[Illustration: _In a Ship-Yard at Locust Point._]
[Illustration: _The Ship-Yard’s Ancient Boiler Shop._]
[Illustration: IN THE HARBOR AT NIGHT
PAINTED BY IRVING WARD]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FOUR FEARS OF OUR GENERAL
_Souvenirs of Childhood_]
The following conversation took place one evening upon one of those
points of Algeria where we Frenchmen have had to fight so desperately and
so often. We had encamped, or rather we had bivouacked, in a charming
little valley at the foot of a mountain, which, picturesque as it was,
suggested only evil things.
Our young General had gathered us together near his tent. He had been
giving us, with his habitual clearness, instructions for the battle which
was soon to begin, and which might require the greatest effort both on
the part of our men and of ourselves. It was planned that we should
start out quietly before daylight, noiselessly scale the mountain, and
force the enemy, at the point of the bayonet if possible, with powder
and shot if necessary, to cede to us the annoying position which they
occupied. Everything being arranged, and no one having a desire to sleep,
we naturally began to chat. The conversation turned to reminiscences;
not to recent memories, but recollections of childhood. This will not
astonish those who know what passes in the head of a soldier on the eve
of a battle. The words duty, conscience, fear and courage were frequently
uttered. Stories and anecdotes had been told illustrating the varied and
often contradictory ideas which these words evoked, and we had begun to
talk about our personal experiences. The General, who had listened until
then, contenting himself by letting drop an occasional opportune word,
being urged to tell us something in his turn, began as follows:
“It is not enough, at the critical hour of one’s existence,” he said,
“to be firmly resolved to do one’s entire duty, it is necessary above
all to know where and what it is. If it is one of those doubtful
cases, embarrassing the intelligence of the full-grown man, how much
more difficult must it be for the unformed mind of a child. That which
agitates the spirit of a little one, at certain trying moments, is a
subject worthy the attention of older people, and it is my opinion that
one of the surest means of knowing the man is to study him in the child.
The child contains all the essential elements of the man. Though he is
bounded by an infantile horizon his soul is none the less a human one.
Two things, although of very different nature, and although they date
back to the earliest years of my existence, have left me the remembrance
of greater perplexities than those which have assailed my spirit at any
other epoch of my life. Never has my soldier’s conscience been submitted
to more cruel tests than those to which I was twice subjected as a little
boy.
“Smoke some of my cigars, make yourselves some grog, and I will tell you
one of these episodes of my childhood. After which we must try to get
some sleep.”
* * * * *
“I was a very little fellow, only six years old; it was not more than two
years since I had begun to wear trousers. My father, who was captain of a
ship at that time, being almost always on the sea, I had been brought up
by two women, my mother and my aunt—Aunt Marie! I loved them equally. I
had, in fact, two mothers. Although they were sensible people, they both
spoiled me.”
‘One can only spoil that which is bad,’ said Aunt Marie.
‘And Jacques is good,’ added my mother.
“It appears that at five years of age I was angelic. You see I have
changed,” said the general, interrupting his tale an instant, and
addressing himself to one of us who had smiled a little. “What do you
expect, my dear Robert, life does not leave intact all those whom it
touches.”
“Say rather, General,” replied the young officer who had been addressed—a
good fellow, although a little audacious at times—“if you have changed,
we know well that it is almost always to our advantage.”
The General shook his head and continued: “If I had never left my two
mothers, it is very probable that I should have been as gentle as a
girl. However this may be, and whether I was good or bad, between these
two charming women, I was the happiest little being in creation, and
curiously enough, I fully realized my happiness. My aunt, who played
more of a part than my mother in this story which I am telling you, was
a tall and remarkably beautiful person. My mother alone equalled her in
beauty, and that for a very simple reason—they were twins, and resembled
one another closely. Happily, their costumes differed completely, and
prevented me from making a mistake; my mother belonged to the world, and
Aunt Marie did not. Aunt Marie was the Superior of the Sisters of Charity
of a large military hospital in the town of —— where I was born. We lived
in this town during the long absences of my father. Mamma and her sister,
whom I often called “Aunt Sister Marie,” divided between them my entire
affection. It was indeed a great joy when my mother took me to see Aunt
Marie. Although this pleasure was to be found only between the cold walls
of a hospital, it was always greatly desired, and awaited with the very
greatest impatience on my part.
