The Scrap Book. Volume 1, No. 2
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Title: The Scrap Book. Volume 1, No. 2
Author: Various
Release date: April 24, 2010 [eBook #32119]
Language: English
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THE SCRAP BOOK.
Vol. I. APRIL, 1906. No. 2.
A MARVELOUS RECEPTION.
Nothing is a success until it is a proved success. The ideas that seem
best frequently turn out the worst. If it were not for this fact, a fact
with which we are thoroughly familiar, we should feel that we have in THE
SCRAP BOOK the hit of a century. Indeed, it is difficult not to let
ourselves go a bit, even now, and talk about this new creation in
magazine-making in a way that would sound like high-pressure fiction.
Six weeks ago THE SCRAP BOOK was nothing but an idea. It had had a good
deal of thought in a general way, but nothing effectually focuses until
actual work begins. Filmy, desultory thought, in cloudland, counts for
little.
In the early conception of THE SCRAP BOOK it was as unlike this magazine
as a mustard-seed is unlike the full-grown tree. Rebelling as I did, and
still do, at the restraints of the conventional magazine, and realizing
the added strength that should come from the rare old things and the best
current things--the scrap bits that are full of juice and sweetness and
tenderness and pathos and humor--realizing all this, I undertook to
incorporate in MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE a department which I intended to call THE
SCRAP BOOK.
I had special headings and borders drawn for this department, with a view
to differentiating it from other parts of the magazine. I had sample pages
put in type, and more or less work done on the department. But it did not
fit MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE, and MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE gave no scope for such a
section. It was atmospherically antagonistic to a magazine which consisted
wholly of original matter. This was the beginning of THE SCRAP BOOK--the
thought nebula.
* * * * *
It was as late as the middle of January when I came to my office one
morning and startled our editorial force by saying that THE SCRAP BOOK
would be issued on the 10th of February. Up to this time no decisive work
had been done on it. As I stated in my introduction last month, we had
been gathering scrap books from all over the world for some time, and had
a good deal of material classified and ready for use. It was an accepted
fact in the office that THE SCRAP BOOK would be issued sooner or later.
Indeed, the drawing for the cover was made more than a year ago. But no
one on the staff, not even myself, knew just what THE SCRAP BOOK would be
like or when it would make its appearance.
With a definite date fixed for the day of issue, however, and that date
only about three weeks away, intense work and intense thought were
necessary, and from this thought and work was evolved THE SCRAP BOOK as we
now have it. From the first minute, as it began to take shape, it became a
thing of evolution. Enough material was prepared, set up, and destroyed to
fill three issues of THE SCRAP BOOK, and display headings were changed and
changed--and a dozen times changed--to get the effect we wanted.
As it was something apart from all other magazines, we had no precedents
to follow, no examples to copy, either in the matter itself, the method of
treating it, or the style of presenting it. Our inspiration in producing
THE SCRAP BOOK was mainly, and almost wholly, our conception of what would
appeal most forcefully to the human heart and human brain--to all the
people of all classes everywhere. This, supplemented by our experience in
publishing, was our guide in evolving this magazine.
I have told you this much about the beginning and the development of THE
SCRAP BOOK because such information about the beginning of anything of any
consequence appeals to me individually, and I think generally appeals to
all readers. If THE SCRAP BOOK, therefore, is to make an important place
for itself in the publishing world, as certainly looks probable at this
time, it will perhaps be worth while to have the story of its inception
and evolution.
* * * * *
While I have created in THE SCRAP BOOK a magazine for the public, as I
interpret the public taste--and this is always my purpose in anything I
publish--I find that in THE SCRAP BOOK I have unconsciously created a
magazine for myself. I mean just this, that for my own reading THE SCRAP
BOOK as it is, and THE SCRAP BOOK in its possibilities, has all other
magazines, every phase and kind of magazine the world over, beaten to a
standstill.
And why? Simply because THE SCRAP BOOK in its scope is as wide as the
world. It has no limitations, within the boundaries of decency and good
taste. It has as broad a sweep in the publication of original articles and
original fiction and original everything as any magazine anywhere. It has,
in addition, in its review phases, recourse to the best current things
throughout the world--the daily press, the weekly press, the magazines,
the pulpit, and the platform. And best of all, it has the vast storehouses
of the centuries to draw from--the accumulation of the world's best
thoughts and best writing.
FRANK A. MUNSEY.
The Latest Viewpoints of Men Worth While.
The Presidents of Harvard, Columbia, and Cornell Discuss
Questions Bearing on the Practical Training of the Young Men
of America--Maeterlinck Calls New York a City of Money,
Bustle, and Noise--John Morley Offers Some Valuable
Suggestions on the Reading of Books--Edward S. Martin
Praises City Life--Ex-President Cleveland Speaks of the
Relation of Doctor and Patient--And Other Notable People
Express Themselves on Matters of Current Interest.
_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
IS THE RICH YOUNG MAN HANDICAPPED?
President Eliot, of Harvard, Tells of
the Blessings of Poverty and the
Penalties of Great Wealth.
Is wealth a hindrance to a young man starting out in life? Men who have
built their own fortunes are almost unanimous in answering yes. To have
nothing to begin with means, they say, illimitable opportunity, and
opportunity is the great developing factor; poverty means the stimulus of
real need, which impels men to take advantage of opportunity. To quote the
present Lord Mayor of London, Alderman Walter V. Morgan:
The best thing that can happen to a young man is to be poor.
Extreme poverty may sometimes hamper a youth's progress,
but, in my opinion, he is far more likely to make his way in
the world if he starts with the proverbial half-a-crown in
his pocket than with a thousand-pound note.
Riches carry their own penalty. President Eliot, in a recent address
before the student body at Harvard, said:
The very rich are by no means the healthiest members of the community, and
to escape the perils of luxurious living requires unusual will-power and
prudence.
Great capital at the disposal of a single individual confers on its
possessor great power over the course of industrial development, over his
fellow men and sometimes over the course of great public events, like
peace or war between nations. It enables a man to do good or harm, to give
joy or pain, and places him in a position to be feared or looked up to.
There is pleasure in the satisfaction of directing such a power, and the
greater the character the greater may be the satisfaction. In giving this
direction the great capitalist may find an enjoyable and strenuous
occupation. For a conscientious, dutiful man a great sense of
responsibility accompanies this power. It may become so powerful as to
wipe out the enjoyment itself.
The most serious disadvantage under which the very rich have labored is
the bringing up of children. It is well-nigh impossible for a very rich
man to develop his children from habits of indifference and laziness.
These children are so situated that they have no opportunity of doing
productive labor, and do nothing for themselves, parents, brothers, or
sisters, no one acquiring the habit of work. In striking contrast are the
farmer's children, who cooperate at tender years in the work of the
household.
Among President Eliot's hearers were many young men to whom the blessings
of poverty were unknown.
TO TEACH TRADES TO YOUNG WORKERS.
Dean Balliet Emphasizes the Importance
of Trade-Schools in the Adjustment
of Our Economic Problems.
A box of tools, and not a bundle of books, will be the burden of many a
school-child, if the trade-school system becomes firmly established. In
Germany the public trade-schools have proved very effective. In the United
States there has been an encouraging seven-year experiment at Springfield,
Massachusetts, and two schools have recently been established in New York
City.
The trade-school differs from the manual training-school. Manual training
is educational. "It develops the motor and executive sides of a child's
nature," to quote Dean T.M. Balliet, of the School of Pedagogy in New York
University. Also it fits young men for higher technical training. The
trade-school, on the other hand, teaches young people how to work at
actual wage-paying trades--how to be plumbers, electrical fitters,
carpenters, masons, ironworkers.
Dean Balliet, having made an exhaustive study of the system, not long ago
gave the following answer to an interviewer from the New York _Tribune_
who asked what the trade-school meant:
The aim must be entirely practical, but not narrowly so.
Students must be trained to perform specific kinds of
skilled labor which has a commercial value. But the learning
of a trade must include the scientific principles underlying
it, and must not be confined to mere hand-training. In the
case of the mechanical trades, instruction in drawing, in
physics, and in mathematics applicable to the trade must be
included.
Trades frequently change, and the invention of a new machine
may make a trade suddenly obsolete. Instruction must,
therefore, be broad enough to make workmen versatile and
enable them to adjust themselves to these changes. The
apprentice system is gone. In a shop a man can at best learn
only a small part of his trade, and that only the mechanical
part. Shop-training, even where it is still possible, is too
narrow to make a man versatile. If the one machine which he
has learned to run becomes obsolete he is stranded. We need
trade-schools for just such men, to enable them to learn the
whole of their trade and to receive instructions in the
principles underlying it.
Years ago men read medicine in the office of physicians; now
they go to a medical school. Lawyers read law in an office
only; now they attend law schools. In like manner the
learning of a trade in the shop is rapidly becoming
obsolete, and trade-schools must take the place of the shop.
The fact that some things can be learned only in the shop is
no argument against the school. There are things in the
training of a lawyer which can be learned only in an office.
A COLLEGE CAREER--IS IT WORTH WHILE?
President Butler, of Columbia, Points
Out That Self-Made Men Wish
Their Sons to Go to College.
Business men are sometimes contemptuous toward the young college
graduate's bumptiousness and lack of practical knowledge. Educators, on
the other hand, give a strong argument, backed by statistics and
corroborating detail, to prove that a college education is the best
foundation in all the work of life. The subject has been discussed
probably since men of education first left the cloisters and went out into
the world.
President Nicholas Murray Butler, of Columbia University, presents this
brief for the college man:
No doubt there are many who believe a college education is a
hindrance to the necessary business wisdom of the age. There
are merchants down-town who will tell you how they started
at ten or fourteen to sweep out the office and rose, by
virtues and industry, to become members of the firm. This is
true. But you follow the career of the office-boy who began
his utilitarian studies with a broom, and the college boy
who began with his books, and you will find that when the
office-boy reaches thirty he is still an employee, whereas
the college graduate is probably at that age his employer.
Statistics show that out of ten thousand successful men in
the world, taken in all classes of life, eight thousand are
college graduates. Look at the tremendous increase of
educational effort all over the United States in the last
few years. Why, I have parents come to me with tears in
their eyes and ask me to tell them how they can get their
boys through college with only the small sum of money they
can afford to do it with. Even your self-made man isn't
satisfied unless his son can go to college.
ATHENIAN CULTURE IS AMERICA'S NEED.
President Schurman Would Like to See
Here a Little More of "The Glory
That Was Greece."
Jacob Gould Schurman, president of Cornell University, has taken to heart
the contrast between American culture of to-day and the culture of the
ancient Greeks. In an address before an association of teachers last
February, he charged that while our people "knows something of
everything," its knowledge is "superficial, inaccurate, chaotic, and
ill-digested." Furthermore, he says that we are indifferent to esthetic
culture and suspicious of theory, of principles, and of reason.
These are serious, fundamental charges. But let us hear President
Schurman's fuller statement of his case:
If the American mind is to be raised to its highest potency,
a remedy must be found for these evils. The first condition
of any improvement is the perception and recognition of the
defects themselves.
I repeat, then, that while as a people we are wonderfully
energetic, industrious, inventive, and well-informed, we
are, in comparison with the ancient Athenians, little more
than half developed on the side of our highest rational and
artistic capabilities.
The problem is to develop these potencies in an environment
which has hitherto been little favorable--and to develop
them in the American people, and not merely in the isolated
thinker, scholar, and artist.
If no American city is an Athens, if no American poet is a
Homer or Sophocles, if no American thinker is a Plato or
Aristotle, it is not merely because Americans possess only a
rudimentary reason and imagination and sensibility, but
because, owing to causes which are part of our national
being--causes which are connected with our task of subduing
a continent--the capacities with which nature has generously
endowed us have not been developed and exercised to the
fulness of their pitch and potency.
Our work in the nineteenth century was largely of the
utilitarian order; in the twentieth century we are summoned
to conquer and make our own the ideal realms of truth and
beauty and excellence which far more than material victories
constitute the true greatness of nations.
Pedagogic methods might be employed to stimulate American culture.
President Schurman suggests that in the common schools greater emphasis be
laid upon art and literature. There remains, however, as he points out,
something greater than the intellectuality of the Greeks, and that is the
ethical consciousness of the Hebrews.
Noble and exalted and priceless as reason and culture are,
there is a still higher end of life both for individuals and
nations. That end, indeed, was very inadequately conceived
by the Greeks. In the creative play of reason and
imagination, in their marvelous productions of speculation,
science, and art, in their exaltation of mind above sense
and of spirit above matter, in their conception of a
harmonious development of all the rich and varied powers of
man--in all these the Greeks have left to mankind a legacy
as priceless as it is to-day vital and forever imperishable.
But the Greeks, even the Greek philosophers, even the
"divine Plato," have not given us enough to live by. It was
the Jews, the outcast, oppressed, and much-suffering Jews,
who first sounded the depths of human life, discovered that
the essential being of a man resides in his moral
personality, and rose to the conception of a just and
merciful Providence who rules in righteousness the affairs
of nations and the hearts and wills of men.
If even our literary men now tell us that conduct is
three-fourths of life, it is because Hebraism and the
Christianity which sprang from Hebraism have stamped this
idea ineffaceably upon the conscience of mankind. The
selfishness and sensuality in us may revolt against the Ten
Commandments and the Golden Rule, but the still small voice
of conscience in us recognizes their authority and
acknowledges that if they had might as they have right, they
would absolutely govern the world. The most, the best, of
greatness is goodness. The greatest man on earth is the man
of pure heart and of clean hands.
NOTABLE NEGLECT OF INDUSTRIAL ARTS.
A Plea for Arts and Crafts as the Logical
Basis of a National Development
of the Fine Arts.
In line with President Schurman's criticism of American culture is the
plea by Charles de Kay, the New York art critic, for more attention to the
industrial arts. His argument is that out of the arts and crafts the fine
arts naturally develop; that out of the artist-artisan comes the highest
class of artist, as, for example, Augustus Saint Gaudens, who began as a
cameo cutter. To ignore the industrial arts is, so to speak, to leave out
of count that solid middle class upon which alone the aristocracy of art
can safely rest. Writing in the New York _Times_, Mr. de Kay says:
Plainly enough there is a field scarcely plowed at all in
the arts and crafts. These arts in the Middle Ages, and
latterly in Japan and India, absorbed and absorb the
energies of the cleverest hands and brightest minds; but in
America and England to-day are neglected for the fine arts,
because the rare prizes in the latter, whether of fame or of
wealth, dazzle the imagination.
Fashion rather than taste has set easel paintings so
absolutely in the forefront that with most people this
represents art in its entirety, and though the appreciation
of the minor arts of Japan has opened the eyes and enlisted
the sympathies of thousands, this one-sided view of art
holds on; so encouragement of native arts and crafts is
slack and uncertain.
Yet a democracy like ours, while the most difficult of all
communities to rouse to a vivid sympathy with the industrial
arts, owing to cheap processes and the influence exerted by
traditions that began in aristocratic lands, is of all
others that community where they are needed most.
The huge engine of the public schools is forever milling
over the raw material of the Union, educating the native
children, assimilating to the commonwealth the young people
of immigrant stocks. The higher education of taste and
refinement ought to go hand in hand, but it is sadly
deficient.
No one should expect that the public-school system could add
this to a task already appalling for its size and
complexity. It can be coped with only by organizations apart
from the existing schools, which might attempt for the
youthful artisan what the art schools attempt for the
training of architects, sculptors, and painters.
It is the fate of democracies to waste energy and attack
each problem by the wrong side. Commend us to a democracy to
put the cart before the horse every time! In the arts we
have been doing this imbecile trick steadily, persistently,
for a hundred years, trying to foster the fine arts while
our minor arts and crafts are too contemptible for
criticism.
Is it not about time to show that even a democracy can learn
something? Certainly if we can convince this community that
the most crying need is a thorough regeneration of the
industrial arts, the object will be attained. For though
democracies are often clumsy, when they once strike the
right path they rush forward to the highest places with a
speed and an irresistible force no other communities attain.
BELGIAN DRAMATIST CRITICIZES NEW YORK.
Money, Bustle, and Noise Are the Principal
Things Named as Characteristic
of Our Young Nation.
Maurice Maeterlinck, the Belgian dramatist and mystic philosopher, is by
no means dull in his appreciation of practical conditions. People who know
him say that he is not in the least lackadaisical or spiritually remote,
but is simple and frank and full of interest in every-day occurrences. A
short time ago he was asked to express his opinion of America. He
replied--to quote from the _Theater Magazine_:
I should be afraid to live in a city like New York. I
understand that money, bustle, and noise are its chief
characteristics. Money is useful, of course, but it is not
everything. Bustle and noise, also, are necessary adjuncts
of human industry. But they do not add to man's comfort nor
satisfy his soul's cravings.
