Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

The bar-room was simply a part of the dining-room, a red calico curtain, almost always drawn aside, forming the line of division between the two apartments. Here the men employed in the stables, the drivers, and whatever passengers waited over for the morning stages congregated to pass the evening; and the smoking, drinking, and card-playing were interspersed with many a thrilling, blood-curdling story of the road.

Mary Jane's ideas of propriety would not permit her to cross the curtain line at such times, but standing within its folds, partly concealed, she would strain her ears to catch every detail of the narrative, oblivious of work or of Aunt Marthy's displeasure, until warned by Nathaniel to "Git along, Mol, and do up yer chores."

Thus she first learned of Joe Marshall's exploits, and his bravery elicited her admiration.

Joe drove the stage between Nevada City and Camptonville, a distance of twenty miles, including a dangerous mountain-trail. Nobody knew anything about his antecedents, but he was considered "the whip" of the hour, and his daring feats were oftener recounted than those of any other mountain Jehu. In short, his comrades regarded him as an honor to the "profession." Mary Jane did more: she fell in love with him in spite of her aunt's frequently expressed disapproval.

"Girls always have a fancy for these good-lookin', rakish kind of fellers that don't care a fig for anybody," said Mrs. Parkenson; "but, take my word for it, Joe'll be slinkin' off one of these fine days and makin' love to some other girl; then you'll just break your heart over him," she added, with a violent shake of the curls in her niece's direction.

Mrs. Parkenson's warning was not prompted by dislike of Joe, but, with an eye to the main chance, she had set her heart on bringing Dick Bowles into her family. Dick was the driver of the You Bet stage, and he had prospects in the shape of a wealthy uncle in the East who had promised to make him sole heir to his entire fortune.

"Dick ain't so very good-lookin', I'll allow," Mrs. Parkenson would add, by way of comparison; "but he's more of a man than Joe, as anybody might see with half an eye. Besides, he's clean gone on you, Mary Jane, and he don't mind if the hull world knows it; but that Joe's indifference jest riles me all over. He's nuthin' but a beardless, pretty, good-natured, kind-hearted, careless boy--that's what he is," she added with a low chuckle, "though he will persist in declarin' over and over agin that he's turned twenty-five. Some folks may credit that, but I don't."

"Humph!" exclaimed the girl, tossing her head and turning up her nose, while she thought: "I'd like to know where auntie gits her men if Joe's a boy." The angry color dyed her cheeks as she spoke in defence of her favorite: "I guess it's no fault of his if he ain't got a beard; just give him time, and I'll bet a quarter he'll turn out as good a crop as any of the other fellers."

Mary Jane was perhaps the more indignant because she could not but acknowledge to herself the justice of Mrs. Parkenson's criticism. Joe was, without doubt, undersized and boyish in stature; the most vivid imagination would fail to discover even embryotic promise of beard or mustache; and although his flowing chestnut locks might excite admiration, they served to enhance his youthful appearance. These facts provoked the girl excessively, particularly as ardor, which would have compensated her for everything else, was decidedly lacking in Joe Marshall.

Joe's peculiarities were not infrequently the subject of comment amongst the men. "It's not that ee's muskilar, but ee's wiry," was the criticism of Captain Cullen, the driver of the Malakoff stage. Cullen had been in command of a British brig before emigrating to America, and therefore retained his title, while he still struggled with his h's. "Joe hain't afraid of nothink," he would declare, shaking his head and opening his round, dull eyes to their fullest extent; "and dern me if 'is 'orses don't seem to know it by the way they 'ammer hover the road. 'Tain't that ee can outcuss the rest on us, for by Jove! I never 'eard a hoath hout of 'is lips. I've made hup my mind that it's sumthin' supernateral wot's got hinto 'im." Having thus delivered himself, Captain Cullen considered that point satisfactorily explained.

"I reckon you've about hit it," returned Dick Bowles. "Joe's got his good p'ints, to be sure, though he can't cuss wuth a damn. Mebbe it's coz he don't drink whiskey; I dunno. That larf o' hisn gets me every time; I never did hear anythin' to ekal it! Mebbe you've heard tell of the circus man that cum along here last year and offered to give Joe fifty dollars a week ef he'd agree to travel about with his show jest to start up the larf at the performances."

This was a fact. But the proprietor of the circus was not the only person on whom Joe's laughter made an impression. When his full red lips parted in merriment, displaying his large, pearly teeth, and emitting a low, gurgling sound, one was reminded of the rippling of water over pebbles. Mrs. Parkenson declared that "Joe's laugh was more contagious nor the measles."

"'Most everybody takes to Joe," said the landlord, by way of accounting for Bowles's statement. "For when he gits off that larf o' hisn, I'll be blowed ef it don't kinder draw folks towards him. But yer can't take no liberties with him, once he fixes them gray eyes on yer."

"He's too soft and sneaky for me," returned Bowles, testily. Then observing the deprecatory glances of the others, he added: "Ef I hadn't er seen him oncet when the Injins got arter him, the way he blazed away at the skinflints and then druv his team straight ahead 'thout even so much as losin' his color, I'd call him an out-an'-out milksop."

