“I don’t know about going at once. This _Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

office. How far is it, and what’s the trouble?”

“We are only three squares away, just here in Custom-house Street.”

The speaker began to add a faltering enumeration of some very grave

symptoms. The Doctor noticed that he was slightly deaf; he uttered his

words as though he did not hear them.

“Yes,” interrupted Dr. Sevier, speaking half to himself as he turned

around to a standing case of cruel-looking silver-plated things

on shelves; “that’s a small part of the penalty women pay for the

doubtful honor of being our mothers. I’ll go. What is your number? But

you had better drive back with me if you can.” He drew back from the

glass case, shut the door, and took his hat.

“Narcisse!”

On the side of the office nearest the corridor a door let into a

hall-room that afforded merely good space for the furniture needed by

a single accountant. The Doctor had other interests besides those of

his profession, and, taking them altogether, found it necessary, or

at least convenient, to employ continuously the services of a person

to keep his accounts and collect his bills. Through the open door the

bookkeeper could be seen sitting on a high stool at a still higher

desk――a young man of handsome profile and well-knit form. At the

call of his name he unwound his legs from the rounds of the stool and

leaped into the Doctor’s presence with a superlatively highbred bow.

“I shall be back in fifteen minutes,” said the Doctor. “Come,

Mr. ――――,” and went out with the stranger.

Narcisse had intended to speak. He stood a moment, then lifted the

last half inch of a cigarette to his lips, took a long, meditative

inhalation, turned half round on his heel, dashed the remnant with

fierce emphasis into a spittoon, ejected two long streams of smoke

from his nostrils, and, extending his fist toward the door by which

the Doctor had gone out, said:――

“All right, ole hoss!” No, not that way. It is hard to give his

pronunciation by letter. In the word “right” he substituted an a for

the r, sounding it almost in the same instant with the i, yet distinct

from it: “All a-ight, ole hoss!”

Then he walked slowly back to his desk, with that feeling of relief

which some men find in the renewal of a promissory note, twined his

legs again among those of the stool, and, adding not a word, resumed

his pen.

FAMOUS WOMEN NOVELISTS.

Illustration: NOTED WOMEN NOVELISTS.

OCTAVE THANET • AMELIA E. BARR • ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS (WARD)

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN • HARRIET BEECHER STOWE • CHAS. EGBERT CRADDOCK

MARION HARLAND • FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT • HELEN HUNT JACKSON

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

AUTHOR OF “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.”

FEW names are more indelibly written upon our country’s history than

that of Harriet Beecher Stowe. “No book,” says George William Curtis,

“was ever more a historical event than ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ ... It

was the great happiness of Mrs. Stowe not only to have written many

delightful books, but to have written one book which will always be

famous not only as the most vivid picture of an extinct evil system,

but as one of the most powerful influences in overthrowing it....

If all whom she has charmed and quickened should unite to sing her

praises, the birds of summer would be outdone.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe was the sixth child of Reverend Lyman

Beecher,――the great head of that great family which has left so deep

an impress upon the heart and mind of the American people. She was

born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in June, 1811,――just two years before

her next younger brother, Henry Ward Beecher. Her father was pastor of

the Congregational Church in Litchfield, and her girlhood was passed

there and at Hartford, where she attended the excellent seminary kept

by her elder sister, Catharine E. Beecher. In 1832 her father accepted

a call to the presidency of Lane Theological Seminary, at Cincinnati,

and moved thither with his family. Catharine Beecher went also, and

established there a new school, under the name of the Western Female

Institute, in which Harriet assisted.

In 1833 Mrs. Stowe first had the subject of slavery brought to her

personal notice by taking a trip across the river from Cincinnati into

Kentucky in company with Miss Dutton, one of the associate teachers in

the Western Institute. They visited the estate that afterward figured

as that of Mr. Shelby, in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and here the young

authoress first came into personal contact with the slaves of the

South.

Among the professors in Lane Seminary was Calvin E. Stowe, whose wife,

a dear friend of Miss Beecher, died soon after Dr. Beecher’s removal

to Cincinnati. In 1836 Professor Stowe and Harriet Beecher were

married. They were admirably suited to each other. Professor Stowe was

a typical man of letters,――a learned, amiable, unpractical philosopher,

whose philosophy was like that described by Shakespeare as “an

excellent horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.” Her

practical ability and cheerful, inspiring courage were the unfailing

support of her husband.

The years from 1845 to 1850 were a time of severe trial to Mrs. Stowe.

She and her husband both suffered from ill health, and the family

was separated. Professor Stowe was struggling with poverty, and

endeavoring at the same time to lift the Theological Seminary out

of financial difficulties. In 1849, while Professor Stowe was ill at

a water-cure establishment in Vermont, their youngest child died of

cholera, which was then raging in Cincinnati. In 1850 it was decided

to remove to Brunswick, Maine, the seat of Bowdoin College, where

Professor Stowe was offered a position.

Illustration: UNCLE TOM AND HIS BABY.

“’Ain’t she a peart young ’un?’”

The year 1850 is memorable in the history of the conflict with slavery.

It was the year of Clay’s compromise measures, as they were called,

which sought to satisfy the North by the admission of California as

a free State, and to propitiate the South by the notorious “Fugitive

Slave Law.” The slave power was at its height, and seemed to hold all

things under its feet; yet in truth it had entered upon the last stage

of its existence, and the forces were fast gathering for its final

overthrow. Professor Cairnes and others said truly, “The Fugitive

Slave Law has been to the slave power a questionable gain. Among its

first fruits was ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”

The story was begun as a serial in the _National Era_, June 5, 1851,

and was announced to run for about three months, but it was not

completed in that paper until April 1, 1852. It had been contemplated

as a mere magazine tale of perhaps a dozen chapters, but once begun it

could no more be controlled than the waters of the swollen Mississippi,

bursting through a crevasse in its levees. The intense interest

excited by the story, the demands made upon the author for more facts,

the unmeasured words of encouragement to keep on in her good work that

poured in from all sides, and, above all, the ever-growing conviction

that she had been intrusted with a great and holy mission, compelled

her to keep on until the humble tale had assumed the proportions of

a large volume. Mrs. Stowe repeatedly said, “I could not control the

story, it wrote itself;” and, “I the author of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’?

No, indeed. The Lord himself wrote it, and I was but the humblest of

instruments in his hand. To him alone should be given all the praise.”

For the story as a serial the author received $300. In the meantime,

however, it had attracted the attention of Mr. John P. Jewett, a

Boston publisher, who promptly made overtures for its publication in

book form. He offered Mr. and Mrs. Stowe a half share in the profits,

provided they would share with him the expense of publication. This

was refused by the Professor, who said he was altogether too poor

to assume any such risk; and the agreement finally made was that the

author should receive a ten per cent. royalty upon all sales.

In the meantime the fears of the author as to whether or not her book

would be read were quickly dispelled. Three thousand copies were sold

the very first day, a second edition was issued the following week,

a third a few days later; and within a year one hundred and twenty

editions, or over three hundred thousand copies, of the book had been

issued and sold in this country. Almost in a day the poor professor’s

wife had become the most talked-of woman in the world; her influence

for good was spreading to its remotest corners, and henceforth she

was to be a public character, whose every movement would be watched

with interest, and whose every word would be quoted. The long, weary

struggle with poverty was to be hers no longer; for, in seeking to aid

the oppressed, she had also so aided herself that within four months

from the time her book was published it had yielded her $10,000 in

royalties.

In 1852 Professor Stowe received a call to the professorship of

Sacred Literature in Andover Theological Seminary, and the family

soon removed to their Massachusetts home. They were now relieved from

financial pressure; but Mrs. Stowe’s health was still delicate; and

in 1853 she went with her husband and brother to England, where she

received, much to her surprise, a universal welcome. She made many

friends among the most distinguished people in Great Britain, and

on the continent as well. On her return she wrote the “Key to Uncle

Tom’s Cabin,” and began “Dred, a Tale of the Dismal Swamp.” In fact,

her literary career was just beginning. With “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” her

powers seemed only to be fairly awakened. One work after another came

in quick succession. For nearly thirty years after the publication

of “Uncle Tom,” her pen was never idle. In 1854 she published “Sunny

Memories of Foreign Lands,” and then, in rapid succession, “The

Minister’s Wooing,” “The Pearl of Orr’s Island,” “Agnes of Sorrento,”

“House and Home Papers,” “Little Foxes,” and “Oldtown Folks.” These,

however, are but a small part of her works. Besides more than thirty

books, she has written magazine articles, short stories, and sketches

almost without number. She has entertained, instructed, and inspired

a generation born long after the last slave was made free, and to whom

the great question which once convulsed our country is only a name.

But her first great work has never been surpassed, and it will never

be forgotten.

Illustration: A SCENE IN UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

_Little Eva._――“‘Oh, Uncle Tom! what

funny things you _are_ making there.’”

After the war which accomplished the abolition of slavery, Mrs. Stowe

lived in Hartford, Connecticut, in summer, and spent the winters in

Florida, where she bought a luxurious home. Her pen was hardly ever

idle; and the popularity of her works seemed to steadily increase.

She passed away on the 1st of July, 1896, amid the surroundings of her

quiet, pretty home at Hartford, Connecticut. The whole reading world

was moved at the news of her death, and many a chord vibrated at the

remembrance of her powerful, and we may even say successful, advocacy

of the cause of the slave. The good which “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” achieved

can never be estimated, and the noble efforts of its author have been

interwoven in the work of the world.

* * * * *

THE LITTLE EVANGELIST.

FROM “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.”

IT was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge

in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined

on a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closely

secluded under an awning of transparent gauze from the outrages of

the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantly-bound

prayer-book. She was holding it because it was Sunday, and she

imagined she had been reading it――though, in fact, she had been only

taking a succession of short naps with it open in her hand.

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rumaging, had hunted up a small

Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom

as driver, to attend it, and Eva accompanied them.

“I say, Augustine,” said Marie, after dozing awhile, “I must send to

the city after my old doctor, Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the complaint

of the heart.”

“Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attends Eva seems

skillful.”

“I would not trust him in a critical case,” said Marie; “and I think

I may say mine is becoming so! I’ve been thinking of it these two

or three nights past; I have such distressing pains and such strange

feelings.”

“Oh, Marie, you are blue! I don’t believe it’s heart-complaint.”

“I daresay _you_ don’t,” said Marie; “I was prepared to expect _that_.

You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the

matter with her; but you never think of me.”

“If it’s particularly agreeable to you to have heart-disease, why,

I’ll try and maintain you have it,” said St. Clare; “I didn’t know it

was.”

“Well, I only hope you won’t be sorry for this when it’s too late!”

said Marie. “But, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the

exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have

long suspected.”

What the _exertions_ were which Marie referred to it would have been

difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself,

and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as he was,

till a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia

alighted.

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put away her

bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a word

on any subject; while Eva came at St. Clare’s call, and was sitting

on his knee, giving him an account of the services they had heard.

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia’s room (which,

like the one in which they were sitting, opened to the verandah), and

violent reproof addressed to somebody.

“What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?” asked St. Clare. “That

commotion is of her raising, I’ll be bound!”

