Chapter L

THE PURSUIT OF PHYLLIS. By JOHN HARWORD BACON. Henry Holt, New York.
Price, $1.25.

Tom Mott, a clever literateur of New York, is ordered to take a rest by his physician, and goes abroad to seek recreation and relaxation. At his London hotel, he finds in his dresser drawer some letters addressed to Miss Phyllis Huntingdon in the handwriting of an old chum, and impelled by a Quixotic impulse, he determines to restore them to their owner in person. From London he proceeds to Paris, thence to Marseilles, through the Mediterranean to Port Said and the Orient, very much in the style of an up-to-date Gabriel and Evangeline affair, always finding at each port that Miss Huntingdon’s departure had antedated his arrival by a few hours. Finally his quest is rewarded at Colombo on the island of Ceylon, where he meets Phyllis, a ruddy-haired, winsome young woman, who is likened successively by the imaginative Mr. Mott to a dish of pink ice cream, a rosy-tipped peony, and the summer girl on a magazine cover. They come back together across the world, ending the trip, after the excitement of a misunderstanding and a quarrel, in orthodox fashion. A lively trifle of globe-trotting and philandering is “The Pursuit of Phyllis,” easy to read, and disarming criticism by its utter lack of seriousness and significance.

DAPHNE AND HER LAD. By M. J. LAGEN and CALLY RYLAND. Henry Holt, New
York. Price, $1.25.

A story told in letters—the brilliant and showy correspondence so much affected in fiction and so rarely indulged in in real life. The writers, too, are newspaper folk, a man and a woman, each editor of a woman’s page, and we mildly wonder how they ever found time to sacrifice so much good “copy” to private correspondence. At first, the exchange of letters is but a journalistic flirtation between two unknown personalities, and it is maintained and continued to the point of intimate self-revelation and ardent lovemaking before the writers meet in the last chapter. The disclosure and denouement of the conclusion come with somewhat of a shock to the unsuspecting reader who has followed the airy persiflage and sentimental outpourings of these industrious letter writers with no thought of such a tragic ending as that on which the curtain falls. It was Stevenson who said that to give a bad ending to a story meant to end happily, or vice versa, was an unpardonable literary crime, and we must hold the authors of “Daphne and Her Lad” guilty of this offense. The story was not framed along the tragic lines which logically or artistically lead to hopeless misery, and the final impression is disturbing and ineffective.

THE MILLIONAIRE BABY. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN. The Bobbs-Merrill
Company, Indianapolis. Price, $1.50.

A startling crime, innumerable clues, the gradual elimination of every reasonable and plausible theory, and the construction of the wildest, most improbable explanation to fit the problem—these are the lines on which the detective stories of Anna Katherine Green are invariably framed, and “The Millionaire Baby” is no exception to the rule. A little girl, heiress to an immense fortune, is kidnapped during a garden fete at her parents’ palatial home on the Hudson, under most unusual circumstances, and the reader is at once lost in a labyrinth of mysterious old men, magnetic ladies, amazing coincidences, and secret chambers. The way out is pointed ultimately by a young detective, and the reader emerges feeling rather “sold.” Despite the writer’s unspeakable rhetoric and crude methods, her stories have a way of getting themselves read, and a large constituency will welcome “The Millionaire Baby.”

TENNESSEE HISTORY STORIES. By T. C. KARNS. B. F. Johnson Publishing
Co., Richmond, Va.

The writer belongs to that loyal band of missionaries who are spreading abroad among the children of the nation the knowledge of the importance of the western chain of settlements on the Tennessee and Kentucky frontiers in the history of the United States. The stories he tells of John Sevier, of James Robertson and Daniel Boone, while written for the children, are well worth reading and the book is sure to earn a place in the curriculum of the primary schools.

THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW.

By Robert L. Taylor.

We dream of a heaven beyond the stars, but there are heavens all around us with beautiful gates ajar to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. I have seen heavens of delight where the meadows flashed with dew and the crows were on the wing. I have seen heavens of music where the linnet swept her lute and the thrush rang his silver bells in the dusky chambers of the forest.

