Chapter XV: Part II: The Pillar of Fire by Night (6)

How is that old gold coinage design getting along? I want to make a suggestion. It seems to me worth while to try for a really good coinage; though I suppose there will be a revolt about it! I was looking at some gold coins of Alexander the Great to-day, and I was struck by their high relief. Would it not be well to have our coins in high relief, and also to have the rims raised? The point of having the rims raised would be, of course, to protect the figure on the coin; and if we have the figures in high relief, like the figures on the old Greek coins, they will surely last longer. What do you think of this?

With warm regards.

Faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

WINDSOR, VERMONT, Nov. 11, 1905.

_Dear Mr. President_:

You have hit the nail on the head with regard to the coinage. Of course the great coins (and you might almost say the only coins) are the Greek ones you speak of, just as the great medals are those of the fifteenth century by Pisanello and Sperandio. Nothing would please me more than

Obverse of the ten-dollar gold Obverse of the ten-dollar gold piece, in high relief, and before piece with the Roosevelt feather the addition of the head-dress, head-dress. Before the relief was on President Roosevelt's suggestion. radically lowered for minting.

Liberty obverse of the Liberty obverse of the twenty-dollar gold piece as twenty-dollar gold piece. The finally designed. The relief, head-dress, President Roosevelt's however, was made lower before idea, was later eliminated on this minting. figure as too small to be effective on the actual coin.

to make the attempt in the direction of the heads of Alexander, but the authorities on modern monetary requirements would, I fear, “throw fits,” to speak emphatically, if the thing was done now. It would be great if it could be accomplished and I do not see what the objection would be if the edges were high enough to prevent rubbing. Perhaps an inquiry from you would not receive the antagonistic reply from those who have the say in such matters that would certainly be made to me.

Up to the present I have done no work on the actual models for the coins, but have made sketches, and the matter is constantly in my mind. I have about determined on the composition of one side, which would contain an eagle very much like the one I placed on your medal with a modification that would be advantageous. On the other side I would place a (possibly winged) figure of liberty striding energetically forward as if on a mountain top holding aloft on one arm a shield bearing the Stars and Stripes with the word “Liberty” marked across the field, in the other hand, perhaps, a flaming torch. The drapery would be flowing in the breeze. My idea is to make it a _living_ thing and typical of progress.

Tell me frankly what you think of this and what your ideas may be. I remember you spoke of the head of an Indian. Of course that is always a superb thing to do, but would it be a sufficiently clear emblem of Liberty as required by law?

I send you an old book on coins which I am certain you will find of interest while waiting for a copy that I have ordered from Europe.

Faithfully yours,
AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

Nov. 14, 1905.

_My dear Mr. Saint-Gaudens_:

I have your letter of the 11th instant and return herewith the book on coins, which I think you should have until you get the other one. I have summoned all the mint people, and I am going to see if I cannot persuade them that coins of the Grecian type but with the raised rim will meet the commercial needs of the day. Of course I want to avoid too heavy an outbreak of the mercantile classes, because after all it is they who do use the gold. If we can have an eagle like that on the Inauguration Medal, only raised, I should feel that we would be awfully fortunate. Don't you think that we might accomplish something by raising the figures more than at present but not as much as in the Greek coins? Probably the Greek coins would be so thick that modern banking houses, where they have to pile up gold, would simply be unable to do so. How would it do to have a design struck off in a tentative fashion--that is, to have a model made? I think your Liberty idea is all right. Is it possible to make a Liberty with that Indian feather head-dress? Would people refuse to regard it as a Liberty? The figure of Liberty as you suggest would be beautiful. If we get down to bed-rock facts would the feather head-dress be any more out of keeping with the rest of Liberty than the canonical Phrygian cap which never is worn and never has been worn by any free people in the world?

Faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

WINDSOR, VERMONT, Nov. 22, 1905.

_Dear Mr. President_:

Thank you for your letter of the 14th and the return of the book on coins.

I can perfectly well use the Indian head-dress on the figure of Liberty. It should be very handsome. I have been at work for the last two days on the coins and feel quite enthusiastic about it.

I enclose a copy of a letter to Secretary Shaw which explains itself. If you are of my opinion and will help, I shall be greatly obliged.

Faithfully yours,
AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS.

[Hand-written postscript.]

