thet way; an' I knaw He's good, or Nobby'd been a fool a'terward, like
children thet burn theirsel's. Saved Nobby from dyin' an' from bein'
worse nor dead, both, Lord meant him good.'
The boy was Adam Craig's grandson. His firstborn, Tom, was wild, and
went to sea--the old story--leaving wife and unborn child for his father
to look to. Six years had gone--the seventh began at New Year's; the boy
was born, burnt, saved alive, and not idiotic; its mother had died;
Adam's life was outrunning the child's, and he would soon have to leave
it to go on by itself; but his faith in his son's return never shook.
'Him'll come back,' he would say, simply, and in perfect confidence, 'I
knaw't well. Lord never burnt Nobby for nawt. Him's nawt dead; him'll
come back some time, I knaw.'
III.
Adam went back at noon, and found something else to take his thoughts:
Nobby was in his pains--a sad remnant of his terrible mishap. These were
irregular, and he had been free for several months, but he had been
exposed to the cold to-day. There was little to be done. At such times
Adam could only cry over him, hold him in his arms while he was twisting
his crooked body so that it would hardly stay in or upon anything, and
say:
'Poor, poor Nobby. Him'll nawt die, Katry; but how can he live? Lord
send back Tom!'
Jane was busy somewhere, and did not come home till evening. Her father
had been turned out of his place; Nobby was in his pains again, after
they had been hoping he wouldn't have any more; and to-morrow was
Christmas! As she said, everything came at once. Things seemed to swim
before her eyes--Nobby's pain was the most real of all--and as she could
not help him, she wanted to get out of sight. It was all true. Aching
and longing intolerably for something more than she had known, she had
met Will Prescott--and he had loved her--he said so; and he had promised
her books and pictures, and chances for travel and study.
She went into the best room, already trimmed for to-morrow; the
Christmas tree was clustered with gifts and with candles ready for
lighting, and the motto was on the top, '_Gott zur hülfe_.' Jane looked
it all over, and her lip quivered.
'This is pure and honest, as it says,' said she; 'and _I'm_ a lie
myself, cheating father. Christmas to-morrow! 'twon't last long; if
_he_ only knew I go to--I won't say the word--would he ever care about
me again?'
She went into the other room for her shawl.
'Hes my little girl got to go out to-night?' said Adam. 'Well, there's
to-morrow. Doan' stay late, Net,' kissing her good-by.
She pulled the hood over her face and went out, taking the road to the
city, never slackening her pace till the lights along the way grew
thicker, and she came upon the pavements. Crossing the great
thoroughfare, she turned into a narrow street, and from that descended a
short flight of steps into a narrower one lit only by a great lamp in
front of a door, with the word '_Tanzhaus_' above it; she went in here
unhesitatingly. A large room with a bar on one side, small tables in the
middle, and a stage at the farther end; some tables had occupants,
drinking and looking at several women dancing on the stage. This was
Jane's 'place;' the dance house wanted her face at its tables, and as
there was nothing else open, in very desperation she went. She turned
into a smaller room where the private tables were, to which she
belonged; at first they had tried to teach her to dance, but she would
not learn. The furniture was worn, with a slimy polish in spots; an
unclean, stifling smell in the air; a few coarse prints of racers and
champions hung around; and in one place a drunken artist had sketched
one night a Crucifixion on the wall; the owner was angry enough, but
something held back his hand from touching it, and it staid there,
covered by an old newspaper.
As Jane laid away her shawl and hood, a woman came forward to meet her.
'What are you here for?' she said, fiercely; 'this is Christmas eve!
there's none for me--I wish I could cry, but my tears are dried up,'
snatching her tawdry cap from her head and stamping on it; 'but you're
not a devil yet. Go home, if you've got a home! out the back
way--quick!'
The woman caught her shoulder, pulled away the paper, and pointed to the
picture on the wall.
'Look at _that_! When I see that, I think sometimes I'm in hell! What
has that got to do with me? Do you want to get out of the reach of that?
Go home, go home,' shaking her furiously.
'I can't! I can't!' cried Jane, desperately. 'He won't let me. 'Twas
here or the street, I thought; I've been here three weeks, and
to-night's no more'n other nights.'
