[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 109. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, November 29, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: "SEE, THEY'RE GETTING AWAY!' HE CRIED."]
HOW TOM PRIMROSE PROTECTED HIS FATHER.
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
Mr. Primrose arrived at home one morning just as his family were
gathering for breakfast. He had been for two days at a small town about
thirty miles distant, to which he had been summoned to assist in the
trial of a pair of noted criminals.
"You look tired out," said Mrs. Primrose.
"Tired enough," he said. "I have been up nearly all night."
"How did that happen?"
"Well, it was partly my own fault. I met my old friend Philip Sanford up
there; he was on the defense in the case I was prosecuting. We had a
grand tilt over it--fought each other vigorously all the way through.
The chief criminal shook his fist at me when I was making the closing
speech. I began to see that the case was going against me, and I pressed
the rascals pretty hard."
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Primrose, with an anxious face. "I am always in
fear of some of those desperate characters doing you some injury out of
revenge."
The gentleman laughed. "Don't worry yourself, dear," he said. "There is
much more to be feared from the rogues who go uncaught than from those
who feel the strong grasp of the law. But, as I was telling, the case
went to the jury about nine last night, and then Sanford and I got down
to a game of chess. If I didn't beat him at law, I beat him well at the
game, and it was one o'clock before we took heed of the time. Then, as
my train was due at three, it was not worth while to go to bed, so we
played and talked on. When I got to the station, I found the train was
behind time, so I lay on a bench till it came, at five, and here I am."
"You will take a rest now?"
"Not a bit," he said, opening some letters he had found waiting for him.
"Business is pressing just now. Ha! ha!" he exclaimed, "this is good
news. We'll have those rogues in the penitentiary yet."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Primrose.
"Why, I told you just now that I feared the jury would not convict on
the evidence, although it was convincing to me. Here is a letter from
the sheriff of Hancock County, who wishes that these same fellows be
held to answer to a charge of complicity in a bank robbery which took
place in that county some months since. If the jury fails to convict,
the prisoners must be re-arrested the moment they are discharged."
"Rather a damper on them, I should say," said Frank, with a chuckle.
"You'd be astonished to see what decent-looking men they are," continued
his father. "The chief criminal would impress you as having been trained
for a gentleman, and his accomplice is not much more than a boy; both
are well dressed. The daintiest little pearl-mounted revolver I ever saw
was displayed in court as the instrument used in their last scrape;
Frank, you must take a run up to Homer on the nine train."
"He can not," said Mrs. Primrose. "I'm sorry, but he sprained his foot
yesterday, and must keep quiet for a few days."
"That's bad--for the boy and for me. I must hurry down town and send
some one else."
"Oh, papa, let _me_ go!" said Tom. "Please do, sir. I've been up there
twice with you, you know, and I'd know just where to go, and you could
tell me just what to do."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Frank. "'Heedless Tom' on important business! Why, he
would be sure to have the judge and sheriff under arrest, and the
burglars at large. He can't help doing everything backward, you know."
"Come, Frank, don't be so sharp," said his mother. "Tom is trying to be
more careful lately, I think."
"Yes," said Mr. Primrose, in a teasing tone, "he is not at all like the
boy I sent from the office last week to buy a pamphlet called 'Westward
Ho!' and who brought me instead a garden hoe."
There was a laugh at Tom's expense, but he persisted, coaxingly:
"Do let me go, papa. You know I wouldn't be careless about your
business."
"I guess you may go, Tom. Now listen. Find Sheriff Carroll either at his
house or at the court-house, and give him this letter. Take the twelve
train home, and be sure you are on time. There is money for your fare."
So Mr. Primrose departed, while Tom, highly delighted at the prospect of
such an unexpected little jaunt, went to get ready. He meant to act
through the whole matter with such caution and judgment as to fully
convince his father of the propriety of intrusting him with the
weightiest concerns. And his first care was to leave for the station in
such good time as to put all fear of his missing the train out of the
question.
Alas, poor Tom!
"Now, where's my hat?"
This inquiry was a sound of dismay in the Primrose household. Tom's hat
was always missing. There was no spot in the house, yard, barn, or
garden where it might not be hopefully searched for.
"Where did you have it last?" some one asked. Some one was always sure
to ask that.
"I don't know--yes, I remember putting it on Rover's head, and he ran
away with it. No, I found it after that behind the coal-house. I had it
when we were playing hide-and-seek last evening."
Tom was usually left to do his own hunting, but in such an emergency as
this all the family energy was aroused. Uneasiness gathered in every
face as time went on.
"Let me see your old hat," said his mother at last. But the old hat
proved to be too shabby to be thought of. Then his brother's hat was
tried, but Frank was three years older, and it would not do.
"Wear it down to Mr. Ramsay, the hatter's," said his mother. "Tell him
of your difficulty, and he will lend you a hat for a few hours." But Tom
did not like to do this, and he continued his hunt longer than was
prudent. At length his little sister came from the barn with a note of
triumph and the missing hat. It had been lying in a corner of the
hay-loft, where he had hidden the evening before. He seized it
gratefully, and was off like the wind.
