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Public Ownership in Chicago—A Bitter
Attack Upon the South—Remember the Rascals— Introductory to a Letter from
a Boy—An Educational Department—Editorial Comment.
Application made for entry as Second-Class Matter at
New York (N. Y.) Post Office, March, 1905 Copyright, 1905, in U. S. and Great Britain.
Published by Tom Watson’s Magazine, 121 West 42d Street, N. Y.
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How to Overthrow Plutocracy
Several million people in the United States are in substantial accord with the
demands of the People’s Party. A majority of all voters would welcome Government
Ownership of Railroads and other public utilities. The recent great victory in Chicago
for Municipal Ownership demonstrates this fact. What Chicago has done locally can
be accomplished in the nation—and WILL be done as soon as the people overcome
Political Inertia
With many the voting habit becomes fixed after one or two elections. The ordinary
man keeps on “voting ’er straight” long after he has discovered that his party’s actions
are out of joint with his own views. Party “regularity” commands the average man’s
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even, have placed party “regularity” before principle.
A Great Light
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The First American King
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How to Organize
Mr. Hastings says:
“It has been suggested,” continued General Mainwarren, “that a wise course for
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Millions of voters—as the Chicago election clearly indicates—are in accord with the
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Educate the Boys
Let us train up a new generation of voters—without diminishing our efforts to
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Let Us Begin Now
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Tom Watson’s Magazine
Vol. IMAY, 1905No. 3
Politics and Economics — Public Ownership in Chicago — A Bitter Attack Upon the South — Remember the Rascals — Introductory to a Letter from a Boy — An Educational Department — Editorial Comment
BY THOMAS E. WATSON
SEVERAL weeks ago, in an interview
published in the New
York World, I expressed the
opinion that the principle of public
ownership of public utilities was
stronger than any political party.
The recent victory won by it in Chicago
makes the truth of that statement
apparent.
Here was a city which a few months
ago gave the Republican ticket the
enormous majority of 60,000. So far
as parties are concerned, the Republican
Party stands precisely where
it stood when Roosevelt won that
triumph. So far as the Democratic
Party is concerned, it has not budged
an inch from the ground which it occupied
when it met its Waterloo in the
November elections. What is it, then,
which gave to the candidate of the
minority party a decisive success, so
soon after an overwhelming defeat?
Evidently, it was the principle which
he represented.
The National Democratic Party has
never declared itself in favor of public
ownership. The National Republican
Party has never done so. The People’s
Party is the only National organization
which has proclaimed and battled for the
principle which was involved in the Chicago
election.
So far back as 1890 the People’s
Party of the state of Georgia, and of
other states, grew tired of the deceptive
compromise called Public Control;
threw it aside as a failure; boldly advanced
to the more radical ground of
Public Ownership, and formed its line
of battle. In spite of abuse, ridicule
and defeat, our party has never faltered
in its steady advocacy of the
principle which at that time met the
aggressive opposition of both the
Democratic and Republican Parties.
In the campaigns made by Mr. Bryan
he stood for no such principle as this.
In the campaign led by Belmont and
Parker and Gorman in 1904 the Democratic
Party stood for no such principle
as this; nor has the Republican Party
ever dared to proclaim itself in favor
of such robust radicalism. Therefore,
it is folly to say that the victory won in
the Chicago election is a Democratic
victory. It is misleading to say that
this election illustrates the fact that
“the Democratic Party always wins
when it is Democratic.” The principle
of public ownership has never been a
part of the political stock in trade of
the Democratic Party. Therefore the
principle of public ownership of public
utilities cannot be classed as Democratic,
if we use the term in the partisan
sense which attaches to it. The principle
of public ownership is Populistic,
and it is merely rendering to the pioneers
of that movement simple justice
when we say that the Chicago election,
which wiped out party lines and gave
to the people and to the principle a
magnificent victory, should redound to
the credit of those much-abused and misrepresented
men who thirteen years ago
unfurled that particular flag and began
to fight beneath it.
The people of Chicago evidently
grew tired of being plundered; grew
ashamed of their own political imbecility;
grew ashamed of their own
municipal cowardice. Roused to action
by a few magnetic leaders who
were not afraid and who were not to be
sidetracked by hypocritical compromises,
they marshaled their strength
and demonstrated how easy it is for the
masses to throw off the yoke of those
who plunder them under forms of law.
Nobody ever doubted for a moment
that the people of Chicago, in the main,
were honest, courageous, public-spirited,
but they had submitted so long
to the initiative and the domination of
a few organized rascals who intrenched
themselves in places of power, safeguarded
by legislation, that it seemed
wellnigh hopeless to expect them ever
to revolt. The fact that they have revolted,
and have reversed the results
achieved at the November election,
gives another illustration of what I
said in the first issue of this magazine,
namely, that the election of 1904, properly
construed, was so encouraging to
the reformers as to become an inspiration.
It was pointed out that the victory
of Douglas in Massachusetts, of
Folk in Missouri, of La Follette in Wisconsin,
each of whom was known as a
reformer, could be construed in no other
way than that the people were tired of
party names, of party traditions, of
party machines and party hypocrisy,
and were determined to go to the support
of any man and any principle which
promised them the relief which they
so much needed. The triumph of
Judge Dunne, the Democrat, following
so speedily upon the heels of an adverse
vote against Judge Parker, the
Democrat, absolutely clinches the truth
of what I said, namely, that the only
party, the only principle, the only sentiment
which grew stronger by the campaign
of 1904 was that ofradicalism.
Why shouldn’t the lesson of the
Chicago election be taken to heart by
every great city and every small town
in this Republic? If the people of
Chicago can turn the rascals out, the
people of New York can turn the rascals
out, the people of Philadelphia
can turn the rascals out. Talk about
vested rights and charters which grant
monopolies! Nobody wants to confiscate
property or violate contracts,
no matter how ill-judged those contracts
may have been. But we say
this: Just as private property was assessed
and taken under the principle of
Eminent Domain, in order that corporations
should construct their railways,
their telegraph lines, their telephone
lines, so the same principle of Eminent
Domain can be applied to return to the
people what was taken away from the
people. Assess these properties at a
fair valuation, pay honestly and fully
what they are worth, then take them
over for the public to be operated for
the benefit of the public. The law
of Eminent Domain can be applied to
all sorts of property, real and personal,
the tangible thing called an acre of
ground and the intangible thing called
a charter.
Consider this Chicago election in the
broad National point of view. How
can it give any encouragement to Mr.
Roosevelt, who is still tinkering and
pottering at the worn-out fabric of
Governmental control? How can it give
any encouragement to the Democratic
Party, which has nothing in its platform
which can be twisted into a declaration
in favor of that thing which Chicago
has just done? So far from being
a vindication of the Democratic attitude,
as expressed in all of its National
platforms, it is a rebuke to the timid,
weak-kneed, short-sighted leaders of
National Democracy. The vindication
is to those men, who, in the years
gone by, proclaimed the principles,
preached the gospel, scattered the literature,
endured the odium, fought the
battle, bore the heat and burden of the
day, and are now in this late hour looking
up, elated, joyful, exultant, happy,
that at last the smile of success has
rested upon the earnest, untiring efforts
which have gone so long without recognition
and reward.
The victor in the Chicago election
was the great Populist Principle, Public
Ownership!
Ever since the close of the Civil
War there has been a growing sentiment
on both sides of Mason and
Dixon’s line in favor of mutual forbearance,
the purpose being to speed
the day when the North and South
shall become reconciled.
In the South no speaker will now
add to his popularity or influence by
reckless abuse of the North.
We had supposed that the North
was equally tired of the speaker or
writer who puts the torch to sectional
prejudice or who wantonly inflicts
upon the South a blow which he must
realize will arouse angry resentment.
When the last gun was fired at Appomattox,
the biggest, bravest, best
hearted men on each side united in the
effort to stem the tide of sectional
hatred and to knit together the bonds
of brotherly love.
General Grant, by his magnanimity
at the surrender, set a sublime standard.
General Lee, by his noble advice
and example, gave the South a lesson
whose influence for good cannot be
overestimated.
Horace Greeley, when he volunteered
to sign the bond of Jefferson Davis,
and Senator L. Q. C. Lamar, of Mississippi,
when he pronounced a magnificent
memorial address upon
Charles Sumner in the Senate, were
but following the illustrious precedents
of Grant and Lee.
Later, there came the mission of
Henry Grady and of John B. Gordon,
upon the one side, and the conciliatory
words and deeds of William
McKinley on the other.
Nor should we forget the fine tribute
paid to Southern character and courage
in the writings of Theodore Roosevelt,
who as President has honored the
sons of Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart
and General Beauregard, and who, in
one of his latest appointments, has
given preference to General Rosser,
the youngest of the Confederate brigadiers.
The battle-scarred veterans of the
North have been meeting in memorable
reunions the survivors of those
who followed Johnston and Forrest
and Jackson and Lee; and the most
touching and inspiring scenes have
been witnessed at these encampments
where the South and the North recognized
each other’s honesty, valor and
generosity, and each section vied with
the other in the glorious work of harmonizing
the nation.
At the grave of General Grant it was
the presence of our Southern soldier,
John B. Gordon, which testified to the
North the sympathy of the South.
And only a few days ago President
Roosevelt inquired diligently into the
circumstances of the widowed Mrs.
Gordon to know whether or not an
appointment as Postmaster for the
city of Atlanta would be acceptable to
her.
During the Spanish war the South
sprang into the ranks under the old
flag, at the tap of the drum, and the
blood of a Southern boy was the first
that was shed in the conflict.
It was the ranking cavalry leader
of the expiring Confederacy who
steadied the lines before Santiago,
prevented a retreat, and brought from
Mr. Roosevelt the manly acknowledgment
that to General Joseph Wheeler,
more than to any other man, was due
the fact that we won the victory.
It was a Southern boy who took his
life in his hands in the effort to block
the Spanish harbor, and worthily
earned the title of “The Hero of the
Merrimac.”
It is sad to think that all this patriotism
may not have made a deep impression
upon the country.
It is sad to realize that the work of
such men as Alexander H. Stephens,
Benjamin H. Hill, Senator Lamar,
Thomas Nelson Page and Henry W.
Grady has left so much still to be done
before that man, North or South, who
endeavors to inflame the passions of
the sections shall be made to feel that
he has excited for himself the contempt
and disgust which he deserves.
In a recent issue of the New York
Independent comes Albert Bushnell
Hart, Professor of History at Harvard
University, distilling as much bitterness
and gall as ever fell from the lips
of John J. Ingalls or Thaddeus Stevens.
He writes an article called “Conditions
of the Southern Problem,” and
a more thoroughly exaggerated and
libelous contribution to public discussion
has not been made during the
last twenty years.
The average reader will get some
idea of the value of Mr. Hart’s conclusions
when he comes upon the sober
statement that “white mountaineers
(of the South) have been known to take
their children out of school because the
teacher would insist that the world is
round.”
Who stuffed Dr. Hart with that old
joke?
What credit does he do to himself
when he shows to the world that he
accepts such worn-out jests as facts?
Does he not know that there are
plenty of wags all over the world—even
in Pullman cars—who take a delight
in playing upon the credulous?
He will meet men who will tell him
that in certain backwoods communities
“the people don’t know that the
war is over,” or he will be told that in
some mountain counties “they are
still voting for Andrew Jackson.”
But would Professor Hart take such
statements for anything but jokes?
Doesn’t he know that the jest about
the rural belief that the world is flat
instead of round belongs to the same
gray-haired family?
Even a professor of history should
learn that there is just as great a difference
between jokes and facts as there
is between facts and jokes.
Professor Hart says that “in a few
communities, notably South Carolina,
the poor whites have unaccountably
discovered that if they will always
vote together they always have a
majority, and they keep a man of their
own type in the United States Senate.
In most other states, however, politics
is directed by intelligent and honorable
men.”
Isn’t this a rippingly reckless arraignment
of the entire state of South
Carolina? Does the Professor of History
at Harvard mean to say that the
politics of South Carolina is directed
by men less intelligent and honorable
than those of “most other states”?
If so, upon what ground does he
base the accusation?
As a matter of fact, the poor whites
do not control South Carolina. It is
the middle class whites who control
South Carolina, and who elected Ben
Tillman to the United States Senate.
Of course, Professor Hart intended
to give Senator Tillman a side-wipe of
special vigor, and he did it, striking
the whole state at the same time he
struck Tillman. But to what extent
was the blow deserved? Ben Tillman
may, or may not, be an ideal Senator.
He may, or may not, be an ideal
leader. Opinions differ about that,
even in South Carolina.
But why should a Northern writer
select a Southern senator and a
Southern state to be held up in this
insulting manner to public odium?
In what respect does Tillman’s record
in the Senate, for honesty and ability,
compare unfavorably with that of
Quay of Pennsylvania, Platt of New
York, Aldrich of Rhode Island, or
Gorman of Maryland? Each one of
those senators has been basely subservient
to thievish corporations, and
has helped them to fatten on national
legislation at the expense of the great
body of the people.
Can Dr. Hart say that of Ben Tillman?
I defy him to do it.
Dr. Hart asks, “Why should the
negro expect protection when the white
man is powerless against any personal
white enemy who chooses to shoot him
down in the street, when not one white
murderer in a hundred is punished for
his crime?”
Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart is evidently
thinking about the case of James
Tillman, of South Carolina, who shot
down in the street Editor Gonzales,
and who was acquitted, on his trial.
By all sane persons it is admitted to
be utterly unfair to judge the entire
South, or North, by any one case, or
by any one crime.
It is useless to argue the guilt or
innocence of James Tillman; but we
all know that human nature is prejudiced
by political feeling; and none
will deny that the feud between Tillman
and Gonzales was a political feud.
The killing was a political killing. In
a case like that the action of court
and jury will be influenced by political
feeling, whether the result be right
or wrong.
Has Albert Bushnell Hart never
heard of a political feud in any other
part of the world than the South, and
has he never known political feeling to
protect one who was prosecuted for a
crime? Has he never known of instances
in Northern cities where prisoners
at the Bar apparently owed their
salvation to secret societies of any sort—or
to political pull of any sort?
It has not been so very long since
Edward S. Stokes met James Fisk on
the staircase, in the Grand Central
Hotel, in New York City, and shot him
down.
One might think this amounted to
about the same thing as the shooting
down of a personal enemy on the
street.
Fisk died, as Gonzales died. Stokes
was tried, as Tillman was tried. Stokes
was not hanged in New York any more
than Tillman was hanged in South
Carolina.
Will Dr. Hart please furnish an explanation
which will not fit the South
Carolina case as snugly as it fits the
New York case?
Professor Hart asks, “Why should
the Northern people believe that the
South means well by the negro when
such a man as Governor Vardaman,
of Mississippi, brutally threatens him
and his white friends in the North?”
When and where has Governor James
K. Vardaman “brutally threatened the
negro and his Northern friends”?
Governor Vardaman, not many days
ago, risked his political life, to say
nothing of personal danger, to protect
a negro from a white mob. Perhaps
every white man in the mob had voted
for Vardaman, and was his personal
and political friend; yet, although it
was generally believed that the negro
was guilty of a heinous offense, this
Governor, who has been singled out
for abuse, did not hesitate one moment
to jeopardize his whole political future
by throwing around the hunted negro
the official protection of the law.
No matter how much Governor Vardaman
may be mistaken in some of
his views, and some of his utterances,
no man ought now to deny that he
possesses personal and political courage,
or that his respect for law is of
that high character which proclaims,
“The color of a man’s skin shall not
be the measure of his legal rights.”
Furthermore, Dr. Hart says, “in
one respect the poor whites are terrible
teachers to the negroes; they are
an ungovernable people and do not
allow themselves to be punished for such
peccadillos as murder.”
O Mr. Professor of History at Harvard!
has your blind passion against
the South lost you to all sense of proportion
in the making of public statements?
If the poor whites of the South “do
not allow themselves to be punished
for such little things as murder,” why
do they go to the penitentiary at all?
You will find a sufficient number of
poor whites in the penitentiaries of the
South—are they there just for the fun
of it?
Speaking of the negro, Dr. Hart
again says, “he may not murder or
assault, or even speak saucily to a
white person, on most dreadful penalties.
Partly for self-protection, still
more from a feeling of race supremacy,
it is made a kind of lèse-majesté for a
negro to lay hands on a white man;
even to defend his family or his own
life, the serpent must not bite the heel
of the chosen people.”
What utter disregard of facts!
Let me cite a few cases which come
within my personal knowledge.
In McIntosh County, Georgia, one
of the most prominent white planters
was deputized by the sheriff to arrest
a negro who had been engaged in a
riot. The white man authorized to
arrest the negro went to his house and
called for him at night. The negro
refused to come out. The deputy
forced his way in, and the negro shot
him dead. There were three negroes
in the house, all participating in resisting
the officer.
The white man’s court acquitted two
of the negroes, and sent one up for
ten years.
In the penitentiary of Georgia, at
this time, are some white men serving
out their terms at hard labor for an
outrage committed on a negro man in
one of the country counties near Atlanta.
A white man, by the name of Alec
Harvill, belonging to the class of poor
whites, was tried for murder in one of
the Piedmont counties for which Mr.
Hart has such a contempt, and was
convicted.
He is now serving a term in the penitentiary,
as he has been doing for the
last five or six years.
How was he convicted? Upon the
testimony of a single negro witness.
Nobody saw the alleged crime, or pretended
to have seen it, except this
negro boy.
And yet the white judge and the
white jury believed the negro in preference
to the father or mother of the
accused.
In another of the Piedmont counties
of Georgia a white man outraged a
negro woman.
Within the last ninety days that
criminal has been tried by a white judge
and jury—the prosecution being pushed
by the state of Georgia through her
Attorney-General.
The lower court convicted the criminal,
the Supreme Court has affirmed
the finding, and the white man will
have to meet the penalty of the law
for his violation of a negro woman.
Several years ago a white man
named Robinson, living in Waynesboro,
Ga., killed a negro.
The white man had cursed a negro
woman, who had “put in her mouth”
while he was holding a conversation
with a negro man.
When Robinson cursed the woman
the deceased threw off his coat and
rushed at Robinson, exclaiming, “I
won’t stand that!”
Robinson backed, saying, “Don’t
come on me! Stand back!”
The negro continued to advance;
Robinson drew his pistol and shot his
assailant.
Robinson was tried, convicted and
sent to the penitentiary.
In Wilkes County, Ga., a convict
boss whipped a negro convict who
sulked and wouldn’t work. The negro
had a bad character, and was serving
sentence for a grave offense.
The whipping may possibly have
caused the negro’s death, though there
was much testimony to the effect that
he died from natural causes.
At any rate, a white judge and jury
convicted the boss who inflicted the
whipping, and he had to serve his time
in the penitentiary. Robert Cannon
was his name.
In another instance I myself furnished
the evidence of maltreatment
of a negro convict in the Georgia penitentiary,
and, the facts being made
known to the Governor of Georgia, a
fine of $2,500 was imposed on the
Convict Lessee Company.
The Governor was General John B.
Gordon.
The name of the negro convict was
Bill Sturgis.
Examples like these could be multiplied
indefinitely from Georgia and
every Southern state.
Another astonishing fact is related
by Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart.
“The most intelligent white people
admit the fact that they are trying
to keep the negro down because otherwise
the lowest white men will marry
negro women.”
Now, where on earth did Dr. Hart
get that?
Does not Dr. Hart know that the
antipathy between the negro and the
poor white is, and always has been,
greater than the antipathy between the
negro and the property-owning white?
Does not Dr. Hart himself, in another
part of his article, express the
belief that a dangerous antagonism
exists between the poor whites and the
negro?
Does Professor Hart believe that the
true reason why the Southern people
wish to maintain white supremacy is to
keep poor whites from marrying negro
women? Does he not realize that he
makes himself a laughing-stock when
he gives his name to a statement of
that kind? No white man, rich or poor,
wants a negro womanfor a wife!
Dr. Hart may put that down as a
proposition which is absolutely true.
There are many white men, unfortunately,
who establish relations of concubinage
with negro women, and this
crime is frequently punished in the
Southern courts; but where is the evidence
that white men wish to take
negro wives?
If that inclination is so strong, so
ungovernable as to become the motive
of the South in maintaining white supremacy,
it should be capable of proof.
Now, where is the proof? Produce it,
Dr. Hart!
The simple truth of the matter is
that Dr. Albert Bushnell Hart has allowed
himself to be stuffed with a whole
lot of nonsense upon a subject which
he does not understand.
Now for a parting quotation from
this precious article of Harvard’s professional
historian:
“Good people (in the South) rarely
make much distinction between the
man who is guilty and the man who
looks like a criminal; between shooting
him down in the street or burning him
at the stake; between burning the
guilty man or his innocent wife; between
the quiet family inferno with
only two or three hundred spectators
and a first-class, advertised auto-da-fé
with special trains, and the children of
the public schools in the foreground.”
There you have it, in all its true
amplitude and animus!
“The good people” of the South do
not strive, according to Dr. Hart, to
draw the line of distinction between
the man who is guilty and the man
who simply looks guilty. They establish
no real distinction between the
guilty man and his innocent wife. It
makes no difference to these “good
people” whether they have a quiet
family inferno, with two or three hundred
spectators, or the first-class, advertised
burning, when special trains
are run and the public-school teachers
give the children a recess in order that
they may attend the exhibition!
If that is not mere partisanship,
frothing at the mouth, what is it?
It certainly cannot be seriously
taken as a truthful summing up of a
general situation.
An irresponsible stump-speaker, in
the reckless rush of a hot political
campaign, would have better sense
than to deal in hyperbole in that
furious fashion.
But when a man of Dr. Hart’s
standing publishes stuff like this it
does harm. It misleads the North
and arouses passionate indignation in
the South.
When Dr. Hart does work of that
wild sort he is no longer a historian;
he is simply an incendiary. He is a
child playing with fire.
If I were to apply to the North the
same measure which Professor Hart
has applied to the South, could I not
convict the “good people” of his section,
as he has convicted “the good
people” of mine?
Are “the good people” of the entire
North to be held up as utterly lawless,
making a jest of “such peccadillos as
murder,” because of the late doings at
Wilmington, Del., or at Springfield, O.?
Has Indiana had no lynchings; has
Colorado had no carnival of crime?
James Tillman, of South Carolina,
“shot down in the street” a mortal
political foe who had, beyond all
question, given him great provocation.
I do not say that James Tillman was
justified in his act—I merely say that
he had provocation, great provocation.
He was acquitted, but he was not
sent to Congress.
He left the court-room a broken,
chastened man; and is now leading a
life of sobriety, industry and rectitude.
Not many years ago, on a Sunday
morning, a saloon-keeper and his son,
in the city of Boston, Mass., beat
down a drunken man who had broken
a window-pane of said saloon—beat
him down on the streets, and kicked him
to death after he was down.
Apparently the man’s sole offense
was that he had broken a pane of glass
and refused to pay for it.
The saloon was open in violation of
law.
The glass was broken by a man too
drunk to know what he was doing.
And the two men of Boston fell
upon the helpless, drunken wretch,
and kicked him to death in the streets.
Was Massachusetts and all the
North condemned for that?
What became of the homicides?
One received a nominal punishment,
which was not a real punishment;
and the other boasts that he was never
punished at all.
Where was the boast made?
In the House of Representatives of
the United States—for Boston, Mass.,
actually sent to Congress the man who
had helped to kick another man to death
in the streets!
His name? John A. Sullivan. I
beg pardon—it is,
The Honorable John A. Sullivan.
South Carolina is far behind Massachusetts—she
has not yet sent James
Tillman to Congress.
In the name of the Good God who
made us all—are we never to hear the
last of these bitter revilings of the
South?
Are we never to reach the Era of
Good Feeling for which so many
strong men have toiled, so many pure
women have prayed?
Will the blind Apostles of Hate
never “Let us have Peace”?
Shall the marplot and the bigot and
the partisan and the Pharisee forever
be able to thwart the nobler efforts of
nobler men?
Shall Ransy Sniffle always succeed
in embroiling those who want to be
friends?
When I think of Abraham Lincoln—magnanimous,
broad, far-seeing,
praising the Confederates who had
stormed the heights at Gettysburg,
calling upon the band to play “Dixie”
on the night following Lee’s surrender—and
then contemplate this narrow,
spiteful, out-of-date Professor of History
at Harvard, I realize more than
ever how much the South lost when a
madman assassinated the statesman
who had her blood in his veins, sympathy
for her in his heart, and a knowledge
of her in his mind.
In vain will Congress return the
battle-flags of the Lost Cause, in vain
will the McKinleys and the Roosevelts
labor for the Era of Good Feeling, if
the violent partisans of the North,
playing into the hands of the almost
obsolete fire-eaters of the South, give
to sectional hatreds a new lease of life.
The law provides that a Congressman
shall be paid a salary of $5,000
per year; and in order that the compensation
shall be equal, among members,
the Government pays their traveling
expenses. Otherwise the Representative
who comes from the Pacific
coast to the Capital, paying his way,
would realize very much less on his
salary than a Representative from
Maryland or Virginia.
The cost of travel was greater in the
olden days than now, and the free pass
had not then become one of the devil’s
favorite inventions. Consequently,
the lawmakers declared that the taxpayers
should furnish twenty cents per
mile to meet the expenses of the Representative
in going from his home to the
post of duty.
Inasmuch as every member of Congress—occasional
cranks excepted—now
rides on the free passes, the mileage
has become a considerable addition to
the salary.
A member who lives west of the
Mississippi will find his pay increased a
sixth, or a fifth, according to the distance
from the Atlantic seaboard;
while the delegate who comes from
Hawaii will pocket considerably more
than $2,000 for the alleged cost of
getting to Washington.
So far, good. Everybody knows
that Congressmen do not pay their
way, and everybody knows that mileage
no longer has any honest foundation;
but we’ve got used to the grab,
and we let it go, as inevitable, with a
weary sigh of hopeless disgust.
But the Congress which recently adjourned
broke all previous records
and gave the country a new chapter in
the record of brazen dishonor.
Previous to the meeting of the regular
session there had been an extra
session. This held on till the regular
session began. There was no interval
between the two. So far as time was
concerned, the one ran into the other.
Hence, no member went home from
the extra session and came back to the
regular session.
There was absolutely no “recess”
at all—not a minute between the one
session and the other.
Now, behold the evil influence of a
bad example.
The President got the idea that
while there was no actual recess between
the two sessions of Congress,
there was a “constructive” recess.
The Mephistopheles who whispered
this baleful advice in the ear of Mr.
Roosevelt was a better friend to the
appointees who were to benefit by it—General
Wood and Dr. Crum, for example—than
they were to the President.
The members of Congress were
not slow to reason the case to this effect:
If there has been such a recess as to
give General Wood a promotion in the
army, and to Dr. Crum a fat office in
the revenue service, then it has been a
recess for all purposes.
“If the President can fill offices upon
a supposed recess, we can fill our pocket
with mileage upon the same supposition.
“The whole thing being imaginary,
that theory which puts Wood higher
up on the pay-roll, and which puts a
negro in the Custom House at Charleston,
will also imagine that we went
home during the supposed recess, and
that we have just returned from Georgia,
Alabama, Wisconsin, California
and the state of Washington. It’s a
poor rule that won’t work both ways.”
The law clothes the President with
the power to make recess appointments—which
rids him of the necessity
of consulting the Senate. In this
instance, he created a recess in his mind,
when none existed in fact, and the result
was good for Wood and Crum.
The imaginary recess having been
created by the President, the members
of the Lower House took an imaginary
trip home during the imaginary recess,
and then proposed that they be paid
their imaginary expenses, not in imaginary
money, but in hard cash.
Therefore, sixty-odd Republicans
and forty-odd Democrats, and two
Union Labor men, voted to give themselves
$190,000 of the people’s money
to pay for imaginary journeys made
during an imaginary recess.
It is doubtful if a more shameless
attempt to steal from the public treasury
has ever been attempted.
The Senate killed the measure, not
because the Senate itself is so pure and
honest—for it isn’t—but because it
could safely rebuke the House—which
it despises—and pose as Watch-dog of
the Treasury, without loss to itself.
The people are entitled to know the
names of the rascals who tried to steal
$190,000 of their money.
Tennessee will not be shocked to
know that “Slippery Jim” Richardson
voted for the grab.
She may be shocked to know that
Brownlow did the same thing—Brownlow,
the son of the famous Parson.
South Carolina may be astonished to
learn that on the roll of dishonor are
the names of Aiken and Legare.
Virginia will see that she has been
misrepresented by the vote of Maynard.
Louisiana will find three of her votes
on the shameful list—Pujo and Broussard
and Davey.
The Democracy of Missouri may feel
indignant at the vote of Hunt, and Mississippi
at that of Hill.
As the list of names is printed elsewhere,
it is not necessary to particularize
further; but I note one thing
with special interest.
The Massachusetts Congressman who
was selected by the enemies of W. R.
Hearst to attack him on the floor of
the House gave the country a chance to
learn who was the cleaner, better man.
Hearst did not vote for the steal; Sullivan,
of Massachusetts, did!
The people of Georgia may wish to
know where Congressman Bartlett was
when the vote was being taken. His
name is not recorded against the steal.
Nor is that of Brantley or that of Adamson.
Where were they?
These three gentlemen are paid
$15,000 per year to stay in their places
and safeguard the rights of the people
who elected them.
Where were these three Georgians
when this piece of rascality was being
put through the House? If they were
necessarily absent why did they not
arrange “pairs,” and thus give their
votes to defeat the robbers? Did they
DODGE?
If so, Why?
Alabama will want to know where
Bankhead and Wiley were; Texas will
ask explanations of Stephens; Tennessee
of Sims; Kentucky of Hopkins and
Stanley.
Every man who voted for the mileage
grab, or who dodged the vote,
should be marked for political punishment
by the constituency which he betrayed.
As a rule, I do not help schoolboys
in writing their speeches or in preparing
for debates. In fact, I make it a
rule not to do so.
It is best for the boy to dig his own
bait. The sooner he learns to rely
upon himself, the better. In that way
only will he become strong.
But sometimes I break my own rules—for
the sake of variety, perhaps—and
I did it not long ago when a certain
college in Georgia took as a subject
for debate the proposition:
“Resolved, That the South should
have supported Watson in the last
Presidential election.”
Of course, there were but two names
to be considered in the discussion—Watson
and Parker.
Teddy wasn’t in it at all. And that
is a queer thing, too, for about one-third
of the white people of Georgia
believe just as Teddy does about the
money question, the Tariff system, the
Panama business, the Philippine policy,
the big navy project, the Railroad rate
reduction, and so forth and so on.
But they wouldn’t vote for Teddy to
save his life.
And why?
They have a distinct presentiment
that if they should vote for a man like
Roosevelt they would never dare to go
to sleep again lest they wake up next
morning and find niggers sitting at the
breakfast-table on the level of social
equality.
Consequently, Roosevelt didn’t cut
any ice in the schoolhouse debate.
Parker and I—we had it all to ourselves.
Good-natured people will not
begrudge this honor to Parker and me,
I am sure, for we are clearly entitled
to something, and Teddy has just
about carried off everything else. He
can afford to be generous, and to let
two of his late competitors wear the
laurels in a college debate away down
in Georgia.
Whether Parker coached the boys
on his side I am not informed.
If he didn’t, they must have had a
tough job getting up “points.” It is
a task at which the average boy would
need prompt and patient assistance.
Perhaps, W. J. B. was appealed to.
At all events, he should have been.
The Nebraska Talk-Factory turns out
quite a variety of finished product, and
the kind of garment it wove for the
adornment of Parker, late in the last
campaign, was a marvel in its way—especially
when one considers how suddenly
the machinery had to be readjusted
to fill that particular order.
As to myself, I frankly confess that
I “suspended the rules” and gave my
champion some “points.” This was
wrong, but human.
Had I known that the judges presiding
over the debate were two Democrats
and a Republican, I would have
furnished points to the Parker side,
also. Then my champions would have
come out ahead.
My private opinion is that I could
have coached the Parker champions
in such a way that even a pied-piper
tribunal, composed of two Georgia
Democrats and a New York Republican,
would have had to call in a fourth
man to know how to decide.
Provided, always, that W. J. B. had
stayed out of it.
Of course, when he butts in, nobody
can say what may happen.
Well, the boys debated, the judges
decided, and Parker won out.
The remainder of the story is related
by the ingenuous youth who
fought for me in that contest, and I am
going to give you his letter just as he
wrote it.
THE LETTER
Manassas, Ga., March 13, 1905.
Hon. T. E. Watson, Thomson, Ga.
My Dear Sir: On the fourth of January
you were so kind as to send me a few very
strong points for my speech. About the
same time Hon. Jas. K. Hines also sent me
some points.
Our debate was postponed until the tenth
inst. For I was sure we would need ample
time to prepare for such a fight as we would
have to make.
In my letter to you I mentioned the
opposition which I thought we would have
to encounter, and the amount of interest
that would be manifested in such a subject.
In this I was not disappointed or mistaken.
The badges were eagerly sought all day
previous to the debate, and the Watson
badges were worn by quite a number.
The Auditorium was filled with people.
The rostrum was covered with an arch,
coming from either side of the stage, made
of ribbon.
Half of the arch was made of the Watson
colors, and half of the Parker colors.
As I entered town that afternoon I
heard a little boy cry, “Hurrah for Tom
Watson!” This alone paid me for the
effort and work on the debate.
To secure impartial judges was the one
thing dreaded from the start, and in this we
made a miserable failure.
Two Democrats and a Republican were
the best we could do. Or at least the third
man came from New York.
My colleague opened with a strong
speech. Before the first on the negative
side finished, all my fear had vanished, and
I was really anxious to have my say.
The chairman reprimanded some little
boys for bumping their heads, a few moments
before I began. I opened by saying
that I wanted one of those little boys to
bump his head as much as he liked because
I heard him cry, “Hurrah for Tom Watson!”
Turning to the audience, I asked all
the little girls to remember that little boy
at the proper time. Then I carried the
little fellow step by step from the Claxton
Institute to the President’s chair on the
People’s Party Platform.
Our speeches over, the committee retired
for consultation.
Our opponents looked the worst whipped
of any I ever saw.
The audience began to call for Watson
badges to take the place of their Parker
ones.
It is generally very much out of place for
anyone to accuse a committee of a wrong
decision on purpose, but the case was so
plain that I do not hesitate to say that their
decision was based on the condition of their
hearts before they heard our speeches.
But many were on our side. One of
the Emory College boys, a very prominent
physician and a strong Democrat, and
brother-in-law to one of the committee,
was outspoken in saying that the affirmative
side won.
I never cared for the decision being given
against me so little as I did this time, for
everyone, almost, in the audience knew the
right.
Our debate no doubt resulted in waking
up the people to some degree, for our opponents
could only eulogize you.
Ever rest assured of my highest appreciation
of the points sent me.
Wishing that you may live long to continue
your fight for the many against the
few, I am,
Very respectfully yours,
S. B. McCall.
A missive like the foregoing is decidedly
interesting to me, and the spirit
moves me to say certain things to my
correspondent, which I do, in manner
and form following, to wit:
A LETTER TO A BOY
My Dear Young Friend: I do not know
you personally, have never grasped your
hand and looked into your eyes, but your
letter makes me think well of you.
In the first place, it discloses the fact that
after all your careful preparation for the
debate, you made an extemporaneous speech.
Good. No one can be a debater on any
other terms. It is possible that one may
be an orator and be unable to leave the
written form, but the gift of extemporaneous
expression is absolutely essential to
a debater.
To think on one’s legs—that’s a gift; and
it seems that you have it.
Again, I learn from your letter that you
knew you had on your hands a hard task in
maintaining the unpopular side of the debate,
and that you did not shrink from the
burden. Good again. That’s the way to
become a man. The boy who is ever on the
lookout for the easy job, the popular side,
and who runs away from obstacles or opposition,
will always remain a boy—and not
much of a boy at that.
There is but one rule for you if you want
to be a man—absolutely but one—and that
is to do your level best to reach a clear,
correct idea of what is right, and then stick
to it and fight for it, in spite of the “world,
the flesh and the devil.”
This rule will make you enemies, and will
give you just about as many hard knocks
as are needful to your health, but if you
want to be a man, that’s the price you’ve got
to pay.
You say you found difficulty in securing
impartial judges.
Well, I should think so.
The “impartial judge” is one of those
pleasing fancies with which we amuse ourselves,
for the reason that we can’t help it.
We have got to get decisions some way or
other, and we don’t quite like the idea of
settling grave questions by spitting at a
mark, or of guessing whether it is heads or
tails in the tossing of a coin—therefore, we
resort to “the impartial judge.”
It is one of the jokes of Christian civilization
which nobody laughs at because we
have agreed that it is not a joke.
Just between me and you, the “impartial
judge” is brother to the “non-partisan
editor,” and twin-brother to the “disinterested
office-seeker.”
You say that it is generally wrong to
criticize the conduct of those who make
decisions.
You are mistaken about that. It is
generally the proper thing to do. And it is
often the only thing you can do. True, it is
not as much satisfaction as we are entitled
to, but it’s something.
What would baseball be, if we couldn’t
cuss the umpire?
How could lawyers who lost their cases
blow off the indignation, if they couldn’t
cuss the judge?
You state that you were not cast down by
the decision which went against you. Right.
Why should you be?
Whatever was true, previous to the decision,
was true afterward.
And there’s where our political leaders
fall down.
They go about the country telling the
people that a certain candidate for office is
“unfit for the nomination,” and after he is
nominated the same politicians claim that
the nomination makes him fit.
How can a nomination make a bad man
good?
That’s a deferred question which W. J. B.
will answer some day or other, and you will
then see it done to the queen’s taste.
Evidently you are not discouraged by
the fact that you went up against a tribunal
which wouldn’t yield to reason, eloquence,
fact or fancy—a tribunal which had
made up its mind before its members heard
your speech. Right again. It’s your duty
to furnish the convincing argument; it is
not in your power to supply judges with
minds open to conviction.
Bigger men than you have run up against
immovable obstacles of that kind.
Consider W. J. B., for instance. He
found, in New England, a lot of tribunals,
the low, the high and the middle, which
were not to be convinced that he, W. J. B.,
was entitled to $50,000 that old Mr. Bennett
thought he was leaving to our Nebraska
friend by will.
You and I would think that as the money
belonged to Bennett, and Bennett had declared
in writing that W. J. B. should have
it, the judges would not interfere.
But they did. No amount of eloquence,
of the best W. J. B. sort, could budge them
an inch. Our Nebraska friend got knocked
out all along the line.
Did it cast him down?
Not in the least. He is as cheerful—not
to say saucy—as you are over your little
tumble. That is just the way to be: but
one should always try to get some lesson out
of one’s defeats, so that one will know better
how to do next time.
If you should ask W. J. B. what lesson he
has learned from that series of knockdowns
in the New England courts, he would
answer: “The next time a benevolent Yankee
comes to my house, and offers to make
me a bequest of $50,000, I will take him
out and introduce him to a safe and sane
lawyer who knows how to draw a will.”
Cultivate what is best in your character
and mind.
Do not imitate anybody.
Study good models for the purpose of
making the best possible man out of yourself.
Develop your pride—not your vanity,
conceit or egotism.
Be too proud to stoop to anything mean.
Associate with the best people. If among
your companions there are those whose
talk or conduct is vile, weed them out from
your life.
I feel deeply on this point, and I repeat,
WEED THEM OUT.
Cultivate the honesty which makes a
man what he appears to be.
Don’t be a sham.
Be a reality—as earnest, powerful and
fearless as is possible to your nature.
When defeat knocks you down, don’t lie
there. As soon as you get your breath
back, rise, brush the dust off, and go up
against the enemy again.
Reach a clear conception of what you
want to do, and can do; be sure that this is
something noble in itself—then hammer away
with all your might, and keep hammering.
Remember that modesty is almost as
becoming to a man as to a woman, but that
humility has no place in man’s relation to
man.
If you are not as good as any other man,
it’s your fault.
The world, and all its rewards, are as
much yours as anybody’s.
But remember this also: the race is to the
swift, and the battle is to the strong,
USUALLY.
If you would win the race, be swift; if the
battle, be strong.
There are thousands of boys and
girls, some in schools and colleges,
some not, who are anxious to learn, to
develop themselves and to RISE.
Many, many things they yearn to
know which the class-room teachers do
not teach.
Many a subject they are eager to
study, if somebody will but show the
way.
Often there are speeches to be made,
essays to be written, debates to be prepared,
and the boys and girls simply do
not know how to start about it.
For instance, they are suddenly required
to speak or write on the question:
“Should the Government own and
operate the railroads?”
They have never read anything about
it, perhaps. Therefore they inquire:
“Where can we get some literature
on the subject?”
These young people do not want
someone else to write their speeches or
essays; they want nothing more than
to be told where to get the materials
to work with—the data upon which to
construct their own argument.
When I was a boy I felt the need of
that kind of help very keenly.
How was I to know what books contained
the information sought?
Who could tell me?
I soon found that teachers did not
love to be bored by inquiries of that
character, and therefore I had to
browse around in the library at random
for what was wanted.
If the book needed was there, I generally
found it, after wasting much
time in the search.
If it was not there, as frequently
happened, I was at my row’s end. I
had to debate without the full preparation
which should have been made.
To help out many a student who may
be troubled as I used to be, I am going
to improvise and conduct in this magazine
a modest little Educational Department.
Primarily it is meant for the young
people. But the rule will be made as
flexible as I feel like making it.
Age limits are not fair—no matter
whether Osler was joking or not.
It is not my plan or purpose to write
anybody’s speech or essay; but, where
there is a subject of real importance to
be discussed by word or pen, I am
willing to direct the preparation of the
student by telling him or her where
the necessary information can be had.
It would perhaps not be improper
for me to suggest some general ideas
on the subject to be discussed—these
ideas to be worked out and put in form
by the student.
Often I might render good service to
the boys and girls by telling them
where the books they need can be
bought at the lowest price.
It took me many years to learn how
to buy books, and it is a thing worth
knowing—unless you have more money
than I ever had.
The letters written to me in this
department will be published as written;
but the names of the writers will
be withheld.
Therefore, no correspondent need be
embarrassed in making inquiries.
My replies will be given in the magazine.
Hereafter all letters asking for information—historical,
literary, political,
economic—will be answered through
the EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT.
P. S.—Students are requested not
to ask help on this subject, viz.:
“Resolved, That there is more happiness
in the pursuit than in the possession.”
Those whose duty it is to maintain
“the pursuit” will please consult Mr.
Bryan; those who sustain “the possession”
are referred to Mr. Roosevelt.
Those orthodox partisan editors
who sneered at my comment on W. R.
Hearst as a man who did things while
others were talk—talk—talking, will
please study the election returns from
Chicago and hand me out revised opinions.
That was a Hearst fight, and Hearst
himself was personally in the thick of it.
He said little and accomplished much.
Would still like to swap a score or
two of mere talkers like—well, no matter—for
another such myth as Hearst.
A wise man—and his name is Dennis—has
an article in the April number of
Everybody’s to prove that free trade
has created in England that poverty-stricken
mass of humanity which he
includes under the general name of
“Hooligan.”
According to Mr. Robert Hunter,
the Hooligans of the United States
aggregate 10,000,000—and we haven’t
had any free trade, either.
Evidently the wise Mr. Dennis has
not located the true cause of poverty
in England.
It was famine, and the high price of
bread, which forced Sir Robert Peel to
abandon protection and to carry free
trade into effect.
Bread was cheapened and the cost of
living reduced.
Did that inflict such great misery
upon the poor?
If the wise Mr. Dennis will study the
subject more thoroughly he will probably
reach the conclusion that poverty
in England is the product of land monopoly,
a vicious financial system and
a governmental establishment in which
a lot of hereditary bloodsuckers prey
upon the body politic.
Free trade is the law of nature; it
never did, and never can produce national
misery, poverty or decadence.
If the wise Mr. Dennis will study
the subject thoroughly he will discover
that the Corn Laws of 1815 were passed
for the purpose of giving special benefits
to the landlords of Great Britain.
By the poor the act was regarded as
such a direct attack upon themselves—such
a barefaced design to make them
pay higher prices for the necessaries of
life—that resistance to the law grew
riotous and had to be put down by force.
Says Justin McCarthy, the historian:
“The poor everywhere saw the
bread of their family threatened, saw
the food of their children almost taken
out of their mouths, and they broke
into wild extremes of anger.”
But the soldiers were called out, the
riots put down, and a sufficient number
of the poor hanged to quell the remainder.
Thus the land monopolists of Great
Britain—many of whose titles to their
enormous holdings are tainted with
all manner of fraud and wrong enforced
and odious law which robbed
the poor to benefit the rich.
In 1817 the troops were used again
to crush the laborers who were crying
out against oppression.
In 1819 soldiers were used once more.
Then the submission of despair
brought quiet times until 1830, when
the people again attempted to throw
off the hateful yoke of barbarous
laws. In the House of Commons
Sir Francis Burdett denounced the
Duke of Wellington as
“Shamefully insensible to the suffering
and distress which were painfully
apparent throughout the land.”
“O’Connell declared that many thousands
of persons had to subsist in Ireland
on three half-pence per day.”
A tolerably successful workingman
sometimes got sixty-five cents a week,
and the price of the four-pound loaf
was twenty-five cents.
From 1830 to 1836 matters went
from bad to worse. Business was
depressed, trade stagnant, poverty
severe in many parts of the country.
In 1838 a crisis came. Three-fifths
of the manufacturing establishments of
Lancashire shut down. Thousands of
workmen were thrown adrift, moneyless,
foodless, desperate.
It was then that three great men,
Cobden, Bright and Villiers, seized the
leadership of Discontent and began the
famous crusade against Protection, as
typified in the Corn Laws of Great
Britain. “Vested interests,” of course,
raised the usual howl.
The land monopolists stubbornly
closed up in lines of sullen opposition
to reform. They beat off every attack,
pocketing year after year the
famine prices which the people were
compelled to pay for bread.
Suddenly, in the summer of 1845, a
cold, wet, sunless season fell upon the
British Isles and the whole potato
crop of Ireland—the sole dependence
of the vast majority of the Irish
people—rotted.
The food of Ireland was gone; in her
poverty she could not pay the English
landlord’s price for bread, and the
Corn Laws forbade her buying the
cheap bread of America and Continental
Europe.
It was then that Lord John Russell
attacked the whole system of Protection
as “the blight of commerce, the
bane of agriculture, the source of bitter
divisions among classes, the cause of
penury, fever and crime among the
people.”
It was then that the great Tory
Minister, Sir Robert Peel, followed the
promptings of his heart and determined
that the people should have
cheaper food.
He abolished the Corn Laws, and
conferred inestimable blessings upon
the common people of his country.
The noble act cost him his political
life—for that was the penalty which
outraged land monopoly, led by Disraeli,
inflicted upon its former chief.
The Corn Laws were repealed in 1846.
Mr. Dennis comes along and tells
us that Free Trade is responsible for
“Hooligan”—for poverty in England.
Mr. Rider Haggard—now in this
country in the interest of Hooligan—ought
to know as much about the poor
of Great Britain as Dennis knows.
What does Rider Haggard say?
That the present deplorable condition
of the English poor began with 1874.
How, then, can that condition be
connected with the Corn Law repeal?
May it not be logically connected
with legislation of more recent date?
Or may it not be connected with
economic developments elsewhere?
Tremendous changes in the conditions
of people in Europe and America
have been brought about by financial
legislation much more nearly contemporaneous
with 1874 than the repeal
of the Corn Laws in 1846.
Then, again, the vast addition to the
wheat and corn areas in the United
States alone have had a mighty influence
on prices in Great Britain.
It may be that rents are so high in
England that the tenant farmer finds
it impossible to pay his tribute to the
land monopolist, compete with American
grain fields, and have anything
left for himself.
Indeed, Mr. Haggard states that one
of the reasons why the agricultural
laborer is so disheartened in England
is that there is no chance for him to become
the owner of land.
An exchange says:
“The headmaster of an English
school says he read Roosevelt’s inaugural
to his boys and asked them where
it was found. Unanimously they
answered, ‘Jowett’s translation of
Thucydides.’ Whereupon the headmaster
gives us parallel columns to
show that Pericles said it all before, on
an occasion somewhat similar. But
Teddy is too honest to crib; he was deceived
by his clerk on oratory. Let it
go at that.”
If it is true that Mr. Roosevelt did
use one of the speeches of Pericles as an
inaugural address, Mr. Bryan may wish
he had not been so quick with the announcement
that it was a poor speech.
Pericles is generally considered to have
been an orator who would have compared
not unfavorably with W. J. B.
himself.
The India-rubber qualities of the
Monroe Doctrine are being made manifest
with a vengeance.
Once we understood it to mean, in a
general way, that Europe must “Hands
off”—no more conquest, colonization,
or extension of the European system
to the American Continent.
By Mr. Cleveland, England was told,
with firmness, that she couldn’t steal
Venezuela’s land, even though the theft
consisted of the simple device of moving
the boundary line.
With Mr. Roosevelt’s advent to
power comes a decidedly new chapter
in the evolution of the Monroe Doctrine.
We are to assume a sort of Trusteeship
for adjacent governments.
We must see to it that they conduct
themselves decently and in order.
They must pay their debts to citizens
of other countries and behave themselves
generally in a way that meets
our approval.
Mr. Roosevelt, in advancing the
Monroe Doctrine to this extent, has
undertaken a big contract for this
country.
If we are to be the Policeman for
South America, Santo Domingo, Cuba,
Mexico and Central America, we must,
first of all, have a powerful navy.
This is clear to everybody.
What is not so clear is that a powerful
standing army will inevitably follow—as
sure as fate, it will follow.
For it is certain that a natural result
of our hectoring, bulldozing, overlord
attitude toward countries like
those mentioned will make them our
bitter enemies. South America already
hates us, and has cause to hate us.
The manner in which we sanctioned
the collection of claims against Venezuela,
by the warships of Europe will
not be forgotten.
This feeling will be intensified by
Mr. Roosevelt’s recent utterances, and
will spread through all the peoples
affected by it.
If we are to compel these governments
to knuckle down to every
Asphalt Trust, or other speculative
syndicate, which enters the country
for the purpose of exploitation, the
time will certainly come when our
attempts to make them conform to our
standard of what is decent and orderly
in dealing with plundering corporations
will be resisted.
What then?
Our navy can bombard the cities
of the coast, but will our marines leave
the ships and defeat the land forces of
the interior?
Evidently not.
What, therefore, must we do?
Send army against army, as we
shall have sent navy against navy.
Consequently the same policy which
logically requires a powerful navy
will likewise require a powerful standing
army.
And our masters know it!
Mr. Roosevelt:
Do you, also, laugh at young Garfield?
Please don’t give us any more of
that silly boy.
More than one-half the voters of
Colorado cast their ballots for Alva
Adams, candidate for Governor.
But Adams did not get the place.
Less than half the voters supported
James Peabody, and Peabody acted
as Governor for one day.
Not a soul voted for Jesse McDonald
for Governor, yet Jesse gets
the whole term of office, excepting
the one day given to Peabody.
The voters of Colorado evidently
enjoy self-government about as much
as it can be enjoyed.