I think something between the high relief of the Greek coins and the extreme low relief of the modern work is possible, and as you suggest, I will make a model with that in view.

WINDSOR, VERMONT, Nov. 22, 1905.

HON. L. M. SHAW,
Secretary of the Treasury,
Washington, D. C.

_Dear Sir_:

I am now engaged on the models for the coinage. The law calls for, viz., “On one side there shall be an impression emblematic of liberty, with an inscription of the word 'liberty' and the year of the coinage.” It occurs to me that the addition on this side of the coins of the word “Justice” (or “Law,” preferably the former) would add force as well as elevation to the meaning of the composition. At one time the words “In God we trust” were placed on the coins. I am not aware that there was authorization for that, but I may be mistaken.

Will you kindly inform me whether what I suggest is possible.

Yours very truly,
AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

Nov. 24, 1905.

_My dear Mr. Saint-Gaudens_:

This is first class. I have no doubt we can get permission to put on the word “Justice,” and I firmly believe that you can evolve something that will not only be beautiful from the artistic standpoint, but that, between the very high relief of the Greek and the very low relief of the modern coins, will be adapted both to the mechanical necessities of our mint production and the needs of modern commerce, and yet will be worthy of a civilized people--which is not true of our present coins.

Faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

Jan. 6, 1906.

_My dear Saint-Gaudens_:

I have seen Shaw about that coinage and told him that it was my pet baby. We will try it anyway, so you go ahead. Shaw was really very nice about it. Of course he thinks I am a mere crack-brained lunatic on the subject, but he said with great kindness that there was always a certain number of gold coins that had to be stored up in vaults, and that there was no earthly objection to having those coins as artistic as the Greeks could desire. (I am paraphrasing his words, of course.) I think it will seriously increase the mortality among the employees of the mint at seeing such a desecration, but they will perish in a good cause!

Always yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

October 1, 1906.

Personal

_My dear Mr. Saint-Gaudens_:

The mint people have come down, as you can see from the enclosed letter which is in answer to a rather dictatorial one I sent to the Secretary of the Treasury. When can we get that design for the twenty-dollar gold piece? I hate to have to put on the lettering, but under the law I have no alternative; yet in spite of the lettering I think, my dear sir, that you have given us a coin as wonderful as any of the old Greek coins. I do not want to bother you, but do let me have it as quickly as possible. I would like to have the coin well on the way to completion by the time Congress meets.

It was such a pleasure seeing your son the other day.

Please return Director Roberts' letter to me when you have noted it.

Sincerely yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

December 11, 1906.

_My dear Mr. Saint-Gaudens_:

I hate to trouble you, but it is very important that I should have the models for those coins at once. How soon may I have them?

With all good wishes, believe me,
Sincerely yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

WINDSOR, VERMONT, December 19, 1906.

_Dear Mr. President_:

I am afraid from the letter sent you on the fourteenth with the models for the Twenty-Dollar Gold piece that you will think the coin I sent you was unfinished. This is not the case. It is the final and completed model, but I hold myself in readiness to make any such modifications as may be required in the reproduction of the coin.

This will explain the words, “test model” on the back of each model.

Faithfully yours,
AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS.

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON

December 20, 1906.

_My dear Saint-Gaudens_:

Those models are simply immense--if such a slang way of talking is permissible in reference to giving a modern nation one coinage at least which shall be as good as that of the ancient Greeks. I have instructed the Director of the Mint that these dies are to be reproduced just as quickly as possible and just as they are. It is simply splendid. I suppose I shall be impeached for it in Congress; but I shall regard that as a very cheap payment!

With heartiest regards,
Faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens,
Windsor, Vermont.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