The locomotive was hissing in the station as Tom, hot and out of breath,
asked for a ticket to Homer. Then he felt for his pocket-book in one
pocket and then another, growing hotter as he failed to find it. After
thorough search he concluded, with intense dismay, that his run must
have shaken it from his pocket. He knew he had no time for thought. At
the distance of about half a block was situated the office of one of his
father's friends. He rushed over to it and told his trouble in a few
words.
"Hurry, Tom, hurry," said the gentleman, as already the premonitory puff
of the engine sounded. "Don't stop for a ticket, but board the train--if
you can; but--_Stop, boy!_ Hallo, there!" he shouted; "don't let that
boy jump on that train!"
He ran after Tom as he flew toward the now-moving train, which the boy
was fully resolved to board. But he was seized by friendly hands.
"You can't do that, my boy--no, _sir_," as Tom struggled. "Have you no
concern for your life or limbs?"
"I _must_ go on that train; I _will_," cried poor Tom, in utter despair.
But it moved pitilessly on, while a few men gathered near to inquire
into his trouble.
"It was about some business for my father," he explained, hardly able to
force back his tears, as he realized what a terrible failure he had made
at the very outset. "It was very important, and what shall I do?"
"There's a freight train going up," said a brakeman.
"When?" asked Tom, eagerly.
"In about half an hour. It'll be slow, though. You'll get to Homer about
eleven, if that'll do you."
Tom could only hope it might.
After a ride made long by anxiety he stood at last before Sheriff
Carroll, and presented his letter, waiting breathlessly to hear what he
might say.
"Too bad! too bad! I discharged those scamps not more than an hour ago.
Tell your father, though, that we may stand a chance of nabbing them
yet. I'll have all the trains watched, and send out on the country
roads. That sort are very apt to strike across country." He bustled away
to set things moving, while Tom, full of bitter mortification, slowly
walked back to the station.
He watched eagerly as the return train came in, in hope of seeing some
kind of a "scrimmage," as he mentally expressed it, which might look
like an arrest. But nothing of the sort occurred. He did not even see a
force of policemen drawn up with threatening aspect, as he had expected,
and made up his mind that Carroll was not up to his duty in this matter.
His inexperienced gaze failed to take note of two or three keen-eyed men
standing carelessly around in plain clothes, who would certainly have
pressed the hospitalities of the village of Homer upon any stray
criminals so warmly as to enable them to arrive at a speedy decision to
travel no further at present.
As Tom rode along, he felt too much depressed at first by the very bad
result of his undertaking to pay much heed to what was going on around
him. But he suddenly jerked himself from the corner into which he had
settled, and sat up with every sense on the alert.
"I told Primrose--revenged on him--jury agreed--got off--that I would go
down--have it out with him--"
This was what came to his ears, mingled with the rattle of the cars. The
words were spoken by one of two men who occupied the seat behind him.
Tom ventured a peep over the back of his seat. They certainly did not
look like desperate characters; but what was he to think of what he had
heard? His father had made special mention of the very respectable
appearance of the two men he had been prosecuting.
The older man had such a pleasant face that Tom was beginning to feel
ashamed of his suspicions, when he suddenly bobbed down in his seat,
with a cold chill at his heart. The man was examining something he held
in his hand--a thing so small and delicate that at first glance Tom had
taken it for a pocket-knife, but it was a pearl-mounted revolver. The
full gravity of the situation now forced itself upon his excited mind.
This was the Chief Criminal spoken of by his father, the younger man
being, of course, the Accomplice. They were handling the very revolver
which had been shown during the trial. This man's fierce anger had been
excited by his father's vigorous attempt to consign him to merited
punishment, and his words fully indicated that he was now on his way to
seek revenge. How? Poor Tom fairly writhed in his seat as all the
fearful possibilities of the case came before him, and he was obliged to
own to himself that but for his petty acts of carelessness these men
would now be safe under lock and key.
He left the car, full of the one idea of using any and every means of
insuring his father's safety. Hastening to his office, he learned that
he had been absent from it most of the day. It was supposed that he had
been called out of town again. Reaching home, hoping to find him there,
Tom learned that he had not been up to dinner, but was still expected,
though it was long after the usual hour. Hot, tired, and anxious, Tom
made but a poor attempt at the dinner urged upon him, and took his way
to the front part of the house to watch for his father. He established
himself on a sofa near a bay-window in the parlor, with a very heavy
pressure of care on his heart. He knew it would not do to tell his
nervous mother: even poor, heedless Tom was thoughtful of her comfort.
And he did not want Frank to know anything about it if he could help it.
It might all come out right yet, and then only his father need know.
* * * * *
"Tell him not to hurry--we can wait," said a voice in the room. Tom
rubbed his eyes and stared about, as the maid showed in two strangers.
He was wide awake in a moment, and drew himself into a corner of the
sofa where he was nearly concealed by a curtain which divided the
bay-window from the room. The maid drew aside the curtains of another
window, and threw it open. And there, in the bright sunlight, Tom saw,
with fright and horror, which at first took from him the power to move
or speak, the Chief Criminal and the Accomplice seat themselves
comfortably in his father's house.
