Chapter V: Part 5

“Thank you, madam, for the implication,” retorted the old lady, rising and executing an extraordinary courtesy with her most witchlike expression, then sitting down again: “The Governor, my cousin, is of your mind. Poor man, he confides in me, and I would not betray his confidence. But you are a foreigner—forgive the phrase, as it only means that you will understand without being prejudiced—and I run no risk in telling you what he said to me. It was more to ease his mind than to obtain advice; for which I was properly grateful, as I had only sympathy and not counsel in the simples of my pharmacy.”

While she discoursed in this illustrative strain the listener said to herself:

“Lord, will she never come to the point? What a garrulous old parroquet.”

Then aloud:

“Your introduction is perfumed with interest. I am more curious to hear than ever. What has happened, or is going to happen, that excites your sympathy, or would justify advice? (I will let her see that I can turn an English period as glibly as herself!)”

“Well, then, to be brief, Mistress Geoffrey, Captain Grantham is coming home. Hence the arrival, post-haste, of the Governor at a time that affairs of state should have detained him in the capital.”

“_Captain_ Grantham? Who is he?”

“A well-known officer in the French army. A personal friend of Prince Eugène de Beauharnais.”

“Ah, yes; I saw him once in Paris. A very young man at that time. But handsome, gallant and dashing. Altogether the _Frenchman_.”

“Geoffrey should hear you,” replied the old lady dryly. The other laughed:

“Seeing that Geoffrey is an officer in the American navy I do not think he would have any fault to find with my eulogy of French gallantry. I am rejoiced to hear that this flower of chivalry is coming home. Now that the Bourbons are in power again I suppose he finds his occupation gone.”

But Miss Anne was looking into the fire, the ghost of a smile puckering her bloodless lips disagreeably.

“You might be rejoiced to hear it in Paris or Petersburg, but not in this place; no, not in this place.”

“You are right, I daresay. In Charleston I have discovered that a brother-in-law is a blood relation, not a flimsy connection by marriage. Flirtation with one is therefore robbed of all its venom—of all its fascination, also. Still, as I remember Captain Grantham—”

“This is not the one you remember.”

“You said Geoffrey’s brother?”

“_Sans doute_! But Reginald’s brother also.”

“Reginald’s brother? You speak in riddles; you have just said it was Reginald’s self. Is he not Captain Grantham?”

“No; I should have said his _alter ego_. Reginald is now _Colonel_ of artillery.”

“Another Grantham!”

“Truly; and about the same age.”

“Oh, a twin.”

“By no means. You saw one brother in Paris, but I do not think you saw the other. Yet, very likely you did; they are, I am told, wonderfully alike. They were at the Ecole Militaire together. The relationship is unmistakable except to those who will not see.”

The old gossip laughed aloud, enjoying the other’s mystification.

“What singularity!” exclaimed Nadège. “Pray go on. I am no longer bored. I can even regard this portrait without a yawn. Who is this Captain Grantham? And why should I not know him here or see him in Paris? You tell me he is famous and the companion of princes.”

“He has a name of his own. It is descriptive and picturesque, besides being symbolic.”

“Ah? Pray pronounce it.”

“Brugnon.”

“What then? Where is the symbolism?”

“Well, then, this Monsieur Brugnon is like his brothers Reginald, Garrick, and Geoffrey in all respects save one; unfortunately, the most important one of all.”

“What is it? Why have I been kept in ignorance of this, since it is evidently a family affair? What is this difference of such vital importance?”

“His color.”

Mistress Geoffrey sank back into her furry nest, her expression of lively curiosity and irritation instantly effaced by one of bland indifference.

“I see. Why does he not remain in Europe? He is a fool to come here.”

“So he is,—but he does not know it. He wrote to his father, the Governor, your father-in-law and my cousin, to say that since the abdication of the Emperor and the enforced residence of Prince Eugène in Vienna, he revolts from the service of a _lackey at court_ after the activity of the battlefield, and now desires to _see his own people_ once more and his home—the home of his childhood, the plantation, the other _Court_ hardly less celebrated than—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” exclaimed Nadège hastily, “named for the English estate of the Granthams near Twickenham, Middlesex, which contains ‘fourteen hundred acres of land, and gardens, fishponds, hedges, terraces and fountains unsurpassed by anything in the South.’ My memory, you see, is excellent.”

“You have been reading the family annals of late?”

“Oh, no; it was not necessary! Tell me, cousin, is this _petite histoire_ generally known?”

“Yes: the Governor was much censured for sending the boy to France, and his rapid promotion has been a sore on the foot of those who will tread him in the very mire when he comes to see _his own people_, poor devil.”

“Why does the Governor permit his return?”

“He cannot help it. Brugnon wrote that he would take ship at once.”

“Who is his mother?” was the next question.

“Ah, who knows?” And Miss Ann peaked up her sharp shoulders under their gay flowered silk covering and wagged her oriental headgear until the filigree silver ornaments in the lobes of her large ears jingled audibly.

“I think I could guess,” she added, with a wizened smile at her companion, “but what difference? Society here, my dear Nadège, as you have already discovered, is in the hands of the men. We women are the vases on the mantelpiece.” She grinned in Mistress Geoffrey’s face: “Some of us are particularly decorative. Mistress Grantham, for example.”

