I found her weeping bitterly. The sight of her, even in distress,
renewed my courage to behold other things, dreadful though they
might be. Yet what need to tell more? Hour after hour we wandered
on, and always we found only such scenes of squalid misery or gilded
hypocrisy as well might break the hearts of men though they meet
them every day.
At length Love lost the way, and she wandered through fearful ruins
until, upon the brink of a fearful chasm just beneath the gloomy
clouds, she sank to earth. Near by lay stores of all things necessary
for life, yet it was a gruesome place. “Here we must perish,” moaned
my guide, and from below I saw grisly Despair rising to drag us
down. But even as Love spoke a rushing sound was heard above, and a
great glory dissipated all the gloom. Before us stood another angel,
bearing in his hands an anchor of jewelled gold. “Did you forget your
wings, my sister?” she asked reproachfully. “How can you die, being
immortal?”
Before her gentleness and confidence doubt could not stand. Joyfully
we grasped her anchor and rose with her above the clouds. And now I
saw that the palace did not reach the skies, but that its topmost
story was, oh! so near the earth.
As we passed beyond the walls I read in great letters, carved upon
the blocks above the ruinous portal, “The Social Structure of Christ.”
“Kind Hope,” I cried, “if this be all that Christ can do for man, in
self-derision do we celebrate his birth to-day.”
She smiled half sadly, and half sweetly, for she could never, I
believe, seem wholly sad. “Many of the stones,” she said, “are
fallen. The inscription read at first not ‘of Christ,’ but ‘of
Christendom.’ Before the memory of any living now the blocks were
laid, and those which have crumbled have fallen, so that many believe
the words were ever what they are. But turn and look.”
Far away the clouds had broken and were all gilded by the rising sun.
There stood another palace, which seemed much like the first, yet
perfect in symmetry and beauty.
“It is of the future,” I heard Hope say; “somewhere—beneath, above,
behind, before, within,—somehow, future borders on that place which
some call Heaven, the home of Love, of Knowledge, and of Joy.”
As she ceased to speak I knew I was alone within my chamber. The
Christmas bells were ringing merrily, and as I went forth into the
cheerful sunshine and saw the pleasant sights that I had passed by
in the palace of my dream I felt all my old despair rung out and a
cheerful, living hope rung in.
[Illustration: Decoration]
CLANCY’S HOME-COMING.
CLANCY’S HOME-COMING.
I. W. BISHOP.
[Illustrations by C. W. Berry.]
[Illustration: Two drunk men]
Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the
top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t
come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides,
to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s
ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not
much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and
a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over
her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom
should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct.
“Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s
whereabouts.
“Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?”
“Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah.
Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and
hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to
fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner.
So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was
probably on his way home, and not to worry.
With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to
slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of
Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor.
[Illustration: Drunk man at bar]
Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to
his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long
mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—
“Clancy, your wife’s a-lookin’ for yez.”
Clancy turned around still clinging to the polished hand-rail, and
recognized Dorgan.
“What’ll yez drink?”
“Nothing, Clancy,” said the officer; “but yez better go home.”
Clancy turned around with an assumption of gravity and started for
the door, for he was a little afraid of Norah.
She heard him coming, as he stumbled up the stairs, and waited for
him. But as he grasped the knob of the door it opened of its own
accord, and Clancy was precipitated against the kitchen table, which
was set for supper. Concluding that it would be unwise to move under
the existing circumstances, he remained leaning on the table and
waited. He had n’t long to wait, however, for Norah began,—
[Illustration: Decoration]
“Mike, give me your money!”
He started to remonstrate, but quailed before the terrible look in
her eye, and emptied his pocket on the table.
Norah counted it over.
“Three dollars an’ a half is missin’, Clancy, and yez eat cold
corned-bafe to-morrer, av ye plaze.”
With this, Mrs. Clancy left the room and slammed the door.
Clancy, left to himself, sat down.
It wasn’t long before Mrs. Clancy returned, and again referred to the
turkey which they would not eat on the morrow.
This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Clancy’s manhood
asserted itself, and he arose in a dignified manner and started for
the door.
As he reached it he turned around and, with the air of a king
bestowing a favor, said, “Mrs. Clancy, yez’ll hov that turkey.”
Clancy walked down stairs and out into the street, where he stood for
a moment, irresolute.
