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VIOLETS AND OTHER TALES
by
ALICE RUTH MOORE
Copyright 1895
by the Monthly Review
All rights reserved
To my friend of November 5th, 1892
INTRODUCTION.
In this day when the world is fairly teeming with books,--good books,
books written with a motive, books inculcating morals, books teaching
lessons,--it seems almost a piece of presumption too great for endurance
to foist another upon the market. There is scarcely room in the literary
world for amateurs and maiden efforts; the very worthiest are sometimes
poorly repaid for their best efforts. Yet, another one is offered the
public, a maiden effort,--a little thing with absolutely nothing to
commend it, that seeks to do nothing more than amuse.
Many of these sketches and verses have appeared in print before, in
newspapers and a magazine or two; many are seeing the light of day for
the first time. If perchance this collection of idle thoughts may serve
to while away an hour or two, or lift for a brief space the load of care
from someone's mind, their purpose has been served--the author is
satisfied.
A. R. M.
CONTENTS.
VIOLETS, 13
THREE THOUGHTS, 18
THE WOMAN, 21
TEN MINUTES' MUSING, 29
A PLAINT, 35
IN UNCONSCIOUSNESS, 36
TITEE, 44
ANARCHY ALLEY, 56
IMPRESSIONS, 63
SALAMMBO, 65
LEGEND OF THE NEWSPAPER, 72
A CARNIVAL JANGLE, 76
PAUL TO VIRGINIA (Fin de Siecle), 83
THE MAIDEN'S DREAM, 85
IN MEMORIAM, 93
A STORY OF VENGEANCE, 93
AT BAY ST. LOUIS, 106
NEW YEAR'S DAY, 108
UNKNOWN LIFE OF JESUS CHRIST, 110
IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 122
FAREWELL! 138
LITTLE MISS SOPHIE, 140
IF I HAD KNOWN! 154
CHALMETTE, 155
AT EVENTIDE, 159
THE IDLER, 166
LOVE AND THE BUTTERFLY, 168
THE BEE-MAN, 169
AMID THE ROSES, 176
PREFACE.
These fugitive pieces are launched upon the tide of public opinion to
sink or swim upon their merit. They will float for a while, but whether
they will reach the haven of popularity depends upon their enduring
qualities. Some will surely perish, many will reach some port, but time
alone will tell if any shall successfully breast the ocean of thought
and plant its standard upon the summit of fame.
When one enters the domain of authorship, she places herself at the
mercy of critics. Were she as sure of being commended by the best and
most intelligent of her readers, as she is sure of being condemned by
the worst and most ignorant, there would still be a thrill of pleasure
in all criticism, for the satisfaction of having received the praise of
the first would compensate for the harshness of the latter. Just
criticism is wholesome and never wounds the sensibilities of the true
author, for it saves her from the danger of an excess of pride which is
the greatest foe to individual progress, while it spurs her on to
loftier flights and nobler deeds. A poor writer is bad, but a poor
critic is worse, therefore, unjust criticism should never ruffle the
temper of its victim. The author of these pages belongs to that type of
the "brave new woman who scorns to sigh," but feels that she has
something to say, and says it to the best of her ability, and leaves the
verdict in the hands of the public. She gives to the reader her best
thoughts and leaves him to accept or reject as merit may manifest
itself. No author is under contract to please her readers at all times,
nor can she hope to control the sentiments of all of them at any time,
therefore, the obligation is reciprocal, for the fame she receives is
due to the pleasure she affords.
The author of these fugitive pieces is young, just on the threshold of
life, and with the daring audacity of youth makes assertions and gives
decisions which she may reverse as time mellows her opinions, and the
realities of life force aside the theories of youth, and prosy facts
obscure the memory of that happy time when the heart overflowing
with----
"The joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind,
In the warm glowing colors Fancy spreads
On objects, not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely."
There is much in this book that is good; much that is crude; some that
is poor: but all give that assurance of something great and noble when
the bud of promise, now unfolding its petals in the morning glow of
light, will have matured into that fuller growth of blossoming flower
ere the noonday sun passes its zenith. May the hope thus engendered by
this first attempt reach its fruition, and may the energy displayed by
one so young meet the reward it merits from an approving public.
SYLVANIE F. WILLIAMS.
VIOLETS.
I.
"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair."
She sat in the yellow glow of the lamplight softly humming these words.
It was Easter evening, and the newly risen spring world was slowly
sinking to a gentle, rosy, opalescent slumber, sweetly tired of the joy
which had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect morn, it
had arisen, stretched out its arms in glorious happiness to greet the
Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird,
and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.
There was a letter lying on the table, it read:
"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token.
Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you.
Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced
things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then
they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The
orange blossoms--you know their meaning; the little pinks are the
flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of
our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and
pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my bosom,
and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in
my memory. The violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore to-day, and
when kneeling at the altar, during communion, did I sin, dear, when I
thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I wore Friday night;
you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie these flowers with
them--but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap them with a bit of
ribbon, pale blue, from that little dress I wore last winter to the
dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in that forgotten nook. You
always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles away from the
throat and bosom,--you called me your little forget-me-not, that night.
