[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1897. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 902. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A WILD DAY IN '48.
BY WILLIAM BLACK.
There was a vague apprehension in the air; every one appeared conscious
that something was about to happen, though no one seemed to know
precisely what; and so, as childhood is naturally curious, the writer of
these lines, being then of the age of seven, managed to escape from the
house unobserved, out into the great murmuring town. Half-frightened
glances turned towards the east were a kind of guidance; and in that
direction he accordingly wandered, until he came in sight of a
crowd--not a beautiful, richly colored, processional crowd such as might
have gone through the streets of Florence in mediæval times, with boy
choristers chanting, and maidens carrying palms, but a black and grimy
and amorphous assemblage of men, silent, in deadly earnest, who at the
moment were engaged in tearing down the tall iron railing surrounding
Glasgow Green, in order to secure weapons for themselves. And this small
person of seven thought that he too must be up and doing. The others
were wresting these enormous bars from their soldered sockets; why
should not he also be furnished with an implement of destruction? And so
he tugged and pulled and struggled; and yet the iron bar, about thrice
as high as himself, remained obdurate; and again and again he pulled,
and dragged, and vainly shook; in the midst of which determined
endeavors a hand was swiftly laid on his arm, and a young Highland lass
(her eyes jumping out of her head with terror), who had been wildly
running and searching all over the neighborhood, dragged away the young
rebel from the now marshalling crowd. Perhaps the alarm in her face
impressed him; at all events he meekly yielded. That was not the usual
expression of her face--when she was telling marvellous tales of
children being carried away by eagles and brought up in a nest on a
crag; the heroine of these various adventures, I remember, was called
Angel; and whatever else happened to her, in the end her constancy, and
virtue, and beauty were invariably rewarded by a happy marriage.
But now the surging mass of rioters came along, each man of them with
one of those long spikes over his shoulder; and the trembling Highland
lass, still clinging tightly to her charge, shrank hiding into an
archway, and tried to conceal the child with her substantial skirts,
till the man-eating ogres should go by. "Willst du nicht aufstehn,
Wilhelm, zu schauen die Prozession?" some one might have asked--but not
this Highland girl, who was doubtless thinking (in Gaelic) that the
people who dwelt in cities were capable of dreadful things. Well, when
one did peep out, there was not much to see--at least, nothing
picturesque to attract the wondering eyes of childhood: there were no
flags, no Mænads with flowing hair; nor was there any gesticulation, nor
any attempt at oratory; only this great dark multitude moving on into
the city, with two or three leaders marching in front, these ominously
glancing from right to left, as if to judge where the sacking should
begin. For they had come to sack a city, had these men. There was a talk
at the time of bread riots; and no doubt there was a great deal of
distress prevailing, as there generally is; and presumably there was a
considerable proportion of these demonstrators honestly protesting
against a social system that did not provide them with work. But it was
not loaves the instigators of this movement were after, as events
showed; rather it was silver teapots, and diamond brooches, and silk
umbrellas--in short, a general partitioning of property; and of course
there were plenty of vagabonds and ne'er-do-weels only too ready to fall
in with that entrancing idea.
By what secret and devious ways the Highland lass managed to get herself
and her captive back to our home in the Trongate--the historic Trongate
of the ancient city of Glasgow--I cannot now say; but she must have been
clever and smart about it; for when one at length reached the eagerly
thronged windows, it was found that the fun in the thoroughfare below
was only beginning. The whole thing looked strange. Musgrave the
gunsmith (his sign was two gold guns crossed) was the first to put up
his shutters. Perhaps the police had warned him that the rioters would
make straight for his premises, to seize arms and ammunition, though, to
be sure, there was not a policeman anywhere visible. No; what was
visible was a great, swarming, tumultuous assemblage of men and lads
who, at a signal from their leaders, had become stationary in front of a
silversmith's shop. The silversmith, like the rest of his neighbors, had
hurriedly shut and locked up his shop on hearing of the approach of the
mob; but that did not avail him much. Another signal was given.
Volunteers rushed forward, and proceeded with their long iron pikes to
batter in the panels of the door. Then a hole was made. Then one man
stooped and crawled in and opened the door from the inside. The curious
thing was that the crowd did not now rush into the shop. Perhaps some
instinct told them that they would instantly block up the place, and
would thus escheat themselves of the spoils of victory. There was a
cheer, doubtless, when the panel was hammered in--a long, hoarse,
raucous cheer; but the mass held back; only the leaders entered; and for
a few moments there was a dumb expectancy.
What now followed was one of the most singular scenes that any small boy
of seven ever set eyes upon. From the wide-opened door flashing white
things came flying out; high above the heads of the crowd they came; but
as they descended a forest of straining arms and hands received them;
and there was cheer after cheer as the plunder went on. It did not
matter what it was: silver fish-knives, coffee-pots, biscuit-boxes,
cruet-stands, opera-glasses--out they came flying to fall into this or
that one's clutch; and again and again the hoarse roar of exultation
went up, even from those who could not get near enough to share. These
people with the upstretched arms appeared to have no fear whatever of
getting their heads cut open by an electro-plated salver, a drawing-room
lamp, or a brass candlestick. Out the missiles came; and the covetous
fingers grabbed here and there; and the fierce tumult of applause ebbed
and flowed. Where were the police? Well, there did not seem to be any
police. It is true, a number of special constables had been hastily
sworn in (my eldest brother was one of them, and according to his own
account performed prodigies of valor); but they could not be everywhere;
and meanwhile the poor silversmith's goods were being catapulted out to
those clamorous upstretched hands.