His ideas on where to procure the turkey he had so rashly promised
were very hazy, and, furthermore, he thought Mrs. Clancy had his
money. As he reached his hand down into his pocket he felt something.
He took it out, gazed at it contemplatively, and bit it. This seemed
to satisfy his doubts. He had a quarter!
Then he considered what should be done with it. A quarter would
hardly buy a turkey, and a quarter would buy considerable in the line
of drink. Still thinking, he strolled down the street.
As he passed his old haunt a large white placard, with the following
notice in green letters, attracted his attention:
[Illustration: SALOON.
RAFFLE
THERE WILL BE A
RAFFLE
FOR A CHRISTMAS TURKEY
AT THIS SALOON TO-NIGHT
25 CTS. A CHANCE.
CASEY]
Clancy did not hesitate, but entered the saloon. With determination
in his eye, and all the straight-forwardness that he could put into
his gait, he marched up to the bar-tender and inquired about the
raffle.
“Ober dere,” said the man, pointing to the other end of the room.
“Dere’s anoder chance left.”
Clancy, with an eagerness born of despair, deposited his quarter and
drew his ticket, No. 13. “Thot may be bad luck,” thought Clancy, “but
I’m bound to win.”
Clancy waited with stoical indifference as the numbers were drawn. At
last he heard some one in the front of the crowd call out, “Thirteen
wins.”
Ten minutes later, Clancy marched proudly into the presence of his
wife, and laid his turkey before her.
[Illustration: “Mike.”]
“Mike,” she said, “where did you get that turkey?” “Mike,” she said
in a louder tone, “did you steal that turkey or beg it?”
Mike did not reply to the calumnies of his wife. He was asleep.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS.
DANA D. WALLACE.
[Illustrations by A. W. Stone.]
They sat upon the wide piazza of the St. Sauveur hotel, gazing
through the August twilight upon the extended purple of Frenchman’s
Bay, the low-lying islands and erratic cliffs that have made Mt.
Desert the Mecca of so many pleasure-seekers.
“It is strange that we should have come here together!” exclaimed
Grace Egerton, folding her wraps about her gracefully.
“It is, indeed,” responded Ralph Leighton. “Of course, Grace, we
rather hoped to meet you here; but you, George, who would have
thought it!”
“It was certainly a pleasant surprise to meet you,” answered George
Wardsworth. “I must truly consider myself fortunate,” with an
emphasis on the last word, as he glanced at the beautiful face of
Grace Egerton.
The glance was intercepted by Ralph, who was becoming annoyed at
his friend’s earnest endeavors to be agreeable to his betrothed. It
was with great pleasure that Ralph heard his sister’s voice asking
George Wardsworth if the evening air wasn’t becoming a little chilly.
Compelled to respond, George gallantly escorted her into the parlors.
Drawing his chair closer, Ralph dwelt with loving words upon his
favorite topic, their engagement. “And when that happy day shall
come,” he said, “when our engagement is over and real love begins, do
you think, Grace, that we will be happier?
“No, Ralph; for it is already over.”
“What! My God—not that, Grace: why, but yesterday you vowed you loved
me!”
“Yes,” she interrupted, her eyes seeking the ground. “You are right:
one day ago I was yours, to-day I am another’s. Then I thought I knew
what love was, but I find that I was ignorant of that passion. It is
cruel,” she said, “but with my soul in sympathy with another’s, I
could not be faithful to you, Ralph. Forget me, as unworthy of your
love. I regret the pain I have caused you. But I”——
“Stop,” he cried. “It is true you never loved me. Oh! that I should
be deceived by a woman’s love. Go, and may the curse”——but with
an angry movement she was gone. With a muttered curse for George
Wardsworth, whom he knew too well was to be Grace’s successful
suitor, and almost maddened with grief, he strode down the gravel
walk and was lost in the gathering night.
An hour later he returned, haggard and broken-hearted; and with
little wonder, for in a few short minutes all that earth held dear
had been ruthlessly snatched from him. Yet not all: there was his
sister, whom he loved so sincerely, she would be his one comfort in
life; but ever before him lingered the vision of Grace Egerton’s
lovely face.
As he neared the hotel, he paused and listened. Sweetly floated from
the parlors on the still evening air, the grand words and melodious
strains of “Lead, Kindly Light.” It was his sister’s voice, singing
as she never had before, so it seemed to him. Almost divine became
the music. Such strains as cause us for the moment to forget the
outside world with its laughter and tears, and fill our minds with
nobler and better thoughts.
