Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

This commissioner, Tuan Fang, is a considerable man in his own country. As viceroy of two important provinces--Fu-Kien and Che-Kiang--his influence is far-reaching. What he said about his experiences in the United States was, perhaps, not so important as his definite tribute to American missionaries. The missionary is often charged with arousing hostility by violating native customs; but the viceroy said:

We take pleasure this evening in bearing testimony to the
part taken by American missionaries in promoting the
progress of the Chinese people. They have borne the light of
Western civilization into every nook and corner of the
empire. They have rendered inestimable service to China by
the laborious task of translating instructive books into the
Chinese language.

Truly, after listening that evening to these representatives of cultured China, the hearers could share the feeling of John W. Foster, the toastmaster on this occasion. Mr. Foster, one of the ablest of American diplomats, said:

When I meet a Chinese gentleman I have the impulse to stand
uncovered in his presence and to make a profound bow, out of
respect to his great empire and race, antedating in their
existence and civilization all others of which we have any
record, with achievements unsurpassed in literature, in
philosophy, in art, and in useful inventions.

Love-Letters of the Great.

Passion, Tenderness, Sweetness, Reverence, All the Deep Tones of Love,
Make Beautiful the Letters Written by Various
Great Men to Their Wives.

Men of genius and power--kings, commanders, poets, painters--belong not to themselves, but to the world. Greatness destroys privacy; and many a person of note has lived to see described in print the most minute of his little, unsuspected peculiarities. This invasion of the right to be let alone is inevitable. Even love-letters do not escape.

It is only a few years since the love-letters of the Brownings--Elizabeth Barrett and Robert--were given to the world. As models in the expression of deep and tender affection it will be long before they are displaced. Yet specimens of the love-letters of other eminent men and women are full of tenderness, passion, reverence.

QUEEN VICTORIA'S ROMANCE.

Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, having occasion to make a trip to Europe, wrote to the queen:

MY OWN DARLING: We got over our journey thus far rapidly and
well, but the tide was so unmannerly as to be an hour later
than the time calculated, so that I cannot sail before
three. I have been an hour here, and regret the lost time
which I might have spent with you. Poor child! you will,
while I write, be getting ready for luncheon, and will find
the place vacant where I sat yesterday. In your heart,
however, I hope my place will not be vacant.

I at least have you on board with me in spirit. Try to
occupy yourself as much as possible. You are even now half a
day nearer to seeing me again; by the time you get this
letter it will be a whole day; thirteen more and I am again
within your arms. To-morrow Seymour will bring you further
news of me. Your most devoted

ALBERT.

LEIGH HUNT AND HIS MARIANNE.

Leigh Hunt carried his versatility into his love-letters to Miss Marianne Kent, his future wife. Below is an example written when he was nineteen:

MY DEAREST MARIANNE: I am very uncomfortable; I get up at
five in the morning, say a word to nobody, curse my stars
till eleven at night, then creep into bed to curse my stars
for to-morrow; and all this because I love a little
black-eyed girl of fifteen, whom nobody knows, with all my
heart and soul. You must not suppose I love you a bit the
better for being fifty miles out of my reach in the daytime,
for I travel at a pretty tolerable pace every night and have
held many a happy chat with you about twelve or one o'clock
at midnight, though you have forgotten it by this time.

Here follows a stanza of poetry, after which he proceeds:

You see, lovers can no more help being poets than poets can
help being lovers. I shall see you again and will pay you
prettily for running away from me, for you shall not stir
from my side the whole evening. If you are well and have
been so at Brighton, you are everything I could wish you.
God bless you and yours. You see I can still pray for
myself. Heaven knows that every blessing bestowed on you is
a tenfold one bestowed on your

H.

THE KINGLY LOVE OF CHARLES I.

In a way which proved him an adept in the art, Charles I wrote to the Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henry IV of France, when she was coming to join him:

DEAR HEART: I never knew till now the good of ignorance, for
I did not know the danger thou wert in by the storm before I
had assurance of thy happy escape, we having had a pleasing
false report of thy safe landing at Newcastle, which thine
of the 19th of January so far confirmed us in that we were
at least not undeceived of that hope till we knew certainly
how great a danger thou hast passed, of which I shall not be
out of apprehension until I have the happiness of thy
company.

For indeed I think it not the least of my misfortunes that
for my sake thou hast run so much hazard. But my heart being
full of admiration for thee, affection for thee, and
impatient passion of gratitude to thee, I cannot but say
something, leaving the rest to be read by thee out of thine
own noble heart.

CHARLES R.

NAPOLEON TO HIS FIRST LOVE.

Napoleon Bonaparte, in a passionate letter to Josephine, said:

I have received your letter, my adorable friend. It has
filled my heart with joy. I hope that you are better. I
earnestly desire that you should ride on horseback, as it
cannot fail to benefit you.

Since I left you I have been constantly depressed. My
happiness is to be near you. Incessantly I live over in my
memory your caresses, your tears, your affectionate
solicitude. The charms of the incomparable Josephine kindle
continually a burning and a glowing flame in my heart. When
entirely free from all harassing care, shall I be able to
pass all my time with you, having only to love you and to
think only of the happiness of so saying and of proving it
to you? I will send you your horse, but I hope you will soon
join me.

