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Title: McClure's Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 2, July, 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "McClure's Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 2, July, 1893" ***

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VOL. I    JULY, 1893    No. 2

_Copyright, 1893, by S. S. McClure, Limited. All rights reserved._

Table of Contents

  An Afternoon with Oliver Wendell Holmes. By Edward E. Hale.       99
  In the Name of the Law! By Stanley J. Weyman.                    110
  "Human Documents."                                               119
  Wild Beasts. By Raymond Blathwayt.                               126
  John Horseleigh, Knyght. By Thomas Hardy.                        136
  The Race to the North Pole. By Hugh Robert Mill, D.Sc.           147
  Lieutenant Peary's Expedition. By Cleveland Moffett.             156
  An Expedition to the North Magnetic Pole. By W. H. Gilder.       159
  The Merchantmen. By Rudyard Kipling.                             163
  Monsieur de Blowitz. By W. Morton Fullerton.                     166
  On the Track of the Reviewer. By Doctor William Wright.          174
  Romantic Stories from the Family History of the Brontës.         181
  A Strange Story: The Lost Years. By Lizzie Hyer Neff.            182


  Oliver Wendell Holmes                                             99
  O. W. Holmes's Birth-Place at Cambridge, Mass.                   100
  Garden Door of the Cambridge House.                              100
  House in Rue Monsieur le Prince.                                 101
  Residence in Beacon Street, Boston.                              102
  The Bay Window in Doctor Holmes's Study.                         103
  A Corner in Doctor Holmes's Study.                               103
  Dorothy Q.                                                       104
  Dorothy Q's House in Quincy, Mass.                               105
  Holmes Delivering His Farewell Address, Harvard.                 105
  Summer Residence at Beverly Farms.                               107
  O. W. Holmes and E. E. Hale.                                     108
  O. W. Holmes in His Favorite Seat at Beverly.                    109
  Edward Everett Hale.                                             120
  M. de Blowitz.                                                   122
  Thomas Alva Edison.                                              124
  Karl Hagenbeck.                                                  127
  Fridtjof Nansen.                                                 151
  Robert E. Peary.                                                 156
  Colonel W. H. Gilder.                                            159
  General A. W. Greely.                                            160
  Professor T. C. Mendenhall.                                      160
  Diagram of the North Magnetic Pole Region.                       161
  Professor C. A. Schott.                                          162
  The Dining-Room in M. De Blowitz's Paris Home.                   167
  M. De Blowitz in His Study.                                      169
  The Lampottes; The Country House of M. De Blowitz.               171
  Charlotte Brontë.                                                180



My first recollection of Doctor Holmes is seeing him standing on a
bench at a college dinner when I was a boy, in the year 1836. He was
full of life and fun, and was delivering--I do not say reading--one of
his little college poems. He always writes them with joy, and recites
them--if that is the word--with a spirit not to be described. For he
is a born orator, with what people call a sympathetic voice, wholly
under his own command, and entirely free from any of the tricks of
elocution. It seems to me that no one really knows his poems to the
very best, who has not had the good fortune to hear him read some of

[Illustration: Oliver Wendell Holmes Boston, May 24th, 1893.]

But I had known all about him before that. As little boys, we had by
heart, in those days, the song which saved "Old Ironsides" from
destruction. That was the pet name of the frigate "Constitution,"
which was a pet Boston ship, because she had been built at a Boston
shipyard, had been sailed with Yankee crews, and, more than once, had
brought her prizes into Boston Harbor.

We used to spout at school:

  "Nail to the mast her holy flag,
    Spread every threadbare sail,
  And give her to the god of storms,
    The lightning and the gale!"

Ah me! There had been a Phi Beta anniversary not long before, where
Holmes had delivered a poem. You may read "Poetry, a Metrical Essay,"
in the volumes now. But you will look in vain for the covert allusions
to Julia and Susan and Elizabeth and the rest, which, to those who
knew, meant the choicest belles of our little company. Have the queens
of to-day any such honors?

Nobody is more accessible than Doctor Holmes. I doubt if any doorbell
in Boston is more rung than his. And nowhere is the visitor made more
kindly at home. His own work-room takes in all the width of a large
house in Beacon Street; a wide window commands the sweep of the mouth
of Charles River; in summer the gulls are hovering above it, in winter
you may see them chaffing together on bits of floating ice, which is
on its way to the sea. Across that water, by stealthy rowing, the
boats of the English squadron carried the men who were to die at
Concord the next day, at Concord Bridge. Beyond is Bunker Hill
Monument; and just this side of the monument Paul Revere crossed the
same river to say that that English army was coming.


For me, I had to deliver on Emerson's ninetieth birthday an address on
my memories of him and his life. Holmes used to meet him, from college
days down, in a thousand ways, and has written a charming memoir of
his life. I went round there one day, therefore, to ask some
questions, which might put my own memories of Emerson in better light,
and afterwards I obtained his leave to make this sketch of the talk of
half an hour. When we think of it here, if we ever fall to talking
about such things, every one would say that Holmes is the best talker
we have or know. But when you are with him, you do not think whether
he is or is not. You are under the spell of his kindness and genius.
Still no minute passes in which you do not say to yourself: "I hope I
shall remember those very words always."


Thinking of it after I come home, I am reminded of the flow and fun of
the Autocrat. But you never say so to yourself when you are sitting in
his room.

I had arranged with my friend Mr. Sample that he should carry his
camera to the house, and it was in gaps in this very conversation that
the picture of both of us was taken. I told Doctor Holmes how pleased
I was at this chance of going to posterity under his escort.

I told him of the paper on Emerson which I had in hand, and thanked
him, as well as I could, in a few words, for his really marvellous
study of Emerson in the series of American authors. I said I really
wanted to bring him my paper to read. What I was trying to do, was to
show that the great idealist was always in touch with his time, and
eager to know what, at the moment, were the real facts of American

_I._ I remember where Emerson stopped me on State Street once, to
cross-question me about some details of Irish emigration.

_Holmes._ Yes, he was eager for all practical information. I used to
meet him very often on Saturday evenings at the Saturday Club; and I
can see him now, as he bent forward eagerly at the table, if any one
were making an interesting observation, with his face like a hawk as
he took in what was said. You felt how the hawk would be flying
overhead and looking down on your thought at the next minute. I
remember that I once spoke of "the three great prefaces," and quick as
light Emerson said, "What are the three great prefaces?" and I had to
tell him.

_I._ I am sure I do not know what they are. What are they?

_Holmes._ They are Calvin's to his "Institutes," Thuanus's to his
history, and Polybius's to his.

_I._ And I have never read one of them!


_Holmes._ And I had then never read but one of them. It was a mere
piece of encyclopædia learning of mine.

_I._ What I shall try to do in my address is to show that Emerson
would not have touched all sorts of people as he did, but for this
matter-of-fact interest in his daily surroundings--if he had not gone
to town-meetings, for instance. Was it you or Lowell who called him
the Yankee Plato?

_Holmes._ Not I. It was probably Lowell, in the "Fable for Critics." I
called him "a wingèd Franklin," and I stand by that. Matthew Arnold
quoted that afterwards, and I was glad I had said it.

_I._ I do not remember where you said it. How was it?

Doctor Holmes at once rose, went to the turning book-stand, and took
down volume three of his own poems, and read me with great spirit the
passage. I do not know how I had forgotten it.

  "Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song,
  Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong?
  He seems a wingèd Franklin, sweetly wise,
  Born to unlock the secrets of the skies;
  And which the nobler calling,--if 'tis fair
  Terrestrial with celestial to compare,--
  To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame,
  Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came,
  Amidst the sources of its subtile fire,
  And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre?"

Here he said, with great fun, "One great good of writing poetry is to
furnish you with your own quotations." And afterwards, when I had made
him read to me some other verses from his own poems, he said, "Oh,
yes, as a reservoir of the best quotations in the language, there is
nothing like a book of your own poems."


I said that there was no greater nonsense than the talk of Emerson's
time, that he introduced German philosophy here, and I asked Holmes if
he thought that Emerson had borrowed anything in the philosophical
line from the German. He agreed with me that his philosophy was
thoroughly home-bred, and wrought out in the experience of his own
home-life. He said that he was disposed to believe that that would be
true of Emerson which he knew was true of himself. He knew Emerson
went over a great many books, but he did not really believe that he
often really read a book through. I remember one of his phrases was,
that he thought that Emerson "tasted books;" and he cited a bright
lady from Philadelphia, whom he had met the day before, who had said
that she thought men of genius did not rely much upon their reading,
and had complimented him by asking if he did so. Holmes said:

"I told her--I had to tell her--that in reading my mind is always
active. I do not follow the author steadily or implicitly, but my
thought runs off to right and left. It runs off in every direction,
and I find I am not so much taking his book as I am thinking my own
thoughts upon his subject."

_I._ I want to thank you for your contrast between Emerson and
Carlyle: "The hatred of unreality was uppermost in Carlyle; the love
of what is real and genuine, with Emerson." Is it not perhaps possible
that Carlyle would not have been Carlyle but for Emerson? Emerson
found him discouraged, and as he supposed alone, and at the very
beginning led him out of his darkest places.

I think it was on this that Doctor Holmes spoke with a good deal of
feeling about the value of appreciation. He was ready to go back to
tell of the pleasure he had received from persons who had written to
him, even though he did not know them, to say of how much use some
particular line of his had been. Among others he said that Lothrop
Motley had told him that, when he was all worn out in his work in a
country where he had not many friends, and among stupid old manuscript
archives, two lines of Holmes's braced him up and helped him through:

  "Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip,
  But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip."

He was very funny about flattery. "That is the trouble of having so
many friends, everybody flatters you. I do not mean to let them hurt
me if I can help it, and flattery is not necessarily untrue. But you
have to be on your guard when everybody is as kind to you as everybody
is to me."


He said, in passing, that Emerson once quoted two lines of his, and
quoted them horribly. They are from the poem called "The Steamboat:"

  "The beating of her restless heart,
    Still sounding through the storm."

Emerson quoted them thus:

  "The pulses of her iron heart
    Go beating through the storm."


I was curious to know about Doctor Holmes's experience of country
life, he knows all nature's processes so well. So he told me how it
happened that he went to Pittsfield. It seems that, a century and a
half ago, his ancestor, Jacob Wendell, had a royal grant for the whole
township there, with some small exception, perhaps. The place was at
first called Pontoosoc, then Wendelltown, and only afterward got the
name of Pittsfield from William Pitt. One part of the Wendell property
descended to Doctor Holmes's mother. When he had once seen it he was
struck with its beauty and fitness for a country home, and asked her
that he might have it for his own. It was there that he built a house
in which he lived for eight or nine years. He said that the Housatonic
winds backwards and forwards through it, so that to go from one end of
his estate to the other in a straight line required the crossing it
seven times. Here his children grew up, and he and they were enlivened
anew every year by long summer days there.

He was most interesting and animated as he spoke of the vigor of life
and work and poetical composition which come from being in the open
air and living in the country. He wrote, at the request of the
neighborhood, his poem of "The Ploughman," to be read at a cattle-show
in Pittsfield. "And when I came to read it afterwards I said, 'Here it
is! Here is open air life, here is what breathing the mountain air and
living in the midst of nature does for a man!' And I want to read you
now a piece of that poem, because it contained a prophecy." And while
he was looking for the verses, he said, in the vein of the Autocrat,
"Nobody knows but a man's self how many good things he has done."

So we found the first volume of the poems, and there is "The
Ploughman," written, observe, as early as 1849.

  "O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast
  Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,
  How thy sweet features, kind to every clime,
  Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time!
  We stain thy flowers,--they blossom o'er the dead;
  We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread;
  O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn,
  Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn;
  Our maddening conflicts sear thy fairest plain,
  Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
  Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms
  Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,
  Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
  And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away.

  No! by these hills, whose banners now displayed
  In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed;
  By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests
  The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests;
  By these fair plains the mountain circle screens,
  And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines,--
  True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil
  To crown with peace their own untainted soil;
  And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,
  If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind,
  These stately forms, that bending even now
  Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough,
  Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land,
  The same stern iron in the same right hand,
  Till o'er the hills the shouts of triumph run,
  The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won!"

Now, in 1849, I, who remember, can tell you, every-day people did not
much think that Faction was going to unbind her bandogs and set the
country at war; and it was only a prophet-poet who saw that there was
a chance that men might forge their ploughshares into swords again.
But you see from the poem that Holmes was such a prophet-poet, and
now, forty-four years after, it was a pleasure to hear him read these


I asked him of his reminiscences of Emerson's famous Phi Beta Kappa
oration at Cambridge, which he has described, as so many others have,
as the era of independence in American literature. We both talked of
the day, which we remembered, and of the Phi Beta dinner which
followed it, when Mr. Everett presided, and bore touching tribute to
Charles Emerson, who had just died. Holmes said: "You cannot make the
people of this generation understand the effect of Everett's oratory.
I have never felt the fascination of speech as I did in hearing him.
Did it ever occur to you,--did I say to you the other day,--that when
a man has such a voice as he had, our slight nasal resonance is an
advantage and not a disadvantage?"

I was fresher than he from his own book on Emerson, and remembered
that he had said there somewhat the same thing. His words are: "It is
with delight that one who remembers Everett in his robes of rhetorical
splendor; who recalls his full-blown, high-colored, double-flowered
periods; the rich, resonant, grave, far-reaching music of his speech,
with just enough of nasal vibration to give the vocal sounding-board
its proper value in the harmonies of utterance,--it is with delight
that such a one recalls the glowing words of Emerson whenever he
refers to Edward Everett. It is enough if he himself caught enthusiasm
from those eloquent lips. But many a listener has had his youthful
enthusiasm fired by that great master of academic oratory." I knew,
when I read this, that Holmes referred to himself as the "youthful
listener," and was glad that within twenty-four hours he should say so
to me.


So we fell to talking of his own Phi Beta poem. A good Phi Beta poem
is an impossibility; but it is the business of genius to work the
miracles, and Holmes's is one of the few successful Phi Beta poems in
the dreary catalogue of more than a century. The custom of having
"_the_ poem," as people used to say, as if it were always the same, is
now almost abandoned.


Fortunately for us both, a tap was heard at the door, and Mr. John
Holmes appeared, his brother. Mr. John Holmes has not chosen to
publish the bright things which he has undoubtedly written, but in all
circles where he favors people with his presence he is known as one of
the most agreeable of men. Everybody is glad to set him on the lines
of reminiscences. The two brothers, with great good humor, began
telling of a dinner party which Doctor Holmes had given, within a few
days, to a number of gentlemen whose average ages, according to them,
exceeded eighty. One has to make allowance for the exaggeration of
their fun, but I think, from the facts which they dropped, that the
average must have been maintained. One would have given a good deal to
be old enough to be permitted to be at that dinner. This led to talk
of the Harvard class of 1829, for whose meetings Holmes has written so
many of his charming poems. He said that they are now to have a dinner
within a few days, and named the gentlemen who were to be there. Among
them, of course, is Doctor Samuel F. Smith, the author of "America." I
noticed that Doctor Holmes always called him "My country 'tis of
thee," and so did all of us. And then these two critics began
analyzing that magnificent song. "It will not do to laugh at it.
People show that they do not know what they are talking about when
they speak lightly of it. Did you ever think how much is gained by
making the first verse begin with the singular number? Not _our_
country, but '_My_ country,' '_I_ sing of thee'? There is not an
American citizen but can make it his own, and does make it his own, as
he sings it. And it rises to a Psalm-like grandeur at the end." "It is
a magnificent hold to have upon fame to have sixty million people sing
the verses that you have written." John Holmes said: "How good
'templed hills' is, and that is not alone in the poem." Both John
Holmes and I plead to be permitted to come to the class dinner, but
Doctor Holmes was very funny. He pooh-poohed us both; we were only
children, and we were not to be present at so rare a solemnity. For
me, I already felt that I had been wicked in wasting so much of his
time. But he has the gift of making you think that you are the only
person in the world, and that he is only living for your pleasure.
Still I knew, as a matter of fact, that this was not so, and very
unwillingly I took myself away.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I walked home I meditated on the fate of a first-rate book in our
time. Holmes had expressed unaffected surprise that I spoke with the
gratitude which I felt about his "Life of Emerson." The book must have
cost him the hard work of a year. It is as remarkable a study as one
poet ever made of another. Yet I think he said to me that no one had
seemed to understand the care and effort which he had given to it.

Here is the position in the United States now about the criticism of
such work. At about the time that the "North American Review" ceased
to review books, there came, as if by general consent, an end to all
elaborate criticism of new books here.

I think myself that this is a thing very much to be regretted. In old
times, whoever wrote a good book was tolerably sure that at least one
competent person would study it and write down what he thought about
it; and, from at least one point of view, an author had a prospect of
knowing how his book struck other people. Now we have nothing but the
hasty sketches, sometimes very good, which are written for the daily
or weekly press.


So it happens that I, for one, have never seen any fit recognition of
the gift which Doctor Holmes made to our time and to the next
generation when he made his study of Emerson's life for the "American
Men of Letters" series. Apparently he had not. Just think of it! Here
is a poet, the head of our "Academy," so far as there is any such
Academy, who is willing to devote a year of his life to telling you
and me what Emerson was, from his own personal recollections of a near
friend, whom he met as often as once a week, and talked with perhaps
for hours at a time, and with whom he talked on literary and
philosophical subjects. More than this, this poet has been willing to
go through Emerson's books again, to re-read them as he had originally
read them when they came out, and to make for you and me a careful
analysis of all these books. He is one of five people in the country
who are competent to tell what effect these books produced on the
country as they appeared from time to time. And, being competent, he
makes the time to tell us this thing. That is a sort of good fortune
which, so far as I remember, has happened to nobody excepting Emerson.
When John Milton died, there was nobody left who could have done such
a thing; certainly nobody did do it, or tried to do it. I must say, I
think it is rather hard that when such a gift as that has been given
to the people of any country, that people, while boasting of its
seventy millions of numbers, and its thousands of billions of acres,
should not have one critical journal of which it is the business to
say at length, and in detail, whether Doctor Holmes has done his duty
well by the prophet, or whether, indeed, he has done it at all.


When we left Doctor Holmes, he and his household were looking forward
to the annual escape to Beverly. Somebody once wrote him a letter
dated from "Manchester-by-the-Sea," and Holmes wrote his reply under
the date "Beverly-by-the-Depot." And here let me stop to tell one of
those jokes for which the English language and Doctor Holmes were
made. A few years ago, in a fit of economy, our famous Massachusetts
Historical Society screwed up its library and other offices by some
fifteen feet, built in the space underneath, and rented it to the city
of Boston. This was all very well for the treasurer; but for those of
us who had passed sixty years, and had to climb up some twenty more
iron stairs whenever we wanted to look at an old pamphlet in the
library, it was not so great a benefaction. When Holmes went up, for
the first time, to see the new quarters of the Society, he left his
card with the words, "O. W. Holmes. High-story-call Society." We
understood then why the councils of the Society had been over-ruled by
the powers which manage this world, to take this flight towards

I ought to have given a hint above of his connection and mine with the
society of "People who Think we are Going to Know More about Some
Things By and By." This society was really formed by my mother, who
for some time, I think, was the only member. But one day Doctor Holmes
and I met in the "Old Corner Bookstore," when the Corner had been
moved to the corner of Hamilton Place, and he was telling me one of
the extraordinary coincidences which he collects with such zeal. I
ventured to trump his story with another; and, in the language of the
ungodly, I thought I went one better than he. This led to a talk about
coincidences, and I said that my mother had long since said that she
meant to have a society of the people who believed that sometime we
should know more about such curious coincidences. Doctor Holmes was
delighted with the idea, and we "organized" the society then and
there; he was to be president, I was to be secretary, and my mother
was to be treasurer. There were to be no other members, no entrance
fees, no constitution, and no assessments. We seldom meet now that we
do not authorize a meeting of this society and challenge each other to
produce the remarkable coincidences which have passed since we met

There is an awful story of his about the last time a glove was thrown
down in an English court-room. It is a story in which Holmes is all
mixed up with a marvellous series of impossibilities, such as would
make Mr. Clemens's hair grow gray, and add a new chapter to his
studies of telepathy. I will not enter on it now, with the detail of
the book that fell from the ninth shelf of a book-case, and opened at
the exact passage where the challenge story was to be described. No, I
will not tell another word of it; for if I am started upon it, it will
take up the whole of this number of Mr. McClure's Magazine. But
sometime, when Mr. McClure wants to make the whole magazine thrill
with excitement, he will write to Doctor Holmes, and ask him for that
story of the "challenge of battle."


As for the story of his hearing Doctor Phinney at Rome, and the other
story of Mr. Emerson's hearing Doctor Phinney at Rome, I never tell
that excepting to confidential friends who know that I cannot tell a
lie. For if I tell it to any one else, he looks at me with a quizzical
air, as much as to say, "This is as bad as the story of the 'Man
Without a Country;' and I do not know how much to believe, and how
much to disbelieve."

  [1] Also called the Peter Butler house. Sewall in his diary speaks of
      it as Mr. Quincy's new house (1680-85). There Dorothy was born
      and married.



On the moorland above the old gray village of Carbaix, in
Finistére--Finistére, the most westerly province of Brittany--stands a
cottage, built, as all the cottages in that country are, of rough-hewn
stones. It is a poor, rude place to-day, but it wore an aspect far
more rude and primitive a hundred years ago--say on an August day in
the year 1793, when a man issued from the doorway, and, shading his
eyes from the noonday sun, gazed long and fixedly in the direction of
a narrow rift which a few score paces away breaks the monotony of the
upland level. This man was tall and thin and unkempt, his features
expressing a mixture of cunning and simplicity. He gazed a while in
silence, but at length uttered a grunt of satisfaction as the figure
of a woman rose gradually into sight. She came on slowly, in a
stooping posture, dragging behind her a great load of straw, which
completely hid the little sledge on which it rested, and which was
attached to her waist by a rope of twisted hay.

The figure of a woman--rather of a girl. As she drew nearer it could
be seen that her cheeks, though brown and sunburned, were as smooth as
a child's. She looked scarcely eighteen. Her head was bare, and her
short petticoats, of some coarse stuff, left visible bare feet thrust
into wooden shoes. She advanced with her head bent and her shoulders
strained forward, her face dull and patient. Once, and once only, when
the man's eyes left her for a moment, she shot at him a look of scared
apprehension; and later, when she came abreast of him, her breath
coming and going with her exertions, he might have seen, had he looked
closely, that her strong brown limbs were trembling under her.

But the man noticed nothing in his impatience, and only chid her for
her slowness. "Where have you been dawdling, lazy-bones?" he cried.

She murmured, without halting, that the sun was hot.

"Sun hot!" he retorted. "Jeanne is lazy, I think! _Mon Dieu_, that I
should have married a wife who is tired by noon! I had better have
left you to that never-do-well Pierre Bounat. But I have news for you,
my girl."

He lounged after her as he spoke, his low, cunning face--the face of
the worst kind of French peasant--flickering with cruel pleasure, as
he saw how she started at his words. She made no answer, however.
Instead, she drew her load with increased vehemence towards one of the
two doors which led into the building. "Well, well, I will tell you
presently," he called after her. "Be quick and come to dinner."

He entered himself by the other door. The house was divided into two
chambers by a breast-high partition of wood. The one room served for
kitchen; the other, now half full of straw, was barn and granary,
fowl-house and dove-cote, in one. "Be quick!" he called to her.
Standing in the house-room, he could see her head as she stooped to
unload the straw.

In a moment she came in, her shoes clattering on the floor. The
perspiration stood in great beads on her forehead, and showed how
little she had deserved his reproach. She sat down silently, avoiding
his eyes; but he thought nothing of this. It was no new thing. It
pleased him, if anything.

"Well, my Jeanne," he said, in his gibing tone, "are you longing for
my news?"

The hand she stretched out towards the pitcher of cider, which, with
black bread and onions, formed their meal, shook, but she answered
simply: "If you please, Michel."

"Well, the Girondins have been beaten, my girl, and are flying all
over the country. That is the news. Master Pierre is among them, I do
not doubt, if he has not been killed already. I wish he would come
this way."

"Why?" she asked, suddenly looking up at last, a flash of light in her
gray eyes.

"Why?" he repeated, grinning across the table at her, "because he
would be worth five crowns to me. There is five crowns, I am told, on
the head of every Girondin who has been in arms, my girl."

The French Revolution, it will be understood, was at its height. The
more moderate and constitutional Republicans--the Girondins, as they
were called--worsted in Paris by the Jacobins and the mob, had lately
tried to raise the provinces against the capital, and to this end had
drawn together at Caen, near the border of Brittany. They had been
defeated, however, and the Jacobins, in this month of August, were
preparing to take a fearful vengeance at once on them and the
Royalists. The Reign of Terror had begun. Even to such a boor as this,
sitting over his black bread, the Revolution had come home, and, in
common with many a thousand others, he wondered what he could make of

The girl did not answer, even by the look of contempt to which he had
become accustomed, and for which he hated her; and he repeated, "Five
crowns! Ah, it is money, that is! _Mon Dieu!_" Then, with a sudden
exclamation, he sprang up. "What is that?" he cried.

