Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols
Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was
graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter
she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the
breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff
of the _Cincinnati Tribune_, which she left after two years for the
Springfield, Ohio, _Republic-Times_, with which she was connected for
a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz,
a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a
position on _The Courier-Journal_. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor
of _The Courier-Journal_, and this position she held until her death.
Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester
Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's
literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the
ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was
a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after
a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and
iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on
her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the
street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!"
Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known
character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by _The Century
Magazine_ in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being
brought together in a charming book, entitled _Pa Gladden--The Story
of a Common Man_ (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden"
is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind,
and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of
goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great
amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is
the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said
throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death
occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook,"
September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her
book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked.
_The Ancient Landmark_ (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a
vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn
out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer
of real achievement and greater promise.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 5, 1903); _Who's Who in
America_ (1903-1905).
PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN[52]
[From _Pa Gladden_ (New York, 1903)]
In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the
barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had
sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness
to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times
unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and
again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she
turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that,
setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards
and prayed fervently:
"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when
redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye
sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal
'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy
love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let
Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life."
When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep
meaning.
"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your
goodness. I am not"--her voice rose to a shriek--"I am not wicked. You
can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be
here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell
me your name, sir."
"Pa Gladden."
"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?"
"No"--with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the
folks."
"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up."
"Prubable."
"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side,
like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She
ended with a sob.
"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make
it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart."
"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry,
Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If
you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet."
He sat by her for a few moments longer.
"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said
cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll
soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye
down. Doc Briskett knows his business."
She held out her hand to him.
"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in
the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps."
Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's
cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate.
"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the
barn road. Yer patient air out thar."
"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me
'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!"
Pa climbed in beside him.
"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his
story for the doctor's amazed ears.
"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an
illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have
any disease traveling."
A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it
and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look
over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the
shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born.
Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago:
Carol, carol, Christians,
Carol joyfully,
Carol for the coming
Of Christ's nativity!
Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost
tumbled down the ladder:
"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is
at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here;
bring some woman, for the love of God!"
FOOTNOTES:
[51] Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic
Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be
gathered from the files of _The Courier-Journal_. Mr. Aroni's fame has
lingered in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never
published a book or wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial
writer on _The North American_, Philadelphia.
[52] Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company.
REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH
Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy that has come
down to posterity with a deal of the perfume of permanency, was born
at Louisville, Kentucky, February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter
of Reuben Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of New York
State, the feminine form of whose name she bore. Her father was the
well-known novelist, Mansfield Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her
mother and sister were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a
glance that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately.
She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, but her one-act
comediette, entitled _Where was Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies_ (New
York, 1888), written before she was of age, made her widely known.
This little comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce.
Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in 1896, being poet of
the class, and one of the editors of _The Vassarian_. She then taught
in a woman's college for a time, when the war with Spain was declared
and she determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss
Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. The last months
of her life were spent at the detention hospital, Montauk, New York,
where she rendered noble service in her country's cause. She was
stricken with fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken
to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried with military
honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics should be republished.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New
York, 1889, v. vi); _A Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F.
Adams (Boston, 1905).
THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES
[From _Where was Elsie?_ (New York, 1888)]
Act I, Scene IV. _Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper._
_Elsie._ Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern?
_Jack._ Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take
you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince--[_Stops_].
_Elsie._ Prince! what Prince?
_Jack._ Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the
King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to
dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due
reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey
her commands. [_Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door._]
Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [_Exit._]
_Elsie._ That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [_Looks at
flask in her hand._] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so
fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I
did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever.
I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have
a long train. [_Struts up and down, but stops suddenly._] Well, I don't
care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [_Looking about her._] I
don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [_Catches sight of something
shining on the wall._] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be
fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going
to see what it is. [_Stops._] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask!
[_Brightening up._] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take
the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is
over there. I wonder what will happen. [_Drinks._]
Curtain.
CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT
Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867,
the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden,
the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's
biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr.
Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss
Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future
novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the
two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public
school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent
two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the
Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to
resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville
where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid
Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and
removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently
went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott
joined the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_, and acted as
representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to
South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the
interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to
his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby
county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news
reporter for _The Tribune_, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr.
Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite
cruiser _Nictheroy_. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby
county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he
married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper
correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly
afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at
Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago _Record_. When the
now defunct Louisville _Dispatch_ was established, Mr. Marriott became
telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898.
Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the _Dispatch_, he
regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several
times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in
1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott
has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the
United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to
surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr.
Marriott's first book, _Uncle Sam's Business_ (New York, 1908), was an
excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans."
It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the
Sargasso Sea, _The Isle of Dead Ships_ (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene
of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the
world. _How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City_ (New
York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book,
fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader.
Mr. Marriott's second novel, _Out of Russia_ (Philadelphia, 1911), a
story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than _The Isle of
Dead Ships_. From June to October, 1912, his _Sally Castleton,
Southerner_, a Civil War story, ran in _Everybody's Magazine_, and it
will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of
a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian,
who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr.
Marriott has done--one of the best of the recent war novels. In the
past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some
fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is
certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky
stories, one for _Gunter's Magazine_, the other for _The Pocket
Magazine_ (which periodical was swallowed up by _Leslie's Weekly_);
and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls
_One Night in Kentucky_, and which will appear in _The Red Book
Magazine_ sometime in 1913.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; _Who's Who
in America_, (1912-1913).
THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY[53]
[From _Sally Castleton, Southerner_ (_Everybody's Magazine_, June,
1912)]
With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the
door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror,
must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to
the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her.
Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one
addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps
holding his horse's bridle--a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking,
with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a
boy--not an enemy.
"Well, sir?" she faltered.
The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood
swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General
Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience,
but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will
be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen,
who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the
valley with field-glasses.
Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at
General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I
have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should."
The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh,
that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking
out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only
wants a place to rest for a few hours."
"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there
were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well
to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle
Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer
supper to him and his staff?"
Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear;
now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow
less.
The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table,
with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general."
He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps.
Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp
on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!"
she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they
are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to
meet her guests.
On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty
cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a
few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with
mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed,
and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other
strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles
in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the
sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny
hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the
flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires,
and his hammer clanked noisily.
The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of
hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no
little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and
the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted.
It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the
Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with
unconscious interest.
The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General
Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten
convention. "General Haverhill--Miss--?" He paused interrogatively.
The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said.
"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose
Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?"
"Yes, general. Will you come in?"
The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper,
general," he said.
The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar
of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his
smile was pleasant. "You are--loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The
question seemed unnecessary.
"Yes--to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily.
"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy
brows. "And this is--" he turned toward the younger girl.
"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton."
"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal--to Virginia,
Miss Eugenia?" he said.
Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched
'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause,
she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small
foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!"
The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration.
"Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling.
Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked
after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its
chairs and lounge--the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately
lain--and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor
her sister could help glancing at that stove.
It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please
sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see
about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie
following rather sullenly.
In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted
her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion
that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he
search--and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded,
suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very
long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would
they consider him a spy and--and----
A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside
her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted.
"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect?
Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!"
Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You
didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too
friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious."
"But--but--he'll starve!"
"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,'
that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get
supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them
occupied--when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!"
'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed.
"Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip
starving right under their noses."
The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are
worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for
him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that
ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a
good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got
to feed the brutes, let's do it."
FOOTNOTE:
[53] Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company.
ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE
Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at
Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls'
High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor
of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in
studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States
Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a
resident ever since. Her first book, _Antinous_ (Philadelphia, 1891), a
blank verse tragedy, was followed by _College Girls_ (New York, 1895),
an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss
Goodloe's first novel, _Calvert of Strathore_ (New York, 1903), was
set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. _At the Foot of the
Rockies_ (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's
best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest,
one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The
author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the
Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the
romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for
the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other
writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel,
_The Star-Gazers_ (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late
president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together
with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of
narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no
way does this work rank with _At the Foot of the Rockies_. The
short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field
she should go far.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the
_Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. v);
_Scribner's Magazine_ (January, April, 1910; July, 1911).
A COUNTESS OF THE WEST[54]
[From _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905)]
She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a
wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and
irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with
brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry
her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that.
The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded
garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew
from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring.
With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held
it out to him.
"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to
some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll
enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!"
As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly
saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following
the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand
gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and
following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age.
The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his
complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was
most immaculately got up in riding things.
"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper
incredulously to himself.
The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of
the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The
Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son.
"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too
fit, you know."
"Thanks, father--yes, I know it. When did you get here?"
"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train."
"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?"