I laid the flowers away for awhile in our favorite book,--Byron--just at
the poem we loved best, and now I send them to you. Keep them always in
remembrance of me, and if aught should occur to separate us, press these
flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit, permeating your
heart with unutterable love and happiness."
II.
It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news
of the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in
field and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and
the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring
fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the
white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping face.
Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined
casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known
rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in
her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown;
violets and tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the
air was filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some
whispered that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young
form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender
sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago
she had communed at an earthly altar.
III.
Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some
papers, turned over a faded bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon
and a lock of hair. He paused meditatively awhile, then turning to the
regal-looking woman lounging before the fire, he asked:
"Wife, did you ever send me these?"
She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable
disdain, and replied languidly:
"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such
sentimental trash to any one? Throw them into the fire."
And the Easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly licked
up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or did the
husband really sigh,--a long, quivering breath of remembrance?
THREE THOUGHTS.
FIRST.
How few of us
In all the world's great, ceaseless struggling strife,
Go to our work with gladsome, buoyant step,
And love it for its sake, whate'er it be.
Because it is a labor, or, mayhap,
Some sweet, peculiar art of God's own gift;
And not the promise of the world's slow smile
of recognition, or of mammon's gilded grasp.
Alas, how few, in inspiration's dazzling flash,
Or spiritual sense of world's beyond the dome
Of circling blue around this weary earth,
Can bask, and know the God-given grace
Of genius' fire that flows and permeates
The virgin mind alone; the soul in which
The love of earth hath tainted not.
The love of art and art alone.
SECOND.
"Who dares stand forth?" the monarch cried,
"Amid the throng, and dare to give
Their aid, and bid this wretch to live?
I pledge my faith and crown beside,
A woeful plight, a sorry sight,
This outcast from all God-given grace.
What, ho! in all, no friendly face,
No helping hand to stay his plight?
St. Peter's name be pledged for aye,
The man's accursed, that is true;
But ho, he suffers. None of you
Will mercy show, or pity sigh?"
Strong men drew back, and lordly train
Did slowly file from monarch's look,
Whose lips curled scorn. But from a nook
A voice cried out, "Though he has slain
That which I loved the best on earth,
Yet will I tend him till he dies,
I can be brave." A woman's eyes
Gazed fearlessly into his own.
THIRD.
When all the world has grown full cold to thee,
And man--proud pygmy--shrugs all scornfully,
And bitter, blinding tears flow gushing forth,
Because of thine own sorrows and poor plight,
Then turn ye swift to nature's page,
And read there passions, immeasurably far
Greater than thine own in all their littleness.
For nature has her sorrows and her joys,
As all the piled-up mountains and low vales
Will silently attest--and hang thy head
In dire confusion, for having dared
To moan at thine own miseries
When God and nature suffer silently.
THE WOMAN.
The literary manager of the club arose, cleared his throat, adjusted his
cravat, fixed his eyes sternly upon the young man, and in a sonorous
voice, a little marred by his habitual lisp, asked: "Mr. ----, will you
please tell us your opinion upon the question, whether woman's chances
for matrimony are increased or decreased when she becomes man's equal as
a wage earner?"
The secretary adjusted her eye-glass, and held her pencil alertly poised
above her book, ready to note which side Mr. ---- took. Mr. ----
fidgeted, pulled himself together with a violent jerk, and finally spoke
his mind. Someone else did likewise, also someone else, then the women
interposed, and jumped on the men, the men retaliated, a wordy war
ensued, and the whole matter ended by nothing being decided, pro or
con--generally the case in wordy discussions. _Moi?_ Well, I sawed wood
and said nothing, but all the while there was forming in my mind, no, I
won't say forming, it was there already. It was this, _Why should
well-salaried women marry?_ Take the average working-woman of to-day.
She works from five to ten hours a day, doing extra night work,
sometimes, of course. Her work over, she goes home or to her
boarding-house, as the case may be. Her meals are prepared for her, she
has no household cares upon her shoulders, no troublesome dinners to
prepare for a fault-finding husband, no fretful children to try her
patience, no petty bread and meat economies to adjust. She has her
cares, her money-troubles, her debts, and her scrimpings, it is true,
but they only make her independent, instead of reducing her to a dead
level of despair. Her day's work ends at the office, school, factory or
store; the rest of the time is hers, undisturbed by the restless going
to and fro of housewifely cares, and she can employ it in mental or
social diversions. She does not incessantly rely upon the whims of a
cross man to take her to such amusements as she desires. In this
nineteenth century she is free to go where she pleases--provided it be
in a moral atmosphere--without comment. Theatres, concerts, lectures,
and the lighter amusements of social affairs among her associates, are
open to her, and there she can go, see, and be seen, admire and be
admired, enjoy and be enjoyed, without a single harrowing thought of the
baby's milk or the husband's coffee.