He had been sitting with his back to the barn, but he turned now so as
to face it. Something had startled him--a rustling in the straw behind
him. "What is that?" he said again, his hand on the table, his face
lowering and watchful.

The girl had risen also; and, as the last word passed his lips, sprang
by him with a low cry, and aimed a frantic blow with her stool at
something he could not see.

"What is it?" he asked, recoiling.

"A rat!" she answered, breathless. And she aimed another blow at it.

"Where?" he asked, fretfully. "Where is it?" He snatched his stool,
too, and at that moment a rat darted out of the straw, ran nimbly
between his legs, and plunged into a hole by the door. He flung the
wooden stool after it; but, of course, in vain. "It was a rat!" he
said, as if before he had doubted it.

"Thank God!" she muttered. She was shaking all over.

He stared at her in stupid wonder. What did she mean? What had come to
her? "Have you had a sunstroke, my girl?" he said, suspiciously.

Her nut-brown face was a shade less brown than usual, but she met his
eyes boldly, and said: "No," adding an explanation which for the
moment satisfied him. But he did not sit down again. When she went out
he went out also. And though, as she retired slowly to the rye fields
and work, she repeatedly looked back at him, it was always to find his
eyes upon her. When this had happened half a dozen times, a thought
struck him. "How now?" he muttered. "The rat ran out of the straw!"

Nevertheless he still stood gazing after her, with a cunning look upon
his features, until she disappeared over the edge of the rift, and
then he crept back to the door of the barn, and stole in out of the
sunlight into the cool darkness of the raftered building, across which
a dozen rays of light were shooting, laden with dancing motes. Inside
he stood stock still until he had regained the use of his eyes, and
then he began to peer round him. In a moment he found what he sought.
Half upon, and half hidden by, the straw, lay a young man, in the deep
sleep of utter exhaustion. His face, which bore traces of more than
common beauty, was now white and pinched; his hair hung dank about his
forehead. His clothes were in rags; and his feet, bound up in pieces
torn at random from his blouse, were raw and bleeding. For a short
while Michel Tellier bent over him, remarking these things with
glistening eyes. Then the peasant stole out again. "It is five
crowns!" he muttered, blinking in the sunlight. "Ha, ha! Five

He looked round cautiously, but could see no sign of his wife; and
after hesitating and pondering a minute or two, he took the path
for Carbaix, his native astuteness leading him to saunter slowly
along in his ordinary fashion. After that the moorland about the
cottage lay seemingly deserted. Thrice, at intervals, the girl
dragged home her load of straw, but each time she seemed to linger
in the barn no longer than was necessary. Michel's absence, though
it was unlooked-for, raised no suspicion in her breast, for he would
frequently go down to the village to spend the afternoon. The sun
sank lower, and the shadow of the great monolith, which, standing
on the highest point of the moor, about a mile away, rose gaunt and
black against a roseate sky, grew longer and longer; and then, as
twilight fell, the two coming home met a few paces from the cottage.
He asked some questions about the work she had been doing, and she
answered briefly. Then, silent and uncommunicative, they went in
together. The girl set the bread and cider on the table, and going to
the great black pot which had been simmering all day upon the fire,
poured some broth into two pitchers. It did not escape Michel's
frugal eye that there was still a little broth left in the bottom
of the pot, and this induced a new feeling in him--anger. When his
wife hailed him by a sign to the meal, he went instead to the door,
and fastened it. Thence he went to the corner and picked up the
wood-chopper, and armed with this came back to his seat.

The girl watched his movements first with surprise, and then with
secret terror. The twilight was come, and the cottage was almost dark,
and she was alone with him; or, if not alone, yet with no one near who
could help her. Yet she met his grin of triumph bravely. "What is
this?" she said. "Why do you want that?"

"For the rat," he answered grimly, his eyes on hers.

"Why not use your stool?" she strove to murmur, her heart sinking.

"Not for this rat," he answered. "It might not do, my girl. Oh, I know
all about it," he continued. "I have been down to the village, and
seen the mayor, and he is coming up to fetch him." He nodded towards
the partition, and she knew that her secret was known.

"It is Pierre," she said, trembling violently, and turning first
crimson and then white.

"I know it, Jeanne. It was excellent of you! Excellent! It is long
since you have done such a day's work."

"You will not give him up?"

"My faith, I shall!" he answered, affecting, and perhaps really
feeling, wonder at her simplicity. "He is five crowns, girl! You do
not understand. He is worth five crowns, and the risk nothing at

If he had been angry, or shown anything of the fury of the suspicious
husband; if he had been about to do this out of jealousy or revenge,
she would have quailed before him, though she had done him no wrong,
save the wrong of mercy and pity. But his spirit was too mean for the
great passions; he felt only the sordid ones, which to a woman are the
most hateful. And instead of quailing, she looked at him with flashing
eyes. "I shall warn him," she said.

"It will not help him," he answered, sitting still, and feeling the
edge of the hatchet with his fingers.

"It will help him," she retorted. "He shall go. He shall escape before
they come."

"I have locked the doors!"

"Give me the key!" she panted. "Give me the key, I say!" She had risen
and was standing before him, her figure drawn to its full height. He
rose hastily and retreated behind the table, still retaining the
hatchet in his grasp.

"Stand back!" he said, sullenly. "You may awaken him, if you please,
my girl. It will not avail him. Do you not understand, fool, that he
is worth five crowns? And listen! It is too late now. They are here!"

A blow fell on the door as he spoke, and he stepped towards it. But at
that despair moved her, and she threw herself upon him, and for a
moment wrestled with him. At last, with an effort he flung her off,
and, brandishing his weapon in her face, kept her at bay. "You vixen!"
he cried, savagely, retreating to the door, with a pale cheek and his
eyes still on her, for he was an arrant coward. "You deserve to go to
prison with him, you jade! I will have you in the stocks for this!"

She leaned against the wall where she had fallen, her white,
despairing face seeming almost to shine in the darkness of the
wretched room. Meanwhile the continuous murmur of men's voices outside
could now be heard, mingled with the ring of weapons; and the summons
for admission was again and again repeated, as if those without had no
mind to be kept waiting.

"Patience! patience! I am opening!" he cried. Still keeping his face
to her, he unlocked the door and called on the men to enter. "He is in
the straw, M. le Mayor!" he cried in a tone of triumph, his eyes still
on his wife. "He will give you no trouble, I will answer for it! But
first give me my five crowns, mayor. My five crowns!"

He still felt so much fear of his wife that he did not turn to see the
men enter, and was taken by surprise when a voice at his elbow--a
strange voice--said, "Five crowns, my friend? For what, may I ask?"

In his eagerness and excitement he suspected nothing, but thought only
that the mayor had sent a deputy. "For what? For the Girondin!" he
answered, rapidly. Then at last he turned and found that half-a-dozen
men had entered, and that more were entering. To his astonishment,
they were all strangers to him--men with stern, gloomy faces, and
armed to the teeth. There was something so formidable in their
appearance that his voice faltered as he added: "But where is the
mayor, gentlemen? I do not see him."

No one answered, but in silence the last of the men--there were eleven
in all--entered and bolted the door behind him. Michel Tellier peered
at them in the gloom with growing alarm. In return the tallest of the
strangers, who had entered first and seemed to be in command, looked
round keenly. At length this man spoke. "So you have a Girondin here,
have you?" he said, his voice curiously sweet and sonorous.

"I was to have five crowns for him," Michel muttered dubiously.

"Oh! Pétion," continued the spokesman to one of his companions, "can
you kindle a light? It strikes me that we have hit upon a dark

The man addressed took something from his pouch. For a moment there
was silence, broken only by the sharp sound of the flint striking the
steel. Then a sudden glare lit up the dark interior, and disclosed the
group of cloaked strangers standing about the door, the light gleaming
back from their muskets and cutlasses. Michel trembled. He had never
seen such men as these before. True, they were wet and travel-stained,
and had the air of those who spend their nights in ditches and under
haystacks. But their pale, stern faces were set in indomitable
resolve. Their eyes glowed with a steady fire, and they trod as kings
tread. Their leader was a man of majestic height and beauty, and in
his eyes alone there seemed to lurk a spark of some lighter fire, as
if his spirit still rose above the task which had sobered his
companions. Michel noted all this in fear and bewilderment; noted the
white head and yet vigorous bearing of the man who had struck the
light; noted even the manner in which the light died away in the dim
recesses of the barn.

"And this Girondin--is he in hiding here?" said the tall man.

"That is so," Michel answered. "But I had nothing to do with hiding
him, citizen. It was my wife hid him in the straw there."

"And you gave notice of his presence to the authorities?" continued
the stranger, raising his hand to repress some movement among his

"Certainly, or you would not have been here," replied Michel, better
satisfied with himself.

The answer struck him down with an awful terror. "That does not
follow," said the tall man, coolly, "for we are Girondins!"

"You are?"

"Without doubt," the other answered, with majestic simplicity; "or
there are no such persons. This is Pétion, and this Citizen Buzot.
Have you heard of Louvet? There he stands. For me, I am Barbaroux."

Michel's tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not
utter a word. But another could. On the far side of the barrier a
sudden rustling was heard, and while all turned to look--but with
what different feelings--the pale face of the youth over whom
Michel had bent in the afternoon appeared above the partition. A
smile of joyful recognition effaced for the time the lines of
exhaustion. The young man, clinging for support to the planks,
uttered a cry of thankfulness. "It is you! It is really you! You are
safe!" he exclaimed.

"We are safe, all of us, Pierre," Barbaroux answered. "And now"--and
he turned to Michel Tellier with sudden thunder in his voice--"this
man whom you would have betrayed is our guide, let me tell you, whom
we lost last night. Speak, man, in your defence, if you can. Say what
you have to say why justice shall not be done upon you, miserable
caitiff, who would have sold a man's life for a few pieces of

The wretched peasant's knees trembled, and the perspiration stood upon
his brow. He heard the voice as the voice of a judge. He looked in the
stern eyes of the Girondins, and read only anger and vengeance. Then
he caught in the silence the sound of his wife weeping, for at
Pierre's appearance she had broken into wild sobbing, and he spoke out
of the base instincts of his heart.

"He was her lover," he muttered. "I swear it, citizens."

"He lies!" cried the man at the barrier, his face transfigured with
rage. "I loved her, it is true, but it was before her old father sold
her to this Judas. For what he would have you believe now, my friends,
it is false. I, too, swear it."

A murmur of execration broke from the group of Girondins. Barbaroux
repressed it by a gesture. "What do you say of this man?" he asked,
turning to them, his voice deep and solemn.

"He is not fit to live!" they answered in chorus.

The poor coward screamed as he heard the words, and, flinging himself
on the ground, he embraced Barbaroux's knees in a paroxysm of terror.
But the judge did not look at him. Barbaroux turned, instead, to
Pierre Bounat. "What do you say of him?" he asked.

"He is not fit to live," said the young man solemnly, his breath
coming quick and fast.

"And you?" Barbaroux continued, turning and looking with his eyes of
fire at the wife, his voice gentle, and yet more solemn.

A moment before she had ceased to weep, and had stood up listening and
gazing, awe and wonder in her face. Barbaroux had to repeat his
question before she answered. Then she said, "He is not fit to die."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the entreaties of the
wretch on the floor. At last Barbaroux spoke. "She has said rightly,"
he pronounced. "He shall live. They have put us out of the law and set
a price on our heads; but we will keep the law. He shall live. But,
hark you," the great orator continued, in tones which Michel never
forgot, "if a whisper escape you as to our presence here, or our
names, or if you wrong your wife by word or deed, the life she has
saved shall pay for it.

"Remember!" he added, shaking Michel to and fro with a finger, "the
arm of Barbaroux is long, and though I be a hundred leagues away, I
shall know and I shall punish. So, beware! Now rise, and live!"

The miserable man cowered back to the wall, frightened to the core of
his heart. The Girondins conferred a while in whispers, two of their
number assisting Pierre to cross the barrier. Suddenly there came--and
Michel trembled anew as he heard it--a loud knocking at the door. All
started and stood listening and waiting. A voice outside cried: "Open!
open! in the name of the law!"

"We have lingered too long," Barbaroux muttered. "I should have
thought of this. It is the Mayor of Carbaix come to apprehend our

Again the Girondins conferred together. At last, seeming to arrive at
a conclusion, they ranged themselves on either side of the door, and
one of their number opened it. A short, stout man, girt with a
tricolor sash, and wearing a huge sword, entered with an air of
authority--being blinded by the light he saw nothing out of the
common--and was followed by four men armed with muskets.

Their appearance produced an extraordinary effect on Michel Tellier.
As they one by one crossed the threshold, the peasant leaned forward,
his face flushed, his eyes gleaming, and counted them. They were only
five. And the others were twelve. He fell back, and from that moment
his belief in the Girondins' power was clinched.

"In the name of the law!" panted the mayor. "Why did you not--" Then
he stopped abruptly, his mouth remaining open. He found himself
surrounded by a group of grim, silent mutes, with arms in their hands,
and in a twinkling it flashed into his mind that these were the eleven
chiefs of the Girondins, whom he had been warned to keep watch for. He
had come to catch a pigeon and had caught a crow. He turned pale and
his eyes dropped. "Who are--who are these gentlemen?" he stammered, in
a ludicrously altered tone.

"Some volunteers of Quumpen, returning home," replied Barbaroux, with
ironical smoothness.

"You have your papers, citizens?" the mayor asked, mechanically; and
he took a step back towards the door, and looked over his shoulder.

"Here they are!" said Pétion rudely, thrusting a packet into his
hands. "They are in order."

The mayor took them, and longing only to see the outside of the
door, pretended to look through them, his little heart going
pit-a-pat within him. "They seem to be in order," he assented,
feebly. "I need not trouble you further, citizens. I came here under
a misapprehension, I find, and I wish you a good journey."

He knew, as he backed out, that he was cutting a poor figure. He would
fain have made a more dignified retreat. But before these men,
fugitives and outlaws as they were, he felt, though he was Mayor of
Carbaix, almost as small a man as did Michel Tellier. These were the
men of the Revolution. They had bearded nobles and pulled down kings.
There was Barbaroux, who had grappled with Marat; and Pétion, the
Mayor of the Bastille. The little Mayor of Carbaix knew greatness when
he saw it. He turned tail, and hurried back to his fireside, his
body-guard not a whit behind him.

Five minutes later the men he feared and envied came out also, and
went their way, passing in single file into the darkness which brooded
over the great monolith; beginning, brave hearts, another of the few
stages which still lay between them and the guillotine. Then in the
cottage there remained only Michel and Jeanne. She sat by the dying
embers, silent, and lost in thought. He leaned against the wall, his
eyes roving ceaselessly, but always when his gaze met hers it fell.
Barbaroux had conquered him. It was not until Jeanne had risen to
close the door, and he was alone, that he wrung his hands, and
muttered: "Five crowns! Five crowns gone and wasted!"


  Facing this pastel, in an opposite corner of the room, another
  little thing full of sadness catches my eye, despite the deepening
  twilight. It is a yellow-stained photograph hung on the wall in a
  simple, wooden frame. It is the young Prince Imperial, who was
  killed in Africa a dozen years ago, but is shown here as a mere
  child in knee breeches. An odd, but touching, fancy it was of the
  Empress Eugenie to place this souvenir of her son, the last of the
  Napoleons, in the very room where that other one was born, the
  giant who shook the earth....

  How strange and startling it will be a century or two hence
  for our descendants to turn over the photographs of their
  ancestors!... The portraits left by our forefathers, expressive
  though they may be, whether painted or engraved, can never
  produce in us an impression equally vivid; but photographs are
  the very reflections of living beings, fixing their precise
  attitudes, their gestures, their most fleeting expressions.
  What a curious thing it will be, what an awe-inspiring thing for
  future generations to study our faces when we shall have fallen
  into the dead past!...--A fragment from Loti's "Book of Pity
  and of Death."


EDWARD EVERETT HALE, clergyman and author, born in Boston in 1822, was
graduated at Harvard in 1839. While a clergyman, he is perhaps best
known to the world as a philanthropist and an author. He has written
short stories, novels, juvenile books, works of travel, essays,
biography, and history, besides giving much time to his pastoral
duties, to preaching, lecturing, and the organization of charities. He
founded the magazine "Old and New," afterward merged in "Scribner's"
(now "The Century"). Two of his short stories, "My Double, and How He
Undid Me," and "The Man Without a Country," are classics.

HENRI ADOLPHE STEPHAN OPPER, known to the world as M. DE BLOWITZ, born
at Blowitz, Bohemia, on December 28, 1825, migrated to France in 1848,
and became engaged as professor of the German language and literature
at the Lycée of Tours. Here he remained till 1860, when he left to
fill, successively, similar posts at Limoges, Poictiers, and
Marseilles. He married the daughter of a paymaster of the French
Marine. It was not till 1871 that he became a naturalized Frenchman,
and, after the French defeat by the Germans, he was a confidant and
emissary of both Gambetta and Thiers. His entrance into journalism was
as the collaborateur of Lawrence Oliphant, the special correspondent
of the "London Times" at Versailles. On Oliphant's retirement, M. de
Blowitz was promoted by the editor of the "Times," to fill his place.
The subsequent career of the great correspondent has been identified
with some of the most striking episodes in modern politics and

DANIEL VIERGE URRABIETA, born in Madrid, 1852, became a student of
the Fine Arts Academy of Madrid in 1865. In 1869 he went to Paris
and began his career of illustrator. In 1881 he was stricken by an
attack of paralysis, which it was feared would be fatal. But for the
last four or five years he has been growing steadily better in
health, and has been able to resume his brilliant work. Although
but little known to the public at large, he ranks among the most
original and striking of modern artists, and is without doubt at the
head of the illustrators.

THOMAS ALVA EDISON, born at Alva, Ohio, February 11, 1847, had no
schooling except the attrition of life. At the age of fifteen, having
been taught telegraphy, he graduated from the life of a train newsboy
into that of an operator, and, during several years of wandering,
acquired extraordinary skill. The study of theory ran _æquo pede_ with
executive work. He quickly invented the automatic repeater to transfer
messages from one to another wire. It is needless to touch upon his
further achievements which have made his name famous in the whole
civilized world.



[Illustration: AGE 37. 1859.]

[Illustration: AGE 39. 1861.]


[Illustration: AGE 43. 1865.]

[Illustration: MR. HALE AND HIS CHILDREN IN 1869.]

[Illustration: AGE 48. 1870.]

[Illustration: MR. HALE IN 1888.]


[Illustration: 1866.]

[Illustration: 1875. PARIS.]




[Illustration: AGE 13. 1865.]

[Illustration: AGE 17. 1869. MADRID.]

[Illustration: AGE 19. 1871. PARIS.]

[Illustration: VIERGE IN 1890.]


[Illustration: AGE 3. 1850.]

[Illustration: AGE 13. 1860.]

[Illustration: AGE 31. 1878. EDISON AND THE FIRST PHONOGRAPH.]






Few of those people who go to a menagerie realize what an immense
undertaking it is to transport wild beasts from the land of their
birth and of their freedom to the land of their imprisonment, and, too
frequently, of their death. I will ask my readers to picture for
themselves an African desert blazing beneath a burning sun. Across the
weary waste of sand a long column of men and animals is wending its
slow way. As it draws nearer we see that it is a caravan of wild
animals on their way from the interior to the seaboard. And as it
passes us, the vast mass of living creatures, as in a chemical
process, slowly dissolves itself into distinct particles and
individualities. Let us regard them carefully. In the first place we
notice a procession of fourteen stately giraffes, then come five
elephants, a huge rhinoceros, four wild buffaloes bellowing sadly
after the mates they have forever left behind. Then there go lumbering
by a number of enormous carts or wagons, in which are safely confined
thirty hyenas, five leopards, six lions, two chetahs, sixteen
antelopes, two lynxes, one serval, one wardbob, twenty smaller
carnivorous animals, four African ant-eaters, and forty-five monkeys.
And then there come slowly prancing by, wary, restless, cunning,
twenty-six ostriches. There are twenty boxes of birds, from which
sounds of shrill screaming are constantly proceeding. There are
upwards of a hundred Abyssinian goats scattered here and there in the
procession. These are to give milk for the young animals, and to serve
as food and meat for the old. The caravan is on its way through the
desert to Suakim, which is the first shipping place for Europe. There
are no less than a hundred and twenty camels in it, which are
required to carry the food for this caravan, and there are upwards of
a hundred and sixty drivers in the procession. It takes the caravans
upwards of thirty-six days to cover the distance which lies between
Cassala in the interior of Nubia and the port of Suakim, for which
they are bound. The same journey is usually performed by quick post
camels in twelve days.

This is the exact account of a caravan which Karl Hagenbeck told me he
brought across the desert in the year 1870. "It is tremendously
anxious work," said he, "the transportation of these animals across
sea and land. The amount of water which we have to carry with us in
goats' hides upon camels' backs is prodigious, for nothing would be
more awful than to run short of water in the middle of the desert, and
to be surrounded by a number of wild beasts, maddened with heat and
unquenchable thirst. The principal food for the young elephants and
rhinoceroses on the way home is a fruit called nabeck, that is, a kind
of cherry of which they are very fond. Giraffes and antelopes and
ostriches are provided with the doura corn that grows in the interior.
All these bigger animals walk, and as they jog along my people feed
them occasionally with hard ship biscuit, which appears to sustain
them well through the journey. At four o'clock every morning the
caravan strikes its tents and begins its march. They go plodding along
till ten o'clock, when the day becomes too hot for further progress."

[Illustration: KARL HAGENBECK.]

"But do the animals never attempt to escape?" said I.

"Well, not often," replied Karl Hagenbeck; "but," he added, with a
hearty laugh of recollection, "I remember that once, in that very year
1870, of which I have just been telling you, the whole of the
ostriches, twenty-six in number, ran away just as we were getting them
into the railway station at Suakim. Away they went, heading straight
for the desert. I never was in such a dreadful fix in my life. At last
it struck me that it would be a good plan to drive all the goats and
camels towards them; we did so, and, when the ostriches saw them
advancing, they formed themselves into a flock, and we drove the whole
lot into the station. The birds were caught one by one and put into
the cars. That was the last transport, by-the-by, that poor Casanova
ever brought over. Indeed, he died at Alexandria in the very midst of
the whole business, and we buried him on the evening of his death. It
was a dreadful time, and everything appeared to be against us, for at
the very moment of his death, just as we were getting the animals on
board ship, a fearful earthquake shook the whole land. I thought there
was something about to happen, for the animals were very uneasy, the
birds were twittering, the monkeys were chattering and trembling, the
lions were roaring constantly, the elephants were deafening with their
long trumpetings. Suddenly I felt the steamer quivering from stem to
stern. The sea was tossing, the sun was hidden behind a thick yellow
mist. I looked toward the land where the minarets were toppling down,
and where the greatest horror and confusion appeared to prevail, and
all the while poor Casanova lay dead or dying below. I shall never
forget that awful morning.

"We had had the greatest possible difficulty just before, too, for at
Suakim the railway people had told us that we had too many wagons, and
that they would not transport us any farther. However, I soon settled
that by going up to the directors of the railway and demanding from
them an express train immediately; 'for,' said I, 'these animals are
for the Emperor of Austria,' and to prove this I showed them a great
document sealed by the emperor himself."


"On another occasion I was journeying through Suez with a giraffe
which for five months had been living in the German Consul's garden. I
was leading it to the station when it suddenly took fright and ran
away. For four long, weary miles I hung on to the wretched beast, but
at last I was obliged to drop the rope and let it go. A smart little
Nubian boy then took up the chase; he got hold of the rope and
eventually tied it round a tree, and after a while we led the animal
quietly back to the station.

"But one of the most alarming adventures that ever overtook me whilst
I was transporting animals was that which occurred once when twelve
elephants broke away from me and rushed through the streets of Vienna.
The whole twelve had been deposited in a _dépôt_, where they had to
rest for two days. I was taking six of the elephants to lead them to
the station, and when my back was turned and I was engaged with these
six elephants, the other six stealthily and quietly pulled up the iron
rings by which they were fastened to the ground, trumpeted loudly,
and, before I knew what had happened, the twelve animals were rushing
through the streets of Vienna. At last, after a long chase, I caught
the biggest elephant, and led it to the station, the others following
quietly enough. But my troubles were not over yet, for I hardly got
the first four into a railway van when the others began to howl. The
four elephants in the train plunged and kicked about, and at last they
broke their ropes and ran out of the van, followed by all the others,
and into the open streets. Then began another hunt up the big
fashionable streets, down little courts and alleys, once after one
which ran into a big shop, all over a big park, and this went on for
three hours, until, at last, greatly to my relief, I got them safely
into the station and packed into the vans for their journey."