I once sat on the grassy brink of a southern stream in the gathering twilight of evening and listened to a concert of Nature’s musicians who sang as God hath taught them to sing. The katydid led off with a trombone solo; the cricket chimed in with his E flat cornet; the bumble-bee played on his violincello, and the jaybird laughed with his piccolo. The music rose to grandeur with the deep bass horn of the big black beetle; the mocking-bird’s flute brought me to tears of rapture, and the screech-owl’s fife made me want to fight; the tree-frog blew his alto horn; the jar-fly clashed his tinkling cymbals; the woodpecker rattled his kettledrum and the locust jingled his tambourine. The music rolled along like a sparkling river in sweet accompaniment with the oriole’s leading violin; but it suddenly hushed when I heard a ripple of laughter among the hollyhocks before the door of a happy country home. I saw a youth standing there in the shadows holding his sweetheart’s hand in his. There were a few whispers, tender and low—the lassie vanished in the cottage—the lad vanished over the hill, and as he vanished he swung his hat in the shadows and sang back to her his happy love song:

“My thoughts will fly to thee, my own,
Swift as a dove,
To cheer thee when alone,
My own true love.”

And the birds inclined their heads to listen to his song as it died away on the drowsy evening air.

I saw a youth holding his sweetheart’s hand.
]

That night I slept in a mansion

“I closed my eyes on garnished rooms
To dream of meadows and clover blooms,”

but while I dreamed, I was serenaded by a band of mosquitoes and this is the song they sang above my pillow:

“Buz-z-z! buz-z-z! no bars around this bed,
Buz-z-z! buz-z-z! no hair upon this head, mosquitoes,
Buz-z-z! buz-z-z! we’ll paint old baldy red,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town to-night!”

There are heavens all around us with beautiful gates ajar. I have seen a June morning unbar a gate of roses and come forth from her palace in the sky bearing in her girdle of light the keys to a thousand heavens. I have seen her kindle a sun in every dewdrop and touch the waking hills with glory. I caught the odor of honeysuckles and the note of a lark as it rose exultant from the meadow. There were the glimmer of painted wings among the clover blossoms and the hum of teeming bees rich with the spoils of plundered beauty. There were the green trail of a winding river and the low music of its joyous waters dashing among the rocks of distant rapids. I heard the shouts and splashes of noisy boys down at the old swimming hole under the spreading elms. An old time darky went shambling by, with his cup of bait and his fishing pole. The wine of June was in his veins and he tangled his song with the honey song of the bees:

“O, my Hannah, lady,
I do a-love-a you!
They ain’t no baby
So good and true!
In Louisiana I could die,
If you wuz only nigh!
O, tell me, Hannah, lady,
Whose black-a-baby is a-you?”

And he cut the pigeon wing in the clover and then sat down on a bumble-bee. It invited him to rise, and he rose; and it was difficult for the old man to tell which was the warmer—the June in his heart or the June in the bumble-bee.

He cut the pigeon wing in the clover.
]

The convict’s plea for pardon.
]

A lovesick lad met his sweetheart down in the shady lane and poured out his soul to her under the locust bloom. I saw him push his boat from the shore and dip his oars in the clear heaven of the crystal waters. She was his only companion. And as the painted keel darted away like a bird beneath the bending boughs and went skimming round the bend of the river I heard their voices blending up among the cliffs and shadows singing a sweet love song. To him, she was a full blow’n rose of beauty; to her, he was a daisy. To him her ribbons were streaks of light; to her his fuzzy upper lip was a poem. They floated and fished and fished and floated away the golden hours; and while they fished and floated, he wooed her—he wooed and he wooed and he wooed—until, at length, he won her; and, as they floated homeward in the evening, dreaming of wedding bells and orange blossoms,

He held her soft little hand in his,
Smoothing her hair so brown;
The boat struck a rock and they both fell in,
Just as the sun went down!

I looked upon these scenes of light and love and I walked in the heaven of the beautiful, the somnambulist of a rapturous dream.

O, matchless dream maker, voluptuous June! Enchantress of the sun, Eden builder of the world! There is a magic in thy touch which melts the icicles in the veins of age and makes the tropic blood of youth run roses.

There are heavens all around us with beautiful gates ajar: I have seen October open a gate of opal and I walked in the heaven of autumnal glory. I have seen her splash the forest with the tints of a thousand shattered rainbows, and then draw the misty veil of Indian summer—that mysterious phantom of the air that conjures the sunlight into yellow amber and turns the world into a dream.

I joined the farmers in the jubilee of the county fair, and walked through streets of pumpkins, purple avenues of turnips, and fragrant boulevards of onions, enough to bring the world to tears.