The younger woman eyed meditatively the sharp yellow face under the resplendent turban.

“One has a good view from the mantelpiece,” she began, when a young man entered the room and advanced to the fireplace.

[_To be continued._]

WHEN NELLIE SMILES.

By D’Arcy Moore.

When Nellie smiles across at me,
She’s well worth coming miles to see.
Deep dented dimples find a place,
Best suited for their added grace,
The one on either side her face,
Dan Cupid capers high in glee
When Nellie smiles.

When Nellie smiles, dear girl, at me,
Her blue eyes twinkle roguishly;
She bows her dainty head the whiles
(She’s mistress, past, of woman’s wiles)
And thus the willing wretch beguiles.
Ah! surely there is witchery
When Nellie smiles.

L’Envoi:

If you would keep your peace of mind,
So often wrecked by woman-kind,
Be warned in time. While yet you may—
Cover your eyes and run away
When Nellie smiles.

SERIOUS PROBLEMS OF SCIENCE TO-DAY

By Charles Baskerville, Ph.D.,
Professor of Chemistry, the College of the City of New York.

Dr. Charles Baskerville, whom we present this month to our readers, belongs to the younger generation of Southern men who are giving evidence of their capacity for leadership in fields other than political and forensic. Born in Mississippi in 1870, he is now, at the age of thirty-five, head of the Department of Chemistry in the College of the City of New York. After his graduation at the University of Virginia, he spent some time studying in Germany, and was called upon his return to the University of North Carolina, where he occupied the chair of chemistry. He is the author of a text-book on chemistry, and has written numerous articles on scientific, educational and technological subjects. He has distinguished himself in the field of original research and experiment, and belongs of right to the select band of scientific men who in these latter days, are so eagerly bringing to the light the laws that govern phenomena in the wonderful world of Nature.

The world to the human interpreter appears as a paradox of complexes. Scientific progress, during late years, has not been along the lines of the least resistance. One who has to do with the problems of nature is fascinated by the difficulties. Lord Rayleigh attached this motto to his recently issued, but already famous, “Collected Papers:”

“The works of the Lord are great
Sought out of all them that have pleasure therein.”

To be sure, the gratification of overcoming obstacles is often the only compensation.

Science has a wide range in the size and nature of the things with which it deals. With the microscope, it enlarges for vision the unseen world of bacterial life; with the telescope it draws the celestial bodies near and interrogates them with the spectroscope; it drags the lifeless element from the inanimate world, curiously plays with it and then puts it to man’s use, while seeking his origin and forcing him ever to show cause for his existence and right to question.

Much of the very recent work in physical science has distinct leanings towards metaphysics. It is scarcely to be wondered at, when the experimental data obtained appear to question tenets which devotees have become accustomed to regard as immutable. Facts are stubborn, however. When they cause the giving away of the least portion of the boundaries of our cherished systems, the imagination is unchained. The discovery and development of our knowledge of the wonderful phenomena of radio-activity, about which much that is true and more that is false have appeared in reputable journals of a not remote date, ensample the groping of our restlessness. These marvels, according to those who have worked with them most and whose opinions deserve the first consideration, spontaneously and continuously give out energy appreciable to the senses.

Where does this energy come from? Where does it go? One mudsill of science is the law of the conservation of energy. This division of science has a host of investigators busy with the problem of sustaining this fundamental. The harvest, which is not all grain but contains some tares, indicates that substances, which we have been pleased to regard as elemental constituents of nature, undergo voluntary alterations. Some appear to be breaking down into simpler matter, while others are building up. This virtually carries us back to the days of the alchemist.

It is a long story, which may not be related here, the deep-seated belief of most chemists in the unity, hence transmutation, of the elements. It is a far cry to its accomplishment, however. We need not go back to the time of the black-art for other examples of efforts to transform one element into another. Victor Meyer sought to build up thallium shortly after Crookes found it. Winkler dissipated Fittica’s transformation of phosphorus to arsenic. So chemists will be busy asking questions of Ramsay’s formation of a body like lead, through the agency of penetrating rays of radium.

Another foundation stone of science is the law of the conservation of matter. J. J. Thompson, from experimental work, explains certain observations by the existence of substances called electrons, a thousand times smaller than hydrogen, which we have regarded the lightest chemical element. The electrons appear to carry an electric charge. One farther step is then taken by the Cambridge professor, who says these corpuscles are electricity. They are attenuated matter. Electricity is a form of energy. We need no law for the conservation of the matter. Ostwald has taught that when one struck his shin on a chair in the dark, it was not the solid wood, but the force involved which produced the sensation. One would not have been conscious of the existence of the obstacle, but for the energy. Matter is energy.

Here one is on the boundary lines of experimental science and dealing with a metaphysical problem. It must not be forgotten, however, that two hundred years ago any suggestion of the Röntgen rays could well have been placed in a similar category.

Whether the explanations be accepted or not, it may be noted that Lodge has already illustrated, by beautiful lecture experiments, the possibility of a practical utilization of the facts of some of the observations. Fog is easily dissipated through the agency of electricity. The application of the principle on a gigantic scale, to a city like London, may yet be realized.