“To run in the vast, long court where the convalescents were accustomed
to walk, or to sit in the sunshine, to wander around that immense
garden, which was my Place du Carrousel and my Champs de Mars, to be
caught in passing, to be stopped in my wild flight, either by one of the
convalescent soldiers who were amused by my antics, or by one of the
sisters of Aunt Marie, or above all by Aunt Marie herself, who, when
seeing me too heated, left her room, which served her also as a pharmacy,
to come and quiet me and kiss me; to gallop over the sandy grounds of
this court, riding horse-back on a cane, or on the crutch of an aged,
infirm sister, who usually sat knitting on one of the benches—all this
was for me the joy of joys.
“The day of which I speak, a beautiful summer day, I had obtained
permission to play in my dear court for a whole hour. My mother had to
make a visit in the town, which would have been tiresome for me. She had
left me in charge of her sister and Aunt Marie, from her open window, was
not to lose sight of me for a moment. The aged Sister Rose was asked to
watch me as well, and then I had her crutch, without which she was unable
to walk. You see I was well guarded.
“Aunt Marie, having mounted to her private room, saw from her window that
a door of the large building at the extremity of the court, a double
door, and one which I had always seen shut, was open. She hailed one of
the nurses and asked him to shut it; but from his answer she probably
judged that it was not possible, for it stayed open, and Aunt Marie
having called me to her, said: ‘You see that large open door, at the end
of the court, little Jacques?’ ‘Yes, Aunt Marie.’ ‘Very well! It is the
door of a large room, very dark and very cold, where even big people are
not permitted to enter. It is written over the door that entrance is
forbidden to the public! Promise me, dear, not to go there.’
“I gave the promise with the intention of keeping it, but I had not
rendered due count of the fascinations of Sister Rose’s crutch. Having
jumped about a great deal, having pranced round and round the timid
Sister Rose, having thoughtlessly knocked against, and annoyed in a
thousand ways the soldiers who were playing at _drogue_, (a game which
always makes me laugh, as pieces of wood are placed on the noses of the
losers.) I was, as you may imagine, very much excited; my horse ended
by running away with me, and, instead of stopping on the threshold of
the forbidden door, which more than once I had had the imprudence to
approach too closely, he carried me irresistibly to the extremity of the
dark room, which I ought not to have entered. I was going so rapidly that
before I had time to think I arrived with a shock against the wall at the
farther end. I knocked myself so severely that I raised a big bump upon
my forehead, which brought me effectually to my senses. My steed, Sister
Rose’s crutch, fatigued by the violence of our course, fell, out of
breath, but not without noise, at my feet. The silence of the room sent
back from its four corners the echo of the fall. Startled by this strange
sound, I turned around quickly. I was already impressed by the sense of
my disobedience. I had done wrong to come there.
“The sudden change from the light to the obscurity which surrounded
me, the cold chill of that room, following quickly the warm atmosphere
of the court which I had left all in sunshine, added to my uneasiness,
and the rest did not reassure me. A lugubrious row of large white beds,
all alike, enclosed by curtains of a most severe aspect, which I had
not seen in the rapidity of my entrance, occupied the whole length of
the room at my left. Not a breath came from behind these curtains; the
beds then were empty. I did not like to be alone among these shadows.
The blinds being shut, the daylight ended a few steps from the door by
which I had come into this redoubtable place, and did not penetrate to
my corner. For an instant I dared not stir, and yet I well knew that I
must leave this spot, forbidden to grown persons, just as quickly as I
could. Intimidated by my surroundings, and above all by the obscurity and
the silence, which are not the friends of children, even the sound of my
breathing frightened me; I heard, not without fear, the rapid beatings of
my heart. Forgetting at once both Sister Rose and my horse, I resolved
to reach the door, and I walked instinctively on the tips of my toes so
as to make as little disturbance as possible. When I had taken about
twenty steps, hesitating from time to time to regain my courage, seeing
that after all I approached the light, my presence of mind gradually came
back to me and I cast about one of those questioning regards of a child
who wishes, while he has the opportunity, to profit by the occasion and
explore the region into which he has unwittingly ventured. I found myself
particularly attracted toward a large black bench which was placed along
the wall to the left of the entrance, and which occupied more space than
a bed.
“Why was this bench, larger and a little lower than the benches in the
court, two-thirds covered by a white sheet? Was anything hidden under
this sheet? It certainly appeared so to me. While asking myself these
questions, I had already arrived three-quarters of the way; a little
more daylight reached me thereby. Light is a blessing at any age, but
for a child it is sometimes a remedy for all ills. Less anxious as to
what might happen to me in the room itself, I began to be more uneasy
in regard to what would pass when I had left it. What would Aunt Marie
think of my disobedience? Truly I was in no great hurry to regain the
court, and I said to myself that being there, it would not cost me any
more to learn why a white sheet covered that big bench. In a few steps I
drew still nearer to it. The top of the bench was uneven. Without doubt
something was hidden there; but what? My curiosity carried me on, and
without having the least idea of what I was going to discover, with a
bold movement I lifted one entire end of the sheet.
“That which there appeared to my astonished eyes I shall never forget. I
see it even yet, as I speak to you, as plainly as when I was six years
old in the room of the hospital of ——. Yes, I see it and I shall see it
all my life.
“I saw death! a dead person! for the first time.
“Since then I have seen many dead people, more than I can count; this one
has rested in my memory more clearly than them all.
“That which I had uncovered was the head, white hair, nude shoulders
and chest of a man already old, whose immobility and extraordinary
pallor seemed inexpressibly terrible to me. I felt that I stood before
a great event. Nothing can give an idea of the stupor which enveloped
me. A hundred confusing questions surged in my brain. Has a man from his
earliest years an intuition as to what will be the end of his life on
earth? I firmly believe so. In any case I was not deceived for a single
moment by the thought that I beheld a sleeping man. I understood that
it was not a simple sleep. One is never so absent, so calm, when one
only sleeps. But then what was it that I saw? What was he doing on the
bench—that impassible being?
“‘Suppose I should call Aunt Marie?’ I said to myself; ‘Aunt Marie, who
knows everything, and can do everything? Suppose, however, (but the
simple thought seemed formidable to me) I should touch him first!’ And,
in contradiction to the idea which I had that his sleep was not of that
kind which could be disturbed. I said to myself again: ‘Perhaps he will
get up. Perhaps he does not know that he is there.’
“I dared to place my hand on his shoulder. I drew it away quickly. That
sort of cold was frightful.
“A dreadful thought flashed through my brain. The very truth of truths
penetrated my inmost being. People must become like this when they are no
longer alive. But then—— I had touched a dead man! I had thereby shown
a disrespect toward him. I had troubled that which ought never to be
troubled!
“My heart ceased to beat.”
* * * * *
“I imagined that I had done something irreparable. I tried to find a name
for my action, which I judged abominable. The idea of sacrilege, one of
those dreaded words of which a child does not comprehend the meaning,
came into my mind, and I said to myself: ‘That is it, I have committed a
sacrilege!’
“Terror took possession of me, and in my fright, instead of escaping
through the door which was now quite near me, I took refuge, trembling,
in the shadowy end of the room which had lately given me so much trouble
to leave. Perhaps I hoped to escape more surely in the darkness from that
vision, from that unexplained revelation of death which had then for the
first time greeted me.
“I stood again with my face pressed against the wall at the end of the
room prohibited to all, hardly breathing, without the power to cry, and
not daring to turn round. I fell on my knees and, with a flood of tears,
I demanded pardon of God for the great sin which I had committed, and
prayed Him to show me the means of effacing it. Did God pardon me? I
believe that he did, for I arose from my knees having formed a resolution
to repair the wrong which I had done. But it must be done immediately,
and all alone. I had uncovered the head of a dead man, and my duty was,
first of all, to go and ask his pardon, and, secondly, to render him
peaceful by recovering him as before.
“Such a resolution—the idea that he has a duty to accomplish—makes a man
of even a child, once he has decided to perform it. I gathered together
all my courage and started bravely enough. When I arrived a few steps
from the bench and saw that terribly calm visage, with those marble lids
closed forever, my heart failed me, and, taking flight, I very soon found
myself at the end of the room.
“But strength alone, not will, failed me. Three times I returned, without
being able to approach him closely—and yet, it was necessary to do so! I
invoked the memory of Aunt Marie, of my mother, who would forgive me if
I could repair my fault, of my father who was said to be so brave, and I
made an effort to start again, repeating to myself when I was about to
weaken, that the pardon of others, of myself as well, and above all, that
of the dead man whom I had offended, could be obtained only at this price.
“I am astonished even now when I think of the amount of energy, the
superhuman efforts to surmount an insurmountable fear, paralyzing him at
each step, that was shown by the unhappy little boy that I then was. I
have been in many a trying situation in my career as a soldier, but they
have all been as nothing when compared to that one, which preceded them
by so many years. What was I saying? Feeling myself ready to fail, with a
supreme effort, I desperately finished my course. I stood before the dead
man and demanded his pardon, with a voice which probably the dead alone
could hear, because it resembled a dying breath, and my hand at last
succeeded in covering the awful visage with the sheet which I thought
necessary to his repose.
“That done, I arrived with a single bound in the middle of the court; but
I was at the end of my strength, and giving vent to a sharp cry, I fell,
deprived of all feeling, like a mortally wounded bird, at the feet of
poor Sister Rose.”
* * * * *
“My fainting fit lasted, they say, about two hours. I recovered
consciousness in the arms of Aunt Marie, who had heard my cry of
distress. My mother had returned. On her knees before her sister and
me, she bathed my forehead and temples and made me inhale something
which burnt my nostrils a little but which smelt very good. I burst into
tears and my first word, when I was able to speak, was to ask and re-ask
pardon; and when I had to stop for want of breath, it was only to cry
again, ‘Pardon! Pardon!’ for that which was to me an irredeemable fault.
“‘Pardon for what, my poor child?’ said my mother, when I had completely
recovered consciousness. ‘Is it because you went into the big room?’ But
Aunt Marie has already forgiven you. Do you not see how she kisses you?’
“The kiss, yes, that was the pardon of Aunt Marie, but it was not only of
that which she knew that I needed forgiveness. All was not yet known. I
felt that I must make a complete confession, and, in an account, broken
by tears and sobs, I told ‘this all’ to Aunt Marie and my mother. I told
them all that it had cost me for having lacked proper respect for the
dead.
“My confession was not only complete, it was public; the surgeon of the
hospital and five or six soldiers were around us.
“‘Ah!’ said one of the latter, addressing the doctor, ‘the child must
have seen the old Marshal who was not able to recover from yesterday’s
amputation.’
“When I had finished my tale, when by kind words they had established a
relative calm in my conscience, when they had told me many times that
the dead man could never again be angry, especially as I had asked his
pardon, when Aunt Marie had made me understand besides that although
one should respect and honor the dead one should not be afraid of them,
a young sergeant who was there, and whom I had teased oftener than the
others because he most frequently wore the piece of wood on his nose from
losing at ‘drogue,’ asked permission of my mother to kiss ‘that little
one.’
“When he had availed himself of the permission, which my mother willingly
gave him, he said to her, as he placed me on his knee, ‘Madame, when one
shows such courage as that at six years of age, there is little danger of
his becoming cowardly later on. That mite will some day be a giant.’
“Whether I have become a giant or not,” said the general, relighting his
cigar,—“I cannot say, but that which I do know is that in all my military
experience I have never striven harder to be brave than I did that day
when I was brought face to face with death for the first time.”
After listening to this story, we all of us realized that courage also
consists in overcoming fear.
The general was right. This history of a child was at bottom the history
of a man. It interested its hearers, and enabled each one of them to make
use of it as a lesson for himself. It was not at all a bad preparation
for the work of the following morning, which was likely to demand of each
of us a great deal more of perseverance, of resolution and presence of
mind, than of brilliancy and dash.
_Adapted from the French by Adele Bacon._
(“The Second Fear,” of the “Four Fears of Our General,” will be published
in the February issue.)
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BOUQUETS]
That we reserve for ourselves the compliment of the first _bouquet_ we
trust will not be regarded as an impropriety. The necessity of making
a formal bow on entering for the first time the presence of the great
Public is well recognized, and in the performance of this duty, which
holds for us a rare pleasure, a little well meant selfishness is perhaps
pardonable.
DIXIE is introduced to your notice as the result of the latest attempt to
establish a Southern magazine. Despite the precedents of failure that are
ours, we believe success to be possible for such a venture under existing
conditions. It is difficult to accept as truth what has been said so
often of the Southern people, that they are in general unappreciative of
good literature and good art. That we do not concur in the belief the
appearance of DIXIE is conclusive evidence. We confidently expect the
most liberal support from the cultivated class of every state of the
South, believing a periodical of this order—a native production having at
heart the interests of the Southern people—will meet with an eager and a
sincere welcome.
We have thought it best to make a modest beginning rather than to herald
our undertaking with a brilliant first number at the cost of strength
that might better be reserved for exigencies of the struggle yet to come.
We have chosen to build, and would have our success—if success await
us—be the result of growth. Having obtained the services of a number
of the well known writers and artists of the country, we are in the
position to promise a continual improvement both in the contents and the
appearance of the magazine.
It was found necessary to make the first number somewhat local in tone,
but this is only a passing condition. We have secured for future issues
contributions of more general interest.
With this brief introductory note, DIXIE is offered to your consideration.
* * * * *
The greatest praise is due Mr. Philip de Boilleau for his beautiful and
distinguished painting entitled “Hydrangias,” which we reproduce on the
opposite page. This picture,—an harmonious arrangement in soft grays,—was
painted in Milan during the past summer, and has only recently been
brought to Baltimore. We consider it one of Mr. Boilleau’s best works,
and pin this modest little _boutonniere_ on the lapel of his coat in
recognition of his resourceful and extremely personal talent.
[Illustration: “Hydrangias”
_Painted by Philip de Boilleau._]
* * * * *
The presence of the Boston Symphony organization in Baltimore this fall
was thoroughly enjoyed, but it would not have been financially possible
had not ten of our wealthy and very liberal citizens formed a guarantee
fund and contributed enough money to insure the entire success of the
venture. We have not yet seen any public commendation of this very public
spirited action, and therefore feel that it would not be amiss to assure
these gentlemen (whose names are withheld at their own request) that the
professional musicians as a class, and the real music-loving Baltimoreans
as well, are deeply appreciative and grateful for the signal liberality
they have shown and the example they have set for others to follow. Such
things should not be taken as a matter of course, or be passed over in
complete silence.
* * * * *
Mr. George N. Mackenzie’s suggestion, made public in the SUN of Dec.
13th, of placing tablets on houses that have sheltered famous persons
should commend itself to all those interested in historical work or the
improvement of the city. Southern towns are particularly rich in this
class of historic objects, as the result of a pronounced reverence for
old things and a reluctance to tear down and rebuild. However strongly
present methods of progress may demand the destruction of these ancient
piles, we cannot altogether condemn the unprogressiveness that leaves
them standing. They are a means of important instruction to the public;
and their presence in a town cannot but add to its attractiveness and
prosperity, if attention is properly directed to their existence. It
may safely be said that the solidarity of the English nation is in
great part maintained by the constant inspiration afforded by the
innumerable monuments, of all kinds, that cover English soil. They are
material evidence of past greatness. Is there a more powerful agent
than precedent? We step from the past to the present, and in proportion
to the firmness of the position of the rear foot we advance. Preserve
the monuments at any cost! The houses of great men are as sacred as
their graves; and it should be a shame to that city that negligently or
wilfully suffers them to be destroyed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE BOGIE MAN.]