"Perhaps the most difficult part of transportation, notwithstanding
all the adventures I have had on land, is the getting the big animals
on board ship. Take elephants for instance. They are placed in barges
and then they are slung up in big slings on to the steamer. This is
very difficult and very anxious work, for very often they are killed
by the breaking of their necks or their legs. And then again, once
they are on board ship, it is very difficult to bring elephants alive
to Europe. They suffer dreadfully from sea-sickness, and cannot eat.
Some of them are put between decks, and some of them have stables
fitted up for them on deck.

"I remember once that Casanova left Africa with a cargo of forty
elephants, thirteen only of which reached Trieste alive, and only
twelve came here to me in Hamburg. On one occasion, in 1881 I think it
was, I was bringing over a large cargo of forty-two ostriches from
the Somali country. We were going through the Red Sea, when suddenly a
violent storm broke upon us. It was pitch dark on deck, but I went
below to look at my birds, and by the dim light of the lantern, and
the flash of lightning that every now and again lit up the whole of
the ship, I saw that the poor creatures were swaying to and fro, and
that they were in the greatest possible discomfort. That night more
than thirty of them broke their legs, and the next day we had to throw
their bodies into the sea, and out of the forty-two I brought only
nine home to Europe. But perhaps one of the most dangerous adventures
that I ever had in transporting wild beasts was in 1871. I was taking
a rhinoceros from the East India Docks to the Zoölogical Gardens in
London. To do this I had to take it and lead it through the docks on a
flat trolly. At last we got the beast hoisted on a wagon, and fastened
by all four legs. Suddenly an engine drove by. The animal became
hideously frightened, his eyes rolled white, then red. He then planted
his horn under the seat upon which the man who was driving the wagon
was seated. Away went the man, away went the seat, clean over the
three horses. They in their turn became dreadfully frightened, too,
and bolted. I hit the beast as hard as ever I could with a rope. We
managed to tie another rope round his neck and fastened it down, and
at last we got him safely down the Commercial Road, and then settled
in some stables. I had a big box made for him, and at last conveyed
him safely to his destination; but I wouldn't go through that
experience again for a million of money.

"I was once bringing home a full-grown alligator," continued Mr.
Hagenbeck, smiling at the thought of the adventure of which he was
about to tell me, "and I was travelling on a passenger ship. One
morning a most amusing incident occurred, but one which all the same
might have been attended with serious consequences. I had paid my
usual morning visit to my travelling companion, and had seen to his
supply of food and water, and having assured myself that he was quite
comfortable and well looked after, I retired to my cabin to lie down,
the day being very hot. Suddenly I heard a great tramping overhead and
the screaming of women and children. I could not think what was the
matter, so I ran up on deck; as I went I passed a number of people
rushing down the companion way. The male passengers were on the
captain's deck; the sailors were climbing the rigging as fast as they
could. The deck was perfectly clear. In the midst of the empty deck
stood my alligator, the innocent cause of this sudden commotion, with
gently smiling jaws, looking wonderingly on. After a good long time
and much difficulty I got the beast into his own habitation."


It is told of the mad King of Bavaria, that he used frequently to
command great theatrical entertainments at which he himself was the
only spectator. A similar experience befell myself when I was visiting
Hamburg. For Mr. Karl Hagenbeck, at my special request, and with
great good nature, gave two full performances in my honor, at which,
like the mad Bavarian monarch, I was the only spectator. In the first
performance only very young animals took part, but as they had been
working since last January year, they were pretty well up to all the
little tricks they had been taught. My readers will imagine a great
circle carefully railed off from the outside world by iron bars. Round
this circle, upon a number of little stands, sat the performing
animals, waiting to take their respective "turns," as they say in the
music halls; in the midst of the circle sat myself, with a beautiful
little baby lion on my knee, which amused itself by playing with my
watch chain and handkerchief. Two little tigers which got tired of
sitting still suddenly jumped down from their perches and ran up to
play with me and the baby lion. A young lion on another perch yawned
so loud that we all, animals and men, looked up to see what was the
matter. Mr. Hagenbeck walked round the circle, stroking the animals,
most of which affectionately kissed him as he passed.


At this moment Mr. Mellermann, who is one of the finest wild beast
trainers in the world, entered the circle with his whip in his hand,
which, as he entered, he cracked smartly, causing the animals to
spring sharply to attention upon their little seats. Karl Hagenbeck
introduced me to Mr. Mellermann, who is indeed his own brother-in-law
as well as being his trainer.

"What is your rule of training, Mr. Mellermann?" said I.

"Kindness and coolness and firmness," he replied, "as you will see in
this performance. Come on, pussies," he continued, "show this
gentleman how you can run round the circle."

The pussies, as he called them, fairly big tigers as I should have
considered them, unwillingly crept off their seats, growling not a
little. Mr. Mellermann cracked his whip smartly, but did not hit
them. The animals then began to run very prettily round and round the
circle. So well did they do their little tricks that Mr. Mellermann
said: "Now you shall have some sugar, you have been very good." He
placed in my hand a few lumps of sugar which I myself gave to them,
greatly to their pleasure. Then a pyramid was formed by some young
tigers, some lions, a couple of ponies, and four young goats. The
pyramid itself consisted of a small double ladder upon the steps of
which the animals somewhat nervously took their places, and upon which
they stood gazing quietly down upon us, until they were told that they
might go back to their places. After a while, when school was over,
the goats and ponies left the arena, and then the door of a big cage,
which gave upon the circle, was thrown wide open. It was pretty to see
the little lions and tigers running home, for all the world like an
infant school dismissed to play. The pretty creatures gambolled about
for a short while in their cage, and then lay down to rest.


"And now," said Mr. Hagenbeck, "the older animals are coming in to do
their performance."

Several attendants entered the building as he spoke; for to handle a
large number of fully grown wild animals is no light matter. The first
animals to come rushing into the arena were a number of huge German
boar-hounds--great affectionate beasts they were, too. I patted one of
them as he passed me, and he reared himself on his hind legs, threw
his forepaws round my neck, and delightedly covered my face with
kisses. Each boar-hound on entering the circle went to his own
allotted place with all the sense of a human being. A few moments
afterwards a door was thrown open, and in walked the lions and tigers.
Splendid big beasts these last were. Some looked very good-tempered,
although it is to be acknowledged that one tiger had evidently got out
of bed the wrong side, whilst a lion that had arrived comparatively
recently from Nubia evinced now and again a strong disposition to
rebel against the novel circumstances in which he found himself
placed. Three bears then walked in--a polar bear, a sloth bear, and a
black bear, the latter causing much amusement by quietly entering on
its hind legs. Then came a couple of elephants, a camel, four ponies,
several goats, and last of all a big, sleepy sheep, which seemed to be
on particularly intimate terms with one of the lions.

One of the most remarkable things that I noticed in Karl Hagenbeck's
menagerie is the marvellous unity and loving-kindness which is brought
to pass amongst his animals. They are fondling and playing with each
other the whole day long. Like the younger animals, they took their
seats upon the rickety pedestals which are provided for them. It was a
wonder to me how such huge beasts were able to balance themselves so
easily and comfortably as they did upon such small and slender
supports. One of them, however, came to grief in a most amusing
manner. The human beings were standing talking together in the middle
of the circle, when suddenly a loud crash and an indignant howl was
heard. We all turned to see what was the matter, as did also the wild
beasts themselves; one of the lions had suddenly tumbled down off his
perch, or rather the perch had fallen with him, and there he lay, more
startled than hurt, wondering what on earth had happened. It was
partly his own fault, poor dear fellow, for he had fallen asleep
whilst waiting for the performance to begin, and so lost his balance.
But his look of indignant surprise was so ludicrously human that none
of us could help laughing. However, both he and his pedestal were
speedily reinstated in their former position, and a lump of sugar soon
restored him to his usual tranquillity of spirit.

"And will the animals be arranged round the Chicago circus like this,
Mr. Hagenbeck?" said I.

"Everything will be exactly as you see it to-day," he replied.
"Perhaps, if anything, on a bigger scale."

At this moment the band struck up a stirring tune, on hearing which
the animals delightedly pricked their ears, and all became life and
animation at once!

"My animals love music," said Mr. Hagenbeck, "and they perform twice
as well with a band as they do without."

The first thing that took place was the riding round the circus on a
pony by a full-grown lion. Round and round they went. The pony
spiritedly enough; the lion, it must be confessed, looking, as wild
beasts generally do when engaged in such performances, rather a fool.

"The ponies and dogs were at first dreadfully afraid of the lions and
tigers," explained Mr. Hagenbeck, "but they soon got over it. These
two animals were the rage of all Paris when I was performing there a
year or two ago. Four ponies refused altogether, but at last we
managed to persuade this one to accomplish the trick."

"Has your brother-in-law never been hurt by any of these animals?"

"Only once," said he, "when he tried to separate a dog and a tiger
which were fighting, and the dog bit him. The dogs are frequently very
plucky, and sometimes attack the lions."

The next feature in the programme was that a tiger should ride round
the circus on a tricycle. A man rolled in the tricycle, the tiger was
called by name to come down from his perch, which he did slowly and
unwillingly enough. "For," said Mr. Hagenbeck, "he always hates this
ride of his." Then the tiger sullenly mounted the tricycle exactly as
is shown in the picture, growling frequently the whole time; two of
the boar-hounds walked behind as footmen, the band struck up a slow
tune, the tiger set the tricycle in motion, and slowly and solemnly
enough the little procession passed round the circus. "Now," said the
chief trainer, "I'll show you how a tiger can roll a ball along,
standing upon it the whole time." Some trestles were brought in,
placed at equal distances from each other, and a long plank was laid
across them, and then there was placed upon it a huge wooden ball.
"Come on, Cæsar," cried Mr. Mellermann, "it's your turn now." To our
surprise a beautiful lion jumped down from his pedestal and ran gayly
up to Mr. Mellermann. "No, no, no, you dear old stupid," said the
trainer, leading him back to his perch; "I want Cæsar, not you." But
all our persuasion couldn't get Cæsar the tiger to come down, so Mr.
Mellermann went boldly up to him and gently flicked him with his whip.
Cæsar got slowly down, snarling and growling the whole time. "Come on,
then, there's a good fellow," said Mr. Mellermann, and after a while
Cæsar was persuaded to balance himself on the ball which he rolled
slowly along the plank. Having done it once or twice forwards and
backwards, he was allowed to return to his seat, which he did with
great joy and satisfaction. Mr. Mellermann then went up to him, told
him he had been a good fellow, and gave him a special bit of meat all
to himself. "I always do that," said he, coming back to where I was
standing, "when an animal has shown any unwillingness to perform his
tricks, for there is nothing that encourages them like kindness."

"Which animals show the most intelligence?" said I.

"Well," replied Mr. Mellermann, "I don't think there is much
difference between them. Lions and tigers, males and females, are
equally clever; and," continued Mr. Mellermann, "I think it is all
rubbish to say that tigers are not as affectionate or as easily tamed
as lions. Why, look here," he continued, going up to a splendid Royal
Bengal tiger which greeted him with a most extravagant affection as he
threw his arms round the creature's neck and drew the great head down
on a level with his own, "you couldn't get a more affectionate beast
than this is, I am sure."

On this particular morning the animals seemed to be a little flighty,
which Karl Hagenbeck explained to me was owing to the fact that the
young animals were so close by, and the old ones wanted to play with
them. Next, one of the bears was led forth to walk on the tight rope,
this appliance really being a long narrow plank. Very cleverly he
balanced himself on his hind legs, and walked, first forwards and then
backwards, with wonderful skill and ease. The trainer walked beside
him, encouraging him now and again with the words, "Steady, John,
steady," treating him, indeed, exactly as he would treat a boy at
school. In the middle of his performance a loud snarling and growling
was suddenly heard; a tiger and a leopard had begun quarrelling, and,
as the leopard had been behaving very badly the whole morning, and
distracting the attention of the school, he was sent back to his den
in disgrace. Meanwhile the bear retired to his pedestal and sat down
upon it with a graceful and self-satisfied air. "That bear very much
pleased the Emperor of Austria and the King of Bavaria when they came
here some years ago," said Mr. Hagenbeck, and then he took a beautiful
silver cigar-case out of his pocket, from which he offered me a very
fine weed. This cigar-case, he told me, had been given him on that
memorable occasion by the King of Bavaria himself.

Then a see-saw was constructed in the middle of the circus, upon one
end of which stood a lion, and upon the other end of which stood a
tiger. A bear standing in the middle preserved the peace between them.
Two leopards stood on guard on either side, and then the bear set the
see-saw in motion by walking alternately from one side to the other.

Then took place a curious and amusing performance. Four lions and
tigers were arranged in a row at an equal distance from one another.
Some of the German boar-hounds were let loose, and one after another
they gayly started a game of leap-frog with the wild beasts, who
seemed to enjoy it to the full as much as they did. After they had
finished their performance, some enormous double ladders were brought
in. The great Polar bear was persuaded to take his place at the very
top; next to him on either side, on the next rung of the ladder, was a
beautiful boar-hound; then came two royal Bengal tigers, and then a
couple of the finest lions I ever saw. Round about the base of the
pyramid were grouped, in picturesque profusion, lions, tigers,
leopards, and dogs. There they stood perfectly still, and uttering not
a single sound, until, very suddenly, Mr. Mellermann cracked his
whip, when the animals joyfully quitted their strained positions and
retired to their seats. "Ah!" said Mr. Hagenbeck, as he turned to me,
"no living human being can imagine what it means to get those animals
to do that. It makes a man old and sick and nervous before his time.
I'll never do it again after the Chicago Exhibition. Life is too short
for such a strain. I wouldn't take any money for those animals now
that they are trained, although I was offered only the other day
upwards of sixty thousand dollars for them."

And now came the _pièce de résistance_ of the whole affair. A large
Roman chariot was rolled into the circus; two huge tigers were led
forth, and, growling much, they were harnessed to it; and then there
was ushered into the chariot, with no little state, a noble and
stately lion. A robe of royal crimson was fastened round his neck, a
gleaming crown was placed upon his head, the reins were thrown upon
his shoulders, two boar-hounds took their position as footmen in the
rear of the chariot, Mr. Mellermann cracked his whip, and the royal
chariot drawn by the tigers rolled solemnly round the circus. After
this a curious thing occurred. The entertainment was at an end, the
band quitted the building, and the animals were allowed to play about,
all jumbled up together. They seemed perfectly happy, gambolling with
pure pleasure round Mr. Mellermann and his assistants, between whom
and the animals the strongest affection most evidently exists. After
they had played about for a few minutes, the order was given that they
should retire to their cells, which they did by devious ways and
by-paths, the last glimpse I caught of them being that of a tiger
playfully sparring with a tawny African lion.



Illustrated by Mr. Harry C. Edwards.

In the earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage
registers (said the thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read
by anyone curious enough to decipher the crabbed handwriting of the
date. I took a copy of it when I was last there; and it runs thus (he
had opened his pocket-book, and now read aloud the extract; afterwards
handing round the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed the

  Mast^r John Horseleigh, Knyght, of the p'ysshe of Clyffton was
  maryd to Edith the wyffe late off John Stocker, m'chawnte of
  Havenpool the xiiij daie of December be p'vylegge gevyn by our
  sup'me hedd of the chyrche of Ingelonde Kynge Henry the viii^th

Now, if you turn to the long and elaborate pedigree of the ancient
family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you will find no
mention whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privilege given
by the sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being
therein chronicled as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the
above, the daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson of Montislope, in
Nether Wessex, a lady who outlived him, of which marriage there were
issue two daughters and a son, who succeeded him in his estates. How
are we to account for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives?
A strange local tradition only can help us, and this can be briefly

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or 1541, a young sailor,
whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is not known, landed
at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast, after a
voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into existence. He
returned in the ship "Primrose" with a cargo of "trayne oyle brought
home from the New Founde Lande," to quote from the town records of the
date. During his absence of two summers and a winter, which made up
the term of a Newfoundland "spell," many unlooked-for changes had
occurred within the quiet little seaport, some of which closely
affected Roger the sailor. At the time of his departure his only
sister Edith had become the bride of one Stocker, a respectable
townsman, and part owner of the brig in which Roger had sailed; and it
was to the house of this couple, his only relatives, that the young
man directed his steps. On trying the door in Quay Street he found it
locked, and then observed that the windows were boarded up. Inquiring
of a bystander, he learned for the first time of the death of his
brother-in-law, though that event had taken place nearly eighteen
months before.

"And my sister Edith?" asked Roger.

"She's married again--as they do say, and hath been so these twelve
months. I don't vouch for the truth o't, though if she isn't she ought
to be."

Roger's face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable reserve of
strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking

The man explained that shortly after the young woman's bereavement a
stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the quay, had
been attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily
brief wooing had completely fascinated her--had carried her off, and,
as was reported, had married her. Though he had come by water, he was
supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They were last
heard of at Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the house of one Wall, a
timber-merchant, where, he believed, she still had a lodging, though
her husband, if he were lawfully that much, was but an occasional
visitor to the place.

"The stranger?" asked Roger. "Did you see him? What manner of man was

"I liked him not," said the other. "He seemed of that kind that hath
something to conceal, and as he walked with her he ever and anon
turned his head and gazed behind him, as if he much feared an
unwelcome pursuer. But, faith," continued he, "it may have been the
man's anxiety only. Yet did I not like him."

"Was he older than my sister?" Roger asked.

"Ay, much older; from a dozen to a score of years older. A man of some
position, may be, playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the
hour. Who knoweth but that he have a wife already? Many have done the
thing hereabouts of late."

Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next
day went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway,
conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool
man. It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has
a railway at the present day, but thirty years of steam traffic past
its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded
by a sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice,
its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the
front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither
increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the
inhabitants find to do, for, though trades in wood-ware are still
carried on, there cannot be enough of this class of work now-a-days to
maintain all the house-holders, the forests around having been so
greatly thinned and curtailed. At the time of this tradition the
forests were dense, artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade
was brisk. Every house in the town, without exception, was of oak
framework, filled in with plaster, and covered with thatch, the
chimney being the only brick portion of the structure. Inquiry soon
brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall, the timber-dealer
referred to, but it was some time before he was able to gain admission
to the lodging of his sister, the people having plainly received
directions not to welcome strangers.

She was sitting in an upper room, on one of the lath-backed,
willow-bottomed "shepherd's" chairs, made on the spot then as to this
day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the
Heptarchy. In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling,
though now it had fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a
few minutes, under the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps
on the stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the
door, opening which she met her brother on the threshold.

"Oh, this is merry! I didn't expect 'ee!" she said. "Ah, Roger--I
thought it was John." Her tones fell to disappointment.

The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and
pointing to the infant, said: "You mean the father of this?"

"Yes, my husband," said Edith.

"I hope so," he answered.

"Why, Roger, I'm married--of a truth am I!" she cried.

"Shame upon 'ee, if true! If not true, worse. Master Stocker was an
honest man, and ye should have respected his memory longer. Where is
thy husband?"

"He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage has to be kept
secret for a while; it was done privily for certain reasons, but we
were married at church like honest folk--afore God we were, Roger--six
months after poor Stocker's death."

"'Twas too soon," said Roger.

"I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere to go to. You were far
over sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought me

"How often doth he come?" says Roger again.

"Once or twice weekly," says she.

"I wish th' 'dst waited till I returned, dear Edy," he said. "It mid
be you are a wife--I hope so. But, if so, why this mystery? Why this
mean and cramped lodging in this lonely copse-circled town? Of what
standing is your husband, and of where?"

"He is of gentle breeding; his name is John. I am not free to tell his
family name. He is said to be of London, for safety' sake; but he
really lives in the county next adjoining this."

"Where in the next county?"

"I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, that I may not have
the secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing the
marriage to the ears of his kinsfolk and friends."

Her brother's face flushed. "Our people have been honest townsmen,
well-reputed for long; why should you readily take such humbling from
a sojourner of whom th' 'st know nothing?"

They remained in constrained converse till her quick ear caught a
sound, for which she might have been waiting--a horse's footfall. "It
is John!" said she. "This is his night--Saturday."

"Don't be frightened lest he should find me here," said Roger. "I am
on the point of leaving. I wish not to be a third party. Say nothing
at all about my visit, if it will incommode you so to do. I will see
thee before I go afloat again."

Speaking thus he left the room, and descending the staircase let
himself out by the front door, thinking he might obtain a glimpse of
the approaching horseman. But that traveller had in the meantime gone
stealthily round to the back of the homestead, and peering along the
pinion-end of the house Roger discerned him unbridling and haltering
his horse with his own hands in the shed there.

Roger retired to the neighboring inn called the Black Lamb, and
meditated. This mysterious method of approach determined him, after
all, not to leave the place till he had ascertained more definite
facts of his sister's position--whether she were the deluded victim of
the stranger or the wife she obviously believed herself to be. Having
eaten some supper, he left the inn, it being now about eleven o'clock.
He first looked into the shed, and, finding the horse still standing
there, waited irresolutely near the door of his sister's lodging. Half
an hour elapsed, and, while thinking he would climb into a loft hard
by for a night's rest, there seemed to be a movement within the
shutters of the sitting-room that his sister occupied. Roger hid
himself behind a fagot-stack near the back door, rightly divining that
his sister's visitor would emerge by the way he had entered. The door
opened, and the candle she held in her hand lighted for a moment the
stranger's form, showing it to be that of a tall and handsome
personage, about forty years of age, and apparently of a superior
position in life. Edith was assisting him to cloak himself, which
being done he took leave of her with a kiss and left the house. From
the door she watched him bridle and saddle his horse, and having
mounted and waved an adieu to her as she stood, candle in hand, he
turned out of the yard and rode away.

The horse which bore him was, or seemed to be, a little lame, and
Roger fancied from this that the rider's journey was not likely to be
a long one. Being light of foot he followed apace, having no great
difficulty on such a still night in keeping within earshot some few
miles, the horseman pausing more than once. In this pursuit Roger
discovered the rider to choose bridle-tracks and open commons in
preference to any high road. The distance soon began to prove a more
trying one than he had bargained for; and when out of breath and in
some despair of being able to ascertain the man's identity, he
perceived an ass standing in the star-light under a hayrick, from
which the animal was helping itself to periodic mouthfuls.

The story goes that Roger caught the ass, mounted, and again resumed
the trail of the unconscious horseman, which feat may have been
possible to a nautical young fellow, though one can hardly understand
how a sailor would ride such an animal without bridle or saddle,
and strange to his hands, unless the creature was extraordinarily
docile. This question, however, is immaterial. Suffice it to say,
that at dawn the following morning Roger beheld his sister's lover or
husband entering the gates of a large and well-timbered park on the
south-western verge of the White Hart Forest (as it was then
called), now known to everybody as the Vale of Blackmoor. Thereupon
the sailor discarded his steed, and finding for himself an obscurer
entrance to the same park a little farther on, he crossed the grass
to reconnoitre.

He presently perceived amid the trees before him a mansion which, new
to himself, was one of the best known in the county at that time. Of
this fine manorial residence hardly a trace now remains; but a
manuscript, dated some years later than the events we are regarding,
describes it in terms from which the imagination may construct a
singularly clear and vivid picture. This record presents it as
consisting of "a faire yellow freestone building, partly two and
partly three storeys; a faire halle and parlour, both waynscotted; a
faire dyning roome and withdrawing roome, and many good lodgings; a
kitchen adjoyninge backwarde to one end of the dwelling-house, with a
faire passage from it into the halle, parlour, and dyninge roome, and
sellars adjoyninge.

"In the front of the house a square greene court, and a curious
gatehouse with lodgings in it, standing with the front of the house to
the south; in a large outer court three stables, a coach-house, a
large barne, and a stable for oxen and kyne, and all houses

"Without the gatehouse, paled in, a large square greene, in which
standeth a faire chappell; of the south-east side of the greene court,
towards the river, a large garden.

"Of the south-west side of the greene court is a large bowling greene,
with fower mounted walks about it, all walled about with a batteled
wall, and sett with all sorts of fruit; and out of it into the feildes
there are large walks under many tall elmes orderly planted."

Then follows a description of the orchards and gardens; the servants'
offices, brewhouse, bakehouse, dairy, pigeon-houses, and corn-mill;
the river and its abundance of fish; the warren, the coppices, the
walks; ending thus--

"And all the country north of the house, open champaign, sandy
feildes, very dry and pleasant for all kindes of recreation, huntinge,
and hawkinge, and profitable for tillage.... The house hath a large
prospect east, south, and west, over a very large and pleasant vale
... is seated from the good markett towns of Sherton Abbas three
miles, and Ivel a mile, that plentifully yield all manner of
provision; and within twelve miles of the south sea."

