“people only laugh when they feel happy. Laughter always tells the
truth. And since I have known you, sir, I laugh ever so much; for I have
now a good thick pair of shoes, and the water cannot soak in and wet my
feet. And don’t you see, too, I have a new dress? And I am already
laying by money in the savings-bank; and it all comes from your
brilliant idea of setting up a Frog Emporium. Oh! yes, yes, I laugh a
great deal now—a very great deal.”
Then, as he made no response, she went on: “You are a genius, sir, a
genius!”
“Ah! you recognize in me the divine spark?” murmured Abel, his visage
faintly brightening. “Well, you are the first who has done so—the very
first—and you shall share in my triumph; ay, half the gold-mine shall be
yours.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know,” he added, “you may ere long
be dwelling in Fifth Avenue and wearing diamonds and silks; though, if
you follow my advice, you will always dress plainly and never change
your pretty French cap for a fashionable hat full of feathers and
ribbons.”
“Really!” cried Marguerite, whose faith in Abel Day was unbounded.
“Living in Fifth Avenue, beautiful Fifth Avenue!” And she clapped her
hands and skipped merrily along in front of him.
But presently from Abel’s lips burst another laugh, and this time there
was something strange and wild about it which caused Marguerite to pause
and look around; then, taking his hand, they walked on side by side in
silence, and oh! how much she wished that he might not appear so
unhappy.
At length they reached Abel’s home; and if Abel’s fellow-boarders had
stared with astonishment the first time they saw him mounting to his
room accompanied by a strange young woman, they made bigger eyes now as
he ascended the stairway with a hen under his arm; nor was it easy for
Marguerite to keep a grave countenance when presently the chicken began
to cackle; and the cackling of the chicken and the giggling of the
inquisitive females, who were following at a proper distance, made a
very queer chorus.
“Let ’em laugh,” growled Abel after he had entered his chamber and
fastened the door—“let ’em laugh; my day of triumph is nigh, and then
they’ll be the veriest sycophants at my feet. But I’ll spurn them all;
let ’em laugh.”
And now began the trial of the Magic Nest; Abel first cautioning
Marguerite to speak in an undertone, if she had anything to say. Gently,
as tenderly as a mother might handle her baby, the fowl was placed in
the box; and forthwith she ceased to cackle, while the others ceased
even to whisper. Then, motioning the girl to sit down on the bench, Abel
stood beside her, awaiting with intense excitement the laying of the
first egg. In a couple of minutes his brow was wet with perspiration,
then his whole face became moistened; and when, by and by, after what
seemed an age—’twas only a quarter of an hour—the hen did lay an egg,
then rose up to look at it, Abel trembled so violently that Marguerite
inquired if he were ill. But without heeding her question he went on
trembling and saying, “The egg has vanished, vanished! and she can’t
believe her eyes—she can’t believe her eyes!” And now for about a minute
and a half it did really seem as if the hen, concluding she had made a
mistake, was going to proceed and lay another egg, when, lo! she coolly
stepped out of the box, and, after shaking her feathers, commenced
pecking the bits of paper scattered over the floor.
When Abel Day perceived this his head swam a moment; then clenching his
fists, and his cavernous eyes flashing fire, he sprang towards the
chicken, and, forgetting all about eavesdroppers, he screamed loud
enough to be heard from cellar to garret: “I’ll force you to do your
duty! I will, I will!”
But, as ill-luck would have it, the window was open, and out of it flew
the hen, so hotly pursued by Abel that he came within an ace of passing
through it too; which had he done, his neck would certainly have been
broken, for Abel had no wings.
Then, as if to make sport of him, the perverse creature perched herself
on a neighboring chimney, where she set up a loud cackling.
“Hark, they are mocking me again! Hear them, hear them!” groaned Abel
Day, clapping his hands to his head. “And the horror, too, is coming
over me again: it always comes with those jeering voices.”
