BERRY AND LINCOLN’S GROCERY.—A SET OF BLACKSTONE’S
COMMENTARIES.—BERRY AND LINCOLN TAKE OUT A TAVERN
LICENSE.—THE POSTMASTER OF NEW SALEM IN
1833.—LINCOLN BECOMES DEPUTY SURVEYOR.—THE FAILURE
OF BERRY AND LINCOLN.—ELECTIONEERING IN
ILLINOIS.—LINCOLN CHOSEN ASSEMBLYMAN.—BEGINS TO
STUDY LAW.—THE ILLINOIS STATE LEGISLATURE IN
1834.—THE STORY OF ANN RUTLEDGE.—ABRAHAM LINCOLN AT
TWENTY-SIX YEARS OF AGE.

Embodying special studies in Lincoln’s
life at New Salem by J. McCan Davis.

LOOKING FOR WORK.

T was in August, 1832, that Lincoln made his
unsuccessful canvass for the Illinois Assembly. The election
over, he began to look for work. One of his friends, an admirer
of his physical strength, advised him to become a blacksmith,
but it was a trade which would afford little leisure for study,
and for meeting and talking with men; and he had already
resolved, it is evident, that books and men were essential to
him. The only employment to be had in New Salem which seemed to
offer both support and the opportunities he sought, was
clerking in a store; and he applied for a place successively at
all of the stores then doing business in New Salem. But they
were in greater need of customers than of clerks. The business
had been greatly overdone. In the fall of 1832 there were at
least four stores in New Salem. The most pretentious was that
of Hill and McNeill, which carried a large line of dry goods.
The three others, owned by the Herndon Brothers, Reuben
Radford, and James Rutledge, were groceries.

DECIDES TO BUY A STORE.

Failing to secure employment at any of these establishments,
Lincoln, though without money enough to pay a week’s board in
advance, resolved to buy a store. He was not long in
finding an opportunity to purchase. James Herndon had already
sold out his half interest in Herndon Brothers’ store to
William F. Berry; and Rowan Herndon, not getting along well
with Berry, was only too glad to find a purchaser of his half
in the person of “Abe” Lincoln. Berry was as poor as Lincoln;
but that was not a serious obstacle, for their notes were
accepted for the Herndon stock of goods. They had barely hung
out their sign when something happened which threw another
store into their hands. Reuben Radford had made himself
obnoxious to the Clary’s Grove Boys, and one night they broke
in his doors and windows, and overturned his counters and sugar
barrels. It was too much for Radford, and he sold out next day
to William G. Green for a four-hundred-dollar note signed by
Green. At the latter’s request, Lincoln made an inventory of
the stock, and offered him six hundred and fifty dollars for
it—a proposition which was cheerfully accepted. Berry and
Lincoln, being unable to pay cash, assumed the
four-hundred-dollar note payable to Radford, and gave Green
their joint note for two hundred and fifty dollars. The little
grocery owned by James Rutledge was the next to succumb. Berry
and Lincoln bought it at a bargain, their joint note taking the
place of cash. The three stocks were consolidated. Their
aggregate cost must have been not less than fifteen hundred
dollars. Berry and Lincoln had secured a monopoly of the
grocery business in New Salem. Within a few weeks two penniless
men had become the proprietors of three stores, and had stopped
buying only because there were no more to
purchase.

[pg 214]

THE EARLIEST PORTRAIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN (REPRINTED FROM FROM McCLURE'S FOR NOVEMBER).

THE EARLIEST PORTRAIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. (REPRINTED
FROM McCLURE’S FOR NOVEMBER).

From a daguerreotype in the possession of the Hon.
Robert T. Lincoln, taken before Lincoln was forty, and
first published in the McCLURE’S Life of Lincoln. Of the
sixty or more portraits of Lincoln which will be published
in this series of articles, thirty, at least, will be
absolutely new to our readers; and of these thirty none is
more important than this early portrait. It is generally
believed that Lincoln was not over thirty-five years old
when this daguerreotype was taken, and it is certainly true
that it is the face of Lincoln as a young man. “About
thirty would be the general verdict,” says Mr. Murat
Halstead in an editorial in the Brooklyn “Standard-Union,”
“if it were not that the daguerreotype was unknown when
Lincoln was of that age. It does not seem, however, that he
could have been more than thirty-five, and for that age the
youthfulness of the portrait is wonderful. This is a new
Lincoln, and far more attractive, in a sense, than anything
the public has possessed. This is the portrait of a
remarkably handsome man…. The head is magnificent, the
eyes deep and generous, the mouth sensitive, the whole
expression something delicate, tender, pathetic, poetic.
This was the young man with whom the phantoms of romance
dallied, the young man who recited poems and was fanciful
and speculative, and in love and despair, but upon whose
brow there already gleamed the illumination of intellect,
the inspiration of patriotism. There were vast
possibilities in this young man’s face. He could have gone
anywhere and done anything. He might have been a military
chieftain, a novelist, a poet, a philosopher, ah! a hero, a
martyr—and, yes, this young man might have
been—he even was Abraham Lincoln! This was he with
the world before him. It is good fortune to have the
magical revelation of the youth of the man the world
venerates. This look into his eyes, into his soul—not
before he knew sorrow, but long before the world knew
him—and to feel that it is worthy to be what it is,
and that we are better acquainted with him and love him the
more, is something beyond price.”

[pg 215]

LINCOLN IN 1859.

From a photograph in the collection of H.W. Fay, De
Kalb, Illinois. The original was made by S.M. Fassett, of
Chicago; the negative was destroyed in the Chicago fire.
This picture was made at the solicitation of D.B. Cook, who
says that Mrs. Lincoln pronounced it the best likeness she
had ever seen of her husband. Rajon used the Fassett
picture as the original of his etching, and Kruell has made
a fine engraving of it.

[pg 216]

LINCOLN IN THE SUMMER OF 1860.

From a copy (made by E.A. Bromley of the Minneapolis
“Journal” staff) of a photograph owned by Mrs. Cyrus
Aldrich, whose husband, now dead, was a congressman from
Minnesota. In the summer of 1860 Mr. M.C. Tuttle, a
photographer of St. Paul, wrote to Mr. Lincoln requesting
that he have a negative taken and sent to him for local use
in the campaign. The request was granted, but the negative
was broken in transit. On learning of the accident, Mr.
Lincoln sat again, and with the second negative he sent a
jocular note wherein he referred to the fact, disclosed by
the picture, that in the interval he had “got a new coat.”
A few copies of the picture were made by Mr. Tuttle, and
distributed among the Republican editors of the State. It
has never before been reproduced. Mrs. Aldrich’s copy was
presented to her by William H. Seward, when he was
entertained at the Aldrich homestead (now the Minneapolis
City Hospital) in September, 1860. A fine copy of this same
photograph is in the possession of Mr. Ward Monroe, of
Jersey City, N.J.

William F. Berry, the partner of Lincoln, was the son of a
Presbyterian minister, the Rev. John Berry, who lived on Rock
Creek, five miles from New Salem. The son had strayed from the
footsteps of the father, for he was a hard drinker, a gambler,
a fighter, and “a very wicked young man.” Lincoln cannot in
truth be said to have chosen such a partner, but rather to have
accepted him from the force of circumstances. It required only
a little time to make it plain that the partnership was wholly
uncongenial. Lincoln displayed little business capacity. He
trusted largely to Berry; and Berry rapidly squandered the
profits of the business in riotous living. Lincoln loved books
as Berry loved liquor, and hour after hour he was stretched out
on the counter of the store or under a shade tree, reading
Shakespeare or
Burns.

[pg 217]

LINCOLN EARLY IN 1861.—PROBABLY THE EARLIEST
PORTRAIT SHOWING HIM WITH A BEARD.

From a photograph in the collection of H.W. Fay of De
Kalb, Illinois, taken probably in Springfield early in
1861. It is supposed to have been the first, or at least
one of the first, portraits made of Mr. Lincoln after he
began to wear a beard. As is well known, his face was
smooth until about the end of 1860; and when he first
allowed his beard to grow, it became a topic of newspaper
comment, and even of caricature. A pretty story relating to
Lincoln’s adoption of a beard is more or less familiar. A
letter written to the editor of the present Life, under
date of December 6, 1895, by Mrs. Grace Bedell Billings,
tells this story, of which she herself as a little girl was
the heroine, in a most charming way. The letter will be
found printed in full at the end of this article, on page
240.

His thorough acquaintance with the works of these two
writers dates from this period. In New Salem there was one of
those curious individuals sometimes found in frontier
settlements, half poet, half loafer, incapable of earning a
living in any steady employment, yet familiar with good
literature and capable of enjoying it—Jack Kelso. He
repeated passages from Shakespeare and Burns incessantly over
the odd jobs he undertook or as he idled by the
streams—for he was a famous fisherman—and Lincoln
soon became one of his constant companions. The taste he formed
in company with Kelso he retained through life. William D.
Kelley tells an incident which shows that Lincoln had a really
intimate knowledge of Shakespeare. Mr. Kelley had taken
McDonough, an actor, to call at the White House; and Lincoln
began the conversation by
saying:

[pg 218]

LINCOLN IN 1861.

From a photograph loaned by Mr. Frank A. Brown of
Minneapolis, Minnesota. This beautiful photograph was
taken, probably early in 1861, by Alexander Hesler of
Chicago. It was used by Leonard W. Volk, the sculptor, in
his studies of Lincoln, and closely resembles the fine
etching by T. Johnson.

“‘I am very glad to meet you, Mr. McDonough, and am grateful
to Kelley for bringing you in so early, for I want you to tell
me something about Shakespeare’s plays as they are constructed
for the stage. You can imagine that I do not get much time to
study such matters, but I recently had a couple of talks with
Hackett—Baron Hackett, as they call him—who is
famous as Jack Falstaff, but from whom I elicited few
satisfactory replies, though I probed him with a good many
questions.’

[pg 219]

THE STATE-HOUSE AT VANDALIA, ILLINOIS—NOW USED AS
A COURT-HOUSE.

Vandalia was the State capital of Illinois for twenty
years, and three different State-houses were built and
occupied there. The first, a two-story frame structure, was
burned down December 9, 1823. The second was a brick
building, and was erected at a cost of $12,381.50, of which
the citizens of Vandalia contributed $3,000. The agitation
for the removal of the capital to Springfield began in
1833, and in the summer of 1836 the people of Vandalia,
becoming alarmed at the prospect of their little city’s
losing its prestige as the seat of the State government,
tore down the old capitol (much complaint being made about
its condition), and put up a new one at a cost of $16,000.
The tide was too great to be checked; but after the “Long
Nine” had secured the passage of the bill taking the
capital to Springfield, the money which the Vandalia people
had expended was refunded. The State-house shown in this
picture was the third and last one. In it Lincoln served as
a legislator. Ceasing to be the capitol July 4, 1839, it
was converted into a court-house for Fayette County, and is
still so used.—J. McCan Davis.

LINCOLN’S SURVEYING INSTRUMENTS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR
McCLURE’S MAGAZINE.

After Lincoln gave up surveying, he sold his instruments
to John B. Gum, afterward county surveyor of Menard County.
Mr. Gum kept them until a few years ago, when he presented
the instruments to the Lincoln Monument Association, and
they are now on exhibition at the monument in Springfield,
Ill.

[pg 220]

FACSIMILE OF A TAVERN LICENSE ISSUED TO BERRY AND
LINCOLN MARCH 6, 1833, BY THE COUNTY COMMISSIONERS’ COURT
OF SANGAMON COUNTY.

The only tavern in New Salem in 1833 was that kept by
James Rutledge—a two-story log-structure of five
rooms, standing just across the street from Berry and
Lincoln’s store. Here Lincoln boarded. It seems entirely
probable that he may have had an ambition to get into the
tavern business, and that he and Berry obtained a license
with that end in view, possibly hoping to make satisfactory
terms for the purchase of the Rutledge hostelry. The tavern
of sixty years ago, besides answering the purposes of the
modern hotel, was the dramshop of the frontier. The
business was one which, in Illinois, the law strictly
regulated. Tavern-keepers were required to pay a license
fee, and to give bonds to insure their good behavior.
Minors were not to be harbored, nor did the law permit
liquor to be sold to them; and the sale to slaves of any
liquors “or strong drink, mixed or unmixed, either within
or without doors,” was likewise forbidden. Nor could the
poor Indian get any “fire-water” at the tavern or the
grocery. If a tavern-keeper violated the law, two-thirds of
the fine assessed against him went to the poor people of
the county. The Rutledge tavern was the only one at New
Salem of which we have any authentic account. It was kept
by others besides Mr. Rutledge; for a time by Henry Onstott
the cooper, and then by Nelson Alley, and possibly there
were other landlords; but nothing can be more certain than
that Lincoln was not one of them. The few surviving
inhabitants of the vanished village, and of the country
round about, have a clear recollection of Berry and
Lincoln’s store—of how it looked, and of what things
were sold in it; but not one has been found with the
faintest remembrance of a tavern kept by Lincoln, or by
Berry, or by both. Stage passengers jolting into New Salem
sixty-two years ago must, if Lincoln was an inn-keeper,
have partaken of his hospitality by the score; but if they
did, they all died many, many years ago, or have all
maintained an unaccountable and most perplexing
silence.—J. McCan Davis.

“‘Your last suggestion,’ said Mr. Lincoln, ‘carries with it
greater weight than anything Mr. Hackett suggested, but the
first is no reason at all;’ and after reading another passage,
he said, ‘This is not withheld, and where it passes current
there can be no reason for withholding the other.’… And, as
if feeling the impropriety of preferring the player to the
parson, [there was a clergyman in the room] he turned to the
chaplain and said: ‘From your calling it is probable that you
do not know that the acting plays which people crowd to hear
are not always those planned by their reputed authors. Thus,
take the stage edition of “Richard III.” It opens with a
passage from “Henry VI.,” after which come portions of “Richard
III.,” then another scene from “Henry VI.,” and the finest
soliloquy in the play, if we may judge from the many quotations
it furnishes, and the frequency with which it is heard in
amateur exhibitions, was never seen by Shakespeare, but was
written—was it not, Mr. McDonough?—after his death,
by Colley Cibber.”

“Having disposed, for the present, of questions relating to
the stage editions of the plays, he recurred to his standard
copy, and, to the evident surprise of Mr. McDonough, read or
repeated from memory extracts from several of the plays, some
of which embraced a number of lines.

“It must not be supposed that Mr. Lincoln’s poetical studies
had been confined to his plays. He interspersed his remarks
with extracts striking from their similarity to, or contrast
with, something of Shakespeare’s,
[pg 221] from Byron, Rogers,
Campbell, Moore, and other English
poets.”¹

BERRY AND LINCOLN’S STORE IN 1895.

From a recent photograph by C.S. McCullough, Petersburg,
Illinois. The little frame store-building occupied by Berry
and Lincoln at New Salem is now standing at Petersburg,
Illinois, in the rear of L.W. Bishop’s gun-shop. Its
history after 1834 is somewhat obscure, but there is no
reason for doubting its identity. According to tradition it
was bought by Robert Bishop, the father of the present
owner, about 1835, from Mr. Lincoln himself; but it is
difficult to reconcile this legend with the sale of the
store to the Trent brothers, unless, upon the flight of the
latter from the country and the closing of the store, the
building, through the leniency of creditors, was allowed to
revert to Mr. Lincoln, in which event he no doubt sold it
at the first opportunity and applied the proceeds to the
payment of the debts of the firm. When Mr. Bishop bought
the store building, he removed it to Petersburg. It is said
that the removal was made in part by Lincoln himself; that
the job was first undertaken by one of the Bales, but that,
encountering some difficulty, he called upon Lincoln to
assist him, which Lincoln did. The structure was first set
up adjacent to Mr. Bishop’s house, and converted into a
gun-shop. Later it was removed to a place on the public
square; and soon after the breaking out of the late war,
Mr. Bishop, erecting a new building, pushed Lincoln’s store
into the back-yard, and there it still stands. Soon after
the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, the front door was
presented to some one in Springfield, and has long since
been lost sight of. It is remembered by Mr. Bishop that in
this door there was an opening for the reception of
letters—a circumstance of importance as tending to
establish the genuineness of the building, when it is
remembered that Lincoln was postmaster while he kept the
store. The structure, as it stands to-day, is about
eighteen feet long, twelve feet in width, and ten feet in
height. The back room, however, has disappeared, so that
the building as it stood when occupied by Berry and Lincoln
was somewhat longer. Of the original building there only
remain the frame-work, the black-walnut weather-boarding on
the front end and the ceiling of sycamore boards. One
entire side has been torn away by relic-hunters. In recent
years the building has been used as a sort of store-room.
Just after a big fire in Petersburg some time ago, the city
council condemned the Lincoln store building and ordered it
demolished. Under this order a portion of one side was torn
down, when Mr. Bishop persuaded the city authorities to
desist, upon giving a guarantee that if Lincoln’s store
ever caught fire he would be responsible for any loss which
might ensue.—J. McCan Davis.

HE BEGINS TO STUDY LAW.

It was not only Burns and Shakespeare that interfered with
the grocery-keeping: Lincoln had begun seriously to read law.
His first acquaintance with the subject had been made when he
was a mere lad in Indiana, and a copy of the “Revised Statutes
of Indiana” had fallen into his hands. The very copy he used is
still in existence and, fortunately, in hands where it is safe.
The book was owned by Mr. David Turnham, of Gentryville, and
was given in 1865 by him to Mr. Herndon, who placed it in the
Lincoln Memorial collection of Chicago. In December, 1894, this
collection was sold in Philadelphia, and the “Statutes of
Indiana” was bought by Mr. William Hoffman Winters, Librarian
of the New York Law Institute, and through his courtesy I have
been allowed to examine it. The book is worn, the title page is
gone and a few leaves from the end are missing. The title page
of a duplicate volume which Mr. Winters kindly showed me reads:
“The Revised Laws of Indiana adopted and enacted by the General
Assembly at their eighth session. To which are prefixed the
Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United
States, the Constitution of the State of Indiana, and sundry
other documents connected with the Political History of the
Territory and State of Indiana. Arranged and published by
authority of the General Assembly. Corydon, Printed by
Carpenter and Douglass,
1824.”

[pg 222]

DANIEL GREEN BURNER, BERRY AND LINCOLN’S CLERK.

From a recent photograph. Mr. Burner was Berry and
Lincoln’s clerk. He lived at New Salem from 1829 to 1834.
Lincoln for many months lodged with his father, Isaac
Burner, and he and Lincoln slept in the same bed. He now
lives on a farm near Galesburg, Illinois, past eighty.

THE REV. JOHN M. CAMERON.

From a photograph in the possession of the Hon. W.J.
Orendorff, of Canton, Illinois. John M. Cameron, a
Cumberland Presbyterian minister, and a devout, sincere,
and courageous man, was held in the highest esteem by his
neighbors. Yet, according to Daniel Green Burner, Berry and
Lincoln’s clerk—and the fact is mentioned merely as
illustrating a universal custom among the
pioneers—”John Cameron always kept a barrel of
whiskey in the house.” He was a powerful man physically,
and a typical frontiersman. He was born in Kentucky in
1791, and, with his wife, moved to Illinois in 1815. He
settled in Sangamon County in 1818, and in 1829 took up his
abode in a cabin on a hill overlooking the Sangamon River,
and, with James Rutledge, founded the town of New
Salem.

According to tradition, Lincoln, for a time, lived with
the Camerons. In the early thirties they moved to Fulton
County, Illinois; then, in 1841 or 1842, to Iowa; and
finally, in 1849, to California. In California they lived
to a ripe old age—Mrs. Cameron dying in 1875, and her
husband following her three years later. They had twelve
children, eleven of whom were girls. In 1886 there were
living nine of these children, fifty grandchildren, and one
hundred and one great-grandchildren. Mr. Cameron is said to
have officiated at the funeral of Ann Rutledge in
1835.—J. McCan Davis.

JAMES SHORT, WHO SAVED LINCOLN’S HORSE AND SURVEYING
INSTRUMENTS FROM A CREDITOR.

From a photograph taken at Jacksonville, Illinois, about
thirty years ago. James Short lived on Sand Ridge, a few
miles north of New Salem, and Lincoln was a frequent
visitor at his house. When Lincoln’s horse and surveying
instruments were levied upon by a creditor and sold, Mr.
Short bought them in, and made Lincoln a present of them.
Lincoln, when President, made his old friend an Indian
agent in California. Mr. Short, in the course of his life,
was happily married five times. He died in Iowa many years
ago. His acquaintance with Lincoln began in rather an
interesting way. His sister, who lived in New Salem, had
made Lincoln a pair of jeans trousers. The material
supplied by Lincoln was scant, and the trousers came out
conspicuously short in the legs. One day when James Short
was visiting with his sister, he pointed to a man walking
down the street, and asked, “Who is that man in the short
breeches.” “That is Lincoln,” the sister replied; and Mr.
Short went out and introduced himself to
Lincoln.—J. McCan Davis.

[pg 223]

SQUIRE COLEMAN SMOOT.

Coleman Smoot was born in Virginia, February 13, 1794;
removed to Kentucky when a child; married Rebecca Wright
March 17, 1817; came to Illinois in 1831, and lived on a
farm across the Sangamon River from New Salem until his
death, March 21, 1876. He accumulated an immense fortune.
Lincoln met him for the first time in Offutt’s store in
1831. “Smoot,” said Lincoln, “I am disappointed in you; I
expected to see a man as ugly as old Probst,” referring to
a man reputed to be the homeliest in the county. “And I am
disappointed,” replied Smoot; “I had expected to see a
good-looking man when I saw you.” From that moment they
were warm friends. After Lincoln’s election to the
legislature in 1834, he called on Smoot, and said, “I want
to buy some clothes and fix up a little, so that I can make
a decent appearance in the legislature; and I want you to
loan me $200.” The loan was cheerfully made, and of course
was subsequently repaid.—J. McCan Davis.

SAMUEL HILL—AT WHOSE STORE LINCOLN KEPT THE
POST-OFFICE.

From an old daguerreotype. Samuel Hill was among the
earliest inhabitants of New Salem. He opened a general
store there in partnership with John McNeill,—the
John McNeill who became betrothed to Ann Rutledge, and
whose real name was afterwards discovered to be John
McNamar. When McNeill left New Salem and went East, Mr.
Hill became sole proprietor of the store. He also owned the
carding machine at New Salem. Lincoln, after going out of
the grocery business, made his headquarters at Samuel
Hill’s store. There he kept the post-office, entertained
the loungers, and on busy days helped Mr. Hill wait on
customers. Mr. Hill is said to have once courted Ann
Rutledge himself, but he did not receive the encouragement
which was bestowed upon his partner, McNeill. In 1839 he
moved his store to Petersburg, and died there in 1857. In
1835 he married Miss Parthenia W. Nance, who still lives at
Petersburg.—J. McCan Davis.

MARY ANN RUTLEDGE, MOTHER OF ANN MAYES RUTLEDGE.

From an old tintype. Mary Ann Rutledge was the wife of
James Rutledge and the mother of Ann. She was born October
21, 1787, and reared in Kentucky. She lived to be
ninety-one years of age, dying in Iowa December 26, 1878.
The Rutledges left New Salem in 1833 or 1834, moving to a
farm a few miles northward. On this farm Ann Rutledge died
August 25, 1835; and here also, three months later
(December 3, 1835), died her father, broken-hearted, no
doubt, by the bereavement. In the following year the family
moved to Fulton County, Illinois, and some three years
later to Birmingham, Iowa. Of James Rutledge there is no
portrait in existence. He was born in South Carolina, May
11, 1781. He and his sons, John and David, served in the
Black Hawk War.—J. McCan Davis.

[pg 224]

JOHN CALHOUN, UNDER WHOM LINCOLN LEARNED
SURVEYING.

From a steel engraving in the possession of R.W. Diller,
Springfield, Illinois. John Calhoun was born in Boston,
Massachusetts, October 14, 1806; removed to the Mohawk
Valley, New York, in 1821; was educated at Canajoharie
Academy, and studied law. In 1830 he removed to
Springfield, Illinois, and after serving in the Black Hawk
War was appointed Surveyor of Sangamon County. He was
married there December 29, 1831, to Miss Sarah Cutter. He
was a Democratic Representative in 1838; Clerk of the House
in 1840; circuit clerk in 1842; Democratic presidential
elector in 1844; candidate for Governor before the
Democratic State convention in 1846; Mayor of Springfield
in 1849, 1850, and 1851; a candidate for Congress in 1852,
and in the same year again a Democratic presidential
elector. In 1854, President Pierce appointed him
Surveyor-General of Kansas, and he became conspicuous in
Kansas politics. He was president of the Lecompton
Convention. He died at St. Joseph, Missouri, October 25,
1859. Mr. Frederick Hawn, who was his boyhood friend, and
afterward married a sister of Calhoun’s wife, is now living
at Leavenworth, Kansas, at the age of eighty-five years. In
an interesting letter to the writer, he says: “It has been
related that Calhoun induced Lincoln to study surveying in
order to become his deputy. Presuming that he was ready to
graduate and receive his commission, he called on Calhoun,
then living with his father-in-law, Seth R. Cutter, on
Upper Lick Creek. After the interview was concluded, Mr.
Lincoln, about to depart, remarked: ‘Calhoun, I am entirely
unable to repay you for your generosity at present. All
that I have you see on me, except a quarter of a dollar in
my pocket.’ This is a family tradition. However, my wife,
then a miss of sixteen, says, while I am writing this
sketch, that she distinctly remembers this interview. After
Lincoln was gone she says she and her sister, Mrs. Calhoun,
commenced making jocular remarks about his uncanny
appearance, in the presence of Calhoun, to which in
substance he made this rejoinder: ‘For all that, he is no
common man.’ My wife believes these were the exact
words.”—J. McCan Davis.

We know from Dennis Hanks, from Mr. Turnham, to whom the
book belonged, and from other associates of Lincoln’s at the
time, that he read this book intently and discussed its
contents intelligently. It was a remarkable volume for a
thoughtful lad whose mind had been fired already by the history
of Washington; for it opened with that wonderful document, the
Declaration of Independence, a document which became, as Mr.
John G. Nicolay says, “his political chart and inspiration.”
Following the Declaration of Independence was the Constitution
of the United States, the Act of Virginia passed in 1783 by
which the “Territory North Westward of the river Ohio” was
conveyed to the United States, and the Ordinance of 1787 for
governing this territory, containing that clause on which
Lincoln in the future based many an argument on the slavery
question. This article, No. 6 of the Ordinance, reads: “There
shall be neither slavery nor involuntary servitude in the said
territory, otherwise than in the punishment of crimes, whereof
the party shall have been duly convicted: provided always, that
any person escaping into the same, from whom labour or service
is lawfully claimed in any one of the original States, such
fugitive may be lawfully reclaimed, and conveyed to the person
claiming his or her labour or service, as aforesaid.”

LINCOLN’S SADDLE-BAGS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR McCLURE’S
MAGAZINE.

These saddle-bags, now in the Lincoln Monument at
Springfield, are said to have been used by Lincoln while he
was a surveyor.

[pg 225]

Following this was the Constitution and the Revised Laws of
Indiana, three hundred and seventy-five pages of five hundred
words each of statutes—enough law, if thoroughly
digested, to make a respectable lawyer. When Lincoln finished
this book, as he had probably before he was eighteen, we have
reason to believe that he understood the principles on which
the nation was founded, how the State of Indiana came into
being, and how it was governed. His understanding of the
subject was clear and practical, and he applied it in his
reading, thinking, and discussion.

REPORT OF A ROAD SURVEY BY LINCOLN—HITHERTO
UNPUBLISHED.

Photographed for McCLURE’S MAGAZINE from the original,
now on file in the County Clerk’s office, Springfield,
Illinois. The survey here reported was made in pursuance of
an order of the County Commissioners’ Court, September 1,
1834, in which Lincoln was designated as the surveyor.

It was after he had read the Laws of Indiana that Lincoln
had free access to the library of his admirer, Judge John
Pitcher of Rockport, Indiana, where undoubtedly he examined
many law-books. But from the time he left Indiana in 1830 he
had no legal reading until one day soon after the grocery was
started, when there happened one of those trivial incidents
which so often turn the current of a life. It is best told in
Mr. Lincoln’s own words.²
“One day a man who was migrating to the West drove up in
front of my store with a wagon which contained his family
and household plunder. He asked me if I would buy an old
barrel, for which he had no room in his wagon, and which he
said contained nothing of special value. I did not want it,
but to oblige him I bought it, and paid him, I think, half a
dollar for it. Without further examination, I put it away in
the store, and forgot all about it. Some time after, in
overhauling things, I came upon the barrel, and emptying it
upon the floor to see what it contained, I found at the
bottom of the rubbish a complete edition of Blackstone’s
Commentaries. I began to read those famous works, and I had
plenty of time; for, during the long summer days, when the
farmers were busy with their crops, my customers were few
and far between. The more I read”—this he said with
unusual emphasis—”the more intensely interested I
became. Never in my whole life was my mind so thoroughly
absorbed. I read until I devoured
them.”

[pg 226]

A MAP MADE BY LINCOLN OF A PIECE OF ROAD IN MENARD
COUNTY, ILLINOIS—HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.

Photographed from the original for McCLURE’S MAGAZINE.
This map, which, as here reproduced, is about one-half the
size of the original, accompanied Lincoln’s report of the
survey of a part of the road between Athens and Sangamon
town. For making this map, Lincoln received fifty cents.
The road evidently was located “on good ground,” and was
“necessary and proper,” as the report says, for it is still
the main travelled highway leading into the country south
of Athens, Menard County.

BERRY AND LINCOLN GET A TAVERN LICENSE.

But all this was fatal to business, and by spring it was
evident that something must be done to stimulate the grocery
sales.

