which said all things against that luckless wight. "I aint sayin'
nothing' _agin_ Lige, an' I aint sayin' thet he wants ter git hole uv
Sabriny fer ter git her proppity; but he hev drawed up a paper, an' she
hev sign hit, fer ter live with him an' his ole 'oman the res' er her
days fer, an' in consideration, uv the hull uv thet back pension _down_,
en half--er as near half as $2.11 kin be halft,--every month whilse she
live; an' he bines hisself fer ter feed, an' cloth, an pervide fer her
so long as they both do live, by an' accordin' ter the terms uv thet
theer paper he hed draw'd up and Sabriny hev sign."
"Too bad, too bad," said the young 'squire's mother; "but the judge will
appoint you, don't you think, since she is weak-minded, and Lige is so
unreliable? Poor Sabriny would have very little comfort in that
torn-down hut I'm afraid. Did the judge say he would see to it?"
Jeb took the straw from between his teeth, and his lip resumed its
normal position. He turned and twisted, seated himself on the lower
step, and readjusted his hat on his knee. Then he went on:--
"I aint sayin' I _want_ ter be 'pinted her gyardeen. Thet air fer the
jedge ter say, pervided somebody er other fetch the needcessity ter his
mine befo' all thet proppity air squandered. I haint sayin' that Sabriny
air weak-minded, nuther--thet is weakmindeder then thet she air a--she
hev the mine uv a female, an' nachully not able ter hannel proppity. An'
I haint sayin' she aint gettin' mighty well took keer uv by Lige,
nuther. The last time I war theer she war roolin' the roost. She slep'
in the bes' bed, an' et offen the bes' plate, an' had the bes' corn
dodger an' shote; but what I air--that is what _some_ air thinkin' about
air whence Lige onct gits the hull er thet proppity in bulk, air hit
goin' ter be thet away? Mine you, _I_ aint asten this yer question; but
they is them thet does, an' whilse they does hit do seem only right an'
proper fer hit ter be looked inter by the proper 'thorities. Now I tole
the young 'squire thet I'd lay the hull caste befo' the jedge las' cote
day, but the fack air that whence I git theer I met up with a few er my
bisness erquaintainces an' on _re_flection I made up my mine thet I bes'
thes say nothin' to the jedge. Thet's what I kem ter tell the young
'squire so's he won't ercuse me in his mine er lyin' ter 'im whence he
fine out thet I never tole the jedge. They was reasons--numbrous and
gineral reasons--fer me ter _re_fleck an' _re_track my plan."
He reflected for a moment now, and then lifting his hat by the peak,
turned it around, raised it high over his head, carried it back and put
it on; then from its mutilated front just above his eyebrow he snipped
off, with a deft jerk, another straw and started down the steps.
"They is some thet say Sabriny hev a temper thet don't stop ter be lit
up, Miss Brady, but lawsy, _I_ haint sayin' nothing agin' Sabriny's
temper, ner agin' Lige, ner nobody. Some folks will talk thet away. You
can't stop 'em long es they's 'live en kickin'; but _I_ got mighty
little ter say."
There was a long pause. Then with studied indifference of inflection he
continued:--
"I reckon my leetle bisness with the young 'squire kin wait without
mouldin' over night. I thes reckon hit wouldn't be edzackly bes' fer ter
discuss hit with nobody else," and he inserted the straw between his
teeth with great care and precision, and took his high stepping way
toward the Ridge, secure in his self-esteem and approbation in that not
even the wiles of a lady of the position of the young 'squire's mother
could betray him into divulging his secret. For, after all, she was but
a woman, and--well--this whole matter was a question of "proppity," and
therefore quite beyond her capacity.
As he disappeared over the hill, his straw havelock flapping gently in
the wind, and his vest spread wide against his pendent arms, the young
'squire's mother laughed gently and said:--
"Poor Sabrina, she _is_ a little weaker minded than Jeb, and Jeb is a
kind soul in his way. We must let the judge know the trouble, and see if
some honest and capable person cannot be found to handle that 'proppity'
and not squander, too recklessly, the two dollars and eleven cents in
the months that are to come. The life of an heiress is, indeed, beset
with pitfalls even among the Ridgers."
THE BROOK.
BY P. H. S.
I love the gentle music of the brook,
Its solitary, meditative song.
On every hill
Some stream has birth,
Some lyric rill,
To wake the selfish earth,
And smile and toss the heavens their shining look,
Repeat and every flash of life prolong.
In spite of play,
Along its cheerful way
It turns to rest beneath some sheltering tree
In richer beauty;
Or at call of duty
Leaps forth into a cry of ecstacy,
And sings that work is best,
In brighter colors drest
Runs on its way,
Nor longer wills to stay
Than but to see itself that it is fair,--
Thou happy brook, true brother to the air.
I fear the steady death-roar of the sea,
Its sullen, never-changing undertone;
Round all the land
It clasps its heavy strength,
A liquid band
Of world-unending length,
And ever chants a wild monotony,
A change between a low cry and a moan.