It was on the grass before this seductive and picturesque structure
that the sailor stood at gaze under the elms in the dim dawn of Sunday
morning, and saw to his surprise his sister's lover and horse vanish
within the court of the building.

Perplexed and weary, Roger slowly retreated, more than ever convinced
that something was wrong in his sister's position. He crossed the
bowling green to the avenue of elms, and, bent on further research,
was about to climb into one of these, when, looking below, he saw a
hole large enough to allow a man to creep to the hollow interior. Here
Roger ensconced himself, and having eaten a crust of bread which he
had hastily thrust into his pocket at the inn, he fell asleep upon the
stratum of broken touchwood that formed the floor of the hollow.

He slept soundly and long, and was awakened by the sound of a bell. On
peering from the hole he found the time had advanced to full day; the
sun was shining brightly. The bell was that of the "faire chappell"
on the green outside the gatehouse, and it was calling to matins.
Presently the priest crossed the green to a little side-door in the
chancel, and then from the gateway of the mansion emerged the
household, the tall man whom Roger had seen with his sister on the
previous night, on his arm being a portly dame, and, running beside
the pair, two little girls and a boy. These all entered the chapel,
and the bell having ceased and the environs become clear, the sailor
crept out from his hiding.

He sauntered towards the chapel, the opening words of the service
being audible within. While standing by the porch he saw a belated
servitor approaching from the kitchen-court to attend the service
also. Roger carelessly accosted him, and asked, as an idle wanderer,
the name of the family he had just seen cross over from the mansion.

"Od zounds! if ye modden be a stranger here in very truth, goodman.
That war Sir John and his dame, and his children Elizabeth, Mary, and

"I be from foreign parts. Sir John what d'ye call'n?"

"Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who had a'most as much lond by
inheritance of his mother as a had by his father, and likewise some by
his wife. Why, baint his arms dree goolden horses' heads, and idden
his lady the daughter of Master Richard Phelipson of Montislope, in
Nether Wessex, known to us all?"

"It mid be so, and yet it mid not. However, th' 'lt miss thy prayers
for such an honest knight's welfare, and I have to traipse seaward
many miles."

He went onward, and, as he walked, continued saying to himself, "Now
to that poor wronged fool Edy. The fond thing! I thought it; 'twas too
quick--she was ever amorous. What's to become of her? God wot! How be
I going to face her with the news, and how be I to hold it from her?
To bring this disgrace on my father's honored name, a double-tongued
knave!" He turned and shook his fist at the chapel and all in it, and
resumed his way.

Perhaps it was owing to the perplexity of his mind that, instead of
returning by the direct road towards his sister's obscure lodging in
the next county, he followed the highway to Casterbridge, some fifteen
miles off, where he remained drinking hard all that afternoon and
evening, and where he lay that and two or three succeeding nights,
wandering thence along the Anglebury road to some village that way,
and lying the Friday night after at his native place of Havenpool. The
sight of the familiar objects there seems to have stirred him anew to
action, and the next morning he was observed pursuing the way to
Oozewood that he had followed on the Saturday previous, reckoning, no
doubt, that Saturday night would, as before, be a time for finding Sir
John with his sister again.

He delayed to reach the place till just before sunset. His sister was
walking in the meadows at the foot of the garden, with a nursemaid who
carried the baby, and she looked up pensively when he approached.
Anxiety as to her position had already told upon her once rosy cheeks
and lucid eyes. But concern for herself and child was displaced for
the moment by her regard of Roger's worn and haggard face.

"Why, you are sick, Roger! You are tired! Where have you been these
many days? Why not keep me company a bit? My husband is much away. And
we have hardly spoke at all of dear father and of your voyage to the
New Land. Why did you go away so suddenly? There is a spare chamber at
my lodging."

"Come indoors," he said. "We'll talk now--talk a good deal. As for him
(nodding to the child), better heave him into the river; better for
him and you!"

She forced a laugh, as if she tried to see a good joke in the remark,
and they went silently indoors.

"A miserable hole!" said Roger, looking around the room.

"Nay, but 'tis very pretty!"

"Not after what I've seen. Did he marry 'ee at church in orderly

"He did sure--at our church at Havenpool."

"But in a privy way?"

"Ay, because of his friends--it was at night time."

"Ede, ye fond one, for all that he's not thy husband! Th' 'rt not his
wife, and the child is a bastard. He hath a wife and children of his
own rank, and bearing his name; and that's Sir John Horseleigh of
Clyfton Horseleigh, and not plain Jack, as you think him, and your
lawful husband. The sacrament of marriage is no safeguard now-a-days.
The king's new-made headship of the Church hath led men to practise
these tricks lightly."

She had turned white. "That's not true, Roger!" she said. "You are in
liquor, my brother, and you know not what you say. Your seafaring
years have taught 'ee bad things."

"Edith--I've seen them; wife and family--all. How canst----"

They were sitting in the gathered darkness, and at that moment steps
were heard without. "Go out this way," she said. "It is my husband. He
must not see thee in this mood. Get away till to-morrow, Roger, as you
care for me."

She pushed her brother through a door leading to the back stairs, and
almost as soon as it was closed her visitor entered. Roger, however,
did not retreat down the stairs; he stood and looked through the
bobbin-hole. If the visitor turned out to be Sir John, he had
determined to confront him.

It was the knight. She had struck a light on his entry, and he kissed
the child, and took Edith tenderly by the shoulders, looking into her

"Something's gone awry wi' my dear," he said. "What is it? What's the

"Oh, Jack!" she cried. "I have heard such a fearsome rumor--what doth
it mean? He who told me is my best friend. He must be deceived! But
who deceived him, and why? Jack, I was just told that you had a wife
living when you married me, and have her still!"

"A wife? H'm."

"Yes, and children. Say no, say no!"

"My God! I have no lawful wife but you; and as for children, many or
few, they are all bastards, save this one alone!"

"And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?"

"I mid be. I have never said so to 'ee."

"But Sir John is known to have a lady, and issue of her!"

The knight looked down. "How did thy mind get filled with such as
this?" he asked.

"One of my kindred came."

"A traitor! Why should he mar our life? Ah! you said you had a brother
at sea--where is he now?"

"_Here!_" said a stern voice behind him. And, flinging open the door,
Roger faced the intruder. "Liar," he said, "to call thyself her

Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sailor, who seized him by
the collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger under. But in a
few seconds he contrived to extricate his right arm, and drawing from
his belt a knife which he wore attached to a cord round his neck, he
opened it with his teeth, and struck it into the breast of Sir John
stretched above him. Edith had during these moments run into the next
room to place the child in safety, and when she came back the knight
was relaxing his hold on Roger's throat. He rolled over upon his back
and groaned.

The only witness of the scene, save the three concerned, was the
nursemaid, who had brought in the child on its father's arrival. She
stated afterwards that nobody suspected Sir John had received his
death wound; yet it was so, though he did not die for a long while,
meaning thereby an hour or two; that Mistress Edith continually
endeavored to staunch the blood, calling her brother Roger a wretch,
and ordering him to get himself gone; on which order he acted, after a
gloomy pause, by opening the window, and letting himself down by the
sill to the ground.

It was then that Sir John, in difficult accents, made his dying
declaration to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apothecary, which
was to this purport: that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife
at Clyfton, and who had borne him three children, was in truth and
deed, though unconsciously, the wife of another man. Sir John had
married her several years before, in the face of the whole county, as
the widow of one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly after her
union with him, having adventured to the North to join the revolt of
the Nobles, and on that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea.
Two years ago, having discovered the man to be still living in France,
and not wishing to disturb the mind and happiness of her who believed
herself his wife, yet wishing for legitimate issue, Sir John had
informed the king of the facts, who had encouraged him to wed
honestly, though secretly, the young merchant's widow at Havenpool;
she being, therefore, his lawful wife, and she only. That to avoid all
scandal and hubbub he had purposed to let things remain as they were
till fair opportunity should arise of making the true case known with
least pain to all parties concerned; but that, having been thus
suspected and attacked by his own brother-in-law, his zest for such
schemes and for all things had died out in him, and he only wished to
commend his soul to God.

That night, while the owls were hooting from the forest that encircled
the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling through the
wooden piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of his
wife. She concealed nothing of the cause of her husband's death save
the subject of the quarrel, which she felt it would be premature to
announce just then, and until proof of her status should be
forthcoming. But before a month had passed, it happened, to her
inexpressible sorrow, that the child of this clandestine union fell
sick and died. From that hour all interest in the name and fame of the
Horseleighs forsook the younger of the twain who called themselves
wives of Sir John, and, being careless about her own fame, she took no
steps to assert her claims, her legal position having, indeed, grown
hateful to her in her horror at the tragedy. And Sir William Byrt, the
curate who had married her to her husband, being an old man and
feeble, was not disinclined to leave the embers unstirred of such a
fiery matter as this, and to assist her in letting established things
stand. Therefore, Edith retired with the nurse, her only companion
and friend, to her native town, where she lived in absolute obscurity
till her death at no great age. Her brother was never seen again in

A strangely corroborative sequel to the story remains to be told.
Shortly after the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune
returned from the Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious,
living in widowed state at Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly
brief courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and elsewhere
has ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong,
who re-married her for appearance's sake only.

The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates
and honors, and his son after him, there being nobody alert to
investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have made to
the present generation, however, had there been such a one, for the
family in all its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct
these many score years, the last representative but one being killed
at the siege of Sherton Castle, while attacking in the service of the
Parliament, and the other being outlawed later in the same century for
a debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion house
and its appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed,
excepting one small wing which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is
visible as you pass along the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. The
outline of the old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.

This, then, is the reason why the only lawful marriage of Sir John, as
recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not appear in the
pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.

[Illustration: Ye Ende.]




BY HUGH ROBERT MILL, D.SC., Author of "The Realm of Nature."


Arctic enthusiasm is an intermittent fever, returning in almost
epidemic form after intervals of normal indifference. Twelve years ago
there was a wide-spread outbreak, but for the last ten years the
symptoms have never been so severe as to result in a great expedition.
If all goes well this summer there will be a renewed paroxysm; no less
than three new ventures northward being sent out by different routes
to converge on the pole.

It is refreshing, in this prosaic time, to recognize the power of pure
sentiment in the quest for glory. Polar research is a survival, or
rather an evolution, of knight-errantry, and our Childe Rolands
challenge the "Dark Tower of the North" as dauntlessly as ever their
forbears wound slug-horn at gate of enchanted castle. The "woe of
years" invests the quest with elements which redeem failure from
disgrace; but whoever succeeds in overcoming the difficulties that
have baffled all the "lost adventurers" will make the world ring with
his fame as it never rang before. We commonplace human beings are as
quick to see and prompt to appreciate heroic daring, perseverance, and
valor as ever were the dames of mythic Camelot; and the race for the
pole will be watched by the world with generous sympathy.

Incidentally the fresh Arctic journeys must secure much scientific
information, but that aspect of them appeals to the few. It is as a
display of the grandest powers of man in conflict with the tyranny of
his surroundings that Arctic travel appeals directly to the heart.
Since McClure, in 1850, forced the north-west passage from Bering
Strait to Baffin Bay, and Nordenskjold, in 1878, squeezed the "Vega"
through, between ice and land, from the North Cape to the Pacific, the
futility of the golden dreams of the greedy old merchants who tried to
reach the wealth of the Orient by short cuts through the ice has been
demonstrated. Although no money is likely to be made out of the
Arctic, we want information thence which it is almost impossible to
get; and the almost impossible is dear to every valiant heart.

We know a good deal about the state of matters near the poles, but yet
not enough to let us understand all the phenomena of our own lands. In
this respect, however, the South Pole is the most promising field, for
its surroundings probably conceal the mainspring of the great system
of winds which do the work of the air on every land and sea. Dr.
Nansen has promised to go there after returning from the North, and
solving its simpler problems. The chilly distinction of being the
coldest part of the earth is probably due to the northern parts of
Eastern Siberia, and not to the North Pole. The "magnetic pole," where
the needle hangs vertically, has been found in the Arctic archipelago
north of America, and in many ways scientific observations there are
worth more than at the North Pole itself.

We know that, if attained, the North Pole would probably be like
any other part of the Arctic regions, presenting a landscape of ice
and snow, perhaps with black rock showing here and there, containing
fossils of a former age of heat, perhaps broken by pools or lanes of
open water. The pole has no physical mark any more than the top of a
spinning coin has, and the pole is not even a fixed point; like
the end of the axis of the spinning coin, it moves a little to and
fro on the circumference. If the geographical point were reached, the
pole-star would be seen shining almost vertically overhead,
describing a tiny circle around the actual zenith; and all the
other stars of the northern half of the sky would appear slowly
wheeling in horizontal circles, never rising, never setting, and each
completing its circuit in the space of twenty-three hours and
fifty-six minutes. In summer the sun would appear similarly, never
far above the horizon, but circling for more than half the year in a
spiral, winding upward until about 25° above the horizon, and winding
downward again until lost to view. The periods of daylight and
darkness at the poles do not last exactly six months each, as little
geography books are prone to assert. Such little books ignore the
atmosphere for the sake of simplicity, but the air-shell that
shuts in our globe bends the rays of light, so that the sun appears
before his theoretical rising, and remains in sight after his
theoretical setting. At the pole, in fact, the single "half-yearly
day" is a week longer than the one "half-yearly night."

At the North Pole there is only one direction--south. One could go
south in as many ways as there are points on the compass card, but
every one of these ways is south; east and west have vanished. The
hour of the day at the pole is a paradoxical conception, for that
point is the meeting place of every meridian, and the time of all
holds good, so that it is always any hour one cares to mention.
Unpunctuality is hence impossible--but the question grows complex, and
its practical solution concerns few.

No one needs to go to the pole to discover all that makes that
point different from any other point of the surface. But the whole
polar regions are full of unknown things, which every Arctic
explorer of the right stamp looks forward to finding. And the reward
he looks forward to most is the approval of the few who understand and
love knowledge for its own sake, rather than the noisy applause of
the crowd who would cheer him, after all, much as they cheer a
winning prize-fighter, or race-horse, or political candidate.

The difficulties that make the quest of the pole so arduous have been
discovered by slow degrees. It is marvellous how soon nearly the full
limits of northward attainment were reached. In 1596 Barents
discovered Spitzbergen in about 78° north; in 1770 Hudson reached 80°;
in 1827 Parry, by sledging on the ice when his ship became fast,
succeeded in touching 82° 45´. Since then all the enormous resources
of modern science--steam, electricity, preserved foods and the
experience of centuries--have only enabled forty miles of additional
poleward advance to be made.

The accompanying map gives a fair idea of the form of the Arctic
regions, and remembering that the circle marked 80° is distant seven
hundred miles from the pole, the reader can realize the distances
involved. The Arctic Basin, occupied by the Arctic Sea, is ringed in
by land; the northern coasts of America, Europe, and Asia, forming a
roughly circular boundary broken by three well-marked channels
communicating with the ocean. Bering Strait between America and Asia
is the narrowest, Baffin Bay between America and Greenland is wider,
branching into a number of ice-blocked sounds to the westward, and
tapering off into Smith Sound in the north-east. The widest channel
of the three lies between Greenland and Europe, and this is bisected
just south of 80° North by the island group of Spitzbergen.

The whole region is one of severe cold, and the sea is frozen for
the greater part of the year, land and water becoming almost
indistinguishable, but for the incessant movement and drift of the
sea-ice. In summer the sea-ice breaks up into floes which may drift
away southward and melt, or be driven by the wind against the
shores of continents or islands, leaving lanes of open water which
a shift of wind may change and close in an hour. Icebergs launched
from the glaciers of the land also drift with tide, current, and
wind through the more or less open water. Possibly at some times the
pack may open and a clear waterway run through to the pole, and old
whalers tell of many a year when they believed that a few days'
steaming would carry them to the end of the world, if they could have
seized the opportunity. At other times, routes traversed in safety
time after time may be effectively closed for years, and all advance
barred. Food in the form of seals or walrus in the open water,
reindeer, musk ox, polar bears or birds on the land, may often be
procured, but these sources cannot be relied upon. Advance northward
may be made by water in a ship, or by dog-sledge, or on foot, over
the frozen snow or ice. Each method has grave drawbacks. Advance by
sea is stopped when the young ice forms in autumn, and land advance
is hampered by the long Arctic night which enforces months of
inaction, more trying to health and spirits than the severest

Smith Sound has been the channel by which most recent Arctic explorers
have pushed north. Thus Markham reached latitude 83° 20´ North, in
1876, and in 1882 Lockwood got four miles farther north, coming nearer
the pole than any other man. From his farthest point an express train
could cover the intervening distance in ten hours, but the best ice
traveller would require months, even if the way were smooth. This
route has been by common consent abandoned, at least for advance by
water. No high latitude has been reached from Bering Strait nor along
the east coast of Greenland. For ships the most open way to the north
lies to the west of Spitzbergen, as Parry found two generations ago.
Neither of the two projected expeditions from Europe is, however,
intended to take this route. Mr. Jackson means to advance over the ice
in sledges, trusting that Franz-Josef Land stretches northward to the
immediate neighborhood of the pole. Doctor Nansen also founds his plan
on a theory, but his is so novel, and involves a plan of action so
different from all previously attempted, that it must be considered in


Fridtjof Nansen, who planned and will lead the Norwegian expedition
starting in June, is a naturalist, thirty-two years of age. He is
singularly adapted physically for deeds of daring and endurance,
perfectly equipped intellectually for command and research. His
lithe, erect figure testifies to athletic training, while his
expansive forehead and firm chin equally betoken thoughtfulness and
determination. He is a typical Norseman, fair in complexion and
hair, simple and rather reserved in manner, and modest almost to a
fault. No one can see him without becoming his friend. He speaks
English fluently, and a quiet, half-repressed humor lights up his
conversation. Never overstepping the truth, he does not seem to
feel the temptation of spinning imaginative yarns so over-powering
for the undisciplined traveller. He knows his own strength, and
measuring himself against the difficulties he proposes to meet, he
feels confident of victory, and inspires others with his own faith.
There is no turning back when once his mind is fully made up.

Nansen's whole life has been a training for the exploit he now engages
in. After graduating at the University of Christiania, he was
appointed curator of the Museum at Bergen, and carried out several
important biological researches, of which that on the anatomy of
whales is perhaps the best known. He was a diligent student of the
great Norwegian naturalist Sars, and on his return from Greenland he
entered into a closer relation by marrying the professor's daughter.
Mrs. Nansen is said to be the most accomplished lady ski-runner in
Norway, as her husband is the champion of his sex; their portraits in
the costume of this national sport are extremely characteristic. She
had originally planned to accompany Doctor Nansen on the Arctic
voyage, but has reluctantly relinquished the intention. She stays
behind with her little girl only a few months old. For the last three
years Doctor Nansen has devoted himself entirely to the study of
various branches of science likely to be of service to him in the
accomplishment of his great ambition, and in organizing every detail
of his expedition.

The chief circumstance in which Nansen differs from all his
predecessors is, that he prepares no line of retreat. To the common
question, "But how are you to come back?" his reply in word and deed
has always been, "I will never come back. I shall go through to the
other side." Thus, in crossing Greenland in 1888, he started from the
uninhabited east coast, so that he and his companions had to go
forward--retreat meant destruction. Such determination is only
redeemed from obstinacy by the forethought which inspires it. Before
setting out to cross Greenland, Nansen crossed the mountains of Norway
from Bergen to Christiania in winter, thus proving his mastery of the
ski or Norwegian snow-shoes, and testing his power of withstanding
cold and fatigue. Just as the crossing of the Norwegian mountains
proved his competence for the splendid feat of crossing Greenland,
that journey by its success establishes his ability for enduring the
severest privations which his new expedition may be called upon to

[Illustration: FRIDTJOF NANSEN.]

A careful study of all the known phenomena of the Arctic Basin, and
the records of all the exploring, whaling, and sealing voyages in
these waters which were accessible, impressed two facts upon him--one,
that the currents of the Polar Basin were more regular and more
powerful agents than had been previously supposed; the other, that the
failure of the great expeditions to the north was in most cases due to
the great number of men carried, and the labor involved in keeping
open a line of retreat. The moral of this is simple enough: to sail as
far as possible with the currents, to take as few men as possible, and
these in thorough training for Arctic work, and to make no provision
for retreat. For the valor and heroic efforts of the earlier Arctic
explorers there can never be anything but praise; those men fought
against the most terrific odds, and stood their ground without
flinching, and their opinion on all matters connected with Arctic
travel carries the utmost weight. Nansen breaks away from all
tradition; he goes right against every cherished principle of all the
older Arctic men. He will secure no line of retreat, he will carry
only eleven men with him, every one of whom is inured to hardship and
expert in ice-travel. He is bound by no orders, but has perfect
freedom to alter his plans should circumstances seem to demand it. His
plan is to drift with the currents, and the evidence for the currents
moving in the direction he wishes to go is as follows:

The great drift of polar water southward along the east coasts of
Labrador and of Greenland has been known from the beginning of
Atlantic navigation, and the icebergs and floes carried along are
serious obstacles to the shipping of the North Atlantic. It is
estimated that between Greenland and Spitzbergen about eighty or
ninety cubic miles of water pour southward every day. The current,
like that down Smith Sound, flows from the north, but the water cannot
originate there. There is a very slight northward extension of the
Gulf Stream drift along the west coasts of Spitzbergen and Greenland,
but the main drift of North Atlantic water from the southward sets
round the North Cape of Norway, keeping the sea free from ice all the
year round. It is felt in the Kara Sea, and as a north-easterly stream
along the coast of Novaya Zemlya. It is difficult to estimate the
volume of this drift, but from certain observations made by the
Norwegian Government it seems to be about sixty cubic miles per day.
There is a current running on the whole northward from the Pacific
through Bering Strait with a volume of perhaps fifteen cubic miles a
day, and in addition there is the volume of perhaps two cubic miles
daily poured out during summer by the great American and Siberian
rivers. This water is fresh and warm, and accumulating near shore in
autumn it gives rise to the ice-free border which let the "Vega" slip
round the north of Asia. Even where the sea is covered with floating
ice, there are perceptible currents, and the ice-pack is never at

Since the vast body of water north of 80° between Franz-Josef Land and
Greenland is streaming from the north, and since it must be derived
somehow from water which comes from the south, it is evident that
north-flowing currents of considerable power must exist in the Arctic
Basin. Parry in his splendid voyage of 1827 spent months in sledging
northward on a vast ice-floe which all the while was drifting south
faster than the dogs could drag the sledges northward.

This polar current is the exit by which Doctor Nansen intends to
leave the Polar Basin. It is a current which strews the coast of
Greenland with Siberian and North American driftwood, all coming
from the north, perhaps across the pole itself. Mud containing
microscopic shells which only occur in Siberia has been collected
on some of these southward-bound ice-floes. On one occasion a
throwing-stick of a form used exclusively by the Eskimo of Alaska to
cast their harpoons was picked up on the west coast of Greenland,
having obviously been drifted round Cape Farewell, as the boats of
many a whaler shipwrecked in the polar current have been drifted
before. But perhaps the most interesting argument is that derived
from the drift of the "Jeannette." The "Jeannette" (once a British
gunboat, and afterward employed as the "Pandora" in attempting to
repeat the north-west passage) was sent out by the proprietor of the
"New York Herald," under the command of De Long, to push north to the
pole, through Bering Strait, in 1879. In September of that year she
got fast in the ice, and drifted on the whole north-westward for
nearly two years. At last she was crushed in the ice on June 13,
1881, to the north of the New Siberian Islands. The drift of the
"Jeannette" was becoming faster as she got farther west; indeed, it
was possibly the more rapid movement of the current that set the
floes in motion and led to the crushing of the vessel. Three years
after she sank, an ice-floe was found on the south coast of
Greenland at Julianehaab, on which were a number of articles,
including documents relating to the stores and boats of the
"Jeannette," bearing De Long's signature. The relics had a romantic
history, and have given rise to controversy; but before their
authenticity had been seriously questioned they were sacrificed to
the sense of order of a Copenhagen housewife. Nansen is certain that
the relics did come from the "Jeannette," and he believes they were
drifted like the wood and Siberian mud upon an ice-raft across the
pole or in its immediate vicinity.

His resolve was made accordingly "to take a ticket with the ice," as
he phrases it, and so drift across. The point where it would be best
to join the current, Nansen decided to be off the New Siberian
Islands, although Captain Wiggins recommends the most northerly point
of continental land, Cape Chelyuskin, as a more likely starting place.
At first Nansen proposed to follow the "Jeannette" through Bering Sea,
but he has now decided to take the nearer route round the North Cape,
through the Kara Sea, and along the coast of Asia, as the "Vega" went,
striking northward off the Lena Delta. It will require extremely
skilful navigation even to reach the starting point, and it may even
be impossible to do so in one year, but, having reached and run into
the ice, another question comes to the front. The vessel in which the
drift of several years is to be made must not share the fate of the
"Jeannette," if human ingenuity can avoid it. And ingenuity has been
taxed to produce a ship of the most perfect kind.