On the 6th of March, 1833, the County Commissioners’ Court
of Sangamon County granted the firm of Berry and Lincoln a
license to keep a tavern at New Salem. A copy of this license
is here given:

Ordered that William F. Berry, in the name of Berry and
Lincoln, have a license to keep a tavern in New Salem to
continue 12 months from this date, and that they pay one
dollar in addition to the six dollars heretofore paid as
per Treasurer’s receipt, and that they be allowed the
following rates (viz.):

It is probable that the license was procured to enable the
firm to retail the liquors which they had in stock, and not for
keeping a tavern. In a community in which liquor-drinking was
practically universal, at a time when whiskey was as legitimate
an article of merchandise as coffee or calico, when no family
was without a jug, when the minister of the gospel could
[pg 227] take his “dram” without any
breach of propriety, it is not surprising that a reputable
young man should have been found selling whiskey. Liquor was
sold at all groceries, but it could not be lawfully sold in
a smaller quantity than one quart. The law, however, was not
always rigidly observed, and it was the custom of
store-keepers to “set up” the drinks to their patrons. Each
of the three groceries which Berry and Lincoln acquired had
the usual supply of liquors, and the combined stock must
have amounted almost to a superabundance. It was only good
business that they should seek a way to dispose of the
surplus quickly and profitably—an end which could be
best accomplished by selling it over the counter by the
glass. Lawfully to do this required a tavern license; and it
is a warrantable conclusion that such was the chief aim of
Berry and Lincoln in procuring a franchise of this
character. We are fortified in this conclusion by the
coincidence that three other grocers of New
Salem—William Clary, Henry Sincoe, and George
Warberton—were among those who took out tavern
licenses. To secure the lawful privilege of selling whiskey
by the “dram” was no doubt their purpose; for their
“taverns” were as mythical as the inn of Berry and
Lincoln.

At the granting of a tavern license, the applicants therefor
were required by law to file a bond. The bond given in the case
of Berry and Lincoln was as follows:

Know all men by these presents, we, William F. Berry,
Abraham Lincoln and John Bowling Green, are held and firmly
bound unto the County Commissioners of Sangamon County in
the full sum of three hundred dollars to which payment well
and truly to be made we bind ourselves, our heirs,
executors and administrators firmly by these presents,
sealed with our seal and dated this 6th day of March A.D.
1833. Now the condition of this obligation is such that
Whereas the said Berry & Lincoln has obtained a license
from the County Commissioners Court to keep a tavern in the
Town of New Salem to continue one year. Now if the said
Berry & Lincoln shall be of good behavior and observe
all the laws of this State relative to tavern
keepers—then this obligation to be void or otherwise
remain in full force.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN [Seal]
WM. F. BERRY [Seal]
BOWLING GREEN [Seal]

This bond appears to have been written by the clerk of the
Commissioners’ Court; and Lincoln’s name was signed by some one
other than himself, very likely by his partner Berry.

A WAYSIDE WELL NEAR NEW SALEM, KNOWN AS “ANN RUTLEDGE’S
WELL.”

THE FIRM HIRES A CLERK.

The license seems to have stimulated the business, for the
firm concluded to hire a clerk. The young man who secured this
position was Daniel Green Burner, son of Isaac Burner, at whose
house Lincoln for a time boarded. He is still living on a farm
near Galesburg, Illinois, and is in the eighty-second year of
his age. “The store building of Berry and Lincoln,” says Mr.
Burner, “was a frame building, not very large, one story in
height, and contained two rooms. In the little back room
Lincoln had a fireplace and a bed. There is where we slept. I
clerked in the store through the winter of 1834, up to the 1st
of March. While I was there they had nothing for sale but
liquors. They may have had some groceries before that, but I am
certain they had none then. I used to sell whiskey over their
counter at six cents a glass—and charged it, too. N.A.
Garland started a store, and Lincoln wanted Berry to ask his
father for a loan, so they could buy out Garland; but Berry
refused, saying this was one of the last things he would think
of doing.”

Among the other persons yet living who were residents with
Lincoln of New Salem or its near neighborhood are Mrs.
Parthenia [pg 228] W. Hill, aged seventy-nine
years, widow of Samuel Hill, the New Salem merchant; James
McGrady Rutledge, aged eighty-one years; John Potter, aged
eighty-seven years; and Thomas Watkins, aged seventy-one
years—all now living at Petersburg, Illinois. Mrs.
Hill, a woman of more than ordinary intelligence, did not
become a resident of New Salem until 1835, the year in which
she was married. Lincoln had then gone out of business, but
she knew much of his store. “Berry and Lincoln,” she says,
“did not keep any dry goods. They had a grocery, and I have
always understood they sold whiskey.” Mr. Rutledge, a nephew
of James Rutledge the tavern-keeper, has a vivid
recollection of the store. He says: “I have been in Berry
and Lincoln’s store many a time. The building was a
frame—one of the few frame buildings in New Salem.
There were two rooms, and in the small back room they kept
their whiskey. They had pretty much everything, except dry
goods—sugar, coffee, some crockery, a few pairs of
shoes (not many), some farming implements, and the like.
Whiskey, of course, was a necessary part of their stock. I
remember one transaction in particular which I had with
them. I sold the firm a load of wheat, which they turned
over to the mill.” Mr. Potter, who remembers the morning
when Lincoln, then a stranger on his way to New Salem,
stopped at his father’s house and ate breakfast, knows less
about the store, but says: “It was a grocery, and they sold
whiskey, of course.” Thomas Watkins says that the store
contained “a little candy, tobacco, sugar, and coffee, and
the like;” though Mr. Watkins, being then a small boy, and
living a mile in the country, was not a frequent visitor at
the store.

LINCOLN APPOINTED POSTMASTER.

Business was not so brisk, however, in Berry and Lincoln’s
grocery, even after the license was granted, that the junior
partner did not welcome an appointment as postmaster which he
received in May, 1833. The appointment of a Whig by a
Democratic administration seems to have been made without
comment. “The office was too insignificant to make his politics
an objection,” say the autobiographical notes. The duties of
the new office were not arduous, for letters were few, and
their comings far between. At that date the mails were carried
by four-horse post-coaches from city to city, and on horseback
from central points into the country towns. The rates of
postage were high. A single-sheet letter carried thirty miles
or under cost six cents; thirty to eighty miles, ten cents;
eighty to one hundred and fifty miles, twelve and one-half
cents; one hundred and fifty to four hundred miles, eighteen
and one-half cents; over four hundred miles, twenty-five cents.
A copy of this magazine sent from New York to New Salem would
have cost fully twenty-five cents. The mail was irregular in
coming as well as light in its contents. Though supposed to
arrive twice a week, it sometimes happened that a fortnight or
more passed without any mail. Under these conditions the New
Salem post-office was not a serious care.

A large number of the patrons of the office lived in the
country—many of them miles away—but generally
Lincoln delivered their letters at their doors. These letters
he would carefully place in the crown of his hat, and
distribute them from house to house. Thus it was in a measure
true that he kept the New Salem post-office in his hat. The
habit of carrying papers in his hat clung to Lincoln; for, many
years later, when he was a practising lawyer in Springfield, he
apologized for failing to answer a letter promptly, by
explaining: “When I received your letter I put it in my old
hat, and buying a new one the next day, the old one was set
aside, and so the letter was lost sight of for a time.”

But whether the mail was delivered by the postmaster
himself, or the recipient came to the store to inquire,
“Anything for me?” it was the habit “to stop and visit awhile.”
He who received a letter read it and told the contents; if he
had a newspaper, usually the postmaster could tell him in
advance what it contained, for one of the perquisites of the
early post-office was the privilege of reading all printed
matter before delivering it. Every day, then, Lincoln’s
acquaintance in New Salem, through his position as postmaster,
became more intimate.

A NEW OPENING.

As the summer of 1833 went on, the condition of the store
became more and more unsatisfactory. As the position of
postmaster brought in only a small revenue, Lincoln was forced
to take any odd work he could get. He helped in other stores in
the town, split rails, and looked after the mill; but all this
yielded only a scant and uncertain support, and when in the
fall he [pg 229] had an opportunity to learn
surveying, he accepted it eagerly.

The condition of affairs in Illinois in the thirties made a
demand for the services of surveyors. The immigration had been
phenomenal. There were thousands of farms to be surveyed and
thousands of “corners” to be located. Speculators bought up
large tracts, and mapped out cities on paper. It was years
before the first railroad was built in Illinois, and as all
inland travelling was on horseback or in the stage-coach, each
year hundreds of miles of wagon road were opened through woods
and swamps and prairies. As the county of Sangamon was large
and eagerly sought by immigrants, the county surveyor in 1833,
one John Calhoun, needed deputies; but in a country so new it
was no easy matter to find men with the requisite capacity.

CONCORD CEMETERY.

From a photograph by C.S. McCullough, Petersburg,
Illinois. Concord cemetery lies seven miles northwest of
the old town of New Salem, in a secluded place, surrounded
by woods and pastures, away from the world. In this lonely
spot Ann Rutledge was at first laid to rest. Thither
Lincoln is said to have often come alone, and “sat in
silence for hours at a time;” and it was to Ann Rutledge’s
grave here that he pointed and said: “There my heart lies
buried.” The old cemetery suffered the melancholy fate of
New Salem. It became a neglected, deserted spot. The graves
were lost in weeds, and a heavy growth of trees kept out
the sun and filled the place with gloom. A dozen years ago
this picture was taken. It was a blustery day in the
autumn, and the weeds and trees were swaying before a
furious gale. No other picture of the place, taken while
Ann Rutledge was buried there, is known to be in existence.
A picture of a cemetery, with the name of Ann Rutledge on a
high, flat tombstone, has been published in two or three
books; but it is not genuine, the “stone” being nothing
more than a board improvised for the occasion. The grave of
Ann Rutledge was never honored with a stone until the body
was taken up in 1890 and removed to Oakland cemetery, a
mile southwest of Petersburg.—J. McCan
Davis.

With Lincoln, Calhoun had little, if any, personal
acquaintance, for they lived twenty miles apart. Lincoln,
however, had made himself known by his meteoric race for the
legislature in 1832, and Calhoun had heard of him as an honest,
intelligent, and trustworthy young man. One day he sent word to
Lincoln by Pollard Simmons, who lived in the New Salem
neighborhood, that he had decided to appoint him a deputy
surveyor if he would accept the position.

Going into the woods, Simmons found Lincoln engaged in his
old occupation of making rails. The two sat down together on a
log, and Simmons told Lincoln what Calhoun had said. It was a
surprise to Lincoln. Calhoun was a “Jackson man;” he was for
Clay. What did he know about surveying, and why should a
Democratic official offer him a position of any kind? He
immediately went to Springfield, and had a talk with Calhoun.
He would not accept the appointment, he said, unless he had the
assurance that it involved no political obligation, and that he
might continue to express his political opinions as freely and
frequently as he chose. This assurance was given. The only
difficulty then in the way was the fact that he knew absolutely
nothing of surveying. But Calhoun, of course, understood this,
and agreed that he should have time to
learn.

[pg 230]

With the promptness of action with which he always undertook
anything he had to do, he procured Flint and Gibson’s treatise
on surveying, and sought Mentor Graham for help. At a sacrifice
of some time, the schoolmaster aided him to a partial mastery
of the intricate subject. Lincoln worked literally day and
night, sitting up night after night until the crowing of the
cock warned him of the approaching dawn. So hard did he study
that his friends were greatly concerned at his haggard face.
But in six weeks he had mastered all the books within reach
relating to the subject—a task which, under ordinary
circumstances, would hardly have been achieved in as many
months. Reporting to Calhoun for duty (greatly to the amazement
of that gentleman), he was at once assigned to the territory in
the northwest part of the county, and the first work he did of
which there is any authentic record was in January, 1834. In
that month he surveyed a piece of land for Russell Godby,
dating the certificate January 14, 1834, and signing it “J.
Calhoun, S.S.C., by A. Lincoln.”

Lincoln was frequently employed in laying out public roads,
being selected for that purpose by the County Commissioners’
Court. So far as can be learned from the official records, the
first road he surveyed was “from Musick’s Ferry on Salt Creek,
via New Salem, to the county line in the direction of
Jacksonville.” For this he was allowed fifteen dollars for five
days’ service, and two dollars and fifty cents for a plat of
the new road. The next road he surveyed, according to the
records, was that leading from Athens to Sangamon town. This
was reported to the County Commissioners’ Court November 4,
1834. But road surveying was only a small portion of his work.
He was more frequently employed by private
individuals.

SURVEYING WITH A GRAPEVINE.

According to tradition, when he first took up the business
he was too poor to buy a chain, and, instead, used a long,
straight grape-vine. Probably this is a myth, though surveyors
who had experience in the early days say it may be true. The
chains commonly used at that time were made of iron. Constant
use wore away and weakened the links, and it was no unusual
thing for a chain to lengthen six inches after a year’s use.
“And a good grape-vine,” to use the words of a veteran
surveyor, “would give quite as satisfactory results as one of
those old-fashioned chains.”

Lincoln’s surveys had the extraordinary merit of being
correct. Much of the government work had been rather
indifferently done, or the government corners had been
imperfectly preserved, and there were frequent disputes between
adjacent land-owners about boundary lines. Frequently Lincoln
was called upon in such cases to find the corner in
controversy. His verdict was invariably the end of the dispute,
so general was the confidence in his honesty and skill. Some of
these old corners located by him are still in existence. The
people of Petersburg proudly remember that they live in a town
which was laid out by Lincoln. This he did in 1836, and it was
the work of several weeks.

Lincoln’s pay as a surveyor was three dollars a day, more
than he had ever before earned. Compared with the compensation
for like services nowadays it seems small enough; but at that
time it was really princely. The Governor of the State received
a salary of only one thousand dollars a year, the Secretary of
State six hundred dollars, and good board and lodging could be
obtained for one dollar a week. But even three dollars a day
did not enable him to meet all his financial obligations. The
heavy debts of the store hung over him. The long distances he
had to travel in his new employment had made it necessary to
buy a horse, and for it he had gone into debt.

“My father,” says Thomas Watkins of Petersburg, who
remembers the circumstances well, “sold Lincoln the horse, and
my recollection is that Lincoln agreed to pay him fifty dollars
for it. Lincoln was a little slow in making the payments, and
after he had paid all but ten dollars, my father, who was a
high-strung man, became impatient, and sued him for the
balance. Lincoln, of course, did not deny the debt, and raised
the money and paid it. I do not often tell this,” Mr. Watkins
adds, “because I have always thought there never was such a man
as Lincoln, and I have always been sorry father sued
him.”

BUSINESS REVERSES.

Between his duties as deputy surveyor and postmaster,
Lincoln had little leisure for the store, and its management
had passed into the hands of Berry. The stock of groceries was
on the wane. The numerous obligations of the firm were
maturing, with no money to meet them. Both members
[pg 231] of the firm, in the face of
such obstacles, lost courage; and when, early in 1834,
Alexander and William Trent asked if the store was for sale,
an affirmative answer was eagerly given. A price was agreed
upon, and the sale was made. Now, neither Alexander Trent
nor his brother had any money; but as Berry and Lincoln had
bought without money, it seemed only fair that they should
be willing to sell on the same terms. Accordingly the notes
of the Trent brothers were accepted for the purchase price,
and the store was turned over to the new owners. But about
the time their notes fell due the Trent brothers
disappeared. The few groceries in the store were seized by
creditors, and the doors were closed, never to be opened
again.

Misfortunes now crowded upon Lincoln. His late partner,
Berry, soon reached the end of his wild career; and one morning
a farmer from the Rock Creek neighborhood drove into New Salem
with the news that he was dead.

The appalling debt which had accumulated was thrown upon
Lincoln’s shoulders. It was then too common a fashion among men
who became deluged in debt to “clear out,” in the expressive
language of the pioneer, as the Trents had done; but this was
not Lincoln’s way. He quietly settled down among the men he
owed, and promised to pay them. For fifteen years he carried
this burden—a load which he cheerfully and manfully bore,
but one so heavy that he habitually spoke of it as the
“national debt.” Talking once of it to a friend, Lincoln said:
“That debt was the greatest obstacle I have ever met in life; I
had no way of speculating, and could not earn money except by
labor, and to earn by labor eleven hundred dollars, besides my
living, seemed the work of a lifetime. There was, however, but
one way. I went to the creditors, and told them that if they
would let me alone, I would give them all I could earn over my
living, as fast as I could earn it.” As late as 1848, so we are
informed by Mr. Herndon, Mr. Lincoln, then a member of
Congress, sent home money saved from his salary to be applied
on these obligations. All the notes, with interest at the high
rates then prevailing, were at last paid.

With a single exception Lincoln’s creditors seem to have
been lenient. One of the notes given by him came into the hands
of a Mr. Van Bergen, who, when it fell due, brought suit. The
amount of the judgment was more than Lincoln could pay, and his
personal effects were levied upon. These consisted of his
horse, saddle and bridle, and surveying instruments. James
Short, a well-to-do farmer living on Sand Ridge a few miles
north of New Salem, heard of the trouble which had befallen his
young friend. Without advising Lincoln of his plans he attended
the sale, bought in the horse and surveying instruments for one
hundred and twenty dollars, and turned them over to their
former owner.

STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS.

Lincoln’s first meeting with Douglas occurred at the State
capital, Vandalia, in the winter of 1834-35, when Lincoln was
serving his first term in the legislature, and Douglas was an
applicant for the office of State attorney for the first
judicial district of Illinois.]

Lincoln never forgot a benefactor. He not only repaid the
money with interest, but nearly thirty years later remembered
the kindness in a most substantial way. After Lincoln left New
Salem financial reverses came to James Short, and he removed to
the far West to seek his fortune anew. Early in Lincoln’s
presidential term he heard that “Uncle Jimmy” was living
[pg 232] in California. One day Mr.
Short received a letter from Washington, D.C. Tearing it
open, he read the gratifying announcement that he had been
commissioned an Indian agent.

THE KINDNESS SHOWN LINCOLN IN NEW SALEM.

The kindness of Mr. Short was not exceptional in Lincoln’s
New Salem career. When the store had “winked out,” as he put
it, and the post-office had been left without headquarters, one
of his neighbors, Samuel Hill, invited the homeless postmaster
into his store. There was hardly a man or woman in the
community who would not have been glad to do as much. It was a
simple recognition on their part of Lincoln’s friendliness to
them. He was what they called “obliging”—a man who
instinctively did the thing which he saw would help another, no
matter how trivial or homely it was. In the home of Rowan
Herndon, where he had boarded when he first came to the town,
he had made himself loved by his care of the children. “He
nearly always had one of them around with him,” says Mr.
Herndon. In the Rutledge tavern, where he afterwards lived, the
landlord told with appreciation how, when his house was full,
Lincoln gave up his bed, went to the store, and slept on the
counter, his pillow a web of calico. If a traveller “stuck in
the mud” in New Salem’s one street, Lincoln was always the
first to help pull out the wheel. The widows praised him
because he “chopped their wood;” the overworked, because he was
always ready to give them a lift. It was the spontaneous,
unobtrusive helpfulness of the man’s nature which endeared him
to everybody and which inspired a general desire to do all
possible in return. There are many tales told of homely service
rendered him, even by the hard-working farmers’ wives around
New Salem. There was not one of them who did not gladly “put on
a plate” for Abe Lincoln when he appeared, or would not darn or
mend for him when she knew he needed it. Hannah Armstrong, the
wife of the hero of Clary’s Grove, made him one of her family.
“Abe would come out to our house,” she said, “drink milk, eat
mush, cornbread and butter, bring the children candy, and rock
the cradle while I got him something to eat…. Has stayed at
our house two or three weeks at a time.” Lincoln’s pay for his
first piece of surveying came in the shape of two buckskins,
and it was Hannah who “foxed” them on his trousers.

His relations were equally friendly in the better homes of
the community; even at the minister’s, the Rev. John Cameron’s,
he was perfectly at home, and Mrs. Cameron was by him
affectionately called “Aunt Polly.” It was not only his kindly
service which made Lincoln loved; it was his sympathetic
comprehension of the lives and joys and sorrows and interests
of the people. Whether it was Jack Armstrong and his wrestling,
Hannah and her babies, Kelso and his fishing and poetry, the
schoolmaster and his books—with one and all he was at
home. He possessed in an extraordinary degree the power of
entering into the interests of others, a power found only in
reflective, unselfish natures endowed with a humorous sense of
human foibles, coupled with great tenderness of heart. Men and
women amused Lincoln, but so long as they were sincere he loved
them and sympathized with them. He was human in the best sense
of that fine word.

LINCOLN’S ACQUAINTANCE IN SANGAMON COUNTY IS EXTENDED.

Now that the store was closed and his surveying increased,
Lincoln had an excellent opportunity to extend his
acquaintance, for he was travelling about the country.
Everywhere he won friends. The surveyor naturally was respected
for his calling’s sake, but the new deputy surveyor was admired
for his friendly ways, his willingness to lend a hand indoors
as well as out, his learning, his ambition, his independence.
Throughout the county he began to be regarded as “a right smart
young man.” Some of his associates appear even to have
comprehended his peculiarly great character and dimly to have
foreseen a splendid future. “Often,” says Daniel Green Burner,
Berry and Lincoln’s clerk in the grocery, “I have heard my
brother-in-law, Dr. Duncan, say he would not be surprised if
some day Abe Lincoln got to be Governor of Illinois. Lincoln,”
Mr. Burner adds, “was thought to know a little more than
anybody else among the young people. He was a good debater, and
liked it. He read much, and seemed never to forget
anything.”

Lincoln was fully conscious of his popularity, and it seemed
to him in 1834 that he could safely venture to try again for
the legislature. Accordingly he announced himself as a
candidate, spending much of the summer of 1834 in
electioneering. It [pg 233] was a repetition of what he
had done in 1832, though on the larger scale made possible
by wider acquaintance. In company with the other candidates,
he rode up and down the county, making speeches in the
public squares, in shady groves, now and then in a log
school-house. In his speeches he soon distinguished himself
by the amazing candor with which he dealt with all
questions, and by his curious blending of audacity and
humility. Wherever he saw a crowd of men he joined them, and
he never failed to adapt himself to their point of view in
asking for votes. If the degree of physical strength was
their test for a candidate, he was ready to lift a weight or
wrestle with the country-side champion; if the amount of
grain a man could cradle would recommend him, he seized the
cradle and showed the swath he could cut. The campaign was
well conducted, for in August he was elected one of the four
assemblymen from Sangamon. The vote at this election stood:
Dawson, 1390; Lincoln, 1376; Carpenter, 1170; Stuart,
1164.³

MAJOR JOHN T. STUART, THE MAN WHO INDUCED LINCOLN TO
STUDY LAW.

Born in Kentucky in 1807. At twenty-one, on being
admitted to the bar, he removed to Springfield, Illinois,
and was soon prominent in his profession. He was a member
of the legislature from 1832 to 1836. In 1838 he defeated
Stephen A. Douglas for Congress, and served two
terms—as a Whig. In 1863 and 1864 he served a third
term—as a Democrat. He served also in the State
Senate, and was a major in the Black Hawk War. He died in
1885.

HE FINALLY DECIDES ON A LEGAL CAREER.

The best thing which Lincoln did in the canvass of 1834 was
not winning votes; it was coming to a determination to read
law, not for pleasure but as a business. In his
autobiographical notes he says: “During the canvass, in a
private conversation Major John T. Stuart (one of his
fellow-candidates) encouraged Abraham to study law. After the
election he borrowed books of Stuart, took them home with him,
and went at it in good earnest. He never studied with anybody.”
He seems to have thrown himself into the work with an almost
impatient ardor. As he tramped back and forth from Springfield,
twenty miles away, to get his law-books, he read sometimes
forty pages or more on the way. Often he was seen wandering at
random across the fields, repeating aloud the points in his
last reading. The subject seemed never to be out of his mind.
It was the great absorbing interest of his life. The rule he
gave twenty years later to a young man who wanted to know how
to become a lawyer, seems to have been the one he
practised.⁴

Having secured a book of legal forms, he was soon able to
write deeds, contracts, and all sorts of legal instruments; and
he was frequently called upon by his neighbors to perform
services of this kind. “In 1834,” says Daniel Green Burner,
Berry and Lincoln’s clerk, “my father, Isaac Burner, sold out
to Henry Onstott, and he wanted a deed written. I knew how
handy Lincoln was that way, and suggested that we get him. We
found him sitting on a stump. ‘All right,’ said he, when
informed what we wanted. ‘If you will bring me a pen and ink
and a piece of paper I will write it here.’ I brought him these
articles, and, picking up a shingle and putting it on his knee
for a desk, he wrote out the deed.” As there was no practising
lawyer nearer than Springfield, Lincoln was often employed to
act the part of advocate before the village squire, at
[pg 234] that time Bowling Green. He
realized that this experience was valuable, and never, so
far as known, demanded or accepted a fee for his services in
these petty cases.

Justice was sometimes administered in a summary way in
Squire Green’s court. Precedents and the venerable rules of law
had little weight. The “Squire” took judicial notice of a great
many facts, often going so far as to fill, simultaneously, the
two functions of witness and court. But his decisions were
generally just.

James McGrady Rutledge tells a story in which several of
Lincoln’s old friends figure and which illustrates the legal
practices of New Salem. “Jack Kelso,” says Mr. Rutledge, “owned
or claimed to own a white hog. It was also claimed by John
Ferguson. The hog had often wandered around Bowling Green’s
place, and he was somewhat acquainted with it. Ferguson sued
Kelso, and the case was tried before ‘Squire’ Green. The
plaintiff produced two witnesses who testified positively that
the hog belonged to him. Kelso had nothing to offer, save his
own unsupported claim.

“‘Are there any more witnesses?’ inquired the court.

“He was informed that there were no more.

“‘Well,’ said ‘Squire’ Green, ‘the two witnesses we have
heard have sworn to a —— lie. I know this shoat,
and I know it belongs to Jack Kelso. I therefore decide this
case in his favor.'”

An extract from the record of the County Commissioners’
Court illustrates the nature of the cases that came before the
justice of the peace in Lincoln’s day. It also shows the price
put upon the privilege of working on Sunday, in 1832:

JANUARY 29, 1832.—Alexander Gibson found guilty of
Sabbath-breaking and fined 12½ cents. Fine paid into
court.
“(Signed) EDWARD ROBINSON, J.P.”

LINCOLN ENTERS THE ILLINOIS ASSEMBLY.

The session of the ninth Assembly began December 1, 1834,
and Lincoln went to the capital, then Vandalia, seventy-five
miles southeast of New Salem, on the Kaskaskia River, in time
for the opening. Vandalia was a town which had been called into
existence in 1820 especially to give the State government an
abiding-place. Its very name had been chosen, it is said,
because it “sounded well” for a State capital. As the tradition
goes, while the commissioners were debating what they should
call the town they were making, a wag suggested that it be
named Vandalia, in honor of the Vandals, a tribe of Indians
which, said he, had once lived on the borders of the Kaskaskia;
this, he argued, would conserve a local tradition while giving
a euphonous title. The commissioners, pleased with so good a
suggestion, adopted the name. When Lincoln first went to
Vandalia it was a town of about eight hundred inhabitants; its
noteworthy features, according to Peck’s “Gazetteer” of
Illinois for 1834, being a brick court-house, a two-story brick
edifice “used by State officers,” “a neat framed house of
worship for the Presbyterian Society, with a cupola and bell,”
“a framed meeting-house for the Methodist Society,” three
taverns, several stores, five lawyers, four physicians, a land
office, and two newspapers. It was a much larger town than
Lincoln had ever lived in before, though he was familiar with
Springfield, then twice as large as Vandalia, and he had seen
the cities of the Mississippi.

The Assembly which he entered was composed of eighty-one
members,—twenty-six senators, fifty-five representatives.
As a rule, these men were of Kentucky, Tennessee, or Virginia
origin, with here and there a Frenchman. There were but few
Eastern men, for there was still a strong prejudice in the
State against Yankees. The close bargains and superior airs of
the emigrants from New England contrasted so unpleasantly with
the open-handed hospitality and the easy ways of the
Southerners and French, that a pioneer’s prospects were blasted
at the start if he acted like a Yankee. A history of Illinois
in 1837, published evidently to “boom” the State, cautioned the
emigrant that if he began his life in Illinois by “affecting
superior intelligence and virtue, and catechizing the people
for their habits of plainness and simplicity and their apparent
want of those things which he imagines indispensable to
comfort,” he must expect to be forever marked as “a Yankee,”
and to have his prospects correspondingly defeated. A
“hard-shell” Baptist preacher of about this date showed the
feeling of the people when he said, in preaching of the
richness of the grace of the Lord: “It tuks in the isles of the
sea and the uttermust part of the yeth. It embraces the
Esquimaux and the Hottentots, and some, my dear brethering, go
so far as to suppose that it tuks in the poor benighted
Yankees, but I don’t go that fur.” When it came to an
election of legislators, many of the people “didn’t go that
fur” either.

[pg 235]

There was a preponderance of jean suits like Lincoln’s in
the Assembly, and there were coonskin caps and buckskin
trousers. Nevertheless, more than one member showed a studied
garb and a courtly manner. Some of the best blood of the South
went into the making of Illinois, and it showed itself from the
first in the Assembly. The surroundings of the legislators were
quite as simple as the attire of the plainest of them. The
court-house, in good old Colonial style, with square pillars
and belfry, was finished with wooden desks and benches. The
State furnished her law-makers no superfluities—three
dollars a day, a cork inkstand, a certain number of quills, and
a limited amount of stationery was all an Illinois legislator
in 1834 got from his position. Scarcely more could be expected
from a State whose revenues from December 1, 1834, to December
1, 1836, were only about one hundred and twenty-five thousand
dollars, with expenditures during the same period amounting to
less than one hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars.

JOSEPH DUNCAN, GOVERNOR OF ILLINOIS DURING LINCOLN’S
FIRST TERM IN THE LEGISLATURE.

Joseph Duncan, Governor of Illinois from 1834 to 1838,
was born in Kentucky in 1794. The son of an officer of the
regular army, he, at nineteen, became a soldier in the war
of 1812, and did gallant service. He removed to Illinois in
1818, and soon became prominent in the State, serving as a
major-general of militia, a State Senator, and, from 1826
to 1834, as a member of Congress, resigning from Congress
to take the office of Governor. He was at first a Democrat,
but afterwards became a Whig. He was a man of the highest
character and public spirit. He died in 1844.

