After the banquet follows the ball, whic_Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 22. July, 1878.

days after the wedding. The orchestra consists of two or three violins,

which play the whole evening, or afternoon if the marriage took place in

the daytime. The répertoire is that of the people, and embraces the

dances known as the _fasòla_,[24] the _tarantella_, the _tarascùri_, the

_'nglisina_, the _capona_, the _chiovu_, etc. In some of the towns in

the province of Palermo it is the groom who engages the musicians and

conducts them to the house. In Modica they dance the _ciovu_ (the

_chiovu_ above mentioned) to the accompaniment not only of violins, but

also of tambourines, etc. The groom opens the ball, holding his hat in

his hand and making a profound bow to the bride, who rises with alacrity

and begins to dance with all her might. The groom makes another bow and

sits down again, and the bride, dancing alone, makes a turn round the

room and selects a partner from the guests, who in turn choose a woman,

and so on in graceful alternation.

In general, in large cities, there is no one who calls out the figures

at the ball: the musicians play what they please, unless they are asked

to change or continue a tune that has tired or pleased any one of the

guests. The dancing is without any rule or order: nevertheless, there is

some regularity in its execution, especially in the pantomime that

accompanies it. The bride and groom dance their share: the first one

with whom the bride dances is the groom, who permits her to dance with

others.

An interesting subject in the history of the Sicilian people would be

this ball after the nuptial-banquet if it could be illustrated in all

the varieties of ancient and modern customs. Buonfiglio, the historian

of Messina, has left us in his larger work an account of these customs

two centuries and a half ago. The peasants, he says, have not abandoned

the ancient custom of dancing in a crowd and in a circle to the sound of

the lyre and flute, although these have been changed for the songs of

the musicians; and they dance with the handkerchief, being extremely

jealous of allowing the hands of their wives to be touched. So also with

the collection of the presents from the relatives and guests in

profusion; and this takes place after the groom has offered them

something to eat three times, on which account the ovens are filled with

meat, with kettles of rice cooked in milk, the wine constantly going the

rounds.[25]

In Milazzo the dance "threatens the existence of the bride," to cite an

historian of the place. Here, as elsewhere, the groom has a patron, a

gentleman to whom he lends his services, and by whom he is rewarded, not

always generously. At the ball the bride knows that if the patron or

other gentleman of the city dance with her, he will leave a silver piece

in her hand; and if her partner is of her own rank, it will not remain

empty. So she summons up all the strength of her limbs and spends hours

and hours in dancing; for dancing with the new bride that evening is an

occasion for boasting.

However rich the popular songs of Sicily are, they are very poor in

nuptial-songs. Among the many thousand that have seen the light the

following, from Cianciana and Casteltermini, is characteristic, because

peculiar to the evening of the wedding: "Come and sing this evening to

the bride and groom. Oh what joy! what delight! (You, O wife!) hold the

seat of power: when the sun appears you rise. There are pleasant sights,

with dress of gold and all embroidered. This song is sung to the bride

and groom. Good-day! long life and health!"[26] The following song, from

Borghetto, is a greeting to the pair on their return from the church:

"Long live in health the bride and groom! What a beautiful and fortunate

marriage! Let the mind be firm and the heart constant. And so we come to

the happy day. I would that my words were as sweet as those of a song,

and my lute well tuned! A hundred years I would sing new songs. Long

live love and marriage!" This other song, from Palermo, a variant of one

already published, is also an expression of good wishes for the pair:

"Health to this excellent pair! What a fine and gallant wedding! The

bridegroom seems like a resplendent sun, and the bride like a Greek from

the Levant. How many obstacles there have been! The stars of heaven go

before. Now the bride and groom are happy: the diamond is set in gold."

At the ball the singing is done alternately by some of the guests. The

favorite song in the cities is that of the class called _arie_--in the

country, _canzoni_. The three songs above cited are those which are

heard on such occasions.

Song, dance and music alternate, and are prolonged for hours, until the

guests are tired out and prepare to leave the bride and groom, who are

already sleepy.

Let the reader accompany the pair to their abode. The door is open, the

room lighted, the bed prepared: some sighs and laments are heard among

the bystanders. It is the mother, the married sisters (young girls do

not accompany to her home the sister who marries), who are grieved at

seeing their sister leave her home and become another's, uncertain of

the lot that will be hers in the future. An old custom requires the

bride to be undressed and put to bed by her mother-in-law. In lack of

the mother-in-law the right belongs to the oldest sister-in-law. Woe to

whoever dares to transgress this custom! Grave quarrels would arise, and

even worse. I have myself been present when a family having wished to do

as they pleased and not adhere to custom, blows and wounds followed, and

the bride and groom were obliged to spend the night in jail.

The first visits paid to the newly-married pair are by their mothers,

who hasten to congratulate them. These are followed later by friends,

who go to make the _bon lirata_.

The bride remains at home a week to receive the visits of relatives,

friends and acquaintances who either did or did not share in the

wedding-festivities. After this time she leaves the house solemnly for

the first time to go and hear mass, high mass being ordinarily

preferred. The white dress which in some localities constitutes the

wedding-dress, in others is the one worn on the first occasion of

leaving the house and in returning the visits of the guests.

The last act of this drama or comedy of life is a journey on which the

husband must take his wife within a year after their marriage. In the

marriage-contract, written or verbal, there is a clause by which the

husband assumes the obligation of taking his wife within the year to

such and such a festival of some town more or less remote--the farther

away the more important to the contracting parties and their relatives.

Where no contract is made the custom is enough, the "word"--which, as

the proverb says, "is more than the contract"--is sufficient. In Piana

dei Greci, an Albanian colony of Sicily, the husband obliges himself to

take his wife a journey in honor of St. Rosalia on the 4th of September

to the sanctuary of Monte Pellegrino in Palermo. In many of the villages

of the _Conca d'oro_ ("the golden shell," the plain of Palermo) the

husband binds himself to take his wife to the _festino_ of St. Rosalia

in Palermo, the 13th-15th of July; and this is an obligation that

involves much expense, because the statue of Charles V. in the Piazza

Bologni (Palermo) says, according to the people, "Palermu un saccu

tantu!"[27] The husband of Noto was accustomed, and perhaps still is, to

take his wife to the festival of St. Venera in Avola.

The wife of Monte Erice (province of Trapani) by a very old custom

should be taken, the first time she leaves the house, on an excursion

out of Erice--the longer the better for the reputation of her husband.

The one who is worth anything will take her to the sanctuary of St. Vito

lo Capo or to the festival of the Madonna of Trapani in the middle of

August: the worthless husband will take her a short distance from Erice,

as, for example, to the church of the Capuchins or to the neighborhood

delle Ficàri. Here are four proverbs which refer to these

marriage-journeys: "The beautiful bride the first time goes to the

Annunciation;" "Who has a fine husband goes the first time to St. Vito;"

"Who has a mean husband goes the first time to the Capuchins;" "Who has

a worthless husband goes the first time to the Ficàri."

Not every season is propitious for weddings. From ancient times the

months of May and August have been deemed unlucky, and no one would

marry during these months, mindful of the proverb, "The bride of May

will not enjoy her marriage;" and the other, "The bride of August, the

torrent will carry her away." Instead of these months, February, the

Carnival, April, June and September are preferred. This last month is

recommended in another proverb: "In September tender marriages are

made." Likewise two days of the week are avoided for weddings--Tuesday,

and especially Friday--it being a common saying that on Friday and

Tuesday one should not marry or set out on a journey. Friday is a fatal

day, on which one would believe he ran a certain danger not only in

marrying, but also in beginning any work. On the other hand, Sunday is a

lucky day, on which marriages always turn out according to the wishes of

the parties.

These are not all the superstitious beliefs relating to marriage, which

extend so far as to ordain that if, for example, the bride or one of the

company slips, or the ring falls in the house, or one of the candles on

the altar takes fire or goes out, something unlucky is to be expected,

as these are bad omens; that if two sisters are married the same

evening, the younger must suffer; finally, that marriages between

relatives always turn out badly.

In addition, it must not be believed that a marriage can be made, or is

made, with any one without due regard being had to the relations and

spirit of the family of the bride or groom. The intimate, unwritten

history of Sicily and the Sicilians is full of facts that show how

between natives of this town and that, of this ward and that, and

between the partisans of different factions, marriages cannot, and ought

not, and will not, be made. Municipal and country contentions kept many

parts of Sicily in such enmity that they quarrelled even about the thing

most sacred to Sicilians--religion. It was not enough that hatred grew

up between the natives of two different but neighboring localities: it

was often born and perpetuated "between those whom one wall and one

fosse shut in," and assumed considerable proportions. Thus we see as

far back as the fifteenth century the inhabitants of a certain "fifth"

(Palermo was divided into five wards) so hostile to those of another

ward that the intervention of the senate was necessary in order to

obtain from King Alfonso (in 1448) supplementary laws to obviate the

evil.[28] In like manner the members of different confraternities are

often unfriendly. In Modica it is a rare thing for a man devoted to St.

George to marry a woman devoted to St. Peter. An excellent young lady of

Syracuse, devoted to St. Philip and engaged to a distinguished young man

of the same city who was a member of the confraternity of the Holy

Ghost, a few days before the wedding broke her engagement because on

visiting her betrothed, who was ill, she found hanging above his head a

picture of the Holy Ghost, which she tore down and broke to pieces in

anger and scorn.

