Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

But when, the bath and barbering over, comfortable under-clothing was given them and they were then arrayed in bright new uniforms and a glittering musket was put into their hands, surely Solomon in all his glory never experienced the glow of satisfaction that warmed the hearts of these ex-slaves as they viewed each other, and each man knew that he looked just like his fellows. For the first time in their lives they were men, not "boys,"--not chattels to be disposed of at the will of a master, but owning themselves, treated with respect, and considered worthy to take part with white men in defending the Union. In many of them the almost immediate change in look and bearing from cringing humility or unmeaning levity to earnest willingness and self-confidence was strikingly apparent; in others the change came gradually, as though time were needed to make them realize the revolution that had taken place. But it was surprising how quickly the vast majority learned well what was required of them, and how few rascals there were. Intemperance and profanity were exceedingly rare among them, and the guard-house opened its doors to a much less number than was usual in white regiments.

Of course there was general dissatisfaction among the abandoned masters and mistresses, many of whom were left without a single field-hand or house-servant. Scarcely a day passed without bringing one or two of these owners or their agents to inquire for some Sam or Tom or Dick. They were always invited up to headquarters to present their claims, and the records were examined for their satisfaction. If the names of their slaves were among the enlisted men, the ex-owners were required to produce a certificate of loyalty from the provost marshal of their district; and, if this was satisfactory, they were referred to the Board of Claims, to be organized in Baltimore for the purpose of deciding upon such cases. If they could show no proper certificate, they were summarily dismissed. Very often a man would change his name when he enlisted, thus making it very difficult for his master to trace him, besides causing confusion and a good deal of merriment among the young officers, as those who took new names invariably forgot them.

"Andy Smith!" the sergeant would cry at roll-call; but no Andy Smith would answer until, the name having been repeated several times, some comrade would nudge the fellow who had assumed it, saying:

"You is Andy Smith; don't you 'member you is?"

And then there would be a start and an exclamation of:

"So I is--I done forgot!" followed by a loud "Here!"

Amusing and sometimes pathetic scenes between masters and servants were of frequent occurrence. It was surprising in how short a time a poor, crying, slovenly slave became a bright, neat, self-asserting man.

One morning a tall, ungainly fellow, who had tramped several days to get to us, was brought to headquarters. He looked as though he had been driven and hunted all his life; but he was strongly built, and his ebony countenance, though showing a good deal of anxiety, expressed fearlessness and resolution. The officer who accompanied him reported him sound in every way except that he stuttered badly. Before the Colonel could speak to him, the fellow managed, with much difficulty, to get out an earnest request that he should not be "'jected."

"But you could not give the countersign if challenged," said the colonel.

"Jes try me, please, mars Colonel," the poor man stuttered. He was tried with the regular drill orders, and the proof of the man's pluck was that, though surrounded by a crowd that laughed at his ridiculous efforts, he made an heroic stagger at every order, and with a certain air of dignity that had its effect. At any rate, the Colonel, pleased with his manly bearing, told him that if he would come up the next morning and give those orders without stuttering he should be mustered into the service. Whether what his comrades asserted, that he spent the night practising in the grove back of the barracks, was true or not, it is a fact that the next morning he appeared bright and cheery, and in a voice that resounded over the campus he repeated every order promptly and intelligibly. He was accepted and a few days afterwards put on guard at the foot of the hill. As he was quietly pacing up and down his beat, a man rode up, sprang to the ground, and saying, "Look after my horse, fellow," started to walk up the hill. He failed to recognize in the neat, fine-looking soldier whom he had addressed his runaway slave. But the slave knew his late master, and with the sense of security inspired by his uniform and his loaded musket, he stepped forward. He could now say "Halt!" without stuttering, and he said it in a very decided tone. And then the master, looking sharply at him, exclaimed with an oath:

"Sam, you stuttering idiot! what are you doing here?"

"Defendin' de country, mas--sa," Sam stuttered.

His master burst out laughing, and with another oath ordered Sam to stand aside and let him pass, as he had come to take his man back home, and intended to do it. But Sam was not alarmed. He lowered his musket significantly, and managed to say:

"I aint nobody's slave no more, massa. I'se under the orders of de United States Guvement, and dem orders is to let nobody parss here what can't gib de countersign. Ef you kin do dat, you kin parss: ef not--not!"

The master raved and stormed in vain. Sam stood firm, until the officer of the day who, unobserved, had witnessed the scene from a clump of trees, thought best to interfere. He escorted the irate Marylander to the Colonel's office, but it is hardly necessary to say he was obliged to return home alone, as he came.[2]

A very similar incident occurred shortly afterwards, which I believe found its way into the papers: but it will bear repetition.

A new recruit, feeling to an exaggerated extent the dignity and the importance with which his uniform invested him, and realizing also, perhaps, the solemn obligations of his oath, was approached while on guard by his former master, and, with the usual oaths, ordered to get out of the way. This the sentinel declined to do, and the master began to abuse him for "a coward," "a black scoundrel," "a sneaking thief," etc., etc., all of which the soldier bore unmoved. But when the white man, still more infuriated by this indifference, damned the Union Army and even the uniform the black man wore, the latter became excited, and facing his angry master, said, in a very forcible manner:

"Massa, you kin 'buse dis nigger as a nigger as much as you please: dat don't hurt nobody. But when you damn dese buttons, you damns de goviment, sar, and dat am treason, and I'se pledged to stop it. Now scoot!"

And he charged on the astonished master, driving him down the slope and into the road, and kept his musket levelled at him until he saw him get on a street-car and ride away.