[Illustration: Lead kindly light]
And though the singer knew it not, there was one who heard and never
forgot that hymn, which for the time soothed his wearied heart as he
listened in the silence of the night.
* * * * *
The bustling, good-natured throng, crowding New York’s busy
thoroughfares, and the brilliantly lighted show-windows, told to all
that Christmas eve, with all that it suggests, had fallen upon the
city.
On Fifth avenue a man hurried past the wealthy and cheerful homes of
the most fortunate citizens. The electric light glared upon him and
revealed the face of an old friend, Ralph Leighton. But how changed
from the handsome Ralph of former days! His unfortunate love affair,
followed by the death of that sister whom he so dearly loved, had
added many a year to the once youthful face.
“I might do it,” he muttered as he strode along, “I might dash
George Wardsworth from his proud position to the level of a beggar; I
wonder if the haughty Grace would come to him then. To-night George
Wardsworth stands on the verge of financial ruin; if he can stave off
his creditors for another week, the tide will change, and he will
remain as he is, wealthy, happy, and loved. To-morrow I will tell the
secret to his creditors, they will foreclose, and George Wardsworth
will be a penniless man, and I shall have had my revenge.”
Wrapping his ulster more closely about him to keep warm his
revengeful spirit, he passed on, but in a short time paused,
attracted by the unusually cheerful appearance of one of the
mansions. He gazed into the window. The sight for a moment unnerved
him. There seated at the piano amid all the luxury of the Egerton
mansion was the one who had made him the hardhearted, revengeful man
that he had become,—with her face turned to a sofa on which easily
reclined George Wardsworth. How contented and happy they looked!
[Illustration: Woman playing paino]
He had not known where Grace was living, and this sudden discovery
maddened him, and he muttered, “I will do it. George Wardsworth,
beware!” He started on to carry out his threat, when the sound of
music recalled him. As though guided by the hand of fate, Grace had
turned to the piano and run her fingers over the ivory keys. Now
instrument and voice chorded together, and softly there came to the
revengeful listener, the sweet harmony of Cardinal Newman’s hymn. He
waited through it all, and as
“And with the morn those angels’ faces smile,
Which I have loved, long since and lost, a while.”
lingered and died away, Ralph recalled the same hymn, that other
night, when his hopes had forever vanished. He heard again the voice
of his beloved sister. Even now she might be watching him from the
star-lit heavens above. How false was he to her trust, meditating
such vengeance. He hurried away, humming to himself the words of the
sacred hymn, and the business house of Wardsworth & Co. weathered the
financial storm.
[Illustration: Christmas bells]
Next day as the glad Christmas bells heralded the story of Christ
throughout the land, they mingled with the merry bells of Grace
Egerton’s wedding; but they told not to the world the message which
had come into one man’s heart on Christmas eve.
THE SPRIG’S BALL.
[Illustration: The Sprig’s Ball]
WILLIAM GIBBON.
[Illustrations by C. W. Berry.]
Several years ago, at the junction of two little streams in a fertile
section of the cotton district, stood a rickety old blacksmith-shop.
The master of its forge, Remington Ingleheart, familiarly known as
“Rem,” was a stout, thick-set man, of slave parentage. He was a
thrifty young fellow, sure of success at his trade. For some time he
had been “goin’ with a gal,” as he said, about half a mile up one of
the little streams, but had never come to any definite understanding,
because there had been but one room to the shop. By the time of which
we write, however, things were different. An extra apartment was
practically completed. The neighbors wondered what “Rem” was up to.
When asked about it, he simply answered that he was tired “workin’
an’ sleepin’ in de same place.”
Among all the young negroes of the vicinity, “Rem” had but one
particular friend. This was Hicks Gale. Hicks was a sort of
blacksmith, too. In rushes of work he would come over and help
“Rem.” One cold December night, “Rem” had a job on hand that must
be finished before he turned in. How he wished for Hicks! As if the
wish had anything to do with it, Hicks actually appeared about nine
o’clock.
“Hullo, Hicks!” exclaimed “Rem.” “Jus’ de man I wants to see. Take de
sledge an’ strack a little fur me.”