Of a sudden a new feature appeared in this changing panorama. Ten or a
dozen men (I think they wore some sash or badge of office, but I am not
positive on this point) who seemed to have dropped from the clouds were
jamming their way through the dense multitude; and when at length they
had reached the pavement in front of the silversmith's shop, they began
to lay about them lustily with their staves, each blow falling
vertically on several heads at once. In Egypt I have seen an old Arab
sheik do precisely the same thing, when his young men had become unruly.
And in neither case was there the slightest resistance to constituted
authority. This great mass of people could have turned upon the handful
of special constables and rent them in pieces; but they did not; they
tried in a kind of way to move on, though by this time all the central
thoroughfares of the city were blocked, and a man who has a cruet-stand
or a silver dish-cover concealed under his coat cannot glide easily
between his neighbors. Whether the constables succeeded in arresting any
of the ringleaders at this particular spot, I cannot recollect; but all
the afternoon came wilder and wilder stories of chases, and captures,
and seizures of booty. My brother was personally conducting a party of
five of the rioters to the police-station, through a very bad
neighborhood, when they turned on him, tripped him, and threw him down.
But he was up again in a moment, with the cursory declaration that if
any one of them advanced a step towards him, or attempted to escape
either, he would forthwith split his, the thief's, skull in two. And
what is more, he would have done it; for he was a powerful man; and he
had a drawn truncheon; and he was never at any time a slave to
punctilio. I forget the number of gold and silver watches found in the
possession of these rascals.
But now the great event of the day, to the imagination of childhood, at
all events, was approaching; for the bruit was gone abroad that the
cavalry had been ordered in from their suburban barracks to ride through
the streets and disperse the mob, and put an end to any lingering
lawlessness. Plundering in the main thoroughfares had by this time
mostly ceased; for the chief ringleaders had been arrested and haled off
to the police-stations; while the worst of their followers roamed about
in a surreptitious way, seeking what they could devour, rather than
daring openly to attack the shuttered shops. The central parts of the
city still remained congested, notwithstanding the reading of the Riot
Act; for many simple country folk had wandered in, perhaps out of
curiosity, perhaps anxious about their relatives; and of course they
could not well get about, because of the crush. Altogether they formed a
restless, half-frightened, elbowing, and struggling crowd; but it was a
sombre crowd--especially as the dusk of the afternoon drew on to
twilight; so that the delight of one small spectator may be imagined
when there appeared in the distance a fringe of color--a splendor of
uniforms--the glint of helmet and drawn sabre--the prancing of horses.
And now began a wild hurry-and-scurry, the people surging against
themselves in their frantic efforts to get free, a chaos and confusion
impossible to describe. On came the dragoons, pressing against this
nebulous mass of humanity, sparing the women as well as they could, but
riding down the men--especially where any disposition was shown to form
defiant groups--and striking right and left with the back of their
swords. It was all very picturesque and splendid--to one youthful
onlooker--here in the gathering gloom: the flash of brass and steel, the
clink-clank of bridle and scabbard, the fleeing of fugitives, the pawing
and rearing of reined-in chargers where a group of terrified women found
themselves incapable of retreat. Why, it was better than the fight with
Apollyon in the _Pilgrim's Progress_; for that was only a picture, in
flaming red and yellow colors; whereas this was full of movement and
change; and a certain dim fascination of fear. And so the dark came
down; and the gases in the house were lit; but out there the dragoons
were still riding hither and thither through the night, pursuing and
dispersing, with a rattle of horses' hoofs on the stony street.
What happened next was remarkable enough. The fact is, you cannot at a
moment's notice drive a welded crowd out of a long and narrow
thoroughfare. It is not to be done; and in this case it was not done;
for the people, seeing their neighbors here and there knocked over by
the horses or slapped on the shoulder by those gleaming blades,
forthwith fled pell-mell into the adjacent "closes," lanes, archways,
and common stair-cases, which were very speedily choked up. To all
outward seeming, the pavements and the causeway, now dimly visible under
the yellow light of the street lamps, had been swept clear; but none the
less the Trongate held all these innumerable huddled and hiding groups
of frightened folk, as we were soon to know. For, through some accident
or another, the outer door of our house chanced to be opened for a
second, and instantly there burst into the lobby and into the rooms a
whole number of women, panting, shaking, haggard-eyed, and speechless.