After a time, curiosity brought many people from the city every afternoon to see the troops drill, and before the end of the summer it became the fashionable thing for ladies and gentlemen driving out to stop below the hill on which the barracks stood and remain during the whole parade. Many even descended from their carriages and came up the slope to get a better view. As to the colored population, the barracks, and all that took place there, were full of interest for them. It seemed as though each one felt that he or she gained something in importance by belonging to a class that was attracting so much attention. Those especially who had sons or brothers among the troops rose at once in their own estimation and in their social scale. I could cite a number of amusing illustrations of this vainglorious sentiment, but one will suffice.

The respectable matron who did my washing came to me one morning to say that she would be obliged to give up my patronage, as her son had just enlisted and she could not think of disgracing him by continuing her business. Remonstrance was in vain; she retired from the suds, and lived on her importance and, presumably, on her son's pay.

One afternoon in the early fall two ladies came to headquarters. They were dressed in fashionable mourning, were gentle of speech and manner, and evidently belonged to the best society. They stated that they owned a large farm in Calvert County, had been visiting in Philadelphia, and had just learned that two "valuable boys" belonging to them had run away and enlisted in Baltimore. The "boys" had been brought up in the family, had always been kindly treated, were perfectly contented, and must have been worked upon in some subtle manner to have been induced to leave. They felt sure that if they could see them they could persuade them to return, as they could not bear the thought of the hardships the "boys" must undergo in army life.

The Colonel looked over the roll and found the names of the "boys," who had enlisted two weeks before. He informed the ladies that, even if willing, these soldiers could not be remanded to slavery; but if they would like to see them, he would send for them. The ladies requested that this should be done, and an orderly was dispatched to bring the fugitives.

Few worse specimens, as regarded raggedness and general evidences of hard usage, than these two men had come up from the western shore. When they now made their appearance in the office, tall, good-looking fellows, in their clean uniforms and new shoes, and their countenances beaming with satisfaction, it was no wonder that their mistresses did not at first recognize them, and were embarrassed in addressing them. A short conversation ensued, during which the men, though perfectly respectful, let the ladies understand that they were neither ashamed nor sorry for having left the old home. As the visitors, evidently much chagrined, at last arose to go, one of them, extending her hand to the younger one, said:

"Well, John, good-bye; I am going home to-morrow. What shall I tell the people for you?"

"Give 'em my love, marm," said John, "an' tell em I's mighty glad I's here, an' I wish dey was all here, too."

The other lady had taken out her pocket-book, and now said to the other:

"And you, Will, what shall I say for you?"

"Tell 'em all, marm," he earnestly replied, "dat de Lord hab broke my yoke an' made me free. Tell em I'se happier dan I eber 'spected to be in dis world--an' I blesses 'em all."

"Very well," she said coldly, and dropped something into his hand. Both ladies bowed and departed.

The man Will stood looking reflectively at what his mistress had given him. As the door closed on her, he turned to the Colonel and, showing a silver quarter, said:

"I'se worked fur dat woman mor'n twenty years, an' dis is de fust bit ob money she eber gib me!"

Towards the last of September Secretary Chase, being in Baltimore, was invited by Judge Bond to drive out to the barracks and witness the parade of the colored troops. His appearance was a pleasant surprise to Colonel Birney, who, up to that time, had failed to elicit from him any expression of interest in his work; though, on account of old friendship and political sympathies, the Secretary was the first person from whom the Colonel had expected support. But Mr. Chase had not as yet gone beyond the President in his views concerning the enlistment of slaves. He, however, expressed himself greatly pleased as well as surprised at the fine display the troops made, and the next week he repeated his visit, accompanied by Secretary Stanton.

As it happened, one of the recruiting boats arrived that very day, bringing over two hundred of the usual miserable crowd. Instead of having the men among them inspected at once, the Colonel saved them for his afternoon programme.

The expected visit of the distinguished men became known in the city, and long before the time for parade the road in front of the barracks was blocked with open carriages filled with ladies and gentlemen. The two secretaries, in a landau, were so placed that they had an uninterrupted view of everything.

The bugle sounded and the different companies, with bayonets and every accoutrement glistening, marched in splendid order to their respective positions. As the last company wheeled into line, and while the spectators were enthusiastically expressing their admiration of its soldierly bearing, the raw recruits who had arrived in the morning filed up and, each one grasping his little bundle, were placed in line with the others. Their tattered garments, shoeless feet, and disreputable appearance generally, afforded a striking and painful contrast to their uniformed brethren. The suggestiveness of the spectacle could not but strike every beholder. Mr. Chase declared it was the most impressive sight he had ever witnessed. Mr. Stanton warmly congratulated Colonel Birney, and expressed his satisfaction and his thanks that so much had been accomplished without embarrassing him.

The vigor with which recruiting had been pushed had taken the Maryland slave-holders by surprise. For some weeks they made no appeal to the government. Then, recovering their self-possession, they set to work to procure a revocation of Colonel Birney's authority.

Their first applications were made singly or by delegations to General Schenck or, in his absence, to his Adjutant-general, Donn Piatt, both of whom had steadily and cordially given their official aid and support to Colonel Birney's operations, though, from the nature of his orders, he was not subject to their command. The General, with quiet dignity, referred the envoys to Secretary Stanton, but held out no hope of change; but the adjutant gave them deep offence by his sturdy patriotism, expressed with the wit and humor for which he has always been celebrated.

Secretary Stanton was deaf to remonstrances. But it was not long before Reverdy Johnson and Governor Swann discovered that the President was not aware of the enlistment of slaves. Petitions, letters of complaint, and charges against Colonel Birney were now poured in on Mr. Lincoln. Finally, Reverdy Johnson and the Governor, at the head of a Maryland delegation of slave-holders, called on him and presented the grievance with all the eloquence they could command.

