Chapter XIII: Introduction (11)

“I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any body before.”

The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence, “I’m in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed several weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?”

“I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand.

* * * * *

IMPRESSIONS ON VISITING POMPEII.¹

FROM “ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 1867.

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

THE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pompeii yet interred: happy the generation that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold on your imagination than any living city, and becomes and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of your spell? Something not death, something not life,――something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheel-worn lava with the black, black shadows of the many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining-halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drinking-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a modern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii....

THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS.
_From “Italian Journeys.”_

The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor or drawing-room next that; then the _impluvium_, or unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and where the household used to come to wash itself, primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its painted columns, behind the _impluvium_, and, at last, the dining-room.

* * * * *

After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced, Mr. Howells thus continues:

Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the community of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal with her nymphs,――not to mention frequent representations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg carelessly crossing the other, and both hands resting lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses before him await his sentence. Naturally, the painter has done his best for the victress in this rivalry, and you see

“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,”

as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious.

“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.”

Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery of the eyes,――still, beautiful, unhuman. You cannot believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of no words in literature which give a _sense_ (nothing gives the idea) of the _stare_ of these gods, except that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated slowly up and their eyes

“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the house
of the idols.”

* * * * *

VENETIAN VAGABONDS.¹

(FROM “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.)

¹ By special permission of the author and of Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.

THE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy――that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at the café; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best café; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not rich.

It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and does not call him “Shop!” (Bottéga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the servant places his modest drink before him, “who is that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasagnone: “She regards me! I have broken her heart!” This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone――to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no condition――neither rank nor wealth is any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara!” and sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers――neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get “Galignani” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as “Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire-if-you-please.” He sits very late in the café, he touches his hat――his curly French hat――to the company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion of his body. He is a dandy, of course――all Italians are dandies――but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy――to stand in the pit at the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes――to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and contadinas――to stand at the church doors and ogle the fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE.

AUTHOR OF “BEN HUR.”

THERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invariably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet Letter” at forty-six, Sir Walter Scott produced the first Waverly Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Perhaps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It was not until the year 1873 that General Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he had filled the double position of lawyer and soldier, and it was his observations and experiences in the Mexican War, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country.

Lew. Wallace was horn at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a common school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the Mexican War, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such a character that he received special mention from General Grant for meritorious conduct and was made major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered out of service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” was published; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General Wallace was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield――that year elected President――considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said that when President Garfield gave General Wallace his appointment, he wrote the words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as Wallace was coming away from his visit of acknowledgement at the White House, the President put his arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene in Constantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for writing “The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “The Boyhood of Christ” (1888).

None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great success attained by “Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a cheap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “Ben Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield had honored the author with this ♦significant portfolio that the trade commenced to call for it in thousand lots.

♦ ‘significent’ replaced with ‘significant’

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF CHRIST.¹

(FROM “BEN HUR.” 1880.)

¹ Selections printed here are by special permission of the
author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.

THE head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped with long hair and slightly waved, and parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to the latter type, and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in Him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have said He was not beautiful.

The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all――a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned――love, sorrow, pity――are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; and such, indeed, was the air of this one.

* * * * *

THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHES REINCARNATION.¹

(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890.)

¹ Selections printed here are by special permission of the
author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.

“THE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the speaker went on, after a pause referable to his consummate knowledge of men, “has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for genius.”

There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no time.

“Ask you now how I could identify the ♦Spirit so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I do in fear of God, that in several repeated appearances of which I speak it was the very same Spirit? How do you know the man you met at set of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had salute from this morning? Well, I tell you the Father has given the Spirit features by which it may be known――features distinct as those of the neighbors nearest you there at your right and left hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example of righteousness, teaching God and the way to God; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed ♠is the man appointed to carry it about!’”

♦ ‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’

♠ ‘in’ replaced with ‘is’

Again the murmur, but again he passed on.

