer outing.

_Jay Gee._

MEMORIES OF YACHT CRUISES.

BY THE LATE CAPTAIN R. F. COFFIN.

No. IV.

Despite the charms of the cruise on an individual yacht, much is to be

said in favor of the cruise in squadron. The cruise in the solitary

craft may be very pleasant at first, but it is apt to become monotonous

after a few days, unless the party on board has been most happily

selected. While _en route_ from port to port every craft bound in the

same direction is at once made a contestant in an improvised race, and

unless she, too, is a yacht, she is too easily disposed of. As has been

often proven, the slowest of the yachts is more than a match for the

fastest coasting vessel. Probably the fastest vessels encountered will

be the fishing schooners, and some of these nowadays sport nearly as

much fancy canvas as the yachts do. They are finely modeled craft, and

generally sail, as the yacht does, in good ballast trim. As a matter

of course, they are admirably handled, and occasionally the tedium of

the individual cruise is enlivened by a more or less spirited trial of

speed with a well-appointed fishing schooner. Always, however, so far

as my experience goes, these trials end in favor of the pleasure craft,

none of which can properly be considered slow, except by comparison

with some other yacht. Nothing proves more conclusively that yachting

means racing than the fact that the chief interest and pleasure of

the individual cruise arise from these chance contests with vessels

encountered _en route_.

Now, in the squadron cruise all this is furnished to hand, and as

part of the regular order of things. Each passage between ports is a

race, and each yacht selects her class competitors, and cares for the

movement of no others in the fleet. Very much more now than formerly,

care is taken to have these races fair, and a matter of official

record. In some instances the New York Yacht Club has hired a tug to

accompany the yachts for the whole cruise, and from her the time is

taken accurately at the start and finish of each day’s sail. Commodore

Gerry (as noted in the September ~Outing~) has the regatta

committee on the _Electra_, and makes a specialty of having a correct

record of the daily runs kept, making manifold copies of the result,

and sending a copy to each yacht almost as soon as her anchor is down.

This increases the interest in the cruise immensely. The New York,

however, is the only club, except, of course, the American, which has

a steam yacht for its flagship, and certainly there are few commodores

who would take the trouble that Mr. Gerry does. I have no hesitation

in saying that he is, in this respect, the best commodore that the old

club has ever had.

In the Eastern, the Atlantic, the Seawanhaka, and other clubs which

cruise in squadron, this matter of accuracy in timing is receiving

more and more attention each year. In the printed orders of the

commodore it is expressly provided that the first yacht to arrive at

a designated point shall note her own time, and then the times of all

that follow, and shall report the same to the commodore. The start is

not entirely fair, as it is made by general signal, and some yachts

must of necessity, where the squadron is large, be in a better position

than others. It is, however, the much-vaunted “one-gun start,” so

strenuously advocated--for no reason that I can think of except that

it is the style common in Great Britain. The British clubs, however,

rarely start a large fleet, and where there are but five or six yachts,

comparatively little trouble need be feared from permitting them all

to crowd upon the line at once; while if there were thirty, forty,

or more, vessels, confusion, and perhaps collision, would certainly

result. After all, what can be fairer than the present American method

of timing each yacht to a second at start and finish?

It is the continuous series of races, then, which gives the squadron

cruise a charm lacking in all other forms of yachting; but it also has

other attractions. The interchange of visits between the guests on the

different yachts, the jolly dinners, the pleasant shore parties--all

these make the cruise exceedingly pleasant, and no club whose fleet

is at all respectable should fail to encourage it. None, of course,

can present such a fleet of fine vessels as the New York, Atlantic and

Eastern clubs; but much enjoyment may be had, even if the fleet is not

so imposing. The Knickerbocker Club can in numbers equal any, and its

short cruises--generally in the early part of July--have been very

enjoyable. The cruise of the Seawanhaka Corinthian Club this year was

a great success, although its fleet was not large. The Larchmont Yacht

Club has never yet found itself in a position to essay the cruise, but

as in all other respects it has placed itself in the front rank, it may

well be expected to in the future.

The difficulty where the yacht is small is to accommodate the guests.

Roughing it is all very well in theory, but in practice it is

unsatisfactory. Men on a pleasure trip do not care to rough it. There

is also a difficulty in the small craft to find stowage for water and

ice, two prime necessities; but if the runs are made short, so that

the supply may be replenished daily, the small craft can manage very

well, and I think in the future the annual cruise will become as much a

regular feature of the yacht club programme as is the annual regatta.

If I am not mistaken, the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club had its

first cruise in July, 1879, and it _was_ a Corinthian one, only a few

professionals being allowed on the yachts. Well, it’s all right for the

guests on board a yacht to take a pull at sheets or halliards once in

a while, but as for doing all the deck duty, turning out and washing

down the decks, cleaning the bright work, and making and taking in sail

continuously all day long, it is quite absurd. But this has to be done,

if the wind be paltry and baffling. But as for calling it amusement, I

think that when turning a grindstone becomes a pleasurable occupation,

then strict Corinthian yachting will be a pastime, and not until then.

The Corinthian Club, on this its first cruise, assembled at Glen Cove,

and sailed thence to Black Rock, with a fleet composed of one schooner

and four sloops; among them the _Schemer_, then owned by Mr. C. S.

Lee, who was lost last March in the yawl _Cythera_. He was a very

intelligent gentleman, and one of the most skillful of the yachting men

of the time.

Mr. Lee was one of the earliest converts to the cutter theory, and in

1881 he had the cutter _Oriva_ built from a design by John Harvey, who

at that time was in business in London. Her advent not only introduced

a new style in design, but also in workmanship, she being by all odds

the best constructed yacht ever built in this country. She was not as

narrow as the ordinary British cutter of her length at that time, and

would have been still better had she been given another foot of beam.

At that time, however, there was a mistaken notion on the part of those

most violently affected by the “cutter craze,” as it was called, that

the British yachts sailed fast because they were narrow. People wholly

ignored the fact that each builder made his yacht as broad as possible

under the rule, and as soon as it was relaxed the _Thistle_ was

produced, by far the most speedy cutter yet turned out from a British

yard. I think that, should a 90-foot boat be designed as a challenger

for the _America’s_ Cup, the _Thistle’s_ proportion of beam to length

will probably be exceeded in her, and that her success will be greater

than that of the Scotch challenger.

At the time of this first cruise of the Seawanhaka Club, Mr. Samuel

J. Colgate, of the schooner _Idler_, was the commodore, but the fleet

on this cruise was under the command of its vice-commodore, Oliver E.

Cromwell, and the schooner _Eddie_ was the flagship.

From Black Rock the fleet sailed to New London. At that port it was

joined by the _Muriel_, another of the Harvey cutters built in this

country, and which antedated the _Oriva_ by some three years. The first

spar plan of this cutter was entirely too small, and her performance

for her two first seasons only confirmed the centreboard men in their

opinions as to the superiority of the broad and shallow model.

The Seawanhaka fleet went on to Newport, and later to New Bedford,

where the cruise practically ended, the flagship having carried away

her foremast on the passage from Newport.

The cruise of the Seawanhaka Club in 1880 was under the command of

Commodore W. A. W. Stewart, who recently owned the yawl _Cythera_,

which he had purchased in England, and who was lost in her. His loss,

like that of Mr. Lee, who accompanied him as his friend and guest,

was most serious to the yachting interests of this city, and one from

which the Corinthian Club, of which these two gentlemen were the chief

supports, will hardly recover.

The fleet of the club on this cruise was larger than in the previous

year. It had as schooners the _Wanderer_, Mr. James Stillman, and the

_Clytie_, Mr. Anson Phelps Stokes; and there were nine sloops, the

_Regina_ carrying the pennant of the commodore. The fleet assembled at

Glen Cove, July 13, and sailed thence to Morris Cove, at the entrance

to the harbor of New Haven, a most inconvenient stopping-place. It

is four miles from the city, has an inconvenient landing-place, and

except in the daytime there is no regular communication with the city.

No supplies of any kind can be obtained there. Still it is handy for a

fleet of small yachts bound from Glen Cove, being about half way to New

London.

At this latter port, whither the fleet next proceeded, it remained

for a day, and had a sweepstake race between three of its sloops, for

the delectation of the lady guests at the Pequot House, with whom, of

course, the Corinthian “tars” were great favorites. This harbor will

always be a favorite stopping-place for yachts. From the first of June

until the first of October there is hardly a day that one or more of

the pleasure fleet may not be seen at anchor off the Pequot House, or

off the Edgecombe House, on the opposite side of the harbor. There

is good water clear up to the city, for the largest yachts; supplies

of all kinds are as abundant and cheap as in this city. There are

facilities for hauling out, and several well-appointed shipyards where

any kind of work on hull, rigging, spars or sails can be well done, at

a fair price. In the afternoon the wind as a general thing is fair for

a run up to the city, and in the early morning there is usually, during

the summer months, a light air from the northward to bring the yachts

back to the anchorage at the mouth of the harbor.

The fleet this year, as in that previous, went on to New Bedford, where

some racing had been arranged. Stormy weather prevented this, and a

return to Newport was made, where the cruise ended.

The Atlantic Yacht Club, this year, had a fine muster of yachts,

excelling, I think, that of any previous cruise. It left Whitestone

July 31, under command of Commodore L. A. Fish, the present owner of

the _Grayling_, with seven schooners and seventeen sloops. Its flagship

was the schooner _Agnes_, the same which capsized at her anchor, with

sails furled, while lying off Staten Island, in a hard squall last

June. Her mishap has always been a mystery to me, for although an

extremely shallow vessel, she had great initial stability. The squall

must have been extremely heavy.

The fleet pursued its usual route from Whitestone to Black Rock,

where it remained over Sunday, and started the next day for New

London. Here, on Monday evening, a ball in its honor was given at the

Edgecombe House, and then, varying the ordinary route, it went to

Block Island. Two or three attempts have been made by different yacht

clubs to utilize Block Island as a stopping-place, but never with any

satisfactory result. The anchorage is bad, and the harbor is but an

apology for such. However, the Atlantic club desired to skip Newport

if it were possible. The passage to New Bedford from Block Island was

rather rough, and a stormy time there spoiled the hospitable intentions

of the New Bedford Yacht Club in its behalf. There is no port at which

the cruising yachtsman tarries, where he receives a warmer welcome than

at the city of New Bedford. It is a hard place to emigrate from. As a

harbor, however, it has its disadvantages; the entrance is narrow, and,

with the wind blowing in, large and sluggishly-working yachts have to

tow out.

The Atlantic club went on to Cottage City and had a great time there.

Mr. Joseph Spinney entertained the members and guests at his cottage,

and there were fireworks on the yachts, etc. Next day the fleet sailed

for Newport. This plan of taking Newport in on the return to the

westward is an excellent one, and the beat back from Cottage City is

a better test of the qualities of the yachts than all the previous

runs have been. From Newport the club ran over to Greenport, where it

disbanded. It was by far the most successful cruise which the club has

ever had, and I doubt whether it has ever been improved upon; much of

this, of course, being due to its excellent commodore. Whatever Mr.

Fish undertakes he accomplishes, as a rule, successfully.

The fleets of the New York and Eastern yacht clubs were joined in the

cruise of 1880, the Eastern club coming west as far as New London,

where it had to wait one day longer than had been expected on account

of the tardy movement of the New York fleet. They had been delayed by

calm weather on the passage from Glen Cove. Together, the two fleets

went over to Shelter Island, making a magnificent display in front

of the Manhansett House. From there, the combined squadrons sailed

to Newport and thence to New Bedford, where there was a set race in

which seven schooners and eleven sloops were started. The schooner

_Halcyon_, then owned by General Paine, made the best time over the

course, but the _Peerless_ captured the prize from her on allowance of

time. The _Halcyon_ was originally a New York yacht and only of fair

average speed; but after General Paine had purchased her, that skillful

yachtsman experimented with her to such good purpose that he made her

the fastest light-weather schooner in the fleets. For years, when the

New York yachts raced in Eastern waters, she regularly captured the

prizes.