Nansen's little vessel, launched at Laurvik last October, suits his
venture and himself as well as the famous "long serpents" of his
ancestors suited them and their voyages of conquest and discovery a
thousand years ago. She is built of wood, but is of a strength never
hitherto aimed at. The frame timbers, Nansen modestly says, "may be
said to be well-seasoned," for though cut from the gnarled oaks of
Italy they have been stored in a Norwegian dockyard during the whole
lifetime of the explorer. These timbers--the ribs of the ship--are a
foot thick, and are placed only two inches apart, the intervening
spaces being filled with a special composition, so that even the
skeleton of the ship would be water-tight should the planks be
stripped off. Inside, the walls are lined with pitch-pine planks
alternately four inches and eight inches thick, with cross-beams and
supports to resist pressure in every direction, as shown in the
accompanying section. Outside, there is a three-inch skin of oak,
carefully calked and made water-tight, then covered by another skin of
oak four inches thick, which in turn is encased in a still thicker
layer of the hard and slippery greenheart. Bow and stern are heavily
plated with iron to cut through thin ice. Finally, to render her fit
for living in during the coldest weather, the water-tight compartment
set apart for this purpose (one of three) is lined, walls and ceiling,
with layers of non-conducting material. Tarred canvas, cork, wood,
several inches of felt enclosed by painted canvas, and finally a
wooden wainscot, promise to effectually keep out the cold. In the
roof, a layer of two inches of reindeer's hair has also been

The form of the vessel is as original as her material. She measures
one hundred and twenty-eight feet in extreme length, thirty-six in
beam, and is seventeen feet deep. With a full cargo she will draw
fifteen feet, and have a freeboard of little more than three feet. She
is pointed fore and aft, the stern being so formed that the propeller
and rudder are deeply immersed to escape floating ice, and both these
vital fittings are placed in wells, through which they may be brought
on board in case of need, or readily replaced if damaged. The hull is
rounded so that even the keel does not project materially. The form is
designed so that when the ice begins to press, it will not crush but
lift the ship, as one might lift an egg from a table by sliding two
hands under it. Her rig, as shown in the illustration, is simply that
of a three-masted fore and aft schooner, with a very tall mainmast,
designed to carry the crow's nest for the look-out. This will stand
one hundred and five feet above the water, thus affording the wide
view indispensable in ice navigation. A captive balloon would have
been used as well, but the necessary fittings were too heavy to carry.
The engine is not of great power, as no particular reason exists for
high speed, and with a coal capacity of only three hundred tons
economy of fuel is of the first importance.

The ship is prophetically named the "Fram," or "Forward," and for her
the viking explorer is determined there will be no turning back.

It is possible that in spite of all precautions the "Fram" may be
nipped in the ice-floe which will carry her along, or stranded on some
unknown northern land. This contingency is provided for by two large
decked boats, twenty-nine feet long, either of which could accommodate
the whole crew. These would be placed on the ice to serve as houses,
and in the end could be used for the return voyage. Many smaller boats
are carried, and light sledges with dog teams, in case it becomes
necessary to travel over the ice. The invaluable "ski" would of course
be used in such an emergency, and plenty of tarred canvas would be
carried, by means of which the sledges could be converted into boats.
Provisions for five years, at least, are stowed away on board; also
books for study and recreation, and a complete equipment of scientific
instruments for observations and collecting of every kind. The ship
carries no alcoholic drink; alcohol is taken only as a fuel for use
when the coal runs out, or if the ship has to be left. Nansen does not
smoke, and very likely he may regulate the smoking of his followers,
for his views on hygiene are clear, and his determination to enforce
them strong. The eleven men chosen for the enterprise have the fullest
faith in their leader, and that respect for his splendid qualities as
a man which is essential to good order being maintained. For in the
hardships of Arctic travel there is no sentimental deference to a
leader unless he is the best man of the party, and Arctic hardships
quickly reduce things and men to their real worth. Nansen and his crew
will prove, we are confident, as firmly knit together as the timbers
of the "Fram" herself. Captain Sverdrup, who accompanied him across
Greenland, goes as navigating officer of the "Fram."

Perhaps the most original of the many original fittings of this little
polar cruiser is the dynamo which will for the first time in the
history of exploration supply abundant light during the whole Arctic
night. When there is wind a windmill will work it; but in the calm
weather the men, in watches, will take their necessary exercise in
tramping round a capstan to the strains of a musical box of long
Arctic experience--it was in the "Jeannette,"--and thus at least eight
hours of perfect light will be secured every day.

Everything that foresight can suggest and money can buy has been
secured to make the voyage a success; but even in the most sanguine
mind the risk must appear great, and the time of suspense will be
long. The drift across the polar area cannot occupy less than two
years, and provisions are carried for five. But we need not dwell on
dangers; the personality of Nansen rises above them all--the motto he
carries with him in a little volume of condensed poetry, as powerful
meat for the soul as any of his cunningly concocted extracts are for
the body, is the wish of all his friends--

  "Greet the Unseen with a cheer,
  Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
  'Strive and thrive!' cry 'Speed--fight on, fare ever
  There as here!'"

The Norwegian expedition goes out under the command of a hero full of
experience, ripe in knowledge, certain to do all that a strong and
trained man can accomplish, backed by large grants of money from his
own government, and smaller gifts from people and societies in many


The British expedition which has been projected is not a national
effort. It is purely private, planned and equipped by private
enterprise and private money, in order to follow up the line in which
private exertions have already done more for polar exploration than
many government expeditions have achieved. Its leader, Mr. Frederick
G. Jackson, is a business man, possessed of leisure and sufficient
means, and experienced in travel in all parts of the world. Of the
same age as Doctor Nansen, and, like him, married, he is as typical an
Englishman as the latter is a Norseman. Pluck and "go" are his in very
large measure; experience in serious ice-work he cannot lay claim to,
but he knows more about the Arctic regions than many famous explorers
did on their first setting out. Mr. Jackson has made a summer cruise
to the far north, and, under the tuition of a canny Peterhead whaler,
he has picked up many wrinkles which will help him in time of need. He
is a keen sportsman rather than a man of science, but his ten
companions will be chosen for their ability to make all necessary
scientific observations and collections. If his plans fall out as he
hopes, Jackson will be the most eager in the race to the pole, and it
will not be his fault if the Union Jack is not the first flag planted
on that much coveted site. He intends to leave England about the
middle of July, or perhaps as late as the beginning of August.

His plan of attack is that which is most approved by the Arctic
admirals of the British navy. It is to approach by Franz-Josef Land,
which may in favorable years be comparatively easily reached. On
landing, a depot will be formed and stores laid up as a base for
retreat; and then, by sledging northward along the land-ice, the coast
would be delineated and mapped as far as it extends, other depots
established, and if the surface proves suitable, and if Franz-Josef
Land proves, as is probable, not to have a great northerly extent, an
advance may be made on the sea-ice, carrying boats for crossing open

It seems very probable that in this way the highest latitudes of
earlier explorers may be passed, and in Franz-Josef Land life is more
tolerable than in perhaps any other place at the same latitude. Mr.
Leigh Smith, the most successful Arctic yachtsman, spent the winter of
1881-82 in a hut built on an island in the south of Franz-Josef Land,
after his ship was wrecked, and without winter clothing, and he found
bears and walrus plentiful enough to keep himself and his party
supplied with fresh meat. The country however is very desolate, in
spite of its comparatively genial conditions. Mr. Jackson intends to
hire or purchase a steam whaler to convey him to Franz-Josef Land, and
for navigation he has secured the services of Mr. Crowther, Leigh
Smith's ice-master. After establishing winter quarters, he will make
some preliminary trips to test his sledges and complete the survey of
the southern part of the land, reserving the great northward march for
the spring of 1894. He is pushing forward his preparations quietly and
quickly, and, as he does not ask for public money, he does not feel it
necessary to publish any of the details of his intended mode of life.
It is difficult to forecast the result of his expedition. From the
little we know about Franz-Josef Land, it appears certain that with a
favorable season much good work could be done, and there is more
satisfaction in contemplating an expedition in which pluck and
endurance count than the mere passive submission to the laws of
physical geography, on which Nansen depends. In two years he hopes to
prove that Franz-Josef Land is or is not a practicable road to the

We have no data to make a comparison between the two brave men, nor
any wish to do so. But Nansen is Nansen, and Jackson has yet to win
his spurs; to him therefore would be the greater glory if success
attend him.

For our part, we heartily desire that Nansen, Peary, and Jackson may
meet simultaneously at the pole, and return betimes to tell their
story and share the honors. The aggravating thing is, that the
expeditions may never reach their proper starting point. Many a good
ship has knocked about for a whole season in the Kara Sea without
getting a lead through the ice; the effort to reach Franz-Josef Land
has not been often made, and it is a sinister omen that the
"Tegetthof," which discovered that region, arrived there after
eighteen months of drifting fast in the floes. But we shall see.



Before the end of June, Civil Engineer Robert E. Peary of the United
States Navy will have sailed on another expedition for the Arctic
regions. The party will go by the way of Newfoundland, Baffin's Bay,
and Whale Sound, to Inglefield Gulf, which lies just southeast of
Smith Sound and south of the promontory containing the great Humboldt
glacier. The winter camp will be established at the head of Bowdoin
Bay, some forty miles to the east of Redcliffe House, where Lieutenant
Peary passed the winter of '91, '92.

[Illustration: ROBERT E. PEARY.]

The programme of the expedition may be briefly summarized as follows:

The party will be absent about two years and a half, a three years'
leave of absence having been accorded Lieutenant Peary by the Navy
Department. They expect to be in camp, as indicated, by the last week
in July, when the staunch "Falcon," a sealing steamer which carries
them, will land the expedition and return to Newfoundland. The months
of August and September, all they will have before the Arctic night
sets in, will be utilized in three ways: a party will be sent inland
over the ice-cap with a large store of provisions, which will be
stored as far to the north as possible, to await the expedition of the
ensuing spring; another party, under Lieutenant Peary himself, will
make a careful survey of Inglefield Gulf, which is of rare scientific
interest on account of the tremendous glaciers which discharge into
it; and a third party will busy itself hunting reindeer and other game
to supply the expedition with fresh meat.

By November 1, 1893, they will go into winter quarters, all occupying
a single house, which will be made as comfortable as possible. During
the five or six months of darkness, scientific work will be carried
on, including a thorough study of Esquimo habits and institutions.
Clothing will be made of reindeer skins, and, in general, preparations
be completed for the advance over the ice-cap. Lieutenant Peary hopes
to start the sledges northward early in March, thus gaining two months
on the start made in '92. The season of '94 will be spent in advancing
as rapidly as possible to the northern extremity of Greenland, to
Independence Bay, discovered by Lieutenant Peary in his recent
expedition. At this point the party will divide, several men being
detailed to explore the northeastern coast of Greenland as far to the
south as Cape Bismarck, while Lieutenant Peary with two picked men
will push across the fjord separating Greenland from the land beyond,
and will advance thence still farther to the north, as circumstances
may direct. It is probable that Lieutenant Peary will spend the winter
of '94 to '95 somewhere in the neighborhood of northernmost Greenland,
very probably in the most extreme northern latitude in which any white
man has wintered. In the spring of '95, or as soon as the season will
permit, he will make a further and final advance, leaving time enough
for the party to return to Inglefield Gulf before the fall. There a
relief ship will be in waiting to carry the expedition back to New
York with the results of their explorations.

So much for Lieutenant Peary's time-table; now for what he hopes to

To begin with, the party expect to attain the highest north ever
reached by any Arctic expedition. The present record is held by the
Greely expedition, two members of which reached 83° 24´ north
latitude. The farthest north reached by Lieutenant Peary in his last
expedition was 82° north latitude, which is some eighty-four
geographical miles south of the point reached by Lieutenant Lockwood
of the Greely party. Then, as already mentioned, a complete survey
will be made of Inglefield Gulf, and also of the entirely unknown
stretch of land on the northeastern coast of Greenland, between
Independence Bay and Cape Bismarck.

In addition to this, the main object of the expedition is to make a
complete map of the land lying to the north of Greenland, or, rather,
the Archipelago, for it is believed that this region is occupied by an
extensive group of islands. Unfortunately there is reason for thinking
that the lofty ice-cap which will allow the explorers to reach the
northernmost point of Greenland by sledging over the inland ice does
not continue in the same way over the islands to the north of
Greenland. Both Lieutenant Peary in his observations on the east, and
Lieutenant Lockwood on the west, remarked that the land stretching
away to the north was in many places bare of ice and snow, and rugged
in its character. One reason for this absence of an inland ice-cap
here is the fact that these islands to the north lie low in the ocean
compared with mountainous Greenland. Hence, in the summer, which is
the only season when an advance would be possible, the ice and snow
melt to a great extent and leave the land bare. Now in case Lieutenant
Peary finds that there is no continuous ice on this northern land, he
will skirt around the shore on the ice of the open sea, for this is
present winter and summer alike. It is likely that such an advance
over the ice-pack will be attended by very serious difficulties, the
ice being heaped up in broken and uneven surfaces, with mountains and
chasms to baffle the party. There may also be spaces of open water
where boats or rafts will have to be used instead of sledges. At any
rate, the advance will be made as far as possible, and the land to the
north of Greenland studied and mapped as far as may be.

It is not the purpose of the expedition to seek the North Pole itself.
They may and very probably will get nearer to the Pole than anyone has
hitherto done. Lieutenant Peary is confident that he will make the
farthest north, and General Greely is inclined to admit this, and told
me some days ago in Washington that he should not be surprised if
Lieutenant Peary reached 85° north latitude. In any event, an approach
to the North Pole will be an incident in the expedition, and not its
main object.

Several important considerations make it probable that Lieutenant
Peary's present expedition will attain a considerable measure of
success. In the first place, in starting from Bowdoin Bay instead of
from Redcliffe House, there will be a gain of forty miles rough
hauling, which meant in the recent expedition two weeks' valuable
time. From Bowdoin Bay, the party will be able to climb to the inland
ice-cap by the shortest and easiest possible route. The fact that an
abundant supply of provisions will be sent ahead during the present
summer will be a great advantage, and will do away with the necessity
of a supporting party such as was employed on the last expedition. To
save the carrying of a ton or so of provisions for even a hundred
miles is a matter of great importance. Lieutenant Peary expects to
make a further saving in time by choosing a course midway between the
one taken on his last journey to Independence Bay and the one taken on
his return journey. These two courses, it will be remembered, were
unsatisfactory, because in the advance to Independence Bay he went too
far to the west and was caught in immense fissures and depressions
leading to the glaciers, while on the return journey he went so far
to the east that the great elevation above the sea level, often eight
thousand feet or more, made it difficult to find the way or take
observations on account of perpetual fogs. Now he proposes to avoid
the two extremes, and to search for an easier course in a happy
medium. A still greater gain in time will be made by starting the
expedition early in March, 1894, instead of waiting until May, as was
the case before.

A novel feature of the expedition, and one that will be of great
service, it is believed, in hauling the loads, will be the use of pack
horses in addition to the dog teams. Lieutenant Peary, during his
recent western trip, secured a number of hardy burros in Colorado,
which he believes will be able to endure the Arctic winter. At any
rate, they will be very valuable in carrying the advance provisions
this present season, and on a pinch they can be turned into steaks. It
has been found possible to fit snow shoes to the hoofs of these pack
horses, so as to allow them to advance as rapidly as the dogs. An
experiment similar to this has been tried in Norway, where ponies have
been used successfully on snow, and also in Alaska.

As to the size of the exploring party, it will be small, comprising
not more than ten men in all, and several of these will be left behind
at the winter quarters. Lieutenant Peary fully realizes that an
exploring party is no stronger than the weakest of its members, and
will take along with him only men whose endurance and loyalty have
been fully demonstrated. From the winter camp the line of advance will
be Independence Bay, where the party will divide, Lieutenant Peary
pushing on to the north, and his other men exploring southward to
Cape Bismarck. From that point the latter party will be instructed to
return to the winter camp directly across Greenland. There is no human
way of knowing how Lieutenant Peary will return.

One question which will occur to anxious friends of the explorer is,
how Lieutenant Peary and his two companions will live during the
winter of '94 and '95, at the northernmost point of Greenland, where
the foot of man has never trod, and where no supplies could reach
them. The answer to this question is, that the party will take with
them a very large supply of dried meat and other necessaries, and that
they count on finding musk oxen in the region where they will camp. In
his previous expedition, Lieutenant Peary killed five of these musk
oxen near Independence Bay, and he saw many others. With such a supply
of fresh meat, and with abundant means of protecting themselves
against the cold, there is no reason why the party may not live
through the winter without serious danger or even extraordinary
discomfort. Leigh Smith was able to pass a winter on Franz-Josef Land
under much less favorable conditions.

In a general way it may be said, in conclusion, that the present Peary
expedition starts out with bright prospects. Advantage has been taken
of errors and oversights made by others in the past. Dangers and
difficulties have been foreseen, and will be guarded against. A
sensible, and to a great extent feasible, plan of advance has been
adopted. In a word, everything would seem to have been done to prevent
the recurrence of one of those wretched tragedies which have stained
and saddened the records of Arctic exploration.

  EDITOR'S NOTE.--The expedition of Lieutenant Peary is undertaken
  at his own expense, with the aid of voluntary subscriptions.

  Contributions from one dollar up may be sent to Professor
  Angelo Heilprin, Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia,


BY W. H. GILDER. Author of "Schwatka's Search," "Ice Pack and Tundra,"

On the Fourth of July, 1879, after a long and tedious journey over
territory never before crossed by man, I stood with Lieutenant
Schwatka on Cape Felix, the most northern point of King William's

Looking in the direction of the Isthmus of Boothia, not more than
twenty miles to the eastward, across the frozen surface of McClintock
Channel, we could see the snow-covered hills of Cape Adelaide, radiant
with all the tints of the rainbow, in the light of the midnight sun.
It was there that, nearly half a century before, Sir James Ross had
located the North Magnetic Pole. The place is invested with deep
interest to all explorers, but, with us, the pleasure was mitigated by
the knowledge that we were entirely devoid of instruments with which
to improve the opportunity of either verifying the work already done
or continuing it upon the same line of research.

Ever since that time I have been strongly imbued with the desire to
return to that field of labor with a party of observers properly
equipped to make an exhaustive search through that storehouse of
hidden knowledge.

About three years ago I brought the subject uppermost in my mind to
the attention of Professor T. C. Mendenhall, Superintendent of the
United States Coast and Geodetic Survey, in Washington, and to that of
his assistant, Professor Charles A. Schott, in charge of the computing
division of that bureau. From the first both of these gentlemen have
been strong advocates of such an expedition.

[Illustration: COLONEL W. H. GILDER.]

"The importance of a redetermination of the geographical position of
the North Magnetic Pole," said Professor Mendenhall, in a letter to
the Secretary of the Treasury written at that time, "has long been
recognized by all interested in the theory of the earth's magnetism
or its application. The point as determined by Ross in the early part
of this century was not located with that degree of accuracy which
modern science demands and permits, and, besides, it is altogether
likely that its position is not a fixed one. Our knowledge of the
secular variation of the magnetic needle would be greatly increased
by better information concerning this Magnetic Pole, and, in my
judgment, it would be the duty of the Government to offer all possible
encouragement to any suitably organized exploring expedition which
might undertake to seek for this information."

Acting upon a further recommendation in this letter, the Secretary of
the Treasury requested the President of the National Academy of
Sciences to appoint a committee of its members, or others familiar
with the difficult problems involved, "to formulate a plan or scheme
for carrying out a systematic search for the North Magnetic Pole, and
kindred work," and such a committee was subsequently appointed, with
Professor S. P. Langley, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, as

[Illustration: GENERAL A. W. GREELY.]

The work proposed by this expedition has attracted the attention and
held the interest of scientists everywhere, and material aid from
several scientific bodies has already been pledged toward the securing
of the necessary funds for transporting the party to the field of its
labors, and its maintenance while at work there.

The observers will be selected from among the officers of the United
States Navy attached to the Coast Survey, who have had special
training in magnetic field work. That bureau will also provide the
necessary instruments, but, in the absence of any appropriation that
could be applied to the transportation and maintenance of the party in
the field, the funds for that purpose have to be obtained by the
voluntary contribution of those with means and inclination to aid so
important an enterprise.

Said the late Professor Trowbridge of Columbia College, in a lecture
upon the data to be obtained by this expedition for subsequent expert
discussion, "We are living in an epoch in the world's history when man
is struggling for a higher and more perfect life, not only against the
degrading tendencies of his inherited nature, but to make the forces
of nature subservient to his advancement and well being. Among these
forces there are none which seem to affect or control the conditions
of animal life on the earth more than heat, light, electricity, and
magnetism, all, perhaps, the manifestations of one cosmical agent. As
the variations of the magnetic force appear to follow lesser and
greater cycles, it is not impossible that nearly all terrestrial
phenomena, which depend on causes allied to magnetism, follow similar
cycles. We can now predict the course of storms; may we not hope to
determine their origin and predict their recurrence, as far as they
depend upon the forces which have been mentioned? A knowledge of the
laws of the cycles through which these forces pass is the first and
only step in this direction to be taken, and this step must be made by
patient, long-continued observations."


An immediate practical use of the observations to be made is their
application to the correction of compass errors. Every one can see
that such work as tends to render the mariner's compass a more
reliable instrument must be of immediate and direct benefit, not only
to the sailor, but to the surveyor on land.

Admitting that the observations of such an expedition as that to the
North Magnetic Pole will be of scientific and general value, it
remains to explain something of the personnel of the party, how the
work is to be conducted, and by what route it will reach the field of
its labor.

Besides the two observers of terrestrial magnetism to be supplied by
the Coast Survey, there will be a physician fitted by education and
habits of study to take charge of some scientific portion of the work,
in which he will be specially instructed by the Superintendent of the
Coast Survey or his assistant. There will also be three sailors
selected from the whaling fleet, who will have charge of the three
whale boats belonging to the outfit, and act as assistants to the
several observers. The writer of this article, by reason of his
experience in Arctic travel, will have charge of the expedition in all
except the scientific work, the reports on which will be turned over
directly to the officers of the United States Coast and Geodetic
Survey for reduction and discussion upon the return of the party from
the field.

The scheme of work has already been prepared by Professor Charles A.
Schott, who is looked upon as probably the best informed on all the
details of terrestrial magnetism of all men in this or any other
country. In the course of his exhaustive report upon this subject he
says: "The magnetic observations proper will comprise the measure of
the three elements, the declination, the dip, and the intensity, which
fully define the magnetic force at a place. The measures will be
partly absolute and partly differential, and will be considered under
two heads; those to be taken while travelling, and those to be
attended to at winter quarters." Detailed instructions for this work
are given which are too technical to be interesting except to the
specialist. He recommends that a single cocoon thread carrying a
sewing needle shall be used to observe the declination where by
proximity to the Magnetic Pole the horizontal force is weak. For it
must be borne in mind that the Magnetic Pole is the point where the
vertical force, called "dip," is greatest--represented by 90°--while
the horizontal force, called "declination," is 0°.


The observations for dip, naturally the most important of the survey,
will be made with a Kew Dip Circle employing two needles; the usual
reversals of circle, face, and polarity should be attended to at each
station, to place the instrument in the plane of the magnetic
meridian. The usual method of finding the plane of the meridian will
probably not answer in that part of the world for want of sufficient
accuracy; the direction of the magnetic meridian should, therefore,
be taken as indicated by the delicately suspended needle of the
declination instrument, and, where this method fails, dip observations
should be made in any two planes 90° apart, of which the first plane
is preferably that of the meridian as guessed at.

It is proposed to charter a steam whaler to take the party from St.
John's, Newfoundland, to the northern part of Repulse Bay, which,
being directly connected with Hudson's Bay, is the nearest point to
the pole-containing area that is accessible any year. There a
permanent station is to be erected where regular observations will be
continued all the time and from which each spring a field party
(perhaps two) will start to locate the geographical position of the

[Illustration: PROFESSOR C. A. SCHOTT.]

It may be well to repeat that the Magnetic Pole is that point where
the needle of the dip circle is absolutely vertical--where it stands
at exactly 90° to the plane of the horizon.

To find this unknown spot the observer follows as nearly as possible
the direction indicated by the delicately poised needle of the
declinometer. The magnetic meridian is not always a straight line, and
may therefore indicate a very circuitous route, but by a system
something like the regular approaches to a besieged fort one may be
certain of arriving there eventually.