“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen; still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good works in the world veiled; now in one form, now in another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at another, an angel; at another, a descending dove”――

“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing both hands up.

“Be quiet!” the Patriarch ordered.

“Thus always when its errand was of quick despatch,” the Prince continued. “But if its coming were for residence on earth, then its habit has been to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such”――he paused, then exclaimed shrilly――“such was Jesus Christ!”

* * * * *

THE PRAYER OF THE WANDERING JEW.¹

(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.”)

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

“GOD of Israel――my God!” he said, in a tone hardly more than speaking to himself. “These about me, my fellow-creatures, pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the happiness there is in serving thee.

“Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed――Amen.”

* * * * *

DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.¹

(FROM “THE FAIR GOD.”)

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

THE king turned his pale face and fixed his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”

“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.

With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued:

“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours――lands, people, empire,――enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”

Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.

“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”

The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they began to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,――

“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over him, listening.

“A message to Guatamozin,――to whom I give my last thought, as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did.

“And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him――”

His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the accents stooped,――

“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,――his will. A wail from the women pronounced him dead.

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF VIRGIN MARY.¹

(FROM “BEN HUR.”)

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

SHE was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more indefinable――an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

EDWARD EGGLESTON.

“THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY.”

HERDER says with truth that “one’s whole life is but the interpretation of the oracles of his childhood,” and those who are familiar with the writings of Edward Eggleston see in his pictures of country life in the Hoosier State the interpretation and illustration of his own life with its peculiar environment in “the great interior valley” nearly a half-century ago. The writers who have interpreted for us and for future generations the life and the characteristic manners which prevailed in the days when our country was new and the forests were yielding to give place to growing cities and expanding farms have done a rare and peculiar service, and those sections which have found expression through the genius and gifts of novelist or poet are highly favored above all others.

Edward Eggleston has always counted it a piece of good-fortune to have been born in a small village of Southern Indiana, for he believes that the formative influences of such an environment, the intimate knowledge of simple human nature, the close acquaintance with nature in woods and field and stream, and the sincere and earnest tone of the religious atmosphere which he breathed all through his youth, are better elements of culture than a city life could have furnished.

He was born in 1837 in Vevay, Indiana, and his early life was spent amid the “noble scenery” on the banks of the Ohio River. His father died while he was a young boy, and he himself was too delicate to spend much time at school, so that he is a shining example of those who move up the inclined plane of self-culture and self-improvement.

As he himself has forcefully said, through his whole life two men have struggled within him for the ascendency, the religious devotee and the literary man. His early training was “after the straitest sect of his religion”――the fervid Methodism of fifty years ago, and he was almost morbidly scrupulous as a boy, not even allowing himself to read a novel, though from this early period he always felt in himself a future literary career, and the teacher who corrected his compositions naively said to him: “I have marked your composition very severely because you are destined to become an author.”

At first the religious element in his nature decidedly held sway and he devoted himself to the ministry, mounting a horse and going forth with his saddle-bags as a circuit preacher in a circuit of ten preaching places. This was followed by a still harder experience in the border country of Minnesota, where in moccasins he tramped from town to town preaching to lumbermen and living on a meagre pittance, eating crackers and cheese, often in broken health and expecting an early death.

But even this earnest life of religious devotion and sacrifice was interspersed with attempts at literary work and he wrote a critical essay on “Beranger and his Songs” while he was trying to evangelize the red-shirted lumbermen of St. Croix. It was in such life and amid such experiences that Eggleston gained his keen knowledge of human nature which has been the delight and charm of his books.

He began his literary career as associate editor of the “Little Corporal” at Evanston, Illinois, in 1866, and in 1870 he rose to the position of literary editor of the New York “Independent,” of which he was for a time superintending editor. For five years, from 1874 to 1879, he was pastor of the Church of Christian Endeavor in Brooklyn, but failing health compelled him to retire, and he made his home at “Owl’s Nest,” on Lake George, where he has since devoted himself to literary work.