There are in the world, as is well known, numerous organisms belonging to the vegetable kingdom that do not resemble at all any of those things we are accustomed to look upon as plants. These bacteria are extremely small. They are from .00002 to .00004 inch in diameter. They are studied, not by ordinary vision, but by means of microscopes and by microscopes of only the very best kinds. They are, also, studied by their effects. They propagate very rapidly. Starting with one organism they may grow, within twenty-four hours, to 281,470,000,000 individuals. This rapidity of growth does not actually take place in nature; it is checked through natural conditions, or through excretions of the organism inhibiting such propagation.

We hear a great deal as to the production of virulent diseases through the agency of bacteria; but, while there are evil bacteria, there are, also, bacteria that are good. In short, we may understand, that all good bacteria are not dead bacteria. These bacteria exist in very large numbers in the soil. The upper portion of rich garden soil may contain, on an average, from one to five millions per cubic centimetre. This number may be very much greater, depending upon the amount of decomposed matter that is present and the favorable conditions for their propagation.

We are accustomed to think of bacteria as living only on the richest food and being the cause solely of putrefaction. This is not true. There are bacteria that live on the bare rocks and get their sustenance from those rocks and the surrounding air. Under these conditions they actually store up food material. They are really miracle workers. They render the soil fertile and the farmer is largely dependent upon them for the growth of his crops. They reduce mineral substance to the powdered form, assist in storing up organic matter for the soil and thus render it suitable for the growth of higher plants.

Under the influence of sunlight the green portions of plants, by absorbing carbon dioxide from the air and water from the soil, produce starch, which is one of the important foods for animals. This is not the work of bacteria, yet some of these organisms are capable of accomplishing similar work in the dark. It has been suggested that they derive their energy directly from the oxidizing processes that they set up. This is one of the problems of the soil bacteriologist.

Many micro-organisms act upon nitrogenous matters and destroy them, in that the substances are rendered less available for higher plants. These are denitrifying agents. There is another class of these micro-organisms, however, that takes nitrogenous food, which is only a little or not at all utilized by higher vegetables, and makes it available plant food. These micro-organisms thus contribute to the fertility of the soil. They oxidize ammonium compounds, from whatever sources they may be had, and form nitrites first and then nitrates. The nitrates are used by common plants. The nitrifying bacteria are composed of two groups of active agents: one group serves to make the first change, namely from ammonium compounds to nitrites; and the other, to change the nitrites to nitrates. The conditions most favorable for their activity are just the opposite for most other micro-organisms. In a soil having much organic matter already decomposed, these bacteria may be practically inactive until the decomposition has passed certain stages. During this transition, the soil is barely suited for crops. Nitrification requires the oxygen of the air; denitrification can go on in a compact soil with the least portion of the atmosphere. So really the soil is cultivated largely to favor the growth and propagation of the nitrifying bacteria. The result of experimentation has shown that this may be facilitated in some cases by denitrification first, and in other cases by stirring the soil for the penetration of the air, and again by applying lime to the soil to overcome the acidity. Professor Burrill recently said, “Some day farmers will come to understand that specialists working in the laboratory, and for years gazing through microscopes, are gaining knowledge for them.”

While many bacteria do not necessarily render food available for plants, they are most valuable in putting useless matters out of the way. One of the absolutely essential chemical elements for the growth of plants is nitrogen. It is most expensive. It is present in the greatest unavailable abundance, constituting three-fourths by weight of our entire atmosphere, and it is, also, the one element most likely to be deficient in the soil. It constitutes an essential constituent of albumenoid material. Under the influence of the denitrifying bacteria, it is converted into ammonium compounds, which are converted then through the nitrifying agents into nitrates. The nitrates are extremely soluble in water; consequently, there is no tendency towards the accumulation of the valuable food matter in the soil, as the same is leached out. The growing green plant is surrounded by the food that it wants but, as with the Ancient Mariner, there is not a drop to drink. Green vegetation cannot, or only to a limited extent can, absorb and utilize directly the free nitrogen of the air.

As a result of a long series of experiments, it has been learned that there grow excrescences, somewhat similar to galls, on the roots of certain plants. These natural structures have a character peculiar to the species of plants on which they occur. In a manner not understood, these tubercles, inhabited by bacteria, are capable of securing sufficient nitrogen from the air for their own growth, when the soil is practically able to furnish none. Other plants, next door, without these nodules, will die of starvation.

The number of bacteria in these nodules is very great but, although countless, they are insignificant compared with those in the soil outside. Those within the nodules, however, are specifically different from those without, perform different functions, and appear to be characteristic of the particular plant in which they exist. The leguminous plants, as peas, beans, clover, have these peculiar nodules. Other plants, however, like maize, cotton, wheat, are devoid of these assistants.

It has been known for a long time that the fertility of the soil could be augmented by rotating the crops and thus adding nitrogen to the soil by means of these leguminous plants. One of the problems engaging the attention of scientific agriculturists at present is to learn whether or not these leguminous organisms may be made to form tubercles on other plants, as for example corn or wheat. The importance of the successful issue of such experimentation requires no emphasis. While successful results have not yet been reported, something has been learned: namely, the fruit of corn may be very much modified in its chemical composition by breeding. Grain very much richer in nitrogenous matter has been grown by changes in the breeding. Such grain is a better food.