Her earnings are her own, indisputably, unreservedly, undividedly. She
knows to a certainty just how much she can spend, how well she can
dress, how far her earnings will go. If there is a dress, a book, a bit
of music, a bunch of flowers, or a bit of furniture that she wants, she
can get it, and there is no need of asking anyone's advice, or gently
hinting to John that Mrs. So and So has a lovely new hat, and there is
one ever so much prettier and cheaper down at Thus & Co.'s. To an
independent spirit there is a certain sense of humiliation and wounded
pride in asking for money, be it five cents or five hundred dollars. The
working woman knows no such pang; she has but to question her account
and all is over. In the summer she takes her savings of the winter,
packs her trunk and takes a trip more or less extensive, and there is
none to say her nay,--nothing to bother her save the accumulation of her
own baggage. There is an independent, happy, free-and-easy swing about
the motion of her life. Her mind is constantly being broadened by
contact with the world in its working clothes; in her leisure moments by
the better thoughts of dead and living men which she meets in her
applications to books and periodicals; in her vacations, by her studies
of nature, or it may be other communities than her own. The freedom
which she enjoys she does not trespass upon, for if she did not learn at
school she has acquired since habits of strong self-reliance,
self-support, earnest thinking, deep discriminations, and firmly
believes that the most perfect liberty is that state in which humanity
conforms itself to and obeys strictly, without deviation, those laws
which are best fitted for their mutual self-advancement.
And so your independent working woman of to day comes as near being
ideal in her equable self poise as can be imagined. So why should she
hasten to give this liberty up in exchange for a serfdom, sweet
sometimes, it is true, but which too often becomes galling and
unendurable.
It is not marriage that I decry, for I don't think any really sane
person would do this, but it is this wholesale marrying of girls in
their teens, this rushing into an unknown plane of life to avoid work.
Avoid work! What housewife dares call a moment her own?
Marriages might be made in Heaven, but too often they are consummated
right here on earth, based on a desire to possess the physical
attractions of the woman by the man, pretty much as a child desires a
toy, and an innate love of man, a wild desire not to be ridiculed by the
foolish as an "old maid," and a certain delicate shrinking from the work
of the world--laziness is a good name for it--by the woman. The
attraction of mind to mind, the ability of one to compliment the lights
and shadows in the other, the capacity of either to fulfil the duties of
wife or husband--these do not enter into the contract. That is why we
have divorce courts.
And so our independent woman in every year of her full, rich,
well-rounded life, gaining fresh knowledge and experience, learning
humanity, and particularly that portion of it which is the other gender,
so well as to avoid clay-footed idols, and finally when she does consent
to bear the yoke upon her shoulders, does so with perhaps less romance
and glamor than her younger scoffing sisters, but with an assurance of
solid and more lasting happiness. Why should she have hastened this;
was aught lost by the delay?
"They say" that men don't admire this type of woman, that they prefer
the soft, dainty, winning, mindless creature who cuddles into men's
arms, agrees to everything they say, and looks upon them as a race of
gods turned loose upon this earth for the edification of womankind.
Well, may be so, but there is one thing positive, they certainly respect
the independent one, and admire her, too, even if it is at a distance,
and that in itself is something. As to the other part, no matter how
sensible a woman is on other questions, when she falls in love she is
fool enough to believe her adored one a veritable Solomon. Cuddling?
Well, she may preside over conventions, brandish her umbrella at board
meetings, tramp the streets soliciting subscriptions, wield the blue
pencil in an editorial sanctum, hammer a type-writer, smear her nose
with ink from a galley full of pied type, lead infant ideas through the
tortuous mazes of c-a-t and r-a-t, plead at the bar, or wield the
scalpel in a dissecting room, yet when the right moment comes, she will
sink as gracefully into his manly embrace, throw her arms as lovingly
around his neck, and cuddle as warmly and sweetly to his bosom as her
little sister who has done nothing else but think, dream, and practice
for that hour. It comes natural, you see.
TEN MINUTES' MUSING.
There was a terrible noise in the school-yard at intermission; peeping
out the windows the boys could be seen huddled in an immense bunch, in
the middle of the yard. It looked like a fight, a mob, a
knock-down,--anything, so we rushed out to the door hastily, fearfully,
ready to scold, punish, console, frown, bind up broken heads or drag
wounded forms from the melee as the case might be. Nearly every boy in
the school was in that seething, swarming mass, and those who weren't
were standing around on the edges, screaming and throwing up their hats
in hilarious excitement. It was a mob, a fearful mob, but a mob
apparently with a vigorous and well-defined purpose. It was a mob that
screamed and howled, and kicked, and yelled, and shouted, and perspired,
and squirmed, and wriggled, and pushed, and threatened, and poured
itself all seemingly upon some central object. It was a mob that had an
aim, that was determined to accomplish that aim, even though the whole
azure expanse of sky fell upon them. It was a mob with set muscles,
straining like whip-cords, eyes on that central object and with heads
inward and sturdy legs outward, like prairie horses reversed in a
battle. The cheerers and hat throwers on the outside were mirthful, but
the mob was not; it howled, but howled without any cachinnation; it
struggled for mastery. Some fell and were trampled over, some weaker
ones were even tossed in the air, but the mob never deigned to trouble
itself about such trivialities. It was an interesting, nervous whole,
with divers parts of separate vitality.
