Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

“Parson’s darters air human, the same ez the rest o’ we worms o’ the airth. Seth, ye hev hit the nail o’ my own idee on the head. They hev passions, godly or ungodly, an’ air ez prone to yield ez the weakest among us. She wear in love with Paul Gramley, and he wear in love with her; there air no doubt o’ thet. Whate’er may be the outcome o’ thet love, or the obstacles agin it, I know not. But this ’ere I believe, she hev left the town alive, or else she air in it--wal, if she air in it, God knows how she be!”

And the child heard, but he did not understand.

“Ye do not think he harmed her?”

“I hev said my say on thet p’int,” replied Nathan, gravely. “Men air not prone to harm those ez they love with all their soul. It air my opinion she will be found afore many days--God knows where, or how.”

The eyes of the child were fixed upon the grim waters. Without comprehending the meaning of what he heard, he was impressed by their solemn tones and miens, and a tremor ran through his slender frame, and a chill, like the chill that curdles young blood at ghost-legends told in the twilight.

And he thought he observed a strange change in the waters, whereon he was gazing; he imagined he saw in the depths a white, ghastly face--the face of a woman, with wide-staring eyes, and parted lips where the teeth could be seen, and long, dishevelled hair, in which the green sea-grasses were intertwined. He thought that the deathly face, with its awful, fixed smile, was rising toward his own so close to the water--rising, as if to press those cold, chilled lips to his--rising, nearer and nearer, till the staring eyes were close to the surface, where the hair and grasses now floated.

His hand clutched harder than ever the flaming torch; he was frozen by fear; he was chilled into silence; he saw, as one sees in a dream, vaguely and doubting, for in all of his experience he never had seen such an apparition as that which now appeared in the waters.

A wild, hoarse, terrified cry broke the tranquil stillness of the night, and resounded far over the sea; the old boat quivered and trembled as the man in the bow suddenly sprang to his feet.

“’Fore God! what is that?”

“What?--Ha! Reach me the hook--there! by ye feet, Seth! Air ye turned into stone, man? It air the hand o’ God, raisin’ the dead out o’ the depths, and sendin’ a light through the darkness!”

But Nathan himself was obliged to get the boat-hook, for Seth Skellet was palsied.

And the child’s blue eyes, not wondering, but terrified now, saw the three men lift the cold, dead form into the boat and lay her dripping before him; and the torch fell from his grasp and its flame expired, as her life’s flame had, in the black, choking waters.

Through the darkness they rowed to the shore--an hour of darkness, when it seemed that even the stars were dimmed and withheld their accustomed light--an hour of darkness, while the child stared, fascinated, at the void eyes, which were staring at him, and his innermost soul shrieked in fear for _it_ to move and ease the horrible spell that held him.

“Youngster, run to the village store an’ tell ’em we hev found it.” They were hoarse words from Seth Skellet’s lips, spoken as she was borne, by strong, tender hands, away from the rippling waters that sang upon the beach, and laid upon the grass-land which her feet had often trod.

And the child obeyed; turned and fled, across fields and meadows--fled from that awful presence, which, to him, was and was not--fled, and paused not till he stood in the village store, where some half-dozen loungers were sitting.

And one man there was who saw in the terrified face the shadow of death; and he cried:

“My life! my Hetty!”

“Dead! drowned!” gasped the child. And he saw the man--tall and grand, with curling hair and warm, dark eyes--spring to his feet, with a cry of anguish; saw him grasp the clothing above his heart, then reel, totter, and fall--fall, as if shot, face downward upon the floor.

* * * * *

A few days after, the boy heard the bells tolling; saw a sorrowing throng pass through the village street; followed, and saw two forms laid near together in a quiet corner of the country churchyard. He heard the weeping people speak of love, of retribution, of mercy; heard them speak of a wife, _his_ wife--who had been thought dead, but lately discovered--discovered, when _his_ love was another’s; heard them speak of a heart, _his_ heart, broken by anguish; heard them speak of a child, _his_ child and _hers_--a child, who had died when _she_ died.

And the boy heard, but he did not understand.

* * * * *

Do not ask me where Goose Point is, nor in what year these foregoing episodes occurred, for I would prefer not to tell you; but, hearing with the ears of a child, seeing with the eyes of a child, I relate their sadness in the language of a man; for their impressive stamp, undimmed by time, is still vivid upon the tablets of my memory.

THE TRAINING OF A UNIVERSITY CREW.

BY FREDERIC A. STEVENSON,

Captain of the Yale Crew, ’88.

Very few among the many thousands who witness the annual boat race between the universities of Yale and Harvard on the Thames at New London, appreciate what the preparation for that event means. Of course, nearly every one has heard that the crews have been in training, and from the newspaper articles that come thick and fast about the time of the race, has formed certain vague and often erroneous ideas as to how that training is effected.