Lincoln thought little of these things, no doubt. To him the
absorbing interest was the men he met. To get acquainted with
them, measure them, compare himself with them, and discover
wherein they were his superiors and what he could do to make
good his deficiency—this was his chief occupation. The
men he met were good subjects for such study. Among them were
Wm. L.D. Ewing, Jesse K. Dubois, Stephen T. Logan, Theodore
Ford, and Governor Duncan—men destined to play large
parts in the history of the State. One whom he met that winter
in Vandalia was destined to play a great part in the history of
the nation—the Democratic candidate for the office of
State attorney for the first judicial district of Illinois; a
man four years younger than Lincoln—he was only
twenty-one at the time; a new-comer, too, in the State, having
arrived about a year before, under no very promising auspices
either, for he had only thirty-seven cents in his pockets, and
no position in view; but a man of metal, it was easy to see,
for already he had risen so high in the district where he had
settled, that he dared contest the office of State attorney
with John J. Hardin, one of the most successful lawyers of the
State. This young man was Stephen A. Douglas. He had come to
Vandalia from Morgan County to conduct his campaign, and
Lincoln met him first in the halls of the old court-house,
where he and his friends carried on with success their contest
against Hardin.

The ninth Assembly gathered in a more hopeful and ambitious
mood than any of its predecessors. Illinois was feeling well.
The State was free from debt. The Black Hawk War had stimulated
the people greatly, for it had brought a large amount of money
into circulation. In fact, the greater portion of the eight to
ten million dollars the war had cost had been circulated among
the Illinois volunteers. Immigration, too, was increasing at a
bewildering rate. In 1835 the census showed a population of
269,974. Between 1830 and 1835 two-fifths of this number had
come in. In the northeast Chicago had begun to rise. “Even for
Western towns” its growth had been unusually rapid, declared
Peck’s “Gazetteer” of 1834; the harbor building there, the
proposed Michigan and Illinois canal, the rise in town
lots—all promised to the State a metropolis. To meet the
rising tide of prosperity, the legislators of 1834 felt that
they must devise some worthy scheme, so they chartered a new
State bank with a capital of one million five hundred thousand
dollars, and revived a bank which had broken twelve years
before, granting it a charter of three hundred thousand
dollars. [pg 236] There was no surplus money
in the State to supply the capital; there were no trained
bankers to guide the concern; there was no clear notion of
how it was all to be done; but a banking capital of one
million eight hundred thousand dollars would be a good thing
in the State, they were sure; and if the East could be made
to believe in Illinois as much as her legislators believed
in her, the stocks would go, and so the banks were
chartered.

But even more important to the State than banks was a
highway. For thirteen years plans of the Illinois and Michigan
canal had been constantly before the Assembly. Surveys had been
ordered, estimates reported, the advantages extolled, but
nothing had been done. Now, however, the Assembly, flushed by
the first thrill of the coming “boom,” decided to authorize a
loan of a half-million on the credit of the State. Lincoln
favored both these measures. He did not, however, do anything
especially noteworthy for either of the bills, nor was the
record he made in other directions at all remarkable. He was
placed on the committee of public accounts and expenditures,
and attended meetings with great fidelity. His first act as a
member was to give notice that he would ask leave to introduce
a bill limiting the jurisdiction of justices of the
peace—a measure which he succeeded in carrying through.
He followed this by a motion to change the rules, so that it
should not be in order to offer amendments to any bill after
the third reading, which was not agreed to; though the same
rule, in effect, was adopted some years later, and is to this
day in force in both branches of the Illinois Assembly. He next
made a motion to take from the table a report which had been
submitted by his committee, which met a like fate. His first
resolution, relating to a State revenue to be derived from the
sales of the public lands, was denied a reference, and laid
upon the table. Neither as a speaker nor an organizer did he
make any especial impression on the body.

THE STORY OF ANN RUTLEDGE.

In the spring of 1835 the young representative from Sangamon
returned to New Salem to take up his duties as postmaster and
deputy surveyor, and to resume his law studies. He exchanged
his rather exalted position for the humbler one with a light
heart. New Salem held all that was dearest in the world to him
at that moment, and he went back to the poor little town with a
hope, which he had once supposed honor forbade his
acknowledging even to himself, glowing warmly in his heart. He
loved a young girl of that town, and now for the first time,
though he had known her since he first came to New Salem, was
he free to tell his love.

One of the most prominent families of the settlement in
1831, when Lincoln first appeared there, was that of James
Rutledge. The head of the house was one of the founders of New
Salem, and at that time the keeper of the village tavern. He
was a high-minded man, of a warm and generous nature, and had
the universal respect of the community. He was a South
Carolinian by birth, but had lived many years in Kentucky
before coming to Illinois. Rutledge came of a distinguished
family: one of his ancestors signed the Declaration of
Independence; another was Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of
the United States by appointment of Washington, and another was
a conspicuous leader in the American Congress.

The third of the nine children in the Rutledge household was
a daughter, Ann Mayes, born in Kentucky, January 7, 1813. When
Lincoln first met her she was nineteen years old, and as fresh
as a flower. Many of those who knew her at that time have left
tributes to her beauty and gentleness, and even to-day there
are those living who talk of her with moistened eyes and
softened tones. “She was a beautiful girl,” says her cousin,
James McGrady Rutledge, “and as bright as she was pretty. She
was well educated for that early day, a good conversationalist,
and always gentle and cheerful. A girl whose company people
liked.” So fair a maid was not, of course, without suitors. The
most determined of those who sought her hand was one John
McNeill, a young man who had arrived in New Salem from New York
soon after the founding of the town. Nothing was known of his
antecedents, and no questions were asked. He was understood to
be merely one of the thousands who had come West in search of
fortune. That he was intelligent, industrious, and frugal, with
a good head for business, was at once apparent; for he and
Samuel Hill opened a general store and they soon doubled their
capital, and their business continued to grow marvellously. In
four years from his first appearance in the settlement, besides
having a half-interest in the store, he owned a large farm a
few miles north of New Salem. His neighbors believed him to be
worth about twelve thousand
dollars.

[pg 237]

John McNeill was an unmarried man—at least so he
represented himself to be—and very soon after becoming a
resident of New Salem he formed the acquaintance of Ann
Rutledge, then a girl of seventeen. It was a case of love at
first sight, and the two soon became engaged, in spite of the
rivalry of Samuel Hill, McNeill’s partner. But Ann was as yet
only a young girl; and it was thought very sensible in her and
very gracious and considerate in her lover that both acquiesced
in the wishes of Ann’s parents that, for some time at least,
the marriage be postponed.

Such was the situation when Lincoln appeared in New Salem.
He naturally soon became acquainted with the girl. She was a
pupil in Mentor Graham’s school, where he frequently visited,
and rumor says that he first met her there. However that may
be, it is certain that in the latter part of 1832 he went to
board at the Rutledge tavern and there was thrown daily into
her company.

During the next year, 1833, John McNeill, in spite of his
fair prospects, became restless and discontented. He wanted to
see his people, he said, and before the end of the year he had
decided to go East for a visit. To secure perfect freedom from
his business while gone, he sold out his interest in his store.
To Ann he said that he hoped to bring back his father and
mother, and to place them on his farm. “This duty done,” was
his farewell word, “you and I will be married.” In the spring
of 1834 McNeill started East. The journey overland by foot and
horse was in those days a trying one, and on the way McNeill
fell ill with chills and fever. It was late in the summer
before he reached his home, and wrote back to Ann, explaining
his silence. The long wait had been a severe strain on the
girl, and Lincoln had watched her anxiety with softened heart.
It was to him, the New Salem postmaster, that she came to
inquire for letters. It was to him she entrusted those she
sent. In a way the postmaster must have become the girl’s
confidant; and his tender heart, which never could resist
suffering, must have been deeply touched. After the long
silence was broken, and McNeill’s first letter of explanation
came, the cause of anxiety seemed removed; but, strangely
enough, other letters followed only at long intervals, and
finally they ceased altogether. Then it was that the young girl
told her friends a secret which McNeill had confided to her
before leaving New Salem.

He had told her what she had never even suspected before,
that John McNeill was not his real name, but that it was John
McNamar. Shortly before he came to New Salem, he explained, his
father had suffered a disastrous failure in business. He was
the oldest son; and in the hope of retrieving the lost fortune,
he resolved to go West, expecting to return in a few years and
share his riches with the rest of the family. Anticipating
parental opposition, he ran away from home; and, being sure
that he could never accumulate anything with so numerous a
family to support, he endeavored to lose himself by a change of
name. All this Ann had believed and not repeated; but now, worn
out by waiting, she took the story to her friends.

With few exceptions they pronounced the story a fabrication
and McNamar an impostor. Why had he worn this mask? His excuse
seemed flimsy. At best, they declared, he was a mere
adventurer; and was it not more probable that he was a fugitive
from justice—a thief, a swindler, or a murderer? And who
knew how many wives he might have? With all New Salem declaring
John McNamar false, Ann Rutledge could hardly be blamed for
imagining that he was either dead or had transferred his
affections.

It was not until McNeill, or McNamar, had been gone many
months, and gossip had become offensive, that Lincoln ventured
to show his love for Ann, and then it was a long time before
the girl would listen to his suit. Convinced at last, however,
that her former lover had deserted her, she yielded to
Lincoln’s wishes and promised, in the spring of 1835, soon
after Lincoln’s return from Vandalia, to become his wife. But
Lincoln had nothing on which to support a family—indeed,
he found it no trifling task to support himself. As for Ann,
she was anxious to go to school another year. It was decided
that in the autumn she should go with her brother to
Jacksonville and spend the winter there in an academy. Lincoln
was to devote himself to his law studies; and the next spring,
when she returned from school and he was a member of the bar,
they were to be married.

A happy spring and summer followed. New Salem took a cordial
interest in the two lovers and presaged a happy life for them,
and all would undoubtedly have gone well if the young girl
could have dismissed the haunting memory of her old lover. The
possibility that she had wronged him, that he might reappear,
that he loved her still,
[pg 238] though she now loved
another, that perhaps she had done wrong—a torturing
conflict of memory, love, conscience, doubt, and morbidness
lay like a shadow across her happiness, and wore upon her
until she fell ill. Gradually her condition became hopeless;
and Lincoln, who had been shut from her, was sent for. The
lovers passed an hour alone in an anguished parting, and
soon after, on August 25, 1835, Ann died.

The death of Ann Rutledge plunged Lincoln into the deepest
gloom. That abiding melancholy, that painful sense of the
incompleteness of life which had been his mother’s dowry to
him, asserted itself. It filled and darkened his mind and his
imagination, tortured him with its black pictures. One stormy
night Lincoln was sitting beside William Greene, his head bowed
on his hand, while tears trickled through his fingers; his
friend begged him to control his sorrow, to try to forget. “I
cannot,” moaned Lincoln; “the thought of the snow and rain on
her grave fills me with indescribable grief.”

He was seen walking alone by the river and through the
woods, muttering strange things to himself. He seemed to his
friends to be in the shadow of madness. They kept a close watch
over him; and at last Bowling Green, one of the most devoted
friends Lincoln then had, took him home to his little log
cabin, half a mile north of New Salem, under the brow of a big
bluff. Here, under the loving care of Green and his good wife
Nancy, Lincoln remained until he was once more master of
himself.

But though he had regained self-control, his grief was deep
and bitter. Ann Rutledge was buried in Concord cemetery, a
country burying-ground seven miles northwest of New Salem. To
this lonely spot Lincoln frequently journeyed to weep over her
grave. “My heart is buried there,” he said to one of his
friends.

When McNamar returned (for McNamar’s story was true, and two
months after Ann Rutledge died he drove into New Salem with his
widowed mother and his brothers and sisters in the “prairie
schooner” beside him) and learned of Ann’s death, he “saw
Lincoln at the post-office,” as he afterward said, and “he
seemed desolate and sorely distressed.”

McNamar’s strange conduct toward Ann Rutledge is to this day
a mystery. Her death apparently produced upon him no deep
impression. He certainly experienced no such sorrow as Lincoln
felt, for within a year he married another woman.

Many years ago a sister of Ann Rutledge, Mrs. Jeane Berry,
told what she knew of Ann’s love affairs; and her statement has
been preserved in a diary kept by the Rev. R.D. Miller, now
Superintendent of Schools of Menard County, with whom she had
the conversation. She declared that Ann’s “whole soul seemed
wrapped up in Lincoln,” and that they “would have been married
in the fall or early winter” if Ann had lived. “After Ann
died,” said Mrs. Berry, “I remember that it was common talk
about how sad Lincoln was; and I remember myself how sad he
looked. They told me that every time he was in the neighborhood
after she died, he would go alone to her grave and sit there in
silence for hours.”

In later life, when his sorrow had become a memory, he told
a friend who questioned him: “I really and truly loved the girl
and think often of her now.” There was a pause, and then the
President added:

“And I have loved the name of Rutledge to this
day.”

ABRAHAM LINCOLN AT TWENTY-SIX YEARS OF AGE.

When the death of Ann Rutledge came upon Lincoln, for a time
threatening to destroy his ambition and blast his life, he was
in a most encouraging position. Master of a profession in which
he had an abundance of work and earned fair wages, hopeful of
being admitted in a few months to the bar, a member of the
State Assembly with every reason to believe that, if he desired
it, his constituency would return him—few men are as far
advanced at twenty-six as was Abraham Lincoln.

Intellectually he was far better equipped than he believed
himself to be, better than he has ordinarily been credited with
being. True, he had had no conventional college training, but
he had by his own efforts attained the chief result of all
preparatory study, the ability to take hold of a subject and
assimilate it. The fact that in six weeks he had acquired
enough of the science of surveying to enable him to serve as
deputy surveyor shows how well-trained his mind was. The power
to grasp a large subject quickly and fully is never an
accident. The nights Lincoln spent in Gentryville lying on the
floor in front of the fire figuring on the fire-shovel, the
hours he passed in poring over the Statutes of Indiana, the
days he wrestled with Kirkham’s Grammar, alone made the mastery
of Flint and Gibson possible. His struggle with Flint and
Gibson [pg 239] made easier the volumes he
borrowed from Major Stuart’s law library.

GRAVE OF ANN RUTLEDGE IN OAKLAND CEMETERY.

From a photograph made for McCLURE’S MAGAZINE by C.S.
McCullough, Petersburg, Illinois, in September, 1895. On
the 15th of May, 1890, the remains of Ann Rutledge were
removed from the long-neglected grave in the Concord
grave-yard to a new and picturesque burying-ground a mile
southwest of Petersburg, called Oakland cemetery. The old
grave, though marked by no stone, was easily identified
from the fact that Ann was buried by the side of her
younger brother, David, who died in 1842, upon the
threshold of what promised to be a brilliant career as a
lawyer. The removal was made by Samuel Montgomery, a
prominent business man of Petersburg. He was accompanied to
the grave by James McGrady Rutledge and a few others, who
located the grave beyond doubt. In the new cemetery, the
grave occupies a place somewhat apart from others. A young
maple tree is growing beside it, and it is marked by an
unpolished granite stone bearing the simple inscription
“Ann Rutledge.”—J. McCan Davis.

Lincoln had a mental trait which explains his rapid growth
in mastering subjects—seeing clearly was essential to
him. He was unable to put a question aside until he understood
it. It pursued him, irritated him until solved. Even in his
Gentryville days his comrades noted that he was constantly
searching for reasons and that he “explained so clearly.” This
characteristic became stronger with years. He was unwilling to
pronounce himself on any subject until he understood it, and he
could not let it alone until he had reached a conclusion which
satisfied him.

This seeing clearly became a splendid force in Lincoln;
because when he once had reached a conclusion he had the
honesty of soul to suit his actions to it. No consideration
could induce him to abandon the course his reason told him was
logical. Not that he was obstinate and having taken a position,
would not change it if he saw on further study that he was
wrong. In his first circular to the people of Sangamon County
is this characteristic passage: “Upon the subjects I have
treated, I have spoken as I thought. I may be wrong in any or
all of them; but, holding it a sound maxim that it is better
only sometimes to be right than at all times to be wrong, so
soon as I discover my opinions to be erroneous, I shall be
ready to renounce them.”

Joined to these strong mental and moral qualities was that
power of immediate action which so often explains why one man
succeeds in life while another of equal intelligence and
uprightness fails. As soon as Lincoln saw a thing to do he did
it. He wants to know; here is a book—it may be a
biography, a volume of dry statutes, a collection of verse; no
matter, he reads and ponders it until he has absorbed all it
has for him. He is eager to see the world;
[pg 240] a man offers him a position
as a “hand” on a Mississippi flatboat; he takes it without a
moment’s hesitation over the toil and exposure it demands.
John Calhoun is willing to make him a deputy surveyor; he
knows nothing of the science; in six weeks he has learned
enough to begin his labors. Sangamon County must have
representatives, why not he? and his circular goes out.
Ambition alone will not explain this power of instantaneous
action. It comes largely from that active imagination which,
when a new relation or position opens, seizes on all its
possibilities and from them creates a situation so real that
one enters with confidence upon what seems to the
unimaginative the rashest undertaking. Lincoln saw the
possibilities in things and immediately appropriated
them.

But the position he filled in Sangamon County in 1835 was
not all due to these qualities; much was due to his personal
charm. By all accounts he was big, awkward, ill-clad,
shy—yet his sterling honor, his unselfish nature, his
heart of the true gentleman, inspired respect and confidence.
Men might laugh at his first appearance, but they were not long
in recognizing the real superiority of his nature.

Such was Abraham Lincoln at twenty-six, when the tragic
death of Ann Rutledge made all that he had attained, all that
he had planned, seem fruitless and empty. He was too sincere
and just, too brave a man, to allow a great sorrow permanently
to interfere with his activities. He rallied his forces, and
returned to his law, his surveying, his politics. He brought to
his work a new power, that insight and patience which only a
great sorrow can give.

(Begun in the November number 1895; to be
continued.)

LINCOLN’S BEARD—THE LETTER OF MRS. BILLINGS
REFERRED TO ON PAGE 217.

DELPHOS, KANSAS, December 6,
1895.
MISS TARBELL:

In reply to your letter of recent date inquiring about
the incident of my childhood and connected with Mr.
Lincoln, I would say that at the time of his first
nomination to the Presidency I was a child of eleven years,
living with my parents in Chautauqua County, N.Y.
My father was an ardent Republican, and possessed of a
profound admiration for the character of the grand man who
was the choice of his party. We younger children accepted
his opinions with unquestioning faith, and listened with
great delight to the anecdotes of his life current at that
time, and were particularly interested in reading of the
difficulties he encountered in getting an education; so
much did it appeal to our childish imaginations that
we were firmly persuaded that if we could only study
our lessons prone before the glow and cheer of an open fire
in a great fireplace, we too might rise to heights
which now we could never attain. My father brought to us,
one day, a large poster, and my mind still holds a
recollection of its crude, coarse work and glaring colors.
About the edges were grouped in unadorned and exaggerated
ugliness the pictures of our former Presidents, and in the
midst of them were the faces of “Lincoln and Hamlin,”
surrounded by way of a frame with a rail fence. We are all
familiar with the strong and rugged face of Mr. Lincoln,
the deep lines about the mouth, and the eyes have much the
same sorrowful expression in all the pictures I have seen
of him. I think I must have felt a certain disappointment,
for I said to my mother that he would look much nicer if he
wore whiskers, and straightway gave him the benefit of my
opinion in a letter, describing the poster and hinting,
rather broadly, that his appearance might be improved if he
would let his whiskers grow. Not wishing to wound his
feelings, I added that the rail fence around his picture
looked real pretty! I also asked him if he had any little
girl, and if so, and he was too busy to write and tell me
what he thought about it, if he would not let her do so;
and ended by assuring him I meant to try my best to induce
two erring brothers of the Democratic faith to cast their
votes for him. I think the circumstance would have speedily
passed from my mind but for the fact that I confided to an
elder sister that I had written to Mr. Lincoln, and had she
not expressed a doubt as to whether I had addressed him
properly. To prove that I had, and was not as ignorant as
she thought me, I re-wrote the address for her inspection:
“Hon. Abraham Lincoln Esquire.”
My mortification at the laughter and ridicule excited
was somewhat relieved by my mother’s remarking that “there
should be no mistake as to whom the letter belonged.” The
reply to my poor little letter came in due time, and the
following is a copy of the original, which is still in
my possession.

“Private.
“SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, October 19,
1860.
“MISS GRACE BEDELL.

“My Dear little Miss:—Your very agreeable
letter of the 15th inst. is received. I regret the
necessity of saying I have no daughter. I have three sons;
one seventeen, one nine, and one seven years of age. They,
with their mother, constitute my whole family. As to the
whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people
would call it a piece of silly affectation if I were to
begin wearing them now? Your very sincere well-wisher,
“A. LINCOLN.”
Probably the frankness of the child appealed to the
humorous side of his nature, for the suggestion was acted
upon. After the election, and on his journey from
Springfield to Washington, he inquired of Hon. G.W.
Patterson, who was one of the party who accompanied him on
that memorable trip, and who was a resident of our town, if
he knew of a family bearing the name of Bedell. Mr.
Patterson replying in the affirmative, Mr. Lincoln said he
“had received a letter from a little girl called Grace
Bedell, advising me to wear whiskers, as she thought it
would improve my looks.” He said the character of the
“letter was so unique and so different from the many
self-seeking and threatening ones he was daily receiving
that it came to him as a relief and a pleasure.” When the
train reached Westfield, Mr. Lincoln made a short speech
from the platform of the car, and in conclusion said he had
a correspondent there, relating the circumstance and giving
my name, and if she were present he would like to see her.
I was present, but in the crowd had neither seen nor heard
the speaker; but a gentleman helped me forward, and Mr.
Lincoln stepped down to the platform where I stood, shook
my hand, kissed me, and said: “You see I let these whiskers
grow for you, Grace.” The crowd cheered, Mr. Lincoln
reentered the car, and I ran quickly home, looking at and
speaking to no one, with a much dilapidated bunch of roses
in my hand, which I had hoped might be passed up to Mr.
Lincoln with some other flowers which were to be presented,
but which in my confusion I had forgotten. Gentle and
genial, simple and warm-hearted, how full of anxiety must
have been his life in the days which followed. These words
seem to fitly describe him: “A man of sorrows and
acquainted with grief.”
Very sincerely,
GRACE BEDELL BILLINGS.

Footnote 1:
(return)
William D. Kelley, in “Reminiscences of Abraham
Lincoln.” Edited by Allen Thorndike Rice, 1886.

Footnote 2:
(return)
This incident was told by Lincoln to Mr. A.J. Conant,
the artist, who in 1860 painted his portrait ini
Springfield. Mr. Conant, in order to keep Mr. Lincoln’s
pleasant expression, had engaged him in conversation, and
had questioned him about his early life; and it was in the
course of their conversation that this incident came out.
It is to be found in a delightful and suggestive article
entitled, “My Acquaintance with Abraham Lincoln,”
contributed by Mr. Conant to the “Liber Scriptorum,” and by
his permission quoted here.

Footnote 3:
(return)
With one exception the biographers of Lincoln have given
him the first place on the ticket in 1834. He really stood
second in order, Herndon gives the correct vote, although
he is in error in saying that the chief authority he
quotes—a document owned by Dr. A.W. French of
Springfield, Ill.—is an “official return.” It is a
copy of the official return made out in Lincoln’s writing
and certified to by the county clerk. The official return
is on file in the Springfield court-house.

Footnote 4:
(return)
“Get books and read and study them carefully. Begin with
Blackstone’s Commentaries, and after reading carefully
through, say twice, take up Chitty’s Pleadings, Greenleaf’s
Evidence, and Story’s Equity in succession. Work, work,
work, is the main thing.”

[pg 241]

A GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL.

By Ian Maclaren,

Author of “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,”
etc.

EVER had I met any man so methodical in his
habits, so neat in his dress, so accurate in speech, so precise
in manner as my fellow-lodger. When he took his bath in the
morning I knew it was half-past seven, and when he rang for hot
water, that it was a quarter to eight. Until a quarter-past he
moved about the room in his slow, careful dressing, and then
everything was quiet next door till half-past eight, when the
low murmur of the Lord’s Prayer concluded his devotions. Two
minutes later he went downstairs—if he met a servant one
could hear him say “Good morning”—and read his
newspaper—he seldom had letters—till nine, when he
rang for breakfast. Twenty-past nine he went upstairs and
changed his coat, and he spent five minutes in the lobby
selecting a pair of gloves, brushing his hat, and making a last
survey for a speck of dust. One glove he put on opposite the
hat-stand, and the second on the door-step; and when he touched
the pavement you might have set your watch by nine-thirty. Once
he was in the lobby at five-and-twenty minutes to ten,
distressed and flurried.

“I cut my chin slightly when shaving,” he explained, “and
the wound persists in bleeding. It has an untidy appearance,
and a drop of blood might fall on a letter.”

The walk that morning was quite broken; and before reaching
the corner, he had twice examined his chin with a handkerchief,
and shaken his head as one whose position in life was now
uncertain.

“It is nothing in itself,” he said afterwards, with an
apologetic allusion to his anxiety, “and might not matter to
another man. But any little misadventure—a yesterday’s
collar or a razor-cut, or even an inky finger—would
render me helpless in dealing with people. They would simply
look at the weak spot, and one would lose all authority. Some
of the juniors smile when I impress on them to be very careful
about their dress—quiet, of course, as becomes their
situation, but unobjectionable. With more responsibility they
will see the necessity of such details. I will remember your
transparent sticking-plaster—a most valuable
suggestion.”

His name was Frederick Augustus Perkins—so ran the
card he left on my table a week after I settled in the next
rooms; and the problem of his calling gradually became a
standing vexation. It fell under the class of conundrums, and
one remembered from childhood that it is mean to be told the
answer; so I could not say to Mister Perkins—for it was
characteristic of the prim little man that no properly
constituted person could have said Perkins—”By the way,
what is your line of things?” or any more decorous rendering of
my curiosity.

Mrs. Holmes—who was as a mother to Mr. Perkins and
myself, as well as to two younger men of literary pursuits and
irregular habits—had a gift of charming irrelevance, and
was able to combine allusions to Mr. Perkins’s orderly life and
the amatory tendencies of a new cook in a mosaic of enthralling
interest.

“No, Betsy Jane has ‘ad her notice, and goes this day week;
not that her cookin’s bad, but her brothers don’t know when to
leave. One was ‘ere no later than last night, though if he was
her born brother, ‘e ‘ad a different father and mother, or my
name ain’t ‘Olmes. ‘Your brother, Betsy Jane,’ says I, ‘ought
not to talk in a strange ‘ouse on family affairs till eleven
o’clock.’

“”E left at ‘alf-past ten punctual,’ says she, lookin’ as
hinnocent as a child, ‘for I ‘eard Mr. Perkins go up to ‘is
room as I was lettin’ Jim out.’

“‘Betsy Jane,’ I says, quite calm, ‘where do you expeck to
go to as doesn’t know wot truth is?’—for Mr. Perkins
leaves ‘is room has the ‘all clock starts on eleven, and ‘e’s
in ‘is bedroom at the last stroke. If she ‘adn’t brought in Mr.
Perkins, she might ‘ave deceived me—gettin’ old and not
bein’ so quick in my ‘earin’ as I was; but that settled
her.

“‘Alf-past,” went on Mrs. Holmes,
[pg 242] scornfully; “and ‘im never
varied two minutes the last ten years, except one night ‘e
fell asleep in ‘is chair, being bad with hinfluenza.

“For a regular single gentleman as rises in the morning and
goes out, and comes in and takes ‘is dinner, and goes to bed
like the Medes and Persians, I’ve never seen ‘is equal; an’
it’s five-and-twenty years since ‘Olmes died, ‘avin’ a bad
liver through takin’ gin for rheumatics; an’ Lizbeth Peevey
says to me, ‘Take lodgers, Jemima; not that they pays for the
trouble, but it ‘ill keep an ‘ouse’….

“Mr. Perkins’ business?”—it was shabby, but the
temptation came as a way of escape from the flow of Mrs.
Holmes’s autobiography—”now that I couldn’t put a name
on, for why, ‘e never speaks about ‘is affairs; just ‘Good
evening, Mrs. ‘Olmes; I’ll take fish for breakfast to-morrow;’
more than that, or another blanket on ‘is bed on the first of
November, for it’s by days, not cold, ‘e goes….”

It was evident that I must solve the problem for myself.

“I WENT UP TO MR. PERKINS’S ROOM WITHOUT
CEREMONY.”

Mr. Perkins could not be a city man, for in the hottest June
he never wore a white waistcoat, nor had he the swelling gait
of one who made an occasional coup in mines, and it went
without saying that he did not write—a man who went to
bed at eleven, and whose hair made no claim to distinction.
One’s mind fell back on the idea of law—conveyancing
seemed probable—but his face lacked sharpness, and the
alternative of confidential clerk to a firm of dry-salters was
contradicted by an air of authority that raised observations on
the weather to the level of a state document. The truth came
upon me—a flash of inspiration—as I saw Mr. Perkins
coming home one evening. The black frock-coat and waistcoat,
dark gray trousers, spotless linen, high, old-fashioned collar,
and stiff stock, were a symbol, and could only mean one
profession.

“By the way, Mr. Perkins,” for this was all one now required
to know, “are you Income Tax or Stamps?”

“Neither, although my duty makes me familiar with every
department in the Civil Service. I have the honor to be,” and
he cleared his throat with dignity, “a first-class clerk in the
Schedule Office.

“Our work,” he explained to me, “is very important, and in
fact, vital to the administration of affairs. The efficiency of
practical government depends on the accuracy of the forms
issued, and every one is composed in our office.

“No, that is a common mistake,” in reply to my shallow
remark; “the departments do not draw up their own forms, and,
in fact, they are not fit for such work. They send us a
memorandum of what their officials wish to ask, and we put it
into shape.

“It requires long experience and, I may say,
some—ability, to compose a really creditable schedule,
one that will bring out every point clearly and exhaustively;
in fact, I have ventured to call it a science”—here Mr.
Perkins allowed himself to smile—”and it might be defined
Schedulology.

“Yes, to see a double sheet of foolscap divided up into some
twenty-four compartments, each with a question and a blank
space for the answer, is pleasing to the eye—very
pleasing indeed.