America is too young a nation to seek the beautiful. That
may come when you Americans grow weary of being rich. Then
you will, as a nation, cultivate art and letters, and--who
knows?--one day you will surpass the Old World in the
splendor of your buildings, the genius of your authors. You
are a great people, but your highest powers are still
slumbering.
At present you are too busily occupied in assimilating the
foreigner, too busily engaged in affairs purely material, to
leave either time or taste for either the beautiful or the
occult. When America does take to beautifying her own home
she will astonish the world.
WHAT "PUNCH" HAS MEANT TO ENGLAND.
London's Famous Funny Paper is Really
Funny to Those Who Know How
to Appreciate Its Jokes.
Sir Francis C. Burnand has resigned the editorship of London _Punch_ after
a service of twenty-three years. It is hard to think of him as old, but,
being in his seventieth year, doubtless he had begun to find the cares of
his position somewhat irksome.
Eminent as was his fitness for the editorship he held so long, he started
out in life with no notion of becoming a humorist. Amateur dramatic
performances took much of his time at Cambridge. After leaving the
university, he became a barrister. Converted to the Roman church, he
studied for the priesthood, but abandoned this prospective future in order
to devote himself to the stage. Though he did not become an actor, he
wrote many stage pieces--plays, librettos, etc.; at the same time he was
writing jokes for the humorous papers, and when he was twenty-five years
of age he became a regular contributor to _Punch_. Says the New York
_Evening Post_:
The resignation of Sir Francis C. Burnand, for twenty-five
years editor of London _Punch_, reminds one how little it
has been subject to the vicissitudes of journalism. As if
by fore-ordination, the admirable parodist, Owen Seaman,
takes the head of the historic table, and _Punch_ will, if
anything, be more _Punch_ than ever. Others may change, but
_Punch_ retains a kind of Olympian uniformity. From its
first number, sixty-five years ago, to the last, its outward
appearance and inward savor are practically identical.
England has been in conspiracy to provide it with talent.
During the editor's term of office the paper lost such
artists as Charles Keene, Du Maurier, and Sir John Tenniel;
but it also saw the rise of Mr. Linley Sambourne's forceful
caricature, of Mr. Raven-Hill's delightful rusticities, of
the nervous and most expressive art of the lamented Phil
May. In fact, barring an inclination to overindulgence in
rather trite doggerel, _Punch's_ jorum has rarely been more
tasty than in the past quarter century. Its only serious
rival in the comic field has been _Fliegende Blätter_.
There is, of course, the prevailing American view that
_Punch_ is dull. Dull it is, in the sense that the best fun
of the most jocose family may be merely tantalizing to the
outsider. A nudge to the initiated may be sufficient to
recall jokes proved by a thousand laughs; the uninitiated
needs a clue. Now, _Punch's_ family is London--a family
whose acquaintance is tolerably worth while--and probably no
one who has not imaginatively made himself familiar with the
mood of London has any business with _Punch_ at all. It is
the homesickness for London that extends the subscription
list to the bounds of the empire; it is the desire to know
what London thinks of itself, of the provinces, of the
world, that makes readers for _Punch_ in every land. It
represents London in the mood of intellectual dalliance as
thoroughly as _Fliegende Blätter_ does non-Prussian Germany.
This representative quality gives to these two comic papers
something of the solemnity of institutions.
THE OLD JOURNALISM COLORED BY THE NEW.
Norman Hapgood Declares that Yellow
Journals Have Shaken the Newspapers
Out of Their Old Rut.
"Yellowness," in the newspaper sense, means sensationalism; sensationalism
means exaggeration; exaggeration means wrong proportion and the distortion
of truth. On the other hand, it is pointed out that yellowness means
interest; interest means closer attention from a larger audience; the
larger audience means wider editorial influence.
Aside from the main arguments for and against yellowness, there are
noticeable effects which the new journalism has had indirectly upon the
old. Speaking recently before the League for Political Education, in New
York City, Norman Hapgood, the editor of _Collier's Weekly_, attributed
the increased boldness and popular tone of the conservative newspapers to
the influence of yellow journalism:
Yellow journalism has its faults, but it was the first to
shake the newspapers out of the old rut and give them new
vigor. Before the advent of this class of journals there was
no organ among the conservative press to speak down to the
people. It was the consequence of a growing democracy and
had for its purpose the establishment of a press wherein the
laboring classes would have expression.
HOW TO ASSIMILATE THE BEST IN BOOKS.
John Morley, the English Statesman and
Scholar, Tells the Secret of Making
One's Reading Pay.
When a man knows books as thoroughly as John Morley knows them, his
opinions as to what and how to read are worth having. Mr. Morley has
revised and put together as an article for _The Critic_ several of his
extemporaneous addresses on books and reading. From this article the
following paragraphs have been culled and condensed with care to select
those passages which contain practical advice for people who desire to
make their reading count for something:
The object of reading is not to dip into everything that
even wise men have ever written. In the words of one of the
most winning writers of English that ever existed--Cardinal
Newman--the object of literature in education is to open the
mind, to correct it, to refine it, to enable it to
comprehend and digest its knowledge, to give it power over
its own faculties, application, flexibility, method,
critical exactness, sagacity, address, and expression.
Literature consists of all the books--and they are not so
many--where moral truth and human passion are touched with a
certain largeness, sanity, and attraction of form. Poets,
dramatists, humorists, satirists, masters of fiction, the
great preachers, the character-writers, the maxim-writers,
the great political orators--they are all literature in so
far as they teach us to know man and to know human nature.
What I venture to press upon you is that it requires no
preterhuman force of will in any young man or woman--unless
household circumstances are more than usually vexatious and
unfavorable--to get at least half an hour out of a solid
busy day for good and disinterested reading. Some will say
that this is too much to expect, and the first persons to
say it, I venture to predict, will be those who waste their
time most. At any rate, if I cannot get half an hour, I will
be content with a quarter.
Multiply the half-hour by three hundred and sixty-five, and
consider what treasures you might have laid by at the end of
the year, and what happiness, fortitude, and wisdom they
would have given you during all the days of your life.
You may have often heard from others, or may have found out,
how good it is to have on your shelves, however scantily
furnished they may be, three or four of those books to which
it is well to give ten minutes every morning, before going
down into the battle and choking dust of the day. Perhaps it
matters little what it may be so long as your writer has
cheerful seriousness, elevation, calm, and, above all, a
sense of size and strength, which shall open out the day
before you, and bestow gifts of fortitude and mastery.
If a man is despondent about his work, the best remedy that
I can prescribe to him is to turn to a good biography; there
he will find that other men before him have known the dreary
reaction that follows long-sustained effort, and he will
find that one of the differences between the first-rate man
and the fifth-rate lies in the vigor with which the
first-rate man recovers from this reaction, and crushes it
down, and again flings himself once more upon the breach.
A taste for poetry is not given to everybody, but anybody
who does not enjoy poetry, who is not refreshed,
exhilarated, stirred by it, leads but a mutilated existence.
I would advise that in looking for poets--of course after
Shakespeare--you should follow the rule of allowing
preferences, but no exclusion.
Various mechanical contrivances and aids to successful
study are not to be despised by those who would extract the
most from books. The wise student will do most of his
reading with a pen or pencil in his hand. He will not shrink
from the useful toil of making abstracts and summaries of
what he is reading.
Again, some great men--Gibbon was one, and Daniel Webster
was another, and the great Lord Stafford was a third--always
before reading a book made a short, rough analysis of the
questions which they expected to be answered in it, the
additions to be made to their knowledge, and whither it
would take them.
Another practise is that of keeping a commonplace book, and
transcribing into it what is striking and interesting and
suggestive. And if you keep it wisely, as Locke has taught
us, you will put every entry under a head, division, or
subdivision. This is an excellent practise for concentrating
your thought on the passage, and making you alive to its
real point and significance.
ARE WE SURFEITED WITH WIT AND HUMOR?
Jerome K. Jerome Says that the American
Sense of Humor Has Been Overfed
by Brilliant Humorists.
More great humorists have arisen in the United States during the last
seventy-five years than in any other country. Among the professionals are,
or have been, Artemus Ward, Josh Billings, Petroleum V. Nasby, Mark Twain,
and George Ade. Who of these have been and who still are there is no need
of saying. But certainly the constellation is brilliant with these names
alone, though the lesser stars have been many.
Have we had too much humor? Are we sated? Jerome K. Jerome, after several
months of personal observation, answers yes. Near the end of his recent
tour of the country he said:
It seems to me that the American people have been surfeited
with humor. So many brilliant men have written their jokes
for so long that they have become jaded. I thought at first
that the American sense of humor was radically less subtle
than ours in England, but now I know better. It is simply
overfed.
Mark Twain is, I think, the only living humorist of the old
American school, and he, like _Falstaff_, is growing old.
But the subtle touch that England likes still and America
liked once is still his. You laugh with him now, I think,
more from a sense of duty than a sense of the ridiculous.
You have grown tired and need coarser fare to stimulate your
appetite. And I've discovered the cause of it, too. It is
the comic supplement of the Sunday papers.
The New York _World_ takes exception to Mr. Jerome's remarks, and answers
him as follows:
In the name of Punch and the Prophet, figs! The history of
American humor is a chronicle of development to a present
pitch of refinement and subtlety with which the work of the
earlier humorists suffers by comparison. It is the history
of the evolution of the pun into the witticism.
Could Petroleum V. Nasby get a hearing to-day? Or the
Danbury News Man, or "Peck's Bad Boy"? Would not a Burdette
writing for the more exacting twentieth-century perception
find his occupation gone? Even an Artemus Ward and a Josh
Billings appealing to latter-day readers would perceive the
essential need of a purification and refinement of method if
they were to hold their audience under anything like the old
spell.
Progress from broad lines approaching buffoonery to
delicacy, from the obvious and the apparent to the elusive,
is observable in all humorists who hold their public. It was
seen in Eugene Field. It is discernible in Mark Twain, whom
Mr. Jerome cites as a survival of the "old American school."
Between "The Innocents Abroad" and "Pudd'nhead Wilson" and
"The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg" is all the contrast of
the changed taste of a new generation. _Falstaff_ is not now
the fashion.
WOMAN'S REAL PLACE IN LITERARY WORK.
An Unkind Frenchman Says That Her
Limitations Must Always Keep
Her in a Secondary Role.
We have often been told by Mrs. Charlotte Perkins Gilman that woman, as a
type, ranks higher in almost every respect than man; and there are many
people of both sexes who agree with her. Nevertheless, the champions of
feminine superiority may find it hard work to shout down the glorifiers of
masculine achievement.
Here is a Frenchman, Georges Pellisier, a literary critic, who argues that
woman cannot write great literature, because she is intellectually as well
as physically inferior to man. He assigns to her the secondary literary
rôle of acting as mistress of the literary salon--a position which, he
thinks, has a valuable influence. He expresses his views as follows, in
_La Revue_ (Paris), the translation being that of the _Literary Digest_:
Philosophy, criticism, and history are beyond her mental
scope, and I know of none who has made a lasting impression
in these domains. Philosophy requires a force of abstraction
and a power of application rarely possessed by women, the
power of reflection being, with them, as one of the greatest
of them has admitted, "rather a happy accident than a
peculiar or permanent attribute." Naturally impulsive, they
fail to follow out the logic of their ideas.... In the
domain of criticism woman is too much the slave of first
impressions, or preconceived notions, which must be
admitted, however, to be generally very vivid and often very
just.
Her personal preferences, nevertheless, obscure her views
and misguide her opinions, while she lacks almost wholly the
faculty of weighing her judgments.... A proper study or
understanding of history is impossible without the
philosophic and the critical faculties, and, above all, a
disinterested love of truth. Woman colors events according
as passion or sentiment sways her. The real historian must
totally efface both himself and his bias; and this, woman,
of her nature, is incapable of doing....
There remain to her the drama, poetry, and the novel. In
dramatic art, no woman has produced anything of lasting
note, the reason being that the dramatist must, perforce, be
without egotism and be capable of detaching the Ego from the
action of the play--a thing impossible in woman.
In poetry this critic allows to woman but "the shadow of a name"; for few
women, he argues, have written verse that endured. "The principal defect
she evinces in poetry," he says, "is a lack of artistic execution."
Woman's best work, he thinks, has been done in romance, though he refuses
to class any woman with the master-novelists. Even this small credit he
awards grudgingly and carpingly. He cannot ignore success, but he tries to
belittle it.
Apart from the fact that they may indulge in solecism and
anachronism without being severely called to task by the
critics, their composition is faulty. Even Georges Sand was
not above suspicion. There is palpable in their novels an
incoherent notion of logical plot, while their imagination
is subjected to no salutary discipline. Their work lacks
vigor, and in its weakness, not an unattractive quality in
woman herself, there is something commonplace that is not
redeemed by elegance. Above all, woman's temperament recoils
from a depiction of the stern reality of life.... She has no
sense of proportion, and for her the beautiful and the
pretty are interchangeable terms.
RACE SUICIDE MAY PROVE A BLESSING.
Welfare of the Offspring Is Much More
Important Than Their Number, Says
This Cincinnati Professor.
Dr. Charles A.L. Reed, of the University of Cincinnati, has published an
address on "The American Family," in which he makes this strong statement:
"We see in a declining birth-rate only a natural and evolutional
adjustment of race to environment--an adjustment that insures rather than
menaces the perpetuation of our kind under favoring conditions." Thus he
argues that "race suicide" may prove a blessing, since, as a matter of
fact, it implies an intelligent regard for the rights and necessities of
children rather than an aversion to motherhood:
If reduced to its last analysis, it does not indicate a
loss, but rather a development, if not an actual exaltation
of the maternal function. American women recognize,
subconsciously, possibly, certainly not in definite terms,
but they nevertheless recognize, the force of the law
enunciated by Mr. Spencer that whatever conduces to the
highest welfare of offspring must more and more establish
itself, since children of inferior parents reared in
inferior ways will ever be replaced by children of better
parents reared in better ways.
A much greater danger, according to Dr. Reed, is overpopulation. As
influences inimical to the American family he classes "everything that
tends to the early and wide dispersion of its members," such as--
The development of residential schools, the extension of
far-reaching transportation facilities, the diversification
of industries, the industrial employment of women, the
popularization of hotels and apartments for residential
purposes, and, finally, the development of clubs for both
men and women at the expense of the home.
WORTH WHILE TO LIVE IN A LARGE CITY.
The Real Blessings of Urban Life Have
Been Too Much Neglected By
the Apostles of the Country.
City life has been more or less maligned--unintentionally. Unhealthful
crowding, lack of the inspiration of outdoor life, and greater immorality
are the principal charges. Lately, however, people have begun to believe
that the city is little if any more immoral, proportionately to its
inhabitants, than the country; that the absence of outdoor life has
compensations, especially when one can spend part of the year in the
country; that most of the dangers of crowding can be averted by improved
sanitary methods and a greater number of parks. Edward S. Martin, writing
in _Appleton's Magazine_, states the case attractively:
After all, there is an unrivaled attraction about human
society, and it is considerably wholesome. It takes superior
people to thrive on solitude even with quiet thrown in.
Feebler folk have been known to regenerate even in the
blessed country. It is no more possible in these days to
stop the country people from coming to town than to stop the
rivers from flowing to the sea.
The cities offer the best opportunities to the people who
are qualified to improve them. The cities are the great
markets for talent and skill, as well as for commodities.
They would be badly off if the energy that makes them hum
were not perpetually re-enforced out of the great country
reservoirs. The country would be a worse place if the
superfluous vigor that is bred there had not the cities in
which to spend itself.
To get to some town is the natural and legitimate aspiration
of a considerable proportion of the sons and daughters of
American farmers. But as the waters that run to the sea are
carried back by the process of evaporation, so there must
be, as our cities grow greater, a return current out of them
countryward for the people for whom town life is no longer
profitable, and whose nerves and thews need nature's
medication.
There is such a current as it is. People who get rich in
town promptly provide themselves with country homes, and
spend more and more of the year in them as their years
increase and their strength declines. But for the people who
don't get rich, the combination, or the transition, is not
so easy. A due proportion of the people who are game to
stand more noise, canned food, and struggle in their lives,
and who ought to get to town, will get there.
The other process--to get back into the country the
families, and especially the children, who have had more
continuous city life than is good for them--needs a good
deal of outside assistance, and gets some, though not yet as
much as it requires.
MAKING MONEY IS A RELIGIOUS DUTY.
John D. Rockefeller Recounts His Own
Early Struggles and Shows to Young
Men the Virtues of Economy.