There was the sound of the hunter’s horn at the break of day. I mounted my gallant steed and galloped away to the rendezvous, and every breath of the cool, crisp October air was like a draught of exhilarating wine. The hunters assembled at the appointed place, the eager hounds were unleashed and they scurried away like ghosts in the gloomy woods. They coursed and circled like flying shadows—now and then giving tongue as they took up the scent of some cold and doubtful trail. Faster and faster they circled, until they jumped the fox from his covert and opened in full cry, and it was like a sudden burst of music from a band. Away they bounded, bellowing their deep-mouthed serenade to the wily knight of the red plume, who showed them a clean pair of heels. They pushed him up the rocky steeps and pressed him down the dusky hollows, they swung him through the highland gaps and whirled him round the ridges. Over the hills and round the knob Sir Reynard led the band until the waking echoes caught up the flying melody and sent it pulsing from cliff to cliff and from crag to crag! On fled the fox with tireless leap! on followed the hounds with smoking mouths! On and on, over hill and dale, through forest and field until finally the music died away like the chime of distant bells!

How sweet are the lips of morning that kiss the waking world; how sweet is the bosom of night that pillows the world to rest; but sweeter than the lips of morning and sweeter than the bosom of night is the voice of music that wakes a world of joys and soothes a world of sorrows. It is like some unseen ethereal ocean whose silver surf forever breaks in song. All nature is full of music. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every melody. There is a love song in every flower, a sonnet in every gurgling fountain, a hymn in every rolling billow. Music is the twin angel of light, the first born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eye have caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories.

He wooed and he wooed and he wooed.
]

The violin is the poet laureate of music—violin of the virtuoso and master, fiddle of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat of the palace and the hall; it is the democrat of the unpretentious home and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses and camellias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by the cultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations. It is loved by the millions for its simple melodies.

One bright morning just before Christmas Day, an official stood in the executive chamber in my presence as governor of Tennessee, and said:

“Governor, I have been implored by a poor, miserable wretch in the penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his own hands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It is entirely without value, as you can see, but it is his petition to you for mercy. He begged me to say that he has neither influential friends nor attorneys to plead for him; and all that he asks is that, when the governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve with his own happy children around him, he will play one tune to them on this rough fiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstone is cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little helpless ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the footsteps of their father.”

Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was examined. Christmas eve came. The governor sat that night at his own happy fireside, with his own happy children around him and he played one tune to them on that rough fiddle. The fireside of the cabin in the mountains was bright and warm. A pardoned prisoner sat with his baby on his knee, surrounded by his happy children and in the presence of his rejoicing wife. And, although there was naught but rags and squalid poverty around him his heart sang,

“Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home.”

When I used to play the role of governor of the old Volunteer State, I often felt the stings of criticism for the liberal use of the pardoning power. But I saw old mothers with their white locks and wrinkled brows swoon at the governor’s feet every day. I saw old fathers with broken hearts and tear-stained faces and heard them plead by the hour for their wayward boys. I saw a wife and seven children clad in tatters and rags and barefooted in midwinter fall down upon their knees around him who held the pardoning power. I saw a little girl climb upon the governor’s knee and put her little arms around his neck and I heard her ask him if he had little girls; and then I saw her sob upon his bosom as though her little heart would break and heard her plead for mercy for her poor, miserable, wretched convict father. I saw want and woe and agony and anguish unutterable pass before the gubernatorial door. And I said: “Let this heartless world condemn! let the critics frown and rail, but he who hath power and doth not temper justice with mercy will cry in vain himself for mercy on that great day when God shall judge the merciful and the unmerciful!”

SOUTHERN
PLATFORM
DEPARTMENT

CONDUCTED IN

THE INTEREST

of THE LYCEUMS

of THE SOUTH

The aim of this department is to present to the readers of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, and particularly to those who are directly interested in the Lyceum, all obtainable information with reference to the bright lights of the platform—the men and women of real genius, whose work has contributed to the establishing and development of an interest in that higher and more wholesome entertainment to which all enlightened communities are rapidly turning, from the coarser and more purposeless forms of amusement. This being a department devoted to the particular interests of the platform of the South, it is our desire to give special attention to all worthy attractions which include the South in their field of operation. We shall not “puff” the unworthy for a price, but among those who come to the Southland with the genius and the power to instruct, entertain and uplift us, there shall be none too poor in pocket to command our columns and our full energies for the exploitation of their merits for the benefit of the public. Our people are wide awake, and the South is no field for the marketing of gold bricks and wooden nutmegs, whether they be moulded in Dixie or manufactured in the land of Yankee Doodle. While the Southern tongue is the quickest to condemn a fraud or a fake, the Southern hand is the readiest to place the laurel wreath on the brow which deserves it. As in everything else, the jewels of the platform are very rare. There are too many paste diamonds mixed with the real—too many so-called stars which neither shine nor sparkle. Let us seek out the real and genuine sparklers, and throw the light of our approval upon them, that they may glint and glance on the platform for our pleasure and edification.