His novels depict the rural life of Southern Indiana, and his own judgment upon them is as follows: “I should say that what distinguishes my novels from other works of fiction is the prominence which they give to social conditions; that the individual characters are here treated to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of a study of a society, as in some sense the logical result of the environment. Whatever may be the rank assigned to these stories as works of literary art, they will always have a certain value as materials for the student of social history.”

His chief novels and stories are the following: “Mr. Blake’s Walking Stick” (Chicago, 1869); “The Hoosier School-master” (New York, 1871); “End of the World” (1872); “The Mystery of Metropolisville” (1873); “The Circuit Rider” (1874); “School-master’s Stories for Boys and Girls” (1874); and “The Hoosier School-boy” (1883). He has written in connection with his daughter an interesting series of biographical tales of famous American Indians, and during these later years of his life he has largely devoted himself to historical work which has had an attraction for him all his life.

In his historical work as in his novels he is especially occupied with the evolution of society. His interest runs in the line of unfolding the history of life and development rather than in giving mere facts of political history.

His chief works in this department are: “Household History of the United States and its People” (New York, 1893); and “The Beginners of a Nation” (New York, 1897).

Though possessed of a weak and ailing body and always on the verge of invalidism, he has done the work of a strong man. He has always preserved his deep and earnest religious and moral tone, but he has woven with it a joyous and genuine humor which has warmed the hearts of his many readers.

* * * * *

SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER.¹

(FROM “THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER.”)
(ORANGE JUDD CO., PUBLISHERS.)

¹ Copyright, Orange Judd Co.

EVERY family furnished a candle. There were yellow dips and white dips, burning, smoking, and flaring. There was laughing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and ogling, and flirting, and courting. What a dress party is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to Hoophole County. It is an occasion which is metaphorically inscribed with this legend, “Choose your partners.” Spelling is only a blind in Hoophole County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as there are some in society who love dancing for its own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were those who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smelling the battle from afar, had come to try their skill in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they had won in their school-days.

“I ’low,” said Mr. Means, speaking as the principal school trustee, “I ’low our friend the Square is jest the man to boss this ere consarn to-night. Ef nobody objects, I’ll appint him. Come, Square, don’t be bashful. Walk up to the trough, fodder or no fodder, as the man said to his donkey.”

There was a general giggle at this, and many of the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure of nudging.

The squire came to the front.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, shoving up his spectacles, and sucking his lips over his white teeth to keep them in place, “ladies and gentlemen, young men and maidens, raley I’m obleeged to Mr. Means fer this honor,” and the Squire took both hands and turned the top of his head round several inches. Then he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was obliged to Mr. Means for the honor of being compared to a donkey, was not clear. “I feel in the inmost compartments of my animal spirits a most happyfying sense of the success and futility of all my endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, and the people of Tomkins township, in my weak way and manner.” This burst of eloquence was delivered with a constrained air and an apparent sense of danger that he, Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces in his weak way and manner, and of the success and futility (especially the latter) of all attempts at reconstruction. For by this time the ghastly pupil of the left eye, which was black, was looking away round to the left while the little blue one on the right twinkled cheerfully toward the front. The front teeth would drop down so that the Squire’s mouth was kept nearly closed, and his words whistled through.

“I feel as if I could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion,” twisting his scalp round, “but raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling you want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge of a good eddication. I put the spellin’-book prepared by the great Daniel Webster alongside the Bible. I do raley. The man who got up, who compounded this little work of inextricable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human race or any other.” Here the spectacles fell off. The Squire replaced them in some confusion, gave the top of his head another twist, and felt for his glass eye, while poor Shocky stared in wonder, and Betsy Short rolled from side to side at the point of death from the effort to suppress her giggle. Mrs. Means and the other old ladies looked the applause they could not speak.

