Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Two ne’er-do-wells living in the interior of Germany had patronized the local inn keeper without paying his bill until the latter became weary. He finally told them that he would give them no more credit. They soon became hungry, thirsty and desperate, and consulted together as to how they might once more establish their credit. While engaged in thus scheming their hunger and thirst steadily increased until it became overpowering. Now you must know that the villagers had been greatly harried by a monstrous big black bear who, from the adjoining forest, ravaged their flocks and their gardens. He was especially fond of sheep and almost nightly carried off and devoured them. Nothing was any longer safe in the village night or day and large rewards were offered to anyone who would kill him and thus save them from loss. This was known to the two bums who proceeded to make use of it with the good natured landlord. They told him if he would only give them enough to eat and drink to appease their hunger and thirst they would at once go in search of the bear and proceed to kill him and take off his hide. This, they assured the inn keeper, was an enormous hide and its sale would yield a large sum which they proposed to use in extinguishing their debt and any future advances he might see fit to make. This was not all; with the rewards they would collect they should become opulent, and they promised to spend this at his house, so that all this money would in the long run come to him alone. The tavern keeper was of an optimistic turn of mind and listened to their tale with renewed hope, finally agreeing to do as they asked. The two conspirators, as soon as they had filled their bellies started out in quest of the bear. Now it happened that bruin had become hungry earlier than usual that evening and that he had started to forage earlier. After eating several ears of corn which he took from a field alongside the road he hurried along in the gathering dusk toward the village. The adventurers were headed in the opposite direction on the same road and they rapidly drew together. The bear was the first to detect their approach with a loud Whoof! This startled the bums and frightened them very badly. Without the least delay, the eldest promptly took to a tree which, fortunately for him, spread its branches close by the road. The second loafer was so badly frightened that he fell down in a dead faint and lay upon the ground without motion. Without hesitating the bear trotted up and smelled the man by putting his nose to the latter’s ear. Finding no motion, and thinking the man dead, the bear, after taking several sniffs and turning the fellow over with a thrust of its paw, proceeded on its way. After a short time the tree climber descended and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. The man who had fainted presently recovered and proceeded to do likewise. Seeing his friend scampering along at a great pace some distance ahead he hailed him and his friend stopped and allowed him to come up. Together they proceeded toward the town and related their tale to the landlord, not without much embellishment. The tavern keeper finally agreed, in consideration of the difficulty of their task, to give a further extension of credit. But the tree climber was dissatisfied and proceeded to question his fellow bum. “What did the bear ask you,” said he, “when he whispered in your ear?” His mate replied: “He did not whisper to me.”

“Yes he did,” said the first, “he whispered in your ear for some time. Did I not see him do it? Try not to deceive me, it will be in vain.”

Now the faint-hearted one was also a wit and he, therefore, hesitated and finally confessed that something had passed, but declared he was not obliged to divulge it. This made the first bum angry and he assailed his fellow with threats and reproaches. But still the latter declined to divulge the secret. This led to renewed threats and finally to blows. The possessor of the secret was vanquished and finally agreed to tell it to his fellow, but only in the presence of the landlord and the village magistrate. It was also agreed that after telling the secret he should be allowed to go free without further molestation. To this clause the landlord, whose curiosity had been aroused, also agreed; further, he promised to protect the possessor of the secret. These details having been arranged the parties met one morning in the house of the magistrate. The second vagabond first recited the agreement and having procured the assent of all parties began as follows:

“When Bruin appeared I was frightened and fell in a faint. From this I was awakened by a rough tongue licking my cheek and a bearish voice whispering in my ear. It said: ‘You were to kill me were you not, and to take off my hide and sell it? And you were to collect the money offered as rewards, and having thus acquired much money you agreed, did you not, to pay the account of the landlord and stay with him until your money was exhausted?’

“I was badly frightened and, thinking my time had come and resolving to endanger my hope of salvation by no more lies, I nodded my head in assent. The bear then said:

“‘Very well, you are properly punished. As for the rascal in the tree the inn keeper has made no agreement with him such as that he will make with you; and when you have escaped his wrath I advise him to clap him in jail. In the meantime I will advise you both never in future to sell the hide of a bear before you have killed it, nor would I collect rewards for its death before the death takes place.’ As for the Judge, he is a rascal anyhow and at all times, and is well able to take care of himself.” With this the vagabond darted from the room and ran up the street pursued by all three who had forgotten their promises in their resentment. He however made good his escape.