Knowing glances were exchanged by some of the men, amongst whom it was no secret that Dick was decidedly jealous of Mary Jane's preference for Joe. Dick had reason to believe that if this formidable rival were removed the girl would treat him better. For, cruel though she was at times, she accepted his attentions with unconcealed satisfaction when Joe was out of the way; it aggravated him, therefore, beyond measure to see her sweetest smiles bestowed upon his rival.

"Guess you ain't feelin' O K," said Mary Jane one evening as she placed a dish of smoking-hot bacon and eggs in front of Joe. "Wot's up? bad noos from the States?" she added, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. This was banter, for nobody knew better than she that the young man never received a communication of any sort through the mail.

Mrs. Parkenson had remarked upon this many a time, and in no complimentary terms. "It must be a black sheep, and no mistake, that home folks wouldn't send a letter to in all these years," she had said.

Joe looked into Mary Jane's face, while a pained expression flitted across his own; this was instantly followed by his peculiar laugh, though it lacked the genuine ring and sounded forced and jerky. But it attracted the attention of two strangers who sat at the end of the long table. They had arrived by one of the stages, and had registered in Parkenson's big book as "John Carter, M.D., and Edward Fulton, Minneapolis, Minn." Their business had been to examine a mine in the interest of an Eastern company, and they were now on their return-trip. Both seemed young, though the doctor's hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples, and there were dark lines beneath his eyes which told of sorrow.

The doctor started perceptibly at the sound of Joe's voice, and dropping his knife and fork, leaned forward with an attempt to obtain a view of his features. This was frustrated by our hero, who had turned away, and in a low tone was answering his interlocutrice. The doctor looked puzzled, and continued his meal.

Presently Joe left the table and passed into the bar-room. In silence he examined the last leaf of the register. His face flushed, his hand trembled; he was thankful that his agitation escaped observation. He longed to get to his little room over the stable; but the only exit was through the apartment he had just left, and he hesitated. At the sound of approaching footsteps he moved towards the curtain, raised it, and met Doctor Carter face to face. They exchanged glances; neither spoke, but the doctor looked troubled, and with a deep frown riveted his gaze on Joe's retreating form.

"Who is that youth?" he asked, pointing toward the door through which Joe had disappeared.

"That's Marshall." answered the landlord. "Everybody in these parts knows him."

"Is he employed here?" was the next query.

"He runs the Camptonville stage, and there ain't a better driver in the hull West."

"Strange!" said the doctor, evidently not satisfied with the intelligence. "Has he been here long?" he added.

"It must be all of five years since Joe put in an appearance on this line," returned the landlord.

"Five years," repeated the doctor dreamily. He looked as though some painful reminiscence had been recalled to him.

"I'd like to know what you've found to interest you in that fellow," said Fulton, who now stood at his friend's elbow. "You could scarcely eat for watching him, and I failed to make you listen when I spoke to you."

"It is a resemblance to a person whom I once knew well--nothing more--queer, is it not, with what persistency a familiar face will sometimes haunt us?" returned the doctor, assuming an off-hand air.

"This fellow's double must surely have robbed you--for you looked ready to spring upon him just now when he went out," said Fulton, jocosely.

"Robbed me?" repeated the doctor; "ah, yes--he did, indeed--but you shall hear about it another time." And they seated themselves at the card table.

When Joe closed the door behind him, he moved slowly away. His eyes were fixed on the ground; he was absorbed in thought. Suddenly his attention was arrested by Mary Jane, who awaited him, as she had frequently done, in the doorway of a rickety, long-disused barn. "I say, Joe!--hist!" she exclaimed, on seeing that he was about to pass without observing her. "Look wot I've fetched yer;" and she held up a couple of well-polished apples.

The young man's melancholy smile troubled her, and although he pressed her hand in gratitude for the attention, she felt instinctively that she had not occupied his thoughts.

"I say, Joe, what ails you?" she asked, tenderly. "Did I hurt your feelin's when I asked ef you had noos from home? I thought you'd know it was fun."

"Ah, no; you have never been unkind to me; you're a good girl. I'm not ungrateful; you must never think that--but--"

"But you're sick," she interrupted. "I just knew there was somethin' out er kilter when you kum in, fur you looked so kinder wore out. I'll run and git you some brandy."

He held her back. "No--no; stay--it's nothing; I'll be all right to-morrow--'all hunky,' as you say." He laughed to reassure her, and asked where she got the apples.

"Jake fotched 'em up from Frisco, and it isn't everybody I'd hook things for, you'd better believe."

"Wouldn't you do it for Dick?" Joe asked, with a mischievous smile.

"None o' yer business," she returned, indignantly. It would have pleased her to notice even a suspicion of jealousy on Joe's part; but it seemed to her that the mention of his rival just at that moment was ill-timed, and she wondered why the fellow stupidly neglected his opportunities. He was evidently touched, though, for he folded her in his arms, and spoke affectionately.

"Tell me, Mary Jane," he said, looking into her eyes, "is it because you really like me so much that you are so kind to me and put nice things in my room? Did you think I couldn't guess who left the cake there yesterday?"