They made no apology for taking possession of a stranger's dwelling, the
simple reason being that in their agony of alarm they were incapable of
uttering a word; they did not know what they were doing or where they
were; they were entirely bereft of their senses. A friend of mine who
was through a long war (I do not mention his nationality, for fear of
wounding patriotic sensitiveness) told me that on one occasion, after an
unexpected reverse, the regiment in which he served was seized by a
perfectly ungovernable panic; there was no withstanding the infection of
this madness; the whole lot of them, himself included, took to their
heels, and ran, and ran, and ran, hour after hour, until they flung
themselves exhausted on the floor of any barn or shanty that chanced to
be on their way; and then there was never more than ten minutes' sleep
to be snatched, for one or other of them was sure to spring up with the
cry, "They're coming!" and off they would set again, in hysterical and
insensate flight. It would seem as if a regiment had a nervous system
just as a human being has, and that either may find it fail at a
critical moment, until reason reasserts itself. I remember regarding
with the greatest curiosity these unaccountable visitors who had invaded
our home. Decent-looking, respectably-dressed women they were, who
obviously had had no more to do with the riot than the man in the moon;
most likely they had never heard of such a thing as a Riot Act; but here
they were imprisoned, their voice and wits alike gone from them, and no
means possible to them of communicating with their friends. Not any one
of them appeared to know any other of them. Some stood in the middle of
the dining-room, seemingly unable to move another step, pale, trembling,
distraught; one or two had sunk helplessly into chairs; one or two were
looking out from the windows at the terrors from which they had just
escaped, their scared eyes following the clanking up and down of the
dragoons, the charging of the horses, the escape of this or that
guilty-conscienced runaway along the dark and gas-lit street. And what
was to be done with these paralyzed and speechless guests, when once
they had partially come to themselves? Among the elder members of the
family I gathered there was some talk of our being able to pass them
through the lines of the soldiery when our special constable should
return; but no one knew at what hour his multifarious duties might be
over. Well, that is all I can relate of this peculiar situation of
affairs, for now I was taken off to bed; and at what hour, and under
what escort these tremulous fugitives were conveyed past the lines of
military occupancy I cannot determine. Altogether it was a wild and
memorable day, and many and wild and wonderful were the tales thereafter
told of it; so that, for the time being, in the case of one small
listener, his old friends the Giants Pope and Pagan, Robinson Crusoe and
Friday, and even the eagle-captured children of the far West Highlands
were quite put into the shade.
MILADY'S CAST-OFFS.
I found a garment yesterday
A-lying on the hills;
'Twas rare with radiant coloring
And rich with gleaming frills:
A skirt of crinkled golden-rod
And purple-aster sleeves,
A belt of burning cardinals,
A mantle of brown leaves,
And a bodice of the laces
That the dandelion weaves.
A bonnet trimmed with thistle-blooms
Was lying not far off,
And sandals made of birchen bark
Were satin--brown and buff;
And dainty, dainty mittens
Were lying here and there,
Grown by the loving sumach-tree
For hands both small and fair,
With other witching trinkets that
A woodsy nymph might wear.
I touched the garments tenderly
As they were lying there,
And longed to see the maiden who
Such finery did wear;
So roaming through the woodland dale,
And searching every nook,
I paused at last to listen
To the prattle of the brook,
And all the pretty tale he knew
Just like a little book:
These were the gorgeous autumn robes
Of Nature not long since,
But now she'll dress in gems and white,
For she's to wed a prince--
The wondrous, jolly Winter Prince,
Fast coming from the north,
His heralds speeding on the wind,
Their trumpets shouting mirth;
And soon a snow-white wedding-feast
Will spread all o'er the earth.
SARAH STIRLING MCENERY.
GORGONZOLA, THE AUTHOR.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
It was upon the occasion of my second visit to Schnitzelhammerstein on
the Zugvitz that my friend Hans Pumpernickel, who, as some of you may
remember, is the Mayor of the queer old city, let me into the secret of
poor old Gorgonzola's embarrassing situation. We were taking one of our
usual summer-evening walks on the banks of the Zugvitz, and on our way
back to Hans's residence we passed a gloomy-looking old house on the
right-hand side of the Hochstrasse, near the public gardens. With the
exception of a dim light which struggled through a window on the top
floor, the mansion was in utter darkness, and was, in fact, in such
strong contrast to the general air of cheerfulness which is one of the
strongest attributes of this broad avenue that I remarked it.
"Dear me!" I cried, as I stood before it. "What a place of gloom! It
reminds me of a small black cloud on an otherwise perfect sky. Who lives
there?"
"It is the home of poor old Gorgonzola, the author," said Hans, shaking
his head sadly. "The light you see is from his study--his den. It is
there that he is at work."
I did not like to confess my ignorance by telling Hans that I had never
heard of Gorgonzola, the author. For all I knew, Gorgonzola, the author,
might be one of the features of the town, and so, wishing neither to
betray my ignorance nor to offend my kindly host, I said:
"Oh! Really? How interesting!"
At this remark Hans threw his head back and laughed. "Is it so?" he
said. "Indeed, now, how interesting do you find it?"
"Well," I replied, after some hesitation, "we have a word in our
language which expresses it. 'Quite' is the word. I find it quite
interesting, though, to tell you the truth, my dear Mr. Mayor, I never
heard of Herr Gorgonzola before. In our country almost every town of
importance has an author of which it is proud, and it was only my desire
to be tactful that kept me from asking, when you mentioned Gorgonzola,
who on earth he was. The fact that I never heard of him does not prove
that he is not a great man. What has he written?"
"Nothing--practically nothing. He hasn't even written a poem for the
Schnitzelhammerstein _Blaetter_."
"Then why do you call him an author?" I asked.
"Because," Hans replied, naïvely, "every man has to do something, and
poor old Gorgonzola is nothing else. Besides, he called himself that."
There was a pause. I was more or less baffled to know what to say, and
in accordance with the old German maxim, "When you nothing have to say
already, do not say it yet," I deemed it well to keep silent.