The President was much disturbed, and supposing General Schenck to be the responsible party, wrote to him intimating a purpose to disavow his acts. Thereupon the General went to Washington and, explaining his position in the matter, protested against censure or disavowal, and tendered his resignation as commandant in Maryland if such a step against him was intended. Mr. Lincoln listened patiently. Then, after a short pause, he said:

"Schenck, do you know what a _galled prairie_ is?"

The general knew every kind of prairie except that.

"The galled prairie," resumed Mr. Lincoln, "lies on the slope back from the narrow river bottoms, and is so called because the waters from higher levels cut gulches in it. But it is rich land. On it grow oak trees of a peculiar species. Their wood is almost as hard as iron, and their roots grow deep down. You can't cut them or dig them up. Now, general, how do you suppose the farmers treat them?"

This was a poser.

"Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "they just let them alone and plough around them."

With this the President arose and shook hands, and General Schenck returned to Baltimore, pondering over the parable of the "galled prairies."

Nothing further was said about censure, but Mr. Lincoln was troubled on the score of his "pledge," and did not let the matter drop.

Colonel Birney was very busy one day issuing the final orders for despatching three boats to a point where, from information received, several hundred good recruits were waiting. He was interrupted by a telegram direct from the White House, as follows:

"How many slaves have you enlisted?"

(Signed) "ABRAHAM LINCOLN."

The answer reached the President while Governor Swann and his friends were making another call on him.

"About three thousand," it said.[3]

A short and, according to the report of the committee, a pretty sharp discussion followed the reading of this answer, ending in the despatch of another telegram to the colonel:

"Hold on and care for what you have; enlist no more until
further orders.

(Signed) ABRAHAM LINCOLN."

Colonel Birney's disappointment can be imagined. In another hour his boats would have been off and out of reach of telegrams. Now, all orders had to be countermanded and the boats tied up.

The next day the colonel went to Washington and had an interview with Mr. Stanton, always his friend, and ready to do for him all that his position towards the President permitted him to do.

The latter Colonel Birney did not see, but the encouragement, protection, and aid he received from the great war secretary, with whose patriotism mingled no selfish ambition, enabled him, after a few weeks, to reorganize his plans and continue the work which led to emancipation in the State of Maryland.

A new order was issued, by consent of the President, authorizing the enlistment of slaves of rebels and of consenting loyal masters.

The final details of this novel recruiting business will be given in another chapter.

CATHERINE H. BIRNEY.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The intermediate regiments were raised in Boston, Philadelphia, and in Ohio.

[2] Sam was a member of the 7th regiment, and in battle was distinguished for his bravery. He was killed Oct. 27, 1864, in the battle near "Kill House," Va.

[3] A much larger number of slaves had been received at the barracks, but the great majority, being non-combatants, had been transferred to other points.

_THE OLD TUNE._

With sad face turned aside, lest sudden comers see her weep,
She sits, her fingers softly trying, on the ivory keys,
To find a half-forgotten way--that memories
May soothe her yearning spirit into dreamful sleep.

And now the old tune rises,--trembles,--slowly stealing round
That empty room, where often in the other years
It sang its love and tenderness, and gathered tears
To eyes that weep no more,--ah, sweetest, hallowed sound!

IRENE PUTNAM.

_BOTH SIDES OF THE COUNTER._

ALMOST A TRAGEDY.

CHARACTERS.

Mrs. ETHEL NEVERBY, _A Shopper_.
Mrs. MAUD SAMPELLE, _A Shopper_.
Mr. NEWCOME, _A Salesman_.
_A Chorus of Seven other Salesmen._

SCENE:--_The principal aisle of a fashionable shop. Mrs.
Neverby and Mrs. Sampelle discovered sauntering along near a
prominent counter strewn with rich woollen dress-goods. Mr.
Newcome, as they pause for an instant, makes a dash forward
toward the ladies: the seven other salesmen for a moment seek
to restrain his ardor; but he refuses to be restrained, and
instantly holds up to the gaze of the shoppers a piece of
cloth with a most alluring air. They pause--halt--whilst the
chorus, withdrawing, sing, in a low, melancholy voice--_

_Chorus._

Poor Newcome!
Nay, we must not seek to prevent it;
If we should, he would only resent it:
Let us then be all silent anent it.
Let him say of his breath, "I have spent it;"
Of his patience, "Behold! I have lent it;"
Of his will, "Woe is me! they have bent it;"
Of his garment, "Aye, lo! I have rent it;
Because I believed that they meant it:
Meant to buy--
Heigh-o-heigh!
O--O--"

[_Chorus retire and busy themselves with other remote
customers and goods, keeping, however, a wary and
observing eye fixed upon Newcome._

NEWCOME (_gushingly_). What can I show you this morning, ladies?

ETHEL (_sweetly_). Oh, thank you, we are merely looking as we pass by.

MAUDE. Oh yes, that is all.

NEWCOME. It will do no harm to show you these goods, I am sure, ladies. These double-width, all-wool, imported French suitings, in all the latest shades, reduced, marked down only half an hour ago from two dollars and a half a yard to--one-fifty!

ETHEL (_takes a step nearer to the counter_). That blue is lovely, isn't it, Maud?

MAUD (_also taking a step counterward_). Yes, it is lovely.

NEWCOME. Is blue the color that you are looking for, madam?

ETHEL. Oh, not specially.

NEWCOME. Now just allow me to show you these blues: ten different tones,--the navy, Marie-Louise, slate, Russian, Princess of Wales, robin's-egg, army, cobalt, indigo, steel,--all of them exquisite, and very fashionable!

[_Brings down pieces of goods and displays them._

MAUD. They are lovely.

NEWCOME. All at the same price, one dollar and fifty cents, reduced from two and a half only this morning.

ETHEL. Why are they so low? (_Fingers goods_). Is there any imperfection?