The winning crew is most elaborately praised: their stroke was perfect, their backs rose and fell in unison, they worked like a piece of well-oiled machinery. On the other hand, the losing crew is characterized in terms no less strong: their work was ragged, such a man in the boat gave out, the men were not properly trained. Thus, by reading the usual newspaper reports of a race is the general idea of a boat race and the work required for it formed. How well the average correspondent can be relied on for authentic and accurate information was well illustrated this year at New London. The day before the Yale-Harvard race, one paper published an article praising the Harvard stroke, speaking of “the perfect stroke of the Harvard eight.” The result of the race entirely changed the tone of the next article. The same paper then described the same stroke of the same crew, thus: “The rowing was of the most ragged kind, and their style abominable.” This was scarcely true and was most certainly very unjust. It would surely have been impossible for a crew to go backwards to that extent in a single day. The fact is that both articles were greatly exaggerated, the first as badly in one direction as the second was in the other.

Let us see if we cannot come right down to hard facts concerning training and ascertain what it really means in the case of a university crew.

One race is but just over when the work for the next begins. The summer’s work, however, is mainly confined to the captain, for he must during that time make a careful study of the manner of coaching, of the theory of the stroke, and of the styles of rigging a shell, in preparation for the year’s work. Then, too, the truly enthusiastic oarsman endeavors as much as possible to improve during the summer, mainly in getting thoroughly acquainted with the feeling and motion of the water.

But now autumn is with us again, the university is open, and once more another college athletic year is begun. The first event in the rowing department is the fall regatta. In this only the class crews take part, and the training is short and not so severe as in the spring. But these fall regattas, unimportant as they may seem to an outsider, are really a great factor in the university crew work, and should never be neglected.

The class crews are the main feeders of the university crew, and it is all-important that they should get as much practice as possible, so that they be taught the regular university crew stroke. The members of the past year’s crew act as coaches. This is doubly advantageous, for it both instills the right principles into the crew, and teaches the coach not only to think about the stroke and to see faults, but also to learn how they may be corrected, which is of immense advantage to him when his own work begins.

After the class races the men start work for the university crew. The captain selects from the class crews the men whom he considers fitted to train. To this number are added some who, though they may never have rowed, yet seem to have in them suitable material, and the old crew men who are not playing football. The work is light, consisting of a daily short row, and lasts only so long as the water is open.

After the Christmas recess, the real work begins. All through the fall the “weeding-out” process has been in operation. Now the ranks are once more filled, mainly with those who have been playing football during the fall, so that the number of candidates who begin the real training will be between twenty-five and thirty. Now is the time, therefore, to ask the questions of what does the training actually consist? what are the requirements for a crew man? and how are the standards of excellence to be applied?

We will consider first the training itself. The work will take from two to three hours a day. During the winter, the men assemble at the gymnasium at some fixed hour; their clothes are quickly changed, knickerbockers, running shoes and “sweaters” being substituted, and the work of the afternoon begins. After a few moments’ work in the gymnasium, a short run is taken, outside if the weather permits; if not, inside on the canvas-covered track. A distance of five or six miles is covered at a pace varying from a fast walk to a sharp trot, according to the fancy of the captain. On the return to the gymnasium, after cooling off somewhat after the run, the men in a body go through a series of exercises designed to limber up the rowing muscles. Then the men are taken in squads of eight and set to work on the rowing-machines, or, what is far better, in a tank. A well-built tank is as much superior to the ordinary rowing-machine as the modern racing shell is to the old-style racing boat.

A few words will describe a tank. The only one that I know of is at Yale, and is used by the university crew in their winter work. A wall a little over three feet in height encloses a space about fifty feet in length to thirty feet in width in the basement of the gymnasium. The bottom and sides are cemented and it contains water to the depth of about two feet. A barge, securely fastened at both ends, lies in the water. This is of full size and regularly rigged to suit the men. The blades of the oar have to be either of less width or have a hole cut in the centre of the blade to diminish the great pressure. The tank is arranged so as to accelerate the current of water as much as possible as it is driven by the oars. This current is guided by means of the curved corners of the tank and by partitions running parallel to the barge over which the shank of the oar passes. By the stroke, the water is driven toward the stern outside the partition, _i. e._, in the channel farthest from the boat, and flows back toward the bow on the inside. These side partitions come just above the surface of the water, while a partition about two-thirds as high as those at the sides runs beneath the boat and practically divides the tank in half, giving two distinct and separate circular currents. The theory is that the oarsman’s strength is expended in driving the water round where ordinarily it is used in sending the boat ahead.

The crew is now seated in the boat, oars in hand, ready for the real work of the afternoon. The captain or the “coach” stands on the edge of the tank. At the command “Get ready!” off come the “sweaters,” and the men come up into position ready for the catch. The coach runs his eye quickly along the boat, straightens up the men, and satisfies himself that everything is right. The rowing is now begun and lasts from a half to three-quarters of an hour. The coach goes completely round the boat on the edge of the tank, correcting faults, explaining points, often stopping the crew, and making individual men practice certain difficult points. At the close of this work the men take a shower-bath, and after being rubbed down are ready, with hearty appetites, for the supper at the training table.

Such is the general afternoon’s gymnasium work during the winter. When spring comes, the tank gives way to the harbor and the gymnasium to the boat-house. Then the entire time is spent on the water, and the men are carefully watched by the coach from a steam launch.