This is indeed a day of almost excessive specialization in science: Great things have been accomplished by the intense method. Some have thought, and spoken their thoughts, that such tended to carry men of science away from the contemplation of a unit or the system as a whole. Not a few have argued, perhaps with reason, that the great generalizations, as for example Darwin’s theory of evolution, were no longer to be hoped for. It is impossible for any single brain to follow the details of the varied branches of science. It is rare that one man pretends to know the detail of that division of science to which he gives attention. It is equally true, however, that many systematic minds are gathering, collating and publishing in readable form accurate summaries of details in the several branches. Men of broader vision are gathering these authentic digests and offering concepts, which encompass the phenomena of the Universe.

Such have been hinted at as the efforts of some to do away with what we have been pleased to term axiomatic truths. Whether this be desirable, is really of no moment. The facts point to the present movement of efforts to simplify matters. The most beautiful things after all are the simplest. This idea, of course, should not convey the impression of being boldly plain.

“THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLET.”

By G. D. G.

Down the long corridor swept the theater-goers, men in the sober black and white of evening clothes, women in the brightest of theater gowns. Debutantes paused to chat with college men as they found their way to boxes and orchestra chairs; bachelors stopped to talk of the affairs of the day before taking their places in the front rows. The old playhouse was fast filling, for it was “The Princess of Tyrolia” that night.

With the first notes of the orchestra a young man hurried down the aisle and dropped into a seat far back in the shadow of the balcony. His eyes swept hastily over the audience and then became fixed on a box near the stage.

“I knew she would be here,” he murmured softly; “she could never keep away from this music.”

It was a pretty picture he found to gaze upon and it was little wonder that he looked but seldom at the stage. More attractive even than the rows of gorgeously dressed girls in the chorus was that box near the stage. Seated toward the front was a young girl, just rounding into the beauty of the woman—while retaining all the freshness of girlhood. Behind her laughed and chatted a few companions of her own age, but she kept her eyes fixed upon the stage and seemed to fairly revel in the beauty of the ringing chorus. To her the music seemed everything, and the great bunch of violets in her hand was beating unconscious time to the march.

Far back in the shadow the boy, for he was little more, leaned forward and watched the rapidly changing expression on her face. He followed the action of the play only through the varying moods which found a reflection in her eyes. Many times had he watched her thus, haunting the theaters only to sit unobserved and gaze longingly at her every moment that he could, then slipping quietly away before the curtain dropped to avoid meeting her in the throng. Never once, in all the long months, had their eyes met, and if she had been conscious of his presence she had given no sign.

“It has been a long time,” he muttered, moving restlessly in his seat. “What a fool a man can be when there is a woman in the case.”

He had met her only the summer before, a summer filled with little excursions to nearby resorts where city folk threw off the burden of formality in the jolly little dances and moonlight strolls. How it all came back to him now—the open pavilion with the negro musicians, the rapturous waltzes and the swinging two-steps and the long talk on the broad veranda afterward, talk of nothing of great importance but which now seemed to him to be worth years away from her.

Then had followed the autumn and the return to the city. The long evenings at her home, where the soft glow of the candles behind a crimson shade had lent a new beauty to her clearly moulded features. She had loved the soft light of the candles as she had loved the moonlight. It had seemed that everything about her had breathed of softness and quiet. Changing moods she had shown—he had often called her his “Maid of infinite variety,” but each new mood had given her a new attraction in his eyes; every new phase of her character had brought her closer to him.

It all passed in rapid review before him. Now he sat in the old lawn swing beside her, now he turned her music as she sang the old songs they both loved. He remembered the good-byes at the gate and the long walk to the city afterward. There had never been cigars with so sweet a flavor as those which kept him company on the long way home. Just the moonlight and the blue smoke and thoughts of her.

But it had ended at last. Only a misunderstanding which caused a growing coldness and then a sudden interruption of his dream. He had been too proud to ask but once for an explanation—she was as proud as he. It had been months since the two had met—months when the city seemed to be as lonely as only a great city can.

“It’s hard,” he muttered, and though his lips kept their stern, almost defiant expression, his eyes had a half appealing look as they rested upon the girl in the box.

As the music broke into a new strain the girl leaned suddenly forward in her chair and her face showed a new interest. Then her eyes dropped and she seemed to be in a deep study. It was “The Message of the Violet” now, and as the lovers on the stage began the song the audience was hushed into silence. Over the footlights came the strains, mellow, vibrant, charging the very air with the smell of violets and of spring. The girl saw instead of the picture on the stage a vision of a summer night, a quiet corner on the old veranda. The music floated toward them while the dancers swept over the floor and he was repeating to her the story of his love. She had listened half in joy, half in fright, and tears had mingled with smiles before a bevy of laughing girls had called them back to the dance.

The song ended and a great burst of applause awoke the girl from her reverie. Her eyes turned instinctively toward the audience and far back in the shadow she saw him, his eyes half covered with his hand. Over her swept a new feeling, a sudden resolve. She fingered the violets on her lap as the song rose once more into the chorus:

“I love you, love you, love you,
And my heart’s true blue.”

The young man felt a tap on his shoulder. A boyish usher was dropping a tiny bunch of violets into his hand.

“From the young lady in the third box,” he said.

WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE.

BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.

In the quarry of its earthly life,
Works the soul.
Though it suffer toil and strife,
Thy control
Canst hew out the rough material
For a master-builder’s plan;
And the soul shall rise ethereal
From the structure of the man.
In beneath the granite arches
Swings the spirit’s censer fair,
And amid the ritual arches
Incense rises through the air.