NEWCOME (_ecstatically_). None in the world, madam--none in the world. They are just an importer's surplus stock that our buyer got at a tremendous reduction, and we are selling them at this absurd price merely to get rid of them before taking stock.

MAUD (_eying the goods behind the counter on shelves_). Ethel, that gray is too sweet for anything; it would just match your chinchilla furs perfectly!

ETHEL. So it would!

NEWCOME (_tossing aside the blues with a jubilant air_). Gray, did you say, madam? We have a line of grays not to be found anywhere else in the city; every possible tint and tone. Is it for yourself, madam?

[_Gazing at Ethel as he moves heavy pile of grays from
shelf to counter._

ETHEL. Oh no; we are, as I told you, merely looking (_glances at Maud_) for a friend.

[_Chorus of clerics, softly and with a semi-sarcastic,
semi-melancholic demeanor, advance and sing_:

They are looking for a friend,
Who is ill, and cannot spend
Any strength, but must depend
On their offices, and send
For some samples that may tend
To assist her health to mend.
So their time they gladly lend
To so laudable an end
As is "looking for a friend."

[_Chorus retire and again busy themselves with other
customers._

MAUD. Yes, an invalid lady who is unable to go out at all; we thought if we could take her some samples.

[_Chorus groan weakly._

NEWCOME. Certainly, madam.

[_Opens drawer and hands forth any number of packets of
samples._

ETHEL. Oh, how good you are! Thank you. Say, Maud, isn't that green, up there, the top of that left-hand pile, isn't it too lovely and chic for anything?

MAUD. Perfect.

NEWCOME (_abandoning the search for more samples_). Green--did you say green, ladies?

ETHEL. Oh, never mind!

NEWCOME (_struggling with the greens, which threaten to topple over on him_). No trouble at all, madam--none (_lands the greens successfully on the counter_). We have, as you see, a complete line of the greens--the most fashionable and stylish color of the season. Do be seated, madam, and just let me show you these unparalleled goods, one-fifty only a yard, reduced from two and a half, all-wool, warranted imported French dress material. We sell no domestic goods in this establishment.

MAUD. We might look at them, dear.

[_Approaches seat._

ETHEL. Well (_approaches seat_)--I suppose we might; we promised her we would look at everything, you know, and report this afternoon.

NEWCOME (_displaying goods_). There, ladies! I am sure there is not to be found anywhere in the city, or indeed out of it, such a selection of greens; all tones and shades to suit every taste and complexion. Is it for yourself, may I ask, madam?

MAUD. Oh no, no, no--for a friend.

NEWCOME. And what complexion is the lady, light or dark? We have tints to suit all.

MAUD (_to Ethel_). Would you call her fair or dark, dear?

ETHEL. Oh, dark, of course.

MAUD. You would! Why, I thought she was just about my complexion.

ETHEL. So she is, love, exactly.

MAUD. Why, darling! I am not dark, surely; I am considered to be very, very fair for a person with such dark hair and eyes.

ETHEL. Now, I would call you a perfect brunette, dear.

MAUD. How funny! Why, I'm just exactly your complexion.

ETHEL. Oh, my love, only reflect--my hair is yellow and my eyes are blue!

MAUD. I know, dearest, but you have an olive skin.

NEWCOME (_who has been patiently holding up the greens at the risk of breaking his arms_). There, ladies! I am sure we have a selection of shades in these greens that must suit the most fastidious.

ETHEL. They are beautiful!

[_Sits._

MAUD. Lovely!

[_Sits._

NEWCOME (_warmly, and much encouraged by the ladies having taken seats_). Oh, I can always tell at a glance what will suit a customer. Now, what you desire is not the common grade of colorings, but something elegant and yet not conspicuous--like this new reed-green, for example.

[_Holds up the goods._

ETHEL. How sweet!

MAUD. Isn't it?

ETHEL. Do you really think she would like green?

MAUD. I don't know; she is so particular, you know.

ETHEL. Yes, I know. Didn't she-- It seems to me she said something or other about brown--didn't she?

MAUD. Why, yes, to be sure, I believe she did.

NEWCOME (_casting the greens into a reckless oblivion_). Brown? We have a selection in all the browns that is not to be found elsewhere, I am confident. (_Struggles with great pile of browns; grows warm with effort; pauses to mop his brow with handkerchief; finally brings down huge number of browns and lands them on counter._) Our--assortment--of--browns--is (_heaves a deep sigh_), I may say, unequalled.

ETHEL. What a sweet shade that is!

MAUD. Isn't it?

ETHEL. Are these the same price as the others?

[_Fingers the browns._

NEWCOME. Exactly the same, madam; one dollar and fifty cents a yard, reduced from two and a half; all-wool.

MAUD. Are you sure they are all-wool? This piece feels rather harsh to me.

NEWCOME. Every thread, madam; that I will guarantee. We are not allowed to misrepresent anything in this establishment. You can see for yourself.

[_Recklessly frays out a few inches of the brown._

ETHEL (_also fingering goods_). Yes, they are all-wool; French, did you say?

NEWCOME. Every piece imported. We keep no domestic woollen goods whatever. We have no call for anything but the foreign goods.

MAUD. How wide did you say?

NEWCOME. Double width, madam--forty-four inches.

ETHEL. Five, seven--let me see, it would take about--how much do you usually sell for a costume?

NEWCOME (_with hilarity, holding up the browns_). From eight to ten yards, madam, according to the size of the lady. For your size I should say eight yards was an abundance--a great abundance.

ETHEL. She is just about my size, isn't she, Maud?

MAUD. Just about. It wouldn't take eight yards, I shouldn't think, of such wide goods made in Empire style.

ETHEL. No, I suppose not; but then it's always nice to have a piece left over for new sleeves, you know.