The _Peerless_, which won on this occasion on allowance of time, was

originally rigged as a sloop, having been built by the Poillons, in

Brooklyn, for Mr. J. Rogers Maxwell, the present owner of the sloop

_Shamrock_. She did not please the leading experts of the time, one

of whom christened her “the Bull Pup.” Mr. Maxwell, however, was not

discouraged, and he finally made of her a fairly fast sloop. He then

lengthened her and altered her rig to that of a schooner, and as such

made her the fastest second-class schooner in America. At the time of

this race she belonged to the New Bedford Yacht Club, having been sold

to Vice-Commodore Hathaway of that club. The two squadrons proceeded

together to Vineyard Haven, where, after the usual interchange of

courtesies, the Eastern club parted company, going on to Boston, while

the New York club returned to Newport, where it disbanded, having been

kept together for ten days.

This was the year that the steel cutter _Vanduara_ came out in English

waters, and created such a _furore_. The New York yachtsmen on their

return from this cruise were greeted by rumors from across the Atlantic

that another bid was about to be made for the _America’s_ Cup. This

rumor did not trouble them much, but in the light of subsequent events,

it is tolerably certain that if the _Vanduara_ had come in 1881, as

threatened, she would have carried the cup back to England in her

locker. Fortunately, or otherwise--for I do not know that it would be

a misfortune if the cup was fairly captured by a foreign club--the

_Vanduara_ did not come, but the _Atalanta_ did, and was disposed of

with all ease.

The schooner _Agnes_ was the flagship of the Atlantic club during the

cruise of 1881, once more carrying the pennant of Commodore Fish.

In number, the fleet was not as large as in the previous year, but

there were five schooners and twelve sloops in the squadron when it

left Black Rock, a very respectable fleet. The same old route was

pursued--New London, Shelter Island, Newport and New Bedford; but here

the monotony of the cruise was varied by a race, the entries comprising

four New Bedford and three Atlantic club schooners and six Atlantic and

seven New Bedford sloops. The New Bedford schooner _Peerless_ and the

Atlantic sloop _Fanita_ and New Bedford sloops _Hesper_ and _Nixie_

were the winners in the several classes, so the honors were decidedly

with the New Bedford club, as it captured three out of the four prizes.

The cruise of the New York Yacht Club for the year 1881 promised at its

beginning to be the most brilliant in its history. It assembled at New

London under the command of Commodore Waller, with the _Dauntless_ as

the flagship. By way of opening the cruise in an interesting manner,

Mr. Charles Minton, who was then the secretary, offered a $250 cup for

a schooner prize on the run to Newport the following day, to be taken

by the first yacht in, without allowance of time. It was shrewdly

suspected that the secretary believed that without allowance of time

there was no yacht in the fleet which could beat the _Dauntless_, on

board which he was sailing, and that he intended the cup as a prize for

the commodore. Had the start been made as arranged, all would have been

well; but at the hour named a fog hung over the harbor and Sound like a

pall, and there was scarcely any wind, so the race for the Secretary’s

Cup was declared off.

In the afternoon, however, the fog lifted, a good breeze sprang up, and

the fleet started. When the schooner _Tidal Wave_ passed Point Judith,

there was not a schooner in the fleet which was not hull down astern

of her. It had been resolved to sail for the Secretary’s Cup the next

day from Brenton’s Reef Lightship to Clark’s Point, off New Bedford;

but in view of the performance of the _Tidal Wave_ in this run from New

London, she seemed a certain winner, and such a state of affairs was

particularly distasteful to Fleet-Captain Robert Center and the others

on board the flagship.

What was to be done to avert the threatened calamity? I know not who

was responsible for the action, and should not state it if I did,

for it was peculiarly disgraceful. A half hour before the start,

Fleet-Captain Center rowed through the fleet and gave notice that no

yacht could sail for the Secretary’s Cup unless the owner was on board.

By a curious coincidence, as the elder Mr. Weller might have said, the

only yacht which did not have her owner on board was the _Tidal Wave_,

the yacht which had run all the other schooners out of sight on the

previous day.

No meeting of the club had taken place in the meanwhile, and where any

one obtained authority for such an unheard-of rule it is impossible

to say. Captain Center, however, frankly admitted at New Bedford the

next day, that the action was taken solely with a view to barring

out the _Tidal Wave_. He, however, based his action on a personal

feeling against Captain “Joe” Elsworth, who, because he had sailed the

_Countess of Dufferin_ in her second race for the _America’s_ Cup,

had excited Captain Center’s ire. He had determined--so he said--that

Captain “Joe” should never again sail for a cup in the New York Yacht

Club. Since that time, as we all know, the club and the public have

been glad to avail themselves of Captain Elsworth’s skill, and he has

been an important factor in the preservation of the great yachting

trophy. After all, this disgraceful business was not at all necessary;

for although the _Tidal Wave_ started with the fleet, and although

Captain Elsworth did his best to get to Clark’s Point ahead of the lot,

the little New Bedford schooner _Peerless_, the once despised “Bull

Pup” of the New York experts, captured the Secretary’s Cup.

Of course, after this plain expression of feeling on the part of the

officers of the club, Captain Elsworth could not consent to remain with

the squadron, and immediately left it. The result was the loss of the

only light-weather schooner that had any chance against the _Halcyon_,

and in the races which were sailed while the fleet was at New Bedford

for the cups presented by Mr. E. A. Buck of the _Spirit of the Times_,

the _Halcyon_, as usual, captured the schooner prize.

This was rather a disastrous cruise, although it had promised so

fairly. Commodore Waller had gone to the expense of having a large

barge towed to New Bedford, and on board her a ball was given, the

music being furnished from New York. But there were several days of

foggy weather which interfered materially with the programme. Finally

a start was made, from Vineyard Haven for Boston, but, threatening

weather being encountered, the fleets returned to Vineyard Haven,

and the Eastern club concluded to part company and go to Newport. So

it was arranged that next day, if the weather was favorable, the New

York club should go on to Boston. During the day, however, there were

many defections, and next morning but a small fleet remained. The

commodore also was taken seriously ill, and the fleet was disbanded. No

cruise ever cost flag-officers so much money, and none was ever less

satisfactory.

The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club postponed its cruise this year

until August, hoping to have the British cutter _Madge_ accompany it,

but the canny Scotchman who had charge of her did not care to have her

speed measured with other yachts until her regular races came on. The

club made its muster at Whitestone on this occasion, and went from

there to Morris Cove. Commodore Stewart had his pennant on the schooner

_Sea Drift_, and his fleet was very small, there being, besides this

schooner, only seven sloops. Among these was the cutter _Oriva_, on

her first cruise. The cruise was very tame, and only extended as far

as Newport. It was the summer of President Garfield’s death, and he

was just hovering between life and death when the club started, a

circumstance which prevented some of the yacht owners from joining.

Although the Seawanhaka club did not obtain much credit from its

annual cruise in 1881, it covered itself with glory by its matches

with the cutter _Madge_. There can be no doubt but that the two sloops

selected as the champions of the club in the _Madge_ contests were as

good as any of their sizes in the club. It is equally certain that

they were brought to the line in a miserably slipshod condition. The

fact was, that at that time the yachting men of this country had the

most thorough contempt for the British cutter. Captain Ira Smith, who

sailed the _Schemer_ in her race with the _Madge_, when his attention

was called to the miserably setting topsail on his yacht--an old one

borrowed for the occasion--shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh!

it’s good enough; anything will do to beat that thing,” pointing to

the cutter, which was lying a short distance away attired in one

of Lapthorn’s most perfect suits; and the captain’s remark exactly

expressed the general feeling at that time.

Mr. Henry Steers, Captain “Joe” Elsworth, and many members of the

clubs had been to England and had seen these yachts sail, and knew

that they were speedy; but their utterances were received with

incredulity. “They sail well enough when compared with each other,” it

was said, “but put them alongside of our centreboard yachts and they

will be beaten easily.” The average Bay Shore boatman hitched up his

trousers and said oracularly: “It stands to reason them things away

down on their sides can’t sail; a boat has got to have bottom fur to

sail on.”

Had the _Madge_ been the _Vanduara_, the _America’s_ Cup would have

gone back to Great Britain, beyond a peradventure. That was one chance

of which John Bull failed to avail himself; he has another this

season--will he avail himself of it? _Quien sabe?_

ON BLADES OF STEEL.

BY D. BOULTON HERRALD.

To the enthusiastic skater even the pleasures afforded by the enclosed

rink are manifold, but who will compare them to those offered by the

far-stretching reach of the frozen river or lake?

However tastefully decorated the rink may be, it cannot bear comparison

with the arena supplied by Nature. Instead of flags and streamers we

have the green pines on the distant hill-tops, while closer at hand the

trees, clothed with leaves of autumn tints, are painted by Nature’s

brush. The carpet of brown, withered ferns and grass is dotted here

and there with drifted heaps of early snow. In place of long lines of

promenading, gossiping humanity, our boundaries are the barren shores,

their sameness relieved here by an upturned boat and there a stranded

log. Replacing the glare of the electric light, we have the sun’s

genial rays, or the softer and more beauteous moon. Gone is the damp

vapor that will ever arise from even the best-appointed rink, and we

can revel in the crisp and bracing air of autumn. Surely, then, is

outdoor skating entitled to the palm. In the rink the never-ceasing

round from left to right, and, at the sound of the bell, from right

to left, grows wearily monotonous, even though the most charming of

partners may glide by one’s side. Round and round the skaters promenade

in endless procession. You dare not go too fast nor yet too slow, for

the one will surely bring you into collision with some one who blocks

the way; the other will still more certainly run some one into _you_.

But in the glorious open all is changed. Your skates locked on, away

you glide, fast or slow, turning and twisting without let or hindrance,

as fancy prompts your path. Do not go near that hole! Beware of yonder

stick! Though half hidden in the ice, it yet projects enough to catch

the point of your skate and give you an ugly “cropper.” Crack! You are

on thin ice. Keep nearer to the shore. Who is this coming up behind so

fast? He evidently wishes to have a “brush,” and you are not unwilling.

So on you fly, past the creek, with timorous children and girls

covering its surface. They prefer to skate over the shallows to

trusting themselves upon the deeper river. Here’s the deserted pottery,

bleak and dismal, with sashes that hold naught but the ragged edges of

the panes that once kept out the weather--victims of the small boy and

his “sling.” And here the Fair Grounds, the long rows of whitewashed

stabling, grand-stand and buildings glaring in the bright sunshine.

The oblong race track recalls memories of the close finish between

“Little Vic” and “Chestnut Jim.” How your heart stopped still until

“Vic” showed her nose under the wire, a short head to the good, for she

carried your “pile” on her handsome shoulders! On and on, until the

bridge stops your progress. The ice beneath it is not of sufficient

strength to bear your weight.

Then, after walking across the road and climbing the fences, you come

to the narrows, where the ice is ever frail. Keep well in, under the

trees, skate swiftly, and do not tumble, or you will surely get a

ducking. Halloa! the man ahead seems to be in difficulties. He has

fallen into a water-hole! Now, put on a burst and try to avoid meeting

with a like mishap. You near the victim as he stands over the waist in

water. His coat collar seems to offer a good hold--and the idea is no

sooner thought of than acted on. As you pass, you grasp him, and with

the impetus of your speed drag him from his involuntary bath to a spot

where the ice is firm.