“I hear nobody. Oh! I beg you to be calm,” said Marguerite, now
thoroughly alarmed on Abel’s account. Then, leading him to the bench,
“What agitates you so, dear friend? Oh! do, do calm yourself and tell me
what you fear.”
Abel sank down on the bench, and, after groaning once more, “Hark! hark!
They are mocking me,” did not utter another word, hard though she urged
him to speak; but, with eyes glued to the Magic Nest, he remained dumb
and motionless.
Then by and by evening came, and the twilight deepened into night, yet
still Abel moved not, nor opened his lips, unless occasionally to heave
a sigh. Then the moon rose, and as its pale rays streamed into the room
and fell upon the sufferer’s face, it assumed an expression so unearthly
that Marguerite was filled with awe.
And now a dreadful, startling thought occurred to her: her dear friend
might be mad! What a pang this gave her tender heart! What bright,
new-born hopes became suddenly blasted. How many fair castles in the air
crumbled away into ghostly ruins at the thought that Abel Day was mad!
“Is it possible,” she asked herself, “that this good man—he who has been
so kind to me, whom I looked up to as one far, far above the cold,
heartless world—is it possible that he is bereft of reason?” And even as
Marguerite breathed these words she for the first time grew conscious of
something glowing in her bosom more ardent than friendship for Abel Day.
“I love him,” she murmured—“I love him. And no matter what people may
think of me, I’ll stay by him and nurse him; I’ll be his servant and
truest friend as long as he lives.”
Trying indeed was this night for Marguerite—oh! very, very. It seemed as
if it never would end. Nor did day bring any relief to her anxiety. The
blessed, life-giving sunshine shimmered in; the chimney-swallows
twittered by the window; a stray bee, blown away by the morning breeze
from his far-off hive, flew in and buzzed about the chamber; still Abel
remained like one turned into stone, except for the deep-drawn sighs
which ever and anon escaped his lips.
And so this day passed, and so day followed day, without bringing any
change in his mysterious condition.
Of course Marguerite was not with him the whole time. But she took care
whenever she quitted the room to lock the door; then she would hasten
with winged feet to the Frog Emporium, where she would spend four or
five hours; then back Marguerite hurried, hoping and praying that no ill
had befallen Abel during her absence. But while she was with the poor
man she did more than simply watch him. The ugly pencil-marks were
rubbed off the wall; the floor was thoroughly swept; the cobwebs were
brushed out of the corners; and many another thing which only woman’s
hand can do Marguerite did. On a little table, too (the only piece of
furniture besides the bench and bed), was spread a good, substantial
meal for Abel to eat the moment he felt hungry; and it amazed her to see
him fasting so long.
We need not say that everybody in the house had his curiosity now raised
to the highest pitch; and the gossiping, prying females shook their
virtuous heads and muttered no complimentary things of Abel’s faithful
nurse.
“Well, they may say of me whatever they like,” said the brave girl. “My
conscience doesn’t reproach me; it tells me I am doing right. When I was
down Abel Day helped me, and now, when he is down, I’ll help him.”
At length, one afternoon, weary of the long, unbroken silence of the
chamber, Marguerite began to sing. The song was one she had learnt from
her mother, and was called “Normandie, chère Normandie.” She had a rich
contralto voice, and the effect which the melody wrought upon Abel was
something perfectly marvellous; and as her face happened to be turned
towards his, she noticed the change at once, and her eyes filled with
glad tears.
“Glory! glory! I am escaping from the infernal regions; the darkness and
the voices are leaving me. Thank God! thank God!” he cried. And
Marguerite, only too happy to rouse him out of his lethargy, continued
singing for well-nigh half an hour. Then, placing herself beside him on
the bench, she gave way to her joy in laughter and merry talk, while
Abel’s countenance wore an expression almost radiant, and, resting one
of his hands on her head as a father might have done, “All is blue sky
at last,” he said. “I feel as I have not felt in many a day. Oh! had I
had you always with me, the demons would never have shrieked in my ears;
your angelic songs would have driven them away.”