And in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, came

dragging the culprit along.

“Come out here, now!” she said. “I _will_ tell your master!”

“What’s the case now?” asked Augustine.

“The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child any longer!

It’s past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot endure it! Here, I

locked her up, and gave her a hymn to study and what does she do

but spy out where I put my key, and has gone to my bureau and got a

bonnet-trimming and cut it all to pieces to make dolls’ jackets! I

never saw anything like it in my life.”

Illustration: MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY.

“I cannot be plagued with this child any longer!”

“I told you, cousin,” said Marie, “that you’d find out that these

creatures can’t be brought up without severity. If I had _my_ way,

now,” she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, “I’d send that

child out and have her thoroughly whipped; I’d have her whipped till

she couldn’t stand!”

“I don’t doubt it,” said St. Clare. “Tell me of the lovely rule of

woman! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn’t half kill a horse,

or a servant either, if they had their own way with them――let alone a

man.”

“There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare!” said

Marie. “Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now as plain as I

do.”

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongs to

the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been pretty actively

roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many

of my lady readers must own that they would have felt just so in her

circumstances; but Marie’s words went beyond her, and she felt less

heat.

“I wouldn’t have the child treated so for the world,” she said; “but

I am sure, Augustine, I don’t know what to do. I’ve taught and taught,

I’ve talked till I’m tired, I’ve whipped her, I’ve punished her in

every way I can think of; and still she’s just what she was at first.”

“Come here, Tops, you monkey!” said St. Clare, calling the child up to

him.

Topsy came up; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a

mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery.

“What makes you behave so?” said St. Clare who could not help being

amused with the child’s expression.

“’Spects it’s my wicked heart,” said Topsy, demurely; “Miss Feely says

so.”

“Don’t you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? She says, she

has done everything she can think of.”

“Lor, yes, mas’r! old missis used to say so, too. She whipped me a

heap harder, and used to pull my ha’r, and knock my head agin the door;

but it didn’t do me no good! I ’spects if they’s to pull every spear

o’ ha’r out o’ my head it wouldn’t do no good neither――I’s so wicked!

Laws! I’s nothin’ but a nigger, no ways!”

“Well, I shall have to give her up,” said Miss Ophelia; “I can’t have

that trouble any longer.”

“Well, I’d just like to ask one question,” said St. Clare.

“What is it?”

“Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child,

that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what’s the use of

sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands

of just such? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what

thousands of your heathen are.”

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva, who had stood

a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy

to follow her. There was a little glass-room at the corner of the

verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room; and Eva and

Topsy disappeared into this place.

“What’s Eva going about now?” said St. Clare; “I mean to see.”

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the

glass-door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his

lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look.

There sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards

them――Topsy with her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern; but,

opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears

in her large eyes.

“What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won’t you try and be good?

Don’t you love _anybody_, Topsy?”

“Dun no nothin’ ’bout love; I loves candy and sich, that’s all,” said

Topsy.

“But you love your father and mother?”

“Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva.”

“Oh, I know,” said Eva, sadly; “but hadn’t you any brother, or sister,

or aunt, or――――”

“No, none on ’em――never had nothing nor nobody.”

“But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you might――――”

“Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was ever so good,” said

Topsy. “If I could be skinned, and come white, I’d try then.”

“But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would

love you if you were good.”

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of

expressing incredulity.

“Don’t you think so?” said Eva.

“No; she can’t b’ar me, ’cause I’m a nigger!――she’d’s soon have a

toad touch her. There can’t nobody love niggers, and niggers can’t

do nothin’. I don’t care,” said Topsy, beginning to whistle.

“Oh, Topsy, poor child, _I_ love you!” said Eva, with a sudden

burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy’s

shoulder. “I love you because you haven’t had any father, or mother,

or friends――because you’ve been a poor, abused child! I love you, and

I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I sha’n’t

live a great while; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty.

I wish you would try to be good for my sake; it’s only a little while

I shall be with you.”

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears;

large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the

little white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of

heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul! She

laid her head down between her knees, and wept and sobbed; while the

beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some

bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner.

“Poor Topsy!” said Eva, “don’t you know that Jesus loves all alike? He

is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I do, only

more, because He is better. He will help you to be good, and you can

go to heaven at last, and be an angel for ever, just as much as if

you were white. Only think of it, Topsy, _you_ can be one of those

’spirits bright’ Uncle Tom sings about.”

“Oh, dear Miss Eva! dear Miss Eva!” said the child, “I will try! I

will try! I never did care nothin’ about it before.”

St. Clare at this moment dropped the curtain. “It puts me in mind of

mother,” he said to Miss Ophelia. “It is true what she told me: if we

want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ

did――call them to us and _put our hands on them_.”

“I’ve always had a prejudice against negroes,” said Miss Ophelia; “and

it’s a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me; but I

didn’t think she knew it.”

“Trust any child to find that out,” said St. Clare: “there’s no

keeping it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world

to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them,

will never excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of

repugnance remains in the heart; it’s a queer kind of fact, but so

it is.”

“I don’t know how I can help it,” said Miss Ophelia; “they _are_

disagreeable to me――this child in particular. How can I help feeling

so?”

“Eva does, it seems.”

“Well, she’s so loving! After all, though, she’s no more than

Christ-like,” said Miss Ophelia: “I wish I were like her. She might

teach me a lesson.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a little child had been used to

instruct an old disciple, if it _were_ so,” said St. Clare.

* * * * *

THE OTHER WORLD.

IT lies around us like a cloud,

The world we do not see;

Yet the sweet closing of an eye

May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek,

Amid our worldly cares;

Its gentle voices whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,

Sweet helping hands are stirred;

And palpitates the veil between,

With breathings almost heard.

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,

They have no power to break;

For mortal words are not for them

To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,

So near to press they seem,

They lull us gently to our rest,

They melt into our dream.

And, in the hush of rest they bring,

’Tis easy now to see,

How lovely and how sweet to pass

The hour of death may be;――

To close the eye and close the ear,

Wrapped in a trance of bliss,

And, gently drawn in loving arms,

To swoon from that to this:――

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,

Scarce asking where we are,

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care!

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE.

(MARION HARLAND.)

_Popular Novelist and Domestic Economist._

MARION HARLAND combines a wide variety of talent. She is probably

the first writer to excel in the line of fiction and also to be a

leader in the direction of domestic economy. She is one of the most

welcomed contributors to the periodicals, and her books on practical

housekeeping, common sense in the household, and several practical

cookery books have smoothed the way for many a young housekeeper and

probably promoted the cause of peace in numerous households.

Mary Virginia Hawes was the daughter of a native of Massachusetts who

was engaged in business in Richmond, Virginia. She was born in 1831,

and received a good education. She began in early childhood to display

her literary powers. She wrote for the magazines in her sixteenth year

and her first contribution, “Marrying Through Prudential Motives,”

was so widely read that it was published in nearly every journal in

England, was translated and published throughout France, found its way

back to England through a retranslation, and finally appeared in a new

form in the United States.

In 1856 she became the wife of Rev. Edward P. Terhune, afterwards

pastor of the Puritan Congregational Church in Brooklyn, where in

recent years they have lived. Mrs. Terhune has always been active in

charitable and church work, and has done an amount of writing equal

to that of the most prolific authors. She has been editor or conducted

departments of two or three different magazines and established

and successfully edited the “Home Maker.” Some of her most noted

stories are “The Hidden Path;” “True as Steel;” “Husbands and Homes;”

“Phemie’s Temptation;” “Ruby’s Husband;” “Handicap;” “Judith;” “A

Gallant Fight;” and “His Great Self.” Besides these books and a

number of others, she has written almost countless essays on household

and other topics. Her book, “Eve’s Daughters,” is a standard work

of counsel to girls and young women. She takes an active part in the

literary and philanthropic organizations of New York City, and has

been prominent in the Woman’s Councils held under the auspices of a

Chautauquan association. She was the first to call attention to the

dilapidated condition of the grave of Mary Washington and started a

movement to put the monument in proper condition. For the benefit of

this movement, she wrote and published “The Story of ♦Mary Washington.”

♦ Title truncated in text.

* * * * *

A MANLY HERO.¹

(FROM “A GALLANT FIGHT.”)

¹ Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co.

AFTER donning velvet jacket and slippers he sat down, and, lighting

his cigar, leaned back to watch the fire and dream of Salome and their

real home.

Not until the weed was half consumed did he observe an envelope

on the table at his elbow. It was sealed and addressed to him in a

“back-hand” he did not recognize:

“_In the Library. Nine O’clock, P. M._

“MY OWN LOVE――You say in your letter (burned as soon as I had

committed the contents to memory) that I must never call you that

again. There is a higher law than that of man’s appointment, binding

our hearts together, stronger even than that of your sweet, wise lips.

Until you are actually married to the man whom you confess you do not

love, you will, according to that divine law, be my own Marion――”

With a violent start, the young man shook the sheet from his fingers

as he would a serpent.

This was what he had promised not to read, or so much as to touch!

The veins stood out high and dark on his forehead; he drew in the air

hissingly. Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a forked

tongue in his face the shock would not have been greater. This was

“the letter written to Marion!” He had thrown away six of the best

years of his life upon the woman whom another man called his “own

love;” the man to whom she had confessed that she did not love her

betrothed husband! Who was he?

“If they are genuine, respect for the dead and mercy to the living

require that they should be suppressed and destroyed,” Mrs. Phelps

had said of “papers written _a little while_ before Marion’s death.”

His word was pledged. But what name would he see if he reversed the

sheet before destroying it? With a bound of the heart that would have

assured him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living girl-love

was to him, he put away all tender memories of the dead, false

betrothed. He had worshipped and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He

might owe respect――abstractly――to the dead, but no reverence to a wild

dream from which he had been awakened. Who was the “living” to whom he

was entreated to show mercy? Where was the man who had first robbed

him, then let him play the sad-visaged dupe and fool, while the heyday

of youth slipped forever beyond his reach?

To learn that――to remember the name with execration――to despise with

the full force of a wronged and honest soul――perhaps to brand him as

a cur and blackguard, should he ever cross his path――would not break

his word. Was it not his right――the poor rag of compensation he might

claim for the incalculable, the damnable evil the traitor had wrought?

He would confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow――but this one thing he

would do.

He stooped for the letter.

“Peace! let him rest! God knoweth best!

And the flowing tide comes in!

And the flowing tide comes in!”

It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly round of nursery

and Gerald’s chamber, singing to her guileless self in passing her

stepson’s door to prove her serenity of spirit; but Rex staggered back

into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with

his hands.

He smelled the balsam-boughs slanting to the water, the trailing

arbutus Salome wore in her belt; heard the waves lapping the prow

and sides of the bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven was over them,

and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, in his heart. The

fresh, tender young voice told the tale of love and loss and patient

submission....

Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaven’s best blessings, loving

and beloved by the noble, true daughter of the Christian heroine who

expected her “son” to stand fast by his plighted word――the almost

husband of a pure, high-souled woman――afford to spare the miserable

wretch whose own mind and memory must be a continual hell?