The girl blushed with pleasure, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. When she raised them they were filled with tears, and her voice trembled when she spoke:

"Oh, Joe, if I didn't care so orful much for you I wouldn't be always gittin scolded about you; but--but--" She was interrupted by her sobs. Joe stroked her hair lovingly, and she wept freely upon his shoulder. "Ca-ant yer see I lo-ve you better nor Dick and all the rest o' the fellers put together?" she asked, at last.

He kissed her again and again, then darted away and left her alone.

"Well, ef he isn't the queerest lot I ever _did_ see!" said Mary Jane, after convincing herself that he had really gone. "He hugs a girl different from any man I ever heerd of; Dick could give him pints on the subject and no mistake."

Prompted by coquetry and an earnest desire to arouse Joe's resentment, she lavished attentions on Dick the next morning, much to this individual's satisfaction. Her indignation was increased considerably at Joe's unmistakable indifference. Indeed, he took so little notice of her that after hastily swallowing a cup of coffee and refusing the viands she placed before him, he devoted himself to his horses, fondling them, calling each by name, rubbing their limbs, and adjusting the various straps and buckles about the harness, until the stable boys set up their shrill nasal cries:

"All aboard for You Bet! Here you are for Camptonville! This way for Downieville, Blue Tent, Forest City!"

At the sound of a loud, piercing whistle every driver springs to the box of his respective stage, the passengers take their places, crack go the whips, and the coaches are off.

They were scarcely out of sight before Fulton began to regret that he had persuaded his friend to remain over for a day's rest, for the doctor was evidently chafing at the delay, and he seemed unaccountably out of sorts. He wandered along the road, and evinced the greatest impatience every time he consulted his watch. He questioned the landlord so closely about the stage drivers that Fulton laughingly inquired whether he proposed establishing an opposition company.

The day dragged its slow length along, and sunset brought the excitement and bustle that accompanied the return of the stages. They came in at intervals, each depositing its passengers, bundles, boxes, and mail-bags, then disappearing in the direction of the stable. It was soon observed that the Camptonville coach, usually one of the first, had not returned. Supper was served at the customary hour, and by eight o'clock the men had assembled in the bar-room; still no Camptonville coach. The air was rife with conjecture.

"I say, Parkenson, wot's 'appened to 'er?" asked Captain Cullen; "she's genally the fust in."

"I reckon we'll have to go out in search of her putty soon ef she don't appear," replied the landlord, who was showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness.

"'Taint likely the road agents has stopped her, is it?" asked Bowles, in an awed tone.

"Wall, they'll find our Joe one too many for 'em ef they git arter him, for there ain't a better fighter nor a truer shot in the hull country," returned Parkenson, so ready to exalt Marshall's qualities that it required only a slight stretch of imagination to proclaim him a pugilist. "Wasn't I along with him oncet when the Injuns attacked him--"

"Yes," interrupted the Captain, "but Hinjuns is different from road hagents; yer hain't got no chance with a lot of fellers as jump hout from be'ind a tree with a rifle levelled at yer 'ead."

"But I tell you, I seen Joe," persisted the landlord, raising his voice with a determination to be heard, "when the derned redskins cum along whooping and yelling like a lot o' devils let loose. Joe never stopped to ask how he could sarve 'em, but he jest blazed away at 'em, keeping the mustangs straight along 'thout so much as lettin' a cuss or a sound out of his mouth."

This was one of Marshall's peculiarities. He was ostentatious in his silence, seldom uttering a syllable while driving, unless it was to give vent to some scarcely audible command to his horses.

The words had hardly passed Parkenson's lips when the sound of wheels and the clatter of horses' hoofs were heard. Everybody hastened to the door; even the women were on the alert, and they had to crane their necks to get a view over the heads of the men of the belated stage. Joe Marshall's seat on the box was filled by Tucker, a well known miner.

"Lend a hand, here, boys," he cried; "Marshall's knocked up, inside there." Quickly securing the reins he jumped to the ground, just as the stage door was thrown open. Another miner of the neighborhood sat in a corner, tenderly supporting the unconscious form of poor Joe, and under his direction a dozen willing hands were enlisted to convey the wounded young man to his room.

"You're a doctor, ain't yer?" asked Mary Jane of Carter, wringing her hands in distress, while tears streamed down her cheeks. "Then why don't yer take a holt and do somethin' for Joe?"

Carter's agitation was so great, however, that he was unable to offer suggestions, and, for the moment, forgetting the requirements of his profession, he simply moved along with the crowd.

Joe's clothing was torn and stained with blood; so were the lifeless hands which lay where they had been placed across his breast; while his long, brown hair fell back in a heavy, damp mass from his broad, pallid brow, revealing an ugly cut. A stream of blood trickled from the wound, to which the doctor mechanically pressed his handkerchief from time to time, while the others were lavish in their expressions of sympathy and regret. They laid the wounded driver gently on his cot, and then withdrew and placed themselves in the doorway to await the doctor's verdict, while the landlady bustled about somewhat noisily in her eagerness to procure the necessary restoratives.

"We must have more air and quiet," was the doctor's first remark, after he had carefully examined the wounds and counted the pulse of the injured man. No second hint was needed, and he and the landlady were left alone with the patient.