[pg 243]

“What annoys one,” and Mr. Perkins became quite irritable,
“is to examine a schedule after it has been filled and to
discover how it has been misused—simply mangled.

“It is not the public simply who are to blame; they are, of
course, quite hopeless, and have an insane desire to write
their names all over the paper, with family details; but
members of the Civil Service abuse the most admirable forms
that ever came out of our office.

“Numerous? Yes, naturally so; and as governmental machinery
turns on schedules, they will increase every year. Could you
guess, now, the number of different schedules under our
charge?”

“Several hundred, perhaps.”

Mr. Perkins smiled with much complacency. “Sixteen thousand
four hundred and four, besides temporary ones that are only
used in emergencies. One department has now reached twelve
hundred and two; it has been admirably organized, and its
secretary could tell you the subject of every form.

“Well, it does not become me to boast, but I have had the
honor of contributing two hundred and twenty myself, and have
composed forty-two more that have not yet been accepted.

“Well, yes,” he admitted, with much modesty, “I have kept
copies of the original drafts;” and he showed me a bound volume
of his works.

“An author? It is very good of you to say so;” and Mr.
Perkins seemed much pleased with the idea, twice smiling to
himself during the evening, and saying as we parted, “It’s my
good fortune to have a large and permanent circulation.”

All November Mr. Perkins was engaged with what he hoped
would be one of his greatest successes.

“It’s a sanitation schedule for the Education Department,
and is, I dare to say, nearly perfect. It has eighty-three
questions, on every point from temperature to drains, and will
present a complete view of the physical condition of primary
schools.

“You have no idea,” he continued, “what a fight I have had
with our Head to get it through—eight drafts, each one
costing three days’ labor—but now he has passed it.

“‘Perkins,’ he said, ‘this is the most exhaustive schedule
you have ever drawn up, and I’m proud it’s come through the
hands of the drafting sub-department. Whether I can approve it
as Head of the publishing sub-department is very
doubtful.'”

“Do you mean that the same man would approve your paper in
one department to-day, and—”

“Quite so. It’s a little difficult for an outsider to
appreciate the perfect order, perhaps I might say symmetry, of
the Civil Service;” and Mr. Perkins spoke with a tone of
condescension as to a little child. “The Head goes himself to
the one sub-department in the morning and to the other in the
afternoon, and he acts with absolute impartiality.

“Why, sir”—Mr. Perkins began to warm and grow
enthusiastic—”I have received a letter from the other
sub-department, severely criticising a draft he had highly
commended in ours two days before, and I saw his hand in the
letter—distinctly; an able review, too, very able
indeed.

“‘Very well put, Perkins,’ he said to me himself; ‘they’ve
found the weak points; we must send an amended draft;’ and so
we did, and got a very satisfactory reply. It was a schedule
about swine fever, 972 in the Department of Agriculture. I have
had the pleasure of reading it in public circulation when on my
holidays.”

“Does your Head sign the letters addressed to himself?”

“Certainly; letters between departments are always signed by
the chief officer.” Mr. Perkins seemed to have found another
illustration of public ignorance, and recognized his duty as a
missionary of officialism. “It would afford me much pleasure to
give you any information regarding our excellent system, which
has been slowly built up and will repay study; but you will
excuse me this evening, as I am indisposed—a tendency to
shiver, which annoyed me in the office to-day.”

Next morning I rose half an hour late, as Mr. Perkins did
not take his bath, and was not surprised when Mrs. Holmes came
to my room, overflowing with concern and disconnected
speech.

“‘E’s that regular in ‘is ways, that when ‘Annah Mariar says
‘is water’s at ‘is door at eight o’clock, I went up that
‘urried that I couldn’t speak; and I ‘ears ‘im speakin’ to
‘isself, which is not what you would expect of ‘im, ‘e bein’
the quietest gentleman as ever—”

“Is Mr. Perkins ill, do you mean?” for Mrs. Holmes seemed
now in fair breath, and was always given to comparative
reviews.

“So I knocks and says, ‘Mr. Perkins, ‘ow are you feelin’?’
and all I could ‘ear [pg 244] was ‘temperance;’ it’s
little as ‘e needs of that, for excepting a glass of wine at
his dinner, and it might be somethin’ ‘ot before goin’ to
bed in winter—

“So I goes in,” resumed Mrs. Holmes, “an’ there ‘e was
sittin’ up in ‘is bed, with ‘is face as red as fire, an’ not
knowin’ me from Adam. If it wasn’t for ‘is ‘abits an’ a
catchin’ of ‘is breath you wud ‘ave said drink, for ‘e says,
‘How often have the drains been sluiced last year?'” After
which I went up to Mr. Perkins’s room without ceremony.

He was explaining, with much cogency, as it seemed to me,
that unless the statistics of temperature embraced the whole
year, they would afford no reliable conclusions regarding the
sanitary condition of Board Schools; but when I addressed him
by name with emphasis, he came to himself with a start.

“Excuse me, sir, I must apologize—I really did not
hear—in fact—” And then, as he realized his
situation, Mr. Perkins was greatly embarrassed.

“Did I forget myself so far as—to send for
you?—I was not feeling well. I have a slight difficulty
in breathing, but I am quite able to go to the office—in
a cab.

“You are most kind and obliging, but the schedule I
am—it just comes and goes—thank you, no more
water—is important and—intricate; no one—can
complete it—except myself.

“With your permission I will rise—in a few minutes.
Ten o’clock, dear me!—this is most unfortunate—not
get down till eleven!—I must really insist—” But
the doctor had come, and Mr. Perkins obeyed on one
condition.

“Yes, doctor, I prefer, if you please, to know; you see I am
not a young person—nor nervous—thank you very
much—quite so; pneumonia is serious—and double
pneumonia dangerous, I understand.—No, it is not
that—one is not alarmed at my age, but—yes, I’ll
lie down—letter must go to office—dictate it to my
friend—certain form—leave of absence, in
fact—trouble you too much—medical certificate.”

He was greatly relieved after this letter was sent by
special messenger with the key of his desk, and quite refreshed
when a clerk came up with the chief’s condolences.

“My compliments to Mr. Lighthead—an excellent young
official, very promising indeed—and would he step
upstairs for a minute—will excuse this undress in
circumstances—really I will not speak any more.

“Those notes, Mr. Lighthead, will make my idea quite
plain—and I hope to revise final draft—if God
will—my dutiful respect to the Board, and kind regards to
the chief clerk. It was kind of you to come—most
thoughtful.”

This young gentleman came into my room to learn the state of
the case, and was much impressed.

“Really this kind of thing—Perkins gasping in bed and
talking in his old-fashioned way—knocks one out of time,
don’t you know? If he had gone on much longer I should have
bolted.

“Like him in the office? I should think so. You should have
seen the young fellows to-day when they heard he was so ill. Of
course we laugh a bit at him—Schedule Perkins he’s
called—because he’s so dry and formal; but that’s
nothing.

“With all his little cranks, he knows his business better
than any man in the department; and then he’s a gentleman, d’y
see? could not say a rude word or do a mean thing to save his
life—not made that way, in fact.

“Let me just give you one instance—show you his sort.
Every one knew that he ought to have been chief clerk, and that
Rodway’s appointment was sheer influence. The staff was mad,
and some one said Rodway need not expect to have a particularly
good time.

“Perkins overheard him, and chipped in at once. ‘Mr.
Rodway’—you know his dry manner, wagging his eyeglass all
the time—’is our superior officer, and we are bound to
render him every assistance in our power, or,’ and then he was
splendid, ‘resign our commissions.’ Rodway, they say, has
retired, but the worst of it is that as Perkins has been once
passed over he’ll not succeed.

“Perhaps it won’t matter, poor chap. I say,” said Lighthead,
hurriedly, turning his back and examining a pipe on the
mantelpiece, “do you think he is going to—I mean, has he
a chance?”

“Just a chance, I believe. Have you been long with him?”

“That’s not it—it’s what he’s done for a—for
fellows. Strangers don’t know Perkins. You might talk to him
for a year, and never hear anything but shop. Then one day you
get into a hole, and you would find out another Perkins.

“Stand by you?” and he wheeled round. “Rather, and no
palaver either; with money and with time and with—other
things, that do a fellow more good than the whole concern, and
no airs. There’s [pg 245] more than one man in our
office has cause to—bless Schedule Perkins.

“Let me tell you how he got—one chap out of the
biggest scrape he’ll ever fall into. Do you mind me smoking?”
And then he made himself busy with matches and a pipe that was
ever going out for the rest of the story.

“Well, you see, this man, clerk in our office, had not been
long up from the country, and he was young. Wasn’t quite bad,
but he couldn’t hold his own with older fellows.

“He got among a set that had suppers in their rooms, and
gambled a bit, and he lost and borrowed, and—in fact, was
stone broke.

“It’s not very pleasant for a fellow to sit in his room a
week before Christmas, and know that he may be cashiered before
the holidays, and all through his own fault.

“If it were only himself, why, he might take his licking and
go to the Colonies, but it was hard—on his
mother—it’s always going, out, this pipe!—when he
was her only son, and she rather—believed in him.

“Didn’t sleep much that night—told me himself
afterwards—and he concluded that the best way out was to
buy opium in the city next day, and take it—pretty stiff
dose, you know—next night.

“Cowardly rather, of course, but it might be easier for the
mater down in Devon—his mother, I mean—did I say he
was Devon?—same county as myself—affair would be
hushed up, and she would have—his memory clean.

“As it happened, though, he didn’t buy any opium next
day—didn’t get the chance; for Perkins came round to his
desk, and asked this young chap to have a bit of dinner with
him—aye, and made him come.

“‘HE HAD THE JOLLIEST LITTLE DINNER READY YOU EVER
SAW.'”

“He had the jolliest little dinner ready you ever saw, and
he insisted, on the fellow smoking, though Perkins hates the
very smell of ‘baccy, and—well, he got the whole trouble
out of him, except the opium.

“D’y think he lectured and scolded? Not a bit—that’s
not Perkins—he left the fool to do his own lecturing, and
he did it stiff. I’ll tell you what he said: ‘Your health must
have been much tried by this anxiety, so you must go down and
spend Christmas with your mother, and I would venture to
suggest that you take her a suitable gift.

“‘With regard to your debt, you will allow me,’ and Perkins
spoke as if he had been explaining a schedule, ‘to take it
over, on two conditions—that you repay me by installments
every quarter, and dine with me every Saturday evening for six
months.’

“See what he was after? Wanted to keep—the fellow
straight, and cheer him up; and you’ve no idea how Perkins came
[pg 246] out those
Saturdays—capital stories as ever you heard—and
he declared that it was a pleasure to him.

“‘I am rather lonely,’ he used to say, ‘and it is most kind
of a young man to sit with me.’ Kind!”

“What was the upshot with your friend? Did he turn over a
new leaf?”

“He’ll never be the man that Perkins expects; but he’s doing
his level best, and—is rising in the office. Perkins
swears by him, and that’s made a man of the fellow.

“He’s paid up the cash now, but—he can never pay up
the kindness—confound those wax matches, they never
strike—he told his mother last summer the whole
story.

“She wrote to Perkins—of course I don’t know what was
in the letter—but Perkins had the fellow into his room.
‘You ought to have regarded our transaction as confidential. I
am grieved you mentioned my name;’ and then as I—I mean,
as the fellow—was going out, ‘I’ll keep that letter
beside my commission,’ said Perkins.

“If Perkins dies”—young men don’t do that kind of
thing, or else one would have thought—”it’ll be—a
beastly shame,” which was a terrible collapse, and Mr. Geoffrey
Lighthead of the Schedule Department left the house without
further remark or even shaking hands.

That was Wednesday, and on Friday morning he appeared,
flourishing a large blue envelope, sealed with an imposing
device, marked “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and addressed to

“Frederick Augustus Perkins, Esq.,

First Class Clerk in the Schedule Department,

Somerset House,

London,”

an envelope any man might be proud to receive, and try to
live up to for a week.

“Rodway has retired,” he shouted, “and we can’t be sure in
the office, but the betting is four to one—I’m ten
myself—that the Board has appointed Perkins Chief Clerk;”
and Lighthead did some steps of a triumphal character.

“The Secretary appeared this morning after the Board had
met. ‘There’s a letter their Honors wish taken at once to Mr.
Perkins. Can any of you deliver it at his residence?’ Then the
other men looked at me, because—well, Perkins has been
friendly with me; and that hansom came very creditably
indeed.

“Very low, eh? Doctors afraid not last over the
night—that’s hard lines—but I say, they did not
reckon on this letter. Could not you read it to him? You see
this was his one ambition. He could never be Secretary, not
able enough, but he was made for Chief Clerk. Now he’s got it,
or I would not have been sent out skimming with this letter.
Read it to him, and the dear old chap will be on his legs in a
week.”

It seemed good advice; and this was what I read, while
Perkins lay very still and did his best to breathe:—

“DEAR MR. PERKINS:
“I have the pleasure to inform you that the Board have
appointed you Chief Clerk in the Schedule Department in
succession to Gustavus Rodway, Esq., who retires, and their
Honors desire me further to express their appreciation of
your long and valuable service, and to express their
earnest hope that you may be speedily restored to
health.
“I am,
“Your obedient servant,
“ARTHUR WRAXALL,
“Secretary.”

For a little time it was too much for Mr. Perkins, and then
he whispered:

“The one thing on earth I wished, and—more than I
deserved—not usual, personal references in Board
letters—perhaps hardly regular—but most
gratifying—and—strengthening.

“I feel better already—some words I would like to hear
again—thank you, where I can reach it—nurse will be
so good as to read it.”

Mr. Perkins revived from that hour, having his tonic
administered at intervals, and astonished the doctors. On
Christmas Eve he had made such progress that Lighthead was
allowed to see him for five minutes.

“Heard about your calling three times a day—far too
kind with all your work—and the messages from the
staff—touched me to heart.—Never thought had so
many friends—wished been more friendly myself.

“My promotion, too—hope may be fit for
duty—can’t speak much, but think I’ll be
spared—Almighty very good to me—Chief Clerk of
Schedule Department—would you mind saying Lord’s Prayer
together—it sums up everything.”

So we knelt one on each side of Perkins’s bed, and I led
with “Our Father”—the other two being once or twice quite
audible. The choir of a neighboring church were singing a
Christmas carol in the street, and the Christ came into our
hearts as a little child.

[pg 247]

THE FASTEST RAILROAD RUN EVER MADE.

DISTANCE, 510 MILES.—AVERAGE RUNNING TIME, 65.07 MILES
AN HOUR.—HIGHEST SPEED ATTAINED, 92.3 MILES AN
HOUR.

By Harry Perry Robinson,

Editor of “The Railway Age” and one of the
official time-keepers on the train.

VIEW BACK ON THE TRACK.—A SNAP-SHOT TAKEN BY MR.
ROBINSON FROM THE REAR PLATFORM OF THE LAST CAR WHEN THE
TRAIN WAS RUNNING AT ABOUT EIGHTY MILES AN HOUR.

WHEN, on August 22d last, a train was run over
what is known as the West Coast line (of the London and
Northwestern and the Caledonian Railways) from London to
Aberdeen, a distance of 540 miles, at an average speed, while
running, of 63.93 miles an hour, the English press hailed with
a jubilation which was almost clamorous the fact that the
world’s record for long distance speed rested once more with
Great Britain. From the tone which the English newspapers
adopted, it appeared that they believed that the record then
made was one which could not be beaten in this country, but
that the former records of the New York Central represented the
maximum speed obtainable on an American railway with American
engines.

Undoubtedly the West Coast run was a remarkable one. But
English judges were mistaken as to the permanence of the
record. It was left unchallenged for just twenty days—or
until September 11th, when the cable carried to England the
unpleasant news that the New York Central had covered the
436.32 miles from New York to East Buffalo at an average speed,
when running, of 64.26 miles an hour—or about one-third
of a mile an hour faster than the English run.

There was still left to the Englishmen, however, a loophole
for escape from confession of defeat. It will be noticed that
the distance from New York to Buffalo is rather more than 100
miles shorter than that from London to Aberdeen. It was yet
possible for the Englishmen to say: “We are talking only of
long distance speeds. We do not consider anything under 500
miles a long distance.” The record, in fact, for a distance of
over 500 miles was still with England.

There are not many railways in the United States on which a
sustained high speed for a distance of over 500 miles would be
possible. In England the run is made, as already stated, over
the connecting lines of two companies. In this country, while
not a few roads have over 500 miles of first-class track in
excellent condition, there is usually at some point in that
distance an obstacle (either steep grades to cross a mountain
range, or bad curves, or a river to be ferried) sufficient to
prevent the making of a record. On the Lake Shore and Michigan
Southern, from Chicago to Buffalo, there exists no such
impediment, and between the outskirts of the two cities the
distance is 510.1 miles. It was in an informal conversation
between certain officers of the Lake Shore and Michigan
Southern Railway that the idea of attempting to beat the record
on this piece of track was first suggested.

In making comparison of different runs there are other
matters to be taken into consideration besides the mere
distance covered and the speed attained. It is not possible to
exactly equalize all conditions—as, for instance, those
of wind and weather, or of the physical character of the track
in the matter of grades and curves. Entire equality in all
particulars could only be attained in the same way that it is
attained in horse-racing, viz., by having trains run side by
side on parallel tracks.

Certain conditions there are, however, which are more
important and which can be equalized. One of these is the
weight of the train hauled. The English load was a light
one—67 tons (English) or 147,400
[pg 248] pounds. This was little
more than one-quarter of the load hauled by the New York
Central engine on its magnificent run, when the weight of
the cars making the train was 565,000 pounds. With the types
of locomotive used on the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern
it was not possible to haul at record-breaking speed any
such load as this. It was enough if the load should be about
double that of the English train. This was attained by
putting together two heavy Wagner parlor cars of 92,500
pounds each and Dr. Webb’s private car “Elsmere,” which
alone weighs 119,500 pounds—or more than three-fourths
of the weight of the entire English train. The total weight
of the three Lake Shore and Michigan Southern cars was
304,500 pounds.

JOHN NEWELL, LATE PRESIDENT OF THE LAKE SHORE AND
MICHIGAN SOUTHERN RAILWAY.

From a photograph by Max Platz, Chicago. President
Newell died August 24, l894, and is said to have fairly
sacrificed his life to giving the Lake Shore the best
railway track in America. The proud record made, in this
speed run, is largely the fruit of his labor.

The last important condition to be taken into consideration
is the number of stops made. It should be explained that when
speed is reckoned “when running” or “exclusive of stops” (the
phrases mean the same thing), the time consumed in stops is
deducted—the time, that is, when the wheels are actually
at rest. No deduction however, is made for the loss of time in
slowing up to a stop or in getting under way again. On the run
of the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern, for instance, an
irregular or unexpected stop was made when the train was
running at a speed of about 71 miles an hour. The train was
actually at rest for 2 minutes and 5 seconds. That allowance,
therefore, was made for the stop. It is unnecessary to say that
the secondary loss of time in bringing the train to a
standstill and in regaining speed was much greater; but for
these (aggregating probably five or six minutes) there was no
allowance. It is evident, therefore, that the number of times
that a train has to slow down and get under way again is an
important factor in the average speed of a long run. In the
English run two stops were made. The schedule for the Lake
Shore run provided for four stops. A fifth stop, as has already
been stated, was made, which was not on the programme.

These, then, were the conditions under which the now famous
run of October 24, 1895, was accomplished: A train weighing
twice as much as the English train was to be hauled for a
distance of over 500 miles, making four stops en route,
at a speed, when running, greater than 63.93 miles an hour.
Incidentally it was hoped also that the New York Central’s
speed of 64.26 miles an hour would be beaten.

No public announcement was made of the undertaking in
advance, for the sufficient reason that the gentlemen in charge
were well aware of the difficulty of the task in which they
were engaged and the many chances of failure. They had no
desire to have such a failure made unnecessarily public. No one
was informed of what was in hand except the officials and
employees of the Lake Shore road, whose coöperation was
necessary, one daily newspaper (the Chicago “Tribune”), the
Associated Press, and two gentlemen who were invited to attend
as official time-keepers, Messrs. H.P. Robinson and Willard A.
Smith—the former being the editor of “The Railway Age,”
and the latter the ex-chief of the Transportation Department at
the Chicago World’s Fair. General Superintendent Canniff of the
Lake Shore was in charge of the train in
person.

[pg 249]

THE TEN-WHEEL ENGINE 564, WITH WHICH ENGINEER TUNKEY
MADE THE RUN FROM ERIE TO BUFFALO, ATTAINING A SPEED OF
92.3 MILES AN HOUR.

[pg 250]

It was at two o’clock of the morning of October 24th that
the train, which had been waiting since early in the evening on
a side track in the Lake Shore station at Chicago, slipped
unostentatiously away behind a switch engine which was to haul
it as far as One Hundredth Street, where the start was to be
made. Here there was a wait of nearly an hour until the time
fixed for starting—half-past three. There was plenty to
be done at the last moment to occupy the time of waiting,
however. There were last messages to be sent back to Chicago;
last orders to be sent on ahead; telegrams containing weather
bulletins, which promised fair weather all the way to Buffalo,
to be read; and, finally, the preparations to be made for
time-taking.

One of the time-keepers, taking two stop-watches in his
hand, started the split-second-hands of both with one movement
of his muscles, exactly together. To one or other of these
timepieces all the watches on the train were set.

In one of the parlor cars, as nearly as might be in the
middle of the length of the train, two tables were set, one on
either side of the aisle. The time-keepers had agreed to
relieve each other at each stop at the end of a division, one
being always on duty, and the other close at hand to verify any
record on which a question might arise. The time-keeper on duty
sat at one of the tables, watch in hand. Opposite to him was a
representative of the railway company, with no power to
originate a record, but to check each stop in case an error
should occur. Across the aisle sat the official recorder, a
representative of the Wagner Palace Car Company, and opposite
to him a representative of the daily press.

For two minutes before the time for starting, silence
settled down upon the car. The shades were pulled down over
every window. Inside, the car was brilliantly lighted with
Pintsch gas; and the eyes of every man were on the face of the
watch which each held in his hand, and his finger was ready to
press the stop which splits the second-hand. The two minutes
passed slowly, and the silence was almost painful as the
watches showed that the moment was close at hand. Suddenly the
smallest perceptible jerk told that the wheels had moved, and
on the instant the split-hand of every watch in the car had
recorded the fact.
“Three—twenty-nine—twenty-seven!” announced the
time-keeper.

“Three—twenty-nine—twenty-seven!” echoed the
representative of the railway company.

“Three—twenty-nine—twenty-seven!” called the
recorder as he entered the figures on the sheet before him.

“Three—twenty-nine—twenty-seven!” said the
member of the press.

The start had been made thirty-three seconds ahead of time,
and each member of the party settled himself down to the work
ahead.

Over each division of the road the superintendent of that
division rode as “caller-off” of the stations as they were
passed. It was necessary, during the first hours of darkness
especially, that some one should do this who was familiar with
every foot of the track—some one who would not have to
rely on eyesight alone, but to whose accustomed senses every
sway of the car as a curve was passed, and every sound of the
wheels on bridge or culvert, would be familiar.

The first station, Whiting, is only three and one-half miles
from the starting-point. The night outside was intensely black,
and it was doubtful whether even the practised eye and ear of
Superintendent Newell would be able to catch the little station
as it went by. With one eye on our watches, therefore, we all
had also one anxious eye on him where he sat with his head
hidden under the shade that was drawn behind him, a blanket
held over the crevices to shut out every ray of light, and his
face pressed close against the glass. The minutes passed
slowly—one, two, three, four, five! Whiting must be very
near, and—but just as we began to fear that he had missed
the station, the word came:

“Ready for Whiting!” and the response,

“Ready for Whiting!”

A few short seconds of silence, and then:

“Now!”

Instantly the muscles of the waiting fingers throbbed on the
split-stop; but no quicker than the roar told that the car was
already passing the station.

“Three—thirty-four—forty-five!” called the
time-keeper.

“Three—thirty-four—forty-five!”

It was an immense relief to find that the system
“worked.”

When the warning “Ready for Pine “—the next station,
six miles further on—came
[pg 251] from behind the envelope of
window-shade and blanket, we were at our ease, and the
record, “Three—forty-one—three,” was called and
echoed and tossed across the car with confidence.

THE BROOKS ENGINE 599, WHICH DREW THE TRAIN FROM
ELKHART TO TOLEDO. ALL BUT ONE (THE LAST) OF THE FIVE
ENGINES USED ON THE RUN WERE OF THIS TYPE.

By the time that Miller’s—fifteen miles from the
start—was passed, the train was moving at a speed of over
a mile a minute, and at every mile the velocity increased. At
La Porte, forty-five miles from the start, the speed was 66
miles an hour; and fourteen miles further on, at Terre Coupee,
it reached to 70. It was fast running—while it lasted;
but it did not last long. The next station showed that the
speed was down to 67 miles an hour, and at the next it was
barely over sixty. A speed of a mile a minute, however, is high
enough when passing through the heart of a city like South
Bend, Indiana. South Bend is understood to have a city
ordinance forbidding trains to run within the city limits at a
speed exceeding 15 miles an hour. But if any good citizen of
South Bend was shocked that morning at being waked from his
sleep by the roar of the flying train, it is to be hoped that
he forgot his resentment before evening. Then he knew that he
had been waked in a good cause, and that if the city ordinance
had been broken it was broken in good company—the world’s
record suffered with it.

To those inside the cars nothing but their watches told them
of the rate of speed. Of the party on board every man was
familiar with railway affairs; but there was not one who was
not surprised at the smoothness of the track and the complete
absence of uncomfortable motion. Only by lifting a window shade
and straining the eyes into the blackness of the night, to see
the red sparks streaming by or the dim outlines of house and
tree loom up and disappear, was it possible to appreciate the
velocity at which the train was moving.

Fifteen miles from South Bend the first stop was made, at
Elkhart, and one-sixth of the run was over—87.4 miles in
85.4 minutes, or a speed of 61.38 miles an hour.

That was good work; but it was not breaking records. It had
not been expected, however, that the best speed would be made
on this first stretch; and if there was any disappointment
among those on the train, it did not yet amount to
discouragement. It had been dark (and breaking records in the
dark is not as easy as in daylight), there had been curves and
grades to surmount, and, above all, it was now discovered that
a heavy frost lay on the rails.

At Elkhart there was a change of engines, two minutes and
eleven seconds being consumed in the process, and at three
minutes before five o’clock (4 hours, 57 minutes, 4 seconds)
the wheels were moving again.

The frost that was on the rails was felt inside the cars. It
was not an occasion when an engineer would have steam to spare
for heating cars; and the group that were huddled in the glare
of the gaslight were muffled in blankets and heavy overcoats.
[pg 252] Outside, the dawn was
coming up from the east to meet us—as lovely a dawn as
ever broke in rose-color and flame. As the daylight grew, we
were able to see how complete the arrangements were for the
safety of the run. At every crossing, whether of railway,
highway, or farm road, a man was posted—1,300 men in
all, it is said, along the 510 miles of line. Apart from
these solitary figures, no one was yet astir to see the
wonderful sight of the brilliantly lighted train—for
the shades were lifted now—rushing through the
dawn.

THE ENGINEERS WHO BROUGHT FROM CHICAGO TO BUFFALO THE
FASTEST TRAIN EVER RUN.

Mark Floyd; D.M. Luce; James A. Lathrop.

MARK FLOYD—FROM CHICAGO TO ELKHART.

D.M. LUCE—FROM ELKHART TO TOLEDO.

JAMES A. LATHROP—FROM TOLEDO TO CLEVELAND.

J.R. GARNER—FROM CLEVELAND TO
ERIE.

WILLIAM TUNKEY, WHOSE UNPRECEDENTED RUN
FROM ERIE TO BUFFALO SAVED THE DAY.

At Kendallville, 42 miles from Elkhart, the speed, in spite
of an adverse grade, was 67 miles an hour. Here—the
highest point on the line above the sea—the Grand Rapids
and Indiana Railroad crosses the Lake Shore track at right
angles, and a train was standing waiting for us to
pass—the engine shrieking its good wishes to us as we
flew by. At Waterloo, twelve miles further on, a clump of early
pedestrians stood in the street to gaze, and two
women—wives, doubtless, of railway hands who had learned
what was in progress—were out on the porch of a cottage
to see us pass. And it must have been a sight worth seeing, for
we were running at 70 miles an hour now, with 60 miles of
tangent ahead of us. At Butler, seven miles beyond, we passed a
Wabash train on a parallel track, which made great show of
travelling fast. Perhaps it was doing so—moving,
perchance, at 40 miles an hour. But we were running at 72, and
the Wabash train slid backwards from us at the rate of half a
mile a minute; and still our pace quickened to 75 miles an
hour, and 78, and 79, and at last to 80. But that speed could
not be held for long.

The sun was above the horizon now, and the long straight
column of smoke that we left behind us glowed rosy-red; and all
the autumn foliage of the woods was ablaze with color and
light. But as the sunlight struck the rails the frost began to
melt; and a wet rail is fatal to the highest speeds. The
80-mile-an-hour mark, touched only for a few seconds, was not
to be reached again on this division. During the next 47 miles,
to Toledo, 64, 65, and 66 miles were reached at times; and when
for the second time the train came to a standstill it was one
minute after seven, and the 133.4 miles from Elkhart had been
made in 124.5 minutes—or at 64.24 miles an hour. This was
better than the run to Elkhart—and good enough in itself
to beat the English figures. But it was not what had been
expected of the “air line division,” with its 69 miles of
tangent and favorable grades; and, taking the two divisions
together, 220 miles of the 510 were gone, and we were as yet,
thanks to the frost, below the record which we had to beat.

The time spent in changing engines at Toledo was 2 minutes
and 28 seconds, and at 7.04.07 the train was sliding out of the
yards again. Coming out of Toledo the railway runs over a
drawbridge; and boats on the river below have right of way. But
not on such an occasion as this; for there,
[pg 253] waiting patiently, lay a
tug tied up to a pier of the bridge, with her tow swinging
on the stream behind her.