What now? With a desperate effort at self-control he tried to think what
it was best to do. It rested on him now not only to insure his father's
safety, but to prevent the escape of these men.
He presently got up, and going quietly to a door which led into another
room, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he turned to the
window near which the men sat. The older one addressed him pleasantly.
"You are a son of Mr. Primrose?" he said, offering his hand.
Tom bowed slightly, but took no notice of the extended hand. He lowered
the window and fastened it, hoping that the burglars, if they tried to
open it, might not at first understand the catch, thus giving more time.
He then passed into the hall, noiselessly locking that door also.
Frank was nursing his sprained foot on the back piazza. In answer to
Tom's excited inquiries he told him their father had returned home a
short time since, had dined, and gone to his room. His mother was in the
kitchen canning fruit. Glad not to meet her, Tom sprang up the stairs,
and knocking at his father's door, begged to be let in.
"I am bathing, Tom," was the answer; "wait a little."
"Oh, father," pleaded Tom, "_do_ let me speak to you just one minute."
Tom's claims to be heard were usually urgent, so his father only said,
"Have a little patience, my boy; in ten minutes I'll hear all you have
to say."
Ten minutes! What might not happen in ten minutes! If he waited up
there, the criminals might, finding themselves shut in, guess that they
were under suspicion, and make good their escape. If he went to call
help, his father might, in his absence, run into the very danger he was
seeking to save him from.
A bright thought came to him. So long as his father remained in his room
he must be safe. Tom turned the key in the door, and locked him in.
Then, with all the speed which terror could lend to a boy's nimble feet,
he ran to the police station, a few blocks distant, reaching it in a
condition which only left him able to convey a general idea that
something dreadful was going on at Mr. Primrose's. Two policemen were
there. First sending a message to head-quarters for further force, they
followed Tom in all haste, a small crowd of by-standers falling into
line, and gathering strength as they neared the Primrose domicile. As
they came to the gate Tom saw the Accomplice trying to open the window.
"See! they're getting away!" he cried. And the policemen bounded into
the house and seized the two men. At this moment a heavy pounding was
heard overhead. Tom turned paler than before.
"There must be more of them up stairs," he shrieked; "they are getting
after my father."
He tore up the stairs, and found the room still locked; but the pounding
kept on. He turned the key with a trembling hand.
"Who locked me in?" exclaimed his father. "Such foolery--" He stopped
in surprise as half a dozen men tramped hastily up stairs.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Primrose? Are the rascals in there?"
"Hurt? No. What's the matter? what is all this fuss about?" He stared in
amazement at the crowd pressing into the hall. "Is the house on fire?"
"Not a bit, sir; but we've got two of the men in there."
He pushed his way down stairs, and was met by several policemen, who had
made their way through the crowd outside. As the principal excitement
seemed in the parlor, he turned that way. The eyes of all there were
fixed upon two quiet-looking men, who stood with a policeman's hand on a
shoulder of each.
"Philip Sanford! What does all this mean?"
"I must ask you that," was the answer. "I came to your house on a
friendly visit, and to introduce my nephew, who is desirous of becoming
a law student in your office"--motioning toward the younger man--"and I
find myself under arrest."
The policemen dropped their hands and looked toward Mr. Primrose. Mr.
Primrose looked at them.
"Why are you here, men?" he asked.
"The little chap wanted us pretty badly," said one of them, turning to
Tom with a laugh.
"I--thought they were the criminals, papa--had come to hurt you, and I
couldn't speak to you, and I locked you up. I didn't know what to
do--and you said the burglars were such nice-looking men." A laugh arose
at this.
"Go on," said his father; "I don't understand yet."
"The burglars were gone when I got to Homer; they sat behind me on the
cars, and talked about being revenged on you, papa; and one of them had
that revolver." Tom's voice broke, and he seized his father's hand.
The two criminals laughed heartily.
"I believe I see into it now," said Mr. Sanford. "I said I was coming
here to get revenge for the beating you gave me at chess. This
revolver"--he took it from his pocket--"was given me this morning by the
burglar I have been defending, as a token of his gratitude, as he
expressed it, for the able manner in which I had conducted his case. And
this poor little fellow"--looking kindly at Tom--"has been suffering
agonies of fear for his father's safety ever since I showed it in the
cars."
"So, friends," said Mr. Primrose, looking around, "I thank you all for
coming to my protection, but you see I do not need it."
The police led the way out, and others followed, with increasing
merriment at the mistake which had been made. A shout arose also from
the crowd outside as it left the premises.
"I beg your pardon, sir; and yours," faltered poor Tom, with his
strongest effort to keep back the tears of mortification at the terrible
blunder he had committed.
"No pardon is necessary," said Mr. Sanford. "If my own small boy lives
to your age, the best I can wish for him is that he may be as brave and
energetic as you have been to-day, and as faithful in watching for his
father's safety, even if it sometimes leads him into a mistake. You'll
take my hand now, my boy, won't you?"
Tom grasped it, and then escaped to his room. There lay his pocket-book,
just where he had left it when he changed his clothes in the morning. He
threw himself on the bed and cried till sleep came to relieve his
troubles.