The question of the selection of the men is the most difficult point that the captain and coach have to decide. Of course, certain physical traits are essential for a crew man, and he must have perfectly sound heart and lungs. This must be decided by a doctor’s examination. He must be tough, strong and enduring, and this is shown by the work he can stand.

But more is required for the modern university crew man. The day of “beef” and mere strength is past; for rowing has kept up with the times and it is now the era of skill in rowing. Brain-work is just as necessary in crew-rowing as muscular exertion. Neither is of use without the other, the two carefully combined give the winning crew. So nowadays the crew candidate has to undergo a mental as well as a physical examination. In passing judgment on these qualifications the greatest care must be used. Only those men can be selected in whom not only the captain and the coach, but every man in the boat has full confidence. This man may not always be the most skillful individual oarsman, but the fact that the ideal is a _crew_, and that eight must be chosen who will work as one man, must constantly be kept in mind. How can a crew row a hard race when there is a feeling that there is one man in the boat whose “sand” will give out when the final test comes? Every good crew man must be an enthusiast, a hard and faithful worker, a conscientious trainer, and a man who feels at all times that the honor and glory of his university are entrusted to his care.

Too much stress cannot be laid on the subject of harmony in a crew. All must work with the same will, with the same ideal in view. Often a man must take the coach’s word for what seems to him in his inexperience like a fatal blunder. Where there is mutual confidence between crew and coach, a strict adherence to what is believed to be the right principles, and honest, faithful work, defeat will come but seldom, disgraceful defeat never.

Such are the men who make up the university crews of to-day. How these men are regarded in college may be judged by a remark made this year by the Dean of Yale. He said, “The rowing men are the best class of men in college, the men with whom the faculty have the least trouble.”

In conclusion, I would like to say a word in reply to the oft-repeated question, whether it is beneficial to take part in college athletics. If I may be permitted to express an opinion after four years of rowing, I will most certainly answer, yes, for that branch of college athletics builds a man up physically as every one admits. It does not prevent a man from standing well in his studies. The men who are most relied on in a crew are, as a rule, those who make a good showing in the recitation room. The training a man undergoes as a member of the university crew sends him out into the world not only with a sound, healthy body, but also with the habits of regularity, promptness, obedience, self-control and self-restraint thoroughly ground into him; in short, with all the personal characteristics that combine to make a successful man fully developed. I have never found a crew man who regrets the time and labor he gave to it. Every one loves it with an affection that only a crew man can understand, and looks back upon it as one of the most pleasant as well as most profitable parts of his college course.

HOW TO TAKE A TRAMP TRIP.

BY LEE MERIWETHER.

Author of “A Tramp Trip; or, Europe on Fifty Cents a Day.”

When I wrote my book I did not imagine any one would care to take a Tramp Trip except on paper, hence the brevity of the chapter on “Hints to Tramp Tourists.” The publication of each new edition, however, brings forth letters from young men in all parts of the country requesting further hints and suggestions as to the manner in which one should set about taking a pedestrian tour, not on paper, but _in propria persona_ among the people of Europe, as I did. These letters of inquiry have become altogether too numerous to permit individual replies. I shall, therefore, try to answer them here, and give, as briefly as I can, an outline of the way to plan and carry out a pedestrian trip through Europe.

The first thing, of course, is to decide on the countries to be visited. “If I cannot see all Europe, which portion shall I see?” Undoubtedly, Italy, by reason of its history, ruins, art, scenery, and picturesque people, stands first of all. My own preference would then take me to Switzerland, next to Germany, then to France, Austria, Hungary, and so on, to the far East. England I place last on the list, because, in comparison with the other countries mentioned, it is almost like America. When I landed at Folkestone after a year on the Continent and in Asia Minor, the English faces, English language, English cities, all seemed American--they were so much more American than any of the things I had been accustomed to. To the student always, and to the traveler, if fresh from America, England is novel and interesting. But it is not half so novel or interesting to the mere sightseer as Continental Europe, hence it stands last on the list.

Assuming that the candidate for pedestrianism agrees with me as to beginning his tour in Italy, the first step should be to familiarize himself with Roman and Italian history. He who has read Tacitus and Gibbon will look with far greater profit and pleasure on the palace of Nero, the Caprian villas of Tiberius, the rugged walls of Stamboul, than will a stranger to those authors. As to language, the better the tourist’s command of Italian, the greater his profit and pleasure; but he need not be discouraged if without such command, for Italian is not difficult. A few months’, or even a few weeks’, study of the grammar, capped by a three-weeks’ voyage to Naples or Palermo in an Italian steamer, surrounded by Italians, will enable the traveler to “get along” fairly the first day he lands; and as he proceeds on his tour, being careful to avoid American consulates and tourists’ hotels where English is spoken, he will find his command of the language equal to all ordinary occasions. The dialects in the Neapolitan states, in Tuscany, Venice, etc., differ one from the other, but not so much so as to embarrass the traveler who has followed the course indicated above. He will, unless deficient in acquiring languages, find after the course I have mentioned that he knows enough to make himself fairly understood in Naples, Rome, Florence, Venice, or any other Italian city.