It may be, as sometimes has been said, that more is to be learned from the
mistakes of other men than from their successes. If that be true it is
because the reasons for their mistakes can hardly be concealed. Whether or
not successful men betray the secrets of their successes, however, usually
rests with themselves. In studying success, it is the occasional intimate
disclosure that bears value rather than the superficial record.
John D. Rockefeller has addressed to the Bible class over which his son
presides a pamphlet entitled "First Ledger of a Successful Man of
Affairs." In it he tells of the ledger he kept as a young man, in which
all his receipts and expenditures were most carefully recorded; and
starting with this reminiscence he gives his advice to the young men of
to-day. He begins with the dictum that "it is a religious duty to get all
the money you can"--that is, "honestly and fairly"--and he sings the
virtues of rigid economy. Speaking of his own efforts to "get a footing,"
he says:
If you all feel as I did when I was just starting in, I feel
sorry for you. But I would not be without the memory of that
struggle. And, discussing the struggle for success, what is
success? Is it money? Some of you have all you need.
Who is the poorest man in the world? I tell you, the poorest
man I know is the man who has nothing but money, nothing
else in the world upon which to devote his ambition and
thought. That is the sort of man I consider to be the
poorest in the world. Money is good if you know how to use
it.
Now, let me give you a little word of counsel. Keep a
ledger, as I did. Write down in it all that you receive, and
do not be ashamed to write down what you pay out. See that
you pay it away in such a manner that your father and mother
may look over your book and see just what you did with your
money. It will help you to save money, and that you ought to
do.
It is a mistake for any man who wishes for happiness and to
help others to think that he will wait until he has made a
fortune before giving away money to deserving objects.
LET DOCTORS TELL WHAT THE MATTER IS.
A Plea by Grover Cleveland for a Greater
Degree of Confidence Between
Physician and Patient.
Our only living ex-President, Mr. Cleveland, gave a bit of advice to the
doctors a few weeks ago. Speaking before the New York State Medical
Society, in session at Albany, he pleaded the rights of the patient to
know what his physician was doing to him. He humorously represented
himself as attorney for the great army of patients in their appeal to the
powerful minority of doctors:
In all seriousness I desire to concede without the least
reservation on behalf of the great army of patients that
they owe to the medical profession a debt of gratitude which
they can never repay, on account of hard, self-sacrificing
work done for their benefit and for beneficent results
accomplished in their interest.
But at the same time we are inclined to insist that while
our doctors have wonderfully advanced in all that increases
the usefulness and nobility of their profession, this thing
has not happened without some corresponding advance in the
intelligent thought and ready information of their patients
along the same lines.
We have come to think of ourselves as worthy of confidence
in the treatment of our ailments, and we believe if this was
accorded to us in greater measure it would be better for the
treatment and better for us. We do not claim that we should
be called in consultation in all our illnesses, but we would
be glad to have a little more explanation of the things done
to us.
FOOD AS A PRIME FACTOR OF CHARACTER.
What We Eat May Be More Important
Than Where We Live or Who
Our Parents Are.
Food makes the man; not heredity, not environment. Thus speaks John
Spargo, socialistic lecturer and author. The badly fed or underfed baby
quickly departs from the normal; imbecility, crime, pauperism all are
directly or indirectly due to the lack of food or its poor quality during
the plastic years.
Without accepting the doctrine that food is the sole factor in evolution,
some profit may be drawn from a more extended statement of Mr. Spargo's
views given in the New York _World_:
The nervous, irritable, half-ill children to be found in
such large numbers in our public schools represent poor
material. They are largely drawn from the homes of poverty,
and constitute an overwhelming majority of those children
for whom we have found it necessary to make special
provision--the dull pupils found year after year in the same
grades with much younger children.
In a measure the relation of a child's educability to its
physical health and comfort has been recognized by the
corelation of physical and mental exercises in most
up-to-date schools, but its larger social and economic
significance has been almost wholly ignored. And yet it is
quite certain that poverty exercises the same retarding
influences upon the physical training as upon mental
education.
There are certain conditions precedent to successful
education, whether physical or mental. Chief of these are a
reasonable amount of good, nourishing food and a healthy
home. Deprived of these, physical or mental development must
necessarily be hindered. And poverty means just that to the
child. It denies its victim these very necessaries with the
inevitable result--physical and mental weakness and
inefficiency.
Important as are the factors of proper housing and sanitary
and hygienic conditions--matters which have occupied an
ever-increasing amount of attention on the part of public
officials as well as philanthropists in recent years--it is
now generally confessed by science that, important as they
are in themselves, they are relatively unimportant in the
early years of child life.
"Sanitary conditions do not make any real difference at
all," was the testimony of Dr. Vincent before the British
Departmental Committee. "It is food, and food alone." That
the evils of underfeeding are intensified when there is a
unhygienic environment is true, but it is equally true that
defect in the diet is the prime and essential cause of the
excessive death-rate among the children of the poor, and of
those infantile diseases and ailments which make for
defective adults, moral, mental, or physical, should they
survive.
DR. W.S. RAINSFORD A FORCEFUL FIGURE.
Fearless Utterances of the Rector of a
Famous Institutional Church in
New York.
Militant Christianity has for many years had no more energetic champion
than the Rev. Dr. William S. Rainsford, rector of St. George's Church, New
York City. When he took charge of the church in 1883, as a young man
thirty two-years of age, its congregation had greatly fallen off. In
twenty-two years of untiring work he built up the parish until it
contained more than seven thousand members, included in a varied system of
parochial activities.
Dr. Rainsford, who has resigned his charge owing to ill-health, used to be
a man of great physical vigor, a fact which emphasizes this suggestion of
the New York _Sun's_:
The physical exhaustion which sent Dr. Rainsford abroad and
now compels his retirement from duties so arduous seems to
be a calamity afflicting clergymen more than other
professional men and men of affairs. Is this because the
emotional strain is so much greater in the case of a
clergyman?
Dr. Rainsford--who was born in Ireland and educated in England--was
fearless in his pulpit utterances. In one sermon he said:
It is vain to cry out against a thing that a vast proportion
of mankind believes is not wrong. You can't make an Irishman
believe it is wrong to have beer with his dinner; you can't
make an Englishman believe it. And perhaps that is why I do
not believe it is wrong to have it with mine.
LESSONS THAT MAY BE LEARNED FROM BIRDS.
A Careful Study of the Turkey Buzzard
May Teach Us the Secret of Flight,
Says John P. Holland.
John P. Holland, the inventor of the submarine war-ship, said some very
interesting things at a recent banquet. The element that occupies his
attention is not air, but water. He dreams of a time when his shark-like
boats will make war on the sea a thing of the past. Yet he also has hopes
of air-ships. His advice to Professor Bell was to forget about his kites
and other artificial devices, and to study the turkey buzzard, which knows
more about flying than all the colleges on earth.
The thing that beats you all, said Mr. Holland, is the
humble turkey buzzard. There is an incomprehensible mystery
which it is for mighty man to solve--how that bird can soar,
circle, and sweep over a radius of half a mile without an
apparent movement of its wings. Solve that mystery, and man
will conquer the air.
It is not surprising that two men so practical as Professor Bell and John
P. Holland are joining the ranks of the air-ship enthusiasts. The air-ship
is not altogether a thing of the future. It is here now. Last month the
French government bought a couple for military purposes. The Wright
brothers, in Dayton, Ohio, have flown twenty-five miles on their machine
and carried with them a load of pig-iron besides. And at the recent
automobile exhibitions in New York, two flying-machines were put on
exhibition and sold.
Both Bell and Holland were called fools and dreamers thirty years ago,
because they believed it possible to send words along a wire and travel
under the sea. To-day they are regarded as practical men of
affairs--wealthy and honored. It is a striking fact that both of these
veteran inventors are looking for bigger things from the future than those
which they dug from the past. The air-ship age, they say, is at hand, and
the human race may get ready to fly.
CHINA IS SEEKING WESTERN LEARNING.
Eminent Oriental Commissioners Travel
Through the United States to Study
Our Prosperity.
Their excellencies Tuan Fang and Tai Hung Chi, imperial Chinese
commissioners, came to the United States with open eyes to learn the
advantages of Western civilization. The fact of their coming was in itself
significant evidence of an existing state of affairs in China which the
Chinese minister to the United States, Sir Chentung Liang Cheng, explained
in the following words:
It has been a fervent wish that China would wake from her
sleep and join in the march of modern progress. The day of
her awakening is at hand. The unrest of our people proves
it. Large bodies move slowly, but when they begin to move
they gain momentum; and when China gets started in the
channels of progress it will be impossible to stop her. She
has always looked to the United States in every crisis of
her national career. I have no doubt that the result of the
coming of the Imperial Commission will bring the two
countries into closer relations.
This little speech was delivered a few weeks ago at a banquet in New York,
where a number of representative Americans were gathered to meet the
visitors. Tuan Fang spoke the same evening--using the Chinese language,
his remarks being translated by his secretary, Alfred Sze, who is a
graduate of Cornell University, class of 1901.
This translated address included the following passage:
Since our arrival in this country we have had every
opportunity to see the material side of your great nation.
All business and manufacturing establishments have thrown
their doors wide open to us, and afforded us ample
facilities to look into the American way of doing things.
Your government has likewise given us the same unrestricted
facilities, for all of which we are very, very grateful. It
is needless to say that we are deeply impressed with the
vast resources of the country and the marvelous energy of
its people. We are pleased to note, however, that in the
midst of this wonderful material expansion you have not lost
sight of the moral upbuilding of the country. We are,
therefore, glad to meet here this evening representative
Americans who are engaged in this beneficent labor.
This commissioner, Tuan Fang, is a considerable man in his own country. As
viceroy of two important provinces--Fu-Kien and Che-Kiang--his influence
is far-reaching. What he said about his experiences in the United States
was, perhaps, not so important as his definite tribute to American
missionaries. The missionary is often charged with arousing hostility by
violating native customs; but the viceroy said:
We take pleasure this evening in bearing testimony to the
part taken by American missionaries in promoting the
progress of the Chinese people. They have borne the light of
Western civilization into every nook and corner of the
empire. They have rendered inestimable service to China by
the laborious task of translating instructive books into the
Chinese language.
Truly, after listening that evening to these representatives of cultured
China, the hearers could share the feeling of John W. Foster, the
toastmaster on this occasion. Mr. Foster, one of the ablest of American
diplomats, said:
When I meet a Chinese gentleman I have the impulse to stand
uncovered in his presence and to make a profound bow, out of
respect to his great empire and race, antedating in their
existence and civilization all others of which we have any
record, with achievements unsurpassed in literature, in
philosophy, in art, and in useful inventions.
Love-Letters of the Great.
Passion, Tenderness, Sweetness, Reverence, All the Deep Tones of Love,
Make Beautiful the Letters Written by Various
Great Men to Their Wives.
Men of genius and power--kings, commanders, poets, painters--belong not to
themselves, but to the world. Greatness destroys privacy; and many a
person of note has lived to see described in print the most minute of his
little, unsuspected peculiarities. This invasion of the right to be let
alone is inevitable. Even love-letters do not escape.
It is only a few years since the love-letters of the Brownings--Elizabeth
Barrett and Robert--were given to the world. As models in the expression
of deep and tender affection it will be long before they are displaced.
Yet specimens of the love-letters of other eminent men and women are full
of tenderness, passion, reverence.
QUEEN VICTORIA'S ROMANCE.
Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, having occasion to make a
trip to Europe, wrote to the queen:
MY OWN DARLING: We got over our journey thus far rapidly and
well, but the tide was so unmannerly as to be an hour later
than the time calculated, so that I cannot sail before
three. I have been an hour here, and regret the lost time
which I might have spent with you. Poor child! you will,
while I write, be getting ready for luncheon, and will find
the place vacant where I sat yesterday. In your heart,
however, I hope my place will not be vacant.
I at least have you on board with me in spirit. Try to
occupy yourself as much as possible. You are even now half a
day nearer to seeing me again; by the time you get this
letter it will be a whole day; thirteen more and I am again
within your arms. To-morrow Seymour will bring you further
news of me. Your most devoted
ALBERT.
LEIGH HUNT AND HIS MARIANNE.
Leigh Hunt carried his versatility into his love-letters to Miss Marianne
Kent, his future wife. Below is an example written when he was nineteen:
MY DEAREST MARIANNE: I am very uncomfortable; I get up at
five in the morning, say a word to nobody, curse my stars
till eleven at night, then creep into bed to curse my stars
for to-morrow; and all this because I love a little
black-eyed girl of fifteen, whom nobody knows, with all my
heart and soul. You must not suppose I love you a bit the
better for being fifty miles out of my reach in the daytime,
for I travel at a pretty tolerable pace every night and have
held many a happy chat with you about twelve or one o'clock
at midnight, though you have forgotten it by this time.
Here follows a stanza of poetry, after which he proceeds:
You see, lovers can no more help being poets than poets can
help being lovers. I shall see you again and will pay you
prettily for running away from me, for you shall not stir
from my side the whole evening. If you are well and have
been so at Brighton, you are everything I could wish you.
God bless you and yours. You see I can still pray for
myself. Heaven knows that every blessing bestowed on you is
a tenfold one bestowed on your
H.
THE KINGLY LOVE OF CHARLES I.
In a way which proved him an adept in the art, Charles I wrote to the
Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henry IV of France, when she was
coming to join him:
DEAR HEART: I never knew till now the good of ignorance, for
I did not know the danger thou wert in by the storm before I
had assurance of thy happy escape, we having had a pleasing
false report of thy safe landing at Newcastle, which thine
of the 19th of January so far confirmed us in that we were
at least not undeceived of that hope till we knew certainly
how great a danger thou hast passed, of which I shall not be
out of apprehension until I have the happiness of thy
company.
For indeed I think it not the least of my misfortunes that
for my sake thou hast run so much hazard. But my heart being
full of admiration for thee, affection for thee, and
impatient passion of gratitude to thee, I cannot but say
something, leaving the rest to be read by thee out of thine
own noble heart.
CHARLES R.
NAPOLEON TO HIS FIRST LOVE.
Napoleon Bonaparte, in a passionate letter to Josephine, said:
I have received your letter, my adorable friend. It has
filled my heart with joy. I hope that you are better. I
earnestly desire that you should ride on horseback, as it
cannot fail to benefit you.
Since I left you I have been constantly depressed. My
happiness is to be near you. Incessantly I live over in my
memory your caresses, your tears, your affectionate
solicitude. The charms of the incomparable Josephine kindle
continually a burning and a glowing flame in my heart. When
entirely free from all harassing care, shall I be able to
pass all my time with you, having only to love you and to
think only of the happiness of so saying and of proving it
to you? I will send you your horse, but I hope you will soon
join me.
I thought I loved you months ago, but since my separation
from you I feel that I love you a thousandfold more. Each
day since I knew you have I adored you yet more and more.
Ah! I entreat you to let me see some of your faults; be less
beautiful, less graceful, less affectionate, less good,
especially be not overanxious, and never weep. Your tears
rob me of reason and inflame my blood.
Believe me that it is not in my power to have a single
thought that is not of you, or a wish that I cannot reveal
to you. Quickly reestablish your health and join me, that at
last before death we may be able to say "We were many days
happy." A thousand kisses, and one even to Fortuna,
notwithstanding his spitefulness.
BONAPARTE.
THE FIDELITY OF WASHINGTON.
The following letter from George Washington to his wife is a beautiful
example of love that was as fresh after twenty years as at the first, and
illustrates perfectly the sane balance of his great mind:
My Dearest Life and Love: You have hurt me, I know not how
much, by the insinuation in your last that my letters to you
have been less frequent because I have felt less concern for
you. The suspicion is most unkind. Have we lived almost a
score of years in the closest and dearest conjugal intimacy
to so little purpose that on the appearance only of
inattention to you, and which you might have accounted for
in a thousand ways more natural and more probable, you
should pitch upon that single motive which alone is
injurious to me?
I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as I wished and as
I ought, but think of my situation and then ask your heart
if I be without excuse. We are not, my dearest, in
circumstances most favorable to our happiness; but let us
not, I beseech you, idly make them worse by indulging in
suspicions and apprehensions which minds in distress are but
too apt to give way to. Your most faithful and tender
husband,
G.W.
BRIEF BUT SINCERE "OLD NOLL."
Oliver Cromwell seemed to have similar difficulties when he wrote:
MY DEAREST: I have not leisure to write much; but I could
chide thee that, in many of thy letters, thou writest to me
that I should not be unmindful of thee and thy little ones.
Truly, if I love you not too well, I think I err not on the
other hand much. Thou art dearer to me than any creature;
let that suffice. I rest thine
OLIVER CROMWELL.
POE'S HEART IN A TIME OF TRIAL.