He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up the sheets from the

floor, the scrap of paper from the table, and, averting his eyes lest

the signature might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid them

under the forestick and did not look that way again until nothing was

left of them but cinder and ashes.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MARY ABIGAIL DODGE.

THE FAMOUS ESSAYIST, CRITIC, AND NOVELIST, “GAIL HAMILTON.”

AMONG the female writers of America, perhaps there is no one who has

covered a more diversified field and done her work more thoroughly,

in the several capacities of essayist, philosopher, political writer,

child-writer and novelist, than has Miss Mary Abigail Dodge, widely

known by her pen-name, “Gail Hamilton.” Miss Dodge commanded a terse,

vigorous and direct style; and with a courage manifested by few

contemporaneous authors, she cut right through shams and deceits with

an easy and convincing blow that left no room for doubt.

Mary Abigail Dodge was born in Hamilton, Massachusetts, in the year

1830. Her pen-name is composed of the last syllable of the word

“Abigail” and her native city, “Hamilton.” Her education was thorough,

and in 1857 she was made instructor of physical science in the

High School of Hartford, Connecticut. Some years after she became a

governess in the family of Doctor Bailey the editor of the “National

Era,” in Washington, D. C., and begun her career as a writer by

contributing to his journal. For two years, from 1865 to 1867, she

was one of the editors of “Our Young Folks,” and from that time to

the close of her life she was a constant contributor to prominent

magazines and newspapers――the name “Gail Hamilton” attached to an

essay was always a guarantee that it was full of wit and

aggressiveness.

The published volumes of this author in order of their publication

are as follows: “Country Living and Country Thinking” (1862);

“Gala-Days” (1863); “Stumbling Blocks” and “A New Atmosphere” (1864);

“Skirmishes and Sketches” (1865); “Summer Rest” and “Red-letter Days

in Applethorpe” (1866); “Wool Gathering,” (1867); “Woman’s Wrongs, a

Counter-Irritant” (1868); “Battle of the Books” (1870); “Woman’s Worth

and Worthlessness” (1871). For a period of three years Miss Dodge

devoted herself to the little folks, producing in 1872 “Little Folk

Life,” and the next year two other volumes, entitled “Child World.”

In the same year, 1873, came her humorous book, entitled “Twelve Miles

from a Lemon,” and in 1874 “Nursery Noonings,” another book for and

about children. In 1875 appeared two volumes very unlike, but both

of which attracted considerable attention. The first was entitled

“Sermons to the Clergy,” in which she gave some wholesome advice and

pointed out many of the shortcomings of ministers. The other book

was entitled “First Love Is Best.” In 1876 Miss Dodge’s mind seemed

to take on a more religious, moral and still more practical turn

as evinced by the title of the following books: “What Think Ye of

Christ?” (1876); “Our Common School System” (1880); “Divine Guidance”

(1881); “The Insuppressible Book” (1885); and “The Washington Bible

Class” (1891).

Miss Dodge was a cousin to the distinguished statesman, James G.

Blaine, of whom she was very fond. Much of her time during the last

few years of his life was spent with his family at Washington, and

when Mr. Blaine died in January, 1893, she undertook, in the interest

of the family, to write his life, which work she finished and the

book was published in 1894. It is the only authoritative life of

the statesman endorsed by the family. This was Miss Hamilton’s last

book. It was a congenial theme to which she devoted perhaps the most

painstaking and best work of her life. The last years of the busy

author were marked by failing health. She died at Washington in 1896.

* * * * *

FISHING.

(FROM “GALA DAYS.”)

SOME people have conscientious scruples about fishing. I respect

them. I had them myself. Wantonly to destroy, for mere sport, the

innocent life in lake or river, seemed to me a cruelty and a shame.

But people must fish. Now, then, how shall your theory and practice

be harmonized? Practice can’t yield. Plainly, theory must. A year ago

I went out on a rock in the Atlantic Ocean, held a line――just to see

how it seemed――and caught eight fishes; and every time a fish came up,

a scruple went down. * * * * Which facts will partially account for

the eagerness with which I, one morning, seconded a proposal to go

a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles away.

* * * * *

They go to the woods, I hang my prospective trout on my retrospective

♣rod and march riverward. Halicarnassus, according to the old saw,

“leaves this world and climbs a tree,” and, with ♦jackknife, cord and

perseverance, manufactures a fishing-rod, which he courteously offers

to me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in no ambiguous

phrase that I consider nothing beneath the best as good enough for me.

Halicarnassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric,

and meekly yields up the best rod, though the natural man rebels. The

bank of the river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent or

descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on the bridge, while he descends

to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing awaiting

the result of investigation. Halicarnassus picks his way over rocks,

sideways and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the river in search

of fish. I grow tired of playing leasa-bianca and steal behind the

bridge, and pick my way over the rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along

the bank and up the river, in search of “fun;” practice irregular and

indescribable gymnastics with variable success for half an hour or

so. Shout from the bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words,

but see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and evidently laboring

under great excitement. Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will

permit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking trumpet of his hands and roars,

“I’ve found――a fish! Left――him for――you――to catch! come quick!”――and

plunging headlong down the bank disappears. I am touched to the heart

by this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up

to the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets entangled

in hem of dress every third step――fishing-line in tree-top every

second; progress therefore not so rapid as could be desired. Reach

the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to rock to the middle of

the stream――balance on a pebble just large enough to plant both feet

on, and just firm enough to make it worth while to run the risk――drop

my line into the spot designated――a quiet, black little pool in the

rushing river――see no fish, but have faith in ♠Halicarnassus.

♣ ‘cod’ replaced with ‘rod’

♦ ‘jacknife’ replaced with ‘jackknife’

♠ ‘Harlicarnassus’ replaced with ‘Halicarnassus’

“Bite?” asks Halicarnassus eagerly.

“Not yet,” I answer sweetly. Breathless expectation. Lips compressed.

Eyes fixed. Five minutes gone.

“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from down the river.

“Not yet,” hopefully.

“Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a minute.” Line is lowered.

Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old

stick. Splash it off contemptuously.

“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from afar.

“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.

“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly.

Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain

dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it

up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and

the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.

“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a

bend in the river.

“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and

ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and

finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden

conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an

ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all

my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high,

hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream,

* * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to

the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of

the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.

* * * * *

“Hullo! how many?”

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after

it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the

strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.

* * * * *

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan

and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.

“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.

“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus,

and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says

Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are

transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,”

reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.

“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON.

“THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.”

ONE of the sights pointed out to a traveler in the West is Cheyenne

Canyon, a wild and weird pass in the Rocky Mountains a short distance

from Colorado Springs. Some years ago the writer, in company with

a party of tourists, drove as far as a vehicle could pass up the

mountain-road that wound along a little stream which came tumbling

down the narrow ravine splitting the mountain in twain. Soon we were

compelled to abandon the wagon, and on foot we climbed the rugged way,

first on one side and then on the other of the rushing rivulet where

the narrow path could find space enough to lay its crooked length

along. Suddenly a little log-cabin in a clump of trees burst on our

view. A boy with a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder met us a

few rods from the door and requested a fee of twenty-five cents each

before permitting us to pass.

“What is it?” inquired one of the party pointing at the cabin. “This

is the house Helen Hunt lived in and away above there is where she is

buried,” answered the boy. We paid the fee, inspected the house, and

then, over more rocky steeps, we climbed to the spot indicated near a

falling cataract and stood beside a pile of stones thrown together by

hundreds of tourists who had preceded us. It was the lonely grave of

one of the great literary women of our age. We gathered some stones

and added them to the pile and left her alone by the singing cataract,

beneath the sighing branches of the firs and pines which stood like

towering sentinels around her on Mount Jackson――for this peak was

named in her honor. “What a monument!” said one, “more lasting than

hammered bronze!” “But not moreso,” said another, “than the good she

has done. Her influence will live while this mountain shall stand,

unless another dark age should sweep literature out of existence.”

“I wonder the Indians don’t convert this place into a shrine and come

here to worship,” ventured a third person. “Her ‘Romona,’ written in

their behalf, must have been produced under a divine inspiration. She

was among all American writers their greatest benefactor.”

Helen Maria Fiske was born in Amherst, Mass., October 18, 1831.

She was the daughter of Professor Nathan Fiske of Amherst College,

and was educated at ♦Ipswich (Mass.) Female Seminary. In 1852 she

married Captain Edward B. Hunt of the U. S. Navy, and lived with him

at various posts until 1863, when he died. After this she removed

to Newport, R. I., with her children, but one by one they died,

until 1872 she was left alone and desolate. In her girlhood she had

contributed some verses to a Boston paper which were printed. She

wrote nothing more until two years after the death of her husband,

when she sent a number of poems to New York papers which were signed

H. H. and they attracted wide and favorable criticism. These poems

were collected and published under the title of “Verses from H. H.”

(1870). After the death of her children she decided to devote herself

to literature, and from that time to the close of her life――twelve

years later――her books came in rapid succession and she gained wide

distinction as a writer of prose and verse. Both her poetry and prose

works are characterized by deep thoughtfulness and a rare grace and

beauty of diction.

♦ ‘Ipswick’ replaced with ‘Ipswich’

In 1873 Mrs. Hunt removed to Colorado for the benefit of her health,

and in 1875 became the wife of Wm. S. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado

Springs; and it was in this beautiful little city, nestling at the

foot of Pike’s Peak, with the perpetual snow on its summit always in

sight, that she made her home for the remainder of her life, though

she spent considerable time in traveling in New Mexico, California and

the Eastern States gathering material for her books.

Briefly catalogued, the works of Helen Hunt Jackson are: “Verses

by H. H.” (1870); “Bits of Travel” (1873); “Bits of Talk About Home

Matters” (1873); “Sonnets and Lyrics” (1876); “Mercy Philbrick’s

Choice” (1876); “Hettie’s Strange History” (1877); “A Century of

Dishonor” (1881); “Romona” (1884).

Besides the above, Mrs. Jackson wrote several juvenile books and two

novels in the “No Name” series; and that powerful series of stories,

published under the pen-name of “Saxe Holme,” has also been attributed

to her, although there is no absolute proof that she wrote them.

“A Century of Dishonor” made its author more famous than anything

she produced up to that time, but critics now generally agree that

“Romona,” her last book, is her most powerful work, both as a novel

and in its beneficent influence. It was the result of a most profound

and exhaustive study of the Indian problem, to which she devoted the

last and best years of her life. It was her most conscientious and

sympathetic work. It was through Helen Hunt Jackson’s influence that

the government instituted important reforms in the treatment of the

red men.

In June, 1884, Mrs. Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving

a bad fracture of her leg. She was taken to California while

convalescing and there contracted malaria, and at the same time

developed cancer. The complication of her ailments resulted in death,

which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back to

Colorado, and, in accordance with her expressed wish, buried on the

peak looking down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her.

The cabin below had been built for her as a quiet retreat, where, when

she so desired, she could retire with one or two friends, and write

undisturbed, alone with the primeval forest and the voices which

whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountain-air.

* * * * *

CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER’S.

LOW on the marble floor I lie:

I am alone:

Though friendly voices whisper nigh,

And foreign crowds are passing by,

I am alone.