In the bar-room, Tucker was giving the details of the accident. "Joe must er felt that he was in fur hard luck, fur I noticed that he wasn't like hisself the minute I jined him. He looked so sour and seemed so low in his sperits that I asked wot was up. Then he seemed madder'n ever, and he druv so reckless that I was putty derned sure we wouldn't come out with whole hides. Sure enough, afore we knowed it, the animals shied at somethin' on the road and started to run. I got a holt onto the ribbons, Harris, here, a helpin' all he could; but Joe jist let go, and laid back until we came to a turn. Then away the poor fellow went flying over the rocks 's if he'd been shot from a cannon. As soon as we could git the horses hauled in and quieted down, we went back to get Joe. We thought he was dead, but Harris got some water and throwed it on him till he began to groan, then we fixed him in the stage and fotched him along. That's the upshot of the hull business. It's dern'd lucky you had a doctor handy, though he don't seem to be much 'count."

After duly discussing the accident in all its bearings, the bar-room occupants disposed themselves as usual at the card tables.

The clock struck ten. At that moment Mary Jane, who having failed to obtain news through Joe's keyhole, had taken her stand at a window which commanded a view of the stable, saw her aunt emerge. In an instant she was at her heels, and the two women entered the bar-room together.

Mrs. Parkenson wore a mysterious air, and there was something about her that attracted all eyes. It was easy to see that she brought important tidings. Her eyes glistened, her face was flushed, and she seemed bristling with information. Some of the men rose and gathered about her, asking questions.

"He isn't wuss, is he?" said Mary Jane, with an injured air, adding: "I reckon it wouldn't take a month to git it out, ef he wus." The girl thought she had been left out in the cold, and resented her dismissal from the patient's chamber.

But without according her the slightest possible attention, Mrs. Parkenson addressed herself to the men. "What do you all think?" she asked, at last, without expecting or awaiting a reply. "When the boys were sent out of the room the doctor jest kept starin' at Joe, till I thought he was goin' to let the poor feller die 'thout doin' the fust thing for him; so I spoke up, and gave my opinion of the case. Then he roused himself, for he seemed most as much dazed as Joe was, and began doin' things to bring the boy to. At last I ses, 'Let's put his feet in hot water;' and away I started for the bucket; well, it was a long time before I could git the water to bile, and when I went back to Joe's room--of course I didn't stop to knock--what do you think I saw? You'll never guess, not if you tried a hundred years. There sot the doctor on the bed a huggin' and kissin' Joe, a-cryin' and callin' him his darlin', his long-lost pet, his angel, and all such nonsense. I thought he was crazy; the bucket fell out of my hand, and the bilin' water went streaming over the floor. If Joe hadn't er spoke to me, I dunno what I wouldn't er done to that doctor. He wouldn't let Joe say much, but he turned to me and explained that Joe ain't a he at all; he's a simon-pure, flesh-and-blood woman." She almost screamed the last words in her eagerness to make the climax effective.

For an instant the air was filled with ejaculations, so varied, so original, so potent, that Fulton, who was a stranger to the local phrases, was as much astonished at them as he could have been at the news of Joe's sex. His head reeled as he turned from one to another.

"No woman could er druv them 'orses over sech roads," at last exclaimed Captain Cullen, with a highly indignant air; "you'll hexcuse me ef I refuse to believe such 'umbug."

"Well, ef Joe's a woman, who is she, anyhow?" asked Dick Bowles, with a triumphant glance at Mary Jane.

"It's a dirty, mean shame, that's wot it is," said that young woman, angry tears welling up to her eyes.

"Joe's real name is Josephine Marsh," continued Mrs. Parkenson, anxious to keep the floor as long as possible, "and ef you'll jest listen to me a minute longer, I'll tell you the hull story. It seems that Joe's mother died in an insane asylum, and that is the cause of the hull trouble. Joe was engaged to be married to this very doctor, who lives in the town she cum from; well, one night she heard some of her folks talkin' about crazy people, and all of 'em agreed that when there was that sort er trouble in a family no marryin' ought to be allowed, and they told the reason why. Joe loved her beau too much to run the risk of bringin' such a misfortune on him as they described it to be, and she couldn't bear to stay right there and break with him, so she up and skipped. The poor thing sacrificed her hull happiness for what she thought right, and I don't care what any er you say, I respect her for it. I left the doctor explaining that her mother's case couldn't affect anybody but her own self; I don't quite understand how he made it out, but Joe was satisfied; that I could see plain enough, for it brought the color back to her cheeks in a jiffy, and she jest looked as pretty as a picter. I don't see how any of us could ever have believed such a sweet lookin' creetur to be a man, or a boy either, for that matter."

"I ain't a bit surprised," calmly observed Mary Jane, with a curl of the lip, Then turning to Dick Bowles, who beamed with happiness, she added. "I kinder thunk there was sumthin' peculiar about Joe all the time."

What Dick's private opinion may have been did not appear, for he was careful not to discuss the subject with his lady-love. It satisfied him to find that when he took her hand and pressed it tenderly, she allowed it to rest in his.