[Illustration: “PUT YOUR SKATES ON, MISS?”]

He betrays ingratitude, however, of the basest description, for he

consigns you to a hotter place than--skating, because, forsooth, you

gathered some of his back hair in your fist. Well, such is life! “Men

were _ungrateful_ ever.”

Now you near the worst place yet encountered, open water, with ice here

and there between the boulders on the shore. In and out you thread

your way, dulling the skate blades sadly on the stones; but soon the

obstruction is passed, and the “going” is again good. There, to the

right, is the tamarac swamp, where you have bowled over many a “bunny”

and many a grouse. There the wooded point where you had such a pleasant

picnic and met jolly Miss Jones. But duck your head, for here is the

railroad bridge, and in case of contact with those jutting iron bolts

your cranium would be apt to come out second best.

Why, here we are at the locks already! A short four miles it has

seemed, covered in little more than twenty minutes. Now off with the

“acmes,” for why should one blunt them, or stumble over the portage

like a drunken man, when he can so easily unlock the skates and saunter

over comfortably?

Another mile and a half is passed, and a second set of lock-gates is

reached, which must be crossed ere we can come to the lake-like expanse

on their farther side, made by the widening of the river. Halloa! there

is a sail, and a large one at that. What can it be? Oh, the ice-boat,

of course. How stupid of me not to think of it before.

When we cross over the rise the boat comes into full view, dashing

along at high speed as it tacks from shore to shore. It is the only

craft of the kind in Central Canada, and is consequently regarded as

a wonderful machine. To me, however, it looks a crude affair indeed,

after the far-famed fleets that grace the frozen waters of the Hudson.

Mile after mile we skim along, now jumping a crack, now avoiding a

miniature drift of snow. The sun is in my eyes, and I cannot keep a

good lookout. Suddenly I am startled by a warning shout, which brings

me to a standstill to discover that there is open water but a few feet

ahead.

The shadows of evening are falling, so we turn homeward. The scenes

of the outward journey meet the eye again, mellowed in the deepening

twilight. At length we reach the landing, with a keen appetite for

dinner, and in a condition to thoroughly enjoy the after-dinner pipe

before an open fire, and the perusal of the latest novel.

[Illustration]

OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.

BY JOHN P. FOLEY.

III.--ANDREW JACKSON.

The life of Andrew Jackson has been tersely described as “a battle

and a march.” Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, were all born

in the purple of slavery. They were the sons of wealthy planters;

educated at the best schools; provided with private tutors, and, with

one exception, graduated from the leading colleges of the period.

They moved in the best circles of society, and could choose whatever

profession or pursuit they pleased. Seats in the House of Burgesses of

Virginia awaited them as soon as they became of age, and whatever other

political preferment young native-born Americans could obtain under

the colonial régime was easily within their reach. Very different the

early life and fortune of Andrew Jackson, the fifth of the Southern

Presidents.

Two years before he was born his father was a poor linen weaver in the

North of Ireland, beaten in the struggle for existence and preparing

with some of his relatives to emigrate to the new world. This little

colony, made up of Jacksons and Crawfords, landed at Charleston, in

1765, and immediately started for the Waxhaw settlement, which lay

partly in North and partly in South Carolina, in the region bordering

on the Catawba River. This point, no doubt, was chosen because a number

of colonists from the same part of Ireland had already made their homes

there. The Crawfords bought good land in the centre of the settlement,

while the Jacksons, not having the means to purchase, went on new land

some miles distant. There Jackson, senior, built a hut and began to

clear the woods around him. At the end of two years he became ill and

died. Mr. Parton, in his excellent life of President Jackson, tells us

that the widow, accompanied by her little family, brought the remains

of her husband in a rude wagon out of the wilderness to the Waxhaw

churchyard, and did not again return home after the interment. Instead,

she went to the house of a brother-in-law, and in a few days gave birth

to a son, whom she named Andrew. The log-house, where this event took

place on March 15, 1767, was at a point on the North Carolina side,

less than a quarter of a mile from the boundary line between the two

provinces; so that the hero of New Orleans, many years later, erred in

the matter of his nativity, when, in his celebrated manifesto to the

nullifiers of South Carolina, he addressed them as “Fellow-Citizens

of my native State.” Mrs. Jackson, at the end of three weeks, left her

eldest son to assist this relative on his farm and went with her second

son and the infant Andrew to the house of her brother-in-law, the Mr.

Crawford with whom she and her husband crossed the Atlantic two years

before. Crawford was then in comfortable circumstances. He had some

capital when he arrived, and, in addition, was a good, thrifty and

successful farmer. This was young Jackson’s home during the next ten or

twelve years. His life was indeed “a battle and a march,” and march and

battle began with his very infancy.

North Carolinians have long and tenacious memories, and when, more

than a quarter of a century ago, Mr. Parton made a pilgrimage into

Mecklenberg County to collect materials for the life of the great

democratic chieftain, he was able to gather many an anecdote of

the early life of his hero. “He was a wild, frolicksome, wilful,

mischievous, daring, reckless boy, who loved his friends and detested

his enemies.” Truly, the boy was father of the man. He allowed no one

to impose upon him. On one occasion, we are told, some boys gave him a

gun loaded to the muzzle in order to see him knocked over when he fired

it. He was kicked over, and springing to his feet exclaimed: “If one

of you laughs I’ll kill him!” And there was no laughter. It is said

that the larger boys had trouble in getting along with him; but that he

was idolized by the smaller ones, who always found in him a protector

and a champion. “He was,” said one who knew him in youth, “a bully,

but never a coward.” In boyish games and sports of every description

he was thoroughly proficient. It was easy to make a wrestling match

when “Andy” Jackson was present; but, although tall and active, he was

not strong in proportion to his height, and was frequently thrown. He

was fond of running and jumping, feats in which he excelled. He was

addicted to gibberish or slang, and one of his favorite expressions

was this: “Set de case: You are Shauney Kerr’s mare and me Billy Buck;

and I should mount you and you should kick, fall, fling and break

your neck, should I be to blame for that?” Young John Quincy Adams,

who was born in the same year as Jackson, and who was at this time

studying diplomacy under his father in Europe, would probably have

fled in as great horror from his successor in the Presidency, if he

then propounded to him this problem, as in after years he fled from

him on the day of his inauguration. The woods of Waxhaw were full of

deer, wild turkey and other game, and owing to the household demands of

the colony, to hunt and kill them was much more of a necessity than a

pleasure. Jackson, it is needless to say, became expert with the rifle,

and the bird or animal that came within range rarely escaped with its

life.

His mother’s ambition was to make him a clergyman, and in due time he

was sent to what in those days was called “an old field school.” By and

by he attended schools of a better class, at which lads were prepared

for college. Where the means to pay for this superior education came

from is not known, but it is believed that his mother was assisted by

members of her family in Ireland. Jackson was not a studious boy, so he

learned little except reading, writing, and arithmetic. His educational

equipment all through life was very light, but, nevertheless, his name

stands on the roll of the learned Doctors of Harvard, an act for which

the younger Adams never forgave his old university. When the colonies

decided to draw the sword, Jackson was a child nine years old, and the

war was half over before its tide rolled along to the banks of the

Catawba. From the very beginning, however, the Scotch-Irish settlers

of Waxhaw were as loyal and devoted to the patriotic cause as the

descendants of the Puritans who fell at Lexington and Bunker Hill.

Many of them and their children went into the army, among others Hugh

Jackson, Andrew’s eldest brother, who was “a man in stature if not

in years.” He was killed in the battle of Stono. Robert Jackson, the

second son, too young to bear arms, and Andrew were with their mother

when Tarleton’s dragoons swept along to Waxhaw. A body of militia was

taken by surprise and a large number killed and wounded. This was

Jackson’s first lesson in war. He was then about thirteen, and he and

his brother aided their mother in nursing the unfortunate victims

of the raid. Tarleton’s troopers rode hard and fast over the Waxhaw

farms, little dreaming that in one of its log-cabins they had left

behind them a rough, ungainly boy who in after years was destined to

defeat one of England’s ablest generals at the head of veteran soldiers

bearing on their conquering banners the memorable names of Talavera and

Badajos. Next came Lord Rawdon threatening to imprison all who refused

to promise not to participate in the war. Mrs. Jackson fled with her

two boys into the wilderness rather than make the pledge. A short time

after both sons were present in the engagement at Hanging Rock, near

Waxhaw, where the patriots were so nearly victorious. The defeat of

Gates brought the victorious Cornwallis to the little settlement, and

the terrified inhabitants, Mrs. Jackson and her children among them,

again fled before the soldiery. Andrew found a refuge in a temporary

home on a farm where he gave his services in exchange for his board.

His principal duties were fetching wood, driving cattle, picking beans,

going to the mill and the blacksmith’s shop. “He never,” says Mr.

Parton, “went to the blacksmith’s without bringing home something with

which to kill the enemy. Once he fastened the blade of a scythe to a

pole, and on reaching home began to cut down the weeds, exclaiming,

‘Oh! if I were a man I would sweep down the British with my grass

blade.’” The Jacksons were all home again in 1781, when the Waxhaw

country became quiet.

Andrew was now fourteen, tall as a man, but without much bodily

strength. He and his brother thought, however, that they could be of

some service to their country, and from time to time joined small

raiding parties, organized to retaliate on the enemy. Cornwallis sent

a body of troops to suppress these disorders, and in a conflict the

Jackson boys were captured. Then occurred that memorable incident in

his life which so embittered him ever afterward against England. The

officer who had captured him, ordered him to clean his boots. Jackson

indignantly refused, declaring that he was a prisoner of war and

expected to be treated as one. A fierce sword-blow aimed at his head

was the answer. He warded it off with his arm, but the weapon struck

his skull, inflicting a wound on arm and head, the marks of which

remained to the day of his death. The brutal officer then gave the same

order to the brother. He, too, refused to obey and was prostrated with

a blow which nearly killed him. One day, while a prisoner, Andrew was

threatened with death unless he guided the troops to the house of an

obnoxious patriot. He pretended to comply, but went by a route which

gave the intended victim notice of their approach and enabled him to

escape. The two brothers were next marched off prisoners of war to

Camden, forty miles distant. They and their companions were treated

with horrible barbarity on the way. Forced to walk the entire distance

without food, they were not even allowed to drink the muddy water

by the wayside. In Camden jail they were nearly starved to death.

Small-pox broke out among the ill-fed and ill-clothed captives and it

became a very pest-hole. At length General Greene appeared before the

place and there were hopes of a rescue. Jackson cut through a knot-hole

in the fence and saw the operations in the field, which he reported

to his fellow-prisoners. The Continental troops were defeated and the

captives were in despair. But the faithful mother had not forgotten or

abandoned them, and one day she appeared offering to exchange for her

boys and some other prisoners, thirteen soldiers who had been captured

by the men of Waxhaw. Her sons were so worn-out by starvation and

disease that she scarcely knew them. What a journey that was home to

the Waxhaw! They could procure only two horses for the entire party.

The mother rode one; on the other was her son Robert, stricken with

small-pox and held in his seat by the exchanged prisoners. By their

side trudged Andrew, shivering with fever and ague, shoeless, almost

naked, his feet and legs bleeding and torn by rocks and briers. Still

the battle and the march!

But the battle was only beginning for this seemingly ill-starred boy.

When peace came, sending sunshine and joy through all the land, this

heroic North of Ireland mother had been sleeping beside her husband

in the Waxhaw graveyard more than a year, and the orphaned Andrew was

striving hard to learn the trade of a saddler. His health was bad, and

his spirit seemed broken. Perhaps it was grief for the mother whom

he so deeply loved, and whose memory he revered all through life.