Men engaged on the sea do not marry into families employed on the land.

The sailors consider themselves, and are, better and milder than other

classes, as is shown by the criminal cases[29] and the words and phrases

which they use (especially those of the _Kalsa_ of Palermo). Then there

are the social differences, which are an obstacle to many marriages. We

do not speak of the large cities, where certain prejudices are more or

less overlooked; but in the smaller and less populous towns there are

distinctions and sub-distinctions, so that he is fortunate who does not

lose himself in that labyrinth. The gentleman (_galantuomo_, who is also

called _cappeddu_ or _cavaleri_) forms the highest caste, and is above

the master (_maestro_), who in turn must not be confounded with the

countryman (_villano_), the lowest grade in the social scale. Among the

countrymen of Modica a shepherd who lives on his own property is above a

reduced _massarotto_ (who is a countryman proprietor of lands), and yet

the _massarotto_ would refuse him for a son-in-law: the mechanic would

not be accepted by a family of drivers, nor these by another the head of

which is the keeper of swine or of cattle. The husbandman who can prune

the vines is above the one who can only till the ground; the cowherd

looks down on the one who guards the oxen; the last named scorns the

keeper of calves; the one who keeps sheep deems himself noble in

comparison with the one who guards goats; and so with other most minute

distinctions. When a countryman woos a young girl of a different rank,

he hopes to overcome the difficulties in his way by choosing a

matchmaker from among the foremost men of his native place, but the

matchmaker will inevitably receive the answer, "The young man is honest,

laborious, he owns a vineyard and land, he possesses all the qualities,

but--he is not of my rank."

GIUSEPPE PITRÈ.

AUNT EDITH'S FOREIGN LOVER.

"There is a destiny which shapes our end;" and I am a firm believer in

it, for how else can I explain my adventures and their results while

travelling in Austria in the year of the Welt-Ausstellung at Vienna?

As is usual with a novice in European travel, I received during the week

prior to sailing the ordinary amount of advice as to what I _should_ and

should _not_ do. Meantime, my aunt Edith, who had spent a year in Europe

ten or twelve years before, rather surprised me by her reticence in

regard to my proposed voyage. However, the night before I was to sail I

suggested to her that she might be able to give me some valuable advice,

as she had probably not "forgotten how one should behave in Paris."

"Forgotten!" she exclaimed with a start, and then, raven-like, "nothing

more." I played with the tassel of the window-curtain and wondered how I

should ever get on without this aunt, the dearest, bravest and

handsomest woman in all the world--to me. She was thirty-six years old,

just ten years older than myself, for by a happy coincidence our

birthdays fell in the same month, and upon the same day of the month,

the twenty-fifth of August.

Aunt Edith was a great comfort to the maiden sisterhood. Spinsters

referred to Edith Mack with a sense of triumph whenever any

disrespectful allusions were cast upon "old maids." She was always

bright, charming and witty, and people wondered, like so many idiots,

why she had never married, instead of wondering why most other women

did. When questioned about it, which was rarely, she usually replied

that she never "had the time," or that she had been "warned in dreams,"

or that she awaited her "king from over the seas"--some such _bêtise_.

But to me the fact that she had never married was never a matter for

wonder: she had never loved, I supposed, which was reason enough. She

had her work in life--had written two very delightful books, made

occasional illustrations for publishers, and played German music _à

ravir_. At length she spoke, this Aunt Edith.

"Yes, my dear niece, I _have_ some advice to give you," she said in a

low voice: "don't fall in love with a European."

"Do you think there is any danger?" I asked with mock seriousness.

"Not with a Frenchman or German," she quickly replied. "But let me tell

you _my_ experience. I was not far from your age when I went to Europe

with Cousin Helen. I had just refused an offer of marriage from a very

noble fellow because I could not love him. He lacked the power to

control me: I felt myself the stronger of the two. Not that women like

to be ruled, but that they like that power in men which can rule if need

be, generously, but never despotically. I had only in my imagination a

conception of that love 'which passeth understanding'--which lifts a

woman out of herself into a willing sacrifice that looks to calmer eyes

as the height of folly. I liked men well, but none had ever stirred more

than the even surface of my feelings, and I so firmly believed that no

one ever could as to regard my 'falling in love' as most improbable. I

really desired the experience, feeling that something is lost out of

life if every phase of human feeling and emotion be not awakened. But I

went to Europe, and walked straight into my fate.

"The day after my arrival in Paris, in passing through the court of the

hotel where I was stopping, I encountered a gentleman who lifted his

hat, and who looked at me in a manner that caused me to observe his

eyes, which were large, black and exceptionally splendid. In figure he

was tall and firmly built, an aquiline nose and clearly-cut chin giving

a high-bred look to his face, and he wore some sort of a decoration

which caught Helen's notice. At the table-d'hôte that evening I found

myself seated next to him. Our table-talk, begun early in the meal, was

the beginning of an acquaintance that developed into that strongest of

affections which makes slaves of us all. I never forgot my proud

birthright, and well understood the danger of a European alliance--or

misalliance. The gentleman was quite Oriental, belonging to that country

which has Bucharest for its capital. His family was of high distinction,

connected with that of the reigning prince. He possessed a modest

fortune, had been educated in Athens and Paris, and spoke four or five

languages. He was ardent, jealous, passionate, but possessed a heart at

once so loving, so full of every tender and winning quality, that it was

easy to forgive outbursts of feeling and similar offences. He had spent

some time in England, without, however, learning to speak much of the

language. The history of his past life, as he related it to us, was

quite in keeping with his character as a man. He had been affianced when

quite young to a beautiful girl, quarrelled with her, broke off the

engagement, then joined the Greek army, fought against the Turks, and

was four times wounded.

"It was early in June when we arrived in Paris, and at the occurrence of

my birthday in August we had become very well acquainted, as also with a

number of his friends to whom he had introduced us. Wishing to observe

my _fête_, he sent me a tiny bouquet--a rose and some sprays of fragrant

flowers. In the evening he begged for some souvenir of the day, when I

declared I had nothing to give.

"'Then I shall _take_ something,' he replied, and clipped from a curl a

ring of my hair, which he placed in a locket attached to his watchguard,

in the back of which he previously made a note of the day.

"'That will remain there for ever,' he remarked.

"'Which means six months, at the end of which time you will have

forgotten me,' I replied.

"'Not at the end of six months, six years, nor six ages,' he warmly

retorted.

"As the autumn months wore away, and he began to talk to me of marriage,

the seriousness of his love frightened me, and it was not until I was

assured by what seemed unmistakable proofs that all his statements in

regard to himself were true that I in any sense considered the question

of marriage with him. To be obliged always to talk French or Italian was

not to my liking, and to marry anybody but a compatriot seemed very

unpatriotic. But I loved him, and that was the solution of the whole

matter. His kindness to us was without limit, and tendered in the most

graceful and grateful manner. He knew some excellent English families

who were living in Paris, whose acquaintance we afterward made, and who

spoke of him in the highest terms of esteem.

"As the winter set in, Helen and I arranged to go to Italy. My friend

was to take advantage of our departure to go to his 'provincial estates'

on business, and afterward to join us in Italy. He gave us a letter to

the Greek consul at Rome, a friend of his, to whose care he would

confide his letters, and who, he thought, might be of real service to

us notwithstanding our own ambassadorial corps there.

"My separation from him proved to me in a thousandfold manner how deep

and strong was the bond that bound me to him. We had scarcely more than

become well settled in Rome than a letter arrived which he had mailed at

Vienna, and which the polite consul came and delivered in person. And

what a letter it was!--only a page or two, but words alive with the love

and passion of his heart. And that was the last letter, as it was the

first, that I ever received from him. The cause of his silence none of

us could tell. He knew that a letter sent to me in care of any one of

the American consuls in Paris or in Italy would reach me. As the mystery

of his silence deepened the attentions of the consul became more

assiduous. For some reason I did not like the man, although he was very

kind and gentlemanly. Once he lightly remarked that doubtless 'our

friend had been _épris_ by some fair Austrian blond;' and the suggestion

filled me with shame. Who knew but it might be true--that the man fell

in love with every pretty new face--for mine was called beautiful

then--and that after an entertaining season of flirtation he had bid me

adieu? Of course I blamed myself for having been so confiding as to be

deceived by a handsome adventurer without principle or honor. I cannot

tell you what agony I suffered. I begged Helen to go on to Naples, for

Rome had become very hateful to me. But at Rome, as you know, Helen fell

ill with Roman fever, and died, and I returned to Rome to bury her body

there in the Protestant cemetery. Four months had gone by, and not a

word from my friend. Alone as I was, my troubles drove me nearly

frantic. I returned to Paris. That I was so sad and changed seemed

naturally due to Helen's death: nobody suspected that I was the victim

of a keener sorrow. None of his friends had received news of him. I was

too proud to show that my interest in him had been of more than ordinary

meaning. Nobody knew of my love for him but Helen, and the secret was

buried in her grave.