In alarm I looked about for the principal. He was standing at a safe
distance with his hands in his pockets watching the seething mass with a
broad smile. At sight of my perplexed expression some one was about to
venture an explanation, when there was a wild yell, a sudden vehement
disintegration of the mass, a mighty rush and clutch at a dark object
bobbing in the air--and the mist cleared from my intellect--as I
realized it all--football.
Did you ever stop to see the analogy between a game of football and the
interesting little game called life which we play every day? There is
one, far-fetched as it may seem, though, for that matter, life's game,
being one of desperate chances and strategic moves, is analogous to
anything.
But, if we could get out of ourselves and soar above the world, far
enough to view the mass beneath in its daily struggles, and near enough
the hearts of the people to feel the throbs beneath their boldly
carried exteriors, the whole would seem naught but such a maddening rush
and senseless-looking crushing. "We are but children of a larger growth"
after all, and our ceaseless pursuing after the baubles of this earth
are but the struggles for precedence in the business play-ground.
The football is money. See how the mass rushes after it! Everyone so
intent upon his pursuit until all else dwindles into a ridiculous
nonentity. The weaker ones go down in the mad pursuit, and are
unmercifully trampled upon, but no matter, what is the difference if the
foremost win the coveted prize and carry it off. See the big boy in
front, he with iron grip, and determined, compressed lips? That boy is a
type of the big, merciless man, the Gradgrind of the latter century. His
face is set towards the ball, and even though he may crush a dozen small
boys, he'll make his way through the mob and come out triumphant. And
he'll be the victor longer than anyone else, in spite of the envy and
fighting and pushing about him.
To an observer, alike unintelligent about the rules of a football game,
and the conditions which govern the barter and exchange and fluctuations
of the world's money market, there is as much difference between the
sight of a mass of boys on a play-ground losing their equilibrium over a
spheroid of rubber and a mass of men losing their coolness and temper
and mental and nervous balance on change as there is between a pine
sapling and a mighty forest king--merely a difference of age. The
mighty, seething, intensely concentrated mass in its emphatic tendency
to one point is the same, in the utter disregard of mental and physical
welfare. The momentary triumphs of transitory possessions impress a
casual looker-on with the same fearful idea--that the human race, after
all, is savage to the core, and cultivates its savagery in an inflated
happiness at own nearness to perfection.
But the bell clangs sharply, the overheated, nervous, tingling boys
fall into line, and the sudden transition from massing disorder to
military precision cuts short the ten minutes' musing.
A PLAINT.
Dear God, 'tis hard, so awful hard to lose
The one we love, and see him go afar,
With scarce one thought of aching hearts behind,
Nor wistful eyes, nor outstretched yearning hands.
Chide not, dear God, if surging thoughts arise.
And bitter questionings of love and fate,
But rather give my weary heart thy rest,
And turn the sad, dark memories into sweet.
Dear God, I fain my loved one were anear,
But since thou will'st that happy thence he'll be,
I send him forth, and back I'll choke the grief
Rebellious rises in my lonely heart.
I pray thee, God, my loved one joy to bring;
I dare not hope that joy will be with me,
But ah, dear God, one boon I crave of thee,
That he shall ne'er forget his hours with me.
IN UNCONSCIOUSNESS.
There was a big booming in my ears, great heavy iron bells that swung
to-and-fro on either side, and sent out deafening reverberations that
steeped the senses in a musical melody of sonorous sound; to-and-fro,
backward and forward, yet ever receding in a gradually widening circle,
monotonous, mournful, weird, suffusing the soul with an unutterable
sadness, as images of wailing processions, of weeping, empty-armed
women, and widowed maidens flashed through the mind, and settled on the
soul with a crushing, o'er-pressing weight of sorrow.
* * * * *
Now I lay floating, arms outstretched, on an illimitable waste of calm
tranquil waters. Far away as eye could reach, there was naught but the
pale, white-flecked, green waters of this ocean of eternity, and above
the tender blue sky arched down in perfect love of its mistress,
the ocean. Sky and sea, sea and sky, blue, calm, infinite, perfect sea,
heaving its womanly bosom to the passionate kisses of its ardent
sun-lover. Away into infinity stretched this perfectibility of love;
into eternity, I was drifting, alone, silent, yet burdened still with
the remembrance of the sadness of the bells.
Far away, they tolled out the incessant dirge, grown resignedly sweet
now; so intense in its infinite peace, that a calm of love, beyond all
human understanding and above all earthly passions, sank deep into my
soul, and so permeated my whole being with rest and peace, that my lips
smiled and my eyes drooped in access of fulsome joy. Into the
illimitable space of infinity we drifted, my soul and I, borne along
only by the network of auburn hair that floated about me in the green
waters.
* * * * *
But now, a rude grasp from somewhere is laid upon me, pressing upon my
face. Instantly the air grows gloomy, gray, and the ocean rocks
menacingly, while the great bells grow harsh and strident, as they hint
of a dark fate. I clasp my hands appealingly to the heavens; I moan and
struggle with the unknown grasp; then there is peace and the sweet
content of the infinite Nirvana.