The Lady’s Slipper — I THE SLIPPER IS SOUGHT — II THE SLIPPER IS FOUND — III THE SLIPPER IS RENOUNCED — IV THE SLIPPER IS BESTOWED — V THE SLIPPER IS RETURNED — VI THE SLIPPER GOES TO COURT — VII THE SLIPPER FINDS ITS WEARER
BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY Author of “The Two Captains,” “The Corner in Coffee,” “A Little Traitor to the
South,” “The Southerners,” etc.
WHAT happened to me the
night before? I was not
certain as to details, but I
recalled the main facts with singular
distinctness. I had lost every coin
that I possessed. A hasty search of
my pockets in the morning disclosed
the absence even of that one louis
which, on account of its markings, I
had resolved never to part with, save
in the gravest emergency. I was
stripped bare, “down to a gant-line,”
as old Bucknall would have said.
That much was obvious. I had possessed
no jewels save the ring I had
filched when I took the Frenchman’s
purse. That, too, was gone. I suppose
I played it away with the rest.
I still had my sword. It was a
serviceable blade, which I had purchased
with the Frenchman’s money
so soon as I arrived in Paris. A gentleman
and his sword, backed by a stout
heart—well, one might be in worse
plight. But as I thought about the
night before I seemed to remember—and
here was where I was not quite
clear—that I had affixed my name
to certain pieces of paper, I. O. U.’s!
To what amount I was obligated by
these transactions I did not know.
But whether it was for one franc or
a thousand, I was unable to discharge
the debt. My creditors must give me
time or—They were a jolly lot, those
Frenchmen, and I had held up my
end as long as the gold pieces lasted.
America had taken no disgrace from
my ability to stand in a game and win
or lose like a gentleman. True, it was
generally the latter that fell to my
play.
Now I was sick of it all! I hated
wine and women and play. I wished,
as never before, that I were on the deck
of a stout ship again, with the new
flag, the Stars and Stripes, fluttering
from the gaff-end and the breath of
the salt wind in my face. This and
a tidy Englishman of equal force
under our lee. Gods! That was a
man’s work and a man’s place. This
drifting around from one gambling
resort to another in Paris, with a
crowd of roysterers—and worse—this
night after night at the tables—bah,
I had had enough of it!
It was a life I had never fancied,
and if Dr. Franklin had been at home
I had never entered upon it. After
I escaped from the British prison-ship,
and after I took that Englishman’s
purse on the highway—only he
turned out to be a Frenchman, but it
was then too late for me to alter my
intention to provide myself with the
sinews of war—and after I managed
to get to Paris and found our Ambassador
gone to Holland or Spain or
some other outlandish country, what
was I to do? With plenty of money,
no occupation, no ship, nor any present
chance of getting one, no friends, and
a reckless, adventurous disposition, I
fell in with a fast set, and this was
the outcome.
I could not find her either, although
I swear I searched high and low and
spent not a little of the proceeds of my
highway robbery in trying to run her
down. There was no use in going over
all this. I got up from the couch on
which I had thrown myself dressed as
I was, staggered over to the table,
splashed my face with water and caught
a glimpse of myself in the little mirror
that hung on the wall. Worn, haggard,
bloodshot—my own father would
scarce have known me. I was
ashamed, bitterly so. I had never
been a gambler or a drinker, and I
vowed that I would never be again.
I had played the fool once and I did
not propose to do it a second time.
Yet these interesting resolutions were
forced into the background by the
demands of my present situation.
What was I to do? Breakfast! I
loathed the idea. Still, I must eat
to live. I hadn’t a cent with which
to bless myself. What was the date?
It was the tenth—no, the eleventh—of
the month. Dr. Franklin would
be back on the thirteenth. Once I
could get speech with him all would
be well, but how was I to exist until
then?
I sat down by the window and
tried to think of some device. God
knows my situation was critical, but
I declare that I could only think of
her! Perhaps my inability to find
her—for she had vanished as completely
as if the earth had opened and
swallowed her—had made me reckless,
careless, a willing prey to the knaves
who had brought me to this pass. I
will admit, even then, that I loved
her. I closed my eyes and I could see
her as I saw her that evening outside
of Paris. I could hear her scream in
the hands of those ruffians. I went
over the whole thing as I had done
a thousand times. My rush at the
villains! I was a pretty hand at
cudgel-playing as well as a good
swordsman, for I had no weapon but
a stout stick.
The first fellow I caught fairly on
the head, and he dropped like a felled
bullock. I put my hand up and could
feel a little partially healed scar along
my cheek where the bullet of the one-eyed
scoundrel cut a lock of hair and
grazed me. He got a crack on his
pistol arm which put him out of action.
I could still see his face, convulsed with
pain and rage, his one eye shooting
fire at me as he retreated before me.
The other rascal was a coward, for he
fled immediately. I shall never forget
the look on Mademoiselle’s face
when she thanked me! They had
torn her mask off when they had
dragged her from her horse. I found
it again and also managed to catch her
horse.
Although I was dressed like a French
peasant I think she realized that I was
of gentle blood. She was surprised at
the ease with which I mounted her on
her horse, and when she gave me that
louis—my hand went to my breast.
Yes, it still hung there! I hadn’t
gambled that away, thank God!—and,
as I promptly returned her another,
she seemed to understand. I wonder
what she did with hers? She told me
that I had not only saved her from
assault but that I had done more, I
had saved the honor of France, and
that she would some day prove her
gratitude. Then she galloped away
from me and left me standing staring
in the road like a fool, madly in love
with her!
Aye, this evidenced my folly, I will
admit, but as they say here, “What
would you?” She was the first lady I
had seen in three years of cruising, and
such a woman! If you had seen her
you would have understood. How I
had searched for her! Blue eyes, dark
hair; tall, exquisitely molded, graceful
figure; dainty hands and feet—this
vague description might have fitted
any woman or a million, and she was
one of that million. It was no use.
I should never see her again, and if I
saw her now, disgraced as I was, I
must avoid her. So absorbed was I
in these miserable musings that I hadn’t
heeded a tap at the door.
“Ma foi!” cried a rather shrill, metallic
voice as a man opened the door
and stepped within. “My dear friend,
I have rapped several times, and so I
took the liberty....”
“Oh, come in by all means, Monsieur
du Trémigon,” I replied, rising
and welcoming the newcomer, although
with no great cordiality.
He was the hatefulest of all the
crowd with whom I had cast my lot
since I had been in Paris, and I more
than suspected it was to him that I
had passed those little pieces of paper
which began more and more definitely
to impress themselves upon my recollection.
“I suppose,” I said, “that you have
come to settle our accounts of last
night, Monsieur?”
“There is no haste about that,” he
returned politely enough, “but since
you insist, as well now as any other
time.”
“I shall be honest with you, Marquis,”
I returned bluntly; “I’m afraid
I shall have to ask your indulgence for
a short time.”
He drew from his pocket a package
of papers and laid them on the table.
I took them up as I spoke, and although
I am no great hand at figures,
I saw that the total was appalling.
My heart sank, but I flatter myself that
I displayed as equable a demeanor as
the man opposite me. It has always
been my practice to put a bold face on
everything.
“Pray give yourself no uneasiness
whatever about these little matters,”
said the Marquis in his most genial
manner—and the more gentle and
kindly he was, strange to say, the more
I hated him! “Or rather,” he continued,
interrupting me as I began to
speak, “I can show you a way to discharge
them with little difficulty to
yourself, and that immediately.”
“Show me that way!” I cried. “I
will avail myself of it at once. To tell
you the truth, I am sick of the life I
have led in this city.”
“I thought,” said du Trémigon,
smiling meaningly, “that you were
scarcely suited for——”
“What do you mean?” I cried, glad
for the chance to vent my indignation
upon someone. “Didn’t I bear myself
like a gentleman?”
“Oh, quite so, entirely so. You
misapprehend me, my dear Burnham,”
he protested.
“Well, I dare say you are right,” I
replied carelessly, too troubled to
quarrel, “I am a sailor. The sea is
my world. I am at home there or on
my father’s plantation in the Carolinas.
But this is nothing to you. The point
is, I am in your debt.”
“This ring, Monsieur,” said the Marquis,
lifting his hand. “Do you know
whose it is?”
“Yours, I suppose, since you won
it,” I replied. “It was mine.”
“Pardon me, it was originally
mine.”
“What!”
“Mine.”
“Then you are——?”
“The gentleman whose purse you
kindly relieved him of a few weeks ago
in England.”
“Impossible!” I cried.
“Impossible, but true, Monsieur.
I recognized you when I met you last
week at Varesi’s”—the name of a
popular gambling resort—“I wasn’t
quite sure, however. At least, I had
no proof until last night. This ring?
You remember taking it?”
“Oh, perfectly,” I said.
“And this louis?” He pulled out
the curiously marked coin. “A pocket
piece I have had for a long time. I
should know it among a thousand.”
“You have established your case,”
I answered defiantly. “You understand
that I am no common thief or
highwayman? I am an American
naval officer. Serving under Cunningham
on a privateer, I was captured,
thrown into prison, escaped. Being
penniless in the enemy’s country I
determined to take the purse of the
first traveler who came along. I took
you for an Englishman. When I
knew you were French, it was too late.
I can only say that I will give you
another I. O. U. for all that I have
despoiled you of, and so soon as I can
communicate with America you shall
have the money.”
The Marquis showed his white teeth
in a grin—how I loathed him!—waving
his hands as he did so.
“As to that, we will discuss it presently.
Meanwhile, what did you do
with the papers you robbed me of in
England?”
“Tore them to pieces and scattered
them in the first river I crossed.”
“Damnation!” cried the man. “I
could stand the loss of the money, but
the loss of those papers wellnigh
ruined me!”
“How so?”
“I was carrying some secret despatches
to the British Government,
in spite of the war, and your blundering
made me fail in my mission.”
“Blundering!” I cried.
“Pray be calm, Monsieur,” he exclaimed;
“the word may have been
ill-advised, but you will recognize that
some consideration is due me.”
He looked meaningly at the little
pile of notes. I followed his glance,
snatched up another piece of paper,
scribbled a line on it and added it to
the heap.
“That covers your loss, including
the ring.”
“Monsieur Burnham,” said the Marquis,
“are you aware of the exceedingly
difficult position into which you
have got yourself?”
“I should say I am! Being absolutely
without funds, I am forced to
ask total strangers to accept my bare
word that I will discharge my obligations
so soon as I hear from America.
This, with the seas swarming with
British ships, may be a matter of
months.”
“There is your Ambassador. He
knows you, doubtless?”
“Dr. Franklin doesn’t know me from
Adam. He’s a Philadelphia Quaker,
and I am from North Carolina. He
has never seen me, nor I him. He
knows my father and family, though.
If there were any of our officers in
the city, if Commodore Jones or Dick
Dale had only returned from Texel,
I should be all right, but as it is, I am
completely at your mercy.”
I hated to say that word, but there
was no help for it. The Marquis bowed
gracefully.
“Your remark is singularly accurate,
Monsieur. At my mercy!”
He opened his mouth and tapped
his white teeth with two of his white
fingers. I wanted to choke him.
Why, I could not say, for he had been
considerate, and I owed him a lot of
money. I had robbed him in England,
and, besides, I had put him to serious
inconvenience.
“At my mercy,” he repeated, nodding.
“I have admitted that fact,” I said
sharply. “I do not see that it is necessary
to remind me of it again.”
“Oh, pardon me. You Americans
are so impetuous. Cultivate calmness,
my friend—English phlegm, if
you will. It is a most valuable asset
in any game.”
“That’s as may be, Marquis, but I
play no more games with you.”
“Pardon me again,” he returned
coolly; “we play yet one more hand,
Monsieur, and I have the deal.”
“What are you driving at?”
“I told you there was a way by
which you could discharge your obligations.”
“Declare it then, and let us close
this transaction!”
“You are doubtless unaware, and I
speak to you in confidence, that my
large estates are greatly encumbered.
I have a passion for play. I do not
always enjoy the fortune I have had
with you, and—” He laughed as he
spoke. “In short, I find myself in
very straitened circumstances.”
“I suppose you want your money
and want it quick?” I burst out.
“I can understand and I promise
you——”
“There you go again, Monsieur. I
want money, it is true. I was born
wanting money, I have lived wanting
money, and, I suppose, I shall die
wanting money.”
You won’t have any use for it after
that, I thought, but all I said was:
“Proceed, Monsieur.”
“You are doubtless unaware, also,
that Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Rivau,
Comtesse de Villars in her own right,
granddaughter of the Duc de Rivau-Huet,
is my cousin?”
“I have never heard of the young
lady, but I recognize the honor of the
relationship,” I said coldly.
The Marquis was not devoid of wit.
His eye flashed, but he proceeded deliberately:
“Quite so. Her grandfather is my
grandfather also. She is one of the
richest women in France. Our respective
parents arranged a marriage
between us when we were children.
The carrying out of that contract depends
entirely on three people, the
young lady, the Duc de Rivau-Huet
and myself. It was stipulated that
no constraint was to be used, and that,
when she reached her twentieth year,
she was to give her consent without
pressure, freely and willingly. If she
did so, and her grandfather interposed
no objection, and I desired it, we were
to be married. If not”—he shrugged
his shoulders—“I lose.”
“Lose what?”
“The lady and, incidentally, her
fortune.”
I confessed to a very languid interest
in the love affairs of the Marquis
and the lady, but for politeness’
sake I asked him another question.
“Permit me, since you have broached
the subject, does the lady consent or
refuse?”
“She consents, but the Duke refuses.”
“Ah!”
“But I hope that his refusal is not
irrevocable.”
“For your sake I trust so,” I replied.
“Yet I fail to see how this
concerns me.”
“You shall learn directly. Mademoiselle
de Villars is one of the Queen’s
maids of honor. She usually resides
at the Court at Versailles. For this
week, however, she is on leave of
absence, I have learned, and is in
residence at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet
in Paris.”
“Yes?” I said interrogatively. I
was beginning to have some curiosity
as to whither all this tended.
“As I said, the Duke seems insensible
to the advantage of an alliance with
me.”
No wonder, I thought, but I took
good care not to voice my feelings.
“I have decided to compel him to
consent.”
“And Mademoiselle de Villars?” I
questioned suspiciously.
“She also wishes it. I may say”—he
simpered disgustedly—“she is more
anxious than I.”
“Monsieur du Trémigon,” I said
sternly, repressing with difficulty an
inclination to kick him, “do you
assure me of the truth of what you
have said?”
“Certainly.”
“On your word of honor as a
gentleman?”
“As a gentleman and as a noble of
France, Monsieur.”
I ought to have known, but I did
not, and there seemed to be nothing
for me to do but accept his statement.
“How do you propose to get the
Duke’s consent?” I asked.
“There is a way to apply pressure to
him, Monsieur, which will ... let
us say ... induce his consent.”
“You wish to compromise her in
her grandfather’s eyes?” I said, fathoming
his meaning at last.
“Exactly.”
“But with her consent....”
“Your intuition does you credit.”
“That’s more than your intention
does you,” I burst out scornfully.
“I can afford to indulge you in
these little pleasantries, my friend,”
he returned, with an evil look, “because....”
“Why?” I cried.
“Because I intend that you shall
be my agent in the little process.”
“You are reckoning without your
host, Monsieur,” I said quickly. I was
boiling with rage.
“But not without my servant,
Monsieur.”
“Servant?” I raged.
“Yes. Do you realize that I have
but to place these things in the hands
of the authorities to have you clapped
into prison?”
“I have been in prison before and
got out. I can stand it again—for the
sake of a woman.”
“You will doubtless get out of the
prison into which I shall put you,
but it will be to go to the hangman, or
to the headsman if you can prove
your gentle blood.”
“What!”
“You forget that little transaction
in England. You are a highway
robber! I have evidence enough to
convict you beyond doubt.”
“The French Government would
never....”
“The French Government is angry
enough over the loss of those papers,
and the punishment for highway robbery
is death,” he sneered.
“My God!” I cried.
“’Tis useless to appeal to Him,”
mocked du Trémigon. “Rather do
you fall back on your mother-wit—if
you have any—to help you.”
“What do you wish me to do?” I
asked desperately.
“’Tis very simple. We are about
the same height and build. We do
not look unlike——”
“You flatter me!”
“’Tis the fact that does that,”
he replied, bowing deeply. “In the
dusk you can easily pass for me, especially
if you wear a familiar suit of
my clothes. I will get you into the
grounds of the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet
below Mademoiselle’s apartments.
The building is vine-covered. Being
a sailor you can easily scale the wall
and enter her chamber. You are to
bring me thence some article of personal
wearing apparel—say a slipper,
or a ring, or——”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“It is hardly necessary to enter upon
that, Monsieur.”
“If I am to do the thing,” I replied
hotly, “I must know everything.”
“Well, then, the Duc de Rivau-Huet
has threatened me with imprisonment
if he catches me in his hôtel again.”
“And you wish me to take that
risk?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
“I am to do this at the peril of my
life?”
“It seems to me,” said the Marquis
equably, “that your life is forfeit if
you don’t do it, and——”
“Enough!” I answered. “I am in
your power. When I made the serious
mistake of taking you for a gentleman
I began my ruin. I’m sorry I didn’t
kill you in England. I suppose there’s
no help for it. I must do the work.
When do you wish this adventure
undertaken?”
“Tonight. If you will come to my
rooms, I will fit you out, give you the
plan of the hôtel and make all other
arrangements.”
“And those papers?”
“They shall be returned to you when
you place what you secure from the
room in my hands.”
“What assurance have I as to that?”
“The word of a gentleman.”
“In your case I prefer something
else.”
The Marquis flushed angrily. Why
he controlled himself I do not know,
unless it was because he was so
desperately anxious to carry out his
plan and I was his only instrument.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“To go before a notary and draw
up an agreement, leaving the papers
in his hands, including the ring and
the coin, and a signed statement,
acquitting me of complication in the
robbery. These papers he is to give
to me in the morning, if I succeed.
Furthermore, I won’t go into the
matter without the assistance of an
old sailor with whom I cruised.”
“Take as many assistants as you
please, Monsieur,” said the Marquis;
“and now we will go to my apartments.
Will you honor me?”
He rose and offered me his arm.
“I have to do your dirty work,” I
replied, “and that obliges me to walk
by your side, I suppose, but it doesn’t
compel me to take your arm.”
My soul revolted against carrying
out my part of the plot, even though
by so doing I was obliging a lady.
True, she might be—and if his words
were true, she was—in love with du
Trémigon, but I was sure she could
not know him as I knew him. Besides,
what were the love affairs of the
Marquis and his cousin to me? I had
no personal interest in either of them.
All I had to do was to fetch a slipper
or some personal belonging from her
chamber, as she herself desired. The
long and short of it was that I was
resolved to do it. I had to!
From some servant in the Duc de
Rivau-Huet’s hôtel, du Trémigon had
learned that the Comtesse de Villars was
to be from home that night. He arranged
to have me passed through the
gate. After that I was to look out
for myself. The Duke’s hôtel, which
was surrounded by ample grounds,
was just outside the city walls. The
Marquis told me that, dressed in his
clothes and with a cloak he was accustomed
to wear, I should very well pass
for him, and that in all probability no
one would molest me unless I fell in
with Éspiau, the Duke’s body-servant,
or some of the upper officers of the
household. The domestics were well
affected toward him, and as all the
world loves a lover, they would be
disposed rather to encourage than to
hinder.
Du Trémigon, with singular parsimony,
I thought, had designed a rather
shabby suit for my use. I insisted
upon seeing his wardrobe and selected
the handsomest garments he possessed.
He protested, but vainly, for I said
that I must be dressed like a gentleman.
He pointed out that I would
probably tear and certainly soil his
court suit in climbing. I returned
that if I carried out his enterprise and
won him a rich wife he could well
afford to lose a suit, whereas if I were
caught and shot it would be some
consolation to me to know that I was
well dressed for dying.
I took a sword from the rare collection
of weapons which he had in his
apartments. I may not be much of a
card player, but I pride myself that I
know a weapon, and I chose a blade
that I could depend upon. I got two
pistols for myself and two for worthy
Master Bucknall. Bucknall was an
old shipmate of mine. I knew I
could depend upon him. We had
fought side by side on several cruises,
and although he had not been with
me when I was captured, he had appeared
in Paris after a shipwreck in
which he had been picked up by a
French frigate. I found him penniless,
and, of course, took care of him,
intending to take him with me when
I saw Dr. Franklin and arranged to
go back to America. The Marquis
had him fetched from his lodging, and
I explained the whole situation to the
worthy seaman.
Bucknall was to remain concealed
in the grounds beneath Mademoiselle’s
room while I was within. I
didn’t care to be taken in the rear,
and I knew if an alarm were given,
that Bucknall would keep a way of
escape open for me as long as he could.
To him I gave my sword and pistols.
I had studied a plan of the chateau
and I knew the lay of the land and the
position of the chambers perfectly.
A bath, a rest and a meal completed
my preparations. No, I forget one
thing. I knew that many a door that
will not open to iron and steel is facile
to a golden key, and I made du Trémigon
provide me with a rouleau of
louis. He did it with an ill grace. In the
first place he had none too many, and,
in the second, I suppose, he thought he
had laid out enough in the adventure.
I insisted, however, giving him in lieu
thereof another signed paper to add to
his collection. This and the visit to
the notary, where I saw things made
secure from my point of view, filled
the day.
At eight o’clock we sallied forth.
Du Trémigon had furnished us with a
couple of horses. We had no difficulty
passing the gates—he had provided
us with the password—and finding
the Duke’s mansion. The Marquis did
not accompany us. He intended to
give out that he had paid a visit to the
Countess in her chamber, and in proof
of it was to exhibit her slipper. The
Countess, being at a masked ball where
no one could recognize her for hours,
could not disprove his statement. Of
course, if anybody saw him elsewhere
his plan would fail, so he was to lie
close and await our return.
When we came near the place I left
the horses in care of an innkeeper to
whom du Trémigon had recommended
me. I gave instructions to have them
ready for instant service at any time.
I expected that we would be back before
midnight. Then Bucknall and I
walked boldly down the road toward
the gate of the mansion. Du Trémigon
had told us that his servant was one-eyed,
so Bucknall was disguised by a
patch over one eye, which gave him
great inconvenience, by the way, and
at which, sailor-like, the old sea-dog
growled mightily. I drew the Marquis’s
cloak up around my neck, pulled
my hat down, and assumed as well as
I could his mincing gait and manner.
In the dark we might well pass for
du Trémigon and his servant. The
porter at the gate was expecting us.
He made no difficulty about passing
us through. Then we were left to
shift for ourselves.
The night was dark and chill. There
were no dogs in the yard. The Duke
kept his hounds in the country. No
one disturbed us as we made our way
cautiously along the wall under the
trees to the window of the Countess’s
apartment. A few lights showed here
and there through the different openings
on this side of the house. Among
them a faint illumination came from
the window beneath which we stood. I
looked at it with interest. It seemed
that no one could be in the room.
The light was probably a single candle,
left burning in case of need. This
agreed with our information.
Making sure that no one saw us, we
crossed the grass and stopped under
the window. The house was an old
one. There were buttresses against
the wall, and the one nearest the
Countess’s window was in a dilapidated
condition. A vine ran all over this
side of the building. I was always
active and I had not dissipated in
Paris long enough to have lost my
nerve. I glanced upward. It would
not be difficult. If the vine held—and
its stem was as thick as my wrist—the
ascent would be easy. Wrapping
my cloak around me so as to protect
du Trémigon’s clothes, and with a word
of caution to Bucknall, whom I saw
secreted comfortably in the black recess
between the buttress and the wall,
I quickly made my way up. So long
as I had the assistance of the buttress it
was nearly as easy as walking up a stair,
or as simple as climbing the battens
on the side of a ship. The last yard
was more difficult, but I managed it
with a few scratches and with a minimum
of noise.
I had no opportunity to peer into
the room or see what was before me.
I reached the sill, threw my leg over it
and stepped quietly within. I stood
by the window listening. Neither from
outside nor inside was there any sound.
I had been unobserved.
Satisfying myself on this point, I
stepped back from the window to avoid
the line of light and looked about me.
The room appeared to be a woman’s
sitting-room. There was an air of refinement,
of grace and culture about it
that made me sure. There were books
on the table, pictures on the walls, a
piece of some sort of needlework
thrown carelessly on a chair. Several
doors opened from the room. According
to the plan, that on the right should
be the Countess’s boudoir, and beyond
that her bedchamber. I stepped softly
across to this door. I listened. There
was no one in the other room apparently.
I turned the handle carefully
and entered.
Just beyond me was the door of the
bedroom. Repeating my performance,
I walked over to it and listened. No
one was there. I opened the door and
looked in. Like the others this room
was lighted by a single candle. Like
the others, it was unoccupied.
It was quite evident that du Trémigon’s
informant was correct. The
Countess was out. Her maid, who
should have been on guard, had taken
advantage of her mistress’s absence to
go off on a little jaunt of her own, I
supposed. I closed the door of the
bedroom softly and began a hasty
examination of the boudoir. A dress
lay across a chair. A magnificent costume,
it seemed to me.
A pair of shoes—a ravishing pair of
tiny shoes—stood on the floor at the
bottom of the gown. These might do.
But no, they had not been worn; they
were entirely new. Du Trémigon had
insisted upon something personal and
familiar. I walked over to the dressing-table,
which was covered with a
mass of silver and porcelain. They
bore the de Villars crest, but so did a
number of things in du Trémigon’s
own home. None of them would answer.
I remembered the room contained
a closet. Nerving myself further, I
opened the nearest door. On the floor,
confronting me, lay a pair of small,
worn, blue satin slippers with red heels.
They were slightly shaped to the feet
of the wearer from long usage. There
were no other feet in the world that
could wear those slippers, in all probability.
I stooped and picked one up.
It would serve admirably.
With the slipper still in my hand, I
turned to find myself confronting a
woman!
She was standing at the door leading
to the antechamber. How long she
had been there I knew not. Indeed,
after the first start of surprise, I had
room for but one thought. The woman
was she whom I had rescued on
the way to Paris, with whom I had
fallen madly in love! For whom I
had sought high and low—whom I had
prayed that I might see again.
She was looking at me composedly
from under level brows. I observed
that her hand was on the bell-cord.
“Monsieur,” she said—and oh, how
well I remembered her voice—“if you
move, or make a sound, I pull the bell.
My servants are within a moment’s call.
You will be overpowered immediately.”
“Mademoiselle,” I returned, disguising
my natural voice as well as I could
and thanking the Lord that my French
was perfect, and that in the dim light,
she did not recognize me apparently,
“I am at your service.”
“I wish,” she continued, “to talk
with you. The situation amuses me.”
She spoke as she might in the presence
of some new spectacle. Her manner
assured me that her interest in
me was entirely impersonal. She was
tired and bored. This was a new experience
apparently which she wished
to make the most of. I could think
of nothing adequate to say, so I bowed
profoundly.
“What is your name and what are
you doing here?”
“My name, Mademoiselle, matters
nothing.” In my agitation I forgot,
and spoke in my natural voice. She
started as she lifted the candle and
looked keenly at me.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “’tis the
man of the highway!”
I do not know whether I was glad or
sorry to hear her say those words. At
first I thought to deny it, but somehow
it was impossible.
“You have discovered me, Mademoiselle,”
I said.
“Then you were masquerading as a
sailor. Now——”
She looked me over from head to
heel, and I have been told since that I
made a brave appearance. Du Trémigon
had displayed excellent taste in
clothing, and this was his handsomest
suit. I stood proudly erect, putting a
bold face on the situation, with one
hand upon my sword, my hat in the
other, which also held the slipper, as if
I were about to be presented to the
King.
“Now,” she said, “you are masquerading
as a gentleman.”
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I returned,
“I am a gentleman”—she put up her
hand, but I would not be denied—“masquerading
as a ... thief.”
I blessed her in my heart for her
hesitation over that word.
“Is it because you have stolen the
Marquis du Trémigon’s clothes?—for I
believe, if I am not mistaken, they are
his.”
“Your observation does you infinite
credit, Mademoiselle.”
“I thought so. Is it for that reason
you are masquerading as a thief?”
“Because I have come here without
regard to clothes to—” I protested.
“To take my jewels?” she interrupted.
“Mademoiselle!” I cried, starting
back, the blood flaming in my face
again. “You think——”
“I think nothing, Monsieur. I discover
a strange man in my apartments
at night. He says that he is masquerading
as a thief. What else am I to
infer?”
I was dumb before her merciless
logic.
“Mademoiselle,” I began desperately,
“I deeply regret——”
“So, too, do I. I knew—at least I
thought I knew, on that day, the day
you did me such brave service—that
you were a gentleman, in spite of what
you wore, yet—well, I see I was deceived.”
“Don’t say that!” I protested again.
“Why not, Monsieur?”
“Mademoiselle, I am here in defiance
of every rule of propriety, I will admit.
You may well think me a thief,” I
began, with passionate haste, “but I
am only following your example.”
“How, sir?” she exclaimed.
“You, too, are not guiltless of
robbery.”
“What do you mean?” she asked,
indignantly drawing herself up.
Oh, how magnificent she looked! I
wanted to throw myself at her feet
and confess everything, but I did not—then.
“You have stolen my heart, Mademoiselle.”
“And you came to look for it in my
jewel-case?” She laughed somewhat
contemptuously.
“I have come for yours in exchange,”
said I; although I had a neat opening
in her question, I judged it best to let
it pass.
“Monsieur!”
“I am a poor sailor, Mademoiselle,
but I have sought you throughout the
land. I babbled everywhere as I ran
of blue eyes, dark hair, a witching
face. I found you—nowhere!”
There was a ring of truth in these
words—although of course it did not
explain my presence there—that I believe
influenced her.
“’Tis impossible, Monsieur—” she
began at last.
“Look into the glass, Mademoiselle,
and see how believable it is,” I broke
in.
“That you should have come here on
such an errand and——”
“I would go to the end of the world
if I might find you there, Mademoiselle,”
I boldly said, taking a step
nearer to her.
“Monsieur!” she cried, clutching the
bell-rope once more. “Pray keep your
distance.”
“I am content merely to look at
you,” I said, stopping short instantly.
“Monsieur, on your word of honor
as a—” She paused.
“As a thief?” I questioned.
“As a gentleman,” she said softly,
and I could have kissed her feet for
that. “Did you come here for
me?”
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is a long
story. You have honored me by
your conversation. You found something
gentle in me on the road and in
spite of appearances—that are so grievously
against me now—you have reposed
a certain degree of confidence
in me. Will you allow me to tell
you briefly who and what I am?”
“I am anxious to learn it.”
“Will you not be seated? You
may release the bell-rope, on my word,
without danger. I would rather die
than harm you. Indeed, my greatest
ambition is to devote my life to your
service.”
“Fine words, Monsieur, and such
as I have often heard from other
cavaliers.”
“I doubt it not, Mademoiselle.
Such beauty of person and grace of
mind as yours cannot remain unchallenged.
This shall be my excuse.”
“No more of this, if you please, but
of yourself.” It was ineffable condescension,
and you may imagine how
I appreciated the honor.
“My name is Francis Burnham. My
family on the distaff side is French—Huguenot.
The blood, I believe, is
noble. My great-grandfather was an
English gentleman. My father met
my mother in North Carolina. The
acreage my father owns is equal to a
French county.”
“You are an American, then?”
“I have that honor. I am also an
officer in the American Navy. My
country is ill provided with warships.
Many naval officers have been forced
to accept positions in privateers. I
was a lieutenant in Captain Gustavus
Cunningham’s privateer ship, the Revenge.
We were captured by a British
frigate and taken to a British prison-ship.
I escaped thence and was on
my way to Paris, to see Dr. Franklin,
when I had the good fortune to be of
some slight service to you. That gold
piece you gave me, I have it here.”
I saw her hand involuntarily move to
her breast and my heart leaped as it
assured me that she also had retained
and cherished the coin I had forced
upon her. “I have loved you ever
since I saw you that day, Mademoiselle.
I have sought you in vain only
to find you tonight.”
“That, Monsieur,” she said quietly,
“does not yet explain your presence
here.”
I was dumb again.
“How did you discover my abode?”
I could make no reply.
“How did you learn my name?”
Unthinking, I answered:
“I do not know your name at this
moment.”
“I am Gabrielle de Rivau, Comtesse
de Villars.”
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed.
Would you believe it? It had not
occurred to me for a moment that
this was she! I had jumped to the
conclusion that she was perhaps some
friend of the Countess’s. I had never
dreamed that fate could deal me so
sorry a trick as to involve me in such
a part against the woman I adored.
“Are you the Comtesse de Villars?”
“I am.”
“I did not know.”
“Monsieur Burnham, you are full
of mystery.”
“I have told you nothing but the
truth, Mademoiselle.”
“Yes, but not all of it. Is it not so?”
I was silent.
“Monsieur, do you not realize that
I have committed a great imprudence
in allowing you to converse with me
here alone, under such circumstances?
That my duty should be to pull the
bell and hand you over to the Duke’s
retainers for punishment? That you
owe much to my forbearance?”
“I realize all that you say, Mademoiselle,
and I am filled with shame.”
“Why, then, are you here? What
are you doing in the Marquis du
Trémigon’s clothing? What is that
you hold?” I thoughtlessly lifted my
hand. “My slipper!” she exclaimed,
flushing in her turn. “You have
been in my closet yonder. What does
it all mean?”
“I will speak!” I replied desperately,
resolved to make a clean breast of the
whole affair. “I am in the power of
the Marquis du Trémigon. I owe him
money.”
“Heaven help you!”
“I am surprised to hear you say
that!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Monsieur,” she said quickly, disregarding
my remark, “my purse is on
the table. Let me discharge my obligation.
Take what you will.”
“Mademoiselle, for God’s sake, think
not so unkindly of me! He threatened
me with imprisonment for debt. That
is nothing, a mere bagatelle. I could
have borne that without hesitation. I
have broken prison before.”
“Well?”
“There is more. When I escaped
from the British prison-ship I was penniless;
alone in England. I halted the
first traveler I met, thinking to despoil
the enemy for my needs as an act of
war. That traveler happened to be
the Marquis du Trémigon. I met him
afterward at—at places where they
play in Paris,” I went on. “He won
all my money, a ring I had taken from
him and a coin which bore certain
markings. These things were proofs
positive. He threatened to charge me
with highway robbery. The punishment
is death. I pleaded with him,
promising to repay him if he would give
me time. Our minister is absent, Commodore
Paul Jones not in Paris. I
was desperate. I loved life, Mademoiselle,
for it held you as a possibility.”
“But that you should come here,
Monsieur? How does that——?”
“Hear me, Mademoiselle. The Marquis
du Trémigon has informed me
of the nature of the agreement regarding
your proposed marriage.”
“And what did Monsieur du Trémigon
say as to that?”
“That by the terms of the contract
three people must consent willingly before
the marriage can take place.”
“Three, Monsieur?”
“He said so.”
“And those are?”
“Yourself, your grandfather and
himself.”
Her lip curled.
“Proceed, Monsieur. This is most
interesting.”
“He said further that you were—forgive
me—anxious to marry him.”
I could see Mademoiselle clench her
hand. I could mark the flash of her
eye.
“That he was anxious to marry
you, but that your grandfather refused
his consent. And that, with your approval,
he had arranged to”—it was a
deeply humiliating thing to say with her
standing before me like an outraged
goddess, but I had to go on—“to compromise
you with him so that your
grandfather would no longer withhold
his consent.”
“And you were to be the means
whereby this plan was to be carried
out?”
“To my shame I admit it. I agreed
to come here and take some article
belonging to you of a personal character.”
“My slipper?”
“That or whatever else I could secure.
I wore his clothes because he
wished the servants to recognize them,
and thus be prepared to swear that he
was with you.”
“’Tis a pretty plot for a gentleman!”
“Mademoiselle, to my sorrow and
regret, I acknowledge it. Yet I beg
to assure you that not even the fear of
imprisonment or death would have
made me consent, had I not believed
that I was doing a lady a service.”
“Do you think you do any lady a
service by forcing her into the arms of
Marquis du Trémigon?”
“But if she loves him?”
“Monsieur,” she said hotly, “she
hates him!”
“Is it possible?”
“You have been grossly deceived.
The only consent necessary to the marriage
is my own. My grandfather has
not withheld his consent. He has left
it entirely to me.”
“You, Mademoiselle?” I exclaimed,
my heart leaping at the thought that
she did not love that villain.
“I have refused and shall refuse.
The whole plan is an attempt to compromise
me, to force my consent.”
Into what a scheme had I been betrayed!
The sweat rose to my forehead.
“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “for God’s
sake acquit me of any such dishonor!”
“I do, Monsieur, freely.”
“I shall go back to du Trémigon and
explain my appearance to him immediately.
I shall compel him to give me
satisfaction for this insult—an insult to
you as well as to me. Your quarrel
with him shall be mine. He will trouble
you no more,” I added significantly.
“Your plan is vain, Monsieur. I
know the Marquis du Trémigon. You
will find him surrounded by such a
force as will paralyze your efforts. He
will refuse to fight with you.”
“At least I shall have the satisfaction
of telling him what I think, and I shall
go to prison if necessary.”
“I would not have you suffer on my
account, Monsieur.”
“Mademoiselle, you are kindness
itself. I deserve nothing whatever at
your hands. If you could only believe
in me, in my love for you, a little before
I go——”
“Monsieur, the circumstances are
very unusual. That day you so bravely
rescued me from those scoundrels
and treated me with such chivalry, I
knew you were not of the common
people. Your dress indicated that, but
my heart—my mind, that is—told me
otherwise.”
Her voice faltered, but she looked at
me clearly with those glorious eyes of
hers.
“But when I found you here and
thought you meant to degrade me, to
force me into the arms of that villain——”
“Mademoiselle!” I protested, “you
cannot accuse me as I do myself. At
least I can make amends now.”
“But is there nothing I can do for
you?” she asked.
“Nothing. The papers, the obligations,
the evidence against me, are in
the hands of a notary. If he does not
hear from the Marquis and myself tomorrow,
he has orders to hand the
packet to the Chief of Police.”
“What do you propose to do, sir?”
“To warn you. Beware of du Trémigon.
Although he has failed in this
instance, he will surely strive again to
compromise your honor. There will be
one ray of comfort in my soul, that I
have again been able to render some
slight assistance to you. And I cherish
the hope, if you think of me at all, that
you will bear in mind that I love you.”
“But, Monsieur——”
“Mademoiselle, if I had met you
under happier circumstances, I should
have made it my prayer to live for you.
Now at least I can die for you, and I
trust that my death will redeem this
disgrace upon my name.”
I laid the little slipper softly on
the table. I kissed it tenderly, reverently,
before I put it down. I stepped
nearer to her. She stood, as if paralyzed,
gazing upon me. There was a
flush in her cheeks; her bosom heaved.
I sank at her feet and took her hand.
It was icy cold. Mine was burning. I
kissed it fervently and rose.
“Farewell,” I said, and then heard
sounds, footsteps in the hall, a knock at
the door of the anteroom through which
I had to pass in order to make my
escape.
I made a swift movement toward
the door, intending to rush to the
window, no matter who barred the
way. I reached for my sword as I
did so. Quick as I was, Mademoiselle
was quicker. Although her face had
gone white at the noise, she had instantly
begun to sing—strange action,
for which I could then see no excuse.
Still lilting lightly a charming little
air, she stood between me and the
door.
“Not that way!” she whispered in
the breaks of the song. “It would be
death. In there.”
She pointed toward her bedroom.
The knocking was resumed, this time
more loudly. A voice cried:
“Countess Gabrielle!”
Her check of me had spoiled my
chance. There was nothing but obedience.
I slipped into the bedroom
and closed the door. The song broke
off suddenly. I could hear distinctly
all that was said. Mademoiselle raised
her voice, crying:
“Who is there?”
“Your grandfather,” was the answer.
“Enter, Monsieur.”
“The door is locked.”
How I blessed that lock! So, I
doubt not, did Mademoiselle. She
went slowly to the antechamber,
fumbled at the lock a few moments,
and opened the door. I heard two
people enter.
“Wait, Messieurs!” cried Mademoiselle
as she caught sight of the second
visitor. “I was preparing to retire.”
With marvelous quickness she had
taken off her bodice after I had entered
the bedroom, and was bare-necked and
armed before her grandfather. She
hastily slipped on a dressing-robe and
once more turned to him.
“’Tis only Éspiau,” said the Duke
quickly.
“I am very glad indeed,” said Mademoiselle,
with a gay little laugh, “for
you caught me quite unaware.”
“Was I mistaken or was there a
tremble in her voice? Her situation
was grave. Had the Duke discovered
me, he would have killed me out of
hand, unless I inflicted a like penalty
upon him, which, under the circumstances,
never entered my mind.
“I thought,” continued the old
Duke as he entered the boudoir, “that
I heard voices.” He looked around
suspiciously.
“You did, Monsieur,” answered the
Countess.
“Great heavens!” thought I, “are
you about to betray me?”
“Whose?” went on the old man
again.
“Mine; I was singing.”
She began that little song, the music
of which I shall never forget, although
I am no great hand at carrying a tune.
“Humph!” said the old man. “You
did not go to the masked ball?”
“No, Monsieur, I was tired. I have
been reading in the library and have
but recently come here.”
“There was no one in the anteroom
when you entered?”
“No one, sir.”
“Have you been in the room beyond
since you came up?”
“Not yet.”
“Éspiau!”
“Monsieur le Duc!”
“Examine yonder chamber. It may
be some thief has concealed himself
there.”
The Duke turned his head away to
survey the room and Mademoiselle
shot one glance, pregnant with agony
and entreaty, at the old servant. He
had been as a father to her from childhood—indeed,
he had been her father’s
foster-brother.
“Very well, Monsieur le Duc,” answered
the servant.
I heard him crossing the room. What
should I do? There was no place of
concealment. The window happened to
be barred, else I should have thrown
myself from it. Should I fall upon
him and run my sword through him?
I drew the weapon, without making a
sound, and waited. The door opened
slowly and only partially, Éspiau saw
me at once. He put his finger to his
lips and closed his eyes.
“I see no one, Monsieur le Duc,” he
said, turning his head.
“Examine thoroughly,” returned the
old man.
Éspiau stepped into the room, looked
under the bed, shook the curtains, making
a deal of noise as he moved about,
managing to say to me:
“Silence, as you value your life!”
Presently he returned to the others.
I breathed a long sigh of relief. I remember
wiping the sweat from my
brow.
“Monsieur le Duc was doubtless
mistaken,” said the old man quietly.
“Yes,” said the Duke; “I’m glad of
it. Times are in such disorder. There
are many masterless men about, and
your apartment is easy of access from
the garden. I must change it, Countess.”
“At your pleasure, grandfather,”
said Mademoiselle, and then she actually
began to sing that little love song
again. The courage of that girl was
superb! It made me love her more
madly than before.
“I am glad to find you home,” said
the Duke, “for I have brought you
some papers which require your signature.
I intended to leave them until
morning, but unless you feel inclined
to retire——”
“No, Monsieur, I never felt so wide
awake in my life,” answered Mademoiselle.
“Good! I will leave them here then.
Éspiau will explain them to you, and
we can finish the discussion in the
morning. I am tired and feel the need
of rest. Good night.”
“Good night, grandfather,” said Mademoiselle;
“may you rest well.”
“Good night, my child,” said the
old man, relaxing for the moment the
formality of his address as he took her
hand, drew her toward him, pressed
a kiss upon her forehead, bowed to her
as to a queen and walked away.
The two left within the boudoir
moved not until the echo of the Duke’s
footsteps died away in the distance of
the corridor.
“Mademoiselle,” at last began Éspiau
in a voice in which sorrow and
affection strove for the mastery.
“Judge me not,” said Mademoiselle
quickly.
“Who is that man?”
I thought now it was time for me to
make my entrance. I opened the door,
therefore, and presented myself.
“My name is Francis Burnham, my
good fellow. I am an officer in the
American Navy.”
“How came you here and what
would you do?”
“That scoundrel du Trémigon sent
him here to compromise me,” the
Countess interposed.
“The dastard!” exclaimed the servant.
“But Monsieur did not think it was
I,” continued Mademoiselle. “You remember
when I went on that errand
for Her Majesty the Queen?” I started
at this. Éspiau nodded. “This gentleman
had the good fortune to save
me from capture then. I should have
been robbed of those papers. I found
him here this evening. He had abjured
his errand and was upon the point
of departure when——”
“My friend,” I interrupted, “what
Mademoiselle says is absolutely true,
and I believed, furthermore, that I was
doing her a service.”
“I need not your assurance for that,
Monsieur,” said the old man proudly;
“the house of de Rivau does not
lie.”
“I wish the same might be said of
the house of du Trémigon; but be
that as it may, I am not anxious to forfeit
any man’s good-will.”
“Not even that of a servant?” he
interrupted.
“Not even that. It was a case of
life or death for me. I am in du Trémigon’s
power. Not knowing that it
was Mademoiselle—for I did not learn
until this evening that she was Comtesse
de Villars—I came. I am sorry.
I am going back to give myself up to
the Marquis. You may guess what
that will mean.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “Before I go, allow me to
express my gratitude for your forbearance.
You have saved my life. The
Duke would have killed me, for I should
have made no resistance.”
“It was death for me to see you
there, to suspect—but Mademoiselle
will forgive me——”
“There is no need, my good Éspiau,”
said the Countess, extending
her hand.
The old man kissed it like a gentleman.
Indeed, I dare say, compared
to du Trémigon, and others that I had
met in Paris, he was as fine a gentleman
as any of them.
“I should like to shake you by the
hand,” I said.
“Monsieur honors me,” said Éspiau.
I didn’t know whether there was sarcasm
in his voice or not, but we shook
hands vigorously.
“Mademoiselle,” I continued, turning
to her, “there is but one thing for
me to do.”
“What is that?”
“To wish you farewell and to go as
I came.”
“Wait,” said Mademoiselle, her hand
on her breast. “I have something to
say to you.”
“At your service, Mademoiselle.”
“Éspiau, can you trust me further?”
“In everything, Mademoiselle,” said
the old man.
He was a well-trained fellow, with as
much tact as discretion. He bowed to
me, and I swear I couldn’t help it, I
returned his bow as if he had been an
equal, and he marched out of the room
as stately as a grenadier.
“Is there no way,” began the Countess
hastily, “for you to escape du Trémigon?”
“None.”
“I have money.”
“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “I shall
take nothing from this room but the
recollection of your kindness, the consciousness
of your worth, the sense of
your beauty.”
“But you will be imprisoned!”
“I have had this hour of freedom.
The rest is nothing.”
“They will put you to death.”
“Without you, I do not care to
live.”
“Mon Dieu, what shall I do?”
“If you could say—if you could let
me believe—it will be but for a short
time—that, were the circumstances
other than they are, you might perhaps
have cared for me, it will lighten the
hours and give me something sweet
to dwell upon. It will make me indifferent
to any fate.”
“Monsieur—I—I—” she faltered,
her face aflame. She buried it in her
hands.
I sank on my knee and seized the
hem of her gown. Then I felt her
hands upon my head. I rose to my
feet. I don’t know how or why, but I
swept her to my breast in an embrace.
Her lips met mine.
“No more,” she said, pushing me
away. “I have gone too far already.
You must not go to him now.”
“I am in heaven already, Mademoiselle,
and death cannot alter the fact
that you return my love.”
“But you will not go to him?”
“I must.”
“No!”
She stooped, and before I knew what
she was about, she took off one of her
dainty slippers—warm from her little
foot—and placed it in my hand.
“Give that to him,” she said; “you
will be free and I shall know how to
protect myself.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“In pity leave me! Go!”
I could not resist that. Besides,
after a warning cough Éspiau thrust
his head through the door and said
quickly:
“Someone comes! You must hasten!”
I kissed her hand, and with one backward
glance tore myself away.
To scramble down the ivy was the
work of a few seconds. The faithful
Bucknall was waiting. Without a
word we bounded across the park and
the bribed turnkey let us out. As
for me I was treading on air. I had
never been so happy since I was a boy.
Never would she have given me that
little slipper, against which my heart
throbbed madly, if I had been indifferent
to her. Did I intend to give it to
du Trémigon? Never! I should let him
do his worst. Something would happen.
I should get out of it in some way.
When we reached the inn we found
our horses ready. After we were
safely mounted old Bucknall broke
the silence.
“Did ye git it, yer honor?” asked
the old sailor.
“Get it, Bucknall? Do you remember
me telling you of the lady whom
I saved from highwaymen on the road
to Paris?”
I had to tell someone. It would
have killed me not to have been able
to confide in a soul, and Bucknall was
faithful and devoted beyond the ordinary.
“I remembers it well, sir.”
“She was the lady in the house
yonder.”
“You don’t say so, sir!”
“I love her, Bucknall!”
“Then ye didn’t git it?” said the
old salt coolly.
“Get it? Of course, I got it. It’s
in my waistcoat, over my heart.”
“You’ll give it to the Markis?”
“Never! I’ll keep it until the day
of my death.”
“That’s likely to be pretty soon,
yer honor, if wot ye say is true.”
“I can’t help that. I wouldn’t give
it to that lying hound to purchase
my life. When I die I wish it buried
with me.”
And then I told him squarely what
a scoundrel the Marquis was and how
he had befooled me about Mademoiselle’s
desires.
“Wot are ye goin’ to do, ef I might
ax yer honor?”
“I’m going to du Trémigon and tell
him I refuse to do his bidding and let
him do his worst.”
“Wot’ll he do?”
“Clap me into prison, I suppose.”
“Hadn’t we better cut an’ run fer it
right now?”
“I can’t. He has my word of honor
that I would report the success or
failure of my mission.”
“I guess he ain’t troublin’ hisself
about honor, is he?”
“I suppose not.”
“W’y should you, sir?”
“That’s the disadvantage a gentleman
labors under in dealing with a
scoundrel.”
“I see. Hev ye thought that ye’ll
be sarched by the police an’——?”
“By Jove!” I interrupted. “That’s
so.”
“An’ wot ye’ve got’ll be tuk from
ye?”
This was a new complication. I had
no doubt in that case that the slipper
would eventually fall into the hands
of du Trémigon and my sacrifice would
avail nothing. What was to be done?
I could think of nothing. I had no
friends in Paris whom I could trust
except this humble sailor. Unless I
gave the slipper to him I should have
to throw it away. In truth I should
never have taken it. It was a mad
impulse that possessed the Countess
to give it me.
“Bucknall,” I said at last, “you are
right. I cannot keep this slipper.”
“I think not, sir.”
“There is no one that I know in
Paris to whom I can intrust it but
you.”
“I reckon not, sir.”
“Here it is,” I said. I am not
ashamed to say that I kissed it before
I gave it to the sailor. It was dark
and he could not see, but if it had been
broad daylight I should not have
cared.
“Wot am I to do with it, sir?”
“I want you to do it up carefully
in a package. Put the best wrappings
about it and tie it up shipshape.
Leave it at the American minister’s
for Dr. Franklin when he comes back,
which should be tomorrow or next
day. You can get someone there to
address it to my father’s plantation.”
I gave him the address and made him
repeat it many times until he had it
letter-perfect.
