captain would be saved: they were as confident of their own doom, and to
him they entrusted a thousand messages of love. They would lie around
him--for few of them had strength to assume a sitting posture--and
reveal to him the story of their lives. It was most pitiful to hear the
confessions of these dying men. One said: "I wronged my friend; I was
unkind to this one or to that one; I deserve the heaviest punishment God
can inflict upon me;" and then he paused, overcome with emotion. But
another took up the refrain: "I could have done much good, but I would
not, and now it is too late." And a third cried out in his despair: "I
have committed unpardonable sins, and there is no hope for me. Lord
Jesus, have mercy!" The youngest of these perishing souls was a mere
lad: he too accused himself bitterly. He began his story at the
beginning, and continued it from time to time as the spirit of
revelation moved him: scarcely an incident, however insignificant,
escaped him in his pitiless retrospect. Oh the keen agony of that boy's
recital! more cruel than hunger or thirst, and in comparison with which
physical torture would have seemed merciful and any death a blessing.
While the luckless Perle drifted aimlessly about, driven slowly onward
by varying winds under a cheerless sky, sickness visited them: some were
stricken with scurvy; some had lost the use of their limbs and lay
helpless, moaning and weeping hour after hour; vermin devoured them,
and when their garments were removed and cleansed in the salt water,
there was scarcely sunshine enough to dry them before night, and they
were put on again, damp, stiffened with salt, and shrunken so as to
cripple the wearers, who were all blistered and covered with boils. The
nights were bitter cold: sometimes the icy moon looked down upon them;
sometimes the bosom of an electric cloud burst over them, and they were
enveloped for a moment in a sheet of flame. Sharks lingered about them,
waiting to feed upon the unhappy ones who fell into the sea overcome
with physical exhaustion, or who cast themselves from that dizzy
scaffold, unable longer to endure the horrors of lingering death. Flocks
of sea-fowl hovered over them; the hull of the Perle was crusted with
barnacles; long skeins of sea-grass knotted themselves in her gaping
seams; myriads of fish darted in and out among the clinging weeds,
sporting gleefully; schools of porpoises leaped about them, lashing the
sea into foam; sometimes a whale blew his long breath close under them.
Everywhere was the stir of jubilant life--everywhere but under the
tattered awning stretched in the foretop of the Perle.
Days and weeks dragged on. When the captain would waken from his
sleep--which was not always at night, however, for the nights were
miserably cold and sleepless--when he wakened he would call the roll:
perhaps some one made no answer; then he would reach forth and touch the
speechless body and find it dead. He had not strength now to bury the
corpses in the sea's sepulchre; he had not strength even to partake of
the unholy feast of the inanimate flesh: he lay there in the midst of
pestilence, and at night, under the merciful veil of darkness, the fowls
of the air gathered about him and bore away their trophy of corruption.
By and by there were but two left of all that suffering crew--the
captain and the boy--and these two clung together like ghosts, defying
mortality. They strove to be patient and hopeful: if they could not
eat, they could drink, for the nights were dewy, and sometimes a mist
covered them--a mist so dense it seemed almost to drip from the rags
that poorly sheltered them. A cord was attached to the shrouds, the end
of it carefully laid in the mouth of a bottle slung in the rigging. Down
the thin cord slid occasional drops: one by one they stole into the
bottle, and by morning there was a spoonful of water to moisten those
parched lips--sweet, crystal drops, more blessed than tears, for _they_
are salt--more precious than pearls. A thousand prayers of gratitude
seemed hardly to quiet the souls of the lingering ones for that great
charity of Heaven.
There came a day when the hearts of God's angels must have bled for the
suffering ones. The breeze was fresh and fair; the sea tossed gayly its
foam-crested waves; sea-birds soared in wider circles, and the clouds
shook out their fleecy folds, through which the sunlight streamed in
grateful warmth: the two ghosts were talking, as ever, of home, of
earth, of land. Land--land anywhere, so that it were solid and broad.
Oh, to pace again a whole league without turning! Oh, to pause in the
shadow of some living tree!--to drink of some stream whose waters flowed
continually--flowed, though you drank of them with the awful thirst of
one who has been denied water for weeks, and weeks, and weeks!--for
three whole months--an eternity, as it seemed to them!
Then they pictured life as it might be if God permitted them to return
to earth once more. They would pace K----street at noon, and revisit
that capital restaurant where many a time they had feasted, though in
those days they were unknown to one another; they would call for coffee,
and this dish and that dish, and a whole bill of fare, the thought of
which made their feverish palates grow moist again. They would meet
friends whom they had never loved as they now loved them; they would
reconcile old feuds and forgive everybody everything; they held
imaginary conversations, and found life very beautiful and greatly to
be desired; and somehow they would get back to the little _cafe_ and
there begin eating again, and with a relish that brought the savory
tastes and smells vividly before them, and their lips would move and the
impalpable morsels roll sweetly over their tongues.
It had become a second nature to scour the horizon with jealous eyes:
never for a moment during their long martyrdom had their covetous sight
fixed upon a stationary object. But it came at last. Out of a cloud a
sail burst like a flickering flame. What an age it was a-coming! how it
budded and blossomed like a glorious white flower, that was transformed
suddenly into a barque bearing down upon them! Almost within hail it
stayed its course, the canvas fluttered in the wind; the dark hull
slowly rose and fell upon the water; figures moved to and fro--men,
living and breathing men! Then the ghosts staggered to their feet and
cried to God for mercy. Then they waved their arms, and beat their
breasts, and lifted up their imploring voices, beseeching deliverance
out of that horrible bondage. Tears coursed down their hollow cheeks,
their limbs quaked, their breath failed them: they sank back in despair,
speechless and forsaken.
Why did they faint in the hour of deliverance when that narrow chasm was
all that separated them from renewed life? Because the barque spread out
her great white wings and soared away, hearing not the faint voices,
seeing not the thin shadows that haunted that drifting wreck. The
forsaken ones looked out from their eyrie, and watched the lessening
sail until sight failed them, and then the lad with one wild cry leaped
toward the speeding barque, and was swallowed up in the sea.
Alone in a wilderness of waters! Alone, without compass or rudder, borne
on by relentless winds into the lonesome, dreary, shoreless ocean of
despair, within whose blank and forbidding sphere no voyager ventures;
across whose desolate waste dawn sends no signal and night brings no
reprieve; but whose sun is cold, and whose moon is clouded, and whose
stars withdraw into space, and where the insufferable silence of vacancy
shall not be broken for all time.
O pitiless Nature! thy irrevocable laws argue rare sacrifice in the
waste places of God's universe!...
* * * * *
The Petrel gave a tremendous lurch, that sent two or three of us into
the lee corners of the cabin; a sea broke over us, bursting in the
companion-hatch, and half filling our small and insecure retreat; the
swinging lamp was thrown from its socket and extinguished; we were
enveloped in pitch-darkness, up to our knees in salt water. There was a
moment of awful silence: we could not tell whether the light of day
would ever visit us again; we thought perhaps it wouldn't. But the
Petrel rose once more upon the watery hilltops and shook herself free of
the cumbersome deluge; and at that point, when she seemed to be riding
more easily than usual, some one broke the silence: "Well, did the
captain of the Perle live to tell the tale?"