THE ROYAL ITALIAN BAND OF TWENTY-ONE MUSICIANS.

This Band is to come South next fall for the first time, and it will
undoubtedly be one of the popular hits of the season, and one of the
strongest attractions offered.
]

OPIE READ

Who will tour the South the coming season under the direction of The
Rice Bureau, of Nashville.
]

Opie Read, author, humorist, playwright and philosopher, known and beloved by Americans, rich and poor alike, not only in his own Southland, but all over the great West, and the East as well—his is indeed a name to conjure with. As an entertainer, Mr. Read has been a surprise even to his most sanguine friends. Very few who write clever stories can read them in a way to evoke either tears or laughter, and when an author who has gained his reputation mainly through humorous work appears in a varied program, his path is beset by so many difficulties that failure almost invariably lies in wait for him. Opie Read is the exception that proves the rule. We laugh with him when he “shoots out the moon,” and we weep over the pathetic story of “The Bronsons,” and the “moonlight parting to let her pass.” We are thrilled with the tales of simple heroism and we marvel at the rich mine of romance which lies hidden among the Tennessee mountains whence he draws the quaint characters that figure in his stories and plays.

MME. JOHANNA GADSKI,

One of the great artists of Grand Opera, to be presented by The Rice
Bureau of Nashville for a tour of the South next fall.
]

March 1, 1895, Mme. Gadski made her debut at the New York Metropolitan Opera House in the role of Elsa in “Lohengrin,” and during two more seasons with the Damrosch-Ellis Company, of which Mme. Melba was also a prominent member, she constantly increased her repertoire, progressing from merely lyric to heavier dramatic parts and thereby growing in public favor.

In 1898 Mme. Gadski became a member of the Grau Opera Company, at New York. When Grau retired, in the spring of 1903, Mme. Gadski received and accepted a flattering offer from Heinrich Conried, the successor to Mr. Grau at the Metropolitan Opera House.

Besides her American engagements Mme. Gadski found time to appear at Covent Garden, London, during the seasons 1899, 1900 and 1901. She also sang Eva in the “Meistersinger” performances at Bayreuth in the summer of 1899.

MME. CHARLOTTE MACONDA.

The greatest of American born and American educated singers, who will
make a limited tour in the South next fall and winter under the
exclusive direction of The Rice Bureau, of Nashville.
]

Mme. Maconda has received her musical training almost wholly in the United States, and by every right she stands the coloratura soprano par excellence of to-day on this continent. With a vocal organ of richest quality and remarkable range, a charming personality, and that undefinable something called magnetism, this great artist charms her hearers, and has won her way to the very front rank of great artists. Moreover, she sings to the heart and the soul as well as to the ear, and in the clearness and tender pathos of her notes she perhaps more nearly approaches the divine music of the great Patti than any singer of the present generation.

LELAND T. POWERS,

The foremost Impersonator of America, who will make a limited tour in
the South next season.
]

KATHERINE RIDGEWAY,

Who, assisted by her splendid company of artists, will be a strong
feature on many of the leading courses of the South, the coming
season. She has for several years been the most popular lady
entertainer in the North and East.
]

CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD.

The Poet-Scout.
]

Capt. Jack Crawford, who has long been prominent as soldier, poet and entertainer, has achieved a new success in his article in the _Munsey Magazine_ of February, entitled “The Last of the Indian Chiefs.” This article is intensely interesting and discloses some astonishing facts with reference to certain supposedly great Indian warriors, who were in reality the creations of sensationalists and dime novel writers. It is so seldom we meet a man with courage enough to deliver facts which turn a hero into a fake, that we are refreshed with the very presence of such a man.

We are glad to have the privilege to present to our readers this tender and beautiful little poem from the pen of the Poet-Scout.

WAITING IN THE ANTE-ROOM.

I saw her face in the pansy,
I caught her breath in the rose,
And my heart went out on a fine love scout
To the land where the daisy grows.
In the brook I heard her laughter
Like an anthem from afar,
Or the echoing where the angels sing
And the gates are just ajar.

Then I closed my eyes in dreamland
And joined my heart on the scout;
And I wandered away to a mound of clay
Where she sleeps since the light went out.
And there in the Southwest sun land
I knelt by my darling’s tomb,
And I whispered low: “My dear child, you know,
I am here in the ante-room.”
—_Capt. Jack Crawford._

FRED EMERSON BROOKS.
]

Fred Emerson Brooks, the poet-humorist of the West, who loves the South and is one of the favorites of Southern people. No more beautiful tribute has ever been paid to the valor of the Southern soldier than is paid in Mr. Brooks’ great poem, “Pickett’s Charge.”