A voice called in the front room, and the woman put on her cap and ran
in; Jane stood where she left her. She hardly knew what moved her
to-night; she saw her own body walking about, tense and foreign, as
though some possession had it; she had felt a new, strange kind of
strength all day, after she had her cry out. She looked up at the
picture again, saying slowly to herself:
'It's for _them_--I've got father, and mother, and sister, and
brethren.'
Nine o'clock struck, and people began to come in; there was likely to be
a rush to-night, and the players in the front room commenced their
liveliest round of operatic airs. One after another turned into the side
room, and the calls for service grew lively. Jane moved among them
mechanically, thinking all the while of Nobby tossing in his pain; of
the tree waiting for to-morrow; of her father turned out of his place;
of the rent and the grocer's bill that were about due; and of her own
wages, pretty much all that was left. Was it such a terrible sin to be
there--for _them_? Then she shivered to think she might be sliding down.
No, no, she would be kept--they should be taken care of, but she
wouldn't fall while she had them to think of. A hot flush colored her
face as she thought of young Prescott, confusing her so that she almost
stumbled. What would _he_ think if he knew where she worked? No matter,
he shouldn't know it. He would take her out of this by and by, and after
that she would tell him all about it, and what she did it for, and he
would love her all the better for it.
The hours struck and went by, and the room grew hotter and noisier. Once
the tables were emptied; but a fresh party came in, and their leader
waved them to seats with maudlin politeness. He was a handsome young
man, partly drunk already; he pushed the woman he had with him into a
chair, and dropped into another himself. His back was toward Jane; she
stood still a minute, then walked slowly, as if something dragged her,
till she could see his face.
The glass she held fell from her hand with a crash, but she stood dumb
and white, and clung trembling to the table. He started, but gave her a
nod.
'_You_, Will Prescott! Oh, my God!'
'You here, Jane! And you're one of 'em too! I didn't think it quite so
soon.'
She did not seem to hear the last words. The blood surged back to her
face, and she sank at his feet.
'No, no,' she moaned, 'I'm not, I'm not--I'm only here. You won't think
worse of me, Will, seeing I did it for _them_? I must work somewhere,
and this was all I could find. Say you don't think _that_! Say you
believe me!'
He smiled in a drunken way, without speaking.
'Say it, Will! Say you love me, and take me out of this!'
'Ho, ho! that's a devilish good one! You're here, and so'm I; I'm just a
little merry to-night--couldn't wait till to-morrow. We're well met,
Jane--these are my friends; here's my most par-ticular friend,' laying
his hand on his companion's shoulder.
The girl seemed to be stunned so that she did not understand.
'See it, hey? 'Say you love me!' You do it beautifully, Jane--do some
more. Did you ever think I loved you?--Oh, yes! and that I wanted to
marry you--of course! If your face hadn't looked prettier'n it does now,
damn me if I'd ever looked twice at it!'
He turned his chair a little.
'What's that!' he screamed, catching sight of the painting on the wall.
'Take it away! You put it there, you wretch!' staring at it with his
eyes fixed.
The noise brought the owner to the door--a burly Dutchman.
'Landlord, put that thing away--cover it up! Damnation! Do I want to
come here to be preached at?'
'Who pulled that paper off, I say?' said the man. 'I pinned _The
Clipper_ over it. You did it, I swar! Be off with yer!'
'Oh, let her stay, Lumpsey,' said a woman that came in from the bar;
'she'll be one on 'em when she gits round.'
'I won't; I won't have nobody here that's better'n we be no longer.
Here's yer pay; an' now, missis, start yerself, an' don't yer come nigh
here agen 'thout yer'll behave decent an' be one on us.'
He tossed some bank notes toward her, took her by the shoulders, and
shoved her out, shutting the door upon her.
IV.