Yes, he did. God sent a messenger into the lonesome deep, where the
miserable man was found insensible, with eyes wide open against the
sunlight, and lips shrunken apart--a hideous breathing corpse. When he
was lifted in the arms of the brave fellows who had gone to his rescue,
he cried "Great God! am I saved?" as though he couldn't believe it when
it was true: then he fainted, and was nursed through a long delirium,
and was at last restored to health and home and happiness.
Our cabin-boy managed to fish up the lamp, and after a little we were
illuminated: the agile swab soon sponged out the cabin, and we resumed
our tedious watch for dawn and fairer weather.
Somehow, my mind brooded over the solitary wreck that was drifting about
the sea: I could fancy the rotten timbers of the Perle clinging
together, by a miracle, until the Ancient Mariner was taken away from
her, and then, when she was alone again, with nothing whatever in sight
but blank blue sea and blank blue sky, she lay for an hour or so,
bearded with shaggy sea-moss and looking about a thousand years old.
Suddenly it occurred to her that her time had come--that she had
outlived her usefulness, and might as well go to pieces at once. So she
yawned in all her timbers, and the sea reached up over her, and laid
hold of her masts, and seemed to be slowly drawing her down into its
bosom. There was not an audible sound, and scarcely a ripple upon the
water, but when the waves had climbed into the foretop, there was a
clamor of affrighted birds, and a myriad bubbles shot up to the surface,
where a few waifs floated and whirled about for a moment. It was all
that marked the spot where the Perle went down to her eternal rest.
"Ha, ha!" cried our skipper, with something almost like a change of
expression on his mahogany countenance, "the barometer is rising!" and
sure enough it was. In two hours the Petrel acted like a different craft
entirely, and by and by came daybreak, and after that the sea went down,
down, down, into a deep, dead calm, when all the elements seemed to have
gone to sleep after their furious warfare. Like half-drowned flies we
crawled out of the close, ill-smelling cabin to dry ourselves in the
sun: there, on the steaming deck of the schooner, we found new life, and
in the hope that dawned with it we grew lusty and jovial.
Such a flat, oily sea as it was then! So transparent that we saw great
fish swimming about, full fathom five under us. A monstrous shark
drifted lazily past, his dorsal fin now and then cutting the surface
like a knife and glistening like polished steel, his brace of pilot-fish
darting hither and thither, striped like little one-legged harlequins.
Flat-headed gonies sat high on the water, piping their querulous note
as they tugged at something edible, a dozen of them entering into the
domestic difficulty: one after another would desert the cause, run a
little way over the sea to get a good start, leap heavily into the air,
sail about for a few minutes, and then drop back on the sea, feet
foremost, and skate for a yard or two, making a white mark and a
pleasant sound as it slid over the water.
The exquisite nautilus floated past us, with its gauzy sail set, looking
like a thin slice out of a soap-bubble; the strange anemone laid its
pale, sensitive petals on the lips of the wave and panted in ecstasy:
the Petrel rocked softly, swinging her idle canvas in the sun; we heard
the click of the anchor-chain in the forecastle, the blessedest
sea-sound I wot of; a sailor sang while he hung in the ratlines and
tossed down the salt-stained shrouds. The afternoon waned: the man at
the wheel struck two bells--it was the delectable dog-watch. Down went
the swarthy sun into his tent of clouds; the waves were of amber; the
fervid sky was flushed; it looked as though something splendid were
about to happen up there, and that it could hardly keep the secret much
longer. Then came the purplest twilight; and then the sky blossomed all
over with the biggest, ripest, goldenest stars--such stars as hang like
fruits in sun-fed orchards; such stars as lay a track of fire in the
sea; such stars as rise and set over mountains and beyond low green
capes, like young moons, every one of them; and I conjured up my spells
of savage enchantment, my blessed islands, my reefs baptized with silver
spray; I saw the broad fan-leaves of the banana droop in the motionless
air, and through the tropical night the palms aspired heavenward, while
I lay dreaming my sea-dream in the cradle of the deep.
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.
HER CHANCE.
Mary Trigillgus tucked the money away in her purse. It was a very small
sum, but it was the utmost that could be spared for the evening outfit:
she and her mother had talked it all over, and such was the decision.
"Now, Mary," said her mother, "don't get a tarletan, or anything
exclusively for evening wear: you so seldom go to parties that you can't
afford such a dress. I would try to get a nice silk. Something that's a
little out of style by being made up fashionably might answer very
well."
Mary gave a sigh and turned her face toward the shops, feeling how
difficult it would be to purchase a fashionable outfit with the scanty
sum in her purse. And she sighed many another time that afternoon as she
went from shop to shop. The goods were too expensive for her slender
purse, or they were poor or old-fashioned. Twilight was settling down on
the gay streets; window after window was flashing into light, revealing
misty laces with gay ribbons and silks streaming like banners; the
lamplighters on every hand were building their walls of flame; and yet
Mary wandered from store to store, each moment more bewildered and
undecided as to the best investment for her money.
She approached a brilliant store, passed it with lingering step, then
paused, turned back, and stood looking down the glittering aisle. The
large mirror at the farther end seemed scarcely broader than the little
cracked bureau-glass in her humble room before which she dressed her
hair in the mornings. The clerks were hurrying to and fro, eager and
business-like, while fine ladies were coming and going, jostling her as
she stood just outside the door. Among the hurrying forms her eye sought
one familiar and loved: not a woman's, I need scarcely say, else why
does she stand in the shadow there, with her veil half drawn over her
face, trembling and frightened? Why else does her cheek glow with shame?
Poor Mary! You feel like a guilty thing in thus seeking a man who has
never declared his love; but let me whisper a word in your ear: True
love is woman's blue ribbon of honor: without it her nature is the rose
tree without the rose--the dead egg among the cliffs: quickened by the
grand passion, it is the eagle soaring to the stars. Your heart is a
grander thing now than ever before. Next to loving God, the best thing
for woman is to love a good man. Take the comfort of this thought, and
leave the humiliation to the heart too hard or too light for loving.
Were I looking into your eyes, my reader, telling my story by word of
mouth, I can fancy we might hold something like this dialogue: "Whom was
Mary Trigillgus, this keeper of a small day-school--whom was she seeking
in this brilliant store? One of the underclerks, perhaps?" "No." "The
bookkeeper?" "No." "The confidential clerk?" "You must guess again."
"The junior partner?" "No, it was Christian Van Pelt, the sole
proprietor of that fine establishment, one of the merchant princes of
the city." "But what right had Mary Trigillgus, this obscure
school-teacher, to love this man of fortune? How did she ever come to
his acquaintance?" And then I should tell you a very long story, and a
tedious one perhaps, of two Hollanders, close friends, who settled in
New Amsterdam; of how fortune had prospered the one until Christian Van
Pelt, his lineal descendant, was among the leaders in the dry-goods
trade of New York City; of how various disasters had befallen the family
of the other, until the daughter of the house, and its only lineal
descendant, Mary Trigillgus's mother, had married an intemperate
spendthrift, who had at his death left her penniless, though the
grandchild, Mary Trigillgus, had inherited the small house in which
mother and daughter found a home.