Then slowly, softly, the net of auburn hair begins to drag me down below
the surface of the sea. Oh! the skies are so sweet, and now that the
tender stars are looking upon us, how fair to stay and sway upon the
breast of eternity! But the net is inexorable, and gently, slowly pulls
me down. Now we sink straight, now we whirl in slow, eddying circles,
spiral-like; while at each turn those bells ring out clanging now in
wild crescendo, then whispering dread secrets of the ocean's depths. Oh,
ye mighty bells, tell me from your learned lore of the hopes of mankind!
Tell me what fruit he beareth from his strivings and yearnings; know not
ye? Why ring ye now so joyful, so hopeful; then toll your dismal
prophecies of o'er-cast skies?
Years have passed, and now centuries, too, are swallowed in the gulf of
eternity, yet the auburn net still whirls me in eddying circles, down,
down to the very womb of time; to the innermost recesses of the mighty
ocean.
* * * * *
And now, peace, perfect, unconditioned, sublime peace, and rest, and
silence. For to the great depths of the mighty ocean the solemn bells
cannot penetrate, and no sound, not even the beatings of one's own
heart, is heard. In the heart of eternity there can be nothing to break
the calm of frozen æons. In the great white hall I lay, silent,
unexpectant, calm, and smiled in perfect content at the web of auburn
hair which trailed across my couch. No passionate longing for life or
love, no doubting question of heaven or hell, no strife for carnal
needs,--only rest, content, peace--happiness, perfect, whole, complete,
sublime.
And thus passed ages and ages, æons and æons. The great earth there in
the dim distance above the ocean has toiled wearily about the sun, until
its mechanism was failing, and the warm ardor of the lover's eye was
becoming pale and cold from age, while the air all about the fast
dwindling sphere was heavy and thick with the sorrows and heartaches and
woes of the humans upon its face. Heavy with the screams and roar of
war; with the curses of the deceived of traitors; with the passionate
sighs of unlawful love; with the crushing unrest of blighted hopes.
Knowledge and contempt of all these things permeated even to the inmost
depths of time, as I lay in the halls of rest and smiled at the web
floating through my white fingers.
* * * * *
But hark! discord begins. There is a vague fear which springs from an
unknown source and drifts into the depths of rest; fear, indefinable,
unaccountable, unknowable, shuddering. Pain begins, for the heart
springs into life, and fills the silence with the terror of its
beatings, thick, knifing, frightful in its intense longing. Power of
mind over soul, power of calm over fear avail nothing; suspense and
misery, locked arm in arm, pervade æonic stillness, till all things else
become subordinate, unnoticed.
Centuries drift away, and the giddy, old reprobate--earth, dying a
hideous, ghastly death, with but one solitary human to shudder in unison
with its last throes, to bask in the last pale rays of a cold sun, to
inhale the last breath of a metallic atmosphere; totters, reels, falls
into space, and is no more. Peal out, ye brazen bells, peal out the
requiem of the sinner! Roll your mournful tones into the ears of the
saddened angels, weeping with wing-covered eyes! Toll the requiem of the
sinner, sinking swiftly, sobbingly into the depths of time's ocean.
Down, down, until the great groans which arose from the domes and Ionic
roofs about me told that the sad old earth sought rest in eternity,
while the universe shrugged its shoulders over the loss of another star.
And now, the great invisible fear became apparent, tangible, for all the
sins, the woes, the miseries, the dreads, the dismal achings and
throbbings, the dreariness and gloom of the lost star came together and
like a huge geni took form and hideous shape--octopus-like--which slowly
approached me, erstwhile happy--and hovered about my couch in fearful
menace.
* * * * *
Oh, shining web of hair, burst loose your bonds and bid me move! Oh,
time, cease not your calculations, but speed me on to deliverance! Oh,
silence, vast, immense, infuse into your soul some sound other than the
heavy throbbing of this fast disintegrating heart! Oh, pitiless stone
arches, let fall your crushing weight upon this Stygian monster!
I pray to time, to eternity, to the frozen æons of the past. Useless. I
am seized, forced to open my cold lips; there is agony,--supreme, mortal
agony of nerve tension, and wrenching of vitality. I struggle, scream,
and clutching the monster with superhuman strength, fling him aside, and
rise, bleeding, screaming--but triumphant, and keenly mortal in every
vein, alive and throbbing with consciousness and pain.
* * * * *
No, it was not opium, nor night-mare, but chloroform, a dentist, three
obstinate molars, a pair of forceps, and a lively set of nerves.
TITEE.
It was cold that day; the great sharp north wind swept out Elysian
Fields Street in blasts that made men shiver, and bent everything in its
track. The skies hung lowering and gloomy; the usually quiet street was
more than deserted, it was dismal.
Titee leaned against one of the brown freight cars for protection
against the shrill norther, and warmed his little chapped hands at a
blaze of chips and dry grass. "May be it'll snow," he muttered, casting
a glance at the sky that would have done credit to a practised seaman.
"Then _won't_ I have fun! Ugh, but the wind blows!"
It was Saturday, or Titee would have been in school--the big yellow
school on Marigny Street, where he went every day when its bell boomed
nine o'clock. Went with a run and a joyous whoop,--presumably to
imbibe knowledge, ostensibly to make his teacher's life a burden.