“Now,” I said, “you must leave me
and shift for yourself. Here”—I
reached my hand in my pocket and
took out the money that du Trémigon
had given me. I might as well be
hanged for an old sheep as a lamb, I
reasoned, and I passed it all over to
the faithful sailor. “You speak passable
French,” I continued—he had
picked up enough of the language in
his Mediterranean cruises to make
himself understood—“keep yourself
close until you see the American minister.
Tell him of my plight and perhaps
he may be able to do something.
At any rate see that he forwards the
package. You need not say what’s
in it.”
“What about my hoss, sir?”
“Give me the rein.”
“An’ I thanks God to get off’n him,”
returned Bucknall, sliding to the
ground with great alacrity. “And,
harkee, Master Burnham, ye ain’t seen
the last of me, yet, sir. I’ve got a
few idees in my ol’ head, sir, an’ don’t
you git ready for death too suddint
like.”
He turned and was gone.
A short time brought me to du
Trémigon’s house. He was waiting
for me, wellnigh consumed with
anxiety and curiosity. I do not care
to go into the details of our interview
that night. Suffice it to say, I felt
entirely free to express my opinion of
him and that I did so without let or
hindrance. Of course, he carried out
his part of the program, and at daybreak
I found myself in prison facing
charges of highway robbery and debts
amounting to many thousand francs.
But I was happy. I had hope of
the love of the Countess and I didn’t
care a rap for anything else. I felt
that somehow, in some way, I should
manage to get out. I was the most
cheerful prisoner under such a heavy
charge that ever occupied a cell.
Confinement, I will admit, was a
little wearing upon me. The first day
passed, and then a second, without a
sign from anybody. My examination
was set for the morrow. The turnkey
who brought me my supper slipped
me a note. I was hungry enough—for
the prison fare was scanty—but
the note claimed my attention. It was
in a woman’s hand, of course, and
could come only from her, although it
bore no crest and was not signed.
The turnkey and the under-governor of
the jail are bribed. Tonight, after supper,
you will be removed to another cell. This
overlooks the street. The bars of the window
have been arranged so that they will
come out at a touch. When the clock in the
nearby church strikes twelve, a messenger
and a horse will await you in the alley.
The note stopped there, and then a
few words had been added apparently
as an afterthought:
These presents from one who cares much
what happens to you.
If you have been in a like situation
you can guess what happened then.
When I was calmer I put the note carefully
in my pocket and fell to my
supper. I knew that I should need all
my strength, and I was of a practical
turn of mind even in the midst of my
most romantic dreams. I had scarcely
finished the poor provender when the
turnkey re-entered. He was followed
by a couple of other officials. The
turnkey in a harsh manner, as if to
impress the others, although he winked
knowingly at me, said:
“By the order of the commandant
you are to be transferred to another
cell.”
“I do not wish to be transferred,” I
returned hotly, to keep up the deception;
“this cell suits me very well,
and I am satisfied to remain here.”
“Your wishes are not consulted in
this matter,” he returned roughly.
“You villain!” I cried, menacing him.
“Have a care,” he answered; “if you
don’t go peaceably we’ll have to take
you by force. Here, men!”
His two assistants stepped forward.
I concluded that I had done enough,
so, grumbling mightily, and giving evidence
of my displeasure, I suffered them
to lead me to the other cell, where I was
soon locked in for the night. With
what impatience I waited for the appointed
hour!
At the first stroke of the bell I was
at the window. The bars came out
in my hand. Someone had chiseled
out the mortar and replaced it with
putty. I gained the sill and dropped.
It was a long fall, but I was delighted
when I alighted upon a truss of hay,
which had evidently been thrown at
the foot of the wall on purpose to receive
me. I scrambled up and looked
about. A man approached me. He
had a weapon. I was without arms,
and although I stood ready to spring,
I had no doubt he was a messenger.
“Monsieur Burnham?” he asked.
“The same.”
“Come with me.”
I followed him down the narrow
street on tiptoe. So far as I could see
it was entirely deserted. The street
opened upon a little park or square.
Under the trees I made out horses.
There were three of them. A figure sat
upon one. My heart leaped into my
mouth as I discerned it to be a woman.
One of the horses was turned over to
me. My conductor took the third,
first handing me a hat and cloak.
Then he turned and, indicating that
we should follow, made his way into
the street. On account of the lateness
of the hour, and the fact that the
jail was in a remote and unfrequented
portion of the town, the street was
dark and empty. We passed a lantern
presently and its rays fell upon the
woman who had persistently avoided
conversation with me. Under this
light, although she wore a mask and
was shrouded in a cloak, I knew that it
was the Countess. Nothing could stop
me then. I swung my horse in toward
hers and laid my hand on her arm.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is to
you that I owe my freedom.”
“Not yet,” she replied, but she did
not shake off my hand, and we rode
side by side, the horses going at a good
pace.
“First, you gave me something to
live for—” I said.
“That was?”
“Yourself. Now you give me life to
enjoy you.”
“Monsieur,” she said, dodging the
issue, “we have but little time to converse.
I learned of your plight——”
“How, Mademoiselle?”
“From your servant, an ancient
sailor. He followed you, learned where
you were imprisoned, and immediately
sought me.”
“How did he get access to you?”
“He had a—talisman, Monsieur,
that insured him an immediate hearing.”
I was completely puzzled, but Mademoiselle
gave me no time for thought.
She went on hurriedly:
“I bribed the commandant and
turnkey. I provided these horses.
The man ahead of us is——”
“Éspiau!” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He will conduct you out of
France.”
“And you came, Mademoiselle——??”
“To say farewell.”
“Never!” I cried. “I will leave
France, Mademoiselle, but not alone.”
“You mean?”
“I take you with me.”
“Impossible!”
“But do you not love me?” She
was silent. “Would you have done
all this for me if you had not?” I persisted.
“Gratitude, Monsieur, for services
rendered, and——”
“Nonsense!” I said, laughing, “you
know that you care. Why, I have
lived in the prison upon the memory
of that——”
“You are cruel, Monsieur.”
“Is it cruel for a man who loves a
woman to take the woman, if she loves
him, away with him?”
I was young and reckless. I didn’t
care what happened. I swung my
horse in closer to hers and slipped my
arm around her. She struggled, but
in despite of her struggles I kissed her.
Her head sank on my shoulder.
“Don’t!” she whispered. “You are
so strong. I cannot let you go——”
That was a wise pair of horses, for
they stopped while I poured out my
soul to her there and then. What
her answer might have been I know
not. Yet I was prepared to take her
away by force when we were suddenly
alarmed by Éspiau. He had
ridden ahead a few paces; now he came
back on the run.
“Soldiers!” he said hastily. “The
King’s guard! We must flee!”
“Monsieur,” said the Countess,
quickly releasing herself and thrusting
a little parcel into my hand, “here is
the talisman. Go! unless you wish to
disgrace me. Éspiau and I will remain
here.”
She had right on her side. We must
not be found together. To assist in
the escape of a prisoner, charged with
a capital offense, was a serious matter.
I swerved my horse and started away.
But I had not gone ten paces before a
heavy hand seized my horse’s bridle
and a stern voice bade me stand in the
King’s name. Lights appeared on the
instant and I saw that I was surrounded.
I cast one glance backward at the
Countess and Éspiau. They, too, had
been arrested. It was a trap! The
whole party had been caught. Back
of the men who had stopped us I
noticed a single horseman.
“Have you got him?” he said as he
drew near.
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc.”
I recognized his voice. It was
Mademoiselle’s grandfather!
“Take him to my house,” said the
old man shortly.
The next moment du Trémigon
spurred through the throng. It was he
who with the remainder of the King’s
guard had apprehended Mademoiselle
and Éspiau. He shot one venomous
glance at me, in which triumph was
mingled with hate, and approached
the Duke, whispering a few words. I
saw the old man start violently; a
look of anger and dismay crossed his
face—the Marquis spoke earnestly for
a moment or two. The Duke nodded—unwillingly,
I thought. The next
moment he left us and rode forward
with du Trémigon to the side of his
granddaughter. I stared after them
in despair.
“Where am I to be taken?” I asked
one of the officers commanding the
escort that had seized me.
“Back to prison.”
“And not to the Duke’s house?”
“An oubliette will doubtless be
safer and more comfortable quarters
for Monsieur,” said the captain politely,
giving the order to march.
Fortune had been both kind and unkind
to me once more. On the whole
I judged, as I lay in the darkness of
the damp, wretched dungeon from
which no escape seemed possible, that
the balance was on the side of kindness.
I had had a breath of fresh air.
I had further evidence that the woman
I loved loved me. I had come near
to freedom with her. And I had the talisman
which Bucknall had shrewdly used
to gain access to her. I could feel it in
the darkness, for I had unwrapped it.
It was the slipper—my lady’s slipper
that had caused all the trouble! As
I pressed it passionately to my lips I
felt the crackle of paper inside. A
letter! What would I have given for a
light by which to read it!
Ah, yes, things looked black to me,
but I blessed fortune nevertheless—on
my own account, that is. I was
filled with anxiety as to what would
happen to the Countess between her
grandfather and du Trémigon. There
was one other matter, which gave me
grave concern. When du Trémigon
rode up to the Duke he had been
followed by a servant on horseback,
a particularly vicious-looking man
with one eye. The light was not clear
and I was not able to see distinctly.
Yet I recognized him. Where I had
met him, under what circumstances, I
could not at first decide, but in the
darkness of that dungeon all came
back to me. He was the man whose
wrist I had broken with my cudgel,
when Mademoiselle had been attacked.
He was evidently the leader of that
assault upon her. She had spoken of
the Queen’s despatch. Could it be
that du Trémigon had instigated the
attack? It must have been the case.
I decided that the fact itself was of
great importance, and that possibly I
might use it in case of necessity.
I got through the night somehow.
The next morning—I knew it was
morning, because some faint light had
filtered through a slit near the roof,
the most eventful day in my life, which
had not been without its surprising
incidents—was ushered in by a visit
from the commandant of the prison.
Why he honored me with his personal
attention was not obvious, though I
learned later that it was on account
of an order of the Queen. Curtly
enough he bade me follow him, which
I did, nothing loth. Anything was
better than the cursed oubliette.
I fancy that I must have presented
rather a sorry figure, for he was good
enough to show me into a small room
where there were some toilet conveniences,
and I made myself as presentable
as possible. Fortunately, my
clothes—I had resumed my own, when
I returned to du Trémigon—were of
good material and a perfect fit, and I
was rather proud of my figure, too.
While there I read the note in the
slipper. It was small, like the container,
but very sweet to me:
Monsieur, [it said], to see you again I
come with Éspiau tonight. I bid you an
eternal farewell and write what I dare not
speak—I love you!
An eternal farewell, eh? I would
have something to say about that, I
was resolved.
My hat and cloak—that Mademoiselle
had provided me with the night
before—were fetched, and after a good
breakfast, which seemed to have been
brought from his own table, he conducted
me to a closed carriage and I
was driven a long distance through the
country, arriving at last at a place
that I afterward found to be Versailles.
I tried several times to converse
with my guards, but neither would
talk to me. I resigned myself to
whatever was coming, therefore, and
busied myself with thoughts of Mademoiselle.
I had been to Versailles
seeking Dr. Franklin, but had never
seen the royal palace. Consequently
I did not recognize it when the carriage
stopped and I was led forth.
I supposed that it might be one of the
residences of the great Duc de Rivau-Huet.
Before I had time to speculate, however,
I was blindfolded and led through
numberless corridors, up and down
flights of stairs, in rooms and out
in bewildering succession. I made no
resistance. It would have been useless,
and the officers who brought me
thither informed me that no harm was
intended. Finally we stopped, hands
fumbled at the bandage, and I opened
my eyes to find myself in a magnificent
apartment—an antechamber of
some sort, evidently. It was void of
people, save ourselves and a sentry in
the uniform of the Swiss Guards at
the door at the farther end.
Running my hand through my hair
with the natural instinct of a young
man, and shaking myself as if to free
my person by the motion, at a gesture
from my guide I stepped boldly to
the door. The Swiss presented arms,
the official tapped on the door and
stepped back, a voice I recognized bade
me enter, and in another moment I
was in the presence of Mademoiselle.
She was standing near the door. I
took one step toward her and fell on
my knees, when a scandalized voice
exclaimed in my ear:
“Monsieur, do you not see the
Queen?”
“I do,” I answered, without taking
my eyes off Mademoiselle, “and I kneel
to her with all the homage of my
heart.”
Mademoiselle blushed vividly and
stepped aside.
“She means the Queen of France,
Monsieur,” she said softly.
As I knelt there, my eyes fell upon
a young woman—she was only twenty-four—seated
farther off at the opposite
side of the room, a beautiful
woman with a fresh, sweet, innocent
face, with nothing especially regal
about her, that I could see. I knew
in a moment that this was Marie Antoinette.
Such was my astonishment,
however, that I remained kneeling,
my mouth open, in great surprise.
Her Majesty was pleased to laugh.
She laughed as merrily as a girl.
“Make your homage to the Queen
of France, Monsieur,” exclaimed the
elderly woman who had spoken to me
first, evidently one of the great ladies
of the Court.
“Your Majesty,” I replied, finding
my wits at last, “I knelt as every
gentleman should, to the queen of his
heart, and when she stepped aside and
revealed to me the queen of all hearts,
I was unable to rise.”
“Perhaps, Monsieur, you have sufficiently
recovered now to approach
more nearly the throne,” she said,
pleased at my compliment.
She extended her hand to me. I
got to my feet, knelt again before her
and kissed it. Queens are always
beautiful, but I swear I would rather
have kissed Mademoiselle’s hand at
any hour. However, I reflected that
the honor of America was in a measure
committed to me, and I think I bore
myself worthily.
“Rise, Monsieur,” said the Queen
graciously; “the Comtesse de Villars”—I
suppose it is bad manners to look
at one woman when another woman
is speaking to you, especially if that
woman be of royal blood, but I could
not help turning my head at her words.
There stood Mademoiselle more
beautiful than ever. Indeed, I have
observed that she always looks better
the more beautiful her background,
and Marie Antoinette might be Queen
of France, but she was only a background
to Mademoiselle that morning.
“Mademoiselle de Villars tells me
that you have rendered me a great
service.”
“If to love Mademoiselle de Villars,”
I began, “with all my heart and soul,
be to render Your Majesty a service——”
“Nay, nay, not that way. I fear
you would fain rob me of my fairest
maid of honor.”
“It ill becomes a gentleman to contradict
a lady,” I replied quickly.
Again the Queen laughed. I was
lucky evidently.
“What I meant, Monsieur, was that
Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that
you saved her from assault, capture,
I know not what, on the highroad
some ten days ago.”
“Your Majesty, I had that good
fortune.”
“Mademoiselle de Villars was on
my errand. There were papers I did
not care to intrust to any save the
most intimate hand, which she was
bringing back to me.”
“I perfectly understand, Your Majesty.”
“I will not disguise the fact that had
these papers fallen into the possession
of an enemy——”
“The Marquis du Trémigon?” I interrupted.
“Du Trémigon?” cried Mademoiselle.
“Why he, Monsieur?” asked the
Queen.
“It was he who instigated the assault
upon Mademoiselle, I am convinced.”
“How know you this?”
“One of the ruffians who menaced
the lady was one-eyed. He wore a
patch over his face. I was lucky
enough to break his wrist with my
cudgel.”
“A strange weapon for a gentleman,”
said Her Majesty.
“It is honored above my sword, in
that it hath served Mademoiselle,” I
answered.
“You have a French twist to your
tongue,” said the Queen. “Proceed.”
“I recognized the man in the Marquis
du Trémigon’s following last
night, Your Majesty.”
“I know whom he means, Madame;
I saw him, too,” said Mademoiselle.
“I heard Monsieur du Trémigon call
him Babin. Strange to say, I did not
recognize him before.”
“That agrees perfectly with my
recollection, Madame. I remember
that the man who ran away that day
on the road called him by that
name.”
“And you think the Marquis du
Trémigon wanted these papers?” continued
the Queen.
“I am sure of it, Madame.”
“But why?”
“Your Majesty knows that he is a
suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle de
Villars. He hoped doubtless that if
he could get the papers he might—” I
hesitated. It was an ugly word to
say, yet the Marquis du Trémigon had
shown himself to me in his true colors,
and I knew there was no knavery he
would stop at. “He hoped to influence
you, and, through you, Mademoiselle.
By the terms of her father’s will she
must consent willingly to the marriage,
else the contract is void.”
“You seem to know a great deal
about the affairs of Mademoiselle,
Monsieur.”
“I intend, with your permission,
Madame, to know everything about
them in the future.”
The Queen smiled.
“He is droll, this cavalier. He
speaks like a Frenchman, and wooes
like an American.”
“Have I your permission, Madame?”
asked Mademoiselle.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“It was the Marquis du Trémigon
who betrayed us last night,” she said,
turning to me.
“Another score to be settled between
us,” I said under my breath.
“He has a creature in his pay in
my grandfather’s house, and through
him he learned my plan. He laid a
very clever trap. Although he could
have stopped me at any time, he
allowed us to go on, that we might
be caught in the act. Now he hopes
to win my grandfather’s consent to
this marriage, and perhaps by that
means force it upon me.”
“You shall never marry him,” I
said, utterly oblivious of everything,
everybody, except Mademoiselle and
that fact.
“And why not, pray, Monsieur?”
asked the Queen.
“Because, Your Majesty, I shall
marry her myself.”
“Indeed!”
“The word of a gentleman, Madame,”
I said.
“But are you a gentleman?” asked
Marie Antoinette. There was an accent
of raillery in her voice that robbed
the question of its sting. “One day
you masquerade as a sailor. The next
day you enter Mademoiselle’s apartments”—she
knew all, then!—“as a
thief. Today you stand before me as
a criminal.”
“I plead guilty to every charge,
Madame. I am a sailor, I am a thief.
Last night I would have stolen——”
“What, Monsieur?”
“Mademoiselle.”
“From her grandfather?”
“From the throne itself, Your Majesty,”
I replied fervently.
Again the Queen smiled.
“Enough, Monsieur,” she said, rising;
“I have exerted myself in your
favor. I had an order from the King
to bring you here. I have requested
the Duc de Rivau-Huet to consign
Mademoiselle to my care. I wished to
thank you for the service you have
done me—to ask you to wear this in
memory of my gratitude.”
She drew a rarely beautiful diamond
ring from her finger and extended
it to me. I kissed the hand and
slipped the ring upon my little finger.
“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” I
said.
“The reward scarcely equals your
merit, Monsieur, and it does not even
approach your assurance.”
“Mademoiselle would make a craven
bold, Madame.”
“Doubtless,” said the Queen. “And
now we have the honor to wish you a
safe return to America.”
I looked at Mademoiselle. She had
turned deathly pale. Her eyes were
filled with tears. Before my glance
she lowered her head. My resolution
was taken at once.
“But, Your Majesty, I am not going
back to America.”
“How, Monsieur! You contradict
the Queen?”
“At least, I am not going back
alone,” I added respectfully.
“Monsieur, believe me,” the Queen
rejoined earnestly, “it is impossible.
The Duc de Rivau-Huet would never
consent. He is one of the great nobles
of France. You——”
“I am a criminal, Madame, and respect
no conventions save those dictated
by my own heart.”
I could swear that Mademoiselle gave
me one grateful glance.
“Is that the custom of America?”
asked the Queen.
“Of the world, Madame. When
one loves as I, there is but one custom.”
“That is?”
“To give oneself to one’s mistress
and to take her for his own.”
The situation was becoming impossible.
It was fortunately saved for
me by the entrance of an equerry.
“Your Majesty”—he stopped and
bowed low—“Monsieur le Marquis du
Trémigon would like the honor of an
audience.”
“Monsieur,” said the Queen, turning
to me, “you still persist in this mad
resolution?”
“Madame, I am determined in it.
There is but one voice that can send
me to America—alone.”
“And that voice.”
“Is Mademoiselle’s.”
“Speak to him, Gabrielle,” said the
Queen.
Mademoiselle turned and looked at
me. Her lips formed a word; she drew
her breath sharply in, but no sound
came.
“With reverence to Your Majesty,
that word Mademoiselle cannot say.”
“Why not, Monsieur?”
“Because she loves me,” I answered
confidently.
The Queen looked from one to the
other of us. I only looked at Mademoiselle.
She could not sustain the
concentrated force of two such stares as
ours. She hid her face in her hands.
“Ma foi,” said Marie Antoinette,
with one of those quick changes of
mood which made her so fascinating,
“it is even so. Before two such
lovers, I may be pardoned if I forget
that I am a queen and remember only
that I am a woman.”
“May God bless Your Majesty for
that!” I cried enthusiastically. “Does
it mean——?”
“That I am on your side, Monsieur?
Satisfy me of what has been told me
of yourself this morning and we shall
see.”
The look that she gave me spoke
volumes. I was speechless with happiness.
To satisfy her, everyone, of
my position would be easy. If only
I could get word to Dr. Franklin.
He had been a friend of my father in
the colonies. He knew many people
I knew, and if that mad little Scotsman
were here he would be on my
side. The Queen gave me no time for
reply, for she turned to the equerry
and said:
“I will see Monsieur du Trémigon.
But wait one moment. Before he is
admitted, I wish you to go into that
room, Monsieur Burnham. Leave the
door open and stand behind the
arras. You”—she turned to the elderly
lady, who had discreetly withdrawn
to the embrasure, and had been
carefully studying the landscape during
the interview between the Queen,
Mademoiselle and myself—“Madame,
will you ask the Duc de Rivau-Huet
to come into the small room where
Monsieur Burnham goes and wait there
until I call him forth? Tell him I beg
him on no account to give note of his
presence until he is summoned. Now”—she
turned to the equerry—“bring
hither the Marquis du Trémigon.”
I bowed low to Her Majesty and
lower to Mademoiselle, and entered
the apartment the Queen had indicated.
The Duc de Rivau-Huet had
evidently been waiting, for a moment
later he entered under the guidance
of the messenger and stood by my side.
He did not know me, of course, but
we bowed to each other profoundly
and then waited quietly.
A moment later we heard the Queen
speaking.
“Monsigneur du Trémigon,” she began,
“you wish to see me?”
“Madame, it is the constant wish of
every gentleman in France.”
“Prettily said, Monsieur, and, as it
happens, I also wish to see you.”
“Your Majesty honors me.”
“You come at an opportune time,
therefore.”
“Any time that I can be of service
to Your Majesty is opportune,” he
answered—the clever villain had a
glib tongue, as he had a fine taste in
clothes, I could but admit. “I wish
that Your Majesty,” he continued,
“could give me back my remark.”
“And what was that, Monsieur?”
“That every woman in France might
wish to see me.”
“That would be an embarrassment
of riches.”
“I should be satisfied if the one
nearest Your Majesty cherished that
desire.”
He shot one glance at the Countess.
I could see them by moving the hangings
slightly, and I didn’t scruple to
look. The old Duke stood like a stone,
wondering why he had been brought
here, and as yet unable to comprehend
the situation.
“You said that you wished to see
me, Monsieur?” asked the Queen, disregarding
his last remark.
“My desire gives place to Your
Majesty’s.”
“And my will claims precedence of
yours, Monsieur. Proffer your petition.”
“Your Majesty, I love devotedly
the Comtesse de Villars. We were
betrothed in childhood. The time for
the carrying out of the contract our
fathers made has arrived. I crave
Your Majesty’s influence to persuade
Mademoiselle de Villars to honor me.”
There was a certain amount of truth
in the rascal’s words. I wondered if
he really loved her a little bit, or
whether it was only to get her money.
“But Mademoiselle de Villars doesn’t
love you, Monsieur.”
“With Your Majesty’s aid I trust
I shall be able to teach her to do
so.”
“I fear that task is beyond you or
me, Monsieur du Trémigon.”
“Permit me in Your Majesty’s own
interest to dispute that assertion.”
“How now, Gabrielle?” said the
Queen, turning to Mademoiselle.
“I hate him!” she cried. I could
see du Trémigon wince.
“You hear, Monsieur?”
“I hear, Madame, but”—he tore
off the disguise now and spoke with
savage firmness—“Mademoiselle must
marry me.”
“Must, sir! These are strange words
to use to your queen.”
“I speak to a woman now,” answered
the Marquis.
“Explain yourself.”
“Mademoiselle is seriously compromised.”
I could see the Countess start and
clench her hands. The Queen motioned
her to remain silent.
“How is that, Monsieur?” she asked
quietly.
“She received me alone in her
apartments the night before last.”
“You coward!” cried Mademoiselle.
“Patience, Gabrielle,” said Marie
Antoinette quickly. “You have proofs
of that assertion, sir?”
From where I stood with a backward
glance I could see the old Duke.
He had his hand on his sword, his
face was as white as death. He was
perfectly rigid. He had been told to
remain where he was, however, until
he was summoned, and he would not
move.
“You have witnesses?” continued
the Queen.
“I have. I was seen to go through
the gate at eleven o’clock. I climbed
to Mademoiselle’s window by the ivy.
I remained in her apartment one
hour. It was this suit that I now
wear in which I presented myself to
Mademoiselle.” He turned swiftly to
the Countess. “Does not Mademoiselle
recognize it?” he said, with a triumphant
leer.
She shuddered away from him.
And indeed it was the one I had worn!
“You do recognize it, Gabrielle?”
asked the Queen. Mademoiselle said
nothing, but it was quite evident that
she did.
“Your story,” said the Queen composedly,
turning to the Marquis, “is
most interesting, Monsieur, if it could
be believed.”
“Out of consideration to one of
your maids of honor”—I could have
killed him at the hateful emphasis he
laid on that last word—“I hope I may
be spared the pain of public testimony.”
“You give me your word of honor
that three nights ago you were in
Mademoiselle’s apartments?”
“I do.”
“Your word of honor as a gentleman?”
“Your Majesty has said it.”
“Oh, this is infamous—infamous!”
cried Mademoiselle.
“And you, Countess, what do you
say?” continued the Queen.
“It is a falsehood, a dastardly falsehood!”
A look of relief swept over the old
Duke’s face then. His apprehension
gave place to a growing anger. I
could realize how hard it was for him
to remain quiet beyond that curtain.
As for me I would have given everything
on earth to go out and kill du
Trémigon.
“You do not wish to marry this
man—pardon, this gentleman—Gabrielle?”
asked Marie Antoinette.
“I would rather kill myself!”
“Monsieur du Trémigon,” said the
Queen, “have mercy!”
“Madame, love has no mercy. I
am passionately devoted to Mademoiselle.”
“And is that why,” asked Marie
Antoinette, with a swift change of
manner, “that you set your man,
Babin, and two other ruffians to
attack Mademoiselle on the road to
Paris ten days ago?”
She drove her queries home with the
directness of sword-thrusts. The Marquis
gasped, fell back, utterly dismayed.
He moistened his lips and
strove to speak.
“I—I—I do not know what Your
Majesty means—” he faltered. “I had
a servant called Babin in my employ,
but I have discharged him.”
“You did not know,” said the Queen
pitilessly, “that Mademoiselle was
carrying papers of infinite concern to
me? Relying on your sense of honor”—she
smiled mockingly—“I tell you
the truth. They were letters that I
had written years ago—silly, foolish
letters, which yet might have
given me trouble. Mademoiselle volunteered
to get them and bring them to
me. And you, Monsieur du Trémigon,
having learned this in some way—oh,
I have fathomed the whole procedure,”
she went on, rising and confronting
him. “You thought to get me in your
power and force a consent from Mademoiselle
through her love for me!”
“Madame, I am innocent. I know
no more about this than you have
told me. Babin has not been in my
service for months. I know nothing
about the letters.”
“Do you swear it?”
“I swear it!”
The Queen struck a bell on the table
at my side. The equerry presented
himself.
“Is Monsieur Éspiau there?” she
asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Admit him.”
In another moment the old servant
of the Duke entered and fell on his
knees before the Queen.
“Rise, my friend,” she said, with
that gentle grace, that benignity, that
ought to have endeared her to the
whole of France, high and low, rich
and poor; “were you at the Hôtel
de Rivau-Huet on last Wednesday
night?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Were you in the apartments of the
Comtesse de Villars?”
“I was, Your Majesty.”
“Between the hours of eleven and
twelve?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Was the Marquis du Trémigon
there?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And you would believe a servant’s
word before mine?” said du Trémigon
furiously.
“We shall see. Call Monsieur
Burnham,” she said to the attendant.
I did not wait to be called. I was
through the door in an instant. Du
Trémigon started with additional surprise
when he saw me.
“What do you know of this charge
of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked
the Queen after I had saluted her.
“Your Majesty, I know that the
Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel
between the hours of eight in the
evening and one in the morning. By
no possibility could he have been in
the apartment of Mademoiselle de
Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin
was in his employ yesterday.”
“You hound!” cried du Trémigon,
and then I stepped close to him. He
shrank back. I stepped nearer. The
Queen might have interfered, but I
rather think she enjoyed it.
“You know,” I said, frowning at
him, “that you were not in the apartments
of the Comtesse de Villars on
that evening or any other evening.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak.
“Not a word or I’ll kill you where you
stand!”
“Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously
avoiding me, “will you condemn
me on the words of a lackey and
a criminal?”
I started toward him again, but the
Queen raised her hand. She looked
at the equerry again, an old and
trusted attendant, upon whom she
could rely.
“The Duc de Rivau-Huet”—she
pointed to the door—“bring him
here.”
The Duke was almost as quick as
I. The curtain was torn aside and he
came in erect, with his hand on his
sword.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed low
before her, a graceful and gallant old
gentleman.
“Monsieur le Duc,” said the Queen,
extending her hand to be kissed,
“you are ever welcome. As the head
of the house to which the Marquis du
Trémigon belongs. I wish you to hear
his charges and his denials, that you
may judge him accordingly.”
“I have heard, Your Majesty,” said
the Duke, “and give me leave to say I
need neither the evidence of Éspiau
nor of this gentleman—whoever he
may be—to convince me that the
Marquis du Trémigon has lied.”
“And I tell you,” burst out the
Marquis, “that this man is a common
thief, a highway robber and—” He
pointed to me.
“Have a care, Monsieur,” said Marie
Antoinette quickly; “highway robbery
is a grave accusation. Was it on
the road to Paris that he committed
this highway robbery? This is a
most serious indictment. Look again.
Think! Do you press the charge?
Do you really mean it?”
“His Majesty the King!” cried an
usher at the great door, throwing it
open. “His Excellency, the Minister
of the United States, Dr. Franklin,
Commodore John Paul Jones, Monsieur
Bucknall, sailor,” he added.
Into the room came the King of
France, a stout, heavy-set, rather
stupid-looking young man. Following
him I saw the familiar figure—I had
seen many portraits of him in public
print—of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. By
his side—and it was a good sight
for any eyes—walked the handsome
little daredevil of a Scotsman in his
naval uniform, looking as cocky as if
he had been strutting on his own
quarter-deck. And then—did my eyes
deceive me?—came the rolling form
of worthy Master Bucknall. I blessed
that man in my heart. He had
brought Mademoiselle to my assistance
in the prison and now he had completed
his work by looking up Dr.
Franklin and the rest. Where he had
found the Commodore I did not know.
I had heard he had recently arrived
at L’Orient, but not that he
had come to Paris.
“Madame,” said the King, approaching
the Queen who courtesied deeply
before him, “I wish you good morning.
Ah, Duke, I am always glad to see you.
Mademoiselle de Villars, you are fit to
stand before Her Majesty, and I could
pay you no higher compliment.”
I was amazed to hear this fat, commonplace,
prosy-looking man speak so
pleasantly, but in sooth Mademoiselle,
with her cheeks flushed, a little sparkle
of tears in her eyes, her head thrown
back—well, any man of taste would
have recognized which was Queen of
Love and Beauty in that room. The
King bowed shortly and coldly to du
Trémigon and looked with some interest
at me.
“Monsieur,” said the Queen to her
husband, “will you allow me to present
to you Monsieur Burnham, an American
naval officer?”
I bowed low before the King. France
was our ally and we hoped much from
her, and although we in America had
cut kings and queens out of our books,
I felt it necessary for me to be politic.
“Dr. Franklin, you are always welcome,”
continued the Queen, “even
though you do come garbed in sober
gray to our gay Court.”
“Your Majesty,” returned the old
Quaker gallantly, “I wear gray that it
may contrast the better with the
high color of my admiration for the
Queen of France.”
“And this is our old friend, the
Commodore. We are glad to have
you back at Versailles after your
splendid fighting, Monsieur,” said the
Queen, dimpling with pleasure at Dr.
Franklin’s compliment and giving her
hand to Paul Jones, who had waited
with ill-concealed impatience for this
recognition of his rank and station.
“To see you again, Your Majesty,”
began the doughty little Captain, with
a shade too much fervor, I thought,
“is better fortune than to capture a
ship like the Serapis.”
“You must tell me about that action,
Monsieur.”
“I shall be pleased to attend upon
Your Majesty at any time for that or
any other purpose,” he replied. “And
if it were necessary to secure entrance
to your levee, I would cheerfully engage
to capture another British frigate.”
The Queen laughed kindly at the
little Captain, and then she stared toward
Bucknall, who stood shifting
from one foot to another, twisting his
hat in his hand. She was a good-hearted
woman and would fain neglect
no one—not even the humblest.
“And who is this?” she asked.
“Madame, give me leave,” I interposed.
“He is a sailor to whom I owe
life, liberty and—love!”
“Looks he not like a cupid’s messenger?”
queried Her Majesty, smiling,
and then the King broke in.
“Have you sent for the prisoner,
Madame?”
“Your Majesty, he is here?”
“What, this gentleman?”
The Queen bowed.
“What have you to say for yourself,
sir?” the King asked me.
“Much, Your Majesty. I am an
American naval officer, as Commodore
Paul Jones can bear witness.”
“’Tis true, Your Majesty. He sailed
with me on the Alfred, and a better
officer I did not have, and I say it who
have a right to testify.”
“Good,” said the King. “Proceed,
Monsieur.”
“I was captured with Captain Cunningham
in the Revenge.”
“Give me a fleet, Your Majesty,”
interrupted Commodore Jones, “and
we’ll stop all that.”
The King smiled and nodded to
me.
“I escaped from a British prison-ship,
robbed a gentleman in England,
got money from him, came to France
hoping to find Dr. Franklin or Commodore
Jones. Neither was in Paris.
I lost my money, fell into the hands
of an enemy, and was lodged in jail,
whence I have been this morning
brought here by Her Majesty’s gracious
interference.”
“How did you lose your money?”
asked the King, quite as a father might
have spoken to his son. There was
something pleasant about the plain,
homely man. I hesitated not a moment.
“I am sorry to say, Sire, that I
gambled it away.”
The King shook his head.
“I can make good your loss,” he
said; “but play is the curse of the
young nobles of my Court, and of all
strangers who come to Paris, as well.”
“Your Majesty is most kind. When
I can hear from America I shall be
able to discharge all my obligations,
and I wish to say to Your Majesty and
before you all”—all meant Mademoiselle—“that
I shall eschew play in the
future.”
“There were charges against you of
highway robbery, I believe?”
“On information laid by me, Your
Majesty,” broke in du Trémigon.
“But Monsieur du Trémigon withdraws
the charges now. Highway
robbery! It hath an ugly sound,”
said the Queen. “How is that, Monsieur
du Trémigon?”
I never saw such a look of baffled
rage and hatred as that on du Trémigon’s
face. He was completely
powerless. The evidence against him
was too strong. He tried to speak,
but there was no help for it. He
bowed at last.
“I am too much of a gentleman”—I
have always been suspicious of a
man who protests his quality overmuch,
by the way—“to contradict the
Queen of France.”
“Good,” said the King. “But there
were some papers?”
“Monsieur du Trémigon lost them,
unfortunately,” again interposed the
Queen.
“Very careless, I’m sure,” commented
the King severely.
“I,” volunteered Dr. Franklin, “will
be surety for Monsieur Burnham’s
debts to the Marquis du Trémigon.”
“The word of a gentleman so
vouched for is sufficient,” said the
Marquis, raging in his heart, but helpless.
“I’d rather pay him the money,
doctor, and owe it to you,” I said
softly to Dr. Franklin.
“Is it a great sum, lad?” whispered
the Quaker aside. “Our exchequer is
running low. And, hark ye, that
highway robbery in England. ’Tis
hardly a crime of which you could be
convicted in France.”
Now, why had neither I nor anyone
else thought of that!
“We will attend to the debt,” said
the King, after a momentary consultation
with the Queen. “Now, gentlemen,
no more of this.”
Of course when he put on his royal
look and said that, there was nothing
more for me to do.
“Pardon, Your Majesty,” said the
Duc de Rivau-Huet, who had noted
all that had occurred with ill-concealed
impatience. “Monsieur du
Trémigon has another announcement
to make.”
“What is that, Duke?” asked the
King.
“Your Majesty is doubtless aware
that my son and the father of the
Marquis du Trémigon entered into a
contract that their children should be
married at a suitable age, provided
they were both willing to carry out the
agreement?”
“I have heard so,” answered the
King.
“The Marquis du Trémigon wishes,
in the presence of these witnesses, to
renounce all pretension to the hand of
Mademoiselle de Villars.”
“Your Majesty,” protested the Marquis
in one last desperate attempt to
gain his end, “Monsieur le Duc
mis——”
“I believe I am not mistaken, Monsieur,”
said the Duke, very stately and
magnificent, with his hand on his
sword—my heart went out to him—looking
hard at the Marquis.
“I am sure,” added the Queen in her
silvery voice—and you would have
thought she were conferring the greatest
favor in her power upon the
wretched du Trémigon—“that the
Duke is right. Monsieur du Trémigon,”
she went on, with a woman’s
spitefulness—but indeed I could not
blame her, “is no more desirous of
marrying Mademoiselle de Villars than
he is of pressing the charge of highway
robbery against Monsieur Burnham.”
Du Trémigon could not trust himself
to speak again. He clenched his
hands and bowed low before the Queen.
“Furthermore,” continued the Duke
imperturbably, “Monsieur du Trémigon
wishes Your Majesty’s permission
to withdraw from Paris and retire
to his estates.”
“As the Marquis pleases,” said the
King indifferently.
Had I been King I should have been
consumed with curiosity to know what
this was all about, but His Majesty
cared little about it, apparently, for
after turning his back on du Trémigon,
who backed out of the room,
he said to Dr. Franklin:
“Now that we have settled this affair,
doctor, I want you to look at a
lock in my cabinet that interests me
greatly. Gamain brought it today.
Its mechanism is curious and complex.
It will interest a scientific man
like yourself, I am sure.”
“I shall be glad to attend Your
Majesty.”
“Give me leave, Sire,” again said
the Duc de Rivau-Huet. “Your Majesty,”
continued the old man, standing
very erect, “the Marquis du Trémigon
averred that he was in my
granddaughter’s apartments until a
late hour the other night.”
“It is false,” said the Queen.
“Madame, I know that. What I
wish to know is, who was there?”
“Monsieur! Before them all!” exclaimed
Mademoiselle, startled beyond
measure by this surprising development.
This unlucky speech in
itself was a confession.
“The King is the fountain of nobility
in the land,” continued the Duke,
striving to regain his composure.
“You are a maid of honor to the
Queen, Mademoiselle. That gentleman”—he
pointed to me—“heard the
accusation and denied it. These are
his friends. Here is some mystery. I
wish an explanation.”
“But, Duke—” began the King,
with a puzzled look.
“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon.
Even royalty may give place to the
feelings of a grandsire. Will you
allow me to conduct this affair in my
own way?”
“Go on,” said the King.
“I am satisfied that the Marquis du
Trémigon, whom I shall see later, with
the King’s permission——”
“I will give you a lettre de cachet to
the Bastile for him, if you like.”
“Thank you, Sire. Monsieur du
Trémigon was not there, but I insist
someone was, and I demand to know
who.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Éspiau, you know?”
“I have nothing to say, Monsieur le
Duc,” replied the old servant, turning
pale.
“Will no one tell me?” cried the old
man, grief in his heart, appeal in his
tones, shame in his bearing.
“I will,” I said boldly; “I was
there.”
“You, sir!”
“Even I, Monsieur.”
“How dared you? What do you
mean?” He put his hand to his
heart. I was nearest him. I stretched
out my arm to help him, but he thrust
me away. “Answer!” he cried, imperiously
forgetful of the King, the
Queen, everybody.
“It is very simple,” I replied quietly.
“On my approach to Paris I had the
good fortune to be of assistance to
Mademoiselle.”
“In what capacity?”
“She was set upon by three ruffians.
I drove them off.”
“Whereabouts?”
I was ignorant of the road, but
Mademoiselle came to my rescue.
“Near Paris, on the Versailles road,
Monsieur.”
“Where was your escort?” queried
the Duke.
“I was alone.”
“Alone on the Versailles road?”
“In my service, Duke,” said the
Queen softly.
“Pardon, Your Majesty. That is
sufficient. Proceed, Monsieur.”
“I fell in love with your granddaughter.”
“How dared you, sir; a beggarly——?”
“Monsieur Burnham’s patrimony
includes rich land enough to make a
county in France,” deftly put in Dr.
Franklin at this juncture.
“But in America—” said the Duke
scornfully.
“The finest land the sun ever set on,
Monsieur,” broke in Commodore Jones
hotly.
The King waved his hand for silence,
and the Duke turned to me again.
“I sought your granddaughter far
and wide, and at last found her at the
Hôtel de Rivau-Huet.”
I had a hard task to keep to the
truth and yet make a satisfactory
story.
“And was it at her invitation you
entered her apartment?”
“Monsieur le Duc!” exclaimed the
King hastily, in warning.
“Grandfather!” cried the girl, recoiling
from the outrageous accusation.
“Sir!” I replied, with spirit, “the
question is an insult to your blood!
I came unexpectedly, unknown, unwelcome—like
a thief in the night.”
“You dared——?”
“It was a prank, a foolish trick; I
have no excuse but my passion.”
“And you were alone with my
granddaughter?”
“I was there, Monsieur le Duc,”
said Éspiau.
“Then tell me the truth now, unless
you forget your ancient fidelity,” exclaimed
the Duke, turning to the unhappy
servant. “You saw this gentleman
there?”
I shook my head at him, but he was
looking at Mademoiselle. Disregarding
my warning glance, she nodded.
The seal upon the servant’s lips was
broken.
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” he said.
“And where was he?”
“In Mademoiselle’s—” he hesitated.
“Speak!” thundered the old man.
“Bedchamber, Monsieur.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the Duke, his
composure giving way at last. He
put his face in his hands with a
movement singularly like that of
Mademoiselle a short time before.
Is it that Master Shakespeare in
great crises voices the universal cry of
the human heart? For like the father
of Hero in “Much Ado About Nothing”—and
indeed the whole affair was
somewhat similar in my mind—the
Duke finally broke forth:
“‘Hath no man here a sword for
me?’”
I have not the sentence exactly,
but I give the sense of it, and I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart.
But the love of the young is often
cruel to the old.
“My grandfather! my grandfather!”
cried Mademoiselle, sinking to his feet,
“think not bitterly of me! This gentleman
has told the truth. I had but
spoken a few words to him when you
came. He did me a great service. I
concealed him.”
“Why?” groaned the Duke.
“I was afraid that you would kill
him.”
“Afraid? What is he to you?”
It was a dreadful situation for a
young girl. She had never told me in
so many words, although I was sure
of it in my own mind, and to have to
declare it before all these men was
indeed hard. Yet with a heroism for
which I can never be sufficiently grateful
she said it.
“I love him!”
“You love him!” exclaimed her
grandfather in amazement.
“Monsieur le Duc de Rivau-Huet,”
I cried in my turn, springing to her
side, lifting her up, and slipping my
arm about her waist, “I have the
honor to ask you to give me the
hand of your granddaughter in marriage.”
“She is a countess of France,” replied
the Duke. “The best blood in
the land flows in her veins, Monsieur.”
“I have some indifferent good in
my own veins, Monsieur le Duc,” I asserted,
naming some of my mother’s
people.
“Is this true, Monsieur?”
“I vouch for it,” said Paul Jones.
“Your Majesty,” said the Duke,
turning to the King, but he got no help
there.
“If you will give your consent,
Duke,” said Louis, “I shall not withhold
mine. Indeed, under the circumstances—”He
paused significantly.
The Duke groaned and the gracious
Queen came to our rescue again.
“Monsieur le Duc,” she said, stepping
near him and laying her hand on
his arm, “think! Monsieur Burnham
is a gallant gentleman. As good blood
as any in France flows in his veins.
In America they have no kings, but they
are all princes. His Majesty in his
kindness consents. This will cement
the union between the two countries
against England, which is so dear to
think of. Will you sacrifice your pride
if I ask you, and bless the pair who
love each other?”
“Madame, it is as you will,” he faltered.
“I had cherished other dreams.
Still, there can be no higher degree than
that of gentleman, after all. No,
though he sit upon a throne.”
“The royalty of virtue, the royalty
of honor, the royalty of courage,” said
Dr. Franklin kindly, “make this marriage
not an unequal one.”
“I am an old man,” continued the
Duke; “this has been hard on me.
Let the young love have its way.”
“And you will forgive me?” pleaded
Mademoiselle, approaching him nearer.
“Your Majesty will permit me?”
asked the Duke. He took her in his
arms and pressed a kiss upon her
forehead and blessed her.
“Sir,” he said, turning to me and
bowing, “I hope to know more of you
before I commit this child to your
keeping.”
“Now that all is settled for the
second time,” said the King, greatly
relieved. “Dr. Franklin, Commodore,
and you, Duke, will you come with
me?”
“We attend Your Majesty.”
The four gentlemen bowed low
before the Queen. The King bowed
to me, Dr. Franklin and Commodore
Jones shook my hand. Our kindly
minister made an appointment to
meet me later in the palace.
“You were lucky,” he said.
Indeed I realized that, for I replied:
“Thanks to you and the Commodore.”
“Nay,” said the Quaker, smiling,
“thanks to Mademoiselle herself, and
to your own ready wit.”
Then they left us alone with the
Queen and Bucknall.
“It strikes me,” said Her Majesty,
looking at the old sailor, “that nobody
has said anything about the
part you have played in this affair.”
“Aye, aye, mum,” began the sailor
in great confusion, “w’ich I means yer
honor——”
“‘Mum’ is delightful,” laughed Marie
Antoinette.
“I was at me wit’s end wot course
to lay this mornin’, an’ w’en as luck
would hev it I run into Commodore
Jones in the street, jist in from
L’Orient—he never forgits a shipmate,
ma’am, no matter how humble—an’ I
ups an’ told him about Mr. Burnham.
He fetched me to Dr. Franklin,
an’ you knows the rest, Yer Ladyship.”
“I shall not forget you,” said the
Queen, lifting a well-filled purse from
the table and putting it in Bucknall’s
hand. The old sailor was not without
a streak of gallantry.
“It’s the hand wot gives it, lady,”
he said, “wot makes me wally it
more’n the gold pieces.”
“You will await Monsieur Burnham
without the door,” she said, dismissing
him graciously.
“Monsieur Burnham,” she began as
we three were alone, “you are a thief
after all. You have stolen the fairest
jewel of my Court. I ought to be
angry with you, but—I am not.”
“I thank Your Majesty.”
“You will be very good to this
daughter of France in your own land?”
“Madame, I will cherish her as the
King his crown. Nay,” I added
quickly, “as I would cherish Your
Majesty were I the King.”
“You pay me in pretty speeches.”
“They come, Madame, from my
heart of hearts. After my country
and my wife, my sword is yours.”
She was gone. Of course I took
Mademoiselle in my arms, and this
time there was no hesitation on her
part in returning my ardent caresses.
I do not know what we said or what
happened. After a space—how long
or how short I cannot tell, for I took
no notice of time or place—I said
that while we each had the gold pieces
I regretted that I had no ring to slip on
her finger, nothing of my own to give
her to bind the engagement. Of course
I could not give her the Queen’s diamond—yet!
She was very close to
me and doubtless could feel what was
in my breast-pocket.
“You have one thing,” she replied
demurely, “that you could slip on.”
“What is that?”
“Have you forgotten the talisman?”
“The talisman?” I cried.
I am stupid sometimes, not often,
and I was thinking so hard of her that
I did not catch her meaning at first.
“That which Master Bucknall
brought you—that I gave back to you.”
“Oh!” said I; “the slipper saved my
life; it gave me hope.”
“And hope gave you assurance?”
“And assurance won me you.”
She drew herself away and sat
down in the Queen’s chair, and no royal
person ever became it so well as she.
Then she fumbled at her shoe a moment,
and thrust out one dainty
stockinged little foot at me.
“You might put it on,” she whispered,
blushing vividly.
I am not ashamed to say that I
kissed that foot before I covered it
with my lady’s slipper.
Populism
BY CHARLES Q. DE FRANCE Secretary People’s Party National Committee
POPULISM is a term at which
many eminently respectable but
sadly misinformed persons shy,
like the staid old farm horse when he
first encounters an automobile on the
road to town. They regard it as
synonymous with Socialism, anarchy,
bomb-throwing, nihilism and half a
dozen other real or fancied evils.
That it is simply a short expression
for progressive, radical or Jeffersonian
Democracy has never occurred to
them.
Populism is a term which well illustrates
the growth of language, the
evolution by which circumlocution is
avoided and clearness of expression
attained. Yet, at the same time, it
is an apt illustration of the power of a
subsidized press to create an erroneous
public opinion.
Back in the early ’90s, when the
People’s Party was being organized in
a number of Western States, there was
considerable discussion as to whether
it should be regarded as a political
organization on the usual lines, or
whether it should be a sort of league
of independent voters, free to choose
and vote for such candidates, on any
ticket, as might seem best fitted to
represent the interests of the different
organizations of farmers and wage-workers
out of which the People’s
Party finally evolved.
The Omaha National Convention in
1892 settled the question in favor of
regular party organization. It is true
that there were intended to be points
of difference between the People’s
Party machinery and that of either
old party; but these points were minor
rather than fundamental. The delegate
convention was retained—which,
to my mind, was the one mistake
made at Omaha. Until some system of
direct nominations is adopted, whereby
every elector may have a vote direct—and
not by delegate, who may misrepresent
him—I fear that as our party
grows in strength we shall more and
more be called upon to combat the
same influences which dominate both
the old parties. However, this is digression.
With the advent of the People’s
Party a difficulty was found in describing
a member of that party. A
member of the Republican Party is,
of course, a Republican; and a member
of the Democratic Party is called a
Democrat—but how designate one
affiliated with the People’s Party?
The omnipresent and omniscient
newspaper reporter, as usual, solved
the difficulty. His agnosticism applies
to nothing except the word
“fail.” And with him circumlocution
and criminality are almost synonymous.
It would never do to be ringing
the changes on “an adherent to
the People’s Party,” or “one affiliated
with the People’s Party”; hence, it
was not long before we began to see
the word “Populist” used in verbal
descriptions of what the cartoonist invariably
depicted as a “one-gallus”
man, armed with fork or rake, and
blessed with a hirsute adornment truly
Samsonian.