"I tarried a month or two in Paris, hoping against hope for news of him,

without even the consolation of addressing him letters, as I did not

know where one would reach him. To know he was dead would have been a

relief: to think he had abandoned me, that he had been false, was

insupportable. It was the most probable solution of the mystery, but I

have never believed it, and I love him as deeply to-day as ever. I have

schooled myself to cheerfulness and gayety, but having known him spoiled

me for loving again. Here is his portrait," drawing a case from a

drawer: "I wish you to see how handsome and good and noble a man may

look to be, and yet--"

She paused, and I added, "Be a villain."

"So you see," she smiled, "how apropos my advice to you is: have nothing

to do with foreigners."

I returned her the portrait without comment, kissed her good-night, and

next day sailed out to sea, with Aunt Edith waving her handkerchief

after me like a flag of warning. We lived in the country, six hours'

ride from New York, and my oldest brother and Aunt Edith had followed me

to the "water's edge," as she playfully expressed it. At London I was to

join Cecilia Dayton, a handsome widow of forty-five, an old friend of

ours, who was to act the part of "chaperone." We called her "St.

Cecilia," although she was anything but saintly.

Late in the following winter we left Paris and went to Nice, where "the

romance of a serviette" began; and I trust the reader will not question

my truthfulness when I observe that what I am writing is, without

exaggeration, strictly true.

St. Cecilia, from nervousness brought on by drinking strong tea (as I

firmly believe), kept a small night-lamp burning in her room at night,

so she should not be afraid to sleep. For this purpose she used tiny

tapers, which float on the top of oil poured in a tumbler half full of

water. We breakfasted in our own rooms, and the breakfast napkins of the

Grand Hôtel, where we were stopping, were decidedly shabby and only

about six inches square. On the morning of our leavetaking of Nice, St.

Cecilia wanted a "rag" to tie over her bottle of oil, which she carried

with her for her night-tapers, and cast her eyes about for one: she

seized upon the raggedest of the serviettes.

"I don't consider this _stealing_, ma chère," she murmured in apology.

"My bill is enormous! I feel that I've paid for this rag twice over."

So the serviette went with us by sea to Naples. There we were obliged

for a time to occupy the same apartment, and the napkin taken off the

bottle was lying about the room, for it was warm and there was no fire

to throw it in. Tucking it away with soiled linen, it came back from the

laundry clean and white, save one round oil-spot on it, and was thrown

into my trunk along with the refreshed linen; and there it remained

untouched until four months later, when I arrived at Vienna.

At Venice, Cecilia was obliged to return to Paris: she was to rejoin me

a fortnight later at Vienna. Meantime, a young Englishwoman, Kate

Barton, whose acquaintance we had made at Rome, was going to Vienna to

join a party of cousins; and as we were both alone, we arranged to make

the journey together. Kate was one of the merriest of English girls (a

native, however, of Cape Town), a tall, rosy-cheeked blond, with a half

dozen brothers distributed in the British army and provincial

parliaments.

We left Venice at midnight in an Adriatic steamer, and arrived next

morning at Trieste, a town which during our forced stay in it of

forty-eight hours filled my mind with nothing but most disagreeable

souvenirs. Life there was in complete contrast to the quiet, poetic,

graceful existence at Venice, and the change from the one to the other

had been so sudden as to act like a stunning blow. A detention caused by

illness and the loss of a train through the purposed maliciousness of a

hotel-waiter led to two results. One was our sending a telegram to the

proprietor of the W----Hôtel in Vienna to inform him of the delay, as

rooms had been engaged for us by a gentleman who was in the habit of

lodging in that hotel when in Vienna, and who before leaving the city

had shown the kind thoughtfulness of sending us a letter of introduction

to the proprietor commending us to his courtesy. The other result was to

bring about an acquaintance with a Prussian, Herr Schwager, which

happened in this wise: Kate, whose wrath was fully aroused at the

troubles we encountered in Trieste, was extravagant in her denunciations

of those "horrid Germans" after we were once fairly seated in the cars

bound for Gratz. Neither of us spoke German with any degree of ease or

much intelligibility, and consequently gave vent to our opinions in

plain English. A young man of a studious, gentlemanly appearance, but of

unmistakable Teutonic descent, sat in one corner of the compartment, and

from his frequent smiling at our talk I concluded that he understood

English, and made bold to ask him if he did.

"Happily, I do," he replied, his handsome brown eyes twinkling with

increased merriment, "and I am one of those 'horrid Germans.'"

His reply greatly amused Miss Barton, and opened the way to a very

animated conversation, in which we learned that he had just come from

Italy, had been on the same steamer as ourselves coming from Venice, and

had stopped in the same hotel and suffered the same agonies. Then we

talked of what we liked best in Italy, and he spoke of an American

friend, Mr. Fanton, with whom he had greatly enjoyed Rome. The fact that

he was a friend of John Fanton, whom I had known for years, and who was

the last to bid me good-bye in Rome, was recommendation enough for any

stranger, and constituted us friends at once. I forgot all about Aunt

Edith's advice to have "nothing to do with foreigners," but placed at

once the most unlimited confidence in Herr Schwager, who from the

beginning of our acquaintance attached himself in a most brotherly way

to our fortunes, proving himself in every particular a rare honor to his

sex. However gross and brusque the German character may be, I must for

ever make an exception of our Herr, whose genuine politeness, delicacy

of kindness, refinement and manliness I have rarely seen equalled and

never excelled.

Kate kept up her banter about the "horrid Germans," for which she had

abundant reason in our journey from Gratz to Vienna. We had hoped to

have a compartment to ourselves, to which end Herr Schwager had expended

a florin; but at the last moment a portly Gratzian entered and settled

himself by one of the windows which would command the Semmering Pass. He

too spoke some English, and endeavored to be sociable. As we neared the

pass he insisted upon my taking his seat the better to see the

marvellous scenery, with which he was already familiar. I had been too

long on the Continent not to have become suspicious of a voluntary

sacrifice on the part of a European. It invariably means something: it

covers an _arrière pensée_. He offers you a paper to read or a peach or

a pear to eat, or buys a bouquet of flowers at a station, and if you

accept the proffer of either he takes advantage of the obligation under

which he has placed you and proceeds generally to smoke, remarking for

form's sake that he "hopes it is not offensive," while you, under the

burden of his kindness, smile a fashionable lie, and reply, "Not in the

least." So our Gratzer withdrew to the farther end of the seat and began

to smoke a most villainous cigar, and continued to smoke, lighting

another when one was finished. I soon began to succumb to the poisonous

effects of the close atmosphere, for, although we kept our windows

open--it was the middle of June--the Gratzer with true German caution

kept his firmly closed. But the effect upon Kate was even worse, and her

pallid face plainly told how much she was suffering. We cast entreating

looks upon Herr Schwager, who never smoked, but understood our annoyance

without knowing just how to ask the Gratzer to cease. We poked our heads

out of the window, opened cologne-bottles and indulged in various

manifestations of disgust; but to no purpose: the Austrian smoked on.

Finally, when he began on the fourth cigar, Kate, whose patience was

utterly exhausted, begged me to ask him to stop. I naturally demurred,

being under obligation to him, and replied, "You're the sicker, Kate:

_you_ tell him."

When suddenly she lifted her pale face and shouted at him, "Oh, you

_horrid_ German! we are nearly smoked to death! For mercy's sake, stop!"

"Ah, pardon!" he replied unconcernedly, taking the cigar from his mouth

and putting it in his pocket.

Herr Schwager's amusement was boundless, and our satisfaction also, as

we had no more smoke on the road to Vienna.

The landlord of the Hôtel W----, to whom we were recommended, received

us with a pleasant cordiality, and at the same time apologized because

he could not give us the rooms engaged for us until the next day; so we

were temporarily lodged in a large room leading from an anteroom

designed for a servant--an arrangement which is common in Austrian

hotels. On the following morning, as Kate was waiting half dressed in

the anteroom for the kammer-mädchen to bring her warm water, who should

walk in upon her, _sans cérémonie_, but a long, black-gowned priest! He

stared at her, nonchalantly looked about the room, and walked out with

never a word. She might have regarded the intrusion as a mistake if a

like visit from the same personage had not been made at the same hour

next morning in our own rooms, to which we were that day transferred.

The two successive intrusions were to us inexplicable, unless, in the

light of succeeding events, we were to regard the priest as a detective

officer or spy. Our apartments communicated, both being reached through

an entry, while my room, lying beyond Kate's, was only reached by

passing also from the entry through hers.

On the fourth day of our sojourn in the hotel, about nine o'clock in the

morning, Kate tapped on the door leading into my room, and at my cry of

"Entrez," came in. She was in a dressing-gown, her long, curling brown

hair hanging over her shoulders and a very unusual expression on her

face.

"More priests?" I asked in explanation.

"_Police!_" she exclaimed. "If we ever get out of this town alive I

shall be thankful! I had rung as usual for water, and just as I had

finished my bath I heard a knock at the outside door, and asking 'Wer

ist da?' the chambermaid replied that _she_ was. I then opened the door

a bit, and saw looking over her shoulders two strange men. My first

thought was that they were friends of yours wishing to give you a

surprise, and I cried out, 'Oh, you can't come in, for we are not

dressed.' Then one of the men said in broken English, 'We shall and we

_will_ come in;' and they forced the door in upon me, while I hastened

to close and fasten the other, but was too late, for they followed at my

heels. 'You are Miss W----?' the one who had already spoken said.--'No,

I am not.'--'Then she is in the next room?'--'But you cannot go in, for

she isn't dressed,' I said.--'You are her sister, and you come from the

Grand Hôtel,' he continued; and you've no idea with what a ferocious

face. It was dreadful! Then he said something about the _police_--that

we must go to the _police-court_; and finally said he would give you

five minutes to dress in. Now, there they are, banging at the door. Oh,

what have we done? Why _did_ we ever come into this barbarous land?" and

poor merry Kate was on the brink of hysterics.