1. Why should a great statue have in it something of the
allegorical?

2. Describe Mr. Saint-Gaudens' statue of General Sherman.

3. What does the first letter show concerning Mr. Roosevelt's
opinion of the art of sculpture?

4. In what ways are the old Greek coins beautiful?

5. Point out essay-like freedom in the use of English.

6. Point out passages that are notably personal.

7. What were Mr. Roosevelt's plans for the making of United States
coins?

8. What were Mr. Saint-Gaudens' plans?

9. Draw from the letters material for an essay on coinage.

10. Show in what respects the letters have something of the spirit
of the essay.

SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

1. A letter suggesting an inter-school debate.

2. A letter inviting a graduate of the school to act as judge at a
debate.

3. A letter inviting a prominent citizen to address a society of
which you are a member.

4. A letter telling of your experiences in a place that you are
visiting for the first time.

5. A letter giving your opinion of a book that you have read
recently.

6. A letter telling your plans for the coming vacation.

7. A letter concerning the use of an athletic field.

8. A letter inviting the graduates of your school to come to a
school festival or entertainment.

9. A letter concerning music in your school.

10. A letter giving an excuse for absence.

11. A letter concerning work in photography.

12. A letter concerning the work of prominent athletes.

13. A letter concerning arrangements for class day exercises.

14. A letter concerning graduation week.

15. A letter to a teacher who has left the school.

16. A letter to a person much older than you.

17. A letter to a school in a foreign country.

18. A letter to a school in another State.

19. A letter written, in the name of your class, for publication in
the school annual.

20. A letter of congratulation.

DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

Write your letter so that it will express a definite and practical proposal. Express your own individual opinion modestly and tactfully. Use language that will thoroughly represent yourself. Try, in all ways possible, to avoid making your letter heavy, “cut-and-dried,” conventional, and purely formal.

THE SYMBOLIC STORY

HI-BRASIL
By RALPH DURAND

_An English traveller, soldier and author, who is still young and
who has “followed the Sea Maid” over every ocean. Like the English
poet, John Masefield, he served for a time as a sailor before
the mast. He has seen life intimately in various out-of-the-way
places, such as the South Sea Islands, Central Africa, and the
Arctic Regions. In the World War he performed patriotic duty in the
trenches and on Intelligence Staffs._

=_Hi-Brasil_ is a charming and fascinating story, a symbolic
narrative that most artistically combines realism and fancy, and
appeals to the unfulfilled longings that every reader possesses.=

=What is Hi-Brasil? It is the “Never-Never-Land,” the land of
dreams, the land of longings. In this story it is specifically
the land where the lost ships go. Who is the Sea Maid? She is the
Spirit of Adventure, the love of whom calls men ever restlessly
on. In this story she is the Spirit of the Sea. How skilfully
Mr. Durand describes her in sea-words: “With sea-blue eyes” and
“Wind-blown” hair; her laugh “Like the ripple of a stream that runs
over a pebbly beach”; her song “Like the surge of breakers on a
distant reef”; herself “As old as the sea, and a little older than
the hills.”=

=No one but a lover of the sea, and a lover also of bold enterprise
and high deeds, could have written such a story, emphasizing as it
does somewhat of the theme of Longfellow's _Excelsior_ and Poe's
_Eldorado_--=

=“Over the mountains
Of the moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride! Boldly ride!...
If you seek for Eldorado!”=

=“I've never sailed the Amazon,
I've never reached Brazil;
But the _Don_ and _Magdalena_,
They can go there when they will!”=

Peter Luscombe was the dullest man that ever audited an account. Once when his neighbor at a dinner-party, having heard that he was an authority on marine insurance, quoted Longfellow about “the beauty and the mystery of the ships and the magic of the sea,” Peter looked embarrassed and turned the conversation to the subject of charter-parties.

His life was as carefully regulated as Big Ben. He caught the same train every morning, dined at the same hour every evening, indexed his private correspondence, and for recreation read Price's “Calculations.” On Saturday afternoons he played golf.

One Summer a business matter took Peter to St. Mawes, and on his way there he met the Sea Maid. To get to St. Mawes he had to cross Falmouth Harbor by the public ferry.

Though till then he had had no more direct personal experience of the sea than can be obtained from the Promenade at Hove, Peter was so little interested in his surroundings that he spent the first part of the ferry journey making notes of his personal expenditure since leaving London, including tips, on the last page of his pocket-diary. Midway across the harbor he chanced to look up and saw a yawl-rigged fishing-boat--subconsciously he noticed the name _Maeldune_ painted on her bows--running before the wind in the direction of Falmouth Quay. An old, white-haired man, whose cheeks were the color of an Autumn leaf, was sitting amidships tending the sheets, and at the tiller sat a girl--a girl with sea-blue eyes and untidy, wind-blown, dark-brown hair.

She was bending forward, peering under the arched foot of the mainsail, when Peter first caught sight of her. Their eyes met; the girl smiled--and Peter dropped his pocket-diary into the dirty water that washed about the ferryman's boots and stared after the _Maeldune_ till he could no longer distinguish her among the other small craft in the harbor.