In the back parlor Mary kept a school for small children: the front
chamber was let to a quiet man, who went down town at eight and returned
at five, and whom they seldom saw except when he rapped at the
sitting-room door on the first day of every month to hand in the three
five-dollar bills which covered his rent. Besides these sources of
revenue there were a few day-boarders, who sometimes paid for their
keeping and sometimes did not.
An intercourse and a show of friendship had all along been maintained
between the families of these Hollanders; and now Mrs. Van Pelt, the
young merchant's mother, was to give a large party. Mary Trigillgus had
been invited, and her mother had insisted on an acceptance of the
invitation.
"They are quite friendly to you, Mary, and you can't afford to throw
away such friends," the mother said.
So it was for Christian Van Pelt's broad, square figure that Mary's
eager eyes were seeking; but in vain they sought: it was nowhere to be
seen. A choking feeling of disappointment rose in her heart--a
disappointment very unequal to the occasion, since she had meant nothing
more than to get a sight of the loved figure and then to go on her way.
Having satisfied herself that he was not in the store, a yearning desire
possessed her to enter the place where he every day walked--a place to
her invested with romance, haunted by his presence--a place to which her
thoughts often wandered as some stupid child stood by her side in the
little school-room spelling out his reading-lesson. She had not for
months entered the store--not since that evening when, in her poor
parlor, Christian Van Pelt, the rich young merchant, had looked into her
eyes with a look that thrilled her for many a day, and spoken some
nothings in tones that set her heart throbbing. Indeed, since that day
she had avoided passing the store, lest she might seem, even to herself,
to be seeking him. And yet her poor eyes and heart were ever seeking
him in the countless throngs that passed up and down the busy streets.
"I'll get my dress from his store," she said mentally. "I shall wear it
with the greater pleasure that he has handled it. My patronage will be
to him but as the drop to the ocean," she said with a little bitterness,
"but it will be a sweet thought to me that I have contributed even one
drop to the flood of his prosperity."
So she entered Christian Van Pelt's trade-palace, and said, in answer to
the smart clerk's look of inquiry, "I am looking for a silk that will do
for the evening and also for the street--something a little out of
style, perhaps, might answer."
"We have some bargains in such silks--elegant dress-patterns at a third
of what they cost us in Paris. Step this way;" and Mary found herself
going back and back through the spacious building, with her image
advancing to meet her.
In a few seconds the counter was strewn with silks at most enticing
figures, and the clerk showed them off to such advantage, gathering them
so dexterously into elegant folds, shifting them so skillfully in the
brilliant gas-light, persuading the lady, in the mean while, in such a
clever, lawyer-like way: "These cost us in Paris three times the money I
am offering them for, and they are but very little _passe_; there is an
extraordinary demand for them; they are going like wildfire; country
merchants are ordering them by the score; we sent eighty pieces to
Chicago, to one house, yesterday, and fifty patterns to Omaha this
morning; one hundred and ten we last week shipped to the South; the
whole lot will perhaps be sold by to-morrow," etc.--that poor Mary felt
like a speculator on the verge of a great chance. So she decided on a
light-green brocade, and could not gainsay the smooth-tongued clerk as
he assured her, while tying the bundle, that she had secured a very
handsome and elegant dress at a great bargain.
The next day Mary and her mother spent in studying and discussing the
latest fashion-plates, but the elaborate descriptions of expensive
costumes plunged the girl into another state of bewilderment and slough
of despond. She heartily regretted having accepted the invitation. She
began to dread the party as an execution--to shrink from exhibiting
herself to Christian with the fine ladies and gentlemen who would form
the company at Mrs. Van Pelt's. However, the dress was cut and made, and
in this there was a fair degree of success, for necessity had taught
these women considerable skill in the use of the scissors and needle.
The dress was trimmed with some handsome old lace that had been in the
mother's family for years. Mrs. Trigillgus pronounced the dress very
handsome as she spread it on the bed and stepped off to survey it, and
even the despondent Mary took heart, and as she surveyed her image in
the mirror at the conclusion of her toilet for the important evening,
she felt a degree of complacency toward herself--a feeling of admiration
even.
"You look like a snowdrop, dear," said the mother fondly; and the
comparison was not inapt, for the young girl's Saxon complexion and fair
hair were in pretty contrast with the lace-decked silk of delicate green
falling about her.
As she had no attendant, she went early to Mrs. Van Pelt's, feeling at
liberty to be unceremonious; and she thought, with a beating heart, that
Christian would be her escort home. Mrs. Van Pelt was not in the parlor
when Mary entered, but Christian received her kindly, though with a
slight embarrassment that embarrassed her. She tried to keep the
love-flicker from her eyes and the love-tremor from her voice as she sat
there alone with the man she loved, trying to reply indifferently to his
indifferent remarks, and wondering if he could not hear the beating of
her heart. She was greatly relieved at the entrance of Mrs. Van Pelt.
When this lady had kissed her guest, she stepped off a few paces and
looked the girl over.
"Your dress is very becoming, my dear," she said, "but why did you get a
brocade? Don't you know that brocades are out of style? Nobody wears
brocades; and they are not trimming with lace at all. I wish you had
advised with me."
The blood rushed to Mary's face. Though she did not turn her eyes to
Christian's, she knew that they were looking at her--that he was noting
her confusion and comprehending its cause. "He knows why I have bought
this brocade," was her thought, "and he knows that I am humiliated in
having my poverty held up to his view. Of course Christian knows that I
am poor, and he must know, as a consequence, that I wear poor clothes. I
can endure that he should know this in a general way, while I shrink
from having the details of my poverty revealed to him. I would not wish
my patched gaiters and darned stockings held up for his inspection."
Mary hesitated a moment before replying to Mrs. Van Pelt's criticism.
Then, with a feeling that it was better to acknowledge a poverty of
which both her companions were cognizant than an ignorance of style, she
said, with a slight kindling of the eye, "I decided on this dress from
economical considerations, and the lace is some which my mother's
great-grandmother brought from Holland.--I have reminded them, at least,
that I had a grandfather," she thought.
As she finished speaking she lifted her eyes to Christian's. She could
not understand the expression she saw there. But the poor girl's
satisfaction in her dress was all gone. She was ready to reproach her
mother for the reassuring words that had helped to generate it. "What if
it is pretty? it is old-fashioned. No matter that the lace is rich, when
nobody wears it. I must look as though I were dressed in my
grandmother's clothes. I wish I was back in my poor home. There I am at
least sheltered from criticism. I am a fool in daring to face fashion: I
am the silly moth in the candle."
If these were Mary's thoughts as she sat there with her two friends,
what must they have become as the regally-dressed ladies, one after
another, were announced? There were the majestic sweep of velvet, the
floating of cloudlike gossamer, the flashing diamond, the starry pearl,
the flaming ruby, the blazing carbuncle. There were marvelous toilets
where contrast and harmony and picturesqueness--the effect of every
color and ornament--had been patiently studied as the artist studies
each shade and line on his canvas. And when the laugh and the jest and
the wit were sounding all about her, and the intoxicating music came
sweeping in from the dancing-room, there came over Mary a lost feeling
amid the strange faces and voices--a bewildered, dizzy feeling, such as
the semi-conscious opium-eater might have, half real, half dreaming. It
was all so strange, so separate from her, as though, herself invisible,
she was watching a festival among a different order of beings. Everybody
was coming and going, continually varying his pastime, while she sat as
unobserved as though invisible. Occasionally an eye-glass was leveled at
her, or some lady accidentally placed beside her superciliously
inspected the lace and green brocade.