Idle, lazy, dirty, troublesome boy, she called him, to herself, as day
by day wore on, and Titee improved not, but let his whole class pass him
on its way to a higher grade. A practical joke he relished infinitely
more than a practical problem, and a good game at pinsticking was far
more entertaining than a language lesson. Moreover, he was always
hungry, and _would_ eat in school before the half-past ten intermission,
thereby losing much good play-time for his voracious appetite.
But there was nothing in natural history that Titee didn't know. He
could dissect a butterfly or a mosquito-hawk and describe their parts as
accurately as a spectacled student with a scalpel and microscope could
talk about a cadaver. The entire Third District, with its swamps and
canals and commons and railroad sections, and its wondrous, crooked,
tortuous streets was as an open book to Titee. There was not a nook or
corner that he did not know or could tell of. There was not a bit of
gossip among the gamins, little Creole and Spanish fellows, with dark
skins and lovely eyes like Spaniels, that Titee could not tell of. He
knew just exactly when it was time for crawfish to be plentiful down in
the Claiborne and Marigny canals; just when a poor, breadless fellow
might get a job in the big bone-yard and fertilizing factory out on the
railroad track; and as for the levee, with its ships and schooners and
sailors--Oh, how he could revel among them! The wondrous ships, the
pretty little schooners, where the foreign-looking sailors lay on long
moon-lit nights, singing gay bar carols to the tinkle of a guitar and
mandolin. All these things, and more, could Titee tell of. He had been
down to the Gulf, and out on its treacherous waters through Eads Jetties
on a fishing smack, with some jolly, brown sailors, and could interest
the whole school-room in the "talk lessons," if he chose.
Titee shivered as the wind swept round the freight cars. There isn't
much warmth in a bit of a jersey coat.
"Wish 'twas summer," he murmured, casting another sailor's glance at the
sky. "Don't believe I like snow, it's too wet and cold." And, with a
last parting caress at the little fire he had builded for a minute's
warmth, he plunged his hands in his pockets, shut his teeth, and started
manfully on his mission out the railroad track towards the swamps.
It was late when Titee came home, to such a home as it was, and he had
but illy performed his errand, so his mother beat him, and sent him to
bed supperless. A sharp strap stings in cold weather, and long walks in
the teeth of a biting wind creates a keen appetite. But if Titee cried
himself to sleep that night, he was up bright and early next morning,
and had been to early mass, devoutly kneeling on the cold floor,
blowing his fingers to keep them warm, and was home almost before the
rest of the family was awake.
There was evidently some great matter of business in this young man's
mind, for he scarcely ate his breakfast, and had left the table, eagerly
cramming the remainder of his meal in his pockets.
"I wonder what he's up to now?" mused his mother as she watched his
little form sturdily trudging the track in the face of the wind, his
head, with the rimless cap thrust close on the shock of black hair, bent
low, his hands thrust deep in the bulging pockets.
"A new snake, perhaps," ventured the father; "he's a queer child."
But the next day Titee was late for school. It was something unusual,
for he was always the first on hand to fix some plan of mechanism to
make the teacher miserable. She looked reprovingly at him this morning,
when he came in during the arithmetic class, his hair all wind-blown,
cheeks rosy from a hard fight with the sharp blasts. But he made up for
his tardiness by his extreme goodness all day; just think, Titee didn't
even eat in school. A something unparalleled in the entire history of
his school-life.
When the lunch-hour came, and all the yard was a scene of feast and fun,
one of the boys found him standing by one of the posts, disconsolately
watching a ham sandwich as it rapidly disappeared down the throat of a
sturdy, square-headed little fellow.
"Hello, Edgar," he said, "What yer got fer lunch?"
"Nothin'," was the mournful reply.
"Ah, why don't yer stop eatin' in school fer a change? Yer don't ever
have nothin' to eat."
"I didn't eat to-day," said Titee, blazing up.
"Yer did!"
"I tell you I didn't!" and Titee's hard little fist planted a
punctuation mark on his comrade's eye.
A fight in the school-yard! Poor Titee in disgrace again. But in spite
of his battered appearance, a severe scolding from the principal, lines
to write, and a further punishment from his mother, Titee scarcely
remained for his dinner, but was off, down the railroad track, with his
pockets partly stuffed with the remnants of his scanty meal.
And the next day Titee was tardy again, and lunchless, too, and the
next, and the next, until the teacher in despair sent a nicely printed
note to his mother about him, which might have done some good, had not
Titee taken great pains to tear it up on his way home.
But one day it rained, whole bucketfuls of water, that poured in
torrents from a miserable angry sky. Too wet a day for bits of boys to
be trudging to school, so Titee's mother thought, so kept him home to
watch the weather through the window, fretting and fuming, like a
regular storm-cloud in miniature. As the day wore on, and the storm did
not abate, his mother had to keep a strong watch upon him, or he would
have slipped away.
At last dinner came and went, and the gray soddenness of the skies
deepened into the blackness of coming night. Someone called Titee to go
to bed--and Titee was nowhere to be found.