In the midst of his trials, Edgar Allan Poe, the famous American poet,
wrote to his wife:
MY DEAR HEART, MY DEAR VIRGINIA: Our mother will explain to
you why I stayed away from you this night. On my last great
disappointment I should have lost my courage but for you, my
little darling wife. I shall be with you to-morrow, and be
assured until I see you I will keep in loving remembrance
your last words and your fervent prayer. May God grant you a
peaceful summer with your devoted
Edgar.
THE LOVE OF BISMARCK.
Bismarck, the man of iron, to the last day of his life was tenderly
devoted to his wife, using the most endearing terms in writing to her.
While he was in Paris, during the early days of their married life, he
wrote to her:
They say that here one may see the most beautiful women in
the world--women whose charms are a scepter more powerful
than a king's. I have seen them all, my little heart, and
now I know why you hold me in such unbreakable chains; for
there is none of all these fair ones so richly dowered as my
darling with all that gives a woman empire over the hearts
of men.
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.
BY AMBROSE BIERCE.
Among living American writers of short stories, Ambrose
Bierce is un-excelled in strength and fine simplicity. Born
in 1842, he served during the Civil War, and was brevetted
major for distinguished services. He went to California in
1866, and his name became familiar to readers of Pacific
Coast journals. His contributions, however, quickly won a
hearing throughout the country and in England, whither he
went in 1872, remaining for a few years and writing for
English periodicals. Later he returned to California, and
more recently he removed to Washington.
The keenest, most incisive, most telling contemporary
criticism was found in the column he used to contribute to
the San Francisco _Examiner_, "Prattle: A Transient Record
of Individual Opinion." Of his verse, at least one poem,
"The Passing Show," is deserving of a permanent place in
literature. More verse, more fiction, would be welcome from
his pen. He has produced less than those who read the
following story will wish, for the reason, perhaps, that he
has freely given so much of his time to teaching others how
to write.
It is natural, considering the experiences through which he
passed at the time of life in which conscious impressions
are most vivid, that Mr. Bierce should turn frequently to
the incidents of war. The very restraint of his style makes
his war pictures the more impressive--adds to their potency
as arguments for peace. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge"[A] is Mr. Bierce at his best. Powerful, grim,
pathetic, it dips deep into the well of the human soul.
A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into
the swift waters twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back,
the wrists bound with a cord. A rope loosely encircled his neck. It was
attached to a stout cross-timber above his head, and the slack fell to the
level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting
the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him, and his
executioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a
sergeant, who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short
remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of
his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the position known as "support"--that is to say,
vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm
thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural position,
enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty
of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge;
they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot-plank which traversed it.
[Footnote A: This story is taken from "In the Midst of Life," a volume of
Mr. Bierce's tales--Copyright, 1898, by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York.]
Beyond one of the sentinels, nobody was in sight; the railroad ran
straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost
to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of
the stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity crowned with a stockade of
vertical tree-trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure
through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the
bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge and fort were the spectators--a
single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the
rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the
right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at
the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left
hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of
the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring
stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might
have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms,
silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death
is a dignitary who, when he comes announced, is to be received with formal
manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the
code of military etiquette, silence and fixity are forms of deference.
The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five
years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which
was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose, firm
mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight
back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock
coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were
large and dark-gray and had a kindly expression which one would hardly
have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no
vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging
many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.
The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant
turned to the captain, saluted, and placed himself immediately behind that
officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the
condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank,
which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which
the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had
been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that
of the sergeant. At a signal from the former, the latter would step
aside, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man go down between two
ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and
effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked
a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the
swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of
dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the
current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!
He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and
children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists
under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers,
the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of
a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a
sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct,
metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the
anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and
whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its recurrence
was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death-knell. He awaited each
stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. The intervals
of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With
their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness.
They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he should shriek.
What he heard was the ticking of his watch.
He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free
my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the
stream. By diving I could evade the bullets, and, swimming vigorously,
reach the bank, take to the woods, and get away home. My home, thank God,
is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond
the invader's farthest advance."
As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed
into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it, the captain
nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
II.
Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected
Alabama family. Being a slave-owner, and, like other slave-owners, a
politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted
to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is
unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the
gallant army which had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the
fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for
the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the
opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it
comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was
too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too
perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a
civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too
much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous
dictum that all is fair in love and war.
One evening, while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench
near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate
and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve
him with her own white hands. While she was gone to fetch the water her
husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from
the front.
"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting
ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek Bridge, put it
in order, and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian
caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains,
will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."
"How far is it to the Owl Creek Bridge?" Farquhar asked.
"About thirty miles."
"Is there no force on this side the creek?"
"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single
sentinel at this end of the bridge."
"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the picket
post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar, smiling,
"what could he accomplish?"
The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed
that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood
against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would
burn like tow."
The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked
her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband, and rode away. An hour later,
after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the
direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.
III.
As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost
consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was
awakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure
upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant
agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his
body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of
ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They
seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable
temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of
fulness--of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought.
The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only
to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed
in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without
material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like
a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light
about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful
roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought
was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the
stream. There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck
was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of
hanging at the bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He
opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but
how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became
fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and
brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it with
reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned,"
he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will
not be shot; that is not fair."
He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrists apprised
him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his
attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without
interest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what magnificent, what
superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell
away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each
side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first
one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it
away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a
water-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words
to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the
direst pang which he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his
brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a
great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was
racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient
hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with
quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head
emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded
convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a
great draft of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek.
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,
preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his
organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of
things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard
their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank
of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of
each leaf--saw the very insects upon them, the locusts, the
brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig
to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million
blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of
the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies' wings, the strokes of the
water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat--all these made
audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of
its body parting the water.
He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible
world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw
the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the
sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette
against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him; the
captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed.
Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.
Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly
within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard
a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his
shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in
the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through
the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye, and
remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest and that all famous
marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was
again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of
a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and
came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all
other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no
soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of
that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was
taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly--with what
an even, calm intonation, presaging and enforcing tranquillity in the
men--with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words:
"Attention, company! Shoulder arms! Ready! Aim! Fire!"
Farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears
like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley,
and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,
singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched
him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One
lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm, and he
snatched it out.
As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a
long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to
safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels,
turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired
again, independently and ineffectually.
The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming
vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and
legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.
"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second
time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably
already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge
them all!"
An appalling splash within two yards of him, followed by a loud, rushing
sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air to the
fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A
rising sheet of water, which curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded
him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook
his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the
deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was
cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.
"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a
charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise
me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a
good gun."
Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top. The
water, the banks, the forest, the now distant bridge, fort, and men--all
were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors
only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw. He had
been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of
advance and gyration which made him giddy and sick. In a few moments he
was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream--the
southern bank--and behind a projecting point, which concealed him from his
enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands
on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers
into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls, and audibly blessed it.
It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing
beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant
garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the
fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate light shone through the
spaces among their trunks, and the wind made in their branches the music
of eolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape, he was content to
remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head
roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random
farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged
into the forest.
All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The
forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not
even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region.
There was something uncanny in the revelation.
By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife
and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what
he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city
street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling
anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation.
The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides,
terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in
perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood,
shone great golden stars, looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange
constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a
secret and malign significance. The wood was full of noises, among which
he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was in pain, and lifting his hand to it, he found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised
it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was
swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from
between his teeth into the cool air. How softly the turf had carpeted the
untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!
Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for
now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and
all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled
the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white
walk he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and
cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of
the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude
of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs
forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a
stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all
about him, with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then all is darkness
and silence!
Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from
side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek Bridge.
THE GIANT AND PYGMY OF BOOKLAND.
The extremes of bookland which meet in the British Museum are each
remarkable products of the art of book-making. Difficulties would seem to
attend the perusal of either of them, though of a widely different sort.
Here is to be seen the largest book in the world--an atlas of the
fifteenth century. It is seven feet high. When a tall man consults it, his
head is hidden as he stands between its generous leaves. Its stout binding
and ponderous clasps make it seem as substantial as the walls of a room.
The smallest book in the world is a tiny "Bijou Almanac"--less than an
inch square, bound in dainty red morocco, and easily to be concealed in
the finger of a lady's glove.
These two extremes of the printer's art might well stand at the beginning
and the end of the amazing thirty-seven miles of shelves filled with books
which belong to the great English library.
The Great Southwest.
BY CHARLES M. HARVEY.
The Marvelous Development, Agricultural, Industrial, and Commercial, That
Is Now in Progress in the States of Texas and Arkansas and
the Adjoining Territories.
_Revised from_ MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE _and brought up to date by the author
for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
EDITOR'S NOTE.--In the growth of interest in the great
States west of the Mississippi River the Southwest has until
lately been commonly neglected. Gold sent men rushing first
to the mountain States. Then grain led them to the prairie
States. With the more fertile wheat lands fully occupied,
there has of late been a tendency to the Canadian Northwest.
But at the same time a remarkable development, commercial
and industrial, as well as agricultural, has been going on
in the Southwest. The progress made in Texas during the last
few years is simply astounding.
Unknown to the great mass of the people of the United States, a new empire
is being planted in the Southwest. Much is written about the thousands who
are crossing the Canadian frontier and settling in Manitoba, Assiniboia,
and Alberta; but very little is heard about the tens of thousands from the
Northwest and the Middle West, from the East and Europe, who are moving
into Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Indian Territory, Texas, New Mexico, and
Arizona.
The officials of the railways running into this latter region could tell a
little of this story if they wished to. Last year, from April to November,
something like a million dollars was paid into the treasuries of the
Atchison, Topeka and Sante Fé, the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific, the
Iron Mountain, the Missouri Pacific, the St. Louis and San Francisco, and
the Missouri, Kansas and Texas railways, for fares by seekers of homes in
the Southwest. About one-third of these prospectors become permanent
settlers. The money put into farms, into manufacturing industries, and
into business of various sorts in that region, according to the estimates
of railway officials and of immigration agents, has amounted during the
past twelve months to fully two hundred million dollars.
The Empire State of the Future.
Consider for a moment the State of Texas--as she was, as she is, and as
she will be. Admitted to the Union in 1845, newly baptized with blood in
her struggle against the Mexicans, she then contained little more than a
hundred thousand inhabitants. To-day she has three and a half millions,
and ranks fifth among the States, having passed Missouri since the last
census. Only New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Ohio are now ahead of
her. If all these States continue to advance in population at the same
rate as in recent years, she will pass Ohio before 1920, Illinois by 1930,
and Pennsylvania by 1940. Before 1950 she will have outstripped New York
and will be the Empire State of the Union.
In spite of her more than twenty-fold increase during the past six
decades, Texas is still, comparatively speaking, a sparsely settled
region. She has as yet a mere fraction of the population her generous soil
could support. Remember that she is larger than France or Germany, larger
than two Italys or two Great Britains. When she became a State she had
two square miles of land for each of her inhabitants. She now has about
thirteen people to each square mile. The State of New York has one hundred
and sixty people to the square mile, and is steadily growing in
population. Massachusetts has three hundred and seventy-five to the square
mile, and is steadily growing. Belgium has five hundred and ninety to the
square mile, and is steadily growing. England has six hundred and
twenty-five to the square mile, and is steadily growing. If the present
ratio of increase continues, think of the incalculable growth that the
coming years will bring to the great Southwestern State!
If Texas were peopled as densely as New York State, she would have
forty-two million inhabitants--more than ten times what she has. Settled
as closely as Massachusetts, she would have one hundred millions; as
closely as England, one hundred and sixty-six millions. This American
State is destined to rank with the powers of the world.
Remarkable as was the showing that Texas made at the last census, other
portions of the Southwest could point to a still more phenomenal gain.
While the population of the Lone Star State advanced thirty-six per cent
between 1890 and 1900, that of Arizona rose one hundred and five per cent,
that of the Indian Territory one hundred and seventeen per cent, and that
of Oklahoma no less than five hundred and forty-four per cent in the ten
years.
Texas Now Leads in Railways.
From 1870 till 1904 Illinois had a larger number of miles of railway than
any other State. In 1904 Texas passed Illinois. On March 1, 1906, the
great Southwestern State had approximately twelve thousand miles of main
railway track, or over two hundred miles in excess of Illinois.
Pennsylvania, Iowa, Ohio, Michigan, and New York, in this order, stand
below Illinois in railway mileage, New York's total at the same date being
a little short of nine thousand miles.
In recent years, about half of the country's entire new railway mileage
has been built in the Southwest. The increase of mileage between 1897 and
the end of 1903 was twelve and a half per cent for the United States. It
was ten per cent in the Middle States, seven per cent in the Rocky
Mountain region and on the Pacific Slope, and three per cent in Ohio and
Indiana. It was twenty-seven per cent in the section comprising Arkansas,
Oklahoma, the Indian Territory, Texas, and New Mexico. There could
scarcely be a more significant index of advancing wealth, population, and
industry.
The Land of Corn and Cotton.
The Southwest at this moment is enjoying a prosperity unexampled in its
annals. Last year's yield of corn, wheat, and cotton proved better than
was expected early in the season, the corn crop being particularly good.
Land values have doubled in much of this region during the past five
years; though prices are still so much below those prevailing in Missouri,
Iowa, Minnesota, Ohio, Illinois, and Indiana that the inrush from those
States continues to be large.
Traveling salesmen report better business in Oklahoma, Texas, and their
neighbors than in any other part of the West. More visitors came to the
St. Louis Exposition from the Southwestern States and Territories than
from any other part of the country, in proportion to population--which was
a good test of that region's financial condition.
Before the Civil War, when the South was proclaiming cotton to be king,
cotton's realm was in the Atlantic seaboard States. But Texas now produces
nearly a third of the country's entire crop. Her recent average has been
about three million bales; last year the yield was a little less than
that. The Indian Territory and Oklahoma are beginning to figure
prominently in cotton production. Cotton accounts for much of the
prosperity of the Southwest. More and more the farmers of that region are
raising other crops for a living, and using the proceeds of their
cotton-fields as a surplus fund.
What Statehood Will Mean.
Statehood, of course, will give a new impetus to the growth of the
Territories of the Southwest, attracting settlers and capital. It is
practically certain that Oklahoma and the Indian Territory are shortly to
become a State under the name of Oklahoma. The political future of New
Mexico and Arizona is more problematical, being a subject of controversy
at Washington as this is written. It is variously proposed to admit each
Territory separately, to admit New Mexico while excluding her sister
Territory, or to unite them into a single State, probably under the title
of Arizona. The question will have been settled before this reaches the
reader, unless its settlement is postponed to a later session of Congress.
The State of Oklahoma will start with a population of fully a million and
a half--about equal to that of California, and considerably above that of
such commonwealths as Louisiana, South Carolina, or Maryland. If New
Mexico and Arizona should be united, they will have about half a million
inhabitants. In area they will form the second State in the Union,
inferior only to Texas.
The Growth of the Gulf Ports.
Through the growing popularity of the Gulf ports as outlets for the
country's merchandise, the Southwest is bound to be a great gainer. As
compared with 1904, there was a larger gain in the exports by the ports of
the Gulf of Mexico in 1905 than the Atlantic ports showed.
This gain is due to several causes. More and more the great railways are
establishing terminals at the Gulf outlets. From the chief productive
centers of the Mississippi Valley the distances to these points are
shorter than to the Atlantic, and the grades are easier. In population,
productivity, and general industrial and commercial importance, the
southern end of the vast Mississippi Valley is growing with
disproportionate rapidity. The Southwest's pull on the population center
of the United States is shown by the fact that during the decade ending
with 1900 that point moved fourteen miles westward and three miles
southward.
The center of the country's production of wheat and of oats, and the
center of the total area in the country's farms, are now west of the
Mississippi. The center of the production of cotton, now on the western
verge of the State of Mississippi, and the center of the production of
corn, now in the western part of Illinois, will cross the big river before
1910. More than sixty-five per cent of the country's exports already
originate west of the Mississippi.
Galveston and the Panama Canal.
For all the region between the Mississippi and the continental divide of
the Rockies, the Texas ports, chiefly Galveston, will be the natural
outlets to the sea. In aggregate value of merchandise exports Galveston
has left Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Boston far behind. In
the last calendar year she stood third among American ports in the value
of her merchandise shipments, New York and New Orleans being the only two
ahead of her. She has gained so rapidly on New Orleans in recent years,
and the Crescent City led her by so slight a margin in 1905, that for the
twelve months ending with next December it seems safe to predict that the
Texas seaport will take second place.