"Oh, 'tis all a mistake," I replied, adjusting my necktie. "I will see

the men, and the matter will be explained at once."

The noise from the street coming in from my open windows had prevented

me from hearing the conversation in Kate's room, and I should have been

inclined to regard her startling narrative as one of her jokes if it had

not been for the loud banging on the door. I hastened to open it: the

men came in, and, wishing to relieve Kate of their presence, I asked

them to pass into my room. This they refused to do, taking a decided

stand in Kate's. I was too curious to lose my presence of mind or show

that I was annoyed, and with my blandest smile inquired why I was

honored with so matinal a visit from two strangers, when the following

dialogue ensued:

"We come from the police. You are Miss W----?"

"Yes."

"Englishwoman?"

"By no means."

"Yes you are; and this woman is your sister."

"No, she is not my sister."

"Yes, she is. You're English. No? What are you, then?"

"I'm American."

"Show your passport."

"Here it is;" and I opened the document bearing the American eagle and

the signature of Hamilton Fish.

The two men put their heads together, neither being able to tell what

sort of a paper it was, which secretly amused me. The men were in

civilian's dress. Turning to Kate, her passport was demanded. She had

none.

"And of what nation are you?" asked the spokesman.

She refused to tell.

"And what is your name?"

She refused to answer that. The poor girl had become so nervous under

the ordeal, which for her had been of a very violent character, that she

imagined nothing could be more disgraceful and humiliating than to have

her name mixed up with a police-affair.

Finding that she was inexorable, they returned to me with, "Well, miss,

you must go with us to the police," and showed me a paper of arrest.

"And why must I go to the police?"

"Because you have been at the Grand Hôtel."

"What Grand Hôtel?"

"The Grand Hôtel. You must go to the police."

I rang the bell, and asked that the proprietor of the house come at once

to my room. He came, and I demanded an explanation of the mystery.

"You must know, mademoiselle," he began, "that in Vienna we are all in

the power of the police: they must have the name, nationality, business

and address of every person who comes into the city. The morning after

your arrival these men came and asked if two English ladies were

stopping here. I said 'Yes.' They then said they believed you were

persons they had been trying for two weeks to catch, and that you were

very suspicious characters who had been stopping here in the Grand

Hôtel. I told them it was not possible--that you had come direct from

Italy; and I mentioned the telegram you had sent from Trieste, and that

you had been recommended to my courtesy by a gentleman whom I well knew

and who had many times lodged here. But they went away, and came back

again next day, making some inquiries about you, and asking if numbers

so and so were those of your rooms. You were out, and whether they

visited your rooms or not I cannot say. This is all that I know. Now

they are here again, and if they say you must go to the police-court,

there will be no other way but to go."

"But I don't understand. I have my passport: there is my bill, receipted

at the hotel in Trieste six days ago. I never knew before it was a crime

for two English-speaking women to travel alone or to stop at a Grand

Hôtel. Of what are we suspected? and upon what grounds suspected?"

"Why, a napkin has been seen among your effects with the mark of the

Grand Hôtel upon it."

After a moment's thought it flashed into my mind that it was that Nice

serviette, and, more amused than annoyed, I exclaimed, "Oh, I have it.

'Tis that serviette St. Cecilia took at Nice;" and opening my trunk soon

had it in my hands, holding it up by two corners for the men to see and

explaining how it came into my possession.

"It will go very hard with Madame Cecilia," observed the spokesman: "you

will please give us her address."

My indiscretion at once became apparent, but I was a complete novice in

"being arrested." To involve Cecilia in the affair would be but an

aggravation of matters, and I at once decided, come what might, I would

not give the police her address. Looking at the half-obliterated stamp

in the corner of the napkin, there was unmistakably the mark "Grand

Hôtel," but directly underneath "Nice," which the police, in their ardor

to find me guilty of something which I could not find out, had

undoubtedly mistaken for Wien, the German name for Vienna. I called

their attention to the "Nice," asking what jurisdiction the Austrian

government had over matters relating to hotels in Italy. They replied by

looking very closely at the stamp, and then one of them took my passport

and the napkin and went out, leaving the other man to guard our

apartment, and soon returned with a new arrest for myself and my

_gesellschafterin_, Miss Barton still refusing to give her name. The

landlord had only placed mine in the visitors' book, thereby making

himself liable to a fine of eight or ten dollars.

Nothing could have been more widely different than the effect produced

upon Kate and myself. To me the whole affair was inexpressibly

mysterious and ludicrous, notwithstanding the insolence of the police,

and, as it seemed to me, their amazing stupidity. Poor Kate was the

wrathfullest woman I ever saw, while her obstinate refusal to answer any

questions about herself only increased the ferocity of the men, whose

treatment of her was shameful in the extreme. They threatened to search

our trunks, which aroused Kate's wrath the more. I observed that as they

had assumed the right to unlock and search mine during my absence, they

were probably already acquainted with its contents. They, however,

abandoned the searching scheme, and ordered us to get ready to go to the

police-court, which was about two minutes' walk distant. Kate declared

that to the police-court she would not go, unless she were dragged there

by her hair, while the men declared that she would then be taken by

_armed force_. I concluded to telegraph to the American embassy for

help, but that was denied me. Herr Schwager had called to see us only

the day previous, saying his lodgings were quite in our neighborhood,

but we had not asked his address. There seemed nothing to do but to go

to the court and be my own lawyer. It never occurred to me that the

landlord to whose courtesy I had been recommended would refuse to go

with me; but when I asked him for his protection he begged to be

excused, on the ground of being _very_ busy and that he could be of no

service to me. I do not wish any reader to infer from this that he was

an exceptional Viennese hotel-keeper--that is, exceptionally

ungentlemanly: he was, on the contrary, a fair representative both of

his trade and his countrymen. Austrian military officers and diplomatic

attachés of the government have won in fashionable society a reputation

for extreme politeness and gallantry toward women; which may be true, as

neither under such conditions costs any earnest sacrifice. But the rank

and file of the middle class of Austrians, the class with which

travellers have naturally most to do, are most brusque and ungracious in

manner as well as in deed, unembellished with any hint of courtesy.

I enjoyed a fling at the landlord by expressing surprise at his refusal

to accompany me to the police-court, adding maliciously that American

gentlemen were not famous for polished manners, but there was not one

mean enough in the whole country to refuse his protection to a lady, a

guest under his own roof and in a strange land, where the help of

friends was denied her. I then appealed to Kate to go with me, as it

would only end the trouble sooner, and that I would never allow her to

go to such a place alone, but with tears streaming from her eyes she

resisted my entreaties, and I followed one of the men to the court: the

other remained behind to watch Kate.

I had no more idea of a police-court than I had of the reason why I was

being taken there. It was mystery and curiosity that sustained me. I

undoubtedly looked like an amused interrogation-mark, for the moment I

was introduced into the presence of the grand interrogator of that

inquisition, upon whose desk lay my passport and "that serviette," he

smiled and remarked in French, "It is very evident, mademoiselle, that

you have nothing to do with this affair."

"With what affair, monsieur? I haven't the faintest idea what I was

brought here for," I responded.

"Why, just this: about a fortnight ago two Englishwomen stopped at the

Grand Hôtel in this city, and left without paying their bills, carrying

off with them all the household linen they could lay their hands on."

And so we had been arrested as house-linen thieves! It was too

humiliating. I was then interviewed as to my companion's refusal to give

her name, etc., which argued very much against her. I explained as well

as I could the extreme annoyance and brutal treatment to which she had

been subjected, her horror of having anything to do with a police-court,

and how the disgrace of being suspected of a crime was aggravated by

intense nervous excitement brought on by the insolence of the police.

After considerable pleading on my part in her behalf--for I felt that I

was the sole cause of the trouble--it was agreed upon that she should be

relieved from coming to the court upon condition that she would sign a

paper giving her name, nationality, etc., and I was dismissed without

the slightest apology for the trouble to which I had been subjected. At

that point the affair ceased to be funny, and, turning back after I had

reached the door of exit, I made a short and as effective a speech as

the polite language of the French would allow, in which I conveyed a

frank idea of my opinion of Austrian courtesy. I succeeded well enough

to convince my examiner of something--probably that he had caught a

Tartar--and I left him tugging furiously at his moustache. My official

escort led the way back to the hotel with a very crestfallen air, savage

and sullen.

I found Miss Barton in a worse condition than ever, the persecutions of

the guarding policeman having continued with increased ferocity. He had

dogged every movement she made, until the poor girl had nearly gone mad;

and it was only after long persuasion that I induced her to sign the

paper, such a one as most travellers without passports in Austria are

obliged to fill out. She finally wrote her name in a great scrawl which

nobody could decipher, and gave as her country "Cape Town, Africa;"

which again confounded the men, as they had no idea how a "Hottentot"

could be an English subject. But they swallowed their ignorance, and

finally went away.

