Transcriber’s Notes:
Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Equal signs “=” before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold=
in the original text.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected.
=“TOM WATSON”=
is the one historian through whom we get the point of
view of the laborer, the mechanic, the plain man, in a
style that is bold, racy and unconventional. There is
no other who traces so vividly the life of a _people_
from the time they were savages until they became the
most polite and cultured of European nations, as he
does in
=THE STORY OF FRANCE=
In two handsome volumes, dark red cloth, gilt tops, price $5.00.
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fascinating romance.”—_Plaindealer_, Cleveland.
“A most brilliant, vigorous, human-hearted story
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its presentations, so vital, so piquant, lively and
interesting. It will be read wherever the history of
France interests men, which is everywhere.”—_New York
Times’ Sat. Review._
=NAPOLEON=
=A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE, CHARACTER, STRUGGLES
AND ACHIEVEMENTS.=
Illustrated with Portraits and Facsimiles.
Cloth, 8vo, $2.25 net. (Postage 20c.)
“The Splendid Study of a Splendid Genius” is the
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who will not be made more ambitious by honest study of
Watson’s Napoleon * * *
“If you want the best obtainable, most readable, most
intelligent, most genuinely American study of this
great character, read Watson’s history of Napoleon.”
=“TOM WATSON”=
in these books does far more than make history as
readable as a novel of the best sort. He tells the
truth with fire and life, not only of events and
causes, but of their consequences to and their
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are epoch-making books which every American should
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Orders for the above books will be filled by
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TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE
THE MAGAZINE WITH A PURPOSE BACK OF IT
=May, 1905=
_Politics and Economics_ _Thomas E. Watson_ 257
_Public Ownership in Chicago—A Bitter Attack Upon the
South—Remember the Rascals—Introductory to a Letter from
a Boy—An Educational Department—Editorial Comment._
_The Lady’s Slipper_ _Cyrus Townsend Brady_ 273
_Populism_ _Charles Q. De France_ 305
_Secretary People’s Party National Committee_
_To Roosevelt_ 307
_The Regalia of Money_ _Alexander Del Mar_ 308
_The Open Door of the Constitution_ _Frederick Upham Adams_ 312
_To One Departed_ _Bernard P. Bogy_ 317
_Pole Baker_ (Chapters IV-VII) _Will N. Harben_ 318
_The Conservative of Today_ _John H. Girdner, M.D._ 330
_A Character Study of Byron and Burns_ _Elizabeth Bailey Traylor_ 333
_The Man With White Nails_ _Captain W. E. P. French, U.S.A._ 336
_Organization and Education_ _Wharton Barker_ 342
_The Panic of 1893_ _W. S. Morgan_ 345
_The Cradle of Tears_ _Theodore Dreiser_ 349
_The Racing Trust_ _Thomas B. Fielders_ 350
_Dependence_ _Reginald Wright Kauffman_ 357
_What Buzz-Saw Morgan Thinks_ 358
_The Heritage of Maxwell Fair_ (Chapters VIII-X) _Vincent Harper_ 361
_Money and Prices_ _E. L. Smith_ 372
_The Say of Reform Editors_ 373
_News Record_ 377
_Toll_ _Joseph Dana Miller_ 384
Application made for entry as Second-Class Matter at
New York (N. Y.) Post Office, March, 1905
Copyright, 1905, in U. S. and Great Britain.
Published by TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE,
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TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE ADVERTISER
How to Overthrow Plutocracy
Several million people in the United States are in substantial accord
with the demands of the People’s Party. A majority of all voters would
welcome Government Ownership of Railroads and other public utilities. The
recent great victory in Chicago for Municipal Ownership demonstrates this
fact. What Chicago has done locally can be accomplished in the nation—and
WILL be done as soon as the people overcome
Political Inertia
With many the voting habit becomes fixed after one or two elections. The
ordinary man keeps on “voting ’er straight” long after he has discovered
that his party’s actions are out of joint with his own views. Party
“regularity” commands the average man’s support long after he KNOWS his
party is headed wrong. Some really great men, even, have placed party
“regularity” before principle.
A Great Light
on the correct principle of organization is to be found in that admirable
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The First American King
A dashing romance, in which a scientist and a detective of today wake up
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Hon. Thomas E. Watson says:
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Interesting as the story is as a romance and as a critical sociological
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How to Organize
=Mr. Hastings says:=
“It has been suggested,” continued General Mainwarren, “that a wise
course for patriotic leaders of your day would have been to have
abandoned the hope of converting and securing the grown voters as
a body. It would have been best for them, at a given time, to have
said: ‘Beginning from today, we will pay no attention to any male who
is more than fifteen years of age and who is now, or within the next
six years will be, entitled to a vote. But we will direct all efforts
to an entirely new body of suffragists.’ They should then have turned
their attention to the _women of the land_, to the mothers of future
generations of voters. It has been said that ‘Every woman is at heart a
royalist.’ It could with equal truth be said: ‘Every woman is by nature
a politician.’ ... Look at the influence exerted politically by various
women of whom history speaks.”
This Is the Key-Note of Success
For fifteen years the People’s Party, in season and out of season, has
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It has continually demanded public ownership and government operation
of railroads and other public utilities. It has urged the initiative,
referendum and the recall; a scientific money system; the abolition
of monopoly in every form. Millions of voters—as the Chicago election
clearly indicates—are in accord with the People’s Party; but heretofore
the voting habit, the “vote ’er straight” political insanity, has kept
them in political slavery.
Educate the Boys
Let us train up a new generation of voters—without diminishing our
efforts to break up old party habits—who will have the courage of
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Let Us Begin Now
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TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE, 121 West 42d Street, New York
=_TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE_=
VOL. I MAY, 1905 No. 3
_Politics and Economics_
BY THOMAS E. WATSON
_Public Ownership in Chicago_
Several weeks ago, in an interview published in the New York _World_, I
expressed the opinion that the principle of public ownership of public
utilities was stronger than any political party.
* * * * *
The recent victory won by it in Chicago makes the truth of that statement
apparent.
* * * * *
Here was a city which a few months ago gave the Republican ticket the
enormous majority of 60,000. So far as parties are concerned, the
Republican Party stands precisely where it stood when Roosevelt won that
triumph. So far as the Democratic Party is concerned, it has not budged
an inch from the ground which it occupied when it met its Waterloo in the
November elections. What is it, then, which gave to the candidate of the
minority party a decisive success, so soon after an overwhelming defeat?
Evidently, it was _the principle which he represented_.
The National Democratic Party has never declared itself in favor of
public ownership. The National Republican Party has never done so. _The
People’s Party is the only National organization which has proclaimed and
battled for the principle which was involved in the Chicago election._
So far back as 1890 the People’s Party of the state of Georgia, and of
other states, grew tired of the deceptive compromise called _Public
Control_; threw it aside as a failure; boldly advanced to the more
radical ground of _Public Ownership_, and formed its line of battle.
In spite of abuse, ridicule and defeat, our party has never faltered
in its steady advocacy of the principle which at that time met the
aggressive opposition of both the Democratic and Republican Parties.
_In the campaigns made by Mr. Bryan he stood for no such principle as
this._ In the campaign led by Belmont and Parker and Gorman in 1904
_the Democratic Party stood for no such principle as this_; nor has the
Republican Party ever dared to proclaim itself in favor of such robust
radicalism. Therefore, it is folly to say that the victory won in the
Chicago election is a Democratic victory. It is misleading to say that
this election illustrates the fact that “the Democratic Party always wins
when it is Democratic.” The principle of public ownership has never been
a part of the political stock in trade of the Democratic Party. Therefore
the principle of public ownership of public utilities cannot be classed
as Democratic, if we use the term in the partisan sense which attaches to
it. _The principle of public ownership is Populistic_, and it is merely
rendering to the pioneers of that movement simple justice when we say
that the Chicago election, which wiped out party lines and gave to the
people and to the principle a magnificent victory, _should redound to the
credit of those much-abused and misrepresented men who thirteen years ago
unfurled that particular flag and began to fight beneath it_.
The people of Chicago evidently grew tired of being plundered; grew
ashamed of their own political imbecility; grew ashamed of their own
municipal cowardice. Roused to action by a few magnetic leaders who
were not afraid and who were not to be sidetracked by hypocritical
compromises, they marshaled their strength and demonstrated how easy
it is for the masses to throw off the yoke of those who plunder them
under forms of law. Nobody ever doubted for a moment that the people
of Chicago, in the main, were honest, courageous, public-spirited,
but they had submitted so long to the initiative and the domination
of a few organized rascals who intrenched themselves in places of
power, safeguarded by legislation, that it seemed wellnigh hopeless to
expect them ever to revolt. The fact that they have revolted, and have
reversed the results achieved at the November election, gives another
illustration of what I said in the first issue of this magazine, namely,
that _the election of 1904_, properly construed, _was so encouraging to
the reformers as to become an inspiration_. It was pointed out that the
victory of Douglas in Massachusetts, of Folk in Missouri, of La Follette
in Wisconsin, each of whom was known as a reformer, could be construed
in no other way than that the people were tired of party names, of party
traditions, of party machines and party hypocrisy, and _were determined
to go to the support of any man and any principle which promised them
the relief which they so much needed_. The triumph of Judge Dunne, the
Democrat, following so speedily upon the heels of an adverse vote against
Judge Parker, the Democrat, absolutely clinches the truth of what I said,
namely, that _the only party, the only principle, the only sentiment
which grew stronger by the campaign of 1904 was that of_ RADICALISM.
* * * * *
Why shouldn’t the lesson of the Chicago election be taken to heart by
every great city and every small town in this Republic? If the people of
Chicago can turn the rascals out, the people of New York can turn the
rascals out, the people of Philadelphia can turn the rascals out. Talk
about vested rights and charters which grant monopolies! Nobody wants to
confiscate property or violate contracts, no matter how ill-judged those
contracts may have been. But we say this: Just as private property was
assessed and taken under the principle of Eminent Domain, in order that
corporations should construct their railways, their telegraph lines,
their telephone lines, so the same principle of Eminent Domain can be
applied to return to the people what was taken away from the people.
Assess these properties at a fair valuation, pay honestly and fully what
they are worth, then take them over for the public to be operated for the
benefit of the public. The law of Eminent Domain can be applied to all
sorts of property, real and personal, the tangible thing called an acre
of ground and the intangible thing called a charter.
* * * * *
Consider this Chicago election in the broad National point of view. How
can it give any encouragement to Mr. Roosevelt, who is still tinkering
and pottering at the worn-out fabric of _Governmental control_? How can
it give any encouragement to the Democratic Party, which has nothing in
its platform which can be twisted into a declaration in favor of that
thing which Chicago has just done? So far from being a vindication of the
Democratic attitude, as expressed in all of its National platforms, it
is a rebuke to the timid, weak-kneed, short-sighted leaders of National
Democracy. The vindication is to those men, who, in the years gone by,
proclaimed the principles, preached the gospel, scattered the literature,
endured the odium, fought the battle, bore the heat and burden of the
day, and are now in this late hour looking up, elated, joyful, exultant,
happy, that at last the smile of success has rested upon the earnest,
untiring efforts which have gone so long without recognition and reward.
The victor in the Chicago election was _the great Populist Principle_,
PUBLIC OWNERSHIP!
_A Bitter Attack Upon the South_
Ever since the close of the Civil War there has been a growing sentiment
on both sides of Mason and Dixon’s line in favor of mutual forbearance,
the purpose being to speed the day when the North and South shall become
reconciled.
In the South no speaker will now add to his popularity or influence by
reckless abuse of the North.
We had supposed that the North was equally tired of the speaker or writer
who puts the torch to sectional prejudice or who wantonly inflicts upon
the South a blow which he must realize will arouse angry resentment.
When the last gun was fired at Appomattox, the biggest, bravest, best
hearted men on each side united in the effort to stem the tide of
sectional hatred and to knit together the bonds of brotherly love.
General Grant, by his magnanimity at the surrender, set a sublime
standard.
General Lee, by his noble advice and example, gave the South a lesson
whose influence for good cannot be overestimated.
Horace Greeley, when he volunteered to sign the bond of Jefferson
Davis, and Senator L. Q. C. Lamar, of Mississippi, when he pronounced a
magnificent memorial address upon Charles Sumner in the Senate, were but
following the illustrious precedents of Grant and Lee.
Later, there came the mission of Henry Grady and of John B. Gordon, upon
the one side, and the conciliatory words and deeds of William McKinley on
the other.
Nor should we forget the fine tribute paid to Southern character and
courage in the writings of Theodore Roosevelt, who as President has
honored the sons of Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart and General Beauregard,
and who, in one of his latest appointments, has given preference to
General Rosser, the youngest of the Confederate brigadiers.
The battle-scarred veterans of the North have been meeting in memorable
reunions the survivors of those who followed Johnston and Forrest and
Jackson and Lee; and the most touching and inspiring scenes have been
witnessed at these encampments where the South and the North recognized
each other’s honesty, valor and generosity, and each section vied with
the other in the glorious work of harmonizing the nation.
At the grave of General Grant it was the presence of our Southern
soldier, John B. Gordon, which testified to the North the sympathy of the
South.
And only a few days ago President Roosevelt inquired diligently into
the circumstances of the widowed Mrs. Gordon to know whether or not an
appointment as Postmaster for the city of Atlanta would be acceptable to
her.
During the Spanish war the South sprang into the ranks under the old
flag, at the tap of the drum, and the blood of a Southern boy was the
first that was shed in the conflict.
It was the ranking cavalry leader of the expiring Confederacy who
steadied the lines before Santiago, prevented a retreat, and brought from
Mr. Roosevelt the manly acknowledgment that to General Joseph Wheeler,
more than to any other man, was due the fact that we won the victory.
It was a Southern boy who took his life in his hands in the effort to
block the Spanish harbor, and worthily earned the title of “The Hero of
the _Merrimac_.”
It is sad to think that all this patriotism may not have made a deep
impression upon the country.
It is sad to realize that the work of such men as Alexander H. Stephens,
Benjamin H. Hill, Senator Lamar, Thomas Nelson Page and Henry W. Grady
has left so much still to be done before that man, North or South, who
endeavors to inflame the passions of the sections shall be made to
feel that he has excited for himself the contempt and disgust which he
deserves.
In a recent issue of the New York _Independent_ comes Albert Bushnell
Hart, Professor of History at Harvard University, distilling as much
bitterness and gall as ever fell from the lips of John J. Ingalls or
Thaddeus Stevens.
He writes an article called “Conditions of the Southern Problem,” and
a more thoroughly exaggerated and libelous contribution to public
discussion has not been made during the last twenty years.
The average reader will get some idea of the value of Mr. Hart’s
conclusions when he comes upon the sober statement that “white
mountaineers (of the South) have been known _to take their children out
of school because the teacher would insist that the world is round_.”
Who stuffed Dr. Hart with that old joke?
What credit does he do to himself when he shows to the world that he
accepts such worn-out jests as facts?
Does he not know that there are plenty of wags all over the world—even in
Pullman cars—who take a delight in playing upon the credulous?
He will meet men who will tell him that in certain backwoods communities
“the people don’t know that the war is over,” or he will be told that in
some mountain counties “they are still voting for Andrew Jackson.”
But would Professor Hart take such statements for anything but jokes?
Doesn’t he know that the jest about the rural belief that the world is
flat instead of round belongs to the same gray-haired family?
Even a professor of history should learn that there is just as great a
difference between jokes and facts as there is between facts and jokes.
* * * * *
Professor Hart says that “in a few communities, notably South Carolina,
the poor whites have unaccountably discovered that if they will always
vote together they always have a majority, and they keep a man of their
own type in the United States Senate. In most other states, however,
politics is directed by intelligent and honorable men.”
Isn’t this a rippingly reckless arraignment of the entire state of South
Carolina? Does the Professor of History at Harvard mean to say that
the politics of South Carolina is directed by men less intelligent and
honorable than those of “_most other states_”?
If so, upon what ground does he base the accusation?
As a matter of fact, the poor whites do not control South Carolina. It is
_the middle class_ whites who control South Carolina, and who elected Ben
Tillman to the United States Senate.
Of course, Professor Hart intended to give Senator Tillman a side-wipe of
special vigor, and he did it, striking the whole state at the same time
he struck Tillman. But to what extent was the blow deserved? Ben Tillman
may, or may not, be an ideal Senator. He may, or may not, be an ideal
leader. Opinions differ about that, even in South Carolina.
But why should a Northern writer select a Southern senator and a Southern
state to be held up in this insulting manner to public odium? In what
respect does Tillman’s record in the Senate, for honesty and ability,
compare unfavorably with that of Quay of Pennsylvania, Platt of New
York, Aldrich of Rhode Island, or Gorman of Maryland? Each one of those
senators has been basely subservient to thievish corporations, and has
helped them to fatten on national legislation at the expense of the great
body of the people.
Can Dr. Hart say that of Ben Tillman? I defy him to do it.
* * * * *
Dr. Hart asks, “Why should the negro expect protection _when the white
man is powerless against any personal white enemy who chooses to shoot
him down in the street_, when not one white murderer in a hundred is
punished for his crime?”
Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart is evidently thinking about the case of James
Tillman, of South Carolina, who shot down in the street Editor Gonzales,
and who was acquitted, on his trial.
By all sane persons it is admitted to be utterly unfair to judge the
entire South, or North, by any one case, or by any one crime.
It is useless to argue the guilt or innocence of James Tillman; but we
all know that human nature is prejudiced by political feeling; and none
will deny that the feud between Tillman and Gonzales was a political
feud. The killing was a political killing. In a case like that the action
of court and jury will be influenced by political feeling, whether the
result be right or wrong.
Has Albert Bushnell Hart never heard of a political feud in any other
part of the world than the South, and has he never known political
feeling to protect one who was prosecuted for a crime? Has he never known
of instances in Northern cities where prisoners at the Bar apparently
owed their salvation to _secret societies_ of any sort—or _to political
pull_ of any sort?
It has not been so very long since Edward S. Stokes met James Fisk on the
staircase, in the Grand Central Hotel, in New York City, _and shot him
down_.
One might think this amounted to about the same thing as the shooting
down of a personal enemy on the street.
Fisk died, as Gonzales died. Stokes was tried, as Tillman was tried.
Stokes was not hanged in New York any more than Tillman was hanged in
South Carolina.
Will Dr. Hart please furnish an explanation which will not fit the South
Carolina case as snugly as it fits the New York case?
* * * * *
Professor Hart asks, “Why should the Northern people believe that the
South means well by the negro when such a man as Governor Vardaman, of
Mississippi, brutally threatens him and his white friends in the North?”
_When and where has Governor James K. Vardaman “brutally threatened the
negro and his Northern friends”?_
Governor Vardaman, not many days ago, _risked his political life_, to
say nothing of personal danger, _to protect a negro from a white mob_.
Perhaps every white man in the mob had voted for Vardaman, and was his
personal and political friend; yet, although it was generally believed
that the negro was guilty of a heinous offense, this Governor, who has
been singled out for abuse, did not hesitate one moment to jeopardize his
whole political future by throwing around the hunted negro the official
protection of the law.
No matter how much Governor Vardaman may be mistaken in some of his
views, and some of his utterances, no man ought now to deny that he
possesses personal and political courage, or that his respect for law is
of that high character which proclaims, “_The color of a man’s skin shall
not be the measure of his legal rights_.”
* * * * *
Furthermore, Dr. Hart says, “in one respect the poor whites are terrible
teachers to the negroes; they are an ungovernable people and _do not
allow themselves to be punished for such peccadillos as murder_.”
O Mr. Professor of History at Harvard! has your blind passion against
the South lost you to all sense of proportion in the making of public
statements?
If the poor whites of the South “do not allow themselves to be punished
for such little things as murder,” why do they go to the penitentiary at
all?
You will find a sufficient number of poor whites in the penitentiaries of
the South—are they there just for the fun of it?
* * * * *
Speaking of the negro, Dr. Hart again says, “he may not murder or
assault, or even speak saucily to a white person, on most dreadful
penalties. Partly for self-protection, still more from a feeling of race
supremacy, it is made a kind of _lèse-majesté_ for a negro to lay hands
on a white man; even to defend his family or his own life, the serpent
must not bite the heel of the chosen people.”
What utter disregard of facts!
Let me cite a few cases which come within my personal knowledge.
In McIntosh County, Georgia, one of the most prominent white planters
was deputized by the sheriff to arrest a negro who had been engaged in a
riot. The white man authorized to arrest the negro went to his house and
called for him at night. The negro refused to come out. The deputy forced
his way in, and the negro shot him dead. There were three negroes in the
house, all participating in resisting the officer.
The white man’s court acquitted _two_ of the negroes, and sent _one_ up
for ten years.
In the penitentiary of Georgia, at this time, are some white men serving
out their terms at hard labor for an outrage committed on a negro man in
one of the country counties near Atlanta.
A white man, by the name of Alec Harvill, belonging to the class of poor
whites, was tried for murder in one of the Piedmont counties for which
Mr. Hart has such a contempt, and was convicted.
He is now serving a term in the penitentiary, as he has been doing for
the last five or six years.
How was he convicted? _Upon the testimony of a single negro witness._
Nobody saw the alleged crime, or pretended to have seen it, except this
negro boy.
And yet the white judge and the white jury believed the negro in
preference to the father or mother of the accused.
In another of the Piedmont counties of Georgia a white man outraged a
negro woman.
Within the last ninety days that criminal has been tried by a white judge
and jury—the prosecution being pushed by the state of Georgia through her
Attorney-General.
The lower court convicted the criminal, the Supreme Court has affirmed
the finding, and the white man will have to meet the penalty of the law
for his violation of a negro woman.
Several years ago a white man named Robinson, living in Waynesboro, Ga.,
killed a negro.
The white man had cursed a negro woman, who had “put in her mouth” while
he was holding a conversation with a negro man.
When Robinson cursed the woman the deceased threw off his coat and rushed
at Robinson, exclaiming, “I won’t stand that!”
Robinson backed, saying, “Don’t come on me! Stand back!”
The negro continued to advance; Robinson drew his pistol and shot his
assailant.
Robinson was tried, convicted and sent to the penitentiary.
In Wilkes County, Ga., a convict boss whipped a negro convict who sulked
and wouldn’t work. The negro had a bad character, and was serving
sentence for a grave offense.
The whipping may possibly have caused the negro’s death, though there was
much testimony to the effect that he died from natural causes.
At any rate, a white judge and jury convicted the boss who inflicted the
whipping, and he had to serve his time in the penitentiary. Robert Cannon
was his name.
In another instance I myself furnished the evidence of maltreatment of
a negro convict in the Georgia penitentiary, and, the facts being made
known to the Governor of Georgia, a fine of $2,500 was imposed on the
Convict Lessee Company.
The Governor was General John B. Gordon.
The name of the negro convict was Bill Sturgis.
Examples like these could be multiplied indefinitely from Georgia and
every Southern state.
* * * * *
Another astonishing fact is related by Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart.
“The most intelligent white people admit the fact that they are _trying
to keep the negro down_ because otherwise _the lowest white men will
marry negro women_.”
Now, where on earth did Dr. Hart get _that_?
Does not Dr. Hart know that the antipathy between the negro and the poor
white is, and always has been, greater than the antipathy between the
negro and the property-owning white?
Does not Dr. Hart himself, in another part of his article, express the
belief that a dangerous antagonism exists between _the poor whites_ and
the negro?
Does Professor Hart believe that the true reason why the Southern people
wish _to maintain white supremacy_ is to keep poor _whites from marrying
negro women_? Does he not realize that he makes himself a laughing-stock
when he gives his name to a statement of that kind? _No white man, rich
or poor, wants a negro woman_ FOR A WIFE!
Dr. Hart may put that down as a proposition which is absolutely true.
There are many white men, unfortunately, who establish relations of
_concubinage_ with negro women, and this crime is frequently punished in
the Southern courts; but where is the evidence that white men wish to
take negro wives?
If that inclination is so strong, so ungovernable as to become the motive
of the South in maintaining white supremacy, _it should be capable of
proof_. Now, where is the proof? _Produce it, Dr. Hart!_
The simple truth of the matter is that Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart has
allowed himself to be stuffed with a whole lot of nonsense upon a subject
which he does not understand.
* * * * *
Now for a parting quotation from this precious article of Harvard’s
professional historian:
“Good people (in the South) rarely make much distinction between the man
who is guilty and the man who looks like a criminal; between shooting
him down in the street or burning him at the stake; between burning
the guilty man or his innocent wife; between the quiet family inferno
with only two or three hundred spectators and a first-class, advertised
_auto-da-fé_ with special trains, and the children of the public schools
in the foreground.”
There you have it, in all its true amplitude and _animus_!
“The _good people_” of the South do not strive, according to Dr. Hart, to
draw the line of distinction between the man who is guilty and the man
who simply _looks_ guilty. They establish no real distinction between
the guilty man and his innocent wife. It makes no difference to these
“good people” whether they have a quiet family inferno, with two or three
hundred spectators, or the first-class, advertised burning, when special
trains are run and the public-school teachers give the children a recess
in order that they may attend the exhibition!
If that is not mere partisanship, frothing at the mouth, what is it?
It certainly cannot be seriously taken as a truthful summing up of a
general situation.
An irresponsible stump-speaker, in the reckless rush of a hot political
campaign, would have better sense than to deal in hyperbole in that
furious fashion.
But when a man of Dr. Hart’s standing publishes stuff like this it does
harm. It misleads the North and arouses passionate indignation in the
South.
When Dr. Hart does work of that wild sort he is no longer a historian; he
is simply an incendiary. He is a child _playing with fire_.
If I were to apply to the North the same measure which Professor Hart
has applied to the South, could I not convict the “good people” of _his_
section, as he has convicted “the good people” of _mine_?
Are “the good people” of the entire North to be held up as utterly
lawless, making a jest of “_such peccadillos as murder_,” because of the
late doings at Wilmington, Del., or at Springfield, O.?