Lyrical and Satirical

CONDUCTED BY VERMOUTH.

WHAT’S THE USE?

(A Rhyme of Spring Fever)

There’s so much to do and there’s so little time,—
What’s the use?
There’s so much that’s prosy and so little rhyme,—
What’s the use?
The fishing is fine and you can’t get away,
And you have to sleep night time instead of by day,
And when you feel gloomy you’ve got to be gay.—
What’s the use?

Most folks are stupid and very few true,
What’s the use?
If the evenings are purple, next mornings are blue,—
What’s the use?
If mentally strong you are morally weak,
And you never attain what you most fondly seek;
You choose a companion and find him a freak,—
What’s the use?

The good are as bad as the wicked are pure,—
What’s the use?
The famous unhealthy, the saintly obscure,—
What’s the use?
And when you have passed through the dark vale of tears,
And St. Peter enjoins you to cast off your fears,
You’ve got to sing hymns for some six million years,—
What’s the use?

AN INTERESTING PLOT.

The rumored threat of President Castro of Venezuela to overrun and lay waste this fair land of ours is not creating the popular interest that such a dread announcement might be supposed to arouse. Possibly public sentiment is not entirely convinced that His Presidency would act the bully merely because it is in his power to do so. So far only a single element has exhibited jingo propensities, but there is no telling how far it may go to embroil the nation in a sanguinary entanglement that could have but one possible termination. The lone disturbing element in question consists of a party of intrepid soldiers-of-fortune fictionists, comic opera librettists, pure humorists and promotors of high-class vaudeville who are keen to feel the possibilities of so much rich material being imported to their very doors. Richard Harding Davis is reported to be mobilizing a bunch of bold buccaneers, ably assisted by Mr. Dooley, George Ade, Dinkelspiel, O. Henry and other intrepid spirits, to meet the incoming hosts and apply for syndicate privileges. That the situation demands finesse and diplomacy, however, is obvious, for all would be lost should some irreverent band of roving cowboys round up and rope the outfit before they could get at it, or should some thoughtless and lacking-in-humor police squad run amuck and confine the layout in some local bastile. The amusement loving public might be expected to at least stand between this patriotic movement and such a dread contingency.

The following may be reasonably conceived as the final preparation for the impending invasion: President Castro: “Are the choruses well drilled and are the comedians and soubrettes in good voice?” Leader of the Orchestra: “Si, Senor.” President Cas.: “Are the costumes new and up-to-date, and is scenery in good order and packed for shipment?” Master of Properties: “Si, Senor.” President Cas.: “Has the vanguard of press agents and bill posters taken the field?” Booking Agent: “A most formidable array, your Augustness.” President Cas.: “Then on the road! And may your performances prove so meritorious that you will carry everything before you till you reach the great Metropolis itself. This feat your proud people expect you to accomplish in time for the fall openings.” After which labored and patriotic outburst the president lit a cigarette and called for a demi-tasse with which to restore his depleted energies.

HARD LUCK.

It was his sixtieth birthday and in times agone he had fondly anticipated the arrival of that occasion as marking a happy fruition of his talents and a mature mellowing of his energies. Instead, however, he found himself summoned to appear before the public executioner with the family Bible and prove its records false or be humanely extinguished in the interest of modern enlightenment. “This is too hard,” he murmured, “but it would be infamous as well as futile to question the authority of the Good Book, and besides I am too young to die. Though I appreciate theoretically the demands of civilization, as a practical proposition the idea has its limitations.”

It was with difficulty that he was enabled to restrain a tear when he thought of the young wife whom he had taken unto himself just prior to the enactment of the regulation for the removal of the innocuously obsolete, and whom he now felt that he had procured under false pretences. His pessimistic misgivings were accentuated by a picture of her after he had gone to his reward striving for sustenance wherewith to nurture the innocent infant cooing at her breast. But every remedy was exhausted. The President had declined to interpose with as much as a temporary respite, regretting his painful obligation but tactfully reminding him of the majesty of the law, the interests of society and the demands of the strenuous life. In due season he was led face to face with the public chloroformer, who humanely inquired of him if he had aught to observe by way of valedictory. Not anticipating such courteous consideration, he was temporarily abashed, but recovering his dormant speech, feebly but feelingly observed: “Only a single request. When I shall have yielded up and taken flight to that somber realm whence no traveler has as yet returned, spare my modest memory from the obituary paragrapher, who would chronicle the lamented departure from our midst of another consistent church member and well beloved citizen.” Saying which he inhaled deeply and peacefully passed into the big slumber while his fair young wife adopted the proud profession of a laundress and his innocent babe was carefully safe-guarded in a local institution for the homeless progeny of those who had they been permitted to ramble at large would have been “only in the way.”

WHY NOT BE SENSIBLE?