The earth is glad,
The sea alone is sad;
Its swelling surge it rolls against the shore
In mammoth anger;
Or, in weary languor,
Beaten, it whines that it can rage no more,
And sinks to treacherous rest,
While from the happy west
The sun is glad;
The sea alone is sad.
Its voice has messages nor words for me,
All, all is pitched in one low minor key.
Then take my heart upon thy dancing stream,
O tiny brook, thou bearest my heart away.
Run gently past
The breaking of the stones,
Nor yet too fast;
And on thy perfect tones
Bear thou my discord life that I may seem
A harmony for one short hour to-day.
Why wilt thou, brook,
Not check thy forward look?
Why wilt thou, brook, not make my heart thine own?
The wild commotion
Of the frantic ocean
Will madden thee and drown thy sorry moan,
And none will hear the cry;
Then run more slowly by--
Nay, for this nook
Was made for thee, my brook,
Stay with me here beneath this silver shade
And think this day for thee and me was made.
Thy present sweetness will be turned to brine;
Thou'lt hardly make one petty, paltry wave.
Lovest thou the sun?
He will not know thee there.
Is't sweet to run,
Know thine own whence and where?
'Tis here thy joy, thy love, thy life are thine;
There thou wilt neither be, nor do, nor have.
The mighty sea
Will blindly number thee
To bear the ships, send thee to shape the shore
That thou art scorning;
Or some awful morning,
Set thee to pluck some sailor from his oar
And drink his weary life;
O fear this chance of strife!
Or what may be
Else, dead monotony.
Give o'er thy headlong haste, dwell here with me,
Why lose thyself in the vast, hungry sea?
These thoughts I cast into the wiser stream,
And lay and heard it run the hours away;
And then above
The beauty and the peace,
It sang of love;
And in that glad release
I knew my thoughts had run beyond my dream,
Had seen the laboring river and the bay.
"'Tis joy to run!
Else life would ne'er be done,
I ne'er should know the triumphing of death,
Nor its revealing;
Nor the eager feeling
Of fuller life, the promise of the breath
That fleets the open sea:
All this was given to me
Once as I won
My first great leap; the sun
I knew my king, and laughed, and since that day
I run and sing; he wills, and I obey."
EDITORIAL NOTES.
OPTIMISM, REAL AND FALSE.
Much has been written of late about the pessimistic spirit pervading
modern reformative literature. When an earnest writer presents a gloomy
picture of life as it really is, he is frequently judged by that most
shallow of all standards, "Is it pleasing or amusing?" His fidelity to
the ideal of truth is often overlooked or dismissed with a flippant
word. We all know that great and dangerous evils exist and menace our
civilization. They are growing under the fostering influence of the
"conspiracy of silence"; yet we are seriously informed that we must not
expose them to view; that there is so much tragedy in real life that
society should not be annoyed by sombre pictures in fiction or the
drama. "Prophesy to us smooth things or hold thy peace," is the tenor of
much of the criticism of the hour. Optimism is at present a popular
Shibboleth, hence many thoughtlessly echo the cry against every exposure
of growing evils. Writers who are popularly known as optimists belong
mainly to three classes. Those who after a general survey of life become
thorough pessimists, believing that the social, economic, religious, and
ethical problems can never be justly or equitably solved; that in the
weary age long struggle of right against might, of justice against
greed, of liberty against slavery, of truth against error, the baser
will win the battle, because there is more evil than good present in the
world, and therefore, it being useless to break with the established
order, assume a cheerful tone, crying down all efforts to unmask the
widespread and ever-increasing evils which are festering under the cover
of silence, and in substance urge us to eat, drink, and be merry, taking
no thought for the morrow or for the generations which are to follow us.
A second class, comparing the ignorance, superstition, brutality, and
inhumanity of the past with life to-day, arrive at the conclusion that
the nineteenth century is the flower of all the preceding ages, which is
true. That the present, registering the high-tide water-mark of the
centuries, is to be extolled rather than assaulted, and all efforts to
create discontent are unwise, and should be frowned upon. The mistake of
these individuals lies in the fact that they fail to see that the chief
cause of humanity's triumphs is found in the works performed by those
thinkers who in all ages have corresponded to the persons flippantly
characterized pessimists at the present time: they who have assailed the
existing order of things, who have thrown into the congregation of the
people the shells of doubt; who have confronted the priests and
potentates of conventionalism with a disturbing "Why"; _who have
compelled the people to think_.