MAUD. Yes, that's so.

NEWCOME. An elegant shade, ladies, becoming to anyone, fair or dark. I am sure any lady must be pleased with a dress off of one of these--serviceable, stylish, the height of fashion.

ETHEL. Is brown really so fashionable this season?

NEWCOME. I am sure we have sold a thousand yards of these browns to ten of any other color.

MAUD. Is that so?

ETHEL. I do wonder if she really would prefer brown. What do you think, dear?

MAUD. Well, it depends somewhat, I think, on how she is going to have it made.

ETHEL. True. Well, I think she said in _directoire_.

MAUD. Plain full skirt?

ETHEL. Yes, smocked all around--no drapery at all.

MAUD. Candidly, love, do you like a skirt without any drapery at all?

ETHEL. Well, no, I can't say I do. Do you?

MAUD. No. I like a little right in the back, you know--not too much. But I think a little takes off that dreadfully plain look. Don't you?

ETHEL. Yes.

MAUD. How are y-- I mean how is she going to have the waist?

ETHEL. I don't know. I heard her say that she was going to have a puff on the sleeve.

MAUD. At the elbow?

ETHEL. No, at the shoulder.

MAUD. And revers, I suppose.

ETHEL. Yes, those stylish broad ones.

MAUD. Of velvet?

ETHEL. Velvet or plush.

NEWCOME (_who has been manfully holding the browns up above his head, permits them to gently descend_). We have a full line in plushes and velvets, ladies, to match all these shades.

MAUD. How nice!

ETHEL. So convenient!

NEWCOME (_mildly_). Do you think you'll decide on the brown, madam?

ETHEL. Oh, dear! I don't know. It is so hard to shop for some one else!

MAUD. It is horrid.

ETHEL. I vow every time I do it that it shall be the last. I am always so afraid of getting something that the person won't like.

[_Sighs._

NEWCOME. Any lady must like this brown, madam. Just feel the texture of this piece of goods, and take the trouble to examine the quality. Why, I have never in all my experience sold a piece of goods of such a class at a cent less than two dollars a yard--never.

MAUD. It is very fine.

ETHEL (_vaguely eying the goods behind the counter on the shelves_). Is that a piece of claret-colored that I see up there?

NEWCOME (_lays down the browns with a faint sigh of reluctance_). Yes, oh, yes.

ETHEL. Never mind to get it down.

NEWCOME. No trouble in the world to show anything; that's what I am here for. (_Sighs as he attains the clarets and fetches them to the counter._) Rich shades; ten tints in these also, calculated to suit any taste.

MAUD. I always did like claret.

ETHEL. Yes, it is so becoming.

MAUD. It has such a warm look, too!

ETHEL. Now, that--no, this one--no, please, that darker piece--yes. Maud, dear, that made up with plush and garnet buttons and buckles--Oh, did I tell you I saw some such lovely garnet trimmings at Blank's last week, only seventy-five cents a yard, just a perfect match for this. Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything?

MAUD. Indeed it would. I am almost tempted myself. Claret is my color, you know.

NEWCOME. A splendid shade, madam, and only just two dress lengths left.

ETHEL. Is this the same goods as the others?

NEWCOME. The very same; all-wool imported suitings, forty-four inches wide, reduced from two-fifty a yard to only one dollar and a half.

MAUD. Wouldn't that be just perfect with that white muff and boa of mine, dearest?

ETHEL. Too startling, love. Do you know, I think you made a mistake in getting that white set.

MAUD. Why?

ETHEL. Too striking.

MAUD. Do you think so?

ETHEL. Yes. Of course it's lovely for the theatre and opera.

MAUD. It's awfully becoming.

ETHEL (_to Newcome_). Now, do you really sell as much claret color as you do green or brown this season?

NEWCOME. Oh yes, madam; if anything, more. You see claret is one of the standards, becoming alike to young and old. Why, a child might wear this shade. Claret will always hold its own; there is a change in the blues and the greens and the browns, but the claret is always elegant, and very stylish.

MAUD. I think so too.

ETHEL (_meditatively_). I do wonder if she would like claret better than brown.

NEWCOME. I can show you the browns again, ladies.

ETHEL. Oh, never mind.

NEWCOME. No trouble in the world. (_Holds up browns and clarets both._) Now you can judge of the two by contrast.

MAUD. Both lovely.

ETHEL. Which do you like best, love?

MAUD. My dear, I don't know.

NEWCOME. You can't go amiss, madam, with either of those, I am sure. Any lady must like either of them.

ETHEL. Oh, dear! I wish people would get well and do their own shopping; it is so trying!

MAUD. Horrid!

NEWCOME. An elegant piece of goods, madam; will wear like iron.

ETHEL. What would you do, dear?

MAUD. I really don't know what to say. When does she want to wear it?

ETHEL. Dinner and theatre.

MAUD. By gaslight, then?

ETHEL. Yes, of course.

MAUD. Does the gaslight change the shade much?

NEWCOME. Just a trifle, madam; it makes it richer.

MAUD. Darker?

NEWCOME. Just a half a tone.

ETHEL. Then that must be considered. Oh, dear!

[_Sighs plaintively._

MAUD. Why not look at it by gaslight, love?

ETHEL. Oh, I hate to give so much trouble!

NEWCOME. No trouble in the world, madam--a pleasure. I will gladly show you these goods by gaslight, for I am confident you will only admire them the more. Here, boy (_calls boy, and hands him a pile of goods_), take these to the gaslight-room. This way ladies, please. (_They cross the aisle and enter the gaslight-room, preceded by the boy, who sets down the goods and retires._) There! look at that! Isn't that a rich, warm, beautiful color!

[_Displays clarets._

MAUD. Lovely!