Mrs. Van Pelt found her in the course of the evening, and insisted that
she should go to the dancing-room and see the dancing. Mary begged to
remain seated where she was. She dreaded any move that would render her
more conspicuous, and dreaded especially being recalled to Christian's
mind. But the hostess insisted, so the wretched girl crept out of her
retreat, and with a dizzy step traversed the parlors and halls to the
dancing-rooms. The band was playing a delicious waltz, and graceful
ladies and elegant gentlemen were moving to its measures. Mary's eyes
soon discovered Christian waltzing with a young girl in a rose-colored
silk. She was not a marked beauty, but the face was refined and pretty,
and was uplifted to Christian's with a look of listening interest. A
pang of jealousy shot through Mary's heart as she saw this and noted the
close embrace in which Christian held his partner, with his face bent
down to hers. Soon they came whirling by.
"There is Christian with Miss Jerome," said Mrs. Van Pelt. "Her father
is said to be worth four millions."
The next moment Mrs. Van Pelt was called away, and Mary was again left
to her isolation. With a dread of having Christian see her there,
old-fashioned and neglected, a stranger to every individual in the
assemblage of wealth and fashion, she slipped quietly away into the
library, where some elderly people were playing whist. She would have
gone home, but she lived in an obscure street some distance away. With a
sense of suffocation she now remembered that she would have to recall
herself to Christian's mind, for she must depend upon him to see her
home. "He has not thought of me once this evening," she said bitterly.
Soon supper was announced. Gentlemen and ladies began to pair off, not
one mindful of her. She was hesitating between remaining there in the
library and going unattended to the refreshment-room, when a
white-haired gentleman entered from the parlor. He glanced at Mary, and
was passing on when he paused and looked again. A moment of hesitation
ensued while the young girl and the old gentleman gazed at each other.
"Miss Trigillgus, I believe?" he said, finally. "My name is Ten Eyck. I
knew your mother when she was a girl, and I knew her father. Allow me
the pleasure of escorting you to supper."
Mary took the proffered arm with the feeling of one who unexpectedly
encounters a friend in a foreign land.
As he reseated her in the library after supper he said, "Present me
kindly to your mother: if ever I can serve her, I should be glad to do
so."
At length the party was ended. Every guest had gone except Miss
Trigillgus.
"I'm afraid I shall have to trouble you to see me home, Mr. Van Pelt,"
she said to Christian with a burning at her heart.
"Allow me the pleasure, you mean to say," replied Christian with a bow.
This was but a passing pleasantry, and Mary should not have allowed it
to bring the color to her cheek, and that peculiar, half-disdainful look
to her eye and lip.
"I fear you haven't had a pleasant evening," said Mrs. Van Pelt as Mary
took leave of her hostess.
"It was not to be expected that I should, being an entire stranger."
"Well, dear, come and spend a quiet evening with me soon; and give my
love to your mother."
Mary went up to the dressing-room, and soon reappeared, looking demure
and nun-like in her white hood and black-and-white plaid shawl. How she
dreaded the ride home with Christian! and yet for a whole week she had
been longing for this very thing. The thought of the party had always
brought the throbbing anticipation of the ride with Christian after the
party. How near he had seemed then, and ever since the memorable evening
when they had sat together over that book of engravings! How happy she
had been then! how hopeful of his love! But now, what a gulf there
seemed between them! What had she to do with this atmosphere of wealth
and luxury and fashion where Christian dwelt? He had been pleased to
amuse himself for a brief space with looking into her eyes, with making
some silly speeches, which he had straightway forgotten, but which
she--poor fool!--had laid away in her heart.
Thus she was thinking as Christian handed her into the carriage. She
wondered what he would talk about. For a time there was a constrained
and painful silence, and Mary tried to think of something to say, that
she might hide her aching heart from his merciless gaze. Finally she
remarked that the streets were quiet, and he that the night was fine;
and in such commonplaces the ride was passed.
Mary found her mother up, eager to learn her impressions of the first
large party she had ever attended.
"I am very tired, mother," she said, determined to end the torturing
inquisition, "and am aching to get to bed. I'll tell you about the party
to-morrow. Don't call me early: let me have a good sleep."
With a feeling of sickening disgust she laid off the silk and lace and
flowers which a few hours before had so pleased her. The pale face
which met her as she stood before her mirror was very unlike the happy,
expectant face she had seen there in the early evening. Turning from the
piteous image, she hurriedly put the mean dress away, longing to have
the sheltering darkness about her. Soon she had laid her head on the
pillow, where, with eyes staring into the darkness, it throbbed for a
weary while. "What am I to Christian Van Pelt?" This was the question
the poor heart argued and re-argued. One sweet delicious evening stood
over against this last, so full of heartache.
The next morning Mary felt weary with all the world. Her home seemed
poorer and meaner than ever; the boarders disgusted her with their
coarseness; teaching was unrelieved drudgery; everything was
distasteful. To her mother's renewed inquiries about the party she
replied wearily, "My dress was poor and mean, mother; and had I spent
our year's income on my toilet, it would have still been poor, compared
with those I saw last night. For such as I there is nothing in
fashionable life but heart-burning and humiliation."
A few days after this there came from Mrs. Van Pelt to Miss Trigillgus
an invitation to tea. She at once longed and dreaded to meet Christian;
so the invitation was declined on the plea of indisposition. It was
renewed two evenings, later, and she was obliged to accept it. Mary
never looked better than on that evening. She wore a blue empress-cloth,
which heightened the fairness of her complexion and of her bright hair.
After tea she and Mrs. Van Pelt were looking at some old pictures. They
were discussing an ambrotype of herself, taken when she was thirteen,
when a servant announced guests in the parlor.
"You were a pretty child, my dear," said Mrs. Van Pelt, rising to go to
the parlor, "and you are a handsome woman--a beautiful woman, I may
say--your beauty ought to be a fortune to you--but you lack style. I
must take you in hand," she continued, talking all the way to the door.
"I shall need some amusement after Christian's marriage, to keep me
from being jealous of his little wife;" and she disappeared through the
door, little dreaming of the arrow she had sent to the poor heart.
Mary caught her breath, and Christian saw her stagger at the shot. Taken
by surprise, completely off his guard, he opened his arms and received
the stricken girl in his bosom, and pressed his lips to hers. But Mary
had not lost her consciousness. Quickly recovering, she disengaged
herself and reached a chair. She was more self-possessed than he. He sat
down beside her, quivering in every fibre.
"Mary! Mary!" he cried in passionate beseechment, "I never meant to win
your love to betray it. We have both been surprised into a confession of
our love for each other, and now let me lay open my heart to you. I do
love you, as you must have seen, for I have not been always able to keep
the love out of my eyes and voice. You will recall one evening--I know
you must remember it--when I was near declaring my love and asking you
to be my wife. I don't know why I did not--why I left my story but half
told. I sometimes wish that I had declared myself fully, and that we
were now pledged to each other. But the very next morning I sustained
heavy losses in my business, and others soon followed, and to-day I am
threatened with utter ruin. If I cannot raise a hundred thousand dollars
this week, and as much in another week, I am a bankrupt. And now you
will understand why in two days I am to marry Miss Jerome."