For instance, when the needle indicates a dip of 89° the stations
should be nearer together--say not farther apart than twenty miles, if
possible, and these intervals should be less as the dip increases.

Suppose the observer to have reached a point where the dip is found to
be 89° 30´, and at the next station he has 89° 35´, at the next
89° 40´. At the next he may find only 89° 37´; he then returns to
where he found the greatest dip and starts off at right angles, one
way or the other, to that course. As long as the dip continues to
increase, he knows he is travelling in the right direction. When it
again decreases he returns to the point of his last greatest dip and
travels at right angles to his last course as long as the dip
increases. In this way he will eventually see the absolute verticity
of the suspended needle marked and know he has reached the North
Magnetic Pole at last. Sir James Ross did not succeed so well, the
needle marking only 89° 59´ of verticity. But as this would indicate
that he was within one and a quarter to two miles of the point sought,
he was justified in feeling elated at his success.

It is believed, however, that with the improved instruments of the
present day, and in the light of our increased knowledge of
terrestrial magnetism, absolute accuracy is now demanded. These
observations will have to be repeated from time to time until at last
we shall know with certainty whether or not the North Magnetic Pole is
a fixed or movable point, and if it is found to move, the direction
and rate of that motion shall be positively determined.



  King Solomon drew merchantmen
    Because of his desire
  For peacocks, apes, and ivory
    From Tarshish unto Tyre:
  And Drake he sacked La Guayra,
    So stout of heart was he;
  But we be only sailormen
    That use upon the sea.

  _Coastwise--cross-seas--round the world and back again,
    Where the flaw shall head us or the full trade suits!
  Plain-sail--storm-sail--lay your board and tack again--
    And that's the way we pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!_

  Now we have come to youward
    To walk beneath the trees,
  And see the folk that live on land
    And ride in carriages.
  Oh, sure they must be silly gulls
    That do with pains desire
  To build a house that cannot move
    Of stones and sticks and mire.

  We bring no store of ingots,
    Of gold or precious stones,
  But that we have we gathered
    With sweat and aching bones:
  In flame beneath the tropics,
    In frost upon the floe,
  And jeopardy of every wind
    That does between them go.

  And some we got by purchase,
    And some we had by trade,
  And some we took by courtesy
    Of pike and carronade,
  At midnight, 'mid sea meetings
    For charity to keep,
  And light the rolling homeward bound
    That rode a foot too deep.

  By sport of bitter weather
    We're walty, strained, and scarred
  From the kentledge of the kelson
    To the slings upon the yard.
  Six oceans had their will of us
    To carry all away--
  Our galley's in the Baltic,
    And our boom's in Mossel Bay!

  We've floundered off the Texel,
    Awash with sodden deals,
  We've slipped from Valparaiso
    With the Norther at our heels:
  We've ratched beyond the Crossets
    That tusk the Southern Pole,
  And dipped our gunnels under
    To the dread Agulhas' roll.

  Beyond all outer chartings
    We sailed where none have sailed,
  And saw the land-lights burning
    On islands none have hailed.
  Our hair stood up for wonder,
    But when the night was done
  There rolled the deep to windward
    Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

  Strange consorts rode beside us
    And brought us evil luck;
  The witch-fire climbed our channels,
    And danced on vane and truck:
  Till, through the red tornado,
    That lashed us nigh to blind,
  We saw The Dutchman plunging,
    Full canvas, head to wind!

  We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
    That calls the black deeps down--
  Ay, thrice we heard The Swimmer,
    The soul that may not drown.
  On frozen bunt and gasket
    The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
  When, manned by more than signed with us,
    We passed the Isle o' Ghosts!

  And north, among the hummocks,
    A biscuit-toss below,
  We met the silent shallop
    That frighted whalers know;
  For down a bitter ice-lane,
    That opened as he sped,
  We saw dead Henry Hudson
    Steer, North by West, his dead.

  So dealt God's waters with us
    Beneath the roaring skies,
  So walked His signs and marvels
    All naked to our eyes:
  But we were heading homeward
    With trade to lose or make--
  Good Lord, they slipped behind us
    In the tailing of our wake!

  Let go, let go the anchors;
    Now shamed at heart are we
  To bring so poor a cargo home
    That had for gift the sea!
  Let go--let go the anchors--
    Ah, fools were we and blind--
  The worst we saved with bitter toil,
    The best we left behind!

  _Coastwise--cross-seas--round the world and back again,
    Where the flaw shall fail us or the trades drive down:
  Plain-sail--storm-sail--lay your board and tack again--
    And all to bring a cargo into London Town!_



When Taine died, people whom his books had interested felt a sudden
longing to say all that they had been thinking about his famous theory
of the "_milieu_." Taine had been, with Renan, the chief literary
medium of thought in France; but while Renan was altogether useful,
caring as he did more for his method than for its results, Taine, with
his imperative and beautiful consistency, imposed on the younger
generation a habit of applying the principle of environment which was
somewhat lacking in criticism. No one but an artist of his surprising
agility and perceptions could have made such a method so universal.
The French wilfully attain clearness by defect of vision, but this is
the same thing as saying that they attain plausibility at the expense
of truth. Taine died, and the thing we lacked courage to say to his
face we have all been saying now that he is safe and irresponsible, as
well as unresponsive, in the earth.

An inevitable way, undoubtedly, to be assured of the insufficiency of
Taine's method is to read Taine's books; and the first book of all,
the "Essay on La Fontaine," is, I may insert the observation, as
conclusive as the last in this respect. But in order to obtain the
conviction that what the critic can get to know of the environing
conditions of any product, human or other, does not explain that
product, one needs not go to Taine's books; one has only to apply it
to the things and people one knows best. The result will be
unsatisfactory. The critic will find a thousand elements in that
particular product's individuality thus left unexplained; in a word,
the theory is one natural, no doubt, to the Olympians, who see all
things; but impracticable for men who, even at their best, see only
very little. Apply it to yourself; apply it to your friends. Apply it
to the person of whom I am going to speak, to M. de Blowitz, the Paris
correspondent of an English newspaper, the "Times." The act will
result in a failure, a scientific failure, whatever the artistic
success. Yet M. de Blowitz is a very remarkable human fact; and that a
philosophic or critical method cannot be applied to him with triumph,
for both him and the method--is this not of itself a consideration
extraordinary enough to vitiate the whole method? A much more
important thing to know than what determined this or that product,
whether it be the Book of Judges, or the Panama trial, or M. Taine, or
M. de Blowitz, is what they themselves determined; what followed,
because of their existence; and though this be reasoning in a dizzy
circle, I cling to the remark as a not unapt way to introduce my
subject. A chief reason why M. de Blowitz is worth considering is,
that he is and always has been a producer himself, a fact pregnant
with a thousand others, rather than the resultant of many vague facts
that have gone before. Most of us must be content with being,
comparatively speaking, only results. M. de Blowitz, prodigious result
as he is, is even more striking as initiator, as himself the creator
of a special environment, as himself in his own way a "final cause."


Cosmopolite in a world becoming rapidly no larger than the tiniest
of the asteroids, M. de Blowitz is one of those who have most
contributed to this planetary shrinkage. His career is a continual
and entertaining illustration of the truth that tact can render even
tolerance successful. For he is the most amiable, the most tolerant
of men, and yet he has blazed a wide path through the woodland of
warring interests in which every man who seeks to succeed runs risk,
not only of losing his way, but of setting all the other denizens of
the forest against him. Ordinarily, success implies that a man is a
man of only one idea. What Frenchman said: "Truth is a wedge that
makes its way only by being struck"? I have forgotten. At all events,
isn't the remark nine times out of ten true? But M. de Blowitz
could apply for the honor of being the proverbial exception. His
workshop is full of wedges, and a more impatient man would have
used up all of them long ago, after having hammered the battered
tops into a condition of splay disfigurement. M. de Blowitz does not
do this. He knew and knows a better way. He can afford to wait. He
likes to wait. He has the good and amiable heart of a man who, like
Odysseus, has seen many men and countries, and knows that all
things--I include even people who are "bores"--have a point of
view that may be rendered interesting. Himself one of the most
individualized of contemporary institutions, his own career is a
standing argument against the sacredness of the idea of institutions.
Yet, though he has inevitably learned how relative things in general
are, he himself appeals to his friends as unusually self-contained
and absolute. Diplomatist among diplomatists, he is more powerful than
any of them, because he works in the interest of the whole rather than
in that of a part. Loyal absolutely to the "Times," which, to its
accidental honor, has entangled him, the "Times" is, at its best, only
the accidental projection, a kind of chronic double, of himself. His
letters are kind attentions which have the air of a continual
favor. Though better recompensed than favors sometimes are, and
though, whatever their contents, they will be read by everybody,
this is not only because what the author writes is important, but
because he does not write when he has nothing to say.


This reticence is superb, and one of its practical results has been
the remarkable physical vigor of this man who is after all no longer
young. One should see him in his country home. M. de Blowitz went up
and down the north coast of France, hunting for an eyry. He found it
on the wooded top of one of the side slopes of the thousand and one
ravines in which fishermen along that coast had fixed their cabins, at
the small hamlet of _Les Petites Dalles_. Like Alphonse Karr at
Etretat, he made the fame of this spot. Your guide-book will tell you
the fact. "M. de Blowitz, correspondent of the English newspaper the
'Times,' has a villa here." I defy you to find any other distinction
special to this place. The high Normandy coast is always charming, but
it is equally so at a hundred other points. And of what charm there is
here simply as village, M. Blowitz's presence would seem to threaten
the partial extinction. For this very presence is rendering the spot
famous and crowded. Sit in the afternoon listening to the three
violins that provide the music, and, taking your absinthe on one of
those hard benches within the narrow limits of the space there called
Casino, you will run the risk of overhearing a conversation like

"This is your first summer here?"

"Yes, came last night. I am tired of Pau, and thought I could bury
myself here. But there's too much world."

"Yes, but what a world it is!"

"Oh, I don't mind that! They say there's enough society in the villas.
Since de Blowitz built the _Lampottes_ and has brought his friends
down, there are some people _très bien de la meilleure société_ on the
cliffs. That's the place up there, the house with the flag above all
the others. I walked up there this morning. He has a tennis court.
Looking up the gravel walk, I saw him sitting on the veranda. That's
M. Ernest Daudet's place just under him in the trees--_mais voilà_;
there he is."

Towards three o'clock in the afternoon, indeed, almost daily, M. de
Blowitz has an amiable habit. He walks down with members of his
family, and the guests who are staying with him, to the pretty
bathing-cabins, in front of which stretches an improvised awning, and,
picturesque in his colored flannels, he sits himself down with a cigar
to watch the bathers. He, the most distinguished of European critics,
is here and now the object of many curious and admiring observations.
He holds here a little court on the shingle beach. Brightly dressed
women gather to him from every point of the compass; while he who has
his emissaries in every quarter of the world, and whose subtle
influence is felt at each episode of the European movement, gives
himself up with pardonable indulgence--under the ample umbrella--to
the pretty trifles of glib women's charm and chatter. Before he has
enjoyed enough, and obedient to one of those harmless devices in which
well-taught men of the world often indulge, he retires from this
charmed and, as I can affirm, charming circle, and climbs to the great
villa on the cliff. There are letters to be written and telegrams to
be sent to Paris, and perhaps an article meditated during the

[Illustration: M. DE BLOWITZ IN HIS STUDY.]

The doors of the _Lampottes_ are wide open upon the great veranda, and
the winds of the channel enter there, warmed from blowing over the
upland grass. The life within is the ideally tranquil existence of an
English country gentleman. Where did this cosmopolite, who really has
no English roots, learn the system? For the hospitality of England can
scarcely be translated with full flavor into any other idiom. The
_schloss_ of Germany or of the Tyrol, the _chateau_ of France, have
never, within my experience of lazy summers, afforded just the same
delightful background as the country house of England. Yet to the
_Lampottes_ the peculiar air has somehow been conjured. All the
country round about this house is Norman, and therefore English--that
is, dense, rich, familiar--so that the English illusion is complete.
But no reader of M. de Blowitz's correspondence in the "Times" would
ever have thought of placing the author in these surroundings. The
_raconteur_ of the reminiscences in "Harper's Magazine" must appeal to
the American reader as a sort of bustling incarnation of the
ubiquitous telegraph, unwearied, and knowing not even in his dreams
the first soothing tremor of the sound of the word "rest." On the
contrary, M. de Blowitz rests frequently and smiles quietly. Large
himself, he likes large air, large rooms, large landscapes, large and
general ideas. And what contributes to all this more than rest, which
gives time to think? It is a generous and natural temper, and that is
why the great doors from the veranda are open to the channel winds.

Although M. de Blowitz wears in his buttonhole, in bright contrast to
the famous flowing tie, the rosette of the French Legion of Honor, he
is not in race a Frenchman; yet he is sufficiently French in two
conspicuous characteristics. The French strike me as being, with the
Americans, the most naturally intelligent people on the western part
of the planet. But the Frenchman is also _bon enfant_, and for the
moment I do not stop to consider that he always remains _enfant_. To
be intelligent and _bon enfant_ at once is to promise all kinds of
successes in life, and to be both is to make success charming. M. de
Blowitz is both. He has been, therefore, a charming success. The
nature of this success defies analysis, but as a result can be


It is now more than twenty years since a young man appeared before
the enthusiast, Laurence Oliphant, then correspondent of the English
"Times," and rendered himself so indispensable to Oliphant that
the latter, with the quixotic temper peculiar to him, felt it, I
believe, a moral duty to abdicate. This young man had already so
distinguished himself at Marseilles, during Communal riots there, as
to attract the attention and merit the gratitude of Thiers. Justly
rating his powers as a diplomatist, and knowing himself to be an
indefatigable worker, he conceived the notion of becoming a sort
of general self-accredited representative to every European Court,
and of inducing the "Times" to afford him an organ of communication
with his diplomatic rivals everywhere. The "Times" is the secluded
pool into which England loves to gaze when it plays the _rôle_ of
Narcissus. And when Narcissus-England admires itself therein, that
is, once a day the year round, it not only sees the healthy,
beaming, determined visage of John Bull, but notes with approval
his quiet expression of patience and caution, his willingness to
wait. The "Times" kept M. de Blowitz waiting for some time before
it found him as relatively indispensable as he really was, and
always has been since; but finally the moment came when M. de Blowitz,
seated before his desk, could feel himself more than the equal of
his diplomatist _confrères_. Statesman he was not, nor ambassador; for
these words imply limitations, a condition of responsibility to
this or that state. But diplomatist he was, and in this entire
class of men he was the most powerful of all; for he found himself
in the position of critic, unattached, of the European movement, owing
allegiance to no country, although sought out by the representatives
of all. What position save that of the Pope afforded a more enviable
outlook? The chances were undoubtedly all on the side of his playing
the great _rôle_ which the happy coincidence of an unusually
exciting time in Europe, and his own activity, tact and perception,
combined to create for him. He has himself lately been telling us
in an American magazine some of the episodes in which he played his
part. I will not dilute the flavor of the original by any individual
essence of my own. The reminiscences are accessible and are not to
be imitated. But to the reader of them one fact above all others
will be evident: M. de Blowitz was and is a diplomatist of the
first order. Seek to explain the eternal hatred felt towards him by a
Prince Bismarck on any other ground. The attempt is impossible.


Whatever M. de Blowitz's loyalty to the "Times," he has been loyal
above all to his own ideal. This ideal has always been to get at the
most political truth possible as a condition of exerting an individual
influence on European states in the interest of European peace. To me,
individually, this ideal seems rather too generous. Everybody
now-a-days wants to take a part in affairs, when only to look on is
surely the one wise part to take. But generous M. de Blowitz is, and
he is demonstrating now, in a series of "recollections," that his
ideal can be carried out in a striking way. I do not deny for a moment
that the point is proven. I doubt very much, however, if any other
similar series of facts will ever be marshalled to the same end. But
all the more reason for being belongs, just for this cause, to the

[Illustration: THE _Lampottes_; THE COUNTRY HOUSE OF M. DE BLOWITZ.]

The "Blowitziana"! This, however, is just what some of us feel more
inspired, than at liberty, to give. I recall here, over this paper,
too many things at once; and all the impressions, seeing M. de Blowitz
as I do continually, fortunately lack perspective. But to note this
and that about him seems in a way as much a duty as a pleasure, for I
remember well that my original notion of this remarkable man was
widely different from that which began to form in my mind once I knew
him. I don't think that people who hear about him, people who read his
name in the newspapers, the average citizen of the world who doesn't
know him personally, have quite the right idea about him. During the
last twenty years he has obtained a reputation for being the most
persistent ferreter of news in existence; but in many minds there is
distrust whenever, over his signature, some unexpected revelation
comes to change the key in the European concert. Perhaps an
unlooked-for document is published, interrupting the plans of
European statesmen, bringing to nothing all their most elaborate
scheming; and on the morrow, by some official source, comes a denial
that any such document was ever dreamed of. It is obviously
impracticable for M. de Blowitz to give his proofs, and this or that
unthinking reader, used to a thousand irresponsible writers who care
only for what is sensational, and who never verify their information,
hurriedly relegates the disclosure of the "Times" correspondent to the
same category. This is natural enough, of course. But let there be no
mistake. The revelation was worthy of the name; of this you may be
sure. M. de Blowitz has done all that he intended to do. He has nipped
in the bud this or that diplomatic scheme; he has anticipated some
subsequent further revelation; or it may be he has laid the net for
some other and less wary diplomatist. The diplomatists themselves are
not so incredulous. They listen to what M. de Blowitz is saying with a
more respectful attention, and, thinking discretion the better part of
valor, they usually end in bringing their mite to his universal
diplomatic bureau. Upon his discretion they know they can count.

Here is a fact in point. Breakfasting once in Paris with an amiable
lady and a very distinguished diplomatist who was also a poet, the
conversation fell on the subject of M. de Blowitz and Count Munster
who had recently been the object of a long-resounding letter in the
"Times." The diplomatist who sat opposite me spoke freely of the
Munster episode, which was then entertaining the whole of Europe, save
the person most concerned.

"M. de Blowitz," said he, "is our only peer. But there should be honor
even among thieves. He has 'cooked Count Munster's goose.'"

"Yes," I replied, "but with fuel of Count Munster's own providing."

"Quite so," he continued; "but of course we are paid to deny just such
things as this. And I have heard of licensed jesters, but the world
has come to a pretty pass if we are to be at the mercy of licensed
truth-tellers. What will become, this side of the Orient, of our

"I agree with you," interrupted our host; "but what does it matter so
only diplomacy may be the bay-leaves of poets, and you may have time
to take the world into your confidence in verse?"

This estimate, implied in the ambassador's somewhat cynical words,
has always been shared by all M. de Blowitz's _confrères_. It would
be more than amusing, it would be curiously instructive, to
corroborate this anecdote by comparison with the hundred others that
tremble in the ink of my pen. But fortunately it is many years before
"Blowitziana" will be written, while now there are Hawaii and
Panama and the Papal ambassador to the United States to occupy our
attention. Yet because of the existence of just this assurance in
the foreign offices of all the European powers, it seems necessary to
set the average reader on his guard against a natural error. What
it all comes to is this--M. Jules Simon has said it--"Newspapers are
better served than kings and peoples."

Everybody has been recently talking of an extraordinary scheme of M.
de Blowitz for the reformation of journalism. That article, crackling
with anathema against the ignorance and irresponsibility of most
modern journalism, and warm with generous and high notions of what
constitutes the duty and privilege of the journalist, had about it a
surprising flavor of detachment and idealism which recalled the famous
Utopian schemes familiar in the pedantic idiom of scholars. It was a
dream, a warning--a vision of a kind of journalistic "City of God."
But the air of that city is, after all, the air of the world in which
M. de Blowitz, the most surprisingly unprofessional of men, seems
eternally to live.

Not that he is always an idealist. He was not, for instance, when,
jumping the wall at Versailles after a dinner to the Shah of Persia,
he outwitted every journalist in the palace garden, and, as he says,
"made five enemies in a single well-employed evening." No, even the
most ubiquitous of American reporters would admit that he may be
practical enough when need be. But after all, and above all, he is an
idealist, marked by a distinguished imagination and an amiable and
generous sympathy. No journalistic tag is on him. He is simply a
gentleman with the widest interests and uncommon capacities who
succeeded in convincing the "Times" (this, of itself, is surely by way
of being a _vrai coup de maître_), and then every other intelligent
observer, of his power and usefulness. He has his own philanthropic
ends, for the propagation of which it pleases him to have so esteemed
a medium as the "Times."


The people who come to see him--the deputies, the ministers, the
ambassadors, the writers, the artists, the simple _gens du monde_--come
more often not to his office, but to his warm and hospitable home.
Here, in one of the streets that wind about the Star Arch at the head
of the Champs Élysées, he receives all the world, rather as the
charming gentleman than the historic journalist de Blowitz. The
centre--I must add the admired centre--of a devoted family circle, he
discourses at his dinner-table of the serious events of the day,
volubly, picturesquely, and with conviction. Yet he is always ready to
listen, and even to alter his opinions at a moment's notice, though
that notice must be good. While he himself makes the coffee, the talk
becomes less exacting and more general. Often he tells you of his
pictures, and points out to you the panels set into the wall of the
room, works of his friends, great canvases by M. Clairin or Mme. Sarah
Bernhardt; and one, a sunny view of the Norman house on the cliff, by
M. Duphot. After dinner in the private study, with its high walls
covered with paintings and souvenirs and autograph photographs of the
greatest names of France, you smoke in the arms of your easy-chair,
the wood fire burning brightly in an ample chimney; while your host,
propped by divan cushions, and with one leg curled under him, drops
grandly into pleasant reminiscences. One has visions of Bagdad. After
an hour like this, you wonder when M. de Blowitz works. But he has been
working all the time. He has been thinking in one half of a very
capacious brain and talking from another. The chances are that he will
have planned a column article for the "Times" newspaper, left you for
a half hour to rummage in his books while he dictates the article,
telephoned for his carriage to await him at nine o'clock in the court
below, and asked you to accompany him to the opera--all before he has
finished his cigar. But then the cigar is a remarkably good one, and
knows not, as is the case with ambassadorial nicotine, the protective
customs of France.

Life means to M. de Blowitz a mental activity and alertness that never
sleep. Yet he is always amiable, tolerating everything except
stupidity. He is a journalist by "natural selection." But that, in the
Europe of his time, and given the accidents of his fortune, made him
the diplomatist that he has been and is. He can keep a secret as well
as tell one. I repeat, he disproves that masterly theory of Taine, who
drove facts like wild horses into a corral in order, having lassoed
them, to tame them to his own uses; for, like Taine himself, he has
made his own _milieu_, created his own series of facts, far more truly
even than he is himself the striking and delightful resultant of
others that have gone before.




The Brontë novels were first read and admired in the Ballynaskeagh
manse. This statement I am able to make with fulness of knowledge.
"Jane Eyre" was read, cried over, laughed over, argued over,
condemned, exalted, by the Reverend David McKee, his brilliant
children and numerous pupils, before the author was known publicly in
England, or a single review of the work had appeared.

The Reverend W. J. McCracken, an old pupil of the Ballynaskeagh manse,
writes me on this point:

"You have no doubt heard Mr. McKee's[2] opinion as to the source of
Charlotte's genius. When Charlotte Brontë published one of her books,
there was always an early copy sent to the uncles and aunts in
Ballynaskeagh. As they had little taste for such literature, the book
was sent straight over to our dear old friend Mr. McKee. If it pleased
him, the Brontës would be in raptures with their niece, and
triumphantly say to their neighbors, 'Mr. McKee thinks her very

"I well remember Mr. McKee reading one of Charlotte's novels, and, in
his own inimitable way, making the remark: 'She is just her Uncle
Jamie over the world. Just Jamie's strong, powerful, direct way of
putting a thing.'"

Mrs. McKee, now living in New Zealand, writes me: "My husband had
early copies of the novels from the Brontës, and he pronounced them to
be Brontë in warp and woof, before 'Currer Bell' was publicly known to
be Charlotte Brontë. He held that the stories not only showed the
Brontë genius and style, but that the facts were largely reminiscences
of the Brontë family. He recognized many of the characters as founded
largely on old Hugh's yarns, polished into literature. When 'Jane
Eyre' came into the hands of the uncles they were troubled as to its
character, but they were very grateful to my husband for his good
opinion of its ability. He pronounced it a remarkable and brilliant
work, before any of the reviews appeared."

In addition to the five hundred pounds that Smith, Elder & Co. paid
Charlotte Brontë for the copyright of each of her novels, they sent
half a dozen copies direct to herself. The book was published on
October 16th, and ten days later Charlotte thus acknowledged receipt
of the copies:

  _October 26, 1847._


  "_Gentlemen_: The six copies of 'Jane Eyre' reached me this
  morning. You have given the work every advantage which good paper,
  clear type and a seemly outside can supply; if it fails, the fault
  will lie with the author--you are exempt. I now await the judgment
  of the press and the public. I am, gentlemen,

  "Yours respectfully,

  "C. BELL."