ROSALIE KAUFMAN.

_EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT._

THE LATE ELECTION.

There are two lessons, taught by the late contention, that the people will be slow to learn until coming events force them to a knowledge.

The first is, that our government has passed from the political fabric built us by the fathers to a financial concern in which private interests dominate public affairs.

The second is, that no public man, let his honesty and influence be what they may, can menace the moneyed power of our land and remain in public life.

We are so accustomed to being fed on phrases that we lose in their use the object for which they were framed. Our fathers sought the shores of America to escape oppression at home. The sum total of the despotism was found in the fact that while they who produced all enjoyed nothing, they who produced nothing enjoyed all. In framing certain legal enactments, in the shape of a constitution that was supposed to be good against such inequality and injustice, the fathers thought to eliminate privileged classes by wiping out the laws of primogeniture and entail. They took no account, for they could not know, of the corporation, that has all the powers and privileges of the born aristocracy, and renders all the guarantees of the constitution of no avail.

Under the power of the corporation we have a hundred and fifty thousand miles of operating railway that has passed to the control and into the virtual ownership of less than sixty families. To this combination has gone an attribute of sovereignty found in the power to tax the people. As Senators Sherman, Conkling, and Windom said, in their famous report to the Senate, this railroad power can tax all the products of the country in a way Congress dare not attempt. This iron network of rails enters every man's business and pleasure, and is the taxation without representation that brought on the Revolution and gave birth to our government. The people lose through fraud all that they gained through violence; and, sad to say, generally with their own consent.

We have the telegraph, so necessary to our business, which science gave as the poor man's post, for it consists of a wire, a pole, a battery, and a boy, that is openly owned and operated as a luxury by one man.

The currency, the life-blood of trade, is farmed out to something over two thousand corporations, that, acting as one, contract or expand it to suit their own greed.

We are cursed with a system, called a tax, but which is in fact an extortion, that, under the plea of favoring certain moneyed interests, not only forces the consumer to support the burthens of a government kept upon a war footing nearly a quarter of a century after the war closed, but enables less than a million out of sixty millions to accumulate means until our rich men are marvels to mankind. The great Republic, through this process, has entered the avenues of private enterprise, and with its crushing weight reduces labor to starvation wages.

All these combined form trusts, as they are called, which, limiting production, shut out competition, and accumulate for the favored few while the masses suffer.

All then, united, make our government; for government is that power from which there is no appeal, upon which we depend for a recognition of our rights. This power elects our Congress, selects our Presidents, and intimidates our courts.

To meet it we have a government of parties. It is a cast-iron, immovable, insensitive concern, farther removed from popular control than any government on earth. The party once in power can perpetuate that power under the best of circumstances; but when backed by the monopolized wealth of the continent it cannot be displaced. History tells us that it called for bayonets and bloodshed to displace the Democratic party in '61, and we fear history will repeat itself when a long-suffering and outraged people come to recognize the source of their wrongs and the cause of their sufferings.

In addition to this, there is an ugly rock on which we once were nearly shipwrecked, upon which we are again driving. The sectional differences of '61 have been steadily cultivated for selfish partisan ends, and to-day the North is united, as far as a majority can unite, against a solid South. While recognizing the fact that it is only through a careful and jealous guardianship of the home governments found in the States that this wide continent can be held under one control as a nation, we have the dominant party fatally bent on a centralization of power in the political structure at Washington. The negro is the Chinaman of the South, and while Congress excludes through legal enactment the Mongolian from our midst, that same Congress presses the ignorant, vicious African upon the South. This means not only a subversion of political rights, but a social revolution that will make a San Domingo and an Ireland of half our territorial limits. The South cannot submit to this and live. The South has given a bloody pledge to its intent in this direction, that it would be well for us to remember. The North can welcome negroes to its firesides, may return them to office because of their color, for this means votes, and nothing more. But at the South it signifies a great deal more: it means the subjugation of the white race politically and socially to the domination of the most degraded and ignorant class known to humanity.

This election has settled the fact that no public man can raise his hand or voice against the moneyed interests above enumerated and remain in public life. Had President Cleveland been content with the mere routine of office; had he, in addition, used the offices under him as a reward for personal services; he would have stood a good chance of re-election. He is not of that sort; and when he sought to reduce taxation on the poor man's clothes and blankets he aroused the wrath of the great national combine, and his fate was sealed.

There is not a man of average intellect in the whole length and breadth of the continent but knows that our elections are mere questions of money. From the first move of the Republican party to the last, there was nothing but assessments and expenditures in this direction. Senator Ingalls struck the key-note when he advised the selection as a candidate for Vice-President of "some fellow like Phelps, who could tap Wall Street." Senator Plumb continued the cry when he called for a squeeze of the fat manufacturers, the only class, he said, benefited by the tariff; and he added truthfully, that if he had his way he would put them on a gridiron and fry the fat out of them. This was unblushingly embodied in a printed circular. Colonel Dudley followed, in his advice to State committees to schedule the floaters and buy them by the half-dozen, assuring the instructed that means would not be wanting to carry on the corruption. What this corruption was, one word tells with more emphasis than volumes. That word is Blaine. He nominated that figure-head Harrison, and planned and openly carried on the campaign of abomination to the end.