Applied as a term of reproach, yet
responding to the inexorable law
which compels men to follow along
the lines of least resistance, the word
“Populist” came to stay. It stuck,
just as the term “Methodist” did—or
“Christian,” for that matter. From
“Populist,” descriptive of the man, to
“Populism,” designating his political
belief, was an easy step—and now,
after fifteen years of abuse, ridicule,
vituperation and gross misrepresentation,
the great middle class is just
beginning to get a clearer view and to
discover that Populism is the only logical
answer to the question, “What shall
we do to be saved from economic ruin?”
Populism is neither Socialism nor
anarchism. It is neither idealistic nor
materialistic. It is neither collectivistic
nor individualistic. It is essentially
eclectic. It recognizes the good
in all the schools of political and
economic thought and attempts to
eliminate the weak or bad—but refuses
to be bound by any.
Populism recognizes the fact that we
must work with the world as it is now—and
not as some Utopian dreamer
conceives it ought to be. It recognizes
the fact that private ownership
of productive property is not only the
rule all over the world—but also that
the people like it. It recognizes the
Socialists’ “economic determinism”—that
man’s economic needs usually
dominate when they clash with his
ideals—yet is not unmindful of the
fact that all progress is the result of
ideals forcing a change in the environment.
Were it not so, man
would still be an arboreal ape, chattering
aloft in some palm tree.
Populism recognizes that man is a
social animal, yet combats Socialism
for subordinating the individual to
the collectivity, and combats anarchy
for subordinating the collectivity to
the individual. It is the golden mean
between these extremes.
Although Populism lays no claim to
being either a “science” or a “philosophy,”
yet it has the only definite
program of any party today before the
American people. It has a yard-stick
by which all things may be measured,
whether they be burlap, fustian,
woolen, silk or some new weave of
spider-web. This yard-stick is—
EQUAL RIGHTS TO ALL, SPECIAL PRIVILEGES TO NONE.
Every fair-minded man is willing to
have his economic cloth measured
by that yard-stick. Only avaricious
rogues object.
The Republican Party is committed
to the practice of giving special privileges
to a favored few. It is essentially
a party of paternalism. The
protective tariff is paternalistic. The
railroad franchise is paternalistic, and
land grants, and bonds, and subsidies.
The national banking laws are paternalistic—and
so, too, deposits of public
revenues, and rentals on public
buildings sold but never paid for.
The net effect of all Republican legislation
is to arm the possessors of great
wealth with some sort of taxing power,
whereby they may absorb still more
wealth without rendering an equivalent.
Incidentally, it is true, some
measure of prosperity may come to the
more humble possessors of property—but
the general trend is beyond question
plutocratic.
The so-called Democratic Party need
not be considered here. It has no
fixed policy for more than eight years
at a time—except to be “agin’ the
government.” It is the party of negation.
The Socialist Party presents the
anomaly of a party with an elaborate
“scientific” system of societary evolution,
an excellent interpretation of history,
and forecast of the supposedly
final form which society will assume—yet
without a program or hint of the
specific manner in which industry will
be carried on under “the collective
ownership of all the means of production
and distribution, with democratic
management by the workers engaged
in each industry.” It is admitted that
we have no right to ask for prophecies—but
we have a right to see a rough
draft at least of the new building
which is to be erected after the social
revolution has torn down the old edifice.
It is true that a few so-called
Socialist papers pretend to tell us
what will be “under Socialism”—vague,
Utopian—pardon the term—“pipe
dreams”; but none of them will
give even an outline sketch of how
collective industry might be carried
on, preferring to hide behind the excuse
that “we’ll cross that bridge
when we reach it.” Alas! The bridge
might happen to be washed out by the
floods of social revolution.
Being an extreme on the side of
materialism as opposed to idealism,
or collectivism as opposed to individualism,
Socialism is quite impossible
as a scheme of government. Besides,
the “materialistic conception of history,”
upon which Socialism bases its
prediction of the co-operative commonwealth,
is not wholly scientific, because
it fails to consider what changes
may be wrought by invention. In a
general way, it may be said that
the invention of gunpowder destroyed
feudalism, and that the discovery of
steam power and its application to
manufacturing broke up the guild
system of masters, journeymen and
apprentices, and ushered in the present
wage system. Who has the hardihood
to prophesy what an Edison may not
do in the years to come, or to foretell
what the effect may be?
The program of Populism is at once
radical and conservative. It is radical,
because it goes to the root of the
difficulty and will effect a profound
change. It is conservative, because it
will enable the great mass of wealth
producers to conserve what they now
have and what they produce in future,
by exempting them from the legalized
robberies committed by railroads,
banks, trusts and other forms of predatory
wealth.
Populism, recognizing the institution
of private property, and the
people’s veneration and love for it,
looks back over history’s pages and
sees two things which, up to the recent
past, have always been regarded
as prerogatives of the state. One is
the coinage, issue and control of
money; the other, the ownership and
control of highways.
Under the term “money” we may
properly include all those modern
makeshifts which are armed with
partial legal-tender power, or even
those without such power, if they generally
perform the offices of money.
Without discussing it in detail—because
thousands of volumes have been
written upon the subject without exhausting
it—it seems quite certain that
if Congress is to really exercise its
right—and undoubted duty—“to coin
money and regulate the value thereof,”
there can be no “free” coinage of
either gold or silver; and the Government
must go into the banking business.
Under the term “highways” we may
properly include railroads, canals, telegraphs,
telephones, expresses—in short,
all means of transportation and communication.
Most of the trust oppressions grow
directly out of private ownership of
the means of transportation and transmission
of intelligence—the highways—and
the private issue of money. Populism
asks that these great evils be
corrected—and that the individual be
allowed to conduct his own private
business with the least possible interference
by government. There will
always be work for the reformer; but
wisdom dictates that the greatest evils
be first eliminated, so that many of a
minor character may be allowed to
correct themselves.
To Roosevelt
OUR hero is a man of peace,Preparedness he implores,His sword within its scabbard sleeps,But, mercy! how it snores!
The Regalia of Money
BY ALEXANDER DEL MAR
[Mr. Del Mar’s career as a financial writer
covers a period of more than half a century.
He was the financial editor of the Washington
National Intelligencer, the New York
Daily American Times, Hunt’s Merchants’
Magazine, The Social Science Review, The
Leader, The Commercial and Financial
Chronicle, and other journals of national
importance. After filling the offices of
Director of the Bureau of Statistics, Commerce
and Navigation, Commissioner to
Italy, Holland and Russia, member of the
United States Monetary Commission, etc.,
he devoted his leisure to a “History of Money
in the Principal States of the World,” “The
Science of Money,” and other works relating
to this great subject, all of which have
secured the approval of the critical press of
Europe and America and passed through
repeated editions, both in English and other
languages.—Editor.]
IN the recent Presidential election
the People’s Party inserted in its
platform a principle of such
transcendent importance that, were
it generally understood, had its operation
been brought home to the great
mass of the people, could its far-reaching
consequences have been portrayed
so that everybody might observe them,
it would have dwarfed every other
issue on that occasion presented to the
country. As it was, nobody, except
the few gallant leaders of the People’s
Party, paid the least attention to it,
and the election was decided upon other
grounds.
That principle concerned the Regalia
of Money, which the People’s platform
demanded should be restored to
its rightful owners, the Government,
the people of the United States. It
can be demonstrated that, had this
been done, many of the vexed questions
before the country, such as the Monopolization
of Industries, the Financial
Trusts, the Municipal Ownership of
Public Utilities, etc., would have been
placed in a fair way of settlement.
In a series of magazine articles, which
contain much that has the appearance
of being exaggerated, untrue and
vindictive, but which also contain
much that is true and susceptible of
verification, Mr. Thomas Lawson has
been arousing the public to a sense of
the dangers of the Financiers’ System,
the System by which the banks, the
insurance companies, the trusts and
the Stock Exchange are employed by
so-called Captains of Industry to
despoil the people. After explaining
how the game is conducted, he shows
that even those who refrain from gambling
on the Stock Exchange, and who
may have no financial transactions beyond
keeping a bank account or insuring
their lives, are drawn into it,
against their knowledge and will, and
robbed of all the fruits of their labor
and abstinence.
Lawson began his articles by accusing
certain persons and putting up
bluffs; a mode of argument which he
soon found was not convincing. He
now perceives that the fault lies in the
System, and that at the bottom of the
System lies the subject of Money. The
whole series of transactions which, he
alleges, have in the course of a few years
taken several thousand millions out of
the pockets of the masses and transferred
them into those of a few cunning
and unscrupulous operators, hung
upon this single question: Shall the
Government of the United States exercise
its Regalia of Money or not?
Mr. Lawson keeps up the interest of his
readers by promising them a remedy
for the disorders he describes. Should
the remedy not include the regulation
of Money, I hazard nothing in predicting
that it will prove an entire failure
and delusion.
What is the Regalia of Money? Is
it some new-fangled notion about
the coinage, some argument which
turns upon the obscure meaning of
Value, some phase of the tiresome Silver
Question? Nothing of the kind.
The Regalia of Money is a prerogative
of government, familiar to every jurisconsult;
a well-known, clearly defined
and necessary attribute of Sovereign
Power. It is laid down in all the great
law books, in Budelius, Grotius, Puffendorf,
Vattel, Molinæus, Grimaudet,
Wheaton, Martens, and a host of other
authorities. It is described as “a
power which the state reserves to
itself, for its own safety and welfare”;
the power to create money, give it
denomination and control its issues.
Like the power to make war, peace and
treaties, and to establish uniform
weights and measures, it is called regalia,
because it belongs to and must
be exercised alone by sovereign states,
as a prerogative which is necessary to
their welfare, and essential to their
autonomy, dignity and authority.
When the American Republic was
established the Regalia of Money was
exercised by all of the Colonies which
united to form the Federation, whereupon,
and as a matter of necessity, they
all surrendered it to the general Government,
which, under the Constitution,
alone has the power to issue
money and regulate its value or denominations.
It was a misfortune
that when the Union was formed it
was so poor that it was obliged to
tolerate the issuance of money by a
private corporation, the Bank of Pennsylvania.
Out of that bank grew all
of the so-called state banks of a subsequent
period, and out of those state
banks, during the Civil War, grew all
of the so-called National banks. Every
one of these banks, both “state” and
“National,” were all, and are yet, private
banks, their titles in every case
being misnomers. It is not intended
to say a word against banks as guardians
and lenders of money; on the contrary,
they are recognized as highly
useful and even indispensable institutions.
As a rule, they are conducted
by respectable and honorable men, and
it cannot be disputed that they have
done much to promote the progress of
industry and the prosperity of trade.
Whether they would have done more
or less in these directions had they not
been permitted to usurp the Regalia of
Money, which act forms no necessary
part of a banking business, it is not
proposed to discuss. Said Mr. Jefferson:
“I have ever been the enemy of
banks; not of those discounting for
cash, but of those foisting their own
money into circulation, and thus banishing
our cash.” What influence,
whether for good or evil, which this
usurpation of the Regalia exercised in
his day it is now too late to examine.
But the time has come when the
relinquishment of the Regalia to the
banks can no longer be tolerated. The
bankers have had a century of profitable
innings; the people now demand
theirs. The state laws of incorporation
are so contradictory, loose and
pliable that there have grown up under
them companies and institutions
so constituted that, in combination
with banks usurping the Regalia, it is
in their power—and this is what Mr.
Lawson has shown very effectively—to
strip the nation over and over again
of its earnings, and eventually to absorb
its entire wealth. It is scarcely
too much to say that unless the United
States Government resumes this Regalia,
and absolutely prohibits the
circulation of any money, whether of
metal or paper, not of its own immediate
issuance, we will find ourselves in the
course of very few years hopelessly in
debt to a band of absentee millionaires,
who, having shown us their
heels, will next show us their teeth.
It is not alone the people who are
in danger of being impoverished by the
System, it is not alone that the Government
will be jeopardized; it is also
that the banks, the insurance companies
and numerous other classes of trade
corporations will themselves be drawn
into the nets that are being spread for
them, nets strewn with their own bird-lime,
and delivered over to the scheming
millionaires who are preparing to
plunder them. Mr. Lawson wholly
neglects this phase of the subject. His
ardor is all for the dear people, to
arouse whose righteous indignation,
he informs us, he is expending a fortune.
Such reckless munificence, on
the part of a man who ostentatiously
advertises himself as the manager or
director of several corporations, goes far
toward indicating the correctness of
our position. It is not doubted that
Mr. Lawson sympathizes with the
people and is anxious to point out the
dangers that threaten them. On the
other hand, it cannot be supposed that
he is indifferent to the fate of the banks
and other companies with which he is
connected. The fact is that, having
thoroughly skinned the people, the
Captains of Industry are now prepared
to skin the corporations, and that it is
going to skin them with weapons
plucked from its victims. These weapons
are the notes which the banks
have issued in defiance of the Regalia
of Money.
The banks will perhaps more fully
appreciate the sort of people they are
dealing with if we interpolate at this
point a few words touching their humanity.
The principal, almost the
sole lever with which the Captains of
Industry are “working” this nation,
is the issue of “National” bank-notes,
and the elastic feature conferred upon
it by law. This system was established
by Salmon P. Chase, ex-Governor
of Ohio, ex-Senator of the United
States, then Secretary of the Treasury,
and afterward Chief Justice of the
United States; a man of the highest
integrity, and perhaps for that reason
wholly incapable of coping with Mr.
John Thompson and the other Chevaliers
of Industry of the last generation.
It will naturally be supposed
that had this class of men the slightest
taint of humanity they would at least
have taken care to honor the memory
of their principal benefactor. Well,
we will show you how they did it.
Judge Chase, after serving his country
in many capacities during a long lifetime,
expired in poverty and in debt;
his daughter died of grief and starvation;
his grandchildren are at present
living in very humble circumstances;
his personal effects, his books, even
the petty keepsakes and trinkets of
his children, were exposed to the gaze
of the vulgar and sold at a public auction
in New York to satisfy his creditors,
the rapacious Captains of Industry;
while the body of this great but
guileless man lies today in an obscure
churchyard, without a tombstone over
it. Such is the humanity of the Captains
of Industry.
It is an essential part of the merry
game which these Captains are
permitted to play that they shall
always have in their hands the means
alternately to inflate and contract the
currency, at any given point, say, for
example, New York. With the mints
restricted to the coinage of metal for
private persons, and the hands of the
Government tied to a fixed issue of
greenbacks, while their own hands are
free, the mischievous elasticity which
they employ for the success of their
operations is easily acquired by getting
command of the principal banks of
issue. The moment they press their
fingers on this button the market immediately
responds by throwing its
stocks overboard; and the moment
they release the button, up rise the
stocks again. It is by means of this
simple mechanism that the public has
been plundered, and that it is now
planned to plunder the companies.
That there is no longer any art in the
trained motorman’s vocation is proved
by the small wages he commands.
The art is in providing the power and
controlling the mechanism which
drives the cars. In the Captains-of-Industry
game the power is derived
from the elastic bank issues: the mechanism
consists of certain banks and
insurance companies and the Stock Exchange.
Given the power and mechanism
which these establishments furnish,
any bandit could work the game
and have plenty of leisure to spare.
The System is automatic.
In contemplating this scene of legalized
robbery, euphemistically termed
“finance,” it will not do to lose our
heads. There are banks and banks,
there are insurance companies and insurance
companies, there are trade
corporations and trade corporations.
They are not all alike. Some are in the
game, as vassals and creatures of the
Captains; some are in it, hoping, alas!
but vainly, to outlive the Captains and
profit by their fall; while others are
out of it altogether; good, sound companies,
safely managed and cautious to
avoid contamination. The banks and
other companies last named will not
suffer from collapse, they will always
continue to be solvent; but they will
suffer from a forced conservatism and
from an unduly small share of business,
until our deluded people wake up and
smash some furniture, or until the
banks themselves recognize the dangerous
part which their own issues
play in this pandemonium of rascality.
They will then be glad voluntarily to
surrender them into the hands of the
Government.
If now it be asked in what manner
will the opportunities of the Captains
for robbing the community be restrained
or curtailed by substituting
Government money for bank-notes,
the reply is that the beneficial effects
of such restraint will not arise so much
from a difference in the money as from
a difference in the power to issue or
retire it. And in a future article will
be shown, by practical examples, the
difference between the working of an
elastic currency when such elasticity
is controlled by the Government, and
when it is controlled, as it now is, by
the Chevaliers of Industry.
“MY agency in procuring the passage of the National Bank Act was the
greatest financial mistake of my life. It has built up a monopoly that
affects every interest in the country. It should be repealed. But before this
can be accomplished the people will be arrayed on one side and the banks on the
other in a contest such as we have never seen in this country.”
Hon. Salmon P. Chase.
“IF it is possible to inaugurate a greater system of robbery of the people’s
money [than the state banks], that system has been inaugurated in the
present system of national banks. The money lost by the people under the old
system of state banks is a mere bagatelle when compared to that which has been
and will be taken from them under the present system of national banks.”
Hon. James G. Blaine (1880).
“ATTEMPTS to monopolize wheat, copper, sugar and other commodities
have been dealt with by writers and politicians as conspiracies against
society.
“But the monopolization of money, the medium of exchange, is strangely
regarded as essential to the welfare of society.
“And yet money monopoly is a monopoly of not merely one, but of all commodities.”
Arthur Kitson.
The Open Door of the Constitution
THE NECESSITY FOR AMENDMENTS AND OUR FAILURE TO REVISE THAT
DOCUMENT BY THE METHOD SUGGESTED BY ITS FOUNDERS
BY FREDERICK UPHAM ADAMS Author of “The Kidnapped Millionaires,” “John Burt,” “Colonel Monroe’s Doctrine”
and “The Shades of the Fathers”
THE men who builded the Constitution
were consumed by no
senseless adulation of their own
handicraft. They were not possessed
of the delusion that they were inspired,
neither did they dream that future generations
would search the record of
their quarrels and selfish compromises
for the key which would enable them
to solve problems as they arose. They
planned a document for the regulation
of a people whom they believed unfitted
for more than a small share in
the affairs of government. They were
not blind to its imperfections, but they
assumed that those who came after
them would have the sense to remedy
defects as they developed under the
operation of the system then timidly
launched.
There is this justification for the
worship of the founders of the Constitution,
viz., they had the common
sense to revise and modify their
governmental charter so as to conform
to new conditions—a trait or an
instinct of which hardly a trace remains
in their descendants.
In the popular parlance of those
days the proposed Constitution was
called “The New Roof,” and its
founders urged the people to get under
it and keep out of the rain. It is
difficult to address an appeal to a people
which prefers to venerate that roof
on account of its antiquity, rather than
to repair the innumerable leaks and
fissures due to decay and to the gales
and storms of more than a hundred
years.
The man who venerates any work
of human origin is an ass. His asininity
is exactly in degree with the smallness
of the objects selected for his veneration.
The man who humbly lowers
his eyes in contemplation of a political
constitution proclaims a lack of mental
breadth fitted to comprehend humanity
or to understand the plain
lessons of history, and he has insulted
the one entity worthy of veneration—the
Maker of the Universe.
In a preceding article I proved that
the framers of the Constitution distrusted
the people almost to the point
of hatred, and that they deliberately
planned to design a document which
would give them the semblance of
popular rule but none of its substance.
This is an unquestioned historical
fact. Its declaration may seem startling
to those who are confronted with
the unvarnished truth for the first
time, but they will find it refreshing to
study the real history of those days,
rather than ignorantly to worship
demigods who never existed.
Immutable laws cannot be coexistent
with progress. We should
study the past, not for the purpose of
supinely imitating it, but with a view
of profiting by its mistakes. That
government is best which avoids the
pitfalls of the past, exists for those who
live today, and erects no barriers for
the generations that will follow.
For the benefit of those who still
cling to the belief that constitutional
wisdom had its birth with Washington
and his compatriots, I take the
liberty of quoting a few extracts from
letters written by the Father of his
Country before and after the constitutional
convention had finished its
labors. These utterances of Washington
are trite and easily understood,
and since their authenticity is unquestioned,
they possess as much of inspiration
as any wisdom coming
from him or his colleagues.
These extracts are contained in
letters written by Washington to
leading men of that period, urging
them to give their support to the
adoption of the new Constitution, and
he pinned his faith to one argument,
as you shall see. I commend to all
idolaters of that document a careful
reading of Washington’s opinion of it,
and his advice to them.
Shortly before the convention met he
wrote a letter to John Jay, bearing
the date of March 10, 1787. The convention
assembled May 14 of that
year. In that letter Washington said:
“Notwithstanding the boasted virtue
of America, it is more than probable
we shall exhibit the last melancholy
proof that mankind are not
competent to their own government
without the means of coercion in a
sovereign.”
There is no occult meaning hidden
in these words. Washington had no
faith in the capacity of the people to
govern themselves, and did not hesitate
to say so. In this, as I proved in
a preceding article, he was in accord
with the overwhelming majority of the
delegates who composed that convention.
The question I desire to ask
is this: Was Washington inspired
when he wrote those lines to John Jay,
and if not, when did his inspiration
begin?
Let us see what he wrote after the
convention had finished its work. On
January 12, 1788, he wrote to Mr.
Charles Carter as follows:
“I am not a blind admirer (for I saw
its imperfections) of the Constitution
to which I have assisted to give
birth; but I am fully persuaded it is
the best that can be obtained at this
day, and that it is it or disunion before
us. When the defects of it are experienced,
a constitutional door is open
for amendments.”
There is nothing evasive about this,
but those who now repeat such sentiments
are suspected of treason by
fools, and of a lack of patriotism by
unthinking conservatives. On February
7, 1788, Washington wrote to
Lafayette and said:
“Should the Constitution which is
now offered to the people of America
be found on experiment less perfect
than it can be made, a constitutional
door is left open for its amelioration.”
We have made that experiment.
Have we found the Constitution perfect?
Where is that “constitutional
door,” and why do we not open it?
Writing from Mount Vernon in October,
1787, to Henry Knox, Washington
said:
“Is there not a constitutional door
open for alterations and amendments?
Is it not likely that real defects will be
as readily discovered after as before
trial? Will not our successors be as
ready to apply the remedy as ourselves,
if occasion should demand it?
To think otherwise will, in my opinion,
be ascribing more love of country,
more wisdom and more virtue to ourselves
than I think we deserve.”
Dear Shade of Washington! You
may have been inspired, but you were
not able to foresee the bigotry, the ignorance
and the cowardice of your descendants.
In the language of Cicero,
“we are so tied to certain beliefs that
we are bound to defend even those we
do not approve.” We are like the
fools Montaigne describes, “who do
not ask whether such and such a thing
be true, but whether it has been so and
so understood.” We know that the
Constitution is full of errors, but all
that we ask is that we may be given
the wisdom so to interpret it as to
suffer as few discomforts from its perpetual
operation as possible. In the
language of Seneca, we believe in “not
only a necessity of erring, but we have
a love of error.”
One more of the innumerable quotations
of like purport from George
Washington will be sufficient. On November
10, 1787, he wrote from Mount
Vernon to Bushrod Washington and
said:
“The people (for it is with them to
judge) can, as they will have the advantage
of experience on their side, decide
with as much propriety on the
alterations and amendments which are
necessary as ourselves. I do not think
we are more inspired, have more wisdom
or possess more virtue than those
who will come after us. The power
under the Constitution will always be
with the people.”
I have been a fairly zealous student
of American history, yet I have never
seen these quotations from the writings
of George Washington in print outside
of the huge compilation of his documents
and letters to be found in well-ordered
reference libraries. Certain
it is that our school children are not
taught that such characters as Washington
doubted the absolute perfection
of the Constitution. Certain it is that
not one man in ten thousand in the
United States ever has had an opportunity
to consider our Constitution in
the light of the facts presented in this
paper and in the one which preceded it.
The truth is that the people of the
United States are unfamiliar not only
with the history of the formation of the
Constitution, but the vast majority of
them do not know what it contains.
Many of them confound the Declaration
of Independence with the Constitution.
What is the “Open Door” in
the Constitution to which Washington
repeatedly refers?
Before considering that, let us list a
few of the abuses which the more
thoughtful admit exist under our Constitution.
Ignoring all of lesser importance
I will name four, any one of
which constitutes a menace to the perpetuation
of free government. These
are as follows:
First, the election of a President and
Vice-President under the absurd and
antiquated method provided by the
Constitution, in which citizens vote
for electors, and the decision is made
by the unit vote of states, irrespective
of the majorities cast. Under this grotesque
system it has repeatedly happened
that candidates obtaining an
actual majority of the votes cast have
been defeated by the minority. There
is not one valid argument in favor of
the continuance of this unrepublican
and undemocratic elective monstrosity.
Second, the election of senators by
the state legislatures, a system which
is the fountain-head of the corruption
of American politics, and which has
given us a Senate, a large percentage
of whose members owe their selection
to selfish private interests. The error
of this system has been so conclusively
shown that there is no honest defense
for it. The founders of the Constitution
designed it for the purpose of
making the Senate the citadel of patriotic
wealth; it has degenerated into
a chamber in which the admitted representatives
of vested interests defend
their masters against fair legislative
enactments, and force unfair compromises
on the popular branch which constitutes
the House of Representatives.
Third, the equal representation of
unequal states in the Senate. This
vicious compromise was made in the
constitutional convention as the price
of the perpetuation of slavery. There
was no justification for it even at a
time when this nation was no more than
a federation of states. Washington,
Madison, Randolph, Morris, Franklin
and every broad-minded man in that
convention protested against it, and
their fame is tarnished because they
finally submitted to so cowardly and
unfair a compromise. Now that the
logic of events has made this a nation,
despite the restrictive clauses of the
Constitution, the dual participation of
an unrepresentative Senate is so grotesque
that its continuance is fraught
with a danger which at any time is likely
to precipitate civil war, in the event
that at some crucial moment this body
shall exercise its constitutional powers
combined with those it has arrogated.
Unless the Constitution be entirely
repealed, there is no way by amendment
to deprive any state of its equal
representation in the Senate. It is too
much to expect that all of the corrupt
boroughs which now hold the undeserved
dignity of statehood will relinquish
the selfish advantage bequeathed
them by the unwisdom of
the forefathers, but it is possible to
make amendments to the Constitution
which will reduce the Senate of the
United States to a state of harmless
inefficiency. It is possible to preserve
its form and extract its substance, and
the people should set about the task
with no qualms of conscience. Great
Britain showed the way when she
boldly reduced her House of Lords to a
condition of docile vassalage to the
popular branch of her Parliament, and
she was aroused to this righteous act
of retaliation by abuses which were of
small consequence compared to those
from which we have tamely suffered.
It is possible, under the Constitution,
to strip the Senate of its legislative
power, permitting it to retain its feature
of unequal representation, and reserving
for it a chamber in which those
who wish for the honor can keep up
the pretense of governmental power
and prestige.
Fourth, the specific enumeration and
limitation of the powers and functions
of the Federal Judiciary, including the
Supreme Court of the United States
and all other courts authorized by Congress.
This is the paramount subject
for constitutional amendment or revision.
The founders of our Government
did not contemplate any such
grant of power as now is wielded by the
courts. There is nothing in the document
itself which warrants the prerogatives
which have been assumed by the
courts, and the records of the speeches
and the proceedings in the constitutional
convention when the judiciary
was under consideration contain no
hint that they were to be granted the
power to annul a law passed by Congress
and signed by the President of
the United States. Years passed before
the Supreme Court dared attempt
such a step, and when it did Jefferson
scornfully ignored its mandate.
Presidents as late as Lincoln have declined
to acquiesce in the interference
of the Federal Courts, but slowly and
insidiously this branch of the Government
has reached out and grasped
power, until today it is supreme in
fact as well as in name.
The Supreme Court is the creature
of the Presidents and is subject to the
direction of Congress, yet it has arrogated
to itself the power of overriding
the will of the entire people as recorded
by its Congress and affirmed by its
chief executive. If they are doing this
without warrant of the Constitution,
the day will come when, in the inevitable
conflict between the court and
the Congress or the President, or both
combined, there will be precipitated a
question which will rend the country
with civil war. If they do this under
the implied authority of the Constitution,
that document should be amended
so as to preclude their future interference
with laws passed by Congress and
signed by the President.
As we exist today we are not a republic
or a democracy, neither have
we a representative form of government.
We are a “judiciary”—if one
may coin such a word. Ours is the
only country on earth where an elective
or appointed judge presumes to wield
the most autocratic power of the absolute
monarch, viz., the veto of a law
passed and demanded by the people.
We have become so accustomed to this
that we do not properly realize what
it means. We teach ourselves to acknowledge
the “sacredness of the judiciary”
and to bow in humble contrition
to any mandate thundered from
the Bench. We assent to the insane
doctrine that there is not enough of
wisdom in a House of Representatives
elected by 17,000,000 voters, combined
with the check of an ultra-conservative
Senate chosen by forty-five state
legislatures, and indorsed by the judgment
and responsibility of a President,
to incorporate for our government a
law until such law has been affirmed
by the majority of a Supreme Court.
If there be sense in this dogma, I am
unable to see why it is not equally just
that a minority of the Supreme Court
should not be empowered to annul laws.
Why does the Supreme Court cling to
the inconsistent theory that its majority
possesses as much wisdom as its
minority?
In a series of articles which I am
now preparing, I am attempting to discuss
certain of these questions with as
much frankness as I possess; but the
purpose of this paper, and the one
which preceded it, is to call attention
to “the unopened door in the Constitution”—the
one which Washington
repeatedly referred to in the passages
from which I have quoted. It is a
difficult matter to arouse public attention
to any single amendment, no matter
how important the subject may be.
There is a reason for this.
The people instinctively know that
no one amendment can redress the ills
which now exist. They do not know
how to go about a crusade for constitutional
reform, and most of them probably
imagine that there is no way in
which it can be done. There is a way,
a simple, practical and legal way, and
the political party which takes advantage
of it and conducts an intelligent
campaign in its behalf will sweep all
before it.
Here is “The Open Door of the Constitution
of the United States,” as contained
in Article V of that document:
The Congress, whenever two-thirds of
both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall
propose amendments to this Constitution,
or, on the application of the legislatures of
two-thirds of the several states, shall call a
convention for proposing amendments, which,
in either case, shall be valid to all intents
and purposes as part of this Constitution,
when ratified by the legislatures of three-fourths
of the several states, or by conventions
in three-fourths thereof, as the one or
the other mode of ratification may be proposed
by the Congress; provided that no amendment
which may be made prior to the year
1808 shall in any manner affect the first
and fourth clauses of the Ninth Section of
the First Article; and that no state, without
its consent, shall be deprived of its
equal suffrage in the Senate.
There is a door as wide as that of a
church. It is the most liberal and
democratic feature of a document filled
with restrictions, and Washington and
others were justified in assuming that
we would have the sense to walk
through it, rather than to attempt to
get in by scaling the walls and crawling
through a steeple window.
Our alleged progressive political platforms
are of no value without a demand
for the revision of the Constitution
of the United States along some
such lines as I have attempted to outline.
It is idle to expect the people to
rally to the support of any reform, however
badly needed, so long as they
have valid reasons to believe there is
likelihood that a bill in its behalf will
meet the fate of the lamented income
tax law. Why ask them to shoot in
the air when so broad a target is before
them?
The wise thing to do is to attack
boldly the unfair provisions of the Constitution,
and attack it with a fair
weapon fashioned by the Constitution.
Such a campaign possesses all the elements
of strength and strategy. You
are safe from the attacks of those who
ever hide behind the alleged sanctity
of that document. You can turn their
own weapons against them. You are
standing on the Constitution. You are
following to the letter the advice and
wishes of Washington and others of his
day.
The bulls and excommunications of
the courts need not dismay you. Are
not they the creatures of the Constitution?
Does anyone deny that there is
a possibility that the courts have gone
beyond their constitutional powers? Is
it not within the province of the free
people to amend a constitution by constitutional
means?
Again, a movement for any one of
the reforms which are now pressing to
the fore would appeal with irresistible
force to its advocates if they knew
that success at the polls would incorporate
its provisions in the organic law
of the land. Those who believe that
the best interests of the nation will be
conserved by more just systems of taxation,
by direct legislation, by the control
or ownership of the means of transportation
and other measures in line
with the logic of events, would know
that they were not fighting in vain if a
victory with the ballot meant a legislative
victory.
I hold that the “Open Door” offers
not only the one way to popular triumph,
but that success by it is certain
and not difficult of attainment. Our
national structure totters because of
an antique and crumbling foundation.
Rebuild it!
To One Departed
SITTING, apart in the café, under a glare of light,Surrounded by wealth and beauty, I ponder here tonight.’Tis down in old New Orleans and the Carnival is in sway,There are music, jest and laughter—the revelry of the gay.
While sitting here alone, dear, midst all this merry throng,The band begins to play, dear, our old, best loved song;They call it, dear, “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” and oh, it brings to meA longing deep to lay me down and rest, sweetheart, by thee.
I listen to the music and hear the chattering throng,There steals o’er me a wondrous spell, again I hear the songAs sung by you, in the long ago, whose sweetness was so brief,And now, alone, I sit here with your memory and my grief.
I have wandered over many lands in search of something true,And now I know, my darling, I found it but in you.I’ve searched afar for sweet content, and sought in vain for rest,I know I ne’er could find it, dear, save on thy faithful breast.
Amidst this scene of life and mirth it is for you I crave,I seem to stand a thousand miles away, beside your grave,And see the stars that o’er it, there, a gentle vigil keep,And kiss the flowers that wave o’er you, my sweetheart, in your sleep.
So, sitting here, surrounded thus by joy and beauty rareWith much to bring me happiness, and much to banish care,I know that now and evermore, I’ll always love you best,And learn to lie beside you, dear, to sleep—to sleep and rest.
My eyes grow dim with longing; my heart grows numb with pain;I feel that you are waiting, dear, to clasp me once again.My soul pines for the journey’s end, when I, too, shall be free,And I’ll lie down to sleep, love, in the last long sleep, near thee.
Bernard P. Bogy.
According to Garfield
STELLA—Would you marry a poor man?
Bella—Yes, I would marry a beef magnate who only made two per cent.
Pole Baker — SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS — CHAPTER IV — CHAPTER V — CHAPTER VI
BY WILL N. HARBEN Author of “The Georgians,” “Abner Daniel,” etc.
In a small Georgia town a friendship has grown up
between Pole Baker, reformed moonshiner and an unusual
and likable character, and young Nelson Floyd,
who was left as a baby in a mountain cabin by an unknown
woman just before her death. Floyd, in the
face of many trials and temptations, has worked his
way up in the world and made a man of himself. Jeff
Wade appears at the store, in which Floyd has become
a partner, to avenge on him a rumored injustice to
Wade’s sister. Pole Baker’s tact prevents a duel by
making Floyd see that the unselfish course is for him
to avoid a meeting. Cynthia Porter comes to the
store, alarmed for Floyd’s safety. On his way home
to his family Pole falls a victim to his besetting sin of
drink.
IT was Sunday morning a week
later. Springtown’s principal
church stood in the edge of the
village, on the red clay road leading up
the mountainside, now in the delicate
green of spring, touched here and there
by fragrant splotches of pink honeysuckle
and white, dark-eyed dogwood
blossoms. The building was a diminutive
affair, with five shuttered windows
on either side, a pulpit at one end and
a door at the other. A single aisle
cut the rough benches into two halves,
one side being occupied by the men
and the other by the women. The
only exception to this rule was a bench
set aside, as if by common consent, for
Captain Duncan, who always sat with
his family, as did any male guests who
attended service with them.
The Rev. Jason Hillhouse was the
regular pastor. He was under thirty
years of age, very tall, slight of
build and nervous in temperament.
He wore the conventional black frock
coat, high-cut waistcoat, black necktie
and gray trousers. He was popular.
He had applied himself closely to the
duties of his calling and was considered
a man of character and worth. While
not a college graduate, he was yet
sufficiently well-read in the Bible and
religious literature to suit even the more
progressive of mountain churchgoers.
He differed radically from many of
the young preachers who were living
imitations of that noted evangelist, the
Rev. Tom P. Smith, “the whirlwind
preacher,” in that he was conservative
in the selection of topics for discourse
and in his mild delivery.
Today he was at his best. Few in
the congregation suspected it, but if
he distributed his glances evenly over
the upturned faces, his thoughts were
focussed on only one personality—that
of modest Cynthia Porter, who, in a
becoming gray gown, sat with her
mother on the third bench from the
front. Mrs. Porter, a woman fifty-five
years of age, was very plainly
attired in a homespun dress, to which
she had added no ornament of any
kind. She wore a gingham poke-bonnet,
the hood of which hid her face even
from the view of the minister. Her
husband, old Nathan Porter, sat directly
across the aisle from her. He
was one of the roughest-looking men
in the house. He had come without
his coat, and wore no collar or necktie,
and for comfort, as the day was warm,
he had even thrown off the burden of
his suspenders, which lay in careless
loops about his hips. He had a broad
expanse of baldness, to the edge of
which hung a narrow fringe of white
hair, a healthful, pink complexion and
blue eyes.
When the sermon was over and the
doxology sung, the preacher stepped
down into the congregation to take the
numerous hands cordially extended to
him. While he was thus engaged old
Mayhew came from the amen corner
on the right, and nodded and smiled
patronizingly.
“You did pretty well today, young
man,” he said. “I like doctrinal
talks. There’s no getting around good,
sound doctrine, Hillhouse. We’d have
less lawlessness if we could keep
our people filled plumb full of sound
doctrine. But you don’t look like
you’ve been eating enough, my boy.
Come home with me and I’ll give you
a good dinner. I heard a fat hen
squeal early this morning, as my cook
jerked her head off. It looks a pity
to take life on a Sunday, but if that
hen had been allowed to live, she might
have broken a commandment by hunting
for worms on this day of rest.
Come on with me.”
“I can’t, Brother Mayhew; not
today, thank you.” The young man
flushed as his glance struggled on to
the Porters, who were waiting near the
door. “The fact is, I’ve already accepted
an invitation.”
“From somebody with a girl in the
family, I’ll bet.” Mayhew laughed as
he playfully thrust the crooked end of
his walking-stick against the preacher’s
side. “I wish I knew why so many
women are dead set on getting a
preacher in the family. It may be because
they know they will be provided
for after some fashion or other by the
church at large, in case of death or
accident.”
The preacher laughed as he moved
on, shaking hands and dispensing
cheery words of welcome right and
left. Presently the way was clear and
he found himself near Cynthia and her
mother.
“Sorry to keep you standing here,”
he said, his color rising as he took the
girl’s hand.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all,
Brother Hillhouse,” the old woman
assured him. “I’ll go on an’ overtake
Mr. Porter; you and Cynthia can stroll
home by the shadiest way. You
needn’t walk fast; you’ll get hot if you
do. Cynthia, I won’t need you before
dinner. I’ve got everything ready,
with nothing to do but lay back the
cloth and push the plates into their
places. I want Brother Hillhouse
just to taste that pound cake you made.
I’m a good hand at desserts myself,
Brother Hillhouse, but she can beat me
any day in the week.”
“Oh, I know Miss Cynthia can cook,”
said the minister. “At the picnic at
Cohutta Springs last week she took
the prize for her fried chicken.”
“I told you all that mother fried
that chicken,” said the girl indifferently.
She had seen Nelson Floyd
mounting his fine Kentucky horse
among the trees across the street, and
had deliberately turned her back
toward him.
“Well, I believe I did fix the
chicken,” Mrs. Porter admitted, “but
she made the custards and the cake
and icing. Besides, the poor girl was
having a lot of trouble with her dress.
She washed and did up that muslin
twice—the iron spoiled it the first
time. I declare I’d have been out of
heart, but she was cheerful all through
it. Here comes Nathan now. He
never will go home by himself; he is
afraid I’ll lag behind and he’ll get a
late dinner.”
“How are you today, Brother Porter?”
Hillhouse asked as they came
upon the old man under the trees, a
little way from the church.
“Oh, I’m about as common,” was
the drawling answer. “You may
notice that I limp a little in my left leg.
Ever since I had white swellin’ I’ve
had trouble with that selfsame leg.
I wish you folks would jest stop an’
take a peep at it. It looks to me like
the blood’s quit circulatin’ in the veins.
It went to sleep while you was a-talkin’
this mornin’—now, I’ll swear I didn’t
mean that as a reflection.”
He paused at a fallen tree, put his
foot upon it and started to roll up the
leg of his trousers, but his wife drew
him on impatiently.
“I wonder what you’ll do next,” she
said reprovingly. “This is no time
and place for that. What would the
Duncans think if they was to drive by
while you was doing the like of that
on a public road? Come on with me,
and let’s leave the young folks to themselves.”
Grumblingly Porter obeyed. His
wife walked briskly and made him
keep pace with her, and they were soon
several yards ahead of the young
couple. Hillhouse was silent for several
minutes, and his smooth-shaven
face was quite serious in expression.
“I’m afraid I’m going to bore you
on that same old line, Miss Cynthia,”
he said presently. “Really, I can’t
well help it. This morning I fancied
you listened attentively to what I was
saying in my sermon.”
“Oh, yes, I always do that,” the
girl returned, with an almost perceptible
shudder of her shoulders.
“It helped me wonderfully, Miss
Cynthia, and once a hope actually
flashed through me so strong that I
lost my place. You may have seen
me turning the pages of the Bible. I
was trying to think where I’d left off.
The hope was this: that some day, if
I keep on begging you, and showing
my deep respect and regard you will
not turn me away. Just for one minute
this morning it seemed to me that
you had actually consented, and—and
the thought was too much for me.”
“Oh, don’t speak any more about
it, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia pleaded,
giving him a full look from her wonderful
brown eyes. “I have already
said all I can to you.”
“But I’ve known many of the happiest
marriages to finally result from
nothing but the sheer persistence of
the man concerned, and when I think
of that—and when I think of the chance
of losing you, it nearly drives me crazy.
I can’t help feeling that way. You
are simply all I care for on earth. Do
you remember when I first met you?
It was at Hattie Mayfield’s party, just
after I got this appointment; we sat
on the porch alone and talked. I
reckon it was merely your respect for
my calling that made you so attentive,
but I went home that night out of my
head with admiration. Then I saw
that Frank Miller was going with you
everywhere, and that people thought
you were engaged, and, as I did not
admire his moral character, I was very
miserable in secret. Then I saw that
he stopped, and I got it from a reliable
source that you had refused him because
you did not want to marry such
a man, and my hopes and admiration
climbed still higher. You had proved
that you were the kind of a woman for
a preacher’s wife—the kind of woman
I’ve always dreamed of having as my
companion in life.”
“I didn’t love him, that was all,”
Cynthia said calmly. “It would not
have been fair to him or myself to have
received his constant attentions.”
“But now I am down in the dregs
again, Miss Cynthia.” Hillhouse gave
a sigh. It was almost a groan.
She glanced at him once and then
lowered her eyes half fearfully. And,
getting his breath rapidly, the preacher
bent more closely over her shoulder, as
if to catch some reply from her lips.
She made none.
“Yes, I’m in the dregs again—miserable,
afraid, jealous! You know why,
Miss Cynthia. You know that any
lover would be concerned to see the
girl upon whom he had based his every
hope going often with Nelson Floyd.
Of all men, he——”
“Stop!” The girl paused, turned
upon him suddenly and gazed at him
steadily. “If you have anything to
say about him don’t say it to me.
He’s my friend, and I will not listen to
anything against those I like.”
“I’m not going to criticize him.”
Hillhouse bit his white, unsteady lip.
“A man’s a fool who tries to win by
running down his rival. The way to
run a man up in a woman’s eyes is to
openly run him down. Men are strong
enough to bear such things, but women
shelter them like they do their
babies. No, I wasn’t going to run
him down, but I am afraid of him.
When you go out driving with him,
I——”
Again Cynthia turned upon him and
looked at him steadily, her eyes flashing.
“Don’t go too far; you might regret
it,” she said. “It is an insult to
be spoken to as you are speaking to me.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t! You misunderstand
me,” protested the bewildered
lover. “I—I am not afraid, you understand,
of course, I’m not afraid you
will not be able to—to take care of
yourself, but he has so many qualities
that win and attract women that—Oh,
I’m jealous, Miss Cynthia, that’s the
whole thing in a nutshell! He has the
reputation of being a great favorite
with all women, and now that he seems
to admire you more than any of the
rest——”
The girl raised her eyes from the
ground; a touch of color rose to her
cheeks. “He doesn’t admire me more
than the others,” she said tentatively.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Hillhouse.”
He failed to note her rising color, the
subtle eagerness oozing from her compact
self-control.
“No, I’m not blind,” he went on,
blindly building up his rival’s cause.
“He admires you extravagantly—he
couldn’t help it. You are beautiful,
you have vivacity, womanly strength
and a thousand other qualities that are
rare in this section. Right here I want
to tell you something. I know you
will laugh, for you don’t seem to care
for such things, but you know Colonel
Price is quite an expert on genealogical
matters. He’s made a great study of
it, and his chief hobby is that many of
these sturdy mountain people are the
descendants of fine old English families,
from younger sons, you know, who settled
first in Virginia and North Carolina,
and then drifted into this part of
Georgia. He didn’t know of my admiration
for you, but one day at the
meeting of the Confederate Veterans at
Springtown he saw you on the platform
with the other ladies and he said:
‘I’ll tell you, Hillhouse, right there is a
living proof of what I have always
argued. That daughter of Nathan
Porter’s has a face that is as patrician
as any woman of English royal birth.
I understand,’ the Colonel went on,
‘that her mother was a Radcliff, which
is one of the best and most historic of
the Virginia families, and Porter, as
rough as he is, comes from good old
English stock.’ Do you wonder, Cynthia,
that I agree with him? There
really is good blood in you. Your
grandmother is one of the most refined
and elegant old ladies I have ever met
anywhere, and I have been about a
good deal.”
“I am not sure that Colonel Price is
right,” the girl said. “I’ve heard
something of that kind before. I
think Colonel Price had an article in
one of the Atlanta papers about it,
with a list of old family names. My
father knows little or nothing about
his ancestry, but my grandmother has
always said her forefathers were
wealthy people. She remembers her
grandmother as being a fine old lady,
who, poor as she was, tried to make her
and the other children wear their bonnets
and gloves in the sun to keep their
complexions white. But I don’t like
to discuss that sort of thing, Mr. Hillhouse.
It won’t do in America. I
think we are what we make ourselves,
not what others made of themselves.
One is individuality, the other imitation.”
The young man laughed. “That’s
all very fine,” he said, “when it was
your forefathers who made it possible
for you to have the mental capacity for
the very opinion you have expressed.
At any rate, there is a little comfort in
your view, for if you were to pride
yourself on Price’s theories, as many a
woman would, you would look higher
than a poor preacher with such an untraceable
name as mine. And you
know, ordinary as it is, you have simply
got to wear it sooner or later.”
“You must not mention that again,”
Cynthia said firmly. “I tell you, I am
not good enough for a minister’s wife.
There is a streak of worldliness in me
that I shall never overcome.”
“That cuts me like a knife,” said
Hillhouse. “It cuts because it reminds
me of something I once heard
Pole Baker say in a group at the post-office.
He said that women simply do
not like what is known as a ‘goody-goody’
man. Sometimes as coarse a
man as Pole hits the nail of truth on
the head, while a better educated man
would miss and mash his thumb. But
if I am in the pulpit, I’m only human.
It seemed to me the other day when I
saw you and Nelson Floyd driving along
up the mountain that the very fires of
hell itself raged inside of me. I always
hold family prayer at home for the
benefit of my mother and sister, but
that night I cut it out and lay on the bed
rolling and tossing like a crazy man.
He’s handsome, Miss Cynthia, and he
has a soft voice and a way of making
all women sympathize with him—why
they do it I don’t know. It’s true he’s
had a most miserable childhood, but
he is making money hand over hand
now and has everything in his favor.”
“He’s not a happy man, Mr. Hillhouse,
in spite of his success. Anyone
who knows him can see that.”
“Oh, I suppose he broods over the
mystery that hangs over his childhood,”
said the preacher. “That’s
only natural for an ambitious man. I
once knew a fellow like that, and he
told me he never intended to get
married on that account. He was
morbidly sensitive about it, but it is
different with Floyd. He does know
his name, and he will, no doubt, discover
his relatives some day. But
it hurts me to see you with him so
much.”
“Why, he goes with other girls,”
Cynthia said, her lips set together
tightly, her face averted.
“And perhaps you know, Miss
Cynthia, that people talk about some
of the girls he has been with.”
“I know,” said the girl, looking at
him with an absent glance. “There is
no use going over that. I hear nothing
all day long at home except that—that—that!
Oh, sometimes I wish I
were dead!”
“Ah, that hurts worse than anything
you have ever said!” declared
the minister in a tone of pain as he
stroked his thin face with an unsteady
hand. “Why should a beautiful, pure,
human flower like you be made unhappy
because of contact with a
human weed——?”
“Stop, I tell you! Stop!” The girl
stared at him with flashing eyes. “I
am not going to have you talk to me as
if I were a child. I know him as well
as you do. You preach all day long
that a person ought to be forgiven of
his sins, and yet you want to load some
of them down with theirs—that is,
when it suits you. He has as good a
right to—to—to reform as anyone,
and I, myself, have heard you say that
the vilest sin often purifies and lifts
one up. Don’t get warped all to one
side. I shall not respect your views
any more if you do.”
Hillhouse was white in the face and
trembling helplessly.
“You are tying me hand and foot,”
he said, with a groan. “If I ever had a
chance to gain my desires, I am killing
them, but God knows I can’t help it.
I am fighting for my life.”
“And behind another’s back,”
added the girl firmly. “You’ve got
to be fair to him! As for myself,
I don’t believe half the things that the
busybodies have said about him. Let
me tell you something.”
They had come to a little brook
which they had to cross on brown,
almost submerged stepping-stones, and
she paused, laying her small hand on
his arm, and said portentously: “Nelson
Floyd has been alone with me several
times and has never yet told me
that he loved me.”
“I’m not going to say what is in my
mind,” Hillhouse said, with a cold, significant
sneer on his white lip, as he
took her hand and helped her across
the stream.
“You say you won’t?” Cynthia
gave him her eyes wonderingly, almost
pleadingly.
“That is, not unless you will let me
be plain with you,” Hillhouse answered;
“as plain as I’d be to my sister.”
They walked on side by side in
silence, now very near her father’s
house.
“You may as well finish what you
were going to say,” the girl gave in,
with a sigh of resignation tinged with a
curiosity that devoured her precaution.
“Well, I was going to say that, if
what I have gathered here and there is
true, it is Nelson Floyd’s favorite
method to look, do you understand?—to
look love to the girls he goes with.
He has never, it seems, committed himself
by a scratch of a pen or by word of
mouth, and yet every silly woman he
has paid attention to, before he began
to go with you, has secretly sworn to
herself that she was the world and all to
him.”
Cynthia’s face became grave. Her
glance went down and for a moment
she seemed incapable of speech. Finally,
however, her color rose and she
laughed defiantly.
“Well, here is a girl, Mr. Hillhouse,
who will not be fooled that way, and
you may rely on that. So, don’t worry
about me. I’ll take care of myself.”
“I’ve no doubt you will,” said the
preacher gloomily.
“Yes, you’ll see that I can,” Cynthia
declared with animation. “There’s
mother on the porch. Good gracious,
do change the subject. If she sets in
on it, I’ll not come to the table. She
likes you and hates the ground Nelson
Floyd walks on.”