UP AND KISSED HER.

Cupid knew a maiden fair—
Flying round about he met her—
Told her of a youth’s despair,
Who was dying just to get her.
Every time the youth would pass
By some strange mischance he missed her
Till at length he met the lass,
Then he straightway up and kissed her.
Kissed her
Missed her
Then he straightway up and kissed her!

When she seemed a trifle mad
At the liberty, he told her;
’Gainst his heart so very sad
For her pardon he would hold her.
Thought he needn’t hold so tight!
Said she’d be to him a sister.
Claiming quick a brother’s right,
Many, many times he kissed her!
Kissed her!
Sister!
Many, many times he kissed her.

“You don’t leave me any chance,”
Said the maiden, “to deny you;
You may see, sir, at a glance,
I’ve no power to defy you!”
Loved her more each time they met—
Strange that lips don’t sometimes blister—
Stranger still, they sweeter get—
Did to him each time he kissed her!
Kissed her!
Blister!
Did to him each time he kissed her.
—_Fred Emerson Brooks._

SAM JONES.
]

Rev. Sam P. Jones, the great evangelist and Southern lecturer, who possesses a style of oratory unique and powerful, and a wonderful magnetism.

IDA BENFEY,

Who makes a short tour in the South each season, and who is always
welcomed for her high art.
]

THE STORY OF JOSEPH.

By Ida Benfey.

“Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and just now I find myself almost completely absorbed by the Story of Joseph, which Tolstoi calls the greatest short story ever written. And he adds, significantly, that it would make no difference in telling it to the people of China what the customs were—that the human interest in the story is so powerful it sweeps all minor details to one side.

Joseph is not at all a perfect man. He hasn’t the kind of faults that David possessed, that show clearly to the person that isn’t even looking for them; but he has what seem to be more terrible faults because they are gilded over with success. And I can think of no character in history more magnanimous than was Joseph, for when his father was dead and his brethren came to him and were afraid that he would be avenging, he wept at their doubting him, and then said these significant words: “Fear not: for am I in the place of God?” It seems to me that these are the words that best show the high ideal that ruled Joseph. As far as I can see it is the same spirit which was in Luther, only in another form—that is, that each one of us must settle all our doubts with God alone. Human help is unavailing here. Such a high ideal as this of Joseph fills me with awe and reverent admiration, and when I realize that he was at the head of, and the former and the creator of the most stupendous trust that the world has ever known, I find myself bewildered in trying to reconcile such different elements in one man,—Joseph’s tenderness and magnanimity to his brethren, and Joseph’s creating a trust which forced the Egyptians to sell their land to him and finally their bodies as slaves to ward off starvation. Think of one man combining such opposite qualities. Is it because the golden rule that Christ gave us had not yet come into the world? Of course Joseph did what John D. Rockefeller is trying to do, and has in no small degree accomplished, though perhaps we do not see the slave-chains that he has put upon us. But John D. Rockefeller hasn’t, as far as we know, the godlike nature that Joseph had. He and Joseph are alike in each possessing the inhuman quality of being able to crush out the life of their fellowmen.

I wonder if Joseph created this trust and carried it out merely because he was a man of business, or because he enjoyed the game he was at, as does Russell Sage. Until I began to study this story, I never knew what the parable of the wise and foolish virgins meant, but it seems plain to me now. Joseph was like the wise virgin. The thirteen years which he spent as a slave and in prison he gave entirely to living each moment to the glory of God. He wasted no time in bearing hatred towards his brethren, or thinking how much better he was than the position he occupied, or wishing God wouldn’t forget him quite so long, but would try and be a little more attentive to him personally. No, he simply did each act in the best and sunniest way, and the day when Pharaoh sent hastily for him and they brought him hurriedly out of the prison, he stopped and shaved himself and changed his raiment. Why? Because he was a gentleman and he had been in the habit of daily shaving and of daily caring for his body in the best possible way. And when we read that he came in to Pharaoh we know exactly how he walked, with the calm quietness that belongs to a person that has sufficient self-respect to last through the night and lap over into the next morning.