When the ferry-boat reached St. Mawes and discharged her other passengers Peter remained in her, and on the return journey sat in the bows straining his eyes to pick out the _Maeldune_ among the other fishing-boats. Falmouth Harbor is two and a half miles wide, and the ferryman refused to be hurried; but at last the quay came in sight, and Peter's heart leaped, for the _Maeldune_ was lying at the steps, and the girl was still on board of her. As soon as the ferry-boat reached the steps Peter jumped ashore and faced the girl. Then he hesitated, embarrassed. He had nothing to say to her, or, rather, no excuse for speaking to her. “I--I--I saw you--as you came up the harbor,” he faltered.

But the girl showed no sign of embarrassment. She smiled at him again, and her smile was brighter than sunlight shining through the curl of a breaking wave.

“I'm just going out for a sail again,” she said, “and I've room for a passenger. Old John has just gone to have a yarn with the sailmaker. Would you care to come?”

Peter jumped onto the _Maeldune's_ thwart, and the girl cast off and hoisted the sail. “I'm afraid I don't know anything about sailing,” said Peter.

The girl laughed, and her laugh sounded like the ripple of a stream that runs over a pebbly beach.

“That doesn't matter,” she said; “I can manage the old _Maeldune_ single-handed.”

They beat down the harbor, rounded the Loze, and stood out in the direction of mid-channel. Peter was entirely happy. The wind was blowing fresh from the southwest, and the _Maeldune_ danced lightly over the waves like a thing alive, her thwarts aslant and her lee-rail just clear of the water.

“This is glorious,” said Peter. “Do you know, this is the first time I have ever been on the sea.”

“It won't be the last,” said the girl.

For a long while neither spoke again. Peter did not want to talk. He was content to watch the Sea Maid as she sat at the tiller, looking toward the horizon with dreamy eyes and crooning to herself a wordless song that sounded like the surge of breakers on a distant reef.

“What song is that?” he asked after a long silence.

“That is the song that Orpheus sang to the _Argo_ when she lay on the stocks and all the strength of the heroes could not launch her. Then Orpheus struck his lyre and sang of the open sea and all the wonders that are beyond the farthest horizon, till the _Argo_ so yearned to be afloat with a fair wind behind her that she spread her sails of her own accord and glided down the beach into the water.”

“I hadn't heard about it,” said Peter. The story was so fantastically impossible that he supposed that the girl was chaffing him.

“You are young, surely, to handle a boat by yourself,” he said. “Don't think me rude. How old are you?”

“As old as the sea, and a little older than the hills.”

Now Peter was sure that the girl was chaffing him.

Neither spoke again. Occasionally the girl looked at him and smiled, and her smile was the most beautiful thing that Peter had ever known. Toward evening they turned and sailed back, right in the golden path of the sinking sun. Slowly the old town of Falmouth took shape; the houses became distinct, then the people on the quay. Peter sighed because he was coming back to the shore again, and because for the first time in his life he had tasted absolute happiness.

Close to the quay the girl threw the boat up in the wind, ran forward and lowered the head-sails, and then ran back to the tiller. The _Maeldune_ came gently up to the landing-stage. Peter jumped ashore and turned, expecting that the girl would follow, but she pushed off and began to hoist the head-sails again.

“May I--may I see you again?” said Peter, as the gap widened between the boat and the shore.

The Sea Maid laughed.

“If you come to Hi-Brasil,” she said.

Peter walked slowly in the direction of Fore Street, then realized that he needed some more definite address if he were to see the girl again. He hurried back to the landing-stage and looked eagerly for the _Maeldune_. She was nowhere in sight.

“Did you see a little sailing-boat leave the steps about five minutes ago?” he asked a man who was lounging on the quay. “Which way did she go?”

“What rig?”

“I don't know what you call it--one big mast and one little one.”

“A yawl. There's been no yawls in here this afternoon.”