If the record was to be beaten for the first half of the
run, the speed for the next thirty miles would have to be
nearly 70 miles an hour. Each individual mile was anxiously
timed, and at 12 miles from Toledo the speed was already 66
miles an hour. Nor did it stop there, but 10 miles further on a
stretch of 3½ miles showed a rate of 73.80 miles an
hour, and the next 5½ miles were covered at the rate of
71.40.

It would not take much of such running to put us safely
ahead of the record at the half-way point; but even as hope
grew, there was a sudden jar and grinding of the wheels which
told of brakes suddenly applied. What was the matter? It takes
some little time to bring a train to a standstill when it is
running at over 70 miles an hour; and there was still good
headway on when we slid past a man who yet held a red flag in
his hand. Evidently he had signalled the engineer to stop. But
why? Windows were thrown up, and before the train had stopped,
heads were thrust out. The engineer climbed down from his cab.
From the rear platform the passengers poured out, until only
the time-keepers were left on the train, sitting watch in hand
to catch the exact record of the stop and the start. And
already, before his voice could be heard, the man with the flag
was brandishing his arms in the signal to “go ahead;” and no
one cared to stop to question him.

The stop was short—only a few seconds over two
minutes, but the good headway of 70 miles an hour was lost; and
as the wheels moved again, it was a sullen and dispirited party
on the train. Just as the hope of winning our uphill fight had
begun to grow strong, precious minutes had been lost; and for
what reason none could guess. The common belief on the train
was that the man, in excess of enthusiasm at the speed which
the train was making, had lost his head, and waved his red flag
in token of encouragement. It subsequently transpired that he
was justified, an injury to a rail having been discovered which
might have made the passage at great speed dangerous; but,
until that fact was known, the poor trackman at Port Clinton
was sufficiently abused.

On the 70 miles that remained of this division there was no
possibility that such a speed could be made as would put the
total for the first half of the run above the record. Once it
was necessary to slow down to take water from the track, and
once again for safety in rounding the curve at Berea. Between
these points there were occasional bursts of speed when 68 and
70 miles an hour were reached; and after Berea was passed,
there remained only 13 miles to Cleveland. But in those 13
miles was done the fastest running that had been made that day;
for 7 miles to Rockport were covered at the rate of 83.4 miles
an hour, and at Rockport itself the train must have been
running nearly a mile and a half in a minute.

It was a gallant effort; and, but for “the man at Port
Clinton,” there is no doubt that by that time the success of
the run would have been reasonably assured. As it was,
Cleveland was reached at ten minutes to nine (8.50.13), the 107
miles from Toledo having been covered in 109 minutes—from
which two minutes and five seconds were to be deducted for the
time in which the train was at rest at Port Clinton. In all, so
far, 328½ miles [pg 254] had been run at a speed of
62.16 miles an hour.

“It may be done yet,” people told each other, but there was
little confidence in the voices which said it.

The stop at Cleveland was a good omen, for the change of
engines was made in a minute and forty-five seconds, and it was
soon evident that Jacob Garner, the new engineer, understood
that he had a desperate case in hand. Before ten miles were
covered the train was travelling more than a mile in a minute.
Twenty-eight miles from the start, in spite of an adverse
grade, six miles were covered at the rate of 74.40 miles an
hour; and from there on mile after mile flew past, and station
after station, and still the speed showed 70 miles and upwards.
Through Ashtabula, haunted with the memory of railway disaster,
we burst, and on to Conneaut and Springfield; and, even against
hope, hope grew again. Twelve miles from Springfield is the
little town of Swanville, and here the high-water mark of 83.4
miles at the end of the last division was beaten; for the 6.2
miles from there to Dock Junction were made in 4.4
minutes—or at the speed of 84.54 miles an hour.

As has been said, it was hoping only against hope. But to
despair was impossible in the face of such running; and when
Erie, 8½ miles beyond Dock Junction, was reached, the
95½ miles from Cleveland had been done in 85½
minutes, at an average speed of 67.01 miles an hour. The
average speed for the whole distance from Chicago was now 63.18
miles an hour, which was crawling close up to the record. But
424 miles had been covered, and only 86 miles remained. If the
record was to be beaten, the speed for those 86 miles would
have to average over 70 miles an hour.

Was it possible to do such a thing? It never had been done,
of course, in all the world; but the essence and the object of
the whole day’s run were that it should defy all precedent.
There were few people, however, of those on board who in their
hearts dared harbor any hope; especially as the engine which
was to be tried at this crucial moment was a doubtful
quantity.

All the engines used upon this run were built by the Brooks
Locomotive Works, of Dunkirk, N.Y., after designs by Mr. George
W. Stevens, of the Lake Shore road. The first four engines,
which had hauled the train as far as Erie, were of what is
known as the American type—eight-wheelers, comparatively
light, but built for fast speeds. These locomotives weighed
only 52 tons, with 17 by 24-inch cylinders and 72-inch
driving-wheels. They had been doing admirable work in service,
having been built to haul the famous “Exposition Flyer” in
1893; and that they were capable of very high speeds, for short
distances at least, even with a fairly heavy train, had been
shown in the earlier stages of this run, when all had reached a
speed of 70 miles an hour, and two had touched and held a speed
of well over 80.

The last engine was of a different type, and a type which
among experts has not been considered best adapted to extremely
high speeds. Somewhat heavier than its predecessors (weighing
56½ tons in working order), this engine was a
ten-wheeler, with three pairs of coupled drivers and a
four-wheeled swivelling truck. It had the same small cylinders
(17 by 24 inches), and driving-wheels of only 68 inches
diameter. It was a bold experiment to put such an engine to do
such work; and nothing could well be devised for fast speeds
more unlike the magnificent engine “No. 999,” which was built
in the New York Central Railroad shops at West Albany, and is
the glory of the New York Central road, or than the London and
Northwestern compound engine with its 88-inch driving-wheels,
or the Caledonian locomotive (which did the best running in the
English races) with its 78-inch drivers and cylinders 18 by 26
inches.

It was now after ten o’clock in the morning; and at Erie
crowds had assembled at the station to see the train go out,
for news of what was being done had by this time gone abroad.
The platforms, too, at every station from Erie to Buffalo were
thronged with people as we went roaring by. In Dunkirk (through
which we burst at 75 miles an hour) crowds stood on the
sidewalks and at every corner. To describe the run for those 86
miles in detail would be impossible, or to put into words the
tension of the suppressed excitement among those on board the
train as miles flew by and we knew that we were travelling as
men had never travelled before.

For those who had misgivings as to the possibilities of the
type of engine there was a surprise as soon as she picked up
the train. She must have reached a speed of a mile a minute
within five miles from the first movement of the wheels. The
first eight miles were finished in 8 minutes, 49 seconds. From
there on there was never an instant of slackening pace. From 60
miles an hour the velocity rose to 70; from
[pg 255] 70 to 80; from 80, past the
previous high-water marks, to 85 and 90, and at last to over
92.

Trains have been timed for individual miles at speeds of
over 90 miles before. There is even said to be on record an
instance of a single mile run at 112 miles an hour. But never
before has an engine done what the ten-wheeler did that day,
when it reached 80 miles an hour and held the speed for half an
hour; reached 85 miles an hour and held that for nearly ten
minutes; reached 90 miles and held that for three or four
consecutive miles. A speed of 75 miles an hour (a mile and a
quarter a minute) was maintained for the whole hour, and the 75
miles were actually covered in the 60 minutes. The entire 86
miles were done in 70 minutes 46 seconds,—an average
speed of 72.91 miles an hour. In the English run, a speed of
68.40 miles was maintained for an even hour, 69 miles being
done in 60.5 minutes; and 141 miles were run at an average
speed of 67.20 miles an hour.

To word it otherwise, the American train covered 7 miles
more in its fastest hour than did the English train. The speed
which the English engines held for 141 miles the American
engines held for over 200—181 miles being made at 69.67
miles an hour.

The most remarkable figures in the American run are given in
the following table:

A single mile was also timed (unofficially) at the speed of
92.3 miles an hour.

Here is the schedule of the last division:

So remarkable are these figures, considering the type of
engine used, that an English technical journal has, since the
run was made, scientifically demonstrated to its own
satisfaction that it was an impossibility. Well, it is the
impossible which sometimes happens.

Through all the running at these wonderful speeds the train
moved with singular smoothness. Moments there were of some
anxiety, when the cars swung round a curve or dashed through
the streets of a town. At such times there were those among the
passengers who would perhaps gladly have sacrificed a few
seconds of the record. Except for those occasions, however,
there was nothing to tell of the extraordinary
speed—nothing unless one stood on the rear platform of
the last car and saw the swirling cloud of dust and leaves and
bits of paper, even of sticks and stones, that were sucked up
into the vacuum behind, and almost shut out the view of the
rapidly receding track. It may be (it certainly will be) that
the average of 65.07 miles an hour for a distance of 510 miles
will be beaten before long. It is almost certain that the same
engines on the same road could beat it in another
trial—taking a slightly lighter train, running by
daylight and over a dry rail. It will be long, however, before
such another run is made as that over the last 86 miles by the
ten-wheeler, with William Tunkey in charge. Railway men alone,
perhaps, understand the qualities which are necessary in an
engineer to enable him to make such a run; and the name of
Tunkey is one (however unheroic it may sound) which railway men
will remember for many years to come. An analysis of the
figures given above will show that it was not until within 20
miles of the end of the run that there was any confidence that
the record was broken; and not until the run was actually
finished and the watches stopped for the last time, at 34
seconds after half-past eleven, that confidence was changed to
certainty.

In addition to the mere speed, everything combined to make
the run supremely dramatic—the disappointment over the
first divisions—the growing hopes dashed by the
unexpected flag—the increase of hope again on the run to
Erie—the misgivings as to the type of engine—all
culminating in the last tremendous burst of speed and the
triumphant rush into Buffalo station.

And having left Chicago at half-past three in the morning,
at half past-ten that night I sat and watched Mr. John Drew on
the stage of a New York theatre.

[pg 256]

A CENTURY OF PAINTING.

NOTES DESCRIPTIVE AND CRITICAL.—A PROVINCIAL SCHOOL OF
ART IN ENGLAND.—THE PRECURSOR OF MODERN ART,
CONSTABLE.—THE SOLITARY GENIUS OF TURNER.—THE
ENGLISH SCHOOL OF PORTRAITURE.—ROMNEY, OPIE, HOPPNER, AND
LAWRENCE.

By Will H. Low.

AT the period when in France David and his
followers had resuscitated a dead and gone art, and by dint of
governmental patronage had infused into it a semblance of life,
across the Channel, in a provincial town of England, a little
group of painters were quietly doing work which, if it did not
in itself change the face of modern art, was at least
indicative of the change soon to be accomplished by the advent
of Constable.

The leader of this group, which has been of late years in
the hands of zealous amateurs and dealers elevated to the rank
of “school,” was John Crome, born at Norwich, December 22,
1768. The son of a publican, he was first an errand boy to a
local physician and afterwards apprenticed to a sign painter.
Without instruction, hampered by an early marriage, he forsook
his occupation, and sought to paint landscapes; meanwhile
finding in the houses of the neighboring gentry pupils in
drawing. The lessons gave him a living; and in the houses where
he taught were many Dutch pictures which he carefully studied,
so that he is in a sense a follower of the Holland school. But
his greatest and best teacher was the quiet Norfolk country;
and the environs of Norwich, from which he seldom strayed,
found in him an earnest student.

GEORGE ROMNEY, PAINTER OF “THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER,”
SHOWN ON PAGE 257. FROM A MEDALLION BY THOMAS HALEY.

In 1805, in conjunction with his son (the younger Crome) and
Cotman, Stark, and Vincent, Crome founded at Norwich an
artists’ club, where the members exhibited their pictures and
had a large studio in common. Some of the members of the
Norwich “school,” a title to which none of them in their own
time pretended, left their native town, and went to London; but
its founder remained true to the city of his birth, where he
died April 22, 1821. Late in life he visited Paris, where the
Louvre still held the treasures of Europe, garnered after every
campaign by Napoleon; and his enthusiasm for the great Dutch
painters found fresh nourishment.

It is by this link in the great chain of art that Crome
gained his first consideration in the world’s esteem; but more
important to us of to-day is the fact that he was the first of
his century to return to nature. No evil that the frivolous
eighteenth century had wrought, or that the classicism of the
early years of the nineteenth had perpetuated in art, was so
great as the substitution of a conventional type of picture
instead of that directly inspired by nature; and this
artificial standard, which diverted figure painting from its
legitimate field, bore even more heavily on the art of
landscape painting.

Crome, by his isolation at Norwich, escaped this tendency.
The Norwich painters, however, were, to a certain degree, an
accident. In the London of their time, the almost total
cessation of intercourse with continental Europe, due to the
war with France, had not prevented the academical standard from
penetrating and taking root. The independence of Hogarth in the
preceding century had been without result; and Sir Joshua
Reynolds, in principle if not always in practice, had preached
the doctrine [pg 257] of submission to accepted
formulas. Benjamin West, who had succeeded him as president
of the Royal Academy, was little but an academic formula
himself; and landscape (whose greatest representative had
been, until his death in 1782, Richard Wilson, a painter of
merit, who had united to a charming sense of color an
adherence to the strictest classical influence) was
wallowing in the mire of conventionality.

THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER. FROM A PAINTING BY GEORGE ROMNEY
IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

This portrait, from an unknown model, gives Romney with
all his charm and more than his usual sincerity.

To the London of 1800, however, were to be given two
landscape painters who may fairly claim the honor of placing
their art on a higher pinnacle than it had ever before reached.
One of them, John Constable, remains to-day the direct source
from which all representation of the free open air is derived,
be the painter Saxon, Gallic, or Teuton. The other, Joseph
Mallord William Turner, may be said to reach greater heights
than his contemporary; but, unlike him, his art is so based on
qualities peculiar to himself that he stands alone, though
having many imitators who have never achieved more than a
superficial resemblance to his work.

Constable, founding his work on nature with close observance
of natural laws, was able to exert an influence by which all
painters have since profited. When he came to London, at the
age of twenty-three, to study in the school of the Royal
Academy, he attracted the attention of Sir George Beaumont, an
amateur painter who, by his taste and social position, was
all-powerful in the artistic circles of the metropolis. It was
he who asked the young painter the famous question, “Where do
you place your brown tree?” this freak of vegetation being one
of the essential component parts of the properly constructed
academical landscape of the period. For a year or two the youth
placed brown trees, submissively enough, in landscapes
painfully precise in detail and deficient in atmosphere. Then
he did that which to a common, sensible mind would seem the
most obvious thing for a landscape painter to do, but which had
been [pg 258] done so rarely that the
simple act was the boldest of innovations. He took his
colors out of doors, and painted from nature.

JOHN CONSTABLE. FROM AN ENGRAVING BY LUCAS, AFTER A
PORTRAIT BY C.E. LESLIE.

Reproduced, by the courtesy of W.H. Fuller, from
“Memoirs of the Life of John Constable, Esq., R.A.,
Composed Chiefly of his Letters, by C.R. Leslie, R.A.”
Quarto, London, 1843. This noble memoir, which makes one
love the man as one admires the painter, is unfortunately
out of print.

Of the dreary waste of “historical” and arbitrarily composed
landscapes, even in the simpler honest productions of the Dutch
preceding this century, nearly all were painted from drawings;
color had been applied according to recipe; the brown tree was
rampant through all the seasons represented, from primavernal
spring to golden autumn. At the most, only studies in colors
were made out of doors—unrelated portions of pictures,
stained rather than painted, with timid desire to enregister
details. These were then transported to the studio, where they
underwent a process of arrangement, of “cookery,” as the
typically just French expression puts it; from which the
picture came out steeped in a “brown sauce,” conventional,
artificial, and monotonous, but pleasing to the Academy-ridden
public of the time. The young “miller of Bergholt”—for it
was there in the county of Suffolk that young Constable first
saw the light, on June 11, 1776—determined in 1803 to
have done with convention. He writes to a friend, one
Dunthorne, who had had much influence on his early life and was
his first teacher: “For the last two years I have been running
after pictures and seeking truth at second hand;” adding that
he would hereafter study nature alone, convinced that “there is
[was] room enough for a natural painter.”

FLATFORD MILL, ON THE RIVER STOUR. FROM A PAINTING BY
JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

This picture was given to the National Gallery by the
painter’s children. It is possibly one of three pictures on
which Constable obtained the gold medal of the Paris Salon
in 1822—the one which in the Salon catalogue is
entitled “A Canal.” The other two were “The Hay-Wain”
(shown on the next page) and “Hampstead Heath,” both now in
the National Gallery.

This was henceforth the aim of his life; and from constant
study out of doors he learned that natural objects exist to our
sight not isolated, but in relation one to another; that the
whole is more important than a part; and that the bark of a
tree, a minutely defined plant, or a conscientiously
geologically studied rock, may mar the effect of a whole
picture, while the scene to be represented has a character of
its own more subtle, more evanescent, but also infinitely more
true than any single element of which it is composed. More than
that, through living on such intimate terms with Mother Nature,
he learned to value the smiles of her sunshine, and to
cunningly adjust her cloud-veils when she frowned. His object
was no longer that of the earlier painters, who—and along
with others even faithful Crome—had aimed to paint a
“view” for its topographical value, suppressing or altering,
like mediocre portrait painters, any feature which was
[pg 259] thought to be displeasing.
Constable painted the moods of nature; the simplest subjects
seen under ever-varying effects of light were his choice;
and though his pictures bear the names of various places,
and divers existing features of these places are portrayed,
it is always the beauty of the scene, or that of the moment
of the day or night, which affects the spectator.

THE HAY-WAIN. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN
THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

This picture was first exhibited in the Royal Academy of
1821. It is also one of three exhibited by Constable in the
Paris Salon the following year. It is one of Constable’s
best known pictures. The thoroughly English character of
the scene, painted with truth and simplicity, makes it,
after a lapse of seventy-five years, as modern as though it
were painted yesterday.

By a public which was used to the conventional tones of the
older painters, and which understood or was interested in
Turner’s daring variations on the theme of classical landscape,
these fresh, simple pictures which to-day look so natural to us
were regarded with distrust. Not even the shepherd, much less
the warrior or the demigod, inhabited these quiet scenes. A
picture which any rural gentleman could see from his front
door, smacked too little of art for the modish town. Moreover,
Constable, no doubt sighing for something lighter and more
brilliant, was accustomed, in a vain effort to rival the clear
light of out-of-doors, to use the lightest colors of his
palette. On a varnishing day at the Royal Academy, the word was
passed around among the astonished painters that in portions of
his picture of the year Constable had actually used pure
white!

In 1829, however, the world moving, Constable was elected to
membership in the Royal Academy. The most notable triumph of
his life, though, befell seven years earlier, in 1822, when he
sent three pictures to be exhibited in the Salon in Paris. The
Hay-Wain, and Hampstead Heath, both at present in the National
Gallery, London, were of the three, and excited the greatest
enthusiasm among the group of young painters who, with
Delacroix at their head, were warring against the academic rule
imposed by David. Constable’s work thenceforward was the
dominant influence in France, and from it can be directly
traced the great group of landscape painters which we to-day
miscall the “Barbizon” school.

It is pleasant to recall that official honor—the first
which he received—came to Constable by the award of the
great gold medal of the Salon at this time. For a number of
years after this he sent his work to the successive Salons.
Pecuniary success, such as fell to the lot of Turner, was
[pg 260] never his; the first
painter who looked at nature in the open air “through his
temperament,” as Zola aptly expresses it, was perforce
contented to live a modest life at Hampstead, happy in his
work, grateful to nature who disclosed so many of her
secrets to him.

THE “FIGHTING TEMERAIRE” TUGGED TO HER LAST BERTH. FROM
A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER.

The “Fighting Téméraire” was a
line-of-battle ship of ninety-eight guns which Lord Nelson
captured from the French at the battle of the Nile, August
1, 1798. In the battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805, she
fought next to the “Victory”—the ship from which
Nelson commanded the battle, and aboard which, in the
course of it, he was killed. She was sold out of the
service in 1838, and towed to Rotherhithe to be broken up.
Turner’s painting was exhibited at the Royal Academy of
1839. His picture touched the popular heart, and though no
reproduction in black and white can approach the splendor
of color in the original, the engraving renders faithfully
the sentiment of the picture.

“I love,” he said, “every stile and stump and lane in the
village; as long as I am able to hold a brush, I shall never
cease to paint them.” He ceased to “hold a brush” on the 30th
of March, 1837.

Turner, who was born a year before Constable, on April 23,
1775, was, unlike the miller’s son of Bergholt, a child of the
city. He was born in London, in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden,
where his father was a hair-dresser; and when only fourteen
entered the Royal Academy schools as a student. The next year
he exhibited a drawing of Lambeth Palace; and in 1799 was made
an associate, and in 1802 a member, of the Royal Academy. His
career was probably more successful than that of any other
artist of modern times. Of his life the more that is said in
charity the better; for as the sun rises oftentimes from a fog
bank, so the luminous dreams of color by which we know Turner
emanated from an apparently sour, prosaic cockney. A bachelor
implicated in low intrigues, dying under the assumed name of
“Puggy Booth” in a dreary lodging in Chelsea, after a long
career of miserly observance and rapacious bickering—of
his life naught became him like the leaving. He died December
19, 1851. His will directed that his pictures—three
hundred and sixty paintings and nearly two thousand
drawings—should become the property of the nation, the
only condition attached being that two of the pictures should
be placed between two paintings by Claude Lorraine in the
National Gallery. Twenty thousand pounds were left to the Royal
Academy for the benefit of superannuated artists; and one
thousand pounds were appropriated for a monument in St. Paul’s,
where this curious old man knew the English people would be
proud to lay him.

For many years Turner had refused to sell certain of his
pictures; while for others,
[pg 261] and for the published
engravings after his work, he had exacted prices of a
character and in a manner that smacked of dishonesty. But as
in obscure and dingy lodgings his brain had evolved the
splendor of sunset and mirage, so, undoubtedly, his
imagination had foreshadowed the noble monument which the
Turner room at the National Gallery has created to his
memory.

JOSEPH MALLORD WILLIAM TURNER. FROM A DRAWING BY SIR
JOHN GILBERT.

This portrait, made many years ago, is a sketch from
life, and realizes the crabbed, sturdy painter, Turner, as
we may imagine him.

Turner’s work, as has been said before, is peculiarly his
own. It is true that in the earlier pictures the influence of
Claude Lorraine is evident; but upon this root is engrafted an
audacity in the conception of color, a research of luminosity
in comparison with which nearly all painting is eclipsed. That
this refulgence is tinged now and then with exaggeration, with
a forcing of effect that destroys the sense of weight and
solidity in depicted objects where this sense should prevail,
is certain. But it is not the least of his merits that he was
endowed with a sureness of taste which enabled him to avoid the
rock on which all his imitators have split—his work is
never spectacular. It is perhaps at its best when he has the
simple elements of sea and sky as his theme. Here, with the
intangible qualities of air and light, textureless and
diaphanous, he is most at home. When it becomes a question of
the representation of earth, buildings, or trees, one feels the
lack of loving subservience to nature; the spirit against which
the art of Constable is eloquent lurks here too much.

PEACE—BURIAL AT SEA OF THE BODY OF SIR DAVID
WILKIE. FROM A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER IN THE NATIONAL
GALLERY.

“The midnight torch gleamed o’er the steamer’s
side,

And merit’s corse was yielded to the tide.”

—Fallacies of Hope.

The “Fallacies of Hope” was an imaginary poem from which
Turner professed to quote whenever he wanted a line or a
couplet to explain his pictures, the avowed quotation being
really of his own composition. Sir David Wilkie, the
distinguished painter, died at sea on his way home from the
Orient, June 1, 1841. His body was consigned to the sea at
midnight of that day. The picture was exhibited at the
Royal Academy in 1842.

The stone-pines of Italy are seen through the distortion of
convention, the palaces of Venice were never builded by the
hand of man; and we lose by this the contrast which nature
provides between solid earth and filmy cloud. The onlooker must
indeed be devoid of imagination, however, if he can stand
before those pictures of Turner where the limitless sky is
reflected in the waters, without profound emotion. They may not
seem natural in such sense as one finds works of more
realistic aim; but one must at least agree with Turner, in the
time-worn story of the lady who taxed him with violation of
natural law, saying that she had never seen a sky like one in
the picture before them. “Possibly,” growled the unruffled
painter; “but don’t you wish you
could?”

[pg 262]

PORTRAIT OF A BOY. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN OPIE, IN THE
NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

This is believed to be a portrait of the
painter’s younger brother, William Opie.

Another phase of art—English, like that of Constable
and Turner—rose to its greatest popularity at about the
same time. It had an origin more easily traceable—the
presence of Vandyke in England in the seventeenth century
having given an impulsion to portrait painting which had been
maintained by Reynolds and Gainsborough in the century
preceding our own. George Romney, who was born at Dalton, in
Lancashire, December 15, 1734, divided with these last two
painters the patronage of the great and wealthy of his time. He
was but eleven years younger than Reynolds, and seven years the
junior of Gainsborough; but by the fact of his living until
November 15, 1802, he may be considered in connection with the
painters of this century. He possessed great facility of brush,
which led him occasionally into careless drawing, and he lacked
the refined grace of Reynolds and the simple charm of
Gainsborough. Nevertheless, a superabundance of the qualities
which go to make up a painter were his, and his art is less
affected by influences foreign to his native soil than that of
any painter of his time.

Romney was preëminently a painter of women, as were the
majority of his followers—English art at that time being
possessed of more sweetness than force. Lady Hamilton, the
Circe who succeeded in ensnaring the English Ulysses, Nelson,
was a frequent model for Romney, and the list of notable names
of the fair women whose beauty he perpetuated would be a long
one. His life offers one of the most curious examples of the
engrossing nature of a painter’s work, if we accept this as the
explanation of his strange conduct. Having come to London from
Kendal in 1762, leaving his wife and family behind him in
Lancashire, [pg 263] he remained in the
metropolis for thirty-seven years, making, during this time,
but two visits to the place which he never ceased to
consider his home. It does not appear that anything but
absorption in work was the cause of this neglect. His wife
and children remained all the time in their northern home.
In 1799, three years before his death, the husband and
father awoke to a realization of their existence, and
returned to live with them.

JOHN HOPPNER. FROM A DRAWING BY GEORGE DANCE, NOVEMBER
10, 1793.

John Opie, known as the “Cornish genius” when his first
works, executed at the age of twenty, were exhibited in the
Royal Academy, was a pupil of Sir Joshua Reynolds. He was born
at Truro in May, 1761, the son of a carpenter. His precocity
attracted the notice of Dr. Wolcot (“Peter Pindar”), who
introduced him to Reynolds.

Opie is thoroughly English in his manner, having, however,
more affiliation to Hogarth and the earlier painters of his
century than to his master. A certain hardness and lack of
color are his principal defects; but, on the other hand, his
work is sincere to a degree which none of the other painters of
his time show, preoccupied as were even the best of them by a
somewhat conventional type of beauty. He was appointed
professor of painting at the Royal Academy in 1805, but
delivered only one course of lectures, dying, at the age of
forty-six, April 9, 1807.

PORTRAIT OF A LADY. FROM A PAINTING KNOWN AS “THE CORAL
NECKLACE,” BY JOHN HOPPNER.

From the collection of George A. Hearn of New York, by
whose courtesy it appears here. Quaint and charming as a
picture, of great beauty of color in the original, this is
an admirable example of this painter. The original painting
is at present on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, New
York.

During the last quarter of the eighteenth century and the
first years of the nineteenth, the fashionable portrait
painters of London were John Hoppner and Sir Thomas Lawrence.
The latter, living twenty years longer than Hoppner, was able
to generously say of him, in a letter written shortly after
Hoppner’s death: “You will believe that I sincerely feel the
loss of a brother artist from whose works I have often gained
instruction, and who has gone by my side in the race these
eighteen years.”

Born in Whitechapel, London, April 4, 1758, Hoppner’s first
vocation was that of chorister in the Chapel Royal. By lucky
accident his first efforts at painting attracted the attention
of the king, George III., who granted him a small allowance
which enabled him to study in the Royal Academy, where, in
1782, he gained the medal for oil painting. He first exhibited
in 1780, and for some years devoted himself to landscape.
Gradually changing to portraiture, he was appointed portrait
painter to the Prince of
[pg 264] Wales in 1789, and in 1793
he was made an associate of the Academy, receiving full
membership in 1795. For twenty years and until his death,
January 23, 1810, he was extremely successful, and his
productions, though less in number than those of Reynolds,
or his contemporary, Lawrence, were numerous. In the course
of thirty years he contributed one hundred and sixty-six
works to the Academy exhibitions. These were chiefly
portraits of women and children, and are marked by
unaffected grace and appreciation of character.

PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

This picture, in the National Gallery, London, has
inscribed on the canvas: “Lady Giorgiana Fane; 1800.
Æt 5.” It shows Lawrence’s method of treating a
child’s portrait, in the style dear to our ancestors, as a
“fancy” portrait. It is also typical of his pronounced
mannerism, which would lead one to believe that before the
days of photography sitters were easily contented on the
score of resemblance. The head in this picture, for
instance, is almost identical with that of Napoleon’s son
in the “Roi de Rome,” executed fifteen years later.

[pg 265]

MRS. SIDDONS. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

The greatest of all English actresses, at least in
tragic parts—is the common judgment on Mrs. Siddons.
She was almost born and reared on the stage, her father,
Roger Kemble, being the manager of a travelling company of
actors, with one of whom, William Siddons, she had married
when she was eighteen. She was born at Brecon, in Wales,
July 5, 1755, and had already attained to some distinction
as an actress in 1775, when she made her first appearance
in London. From then until her retirement in 1812 her
career was a succession of triumphs. She died in London,
June 8, 1831. Naturally, she was a favorite subject with
the portrait painters of her time. The sweet-faced girl
shown in the above portrait has as little resemblance to
the stately lady of Gainsborough, or the “Tragic Muse” of
Sir Joshua Reynolds, as it has to our imagination of what a
“tragic queen” should be. The picture is, nevertheless, a
portrait of the Mrs. Siddons, and was presented to
the National Gallery, London, where it now is, by her
daughter, Mrs. Cecelia Combe, in 1868.