“Perhaps that, too, will be my damnation,”
Hillhouse retorted. “I know
something about human nature. I
may see the day that I’d be glad of a
doubtful reputation.”
He caught her reproachful glance at
this remark as he opened the gate for
her and followed her in. Porter sat
on the porch in the shade reading a
newspaper, and his wife stood in the
doorway.
“Run in and take off your things,
Cynthia,” Mrs. Porter said, with a welcoming
smile. “Brother Hillhouse
can sit with your pa till we call dinner.
I want you to help me a little bit.
Your grandmother is lying down, and
doesn’t feel well enough to come to the
table.”
When the women had gone in, and
the preacher had seated himself in a
rough, hide-bottomed chair near his
host, Porter with a chuckle reached
down to the floor and picked up a
smooth stick about twenty inches long,
to the end of which was attached a
piece of leather about three inches wide
and four inches long.
“That’s an invention o’ mine,”
Porter explained proudly as he tapped
his knee with the leather. “Brother
Hillhouse, ef you was to offer me a new
five-dollar note fer this thing, an’ I
couldn’t git me another, I’d refuse
p’int-blank.”
“You don’t say,” said Hillhouse,
concentrating his attention on the article
by strong effort; “what is it for?”
“I don’t know any other name fer it
than a ‘fly-flap,’” said Porter. “I set
here one day tryin’ to read, an’ the
flies made sech a dead set at my bald
head that it mighty nigh driv’ me
crazy. I kept fightin’ ’em with my
paper an’ knockin’ my specs off an’
losin’ my place at sech a rate that I
got to studyin’ how to git out of the
difficulty, fer thar was a long fly spell
ahead of us. Well, I invented this
thing, an’ I give you my word it’s as
good fun as goin’ a-fishin’. I kin take
it in my hand—this way—an’ hold the
paper too, an’ the minute one o’ the
devilish things lights on my scalp I
kin give a twist o’ the wrist an’ that fly’s
done fer. You see, the leather is too
flat an’ soft to hurt me, an’ I never seen
a fly yit that was nimble enough to git
out from under it. But my fun is
mighty nigh over,” Porter went on.
“Flies has got sense; they profit by experience
the same as folks does. At
any rate, they seem to know thar’s a
dead-fall set on my bald spot, an’
they’ve quit tryin’ to lay their eggs
in the root-holes o’ my hair. Only
now and then a newcomer is foolhardy
an’ inclined to experiment. The old
customers are as scared o’ my head as
they are of a spider-web.”
“That certainly is a rare device,”
said Hillhouse. “I don’t know that I
ever heard of one before.”
“I reckon not,” the farmer returned
placidly. “Somebody always has to
lead out in matters of improvement.
My wife an’ daughter was dead set agin
me usin’ it at fust. They never looked
into the workin’ of it close, an’ thought
I mashed my prey on my head, but
thar never was a bigger mistake. The
flap don’t even puncture the skin, as
tender as their hides are. I know,
beca’se they always fall flat o’ their
backs an’ kick awhile before givin’ up.”
At this moment Mrs. Porter came to
the door and announced that dinner
was ready.
Pole Baker decided to give the
young people of the neighborhood a
corn-shucking. He had about fifty
bushels of the grain, which he said had
been mellowing and sweetening in the
husk all the winter, and, as the market
had advanced from sixty to seventy-five
cents, he decided to sell.
Pole’s corn-shuckings were most enjoyable
festivities. Mrs. Baker usually
had some good refreshments and the
young people came from miles around.
The only drawback was that Pole seldom
had much corn to husk, and the
fun was over too soon. The evening
chosen for the present gathering was
favored with clear moonlight and
balmy weather. When Nelson Floyd
walked over, after working an hour on
his books at the store, he found a merry
group in Pole’s front yard.
“Yo’re jest in time,” Pole called out
to him as he threw the frail gate open
for the guest to pass through. “I was
afeard thar was a few more petticoats
than pants to string around my pile o’
corn, but you’ll help even up. Come
on, all of you, let’s mosey on down to
the barn. Sally,” he called out to his
wife, a sweet-faced woman on the
porch, “put them childern to sleep an’
come on.”
With merry laughter the young men
and girls made a rush in the direction
of the barn. Nelson Floyd, with a sudden
throbbing of the heart, had noticed
Cynthia Porter with the other
girls, and as he and Baker fell in behind,
he asked:
“Who came with Cynthia Porter,
Pole?”
“Nobody,” said Baker. “She come
over jest ’fore dark by the short cut
through the meadow. I’ll bet a hoss
you are thinkin’ o’ gallivantin’ ’er back
home.”
“That’s what I came for,” said
Floyd, with a smile.
“Well, I’m sorry, for this once,” said
Pole, “but I cayn’t alter my plans fer
friend or foe. I don’t have but one
shuckin’ a year, an’ on that occasion
I’m a-goin’ to be plumb fair to all that
accept my invite. You may git what
you want, but you’ll have to stand
yo’r chance with the balance. I’ll announce
my rules in a minute, an’ then
you’ll understand what I mean.”
They had now reached the great cone
of corn, heaped up at the door of the
barn, and the merrymakers were
dancing around it in the moonlight,
clapping their hands and singing.
“Halt one minute!” Pole called out
peremptorily, and there was silence.
“Now,” he continued, “all of you set
down on the straw an’ listen to my new
rules. I’ve been studyin’ these out
ever since my last shuckin’, an’ these
will beat all. Now, listen! Time is a
great improver, an’ we-all don’t have
to shuck corn jest like our granddaddies
did. I want to make this thing
interest you, fer that pile o’ corn has to
be shucked an’ throwed into the barn
’fore you leave yo’r places.”
“Well, I wouldn’t preach a sermon
fust,” laughed Mrs. Baker as she appeared
suddenly. “Boys an’ gals that
git together fer a good time don’t want
to listen to an old married man talk.”
“But one married man likes to listen
to that woman talk, folks,” Pole broke
in, “fer her voice makes sweet music
to his ear. That’s a fact, gentlemen
an’ ladies; here’s one individual that
could set an’ listen to that sweet woman’s
patient voice from dark to sunup,
an’ then pray fer more dark an’
more talk. I hain’t the right sort of a
man to yoke to, but she is the right sort
of a woman. They hain’t all that way,
though, boys, an’ I’d advise you that
are worthy of a good helpmeet to think
an’ look before you plunge into matrimony.
Matrimony is like ice, which,
until you bust it, may cover pure,
runnin’ water or a stagnant mud-hole.
Before marriage a woman will say yes
an’ no as meek as that entire bunch of
females. Sugar wouldn’t melt in her
mouth, but when she hooks her fish
she’ll do her best to make a sucker out’n
it ef it’s a brook trout at the start. I
mean a certain kind of a woman now,
but, thank the Lord, He made the
other sort, too, an’ the other sort, boys,
is what you ort to look fer. I heard a
desperate old bach say once that he
believed he’d stand a better chance o’
gettin’ a good female nature under a
homely exterior than under a pretty
one, an’ he was on the rampage fer a
snaggle tooth; but I don’t know. A
nature that’s made jest by a face won’t
endure one way or another long.
Thar’s my little neighbor over thar;
ef she don’t combine both a purty face
an’ a sweet, patient nature I’m no
judge.”
“Hush, Pole; Cynthia don’t want
you to single her out in public that
a-way,” protested Mrs. Baker.
“He’s simply bent on flattering
more work out of me,” responded Cynthia,
quite adroitly, Floyd thought, as
he noted her blushes in the moonlight.
“We are waiting for your rules, Mr.
Baker.”
“Yes,” spoke up Floyd, “give us the
rules, and let us go to work, and then
you can talk all you want to.”
“All right, here goes. Now, you are
all settin’ about the same distance
from the pile, an’ you’ve got an equal
chance. Now, the fust man or woman
who finds a red ear of corn must choose
a partner to work with, an’, furthermore,
it shall be the duty o’ the man to
escort the gal home, an’, in addition to
that, the winnin’ man shall be entitled
to kiss any gal in the crowd, an’ she
hereby pledges herself to submit graceful.
It’s a bang-up good rule, fer
them that want to be kissed kin take a
peep at the ear ’fore it’s shucked, an’
throw it to any man they select, an’
them that don’t kin hope fer escape
from sech an awful fate by blind luck.”
“I think myself that it would be an
awful fate to be kissed by a man you
didn’t care for,” laughed Mrs. Baker.
“Pole has made his rules to suit the
men better than the women.”
“The second rule is this,” added
Pole, with a smile, “an’ that is, that
whoever finds a red ear, man or woman,
I git to kiss my wife.”
“Good, that’s all right!” exclaimed
Floyd, and everybody laughed as they
set to work. Pole sat down near
Floyd, and filled and lighted his pipe.
“I used to think everything was fair in
a game whar gals was concerned,” he
said in an undertone. “I went to a
shuckin’ once whar they had these
rules, an’ I got on to exactly what I
see you are on to.”
“Me? What do you mean?” asked
Floyd.
“Why, you sly old dog, you are not
shuckin’ more than one ear in every
three you pick up. You are lookin’ to
see ef the silk is dark. You have found
out that a red ear always has dark
silk.”
Floyd laughed. “Don’t give me
away, Pole. I learned that when old
man Scott used to send me out on
frosty mornings to feed the cattle.”
“Well, I won’t say nothin’,” Pole
promised. “Ef money was at stake,
it ’ud be different, but they say all’s fair
whar war an’ women is concerned. Besides,
the sharper a man is the better
he’ll provide fer the wife he gits, an’ a
man ought to be allowed to profit by
his own experience. You go ahead; ef
you root a red ear out o’ that pile, old
hog, I’ll count you in.”
Pole rose and went round the other
side of the stack. There was a soft rustling
sound as the husks were torn away
and swept in rising billows behind the
workers, and the steady thumping
of the ears as they fell inside the barn.
There was a lull in the merriment and
general rustle, and Floyd heard Hattie
Mayhew’s clear voice say: “I know
why Cynthia is so quiet. It’s because
there wasn’t somebody here to open
with prayer.”
Floyd was watching Cynthia’s face,
and he saw it cloud over for a moment.
She made some forced reply which he
could not hear. It was Kitty Welborn’s
voice that came to him on her
merry laugh.
“Oh, yes; Cynthia has us all beaten
badly!” said that little blonde. “We
wore our fingers to the bones fixing
up his room. Cynthia didn’t lay her
hand to it, and yet he never looks at
anyone else while he is preaching, and
as soon as the sermon is over he rushes
for her. They say Mr. Porter thinks
Mr. Hillhouse is watching him, and has
quit going to sleep.”
“That’s a fact,” said Fred Denslow
as he aimed a naked ear of corn at the
barn door and threw it. “The boys
say Hillhouse will even let ’em cuss in
his presence, just so they will listen to
what he says about Miss Cynthia.”
“That isn’t fair to Miss Cynthia,”
Nelson Floyd observed suddenly.
“I’m afraid you are making it too hot
for her over on that side, so I’m going
to invite her over here. You see, I have
found the first red ear of corn, and it’s
big enough to count double.”
There was a general shout and clapping
of hands as he held it up to view
in the moonlight. He put it into the
pocket of his coat as he rose and moved
round toward Cynthia. Bending down
to her, he said: “Come on; you’ve got
to obey the rules of the game, you
know.”
She allowed him to draw her to her
feet.
“Now fer the fust act!” Pole Baker
cried out. “I hain’t a-goin’ to have
no bashful corn-shuckers. Ef you balk
or kick over a trace, I’ll leave you out
next time, shore.”
“You didn’t make a thoroughly fair
rule, Pole,” said Floyd. “The days of
woman slavery are past. I shall not
take advantage of the situation.”
Everybody laughed as Floyd led her
round to his place and raked up a pile
of shucks for her to sit on.
“Well, there ought to have been
another rule,” laughed Fred Denslow,
“an’ that to the effect that if the winning
man, through sickness, lack of
backbone or sudden death, is prevented
from takin’ the prize, somebody else
ought to have a chance. Here I’ve
been workin’ like a cornfield nigger to
win, and now see the feller heaven has
smiled on throwin’ that sort of a flower
away. Good gracious, what’s the
world comin’ to?”
“Well, I’ll have mine,” Pole Baker
was heard to say, and he took his little
wife in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
Refreshments had been served,
the last ear of corn was husked and
thrown into the barn, and they had all
risen to depart, when Hillhouse came
down the path from the cottage. He
was panting audibly, and had evidently
been walking fast. He shook hands
hurriedly with Pole and his wife, and
then turned to Cynthia.
“I’m just from your house,” he said,
“and I promised your mother to come
over after you. I was afraid I’d be
late. The distance never seemed so
long before.”
“I’m afraid you are too late,” said
Floyd, with a cold smile. “I was
lucky enough to find the first red ear of
corn, and the reward was that I might
take home anyone I asked. I assure
you I’ll see that Miss Cynthia is well
taken care of.”
“Oh! I—I see.” The preacher
seemed stunned by the disappointment.
“I didn’t know; I thought——”
“Yes, Floyd has won fast enough,”
said Pole, “an’ he’s acted the part of
the gentleman all through.” Pole explained
what Floyd had done in excusing
Cynthia from the principal forfeit
he had won.
Hillhouse seemed unable to reply.
The young people were moving toward
the house, and he fell behind Floyd and
his partner, walking along with the
others and saying nothing.
It was a lonely, shaded road which
Floyd and Cynthia traversed to reach
her house.
“My luck turned just in the nick of
time,” Floyd said exultantly. “I went
there, little girl, especially to talk with
you, and I was mad enough to fight
when I saw how Pole had arranged
everything. Then by good fortune
and cheating I found that red ear;
and—well, here we are. I never wanted
to see anyone so badly in my life.
Really, I——”
“Stop, don’t begin that!” Cynthia
suddenly commanded, and she turned
her eyes upon him steadily.
“Stop? Why do you say that?”
“Because,” retorted she, “you talk
that way to all the girls, and I don’t
want to hear it.”
Floyd laughed. “You know I mean
what I say,” he replied. “You know
it; you are just talking to hear your
sweet, musical voice. Keep on; I could
listen all night.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t like you
when you speak that way,” the girl
said seriously. “It sounds insincere—it
makes me doubt you more than
anything else.”
“Then some things about me don’t
make you doubt me,” he said, with tentative
eagerness.
She was silent for a moment, then she
nodded her head. “I’ll admit that
some things I hear of you make me
admire you—that is, in a way.”
“Please tell me what they are,” he
said, with a laugh.
“I’ve heard, for one thing, of your
being very good and kind to poor people—people
that Mr. Mayhew would
have turned out of their homes for
debt if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Oh, that was only business, little
girl,” Floyd laughed. “I can simply
see farther than the old man can. He
thought they never would be able to
pay, but I knew they would some day,
and, also, that they would come up with
the back interest.”
“I don’t believe it!” the girl said
firmly. “Those things make me rather
like you, while the others make me—they
make me—afraid.”
“Afraid? Oh, how absurd—how
very absurd!” They had reached a
spring which flowed from a great bed of
rocks in the side of a rugged hill. He
pointed to a flat stone quite near it.
“Do you remember the first time I
ever had a talk with you? It was
while we were seated on this rock.”
She recalled it, but only nodded her
head.
“It was a year ago,” he went on.
“You had on a pink dress and wore
your hair like a little girl, in a plait
down your back. Cynthia, you were
the prettiest creature I had ever seen.
I could hardly talk to you for wondering
over your dazzling beauty. You
are even more beautiful now; you have
ripened physically and mentally—grown
to be a wonderful woman.”
He sat down on the stone, still holding
to her hand, and drawing her toward
him.
She hesitated, looking back toward
Baker’s cottage.
“Sit down, little girl,” he entreated
her. “I’m tired. I’ve worked hard
all day at the store, and that corn-shucking
wasn’t the best thing to taper
off on.”
She hesitated an instant longer, and
then allowed him to draw her down
beside him.
“There, now,” he said, “that’s more
like it.” He still held her hand; it lay
warm, pulsating and helpless in his
strong grasp.
“Do you know why I did not kiss
you back there?” he asked suddenly.
“I don’t know why you didn’t, but
it was good of you,” she answered.
“No, it wasn’t,” he laughed. “I
don’t want credit for what I don’t deserve.
I simply put it off, little girl—I
put it off. I knew we would be
alone on our way home, and that you
would not refuse me.”
“But I shall!” she said. “I’m not
going to let you kiss me here in—in—this
way.”
“Then you’ll not be keeping your
part of the contract,” he said, tightening
his grasp on her hand. “I’ve always
considered you so fair in everything;
and, Cynthia, you don’t know
how much I want to kiss you. No,
you won’t refuse me—you can’t!”
His left arm was behind her, and it encircled
her waist. She made an effort
to draw herself erect, but he drew her
closer to him. Her head sank upon
his shoulder and lay there while he
pressed his lips to hers.
Then she sat up, and firmly pushed
his arm down from her waist.
“I’m sorry I let you do it,” she said,
under her breath.
“But why, darling?”
“Because I’ve said a thousand times
that I would not; but I have—I have,
and I shall hate myself always.”
“When you have made me the happiest
fellow in the state?” Floyd said.
“Don’t go!” he urged.
She had risen and turned toward her
home. He walked beside her, suiting
his step to hers.
“Do you remember the night we sat
and talked in the grape-arbor at your
house?” he asked. “Well, you never
knew it, but I’ve been there three
nights within the last month, hoping
that I’d get to see you by some chance
or other. I always work late on my
accounts, and when I am through and
the weather is fine, I walk to your
house, climb over the fence, slip
through the orchard, and sit in that
arbor, trying to imagine you are there
with me. I often see a light in your
room, and the last time I became so
desperate that I actually whistled for
you. This way.” He put his thumb
and little finger between his lips and
made an imitation of a whippoorwill’s
call. “You see, no one could tell that
from the real thing. If you ever hear
that sound from the grape-arbor, you’ll
know I need you, little girl, and you
must not disappoint me.”
“I’d never respond to it,” Cynthia
said firmly. “The idea of such a
thing!”
“But you know I can’t go to your
house often, with your mother opposing
my visits as she does, and when I’m
there she never leaves us alone. No,
I must have you to myself once in
awhile, little woman, and you must
help me. Remember, if I call you, I’ll
want you badly.”
He whistled again, and the echo came
back on the still air from a nearby hillside.
They were passing a log cabin
which stood a few yards from the roadside.
“Budd Crow moved there today,”
Cynthia said, as if desirous of changing
the subject. “He rented twenty acres
from my father. The White Caps
whipped him a week ago, for being lazy
and not working for his family. His
wife came over and told me all about it.
She said it really had brought him to
his senses, but that it had broken her
heart. She cried while she was talking
to me. Why does God afflict some
women with men of that kind, and
make others the wives of governors and
Presidents?”
“Ah, there you are beyond my philosophic
depth, Cynthia! You mustn’t
bother your pretty head about those
things. I sometimes rail against my
fate for giving me the ambition of a
king, while I do not even know who—But
I think you know what I mean!”
“Yes, I think I do,” said the girl
sympathetically, “and some day I believe
all that will be cleared up. Some
coarse natures wouldn’t care a straw
about it, but you do care, and it is the
things we want and can’t get that
count.”
“It is strange,” he said thoughtfully,
“but of late I always think of my
mother as being young and beautiful.
I think of her, too, as being well-bred
and educated. I think all those things
without any proof even as to what her
maiden name was or where she came
from—Are you still unhappy at
home, Cynthia?”
“Nearly all the time,” the girl sighed.
“As she grows older my mother seems
more faultfinding and suspicious than
ever. Then she has set her mind on
my marrying Mr. Hillhouse. They
seem to be working together to that
end, and it is very tiresome to me.”
“I’m glad you don’t love him,”
Floyd said. “I don’t think he could
make anyone of your nature happy.”
The girl stared into his eyes. They
had reached the gate of the farmhouse,
and he opened it for her.
“Now, good night,” he said, pressing
her hand. “Remember, if you ever
hear a lonely whippoorwill calling,
that he is longing for companionship.”
She leaned over the gate, drawing it
toward her till the latch clicked in its
catch. She was thinking of the hot
kiss he had pressed upon her lips, and
what he might later think about it.
“I’ll never meet you there at night,”
she said firmly. “My mother does not
treat me right, but I shall not do that
when she is asleep. You may come to
see me here once in awhile if you
wish.”
“Well, I shall sit alone in the arbor,”
he returned, with a low laugh, “and I
hope your hard heart will keep you
awake.”
She opened the front door, which
was never locked, and went into her
room on the right of the little hall.
The night was very still, and down the
road she heard Floyd’s whippoorwill
call growing fainter and fainter as he
strode away. She found a match and
lighted the lamp on her bureau, and
looked at her reflection in the little
oval-shaped mirror. Instinctively she
shuddered and brushed her lips with
her hand as she remembered his embrace.
“He’ll despise me,” she muttered.
“He’ll think I am weak like all the
rest, but I am not. I am not! I’ll
show him that he can’t—and yet”—her
head sank to her hands, which were
folded on the top of the bureau—“I
couldn’t help it. My God, I couldn’t
help it! I must have wanted—no, I
didn’t. I didn’t!”
There was a soft step in the hall.
The door of her room creaked like the
low scream of a cat. A figure in white
stood on the threshold. It was Mrs.
Porter in her nightdress, her feet bare,
her iron-gray half-twisted hair hanging
upon her shoulders.
“I couldn’t go to sleep, Cynthia,”
she said, “till I knew you were safe at
home.”
“Well, I’m here all right, mother; so
go back to bed, and don’t catch your
death of cold.”
The old woman moved across the
room to Cynthia’s bed and sat down on
it. “I heard you coming down the
road and went to the front window.
I had sent Brother Hillhouse for you,
but it was Nelson Floyd who brought
you home. Didn’t Brother Hillhouse
get there before you left?”
“Yes, but I had already promised
Mr. Floyd.”
The old woman met her daughter’s
glance steadily. “I suppose all I’ll
do or say won’t amount to anything.
Cynthia, you know what I’m afraid
of.”
Cynthia stood straight, her face set
and white, her great dreamy eyes flashing.
“Yes, and that’s the insult of it,
mother. I tell you, you will drive me
too far. A girl at a certain time of her
life wants a mother’s love and sympathy;
she doesn’t want threats, fears
and disgraceful suspicions.”
Mrs. Porter covered her face with
her bony hands and groaned aloud.
“You are confessing,” she said, “that
you are tied an’ bound to him by the
heart, and that there isn’t anything
left for you but the crumbs he lets fall
from his profligate table.”
“Stop!” Cynthia sprang to her
mother and laid her small hand heavily
on the thin shoulder. “Stop! You
know you are telling a deliberate—”
She paused, turned and went slowly
back to the bureau. “God forgive me!
God help me remember my duty to you
as my mother. You’re old; you’re out
of your head!”
“There, you said something.” The
old woman had drawn herself erect
and sat staring at her daughter, her
hands on her sharp knees. “You
know my sister Martha got to worryin’
when she was along about my age over
her lawsuit matters, and kept it up
till her brain gave way. Folks always
said she and I were alike. Dr. Strong
has told me time after time to guard
against worry, or I’d go out and kill myself
as she did. I haven’t mentioned
this before, but I will now. I can’t
keep down my fears and suspicions
while the very air is full of that man’s
doings. He’s a devil. Your pretty
face has caught his fancy, and your
holding him off, so far, has made him
determined to crush you like a plucked
flower. Why don’t he go to the Duncans,
and the Prices, and lay his plans?
Because the men of those families
shoot at the drop of the hat. He
knows your pa is not of that stamp,
and that you haven’t any men kin
to defend our honor. He hasn’t any
of his own; nobody knows who or what
he is.”
“Mother!” Cynthia’s tone had softened.
Her face was filling with sudden
pity for the quivering creature on
the bed. “Mother, will you not have
confidence in me? If I promise you
faithfully to take care of myself with
him, and make him understand what
and who I am, won’t that satisfy you?
Even men with bad reputations have a
good side to their natures, and they
often reach a point at which they reform.
I well know there are strong
women and weak women. Mother,
I’m not a weak woman. As God is
my judge, I’m able to take care of
myself. It pains me to say this, for
you ought to know it; you ought to
feel it, see it in my eye and hear it in
my voice. Now, go to bed and sleep.
I’m really afraid you may lose your
mind, since you told me about Aunt
Martha.”
The face of the old woman changed;
it lighted up with hope.
“Somehow, I believe what you say,”
she said, with a faint smile. “Anyway,
I’ll try not to worry any more.” She
rose and went to the door. “Yes, I’ll
try not to worry any more,” she repeated.
“It may all come out right.”
When she found herself alone Cynthia
turned and looked at her reflection
in the glass.
“He didn’t once tell me in so many
words that he loved me,” she said.
“He has never used that word. He
has never said that he wanted to
mar—” She broke off, staring into the
depths of her own great, troubled eyes.
“And yet I let him kiss me—me!”
A hot flush filled her neck and face
and spread to the roots of her hair.
Then suddenly she blew out the light
and crept to her bed.
(To be continued.)
The Conservative of Today
BY JOHN H. GIRDNER, M.D.
EVER since we have had a record
of the human race it has been
divided into two parties, the
conservative and the radical. These
two parties have ever battled with each
other for possession of the world.
Strictly speaking, all history—sacred
and profane—is nothing else than a
record of this world-old struggle.
“That which is, was made by God,”
cries the conservative.
“God is leaving that and is entering
this other,” replies the radical.
These have been the battle-cries of
mankind all down the ages. The conservative
has always been the stand-patter.
He has been always on the
defensive, explaining, apologizing, opposing
and pleading that change would
result in deterioration. The conservative
must bear the vice, the sins and
crimes of the society of his time, and,
bending under the load, piteously
pleads for delay, for compromise. He
preaches the pusillanimous doctrine of
“let us bear the evils we already have
rather than fly to those we know not
of.” Conservatism never made an invention,
wrote a poem, painted a picture
nor breathed a prayer that rose
above the roof.
Pharaoh, King of Egypt, was a conservative.
He stood pat on keeping
the Hebrew nation in slavery, against
the radicalism of Moses. The Roman
empire was conservative. It stood pat
on its pagan worship, against the radicalism
of the new religion. The scientific
world stood pat on the then
accepted doctrine that the “sun do
move,” against the radicalism of Galileo
that it is the earth that does the
moving. King George was a conservative.
He stood pat on America’s remaining
a British colony, against the radicalism
of Washington and the Continental
Congress. The French King,
Louis XVI, was a conservative, and
stood pat against the radicalism of the
people of France when they demanded
liberty and bread. The Czar of Russia
and his titled aristocracy are conservatives.
They are standing pat
against progress, enlightenment and
justice among the masses of the people
of that unhappy country. But it is
about the conservatives of our own
country that I want to write. I want
to say a word about our own stand-patters.
Webster’s Dictionary says that a
conservative is, “One who desires to
maintain existing institutions and customs.”
A conservative in the United
States today, then, is a man who wants
the Beef Trust to continue to force the
farmer to accept its price for his cattle,
and the consumer to pay its price for
dressed beef. A conservative is a man
who wants the railroads to continue
giving rebates to favored shippers, and
to hold them from unfavored shippers.
A conservative is a man who wants
the United States Senate to continue
to be composed of men who do not
represent the masses of the people of
their respective states, but who represent
the corporations. For instance,
a conservative in New York State is
a man who wants Chauncey M. Depew
and Thomas C. Platt to continue in the
United States Senate.
Depew represents the Vanderbilt
system of railroads, while Platt represents
the United States Express Company.
The two will oppose any legislation
which interferes with the income
of their corporations, never mind
what the people of the state or nation
want. The people have for years
wanted a parcels post in this country.
England and other countries have
it, but we cannot. Why? Because
Platt is in the Senate, and also in
the parcel-carrying business. You,
Mr. Conservative, put him in the Senate
and you keep him there.
We have what is called a protective
tariff in this country. It is a law
which, in the name of protecting the
workingman, robs him and every other
consumer. If you are a conservative,
you are in favor of maintaining this
law.
The tariff schedule was drawn up by
a committee of Congress behind closed
doors. That is, the doors were closed
on those who have to pay the tariff,
but open to those who were to be benefited
by it. The committee sent for the
manufacturers of the various necessary
articles which people use, and
asked them how much of a tax they
wanted on similar articles made abroad.
And the manufacturers wrote these
schedules for the committee, and they
were adopted. Notice, the consumers,
the people who have to pay the tariff,
were not invited to appear before this
committee. Only the manufacturers,
who are the beneficiaries, were taken
into counsel.
If you are a conservative—that is, if
you are a stand-patter, you are in
favor of continuing and “maintaining”
this “mother of trusts.”
Sometimes laboring-men become dissatisfied
with their wages, or the number
of hours they are made to work,
and they exercise their God-given right
to cease work, or go on strike. Then
the corporations rush to the courts
and secure injunctions, restraining the
strikers from doing all sorts of things.
In some instances these injunctions are
obtained and served on the strikers
before any of the acts from which the
injunctions restrain them have been
committed or attempted. Special deputy
sheriffs and Pinkerton men are
hurried to the scene of the strike. The
state militia is ordered out, and in one
instance Federal troops were sent to
Chicago. At Homestead the hired
deputy-sheriff-Cossacks shot down
peaceable workmen, just as real Cossacks
shot down the peaceable workmen
who marched with Father Gapon
in the streets of St. Petersburg
recently—and for no better reason.
Martial law has been declared, court-martial
has been substituted for trial
by jury. The right of habeas corpus has
been suspended. Members of labor
unions have been thrown into prison
without trial; others have been torn
from their homes and deported to other
states without process of law, and bull
pens established for guarding prisoners.
These things have been happening
in the United States for years. In
each instance it was claimed that such
arbitrary measures were necessary to
preserve order, keep the peace, protect
the property of the corporations, and
to enforce the injunctions issued by
the courts—when these injunctions were
directed against the laboring or producing
class. Now see how differently
things work when a corporation is at
the dangerous end of an injunction
gun.
The United States Federal Court,
through Judge Grosscup, of Chicago,
issued on February 18, 1903, an injunction
restraining the Beef Trust from
continuing to do certain things. The
Beef Trust paid no attention to this
injunction. It went right on doing
these same things, just as if Judge
Grosscup had not issued his injunction.
It went right on despoiling the bank
accounts of the consumers of beef and
the raisers of cattle. No special deputy
sheriffs were sworn in, no state
militia was ordered out, no Federal
troops were sent to Chicago or anywhere
else to enforce obedience to this
injunction. Armour, Swift and Morris,
the men said to be at the head of the
Beef Trust, were not arrested. No bull
pen was established. Nobody was deported.
This is the existing custom of enforcing
and not enforcing Federal Court
injunctions. Now if you are a conservative,
you are, according to Webster,
one who desires to “maintain”
this custom.
At the present time the lighting corporation,
the railroad corporation, the
telephone corporation and the city or
municipal corporation are all exploiting
the people of New York City as
they have never been exploited before.
Never in the history of New York
have its public servants been so absolutely
and completely owned by so-called
public service corporations as at
present. These corporations have literally
taken over the people’s municipal
corporation, merged it with their
own and impressed their management
upon it. For instance, Dr. Darlington,
President of the Health Department,
goes to Washington to urge Congress
to pass a law to destroy dirty money,
because it is a means of conveying
disease germs. But he does not destroy
or clean the filthy disease-bearing
car straps in New York. Why?
Because August Belmont and H. H.
Vreeland won’t let him. Darlington
is in the position of the Irishman who
would free Ireland but for the police.
The people want the signs, slot machines,
etc., put out of their Subway
stations, but they can’t get it
done. Why? Because the Interborough
Corporation is stronger than the
municipal corporation. The people’s
public servants in New York City have
become the servants of the public service
corporations.
It does seem that even men who
call themselves conservatives in New
York would rise up next fall and stamp
the life out of this condition.
Casus Belli
“NOW, the trusts—” began the patent-churn man, addressing the washing-machine
agent. “The trusts, let me tell you, are——”
“Here, now, gentlemen!” remonstrated the landlord of the tavern at Polkville,
Ark. “That’s what the fight here yesterday started about; and it’s goin’
to cost me three or four dollars for new window glass, alone!”
A Character Study of Byron and Burns
BY ELIZABETH BAILEY TRAYLOR
THESE names are live wires in the
lands of the Scotch heather and
the English rose, and equally so
here by the red hearts of the watermelons
and the snow showers of the
cotton-fields of the Southern States.
One often hears it said of those devoted
brotherhoods—the Burns Clubs
and the Scotch Societies—“Their Bible
is Robbie Burns.” Frank Stanton has
a large hearing when he sings:
We’ll slip away from our todayOf wonder and of worry,To where, in meadows of the may,He whistled “Annie Laurie.”To meet him in some gabled inn,And pass the rare decanter,Or in some ingle nook beginA race with “Tam o’Shanter.”
To a large coterie of kindred spirits
the name of Byron evokes a pageant
of ideas pulsating with life’s strongest
emotions. It is told of a pleasure club
that they recently abandoned the books
of the day and read the poet exhaustively
and with great enthusiasm—no
slight tribute to his genius in a time
of unremitting demand for that which
is palpitant with the breath of today’s
life. A learned minister from
his pulpit says: “‘The Destruction of
Sennacherib’ is a marvel of diction
and technique, and no divine has approached
the narrative in its exact
correspondence to Holy Writ.”
A bare sketch of these two philosophers
may suggest to book-lovers in
general the particular period of the
culture-epochs dominating each career,
and discover some of the forces
of heredity and environment which
produced these characters, vibrant
with full, fresh, free life, or reveal to
readers equipped by psychical research
for judgment how it was that these
natures furnished the battleground for
so fierce a conflict of good and evil
forces.
According to Carlyle, the father of
Burns was a “man of thoughtful,
intense character, possessing some
knowledge and open-minded for more,
of keen insight and devout heart,
friendly and fearless; a fully unfolded
man seldom found in any rank of
society.” Of his ancestry we know
nothing. The father of Byron was an
Englishman, from a line of illustrious
ancestors reaching back to the days
of William the Conqueror.
The mother of Burns, devout of heart
and calm of mind, brightened the lives
of her children with the ballads of her
beloved Scotland. The mother of Byron
would smother him with kisses one
moment, and the next call him a lame
brat.
Both poets spent their early youth
in Scotland, where the record of their
school days is still preserved in their
respective parishes. Burns read with
equal avidity Taylor’s devotional
works, Locke, Pope, Milton, Thomson
and Young. He never minded
work, if knowledge was the reward.
Byron was devoted to the reading of
history and poetry, and was at the
head of many college rows. When, in
conformity to the custom of the school,
the order was so inverted as to make
the boy of highest rank change places
with the lowest, the teacher would call
out to Byron: “Now, George, let us see
how quick you will be foot again.”
Each had a favorite family servant.
Byron wrote often to his old nurse of
his triumphs in London. Burns says
many of his songs were inspired by an
old servant, Jenny Wilson, as she repeated
her endless collection of songs
and stories of devils, ghosts, fairies,
witches, warlocks, kelpies, elf-candles
and enchanted dragons.
Lady Blessington wrote of Byron’s
appearance: “He is not tall, as I had
fancied him. His appearance is, however,
highly prepossessing; his head is
finely shaped and the forehead open,
high and noble, his eyes are gray and
full of expression, his mouth is the
most remarkable feature, the upper lip
of Grecian shortness and the corners
descending, the lips full and finely cut.
In speaking, he shows his teeth very
much, and they are white and even,
but I observed that even in his smile—he
smiles frequently—there is something
of a scornful expression that is
evidently natural. His countenance is
full of expression and changes with the
subject of conversation; it gains on the
beholder the more it is seen, and leaves
an agreeable impression. His voice
and accent are peculiarly agreeable,
clear, harmonious and so distinct that,
though his general tone in speaking is
rather low than high, not a word is
lost.”
Burns, tall, well formed and graceful,
was always a charming presence.
The beautiful and all-accomplished
Duchess of Gordon said that Burns
was the most fascinating guest she
ever saw entertained.
Speaking of the portrait by Alexander
Nasmyth, Sir Walter Scott says:
“This is the best likeness of Burns, but
his features, as I remember them, were
still more massive and imposing than
they are represented in this picture.
There was a strong expression of
shrewdness in his lineaments, the eyes
alone indicating the poetic character
and temperament. They were large
and dark and literally glowed when he
spoke with feeling or interest. I never
saw such eyes in any other head.”
Attired always in the tip of the fashion,
Byron was a drawing-room dude in
the smart set of London. The dress
of Burns was coarse and homely, made
from his own sheep, carded by his own
fire. His plaid was red and white,
woven with great pride by his mother
and sister. His home and the homes
of his friends, were low-thatched cottages,
consisting of kitchen and bedrooms,
with floors of kneaded clay.
If the former set a fashion for collars
which lasts to this good day, the latter
has left us the Tam-o’-Shanter hat.
Burns was essentially musical, having
begun his career by setting music
to the verses of another.
Byron, in a luxurious salon, wooed
and won a woman of fashion. Burns
gives this account of his courtship with
Highland Mary,
Who was snatched away in beauty’s bloom:
“We plighted our troth on the Sabbath
to make it more sacred, seated
by a running brook, that Nature might
be a witness, over an open Bible, to
show we remembered God in the compact.”
After a second edition of “Poems by
an Ayrshire Plowman,” Burns spent
the winter in Edinburgh, where he was
the lion of the elegant coteries of the
city.
Lords, ladies, men of letters, all with
manners highly polished by attrition,
found in him a barbarian who was not
barbarous. As the poet met in at least
one lord feelings as natural as those
of a plowman, so they met in a plowman
manners worthy of a lord.
Dugald Stewart writes: “His manner
was easy and unperplexed; his address
was perfectly well-bred and elegant
in its simplicity; he felt neither
eclipsed by the titled nor embarrassed
before the learned and eloquent, but
took his station with the ease of one
born to it.”
Each poet had a brief political career.
As exciseman for several years it was
necessary for Burns to ride over two
hundred miles per week, thus coming
constantly in contact with the people.
In this public service he made a record
for being thorough, correct and at
the same time humane.
Byron made as serious an effort in
politics as was possible to his impetuous
and headlong nature. After many
hindrances he was granted a seat in the
House of Lords. He traveled awhile,
and, returning, made two or three
speeches before the House. Between
times he would correct the proof-sheets
of “Childe Harold.” The publication
of this poem put an end to his parliamentary
ambitions. “When ‘Childe
Harold’ was published,” he says, “no
one ever afterward thought of my prose,
nor indeed did I.” However, he also
says, “I would not for the world be
like my hero.”
Each spent much time alone with
Nature, drinking from the exhaustless
fountain of her varied life. Each loved
her most in her wildest, fiercest moods.
Power—they loved it, worshiped it;
they felt it in them and all around
them. It was the necessary food for
their strenuous, tempest-tossed souls.
Burns loved to walk on the sheltered
side of a forest and listen to a storm
rave among the trees. Better still, he
loved to ascend some eminence and
stride along its summit amid the flashes
of the lightning and howls of the tempest:
“Rapt in enthusiasm, I seemed
to ascend to Him who walks on the
wings of the wind.” Byron
Made him friends of mountains, stars;But the Quick Spirit of the universe
spoke to him best through Nature’s
most stupendous form, the turbulent,
merciless ocean.
Byron reveled in the glories of more
climes; Burns saw the marvels of more
kingdoms, for he understood the language
of the daisy and the mouse. The
self-negating love, the exultant pride
the Peasant Poet felt for his own bonnie
Scotland, the English Peer lavished
upon a foreign land. Burns said if he
ever reached heaven, he would ask
nothing better than just a Highland
welcome.
Burns, in his innate appreciation of
the dignity of humanity, is something
of a Siegfried, with the fearless spirit
of the forest vocal with the song of
birds, the aroma of blossoming shrubs,
the play of the waterfall and the restful
stretch of meadows with their
daisies and heather.
Byron, in the desolation of his youth,
in his extremes of laughter and tears,
in his yearning for sympathy, in his
broodings over the mysteries of life,
played the character of Hamlet with
the world for a stage, leaving a kindred
problem for the wonder of mankind.
Many of Byron’s shorter poems are
from Bible stories and characters, and
it is wonderful how his brilliant genius
caught and reproduced both spirit and
story. Burns gives us his thought of
a religious life in that sweetest pastoral
poem in all literature, “The Cotter’s
Saturday Night.”
In the last few months of his life he
did much to reproduce it in his own
life, holding family prayer with such
earnestness as to bring his hearers to
tears over the penitence for sins and
hope in the mercy of God.
In these poets the perceptive faculties
roamed at will over a wide field of
human activities, and voiced their impressions
with a witchery of language
which has hardly a parallel. The
work of both men was revolutionizing
in its effects. Burns found his countrymen
in bondage to the fear of
wraiths, hobgoblins and kindred spirits,
and he was a mighty power in their deliverance.
Taine estimates that he
was as great a force in Scotland as the
Revolution in France.
Byron is believed largely to have influenced
the revolutionary movement
in Germany. He gave a direct stimulus
to the liberators of Italy, and
ended his life in a heroic struggle for
the liberties of Greece.
If Byron’s literary work is more resplendent
and daring, Burns’s seems
fresher from the varied living forces
about us. If Byron’s is a circlet of
sapphires, Burns’s is that same circlet
transmuted by the alchemy of human
sympathy to a wreath of never-fading
violets.
When we remember that these colossal
figures passed off the stage of life
after thirty-seven short years, when
we get a suggestion of the difficult circumstances
and terrible temptations
that encompassed their stormy young
lives, we may well leave their failings
to God, who alone is their moral Judge.
It may be His compassion for them is
commensurate with the powers with
which He endowed them.
The Man With White Nails
BY CAPTAIN W. E. P. FRENCH, U.S.A.
MY wife brought me the case
and the client, and, strict
candor compels me to say,
I was not particularly grateful for
either. The case was a curiously involved
combination of an over-indulgent,
invalid mother; a shrewd,
selfish and unscrupulous son; a trained
nurse, rather worse than she should
have been; a cleverly drawn but very
unjust will; an exceedingly large estate
mostly in investment securities; a husband-deserted
daughter with two
small children and “an annual income
of nothing to keep ’em on”; a witness
who would undoubtedly be “agin the
government,” and one other person
whose testimony might, or might not,
be favorable to the prosecution, but
who had apparently vanished bodily
from the face of the earth. The client
was a pretty, gentle little creature,
crushed under a load of trouble much
too big for her, quite pathetic in her
helplessness, and shrinking and rather
indifferent about her own claims, but
with an almost fierce mother-instinct
over the rights of her babies.
How the partner of my joys and
sorrows discovered these wronged
mites of humanity is immaterial—she
has a keen scent for injustice or oppression
of any kind—but she rounded
them up, brought them to my office,
and said I was to take the case. I
never appeal from the decision of my
supreme court, so I said, “Certainly.”
First she took me aside and gave me
an ex parte and rather highly colored
statement of the facts in the affair,
explaining that her protégée was diffident
and reticent, unless stirred up
about the children, and perorating
with the remark, “You will find, John,
that my meek-looking lamb is quite
a ferocious animal when roused.”
Then she went over to the other woman,
kissed her, gave the boy a pile of my
cherished law-books to use as building-blocks,
took the tiny girl on her lap,
hitched her chair a bit closer to the
mother and said, “Now, my dear, you
tell John everything, just as you told
it to me, and he will fix it all up for
you.”
A tolerable portion of my fairly
large practice has consisted, and, I
fancy, will continue to consist, of
charity cases brought to me by my
wife. They have, of course, seldom or
never been profitable; they have cost
time, work, worry and money, have
occasionally been paid in the base coin
of ingratitude, and without them we
should have had a much larger bank
account. But the warmest-hearted and
most generous woman I have ever
known likes me to help those she
thinks are wronged, and it is little
enough for me to do for her dear sake.
My small, scared client attracted me
from the first, and my dusty legal heart
ached over her sad story. Her mother
had never cared much for her and had
lavished love and money on her
brother. She had married unfortunately,
while scarcely more than a
child. The estrangement with her
mother had increased, and her brother
had craftily widened the breach. This
last fact I had much trouble to elicit,
and wormed it out of her piecemeal.
After three years of neglect and ill-treatment,
her husband had deserted
her and run away with another woman—incidentally,
her best friend—leaving
her almost destitute. When she
recovered from an attack of brain
fever she found a letter from her
brother awaiting her, in which he
announced the death of their mother,
his marriage to the trained nurse who
had taken care of the mother in her
last illness, and their exodus to Europe.
He inclosed a copy of the will, which
left everything unreservedly to him,
and said that his attorney would communicate
with her. The man-of-the-law
came in person, and stated that he
was empowered to pay her a hundred
dollars a month, so long as she did not
attempt litigation.
The will was witnessed by the doctor
and the trained nurse, and the
doctor was, to all intents, beyond discovery.
It was, on its face, a probable case
of undue influence and, perhaps, mental
aberration. But how prove either,
without the doubly expert testimony
of the missing physician, who, it appeared,
was the only person, except
the son and the nurse, that had seen
the invalid during the last year of her
life?
It was a significant fact that the
daughter’s name was not mentioned
in the instrument; and I suspected collusion
on the part of the medical gentleman
with the beneficiary and the
woman who would share the profits of
the criminal enterprise. My poor little
client had seen the doctor once only
when she was vainly endeavoring to
gain access to her mother, and described
him as a very fine-looking man
on the sunny slope of forty, with wavy
blond hair and pointed beard, a suave
and kindly manner, a charming voice
and singularly handsome hands.
The bill of items would have fitted
tolerably a dozen men of my acquaintance,
and I said as much, asking her,
as an afterthought, how she came to
notice his hands. Someone has said
that the gist of a woman’s letter is in
the postscript, and the large majority
of women that have employed me as
counsel have invariably reserved the
leading and important facts of their
cases until the last. This client was no
exception to the rule; but when the
dramatic little body had finished
personating the missing man, I would
have known him as far as I could see
him among ten thousand, unless he
were asleep or quite still; for she had
cleverly imitated a man whose restless
hands were ever in motion as he talked,
and who glanced at them with covert
satisfaction every few seconds. This
singular trick, the descriptive factors
in his personal equation, and the name
he had signed—which, she assured me,
was undoubtedly his own—as witness
to the signature of the testatrix were
about all the additional information I
could extract from her, except that she
had refused her brother’s proposition
and was ready to fight to the bitter
end for her children’s rights, though
she had to beg or steal the money to
pay court and counsel.
I waived retainer and took the case
on contingent fee, which, after the
little grass widow had left, I told my
wife, in gentle irony, I would divide
with her; but that she must not
squander it on yachts and four-in-hands,
because these big paying cases
are pretty rare—fortunately.
That good woman received my
ironic suggestion with her usual placidity,
and said: “Very well, my dear;
I shall certainly hold you to your
promise of division, and I have a
premonition that we shall win the
suit. Mark my words! I don’t want
a yacht, but I shall buy that lovely
Goldsborough place and spend my
declining years looking at the river-view
from that glorious, wide piazza.”
I had not the slightest hope of success,
for even if the witness could
be found, I had no doubt that he was
a scamp and in the brother’s pay.
A letter to a friend and fellow-attorney
in the city where the mother
had died brought this reply: The man
I wanted to find had been a general
practitioner there for some years;
he had had a very large practice and
the liking and respect of the community;
but both had fallen away
from him from two very odd causes;
one, that he had suddenly become
exceedingly untrustworthy and unreliable,
in fact, a phenomenal and
outrageous liar; and the other, that he
had unaccountably taken to the habitual
wearing on every possible or impossible
occasion, professional or social,
of white kid gloves or long white
gauntlets, bringing these ghostly hands
to the bedside of patients, or hovering
with them over the operating-table.
It began to be noised abroad that Dr.
Bently, which was his name, was unsound
in his mind, was suffering from
some dreadful, contagious disease
which had broken out in his hands,
and that the truth was not in him. My
informant added that shortly after
the death of Mrs. Johnstone, my
small client’s mother, the doctor had
taken himself, his gauntlets and his
marvelous mendacity to New York,
but that his present whereabouts were
unknown to the writer.
The detective agency in New York,
of which I next inquired, sent me
word that there was no such name as
Bernard Brice Bently in the directory
or in any way on record as a physician
or surgeon in that city. All this took
time, and, meanwhile, I had advertised
vainly in prominent papers all
over the country and had had an
agent interview many of the doctor’s
old acquaintances. The man had disappeared,
and within a very narrow
limit of time the will would be admitted
to probate.
Just at this time another legal
matter required my presence in New
York, and, when I reached there, the
engrossing nature of my business
drove most other matters out of my
head. After several days of close and
confining work, I finished taking the
depositions I needed, and purposed
to return home that evening. It
occurred to me that a pleasant way
of spending my remaining hours in
town would be to take a stroll through
Central Park, which I had not seen
in years—not, in fact, since I had been
a student in Columbia Law School.
I walked from the Fifty-ninth Street
entrance as far as the Museum, which
is about opposite Eighty-second Street,
and had sat down to rest near the
obelisk. It was a magnificent late
spring day, and I was lazily enjoying
the beauty of the place and watching
the passing show, when a man on the
next bench attracted my attention by
springing to his feet and gazing eagerly
and fiercely beyond me and up
the drive. If ever ferocious desire
and intent to kill were written on a
human face it was on his.
Instinctively I glanced in the direction
he was looking and saw a
steam runabout, with one man in it,
approaching smoothly and not very
rapidly. I turned back instantly and
sprang at the would-be assassin, whose
pistol was out and pointed, but I was
too late. There was a flash and a
report, and I could see the hammer of
the self-cocker rising for a second shot,
when I struck him a left-hander. I
do not often have occasion to hit a
man, but when I do he usually falls.
As he went down the weapon spoke
again, but I knew that that bullet
went wide. The fellow was game,
though, and determined, for his back
had scarcely touched the ground before
he rolled on his side and fired twice
at the man in the locomobile. The
fifth chamber of the revolver he let
me have, as I flung myself down on
him, and the subsequent proceedings
were blank, the ball having grazed my
temple and stunned me.
When I came to I was lying on a
leather couch in a very handsomely
appointed doctor’s office. My head
was bound up, and I was a bit sick
and dizzy. I suppose I had half
swooned again, when I was roused by
a soft touch on my wrist, and looking
down I saw the most beautiful and
the whitest man’s hand I have ever
seen. But, white as it was, the fine,
filbert-shaped nails were whiter still.
They were absolutely milky, and the
half-moons had the ghostly whiteness
and lustre of pearls. I was both startled
and fascinated. Surely no living flesh
was ever that color, and no human
being with blood in him ever had such
nails. Was it the hand of a corpse?
No, it was warm, and, as I looked, the
fingers bent and sought my pulse. A
deep, musical voice broke the silence:
“Ah, we are all right now, thank
God! How do you feel, friend? Drink
this.” The speaker, holding a tumbler,
came in front of me, and I saw a
handsome man with clean-shaven face,
black, wavy hair and beautiful but
rather wild-looking eyes.
“Thank you,” I said as I took the
glass and obediently drained it; “I feel
somewhat as though I had been trifling
with a steam-hammer. But I shall be
all right presently.”