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A Visit from the Wileys

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Many years ago, shortly after I began teaching at Lafayette College, I determined to join The American Association for the Advancement of Science. This long-winded name was given by themselves to a collection of bookworms who every year assembled in some good-sized city, after having collected some thousands of dollars for expenses of the local merchants, and held as many as a dozen pow wows in as many different rooms. In one of these rooms a learned discussion on one or more mathematical questions was kept up during most of the hours of daylight; in a second, subjects in physics were undergoing examination; a third room was occupied by the chemists, a fourth by the biologists; everywhere there was a sprinkling of “nuts” who were in danger of breaking out and must be sat upon in order not to discredit the serious minded.

The discussions sometimes dropped into a burst of self-admiration by some savant devoted to the holy cause of science who was keeping the lamp of knowledge burning in poverty and distress. These wails were occasionally broken in upon by another wholesome-minded soul, like the great Cope, who boldly declared that he was not suffering but having a good time and could be happy in no other way.

In the evenings some of us put on our best clothes and attended a garden party given by a local magnate where we met the money bags of the neighborhood and for an hour breathed the unaccustomed air of luxury; or we attended an evening lecture given by some member of the attending band of scientists in compliment to the hosts; a chosen few assembled at a room where good beer was to be had, in ordinary dress, drank a little beer and listened to stories and discussions straight from the shoulder and worth while.

It was in these evening discussions and in daylight visits to points of geological or other interest that we became acquainted and learned to enjoy the great week of the year. It was here that I first met Le Conte, Cope, Major Powell, the one-armed explorer of the Colorado canyon, Brashear, who made his first lenses from tumbler bottoms and Wiley, the jolly farmer giant, _facile princeps_ among men.

I believe I first met Wiley at Buffalo in August, 1886. We visited Niagara together as part of a jolly crowd and had a happy day. Nearly every year for many years after I met Wiley at these meetings. I also met him elsewhere. He came to Easton nearly every year for awhile to lecture to my students. The lecture room was large enough to hold the audience at first, but as he became better known we moved over to Pardee Hall into a room large enough to hold the crowd that came to enjoy the treat. Presently the “old man,” as we called him, was asked to go to Lehigh whenever he came to Lafayette. I always went up with him and listened again. His lectures were always new, never twice the same.

On one occasion he wrote me asking whether he might spend an extra day with me and I gladly acceded. We rode all day through the hills and woods over Scott’s Mountain and had a jolly day. When the attempt to pass pure food legislation became strenuous Frear and I conspired in its behalf and carried our point. When he became President of the American Chemical Society he chose me as editor and we toiled together at the heavy task. Afterwards I printed and published his great work on Agricultural Chemical Analysis. In all this work and play he was the kind, indulgent older brother.

For many years he led the lonely imperfect life of a bachelor until he had reached the ripe age of 62 when his love of many years yielded to his wishes and they were married. I shall never forget the glad smile on his face as my wife and I came up to congratulate them and he realized that we had traveled all the way from Easton to wish him joy.

Upon a later occasion we visited Washington with a large party of chemists and, with many others were the guests of Dr. and Mrs. Wiley at a dinner at the Raleigh. But we had the advantage of most of the other guests, for we were admitted behind the scenes before the dinner came off. Mrs. Wiley and Nan Pierce, Dr. Wiley’s Secretary, told us about some of the funny things that had occurred. Dr. Wiley was away from home and they were forced to make all the arrangements. They knew only a few of his friends and succeeded in inviting several dead people to the feast.

Upon another occasion we were in Washington with a party of Rotarians and the Wileys invited us to dinner at their home in Ashmead Place. Here we met the Wiley boys, Harvey Jr. and John, for the first time, while my wife told us, to our great joy, how, by a series of amusing misunderstandings, she had narrowly escaped being a guest at one of Mrs. Harding’s private parties. In the evening we attended a literary soiree with Dr. and Mrs. Wiley and greatly enjoyed the papers read and the chaff that formed a part. It was a real literary treat.