ETHEL. Yes, lovely--but (_dubiously_) I am so afraid she won't like it.

MAUD. It is very perplexing.

ETHEL. Yes. Oh, how sweet those browns do look in this light! Don't they?

NEWCOME. Ah, I just brought over the browns, madam, for I thought you might care to see them too.

[_Displays browns._

MAUD. How they do light up! Don't they?

NEWCOME. Newest tints, every one of them. Not been in stock over a few weeks, and those browns have sold like wildfire.

ETHEL. For my own part I always did like brown.

MAUD. Yes, so do I.

ETHEL. It's so ladylike.

MAUD. Yes, and it's a color that is suitable to almost any occasion.

ETHEL. Yes. Now that lightest piece would be just too sweet, wouldn't it, made up with that new Persian trimming?

MAUD. Exquisite! Say, do you know I priced some of that trimming the other day.

ETHEL. Did you? how much?

MAUD. Awfully expensive! Five dollars a yard.

ETHEL. How wide?

MAUD. Oh, not more than four inches.

ETHEL. It wouldn't take much, would it?

MAUD. That depends on where you put it.

ETHEL. Well, just on the bodice and sleeves and collar.

MAUD. About two yards and a half.

ETHEL. Fifteen dollars?

MAUD. Yes.

NEWCOME. This brown trimmed in the manner you mention, ladies, would be very elegant.

MAUD. Yes, so it would. I wish now that I had looked more particularly at the browns out by the daylight.

NEWCOME. It is easy to look at them again, madam, I am sure. Here, boy, carry these goods back to the counter where you got them. (_Boy crosses, laden with goods; Newcome and ladies follow._) That's it. (_Boy retires._) Now, madam, just look at that shade by this light. Isn't that perfect?

ETHEL. Yes, it's lovely, but--

MAUD. Did she say she wished a brown especially, dear?

ETHEL. No, she left it to me entirely.

MAUD. How trying!

ETHEL. Yes. I--I really, you know. I don't dare to take the responsibility; would you?

[_Newcome's arms falter slightly in upholding the goods._

MAUD. Frankly, my love, I think shopping for anyone else is something dreadful.

ETHEL. It is so trying and so embarrassing. I don't dare really to get either (_Newcome's arms fall helpless; he sighs_) one of them.

MAUD. They are lovely, though; aren't they?

ETHEL. Yes, if (_Newcome revives a little_) I thought she would really be satisfied.

[_He essays once again to hold up the browns._

MAUD. But, dear, they never are. [_His arms again droop._

ETHEL. No, never. No matter how much trouble you take, or what pains you are (_he sighs feebly_) at (_he totters_), they are so ungrateful.

MAUD. Yes, always.

ETHEL. Well, I believe we can't venture to decide this morning (_he staggers_) about the shade. We will very likely return to-morrow.

[_He raises a weakly deprecating hand._

MAUD (_aside, as the two ladies are going_). Well, we got off quite nicely.

ETHEL. Yes, didn't we! I wouldn't be seen in either of those horrid things; would you?

MAUD. No.

[_Newcome falls to the earth with a groan of despair; the
Chorus rush forward and gently raise him in their arms.
As they bear him off, they sing, in a doleful and yet
half-malicious fashion_:

_Chorus._

Poor Newcome!
You are not the first man they have ended,
And left on the cold ground extended;
Or to whom they have sweetly pretended,
On whose taste they have weakly depended;--
Whom they've left on the cold ground extended,
Minus money they never expended,
On goods that they never intended
To buy,
Heigh-o, heigh,
O--O--!

[_They retreat_, C., _as the ladies exeunt_, R., L. _Music
pianissimo as curtain falls._

FANNIE AYMAR MATHEWS.

_IRISH NORAH TO ENGLISH JOHN._

(Her theory of Home Rule under the Union.)

"It manes, and shure and where's the harm?"
Said Nora to her spouse;
"It manes: if you must mind yer farm,
That I shall mind me house."

_BELLA'S BUREAU._[4]

A STORY IN THREE SCARES.

SCARE THE FIRST.

I almost flung myself into Dick Vandeleur's arms when he entered my library that evening.

"Can you imagine why I sent for you in such a deuce of a hurry?" I blurted out, embracing him effusively in my pleasure at seeing him.

"Well, I did think there might have been a woman in the case," he drawled, in his deliberate way, stopping to adjust his neck-tie, which had worked its way over his ear during the struggle. "But then, as I happened to have acted as your best man only two months ago, when you married the most charming of women, why, b'Jove, I--"

"Well, it is a woman," I groaned, cutting his speech short.

"The devil!"

"Yes, and the very worst kind, I fancy, if thoroughly aroused."

"But, my deah boy, with such a wife it's--it's--it's--"

"Yes, it's all that and a good deal more," I growled, gloomily. "Don't add to my misery with your ill-timed reproaches. Richard, a back number of my unsavory career has turned up to deprive me of my appetite and blight my being. You remember Bella Bracebridge, of the nimble toes, at whose shrine I worshipped so long and so idiotically? Well, I received a letter from her only yesterday."

"No!"--incredulously.

"Yes."

"What!--little Bella who used to caper around in such airy garments at the Alhambra?"

"The very same. I only wish I could be mistaken," with a despairing groan. "It seems she married money and retired from the stage. By some means she disposed of her husband, and is now a rich and probably good-looking widow. She has purchased an estate within half a mile of here, and is going in heavy for style. She wants to make me the stepping-stone to social success; she sighs for the purple penetralia of the plutocracy. See what a predicament I am in! To introduce her in this house would plant the most unjust suspicions in Ethel's Vassarian mind, while her mother, Mrs. McGoozle, might institute awkward inquiries into the dear, dead past"--with a shiver of anticipation. "Now, my dear Vandeleur, that woman means mischief. She has got about a hundred of my letters breathing the most devoted love: if dear Ethel got a glimpse of a line she would go into hysterics. Bella has hinted, even politely threatened, that unless I show her some attention, which means introducing her to my wife's circle of friends, she will publish those letters to the world or send them to the dramatic papers. Now you must help me out of this scrape."