Much has been said of the benefits which the Panama Canal will bring to
the United States by giving us a short cut to the Pacific littoral of our
own continent, to the west coast of South America, and to Asia and
Australia. Undoubtedly the isthmian waterway will open new markets to
Galveston and other Texas ports, and will be a powerful influence in
enabling the Southwest to score further industrial and commercial
conquests.
He who allows his happiness to depend too much on reason,
who submits his pleasures to examination, and desires
enjoyments only of the most refined nature, too often ends
by not having any at all.--=Chamfort.=
ALL KINDS OF THINGS.
A Strange Scene in a French Law-Court--A German Botanist's
Hunt for a Mysterious Native Tribe--The Pranks of a Famous
Joker--The Mileage of the Blood--Tiny Republics of
Europe--Average Weights of Men and Women at Various
Ages--With Other Curious and Interesting Things Drawn from
Many Sources.
_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
HOW MELODRAMA WAS ECLIPSED BY TRUTH.
COINCIDENCES IN PARIS COURT.
Official's Attempt to Convict His Unrecognized
Son Was Interrupted by Wife
He Deserted Many Years Before.
Coincidence--chance, play a tremendous part in human history. Fate is
another name for the same thing; so is luck. All these words are merely
our puny euphemisms for X, the unknown quantity.
Not a day passes but the story of a remarkable coincidence is brought to
public notice. A stranger incident never occurred, however, than this one,
the account of which we have unearthed in an old copy of the _Chronique de
Paris_.
A youth of about nineteen was brought to trial for having broken the
window of a baker's shop and stolen a two-pound loaf.
The Judge--"Why did you steal the loaf?"
Prisoner--"I was driven by hunger."
"Why did you not buy it?"
"Because I had no money."
"But you have a gold ring on your finger; why did you not sell it?"
"I am a foundling; when I was taken from the bank of a ditch, this ring
was suspended from my neck by a silken cord, and I kept it in the hope of
thereby discovering at least who were my parents; I cannot dispose of it."
The _procureur du roi_ (king's attorney) made a violent speech against the
prisoner, who was found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for five
years. Immediately upon this, a woman, more worn down by poverty than age,
came forward and made the following declaration:
"Gentlemen of the Jury: Twenty years ago a young woman was
married to a young man of the same town, who afterward
abandoned her. Poor and distressed, she was obliged to leave
her child to the care of Providence. The child has since
grown up, and the woman and the husband have grown older;
the child in poverty, the woman in misery, and her husband
in prosperity. They are all three now in court. The child is
the unfortunate prisoner whom you have just pronounced
guilty; the mother is myself; and there sits the father!"
pointing to the king's attorney.
THE FIRST SIGHT OF A WHITE FACE.
HUNTING DOWN THE SHY NEGRITO.
How Albert Grubauer Won the Confidence
of a Timid People Who Had Never
Before Seen a European.
In the mountains of northern Malacca and southern Siam dwells a tribe of
dwarf Negritos who, until a few months ago, knew nothing of the white man
and his ways. From their hunting grounds they could almost see the foreign
ships steam through Malacca Straits. Certain conveniences obtainable only
from the whites had reached them through intermediate tribes; for example,
they had become well acquainted with the Swedish safety matches, yet no
white man had ever come in contact with them.
A German botanist, Albert Grubauer, not long ago set out to make
acquaintance with these shy people. With a few native servants he stole
quietly up into the mountains. For some time their patience was rewarded
only with disappointment, but at last one morning they came upon a party
of the little men. The Negritos dropped the bundles of rattan they were
carrying and concealed themselves in the under-growth.
The German and his men knew exactly what they were to do in such a case,
says the New York _Sun_, summarizing the story from the elaborate account
in a German scientific journal. They were not to go an inch in pursuit. No
weapon was to be shown. One of the men who could speak a little of the
native dialect aired his accomplishment in the gentlest way. The white man
was their good friend and had come to see them. And what wonderful
presents he had brought for his friends! The white man and his servants
extended their arms, which were loaded with bright cottons, strings of
beads, many colored necklaces, tobacco and other tempting articles whose
merits were extolled by the spokesman with all the eloquence he could
command.
They knew the natives were behind the bushes looking at the tempting sight
and listening to the exhortation. Then the visitors sat down, still
holding out the beautiful presents. Finally, an old man, the leader of the
party, stuck his head out of the bush. He broke off a green twig and held
it up. It was a sign of peace and the white man nodded to him. The ice was
broken. The Negrito approached the European, they shook hands, some of the
presents were distributed and the visitors became the guests of the little
mountaineers. They were passed on from one group to another till Grubauer,
after a considerable time, had completed his studies.
HOW THEY CONSTRUCT ENGLISH IN BELGIUM.
A REQUEST TO "TWIRL THE PAGE."
American Postage-Stamp Collectors Are
Amused, When Not Puzzled, by a
Queerly Worded Circular.
"English as she is Japanned" occasionally appears on the shop signs of
Yokohama, Tokyo, and other Japanese cities, to amuse travelers from
America and England. But it is not necessary to search the Orient for odd
perversions of the language. As near a country as Belgium is the
birthplace of the following circular, which has lately been received by
many American philatelists:
"Seek you good Correspondents extra-European? Want you
Postage Stamps from Africa, America, Asia, Oceania? Sent
immediately and advertisement for the ---- Extra-European
Directory, 4,000 addresses of Philatelists, residing abroad
Europa. Work's price, book in 8 deg. stitched, ---- The
advertisements sind inserted opposite the country selected
by you ... One Justificative copy gratis."
At the bottom of the page is the further instruction to English and
American readers to "Twirl the page, please."
PRACTICAL JOKING OF EUGENE VIVIER.
"A MOST GENTLEMANLY EMPEROR."
How the Calf Which This Famous Hornplayer
Put in His Apartment Became
in Time an Ox.
Henry Sutherland Edwards, a London journalist, who died a short time ago,
published in 1900 a volume of "Personal Recollections" which is very much
alive with anecdotes of men of the past generation. Considerable space is
given to a man who is now almost unremembered--Eugene Vivier, the
hornplayer, "the most charming of men and the spoiled child of nearly
every court in Europe." Vivier is the man who said of Napoleon III, "He is
the most gentlemanly emperor I know."
"What can I do for you?" said this gentlemanly emperor one day, when
Vivier had gone to see him at the Tuileries.
"Come out on the balcony with me, sire," replied the genial cynic. "Some
of my creditors are sure to be passing, and it will do me good to be seen
in conversation with your majesty."
Vivier was a confirmed practical joker. Once, while riding in an omnibus,
he pretended to be mad.
He indulged in the wildest gesticulations, and then, as if in despair,
drew a pistol from his pocket. The conductor was called upon by
acclamation to interfere, and Vivier was on the point of being disarmed
when suddenly he broke the pistol in two, handed half to the conductor and
began to eat the other half himself. It was made of chocolate!
Vivier could not bear to see people in a hurry. According to him, there
was nothing in life worth hurrying for; and, living on the Boulevard, just
opposite the Rue Vivienne, he was much annoyed at seeing so many persons
hastening, toward six o'clock, to the post-office on the Place de la
Bourse.
He determined to pay them out, and for that purpose bought a calf, which
he took up to his apartments at night, and exhibited the next afternoon at
a few minutes before six o'clock on the balcony of his second floor. In
spite of their eagerness to catch the post, many persons could not help
stopping to look at the calf.
Soon a crowd collected and messengers stayed their steps in order to gaze
at the unwonted apparition. Six o'clock struck, and soon after a number of
men who had missed the post returned in an irritated condition, and,
stopping before Vivier's house, shook their fists at him. Vivier went down
to them and asked the meaning of the insolence.
"We were not shaking our fists at you," replied the enraged ones, "but at
that calf."
"Ah! You know him, then?" returned Vivier. "I was not aware of it."
In time Vivier's calf became the subject of a legend, according to which
the animal (still in Vivier's apartments) grew to be an ox, and so annoyed
the neighbors by his lowing that the proprietor of the house insisted on
its being sent away. Vivier told him to come and take it, when it was
found that the calf of other days had grown to such a size that it was
impossible to get it down-stairs.
ARTERIES AND VEINS AS A RACE-COURSE.
MILEAGE OF THE HUMAN BLOOD.
One Little Red Corpuscle May Travel One
Hundred and Sixty-Eight Miles
in a Single Day.
The speed at which the blood circulates in the veins and arteries of a
healthy man is something surprising. All day long, year in and year out,
the round trips continue from the heart to the extremities and back again.
The red blood corpuscles travel like boats in a stream, going to this or
that station for such service as they have to perform; and the white
corpuscles, the phagocytes, dart hither and thither like patrol boats,
ready to arrest any contraband cargo of disease germs.
The mileage of the blood circulation reveals some astounding facts in our
personal history. Thus it has been calculated that, assuming the heart to
beat sixty-nine times a minute at ordinary heart pressure, the blood goes
at the rate of two hundred and seven yards in the minute, or seven miles
per hour, one hundred and sixty-eight miles per day and six thousand three
hundred and twenty miles per year. If a man of eighty-four years of age
could have one single blood corpuscle floating in his blood all his life
it would have traveled in that same time five million one hundred and
fifty thousand eight hundred and eight miles.
SOME MICROSCOPIC EUROPEAN REPUBLICS.
ONE IS IN THE LOWER PYRENEES.
It Lies Between France and Spain, and
Every Army in Europe Has Rumbled
Pell-Mell Past Its Very Doors.
A republic without an army--without a navy--without even one
policeman--with only one square mile of territory, and a population of
fifty: who can tell what its name is, and where it is located?
Stranger still, it has stood in the midst of warring nations, and yet
remained as independent as the United States. It has heard the roar of
Napoleon's artillery. There are famous battle-fields on the north of it
and on the south. Great armies from France and Spain and England have
swung past it on all sides. Vast nations have arisen and gone down again
to oblivion, and yet this baby republic goes on for centuries--without
growth and without death.
Goust--which is the name of this wonderful little atom among the nations
of Europe--is situated in the Lower Pyrenees, between France and Spain.
For over two centuries and a half Goust has elected a president every
seven years, and its independence has been recognized by both France and
Spain.
There are two tiny republics in Italy--the famous little state of San
Marino, and the less-known islet of Tavolara. The latter did not become a
republic until recently. In 1830 the absolute dominion of the island was
conceded by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, to the Bartoleoni family,
whose head became King Paul I.
He was likewise Paul the last, for on his death, in 1882, he requested
that his title should be buried with him and that the kingdom be turned
into a republic. A constitution was accordingly drawn up, and under its
terms a president, with a council of six, is elected every six years, all
adults, male or female, casting a ballot. No salary is paid either to the
president or the members of his council.
WEIGHTS OF THE SEXES AT DIFFERENT AGES.
MEN ARE FATTEST AT FORTY.
Average Weights of Humanity Differ
More Markedly in Relation to Age
and Sex Than Is Supposed.
If all the men and women, boys and girls, and infants--black, white,
yellow, brown or red--in all parts of the world, could be weighed on the
same scales, the average weight would be nearly one hundred pounds
avoirdupois. Six-pound infants and three-hundred-pound giants contribute
to the average.
Upon the average, boys at birth weigh a little more and girls a little
less than seven pounds. For the first twelve years the two sexes continue
nearly equal in weight, but beyond that age the boys acquire a decided
preponderance. Young men of twenty average 135 pounds, while the young
women of twenty average 110 pounds each.
Men reach their heaviest weight at about forty years of age, when their
average weight will be about 140 pounds; but women slowly increase in
weight until fifty years of age, when their average weight will be 130
pounds. Taking the men and women together, their weight at full growth
will then average from 108 to 150 pounds; and women from 80 to 130 pounds.
SPENDS TEN MONTHS GAZING INTO MIRROR.
WOMAN'S AVERAGE IN A LIFETIME.
German Statisticians Assert That a Man
Requires Only Seven Months for This
Employment.
German statisticians, who have long been noted for their tendency to turn
their searchlights on subjects that might better be left alone, have made
another little incursion into the field of woman's vanity. In short, they
have been calculating what part of a woman's life is spent in looking at
herself in a mirror.
She begins as a rule at six years. From six to ten she has a daily average
of seven minutes. From ten to fifteen she devotes a quarter of an hour to
her glass.
At twenty she certainly spends thirty minutes daily admiring herself, and
when past twenty a whole hour.
The statisticians are tactful enough not to say when a woman begins to
take less interest in her personal appearance, but women more than sixty
years do not, they say, spend more than ten minutes daily at their
mirrors. All this time reckoned up--it is a simple sum in
multiplication--makes seven thousand hours, or about ten months, at the
mirror.
Then they proceed to compare the time which a man--a German man--devotes
to this occupation, and come to the conclusion that his average is seven
months.
ANIMAL ENDURANCE PUTS MAN TO SHAME.
DESPAIR YIELDS TO COURAGE.
Animals and Birds Caught in Traps Display
Spartan Fortitude, and Toads
Imprisoned in Rocks Grow Fat.
At a time when six-day bicycle races, the so-called brutality of modern
football, and endurance tests of the automobile excite such a degree of
popular interest throughout the English-speaking world, it might not be
amiss to glance over the shoulder occasionally at a few records made by
some mute four-footed or feathered champions who have established records
in fields in which Nature, herself, as umpire, read the inexorable law of
necessity.
In reviewing some remarkable feats of animal endurance, the Chicago _News_
mentions the case of a dog that was dug out alive from a rabbit-hole, in
the Scilly Isles, after having been lost for a fortnight.
Continuing, this same authority says that whales and eagles come at the
head of creatures that longest survive the evils to which other fishes and
birds are heirs. Yet a whale has been found dead from a dislocated jaw. It
is also recorded that an elephant died as a result of gangrene in one of
its feet.
In a Scottish deer forest not long ago a stalking party came across a
magnificent golden eagle, dead, caught in a fox trap. He had been caught
by the center claw of one foot and had died of exhaustion in attempting to
escape.
By his side were two grouse and a partly eaten hare which other eagles had
brought to sustain him in his fight for life. If a rat had been caught by
his leg in a trap either he or his comrades would have bitten off the
imprisoned limb and released him.
The poor despised toad is not built to stand physical violence, but he
would fatten on imprisonment. Toads imprisoned in rocks for years--no one
knows how many--come to light from time to time, fat and well. They have
been found beneath deposits which, according to all accepted ideas of
geology, must have been long ages in process of formation. Unless
microbes, carried to them through the pores of the imprisoning rock, have
been their fare, it is certain, according to naturalists who ought to
know, that they have eaten nothing for an unthinkable period.
EGGS OF VARIOUS FOWLS MUCH ALIKE.
GOOSE'S CONTAIN MOST PROTEIN.
Despite Old Adage, It Requires About a
Pound of Eggs to Equal the Nutriment
in a Pound of Beefsteak.
The white of an egg is nearly seven-eighths water, the balance being pure
albumen. The yolk is slightly less than one-half water. These figures
apply approximately to the eggs of turkeys, hens, geese, ducks, and
guinea-fowls.
To show how nearly alike the eggs of various domestic fowls are in respect
to composition, the following figures are given by the Department of
Agriculture:
Hen's egg--50 per cent water, 16 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.
Duck's egg--46 per cent water, 17 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.
Goose egg--44 per cent water, 19 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.
Turkey egg--48 per cent water, 18 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.
It should be explained that "protein" is the stuff that goes to make
muscle and blood. Fat, of course, is fuel for running the body-machine.
Thus it will be seen that eggs, though half, or nearly half, water, are
extremely nutritious, containing all the elements required for the
building and support of the human body. But the old saying that an egg
contains as much nutriment as a pound of beefsteak is manifestly very far
from correct. It would be nearer the fact to estimate a pound of eggs as
equal to a pound of lean beefsteak in nourishing power.
A CHECK FOR THOUSANDS ON A PINE SHINGLE.
A PIONEER BANKER'S READINESS.
How Joseph C. Palmer, With Some Extraordinary
Material, Wrote for
a Large Sum.
Many different substances have been used to send communications through
the mails, from bits of carved wood to leather post-cards. But banks are
supposed to be more insistent upon red tape. A stamp and an address will
satisfy the postal authorities; ink, paper, and indubitable
signature--these are requisites in bank paper. Yet in new countries it is
frequently obliged to put up with makeshifts. Here is a story of early
banking in California, as related by the San Francisco _Bulletin_:
Joseph C. Palmer, a California pioneer, and at one time a banker and
politician in the early days of California, was a member of the firm of
Palmer, Cook & Co., a bank which did an immense business, and whose
influence was felt throughout the State.
To show his readiness to adopt original methods in an emergency, it is
related that once a depositor called to draw a large sum of money
(twenty-eight thousand dollars) from the bank. Mr. Palmer's signature was
necessary, but he had been called away to attend to some duty in a
lumberyard at a distance of a mile or more.