Many people have an idea that French is the most essential language for the traveler in Europe. It is for all except the tramp traveler. In Spain, Italy, Germany, Russia, Turkey--in short, in any part of Europe, French is spoken in your five-dollar-a-day hotels, but in workingmen’s inns it is of little use outside France and French Switzerland. The most important languages for the _tramp_ traveler are Italian and German. German, of course, is all that is needed in Germany, Austria and German Switzerland; in addition it will often be found serviceable in Belgium, Western Russia, Sweden, and in the southeastern European States, as Hungary, Servia, Bulgaria and Roumania. Italian is of use, not only in Italy, but all along the Mediterranean, from Gibraltar to the Bosporus, and even in the Black Sea ports of Russia, where Italian commerce has made the people familiar with Italian sailors for centuries past. My guide and interpreter in Constantinople was a young scamp of a Turk, who had picked up a colloquial knowledge of the language from Italian sailors.

It is far more difficult to acquire German, and unless the tramp has some previous acquaintance with that language, I fear he will fare badly in the Fatherland. I was fortunate in having some knowledge of German, acquired by long residence with a German family in America. But for this I do not think my tramp through Germany and Austria would have been half so enjoyable and profitable as it was.

As to outfit, little can be said more than is already said in the final chapter of my book. A knapsack can be bought for two dollars; into this pack a change of underclothing, a woolen shirt, a note-book, and a few etceteras, and you are ready for the trip. It is not advisable to carry fire-arms. The most serviceable weapon is a heavy club or walking-stick. The possession of a revolver may incur untold trouble in an Italian _dogana_, and is really of no use, since no one is in the least likely to attack so shabby a person as the tramp tourist becomes after a voyage in the steerage across the Atlantic.

The tramp tourist, not having and not requiring much money, need not be bothered with letters of credit or bills of exchange. Bank of England notes can be bought in New York for from $4.84 to $4.90 the pound, according to the rate of exchange. Buy about a hundred Italian lire ($20.00) for immediate use, and put the rest of your funds in English bank notes, which, for safe keeping, should be buttoned or sewed in some well-secured inner pocket. These notes can readily be exchanged anywhere in Europe for the money of the country in which you happen to be, and as several hundred dollars value can be carried without even making a lump in the pocket, they form a convenient and reasonably safe way of carrying one’s funds.

Having arrived at Naples, Palermo, or some other Italian city, the reader of my “Tramp Trip” will, nine chances to one, say something not suited to polite society, and not flattering to my veracity. For, notwithstanding my repeated expositions of Italian trickery, the tramp fresh from America will overlook some loophole, and the first days of his arrival, before he is taught by his own experience as well as by mine, will in all probability be charged, or rather overcharged, as much as though he were going first-class, with glasses slung over his shoulder and a red guidebook in his hand. I recall one of my first experiences in Naples. At a restaurant, before taking a seat, a certain sum was stipulated upon for a dinner. When it came to settling, the Italian charged just double the amount agreed on--_perche_? “Because,” and the rogue shrugged his shoulders as he said it--“because, signore, you took _two_ pieces of meat instead of one.”

Of course it was a mere cheat, but what can you do? At first you pay, as I did; later, when you see such things are going to occur, not once but twenty or a hundred times a day, you lay down the right sum and walk off.

The tomb of Virgil is a few yards without one of the gates of Naples. Within the walls cab drivers are limited in their charges by a tariff--without, they charge what they like, or what they can get. I knew this, and so when I started for the poet’s grave, I bade the Jehu stop just inside the gate, where I meant to get out and walk the few yards to the tomb. But when we reached the gate Jehu drove on through, despite my remonstrance, saying he wished to let his horse stand outside in the shade of the wall. On this slight ground he built an outrageous charge, four times as much as the tariff rate to the gate. When he had driven me back to the city and I offered him the correct fare, he fumed like a Turk, swore he would have me arrested, that he had taken me into the country, into the _campagna_, and that he didn’t mean to let himself be cheated by a base foreigner. And all the while he danced and jumped about me, shaking his fist like a madman. When my curiosity was satisfied, I threw the right fare, one lira, on the ground, and walked off. Instantly there was a transformation that would have done credit to a veteran comedian. The cabman, seeing I did not mean to be cheated, ceased his fierce antics, stooped and picked up the silver, and waved me an “addio” with a smile as pleasant and as fresh as a May morn.

In Vienna I stepped into a money-changer’s to buy Turkish money. “Wait a few minutes,” said the manager, “I must send to the Börse to see what the exchange is to-day.” I took a seat. In ten minutes the money-changer came to me with the Turkish gold, and I rose to go. But in passing out the door a man stopped me and demanded a gulden. “For what?” “I went to the Börse to find out the exchange.” His going to the Börse was none of my affair; I refused to pay him forty cents for running the money-changer’s errand. Then followed a curious scene. The man threatened to invoke the power of the entire Empire unless he received his gulden. I told him to invoke. An excited crowd began to gather and block the narrow street.

“Young man, you are wrong,” shouted one in the crowd. “He went to the Börse; you must pay him.”