Fortunately, before the silence that followed became too deep,
Pumpernickel himself put in with,
"He did not want to call himself an author, but he had to. You know we
have a Directory here in our city--a great, thick, heavy book--"
"Which he wrote?" I suggested, desiring to say something, for I had in
mind that other old proverb, "He who says nothing, has nothing to say;
and having nothing to say, therefore thinks nothing in his brains."
"Not at all, not at all," cried Hans, impatiently. "He merely let them
use his name in it for completeness' sake. You see, it was this way,"
the Mayor continued. "When Bingenburg and Rheinfels went to our Board of
Trade and said let us get up the Directory of this city, the Board of
Trade said: 'Donner and Blitzen! not unless you make it complete. The
last Directory was full of addresses that no one wished to know, and had
none that would help a stranger to our town.'
"'We will make it complete,' said Bingenburg and Rheinfels. 'There shall
be no living soul in Schnitzelhammerstein on the Zugvitz whose name and
occupation and domicile shall not be down in full.'
"'Then,' said the Board of Trade, 'you may make the Directory, but if we
find one name left out, or without an occupation and an address, then
will we not only not endorse your Directory, but we will say it is bad,
and advise the citizens of this town not to go to those addresses which
you print.'
"'We will do our best,' said Bingenburg and Rheinfels.
"'That's good,' replied the Board of Trade. 'Go ahead. What we have
feared from experience is that you would do your worst.'
"And so," continued Hans Pumpernickel to me, "these persons were
commissioned to prepare a Directory for Schnitzelhammerstein on the
Zugvitz. They went ahead and got most everybody. In their original
manuscript, submitted to the Board of Trade, they had entries like this:
'Hans Blumenthal, baby, Altgeldstrasse, 19 bis.' They had 'Gretchen
Frorumelstine, doll-fancier, 4612 Funf Avenue'--in fact, they had every
single human being in town, by name and by occupation, however trivial,
mentioned.
"Now, of course, to do this they had to see everybody, and among others
they saw poor old Gorgonzola, and he willingly gave them his address and
his name.
"'But your occupation?' said the agent, instructed beforehand already.
"'I have none,' said he.
"'Then we put you down as "Wilhelm Gorgonzola, nothing,"' said the
agent.
"'But I am not nothing,' cried Gorgonzola.
"'Then what are you--a butcher?" said the agent.
"'You are insulting,' said Gorgonzola, indignantly.
"'We may be, but we do not intend to be,' said the agent. 'The man who
is nothing is nothing; if he is not nothing, he is something else.
Therefore you may be a butcher.'
"'You cannot have my name at all, then,' said Gorgonzola, with an angry
wave of his hand.
"'Oh yes, we can,' replied the agent. 'Your name is here. Therefore we
have your name and address. Your occupation is what we wish to learn. If
you are not occupied, we will put you down as "vacant," or "to let," or
as "nothing." We are under contract to the Board of Trade to give them a
complete Directory, and we intend to do so. What, then, are you?'
"'Well, you see,' said Gorgonzola, desperately, 'as yet I am nothing,
but I hope to be an author--'
"'And how soon do you hope to be an author?" asked the agent.
"'It may come at any time--to-morrow, or the next day--or the day
after--'
"'Oh, well, then, it is all right already,' put in the agent, 'for our
Directory will not be out before that. Under no circumstances can we
have it ready before to-morrow, or the next day, or the day after. I
will therefore put you down as an "author," for doubtless you will be
one before our Directory is published.'
"To this," Hans continued, "poor old Gorgonzola weakly consented. You
see, he fully expected to be one before the Directory came out; but,
alas! he was too hopeful. The day of publication arrived, and as yet he
had not written a line. He sent word to Bingenburg and Rheinfels, and
begged them to wait a month; but they said no, they would wait ten days
and no longer.
"'But I have not yet even an idea for my book,' said Gorgonzola.
"'That is not our fault,' replied Bingenburg and Rheinfels. 'You have had
six months in which to become an "author"; we grant you ten days more.
If you are not one by that time, our Directory will have to come out,
anyhow, and inasmuch as we have your authorization to put you down as
such, we shall require that you shall be one at least in name by then,
for we have promised that the book shall have no errors. If we get into
trouble with the Board of Trade on your account, then shall we sue you
for the damages!'"
"The poor old fellow," said I, my sympathy aroused.
[Illustration: BINGENBURG CAME IN PERSON TO SEE HIM.]
"It was a dreadfully hard position for him, no doubt," said Hans; "but,
after all, it was his own fault, and has been so ever since. When the
ten days were up, Gorgonzola had even yet not an idea, much less a book,
and Bingenburg came in person to see him. Gorgonzola begged him to blot
out the word author, but neither he nor Rheinfels would go to the
expense, and they threatened that if he ever denied that he was an
author, in public or in private, they would ruin him. 'It is all your
own doings,' said Rheinfels. 'We would gladly have put you down as a
butcher, or a baker, or anything else that is easy to be, and you would
not let us. We offered to put you down as a nothing, and you grew angry,
and it was yourself that said you expected to be an author before our
Directory came out, and we put you down so with your consent. Now our
Directory has cost us five thousand thalers to make, and if one mistake
is found therein the Board of Trade will decline to take it off our
hands, and we shall lose all that money; and so it comes that you have
got to keep your promise to us and be what you said you would.'
"'I see,' moaned Gorgonzola; 'I cannot blame you, Rheinfels. But it is
awfully hard.'