When Kate had become restored to her normal condition she heaped upon

herself all sorts of self-reproaches, and paid me extravagant

compliments for what she called "good sense" and "presence of mind." As

she demanded redress for the insults she had suffered, and as I wished

to know by what right an Austrian policeman privily searched the trunks

of American women who had the misfortune to come into the Austrian

dominions, we posted off to our respective national ambassadors. Kate

had the satisfaction of being told that she ought to congratulate

herself upon getting off as well as she did, since two of her

countrywomen had been arrested, put in jail and kept there for two weeks

upon even less grounds for suspicion. The result of our complaints was,

that the amplest official apologies were made by the Foreign Office, the

two policemen severely censured and degraded from rank, while, through

the influence of Herr Schwager, who went to the president of the police,

an officer was sent from that organization to apologize to us in person.

But what I cared most for I never got--an acknowledgment of the right of

the police to search baggage _à plaisir_.

As might have been expected, our liking for Vienna had been thoroughly

damped. From that moment Kate never saw an officer without fear and

trembling, and officers were everywhere. "To think," she exclaimed,

"that I have grown to be such a ninny! My brothers always said, 'Oh, we

can trust Kate to go anywhere: she never gets nervous or afraid;' and

here I am actually afraid to cross a street! I shall never have a

moment's peace until I get out of this horrid country."

At the end of a fortnight, having entirely missed her cousins, she

joined a party of Americans going to England. St. Cecilia meantime had

arrived, and was of course entertained by the napkin adventure. But she

could not abide Vienna, and quickly returned to Paris. As I wished to

"do" the Exposition and run no more risks of arrest, I decided to

withdraw to Baden, a half hour's ride by express from the Südbahn

station of the Austrian capital, as the town was strongly recommended by

Herr Schwager and several American friends residing in Vienna. Herr

Schwager declared that with my small stock of _Deutsch sprechen_ the

Badenites would cheat me out of my eyes, and very kindly volunteered to

help me get installed. A history of the trials attending that

transaction would alone "fill a volume," but I mention only one, and

that simply because it seemed another link in the manifest chain of

destiny.

An hour after our arrangement for my accommodation for the season had

been settled "meine Wirthin" received a letter from her son-in-law that

he was coming, and she informed me that she would need her guest-chamber

for him, returning to me my advanced guldens at the same time she broke

her bargain. Nothing was to be done but to look elsewhere, and

eventually lodgings were obtained in the Bergstrasse, in quite another

part of the town. The locality was excellent, being very near the

promenade and music-gardens: then I liked the face of the

_Haus-meisterin,_ as did Herr Schwager, who wisely remarked that he

thought kindness of heart should rank high in that "benighted land."

I frequently went to Vienna, spending the day at the Exposition and

returning to Baden in the evening. Upon one of these occasions I found

upon my return to the Südbahn that I had a half hour to wait for the

train. As I was hungry, I ordered a cup of coffee in the café

waiting-room. Upon putting my hand in my pocket for my portemonnaie, lo!

I had none, not a kreutzer to my name, and my portemonnaie contained

also my return railway-ticket! I was alone: it was seven o'clock in the

evening. My situation was dramatic, even comic, and I laughed to myself

and smiled upon a gentleman and two ladies who sat at the same table,

calmly remarking that I had been robbed of my _Gelttasche_: they smiled

in return, and nothing more. I sent a _kellner_ to bring me the master

of the café, whom I informed of my loss and my inability to pay my debt

to him. He at once led me off to a _commissaire de police_--of whom

there are always plenty about in civilian's dress--to whom I made a

statement of my loss, describing my lost treasure and where I thought it

had in all probability been taken. While we were talking a very

distinguished-looking man, perhaps forty-five years of age, with

magnificent black eyes, passed near, evidently interested. When through

with the police I remarked that I did not know how I was to get back to

Baden; whereupon the master of the café--who, by the way, spoke English

well--exclaimed, "Oh, as to that, I will lend you what you need."

Hearing this, the distinguished-looking stranger came up with a salaam,

and, begging the conventional number of _pardons_, graciously

volunteered any service he might be able to render me. I thanked him,

explaining to him in a few words my misfortune, but that the master of

the café--who had meantime purchased a railway-ticket for me--had

gallantly come to my rescue. At this moment the car-bell rang: I gave my

card to the _Meister_, took down his name, and hurried away to get a

seat in the train, the owner of the black eyes following me, helping me

as best he could, and, "if madame had no objections, would take a seat

near her, as he too was _en route_ for Baden." He spoke in French, with

a pure French accent, although it was evident he was not a Frenchman. He

evinced a desire to continue an acquaintance so oddly begun, but I was

obliged to doom him to disappointment. My mind was occupied with the

grave question of finance, and about how long I should be obliged to

remain in Baden before I should receive a remittance from London. I

remembered having seen the gentleman once or twice in the park at

Baden, and thought him, with his splendid eyes, graying hair and

military bearing, a man of no ordinary appearance. He had the air of a

person looking for some one, and the expression was sad. Under ordinary

circumstances I should have been curious to learn more of him. My

coolness of manner, accompanied by the almost rude brevity of my replies

to his few ventured remarks, seemed to amuse him, for he smilingly

observed that I was a true "Anglaise."

To be taken for English always aroused my honest indignation, and I

quickly retorted, "Pardon, mais je ne suis pas Anglaise."

"Vraiment! but you speak with the English accent."

"Quite possible, monsieur, as English is my mother tongue, but I am a

_vrai Américaine."_

"_Américaine! Américaine!_" he repeated eagerly. "I once knew an

American lady, and I should prize above all things some knowledge of

her. I hope I may have the honor--" A blast from the engine broke upon

his speech at that juncture: we were at Baden.

Hastily thanking him--for abroad one falls into the continental habit of

thanking people "mille fois" for what they do not do, as for what they

do do--and saying "Bon jour," I hurried off to the Bergstrasse. The next

morning I refunded my borrowed guldens to the master of the café by post

(as I had not placed my entire bank in my purse), and feeling

conscience-smitten at having, in my direst extremity, been befriended by

one of those "dreadful Austrians" whom I had so bitterly berated, I

hinted my amazement, along with my thanks, at having been the recipient

of so graceful and needed a courtesy from a Viennese. He acknowledged

the receipt of the money, adding, "I hope you do not take me for a

Viennese: I am a Bavarian, and have lived twelve years in England."

Among the occupants of the house and dwellers in the garden where I

lodged and lived was a young Austrian woman, two years married, with

whom I formed a pleasant acquaintance, and whose chatty ways rapidly

revived my knowledge of the German, in which language only she could

express herself. I shall not soon forget her, for she told me that she

married to please the "Eltern"--that she "had never loved," and was so

naïve in her mode of reasoning as to prove a source of infinite

surprise. She had no conception of any destiny for a girl but that of

marriage, and never tired of asking about "American girls," whom I

described as oftentimes living and dying unmarried.

"And do not the parents force them to marry? And what do they do if not

marry? And when they get old, what becomes of them? And they are

_doctors_ even? Did you ever see a woman-doctor?" etc., etc., and

hundreds of similar questions.

One evening, two or three days after the "robbery," we went to sit in

the park and listen to the music. On the end of a bench where we sat

down was a poorly-clad, miserable-looking woman, who occupied herself in

dozing and waking. I had no money in my pocket, but I could not rid

myself of the idea that the poor wretch was dying of hunger, and her

sharp contrast to the hundreds of elegantly-dressed people all about her

and constantly moving to and fro only gave more force to her isolation

and misery. At length, perhaps more to relieve my mind than otherwise, I

begged my _Nachbarin_ to lend me a coin, which I slipped without a word

into the creature's hand. To the surprise of both of us, she made no

sign of acceptance or thanks. Ten or fifteen minutes later she rose, and

coming near us she began to stammer out her thanks and to tell us how

poor she was--that she could not work, and that for a month she had been

coming to the park, hoping that where there were so many rich people

some would kindly give her a trifle; but that in all that time but one

person had done so--a gentleman who had given her a gulden; and if we

would look she would point him out. We looked: it was the distinguished

stranger. I confess to have been gratified, and to feeling confident

that if he was one of the foreigners that Aunt Edith had bade me beware

of, he was at least a gentleman and a Christian.

The last of August was nearing, and, as the heat was intense, I often

went up a hill at the back of the park to be alone and enjoy the breezy

atmosphere and the charming view the elevation commanded. On one of

these occasions--it was the twenty-fifth and my birthday--I was more

than usually absorbed in my thoughts when my attention was caught by a

shadow passing over the declivity a little removed from where I sat, and

looking up I recognized the giver of alms. He lifted his hat, begged

pardon and hoped it was not an indiscretion to ask if I had recovered my

purse; which opened the way to further conversation. The sun was fast

setting, and the scene on earth and sky was resplendent. Leaning upon a

rock, he contemplated the miracle in silent adoration.

"Ah, that is equal to what I have so often seen in America," I remarked.

After a moment he replied, "For many years no land has so much

interested me as America, and upon no people do I look with so much

interest. America gave me my supremest joy and my profoundest sorrow.