Peter inwardly cursed the man's stupidity and walked dejectedly away. He dreamed of the Sea Maid that night, and in the morning told himself that he was a fool. He had had an hour or so of happiness with a jolly girl who evidently did not wish to continue the acquaintance. Obviously, the sensible thing to do was to forget all about her. But he could not forget. Work became impossible. When he tried to write the laughing face of the Sea Maid danced before his eyes, and when clients talked to him he could not listen, for the song she had sung rang in his ears. He went back to Falmouth determined to see her again, and not till he reached the Cornish port did he realize the futility of his search. How was he to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of two people of whom he knew nothing more definite than that the man was white-haired and bronzed, and that the girl, when last seen, had worn a white jersey and a blue-serge skirt?

* * * * *

A month later he was an unwilling guest at a reception given by a famous London hostess. The rooms were packed with a well-dressed crowd who walked about rather aimlessly, talking on the stairs or listening to music in one or other of the reception-rooms. Suddenly Peter's heart stood still for a moment. Clear above the chatter he heard the Sea Girl's voice. He was standing at the head of the stairs and she was singing in one of the adjoining rooms,

I've never sailed the Amazon,
I've never reached Brazil;
But the _Don_ and _Magdalena_,
They can go there when they will!

Yes, weekly from Southampton,
Great steamers, white and gold,
Go rolling down to Rio
(Roll down--roll down to Rio!),
And I'd like to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old!

The doorway into the room from which he could hear the Sea Maid's voice was so crowded with people that it was some minutes before Peter could edge his way into the room. By that time the song was over and the singer had gone. Peter made inquiries from a man standing near, and was told that she had left the room by another door. He sought out his hostess and asked her to introduce him to the lady who had sung “Rolling down to Rio.” But his hostess could not help him. She admitted reluctantly that she knew no more of the singer than that she was a professional entertainer engaged through the medium of a concert agent and that she had probably already left the house. Peter followed up the clue. Next morning, after inquiry from the agent, he rang the bell of a tiny flat in Maida Vale and stood with beating heart waiting for the door to open.

Five minutes later he was out in the street again, bitterly disappointed. The lady he had seen was able to prove indisputably that it was she who had sung “Rolling down to Rio,” but she bore not the slightest resemblance to the Sea Maiden. To cover his confusion and excuse his visit, Peter had engaged her to sing at a charity concert that he had invented on the spur of the moment, had insisted on paying her fee in advance, and had left the flat, promising to send details of the place and date of the engagement by post.

* * * * *

That evening, brooding in his lonely chambers, Peter, who till then had prided himself on believing nothing that is not based on the fundamental fact that two and two make four, became obsessed by the idea that the Sea Maid had sent him a spirit-message, using the unconscious professional entertainer as her medium. He tried to shake off the idea, telling himself that it was fantastic and ridiculous, but gradually it overmastered him. At eleven o'clock he rose from his chair, picked up the _Times_, and consulted the shipping advertisements. Five minutes later he rang for his man servant.

“Buck up and pack, Higgins,” he said. “I'm off to Brazil. You haven't too much time. Boat-train leaves Waterloo at midday to-morrow.”

“To Brazil, sir? Isn't that one of those foreign places?”

“Yes. Why? What are you staring at? Why shouldn't I go to Brazil?”

“Shall you want me, sir?”

“You can come if you like.”

“If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather----”

“Man alive! I thought you'd have jumped at the chance. Don't you want to go rolling down to Rio? Can't you feel the magic of it--even in the mere words? Wouldn't you like to see the armadillo dilloing in his armor----?”

“I'd better get on with the packing, sir.”

Higgins was convinced that his master had suddenly “gone balmy.”

Before sunset next evening Peter again saw the Sea Maid.

The _R. M. S. Maranhão_, outward bound for Rio de Janeiro, had just left St. Alban's Head abeam when she passed a full-rigged ship bound down-channel so closely that Peter could see the men on board of her. Her tug had just left her and she was setting all sails. One by one the sails fluttered free and swelled to the soft breeze. Men were lying out on the upper topsail-yards casting loose the gaskets, and others on deck were running up the royals to the tune of a chantey,

Sing a song of Ranzo, boys,
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo.

A crisp wave curled from her bows, a long wake of gleaming foam streamed astern of her, and she curtsied gracefully on the swell as if gravely saluting the larger, newer vessel. The _Maranhão_ passed under her stern, and as she passed Peter, looking down on her poop, saw the Sea Maid. And the Sea Maid saw him and waved her hand as the great mail-steamer surged past.

“D'you know that vessel?” asked Peter eagerly of a ship's officer who was standing near him.