“Dat ain’t presactly what I come fur,” said Hicks; “but I kin hit you
a few licks, anyhow.”
“What’s on hand?” asked “Rem,” thrusting the iron back for a new heat.
“A ball at St. Michael’s, Christmus eve,” responded Hicks, in much
glee. “Sim Sprigs is givin’ it, an’ he tole me fur to tell you to be
shore an’ come, an’ fetch Judy. You’ll be dar, won’t you?”
“Coase,” answered “Rem.” “Ever know me to miss a ball?”
[Illustration: House]
St. Michael’s was a church: a shabby looking structure on the east
bank of the large stream formed by the two smaller ones. On the
night of the ball, it was pompously illuminated by a number of
tallow dips that peeped uneasily forth from every nook and corner.
The dilapidated wooden shutters had been drawn to and fastened with
pieces of heavy twine, to keep out the gusty blasts. In the centre
was a small stove, which was filled with pine knots till it gave out
the necessary degree of heat. The crude benches, on either side of
the common aisle, were gathered into a large heap beside the door,
to make room for the pedal antics. The most striking feature was the
old pulpit. It consisted of a low platform, shut in across the front
and half way back on either side by a rough framework of boards. Each
projecting corner looked toward a vendor’s stand, laden with the
influences which make “A fool and his money” soon part.
The form of entertainment which the negroes call a ball is rather
a comprehensive institution. It may be given on the slightest
provocation, and under any auspices whatever, public or private.
Ostensibly, the enjoyment consists in dancing to the music of a
scratchy fiddle. Really, the interested parties bring together as
many of their friends as possible for the purpose of disposing to
them of cheap nicknacks and third-class refreshments at a profit of
three or four hundred per cent.
By eight o’clock on the Christmas eve in question, St. Michael’s
was full to overflowing. The din of loud talking and yelling was
deafening. The voice of Sim Sprigs, the manager, could be heard above
that of any one else, exhorting the young bloods to “furmember”
their sweethearts, and “treat ’um often.” The idea of treating was
of primary importance to the success of the entertainment. It meant
that the boys were to lavish their last cent on the girls. In fact,
the prompting in the dance was equipped with a special figure for
such occasions,—“Promenade to de bar.” The cry of “treat me” could
everywhere be heard in powerful soprano tones. If a girl met a boy
she knew she invariably asked him to treat her. When a boy asked a
girl to dance, she usually answered, “Yup, uf you’ll treat me fust,”
frequently stipulating the amount of the investment.
“Rem” and Judy arrived a little late. The first dance was already in
progress. Every one naturally glanced up to see who had entered. The
newcomers shook off their slight embarrassment by at once joining in
the waltz. Very soon they were as much a part of the crowd as any
other couple in the house.
[Illustration: Man and woman on bench]
As soon as the opening set closed, there was a general thronging to
“de bar.” “Rem” made his purchases and retired. With a large bag in
one hand, and Judy on the other arm, he sought the seclusion of the
old pulpit. The inclosure was furnished with only the preacher’s
bench, but that had plenty of length for two. “Rem” and Judy sat
down, with the bag between them. The former seized a huge piece of
cake, and intimated to the latter that she might “dip in.” The second
dance was “sot out.” When the third was announced, neither “Rem” nor
Judy had engaged a partner. It was natural and pleasant enough for
them to dance together again. Further along, they did not hesitate
to pass over several sets at a time. All spare moments were spent in
the pulpit. “Rem” kept an abundance of nicknacks on hand, so that
they might “dip in,” and relieve the embarrassment of occasional
silence. Until quite late the conversation was, on the whole,
comparatively general. “Rem” now came a little more to the point, by
remarking that he had “bin ’templatin’ takin’ a wife.”
“Is you?” said Judy, simply. “Dat’s good.”
“Jobs is bin putty brisk dis fall,” added “Rem,” “an’ I’s got my
yother room all fixed.”
“Is you done picked her out?” asked Judy, with apparent unconcern.
“Picked her out!” exclaimed “Rem,” “long’s I bin gwine wid you, Judy
Marshall, now you ax me who I wants to marry!”
Rosy dawn dispersed the moneychangers from the temple and shamed the
lovers from the pulpit. On the following Sunday, St. Michael’s church
was packed with an unusually large audience, and the morning service
was concluded with a wedding.
“Judy Marshall,” said the preacher, “does you solemnly promise to
live up to dis man, lack you ought ter?”