Has Indiana had no lynchings; has Colorado had no carnival of crime?
James Tillman, of South Carolina, “shot down in the street” a mortal
political foe who had, beyond all question, given him great provocation.
I do not say that James Tillman was justified in his act—I merely say
that he had provocation, great provocation.
He was acquitted, _but he was not sent to Congress_.
He left the court-room a broken, chastened man; and is now leading a life
of sobriety, industry and rectitude.
Not many years ago, _on a Sunday morning_, a saloon-keeper and his son,
in the city of Boston, Mass., beat down a drunken man who had broken a
window-pane of said saloon—_beat him down on the streets, and kicked him
to death after he was down_.
Apparently the man’s sole offense was that he had broken a pane of glass
and refused to pay for it.
The saloon was open in violation of law.
The glass was broken by a man too drunk to know what he was doing.
And the two men of Boston fell upon the helpless, drunken wretch, _and
kicked him to death in the streets_.
Was Massachusetts and all the North condemned for _that_?
What became of the homicides?
One received a nominal punishment, which was not a real punishment; and
the other boasts that he was never punished at all.
Where was the boast made?
In the House of Representatives of the United States—_for Boston, Mass.,
actually sent to Congress the man who had helped to kick another man to
death in the streets_!
His name? John A. Sullivan. I beg pardon—it is,
_The Honorable John A. Sullivan._
South Carolina is far behind Massachusetts—_she has not yet sent James
Tillman to Congress_.
* * * * *
In the name of the Good God who made us all—are we _never_ to hear the
last of these bitter revilings of the South?
Are we _never_ to reach the Era of Good Feeling for which so many strong
men have toiled, so many pure women have prayed?
Will the blind Apostles of Hate _never_ “Let us have Peace”?
Shall the marplot and the bigot and the partisan and the Pharisee
_forever_ be able to thwart the nobler efforts of nobler men?
Shall Ransy Sniffle _always_ succeed in embroiling those who want to be
friends?
When I think of Abraham Lincoln—magnanimous, broad, far-seeing, praising
the Confederates who had stormed the heights at Gettysburg, calling upon
the band to play “Dixie” on the night following Lee’s surrender—and then
contemplate this narrow, spiteful, out-of-date Professor of History at
Harvard, I realize more than ever how much the South lost when a madman
assassinated the statesman _who had her blood in his veins, sympathy for
her in his heart, and a knowledge of her in his mind_.
In vain will Congress return the battle-flags of the Lost Cause, in vain
will the McKinleys and the Roosevelts labor for the Era of Good Feeling,
if the violent partisans of the North, playing into the hands of the
almost obsolete fire-eaters of the South, give to sectional hatreds a new
lease of life.
_Remember the Rascals_
The law provides that a Congressman shall be paid a salary of $5,000
per year; and in order that the compensation shall be _equal_, among
members, the Government pays their traveling expenses. Otherwise the
Representative who comes from the Pacific coast to the Capital, paying
his way, would realize very much less on his salary than a Representative
from Maryland or Virginia.
The cost of travel was greater in the olden days than now, and the
free pass had not then become one of the devil’s favorite inventions.
Consequently, the lawmakers declared that the taxpayers should furnish
_twenty cents per mile_ to meet the expenses of the Representative in
going from his home to the post of duty.
Inasmuch as every member of Congress—occasional cranks excepted—now rides
on the free passes, the mileage has become a considerable addition to the
salary.
A member who lives west of the Mississippi will find his pay increased a
sixth, or a fifth, according to the distance from the Atlantic seaboard;
while the delegate who comes from Hawaii will pocket considerably more
than $2,000 for the alleged cost of getting to Washington.
So far, good. Everybody knows that Congressmen do _not_ pay their way,
and everybody knows that mileage no longer has any honest foundation; but
we’ve got used to the grab, and we let it go, as inevitable, with a weary
sigh of hopeless disgust.
But the Congress which recently adjourned broke all previous records and
gave the country a new chapter in the record of brazen dishonor.
Previous to the meeting of the regular session there had been an extra
session. This held on till the regular session began. There was no
interval between the two. So far as time was concerned, the one ran into
the other. Hence, no member went home from the extra session and came
back to the regular session.
There was absolutely no “recess” at all—_not a minute_ between the one
session and the other.
Now, behold the evil influence of a bad example.
The President got the idea that while there was no _actual_ recess
between the two sessions of Congress, there was a “_constructive_” recess.
The Mephistopheles who whispered this baleful advice in the ear of Mr.
Roosevelt was a better friend to the appointees who were to benefit
by it—General Wood and Dr. Crum, for example—than they were to the
President. The members of Congress were not slow to reason the case to
this effect:
If there has been such a _recess_ as to give General Wood a promotion in
the army, and to Dr. Crum a fat office in the revenue service, then it
has been a recess _for all purposes_.
“If the President can fill offices upon a supposed recess, we can fill
our pocket with mileage upon the same supposition.
“The whole thing being imaginary, that theory which puts Wood higher
up on the pay-roll, and which puts a negro in the Custom House at
Charleston, will also imagine that we went home during the supposed
recess, and that we have just returned from Georgia, Alabama, Wisconsin,
California and the state of Washington. It’s a poor rule that won’t work
both ways.”
* * * * *
The law clothes the President with the power to make recess
appointments—which rids him of the necessity of consulting the Senate.
In this instance, he created a recess in his mind, when none existed in
fact, and the result was good for Wood and Crum.
The imaginary recess having been created by the President, the members of
the Lower House took an imaginary trip home during the imaginary recess,
and then proposed that they be paid their imaginary expenses, not in
imaginary money, but in hard cash.
Therefore, sixty-odd Republicans and forty-odd Democrats, _and two Union
Labor men_, voted to give themselves $190,000 of the people’s money to
pay for _imaginary journeys made during an imaginary recess_.
It is doubtful if a more shameless attempt to steal from the public
treasury has ever been attempted.
The Senate killed the measure, not because the Senate itself is so
pure and honest—for it isn’t—but because it could safely rebuke the
House—which it despises—and pose as Watch-dog of the Treasury, without
loss to itself.
* * * * *
The people are entitled to know the names of the rascals who tried to
steal $190,000 of their money.
Tennessee will not be shocked to know that “Slippery Jim” Richardson
voted for the grab.
She may be shocked to know that Brownlow did the same thing—Brownlow, the
son of the famous Parson.
South Carolina may be astonished to learn that on the roll of dishonor
are the names of Aiken and Legare.
Virginia will see that she has been misrepresented by the vote of
Maynard.
Louisiana will find three of her votes on the shameful list—Pujo and
Broussard and Davey.
The Democracy of Missouri may feel indignant at the vote of Hunt, and
Mississippi at that of Hill.
As the list of names is printed elsewhere, it is not necessary to
particularize further; but I note one thing with special interest.
The Massachusetts Congressman who was selected by the enemies of W. R.
Hearst to attack him on the floor of the House gave the country a chance
to learn who was the cleaner, better man.
_Hearst did not vote for the steal; Sullivan, of Massachusetts, did!_
The people of Georgia may wish to know where Congressman Bartlett was
when the vote was being taken. His name is not recorded against the
steal. Nor is that of Brantley or that of Adamson.
_Where were they?_
These three gentlemen are paid $15,000 per year to stay in their places
and safeguard the rights of the people who elected them.
Where were these three Georgians when this piece of rascality was being
put through the House? If they were necessarily absent why did they not
arrange “pairs,” and thus give their votes to defeat the robbers? _Did
they_ DODGE?
If so, _Why?_
Alabama will want to know where Bankhead and Wiley were; Texas will ask
explanations of Stephens; Tennessee of Sims; Kentucky of Hopkins and
Stanley.
* * * * *
Every man who voted for the mileage grab, or who dodged the vote, _should
be marked for political punishment by the constituency which he betrayed_.
_Introductory to a Letter from a Boy_
As a rule, I do not help schoolboys in writing their speeches or in
preparing for debates. In fact, I make it a rule _not_ to do so.
It is best for the boy to dig his own bait. The sooner he learns to rely
upon himself, the better. In that way only will he become _strong_.
But sometimes I break my own rules—for the sake of variety, perhaps—and I
did it not long ago when a certain college in Georgia took as a subject
for debate the proposition:
“_Resolved_, That the South should have supported Watson in the last
Presidential election.”
Of course, there were but two names to be considered in the
discussion—Watson and Parker.
Teddy wasn’t in it at all. And that is a queer thing, too, for about
one-third of the white people of Georgia believe just as Teddy does
about the money question, the Tariff system, the Panama business, the
Philippine policy, the big navy project, the Railroad rate reduction, and
so forth and so on.
But they wouldn’t vote for Teddy to save his life.
And why?
They have a distinct presentiment that if they should vote for a man like
Roosevelt they would never dare to go to sleep again lest they wake up
next morning and find niggers sitting at the breakfast-table on the level
of social equality.
Consequently, Roosevelt didn’t cut any ice in the schoolhouse debate.
Parker and I—we had it all to ourselves. Good-natured people will not
begrudge this honor to Parker and me, I am sure, for we are clearly
entitled to something, and Teddy has just about carried off everything
else. He can afford to be generous, and to let two of his late
competitors wear the laurels in a college debate away down in Georgia.
Whether Parker coached the boys on his side I am not informed.
If he didn’t, they must have had a tough job getting up “points.” It is a
task at which the average boy would need prompt and patient assistance.
Perhaps, W. J. B. was appealed to. At all events, he should have been.
The Nebraska Talk-Factory turns out quite a variety of finished product,
and the kind of garment it wove for the adornment of Parker, late in the
last campaign, was a marvel in its way—especially when one considers how
suddenly the machinery had to be readjusted to fill that particular order.
As to myself, I frankly confess that I “suspended the rules” and gave my
champion some “points.” This was wrong, but human.
Had I known that the judges presiding over the debate were two Democrats
and a Republican, I would have furnished points to the Parker side, also.
Then my champions would have come out ahead.
My private opinion is that I could have coached the Parker champions
in such a way that even a pied-piper tribunal, composed of two Georgia
Democrats and a New York Republican, would have had to call in a fourth
man to know how to decide.
Provided, _always_, that W. J. B. had stayed out of it.
Of course, when _he_ butts in, nobody can say what may happen.
Well, the boys debated, the judges decided, and Parker won out.
The remainder of the story is related by the ingenuous youth who fought
for me in that contest, and I am going to give you his letter just as he
wrote it.
THE LETTER
MANASSAS, GA., March 13, 1905.
_Hon. T. E. Watson, Thomson, Ga._
MY DEAR SIR: On the fourth of January you were so kind as
to send me a few very strong points for my speech. About
the same time Hon. Jas. K. Hines also sent me some points.
Our debate was postponed until the tenth inst. For I was
sure we would need ample time to prepare for such a fight
as we would have to make.
In my letter to you I mentioned the opposition which I
thought we would have to encounter, and the amount of
interest that would be manifested in such a subject.
In this I was not disappointed or mistaken.
The badges were eagerly sought all day previous to the
debate, and the Watson badges were worn by quite a number.
The Auditorium was filled with people. The rostrum was
covered with an arch, coming from either side of the stage,
made of ribbon.
Half of the arch was made of the Watson colors, and half of
the Parker colors.
As I entered town that afternoon I heard a little boy cry,
“Hurrah for Tom Watson!” This alone paid me for the effort
and work on the debate.
To secure impartial judges was the one thing dreaded from
the start, and in this we made a miserable failure.
Two Democrats and a Republican were the best we could do.
Or at least the third man came from New York.
My colleague opened with a strong speech. Before the first
on the negative side finished, all my fear had vanished,
and I was really anxious to have my say.
The chairman reprimanded some little boys for bumping their
heads, a few moments before I began. I opened by saying
that I wanted one of those little boys to bump his head as
much as he liked because I heard him cry, “Hurrah for Tom
Watson!” Turning to the audience, I asked all the little
girls to remember that little boy at the proper time. Then
I carried the little fellow step by step from the Claxton
Institute to the President’s chair on the People’s Party
Platform.
Our speeches over, the committee retired for consultation.
Our opponents looked the worst whipped of any I ever saw.
The audience began to call for Watson badges to take the
place of their Parker ones.
It is generally very much out of place for anyone to accuse
a committee of a wrong decision on purpose, but the case
was so plain that I do not hesitate to say that their
decision was based on the condition of their hearts before
they heard our speeches.
But many were on our side. One of the Emory College boys,
a very prominent physician and a strong Democrat, and
brother-in-law to one of the committee, was outspoken in
saying that the affirmative side won.
I never cared for the decision being given against me so
little as I did this time, for everyone, almost, in the
audience knew the right.
Our debate no doubt resulted in waking up the people to
some degree, for our opponents could only eulogize you.
Ever rest assured of my highest appreciation of the points
sent me.
Wishing that you may live long to continue your fight for
the many against the few, I am,
Very respectfully yours,
S. B. MCCALL.
A missive like the foregoing is decidedly interesting to me, and the
spirit moves me to say certain things to my correspondent, which I do, in
manner and form following, to wit:
A LETTER TO A BOY
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND: I do not know you personally, have
never grasped your hand and looked into your eyes, but your
letter makes me think well of you.
In the first place, it discloses the fact that after all
your careful preparation for the debate, _you made an
extemporaneous speech_. Good. No one can be a debater on
any other terms. It is possible that one may be an orator
and be unable to leave the written form, but the gift of
extemporaneous expression _is absolutely essential to a
debater_.
_To think on one’s legs_—that’s a gift; and it seems that
you have it.
* * * * *
Again, I learn from your letter that you _knew_ you had on
your hands a hard task in maintaining the unpopular side of
the debate, and that you did not shrink from the burden.
Good again. That’s the way to become a _man_. The boy who
is ever on the lookout for the easy job, the popular side,
and who runs away from obstacles or opposition, will always
remain a boy—and not much of a boy at that.
There is but one rule for you if you want to be a
man—absolutely but one—and that is to do your level best
to reach a clear, correct idea of what is right, and then
stick to it and fight for it, in spite of the “world, the
flesh and the devil.”
This rule will make you enemies, and will give you just
about as many hard knocks as are needful to your health,
but if you want to be a _man_, that’s the price you’ve got
to pay.
* * * * *
You say you found difficulty in securing impartial judges.
Well, I should think so.
The “impartial judge” is one of those pleasing fancies with
which we amuse ourselves, for the reason that we can’t help
it. We have got to get decisions some way or other, and we
don’t quite like the idea of settling grave questions by
spitting at a mark, or of guessing whether it is heads or
tails in the tossing of a coin—therefore, we resort to “the
impartial judge.”
It is one of the jokes of Christian civilization which
nobody laughs at because we have agreed that it is not a
joke.
Just between me and you, the “impartial judge” is brother
to the “non-partisan editor,” and twin-brother to the
“disinterested office-seeker.”
* * * * *
You say that it is generally wrong to criticize the conduct
of those who make decisions.
You are mistaken about that. It is generally the proper
thing to do. And it is often the _only_ thing you can do.
True, it is not as much satisfaction as we are entitled to,
but it’s something.
What would baseball be, if we couldn’t cuss the umpire?
How could lawyers who lost their cases blow off the
indignation, if they couldn’t cuss the judge?
* * * * *
You state that you were not cast down by the decision which
went against you. Right. Why should you be?
Whatever was _true_, previous to the decision, was _true_
afterward.
And there’s where our political leaders fall down.
They go about the country telling the people that a certain
candidate for office is “unfit for the nomination,” and
after he is nominated the same politicians claim that the
_nomination_ makes him fit.
How can a _nomination_ make a bad man good?
That’s a deferred question which W. J. B. will answer some
day or other, and you will then see it done to the queen’s
taste.
* * * * *
Evidently you are not discouraged by the fact that you
went up against a tribunal which wouldn’t yield to reason,
eloquence, fact or fancy—a tribunal which had made up its
mind before its members heard your speech. Right again.
It’s your _duty_ to furnish the convincing argument; it is
_not in your power_ to supply judges with minds open to
conviction.
Bigger men than you have run up against immovable obstacles
of that kind.
Consider W. J. B., for instance. He found, in New England,
a lot of tribunals, the low, the high and the middle, which
were not to be convinced that he, W. J. B., was entitled to
$50,000 that old Mr. Bennett _thought_ he was leaving to
our Nebraska friend by will.
You and I would think that as the money belonged to
Bennett, and Bennett had declared in writing that W. J. B.
should have it, the judges would not interfere.
But they _did_. No amount of eloquence, of the best W. J.
B. sort, could budge them an inch. Our Nebraska friend got
knocked out all along the line.
Did it cast him down?
Not in the least. He is as cheerful—not to say saucy—as you
are over _your_ little tumble. That is just the way to be:
but one should always try to get some _lesson_ out of one’s
defeats, so that one will know better how to do next time.
If you should ask W. J. B. what lesson he has learned from
that series of knockdowns in the New England courts, he
would answer: “The next time a benevolent Yankee comes
to my house, and offers to make me a bequest of $50,000,
I will take him out and introduce him to a safe and sane
lawyer who knows how to draw a will.”
* * * * *
Cultivate what is _best_ in your character and mind.
Do not _imitate_ anybody.
Study good models for the purpose of making the best
possible man out of _yourself_.
Develop your _pride_—not your vanity, conceit or egotism.
Be too proud to stoop to anything mean.
Associate with the _best_ people. If among your companions
there are those whose talk or conduct is vile, weed them
out from your life.
I feel deeply on this point, and I repeat, WEED THEM OUT.
Cultivate the honesty which makes a man what he _appears_
to be.
Don’t be a sham.
Be a reality—as earnest, powerful and fearless as is
possible to your nature.
When defeat knocks you down, don’t lie there. As soon as
you get your breath back, rise, brush the dust off, and go
up against the enemy again.
Reach a clear conception of what you want to do, and _can_
do; be sure that this is something noble in itself—then
hammer away with all your might, _and keep hammering_.
Remember that modesty is almost as becoming to a man as to
a woman, but that _humility_ has no place in man’s relation
to man.
If you are not as good as any other man, it’s your fault.
The world, and all its rewards, are as much yours as
anybody’s.
But remember this also: the race _is_ to the swift, and the
battle _is_ to the strong, USUALLY.
If you would win the race, _be swift_; if the battle, _be
strong_.
_An Educational Department_
There are thousands of boys and girls, some in schools and colleges, some
not, who are anxious to learn, to develop themselves and to RISE.
Many, many things they yearn to know which the class-room teachers do not
teach.
Many a subject they are eager to study, if somebody will but show the way.
Often there are speeches to be made, essays to be written, debates to be
prepared, and the boys and girls simply do not know how to start about it.
For instance, they are suddenly required to speak or write on the
question:
“Should the Government own and operate the railroads?”
They have never read anything about it, perhaps. Therefore they inquire:
“Where can we get some literature on the subject?”
These young people do not want someone else to write their speeches or
essays; they want nothing more than to be told where to get the materials
to work with—the data upon which to construct their own argument.
When I was a boy I felt the need of that kind of help very keenly.
How was I to know what books contained the information sought?
Who could tell me?
I soon found that teachers did not love to be bored by inquiries of that
character, and therefore I had to browse around in the library at random
for what was wanted.
If the book needed was there, I generally found it, after wasting much
time in the search.
If it was not there, as frequently happened, I was at my row’s end. I had
to debate without the full preparation which should have been made.
To help out many a student who may be troubled as I used to be, I
am going to improvise and conduct in this magazine a modest little
_Educational Department_.
Primarily it is meant for _the young people_. But the rule will be made
as flexible as I feel like making it.
Age limits are not fair—no matter whether Osler was joking or not.
It is not my plan or purpose to write anybody’s speech or essay; but,
where there is a subject of real importance to be discussed by word or
pen, I am willing to _direct the preparation_ of the student by telling
him or her where the necessary information can be had.
It would perhaps not be improper for me to suggest some general ideas on
the subject to be discussed—these ideas to be worked out and put in form
by the student.
Often I might render good service to the boys and girls by telling them
where the books they need can be bought at the lowest price.
It took me many years to learn how to buy books, and it is a thing worth
knowing—unless you have more money than I ever had.
The letters written to me in this department will be published as
written; but the names of the writers will be withheld.
Therefore, no correspondent need be embarrassed in making inquiries.
My replies will be given in the magazine.
Hereafter all letters asking for information—historical, literary,
political, economic—will be answered through the EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT.
P. S.—Students are requested not to ask help on this subject, viz.:
“_Resolved_, That there is more happiness in the pursuit than in the
possession.”
Those whose duty it is to maintain “_the pursuit_” will please consult
Mr. Bryan; those who sustain “_the possession_” are referred to Mr.
Roosevelt.
_Editorial Comment_
Those orthodox partisan editors who sneered at my comment on W. R. Hearst
as a man who _did_ things while others were talk—talk—talking, will
please study the election returns from Chicago and hand me out revised
opinions.
That was a Hearst fight, and Hearst himself was personally in the thick
of it. He said little and accomplished much.
Would _still_ like to swap a score or two of mere talkers like—well, no
matter—for another such myth as Hearst.
* * * * *
A wise man—and his name is Dennis—has an article in the April number
of _Everybody’s_ to prove that free trade has created in England that
poverty-stricken mass of humanity which he includes under the general
name of “Hooligan.”
According to Mr. Robert Hunter, the Hooligans of the United States
aggregate 10,000,000—and we haven’t had any free trade, either.
Evidently the wise Mr. Dennis has not located the true cause of poverty
in England.
It was famine, and the high price of bread, which forced Sir Robert Peel
to abandon protection and to carry free trade into effect.
Bread was cheapened and the cost of living reduced.
Did _that_ inflict such great misery upon the poor?
If the wise Mr. Dennis will study the subject more thoroughly he will
probably reach the conclusion that poverty in England is the product
of land monopoly, a vicious financial system and a governmental
establishment in which a lot of hereditary bloodsuckers prey upon the
body politic.
Free trade is the law of nature; it never did, and never can produce
national misery, poverty or decadence.
* * * * *
If the wise Mr. Dennis will study the subject thoroughly he will discover
that the Corn Laws of 1815 were passed for the purpose of giving special
benefits to the landlords of Great Britain. By the poor the act was
regarded as such a direct attack upon themselves—such a barefaced
design to make them pay higher prices for the necessaries of life—that
resistance to the law grew riotous and had to be put down by force.
Says Justin McCarthy, the historian:
“The poor everywhere saw the bread of their family threatened, saw the
food of their children almost taken out of their mouths, and they broke
into wild extremes of anger.”
But the soldiers were called out, the riots put down, and a sufficient
number of the poor hanged to quell the remainder.
_Thus_ the land monopolists of Great Britain—many of whose titles to
their enormous holdings are tainted with all manner of fraud and wrong
enforced and odious law which robbed the poor to benefit the rich.
In 1817 the troops were used again to crush the laborers who were crying
out against oppression.
In 1819 soldiers were used once more.
Then the submission of despair brought quiet times until 1830, when
the people again attempted to throw off the hateful yoke of barbarous
laws. In the House of Commons Sir Francis Burdett denounced the Duke of
Wellington as
“_Shamefully insensible to the suffering and distress which were
painfully apparent throughout the land._”
“O’Connell declared that many thousands of persons had to subsist in
Ireland _on three half-pence per day_.”
A tolerably successful workingman sometimes got sixty-five cents a week,
and the price of the four-pound loaf was _twenty-five cents_.
* * * * *
From 1830 to 1836 matters went from bad to worse. Business was depressed,
trade stagnant, poverty severe in many parts of the country.
In 1838 a crisis came. Three-fifths of the manufacturing establishments
of Lancashire shut down. Thousands of workmen were thrown adrift,
moneyless, foodless, desperate.
It was then that three great men, Cobden, Bright and Villiers, seized
the leadership of Discontent and began the famous crusade against
_Protection_, as typified in the Corn Laws of Great Britain. “Vested
interests,” of course, raised the usual howl.
The land monopolists stubbornly closed up in lines of sullen opposition
to reform. They beat off every attack, pocketing year after year the
famine prices which the people were compelled to pay for bread.
Suddenly, in the summer of 1845, a cold, wet, sunless season fell
upon the British Isles and the whole potato crop of Ireland—the sole
dependence of the vast majority of the Irish people—rotted.
The food of Ireland was gone; in her poverty she could not pay the
English landlord’s price for bread, and the Corn Laws forbade her buying
the cheap bread of America and Continental Europe.
It was _then_ that Lord John Russell attacked the whole system of
_Protection_ as “_the blight of commerce, the bane of agriculture, the
source of bitter divisions among classes_, THE CAUSE OF PENURY, FEVER AND
CRIME AMONG THE PEOPLE.”
It was _then_ that the great Tory Minister, Sir Robert Peel, followed
the promptings of his heart and determined that the people should have
cheaper food.
He abolished the Corn Laws, and conferred inestimable blessings upon the
common people of his country.
The noble act cost him his political life—for that was the penalty which
outraged land monopoly, led by Disraeli, inflicted upon its former chief.
* * * * *
The Corn Laws were repealed in 1846.
Mr. Dennis comes along and tells us that _Free Trade_ is responsible for
“Hooligan”—for poverty in England.
Mr. Rider Haggard—now in this country in the interest of Hooligan—ought
to know as much about the poor of Great Britain as Dennis knows.
What does Rider Haggard say?
That the present deplorable condition of the English poor _began with_
1874.
How, then, can that condition be connected with the Corn Law repeal?
May it not be logically connected with legislation of more recent date?
Or may it not be connected with economic developments elsewhere?
Tremendous changes in the conditions of people in Europe and America
have been brought about by financial legislation much more nearly
contemporaneous with 1874 than the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846.
Then, again, the vast addition to the wheat and corn areas in the United
States alone have had a mighty influence on prices in Great Britain.
It may be that rents are so high in England that the tenant farmer finds
it impossible to pay his tribute to the land monopolist, compete with
American grain fields, and have anything left for himself.