“The law is on his side; you will have to go to jail,” shouted another. Whereupon I sprang on a box that stood in front of the money-changer’s window, and harangued the crowd in the best German I could command. I told them I was traveling to see strange sights; that nothing would interest me more than an experience in a Vienna jail. “That,” I said, “will be something to tell my countrymen and make them stare. Come, I am ready; take me to jail.”

The man who wanted a gulden looked puzzled, but finally made up his mind to brave it out. Summoning a gendarme, he made his complaint, and I was placed under arrest. Away we went, followed by a hooting, jeering crowd, some of whom tried to shake my determination by shouting out the horrors of an Austrian dungeon. But the gulden not being forthcoming, there was no change in the line of march, and at length we brought up at the police station. Here the accuser spoke to me in a low tone, and said if I would pay half a gulden he would withdraw his charge. No. Well, ten kreutzers, five--anything, and finally nothing! For, unwilling or unable to deposit the necessary security for the costs of the case should he fail to prove his charge, he at length strode away sullen and furious because he had failed either to frighten or to cheat me.

I mention these incidents that the reader may understand what fifty-cents-a-day traveling means. The majority of tourists would have paid that gulden, and other similar guldens, and thus run their expenses up to five or ten dollars a day. Perhaps they would rather it should be twenty dollars than go through such scenes. It all depends upon one’s “point of view,” as Henry James says. For my part, I refused to pay that cheating messenger not so much to save my gulden, as for the sake of the scene. That surly, disappointed churl, the mob, the scene at the station before the stern gendarmes afforded me more enjoyment than I could have bought with twenty guldens. I would advise none to take a tramp trip who cannot, if necessary, enter such scrimmages with a feeling of positive delight. If you have not that disposition--if you cannot enjoy this close contact with and study of the lower classes--stay at home, else will your trip be one not of delight, but of petty humiliations and counting pennies.

One of the most frequent questions put to me by my inquisitive correspondents is: “How is it possible to find cheap lodging-places the _first_ night in strange cities? and if you don’t find them, if you must go, even temporarily, to a first-class hotel, how is the per diem to be kept within fifty cents?”

The reason this question is so often asked is because the writers have never been to Europe, and have never traveled as tramps. They are thinking of their occasional trips to New York or Philadelphia, when, with a heavy valise in their hands, they are compelled to go straightway to an hotel. Different is it with the tramp tourist abroad. He has nothing but a cane in his hand; his knapsack now fits like another garment, and is unnoted. So accoutred, he arrives in town, walks about, sees the sights, and when he sees also the legend “_casa locanda_” over a door, he stops to investigate. If prices do not suit, off he goes again, looking until he finds one that does suit. When that is done he will do well, in stipulating a price, to say over and over again, “_Tutti compresso_”--everything included--else will he be obliged to pay not, indeed, more than the five soldi agreed on for the room, but twenty, thirty, one knows not how many soldi more for the candle, or the furniture, or the soap, or the water and towels, or _something_ that was not agreed on. In Verona, home of Juliet, I had a pitched battle (of words) with a landlord who wanted to charge two lire (forty cents) extra for the candle, when I had bargained for the room “_tutti compresso_” for _una mezza lira_ (ten cents). But for that magic phrase he might possibly have succeeded in his demands--possibly only, for I had then been in Italy some months, and was not so easily “squeezed” as the day when first I stepped on her historic soil at Genoa.

A question sometimes asked is, whether one could work one’s way should funds give out. I think not. In the first place, labor is so poorly paid; in the second place, a foreigner could scarcely get work at any price. I met a Philadelphia cigarmaker in Italy. He had tried in vain to secure work at his trade--in vain, because he was not a member of the necessary guilds, or unions. At home he could travel to his heart’s content, finding work in New York as well as in San Francisco, in St. Paul as well as in New Orleans. But in Europe he could not get a chance to make even the forty cents a day that European cigarmakers are able on the average to earn. It is the same with other trades. I advise the pedestrian, therefore, not to depend in the least degree on making ends meet by work anywhere in Europe.

In Eastern Europe pedestrianism is not advisable; the roads are poor, the villages often few and far between. West of Vienna there are few districts where the traveler will fail to find excellent roads and villages every few miles. Indeed, except in places like the Black Forest in Germany, the Higher Alps in Switzerland, the Pontine Marshes in Italy, you no sooner leave one village behind you than another appears in sight before you, so there need be no anxiety about being overtaken at night “in the woods.”

Baedeker’s Guide-Books are, in my opinion, the best. Besides much historical information, they contain minute maps and directions as to finding one’s way about a country. So minute and accurate were the directions in the Handbook for Switzerland, I was able to find my way over the most solitary mountain paths without other aid. Meier’s Guide-Books are cheaper than Baedeker’s, and almost if not quite as good, but they are printed only in German. Baedeker should be bought in New York, and carefully studied on the voyage across the Atlantic. It will prepare the traveler for many necessary details which would otherwise be learned only by troublesome experience. Be sure to cover the Baedeker with a quiet-colored cloth or paper, else will its flaming red binding betray that you are a tourist, and involve you in all of a tourist’s troubles.

These few hints will, I hope, suffice to start the traveler on his way; and in concluding I can make him no better wish than that he may derive as much enjoyment from his journey as I did from my “Tramp Trip.”