A third class of writers who pitch their thoughts in a hopeful key,
appreciate the injustice of much that is accepted by conventional
thought as right, or which is tolerated by virtue of its antiquity, but
seeing the profound agitation which a thoughtful and earnest
presentation of the evils of the hour produces in the public mind, they
have become alarmed, fearing lest the rising tide of angry discontent
sweep away much that is good, true, and beautiful, in its blind attempt
to right existing wrongs, and inaugurate an era of justice. Old
institutions, ancient and revered thought, accepted lines of policy,
even when palpably unjust, are safer, they urge, than the sudden
blinding light of justice, the instantaneous widening of the horizon of
popular thought. The strong light of a new era thrown suddenly upon the
foul, monstrous and iniquitous systems in vogue, the awakening of the
public mind to the enormity of the injustice, hypocrisy, and immorality
of respectable conservatism of to-day will turn the brain of the
people--they will become mad; a second French Revolution will
ensue--such is their fear, and from a superficial view their
apprehensions seem reasonable. Their error lies in the fact that the
horrors of the French Revolution were the legitimate result of a policy
exactly analogous to what they are pursuing. It arose from _justice long
deferred; from wrongs endured for generations. It was the concentrated
wrath_ of the people who for many decades had been oppressed by Church,
by nobility, and by the crown. Though the motives are entirely
different, these writers, in striving to procrastinate the feud of
justice against entrenched power and established customs, are acting on
the lines of Louis XV., who, when told that a revolution would burst
forth in France, inquired, "How many years hence?" "Fifteen or twenty,
sire," was the reply. "Well, I shall be dead then; let my successor look
out for that." So in seeking to put off just and rightful demands, these
short-sighted philosophers lose sight of the fact that the longer
justice is exiled from the throne of power, the more terrible will be
the reckoning when it comes. Yet history teaches no lesson more
impressively, unless it be that a question involving justice once raised
will never be settled until right has been vindicated.
Those reformers, on the other hand, who have been popularly credited
with sounding a pessimistic note in all their writings, by virtue of
their fidelity to actual conditions and prevailing customs, are chiefly
optimists in the truest sense of the word. They are men and women who
believe profoundly in the triumph of right, liberty, and justice. Their
faces are set toward the morning. The glorious ideals that float before
and beyond the present have beamed upon their earnest gaze. They have
traced the ascent of humanity through the ages; they have noted the slow
march, the weary struggle from age to age of the old against the new, of
dawn against night, of progress against conservatism, but they have also
seen that the trend has been onward and upward, and what is far more
important, they have noted that the prophets, sages, and reformers,--in
a word, the advance guard, who have blazed the pathway and opened the
vista to broader and nobler conceptions of justice and liberty, have
been those who have assailed the popular conventionality of their times;
who have been denounced as enemies to social order, as dangerous
pessimists and wreckers of civilization. But they have also observed
that these honest and far-sighted spirits have set in motion the thought
that has borne humanity upward into a more radiant estate. Furthermore,
they realize that only by a fearless denunciation of existing evils, by
faithful though gloomy pictures of life _as it is_, by raising the
interrogation point after every wrong or unjust condition sanctioned by
virtue of its antiquity and conservatism and by appealing to the reason
and conscience of the people has humanity been elevated. They have
studied the problem of human progress profoundly; they have strong faith
in the triumph of justice, but they realize that victory can never be
attained as long as conventionalism lulls to sleep the public
conscience. They know that only by bringing the truth effectively before
the people, only by raising questions and stimulating the mind can
reforms be inaugurated. The present calls for honest thought, for true
pictures, for brave and earnest agitators. Give us these, and humanity
will soon take another of those great epoch making strides which at
intervals have marked the ascent of man.
THE PESSIMISTIC CAST OF MODERN THOUGHT.
Much of the best thought of to-day necessarily takes on a gloomy cast,
because the most wise and earnest reformers keenly realize the giant
wrongs that oppress humanity. They see the splendid possibilities
floating before mankind, even within the grasp of the rising generation,
if the heralds of the coming day are courageous and persistent; if they
sink all hope of popularity, all thought of self-interest; if they are
loyal to their highest impulses, regardless of what may follow.
_The era of the questioner has arrived._ Soon mankind will refuse to
accept anything simply because others believed it. Traditions and
ancient thought, though weighed down with credentials of past ages or
dead civilizations, will be cast aside. All problems will be weighed in
the scales of the broader conception of justice which is daily growing
in the mind of man. The twilight is passing, the dawn is upon us, and
to-morrow will be indebted chiefly to these true brave men and women
whom the superficial call pessimists, for the glorious heritage which
will fall to humanity; for they are related to the manifold reforms
which crowd upon the present, as were Copernicus and Galileo related to
the science of astronomy, as Luther was to the Reformation, Jefferson to
modern Democracy, as Wilberforce in England and Garrison in America to
the overthrow of black slavery. They denounce the iniquity of the
present hour; they unmask the carefully concealed evils which are
undermining public morals; they demand a higher standard of life. If
they aim to destroy the old wooden building, it is because they see
around them not only the quarried stone, the mortar and iron beams, but
a million hands waiting to erect upon the ruins of the old a nobler
structure than humanity has yet beheld.
Transcriber's Note: The page numbers in the Table of Contents
have been converted to issues in the following way:
Issue Pages
June, 1891 1-128
July, 1891 129-256
August, 1891 257-384
September, 1891 385-512
October, 1891 513-640
November, 1891 641-768
Index to 4th Volume 769-771
Please note that the November issue's Contents are as printed,
although the issue does have more articles than stated.
Also, the illustrations are shown in the correct issue, but may
be in a slightly different order than that listed.