Time has enhanced the value of Hoppner’s work somewhat at
the expense of his great rival, Lawrence. While the latter
remains, from youth to comparative old age, a most astonishing
example of facile and brilliant execution, the less obtrusive,
possibly more timid, attitude of Hoppner in the presence of
nature gives him a greater claim to our sympathy to-day. He was
apparently preoccupied above all in rendering the individual
characteristics of his sitter; and there are many instances in
his work where a painter can see that he has chosen to retain
certain qualities of resemblance, rather than risk their loss
by an exhibition of bravura painting. Sir Thomas
Lawrence is one, on the contrary, before whose pictures it is
felt that the principal question has been to make it first of
all a typical example of his
work.

[pg 266]

LADY BLESSINGTON. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

This portrait of the gifted and brilliant woman who, as
Lady Blessington, and the intimate friend of Count d’Orsay,
alternately shocked and ruled the literary London of
Byron’s time, is representative of Lawrence’s extreme
mannerism; but, despite its “keepsake” prettiness, has
great charm. Besides her distinguished beauty, Lady
Blessington offered much, in her life and surroundings, to
inspire a painter. Born in Ireland in 1789, she was forced
at fourteen into marrying one Captain Farmer. She could not
live with him, and they separated after three months.
Farmer was killed in 1817, and the next year she married
the Earl of Blessington. Then began that brilliant social
career by virtue of which her fame now most survives. Her
house became the resort of the most distinguished people of
the time; and she herself, by her remarkable grace,
cleverness, and vivacity, ever kept pace with the best of
her company. She derived a large estate from her husband at
his death, in 1829; and besides, for nearly twenty years
she had ten thousand dollars a year from her novels (for
she was also an author); but she lived most profusely, and
had finally, in company with Count d’Orsay, to flee from
her creditors. She died in Paris, June 4, 1849.

Lawrence, born at Bristol, May 4, 1769, was the son of the
landlord of the Black Bear Inn at Devizes; and the child was
not yet in his teens when some chalk drawings of his father’s
customers gave him a local reputation. We are told that “at the
age of ten he set up as a portrait painter in crayons at
Oxford; and soon after took a house at Bath, the then
fashionable watering-place, where he immediately met with much
employment and extraordinary success.” When seventeen, his
success called him to London, where in 1791, though under the
age required by the laws of the Academy, he was elected as
associate when twenty-two. The year before, he had painted the
portraits of the king and queen; in 1794 he was made
Academician, in 1815 was knighted, in 1820 was unanimously
elected President of the Royal Academy, and in 1825 was created
chevalier of the Legion of Honor in France.

This list of official honors is but little in comparison
with the success which he had socially. Of a charming
personality, he was admitted to the intimacy of all that Europe
boasted of aristocracy and royalty. In 1815 he went to the
congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, where his facile brush portrayed
the august features of the allied sovereigns assembled there.
He contributed, from 1787 to 1830 inclusive, three hundred and
eleven pictures to the exhibitions of the Royal Academy.

It goes without saying that production of this quantity
cannot be in every instance of the first quality. But the
average merit of Lawrence’s work is nevertheless of a high
order. Of feminine charm (like many of his time and many of his
predecessors) he was a master; no one has ever succeeded better
in giving a certain aristocratic bearing to his sitters than
he. It can be accounted a fault that this becomes somewhat
stereotyped—that we feel that, were it wanting in the
person before him, the amiable Sir Thomas could easily supply
it. The English race has not changed so much in the short
period which has elapsed since his time that the demeasurably
large and liquid eyes, the swan-like necks, and the sloping
shoulders, which mark it as his own in Lawrence’s work, should
be to-day of more rare occurrence. With this great and
important limitation, among the pictures of Lawrence can be
found a certain number of canvases, not always the most
typical, of exceeding merit. Few men have ever conveyed better
the impression of the depth and living quality of an eye, nor
have many painters succeeded in giving to every part of their
canvas the same qualities of color and brilliancy of execution
as he.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. AFTER A PAINTING BY CHARLES
LANDSEER.

[pg 267]

MISS BARRON, AFTERWARDS MRS. RAMSEY. FROM A PAINTING BY
SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

This picture, owned by R.H. McCormick of Chicago, by
whose courtesy it is here reproduced, represents Lawrence
in his least mannered aspect. The simplicity of young
girlhood is well expressed, the head is drawn and modelled
with great subtlety, and we are fortunate to have so good
an example of Lawrence’s work in this country.

Lawrence died in his beautiful house on Russell Square in
London, surrounded by rare works of art which he had collected,
on January 7, 1830. Nine years later Sir William Beechey, born
at Burford in Oxfordshire in 1753, died in London at the age of
eighty-six. He had come to London in 1772; and in 1798, having
acquired consideration and a lucrative practice as a portrait
painter, and after having painted a picture, now at Hampton
Court, representing the king, George III., the Prince of Wales,
and the Duke of York at a review, he was knighted. The same
year saw his election to the Academy, of which he had been an
associate since 1793.

One of Beechey’s distinctions is to have outnumbered even
Lawrence in his contributions to the Academy, as three hundred
and sixty-two of his works appeared on its walls. Of hasty
execution or too great dependence on a dangerous facility,
there is, however, little trace in his work. He was occupied
exclusively with painting; he
[pg 268] lived more than twenty
years longer than Lawrence, and was never diverted by the
claims of society upon his time. With his healthy, English
color, recalling Reynolds, a sober style not devoid of
charm, he is fairly typical of his time; and may fitly close
this brief review of the earlier English portraitists. Their
task has never been taken up by their successors in art,
English portraiture to-day having much the same qualities
and defects which mark the contemporaneous painters of all
nations.

PORTRAIT OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. FROM A PAINTING BY
SIR WILLIAM BEECHEY.

The original painting is now in the museum of the
Louvre, and is a picture charming in color—the warm
white of the dress, and the rich surroundings, in the
manner of Reynolds, making an admirable foil to the
children’s heads.

The exclusive choice of feminine portraits in this article
has been dictated by a desire to show, in the space at command,
the painting most typical of the time and people. While all
these painters produced portraits of men, their work in this
field was, as a rule, inferior to the art of France. Lawrence
is perhaps an exception; as it would seem that occasionally in
the presence of a masculine sitter he rose superior to his
manner and, painting with all sincerity, gave his remarkable
gifts full play. The lack, however, of serious training in
drawing, the over-reliance on charm of color and sentiment,
give to the English work a degree of weakness as compared with
the thorough command of form and austere fidelity to
resemblance that was preached to the French with “drawing is
the probity of art” for a text.

[pg 269]

GARFIELD IN 1881, WHILE PRESIDENT. AGE 49.

From a photograph by Handy,
Washington.

THE TRAGEDY OF GARFIELD’S ADMINISTRATION.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES AND RECORDS OF CONVERSATIONS.

By Murat Halstead.

JAMES A. GARFIELD, twentieth President of the
United States, had the good fortune to be a boy long after he
reached the years of manhood. This fact is the key to his
character and the explanation of his career. His boyishness was
not lack of manhood; it was a lingering youthfulness of spirit,
a keen susceptibility of impression, an elasticity of mind, a
hearty enjoyment of his strong life, a tenderness and freshness
of heart, an openness to friend and foe, something of deference
to others, and of diffidence, not without understanding of and
confidence in his own powers. He was youthful with the noble
youth of the fields and schools and churches, of the farms and
villages of the West, when he became a member of the
legislature of [pg 270] Ohio, from which he passed
into the army, that was like a university to him. As a
soldier he was typically a big, brave boy, powerful, ardent,
amiable, rejoicing in his strength. In eastern Kentucky he
led his regiment in its first fight. He found out where the
enemy were, and pulling off his coat—the regulation
country style of preparing for battle—headed a
foot-race straight for “the rebs,” and routed them. It was
literally a case of “come on, boys.” Those opposed, so to
speak, thought the devil possessed the robust young man in
his shirt-sleeves.

GARFIELD IN 1863, THE YEAR IN WHICH, AT THE AGE OF 32,
AND WITH THE RANK OF MAJOR-GENERAL, HE RETIRED FROM THE
ARMY TO BECOME A MEMBER OF CONGRESS.

From a photograph by Handy,
Washington.

When Garfield was President, he was asked whether he ever
thought, before his nomination for the office, that he was
likely to fill it, and his answer was curious and
characteristic of his manner of expression. He said he supposed
all American young men reflected on that subject, and he had
done so—not with any serious concern, but as a remote
possibility. And he added, “I have fancied the great public
personified and looking with an immense, a rolling, intense
eye, over the millions of the nation, to pick out future
Presidents, and thought as it swept along the ranks the eye
might give me a glance, and that perhaps the meaning of it was:
I may want you—some time.”

It was my theory, as the editor of an important journal in
Ohio during the time General Garfield served in Congress, that
he needed a good deal of admonition; that he had a tendency to
sentimentalism in politics that called for correction; that he
required paragraphs to brace him up in various affairs; that he
lacked a little in worldly wisdom, and maybe had a dangerous
tendency to giving and taking too much confidence; and that he
was disposed to dwell upon a mountain, and would be the better
off for an occasional taking-down with a shade of good-humored
sarcasm. He was still boyish about some things, and the
speculative men in public life sought to beguile him. He was
growing all the time, though. He was a student, and was brainy
and generous, and laughed at “able articles” even if they had
stings in them.

GARFIELD IN 1863.

From a photograph by Handy,
Washington.

Cincinnati knew him best as the Christian
orator—follower of Alexander Campbell—who preached
with a big voice and great earnestness at the corner of Walnut
and Eighth Streets. This was when he was a grand young man,
sure enough. Some time after, Congress found it out. After a
while the public knew Garfield as
[pg 271] one of the half dozen
strongest men in the country. Next to John Sherman he stood
the most commanding figure in Ohio politics, and was elected
Senator of the United States, his term commencing on the day
on which, as it happened, he was inaugurated President. He
was just realizing his ability, having had it measured for
him in the House of Representatives, and knew he was a force
in affairs. He enjoyed his dinners and dressed well, and was
of imposing presence: a good-natured giant—no
posing—no troublesome sense of grandeur—none of
the pomp affected by public men too conscious of
importance.

GARFIELD IN 1867, WITH HIS DAUGHTER. AT THIS TIME HE
WAS CHAIRMAN OF THE COMMITTEE ON MILITARY AFFAIRS, IN THE
LOWER HOUSE OF CONGRESS.

From a photograph by Handy,
Washington.

He suffered under the petty charge that he had been
influenced by a scrap of stock whose value might be affected by
Congressional action; and those who knew him well were aware
that his innocence of knowledge to do what he was charged with
doing, was absurd and itself proof that he was sound. He was,
by virtue of superior capacity, at the head of the Ohio
delegation [pg 272] to the Republican National
Convention of 1880, and was charged with the management of
the candidacy of John Sherman, Secretary of the Treasury,
for the Presidency—the most competent man in the
country for the office.

It had been thought for a time that the combination of
important men for a third term of General Grant would succeed,
as the glory of the General was very great and those who wanted
him for President again were able and resolute. Blaine had
hesitated for a moment whether to take the field; but learning
that Sherman would be in the race whether there was or was not
any other man a candidate in opposition to Grant, he made the
fight, and he and Sherman were the representative leaders
against the third term.

Their feeling was that they were not making war upon General
Grant, but upon those who sought to use his fame for their own
purpose, and they meant particularly Senator Conkling. General
Grant, at Galena, wrote a letter to Senator Cameron, and gave
it to John Russell Young, who handed it to Mr. Cameron, and it
disappeared. This letter was a frank and serious statement that
he desired not to be considered a candidate, and no doubt his
preference was the nomination of Mr. Conkling.

The interest of the great convention early centred in the
two tall men on the floor, the undoubted champions of the
contending forces, Conkling and Garfield; and the latter got
the first decided advantage in breaking the third term line
when Conkling demanded that the majority of the delegation of a
State should cast the entire vote. This was the famous unit
rule, the defeat of which was the first event of the
convention. Garfield and Conkling were foremost in the fray
because they were the most masterful men of the vast
assembly—nearly twenty thousand people under the
roof.

The advocates of the Old Commander for a third term were in
heavy force, and knew exactly what they wanted; and whenever
the convention met, as Senator Conkling usually walked in late,
he had a tumultuous reception. The opposition saw it was
necessary to counteract this personal demonstration, and
managed to hold Garfield back so that he should be later than
Conkling, and then they gave him salutations of unheard-of
exuberance far resounding; and this was the beginning of the
end. Garfield, because he was in person, position, and
transcending talent a leader, was transformed into a colossus
before the eyes of the convention, and was an appeal to the
imagination. When the nominating addresses were made, none was
heard by the whole multitude but those by Conkling and
Garfield. They stood on tables of reporters, and their voices
rang clear, through their splendid speeches, carrying every
word to the remotest corners; and the rivalry between the two
men became emphasized. Each had the sense to admire the effort
of the other, Conkling saying to the delegate by his side: “It
is bright in Garfield to speak from that place,” and it was a
good deal for him to say. More and more Garfield loomed as the
man who stood against Grant.

There had been a good many persons meantime saying that
neither Blaine nor Sherman could beat Grant, and that Garfield
was the man to do it. All who are familiar with our political
methods are aware of the frantic desire of the average
office-seeker, or practical politician, no matter what he
wants, to find out early all the possibilities of the next
Presidency; and it is esteemed a superb achievement to be among
the first to pick the man. The number of far-sighted citizens
on the subject of the eligibility of Garfield, as the
convention progressed, grew large. Governor Foster of Ohio did
not conceal his impression that the nomination of Garfield was
certain. In his opinion Sherman was not in the race, and
perhaps his judgment to that effect assisted the formation of
the current that finally flooded the convention. One man, a
delegate from Pennsylvania, voted for Garfield on every ballot,
and kept him before the people. I had telegrams from
correspondents of the Cincinnati “Commercial,” at Chicago,
several days before the nomination, evidently reflecting
Governor Foster’s opinions, and frequently repeated, until the
event justified them, saying Garfield would be the nominee. I
was that time slow to understand the situation, and protested,
against putting the “nonsense” on the wires, in telegrams that
after the event were held to signify lack of sagacity about
Garfield.

The first man who held decidedly Garfield would be nominated
was Mr. Starin of New York, who travelled with Senator Conkling
in a special car from the national capital to the convention,
and said on the way the nomination of Grant was not to be, and
that Blaine and Sherman could not carry off the prize, and that
therefore Garfield was to be the man. He made this point to the
Hon. Thomas L. James, the
[pg 273] Postmaster-General in
Garfield’s cabinet, between Harrisburg and Chicago. Mr.
Blaine regarded beating Grant at Chicago as no loss to the
General and no reflection on him, but rather as the best
thing for him; and that the true policy and purpose was to
beat Conkling, who committed the error in strategy, however
gallant the sentiment that inspired him, of committing
himself irretrievably to Grant—and though the
contested votes were all against him, he was unchangeable.
“No angle-worm nomination will take place
to-day”—meaning nothing feeble—was Mr.
Conkling’s oracular remark the morning of the day when the
Presidential destiny of the occasion was determined.

The drift toward Garfield was in so many ways announced
before the decisive hour that he could not be insensible of its
existence, and he was greatly disturbed. He said he would
“rather be shot with musketry than nominated” and have Sherman
think he had been unfaithful to his obligations as leader of
the forces for him. That Senator Sherman was offended is well
known; but so far as he felt that Garfield had been to blame,
it was due to the gossip, widely disseminated, that Garfield
was personally concerned in working his own “boom.” All that
was well threshed out long ago, and there is nothing tangible
in it to-day. The fact is, Garfield could not have worked a
personal scheme. He must have been defeated if he had tried it.
A movement on his part of that kind would have been fatal. On
the other hand, if he had got up to decline to be a candidate,
it would have been easy to say that he was making a nominating
speech for himself. It was not particularly difficult to call
Garfield a “traitor,” and the temptation to do it was because
he was so sensitive regarding that imputation in
politics—whatever hurts goes. He had no idea of
concealing anything, and told such queer stories as this:

The morning of his nomination—the fact that this was
from Garfield himself is certain—one of his relatives
from Michigan saw him and said: “Jim, you are going to be
nominated to-day. I had a dream about you last night, and
thought I was in the hall and there was something happening, I
could not tell what, when suddenly on every side the standards
of the States [names of the States on staffs locating the
delegations] were pulled from their places, and men ran to
where you were sitting, and waved them over your head.”
Garfield stated that this was certainly told him on the way to
his breakfast; and after the nomination the dreamer reappeared
and said: “What did I tell you, Jim? Why, the very thing I saw
in my dream last night, I saw in the convention to-day.”

The inside truth about the nomination was freely given by
Mr. Blaine, who, as the convention progressed, was studying the
proceedings with the surprisingly clear vision he possessed for
the estimation of passing events. He soon made up his mind that
his nomination could not happen, and that Sherman also was
impossible. They could not unite forces without losses.
Evidently there was a crisis at hand. There is something in a
convention that always tells the competent observer, near or
far, that decisive action is about to be taken. The evidence
appears of an intolerant impatience. Mr. Conkling was relying
upon the absolute solidity of his three hundred and five. Mr.
Blaine was a wiser man about the force of a tempest in a
convention, and would have preferred Sherman to Conkling. But
Conkling was quite as bitter toward Sherman as regarding
Blaine, even more so in his invective; and this grew out of the
custom-house difficulty that ultimately so deeply affected
General Arthur’s fortunes. There had to be a break
somewhere—to Grant from Sherman and Blaine, or from him
to them, or a rush to Conkling, or to Garfield, whose
conspicuity had constantly suggested it; and Blaine resolved
that the chance to rout the third-termers was to sweep the
convention by going for Garfield, and overwhelming him with the
rest, thus winning a double victory over Conkling.

It is a fact, and the one that makes certain the proposition
that Sherman could not have been nominated, that the majority
of the Blaine men from New York, turned loose by breaking the
unit rule—there were nineteen of them—preferred
Grant to Sherman. If the break by Blaine from himself had been
attempted, for Sherman, Grant would have been nominated if one
ballot had been decisive. But Blaine was able to transfer every
vote cast for him to Garfield, with the exception of that of a
colored delegate from Virginia; and this movement was managed
so as to overthrow all who strove to stand against it. Grant
was in the lead for thirty-four ballots, but on the
thirty-fourth there were seventeen votes for Garfield. On the
thirty-fifth ballot Garfield had three hundred and ninety-nine
votes, twenty-one majority over all. Blaine by telegraph had
outgeneralled Conkling, present and commanding in
person.

[pg 274]

The course of the proceedings of the convention from the
first was a preparation for the final scenes, the putting of
Garfield against Conkling and working up a rivalry between them
having a marked effect; and this was not so much for Garfield
as against Conkling. Garfield grieved to think Sherman would
misunderstand him, and was apprehensive as to the feeling of
the New York delegation. “How do your people feel about this?”
Garfield asked a New Yorker, when he had returned to his hotel
the nominee.

“Well, they feel badly and bitterly,” was the reply.

“Yes,” said Garfield, “I suppose they do. It is as
Wellington said, ‘next to the sadness of defeat, the saddest
moment is that of victory.'” This remark was quite in
Garfield’s method and manner.

Mr. Sherman’s failure was made inevitable in this, as in
other conventions, by the strange absence, always observable in
New York, of appreciation of the unparalleled services to the
country of his public labors culminating in the resumption of
specie payments. That is the real secret and chief fault of the
convention.

Ex-Governor Dennison of Ohio appeared at the headquarters of
the New York delegation after the Garfield nomination, and
Senator Conkling greeted him cordially. There Dennison said, so
that the whole delegation heard, that he was the bearer of a
message from the delegation of Ohio, that they would give a
solid vote for any man New York would be pleased to name for
Vice-President. “Even,” said Senator Conkling promptly, in his
finest cynical way, “if that man should be Chester A.
Arthur?”

Dennison’s answer was, after a moment, “Yes;” and Conkling
put the question of supporting Arthur to a vote, making a
motion that he was the choice of the delegation for the
Vice-Presidency, and it was carried immediately. This was
understood to be pretty hard on the Ohio people, including
especially Sherman and Garfield. Of course, under the lead of
New York and Ohio, the convention ratified the motion of
Conkling, and the ticket was Garfield and Arthur. And so ample
preparation was made for the bitterness of the coming
time—for the troubled administration of Garfield and its
tragic close.

GARFIELD’S ADMINISTRATION.

There have been limitations upon the candor of all persons
who have undertaken to write the story of the tragedy of the
administration of Garfield, and partisanism in personalities
has had too much attention. Mr. Conkling seemed to be the storm
centre, and it was difficult to deal with him and not to offend
him. It is well remembered that in his speech placing Grant in
nomination he quoted Miles O’Reilly:

If asked what State he hails from,

Our sole reply shall be—

He comes from Appomattox

And the famous apple tree.

On the way home, Governor Foster of Ohio, called out at Fort
Wayne, paraphrased the Senator thus:

If asked what State he hails from,

Our sole reply shall be—

He comes from old Ohio

And his name is General G.

This was not startling in any way, but Mr. Conkling had the
reputation of being very much offended by the parody.

It happens often in war, and sometimes in peace, that
newspaper correspondents send the real news privately to the
editor in charge, and give things as they ought to be in “copy”
for the printers. There are before me private letters written
by one well informed of that which was going on in the capital
city of Ohio immediately after the nomination of Garfield, and
a few extracts will turn the light on the inside of the affairs
of the Republicans of the nominee’s State at that
time—the news then being too strong for newspapers.

“July 10.—The plan to have Garfield go through New
York to Saratoga with Logan, Foster, and others has been given
up…. Logan and Cameron are all right, but Conkling refuses to
be pacified or conciliated, unless Garfield will make promises;
and that he refuses to do. Conkling said he’d ‘rather had to
support Blaine.’ Conkling never called upon Garfield, or
returned Garfield’s call, or answered Garfield’s note. Sherman
has been in cordial consultation with the committee, and
promised to do all he can honorably in his position [Secretary
of the Treasury]. Garfield appears well under fire, and is a
more manly character than ever before. He says no man could be
in a better position for defeat, if he has to get it. His
behavior has won the respect of the workers since the
convention.”

“July 11.—They all stand around and watch Conkling as
little dogs watch their [pg 275] master when he is in a bad
mood—waiting for him to graciously smile, and they
will jump about with effusive joy. A strong letter was
written urging Conkling, in the most flattering way, and
appealing to him in the most humble manner, to come to Ohio
and deliver a speech in the Cincinnati Music Hall, and
promising no end of thousands of people and bands and guns
and things, till you couldn’t rest. I opposed sending such a
missive, advocating such a simple and cordial invitation as
it is customary to extend to a leader and honest, earnest
party man. But they looked upon me (probably rightly, too)
as a fool who would rush in where angels fear to tread. And
now Jewell writes that he has not dared to give the letter
to Conkling yet, as he has not ‘deemed any moment yet as
opportune.’ Meanwhile Conkling and Arthur have gone off on a
two or three weeks’ fishing trip. Dorsey humbly and piously
hopes Conkling can be induced to make a speech in Vermont,
and if the Almighty happens to take the right course with
him, he may condescend to come to Ohio.”

This is a true picture of the way the campaign opened. Mr.
Sherman said something in an interview that was less cordial
than was expected and caused some temper, but the fault found
was not that he was accusative but reserved. Colonel Dick
Thompson made a ringing speech pledging the Hayes
administration without reserve; and that gave encouragement,
and was said to be for a time the only inspiration the
Republicans got to go for Garfield with good will and
confidence.

It was arranged to have General Garfield appear in New York
City, and it was expected that he would there meet Mr.
Conkling. There was to be a consultation of Republicans, and
the plan of the campaign perfected. The question of special
exertion in the Southern States was up. The conference came
off, and Mr. Conkling did not attend it. Mr. Arthur seemed very
much grieved about that. Mr. Logan was unwilling to speak in
the presence of reporters, and Mr. Blaine said he would be very
much disappointed if his speech was not reported. Thurlow Weed
made the speech of the occasion. The real object of the meeting
was to bring Garfield and Conkling together without making the
fact too obvious; and the disturbance of the candidate was
manifest in his references to the absent Senator as “my Lord
Roscoe.”

“I have,” said Garfield next day, “an invitation to make a
trip to Coney Island, and it means that I may there have a
pocket interview with my Lord Roscoe; but if the Presidency is
to turn on that, I do not want the office badly enough to go;”
and he did not go. The words are precisely Garfield’s; and the
next thing was the journey over the Erie line, and speeches by
Garfield, accompanied by General Harrison and Governor
Kirkwood, at every important place from Paterson to Jamestown.
That the General was capable of warm resentment, this letter
testifies:

MENTOR, OHIO, September 20,
1880.
I notice —— is parading through the country
devoting himself to personal assaults upon me. Why do not
our people republish his letter, which a few years ago
drove him in disgrace from the stump, and compelled the
Democracy to recall every appointment then pending? Of all
the black sheep that have been driven from our flock, I
know of none blacker than he, and less entitled to assail
any other man’s character.
Very truly yours,
J.A. GARFIELD.

The speaking on the line of the Erie road by Garfield,
Harrison, and Kirkwood was of a very high and effective
character. The man who did more to make peace than any other
was General Grant. Conkling had a genuine affection for him,
and consented to go with him to Mentor; and yet there was some
trifle always in the way of a complete understanding with the
old guard of the Third-Term Crusaders.

Garfield was very sensible of and grateful for the work done
by Grant and Conkling, and did not stint expression of his
feeling. The State of New York was carried by the Republicans,
and Garfield indisputably elected President of the United
States. There was a vast amount of worry in making up the
cabinet, and Mr. Conkling’s hand appeared, but not with a
gesture of conciliation. He and Garfield were of incompatible
temper. Each had mannerisms that irritated the other; and when
they seemed to try to agree, the effort was not a success.

As soon as the administration was moving the President was
under two fires: one in respect to the attempted reforms in the
postal service, and the other about the New York appointments.
Mr. Conkling did not seem able to understand that anything
could be done that was not according to his pleasure, without
personal offence toward himself. He was a giant, and that was
his weakness. It was Garfield’s ardent desire to be friendly
with the senior New York Senator; but one
[pg 276] position he avowedly
maintained. It was that he was not to blame for being
President of the United States; that he had taken the oath
of office, and was the man responsible to the people for the
administration, and he could not, dare not, shift that
obligation; and, more than that, he must give the
“recognition” due friends to the men who had aided him in
breaking down Mr. Conkling’s policy at Chicago. If that was
a crime he was a criminal. He was President, and he would be
true to his friends; and surely he should not be expected to
serve another man’s purpose by humiliating himself.

Conkling had taken part in the campaign at last, but that
was his duty at first. It is needless to refer to questions of
veracity—to what practical politicians call “promises.” A
polite phrase is twisted, by the many seized with fury to be
officers, to mean what is desired, though it may be but a mere
civility—the more marked probably because the President
knows he has only good words to give! There are always such
issues when there is patronage to be distributed, for, of
course, there is dissatisfaction. Everybody cannot be made
happy, with or without civil service reform; and it is no
effort, when the President says “Good morning,” and seems to be
obliging, and says he will take a recommendation into
consideration and if possible read the papers, and adds, “I
shall be glad to see you again,” to say, when he appoints
another to the coveted place, that he has falsified.

Mr. Conkling’s friends relate that he was about to go to the
White House and hold a consultation in which Mr. Arthur and Mr.
Platt were to participate, when he received a telegram in
cipher from Governor Cornell which, when translated, turned out
to be an urgent request that the Senator should vote to confirm
Robertson; and that this was regarded as insulting, and Mr.
Conkling refused to go to the White House, with a burst of
scorn about the dispensation of offices! This is not consistent
with the accusations that Garfield was influenced to be
perfidious. There are those who think there would have been
peace if it had not been for that Cornell telegram; but they
are of the manner of mind of the peacemakers of 1861, who
thought another conference would heal all wounded
susceptibilities. The source of discordance was not near the
surface; it was in the system of “patronage” and “recognition,”
and deep in the characteristics of the individuals.

It is not true that Mr. Blaine was fierce for war upon
Conkling; he thought a fight was inevitable, and that the time
for the President to assert himself was at the beginning; and
said so. “Fight now if at all,” said Blaine then to Garfield,
“for your administration tapers!” As to his personal wishes, he
was often overruled in the cabinet, and took it complacently.
But he was warlike on the point that the President was entitled
to be friendly with his friends, and must not be personally
oppressed.

One day Mr. Conkling in the Senate had one of the New York
appointments pleasing to him taken up and confirmed, leaving
half a dozen others, about evenly divided between his own and
the President’s favorites. Then came a crisis; and it was
represented to the President that he should pull those
appointments out of the Senate at once, before Conkling’s power
was further exhibited; and that if he did not, the bootblacks
at Willard’s would know that the Senator, and not the
President, was first in affairs. The appointments were
withdrawn, and it was perfectly understood that this withdrawal
signified that the President would not allow men to be
discriminated against because they were opposed to Conkling at
Chicago. A letter came from General Grant in Mexico, addressed
to Senator Jones of Nevada, and was published, reflecting upon
Garfield’s course; and at once the President wrote to the Old
Commander defending his administration. This was done as a
matter of personal respect. General Grosvenor of Ohio happened
to be in the President’s room when he mailed a copy of his
letter to General Grant, and read the duplicate that was
reserved. It was a very respectful and decisive statement. This
letter was personal to General Grant, and the rush of events
caused it to be reserved and finally forgotten, except by the
few who knew enough of it to value it as an historical
document.

There were but a few days of the four months between the
inauguration of President Garfield and his assassination that
he could be said to have had any enjoyment out of the great
office. It brought him only bitter cares, venomous criticisms,
lurking malice, covert threats ambushed in demands that were
unreasonable if not irrational. He felt keenly the accusation
that he had been nominated when his duty was due another; and
he was aware that friends had given color to accusation by a
zeal that was unseemly. He was pathetic
[pg 277] in his anxiety to be very
right; and only the assurance that Conkling was implacable
took the sting out of the haughty presumption he encountered
in that severe gentleman, whose egotism was so lofty it was
ever imposing, when it would have been absurd in any one
else.