Then we learned that his eyesight was failing and that he was soon to be operated upon for cataract. The day of the operation passed and we had no news. We dare not telegraph for fear the operation had not succeeded. Thus a week passed. At last we learned that he saw once more though not so well as of old.

We saw Dr. Wiley again at the Golden Wedding of Dr. and Mrs. W. H. Nichols at Sherry’s last winter. Dr. Wiley seemed well and in good spirits. We saw comparatively little of him here because so many of his friends were present and each claimed a share of his time.

Several months later a letter arrived telling us that the family expected to start for Cambridge, Mass., shortly, where Wiley was to attend the fiftieth reunion of his class at Harvard. They would arrive in Easton in the evening by auto and would spend the night with us. I immediately replied that the road up College Hill was closed for repairs and that they must telephone me on arrival and allow me to join and pilot them.

Accordingly, at 8 P. M. the telephone rang and Mrs. Wiley’s voice announced their arrival. They were dusty and tired and soon after dinner retired to rest.

We have quite a good-sized house but the family is large and only two extra rooms were available. One of these contained a large wooden bedstead heavy and strong enough to support a hippopotamus; this was dedicated to Dr. and Mrs. Wiley. The other room had a large brass bedstead which had been used for many years. Originally it had been well and strong; but long continued use by our four stocky boys as a spring-board and general exercise ground had weakened our confidence in its ability to sustain heavy weights. We thought, however, it would surely sustain the two boys. After they had all retired and it was too late to interfere, from sundry movements and murmurings overhead, it became evident that a readjustment had taken place and that Dr. Wiley and his huskiest son were in the weak bed while Nan and the younger boy occupied the bed for elephants. We listened in dreadful suspense for a breakdown. Fortunately none came and the extra weight was safely carried.

For ten days we heard nothing of the Wileys and then they drove up on their way home. They had had a wonderful time at Harvard and on the way home. On the way they stopped at a country hotel and John had climbed up to the peak of the roof and was unable to get down. Then he called to his father for help and that hard-hearted parent refused to assist him for some time but finally relented.

Mrs. Hart had no help in the kitchen and the Doctor thought they had better not stop but I persuaded him otherwise. I said: “We want you to stay. We will let you help us and will dispense with all frills. I have so arranged that Mrs. Hart shall not be overworked and shall be able to enjoy your visit.” On that understanding they consented to stay. The next day was Thursday, the meeting day of our Rotary Club, and the Doctor, the Wiley boys and my own four boys were my guests at the Rotary lunch. They made quite an array, and there was much quiet amusement as they filed in and sat down. After the lunch Dr. Wiley was called upon to speak and made us a short address—such a happy talk as only Wiley can make.

In the meantime Mrs. Wiley and Dr. Kate De Witt Miesse, our family physician and a friend of Mrs. Wiley, and my wife, were dining at the Pomfret Club, guests of my wife. Behind the curtains that night I heard the story from my wife of how her two guests discoursed on woman’s rights while she sat and listened and enjoyed the fun.

That night at dinner we had ice cream and cake for dessert, and the boys brought in the towering piece of cream fresh from the can. It towered above my wife as she sliced off the portions and finally toppled over on the platter. Mrs. Wiley had been watching it in nervous terror, and as it went over she screamed and shouted: “My soul and body!” much to our amusement. The Doctor informed us that for a moderate surprise she called: “My soul!” but great occasions called for: “My soul and body!”

The next day was raining and we were not able to visit the farm as we had planned but spent the day at home resting. The following day was beautiful and we had an early breakfast that they might be soon on the road. The topic somehow shifted to the question of woman’s rights and the Doctor proceeded to tell us how, in pursuit of these rights, his wife had become a criminal and been hustled to the gaol while her devoted family were scouring the country to find her.

They had been persecuting Mr. Wilson, he said, and merited their sad fate but he thought she had no business to leave three hopeless orphans stranded as she had. We all laughed and almost screamed with delight as the story proceeded.

After breakfast the Doctor begged us to go part way with them. They expected to stop at Valley Forge and they wanted us to go too. We finally agreed to go. At Doylestown my auto shed a tire and we sent for the garage man while we lunched in the shade of the trees. It was determined to leave my machine while I was to ride with my wife or with the Wileys. Then Mrs. Wiley cornered me and said I must not strike or push a lady while the Doctor paid the garage man.