It is not to be presumed that in the present age of popular enlightenment people do not know better than to trifle with germs. It is, therefore, alarming to note that with light they will continue to practically commit suicide by a failure to observe the most ordinary rules of hygiene. In the mad pursuit of pelf and position little heed is being given to the omnipresence of bacilli, bacteria and other mischievous, pernicious and fatal agencies. Why will people supinely continue to court death in street cars, theaters, churches and at crowded entertainments, where the most casual movement sets into motion myriads of germs that are inhaled, eaten and absorbed by those present? And why will they disregard common caution by eating food in hotels, cafés, restaurants, Pullman cars and at home, when all food is known to be gorged with murderous molecules of one sort or another? And why perpetuate the dangerous habit of washing when both soap and water are teeming with baleful bacteria? There are still a few who continue to take water into their system in full realization that it contains something more than a million germs per drop. And is there no way of impressing the public with the fatal consequence of sleeping in beds and sitting in chairs, and of riding and walking through streets surrounded by air which is composed largely of corrosive sublimate—a deadly poison? And as for kissing? Only Igorrote, Hottentots and Russians can be forgiven for not knowing better. So deathly does modern research recognize this primitive and all but obsolete practice to be, that it is being seriously considered of adoption as a pleasing and more humane substitute for chloroform as an antique exterminator. Why not conform to the simple necessities and observe the rational precaution of doing nothing without first being sterilized and aerated? And let those determined to drink remember to recognize as sanitary only those fluids commonly known to be strongly germicidal. It would seem that the present generation will never reach a true realization of its peril until it has already become extinct.

THE NORTHERN VIEWPOINT.

His heart went out in feeling
To the colored brother kneeling
At the white man’s feet;
His brother’s wrongs oppressed him
And a poem he addressed him,
Warm and neat.

He suffered indignation,
He swore by all creation
’Twas a crime,
To deny him social right—
Wasn’t black as good as white
Every time?

By the way, in this connection
He’s now visiting this section,—
He finds the matter clear—
And without aid or suggestion
He has come to view the question
As one of atmosphere.

EDITORIAL

FRENZIED POLITICS.

There are thousands of men in politics who are the very salt of the earth. Indeed, the majority are honest and true. But it is rapidly becoming fashionable for clans of bold, political schemers to put their heads together and capture the floating vote and thus defeat the will of the people; and to such these lines are dedicated.

Modern machine politics is the most subtle and exquisite art that ever crushed a hope or shattered a dream. It is the beautiful art of chloroforming public confidence and stealing the reins of power from the hands of the sleeping sovereigns. It is the mysterious art of political hoodoo, which works shady miracles in every theater of government, from the county courthouse to the national capitol.

The jugglers of this art slip into conventions, caucuses and legislative halls, and whisper a magic word, and lo! in the twinkling of an eye, majorities are changed to minorities, and minorities to majorities; oft expressed opinions and deep rooted convictions upon vital principles and policies of government are reversed in an hour, and the enchanted floating solons, forgetting old hickory shirt and copperas breeches at home, forgetting the men with cheeks of tan who walk in the furrow, forgetting the sturdy toilers at the anvil, the workbench and the drill, losing sight of the confiding multitudes who but yesterday twined the laurel wreath of honor about their brows,—fall down upon their faces before the golden Combine, in that sacred temple of free government which is dedicated to righteousness and the liberty of the people, crying with a loud voice both night and day, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” That whispered word, so full of the music and the dream, is “Pie.” O, wondrous word of marvelous power! O, sweet and juicy symbol of perfect happiness. O, ravishing synonym of golden eagles and the goddess of liberty! In it are reflected the bewildering glories of a thousand heavens of pure delight; golden slippers and laurel wreaths to burn; heaving seas of “sour mash” whose amber surfs forever break on fragrant shores of mint; sweet journeys on Pullman palaces of rosewood and mahogany to the land of the orange and the palm. In it are the stolen fires of the stars, flashing in diamond shirt studs, and the crimson glow of sunset skies imprisoned in rubies set in gold on lily white hands that will toil again never more. In it are visions of mansions in spreading groves where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Is it any wonder, then, that opinions so suddenly change and promises and pledges so swiftly dissolve into a puff of wind and leave not a rack behind? Is it any wonder that Samson is shorn of his locks while yet he slumbers, and only wakes to find his window up, his strength and piety gone and his breeches pockets turned wrongside out? Is it any wonder that when, at last, the Rip Van Winkle of Public Confidence rises up from his trance he finds only the skeleton of Fidelity at his feet and the gunstock of safety rotted away from the rusted barrel of sovereignty by his side? And is it any wonder that he exclaims, in the language of old Rip of the Adirondacks, “Am I so soon forgot?” Is it any wonder that the bewildered Commonwealth, like poor old Rip, so often looks around, and failing to recognize the little pile of bones near by, asks with tearful eyes, “Vare iss mine leetle dog Schneider?”

But what doth great Diana care
For Samson when he’s lost his hair?
The tears are vain that Rip doth shed:
He slept too long, his dog is dead.
So states are shorn, and nations weep,
For crime committed while they sleep.