“I appint Larkin Lanham and Jeems Buchanan fer captings,” said the Squire. And the two young men thus named took a stick and tossed it from hand to hand to decide who should have the “first chice.” One tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast just where he happened to catch it. Then the first placed his hand above the second, and so the hands were alternately changed to the top. The one who held the stick last without room for the other to take hold had gained the lot. This was tried three times. As Larkin held the stick twice out of three times, he had the choice. He hesitated a moment. Everybody looked toward tall Jim Phillips. But Larkin was fond of a venture on unknown seas, and so he said, “I take the master,” while a buzz of surprise ran round the room, and the captain of the other side, as if afraid his opponent would withdraw the choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of exultation and defiance in his voice: “And _I_ take Jeems Phillips.”

And soon all present, except a few of the old folks, found themselves ranged in opposing hosts, the poor spellers lagging in, with what grace they could at the foot of the two divisions. The Squire opened his spelling-book and began to give out the words to the two captains, who stood up and spelled against each other. It was not long before Larkin spelled “really” with one _l_, and had to sit down in confusion, while a murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. The slender figure of the young teacher took the place of the fallen leader, and the excitement made the house very quiet. Ralph dreaded the loss of influence he would suffer if he should be easily spelled down. And at the moment of rising he saw in the darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man sitting in the shadow. It made him tremble. Why should his evil genius haunt him? But by a strong effort he turned his attention away from Dr. Small, and listened carefully to the words which the Squire did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with extreme deliberation. This gave him an air of hesitation which disappointed those on his own side. They wanted him to spell with a dashing assurance. But he did not begin a word until he had mentally felt his way through it. After ten minutes of spelling hard words, Jeems Buchanan, the captain of the other side, spelled “atrocious” with an _s_ instead of a _c_, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phillips, coming up against the teacher. This brought the excitement to fever-heat. For though Ralph was chosen first, it was entirely on trust, and most of the company were disappointed. The champion who now stood up against the school-master was a famous speller.

Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow, who had never distinguished himself in any other pursuit than spelling. Except in this one art of spelling he was of no account. He could neither catch a ball well nor bat well. He could not throw well enough to make his mark in that famous Western game of Bull-pen. He did not succeed well in any study but that of Webster’s Elementary. But in that――to use the usual Flat Creek locution――he was “a hoss.” The genius for spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition. Some spellers are born and not made, and their facility reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop out every now and then to bewilder the world. Bud Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted against Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could spell “like thunder and lightning,” and that it “took a powerful smart speller” to beat him, for he knew “a heap of spelling-book.” To have “spelled down the master” is next thing to having whipped the biggest bully in Hoophole County, and Jim had “spelled down” the last three masters. He divided the hero-worship of the district with Bud Means.

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words. What a blessed thing our crooked orthography is. Without it there could be no spelling-schools. As Ralph discovered his opponent’s mettle he became more and more cautious. He was now satisfied that Jim would eventually beat him. The fellow evidently knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah Webster himself. As he stood there, with his dull face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hartsook that his superiority must lie in his nose. Ralph’s cautiousness answered a double purpose; it enabled him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for weakness. Phillips was now confident that he should carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before the evening was over. He spelled eagerly, confidently, brilliantly. Stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to straighten up. In the minds of all the company the odds were in his favor. He saw this, and became ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without giving the matter any thought.

Ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young school-master. The other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He approached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He did not take hold until he was sure of his game. When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and Ralph’s friends even ventured to whisper that “maybe Jim had cotched his match after all!”

But Phillips never doubted of his success.

“Theodolite,” said the Squire.

“T-h-e, the, o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, l-y-t-e, theodolite,” spelled the champion.

“Next,” said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth in his excitement.

Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down in confusion. The excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was suspended. Everybody in the house had shown sympathy with one or other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. _It_ had not moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result.

“Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! Licked him all to smash!” said Bud, rubbing his hands on his knees. “That beats my time all holler!”

And Betsy Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on the defeated side.

Shocky got up and danced with pleasure.

But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph’s pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero feeling all through him.