Gradually, however, the spring and buoyancy of his nature asserted

themselves. He made the acquaintance of some boys of his own age whose

parents had fled from Charleston, when it was captured, to Waxhaw, and

who were waiting for the evacuation to return. He was the owner of a

horse at this time, but it is not clear whether he obtained him by

gift or purchase. At all events, he ran races; very often rode them,

and, impartial history bids us say, “gambled a little, drank a little,

and fought cocks.” It was a rude age; the little society that existed

was demoralized by war, and there was no one to restrain, perhaps no

one even to advise, this young orphan boy. He followed his friends

to Charleston, “riding his horse, a fine and valuable animal which

he had contrived to possess.” His career in that city was wild and

reckless. He ran up a long bill with his landlord, which he paid by

a lucky throw at dice; the wager being his horse against two hundred

dollars. All at once his conscience seems to have smitten him. He

resolved to return home and reform. Never again through all his life

did he throw dice for a wager. His scheme of reformation did not,

however, include the abandonment of horse-racing and chicken-fighting,

for during the next two years his biographers continue to record many

achievements and adventures in this line. His other pursuits, if he

had any, are not known. Some say he taught school. If he did, teachers

must have been few and far between at that time in North Carolina. When

he was seventeen or eighteen years of age, he went to Salisbury to

study law. Unable to find an opening, he went to Morgantown, in Burke

County, where he was equally unsuccessful. At length he succeeded in

persuading Mr. Spruce McCoy, of Salisbury, a lawyer of eminence, and

subsequently a distinguished judge, to undertake his instruction. The

story of his career in Salisbury is a sad one, if certain traditions be

true. He was, according to some of his biographers, “the most roaring,

rollicking, game-cocking, horse-racing, card-playing mischievous fellow

that ever lived in Salisbury.” The portrait is probably from the easel

of a political enemy, or a well-meaning admirer, who deemed these the

highest qualifications a young man could possess. In the first place, a

life of this description involved the expenditure of considerable money

even in a small North Carolina town a century ago, and Jackson had

none. To suppose that he lived by gambling and horse-racing is absurd.

It is certain, however, that on one occasion he ran a foot-race there

under somewhat ludicrous conditions. The champion runner of the town

was one Hugh Montgomery. A match was made between him and Jackson on

these terms: Montgomery to carry a man on his back and get a start of

half the distance. Jackson won by one or two feet, “amid the laughter

of the town.”

He received his license to practice law before he reached his twentieth

year. This he could not have accomplished if his life had been the

wild and reckless one which some writers would have us believe.

He left Salisbury immediately and went to live at Martinsville in

Guilford County. Two of his friends kept a store there, and he

probably assisted them, although, it is said, he earned a livelihood

by serving as a constable. The following year a friend of his was

appointed judge of the Superior Court in Tennessee. He appointed

Jackson public prosecutor. The position was not one for which there

were many applicants. In the first place, it led into the wilderness

where the red man was yet very successfully disputing the advance of

the pale-faces, and, in the next, the whites whom Jackson was coming

to prosecute were not much higher in the scale of civilization than

the native savages. Jackson induced some friends to accompany him in

quest of fortune and fame, and a start was made for Jonesboro’, then

the principal settlement in Eastern Tennessee. Thence they proceeded to

Nashville, where they arrived in October, 1788. The journey was full of

peril, and were it not for the watchfulness of Jackson one night the

whole party would probably have been massacred. Having a presentiment

of danger, he determined to sit up on guard. Toward midnight the

hooting of an owl fell on his ear. This was followed by another and

another, until in a short time all the owls in Tennessee appeared to

have collected overhead of them. Jackson suspected that these owls

carried scalping-knives and tomahawks, and awoke his companions. They

were troubled no more by owls that night. At Nashville he found as much

law business as he could attend to, and he set to work with his usual

energy and vigor. In his capacity of public prosecutor he was obliged

to attend court at Jonesboro’, which compelled him to make frequent

journeys through the Indian-infested wilderness. This was hard and

perilous work. No one dared attempt the trip alone, and travelers were

in the habit of making up parties in order to be the better prepared

for attack. Jackson one time was delayed, and his friends started

without him. He followed and soon came upon their track, and, at the

same time, the unmistakable trail of Indians immediately behind them.

This was a situation which would have caused ninety-nine in a hundred

men to turn back, but not so Jackson. Although his servant declined to

go with him he determined to push ahead, and divided his provisions

with his attendant, who turned homeward. Jackson came to a point where

the Indians had branched off with the intention of surprising and

attacking the whites with a certainty of success. At length he overtook

his friends and warned them of their danger. It was snowing heavily

at the time, and the entire party were turned away from the camp of

some hunters from whom they had asked shelter. When returning home

they again stopped at the camp, but every one of the hunters had been

scalped.

Jackson now began to accumulate property, and he married Mrs. Robards,

establishing his home, the first he really ever had, in Nashville. This

was almost the first halt thus far in “the march and the battle” of

his life. It was not, however, the famous home called the Hermitage,

for that did not come until many years later. If money was scarce in

Tennessee at that time, there was an abundance of land, and six hundred

and forty acres, or a square mile of real estate, was the ordinary fee

for trying a case at court. Jackson was in fact a land speculator, as

well as a lawyer, and he was a purchaser whenever he could command the

money. So large were his possessions that he sold six thousand dollars

worth of land in one block to a gentleman in Philadelphia, and after

that large transaction for that time, had still several thousand acres

left. Some years later he engaged in business on his place at Hunters

Hill, thirteen miles from Nashville. This plantation embraced several

thousand acres, and he erected on it a house which was one of the

finest in that part of the country. In a smaller building near it he

opened a store and sold goods to the Indians through a small window.

His prosperity, however, received a sudden check. The Philadelphia

gentleman, whose notes he had taken for his land, failed, and the

protection of the notes devolved on Jackson, who had discounted them.

This he did at an enormous sacrifice.

He determined to retrieve his fortune, and to that end enlarged his

operations in every direction. His slaves numbered one hundred and

fifty, and in their management he was greatly assisted by Mrs. Jackson.

He raised corn and cotton, which he shipped on his own boats. At his

large store he took produce of all kinds in exchange for goods. He had

on his plantation a cotton-gin, which was so recently invented that

it had scarcely ceased to be a curiosity. With it he cleaned his own

cotton and that of his neighbors, which was another source of income.

He was an excellent farmer and very proud of his crops, which were

nearly always good. But this was not all. In his youth he had been

exceedingly fond of horses, and his equine tastes grew stronger as

he advanced in years. He brought the famous “Truxton” from Virginia

to Tennessee and won fame and money as a turfman. Few races came off

in the country around in which his name was not among the entries,

and, as he ran his animals with care and judgment, he was a frequent

winner. His stable was in fact the best bred in all that section, and

proved a large source of income to him. Down even to the present day

there is a “Truxton” strain in Tennessee which is highly prized. In

addition he amused himself with an occasional cockfight. On at least

one occasion the ownership of six hundred and forty acres of land

depended upon the issue of the battle between the game birds. During

these years, while he was pursuing the avocation of a planter, of a

dealer in the goods of every description needed in a new country, of a

horse-breeder and of a speculator in land, he also found time to hold

various public positions. He was a delegate to the convention that

framed the constitution of the State; a member of the legislature; then

a congressman and a judge. His service in Congress was very brief, and

he resigned his position on the bench in order to recover the fortune

he had lost. Jackson was a good public officer. He was not a great

lawyer or jurist, but he fearlessly prosecuted every lawbreaker, and

his decisions were always honest. Every scoundrel in the territory was

his enemy, but he never quailed before one of them.

While he was on the bench the sheriff one day told him that a ruffian,

who had been guilty of cutting off his child’s ear in a drunken

passion, was in the court-house yard, armed with dirk and pistols, and

defied arrest. Jackson directed him to summon a posse of citizens. The

sheriff reported back that the citizens were too terrified to act. “He

must be taken,” said Jackson; “summon me!” With a pistol in either

hand, Jackson walked into the yard and strode up to the outlaw, who at

once surrendered to him.

Jackson possessed undaunted courage and nerve. A mob assembled one

time with the intention of tarring and feathering him. He was ill

in bed when a committee waited on him to communicate the cheerful

intelligence. “Give my compliments,” said he, “to Colonel ---- [the

leader of the party], and tell him my door is open to receive him and

his regiment whenever they choose to call upon me, and that I hope he

will have the chivalry to lead his men and not to follow them.” His

brave defiance cowed the mob. It dispersed, and its leader apologized

to Jackson.

Long years after, while Jackson was President, he told a story of one

of his experiences during these frontier days, which we shall insert

here.

“Now, Mr. B----,” said Jackson, “if any one attacks you I know you will

fight with that big black stick of yours. You will aim right for his

head. Well, sir, ten chances to one he will ward it off, and if you

do hit him, you won’t bring him down. Now, sir [taking the stick into

his own hands], you hold the stick so and punch him in the stomach,

and you’ll drop him. I will tell you how I found that out. When I was

a young man, practising law in Tennessee, there was a big bullying

fellow that wanted to pick a quarrel with me, and so trod on my toes.

Supposing it accidental, I said nothing. Soon after he did it again,

and I began to suspect his object. In a few moments he came by a third

time, pushing against me violently and evidently meaning fight. He was

a man of immense size, one of the very biggest men I ever saw. As quick

as a flash I snatched a small rail from the top of the fence and gave

him the point of it full in the stomach. Sir, it doubled him up. He

fell at my feet, and I stamped on him. Soon he got up, savage, and was

about to fly at me like a tiger. The bystanders made as though they

would interfere. Said I, ‘Don’t; stand back; give me room; that is all

I ask, and I will manage him.’ With that I stood ready with the rail

pointed. He gave me one look and turned away a bewitted man, sir, and

feeling like one. So, sir, I say to you, if any fellow assaults you,

give him the point in his belly.”

Jackson fought several duels, killing his antagonist in one of them;

but these episodes in his life do not fall within the limits of this

paper. His military career may be said to begin with his appointment,

in 1802, to the command of the militia of Tennessee, although he was

not called into active service until the following year. Jefferson had

then completed the Louisiana purchase, and it was thought the Spaniards

would not be willing to acknowledge the authority of the United States,

and, possibly, might resist it. Troops were ordered to the frontier,

and if necessary were to be marched to New Orleans. Tennessee promptly

responded, and Major General Jackson discharged so well the duty

assigned him that he was thanked by the Federal Government.

The ambitious, restless, brilliant Burr was at this time revolving in

his fertile brain the erection of an empire in Mexico, and looking

around for lieutenants to aid him in the realization of his dream,

his eye fell upon Jackson, whom he had doubtless met in Philadelphia

while he was Vice-President. In the summer of 1805 Jackson rode from

his plantation into Nashville. The little town was gayly decked with

flags and banners, and the streets were thronged with people from the

surrounding country. Aaron Burr was expected, and the demonstration

was in his honor. After an entertainment by the people of Nashville he

rode home with Jackson as his guest. Burr’s project appealed to the

imagination of Jackson and he offered his services. Next day Burr went

away. A year later he was again in Kentucky and Tennessee, and Jackson

again offered to join his expedition. The enterprise was then discussed

everywhere, but no one had suspected, or at least given expression

to, the suspicion that Burr’s plans were hostile to the interests of

the United States. Rumors of this nature, however, were soon afloat,

and Jackson laid the matter before Governor Claiborne. He at the same

time wrote Burr, declaring that if his designs were inimical to the

government, he desired to have no further relations with him. Burr was

tried shortly afterwards for treason. He was always one of Jackson’s

friends and entertained the highest opinion of his military capacity.