“Well, you can’t imagine,” returned Marguerite, “how happy it makes me
to make you happy.” Then, after a pause: “But now, dear friend, I have a
favor to ask: I wish you to tell me the history of your life; for there
is a mystery in it—I am sure there is. Do tell it to me. Not that I am
curious, but I firmly believe ’twill do you good to let me carry a part
of the burden which has almost crushed you down.”
“Fool, fool that I was to live all by myself so many years!” spoke Abel
in a musing tone, and paying no heed to her request. “The mocking voices
cannot abide cheerful company; it frightens them off.” Then, turning to
Marguerite: “You’ll not let them come back, will you?”
“You are dreaming,” answered the girl, patting his hand. “Why, this room
was still as the tomb until I began to sing.”
“No, no, it wasn’t; I heard them all the while.”
“Well, don’t fear them any more. I’ll stay with you; I’ll be your
canary, your nightingale, your musical box,” she said with a merry
laugh. “So pray begin and give me a little of your past history; for the
sooner you begin the sooner you’ll end, and then I’ll sing another
song.”
“Well, well, to please you I’ll do anything. Therefore learn that I was
born in Massachusetts. But of my early years I need say very little. My
father died when I was a child; at the age of fourteen I had to shift
for myself, and from that time on it was a hard struggle against
poverty. Somehow I didn’t succeed in anything I put my hand to. I tried
this thing and that; I tried everything almost, but was always
unfortunate. And, do you know, I believe in luck. Oh! I do. Some are
born with it, others are not; and these last will turn out failures, be
they ever so honest and hard-working. Well, undoubtedly I belong to the
unlucky ones; and, what’s more, I verily believe there is such a thing
as having too much brains. Why, many a pumpkin-headed fellow I used to
know is to-day a millionaire—can’t explain it, but there’s the fact;
while I am—well, you see what I am, and I have reached middle life; and
my miserable home”—here he threw a glance around the room; then,
clasping his hands: “But dear me, what has happened? Is this my den?
Why, how changed it looks!”
“I have been turning things topsy-turvy,” answered Marguerite, with a
twinkle in her eye. “But pray don’t stop to admire the change. Please go
on; I am so interested.”
“Well, finally, after trying everything,” continued Abel, “and, as I
have observed, failing in everything I tried, I one day bethought myself
of turning inventor. And the more I thought about it the more confident
I felt that I should succeed; indeed, I passed a whole week in a
delightful reverie, wherein I saw myself wealthy and famous, and all
from one single invention. Then, when this dreamy, happy week was gone
by, I set about inventing a Patent Log—a thing very much needed by
mariners; for the present method of determining the speed of a vessel is
both clumsy and unreliable. ’Twas here in this chamber, on this bench, I
began my brain labor, and for a while I made excellent progress. But
after a couple of months I got tired of sitting up and took to my bed,
where I used to lie inventing—inventing all day long, and even all night
too. I seemed to be able to do without sleep; until one evening—oh! I’ll
never forget it”—here he paused and shuddered—“one evening the room
became suddenly full of voices. From under the bed, through the keyhole
and window, down the chimney, on every side of me these horrible voices
were yelling and screeching, ‘He’ll never succeed—never succeed’; ‘Born
to ill-luck’; ‘All time wasted’; ‘He’ll go to the dogs and hang
himself!’ What happened after this terrible moment I can’t say; I must
have gone off into a fever. I remember nothing. All I know is that one
day—but how long afterwards I cannot tell—I became, as it were, alive
again, and found myself inventing quite a different thing—namely, the
Magic Nest, which, as you know, has once more proved that I am born to
fail in whatever I undertake. And now, alas! I don’t see how I’ll be
able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left
in the world.”
“Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog
Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need for nothing. Why, as
I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a
wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and
whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of
yourself—I—I call you a genius.”
When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor
heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old,
neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an
inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them
covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian
hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil,
were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.”
In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript
before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were
laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I
should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould
have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole
world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.”
But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as
if he were stricken with cold.
“O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite.
“The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid
voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself
in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?”
“Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding
before his eyes the page whereon was written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent
Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for
you.”
It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it,
and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the
song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good
angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You
have indeed power to drive the fiend away.”
“Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her
tongue faltered.
But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within
her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words
which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and
presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said:
“You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to
Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us
say a prayer of thanksgiving.”
Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.
Then, when they had risen from their knees, “And now,” added Marguerite,
“I hope you will set courageously to work at this Patent Log, and while
you are thus engaged I’ll play the nightingale and sing my very best;
will you?”
Abel’s eyes were swimming with tears, and, taking her hand in his, “You
love me?” he said in tremulous accents. “Oh! how kind, how good it is in
you to love me. I have been alone since my boyhood—all alone. Nobody
since the far-off day when I parted from my mother ever spoke to me as
you do. The world appeared like a desert to me. I cared very little for
life. All was a barren waste on every side of me until this hour. But
now I would not die for anything. I wish to live because you live; and,
O Marguerite! my heart would stop beating if you were to leave me.”
“But I never will leave you.”
“No, don’t. Let us live together, Marguerite, always together; be my
wife.”
“Well, now,” answered Marguerite, her heart overflowing, yet at the same
time speaking with firmness and decision, “you must set immediately to
work; a quarter of an hour will be enough for to-day. To-morrow you may
labor half an hour, and perhaps next day an hour, until this invention
is completed; and, remember, all the while you are inventing I’ll play
the lark, the canary, or whatever you choose to call me.”
Abel listened to her words, and, albeit weak and hardly in a state to
use his brain, he actually made a little progress with his invention
during the brief space she allowed him to work. What unspeakable joy it
gave Marguerite to think that she might be able to restore him to full
mental health! “And when he does become entirely himself—oh! then—then—”
Here her song waxed louder and more melodious; for her heart was
thrilling with a rapture which only the voice of music can express.
Yes, Marguerite, ’twas verily an inspiration that caused you to direct
Abel’s mind anew to the Patent Log; for this is a sane and wholesome
object whereupon to exert his faculties, and not a madman’s dream like
the Magic Hen’s Nest.
Day by day Abel gained in health; his appetite and sleep returned; he
laughed as merrily as Marguerite; and people could scarcely believe he
was the same man. But the girl never relaxed her vigilance. So passed
away the spring and summer; and when autumn came round not the fairest
castle in the air which Marguerite had built for herself did surpass the
bright reality which opened before her vision. For, lo! the Patent Log
was patented, and its success went beyond Abel’s most extravagant hopes.
A mass-meeting of ship-owners and merchants was held at the Cooper
Institute to do him honor; the press lauded him to the skies; the tongue
of Fame was chiming his name far and wide. But, better than all, a
cataract of gold was rolling into his pocket.
Of course before long our friend changed his quarters; and, in his new
and elegant home, right above the bed Marguerite hung the crucifix which
Mother Catherine had given her; then she and her betrothed went to the
Convent of Mercy to visit the good nun, who wept glad tears when she
heard their story.
“Well, I lean upon her as much as she leans upon me; we love and help
each other in all things,” spoke Abel.
“And always, always will,” continued Marguerite.
“God bless you, my children!” said Mother Catherine.
A fortnight later the happy couple were married; after which they sailed
on their wedding tour across the sea to Normandy. And one day, as they
were leaving the beautiful church of Saint-Ouen, whither they had gone
to give thanks to God for their great happiness, Marguerite spoke and
said: “I once thought there was no country in all the world like France;
but now, my dear husband, I love America more.”
“And I,” returned Abel, “love France as much as I do America; for,
although I believe good wives may be found everywhere, it was this sunny
land which gave me my pretty Marguerite.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BELLS.
I stand by Giotto’s gleaming tower,
In gloom of the cathedral’s wing,
And hear, in the soft sunset hour,
The bells to benediction ring.
That Duomo boasts: “Stone upon stone,
Eternally I rise and rise;
So, pace by pace, zone over zone,
I am uprounded to the skies.”