Everybody had gone out on Christmas eve--darting about in sleighs; at
service in the churches; at a party given in their set; shopping, as if
their lives depended on it. Buying, selling, visiting, looking, the city
was all astir. In the churches, soberly gay with evergreen trimming,
like a young widow very stylish in black, but very proper withal, people
were listening to the anthems, and everything about the place was wide
awake, unless it was the chimes taking a nap until twelve o'clock;
drygoods men ran to and fro, dropping smiles, and winding themselves up
in a great medley reel of silks, laces, and things of _virtu_ in
general; next door, the booksellers were resplendent in dazzling
bindings, pictures and photographs of everything and everybody, all of
which were at everybody's disposal--take 'em all home, if you pleased;
livery stables were as bare as if there had been an invasion of the
country that day, and smiling keepers touched their pockets, and shook
their heads pityingly at late comers; and even in the markets jolly
butchers laughed, and sawed, and cut, and counted their money--and those
leathery fellows that were never jolly, suddenly found out a new
commercial maxim, that jollity is the best policy, and they fell to
laughing too. 'Christmas is coming!' thought everybody. 'Christmas is
coming!' and some of the lively small bells in the towers, not grown yet
to years of ripe discretion, whispered to each other, and had to bite
their tongues to keep from shouting it right out.
The dance house and the narrow alley left behind, Jane was in the street
too; she went with the crowd, pulling her hood so as to hide her face.
She glanced at the costly goods that lay in confusion on the counters of
the stores, and smiled bitterly, taking hold of her own cheap dress; the
sleighs almost ran over her, they shot back and forth so wildly, to her
whirling brain; a German air that a band was playing on a serenade
somewhere in the distance seemed to roar in her ears like thunder. She
stopped before a confectioner's. The hot smell of meats came up through
the grating where she stood; the window was ablaze with gas, piled high
with pyramids of glittering frost, which rose out of a heaped profusion
of carved lobster and turkey, and fruits and candies; she saw girls with
pretty faces and nice dresses waiting on the fashionable crowd inside,
and said to herself that she ought to be there. Some one touched her. It
was a girl younger than herself, who stood glaring at the window,
shivering in her ragged clothing; her eyes looked unnaturally large out
of her sharp, pinched face, daubed with tears and dirt.
'Look a' thar!' she cried eagerly, catching Jane's arm, 'see _them_! Why
ben't them mine? Why ben't I in thar, a buyin' o' them? I ort to ride,
ortn't I? Why ben't I got nice things on, like a' them thar? Pinchin'
Dave's got my dress for three shillin' to-night--the last un I been a
savin'; must ha' some drink, so't I'd be forgettin'--to-night, to-night,
ye see, I say--hoh!'
Giving a wild laugh, the girl ran off. A man inside was looking angrily
through the window; so Jane turned from the thoroughfare, and finally
struck into the road by which she came. The street lamps had given way
to the moon. The flats adjoining the city were all white except marshy
spots; passing two tall buildings, that made a sort of gateway, the
country spread to the sky unbroken, except where rows of dreary houses,
shadowy without the twinkle of a light, stood on some new land; this was
not the fashionable road, and it was empty. How pure and cool it was! In
the city, there was straggling moonlight, darkened by the brick walls,
but no moon; out here, the moon had just broken from a bank of cloud low
down, piled on a bank of snow, all looking snowy and alike, the horizon
line being hardly distinguishable; the light poured from the edge in a
shining flood, and rippled without a sound over the crisp, crusted
snow--all of one kin, cold, sparkling, desolate.
Jane noted nothing of this; she walked dizzily along the road. Only one
day since morning, after living a whole lifetime in that! She scooped up
a handful of snow, and rubbed it furiously into her face and eyes, they
burned so; her eyes were dry, melting the snow without feeling wet any.
Clear back in the morning, Margery Eames met her; then the day dragged
along as if it never would go, and she ate nothing but the tears she
swallowed; going down those steps, through that dreadful door, waiting
on those tables--the evening, till Will Prescott came in. She had wanted
so to have what others had, to study, to paint--such things as she had
seen, and she couldn't make a stroke! to learn to sing, as she had heard
them sing in the churches; to see Germany, that her mother had told her
about; she wanted to be loved--not like father and Nobby, but another
way too; she had a right to have such things--other people had them.
_He_ had praised her, stroked her hair; said she was too pale, but no
matter, she'd brighten up by and by; she was his little bluebell he had
found in the woods, that he was going to make over into a red rose; she
should have everything she wanted, and go with him everywhere, pretty
soon--only be patient; if he could wait, couldn't she? And she had been
patient, without telling father about it, though somehow he found out;
she had waited in the road an hour more than once for a kind word and a
smile as he rode by; she had borne with her hard fare, and waited for
him to do the things he promised; and after she had to go into the dance
house, she hated it most for his sake--she hated him to kiss her, for
fear he'd find some taint on her lips of the place she went to; she
thought of him all the while, to keep up courage; of course it was for
father and Nobby she did it, but he helped her. It was all over now.