Gibbon, in his “History of Rome,” says that the hatred between the religions began about the fourth century; that people before that had been willing that people should worship as they thought best, the idea being that all were striving for the same noble end. I wonder if there was something of this beautiful spirit in Egypt. It has made a tremendous impression upon me that Moses, a Hebrew, in telling the story says that the Egyptians would not eat with the Hebrews because it is an abomination for Egyptians to eat with Hebrews. One would have thought that Moses would have put the Hebrew first, naturally caring most for his own. And I keep wondering whether he put them in the inferior position of making them second because of that same exquisite courtesy which Lincoln exercised when he always mentioned the North first, as though they were the more guilty in everything connected with the War; or was it because the Egyptians were the most powerful nation, and, as a matter of fact, should be mentioned first? This, however, is but a side issue to the wonderful fact that though the Egyptians would not eat with the Hebrews, yet Pharaoh and Potiphar immediately saw, and Pharaoh publicly announced, that the Spirit of God was in Joseph. Why, I hardly know anyone who is an enthusiastic church worker that feels that the spirit of God is really and surely in a church worker of another denomination.

MRS. MARY H. FLANNER,

Poet and Entertainer.
]

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

O, naught to me the nightingale,
Save as its exquisite harmony
Sings from Keats’ incomparable ode,
A hint—a dream-dipped memory.

But thou, sweet Mock-bird, art my own—
My very own.
And every tender, tinted tone
A-tilt from out thy tune-tipped throat,
To weave faint melodies, afloat,
Or trail low, liquid lengths of song
The dawn along—
Into the roseate, fresh-waked morn—
This song, dew-drenched and lilting borne,
This song, that timid as a dove,
Creeps in my heart—this song I love.

How does my soul of song within me burn
For speech to stay the falt’ring, lute-like turn
That trips the silence of the silver moon
Into a halting, dreamy, lingering tune;
For words to catch thy glorious roundelay
And coin the music of thy ecstasy.
Clear, crystal-beaded melodies, unstrung—
Long threaded pearls of song, triumphant flung—
Song-storms, symphonic, silvered, sifting showers,—
And through it all, the breathing orange flowers—
... O, let me softly sink to sleep
’Neath Southern skies where all the senses steep
In languorous joys. Let pure, soft, balmy air
Trail soothing fingers o’er my brow and hair.
And let the rustle of the pine and palm
Sway rhythmic measure to the peaceful calm—
While floats the perfume of the orange bloom
In all its richness through my moonlit room.
Then, when I join the twilight, slumber throng,
Come thou, sweet Mock-Bird, fill my dreams with song!
—_Mary H. Flanner._

FREDERICK WARDE,

the eminent Shakespearian tragedian, who leaves the stage,
laurel-crowned, to take up the higher work of the platform.
]

THE YOUTH OF SHAKESPEARE.

By Frederick Warde.

“By indirection, find direction out.”
—_Hamlet._

The mistaken impression that prevails in the minds of many as to the social position and general conditions of the parents of Shakespeare is in a great measure responsible for the doubts that are so frequently expressed as to the authenticity of the works ascribed to that great master. It is erroneously supposed that they were in very humble circumstances, in fact, little more than peasants, and the question is frequently asked: “Is it possible that a man of such humble origin and with such limited opportunities of mental development, could have written a series of plays that indicate such universal knowledge of men and manners and display such transcendent genius?”

Hazlett, in one of his essays, truly says: “No really great man ever thought himself to be one,” and I doubt if Shakespeare in his wildest dreams ever imagined that the world would credit him with the sublime genius that it now justly acknowledges. We find no memoirs or autobiographic notes to enlighten us as to his hopes, his fears, his ambitions, the thoughts that occupy his mind, or the details of his daily life.

It is greatly to be deplored that we have so little authentic information as to the life of Shakespeare. The facts, however, that have been gleaned from the meagre records of the period, conflicting though they be, enable us to arrive, with some degree of accuracy, at the probabilities, if not the actual facts of his history. Supplementing these facts with some imagination, intelligently directed, I think we are justified in the conclusion that there is nothing inconsistent with the conditions of his birth, parentage, education, the environment of his youth, and the universality of the genius subsequently displayed.

The father of Shakespeare was legally a gentleman, by a license from King Henry VII, granting him a crest and a coat of arms, and the privilege of bearing arms for substantial services rendered his sovereign; and it is recorded that this honor was not only bestowed for his own individual services, but was renewed by inheritance from his father and grandfather; so that, engaged in peaceful pursuits himself, he was honorably descended from warriors and fighting men, almost the sole means of obtaining distinction in those days.