Great hymns float through

The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow Refrain,

“Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

With tender joy all others thrill;

I have but tears:

The false priest’s voices, high and shrill,

Reiterate the “Peace, good will;”

I have but tears.

I hear anew

The nails and scourge; then come the low

Sad words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

Close by my side the poor souls kneel;

I turn away;

Half-pitying looks at me they steal;

They think, because I do not feel,

I turn away;

Ah! if they knew,

How following them, where’er they go,

I hear, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

Above the organ’s sweetest strains

I hear the groans

Of prisoners, who lie in chains,

So near and in such mortal pains,

I hear the groans.

But Christ walks through

The dungeon of St. Angelo,

And says, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

And now the music sinks to sighs;

The lights grow dim:

The Pastorella’s melodies

In lingering echoes float and rise;

The lights grow dim;

More clear and true,

In this sweet silence, seem to flow

The words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

The dawn swings incense, silver gray;

The night is past;

Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day;

No priest, no church can bar its way:

The night is past:

How on this blue

Of God’s great banner, blaze and glow

The words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

* * * * *

CHOICE OF COLORS.

THE other day, as I was walking on one of the oldest and most

picturesque streets of the old and picturesque town of Newport, R. I.,

I saw a little girl standing before the window of a milliner’s shop.

It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the sidewalks on this street

is so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with

very great care, he steps continually into small wells of water. Up to

her ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as

unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire. It was a very

cold day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite

warm enough even so. The child was but thinly clothed. She wore an old

plaid shawl and a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red

ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled

down over it from her hair. She seemed to be pointing with her finger

at articles in the window, and talking to some one inside. I watched

her for several moments, and then crossed the street to see what it

all meant. I stole noiselessly up behind her, and she did not hear me.

The window was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, but

of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of ribbon or a bit of lace

had been tastefully added, and the whole effect was really remarkably

gay and pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against the

window-pane; and with every tap the unconscious little creature

murmured, in a half-whispering, half-singing voice, “I choose _that_

color.” “I choose _that_ color.” “I choose _that_ color.”

I stood motionless. I could not see her face; but there was in her

whole attitude and tone the heartiest content and delight. I moved a

little to the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing me;

but the slight movement caught her ear, and in a second she had sprung

aside and turned toward me. The spell was broken. She was no longer

the queen of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow hues

which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar child, out in the rain,

and a little frightened at the approach of a stranger. She did not

move away, however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that

pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her face which is

so often seen in the prematurely developed faces of poverty-stricken

children. “Aren’t the colors pretty?” I said. She brightened instantly.

“Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.”

“But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said I. “Won’t you come

under my umbrella?”

She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if it had not occurred

to her before that it was raining. Then she drew first one little

foot and then the other out of the muddy puddle in which she had been

standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, said, “I’m not

jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to stop here a bit.”

So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, the impulse seized

me to return by a cross street, and see if she were still there. Tears

sprang to my eyes as I first caught sight of the upright little figure,

standing in the same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic finger to

the blues and reds and yellows, and half chanting under her breath,

as before, “I choose _that_ color.” “I choose _that_ color.” “I choose

_that_ color.”

I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her again. But I said in

my heart, “Little Messenger, Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you

all my life.”

Why should days ever be dark, life ever be colorless? There is

always sun; there are always blue and scarlet and yellow and purple.

We cannot reach them, perhaps, but we can see them, if it is only

“through a glass,” and “darkly,”――still we can see them. We can

“choose” our colors. It rains, perhaps; and we are standing in the

cold. Never mind. If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which

is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the wet and not

feel the cold. And now and then a passer-by, who has rolled himself up

in furs to keep out the cold, but shivers nevertheless,――who has money

in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, but, nevertheless, goes

grumbling because some colors are too dear for him,――such a passer-by,

chancing to hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content,

may learn a wondrous secret,――that pennilessness is not poverty, and

ownership is not possession; that to be without is not always to lack,

and to reach is not to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look

up, and color for those who “choose.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

FAMOUS AUTHOR OF “LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.”

IF Mrs. Burnett were not a native of England, she might be called a

typical American woman. As all Americans, however, are descended at

very few removes from foreign ancestors, it may, nevertheless, be

said of the young English girl, who crossed the ocean with her widowed

mother at the age of sixteen, that she has shown all the pluck, energy

and perseverance usually thought of as belonging to Americans. She

settled with her mother and sisters on a Tennessee farm; but soon

began to write short stories, the first of which was published in a

Philadelphia magazine in 1867. Her first story to achieve popularity

was “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s,” published in “Scribner’s Magazine” in

1877. It is a story of a daughter of a miner, the father a vicious

character, whose neglect and abuse render all the more remarkable

the virtue and real refinement of the daughter. Mrs. Burnett delights

in heroes and heroines whose characters contrast strongly with their

circumstances, and in some of her stories, especially in “A Lady of

Quality,” published in 1895, she even verges on the sensational.

In 1873 Miss Hodgson was married to Doctor Burnett, of Knoxville,

Tennessee. After a two years’ tour in Europe, they took up their

residence in the city of Washington, where they have since lived.

Mrs. Burnett’s longest novel, “Through One Administration,” is

a story of the political and social life of the Capital. “Pretty

Polly Pemberton,” “Esmeralda,” “Louisiana,” “A Fair Barbarian,” and

“Haworth’s” are, after those already mentioned, her most popular

stories. “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s” has been dramatized. Mrs. Hodgson

is most widely known, however, by her Children Stories, the most

famous of which, “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” appeared as a serial in

“St. Nicholas” in 1886, and has since been dramatized and played in

both England and America.

Since 1885 her health has not permitted her to write so voluminously

as she had previously done, but she has, nevertheless, been a frequent

contributor to periodicals. Some of her articles have been of an

auto-biographical nature, and her story “The One I Knew Best of All”

is an account of her life. She is very fond of society and holds a

high place in the social world. Her alert imagination and her gift of

expression have enabled her to use her somewhat limited opportunity of

observation to the greatest advantage, as is shown in her successful

interpretation of the Lancashire dialect and the founding of the story

of Joan Lowrie on a casual glimpse, during a visit to a mining village,

of a beautiful young woman followed by a cursing and abusive father.

* * * * *

PRETTY POLLY P.¹

FROM “PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON.”

¹ Copyright, T. B. Peterson & Bros.

“FRAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, “you haven’t spoken for half an

hour, by Jupiter!”

Framleigh――Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the Guards――did not move. He

had been sitting for some time before the window, in a position more

noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded upon the back

of his chair; and he did not disturb himself, when he condescended to

reply to his youthful admirer and ally.

“Half an hour?” he said, with a tranquil half-drawl, which had a touch

of affectation in its coolness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough

to be disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “Haven’t I?”

“No, you have not,” returned Popham, encouraged by the negative

amiability of his manner. “I am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?”

“Up?” still half-abstractedly. “Nothing! Fact is, I believe I have

been watching a girl!”

Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting on the table, and

advanced toward the window, hurriedly, holding his cigar in his hand.

“A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort of a girl?”

“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of

girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself.

She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting

in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.”

“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house

opposite?”

“Yes.”

“By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old

fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and――”

“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and

her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion

(they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression,

at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with――”

“Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By

Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.”

He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of

interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself.

“Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t

it? Who is pretty Polly P.?”

Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, actually colored.

“Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “I dare say it does sound

rather odd, to people who don’t know her; but I can assure you,

Framleigh, though it is the name all our fellows seem to give her

with one accord, I am sure there is not one of them who means it to

appear disrespectful, or――or even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation,

to slang. “She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be

disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl――so jolly and

innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face a good deal, and give up a

good deal any day, for pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.”

Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of the window again, in the

direction of the house opposite.

“Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “And very laudably, too. But you

have not told me what the letter P. is intended to signify. ‘Pretty

Polly P.’ is agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might mean

Pretty Polly Popham.”

“I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with more color; “but it

does not. It means Pemberton?”

“Pemberton!” echoed Framleigh, with an intonation almost savoring of

disgust. “You don’t mean to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?”

“She is his niece,” was the answer, “and that amounts to the same

thing, in her case. She has lived with old Pemberton ever since she

was four years old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman,

and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she was his daughter;

but he couldn’t help that. Every one is fond of her.”

“Ah!” said Framleigh. “I see. As you say, ‘She is the sort of girl.’”

“There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, suddenly.

And there she was, surely enough, and they had a full view of her,

geranium-colored bows and all. She seemed to be a trifle partial

to the geranium-colored bows. Not too partial, however, for they

were very nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of her white

morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the side of her hair, one

on each trim, slim, black kid slipper. If they were a weakness of

hers, they were by no means an inartistic one. And as she came down

the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her hands――a little

earthen-pot, with some fresh gloss-leaved little plant in it――she

was pleasant to look at, pretty Polly P.――very pleasant; and Gaston

Framleigh was conscious of the fact.

It was only a small place, the house opposite and the garden was

the tiniest of gardens, being only a few yards of ground, surrounded

by iron railings. Indeed, it might have presented anything but an

attractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so crowded it with

bright blooms. Its miniature-beds were full of brilliantly-colored

flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty

rose or so, and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much pleasant,

humble greenery. There were narrow boxes of flowers upon every

window-ledge, a woodbine climbed round the door, and, altogether,

it was a very different place from what it might have been, under

different circumstances.

And down the graveled path, in the midst of all this flowery

brightness, came Polly with her plant to set out, looking not unlike a

flower herself. She was very busy in a few minutes, and she went about

her work almost like an artist, flourishing her little trowel, digging

a nest for her plant, and touching it, when she transplanted it, as

tenderly as if it had been a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it,

that, before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by hearing her

begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, seeing that the sound had

grated upon him, Popham colored and ♦laughed half-apologetically.

♦ ‘langhed’ replaced with ‘laughed’

“It is a habit of hers,” he said. “She hardly knows when she does it.

She often does things other girls would think strange. But she is not

like other girls.”

Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and simply looked at the

girl. He was not in the most communicative of moods, this morning;

he was feeling gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, as

he did, now and then. He had good reason, he thought, to give way to

these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable

habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he

was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he

never made innocent little Popham, “Lambkin Popham,” as one of his

fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant.

He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his

admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales

not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless,

almost insignificant problems as “Lambkin” Popham clearly.

So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of

his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely

unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak

a few words in her favor.

“She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Framleigh,” he said.

“You would be sure to like her. The company fairly idolize her.”

“Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What company?”

“Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The theatrical lot at the

Prince’s, you know, where she acts.”

Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch Polly patting the mould

daintily, as she bent over her flower-bed; but he drew back at this,

conscious of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more disagreeable

than the whistling had caused him to feel.

“An actress!” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone.

“Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support herself, and help old

Pemberton,” gravely.

“The worse for her,” with impatience. “And the greater rascal old

Pemberton, for allowing it.”

It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes

carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both.

Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion,

and she recognized him at once. She did not blush at all herself,

however; she just gave him an arch little nod, and a delightful smile,

which showed her pretty white teeth.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.)