Thither the depositor hastened and made known his wants and the necessity
of having them attended to at once. Mr. Palmer could find neither pen,
pencil, ink, nor paper. But without a moment's hesitation he picked up a
shingle, borrowed a piece of red chalk, and with it wrote a check on the
shingle in large and distinct letters for twenty-eight thousand dollars.
This was good when presented for all the money the depositor had in bank,
and it proved an exceedingly good advertisement for Palmer. It gained
confidence for the original genius of our first great banker, whom
everybody trusted.
Robert Emmet's Speech of Vindication.
Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, was born in Dublin in 1778,
and was executed for treason in Dublin, September 20, 1803.
A prize-winner at Trinity College, Dublin, and an eloquent
speaker before the Historical Society, he lent his young
energies to the cause of Ireland with a devotion that was as
pure and unselfish as it was rash. Traveling on the
Continent, he received from Napoleon I a promise to help
Ireland. He then returned secretly to Ireland and made plans
for a revolution. An abortive uprising occurred. Emmet, with
a mob of followers, attempted to seize Dublin Castle, but
one volley dispersed his rabble.
He fled to the Wicklow mountains, intending to escape from
the country, but he made a last visit to his sweetheart,
Miss Curran, and was captured. His speeches before the
tribunal which sentenced him to be hanged are models of
noble and eloquent dignity. Thomas Moore, Emmet's
schoolfellow and friend, inscribed to his memory a touching
poem:
Oh, breathe not his name--let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
In another lyric, which begins with the line "She is far
from the land where her young hero sleeps," Moore alluded to
the sad after-life of Miss Curran. Her story was also told,
without a mention of her name, by Washington Irving, in "The
Broken Heart," which may be found in "The Sketch Book."
My Lords: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be
pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter
your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say, with any view to
the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I
must abide by. But I have that to say, which interests me more than life,
and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say, why my
reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny
which has been heaped upon it.
Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal,
I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a
murmur; but the sentence of law which delivers my body to the executioner
will, through the ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to
consign my character to obloquy: for there must be guilt
somewhere--whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe,
posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine
may not perish--that it may live in the respect of my countrymen--I seize
upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges alleged
against me. When my spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port; when
my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who have
shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their
country and virtue, this is my hope--I wish that my memory and name may
animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency on the
destruction of that perfidious government which upholds its domination by
blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its power over man as over the
beasts of the forest, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand,
in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or
doubts a little more or less than the government standard--a government
which is steeled to barbarity by the cries of the orphans and the tears of
the widows which its cruelty has made.
I swear by the throne of heaven, before which I must shortly appear--by
the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me--that my
conduct has been, through all this peril, and all my purposes, governed
only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that
of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under
which she has so long, and too patiently, travailed; and that I
confidently and assuredly hope (wild and chimerical as it may appear) that
there are still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble
enterprise.
Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man
attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but
that of my country's liberty and independence; or that I could have become
the pliant minion of power, in the oppression or the miseries of my
countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the
same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of
freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her
enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who
lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance
of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave,
only to give my countrymen their rights--am I to be loaded with calumny,
and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No!--God forbid!
If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and
cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life--O ever dear
and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the
conduct of your suffering son; and see if I have even for a moment
deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was
your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I
am now to offer up my life!
My lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you
seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your
victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God
created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes
so grievous that they cry to heaven! Be yet patient! I have but a few
words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is
nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I
sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from
this world--it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph;
for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not
prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity
and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other
men, can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place
among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be
written! I have done.
=Mortality=. It takes twenty months to bring man from the
state of embryo, and from that of a mere animal, as he is in
his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to
dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure;
it would take an eternity to know something of his soul: it
takes but an instant to kill him.--=Voltaire.=
The Rivals.
By BENSON J. LOSSING.
The late historian, Benson J. Lossing, whose name for a
large part of the last century was connected with historical
authorship and with wood engraving, was born in Dutchess
County, New York, February 12, 1813, and died June 3, 1891.
When a very young man he became editor of a local paper in
Poughkeepsie, and, afterward, with Barritt, under the
familiar signature of "Lossing and Barritt," did a very
large amount of the wood engraving current a generation or
more ago.
Inspired by his editorial and art experience, he began early
to visit the places made notable by the battles and
memorable scenes of the Revolutionary War. Of buildings
connected therewith, or of their falling ruins, he made
sketches. Out of this activity came his famous and still
excellent work, "The Field Book of the Revolution." The
history of our subsequent wars he also treated; and it was
history chiefly that engaged his pen. The one exception was
his publication of the _Casket_, in 1836 or thereabouts,
which in a form similar to that of the _Nation_, was a very
creditable literary and family magazine, conducted in a
popular way, when magazines in this country were few and
unimportant. One does not find, in any account of him apart
from this venture of possibly not over three years'
duration, that he left his purely historical themes.
Very recently, however, THE SCRAP BOOK came across a
somewhat romantic story, with a touch and climax of art and
love in it, which is the product of his pen; though its
style is a little more ambitious and florid than the one for
which he was noted. It tells, with much liberty of
embellishment, the thrilling anecdote of the contest of the
Grecian artists, Zeuxis and Parrhasius. As it was
interesting sixty years ago, when it appeared (in 1846),
doubtless it may have some interest now.
Zeuxis was the pride and boast of Athens. His pencil had no rival, and
thrice he had been crowned victor of the Olympic games. The dwellings of
the rich and noble, and the shrines and temples of the gods, were
decorated with the fruits of his genius. He was courted by the wise and
powerful. Artists and magi came from distant cities to look upon the
Athenian painter, whose name was sounded worldwide.
Even the proud ruler of Palmyra, the "Tadmor of the wilderness," sent a
deputation of nobles to invite his presence at the Palmyrene court.
Contemporary artists acknowledged his superiority; and Apollodorus, the
father of Athenian painters, declared that Zeuxis had "stolen the cunning
from all the rest." Thus flattered and caressed, Zeuxis became proud and
haughty. He found no rival, for he knew no equal.
The Agonothetai employed him to paint a wrestler or champion, to adorn the
peristylium of the Gymnasia. Assembled thousands gave a simultaneous shout
of applause when the picture was exhibited on the first day of the games.
The victors in the chariot-race, the discus, the cestus, and the athletæ,
were almost forgotten amid the general admiration of the picture of
Zeuxis. Conscious of his superiority, the artist, with pedantic egotism,
wrote beneath his picture, "Invisurus aliquis facilius quam
imitaturus!"--"Sooner envied than equaled!"
This inscription met the eye of an obscure youth, who resolved to prove
its falsity.
The third day of the games had terminated. The last rays of the sun yet
lingered on the Acropolis, and burnished the crest of hoary Olympus that
gleamed in the distance. Zeuxis sat alone with his wife and daughter,
listening attentively to the strains of a minstrel who swept the lyre for
a group of joyous dancers assembled near the grove sacred to Psyche. As
the music ceased, a deep sigh escaped the daughter, and a tear trembled in
the maiden's eye.
"Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra," said Zeuxis, "why that tear, that sigh?"
A deep crimson suffused the cheeks of the maiden, and she was silent.
"Tell me, Cassandra," said the father, affectionately placing her hand in
his own, and inquisitively eying the blushing damsel; "tell me what new
grief makes sorrowful the heart of my daughter? Thinkest thou yet of the
worthless Parrhasius--even now, upon the eve of thy nuptials with the
noble Thearchus?"
"Nay, dear father," said Cassandra, "it was the music that made me weep.
It awakened memory to the recollections of the many happy hours spent with
my dear Portia, who is now among the immortals. Four years ago we danced
together to the same strain, and the lyre was touched by the gentle
Parrhasius."
"_Gentle_ Parrhasius, sayest thou, Cassandra?--_gentle_ Parrhasius!
Wouldst thou call him gentle, the poor plebeian who sought to rival the
noble Thearchus in thy affections?--who openly avowed in the streets of
Athens, in the Gymnasium and the Hippodrome, that his pencil would yet
make Zeuxis envious?"
"And yet he _was_ gentle," mildly replied Cassandra, while the big round
tears coursed down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with tender emotion.
The brow of Zeuxis lowered, and indices of a whirlwind of passion were in
his countenance. Four years had elapsed since Parrhasius had asked for his
daughter in marriage, and was indignantly refused. Affection, deep and
abiding as vitality itself, existed between the young painter and
Cassandra--affection based upon reciprocal appreciation of mutual worth;
but the ambition of Zeuxis made him forget his duty to his child, and,
without estimating consequences, he resolved to wed her to Thearchus, a
wealthy Athenian nobleman, and son of one of the judges of the Areopagus.
When Parrhasius modestly but firmly pressed his suit, Zeuxis became
indignant--taunted him with his plebeian birthright and obscure lineage;
and denounced him as a poor Ephesian boy, unworthy, because of his
poverty, the friendship, much less the confidence of sonship, of the great
Athenian painter.
The spirit of Parrhasius was aroused and, standing erect in all the
dignity of conscious equality of genius, full-fledged and eager to soar,
he boldly repelled the insults of Zeuxis, and with a voice that reached
the listening ear of his beloved, exclaimed:
"Know, proud man, that thou, the unrivaled master of Greece, of the world,
wilt yet envy the talent and fame of Parrhasius, though a poor plebeian
boy of Ephesus!"
The rage of Zeuxis was unbounded, and he ordered his helots to thrust the
youth from his presence. The order was instantly obeyed; and, ere the
setting sun, Parrhasius left the walls of Athens behind him, and turned
toward Ephesus, to practise his skill in seclusion there.
During the interim of the games, the young painter assiduously practised
his art, in utter seclusion from the world; and those who knew him before
departing for Athens, believed him dead. Nor could Cassandra, during these
four years, hear aught of her exiled lover. Her constancy and hope
whispered to her heart the fulfilment of the prediction of excellence, and
that destiny would yet unite them in holy ties by its mysterious web.
This hope and this constancy had thus far delayed her marriage with
Thearchus. Like Penelope, she framed reasons for repelling her suitor, and
daily looked for the return of her lord, wearing the bay of success. Her
father, wearied by procrastination, and ambitious for display, had
resolved to have the nuptials celebrated during the festival of the
Olympic games. His persuasions became commands, his arguments positive
orders, and his paternal government by the power of love a stern executor
of the behest of his ambition. The herald had already sounded the
proclamation, and all Athens greeted with joy the approaching nuptials of
the noble Thearchus and the lovely Cassandra.
Yet the stern ambition of Zeuxis was susceptible of tender impressions. He
adored his daughter, and her tears melted the ice of his heart. He knew
she loved the Ephesian, and the war of duty and ambition waxed warm as he
witnessed new proofs of her constancy and love.
"Come, come, Cassandra," said he caressingly, "these tears ill become the
daughter of the Athenian painter on the eve of her nuptials with one of
the noblest sons of Greece. Forget that childish passion that attaches
thee to Parrhasius, and thank the gods for his exile from Athens."
"Would you see your Cassandra happy?" asked the weeping maiden.
"I would, indeed," replied Zeuxis; "and it was for her happiness that I
spurned the Ephesian and favored the worthy Thearchus."
"But Thearchus has no place in my affections," replied Cassandra. "I love
him not; and to wed him is but to plunge me into deeper misery. What is
wealth--what nobility and the applause of the people, if the affections of
the heart have no participation therein? They are ministers of woe to the
broken spirit. Without love there is no happiness; without happiness life
is nothing worth. I would sooner wed a shepherd than an archon, did he but
bring with him the riches of true affection."
"Madness, madness!" exclaimed Zeuxis. "This philosophy may do for a
peasant maiden, but should not pollute the lips of a daughter of Zeuxis.
Talk of love! Why, it is but a passion born of circumstances. To-day it
burns with volcanic violence, to-morrow it is but a glimmering taper;
to-day its intensity warms the most cheerless cabin of poverty, to-morrow
its flickering rays will barely illumine the most cheerful abode of
wealth. It is a delusive light, that too often dazzles to blind."
"It may be so with the sensual," replied Cassandra. "With them it is
indeed a passion born of circumstances. Yet, after all, it is _not_ love.
It is but a poor semblance of the holy passion. Pure affection comes not
from the dross of earth, the wealth, power, and pageantry of individuals
or of society, nor from the ephemeral loveliness of the human form. Such
is, at best, the gross counterfeit of love, and undeserving its divine
name. When moral and intellectual worth--the beauties and amiability of
character--the noble evidences of exalted genius, excite our admiration,
and win our affections for the possessor, then indeed do we truly love,
and love a worthy object. Such, dear father, is my love for Parrhasius.
Submission to thy will must unite me to Thearchus, whom I cannot love; but
the undying flame of first affection will only make me more miserable."
Zeuxis was silent. He loved his daughter with exceeding tenderness; yet
burning ambition presented a paramount claim, and would not permit him
again to delay the nuptials on which he had resolved. He kissed the tears
from the cheeks of Cassandra, and was about to retire for the night; but
the maiden seized his hand, and, looking imploringly in his face, said:
"Hear me once more, dear father, ere the decree of my unhappiness shall
have irrevocably gone forth. Hope whispers in my ear that the prophetic
taunt of Parrhasius may yet be verified. Thou well knowest the genius and
spirit of that youth, and I know thy gentle nature will now forgive him
the utterance of words spoken in passion. Forgive, and Cassandra will be
happy."
"For thy sake," replied Zeuxis, "I will pardon the rashness of the
Ephesian boy. But why thy hope? Wouldst thou see thy father rivaled, and
the voice of Athens--of the world--loud in praises of another?"
"No," replied Cassandra, "it is not for that I hope; but thy daughter
loves Parrhasius, and she desires to see him worthy of that love in the
eyes of her father. This is the foundation of my hope. Is it not just?"
"Truly, such an aspiration is worthy of my daughter," replied Zeuxis; and
again bidding her good night, he was about to depart. But the maiden still
clung to his hand.
"One word more," she exclaimed; "one more boon, and your Cassandra will be
completely happy. Promise me that I shall wed Parrhasius if his prediction
be fulfilled."
"I promise," replied Zeuxis, conscious that her hopes were groundless,
and that the last day of the festival would witness the nuptials of
Thearchus and Cassandra, and thus crown his paternal ambition with a more
valued bay than the laurel of the victor.
On the following morning Zeuxis prepared for the games. Just at the moment
of starting a helot approached him with a small roll directed to "Zeuxis,
the unrivaled painter of Greece." He was delighted with the flattering
superscription, and, having unbound it, read:
Parrhasius, the plebeian boy of Ephesus, to Zeuxis, the
great Athenian artist: Greeting. Ten days, and the games of
Olympia will terminate. On the ninth I challenge thee to a
trial of skill. The subject is left to the choice of the
challenged.
Zeuxis rent the challenge in a thousand pieces, and, burning with rage,
exclaimed: "Tell your master that Zeuxis stoops not to compete with
plebeians! Tell him I trample his insolent challenge beneath my feet, even
as I would crush its author. Begone! Gods, has it come to this?" continued
he. "Must I first bear the taunts of that boy, and then, in the face of
thousands, have him challenge me to a trial? I know him well. If I refuse,
a herald will proclaim that refusal in every street of Athens, and the
gymnasium and the circus will ring with my shame. It must not be." And he
commanded the helot to return.
"Tell your master," said Zeuxis, "that I accept his challenge: the
subject, fruit." The helot departed.
"Now," said Zeuxis, "my triumph will be complete, and Cassandra's delusion
will be broken. Now will I prove the insolent Ephesian unworthy of my
exalted notice and the noble Cassandra's love. It is well. Destiny bids me
stoop to the trial, only to add another laurel to my brow!" And Zeuxis,
with haughty step, proceeded to the circus.
Within a few hours all Athens was in commotion. A new impulse had been
given to the public excitement, and the first sound that fell upon the ear
of Zeuxis as he entered the circus was the voice of a herald proclaiming
that an Ephesian painter had challenged the great artist to a trial of
skill.
The voice of the herald also sounded throughout the streets of Athens,
and fell like sweetest symphony upon the ear of Cassandra. She knew not
the name of the competitor, but the revealings of hope and love assured
her that it was none other than Parrhasius. And that hope and that love
also gave her assurance that her beloved one would be the victor, and that
holy affection rather than proud ambition would be crowned by the hand of
Astrea.