Mary started again. Was the execution, then, so near? She drew a long
breath, as though gathering her strength for a hard struggle.
"Christian," she said in a low tone that trembled with the energy
underlying it, "my poor Christian, you are bewildered. These troubles
have shut the light away from your path, and you have lost your way in
the darkness. If this is true which you have told me, do you not see
that when you have delivered yourself from this threatened bankruptcy,
you are yet a bankrupt--a bankrupt in heart and happiness? How can you
weigh wealth and position against the best good than can ever come to
either of us? I am not afraid of poverty, for I have known nothing else;
and surely you do not dread it for yourself. This love is the one good
thing which God has permitted in my pitiless destiny. Am I unwomanly? If
I plead for my life, who can blame me? And shall that which is more than
life go from me without a word? Oh, I cannot smile and look cold as
though I was not hurt: I am pierced and torn. Yet, Christian, for your
sake, rather than for mine, I entreat. You would bring desolation into
both our lives. I might endure it, but how could you bear through the
years the memory of your deed? You are trampling on your manhood. You
are giving to this woman's hungry heart a stone: you are buying with a
lie the holiest thing in her womanhood."
"For four generations my house has withstood every financial storm. The
honorable name which my ancestors bequeathed to me I will maintain at
every hazard," Christian replied with gloomy energy.
"And you will marry Miss Jerome?"
"Yes: it is my only hope."
"Then God help you, Christian. Your lot is harder than mine. At the
worst, my life shall be true: I shall hide no lie in my heart, to fester
there." Her words, begun in tenderness, ended in a tone of scorn. "And
now I must ask you to see me home."
She left the room, and soon returned cloaked and hooded, to find
Christian waiting in overcoat and gloves and with hat in hand. With her
arm in his they walked in perfect silence through the gay, bustling
streets, passing God knows how many other spirits as sad as their own.
When they came to the humble little house which was Mary's home,
Christian stopped on the step as though he would say something, but Mary
said "Good-night," and passed into the hall.
We magazine-writers have no chance in the space allotted to a short
story for a quantitative analysis of emotions and situations, or for
following the processes by which marked changes come about in the human
heart. We must content ourselves with informing the reader that certain
changes or modifications ensued, trusting that he will receive the
statement without requiring reasons or the _modus operandi_.
For a time it seemed to Mary Trigillgus that the sun would never shine
for her again, but a certain admixture in her feeling of scorn and
contempt for Christian prevented her from sinking into a total
despondency. As she revolved day after day the strange separation of two
lives which should have flowed on together, there grew in her heart a
kind of bitterness toward the society which had demanded the separation.
And then the diffused bitterness gathered, and was concentrated on the
woman and the man who had robbed her of her happiness. Especially did
her heart rise against Christian Van Pelt. Gold had won him from her: he
had made his choice between gold and her love; and then she would chafe
against the poverty which from her earliest recollection had fettered
her tastes and aspirations, and at every step had been her humiliation.
And then she would feel a wild, unreasoning longing to win gold. What a
triumph to earn gold beyond what his wife had brought him--beyond what
they would together possess! From the time this thought first occurred
to her it never left her except for brief intervals. Day after day, hour
after hour, it recurred to her, until she became possessed with it. It
was in her dreams by night, and with the day she seized and revolved it,
until her brain whirled with delirium. A hundred wild schemes and
projects came and went in scurrying confusion. With hungry eyes she read
the daily advertisements of "Business Chances," "Partners Wanted," etc.,
and in answering some of these was led into some strange discoveries and
adventures.
"I am mad! I am losing my reason! More gold than their millions! I
cannot even make a living for myself, lunatic!" she would say; and
straightway in fancy would read in the papers the announcement of a
fortune being left to Mary Trigillgus--of great and marvelous riches
coming to her--and would thrill with her triumph over Christian Van
Pelt. She would even pen these announcements to see how they looked, and
read them aloud to study their sound.
Mrs. Trigillgus grew alarmed at her daughter's unaccountable moods. A
physician was summoned, who decided that she was overworked, and advised
a few months in the country. But Mary refused to leave the city, and
continued to search for her "chance."
One day she was reading the New York _Tribune_, when her eye caught a
little paragraph in relation to the eclipse of the sun which was to
occur on the twentieth of August, and of the preparations that were
being made in the scientific world for its observance--of the universal
interest it was exciting, etc. etc.
Mary thought of the amount of smoked glass which would be prepared for
the day, then of the soiled fingers, then of a remedy for this, and
then--her chance flashed upon her.
For a time she sat there, with kindled eyes, with throbbing heart and
brain, revolving and shaping her thought. Then she put on her hat and
took the omnibus for Mr. Ten Eyck's office.
"Mr. Ten Eyck," she said, after the customary commonplaces, "you once
said that you would be glad to serve my mother. Are you as willing to
serve her daughter?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Ten Eyck, growing a little uneasy; "that is, if
I can, you understand."
"I have urgent need for money."
Mr. Ten Eyck began to fidget visibly.
"I own a house and lot on Thirty-second street. How much money can you
lend me on it? It is a house of seven rooms."
"I know the house," answered Mr. Ten Eyck. "Your mother's father left it
to you. There is no encumbrance on it?"
"None."
"Allow me to suggest, Miss Trigillgus, as your mother's old friend,
that this step should be well considered before it is decided upon. The
necessity should be very urgent before you mortgage your home. As your
mother's old friend, may I inquire how you intend using this money? Do
not answer me if you have any hesitancy in giving me your confidence."
The old gentleman looked at her with such kindly, fatherly solicitude
that, after a moment of confused hesitation, she answered: "I will give
the confidence you invite, Mr. Ten Eyck. I have a plan by which I can
make a fortune in a few days. I propose to manufacture glasses for the
great eclipse--say three millions of eclipse-glasses--and distribute
them throughout the United States and the Canadas."
Mr. Ten Eyck stared at her through his golden-bowed glasses: "What kind
of glasses? Explain yourself more fully."
"I shall buy up all the common glass in New York and Pittsburg, and in
other cities perhaps, at the lowest possible figure. Much of the refuse
glass will answer my purpose. I shall have it cut, three inches by five,
stain it, put two stained surfaces together, and bind with paper. At ten
cents apiece the gross proceeds of three millions will be three hundred
thousand dollars."
"And how will you distribute them?"
"Through the news agents," she answered promptly, "and on the same terms
at which they push the newspapers. By this great system I shall secure a
simultaneous distribution throughout the whole country."
Mr. Ten Eyck had laid off his glasses and assumed an attitude of deep
attention: "Suppose it should rain on eclipse-day?"
"I have thought of that contingency. I should anticipate it by having
the glasses in the market for two or three days preceding the eclipse.
To give the glass additional value, I should paste on it a printed slip
stating the hour when the eclipse will begin, the period of its
duration, and the moment of total obscuration." Then she started and
glowed with a sudden revelation that came flashing through her brain.
"I will make the glasses an advertising medium," she continued eagerly.
"I will make the advertisements pay all the expenses, and much more. Can
I not find a man in New York City, or somewhere in the United States,
who would pay a hundred thousand dollars to have three millions of
people reading in one moment the merits of his wares or of his remedies!
And if such a man cannot be found, one who will purchase the exclusive
right to advertise with me, I'll parcel it out. Yes, I can pay all
expenses with the advertisements; but I must have some ready money to
begin with--to initiate the enterprise. Will you lend me the money on my
house and lot?"
Mr. Ten Eyck resumed his glasses, and sat for a long time staring into a
pigeon-hole of his desk in profound meditation.
"My dear Miss Trigillgus, allow me, as your mother's old friend, to
speak plainly to you. You are planning an enterprise of such proportions
that no woman could go through with it. In the most skillful hands great
risk would attend it, even with abundance of money to back it; and let
me assure you that a woman without business education and with cramped
means could have no chance whatever in the arena of experts. Her defeat
would be inevitable. I would gladly serve you, Miss Trigillgus, and I
think, pardon me, that my surest way of doing this is to decline making
the loan you ask, and to advise you, as your mother's old friend, to
abandon this scheme."
"I shall consider your advice, Mr. Ten Eyck," said Miss Trigillgus, "and
I thank you for it, whether I act upon it or not;" and she gave a cold
bow that contradicted her words.
Mary made many other attempts to raise money, but all were unsuccessful.
A few mornings after this her advertisement appeared in the _Tribune_,
calling for a partner with ten thousand dollars to take a half interest
in an enterprise which was sure to net a quarter of a million within a
month. It had such an extravagant sound that it was set down as a
humbug, and few answered it. She had interviews with two young men of
such suspicious appearance that she did not dare reveal her scheme to
them. Day after day the card appeared with no satisfactory result; and
Mary perceived with a kind of frenzy the short time in which her great
work was to be accomplished growing shorter and shorter. She moved
cautiously, lest her grand idea should be appropriated, but she left no
stone unturned for raising the money. Finally, on the ninth of August,
impatient, anxious, nervous, she had six thousand dollars in hand, and
only ten days intervened before the day of the eclipse. She went
immediately to an eminent solicitor of patents, who had influence at
Washington, and made application for a patent for advertising on
eclipse-glasses. The solicitor thought there was no doubt but that the
patent could be secured, so that she might freely proceed with her
enterprise. She next contracted with a glass-factory for five thousand
dollars' worth of glass, and engaged one hundred men to cut and stain it
and put up the eclipse-glasses. Then she made several endeavors to see
the president of the news agency, and after repeated failures she opened
a correspondence by letter with him, briefly outlining her plan, and
asking him to undertake through the news agents the distribution of the
glasses. The next morning she received in response, through the
post-office, these lines:
"MISS TRIGILLGUS: You have been anticipated in your enterprise. We are
engaged to distribute eclipse-glasses for another party."
As Mary read the cruel words that ended all her hopes, she fell lifeless
to the floor, and was thus discovered by her mother.
The following day there came a confirmatory note from the solicitor of
patents, stating that she had been anticipated also in her application
for a patent.
From this period Mary's moods became indescribable. From a state of
unrelieved despondency she issued so merry, in such exhilaration, that
her mother was glad to welcome back the shadowed mood which soon
succeeded. The sagacity of physicians, of her most familiar
acquaintances, of her mother, was all at fault. No one could decide
whether or not her mind was unhinged, whether or not Mary Trigillgus was
insane; for it must be remembered that her friends were ignorant of the
events we have been narrating--her love for Christian Van Pelt, her
disappointment, her grand scheme, the sacrifice of her home and the
failure of her enterprise.
The nineteenth of August came, the day preceding the grand event of the
century. Mary Trigillgus and her mother were lingering at the
breakfast-table. The girl seemed wild and hawk-like, startling her
mother with her unnatural merriment, commenting with weird brilliancy
and grotesqueness and sparkle on the various items as Mrs. Trigillgus
read them. At length she read a paragraph about the eclipse. "'And we
would advise every reader,'" she continued, "'to furnish himself with an
eclipse-glass, which he can procure at any of the news depots for the
sum of ten cents. The glass is nicely finished, and is very perfect for
the purpose intended. We understand that five millions of these glasses
have been put into the market, for which the country is indebted to the
genius and enterprise of our young fellow-citizen, Mr. Christian Van
Pelt, assisted by Mr. W. V. Ten Eyck.'"
"He has done it! he has again stabbed me!" cried Mary Trigillgus, with
the maniac's glare in her eyes. "The gold is his--his and hers! Piles of
gold! and they have cut it out of my heart, dug it out of my brain! I
have nothing left! Don't you see, mother, I am only an empty shell? Stab
me here in the heart, where he has stabbed me: it won't hurt. There's
nothing there! nothing! it's all hollow." There was no longer any doubt
that Mary Trigillgus's mind was unhinged.
During all that day men and children were crying the eclipse-glasses in
the street, selling them at every door.
"Hear them! hear them!" the poor maniac would cry. "They are selling
millions of them! they are piling the gold all about him and her! They
are to have a palace of gold, and Mary's to have only the ashes. Poor
Mary! poor Mary! All the good's for them, all the pain's for Mary!" and
then she would weep herself into a quiet mood of despondency.
The next day, the day of the eclipse, Mary demanded one of the glasses,
and would not be diverted from her desire. She read the advertisement on
the eclipse-glass: "Babcock's Fire-Extinguisher will put out any fire!
Get one!"
"Mother, get me one: I have a fire here;" and she pressed her hand to
her brow. She examined the glass again and again, looking it over and
over, and reading the advertisement aloud: "Babcock's Fire-Extinguisher
will put out any fire! Get one!" All day long, at short intervals, she
was running to the window and looking through the glass at the sun.
And when the grand hour arrived for the wonderful phenomenon, when the
five million glasses were raised to witness the obscuration, and the
weird twilight had settled over all nature, this young life too had
passed into a total eclipse, from which it has never for a moment
emerged.
The poor lunatic never rages. She is sweet and harmless as a child. She
makes frequent visits to the glass-factories and to the news-rooms to
inquire after the progress of her enterprise, and over and over again
makes her contract to advertise the "Babcock Fire-Extinguisher," and
comes back with promises to her mother of the boundless riches which are
to flow in upon them.
As for Christian Van Pelt, his wrong to Mary had been unintentional, as
he was ignorant of her connection with the eclipse-glass scheme. Though
Mr. Ten Eyck had been honest in advising Miss Trigillgus to abandon her
plans, under the persuasion that with her limited means and want of
business training the result could not fail to be disastrous, he yet saw
that with capital and energy to push it a grand success might be
achieved. Having little loose capital, and his time being well occupied,
he unfolded the scheme to Christian Van Pelt, and together they put the
enterprise through. Mr. Ten Eyck argued that since Miss Trigillgus had
abandoned the plan, as he really supposed had been the case, he was not
wronging her by prosecuting it himself. He was one of that numerous
class who fail to perceive that _ideas_ have commercial value.
S. W. Kellogg.
CUBA.