When Congress declared war against England in 1812, Burr said that

Jackson was the most capable general in the country. During the next

five or six years Jackson was in private life.

The outbreak of hostilities with England called him again into the

field. The Mississippi Valley was loyal to the core and promptly

furnished a larger number of men than had been called for. Jackson,

at the head of 2,500 volunteers, descended the Ohio and Mississippi

to Natchez, where he received word from Wilkinson, at New Orleans, to

await further orders. Wilkinson was jealous of Jackson and did not

desire his co-operation if he could do without it. Jackson, angry

at the delay, went into camp. Later on he was enraged when, instead

of receiving an order to advance, he was instructed to disband his

forces 500 miles from Nashville. It was a cruel order to give; cruel

treatment of men who had so promptly rushed to the defense of their

country. Jackson resolved to disobey it. He would not abandon his men

so far from their homes. His quarter-master refused to furnish proper

supplies. Jackson solved that problem by borrowing $5,000 on his own

responsibility. The journey back was severe, and many of the men fell

sick. Jackson placed one of the sufferers on his own horse and walked

400 miles on foot. His officers and mounted men who were strong enough

followed his example and gave their horses to their companions who

had succumbed to the hardships of the march. One soldier became so

dangerously ill that it was proposed to abandon him. “Not a man shall

be left as long as life is in him,” said Jackson. He watched over the

sufferer as if he had been his own child, and saved his life.

In the summer of 1813 the terrible massacre of Fort Mimms occurred.

The legislature of Tennessee authorized the raising of 3,500 men, and

Jackson began operations against the Creeks in the following October.

So great was his popularity that in a short time he had over five

thousand men under his command. His name soon became a terror to the

Indians, whom he mercilessly followed and fought whenever they dared

to oppose him. But there was a tender heart in the breast of Jackson.

After a fierce encounter at Tallahassee, an Indian woman was found

killed on the field. An infant boy lay on her bosom vainly striving to

satisfy his hunger. The child was brought within the lines and adopted

by Jackson. Mrs. Jackson, who had no children of her own, became as

attached to the little war-waif as her husband, and he grew to be a

fine youth. When he died Jackson was deeply grieved, and the remains

are buried at the Hermitage. The timely assistance rendered by Jackson

to the besieged at Fort Talladega prevented a repetition of the Fort

Mimms horror, for it was on the point of surrender when he appeared and

put the savages to flight. His own supplies now fell short, and his men

were threatened with famine. The volunteers in his command attempted

to leave for their homes, but were prevented by the militia. The

militia shortly after threatened revolt, and they were held in check

by the volunteers. Both parties next united and resolved to abandon

the field. Jackson rode to the head of the column and presenting his

pistol declared he would kill the first man who advanced. So dire was

the distress that he lived on acorns picked up in the woods. At the

Great Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River, Jackson struck the Creek

Indians a blow from which they never recovered. More than one thousand

warriors took their final stand at that point in a strongly fortified

camp. The battle was one of the fiercest in all our Indian annals. Six

hundred braves were killed, for they had resolved to die rather than

yield. Finally, the remnant of the band, their brethren nearly all

slain, laid down their arms on the now historic Hickory Ground, at the

fork of the Coosa and Tallapoosa rivers. Among those who surrendered

was the famous Weatherford, the most valiant of all their leaders.

The Waxhaw lad, who thirty-three years before had been struck down by

one of Tarleton’s officers for refusing to clean his boots, was now

Major-General in the Regular Army of the United States and in full

command of the division of the South. The war with England had been in

progress two years with varying success on either side. Florida was a

province of Spain, and its governor, while openly professing friendship

for the United States, had allowed British vessels to land supplies

in the harbor of Pensacola, where they were forwarded by officers

on shore to the Indians in arms against us. He resolved to attack

the place, and let Mr. Madison at Washington settle the difficulty

which was certain to follow with Spain as best he could. An appeal

for volunteers was promptly answered, and early in November Jackson

was drawn up in front of the place with a demand for an immediate

surrender. This was refused, and an attack was ordered next day. In a

short time he was in possession of Pensacola, and the British ships

were weighing anchor to escape the fire of his artillery. Fort Barancas

blew up as he was making preparations to assault it. He had no further

business in Pensacola, and resolved to leave, sending this note to

the governor: “The enemy has retired; the hostile Creeks have fled to

the forest, and I now retire from your town, leaving you to occupy

your forts and protect the rights of your citizens.” Then came New

Orleans, where the trained veterans of the Peninsula War were driven

to their ships by the raw levies of the Mississippi Valley. The story

is known to every school-boy. It did not end the war with England--for

the treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent before the battle was

fought--but it more than compensated for all our reverses during the

long struggle, and added an imperishable laurel to our military

fame. Praise of Jackson fell from every tongue, and the fighting

back-woodsman of Tennessee became the idol of the country. While the

whole Republic was resounding with laudation of his deeds and thanking

him in set addresses and formal resolutions from Congress down to the

smallest town council, his wife was awaiting him in a small log-hut in

the forest. Before the war the bankruptcy of a relative for whom he

was security had forced Jackson to sell everything in order to meet

his liabilities. To this humble home he returned from the city he had

saved. His next military service was in the Seminole War. Spain still

held the Floridas, and her officers were again secretly assisting the

savages against the United States. Without instructions, he entered

the Spanish possessions, seized St. Marks, and sent its officials to

Pensacola. The trial and execution of Arbuthnot and Ambrister followed,

after which he captured Pensacola and Fort Barancas. Negotiations for

the cession of Florida were pending at the time, and Jackson’s action

became the subject of official investigation. He was sustained by

public opinion and Congress. In a trip through the Middle and Eastern

States he was everywhere received with the greatest enthusiasm. When

Florida was annexed, Jackson became the first governor of the new

Territory. His civil career was as vigorous and energetic as his

military one had been, but he resigned at the end of a few months,

and returned home to the Hermitage, which had in the meantime been

built. He was next elected to the United States Senate, and declined

the mission to Mexico offered him by Mr. Monroe. His defeat for the

Presidency in 1824 was a severe blow, and the next four years were

spent at his home near Nashville. In 1828 he swept the country, but his

joy was turned to sorrow by the death of his wife a short time after

his election.

Jackson was the first President inaugurated with what may be called

military honors. He was surrounded by a body-guard of Revolutionary

veterans, militia and military companies from all quarters of the

Union. Martial music filled the air; the city was gayly decorated

with flags and banners, and when the ceremonies were over artillery

thundered out all over the capital. “I never saw such a crowd,” Daniel

Webster wrote. “Persons have come 500 miles to see General Jackson,

and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some

dreadful danger.” Jackson rode a magnificent charger to the Capitol,

cheered by thousands of admirers who lined the sidewalks and filled

every window and point of vantage. The reception at the White House

which followed presented some extraordinary scenes. Indian fighters

from distant Tennessee, hunters from Kentucky, trappers from the

Northwest, and a mob of office-seekers from all sections of the Union,

mingling with the refined society of the capital and visitors from

other cities, surged through the great East Room. They clamored for

refreshments, and in a short time emptied the barrels of punch that had

been provided for their entertainment. Large quantities of glass and

china were broken in the scramble, and the rush to see “Old Hickory”

and shake his hand was so great that his friends found it necessary to

surround and save him from injury.

His favorite exercise was driving and horseback riding. He retired

about ten o’clock and rose early. He frequently took a short canter

before beginning the labors of the day, but his usual hour for

relaxation was in the afternoon. He was always accompanied by a

servant. Mr. Van Buren sometimes rode with him, but more generally his

nephew and Secretary, Mr. Donelson, who, with his family, lived at the

White House. The summers he spent at Old Point Comfort in Virginia.

There were occasional pilgrimages to the Hermitage, and trips North and

East which were ovations at every point where he stopped. He narrowly

escaped assassination, in 1834, while he was descending the steps of

the Capitol in a funeral procession. A crazy painter out of employment

fired twice at him without exploding the powder. On another occasion

he was assaulted while in the cabin of a small steamer, at the wharf

in Alexandria, by a Lieutenant Randolph who had been dismissed from

the Navy. He was seventy years old lacking eleven days when his second

administration closed. Like Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, he placed

the reins of government in the hands of his Secretary of State, and

immediately retired to the Hermitage, now as famous and as sacred to

his followers as Mount Vernon, Monticello or Montpelier. There, in

June, 1845, he died, surrounded by his grandchildren and favorite

slaves; his last words being an expression of the hope that he would

meet them all, black and white, in heaven. The march and the battle

were at last ended.

[Illustration: A FALSE START.]

THE JERSEY CITY ATHLETIC CLUB.

BY CHARLES LEE MEYERS.

Ten years have elapsed since the idea of an athletic club for Jersey

City had its origin in the brains of two gentlemen. These were J. McF.

Tappen and D. R. Van Winkle, and to their number they added a third

counselor, W. J. Tait. From the action of this triumvirate sprang the

present flourishing organization known as the Jersey City Athletic Club.

Support was quickly afforded. Soon some forty gentlemen were at work on

the scheme, and quickly organized themselves into a regular body. The

following officers were elected: W. J. Tait, president; J. McF. Tappen,

vice-president; E. N. Wilson, treasurer, and E. F. Emmons, secretary.

Matters immediately assumed such a flourishing condition, that the

membership reached a century before the second meeting.

The idea uppermost in the minds of the originators, from the first

inception, was that the club should unite the social element with

physical culture, and so afford the exercises the air more of a

pleasurable pastime than simply hard work for muscle’s sake. Acting

on wise counsel, the executive officers of the new organization made

but a modest venture, and finding that the higher they went the lower

the rent, they secured a large garret over a row of brick buildings,

at 723 Grand Street. Their first home was, however, admirably adapted

for their purpose, for the rafters were very high, and afforded ample

space and accommodation for the disposal of climbing-poles, trapezes,

and other gymnastic paraphernalia. The work of fitting, ventilating,

painting, etc., was undertaken with a will; a new floor was laid, an

instructor--Mr. Louis Kline--engaged, club colors adopted (red and

blue, with an emblem of a red Greek cross on a blue ground), and the

club was in full swing.

Directly the premises were completed, they were put to practical use,

and to the good effect of this vigorous action may be attributed the

fact that the club gave its first outdoor games in the spring of 1879.

These games consisted of five club events and four open events, and

were held at the West Side Driving Park. All the noted athletes of

the day competed, and a great success was scored. From this time the

club may be regarded as having established itself on a firm footing

financially and otherwise. Shortly afterwards it joined and became a

prominent member of the N. A. A. A. A., but has now, however, thrown in

its fortune with that of the Amateur Athletic Union.

Meanwhile, in its private life, the club was thriving. The membership

increased, and more accommodation was needed. Room after room was added

on the floor beneath the gymnasium, among them being a billiard-room,

card-room, music-room, with piano and other instruments, and an office

for committee meetings. The original policy of an admixture of social

attractions was thoroughly carried out, and receptions, skating

parties, and a varied round of amusements followed each other in quick

succession, all serving to maintain the interest.

So matters moved smoothly and pleasantly until the roller-skating craze

infected the city, and as the seductive influences of the slippery

floor, and the novelty of the fashion made themselves felt, gradually

the attendance at the club fell off, and it seemed as if a period of

darkness were in store for it. And indeed to the determined spirits

who, by their devotion, tided matters over, a deep and lasting debt is

owed. This danger, although at the time it looked really great, soon

disappeared. One by one the rinks closed, members of the club returned

to their proper allegiance, and affairs resumed their former prosperity.