The time fixed upon for the trial arrived. The thousands who had
congregated in Athens to witness the games flowed like a living torrent
through the eastern gate of the city, and halted upon a hill overlooking a
flowery plain bordering upon the Ilyssus. The sun had journeyed half his
way toward the meridian, when amid the thundering shouts of applause of
the populace, Zeuxis, with a proud and haughty step, left the pavilion of
the judges, and with a tablet in his hand, on which was painted a cluster
of grapes, proceeded to the plain. Upon a small column erected for the
purpose, near a grove, the artist placed his painting, and, withdrawing
the curtain that concealed it, returned to the pavilion. The multitude was
astonished, for they expected to feast their eyes on the production of the
great artist. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, and a few
loudly denounced the conduct of Zeuxis in placing the picture beyond their
observation.
Suddenly a deafening shout, and a cry of "Zeuxis and Athens!" arose from
the throng. A whole bevy of birds from the grove had alighted upon the
column, and eagerly sought to devour the pictured fruit!
This decision of the birds of heaven was deemed sufficient evidence of the
superiority of the Athenian painter, and the people clamored loudly for
the crown of laurels and the branch of palm for Zeuxis. His competitor had
not yet been seen, either in the crowd or with the judges; and Zeuxis
gloried in the thought that his conscious inferiority had made him shrink
from the trial. The branch of palm was placed in the Athenian's hand, and
a virgin was about to place the crown of evergreen upon his head, when,
from a small tent opposite the pavilion of the judges, stepped forth the
"Ephesian boy," pale and trembling, and, with a tablet in his hand,
approached the multitude. Not a single voice greeted him, for he was
unknown to that vast concourse, and the silence weighed like lead upon his
heart. There was, however, one heart there that beat in sympathy with his
own. It was that of Cassandra. She, too, stood pale and trembling; and by
her side was Thearchus, watching with intense anxiety for the result.
Parrhasius drew near to his rival. At first he would not deign to notice
him; but a few faint voices crying out, "Victory for Parrhasius!" the
judges demanded an exhibition of the picture of the Ephesian. Turning
around, with ill-concealed rage, Zeuxis, with a bitter, scornful tone
cried out, "Come, away with your curtain, that the assemblage may see what
goodly affair you have beneath it!"
Parrhasius handed the tablet to his rival. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his
feet, he could not have been more astounded. The curtain was painted upon
the tablet, and so exquisitely was it wrought that even the practised eye
of the great painter did not till then detect the deception!
"I yield! I yield!" cried the Athenian; "Zeuxis beguiled poor birds, but
Parrhasius hath deceived Zeuxis! Bring hither the laurel and also the
palm: my hand, and mine alone, shall crown the young victor!"
"And thy promise!" exclaimed Cassandra, bounding forward and grasping the
hand of her father.
"I here fulfil it," said he. "Parrhasius is indeed worthy of my Cassandra.
Embrace and be happy!"
The laurel and the palm were brought--and there, in the presence of
assembled thousands, Zeuxis crowned the young Ephesian. Then, mounting a
pedestal, he addressed the assembled multitude. He recounted the pure love
and constancy of Parrhasius and Cassandra, and told of his promise; he
also tenderly related his engagement with Thearchus.
He was proceeding to vindicate himself from the imputation of treachery to
Thearchus, when another deafening shout arose from the assembly, as a
noble youth came from the pavilion with a branch of palm and placed it in
the hands of Cassandra. It was Thearchus. He had before heard and now
witnessed the devotion of the lovers, and his generous heart melted at the
spectacle. He had tenderly loved the maiden, but he magnanimously resigned
all.
"Laurels for Thearchus!" shouted the vast multitude--and Thearchus, too,
was crowned victor, for he had conquered love.
Matrons and virgins strewed the path of Parrhasius and Cassandra with
flowers, as they returned to the city; and on the following day their
nuptials were celebrated with a splendor fully adequate to the wishes of
the ambitious Zeuxis, for the city made the marriage a high festival in
honor of Genius and Constancy.
The games ended; the city became quiet. A few years of happiness cast
their sunlight around the footsteps of the great painter, and he went down
into the tomb honored and mourned by a nation--by the world, wherever his
fame was known. His mantle fell upon Parrhasius, who is revered by Genius
as the greatest painter of antiquity.
=Ideals=. Every man has at times in his mind, the ideal of
what he should be, but is not. The ideal may be high and
complete, or it may be quite low and insufficient; yet in
all men that really seek to improve, it is better than the
actual character. Man never falls so low that he can see
nothing higher than himself.--=Theodore Parker=.
(1810-1860.)
LITTLE GEMS FROM TENNYSON.
Willow whiten, aspen quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.
_From "The Lady of Shalott."_
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whispered speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heaped over with a mound of grass--
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
_From "The Lotos-Eaters."_
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little.
_From "Ulysses."_
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! Set the wild echoes flying!
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes--dying, dying, dying.
_Song from "The Princess."_
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know
The woman's cause is man's; they rise or sink
Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free:
For she that out of Lethe scales with man
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands--
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,
How shall men grow?
_From "The Princess."_
Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands:
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
_From "Locksley Hall."_
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new,
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do.
_From "Locksley Hall."_
This is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.
_From "Locksley Hall."_
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
* * * * *
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
_From "Crossing the Bar."_
O love! O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
_From "Fatima."_
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
* * * * *
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.
_From poem "To J.S."_
That tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
_From "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington."_
The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
_From "The Passing of Arthur."_
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'T is only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
_From "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."_
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright;
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
_From "The Grandmother."_
And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old.
_From "The Day-Dream."_
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
_From "In Memoriam."_
HOW TO TELL A WOMAN'S AGE.
Two Ways of Securing Certain Valuable and Closely Guarded Information
Which the Fair Sex Defies Even the Courts to Extract.
Few mysteries are at once so impenetrable and so irritating as that which
surrounds a truthful woman who declines to take you into her confidence
when the subject of her age is mentioned. But even women who are truthful
and secretive are curious, and when a friend tells them that he can solve
the mystery in spite of them they may easily fall into a certain
mathematical snare.
Tell the young woman to put down the number of the month in which she was
born, then to multiply it by 2, then add 5, then to multiply it by 50,
then to add her age, then to add 115, then to subtract 365, and finally to
tell you the amount that she has left.
The two figures to the right will tell her age, and the remainder the
month of her birth. For example, the amount is 822; she is twenty-two
years old, and was born in the eighth month (August).
Then there is another method.
Just hand this table to a young lady, and request her to tell you in which
column or columns her age is contained, and add together the figures at
the top of the columns in which her age is found, and you have the great
secret. Thus, suppose her age to be seventeen, you will find that number
in the first and fifth columns. Here is the magic table:
1 2 4 8 16 32
3 3 5 9 17 33
5 6 6 10 18 34
7 7 7 11 19 35
9 10 12 12 20 36
11 11 13 13 21 37
13 14 14 14 22 38
15 15 15 15 23 39
17 18 20 24 24 40
19 19 21 25 25 41
21 22 22 26 26 42
23 23 23 27 27 43
25 26 28 28 28 44
27 27 29 29 29 45
29 30 30 30 30 46
31 31 31 31 31 47
33 34 36 40 48 48
35 35 37 41 49 49
37 38 38 42 50 50
39 39 39 43 51 51
41 42 44 44 52 52
43 43 45 45 53 53
45 46 46 46 54 54
47 47 47 47 55 55
49 50 52 56 56 56
51 51 53 57 57 57
53 54 54 58 58 58
55 55 55 59 59 59
57 58 60 60 60 60
59 59 61 61 61 61
61 62 62 62 62 62
63 63 63 63 63 63
ODDITIES OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE.
Despite the veneration in which it has been held by mankind for the last
nineteen hundred years, the Bible has fared almost as badly at the hands
of translators and printers as books of far less importance. Errors made
in the course of translating and printing have caused various nicknames to
be applied to the editions. Some of the more extraordinary of these
editions were described in a recently published catalogue as follows:
=The Gutenberg Bible= (1450)--The earliest book known. Printed from
movable metal types, is the Latin Bible issued by Gutenberg, at Mayence.
=The Bug Bible= (1551)--Was so called from its rendering of the Psalms
xci:5: "Afraid of bugs by night." Our present version reads: "Terror by
night."
=The Breeches Bible=--The Geneva version is that popularly known as the
Breeches Bible, from its rendering of Genesis iii:7: "Making themselves
breeches out of fig-leaves." This translation of the Scriptures--the
result of the labors of the English exiles at Geneva--was the English
family Bible during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and till supplanted by
the present authorized version of King James I.
=The Place-Makers' Bible= (1562)--From a remarkable typographical error
which occurs in Matthew v:9: "Blessed are the place-makers," instead of
"peace-makers."
=The Treacle Bible= (1568)--From its rendering of Jeremiah viii:22: "Is
there no treacle [instead of balm] in Gilead?"
=The Rosin Bible= (1609)--From the same text, but translated "rosin."
=The Thumb Bible= (1670)--Being one inch square and half an inch thick;
was published at Aberdeen.
=The Vinegar Bible= (1717)--So named from the head-line of the twentieth
chapter of Luke, which reads: "The Parable of the Vinegar," instead of the
"vineyard."
=The Printers' Bible=--We are told by Cotton Mather that in a Bible
printed prior to 1702 a blundering typographer made King David exclaim:
"Printers [instead of princes] persecuted him without a cause." See Psalms
cxix:161.
=The Murderers' Bible= (1801)--So called from an error in the sixteenth
verse of the Epistle of Jude, the word "murderers" being used instead of
"murmurers."
=The Caxton Memorial Bible= (1877)--Wholly printed and bound in twelve
hours, but only one hundred copies struck off.
However much truth there may be in the stories of the dissolute conduct of
Shakespeare, there is abundant proof of the fact that the Bible was one of
his favorite books. Indeed, his admiration for the Scriptures carried him
so far that he frequently incorporated Bible sentences in his plays. The
following are examples:
_Bible_--"But though I be rude in speech."--2 Corinthians xi:6.
_Othello_--"Rude am I in speech."
_Bible_--"To consume thine eyes and to grieve thine heart."--1 Samuel
ii:33.
_Macbeth_--"Shew his eyes and grieve his heart."
_Bible_--"Look not upon me because I am black; because the sun hath looked
upon me."--Song of Solomon i:6.
_Merchant of Venice_--"Mislike me not for my complexion--the shadowed
livery of the burnished sun."
_Bible_--"I caught him by his beard and smote him and slew him."--1 Samuel
xvii:35.
_Othello_--"I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him."
_Bible_--"Opened Job his mouth and cursed his day; let it not be joined
unto the days of the year; let it not come into the number of
months."--Job.
_Macbeth_--"May this accursed hour stand ay accursed in the calendar."
_Bible_--"What is man that Thou art mindful of him? Thou hast made him a
little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor.
Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands."--Psalms
viii:4; Hebrews ii:6.
_Hamlet_--"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason; how
infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable; in
action how like an angel; in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of
the world--the paragon of animals."
_Bible_--"Nicanor lay dead in his harness."--Maccabees xvii:12.
_Macbeth_--"We'll die with harness on our backs."
The Prophecies of Bonaparte.
Remarkable Manuscript Found in the Exiled Emperor's Desk on the
Island of Elba before Waterloo.
That the first Napoleon was exceedingly superstitious is well known. He
was a devout believer in dream warnings, and he was a patron of palmists,
clairvoyants, and astrologers. Like many another great man, the famous
emperor sometimes was prone to indulge in prophetic utterances himself.
One of the most interesting of the compositions of Napoleon is a
remarkable prophecy which, in the emperor's own handwriting, was found in
his desk on the island of Elba. The document was discovered by Captain
Campbell, in 1815. It is as follows:
The foundation of our political society is so defective and
tottering that it threatens ruin; the fall will be terrible,
and all the nations on the continent will be involved in it;
no human force can arrest the course of events.
All civilized Europe will find itself in the position in
which a part of Italy once was under the Cæsars.
The storm of the Revolution, some clouds of which will
extend over France, will soon cover all that portion of the
globe which we inhabit with a frightful darkness.
The world can be saved only by shedding torrents of blood; a
terrible and violent hurricane can alone purge the poisonous
air which envelops Europe.
I only could have saved the world, and no other.
I would have given it the chalice of suffering to empty at a
single draft; instead of which it must now drink it drop by
drop.
That which is now fermenting in Spain and at Rome will soon
cause a general commotion. Then the crisis will be terrible.
I know men and the age; I would have hastened the advent of
happiness on earth, if those with whom I had to deal had not
been villains. They accuse me of having despised and
enslaved them; their own groveling spirit and thirst for
gold and distinction brought them to my feet. Could I take
one step without crushing them? I did not need to spread
snares in their path; it sufficed to present to them the cup
of worldly riches and honors. Then, like a swarm of hungry
flies, they precipitated themselves on their prey. The
slaves needed a master, but I had no need of slaves.
What shall we think of forty millions of people who complain
bitterly of the oppression of a single individual!
Cupidity, envy, vanity, false glory, pursue them like furies
through this stormy life; they talk incessantly of virtue,
generosity, and love, while, like an incurable cancer, envy,
interest, and ambition are gnawing the inner folds of their
hearts. They carefully conceal their wickedness, and feign a
virtue which they do not possess; they reciprocally lavish
flatteries on one another. Though no one of them believes in
the honor of the rest, nevertheless, through weakness, they
play together the parts they have learned, for want of
courage to show themselves such as they are.
The best among them are those who are most condemned,
because they do not know how to feign, and the false virtue
of the rest gives more éclat to their crimes.
Nothing is more revolting to me than this mania for
falsehood, to which I have sometimes been myself obliged to
make sacrifices, that I might not expose others.
Their private life is but a constant series of boasting, a
disconnected conversation, the repetition of a part
carefully studied.
As I saw everywhere that ambition and interest prevailed
(taking from all and giving to none), that all wished to
command and no one wished to obey, I resolved to terminate
this insensate dispute, by taking from all what they desired
so eagerly and could not possess; thus, the men who loudly
demanded liberty were compelled to learn to know it, and
appreciate it by a blind obedience.
It was in this manner that by a voluntary reciprocity each
one recovered his due.
Renouncing all these frivolous manners, all these theatrical
caricatures of our times, let us be more sincere; less of
courtiers, more serious, more reflective, and less apish.
This is a sure method, if there is one, of renewing the
Golden Age.
For myself, I care very little what may be said, thought, or
written of me. I have been accused of having done, and
suffered to be done, much evil.
When the storm hovers over the surface of the earth, to
purify the air and fertilize the mountains, ought we to
complain if, in its course, it carries away roofs and loose
tiles, or shakes off the fruits of trees? Even the sun, when
he sheds his beneficent light upon the Arctic pole, kills
and scorches all vital plants beneath his meridian.
With the amiable popularity of a Cæsar and of a Henry IV, I
might not have found, it is true, a single Brutus, but a
hundred Ravaillacs.
Although I care little for the people, because they are
fickle, flattering, cruel, and capricious as children (for
they are always such) and trample beneath their feet to-day
those they idolized yesterday, nevertheless I would have
promoted their welfare, more than those who have so basely
betrayed them.
REJECTED BOOKS THAT WON FAME.
"Ben-Hur," "Vanity Fair," "Jane Eyre," and Scores of Other Masterpieces
Were "Declined With Thanks" by Several Publishers.
There used to be an old superstition that a flash of lightning would turn
milk sour. This is the sort of effect produced upon a young author by the
rejection of a manuscript by a publisher. As the author becomes older,
more successful, and more experienced, such incidents do not discourage
him, and if he sighs at all, the sigh is one of commiseration for the
publisher who cannot appreciate a really good thing when he sees it.
The owner of a rejected manuscript is in good company, for many of the
more celebrated works of literature have been summarily returned to their
authors by unappreciative publishers.
Few books published in the United States have yielded to their publishers
and authors larger returns than "Ben-Hur," by the late Lew Wallace, and
yet the manuscript had been rejected by nearly every first-class publisher
in this country before it finally was accepted by the Harpers, to whom it
was submitted for the second time.
"Rejected Addresses," by Horace and James Smith, was offered to Mr. Murray
for twenty pounds, but refused. A publisher, however, purchased it, and,
after sixteen editions, Mr. Murray gave a hundred and thirty pounds for
the right to issue a new edition. The total amount received by the authors
was more than a thousand pounds.
"Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Brontë, was, it is said, rejected by several
publishers. This, however, is rather doubtful. We believe the manuscript
was sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., in Cornhill, and there it remained
for a long time, till a daughter of one of the publishers read it and
recommended her father to publish it. The result is well known. It brought
the author fame and money.
"Eöthen," by Mr. Kinglake, was offered to twenty different houses. All
refused it. He then, in a fit of desperation, gave the manuscript to an
obscure bookseller and found the expenses of publication himself. This
also proved a success.
"Vanity Fair," that most famous work of Thackeray's, was written for
_Colburn's Magazine_, but it was refused by the publishers as having no
interest.