“She's the _Sea Sprite_. Cleared from Southampton early this morning. Bound for Rio in ballast for hides.”

“Bound for Rio? Splendid!” said Peter. “How long will it take her to get there? I know some one on board.”

“A month--more or less. Who's your pal?”

“That girl that waved her hand to me.”

The ship's officer focused his binoculars on the _Sea Sprite_.

“There's no girl on her deck. Girls very seldom travel on wind-jammers nowadays. Look for yourself.”

Peter took the glasses, and again saw the Sea Maid quite distinctly--but he did not care to argue about it.

While waiting at Rio de Janeiro Peter took care to make friends with the port authorities, and arranged with them to let him have the first news that they had of the _Sea Sprite_.

At last one morning found him in the customs launch, steaming out to the roadstead where the _Sea Sprite_, her anchor down, was stowing her canvas. As soon as the quarantine doctor gave permission Peter scrambled up the ship's side and looked eagerly round her deck. The Sea Maid was not there. He could hardly contain himself until he could find an opportunity to ask for her.

“I passed you in the Channel, Captain,” he said, “and I saw a lady on your deck who is an old friend of mine. May I speak to her?” The captain shook his head.

“Must have been some other ship,” he said. “We've got no ladies aboard.”

Peter's heart sank.

“I suppose you dropped her at some port on the way.”

“We haven't smelled harbor mud since we left Southampton Water,” said the skipper. “You're making a mistake, mister. Why, you look as if you thought I was lying. Take a look at the ship's articles, then, if you don't believe me. Stands to reason, doesn't it, that if I had a woman aboard her name would be on the articles?”

Peter returned to the shore, bitterly disappointed and hardly convinced that he had been mistaken. He booked a passage on the next homeward-bound steamer. On the homeward voyage he fell in love with an old lady, one of those women whose personality is so magnetic that they can draw the innermost secrets out of a young man's heart. One evening, when the sea was ablaze with splendor under the moon, he told her of the Sea Maid, and found it eased his longing to talk of her. The old lady understood.

“You'll see your Sea Maid again,” she said. “I'm sure of it. But perhaps not in this life.”

But Peter refused to give up hope of seeing the Sea Maid in the flesh. When he got back to London he sought an interview with one of the most eminent members of the Royal Geographical Society.

“I want you to tell me where Hi-Brasil is,” he said. “I want to go there.”

“Then you'll have to wait till you die,” said the geographer with a laugh.

“What do you mean?”

* * * * *

“Hi-Brasil is a purely mythical island, like St. Brendan's, The Fortunate Islands, Avalon, and Lyonnesse, that ancient and medieval geographers supposed to be somewhere out in the Atlantic. They've served their purpose. If nobody had ever believed in them it is probable that America would not have been discovered yet. The myth of Hi-Brasil's existence took a long time to die. Venetian geographers of the Middle Ages supposed it to be somewhere near the Azores, and until 1830 Purdy's chart of the Atlantic marked 'Brasil Rock (High)' in latitude fifty-one degrees ten minutes north, and longitude fifteen degrees fifty minutes west--that is, about two hundred miles westward of the Irish coast.”

“But isn't it possible that there really is such an island?” persisted Peter. “The sea is a big place, you know.”

“Absolutely impossible,” said the geographer. “Why, the spot indicated by Purdy is right in the track of steamers going from England to Newfoundland. If you want to read about Hi-Brasil you must read old books, published before geography was an exact science.”

Though he knew it was useless Peter followed the advice given him and eagerly read every book he could find that had any bearing on the subject--Rubruquis, Hakluyt, Linschoten, and many others--and to his delight he found that his reading brought him nearer to his Sea Maiden. After an evening spent in imagination exploring the coast of Vinland with Leif Ericsson, or rounding North Cape with Othere, or groping blindly in the unknown Atlantic with Malacello, he almost invariably dreamed that he and the Sea Maiden were once more sailing together in the little _Maeldune_.

It was after reading, first in Longfellow and afterward in Hakluyt, about Othere's voyage to the Northern Seas, that Peter saw an advertisement of a holiday cruise through the Norwegian fiords to Spitzbergen. He booked a passage, saw the bleak, storm-harried point that Othere was the first to round, and, on his way home, saw the Sea Girl again. Just south of the Dogger Bank the tourist-steamer passed a disreputable-looking tramp steamer. Half of her plates were painted a crude red; others were brown with rust; the awning stanchions on her bridge were twisted and bent; she had a heavy list to starboard, and she was staggering southward under a heavy deck-cargo of timber. On the bridge, leaning against the tattered starboard-dodger, the Sea Maid stood and waved her hand to him. Peter eagerly sought out a ship's officer.