_Author of the “Prophet of the Smoky Mountains.”_

THE pen name of Charles Egbert Craddock has become familiarly known

throughout the English-speaking world in connection with the graphic

delineations of character in the East Tennessee Mountains, to which

theme the writings of this talented author have been devoted. Until

long after the name had become famous the writer was supposed to be a

man, and the following amusing story is told of the way in which the

secret leaked out. Her works were published by a Boston editor, and

the heavy black handwriting, together with the masculine ring of her

stories, left no suspicion that their author was a delicate woman.

Thomas Baily Aldrich, who was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” to

which her writings came, used to say, after an interval had elapsed

subsequent to her last contribution, “I wonder if Craddock has taken

in his winter supply of ink and can let me have a serial.” One day a

card came to Mr. Aldrich bearing the well-known name in the well-known

writing, and the editor rushed out to greet his old contributor,

expecting to see a rugged Tennessee mountaineer. When the slight,

delicate little woman arose to answer his greeting it is said that

Mr. Aldrich put his hands to his face and simply spun round on his

heels without a word, absolutely bewildered with astonishment.

Miss Murfree was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in 1850, and is the

great-granddaughter of Colonel Hardy Murfree of Revolutionary fame,

for whom the city of Murfreesboro was named. Her father was a lawyer

and a literary man, and Mary was carefully educated. Unfortunately in

her childhood a stroke of paralysis made her lame for life. After the

close of the war, the family being left in destitute circumstances,

they moved to St. Louis, Missouri, and Miss Murfree contributed

largely to their pecuniary aid by her fruitful pen. Her volumes

include “In the Tennessee Mountains” (1884), “Where the Battle was

Fought” (1884), “Down the Ravine” (1885), “The Prophet of the Great

Smoky Mountains” (1885), “In the Clouds” (1886), “The Story of Keedon

Bluffs” (1887), “The Despot of Broomsedge Cove” (1888), all of which

works have proven their popularity by a long-continued sale, and her

subsequent works will no doubt achieve equal popularity. She has

contributed much matter to the leading magazines of the day. She is

a student of humanity and her portraitures of Tennessee mountaineers

have great historic value aside from the entertainment they furnish

to the careless reader. It is her delineation of mountain character

and her description of mountain scenery that have placed her works so

prominently to the front in this critical and prolific age of novels.

“Her style,” says a recent reviewer, “is bold, full of humor, yet as

delicate as a bit of lace, to which she adds great power of plot and

a keen wit, together with a homely philosophy bristling with sparkling

truths. For instance, “the little old woman who sits on the edge of

a chair” in one of her novels, and remarks “There ain’t nothin’ so

becomin’ to fools as a shet mouth,” has added quite an original store

to America’s already proverbial literature.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSION.¹

(FROM “THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS.”)

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

THE congregation composed itself to listen to the sermon. There was

an expectant pause. Kelsey remembered ever after the tumult of emotion

with which he stepped forward to the table and opened the book. He

turned to the New Testament for his text,――and the leaves with a

familiar hand. Some ennobling phase of that wonderful story which

would touch the tender, true affinity of human nature for the higher

things,――from this he would preach to-day. And yet, at the same moment,

with a contrariety of feeling from which he shrank aghast, there

was sulking into his mind that gruesome company of doubts. In double

file they came: fate and free agency, free-will and fore-ordination,

infinite mercy and infinite justice, God’s loving kindness and man’s

intolerable misery, redemption and damnation. He had evolved them

all from his own unconscious logical faculty, and they pursued him

as if he had, in some spiritual necromancy, conjured up a devil――nay,

a legion of devils. Perhaps if he had known how they had assaulted

the hearts of men in times gone past; how they had been combated and

baffled, and yet have risen and pursued again; how in the scrutiny

of science and research men have passed before their awful presence,

analyzed them, philosophized about them, and found them interesting;

how others, in the levity of the world, having heard of them, grudged

the time to think upon them,――if he had known all this, he might have

felt some courage in numbers. As it was, there was no fight left in

him. He closed the book with a sudden impulse, “My frien’s,” he said,

“I stan’ not hyar ter preach ter day, but fur confession.”

There was a galvanic start among the congregation, then intense

silence.

“I hev los’ my faith!” he cried out, with a poignant despair. “God

ez’ gin it――ef thear is a God――he’s tuk it away. You-uns kin go

on. You-uns kin b’lieve. Yer paster b’lieves, an’ he’ll lead ye ter

grace,――leastwise ter a better life. But fur me thar’s the nethermost

depths of hell, ef”――how his faith and his unfaith now tried him!――“ef

thar be enny hell. Leastwise――Stop, brother,” he held up his hand in

deprecation, for Parson Tobin had risen at last, and with a white,

scared face. Nothing like this had ever been heard in all the length

and breadth of the Great Smoky Mountains. “Bear with me a little;

ye’ll see me hyar no more. Fur me thar is shame, ah! an’ trial, ah!

an’ doubt, ah! an’ despair, ah! The good things o’ heaven air denied.

My name is ter be er byword an’ a reproach ’mongst ye. Ye’ll grieve ez

ye hev ever learn the Word from me, ah! Ye’ll be held in derision! An’

I hev hed trials,――none like them es air comin’, comin’ down the wind.

I hev been a man marked fur sorrow, an’ now fur shame.” He stood erect;

he looked bold, youthful. The weight of his secret, lifted now, had

been heavier than he knew. In his eyes shone that strange light which

was frenzy or prophecy, or inspiration; in his voice rang a vibration

they had never before heard. “I will go forth from ’mongst ye,――I that

am not of ye. Another shall gird me an’ carry me where I would not.

Hell an’ the devil hev prevailed agin me. Pray fur me, brethren, ez I

cannot pray fur myself. Pray that God may yet speak ter me――speak from

out o’ the whirlwind.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD.

AUTHOR OF “GATES AJAR!”

THIS is said to be a practical age and there is much talk about

the materialistic tendencies of the time and the absorption of the

people in affairs of purely momentary and transient importance. It

is nevertheless true that the books which attract the most attention

are the most widely read, and best beloved are those which deal with

the great questions of life and of eternity. It was upon “The Gates

Ajar” that Elizabeth Stuart Phelps founded her reputation. It dealt

entirely with the questions of the future life treating them in a way

remarkably fresh and vigorous, not to say daring, and its reception

was so favorable that it went through twenty editions during its first

year.

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps was the daughter of a professor in the Andover

Theological Seminary. She had been christened with another name; but

on the death of her mother, in 1852, she took her name in full. She

had been publishing sketches and stories since her thirteenth year,

her writings being largely related to charitable, temperance and

other reform work. She has written a long series of books beginning

with “Ellen’s Idol” in 1864, and including a number of series――“The

Tiny Series,” “The Gypsy Series,” etc., intended for Sunday-school

libraries, and some fifteen or twenty stories and books of poems.

Besides these, she has written sketches, stories and poems in large

numbers for the current magazines.

In 1888 she became the wife of Rev. Herbert D. Ward. Their summer

home is at East Gloucester, Massachusetts, while in winter they live

at Newton Highlands. Thoughtfulness and elevation of spirit mark all

Mrs. Ward’s literary work. The philanthropic purpose is evident in

every one of them, and she contributes to the cause of humanity, not

only through her books, but in the time, labor and money which she

freely bestows. Mrs. Ward may be taken as a practical example of

that noble type of American women who combine literary skill, broad

intelligence, and love of mankind with a high degree of spirituality

and whose work for humanity is shown in the progress of our people.

Her purpose has always been high and the result of her work ennobling.

In her books the thought of man and the thought of God blend in a

harmony very significant of the spirit of the time, a spirit which she

has done much to awaken and to promote.

* * * * *

THE HANDS AT HAYLE AND KELSO’S.¹

(FROM “THE SILENT PARTNER.”)

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

IF you are one of the “hands,” then in Hayle and Kelso you have a

breakfast of bread and molasses probably; you are apt to eat it while

you dress. Somebody is heating the kettle, but you cannot wait for it.

Somebody tells you that you have forgotten your shawl; you throw it

over one shoulder and step out, before it is fastened, into the sudden

raw air. You left lamplight indoors, you find moonlight without. The

night seems to have overslept itself; you have a fancy for trying to

wake it――would like to shout at it or cry through it, but feel very

cold, and leave that for the bells to do by-and-by.

You and the bells are the only waking things in life. The great

brain of the world is in serene repose; the great heart of the world

lies warm to the core with dreams; the great hands of the world,

the patient, the perplexed――one almost fancies at times, just for

fancy――seeing you here by the morning moon, the dangerous hands alone

are stirring in the dark.

You hang up your shawl and your crinoline, and understand, as you

go shivering by gaslight to your looms, that you are chilled to

the heart, and that you were careless about your shawl, but do not

consider carefulness worth your while by nature or by habit; a little

less shawl means a few less winters in which to require shawling.

You are a godless little creature, but you cherish a stolid learning,

in those morning moons, towards making an experiment of death and a

wadded coffin.

By the time the gas is out, you cease perhaps――though you cannot

depend upon that――to shiver, and incline less and less to the wadded

coffin, and more to a chat with your neighbor in the alley. Your

neighbor is of either sex and any description as the case may be. In

any event――warming a little with the warming day――you incline more and

more to chat.

If you chance to be a cotton weaver, you are presently warm enough. It

is quite warm enough in the weaving-room. The engines respire into the

weaving-room; with every throb of their huge lungs you swallow their

breath. The weaving-room stifles with steam. The window-sills are

gutted to prevent the condensed ♦steam from running in streams along

the floor; sometimes they overflow, and the water stands under the

looms. The walls perspire profusely; on a damp day drops will fall

from the roof. The windows of the weaving-room are closed. They must

be closed; a stir in the air will break your threads. There is no air

to stir; you inhale for a substitute a motionless hot moisture. If you

chance to be a cotton weaver, it is not in March that you think most

about your coffin.

♦ ‘stream’ replaced with ‘steam’

Being a “hand” in Hayle and Kelso, you are used to eating cold

luncheon in the cold at noon; or you walk, for the sake of a cup of

soup or coffee, half-a-mile, three-quarters, a mile and a-half, and

back. You are allowed three-quarters of an hour to do this. You go and

come upon the jog-trot.

* * * * *

From swearing you take to singing; both perhaps, are equal

relief――active and diverting. There is something curious about that

singing of yours. The tune, the place, the singers, characterize it

sharply; the waning light, the rival din, the girls with tired faces.

You start some little thing with a refrain, and a ring to it. A hymn,

it is not unlikely; something of a River and of Waiting, and of Toil

and Rest, or Sleep, or Crowns, or Harps, or Home, or Green Fields, or

Flowers, or Sorrow, or Repose, or a dozen other things; but always, it

will be noticed, of simple spotless things, such as will surprise the

listener who caught you at your oath of five minutes past. You have

other songs, neither simple nor spotless, it may be; but you never

sing them at your work when the waning day is crawling out from spots

beneath your loom, and the girls lift up their tired faces to catch

and keep the chorus in the rival din.

* * * * *

You are singing when the bell strikes, and singing still when you

clatter down the stairs. Something of the simple spotlessness of the

little song is on your face when you dip into the wind and dusk.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

AMELIA E. BARR.