"Delighted to be of any service, I'm sure," tapping his boots impatiently with a jaunty little cane. "But, really, you know, I don't see--"

"Why, it's easy enough. Don't you remember we were once the pride of the school because we robbed watermelon patches so skilfully? What a narrow shave that was in the apple orchard the night before commencement, when you--"

"Yes, yes, I remember, deah boy; but what have those childish pranks got to do with the present case? We don't want to rob an apple orchard"--by way of mild protest.

"It is another kind of fruit that we are after--the fruit of youthful follies. Here," opening a cupboard and throwing out two pairs of overalls somewhat the worse for paint, two jumpers ditto, and several muddy overshoes, "Vandeleur, if you love me put these things on."

I fancy I can see him now adjust his glass and survey me with bulging eyes. I certainly did have nerve to ask that famous clubman, so irreproachable in his dress, to assume such inartistic and plebeian garments.

It took a great deal of palavering before I could persuade him that I was lost unless he consented. How he grunted as he reluctantly laid aside his silk-lined white kersey coat and evening dress, and tried to put on the overalls with one hand while he held his aristocratic aquiline nose with the other.

"Really, I hope I shan't be found dead in these togs," he remarked ruefully, as he surveyed himself in the glass. "What would Flossy say? and how the chaps at the Argentine would wonder what I'd been up to!"

I cut short his speculations by thrusting a soft slouched hat on his head and dragging it down over his eyes.

"There now!" I said, standing off and contemplating him critically and admiringly; "you have no idea, my boy, how becoming this costume is. One might imagine you had been born a stevedore."

He looked rather sour at this doubtful compliment, and hitching up his baggy trousers, asked, "Well, what is the next misery?"

"It is twelve o'clock," I said, referring to my watch. "My wife has gone to bed. Like Claude Duval, we will take to the road."

After a stiff libation of brandy and soda we stole softly downstairs and found ourselves in front of the house. Only one light glimmered in the black pile, where Ethel was going to bed.

"Where away?" asked Vandeleur, as I turned the path.

"To storm Bella's bureau," I cried, leading the way through the dark.

SCARE THE SECOND.

With much difficulty we found ourselves at last in the spacious grounds of Bella's estate. I had laid my plans carefully the day before, and there seemed no possibility that they would miscarry. By liberal fees I had learned from her butler that she was to spend that night in New York with a friend, and for a further consideration he offered to leave one of the drawing-room windows open so that we should have a clear field.

Everything seemed to be working beautifully, and I already felt the coveted letters in my grasp. We found the French window ajar, and with tremulous hearts stepped over the sill and into the room. After several collisions with the furniture, of which there seemed to be what we thought an unnecessary amount, we finally scraped our way into the hall.

Here was a quandary. We were in a hall, but what hall? Whether the stairs led in the right direction there was no one present to consult. We walked or rather crawled up them, nevertheless. I tried the first door on the landing, and was rewarded with "Is that you?" by a female voice that sent us scuttling along the passage in undignified haste.

Well, at last, after many narrow escapes from breaking our necks, we reached Bella's room. I knew it the moment I saw the closet full of shoes. Bella was always proud of her feet, and had, I believe, a pair of boots for every hour of the day.

To make things even more sure that I had arrived at the chaste temple of my former flame, there was the famous bureau of ebony inlaid with ivory--that bureau which contained enough of my inflammatory letters to reduce it to cinders.

"Can you regard that bureau with equanimity?" I exclaimed, unconsciously assuming a dramatic attitude. "Does it not recall your vanished youth--the red horizon of your adolescence? Ah," I cried, overcome by the sight of that familiar bit of furniture, "how often have I slid a piece of jewelry into that top drawer as a surprise for Bella! Her delighted shriek which followed the discovery rings in my ears even now. Oh, halcyon days of happy holiday, mine no more, can a lifetime with a funded houri wholly fill your place?"

"That's all very well," cried Vandeleur, who can assume a disgustingly practical tone when he wants to. "While you are rhapsodizing here over your poetical past, some stalwart menial may arrive with a blunderbuss, and fill our several and symmetrical persons with No. 2 buckshot. Perhaps Bella may have missed her train or her friend. She might return here at any moment and surprise us"--looking around him uneasily.

"Anybody would think that you had never been in a boudoir at this time of night," I retort savagely.

I begin to pull out the drawers of the bureau, breaking locks in the most reckless way, and tossing the contents of these dainty receptacles about in the most utter confusion. Vandeleur, with his eyeglass adjusted, is poking into everything in the closet as if he were looking for a mouse, only pausing now and then to glare around with an apprehensive shiver.

"Dear me," I soliloquize, while the contents of those bureau drawers are tossed here and there in the fever of my search. "How everything here reminds me of the past! She has even preserved the menu card of that memorable dinner at Torloni's; and here--here is a lock of brown hair tied with a pink ribbon! I really believe it must be mine!"

"My deah boy," howls Vandeleur, shaking me by the arm vigorously, "will you cut short your soliloquy? Is this a time for poetry, when we might get ten years if we were found burglarizing this house?"

I pay no attention.

"And here is the steel buckle from her shoe that fell off the night we danced together at the French ball. Poor dear Bella! that was not the only dance we led where folly played the fiddle!"--with a thrill of reminiscence.

"If you don't find those letters in just two minutes," interrupts the dreadful Vandeleur, "I shall post for home."