Under the beds, in corners and closets, through the yard, and in such
impossible places as the soap-dish and the water-pitcher even; but he
had gone as completely as if he had been spirited away. It was of no use
to call up the neighbors; he had never been near their houses, they
affirmed, so there was nothing to do but to go to the railroad track,
where little Titee had been seen so often trudging in the shrill north
wind.
So with lantern and sticks, and his little yellow dog, the rescuing
party started out the track. The rain had ceased falling, but the wind
blew a tremendous gale, scurrying great, gray clouds over a fierce sky.
It was not exactly dark, though in this part of the city, there was
neither gas nor electricity, and surely on such a night as this, neither
moon nor stars dared show their faces in such a grayness of sky; but a
sort of all-diffused luminosity was in the air, as though the sea of
atmosphere was charged with an ethereal phosphorescence.
Search as they would, there were no signs of poor little Titee. The soft
earth between the railroad ties crumbled beneath their feet without
showing any small tracks or foot-prints.
"Let us return," said the big brother, "he can't be here anyway."
"No, no," urged the mother, "I feel that he is; let's go on."
So on they went, slipping on the wet earth, stumbling over the loose
rocks, until a sudden wild yelp from Tiger brought them to a standstill.
He had rushed ahead of them, and his voice could be heard in the
distance, howling piteously.
With a fresh impetus the little muddy party hurried forward. Tiger's
yelps could be heard plainer and plainer, mingled now with a muffled
wail, as of some one in pain.
And then, after awhile they found a pitiful little heap of wet and
sodden rags, lying at the foot of a mound of earth and stones thrown
upon the side of the track. It was little Titee with a broken leg, all
wet and miserable, and moaning.
They picked him up tenderly, and started to carry him home. But he cried
and clung to his mother, and begged not to go.
"He's got fever," wailed his mother.
"No, no, it's my old man. He's hungry, sobbed Titee, holding out a
little package. It was the remnants of his dinner, wet and rain washed.
"What old man?" asked the big brother.
"My old man, oh, please, please don't go home until I see him, I'm not
hurting much, I can go."
So yielding to his whim, they carried him further away, down the sides
of the track up to an embankment or levee by the sides of the Marigny
canal. Then Titee's brother, suddenly stopping, exclaimed:
"Why, here's a cave, a regular Robinson Cruso affair."
"It's my old man's cave," cried Titee; "oh, please go in, maybe he's
dead."
There can't be much ceremony in entering a cave, there is but one thing
to do, walk in. This they did, and holding high the lantern, beheld a
strange sight. On a bed of straw and paper in one corner lay a withered,
wizened, white-bearded old man, with wide eyes staring at the
unaccustomed sight. In the corner lay a cow.
"It's my old man!" cried Titee, joyfully. "Oh, please, grandpa, I
couldn't get here to-day, it rained all morning, and when I ran away
this evening, I slipped down and broke something, and oh, grandpa, I'm
so tired and hurty, and I'm so afraid you're hungry."
So the secret of Titee's jaunts out the railroad was out. In one of his
trips around the swamp-land, he had discovered the old man dying from
cold and hunger in the fields. Together they had found this cave, and
Titee had gathered the straw and brush that scattered itself over the
ground and made the bed. A poor old cow turned adrift by an ungrateful
master, had crept in and shared the damp dwelling. And thither Titee had
trudged twice a day, carrying his luncheon in the morning, and his
dinner in the evening, the sole support of a half-dead cripple.
"There's a crown in Heaven for that child," said the officer to whom the
case was referred.
And so there was, for we scattered winter roses on his little grave down
in old St. Rocque's cemetery. The cold and rain, and the broken leg had
told their tale.
ANARCHY ALLEY.
To the casual observer, the quaint, narrow, little alley that lies in
the heart of the city is no more than any other of the numerous
divisions of streets in which New Orleans delights. But to the idle
wanderer, or he whose mission down its four squares of much trodden
stones, is an aimless one,--whose eyes unforced to bend to the ground in
thought of sordid ways and means, can peer at will into its quaint
corners. Exchange Alley presents all the phases of a Latinized portion
of America, a bit of Europe, perhaps, the restless, chafing, anarchistic
Europe of to-day, in the midst of the quieter democratic institution of
our republic.
It is Bohemia, pure and simple, Bohemia, in all its stages, from the
beer saloon and the cheap book-store, to the cheaper cook shop and
uncertain lodging house. There the great American institution, the
wondrous monarch whom the country supports--the tramp--basks in superior
comfort and contented, unmolested indolence. Idleness and labor, poverty
and opulence, the honest, law-abiding workingman, and the reckless,
restless anarchist, jostle side by side, and brush each other's elbows
in terms of equality as they do nowhere else.
On the busiest thoroughfares in the city, just in the busiest part,
between two of the most crowded and conservative of cross-streets, lies
this alley of Latinism. One might almost pass it hurriedly, avoiding the
crowds that cluster at this section of the streets, but upon turning
into a narrow section, stone-paved, the place is entered, appearing to
end one square distant, seeming to bar itself from the larger buildings
by an aimless sort of iron affair, part railing, part posts. There is a
conservative book-store at the entrance on one side, and an even more
harmless clothing store on the other; then comes a saloon with many
blind doors, behind which are vistas of tables, crowded and crowded with
men drinking beer out of "globes," large, round, moony, common affairs.