She came to the bridge over the river, and stopped on it. Just then she
happened to think of a choral her mother liked to sing: 'A mighty
fortress is our God.' A fortress--not hers. Did He sometimes turn
against people and crowd them--who crowded the girl at the
confectioner's window? Was there any God at all? Not in the city; only
two sorts of people were there, who either lived in fine houses, and had
no souls at all, or else went about the streets, and had lost them. Was
there any God out here? If there was, He wouldn't have let Mr. Cowles
turn her father off, and she wouldn't be out in the cold; there wasn't
any anywhere.
Jane looked down at the water. It was muddy, but it gave a wavering
reflection as the wind ruffled it; now and then a piece of driftwood
glided from under the bridge, and was borne along toward the factory
dam. Her mind flashed round to the factory, and home, and the Christmas
tree for to-morrow, and she laughed bitterly. Jump! She had lost _him_,
all that had been keeping her up so long--he never meant to marry her,
though he said so, and she believed him. Everything went with that love;
what was there left? What matter what came now? Jump! But father and
Nobby? She couldn't leave them unprovided for. Money, money! she must
have money, for _them_.
The bells began to chime very softly, as they always did at twelve
o'clock of this night in the year. They seemed to say: 'Come! come!
come!' She caught at the sound. There was money in the city, and one way
yet to earn it.
'They're calling me!' she cried, clutching her dress wildly with both
hands; 'they're pushing me into hell--why shouldn't I go? _They'll_ have
money, and I'm gone already.'
She turned, and walked back without faltering, to the edge of the city,
and stopped between the two buildings. There was an alley close by, like
one she knew so well; by the noise there was revel in it. She hesitated
a minute, crouching out of sight in the shadow of the buildings.
'Don't stop here!' she muttered to herself; 'now as well as any other
time!' and turned into the alley. The light was streaming from a door
near the middle, and a man in sailor's dress came out and caught a
glimpse of her creeping along close to the wall.
'Hey, lass!' he said, 'merry Christmas to ye! 'Rived in port to-day.
Been a cruisin'. Locker full, an' all hands piped ashore. What craft be
you--a Dutch galley? Sail down a bit, till I get within speakin'
distance.'
She only staggered closer against the wall.
'Beatin' off, hey? Well, lass, come an' drink to better acquaintance.'
'It's the first time, but I'll go--I'll go with you,' she answered. She
followed him to the door. The gas flared full on his face, and she gave
a mortal scream.
'Brother Tom!'
He made a headlong clutch at her, but she broke away, leaving a fragment
of her dress in his hand, and flew round the corner out of his sight.
She ran blindly through several streets, but finally she regained the
road, and never stopped her headlong speed till she leaned against the
door of Adam Craig's cottage. She pushed the door open softly, and went
in. Quick as she had been, her brother was there already, standing by
Nobby's bed; Adam Craig was there, but his back was turned.
'Did you--tell him?' she whispered.
Her brother nodded, and put out his hand. She took it, with a half
hesitation.
'He understands,' he whispered, answering the question of her eyes.
The old stoker turned around. She made a move to shrink away, but he
caught her, and drew her to his breast, crying and sobbing:
'Lord, Lord, Lord's good!' he cried, 'thank Him for't! She's saved, my
little girl! I've found more'n I've lost, to-day. Oh, she's pure yet,
she's saved--she's nawt lost, my girl, she's nawt! I didn't knaw't!
didn't knaw what she was doin', but it's all right noo! We'll never want
any more, but if Net'd been lost--but she's nawt, nawt--she's nawt gone,
she's here, an' harm never'll come nigh her any more! I knowed Tom'd
come back, an' now Net! they both hev saved each other, Lord's good
for't!'
'But Nobby?' she whispered.
'Lord brought us one, an' noo He's goin' to take back t'other,' said
Adam.
The child was twisting in his father's arms in the height of his pain.
'I knaw noo why 'twas I went away thet mornin', an' Nobby got t'bump,'
said Adam, looking on sadly.
The young sailor made no answer. The partial drunkenness of his first
night on shore was gone, and he only held his suffering child, wiping
the drops from its face. So they stood watching, and the hours went on.