“He’s powerful smart is the master,” said old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. “He’ll beat the whole kit and tuck of ’em afore he’s through. I know’d he was smart. That’s the reason I tuck him,” proceeded Mr. Means.

“Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not nigh,” answered Pete Jones. “No lickin’, no larnin’, says I.”

It was now not so hard. The other spellers on the opposite side went down quickly under the hard words which the Squire gave out. The master had mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, for there were only the poor spellers left. But Ralph Hartsook ran against a stump where he was least expecting it. It was the Squire’s custom, when one of the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words that they might have some breathing spell before being slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon settled them. He let them run a little, as a cat does a doomed mouse. There was now but one person left on the opposite side, and as she rose in her blue calico dress, Ralph recognized Hannah, the bound girl at old Jack Means’s. She had not attended school in the district, and had never spelled in spelling-school before, and was chosen last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began with easy words of two syllables, from that page of Webster, so well-known to all who ever thumbed it, as “Baker,” from the word that stands at the top of the page. She spelled these words in an absent and uninterested manner. As everybody knew that she would have to go down as soon as this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody began to get ready to go home, and already there was a buzz of preparation. Young men were timidly asking girls if they could “see them safe home,” which is the approved formula, and were trembling in mortal fear of “the mitten.” Presently the Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had been examining his nose long enough, and turned over the leaves of the book to the great words at the place known to spellers as “Incomprehensibility,” and began to give out those “words of eight syllables with the accent on the sixth.” Listless scholars now turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be in the master’s final triumph. But to their surprise, “ole Miss Meanses’ white nigger,” as some of them called her, in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great words with as perfect ease as the master. Still, not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place to place and selected all the hard words he could find. The school became utterly quiet, the excitement was too great for the ordinary buzz. Would “Meanses’ Hanner” beat the master? Beat the master that had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody’s sympathy was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that even Shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew brilliant every time Hannah spelled a word. In fact, Ralph deserted himself. If he had not felt that a victory given would insult her, he would have missed intentionally.

“Daguerreotype,” sniffled the Squire. It was Ralph’s turn.

“D-a-u, dau――――”

“Next.”

And Hannah spelled it right.

Illustration: POPULAR AMERICAN NOVELISTS.

_EDWD. BELLAMY._
_F. MARION CRAWFORD._ • _GEO. W. CABLE._ • _E. P. ROE._
_THOS. NELSON PAGE._ • _FRANK STOCKTON._

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THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

AUTHOR OF “IN OLE VIRGINIA.”

AN old adage declares it “an ill wind that blows nobody good;” and certainly the world may take whatever consolation it can find out of the fact that the long and bloody war between the North and South has at least afforded the opportunity for certain literary men and women to rise upon the ruins which it wrought, and win fame to themselves as well as put money in their purses by embalming in literature the story of times and social conditions that now exist only in the history of the past.

Thomas Nelson Page was born in Oakland, Hanover county, Virginia, on the twenty-third day of April, 1853, consequently, he was only eight years old when Fort Sumter was fired upon, and, during the imaginative period of the next few years, he lived in proximity to the battle fields of the most fiercely contested struggles of the war. His earliest recollections were of the happiest phases of life on the old slave plantations. That he thoroughly understands the bright side of such a life, as well as the Negro character and dialect, is abundantly established by the charming books which he has given to the world.

His childhood was passed on the estate which was a part of the original grant of his maternal ancestor, General Thomas Nelson, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, for whom he was named. His early education was received in the neighborhood “subscription” schools (there were no free public schools in the South at that time), and at the hand of a gentle old aunt of whom Mr. Page tells in one of his stories. The war interfered with his regular studies but filled his mind with a knowledge schools cannot give, and, as stated above, it was out of this knowledge that his stories have grown. After the war, young Page entered the Washington and Lee University and later studied law, taking his degree in this branch from the University of Virginia, in 1874, and after graduating, practiced his profession in Richmond, Virginia, until 1884, when his first story of Virginia life “Marse Chan,” a tale of the Civil War, was printed in the “Century Magazine.” He had previously written dialectic poetry, but the above story was his first decided success, and attracted such wide attention that he forsook law for literature. In 1887, a volume of his stories was brought out under the title “In Ole Virginia,” which was followed in 1888 by “Befo’ de War; Echoes in Negro Dialect,” which was written in ♦collaboration with Mr. A. C. Gordon. The next year a story for boys entitled, “Two Little Confederates,” appeared in the “St. Nicholas Magazine,” and was afterward published in book form. A companion volume to this is “Among the Camps or Young People’s Stories of the War.”