Scheming lobbyists of mighty combines juggle together and whisper into the listening ears of shrewd politicians, “You’ve got the power and we’ve got the pie. We are willing to swap pie for power. What _we_ want is legislation or no legislation, as our interests may require. What _you_ want is _office_.” Then the politicians juggle and honey fuggle the floating vote, and there is a mighty shuffling of political cards and soon they all join hands behind closed doors and the soft whisper passes round the ring, “We are one and inseparable for power and for pie; we are the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra, la! Let the word be mum.” Then follows the secret banquet of bargain and intrigue under the very dome of liberty. It is quite exclusive, even more so than a banquet of the four hundred in the great metropolis. Old Copperas Breeches is not invited nor Brother Hickory Shirt, nor Dr. Honesty, nor ’Squire Patriotism, nor any of the old folks at home. There is no room around the festive board for Professor Pedagogue, of Purity High School, nor Deacon Righteousness, of Churchville. The public welfare is lost in the shuffle. After a short blessing is whispered by the Rev. Judasio Iscarriotis, the sumptuous feast begins, the menu consisting alone of pie: senatorial pie, sweetened with ring syrup; gubernatorial mince pie, flavored with moonshine; speakership pie, highly seasoned with the sunshine of spicy promises of favors to come; clerkship pie, dripping with the honey of fat and succulent salaries; and on down, to a little half moon dried apple pie of a free pass to oblivion.

They clink their merry glasses,
Now hear them softly sing—
“The people are all asses,
Diana’s in the swing!”
And after the feast is over,
After the pie is gone,
The combines are in clover,
As we go marching on.

Then the band begins to play, and the elephant moves around, bearing on his spacious back the anointed high priests of Pie and Power, followed by a great procession of worshipers, and heralded by a flourish of trumpets in the hands of the jugglers, who alternately blow and shout, crying out, as with one voice, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians, who hath the world by the tail and a down-hill pull! Clear the way for the most high priest of power! Clear the way for the priestly priest of Pie! Hail, all hail!!”

Thus the dismal tale of history runs; hopes of free government are crushed; dreams of liberty are shattered; blind Samson nurses his wrath until his shorn locks grow out again; and then, with giant strength and insane rage, he lays hold of the pillars of the temple,

And with a crash republics fall,
Down go liberty, combines and all.

This is the shady side of politics. But the burnished crest of the darkest cloud reflects in golden arcs the splendors of the sun, and the angels of hope hang a rainbow on its bosom. All power is inherent in the people, and there are patriotism and courage enough in their bosoms to weather the storms that rise dark o’er the way, if they do not get lost in the Adirondacks of Prosperity and drink from the jug of indifference and sleep too long on their rights.

Combined capital is digging its own grave when it becomes the Diana of modern machine politics. And combined Labor is driving the nails in its own coffin when the spirit of anarchy directs its blows for the redress of its grievances. Until recently the South has maintained its integrity and its immunity from the hoodoo art of machine politics; but the methods of destruction have found their way into Southern capitols, and, unless Samson wakes, he will soon find himself utterly powerless to use his favorite jaw-bone, or any other kind of a weapon, on the Philistine combines who are plotting against him in the temple.

God speed the day when Capital and Labor shall combine under the banner of arbitration and of peace, and when the battle cry of the Republic shall be, “Equal and exact justice to all, with special favors to one.”

A TALE OF A LECTURE TOUR.

I entered the car, threw my grip between two seats and sat down by a drummer. He looked at my valise and then at me and dryly asked, “Are you a traveling man?” “Yes,” was my reply. “What is your line?” asked he. “_Sweetened wind_,” quoth I. A smile lighted his face as he quickly asked, “Preacher or lecturer?” And then there was a laugh and a lull.

After an all day’s travel which wore me into a frazzle, I reached my destination at 8.30 P.M. It was a cold, drizzling evening. The skies were leaking spray, and in the language of Mrs. Partington, the street was a perfect “lullaby” of soft and sticky mud. The little freckle-faced dreamer who had bought me for a hundred and fifty caught me by the arm with one hand as I stepped off the cars and seized my grip with the other and literally pushed me head foremost into a Jim Crow hack drawn by one old spavined horse,

With one eye out and t’other blind,
He racked before and paced behind,

until we reached the hall where I was to lecture. I found a little cold and shivering crowd seated there, waiting to be warmed by my eloquence, and without a chance to make my toilet and don my little “swallow tail,” I was ushered on the stage and introduced as the greatest orator, philosopher, poet, musician, statesman, scientist, actor and artist that ever came down the pike, whereupon I began to shake my jaw and pour out my metaphors; but somehow or other my eagle wouldn’t soar that night. He flopped his cold and flabby wings and rose and fell for an hour and a quarter. The audience departed like mourners from a funeral; but one good old lady lingered in the hall till I came off the stage and in her pity she sidled up to me and whispered, “I liked your little talk right well.” I found the freckled-face dreamer waiting at the door, and, cold as it was, the sweat was rolling down his cheeks. His face was the picture of despair when he handed me a hundred dollar bill and ten fives. I knew that his castle in the air had fallen. “How did you come out?” I asked. “Well, Governor,” he said, with a tremulous voice, “I’m out just eighteen dollars.” I took the roll he had given me out of my pocket and skinned off four bills in the light of the lamp dimly burning and said, “There are twenty dollars, my boy, and my blessing upon you.” He almost shouted and pressed my hand continuously as we walked through the mud to the little hotel on the starvation plan. Then there were a brief sleep and an easy conscience. I crossed the Father of Waters in triumph next morning and tarried in Memphis till the next train out. I went to the bank to buy New York exchange, took out my roll and lo! I had given old freckle-face the one hundred dollar bill and three fives. Then again there was a laugh and a lull—he laughed and I lulled. I pocketed my laugh and my loss and climbed into the pouch of a Southern Kangaroo on wheels and with a single hop I cleared the state of Mississippi and lit in Alabama. I climbed out and got into the ’bus in a beautiful little town among the blushing hills. Before I had washed the dust of travel from my brow, a spider-legged dude, with ambrosial locks curled and parted in the middle, came strutting like a clean-shaven and musk-scented dream into the dingy and time-honored little room where my valise and I were safely deposited, and with Chesterfieldian bow and a fluted voice announced that he had been designated by the ladies to introduce me that night to the audience. He shook his curls and said, “Governor, I have never delivered a speech in my life, but I have been at work on this one for about two weeks; and pardon me for saying that I think she’s a daisy.”