When he awoke it was twilight, and his mother was beside him.
"Come, dear," she said, "they are all waiting for you. Yes, you must go
down," as Tom shook his head: "they will not go to tea till you go down.
And look at this--your father received it about an hour ago."
It was a telegram from Homer, and read thus:
"Have caught the men, and shipped to Hancock County.
"CARROLL."
[Illustration: "THE HUNT IS UP, THE MORN IS BRIGHT AND
GRAY."--SHAKSPEARE.]
THE HUNTING SEASON.
BY W. A. LINN.
The boy whose fortune it is to live in the country looks forward to the
advent of autumn with eagerness, if happily he belongs to that large
class of boys who have a passion for hunting. There are some people who
object to this trait in the character of boys, as indicative of cruelty,
but I doubt if they fully understand the trait. Very few hunters, old or
young, take pleasure in the mere act of killing birds and animals. If
this was the chief end in view, they could secure it without days of
toilsome tramping. A hunter's pleasure is made up of a great deal more
than success in filling his bag. If he is to be really an expert in his
work, he must study carefully the habits of the game which he pursues,
become acquainted with the country over which he is to hunt, and submit
to long practice with his gun or rifle.
The most common object of pursuit with boy hunters in our New England
and Middle States is the rabbit. The more mature sportsman may look with
scorn on the "cotton-tail" if he pleases, and rejoice more over one
dead quail than the capture of a dozen rabbits. Not so the boy. With
boys, _size_ counts in a good many ways. Then, too, in rabbit-hunting,
boys get a variety of sport. They can find time after school to set a
few snares or dead-falls in the nearest thicket. Or on a Saturday,
taking such dogs as they own or can borrow (most dogs, like most boys,
seem to be ready to hunt rabbits), they can set out for the brush lots
and stubble fields, and revel in excitement as the sharp bark of the
dogs lets them know that a fresh track has been struck.
When cold weather and snow come, the rabbit is apt to desert his
snuggery in the fields for a home in some well-built stone wall. Then
the boy hunter lets the rabbit betray himself, and very plainly he does
it; for no boy who is once shown a rabbit track in newly fallen snow can
ever mistake for it the track of any other animal: two dots before, and
two behind, like this, · · :, are the rabbit's handwriting, and a little
skill soon traces him to his hiding-place.
To secure game birds requires more skill with the gun, and a more
intimate knowledge of their habits. Our principal game birds in the
Eastern States are the woodcock, the quail, and the ruffled grouse, or,
as it is called in some States, the partridge. Of these the woodcock is
the most mysterious, and by epicures the most highly prized. It is the
only one of the group that seeks a warmer climate in winter.
With the first advent of spring weather the woodcock returns, often
nesting so early that the spring floods destroy its eggs. By the first
of July the young birds are almost grown, and in too many States the law
allows them to be killed after that date. The summer woodcock is,
however, no such bird as it will become if allowed to moult, and then to
grow fat in the corn fields and brakes. October finds it strong of wing,
ready for a night flight of many miles; then it may be sought not only
in the low grounds, but on the alder-covered hill-sides.
The quail is the best known of all our game birds, because of its
remaining with us all the year round, because of its easily recognized
note, "Bob White," and because, timid as it is, it loves civilization,
and lives on cultivated lands.
The ruffled grouse may be called the king of our Northern game birds.
Delighting in mountains and thick swamps, wild, and strong of wing, the
hunter who brings one down when under full headway must be of steady
nerve, quick sight, and skillful with long practice.
If a modern artist were to draw a sketch to illustrate an article on our
hunting season, it would have to differ very much from the pretty
picture on the preceding page. The spear and cross-bow are weapons
unknown to modern American hunters, and instead of the winding of the
horn, there is only the shrill note of the dog whistle. And we may say,
Alas the change! The spear was not always thrown aright; it and the
arrow hit but one object at a time, and had a limit to their flight. But
nowadays, with our highly trained dogs, and our ever-loaded
breech-loading guns, able to mow down a whole flock at once, what chance
has bird or animal, however well provided by nature with means of
safety?
Little is the wonder that our game grows scarcer year by year. With no
vast landed estates, as in England, to be kept stocked and preserved, it
will not be very long before woodcock, quail, and grouse will be
curiosities even to the farmers' boys, who will have to invent some new
pleasure to take the place of the hunting sports of which their
grandfathers will tell them.
[Illustration: CLAVICHORD.]
THE PIANO-FORTE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
I wonder how many young people who sit down to practice or take a lesson
at the piano-forte know the story of the instrument now familiar in
every household of the civilized world. Look at it as we have it to-day,
almost perfect in size and quality and tone. It is capable of producing
the fullest and the softest sounds, just as its name indicates, for
_piano_ means soft, and _forte_ means loud. Can you realize that little
more than a hundred years ago pianos were a rarity? Only one or two
makers produced any instruments worthy of the name, and few households
possessed one. "But," I can hear my young readers exclaim, "the music we
play on our pianos--Bach and Haydn, as well as old English airs--were
certainly played on some horizontal instrument." Of course they were,
but not on our kind of piano-fortes; and the story I am going to tell
will take you back far into the sixteenth century, when ladies of rank,
and monks and nuns, and some troubadours, had the instruments from which
our piano is descended. These were known as the clavichord and the
virginal.