We have no means of discovering if John Shakespeare was a man of any education. The fact that he made his mark instead of signing his name to public documents being no evidence to the contrary, for at the period in which he lived, the art of pencraft was almost entirely limited to clerks and scholars; even gentlemen and men of quality holding it “a baseness to write fair.” Yet Sidney Lee assures us there is evidence in the Stratford archives that he (John Shakespeare) could write with facility. The offices held by him in the Borough of Stratford indicate that he was a man of more than average intelligence among his fellows, and of considerable executive ability. After holding several minor offices he was elected successively one of the Chamberlains (1561), Alderman (1565), Borough Bailiff (1569), and Chief Alderman (1571), and by the county records was possessed at various times of considerable property, principally real estate. In the deeds relating to the transfer of this property he is sometimes described as “yeoman,” at others as a “glover,” and it is known that he dealt in cattle, corn and country produce generally.

If asked what was the strongest influence for good in their lives, I think most men of any worth or eminence would reply, “My mother.” In this respect Shakespeare was most fortunate. His mother was Mary Arden, the youngest of seven daughters of Robert Arden of Wilmecote, whose tenant Richard Shakespeare, the father of John, had been; and who, on her marriage to John Shakespeare, brought him a good estate in money and property. The Ardens were an old family of good standing and consequence in the midland counties of England, tracing a long line of honorable ancestry, and worthily representing that substantial and independent class, “the yeoman squires of England.” Rowe asserts that this worthy couple (John and Mary Shakespeare) had ten children, but the parish register of Stratford makes the number only eight. However, William was the eldest son, though not the first child.

There is no evidence that Mary Arden was a woman of any great accomplishments, but it is reasonable to suppose from the position and wealth of her family she was not without education. It is also reasonable to suppose that in spite of the onerous duties of such a large family Shakespeare’s mother should have found time to guide and form the youthful mind of her eldest son, and impart to him the first rudiments of knowledge. His father at that period was well-to-do and abundantly able to provide his family with comfortable surroundings and adequate service.

Thus the first seven years of Shakespeare’s life were passed in comfort and comparative affluence, under the care of a father who was honored and respected for his ability and integrity by his fellow-townsmen, and a mother whose family and connections would indicate a woman of worth and refinement.

In the town of Stratford was a Free School, founded in the reign of Edward IV and subsequently chartered by Edward VI—one of those foundation schools of which a number exist in England to-day, notably, Christ’s (the blue-coat school), made familiar to us by Thackeray, in The Newcombs; the City of London School, St. Paul’s, and The Charterhouse. To the Free School was Shakespeare sent, and it is said attended it until he was fourteen years old.

There are no records of Shakespeare’s life at school to indicate if he were an apt scholar. We have no account of the course of study pursued by him, but from Ben Jonson’s statement that Shakespeare “knew a little Latin and less Greek,” the inference is that it was (in part, at least) a classical one, and the quotations in his plays, imperfect as they are, indicate that he must have studied with some diligence.

At the age of fourteen Shakespeare left school to assist his father, who at this time had met with some business reverses, and we have little or no record of his life until his nineteenth year when, in the autumn of 1582 he married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a substantial yeoman of Shottery, the village adjoining Stratford. The baptism of his daughter Susanna is next recorded on May 26, 1583; and that of a son Hamnet and a daughter, Judith (twins), on Feb. 2, 1585. His departure for London followed, probably in 1586.

Of Shakespeare’s migration to London and his life in that city I do not propose to speak here, but from the foregoing facts, it will be seen that Shakespeare came of a good family, enjoyed in his infancy tender parental care, and received the rudiments of a sound and substantial education at a period of his life when the youthful mind is most receptive.

To an intelligent observer the influences and experiences of his youth are clearly reflected in the work of his later years.

A mere cursory reading of the plays will show his intimate knowledge of the Holy Scriptures, probably begun at his mother’s knee and continued in his leisure hours—the Bible being one of the few books within his reach at that time.

In the pastoral scenes we cannot but marvel at the knowledge he displays of forestry, botany, the flora of the fields and woods, and the nature and habits of the animals, birds and insects.

It requires but a slight stretch of imagination to see young Shakespeare as a sturdy country lad strolling with his youthful companions by the side of the gentle Avon. Noting the flight of the swallow over its glassy surface, the nodding reeds and grasses on its sedgy banks, and dart of the startled pickerel from its weedy lair, unconsciously absorbing by his yet undeveloped genius of observation the minute knowledge of nature that is so perfectly displayed in “As You Like It” and other silvan plays.

We see him wandering through the meadows listening to the lark rising with its morning song on high; by the little gardens where the primrose, the cowslip and the yellow daffodil grow round the cottage door, and the ivy and the honeysuckle climb the rustic porch; in the green lanes between the quickset hedges where the modest violets lift their purple heads upon the mossy banks. May not the youthful Shakespeare himself have seen in the woods of Charlecote or Shottery “the poor sequestered stag that from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt” augment with his tears the already swollen stream, and himself startled the timid hare and the antlered deer from their leafy coverts, and in those majestic solitudes found “tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything?”

