Maryland, July 13, 1861. In early childhood he was brought to Woodford
county, Kentucky, where he grew to manhood. He was educated in private
schools and at Henry Academy. He studied law but abandoned it for
journalism. Ridgely removed to Louisville in 1877 to accept a position
on _The Daily Commercial_, which later became _The Herald_. He went with
_The Courier-Journal_ and in a short time he was made city editor.
Ridgely left _The Courier-Journal_ to establish _The Sunday Truth_, of
which he was editor, with his friend, Mr. Young E. Allison, as
associate editor. President Cleveland, urged by Col. Henry Watterson and
other leading Democrats, appointed Ridgely consul to Geneva,
Switzerland, on June 20, 1892, which post he held for eight years. Being
able to speak French and Spanish fluently, he was well fitted for the
consular service. On May 8, 1900, President McKinley transferred Ridgely
to Malaga, Spain, where he remained for two years, when he was again
transferred, this time going to Nantes, France, where he also staid for
two years. President Roosevelt sent Ridgely to Barcelona, Spain, on
November 3, 1904, as consul-general. He resided at that delightful place
until March, 1908, when he was made consul-general to Mexico, with his
residence at Mexico City. Ridgely died very suddenly at Monterey,
Mexico, on October 9, 1908. His body was brought back to Kentucky and
interred in Cave Hill cemetery, Louisville; and there he sleeps to-day
with no stone to mark the spot. Ridgely's reports to the state
department are now recognized as papers of importance, but is upon his
short-stories and essays that he is entitled to a place in literature.
His stories of consular life, set amid the changing scenes of his
diplomatic career, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's
Magazine_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, _Scribner's_, _The Strand_, _The
Pall Mall Magazine_, and elsewhere. Writing a miniature autobiography in
1907 he set himself down as the author of a volume of short-stories,
which, he said, bore the imprint of The Century Company, New York, were
entitled _The Comedies of a Consulate_, and, strangest thing of all,
were published two years prior to the time he was writing, or, in 1905!
It is indeed too bad that his alleged publishers fail to remember having
issued his book, for one would be worth while. What a castle in Spain
for this spinner of consular yarns!
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1908-1909); _The
Courier-Journal_ (Louisville, October 10, 1908).
A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT[30]
[From _The Man the Consul Protected_ (_Century Magazine_, January,
1905)]
Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield of Kentucky was an amiable and
kindly man of fifty, with the fluent speech and genial good breeding
of a typical Blue-grass gentleman. In appearance and dress he was
still an ante-bellum Kentuckian, with a weakness for high-heeled
boots, long frock-coats, and immaculate linen. When he said, "Yes,
sah," or "No, sah," it was like a breath right off the old plantation.
It should be added that he was a bachelor and a Mugwump.
Being a Kentuckian, he was naturally a colonel; though, as a matter of
fact, it was due solely to the courtesy of the press and the amiable
custom of the proud old commonwealth that he possessed his military
title. Nor had the genial colonel been otherwise a brilliant success
in life. Indeed, I am pained to recite that he had achieved in his
varied professional career only a sort of panorama of failures. He had
failed at the bar, failed in journalism, failed as a real-estate
broker, and, having finally taken the last step, had failed as a
life-insurance agent. In this emergency his relatives and friends
hesitated as to whether they should run him for Congress or unload him
on the consular service. His younger brother, who was something of a
cynic, insisted that Gillespie was fitted by intelligence to be only a
family physician; but it was finally decided at a domestic council
that he would particularly ornament the consular service. In pursuance
of this happy conclusion, an organized onslaught was made upon the
White House. The President yielded, and one day the news came that
Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield had been appointed consul of
the United States to Esperanza.
It is needless to suggest that Colonel Warfield took himself very
seriously in his new official capacity. It had not occurred to him,
however, that his consular mission was rather a commercial than a
patriotic one: he believed that he was going abroad to see that the
flag of his country was treated with respect, and to protect those of
his fellow-countrymen who in any emergency might have need of the
services of an astute and fearless diplomat. In fact, the feeling
that his chief official function was to be that of a sort of
diplomatic protecting angel took such possession of him that he
assumed a paternal attitude toward the whole country. Thus, bursting
with patriotism, he set sail one day from New York for Gibraltar, and
was careful during the voyage to let it be understood on shipboard
that if anybody needed protection he stood ready to run up the flag
and make the eagle scream violently.