[Illustration: JERSEY CITY ATHLETIC CLUB HOUSE.]

In the latter part of 1885 an epidemic struck Jersey City--it was

a “club fever.” All the men in the city were either organizing or

joining clubs. Clubs were formed for almost every purpose, social,

intellectual, literary, athletic, bowling, etc. The social element so

strongly developed by the ten or a dozen rinks, had to find an outlet,

and the movement flowed clubward. Among the first to recognize and

direct this curious fever was the Jersey City Athletic Club, and as a

consequence its membership filled up so rapidly that in November, 1885,

its rooms were entirely inadequate for the uses of its members, and it

was decided to build a club-house.

The scheme for the enlargement of the premises had a very modest

beginning, for in the spring of 1885 a demand for further accommodation

in the matter of bowling alleys had been put forward. To meet this

the proposition was made that two alleys should be built on some

land adjoining the Alpha Rink. This by no means met with general

approbation, and it became evident that the membership was falling off,

and that the club was being deserted for its more enterprising rivals,

notable among which was the Palma Club, which had just completed a new

building. When, therefore, the “club fever” broke out, a club meeting

was held, and a proposition made that a committee be appointed whose

duty it should be to raise the large sum of $25,000 for building

purposes. Though the scheme was much derided, the committee was formed,

and comprised the following gentlemen: Messrs. J. C. Appleby, C. H.

Dickson, H. Hartshorne, and E. R. Grant. When this prompt and timely

action became known, it enlisted so many desirable recruits that in six

months from the inception of the building scheme the membership had

trebled, in spite of the fact that in the city four other large and

well-appointed clubs offered their attractions.

[Illustration: WALKING TO WIN.]

The plans were finally passed, and ground purchased for a sum of

$5,000, while the building to be erected was to cost $20,000. On the

first night the amount subscribed was $6,000, and thus assured of the

success of the venture the various committees perfected their work,

and on Thanksgiving Day, 1886, the building was finished. Then the

question arose how the completed building was to be furnished. The

solution of the problem proved easier than might have been expected.

The ladies came graciously to the rescue. A fair was organized to raise

the necessary funds, and the good work which had been done during the

months of preparation was apparent when, after the close of the fair,

which was open for ten days, the sum of $8,000 in cash remained as a

monument to its success.

The new club-house stands at the corner of Crescent and Clinton

Avenues--almost the highest portion of “The Heights”--upon the brow

of the hill. The site is superb, commanding from the eastern windows

and tower a magnificent view of New York harbor and the surrounding

country. The style of architecture is modern Queen Anne. The basement

and first and second stories are of undressed brown-stone, and the

upper stories wood, with a slate roof. The tower forms a notable

feature; a roomy piazza on one side of the house and a large porch are

popular parts of the house in summer. The entrance is very spacious,

and opens into a large vestibule, and this again leads to a wide hall

running through to the billiard-room.

In the basement are the bowling-alleys, six in number, fitted with all

the latest improvements, and built by the best makers in the costliest

style. In fact, so well is their construction carried out, that the

claim that they are among the best of their kind in America is fully

justified. The active use to which they are put every night vouches

for the interest displayed in the pastime by the members. On the left

of the bowling-alleys is the wheelroom, which affords storage for a

large number of wheels, and gives easy egress to the street through the

side-doors.

[Illustration: PUTTING THE SHOT.]

On the first floor, the offices and the card-room are on one side of

the hall, and on the other the parlor and the library. The last now

contains some three hundred volumes of standard books, and additions

are constantly being made; in addition, a large supply of monthly

and weekly periodicals is taken. A large open grate is a feature of

this room; the furnishings are throughout easy and luxurious, while

its situation, being in the base of the tower, allows the light to

enter from three sides, rendering it most comfortable and suitable

for its purpose. The entire wing is occupied by the billiard-room,

which contains four billiard and two pool tables. The room is lighted

directly from three sides and indirectly from the fourth, and therefore

has the best facilities for lovers of the game to display their skill

with the cue. Off this room are coat-rooms, etc., and a complete

barber’s shop.

[Illustration: THE RUNNING BROAD JUMP--LANDING.]

On the next floor is the gymnasium, which is one of the finest in

the country. From the floor, which measures eighty by fifty feet,

there is a space of forty feet to the peak of the roof. Every kind

of apparatus that has been invented for exercise and to further

muscular development is represented, while the lofty rafters make the

swinging rings, climbing ropes and poles a notable feature. Off the

gymnasium and in the wing are the spacious locker-rooms and baths.

Around three sides runs a spacious gallery, and on the mezzanine floor

is situated the large music-room, at the back of the gallery, and

looking out on the gymnasium. On the fourth side is the stage--while

the gymnasium itself makes a splendid auditorium. It is used on the

occasion of club performances, and having a seating capacity of 800,

with the large gallery and music-room as a foyer, it makes an ideal

amateur theatre; and again, when the annual receptions are held, it

makes a capital ball-room--all the apparatus being removable. The

stage itself is replete with every convenience--handsome drop-curtain,

scenery, etc.--and there is a fine wardrobe of costumes. The method of

construction permits the wings to be run out when occasion demands, and

while not in use the stage is lifted back against the wall, and the

proscenium shuts up flat against the stage, much like the closing of

an accordion, so giving the entire floor except a few feet for other

purposes.

[Illustration: HIGH JUMP NO. 1--THE RISE.]

The value of the club’s property amounts to about $45,000, and its

income reaches $18,000, a sum large enough to allow considerable

addition each year to its possessions, besides paying current expenses.

The membership, which has a limit of 650, reaches 625. The original

object of the club has been fully attained, for it has added greatly

to the social life of the city. An element of its success has been the

absence of internal dissension; all work together for the common good,

sinking personal differences, and never allowing them to hamper any

public project. The rules are strict: no liquor can be brought into,

sold, or drunk in the house; no gambling or games of chance are allowed

by the State laws, and are also prohibited by the club rules under

penalty of expulsion.

The bowling team is the club’s joy and pride. At the close of the

season of 1886-7, however, the team was last on the list, having won

only four out of twelve games. This was to be expected, as the alleys

had been in use only a few months; but in the season of 1887-8 the

team won ten out of a possible fourteen games, and gained thereby the

championship of the Amateur Bowling League. This league is composed

of the Jersey A. C., New York A. C., Orange A. C., Brooklyn A. A.,

Roseville A. C., Elizabeth A. C., and Palma Club. Of these the

Elizabeth Club had never been beaten on their own alleys until the

Jersey City Club lowered their colors, rolling the highest score in

the tournament upon their alleys in contest with them. The tournament

commenced in November, 1887, and the twelve scheduled games were

finished with a tie for first place between the Jersey City, New York,

and Palma Club. The Jersey team won the deciding games in good style,

defeating successively the Palmas and the New Yorks, and winning ten

out of fourteen games.

[Illustration: HIGH JUMP NO. 2--OVER.]

After the tie was made, the three clubs drew as to who should play

first, the J. C. A. C. drawing the bye. The New Yorks played the Palma

Club, the latter winning. This left the J. C. A. C. to play the Palma

Club upon the alleys of the N. Y. A. C., and it was a game worth

recording. At the end of the third frame the Palma score was 102 pins

ahead, and it looked as if the game was won. Neither score changed

much until the end of the sixth frame, when the score of the J. C. A.

C. began to show a little improvement. By this time the excitement

was growing, and the spectators began to be interested. All eyes were

strained upon the pins at the end of the alleys as one of the crack

bowlers carefully poised the huge ball in mid-air, taking careful aim,

when suddenly, with an eerie screech, a wild-eyed, consumptive cat,

with arched back and bristling fur, darted like a streak of darkness

diagonally across the alley. All the boys shouted, and were convulsed

with laughter at the strange apparition, coming from nowhere and

disappearing as mysteriously as it had come. The claims of the rival

clubs were loud as to the significance of the visitant, the Palmas

claiming it as their mascotte, the J. C. A. C. boys claiming it as

a “hoodoo” for the Palma score, and so it proved. By this time the

excitement had spread all through the house, and the men swarmed down

into the alleys.

Slowly the score began to change its aspect, until, by the final frame,

when the Palmas had finished their play, they were eleven pins ahead of

the J. C. A. C., who had one more man to roll. When on the first ball

he made a “strike,” counting ten, he was seized by the enthusiastic

team and carried around upon their shoulders. Each of his following

shots proved to be a “strike,” and brought up the score of the J. C. A.

C. to a total of 43 pins above that of their opponents. A large model

of the cat, done in cotton, five times the size of the original, with

heroic verses telling of its famous run, and its “hoodoo” influence, is

one of the proud possessions of the club, and adorns its rooms.

Among other trophies are the prizes for a match contest between the

Orange A. C. and the J. C. A. C. The team is composed of Messrs. A. M.

Ryerson, captain, F. Cavalli, J. H. Curran, O. D. Stewart, A. H. Brown,

E. R. Grant, G. E. Hogg, J. A. Davis, E. Klein and H. W. McLellan.

Bowling tournaments between the members of the club for prizes help to

promote good play and develop champions.

The baseball team has won a number of local victories, and interests

a large number of members. Having, however, no regular grounds to

practice on, the team contents itself with playing against local club

nines.

The club is extremely strong in wheelmen, having among its members

75 per cent. of the Hudson County Wheelmen, who form the largest and

strongest cycling organization in New Jersey, and one which is hand in

hand with the J. C. A. C. It was proposed at one time to amalgamate,

but the H. C. W., not wishing to lose their identity, compromised by

nearly all becoming members of the J. C. A. C. Among their wheelmen,

Charles E. Kluge possesses a world-wide fame. His records on the “Star”

and tricycle, and latterly upon the crank machine, are well known,

while his world record for twenty-five miles stands unrivaled. Others

who have carried the club’s name to the front upon the racing-track

are E. P. Baggot, E. M. Smith, W. P. Smith, and C. A. Stenken. On the

whole, however, the members are more devoted to rolling up mileage on

the road than rolling down Father Time on the track.

The achievements of the athletes of the J. C. A. C. belong rather

to its past history than to its present. For the first years of its

existence the club gave spring and fall games and their success was

unquestioned. The novelty, however, wore off and the great difficulty

in reaching the trotting track, which was the only available ground,

prohibited an attendance sufficient to make them a financial success.

So, after money had been lost steadily for the sake of the sport for

some years, the games were abandoned, although the club athletes

continued to score successes in the field and on the track. Among these

were Hugh McMahon, whose best on record at the hurdles stood for a

number of years, A. D. Stone, G. Y. Gilbert, and Charles Lee Meyers. A

feature of the club athletics consists of runs from the house across

country and return, and a series of races in its gymnasium, such as

obstacle and potato races.

In the spring of 1885 it gave an entertainment which brought together

all the noted athletes of the day as performers, among them being L. E.

Myers, F. P. Murray, Robt. Stall on the rings, G. Y. Gilbert, and many

others of the same class.

In 1887 the Boxing and Wrestling Championships of America were given

under the auspices of the club and in its gymnasium.

The original idea, which has been mentioned before as existing in

the minds of the originators of the club, has been well carried out.

In order to obliterate from the minds of the ladies the inherent

prejudice against all men’s clubs, the rooms were at first thrown open

to them every Thursday evening, a dance was given every month, and a

ladies’ class formed in the gymnasium. The result of this diplomacy

was made apparent when the furnishing of the new club-house had to be

accomplished. After their noble efforts in this cause, the question

arose how to recompense them for their devotion, and how to place them

in possession of all the club privileges without cost (for the club’s

gratitude could do no less), and yet not make them members.