“Of course you will,” he assured me
heartily. “You were struck a glancing
blow on the head by the bullet of
that poor, half-crazed Pole, who, the
police say, thought I was a Russian
duke. The only ill consequence of
your noble act will be an honorable
scar, to remind you how gallantly you
risked your life to save a total stranger’s.
My dear friend—if you will allow
a friendless man to call you so”—here
the charming voice grew as sweet
and vibrant as an organ note—“it was
the bravest and most generous act I
ever knew. I cannot thank you adequately,
but I hope it may be given
me to serve you some time, and should
you ever need a friend’s purse, his
hand or his life, mine are yours.”
I endeavored to deprecate the value
of my interference and to moderate his
expressions of gratitude; but he would
have none of it, and, leaping to his feet,
began to pace to and fro, expatiating
upon what he extravagantly termed
my bravery and unselfishness, and insisting
upon his tremendous obligation
to me. He was manifestly in earnest;
but all at once habit asserted itself,
the ruling passion came to the fore, and
a trifle “light as air” made “confirmation
strong as proof of Holy Writ.”
When he first began to move a memory
flashed over me, but, as those beautiful,
restless white hands added their
evidence, assurance became doubly
sure. I could see my demure, pretty
little client impersonating this man,
and I knew, despite the dyed hair and
the shaven beard, that I had found the
missing witness. But I had found
something else. I had found a man
suffering from a chronic dementia.
Whether his derangement was general
or merely monomania, I was at a loss
to determine. If the former, he was
not competent as a witness for either
side. If the latter, the special form
and degree of alienation might or might
not militate against his testimony.
I was impelled to take him unawares,
and so I said suddenly: “Dr.
Bently, do you remember Mrs. Abbott,
the daughter of your former patient,
Mrs. Johnstone, of Laneville?”
If he started or showed surprise or
annoyance, it was imperceptible; but
he glanced with smiling complaisance
at his nails as he came over to me, and,
touching my forehead, remarked, with
most irritating suavity: “My dear fellow,
I fear you are feverish. My name
is Charles Chester Chickering. I never
was in Laneville, I never had a patient
named Johnstone, and I have no recollection
whatever of anyone by the
name of Abbott.”
He looked straight at me as he uttered
these falsehoods, and his tone
was like velvet. There was the flicker
of an amused smile on his mouth, but
his eyes were hard and cold as blued
steel, the contracted pupils shining like
black pinheads. I stared back at him,
and presently he shifted his gaze from
my face to his own right hand, which
he was holding out in front of him, and
again that abominable, self-satisfied
smirk appeared. I was filled with
boundless contempt for this man I had
almost begun to pity, and as I rose
from the couch and began to speak I
could fairly taste the bitterness of the
words I flung at him:
“Dr. or Mr. Bernard Brice Bently,
Charles Chester Chickering—or whatever
your infernal, alliterative alias
may be—I deeply regret that I should
have saved you from the death I have
no doubt you richly deserved, and I
earnestly hope that you may be punished
for your crime of helping to ruin
a poor little woman and two innocent
children. And, by the living God! I
will do all in my power to bring you
to——”
He interrupted me eagerly, wonderingly,
protestingly. “What is that
you say? Mrs. Abbott and her children
living? Why, that scoundrel
Johnstone and that she-devil of a nurse
swore to Mrs. Johnstone and me that all
three of them were dead and buried!”
Hope came to life again in my heart.
It was a mistake, after all, and this
man could and would rectify it. He
had been deceived and had witnessed
the document in good faith. I had
commenced an apology when he uttered
a violent exclamation, and, holding
the backs of his hands in front of
his face, scrutinized his nails with rapt
intensity.
His very lips grew livid, the eyes he
turned on me were those of a madman,
and, snarling like a wolf, he screamed:
“See what you have done! Look at
my nails!” and thrust his pallid fingers
forward for my inspection.
On the polished, snowy surface of
every nail was a bright pink fleck or
spot of about the bigness and shape of
a ladybug; but I was barely conscious
of these rosy marks on the intense
whiteness of the uncanny things, for I
suppose the smart rap of that pistol
bullet and this man’s extraordinary
sayings and doings had upset my fairly
choleric temper, and I was literally
beside myself with uncontrollable rage
and indignation.
“Damn you and your dead nails!” I
shouted back at him. “You cowardly
liar and thief, you are Johnstone’s accomplice,
and I will tear the truth out
of you if I have to kill you to do it.”
We were glaring at each other like
wild beasts, and, before the words were
fairly out of my mouth, we sprang forward,
our hands clutching hungrily
at each other’s throats in the fierce
desire to strangle which comes to men
and the other brutes that slay when
anger and hate have reached the last
and deadly stage. An undercut would
have driven him back, but I wanted his
windpipe and he wanted mine, and
each of us was sick to have the other at
close quarters, so a blow would not
have been fair play. We were well
matched. I was sure of that as we
grappled. We swayed and strained,
and I could feel the blood running
down my face when my wound reopened;
but the end came quickly, and,
as we crashed to the floor, he was underneath,
and my hands flew up eagerly
and clenched under his chin. Ah! the
savage joy of it!
But why did he not struggle? What
trick was this? Good God, had the
fall killed him? How white he was!
And he had been crimson a second ago.
The revulsion of feeling turned me sick.
Was I a murderer? I let go my hold,
leaped to my feet and threw a pitcher
of ice water on his head and face. He
gasped, opened his eyes and regarded
me calmly and quietly. Was it only a
moment ago that those calm, sad eyes
had been narrow rims of blue around
intensely black, distended pupils that
had in them the dull red glare of blood-lust?
Now they were soft and human,
and the light of sanity was in them.
“My friend,” he said gently—what
a superb voice he had, and how the
deep, rich, mellow tones brushed away
anger, hatred and fear—“my friend, I
owe you my life twice. First, you
saved it; now, you spare it. And I
owe you more than life. I owe you
my restoration to reason, to perfect
sanity. For I have been bitten by a
mania so wild, so strange, so improbable
that no man save you who have
seen it would believe in its existence.
‘Like cures like.’ It came through a
fall and a shock. It has been cured
through a fall and a shock. You were
right. I was a liar. The greatest on
earth, I believe, and I gloried in it,
and hated to tell a truth lest it should
bring a pink spot on my nails. No,
don’t lift me up.”
I had attempted to raise him and
had blurted out a word or two of shame,
sympathy and pity.
“I prefer to lie here while I tell you
the story,” he went on. “You have no
cause to be ashamed; it was simple self-defense
on your part, for I should probably
have killed you in my paroxysm.
Besides, you do not realize what you
have done for me. But I thank you
for your kindly sympathy; it is not
wasted, believe me. Now, if you will
do me a favor, watch my nails, and,
if they become normal, tell me. But,
first, put one of those wet compresses
on your wound and slip the bandage
over it. You will forgive me by and
bye for fighting with a guest to whom I
owed so much. I was not responsible.”
I hastened to reassure him, and he
resumed:
“Before I begin my own weird tale,
let me relieve your mind about that
poor, wronged, sensitive child, Mrs. Abbott.
I will go back with you to Laneville,
and we will break that will wide
open. There will be no trouble about
it. Johnstone is a whelp, his wife is a
criminal, and I can put them both
behind the bars. That little woman
shall be righted, if it takes my entire
fortune to do it. Now, listen. A trifle
over a year ago, getting out of my phaeton,
I fell, struck my head and was
out of my mind for some weeks. When
I regained health and strength I found
that my injury had left me with the
most unthinkable hallucination that
ever crept into a human brain. Subconsciously,
I knew it was a vicious
delusion, but I took the same delight
in it that a patient partly in the control
of delirium sometimes takes in the
absurdities he utters.
“You know the little white marks on
the nails which, as children, we used
to say came from telling lies? Well,
my mania was that if I told nothing
but lies, lied constantly and consistently,
I could turn mine entirely white.
I tried and I succeeded. The will,
obeying a diseased mind, plays queer
pranks. I was partly proud of the
result of my experiment, partly
ashamed of it. So I took to wearing
gloves and gauntlets most of the time.
I began to get a reputation as a phenomenal
liar. Once I overheard a man
say, ‘Dr. Bently says it is so? Then
that settles it; it’s a lie that would turn
Beelzebub green with envy. Why, I
wouldn’t believe the doctor if he swore
to anything on seventeen cubic miles
of Bibles in the original Hebrew.’
“I could have hugged him with
grateful delight. But friends and practice
dropped away. People began to
look at me askance, and before Mrs.
Johnstone died she was about the only
patient of our class I had left. The
street urchins used to yell at me, ‘Hallo,
Ananias! where’s Sapphira?’ and
‘Berny Bently; or, The Hidden Hand.’
So I came here and hid myself in this
great city, where no one cares for anything
but money and would make much
of a rich man if he had claws, hoofs,
horns and a tail all white as snow or
black as ink.”
While he spoke I had watched his
nails closely and curiously, and the
pink spots had spread and spread,
slowly but surely, until the normal,
healthy color had come back to them.
I told him, but he never looked at
them. Instead, he got up, came over
to me, took my two hands in his and
said slowly and reverently: “Thank
God and you, dear friend, I am cured!”
His splendid eyes were filled with tears,
and his exquisite voice was solemn and
broken with emotion. My own eyes
were rather misty, but then they were
never much good; and, for a lawyer, I
was quite moved. I gave him my
friendship then and there, and I have
never regretted it.
Two weeks later, starting from my
own home, where Mrs. Abbott and
Bently had been our most welcome
guests, we all went to Laneville, where
we met Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, whom
we had summoned back by cable. They
made us but little trouble, being cowards
as well as scoundrels. Mrs. Abbott,
however—good, kindly, generous
little soul—was so unfeignedly sorry for
her unworthy brother that she wished
to let him have the lion’s share of the
big property; but we overruled the
soft-hearted child-woman and made
her take her full share. I had the
pleasure, subsequently, of expressing
to Mr. Johnstone exactly what I
thought of him, and I had considerable
difficulty in restraining the doctor from
giving him a beating.
Not long after I began divorce
proceedings for Mrs. Abbott, but her
rascally husband saved her and me
the annoyance of going into court by
opportunely and thoughtfully dying.
My fee was the largest I have ever
received from an individual client, and,
in some extenuation for accepting such
a small fortune, I would like to say
that it was fairly forced on me by the
grateful little creature I love as though
she were my own child.
My wife promptly demanded, and
got, her little commission of one-half,
and said she was the best drummer of
practice and big-paying clients that
any lawyer ever had. She is, God bless
her! And, by the way, we live in the
Goldsborough house, and my dear lady
spends a good part of her time on the
piazza she bought with her half of my
fee.
Oh, yes! I forgot to mention that
Mrs. Abbott’s name is now Bently.
They call her husband “the good physician”
in our town, and his word is as
good as any man’s bond. The doctor
has lost interest in his hands, but his
sweet and devoted little wife admires
them extravagantly. They are still
very handsome, but brown as berries,
and his nails are as pink as yours or
mine.
Organization and Education
BY WHARTON BARKER
THE cardinal tenets of the People’s
Party were declared by the
founders of the Republic, established
by the War of the Revolution
and guaranteed to our people by
the Constitution of the United States.
So, by proclaiming for rule of justice,
liberty and equality of opportunity, not
of greed, man was made the master
and money the servant. Those who
believe in government of, by and for
the people, who believe that the people
are fitted to govern themselves, capable
of discerning that which is good for
them and that which is not, must approve
the contention the People’s Party
makes; must oppose the aggression
of concentrated capital; must see the
need of immediate independent political
action outside and apart from both
Republican and Democratic Parties,
both dominated by the money cliques.
The money oligarchy, now in control
of all lines of finance, transportation,
distribution and of most lines of
production, works for the profit of the
few to the great detriment of the many.
These plutocrats control a slavish metropolitan
press, in order that the masses
of our people may be governed for the
benefit of the few.
If this control is to stand, if millions
of people are to slave for a few thousand,
it is necessary that the many
have no direct hand in their own government,
that the many delegate to
representatives their power, and that
such representatives should be influenced
so as to become the representatives
of the few. The people must
have only the semblance of power, the
representatives the real power, in
order that governing may be carried on
for the advantage of the rulers, not of
the ruled.
So we have nominating conventions
run by political bosses, legislative bodies
taking orders from agents of the
money cliques, who purchase franchises
for railway lines and for other
public utilities; election laws that make
independent voting almost impossible.
Until we have direct nominations
the people will be the willing or unwilling
tools of the men who dictate
nominations, and they must make
choice between the candidates set up
for them. For years the Republican
and Democratic politicians who run
conventions have been the agents of
the money oligarchy that deals in and
fattens upon all kinds of public franchises.
So the plutocrats make of our
Government an instrument for the oppression
of the many and the enrichment
of the few. In order to promote
the governing of our people by the
few and for the few, promote legislation
that will impoverish and weaken
the many but aggrandize the few in
riches and power, it is necessary that
law-making should be intrusted to representatives;
that these representatives
should be put more and more out of
touch with the people and more in
touch with the few; that these representatives
should be removed further
and further from responsibility to the
people; that their doings should be
hidden and not subject to review.
So we have demands for extended
terms of office; we have opposition to
the election of President and senators
by popular vote; we have opposition
to the selection of Federal judges other
than by appointment of the President
and Senate; we have, above all, opposition
to direct popular voting upon
questions of public policy, upon granting
public franchises.
The referendum is opposed because
it would make all laws passed by legislative
bodies subject to review and
reversal by a high court, the court of
the whole people entering verdict
through the ballot-box. There is little
outward opposition to the principle of
direct legislation. There is much covert
opposition from the money oligarchy
and much plainer opposition
born of ignorance from the body of the
people.
Those who oppose direct legislation
hold that the people are not fitted
to govern themselves, that the few are
fitted by divine law to rule, that the
many are condemned to be ruled for
the benefit of the few by a law equally
divine. This is the law of kings; it is
not the law of democracy. He who
holds it is false to our theory of government,
is no better than a monarchist.
Give us direct legislation, such as the
initiative and referendum would establish,
and there will be an end to sale of
franchises by representatives and no
laws will be enacted to rob the people
of their rights and property. The place
to begin with direct voting is in nomination
of all candidates for public office—a
People’s Party must abolish all
delegate conventions for making nominations
and platforms; must adopt
direct voting for candidates and for
declarations of principles; must have
voting precinct clubs for party management.
The district and subdivision
plan of organization adopted by the
Cincinnati convention of 1900 is the
best plan of organization heretofore
proposed, and it should be put into
immediate operation unless a better
plan can be proposed without delay,
for it will insure rule of the people in
party management and destroy the
power of the political boss who goes
into politics for profit.
If the People’s Party will at once
declare for a rank-and-file plan of
organization and management we will
see a rush to arms in all states, for in
all the rule of the boss, serving the
money oligarchy, is most offensive.
The time has come for such a People’s
Party; there is no place for a People’s
Party run on the lines of the Republican
and Democratic Parties.
The day of the hero-led party has
passed. The great majority Mr.
Roosevelt received is no evidence
to the contrary, for more than three
million citizens out of seventeen million
abstained from voting at the last
election. Organization and education
of the body of the people must come
through voting precinct organizers and
educators—of course the printed matter
must for economy be prepared and
sent out from central offices, from
national headquarters, but no proper,
no effective distribution of it can
be made except by the precinct
organizers.
If the people are to win a national
victory there must be from three
to five honest, able, aggressive, patriotic
men in each of the one hundred
thousand voting districts of the country
working by day and by night.
These men must awaken their immediate
neighbors to a lively appreciation
of the wrongs they suffer and
point out the way to re-establishment
of their rights, the way to restoration
of justice, liberty and equality of
opportunity. When such an army is
in the field the people will defeat the
money oligarchy, but not before.
At the election of 1904, I repeat,
three million citizens refused to vote
because they would not stultify themselves
by voting for either Roosevelt
or Parker, both candidates of the plutocrats.
At least two million citizens
voted for Roosevelt because they wished
to destroy the Democratic Party, a
party for years without fixed principles.
These five million citizens, together
with the eight hundred thousand
citizens who voted for Debs,
Watson and Swallow, represented the
reform and dissatisfied vote of the
country—five months since. The action
of the Beef Trust, of the Railroad
Combination and of allied interests,
all in control of twenty men,
and the now openly declared purpose
of President Roosevelt and Secretary
Hay to establish in foreign affairs an
American-British alliance, alarm many
millions of our citizens as they have
not been alarmed before.
A new epoch in our country opens
now, for people and plutocrats are in
a death struggle. The principle the
People’s Party stands for is that man
is the master, money the servant.
The question—is the People’s Party
equal to the duty of the time?—must
be answered at once. If it goes into
the campaign immediately with a
voting precinct organization such as
was declared for by the Cincinnati
convention of 1900, the answer will be
affirmative.
The cardinal tenets of the party of
the people are:
1. Brotherhood of man, love, justice,
liberty and equality of opportunity.
2. Government by the people—the
recognition of the right of the people
to rule themselves by establishment
of direct legislation, the initiative and
the referendum.
3. Honest money—national money,
not bank money—that will serve
creditor and debtor alike; that will
insure stability of prices, thus be an
honest measure of value, and thereby
encourage honest industry and discourage
speculation.
4. Nationalization of railroads and
other monopolies that must be public
rather than private monopolies.
5. Prevention of overcapitalization
of all corporations, of overcharge for
services rendered the public by such
corporations.
6. Abolition of industrial trusts,
those that exist because of tariff protection
and those that exist because
of freight discriminations whether by
rebates, special rates or otherwise.
7. Taxation that will tax every
man according to his accumulated
wealth—tax property, not man; collect
state and municipal taxes by
direct tax on the accumulated wealth
of society assessed at actual cash
value; collect national taxes by a
direct tax on the earnings of accumulated
wealth, whether large or small.
Have only direct taxes, for indirect
taxes cover injustice and extravagance.
8. Foreign policy that will keep
our country out of all entangling
alliances with European and Asiatic
countries, and strengthen our economic
relations with all American countries
that have different soil, climate
and products from those of the United
States.
These are the demands of the People’s
Party, the cardinal principles for which
that party contends. They are all
simple, easily understood, and must
have approval of a great majority of
the American people when brought
to them for consideration by a party
of the rank and file, controlled by the
people themselves, not dictated to
by the money oligarchy; by a party
that stands for the interests of the
many, not of the few. I close, as I
began, by saying we need organization
and education.
The Panic of 1893
BY W. S. MORGAN
Hon. Thomas E. Watson, Thomson, Ga.
MY DEAR SIR—I have your
letter containing communications
from James R. Branch,
Secretary of the American Bankers’
Association, New York City, and Jno.
D. Reynolds, President of First National
Bank, of Rome, Ga., in which
they deny the authenticity of the Panic
Bulletin published in my contribution
to the March issue of your magazine.
I remember when the Bulletin was
first made public I asked a friend, a
president of the Citizens’ National
Bank, of Fort Scott, Kan., a man with
whom I was intimately connected in
business for ten or twelve years, if such
a circular had been issued. He replied
that he had received a number of circulars
covering the propositions therein
contained, and that likely he had received
that one. This incident, and
the fact that the Bulletin had been published
from time to time for years and
I had not seen its authenticity questioned,
and furthermore that its suggestions
were in line with the events of
that date, led me to believe that it was
genuine.
However, the authenticity of the circular
was not the subject matter of the
article which provoked these denials.
My indictment of the National Bankers
was not merely for issuing the Bulletin,
but for doing the things it suggested.
Messrs. Branch and Reynolds
have ignored the indictment and attacked
the witness. But there are
other witnesses that can’t be demolished.
After Mr. Cleveland had sent Henry
Villard and Don M. Dickinson to Washington,
in the winter of 1893, and failed
to secure from the Fifty-second Congress
the repeal of the purchasing clause
of the Sherman law, the National Bankers
began to show their hand.
It was seen that no ordinary pressure
on Congress would secure the demonetization
of silver. It was claimed that
the Panic Bulletin was issued March
8, just four days after Cleveland’s second
inauguration.
What was the program laid down
in the Panic Bulletin?
1. The interests of the National
Banks require immediate financial legislation.
2. Silver, silver certificates and Treasury
notes must be retired and National
Bank-notes, upon a gold basis, be made
the only kind of paper money.
3. Bonds required to be issued as a
basis for the bank-note circulation.
4. Pressure must be brought upon
the people, especially in sections of the
country where the free silver sentiment
was strong. Circulation to be reduced,
loans called in, credit refused and general
distrust spread broadcast through
the land.
5. Demand for an extra session of
Congress to repeal the purchasing
clause of the Sherman law.
This was the program laid down by
the Bulletin. Did it agree with the
action of the National Bankers? We
shall see.
On the 11th of April, 1893, Grover
Cleveland appointed Conrad C. Jordan
to be Assistant Treasurer of the United
States.
In this capacity Jordan had control
of the Sub-Treasury at New York. The
Sub-Treasury is the great business
establishment of the Federal Government.
It is one of the associated banks
of New York City.
Jordan was a banker, the President
of the Western National, of New York
City, and was recommended for the position
by the New York National Bank
Presidents. He was the go-between—the
link which connected the National
Bankers with Cleveland and the Federal
Government.
His nomination was confirmed on the
15th day of April, and on the 20th he
was in Washington with his bond and
conferring with Cleveland.
From that hour things moved with
wonderful rapidity.
Jordan left Washington on the 21st,
arrived in New York at 5.30 in the
afternoon, went directly to the Chase
National Bank, No. 15 Nassau Street,
where he met Henry W. Cannon, President
of the Chase National Bank, and
J. Edward Simmons, President of the
Fourth National, two of the most active
and influential of those who controlled
the associated banks and who constitute
the “New York National Bank
Ring.”
It must have been an important
meeting, for that night Cannon left
New York for Washington on a midnight
train, arriving in Washington
Saturday morning, April 22, and while
there had interviews with Grover Cleveland.
On the morning of April 22 Jordan
was sworn into office, and his first
act, official or semi-official, was to arrange
for a meeting with certain National
Bank Presidents in the afternoon.
I can give you the names of most of
the National Bank Presidents who met
Jordan that afternoon. The meeting
was said to be informal, and its proceedings
were carefully guarded. But
it was of such importance that Jordan
went to Washington on a late evening
train to make a report of its proceedings.
It was generally believed at the time,
and there is little doubt of its truth,
that Jordan was simply given the office
to mask his character as confidential
agent between Grover Cleveland and
the New York National Bank Presidents.
After a conference with Cleveland on
Sunday morning, April 23, Jordan and
Cannon returned to New York, arriving
there late in the evening. Before
leaving Washington Jordan wired certain
National Bank Presidents to meet
him at a private house uptown.
What happened at that meeting we
can only surmise. I mention it to
show the connection between the National
Bank Presidents and Grover
Cleveland.
The next morning, April 24, Jordan
was at his desk. One of the first things
he did was to notify the National Bank
Presidents and officers of trusts and
other companies to meet him that day
at the Sub-Treasury. This also was
a dark-lantern meeting, and no one
would give out the proceedings. But
what followed shortly afterward, and
the action taken by those who attended
that meeting, justifies the belief
that that convention was called
for the purpose of arranging a concerted
attack upon the national industries,
agriculture, commerce, property
and social order of the American people—the
assault to be directed by the New
York National Bank Presidents—as
the swiftest and surest means of forcing
Congress to repeal the silver law—to
give the country Cleveland’s “Object-Lesson.”
Nine National Bank Presidents met
John G. Carlisle at the Williams House
on April 27, presumably to complete
the arrangements for the attack. No
doubt Cleveland had approved the conclusions
reached on the 24th, and sent
Carlisle to sanction them.
Carlisle’s meeting with the Bank
Presidents that day was, as you know,
a subject of much newspaper comment.
The meeting was said to have been one
of “effusive cordiality,” and, in view
of the events which quickly followed,
there is little doubt but what it partook
of the nature of “two hearts that
beat as one.”
It was there that the National Bankers
proposed an issue of bonds. But
Carlisle, like a young girl, although
keen to marry, intimated that it was
“too sudden.”
This was the last of the series of
meetings between the Government officials
and the National Bank Presidents
preceding the panic.
Everything was now ready to give
the country the “Object-Lesson.”
Within the next forty-eight hours
the worst financial calamity that ever
befell the people was to break upon
them.
At this time there was nothing in the
industrial situation to precipitate a
panic. Prices had been low for several
years, and there was none of the
spirit of speculation which usually precedes
a panic.
Cleveland himself volunteered to say:
“Our unfortunate financial plight is not
the result of untoward events, nor of
conditions relating to our natural resources,
nor is it traceable to any of
the afflictions which frequently check
national growth and prosperity. With
plenteous crops, with abundant promise
of remunerative production and manufacture,
with unusual invitation to safe
investment and with satisfactory assurance
to business enterprise, suddenly
financial distrust and fear have sprung
up on every side.”
Thus the people and all those engaged
in industrial and productive
enterprises are exonerated.
Who are the guilty persons?
The men who did just what that
Panic Bulletin describes.
The bankers who demanded the practical
demonetization of silver; who demanded
a special session of Congress to
secure it; who called in their loans and
reduced their circulation; who demanded
and secured the issue of bonds,
and who now demand the retirement
of the greenbacks.
Messrs. Branch and Reynolds and
other National Bank advocates may
be able to repudiate the Panic Bulletin,
but they cannot successfully
deny that every feature of the program
it contained was carried out in detail
by the men who practically control the
National Bank system.
Four days after the Williams House
meeting at which Secretary Carlisle
was present, the New York banks began
to call in their loans with brutal
vindictiveness.
We are not left to conjecture the
effect of such a policy on the New
York Exchange. By the 5th of May
the strain had become intense. The
New York Tribune of May 6, referring
to the condition of the market, said:
“The enormous losses of the last week,
the utter demoralization of the buying
power in the market and the practical
paralysis of credit, promised a liquidation
that, unless stayed, would have
swept them all off their feet.”
On May 7 the same paper said:
“The effort of the Administration to
bring the South and West to a full realization
of the inevitable consequences
of compulsory purchases of silver bullion
has brought distress and perhaps
ruin to many innocent persons—but
there is no reason to suppose that it
will be relaxed.”
Within ten days from the time of
the Williams House meeting between
Cleveland’s Secretary of the Treasury
and the National Bank Presidents the
panic had spread from the Atlantic to
the Pacific, and for forty days it continued
with unabated fury. On the
9th of May several Western banks were
forced to close their doors.
“There is no lack of pressure,” said
the New York Tribune on the 22d of
May.
On the 6th of June—six weeks after
the Williams House meeting—the New
York Sun, in its money article, said:
“The Presidents of the New York National
Banks think that the so-called
“Object-Lesson” has been carried far
enough. They see nothing to be gained
by a further shrinkage of values and
unsettling of credits.”
It is useless for me to detail the results
of the panic.
From May 9 to 30, inclusive, sixty
banks were forced to suspend, and
fifty-eight of them were in the doomed
section—the South, West and Northwest.
From the time of the Williams House
meeting, April 27, to December 30,
1893, a period of eight months, more
than fifteen thousand bankruptcies and
suspensions had occurred. Over six
hundred banks had been driven to the
wall, and the loss to the country in
round numbers was seven hundred
and fifty millions of dollars.
But the National Bank Presidents
had won their fight. They had carried
out the program laid down in the Panic
Bulletin, an extra session of Congress
had been called and the purchasing
clause repealed.
That the “Object-Lesson” was intended
for the West and South is evidenced
by the records. Out of 169
banks failing from March 5 to August
4, five only were in Eastern States,
forty-eight in Southern and 151 in
Western states—Dunn’s Report.
Dunn’s Report for July 21, 1893, says:
“A large proportion of the suspended
Colorado banks and mercantile institutions
will pay in full and resume
business, inability to borrow money on
or sell ample collateral alone being the
cause of the Denver banks closing their
doors.”
No doubt the panic reached proportions
not at first intended by the National
Bank Presidents and threatened
their own financial standing, as Mr.
Branch suggests is the case in time of
panics. But they had a remedy, no
doubt decided upon beforehand. While
they refused credit to the Southern and
Western banks, they issued Clearing
House certificates to the extent of
$63,152,000 to themselves, an act
which was in violation of the law.
There is so much evidence obtainable
to the effect that the National
Bankers are guilty of every count in
the indictment contained in the Panic
Bulletin that a book could be filled
with it.
In a speech in the United States
Senate August 25, 1893, Senator David
B. Hill, referring to the bankers, said:
“They inaugurated the policy of refusing
loans to the people even upon
the best security, and attempted in
every way to spread disaster broadcast
throughout the land. These disturbers—the
promoters of public peril—represented
largely the creditor class,
the men who desire to appreciate the
gold dollar in order to subserve their
own selfish interests, men who revel in
hard times, men who drive harsh bargains
with their fellow-men regardless
of financial distress. It is not strange
that the present panic has been induced,
intensified and protracted by
reason of these malign influences. Having
contributed much to bring about
the present exigency, these men are
now unable to control it. They have
sown the wind, and we are now all
reaping the whirlwind together” (Congressional
Record, Vol. XXV, Part I,
p. 865).
August 8, 1893, Senator Teller said,
in a speech in the United States
Senate:
“It is the height of folly that this is
a panic caused by distrust of the currency.”
On the 29th of the same
month the Senator from Colorado, referring
to the Williams House meeting
of Secretary Carlisle with the New York
National Bank Presidents, said: “It is
a most remarkable interview; it will go
far to support the charges which I am
not going to make on my own authority,
but which I am going to make
upon the authority of others, that this
panic is a bankers’ panic, brought by
the action of the New York banks,
and brought about for distinct purposes,
which purposes were practically
avowed on the 27th of April. The
same things have been reiterated by
the financial papers, and the policy is
still continued up to the present hour.
It had two objects in view. One was
to secure from the United States a
large issue of bonds, and the other to
secure the repeal of the much-abused
Sherman law.”
The records show that the bankers
accomplished both of these objects.
They secured the repeal of the purchasing
clause, and afterward the issue of
$262,000,000 in bonds.
In the same speech Senator Teller
said: “There are many banks in the
West, and some that I know of, which
shut their doors because they could
not draw the money that they had on
deposit in New York” (Congressional
Record, Vol. XXV, Part I, p. 1022).
In its issue of August 20, 1893, the
Chicago Inter-Ocean said:
“When the future historian tells the
world of the great financial panic of
1893, he will say: ‘In the winter and
spring months of that year the New
York bankers and financiers sowed the
wind, and in the summer months
reaped the whirlwind.’
“We know of no arrangement of
words that can more graphically describe
the action of the New York
financiers and the results of that action.
Colonel Ingersoll, early in the season of
disturbance, properly called this a
‘bankers’ panic.’ Nor are the New
York bankers alone to blame. Those
of Boston and Philadelphia come in
for their share.”
But it is useless for me to continue
to pile up testimony to further sustain
my contention. Whether the Panic
Bulletin is a “canard” or not, its suggestions
were carried into effect. The
bankers opposed silver, and, for the
purpose of having the law providing
for its issue repealed, they precipitated
the panic and used the methods described
in the Bulletin to accomplish
their ends. They are opposed to greenbacks,
and if necessary will, I have
no doubt, precipitate another panic in
order to have them retired. And it
all goes to show that the control of the
currency should be taken out of their
hands.
W. S. Morgan.
Hardy, Ark.
The Cradle of Tears
BY THEODORE DREISER Author of “Sister Carrie”
THERE is a cradle within the
door of one of the great institutions
of New York before
which a constantly recurring tragedy
is being enacted. It is a plain cradle,
quite simply draped in white, but
with such a look of cozy comfort about
it that one would scarcely suspect it to
be a cradle of sorrow.
A little white bed with a neatly
turned-back coverlet is made up
within it. A long strip of white
muslin, tied in a tasteful bow at the
top, drapes its rounded sides. About
it, but within the precincts of warmth
and comfort, of which it is a fort,
spreads a chamber of silence—a quiet,
solemn, plainly furnished room, the
appearance of which emphasizes the
peculiarity of the cradle itself.
If the mind were not familiar with
the details with which it is so startlingly
associated, the question would
naturally arise as to what it was doing
there—why it should be standing
there alone. No one seems to be
watching it. It has not the slightest
appearance of usefulness, and yet
there it stands, day after day, and
year after year—a ready prepared
cradle and no infant to live in it.
And yet this cradle is the most useful
and, in a way, the most inhabited
cradle in the world. Day after day,
and year after year, it is the recipient
of more small wayfaring souls than
any other cradle in the world. In it
the real children of sorrow are placed,
and over it more tears are shed than
if it were an open grave.
It is the place where annually 1,200
foundlings are placed, many of them
by mothers who are too helpless or
too unfortunately environed to be
further able to care for their child,
and the misery which compels it
makes of the little open crib a cradle
of tears.
The interest of this particular cradle
is, that it has been the silent witness of
more truly heartbreaking scenes than
any other cradle since the world began.
For nearly thirty-five years it has stood
where it does today, ready-draped, open,
while as many thousand mothers have
stolen shamefacedly in and, after looking
hopelessly about, have laid their
helpless offspring within its depths.
For thirty-five years, winter and
summer, in the bitterest cold and the
most stifling heat, it has seen them
come—the poor, the rich; the humble,
the proud; the beautiful, the homely—and
one by one they have laid their
children down and brooded over them,
wondering whether it were possible
for human love to make so great a
sacrifice and yet not die.
And then when the child has been
actually sacrificed, when by the simple
act of releasing their hold upon it and
turning away they have actually allowed
it to pass out from their love
and tenderness into the world unknown,
this silent cradle has seen
them smite their hands in anguish
and yield to such voiceless tempests
of grief as only those know who have
loved much and lost all.
The circumstances under which this
peculiar charity comes to be a part of
the life of the great metropolis need
not be rehearsed here. The heartlessness
of men, the frailty of women, the
brutality of all those who sit in judgment
in spite of the fact that they do
not wish to be judged themselves, is
so old and so commonplace that its
repetition is almost a weariness.
Still the tragedy repeats itself, and
year after year, and day after day the
unlocked door is opened and dethroned
virtue enters—the victim of
ignorance and passion and affection,
and a child is robbed of an honorable
home.
The Racing Trust
BY THOMAS B. FIELDERS
THE only Trust that has the sincere
and earnest and unfaltering
support of the daily press
is the most audacious, the most grasping,
the most immoral of all trusts. This
is the Racing Trust. There are hundreds
of trusts in this country. All
corporations that have eliminated or
lessened competition to a marked degree
are called trusts. It is asserted,
commonly, that such combinations are
against the laws of the states that form
the Union and are in opposition to the
Federal Constitution. If the Beef
Trust or the Sugar Trust or the Standard
Oil Trust have advocates among the
daily newspapers of the country, these
advocates are not earning their salt,
to say nothing of their salaries. The
only support they have the courage to
give is silence. Yet it has to be proven
that these trusts have infringed the
law.
In the case of the Racing Trust there
is no doubt. There is none to deny
that it is an absolute monopoly. It
conducts business in open defiance of
the law and the Constitution. It has
the avarice of a miser, and the impudent
shamelessness of a courtezan.
All who will help to fill its maw are
received with open arms. Lacking
morals, it expects none of its patrons.
Within its portals the scum of humanity
is made as welcome as the cream.
It has its rules, but these are without
and beyond the law, though, curiously,
they are enforced by so-called guardians
of the law. The Beef Trust, by
its rapacious methods, may make vegetarians;
the Racing Trust makes outcasts,
who, sometimes, rise to the dignity
of convicts. The Beef Trust
shuns advertisement; the Racing Trust
welcomes it. Any reputable undertaking
must pay heavily for the support
of the press; the Racing Trust
gets such support in columns per day
for a ridiculously small subvention.
The press poses as a teacher of morality.
In the case of the Racing Trust it
plays the part of a panderer without
getting the price insisted upon by that
unutterable in any other walk of life.
Americans believe that they possess
a quality of humor that is far superior
to that which bears the hall-mark of
any other nationality. ’Tis a comfortable
belief, for it enables them to
live cheerfully under conditions which
would not be tolerated elsewhere.
There are several kinds of humorists
among us, and of these the men who
make inadequate laws, or laws which
they know will be broken, and the men
who break them and go unpunished
are worthy of more and of a different
sort of attention than they receive.
People growl at the Beef Trust on account
of the high prices of beef,
though Mr. Garfield, who was instructed
by the President to investigate that
Trust, has said that its profits are only
moderate.
What of the profits of the Racing
Trust? Monte Carlo is described invariably
as the most delectable gold
mine in the world. In ordinary gold
mines the vein may be “pinched out”;
in Monte Carlo it runs on forever.
Games made by gamblers for gamblers
are called games of chance. There
is little humor in your gambler, else he
would recognize the absence of chance.
Many thousands have tried to “break
the bank” at Monte Carlo. Nobody
has succeeded, for while play is conducted
there honestly, the games are
of the “sure thing” variety, as the percentage
is always in favor of the bank.
But the shareholders of the Casino at
Monte Carlo are satisfied with twenty
per cent. per annum on their investment
and, sometimes, get less. And
let it be remembered that in conducting
their business they do not break
the law.
The Racing Trust would scorn to
accept anything so paltry as twenty
per cent. on its investment, yet it is a
law-breaker for seven months of the
year, on six days of the week, and in
the course of time, doubtless, will
break it on the seventh day of the week
also.
Laws against gambling have existed
from time beyond count, just as
they have existed against murder and
other crimes against public welfare.
The Constitution of the state of New
York prohibited all kinds of gambling
until 1887. In that year the Legislature
passed the “Ives Pool bill.”
Ives was a member of the Legislature
from this city. Except that he piloted
this particular bill through a legislature
which was paid to adopt it, his
name would have been forgotten. The
bill called by his name suspended the
provisions of the Penal Code relating
to gambling at race-tracks. It limited
racing between May 15 and October
15. It limited racing upon any
track to thirty days. It permitted
bookmaking upon the tracks. In return
for enormous privileges the racing
associations were to pay to the
state five per cent. of their gross receipts.
The law confined gambling to
the tracks, and in order to take full advantage
of it, and also, of course, to
improve the breed of racing stock,
philanthropists of the convict stripe
opened tracks where racing was conducted
at night as well as by day,
in winter as well as in summer. The
manner in which racing was conducted
became a public scandal. The horse
was the principal factor, and, generally,
was used as a means to an end.
There were, of course, owners and trainers
and jockeys who were honest, even
under the Ives Pool law, but these
were very much in a minority. The
“sport” reeked with dishonesty.
Horses were “pulled,” trainers and
jockeys were “stiffened.” Some of
the racing officials not only winked at
“crookedness,” but took part in it.
Unless the starter of those days had a
piece of every “good thing,” it did not
“come off” if he could prevent it.
None talked of the improvement “of
the breed” except with tongue in
cheek. “Jobs” were discussed, after
the event, as if they had been meritorious
performances. When these were
the work of trainers and jockeys the
bookmakers were derided; when they
were planned and realized by bookmakers
the latter were cursed. There
was much cursing in those days,
as there was much reason for it, but
the profanity was not due to the failure
of honest, but dishonest effort.
Women as well as men were allowed to
bet, and the race-tracks were hotbeds
of debauchery. The great body of those
who were interested in racing was beyond
the pale. The refuse of the country
camped in New York while the
orgy lasted, and so obnoxious did these
bandits make themselves that an organized
effort was made to induce the
constitutional convention which met
in 1895 to cleanse the state of the filth
which was bred by the Ives Pool law.
This convention appointed a committee,
whose duty it was to prepare
an address to the people of the state.
The address dealt with the work of
the convention. The committee called
attention to the anti-gambling amendment
adopted by the convention in the
following language: “The passion for
gambling to which the system of lotteries
formerly ministered has found
fresh opportunity under the so-called
Ives Pool bill, and, under color and
pretext of betting upon horse races, is
working widespread demoralization and
ruin among the young and weak
throughout the community. We have
extended the prohibition against lotteries
so as to include pool-selling,
bookmaking and other forms of gambling.
It is claimed that this provision
will array in opposition to the
proposed Constitution a great and unscrupulous
money power; but we appeal
to the virtue and sound judgment
of the people to sustain the position
which we have taken.”
This address was signed by Messrs.
Joseph H. Choate (Ambassador to
England), Elihu Root, H. T. Cookinham,
Elon R. Brown, Chester B. McLaughlin,
Milo M. Acker, Daniel H.
McMillan and M. H. Hirschberg.
The anti-gambling amendment,
which was adopted by the convention
with only four dissenting votes, was as
follows:
“The delegates of the People of the
state of New York, in convention assembled,
do propose as follows:
“Section 10 of Article I of the Constitution
is hereby amended so as to
read: ‘No law shall be passed abridging
the right of the people peaceably
to assemble and to petition the Government
or any department thereof;
nor shall any divorce be granted otherwise
than by judicial proceedings; nor
shall any lottery or the sale of lottery
tickets, pool-selling, bookmaking or any
kind of gambling hereafter be authorized
or allowed within this state, and
the Legislature shall pass appropriate
laws to prevent offenses against any of
the provisions of this section.’”
The “great and unscrupulous money
power” to which Mr. Choate and his
associates alluded was that of the racing
associations. Their power was felt
in the convention, and some of those
who discussed the amendment prior to
its adoption claimed that it was offered
at the suggestion of one set of
gamblers (poolroom keepers) against
another set of gamblers (the racing
associations). This was true enough.
The racing associations were as grasping
then as they are now. Their members
claimed that the poolroom was a
nefarious and demoralizing influence.
Why? Because it prevented the racing
associations from having a monopoly of
the petty as well as the big gamblers’
money—of the cash of those who had
not time to go to the races as well as
of those who were unable to go. The
engines of the law were stoked up and
run full tilt against the poolrooms at
the behest of the racing associations;
therefore, in self-defense, the poolroom
keepers were anxious that all gamblers
should be placed on the same level;
hence the anti-gambling amendment
to the Constitution. Mr. Telusky, who
offered the amendment as a resolution,
said that if any member of the convention
“can name one man in the
state of New York that is in the bookmaking
business that is not a thief, a
blackguard or an ex-convict, I will
withdraw my resolution. I say, Mr.
President, every bookmaker in the
state of New York, no matter where he
comes from, is nothing but an ex-convict,
a cracksman, a pickpocket, a thief
of the lowest character, and these men
come here and desire to shut this
(amendment) out because the Legislature
of a few years ago legalized a certain
kind of gambling, and they are
trying to protect them.”
Mr. Edward Lauterbach paid his
compliments to the racing associations
in plain language. “Their nefarious
establishments,” he said, “have
been erected from Montauk Point to
Niagara Falls, and the state treasury
has received and distributed to the
county fairs a few miserable shekels,
which it has reserved as its share of the
plunder. Why, for every dollar that the
state has received, it has expended ten
dollars to support those who have become
inmates of its prisons by reason of the
weak policy so pursued. You are all
familiar with the terrible temptation of
this alluring vice. The passion of
gambling is pandered to in this fashion
in the most insidious manner. Exaggerated
accounts of great winnings
are presented to the readers of every
journal. Tens of thousands of young
men and women have been hurled to
their ruin through the instrumentality
of the state that should have protected
them. Gambling has already
been made unlawful. If anyone desires
to legalize any one branch of gambling
by the suggestion of proposed
amendment (to the anti-gambling
amendment), let us say to him, Never.
Let us pass this amendment, so that,
once enacted into a law, it may carry
out its beneficent purpose and not
prove a sham and a deceit. Just as it
was as reported let us have this amendment—no
subterfuge, no change, no
alterations; make no halfway work.
Sweep the whole brood together—gamblers,
pool-sellers, bookmakers, all the
racing fraternity—into oblivion forever.
Pass this amendment now, as it is,
unaltered and unchanged. True horse
fanciers—the Bonners, the Lorillards,
the Belmonts, the Keenes and the rest—will
thank you for the protection
you thus afford to their legitimate pursuit.
Only the gambler, who should
be a pariah and an outcast, and not
the state’s associate, will have cause
for regret.”
It was said at the time that the
racing associations and the bookmakers
had collected a fund of $700,000,
and intended to use it in buying
enough votes in the convention to
defeat the anti-gambling amendment.
Who said it? The newspapers. True?
Not at all likely. The racing associations
were able to raise such a fund,
but would have got little assistance
from the bookmakers. The latter were
an asset of the racing associations
and knew it; they must be taken care
of. ’Twas said, when Mr. Jerome was
at Albany championing the Dowling
bill, that the gamblers of New York
had contributed $100,000 for the purchase
of the Black Horse Cavalry in
the Legislature. The press gave Troy
as the headquarters of the gamblers’
committee. There was no such committee.
The gamblers of New York,
including Canfield, who had more at
stake than any other gambler, did not
contribute a dollar for the purpose of
killing the Dowling bill. The latter
was passed with surprising ease in
Assembly and Senate, and had become
a law before the “clever division”
had begun to think of the possibility
of such a result. This law, in the hands
of Mr. Jerome, has proved rather embarrassing
to the gambling fraternity,
and may give him an opportunity of
distinguishing himself in a manner
after his own heart before many weeks
have passed.
The anti-gambling amendment to
the Constitution was ratified by a popular
majority of nearly 90,000 votes.
Some of the voters believed, doubtless,
that it would eliminate betting on
race-tracks. These forgot that the
amendment was of little worth unless
the Legislature made such gambling
an offense and also made a punishment
to fit the offense. The Legislature
which followed the adoption of
the Constitution was “open to reason.”
How much money was required to
salve its conscience I do not know, but
the manner in which it replied to the
demand of the popular vote shows that
it was dishonest. By the anti-gambling
clause of the Constitution it was
ordered to “pass appropriate laws to
prevent offenses against any of the
provisions of this section.” Instead
of obeying such mandate it adopted
the Percy-Gray law, which makes
gambling in poolrooms a felony and
gambling on race-tracks a misdemeanor.
In other words, if the keeper of a poolroom
takes a bet on a horse race he
commits a felony and can be sent to
jail, for according to the law he has
committed a penal offense, whereas
if a bookmaker accepts your money on
the same race he does not commit a
felony and you are at liberty to publish
yourself as a poor sort of creature
by attempting to recover your money
by civil action. Class legislation? It
looks like it. But class legislation is
unconstitutional. That is the general
opinion, but in this particular case
many thousands of dollars have been
spent in an effort to discover whether
or not the present racing law is unconstitutional,
and the dollars have been
thrown away.
The situation would be amusing did
it not demonstrate the power of money.
To the average mind it would seem as
if the constitutional convention had
barred all kinds of gambling, particularly
gambling on race-tracks. Yet,
under the fostering care of the Racing
Trust, the volume of gambling at race-tracks
is at least thrice as great today
as it was in 1895. Before the convention
met the Racing Trust was permitted
to do business for five months
in the year; now it does business for
seven months. Under the Ives Pool
law, which was wiped out as vicious,
the tracks were limited to thirty days
of racing; now the Jockey Club does as
it pleases in the matter of dates.
Under a law which is, upon its face,
unconstitutional because it discriminates,
the Racing Commission, a state
institution, has the power to issue or
refuse licenses. The Racing Commission
is under the control of the Jockey
Club, and the latter is the ruler of the
racing associations. The Jockey Club,
of which Mr. August Belmont is the
head, is lord of all it surveys in the
metropolitan circuit, to say nothing of
the Bennings race-track, in which a
majority of the stock is owned by Mr.
Belmont. Racing began at Bennings
on March 23, and its dates are not included
in the seven months of racing in
the metropolitan circuit.
In this circuit there are seven tracks,
not counting the Buffalo track, which
is controlled by the Racing Trust.
The track at Morris Park, the most
picturesque race-course in the United
States, has been relegated to obscurity,
as it was not owned by the Racing
Trust, but was leased at an annual
rental of $45,000. Belmont Park,
which is owned by Mr. August Belmont,
the head of the Racing Trust, has
taken its place. The associations
which are controlled by the Racing
Trust are capitalized as follows:
Westchester Racing Association (Belmont Park)
$1,500,000
Queens County Jockey Club (Aqueduct)
700,000
Metropolitan jockey Club (Jamaica)
550,000
Coney Island Jockey Club (Sheepshead Bay)
525,000
Brooklyn Jockey Club (Gravesend)
500,000
Brighton Beach Racing Association
300,000
Buffalo Racing Association
200,000
Saratoga Association for the Improvement of the Breed of Horses
50,000
Total
$4,325,000
These figures were obtained from the
Secretary of State, the Hon. John F.
O’Brien. In any calculations that
may be made the capitalization of Belmont
Park should be eliminated and
the rental of Morris Park, $45,000, substituted
for $1,500,000, in order to
show how thriving a concern the Racing
Trust is. It will be understood, of
course, that the capitalization of these
concerns may be a trifle, just a trifle,
higher than the actual value of the
said tracks and appurtenances, except
in the case of the Saratoga track, which
was built solely “for the improvement
of the breed of horses.”
For the right to do business on these
tracks the Racing Trust pays, or is
supposed to pay, to the state five per
cent. upon the gross earnings of said
tracks. Among the duties of the
Racing Commission is the supervision
of these receipts. The commission consists
of Messrs. August Belmont, John
Sanford and E. D. Morgan. Mr. Belmont
is the president of the Westchester
Racing Association (Belmont Park),
and the largest owner of stock in the
Racing Trust. Mr. Sanford is the
power at Saratoga, and does not race
until the season opens at the Spa.
Attached to the Racing Commission
is a State Inspector of Races. Until he
was appointed to a position in the Internal
Revenue Department the place
was filled by Charles W. Anderson, a
colored man. Reports of gross receipts
are made to the State Comptroller
by the racing associations and
by the State Inspector of Races. It
is not impossible that the latter official
takes such figures as are offered to him,
and it is difficult to imagine that he
ever objected to them on the score of
inaccuracy or any other score.
The reports of gross receipts made
by the members of the Racing Trust
to the State Comptroller for the years
1900, 1901, 1902, 1903 and 1904 are as
follows (the figures were obtained
from the State Comptroller, the Hon.
Otto Kelsey):
1900.
1901.
1902.
1903.
1904.
Coney Island Jockey Club
$494,895.06
$640,327.97
$820,184.18
$903,128.84
$854,421.20
Brooklyn Jockey Club
474,887.88
593,472.72
761,394.65
790,054.07
731,559.26
Brighton Beach
307,311.30
407,611.75
502,940.25
559,348.00
626,837.10
Westchester
323,041.23
432,187.86
571,178.79
623,131.27
566,143.62
Saratoga
137,248.21
272,612.24
359,342.40
439,649.49
393,550.09
Metropolitan
355,270.70
307,396.03
Queens
164,555.14
225,417.69
324,177.82
282,900.88
218,729.16
Buffalo
62,519.80
60,857.63
106,489.05
Totals
$1,901,938.82
$2,571,630.23
$3,401,737.89
$4,014,340.88
$3,805,125.51
The reader will notice the exactness
with which the racing associations
make up their gross receipts—the
“twenty cents” of the Coney Island
Jockey Club, the “nine cents” of the
Saratoga “Association for the Improvement
of the Breed of Horses,”
and so on. The reader will notice,
also, that the gross receipts for last
year were $209,215.37 less than those
of 1903, though the press was unanimous
in declaring that last year’s
racing was the greatest, which means
the most profitable of all years. The
five per cent. paid to the state last year
by the Racing Trust amounted to
$190,256.27. This five per cent. is
“the penny in the dollar” alluded to
by Mr. Edward Lauterbach in his address
to the constitutional convention.