“Well, my friend,” I said, “I am fond of daisies.” With another shake of his locks he said, “The society people are all coming out to-night to hear me introduce you.” I shook my scanty locks and said, “I am glad there is something bringing them out.”

The clock struck 8. An elegant carriage stopped at the hotel door where I was waiting, and the sweet-scented dream in full evening dress, emerged, and gently took me by the arm and ushered me into it. We went whirling to the stage entrance of the theater, but as we walked up the stairs I observed that he tottered like a man ascending the gallows and his lips were colorless and quivering. We took our seats side by side behind the curtain. I motioned to the curtain man that all was ready, and with a whiz and a bang the curtain went up, and, sure enough, there in front of us, in the brilliantly lighted auditorium, was a breathing bouquet of youth and beauty and old age which greeted us with a storm of applause—the society folks had indeed come out to hear him introduce me. I nudged my friend and said, “Shoot.” He never budged. I nudged him again and said, “Go ahead!” He never budged. I looked around and his face was as white as a sheet and great drops of perspiration like beads of pearl were standing on his pallid brow. I said again, “Go ahead!” and in his agony he mumbled with muffled voice, “Governor, she’s gone.” There was a lull and a laugh, and in about two seconds he was gone. Before I had delivered half my sweetened goods I observed a number of yawns and stolen glances at watches and increasing signs that my crowd wanted to go. There is no anguish like that which a lecturer feels when his listless audience turns to frost and nips all his flowers of speech. The saddest spectacle in all the tide of time is a frost-bitten orator. He gathers up his little withered tropes and similes and vanishes, and all that saves him from suicide is the dream that he will blossom again in a more congenial garden. I collected my tribute money in the Alabama town and mounted a grasshopper train and went hopping and stridulating from rail to rail until I found a patch of clover in a rich and aristocratic Georgia town where I lounged and exchanged anecdotes with traveling men and with the natives until the lights were turned on and I stood all robed in my “swallow tail,” in the midst of as delightful an audience as ever listened to a sap-sucker speech or laughed at the unwinding of my little ball of yarns. A tall and handsome Georgia lawyer rose to introduce me and thus he spake:

“Ladies and Gentlemen: I have traveled a great deal in my life and on one of my journeys I took in the mountains of East Tennessee. I paused in that peculiar country to study the customs of that peculiar people. They make maple sugar in East Tennessee. They have great sugar orchards there, and one of the customs of the people is to tap the sugar trees in the spring when the sap begins to rise and they give the children in the family a tin cup and turn them out into the sugar orchard and never see them any more for six weeks. I have the pleasure to introduce to you to-night a sap-sucker from East Tennessee!”

There was a lull and a laugh,
And the sap began to run,
And they kindly took a quaff
From my sugar-trough of fun.

I settled with the secretary of the treasury and mounted a March hare train and sped away through many a cotton patch, from town to town, out of Georgia into the Old North State, and, flanking Charlotte, squatted at the State University at Chapel Hill, that classic spot of earth so rich with memories of the glorious past and still teeming with joyous student life, like those who have gone before, dreaming of the glorious future. There I met Dr. Battle, that grand old man who has fought a thousand battles for enlightenment and human happiness. There I met Alphonso Smith, one of the South’s foremost young men in the field of educational endeavor and whose soul is in tune with Southern progress and Southern development.

There, too, I met Eben Alexander, a brilliant star from the sky of Tennessee, shedding the soft light of Grecian literature upon the youthful brain of Carolina. I met a score of other stars in the faculty of this great University. I stood on the platform of its splendid auditorium and tossed bouquets at as refined and cultured an audience as ever sipped sap from a sugar tree. And when I packed my grip and started Southward I could not repress the sweet old song:

“Hurrah! hurrah! for the Old North State forever!
Hurrah! hurrah! for the good Old North State!”

Finally, I landed in Charleston, South Carolina, where I played Beauregard, but instead of firing bomb shells at Ft. Sumter, I fired soap bubbles at the heads and hearts of a magnificent audience of representative Charlestonians; and whether I pleased them or not, they were so generous and hospitable as to flatter me with occasional bombs of laughter and a few volleys of applause.

I swung back through Alabama to my home in Nashville, on hearing the news that the political sap was rising; but, alas! only to find that the Tennessee sugar tree was already tapped, you see, and that the senatorial sugar-trough was full of sap-suckers holding a snap caucus, and there was a lull and a laugh—I lulled and they laughed. When I awoke from my lull I kissed my wife and children good-bye, and broke for Texas, the queenly young sister of Tennessee, who took me in her arms, and brushing away my political tears, pressed me to her loving heart.