This difficult problem was solved by giving up to the ladies the

afternoons of Tuesday and Thursday of each week and also Thursday

evening, and having an informal dance once each month. At these times

all privileges are free to ladies, and numerous groups enjoy themselves

bowling, playing billiards, pool, cards, and often getting up an

impromptu dance in the gymnasium. This feature is naturally one of

the most attractive to the members, and among the ladies themselves

the club is a very popular place. It has not so far interfered in

the smallest degree with the exercise of the members’ privileges, as

they can use all the club’s advantages on these occasions, courtesy

of course giving preference to the fair sex, and indeed it has been

of unexpected benefit to the club. Ladies, by telling their friends

of the beauty of the club-house and the enjoyment to be obtained on

its ladies’ days, have induced their male friends to join the club. A

grand ball is given annually to the ladies, the first one in the new

club-house being in honor of the ladies’ services during the fair. In

January, 1888, Governor Green and all his staff of State officials

honored the Club Ball by their presence.

Another prominent characteristic of the club is musical ability. Almost

the first action of the club after its organization was to give an

entertainment which took the form of a minstrel show, with only the

members as performers. These shows grew better year by year, until

in the fall of 1885 the club produced “The Mikado,” which had a run

of two nights and splendid success. These plays were given in a local

theatre and were “in black,” with most of the dialogue localized. In

the fall of 1887, having its own theatre, the club took a step forward

and produced “Erminie,” in black, with a remarkably successful run of

four nights. Shortly after this the club orchestra was organized, and

is now one of the notable features of every entertainment. In April of

last year, “Patience” was produced for three nights, but this time with

the assistance of the wives, sisters and sweethearts of the members,

and exactly as written, with every detail. Such a splendid success

was scored that its repetition was almost a necessity, so it was

again given the month following, making four performances. The entire

performance was marked throughout by the most careful attention to

artistic effect, and in this it was quite a triumph.

In such ways the club has retained the sympathy and co-operation of the

ladies. For instance, when “Patience” was produced, they contributed a

major part of the attraction by splendid singing and acting.

The club is in the height of its prosperity. While the substantial

reasons for its existence continue, there seems no doubt of its

standing and permanency.

MY BOAT.

The frolic waves are dancing bright

Across the moon’s broad path of light:

My lovely boat--

A swan afloat,

Holds o’er the waves her long white throat:

From either side

The waters glide

In silver flashes of laughing foam,

And she skims the sea

In an ecstasy

Of joy, returned again to home.

_Arthur Cleveland Hall._

ON A CANADIAN FARM IN MIDWINTER.

BY W. BLACKBURN HARTE.

By decree of the inexorable _res angusta domi_, I left my native

England in the last days of the year of grace 1886, for Canada, with

the determination of becoming a farmer. I was a cockney to my backbone,

and had not the slightest idea of farming, but still I was young and

hopeful, and I imagined that this happy consummation would take but a

very short time to accomplish. Many a night, while lying in my bunk

during the passage across the Atlantic, I built _châteaux en Espagne_

innumerable, and galloped over limitless acres of which I held the

freehold. Alas! my castles have since been irretrievably mortgaged to

Doubt and Despair, and if the reader will give me his kind attention

while I relate my experiences, we will together watch these castles of

cards topple to the ground.

Upon my arrival at Montreal I at once advertised for a situation on

a farm, for I had more ambition than capital or collateral security,

and consequently was unable to immediately blossom forth into a landed

proprietor. To my great delight I received three or four answers from

farmers in different parts of the country, each of whom represented

that _his_ farm was situated in the very heart of the garden of Canada,

and desired me to come on without delay. Subsequent experience led me

to the conclusion that Canada was one immense garden--of snow, and

remarkably well ventilated. After a little thought, I decided to place

myself and accompanying transcendent abilities at the disposal of a

gentleman--evidently a public philanthropist--who, judging from the

friendly warmth of his communication, appeared to have been anxiously

looking forward to my arrival on this continent.

The next day I boarded a train going east, and after a two hours’

journey arrived at my destination, which was only fifty miles from

the metropolis. I had reason later to thank my stars that I had not

decided to begin my career as a farm-hand in the neighborhood of the

“Rockies,” because in that case my return to civilization would have

been well-nigh impossible, considering the state of my exchequer. The

name of the village was Knowlton, in the province of Quebec. Some of

my readers are doubtless acquainted with the locality.

A negro conductor passed through the car and announced in stentorian

tones, first in French-Canadian _patois_, and then in English, the name

of the station, and looking out of the window I saw a noble edifice

which appeared to have been blown together, “promiscuous-like,” on a

very windy day, and then tarred over. This was the waiting-room and

station-master’s sanctum combined; in fact, it was the station. There

was not the ghost of a platform, but a low fence surrounded the rear of

the shanty. The station-master, as I afterwards found out, was a man of

exceedingly portly dimensions, and was greatly impressed with a sense

of his own importance, so there was little room in the shanty for aught

else beside himself and the stove.

The whole population of the place, about twenty-five or thirty persons

all told, counting one or two of the canine genus, were assembled

in the yard to witness the train come in. This appeared to be the

only dissipation of which the villagers were at any time capable.

They looked like so many badly packed bundles of cloth, and spoke a

villainous gibberish, which would confound the natives of La Belle

France. I fancy I was looked upon as a sort of natural curiosity.

Certainly I was the “observed of all observers” upon that occasion, and

caused no little diversion. I stood and watched the departing train

until it was out of sight, and then sat down upon my chest. To confess

the truth, I did not feel in the best of spirits. The prospect seemed

less inviting now that I was, as it were, plumped down, out of all

civilization, upon the scene of my new labors.

My benefactor, the farmer, now approached me, and introduced himself by

suddenly bawling in my ear, “Now then, young feller, get up, and take

hold of t’ other end of this box. Great Scott! what a terror, anyway.

What ’ev you got in it, anyhow?”

Mr. Wiman, for that was the gentleman’s name, had never seen me before

in his life, but he jumped to the conclusion that I was “his man,”

because, as he afterwards explained to me, I looked “so English, you

know.” I guessed, too, that a stranger in those parts was rather a

_rara avis_.

We carried the box to his sledge, which he had kindly brought down to

drive me up to the farm. Taking a seat beside him, I inquired what

distance his place was from the village.

“Well, I guess it’s something over five miles--more or less,” was his

reply.

We drove on for a long time in silence, and I began to think that there

was a considerable difference between a five-mile drive in the “old

country” and a similar distance in Canada. I ventured to hint as much

to Mr. Wiman. He burst into a hearty laugh.

“Bless yer! I should jist reckon there _is_ a difference. That’s all!

We keep up with the times on this side ’ev the water. This ’ere is a

live country, sir--a live country!”

I did not quite understand how the advanced state of the country should

so materially alter the mileage, but kept my own counsel. I could not

help, however, reflecting that despite the fact that I was now in a

land of enlightenment and progress, I had never seen such a dismal,

dreary landscape in my life. Nature in her sterner aspects cannot so

quell the soul of man as when she presents herself in merely bleak

desolation. There was nothing but snow, which almost blinded me with

its dazzling whiteness, and certainly added to the depression of my

spirits.

At last Mr. Wiman drew rein at a wayside _auberge_ and told me to wait

a few minutes until he returned. This was comforting. The atmosphere

was not 90° in the shade--it was 20° below zero! I jammed my hard

felt hat down over my face, under the impression that by getting my

head into it as far as possible I should keep my ears from dropping

off. Foolishly enough, I had neglected to purchase a fur cap when in

Montreal, and now bitterly repented my want of forethought.

The first quarter of an hour did not seem so very long, as my mind was

occupied with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, and those inevitable

“first impressions” which chill one’s cherished hopes. But when a

“few minutes” slowly dragged itself into a good half-hour, it struck

me that the Canadian method of reckoning the flight of time must be

conducted on the broad basis which characterized the mileage. I rubbed

my hands with snow to keep them warm and prevent them from freezing,

and jumping off the sledge I paced rapidly up and down, under the

veranda in front of the hostelry, to induce circulation. I had read

something and heard more about the climate in this part of the world,

and was afraid that unless I was extremely careful I should coagulate

into one complete block of ice. At last my patience was exhausted, and

I determined to go in quest of my employer. I found him, the centre of

a small circle of _convives_ assembled around the stove, discussing

in broken French and English, thick with authority and liquor, the

question of commercial union.

I nervously asked him when he intended to resume his journey. He

replied by pointing to a vacant seat, and asking me to take “something

hot.” I was half frozen, and readily accepted the offer.

“Sorry--hic--sorry I forgot you,” he said, with a cheerful smile.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied politely. “I’m still alive.”

In another hour or so the party broke up, leaving Mr. Wiman decidedly

none the better for his potations. In fact, he was wholly unfit to have

charge of the horse.

He took my arm, and staggering out into the cold again, we found the

horse lying down in the snow, almost stiff, and the sledge overturned.

It was dark. In Canada there is no twilight. It is a sudden transition

from day into night, and I began to wish myself back in Montreal.

However, after many kicks and objurgatory coaxings, the poor beast

was induced to stand up, and righting the sledge and replacing my

belongings, we again took our seats. Mr. Wiman then handed the reins

to me with instructions to drive “home,” and fell fast asleep on my

shoulder. I did not, of course, know the road in the least, but the

horse did. He had been left for a “few minutes” on many occasions

before. I could not refrain from inwardly making comparisons between

the brute and his master, not altogether favorable to the intelligence

of the latter. I also did not forget to thank God for the brute’s

endowment, as otherwise we should in all probability have been buried

beneath the snow, which, in some places, was over ten feet in depth.

As it was, the ride was not unattended with danger, as it was hard to

see the track in the dark, and every now and again the poor animal slid

up to his neck in the snow, and only extricated himself after severe

struggles. The farmer awoke at intervals, when the sledge was almost

overturned, but he kept his seat wonderfully. This, of course, was the

force of long habit. I have heard of tipsy sailors preserving their

equilibrium in the same marvelous fashion. Wiman would then encourage

the horse with a few sanguinary expressions, and again relapse into the

land of Nod. As this may be getting wearisome to the reader, I will

only mention one other incident of that memorable drive.

Just in front of the homestead we encountered a very large drift, and

as the horse endeavored to scramble through it, the sledge upset and

deposited both of us at least a couple of feet under the snow. I was

the first to get my head above the surface, and began to search for

my companion and my box. I found the son of Bacchus coiled up quite

content. After sundry kicks he realized his position, and clutching the

sledge with both hands, instructed me to let go the traces and free

the horse. This I did, and, after many attempts, the unfortunate beast

regained his feet.

In a few minutes more we were safe in the barn, and having watered and

fed the horse, we made our way into the house, which, from what I could

make of it, was simply another barn of somewhat greater pretensions.

But even this looked very inviting after my late experience of the

Canadian roads.

The floor of the kitchen, sitting-room and drawing-room--a domestic

combination, which we now entered--was almost covered with snow that

had entered through the doors on either side. An enormous stove

or range was placed in the centre of the room, and the walls were

decorated with pictorial representations, mostly culled from the

Christmas issues of various illustrated periodicals. A deal table, a

kitchen dresser, sparsely laden with crockery of assorted patterns and

culinary utensils, and a few rickety chairs, completed the inventory of

furniture.

Mr. Wiman pointed to a plate of hash which stood upon the table--which,

it is almost unnecessary to mention, was quite innocent of a cloth--and

told me “to get outside of it.” I did not require a second invitation,

but fell to like a hungry wolf.

Just then a female voice from an adjoining room shrieked out, “Is that

you, Nathan?” to which the gentleman in question, who was tugging at

his boots in a fruitless endeavor to remove them, responded in the

Canadian affirmative, “Yah.”