Picture young Shakespeare hand in hand with gentle Anne Hathaway, in their walks in the unfrequented paths of Shottery and Stratford, charming her mind with the poetry of his nature, the glow of admiration deepening into love for her youthful suitor; the bridegroom standing at the altar assuming the responsibilities of marriage before nineteen years had passed over his head, and the pride of paternity when his first child was born; and realize the sense of importance of the departure of the youthful husband and father for London. Whether to better his fortunes or to escape from the anger of Sir Thomas Lucy after his unlucky escapade on that worthy gentleman’s estate at Charlecote, matters not.

These I conceive to be some of the factors in the formation of the mind and character of William Shakespeare: a mother’s gentle influence, a fair mental development at school, an early appreciation of the vicissitudes of fortune and the necessities of labor, a love of nature developed by the surroundings of his youth, a remarkable capacity of observation, and an experience of the sacred mystery of love, marriage and paternity ere he had arrived at years of mature manhood; and they do not appear to be at all incompatible with the life, the knowledge, the friendships, the accomplishments and the genius which the world has conceded to this great and glorious man.

THE MASQUERADER.

By Katherine Cecil Thurston.

Grasp and constructive ability are the two attributes of genius or of talent absolutely necessary to a novelist. When Katherine Cecil Thurston grasped the results that bound together those two incidents of January twenty-third, incidents so widely different in character, she created novelistic material. To this material she applied the same constructive ability, but maturer, that she evidenced in “The Circle.” And from the first statement in her book, that these incidents were bound by results, the reader’s interest does not flag till the last phase of the complicated result is clearly given, as it is in the final statement of the final chapter. Nor then, for it is a book to hold after it is closed, while the mind reverts to its scenes and its interest in pleasant retrospect.

Self-accusation may follow analysis of the book, for, after all, nothing is actually acquired in the reading. The aggressive, acquisitive attitude of Russia, which is the one historical episode of the novel, has been made so much clearer and so much more forcible in the last twelve months than a mere statement or even a masterful speech can make it that the book is not worth reading for this episode.

To repeat, it is the situation that grew out of the chance meeting in the fog, the interchanging of identities, that holds the interest so absorbingly. This contrast of similarity, if the paradoxical phrase is pardonable, is dramatic in intensity that grows, and when Eve, the alienated wife of Chilcote tentatively accepts Loder, the substitute, the masquerader, this intensity presents a new aspect that quite absorbs all others—political, social, even practical. From that moment the interest centers in the final outcome when she will discover or be told of the substitution. And because of this interest, which lasts even after the book is read, the inconsistency of the situation is forgiven and the impossible accepted as possible.

Reason rejects the position but charm is a matter of the emotions and the charm of “The Masquerader” is such as to put the emotions in the ascendency. It is sufficient to have carried the book to almost twice the popularity of any other recent book and to have kept it there for two months—quite a period in the life of an ephemeral novel. It is sufficient to have kept men at the library lamp late at night and to force itself in upon business through the next and succeeding days. And it has made women break the silence of bridge and whist, even where it has not kept them from the classes altogether.

The inconsistency of the situation is the only inconsistency of the book. The characters are convincing and stand out in flesh and blood.

The palest of these is Lillian, Lady Astrupp, but the paleness is not one of portrayal. It is the paleness of individuality shown in terms to suit the character, just as Fraide’s power and ruggedness is shown in blunt, abrupt allusions and dismissals.

For Chilcote there is only sympathy that deepens into pity mixed with disgust, the sympathy and pity begotten by the spectacle of a man under the power of a habit that has come to be his master.

There is resentment towards Loder for assuming another man’s name rather than for doing another man’s work, which was his only opportunity. To create is to prove one’s kinship to God, and the instinctive feeling is that no strong man would create for another man’s credit. Respect for Loder would have been aroused had he finally made public the masquerade, at all costs; but had he done this the climax of the situation would have been ruined.

Neither is Eve’s attitude in the climax inconsistent. Pride is the dominating characteristic of this woman, who excites admiration in every situation where circumstances place her. If it governed her through years of unhappiness it would be inconsistent to expect her to yield it and happiness together for a convention, though it were the divinest convention of life.

JAMES HUNT COOK.

GOV. BOB TAYLOR

Who has long been identified with the platform of the South and whose
tours have recently been extended throughout the United States.

Governor Taylor’s new lecture for the coming season will be “The Funny
Side of Politics.”
]

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.