When I tried to get in my wife’s car I found all the boys there; of course they wanted to be together, so I got in with the Wileys. We drove around Valley Forge Park and enjoyed the beauty of the spot and reminded ourselves of the poor soldiers, freezing and starving the winter away, and proceeded to climb the tower. John went ahead and reached the very top before his mother spied him and then she once more screamed: “My soul and body!”

My boys were very fond of Mrs. Wiley. So was I until I became aware of the disaffection she had stirred up. Previous to this visit my wife had been obedient, as all wives should be, but now she began to speak up. She told us Mrs. Wiley said that every wife who took care of her man and his children was self supporting and had a _right_ to share his wealth if he had any. This is dreadful doctrine as all but the depraved must agree. I am wondering whether we had better have Mrs. Wiley again?

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In the Days of the Roses

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In the days of good King Harry the Sixth there was bitter strife in all the land between the houses of York and Lancaster. The adherents of one house oppressed, robbed and even murdered the adherents of the other. Political hatred grew apace and filled the land with civil wars. Houses were burned, churches were robbed and cattle were lifted. No one was sure of his life or property. Landless men were organized as bands of robbers making the highways unsafe. As a direct consequence of this waste of life and treasure the French lands won by Edward the Third, his son, the Black Prince, and Harry the Fifth were rapidly lost by the incapable Duke of Suffolk until only Calais and a strip of territory in the south of France remained.

With all his goodness the sixth Henry was but a feeble king, not ruling but ruled by his imperious wife and rugged, warlike barons. These were the days in which printing was invented, when armor was becoming useless before the advance of gunpowder and the introduction of firearms. The feudal system had entered upon its decay; superstition reigned but Lollardism under Wyckliffe had begun to undermine Roman Catholicism. The results of that terrible scourge, The Black Death, which swept Europe in 1347 carrying off a third of the population, were still felt in the scarcity of labor and higher wages.

Twenty miles northwest of London in the little town of St. Albans a fire broke out one day in June, 1440, in an old house in Dagnal Lane. It was a poor quarter and there was a loud outcry as the inhabitants began carrying their scanty belongings to safer places. The watch came clattering down the street with their leather fire buckets and formed a line to the nearest well which was soon bailed dry. No attempt was made to save the burning house; efforts were confined to keeping the fire from spreading. Suddenly a woman screamed: “there are children in the house!”

“Body o’ me,” said Jed Fenchurch to his wife, “gie me thy apron!” Wrapping it around his face he dashed through the half open door, out of which smoke was pouring and presently emerged, choking, panting and cursing with a child on each arm, both unconscious.

“Thou art surely a brave one,” said his wife, Lisbeth, proudly.

“Pook, woman!” said Jed, “should I let un die? Body o’ me!”

But she was busy with the children, washing their faces with her apron and giving them water to drink. Presently the children struggled back to consciousness and began to cry, first the boy, then the girl. He might be three years old, but the girl was only a baby.

“I wanth mine nurth,” sobbed the boy.

“He hath no hurt,” said Lisbeth, “but, oh Jed, thy poor hands!”

They were, indeed, badly scorched and painful. His hair was singed, his eyebrows gone and his ears blistered but no serious harm had been suffered. When Lisbeth had attended to his burns she picked up the children and carried them to her house hard by.

On the morrow, when the ashes were raked the bones of a woman were discovered. The landlord of the Checquers said he had let the house but the day before to one Mary Smith who had paid a month’s rent in advance. He knew nothing of her nor whence she came. Jed and Lisbeth kept the children; they were childless and well to do. There was no formal adoption. The children were supposed to be brother and sister. He said his name was Don, which was interpreted as John, and that her name was Banch, which was interpreted as Blanche.

Jed Fenchurch was an armorer, which a writer of that day has called the least mean of mean occupations. His shop at the back of the house, in a building entered by a passage way alongside. Here the children delighted to play and John helped as he was able as he grew stronger. Both attended the Abbey school and were well educated for those days, when the scholar was a man who could read and write.

John naturally heard much about feats of arms and was taught at first hand the uses of arms and armor. He learned to use the long bow, and as he developed into young manhood, and his arm grew long and his muscles tough and strong, he drew his arrows to the nock. This weapon was then the arm of most reliance and its development, together with the use of dismounted cavalry, developed by Edward III and the Black Prince, the cause of the English strength.