Indeed, Mr. Haggard states that one of the reasons why the agricultural
laborer is so disheartened in England is that _there is no chance for him
to become the owner of land_.
* * * * *
An exchange says:
“The headmaster of an English school says he read Roosevelt’s inaugural
to his boys and asked them where it was found. Unanimously they answered,
‘Jowett’s translation of Thucydides.’ Whereupon the headmaster gives
us parallel columns to show that Pericles said it all before, on an
occasion somewhat similar. But Teddy is too honest to crib; he was
deceived by his clerk on oratory. Let it go at that.”
If it is true that Mr. Roosevelt _did_ use one of the speeches of
Pericles as an inaugural address, Mr. Bryan may wish he had not been
so quick with the announcement that it was a poor speech. Pericles is
generally considered to have been an orator who would have compared not
unfavorably with W. J. B. himself.
* * * * *
The India-rubber qualities of the Monroe Doctrine are being made manifest
with a vengeance.
Once we understood it to mean, in a general way, that Europe must “Hands
off”—no more conquest, colonization, or extension of the European system
to the American Continent.
By Mr. Cleveland, England was told, with firmness, that she couldn’t
steal Venezuela’s land, even though the theft consisted of the simple
device of moving the boundary line.
With Mr. Roosevelt’s advent to power comes a decidedly new chapter in the
evolution of the Monroe Doctrine.
We are to assume a sort of Trusteeship for adjacent governments.
We must see to it that they conduct themselves decently and in order.
They must pay their debts to citizens of other countries and behave
themselves generally in a way that meets our approval.
* * * * *
Mr. Roosevelt, in advancing the Monroe Doctrine to this extent, has
undertaken a big contract for this country.
If we are to be the Policeman for South America, Santo Domingo, Cuba,
Mexico and Central America, we must, first of all, have a powerful navy.
This is clear to everybody.
What is not so clear is that a powerful standing army will inevitably
follow—_as sure as fate, it will follow_.
* * * * *
For it is certain that a natural result of our hectoring, bulldozing,
overlord attitude toward countries like those mentioned will make them
our bitter enemies. South America already hates us, and has cause to hate
us.
The manner in which we sanctioned the collection of claims against
Venezuela, by the warships of Europe will not be forgotten.
This feeling will be intensified by Mr. Roosevelt’s recent utterances,
and will spread through all the peoples affected by it.
If we are to compel these governments to knuckle down to every Asphalt
Trust, or other speculative syndicate, which enters the country for the
purpose of exploitation, the time will certainly come when our attempts
to make them conform to our standard of what is decent and orderly in
dealing with plundering corporations will be resisted.
What then?
Our navy can bombard the cities of the coast, but will our marines leave
the ships and defeat the land forces of the interior?
Evidently not.
What, therefore, must we do?
Send army against army, as we shall have sent navy against navy.
Consequently the same policy which logically requires a powerful navy
will likewise require a powerful standing army.
_And our masters know it!_
* * * * *
Mr. Roosevelt:
Do _you_, also, laugh at young Garfield?
_Please_ don’t give us any more of that silly boy.
* * * * *
More than one-half the voters of Colorado cast their ballots for Alva
Adams, candidate for Governor.
But Adams did not get the place.
Less than half the voters supported James Peabody, and Peabody acted as
Governor for one day.
Not a soul voted for Jesse McDonald for Governor, yet Jesse gets the
whole term of office, excepting the one day given to Peabody.
The voters of Colorado evidently enjoy self-government about as much as
it can be enjoyed.
_The Lady’s Slipper_
BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
_Author of “The Two Captains,” “The Corner in Coffee,” “A
Little Traitor to the South,” “The Southerners,” etc._
I
THE SLIPPER IS SOUGHT
What happened to me the night before? I was not certain as to details,
but I recalled the main facts with singular distinctness. I had lost
every coin that I possessed. A hasty search of my pockets in the morning
disclosed the absence even of that one louis which, on account of
its markings, I had resolved never to part with, save in the gravest
emergency. I was stripped bare, “down to a gant-line,” as old Bucknall
would have said. That much was obvious. I had possessed no jewels save
the ring I had filched when I took the Frenchman’s purse. That, too, was
gone. I suppose I played it away with the rest.
I still had my sword. It was a serviceable blade, which I had purchased
with the Frenchman’s money so soon as I arrived in Paris. A gentleman and
his sword, backed by a stout heart—well, one might be in worse plight.
But as I thought about the night before I seemed to remember—and here
was where I was not quite clear—that I had affixed my name to certain
pieces of paper, I. O. U.’s! To what amount I was obligated by these
transactions I did not know. But whether it was for one franc or a
thousand, I was unable to discharge the debt. My creditors must give me
time or—They were a jolly lot, those Frenchmen, and I had held up my end
as long as the gold pieces lasted. America had taken no disgrace from my
ability to stand in a game and win or lose like a gentleman. True, it
was generally the latter that fell to my play.
Now I was sick of it all! I hated wine and women and play. I wished, as
never before, that I were on the deck of a stout ship again, with the
new flag, the Stars and Stripes, fluttering from the gaff-end and the
breath of the salt wind in my face. This and a tidy Englishman of equal
force under our lee. Gods! That was a man’s work and a man’s place. This
drifting around from one gambling resort to another in Paris, with a
crowd of roysterers—and worse—this night after night at the tables—bah, I
had had enough of it!
It was a life I had never fancied, and if Dr. Franklin had been at home I
had never entered upon it. After I escaped from the British prison-ship,
and after I took that Englishman’s purse on the highway—only he turned
out to be a Frenchman, but it was then too late for me to alter my
intention to provide myself with the sinews of war—and after I managed to
get to Paris and found our Ambassador gone to Holland or Spain or some
other outlandish country, what was I to do? With plenty of money, no
occupation, no ship, nor any present chance of getting one, no friends,
and a reckless, adventurous disposition, I fell in with a fast set, and
this was the outcome.
I could not find her either, although I swear I searched high and low
and spent not a little of the proceeds of my highway robbery in trying
to run her down. There was no use in going over all this. I got up from
the couch on which I had thrown myself dressed as I was, staggered over
to the table, splashed my face with water and caught a glimpse of myself
in the little mirror that hung on the wall. Worn, haggard, bloodshot—my
own father would scarce have known me. I was ashamed, bitterly so. I had
never been a gambler or a drinker, and I vowed that I would never be
again. I had played the fool once and I did not propose to do it a second
time. Yet these interesting resolutions were forced into the background
by the demands of my present situation.
What was I to do? Breakfast! I loathed the idea. Still, I must eat to
live. I hadn’t a cent with which to bless myself. What was the date? It
was the tenth—no, the eleventh—of the month. Dr. Franklin would be back
on the thirteenth. Once I could get speech with him all would be well,
but how was I to exist until then?
I sat down by the window and tried to think of some device. God knows my
situation was critical, but I declare that I could only think of her!
Perhaps my inability to find her—for she had vanished as completely as if
the earth had opened and swallowed her—had made me reckless, careless,
a willing prey to the knaves who had brought me to this pass. I will
admit, even then, that I loved her. I closed my eyes and I could see
her as I saw her that evening outside of Paris. I could hear her scream
in the hands of those ruffians. I went over the whole thing as I had
done a thousand times. My rush at the villains! I was a pretty hand at
cudgel-playing as well as a good swordsman, for I had no weapon but a
stout stick.
The first fellow I caught fairly on the head, and he dropped like a
felled bullock. I put my hand up and could feel a little partially healed
scar along my cheek where the bullet of the one-eyed scoundrel cut a lock
of hair and grazed me. He got a crack on his pistol arm which put him
out of action. I could still see his face, convulsed with pain and rage,
his one eye shooting fire at me as he retreated before me. The other
rascal was a coward, for he fled immediately. I shall never forget the
look on Mademoiselle’s face when she thanked me! They had torn her mask
off when they had dragged her from her horse. I found it again and also
managed to catch her horse.
Although I was dressed like a French peasant I think she realized that I
was of gentle blood. She was surprised at the ease with which I mounted
her on her horse, and when she gave me that louis—my hand went to my
breast. Yes, it still hung there! I hadn’t gambled that away, thank
God!—and, as I promptly returned her another, she seemed to understand. I
wonder what she did with hers? She told me that I had not only saved her
from assault but that I had done more, I had saved the honor of France,
and that she would some day prove her gratitude. Then she galloped away
from me and left me standing staring in the road like a fool, madly in
love with her!
Aye, this evidenced my folly, I will admit, but as they say here, “What
would you?” She was the first lady I had seen in three years of cruising,
and such a woman! If you had seen her you would have understood. How I
had searched for her! Blue eyes, dark hair; tall, exquisitely molded,
graceful figure; dainty hands and feet—this vague description might have
fitted any woman or a million, and she was one of that million. It was no
use. I should never see her again, and if I saw her now, disgraced as I
was, I must avoid her. So absorbed was I in these miserable musings that
I hadn’t heeded a tap at the door.
“_Ma foi!_” cried a rather shrill, metallic voice as a man opened the
door and stepped within. “My dear friend, I have rapped several times,
and so I took the liberty....”
“Oh, come in by all means, Monsieur du Trémigon,” I replied, rising and
welcoming the newcomer, although with no great cordiality.
He was the hatefulest of all the crowd with whom I had cast my lot since
I had been in Paris, and I more than suspected it was to him that I had
passed those little pieces of paper which began more and more definitely
to impress themselves upon my recollection.
“I suppose,” I said, “that you have come to settle our accounts of last
night, Monsieur?”
“There is no haste about that,” he returned politely enough, “but since
you insist, as well now as any other time.”
“I shall be honest with you, Marquis,” I returned bluntly; “I’m afraid I
shall have to ask your indulgence for a short time.”
He drew from his pocket a package of papers and laid them on the table.
I took them up as I spoke, and although I am no great hand at figures,
I saw that the total was appalling. My heart sank, but I flatter myself
that I displayed as equable a demeanor as the man opposite me. It has
always been my practice to put a bold face on everything.
“Pray give yourself no uneasiness whatever about these little matters,”
said the Marquis in his most genial manner—and the more gentle and kindly
he was, strange to say, the more I hated him! “Or rather,” he continued,
interrupting me as I began to speak, “I can show you a way to discharge
them with little difficulty to yourself, and that immediately.”
“Show me that way!” I cried. “I will avail myself of it at once. To tell
you the truth, I am sick of the life I have led in this city.”
“I thought,” said du Trémigon, smiling meaningly, “that you were scarcely
suited for——”
“What do you mean?” I cried, glad for the chance to vent my indignation
upon someone. “Didn’t I bear myself like a gentleman?”
“Oh, quite so, entirely so. You misapprehend me, my dear Burnham,” he
protested.
“Well, I dare say you are right,” I replied carelessly, too troubled to
quarrel, “I am a sailor. The sea is my world. I am at home there or on
my father’s plantation in the Carolinas. But this is nothing to you. The
point is, I am in your debt.”
“This ring, Monsieur,” said the Marquis, lifting his hand. “Do you know
whose it is?”
“Yours, I suppose, since you won it,” I replied. “It was mine.”
“Pardon me, it was originally mine.”
“What!”
“Mine.”
“Then you are——?”
“The gentleman whose purse you kindly relieved him of a few weeks ago in
England.”
“Impossible!” I cried.
“Impossible, but true, Monsieur. I recognized you when I met you last
week at Varesi’s”—the name of a popular gambling resort—“I wasn’t quite
sure, however. At least, I had no proof until last night. This ring? You
remember taking it?”
“Oh, perfectly,” I said.
“And this louis?” He pulled out the curiously marked coin. “A pocket
piece I have had for a long time. I should know it among a thousand.”
“You have established your case,” I answered defiantly. “You understand
that I am no common thief or highwayman? I am an American naval officer.
Serving under Cunningham on a privateer, I was captured, thrown into
prison, escaped. Being penniless in the enemy’s country I determined to
take the purse of the first traveler who came along. I took you for an
Englishman. When I knew you were French, it was too late. I can only say
that I will give you another I. O. U. for all that I have despoiled you
of, and so soon as I can communicate with America you shall have the
money.”
The Marquis showed his white teeth in a grin—how I loathed him!—waving
his hands as he did so.
“As to that, we will discuss it presently. Meanwhile, what did you do
with the papers you robbed me of in England?”
“Tore them to pieces and scattered them in the first river I crossed.”
“Damnation!” cried the man. “I could stand the loss of the money, but the
loss of those papers wellnigh ruined me!”
“How so?”
“I was carrying some secret despatches to the British Government, in
spite of the war, and your blundering made me fail in my mission.”
“Blundering!” I cried.
“Pray be calm, Monsieur,” he exclaimed; “the word may have been
ill-advised, but you will recognize that some consideration is due me.”
He looked meaningly at the little pile of notes. I followed his glance,
snatched up another piece of paper, scribbled a line on it and added it
to the heap.
“That covers your loss, including the ring.”
“Monsieur Burnham,” said the Marquis, “are you aware of the exceedingly
difficult position into which you have got yourself?”
“I should say I am! Being absolutely without funds, I am forced to
ask total strangers to accept my bare word that I will discharge my
obligations so soon as I hear from America. This, with the seas swarming
with British ships, may be a matter of months.”
“There is your Ambassador. He knows you, doubtless?”
“Dr. Franklin doesn’t know me from Adam. He’s a Philadelphia Quaker, and
I am from North Carolina. He has never seen me, nor I him. He knows my
father and family, though. If there were any of our officers in the city,
if Commodore Jones or Dick Dale had only returned from Texel, I should be
all right, but as it is, I am completely at your mercy.”
I hated to say that word, but there was no help for it. The Marquis bowed
gracefully.
“Your remark is singularly accurate, Monsieur. At my mercy!”
He opened his mouth and tapped his white teeth with two of his white
fingers. I wanted to choke him. Why, I could not say, for he had been
considerate, and I owed him a lot of money. I had robbed him in England,
and, besides, I had put him to serious inconvenience.
“At my mercy,” he repeated, nodding.
“I have admitted that fact,” I said sharply. “I do not see that it is
necessary to remind me of it again.”
“Oh, pardon me. You Americans are so impetuous. Cultivate calmness, my
friend—English phlegm, if you will. It is a most valuable asset in any
game.”
“That’s as may be, Marquis, but I play no more games with you.”
“Pardon me again,” he returned coolly; “we play yet one more hand,
Monsieur, and I have the deal.”
“What are you driving at?”
“I told you there was a way by which you could discharge your
obligations.”
“Declare it then, and let us close this transaction!”
“You are doubtless unaware, and I speak to you in confidence, that my
large estates are greatly encumbered. I have a passion for play. I do
not always enjoy the fortune I have had with you, and—” He laughed as he
spoke. “In short, I find myself in very straitened circumstances.”
“I suppose you want your money and want it quick?” I burst out. “I can
understand and I promise you——”
“There you go again, Monsieur. I want money, it is true. I was born
wanting money, I have lived wanting money, and, I suppose, I shall die
wanting money.”
You won’t have any use for it after that, I thought, but all I said was:
“Proceed, Monsieur.”
“You are doubtless unaware, also, that Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Rivau,
Comtesse de Villars in her own right, granddaughter of the Duc de
Rivau-Huet, is my cousin?”
“I have never heard of the young lady, but I recognize the honor of the
relationship,” I said coldly.
The Marquis was not devoid of wit. His eye flashed, but he proceeded
deliberately:
“Quite so. Her grandfather is my grandfather also. She is one of the
richest women in France. Our respective parents arranged a marriage
between us when we were children. The carrying out of that contract
depends entirely on three people, the young lady, the Duc de Rivau-Huet
and myself. It was stipulated that no constraint was to be used,
and that, when she reached her twentieth year, she was to give her
consent without pressure, freely and willingly. If she did so, and her
grandfather interposed no objection, and I desired it, we were to be
married. If not”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I lose.”
“Lose what?”
“The lady and, incidentally, her fortune.”
I confessed to a very languid interest in the love affairs of the Marquis
and the lady, but for politeness’ sake I asked him another question.
“Permit me, since you have broached the subject, does the lady consent or
refuse?”
“She consents, but the Duke refuses.”
“Ah!”
“But I hope that his refusal is not irrevocable.”
“For your sake I trust so,” I replied. “Yet I fail to see how this
concerns me.”
“You shall learn directly. Mademoiselle de Villars is one of the Queen’s
maids of honor. She usually resides at the Court at Versailles. For this
week, however, she is on leave of absence, I have learned, and is in
residence at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet in Paris.”
“Yes?” I said interrogatively. I was beginning to have some curiosity as
to whither all this tended.
“As I said, the Duke seems insensible to the advantage of an alliance
with me.”
No wonder, I thought, but I took good care not to voice my feelings.
“I have decided to compel him to consent.”
“And Mademoiselle de Villars?” I questioned suspiciously.
“She also wishes it. I may say”—he simpered disgustedly—“she is more
anxious than I.”
“Monsieur du Trémigon,” I said sternly, repressing with difficulty an
inclination to kick him, “do you assure me of the truth of what you have
said?”
“Certainly.”
“On your word of honor as a gentleman?”
“As a gentleman and as a noble of France, Monsieur.”
I ought to have known, but I did not, and there seemed to be nothing for
me to do but accept his statement.
“How do you propose to get the Duke’s consent?” I asked.
“There is a way to apply pressure to him, Monsieur, which will ... let us
say ... induce his consent.”
“You wish to compromise her in her grandfather’s eyes?” I said, fathoming
his meaning at last.
“Exactly.”
“But with her consent....”
“Your intuition does you credit.”
“That’s more than your intention does you,” I burst out scornfully.
“I can afford to indulge you in these little pleasantries, my friend,” he
returned, with an evil look, “because....”
“Why?” I cried.
“Because I intend that you shall be my agent in the little process.”
“You are reckoning without your host, Monsieur,” I said quickly. I was
boiling with rage.
“But not without my servant, Monsieur.”
“Servant?” I raged.
“Yes. Do you realize that I have but to place these things in the hands
of the authorities to have you clapped into prison?”
“I have been in prison before and got out. I can stand it again—for the
sake of a woman.”
“You will doubtless get out of the prison into which I shall put you,
but it will be to go to the hangman, or to the headsman if you can prove
your gentle blood.”
“What!”
“You forget that little transaction in England. You are a highway robber!
I have evidence enough to convict you beyond doubt.”
“The French Government would never....”
“The French Government is angry enough over the loss of those papers, and
the punishment for highway robbery is death,” he sneered.
“My God!” I cried.
“’Tis useless to appeal to Him,” mocked du Trémigon. “Rather do you fall
back on your mother-wit—if you have any—to help you.”
“What do you wish me to do?” I asked desperately.
“’Tis very simple. We are about the same height and build. We do not look
unlike——”
“You flatter me!”
“’Tis the fact that does that,” he replied, bowing deeply. “In the dusk
you can easily pass for me, especially if you wear a familiar suit of my
clothes. I will get you into the grounds of the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet below
Mademoiselle’s apartments. The building is vine-covered. Being a sailor
you can easily scale the wall and enter her chamber. You are to bring me
thence some article of personal wearing apparel—say a slipper, or a ring,
or——”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“It is hardly necessary to enter upon that, Monsieur.”
“If I am to do the thing,” I replied hotly, “I must know everything.”
“Well, then, the Duc de Rivau-Huet has threatened me with imprisonment if
he catches me in his hôtel again.”
“And you wish me to take that risk?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
“I am to do this at the peril of my life?”
“It seems to me,” said the Marquis equably, “that your life is forfeit
if you don’t do it, and——”
“Enough!” I answered. “I am in your power. When I made the serious
mistake of taking you for a gentleman I began my ruin. I’m sorry I didn’t
kill you in England. I suppose there’s no help for it. I must do the
work. When do you wish this adventure undertaken?”
“Tonight. If you will come to my rooms, I will fit you out, give you the
plan of the hôtel and make all other arrangements.”
“And those papers?”
“They shall be returned to you when you place what you secure from the
room in my hands.”
“What assurance have I as to that?”
“The word of a gentleman.”
“In your case I prefer something else.”
The Marquis flushed angrily. Why he controlled himself I do not know,
unless it was because he was so desperately anxious to carry out his plan
and I was his only instrument.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“To go before a notary and draw up an agreement, leaving the papers in
his hands, including the ring and the coin, and a signed statement,
acquitting me of complication in the robbery. These papers he is to give
to me in the morning, if I succeed. Furthermore, I won’t go into the
matter without the assistance of an old sailor with whom I cruised.”
“Take as many assistants as you please, Monsieur,” said the Marquis; “and
now we will go to my apartments. Will you honor me?”
He rose and offered me his arm.
“I have to do your dirty work,” I replied, “and that obliges me to walk
by your side, I suppose, but it doesn’t compel me to take your arm.”
My soul revolted against carrying out my part of the plot, even though by
so doing I was obliging a lady. True, she might be—and if his words were
true, she was—in love with du Trémigon, but I was sure she could not know
him as I knew him. Besides, what were the love affairs of the Marquis
and his cousin to me? I had no personal interest in either of them.
All I had to do was to fetch a slipper or some personal belonging from
her chamber, as she herself desired. The long and short of it was that I
was resolved to do it. I had to!
II
THE SLIPPER IS FOUND
From some servant in the Duc de Rivau-Huet’s hôtel, du Trémigon had
learned that the Comtesse de Villars was to be from home that night. He
arranged to have me passed through the gate. After that I was to look
out for myself. The Duke’s hôtel, which was surrounded by ample grounds,
was just outside the city walls. The Marquis told me that, dressed in
his clothes and with a cloak he was accustomed to wear, I should very
well pass for him, and that in all probability no one would molest me
unless I fell in with Éspiau, the Duke’s body-servant, or some of the
upper officers of the household. The domestics were well affected toward
him, and as all the world loves a lover, they would be disposed rather to
encourage than to hinder.
Du Trémigon, with singular parsimony, I thought, had designed a rather
shabby suit for my use. I insisted upon seeing his wardrobe and selected
the handsomest garments he possessed. He protested, but vainly, for I
said that I must be dressed like a gentleman. He pointed out that I would
probably tear and certainly soil his court suit in climbing. I returned
that if I carried out his enterprise and won him a rich wife he could
well afford to lose a suit, whereas if I were caught and shot it would be
some consolation to me to know that I was well dressed for dying.
I took a sword from the rare collection of weapons which he had in his
apartments. I may not be much of a card player, but I pride myself that I
know a weapon, and I chose a blade that I could depend upon. I got two
pistols for myself and two for worthy Master Bucknall. Bucknall was an
old shipmate of mine. I knew I could depend upon him. We had fought side
by side on several cruises, and although he had not been with me when
I was captured, he had appeared in Paris after a shipwreck in which he
had been picked up by a French frigate. I found him penniless, and, of
course, took care of him, intending to take him with me when I saw Dr.
Franklin and arranged to go back to America. The Marquis had him fetched
from his lodging, and I explained the whole situation to the worthy
seaman.
Bucknall was to remain concealed in the grounds beneath Mademoiselle’s
room while I was within. I didn’t care to be taken in the rear, and I
knew if an alarm were given, that Bucknall would keep a way of escape
open for me as long as he could. To him I gave my sword and pistols.
I had studied a plan of the chateau and I knew the lay of the land
and the position of the chambers perfectly. A bath, a rest and a meal
completed my preparations. No, I forget one thing. I knew that many a
door that will not open to iron and steel is facile to a golden key, and
I made du Trémigon provide me with a rouleau of louis. He did it with an
ill grace. In the first place he had none too many, and, in the second, I
suppose, he thought he had laid out enough in the adventure. I insisted,
however, giving him in lieu thereof another signed paper to add to his
collection. This and the visit to the notary, where I saw things made
secure from my point of view, filled the day.
At eight o’clock we sallied forth. Du Trémigon had furnished us with a
couple of horses. We had no difficulty passing the gates—he had provided
us with the password—and finding the Duke’s mansion. The Marquis did not
accompany us. He intended to give out that he had paid a visit to the
Countess in her chamber, and in proof of it was to exhibit her slipper.
The Countess, being at a masked ball where no one could recognize her
for hours, could not disprove his statement. Of course, if anybody saw
him elsewhere his plan would fail, so he was to lie close and await our
return.
When we came near the place I left the horses in care of an innkeeper to
whom du Trémigon had recommended me. I gave instructions to have them
ready for instant service at any time. I expected that we would be back
before midnight. Then Bucknall and I walked boldly down the road toward
the gate of the mansion. Du Trémigon had told us that his servant was
one-eyed, so Bucknall was disguised by a patch over one eye, which gave
him great inconvenience, by the way, and at which, sailor-like, the old
sea-dog growled mightily. I drew the Marquis’s cloak up around my neck,
pulled my hat down, and assumed as well as I could his mincing gait and
manner. In the dark we might well pass for du Trémigon and his servant.
The porter at the gate was expecting us. He made no difficulty about
passing us through. Then we were left to shift for ourselves.
The night was dark and chill. There were no dogs in the yard. The Duke
kept his hounds in the country. No one disturbed us as we made our way
cautiously along the wall under the trees to the window of the Countess’s
apartment. A few lights showed here and there through the different
openings on this side of the house. Among them a faint illumination came
from the window beneath which we stood. I looked at it with interest. It
seemed that no one could be in the room. The light was probably a single
candle, left burning in case of need. This agreed with our information.
Making sure that no one saw us, we crossed the grass and stopped under
the window. The house was an old one. There were buttresses against the
wall, and the one nearest the Countess’s window was in a dilapidated
condition. A vine ran all over this side of the building. I was always
active and I had not dissipated in Paris long enough to have lost my
nerve. I glanced upward. It would not be difficult. If the vine held—and
its stem was as thick as my wrist—the ascent would be easy. Wrapping my
cloak around me so as to protect du Trémigon’s clothes, and with a word
of caution to Bucknall, whom I saw secreted comfortably in the black
recess between the buttress and the wall, I quickly made my way up. So
long as I had the assistance of the buttress it was nearly as easy as
walking up a stair, or as simple as climbing the battens on the side of
a ship. The last yard was more difficult, but I managed it with a few
scratches and with a minimum of noise.