It would be a waste of space and ink for us to recapitulate the career and character of this man. The platform which he has built under himself and which has been accepted by his party is a pillory of public contempt and condemnation. Perhaps the eloquent Governor Stevenson, himself a Republican, put it all in one sentence when he said of James G. Blaine, as presiding officer of the House, that "more property passed under the gavel of the Speaker than was knocked down by all the auctioneers' hammers of the United States."

We waste much valuable indignation in denouncing individual wrongdoers instead of attacking the system that makes such criminals possible. In no other civilized community on earth than ours would such a man as James G. Blaine be tolerated for a day. The Ingallses, Plumbs, Dudleys, and that sort are leaders only under the great Republic.

We are defeated and well-nigh disheartened. We have to remember, however, that the war is on, and that it is a campaign and not a battle. We must suffer many defeats, and we hope to enjoy many triumphs. Our people are patient under abuse, but they are intelligent, and when once aroused to a knowledge of not only their wrongs, but the source of such wrong-doing, are terrible in their wrath. The hour seems dark, but it may be the hour before dawn. We remember the millions that in casting their votes were counted for free trade and all reform. Aided by the suffering that comes of abuse we will yet win.

In all the gloom of disaster and defeat it is a comfort to know that our President stands higher in his loss of office than the incoming nonentity in his success. He leaves the Executive Mansion with the respect of a people, and will go down to history as the one President who dared offend his own party in the high discharge of his great office. The intellect and honesty of the land follow him in admiration to his retirement. No cause is wholly lost that is supported by such a statesman and such a following.

THE BALANCE OF TRADE.

There is no phrase in our political discussions so little understood and so generally employed as the above. Its use and abuse serve to illustrate the strange ignorance of political leaders and pretentious journalists. When a Senator at Washington, of the length and solemnity of the Hon. John Sherman, lifts a warning voice while calling attention to the "balance of trade" against us in our trade with the Canadas, we are enabled to measure the density of the fog-bank called the Senate, and why it is that fog-horns have taken the place of the persuasive oratory that awoke musical echoes in the days of Webster.

As we reserve a corner of our magazine to the better instruction of Senators in political economy ($2.50 per year, invariably in advance: now is the time to subscribe), we requested our accomplished friend John McClung to put in brief a clear, concise, and correct definition of the phrase "balance of trade." We begged our able contributor to treat the subject as if he were preparing a lesson for the use of schools--say children of tender years--so that our Solons at the national capital might comprehend without too great a strain upon their Senatorial brains.

Here is Mr. McClung's effort at instruction, and we commend it to our law-makers and the gentlemen of the journalistic pen as an easy lesson on a subject that it is not of any great credit to comprehend, but utterly disgraceful to be ignorant of.

THE SO-CALLED "BALANCE OF TRADE."

That it is good for a country to have its exports exceed its imports is a notion that has been widely accepted among us. We have usually been in that position, and the fact has been accepted as proof that we were doing well under a policy of protection. England, on the other hand, has had an excess of imports over exports, and England is free trade; the English excess of imports has been accepted as proof of the mistaken nature of a free-trade policy.

The idea that it is a good thing to have the imports less than the exports, to have the balance of trade "in your favor," as the phrase goes, is a relic of that "Mercantile Theory" overturned by Adam Smith. That theory was briefly, that wealth consists in the precious metals, and that for a country to remain wealthy, it is necessary to keep bullion from going out of the country. It followed from this principle that everything should be done to discourage imports, for it was thought that imports must, of course, be paid for by bullion. Modern political science teaches that wealth does not consist in gold and silver, but that these are commodities, like any other commodities, except that they happen to possess a special fitness to be a medium of exchange. It discards the old notion that imports are paid for by specie, and asserts that they are paid for by commodities. It teaches that it is not a bad thing to have the imports exceed the exports, that this excess is not "unfavorable," and that in fact there is no such thing as "a balance of trade." The old "Mercantile Theory," with its corollaries, has indeed long been abandoned, but many people still consider it matter to congratulate ourselves upon that our exports exceed our imports.

It is Bastiat who has given the most lively account of this subject. He complains in an amusing manner that the doctrine of the "balance of trade" should exhibit such practical vitality, when it is admitted that it has so long been theoretically dead. He observes that the protectionists are perfectly willing to leave him the victory in books, provided always that their idea is paramount in practice. He finds but one man, Lestiboudois, who has the courage of his convictions, and who says that, because France imports 200,000,000 francs' worth of goods a year more than she exports, she is that much in debt to foreign countries. Others are not so candid; they accept the free-trade principle, but their conclusion is protection. Bastiat is not content with obtaining the theoretical victory, but wishes to meet his opponent in the domain of business. He undertakes to prove from the books of his friend, Mr. T. of Havre, that the idea of a "balance of trade" is wrong in practice, and to this end gives sketches of two of this gentleman's enterprises.