Neither was Blanche neglected. Her foster mother, Lisbeth, had also been foster mother to the great Earl of Warwick and had learned much of gentle ways in the great castle. Many of these she imparted to Blanche, and was much blamed by her gossips for raising the child in ways above her station.

There came a day when the great Earl visited his foster mother. His visit was marked by festivities given by the holy fathers of the Abbey in his honor, where barrels of beer were broached and beeves were roasted whole. The Earl was a tall, well-built man of handsome presence and kindly mien, much beloved by gentle and common. He first greeted and kissed his old nurse; the children were then presented. John’s height and reach of arm earned his commendation. “I will even take him into my service, an you wish,” said he.

“Right gladly will he come, your highness,” said Lisbeth, “you are good to your old nurse and her ward; God will reward you.”

“Not so,” said the Earl, “I but find a fine bowman.”

“’Tis a fine deed, natheless, John,” said Lisbeth when the Earl had departed, “and but shows the kind heart; but thou art the lucky boy! In all England lives no greater; and he will watch and guard thee; thou art indeed fortunate. Do I not know and love him?”

“Surely,” said John, “I must do my best, more I cannot. Truly, thou art good to me.”

“Alas, and shall I see thee no more? Wilt thou indeed leave us?” said Blanche, tears filling her eyes.

“Not so, sweetheart,” John replied, “when I go I shall soon return. How could I forsake thee, silly?”

The summons to arms was not long delayed. One evening in early May an express arrived at the Checquers and enquired for Jed Fenchurch. He was directed to the house on Dagnal Lane and informed Jed that he came from Warwick with directions to the bowmen, spearmen and men at arms to assemble at Royston and there await the arrival of the Duke of York and his own men.

There were but few Yorkists in St. Albans, but a party of bowmen, including Jed, John and three others were on their way afoot early the next morning, while the messenger continued his journey towards London.

“’Tis thretty good mile,” said fat Steve Balderstone in a thin voice, “I mind me when I walked as much in a day with good King Harry the Fift, but I were young then and light of foot. Truly the Duke moveth but slowly and we needs must wait at Royston. Why then shall we go apace?”

“Pook, thou elephant! the duke moveth at the gallop and the Earl also. Tarry not or ye may rue it,” said Jed. “Listen not to this squeaker. Body o’ me! we mun go apace.”

“I will blow thee to York with one puff, thou pot mender,” squeaked Steve.

“Truly, thou art a fine blower,” said Jed.

“Tarry a bit!” said John to Jabez Stout in a whisper, “see but the birds.”

And, in truth, over a wood to the right the birds were wheeling as the boys fell back and fitted an arrow to the string. From the wood three men on horseback drove rapidly into the road and galloped toward them.

“They are robbers,” said John, “take thou the one on the left” and their bows twanged and the arrows whistled.

The horseman on the right was transfixed by John’s shaft which pierced his right shoulder, and he fell from his horse which turned and fled. Jabez was not so fortunate; his shaft flew not so truly, but it caught the skin of the left leg of the rider and imbedded itself in the horse beneath which screamed and lashed out in agony, throwing the rider. The third horseman turned and galloped away. The rider of the stricken horse crawled into the bushes from which he was quickly hauled and despatched, after which the men gathered around the man desperately wounded.

“Mercy! mercy! Sir John,” shrieked the stricken man looking at John, “Spare me! spare me! I am not fit to die!”

“Thou wilt die, sure enough,” said Steve, “thy right lung is shot through, but why call him Sir John? ’Tis but John Fenchurch.”

“’Tis the ghost of Sir John Jernyngan whom I stabbed at Bordeaux. Mercy! mercy!”

“He raves,” said Steve, “get along, John, out of his sight.”

“Leave him with me,” said Jed. “I would speak with him further.”

“’Tis as he told thee,” said Jed to the dying man when they were alone. “It was John Fenchurch.”

“I tell thee no!” he replied. “’Twas Sir John Jernyngan or his ghost. Thinkest thou I know not mine old enemy who stole my honors and my bride? Did I not see the old Duke of Warwick knight him at Savignies?” This was followed by a gush of blood as his spirit fled. Jed dragged the body to the roadside, rifled the pockets and followed the others, deep in thought.