♦ ‘colaboration’ replaced with ‘collaboration’

Mr. Page has been a frequent contributor to the current magazines for many years, and has also lectured extensively throughout the country. In 1897 he went abroad for a tour of England and the Continent of Europe. It is announced that on his return he will issue a new novel which we understand, he has been engaged upon for some time and expects to make the most pretentious work of his life up to this date.

* * * * *

OLD SUE.¹

(FROM “PASTIME STORIES.”)

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

JUST on the other side of Ninth Street, outside of my office window, was the stand of Old Sue, the “tug-mule” that pulled the green car around the curve from Main Street to Ninth and up the hill to Broad. Between her and the young bow-legged negro that hitched her on, drove her up, and brought her back down the hill for the next car, there always existed a peculiar friendship. He used to hold long conversations with her, generally upbraiding her in that complaining tone with opprobrious terms which the negroes employ, which she used to take meekly. At times he petted her with his arm around her neck, or teased her, punching her in the ribs and walking about around her quarters, ostentatiously disregardful of her switching stump of a tail, backed ears, and uplifted foot, and threatening her with all sorts of direful punishment if she “jis dyarred to tetch” him.

“Kick me――heah, kick me; I jis dyah you to lay you’ foot ’g’inst me,” he would say, standing defiantly against her as she appeared about to let fly at him. Then he would seize her with a guffaw. Or at times, coming down the hill, he would “hall off” and hit her, and “take out” with her at his heels her long furry ears backed, and her mouth wide open as if she would tear him to pieces; and just as she nearly caught him he would come to a stand and wheel around, and she would stop dead, and then walk on by him as sedately as if she were in a harrow. In all the years of their association she never failed him; and she never failed to fling herself on the collar, rounding the sharp curve at Ninth, and to get the car up the difficult turn.

Last fall, however, the road passed into new hands, and the management changed the old mules on the line, and put on a lot of new and green horses. It happened to be a dreary, rainy day in November when the first new team was put in. They came along about three o’clock. Old Sue had been standing out in the pouring rain all day with her head bowed, and her stubby tail tucked in, and her black back dripping. She had never failed nor faltered. The tug-boy in an old rubber suit and battered tarpauling hat, had been out also, his coat shining with the wet. He and old Sue appeared to mind it astonishingly little. The gutters were running brimming full, and the cobble-stones were wet and slippery. The street cars were crowded inside and out, the wretched people on the platforms vainly trying to shield themselves with umbrellas held sideways. It was late in the afternoon when I first observed that there was trouble at the corner. I thought at first that there was an accident, but soon found that it was due to a pair of new, balking horses in a car. Old Sue was hitched to the tug, and was doing her part faithfully; finally she threw her weight on the collar, and by sheer strength bodily dragged the car, horses and all, around the curve and on up the straight track, until the horses, finding themselves moving, went off with a rush, I saw the tug-boy shake his head with pride, and heard him give a whoop of triumph. The next car went up all right; but the next had a new team, and the same thing occurred. The streets were like glass; the new horses got to slipping and balking, and old Sue had to drag them up as she did before. From this time it went from bad to worse: the rain changed to sleet, and the curve at Ninth became a stalling-place for every car. Finally, just at dark, there was a block there, and the cars piled up. I intended to have taken a car on my way home, but finding it stalled, I stepped into my friend Polk Miller’s drug-store, just on the corner, to get a cigar and to keep warm. I could see through the blurred glass of the door the commotion going on just outside, and could hear the shouts of the driver and of the tug-boy mingled with the clatter of horses’ feet as they reared and jumped, and the cracks of the tug-boy’s whip as he called to Sue, “Git up, Sue, git up, Sue.” Presently, I heard a shout, and then the tones changed, and things got quiet.