In one of these transactions Mr. T. despatches from Havre a vessel freighted for the United States with French merchandise valued at 200,000 francs. It was at this figure that Mr. T. entered his export in the Havre custom-house. The cargo on its arrival in New Orleans had paid ten per cent expenses, and was charged thirty per cent duties. Its value was accordingly 280,000 francs. It was sold at 20 per cent profit on its original value; this, being 40,000 francs, brought the value of the cargo to 320,000 francs. This sum the assignee converted into cotton; the cotton had to pay expense of transportation, insurance, commission, etc., of 10 per cent. The return cargo, therefore, on arriving at Havre was worth 352,000 francs. This cargo Mr. T. sold at a profit of 20 per cent and made 70,000 francs. The cotton was thus sold for 432,000 francs. Bastiat offers to send the protectionist author an extract from Mr. T.'s books in which he sets down as gained two sums: one of 40,000 francs, the other of 70,000 francs. Bastiat adds that Mr. T. is perfectly convinced that he made this money. Mr. Lestiboudois, however, would have found at the custom-house that France had an export of 200,000 francs and imported 352,000 francs, and would have concluded that she had squandered on foreign nations 152,000 francs.

About the same time Mr. T. despatched another vessel, freighted also with a cargo worth 200,000 francs. But this vessel went down and never reached New Orleans at all. Mr. Lestiboudois would find at the custom-house that 200,000 francs' worth of goods had been exported, and that there was no importation to balance this entry. France has therefore in this transaction a clear profit of 200,000 francs.

So much for his friend T. Mr. T.'s case, Bastiat continues, is exactly that of the French nation. If France imports more than she exports, she does not lose the excess any more than Mr. T. did. Bastiat invites his opponents to carry his theory to its farthest limits. Let it be supposed that France only imports and does not export at all; in other words, gets everything for nothing: he still defies them to prove that France would be the poorer.

It was that very able and convincing writer, Augustus Mongredien, who showed, perhaps more clearly than anyone else, in his treatise on free trade, that where a country imports more than she exports, it is impossible that the excess should be paid in specie. Debts owed by one country to another can be paid to but a limited extent in specie. The French indemnity was paid largely in commodities. So have been paid the great sums of money which England has from time to time lent foreign countries. The French indemnity was paid largely in bills of exchange. The excess of imports over exports must be paid by commodities, for there is no other way in which to pay it. This excess in England is yearly, we will say, L70,000,000. It is out of the question that such a sum can be paid in specie, for there is not the specie to be had. The amount of specie in a country never exceeds to any considerable extent what is necessary for circulation. It is impossible that a country can retain an amount of specie much greater than that. The specie which remains after the demands of circulation have been satisfied lowers interest and raises prices, and attracts merchandise from without; it thus very quickly finds its way abroad. On the other hand, when specie is sent abroad to such an extent as to trench upon the requirements of circulation, this raises interest and lowers prices; the specie is thus quickly recalled. The action of the Bank of England familiarly illustrates this law. When it is wanted to attract gold, the rate of interest is raised and the gold quickly appears; when there is too much gold, the interest falls and the gold quickly disappears. It takes only a small sum, say L4,000,000, to produce this effect. How then is it possible that a yearly excess of L70,000,000 could be paid in specie? The payment of such balances for two years would take out of the country not only all the coin, but all the gold cups and silver pencil-cases and earrings it contains. It is computed that all the circulation, taken together with the articles of ornament and utility in Great Britain, the plate, watches, and trinkets, barely comes to L140,000,000. And yet at the end of a long period, in which there has been a steady yearly excess of imports over exports, the country still has plenty of money.

If this excess is not paid for in specie, neither is it obtained on credit. Merchants nowadays do not give and take the long credits that were formerly the custom. There are certain imports, indeed, that are paid for before the goods come to hand. A cargo of wheat from California, for instance, takes from four to five months to reach England. But it is paid for by drafts on England at 60 days sight, which, sent forward by rail and steam, mature a month or more before the arrival of the wheat in England. It is probable, indeed, that the whole excess is paid for before it is received. The excess is certainly not a debt owed by England; it is rather the payment of a debt owed to England. It is sent in payment of interest and dividends on English money invested abroad.

Mongredien shows that so far from its being an indication of debt when the imports of a country exceed the exports, it is an indication of wealth. Such a condition is a matter for congratulation. But many people still cling to the early notion. While all are agreed that foreign commerce is a good thing, and while the world is unanimous in thinking that it is well to have the exports as large as possible, many people still cherish a dislike to large imports. It is forgotten that you must have imports to pay for the exports, and that, if you limit the imports, you of necessity limit the exports. The exports must be paid for by importing commodities and not by importing specie. The case has been supposed of a protectionist Paradise, in which goods only were exported and nothing but bullion received in return. Would a country be richer for such a state of things? It would certainly not be richer, for there would be an over supply of bullion, and it would fall in value in comparison with other commodities. The workingman might receive twice his former wages, but he would have to pay twice as much for everything he consumed. Indeed, prices would rise much more rapidly than he could induce his employers, by remonstrances and by strikes, to raise his wages. Bullion would thus become very cheap. It would be worth about half its price in foreign countries. The result would therefore be that those holding it would send it abroad. But it would of course be sold for goods, since the only other thing for which they could exchange it would be bullion. The country would at once cease to receive nothing but bullion. There would be great exports of bullion and great imports of goods. Protected interests would be ruined, and everything would be upside down, until the superfluous bullion would be worked off. Of course a country which imported nothing but bullion and exported nothing but goods would be impossible, since no prohibitory measures can prevent the transfer of specie from the country in which it was worth less to that in which it is worth more. But the hypothesis may serve to show that such a condition of things would be productive, not of good, but of harm.