COURSING IN IRELAND.

THE “ENCLOSED” MEETING ON THE MOURNE MOUNTAINS.

BY ROBERT F. WALSH.

In the autumn of last year, I was enjoying a holiday at Rostrevor, in County Down, Ireland. One bright morning a friend woke me early and proposed a visit to the Mourne Park Coursing Meeting.

Two hours later we were “on the ground” in Lord Kilmorey’s beautiful park on the Mourne Mountains. On the road from Rostrevor we had met numberless sporting people, and men, women and children of all sorts and conditions on their way to see the fun. I must say the variety of class that comprised that living stream was almost outrivaled by the variety of modes of conveyances. Everything, from the common “butt” or cart, drawn by an old horse whose visit to the tannery was almost due, to the coach-and-four of the Earl, was brought into requisition to carry these lovers of sport. There were lords and beggarmen, betting men and priests, ladies and work-girls, old and young, athletes and cripples. It was a curious crowd, but most good-humored. All seemed determined to enjoy their drive through the beautiful scenery of Mourne and to forget care while the deity of the leash catered for their wants and amusement. On the ground were collected several thousand pleasure seekers and sporting men, and about two hundred and fifty beautiful greyhounds, well cared for and covered with heavy “clothing.” Some of these dogs, I was told, were worth from $5,000 to $10,000 each, and many of them had been brought from England and Scotland.

On a gentle slope of the mountain there is a large meadow walled in on two sides. One end is fenced, but the bottom is open and partly secured so as to allow the hares to get away from the dogs if they are lucky enough to reach this “escape.” At the other end of this large field (nearly half a mile away) there is a V-shaped fence with several sliding shutters at the bottom. About twenty yards from the point of this V (in the field) is a screen made of branches, behind which the “slipper” stands with the brace of dogs ready to be slipped from the leash when a hare is driven through one of the shutters I have described.

Some days before the meeting, several hundred hares are driven from the mountains into the shrubbery or “enclosure” directly behind the V-shaped fence. This enclosure is about forty acres in extent, and when the sport begins, the hares are collected near the shutters.

When the dogs are handed over to the slipper and all is ready, the “slip-steward” signals to the beaters and opens one shutter, which is immediately closed again when a hare appears. Then begins the fun. The hare is allowed nearly one hundred yards start before the dogs are slipped. When the slipper is certain that both dogs have sighted their fleet-footed prey, he pulls the string and off they go. Picture two beautiful dogs, with straining necks, careering headlong after a little hare which knows they are seeking her death. On they go at almost lightning pace, and as they near the hare, one shoots ahead and makes a drive at the “quarry”; but “puss” is too cunning and suddenly turns from her pursuers. Then the dogs get closer and closer. Sometimes one leads, sometimes the other; but puss doubles as often as they get close to her “scut,” and so the hunt continues until the death or escape of the hare.

The onlookers are breathlessly intent as they watch and count the “points” scored by each dog in the course. Then, finally, madame escapes or one dog “drives” right into her and kills; or, perhaps, in her endeavor to turn from the leader, she is caught and killed by the dog behind.

At the Mourne Park Coursing Meeting, I learned that it was not always the dog which killed that won the course. It was explained to me in this way: The “run up” to the hare, that is, the first dog that “turns” or causes her to swerve to one side or other, counts one or two points according to whether the hare is turned on the inside or outside of the line of the course. Every turn after this counts one point.

A “go-by,” that is, where the second dog passes the first by one clear length after the first turn, counts two, and the death counts one point off the other dog’s turn, or two off the turn of the dog that kills. In this way, a clever dog may often beat a much faster one, as was the case when Snowflight won the Waterloo Cup--“the blue ribbon of the leash.” The “Cups,” “Plates,” or “Purses” are all run off in ties. The names of all the dogs entered for each stake are placed in a hat the evening before the meeting, and are drawn out one by one. The first and second drawn run the first course, and so on until the entire number are drawn. Then, as is the case in most games or sports where matches are contested for in ties, the winner of the first course runs against the winner of the second, the winner of the third against that of the fourth, etc., until only two dogs remain. And then is run the final tie, on the result of which, in an important meeting, many thousands of pounds are bet.

The sport seemed to me to be much more exciting than horse-racing. I noticed also that the betting fraternity have much more scope for their “trade” at a coursing meeting than on a race-course. Along the fence were hundreds of “book-makers” placing their bets and incessantly yelling their changes in “the price” of each dog as the vagaries of the hare made it more difficult to decide which would win.

But the principal betting takes place on the evening before the meeting, when the “draw” has been arranged. The chairman (usually a nobleman and president of the club) calls out the names of each dog. Then _vive voce_ bets are offered and taken, and repeated by the chairman, first at “long odds” on the chance of an individual dog winning the stake, and afterwards on the individual courses. The “long odds” betting ranges from even money on a favorite to five hundred to one against an outsider or unknown contestant. The betting on the individual courses is, naturally, much closer. At meetings like Waterloo, Gosforth Park Gold Cup Meeting, or at Epsom, where the prize for the winner has often been $50,000--upwards of $1,000,000 change hands on the different results. Report says that ten times that amount has been invested about the Waterloo Cup, months before the meeting takes place.