But simpler effort, as direct
As that of palm or pine, impels
This wonder of the architect
To strike heaven’s blue with clash of bells.
Etrurian Athens! long ago
Thy sister of the Violet Crown,
In colonnades like carven snow—
All crumbled now, and bare, and brown
With ashes of dead sunshine—sate
Among her gods, and had no voice
Potential as their high estate
To summon to the sacrifice.
Worth even the Phidian Jove sublime,
Chryselephantine, and all else
Of the lost forms of olden time,
Fair Florence! are thy living bells.
O bells! O bells! when angels sang,
Surely—though no Evangelist
Has told—a silvery peal first rang,
And Christian chimes came in with Christ.
For bells! O bells! not brazen horn,
Nor sistrum, sackbut, cymbals, gong,
Harsh dissonance of creeds forlorn,
But your sweet tongues to Him belong.
Crowning with music as ye swing
This lily in stone, this lamp of grace,
Wherever Christ the Lord is King,
Ye have commission and a place.
This tower stands square to winds that smite,
Nor fears the thunders to impale.
Prince of the Powers of Air! by rite
Of baptism shall the bells prevail.
Shine, _Stella Maris_! and O song
Of _Ave Mary_, and Vesper bells,
Be drowned not in the city’s throng!
For—sad and sweet as Dante tells—
Comes, strangely here, the sense to me
Of parting for some unknown clime,
A sense of silence and the sea,
Charmed by the tryst of star and chime.
O bells! O bells! the worlds are buoyed,
Like beacon-bells, on waves profound,
In all no silence as no void—
The very flowers are cups of sound.
We dream—and dreaming we rejoice—
That we, when great Death draws us nigh,
Hearing, may understand the Voice
Which rocks a bluebell or the sky;
And, with new senses finely strung
In grander Eden’s blossoming,
May see a golden planet swung,
Yet hear the silver lilies ring!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
OUR NEW INDIAN POLICY AND RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.
“While it cannot be denied that the government of the United
States, in the general terms and temper of its legislation, has
evinced a desire to deal generously with the Indians, it must be
admitted that the actual treatment they have received has been
_unjust and iniquitous beyond the power of words to express_.
Taught by the government that they had rights entitled to
respect, when these rights have been assailed by the rapacity of
the white man the arm which should have been raised to protect
them has been ever ready to sustain the aggressor. The history
of the government connections with the Indians is _a shameful
record of broken treaties and unfulfilled promises_.”
We take the above sentences from the first report of the Board of Indian
Commissioners appointed by President Grant under the act of Congress of
April 10, 1869. The commissioners, nine in number, were gentlemen
selected for their presumed piety, philanthropy, and practical business
qualities. None of them was a Catholic; in taking their testimony not
only with respect to the general treatment of the Indians, but in regard
to the religious interests of some of the tribes, we shall not be
suspected of summoning witnesses who are prejudiced in favor of the
Catholic Church. One of the commissioners, indeed, Mr. Felix R. Brunot,
of Pittsburgh, the chairman of the board, appears to have been inspired
at times with a lively fear and hatred of the church; his
colleagues—Messrs. Robert Campbell, of St. Louis; Nathan Bishop, of New
York; William E. Dodge, of New York; John V. Farwell, of Chicago; George
H. Stuart, of Philadelphia; Edward S. Tobey, of Boston; John D. Lang, of
Maine; and Vincent Colyer, of New York—are gentlemen quite free from any
predilection in favor of Catholicity. The passage we have taken from
their first report relates only to the worldly affairs of the Indians.
But a perusal of the various annual reports of this board, of the
Commissioners of Indian Affairs, and of the Indian agents, from 1869
until 1876, has convinced us that the injuries inflicted upon the
Indians have been by no means confined to those caused by the avarice
and rapacity of the whites. Sectarian fanaticism, Protestant bigotry,
and anti-Christian hatred have been called into play, and the arm of the
government has been made the instrument for the restriction, and even
the abolition, of religious freedom among many of the Indian tribes.