There is a dingy, pension-claim office, with cripples and
sorrowful-looking women in black, sitting about on rickety chairs.
Somehow, there is always an impression with me that the mourning dress
and mournful looks are put on to impress the dispenser and adjuster. It
is wicked, but what can one do if impressions come?
There are more little cuddies of places, dye-shops, tailors, and
nondescript corners that seem to have no possible mission on earth and
are sadly conscious of their aimlessness. Then the railing is reached,
and the alley instead of ending has merely given itself an angular twist
to the right, and extends three squares further, to a great, pale green
dome, and stately entrance.
The calmly-thinking, quietly-laboring, cool and conservative world is
for the nonce left behind. With the first stepping across Customhouse
street, the place widens architecturally, and the atmosphere, too, seems
impregnated with a sort of mental freedom, conducive to dangerous
theorizing and broody reflections on the inequality of the classes. The
sun shines in a strip in the centre, yellow and elusive, like gold;
someone is rattling a gay galop on a piano somewhere; there is a sound
of mens' voices in a heated discussion, a long whiff of pipe-smoke
trails through the sunlight from the bar-room; the clink of glasses, the
chink of silver, and the high treble of a woman's voice scolding a
refractory child, mingle in incongruous melody.
Two-story houses all along; the first floor divided into cuddies, here a
paper store, displaying ten-cent novels of detective stories with
impossible cuts, illustrating impossible situations of the plot;
dye-shops, jewelers, tailors, tin-smiths, cook-shops, intelligence
offices--many of these, and some newspaper offices. On the second floor,
balconies, dingy, iron-railed, with sickly box-plants, and decrepit
garments airing and being turned and tended by dishevelled, slip-shod
women. Lodging-houses these, some of them, but one is forced to wonder
why do the tenants sun their clothes so often? The lines stretched from
posts to posts seem always filled with airing garments. Is it economy?
And do the owners of the faded vests and patched coats hide in dusky
corners while their only garments are receiving the benefit of Old Sol's
cleansing rays? And are the women with the indiscriminate tresses, near
relatives, or only the landladies? It would be something worth knowing
if one could.
Plenty of saloons--great, gorgeous, gaudy places, with pianos and
swift-footed waiters, tables and cards, and men, men, men. The famous
Three Brothers' Saloon occupies a position about midway the alley, and
at its doors, the acme, the culminating point, the superlative degree of
unquietude and discontent is reached. It is the headquarters of nearly
all the great labor organizations in the city. Behind its doors,
swinging as easily between the street and the liquor-fumed halls as the
soul swings between right and wrong, the disturbed minds of the
working-men become clouded, heated, and wrothily ready for deeds of
violence.
Outside on the pavements with hundreds of like-excited men, with angry
discussions and bitter recitals of complaints, the seeds of discord sown
some time since, perhaps, sprout afresh, blossom and bear fruits. Is
there a strike? Then special minions of the law are detailed to this
place, for violence and hatred of employers, insurrection and socialism
find here ready followers. Impromptu mass meetings are common, and
law-breaking schemes find their cradle beneath its glittering lights. It
is always thronged within and without, a veritable nursery of riot and
disorder.
And oh, Bohemia, pipes, indolence and beer! The atmosphere is
impregnated with it, the dust sifts it into your clothes and hair, the
sunlight filters it through your brain, the stray snatches of music now
and then beat it rhythmically into your mind. There are some who work,
yes, and a few places outside of the saloons that seem to be animated
with a business motive. There are even some who push their way briskly
through the aimless bodies of men,--but then there must be an
occasional anomaly to break the monotony, if nothing more.
It is so unlike the ordinary world, this bit of Bohemia, that one feels
a personal grievance when the marble entrance and great, green dome
become positive, solid, architectural facts, standing in all the grim
solemnity of the main entrance of the Hotel Royal on St. Louis Street,
ending, with a sudden return to aristocracy, this stamping ground for
anarchy.
IMPRESSIONS.
THOUGHT.
A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,
Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.
HOPE.
Wild seas of tossing, writhing waves,
A wreck half-sinking in the tortuous gloom;
One man clings desperately, while Boreas raves,
And helps to blot the rays of moon and star,
Then comes a sudden flash of light, which gleams on shores afar.
LOVE.
A bed of roses, pleasing to the eye,
Flowers of heaven, passionate and pure,
Upon this bed the youthful often lie,
And pressing hard upon its sweet delight,
The cruel thorns pierce soul and heart, and cause a woeful blight.
DEATH.
A traveller who has always heard
That on this journey he some day must go,
Yet shudders now, when at the fatal word
He starts upon the lonesome, dreary way.
The past, a page of joy and woe,--the future, none can say.
FAITH.
Blind clinging to a stern, stone cross,
Or it may be of frailer make;
Eyes shut, ears closed to earth's drear dross,
Immovable, serene, the world away
From thoughts--the mind uncaring for another day.
SALAMMBO.
BY GUSTAVE FLANBERT.