Esperanza lies just around the corner from Gibraltar, and nowhere along
all the Iberian littoral of the Mediterranean is the sky fairer or the
sun more genial. The fertile _vega_ stretches back to the foot-hills of
the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Across the blue-sea way lies Morocco. It
is a picturesque and beautiful spot, and if the consul be a dreamer, he
may find golden hours for reverie. But I fear that neither the poetry
nor the picturesqueness of the entourage appealed to Consul Warfield as
he reached Esperanza that blazing September morning. He was more
impressed with the shrill noises of the foul and shabby streets; with
the dust that was upon everything, giving even to the palm-trees in the
_parque_ a gray and dreary look; with the flies that seemed to be
hunting their prey in swarms like miniature vultures; with the
uncompromising mosquitos singing shrilly for blood, and the bold, busy
fleas that held no portion of his official person sacred.
The colonel was a buoyant man, but his exuberant soul felt a certain
sinking that hot morning. It was a busy moment at Esperanza, and not
much attention was paid to the new consul at the crowded Fonda
Cervantes, whither, after a turbulent effort, he had persuaded his
_cochero_ to conduct him. He had been much disappointed that the
vice-consul was not on hand to receive him at the railway station. The
fact is, the consul had thought rather earnestly of a committee and a
brass band at the depot, and the complete lack of anything akin to a
reception had been something of a shock to his official and personal
vanity. However, he was not easily discouraged, and after having
convinced the proprietor of the fonda that he was the new American
consul, and therefore entitled to superior consideration, he set out
to find the consulate.
He found it in a narrow little street that went twisting back from
the quay toward the great dingy cathedral, and certainly it was not
what his imagination had fondly pictured it. He had thought of a fine
old Moorish-castle sort of house, with a great carved door opening
into a spacious _patio_, splendid with Arabic columns, and in the
background a broad marble staircase leading up to the consulate. He
had expected to see the flag of his country flying in honor of his
arrival, and a uniformed soldier on duty at the entrance, ready to
present arms and stand at attention when the new consul appeared.
As a matter of fact, there was a very narrow little door opening into
a very narrow little hallway that ran through the center of a very
narrow, squalid little house. Over the doorway was perched the
consular coat of arms. It was the poorest, dingiest, dustiest little
escutcheon that ever bore so pretentious a device.
The dingy gilt letters were almost invisible, but the colonel managed
to make them out. He could also see that the figure in the center of
the shield was intended to represent a proud and haughty eagle-bird in
the act of screaming; but the poor old eagle had been so rained upon
and so shone upon, and the dust had gathered so heavily upon him, that
he looked like a mere low-spirited reminiscence of the famous
_Haliaetus leucocephalus_ which he was originally meant to represent.
Colonel Warfield of Kentucky was not discouraged. Being, as I have
said, a buoyant man, he simply remarked to himself: "I'll have that
disreputable-looking fowl taken down and painted." Then he walked on
into the squalid little consulate.
An old man with shifty little blue eyes; a thin, keen face; long,
straggling gray hair; and a long, thin tuft of gray beard, which
looked all the more straggling and wretched because of the absence of
an accompanying mustache, sat at a table reading a Spanish newspaper.
This was Mr. Richard Brown of Maine, "clerk and messenger" to the
United States consulate, who drew the allowance of four hundred
dollars a year, and was the recognized bulwark of official Americanism
at Esperanza. For forty years, during all the vicissitudes of war and
politics, Richard Brown had sat at his desk in the shabby little
consulate, watching the procession of American consuls come and go,
doing nearly all the clerical work of the office himself, and
contemplating with cynical delight the tortuous efforts of the
various untrained new officers to acquaint themselves with their
duties and the language of the post.