I had no opportunity to peer into the room or see what was before me.
I reached the sill, threw my leg over it and stepped quietly within. I
stood by the window listening. Neither from outside nor inside was there
any sound. I had been unobserved.
Satisfying myself on this point, I stepped back from the window to avoid
the line of light and looked about me. The room appeared to be a woman’s
sitting-room. There was an air of refinement, of grace and culture about
it that made me sure. There were books on the table, pictures on the
walls, a piece of some sort of needlework thrown carelessly on a chair.
Several doors opened from the room. According to the plan, that on the
right should be the Countess’s boudoir, and beyond that her bedchamber. I
stepped softly across to this door. I listened. There was no one in the
other room apparently. I turned the handle carefully and entered.
Just beyond me was the door of the bedroom. Repeating my performance, I
walked over to it and listened. No one was there. I opened the door and
looked in. Like the others this room was lighted by a single candle. Like
the others, it was unoccupied.
It was quite evident that du Trémigon’s informant was correct. The
Countess was out. Her maid, who should have been on guard, had taken
advantage of her mistress’s absence to go off on a little jaunt of
her own, I supposed. I closed the door of the bedroom softly and began
a hasty examination of the boudoir. A dress lay across a chair. A
magnificent costume, it seemed to me.
A pair of shoes—a ravishing pair of tiny shoes—stood on the floor at the
bottom of the gown. These might do. But no, they had not been worn; they
were entirely new. Du Trémigon had insisted upon something personal and
familiar. I walked over to the dressing-table, which was covered with a
mass of silver and porcelain. They bore the de Villars crest, but so did
a number of things in du Trémigon’s own home. None of them would answer.
I remembered the room contained a closet. Nerving myself further, I
opened the nearest door. On the floor, confronting me, lay a pair of
small, worn, blue satin slippers with red heels. They were slightly
shaped to the feet of the wearer from long usage. There were no other
feet in the world that could wear those slippers, in all probability. I
stooped and picked one up. It would serve admirably.
III
THE SLIPPER IS RENOUNCED
With the slipper still in my hand, I turned to find myself confronting a
woman!
She was standing at the door leading to the antechamber. How long she had
been there I knew not. Indeed, after the first start of surprise, I had
room for but one thought. The woman was she whom I had rescued on the way
to Paris, with whom I had fallen madly in love! For whom I had sought
high and low—whom I had prayed that I might see again.
She was looking at me composedly from under level brows. I observed that
her hand was on the bell-cord.
“Monsieur,” she said—and oh, how well I remembered her voice—“if you
move, or make a sound, I pull the bell. My servants are within a
moment’s call. You will be overpowered immediately.”
“Mademoiselle,” I returned, disguising my natural voice as well as I
could and thanking the Lord that my French was perfect, and that in the
dim light, she did not recognize me apparently, “I am at your service.”
“I wish,” she continued, “to talk with you. The situation amuses me.”
She spoke as she might in the presence of some new spectacle. Her manner
assured me that her interest in me was entirely impersonal. She was tired
and bored. This was a new experience apparently which she wished to
make the most of. I could think of nothing adequate to say, so I bowed
profoundly.
“What is your name and what are you doing here?”
“My name, Mademoiselle, matters nothing.” In my agitation I forgot, and
spoke in my natural voice. She started as she lifted the candle and
looked keenly at me.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “’tis the man of the highway!”
I do not know whether I was glad or sorry to hear her say those words. At
first I thought to deny it, but somehow it was impossible.
“You have discovered me, Mademoiselle,” I said.
“Then you were masquerading as a sailor. Now——”
She looked me over from head to heel, and I have been told since that
I made a brave appearance. Du Trémigon had displayed excellent taste
in clothing, and this was his handsomest suit. I stood proudly erect,
putting a bold face on the situation, with one hand upon my sword, my
hat in the other, which also held the slipper, as if I were about to be
presented to the King.
“Now,” she said, “you are masquerading as a gentleman.”
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I returned, “I am a gentleman”—she put up her
hand, but I would not be denied—“masquerading as a ... thief.”
I blessed her in my heart for her hesitation over that word.
“Is it because you have stolen the Marquis du Trémigon’s clothes?—for I
believe, if I am not mistaken, they are his.”
“Your observation does you infinite credit, Mademoiselle.”
“I thought so. Is it for that reason you are masquerading as a thief?”
“Because I have come here without regard to clothes to—” I protested.
“To take my jewels?” she interrupted.
“Mademoiselle!” I cried, starting back, the blood flaming in my face
again. “You think——”
“I think nothing, Monsieur. I discover a strange man in my apartments
at night. He says that he is masquerading as a thief. What else am I to
infer?”
I was dumb before her merciless logic.
“Mademoiselle,” I began desperately, “I deeply regret——”
“So, too, do I. I knew—at least I thought I knew, on that day, the day
you did me such brave service—that you were a gentleman, in spite of what
you wore, yet—well, I see I was deceived.”
“Don’t say that!” I protested again.
“Why not, Monsieur?”
“Mademoiselle, I am here in defiance of every rule of propriety, I will
admit. You may well think me a thief,” I began, with passionate haste,
“but I am only following your example.”
“How, sir?” she exclaimed.
“You, too, are not guiltless of robbery.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, indignantly drawing herself up.
Oh, how magnificent she looked! I wanted to throw myself at her feet and
confess everything, but I did not—then.
“You have stolen my heart, Mademoiselle.”
“And you came to look for it in my jewel-case?” She laughed somewhat
contemptuously.
“I have come for yours in exchange,” said I; although I had a neat
opening in her question, I judged it best to let it pass.
“Monsieur!”
“I am a poor sailor, Mademoiselle, but I have sought you throughout the
land. I babbled everywhere as I ran of blue eyes, dark hair, a witching
face. I found you—nowhere!”
There was a ring of truth in these words—although of course it did not
explain my presence there—that I believe influenced her.
“’Tis impossible, Monsieur—” she began at last.
“Look into the glass, Mademoiselle, and see how believable it is,” I
broke in.
“That you should have come here on such an errand and——”
“I would go to the end of the world if I might find you there,
Mademoiselle,” I boldly said, taking a step nearer to her.
“Monsieur!” she cried, clutching the bell-rope once more. “Pray keep your
distance.”
“I am content merely to look at you,” I said, stopping short instantly.
“Monsieur, on your word of honor as a—” She paused.
“As a thief?” I questioned.
“As a gentleman,” she said softly, and I could have kissed her feet for
that. “Did you come here for me?”
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is a long story. You have honored me by your
conversation. You found something gentle in me on the road and in spite
of appearances—that are so grievously against me now—you have reposed a
certain degree of confidence in me. Will you allow me to tell you briefly
who and what I am?”
“I am anxious to learn it.”
“Will you not be seated? You may release the bell-rope, on my word,
without danger. I would rather die than harm you. Indeed, my greatest
ambition is to devote my life to your service.”
“Fine words, Monsieur, and such as I have often heard from other
cavaliers.”
“I doubt it not, Mademoiselle. Such beauty of person and grace of mind as
yours cannot remain unchallenged. This shall be my excuse.”
“No more of this, if you please, but of yourself.” It was ineffable
condescension, and you may imagine how I appreciated the honor.
“My name is Francis Burnham. My family on the distaff side is
French—Huguenot. The blood, I believe, is noble. My great-grandfather
was an English gentleman. My father met my mother in North Carolina. The
acreage my father owns is equal to a French county.”
“You are an American, then?”
“I have that honor. I am also an officer in the American Navy. My country
is ill provided with warships. Many naval officers have been forced to
accept positions in privateers. I was a lieutenant in Captain Gustavus
Cunningham’s privateer ship, the Revenge. We were captured by a British
frigate and taken to a British prison-ship. I escaped thence and was on
my way to Paris, to see Dr. Franklin, when I had the good fortune to
be of some slight service to you. That gold piece you gave me, I have
it here.” I saw her hand involuntarily move to her breast and my heart
leaped as it assured me that she also had retained and cherished the coin
I had forced upon her. “I have loved you ever since I saw you that day,
Mademoiselle. I have sought you in vain only to find you tonight.”
“That, Monsieur,” she said quietly, “does not yet explain your presence
here.”
I was dumb again.
“How did you discover my abode?”
I could make no reply.
“How did you learn my name?”
Unthinking, I answered:
“I do not know your name at this moment.”
“I am Gabrielle de Rivau, Comtesse de Villars.”
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed.
Would you believe it? It had not occurred to me for a moment that this
was she! I had jumped to the conclusion that she was perhaps some friend
of the Countess’s. I had never dreamed that fate could deal me so sorry
a trick as to involve me in such a part against the woman I adored. “Are
you the Comtesse de Villars?”
“I am.”
“I did not know.”
“Monsieur Burnham, you are full of mystery.”
“I have told you nothing but the truth, Mademoiselle.”
“Yes, but not all of it. Is it not so?”
I was silent.
“Monsieur, do you not realize that I have committed a great imprudence in
allowing you to converse with me here alone, under such circumstances?
That my duty should be to pull the bell and hand you over to the Duke’s
retainers for punishment? That you owe much to my forbearance?”
“I realize all that you say, Mademoiselle, and I am filled with shame.”
“Why, then, are you here? What are you doing in the Marquis du Trémigon’s
clothing? What is that you hold?” I thoughtlessly lifted my hand. “My
slipper!” she exclaimed, flushing in her turn. “You have been in my
closet yonder. What does it all mean?”
“I will speak!” I replied desperately, resolved to make a clean breast of
the whole affair. “I am in the power of the Marquis du Trémigon. I owe
him money.”
“Heaven help you!”
“I am surprised to hear you say that!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Monsieur,” she said quickly, disregarding my remark, “my purse is on the
table. Let me discharge my obligation. Take what you will.”
“Mademoiselle, for God’s sake, think not so unkindly of me! He threatened
me with imprisonment for debt. That is nothing, a mere bagatelle. I could
have borne that without hesitation. I have broken prison before.”
“Well?”
“There is more. When I escaped from the British prison-ship I was
penniless; alone in England. I halted the first traveler I met, thinking
to despoil the enemy for my needs as an act of war. That traveler
happened to be the Marquis du Trémigon. I met him afterward at—at places
where they play in Paris,” I went on. “He won all my money, a ring I had
taken from him and a coin which bore certain markings. These things were
proofs positive. He threatened to charge me with highway robbery. The
punishment is death. I pleaded with him, promising to repay him if he
would give me time. Our minister is absent, Commodore Paul Jones not in
Paris. I was desperate. I loved life, Mademoiselle, for it held you as a
possibility.”
“But that you should come here, Monsieur? How does that——?”
“Hear me, Mademoiselle. The Marquis du Trémigon has informed me of the
nature of the agreement regarding your proposed marriage.”
“And what did Monsieur du Trémigon say as to that?”
“That by the terms of the contract three people must consent willingly
before the marriage can take place.”
“Three, Monsieur?”
“He said so.”
“And those are?”
“Yourself, your grandfather and himself.”
Her lip curled.
“Proceed, Monsieur. This is most interesting.”
“He said further that you were—forgive me—anxious to marry him.”
I could see Mademoiselle clench her hand. I could mark the flash of her
eye.
“That he was anxious to marry you, but that your grandfather refused
his consent. And that, with your approval, he had arranged to”—it was
a deeply humiliating thing to say with her standing before me like an
outraged goddess, but I had to go on—“to compromise you with him so that
your grandfather would no longer withhold his consent.”
“And you were to be the means whereby this plan was to be carried out?”
“To my shame I admit it. I agreed to come here and take some article
belonging to you of a personal character.”
“My slipper?”
“That or whatever else I could secure. I wore his clothes because he
wished the servants to recognize them, and thus be prepared to swear that
he was with you.”
“’Tis a pretty plot for a gentleman!”
“Mademoiselle, to my sorrow and regret, I acknowledge it. Yet I beg to
assure you that not even the fear of imprisonment or death would have
made me consent, had I not believed that I was doing a lady a service.”
“Do you think you do any lady a service by forcing her into the arms of
Marquis du Trémigon?”
“But if she loves him?”
“Monsieur,” she said hotly, “she hates him!”
“Is it possible?”
“You have been grossly deceived. The only consent necessary to the
marriage is my own. My grandfather has not withheld his consent. He has
left it entirely to me.”
“You, Mademoiselle?” I exclaimed, my heart leaping at the thought that
she did not love that villain.
“I have refused and shall refuse. The whole plan is an attempt to
compromise me, to force my consent.”
Into what a scheme had I been betrayed! The sweat rose to my forehead.
“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “for God’s sake acquit me of any such dishonor!”
“I do, Monsieur, freely.”
“I shall go back to du Trémigon and explain my appearance to him
immediately. I shall compel him to give me satisfaction for this
insult—an insult to you as well as to me. Your quarrel with him shall be
mine. He will trouble you no more,” I added significantly.
“Your plan is vain, Monsieur. I know the Marquis du Trémigon. You will
find him surrounded by such a force as will paralyze your efforts. He
will refuse to fight with you.”
“At least I shall have the satisfaction of telling him what I think, and
I shall go to prison if necessary.”
“I would not have you suffer on my account, Monsieur.”
“Mademoiselle, you are kindness itself. I deserve nothing whatever at
your hands. If you could only believe in me, in my love for you, a little
before I go——”
“Monsieur, the circumstances are very unusual. That day you so bravely
rescued me from those scoundrels and treated me with such chivalry, I
knew you were not of the common people. Your dress indicated that, but my
heart—my mind, that is—told me otherwise.”
Her voice faltered, but she looked at me clearly with those glorious eyes
of hers.
“But when I found you here and thought you meant to degrade me, to force
me into the arms of that villain——”
“Mademoiselle!” I protested, “you cannot accuse me as I do myself. At
least I can make amends now.”
“But is there nothing I can do for you?” she asked.
“Nothing. The papers, the obligations, the evidence against me, are in
the hands of a notary. If he does not hear from the Marquis and myself
tomorrow, he has orders to hand the packet to the Chief of Police.”
“What do you propose to do, sir?”
“To warn you. Beware of du Trémigon. Although he has failed in this
instance, he will surely strive again to compromise your honor. There
will be one ray of comfort in my soul, that I have again been able to
render some slight assistance to you. And I cherish the hope, if you
think of me at all, that you will bear in mind that I love you.”
“But, Monsieur——”
“Mademoiselle, if I had met you under happier circumstances, I should
have made it my prayer to live for you. Now at least I can die for you,
and I trust that my death will redeem this disgrace upon my name.”
I laid the little slipper softly on the table. I kissed it tenderly,
reverently, before I put it down. I stepped nearer to her. She stood, as
if paralyzed, gazing upon me. There was a flush in her cheeks; her bosom
heaved. I sank at her feet and took her hand. It was icy cold. Mine was
burning. I kissed it fervently and rose.
“Farewell,” I said, and then heard sounds, footsteps in the hall, a knock
at the door of the anteroom through which I had to pass in order to make
my escape.
IV
THE SLIPPER IS BESTOWED
I made a swift movement toward the door, intending to rush to the window,
no matter who barred the way. I reached for my sword as I did so. Quick
as I was, Mademoiselle was quicker. Although her face had gone white at
the noise, she had instantly begun to sing—strange action, for which I
could then see no excuse. Still lilting lightly a charming little air,
she stood between me and the door.
“Not that way!” she whispered in the breaks of the song. “It would be
death. In there.”
She pointed toward her bedroom. The knocking was resumed, this time more
loudly. A voice cried:
“Countess Gabrielle!”
Her check of me had spoiled my chance. There was nothing but obedience.
I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. The song broke off
suddenly. I could hear distinctly all that was said. Mademoiselle raised
her voice, crying:
“Who is there?”
“Your grandfather,” was the answer.
“Enter, Monsieur.”
“The door is locked.”
How I blessed that lock! So, I doubt not, did Mademoiselle. She went
slowly to the antechamber, fumbled at the lock a few moments, and opened
the door. I heard two people enter.
“Wait, Messieurs!” cried Mademoiselle as she caught sight of the second
visitor. “I was preparing to retire.” With marvelous quickness she
had taken off her bodice after I had entered the bedroom, and was
bare-necked and armed before her grandfather. She hastily slipped on a
dressing-robe and once more turned to him.
“’Tis only Éspiau,” said the Duke quickly.
“I am very glad indeed,” said Mademoiselle, with a gay little laugh, “for
you caught me quite unaware.”
“Was I mistaken or was there a tremble in her voice? Her situation
was grave. Had the Duke discovered me, he would have killed me out of
hand, unless I inflicted a like penalty upon him, which, under the
circumstances, never entered my mind.
“I thought,” continued the old Duke as he entered the boudoir, “that I
heard voices.” He looked around suspiciously.
“You did, Monsieur,” answered the Countess.
“Great heavens!” thought I, “are you about to betray me?”
“Whose?” went on the old man again.
“Mine; I was singing.”
She began that little song, the music of which I shall never forget,
although I am no great hand at carrying a tune.
“Humph!” said the old man. “You did not go to the masked ball?”
“No, Monsieur, I was tired. I have been reading in the library and have
but recently come here.”
“There was no one in the anteroom when you entered?”
“No one, sir.”
“Have you been in the room beyond since you came up?”
“Not yet.”
“Éspiau!”
“Monsieur le Duc!”
“Examine yonder chamber. It may be some thief has concealed himself
there.”
The Duke turned his head away to survey the room and Mademoiselle shot
one glance, pregnant with agony and entreaty, at the old servant. He had
been as a father to her from childhood—indeed, he had been her father’s
foster-brother.
“Very well, Monsieur le Duc,” answered the servant.
I heard him crossing the room. What should I do? There was no place of
concealment. The window happened to be barred, else I should have thrown
myself from it. Should I fall upon him and run my sword through him? I
drew the weapon, without making a sound, and waited. The door opened
slowly and only partially, Éspiau saw me at once. He put his finger to
his lips and closed his eyes.
“I see no one, Monsieur le Duc,” he said, turning his head.
“Examine thoroughly,” returned the old man.
Éspiau stepped into the room, looked under the bed, shook the curtains,
making a deal of noise as he moved about, managing to say to me:
“Silence, as you value your life!”
Presently he returned to the others. I breathed a long sigh of relief. I
remember wiping the sweat from my brow.
“Monsieur le Duc was doubtless mistaken,” said the old man quietly.
“Yes,” said the Duke; “I’m glad of it. Times are in such disorder. There
are many masterless men about, and your apartment is easy of access from
the garden. I must change it, Countess.”
“At your pleasure, grandfather,” said Mademoiselle, and then she actually
began to sing that little love song again. The courage of that girl was
superb! It made me love her more madly than before.
“I am glad to find you home,” said the Duke, “for I have brought you
some papers which require your signature. I intended to leave them until
morning, but unless you feel inclined to retire——”
“No, Monsieur, I never felt so wide awake in my life,” answered
Mademoiselle.
“Good! I will leave them here then. Éspiau will explain them to you, and
we can finish the discussion in the morning. I am tired and feel the need
of rest. Good night.”
“Good night, grandfather,” said Mademoiselle; “may you rest well.”
“Good night, my child,” said the old man, relaxing for the moment the
formality of his address as he took her hand, drew her toward him,
pressed a kiss upon her forehead, bowed to her as to a queen and walked
away.
The two left within the boudoir moved not until the echo of the Duke’s
footsteps died away in the distance of the corridor.
“Mademoiselle,” at last began Éspiau in a voice in which sorrow and
affection strove for the mastery.
“Judge me not,” said Mademoiselle quickly.
“Who is that man?”
I thought now it was time for me to make my entrance. I opened the door,
therefore, and presented myself.
“My name is Francis Burnham, my good fellow. I am an officer in the
American Navy.”
“How came you here and what would you do?”
“That scoundrel du Trémigon sent him here to compromise me,” the Countess
interposed.
“The dastard!” exclaimed the servant.
“But Monsieur did not think it was I,” continued Mademoiselle. “You
remember when I went on that errand for Her Majesty the Queen?” I started
at this. Éspiau nodded. “This gentleman had the good fortune to save me
from capture then. I should have been robbed of those papers. I found him
here this evening. He had abjured his errand and was upon the point of
departure when——”
“My friend,” I interrupted, “what Mademoiselle says is absolutely true,
and I believed, furthermore, that I was doing her a service.”
“I need not your assurance for that, Monsieur,” said the old man proudly;
“the house of de Rivau does not lie.”
“I wish the same might be said of the house of du Trémigon; but be that
as it may, I am not anxious to forfeit any man’s good-will.”
“Not even that of a servant?” he interrupted.
“Not even that. It was a case of life or death for me. I am in du
Trémigon’s power. Not knowing that it was Mademoiselle—for I did not
learn until this evening that she was Comtesse de Villars—I came. I am
sorry. I am going back to give myself up to the Marquis. You may guess
what that will mean.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Before I go, allow me
to express my gratitude for your forbearance. You have saved my life. The
Duke would have killed me, for I should have made no resistance.”
“It was death for me to see you there, to suspect—but Mademoiselle will
forgive me——”
“There is no need, my good Éspiau,” said the Countess, extending her hand.
The old man kissed it like a gentleman. Indeed, I dare say, compared
to du Trémigon, and others that I had met in Paris, he was as fine a
gentleman as any of them.
“I should like to shake you by the hand,” I said.
“Monsieur honors me,” said Éspiau.
I didn’t know whether there was sarcasm in his voice or not, but we shook
hands vigorously.
“Mademoiselle,” I continued, turning to her, “there is but one thing for
me to do.”
“What is that?”
“To wish you farewell and to go as I came.”
“Wait,” said Mademoiselle, her hand on her breast. “I have something to
say to you.”
“At your service, Mademoiselle.”
“Éspiau, can you trust me further?”
“In everything, Mademoiselle,” said the old man.
He was a well-trained fellow, with as much tact as discretion. He bowed
to me, and I swear I couldn’t help it, I returned his bow as if he had
been an equal, and he marched out of the room as stately as a grenadier.
“Is there no way,” began the Countess hastily, “for you to escape du
Trémigon?”
“None.”
“I have money.”
“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “I shall take nothing from this room but the
recollection of your kindness, the consciousness of your worth, the sense
of your beauty.”
“But you will be imprisoned!”
“I have had this hour of freedom. The rest is nothing.”
“They will put you to death.”
“Without you, I do not care to live.”
“_Mon Dieu_, what shall I do?”
“If you could say—if you could let me believe—it will be but for a short
time—that, were the circumstances other than they are, you might perhaps
have cared for me, it will lighten the hours and give me something sweet
to dwell upon. It will make me indifferent to any fate.”
“Monsieur—I—I—” she faltered, her face aflame. She buried it in her hands.
I sank on my knee and seized the hem of her gown. Then I felt her hands
upon my head. I rose to my feet. I don’t know how or why, but I swept her
to my breast in an embrace. Her lips met mine.
“No more,” she said, pushing me away. “I have gone too far already. You
must not go to him now.”
“I am in heaven already, Mademoiselle, and death cannot alter the fact
that you return my love.”
“But you will not go to him?”
“I must.”
“No!”
She stooped, and before I knew what she was about, she took off one of
her dainty slippers—warm from her little foot—and placed it in my hand.
“Give that to him,” she said; “you will be free and I shall know how to
protect myself.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“In pity leave me! Go!”
I could not resist that. Besides, after a warning cough Éspiau thrust his
head through the door and said quickly:
“Someone comes! You must hasten!”
I kissed her hand, and with one backward glance tore myself away.
V
THE SLIPPER IS RETURNED
To scramble down the ivy was the work of a few seconds. The faithful
Bucknall was waiting. Without a word we bounded across the park and the
bribed turnkey let us out. As for me I was treading on air. I had never
been so happy since I was a boy. Never would she have given me that
little slipper, against which my heart throbbed madly, if I had been
indifferent to her. Did I intend to give it to du Trémigon? Never! I
should let him do his worst. Something would happen. I should get out of
it in some way.
When we reached the inn we found our horses ready. After we were safely
mounted old Bucknall broke the silence.
“Did ye git it, yer honor?” asked the old sailor.
“Get it, Bucknall? Do you remember me telling you of the lady whom I
saved from highwaymen on the road to Paris?”
I had to tell someone. It would have killed me not to have been able
to confide in a soul, and Bucknall was faithful and devoted beyond the
ordinary.
“I remembers it well, sir.”
“She was the lady in the house yonder.”
“You don’t say so, sir!”
“I love her, Bucknall!”
“Then ye didn’t git it?” said the old salt coolly.
“Get it? Of course, I got it. It’s in my waistcoat, over my heart.”
“You’ll give it to the Markis?”
“Never! I’ll keep it until the day of my death.”
“That’s likely to be pretty soon, yer honor, if wot ye say is true.”
“I can’t help that. I wouldn’t give it to that lying hound to purchase my
life. When I die I wish it buried with me.”
And then I told him squarely what a scoundrel the Marquis was and how he
had befooled me about Mademoiselle’s desires.
“Wot are ye goin’ to do, ef I might ax yer honor?”
“I’m going to du Trémigon and tell him I refuse to do his bidding and let
him do his worst.”
“Wot’ll he do?”
“Clap me into prison, I suppose.”
“Hadn’t we better cut an’ run fer it right now?”
“I can’t. He has my word of honor that I would report the success or
failure of my mission.”
“I guess he ain’t troublin’ hisself about honor, is he?”
“I suppose not.”
“W’y should you, sir?”
“That’s the disadvantage a gentleman labors under in dealing with a
scoundrel.”
“I see. Hev ye thought that ye’ll be sarched by the police an’——?”