THE POPULAR NOVELIST.

PERHAPS no other writer in the United States commands so wide a

circle of readers, both at home and abroad, as does Mrs. Barr. She is,

however, personally, very little known, as her disposition is somewhat

shy and retiring, and most of her time is spent at her home on the

Storm King Mountain at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, New York.

Mrs. Barr’s life has been an eventful one, broken in upon by sorrow,

bereavement and hardship, and she has risen superior to her trials and

made her way through difficulties in a manner which is possible only

to an individual of the strongest character.

Amelia E. Huddleston was born at Ulverstone, in the northwest of

England, in 1832. She early became a thorough student, her studies

being directed by her father, who was an eloquent and learned preacher.

When she was seventeen, she went to a celebrated school in Scotland;

but her education was principally derived from the reading of books to

her father.

When about eighteen she was married to Robert Barr, and soon after

came to America, traveling in the West and South. They were in New

Orleans in 1856 and were driven out by the yellow fever, and settled

in Austin, Texas, where Mr. Barr received an appointment in the

comptroller’s office. Removing to Galveston after the Civil War,

Mr. Barr and his four sons died in 1876 of yellow fever. As soon as

she could safely do so, Mrs. Barr took her three daughters to New York,

where she obtained an appointment to assist in the education of the

three sons of a prominent merchant. When she had prepared these boys

for college, she looked about for other means of livelihood, and,

by the assistance of Henry Ward Beecher and Doctor Lyman Abbott, she

was enabled to get some contributions accepted by Messrs. Harper &

Brothers, for whose periodicals she wrote for a number of years. An

accident which happened to her in 1884 changed her life and conferred

upon the world a very great benefit. She was confined to her chair

for a considerable time, and, being compelled to abandon her usual

methods of work, she wrote her first novel, “Jan Vedder’s Wife.” It

was instantly successful, running through many editions, and has been

translated into one or two European languages. Since that time she

has published numerous stories. One of the most successful was “Friend

Olivia,” a study of Quaker character which recalls the closing years

of the Commonwealth in England, and which her girlhood’s home at

Ulverstone, the scene of the rise of Quakerism, gave her special

advantages in preparing. It is an unusually powerful story; and the

pictures of Cromwell and George Fox are not only refreshingly new

and bright but remarkably just and appreciative. Some of her other

stories are “Feet of Clay,” the scene of which is laid on the Isle of

Man; “The Bow of Orange Ribbon,” a study of Dutch life in New York;

“Remember the Alamo,” recalling the revolt of Texas; “She Loved a

Sailor,” which deals with sea life and which draws its scenes from the

days of slavery; “The Last of the MacAllisters;” “A Sister of Esau;”

and “A Rose of a Hundred Leaves.” Only a slight study of Mrs. Barr’s

books is necessary to show the wide range of her sympathies, her

quick and vivid imagination, and her wonderful literary power; and

her career has been an admirable illustration of the power of some

women to win success even under the stress of sorrow, disaster and

bereavement.

* * * * *

LITTLE JAN’S TRIUMPH.¹

(FROM ♦“JAN VEDDER’s WIFE.”)

¹ Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co.

♦ ‘JANE’ replaced with ‘JAN’

AS she approached her house, she saw a crowd of boys, and little

Jan walking proudly in front of them. One was playing “Miss Flora

McDonald’s Reel” on a violin, and the gay strains were accompanied

by finger-snapping, whistling, and occasional shouts. “There is no

quiet to be found anywhere, this morning,” thought Margaret, but her

curiosity was aroused, and she went towards the children. They saw her

coming, and with an accession of clamor hastened to meet her. Little

Jan carried a faded, battered wreath of unrecognizable materials, and

he walked as proudly as Pompey may have walked in a Roman triumph.

When Margaret saw it, she knew well what had happened, and she opened

her arms, and held the boy to her heart, and kissed him over and over,

and cried out, “Oh, my brave little Jan, brave little Jan! How did it

happen then? Thou tell me quick.”

“Hal Ragner shall tell thee, my mother;” and Hal eagerly stepped

forward:

“It was last night, Mistress Vedder, we were all watching for the

‘Arctic Bounty;’ but she did not come, and this morning as we were

playing, the word was passed that she had reached Peter Fae’s pier.

Then we all ran, but thou knowest that thy Jan runs like a red deer,

and so he got far ahead, and leaped on board, and was climbing the

mast first of all. Then Bor Skade, he tried to climb over him, and

Nichol Sinclair, he tried to hold him back, but the sailors shouted,

‘Bravo, little Jan Vedder!’ and the skipper shouted ‘Bravo!’ and thy

father, he shouted higher than all the rest. And when Jan had cut

loose the prize, he was like to greet for joy, and he clapped his

hands, and kissed Jan, and he gave him five gold sovereigns,――see,

then, if he did not!” And little Jan proudly put his hand in his

pocket, and held them out in his small soiled palm.

The feat which little Jan had accomplished is one which means all

to the Shetland boy that his first buffalo means to the Indian youth.

When a whaler is in Arctic seas, the sailors on the first of May make

a garland of such bits of ribbons, love tokens, and keepsakes, as have

each a private history, and this they tie to the top of the mainmast.

There it swings, blow high or low, in sleet and hail, until the ship

reaches her home-port. Then it is the supreme emulation of every lad,

and especially of every sailor’s son, to be first on board and first

up the mast to cut it down, and the boy who does it is the hero of the

day, and has won his footing on every Shetland boat.

What wonder, then, that Margaret was proud and happy? What wonder

that in her glow of delight the thing she had been seeking was made

clear to her? How could she go better to Suneva than with this crowd

of happy boys? If the minister thought she ought to share one of her

blessings with Suneva, she would double her obedience, and ask her to

share the mother’s as well as the wife’s joy.

“One thing I wish, boys,” she said happily, “let us go straight to

Peter Fae’s house, for Hal Ragner must tell Suneva Fae the good news

also.” So, with a shout, the little company turned, and very soon

Suneva, who was busy salting some fish in the cellar of her house,

heard her name called by more than fifty shrill voices, in fifty

different keys.

She hurried upstairs, saying to herself, “It will be good news, or

great news, that has come to pass, no doubt; for when ill-luck has the

day, he does not call any one like that; he comes sneaking in.” Her

rosy face was full of smiles when she opened the door, but when she

saw Margaret and Jan standing first of all, she was for a moment too

amazed to speak.

Margaret pointed to the wreath: “Our Jan took it from the topmast of

the ‘Arctic Bounty,’” she said. “The boys brought him home to me, and

I have brought him to thee, Suneva. I thought thou would like it.”

“Our Jan!” In those two words Margaret cancelled everything remembered

against her. Suneva’s eyes filled, and she stretched out both her

hands to her step-daughter.

“Come in, Margaret! Come in, my brave, darling Jan! Come in, boys,

everyone of you! There is cake, and wheat bread, and preserved fruit

enough for you all; and I shall find a shilling for every boy here,

who has kept Jan’s triumph with him.”

* * * * *

THE OLD PIANO.

HOW still and dusky is the long-closed room!

What lingering shadows and what faint perfume

Of Eastern treasures!――sandal wood and scent

With nard and cassia and with roses blent.

Let in the sunshine.

Quaint cabinets are here, boxes and fans,

And hoarded letters full of hopes and plans.

I pass them by. I came once more to see

The old piano, dear to memory,

In past days mine.

Of all sad voices from forgotten years,

Its is the saddest; see what tender tears

Drop on the yellow keys as, soft and slow,

I play some melody of long ago.

How strange it seems!

The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong

Give only now the shadow of a song――

The dying echo of the fuller strain

That I shall never, never hear again,

Unless in dreams.

What hands have touched it! Fingers small and white,

Since stiff and weary with life’s toil and fight;

Dear clinging hands that long have been at rest,

Folded serenely on a quiet breast.

Only to think,

O white sad notes, of all the pleasant days,

The happy songs, the hymns of holy praise,

The dreams of love and youth, that round you cling!

Do they not make each sighing, trembling string

A mighty link?

The old piano answers to my call,

And from my fingers lets the lost notes fall.

O soul! that I have loved, with heavenly birth

Wilt thou not keep the memory of earth,

Its smiles and sighs?

Shall wood and metal and white ivory

Answer the touch of love with melody,

And thou forget? Dear one, not so.

I move thee yet (though how I may not know)

Beyond the skies.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MISS ALICE FRENCH.

(_Octave Thanet_).

THE REPRESENTATIVE NOVELIST OF THE SOUTHWEST.

AS one of the most prominent among our modern women novelists stands

the name of Octave Thanet. The real owner of this widely known

pen-name is Miss Alice French. Though Miss French is recognized as

the representative novelist of Missouri, Arkansas, and the Southwest

generally, where she has lived for many years, she is by birth and

education a genuine Yankee woman, and on both sides a descendant from

old Puritan stock. Her ancestors came over in the Mayflower. They

count among them many Revolutionary heroes and not a few persecutors

of the witches one hundred and fifty and two hundred years ago,

and they, also, number to themselves some of the modern rulers and

prominent ministers of Massachusetts.

Mr. French, the father of the authoress, was during his life a loyal

Westerner, but it is said never lost his fondness for the East and

went there regularly every summer, and his daughter still maintains

the custom. While Mr. French was a thorough business man, he was,

moreover, an enthusiastic lover of books and the fine arts, and

instilled into Miss Alice during her early training a love for reading,

and encouraged her to write.

Shortly after her graduation at Abbott Academy, Andover, Massachusetts,

Miss French sent a manuscript for publication, but the editors to

whom she sent it advised her to wait until her judgment was more

mature and her reading more extensive. She accepted their advice and

remained silent for several years, and then sent her first book, “The

Communist’s Wife,” to a New York publisher, who declined it, whereupon

she forwarded it to other publishers, and it was finally brought out

by Lippincotts of Philadelphia, and made such a success that assured

easy access for her subsequent works, through any publisher to whom

she would send them, to the reading world. The royalty on her various

books now brings her a handsome and steady income.

Among the most prominent publications of Octave Thanet’s are “Knitters

in the Sun” (Boston, 1887); “Otto the Knight” (1888); “Expiated”

and “We All,” issued from New York in 1890. Since that date she has

written several other volumes of equal merit, each new book adding to

her well-established reputation and popularity. She has also edited

the best “Letters of Lady Montague.”

The pen-name of this writer was the result of chance. When in school

she had a room-mate, Octavia, who was familiarly known as Octave.

The word Thanet she saw by chance printed on a passing freight car.

It struck her fancy and she adopted it; hence the pseudonym “Octave

Thanet.” It is said that she regrets having adopted a _nom-de-plume_,

but since she has made her fame under that name she continues to use

it. Miss French is something of a philosopher and artist as well as

a novelist, and is deeply read in historical studies as well as the

English-German philosophers. She is one of the most domestic of women

and declares that she is a great deal better cook than a writer,

and that it is a positive delight to her to arrange a dinner. Most

prominent women have a fad, and that of Miss French is for collecting

china. She is also fond of outdoor sports and takes considerable

interest in politics. While not an advocate of woman’s suffrage, she

declares herself to be a moderate free-trade Democrat, and a firm

believer in honest money. Whether the latter term implies a single

gold standard or the free coinage of silver, the writer is unable to

ascertain.