"'It would have been easier to be a butcher, but you would not,' put in
Bingenburg.
"'I know, I know,' said Gorgonzola, 'but I hate butchering.'
"'Well, anyhow,' said Rheinfels, 'the entry is going to attract
attention, and the Board of Trade will try to find an error in the book
so that they may not have to pay us, and we want you to understand that
we hold you responsible for this. If they summon you, you must confess.'
"'Confess?' cried Gorgonzola. 'Confess what?'
"'That you are an author,' said Rheinfels, calmly.
"'But suppose they ask me of what?' pleaded Gorgonzola, wringing his
hands.
"'That is your business, not ours,' retorted Bingenburg and Rheinfels in
one breath, and with that they left him.
"And so it happened," continued Hans. "The Directory was published, and
the Board of Trade appointed a Committee of Three on Errors, who should
read the book and see if it should be paid for or confiscated. Ten
possible errors were discovered. Nine of them were found not to be
errors, but in the case of Gorgonzola they reported that since he was
not an author there was clearly one error in the book, and that they
therefore recommended the non-acceptance of the Directory. The Board so
decided, and Bingenburg and Rheinfels carried their case to the courts.
The Board of Trade stated that they had rejected the book upon the
agreement in the contract that one error should be sufficient to relieve
them of the payment required, and they had fifty witnesses to say that
Gorgonzola was not an author, but a mild-mannered gentleman who had
struck them as being a querist.
"'A querist?' asked the Judge.
"'Yes,' said the witnesses. 'A querist--one who is only queer and
nothing else.'
"Then Bingenburg and Rheinfels called Gorgonzola as a witness. Poor old
fellow! he felt awfully about it, but he had to testify.
"'Your name,' said the lawyer.
[Illustration: HANS JOSEF WILHELM GORGONZOLA, AUTHOR.]
"'Hans Josef Wilhelm Gorgonzola,' he replied.
"'A good name for an author,' sneered the lawyer. 'What is your
business?'
"'I am an author,' said Gorgonzola, with tears in his eyes.
"'He confesses it! he confesses it!' cried Bingenburg and Rheinfels,
overjoyed, while the Board of Trade looked blue, and the Judge called
the firm to order.
"'Author of what?' asked the lawyer, triumphantly.
"Gorgonzola hesitated, and Bingenburg and Rheinfels held their breath.
"'Of--what I have written,' said Gorgonzola, sadly.
"'And what is that?' insisted the lawyer.
"'I cannot tell,' said Gorgonzola, 'because it--it is my secret. If I
told what I have written, some one else might steal it and publish it
over his name, and all my work would be gone for nothing, which is
hardly fair.'
"'A good point,' said the Judge, nodding pleasantly at Gorgonzola.
"'But you have never published anything?' said the lawyer in a manner so
impressive as to affect the jury.
"'No,' said Gorgonzola. 'No, I have never published anything; but that
is because I am not a publisher. If I were a publisher, I should
publish. As I am only an author, I merely authorize.'
"'Do not authors frequently publish?' asked the lawyer.
"'Often,' returned Gorgonzola. 'But I am not of that kind. It is said by
some who seem to know that the best books are still unwritten, much less
published. I am writing one of the unwritten and unpublished books.'
"'Yet you have written something?' suggested the Judge, who admired the
modest demeanor of Gorgonzola.
"'Yes,' said Gorgonzola. 'I have written the first paragraph of my new
book.'
"'Then,' said the Judge, 'the entry is correct. If he has written the
first paragraph, or even the first word of his new novel, he is an
author, and I so decide. Next case.'
"So," said Hans, "it was decided that Gorgonzola was properly entered as
an author on the pages of the Schnitzelhammerstein Directory, and the
Board of Trade was compelled to pay for it. That," Hans added, "was
twenty years ago."
"As long ago as that, eh?" said I. "And was Gorgonzola's novel published
later?"
"No," said Hans. "Not yet. You see, he is still at work on it. That is
why you see that dim light from his study window. Gorgonzola begins work
at seven in the morning and retires at midnight. He is still at work on
the novel, but, having written that first paragraph, we of course allude
to him as the Author."
I laughed again. I had to, though I still had a great sympathy for
Gorgonzola.
"What was his first paragraph?" I asked, very much interested; "or don't
you know?"
"Yes, indeed, I know," replied Hans. "He has read it to me many times.
Let's see--it is like this: 'It was a pleasant day in June. The buds
were bursting on the trees, and all nature seemed alive, as Gretchen
walked down the stairs and out into the garden.'"
"That's a good start," said I. "And tell me, Mr. Mayor, how far has he
got in these twenty years?"
"He is still at work on his second paragraph," said the Mayor.
"Well," said I, "there's a good story for you--but, after all, Hans, it
hasn't much of a moral."
"Oh yes, it has," retorted Hans. "It has a great moral. In fact you
English-speaking people have the very moral well expressed."
"Indeed," said I, anxiously, "what is that?"
"First be sure you write, then go ahead," said Hans, simply.
THE MIDDLETON BOWL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 898.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER V.
Yes, some one was in the room. Theodora felt a little thrill of
excitement as she realized this fact. Was it a robber who had hidden
there? Perhaps, though, it was only one of the servants. She felt almost
disappointed when this thought crossed her mind--a robber would be so
much more uncommon. And yet he might try to kill her; robbers frequently
did such things. She withdrew more into the shadow, and waited.