“Where's that steamer bound for?” he asked.

“Goodness knows!” was the answer. “South Wales, most likely, as she's carrying pit-props.”

Hope of seeing the Sea Girl in the flesh again returned, and Peter wasted the next few weeks vainly searching all the South Wales coal ports. He had given up the search, and was returning to his much-neglected business when the South Wales-London express stopped for a moment on the bridge over the Wye near Newport. Peter looked idly out of the window at the dirty river flowing sluggishly between banks of greasy mud. Then his heart leaped again. Lying embedded in the mud far below were the rotting remains of a derelict barge, and on her deck were some ragged children hauling lustily on a scrap of rope that they had fastened to one of the barge's bollards and singing what, no doubt, they supposed to be a chantey. Standing on the barge's rotting deck was the Sea Maid. This time she not only waved her hand but called to him, “We are bound for the Spanish Main.” Peter leaned far out of the window of the railway-carriage.

“Where can I find you?” he shouted.

“In Hi-Brasil,” was the answer, and the train moved on.

Peter was now convinced that the eminent geographer whom he had consulted as to the whereabouts of Hi-Brasil had not known what he was talking about. It must, he decided, be some little Cornish fishing village, too insignificant to be worth the great man's notice.

In pursuit of this idea he went at once to Falmouth and began to make inquiries, first at the police stations and post-offices, and afterward among the fishermen. At Falmouth no one could answer his questions, till at last an old gray-beard told him that he'd heard of the place and believed it was somewhere farther west. At Penzance and Newlyn Peter could hear nothing, and he walked westward to Mousehole, determined that if he heard nothing there he would go on to the Scilly Islands. At Mousehole people laughed at him. One man to whom he spoke was so amused that he called out to a group of fishermen standing on the quay waiting for the tide to float their boats.

“Gen'elman wants to know where Hi-Brasil is.”

“Then he'll have to go farther west,” said one.

“To the Scillies?” asked Peter.

“Aye, and farther than that.”

“A long way farther than that,” said another. “It's an old wives' tale, mister. Stout ships that sail westward and never come back to port again have their last moorings at Hi-Brasil, so the saying goes. You ask Old John there. He's the only man that talks about Hi-Brasil, and he's daft.”

An old man whose broad back was bent with the weight of many years was hobbling toward him, and Peter knew that at last he was on the right track. The old fisherman who was coming down the quay was none other than the man he had seen sailing in the _Maeldune_ with the Sea Girl.

“Hi-Brasil?” asked Old John. “What d'you want with Hi-Brasil?”

“I want to go there.”

“Then I'm the man to take 'ee. But mark 'ee, mister, I can't bring 'ee back.”

“Never mind about that,” said Peter. “You take me. I'll pay you well.”

“Time enough to talk about payment when we get there,” said the old man. “When do 'ee want to start?”

“At once, if possible.”

“If 'ee really want to go us can start at half-flood.”

Peter assured the old man that he was in earnest, and the latter hobbled away over the cobbles, promising to be back in an hour's time.

* * * * *

“You're never going to sea with Old John, are you, mister?” said one of the fishermen anxiously. “He was a rare bold seaman in his day, but his day has passed this many a year. He was old when we were boys. Old John says he'll last as long as a deep-sea wind-jammer remains afloat. But he's daft. You oughtn't to listen to him. It's all old wives' foolishness about Hi-Brasil.”

But Peter would not be dissuaded, and an hour later, when the pilchard-boats jostled each other between the Mousehole pier-heads, and spread across Mount's Bay for sea-room, Peter and John, in a crazy old mackerel-boat, went with them. The setting sun gleamed on the brown sails of the pilchard fleet, and Peter drew a deep breath of delight. He knew that he would soon see the Sea Maid again.

At midnight the pilchard fleet was a line of riding lights on the horizon behind them. When the sun rose the Scillies lay to the north of them. Passing under the lofty Head of Peninnis, they exchanged hails with a fisherman of St. Mary's who was hauling his lobster-pots.