“H’ain’t you ’toxicated?”

“Yah.”

“As usual,” resumed the voice, not angrily, but with a philosophical

mixture of sadness and good-humor.

“Yah.” Wiman had a fondness for this peculiar monosyllable. “Come and

take off these darned boots. They don’t mind me.”

At this frank confession I could not help laughing aloud. This brought

Mrs. Wiman, for it was she, to the door, attired in a dilapidated

dressing-gown and a pair of very masculine carpet slippers, with an

old hussar undress uniform jacket thrown over her shoulders, the whole

surmounted by a huge nightcap. Her strange appearance did not tend

to decrease my mirth. The good woman, however, was not in the least

indignant at my rude behavior, and, indeed, seemed to enter into the

joke herself. I introduced myself, and was then asked a great many

questions respecting the art of milking, etc., to which I replied

with some diffidence, as my knowledge of such matters was not very

extensive. As a boy, I remember gazing in at the entrance of a dairy in

our street by the hour together, dreaming of green fields and babbling

brooks, but I had never seen any cows there. The principal object that

attracted my attention was--what? I won’t disclose. The joke is too

ancient.

When I had finished my sumptuous repast it was nearly one o’clock in

the morning, and Mrs. Wiman took up a candle, minus a candlestick, and

showed me up to my room, which was on the next and top floor. I stuck

the candle on the floor in the farther corner of the room, out of the

wind and snow, which again made its appearance through the half-wrecked

window. There was no furniture of any kind in the room, with the

exception of a low truckle-bed.

I was then left alone, as I thought, but on looking towards the bed

I noticed that it had already an occupant, who reminded me of what

Robinson Crusoe must have looked like after having been deprived of his

barber for a twelvemonth. I crept silently into bed, generously giving

my companion the greater half of it, and laid awake, thinking over the

events of the past few hours, until it was almost daylight, when I

fell into a troubled sleep. I seemed to have been asleep only a few

minutes, however, when an alarm clock, which I had not noticed standing

in the recess of the window before retiring, began to make its presence

known in a very demonstrative manner. I sat up and rubbed my eyes,

invoking anything but blessings upon the devoted head of the inventor

of these execrable “utilities.” My partner turned over and uttered a

groan, and then becoming aware of my presence, he said, “Thank ’evin

you’ve come at last.” Somehow I could not find it in my heart to echo

this sentiment.

“Why?” I asked.

“’Cause, I’ll be able to leave now.”

“Oh. But how is it that you are going?”

“I guess you’ll soon find out why. Anyway, there’s no time for talking

on this ’ere farm. Shove on yer things and foller me.”

This was not very encouraging, but I did not hazard any further

remarks, and was soon ready to follow my Job’s comforter. I began to

think that life on a Canadian farm was not all _couleur de rose_. When

we reached the kitchen, he lit a couple of lanterns, and we stepped out

into the yard, nearly up to our waists in snow. That fellow Thomson,

who sang of the sluggard and enlarged upon the advantages of early

rising, never put his theories into practice. If he had tried getting

up at four ~A. M.~ in picturesque Canada, in the depth of

winter, he would have tuned his lyre to a different strain.

We then went into the stable, and Jim (my partner) gave me a bucket

to fetch some water for the horses, also a shovel with which I was to

find the pump. This was not an unnecessary precaution. The pump was

situated somewhere about one hundred yards from the barn. The wind had

been very boisterous during the night, and the snow had drifted in deep

reefs over a mile long, and the pump was completely buried. Finding

that I was not very successful in my search, Jim joined me, and by our

united efforts we at last discovered it. I am certain that no old-time

Californian miner was ever more delighted at striking gold than I was

when we found that pump. I thought I should lose my ears before we

uncovered it.

On returning from this voyage of discovery we were met by Mr. Wiman,

who told me to follow him and “milk.” The cow-barn was at the far

end of the yard, and housed over fifty head of cattle. Another tramp

through the snow! I noticed that this place was far warmer even than

the house, which I rightly attributed to the animal life within its

walls. This “milking” was a practical test of my abilities which I

had not been looking forward to with any great eagerness. I will pass

over this experience, which even after this lapse of time makes a cold

sweat start out upon my brow. Suffice it to say, that after one hour of

pulling and tugging, with great beads of perspiration rolling down my

cheeks, to the utter disgust of the cow, and at great personal risk,

I succeeded in obtaining sufficient lacteal fluid for, at least, one

cup of tea. By this time breakfast was ready for me; I was ready for

breakfast, and the meeting was adjourned.

The _pièce de résistance_ was the hash of the previous evening,

re-hashed; but farm work does not foster one’s epicureanism, and I ate

like an alderman. When I had finished my meal I drew my chair up to the

stove and produced a pipe, thinking that an hour was allowed for each

meal. I was soon informed to the contrary, however, by Mr. Wiman, who

burst into a hearty laugh.

“Ah, that’s English, don’t cher know? It won’t wash out ’ere. I’d

advise you to follow Jim, and larn ’ow to ’itch on a team for drawing

bark. We don’t di-gest our food in this country, yer know. It’s got ter

take its chance.”

The next thing to be done was to water the cattle, which was no

easy task. The spring, or watering-place, was in the centre of the

field adjoining the yard, at a distance of half a mile, and was only

distinguishable by a tree which stood close to it. We procured a shovel

and hatchet, and after a great deal of shoveling we came upon the

trough, which was filled with solid ice at least a foot in thickness.

I suggested that a little dynamite kept upon the premises would be a

handy article in winter, at which witticism Jim surrendered all the

smile that was left in him after a protracted spell of farm-labor. At

last we broke the ice sufficiently for two cows to drink at once, and

Jim told me to run up as fast as my legs would carry me and turn out

six cows, as otherwise the water would freeze again. The reader may

think that this verges upon exaggeration, but I can assure him, or her,

that on more than one subsequent occasion I had to break the ice a

second time within the space of a quarter of an hour.

When all the cows had been watered, there was “clearing-out” to be

done. This was not a particularly clean occupation, but it was, at

all events, far warmer. Then came feeding, which with our careful

management took a great deal of time and a surprising amount of hay.

Jim was always thinking of his master’s best interests. He explained

this carelessness by confiding to me that he had worked for twelve

months for “glory,” that is, without remuneration, beyond bed and

board. He said that this was the only way in which he could get a

portion of his arrears from his respected employer. I had also agreed

to come upon the same terms during my novitiate, and had indeed paid

a small premium, but I had not anticipated such a lengthy term of

apprenticeship.

Wiman now entered and announced dinner, a call to which we quickly

responded. Mrs. Wiman appeared to have quite a genius for making

hashes; indeed, she was a rustic Soyer. As I had by this time learned

to expect, the chief dish was a resurrection of the morning’s meal,

with sundry vegetable additions. I was very hungry, but I must confess

indulged in irritants (_i. e._, pepper and salt) to an extent which

would have put to shame an Anglo-Indian with a cast-iron interior.

Pastry was a sybaritic innovation which had not then found its way into

this part of the Dominion.

We passed the afternoon in much the same way as the morning, and worked

until 7.30 ~P. M.~, when we supped on bread and cheese and went

to bed.

The next day was Sunday, a day which in the dear “old country” is

usually kept holy, with an exemption from all toil not absolutely

necessary. My first Sabbath on the farm had almost slipped away before

I remembered what the day was. Thinking that the farmer had also made

a mistake, I mentioned the matter to him. He seemed quite surprised at

my religious scruples, which he regarded as another evidence of British

insular retrogression, and remarked that all days were alike to him.

And so it proved, for we spent the whole of that afternoon ploughing

snow, which drifted again almost as quickly as it was furrowed.

In the evening Jim broached the subject of his resignation to the

“boss,” who blankly refused to accept it, and informed him that

if he wanted to go he must walk to the station, as he would see

him--ahem’d--before he would allow him the use of a horse and sleigh.

As I have said before, the village was considerably over five miles

from the farm, and to walk there through the snow was out of the

question. It meant almost certain death.

But Jim avowed his intention of performing this feat, and very early

on the following morning he rose, packed up his scanty wardrobe, and

departed.

Just before daybreak, about two hours after Jim’s exit, the infernal

clock rang out my doom. Upon reaching the barn I hung my lantern upon a

hook in the beam above, and sitting down upon my milk-stool, commenced

operations upon one of the cows.

Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow. “I can’t go through that

wood--it’s haunted.” A little bit scared myself, I turned round

abruptly, and in the dim light encountered the white face of the

adventurous Jim. Pulling myself together, I rather hastily demanded

what uneasy spirit could find pleasure in being out in such beastly

weather.

“Well, you come with me, and see if there ain’t a ghost.”

Curious to know what had frightened the fellow, I took down the

lantern, and together we sallied forth into the snow. We had hardly

reached the middle of the meadow when a dark object came rushing

towards us, and a sepulchral “bur-bur” sent Jim flying back in the

direction of the barn.

“There it is!” he cried, in a voice full of terror.

I held the lantern aloft and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“Bur-bur,” was the reply. Then I ascertained the name and condition

of this perturbed spirit. It was a _calf_! It suddenly dawned upon me

that I had noticed the barn door was open when I first came down, and

I immediately came to the conclusion that Jim had let the ghost out

himself when he went in to put on his boots, which he was in the habit

of leaving in the barn when his day’s work was over.

When Jim received a personal introduction to his ghost, he grew as

courageous as Bob Acres before he came into actual contact with pistols

and cold lead, and shouldering his bundle again he started forth, just

as daylight was dawning in the east. I gave him my pouch of tobacco to

render his journey less irksome, and that was the last I ever saw or

heard of poor Jim.

The weather for the next three weeks was comparatively fine, and I got

along far better, and sometimes managed to find time to indulge in the

luxury of a “farmer’s holiday,” viz., chopping wood. Mr. Wiman seemed

to be, on the whole, very well satisfied with me, and encouragingly

informed me that he had no doubt but that I should get into working

order by the time work commenced, which, in his opinion, was not

until the spring, when ploughing, etc., began. This was something of

a revelation to me. In my intense ignorance of farm matters I had

imagined that there was already plenty to do.

It now became forcibly evident to me that I was not intended for a

farmer. A daily communion with nature appeared every day less like the

celestial “all beers and skittles” I had previously conceived it to

be. The smoky London I had left became by comparison with my present

surroundings a very seventh heaven of felicity. I began to long once

more to relapse into a unit in one of the world’s great loveless hives.

I communicated my desire to Mr. Wiman. He would not hear of my leaving

him until the expiration of three months, vowing that I had agreed

to stay for that term, and threatening that if I attempted to leave

without his sanction, he would “have the law of me.” I had made no such

agreement, but I saw that it would not help me to make a disturbance,

and so restrained my natural indignation at such treatment. However, I

determined to seek pastures new, and prepared my traps for flight at

the first opportunity which offered itself.

I had not long to wait. A few days after my skirmish with the “boss,”

he had to attend to some very important business at a neighbor’s farm

about two miles farther east. Now or never was the time to escape.

I immediately began my preparations by harnessing the best horse in

the stable to a sledge. Everything was packed, so there was only the

transfer of my chest from my room to the sledge. But how should I

accomplish this without arousing her ladyship’s suspicions? The fates

were propitious. I had barely finished harnessing the horse, when Mrs.

Wiman’s stately form emerged from the house, with a hatchet in her hand.

“Where are you off to?” she inquired.

“Oh, I’m going to the wood to draw bark,” I replied, leisurely

surveying the straps to disarm suspicion.

“S’pose you’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, picking her way

across the yard and entering the corn-bin, where a plentiful supply of

killed cow was always kept.