A minute afterwards the door slowly opened, and the tug-boy came in limping, his old hat pushed back on his head, and one leg of his wet trousers rolled up to his knee, showing about four inches of black, ashy skin, which he leaned over and rubbed as he walked. His wet face wore a scowl, half pain, half anger. “Mist’ Miller, kin I use you’ telephone?” he asked, surlily. (The company had the privilege of using it by courtesy.)

“Yes; there ’tis.”

He limped up, and still rubbing his leg with one hand, took the ’phone off the hook with the other and put it to his ear.

“Hello, central――hello! Please gimme fo’ hund’ an’ sebenty-three on three sixt’-fo’――fo’ hund’ an’ sebent’-three on three sixt’-fo’.

“Hello! Suh? Yas, suh; fo’ hund’ an’ sebent’-three on three sixt’-fo’. _Street-car stables_ on three sixt’-fo’. Hello! Hello! Hello! Dat you, streetcar stables? Hello! Yas. Who dat? Oh! Dat you, Mist’ Mellerdin? Yas, suh; yes, suh; Jim; _Jim_; dis Jim. G-i-m, Jim. Yas, suh; whar drive Ole Sue, in Mist’ Polk Miller’ drug-sto’――. Yas, suh. ‘Matter’?――Ole Sue――she done tu’n fool; done gone ’stracted. I can’t do nuttin’ ’tall wid her. She ain’ got no sense. She oon pull a poun’. Suh? Yas, suh. Nor, suh. Yas, suh. Nor, suh; I done try ev’ything. I done beg her, done cuss her, done whup her mos’ to death. She ain’ got no reasonment. She oon do nuttin’. She done haul off, an’ leetle mo’ knock my brains out; she done kick me right ’pon meh laig――’pon my right laig.” (He stooped over and rubbed it again at the reflection.) “Done bark it all up. Suh? Yas, suh. Tell nine o’clock? Yas, suh; reckon so; ’ll try it leetle longer. Yas, suh; yas, suh. Good-night――good-bye!”

He hung the ’phone back on the hook, stooped and rolled down the leg of his breeches. “Thankee, Mist’ Miller! Good-night.”

He walked to the door, and opened it. As he passed slowly out, without turning his head, he said, as if to himself, but to be heard by us, “I wish I had a hundred an’ twenty-five dollars. I boun’ I’d buy dat durned ole mule, an’ cut her dog-goned th’oat.”

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Illustration: (‡ decoration)

EDWARD PAYSON ROE.

AUTHOR OF “BARRIERS BURNED AWAY.”

MR. ROE is not considered as one of the strongest of American novelists; but that he was one of the most popular among the masses of the people, from 1875 to the time of his death, goes without saying. His novels were of a religious character, and while they were doubtless lacking in the higher arts of the fictionist, he invariably told an interesting story and pointed a healthy moral. “Barriers Burned Away” is, perhaps, his best novel, and it has been declared by certain critics to be at once one of the most vivid portrayals and correct pictures of the great Chicago fire that occurred in 1871 which has up to this time been written.

Edward Payson Roe was born at New Windsor, New York, in 1838, and died, when fifty years of age, at Cornwall, the same State, in 1888. He was being educated at Williams College, but had to leave before graduating owing to an affection of the eyes. In consequence of his literary work, however, the college in after years gave him the degree of A. B. In 1862, he volunteered his services in the army and served as chaplain throughout the Civil War. From 1865 to 1874 he was pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Highland Falls, New York. In 1874 he resigned his pastorate, and, to the time of his death, gave himself to literature and to the cultivation of a small fruit farm.