During the summer and autumn of the campaign and the winter
following, President Garfield was subject to attacks of acute
indigestion that were distressing; and it was remembered with
concern that he had at Atlantic City suffered from a sunstroke
while bathing, and fallen into an insensible condition for a
quarter of an hour. The question whether his physical condition
might not be one of frailty was serious. Then Mrs. Garfield
became ill, and the situation was gloomy.

THE GARFIELDS IN THE WHITE HOUSE.

There was one evening at the White House—just when
Mrs. Garfield’s indisposition was at first manifested, and then
was only apparent in a slight chill, that caused a rather
unseasonable wood fire to be lighted—that none of those
present can have forgotten; for there were not many bright
hours in the midst of the dismal shadowing of the drama
hastening to the tragic close. Mrs. Garfield was, with the
privilege of an invalid, whose chilly sensation was supposed to
be trivial, seated before the fire, the warmth of which was to
her pleasant; and she was pale but animated, surrounded by a
group among whom were several very dear to her. General Sherman
arrived, and was—as always when his vivacity was kindly,
and it was never otherwise with ladies—fascinating. The
scene was brilliant, and had a charming domestic character. The
President was detained for half an hour beyond the time when he
was expected, and came in with a quick step and hearty manner,
and there was soon a flush of pleasure upon his face, that had
been touched with the lines of fatigue, as he saw how agreeable
the company were. A lady, who had never before seen him, voiced
the sentiment of all present, saying in a whisper: “Why, he is
the ideal President! How grand he is! How can they speak about
him so? What a magnificent gentleman he is! Talk about your
canal boys!” He was well dressed, of splendid figure, his coat
buttoned over his massive chest, his dome-like head erect,
adequately supported by immense shoulders, and he looked the
President indeed, and an embodiment of power. He was feeling
that the dark days were behind him, that he was equal to his
high fortune, that the world was wide and fair before him. It
was a supreme hour—and only an hour—for the
occasion was informal, and there was a feeling that the lady of
the White House should not be detained from her rest; and the
good-night words were trustful that she would be well next
morning; but then she was in a fever, and after some weeks was
taken to Long Branch, and returned to her husband, called, to
find him stricken unto death.

It happened on the last day of June, 1881, that I stopped in
Washington on the way to New York; and in the evening—it
was Thursday—walked from the Arlington to the White
House, and sent my card to the President, who was out. Then I
strolled, passing through Lafayette Square and sitting awhile
there, thoughtful over the President’s troubles, and recalling
the long letters I had written to him at Mentor, urging that
Levi P. Morton should be Secretary of the Treasury, wondering
whether things would have been better if that had been done;
for a good deal of the tempest that broke over Garfield was
because he sustained Thomas L. James in postal reforms. The
testimony taken during the trial of Guiteau shows that he was
that night in that square; and, knowing the President had left
the White House, was on the look-out, with intent to murder
him. The incarnate sneak was lying in wait, a horrible
burlesque, to take his revenge because he thought he had been
slighted, and was so malignant a fool he believed public
opinion might applaud the deed. One of the dusky figures on the
benches was probably his.

At the Arlington, a few minutes after ten o’clock, I met
Postmaster-General James; and when told that I was going to New
York in the morning, he asked: “Have you seen the
President?”

I had not, and General James said quite earnestly: “Go over
and see him now;” and he added: “The President, you know, is
going to Williams College the day after to-morrow, and I know
he is not going to bed early, and is not very busy, and will be
glad to see you. He and I have been out dining with Secretary
Hunt; and the President left me here a few minutes ago. Go over
and see him. He has had a good deal of disagreeable business
this afternoon relating to my department, and I am sure he
would be glad to talk with you, and have something very
interesting to say.”

[pg 278]

LAST INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT GARFIELD.

Returning to the White House, arriving there about a quarter
before eleven, after I had waited a few minutes in one of the
small parlors, the President came down the stairs rapidly, and
I took note that his movements were very alert. I had not seen
him since the night when Mrs. Garfield had notice of the
illness that had become alarming, and from which she was now
convalescent, and said first: “Mrs. Garfield is much
better?”

“Yes, much better,” said the President, “and getting health
out of the sea air. She has enjoyed it intensely, and will be
able to join me day after to-morrow at Jersey City, on the way
to Williams College—the sweetest old place in the world.
Come and go with us; several of the cabinet are going, and we
shall have a rare time; come and go with us. Have you ever seen
the lovely country there?”

I answered, “No, I have not seen it; and, thanking you for
the invitation, shall not go; have too much to do. You will
have a vacation?”

“Yes,” the President said, “and I am feeling like a
schoolboy about it. You should go. You were along with
Harrison, Kirkwood, and me to Chautauqua, you know. That was a
great day’s ride. Do you remember those watermelons? They would
have been first-rate if they had been on ice a few hours.”

“You had a hard day of it,” I said; “forty speeches, weren’t
there? And you will have another lot of speeches to make.”

He said he did not mind the speeches.

“And how is your health,” I asked; “any more indigestion?
Ever try Billy Florence’s remedy, Valentine’s meat juice, made
in Richmond, Virginia—great reputation abroad, little at
home?”

He said he had never tried it, had forgotten it. Then,
turning with an air half comic, but with something of
earnestness, he said, naming me by way of start: “You have been
holding a sort of autopsy over me ever since I tumbled over at
Atlantic City. I exposed myself there too long both in the
water and in the sun, but it was not so bad as you think.”

I said he might pardon a degree of solicitude, under all the
circumstances, and he said he did not want any premature
autopsies held over him; and I put it that they had much better
be premature. Then the President said, with the greatest
earnestness: “I am in better health—indeed, quite well.
It is curious, isn’t it? My wife’s sickness cured me. I got so
anxious about her I ceased to think about myself. Both ends of
the house were full of trouble. My wife’s illness was alarming,
and I thought no more of the pit of my stomach and the base of
my brain and the top of my head; and when she was out of
danger, and my little troubles occurred to me—why, they
were gone, and I have not noticed them since. And so,” said the
President, uttering the short words with deliberation, and
picking them with care, “and so, if one could, so to say,
unself one’s self, what a cure all that would be!”

“The other end of the White House is better, is it not?” I
asked.

“Not so much change there,” said the President; “but one
becomes accustomed to heavy weather.”

“Lord Roscoe is feeling happier, I hope,” said I.

The President answered, dropping the “Lord Roscoe”
comicality, and speaking rapidly and seriously, with a flush of
excitement: “Conkling, after ten years of absolute despotism in
New York—for Grant did everything for him, and Hayes
tried to comfort him—got the elephantiasis of conceit. We
read that gentlemen in Oriental countries, having that disease
in its advanced stage, need a wheelbarrow or small wagon to aid
their locomotion when they go out to walk—and the
population think there is something divine in it. Conkling
thought if he should go on parade in New York, and place the
developments of his vanity fully on exhibition, the whole
people would fall down and worship the phenomenon. But he was
mistaken, for they soon saw it was a plain, old-fashioned case
of sore-head.”

Then the President, having exhausted the elephantiasis as a
divine manifestation, expressed regrets that there had been
such contentions among those who should be friends of the
administration; and repeated his view of that which was due to
the actual trust the people had placed in him, and of which he
could not honorably divest himself. He thought the people
already understood the case fairly well and would be more and
more of the opinion that he had tried to do the things that
were right, “with malice toward none and charity for all.” We
talked until midnight. It was a Friday morning, and the
President was doomed to be shot the next day. The assassin had
been on his path that night. The President had gone out dining
for the last time.

[pg 279]

“And you will not go to Williams College with me?” he
said.

I said: “Mr. President, you have forgotten you were assailed
for being in my company to Chautauqua; and I have been so
fortunate since as to gather a fresh crop of enemies, and do
not want them to jump on to you on my account—for there
are enough upon you already.”

That, the President said, was “curious and interesting,” and
he laughed about my “fresh crop,” and said something about
cutting hay; and I told him I had been invited to meet him
Saturday night at Cyrus W. Field’s country place, where a
dinner party was appointed; and jumping up, hurried away. The
light in the hall shone down on the President’s pale, high
forehead, as he walked toward the stairway leading to his
apartments, and I saw him no more.

Something familiar struck me in the appearance of the
watchman at the door of the White House, and stopping, I said:
“Did you hold this position here in Lincoln’s time?”

“Yes,” said he, “I did.”

“And did you not look after his safety sometimes?”

“I did, indeed,” was the answer; “many a time I kept myself
between him and the trees there,” pointing to them, “as we
walked over to the War Department to get the news from the
armies. I did not know who might be hidden in the trees, and I
would not let him go alone.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” I asked, “that it would be worth
while to have a care that no harm happened here?”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Oh, it is different now—no war now.”

“No,” said I, “no war, but people are about who are queer;
and there are ugly excitements; think of it.”

Of course, this conversation at the door of the White House
the midnight morning of the day before the President was shot,
is accounted for by the sensibility that there was a
half-suppressed public uneasiness that could mean some fashion
of mischief, and it might be of a deadly sort to the President,
because he was so formidably conspicuous. Nearly a year
afterward, walking by General Sherman’s residence, I saw him
sitting under a strong light, with his back to the street,
writing—doors and windows all open. I walked in, saying:
“General, I wouldn’t sit with my back to an open window late at
night, under a light like this, if I were you. Some fool will
come along with a bull-dog pistol and the idea that death loves
a shining mark.”

“Pooh!” said the old soldier. “Nobody interested in killing
me. They will let me well alone with their bull-dog
pistols.”

The White House shone like marble in the green trees as I
drove from the Arlington to the Potomac depot, July 1st, to
take the train corresponding to the one that had the
President’s car attached on the following morning, when he
meant to have a holiday of which he had the most delightful
anticipation, as one throwing off a brood of nightmares. He was
going back the President to the scene of his struggles in early
manhood for an education, going to what he called the “sweetest
place in the world,” having reached the summit of ambition,
confident in himself, assured of the public good will, happy to
meet his wife restored to health, himself robust and to be, he
thought, hag-ridden no more; rejoicing to meet the dearest of
old friends, kindling with the realization of his superb and
commanding position, glowing with his just pride of place; no
heart beating higher, no imagination that exalted this mighty
country more than his, no brain that conceived with greater
splendor the glory of the nation than his, no American
patriotism more true, brighter, broader, deeper, more abounding
than his; and all was shattered at a stroke by a creature like
a crawling serpent with a deadly sting.

All over the land the flags flew at half mast, and the woful
news was told: “The President is shot!” The man had fallen who,
when Lincoln was murdered, spoke the memorable words from the
Treasury building, on the spot where Washington was
inaugurated: “The President is dead—but God reigns and
the Republic lives.” There were nearly three months of torture
reserved for the second martyred President, and he bore them
with marvellous fortitude; and then, on a September night, the
throbbing of the bells from Scotland to California told, that
the dark curtain of death had fallen on the tragic drama of the
Presidency of Garfield.

[pg 280]

THE VICTORY OF THE GRAND DUKE OF MITTENHEIM.

THE LAST ROMANCE OF THE PRINCESS OSRA.

BY ANTHONY HOPE,

Author of “The Prisoner of Zenda,” “The Dolly
Dialogues,” etc.

ING RUDOLF, being in the worst of humors, had
declared in the presence of all the court that women were born
to plague men and for no other purpose whatsoever under heaven.
Hearing this discourteous speech, the Princess Osra rose, and
said that, for her part, she would go walking alone by the
river outside the city gates, where she would at least be
assailed by no more reproaches. For since she was irrevocably
determined to live and die unmarried, of what use or benefit
was it to trouble her with embassies, courtings, or proposals,
either from the Grand Duke of Mittenheim or anybody else? She
was utterly weary of this matter of love—and her mood
would be unchanged, though this new suitor were as exalted as
the King of France, as rich as Croesus himself, and as handsome
as the god Apollo. She did not desire a husband, and there was
an end of it. Thus she went out, while the queen sighed, and
the king fumed, and the courtiers and ladies said to one
another that these dissensions made life very uncomfortable at
Strelsau, the ladies further adding that he would be a bold man
who married Osra, although doubtless she was not
ill-looking.

To the banks of the river outside the walls then Osra went;
and as she went she seemed to be thinking of nothing at all in
the world, least of all of whom she might chance to meet there
on the banks of the river, where in those busy hours of the day
few came. Yet there was a strange new light in her eyes, and
there seemed a new understanding in her mind; and when a young
peasant-wife came by, her baby in her arms, Osra stopped her,
and kissed the child and gave money, and then ran on in
unexplained confusion, laughing and blushing as though she had
done something which she did not wish to be seen. Then, without
reason, her eyes filled with tears; but she dashed them away,
and burst suddenly into singing. And she was still singing
when, from the long grass by the river’s edge, a young man
sprang up, and, with a very low bow, drew aside to let her
pass. He had a book in his hand, for he was a student at the
University, and came there to pursue his learning in peace. His
plain brown clothes spoke of no wealth or station, though
certainly they set off a stalwart straight shape, and seemed to
match well with his bright brown hair and hazel eyes. Very low
this young man bowed, and Osra bent her head. The pace of her
walk slackened, grew quicker, slackened again; she was past
him, and with a great sigh he lay down again. She turned, he
sprang up; she spoke coldly, yet kindly.

“Sir,” said she, “I cannot but notice that you lie every day
here by the river, with your book, and that you sigh. Tell me
your trouble, and if I can I will relieve it.”

“I am reading, madam,” he answered, “of Helen of Troy, and I
am sighing because she is dead.”

“It is an old grief by now,” said Osra, smiling. “Will no
one serve you but Helen of Troy?”

“If I were a prince,” said he, “I need not mourn.”

“No, sir?”

“No, madam,” he said, with another bow.

“Farewell, sir.”

“Madam, farewell.”

So she went on her way, and saw him no more till the next
day, nor after that till the next day following; and then came
an interval when she saw him not, and the interval was no less
than twenty-four hours; yet still he read of Helen of Troy, and
still sighed that she was dead and he no prince. At last he
tempted the longed-for question from her shy, smiling lips.

“Why would you not mourn, sir, if you were a prince?” said
she. “For princes and princesses have their share of sighs.”
And with a very plaintive sigh Osra looked at the rapid-running
river, as she waited for the answer.

“Because I would then go to Strelsau, and so forget
her.”

[pg 281]

“FROM THE LONG GRASS BY THE RIVER’S EDGE A YOUNG MAN
SPRANG UP, AND, WITH A VERY LOW BOW, DREW ASIDE TO LET HER
PASS.”

[pg 282]

“But you are at Strelsau now!” she cried with wonderful
surprise.

“Ah, but I am no prince, madam!” said he.

“Can princes alone—forget in Strelsau?”

“How should a poor student dare to—forget in
Strelsau?” And as he spoke he made bold to step near her, and
stood close, looking down into her face. Without a word she
turned and left him, going with a step that seemed to dance
through the meadow and yet led her to her own chamber, where
she could weep in quiet.

“I know it now, I know it now!” she whispered softly that
night to the tree that rose by her window. “Heigh-ho, what am I
to do? I cannot live; no, and now I cannot die. Ah me! what am
I to do? I wish I were a peasant-girl—but then perhaps he
would not—Ah yes, but he would!” And her low, long laugh
rippled in triumph through the night, and blended with the
rustling of the leaves under a summer breeze, and she stretched
her white arms to heaven, imploring the kind God with prayers
that she dared not speak even to His pitiful ear.

“Love knows no princesses, my princess.” It was that she
heard as she fled from him next day. She should have rebuked
him. But for that she must have stayed, and to stay she had not
dared. Yet she must rebuke him. She must see him again in order
to rebuke him. Yet all this while she must be pestered with the
court of the Grand Duke of Mittenheim! And when she would not
name a day on which the embassy should come, the king flew into
a passion, and declared that he would himself set a date for
it. Was his sister mad, he asked, that she would do nothing but
walk every day by the river’s bank?

“Surely I must be mad,” thought Osra, “for no sane being
could be at once so joyful and so piteously unhappy.”

Did he know what it was he asked? He seemed to know nothing
of it. He did not speak any more now of princesses, only of his
princess; nor of queens, save of his heart’s queen; and when
his eyes asked love, they asked as though none would refuse and
there could be no cause for refusal. He would have wooed his
neighbor’s daughter thus, and thus he wooed the sister of King
Rudolf. “Will you love me?” was his question—not, “Though
you love, yet dare you own you love?” He seemed to shut the
whole world from her, leaving nothing but her and him; and in a
world that held none but her and him she could love unblamed,
untroubled, and with no trembling.

“You forget who I am,” she faltered once.

“You are the beauty of the world,” he answered smiling, and
he kissed her hand—a matter about which she could make no
great ado, for it was not the first time that he had kissed
it.

But the embassy from the Grand Duke was to come in a week,
and to be received with great pomp. The ambassador was already
on the way, carrying proposals and gifts. Therefore Osra went
pale and sad down to the river bank that day, having declared
again to the king that she would live and die unmarried. But
the king had laughed again. Surely she needed kindness and
consolation that sad day; but Fate had kept by her a crowning
sorrow, for she found him also almost sad. At least, she could
not tell whether he were sad or not; for he smiled and yet
seemed ill at ease, like a man who ventures a fall with
fortune, hoping and fearing. And he said to her:

“Madam, in a week I return to my own country.”

She looked at him in silence with lips just parted. For her
life she could not speak; but the sun grew dark, and the river
changed its merry tune to mournful dirges.

“So the dream ends,” said he. “So comes the awakening. But
if life were all a dream!” And his eyes sought hers.

“Yes,” she whispered, “if life were all a dream, sir?”

“Then I should dream of two dreamers whose dream was one,
and in that dream I should see them ride together at break of
day from Strelsau.”

“Whither?” she murmured.

“To Paradise,” said he. “But the dream ends. If it did not
end—” He paused.

“If it did not end?” a breathless longing whisper
echoed.

“If it did not end now, it should not end even with death,”
said he.

“You see them in your dream? You see them riding—”

“Aye, swiftly, side by side, they two alone, through the
morning. None is near, none knows.”

He seemed to be searching her face for something that yet he
scarcely hoped to find.

“And their dream,” said he, “brings them at last to a small
cottage, and there they live—”

“They live?”

[pg 283]

“‘YOU ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD,’ HE ANSWERED
SMILING, AND HE KISSED HER HAND.”

“And work,” he added. “For she keeps his home while he
works.”

“What does she do?” asked Osra, with smiling, wondering
eyes.

“She gets his food for him when he comes home weary in the
evening, and makes a bright fire, and—”

“Ah, and she runs to meet him at the door—oh, further
than the door!”

“But she has worked hard and is weary.”

“No, she is not weary,” cried Osra. “It is for him!”

“The wise say this is silly talk,” said he.

“The wise are fools, then!” cried Osra.

“So the dream would please you, madam?” he asked.

She had come not to know how she left him. Somehow, while he
still spoke, she would suddenly escape by flight. He did not
pursue, but let her go. So now she returned to the city, her
eyes filled with that golden dream, and she entered her home as
though it had been some strange palace decked with new
magnificence, and she an alien in it. For her true home seemed
now rather in the cottage of the dream, and she moved
unfamiliarly through the pomp that had been hers from birth.
Her soul was gone from it, while her body rested there; and
life stopped for her till she saw him again by the banks of the
river.

“In five days now I go,” said he; and he smiled at her. She
hid her face in her hands. Still he smiled; but suddenly he
sprang forward, for she had sobbed. The summons had sounded, he
was there; and who could sob again when he was there and his
sheltering arm warded away all grief? She looked up at him with
shining eyes, whispering:

“Do you go alone?”

A great joy blazed confidently in his eyes as he whispered
in answer:

“I think I shall not go alone.”

“But how, how?”

“I have two horses.”

“You! You have two horses?”

“Yes. Is it not riches? But we will sell them when we get to
the cottage.”

“To the cottage! Two horses!”

“I would I had but one for both of us.”

“Yes.”

“But we should not go quick enough.”

“No.”

He took his hand from her waist, and stood away from
her.

[pg 284]

“You will not come?” he said.

“If you doubt of my coming, I will not come. Ah, do not
doubt of my coming! For there is a great horde of fears and
black thoughts beating at the door, and you must not open
it.”

“And what can keep it shut, my princess?”

“I think your arm, my prince,” said she; and she flew to
him.

That evening King Rudolf swore that if a man were only firm
enough, and kept his temper (which, by the way, the king had
not done, though none dared say no), he could bring any foolish
girl to reason in good time. For in the softest voice, and with
the strangest smile flitting to her face, the Princess Osra was
pleased to bid the embassy come on the fifth day from then.

“And they shall have their answer then,” said she, flushing
and smiling.

“It is as much as any lady could say,” the court declared;
and it was reported through all Strelsau that the match was as
good as made, and that Osra was to be Grand Duchess of
Mittenheim.

“She is a sensible girl, after all,” cried Rudolf, all his
anger gone.

The dream began, then, before they came to the cottage.
Those days she lived in its golden mists that shut out all the
cold world from her, moving through space that held but one
form, and time that stood still waiting for one divine unending
moment. And the embassy drew near to Strelsau.

It was night, the dead of night, and all was still in the
palace. But the sentinel by the little gate was at his post,
and the gate-warden stood by the western gate of the city. Each
was now alone, but to each, an hour ago, a man had come,
stealthily and silently through the darkness, and each was
richer by a bag of gold than he had been before. The gold was
Osra’s—how should a poor student, whose whole fortune was
two horses, scatter bags of gold? And other gold Osra had, aye,
five hundred crowns. Would not that be a brave surprise for the
poor student? And she, alone of all awake, stood looking round
her room, entranced with the last aspect of it. Over the city
also she looked, but in the selfishness of her joy did no more
than kiss a hasty farewell to the good city folk who loved her.
Once she thought that maybe some day he and she would steal
together back to Strelsau, and, sheltered by some disguise,
watch the king ride in splendor through the streets. But if
not—why, what was Strelsau and the people and the rest?
Ah, how long the hours were before those two horses stood by
the little gate, and the sentry and the gate-warden earned
their bags of gold! So she passed the hours—the last long
lingering hours.

There was a little tavern buried in the narrowest, oldest
street of the city. Here the poor student had lodged; here in
the back room a man sat at a table, and two others stood before
him. These two seemed gentlemen, and their air spoke of
military training. They stroked long mustaches, and smiled with
an amusement that deference could not hide. Both were booted
and wore spurs, and the man sitting at the table gave them
orders.

“You will meet the embassy,” he said to one, “about ten
o’clock. Bring it to the place I have appointed, and wait
there. Do not fail.”

The officer addressed bowed and retired. A minute later his
horse’s hoofs clattered through the streets. Perhaps he also
had a bag of gold, for the gate-warden opened the western gate
for him, and he rode at a gallop along the river banks, till he
reached the great woods that stretch to within ten miles of
Strelsau.

“An hour after we are gone,” said the man at the table to
the other officer, “go warily, find one of the king’s servants,
and give him the letter. Give no account of how you came by it,
and say nothing of who you are. All that is necessary is in the
letter. When you have given it, return here, and remain in
close hiding till you hear from me again.”

The second officer bowed. The man at the table rose, and
went out into the street. He took his way to where the palace
rose, and then skirted along the wall of its gardens till he
came to the little gate. Here stood two horses and at their
heads a man.

“It is well. You can go,” said the student; and he was left
alone with the horses. They were good horses for a student to
possess. The thought perhaps crossed their owner’s mind, for he
laughed softly as he looked at them. Then he also fell to
thinking that the hours were long; and a fear came suddenly
upon him that she would not come. It was in these last hours
that doubts crept in, and she was not there to drive them away.
Would the great trial fail? Would she shrink at the last? But
he would not think it of her, and he was smiling again, when
the clock of the cathedral struck two, and told him that no
more than one hour now parted her from him. For she would come;
the princess [pg 285] would come to him, the
student, led by the vision of that cottage in the dream.

Would she come? She would come; she had risen from her
knees, and moved to and fro, in cautious silence, making her
last preparations. She had written a word of farewell for the
brother she loved—for some day, of course, Rudolf would
forgive her—and she had ready all that she took with
her—the five hundred crowns, one ring that she would give
her lover, some clothes to serve till his loving labor
furnished more. That night she had wept, and she had laughed;
but now she neither wept nor laughed, but there was a great
pride in her face and gait. And she opened the door of her
room, and walked down the great staircase, under the eyes of
crowned kings who hung framed upon the walls. And as she went
she seemed indeed their daughter. For her head was erect and
her eye set firm in haughty dignity. Who dared to say that she
did anything that a king’s daughter should not do? Should not a
woman love? Love should be her diadem. And so with this proud
step she came through the gardens of the palace, looking
neither to right nor left nor behind, but with her face set
straight for the little gate, and she walked as she had been
accustomed to walk when all Strelsau looked on her and hailed
her as its glory and its darling.

The sentry slept, or seemed to sleep. Her face was not even
veiled when she opened the little gate. She would not veil her
proud face. It was his to look on now when he would; and thus
she stood for an instant in the gateway, while he sprang to
her, and, kneeling, carried her hand to his lips.

“You are come?” he cried; for though he had believed, yet he
wondered.

“I am come,” she smiled. “Is not the word of a princess
sure? Ah, how could I not come?”

“See, love,” said he, rising, “day dawns in royal purple for
you, and golden love for me.”

“The purple is for my king, and the love for me,” she
whispered, as he led her to her horse. “Your fortune!” said
she, pointing to them. “But I also have brought a
dowry—fancy, five hundred crowns!” and her mirth and
happiness burst out in a laugh. It was so deliciously little,
five hundred crowns!

She was mounted now, and he stood by her.

“Will you turn back?” he said.

“You shall not make me angry,” said she. “Come, mount.”

“Aye, I must mount,” said he. “For if we were found here the
king would kill me.”

For the first time the peril of their enterprise seemed to
strike, into her mind, and turned her cheek pale.

“Ah, I forgot! In my happiness I forgot. Mount, mount! Oh,
if he found you!”

He mounted. Once they clasped hands; then they rode swiftly
for the western gate.

“Veil your face,” he said; and since he bade her, she
obeyed, saying:

“But I can see you through the veil.”

The gate stood open, and the gate-warden was not there. They
were out of the city; the morning air blew cold and pure from
the meadows along the river. The horses stretched into an eager
gallop. And Osra tore her veil from her face, and turned on him
eyes of radiant triumph.

“It is done,” she cried; “it is done!”

“Yes, it is done, my princess,” said he.

“And—and it is begun, my prince,” said she.

“Yes, and it is begun,” said he.

She laughed aloud in absolute joy, and for a moment he also
laughed.

But then his face grew grave, and he said:

“I pray you may never grieve for it.”

She looked at him with eyes wide in wonder; for an instant
she seemed puzzled, but then she fell again to laughing.

“Grieve for it!” said she between her merry laughs.

King Rudolf was a man who lay late in the morning; and he
was not well pleased to be roused when the clock had but just
struck four. Yet he sat up in his bed readily enough, for he
imagined that the embassy from the Grand Duke of Mittenheim
must be nearer than he had thought, and, sooner than fail in
any courtesy towards the prince whose alliance he ardently
desired, he was ready to submit to much inconvenience. But his
astonishment was great when, instead of any tidings from the
embassy, one of his gentlemen handed him a letter, saying that
a servant had received it from a stranger with instructions to
carry it at once to the king. When asked if any answer were
desired from his majesty, the stranger had answered, “Not
through me,” and at once turned away, and quickly disappeared.
The king, with a peevish oath at having been roused for such a
trifle, broke the seal and fastenings of the letter, and opened
it; and he read:

[pg 286]

“Sire—Your sister does not wait for the embassy, but
chooses her own lover. She has met a student of the University
every day for the last three weeks by the river bank.” (The
king started.) “This morning she has fled with him on horseback
along the western road. If you desire a student for a
brother-in-law, sleep again. If not, up and ride. Do not doubt
these tidings.”

There was no signature to the letter; yet the king, knowing
his sister, cried:

“See whether the princess is in the palace. And in the
meanwhile saddle my horse, and let a dozen of the guard be at
the gate.”

The princess was not in the palace; but her woman found the
letter that she had left, and brought it to the king. And the
king read: “Brother, whom I love best of all men in the world
save one, I have left you to go with that one. You will not
forgive me now, but some day forgive me. Nay, it is not I who
have done it, but my love which is braver than I. He is the
sweetest gentleman alive, brother, and therefore he must be my
lord. Let me go, but still love me—Osra.”

“It is true,” said the king. “And the embassy will be here
to-day.” And for a moment he seemed dazed. Yet he spoke nothing
to anybody of what the letters contained, but sent word to the
queen’s apartments that he went riding for pleasure. And he
took his sword and his pistols; for he swore that by his own
hand, and that of no other man, this sweetest gentleman alive
should meet his death. But all, knowing that the princess was
not in the palace, guessed that the king’s sudden haste
concerned her; and great wonder and speculation rose in the
palace, and presently, as the morning advanced, spread from the
palace to its environs, and from the environs to the rest of
the city. For it was reported that a sentinel that had stood
guard that night was missing, and that the gate-warden of the
western gate was nowhere to be found, and that a mysterious
letter had come by an unknown hand to the king, and lastly,
that Princess Osra—their princess—was gone; whether
by her own will or by some bold plot of seizure and kidnapping,
none knew. Thus a great stir grew in all Strelsau, and men
stood about the street gossiping when they should have gone to
work, while women chattered in lieu of sweeping their houses
and dressing their children. So that when the king rode out of
the courtyard of the palace at a gallop, with twelve of the
guard behind, he could hardly make his way through the streets
for the people who crowded round him, imploring him to tell
them where the princess was. When the king saw that the matter
had thus become public, his wrath was greater still, and he
swore again that the student of the University should pay the
price of life for his morning ride with the princess. And when
he darted through the gate, and set his horse straight along
the western road, many of the people, neglecting all their
business, as folk will for excitement’s sake, followed him as
they best could, agog to see the thing to its end.

“The horses are weary,” said the student to the princess,
“we must let them rest; we are now in the shelter of the
wood.”

“But my brother may pursue you,” she urged; “and if he came
up with you—ah, heaven forbid!”

