A Dane, a friend of Johan's, who had come to America to write a book on
American institutions, asked the consul to find him a quiet
boarding-house in a quiet street. The consul knew of exactly such a
retreat, and directed the Professor to the place. It was not far from
the Revere House. He arrived there in the evening, unpacked his
treasures, congratulating himself on his cozy quarters and his nice
landlady, who asked such a modest price that he jumped at it.
The next morning, at four o'clock, he was awakened by a strange noise,
the like of which he had never heard outside a zoological garden. At
first he thought he was still dreaming, and turned over to sleep again,
but the noise repeated itself. This time it seemed to come from under
his bed, and sounded like a lion's roar. Probably a circus had passed
and a lion had got loose and was prowling about, seeking what he could
devour! He thought of ringing up the house, but demurred, reflecting
that whoever answered the bell would probably be the first victim.
Again the roar! Fear overcame his humane impulses; he rang, hoping that
if the lion's appetite was appeased by the first victim, he might be
spared.
The landlady appeared in the flesh, calmly and quietly. "Did you ring,
sir?" she asked, placidly.
"I did indeed," he answered. "Will you kindly tell me whether I am
awake or asleep? It seems to me that I heard the roar of a lion. Did no
one else hear it?"
The landlady hesitated, embarrassed, and answered, "I did, sir--you and
I are the only persons in the house."
"Then the lion is waiting for us?" he said, quaking in his slippers.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the woman answered. "I had hoped that you had
not noticed anything--"
"Good gracious!" he said, "do you think I can be in the house with a
roaring lion and not notice anything?"
"He happens to be hungry this morning, and nothing will keep him
quiet," said the kind lady, as if she were talking of her kitten.
"Madam," screamed the infuriated Dane, "one of us is certainly going
mad! When I tell you that there is a lion roaming over your house you
stand there quietly and tell me that he is hungry?"
"If you will wait a moment, sir, I will explain."
"No explanation is needed, madam. If I can get out of this house alive
I will meet you in some other un-lion-visited part of Boston and pay
you." And he added, with great sarcasm, "He is probably a pet of yours,
and your ex-boarders have furnished his meals."
Instead of being shocked at this, the gentle landlady's eyes beamed
with content. "That's just it--he is a pet of mine, and he lives in the
back parlor."
"The lion is here in your back parlor, and you have the face to keep
boarders?" shrieked the Dane.
"My other boarders have left me."
"I should think so, and this one is going to do like-wise, and without
delay"--beginning to put his things in his bag.
She said she was sorry he thought of going, but she could understand he
was nervous.
Nervous! If he could have given his feelings words he would have said
that never in all his life had he been so scared.
The meek lady before him watched him while he was making up his
packages and his mind. What he made up was his reluctance to flee from
danger and leave the lion-hearted little woman alone.
"I will not go," he said, in the voice of an early Christian martyr.
"You see, sir, this is how it happened," began the woman. "A very nice
sailor came to board here, but could not pay his bill, so to settle
with me he offered me his pet dog. I thought it a puppy, and as I had
taken a fancy to the little thing--he used to drink milk with the cat
out of the same saucer--I consented to keep it."
"And he turned out to be a lion? How did you first notice it?"
"Well, sir, I soon saw he attracted attention in the street. He wanted
to fight all the other animals, and attacked everything from a horse to
a milk-pan. It was when I was giving him a bath that I noticed that his
tail was beginning to bunch out at the end and his under-jaw was
growing pointed. Then the awful thought came to me--it was not a dog,
but a lion! This was a dreadful moment, for I loved him, and he was
fond of me, and I could not part with him. He grew and grew--his body
lengthened out and his paws became enormous, and his shaggy hair
covered his head. But it was when he tried to get up in my lap, and
became angry because my lap was not big enough to hold him, that he
growled so that I became afraid. Then I had bars put up before the door
of my back parlor, which was my former dining-room, and I keep him
there."
"Do you feed him yourself?"