“I does.”
“Remington Ingleheart, is you gwine to cherry dis ’oman, whether
she’s sick or no?”
“Sho’s God, I be!”
[Illustration: Decoration]
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.
HARRY A. TERREL.
[Illustrations by H. M. Chase.]
“What if she i-s waiting? Ha, ha, ha,—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”
The speaker was a well dressed, wealthy young aristocrat of New
York. It was Christmas eve at the club, and he had sat with his
comrades-in-revelry at cards and wine till the early hours of the
morning, not thinking of his young wife at home, alone; and when one
of the soberer of the company asked if his wife would be waiting for
him, he answered, with a mocking laugh, “Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her
good to wait.”
[Illustration: Man with cane]
Finally the wine-cup was emptied for the last time, and the party at
the club dispersed. The aristocrat wandered unsteadily homeward. A
few blocks from his residence a fire-engine thundered past him, and
he gave a drunken shout to the drivers, as if to encourage them, and
continued on his way.
As he turned the corner of the street on which his house stood,
almost horror-stricken, he saw it wrapped in flames. The sight
sobered him instantly, and, remembering his wife, whom he had left
alone seven hours before, he rushed to the spot, and pushing through
the crowd which had gathered he cried, “My wife! my God! My wife!
where is she! Is she still in there?”
Not heeding the intense heat, he rushed to the building and attempted
to climb a ladder resting against the house, but the firemen held him
back, and led him to a group of his servants and some officers.
They parted as he came up, and he beheld there, lying on a rough
blanket taken from one of the engine horses, the beautiful, white,
but cold form of the one he left a few short hours before in the
beauty of womanhood. Oh, the agony of murdered love! He reeled and
sank to the ground, his head fairly bursting as he remembered her
parting words:
“Don’t leave me to-night, George, this night of all others, Christmas
eve, the anniversary of our wedding. You have left me alone every
night for months past. Don’t leave me to-night.”
Then flashed across his mind his own words at the club, “What if she
is waiting? Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”
It was too much for his wearied brain, and his mind gave way. With
the fiendish crackling voice of a maniac he cried, “Ha, ha, ha—hic!
it’ll do her good to wait.”
[Illustration: FINIS]
A COMPLETE LIST
OF DARTMOUTH COLLEGE UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATIONS.
The Ægis.
Founded in 1865, and published annually by editors chosen from the
Junior class.
=95’s Ægis is Just Out=,
and contains the following special features: Portraits and
biographical sketches of President Tucker and the late Professor
Patterson; the words and music of the Dartmouth Song, by W. B.
Segur; fine half-tone pictures of the new Alumni Athletic field; the
champion Foot-ball and Athletic teams; base-ball nine, Dramatic club,
and Glee club. It is bound in green cloth, with white lettering, and
is a model of typographical and press work. Price, $2.00. On sale at
Storrs’s bookstore, or by the business manager.
ROBERT A. CAMPBELL,
Managing Editor.
ROBERT M. THORNBURG,
Business Manager.
THE
Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
The “LIT.” was started in 1886 and aims to represent the literary
life of the college. It is published monthly by editors chosen at the
end of the sophomore year according to competition during the first
two years.
=The “Lit.” for ’93-’94=
has many new features. Its green and white cover is representative
of the college. Each month it contains short stories, essays, a
department of college verse, and bright sketches. This volume of
“X-mas Sketches” is from the December number of the “LIT.” and shows
the work the “LIT.” is doing in developing the literary spirit in
college.
For the Alumni.
It contains the most complete alumni department ever published. Each
issue has an interesting article by some prominent alumnus upon _the
war record of the College_. The portrait of some Dartmouth hero
accompanies each article. These articles are attracting a great deal
of attention. The frontispiece of The “LIT.” is the portrait of
some prominent alumnus. In its holiday number it presents the steel
engraving of Mr. Mark Wentworth Fletcher, Dartmouth’s oldest living
graduate.
Every alumnus and undergraduate should support the “LIT.” Price,
$2.00 a year.
EDWIN O. GROVER, Managing Editor.
ASHLEY K. HARDY, Business Manager.
The Dartmouth.
THE COLLEGE NEWSPAPER.
This is one of the oldest of the college publications, and has the
largest circulation of any college paper printed. It is published
bi-weekly.