“By Jove!” I interrupted. “That’s so.”
“An’ wot ye’ve got’ll be tuk from ye?”
This was a new complication. I had no doubt in that case that the slipper
would eventually fall into the hands of du Trémigon and my sacrifice
would avail nothing. What was to be done? I could think of nothing. I
had no friends in Paris whom I could trust except this humble sailor.
Unless I gave the slipper to him I should have to throw it away. In truth
I should never have taken it. It was a mad impulse that possessed the
Countess to give it me.
“Bucknall,” I said at last, “you are right. I cannot keep this slipper.”
“I think not, sir.”
“There is no one that I know in Paris to whom I can intrust it but you.”
“I reckon not, sir.”
“Here it is,” I said. I am not ashamed to say that I kissed it before I
gave it to the sailor. It was dark and he could not see, but if it had
been broad daylight I should not have cared.
“Wot am I to do with it, sir?”
“I want you to do it up carefully in a package. Put the best wrappings
about it and tie it up shipshape. Leave it at the American minister’s
for Dr. Franklin when he comes back, which should be tomorrow or next
day. You can get someone there to address it to my father’s plantation.”
I gave him the address and made him repeat it many times until he had it
letter-perfect.
“Now,” I said, “you must leave me and shift for yourself. Here”—I reached
my hand in my pocket and took out the money that du Trémigon had given
me. I might as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb, I reasoned, and
I passed it all over to the faithful sailor. “You speak passable French,”
I continued—he had picked up enough of the language in his Mediterranean
cruises to make himself understood—“keep yourself close until you see the
American minister. Tell him of my plight and perhaps he may be able to do
something. At any rate see that he forwards the package. You need not say
what’s in it.”
“What about my hoss, sir?”
“Give me the rein.”
“An’ I thanks God to get off’n him,” returned Bucknall, sliding to the
ground with great alacrity. “And, harkee, Master Burnham, ye ain’t seen
the last of me, yet, sir. I’ve got a few idees in my ol’ head, sir, an’
don’t you git ready for death too suddint like.”
He turned and was gone.
A short time brought me to du Trémigon’s house. He was waiting for me,
wellnigh consumed with anxiety and curiosity. I do not care to go into
the details of our interview that night. Suffice it to say, I felt
entirely free to express my opinion of him and that I did so without let
or hindrance. Of course, he carried out his part of the program, and at
daybreak I found myself in prison facing charges of highway robbery and
debts amounting to many thousand francs.
But I was happy. I had hope of the love of the Countess and I didn’t
care a rap for anything else. I felt that somehow, in some way, I should
manage to get out. I was the most cheerful prisoner under such a heavy
charge that ever occupied a cell.
Confinement, I will admit, was a little wearing upon me. The first day
passed, and then a second, without a sign from anybody. My examination
was set for the morrow. The turnkey who brought me my supper slipped me
a note. I was hungry enough—for the prison fare was scanty—but the note
claimed my attention. It was in a woman’s hand, of course, and could come
only from her, although it bore no crest and was not signed.
The turnkey and the under-governor of the jail are bribed.
Tonight, after supper, you will be removed to another cell.
This overlooks the street. The bars of the window have been
arranged so that they will come out at a touch. When the
clock in the nearby church strikes twelve, a messenger and
a horse will await you in the alley.
The note stopped there, and then a few words had been added apparently as
an afterthought:
These presents from one who cares much what happens to you.
If you have been in a like situation you can guess what happened then.
When I was calmer I put the note carefully in my pocket and fell to
my supper. I knew that I should need all my strength, and I was of a
practical turn of mind even in the midst of my most romantic dreams. I
had scarcely finished the poor provender when the turnkey re-entered.
He was followed by a couple of other officials. The turnkey in a harsh
manner, as if to impress the others, although he winked knowingly at me,
said:
“By the order of the commandant you are to be transferred to another
cell.”
“I do not wish to be transferred,” I returned hotly, to keep up the
deception; “this cell suits me very well, and I am satisfied to remain
here.”
“Your wishes are not consulted in this matter,” he returned roughly.
“You villain!” I cried, menacing him.
“Have a care,” he answered; “if you don’t go peaceably we’ll have to take
you by force. Here, men!”
His two assistants stepped forward. I concluded that I had done enough,
so, grumbling mightily, and giving evidence of my displeasure, I suffered
them to lead me to the other cell, where I was soon locked in for the
night. With what impatience I waited for the appointed hour!
At the first stroke of the bell I was at the window. The bars came out in
my hand. Someone had chiseled out the mortar and replaced it with putty.
I gained the sill and dropped. It was a long fall, but I was delighted
when I alighted upon a truss of hay, which had evidently been thrown at
the foot of the wall on purpose to receive me. I scrambled up and looked
about. A man approached me. He had a weapon. I was without arms, and
although I stood ready to spring, I had no doubt he was a messenger.
“Monsieur Burnham?” he asked.
“The same.”
“Come with me.”
I followed him down the narrow street on tiptoe. So far as I could see it
was entirely deserted. The street opened upon a little park or square.
Under the trees I made out horses. There were three of them. A figure sat
upon one. My heart leaped into my mouth as I discerned it to be a woman.
One of the horses was turned over to me. My conductor took the third,
first handing me a hat and cloak. Then he turned and, indicating that we
should follow, made his way into the street. On account of the lateness
of the hour, and the fact that the jail was in a remote and unfrequented
portion of the town, the street was dark and empty. We passed a lantern
presently and its rays fell upon the woman who had persistently avoided
conversation with me. Under this light, although she wore a mask and was
shrouded in a cloak, I knew that it was the Countess. Nothing could stop
me then. I swung my horse in toward hers and laid my hand on her arm.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is to you that I owe my freedom.”
“Not yet,” she replied, but she did not shake off my hand, and we rode
side by side, the horses going at a good pace.
“First, you gave me something to live for—” I said.
“That was?”
“Yourself. Now you give me life to enjoy you.”
“Monsieur,” she said, dodging the issue, “we have but little time to
converse. I learned of your plight——”
“How, Mademoiselle?”
“From your servant, an ancient sailor. He followed you, learned where you
were imprisoned, and immediately sought me.”
“How did he get access to you?”
“He had a—talisman, Monsieur, that insured him an immediate hearing.”
I was completely puzzled, but Mademoiselle gave me no time for thought.
She went on hurriedly:
“I bribed the commandant and turnkey. I provided these horses. The man
ahead of us is——”
“Éspiau!” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He will conduct you out of France.”
“And you came, Mademoiselle——??”
“To say farewell.”
“Never!” I cried. “I will leave France, Mademoiselle, but not alone.”
“You mean?”
“I take you with me.”
“Impossible!”
“But do you not love me?” She was silent. “Would you have done all this
for me if you had not?” I persisted.
“Gratitude, Monsieur, for services rendered, and——”
“Nonsense!” I said, laughing, “you know that you care. Why, I have lived
in the prison upon the memory of that——”
“You are cruel, Monsieur.”
“Is it cruel for a man who loves a woman to take the woman, if she loves
him, away with him?”
I was young and reckless. I didn’t care what happened. I swung my horse
in closer to hers and slipped my arm around her. She struggled, but in
despite of her struggles I kissed her. Her head sank on my shoulder.
“Don’t!” she whispered. “You are so strong. I cannot let you go——”
That was a wise pair of horses, for they stopped while I poured out
my soul to her there and then. What her answer might have been I know
not. Yet I was prepared to take her away by force when we were suddenly
alarmed by Éspiau. He had ridden ahead a few paces; now he came back on
the run.
“Soldiers!” he said hastily. “The King’s guard! We must flee!”
“Monsieur,” said the Countess, quickly releasing herself and thrusting a
little parcel into my hand, “here is the talisman. Go! unless you wish to
disgrace me. Éspiau and I will remain here.”
She had right on her side. We must not be found together. To assist in
the escape of a prisoner, charged with a capital offense, was a serious
matter. I swerved my horse and started away. But I had not gone ten paces
before a heavy hand seized my horse’s bridle and a stern voice bade me
stand in the King’s name. Lights appeared on the instant and I saw that
I was surrounded. I cast one glance backward at the Countess and Éspiau.
They, too, had been arrested. It was a trap! The whole party had been
caught. Back of the men who had stopped us I noticed a single horseman.
“Have you got him?” he said as he drew near.
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc.”
I recognized his voice. It was Mademoiselle’s grandfather!
“Take him to my house,” said the old man shortly.
The next moment du Trémigon spurred through the throng. It was he who
with the remainder of the King’s guard had apprehended Mademoiselle and
Éspiau. He shot one venomous glance at me, in which triumph was mingled
with hate, and approached the Duke, whispering a few words. I saw the
old man start violently; a look of anger and dismay crossed his face—the
Marquis spoke earnestly for a moment or two. The Duke nodded—unwillingly,
I thought. The next moment he left us and rode forward with du Trémigon
to the side of his granddaughter. I stared after them in despair.
“Where am I to be taken?” I asked one of the officers commanding the
escort that had seized me.
“Back to prison.”
“And not to the Duke’s house?”
“An oubliette will doubtless be safer and more comfortable quarters for
Monsieur,” said the captain politely, giving the order to march.
* * * * *
Fortune had been both kind and unkind to me once more. On the whole I
judged, as I lay in the darkness of the damp, wretched dungeon from
which no escape seemed possible, that the balance was on the side of
kindness. I had had a breath of fresh air. I had further evidence that
the woman I loved loved me. I had come near to freedom with her. And
I had the talisman which Bucknall had shrewdly used to gain access to
her. I could feel it in the darkness, for I had unwrapped it. It was the
slipper—my lady’s slipper that had caused all the trouble! As I pressed
it passionately to my lips I felt the crackle of paper inside. A letter!
What would I have given for a light by which to read it!
Ah, yes, things looked black to me, but I blessed fortune nevertheless—on
my own account, that is. I was filled with anxiety as to what would
happen to the Countess between her grandfather and du Trémigon. There
was one other matter, which gave me grave concern. When du Trémigon
rode up to the Duke he had been followed by a servant on horseback, a
particularly vicious-looking man with one eye. The light was not clear
and I was not able to see distinctly. Yet I recognized him. Where I had
met him, under what circumstances, I could not at first decide, but in
the darkness of that dungeon all came back to me. He was the man whose
wrist I had broken with my cudgel, when Mademoiselle had been attacked.
He was evidently the leader of that assault upon her. She had spoken of
the Queen’s despatch. Could it be that du Trémigon had instigated the
attack? It must have been the case. I decided that the fact itself was of
great importance, and that possibly I might use it in case of necessity.
VI
THE SLIPPER GOES TO COURT
I got through the night somehow. The next morning—I knew it was morning,
because some faint light had filtered through a slit near the roof, the
most eventful day in my life, which had not been without its surprising
incidents—was ushered in by a visit from the commandant of the prison.
Why he honored me with his personal attention was not obvious, though I
learned later that it was on account of an order of the Queen. Curtly
enough he bade me follow him, which I did, nothing loth. Anything was
better than the cursed oubliette.
I fancy that I must have presented rather a sorry figure, for he was
good enough to show me into a small room where there were some toilet
conveniences, and I made myself as presentable as possible. Fortunately,
my clothes—I had resumed my own, when I returned to du Trémigon—were of
good material and a perfect fit, and I was rather proud of my figure,
too. While there I read the note in the slipper. It was small, like the
container, but very sweet to me:
Monsieur, [it said], to see you again I come with Éspiau
tonight. I bid you an eternal farewell and write what I
dare not speak—I love you!
An eternal farewell, eh? I would have something to say about that, I was
resolved.
My hat and cloak—that Mademoiselle had provided me with the night
before—were fetched, and after a good breakfast, which seemed to have
been brought from his own table, he conducted me to a closed carriage and
I was driven a long distance through the country, arriving at last at a
place that I afterward found to be Versailles.
I tried several times to converse with my guards, but neither would talk
to me. I resigned myself to whatever was coming, therefore, and busied
myself with thoughts of Mademoiselle. I had been to Versailles seeking
Dr. Franklin, but had never seen the royal palace. Consequently I did not
recognize it when the carriage stopped and I was led forth. I supposed
that it might be one of the residences of the great Duc de Rivau-Huet.
Before I had time to speculate, however, I was blindfolded and led
through numberless corridors, up and down flights of stairs, in rooms and
out in bewildering succession. I made no resistance. It would have been
useless, and the officers who brought me thither informed me that no harm
was intended. Finally we stopped, hands fumbled at the bandage, and I
opened my eyes to find myself in a magnificent apartment—an antechamber
of some sort, evidently. It was void of people, save ourselves and a
sentry in the uniform of the Swiss Guards at the door at the farther end.
Running my hand through my hair with the natural instinct of a young man,
and shaking myself as if to free my person by the motion, at a gesture
from my guide I stepped boldly to the door. The Swiss presented arms, the
official tapped on the door and stepped back, a voice I recognized bade
me enter, and in another moment I was in the presence of Mademoiselle.
She was standing near the door. I took one step toward her and fell on my
knees, when a scandalized voice exclaimed in my ear:
“Monsieur, do you not see the Queen?”
“I do,” I answered, without taking my eyes off Mademoiselle, “and I kneel
to her with all the homage of my heart.”
Mademoiselle blushed vividly and stepped aside.
“She means the Queen of France, Monsieur,” she said softly.
As I knelt there, my eyes fell upon a young woman—she was only
twenty-four—seated farther off at the opposite side of the room, a
beautiful woman with a fresh, sweet, innocent face, with nothing
especially regal about her, that I could see. I knew in a moment that
this was Marie Antoinette. Such was my astonishment, however, that I
remained kneeling, my mouth open, in great surprise. Her Majesty was
pleased to laugh. She laughed as merrily as a girl.
“Make your homage to the Queen of France, Monsieur,” exclaimed the
elderly woman who had spoken to me first, evidently one of the great
ladies of the Court.
“Your Majesty,” I replied, finding my wits at last, “I knelt as every
gentleman should, to the queen of his heart, and when she stepped aside
and revealed to me the queen of all hearts, I was unable to rise.”
“Perhaps, Monsieur, you have sufficiently recovered now to approach more
nearly the throne,” she said, pleased at my compliment.
She extended her hand to me. I got to my feet, knelt again before her
and kissed it. Queens are always beautiful, but I swear I would rather
have kissed Mademoiselle’s hand at any hour. However, I reflected that
the honor of America was in a measure committed to me, and I think I bore
myself worthily.
“Rise, Monsieur,” said the Queen graciously; “the Comtesse de Villars”—I
suppose it is bad manners to look at one woman when another woman is
speaking to you, especially if that woman be of royal blood, but I could
not help turning my head at her words.
There stood Mademoiselle more beautiful than ever. Indeed, I have
observed that she always looks better the more beautiful her background,
and Marie Antoinette might be Queen of France, but she was only a
background to Mademoiselle that morning.
“Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that you have rendered me a great
service.”
“If to love Mademoiselle de Villars,” I began, “with all my heart and
soul, be to render Your Majesty a service——”
“Nay, nay, not that way. I fear you would fain rob me of my fairest maid
of honor.”
“It ill becomes a gentleman to contradict a lady,” I replied quickly.
Again the Queen laughed. I was lucky evidently.
“What I meant, Monsieur, was that Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that
you saved her from assault, capture, I know not what, on the highroad
some ten days ago.”
“Your Majesty, I had that good fortune.”
“Mademoiselle de Villars was on my errand. There were papers I did
not care to intrust to any save the most intimate hand, which she was
bringing back to me.”
“I perfectly understand, Your Majesty.”
“I will not disguise the fact that had these papers fallen into the
possession of an enemy——”
“The Marquis du Trémigon?” I interrupted.
“Du Trémigon?” cried Mademoiselle.
“Why he, Monsieur?” asked the Queen.
“It was he who instigated the assault upon Mademoiselle, I am convinced.”
“How know you this?”
“One of the ruffians who menaced the lady was one-eyed. He wore a patch
over his face. I was lucky enough to break his wrist with my cudgel.”
“A strange weapon for a gentleman,” said Her Majesty.
“It is honored above my sword, in that it hath served Mademoiselle,” I
answered.
“You have a French twist to your tongue,” said the Queen. “Proceed.”
“I recognized the man in the Marquis du Trémigon’s following last night,
Your Majesty.”
“I know whom he means, Madame; I saw him, too,” said Mademoiselle. “I
heard Monsieur du Trémigon call him Babin. Strange to say, I did not
recognize him before.”
“That agrees perfectly with my recollection, Madame. I remember that the
man who ran away that day on the road called him by that name.”
“And you think the Marquis du Trémigon wanted these papers?” continued
the Queen.
“I am sure of it, Madame.”
“But why?”
“Your Majesty knows that he is a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle de
Villars. He hoped doubtless that if he could get the papers he might—”
I hesitated. It was an ugly word to say, yet the Marquis du Trémigon
had shown himself to me in his true colors, and I knew there was no
knavery he would stop at. “He hoped to influence you, and, through
you, Mademoiselle. By the terms of her father’s will she must consent
willingly to the marriage, else the contract is void.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the affairs of Mademoiselle,
Monsieur.”
“I intend, with your permission, Madame, to know everything about them in
the future.”
The Queen smiled.
“He is droll, this cavalier. He speaks like a Frenchman, and wooes like
an American.”
“Have I your permission, Madame?” asked Mademoiselle.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“It was the Marquis du Trémigon who betrayed us last night,” she said,
turning to me.
“Another score to be settled between us,” I said under my breath.
“He has a creature in his pay in my grandfather’s house, and through
him he learned my plan. He laid a very clever trap. Although he could
have stopped me at any time, he allowed us to go on, that we might be
caught in the act. Now he hopes to win my grandfather’s consent to this
marriage, and perhaps by that means force it upon me.”
“You shall never marry him,” I said, utterly oblivious of everything,
everybody, except Mademoiselle and that fact.
“And why not, pray, Monsieur?” asked the Queen.
“Because, Your Majesty, I shall marry her myself.”
“Indeed!”
“The word of a gentleman, Madame,” I said.
“But are you a gentleman?” asked Marie Antoinette. There was an accent
of raillery in her voice that robbed the question of its sting. “One
day you masquerade as a sailor. The next day you enter Mademoiselle’s
apartments”—she knew all, then!—“as a thief. Today you stand before me as
a criminal.”
“I plead guilty to every charge, Madame. I am a sailor, I am a thief.
Last night I would have stolen——”
“What, Monsieur?”
“Mademoiselle.”
“From her grandfather?”
“From the throne itself, Your Majesty,” I replied fervently.
Again the Queen smiled.
“Enough, Monsieur,” she said, rising; “I have exerted myself in your
favor. I had an order from the King to bring you here. I have requested
the Duc de Rivau-Huet to consign Mademoiselle to my care. I wished to
thank you for the service you have done me—to ask you to wear this in
memory of my gratitude.”
She drew a rarely beautiful diamond ring from her finger and extended it
to me. I kissed the hand and slipped the ring upon my little finger.
“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” I said.
“The reward scarcely equals your merit, Monsieur, and it does not even
approach your assurance.”
“Mademoiselle would make a craven bold, Madame.”
“Doubtless,” said the Queen. “And now we have the honor to wish you a
safe return to America.”
I looked at Mademoiselle. She had turned deathly pale. Her eyes were
filled with tears. Before my glance she lowered her head. My resolution
was taken at once.
“But, Your Majesty, I am not going back to America.”
“How, Monsieur! You contradict the Queen?”
“At least, I am not going back alone,” I added respectfully.
“Monsieur, believe me,” the Queen rejoined earnestly, “it is impossible.
The Duc de Rivau-Huet would never consent. He is one of the great nobles
of France. You——”
“I am a criminal, Madame, and respect no conventions save those dictated
by my own heart.”
I could swear that Mademoiselle gave me one grateful glance.
“Is that the custom of America?” asked the Queen.
“Of the world, Madame. When one loves as I, there is but one custom.”
“That is?”
“To give oneself to one’s mistress and to take her for his own.”
The situation was becoming impossible. It was fortunately saved for me by
the entrance of an equerry.
“Your Majesty”—he stopped and bowed low—“Monsieur le Marquis du Trémigon
would like the honor of an audience.”
“Monsieur,” said the Queen, turning to me, “you still persist in this mad
resolution?”
“Madame, I am determined in it. There is but one voice that can send me
to America—alone.”
“And that voice.”
“Is Mademoiselle’s.”
“Speak to him, Gabrielle,” said the Queen.
Mademoiselle turned and looked at me. Her lips formed a word; she drew
her breath sharply in, but no sound came.
“With reverence to Your Majesty, that word Mademoiselle cannot say.”
“Why not, Monsieur?”
“Because she loves me,” I answered confidently.
The Queen looked from one to the other of us. I only looked at
Mademoiselle. She could not sustain the concentrated force of two such
stares as ours. She hid her face in her hands.
“_Ma foi_,” said Marie Antoinette, with one of those quick changes of
mood which made her so fascinating, “it is even so. Before two such
lovers, I may be pardoned if I forget that I am a queen and remember only
that I am a woman.”
“May God bless Your Majesty for that!” I cried enthusiastically. “Does it
mean——?”
“That I am on your side, Monsieur? Satisfy me of what has been told me of
yourself this morning and we shall see.”
The look that she gave me spoke volumes. I was speechless with happiness.
To satisfy her, everyone, of my position would be easy. If only I could
get word to Dr. Franklin. He had been a friend of my father in the
colonies. He knew many people I knew, and if that mad little Scotsman
were here he would be on my side. The Queen gave me no time for reply,
for she turned to the equerry and said:
“I will see Monsieur du Trémigon. But wait one moment. Before he is
admitted, I wish you to go into that room, Monsieur Burnham. Leave the
door open and stand behind the arras. You”—she turned to the elderly
lady, who had discreetly withdrawn to the embrasure, and had been
carefully studying the landscape during the interview between the Queen,
Mademoiselle and myself—“Madame, will you ask the Duc de Rivau-Huet to
come into the small room where Monsieur Burnham goes and wait there until
I call him forth? Tell him I beg him on no account to give note of his
presence until he is summoned. Now”—she turned to the equerry—“bring
hither the Marquis du Trémigon.”
I bowed low to Her Majesty and lower to Mademoiselle, and entered the
apartment the Queen had indicated. The Duc de Rivau-Huet had evidently
been waiting, for a moment later he entered under the guidance of the
messenger and stood by my side. He did not know me, of course, but we
bowed to each other profoundly and then waited quietly.
A moment later we heard the Queen speaking.
“Monsigneur du Trémigon,” she began, “you wish to see me?”
“Madame, it is the constant wish of every gentleman in France.”
“Prettily said, Monsieur, and, as it happens, I also wish to see you.”
“Your Majesty honors me.”
“You come at an opportune time, therefore.”
“Any time that I can be of service to Your Majesty is opportune,” he
answered—the clever villain had a glib tongue, as he had a fine taste in
clothes, I could but admit. “I wish that Your Majesty,” he continued,
“could give me back my remark.”
“And what was that, Monsieur?”
“That every woman in France might wish to see me.”
“That would be an embarrassment of riches.”
“I should be satisfied if the one nearest Your Majesty cherished that
desire.”
He shot one glance at the Countess. I could see them by moving the
hangings slightly, and I didn’t scruple to look. The old Duke stood like
a stone, wondering why he had been brought here, and as yet unable to
comprehend the situation.
“You said that you wished to see me, Monsieur?” asked the Queen,
disregarding his last remark.
“My desire gives place to Your Majesty’s.”
“And my will claims precedence of yours, Monsieur. Proffer your petition.”
“Your Majesty, I love devotedly the Comtesse de Villars. We were
betrothed in childhood. The time for the carrying out of the contract our
fathers made has arrived. I crave Your Majesty’s influence to persuade
Mademoiselle de Villars to honor me.”
There was a certain amount of truth in the rascal’s words. I wondered if
he really loved her a little bit, or whether it was only to get her money.
“But Mademoiselle de Villars doesn’t love you, Monsieur.”
“With Your Majesty’s aid I trust I shall be able to teach her to do so.”
“I fear that task is beyond you or me, Monsieur du Trémigon.”
“Permit me in Your Majesty’s own interest to dispute that assertion.”
“How now, Gabrielle?” said the Queen, turning to Mademoiselle.
“I hate him!” she cried. I could see du Trémigon wince.
“You hear, Monsieur?”
“I hear, Madame, but”—he tore off the disguise now and spoke with savage
firmness—“Mademoiselle must marry me.”
“Must, sir! These are strange words to use to your queen.”
“I speak to a woman now,” answered the Marquis.
“Explain yourself.”
“Mademoiselle is seriously compromised.”
I could see the Countess start and clench her hands. The Queen motioned
her to remain silent.
“How is that, Monsieur?” she asked quietly.
“She received me alone in her apartments the night before last.”
“You coward!” cried Mademoiselle.
“Patience, Gabrielle,” said Marie Antoinette quickly. “You have proofs of
that assertion, sir?”
From where I stood with a backward glance I could see the old Duke.
He had his hand on his sword, his face was as white as death. He was
perfectly rigid. He had been told to remain where he was, however, until
he was summoned, and he would not move.
“You have witnesses?” continued the Queen.
“I have. I was seen to go through the gate at eleven o’clock. I climbed
to Mademoiselle’s window by the ivy. I remained in her apartment one
hour. It was this suit that I now wear in which I presented myself to
Mademoiselle.” He turned swiftly to the Countess. “Does not Mademoiselle
recognize it?” he said, with a triumphant leer.
She shuddered away from him. And indeed it was the one I had worn!
“You do recognize it, Gabrielle?” asked the Queen. Mademoiselle said
nothing, but it was quite evident that she did.
“Your story,” said the Queen composedly, turning to the Marquis, “is most
interesting, Monsieur, if it could be believed.”
“Out of consideration to one of your maids of honor”—I could have killed
him at the hateful emphasis he laid on that last word—“I hope I may be
spared the pain of public testimony.”