But ridiculously small as it is, why does
the Racing Trust give it to the state?
Simply as a sop to the rural legislator
and his constituents. The dweller
in cities may lack some or many of the
virtues, but when it is necessary to
find the highest plane of parsimonious
hypocrisy one must needs pay a visit
to the rural districts. This five per
cent., which smacks so much of Iscariot’s
thirty pieces of silver, is divided
among such agricultural societies as
give annual fairs, and to farmers’ institutes.
Ostensibly it is intended for
the improvement of agriculture; in
reality much of it is given as purses for
trotting races at the said county fairs.
Without the support of the rural element
the Racing Trust would not have
succeeded in getting the adoption of
the Percy-Gray racing law.
The profits of the Racing Trust are
enormous. Take the Coney Island
Jockey Club, for instance. Mr. Leonard
Jerome, who was a sportsman who
never made money out of sport, built
the Sheepshead Bay track at a cost of
$125,000. The grounds of the Coney
Island Jockey Club belong to the
people and were filched from them by an
act of the Legislature. Improvements
were made since the track was built,
but the actual legal belongings of the
Coney Island Jockey Club are worth
far less than the amount of the capital
stock, which is $525,000. The gross
receipts of the club for last year, as
reported to the State Comptroller, were
$854,421.20. Of what did these consist?
It was said that the attendance
on “big days” last year numbered
from 40,000 to 50,000. Put it at 35,000,
and the money taken in for admission,
boxes and clubhouse seats and
boxes and for “field” admissions
would amount to about $80,000. Then
there are the bookmakers. On more
than one day last year there were 120
members of the Metropolitan Turf Association
in the ring. They paid $57
each for the privilege of “laying the
odds.” Back of them were a hundred
layers who paid $37 each. There were
fifty others who paid $27, and as many
more who paid $17 each. Programs
to the number of 40,000 at ten cents
each make $400. Then there are the
bar and restaurant privileges, the commissioners
and many other means of
income, so that the income of one such
day could not be less than $100,000.
There were thirty days of racing at
Sheepshead Bay last year. The attendance,
according to the daily press,
was “enormous,” “record-breaking,”
“large” or “highly satisfactory.” The
“highly satisfactory” days were the
smallest of the season, which shows the
difference between English as it is understood
by “sporting” writers in the
daily press and those who are able to
distinguish the difference between fact
and fancy. If the average daily attendance
were not more than 12,500,
it and the other sources of revenue
would mean about $35,000 per day.
Thirty days’ racing at $35,000 per day
$1,050,000
Expenses of all kinds at $10,000 per day
300,000
Balance in favor of the club
$750,000
The sum of $10,000 per day will
cover all the expenses, including added
money, at Sheepshead Bay. According
to such calculation and taking the
club’s figures of gross receipts as correct,
the result would be like this:
Receipts for thirty days’ racing
$854,421.20
Expenses for thirty days’ racing at $10,000 per day
300,000.00
Balance in favor of the club
$554,421.20
These figures show that the profits
of the Coney Island Jockey Club for
thirty days of racing are more than the
full amount of its capital stock. Some
years ago, when racing was conducted
on a smaller scale, this stock paid 56
per cent. per annum. Unless a lot of
money is packed away in a reserve
fund, the stock should pay dollar for
dollar now, and the state still gets the
“penny in the dollar.”
Much of the income was contributed
by the chief factors at a race-course—the
men who own and race horses; and
one of the most interesting features of
a race meeting, to members of the Racing
Trust, is the fact that the men who
own the horses are racing for money
contributed, in great part, by themselves.
The money added by the
racing associations is often less than
the amounts furnished by owners of
horses that have been entered for a
race. Much stress is laid upon the fact
that $2,601,160 was won in purses last
year on the tracks of the metropolitan
circuit and Bennings. This amount,
large as it may seem, was so distributed
that very few owners paid much
more than expenses, while a far larger
number lost much money. Four hundred
and thirty-eight stables or owners
were among the winners, and a glance
at the following table will show that
the losers were in a large majority.
OWNERS AND WINNINGS
Herman B. Duryea
$200,043
James R. Keene
164,940
E. R. Thomas
151,210
Sydney Paget
133,441
Newton Bennington
104,210
John A. Drake
99,480
S. S. Brown
82,472
R. T. Wilson, Jr.
69,115
John E. Madden
55,830
Goughacres Stable
50,084
Thomas Hitchcock, Jr.
44,540
W. B. Jennings
34,605
M. L. Hayman
34,330
John Sanford
33,435
W. B. Leeds
32,320
L. V. Bell
31,520
J. W. Colt
23,130
Waldeck Stable
23,050
M. Corbett
22,445
J. L. McGinnis
21,400
Andrew Miller
20,155
Frank Farrell
19,980
W. C. Daly
18,495
“Mr. Cotton”
18,135
“Mr. Chamblet”
17,605
P. Lorillard
17,290
J. E. Widener
16,970
C. F. Fox
16,810
A. L. Aste
16,705
S. Deimel
16,605
J. McLaughlin
16,490
E. W. Jewett
16,165
August Belmont
15,745
Columbia Stable
15,317
W. Lakeland
15,220
Boston Stable
14,765
H. T. Griffin
14,555
F. R. Hitchcock
14,405
J. G. Greener
14,200
Albemarle Stable
12,895
T. L. Watt
12,755
E. E. Smathers
12,695
N. Dyment
11,900
U. Z. De Arman
11,080
Oneck Stable
10,600
John J. Ryan
10,515
W. M. Sheftel
10,515
W. L. Oliver
10,425
P. J. Dwyer
10,382
Joseph E. Seagram
9,305
Mrs. J. Blute
9,305
David Gideon (9 horses)
9,230
H. C. Schulz
8,910
W. F. Fanshawe
8,775
J. L. Holland
8,765
C. E. Rowe
8,475
F. R. Docter
8,440
J. W. Schorr
8,295
R. H. McCarter Potter
8,060
National Stable
7,805
J. C. Yeager
7,720
H. J. Morris
7,600
Fairview
7,405
T. D. Sullivan
7,335
Frederick Johnson
7,260
Chelsea Stable
7,090
In addition to the foregoing, 155
stables won between $1,000 and $7,000
each. Some of these stables had as
many as a dozen starters who “figured
in the money.” Stables or owners
to the number of 217 won between
$100 and $1,000 each. Of this number
fifty-four were in the $100 class.
The average winnings for the 438
stables were $5,938, which sum tells
a doleful tale for a majority of them,
as the expenses of one thoroughbred
and its owner for a year cannot well
be squeezed into $5,938, unless the
horse’s diet is restricted to hay and
the owner lives at a Mills hotel. Mr.
Keene’s winnings were $164,940. That
amount about paid his racing expenses
for the year.
All of which, I think, goes to prove
that the Racing Trust is more anxious
to make and increase enormous profits
than to improve the breed of horses.
And everybody is aware that such
enormous profits are made only by
violation of the Constitution of the
state, and that, while gambling in poolrooms
and elsewhere has been made
difficult and dangerous, no effort has
been made by the authorities to interfere
with it on the tracks of the Racing
Trust.
Dependence
NOT that there are not “other eyesIn Spain” as bright as yours can be,But that no eyes in all the worldCan ever seem as bright to me.
Not that there are not lips as sweetKissed daily by each separate wind,But that no other lips to meCan seem so sweet, can be so kind.
Sweetheart, I own myself your slaveBecause you own yourself my thrall;I—with so little, dear, to give;You—who so gladly give me all.
Reginald Wright Kauffman.
What Buzz-Saw Morgan Thinks
BY W. S. MORGAN
PATERNALISM is preferable to
infernalism.
When the gentleman with the
cloven hoof collects what is coming to
him there won’t be many bag barons
left.
The Beef Trust does business on a
sliding scale; the price they pay slides
down, and the price they sell at slides
up.
A pauper lives off the public, and so
do those who make their money
through special privileges granted them
by law.
As Bryan is losing prestige with the
people he is becoming more popular
with the plutocrats.
The United States Senate should be
rechristened and called the Corporations’
Cuckoo’s nest.
The way to make the cuss-toady-ans
of public interests more amenable to
our will is to have ready an Imperative
Mandate lariat.
Yes, the trusts are in the people’s
pasture, and they got in over Republican
and Democratic fences.
It is better that a whole lot of business
shall be “hurted” than that the
trusts should continue to rob the people
and be a standing menace to free
government.
The Governor of Kansas is right;
building a state refinery is not Socialism;
it is competition, just what the
Populists stand for.
The trusts also have “big sticks.”
The Standard Oil Company has outlawed
itself and ought to be “swatted”
off the face of the earth.
The bandit bag barons are going to
have some hard sledding from now
on.
If the concentration of wealth means
the destruction of the republic, then
the people have a right to stop the concentration
of wealth.
The fact that the trusts are now in
control of the railroads is another reason
why the Government should own
them.
An economic principle that does not
rest upon a moral basis should receive
no support from honest men.
Every applicant for a special legalized
privilege is an enemy to good government.
It is the men who are always hammering
at the doors of legislation for
special privileges that want “something
for nothing.”
The greatest power in the world is
that which controls the volume of
money, and the Republicans are talking
about turning that power over to a
few private buccaneers.
When the very rich men are called
by their right names there will not be
such a scramble to get rich.
It is to be hoped that in this fight
with the trusts and railroad corporations
that “big stick” of Teddy’s will
not prove to be a stuffed club.
If Uncle Sam wants to mix his credit
with anybody’s let him mix it with
that of the farmers. Their security is
better than bonds.
More that half of the men in the
United States Senate wear corporation
collars.
If all the big thieves were sentenced
to jail we should have to turn the little
thieves out in order to make room for
them.
I challenge anyone to point out a
single instance in this country where
the national bankers have made a
recommendation in the interests of the
people. It is always a jug-handled
proposition in their favor.
One of the biggest pieces of foolishness
in this old world of ours is for
Uncle Sam to make free money for the
bankers to loan, and then borrow that
same money for his own use.
Unless there is some change made in
the manner of selecting United States
senators, that body of corporation attorneys
would better be abolished.
So insignificant was the last Presidential
candidate of the Democratic
Party that a great many voters have
already forgotten his name.
The country is now ready for the
election of United States senators by
the people instead of the corporations,
but that body of august lawmakers will
block every effort in that direction.
If there is no other way to prevent
corporations from violating the law
they should be denied its protection,
just like other outlaws. A dose of that
kind of medicine would soon bring
them to their milk.
The decision of the North Sea Commission
seems to be based upon the
principle (if it has a principle) that a
naval commander has a right to fire
at anything that frightens him.
If the packers didn’t steal their immense
fortunes from the people, whom
did they steal them from?
A “reasonable rate,” as interpreted
by the railroad companies, is all the
honey except barely enough to keep
the bees from starving to death.
There has already been a good deal
of water squeezed out of Standard Oil
stock; now, if some process can be
brought forward that will squeeze the
water out of the oil the company sells,
it will be better yet.
The great trusts have shown that
they have no regard for “vested rights.”
They have “frozen out” the smaller
concerns without mercy. Why, then,
should they object to a little of the
“freezing” process, if the Government
or states decide to go into the oil business
on their own account?
If the Socialists insist on turning the
world over at one flip, like turning a
pancake, before they can start the
show, they are following a mighty cold
trail. If they are willing to go by the
usual road of evolution there is no reason
why they and the Populists should
not work together, for awhile at least.
The man who is wholly controlled by
sentiment is not fit to vote. Voting
is a business proposition and demands
both intelligence and good judgment.
It seems to be the policy of lawmakers
in this country to grant special
privileges to the rich and powerful, and
to permit them to impose upon the
weak, and this condition will remain
just so long as men will submit to being
robbed.
The men who prate most about
“vested rights” and “law and order”
are the ones who violate them most.
When the Government thought the
express companies were charging the
people too much for the transmission of
money it went into the money-order
business itself. What was the result?
Why, the express companies had to
come to the rate established by the Government
or get none of the business.
It was purely a matter of business, and
that’s the way to do it.
It was the “battle-scared” bag
barons that discredited government
paper money during the Civil War between
the states. Yet it is from
these men that we hear most about
“national honor” and “public credit.”
They are the same class of men of
whom honest old Abe Lincoln said:
“They ought to be hanged”; and the
country would have fared better ever
since if they had been.
Nearly every civilized nation in the
world owns all or a part of its system
of railroad and telegraph lines, and
they have no disposition to turn them
over to private corporations. The
United States alone permits a few
wealthy buccaneers to levy taxes on
the people which no government would
dare do. An increase of three cents per
bushel on corn alone means a tax of
fifty millions of dollars to the men who
produce that cereal.
Until recently the national bankers
paid the Government one per cent.
on the money the Government loaned
them. Then they claimed that it was
too much to pay for the use of the
money and the credit of the Government,
and Congress reduced the rate
to one-half of one per cent. But the
banker has no conscientious scruples
about loaning this money to the people
at eight and ten per cent.
The railroad companies admit that
they violate the law by granting rebates,
but set up the claim that if they
did not do it they would lose their
share of the traffic. It is a very singular
plea. It is not half as just as the
one that a man steals because he is
hungry, or because his wife and children
are suffering for the necessaries of
life. “We violate the law because
somebody else does,” say the railroad
companies. Suppose that every criminal
would set up the same excuse for
the commission of crime. And ordinary
criminals have a better right to
make that plea in palliation for their
crime than the trusts and corporations
have. If, as they admit, the railroad
managers are so dishonest that one
must violate the law because another
does, if there is no way to restrain them
except to turn the whole matter over
to them, and permit them to pool their
earnings so that one thief can watch the
other thieves, it is about time to abolish
the whole system of private ownership
and for the Government to take
charge of the lines of transportation.
The railroad companies make out the
worst kind of a case against themselves.
They admit that there are enough law-breakers
among them to demoralize the
whole system.
The public has heard a good deal
about legislation that would discourage
capital from being invested in the state
enacting the legislation. It has been
said that the passage of laws calculated
to regulate the business of large corporations
would have the effect of driving
them away. Kansas just now is giving
us an object-lesson along this line.
The laws recently passed by the Legislature
in that state are perhaps the
most drastic in their nature ever
passed by any state for the control and
regulation of corporations, yet the prospect
is that more capital will go to that
state than ever before. Although the
state is now engaged in building an oil
refinery, there are several other independent
refineries projected, with a
good prospect for more to come. It is
evident that capital has not as much
to fear from the people, when it is
legitimately invested and operated, as
it has from the arrogant aggressions of
such enormous concerns as the Standard
Oil Company that will brook no
competition. If capital will be satisfied
with a fair profit it has nothing to fear
from the people, while, on the other
hand, independent concerns that operate
legitimately in any line of business
have much to fear from the great trusts
that have been built up through favors
granted them by railroads and municipalities.
Flying the Kite
HUDSON—Do you think they will be able to get along on $10,000 a year?
Budson—They ought to. With that much money they should manage
to run in debt for another ten thousand.
The rich man may defy the laws of the land and keep out of prison, but when
he gets dyspepsia from eating things out of season he realizes that he
can’t defy the laws of nature.
The Heritage of Maxwell Fair — SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS — CHAPTER VIII — CHAPTER IX — CHAPTER X
BY VINCENT HARPER Author of “A Mortgage on the Brain”
Maxwell Fair, an Englishman who has amassed a
colossal fortune on ’Change, inherits from his ancestors
a remarkable tendency to devote his life to some
object, generally a worthy, if peculiar one, which is
extravagantly chivalrous. The story opens with Fair
and Mrs. Fair standing over the body of a man who
has just been shot in their house—a foreigner, who
had claimed to be an old friend of Mrs. Fair. Fair
sends her to her room, saying: “Leave everything to
me.” He hides the body in a chest, and decides to
close the house “for a trip on the Continent.” Fair
tells the governess, Kate Mettleby, that he loves her;
that there is no dishonor in his love, in spite of Mrs.
Fair’s existence, and that, until an hour ago, he
thought he could marry her—could “break the self-imposed
conditions of his weird life-purpose.” They
are interrupted before Kate, who really loves him, is
made to understand. While the Fairs are entertaining
a few old friends at dinner, Kate, not knowing that
it contains Mrs. Fair’s blood-stained dress, is about to
hide a parcel in the chest when she is startled by the
entrance of Samuel Ferret, a detective from Scotland
Yard. He tells her that he, with other detectives, is
shadowing the foreign gentleman who came to the
Fair house that day and has not yet left it. He persuades
Kate to promise that she will follow the suspect
when he leaves the house and then report at Scotland
Yard. As soon as Ferret is gone she lifts the lid off
the chest, drops the package into it, and, with a
shriek, falls fainting to the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Fair
run to her aid. On being revived Kate goes to Scotland
Yard, where, in her anxiety to shield Maxwell
Fair from suspicion, she inadvertently leads the detectives
to think that a crime has been committed at
the Fair house. The two detectives are piecing
together the real facts from the clues she has given,
when Ferret is summoned to the telephone by his
associate Wilson, whom he had left on guard in the
home of the Fairs.
“HELLO, Wilson!” He began
speaking to his distant
lieutenant. “Yes—yes.
No? By George! Yes, yes. Good,
good! With you in ten minutes.”
He hung up the receiver and to
Sharpe’s impatient gesture replied:
“Wilson says the quarry is up.
Mendes the Cuban has just left the
house, with Thorpe following to see
where he goes. And now there’s the
very devil to pay. Wilson is hot on the
trail. So I’m off.”
“If anything goes wrong, call me
up,” said Sharpe, keenly enjoying the
play of the big fish that he would
have safely landed by a day or two.
“Right you are! Ta, ta!”
Ferret lost no time in reaching the
Fair mansion. The guests were still
at dinner and he could see no trace of
excitement from without. Wilson reported
in detail the sudden appearance
of the Cuban, his hurried flight up the
street with Thorpe at his heels—and
all quiet inside.
“Who the devil fired that shot, and
at whom was it fired, and what did
pretty Kate mean by her stammering
protests that no crime had been done?
Was the saucy little minx deeper after
all than they thought?” asked Ferret
of himself. He must have a good look
at that library—that was the key to
the thickening mystery. So he stole
up the stairs, but before he could investigate
the fatal library he heard
the family coming up from dinner and
fled to the attic, passing Kate’s door,
which stood ajar, and through which
he saw her on her knees with her face
buried on the bed.
As those whose memories run back
thirty years know, Sir Nelson Poynter
owes his baronetcy to his financial
ability and the fact that he made
his huge fortune honestly and always
stood ready to sacrifice himself
at times of threatened panic on
’Change. Essentially a “City man,”
when he became a country gentleman
he established himself in Surrey,
where he could keep an eye on Capel
Court and reach the office in a little
time.
To Drayton Hall, his princely mansion,
it might be objected that it
was a trifle too pretentious, with its
battlements and towers, but no fault
could be found either with its hospitality
or with the kindly old gentleman
and dear old lady who dispensed
it. A week-end at Drayton was always
charming.
On the terrace at Drayton on the
day following that on which so much had
transpired at Fair’s town house, Travers
was smoking and reading the paper,
when Allyne sauntered out of a window
and approached him.
“What! Not gone to church with
the rest, Travers?” he said reprovingly.
“Dry up, idiot!” replied Travers, not
looking up from his paper. “Church?
Why, hang it, did you ever hear the
curate here read? He’s the worst I
ever heard—except the vicar himself.
And their sermons—lord! I wonder
where Poynter ever unearthed these
two mummies.”
“Oh, come, I say; no heresy now,”
protested Allyne, sitting on the balustrade
of the terrace. “But, I say, old
chap,” he added, knocking the newspaper
out of Travers’s hand, “what
a funk poor Fair has got into! What
the deuce is in the wind, anyway?”
“Give it up,” answered Travers,
growing serious at once; “but I know
one thing. You and I have some
decidedly nasty experience of some
sort in store for us tonight, see if we
haven’t. You are going up to town
with him this afternoon, he tells me.
So am I.”
“Yes,” answered Allyne, also grown
serious; “he wants us to spend the
night with him in Carlton House
Terrace—going over his papers, that
sort of thing. The poor devil is
regularly bowled over for some reason.
Queer turn for him to take—the
coolest man I ever met, you know.
I’m half inclined to believe that the
speculative strain of the last year has
been too much for him—in fact, that
his mind is threatened; I do indeed.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Travers impatiently.
“And for heaven’s sake,
don’t let him suspect that you feel
in any such way about it! Why, man,
he cares no more about the ups and
downs on ’Change than you care about
my books. I was with him the day
he dropped eighty thousand pounds
in Kaffirs a few years ago, and I could
not get him to care about it as much
as he should have done, for it was no
laughing matter with him at that
time. No, Allyne, my boy, Fair’s
troubles are not financial—and as for
women——”
“Yes, that’s the difficulty,” broke
in Allyne. “If it were almost any
other man, one might say, ‘Find the
lady in the puzzle’; but Fair is an
iced edition of Sir Galahad. But whatever
it is, he has a horror of some kind
eating out that big, warm, pure heart
of his. And, Travers, old man, we
must get at the truth tonight and save
him.”
“Right you are,” answered Travers
heartily; “but I have my doubts as
to our ability to get inside of him.
He’s so beastly—But hush—here
they come from church.”
As he spoke Fair and Lady Poynter
strolled quietly up the gravel path
toward the terrace, followed shortly
by Sir Nelson, who was pointing out
his splendid flowers to Mrs. March.
“Good morning,” said Travers and
Allyne in concert, rising to meet them.
“You naughty boys,” scolded little
old Lady Poynter, shaking a finger
at the unregenerate pair. “Not at
church—and such a lovely sermon,
too!”
“All about loving one another,”
commented Mrs. March, coming up.
“Lovely? I should say so.”
“And delivered in a voice of tepid
silk,” remarked Fair, with so much
spirit that Travers and Allyne looked
at each other relieved.
“By Jove, you know, the vicar’s
voice is a bit trying after the first
five minutes, is it not?” said Sir
Nelson, who invariably slumbered after
the period he mentioned, during the
sermon.
“Well, trying or not, we all eat, do
we not?” remarked Lady Poynter.
“So I’m off to hurry luncheon, for I
want you all to drive over to the
Derwents’ this afternoon, and I can’t
persuade Mr. Fair to stop tonight. In
half an hour—and till then be
good.”
The good old soul went away into
the house to stir up the servants,
and Sir Nelson, taking Fair’s arm,
said: “Fair, what was it you wanted to
say?”
“Ah, yes,” answered Fair, smiling;
“if Mrs. March will forgive me for
leaving her to be bored by these two
schoolboys, I’ll have a little chat with
you, Sir Nelson, in the library.”
“Pray don’t mind me,” jauntily
returned Mrs. March. “I am going
to send Mr. Allyne off to the church
to fetch my prayer-book, which I
left there, and Mr. Travers and I always
get on famously. Trot away, all
of you.”
“Come on, Fair,” growled Sir Nelson,
pulling at Fair’s sleeve. “Allyne,
you seem to be in luck—it’s only two
miles to the church! Come, Fair.”
They walked along the terrace, and
Allyne, glaring at Mrs. March, vaulted
over the balustrade and began the hot
walk to the parish church through the
park.
When he was out of sight Travers
ventured to turn to Mrs. March, who
had remained annoyingly silent, although,
he felt, she must know, after
receiving his letter by the hands of
her maid that morning, that his
reason for desiring to see her was as
great as his diffidence in stating it.
He looked long at her and wondered
how she could be so cruel—and so
beautiful. At last she looked up at
him as if only now realizing that he
was there.
“Now, my dear Dick, we can have
our little say without any such ridiculous
rendezvous as you suggested in
your overwrought note. What seems
to weigh upon us? Tell me—that is,
if you think you must.”
“Mrs. March—” he began, but she
stopped him with a protesting hand.
“Mrs. March?” she complained, with
a delightful little contraction of her
brows. “I thought we had agreed that
I was to be the Dorothy of our childhood?”
“If you like,” he answered, saying
to himself that if she knew what was
in his mind and intended to deny him,
then the cruelty of her present tormenting
winsomeness was beyond belief.
No. She could not be so base—she
must know what he was about to
say to her. But failure had grown into
the very marrow of his bones, so it was
with unspeakably hopeless hope that
he went on. “If you like. Well, Dorothy,
it will be no news to you—this
that I am now to tell you—I love you.
I am sure you must have known this
for a long time. You have also known,
I trust, why I have remained silent.
I had the best possible of all reasons for
not speaking—I was a beggar without
a penny, without a lucrative calling
and without prospects.”
“Oh, Dick, Dick,” Mrs. March broke
in, taking his hand in both of hers;
“are you going to spoil our dear old
partnership in this way? I’m so sorry!
Be a dear, good boy, tell me of your
new play. Have you finished it yet?
I’m sure it will prove a tremendous
success.”
“No,” he returned rather sharply,
“no; you must hear me, Dorothy. No
man can associate with you long without
growing to think of you as a woman
altogether different from others. You
are the cleverest woman in London.
You fascinate because you puzzle and
mystify men. Even women cannot
resist you. They are attracted to you
much as the men are—because they do
not comprehend you, because they find
you different. But, Dorothy, my love
for you draws its inspiration from a
source wholly unguessed by your other
friends. I love you because you are
the one woman in my world who sees
the pathos and the meaning of life—my
life and any life that fails and
drowns and dies in the rush and the
madness of existence. I have discovered
the real you—the you behind the
clever, fashionable, worldly Mrs. March—and
I claim you by right of discovery.”
“Why, Dick, what nonsense!” she
cried, with a not very successful effort
to smile down the tears that his searching
look and his throbbing words had
brought to those great hazel eyes of
hers. “What nonsense! I am only
an ambitious woman of the world,
happy in the possession of social influence.
I am hard and cold and calculating—and
anyhow, really, dear,
dear boy, you must not think of this
any more. I mean it.”
“To some you may seem worldly,”
he went on, ignoring her protest; “but
I know you. And I was forgetting to
justify myself by telling you that I
now have the right to speak. I am
no longer penniless, Dorothy. I am
now in a position to ask you to share
my life on the plane to which you are
accustomed. Will you listen?”
“I must not—I cannot—don’t be
cruel, Dick,” she answered. “And
aren’t you a bit hard on me when you
imply that I would listen to you now,
but that I would not have done so
when you were poor? Am I so mercenary?”
“No,” he said warmly; “but I should
have despised myself had I spoken
when I had not the means to support
you. Dorothy, my love for you began
the night you had that poor Bohemian
boy play the violin at your little party.
The idiots who crowded your rooms
gambled all the time the marvelous lad
was playing; but I saw you whisper to
him when he finished one sublime number,
and noted how his thin, white face
lighted up with gratitude and hope at
whatever it was you said to him. Well,
you know he died of consumption in
my chambers a few months afterward.
Among his papers I found the letter
you wrote him inclosing ten pounds.
That letter revealed you to me. It
was glorious! It was you! From that
time I have loved you with a love
passing the love of women. Poverty,
which until that time had seemed
rather a welcome refuge and protection
to me, now became a hell, for it
alone barred me from the hope of
speaking to you. But today I am a
comparatively rich man. Dorothy, be
my wife.”
“Oh, Dick, Dick, this is awful—don’t!”
she cried, shrinking from him.
“Pray, pray, stop—really you must
not go on!”
But Travers had waited too long and
too yearningly for this hour to be
lightly deterred from stating his whole
case. So he proceeded eagerly: “You
heard last night of Fair’s phenomenal
success? Well, he told me after you
had gone that it had also made me
rich. Some time ago he bought my
poor father’s library from me—more
to assist me than from any need of
those particular books—and I left the
money with him for investment. He
now tells me that he bought Empire
Mines shares with it and that my profits
amount to fifty thousand pounds
sterling. Of course I thought that this
was merely a bit of his wonderful generosity
and altogether an afterthought—the
result of that erratic and impulsive
unselfishness which puzzles all who
know him—but he assures me that he
can prove from his broker’s books that
he bought stock for my account at the
time that he purchased his own, before
it was at all certain that it would
turn out such a staggering success. At
all events, there the money is to my
credit at Burton’s bank.”
“Oh, I am so glad, dear fellow!”
cried Mrs. March. “What a king he
is!”
“Isn’t he? A knight, a brother—one
in a million!”
“Well, Dick,” went on Mrs. March
after her first flush of pleasure and surprise,
“I can’t tell you how I rejoice
with you in this great good fortune;
but truly, dearest friend, our love can
never be more than that of two tried
old friends who have known each other
always. So be good.”
“Only one thing can ever make me
believe that love like mine will be denied,”
replied Travers with great intensity;
“I shall press my sacred claim,
Dorothy, until you tell me that there
is another whom you love.”
Mrs. March waited in evident distress
for a few moments, and then,
speaking very low and painfully:
“Poor old Dick, it hurts me terribly
to wound you—but, Dick, there is
another. I am not free.”
“Good God!” leaped from the
man’s lips as he started forward with
the iron entering his soul. “Mrs.
March—with all my heart I beg you
to forget me and my mad words of
this day. I—I—I— Good-bye!”
“God bless you!” she murmured,
crushed by his suffering. “And, Dick,
of course I have told you this in confidence.”
“Certainly,” he answered, raising his
hat and moving toward the house. At
the window of the library he stopped,
and then came slowly back to where
she stood thinking. “Tell me one
thing more. Dorothy, it is not this
clown Allyne, is it?”
Mrs. March thanked him with her
eyes for this bit of humor, which she
knew must have cost him much, and
exclaimed, with an effort to meet his
own pleasantry: “Heavens! No!”
“Thank goodness for that,” replied
Travers, with a sickly smile. “I could
not have borne that,” and he rushed
off into the house to face final failure
on the one only day when success
seemed to have dawned dimly with
more of promise than had ever shone
in the east of his hope.
Freddy Allyne, as he was called
by his friends, whose name was legion,
prided himself upon having established
a reputation for levity, when his
real character was that of a philosopher
strongly inclined to pessimism. On
no one did he enjoy palming a false
idea of himself more than on himself.
Life has many of these jesters whose
motley serves but poorly to hide from
others, and not at all from themselves,
the fact that this fool is as wise as
some whom he could mention and
whom it is the delight of his soul to
play with as he chooses. Between
him and the clever woman who was
now standing on the terrace at Drayton
Hall there had always been kept
up a particularly active warfare, for
Mrs. March was the one woman in
London who did not fear him, and,
while this nettled him and sometimes
seriously annoyed him, it fascinated
and led him on. A score of times the
wise had foretold a speedy match
between these two, who were never so
widely parted at a dinner-table but
they pursued each other without
quarter to the very finish of an argument.
Until quite recently Mrs. March herself
had vaguely but persistently
assumed that Allyne would declare
himself sooner or later, and at that
time had somewhat doubted her ability
to deny the man whose brilliant intellect,
generous impulses and fundamentally
noble nature had come to
mean more to her than she dared or
wished to allow herself to realize.
But some little time before this
Allyne observed that a change had
come to pass and that she held herself
distinctly aloof from him whenever
they were alone, and had even
gone so far as to refuse to be at home
to him unless she was certain that
others would be by. He interpreted
this departure as evidence of her feeling
that the time had arrived when
their friendship must go further—or
safeguard itself by greater restraint.
From a safe distance in the park he
had watched her as she and Travers
talked—with not the remotest notion
of the subject they were discussing.
When at last he saw Travers raise his
hat formally and retire into the house,
and Mrs. March remain leaning against
the parapet on the terrace, he thought
the hour had come.
“What? Back so soon?” cried Mrs.
March, seeing him coming across the
stretch of lawn toward her. “You do
walk fast, don’t you?”
“The church was shut,” replied
Allyne, with his customary bantering
tone and approaching close to her.
“Yes, the church was shut, and I fed
the swans in the pond instead.”
“But you surely have not walked
four miles and fed swans all in ten
minutes?” asked Mrs. March, clearing
for action, and keenly appreciating the
relief that this diversion afforded to
the strain of the past few minutes.
“Oh, dear me, no,” drawled Allyne
innocently. “You see, I remembered
that they always shut churches after
service, so I knew that this one would
be shut. Awfully pretty swans of
Poynter’s, too. Ever seen them?
They float about the pond like a lot of
duchesses in a drawing-room—and
fight over the crumbs like them, also.”
“And you didn’t fetch my prayer-book,
after all?” she inquired reprovingly.
“You are a devoted squire
of dames, I must say!”
“It was of my devotion to the fair
in general and to you in particular that
I came back to speak,” he began,
unable, in spite of his firm resolution,
to approach the subject except with his
usual air of audacious impertinence
and frivolity. “You must have observed
that I bestow my society upon
you in a way that causes half the
beauties of the gay world of which I am
so conspicuous an ornament fairly to
die of jealousy. Well, my dear Mrs.
March, I do so because you are the
only woman who does not bore me
too much. Point by point as our acquaintance
grew I came to feel that
you are as free from disqualifying
features as any woman can be—in
short, you know, I’ve almost made up
my mind to think fairly well of you.”
Then followed an interview the like
of which it is safe to say has never
been heard before or since. In substance
and seriousness it was the same
as Travers’s, for Allyne, too, had been
suddenly made independent by Fair’s
investment of a small sum intrusted
to him, but it was, on the surface, only
a remarkable example of his characteristic
nonsensical raillery and light
chaffing. That the result was the
same as it had been in Travers’s case
may be inferred from the fact that
when he left her with a painful effort
at nonchalance he turned and came
back to her to say:
“Tell me just one thing. It’s not
that grave-digger, Dick Travers, is it?”
Mrs. March jumped at the immense
relief of being able to laugh at this
fling, and fairly shouted: “No—horrors!”
“Thank heaven for that!” returned
Allyne. “Now I sha’n’t have to commit
suicide.”
With one of his inimitable grimaces,
he hurried into the house and she did
not see the solitary tear that trickled
down his cheek when he shut himself
into his room and threw a pillow at
his image in the mirror, crying: “You
old fool!”
Mrs. March stood where he had left
her, and her sense of humor mercifully
prevented her dwelling on the unhappy
side of the situation. And it
was not until years afterward, when
all three could bear to speak of it,
that she related to both of them what
had occurred.
“Truly Englishmen bear off the
palm,” she mused after the first shock
had passed. “All other men lay their
hearts at a woman’s feet—but an
Englishman condescends to let her
know that he doesn’t mind allowing
her to use his name if she has a mind
to do so! Well, Baggs, was he there?”
Her last words were addressed to
her maid, who had been watching for
an opportunity to approach her mistress
for some minutes.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered. “But
I had to wait a little while before the
gentleman came. Here is a letter,
ma’am.”
“And what was the gentleman like?”
asked Mrs. March, taking the letter.
“He were a dark, foreign gentleman,
ma’am, with a black mustache.
He spoke Eyetalian lovely, ma’am—just
lovely!”
Mrs. March laughed at Baggs’s discriminating
appreciation of well-spoken
Italian, and then remarked
carelessly: “It must have been Mr.—But
there, I haven’t told you his
name, have I? Did the gentleman
send any message by you—verbally,
I mean?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” replied Baggs
with embarrassment. “He said as
how he embraced your feet, ma’am,
and kissed your footsteps, ma’am,
and—beg pardon, ma’am—the gentleman
kissed me, too, ma’am, he did.”
“You mustn’t mind that, you know,
Baggs,” answered Mrs. March, smiling.
“You know, foreign ways are different
from ours.”
“They are, ain’t they just, ma’am?”
assented Baggs, remembering some
other things which she did not think
it necessary to report—as well as a
more palpable evidence which she did
not mind mentioning. “They is different,
as you say, ma’am, for the gentleman
gave me a sovereign.”
“That was good of him,” remarked
Mrs. March. “You shall have another
sovereign to put on top of that
one. You will find my purse on my
dressing-table—help yourself.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, ma’am,”
blurted out Baggs, wondering if her
lady were just right in the head.
“But see here, Baggs,” said Mrs.
March as the maid was about to obey
her last command and go and find the
purse; “Baggs, you have been doing
a great many confidential things for
me lately. Don’t lose your head and
make yourself ridiculous now. I have
done nothing about which I might not
have the whole world hear. If I were
engaged in anything wrong or unseemly,
do you think for a moment
that I would be such a fool as to make
my servants my confidants? No. So
remember that if you speak of my
affairs to anyone, you will simply lose
your place and your good character,
and not inconvenience me in the least
possible degree. Now do you understand
me?”
“I understand you, ma’am, perfect,”
replied Baggs, mentally calculating
whether her mistress took her
for an absolute donkey or was merely
joking.
“I’m glad you do understand—that
will do,” said Mrs. March, and Baggs
with a courtesy disappeared into the
house.
The instant that she found herself
alone Mrs. March tore open the letter
feverishly. She started violently at
once, and when she steadied herself
enough to finish reading it she fell back
upon the garden seat, where she sat
in manifest consternation and doubt.
For some moments she seemed to
be in the clutches of a horrible
anxiety which baffled all effort to
decide upon action of any sort. Then
she heard voices approaching, jumped
up, tearing the letter nervously into
two or three pieces which fell upon
the seat beside her, and ran into the
house.
The voices that had frightened Mrs.
March off were those of Sir Nelson and
Maxwell Fair, who now came round
the corner of the tower, with heads
bowed in very earnest talk. The elder
man had been the most intimate friend
of the younger man’s father, and on
the death of the latter Sir Nelson had
assumed an informal guardianship of
the erratic and wilful son. But while
others were disappointed and baffled
during the earlier years of Maxwell
Fair’s manhood, Sir Nelson Poynter
swore by him and predicted that all
would be well in time. Fully had Maxwell
Fair’s more recent career justified
the confidence of his father’s old friend.
It was with the shock of surprise, as
well as the natural sorrow of a friend,
that Sir Nelson had just been hearing
Fair speak in indefinite terms of some
impending catastrophe that was to
terminate in blight his brilliant and
successful life.
“By Jove, my boy,” Sir Nelson was
saying as they reached the terrace
and began pacing up and down, “it
distresses me unspeakably to hear your
father’s son talking in this way. Of
course, I shall do all I can—whatever
you may ask of me—but don’t you
think that you should make a clean
breast of everything? It is nothing new
to see a Fair acting from some high, compelling
motive, which strikes us ordinary
men as quixotic, but your fathers
always did whatever they did in the
open. They may have been enthusiasts
and unpractical crusaders, but
nobody could complain that they
fought under a mask. Their object
may sometimes have seemed chimerical,
but in the struggle to reach it they
wore their coat-of-arms where men
could see it, and proclaimed their
principles with trumpet blasts. Out
with it, man! What in God’s name
is it all?”
“I thank you, Sir Nelson,” quietly
replied Fair, taking up his argument
and appeal at the point where Sir Nelson
had interrupted him. “You have
relieved my mind by consenting to act
as my executor. You will, I think,
find my affairs in tolerably good order.
Everything goes to Miss Mettleby—everything,
so there will be little to do
in the way of settlement.”
“To Miss Mettleby?” exclaimed Sir
Nelson, confronting Fair with perfect
consternation and disapproval. “To
Miss Mettleby, you say? She is your
children’s governess, is she not? My
God, boy, there has been no—your
wife and children, you know! What
will be thought of this?”
“I have settled five hundred thousand
pounds on Mrs. Fair and the
children—long ago, as I think you
know, so I can leave the rest to Miss
Mettleby with justice and propriety,”
answered Fair calmly.
“What if you have?” cried out Sir
Nelson, growing vexed at the fellow’s
amazing stubbornness and lack of
decency, as he thought. “What if
you have settled a considerable sum
on your family? Do you suppose you
can leave the bulk of your estate to a
dependent girl, a young woman in your
employ, without causing no end of
evil surmises and comment reflecting
on your memory—yes, and the young
person’s honor? What can you mean
by such a mad determination? Come,
be reasonable, I beg of you. Make a
suitable provision for this girl, if you
think it due her for her faithful service
in your family, but, for heaven’s sake,
don’t leave the poor child a legacy
of defamation, as you most certainly
will, if you persist in carrying out such
a preposterous course.”
“By the time that you come to
settle my estate, sir, I shall have become
an object too contemptible for
even malice to stoop to notice,” replied
Fair, poking his stick into the gravel
and giving his words the tone that
meant that he had thought out all the
objections which his old friend had
raised.
They walked back and forth once or
twice before Sir Nelson responded with
a laugh, which he tried to make genuine:
“My word, what arrant nonsense
we have been talking anyhow! Settling
your estate, eh? Why, bless us
all, I shall have been under the chancel
stones twenty years before you retire
from business to begin to enjoy
middle age in the country. Come,
come, dear fellow, pull yourself together,
do!”
“Ah, my best of friends,” answered
Fair, with a voice full of sincerest love
and respect, but also of firmness and
stem determination. “You ought to
know my father’s son better than to
suppose that anything can swerve me
from a purpose once it has become a
fixed idea—but,” he added, suddenly
turning to the old man with great tenderness,
“by all that is rational, I do
suppose that it is unfair to keep you in
the dark in this way. I think that I
should tell you plainly what is in my
heart.”
“Depend upon it, Maxwell, it will
be best for both of us if you will tell
me fully and honestly—everything,”
eagerly returned Sir Nelson, slapping
Fair on the back in that hearty, old-fashioned
way of his. “Come, now,
what the devil ails you?”
“Well, then, sir,” said Fair, taking
Sir Nelson’s arm and pushing him back
toward the seat, “sit down while I tell
you—I am too nervous to do so.”
The old man sat as he was requested,
and watched his young friend as he
walked up and down before him, formulating
his ideas in order to present
them clearly and consecutively. It
was some time before Fair had so far
shaped his thoughts as to be willing to
speak. But when he had done so he
stopped on his next turn in front of Sir
Nelson and said very quietly:
“Now I am ready. In carrying out
the one compelling and absorbing purpose
of my life I have been made the
most wretched and most misunderstood
of men. I have sternly brushed aside
love, hope, joy—everything which
means life to a passionate and intense
nature like my own. But this is an
old story. I had come to think that
the dwarfing and cramping restraints
of my self-imposed life-work were
second nature—more, that the life I
was leading was the only life possible
to me. I would have died fighting for
the triumph of my idea—they would
have found my body in the last trench
after the battle was done, and nobody
had been the wiser, no one would ever
have known what a falsely-true life
had been mine, had not this last horrible
sacrifice been required by the insatiable
purpose which has sucked
away my life.
“I had asked for nothing from fate,
but the right to live and die with my
secret unbetrayed. I had begged of
God nothing more than that I be suffered
to seal with my death the loyalty
to poor Janet that I had striven to
make of my whole life. But no.
Even this beggarly scrap of comfort
has been denied to me—and by the
most unspeakable irony of fate, I find
myself confronted with the damnable
necessity of throwing away all these
dumb years of denial and self-effacement
in order to do Janet and the
children the only service which still
remains possible for me to do. Is
it not horrible, Sir Nelson? I had
thought to make my life of some little
good by offering it to protect a woman
and her children—and now, lest they
be buried by my own ruin, I must undo
everything that I have done during all
these years.”
He paused and looked at his old
friend, who showed a growing concern
that indicated he began really to believe
Fair had lost his reason.
“Sir Nelson, I see that you do not
comprehend me—perhaps I am beginning
at the wrong end. Yes, I am,
of course. Let me give you some concrete
facts before asking you to follow
me. Well, then, I tell you that I,
your old friend’s son, the man whom
you have helped and watched over, as
if I were your son—I, Sir Nelson, have
committed a crime against society,
against nature, against life!”
“Crime?” exclaimed the old Baronet,
springing to his feet and grasping
Fair’s hand, thoroughly convinced that
he was acting under some mental and
nervous excitement that had proved
too much for his reason. “Crime?
Good God, boy, you are mad! I can’t
believe this—I do not believe it!”
“Wait, wait,” pleaded Fair, again
forcing Sir Nelson to the seat, and trying
to speak with the utmost composure.
“Do not misunderstand me,
sir. If I had told you that I had wilfully
and deliberately violated my conscience
or done some blackguardly
thing, I should hope that nothing would
induce you to believe me. I have done
this awful thing, of which I now confess
that I am guilty, with a clean heart—if
you can understand me. Society
must and assuredly will wreak its sudden
and fatal vengeance upon me for
my crime, but I want you, sir, to believe
that when men are reviling me
for my act I shall be flinging that very
deed at the feet of my eternal Judge
and asking Him to accept it in atonement
for my blackest faults—and if
God fails to accept this thing that I
have done, then am I damned indeed
forever. But you do not understand
me?”
“On my word, I do not!” answered
Sir Nelson, filled with very serious misgivings.
“You are ill—dangerously
ill.”
“On the contrary,” replied Fair
spiritedly, “I was never better in my
life. My mind was never so clear as it
is at this moment. Listen, Sir Nelson.
When this crime is made public—which
will be tomorrow in all likelihood—I
want you to shield Mrs. Fair and the
children by announcing that Janet is
not my wife, that I never married her—and
that the poor children are not
my children at all. Do this—it is the
truth—and save innocent beings from
the disgrace of being thought to be my
flesh and blood.”
In spite of his efforts during this
speech, Fair had yielded to the intoxication
of his sublime grief, and when
he ceased speaking he was holding the
old man’s hand and the tears were
streaming down his face.
“I sha’n’t put up with this,” declared
Sir Nelson with much sternness,
rising like a very determined man. “I
shall have Sir Porter Hope down by
special train at once. You are bad, on
my honor, very bad indeed.”
“Spare Sir Porter Hope an unnecessary
journey,” answered Fair, having
regained control of himself. He went
on laughingly: “I tell you, I am perfectly
well. Have you a cigar?
Thanks.”
He lighted the cigar, which poor old
Sir Nelson was only too eager to give
him as an evidence that the fellow was
not totally mad, and with great deliberation
puffed it slowly and carelessly,
making rings of the smoke and praising
the quality of the tobacco. Not until
he had got him back to calmness and
some measure of reassurance did he
permit Sir Nelson to resume the discussion
of the question which both of
them felt was the last one they would
ever discuss—the final question of
Fair’s complex and much agonized life.
“But in heaven’s name,” began Sir
Nelson, pulling Fair down on the seat
beside himself, “what is the meaning
of all this? Think what rubbish you
have been asking me to believe. Janet
not your wife? The children not your
children? You don’t want me to believe
this! You don’t ask me to believe
that Janet is your——”
“No!” roared Fair, jumping up and
with so much warmth that Sir Nelson
was frightened; “no!—and don’t say
the word either! On my honor as a
gentleman, I tell you, sir, that no
daughter in her father’s house, no sister
under her brother’s roof, was ever safer,
purer, more sacredly held than Janet
has been under mine. Her children
have had more than a father’s care and
love from me, and it is only to save them
all from the disgrace and odium which
will attach henceforth to my name
that I now ask you to proclaim the
truth—to publish the fact that my polluting
blood does not run in their veins.”
“But,” protested the Baronet, with
manifest disgust and irritation, “what
can be the explanation of this amazing
state of affairs? If she is not your
wife—and not——”
“Don’t say it!” again commanded
Fair. “I tell you, sir, I am not in a
mood to be exasperated just now—and
the very word would madden me
when I think of what that woman has
been to me and I to her.”
Sir Nelson always afterward remembered
how noble and elated by an almost
supernatural uplift Fair had appeared
as he stood there, warning him not to
profane the tabernacled secret of his
life. The old man’s heart went out to
the tortured and defiant fellow.
“Never fear, dear boy,” he began
with a feeble voice; “I shall not speak
or think it of her. But you ought to
help me to speak the truth of all this
madness by telling me just what it is.”
Fair was deeply moved by his old
friend’s sorrow and unwonted display
of feeling, so he sat down by him and
warmly shook his hand. After a few
moments of quiet, he said in low, firm,
deliberate tones:
“Sir Nelson, pardon my weakness in
showing you my heart just now, but
the fact is, sir, that I have been under a
strain—and on that one point I have
always been naturally sensitive. I owe
you an apology also for delaying to advise
you fully and without emotion of
the exact situation in which I now find
myself inextricably placed. Let me
tell you the whole story. It will seem
incredible to you—until you recollect
that I am the son of my father and that
my heritage was what you alone know
that it was.”
Sir Nelson blew his nose, and finding
nothing particular to say, blew it again;
and Fair saw something over the terrace
wall that took his attention until
the dear old chap said with considerable
heartiness in his voice again: “All
ready, dear boy—forgive an old fellow—who
loves you.
“I first met Janet in Rio Janeiro, at
which port her father was British Consul,
and I was happily able to take the
unfortunate gentleman for a long cruise
on my yacht when his health broke
down. He died on the yacht and we
buried him at sea. Janet returned to
England, and, although I loved her
madly, I did not speak, because that
wretched Buda-Pesth escapade of mine
was still unsettled. So I completely
lost sight of Janet and the years passed.
“Six years ago I was in a small South
American seaport acting as consul for
Jack Trowbridge, who was down with
yellow fever. One day when I was
lazily killing time—and big flies—in
the dusty, stuffy little consulate, Janet,
whom I, of course, thought in England,
and whom I had not seen for so long,
came in.
“She was a wreck. She had a boy
of two or three years clinging to her
skirts and a child in her arms. You
may imagine, sir, my awful shock on
seeing her thus. Her story was short.
She had married a Cuban planter of
very large fortune in Jamaica, and
after two years of suspicion and dread
and suffering she had learned that the
scoundrel had deceived her, that he
had a wife living in Cuba, and that, in
consequence, she had no legal or other
claim upon him. She was penniless.
Hearing that I was cruising in those
parts, she learned through the British
consuls at different places just where I
then was, and she turned to me. I
made investigation and found the
damnable story told her by her supposed
husband only too true. His
wife in Cuba was his only lawful wife—and
Janet was a nameless and helpless
victim of his lust and perfidy. I
cabled for my yacht, which was being
renovated at New York, and soon had
Janet and her two children on their
way to England.
“I scarcely saw them during the
long and bitterly sad voyage, but at
night, as I stood at my trick at the
wheel, and in the warm, dull days as I
sat smoking in silence on deck, a
thought grew and grew upon me. The
little boat tossing about on the limitless
waste of waters seemed to become
the symbol of my aimless, drifting,
worthless life. And then, one glorious
tropical night, with the great stars
burning sublimity and eternity into
my heart, the blood of all my fathers
seemed to rush hot and quick and insistent
through all my being. I had it!
I had at last found the Purpose, the
Object, the Aim for which my life
yearned, the Thing in waiting, for
which all the common interests and
passions of young men had failed to
hold me, the One Thing, which, by
absorbing my life, by becoming my
way of defying and despising the
world, would prove me my father’s son.
“The next day I told Janet. We
were standing alone looking out over
the sea—and to both of us it seemed
that the sea and life and eternity were
alike trackless and tending nowhither.
I told her, Sir Nelson, that she should
not land in England the outcast, nameless
victim of a blackguard’s infamy,
but as my proclaimed wife. Her
children would never know that they
were fatherless. I had been away from
home so long that I could get myself
believed when I returned with a wife
and family—and the world would
never know that I was a wretched man
cut off by a vow like a monk’s vow
from the joys and the heart of life.