The clavichord was perfected about 1500, and the name was derived from
"clavi" (a key) and "chorda" (a string); so you see at once that it
contained the two principal elements of our piano-forte. Although it
went out of use in Bach's day, yet that dear old master, whose
_gavottes_ all our young people are playing now, loved to use it. The
piano-forte had been invented, but Bach loved his old clavichord. As he
sat thrumming it, I think he liked to fancy himself away in the early
sixteenth-century days, when Henry the Seventh's court enjoyed madrigals
and queer little bits of music on the same sort of an instrument.
Following the clavichord, we have that graceful, romantic instrument
called the virginal. This was an improvement on the clavichord, and
toward the close of the sixteenth century we find its name in poetry,
romance, biography--indeed, in history.
[Illustration: VIRGINAL.]
The virginal produced a low, tinkling sort of sound not unlike that of
the German zither. Only ladies of quality, musicians, or nuns or monks
in convents, performed upon the virginal, and so I think we associate it
with all the grace and beauty and the slow stateliness of that romantic
epoch. When I think of a virginal, it seems to me to bring many
suggestions of rich colors, softly fading lights, the flash of jewels,
or the movement of white hands, oak wainscoting, and tapestried
walls--perhaps some very sad and sorrowing heart, perhaps some young and
hopeful one, but always something that is picturesque and dreamy.
Perhaps we would not think it so sweet an instrument to-day, but
assuredly in the sixteenth century it moved people to very tender,
elevated thoughts. Shakspeare wrote of it with deep feeling, and there
are some quaint lines of Spenser's about it. "My love doth sit ...
playing alone, careless, on her heavenlie virginals."
In 1583, Sir James Melvil was sent by Mary Stuart to England as
Ambassador, and in his memoirs he relates how he heard Queen Elizabeth
play. He says that Lord Hunsden took him up into a "quiet gallery,"
where, unknown to the Queen, he might hear her play. The two gentlemen
stood outside a tapestried doorway, from within which came the soft
tinkle-tinkle of the virginal. I wish he had told us what the Queen was
playing. Presently, it appears, his curiosity to see her Majesty
overcame his prudence, and he softly raised the curtain, and went into
the room. The Queen played on, "a melody which ravished him," he says,
but for some moments did not see that any one was listening. Is it not a
pretty picture?
At that time the Queen had not lost the charm of youth, and in her
splendid dress, with her head down-bent, her figure at the quaint
virginal against the rich and sombre colors of the room, must have
looked charming, and the silent Scotch gentleman just inside the doorway
listening in rapt attention: it is so poetic a picture of the time that
we can almost hear her music, and if we read on a little further, we see
that the Queen, suddenly seeing Sir James, came forward, remonstrating
with him for having come in, for, she said, she was not used to play
before people, but only to "shun melancholy." Then she sat down upon a
low cushion, and honest Sir James, according to the custom of the time,
fell upon his knees before her. The Queen, with a truly feminine spirit,
inquired whether he thought she or Mary Queen of Scots played the best.
Sir James said that his sovereign played "_reasonably, for a queen_."
This answer would not serve to-day, as the Queen of England is one of
the most perfect of amateur musicians.
[Illustration: ITALIAN SPINET, ORNAMENTED WITH PRECIOUS STONES.]
The virginal and spinet belong to the same period. From them, as need of
a more elaborate performance grew, we have the harpsichord. A very fine
harpsichord looked something like a grand piano, but it had two rows of
keys, one upper and one lower. I shall not here go into a description of
the harpsichord. It is only needful to say that it was the outgrowth of
clavichord and virginal and spinet, and had some of the defects as well
as the good points of all three.
[Illustration: HANDEL'S FAVORITE HARPISCHORD.]
Our great-grandmothers played upon harpsichords. They were tinkling
little affairs, yet I fancy that Mozart's and Haydn's music must have
sounded very quaint and pleasing upon them. Where have they all vanished
to, I wonder?--along with the flowery brocaded gowns, the slender fans,
the powder and patches and paint, of that dear old time?
In an old house I once visited, a harpsichord of seventeen hundred and
something used to stand neglected and disused in an upper hall.
Sometimes we children thrummed waltzes upon it; sometimes I remember our
getting out a faded old music-book with the picture of a shepherdess on
it, and picking out the funny little songs that were printed there a
hundred years ago. On the fly-leaf of the book was written in a very
flourishy hand, "To Isabel, from J----." Who was Isabel, and who was J.,
we used to wonder.
I can fancy that the music she played to please her mamma and papa, and
perhaps her uncles and aunts, was of a very primitive order, for when
harpsichords were used, young ladies were not at all proficient. Music
was then considered a "genteel" sort of accomplishment, and good masters
were very rare, and never tried to make their pupils do more than strike
the notes correctly and in good "dum-dum" sort of time. Consider our
advantages now, and yet I fancy those young people of "Isabel's" day
valued their musical instruction much more than we do ours.
[Illustration: PIANO OF ABOUT 1777.]
Well, then, from this pretty, picturesque harpsichord period, we find
ourselves by slow degrees in that of the piano, and I suppose the first
thing you will wish to know is how a piano-forte differs from these
other instruments of which I have been writing. The principal difference
is that the strings are struck with a hammer. About the beginning of the
eighteenth century this idea had originated with three men at once--an
Italian named Cristofali, a Frenchman named Marius, and a German named
Schröter; but all investigators seem convinced that Cristofali was the
real originator. His ideas were the best. So, later in the century,
when harpsichords began to be thought incomplete, different makers tried
to produce something better, and the result was the primitive
piano-forte.
At this time the composer Sebastian Bach was in Berlin. Frederick the
Great was eager to hear him play, and as that famous sovereign possessed
several of the new piano-fortes (or forte-pianos, as they then were
called), Bach came one evening to the palace, where a crowd of gay
ladies and gentlemen were assembled.
The composer had to go from room to room, trying first one of the new
pianos, then another. These instruments were manufactured in Germany,
but, later, English and French pianos took the palm, and about the
beginning of this century American ladies were growing proficient in the
art of piano-playing--proficient at least for that day. Have you not all
seen your grandmammas' music-books, in which "The Battle of Prague" is
an honored "piece"? True, there were hundreds of nobler works, but only
public performers seem to have attempted them.
As time went on, and the interest in the instrument grew, the mechanism
of the piano-forte was improved, and at this date (1881), it is
considered perfect. Here and there as you play, as you listen to the
sounds of the little hammer falling on the strings, let your thoughts
wander back to Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth of England, with their
virginals and spinets--indeed, farther into the' realm of poetic, dreamy
sound, for beyond these were clavicytheriums, citoles and citherns,
dulcimers and psalteries, and in the East, among the people whom we see
now in sculpture, a whole line of lyres and harps and lutes.
It may not seem that so far away as early Egyptian days was the first
idea of our piano, yet certainly such is the case. In some far Eastern
country you might see, graven in stone of centuries gone by, a figure
holding an instrument dimly shadowing that on which you now may play all
written music.
PERILS AND PRIVATIONS.
BY JAMES PAYN.
THE WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR."--(_Continued._)
The wanderers still occasionally came across the natives. Once, on
arriving at a village, they obtained a young bullock in exchange for
buttons, a few of which the savages had left on their coats; and that
the distribution of this godsend might be equal, the whole was cut in
pieces, and, just as I have seen done with a cake at school, one of the
party, standing with his back to it, named the person who should have
the piece held up. But generally the natives denied them everything.
Once they strove to barter some poor relic of their property for a calf,
which the others appeared to agree to, "but no sooner had they got the
price than the calf was driven away."
On one occasion only did they exhibit the slightest pity. On the party
coming upon another dead whale, a band of natives surrounded them, but
on perceiving their sad condition, and that there was really nothing
more to steal, they forbore to molest them, and one of them even lent
his lance, with which some chunks of blubber were cut out.
A little afterward they found two planks on a sandy bank, in each of
which was a nail. "Elated," as we are told, "with this valuable
discovery," they set fire to the planks, and getting out the nails,
"flattened them between two stones into something like knives." A few
yards further on, by turning up the sand, they found water, of which
they had been much in want; and here, with much thankfulness, they
rested. This was the last day of what seemed to these poor souls good
fortune.
They did indeed fall in with a dead shark, but it was in such an
advanced stage of decay that "the liver only could be eaten." Nay,
driven by the extremity of hunger, the carpenter ate of some deadly
berries, and was poisoned. Now this man it was who from the first, until
the hour of his death, had taken care of the little boy; who had striven
to relieve those fatigues which his tender limbs could so little endure;
"who had heard his complaints with pity; who had fed him when he could
obtain wherewithal to do it," and who had lulled his weary little body
to rest.
No human work more commends itself to our admiration than that of this
poor carpenter, who reminds us, indeed, of the Carpenter's Son with his
"Suffer little children to come unto me." Even at this distant time,
when that poor boy has been a hundred years "where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest," the tears rise to our eyes when
we think of his forlorn condition, deprived of his noble protector.
"I will take him," said the steward, however, who had now succeeded to
the command, and that good man kept his word. The natives never gave
them so much as a drink of water, though "now and then the women gave a
draught of milk to the little boy," and the little party began to break
down from sheer fatigue and privation. When this took place, from hard
necessity there was no chance but for the rest to leave them.
[Illustration: "THEY CARRIED HIM BY TURNS."]
Only they never dreamed of leaving the boy. "It was marvellous," we are
told, how he supported the journey (and, alas! how much more marvellous,
since he was fated not to survive it after all). "Where the path was
even and good," says John Hynes, in his simple fashion, "the child
walked, and was able to keep pace with the party; when they came to deep
sand or long grass, the people carried him by turns." His only duty was
to keep their fire alight while they explored the sand for food.
It will be remembered that, having no flint and steel, they always
carried torches; and once, in rounding a bluff to shorten the way, the
surf put them out; they came, however, upon the remains of a fire which
some Caffre women had lighted, "and joyfully rekindled them." In
crossing the rivers where there was a ford, they tied their rags in a
bundle, fastened it round their heads, and in it they stuck their
brands, and thus kept them dry. Sometimes great storms would come on,
and the rain fall so heavily that the men had to hold their canvas
frocks over their fire to prevent its being extinguished. Without fire,
they would have been lost indeed.
Many times, from causes over which they had no control, the little party
separated, but they never forgot one another. Those before used to write
upon the sand whatever direction could be of benefit to those behind;
such as, "Turn in here, and you will find wood and water." It makes the
heart bleed to think that so much tenderness and good-fellowship,
maintained under such trying circumstances, should have failed in the
end, and have been shown, as it were, for nothing. And yet it was not
for nothing. It is impossible to believe that those brave men have not
gained their reward, and some great reward for their terrible
sufferings. And as to "use," it should be of great and good use to us
all to have such an example set before us.
Sometimes those left behind would turn up again, having proceeded, when
a little refreshed, by some shorter way; but they had always the same
tale of ill-usage and privation to tell. Hynes himself, having been
wounded by the natives, was left for dead on one occasion, but
recollecting the way his companions intended to pursue by great
exertions he overtook them. "I shall bear the scar of that lance wound
to my grave," he says.
One day the cooper died, and was buried in the sand. This happened in
Hynes's absence, and as he had an affection for the man, he asked to be
shown the spot; but on arriving at it, the body had already been dug up
and carried away by some wild animal, as could be perceived by its
foot-prints. The steward and his charge were now taken ill, and since
the rest could not find it in their hearts to leave the child, they
staid with him. "Having prepared early in the morning whatever could be
obtained for breakfast, and willing to treat his tender frame with all
the indulgence in their power, they meant to call him when everything
was ready. He still rested near the fire, where all had slept during the
night before; but on going to wake him, they found his soul had taken
flight to another world." These are the words in which John Hynes
describes the misfortune which he evidently considers the worst that had
hitherto befallen them. As for the steward, "the loss," we are told,
"of one who had been so long the object of his care nearly overcame him.
It was with the utmost difficulty his companions got him along."
Presently Robert Fitzgerald asks for a shell of water; Hynes supplies
him with one, which he drinks with great avidity. He then asks for
another, which, "having received, he swallows with equal relish, and
laying himself down, instantly expires." They all thought this a very
happy death, and were envious of it. Then William Fruel sinks exhausted
on the sand; his companions from necessity go on to seek wood and water,
but promise to return to him. Turning their eyes back, they see him
crawling after them; but on returning for him after a few hours, they
find some wild beast has carried him away.
It would be painful to describe in detail what they now suffered;
"former distresses were not to be compared to it." One after another
drops from exhaustion; the rest "shake hands with him, and recommending
him to Heaven for that assistance which they themselves can not afford,
leave him to expire." The party of forty-three are at length reduced to
three, John Hynes, Evans, and Wormington, and the senses of even these
are so impaired that they can hardly hear or see. One morning the
torments of thirst become so intolerable that Wormington begs the two
others to cast lots with him as to who shall die for the rest, that by
drinking his blood the other two may survive. To which Hynes replies
that if he (Hynes) drops, they may do what they will with him, but as
long as he can walk he will consent to no such thing. The idea is then
abandoned by common consent, nor is it renewed when Wormington falls,
and "with one feeble effort to rise, stretches himself on the shore,
burying his right hand in the sand."
The next morning the two survivors perceive some objects which to their
failing powers look like "large birds." They turn out to be four of
their own party, who had been left behind, now nearly blind, and almost
reduced to idiocy. It was a most ghastly meeting. Since they could no
longer search narrowly for food, they would certainly have now starved
to death but for watching the motions of certain sea-birds, which, after
scratching in the sand, they perceived let something drop out of their
beaks. On searching for themselves, the poor men found that the birds
were catching shell-fish which had burrowed in the sand.
On the one hundred and seventeenth day of their journey, (though they
knew nothing themselves of dates) these six unfortunates at last met
with a European--a Dutch settler. "Their joy was such that, combined
with their weak condition, it could only be expressed by convulsive
movements." But "after gaining some composure," they learned they were
within the limits of the settlements, and not above three hundred miles
from the Cape of Good Hope.
They were received with the utmost hospitality, which it seemed was
offered with some imprudence, since on being supplied with bread and
milk, "their voracity was such as to have almost proved their
destruction." After being carefully nursed, and in some degree
recovered, they were forwarded in carts to the nearest town, which was
two hundred miles distant. "During the whole way, wherever they passed
the night, the farmers assembling to hear their sad story, and
supplying them with all of which they stood in need."
Nay, notwithstanding that England and Holland were then at war, the
Dutch Governor of the Cape of Good Hope dispatched a very strong
expedition through the country in quest of the other castaways, should
any still remain. They met William Hubberly, servant of the second mate,
staggering on alone, "melancholy and forlorn." On other parts of the
road they met seven Lascars and two of the black female servants. From
these they learned that five days after the ship's company had separated
another division of the party took place, but what had become of the
others they knew not. They had seen the Captain's coat, however, on one
of the natives, from which they gathered that he was dead. No further
information could be obtained, and so violent was the opposition of the
Caffres that the expedition was compelled to return.
Seven years afterward Colonel Gordon, while travelling in Caffraria, was
informed by a native that there was a white woman among his countrymen,
with a child whom she frequently embraced, and over whom she wept
bitterly. Bad health compelled the Colonel to return home, but he sent
her a letter in French, Dutch, and English, begging that some sign, such
as a burned stick, or other token, might be returned in answer to it,
when every exertion should be made for her recovery; but nothing more
was ever heard of her. Nevertheless, for years there was a general
belief at the Cape that some of the unfortunate ladies still survived,
who had it in their power to return, but that having been compelled to
marry Caffre chieftains, and "apprehending that their place in society
was lost, and that they should be degraded in the eyes of their equals,"
they resolved to abide where they were.
[Illustration: THE DOLLS' RECEPTION AT REPUBLICAN HALL, THIRTY-THIRD
STREET, NEW YORK.--DRAWN BY MRS. JESSIE SHEPHERD.]
THE DOLLS' RECEPTION.
This beautiful engraving will give our little readers an idea of an
entertainment which is now being held in Republican Hall, Thirty-third
Street, New York city, where, instead of grown people or children being
the important personages, three hundred dollies are dressed up in
magnificent toilets, waiting to receive the visits and admiration of
their friends.
The dollies do not talk, with the exception of a few who say "Papa" and
"Mamma"; but they are all arranged in groups representing beautiful
pictures. Some of these have backgrounds of painted scenery, and all
have appropriate surroundings to perfect the tableaux.
There are a "model school," with dormitory, school-room, and
play-ground; a christening, with the minister and baby and a party of
friends; a kitchen, with a whole family of darkies; a dozen children
"coasting"; a real log-cabin, to be used as a baby-house; and last, and
prettiest of all, the heroes and heroines of every nursery: Mother Goose
and her children, dressed in costumes which the modern picture-books
have made popular; Red Riding-hood, Polly Flinders, Bobby Shaftoe and
the little lady he left behind him, Little Bopeep, Mistress Mary, Tom
Tucker, Willy Boz, Tom, Tom, the Piper's son, and his audience, and a
great many others.
Among such a vast number of dollies there are of course a great many
babies. These are all placed in the "Nursery," where they are waited
upon and attended by full-grown dolls, dressed neatly, and with pretty
little nurses' caps. Everything is provided in the way of cradles,
rattles, and baby-jumpers for these very little folks, and they are so
well cared for and amused that their papas and mammas, who are busy
taking part in the tableaux, need have no concern about them.
Taking it altogether, the exhibition is a pleasant place to visit. The
dolls are all well dressed, and will be sold at prices which, by
comparison, are not unreasonable; but they will not be removed from
their places in the tableaux until after the exhibition is concluded.
And now for the object. Several years ago a half-dozen young ladies set
to work to raise three thousand dollars to build a little cottage
somewhere on the sea-shore, which might afford a comfortable summer home
to such of the children as were able to bear removal from the Children's
Hospital, on Thirty-fourth Street and Ninth Avenue. This institution is
managed by the Sisters of St. Mary, an Episcopal sisterhood, and so well
managed that the ladies wished to place the little summer home also in
their care.
The three thousand dollars was raised long ago; but the project grew, as
such things will, and the house which was built last spring cost, with
the land, about nine thousand dollars. It is situated on Rockaway Beach,
between the large new hotel and Far Rockaway, and will accommodate about
forty children. Some of those who are taken from the hospital will
remain all summer; others will go for ten days or two weeks. In this way
the ladies hope to give health and pleasure to a great many poor little
children, who must otherwise suffer in tenement-houses all summer.
The home will be called "St. Mary's by the Sea." It will be opened early
next summer, and the inmates will be very glad to receive a visit from
any of their friends who are interested in the work.
PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.
WILLIAM S. GILBERT.
If the name of the author of _Pinafore_ were as widely known as is his
work, William S. Gilbert would be one of the most celebrated of living
persons. This gentleman, to whom we owe that delightful comic opera, is
forty-five years of age, and a lawyer by profession, though he does not
now practice law. Unlike "Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B.," Mr. Gilbert does
not "stick close to his desk," but does "go to sea." In fact, he wrote a
great deal of _Pinafore_ on board the yacht _Pleione_, of which he is
the owner and captain, and doubtless "a right good captain, too." He has
a companion who never leaves him, whose name is Roy. Roy, of course, is
a dog, and besides being a dog he is also a capital sailor, for his
master never goes to sea without him.
It must not be supposed that when Mr. Gilbert and his friend Arthur
Sullivan have finished their opera, and placed it in the theatre
manager's hands, their work is done. If you were to call at Mr.
Gilbert's house while an opera is in preparation at the theatre, you
might find him in his library, with two or three other persons, having a
private performance on their own account.