Not another sound was to be heard. Brave as she naturally was, Theodora
felt a tremor of fear as she sat there in the silence of the night. She
was quite sure that she had heard something; of that there was no doubt.
She knew with absolute certainty that some one or something alive was in
her aunts' parlor besides herself.
Should she go and call somebody? No, that would not do, for her aunts
had had too much excitement already. If they knew that a burglar--for it
certainly might be one--was in the drawing-room they would without doubt
scream and faint, and that would be bad for her aunt Joanna, to say the
least. The servants would be useless, for they were all elderly, and
were quite as unstrung as were their five mistresses, and John, the only
man of the household, was ill in his room over the stable.
The doctor was upstairs, to be sure, but it was early in the night, and
he was in close attendance upon his patient, who was not yet out of
danger. All these thoughts passed rapidly through Teddy's mind, and she
saw that she must act alone.
"I don't believe a robber would kill a little girl," she said to
herself, "and I will speak to him very politely."
Her first act was to walk around the room pulling up all the
Venetian-blinds as high as they would go. There were seven windows in
the large room--two at each end, and three on the side that had the two
fireplaces. On the fourth side of the room were two doors, one leading
into the front hall, the other into the back. The parlor occupied the
whole of that side of the main house. The kitchens were in the "L" at
the back, cut off by a door into the hall.
It required some courage to go from window to window, particularly when
Teddy reached that part of the room whence the sound had come, but she
felt that she must have as much light as possible. Her fingers trembled
as she tried to fasten the cord which held the blinds. Once their
strength failed them, and the slats of the blind fell down with a
terrifying clatter; but she pulled them up again, and wound the cord
firmly about the hook.
At last the seven shades were up, and the room was as light as the world
without. Only here and there lay a black shadow which might
contain--anything! Teddy then took up her position near the door, that
she might escape should affairs become very alarming, and tried to
speak. At first not a sound came from her. She cleared her throat, and
tried again.
"Is anybody in this room?" she asked. Only the silence and the shadows
made reply. "I am quite sure some one is," she continued, gaining
courage at the sound of her own voice; "I heard you breathe a little
while ago, and I heard you knock something. If you don't come out I
shall have to go and call Dr. Morton, who is upstairs. He is with my
aunt Joanna, who is very ill. I should lock the parlor doors while I am
gone, so you couldn't get out."
She thought this was a brilliant inspiration, quite forgetting the seven
windows within easy reach of the ground. To this long speech, however,
there was no reply.
"I declare, it is too bad!" went on Teddy. "I do think you might say
something. I won't let any one hurt you, and if you are a robber I'll
let you get away as easily as anything, if you'll only come out!"
She ceased again, and suddenly a voice replied. It sounded so near, and
it was so unexpected--for she had now almost made up her mind that no
one was there, after all--that it made Teddy jump.
"Do you mean that?" it said.
"Yes, of course I do," said she, speaking very rapidly, and fixing her
eyes upon the old-fashioned sofa with the high back, whence the voice
seemed to proceed. "Please come out and tell me who you are and what you
want."
The sofa was placed across a corner, and as Teddy watched it eagerly it
was pushed slightly from behind, and a boyish figure rose against the
wall. There was something about the intruder that seemed familiar to
her, and she stepped forward.
"Why--why, is it you?" she exclaimed, as the boy climbed over the sofa
and stood in the moonlight.
"Yes, it's me," was the reply.
Sure enough, it was Andy Morse, the boy who stoned the kitten.
"Why, what do you want here?" asked Teddy, all her fear vanishing at
sight of this well-known face. "I am so glad it is you, for, do you
know, I was really afraid it was somebody come to steal something. What
have you come for, and why did you come in such a queer way in the
middle of the night?"
The boy shuffled his feet, and looked away from her.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" she continued.
"Yes," said he, in a hoarse whisper; "I'm awful hungry."
"Oh, are you? Well, just wait here, and I'll get you something to eat.
Or perhaps you had better come with me, for my aunts don't like to have
eating in the parlor. You might drop the crumbs, you know. I often do.
We'll go out to the kitchen; but first I must find some matches."
"Here's one," said Morse, diving into his pocket.
He followed her through the door into the back hall. She could not reach
the gas-burner, so he lighted it for her both there and in the kitchen.
She went to the bread-box and took out a loaf of Catharine's delicious
Graham-bread, and then she went to the refrigerator in the hall and
procured some butter. A pitcher of milk and some cold mutton were also
within reach. These she brought and placed upon the kitchen table,
inviting her guest at the same time to draw up a chair. Then, having
supplied him with a knife and fork, and some cookies which she found in
the store-room, she sat down at the table herself.
"I am hungry too," she remarked, affably. "I have been up all night, and
I went after the doctor on a bicycle. It makes you awfully hungry to do
so much in the night."
Her guest made no reply to this, but devoted himself to his supper with
an avidity which left no doubt of his being hungry himself. Every drop
of the milk had disappeared, every scrap of meat upon the mutton bone
had been devoured before he spoke. Then he pushed back his chair. "Thank
you," said he. "I 'ain't had nothin' ter eat since day before
yesterday."
"Oh!" cried Theodora, "I don't wonder you were hungry! Won't you have
something more? Why, how did it happen?"