The volume of "Commerce and Navigation" for 1877 shows that our total exports for that year were $703,022,923, while our total imports were $692,319,768. The countries to which we exported more than we received from them were England, Belgium, Holland, Spain, Peru, etc., while the countries to which we exported less than we received from them were Brazil, Germany, France, Switzerland, Mexico, Cuba, Japan, Venezuela, Roumania, etc. It does not appear that the countries having the balance of trade "in their favor" as regards ourselves are more fortunately situated than we. It will be seen that, regarding our whole foreign commerce, the balance "in our favor" is something like $10,000,000. These figures, it may be remarked, are by no means exhaustive and exact. The freight is largely carried in British vessels, and this great sum goes to England. Large sums are sent out from this country to Americans living in Europe. These people, of whom there are many thousands, must live, and they live upon money sent out from here. Then no account is taken of the great quantities of stuff brought to this country by travelling Americans. These are, of course, not put down among our imports. The returns of the United States and England are no doubt more exact than those of other countries. Before 1854 the value of the imports of England was given in the official valuation, supposed to represent the prices of different articles in 1699, but of course having no kind of relation to their recent value. From 1854 to 1871 the value of imports was estimated upon the average prices of goods as reported by the brokers and the various Chambers of Commerce. Since 1871 it has been the habit to trust completely to the values as given by the merchants themselves. The exports from the beginning of the century have been reckoned upon the values entered by the exporters at the custom-house. The returns of imports and exports are of course less trustworthy in other European countries than in England. It is far easier to smuggle across a frontier than to smuggle in ships, and it is difficult for governments to watch the traffic of railways. It does not appear that there is much to be learned from an examination of the custom-house returns of Continental countries.

Of course few persons could now be found to defend the ancient superstitions of the "Mercantile Theory." But there yet remain among us many who have a dislike to large imports, and who think an excess of exports a fortunate condition and one which furnishes evidence of the advantage of a protective policy. The considerations set forth in this paper, which have been more elaborately represented in the writings of Bastiat, Mongredien, and Leone Levi, show clearly that an excess of imports is not paid for in specie, but in goods; that it does not represent a debt owed by the country, but the payment of a debt to it; that instead of being a bad condition, it is a good one, because it is good both for individuals and for countries that debts owing to them should be paid; and that in fact there is no such thing as the once famous "balance of trade."

A PLEA FOR THE PARENT.

It is somewhat strange that while our social structure trembles with affright at the bare mention of communism, one of the most popular institutions in our midst is as pure an instance of communism as ever human ingenuity devised. We refer to our common-school system. It was invented not only to give the State control of the children, but so arranged, the authors thought and its supporters teach, to force the rich through taxation to educate the children of the poor.

To put it in a more homely fashion, it is a process through which Jacob Thomas, being with or without children, but viciously possessed of property, shall be made to educate the children of John Smith, who has virtuously a large family of children, and is poor.

It is claimed that wealth owes this to the government for the protection which popular education gives to property: and so the government robs in one direction to prevent robbery in another.

There are, however, two well-known truths that make this conclusion erroneous. The first is, that it is not property that pays taxes or, indeed, aught else, but labor. It is through labor that all values are developed. The other truth, not so generally recognized, but yet a truth, is that education does not make property more secure. On the contrary, it adds to the insecurity complained of.

Instead, then, of having the rich pay for the education of the poor, the wage-worker not only pays for the so-called education of his own children, but that of his more fortunate neighbor. This is so evident, when once seen, that it is not necessary for us to offer any argument in its support. Law-makers have, for a thousand years, been elaborating laws through which capital in lands, tenements, and other forms of fixed values shall be made pay its share of the public burthen. They are no nearer the desired end than when they began. It is a vain attempt to reverse the pyramid and make the base stand on the apex.

The other error is not so patent. It comes of confounding intelligence with the popular process of education. If the mass of men could, through any process, be made more intelligent, we are prepared to admit that there would be a moral gain. The gain, however, would not be so positive or so great as many believe. Intelligence is not necessarily moral, nor is morality necessarily intelligent. The rules that govern moral conduct are few and simple, and, after all, it is more a matter of training and habit, more the result of kindly feeling and religious belief, than any intellectual process based on an accumulation of facts.

This grows plainer as we look more carefully into this thing called popular education and realize its constituent parts. The true definition of education is, that exercise and development of the intellectual faculties which teaches and trains the mind to think. This presupposes intellectual faculties. They are not general. The inequality, in this respect, of the human family is well marked and universally recognized. Through all the avocations of life, we find here and there at long intervals men so blessed in this respect that the masses look up to them, select them to be teachers and leaders. It is the foundation of our hero-worship, and formulates the habits on which we live socially and politically.