"In one second, my boy--one second."

Now I examine the bureau carefully for a concealed drawer. I seem to have ransacked every corner of that precious article in vain. Visions of Bella's vengeance flash before my eyes. I can see the demoniac smile on her face as she gloats over my downfall. The white wraith conjured up by the thought of those fateful letters fills me with a mad fury, and I long to dash that hateful bureau into a thousand pieces and flee the house.

But the demolition could not be executed noiselessly, and the situation is perilous enough already for a man of my delicately organized constitution, with a heart that runs down with a rumble like a Waterbury movement; so I think I won't break the bureau.

I renew my mad search for the missing drawer, that seems to be of a most retiring disposition, as drawers go. I bethink me of stories of missing treasure: how the hero counted off twenty paces across the floor, and then dropped his dagger so that its blade would be imbedded in the wood, and then dug through several tons of masonry, until he found a casket, sometimes of steel, sometimes of iron, and sometimes of both.

And then he did a lot more mathematical calculating, and pressed a knob, and there you are! Ah! a thought--I had forgotten to apply myself to the moulding of the bureau, as a hero of the middle ages would have done under the circumstances.

I begin from side to side, up, down, and around. Ha! ha! at last! A little drawer shoots out almost in my face, startling me like a jack-in-the-box.

A faint perfume of crushed violets salutes my nostrils. The letters--they are there in the bottom of the drawer! I know them too well by the shape of the square large envelopes. They cost me many a dollar to send through the stage-door by the gouty Cerberus at the gate when Bella trod the boards.

I reach out my hand to seize them, when an awful scream causes me to stagger back in dismay.

Bella Bracebridge, in a jaunty travelling dress, stands in the doorway in the attitude of a tragic queen--her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, just as she looked the day she asked for a raise in salary and didn't get it.

She steps towards me: I retreat, transfixed by her defiant attitude. She fear a common burglar? Never!

I know she intends to seize me and scream for help, and I am afraid, too, that she may recognize my face. So I step back--back, edging towards the window.

She reaches out her hand to seize me, then totters and falls in a dead faint.

I look around for Vandeleur. He has lost all presence of mind; is staring at the figure on the floor, with wild, dilated eyes, and an expression of hopeless idiocy on his face. I can hear people moving below stairs. Her scream must have aroused the house. "Vandeleur," shaking him by the arm, "we must run for it. Do you understand? Ten years! Hard labor!"--the last words hissed excitedly in his ear.

"What? where? who?" he mumbles, with a face as expressive as that of codfish.

I rush to the balcony to see if we can make the jump below. It is dark, but the leap must be made. Better a broken leg than a ball and chain on a healthy limb for years and years.

I drag Vandeleur in a helpless condition out on the balcony, boost him up on the railing, and push him off. Then I leap after him.

Fortunate fate! We fall into a clump of blackberry bushes, and not a moment too soon. Lights flash out from above. I hear the hum of excited voices, Bella's calm and distinct above the rest, as she gives the ominous order, "Let those bloodhounds loose!"

Ugh! We scramble out of the bushes in the most undignified haste, leaving most of our outward resemblance to human beings on the thorny twigs. Then helter-skelter over the fields and hedges, stumbling, staggering, and traversing what I suppose to be miles of country.

Vandeleur is snorting like a steam calliope in bad repair, and I am breathing with the jerky movement of an overworked accordion. "I can go no farther," he exclaims, dropping down in a huddled heap at the foot of a scrubby pine-tree like a bag of old clothes.

I don't feel much in a hurry either, but I try to infuse some life into him by hustling him and shaking him in a brutal and unsympathetic manner.

"Do you hear that?" I howl in despair as the baying of the bloodhounds rolls towards us over the meadow like muttered thunder. "There is nothing to do but climb this tree, unless you want to furnish a free lunch for those brutes."

"Free lunch? get me some," he mumbles, relapsing into his old idiotic state again. Then I fall upon that unfortunate man in a fury of rage, and pound him into a consciousness of his danger.

He consents at last to be pushed or rather dragged up in a tree, whose lowest limb I straddle with a feeling of wild joy and ecstasy just as the hounds rush past below, their flashing eyes looking to me just then as large as the headlights of a host of engines.

"Let's go home now," again murmurs the helpless creature at my side, shaking so on the limb that I am compelled to strap him there by his suspenders.

"Ain't we going home?" he chatters. "I want a good supper, and then a bed--_bed_," lingering on the last word with soothing emphasis.

"Oh, you'd like a nice supper, would you?" I growl. "Well, those bloodhounds are after the same thing. Perhaps you had better slide down the tree and interview them on the chances. Then one or the other of you would be satisfied."

"But they've gone away."

"Well, you needn't think you have been forgotten, just the same. Don't you see, wretched man, that the morning is breaking," pointing to the east, where the sun had begun "paintin' 'er red." "Once in the high road we should be discovered at once; here at least we are safe--uncomfortably safe," as I moved across the limb and impaled myself on a long two-inch splinter with spurs on it.

He fell into a doze after that, only rousing himself now and then to utter strange croaking sounds that frightened me almost as much as the baying of the bloodhounds. I think I fell asleep too for a few moments, for when I was roused by an awful yell proceeding from my companion I found that he had burst his bonds and fallen out of the tree, while the bright sun was shining in my eyes.

Visions of Ethel's face over our charming breakfast-table rose before me, and I seemed to scent afar off the steam of fragrant mocha in a dainty Sèvres cup as she held it towards me. The thought of that morning libation settled the business.

I would march stalwartly home--yea, though a thousand bloodhounds with dangerous appetites barred my way!

I slid down the tree and found Vandeleur still asleep. I don't believe that even the fall had waked the poor fellow up.