"It happened 'cause I'm tired of askin' folks ter give me somethun when
they don't want ter, and I 'ain't had no money ter pay for it, and yer
can't get nothin' without payin' for it unless yer wants ter get chucked
inter jail. So that is the reason I come here. I thought I'd get ter
jail sooner or later, and I might as well try for somethun big first.
Yer don't much care what yer do when yer as hungry as I was."
"What do you mean?" asked Teddy. "I don't quite understand what you say
about jail."
The boy looked at her in silence for a moment or two. "Look ahere," said
he, at last. "I thought I hated yer 'count o' that black eye yer give me
long o' that cat. I 'ain't never been set onter by a girl before, and it
jest made me rippin' mad. I didn't s'pose I'd ever git over it, and I'd
'a' liked ter 'a' paid yer back over and over again, but I feel
diff'runt now. Yer've been mighty perlite, and give me as good a lot o'
victuals as I ever tasted. I feel better, now I've got somethun inside
o' me, and I'm agoin' ter tell yer somethun. I don't believe, after all,
as yer the kind o' girl as would git me inter trouble."
"Oh no; of course not!" said Teddy, earnestly. "I was very mad at you
that day, for I do think it is perfectly horrible for any one to hurt an
animal. I'm sorry I hurt you very badly, but I may just as well tell you
the truth. You had better never do it again if you see me anywhere near,
for I am sure, perfectly sure, that it would make me just as mad as it
did that day, and I am very much afraid I should attack you the same
way. My aunts did not like my doing it at all, and they said it was
unladylike, and I suppose it was. But oh! you don't know how angry it
makes me to see any one cruel to animals!"
They were standing facing each other, the little girl in her pretty red
frock, with the mass of tumbled brown hair falling over her shoulders;
the tall ungainly boy in his ragged clothes, twisting his hat in his
hands as he listened to this tirade. When she had finished, he lifted
his eyes and looked at her admiringly.
[Illustration: "I WON'T STONE NO MORE KITTENS, NOT IF I CAN HELP IT, NOR
PUPPIES NEITHER."]
"Yer a good one," said he. "I kinder like yer underneath fer it, though
yer did give me a black eye and make me mad. And yer've been that good
ter me ter-night, givin' me such a lot ter eat, that I'm willin' ter
promise yer somethun. I won't stone no more kittens, not if I can help
it, nor puppies neither."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Theodora, fervently. "I am so much obliged to you
for saying that! Will you really be kind to animals after this? You
don't know what a relief to my mind it is. I have often thought of you
since, and wondered if you were being cruel; and now I shall feel quite
easy about you. The poor kitten died, you know."
Morse said nothing to this.
"And we had a funeral," continued Teddy. "That was a dreadful day
altogether, except the funeral. That was nice, but a terrible misfortune
happened to our family that day. But you said you were going to tell me
something. Was it about being kind to animals?"
"No, it warn't about animals."
"What was it?" asked Theodora, much interested.
"Will yer promise not ter git me inter trouble?" he asked again.
"Of course I'll promise."
"Then I'll tell yer. Do yer know how I got in here ter-night?"
"No; I was going to ask you that."
"Well, yer know when yer went out on the bike?"
"When I went for the doctor? Yes."
"Well, I was down near the gate, a-hangin' round, not knowin' what I was
agoin' ter do, and when I seen yer go by, I thinks here's a chance. Most
likely she's left a door open or somethun, and I can git in and git
somethun or other. Yer see, I was so hungry I was ready for anything.
And I found the back door open, and I walked in as easy as anything. I
was afraid to hide in the kitchen, for I heard people movin' round, so I
crep' inter the parlor, for I knew the big sofa there'd hide me."
"Why, how did you know that?" asked Theodora. "Have you ever been in our
parlor?"
The boy dropped his eyes again, and again shifted his hat.
"I jest thought there'd be some place there," said he; "most folks has
sofas."
"And what were you going to do? Were you going to stay there all night?"
"I was agoin' ter stay there till the house got quiet, and then I was
agoin' ter make a grab and be off."
"A grab?" repeated Teddy, wonderingly.
"Yes, a grab. I was agoin' ter take a lot o' things--them silver things
and some o' the chiny--anythin' I could get."
"You mean you were going to _steal_ something?"
"Yes," he said, doggedly.
Theodora drew a step nearer.
"Then you were a robber after all!" she said. "I never saw one before.
But oh, I am so sorry it was you! I am _too_ sorry! I was just getting
to like you, because you said you would be kind to animals after this.
Are, you really a robber?"
"I ain't one yet," said the boy, "and now I dun'no' as I'll ever be one.
I feel kinder diff'runt about it, now I've got somethun inside o' me. I
guess you'd feel like stealin' if yer hadn't had nothin' ter eat since
day before yesterday."
"I do believe I would," said Theodora, compassionately; "it must be
perfectly awful! But oh, I hope you won't steal anything. It is such a
wicked thing to do. You know there is a commandment entirely about that,
so it must be one of the wickedest things there are. _Please_ don't
steal!"
"I won't," said Andy Morse. "I feel diff'runt now."
There was a pause, while Theodora rapidly thought over the situation.
"What are you going to do to-morrow?" she asked. "How will you get
something to eat then?"
"Dun'no'. Trust ter luck, I guess."
"Haven't you any relations?"
"Only an uncle, and he's drunk most o' the time and won't give me
nothin'."