Charlotte Brontë's friends were not numerous, and she was most anxious
that none of the few should find out that she was the author. In the
distribution of even her six copies, she would most likely send one to
her friends in Ireland. When the volumes arrived in Ireland, there
was no room for doubt as to the authorship of "Jane Eyre." The Brontës
had no other friend in England to send them books. They themselves
neither wrote nor read romances. They lived them.

It was well known to the family that the clever brother in England
had very clever daughters. Patrick was a constant correspondent
with the home circle, and a not infrequent visitor. Their habits
of study, their wonderful compositions, their education in Brussels,
were steps in the ascending gradation of the girls, minutely
communicated by the vicar to his only relatives, and fairly well
understood in Ballynaskeagh. Something was expected.

That something caused blank disappointment. C(urrer) B(ell) was a thin
disguise for C(harlotte) B(rontë), but it did not deceive the
relatives. Why concealment if there was nothing discreditable to
conceal? A very little reading convinced the uncles and aunts that
concealment was necessary.

The book was not good like Willison's "Balm of Gilead," or like
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." It was neither history like Goldsmith,
nor biography like Johnson, nor philosophy like Locke, nor theology
like Edwards; but "a parcel of lies, the fruit of living among

The Irish Brontës had never before seen a book like "Jane Eyre"--three
volumes of babble that would take a whole winter to read. They laid
the work down in despair; but after a little, Hugh resolved to show it
to Mr. McKee, the one man in the district whom he could trust.

The reputation of his nieces in England was dearer to Hugh Brontë than
his own.

He tied up the three volumes in a red handkerchief, and called with
them at the manse. Contrary to his usual custom, he asked if he could
see Mr. McKee alone. The interview, of which my information comes from
an eye-witness, took place in a large parlor, which contained a bed,
and a central table on which Mr. McKee's tea was spread.

Hugh Brontë began in a mysterious whisper to unfold his sad tale
to Mr. McKee, as if his niece had been guilty of some serious
indiscretion. Mr. McKee comforted him by suggesting that the book
might not have been written by his niece at all. At this point
Hugh Brontë was prevailed upon to draw up to the table to partake of
the abundant tea that had been prepared for Mr. McKee, while the
latter proceeded to examine the book. Brontë settled down in the
most self-denying manner to dispose of the heap of bread and butter,
and the pot of tea, while McKee went galloping over the pages of the
first volume of "Jane Eyre," oblivious to all but the fascinating

The afternoon wore on; Brontë sat at the table, watching the features
of the reader as they changed from somber to gay, and from flinty
fierceness to melting pathos.

When the servant went in to remove the tea things and light the
candles, both men were sitting silent in the gloaming. McKee, roused
from his state of abstraction, observed Brontë sitting at the _débris_
and empty plates.

"Hughey," he said, breaking the silence, "the book bears the Brontë
stamp on every sentence and idea, and it is the grandest novel that
has been produced in my time;" and then he added: "The child 'Jane
Eyre' is your father in petticoats, and Mrs. Reed is the wicked uncle
by the Boyne."

The cloud passed from Hugh Brontë's brow, and the apologetic tone from
his voice. He started up as if he had received new life, wrung Mr.
McKee's hand, and hurried away comforted, to comfort others. Mr. McKee
had said the novel was "_gran_" and that was enough for the Irish

There was joy in the Brontë house when Hugh returned and reported to
his brothers and sisters what Mr. McKee had said. They needed no
further commendation, for they knew no higher court on such a matter.
They had all been alarmed lest Charlotte had done something to be
ashamed of; but on Mr. McKee's approval, pride and elation of spirit
succeeded depression and sinking of heart.

Mr. McKee's opinion did not long remain unconfirmed. Reviews from the
English magazines were quoted in the Newry paper, probably by Mr.
McKee, and found their way quickly into the uncles' and aunts' hands.

The publication of the book created a profound impression generally.
It was felt in literary circles that a strong nature had broken
through conventional restraints, that a fresh voice had delivered a
new message. Men and women paused in the perusal of the pretty, the
artificial, the inane, to listen to the wild story that had come to
them with the breeze of the moorland and the bloom of the heather. And
so exquisite was the gift of thought blended with the art of artless
expression, that only the facts appeared in the transparent

"The Times" declared: "Freshness and originality, truth and passion,
singular felicity in the description of natural scenery, and in the
analyzation of human thought, enable this tale to stand boldly out
from the mass."

"The Edinburgh Review" said: "For many years there has been no work of
such power, piquancy, and originality."

"Blackwood's Magazine" spoke thus: "'Jane Eyre' is an episode in this
work-a-day world; most interesting, and touched at once by a daring
and delicate hand."

In "Frazer's Magazine" Mr. G. H. Lewes said: "Reality--deep,
significant reality--is the characteristic of the book. It is
autobiography, not perhaps in the naked facts and circumstances, but
in the actual suffering and experience."

"Tait's Magazine," "The Examiner," the "Athenæum," and the "Literary
Gazette," followed in the same strain; while the "Daily News" spoke
with qualified praise, and only the "Spectator," according to
Charlotte, was "flat."

The club coteries paused, the literary log-rollers were nonplussed,
and Thackeray sat reading instead of writing.

The interest in the story was intensified, inasmuch as no one knew
whence had come the voice that had stirred all hearts. Nor did the
interest diminish when the mystery was dispelled. On the contrary, it
was much increased when it became known that the author was a little,
shy, bright-eyed Yorkshire maiden, of Irish origin, who could scarcely
reach up to great Thackeray's arm, or reply unmoved to his simplest

The Irish Brontës read the reviews of their niece's book with intense
delight. To them the pæans of praise were successive whiffs of pure
incense. They had never doubted that they themselves were superior to
their neighbors, and they felt quite sure that their niece Charlotte
was superior to every other writer.

But the Brontës were not content to enjoy silently their niece's
triumph and fame. Their hearts were full, and overflowed from the
lips. They had reached the period of decadence, and were often heard
boasting of the illustrious Charlotte. Sometimes even they would read
to uninterested and unappreciative listeners scraps of praise cut from
the Newry papers, or supplied to them from English sources by Mr.
McKee. The whole heaven of Brontë fame was bright and cloudless;
suddenly the proverbial bolt fell from the blue.

"The Quarterly"[3] onslaught on "Jane Eyre" appeared, and all the good
things that had been said were forgotten. The news travelled fast, and
reached Ballynaskeagh. The neighbors, who cared little for what "The
Times," "Frazer," "Blackwood," and such periodicals said, had got hold
of the "Quarterly" verdict in a very direct and simple form. The
report went round the district like wild-fire that the "Quarterly
Review" had said Charlotte Brontë, the vicar's daughter, was a bad
woman, and an outcast from her kind. The neighbors of the Brontës had
very vague ideas as to what "The Quarterly" might be, but I am afraid
the one bad review gave them more piquant pleasure than all the good
ones put together. In the changed atmosphere the uncles and aunts
assumed their old unsocial and taciturn ways. When their acquaintances
came, with simpering smiles, to sympathize with them, their gossip was
cut short by the Brontës, who judged rightly that the sense of
humiliation pressed lightly on their comforters.

In their sore distress they went to Mr. McKee. He was able to show
them the "Review" itself. The reviewer had been speculating on the sex
of Currer Bell, and, for effect, assumed that the author was a man,
but he added:

  "Whoever it be, it is a person who, with great mental power,
  combines a total ignorance of the habits of society, a great
  coarseness of taste, a heathenish doctrine of religion. For if we
  ascribe the work to a woman at all, we have no alternative but to
  ascribe it to one who has, from some sufficient reason, long
  forfeited the society of her sex."

Mr. McKee's reading of the review and words of comment gave no comfort
to the Brontës. I am afraid his indignation at the cowardly attack
only served to fan the flames of their wrath. The sun of his sympathy,
however, touched their hearts, and their pent-up passion flowed down
like a torrent of lava.

The uncles of Charlotte Brontë always expressed themselves, when
roused, in language which combined simplicity of diction with depth of
significance. Hugh was the spokesman. White with passion, the words
hissing from his lips, he vowed to take vengeance on the traducer of
his niece. The language of malediction rushed from him, hot and
pestiferous, as if it had come from the bottomless pit, reeking with
sulphur and brimstone.

Mr. McKee did not attempt to stem the wrathful torrent. He hoped that
the storm would exhaust itself by its own fury. But in the case of
Hugh Brontë the anger was not a mere thing of the passing storm. The
scoundrel who had spoken of his niece as if she were a strumpet must
die. Hugh's oath was pledged, and he meant to perform it. The
brothers recognized the work of vengeance as a family duty. Hugh had
simply taken in hand its execution.

He set about his preparation with the calm deliberation befitting such
a tremendous enterprise. Like Thothmes the Great, his first concern
was with regard to his arms. Irishmen at that time had one national
weapon. What the blood mare is to the Bedawi, or his sling was to King
David, that was the _shillelagh_ to Hugh Brontë as avenger. Irishmen
have proved their superiority as marksmen, with long-range rifles;
they have always had a reputation for expertness at "the long bow;"
but the blackthorn cudgel has always been the beloved hereditary

The shillelagh was not a mere stick picked up for a few pence, or cut
casually out of the common hedge. Like the Arab mare, it grew to
maturity under the fostering care of its owner.

The shillelagh, like the poet, is born, not made. Like the poet, too,
it is a choice plant, and its growth is slow. Among ten thousand
blackthorn shoots, perhaps not more than one is destined to become
famous, but one of the ten thousand appears of singular fitness. As
soon as discovered, it is marked, and dedicated for future service.
Everything that might hinder its development is removed, and any
off-shoot of the main stem is skilfully cut off. With constant care it
grows thick and strong, upon a bulbous root that can be shaped into a

Hugh had for many years been watching over the growth of a young
blackthorn sapling. It had arrived at maturity about the time the
diabolical article appeared in "The Quarterly." The supreme moment of
his life came just when the weapon on which he depended was ready.

Returning from the manse, his whole heart and soul set on avenging his
niece, his first act was to dig up the blackthorn so carefully that he
might have enough of the thick root to form a lethal club. Having
pruned it roughly, he placed the butt end in warm ashes, night after
night, to season. Then when it had become sapless and hard, he cut it
to shape, then "put it to pickle," as the saying goes. After a
sufficient time in the salt water, he took it out and rubbed it with
chamois and train-oil for hours. Then he shot a magpie, drained its
blood into a cup, and with it polished the blackthorn till it became a
glossy black with a mahogany tint.

The shillelagh was then a beautiful, tough, formidable weapon, and
when tipped with an iron ferrule was quite ready for action. It became
Hugh's trusty companion. No Sir Galahad ever cherished his shield or
trusted his spear as Hugh Brontë cherished and loved his shillelagh.

When the shillelagh was ready, other preparations were quickly
completed. Hugh made his will by the aid of a local school-master,
leaving all he possessed to his maligned niece, and then, decked out
in a new suit of broadcloth, in which he felt stiff and awkward, he
departed on his mission of vengeance.

He set sail from Warrenpoint for Liverpool by a vessel called the "Sea
Nymph," and walked from Liverpool to Haworth. His brother James had
been over the route a short time previously, and from him he had
received all necessary directions as to the way. He reached the
vicarage on a Sunday, when all, except Martha the old servant, were at
church. At first she looked upon him as a tramp, and refused to admit
him into the house; but when he turned to go to the church,
road-stained as he was, she saw that the honor of the house was
involved, and agreed to let him remain till the family returned. Under
the conditions of the truce he was able to satisfy Martha as to his
identity, and then she rated him soundly for journeying on the Sabbath

Hugh's reception at the vicarage was at first chilling, but soon the
girls gathered round him and inquired about the Glen, the Knock Hill,
Emdale Fort, and the Mourne Mountains, but especially with reference
to the local ghosts and haunted houses.

Hugh was greatly disappointed to find his niece so small and frail.
His pride in the Brontë superiority had rested mainly on the thews and
comeliness of the family, and he found it difficult to associate
mental greatness with physical littleness. On his return home he
spoke of the vicar's family to Mr. McKee as "a poor _frachther_" a
term applied to a brood of young chickens. From his brother Jamie,
Hugh had heard that Branwell had something of the _spunk_ he had
expected from the family on English soil; but he was too small,
fantastic, and a chatterer, and could not drink more than two glasses
of whiskey at the Black Bull without making a fool of himself. In
fact, Jamie, during a visit, had to carry Branwell home, more than
once, from that refuge of the thirsty, and as he had to lie in the
same bed with his nephew he found him a most exasperating bed-fellow.
He would toss about and rave and spout poetry in such a way as to make
sleep impossible.

The declaration of Hugh's mission of revenge was received by Charlotte
with incredulous astonishment, but gentle Anne sympathized with him,
and wished him success; but for her, Hugh would have returned straight
home from Haworth in disgust.

Patrick, as befitted a clergyman, condemned the undertaking, and did
what he could to amuse Hughy. Careful that Hugh's entertainments
should be to his taste, he took him to see a prize fight. His object
was to show him "a battle that would take the conceit out of him." It
had the contrary effect. Hugh thought that the combatants were too fat
and lazy to fight, and he always asserted that he could have "licked
them both."

The vicar also took him to Sir John Armitage's, where he saw a
collection of arms, some of which were exceedingly unwieldy. Hugh was
greatly impressed with the heaviness of the armor, and especially with
Robin Hood's helmet, which he was allowed to place on his head. Hugh
admitted that he could not have worn the helmet or wielded the sword,
but he maintained at the same time that he "could have eaten half a
dozen of the men he saw in England"--in fact, taken them like a dish
of whitebait.

When Hugh Brontë had exhausted the wonders of Yorkshire, to which the
vicar looked for moral effect, he started on his mission to London. A
full and complete account of his search for the reviewer would be most
interesting, though somewhat ludicrous, but the reader must be content
with the scrappy information at my disposal.

Through an introduction from a friend of Branwell's he found cheap
lodgings with a working family from Haworth. As soon as Hugh had got
fairly settled, he went direct to John Murray's publishing house and
asked to see the reviewer. He declared himself an uncle of Currer
Bell, and said he wished to give the reviewer some specific

He had a short interview at Murray's with a man who said he was the
editor of "The Quarterly," and who may have been Lockhart, but Hugh
told him that he could only communicate to the reviewer his secret

He continued to visit Murray's under a promise of seeing the reviewer,
but he always saw the same man who at first had said that he was
editor, but afterwards assured him he was the reviewer, and pressed
him greatly to say who Currer Bell was.

Hugh declined to make any statement except into the ear of the
reviewer; but as the truculent character of the avenger was probably
very apparent, his direct and bold move did not succeed, and at last
they ceased to admit him at Murray's.

Having failed there, he went to the publishers of "Jane Eyre," and
told them plainly he was the author's uncle, and that he had come to
London to chastise the "Quarterly Review" critic. They treated him
civilly without furthering his quest, but he got from them, I believe,
an introduction to the reading-room of the British Museum, and to some
other reading-rooms.

In the reading-room he was greatly disgusted to find how little
interest was taken in the matter that absorbed his whole attention. He
met, however, one kind old gentleman in the British Museum who
thoroughly sympathized with him, and took him home with him several
times. On one occasion he invited a number of people to meet him at
dinner. The house had signs of wealth such as he had never before
seen or dreamt of. Everybody was kind to him. After dinner he was
called on for a speech, and when he sat down they cheered him and
drank his health.

They all examined his shillelagh, and, before parting, promised to do
their best to aid him in discovering the reviewer; but his friend
afterwards told him, at the Museum, that all had failed, and
considered Hugh's undertaking hopeless.

He tried other plans of getting on the reviewer's track. He would step
into a book-shop, and buy a sheet of paper on which to write home, or
some other trifling object. While paying for his small purchase he
would lift "The Quarterly Review," and casually ask the book-seller
who wrote the attack on "Jane Eyre."

He always found the book-sellers communicative, if not well informed.
Many told him that "Jane Eyre" was a well-known mistress of
Thackeray's. None of them seemed able to bear the thought of appearing
ignorant of anything. It was quite well known, others assured him,
that Thackeray had written the review--"in fact, he admitted that he
was the author of the review." Some declared that Mr. George Henry
Lewes was the author, others said it was Harriet Martineau, and some
ventured to say that Bulwer Lytton or Dickens was the critic. These
names were given with confidence, and with details of circumstances
which seemed to create a probability; but his friend, whom he met
daily at the Museum, assured him that they were only wild and absurd
guesses. Thus ended one of the strangest adventures within the whole
range of literary adventure.

Hugh Brontë failed to find the reviewer of his niece's novel, but
explored London thoroughly. He saw the queen, but was better pleased
to see her horses and talk with her grooms.

He saw reviews of troops, and public demonstrations, and cattle shows,
and the Houses of Parliament, and ships of many nations that lay near
his lodging; and he visited the Crystal Palace and the Tower, and
other objects of interest; and when his patience was exhausted and
his money spent, he returned to Haworth on his homeward journey.

[Illustration: CHARLOTTE BRONTË.]

His stay at the vicarage was brief. During his absence, consumption
had been rapidly sapping the life of the youngest girl, yet the gentle
Anne received him with the warmest welcome, and talked of accompanying
him to Ireland, which she spoke of as "home." At parting she threw her
long, slender arms round his neck, and called him her noble uncle.
Charlotte took him for a walk on the moor, asked a thousand questions,
told him about Emily and Branwell, and, slipping a few sovereigns into
his hand, advised him to hasten home. On the following day he parted
forever from the family that he would have given his life to

No welcome awaited him at home, because he had failed in his mission.
He gave to Mr. McKee a detailed account of his adventures in England,
but I do not think anyone else ever heard from him a single word
regarding the sad home at Haworth. But as long as he lived he
regretted his helplessness to avenge the slight put upon his niece,
and seemed to look on the miscarriage of his plans as the great
failure of his life.

Since the foregoing article was put in type Doctor Wright has written
to the editor of this magazine announcing that he has discovered the
author of the "Quarterly" review. He says:

  "Assuming the editor's responsibility for the incriminated
  interpolations, who wrote the article itself? Secrets have a bad
  time of it in our day, and the authorship of the article is no
  longer a secret. As has been generally suspected, the writer was a
  woman, and that woman was Miss Rigby, the daughter of a Norwich
  doctor, and was better known as Lady Eastlake.

  "The well-kept secret has been brought to light by Doctor
  Robertson Nicoll in the 'Bookman' of September, 1892. Doctor
  Nicoll found the key to the mystery in a letter written on March
  31, 1849, by Sara Coleridge to Edward Quillman, and published in
  the 'Memoirs and Letters of Sara Coleridge.' The following is the
  passage referred to:

  "'Miss Rigby's article on "Vanity Fair" was brilliant, as all her
  productions are. But I could not agree to the concluding remark
  about governesses. How could it benefit that uneasy class to
  reduce the number of their employers, which, if high salaries were
  considered in all cases indispensable, must necessarily be the
  result of such a state of opinion?'

  "The 'Quarterly' article on 'Vanity Fair' dealt also with 'Jane
  Eyre,' and with the 'Report of the Governesses' Benevolent
  Institution for 1847,' and it is without doubt the article
  referred to by Sara Coleridge.

  "On this matter Sara Coleridge was not likely to be under any
  mistake. Miss Rigby was her intimate friend, and not likely to
  conceal from her so important a literary event as the production
  of a 'Quarterly' review.

  "I am also informed that Mr. George Smith, the publisher of 'Jane
  Eyre,' declares without hesitation or doubt that he had always
  known that Lady Eastlake was the author of the 'Quarterly'
  article, and that he had declined to meet her at dinner on account
  of it.

  "The fact that the brilliant Miss Rigby was the writer of the
  review greatly strengthens my interpolation theory. To me it seems
  beyond the range of things probable, that the pharisaic part of
  the article could have come from the same source as 'Livonian
  Tales' and the 'Letters from the Shores of the Baltic.'

  "The article is therefore of a composite character. It was written
  by Miss Rigby the year before her marriage with Sir Charles Lock
  Eastlake, and heavily edited during the reign of Lockhart. I know
  it will be said that the genial Lockhart would not have added the
  objectionable fustian to the superior material supplied by Miss
  Rigby; but I must repeat that it was his duty, as a mere matter of
  business, and a purely editorial affair, to maintain the
  traditional tone of the 'Review.'"

  [2] The Reverend David McKee of Ballynaskeagh, a very successful
      school teacher, who prepared hundreds of boys for college. Among
      them was Captain Mayne Reid, who afterwards dedicated his book,
      "The White Chief," to Mr. McKee. Ballynaskeagh, was the centre
      of mental activity for the country round about. Its master was
      the friend and neighbor of the Irish Brontës. He himself wrote
      several books, one of which led to the beginning of a temperance
      movement in Ireland. The writer of this article was his pupil at
      the time of the publication of "Jane Eyre," and tells whereof he
      knows personally, as well as some things of which he was
      informed by Mr. McKee.

  [3] The December number of the "Quarterly Review" of 1848 is perhaps
      the most famous of the entire series. Its fame rests on a
      mystery which has baffled literary curiosity for close on half a
      century. "Who wrote the review of 'Jane Eyre'?" is a question
      that has been asked by every contributor to English literature
      since the critique appeared. But thus far the question has been
      asked in vain.

      The descendant and namesake of the eminent projector and
      proprietor of "The Quarterly" does not feel at liberty to solve
      the mystery by revealing the writer. I admire the loyalty of
      John Murray to a servant whose work has attained an evil
      pre-eminence. It is interesting to know, in these prying and
      babbling times, that in the house of Murray the secret of even a
      supposed ruffian is safe to the third generation.



The August and succeeding issues of McCLURE'S MAGAZINE will contain a
series of papers giving the dramatic and hitherto unknown history of
the Brontës in Ireland. They will throw a vivid light upon the origin
of the Brontë novels, and upon the ancestors of the Brontës. As Doctor
Wright says:

  "Hugh Brontë, the father of Patrick, and grandfather of the famous
  novelists, first makes his appearance as if he had stepped out of
  a Brontë novel. His early experiences qualified him to take a
  permanent place beside the child 'Jane Eyre' at Mrs. Reed's. The
  treatment that embittered his childhood is never referred to by
  the grand-daughters in their correspondence, but it is quite
  evident that the knowledge of his hardships dominated their minds,
  and gave a bent to their imaginations, when depicting the misery
  of young lives dependent on charity."

All the existing biographies of the Brontë sisters are confined to the
Brontës in England. There were but two people competent to give the
story of the Brontë ancestors: one, Captain Mayne Reid; and the other,
Doctor William Wright, who has spent many years preparing this

Doctor Wright had exceptional advantages for his labor of love. In his
childhood his nurse told him the traditions of the Brontës; his tutor
was full of recollections of the father, uncles, and grandfather of
the novelists. As a student he wrote screeds of the Brontë novels in
place of essays, having first been told the incidents and events by
his tutor. His recollections, extending back to the early part of this
century, have been strengthened by years of patient investigation.
During different years Doctor Wright has spent several months at a
time in Ireland, following up obscure traces of the family, hunting
down traditions connected with the Brontës, or carefully verifying
minute points derived from his own recollections or the reports of
others. The result of these painstaking researches, which have
extended over a lifetime, is an authentic narrative of great human

The unadorned history of the family reads like a Brontë novel. The
adventures, the hairbreadth escapes, the struggles, the kidnapping,
the abuse, which figure in these chapters are stranger than fiction.
The courtship, elopement, and marriage of Hugh Brontë with Alice
McGlory form one of the most extraordinary narratives of love and
adventure that has ever been penned.

The half-humorous, half-pathetic, but always intensely interesting,
descriptions of the ancestors of the Brontë sisters, their peculiarities,
the superstition with which some of them were regarded as masters of the
black art, the respect that they commanded as fighters and singers and
workmen, the side-lights thrown upon the early and bitter contest over
tenant rights, the exposition of strange religious beliefs--all of this,
and more that cannot here even be hinted at, serve to present a curious
and vivid picture of everyday life in a corner of Ireland one hundred
years ago.

These articles bring out the hereditary and surrounding influences
which helped to shape the genius of Charlotte Brontë. Aside from the
value which they have because they furnish a remarkable commentary on
the work of the great novelist, they are pages of real life of
fascination and remarkable interest.

The first article will give a glimpse of the early Brontës and the
singular weird story of that dark foundling who brought ruin to his
benefactors, and whose machinations resulted in the absolute
separation of Hugh Brontë, the grandfather of the novelists, from his
parents--a separation so complete that he was never able to learn in
what part of Ireland his father's family lived. Hugh Brontë was
kidnapped when he was six years old. The strange narrative of his
abduction will be given in the August number of McCLURE'S MAGAZINE.