Perhaps this confession may, in a measure, excuse my impolite intrusion

upon you, as I am so thoroughly a stranger."

"Yes, and a foreigner," I laughed. "I have a dear, beautiful aunt Edith

at home who warned me against foreigners. This is my _fête_, and as her

birthday is the same as mine, I am naturally thinking of her just now,

and recall her sage advice. As the sun is down, I will follow it and bid

you good-night."

As I rose to go he made no reply, as if he had been indifferent to what

I had said. I glanced at his face: it was ashen white. He was opening a

locket attached to his watchguard, from which he lifted a ring of dark

hair, and then drawing it nearer his eyes he spoke as if reading a date:

"Le vingt-cinq août."

The pallor of his face, joined to its outline, which was in full

profile, held me where I stood as if spellbound. Somewhere, a long time

ago, I had seen that face.

"Yes, it is an unusual coincidence," he remarked, as if just

comprehending what had been said. "But your aunt Edith must be much

older than you?"

"No: only ten years."

"Is she married?"

"No."

"And you?"

"Nor I, monsieur. We belong to the noble army of old maids, which on the

other side is a more honorable and obstinate sisterhood than here."

He smiled faintly, and wiped his forehead with a large white

handkerchief.

"If I should go to America," he observed, "I should greatly desire to

visit the locality where women like you live and die unmarried."

"Oh, for that matter, you can't miss them," I replied laughingly:

"they're common from Maine to California. Spinsterhood is an outgrowth

of our Declaration of Independence--'liberty and the pursuit of

happiness.'"

"But, really, I desire to know the name of the place where you live: I

am sure it will interest me greatly. Will you not write it for me?" And

he offered me a blank card.

"Oh, certainly, but I don't understand why."

"I may possibly go and see your aunt Edith and tell her I saw you on the

top of a mountain. Perhaps you would like to send her a message?"

"Well, if you see her," I replied in the same tone, moving away, "tell

her I haven't forgotten to beware of foreigners."

"Just one more word," he entreated, following me. "Is your aunt Edith,

Edith Mack?"

"Yes, but how should you know?" and in that moment it flashed upon my

mind like sudden daybreak. "And you are--" I stammered.

"A man who has loved her many a year. To-morrow I leave Vienna for

England, to sail for New York. I cannot say more to you now than that I

begin to see my way through a sad, sad mystery. Here is my card.

Adieu!"

The bright glow left in the atmosphere by the brilliant sunset had quite

died away, but it was light enough for me to read the superscription:

"LE CHEVALIER ACHILLE ROMA."

I walked back to my lodgings in a manner probably quite sane to other

people, although the distance was compassed by myself in a condition of

complete unconsciousness as to how. Like the phantasmagoria of fated

events swept before my mind the train of complicated circumstances that

had led to my finding Aunt Edith's lost lover. And the beautiful romance

at the end had resulted from my having disregarded her warning to

"beware of foreigners."

* * * * *

There is not much more to tell. I left Baden at the end of the month,

and returned to Paris. Six weeks later I had a letter from Aunt Edith

urging me to come home for her wedding, which would take place prior to

the holidays. The Chevalier Roma had long since become convinced that

his "friend," the consul at Rome, was the key to the whole mischief, but

his suspicions in that direction came too late for him to regain a clue

to Aunt Edith. Several letters sent to her name at New York of course

had never reached her. The surest and quickest way to accomplish his

desire, to prove to the heart he had through so many years cherished how

true and loyal had been his allegiance, how deep and sincere his love,

was the one he had chosen and acted upon with such alacrity.

A few weeks after my aunt's marriage I received the wedding-cards of

Herr Schwager and Miss Kate Barton. After all, merry Kate had accepted a

"horrid German" for her husband, and thereby the truth suddenly dawned

upon my mind that _I_ had been the recipient of the Herr's exceeding

kindness because I was "neighbor to the rose."

MARY WAGER-FISHER.

THE CENSUS OF 1880.

The taking of the census of the United States is, at any time, an event

of national interest and importance. That of the tenth census, in 1880,

will be especially interesting, as marking the completion of the first

century of our declared independence. We shall then ascertain, more

fully and concisely than we have yet been able to do, exactly what

progress has been made in one hundred years by a people left free to

work out its own destiny, alike in form of government and in material,

moral and intellectual development, under no check except its own

self-imposed restraints. The record of such progress ought to be the

most valuable contribution ever made to political, economic and social

science. Whether it shall prove so or not depends chiefly on the manner

in which the essential work is done. It is already time that public

attention should be drawn to this important event, since the law under

which the census is to be taken must, if it shall be at all adequate to

the occasion, be passed by the present Congress.

The United States is the first nation which ever implanted in its

Constitution a provision for taking at regular periods a census of its

people. The makers of that instrument seemed to have an intuitive sense

of the importance of such a step, for they had no guide and borrowed

from no precedent. It is true the fundamental law provides only for an

enumeration of persons, but under the authority given to Congress to

"provide for the general welfare" such laws have heretofore been passed

as have rendered our census reports documents of inestimable value. It

is doubtful if any people have ever taken so great pains to find out

"how they are getting along," or have ever made so great and immediate

use of that information. So marked is the fact that the Constitution

requires a decennial census that a distinguished French writer on

statistics declares, "The United States presents in its history a

phenomenon which has no parallel. It is that of a people who instituted

the statistics of their country on the very day when they formed their

government, and who regulated in the same instrument the census of their

citizens, their civil and political rights and the destinies of their

country."

To understand the progressive steps by which our census has reached its

present magnitude and importance a brief glance is necessary at the

successive laws under which the enumeration has been made and the manner

in which their results have been presented.

The first census was taken in 1790, under the act of March 1 of that

year, and many of the worst features of that tentative experiment still

remain to vex the soul of every one who desires a census which shall be

in accord with the demands of science and the times. Then, as now, the

United States marshals were designated to conduct the enumeration. They

were authorized to employ as many assistants as might be needful, and

each assistant was required, prior to making his return, to "cause a

correct copy of the schedule, signed by himself, to be set up at two of

the most public places within his division, there to remain for the

inspection of all concerned." It is from this crude law that the

mischievous custom is borrowed of having a copy of the census returns

deposited with the county court clerk. As originally conducted, the

system was harmless, since only the names of heads of families were

given and only the number of persons constituting the family reported.

The compensation was also based on the number of persons returned by the

assistant marshals. The form of schedule was as follows:

______________________________________________________________

--------------------------------------------------------------

Such and so simple were the results sought at the first census, the

enumeration for which was to commence on the 1st of August, 1790, and to

close within nine months thereafter, and the returns were to be made to

the President of the United States on or before September, 1, 1791.

These results were published in an octavo pamphlet of fifty-two pages.

No officer of the government seems to have had any supervision of the

work of preparing it for the press. The returns were doubtless handed by

the President to some clerk for compilation, and communicated to

Congress along with other routine and miscellaneous documents

accompanying the annual message.

The second census was taken under the act of February 28, 1800, and,

like the first, was confined to an enumeration of the population under

the care of the United States marshals, but the whole work was

prosecuted under the direction of the Secretary of State. The number of

facts to be returned was somewhat enlarged by further inquiries into the

ages of the inhabitants: otherwise there was no substantial change.

The act providing for the taking of the third census was passed March

26, 1810, and was almost identical with that for the second census.

A great step in advance was, however, taken in the act of May 1, 1810,

which imposed upon the marshals and their assistants the additional duty

of taking, under direction of the Secretary of the Treasury, Albert

Gallatin, an account of the manufacturing establishments and

manufactures of the several districts, at an aggregate expense not

exceeding thirty thousand dollars.

The only changes introduced into the act of March 14, 1820, for taking

the fourth census, provided for a return of the number of males between

sixteen and eighteen, the number of foreigners not naturalized, and the

colored population by age and sex. The provisions for a return of

manufactures were re-enacted, the results to be reported to the

Secretary of State (J.Q. Adams). But these returns, like those of the

third census, were of very slight value.

In the act of March 23, 1830, for taking the fifth census, provision is

made for ascertaining the number of blind and deaf and dumb, and the

returns of age and sex were required with greater fulness than before.

The time for commencing the enumeration was changed from August 1 to

June 1, and the work was to be completed in six instead of nine months.

The return of manufactures required by the two preceding census laws was

omitted.

The act of March 3, 1839, for the sixth census, differed very slightly

from that for the fifth, except that returns were also required of the

number of insane and idiotic, the number of Revolutionary pensioners,

and of the manufacturing, agricultural and educational statistics. By an

amendment adopted February 26, 1840, the time for completing the

enumeration was reduced to five months from June 1, and, for the first

time provision is made for special supervision of the work by requiring

the appointment of a superintending clerk.

Thus it appears that down to the taking of the sixth census, in 1840,

the chief object aimed at was the enumeration of the population. No

effort was made to arrive at, or even approach, by any thorough and

scientific process the great facts relating to our material progress and

prosperity, or to supervise the publication of such returns as were

required. But the report for that year shows a great advance over any

preceding one both in quantity and quality of information. The decade

then closing was one of great life and movement. The States west of the

Alleghanies were rapidly filling up with immigrants, whose arrival was

followed by speculations hitherto unknown. Fabulous wealth was speedily

followed by utter bankruptcy. The railroad, the steamship and the

telegraph foreshadowed the approaching revolution in methods of commerce

and communication. A new life was dawning.