That is all, Sir Nelson; that is all.”
“All! All!” exclaimed Sir Nelson,
grasping Fair’s hand and wringing it
hotly. “My God, man, I never heard
of anything quite so great! My word,
sir, if you were not Tom Fair’s son,
I could not believe such a sacrifice of
one’s life possible!”
“It is never difficult to do what one’s
nature demands,” replied Fair quietly,
adding with less calmness: “But it is
hard to see that all these years of work
are to come to naught. My life has
been wasted.”
“Not at all,” retorted the old man
eagerly. “Crime? Crime, you say. By
gad, boy, I’ll make you prove yourself
guilty in a court of law—and if you
do, then we will all know that you are
off your head!”
“The proofs of my guilt will not be
far to seek,” answered Fair, with a
disheartening coolness and an air of
ghoulish certainty.
(To be continued.)
Money and Prices
BY E. L. SMITH
MONEY is a creation of law.
Money is a measure of valuable
things or services.
Money is a measure of constant and
ever-varying capacity.
Money is not value in itself.
The divisor measures the dividend
by division.
Money measures property by division.
If the divisor increases as fast proportionately
as the dividend, the quotient
will remain the same.
When the amount of money increases
as fast proportionately as the property
to be measured or divided, the average
of prices will remain on a level; and,
although there will be constant fluctuations
in price among the different articles
to be measured or divided, the
average purchasing or measuring power
of the measure or the unit of value will
remain the same.
When the divisor increases faster
proportionately than the dividend, the
quotient will become smaller.
When the quantity of money increases
faster than the property or
things to be measured or divided, the
average of prices will rise.
When the average of prices rises, the
measuring or purchasing power of the
unit of value becomes less.
When the average of prices rises,
there is inflation of the money or currency.
When the quantity of property increases
faster proportionately than the
amount of money, the average of prices
will fall.
When the average of prices falls, the
money or currency is contracted.
All business interests are either produce
interests or moneyed interests.
A produce interest is an interest in
which the owner receives his pay for
his labor and the use of his capital in
produce.
A moneyed interest is an interest in
which the owners of the business receive
their pay for their labor and the
use of their capital in money.
A farm is a produce interest.
A railroad is a moneyed interest.
If the owners of a produce interest
wish any money, they sell their produce
and buy money.
If the owners of a moneyed interest
wish any produce, they sell their money
and buy produce.
When prices rise produce interests gain.
When produce interests gain, moneyed
interests lose.
When prices fall, moneyed interests
gain.
When moneyed interests gain, produce
interests lose.
Moneyed interests and produce interests
cannot both gain or both lose
at the same time.
When prices are falling, money can
be hoarded without loss.
When prices are rising, money cannot
be hoarded without loss.
A hoarded dollar has never yet paid
for a single day’s work.
If produce interests had not first
existed, moneyed interests never could
have existed.
An honest dollar is a dollar that is
willing to help produce something.
The Say of Reform Editors — THE MILEAGE ROLL OF DISHONOR
UNTIL the people who want reform
get together in an organization all
of whose members are substantially
agreed, and with this organization
elect a President and Congress, they will
never get from under the heel of monopoly.
Nothing can be done in a party which contains
the monopolists.—The Missouri World.
The United States produces 319,000,000
metric tons of coal a year, worth at the mines
$485,000,000, and costing consumers nearly
a billion dollars.—Exchange.
That little item of 515 millions, absorbed
mostly by the big corporations that own the
railroads, is the people’s tribute to Our “Chevaliers
d’Industrie.” When you come to
think of it, aren’t we a nation of bloomin’
chumps?—The American Standard.
Teacher—Johnny, how many legs has an
octopus?
Johnny—Seven.
Teacher—Why, Johnny, you ought to
know better than that. The meaning of the
word shows that it has eight.
Johnny—I know it used to have, but that
was before dad was elected to the legislature.
I heard him say he pulled a leg off
the octopus.—Wetmore’s Weekly.
Under government ownership alone will
it be possible to make railroad rates which
shall be just to all the people, and this is now
being generally recognized.—The Augusta
Tribune.
What means this general onslaught, all
along the line of the plutocratic press, upon
one William Randolph Hearst, Democratic
Congressman and late candidate for the
Democratic nomination for the Presidency?
Republican and Democratic advocates of
plutocracy vie with each other in the work
of sticking pins into Mr. Hearst. Have
these great newspapers been informed that
Mr. Hearst is sincere, is honest, in his fight
against the trusts? If so, their spontaneous
and unanimous attempt to disarm him can
be accounted for. The man who attempts
to tear down the screen which is held up,
mainly by these great newspapers, between
the people and their despoilers, is sure to get
the vials of their wrath poured out upon his
head.—The Dalton Herald.
One of these days there will be two Republican
Parties: one for government ownership
of the Kansas oil refinery and one
against it. Which are you going to stay
with?—Smith Center (Kan.) Messenger.
People of similar interests should flock
and work together, regardless of party name
or of past differences, either fancied or real.
The railroad people work together for their
own interests; and their party affiliations
have been and will be according to railroad
interests, regardless of party name. So with
corporationists in general, capitalists, etc.
Then why do not the people unite according
to their interests? The people of New Zealand
did, and routed the capitalists.—The
Medical World.
During the big coal strike, when Saint
Baer was obdurate, Mr. Roosevelt threatened
him with government ownership if he
did not give in to the strikers.
The threat was a regular pivot blow to
Baer, as good as any Professor Donovan
will teach Mr. Roosevelt. Baer cried foul,
but he went down and out all the same.
The lesson from America of how to knock
out an obstinate coal-mine capitalist was
not lost on the German Kaiser. Germany,
too, has its coal-mine Baers, and a big coal
strike is now on.
The Emperor has not only threatened the
owners with government ownership of mines,
but has gone to the extent of asking his
bankers if Germany would have any trouble
in floating the $250,000,000 in bonds to
make the purchase.—Wilshire’s Magazine.
Emancipate the farmer from the thraldom
of manipulated markets and the advice
of his dear friends who know so much better
than he does what he ought to do.—The
Southern Mercury.
Bishop Berkeley’s poem being translated
into Japanese, they pondered for
awhile on the words: “Westward the course
of empire takes its way,” then the little
cherry blossom worshipers shouldered their
knapsacks and started after the setting sun.
At last accounts they had got as far as Tie
Pass. None of them showed any intention
of stopping there. How much further their
empire will take its way nobody knows.—The
Nebraska Independent.
That labor and culture should go together,
that sweat and science should walk hand in
hand, that art and harvest work should
know each other for brothers, or that the
sense of beauty and the capacity to dig a
ditch should unite in the same personality,
seems impossible to all those whose capacities
are of the hothouse variety, and who
feel “lifted up above common things by reason
of their refinement.” But the changing
order, which is making or shaping a
world of reality to take the place of the
world of seeming, is bringing just this thing
to pass; and the time is not far distant when
the gardener’s shears and apron will be in
the possession of the man who writes art
criticism, while the man who paints masterpieces
will often be seen building fences.
The “superior person” will then be chiefly
interesting as an exotic, to be studied and
duly ticketed as “rare” by those who have
blood in their veins. Work is the very soul
of life; and the idler, cultivated or other,
has not lived in the past, does not live in the
present, nor will he live in the future. When
art and work are one and indivisible we shall
not even ask for philosophers to compensate
us for the illusions of life. Then the common,
transfigured, will satisfy our every
need.—Tomorrow.
No real battle between public rights and
special privileges ever comes on in simple or
unmistakable form. The crucial question
is always so complicated with other issues
as to bewilder men of the best intentions
and of good judgment who happen to be
interested on the right side of those other
issues. It is upon bewilderments like these
that conscious advocates of privilege depend
for dividing the forces of their enemy when
such a division becomes vital to them.—The
Chicago Public.
It was an ill-advised move when Oklahoma
joined the crusade against Standard
Oil. Mr. Rockefeller may decide not to
give her statehood.—The South McAlester
(I. T.) Capital.
Recent reports of big industrial concerns
show that they are having a good business
year, thirty-seven companies paying dividends
in March aggregating $24,000,000,
compared with $21,800,000 last year and
$19,800,000 the year before.—From weekly
circular letter of Henry Clews, Banker, No.
35 Wall Street, New York, dated March 4,
1905.
Yes, the trusts are doing well. It is easy
for anybody to make money if he controls
the buying and selling price of an article the
people must have. It may be a little surprising,
though, to some, to learn that the
trusts are faring even better now than heretofore.—The
Missouri World.
We wish well of every public man who
resolutely tries to do his duty. It matters
not what political party he may affiliate
with, if he is a friend of the people, we give
him our word of encouragement and Godspeed.
Among Democrats we find some
notable examples of progressive statesmanship
and some advocates of reform. The
Republican Party is not without some public
men whose works and words give evidence
of a desire to stand for the best type of popular
government. Yet every reformer in
the Republican or Democratic Party has to
spend too much time, energy and ammunition
in fighting the enemies within the ranks
of his own party. Mr. Bryan will wear his
life out in trying to overcome his enemies in
the so-called Democratic Party just as John
P. Altgeld wore his life away. Governor
La Follette always has war on his hands
with the corporation element in his own
party. And now that Mr. Roosevelt has
outlined a radical course, he is beset by powerful
opposition from high-up Republican
politicians who represent special interests.
He will not succeed in accomplishing much
so long as all his energy is taken up in fighting
the enemy at home. The very logic
of events will force the radical reformers all
into one party, and then the people will have
something to hope for.—The Kansas Commoner.
Politeness is the external part of gentility,
but it is often the principal weapon of
rascality. A rude rascal is never as dangerous
as a polite one.—The Seattle Patriarch.
Kansas will find it a big job fighting the
Standard Oil trust, so long as the trust is in
the national banking business and controls
the means of transportation. Still, the people
of Kansas, co-operating through their
state government, can make it hot for the
trust. The state can put $20,000,000 into
the fight, and with this sum can build railroads,
lay pipe lines and establish dozens of
oil refineries. Twenty million dollars is a big
sum, but is no more than the people of Kansas
pay in national taxes every two years.—The
Missouri World.
The magazines and big dailies are doing
the country a great service. They have
writers of ability; apparently these have
long chafed under the galling chains of
party manacles and are now glad to be free—glad
to try their strength and exercise their
taste and talents. Populists should secure
every advantage possible, strengthen their
organizations, keep these patriots closely
in touch, and at every possible point be
ready should a reaction come.
Again and again we have seen great
waves of reform sweep over the land, and
again and again we have seen the monopolists
catch a second breath, spit on their hands
and tie these good men down with party
thongs and convention rules and resolutions.
Once we felt sure of McKinley and Garfield.
Tom Ewing, Carlisle, McLean, Voorhees,
David Davis, hundreds and hundreds
of the brightest men in the land came to
the front for a time and then dropped back
when a reaction came.
Some of this reaction is due to the lack
of true patriotism, to a lack of courage, fortitude;
but whatever the cause may be,
Populists should be prepared for the back-set
and save as much advantage as possible.
At the present every man is our friend.
Almost without an exception the great
statesmen and editors are with us. For the
time being party lines are wiped out, Democrat
or Republican, North or South.
Populist, put your best foot forward!
You have pointed the way, the crowd has
taken the road, now be kind, be true, speak
carefully—do your level best.—The Joliet
News.
The President does not want to injure the
“System”; he only wants it to “tote fair.”
But the “System” does not want to “tote
fair.” Its authors did not create it for any
such commonplace purpose, and they will
resist to the bitter end the endeavor of the
President to halt the exploitation of the
people by the trusts and combines.
What may grow out of this resistance by
the “System”?
A split of the Republican Party into two
factions—into the “square deal” Republicans
and the “System” Republicans.—Berlin
(Pa.) Record.
As long as boys read every week that John
Doe or Richard Roe has made a fortune in
one day cornering wheat or corn, or some
other commodity, the gambling instinct in
the young will hardly subside. Take away
Mr. Doe’s profession by law.—The Smith
Center (Kan.) Messenger.
VOTED AYE
MEMBERS TO RETIRE
Republicans
Democrats
Union Labor
Daniels, Cal.
Bell, Cal.
Livernash, Cal.
Davis, Minn.
Breazeale, La.
Wynn, Cal.
Hunter, Ky.
Dinsmore, Ark.
Kyle, O.
Dougherty, Mo.
Morgan, O.
Emerich, Ill.
Smith, N. Y.
Foster, Ill.
Spalding, N. D.
Griffith, Ind.
Van Voorhis, O.
Hughes, N. J.
McAndrews, Ill.
Miers, Ind.
Richardson, Tenn.
Rider, N. Y.
Robb, Mo.
Robinson, Ind.
Shober, N. Y.
Shull, Pa.
Snook, O.
Wilson, N. Y.
Total
8
Total
19
Total
2
MEMBERS RETURNED
Republicans
Democrats
Adams, Wis.
Aiken, S. C.
Beidler, O.
Broussard, La.
Bishop, Mich.
Davey, La.
Brandegee, Conn.
Fitzgerald, N. Y.
Brooks, Col.
Goulden, N. Y.
Brown, Wis.
Hill, Miss.
Brownlow, Tenn.
Hunt, Mo.
Burke, S. D.
Legare, S. C.
Cromer, Ind.
McDermott, N. J.
Crumpacker, Ind.
McNary, Mass.
Cushman, Wash.
Maynard, Va.
Draper, N. Y.
Pujo, La.
Dresser, Pa.
Rainey, Ill.
Fordney, Mich.
Ryan, N. Y.
Gardner, N. J.
Sullivan, Mass.
Gillett, Cal.
Graff, Ill.
Grosvenor, O.
Howell, N. J.
Howell, Utah.
Hull, Iowa.
Humphrey, Wash.
Jones, Wash.
Knopf, Ill.
Lorimer, Ill.
Loudenslager, N. J.
McCleary, Minn.
Mann, Ill.
Marshall, N. D.
Martin, S. D.
Minor, Wis.
Overstreet, Ind.
Patterson, Pa.
Rodenberg, Ill.
Sherman, N. Y.
Smith, Iowa.
Snapp, Ill.
Southard, O.
Southwick, N. Y.
Sterling, Ill.
Sulloway, N. H.
Tawney, Minn.
Wachter, Md.
Weems, O.
Total
44
Total
15
DODGED
Republicans
Democrats
Harrison, N. Y.
Scudder, N. Y.
Total
Total
2
Birdsall, Iowa.
Adamson, Ga.
Bonynge, Col.
Bankhead, Ala.
Conner, Iowa.
Bartlett, Ga.
Dovener, W. Va.
Brantley, Ga.
Hamilton, Mich.
Gilbert, Ky.
Hemenway, Ind.
Goldfogle, N. Y.
Kennedy, O.
Hopkins, Ky.
Lafean, Pa.
Ruppert, N. Y.
Landis, Ind.
Sims, Tenn.
Miller, Kan.
Stanley, Ky.
Zenor, Ind.
Stephens, Tex.
Wiley, Ala.
Total
11
Total
12
GRAND TOTAL—GRABBERS AND DODGERS
Republicans
63
Democrats
48
Union Labor
2
—Collier’s Weekly.
The industrial barons pay the same sum
for a large as a small cotton crop. Just
enough to keep the planters’ help alive.—The
Appeal to Reason.
Alarmists who are forever crying about
“the dangers of Socialism” remind one of
that Scripture that tells of the fellow who
“fleeth when no man pursueth.” There are
comparatively few Socialists in the country.
And if certain reforms are consummated there
will be a less number. And there are mighty
few Socialists who are “dangerous.”
In this connection may be noted an incident
that occurred during the Cooper Union
lecture course at New York City. It was
claimed that the audiences, judged by their
applause, were Socialistic. So a vote was
taken. In one audience of 1,200 people
there were less than twenty Socialists. Then
this question was put to the audience:
“Those who believe the time has come for
the community to assert a larger control
over the public enterprises, such as the
trusts, railroads and public utilities, please
rise.” The entire audience arose.
There are no “dangerous classes” in such
an audience—a typical, intelligent public
gathering. “The people will wobble right.”
The people are discovering the wrongs in
government and they are finding that they
themselves are largely to blame for these
wrongs. They find that they have neglected
their rights. They have conferred special
privileges. They have permitted aggressions.
It is largely their own fault. They are beginning
to see that. They want to correct
their mistakes. They will correct them.
And those who cry “wolf” when the people
are trying to get back their own are more
dangerous than any others.—The Buffalo
Times.
“Populist” is from the Latin word populus,
meaning the people. “Populite,” which
is used to a considerable extent in the South
instead of Populist, is also from the Latin
word populus. The original meaning of the
words “populist,” “democrat” and “republican”
is substantially the same.—The
Missouri World.
Without vision a people perishes. The
need for “seers” is greatest in a democracy
where autocracy fails and the people must
fall back upon broad instincts, intuitive
reasoning and average intelligence. The
poet-seer is the highest type of the visionary.
His message comes in the form of rhythmic
speech which has the widest carrying capacity.
Poets, however, do not come into the
world by accident. The poet comes only
after preparation is made and reception is
assured. For support he can depend no
longer upon an indulgent king or upon patrons.
Today the people stand in place of
these. But as yet the collective mind has
not worked out the problem of protection
in spiritual properties. This is one of the
main problems America has to meet: to
create and sustain a race of poet-seers which
will stand in right relation to the people and
move in these broad lands as broad as they.—Tomorrow.
Monett, the Ohio lawyer, began the prosecution
of the Standard Oil trust when the
Government was fostering the trusts and
the courts knocked him out. Now the
Government begins to make signs that it is
against the trusts and another case has been
begun in Ohio. The courts will change
their sides. Monett was downed by Rockefeller,
beaten by the courts, and kicked out
of the Republican Party. A nod from the
President changed the whole situation.—The
Nebraska Independent.
Despite the fact that the Czar refused to
permit a delegation of workmen to present a
petition to him, he, realizing the havoc that
had been wreaked upon the people, finally
consented to have a delegation call upon
him and present their grievances. It may
be true that the delegation was not those
chosen by the men engaged in the original
movement, but it is also true that even for
appearance’ sake he had to go through the
formality of receiving a delegation of workmen,
and, at least to that degree, the new
departure has been recognized.
It is also of interest to know that, though
the Russian workmen have had no organization,
yet their strike has been declared at an
end by agreement, and that they are now
engaged in the selection of their representatives
in a mixed commission to determine
the following questions: A shorter workday,
an increase in wages, the right to organize,
and assemblage and freedom of speech.
Jointly, the people insist that the government
shall be based upon justice and the participation
of the people therein, regardless
of their station in life, equality before the
law, inviolability of domicile, the freedom of
association, of speech and of the press, and
compulsory education.
Thus, after all, out of the strikes of the
Russian workmen, though many of their
dear ones have been killed and mutilated,
their blood has sanctified their cause and
will make for the good, the progress and the
uplifting of all the people of Russia.—American
Federationist.
A revolution is on, and the attacking
party has inscribed the Populist principles
upon its banners. The attacking party is
not insurgents or rebels. It is in power, the
Government, the whole thing. Never before
has the prospect seemed at all discouraging
for Standard Oil raids, Beef Trust schemes
and kindred despoliation of the land and the
fulness and the people thereof. Everything
worth considering is now consolidated
against the robbers. Have good cheer,
Populists. The day is breaking. Up and
don your armor. Whet your battle-axe.—The
Joliet News.
He alone is great who can suggest a
thought in such a way that the other man
believes he originated it—The Philistine.
A Wall Street victim, after squandering
his own money and his wife’s, committed
suicide, and yet some of the New York
clergymen who are so active in denouncing
the small gambling houses have not a word
to say against the New York Stock Exchange
which slays its tens of thousands
where the small gambling houses slay their
thousands.—The Commoner.
The spirit of Populism has reasserted itself
and taken the Sunflower State by storm.
The shots fired by the Kansas Legislature,
forced from it by a determined demand of
the people, at the trusts and monopolies
have been heard around the world. They
sounded the death-knell of plutocracy in
America.
Aimed at the Standard Oil octopus, these
shots hit every political and commercial
scoundrel in the United States. The special
privileged class have been dealt a blow which
staggers their fabric from centre to circumference.
This is the beginning of the end of corrupt
government. The people who do the labor
and produce the wealth of the world will be
deceived and plundered no longer. The
revolution is on and it can’t be checked.—The
Dalton (Ga.) Herald.
News Record — Government and Politics — General Home News — The Russo-Japanese War — General Foreign News — Obituary
FROM MARCH 7 TO APRIL 7, 1905
March 7.—George B. Cortelyou takes the
oath of office as Postmaster-General
and announces that he will resign as
Chairman of the Republican National
Committee.
The special session of the United States
Senate considers the Santo Domingo
treaty.
Senator Elkins, Chairman of the Senate
Railroad Committee, announces that
hearings on the freight-rate question
will be held during the recess, beginning
in April.
Charles H. Treat, of New York, is appointed
United States Treasurer.
March 8.—The Senate confirms the President’s
diplomatic and consular appointments,
chief of which are those
of Whitelaw Reid as Ambassador to
Great Britain, Robert S. McCormick
to France, George V. L. Meyer to
Russia and Edwin H. Conger to Mexico.
President Roosevelt announces his intention
of appointing ex-Representative
F. C. Tate, a Georgia Democrat,
United States District Attorney.
Senator Hemenway, former Chairman of
the House Appropriations Committee,
figures a national deficit of $18,000,000
for the coming year; while Representative
Livingstone (Dem.) says it will
reach $93,000,000.
March 9.—Commissioner of Commerce
James R. Garfield spends the day in
the New York offices of the Standard
Oil Company, investigating books and
reports.
The Rev. Dr. Newman Smyth, of New
Haven, Conn., states before a legislative
committee that the sum of $150,000
was expended in the recent senatorial
fight resulting in the election of
Morgan G. Bulkeley.
March 10.—To avoid legislative investigation,
the New York Telephone
Trust agrees to reduce its tolls 20 per
cent.
March 12.—Government agents unearth
great coal land frauds in Utah.
March 13.—The United States Supreme
Court decides that the peonage laws
are constitutional.
March 14.—The President is informed that
the treaty with Santo Domingo, which
has been radically amended by the
special session of the Senate, stands
no chance of receiving the two-thirds
vote necessary to its approval by that
body, as all the Democrats oppose it
and some of the Republicans are lukewarm.
The New York State Senate passes resolution
directing an investigation of the
Gas Trust.
March 15.—Agreement is reached that the
Santo Domingo treaty is to be neither
ratified nor rejected at the special session
of the Senate, but is to be left over
to the next session.
Governor James B. Frazier, of Tennessee,
is elected United States Senator to
succeed William B. Bates, deceased.
Harry S. New, of Indiana, is made Vice-Chairman
and Acting Chairman of the
Republican National Committee.
March 16.—Secretary Taft states that the
Administration policy is indefinite retention
of the Philippine Islands and
that independence cannot come during
this generation.
The Colorado Legislature votes to seat
James H. Peabody (Rep.) as Governor,
unseating Alva Adams (Dem.), whose
majority on the face of the returns was
over 9,000. Peabody promises to resign
and let the Lieutenant-Governor
occupy the office.
A New York legislative committee is appointed
to investigate the Gas Trust.
Senator Morgan, of Alabama, attacks the
treaty with Santo Domingo, charging
that it was brought about through
an improper understanding between
William Nelson Cromwell, a New York
lawyer, and President Morales of Santo
Domingo.
March 17.—Mrs. Ella Knowles Reader, of
New York, asserts that the present situation
in Santo Domingo is due to the
interference of President Roosevelt to
prevent her plans for forming a treaty.
Governor Peabody of Colorado resigns and
is succeeded by Lieutenant-Governor
Jesse F. Macdonald.
The Attorney-General of Missouri begins
proceedings against the Standard Oil
Trust.
Senator Carmack, of Tennessee, predicts
war between the United States and
Japan over the Philippines.
March 18.—The Missouri senatorial deadlock
is broken by the election of Major
William Warner (Rep.) to the United
States Senate.
The special session of the United States
Senate adjourns without a vote on the
Santo Domingo treaty.
Edwin V. Morgan, of New York, is appointed
Minister to Corea.
March 20.—By the order of a special Grand
Jury, a Beef Trust investigation is
started in Chicago.
March 21.—In John D. Rockefeller’s home,
North Tarrytown, N. Y., his candidate
for Mayor is overwhelmingly defeated
by a butcher.
March 23.—Truman H. Newberry, of Detroit,
is appointed Assistant Secretary
of the Navy.
The Delaware Legislature adjourns without
electing a United States Senator.
The Maryland Supreme Court orders the
Governor to submit the constitutional
amendment for negro disfranchisement
to popular vote.
March 25.—The Government declares its
intention to prosecute the Santa Fé
Railroad for giving rebates.
March 28.—President Roosevelt decides to
accede to the request of the Santo
Domingo Government to appoint an
agent to collect the revenues of that
country.
The Federal Grand Jury sitting at Louisville,
Ky., indicts that city on four
counts for peonage.
Dr. Washington Gladden, Moderator of
the Congregational Church, enters
formal protest against the Board of
Missions accepting the $100,000 gift
from John D. Rockefeller. In spite of
this and other objections, the board
accepts the donation.
March 29.—The President requests the resignation
of all members of the Panama
Canal Commission, also of General
George W. Davis, Governor of the
Canal zone. The request is complied
with immediately.
W. E. Gould, of Baltimore, is appointed
American agent to collect customs in
Santo Domingo.
The general counsel of the Panama Railroad
Company purchases for the Government
all but five of the outstanding
shares of the company.
March 30.—The United States Government
sends another warship to Santo Domingo.
President Roosevelt appoints Judge
Charles E. Magoon, of Nebraska, Governor
of the Panama Canal zone.
The Federal Grand Jury investigating the
Beef Trust at Chicago indicts T. J.
Connors, an Armour director, for tampering
with Government witnesses, and
it is reported that other indictments of
prominent trust officials will follow.
March 31.—The investigation of the Gas
Trust in New York discloses that the
value shown on the books is over
$15,000,000 more than that listed for
taxation. The secretary of the company
says he cannot explain the discrepancy.
April 1.—The Nebraska Legislature passes
the Junkin Anti-Trust bill, aimed at the
beef packers.
Theodore P. Shonts, President of the
Clover Leaf Railroad, is appointed
Chairman of the new Panama Canal
Commission.
April 2.—Former Senators Frank J. Cannon
and Thomas Kearns, of Utah, declare
war on the Mormon Church. Mr. Cannon
denounces President Smith as a
“traitor.”
April 3.—The President completes the new
Panama Canal Commission and designates
salaries as follows: Theodore P.
Shonts, Chairman, salary, $30,000;
Charles E. Magoon, Governor of the
Canal zone, salary, $17,500; John F.
Wallace, Chief Engineer, salary, $25,000;
Rear-Admiral Mordecai F. Endicott,
Chief of the Navy Bureau of
Yards and Docks, salary, $7,500; Brigadier-General
Peter F. Haines, U.S.A.,
retired, salary, $7,500; Colonel O. M.
Ernst, U.S.A., salary, $7,500; Benjamin
F. Harrod, of New Orleans, salary,
$7,500.
President Roosevelt starts on a two
months’ outing, his trip to include a reunion
of his old Rough Rider regiment
and hunting excursions in Texas and
Colorado. He states that he leaves Secretary
of War Taft “sitting on the lid.”
Charles H. Moyer, President of the Western
Federation of Miners, sues ex-Governor
James H. Peabody and others for
$300,000 for false imprisonment during
the Colorado strike.
April 4.—At a municipal election in the
city of Chicago Edward F. Dunne
(Dem.) is elected Mayor over John M.
Harlan (Rep.) by a majority slightly
exceeding 24,000, thus reversing the
immense majority of over 60,000 by
which Theodore Roosevelt carried the
city five months ago. The issue in the
campaign just closed was that of municipal
ownership of the traction lines,
Judge Dunne standing for immediate
city ownership of these utilities.
Rolla Wells (Dem.) is re-elected Mayor of
St. Louis by small plurality.
President Roosevelt is given an ovation
in Louisville and other cities on his way
to Texas.
March 7.—The strike continues on the New
York Subway and Elevated railways.
The Subway trains are run intermittently
by “strike-breakers,” resulting in
one accident, seriously injuring over a
score of people.
March 8.—The Mayor of New York offers
to arbitrate the Subway strike. The
workingmen accept the offer, but the
company declines.
The Standard Oil Company, in retaliation
for adverse legislative action in Kansas,
refuses to admit low-grade oil from
that state to its pipe lines, thus shutting
off from the market three-fourths
of the output.
March 9.—After a conference of national
labor leaders, Warren E. Stone, national
head of the Brotherhood of
Locomotive Engineers, declares the
New York Subway and “L” strike
unauthorized, and advises the men to
return to work. He is supported in
this by National Chief Mahon, of the
Amalgamated Street Railway workers.
This practically ends the strike, though
the local unions still hold out.
For the first time in the history of medicine
New York surgeons succeed in
grafting a finger cut from the hand of
one person onto the hand of another.
March 10.—The will of William F. Milton,
of New York, gives to Harvard University
the sum of $1,000,000. James C.
Carter’s will gives $2,000,000 to the
same institution.
Whitelaw Reid announces his retirement
as editor of the New York Tribune.
March 11.—The New York Subway and
“L” strike is officially declared ended.
The company announces that it will
take back no motormen over forty
years of age.
Mrs. Cassie L. Chadwick, the notorious
“frenzied financier,” who raised millions
on forged notes bearing the signature
of Andrew Carnegie, is found guilty
after a short trial in Cleveland, O.
March 13.—Samuel Gompers, President of
the American Federation of Labor, says
that he will investigate the charge that
the New York Subway and “L” strike
was sold out.
President Roosevelt addresses the National
Congress of Mothers at Washington
and denounces race suicide.
The defection of one of the large mills
threatens to dissolve the Paper Trust.
The independent packing companies,
with Schwarzschild & Sulzberger, of
Chicago, in the lead, organize to expose
and fight the Beef Trust.
Justice Kelly, of the New York Supreme
Court, orders trial of the suit brought
by Hon. W. R. Hearst against the Gas
Trust.
March 14.—Nineteen persons are killed in
a New York tenement house fire.
The war in the Equitable Life Assurance
Society is settled by the factions
agreeing on a plan to mutualize the
company.
The Mormon Church excommunicates ex-United
States Senator Frank J. Cannon,
of Utah, because of editorials in
the Salt Lake Tribune, of which Mr.
Cannon is editor.
March 15.—A bull market in cotton is
started by Daniel J. Sully, one day
after he is released from bankruptcy.
Andrew Carnegie declares that a Pan-American
railroad would be more
effective for defense than all the battleships
we can build.
March 17.—Secretary of State John Hay
sails on a European trip in an impaired
state of health.
President Roosevelt addresses the Friendly
Sons of St. Patrick in New York, after
the largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in
the history of the city.
March 19.—Twenty-four men are killed in
a mine explosion near Thurmond,
W. Va.
The Panama Canal Commission issues a
long statement denying charges made
against the body relating to the sanitation
of the Isthmus.
Senator Thomas H. Carter, head of
the Government commission, reports
charges of wholesale bribery in connection
with the giving out of awards
by the St. Louis World’s Fair officials.
John D. Rockefeller, George J. Gould and
other prominent men are reported to
be implicated in the Utah coal land
frauds.
March 20.—Over one hundred workmen are
killed and wounded by a boiler explosion
in a shoe factory at Brockton,
Mass.
Three thousand men are thrown out of
work by the shut-down of one of the
Havemeyer sugar refineries at Brooklyn,
N. Y.
March 21.—Twenty-seven New England
Congregational clergymen enter vigorous
protest against the acceptance
of a $100,000 gift from John D. Rockefeller
to the Board of Missions of that
church.
March 22.—It is given out at Denver that
the strike and contest over the governorship
have cost the state of Colorado
$2,000,000.
More than 11,000 immigrants land at
Ellis Island, New York, in two days,
thus breaking all former records.
March 23.—The Wyoming court decides
against granting a decree of divorce to
Colonel William F. Cody (“Buffalo
Bill”).
The ship with which Lieutenant Robert
E. Peary will make another attempt to
reach the North Pole is launched at
Bucksport, Me., and is christened
the Roosevelt.
March 25.—A plan to merge the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology with
Harvard University is made public in
Boston.
The New York Central Railroad announces
that in the near future it will
supplant all its steam locomotives with
electric motors.
March 27.—Mrs. Cassie L. Chadwick is
sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.
Gessler Rosseau is found guilty at New
York of having sent an infernal machine
to blow up the steamship Umbria.
Andrew Carnegie announces that henceforth
he will give donations to small
colleges in preference to founding
libraries.
March 28.—Governor Joseph W. Folk of
Missouri, at a speech in New York,
declares that bribery is treason, and
says that his state is leading a movement
to make it odious throughout the
country.
March 29.—A disastrous fire over 100 feet
underground is caused by a wreck in
the New York Subway.
March 30.—The New York legislative committee
investigating the Gas Trust develops
the fact that the company has
been paying 10 per cent. dividends on
watered stock.
Charges are made that James H. Hyde,
First Vice-President of the Equitable
Life Assurance Society, used company
funds in paying expenses of spectacular
balls of last winter; also his private
servants.
President Mellen, of the New York, New
Haven & Hartford Railroad Company,
tells a legislative committee
that great abuses have grown up in the
railroad business, and says that there
should be stricter state and Government
control.
March 31.—Harry N. Pillsbury, the American
chess champion, attempts suicide
at Philadelphia, but is prevented.
Henry H. Rogers, of the Standard Oil
Company, issues a defense of John D.
Rockefeller’s gift to missions, and incidentally
attacks ministers and deacons
and defends railroad rebates to
his company.
April 1.—A mysterious epidemic of spinal
meningitis, or “spotted fever,” is ravaging
New York and other cities and
baffles the medical profession. Over a
thousand deaths have occurred since
the first of the year.
Mr. and Mrs. J. Morgan Smith, brother-in-law
and sister of the notorious Nan
Patterson, are located in Cincinnati, and
letters are secured which, it is said, will
have an important bearing on the trial
of the actress for the murder of the
bookmaker, “Cæsar” Young.
In the Equitable Life Assurance Society
war James H. Hyde, the First Vice-President,
denies the charges made against
him and retains Elihu Root, Samuel
Untermeyer and others as counsel. He
announces that if President Alexander
wants a fight he can have it. The
State Insurance Department of New
York takes a hand in the case, and an
investigation of the company’s affairs
is ordered. The Alexander forces charge
that loans have been made out of the
association’s funds to Edward H. Harriman,
of the U. P. R. R., that the
dinner to French Ambassador Cambon
was paid from the company’s money,
and that Vice-President Hyde has
usurped the President’s functions.
Chairman John D. Crimmins, of the
committee of policyholders for mutualizing
the society, announces that the
Hyde faction has conceded all the committee’s
demands and that the Alexander
people alone stood in the way. For
this reason Mr. Crimmins, who was understood
heretofore to stand with Alexander,
refuses to go further in what he
terms the personal fight on Hyde.
President Samuel Gompers, of the American
Federation of Labor, sends out a
warning to the members that the Socialists
are attempting to disrupt the
organization.
In the Gas Trust inquiry an official of
the company admits that there is $12,000,000
watered stock in the corporation.
At a meeting of the National Association
of State Dairy and Food Departments
being held in Chicago, J. M. Hurty, Secretary
of the Indiana Board, states that
455,000 babies were killed last year by
adulteration of milk and other infants’
foods.
A threatened coal strike in Pennsylvania
is averted by the granting of the wage
scale of last year.
April 2.—H. Rider Haggard, in an interview
given to the New York Journal, says
that the poor of America are as miserable
as those of England.
April 3.—Fifty men are entombed in a mine
explosion at Zeigler, Ill. Most of them
are believed to have been killed.
April 4.—Vice-President Hyde, of the Equitable
Life, accuses President Alexander
of being in a conspiracy to ruin the
company, and cites as one of his proofs
the fact that Second Vice-President
George E. Tarbell, one of Alexander’s
supporters, disposed of his interests in
the company before beginning the present
fight.
April 5.—J. G. Phelps Stokes, the New York
millionaire philanthropist, announces
that he is soon to marry a poor East
Side settlement worker, the daughter
of a Russian Jew.
April 6.—In a meeting of the Board of Directors
of the Equitable Life Assurance
Society, Vice-President James H. Hyde
wins a virtual victory at all points over
President Alexander. The Hyde-Crimmins
two-year mutualization plan is
adopted and Hyde committees are appointed
to investigate the affairs of the
company.
S. C. T. Dodd, chief solicitor of the Standard
Oil Company, defends John D.
Rockefeller from the attacks of Congregational
ministers and others, which
he terms “vile” and “doubly vile.”
March 7.—General Kuropatkin stubbornly
resists the Japanese advance about
Mukden, but the day generally goes
against him. Fighting is heaviest west
and northwest of Manchurian capital.
March 8.—The Japanese crush the Russian
eastern wing and cut off General Rennenkampf’s
division. They also continue
vigorous attacks on the west
and northwest and reach a position
directly north of Mukden.
General Kuropatkin retreats from his
southern and centre positions on the
Shakhe River, abandoning siege guns
and burning stores.
It is reported that the Russian Baltic
fleet starts on its return, having gone
no farther east than Madagascar.
March 9.—General Kuroki drives the Russians
from Fushun and terrific fighting
continues all about Mukden. Marshal
Oyama reports the cutting of the railroad
between Mukden and Tieling.
The Japanese, after several fierce onslaughts,
succeed in taking a hill considered
the key to the Manchurian capital,
and Oyama predicts that Mukden
will fall tomorrow.
March 10.—At ten o’clock in the morning
the Japanese capture Mukden, and
General Kuropatkin begins a demoralized
retreat to the Northwest, battling
to save a remnant of his once great
army. This is made the more difficult
by the almost complete circle that the
forces of Marshal Oyama have made
about the Russians. Great numbers
of prisoners, and immense quantities
of guns, ammunition, food and other
supplies, fall into the hands of the victors.
Count Tolstoi writes to the London Times
denouncing this as a “reckless, disgraceful,
cruel war instigated by a score
of immoral individuals.”
March 11.—General Kuropatkin reports
that the remnants of his armies are
retreating on Tieling. They are still
harassed by Japanese attacks. The
Russians have lost considerably more
than 100,000 men. The battle of Mukden,
which has ended in such a disastrous
Russian defeat, is the greatest in
history, having lasted twelve days and
having involved nearly 1,000,000 men.
It marks Field Marshal Oyama as one
of the world’s great commanders.
March 12.—The Russian losses in the battle
of Mukden are now placed at about
150,000; Japanese losses at about
40,000.
It is reported that the Czar will send another
army to the Far East and will
order the Baltic squadron to go forward
and give battle to Admiral Togo.
March 13.—The main body of the Russian
troops reach Tie Pass, hard pressed by
their foes. General Kuropatkin reports
50,000 wounded in the past few
days. Marshal Oyama reports the
country swept clear of Russians for a
distance of twenty-five miles north of
Mukden.
March 14.—The Russian War Council in
session with the Czar votes to continue
the war.
Despite a repulse south of Tie Pass, the
Japanese continue a rearguard attack
on the retreating Russians.
March 15.—A Japanese fleet of twenty-two
warships going westward is sighted off
Singapore, India.
March 17.—The Czar curtly dismisses General
Kuropatkin from his command,
and promotes Lieutenant-General Linevitch,
heretofore at the head of the
first army, to be Commander-in-Chief
of all the forces in Manchuria.
The Russian War Council decides to
place a new army of 450,000 men in
the field, and orders the Baltic squadron
to proceed on its way to the East.
The Russian army, having abandoned Tie
Pass, continues its flight northward,
harassed by Japanese attacks from all
sides.
March 19.—The Russians are still retreating
and Kai-Yuan and Fakoman are occupied
by the Japanese.
March 21.—General Kuropatkin returns to
the front to accept a subordinate command
under General Linevitch.
March 22.—All the Russian ministers but
two are now said to favor peace.
March 24.—The Russian troops halt for a
short rest at a point seventy-four
miles north of Tie Pass. The Japanese
armies are believed to be executing
another flanking movement.
March 25.—It is given out from St. Petersburg
that the Russians have sent
800,000 men to the front since the
beginning of the war.
March 28.—The Japanese again attack the
rearguard of the retreating Russians.
General Oku reports that the spring
thaws make the movements of both
armies difficult.
It is no longer denied that the Russian
Government is moving for peace.
March 29.—A court-martial is designated to
try General Stoessel, it being customary
in Russia to so try any officer
that surrenders.
All Europe shows eagerness to invest in
the new Japanese bonds.
March 30.—Both Russia and Japan deny
that they are making any efforts to
bring about peace.
General Linevitch issues an address to
his troops, closing with the words, “May
God help you in the coming battle.”
The Japanese continue their flanking
movement and skirmishes occur between
them and the Russian outposts.
March 31.—General Sakharoff, former Chief
of Staff, quits the Russian army because
of a quarrel with General Linevitch.
General Stakelburg also leaves,
the reason assigned being ill health.
The Russian Baltic fleet, which left
Madagascar on March 16, is reported in
bad condition.
April 3.—A bomb explosion at Harbin destroys
seventy-five persons and an immense
amount of Russian supplies.
Prince Ouktomsky, deposed from the
command of the Port Arthur squadron,
reaches St. Petersburg and demands a
court-martial.
April 6.—Both the Russian Baltic fleet and
the Japanese fleet under Admiral Togo
are reported approaching each other in
the vicinity of the China Sea.
March 7.—Practically half of the workingmen
of St. Petersburg are on strike.
The situation continues grave, though
quiet, at Warsaw and at other points in
Russia.
Hon. George Wyndham, Chief Secretary
for Ireland, resigns from the British
Ministry.
March 8.—The peasant revolt in outlying
Russian provinces is rapidly spreading.
Men at the Russian naval dockyard go on
strike.
China decides to build immediately the
Kalgan Railway and to place it under a
Chinese engineer, which is regarded as
an anti-Russian move.
On a fiscal policy division forced by Winston
Churchill in the British House of
Commons the Government is sustained
by a majority of 42.
Both Premier Balfour and Joseph Chamberlain
deny that they are protectionists.
March 9.—Russia pushes troops toward her
Indian frontier, in evident opposition to
Great Britain’s moves in Thibet, Persia
and other Central Asiatic territory.
The plague in India kills 34,000 in one
week.
March 10.—It is reported that the Russian
revolutionists have agreed to a general
uprising on May 1.
The rioting of the Russian peasants continues,
and great destruction of property
is reported from Tchemigoff, Orel
and Hursk.
March 14.—French bankers refuse to negotiate
a loan to Russia until more is
known of the intentions of the Russian
Government.
The Canadian authorities serve notice on
polygamous Mormons that they must
either leave the country or be prosecuted.
Russian peasants pillage the estate of the
late Grand Duke Sergius in the Dimitrov
district.
The peasant uprisings spread to the northwest
provinces of Vilna and Kovno.
March 16.—William Marconi, the inventor,
is married to Beatrice O’Brien, sister of
Lord Inchiquin.
March 17.—Mobilization orders lead to renewal
of strikes in Russian Poland.
France complains to the United States of
the infringement of the rights of the
French Cable Company in Venezuela.
March 19.—An international conference at
Vienna considers the proposal to form a
World’s Chamber of Agriculture.
March 20.—Governor Miasoredeff, of Viborg,
one of the Russian provinces of Finland,
is shot and seriously wounded by a
fifteen-year-old boy who proclaims himself
a “revolutionist.”
March 21.—After a great debate in the
French Chamber of Deputies, a motion
to postpone the bill separating church
and state is defeated by a vote of 363
to 40.
March 22.—Many peasants are killed and
wounded by Russian troops in the
provinces of Kutno and Ostrow.
The British House of Commons condemns
the proposal of a protective tariff
by a vote of 254 to 2.
March 23.—It is announced in the British
Parliament that up to March 11 of this
year there have been 346,000 deaths
from the plague in India.
President Morales of Santo Domingo declares
that unless the treaty with the
United States is ratified there will be a
revolution in that country.
March 24.—President Castro of Venezuela
curtly declines to arbitrate the asphalt
controversy with the United States.
March 25.—Under a tentative arrangement
made with President Morales of Santo
Domingo, the revenues of that country
will be collected by an agent named by
President Roosevelt.
March 26.—Baron von Molken, chief of the
Warsaw police, is severely wounded by
a bomb which destroyed his carriage.
Internal disturbances are again on the increase
throughout Russia.
It is announced that King Alfonso of
Spain is to marry the Princess Patricia
of England.
March 27.—Warehouses and shops at Yalta,
Russia, are pillaged and burned by rioting
mujiks.
March 29.—The Swiss Bundesrath rejects
the commercial treaty with the United
States owing to amendments made to
that instrument by the United States
Senate.
March 30.—President Castro of Venezuela
turns on his accusers and states that he
has documentary evidence that both
the French Cable Company and the
American Asphalt Company are in
league with the revolutionists.
Emperor William of Germany sails for
Morocco.
Several prominent “terrorists” are arrested
in St. Petersburg, among them
being two women.
Peasant outbreaks continue in Russia
and the Kharkoff district is laid waste.
Another meeting of the Zemstvo representatives
is called at St. Petersburg for
the end of April.
The Italian Ambassador states that Italy
would have taken drastic measures to
collect her debt from Santo Domingo,
had President Roosevelt not taken the
matter in hand.
March 31.—Emperor William at Tangier
gives assurance that Germany will protect
the integrity of Morocco and maintain
the “open door.”
President Arnal, of the highest court of
Venezuela, declares that the French
Cable Company has forfeited its contract.
The agrarian risings in Russia reach such
proportions as to overshadow the war.
They render further mobilization of
troops impossible.
An important group of the Russian clergy
declares for the separation of church
and state.
April 1.—The Federal District Court of Venezuela
charges General Francis V.
Greene, an official of the New York and
Bermudez Asphalt Company, with having
given $130,000 to the rebels in the Matos
revolution against President Castro.
Camille Flammarion, the celebrated
French astronomer, predicts a hot summer
because of the sun spots.
The Victorian, the first turbine steamer
to cross the Atlantic, makes the trip in
a little less than eight days.
The Police Commissioner of Lodz, Russian
Poland, is severely wounded by a
bomb explosion.
April 2.—Four persons are killed and forty
injured in renewed riots at Warsaw.
April 4.—Severe earthquakes in Northern
India cause much loss of life and damage
to cities.
H. B. Irving, son of Sir Henry Irving,
wins a triumph in London in his first
appearance, playing Hamlet.
April 5.—A Russian medical congress at
Moscow adopts peace resolution and
favors a constitution and other radical
demands.
A newly appointed member of the British
Cabinet is defeated for re-election to
Parliament in a district that has not
before gone Liberal in twenty years.
Winston Churchill says it is the beginning
of the end of the present Government.
April 6.—King Edward of England and
President Loubet of France meet in
extended interview at Paris. This is regarded
as significant in strengthening
the understanding between France and
England relating to Morocco and as
being a counter move to Emperor William’s
assurance of political integrity of
that country.
The reform movement increases throughout
Russia.
March 7.—John H. Reagan, former United
States Senator and State Railroad
Commissioner, dies at his home in
Texas, aged 87.
Albert M. Palmer, veteran theatrical manager,
dies at his home in New York,
aged 66.
March 8.—Henry A. Barclay, prominent
New York business and race-track man,
dies at his home, aged 60.
Rear-Admiral Edwin S. Houston, United
States Navy, dies at Lausanne, Switzerland,
aged 60.
March 9.—William Brimage Bate, United
States Senator from Tennessee and
former Governor and Major-General,
C.S.A., dies in Washington, aged 78.
March 12.—Caleb Huse, foreign purchasing
agent for the Confederate Government,
dies at the age of 75.
March 14.—Henry R. Reed, millionaire
sugar merchant, of Boston, aged 62,
dies under mysterious circumstances in
a New York hotel.
Henry Cyril Paget, Marquis of Anglesey,
dies at Monte Carlo, aged 30.
March 16.—Meyer Guggenheim, prominent
New York capitalist and head of the
Smelter Trust, dies at Palm Beach,
Fla., aged 78.
March 17.—Lot Thomas, former Congressman
from Iowa, dies at the age of 61.
Charles C. Cole, former Supreme Court
Justice, District of Columbia, dies at
Washington, aged 64.
March 18.—General Joseph R. Hawley,
former United States Senator from
Connecticut, dies at the age of 78.
Cyrus G. Luce, once Governor of Michigan,
dies at the age of 80.
March 22.—M. Antonin Proust, French
author and former member of Gambetta
Cabinet, dies at Paris.
Rev. Dr. Elmer H. Capen, former President
of Tufts College, dies at the age
of 76.
March 24.—Jules Verne, the celebrated
novelist, dies from a stroke of paralysis
at Amiens, France, aged 76.
Señor Manuel de Aspiroz, Mexican Ambassador
to the United States, dies at
Washington, aged 68.
March 29.—Jacob L. Greene, President of
the Connecticut Mutual Life Insurance
Company, dies at his home in Hartford,
aged 67.
William Hammond, a prominent real
estate man of Boston, Mass., commits
suicide in the Hotel Astor, New York.
March 30.—Hugo Jacobson, the American
representative of a French steel firm,
commits suicide at the Hotel Breslin,
New York.
March 31.—The Dowager Duchess of Abercorn,
grandmother of the Duke of
Marlborough, dies at London, aged 92.
William H. Muker, once well-known
American actor, dies at New Rochelle,
N. Y., aged 83.
Dr. William Bodenhamer, once family
physician of Commodore Vanderbilt,
dies at New Rochelle, N. Y., aged 97.
April 1.—James M. Seymour, former mayor
of Newark, N. J., and Democratic candidate
for Governor, dies at the age of
67.
April 2.—William F. Potter, President of
the Long Island Railroad Company,
dies of spinal meningitis, aged 50.
April 4.—William H. Delius, son-in-law of
Chief-Justice Fuller, of the United States
Supreme Court, dies by suicide at Chicago,
aged 53.
Bishop Alphonse Favier, Catholic Apostolic
Vicar to China, dies at Pekin, aged
68.
Toll
ONE fashions beauty into form, to shapes most wondrous fair;There comes a stranger to his door and claims an equal share
Another plants the seed and sees the harvest spring—that dayComes one whose face he does not know, and takes a third away.
A little child, whose plaintive mouth has never learned to laugh,Sits stringing beads—to her appears the man who claims his half.
A woman with her needle sits—and one stitch out of threeShe takes for him whose face perhaps her eyes shall never see.
And where the mighty merchant ships in the great harbors wait—His is the service of the crews and his the share of freight.
And who is he, who walks abroad in all his pomp and pride,Who takes his toll, and nothing gives, and will not be denied?
A wondrous miracle is he—but not of God because,He can be banished as he came—by simple change of laws.
The laws that give to manikin dominion of the sod,Appareled him in majesty, and made him as a god.
Oh, sad the tale and grim the tale, that now is almost told,And but a little while, and then—the stupid drama’s old!
But strange we’ll seem to future times, with our fantastic tricks,Who worshiped God one day in seven and cheated Him in six!
Joseph Dana Miller.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Antiquated spellings were preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected.