But it is at the cathedral that the Revolution has left most plainly

visible to future generations the marks of its iconoclastic hammers

and chisels. To reach it from St. Michael's we must thread our way

across the town from the heights to the plateau overlooking the river,

where, in the heart of the ancient quarter known as "the Cité," stands

the grand old cathedral of St. Étienne. Its cornerstone was laid June

1, 1273, though two other churches and a Roman temple to Jupiter had

previously stood on the same site. Successive bishops have pushed it

toward completion, but it was only in 1847 that a complete restoration

of the edifice was begun. Monsigneur Duquesnay, the present bishop, has

raised a subscription of half a million of francs for that purpose.

The tower, one hundred and eighty-six feet high, when viewed from any

point in the environs looms up a conspicuous object in the picture.

Within, the church is remarkable for the boldness of its vaults and

arches and the elegance of its workmanship. Numerous works of the

Middle Ages and the Renaissance--among which are six bas-reliefs

representing the Labors of Hercules--adorn the walls. These classical

works the Revolutionists spared: it was only upon the ecclesiastical

sculptures that they sought to wreak their hate. In the chancel the

remains of three bishops--Raynard de la Porte (1325), Bernard Brun

(1349) and Jean de Langeac (1541) repose beneath stone mausoleums,

the last of which contains fourteen bas-reliefs of the Visions of the

Apocalypse. These mausoleums too are sadly defaced: the full-length

stone figures of the deceased prelates which lie recumbent on top of

their respective tombs are minus noses and hands.

But to the antiquarian the most interesting feature of the cathedral

is that portion of its foundation which formed a part of the Roman

basilica that stood on this site. It was transformed from a temple of

Jupiter to a Christian church by St. Martial, a contemporary of the

apostles, sent hither from Rome to preach the gospel to the Gentile

Lemovices. St. Martial is honored to this day as the patron saint

of Limoges. When he died some pious priests formed a brotherhood to

preserve his tomb, and at that tomb have since knelt Popes Urban II.

and Clement V., Edward of England, Blanche of Castile, Henry IV.,

Louis VII., XI. and XIII. of France, and many great lords and princes,

who, it must be remembered, had to journey hither in days when no

palace-coaches and lightning mail-trains were at their disposal.

Railroads have put a heavy discount on the ancient pilgrimage business.

In the tenth century a terrible plague, known as the _mal des ardents_,

swept off forty thousand Limousins in a few weeks. The survivors,

hopeless save of divine intervention, prayed that St. Martial's remains

might be brought from the tomb where they had been reposing for nearly

a thousand years and exposed to public view. All the relics of other

saints that could be collected in the neighborhood were brought into

Limoges, as if to form a cortége of honor to the remains of the patron

saint of Aquitaine. Upon a hill in the environs, now known as the Mont

de la Joie, the sacred fossils of the departed just were held up that

all might gaze upon them and be healed. By what particular process

the manifestation of these osseous fragments of defunct ecclesiastics

resulted in a banishment of the pestilence one finds it difficult to

explain, save on general principles of faith and Professor Tyndall's

prayer-test. Nevertheless, history records that the plague was stayed.

A chapel was erected upon the hilltop, which is now tunnelled by a

railroad, and from that day the public display of these saintly relics,

at intervals of every seven years, has become an established ceremonial

known as the Festival of the Ostension. It is celebrated on Thursday

of Mid-Lent by a procession conducted with great pomp and ceremony.

The flag of the brotherhood of St. Martial, an immense white banner

with a red cross, is first blessed by the bishop, after which, followed

by a numerous cortége, it is borne through the city to the sound of

music and an incessant fusillade of musketry. It is then hoisted to the

summit of the spire of St. Michael, which forms the repository of St.

Martial's remains.

The procession itself is a curious and motley spectacle. So great

is the emulation in the preparation of costumes that many families

are accustomed to buy the materials and begin the work two years in

advance. In the ranks are to be seen represented all the saints both of

the Old and New Testament, the seven Maccabei, and the entire Passion,

including our Saviour, the Virgin Mary and the apostles. Twenty-four

angels carry the instruments of the Passion. "We participated in

this festival in 1820," writes the late Abbé Tesier, "and can recall

the tears, and even indignation, of the multitude when the personage

representing Our Lord fell under the weight of an immense cross." On

the same occasion four thousand pupils of the College of St. Mary

marched in line, representing the prophets, martyrs, confessors and

virgins. After them came long lines of soldiers fantastically clad in

the military costumes of the Middle Ages, and equipped with crossbows,

matchlock arquebuses and all varieties of ancient weapons, which

had been handed down in families from generation to generation to

be used on these occasions. There were in line, too, all the rulers

and magistrates of the province, and scores of religious orders and

brotherhoods to which successive centuries of Romanism had given birth.

Chief among these latter are the Penitents, a curious fraternity which

merits more than a passing mention.

Though dating from the thirteenth century in France, it was not

until 1598 that the order made its appearance in Limoges. It gained

ground there so rapidly, however, that in 1789 but one other city,

Marseilles, contained a greater number of lodges. Each lodge, to obtain

its charter, had to bind itself to rebuild some ruined church, name

some special mission of good it was to accomplish and choose some

special color for its costume. Thus at Limoges we find Black, Blue,

Gray, White, Purple, Violet and Dead-Leaf Penitents, each charged with

some special benevolent function, such as settling disputes between

alienated members of one family, escorting the condemned to the

scaffold and holding the crucifix to their lips, relieving imprisoned

debtors, and so on. People of all ages and conditions flocked to their

ranks. A unanimous election was required to obtain admission. The order

grew so wealthy and powerful that at times it even dared to oppose the

authority of the Church itself. The annual procession on Holy Thursday

called out the entire population. It took place at nightfall, the

brethren marching disguised and barefoot through the streets, holding

lighted tapers and lanterns suspended from long poles, carrying a

cross covered with crape at their head, and chanting a dirge as they

went. But by and by trouble arose, and the Penitents found themselves

in hot water. In 1742 a malefactor whom they escorted to the scaffold

managed to escape, through the aid, it was believed, of the throng

of disguised Penitents about him. Henceforward their interference in

executions was forbidden. The Revolution dealt what was practically

a deathblow to the order, for, though revived in 1804, it provoked

ridicule as out of keeping with modern ideas. The Ostension procession

of 1862 saw the six surviving lodges parade together for the last time.

The events of 1870-71 finished the work of disorganization, and to-day

the costumes and ornaments of the Penitents Noirs--who, it seems, had

survived all the others--remain as curiosities in the possession of the

last treasurer of the lodge.

The stranger at Limoges is perforce an early riser. He is aroused

from his slumbers at daybreak by a furious reveille of drum and bugle

from the numerous barracks about the city, and from that time on

bugle-practice and drum-practice hold high revel, until the despairing

visitor is obliged, in sheer self-defence, to rise, dress and stroll

out to see where all the racket comes from. He will understand it when

he learns that of the seventy thousand people in the city about him,

ten thousand are soldiers. If he would gain some idea of the number and

extent of the _casernes_ in which this good-sized army is quartered--in

fact, if he would have a view of the whole city just awakening to its

daily life--let him stroll up through one or another of the steep

streets leading to the Place d'Orsay, a hilltop park crowned with

forest trees and overlooking all Limoges. There was once a Roman arena

on this spot, but its memory now lives only in the name of an adjacent

street. If the morning be clear the view from this point is superb.

Let the spectator turn where he may, he looks over densely-crowded

housetops toward a vast amphitheatre of surrounding hills dotted with

châteaux and farms, and enclosing the circular valley or basin in the

centre of which, upon a knoll, stands the city itself. About him the

busy hum of toil is already audible. Scores of tall chimneys puffing

out smoke and flames mark the numerous porcelain-factories scattered

here and there through the city's limits. Close at hand the tapering

spire of St. Michael's, and beyond it that of St. Pierre, stand out in

clear relief against the morning sky, while farther in the distance the

cathedral looms up grand and shapely among the morning shadows rising

from the river at its base.

By this time the shops are opened, everybody is stirring, and the

visitor may as well take a stroll over to the market-place. On his

way he will pass the Palais de Justice on the Place d'Aisne and the

military club-house on the Rue Darnay, both of them elegant structures;

he will traverse a quarter where the names on the signs and the noses

on the shopkeepers' faces give an emphatic answer, so far as Limoges

is concerned, to the time-honored query, "Where, oh where, are the

Hebrew children?" he will pass through the fashionable shopping-region,

where great dry-goods stores, dedicated "Au Louvre," "À la Ville de

Paris," etc., glare at him with their enormous plateglass panes and

a wealth of fabrics within; he will remark a surprising predominance

of pastry-shops and drug-stores, though it need not necessarily be

inferred that one is the complement of the other: in some streets

he will find the sidewalks wide and well laid, in others they are

rough and painful, tapering off to nothing alongside the base of some

projecting building. If he asks a question of the shopkeepers in the

doorways, they answer him pleasantly and politely; if he scan the

faces of passers-by, he finds them bright, hopeful and good-natured.

Groups of neatly-dressed, bareheaded working-girls go chatting by: men

in blouses and slouch hats, carrying tin dinner-pails, hurry past.

Vellum-faced old women crying vegetables in the shrillest of voices;

here and there a guard of soldiers following a forage-wagon piled high

with loaves of bread two feet long; milkmen's wagons, bakers' wagons,

and an occasional patient donkey toiling up-hill with a stout country

dame and a load of cabbages in the cart behind him; sedate housewives

hurrying homeward, followed by little _bonnes_ with laden baskets on

their arms,--all tell the observer that he is in the neighborhood of

the market.

What a babel of confusion it is, this motley gathering of fruit-and

vegetable-women, seated in long rows of improvised stalls along the

paved slope, enclosed on all sides by tall buildings, which forms the

market-place! They all wear red-and-yellow head-kerchiefs, and are

chattering away for dear life. It is a recognized principle in their

code to ask any price they think they can get for their wares, but

for all that living is not costly at Limoges. Good beef and mutton

sell at eighteen cents a pound, and articles of _charcuterie_, such as

ham, sausage, _pâtés_ and _galantine_, are sold in great quantities.