These commercial changes and social revolutions were continued with

increasing intensity during the next decade. The great famine in Ireland

sent us swarms of laborers. The Mexican war brought us California, and

the discovery of gold there marked the beginning of a new era in our

material condition. It was under the influence of these stimulating

events that the seventh census was undertaken. To make such preparations

that it should, to some extent, embody the spirit of the time and

furnish us with a correct statement of our condition under the new

impulses and burdens of the nation, an act was passed March 3, 1849,

creating a census board, whose duty it should be to prepare, and cause

to be printed, forms and schedules for the enumeration of the

population, and also for collecting "such information as to mines,

agriculture, commerce, manufactures, education and other topics as will

exhibit a full view of the pursuits, industry, education and resources

of the country; _provided_, the number of said inquiries, exclusive of

enumeration, shall not exceed one hundred." On the same day the

Department of the Interior was established, and all matters relating to

the census were transferred to that department. The census board

reported "an act for taking the seventh and subsequent censuses of the

United States," which became a law May 23, 1850, and under that law the

censuses of 1850, 1860 and 1870 were taken.

However far that law was an improvement upon either of those under which

the preceding censuses were taken, it is now wholly inadequate--so much

so, indeed, that the superintendent of the ninth census (1870) declared,

"It is not possible for one who has had such painful occasion as the

present superintendent to observe the workings of the census law of 1870

to characterize it otherwise than as clumsy, antiquated and barbarous.

The machinery it provides is as unfit for use in the census of the

United States in this day of advanced statistical science as the

smooth-bore muzzle-loading 'queen's arm' of the Revolution would be for

service against the repeating rifle of the present time." It includes

many inquiries which are practically worthless, and excludes many

vitally necessary to an understanding of our social and industrial

condition. Thus the questions, "Has this season produced average crops?"

"What crops are short?" "What are the average wages of a female domestic

per week, without board?" "How much road-tax did you pay, and how?" may

be of some interest, if regarded as conundrums, but are practically of

as little value as the color of one's hair or the average number of

hours one sleeps; while, as matters of fact, the answers to them have

been so unsatisfactory that no attempt has ever been made to classify

them, and in the census of 1870 they were discarded altogether, though

still forming part of the law. Nor is the method required for

ascertaining the facts relating to manufactures of any greater value.

The inquiries are the same in regard to every kind of industry, whether

the product be cloth, leather, iron or silver, and are confined solely

to wages, kinds and quantities. No means are provided for ascertaining

with skill and exactness the necessary details of the varied

manufactures of the country. The schedules for agricultural returns are

also the same for all sections--for cotton and sugar-cane in Maine, for

maple-sugar and hops in Louisiana. These, however, are merely

superficial defects, some of which might easily be remedied in the hands

of a competent superintendent, as was the case with the census of 1870.

The graver inherent defects are equally obvious, but not equally

susceptible of remedy. Nothing short of a new law will accomplish that

result.

In the first place, the officer designated to take the census is, in

every point of view, objectionable. That officer is the United States

marshal, originally selected, probably, for no better reason than that,

as there was such an officer in every State whose services could be made

available, it was better to use him than to create a new office. But

neither the legitimate duties of his office nor the department to which

he belongs justify such a selection. His duties are chiefly connected

with violations of law, and he is necessarily associated in public

opinion with the criminal side of life. A police-officer is not a good

census-taker. Moreover, many of the States are divided into several

marshalships from considerations which do not at all enter into the

taking of the census. Thus, New York has three districts, the largest of

which contains more than two and a quarter millions of inhabitants,

while Florida has two districts, the smaller of which, but by far the

more important so far as the legitimate duties of the marshal are

concerned, contains scarcely six thousand inhabitants. Massachusetts is

a district with over a million and a third of people: so is Arizona,

with less than ten thousand.

Then the methods of payment are unfair, irrational and cumbersome. They

bear no relation to the amount of work performed, are irregular in their

operation, are obscure in their manner of calculation, and impose

needless labor alike on the officer to be paid and the census office. To

say that the square root of an area multiplied by the square root of the

number of horses indicates the number of miles travelled in taking a

census is as absurd as to say that the square root of the yards of cloth

in a suit multiplied by the square root of the number of stitches taken

to make the suit will give the length of the thread used. In its

practical working in 1860 the result was to give to one assistant

marshal a per diem of $1.66 and to another $31.32 for the same labor. A

proposition which works out such a result may serve for a joke in negro

minstrelsy: it will hardly be accepted as honest figuring by the

recipient of the minimum pay.

But the greatest objection of all is to the schedules created by the law

of 1850. The number of inquiries is limited by that law to one hundred,

though why that number should be selected as the limit, except at

haphazard, is a mystery. It is purely arbitrary, and in its practical

working is mischievous. Statistical inquiries ought to be exhaustive,

whether the questions asked are ten or ten thousand. To limit the number

to one hundred requires the lumping together of incongruous facts or

the entire omission of some of prime importance. Of what real value is

the answer to the question, "Kind of motive-power?" in relation to

manufactures unless other details are given? Yet only such questions can

be asked where the margin is so narrow. In the census of Massachusetts

for 1875, 304 inquiries were made, embracing 1337 topics; and so

satisfactorily was the work done that out of a population of 1,651,912

only 43 persons were unaccounted for when the statistics of occupations

were compiled; while in the United States census of 1870 the number thus

unaccounted for exceeded 1,000,000. In Rhode Island no less than 561

inquiries were made in the census of 1875, and the result is the most

complete census--not merely of persons, but of every kind of manufacture

and production--yet taken in any State. The returns of cotton, woollen

and iron manufactures show what can and ought to be done in that

direction for the whole nation in 1880. They answer the requirements set

forth by the superintendent of the census of 1870 by presenting "tables

so full of technical information as to become the handbook of

manufacturers."

By the side of the census reports for 1875 of Massachusetts and Rhode

Island, and even of the young State of Iowa, those of the United States

hitherto published appear like incomplete, vague and childish efforts.

For instance, in the census of Massachusetts for 1875, in the

agricultural statistics, 140 different items are reported, exclusive of

10 included among "domestic products," but reckoned in the United States

census among agricultural products. Of these 150 items, only 24 are

reported in the United States census of 1870, although some of those

omitted are from $1,500,000 to $5,000,000 in annual value. In the case

of manufactures the defects are still more striking--ludicrously so but

for the importance of the subject. By the schedules of 1850 the facts

called for in regard to manufactures are simply these: number of

establishments, horse-power, hands employed, capital, wages, materials,

products. The 1 establishment which employed 3 hands and turned out

$3000 worth of artificial eyes demanded and received exactly the same

treatment with the 22,573 flouring- and grist-mills with their army of

58,448 workmen and $444,985,143 of products. On this Procrustean bed all

are stretched or shrunken--the giant industries by which men are fed,

clothed, housed and shod, with their 1,000,000 of men and $2,000,000,000

of products, and the pigmy occupations of making skewers,

calcium-lights, mops, dusters, etc., employing 150 persons and

aggregating $150,000 of products.

And this leads directly to a consideration of the measures necessary to

secure a proper census of the United States in 1880. To begin with, as

already reiterated, a new law is imperatively demanded: no good thing

can come of the present statute. As early as possible during this

present Congress a committee on the tenth census should be appointed,

which should carefully study the laws and methods of every civilized

state and country in which a census is taken, and from these collect

whatever is best, giving at the same time ample power to the

superintendent in all matters of administration and appointment. Such a

law might be as short and simple as that of Rhode Island, which is

comprised in eight brief sections, yet is so comprehensive that under

its provisions was compiled the most complete census yet taken in this

country, if not in the world.

The time at which the census is taken should be changed from June 1 to

at least November 1, if not to January 1, when the labors of the year

are ended, when the harvest has been gathered in, the books made up and

the family naturally talk over the events of the past twelve-month.

Then, if ever, is the time when full, frank and honest answers will be

given, and the census-taker will be hailed rather as a friend than an

enemy in disguise. The method adopted years ago in all other civilized

countries, and in Massachusetts and Rhode Island in 1875, of leaving the

blank schedules in advance at each house and manufactory, to be filled

up carefully and thoughtfully, and to be called for on a given day,

should also be adopted. The result of the first attempt in Massachusetts

was that 37 per cent. of the schedules was found ready for delivery to

the enumerator, and for the remaining 63 per cent. the labor was greatly

diminished by the readiness of the people to answer all inquiries

intelligently. The number who at first failed or refused to comply was

only one hundred, and of manufacturers less than twenty; and these all

subsequently made the necessary returns. The total answers of all kinds

received at the census office was 13,000,000, at a cost to the State of

one dollar for each hundred answers.

Under such a law, enacted by the present Congress, and by such methods,

the census report of 1880 would become a document to which every good

citizen could point with pride and congratulation. We should no longer

be mortified with such errors and shortcomings as are so frankly

commented on in the census report of 1870. We should have not merely a

correct enumeration of the population, with all the important facts

connected with their domestic and social condition, but also such a

return of the occupations, manufacturing industries, education and

commercial operations, and all the elements which go to make up the

material well-being of the races on this portion of the continent, as

would mark a new departure in our national life. The absurd inanities

which characterize so much of the report of the superintendent of the

census of 1860, and the _doctrinaire_ theories injected into the report

of 1850, ought never again to find expression in any public document

bearing the official sanction of the United States.