“You give me your word of honor that three nights ago you were in
Mademoiselle’s apartments?”
“I do.”
“Your word of honor as a gentleman?”
“Your Majesty has said it.”
“Oh, this is infamous—infamous!” cried Mademoiselle.
“And you, Countess, what do you say?” continued the Queen.
“It is a falsehood, a dastardly falsehood!”
A look of relief swept over the old Duke’s face then. His apprehension
gave place to a growing anger. I could realize how hard it was for him to
remain quiet beyond that curtain. As for me I would have given everything
on earth to go out and kill du Trémigon.
“You do not wish to marry this man—pardon, this gentleman—Gabrielle?”
asked Marie Antoinette.
“I would rather kill myself!”
“Monsieur du Trémigon,” said the Queen, “have mercy!”
“Madame, love has no mercy. I am passionately devoted to Mademoiselle.”
“And is that why,” asked Marie Antoinette, with a swift change of
manner, “that you set your man, Babin, and two other ruffians to attack
Mademoiselle on the road to Paris ten days ago?”
She drove her queries home with the directness of sword-thrusts. The
Marquis gasped, fell back, utterly dismayed. He moistened his lips and
strove to speak.
“I—I—I do not know what Your Majesty means—” he faltered. “I had a
servant called Babin in my employ, but I have discharged him.”
“You did not know,” said the Queen pitilessly, “that Mademoiselle was
carrying papers of infinite concern to me? Relying on your sense of
honor”—she smiled mockingly—“I tell you the truth. They were letters that
I had written years ago—silly, foolish letters, which yet might have
given me trouble. Mademoiselle volunteered to get them and bring them to
me. And you, Monsieur du Trémigon, having learned this in some way—oh, I
have fathomed the whole procedure,” she went on, rising and confronting
him. “You thought to get me in your power and force a consent from
Mademoiselle through her love for me!”
“Madame, I am innocent. I know no more about this than you have told me.
Babin has not been in my service for months. I know nothing about the
letters.”
“Do you swear it?”
“I swear it!”
The Queen struck a bell on the table at my side. The equerry presented
himself.
“Is Monsieur Éspiau there?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Admit him.”
In another moment the old servant of the Duke entered and fell on his
knees before the Queen.
“Rise, my friend,” she said, with that gentle grace, that benignity, that
ought to have endeared her to the whole of France, high and low, rich and
poor; “were you at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet on last Wednesday night?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Were you in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars?”
“I was, Your Majesty.”
“Between the hours of eleven and twelve?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Was the Marquis du Trémigon there?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And you would believe a servant’s word before mine?” said du Trémigon
furiously.
“We shall see. Call Monsieur Burnham,” she said to the attendant.
I did not wait to be called. I was through the door in an instant. Du
Trémigon started with additional surprise when he saw me.
“What do you know of this charge of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked the
Queen after I had saluted her.
“Your Majesty, I know that the Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel
between the hours of eight in the evening and one in the morning. By
no possibility could he have been in the apartment of Mademoiselle de
Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin was in his employ yesterday.”
“You hound!” cried du Trémigon, and then I stepped close to him. He
shrank back. I stepped nearer. The Queen might have interfered, but I
rather think she enjoyed it.
“You know,” I said, frowning at him, “that you were not in the apartments
of the Comtesse de Villars on that evening or any other evening.” He
opened his mouth as if to speak. “Not a word or I’ll kill you where you
stand!”
“Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously avoiding me, “will you condemn me
on the words of a lackey and a criminal?”
I started toward him again, but the Queen raised her hand. She looked at
the equerry again, an old and trusted attendant, upon whom she could rely.
“The Duc de Rivau-Huet”—she pointed to the door—“bring him here.”
The Duke was almost as quick as I. The curtain was torn aside and he came
in erect, with his hand on his sword.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed low before her, a graceful and gallant old
gentleman.
“Monsieur le Duc,” said the Queen, extending her hand to be kissed,
“you are ever welcome. As the head of the house to which the Marquis du
Trémigon belongs. I wish you to hear his charges and his denials, that
you may judge him accordingly.”
“I have heard, Your Majesty,” said the Duke, “and give me leave to say I
need neither the evidence of Éspiau nor of this gentleman—whoever he may
be—to convince me that the Marquis du Trémigon has lied.”
“And I tell you,” burst out the Marquis, “that this man is a common
thief, a highway robber and—” He pointed to me.
“Have a care, Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette quickly; “highway robbery
is a grave accusation. Was it on the road to Paris that he committed this
highway robbery? This is a most serious indictment. Look again. Think! Do
you press the charge? Do you really mean it?”
VII
THE SLIPPER FINDS ITS WEARER
“His Majesty the King!” cried an usher at the great door, throwing it
open. “His Excellency, the Minister of the United States, Dr. Franklin,
Commodore John Paul Jones, Monsieur Bucknall, sailor,” he added.
Into the room came the King of France, a stout, heavy-set, rather
stupid-looking young man. Following him I saw the familiar figure—I had
seen many portraits of him in public print—of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. By
his side—and it was a good sight for any eyes—walked the handsome little
daredevil of a Scotsman in his naval uniform, looking as cocky as if he
had been strutting on his own quarter-deck. And then—did my eyes deceive
me?—came the rolling form of worthy Master Bucknall. I blessed that man
in my heart. He had brought Mademoiselle to my assistance in the prison
and now he had completed his work by looking up Dr. Franklin and the
rest. Where he had found the Commodore I did not know.
I had heard he had recently arrived at L’Orient, but not that he had come
to Paris.
“Madame,” said the King, approaching the Queen who courtesied deeply
before him, “I wish you good morning. Ah, Duke, I am always glad to see
you. Mademoiselle de Villars, you are fit to stand before Her Majesty,
and I could pay you no higher compliment.”
I was amazed to hear this fat, commonplace, prosy-looking man speak so
pleasantly, but in sooth Mademoiselle, with her cheeks flushed, a little
sparkle of tears in her eyes, her head thrown back—well, any man of taste
would have recognized which was Queen of Love and Beauty in that room.
The King bowed shortly and coldly to du Trémigon and looked with some
interest at me.
“Monsieur,” said the Queen to her husband, “will you allow me to present
to you Monsieur Burnham, an American naval officer?”
I bowed low before the King. France was our ally and we hoped much from
her, and although we in America had cut kings and queens out of our
books, I felt it necessary for me to be politic.
“Dr. Franklin, you are always welcome,” continued the Queen, “even though
you do come garbed in sober gray to our gay Court.”
“Your Majesty,” returned the old Quaker gallantly, “I wear gray that it
may contrast the better with the high color of my admiration for the
Queen of France.”
“And this is our old friend, the Commodore. We are glad to have you back
at Versailles after your splendid fighting, Monsieur,” said the Queen,
dimpling with pleasure at Dr. Franklin’s compliment and giving her hand
to Paul Jones, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for this
recognition of his rank and station.
“To see you again, Your Majesty,” began the doughty little Captain, with
a shade too much fervor, I thought, “is better fortune than to capture a
ship like the _Serapis_.”
“You must tell me about that action, Monsieur.”
“I shall be pleased to attend upon Your Majesty at any time for that or
any other purpose,” he replied. “And if it were necessary to secure
entrance to your levee, _I_ would cheerfully engage to capture another
British frigate.”
The Queen laughed kindly at the little Captain, and then she stared
toward Bucknall, who stood shifting from one foot to another, twisting
his hat in his hand. She was a good-hearted woman and would fain neglect
no one—not even the humblest.
“And who is this?” she asked.
“Madame, give me leave,” I interposed. “He is a sailor to whom I owe
life, liberty and—love!”
“Looks he not like a cupid’s messenger?” queried Her Majesty, smiling,
and then the King broke in.
“Have you sent for the prisoner, Madame?”
“Your Majesty, he is here?”
“What, this gentleman?”
The Queen bowed.
“What have you to say for yourself, sir?” the King asked me.
“Much, Your Majesty. I am an American naval officer, as Commodore Paul
Jones can bear witness.”
“’Tis true, Your Majesty. He sailed with me on the _Alfred_, and a better
officer I did not have, and I say it who have a right to testify.”
“Good,” said the King. “Proceed, Monsieur.”
“I was captured with Captain Cunningham in the _Revenge_.”
“Give me a fleet, Your Majesty,” interrupted Commodore Jones, “and we’ll
stop all that.”
The King smiled and nodded to me.
“I escaped from a British prison-ship, robbed a gentleman in England, got
money from him, came to France hoping to find Dr. Franklin or Commodore
Jones. Neither was in Paris. I lost my money, fell into the hands of an
enemy, and was lodged in jail, whence I have been this morning brought
here by Her Majesty’s gracious interference.”
“How did you lose your money?” asked the King, quite as a father might
have spoken to his son. There was something pleasant about the plain,
homely man. I hesitated not a moment.
“I am sorry to say, Sire, that I gambled it away.”
The King shook his head.
“I can make good your loss,” he said; “but play is the curse of the young
nobles of my Court, and of all strangers who come to Paris, as well.”
“Your Majesty is most kind. When I can hear from America I shall be able
to discharge all my obligations, and I wish to say to Your Majesty and
before you all”—all meant Mademoiselle—“that I shall eschew play in the
future.”
“There were charges against you of highway robbery, I believe?”
“On information laid by me, Your Majesty,” broke in du Trémigon.
“But Monsieur du Trémigon withdraws the charges now. Highway robbery! It
hath an ugly sound,” said the Queen. “How is that, Monsieur du Trémigon?”
I never saw such a look of baffled rage and hatred as that on du
Trémigon’s face. He was completely powerless. The evidence against him
was too strong. He tried to speak, but there was no help for it. He bowed
at last.
“I am too much of a gentleman”—I have always been suspicious of a man who
protests his quality overmuch, by the way—“to contradict the Queen of
France.”
“Good,” said the King. “But there were some papers?”
“Monsieur du Trémigon lost them, unfortunately,” again interposed the
Queen.
“Very careless, I’m sure,” commented the King severely.
“I,” volunteered Dr. Franklin, “will be surety for Monsieur Burnham’s
debts to the Marquis du Trémigon.”
“The word of a gentleman so vouched for is sufficient,” said the Marquis,
raging in his heart, but helpless.
“I’d rather pay him the money, doctor, and owe it to you,” I said softly
to Dr. Franklin.
“Is it a great sum, lad?” whispered the Quaker aside. “Our exchequer is
running low. And, hark ye, that highway robbery in England. ’Tis hardly a
crime of which you could be convicted in France.”
Now, why had neither I nor anyone else thought of that!
“We will attend to the debt,” said the King, after a momentary
consultation with the Queen. “Now, gentlemen, no more of this.”
Of course when he put on his royal look and said that, there was nothing
more for me to do.
“Pardon, Your Majesty,” said the Duc de Rivau-Huet, who had noted all
that had occurred with ill-concealed impatience. “Monsieur du Trémigon
has another announcement to make.”
“What is that, Duke?” asked the King.
“Your Majesty is doubtless aware that my son and the father of the
Marquis du Trémigon entered into a contract that their children should be
married at a suitable age, provided they were both willing to carry out
the agreement?”
“I have heard so,” answered the King.
“The Marquis du Trémigon wishes, in the presence of these witnesses, to
renounce all pretension to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villars.”
“Your Majesty,” protested the Marquis in one last desperate attempt to
gain his end, “Monsieur le Duc mis——”
“I believe I am not mistaken, Monsieur,” said the Duke, very stately and
magnificent, with his hand on his sword—my heart went out to him—looking
hard at the Marquis.
“I am sure,” added the Queen in her silvery voice—and you would have
thought she were conferring the greatest favor in her power upon the
wretched du Trémigon—“that the Duke is right. Monsieur du Trémigon,” she
went on, with a woman’s spitefulness—but indeed I could not blame her,
“is no more desirous of marrying Mademoiselle de Villars than he is of
pressing the charge of highway robbery against Monsieur Burnham.”
Du Trémigon could not trust himself to speak again. He clenched his hands
and bowed low before the Queen.
“Furthermore,” continued the Duke imperturbably, “Monsieur du Trémigon
wishes Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw from Paris and retire to his
estates.”
“As the Marquis pleases,” said the King indifferently.
Had I been King I should have been consumed with curiosity to know what
this was all about, but His Majesty cared little about it, apparently,
for after turning his back on du Trémigon, who backed out of the room, he
said to Dr. Franklin:
“Now that we have settled this affair, doctor, I want you to look at a
lock in my cabinet that interests me greatly. Gamain brought it today.
Its mechanism is curious and complex. It will interest a scientific man
like yourself, I am sure.”
“I shall be glad to attend Your Majesty.”
“Give me leave, Sire,” again said the Duc de Rivau-Huet. “Your Majesty,”
continued the old man, standing very erect, “the Marquis du Trémigon
averred that he was in my granddaughter’s apartments until a late hour
the other night.”
“It is false,” said the Queen.
“Madame, I know that. What I wish to know is, who was there?”
“Monsieur! Before them all!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, startled beyond
measure by this surprising development. This unlucky speech in itself was
a confession.
“The King is the fountain of nobility in the land,” continued the Duke,
striving to regain his composure. “You are a maid of honor to the Queen,
Mademoiselle. That gentleman”—he pointed to me—“heard the accusation
and denied it. These are his friends. Here is some mystery. I wish an
explanation.”
“But, Duke—” began the King, with a puzzled look.
“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon. Even royalty may give place to the
feelings of a grandsire. Will you allow me to conduct this affair in my
own way?”
“Go on,” said the King.
“I am satisfied that the Marquis du Trémigon, whom I shall see later,
with the King’s permission——”
“I will give you a _lettre de cachet_ to the Bastile for him, if you
like.”
“Thank you, Sire. Monsieur du Trémigon was not there, but I insist
someone was, and I demand to know who.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Éspiau, you know?”
“I have nothing to say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the old servant,
turning pale.
“Will no one tell me?” cried the old man, grief in his heart, appeal in
his tones, shame in his bearing.
“I will,” I said boldly; “I was there.”
“You, sir!”
“Even I, Monsieur.”
“How dared you? What do you mean?” He put his hand to his heart. I
was nearest him. I stretched out my arm to help him, but he thrust me
away. “Answer!” he cried, imperiously forgetful of the King, the Queen,
everybody.
“It is very simple,” I replied quietly. “On my approach to Paris I had
the good fortune to be of assistance to Mademoiselle.”
“In what capacity?”
“She was set upon by three ruffians. I drove them off.”
“Whereabouts?”
I was ignorant of the road, but Mademoiselle came to my rescue.
“Near Paris, on the Versailles road, Monsieur.”
“Where was your escort?” queried the Duke.
“I was alone.”
“Alone on the Versailles road?”
“In my service, Duke,” said the Queen softly.
“Pardon, Your Majesty. That is sufficient. Proceed, Monsieur.”
“I fell in love with your granddaughter.”
“How dared you, sir; a beggarly——?”
“Monsieur Burnham’s patrimony includes rich land enough to make a county
in France,” deftly put in Dr. Franklin at this juncture.
“But in America—” said the Duke scornfully.
“The finest land the sun ever set on, Monsieur,” broke in Commodore Jones
hotly.
The King waved his hand for silence, and the Duke turned to me again.
“I sought your granddaughter far and wide, and at last found her at the
Hôtel de Rivau-Huet.”
I had a hard task to keep to the truth and yet make a satisfactory story.
“And was it at her invitation you entered her apartment?”
“Monsieur le Duc!” exclaimed the King hastily, in warning.
“Grandfather!” cried the girl, recoiling from the outrageous accusation.
“Sir!” I replied, with spirit, “the question is an insult to your blood!
I came unexpectedly, unknown, unwelcome—like a thief in the night.”
“You dared——?”
“It was a prank, a foolish trick; I have no excuse but my passion.”
“And you were alone with my granddaughter?”
“I was there, Monsieur le Duc,” said Éspiau.
“Then tell me the truth now, unless you forget your ancient fidelity,”
exclaimed the Duke, turning to the unhappy servant. “You saw this
gentleman there?”
I shook my head at him, but he was looking at Mademoiselle. Disregarding
my warning glance, she nodded. The seal upon the servant’s lips was
broken.
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” he said.
“And where was he?”
“In Mademoiselle’s—” he hesitated.
“Speak!” thundered the old man.
“Bedchamber, Monsieur.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” cried the Duke, his composure giving way at last. He
put his face in his hands with a movement singularly like that of
Mademoiselle a short time before.
Is it that Master Shakespeare in great crises voices the universal cry
of the human heart? For like the father of Hero in “Much Ado About
Nothing”—and indeed the whole affair was somewhat similar in my mind—the
Duke finally broke forth:
“‘Hath no man here a sword for me?’”
I have not the sentence exactly, but I give the sense of it, and I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart. But the love of the young is often cruel
to the old.
“My grandfather! my grandfather!” cried Mademoiselle, sinking to his
feet, “think not bitterly of me! This gentleman has told the truth. I had
but spoken a few words to him when you came. He did me a great service. I
concealed him.”
“Why?” groaned the Duke.
“I was afraid that you would kill him.”
“Afraid? What is he to you?”
It was a dreadful situation for a young girl. She had never told me in
so many words, although I was sure of it in my own mind, and to have to
declare it before all these men was indeed hard. Yet with a heroism for
which I can never be sufficiently grateful she said it.
“I love him!”
“You love him!” exclaimed her grandfather in amazement.
“Monsieur le Duc de Rivau-Huet,” I cried in my turn, springing to her
side, lifting her up, and slipping my arm about her waist, “I have the
honor to ask you to give me the hand of your granddaughter in marriage.”
“She is a countess of France,” replied the Duke. “The best blood in the
land flows in her veins, Monsieur.”
“I have some indifferent good in my own veins, Monsieur le Duc,” I
asserted, naming some of my mother’s people.
“Is this true, Monsieur?”
“I vouch for it,” said Paul Jones.
“Your Majesty,” said the Duke, turning to the King, but he got no help
there.
“If you will give your consent, Duke,” said Louis, “I shall not withhold
mine. Indeed, under the circumstances—”He paused significantly.
The Duke groaned and the gracious Queen came to our rescue again.
“Monsieur le Duc,” she said, stepping near him and laying her hand on his
arm, “think! Monsieur Burnham is a gallant gentleman. As good blood as
any in France flows in his veins. In America they have no kings, but they
are all princes. His Majesty in his kindness consents. This will cement
the union between the two countries against England, which is so dear to
think of. Will you sacrifice your pride if I ask you, and bless the pair
who love each other?”
“Madame, it is as you will,” he faltered. “I had cherished other dreams.
Still, there can be no higher degree than that of gentleman, after all.
No, though he sit upon a throne.”
“The royalty of virtue, the royalty of honor, the royalty of courage,”
said Dr. Franklin kindly, “make this marriage not an unequal one.”
“I am an old man,” continued the Duke; “this has been hard on me. Let the
young love have its way.”
“And you will forgive me?” pleaded Mademoiselle, approaching him nearer.
“Your Majesty will permit me?” asked the Duke. He took her in his arms
and pressed a kiss upon her forehead and blessed her.
“Sir,” he said, turning to me and bowing, “I hope to know more of you
before I commit this child to your keeping.”
“Now that all is settled for the second time,” said the King, greatly
relieved. “Dr. Franklin, Commodore, and you, Duke, will you come with me?”
“We attend Your Majesty.”
The four gentlemen bowed low before the Queen. The King bowed to me, Dr.
Franklin and Commodore Jones shook my hand. Our kindly minister made an
appointment to meet me later in the palace.
“You were lucky,” he said.
Indeed I realized that, for I replied: “Thanks to you and the Commodore.”
“Nay,” said the Quaker, smiling, “thanks to Mademoiselle herself, and to
your own ready wit.”
Then they left us alone with the Queen and Bucknall.
“It strikes me,” said Her Majesty, looking at the old sailor, “that
nobody has said anything about the part you have played in this affair.”
“Aye, aye, mum,” began the sailor in great confusion, “w’ich I means yer
honor——”
“‘Mum’ is delightful,” laughed Marie Antoinette.
“I was at me wit’s end wot course to lay this mornin’, an’ w’en as luck
would hev it I run into Commodore Jones in the street, jist in from
L’Orient—he never forgits a shipmate, ma’am, no matter how humble—an’ I
ups an’ told him about Mr. Burnham. He fetched me to Dr. Franklin, an’
you knows the rest, Yer Ladyship.”
“I shall not forget you,” said the Queen, lifting a well-filled purse
from the table and putting it in Bucknall’s hand. The old sailor was not
without a streak of gallantry.
“It’s the hand wot gives it, lady,” he said, “wot makes me wally it
more’n the gold pieces.”
“You will await Monsieur Burnham without the door,” she said, dismissing
him graciously.
“Monsieur Burnham,” she began as we three were alone, “you are a thief
after all. You have stolen the fairest jewel of my Court. I ought to be
angry with you, but—I am not.”
“I thank Your Majesty.”
“You will be very good to this daughter of France in your own land?”
“Madame, I will cherish her as the King his crown. Nay,” I added quickly,
“as I would cherish Your Majesty were I the King.”
“You pay me in pretty speeches.”
“They come, Madame, from my heart of hearts. After my country and my
wife, my sword is yours.”
She was gone. Of course I took Mademoiselle in my arms, and this time
there was no hesitation on her part in returning my ardent caresses. I
do not know what we said or what happened. After a space—how long or how
short I cannot tell, for I took no notice of time or place—I said that
while we each had the gold pieces I regretted that I had no ring to slip
on her finger, nothing of my own to give her to bind the engagement. Of
course I could not give her the Queen’s diamond—yet! She was very close
to me and doubtless could feel what was in my breast-pocket.
“You have one thing,” she replied demurely, “that you could slip on.”
“What is that?”
“Have you forgotten the talisman?”
“The talisman?” I cried.
I am stupid sometimes, not often, and I was thinking so hard of her that
I did not catch her meaning at first.
“That which Master Bucknall brought you—that I gave back to you.”
“Oh!” said I; “the slipper saved my life; it gave me hope.”
“And hope gave you assurance?”
“And assurance won me you.”
She drew herself away and sat down in the Queen’s chair, and no royal
person ever became it so well as she. Then she fumbled at her shoe a
moment, and thrust out one dainty stockinged little foot at me.
“You might put it on,” she whispered, blushing vividly.
I am not ashamed to say that I kissed that foot before I covered it with
my lady’s slipper.
_Populism_
BY CHARLES Q. DE FRANCE
_Secretary People’s Party National Committee_
Populism is a term at which many eminently respectable but sadly
misinformed persons shy, like the staid old farm horse when he first
encounters an automobile on the road to town. They regard it as
synonymous with Socialism, anarchy, bomb-throwing, nihilism and half a
dozen other real or fancied evils. That it is simply a short expression
for progressive, radical or Jeffersonian Democracy has never occurred to
them.
Populism is a term which well illustrates the growth of language, the
evolution by which circumlocution is avoided and clearness of expression
attained. Yet, at the same time, it is an apt illustration of the power
of a subsidized press to create an erroneous public opinion.
Back in the early ’90s, when the People’s Party was being organized in
a number of Western States, there was considerable discussion as to
whether it should be regarded as a political organization on the usual
lines, or whether it should be a sort of league of independent voters,
free to choose and vote for such candidates, on any ticket, as might seem
best fitted to represent the interests of the different organizations of
farmers and wage-workers out of which the People’s Party finally evolved.
The Omaha National Convention in 1892 settled the question in favor
of regular party organization. It is true that there were intended
to be points of difference between the People’s Party machinery and
that of either old party; but these points were minor rather than
fundamental. The delegate convention was retained—which, to my mind, was
the one mistake made at Omaha. Until some system of direct nominations
is adopted, whereby every elector may have a vote direct—and not by
delegate, who may misrepresent him—I fear that as our party grows in
strength we shall more and more be called upon to combat the same
influences which dominate both the old parties. However, this is
digression.
With the advent of the People’s Party a difficulty was found in
describing a member of that party. A member of the Republican Party is,
of course, a Republican; and a member of the Democratic Party is called a
Democrat—but how designate one affiliated with the People’s Party?
The omnipresent and omniscient newspaper reporter, as usual, solved the
difficulty. His agnosticism applies to nothing except the word “fail.”
And with him circumlocution and criminality are almost synonymous.
It would never do to be ringing the changes on “an adherent to the
People’s Party,” or “one affiliated with the People’s Party”; hence, it
was not long before we began to see the word “Populist” used in verbal
descriptions of what the cartoonist invariably depicted as a “one-gallus”
man, armed with fork or rake, and blessed with a hirsute adornment truly
Samsonian.
Applied as a term of reproach, yet responding to the inexorable law which
compels men to follow along the lines of least resistance, the word
“Populist” came to stay. It stuck, just as the term “Methodist” did—or
“Christian,” for that matter. From “Populist,” descriptive of the man,
to “Populism,” designating his political belief, was an easy step—and
now, after fifteen years of abuse, ridicule, vituperation and gross
misrepresentation, the great middle class is just beginning to get a
clearer view and to discover that Populism is the only logical answer to
the question, “What shall we do to be saved from economic ruin?”
Populism is neither Socialism nor anarchism. It is neither idealistic
nor materialistic. It is neither collectivistic nor individualistic. It
is essentially eclectic. It recognizes the good in all the schools of
political and economic thought and attempts to eliminate the weak or
bad—but refuses to be bound by any.
Populism recognizes the fact that we must work with the world as it
is now—and not as some Utopian dreamer conceives it ought to be. It
recognizes the fact that private ownership of productive property is not
only the rule all over the world—but also that the people like it. It
recognizes the Socialists’ “economic determinism”—that man’s economic
needs usually dominate when they clash with his ideals—yet is not
unmindful of the fact that all progress is the result of ideals forcing a
change in the environment. Were it not so, man would still be an arboreal
ape, chattering aloft in some palm tree.