"Yes, sir, but it takes a fortune to keep him in meat."
"How old do you think he is?" the Dane asked, beginning now to feel a
respectful admiration for the lone woman who preferred to give up
boarders rather than give up her companion.
"That I do not know," she replied, "but from his size and voice I
should say he was full-grown."
"I can vouch for his voice. Will you show him to me?" He had never seen
a lion boarding in a back parlor, and rather fancied the novelty. He
told the consul afterward that he had never seen a finer specimen of
the Bengal lion. To his mistress he was obedient and meek as a lamb.
She could do anything she liked with him; she passed her hand lovingly
over his great head, caressing his tawny locks, while the lion looked
at her with soft and tender eyes, and stuck out his enormous tongue to
lick her hand.
The Dane stayed on, like the good man he was. He had not the heart to
deprive the little woman of the few dollars he paid for his room, which
would go toward buying food for her pet. He himself became very fond of
"Leo," and would surreptitiously spend all his spare money at the
butcher's, who must have wondered, when he sent the quarters of beef,
how such a small family could consume so much--and the Dane would pass
hours feeding the lion with tidbits held on the end of his umbrella.
We were told afterward that the police discovered that the noises
coming from the house were not the usual Boston east winds, and, having
found out from what they proceeded, suggested that the Zoological
Gardens should buy the animal, for which they paid an enormous price.
So the sailor did pay his debt, after all!
CAMBRIDGE, _March, 1880_.
Dear L.,--I love to write to you; my thoughts run away with me, my pen
flies like a bird over the paper. You need not remind me of the fact
that my handwriting is execrable. I know it, therefore don't waft it
across America. Spare me this mortification. Tear the letters up after
reading them, or _before_, if you like. When I see the stacks of
never-looked-through letters being dragged from one place to the other,
tied up in their old faded ribbons, I feel that I do not wish mine to
have the same fate.
I read the other day H.'s lively letters full of dash, written in her
happy girlhood, and think of her as she is now, the tired mother of six
children, without a sparkle of humor left in her, and nothing more
spicy in her epistles than a lengthy account of the coal bill or the
children's measles. All the life taken out of her for ever! Just deadly
dull!
I feel in the above pathetic mood whenever I look out of my window and
see the veteran Washington elm facing wind and weather, bravely waiting
the end. With what care they bolster up its weary limbs, saw off its
withered branches, and deluge its old roots! They spend days belting
and tarring its waist, trying to destroy the perverse caterpillars; but
with all this they can never give it back its fresh and green youth. It
goes on patiently year after year putting forth its leaves in spring
and coquetting in its summer garb with its younger rivals. In autumn
the pretty colored leaves fly away, and it remains bare and grim under
its coating of snow and ice. Some day it will blow down, and nothing
but the monumental stone will be left on which future generations will
read, "Under this tree George Washington first took command of the
American Army, July 3, 1775."
If I stay in Cambridge long enough I shall become a beacon of wisdom.
Every one is so learned. If I happen to meet a lady in the street she
will begin to talk of the "old masters" as if it were as natural a
subject of conversation as the weather.
Washington, _March 23, 1880_.
Johan has this moment received the news that he is transferred to Rome.
We feel dreadfully sad to leave Washington and all our dear friends.
Our good Schlözer would say "_Que faire? La diplomatie a des exigences
qu'il ne faut pas négliger_."
The Queen of Denmark writes, "I hope that you are sure that I never
omit to name your husband when a change is coming on in diplomacy, and
I hope soon to see something advance to fulfil my wish. Alas, no great
benefit to me personally, as you will not live in Copenhagen, but you
would come here in an easier way, and you would be in Europe. Farewell,
dear Lilly, farewell, and think of me as I of you. Yours.... Louise.
The King's best compliments."
From this I fancy it was the gracious Queen whose finger pointed to the
post Rome. This will be the last letter you will get from me from this
side of the Atlantic, as I am going to be very busy--as busy as the bee
I only hope that people will let the busy B.