"If," wrote Franklin, "you wish a separation to be always possible, take
the utmost pains that the colonies shall never be incorporated with the
mother-country. Do not let them share your liberties. Make use of their
commerce, regulate their industry, tax them at your will, and spend at
your caprice the wealth thus drawn from them, which costs you nothing.
Take care to invest the general in charge of them with despotic power,
and at the same time give him immunity from all colonial control. If the
colonists protest, do not listen to them, but reply by charges of high
treason and rebellion. Say that all such complaints are the invention of
certain demagogues, and that if one could catch and hang these wretched
fellows all would go well. If need be, arrest and hang them. By
continuing such a policy you will infallibly arrive at your goal, and to
a certainty be in a brief time disembarrassed of your colonies."
The above, wrote an accomplished Spaniard a few years ago, applies as
exactly to the Spanish colonies to-day as it did to those of England at
the time of our struggle with her. In fact, the misrule in Cuba has been
fifty times worse than the worst Anglo-Saxon misrule ever known. The
island has been used by Spain simply as a gold-mine.[J] So far as those
toiling in it are concerned, she has displayed an indifference similar
to that which resulted in the destruction of her West Indian population
three centuries ago. The Cubans have been taxed without representation,
shot down if they remonstrated, and mocked by acts of the Cortes,
granting relief which it was never intended to afford to them, but which
for a time served in some degree to throw dust in the eyes of Europe.
And thus it came to pass that on the 10th of October, 1868, the Cubans,
recognizing the truth of the poetic axiom, that
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow,
and that Spain's difficulty should be Cuba's opportunity, issued a
Declaration of Independence. The document, dated from Manzanillo, thus
stated the case: "In arming ourselves against the tyrannical government
of Spain, we must, according to precedent in all civilized countries,
proclaim before the world the cause that impels us to take this step,
which, though likely to entail considerable disturbance now, will ensure
future happiness. It is well known that Spain governs this island with
an iron and blood-stained hand, holding its inhabitants deprived of
political, civil and religious liberty. Hence the unfortunate Cubans,
illegally prosecuted, sent into exile and executed in time of peace by
military commissions. Hence their being prohibited from attending public
meetings, and forbidden to speak or write on affairs of state. Hence
their remonstrances against the evils that afflict them being regarded
as the proceedings of rebels, from the fact that they are expected to
keep silent and obey. Hence the never-ending plague of hungry officials
from Spain to devour the product of their industry and labor. Hence the
restrictions to which public instruction with them is subjected, in
order to keep them so ignorant as to render them unable to know and
enforce their rights in any shape or form. Hence the navy and standing
army kept in and about their country at an enormous expense (paid out of
taxes levied on Cuba), to make them submit to the terrible yoke
imposed....
"As we are in danger of losing our property, our lives and our honor
under further Spanish domination; as we have reached a depth of
degradation revolting to manhood; as great nations have sprung from
revolt against a similar disgrace after exhausted pleadings for relief;
as we despair of justice from Spain through reasoning, and cannot longer
live deprived of the rights which other people enjoy,--we are
constrained to appeal to arms, to assert our rights in the battle-field,
cherishing the hope that our grievances will be a sufficient excuse for
this last resort to redress them and secure our future welfare."
Ten days later the Cuban insurgent general Cespedes asked our own
government to recognize the belligerent rights of his party, in a letter
which detailed the rapid success of the movement. On the 27th of
December, 1868, Cespedes issued a proclamation of emancipation. In
January, 1869, it would appear that Spain, herself in a very critical
condition under a provisional government, thought that a sop must be
thrown to Cuba, and accordingly the captain-general of Cuba issued one
of those highflown addresses which come with such readiness from Spanish
bureaus. Said this gallant and noble-minded governor: "I will brave
every danger, accept every responsibility, for your welfare. The
revolution has swept away the Bourbon dynasty, tearing up by the roots a
plant so poisonous that it putrefied the air we breathe. To the citizen
shall be returned his rights, to man his dignity." [An admission, by the
way, that they had been bereft of both.] "You will receive all the
reforms which you require. Cubans and Spaniards are all brothers. From
this day Cuba will be considered as a province of Spain. Freedom of the
press, the right of meeting in public, and representation in the
national Cortes--the three fundamental principles of true liberty--are
granted you. Speaking in the name of our mother, Spain, I adjure you to
forget the past, hope for the future and establish union and
fraternity."
These very fine words, however, seem to have utterly failed in buttering
the Cuban parsnips. They were, in truth, calculated to carry about as
much conviction to the mind of Cubans as Joseph Surface's sentiments
after the discovery of Lady Teazle behind the screen do to her
ladyship's husband.
The insurrection saw no abatement. A reinforcement of fifteen hundred
men came from Spain, and within six weeks of all these blessings being
promised by the captain-general, freedom of the press was abolished and
trial by military commission established. On the 3d of March came a
second reinforcement of a thousand men from Spain.
Meanwhile, Cespedes, the Cuban general, found his only available policy
to be a sort of guerilla warfare until he could rally a sufficient force
and collect arms for an encounter with the Spanish army; and on March
1, 1869, he again addressed our President, asking for the recognition of
belligerent rights.
Up to this date no civil organization had existed among the insurgents,
but in April, 1869, representatives from the several anti-Spanish
districts met at Guaymazo, in the province of Puerto Principe, when
Cespedes formally resigned his power into the hands of the House of
Representatives, who thereupon proclaimed him president of the Cuban
republic, and General Quesada commander of the forces.
During the summer of 1869 the war was carried on with indifferent
success by the Spaniards, and in June General Dulce, captain-general,
went home,[K] being, in fact, virtually deposed by the "volunteers," who
were supposed to support the Spanish interest. These latter are, for the
most part, a set of worthless men, the scum of Spain and other
countries, who, with everything to gain and nothing to lose, consented
to enlist in the service of the Spanish slave-dealing clique in Havana,
and were furious at what they deemed too great clemency on the part of
the captain-general.
Dulce was succeeded by De Rodas, who announced "a vigorous policy."
During the autumn of 1869 no decisive step was taken on either side, but
the insurgents, careful to prevent the enemy profiting by the
confiscated property of the Cubans who had been compelled to abandon
their plantations, set fire to the cane, and hundreds of valuable crops
were thus destroyed. The year 1870 saw no abatement of the struggle.
Meanwhile, Peru and Chili formally and cordially recognized the
independence of the insurgents, toward whom still warmer symptoms of
sympathy from this quarter have been lately evinced, and widespread
sympathy has also been expressed toward them in the United States; but
the President in his message of December, 1869, intimated that he did
not consider the position of the insurgents such as to warrant him in
recognizing their belligerent rights.
And thus matters have continued till to-day. For more than four years
Cuba has been the scene of bloodshed, misery and ruin. Notwithstanding
the strong feeling for Cuba in this country, it would appear that even
now our cabinet deems it undesirable to recognize belligerent rights on
the part of the Cubans, but at the same time Mr. Fish's letter to Mr.