Populism recognizes that man is a social animal, yet combats Socialism
for subordinating the individual to the collectivity, and combats anarchy
for subordinating the collectivity to the individual. It is the golden
mean between these extremes.
Although Populism lays no claim to being either a “science” or a
“philosophy,” yet it has the only definite program of any party today
before the American people. It has a yard-stick by which all things may
be measured, whether they be burlap, fustian, woolen, silk or some new
weave of spider-web. This yard-stick is—
EQUAL RIGHTS TO ALL, SPECIAL PRIVILEGES TO NONE.
Every fair-minded man is willing to have his economic cloth measured by
that yard-stick. Only avaricious rogues object.
The Republican Party is committed to the practice of giving special
privileges to a favored few. It is essentially a party of paternalism.
The protective tariff is paternalistic. The railroad franchise is
paternalistic, and land grants, and bonds, and subsidies. The national
banking laws are paternalistic—and so, too, deposits of public revenues,
and rentals on public buildings sold but never paid for. The net effect
of all Republican legislation is to arm the possessors of great wealth
with some sort of taxing power, whereby they may absorb still more wealth
without rendering an equivalent. Incidentally, it is true, some measure
of prosperity may come to the more humble possessors of property—but the
general trend is beyond question plutocratic.
The so-called Democratic Party need not be considered here. It has no
fixed policy for more than eight years at a time—except to be “agin’ the
government.” It is the party of negation.
The Socialist Party presents the anomaly of a party with an elaborate
“scientific” system of societary evolution, an excellent interpretation
of history, and forecast of the supposedly final form which society will
assume—yet without a program or hint of the specific manner in which
industry will be carried on under “the collective ownership of all the
means of production and distribution, with democratic management by
the workers engaged in each industry.” It is admitted that we have no
right to ask for prophecies—but we have a right to see a rough draft
at least of the new building which is to be erected after the social
revolution has torn down the old edifice. It is true that a few so-called
Socialist papers pretend to tell us what will be “under Socialism”—vague,
Utopian—pardon the term—“pipe dreams”; but none of them will give
even an outline sketch of how collective industry might be carried on,
preferring to hide behind the excuse that “we’ll cross that bridge when
we reach it.” Alas! The bridge might happen to be washed out by the
floods of social revolution.
Being an extreme on the side of materialism as opposed to idealism, or
collectivism as opposed to individualism, Socialism is quite impossible
as a scheme of government. Besides, the “materialistic conception of
history,” upon which Socialism bases its prediction of the co-operative
commonwealth, is not wholly scientific, because it fails to consider
what changes may be wrought by invention. In a general way, it may be
said that the invention of gunpowder destroyed feudalism, and that the
discovery of steam power and its application to manufacturing broke up
the guild system of masters, journeymen and apprentices, and ushered in
the present wage system. Who has the hardihood to prophesy what an Edison
may not do in the years to come, or to foretell what the effect may be?
The program of Populism is at once radical and conservative. It is
radical, because it goes to the root of the difficulty and will effect
a profound change. It is conservative, because it will enable the
great mass of wealth producers to conserve what they now have and what
they produce in future, by exempting them from the legalized robberies
committed by railroads, banks, trusts and other forms of predatory wealth.
Populism, recognizing the institution of private property, and the
people’s veneration and love for it, looks back over history’s pages and
sees two things which, up to the recent past, have always been regarded
as prerogatives of the state. One is the coinage, issue and control of
money; the other, the ownership and control of highways.
Under the term “money” we may properly include all those modern
makeshifts which are armed with partial legal-tender power, or even those
without such power, if they generally perform the offices of money.
Without discussing it in detail—because thousands of volumes have been
written upon the subject without exhausting it—it seems quite certain
that if Congress is to really exercise its right—and undoubted duty—“to
coin money and regulate the value thereof,” there can be no “free”
coinage of either gold or silver; and the Government must go into the
banking business.
Under the term “highways” we may properly include railroads, canals,
telegraphs, telephones, expresses—in short, all means of transportation
and communication.
Most of the trust oppressions grow directly out of private ownership
of the means of transportation and transmission of intelligence—the
highways—and the private issue of money. Populism asks that these great
evils be corrected—and that the individual be allowed to conduct his own
private business with the least possible interference by government.
There will always be work for the reformer; but wisdom dictates that the
greatest evils be first eliminated, so that many of a minor character may
be allowed to correct themselves.
_To Roosevelt_
Our hero is a man of peace,
Preparedness he implores,
His sword within its scabbard sleeps,
But, mercy! how it snores!
_The Regalia of Money_
BY ALEXANDER DEL MAR
[Mr. Del Mar’s career as a financial writer covers a period
of more than half a century. He was the financial editor
of the Washington _National Intelligencer_, the New York
_Daily American Times_, _Hunt’s Merchants’ Magazine_, _The
Social Science Review_, _The Leader_, _The Commercial
and Financial Chronicle_, and other journals of national
importance. After filling the offices of Director of the
Bureau of Statistics, Commerce and Navigation, Commissioner
to Italy, Holland and Russia, member of the United States
Monetary Commission, etc., he devoted his leisure to a
“History of Money in the Principal States of the World,”
“The Science of Money,” and other works relating to this
great subject, all of which have secured the approval
of the critical press of Europe and America and passed
through repeated editions, both in English and other
languages.—EDITOR.]
In the recent Presidential election the People’s Party inserted in
its platform a principle of such transcendent importance that, were
it generally understood, had its operation been brought home to the
great mass of the people, could its far-reaching consequences have been
portrayed so that everybody might observe them, it would have dwarfed
every other issue on that occasion presented to the country. As it was,
nobody, except the few gallant leaders of the People’s Party, paid the
least attention to it, and the election was decided upon other grounds.
That principle concerned the Regalia of Money, which the People’s
platform demanded should be restored to its rightful owners, the
Government, the people of the United States. It can be demonstrated that,
had this been done, many of the vexed questions before the country, such
as the Monopolization of Industries, the Financial Trusts, the Municipal
Ownership of Public Utilities, etc., would have been placed in a fair
way of settlement.
In a series of magazine articles, which contain much that has the
appearance of being exaggerated, untrue and vindictive, but which
also contain much that is true and susceptible of verification, Mr.
Thomas Lawson has been arousing the public to a sense of the dangers of
the Financiers’ System, the System by which the banks, the insurance
companies, the trusts and the Stock Exchange are employed by so-called
Captains of Industry to despoil the people. After explaining how the game
is conducted, he shows that even those who refrain from gambling on the
Stock Exchange, and who may have no financial transactions beyond keeping
a bank account or insuring their lives, are drawn into it, against their
knowledge and will, and robbed of all the fruits of their labor and
abstinence.
Lawson began his articles by accusing certain persons and putting up
bluffs; a mode of argument which he soon found was not convincing. He now
perceives that the fault lies in the System, and that at the bottom of
the System lies the subject of Money. The whole series of transactions
which, he alleges, have in the course of a few years taken several
thousand millions out of the pockets of the masses and transferred them
into those of a few cunning and unscrupulous operators, hung upon this
single question: Shall the Government of the United States exercise
its Regalia of Money or not? Mr. Lawson keeps up the interest of his
readers by promising them a remedy for the disorders he describes. Should
the remedy not include the regulation of Money, I hazard nothing in
predicting that it will prove an entire failure and delusion.
What is the Regalia of Money? Is it some new-fangled notion about the
coinage, some argument which turns upon the obscure meaning of Value,
some phase of the tiresome Silver Question? Nothing of the kind. The
Regalia of Money is a prerogative of government, familiar to every
jurisconsult; a well-known, clearly defined and necessary attribute of
Sovereign Power. It is laid down in all the great law books, in Budelius,
Grotius, Puffendorf, Vattel, Molinæus, Grimaudet, Wheaton, Martens,
and a host of other authorities. It is described as “a power which the
state reserves to itself, for its own safety and welfare”; the power
to create money, give it denomination and control its issues. Like the
power to make war, peace and treaties, and to establish uniform weights
and measures, it is called regalia, because it belongs to and must be
exercised alone by sovereign states, as a prerogative which is necessary
to their welfare, and essential to their autonomy, dignity and authority.
When the American Republic was established the Regalia of Money was
exercised by all of the Colonies which united to form the Federation,
whereupon, and as a matter of necessity, they all surrendered it to the
general Government, which, under the Constitution, alone has the power to
issue money and regulate its value or denominations. It was a misfortune
that when the Union was formed it was so poor that it was obliged to
tolerate the issuance of money by a private corporation, the Bank of
Pennsylvania. Out of that bank grew all of the so-called state banks
of a subsequent period, and out of those state banks, during the Civil
War, grew all of the so-called National banks. Every one of these banks,
both “state” and “National,” were all, and are yet, private banks, their
titles in every case being misnomers. It is not intended to say a word
against banks as guardians and lenders of money; on the contrary, they
are recognized as highly useful and even indispensable institutions. As a
rule, they are conducted by respectable and honorable men, and it cannot
be disputed that they have done much to promote the progress of industry
and the prosperity of trade. Whether they would have done more or less
in these directions had they not been permitted to usurp the Regalia
of Money, which act forms no necessary part of a banking business, it
is not proposed to discuss. Said Mr. Jefferson: “I have ever been the
enemy of banks; not of those discounting for cash, but of those foisting
_their own money_ into circulation, and thus banishing _our_ cash.” What
influence, whether for good or evil, which this usurpation of the Regalia
exercised in his day it is now too late to examine.
But the time has come when the relinquishment of the Regalia to the banks
can no longer be tolerated. The bankers have had a century of profitable
innings; the people now demand theirs. The state laws of incorporation
are so contradictory, loose and pliable that there have grown up under
them companies and institutions so constituted that, in combination
with banks usurping the Regalia, it is in their power—and this is what
Mr. Lawson has shown very effectively—to strip the nation over and over
again of its earnings, and eventually to absorb its entire wealth. It
is scarcely too much to say that unless the United States Government
resumes this Regalia, and absolutely prohibits the circulation of any
money, whether of metal or paper, not of its own immediate issuance, we
will find ourselves in the course of very few years hopelessly in debt to
a band of absentee millionaires, who, having shown us their heels, will
next show us their teeth.
It is not alone the people who are in danger of being impoverished by
the System, it is not alone that the Government will be jeopardized;
it is also that the banks, the insurance companies and numerous other
classes of trade corporations will themselves be drawn into the nets
that are being spread for them, nets strewn with their own bird-lime,
and delivered over to the scheming millionaires who are preparing to
plunder them. Mr. Lawson wholly neglects this phase of the subject. His
ardor is all for the dear people, to arouse whose righteous indignation,
he informs us, he is expending a fortune. Such reckless munificence,
on the part of a man who ostentatiously advertises himself as the
manager or director of several corporations, goes far toward indicating
the correctness of our position. It is not doubted that Mr. Lawson
sympathizes with the people and is anxious to point out the dangers
that threaten them. On the other hand, it cannot be supposed that he is
indifferent to the fate of the banks and other companies with which he is
connected. The fact is that, having thoroughly skinned the people, the
Captains of Industry are now prepared to skin the corporations, and that
it is going to skin them with weapons plucked from its victims. These
weapons are the notes which the banks have issued in defiance of the
Regalia of Money.
The banks will perhaps more fully appreciate the sort of people they are
dealing with if we interpolate at this point a few words touching their
humanity. The principal, almost the sole lever with which the Captains
of Industry are “working” this nation, is the issue of “National”
bank-notes, and the elastic feature conferred upon it by law. This system
was established by Salmon P. Chase, ex-Governor of Ohio, ex-Senator of
the United States, then Secretary of the Treasury, and afterward Chief
Justice of the United States; a man of the highest integrity, and perhaps
for that reason wholly incapable of coping with Mr. John Thompson and the
other Chevaliers of Industry of the last generation. It will naturally be
supposed that had this class of men the slightest taint of humanity they
would at least have taken care to honor the memory of their principal
benefactor. Well, we will show you how they did it. Judge Chase, after
serving his country in many capacities during a long lifetime, expired
in poverty and in debt; his daughter died of grief and starvation; his
grandchildren are at present living in very humble circumstances; his
personal effects, his books, even the petty keepsakes and trinkets of his
children, were exposed to the gaze of the vulgar and sold at a public
auction in New York to satisfy his creditors, the rapacious Captains of
Industry; while the body of this great but guileless man lies today in an
obscure churchyard, without a tombstone over it. Such is the humanity of
the Captains of Industry.
It is an essential part of the merry game which these Captains are
permitted to play that they shall always have in their hands the means
alternately to inflate and contract the currency, at any given point,
say, for example, New York. With the mints restricted to the coinage
of metal for private persons, and the hands of the Government tied
to a fixed issue of greenbacks, while their own hands are free, the
mischievous elasticity which they employ for the success of their
operations is easily acquired by getting command of the principal banks
of issue. The moment they press their fingers on this button the market
immediately responds by throwing its stocks overboard; and the moment
they release the button, up rise the stocks again. It is by means of this
simple mechanism that the public has been plundered, and that it is now
planned to plunder the companies. That there is no longer any art in the
trained motorman’s vocation is proved by the small wages he commands.
The art is in providing the power and controlling the mechanism which
drives the cars. In the Captains-of-Industry game the power is derived
from the elastic bank issues: the mechanism consists of certain banks and
insurance companies and the Stock Exchange. Given the power and mechanism
which these establishments furnish, any bandit could work the game and
have plenty of leisure to spare. The System is automatic.
In contemplating this scene of legalized robbery, euphemistically termed
“finance,” it will not do to lose our heads. There are banks and banks,
there are insurance companies and insurance companies, there are trade
corporations and trade corporations. They are not all alike. Some are
in the game, as vassals and creatures of the Captains; some are in it,
hoping, alas! but vainly, to outlive the Captains and profit by their
fall; while others are out of it altogether; good, sound companies,
safely managed and cautious to avoid contamination. The banks and other
companies last named will not suffer from collapse, they will always
continue to be solvent; but they will suffer from a forced conservatism
and from an unduly small share of business, until our deluded people wake
up and smash some furniture, or until the banks themselves recognize
the dangerous part which their own issues play in this pandemonium of
rascality. They will then be glad voluntarily to surrender them into the
hands of the Government.
If now it be asked in what manner will the opportunities of the Captains
for robbing the community be restrained or curtailed by substituting
Government money for bank-notes, the reply is that the beneficial effects
of such restraint will not arise so much from a difference in the money
as from a difference in the power to issue or retire it. And in a future
article will be shown, by practical examples, the difference between the
working of an elastic currency when such elasticity is controlled by the
Government, and when it is controlled, as it now is, by the Chevaliers of
Industry.
* * * * *
“My agency in procuring the passage of the National Bank Act was the
greatest financial mistake of my life. It has built up a monopoly that
affects every interest in the country. It should be repealed. But before
this can be accomplished the people will be arrayed on one side and
the banks on the other in a contest such as we have never seen in this
country.”
HON. SALMON P. CHASE.
* * * * *
“If it is possible to inaugurate a greater system of robbery of the
people’s money [than the state banks], that system has been inaugurated
in the present system of national banks. The money lost by the people
under the old system of state banks is a mere bagatelle when compared to
that which has been and will be taken from them under the present system
of national banks.”
HON. JAMES G. BLAINE (1880).
* * * * *
“Attempts to monopolize wheat, copper, sugar and other commodities have
been dealt with by writers and politicians as conspiracies against
society.
“But the monopolization of money, the medium of exchange, is strangely
regarded as essential to the welfare of society.
“And yet money monopoly is a monopoly of not merely one, but of all
commodities.”
ARTHUR KITSON.
_The Open Door of the Constitution_
THE NECESSITY FOR AMENDMENTS AND OUR FAILURE TO REVISE THAT
DOCUMENT BY THE METHOD SUGGESTED BY ITS FOUNDERS
BY FREDERICK UPHAM ADAMS
_Author of “The Kidnapped Millionaires,” “John Burt,” “Colonel
Monroe’s Doctrine” and “The Shades of the Fathers”_
The men who builded the Constitution were consumed by no senseless
adulation of their own handicraft. They were not possessed of the
delusion that they were inspired, neither did they dream that future
generations would search the record of their quarrels and selfish
compromises for the key which would enable them to solve problems as
they arose. They planned a document for the regulation of a people whom
they believed unfitted for more than a small share in the affairs of
government. They were not blind to its imperfections, but they assumed
that those who came after them would have the sense to remedy defects as
they developed under the operation of the system then timidly launched.
There is this justification for the worship of the founders of the
Constitution, viz., they had the common sense to revise and modify their
governmental charter so as to conform to new conditions—a trait or an
instinct of which hardly a trace remains in their descendants.
In the popular parlance of those days the proposed Constitution was
called “The New Roof,” and its founders urged the people to get under
it and keep out of the rain. It is difficult to address an appeal to a
people which prefers to venerate that roof on account of its antiquity,
rather than to repair the innumerable leaks and fissures due to decay and
to the gales and storms of more than a hundred years.
The man who venerates any work of human origin is an ass. His asininity
is exactly in degree with the smallness of the objects selected for
his veneration. The man who humbly lowers his eyes in contemplation of
a political constitution proclaims a lack of mental breadth fitted to
comprehend humanity or to understand the plain lessons of history, and
he has insulted the one entity worthy of veneration—the Maker of the
Universe.
In a preceding article I proved that the framers of the Constitution
distrusted the people almost to the point of hatred, and that they
deliberately planned to design a document which would give them the
semblance of popular rule but none of its substance. This is an
unquestioned historical fact. Its declaration may seem startling to those
who are confronted with the unvarnished truth for the first time, but
they will find it refreshing to study the real history of those days,
rather than ignorantly to worship demigods who never existed.
Immutable laws cannot be coexistent with progress. We should study the
past, not for the purpose of supinely imitating it, but with a view of
profiting by its mistakes. That government is best which avoids the
pitfalls of the past, exists for those who live today, and erects no
barriers for the generations that will follow.
For the benefit of those who still cling to the belief that
constitutional wisdom had its birth with Washington and his compatriots,
I take the liberty of quoting a few extracts from letters written by the
Father of his Country before and after the constitutional convention had
finished its labors. These utterances of Washington are trite and easily
understood, and since their authenticity is unquestioned, they possess as
much of inspiration as any wisdom coming from him or his colleagues.
These extracts are contained in letters written by Washington to leading
men of that period, urging them to give their support to the adoption of
the new Constitution, and he pinned his faith to one argument, as you
shall see. I commend to all idolaters of that document a careful reading
of Washington’s opinion of it, and his advice to them.
Shortly before the convention met he wrote a letter to John Jay, bearing
the date of March 10, 1787. The convention assembled May 14 of that year.
In that letter Washington said:
“Notwithstanding the boasted virtue of America, it is more than probable
we shall exhibit the last melancholy proof that mankind _are not
competent to their own government without the means of coercion in a
sovereign_.”
There is no occult meaning hidden in these words. Washington had no
faith in the capacity of the people to govern themselves, and did not
hesitate to say so. In this, as I proved in a preceding article, he was
in accord with the overwhelming majority of the delegates who composed
that convention. The question I desire to ask is this: Was Washington
inspired when he wrote those lines to John Jay, and if not, when did his
inspiration begin?
Let us see what he wrote after the convention had finished its work. On
January 12, 1788, he wrote to Mr. Charles Carter as follows:
“I am not a blind admirer (for I saw its imperfections) of the
Constitution to which I have assisted to give birth; but I am fully
persuaded it is the best that can be obtained at this day, and that it
is it or disunion before us. When the defects of it are experienced, a
constitutional door is open for amendments.”
There is nothing evasive about this, but those who now repeat such
sentiments are suspected of treason by fools, and of a lack of patriotism
by unthinking conservatives. On February 7, 1788, Washington wrote to
Lafayette and said:
“Should the Constitution which is now offered to the people of America be
found on experiment less perfect than it can be made, a constitutional
door is left open for its amelioration.”
We have made that experiment. Have we found the Constitution perfect?
Where is that “constitutional door,” and why do we not open it?
Writing from Mount Vernon in October, 1787, to Henry Knox, Washington
said:
“Is there not a constitutional door open for alterations and amendments?
Is it not likely that real defects will be as readily discovered after as
before trial? Will not our successors be as ready to apply the remedy as
ourselves, if occasion should demand it? To think otherwise will, in my
opinion, be ascribing more love of country, more wisdom and more virtue
to ourselves than I think we deserve.”
Dear Shade of Washington! You may have been inspired, but you were not
able to foresee the bigotry, the ignorance and the cowardice of your
descendants. In the language of Cicero, “we are so tied to certain
beliefs that we are bound to defend even those we do not approve.” We
are like the fools Montaigne describes, “who do not ask whether such and
such a thing be true, but whether it has been so and so understood.” We
know that the Constitution is full of errors, but all that we ask is
that we may be given the wisdom so to interpret it as to suffer as few
discomforts from its perpetual operation as possible. In the language of
Seneca, we believe in “not only a necessity of erring, but we have a
love of error.”
One more of the innumerable quotations of like purport from George
Washington will be sufficient. On November 10, 1787, he wrote from Mount
Vernon to Bushrod Washington and said:
“The people (for it is with them to judge) can, as they will have the
advantage of experience on their side, decide with as much propriety on
the alterations and amendments which are necessary as ourselves. I do
not think we are more inspired, have more wisdom or possess more virtue
than those who will come after us. The power under the Constitution will
always be with the people.”
I have been a fairly zealous student of American history, yet I have
never seen these quotations from the writings of George Washington in
print outside of the huge compilation of his documents and letters to
be found in well-ordered reference libraries. Certain it is that our
school children are not taught that such characters as Washington doubted
the absolute perfection of the Constitution. Certain it is that not one
man in ten thousand in the United States ever has had an opportunity to
consider our Constitution in the light of the facts presented in this
paper and in the one which preceded it.
The truth is that the people of the United States are unfamiliar not
only with the history of the formation of the Constitution, but the vast
majority of them do not know what it contains. Many of them confound the
Declaration of Independence with the Constitution. What is the “Open
Door” in the Constitution to which Washington repeatedly refers?
Before considering that, let us list a few of the abuses which the more
thoughtful admit exist under our Constitution. Ignoring all of lesser
importance I will name four, any one of which constitutes a menace to the
perpetuation of free government. These are as follows:
First, the election of a President and Vice-President under the absurd
and antiquated method provided by the Constitution, in which citizens
vote for electors, and the decision is made by the unit vote of states,
irrespective of the majorities cast. Under this grotesque system it
has repeatedly happened that candidates obtaining an actual majority
of the votes cast have been defeated by the minority. There is not one
valid argument in favor of the continuance of this unrepublican and
undemocratic elective monstrosity.
Second, the election of senators by the state legislatures, a system
which is the fountain-head of the corruption of American politics, and
which has given us a Senate, a large percentage of whose members owe
their selection to selfish private interests. The error of this system
has been so conclusively shown that there is no honest defense for it.
The founders of the Constitution designed it for the purpose of making
the Senate the citadel of patriotic wealth; it has degenerated into
a chamber in which the admitted representatives of vested interests
defend their masters against fair legislative enactments, and force
unfair compromises on the popular branch which constitutes the House of
Representatives.
Third, the equal representation of unequal states in the Senate. This
vicious compromise was made in the constitutional convention as the
price of the perpetuation of slavery. There was no justification for it
even at a time when this nation was no more than a federation of states.
Washington, Madison, Randolph, Morris, Franklin and every broad-minded
man in that convention protested against it, and their fame is tarnished
because they finally submitted to so cowardly and unfair a compromise.
Now that the logic of events has made this a nation, despite the
restrictive clauses of the Constitution, the dual participation of an
unrepresentative Senate is so grotesque that its continuance is fraught
with a danger which at any time is likely to precipitate civil war,
in the event that at some crucial moment this body shall exercise its
constitutional powers combined with those it has arrogated.
Unless the Constitution be entirely repealed, there is no way by
amendment to deprive any state of its equal representation in the Senate.
It is too much to expect that all of the corrupt boroughs which now hold
the undeserved dignity of statehood will relinquish the selfish advantage
bequeathed them by the unwisdom of the forefathers, but it is possible
to make amendments to the Constitution which will reduce the Senate of
the United States to a state of harmless inefficiency. It is possible to
preserve its form and extract its substance, and the people should set
about the task with no qualms of conscience. Great Britain showed the
way when she boldly reduced her House of Lords to a condition of docile
vassalage to the popular branch of her Parliament, and she was aroused
to this righteous act of retaliation by abuses which were of small
consequence compared to those from which we have tamely suffered. It is
possible, under the Constitution, to strip the Senate of its legislative
power, permitting it to retain its feature of unequal representation, and
reserving for it a chamber in which those who wish for the honor can keep
up the pretense of governmental power and prestige.
Fourth, the specific enumeration and limitation of the powers and
functions of the Federal Judiciary, including the Supreme Court of the
United States and all other courts authorized by Congress. This is the
paramount subject for constitutional amendment or revision. The founders
of our Government did not contemplate any such grant of power as now is
wielded by the courts. There is nothing in the document itself which
warrants the prerogatives which have been assumed by the courts, and
the records of the speeches and the proceedings in the constitutional
convention when the judiciary was under consideration contain no hint
that they were to be granted the power to annul a law passed by Congress
and signed by the President of the United States. Years passed before
the Supreme Court dared attempt such a step, and when it did Jefferson
scornfully ignored its mandate. Presidents as late as Lincoln have
declined to acquiesce in the interference of the Federal Courts, but
slowly and insidiously this branch of the Government has reached out and
grasped power, until today it is supreme in fact as well as in name.
The Supreme Court is the creature of the Presidents and is subject to
the direction of Congress, yet it has arrogated to itself the power of
overriding the will of the entire people as recorded by its Congress
and affirmed by its chief executive. If they are doing this without
warrant of the Constitution, the day will come when, in the inevitable
conflict between the court and the Congress or the President, or both
combined, there will be precipitated a question which will rend the
country with civil war. If they do this under the implied authority of
the Constitution, that document should be amended so as to preclude
their future interference with laws passed by Congress and signed by the
President.