The strength of Octave Thanet’s writing is largely due to the

fact that she studies her subjects assiduously, going to original

sources for her pictures of bygone times, and getting both facts and

impressions so far as possible from the fountain-head. She is regarded

not only as the best delineator of the life of the middle Western

States, but the most careful student of human nature, and, perhaps

the best storyteller among our modern short-story writers. She lives a

simple life on a farm and draws her characters from the people around

about her.

* * * * *

TWO LOST AND FOUND.¹

[FROM “KNITTERS IN THE SUN.”]

¹ By Permission ♦Houghton Mifflin & Co.

♦ ‘Hougton’ replaced with ‘Houghton’

THEY rode along, Ruffner furtively watching Bud, until finally the

elder man spoke with the directness of primitive natures and strong

excitement:

“Whut’s come ter ye, Bud Quinn? Ye seem all broke up ’beout this yere

losin’ yo’ little trick (child); yet ye didn’t useter set no gre’t

store by ’er――least, looked like――”

“I knaw,” answered Bud, lifting his heavy eyes, too numb himself with

weariness and misery to be surprised,――“I knaw, an’ ’t are curi’s ter

me too. I didn’t set no store by ’er w’en I had ’er. I taken a gredge

agin ’er kase she hadn’t got no good sense, an’ you all throwed it up

to me fur a jedgment. An’ knowin’ how I hadn’t done a thing to hurt

Zed, it looked cl’ar agin right an’ natur’ fur the Lord ter pester me

that a-way; so someways I taken the notion ’twar the devil, and that

he got inter Ma’ Bowlin’, an’ I mos’ cudn’t b’ar the sight ’er that

pore little critter. But the day she got lost kase ’er tryin’ ter meet

up with me, I ’lowed mabbe he tolled ’er off, an’ I sorter felt bad

fur ’er, an’ w’en I seen them little tracks ’er her’n, someways all

them mean feelin’s I got they jes broked off short insider me like a

string mought snap. They done so. An’ I wanted thet chile bader’n I

ever wanted anything.”

“Law me!” said Ruffner, quite puzzled. “But, say, Bud, ef ye want ’er

so bad ’s all thet, ye warn’t wanter mad the Lord by lyin’, kase He

are yo’ on’y show now. Bud Quinn, did ye hurt my boy?” He had pushed

his face close to Bud’s, and his mild eyes were glowing like live

coals.

“Naw, Mr. Ruffner,” answered Bud, quietly. “I never teched a ha’r ’er

’is head!”

Ruffner kept his eager and almost fierce scrutiny a moment, then he

drew a long gasping sigh, crying,

“Blame my skin ef I don’ b’lieve ye! I’ve ’lowed, fur a right smart,

we all used ye mighty rough.”

“’Tain’t no differ,” said Bud, dully. Nothing mattered now, the poor

fellow thought; Ma’ Bowlin’ was dead, and Sukey hated him.

Ruffner whistled slowly and dolefully; that was his way of expressing

sympathy; but the whistle died on his lips, for Bud smote his shoulder,

then pointed toward the trees.

“Look a-thar!” whispered Bud, with a ghastly face and dilating

eyeballs. “Oh, Lord A’mighty, thar’s her――an’ _him_!”

Ruffner saw a boat leisurely propelled by a long pole approaching from

the river-side, a black-haired young man in the bow with the pole, a

fair-haired little girl in the stern. The little girl jumped up, and

at the same instant a shower of water from light flying heels blinded

the young man.

“Paw! Paw!” screamed the little girl. “Maw tole Ma’ Bowlin’――meet

up――paw!”

* * * * *

Just as the big clock in the store struck the last stroke of six,

Sukey Quinn, who had been cowering on the platform steps, lifted her

head and put her hand to her ear. Then everybody heard it, the long

peal of a horn. The widow from Georgia ran quickly up to Sukey and

threw her arms about her shoulders. For a second the people held their

breath. It had been arranged that whoever found the lost child should

give the signal by blowing his horn, once if the searchers came too

late, three times if the child should be alive. Would the horn blow

again?

“It are Bud’s horn!” sobbed Sukey. “He’d never blow fur onst. Hark!

Thar’t goes agin! Three times! An’ me wouldn’t hev no truck with ’im,

but she set store by Ma’ Bowlin’ all the time.”

Horn after horn caught up the signal joyfully, and when the legitimate

blowing was over, two enterprising boys exhausted themselves on a

venerable horn which was so cracked that no one would take it. In

an incredibly short time every soul within hearing distance, not to

mention a herd of cattle and a large number of swine, had run to the

store, and when at last two horses’ heads appeared above the hill, and

the crowd could see a little pink sun-bonnet against Bud Quinn’s brown

jean, an immense clamor rolled out.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN.

THE STORY-TELLER OF THE PILGRIMS.

THIS famous daughter of the Pilgrims has become a specialist in their

behalf, and has pledged her remaining years to develop their story.

Every summer she visits Plymouth, where she constantly studies not

only the written records of the Pilgrim Fathers, but the crumbling

gravestones and the oral traditions which have come down among

their descendants. Her contribution to the literature of early New

England possesses a rare value, found, perhaps, in no other writer,

enriched from her intimate knowledge of the pioneers of the Eastern

Colonists gained from her long study, thorough reading, and a careful

investigation of their history and traditions.

Mrs. Austin was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1831. Her

parents were from Plymouth, and counted their lineage back to the

Mayflower Pilgrims in no less than eight distinct lines. She also

claims a descent from Francis le Baron; thus, believers in heredity

will recognize in this the root of Mrs. Austin’s remarkable devotion

to Pilgrim stories and traditions. Her father, Isaac Goodwin, was a

lawyer of considerable prominence, and had also devoted much study

to genealogy. Her brother, the Honorable John A. Goodwin, was the

author of “The Pilgrim Republic,” which is considered the best history

of the settlement of Plymouth. Her mother, besides being a poet and

song-writer, was also a lover of the traditions and anecdotes of her

native region, and many of the stories embodied in Mrs. Austin’s later

works she has heard as a child at her mother’s knee, especially those

relating to “The Nameless Nobleman,” “Francis le Baron and His Family.”

Among the best of Mrs. Austin’s Pilgrim story-books are “The Nameless

Nobleman” (1881); “Standish of Standish” (1889); “Doctor le Baron

and His Daughters” (1890); and “Betty Alden” (1891). These cover

the ground from the landing of the Pilgrims upon Plymouth Rock in

1620 to the days of the Revolution in 1775. Aside from these books,

Mrs. Austin has produced in addition to a number of magazine stories

and some poems, “Fairy Dream” (1859); “Dora Darling” (1865); “Outpost”

(1866); “Taylor Boy” (1867); “Cypher” (1869); “The Shadow of Moloch

Mountains” (1870); “Moon-Folk” (1874); “Mrs. Beauchamp Brown” (1880);

and “Nantucket Scraps” (1882). Since 1891 Mrs. Austin has added a

fifth volume to her “Pilgrim Stories,” completing the series. All of

her writings are in a finished style, remarkable alike for delicacy,

purity and clearness of expression, and her work is distinctly

American.

Personally Mrs. Austin is a charming woman, much beloved by those who

know her best. She has three children, and her home is with a married

daughter at Roxbury, Massachusetts; but she spends much of her time in

Boston.

* * * * *

AN AFTERNOON IN NANTUCKET.¹

FROM “NANTUCKET SCRAPS,” 1883.

¹ Copyright, Jas. R. Osgood.

THE drowsy hours of afternoon were devoted to the museum, collected

and exhibited by the public-spirited widow of a sea-captain named

McCleve. An upper room to her comfortable house is devoted to the

curios, although, like attar of roses, or some penetrating oils,

they seem to have saturated the entire mansion,――the good-natured

proprietress occasionally haling a favored guest away from the rest

to look at some quaint picture, piece of china, or bit of furniture in

her own private apartments. The party of twelve or fourteen collected

on this special afternoon were taken to the upper room and seated

around a small table, as if for a spiritual _séance_, the hostess

arranging precedence and proximity with an autocratic good-humor to

which everybody yielded except the señor, who, standing looking in at

the door, was presently accosted with――

“That gentleman at the door――why――I’ve seen that face before! Don’t

you tell me it’s Sam!”

“No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure to contradict me

if I did,” replied the señor, coolly; whereupon Aunty shook him

affectionately by the hand, assuring him he was the same “saucy boy”

he used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a seat in the

magical circle.

“At what period of the entertainment do we pay?” inquired one of the

persons one meets everywhere, and who may be called the whit-leather

of society. Mrs. McCleve looked at him with an appreciative eye for a

moment, and then quietly replied:

“Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so plain as that, but

I guess _you’d_ better pay now before you forget it.” Whit-leather

does not suffer from sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a

quarter of a dollar, held it tight while asking――

“Have you got ten cents change?”

“No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till I have,” replied

Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in her eye, and the business was

soon adjusted. This over, she placed upon the table a tray containing

some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, comprising

a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, spoons of various sizes,

knife-handles, and several specimens of a utensil peculiar to

Nantucket, called a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental

patterns in pastry,――a species of embroidery for which Nantucket

housewives were once famous, although, “pity ’tis, ’tis true,” they

have now largely emancipated themselves from such arts.

As the guests examined these really wonderful products of talent

almost unaided by implements or training, one of the ladies naturally

inquired: “Who did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline attitude

and tone: “Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us that; and if so, you’ll

be the first one I ever met that could.” This obscure intimation of

course awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, in every

mind; and in reply to a shower of questioning the sibyl gave a long

and intricate narration, beginning with the presence on board of

her husband’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the manners and

bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating of a common sailor; the

delicate suggestion of a disguised lady was also dimly introduced.

What succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade always said when

obliged to cut short the story that the Sultan might get up and say

his prayers; but we will not evade Mrs. McCleve’s copyright by telling

it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it.

“Two, four, six, eight, ten――elev-en!” counted she at the end, picking

up the napkin-rings; “I don’t seem to see that twelfth ring!” and she

looked hard at the unfortunate that had acquired her dislike in the

first of the interview by an unfeeling allusion to money.

“Here it is, Aunty,” remarked the señor. “I wanted to hear you ask

after it.”

“Now, look at here, Sammy, you’re too old for such tricks,”

♦expostulated the dame, in precisely the tone one admonishes a child;

and then turning to the company generally she added confidentially:

♦ ‘exposulated’ replaced with ‘expostulated’

“I ain’t one of them that’s given to suspicion, and it ain’t a

Nantucket failing; but last summer there was a boy, one of those

half-grown critters, you know, neither beef nor veal, and I just saw

him pocket――well, it was that very knife-handle. I always kept an eye

on it since, thinking it might be off yet. So I waited till I saw he

actooally meant it, and was fixing to go off with it, and then says I:

“‘Well, sonny, going to unload before you start out on a new v’yge?’