'Zuhöret!' cried Adam's wife. 'Die Weihnachtsglocken!'
It was the bells, ringing out the full morning carol. The child was
lying on his bed; he brightened up a little, then shut his eyes wearily,
and stopped writhing. For little Nobby it that moment became true that
'Christ was born on Christmas day.'
APHORISM.--NO. VII.
The sufficient reason why the common developments of intellect are so
poor, is not so much in the want of native capacity, as in the low moral
estate of our nature. Our hearts are so dry, our better affections so
dull, that we are not the subjects of stimulus adequate to the calling
forth of efforts suitable to the necessities of the case. Here and
there, one is so richly endowed in mind, that his love of science or art
may suffice to tax his powers to the full: but a world could never be
constituted of such geniuses. The mass of men, if ever to be led up to
any high plane of mental life, must be so under the promptings of
affections and passions which find their excitement in the more
practical spheres of our existence.
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER ON SECESSION AND STATE RIGHTS.
In the earlier numbers of _The Spirit of the Fair_, the newspaper
published by a committee of gentlemen for the benefit of the New York
Metropolitan Fair, appeared a series of very remarkable papers from the
pen of James Fenimore Cooper, the American novelist.[7] The history of
these papers is very curious, as announced by the editors of _The Spirit
of the Fair_, in their introductory, as follows:
'UNPUBLISHED MSS. OF JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
'Our national novelist died in the autumn of 1850; previous to his
fatal illness he was engaged upon a historical work, to be entitled
'The Men of Manhattan,' only the Introduction to which had been
sent to the press. The printing office was destroyed by fire, and
with it the opening chapters of this work; fortunately a few pages
had been set up, and the impression sent to a literary gentleman,
then editor of a popular critical journal, and were thus saved from
destruction. To him we are indebted for the posthumous articles of
Cooper, wherewith, by a coincidence as remarkable as it is
auspicious, we now enrich our columns with a contribution from the
American pioneer in letters.'
Many readers at the time passed over these papers without the careful
attention which they deserved. Others, who perused them more thoroughly,
were struck with the remarkable prescience which the great writer's
thoughts exhibited on topics which the events now passing before us lend
a tremendous interest. Cooper, it must be remembered, uttered his views
on 'Secession,' 'State Rights,' etc., upward of _fifteen years ago_, and
at a period when the horrors of rebellion, as a consequence of slavery,
were little foreseen as likely to succeed those years of peace and
prosperity. Had these opinions been published at the period intended by
their writer, they would doubtless have been pronounced visionary and
illogical. By a singular succession of events, however, the MS. has been
hidden in the chrysalis of years, until, lo! it sees the light of day at
a period when the prophetic words of their author come up, as it were,
from his grave, with the vindication of truth and historic fidelity.
For the benefit of those who have not read these papers in the newspaper
where they originally appeared, we make the following extracts, feeling
assured that no man interested in passing events, or in the causes which
led to them, can fail to recognize in these passages the astonishing
power and comprehensiveness of the mind that fifteen years ago discussed
these vital topics. Let it be remembered, too, that their author was a
man whose sympathies were largely with his countrymen, not less of the
South than of the North, and that it was doubtless with a view of
warning his Southern friends of the danger which hovered over the
'institution' of slavery, that they were written. Probably had they
appeared in print at that time, they would have produced no effect where
mostly effect was aimed at; but now that they have appeared, when the
small cloud of evil pointed out has spread over the Southern land and
broken into a deluge of devastation, they will at least prove that the
words of warning were not perishable utterances signifying nothing.
'SECESSION.
'The first popular error that we shall venture to assail, is that
connected with the prevalent notion of the sovereignty of the States. We
do not believe that the several States of this Union are, in any
legitimate meaning of the term, sovereign at all. We are fully aware
that this will be regarded as a bold, and possibly as a presuming
proposition, but we shall endeavor to work it out with such means as we
may have at command.
'We lay down the following premises as too indisputable to need any
arguments to sustain them: viz., the authority which formed the present
Constitution of the United States had the legal power to do so. That
authority was in the Government of the States, respectively, and not in
their people in the popular signification, but through their people in
the political meaning of the term, and what was then done must be
regarded as acts connected with the composition and nature of
governments, and of no minor or different interests of human affairs.