In my description of the sport I have almost forgotten to tell the impression it produced on me. It is truthfully this: I was fascinated by its excitement and uncertainty, and so thoroughly pleased was I with my first day’s coursing that I traveled many a mile to be present at other meetings before I left the Green Isle.

YSLETA.

BY E. HOUGH.

I.

’Pache and I were tired. There was not any question about that. Fifty miles since morning, without getting out of the saddle, either one of us--though ’Pache always tried to get out of the saddle every morning, and sometimes nearly did.

’Pache was my horse. At least he was before Bill Stitt’s gang stole him. Now, why did they ever steal ’Pache, I wonder? The ugliest horse on earth without doubt, the dirtiest clay-bank that ever was, and the most simple, ingenuous, unexpected, naïve bucker! But ’Pache had the black streak down his back which plainsmen prize; and for a long goer he was hard to beat. Farewell, ’Pache! God bless you, you miserable india-rubber demon, wherever you may be now!

’Pache and I were tired. No question of it. And hungry? ’Pache took a piece out of my leggings once in a while, to testify to that. And thirsty? Yes, pretty thirsty; but we knew it was forty miles between water-holes, so we loped on, heads down, joints loose; loppity-lop, loppity-lop, loppity, loppity, lop, lop, lop.

’Pache struck a trot at the foot of the long climb up the Sierra Capitan divide. In and out among the cañons, winding around where it was easy to get lost--for by only one combination of these cañons was it possible for a horseman to cross this divide--and going up all the time. ’Pache coughed; it sounded dull. I tried to whistle; it sounded as small as a cambric needle.

The black piñon hills hustled and huddled and crowded up together, frightened by the threatening fingers of the Capitans--a lonesome range, the Capitans--a lonesome, waterless range. Spirits and demons in these hills, said the natives. The biggest cinnamon bears on earth in them, said the hunters, and black-tail deer so old they wore spectacles; and elk, and maybe plesiosauri and mastodons, for aught I know.

Tradition said there was a lake of water up on top of the highest peak. Tradition said you could find pieces of smoky topaz up there as big as your fist. Tradition said there was a cave over in the middle of the range, painted blue inside, and walled up in front, and with the whole interior covered with strange characters. Tradition said that one Señor José Trujillo had found, not far from this cave, a large piece of stone covered with sign-writing no one could read--a second Rosetta stone. Tradition said that Señor Trujillo dwelt in a little _placita_ hidden somewhere back in the Capitans.

’Pache and I topped the divide. Did anybody say we were tired? Did any one believe that for a minute? That was a mistake. Why, when you throw off this chrysalis of pain and grief, when you drop your poor, sad mockery of a body, and pull up over the Range, you’re not going to be _tired_, are you? Are they tired on Pisgah? Are wings going to be tired like legs and arms and brains? No. Because--well, ’Pache knew that much.

A soft breeze from the south reached us upon the crest, and at its touch there hummed through ’Pache’s head the words of Goethe’s song in “Wilhelm Meister,”

“Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht;”

and the refrain,

“Kennst du das Land?”

And, verily, the Italy for which Mignon sighed might have been this that lay before us, stretching on and on in long lifts and falls of hills and valleys; in architecture of the ribs of eternity; in color the sum of Nature’s grand and simple touch. You can’t mix that! You can’t paint in royal purple, argent and aurum run together in one liquid, unburning fire! Take it up on a knife-blade, and perhaps it wouldn’t drop off. It wouldn’t run. But spread on by the brush of the Eternal hand, mellowed in the middle distance, softened in the background by the rays of the evening sun--there was color, above art, above description, above talk, above thought almost, fit to make ’Pache and me despair.

Off in the other direction, to the northwest, stretched the black foothills, and beyond them the brown and level plains, waterless, endless. That way--home lay that way, once. But if ’Pache and I should gallop night and day, we wouldn’t be as far as we see, and we wouldn’t have reached the nearest water-hole.

Tired? Why, we were on the crest of the divide, on the uplift of the earth, above the earth and its ailments. I could feel ’Pache’s wings under the saddle-flaps!

And ’Pache lifted up his head, whereon the mane was lightly blowing, and pitched his ears forward and neighed loud and cheerily. And some Valkyr steed behind a flat rock heard him and laughed at him, and so did another, and so did many others; and spirits came out and jeered at ’Pache, and small demons afar off mocked at him, and trumpet-calls for the assembly of the spirits of the mountains echoed and called back to us, fainter and fainter, passing on to the regions of the inner range.

They might have had the Holy Grail in there in those wild heights, those spirits of the Capitans. I do not know. There might be better than ’Pache and I to send for it!

Down the long reaches on the other side we rattled, in and out, loppity, loppity, loppity; down into cañons which grew darker as the sun went down. ’Pache didn’t mind it now. He knew where he was, and into his wise, yellow head came visions of a pint of hard, blue Mexican corn, and a whole _rio_ full of water. Happy ’Pache!