Sickles of the 29th of October last is couched in terms which clearly
indicate a limit to this forbearance, when he says: "Sustained, as is
the present ministry, by the large popular vote which has recently
returned to the Cortes an overwhelming majority in its support, there
can be no more room to doubt their ability to carry into operation the
reforms of which they have given promise than there can be justification
to question the sincerity with which the assurance was given. It seems,
therefore, to be a fitting occasion to look back upon the relations
between the United States and Spain, and to mark the progress which may
have been made in accomplishing those objects in which we have been
promised her co-operation. It must be acknowledged with regret that
little or no advance has been made. The tardiness in this respect,
however, cannot be said to be in any way imputable to a want of
diligence, zeal or ability in the legation of the United States at
Madrid. The department is persuaded that no person, however gifted with
those qualities and faculties, could have better succeeded against the
apparent apathy or indifference of the Spanish authorities, if, indeed,
their past omission to do what we have expected should not be ascribable
to other causes.
"The Spanish government, partly at our instance, passed a law providing
for the gradual emancipation of slaves in the West India colonies. This
law, so far as this department is aware, remains unexecuted, and it is
feared that the recently-issued regulations, professedly for its
execution, are wholly inadequate to any practical result in favor of
emancipation, if they be not really in the interest of the slaveholder
and of the continuance of the institution of slavery."
And after various stringent comments he concludes: "It is hoped that
you will present the views above set forth, and the present grievances
of which this government so justly complains, to the government to which
you are accredited, in a way which, without giving offence, will leave a
conviction that we are in earnest in the expression of those views, and
that we expect redress; and that if it should not soon be afforded Spain
must not be surprised to find, as the inevitable result of the delay, a
marked change in the feeling and in the temper of the people and of the
government of the United States. Believing that the present ministry of
Spain is in a sufficiently confirmed position of power to carry out the
measures which it announces and the reforms which have been promised,
and to do justice by the removal of the causes of our well-founded
complaints, and not doubting the sincerity of the assurances which have
been given, the United States look confidently for the realization of
those hopes, which have been encouraged by repeated promises, that all
causes for estrangement or for the interruption of those friendly
feelings which are traditional, as they are sincere, on the part of this
government toward Spain, will be speedily and for ever removed."
The cry is now loudly raised for recognition of belligerent rights, with
a view to independence and annexation by the United States. But, as we
have said, the government of this country does not--wisely for American
interests, in our opinion--appear inclined to hurry toward such a
course, and we should like to see the experiment first tried of active
mediation on its part between Spain and Cuba. A meeting of leading
representatives of both parties of the island under a distinguished
jurist at Washington might not impossibly assist the solution of the
difficulty.
Although many Cubans, despairing of reconciliation, are disposed at this
moment to declare that the time has quite gone by for a compromise, it
is doubtful whether this be really the case. Cuba and Spain have been
united for centuries, and notwithstanding fierce animosities have yet
many common ties. There are, too, not a few prudent men who, whilst
strongly in favor of abolition, dread the sudden adoption of such a
course, which would be the inevitable result of an entire break with
Spain. They see in it nothing but ruin to the majority of whites,
without corresponding advantage to the blacks. "Let abolition come,"
they say, "by all means, but not all at once. Look at Jamaica, look at
your own South! Would it not have really been better for all parties if
the abolition had been more gradual, or at least attended by such
conditions as would have ensured less immediate depreciation of
property?"
We believe that our government could not more effectually serve the
interests of the Cubans than by a vigorous intercession[L] to secure
them an independent government on the Anglo-colonial system, accompanied
by the passage of an act of the Cortes freeing every slave within five
years; and meantime enforcing rigorously protective measures for the
enslaved, including payment of wages.
There seems no reason why a legislative system on the plan of the
Australian colonies of Great Britain should not be attempted. Its
failure in Jamaica is not sufficient ground against it. In Jamaica there
were a few grains of whites to bushels of blacks: in Cuba there are some
seven hundred thousand colored--of whom only four hundred thousand are
slaves--to about one million four hundred thousand whites.
We can scarcely doubt that the Spanish government will feel constrained
to hearken to the remonstrances of that of the United States. Spain is
to-day in all but extent of territory a fourth-rate rather than a
second-rate power. Her government is the least stable in Europe, except
possibly that of France. Her exchequer is exhausted. Her credit is
utterly gone. Assume a war: where is she to get money? There is not a
people in Europe, save the Dutch and the English, who at this moment
have anything to lend, and neither Dutch nor English are likely at
present to send more money to Madrid. Spain has too amply proved herself
the defaulter _par excellence_ of the world.
Now, therefore, is the time for American mediation; and we sincerely
hope that Mr. Fish will not let it pass, but will follow up vigorously
his admirable despatch, and thus secure to Cubans the blessings of a
free country.
For years Spain has been promising, and not performing. Performance
seems with her the result only of compulsion; and if this really be so,
she must be compelled. So far as Cuban affairs are concerned, she has
had ample indulgence at the hands of ourselves and Great Britain. Every
reasonable chance has been given her to mend her ways. She has failed to
avail herself of her opportunities, and cannot complain if she suffer
accordingly. It is not in the nature of things that this country should
look calmly for all time on the just struggles of an enthralled and
trodden-down people dwelling within a few hours of our own mainland.
FOOTNOTES:
[J] In September, 1872, Senator Benot made a remarkable speech in the
Cortes in reference to the treatment of Cuba. "It is," he said, "the
Spanish peninsula alone that is ignorant of events in Cuba. But it is
not ignorance only of which I complain. From those remote possessions
comes the blood of the negro converted into gold to pervert the public
mind."
Referring to the horrid massacre of students in 1871, Senator Benot
said: "Spain does not rule Cuba: if she did, innocent children would not
be executed at the instance of the Spanish clique in Havana. Senators,
you are parents. Suppose that your boys in the professors' absence were
to run out to play in the adjoining cemetery. Suppose that for this lack
of reverence a ferocious mob seized your sons, subjected them to a
court-martial, charged them falsely with the demolition of
sepulchres--sepulchres whose crystals are untouched even now. Imagine
them brought before a court-martial and absolved, and then imagine these
children dragged by the mob, disappointed of their prey, before another
military council, who under terror condemned eight to death and the
remainder to the galleys. There were forty-four children, and the kind
council drew lots to decide which of them should be shot. Two brothers
were drawn, but even the stony hearts of the so-called judges thought
that it would be going rather too far to rob one father of his two sons;
so one was discharged, and another substituted because older than the
rest. This incredible, unprecedented crime yet goes unpunished."
[K] He died in the following November at Madrid.
[L] "I have, since the beginning of the present session of Congress,
communicated to the House of Representatives, upon their request, an
account of the steps which I had taken in the hope of securing to the
people of Cuba the blessings and the right of independent
self-government. These efforts failed, but not without an assurance from
Spain that the good offices of this government might still avail for the
objects to which they had been addressed. It is stated, on what I
believe to be good authority, that Cuban bonds have been prepared to a
large amount, whose payment is made dependent upon the recognition by
the United States of either Cuban belligerency or independence. The
object of making their value thus contingent upon the action of this
government is a subject for serious reflection." (_President Grant's
message, June, 1870._) Suggestive statements, indicating how powerful
the interference of our government may be! It would more than aught else
give the Spanish cabinet strength in inducing the Cortes to endorse it
in high-handed measures against the moneyed slave-holding, slave-dealing
clique in Havana, which is the root of all evil there.
PROBATIONER LEONHARD;
OR, THREE NIGHTS IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.