The census report of 1860, as compared with that of 1870, is as the

Serbonian bog to a well-appointed lawn. For the first time since its

inception the taking of the census was in 1870 placed in thoroughly

competent hands. By inherited ability, as well as by previous training,

General Walker possesses in an eminent degree the qualities essential to

the fitting and successful execution of such a task. At every step he

shows the skill and readiness of a master workman; and it will be

fortunate for the country if he shall be selected as superintendent of

the tenth census under a law of his own devising.

As to the results to be revealed by the tenth census, it is not worth

while to speculate. That they will be disappointing in many aspects to

the national pride, or at least to the national vanity, there can be

little doubt; but it is to be hoped we have outlived the period when the

truth can make us angry. Of course there will be no such increase of

population as marked our earlier career down to 1860, nor should we

expect much increase in the reported wealth of the country since 1870.

For the first time, except in the decade from 1820 to 1830, there will

be no increase of area, unless all signs fail. Whatever the changes may

be, they will more fully concern our social and political condition than

in any previous decade, except perhaps the last.

An early and intelligent interest in this important subject is all that

is requisite to secure the needed reform. It is not creditable to the

country that the census of 1870 was taken under the provisions of the

law of 1850: it will be disgraceful should that of 1880 be subjected to

the same fate, as it must be unless a new law is passed before the first

of January of that year. The matter should be pressed upon the attention

of Congress during its present session. In 1870 an admirable law was

passed by the House of Representatives under the skilful and intelligent

leadership of Hon. James A. Garfield, but it failed in the Senate

because of the apathy of some and the personal pique of others. It seems

incredible that in that dignified body so little attention was paid to

this vast subject. Again and again its consideration was postponed

because a sufficient attendance could not be secured to act upon the

proposed law, which at last fell to the ground, a victim to the

indifference and prejudice of those who ought to have acted more wisely

in a matter that so nearly concerns the welfare and good name of a great

nation.

HENRY STONE.

CHANG-HOW AND ANARKY.

"Gret beezle!"

A dismayed silence while Anarky, our cook--black as night, eyes set

square in her head, that head set level on her stout black

shoulders--walked around the Chinese youth my husband had brought home

as an experiment in our domestic life--around the Chinese youth with his

wiry frame and insinuating stoop of the shoulders, and a smile of

neutral tint lying placid but wary on his buff countenance.

"Lordy-mussy!" quoth Anarky. Another vehement, aggressive pause on her

part, a silence observant and self-defensive on his. "Name o' Satan,

Mis' Maud! what is it?"

"This is to be your fellow-servant, Anarky."

"Gret Beezle! Wish I may die ef I didn't think it wor a yaller rat!"

"Anarky, I am ashamed of you! What should Mr. Smith want with a yellow

rat?"

"Thought he bought it at de sukus in New York, an' gif to you like he

did dat monkey. Ef it ain't no rat, an' ain't a monkey, name o' Satan,

what kin it be? 'Tain't a 'ooman, for all dem gret long sleeves: you

know dat yo'se'f. An' 'tain't like no man as eber _I_ seed. What dat

hangin' on to its head? An' what motter wid its eyes, sot crank-sided

right 'ginst its nose, kickin' up der heels, pintin' ebry way for

Sunday--one en' uv um ez sharp as a 'nittin'-needle, an' tudder en' ez

roun' ez a marble?"

Chang-how sent one eye skirmishing in my direction, and the other toward

Anarky, and the same deprecatory yet wary smile rested like moonlight on

his placid face.

"That will do, Anarky," said I. "I wish you to understand that this is

to be your fellow-servant. You will cook and wash as usual. Chang-how

will attend in the dining-room, and do I don't know yet exactly what

else; but I wish you to be kind to him, remembering that he is a

stranger in a strange land. Also, I will have no further remarks on his

personal appearance."

Silenced by authority, but unmoved by my eloquence, Anarky made another

tour of inspection--silently raised the end of Chang-how's queue,

disgustedly let it fall, and went to the door. There she stopped and

looked at him again. "Good Lord!" said she under her breath by way of

parting salute.

The look of mild unconcern that had rested on Chang-how's features was

rippled by a quaint, cunning smile, and for the first time he cast a

quick glance full at her, then stood again with folded hands, calm,

submissive, apparently unobservant.

Seeing the antagonism that was likely to exist between them, I myself

showed Chang-how and his bundle to the room he was to occupy, and in a

short time he emerged clad in a neat white jacket, his queue deftly

bound around his head, ready for business.

The fellow was exceedingly bright and quick, and, though he never seemed

to be "takin' notes," nothing escaped his observation. He learned our

ways in an incredibly short time, and when those ways did not come in

conflict with any habit previously formed he adapted himself to them at

once; but woe to any pet notion that interfered with Chang's

preconceived ideas! That notion had to go to the wall. However, that has

nothing to do here.

Whether Chang-how had been "takin' notes" was a debatable point, but

that somebody was taking everything takable on the premises soon became

a self-evident proposition; and this was uncomfortable for more reasons

than one. Mr. Smith and I almost quarrelled about it. He would not

believe it to be Chang-how, and I was determined it should not be

Anarky. Said he, "Anarky is taking advantage of the popular idea that

the Chinese are invariably dis--"

"Now, who ever heard anything like that?" I interrupted. "What does

Anarky know about the popular idea concerning the Chinese? About as much

as I should know if you were to talk to me about the Teutonic idiom for

mezzo-tinted phonetics."

"You have convinced me, my dear, that Chang-how is the guilty party; but

the idea I meant to convey before you knocked me down with those big

words was this--that Anarky, knowing what people think of the Chinese,

indulges her dishonest yearnings, believing we shall suppose the thief

to be Chang-how."

"But I know it _isn't_ Anarky, because Anarky always had a blundering,

awkward, above-board way of stealing that made it only _taking_ things,

and she was always getting caught; and Chang-how always manages not to

be found out. And I know it is Chang-how; I know it by that. It shows he

is used to it."

Mr. Smith laughed.

"It does! and I know it _is_ Chang-how and it _isn't_ Anarky."

Then Mr. Smith laughed again, and said women were born to be lawyers.

Chang-how would come to me (he was dining-room servant, you remember):

"Evly one spoonee no come homee."

"How you mean, Chang-how? Where spoonee go?"

"All no light: all longee. Spoonee go 'way: I no find him."

"Oh, but you must find them, Chang-how. How many go?"

"Four spoonee."

"But they are solid silver! You really must find them."

"You tell where lookee, I go lookee."

"I am sure I don't know were you are to look. And two forks were missing

last week!"

I stared reflectively at a June-bug on the window-sill. Chang-how stood

with folded hands and drooping shoulders, a seraphic calm upon his

features, as of one who had stood upon the burning deck when all but he

had fled. Evidently he had done his duty. I was so impressed with this

fact, and that the responsibility, if not the guilt, was now mine, that

I simply said, "Go set the table then, Chang-how. Mr. Smith will have

to tell us what to do when he comes home."

Exit Chang.

Enter Anarky: "Mis' Maud, how many hank'chers you sent out dis week?"

"Twenty-three, I believe."

"An' now I ain't got but nineteen. You see dat? How many socks for Mas'

Jim?"

"Six or seven, I suppose. Why?"

"You see dat again? Ain't but fo' par lef'! Ef I don't beat him, shoze

I'm a nigger!"

"Your Mas' Jim?" I asked, smiling.

"'Tain't nobody but dat yaller varmint dat's stealin' roun' de

lot.--Lor'! Lor'! ef I jes' could cotch him!"

"Anarky, while we are talking about it, I--I really wish you would

manage a little better about the biscuit and--well, the eggs, and--and a

good many little things of the kind. I am sure we have an abundance of

everything, and it mortifies me exceedingly not to have it at table.

Haven't you and Chang everything you want, and as much?"

"We gits more'n 'nuff. An' what goes outen de kitchen goes correc'. Whar

dey lands 'tween dar an' de din'-room don't nobody know but dat yaller

dorg. I misses things cornstant--things dat I ain't took my eyes off

'em, 'cep' ter wink; an', bless de Lord! while I wor a-winkin' de lard

done took to its heels or de flour flewed away."

The next evening, when Chang brought in supper, Anarky walked by his

side in solemn state, empty-handed, dignified, watchful. He appeared

totally unconscious of his escort, and I made no remark; but Mr. Smith

sent him into the hall on an errand, and during his absence Anarky rose

to explain: "Which you see all dem biskit, Mis' Maud?"

"Yes: I am glad we are getting all right again, Anarky."

"Well, I got dat many mo' in de ub'n now--jes' like I use ter hab 'fo'

dat--" Here an appalling idea seemed to strike her. "War dat Chow-chow

nigger?" she exclaimed, and made a dash toward the door. As she reached

it Chang-how quietly glided in and handed Mr. Smith the paper he had

gone for.

Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 22. July, 1878. · 第 8 / 9 章

After the banquet follows the ball, which at Favaratta is held eight