In his affiliations he had become entirely Spanish, having acquired a
fluent knowledge of the language and a wide acquaintance with the
people and their ways. None the less, in his speech and appearance he
remained a typical down-east Yankee, and it is said at Esperanza that
his one conceit was to look like the popular caricature of Uncle Sam.
In this it is not to be denied that he succeeded. The "billy-goat"
beard; the lantern-jaw; the thin, long hair; the thin, long arms; and
the thin, long legs--these he had as if modeled from the caricature.
And the nasal twang and the down-east dialect--alas! it would have
filled the average melodramatic English novelist's devoted soul with
untold satisfaction and delight to hear Richard Brown say "Wal" and "I
gaiss," and otherwise mutilate the English language.
To the Spaniards he was known as Don Ricardo. The small Anglo-American
colony at Esperanza referred to him as "old Dick Brown." He was a
cynical, crusty, sour old man, who had become a sort of consular
heirloom at Esperanza, and without whose knowledge and assistance no
new American consul could at the outset have performed the simplest
official duty. Knowing this, Richard Brown felt a very well-developed
sense of his own importance, and looked upon each of his newly arrived
superiors with ill-concealed contempt.
There was also a vice-consul at Esperanza; but as he was a busy
merchant, who could find time to sign only such papers as old Brown
presented to him in the absence of the consul, he was seen little at
the consulate. He generally knew when a new consul was coming along or
an old consul going away, but in this instance Brown had failed to
advise him either of Major Ransom's departure or of Colonel Warfield's
arrival. Thus it happened that only the amiable Mr. Brown was on hand
when Colonel Warfield came perspiring upon the scene on the warm
morning in September of which we write.
"Come in," he said sharply, as the consul hesitated upon the
threshold. "What's your business?"
Colonel Warfield gave Mr. Brown a look that would have completely
withered an ordinary person, but which was entirely lost upon the old
man in question, and with magnificent dignity handed him the following
card:
COLONEL G. WITHERSPOON WARFIELD,
Consul of the United States of America.
ESPERANZA.
Mr. Richard Brown looked the card over carefully.
"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a major; the
one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' but soldiers to
send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? Are you a real colonel or
jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a colonel on the governor's
staff? There's your office over there on the other side of the hall.
Kin you speak Spanish?"
FOOTNOTE:
[30] Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company.
ZOE A. NORRIS
Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born at
Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. Henry T.
Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky towns. She was
graduated from Daughters, now Beaumont, College, when she was
seventeen years of age, or in 1878; and two days later she married
Spencer W. Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, to
live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband and went to
New York to make a name for herself in literature. She began with a
Western story, _Georgiana's Mother_, which appeared in George W.
Cable's magazine, _The Symposium_. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris
went to England--"like an idiot," as she now puts it. In London she
"got swamped among the million thieving magazines, threw up the whole
job," and traveled for two years on the Continent, writing for
American periodicals. When she returned to New York she again wrote
for _McClure's_, _Cosmopolitan_, _The Smart Set_, _Everybody's_, and
several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's first novel, _The Quest of
Polly Locke_ (New York, 1902) was a story of the poor of Italy. It was
followed by her best known novel, _The Color of His Soul_ (New York,
1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, and suppressed
two weeks after its publication because of the earnest objections of a
young Socialist, who had permitted the author to make a type of him,
and, when the story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was
not sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, and
withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other publishers, and
she could not find any one to print her writings. A short time later
Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped dying as a charity patient in a New York
hospital. When she did recover she worked for two years on _The Sun_,
_The Post_, _The Press_, and several other newspapers in Manhattan.
_Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories_ (New York, 1905), which were
originally printed in _The Sun_, "describing scenes and incidents in a
Kentucky Colonel's life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by
Phil B. Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The stories have
enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to issue another set of them
shortly. Being badly treated by a well-known magazine, she became so
infuriated that she decided to establish--at the suggestion of Marion
Mills Miller--a magazine of her own. Thus _The East Side_, a little
thing not so large--speaking of its physical size--as Elbert Hubbard's
_The Philistine_, was born. That was early in 1909; and it has been
issued every other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not
original; her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The
four bound volumes of _The East Side_ lie before me now, and they are
almost bursting with love, sympathy, and understanding for the poor of
New York. She has been and is everything from printer's "devil" to
editor-in-chief, but she has made a success of the work. Her one
eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested all her
life. For the last seven years she has lived among them; and among
them she hopes to spend the remainder of her days. Her one best friend
has been William Oberhardt, the artist, who has illustrated _The East
Side_ from its inception until the present time. To celebrate the
little periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded--at the
suggestion of Will J. Lampton--The Ragged Edge Klub, which is composed
of her friends and subscribers, and which gave her an opportunity to
meet all of her "distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's
dinners delight the diners--and the newspapers! Mrs. Norris's latest
novel, _The Way of the Wind_ (New York, 1911), is a story of the
sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, and is generally regarded as her
finest work. So long as _Zoe's Magazine_--which is the sub-title of
_The East Side_--continues to come from the press, the pushcart
people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood
women, the homeless of New York's great East Side will have a voice in
the world worth having.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (September, 1909);
_Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1910).
THE CABARET SINGER[31]
[From _The East Side_ (September, 1912)]
For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and violin,
held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret singer
stepped out upon the soft, red carpet.
Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap with his
wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring glances at the
singer.
She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her long, soft
glance, selecting her victim for the chorus.
She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband, pressed her
rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to sing.
The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in this
delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret singer, leaving
him, went from one to the other of the men, some bald, some young,
singing the chorus of "Daddy."
The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed the
singer.
"Shall we go home?" she asked presently.
"Not yet!" he implored.
"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying
for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home."
The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw
herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began
to cry softly.
The negress patted her white shoulder.
"What's de mattah, honey," she purred.
"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am
sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to
go home!"
IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS
[From the same]
I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life,
I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife,
I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain,
If I could go back and be little again,
I'd like it.
I'm tired of the day that must end in the night,
I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light,
I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain,
If I could be rocked in a cradle again,
I'd like it.
But tired or not, we must keep up the fight,
We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night,
Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain,
Be brave in the dark and endure the pain;
For we'll never, never be little again,
And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again,
Tho we'd most of us like it.
FOOTNOTE:
[31] Copyright, 1912, by the Author.
LUCY CLEAVER McELROY
Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very
characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on
Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W.
Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the
schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married
to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs.
McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to
become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a
success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to _The
Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and other
newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, _Answered_
(Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics.
The first book she published that won a wide reading was _Juletty_ (New
York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners,
fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with
"whiskey-colored eyes," make the _motif_. _Juletty_ was followed by _The
Silent Pioneer_ (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent
pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out
of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy
died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she
called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (May, 1901); _Library of Southern
Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).
OLD ALEC HAMILTON[32]
[From _Juletty_ (New York, 1901)]
"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a
curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts.
"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle
at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the
brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a
dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect
it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and
snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion
they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of
some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of
college training and after association with negroes and illiterate
neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities,
and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my
grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had
expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm--three thousand
broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres
always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the
heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever
flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession
for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit
as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little
natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead
a few weeks and--well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of
conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was
not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was
midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes,
outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly:
"'Who are you?'
"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly.
"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered.
"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his
lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing
daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news:
"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!'
"'What yer want here?'
"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered quiveringly.
"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared.
"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than ever
before or since, I turned and ran from him.
"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong arms, his
tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops on my face, while
he mumbled through his sobs:
"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? Eliza's
son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome than sunshine
after a storm. Never mind what grandfather says, little man; just
always remember he loves you like a son.'
"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all at once
his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, he cried: 'Thar,
yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter carry yer eround like
er nigger? Use yer own legs and find yer grandmother.'
"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I had seen his
heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a gentleman, do what
he might to hide it."
The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my rambling,
reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my grandsire.
"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried.
"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren County came
out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, 'My God, man, don't
you wish ugliness was above par? You'd be er Croesus.'"
FOOTNOTE:
[32] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.
MARY F. LEONARD