I thought I loved you months ago, but since my separation
from you I feel that I love you a thousandfold more. Each
day since I knew you have I adored you yet more and more.
Ah! I entreat you to let me see some of your faults; be less
beautiful, less graceful, less affectionate, less good,
especially be not overanxious, and never weep. Your tears
rob me of reason and inflame my blood.

Believe me that it is not in my power to have a single
thought that is not of you, or a wish that I cannot reveal
to you. Quickly reestablish your health and join me, that at
last before death we may be able to say "We were many days
happy." A thousand kisses, and one even to Fortuna,
notwithstanding his spitefulness.

BONAPARTE.

THE FIDELITY OF WASHINGTON.

The following letter from George Washington to his wife is a beautiful example of love that was as fresh after twenty years as at the first, and illustrates perfectly the sane balance of his great mind:

My Dearest Life and Love: You have hurt me, I know not how
much, by the insinuation in your last that my letters to you
have been less frequent because I have felt less concern for
you. The suspicion is most unkind. Have we lived almost a
score of years in the closest and dearest conjugal intimacy
to so little purpose that on the appearance only of
inattention to you, and which you might have accounted for
in a thousand ways more natural and more probable, you
should pitch upon that single motive which alone is
injurious to me?

I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as I wished and as
I ought, but think of my situation and then ask your heart
if I be without excuse. We are not, my dearest, in
circumstances most favorable to our happiness; but let us
not, I beseech you, idly make them worse by indulging in
suspicions and apprehensions which minds in distress are but
too apt to give way to. Your most faithful and tender
husband,

G.W.

BRIEF BUT SINCERE "OLD NOLL."

Oliver Cromwell seemed to have similar difficulties when he wrote:

MY DEAREST: I have not leisure to write much; but I could
chide thee that, in many of thy letters, thou writest to me
that I should not be unmindful of thee and thy little ones.
Truly, if I love you not too well, I think I err not on the
other hand much. Thou art dearer to me than any creature;
let that suffice. I rest thine

OLIVER CROMWELL.

POE'S HEART IN A TIME OF TRIAL.

In the midst of his trials, Edgar Allan Poe, the famous American poet, wrote to his wife:

MY DEAR HEART, MY DEAR VIRGINIA: Our mother will explain to
you why I stayed away from you this night. On my last great
disappointment I should have lost my courage but for you, my
little darling wife. I shall be with you to-morrow, and be
assured until I see you I will keep in loving remembrance
your last words and your fervent prayer. May God grant you a
peaceful summer with your devoted

Edgar.

THE LOVE OF BISMARCK.

Bismarck, the man of iron, to the last day of his life was tenderly devoted to his wife, using the most endearing terms in writing to her. While he was in Paris, during the early days of their married life, he wrote to her:

They say that here one may see the most beautiful women in
the world--women whose charms are a scepter more powerful
than a king's. I have seen them all, my little heart, and
now I know why you hold me in such unbreakable chains; for
there is none of all these fair ones so richly dowered as my
darling with all that gives a woman empire over the hearts
of men.

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.

BY AMBROSE BIERCE.

Among living American writers of short stories, Ambrose
Bierce is un-excelled in strength and fine simplicity. Born
in 1842, he served during the Civil War, and was brevetted
major for distinguished services. He went to California in
1866, and his name became familiar to readers of Pacific
Coast journals. His contributions, however, quickly won a
hearing throughout the country and in England, whither he
went in 1872, remaining for a few years and writing for
English periodicals. Later he returned to California, and
more recently he removed to Washington.

The keenest, most incisive, most telling contemporary
criticism was found in the column he used to contribute to
the San Francisco _Examiner_, "Prattle: A Transient Record
of Individual Opinion." Of his verse, at least one poem,
"The Passing Show," is deserving of a permanent place in
literature. More verse, more fiction, would be welcome from
his pen. He has produced less than those who read the
following story will wish, for the reason, perhaps, that he
has freely given so much of his time to teaching others how
to write.

It is natural, considering the experiences through which he
passed at the time of life in which conscious impressions
are most vivid, that Mr. Bierce should turn frequently to
the incidents of war. The very restraint of his style makes
his war pictures the more impressive--adds to their potency
as arguments for peace. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge"[A] is Mr. Bierce at his best. Powerful, grim,
pathetic, it dips deep into the well of the human soul.

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift waters twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope loosely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head, and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him, and his executioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant, who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support"--that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot-plank which traversed it.

[Footnote A: This story is taken from "In the Midst of Life," a volume of Mr. Bierce's tales--Copyright, 1898, by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York.]

Beyond one of the sentinels, nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity crowned with a stockade of vertical tree-trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge and fort were the spectators--a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who, when he comes announced, is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette, silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark-gray and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted, and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former, the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death-knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he should shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets, and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods, and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it, the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.