"And won't any of your friends give you anything?"
"'Ain't got none, and I'm tired of askin' people ter give me victuals.
There ain't no one as seems ter want ter. Yer see, I've got a kinder bad
name round here. That's the reason I can't get no work."
"Wouldn't you like some money?" asked Teddy. "I've got some upstairs I
could very well give you, if you would let me. Then you could buy
yourself something to eat for a few days, at any rate."
The boy looked at her. "Yer a real good un," said he, after a moment's
grateful pause. "If I had a little money ter git some decent clo'es, I
might git some work somewhere or other. I'd rather be honest if I can,
but a poor shabby-lookin' feller like me don't stand no chance, and
everybody in Alden thinks I'm no good. If I could git away from here, I
might git somethun ter do somewheres else. Do yer really mean yer'd give
me some money?"
"Of course I do," replied Teddy; "I'll go up and get it now. It's in my
bank. Suppose we put this light out and go back to the parlor; you can
wait for me there."
They reached the drawing-room door, and Teddy, opening it, motioned to
her guest to go in and be seated. The moonlight still flooded the room,
and it lighted up the old silver snuffers and trays, the tall silver
candelabra which flanked both ends of the two mantel-pieces, and even
Great-grandfather Middleton's gold snuff-box, which was always kept upon
a cabinet in the front of the room.
"Say!" exclaimed Andy Morse, in a sharp whisper; "ain't yer 'fraid ter
leave me here with all them things? Ain't yer 'fraid I might steal 'em,
after all?"
"Oh no," said Theodora, following him into the room and closing the
door; "of course not. You just told me you wouldn't steal, that you were
going to be honest, and _of course_ I believe you."
And then she went out of the parlor and left him alone in the moonlight
with the gold and the silver, and all the priceless china, from the
Middleton bowl down. She was absent about ten minutes. When she returned
she carried a small silk bag in her hand, which she gave to Morse.
"It is all in there," she said--"all I have. I just emptied my bank
right into that work-bag, for I thought it would be easier for you to
carry the money that way. I don't know how much there is there, but I
think it is about fifteen dollars, for I've been saving it for some
time. It seems heavy, for so much of it is in pennies and five and ten
cent pieces, but I don't believe you will mind carrying it."
Andy Morse was speechless. He took the bag, shook it, weighed it, looked
at it in the light. Twice he tried to speak, but no words came.
"Do yer--do yer really mean ter give me all this?" he stammered at last.
"Certainly I do," replied Teddy. "I only hope it will be enough for you
to get what you want."
"Look ahere," said Andy; "jest yer listen ter me! I solemnly promise
I'll act straight after this. I won't steal, and I won't hurt no
animals, and I won't do nothin' yer wouldn't like. And if I ever make
enough, I'll pay yer back this money, sure 's I'm alive. I'll count it,
and I'll pay yer back every cent. Do yer believe me?"
"Yes, indeed I do; but you needn't bother about paying it back, for you
really need it a great deal more than I do." As she spoke her glance
fell upon the Middleton bowl, gleaming in the moonlight. "Before you go,
I want to show you this," she said, moving over to the Chinese table in
the window.
"This was broken the day--the day the kitten died, and we can't find out
who did it. It is very, very valuable, and all of our family think more
of it than anything else we own, because my great-grandfather brought it
home and gave it to his son, and when my aunts die it is to go to my
father, and then to me. It is never to go out of the family, and now it
is broken, and had to be mended. We can't find out who did it, and it
has given us lots of trouble. My aunts thought at first that I did it,
and sometimes they think so now, I am sure; but I didn't. It makes me so
unhappy to think they don't believe me." She paused for a moment and
gazed at the bowl. Then she continued. "It isn't nice not to be
believed, and that is the reason I am telling you about it. I just
happened to think of it. I want to tell you again that I really and
truly believe you. I don't want you to feel unhappy about that, the way
I do about the Middleton bowl."
Andy looked at it in silence. Then he turned away.
"I'm agoin' now," he said. "Good-by. Yer've saved me, and I'll never
forgit it. Would yer please tell me what yer name is?" he asked, shyly.
"Yer first name, I mean. Of course I know yer other name's Middleton."
"Theodora," said she, "but everybody calls me Teddy, and I like that
best. Good-by! I hope you will be able to get some work. I'm very glad I
came down here to-night. If Aunt Joanna hadn't been so ill I shouldn't
have come. If I can ever do anything else for you, I wish you would tell
me. Please go out the back door, the way you came in, if you don't mind,
for I am afraid my aunts might hear the front door shut, and it would
frighten them."
She followed him to the back door and watched him walk away in the
moonlight, swinging the bag in his hand. Then she closed the door and
went back to the drawing-room.
"It must be dreadful to be so hungry," she said, to herself, as she
again stood by the Middleton bowl, "and I'm glad I told him I believed
him. It certainly is dreadful not to be believed."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHY I NEVER REACHED FRANCE.
We drew up our horses before the house nearest to the stone pier or
jetty that ran out some hundred feet or more from the shore. On one side
of it was a small dock or basin large enough to give shelter to four or
five fishing-boats about the size of those we call dories in New
England.
As we dismounted, Monsieur de Brissac gave a halloo, and a figure
appeared in the doorway. I was surprised to see that it was Monsieur de
la Remy. He called back into the room, and a man followed him out and
took our horses.