So that’s all about the carvings; and these are shark’s teeth,――none

of your Wauwinet sand-sharks that would run away from a puppy-dog no

bigger than that, but a reg’lar man-eater off the West Indies; and

these very teeth took a man’s leg off.”

“Horrible!” cried one, while another, one of the persistent souls who

must finish A before they begin B, inquired: “But did the boy give up

the knife-handle?”

“Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” replied the

hostess compassionately; and then, with the inborn courtesy peculiar

to Nantucket folk, turned aside the laugh that followed by hastily

displaying some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine

curiosities, many of them brought home by the deceased captain, many

of them presented to his relict by his comrades or by her own friends;

they were mostly such as we have seen many times in many places, but

some few were _sui generis_, such as a marriage contract between a

Quaker bachelor and maid in the early days of the island, with the

signatures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, mutual consent

before others being the only ceremony required by the canon of these

Non-sacramentarians. Then there was Phœbe Ann’s comb, a wonderful

work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the possessor, Phœbe Ann’s

sister, delivered a short original poem, setting forth how ardently

Phœbe Ann had desired one of these immense combs, their price being

eight dollars each; and how, having engaged it, she set to work to

earn it by picking berries for sale; but before the pence had grown to

the pounds the big comb was out of fashion, and poor Phœbe Ann’s hair,

which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through illness, and

what remained was cut short. Nantucket probity would not, however, be

off its bargain for such cause as this; and Phœbe Ann paid her money

and took her ornamental comb,――more useful in its present connection,

perhaps, than it could have been in any other. The crown and glory

of Mrs. McCleve’s museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or

fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one of the red-cedar

posts planted a century or two since by this lady’s ancestor, to

inclose a certain parcel of land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty

years ago the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins proposed

to her to drive out to the place and secure a relic of the original

island cedar now extinct. She accepted; and the section of the post,

sawed off with great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved

into its present shape in “Cousin Reuben Macy’s shop on Orange Street.”

But all this set forth in an original poem delivered with much unction

by its author, who decisively refuses a copy to any and everybody, and

is even chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. It is

original――in fact, one may say, intensely original――and quite as well

worth listening to as the saga of a royal skald. It begins after this

fashion:

“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,

Merits, my friends, your careful observation.

* * * * *

Saturday, the busiest day of all,

From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”

Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, and the demur on

account of pies then baking in the oven; but this being overruled by

masculine persuasiveness――

“Across the hall I gayly skipped,

And soon was for the cruise equipped.”

Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt to cut the stern

old cedar trunk with a dull saw,――

“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,

Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”

and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But these stray

couplets give a very inadequate idea of the poem as delivered by its

author; and he who visits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the

rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament.

Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her eye steadily

upon a figure beside one of the windows, and sternly inquired:

“Is that woman sick? Why don’t somebody see to her?”

It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat of the room,

the excitement of the narrative, and possibly certain ancient and

fish-like odors connected with the marine specimens, had fainted a

little; but was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, prominent

among which in those days is a disinclination to have one’s crimps

spoiled by the application of water; and the incident was made more

memorable by the valedictory of the hostess:

“Now, if any of you want to come in again while you stay on the island

you can, without paying anything; and if I don’t remember you, just

say, ‘I was here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know it’s all

right.” And we heard that the experiment was tried and succeeded.

As the party left the house the señor lingered to say: “We are going

up to the old windmill, Aunty. Didn’t it belong to your family once?”

“I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a windmill and didn’t know

how to make one: and they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to

make it, and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He went back

to the continent for something――nails maybe, or maybe idees――and

carried the money with him; some pirate or other got wind of it, and

the first thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and murdered

there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up the windmill though, and the

women had got almost tired grinding their samp and meal in those

old stone mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks spoke to

my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and he thought it over, and

finally went to bed and dreamed just how to build it, and the next day

got up and built it. That’s the story of _that_, my dear.”

“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” suggested the señor with a

twinkle in his eye; to which the hostess rather sharply replied:

“I don’t profess to know much about revealation, and I don’t surmise

you know much more, Sammy; but that’s how the windmill was built.”

History adds another anecdote of the windmill, worthy to be preserved

for its Nantucket flavor. Eighty-two years from its marvelous

inception, the mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners

concluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting was called, and

Jared Gardner, the man who was supposed to be wisest in mills of any

on the island, was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Sylvanus

Macy――

“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without the stones?”

“Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as succinctly; and the

other――

“What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared?”

“I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” replied Jared

indifferently.

The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned to the charge with――

“Jared, thee must make us an offer.”

“Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Sylvanus.”

The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd Jared did not burn his

mill, even to roast a suckling pig; but repaired and used it to his

own and his neighbor’s advantage, until the day of his death.

REPRESENTATIVE WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA.

Illustration: WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA

_PHOEBE CARY_ • _ALICE CARY_

_LUCY LARCOM_ • _LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON_

_LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY_ • _ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH_

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

PIONEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA.

MRS. SIGOURNEY, was among the first, and is the most voluminous of

all the early female poets of America. In fact she has been, up to

this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our

country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the

first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863, ♦forty-eight years

later. Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which

abound in passages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit

in their graver moods characteristics of a mind trained by exercise

in self-knowledge and self-control. Her writings possess energy

and variety, while her wide and earnest sympathy with all topics

of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those

interests. Mr. Edward H. Everett in a review of Mrs. Sigourney’s

works declared: “They express with great purity and evident sincerity

the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart and

the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being which

constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well

as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song.

If her power of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of

her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a

Christian Pindar.” Continuing he says: “Though she does not inherit

‘The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear,

Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of

air,’

she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that

refined felicity of expression, which is the principal charm in poetry.

In blank verse she is very successful. The poems that she has written

in this measure have much of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be

nearly or quite as highly relished by his admirers.”

♦ ‘fifty-eight’ replaced with ‘forty-eight’

To the above eminent critical estimate of Mrs. Sigourney’s writings

it is unnecessary to add further comment. The justice of the praise

bestowed upon her is evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider

and more pervading reputation than many of her more modern sisters in

the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of late years, her poetry

has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860.

Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at

Norwich, Connecticut, September 1st, 1791. Her father was a man of

worth and benevolence and had served in the revolutionary struggle

which brought about the independence of America. Of the precocity

of the child Duyckinck says: “She could read fluently at the age of

three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm and of

an invariable religious sentiment.” Her girlhood life was quiet and

uneventful. She received the best educational advantages which her

neighborhood and the society of Madam Lathrop, the widow of Dr. Daniel

Lathrop, of Hartford, could bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years

of age, Miss Huntley was induced to take a select school at Hartford,

and removed to that city, where the next year, in 1815, her first book,

“Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The prose essays

are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of young

ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems

to have had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819

Miss Huntley became the wife of Mr. Charles Sigourney, an educated

gentleman and a merchant of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in

five cantos, entitled “Traits of the Aborigines,” was published, and

about the same time a London publisher made a miscellaneous collection

of her verses and published them under the title of “Lays from

the West,” a compliment of no small moment to an American poetess.

Subsequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch

of Connecticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and

“Letters to Mothers,” “Poetry for Children,” “Zinzendorf and Other

Poems,” the last named appearing in 1836. It introduces us to the

beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent tribute to its scenery

and historic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, a

noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming

Valley. The picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the

departure of Zinzendorf from the then infant city of Philadelphia,

extols him for his missionary labor, and utters a stirring exhortation

to Christian union. In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other Poems” was issued

by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest and most

successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines

each, opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature

as her imagination conceived it in the condition of the new world

prior to its discovery. The landing at Jamestown and the subsequent

events that go to make up the thrilling story of Pocahontas follow in

detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical compositions

of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject.

In 1840 Mrs. Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in

1842 published a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous

and picturesque scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the

book was “Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in

Europe there were also published two volumes of her works in London,

and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the author from various

distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond bracelet

from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846

and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded

Hope,” a touching and beautiful memento of her severe ♦bereavement in

the death of her only son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is

also a graceful volume of prose sketches.

♦ ‘bereavment’ replaced with ‘bereavement’

Mrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when

seventy-three years of age.

* * * * *

COLUMBUS.

ST. STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proud

In learning’s pomp that day,

For there a robed and stately crowd

Pressed on in long array.

A mariner with simple chart

Confronts that conclave high,

While strong ambition stirs his heart,

And burning thoughts of wonder part

From lips and sparkling eye.

What hath he said? With frowning face,

In whispered tones they speak,

And lines upon their tablets trace,

Which flush each ashen cheek;

The Inquisition’s mystic doom

Sits on their brows severe,

And bursting forth in visioned gloom,

Sad heresy from burning tomb

Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time

Thy splendid dream shall crown,

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,

Where unshorn forests frown,

The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow,

The Indian hunter’s bow,

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,

And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou

To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!

In Fates’ unfolding scroll,

Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,

That rack the noble soul.

On! on! Creation’s secrets probe,

Then drink thy cup of scorn,

And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe,

Sleep like that master of the globe,

All glorious,――yet forlorn.

* * * * *

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs!

With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips,

Whence are ye? Did some white winged messenger

On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ

To the cold cradle of eternal snows?

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,

Did them with tear drops nurse ye?――

――Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine

Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,

Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice,

And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him

Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste

Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge

Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge

Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness――

Fearless, yet frail――and, clasping his chill hands,

Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp

Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,

And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,

He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,

Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale

And freer dreams of heaven.

* * * * *

NIAGARA.

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe

Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on

Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set

His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud

Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give

Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him

Eternally――bidding the lip of man

Keep silence――and upon thy rocky altar pour

Incense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dare

To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,

Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime

Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrink

Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves

Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem

To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall

His wearied billows from their vexing play,

And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,

With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,

When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth,

Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,

That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolve

This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH’s name

Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,

That lifts itself within thy wide domain,

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds

Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing

Amid thy mist and foam. ’Tis meet for them

To touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stir

The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,

For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,

Without reproof. But as for us, it seems

Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak

Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint

Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point,

Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty,

But as it presses with delirious joy

To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,

And tame its rapture, with the humbling view

Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand

In the dread presence of the Invisible,

As if to answer to its God through thee.

* * * * *

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that polished brow

And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice

And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes

There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt

Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence

Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound

The silken fringes of those curtaining lids

Forever. There had been a murmuring sound

With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,

Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set

His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile

So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,

Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal

The signet ring of heaven.

* * * * *

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE.

A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave,

Where a lily had chanced to grow;

“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,

When she of the blue and sparkling eye

Must sleep in the churchyard low?”

Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,

And spoke from its shining track:

“I was a worm till I won my wings,

And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings,

Wouldst thou call the blest one back?”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

AUTHOR OF “THE SINLESS CHILD.”

IT was in the year 1841 that a poetic Romance of several episodes,

written in ballad style and entitled “The Sinless Child,” was

published in the Southern Literary Messenger and brought its author,

a woman of thirty-five years, into general prominence, and gained for

her an enviable position which she ever after maintained and fortified

with a series of the finest sonnets which the literature of our

country affords. “Her productions,” says Reade, “are characterized

rather by a passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and a

subtle vein of philosophy more than sentiment, though in the latter

she is by no means deficient.”

Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers · 第 7 / 16 章

“I don’t know about going at once. This is my hour for being in the