Whether or not to relate the history that I now commence has been to
me a seriously debated question.

But after due reflection I decide that, being the only witness to the
events that have lately been so startling to at least one community,
it is my duty to state as clearly and exactly as possible, while yet
fresh in my memory, the occurrences that came under my observation. I
am satisfied in so doing that the contingencies which might arise from
my silence would be much more serious in their effect upon my friends
than their aversion to the publicity to which they may be subjected;
but, of course, when completed, my statement will be subject to their
wish in its disposal.

Regarding myself, it is only necessary to state that last winter--I
think it was the last week of January--my health became so alarming as
to induce me to accept my son's urgent invitation to visit him in a
far Western territory, hoping that the brighter sky and milder air
would more than compensate for the long and lonely journey to one who
is neither young nor adventurous.

And the effect of the change was almost magical. My son is a civil and
mining engineer, and, being unmarried, boards at the largest of the
three hotels in the busy mining town upon the Southern Pacific road,
which I shall call Brownville.

I reached the place on the afternoon of a bright, balmy day--a May day
it seemed to me--but being an unaccustomed traveller, the motion of
the cars and the strangeness of the transition gave everything such a
dreamlike unreality that I cannot recall the impressions of the first
few days with as much distinctness as later ones. I was continually
expecting my son to vanish, and myself to wake up in my room at home.
This soon wore off, however. I think it was on the second day after my
arrival, as we were starting down stairs to dinner, my son suddenly
drew me back into my room as if to avoid some one who was passing.

"I was afraid you might be startled," he exclaimed. "I was at first,
and I am neither sick nor a lady. Mother, there is a young man here
who will seem like one risen from the dead to you at first sight. He
looks enough like Chester Mansfield to be his twin brother. I think I
never saw so striking a resemblance before, but after you are
acquainted with him the impression will wear away, because he is so
different in every other way." Then we went down stairs, and meeting
the young man at the dining-room door, my son introduced him as "Mr.
Reynolds;" and thus began my acquaintance with him. Of course, after
my son's cautionary remark, I noticed him closely, but I should have
done so anyhow, I am sure, for the resemblance to the dead was so
strong as to give me a very strange feeling, for Chester Mansfield had
been only less dear to me than my own son. But as Howard had said, the
resemblance seemed to wear away somewhat as I talked with him, and I
began to wonder that I had felt it so much. This young man was older,
stouter--and many shades darker in complexion than my friend. His
manner, speech, and style of dress were wholly unlike those of the
dead Chester, although his voice, while deeper, was very similar. He
was attached to the hotel in some capacity, and went out with us to
dinner after a moment's talk, and I found him to be a pleasant talker,
with a ready fund of the slang which seems to be the evolving language
of the Far West, and a very witty use of it; but he did not seem to be
well informed on any subject that I could mention, a strong contrast
to the scholarship of the dead man whose face he bore.

Yet he had an unmistakable air of good breeding, and even of
intelligence, although it was impossible to draw him into a connected
conversation. He seemed to be very popular in the house.

Howard was closely engaged in his work, which sometimes kept him away
for a week at a time, and I had neither the strength nor courage to
go very far from the house alone, through that odd, rushing,
foreign-looking town, so I had much time to myself. I was the only
woman at the house except the proprietor's wife and one Irish
chambermaid. This, perhaps, would account for my interest in the
young man, for I must confess that he occupied my thoughts a good
deal during those first weeks. One Sabbath afternoon I saw him going
away with a party of friends--stylishly dressed, hard-looking men,
and I turned and spoke to Howard of the idea that I had formed of

"I have thought of the same thing myself, mother," he replied. "That
fellow is of Eastern origin, and he is well brought up, in spite of
his efforts to conceal it. And you can't get a word out of him about
his past. I've tried a dozen times. I'm positive that he puts on
ignorance a good many times, just as a blind. There's a good deal of
that here--men who have forgotten all about the East, you understand,
and who have new names, and who don't write home by every mail. Now,
weren't there other Mansfield boys besides Chester? His mother was a
second wife, wasn't she, and there was another family who lived with
their grandmother?"

"Why, certainly there was!" I exclaimed, catching at the idea. "Three
boys, and two of them went out to Denver, or somewhere in that region.
Now I have it--that's just who he is. I wonder what crime he has
committed--robbery, or perhaps murder--who knows?"

"Oh, no! Take care, not quite so fast, mother. But I have a little
clue that nobody else has had the interest to notice. It is more than
mere coincidence. Of course Doctor Mansfield's sons would be brought
up in the deepest piety, and when this fellow gets drunk--you'll hear
him some night--he's terribly pious; prays and sings half the night to
himself--old church hymns that were never heard in this place. And the
thing that I notice is this: he prays like one who was brought up to
it; not like some reprobate who has been scared into piety. I've heard
them a few times, too, and I know the difference.

"Now, that means a little, and when you put it with the company he
keeps, especially Crouch, his chum, that black-looking fellow who was
shooting at the target out there this morning, don't you see it grows
quite interesting?"

"I should think it does. Why, it is perfectly certain that he is a
desperate sort of person. I wonder what he has done? It couldn't be
the Cleveland fur robbery, I suppose," I said.

Howard got up and shook himself and then laughed uproariously.

"No, but he might be the Rahway murderer. You'd better lock the door
fast and tight at night." (This was a stab at my well-known

"And, little mother, if you think you have got hold of a delightful,
bloody mystery, for the love of heaven keep still about it. A little
talk will set a cyclone going if you're not particular."

I resented this caution as quite unnecessary, but Howard laughed and
shook his finger at me. I think he is at the age when a young man
feels his physical and political superiority over his mother very
fully. After he had gone out I sat thinking over his new idea. I had a
faint suspicion that Howard was amusing himself at my interest in the
matter, and was starting me in pursuit of something that he knew
perfectly well beforehand; yet every word that he had said was
fastened in my memory, and many little unnoticed things now came up to
strengthen my suspicions.

In Crouch, the evil-looking fellow, I had no interest, for he was not
mysterious. He was a rascal at the first glance, and could not be
anything else. And he was the sort of rascal that one is content not
to investigate, but observe at the greatest possible distance.

What, then, was young Reynolds' interest in him? I intended to write
home the next day to ask about the Mansfield brothers, but Howard
carried me off to the mines to camp for a few days, and my thoughts
were turned in a new direction.

The day after my return I went out for a walk through the town. I
crossed the plaza and started down one of the diverging streets, when
I suddenly found myself in a most unsavory neighborhood, and suspected
that I must have crossed the "dead line," beyond which I had been told
no white woman ever ventured. I turned to beat a hasty retreat, when I
heard my name, and looking up saw Charlie Reynolds, apparently very
drunk, issuing from the door of a dance saloon. One or two of his
friends were smoking in the doorway. "Good evening, Mish Spencer," he
said, with an aggravated bow. "Thish bad place for lady. See you home,
Mish Spencer?"

"No," I said, "you can't see me home, but I will see you home. You
walk on before me, and I will follow."

To my surprise he obeyed, and across the plaza and down the street of
_adobe_ houses I steered my drunken companion, until I saw him safe
within the doors of the Eldorado House, where I was assured that he
would be put to bed.

That night my son was detained at the mines, and I sat at my window
alone in the marvellous moonlight so clear, so brilliant in that
rarefied atmosphere, that I could see the round blue lines of the
mountains in Mexico, sixty miles away. Sounds from different parts of
the town came up with startling distinctness. I could distinguish
every word of sentences spoken two squares away, and the barking of
coyotes out in the mesquit brush that surrounded the town seemed to
come from under my window. I seemed to be far from the rest of the
earth, on some desolate peak that stood in vast solitude, for the
stars were so large and bright, and the great glowing moon seemed to
hang just overhead.

There were no trees on the great blue mountains, no grass in the stony
valleys, and I realized in their absence how much we owe to the
mission of the green and growing. There was no sense of companionship
in the babel of sounds and languages that came up from the wicked
little town. I am afraid that a few homesick tears came to my eyes.

Suddenly one of the grand old hymns of my church struck the intense
air. A clear, strong, manly voice. How familiar it sounded, ringing
out alone! I sat spellbound, for it was, as my son had said, not the
effort of a tyro, but the cultivated voice of a cultivated man. Coming
just at this moment in the grandly solemn night, its effect upon me
was indescribable, and a new thought flashed into my mind, which I am
ashamed to confess was not there before. Why cannot this young man,
whatever he may have done, be saved through this early training? I
could not sleep for this thought, and waited impatiently for the
morning, resolved to undertake some missionary work in behalf of
Charlie Reynolds.


The Chester Mansfield to whom I have referred was the young minister
of my church, and also the son of my dearest friend. Mrs. Mansfield
had been my playmate and schoolmate in childhood, my confidante in
girlhood, and when we were matrons and neighbors our early affection
had settled into the deep, enduring friendship of later life. She had
married our minister and was an exemplary wife and mother. Our
children were schoolmates also, and her only son Chester was a boy of
unusual promise. He distinguished himself in school and college, and,
finishing his course just before his father's death, was unanimously
called to fill the vacant pulpit. Here his eloquence and spirituality
fully justified the promise of his youth, and he became almost the
idol of his congregation. He married a lovely girl, and life seemed to
hold for him the highest blessings that man can dream of.

The sorrow, then, of his sudden and peculiarly sad death cannot be
described. Not only his family and church, but the whole town, mourned
as if for a brother, and the church could not hold the concourse that
followed his body to the grave.

The mothers and sisters and the frail young wife were almost crushed
by the blow, and even after the lapse of nearly five years it was
fresh enough in my heart to make Charlie Reynolds' face bring back
those days of mourning with sad reality. I formed then the hope,
foolish, perhaps, that if this young man should be found to be a
relative of the dead man and reclaimed, he might in some measure
atone to those bereaved ones for their loss. With this idea, I
improved every opportunity to cultivate Charlie Reynolds' acquaintance
and win his good opinion, although I was much embarrassed by the
laughing eyes that Howard never failed to turn upon me in my
efforts at conversation.

They were efforts, indeed; for if I had come from a foreign land, and
spoken an unknown language, I could hardly have had more difficulty in
finding a topic of common interest or in making myself intelligible,
for old-fashioned English seemed to be less understood than any others
of the numerous tongues I heard.

I could hear from my window, Mexicans, Chinamen, Indians, Frenchmen,
and Spaniards chatting in the plaza, until I could almost guess what
they said, but the vernacular of the American miner and rancher is
beyond comprehension.

There are about four topics discussed at the Eldorado tables, chief of
all, the mines, and to this day I cannot talk coherently about drifts
and leads and dumps, and the like.

Then there were the games, the most absorbing of all, who had lost and
won, and as I don't know one card nor one game from another, I am not
interested in that subject. There was, it seemed to me, a fresh murder
or robbery or Indian fight to discuss every morning at breakfast; and
the ranch talk, in which my most intelligent questions always provoked
a shout of laughter. When I quoted Talmage one morning, a young man
looked at me pityingly, and said, "Oh, he's dead a year ago! He had
one of the finest saloons in Las Vegas; he was a smart man, poor
fellow!" My attempts to interest my table companions in a description
of the Chautauqua and its purpose, and the mission of the W. C. T. U.,
and their painful efforts to be politely interested, almost sent my
son into convulsions in consequence of laughing into his coffee-cup;
and the intense earnestness with which the man they called Bunco Brown
asked, "And didn't they sell no booze there?" and then, "Well, then,
how in thunder do they get it if they're too pious to steal?" might
have seemed amusing to one who was not struck by the horror of the
fact that the man could not conceive of life for any person without

So, owing to the missionary's usual difficulty in making himself
understood, I had to wait to learn a means of communication with my
subject. I even ventured to the door of the billiard room and tried to
manifest an interest in the science of the game, but here, also, I
was too hopelessly old-fashioned to be able to comprehend the beauty
of the angles, and beat an ignominious retreat. I heard Charlie remark
as I went up-stairs: "Game, for such a pious old lady, isn't she?" I
took it as a compliment.

But my opportunity finally came through the humble instrumentality of
an onion. It was about the size of a dinner-plate, and lay on the
newel-post as I came down stairs one morning. Charlie was standing in
the front door, with his back to me, peeling an orange. He turned
around at my exclamation of surprise and asked, "Why, don't they grow
like that where you live?"

"In New England? Oh dear, no!" I cried; and then he asked me a number
of questions, and seemed very much interested in my account of
vegetables and fruit and trees and flowers in the East. I was
delighted to tell him, although I had a lurking suspicion that such a
remarkable ignorance of that country was feigned. And yet his eyes, so
wonderfully like Chester Mansfield's, except in expression, had a
certain vacant honesty--for which, I presume, an accustomed
story-teller could find a better expression--that I was obliged to
believe genuine. As soon as he found that I was curious about the
flora and fauna of the locality, he took great pains in bringing me
specimens, and on two occasions took me out for a walk to see
something that could not be brought. In this closer acquaintance I
found so much that was kind and pleasant, and so many peculiar little
resemblances to my dead friend--a backward toss of the head when he
laughed, a frown when listening, an odd little gesture with the left
hand in explaining anything--that he puzzled me more and more. Among
the few books that I could find to read in the town was the "Woman in
White," which I read with compunction, not having been addicted to
works of fiction, and the curious resemblance between the two women
made a deep impression upon me, and seemed to have a strange
significance just at this time. Although I had as yet not succeeded in
drawing any confidence from Charlie--who, indeed, seldom spoke of
himself, and never related any past experience--a very suspicious
trait I thought, I felt sure that time would unravel the dark mystery
that enveloped him.

Just as I was feeling that I had now Charlie's friendship, the man
Crouch seemed to become jealous of my influence, and became so
attentive to him that my acquaintance with him was virtually suspended
for a time. One day, a bright, hot day in March, a Mexican wagon train
arrived in town, laden with beans, hides, and "Chili Colorade," and a
crowd of rancheros from another direction swarmed into the plaza. The
town was full of excitement and whiskey; the tinkle of the dance
saloons came up from all quarters; the rancheros, with their red
shirts and broad hats, galloped their tough mustangs madly through the
streets, firing at random, and lassoing the unlucky curs and pigs that
happened to be in the way. While there were street brawls at every
corner, I hardly dared to leave my room, and I could not venture to
sit by my window. It was a great relief that Howard came in very
early. All through the evening I listened to the confused sounds that
came up through the resonant air, and could distinguish the soft voice
of the pretty Mexican girl in the saloon opposite my window,
accompanied by her castanet. It was another of those still, white
nights, when the town seemed to hang in mid-air. I felt the
premonition of impending disaster so common to nervous women, and made
Howard sit in my room as long as I could think of a pretext for
keeping him. When I was alone, I lay wakeful through the noisy hours,
waiting for daylight. At perhaps three o'clock, or a little later, I
fell into a semi-conscious doze, from which I was aroused by the
footsteps and low voices of men in the hall. The slowness of the
steps, and the hushed tone in which they spoke, gave me a thrill of
terror. Something had happened. Yes, they were talking about it, and
carrying something--some one--by. "Right this way, lay him on the
bed." "What, doctor?" "Pretty near dead." "Small chance," and so on.
Then with strained nerves I listened for the doctor, heard him come,
heard his quick directions, heard the running to and fro to get what
he required, and then arose and dressed myself with trembling hands,
unable to bear the tension any longer, and thinking that I might be of
assistance. I went to Howard's door, aroused him, and sent him to
learn what was the matter. He went a little reluctantly, but returned
wide awake.

"Why, it's Charlie Reynolds, poor fellow! I guess he's about
killed--some row, I suppose; didn't wait to find out. The doctor is
attending to him now."

A little later, in the gray, solemn dawn, the doctor came out of the
room in which Charlie had been laid, and I went to learn the worst. I
knew now that I had grown very fond of the young man, and I could see
that Howard liked him, too.


The doctor looked at me curiously. "He is pretty badly hurt, but I
think he will pull through. I don't suppose it makes any particular
difference to him or anybody else, whether he does or not!" he said,
brushing his hat with his coat-sleeve.

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Why, because he will only pull through this to get killed in some
other scrape, and before he can get into anything else he will have to
answer for this one. You know how he was hurt?"

"No, I don't know anything about it."

"He robbed a fellow in the night, and the man chased him and shot him,
and finding that he still ran, knocked him down with the butt end of
his pistol, threw it at him; that is the worst hurt he had. And he is
an old customer, for this blow opened an old place; it isn't the first
time he has been caught. I've just trepanned it--quite a serious
operation under the circumstances."

"And the pistol wounds?"

"Nothing but scratches; they won't hurt."

"Well, he is a human creature, with an immortal soul, and I shall take
care of him, anyhow. There is nobody else to do it, so I intend to," I
said as calmly as I could, after all this terrible information, which
had shaken me none the less for the doctor's indifferent tone and

"Very well, ma'am, I wish you success. There's nothing to do now but
keep him quiet until I come back after breakfast."

I walked in alone and looked at the still, white face under the
bandages. He was evidently under the influence of a heavy opiate, for
there was no sign of life, except the faint breathing.

I could not help feeling a great pity for the young man, so friendless
and so indifferently regarded, and with such a future to look forward
to in his recovery. No clue could be found to his past or his family,
if he had any.

I took it as more than mere accident that he had fallen thus helpless
and suffering into my hands, and resolved to use to the utmost my
skill and influence for the best.

He lay for a good many days--I cannot tell just how many--in a
comatose condition, and I did not for a moment relax my watch, except
to take a little rest now and then. At length there began to be signs
of returning consciousness. The dull eyes would open and gaze vacantly
around the room.

He could utter a few incoherent words, and the hands groped in a
troubled way among the bed-clothes. And day by day, as the bronze tint
of the skin disappeared, and the features grew clearer and thinner,
that marvellous likeness grew stronger, until, looking at him, I
rubbed my eyes sometimes, and believed myself the victim of an

One morning, at length, he opened his eyes, and looked at me with a
new intelligence, an attentiveness that I had never seen in him

As he lay there with bright open eyes the likeness was simply
intolerable, as I thought of the career that he represented. I busied
myself in bringing the basin of water and sponge to bathe his face and
hands. He was evidently trying to recall the circumstances of his
injury and account for his presence there, for he looked in turn at me
and the room, and then at the bed in which he lay.

"Mrs. Spencer, I cannot think how you come to be here. Was I much

"Yes, you were pretty badly hurt, but you will soon be all right now
if you keep quiet. Don't move your head. I will wash your hands now."

He closed his eyes as if weary with even the effort he had made, and
soon fell asleep, as naturally as a child.

Later in the day he awoke and seemed strange. He looked at me with the
same puzzled expression. I was heating some drink for him over a
spirit lamp when he spoke in a strangely familiar voice, although very

"Mrs. Spencer, has anything happened at home that you have come to me,
and not mother? I had a letter from mother yesterday, and all were
well. Was the accident very fatal?"

I dropped the cup I was holding; my heart seemed to stop beating. For
the white, serious face on the pillow was not that of Charlie
Reynolds, but Chester Mansfield! I ran out of the room, down the hall,
and into my own room. I had no motive in doing so, because I was too
much startled and I think terrified for thought.

My first collected idea was, that I had dwelt upon the subject so much
during lonely days and nights of vigil that I was now a victim of
subjective vision--I was for the moment insane upon that subject. I
sent for the doctor immediately, and after bathing my face and trying
to steady my quivering nerves, returned to my patient whom I was
afraid I might have shocked by my sudden exit. He looked surprised,
and watched me curiously.

"I think you had better not talk any more. The doctor says you must be
kept quiet." And I busied my hands in smoothing down the bed-clothes.

"I will be quiet; but you must tell me one or two things. Are they all
well at home--Lucia, and mother and the girls? and how many were hurt
in the accident?"

"They are all well at home. I am visiting here," I managed to answer,
and he turned away his head, apparently satisfied. I paced up and down
the hall until the doctor came, and drew him into a vacant room to
tell him the situation. He looked at me incredulously when I had
finished my excited narrative, reached for my wrist, and shook his
head. "You have been working too hard over that fellow," he said. "You
will be the next patient."

"But he asked for his wife and called her by name. Come and see which
is the lunatic," and I led the way to the sick-room.

"Ah!" he said in a cheery tone, going to the bedside. "I see we are
getting along bravely, and look as smart as folks that have a whole

The patient (I didn't know what name to call him) smiled, but without
a trace of recognition.

"I suppose you are my physician, and I am probably indebted to you for
my life," he said feebly.

The doctor looked puzzled. "You don't seem to recall my face."

"No, I suppose I was knocked senseless. The last thing I can remember
is going down the embankment. I tried to jump, but my foot caught, and
I struck my head against something. There was a young woman in the
opposite berth--was she killed, I wonder? She had two little children.
I suppose I have been unconscious for sometime. It must have happened
yesterday, didn't it?"

"It was several days ago," said the doctor, soothingly. "You had
better rest a while, and then you can tell us more, and about

"This lady can tell you all about me. She has known me all my life,"
and he closed his eyes wearily.

The doctor looked at me significantly, and I followed him into the

"What in the world does this mean? That young man is no more
Charlie Reynolds than I am. I can only account for the case in one
way, and that is a very unusual one. The operation I performed last
week restored his skull to its normal shape. There was quite a
deep indenture and a consequent pressure upon the brain, which
undoubtedly affected, probably suspended, his memory. Now this young
man--minister, did you say?----"

"Yes," I interrupted. "But this is the awful part of it. He is
dead--buried--five years ago. I saw him buried, have gone to his grave
many times, and now he lies there and talks to me. And Charlie
Reynolds, drunkard and robber. Oh, no! no!"

"You say your friend was killed in a railroad accident on his vacation
trip? How was the body identified? Who saw it after it was sent

"None of his family saw the remains, he was so badly burned. I see. It
must have been the wrong body."

"And the railroad, of course, had him cared for until he was well. And
then he couldn't tell who he was, and drifted about until he fell into
bad company. He has been a cat's paw for this gang, no doubt. Well,
you've got a pretty little sensation upon your hands. I'd like to see
you get back and tell your story."

I wondered how he could talk and smile so carelessly, but in that
country nobody is surprised at anything. I went back to my patient,
after dispatching a messenger for Howard, who was working in the "San
Jacinto," twenty miles away.

Chester, as I could safely call him now, was extremely anxious about
his fellow passengers, and thought they must be in the hotel at this
time. I was familiar with the shocking details of the disaster at the
time, but could not recall them with sufficient accuracy to satisfy
him. The five years intervening were apparently entirely lost. He
could scarcely believe us when we told him that he had lain
unconscious for more than a week.

Howard came in the evening, and was amazed beyond his power of
expression. He thought over the complex situation a long time before
he made any effort to communicate with the family of the patient.
Chester could not understand why we had not telegraphed before, and we
could not explain. We called a council of three and debated. Chester
Mansfield, the gifted, irreproachable minister of our large church,
was held to be tried for robbery and assault as soon as he was able to
appear. We could not take him away. What word could we send to the
young wife, about whom he continually asked, and the old mother? We
finally left it to Howard, who telegraphed to the wife that her
husband had been found alive, though recovering from serious illness;
that he was in our care, but wished her to join him as soon as
possible; and that the body sent home as his must have been that of
another man.

When we told Chester that she had been sent for he exclaimed, "How can
she leave her baby? She would have been with me but for that three
months old baby." The baby was now a tall boy of five in kilts.
Although the complications arising from this strange case were
countless, we managed to keep the real story from Chester until he was
sufficiently recovered to bear it, and indeed we did not then tell him
of the serious misdeeds of his other self.

But when the young wife came after her long journey, and we led her,
for the first time without her mourning dress, up to his room, he knew
that to her he was in truth one risen from the dead. I opened the door
for her, and when I heard her cry of joy as she sprang forward,
satisfied at last of his identity, and his low, "My love, my love!" I
closed the door and went away to weep a few tears to myself, but not
of sorrow.

My story is told. We secured bail for Charles Reynolds and took him
home, to await the fall term of court, where he expects to have no
difficulty in proving his innocence in his present person. To himself
his case presents some metaphysical and moral studies quite at
variance with his own belief. He cannot yet comprehend the silence of
his conscience at this time of need. The sensation created by our
return, and all subsequent events, are well known to those who will
read this statement, so that I need tell no more.

My only object in writing so minute an account, and detailing such
conversations as I could remember, is to protect him forever, as far
as my word will avail, from any insinuation of intentional or
conscious wrong doing in those five lost years, knowing as I do the
conditions of life exacted of a clergyman and fearing some future

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber Notes

The Table of Contents and the List of Illustrations were added by the
transcriber. Quotation marks changed to standardize usage. All other
original punctuation and archaic spelling (i.e. chetahs, serval,
wardbob, and Bagdad) preserved as written.

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ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.