But what made the creature stick his ears forward so, and throw his head up, and look around at me out of the corner of his eye? Anything to make a fellow hitch his belt around a little? Ah! There it was. Piñon smoke! The faint, pungent odor came up the cañon quite unmistakably now, and ’Pache and I knew that someone had gone into camp down on the _rio_, more than a mile below. We had expected to camp there that night ourselves, though it wasn’t plain what we’d have to eat, outside that one pint of Mexican corn, unless Providence should favor a pin-hook, or send a cotton-tail our way. So ’Pache and I scrambled up out of the cañon, at a shallow place, and reconnoitered a bit.

Greasers--a man and a boy--a bull-team--empty--going home from the Fort.

’Pache turned up his nose in disgust. How he did hate Greasers!

We scrambled back into the cañon, and came down the trail on a run, in great style, to show the Greaser outfit that, though we had traveled far, there was still some life in us. ’Pache stopped short at the edge of the wagon, and fell to stealing corn, while his rider threw the bridle down and advanced to the campers, saying, “_Como l’va?_”

“_Como la va, Señor?_” said the elder Mexican; and soon he added, seeing that I did not ride on, “_Que queres?_”

“_Quero comar_,” said I, briefly and to the point--which is to say, “I want to eat.”

“_O, si, muy bien!_” said he, smiling gravely, and with a real dignity handing me the camp frying-pan, and then poking the embers up around the coffee-pot. They had just finished their supper.

What there was in that frying-pan I never knew. I only know there was less when I got through than when I began. I dared look at it only once, and then saw a greenish-looking semi-liquid which would have done to tell fortunes over. I suspect _chili verde_ and sheep; maybe cotton-tail, perhaps flour--_possibly_ onions.

After supper I led ’Pache down to drink. He would have died of thirst before he would have left off stealing corn. It was a matter of principle with him!

It was a beautiful place, this wild little mountain spot, and the big clumsy _carro_ and the broad-horned oxen hardly detracted from the picturesque, neither did the half-wild teamsters who lay stretched out on the ground. The stream, troutful and delicious, poured melodiously by, just big enough to hold one-pounders. The cañon walls swept widely out into a perfect amphitheatre, back of which rose the solemn Capitans, now of a wondrous, mournful purple in the dying sunlight. The evening chill was coming on. The big stars were showing. The _rio_ babbled vaguely, whispering of cold, black mountain depths beyond; grieving, maybe, that no man had ever been found good enough to attain the Holy Grail.

Alone, ’Pache and I would not have been lonesome. We would have lain down there with our one blanket and slept the sleep of the ingenuously wicked, as calmly as two babes. But now the two-legged gregariousness came out. The Greasers were yoking up their cattle. They were going to pull out. It would be lonesome. We would go too.

No, it didn’t matter where. The trip to the Fort might wait. _Mañana. Poco tiempo._ After a while. What was the difference?

I approached the elder Greaser, as with much liquid, beautiful Southern profanity he labored with his lead yoke. I did not offer him money in return for his supper, for I knew he would not take it under the circumstances. There are a few gentlemen in the mountains, though they are mostly getting killed off.

“_Yo vamos_,” said my Mexican, smiling and showing a good set of teeth.

“_Quantos milas a placita?_” (How many miles to the village?) I asked, boldly, guessing that he couldn’t be far from home, since he was starting out with a full team at that time of day.

“_Sies_,” said he, soberly and politely, as one who says, “Good-evening.” Indeed, he soon added, “_Adios!_”

But I made _mille gracias_ for my supper, and begged a thousand pardons, too. And could I not accompany him to the _placita_? Consider, it was late, it was far to the Fort; I had no _serape_. Moreover, I was most anxious to learn of one Señor José Trujillo, who had found a stone.

The Greaser brightened up, smiled, and said that though there was not Señor Trujillo, there were plenty of stones in the _placita_, which, _por Dios!_ I might buy. Stones through which one could barely see; as well as some of blue. _Oh, Si._ I might _vamos tambien_.

These half-savage hill people are not fond of having Americans come to their villages; but they cannot resist the fascination of exchanging smoky topaz and turquoise for silver _pesos_. I said nothing further, but set out with my new companions, not caring much how far we went, or where. One leaves his senses at the edge of the Capitans.

We pulled down along the _rio_ a half mile or so, half in half out of the water, slipping on the stones, swishing in the stream which whispered up to ’Pache and me not to go on, and clanking over stones which sent up dull, grating objurgations at us through the water. Then we left the stream and entered a black-mouthed cañon which tunneled sharp north, right into the Capitans.

The wonderful Southern moon swam stately up the blue sky and silvered the hills above us, and once in a while shed its light into the cañon. The bull-team plodded and coughed. The big _carro_ creaked and groaned. The Greaser swore musically.

The moon climbed higher; lit up the cañon, glorified the peaks beyond, softened and melted the rocks along the trail into white, trembling heaps of silver. I dismounted from ’Pache, and tied him at the end of the _carro_. As a matter of courtesy, I hung my belt and .45 over the pommel of the saddle; but, as a matter of fact, I kept a tidy .41 in its usual dwelling-place. In case of any foolishness, I thought the .41 would do. It is always well to be polite; but it is always well also to have a reserve fund when you are dealing with human nature, Greaser or white, in mountains or city.