"The History of Ferdinand and Isabella," by Mr. Prescott, was rejected by
two of the first publishers in London, and it ultimately appeared under
the auspices of Mr. Bentley, who stated that it had more success than any
book he had ever published.
The author of "The Diary of a Late Physician" for a long time sought a
publisher, and unsuccessfully. At last he gave the manuscript to
_Blackwood's Magazine_, where it first appeared and was very successful.
The first volume of Hans Andersen's "Fairy Tales" was rejected by every
publisher in Copenhagen. Andersen had then neither name nor popularity,
and published this exquisite book at his own expense, a proceeding which
soon brought him into notoriety.
Miss Jane Austen's novels, models of writing at this day, at first met
with no success. One of them, "Northanger Abbey," was purchased by a
publisher in Bath for ten pounds. After paying this sum, he was afraid to
risk any further money in its publication, and it remained many years in
his possession before he ventured upon the speculation, which, to his
surprise, turned out very profitable.
The poet Shelley had always to pay for the publication of his poems.
The "Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore at Corunna" was written by Rev.
Charles Wolfe. It was rejected so scornfully by a leading periodical that
the author gave it to an obscure Irish paper.
Con Cregan's Legacy.
BY CHARLES LEVER.
Charles James Lever (1806--1872) remains the most popular
novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in
Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After
practising his profession for several years, he began to
write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry
Lorrequer," appeared serially in the _Dublin University
Magazine_ in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public
at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun,
verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which
Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most
popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the
succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and
"The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the
accompanying selection is taken.
Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote,
and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years
were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at
Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He
and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that
are to be found in literature.
When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will
be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early
stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my
native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that
while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional
stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I
have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang--such a
pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend;
there now, not another word of preface or apology!
I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it
stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and
although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never
able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number
of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance, many believed,
that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for
while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county
cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!
This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit;
and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm
that impression.
There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen";
the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had
two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have
the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and
Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in
the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father
one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."
Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by
grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.
Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months
longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the
dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly
resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided
between them.
These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of
the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old
man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When
at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house;
not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were
uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if
the old man were worse--if he were dead!
It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin.
I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the
fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.
It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry--"Con Cregan; Con, I
say, open the door! I want you."
I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast
asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I
heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"
"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"
"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"
"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner
could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con,
and never made a will!"
"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said
whatever was pleasing to the company.
"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it.
Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's
five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were
always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were
mistaken for each other every day of the week."
"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,
without well knowing why.
"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the
bed."
"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.
"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and
that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the
neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to
write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand. And as the
neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but
that it was himself that did it."
"The room must be very dark," said my father.
"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the
bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."
"And the priest?" said my father.
"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father
Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along
now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the
day breaks."
My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his
big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up
in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in
a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course
of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but
by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a
chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already
begun.
I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a
little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the
proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside
it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther
off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of
writing materials before him.
The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all
intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from
place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the
company to whisky--which was supplied with more than accustomed
liberality.
All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the
scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room;
the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more
intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn
breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob--the tribute of affectionate
sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back:
these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense
of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.
A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to
cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of
a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I
want to make my will!"
"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him
to the bedside.
"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore
me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the
'rites'!"
A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the
room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the
unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.
"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"
Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.
"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a
decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the
fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on
the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's
acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my
mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."
Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably
refreshed by it.
"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I
leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well;
and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."
"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got
into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.
"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips
agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"
"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.
"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot
of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good
man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words
to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy
Scanlan listening?"
"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.
"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the
jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to
me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say,
then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for
he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I
knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it
yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle.
Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and
his heirs _in secla seclorum_. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my
heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience;
and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns----"
What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now
terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried
all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.
When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting
on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure
that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."
"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter
of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all
about it!"
"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with
fright.
"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?"
says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low,
wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.
"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a
bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father
slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy
he left himself.
And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as
Con's Acre.
GEORGE III SOUGHT HEAVEN'S AID.
The British Sovereign Proclaimed a General Fast and Commanded His
Subjects to Humble Themselves to Win the Divine Favor in Their War
with the American Colonies.
When the American colonies rebelled against King George, England was not
so easy in her view of the situation as is often assumed. The reader who
may stumble upon a copy of the London _Gazette_ for October, 1776, will
find therein this:
PROCLAMATION FOR A GENERAL FAST.
=George R=.
We, taking into our most serious Consideration the just and
necessary Measures of Force which We are obliged to use
against Our rebellious Subjects in Our Colonies and
Provinces in North America and Putting Our Trust in Almighty
God, that He will vouchsafe a special Blessing on Our Arms
both by Sea and Land, have resolved, and do, by and with the
Advice of Our Privy Council, hereby command, That a Publick
Fast and Humiliation be observed throughout that Part of Our
Kingdom of Great Britain called England, Our Dominion of
Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, upon Friday the 13th
Day of December next; and so both We and Our People may
humble Ourselves before Almighty God, in order to obtain
Pardon of Our Sins; and may, in the most devout and solemn
Manner, send up our Prayers and Supplications to the Devine
Majesty, for averting those heavy Judgments which Our
manifold Sins and Provocations have most justly deserved,
and for imploring his Intervention and Blessing speedily to
deliver Our loyal Subjects within Our Colonies and Provinces
in North America from the Violence, Injustice, and Tyranny,
of those daring Rebels who have assumed to themselves the
Exercise of Arbitrary Power; to open the Eyes of those who
have been deluded by specious Falsehoods into Acts of
Treason and Rebellion; to turn the Hearts of the Authors of
these Calamities, and finally to restore Our People in those
distracted Provinces and Colonies to the happy Condition of
being free Subjects of a free State; under which heretofore
they flourished so long and prospered so much.
And We do strictly charge and command, That the said Publick
Fast be reverently and devoutly observed by all Our loving
Subjects in England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of
Berwick upon Tweed, as they tender the Favour of Almighty
God, and would avoid His Wrath and Indignation; and upon
Pain of such Punishment as We may justly inflict upon all
such as contemn and neglect the Performance of so religious
a Duty. And, for the better and more orderly solemnizing the
same, We have given Directions to the Most Reverend the
Archbishops, and the Right Reverend the Bishops of England,
to compose a Form of Prayer, suitable to this Occasion, to
be used in all Churches, Chapels, and Places of Publick
Worship, and to take Care the same be timely dispersed
throughout their respective Dioceses. Given at Our Court at
St. James, the Thirtieth Day of October, One Thousand seven
hundred and seventy-six, in the Seventeenth Year of Our
Reign.
HOW PUNSTERS SMITE THE LYRE.
THE AHKOOND OF SWAT.
By George Thomas Lanigan.
(This famous poem appeared in the New York _Sun_ in January,
1876. Mr. Lanigan wrote it the previous evening, on the
arrival of a brief cablegram announcing the death of the
Ahkoond of Swat, in British India.)
What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea, and the Med-
iterranean--he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn;
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be,
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone; his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his fame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground!)
And skeptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies--
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries
He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond;
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!
THE DYING SHOEMAKER.
"Dear wife, I'm waxing near my end,"
The dying cobbler said;
"Soon to an upper world my soul
Its lonely way must tread.
"I fear indeed I'm pegging out;
But then what boots it, love?
Here we've been a well-fitted pair,
And so we'll be above.
"My ills I know no drugs may heel,
So it's well to prepare;
We can't run counter to our fate--
Just put a peg in there.
"The future need not give you care,
I've left my awl to you;
For deep within my inner sole
I know that you've been true.
"I've always given you your rights,
But now you must be left;
However, do not grieve too much
When of me you're bereft.
"A last farewell I now will take."
He smiled and raised his head.
"B-last the cruel malady
That lays you low," she said.
"I'll slipper away in peace," he sighed;
"The strife will soon be past."
His head fell back, he sweetly smiled,
And then he breathed his last.
I WANT TO GO TO MORROW.
I started on a journey just about a week ago,
For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio.
I never was a traveler, and really didn't know
That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
I went down to the depot for my ticket, and applied
For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."
Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right;
You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night.
You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day,
For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see,
You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three.
The train that started yesterday--now understand me right--
To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."
Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat,
Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that."
"There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip--
To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five;
Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive.
Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"
Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day
And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?"
"Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say;
Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back to-day?
For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree
You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see.
So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat,
You won't get in to Morrow till the day that follows that.
"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land
To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand.
For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is all right,
Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night."
Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
How can I go to Morrow if I leave the town to-day?"
Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day,
For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."
FINALE.
I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear;
The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay;
I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.
THE WASHERWOMAN'S SONG.
Wring out the old, wring out the new,
Wring out the black, wring out the gray,
Wring out the white, wring out the blue--
And thus I wring my life away.
An occupation strange is mine;
At least it seems to people droll
That while I'm working at the line
I'm going on from pole to pole.
Where'er I go I strive to please,
From morn to night I rub and rub;
I'm something like Diogenes--
I almost live within a tub.
To acrobats who vault and spring
In circuses I take a shine;
They make their living in the ring,
And by the wringer I make mine.
My calling's humble, I'll agree,
But I am no cheap calico,
As some folks are who sneer at me;
I'm something that will wash, you know.
I smile in calm, I strive in storm,
With life's adversities I cope
My duties bravely to perform;
My motto--While there's life there's soap.
Wring out the old, wring out the new,
Wring out the black, wring out the gray,
Wring out the white, wring out the blue--
And thus I wring my life away.
Mr. Caudle Lends Five Pounds.
BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.
A Glimpse of English Domestic Life in Which the American Reader May
Find Here and There Something That Sounds Quite Familiar.
Editor, humorist, playwright, humanitarian, Douglas William
Jerrold--to give him his seldom heard full name--was a
winning figure in his period. He was born in London in 1803,
the son of an actor and theater lessee. He had little
schooling, but he was fond of books, and educated himself
precociously by reading a wide range of literature in
English, French, Italian, and Latin. Occasionally his father
cast him for children's parts on the stage. For a time he
served as a midshipman in the British navy, and later became
a printer's apprentice. He was only fifteen when he wrote a
comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," which was well
received. His best-remembered play, "Black-Eyed Susan," was
produced in 1829. All in all, he wrote more than forty
plays, many of which enjoyed an ephemeral success.
Meantime he was constantly engaging in literary ventures.
When _Punch_ was founded, in 1841, he at once became a
contributor, and he continued the connection until his
death. "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Punch's Letters to
His Son," and "Cakes and Ale" are well-known compilations of
his papers in _Punch_.
Jerrold was a lovable man, of an easy-going, generous
nature. Sociable, impulsive, simple, fiery--his faults were
those of carelessness or haste.
When _Mrs. Caudle_ was brought into public notice in the
forties, the type was quickly recognized, and England and
America chuckled aloud. _Mrs. Caudle_ still lives--and will
live as long as her sex; therefore, England and America
still chuckle.
You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who'd lend you five
pounds! But so it is: a wife may work and slave. Oh, dear! the many things
that might have been done with five pounds! As if people picked up money
in the streets! But you always _were_ a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a
black satin gown these three years, and that five pounds would have pretty
well bought it. But it's no matter how I go--not at all. Everybody says I
don't dress as becomes your wife--and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr.
Caudle? Nothing. Oh, no! You can have fine feelings for everybody but
those that belong to you. I wish people knew you as I do--that's all. You
like to be called liberal and your poor family pays for it.
And the girls want bonnets, and when they're to get 'em I can't tell. Half
five pounds would have bought 'em, but now they must go without. Of course
_they_ belong to you; and anybody but your own flesh and blood, Mr.
Caudle.
The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like to know how
people are to pay taxes who throw away five pounds to every fellow that
asks them.
Perhaps you don't know that Jack, this morning, knocked the shuttlecock
through his bedroom window. I was going to send for the glazier to mend
it; but, after you lent that five pounds, I was sure we couldn't afford
it. Oh, no; the window must go as it is; and pretty weather for a dear
child to sleep with a broken window. He's got a cold already on his lungs,
and I shouldn't at all wonder if that broken window settled him; if the
dear boy dies, his death will be upon his father's head, for I'm sure we
can't now pay to mend windows. We might, though, and do a good many more
things, if people didn't throw away their five pounds.
Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I should like to know how it's to
be paid. Why, it can't be paid at all. That five pounds would have just
done it, and now insurance is out of the question. And there never were so
many fires as there are now. I shall never close my eyes all night; but
what's that to you, so people can call you liberal, Mr. Caudle? Your wife
and children may all be burnt alive in their beds, as all of us to a
certainty shall be, for the insurance must drop. After we've insured for
so many years! But how, I should like to know, are people to insure who
make ducks and drakes of their five pounds?
I did think we might go to Margate this summer. There's poor Caroline, I'm
sure she wants the sea. But no, dear creature, she must stop at home;
she'll go into a consumption, there's no doubt of that; yes, sweet little
angel. I've made up my mind to lose her now. The child might have been
saved; but people can't save their children and throw away five pounds,
too.
I wonder where little Cherub is? While you were lending that five pounds,
the dog ran out of the shop. You know I never let it go into the street,
for fear it should be bit by some mad dog and come home and bite the
children. It wouldn't at all astonish me if the animal was to come back
with hydrophobia and give it to all the family. However, what's your
family to you, so you can play the liberal creature with five pounds?
Do you hear that shutter, how it's banging to and fro? Yes, I know what it
wants as well as you: it wants a new fastening. I was going to send for
the blacksmith to-day. But now it's out of the question: now it must bang
of nights, since you have thrown away five pounds.
Well, things have come to a pretty pass! This is the first night I ever
made my supper of roast beef without pickles. But who is to afford pickles
when folk are always lending five pounds?
Do you hear the mice running about the room? I hear them. If they were
only to drag you out of bed, it would be no matter. _Set a trap for 'em?_
But how are people to afford the cheese, when every day they lose five
pounds?
Hark! I'm sure there's a noise down-stairs. It wouldn't surprise me if
there were thieves in the house. Well, it may be the cat; but thieves are
pretty sure to come some night. There's a wretched fastening to the back
door; but these are not times to afford bolts and bars, when fools won't
take care of their five pounds.
Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist's to-morrow. She wants three
teeth pulled out. Now it can't be done. Three teeth, that quite disfigures
the child's mouth. But there they must stop, and spoil the sweetest face
that was ever made. Otherwise she'd have been the wife for a lord. Now,
when she grows up, who'll have her? Nobody. We shall die, and leave her
alone and unprotected in the world. But what do you care for that?
Nothing; so you can squander away five pounds.
And now, Mr. Caudle, see what misery you've brought on your wretched
family! I can't have a satin gown--the girls can't have new bonnets--the
water-rate must stand over--Jack must get his death through a broken
window--our fire-insurance can't be paid, so we shall all be victims to
the devouring element--we can't go to Margate, and Caroline will go to an
early grave--the dog will come home and bite us all mad--that shutter will
go banging forever--the mice never let us have a wink of sleep--the
thieves be always breaking in the house--and our dear Mary Anne be forever
left an unprotected maid--and all, all, Mr. Caudle, _because you will go
on lending five pounds_!
How They Got On In The World.
Brief Biographies of Successful Men Who Have Passed Through
the Crucible of Small Beginnings and Won Out.
_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
RISE OF A CHORE BOY.
Present Head of Stanford University Had
a Hard Row to Hoe in Order to
Get an Education.
David Starr Jordan, president of Stanford University and the leading
authority on fishes in the United States, was a farm boy from Gainsville,
New York, when he joined the first class that entered Cornell University.
He had little money, but he got along comfortably by waiting on table,
husking corn, taking care of lawns, digging ditches and tutoring. It was
the proper way to work through college, for he says: "A young man is not
worth educating who cannot work through college that way."
He became an instructor in botany while still a junior, and he did so well
that he attracted the attention of Andrew D. White, president of the
university, who encouraged him and aided him in his work. The rounding of
Jordan's education was completed by Louis Agassiz, with whom he studied
three months in a shed on Penikese Island in Buzzard's Bay.
A Student of Fishes.
Jordan's attention was early drawn to the study of fishes, and the general
ignorance concerning them determined him to make them his special line of
work. As a source of food supply, fish stands close to meat, and millions
of people depend on the fish supply rather than on meat. Yet concerning
the habits, breeding, and geographical distribution of fish, there was
little known. In studying his chosen subject Jordan has traveled more than
two hundred thousand miles, and to-day he is the accepted authority on
fish. Much of the important work accomplished by the United States Fish
Commission, of which he has been a member since 1877, has been due to his
initiative.
The value of American fisheries averages fifty million dollars annually,
but for a long time the business was carried on in a haphazard fashion,
and few naturalists thought it worth while to devote any considerable
amount of attention to the study of fishes. Jordan did as much to change
that state of affairs as any other man.
The breeding of food fi
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