Vegetables of all kinds are plentiful and cheap, and in the season

there is an abundance of pears, apples, grapes and figs. In the

autumn, too, thousands of bushels of a giant species of chestnut are

gathered and sold or shipped to other markets. Mushrooms as large

round as a dinner-plate are sold by weight, and women and children

can be seen munching them as they would crusts of bread. Wine is poor

and high-priced, for the Limousin is not a vine-growing province, and

with the recent rise in price the poorer classes have to forego the

daily litre of _vin rouge_ which their compatriots in the neighboring

Charente still consider indispensable to their health and happiness.

Looking at these market-people about him, the observer can easily see

that they are not habitual wine-drinkers. They take a little cider, a

little beer, but wine only now and then. Simplicity and frugality of

diet, in fact, mark the habits of all the people, rich and poor, of

the province. A cup of coffee on rising, a plate of soup at nine, a

substantial meal at mid-day, and another plate of soup between six and

eight in the evening, make up the bill of fare for the day.

The hotels, however, keep up the Parisian hours for meals, and as

breakfast does not come until eleven o'clock, it would be well for our

visitor to devote his remaining morning hours to the famous Ceramic

Museum, which is not far from the Place d'Orsay, and which contains the

finest collection of faïence and porcelains in the world excepting that

at the Louvre. All the principal European countries are here found

represented by specimens of their wares, but the United States, alas!

is conspicuous by its absence, notwithstanding the fact that last year

a notice was generally published throughout the American press advising

our porcelain-makers that samples, if sent by them to the United States

consular agent at Limoges, would be exhibited in the museum side by

side with the rest. In connection with the establishment a free school

for drawing and porcelain-decoration has been inaugurated by the city,

and with such success that it numbers six hundred and fifty pupils of

both sexes and all ranks of society.

After his morning stroll our visitor to Limoges will doubtless

breakfast well. At either the Boule d'Or, the Richelieu or La Paix

he cannot fail to do so, provided he furnish the appetite. There are

other hotels, some of them rejoicing in such fanciful names as "The

Golden Chariot" or "The Silver Eagle," but the three first named are

those that the arriving stranger generally hears screamed in his

ears by the runners at the railway-dépôt. The prices at either of

them, varying from a dollar and a half to two dollars per day, seem

ridiculously cheap to an American, for the bill of fare embraces an

elaborate array of courses at the table-d'hôte, and wine is included.

Carriage-hire, too; is remarkably reasonable: for a five-franc piece

one can hire for the best part of the afternoon either a one-horse

coupé or a two-horse barouche with a liveried driver. Tell the coachman

to drive you out of town anywhere to get a good view of the city. He

will touch his hat, crack his whip, and away you go. He will probably

take you past the statue of Marshal Jourdan, the Cercle de l'Union--a

splendidly-appointed private club--and so down through the Cité to the

Boulevard Pont Neuf, leading to the bridge of the same name. The view

up and down the river as you cross is extremely picturesque, the banks

ascending in steep declivities on either side. Above is the ancient

bridge of St. Étienne, and below is the equally ancient bridge of St.

Martial, each, like the Pont Neuf, leading to its faubourg beyond

the river. Under the shade of the shapely poplars lining the placid

current hundreds of laundresses are to be seen kneeling in little

wooden boxes at the water's edge, each having before her a smooth flat

stone on which she scrubs, kneads and pounds somebody's family linen.

The roadway up through the faubourg is dirty and tedious: unkempt

children are playing in the street and ill-bred dogs run out to bark as

you pass. But beyond are the loveliest of rural scenes--long, shaded

road-ways where, through the closely-aligned trees, one looks down upon

the city and the river spread like a picture beneath: here and there,

standing back from the roadside and embowered in foliage, are ancestral

châteaux, seeming to care very little for the common world about them.

The farms are models of agricultural industry and neatness. Prosperity

and thrift are written in large letters all over the cultivated fields

and well-cared-for pastures that meet the eye at every turn. Men and

women are working together among the grain or in the hay-meadows. A

turn in the road brings us to Panazol, a little hamlet with not over

twenty houses, yet with a vine-clad toy of a church, and a little shed,

New England like, adjoining it, for the convenience of the farmers

who come here to mass on Sundays. Before the doors peasant-women sit

working at their looms, and bright-faced matrons sit knitting in the

windows. The village streets are grass-grown and still, and but for

an occasional old woman, with an immense broad-brimmed straw hat on

her head and a load of fagots on her back, our carriage might dash at

breakneck speed through Panazol without fear of injuring any one.

Within a radius of a few miles there are a dozen pleasant points

for afternoon drives--Rochechouart, with its historic château; St.

Yrieix, a bright and pretty town, with a church that has a history;

St. Léonard, with its famous church, an exact model of St. Sepulchre

at Jerusalem; the abbaye of Solignac, where St. Éloi worked as a

silversmith; and Aix, farther down on the Vienne, where you can

drive down for dinner, and then return home along the river-bank by

moonlight. Either one of these trips would prove interesting: your

gorgeous driver is very communicative, and tells you all about the

owners of this place and that, what their family pedigrees are, whom

they married, how much they are worth and how much they paid per

hectare for the property.

There is a fair theatre where one can hear _Le Petit Duc, Les Cloches_

or some other popular opera sung three times a week. One sees very

few elaborately-dressed ladies in the audiences, for the city, being

an industrial one and with a large majority of its population given

to their daily labor for support, is not much wedded to fashion: it

is practical rather than worldly. The constant round of dinners,

soirées, balls and receptions which characterizes French high life in

many and even smaller cities is lacking here. The wealthier people,

as a rule, are the porcelain-manufacturers, who live in a quiet,

substantial, sensible way, eschewing the follies and fatigues of

fashionable existence. Full half of the population depends, directly

or indirectly, on the porcelain industry for its support. It was only

a hundred and thirty years ago that this industry had its birth. For

centuries before that, it is true, Limoges had been famous through all

Europe for its enamels. Bernard Palissy was a citizen of Limoges, and

Léonard Limousin was appointed "enamel-painter in ordinary" to King

Francis I. It is possible that this art was brought here from Italy by

some Venetian merchants, who in 977 built up a portion of what is now

the Faubourg St. Martial and established an extensive trade in fabrics

and spices with the Levant. But it was not until 1765 that Doctor

Darnay, a surgeon of Limoges, discovered near the neighboring village

of St. Yrieix the inexhaustible quarries of kaolin which were destined

to become a source of wealth and employment for all the surrounding

population. Like most discoverers, he failed to realize any substantial

benefits. A Bordeaux druggist, one De Villaret, managed to secure a

patent in advance of him, and poor Darnay, defeated in a suit for

damages, had to content himself with the posthumous honor of having

a street named after him in the city which has most profited by his

discovery.

In 1772 the first porcelain-factory was established at Limoges by

Messrs. Massier, Fourneyra & Grellet _frères_, under the protection

of the wise and liberal intendant Turgot. It is the decoration of the

porcelain that gives it its value as well as its charm. Its manufacture

is comparatively easy and simple. The kaolin, a dry, whitish-yellow

clay, is first taken in lumps from the quarry and carried to one or

another of the numerous mills lining the Vienne, where it is ground

fine and reduced to a liquid paste closely resembling bread-dough. In

this shape it is carried in sacks to the factory, where, having been

again worked over to secure fineness and pliability, it is ready for

the moulder's or the turner's hands. Nothing can exceed the deftness

and skill with which, under the magic touch of the experienced workman,

shapeless lumps of this prepared clay are fashioned into cups, dishes,

vases and every conceivable form of the most delicate pottery. It is

so quickly done, too! One handy operative can make two hundred cups

a day. Once moulded into shape, the piece of pottery is dipped into

liquid enamel which gives it hardness and brilliancy. It receives too

the stamp of the manufacturer. It is then placed in what is called a

_gazette_ to be put into the oven to bake. The gazette is composed of

a pair of deep earthen saucers fitting tightly together and forming

a circular box, varying in dimensions according to the sizes of the

objects to be baked. The greater part of those in use are little

larger than an ordinary soup-plate. In this gazette the piece of

porcelain is hermetically sealed up, and then it goes into the oven

with thousands of other gazettes, until the great circular furnace,

twenty feet in diameter and two stories high, is packed full from side

to side and from bottom to top. Then the doors are closed, the fires

are lit, and for a period varying from thirty-four to fifty hours the

baking process goes on at a temperature of thirty-two hundred degrees

Fahrenheit. Even after the fires are extinguished the heat in the

furnace continues intense, and twelve hours more must elapse before

it subsides sufficiently to permit the workmen to enter, remove and

open the gazettes, take out the porcelains, which are now hard and

brilliant, and send them to the artists for decoration. There are in

all some seventy of these ovens in Limoges, with an average capacity of

six thousand pieces. As most of them are kept going night and day, the

reader can form some idea of the amount daily manufactured.

But thus far we have only followed the process through its homelier

stages. The decorative work, yet to come, is the most delicate as it

is the most interesting. But not every piece of porcelain that comes

out of the oven reaches the decorator's hands. Of every hundred pieces

baked, an average of twenty-five are thrown out as inferior, and the

remaining seventy-five are divided or sorted out into four grades,

known as second choice, choice, élite and special, in the average

proportion of thirty, twenty-five, fifteen and five to each class

respectively. The special is employed only for very rich decorations;

élite is recommended for best selection; the choice is for ordinary

usage; and the second choice is of such fair quality as to be

pronounced less imperfect than the best porcelain sent from China and

Japan, and specially recommended as the most economical pottery. The

price of decoration varies according to the selection of porcelain to

which it is applied. Thus, for instance, the lower grades of artists

are employed upon the second-choice porcelain, while the best painters

and decorators work upon the élite: the special is only given to

artists of the most exceptional merit. The various artists, painters

and decorators, are paid salaries which, according to the French

standard, are considered munificent, though they sound small enough

to American ears. Much of the decorating, such as flowers, birds,

vines, etc., is done by laying the paper designs upon the porcelain

and painting over them. The gilding is more laborious, and enormous

quantities of pure gold-leaf are used. The gold, once laid on, can

only become permanently part and parcel of the porcelain by being

subjected to an additional six hours' baking at a temperature of eight

hundred degrees Réaumur.

Not less important is the decoration of faïence-ware, which varies

infinitely according to the desired effect. Haviland & Co., who may

be taken as a standard, classify their faïences into six groups--viz.

cream faïences, which are thus named from their color, and which are

decorated with paintings under the enamel or with translucid enamels;

enamelled paintings, possessing all the tone, richness and variety of

oil-paintings; grand-fire fresco paintings, or exact representations

of wall frescoes, and especially adapted for panels or architectural

ornaments; gilt enamels, reproducing Chinese lac-paintings or vases of

precious stones; Limoges enamels, very similar to the ancient enamels

of Léonard Limousin; and sculptured faïences, painted either under the

enamel or in grand-fire frescoes: the figures alone are never painted

in these latter. Each piece of sculptured faïence is the model itself,

signed by the artist: not one of them is ever reproduced by moulding.

In the museum connected with the Haviland works are to be seen some

remarkably fine specimens of their faïence-wares. The Havilands,

themselves Americans, who by their enterprise and integrity reflect

credit upon their country, have done much to popularize the love for

ceramics in the New World, and the head of the house, Mr. Charles

Haviland, was worthily decorated with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor

at the close of the Paris Exposition. The firm has recently completed

the manufacture of an elaborate dinner-service for the White House at

Washington, based upon designs by a well-known American artist. Long

may that service grace the board of the first magistrate of our nation

as a souvenir and symbol of the two great republics of the world--as a

substantial evidence of what French resources, combined with American

industry, have produced from the rough and shapeless clods of clay

which so many preceding centuries have passed by unnoticed!

GEORGE L. CATLIN.

THREE ROSES.

"Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose,

A deep-tinted red rose?" said she.

"In the sunny garden-closes

How they burn, the dark-red roses!

How they lift their glowing cups to me!

"Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose,

A dewy, dainty blush rose?" said she.

"At its heart a flush so tender,

With a veiled and softened splendor,

How it droops its languid head toward me!

"Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose,

A fair and shining white rose?" said she.

"With its pale cheek tinted faintly,

Like a vestal pure and saintly,

Lo! it lights its silver lamp for me."

JULIA C.R. DORR.

THE PRACTICAL HISTORY OF A PLAY.

"THE play, the play's the thing!"--not whereby, as moody Hamlet hath

it, to catch the conscience of the king, but as a possible means

of emancipation from the galling and unprofitable conditions of a

literary career. A book which embodies months of research, the refined

outcome of scholarly labor and reflective observation, may secure a

definite and honorable place for its author, but it is not likely to

yield as much in a pecuniary way as the salary of a good clerk. Even

a successful novel which strikes the popular fancy and circulates

through many editions is only a matter of a few hundred dollars. We

look over the whole field of bookmaking and periodical-writing without

discovering one practitioner of average ability, any man with every

requisite but genius itself, who, though diligent and adaptative to

circumstances, can find in the general work of his profession the

income of an average doctor or lawyer. There is a veteran whom we are

reminded of, each of whose books has had a sale of more than five

thousand copies, while some of them have exceeded fifty thousand--which

is nearly forty-nine times more than many volumes reach--and we know

that he, with this exceptional success and by the industry of a

lifetime, has not accumulated the smallest fortune, though he has been

fertile and has lived within five thousand dollars a year. The ground

is overcrowded, the struggle for place is exhausting, and the man

who is wholly dependent on his profession for bread and butter finds

himself elbowed and pushed against, not only by competitors of his own

class, but also by many to whom literature is a recreation, a source of

distinction, or collateral to some other business, and not the obdurate

necessity it is to him.

The literary gift is too often a faculty which exists by itself, and

is not conjoined with versatility. Weary though he may be, the author

has no alternative, and must drag along in his profession, feeling

that he were better out of it, and yet that he is useless for anything

else. His future is held in the Acherontic depths of his ink-pot, and

all he is capable of winning is in solution there. He thinks of the

theatre in his despair, and may find comfort in the reflection that

one substantially-successful play brings its author more money than a

poet or historian receives for all the masterpieces of his life. Harry

Esmond mentions with pride somewhere in his history that a play of his

writing had the honor of being represented two or three times; and in

the colonel's day dramatic literature was scarcely more profitable

than other kinds of writing. Now, however, a new play, produced at a

metropolitan theatre with the elaborate mounting and excellent acting

that are customary, is considered a positive failure if it is withdrawn

at the end of a month, and it is not unusual to see two or three pieces

filling the whole season. The metropolitan successes are also wanted by

managers in other cities; and from one manuscript, about one-third the

length of an ordinary novelette, the author may derive twenty thousand

dollars or more in two or three years.

The play holds out the one possibility of a fortune which literature

without transcendent genius offers, and though the chances of winning

are known to be few, the prize is so splendid that it is tried for

by men of every intellectual calibre. The poet, the essayist, the

novelist, the newspaper editor, the newspaper critic and the newspaper

reporter, the scholar and the airy _raconteur_, have all written

something for the theatre, and visions of the auditorium filled

with a well-dressed, perfumed, smiling throng, of the lights, the

applause and the excitement, have given speed to their pens. Beyond

its profitableness the drama has another and powerful fascination for

its author. Presupposing that it is competently acted and mounted with

the exquisite taste and completeness of detail that we see at such

theatres as the Union Square in New York, the manuscript is touched as

by a magician's wand and from a collocation of words becomes a living,

visible world, and a beatific, almost deifying, consciousness of

creation fills the author as he contemplates the embodied offspring of

his brain.

The poet, the essayist and the others have written their plays,

inspired and accelerated by dreams of a sweeter success than they have

known before, and if the reader should ask what has become of them we

might answer by begging him to consult the theatrical records and find

out how many new plays by American authors have been produced during

the past ten years. The end, if not the history, of nearly all of them

is the same. They have been received by the managers with a degree of

attention measured and varied according to the positions and influences

of the persons submitting them. Some of the authors have written to

theatres praying for a hearing, and have waited in vain for an answer;

others have succeeded in getting their manuscripts into some manager's

hands, and have been promised a decision which has been put off from

month to month, until at the end of a year or so they have been glad to

recover their work, though it has not been read; a few have had their

plays accepted, and are only sanguine at the beginning of each season

to become disheartened before its close as this or that success of

London or Paris has occupied the theatre and deferred the production of

their own work, which is effectually entombed in an office-safe: these

live on wearily, ever in sight of a desired object to which they never

come nearer; and, finally, there are a limited number who, impatient of

the delays or rejected at houses where alone production would be worth

while, have withdrawn their plays and given them to secondary managers

or "stars"--a course fatal to both pecuniary and artistic success.

After many vicissitudes all the manuscripts usually come home to their

parents, who do not repeat their experiments, but, looking back on

their dead ambition, shake their heads with an air of great sagacity

when play-writing is mentioned and point ominously to a pile of leaves

in some corner of their desks. Years ago, when we told a literary

veteran who had written tragedies and other trifles for the Bowery

in its palmy days that we were engaged upon a drama of our own, he

vehemently protested against the folly. "Don't do it!" he cried. "They

will tear your heart out," referring to the managers, who certainly

deserve small credit for the way they treat the literary men who submit

work to them. Nevertheless, in all the leading theatres there is in

some part of the building an office, usually undiscoverable by the

uninitiated, where plays are actually read and sometimes accepted.

It is a small apartment guarded by an attendant, who instinctively

knows to whom the manager is "at home" and to whom he is not--who

has a welcoming smile for the critic of the big newspaper and an

impatient shrug of disparagement for the author who calls for the

twentieth time to see if his play has been read. There is a bunch

of programmes hanging from a nail in the wall, and there are proofs

of lithographic window-sheets and posters strewn upon the desks and

chairs. The newspapers are filed, and copies of the latest editions

are so profuse that the effect is more journalistic than theatrical.

But the conversation is assiduously "professional," and there is a

somewhat unusual familiarity of address among the persons present,

who call one another by their Christian names. Sometimes an actor or

actress attached to the theatre looks in, or a playwright who is in

favor, or a provincial manager, or a fashionable "man about town" who

in some occult way has obtained the _entrée_ of the managerial sanctum.

It strikes one that for an overburdened business-man the manager is

very affable and patient. This is only during his moments of leisure,

however, and when a play has to be discussed, the characters to be

"cast" or engagements to be made none but members of the staff are

admitted.

Not more than a dozen original plays by Americans have been produced

at the three principal theatres of New York during the last six years.

The most notable of these have been _Pique_, by Mr. Angustin Daly, who

was his own manager; _The Banker's Daughter_, by Mr. Bronson Howard

in collaboration with Mr. A. R. Cazauran, the former an experienced

playwright, and the latter assistant manager of the theatre at

which it was produced; _The False Friend_, by Mr. Edgar Fawcett, an

established literary man; and _Conscience_, in collaboration, by Mr.

A.E. Lancaster, a critic of distinction. It is worth observation that

in each instance the author was in some measure intimate with the

theatre and possessed some knowledge of stage-effect, the requirements

and exigences of the companies for which he was writing. Literary

ability alone will not make an acting play, even when it is wedded to

the constructive faculty and dramatic instinct; and we often see a

novelist whose characters are forcibly contrasted and whose climaxes

are thrilling failing in stage-work, because he makes the fatal mistake

of supposing that it can be done by the same methods as his stories.

In a novel the author may be explanatory and analytical, telling how,

why and wherefore, while in the play he must be concise, suggestive and

synthetical, making his characters define themselves by emotion and

action rather than by words.

What we have said, perhaps, shows how many things a candidate for

dramatic honors requires to succeed. He must have literary ability

of course, and not only must he have a nervous style, but he must be

able to invent a plot of sustained interest and strong situations, and

possess the faculty of prevising the effect what he is writing will

have when seen by an audience under very different circumstances and in

very different surroundings from those of his study.

But neither the difficulties nor the limitations of the market frighten

away the aspirants. One theatre receives more than two hundred

manuscripts a year, some from persons of education and literary

training, from whom acceptable work might come, but many of them from

men and women who are wholly disqualified for any sort of literature by

the completeness of their ignorance. Border dramas, with five or six

scenes to an act, are submitted to establishments where only elegant

comedies and emotional dramas are produced, each with one scene to the

act; high-flown tragedies in blank verse come begging at the doors of

the theatre where airy musical pieces are a staple; and plays with all

parts subordinated to that of a "star" are sent in to houses which

depend on their stock companies and the carefully-balanced distribution

of characters. It is not alone orthography and syntax that many of the

people who write plays are deficient in: they lack the simple common

sense which directs the man with chickens for sale to the poulterer

and the farmer with potatoes to the grocer's. Perhaps this is why

the manager makes a wry face when a new play by an unknown hand is

mentioned to him. Such a mass of impracticable stuff is submitted to

him that he loses heart and faith in turning it over. But generally it

is turned over, and if among all the chaff one grain of wheat is found

there is rejoicing, and the author finds himself elect.

The reader is usually a member of the executive staff of the theatre,

who selects from all the manuscripts sent in those that are at all

feasible, which are then read by the manager or assistant manager,

and either rejected or held for future consideration. A few strong

situations, a novel character or a brilliant piece of dialogue, though

set in unequal surroundings, will often delay the final judgment, for

the manager is as apprehensive of throwing away a good thing as of

accepting a poor one, and if he sees a gleam of power he is reluctant

to decide upon it without cogitation. He mentally revolves the question

to see it from every point, and wonders if after some "fixing up"

the play might not prosper. Should it prosper, it would be much more

profitable to him than to the author: should it fail, it would involve

a loss of several thousand dollars and injure the reputation of his

theatre. While he is debating the matter, which is a serious one to

him, a piece may be filling his house and he may have already selected

the play to follow it. He looks over the new work at his leisure, and

invites the criticism of his principal assistants; he considers its

feasibility in reference to the peculiarities of his company, and if

there are parts which his actors cannot fill he inquires whether others

are disengaged who could fill them; he considers it in reference to the

scenic capacity of his house, and the very size of his auditorium has

some influence upon him, for what tells on a small stage often fails

on a larger one. He is cautious, and dismisses the subject for a few

weeks, perhaps to think it over again at odd moments--at his club, over

his dinner, in his _coupé_ or at his office. Meanwhile the play is

lying on his desk or in the safe, and an outraged author is consuming

himself with disappointment and bitterness, demanding an answer from

day to day and being put off so often that at last he insults the

manager and reclaims his manuscript.

But, supposing that the author is patient and lets the matter take

its necessarily tedious course, and that finally the manager accepts

the play and signs a contract for its production, it may still be

months or years before an opening can be found for it. At some time or

other a date is fixed for it, however; it is underlined in the bills

and mentioned to the critics, and the practical work of building up

the acting drama from the manuscript is now begun. One of the staff

revises the stage-directions and marks the exits and entrances of the

characters, having a diagram of the stage with its various doors before

him; and when he is finished all the "business," on the technical

completeness of which the author, especially if he is callow, has

probably flattered himself, is cut out. The phrases which are prolix or

redundant are dropped, and a character may be swept out of existence

by the stroke of a pencil or a new one added, a comedy-scene written

in to relieve the gloom of some serious business, or an element of

pathos introduced where the shadows are not deep enough. It is a

fearful ordeal for the author, but the prospect of having the curtain

lifted upon his work buoys him through it, and he discreetly keeps

his temper, though unconvinced that all the changes are for the

better. We are speaking of a tyro. When the playwright is a veteran

his stage-directions are likely to be valuable, though few plays reach

the public unaltered; and in some instances the suggestions of an

inexperienced man are serviceable.

The revised manuscript is then given to the copyist, a subordinate

actor usually, who replicates it, and alternates each page of writing

with a blank leaf, for a purpose to be explained anon. The cast is

meanwhile exercising the brains of the manager. Which member of his

company will best suit this part? and which that? As in the choice of a

piece, the soundness of his judgment is put to a severe test, and that

verisimilitude and identity between the actor and his impersonation

wherein art has its fulfilment are only attained by a critical

perspicuity which places him on a much higher plane than the mere

commercial purveyor of amusements. His opinion of the most effective

distribution of parts will probably not be shared by the actors

themselves if each member of the company has not a great opportunity

allotted to him; which of course is impossible. The vanity of human

nature is inordinately developed in the bosom of the player, who loves

to linger on the stage and to be central and preponderant. A popular

leading-man is not easily replaced, and when he feels that he is more

or less indispensable he is apt to be as arrogant as he is vain, and

begrudge his associates the attention or applause of the audience for

a moment. Even the withdrawal of a minor person is felt in a company

whose members have been drilled together for some months and whose

abilities are harmoniously balanced. But the manager is firm and at

the same time conciliatory: he is like a patient father with wayward

children, whom he controls by mild arts when despotic commands would be

ignored or combated.

The cast being decided upon, two more gentlemen are introduced into

the managerial council: one is the scene-painter and the other the

"property-man." "I want for the first act," says the manager to the

painter, "a scene in the diamond-fields of South Africa; for the

second, the exterior of an Elizabethan house; for the third, a handsome

library; and for the fourth, a conservatory. The diamond-fields must be

shown as at evening, the house and the library must be characteristic

of the home of an old and prosperous family, and the conservatory

must be as fine a 'set' as you can paint." After listening to these

instructions the painter submits a number of plates from which he

thinks he may gather a definite idea of the exact requirements

of the play: a picture from the _Illustrated London News_ or the

_Graphic_ may give a suggestion of what is wanted for the scene at

the diamond-fields; the illustrations of a work on the baronial homes

of England may include such a library and exterior as would suit; and

perhaps for the conservatory he submits a hasty water-color drawing of

his own or a design from some book on architecture. "That's the thing,"

says the manager, pointing to selections from these, and he picks out

the plates which fit his idea of what the scenes should be; and the

artist gives him an estimate of the cost of production, specifying the

quantities of lumber, canvas and paint that will be required to build

up a diamond-gully, the Elizabethan mansion and the conservatory.

Perhaps the estimate is too large, and is reduced, but the management

is apt to be over-generous rather than stinting, and more probably the

artist is instructed to prepare his models with few limitations as to

cost.

Now the property-man is consulted. The rocks that will lie about the

stage in the diamond-field scene, the cataract in the background, the

implements of the miners, the tents and the wagons, the furniture in

the library scene and all the appurtenances of the conservatory, are

to be made or procured by him and disposed of on the stage before

the performance begins. The rocks are to be of papier-mâché, and the

cataract is to be simulated by a revolving drum of tinsel or glass

beads with a strong light upon it. It is his business to construct them

and the artist's to paint them. Every article used on the stage is in

the property-man's charge. The crowns of kings, the cross of Richelieu,

the whip of Tony Lumpkin, the bleached forehead of Yorick, the bell

which the victorious hero strikes before having the discomfited villain

shown to the door, and the fat purse with its crackling bank-notes

and jingling coin which the honest but virtuous clerk refuses in the

face of temptation,--all belong to the property-man's department. The

demands on his ingenuity and research take him into every kind of

shop in every quarter of the city. He has dealings with ironmongers,

milliners, upholsterers and merchants of curios. The magnificent and

costly suite of carved oak in the library--scene, which is not veneer

but substantial furniture, and the most trivial objects--a handbag or

a hat-rack, perhaps a baby for some "side-splitting" farce, whatever

the play calls for--he must secure and put, night after night, in

the exact place which the stage-directions have prescribed. Each new

play requires, of course, some new articles, and the accumulated

stock is uniquely various from which the accoutrements of princes and

potentates, beggars and nobles, soldiers and lackeys, priests and

highwaymen, the riotously anachronistic material of a fancy-dress ball,

may be gathered.

The scene-painter is provided at the preliminary consultation with a

"scene-plot," wherein the exits and entrances, the doors, windows and

other openings necessary in the action of the play, are specified:

at the same time a "property-plot" is handed to the property-man,

enumerating the articles involved in the action; and we cannot better

illustrate the diversified character which the latter sometimes have

than by quoting from the plot of _French Flats_, which was produced in

New York last season. In the first act the property-man is required to

provide a double step-ladder, a long low trunk, a lady's hatbox with

a hat in it, a cane and an umbrella, a very large basket filled with

china and crockery, a Saratoga trunk, a bundle of clothes tied up in

a sheet, upholsterers' tools, a roll of carpet and "the portrait of a

female with a hole through the eye." For the same act he also has to

provide "a crash of wood and a noise outside," a very large bouquet

for Mariette, two vials for Vallay, a law-book for Bonnay, a comb and

curling-iron for Martin, a switch of hair and a box of pills. Among

the properties required in the second act are two pianos, objects of

_virtù_, a broom for the Baroness, tongs and a tray for Vallay, a photo

album, two small combs for Riffardini the tenor, a feather-duster,

French bank-notes and two Catalan knives for the Marquis. The third

act requires large blue spectacles for Pluchard, a paper cap for

the painter, paint-brushes and paint-can, a newspaper for Billardo,

"crockery to break," plenty of writing-materials and money for

Billardo; while the fourth act, the scene of which is the parlor of the

tenor, requires bric-à-brac, a hand-glass on the table, musical parts,

newspapers, a tuning-fork, a wig and beard, a whip for the Marquis,

and several wreaths of laurel. As we have said, each article has an

appointed place in which it must be put by the property-man, and we all

know the embarrassing consequences of any negligence of his, as when

the leading actor sits at a table to sign away his birthright and can

find neither the pen nor the ink which the property-plot calls for.

One other person has to be considered in mounting the play, and

that is the machinist, who builds up the framework of the scene and

constructs the mechanical appurtenances, such as the flight of steps

down the rocks in the diamond-gully, the galleries in the library, the

balustrade in the conservatory, and all the doors and windows. The

artist, the property-man, and the machinist are together the architects

of the drama, and when they have been fully instructed--when the artist

has his plot, the property-man his, and the machinist his, which is the

same as that of the painter, and when the painter's models have been

approved by the manager--the actors are called to hear the play read.

A word in parenthesis is necessary here as to what the scene-painter's

models are, for the term is misleading. He has a small stage, upon

which he paints and sets each scene exactly as it is to appear on the

larger one, except that it is on the reduced scale of half an inch or

less to the foot of actual space; and the miniature, which is called

a model, serves to guide him in his work and to give the manager a

preliminary glimpse of what the finished scene will be.

Somewhere against the wall in that mysterious precinct which in other

days attracted the wits and gallants of the hour, who met and exchanged

familiarities with the players that were not always sweet, and which in

this better epoch is reserved for the use of the persons for whom it is

intended,--somewhere in the "green-room," where the actors gossip, or

put the finishing touch to the rouge and pencillings on their faces,

or adjust their costumes, or rehearse their parts while waiting to

be summoned before the audience, there hangs a board or a glass case

in which the official notices of the management are exhibited; and

one day a written slip is pinned or pasted in it which contains these

words: "Company called for _A Lame Excuse_ at 10 A.M. Monday," _A Lame

Excuse_ being the supposititious name of the new play. There have been

rumors of "something underlined" among the actors already, and when

the call is made the nature of the work, who of the company will be

required in it, what parts there are, and the probabilities of success,

are discussed with much volubility. Should the author be a beginner

whose connections with the stage have hitherto been impersonal, and

who yet has had that desire to affiliate with its practitioners which

belongs to adolescence and inexperience, he now has an opportunity to

acquaint himself with as many as he will care about knowing. _One_

introduction puts him on affable terms with a crowd of "professionals"

connected and unconnected with the theatre at which his play is to

be produced, and before long he is _en camarade_ with various little

cliques that gather around the small tables of bier-saloons, cafés and

club-houses after theatre hours. Between the first call and the reading

particularly he is sought and questioned as to the characteristics

of his play. The leading lady, who is pretty and cultivated, sends

him an invitation to call upon her, and receives him with flattering

attentions when he appears. The leading man invites him to a nice

little dinner. He has cocktails with the low comedian, lunch with the

"eccentric comedy lead" and oysters (late at night perhaps) with the

soubrette. His unprofessional acquaintances should also be mentioned,

for they take many pains to be remembered. Young Potter, who is athirst

for notoriety, and who, with maledictions in his contemptible little

heart and fulsome compliments at his tongue's end, will cringe before

any man who happens to have the public by the ear, trusts that our

author is not offended by anything he has written in the obscure little

paper with which he is connected. Bludgeon, who is such a hypocrite

that his unusually large nose is like a partition-wall between the

smiles that he shows and the scowls that he conceals, slaps the author

on the back and with effusive goodwill congratulates him, and declares

that nobody could be worthier of success, though in reality Bludgeon

detests him, believes the management is going to the dogs, and is

already endeavoring to invent biting phrases for his criticism. The

potentialities of the new playwright bring him innumerable offers of

services and pledges of cordiality. If he is not wise the promise of

success will intoxicate him by its fumes before the cup that contains

the fruition reaches his lips, and it may be well for him if he is not

over-confident, for the draught may prove bitter enough.

On the morning appointed the company assemble in the green-room,

sauntering in with unbusiness-like irregularity and addressing one

another with that familiarity of which we have before spoken. There

is a good deal of banter and some scolding. The author grasps each

member of the company by the hand as they enter: he is pleading and

ingratiating in his manner, and after some delay he sits at a small

table and begins to read his manuscript, or if he is too nervous the

manager or the assistant manager reads it, and he scans the faces of

the actors with a touching desire to find some responsive thrill

as his best points are reached and passed. A faint smile of the low

comedian as a grotesque line is read, a murmur of the leading lady at

some climacteric phrase of the heroine's, or an ejaculated measure of

applause from the leading man over some strong emotion in the principal

part, yields gladness to him--he foresees how much stronger they will

be spoken in character with dramatic enunciation--and as the lines

which he has thought effective fall unnoticed a gloomy apprehension

possesses him. At the end of the reading there is an interchange of

civilities, a private chat between the manager and the author, and the

little green-room, which has the mildewed appearance of a lodging-house

parlor from which the sun is shut out like a conspirator, is left to

the ghosts that float in the empty spaces of a theatre during the

daytime.

Soon afterward the cast is announced, and then the unreasonable desire

to be central and preponderant, to fill the play with himself, that

affects the best of actors as well as the poorest, leads to a turmoil

which is only quieted by the diplomacy which is indispensable in

holding together the jealous elements of a stock company, wherein

pre-eminence in individual branches must be subordinate to the

maintenance of a general excellence. At the same time that the cast

is announced each actor is provided with his part and the cues which

precede each of his speeches, copied from the manuscript. The first

rehearsal is "with parts"--that is to say, the company are allowed to

read the lines from the copies given to them--and while this is in

progress the manager has the complete play with the alternate blank

pages before him, upon which he writes whatever alterations seem

desirable; and already, though none of the accessories are used, the

preliminary exercise, so to speak, shows that some speeches which

have seemed striking in the reading do not "go" well when spoken by

the actor. This rehearsal "with parts" is amusingly incongruous to

the spectator. The leading actor reads in an ordinary conversational

tone, "My heart is filled with a hatred which checks my utterance, and

though you see me now penniless, trodden upon and in these rags, Fate

may have in store for me that which will make you humble before me;"

while, instead of being at all impoverished or threadbare the leading

actor is dressed in a fashionable walking-suit and has every appearance

of prosperity. Again, the leading lady sits with complete indifference

in a chair and swings her parasol and chats with her neighbor while

one of the gentlemen opposite to her reads a declaration of love in a

sing-song voice from a roll of paper in his hand. Another member of the

company has the lines, "Here for centuries the Mordaunts have lived

the simple and honorable lives of English country gentlemen; here they

have been born; here they have died; and among them all not one of

them has ever done aught mean or base. Here, in this grand old hall,

a reputation has been built which the proudest of nobles might envy;"

and should the spectator, following the wave of the actor's hand, look

for the hall to which the speech refers, he would only discover the

stage before him, with no scene set upon it, with the wings and the

"flats" stacked up at the rear, the company gathered in the centre, and

a few gas-jets paled by the rays of daylight issuing from a yellowish

window. The heroine at another point, wandering, as the lines suppose,

about the ample gardens of the Elizabethan house at twilight, bids her

lover come and hear the soft echoes of the cuckoo, but it is only the

knocking of the machinist's hammer and the voices of the property-man

and the scene-painter, who are working in the "flies" high above the

proscenium, that are audible, and not the whistle of a bird. The

incongruity which amuses the stranger to the theatrical arcana is

unnoticed by the actors, whose profession is made up of anomalies.

When a play has been actually rehearsed and all the arrangements have

been made for painting the scenery and procuring the properties for

it, the manager is not likely to abandon it: his self-interest commits

him to it, and the author may usually feel assured that at last his

work will be seen by the public. But so difficult is it to judge from

the reading of the manuscript what the effect will be when the lines

are distributed and spoken by many different voices that more than

once an experienced manager has found to his cost, at a second or

third rehearsal, that some play which has gone thus far in preparation

will not do. The author is very much to be pitied in such a case: the

disappointment is not an ordinary one. The first rehearsal of _A Lame

Excuse_ confirms the manager's favorable opinion of it, however, and a

few days later another is called "without parts;" that is, the actors

are expected to have learned what they have to say. The rehearsals are

then continued from time to time, and at each something is added in

gesture, tone or movement which strengthens the representation. The

toil, perseverance and discipline which are entailed cannot be imagined

by one who has not traced the progress of a new play at such a theatre

as the Union Square. Whenever it seems that the most has not been made

of a line or a situation it is repeated again and again. The "business"

is gradually improved, and the author sees the company working with

greater fluency at each of the twenty or more rehearsals which are

given. Somewhere about the eighteenth rehearsal a demand is made upon

the artist, and he promises to have the scenery ready in a few days.

The date of production is now announced: the actors don their costumes,

and the manager becomes nervous and excitable. On the first night a

brilliant crowd fills the theatre to the doors. There is a murmur of

interest and curiosity. The curtain is lifted, and, seated in a small

box invisible from the auditorium, but overlooking the whole stage,

are the manager and the author, both of whom are overwrought with

excitement. A member of the staff is seated in the orchestra, where

he can survey the house and observe how the audience is affected. At

the end of the first act this useful person announces a success to the

manager, who has already been reassured by the applause. Through the

second act the applause is louder, and when the third act is ended

there is a spontaneous call for the author, who, flushed and happy,

steps before the footlights. And here we will leave him, trusting that

this night relieves him of some literary drudgery, and that Bludgeon

and Potter and better critics will treat him kindly and fairly.

WILLIAM H. RIDEING.

HOW SHE KEPT HER VOW: A NARRATIVE OF FACTS.

It was a long and arduous journey that lay before her: unknown

difficulties and adventures were to be encountered, but urgent family

considerations forced Helen Gerard to leave her home in the South, and

her brother who was engaged in the service of the Confederacy, and, to

make her way through the enemy's lines to New York. She left Mobile on

the evening-train for Meridian, Mississippi, after taking an affecting

farewell of her brother, whom she never spoke to again. As they stood

on the platform of the railway-station, waiting for the hour of

departure, she vowed at his earnest solicitation, and out of the depth

of her affection, that never, under any possible circumstances, would

she be induced to take the oath of allegiance to the Federal government.

It was three o'clock in the morning when the train reached Meridian,

and Miss Gerard was guided by the feeble light of a smoky lantern to a

dilapidated inn miscalled an hotel. She was shown to an apartment the

darkness of which was scarcely relieved by a smouldering pine-brand

in the fireplace, a mere flickering, expiring glimmer. Forlorn and

exhausted, Helen hastily threw off part of her clothing and crept into

a spacious bed; which she had scarcely done when the room was left in

total darkness. The boisterous breakfast-bell awoke her in the gray of

an October morning, and at the same time aroused her to the horrified

consciousness that she had a bedfellow. Be it said, to the credit of

the house, that it was a woman, as Helen was immediately assured by the

voice of the stranger inquiring whether Miss Gerard was to leave on an

early train. Hastily catching her breath, Helen replied, "Yes."

"Then you cannot make your toilet and take your breakfast too quickly,"

said the woman.

Springing to her feet and hastily adjusting the rich masses of curls

that rippled over her shoulders to her waist, Miss Gerard was able to

catch the morning-train to Jackson, Mississippi, crossing Pearl River

on a pontoon-bridge. In a nondescript vehicle between a carriage and

a cart she climbed the sandy hill on which Jackson is situated, and

was soon established in a moderately good boarding-house. Both here

and elsewhere during her journey she bore herself in such manner as to

convey little idea of her actual circumstances, partly to elude any

suspicion that she carried concealed on her person four bags of gold to

defray the expenses of her journey to New York.

On the morning of the sixth day Mr. Firth, the guide whom Miss Gerard's

brother had sent to pilot her through the lines, arrived at Jackson.

He was a Scotchman by birth, although long a resident in the South,

and was between fifty and sixty years of age: his beard and locks were

sprinkled with gray; under bushy eyebrows his keen eyes flashed with

intelligence and indicated decision and reserve; but the gravity of

his features showed the imprint of perpetual sadness. Heavily built

and athletic, he was withal a handsome and very noticeable man. At

this time Mr. Firth was in the secret service of President Davis, but

exactly in what department Helen could not learn.

Giving her his hand with a hearty, honest grasp, Mr. Firth announced

himself to Miss Gerard as the guide her brother had appointed by

telegraph to conduct her to the Mississippi. He requested her to have

her small trunk ready to forward at once by army transportation,

stating that she would find it at the destined point on the river, and

that as soon as she herself was ready they would start. In less than

an hour she was prepared, and seating herself in a low, old-fashioned

country vehicle drawn by one horse, they soon left Jackson in the

distance.

All that day they journeyed through rough, untrodden forests. Often

they were forced to ford streams which came up to the box of the wagon

and obliged the travellers to lift their feet on the seat to escape a

ducking. Between one and two in the morning they reached Raymond, and

found a hospitable welcome in the house of a Mr. Moore on the edge of

the town.

Although the hour was so unseasonable, a warm supper was at once

prepared for the weary travellers. On the following morning Mr. Firth

informed Helen that he should leave her in those quarters for four

days while he went away on business of the secret service. But instead

of four days, three weeks had passed before he returned. Early on the

morning following his arrival they were up and prepared to start,

provided by their hospitable friends with lunches of cornbread and

meat stowed in the pouches of the saddles, as for the future they were

to journey on horseback; and Miss Gerard was also furnished with a

black skirt of Mrs. Moore's remodelled into a riding-habit. With eyes

swimming in tears Helen bade farewell to those who, though strangers,

had welcomed her as a friend, and with downcast heads, under the rays

of the hot morning sun, the travellers rode away, prepared to penetrate

the tangled forests of Mississippi. But first they crossed the clearing

memorable as the battle-field of Raymond, fought over when General Grant

was making his march on Vicksburg. The traces of the conflict that

terminated so sadly for the Confederate States were still everywhere

visible, and the trees showed abundant signs of the hailstorm of war

which had swept over them. Little thought Helen as she rode over those

trampled fields that her fate was mysteriously linked with one who had

bravely borne himself in that battle, and whose face she had not yet

seen, while here it was that, unknown to her, his destiny first crossed

her life.

During the daytime the travellers made their way through the forests

by compass, ignoring roads and paths and avoiding all traces of

civilization. Helen now found it of inestimable service to her that

from childhood she had been a thoroughly-accomplished and enthusiastic

horsewoman. As they forced their way through the densely-woven brake

and underwood, shreds of her riding-habit were left on the logs, trees

and under-brush which they were compelled to jump, until actually

nothing was left of it but the binding and the pocket; and her

under-dress being now too short to protect her ankles, she soon saw

her stockings dashed with blood from the rude scratches made by the

merciless twigs and thorns.

Hunger and thirst at last overtook the travellers, but before they

could find a clear brook out of which to drink it was three o'clock

in the afternoon. After feeding the horses and resting an hour they

journeyed on till midnight, when, wellnigh exhausted, they halted in

the gleam of a pale moon under a venerable oak tree on the brow of

a hill at whose foot murmured a stream lazily waiting to be their

lavatory at daybreak.

A dwelling of some sort was indistinctly visible in the distance, and

the guide, to sound the character of the inmates, proceeded thither

on the plea of asking for a match. But their manner was so distant

and inhospitable that his suspicions were aroused, and he deemed it

advisable to camp out for the night under the shelter of the oak tree.

With Mr. Firth's army-cloak so adjusted as to serve her both for

covering and pillow, Helen slept without waking until dawn, while her

faithful guide kept half an eye open and slept but little. At daybreak

they bathed their faces in the creek and breakfasted on the mossy

banks, while the horses champed their oats under the breezy oak.

The travellers now followed a course at right angles to that of the

preceding days, heading directly for the Mississippi River. But when

noon-time arrived, and, half famished, they looked to their pouches for

refreshment, they found only a gaping emptiness, which compelled them

to stop at the first house and buy some pones and raw bacon. Helen was

obliged to eat even this frugal and not wholly palatable fare in the

saddle, for Mr. Firth urged the necessity of unremitting travel, having

a certain point in the plan he had laid out which must be reached that

night. This was a sparse, uncanny settlement of two or three shanties

occupied by a disreputable set of squatters who bore a very bad name.

The most important dwelling was a wayside dram-shop, called, in local

vernacular, a "coffee-house." Before alighting Mr. Firth cautioned Miss

Gerard to look well to the door of her chamber, to nerve her courage,

and on no account to enter into conversation with any of the inmates.

At the same time he handed her one of his revolvers to lay under her

pillow.

Passing at once through a dusky, noisome hall and up a steep flight

of stairs under the guidance of a heavily-bearded ruffian whose

appearance boded no good, Helen reached the room she was to occupy. It

was separated from the adjoining apartment only by a partition of thin

boards full of seams and cracks. But she was too much fatigued by the

exhausting ride of two days to lie awake long worrying over possible

dangers, and, throwing herself on the rough pallet in her clothing, she

was soon fast asleep. She was summoned at dawn by her trusty guide,

who was so impressed with the dangerous character of the house that

he would not allow her to eat before mounting, or even to be seen by

the men who were tarrying there. Leading her at once to the stable, he

hastily saddled the horses and urged her away while the gray light was

still so faint they could hardly distinguish one object from another.

Helen took a scanty breakfast in the saddle--a meagre preparation for

the perils and hardships that must be encountered before another sun

should set. At the next settlement fresh horses were procured, and a

man engaged to return to Raymond with the jaded steeds they had ridden

thus far. They were informed that several miles in advance there had

been a great freshet which had swollen all the streams and made them

wellnigh impassable. But time was pressing, and, finding that Miss

Gerard was willing to face the rushing waters, the guide decided to go

on.

After fifteen miles of hard riding they found themselves on the edge of

a wide stream dangerously swollen and rushing by with great turbulence,

shooting roots and branches of dislodged trees along its seething

current. But this was no time for hesitation or dismay. Hugging her

horse's neck and laying herself length-wise along his back, the heroic

girl urged him into the stream and gave him the rein. The horses swam

gallantly, and succeeded in making a landing on the other side far

below where they had plunged in. Struck by rushing logs, sometimes

almost hurled from her precarious seat, Helen preserved her presence of

mind, nor was she disheartened by the thrilling peril she had escaped,

but with the same fortitude guided her horse across several other

dangerous streams before night.

Twilight found the travellers entering the plantation of Mr. Clayton,

a domain so vast in extent that several miles had yet to be traversed

in the gloom of starlight before the mansion was reached. On alighting

Helen expected to pass only one night, or at most a day and a night,

enjoying the warm welcome of these kind people, but was told, to her

dismay, that the freshets had so swollen the streams that further

advance would be impossible for some days. Finding that delay would be

disadvantageous to the service upon which he was engaged, Mr. Firth

announced to Miss Gerard that he must reluctantly leave her there, but

would return for her when the fords became more passable. Being a man

of action, no sooner had he informed her of his determination on the

following afternoon than he ordered his horse to be saddled and led up.

To Helen's surprise, her horse was also brought to the house saddled

and bridled, and Mr. Firth gracefully invited her to accompany him a

short distance--a proposal which she gladly accepted, because it was

not without a slight regret that she felt that the only one in the

neighborhood in whom she could confide was about to leave her among

total strangers.

In a moment Miss Gerard had donned her riding-habit and was ready to

mount. But on reaching the portico her guide strangely lingered, and

showed a hesitation altogether unusual in his ordinarily abrupt though

courteous manner. Taking her hand in both of his, he looked down into

her eyes with a meaning which spoke more than words. Then for the first

time Helen realized with a shock that burned her cheeks and made her

tremble that he who had been her guide through such varying scenes for

weeks past now craved the boon of filling the same calling for her

through life.

With a few tenderly-spoken words Mr. Firth made known the love that had

been aroused in his bosom by the steadfast heroism of the beautiful

girl whom it had been his lot to learn to appreciate under such

peculiar circumstances. Helen was quite overcome by the singular and

altogether unforeseen turn which affairs had so suddenly taken, while

she was at a loss to know what action of hers might have led him to

mistake expressions of gratitude for utterances of a love which she

did not feel; and difficult indeed was her present task, requiring

even more than the usual tact which so rarely failed her in critical

moments, to explain the delicate distinction between love and esteem.

After making her real sentiments known, Miss Gerard, fearing further to

wound the feelings of a man for whom she entertained so high a respect,

consented to ride a short distance with him, and with the golden light

of the setting sun glinting among the trees they were soon in the

forest once more.

On the way Mr. Firth explained the cause of his habitual melancholy,

giving her certain details of a tragical career which are now buried

with him in the grave where he has lain for these twelve years past.

When they had reached a spot some five miles distant from the house

where two roads met and divided, "Here we part," Mr. Firth said; and

Helen watched his receding form in the golden haze of the setting sun

as he passed from her sight for ever.

Miss Gerard returned alone to linger among strangers, upon whose

hospitality she must be dependent until the floods should subside and

a favorable occasion present itself for her to proceed on her journey.

These excellent people treated the fair girl so singularly entrusted

to their care less as a guest than as a member of the family: they

lent her all the clothing she required and took her out daily on their

hunting-parties. But, pleasantly as the time seemed to pass, she was

impatient for the opportunity to continue her journey, and at last it

occurred in the week after the New Year. A proposition was made to her

by the widowed sister of Judge Clayton, whose husband had died suddenly

in New Orleans, leaving his affairs in such a condition that her

presence was required in that city. It was suggested to Helen that if

she would chaperon the mother, daughter and little son across the lines

they would provide the mules and vehicle necessary for the journey. She

adopted the plan without hesitation, little thinking when she did so

that she was accepting troubles greater than any she had yet braved.

Everything was speedily arranged for departure on the following

morning. A plain country-wagon with board seats, drawn by two mules

driven by a negro, held the Clayton family of three, while Helen

accompanied them in the saddle. They passed over roads of the roughest

description, in parts almost impassable on account of the recent

storms, but Helen often shortened the distance when they came to a

curve in the road by urging her fleet horse by a short cut across the

fields.

Much fatigued, the party lodged comfortably that night with an

acquaintance of the Claytons. Similar hardships the following day

brought our travellers at noon to the banks of the Bayou River,

opposite Port Gibson. The bridge had been burned by the Confederates

on the approach of Grant's army, and a few small wherries now offered

the only available means for crossing to the town. So small, indeed,

were these boats that the wagon had to be taken apart in order to be

ferried over, the body being placed in one boat, the wheels in another

and a mule in a third. And thus, one by one, women and child, driver,

mules and wagon, were taken across. Here once more Miss Gerard came

into unconscious contact with one already alluded to whose future was

mysteriously interwoven with hers.

Within five miles of Rodney, Helen, happening to precede the wagon,

was suddenly confronted by a scout who cried, "Halt! Whither?" She

responded, "To Rodney," and with rare presence of mind added the

ambiguous language of her old guide, Mr. Firth, in the hope of

repeating the password, which in reality was unknown to her; and before

the scout had time to interrogate her further she asked him in whose

command he was, if there was any news, and trusted that he would be

_vigilant_ in his duties. At once he respectfully touched his hat and

turned to halt the party in the wagon, which was now just coming up.

Helen, turning in the saddle, cried out to Mrs. Clayton, "Mother, I'm

glad to see you safe thus far on our journey, as we are within sight of

Rodney." Completely deceived by this ruse, the scout permitted them to

pass on without further parley. In another hour the party stood on the

brow of the steep bluff overlooking Rodney, up whose slope the climbing

roofs of that city are built, and Helen for the first time gazed on the

waters of the Mississippi.

The following morning she went to the bank of the river and,

sentinel-like, awaited the welcome appearance of a gunboat. Soon

she was rewarded by discovering one approaching. Vigorously waving

her handkerchief, she had the gratification of seeing her signal

recognized. A small boat was lowered, and in charge of an officer in

Federal uniform was rowed toward the young girl on the shore. After

the usual salutations Helen made her wishes known, and was awaiting

the officer's reply when she was most unexpectedly interrupted by the

voice of Mrs. Clayton, who had come behind her unobserved, and now,

with unmeasured volubility, detailed all her grievances to the officer,

whether domestic or otherwise, adding a long tirade of abuse, and even

attributing the loss of her husband, who had died peacefully in his

bed, to Federal interference.

When the old lady stopped to take breath the officer, astounded at

such impudence and folly on the part of one who was looking to him for

assistance, said, "Ladies, I cannot do anything for you," and ordered

the crew to row back to the gunboat. In silence Miss Gerard and her

companion walked back to the hotel. Silence was judicious in a strange

place in time of war, and so Helen gave no expression to her indignant

feelings until they had reached their apartment. She then locked the

door, and, quietly laying aside her hat and gloves, seated herself on

a trunk. Thoroughly aroused, she opened her batteries on Mrs. Clayton,

assuring her in forcible terms that a repetition of such unseasonable

loquacity during their journey would cost her her liberty. She turned

to the daughter and made an appeal to her for aid in the matter. At

that moment a tap at the door was heard, and she turned her wrath

to smiles, for on opening the door her long-lost trunk stood before

her. How or whence it came she was not able to learn, but its welcome

appearance was like the magic apparition in a fairy-tale.

Many days were passed on the river-bank watching vainly for a

steamboat. Helen decided that a dormer-window in the attic of the

hotel would be a better point of observation, and with field-glass

in hand spent many weary days before she saw the smoke of a steamer

puffing down the river. While it was making the bend in the river our

anxious heroine hastened to the bank and once more floated her white

handkerchief in the air. In her simple dress of homespun and palmetto

hat she was indeed an object to gratify the eye of an artist or a poet.

The signal was seen, and this time the gunboat herself bore down and

came alongside the bank. After the plank had been thrown out an officer

stepped on shore and inquired what was wanted. Helen replied, "A New

Yorker desires to return to her home after an absence of some years.

Family matters alone make it imperative she should do so."

"Are you alone?" he asked.

"No: Judge Clayton's widow and family accompany me to New Orleans. I

wish from your captain transportation for us all to that point."

"I will speak to the commanding officer: wait for me here," he replied.

"One moment," exclaimed Helen: "what is the name of your commander? and

where from?"

"Captain Belknap of New York," he answered.

In another moment the officer returned with orders to escort Miss

Gerard on board. She was led into the presence of a gentleman six feet

tall and of herculean frame, with light hair, blue eyes and a face that

wore an expression as gentle as that of a woman. Glancing at the lady

from head to foot, Captain Belknap asked how so young and interesting a

woman could be so far from her mother.

"A sister's love carried me away, and a daughter's love takes me back,"

she replied.

"Are you travelling with the baggage of a Saratoga belle?" he asked.

"No. Such might be the case if I were the belle. My baggage consists of

two trunks for four persons."

"I fear, my young miss, I can render you no assistance," he said. Then

ensued a silence which carried despair to her heart. "I might consent

to take you," he resumed, "but the taking of a Confederate family is

another matter."

"Unless they can accompany me I refuse any such offer," said Helen.

She turned to leave him, when he said, looking at his watch at the same

time, "In fifteen minutes my plank will be taken in and my boat headed

up the river: if you and your friends are here within that time I will

take you on board."

With a hearty "Thank you," Helen fairly ran from his presence, down the

plank and through the streets up to the hotel with the fleetness of a

gazelle. On the way she encountered a wheelbarrow drawn by a decrepit

old negro. Accosting him hastily, she exclaimed, "Here, uncle: I'll

give you five dollars for the use of your wheelbarrow for ten minutes,"

and, snatching the handles out of his grasp, left him to follow as best

he could, for she far outran him. Rushing into Mrs. Clayton's room,

in a few hurried words she gave the news. She had kept her own trunk

in readiness for departure at a moment's notice, and had advised the

Claytons to do the same--advice they had taken care to neglect, as

she now discovered to her dismay. While Miss Adèle gathered the loose

articles about the room and jammed them into their trunk, Helen seized

the street-garments of the mother and hurriedly threw them on the old

lady. By this time the negro had arrived, breathless with astonishment.

"Here, uncle," exclaimed Miss Gerard: "catch hold of the other handle

of this trunk while I take this one--and you, my friends, follow;" and

in the next instant she was wheeling the barrow and both trunks through

the streets in the van of the party, watched by a gaping crowd, with

the dogs barking at her heels and the old man bringing up the rear.

As they reached the bank the whistle of the steamer was blown for

departure. While the crew hastily carried the trunks on board the negro

hove in sight. Helen waved the five-dollar Confederate note over her

head, which made the old fellow quicken his tottering steps, and he

tumbled ahead as if in the last efforts of Nature, his short gray hair

blowing like an aureole around his head.

After Miss Gerard and Mrs. Clayton had introduced each other to the

captain he courteously invited them to lay aside their bonnets and make

themselves as comfortable as his limited accommodations would allow.

When he left them to give some orders on deck Helen took advantage of

his absence to admonish the old lady to maintain a discreet control

over her tongue. When the captain returned he found Helen looking at

the pictures hanging on the panels. Coming to her side, he kindly

explained some of them which represented scenes in his life, and by

the frank courtesy of his manner soon relieved her of whatever fears

she might have had as to the treatment they were to receive on board a

United States ship of war.

While they were thus engaged a waiter spread the table for supper,

and, singular as it may seem for one of her social position, Helen

questioned in her mind whether a place would be assigned to her at the

captain's table or elsewhere; but those were times of war, and the

heavy pressure of the mailed hand of the North on the South made the

people of the latter section imagine that discourtesy toward ladies

would characterize the conduct of Northern sailors and soldiers.

Hence, Miss Gerard, as she cast furtive glances toward the table,

could not help questioning whether the four additional covers were for

the officers or for herself and her companions. Meeting the eyes of

Mrs. Clayton, Helen perceived the old lady was also revolving similar

thoughts in her mind. Could it be that enemies would be permitted to

eat with so high a functionary?

Their suspense was soon relieved by supper being announced. Captain

Belknap gallantly invited Miss Gerard to preside as his _vis-à-vis_,

Mrs. Clayton being seated on his right and the daughter and son on

his left. A delicate meal on white china and silver gave zest to the

appetite of our heroine, while her mind reverted to the dry bread and

raw bacon she had so recently eaten in the saddle, not without a relish.

Four delightful days passed rapidly while they glided over the waters

of the Mississippi. Then, as the gunboat was patrolling to and fro,

watching the banks of the river, our party had to be transferred to a

packet bound for New Orleans, and were told to be in readiness, as one

was only three miles distant.

"The packet is alongside, ladies: are you ready?" inquired Captain

Belknap, coming into the cabin. "I see you are," he added, and turning

to Miss Gerard, "You remain while I escort the others on board." And

she was left standing in a dazed condition, listening to the footsteps

passing away as in funeral procession to her further hopes, wondering

what new skeleton she was now to encounter. Could there be a conspiracy

against her liberty concealed under this semblance of hospitality? and

would her companions thus selfishly abandon her without so much as an

adieu?

These gloomy forebodings were not lessened when Captain Belknap

returned to her side and with an authoritative voice requested Miss

Gerard to show him every letter or document she might have about her

person, for he had already searched her trunk and found none, and the

presumption was she must have them concealed in her dress. Without a

word she handed him a package of unsealed letters from her pocket. He

opened one and a bit of tape dropped to the floor. Picking it up, he

commenced reading the letter, but before finishing it replaced the

tape and opened another, when a Quaker-colored scrap of silk, the size

of a dollar-bill, pasted at one end to the paper, met his scrutiny.

Lifting the other end of the silk, he glanced over the first few lines

of a closely-filled sheet of foolscap and impatiently exclaimed,

"Are all these letters of the same character--dress-patterns and

waist-ornaments?"

Helen answered, "No doubt, although I have not read them."

Returning her the letters, he said, "I shall be compelled to detain

you, while I have given your friends a pass to their destination."

Tears fell fast from her eyes as she turned them from his gaze and

realized her helplessness and the futility of all she had thus far

endured. For the first time her courage failed her. After an interval

of several moments she looked up and discovered the packet still

alongside; which astonishing fact caused her to inquire why it lingered.

Evidently, Captain Belknap thought this circumstance would have evaded

even her keen observation. Laying his hand gently on her shoulder and

looking kindly into her tear-streaming eyes, he said with a quiet

laugh, "I'm only joking with you, and yet in my dreary sailor life the

past four days have been too happy for me willingly to part with you."

"Please let me go! please let me go!" she pleaded.

"Why, certainly," he replied, "though I shall miss you more than you

can ever know. Forgive me for this joke and let us part friends."

Wiping away the tears, which had given place to smiles, she laid both

her hands in his and said, "I will not only forgive, but bless you for

your kindness."

Drawing her hand into his arm, the captain took her on board the packet

and gave her a pass to New Orleans.

The passage down the river occupied several days, the boat touching

at only a few points. The little party from Rodney, still under the

direction of Miss Gerard, who never relaxed the discipline of her

authority, were chiefly dependent on each other for society: for

obvious reasons she was reluctant to form acquaintances on board, and

so great was her vigilance that whenever Mrs. Clayton's voice became

too animated or her language of a nature to attract suspicion she would

pinch her arm with a severity that could not be mistaken.

One evening the purser, Mr. Anderson, came to Miss Gerard with a book

in his hand. After introducing himself he remarked that he had with

him a most entertaining novel, and it had occurred to him that perhaps

she would like to read it. Naturally, after passing through so many

ordeals, Helen asked herself, "Now, what can this man want?" However,

she replied without hesitation, "With pleasure: after a couple of

days, when I have read it, I wish you would come to the cabin and I

will return it to you;" and again she said to herself, "In this way I

shall see more of this man and learn his motive." At a later day she

discovered that he was from New Orleans, a paroled Confederate prisoner

who knew of the Claytons. How he became an ally at a critical moment

will presently appear.

Helen found the book sufficiently interesting to divert her thoughts

from dwelling on the further perplexities which she knew were yet to

come to vex her soul and perhaps hinder her journey. Retiring to her

state-room on the following morning after breakfast, she had again

become absorbed in the pages of the novel when she was startled by a

loud, authoritative voice in the cabin. Curious to know who it could

be, she opened the state-room door, and a glance revealed a new danger.

She saw an officer in Federal uniform and with a conspicuously large

military moustache about to seat himself at the centre-table, at

the same time spreading a large book before him. She perceived that

the hour had arrived which was to put to the test all her courage

and ingenuity. Unnoticed, she stepped back and locked the door, and

climbing up to the highest berth quietly awaited events. Nervously

turning the leaves of her novel, she noticed some words written with

a pencil on the fly-leaf. With eager eyes she read, "Should you need

a friend call on me," signed "Purser," and dated on the previous day.

At that instant she was shocked by hearing Mrs. Clayton's loud voice

in the cabin. Putting her face close to the lattice over the door of

the state-room, she saw the portly Southern dame, who up to this hour

had stoutly affirmed that _never_ would she take the horrid oath of

allegiance to the wicked Yankee government, standing by the table with

her right hand uplifted and deliberately repeating the words dictated

by the officer. Few people have a conception of what an exquisite

instrument of torture was invented when the famous "iron-clad oath," as

it was called, was devised for unrepentant rebels. To refuse it was to

abridge liberty and privilege, while to take and keep it was to abandon

a cause bred into the bone and sinew of the Southerner.

Descending softly but in all haste, Helen unlocked the door, and then

climbing back to the berth again she drew her form out to its full

length and carefully covered herself with the bed-clothing, smoothing

out the wrinkles and entirely concealing herself. Scarcely had she

completed this arrangement when the door was opened, and she recognized

the voice of the colored chambermaid inquiring if any one was in the

state-room who had not yet taken the oath. Fortunately, she did not

enter the room for the purpose of making a close inspection. Aware

that the woman would return, Helen, as soon as the door was closed,

lost no time in getting down from the upper to the lower berth and

taking an easy position with the open book in her hand, in order that

she might be seen on the next visit. No sooner had she done this than

the chambermaid again peered through the door, and seeing Miss Gerard

inquired if she had taken the oath.

With a yawn Helen answered, "Aunty, that matter has all been attended

to."

"All right, honey;" and the negress left, satisfied with having

thoroughly done her duty. In another moment the Federal functionary,

with the great book under his arm, departed, evincing evident

gratification at having performed his duty.

One great danger had been successfully avoided by Helen, but another

was not far distant before she could be permitted to land, of which she

was forcibly reminded when Mr. Anderson came that evening for his book.

She rose to meet him, in order that they might not be overheard. When

she handed the book to him he said in an undertone, "Are you furnished

with the necessary documents to go ashore, as in a few hours we shall

be in New Orleans?"

Avoiding a direct answer, Helen replied, "I do need a friend."

He answered, "Rely upon me, and when going ashore cling closely to my

side."

She gave a searching look at his face, and instinctively divining that

she might hazard herself in his power, replied, "Many thanks: I will do

so," and returned to her seat, not without a vague uneasiness, however.

The spires of New Orleans appeared gleaming in the rising sun of the

following morning, and the steamboat, with all her freight of hopes and

fears, glided up to the levee. Each holding in his hand the official

permit to leave, the passengers pressed into the gangway, where two

officers with crossed swords barred the passage and carefully examined

every paper. The Claytons, having taken the oath, went through without

difficulty, while Helen hastened forward to Mr. Anderson, whom she

found waiting for her in the gangway. He motioned to her to pass in

advance of him. When she came to the crossed swords he cried, "Let this

lady, my sister, pass." The swords separated like magic, and with a

fast-throbbing heart she stepped on shore, and in another moment was

seated in a carriage with her companions. She alighted at the City

Hotel, where she parted with the Claytons.

Once more entirely alone in a strange city, Helen considered the next

step to be taken in her eventful journey. The following morning, the

4th of February, she proceeded to the agency of the steamer Morning

Star, advertised to sail on the 8th, and purchased a ticket, but

was informed that she must procure a pass from the provost-marshal

before attempting to go on board the steamship. The pass could only be

obtained in person. Here was indeed a difficulty, but she soon decided

to confront the danger boldly, and trust to unforeseen circumstances

to suggest some way of extricating herself. Without delay our heroine

reached Carondelet street. Ascending to the second story of a

conspicuous building where the marshal's office was located, she became

one of a crowd impatiently pressing for an audience and separated by

an iron railing from the functionary who presided over the scene.

While awaiting her chance she had an opportunity carefully to study

his handsome features, and quickly discerned him to be a man of action

and decision. His keen, dark-gray eye--that gray so often mistaken for

black--also cautioned her to beware.

It was soon apparent that he had singled out the attractive young lady

from the motley crowd as one who merited unusual attention, for he

ordered his clerk to open the gate and admit her within the official

domain. As she entered the marshal signalled to her to take a seat at

his side, while he continued signing passes. But Helen was conscious

that he was furtively observing her quite as much as the paper on which

he was writing.

Suddenly he turned and inquired of her, "To what place do you wish a

pass?"

"To New York," she answered.

"Have you taken the oath?" he asked again.

"Not yet," she said: "I should like to do so unobserved."

Folding and placing a large folio under his arm, the officer said,

"Follow me to my private office, where I will administer it." So

saying, he led the way up another flight of stairs to a spacious room.

Spreading the registry of oaths on the table, he bade her be seated.

"Never in the presence of a Yankee officer," she exclaimed.

"Well, as you please," he said impatiently: "now hold up your right

hand."

"Nor will I take the oath of allegiance," she added with an emphasis

and audacity that made him start.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Who are you? and where did you come from?"