As we exist today we are not a republic or a democracy, neither have we
a representative form of government. We are a “judiciary”—if one may
coin such a word. Ours is the only country on earth where an elective
or appointed judge presumes to wield the most autocratic power of the
absolute monarch, viz., the veto of a law passed and demanded by the
people. We have become so accustomed to this that we do not properly
realize what it means. We teach ourselves to acknowledge the “sacredness
of the judiciary” and to bow in humble contrition to any mandate
thundered from the Bench. We assent to the insane doctrine that there is
not enough of wisdom in a House of Representatives elected by 17,000,000
voters, combined with the check of an ultra-conservative Senate chosen
by forty-five state legislatures, and indorsed by the judgment and
responsibility of a President, to incorporate for our government a law
until such law has been affirmed by the majority of a Supreme Court.
If there be sense in this dogma, I am unable to see why it is not equally
just that a minority of the Supreme Court should not be empowered to
annul laws. Why does the Supreme Court cling to the inconsistent theory
that its majority possesses as much wisdom as its minority?
In a series of articles which I am now preparing, I am attempting to
discuss certain of these questions with as much frankness as I possess;
but the purpose of this paper, and the one which preceded it, is to
call attention to “the unopened door in the Constitution”—the one which
Washington repeatedly referred to in the passages from which I have
quoted. It is a difficult matter to arouse public attention to any single
amendment, no matter how important the subject may be. There is a reason
for this.
The people instinctively know that no one amendment can redress the
ills which now exist. They do not know how to go about a crusade for
constitutional reform, and most of them probably imagine that there is
no way in which it can be done. There is a way, a simple, practical
and legal way, and the political party which takes advantage of it and
conducts an intelligent campaign in its behalf will sweep all before it.
Here is “The Open Door of the Constitution of the United States,” as
contained in Article V of that document:
The Congress, whenever two-thirds of both Houses shall
deem it necessary, shall propose amendments to this
Constitution, or, on the application of the legislatures
of two-thirds of the several states, _shall call a
convention for proposing amendments_, which, in either
case, shall be valid to all intents and purposes as part
of this Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of
three-fourths of the several states, _or by conventions
in three-fourths thereof, as the one or the other mode of
ratification may be proposed by the Congress_; provided
that no amendment which may be made prior to the year 1808
shall in any manner affect the first and fourth clauses of
the Ninth Section of the First Article; and that no state,
without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal suffrage
in the Senate.
There is a door as wide as that of a church. It is the most liberal and
democratic feature of a document filled with restrictions, and Washington
and others were justified in assuming that we would have the sense to
walk through it, rather than to attempt to get in by scaling the walls
and crawling through a steeple window.
Our alleged progressive political platforms are of no value without a
demand for the revision of the Constitution of the United States along
some such lines as I have attempted to outline. It is idle to expect the
people to rally to the support of any reform, however badly needed, so
long as they have valid reasons to believe there is likelihood that a
bill in its behalf will meet the fate of the lamented income tax law. Why
ask them to shoot in the air when so broad a target is before them?
The wise thing to do is to attack boldly the unfair provisions of
the Constitution, and attack it with a fair weapon fashioned by the
Constitution. Such a campaign possesses all the elements of strength and
strategy. You are safe from the attacks of those who ever hide behind the
alleged sanctity of that document. You can turn their own weapons against
them. You are standing on the Constitution. You are following to the
letter the advice and wishes of Washington and others of his day.
The bulls and excommunications of the courts need not dismay you. Are not
they the creatures of the Constitution? Does anyone deny that there is a
possibility that the courts have gone beyond their constitutional powers?
Is it not within the province of the free people to amend a constitution
by constitutional means?
Again, a movement for any one of the reforms which are now pressing to
the fore would appeal with irresistible force to its advocates if they
knew that success at the polls would incorporate its provisions in the
organic law of the land. Those who believe that the best interests of
the nation will be conserved by more just systems of taxation, by direct
legislation, by the control or ownership of the means of transportation
and other measures in line with the logic of events, would know that
they were not fighting in vain if a victory with the ballot meant a
legislative victory.
I hold that the “Open Door” offers not only the one way to popular
triumph, but that success by it is certain and not difficult of
attainment. Our national structure totters because of an antique and
crumbling foundation. Rebuild it!
_To One Departed_
Sitting, apart in the café, under a glare of light,
Surrounded by wealth and beauty, I ponder here tonight.
’Tis down in old New Orleans and the Carnival is in sway,
There are music, jest and laughter—the revelry of the gay.
While sitting here alone, dear, midst all this merry throng,
The band begins to play, dear, our old, best loved song;
They call it, dear, “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” and oh, it brings to me
A longing deep to lay me down and rest, sweetheart, by thee.
I listen to the music and hear the chattering throng,
There steals o’er me a wondrous spell, again I hear the song
_As sung by you_, in the long ago, whose sweetness was so brief,
And now, alone, I sit here with your memory and my grief.
I have wandered over many lands in search of something true,
And now I know, my darling, I found it but in you.
I’ve searched afar for sweet content, and sought in vain for rest,
I know I ne’er could find it, dear, save on thy faithful breast.
Amidst this scene of life and mirth it is for you I crave,
I seem to stand a thousand miles away, beside your grave,
And see the stars that o’er it, there, a gentle vigil keep,
And kiss the flowers that wave o’er you, my sweetheart, in your sleep.
So, sitting here, surrounded thus by joy and beauty rare
With much to bring me happiness, and much to banish care,
I know that now and evermore, I’ll always love you best,
And learn to lie beside you, dear, to sleep—to sleep and rest.
My eyes grow dim with longing; my heart grows numb with pain;
I feel that you are waiting, dear, to clasp me once again.
My soul pines for the journey’s end, when I, too, shall be free,
And I’ll lie down to sleep, love, in the last long sleep, near thee.
BERNARD P. BOGY.
_According to Garfield_
STELLA—Would you marry a poor man?
BELLA—Yes, I would marry a beef magnate who only made two per cent.
_Pole Baker_
BY WILL N. HARBEN
_Author of “The Georgians,” “Abner Daniel,” etc._
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS
In a small Georgia town a friendship has grown up between
Pole Baker, reformed moonshiner and an unusual and likable
character, and young Nelson Floyd, who was left as a baby in
a mountain cabin by an unknown woman just before her death.
Floyd, in the face of many trials and temptations, has worked
his way up in the world and made a man of himself. Jeff Wade
appears at the store, in which Floyd has become a partner,
to avenge on him a rumored injustice to Wade’s sister. Pole
Baker’s tact prevents a duel by making Floyd see that the
unselfish course is for him to avoid a meeting. Cynthia
Porter comes to the store, alarmed for Floyd’s safety. On his
way home to his family Pole falls a victim to his besetting
sin of drink.
CHAPTER IV
It was Sunday morning a week later. Springtown’s principal church
stood in the edge of the village, on the red clay road leading up the
mountainside, now in the delicate green of spring, touched here and there
by fragrant splotches of pink honeysuckle and white, dark-eyed dogwood
blossoms. The building was a diminutive affair, with five shuttered
windows on either side, a pulpit at one end and a door at the other.
A single aisle cut the rough benches into two halves, one side being
occupied by the men and the other by the women. The only exception to
this rule was a bench set aside, as if by common consent, for Captain
Duncan, who always sat with his family, as did any male guests who
attended service with them.
The Rev. Jason Hillhouse was the regular pastor. He was under thirty
years of age, very tall, slight of build and nervous in temperament.
He wore the conventional black frock coat, high-cut waistcoat, black
necktie and gray trousers. He was popular. He had applied himself closely
to the duties of his calling and was considered a man of character and
worth. While not a college graduate, he was yet sufficiently well-read
in the Bible and religious literature to suit even the more progressive
of mountain churchgoers. He differed radically from many of the young
preachers who were living imitations of that noted evangelist, the Rev.
Tom P. Smith, “the whirlwind preacher,” in that he was conservative in
the selection of topics for discourse and in his mild delivery.
Today he was at his best. Few in the congregation suspected it, but if
he distributed his glances evenly over the upturned faces, his thoughts
were focussed on only one personality—that of modest Cynthia Porter, who,
in a becoming gray gown, sat with her mother on the third bench from the
front. Mrs. Porter, a woman fifty-five years of age, was very plainly
attired in a homespun dress, to which she had added no ornament of any
kind. She wore a gingham poke-bonnet, the hood of which hid her face
even from the view of the minister. Her husband, old Nathan Porter, sat
directly across the aisle from her. He was one of the roughest-looking
men in the house. He had come without his coat, and wore no collar or
necktie, and for comfort, as the day was warm, he had even thrown off the
burden of his suspenders, which lay in careless loops about his hips.
He had a broad expanse of baldness, to the edge of which hung a narrow
fringe of white hair, a healthful, pink complexion and blue eyes.
When the sermon was over and the doxology sung, the preacher stepped down
into the congregation to take the numerous hands cordially extended to
him. While he was thus engaged old Mayhew came from the amen corner on
the right, and nodded and smiled patronizingly.
“You did pretty well today, young man,” he said. “I like doctrinal talks.
There’s no getting around good, sound doctrine, Hillhouse. We’d have
less lawlessness if we could keep our people filled plumb full of sound
doctrine. But you don’t look like you’ve been eating enough, my boy. Come
home with me and I’ll give you a good dinner. I heard a fat hen squeal
early this morning, as my cook jerked her head off. It looks a pity to
take life on a Sunday, but if that hen had been allowed to live, she
might have broken a commandment by hunting for worms on this day of rest.
Come on with me.”
“I can’t, Brother Mayhew; not today, thank you.” The young man flushed as
his glance struggled on to the Porters, who were waiting near the door.
“The fact is, I’ve already accepted an invitation.”
“From somebody with a girl in the family, I’ll bet.” Mayhew laughed as
he playfully thrust the crooked end of his walking-stick against the
preacher’s side. “I wish I knew why so many women are dead set on getting
a preacher in the family. It may be because they know they will be
provided for after some fashion or other by the church at large, in case
of death or accident.”
The preacher laughed as he moved on, shaking hands and dispensing cheery
words of welcome right and left. Presently the way was clear and he found
himself near Cynthia and her mother.
“Sorry to keep you standing here,” he said, his color rising as he took
the girl’s hand.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all, Brother Hillhouse,” the old woman assured
him. “I’ll go on an’ overtake Mr. Porter; you and Cynthia can stroll
home by the shadiest way. You needn’t walk fast; you’ll get hot if you
do. Cynthia, I won’t need you before dinner. I’ve got everything ready,
with nothing to do but lay back the cloth and push the plates into their
places. I want Brother Hillhouse just to taste that pound cake you made.
I’m a good hand at desserts myself, Brother Hillhouse, but she can beat
me any day in the week.”
“Oh, I know Miss Cynthia can cook,” said the minister. “At the picnic at
Cohutta Springs last week she took the prize for her fried chicken.”
“I told you all that mother fried that chicken,” said the girl
indifferently. She had seen Nelson Floyd mounting his fine Kentucky horse
among the trees across the street, and had deliberately turned her back
toward him.
“Well, I believe I _did_ fix the chicken,” Mrs. Porter admitted, “but
she made the custards and the cake and icing. Besides, the poor girl was
having a lot of trouble with her dress. She washed and did up that muslin
twice—the iron spoiled it the first time. I declare I’d have been out of
heart, but she was cheerful all through it. Here comes Nathan now. He
never will go home by himself; he is afraid I’ll lag behind and he’ll get
a late dinner.”
“How are you today, Brother Porter?” Hillhouse asked as they came upon
the old man under the trees, a little way from the church.
“Oh, I’m about as common,” was the drawling answer. “You may notice that
I limp a little in my left leg. Ever since I had white swellin’ I’ve had
trouble with that selfsame leg. I wish you folks would jest stop an’ take
a peep at it. It looks to me like the blood’s quit circulatin’ in the
veins. It went to sleep while you was a-talkin’ this mornin’—now, I’ll
swear I didn’t mean that as a reflection.”
He paused at a fallen tree, put his foot upon it and started to roll up
the leg of his trousers, but his wife drew him on impatiently.
“I wonder what you’ll do next,” she said reprovingly. “This is no time
and place for that. What would the Duncans think if they was to drive by
while you was doing the like of that on a public road? Come on with me,
and let’s leave the young folks to themselves.”
Grumblingly Porter obeyed. His wife walked briskly and made him keep pace
with her, and they were soon several yards ahead of the young couple.
Hillhouse was silent for several minutes, and his smooth-shaven face was
quite serious in expression.
“I’m afraid I’m going to bore you on that same old line, Miss Cynthia,”
he said presently. “Really, I can’t well help it. This morning I fancied
you listened attentively to what I was saying in my sermon.”
“Oh, yes, I always do that,” the girl returned, with an almost
perceptible shudder of her shoulders.
“It helped me wonderfully, Miss Cynthia, and once a hope actually flashed
through me so strong that I lost my place. You may have seen me turning
the pages of the Bible. I was trying to think where I’d left off. The
hope was this: that some day, if I keep on begging you, and showing my
deep respect and regard you will not turn me away. Just for one minute
this morning it seemed to me that you had actually consented, and—and the
thought was too much for me.”
“Oh, don’t speak any more about it, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia pleaded,
giving him a full look from her wonderful brown eyes. “I have already
said all I can to you.”
“But I’ve known many of the happiest marriages to finally result from
nothing but the sheer persistence of the man concerned, and when I think
of _that_—and when I think of the chance of losing you, it nearly drives
me crazy. I can’t help feeling that way. You are simply all I care for on
earth. Do you remember when I first met you? It was at Hattie Mayfield’s
party, just after I got this appointment; we sat on the porch alone and
talked. I reckon it was merely your respect for my calling that made you
so attentive, but I went home that night out of my head with admiration.
Then I saw that Frank Miller was going with you everywhere, and that
people thought you were engaged, and, as I did not admire his moral
character, I was very miserable in secret. Then I saw that he stopped,
and I got it from a reliable source that you had refused him because you
did not want to marry such a man, and my hopes and admiration climbed
still higher. You had proved that you were the kind of a woman for a
preacher’s wife—the kind of woman I’ve always dreamed of having as my
companion in life.”
“I didn’t love him, that was all,” Cynthia said calmly. “It would not
have been fair to him or myself to have received his constant attentions.”
“But now I am down in the dregs again, Miss Cynthia.” Hillhouse gave a
sigh. It was almost a groan.
She glanced at him once and then lowered her eyes half fearfully. And,
getting his breath rapidly, the preacher bent more closely over her
shoulder, as if to catch some reply from her lips. She made none.
“Yes, I’m in the dregs again—miserable, afraid, jealous! You know why,
Miss Cynthia. You know that any lover would be concerned to see the girl
upon whom he had based his every hope going often with Nelson Floyd. Of
all men, he——”
“Stop!” The girl paused, turned upon him suddenly and gazed at him
steadily. “If you have anything to say about him don’t say it to me. He’s
my friend, and I will not listen to anything against those I like.”
“I’m not going to criticize him.” Hillhouse bit his white, unsteady lip.
“A man’s a fool who tries to win by running down his rival. The way to
run a man up in a woman’s eyes is to openly run him down. Men are strong
enough to bear such things, but women shelter them like they do their
babies. No, I wasn’t going to run him down, but I am afraid of him. When
you go out driving with him, I——”
Again Cynthia turned upon him and looked at him steadily, her eyes
flashing. “Don’t go too far; you might regret it,” she said. “It is an
insult to be spoken to as you are speaking to me.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t! You misunderstand me,” protested the bewildered lover.
“I—I am not afraid, you understand, of course, I’m not afraid you will
not be able to—to take care of yourself, but he has so many qualities
that win and attract women that—Oh, I’m jealous, Miss Cynthia, that’s
the whole thing in a nutshell! He has the reputation of being a great
favorite with all women, and now that he seems to admire you more than
any of the rest——”
The girl raised her eyes from the ground; a touch of color rose to
her cheeks. “He doesn’t admire me more than the others,” she said
tentatively. “You are mistaken, Mr. Hillhouse.”
He failed to note her rising color, the subtle eagerness oozing from her
compact self-control.
“No, I’m not blind,” he went on, blindly building up his rival’s cause.
“He admires you extravagantly—he couldn’t help it. You are beautiful,
you have vivacity, womanly strength and a thousand other qualities that
are rare in this section. Right here I want to tell you something. I
know you will laugh, for you don’t seem to care for such things, but
you know Colonel Price is quite an expert on genealogical matters. He’s
made a great study of it, and his chief hobby is that many of these
sturdy mountain people are the descendants of fine old English families,
from younger sons, you know, who settled first in Virginia and North
Carolina, and then drifted into this part of Georgia. He didn’t know of
my admiration for you, but one day at the meeting of the Confederate
Veterans at Springtown he saw you on the platform with the other ladies
and he said: ‘I’ll tell you, Hillhouse, right there is a living proof of
what I have always argued. That daughter of Nathan Porter’s has a face
that is as patrician as any woman of English royal birth. I understand,’
the Colonel went on, ‘that her mother was a Radcliff, which is one of the
best and most historic of the Virginia families, and Porter, as rough as
he is, comes from good old English stock.’ Do you wonder, Cynthia, that
I agree with him? There really is good blood in you. Your grandmother is
one of the most refined and elegant old ladies I have ever met anywhere,
and I have been about a good deal.”
“I am not sure that Colonel Price is right,” the girl said. “I’ve heard
something of that kind before. I think Colonel Price had an article in
one of the Atlanta papers about it, with a list of old family names. My
father knows little or nothing about his ancestry, but my grandmother
has always said her forefathers were wealthy people. She remembers her
grandmother as being a fine old lady, who, poor as she was, tried to make
her and the other children wear their bonnets and gloves in the sun to
keep their complexions white. But I don’t like to discuss that sort of
thing, Mr. Hillhouse. It won’t do in America. I think we are what we make
ourselves, not what others made of themselves. One is individuality, the
other imitation.”
The young man laughed. “That’s all very fine,” he said, “when it was your
forefathers who made it possible for you to have the mental capacity
for the very opinion you have expressed. At any rate, there is a little
comfort in your view, for if you were to pride yourself on Price’s
theories, as many a woman would, you would look higher than a poor
preacher with such an untraceable name as mine. And you know, ordinary as
it is, you have simply got to wear it sooner or later.”
“You must not mention that again,” Cynthia said firmly. “I tell you, I am
not good enough for a minister’s wife. There is a streak of worldliness
in me that I shall never overcome.”
“That cuts me like a knife,” said Hillhouse. “It cuts because it
reminds me of something I once heard Pole Baker say in a group at the
post-office. He said that women simply do not like what is known as a
‘goody-goody’ man. Sometimes as coarse a man as Pole hits the nail of
truth on the head, while a better educated man would miss and mash his
thumb. But if I am in the pulpit, I’m only human. It seemed to me the
other day when I saw you and Nelson Floyd driving along up the mountain
that the very fires of hell itself raged inside of me. I always hold
family prayer at home for the benefit of my mother and sister, but that
night I cut it out and lay on the bed rolling and tossing like a crazy
man. He’s handsome, Miss Cynthia, and he has a soft voice and a way of
making all women sympathize with him—why they do it I don’t know. It’s
true he’s had a most miserable childhood, but he is making money hand
over hand now and has everything in his favor.”
“He’s not a happy man, Mr. Hillhouse, in spite of his success. Anyone who
knows him can see that.”
“Oh, I suppose he broods over the mystery that hangs over his childhood,”
said the preacher. “That’s only natural for an ambitious man. I once knew
a fellow like that, and he told me he never intended to get married on
that account. He was morbidly sensitive about it, but it is different
with Floyd. He does know his name, and he will, no doubt, discover his
relatives some day. But it hurts me to see you with him so much.”
“Why, he goes with other girls,” Cynthia said, her lips set together
tightly, her face averted.
“And perhaps you know, Miss Cynthia, that people talk about some of the
girls he has been with.”
“I know,” said the girl, looking at him with an absent glance. “There
is no use going over that. I hear nothing all day long at home except
that—that—that! Oh, sometimes I wish I were dead!”
“Ah, that hurts worse than anything you have ever said!” declared the
minister in a tone of pain as he stroked his thin face with an unsteady
hand. “Why should a beautiful, pure, human flower like you be made
unhappy because of contact with a human weed——?”
“Stop, I tell you! Stop!” The girl stared at him with flashing eyes. “I
am not going to have you talk to me as if I were a child. I know him
as well as you do. You preach all day long that a person ought to be
forgiven of his sins, and yet you want to load some of them down with
theirs—that is, when it suits you. He has as good a right to—to—to reform
as anyone, and I, myself, have heard you say that the vilest sin often
purifies and lifts one up. Don’t get warped all to one side. I shall not
respect your views any more if you do.”
Hillhouse was white in the face and trembling helplessly.
“You are tying me hand and foot,” he said, with a groan. “If I ever had a
chance to gain my desires, I am killing them, but God knows I can’t help
it. I am fighting for my life.”
“And behind another’s back,” added the girl firmly. “You’ve got to be
fair to him! As for myself, I don’t believe half the things that the
busybodies have said about him. Let me tell you something.”
They had come to a little brook which they had to cross on brown, almost
submerged stepping-stones, and she paused, laying her small hand on his
arm, and said portentously: “Nelson Floyd has been alone with me several
times and has never yet told me that he loved me.”
“I’m not going to say what is in my mind,” Hillhouse said, with a cold,
significant sneer on his white lip, as he took her hand and helped her
across the stream.
“You say you won’t?” Cynthia gave him her eyes wonderingly, almost
pleadingly.
“That is, not unless you will let me be plain with you,” Hillhouse
answered; “as plain as I’d be to my sister.”
They walked on side by side in silence, now very near her father’s house.
“You may as well finish what you were going to say,” the girl gave in,
with a sigh of resignation tinged with a curiosity that devoured her
precaution.
“Well, I was going to say that, if what I have gathered here and there
is true, it is Nelson Floyd’s favorite method to _look_, do you
understand?—to _look_ love to the girls he goes with. He has never, it
seems, committed himself by a scratch of a pen or by word of mouth, and
yet every silly woman he has paid attention to, before he began to go
with you, has secretly sworn to herself that she was the world and all to
him.”
Cynthia’s face became grave. Her glance went down and for a moment she
seemed incapable of speech. Finally, however, her color rose and she
laughed defiantly.
“Well, here is a girl, Mr. Hillhouse, who will not be fooled that way,
and you may rely on that. So, don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of
myself.”
“I’ve no doubt you will,” said the preacher gloomily.
“Yes, you’ll see that I can,” Cynthia declared with animation. “There’s
mother on the porch. Good gracious, do change the subject. If she sets
in on it, I’ll not come to the table. She likes you and hates the ground
Nelson Floyd walks on.”
“Perhaps that, too, will be my damnation,” Hillhouse retorted. “I know
something about human nature. I may see the day that I’d be glad of a
doubtful reputation.”
He caught her reproachful glance at this remark as he opened the gate for
her and followed her in. Porter sat on the porch in the shade reading a
newspaper, and his wife stood in the doorway.
“Run in and take off your things, Cynthia,” Mrs. Porter said, with a
welcoming smile. “Brother Hillhouse can sit with your pa till we call
dinner. I want you to help me a little bit. Your grandmother is lying
down, and doesn’t feel well enough to come to the table.”
When the women had gone in, and the preacher had seated himself in a
rough, hide-bottomed chair near his host, Porter with a chuckle reached
down to the floor and picked up a smooth stick about twenty inches long,
to the end of which was attached a piece of leather about three inches
wide and four inches long.
“That’s an invention o’ mine,” Porter explained proudly as he tapped
his knee with the leather. “Brother Hillhouse, ef you was to offer me a
new five-dollar note fer this thing, an’ I couldn’t git me another, I’d
refuse p’int-blank.”
“You don’t say,” said Hillhouse, concentrating his attention on the
article by strong effort; “what is it for?”
“I don’t know any other name fer it than a ‘fly-flap,’” said Porter. “I
set here one day tryin’ to read, an’ the flies made sech a dead set at my
bald head that it mighty nigh driv’ me crazy. I kept fightin’ ’em with
my paper an’ knockin’ my specs off an’ losin’ my place at sech a rate
that I got to studyin’ how to git out of the difficulty, fer thar was
a long fly spell ahead of us. Well, I invented this thing, an’ I give
you my word it’s as good fun as goin’ a-fishin’. I kin take it in my
hand—this way—an’ hold the paper too, an’ the minute one o’ the devilish
things lights on my scalp I kin give a twist o’ the wrist an’ that fly’s
done fer. You see, the leather is too flat an’ soft to hurt _me_, an’ I
never seen a fly yit that was nimble enough to git out from under it.
But my fun is mighty nigh over,” Porter went on. “Flies has got sense;
they profit by experience the same as folks does. At any rate, they seem
to know thar’s a dead-fall set on my bald spot, an’ they’ve quit tryin’
to lay their eggs in the root-holes _o’_ my hair. Only now and then a
newcomer is foolhardy an’ inclined to experiment. The old customers are
as scared o’ my head as they are of a spider-web.”
“That certainly is a rare device,” said Hillhouse. “I don’t know that I
ever heard of one before.”
“I reckon not,” the farmer returned placidly. “Somebody always has to
lead out in matters of improvement. My wife an’ daughter was dead set
agin me usin’ it at fust. They never looked into the workin’ of it close,
an’ thought I mashed my prey on my head, but thar never was a bigger
mistake. The flap don’t even puncture the skin, as tender as their hides
are. I know, beca’se they always fall flat o’ their backs an’ kick
awhile before givin’ up.”
At this moment Mrs. Porter came to the door and announced that dinner was
ready.