“Going far?” asked the fisherman.

“Aye, far enough,” answered John.

“Looks like it's coming on to blow from the east,” said the fisherman.

“Like enough,” answered John, and they passed out of hearing.

By midday a fresh wind was blowing. The mackerel-boat's faded, much-patched sails tugged at her mast, and she groaned as she leaped from the tops of the waves.

“Afeard, be 'ee?” asked Old John.

“Not I,” said Peter.

“The harder it blows, the quicker we'll get there,” said John, and not another word was said.

By night-time it was blowing a gale. A driving, following sea hustled and banged the boat from wave to wave, and the night fell so dark that Peter could not see the old man sitting motionless at the tiller, except when a wave broke in foam and formed a great white background behind him. Peter felt no fear. He knew with the certainty that admits of no argument that he was on his way at last to his beloved.

The wind hummed in the boat's rigging with a droning note like that of the Sea Maid's song. The waves washed along her counter, flinging aboard stinging showers of spray that drenched Peter as he sat on the midship thwart. The jib flapped and tugged at its sheet when her stern rose on a wave and groaned with the strain as her bow lifted. Each time she strained streams of water gushed through her crazy seams. At last a fierce gust of wind drove her nose so deep into the water that it poured in a cascade over her bows, and then a great, curving comber broke over them. Peter was washed from his seat and jammed between the mast and the leech of the mainsail as the water rose over his head.

* * * * *

When Peter recovered consciousness the sun was shining, the air was warm, the sea still, and the mackerel-boat, with Old John still at the tiller, was entering the mouth of a great land-locked harbor. Cliffs, gay with heather and golden gorse, sheltered it from the wind. The lazy, offshore breeze was fragrant with the smell of thyme. Shoals of fish played in the clear water, and on the far side a stream of fresh water rippled over golden sand.

Peter rubbed his eyes and looked around him with amazement. The harbor was thronged with shipping of every size, shape, and rig: yachts and smacks, schooners and ketches, tramp steamers and ocean-liners, barks and full-rigged ships, galleys and galleons, cogs and caracks, dromons and balingers, aphracts and cataphracts.

“See that vessel?” said Old John, as they passed under the stern of a stoutly built brig. “That's Franklin's ship, the _Terror_--crushed in the ice, she was, off Beechey Island in the Arctic. And that little craft alongside of her is the _Revenge_. She sank in the Azores after fighting fifty-three Spaniards for a day and a night. Away over there is what they used to call a trireme. Cleared from the Port of Tyre, she did, when I was young, and foundered off Marazion, just where we left the pilchard fleet.”

But Peter was not listening. He was eagerly watching a yawl that was scudding toward them; for the yawl was the _Maeldune_, and under the arched foot of her mainsail the Sea Maid was smiling a greeting.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

1. Why did the author make his hero “the dullest man that ever
audited an account”?

2. Point out, and explain, all the classical and literary
allusions.

3. Why did the author make his story so largely realistic?

4. What is the effect of the songs?

5. How does the author make his story clear?

6. Comment on the author's use of conversation.

7. In what respects is the story poetic?

8. What effect does Old John contribute to the story?

9. What is the effect of the abrupt ending?

10. What makes the story unusually artistic?

SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

1. Utopia 11. The World of Puck and
Oberon
2. Castles in Spain 12. The Summit of Olympus
3. The Fountain of Youth 13. Eldorado
4. Arcadia 14. St. Brendan's Isle
5. The Garden of the 15. Lyonesse
Hesperides
6. Over the Mountains 16. The Fortunate Islands
7. The Happy Valley 17. The Land of the Lotus
8. The Land of Dreams 18. The Lost Atlantis
9. The Isle of Avalon 19. At Camelot
10. The Enchanted World 20. The Land of Heart's Delight

DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

It is not easy to write, even with only a small degree of success, so happily suggestive a story as _Hi-Brasil_. Such a story is the product both of experience and of art.

The best that you can do is to think of some longing that has possessed you, as the longing for the sea possessed the author of _Hi-Brasil_. Take some prosaic character, not usually moved by such longings as your own, and show him brought strongly under the influence of a great desire. Make your story so realistic that it will seem true, and so symbolic that it will be at once poetic and capable of conveying a strong idea. Do all in your power to make your story crystal-clear, strongly outlined, and effective in power.