“‘LISTEN!’ SHE CRIED, SPRINGING TO HER FEET. ‘THEY ARE
HORSES’ HOOFS.’ … AND SHE CAUGHT HIM BY THE HAND, AND
PULLED HIM TO HIS FEET.”

[pg 287]

“He will not know you have gone for another three hours,”
smiled he. “And here is a green bank where we can rest.”

So he aided her to dismount; then, saying he would tether
the horses, he led them away some distance, so that she could
not see where he had posted them; and he returned to her,
smiling still. Then he took from his pocket some bread, and,
breaking the loaf in two, gave her one-half, saying:

“There is a spring just here; so we shall have a good
breakfast.”

“Is this your breakfast?” she asked, with a wondering laugh.
Then she began to eat, and cried directly, “How delicious this
bread is! I would have nothing else for breakfast;” and at this
the student laughed.

Yet Osra ate little of the bread she liked so well; and
presently she leaned against her lover’s shoulder, and he put
his arm round her; and they sat for a little while in silence,
listening to the soft sounds that filled the waking woods as
day grew to fulness and the sun beat warm through the
sheltering foliage.

“Don’t you hear the trees?” Osra whispered to her lover.
“Don’t you hear them? They are whispering for me what I dare
not whisper.”

“What is it they whisper, sweet?” he asked; and he himself
did no more than whisper.

“The trees whisper, ‘Love, love, love.’ And the
wind—don’t you hear the wind murmuring, ‘Love, love,
love’? And the birds sing, ‘Love, love, love.’ Aye, all the
world to-day is softly whispering, ‘Love, love, love!’ What
else should the great world whisper but my love? For my love is
greater than the world.” And she suddenly hid her face in her
hands; and he could kiss no more than her hands, though her
eyes gleamed at him from between slim white fingers.

But suddenly her hands dropped, and she leaned forward as
though she listened.

“What is that sound?” she asked, apprehension dawning in her
eyes.

“It is but another whisper, love!” said he.

“Nay, but it sounds to me like—ah, like the noise of
horses galloping.”

“It is but the stream, beating over stones.”

“Listen, listen, listen!” she cried, springing to her feet.
“They are horses’ hoofs. Ah, merciful God, it is the king!” And
she caught him by the hand, and pulled him to his feet, looking
at him with a face pale and alarmed.

“Not the king,” said he; “he would not know yet. It is some
one else. Hide your face, dear lady, and all will be well.”

“It is the king,” she cried. “Hark how they gallop on the
road! It is my brother. Love, he will kill you; love, he will
kill you!”

“If it is the king,” said he, “I have been betrayed.”

“The horses, the horses!” she cried. “By your love for me,
the horses!”

He nodded his head, and, turning, disappeared among the
trees. She stood with clasped hands, heaving breast, and
fearful eyes, awaiting his return. Minutes passed, and he came
not. She flung herself on her knees, beseeching heaven for his
life. At last he came along alone, and he bent over her, taking
her hand.

“My love,” said he, “the horses are gone.”

“Gone!” she cried, gripping his hand.

“Aye. This love, my love, is a wonderful thing. For I forgot
to tie them, and they are gone. Yet what matter? For the
king—yes, sweet, I think now it is the king—will
not be here for some minutes yet, and those minutes I have
still for love and life.”

“He will kill you!” she said.

“Yes,” said he.

She looked long in his eyes; then she threw her arms about
his neck, and, for the first time unasked, covered his face
with kisses.

“Kiss me, kiss me,” said she; and he kissed her. Then she
drew back a little, but took his arm and set it round her
waist. And she drew a little knife from her girdle, and showed
it him.

“If the king will not pardon us and let us love one another,
I also will die,” said she; and her voice was quiet and happy.
“Indeed, my love, I should not grieve. Ah, do not tell me to
live without you!”

“Would you obey?” he asked.

“Not in that,” said she.

And thus they stood silent, while the sound of the hoofs
drew very near. But she looked up at him, and he looked at her;
then she looked at the point of the little dagger, and she
whispered:

“Keep your arm round me till I die.”

He bent his head, and kissed her once again, saying:

“My princess, it is enough.”

And she, though she did not know why he smiled, yet smiled
back at him. For although life was sweet that day, yet such a
death, with him and to prove her love for him, seemed well-nigh
as sweet. And thus they awaited the coming of the
king.

[pg 288]

II.

King Rudolf and his guards far out-stripped the people who
pursued them from the city; and when they came to the skirts of
the wood, they divided themselves into four parties, since, if
they went all together, they might easily miss the fugitives
whom they sought. Of these four parties, one found nothing;
another found the two horses which the student himself, who had
hidden them, failed to find; the third party had not gone far
before they caught sight of the lovers, though the lovers did
not see them; and two of them remained to watch and, if need
be, to intercept any attempted flight, while the third rode off
to find the king and bring him where Osra and the student were,
as he had commanded.

But the fourth party, with which the king was, though it did
not find the fugitives, found the embassy from the Grand Duke
of Mittenheim; and the ambassador, with all his train, was
resting by the roadside, seeming in no haste at all to reach
Strelsau. When the king suddenly rode up at great speed and
came upon the embassy, an officer that stood by the
ambassador—whose name was Count Sergius of
Antheim—stooped down and whispered in his excellency’s
ear, upon which he rose and advanced towards the king,
uncovering his head and bowing profoundly. For he chose to
assume that the king had ridden to meet him out of excessive
graciousness and courtesy towards the Grand Duke; so that he
began, to the impatient king’s infinite annoyance, to make a
very long and stately speech, assuring his majesty of the great
hope and joy with which his master awaited the result of the
embassy; for, said he, since the king was so zealous in his
cause, his master could not bring himself to doubt of success,
and therefore most confidently looked to win for his bride the
most exalted and lovely lady in the world, the peerless
Princess Osra, the glory of the court of Strelsau, and the
brightest jewel in the crown of the king, her brother. And
having brought this period to a prosperous conclusion, Count
Sergius took breath, and began another that promised to be
fully as magnificent and not a whit less long. So that, before
it was well started, the king smote his hand on his thigh and
roared:

“Heavens, man, while you’re making speeches, that rascal is
carrying off my sister!”

Count Sergius, who was an elderly man of handsome presence
and great dignity, being thus rudely and strangely interrupted,
showed great astonishment and offence; but the officer by him
covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smile. For the moment
that the king had spoken these impetuous words he was himself
overwhelmed with confusion; for the last thing that he wished
the Grand Duke’s ambassador to know was that the princess whom
his master courted had run away that morning with a student of
the University of Strelsau. Accordingly he began, very hastily,
and with more regard for prudence than for truth, to tell Count
Sergius how a noted and bold criminal had that morning swooped
down on the princess as she rode unattended outside the city,
and carried her off—which seemed to the ambassador a very
strange story. But the king told it with great fervor, and he
besought the count to scatter his attendants all through the
wood, and seek the robber. Yet he charged them not to kill the
man themselves, but to keep him till he came. “For I have sworn
to kill him with my own hand,” he cried.

Now Count Sergius, however much astonished he might be,
could do nothing but accede to the king’s request, and he sent
off all his men to scour the woods, and, mounting his horse,
himself set off with them, showing great zeal in the king’s
service, but still thinking the king’s story a very strange
one. Thus the king was left alone with his two guards and with
the officer who had smiled.

“Will you not go also, sir?” asked the king.

But at this moment a man galloped up at furious speed,
crying:

“We have found them, sire, we have found them!”

“Then he hasn’t five minutes to live!” cried the king in
fierce joy; and he lugged out his sword, adding: “The moment I
set my eyes on him, I will kill him. There is no need for words
between me and him.”

At this speech the face of the officer grew suddenly grave
and alarmed; and he put spurs to his horse, and hastened after
the king, who had at once dashed away in the direction in which
the man had pointed. But the king had got a start and kept it;
so that the officer seemed terribly frightened, and muttered to
himself:

“Heaven send that he does not kill him before he knows!” And
he added some very impatient words concerning the follies of
princes, and, above all, of princes in love.

Thus, while the ambassador and his men
[pg 289] searched high and low for
the noted robber, and the king’s men hunted for the student
of the University, the king, followed by two of his guard at
a distance of about fifty yards (for his horse was better
than theirs), came straight to where Osra and her lover
stood together. And a few yards behind the guards came the
officer; and he also had by now drawn his sword. But he rode
so eagerly that he overtook and passed the king’s guards,
and got within thirty yards of the king by the time that the
king was within twenty of the lovers. But the king let him
get no nearer, for he dug his spurs again into his horse’s
side, and the horse bounded forward, while the king cried
furiously to his sister, “Stand away from him!” The princess
did not heed, but stood in front of her lover (for the
student was wholly unarmed), holding up the little dagger in
her hand. The king laughed scornfully and angrily, thinking
that Osra menaced him with the weapon, and not supposing
that it was herself for whom she destined it. And, having
reached them, the king leaped from his horse and ran at
them, with his sword raised to strike. Osra gave a cry of
terror. “Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy!” But the king had no
thought of mercy, and he would certainly then and there have
killed her lover had not the officer, gaining a moment’s
time by the king’s dismounting, at this very instant come
galloping up; and, there being no time for any explanation,
he leaned from his saddle as he dashed by, and, putting out
his hand, snatched the king’s sword away from him, just as
the king was about to thrust it through his sister’s
lover.

But the officer’s horse was going so furiously that he could
not stop it for hard on forty yards, and he narrowly escaped
splitting his head against a great bough that hung low across
the grassy path; and he dropped first his own sword and then
the king’s; but at last he brought the horse to a standstill,
and, leaping down, ran back towards where the swords lay. But
at the moment the king also ran towards them; for the fury that
he had been in before was as nothing to that which now
possessed him. After his sword was snatched from him he stood
in speechless anger for a full minute, but then had turned to
pursue the man who had dared to treat him with such insult. And
now, in his desire to be at the officer, he had come very near
to forgetting the student. Just as the officer came to where
the king’s sword lay, and picked it up, the king, in his turn,
reached the officer’s sword and picked up that. The king came
with a rush at the officer, who, seeing that the king was
likely to kill him, or he the king, if he stood his ground,
turned tail and sped away at the top of his speed through the
forest. But as he went, thinking that the time had come for
plain speaking, he looked back over his shoulder and
shouted:

“Sire, it’s the Grand Duke himself!”

The king stopped short in sudden amazement.

“Is the man mad?” he asked. “Who is the Grand Duke?”

“It’s the Grand Duke, sir, who is with the princess. And you
would have killed him if I had not snatched your sword,” said
the officer; and he also came to a halt, but he kept a very
wary eye on King Rudolf.

“I should certainly have killed him, let him be who he
will,” said the king. “But why do you call him the Grand
Duke?”

The officer very cautiously approached the king, and, seeing
that the king made no threatening motion, he at last trusted
himself so close that he could speak to the king in a very low
voice; and what he said seemed to astonish, please, and amuse
the king immensely. For he clapped the officer on the back,
laughed heartily, and cried:

“A pretty trick! On my life, a pretty trick!”

Now Osra and her lover had not heard what the officer had
shouted to the king, and when Osra saw her brother returning
from among the trees alone and with his sword, she still
supposed that her lover must die; and she turned and flung her
arms round his neck, and clung to him for a moment, kissing
him. Then she faced the king, with a smile on her face and the
little dagger in her hand. But the king came up, wearing a
scornful smile, and he asked her:

“What is the dagger for, my wilful sister?”

“For me, if you kill him,” said she.

“You would kill yourself, then, if I killed him?”

“I would not live a moment after he was dead.”

“Faith, it is wonderful!” said the king with a shrug. “Then
plainly, if you cannot live without him, you must live with
him. He is to be your husband, not mine. Therefore, take him,
if you will.”

When Osra heard this, which indeed for joy and wonder she
could hardly believe, she dropped her knife, and, running
forward, [pg 290] fell on her knees before
her brother, and, catching his hand, she covered it with
kisses, and her tears mingled with her kisses. But the king
let her go on, and stood over her, laughing and looking at
the student. Presently the student began to laugh also, and
he had just advanced a step towards King Rudolf, when Count
Sergius of Antheim, the Grand Duke’s ambassador, came out
from among the trees, riding hotly and with great zeal after
the noted robber. But no sooner did the count see the
student than he stopped his horse, leaped down with a cry of
wonder, and, running up to the student, bowed very low and
kissed his hand. So that when Osra looked round from her
kissing of her brother’s hand, she beheld the Grand Duke’s
ambassador kissing the hand of her lover. She sprang to her
feet in wonder.

“Who are you?” she cried to the student, running in between
him and the ambassador.

“Your lover and servant,” said he.

“And besides?” she said.

“Why, in a month, your husband,” laughed the king, taking
her lover by the hand.

He clasped the king’s hand, but turned at once to her, and
said humbly:

“Alas, I have no cottage!”

“Who are you?” she whispered to him.

“The man for whom you were ready to die, my princess. Is it
not enough?”

“Yes, it is enough,” said she; and she did not repeat her
question. But the king, with a short laugh, turned on his heel,
and took Count Sergius by the arm and walked off with him; and
presently they met the officer and learned fully how the Grand
Duke had come to Strelsau, and how he had contrived to woo and
win the Princess Osra, and finally to carry her off from the
palace.

It was an hour later when the whole of the two companies,
that of the king and that of the ambassador, were all gathered
together again, and had heard the story; so that when the king
went to where Osra and the Grand Duke walked together among the
trees, and, taking each by a hand, led them out, they were
greeted with a great cheer; and they mounted their horses,
which the Grand Duke now found without any
difficulty—although when the need of them seemed far
greater the student could not contrive to come upon
them—and the whole company rode together out of the wood
and along the road towards Strelsau, the king being full of
jokes and hugely delighted with a trick that suited his merry
fancy. But before they had ridden far, they met the great crowd
which had come out from Strelsau to learn what had happened to
the Princess Osra. And the king cried out that the Grand Duke
was to marry the princess, while his guards who had been with
him and the ambassador’s people spread themselves among the
crowd and told the story. And when they heard it, the Strelsau
folk were nearly beside themselves with amusement and delight,
and thronged round Osra, kissing her hands and blessing her.
But the king drew back, and let her and the Grand Duke ride
alone together, while he followed with Count Sergius. Thus,
moving at a very slow pace, they came in the forenoon to
Strelsau; but some one had galloped on ahead with the news, and
the cathedral bells had been set ringing, the streets were
full, and the whole city given over to excitement and
rejoicing. All the men were that day in love with Princess
Osra; and, what is more, they told their sweethearts so, and
these found no other revenge than to blow kisses and fling
flowers at the Grand Duke as he rode past with Osra by his
side. Thus they came back to the palace whence they had fled in
the early gleams of that morning’s light.

It was evening, and the moon rose, fair and clear, over
Strelsau. In the streets there were sounds of merriment and
rejoicing; for every house was bright with light, and the king
had sent out meat and wine for every soul in the city, that
none might be sad or hungry or thirsty in all the city that
night; so that there was no small uproar. The king himself sat
in his armchair, toasting the bride and bride-groom in company
with Count Sergius of Antheim, whose dignity, somewhat wounded
by the trick his master had played upon him, was healing
quickly under the balm of King Rudolf’s graciousness. And the
king said to Count Sergius:

“My lord, were you ever in love?”

“I was, sire,” said the count.

“So was I,” said the king. “Was it with the countess, my
lord?”

Count Sergius’s eyes twinkled demurely; but he answered:

“I take it, sire, that it must have been with the
countess.”

“And I take it,” said the king, “that it must have been with
the queen.”

Then they both laughed, and then they both sighed; and the
king, touching the count’s elbow, pointed out to the terrace of
the palace, on to which the room where they were opened. For
Princess Osra and [pg 291] her lover were walking up
and down together on this terrace. And the two shrugged
their shoulders, smiling.

“HE LEANED FROM HIS SADDLE AS HE DASHED BY, AND …
SNATCHED THE KING’S SWORD AWAY FROM HIM, JUST AS THE KING
WAS ABOUT TO THRUST IT THROUGH HIS SISTER’S LOVER.”

“With him,” remarked the king, “it will have been
with—”

“The countess, sire,” discreetly interrupted Count Sergius
of Antheim.

“Why, yes, the countess,” said the king; and, with a laugh,
they turned bank to their wine.

But the two on the terrace also talked.

“I do not yet understand it,” said Princess Osra. “For on
the first day I loved you, and on the second I loved you, and
on the third, and the fourth, and every day I loved you. Yet
the first day was not like the second, nor the second like the
third, nor any day like any other. And to-day, again, is unlike
them all. Is love so various and full of changes?”

“Is it not?” he asked with a smile. “For while you were with
the queen, talking of I know not what—”

“Nor I, indeed,” said Osra hastily.

“I was with the king, and he, saying that forewarned was
forearmed, told me very strange and pretty stories. Of some a
report had reached me before—”

“And yet you came to Strelsau?”

“While of others, I had not heard.”

“Or you would not have come to Strelsau?”

The Grand Duke, not heeding these questions, proceeded to
his conclusion:

“Love, therefore,” said he, “is very various. For M. de
Mérosailles—”

“These are old stories,” cried Osra, pretending to stop her
ears.

“Loved in one way, and Stephen the Smith in another,
and—the Miller of Hofbau in a third.”

“I think,” said Osra, “that I have forgotten the Miller of
Hofbau. But can one heart love in many different ways? I know
that different men love differently.”

“But cannot one heart love in different ways?” he
smiled.

“May be,” said Osra thoughtfully, “one heart can have
loved.” But then she suddenly looked up at him with a
mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “No, no,” she cried; “it was
not love. It was—”

“What was it?”

“The courtiers entertained me till the king came,” she said
with a blushing laugh. And looking up at him again, she
whispered: “Yet I am glad that you lingered for a little.”

At this moment she saw the king come out on to the terrace,
and with him was the Bishop of Modenstein; and after the bishop
had been presented to the Grand
[pg 292] Duke, the king began to
talk with the Grand Duke, while the bishop kissed Osra’s
hand and wished her joy.

“Madam,” said he, “once you asked me if I could make you
understand what love was. I take it you have no need for my
lessons now. Your teacher has come.”

“Yes, he has come,” she said gently, looking on the bishop
with great friendliness. “But tell me, will he always love
me?”

“Surely he will,” answered the bishop.

“And tell me,” said Osra, “shall I always love him?”

“Surely,” said the bishop again, most courteously. “Yet,
indeed, madam,” he continued, “it would seem almost enough to
ask of Heaven to love now and now to be loved. For the years
roll on, and youth goes, and even the most incomparable beauty
will yield its blossoms when the season wanes; yet that sweet
memory may ever be fresh and young, a thing a man can carry to
his grave and raise as her best monument on his lady’s
tomb.”

“Ah, you speak well of love,” said she. “I marvel that you
speak so well of love. For it is as you say; and to-day in the
wood it seemed to me that I had lived enough, and that even
Death was but Love’s servant as Life is, both purposed solely
for his better ornament.”

“Men have died because they loved you, madam, and some yet
live who love you,” said the bishop.

“And shall I grieve for both, my lord—or for
which?”

“For neither, madam; for the dead have gained peace, and
they who live have escaped forgetfulness.”

“But would they not be happier for forgetting?”

“I do not think so,” said the bishop; and, bowing low to her
again, he stood back, for he saw the king approaching with the
Grand Duke; and the king took him by the arm, and walked on
with him; but Osra’s face lost the brief pensiveness that had
come upon it as she talked with the bishop, and, turning to her
lover, she stretched out her hands to him, saying:

“I wish there was a cottage, and that you worked for bread,
while I made ready for you at the cottage, and then ran far,
far, far, down the road to watch and wait for your coming.”

“Since a cottage was not too small, a palace will not be too
large,” said he, catching her in his arms.

Thus the heart of Princess Osra found its haven and its
rest; for a month later she was married to the Grand Duke of
Mittenheim in the cathedral of Strelsau, having utterly refused
to take any other place for her wedding. And again she and he
rode forth together through the western gate; and the king rode
with them on their way till they came to the woods. Here he
paused, and all the crowd that accompanied him stopped also;
and they all waited till the sombre depths of the glades hid
Osra and her lover from their sight. Then, leaving them thus
riding together to their happiness, the people returned home,
sad for the loss of their darling princess. But, for
consolation, and that their minds might less feel her loss,
they had her name often on their lips; and the poets and
story-tellers composed many stories about her, not always
grounded on fact, but the fabric of idle imaginings, wrought to
please the fancy of lovers or to wake the memories of older
folk. So that, if a stranger goes now to Strelsau, he may be
pardoned if it seem to him that all mankind was in love with
Princess Osra. Nay, and those stories so pass all fair bounds
that, if you listened to them, you would come near to believing
that the princess also had found some love for all the men who
had given her their love. Thus to many she is less a woman that
once lived and breathed than some sweet image under whose name
they fondly group all the virtues and the charms of her whom
they love best, each man fashioning for himself from his own
chosen model her whom he calls his princess. Yet it may be that
for some of them who so truly loved her, her heart had a
moment’s tenderness. Who shall tell all the short-lived dreams
that come and go, the promptings and stirrings of a vagrant
inclination? And who would pry too closely into these secret
matters? May we not more properly give thanks to heaven that
the thing is as it is? For surely it makes greatly for the
increase of joy and entertainment in the world, and of courtesy
and true tenderness, that the heart of Princess Osra—or
of what lady you may choose, sir, to call by her
name—should flutter in pretty hesitation here and there
and to and fro a little, before it flies on a straight swift
wing to its destined and desired home. And if you be not the
prince for your princess, why, sir, your case is a sad one.

[pg 293]

CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE.

By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps,

Author of “The Gates Ajar,” “The Madonna of
the Tubs,” etc.

EMERSON IN ANDOVER.—RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY RELIGIOUS
TRAINING.—THE STUDIES OF A PROFESSOR’S
DAUGHTER.—THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR.

ERHAPS no one has ever denied, or more
definitely, has ever wished to deny, that Andover society
consisted largely of people with obvious religious convictions;
and that her visitors were chiefly of the Orthodox
Congregational turn of mind. I do not remember that we ever saw
any reason for regret in this “feature” of the Hill. It is
true, however, that a dash of the world’s people made their way
among us.

I remember certain appearances of Ralph Waldo Emerson. If I
am correct about it, he had been persuaded by some emancipated
and daring mind to give us several lectures.

He was my father’s guest on one of these occasions, and I
met him for the first time then. Emerson was—not to speak
disrespectfully—in a much muddled state of his
distinguished mind, on Andover Hill. His blazing seer’s gaze
took us all in, politely; it burned straight on, with its own
philosophic fire; but it wore, at moments, a puzzled
softness.

His clear-cut, sarcastic lips sought to assume the well-bred
curves of conformity to the environment of entertainers who
valued him so far as to demand a series of his own lectures;
but the cynic of his temperamental revolt from us, or, to be
exact, from the thing which he supposed us to be, lurked in
every line of his memorable face.

By the way, what a look of the eagle it had!

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The poet—I was about to say the pagan
poet—quickly recognized, to a degree, that he was not
among a group of barbarians; and I remember the marked respect
with which he observed my father’s noble head and countenance,
and the attention with which he listened to the low, perfectly
modulated voice of his host. But Mr. Emerson was accustomed to
do the talking himself; this occasion proved no exception; and
here his social divination or experience failed him a little.
Quite promptly, I remember, he set adrift upon the sea of
Alcott.

Now, we had heard of Mr. Alcott in Andover, it is true, but
we did not look upon him exactly through Mr. Emerson’s
marine-glass; and, though the Professor did his hospitable best
to sustain his end of the conversation, it swayed off
gracefully into monologue. We listened deferentially while the
philosopher pronounced Bronson Alcott the greatest mind of our
day—I think he said the greatest since Plato. He was
capable of it, in moments of his own exaltation. I thought I
detected a twinkle in my father’s blue eye; but the fine curve
of his lips remained politely closed; and our distinguished
guest spoke on.

There was something noble about this ardent way of
appreciating his friends, and Emerson was distinguished for it,
among those who knew him well.

Publishers understood that his literary judgment was
touchingly warped by his
[pg 294] personal admirations. He
would offer some impossible MS. as the work of dawning
genius; it would be politely received, and filed in the
rejected pigeon-holes. Who knows what the great man thought
when his friend’s poem failed to see the light of the
market?

On this particular occasion, the conversation changed to
Browning. Now, the Professor, although as familiar as he
thought it necessary to be with the latest poetic idol, was not
a member of a Browning class; and here, again, his attitude
towards the subject was one of well-mannered respect, rather
than of abandoned enthusiasm. (Had it only been Wordsworth!) A
lady was present, young, and of the Browningesque temperament.
Mr. Emerson expressed himself finely to the effect that there
was something outside of ourselves about Browning—that we
might not always grasp him—that he seemed, at times, to
require an extra sense.

“Is it not because he touches our extra moods?” asked the
lady. The poet’s face turned towards her quickly; he had not
noticed her before; a subtle change touched his expression, as
if he would have liked to say: For the first time since this
subject was introduced in this Calvinistic drawing-room, I find
myself understood.

It chanced that we had a Chaucer Club in Andover at that
time; a small company, severely selected, not to flirt or to
chat, but to work. We had studied hard for a year, and most of
us had gone Chaucer mad. This present writer was the
unfortunate exception to that idolatrous enthusiasm,
and—meeting Mr. Emerson at another time—took modest
occasion in answer to a remark of his to say something of the
sort.

“Chaucer interests me, certainly, but I cannot make myself
feel as the others do. He does not take hold of my nature. He
is too far back. I am afraid I am too much of a modern. It is a
pity, I know.”

“It is a pity,” observed Mr. Emerson sarcastically.
“What would you read? The ‘Morning Advertiser’?” The Chaucer
Club glared at me in what, I must say, I felt to be unholy
triumph.

Not a glance of sympathy reached me, where I sat, demolished
before the rebuke of the great man. I distinctly heard a
chuckle from a feminine member. Yet, what had the dissenter
done, or tried to do? To be quite honest, only, in a little
matter where affectation would have been the flowery way; and I
must say that I have never loved the Father of English Poetry
any better for this episode.

The point, however, at which I am coming is the effect
wrought upon Mr. Emerson’s mind by the history of that club. It
seemed to us disproportionate to the occasion that he should
feel and manifest so much surprise at our existence. This he
did, more than once, and with a genuineness not to be
mistaken.

That an organization for the study of Chaucer could subsist
on Andover Hill, he could not understand. What he thought us,
or thought about us, who can say? He seemed as much taken aback
as if he had found a tribe of Cherokees studying onomatopoeia
in English verse.

“A Chaucer club! In Andover?” he repeated. The
seer was perplexed.

Of course, whenever we found ourselves in forms of society
not in harmony with our religious views, we were accustomed, in
various ways, to meet with a similar predisposition. As a
psychological study this has always interested me, just as one
is interested in the attitude of mind exhibited by the Old
School physician towards the Homoeopathist with whom he
graduated at the Harvard Medical School. Possibly that graduate
may have distinguished himself with the honors of the school;
but as soon as he prescribes on the principles of Hahnemann, he
is not to be adjudged capable of setting a collar-bone. By
virtue of his therapeutic views he has become disqualified for
professional recognition. So, by virtue of one’s religious
views, the man or woman of orthodox convictions, whatever one’s
proportion of personal culture, is regarded with a gentle
superiority, as being of a class still enslaved in
superstition, and therefore per se barbaric.

Put in undecorated language, this is about the sum and
substance of a state of feeling which all intelligent
evangelical Christians recognize perfectly in those who have
preempted for themselves the claims belonging to what are
called the liberal faiths.

On the other hand, one who is regarded as a little of a
heretic from the sterner sects, may make the warmest
friendships of a lifetime among “the world’s people”—whom
far be it from me to seem to dispossess of any of their
manifold charms.

This brings me closely to a question which I am so often
asked, either directly or indirectly, that I cannot easily pass
this Andover chapter by without some recognition of it.

What was, in very truth, the effect of
[pg 295] such a religious training
as Andover gave her children?

Curious impressions used to be afloat about us among people
of easier faiths; often, I think, we were supposed to spend our
youth paddling about in a lake of blue fire, or in committing
the genealogies to memory, or in gasping beneath the agonies of
religious revivals.

To be quite honest, I should say that I have not retained
all the beliefs which I was taught—who does? But I
have retained the profoundest respect for the way in which I
was taught them; and I would rather have been taught what I
was, as I was, and run whatever risks were involved in
the process, than to have been taught much less, little, or
nothing.

An excess of religious education may have its unfortunate
aspects. But a deficiency of it has worse.

It is true that, for little people, our little souls were a
good deal agitated on the question of eternal salvation. We
were taught that heaven and hell followed life and death; that
the one place was “a desirable location,” and the other too
dreadful to be mentioned in ears polite; and that what Matthew
Arnold calls “conduct” was the deciding thing. Not that we
heard much, until we grew old enough to read for ourselves,
about Matthew Arnold; but we did hear a great deal about plain
behaviour—unselfishness, integrity, honor, sweet
temper—the simple good morals of childhood.

We were taught, too, to respect prayer and the Christian
Bible. In this last particular we never had at all an
oppressive education.

My Sunday-school reminiscences are few and comfortable, and
left me, chiefly, with the impression that Sunday-schools
always studied Acts; for I do not recall any lessons given me
by strolling theologues in any other—certainly none in
any severer—portions of the Bible.

It was all very easy and pleasant, if not feverishly
stimulating; and I am quite willing to match my Andover
Sunday-school experiences with that of a Boston free-thinker’s
little daughter who came home and complained to her mother:

“There is a dreadful girl put into our Sunday-school. I
think, mamma, she is bad society for me. She says the Bible is
exaggerated, and then she tickles my legs!”

I have said that we were taught to think something about our
own “salvation;” and so we were, but not in a manner calculated
to burden the good spirits of any but a very sensitive or
introspective child. Personally, I may have dwelt on the idea,
at times, more than was good for my happiness; but certainly no
more than was good for my character. The idea of character was
at the basis of everything we did, or dreamed, or learned.

There is a scarecrow which “liberal” beliefs put together,
hang in the field of public terror or ridicule, and call it
Orthodoxy. Of this misshapen creature we knew nothing in
Andover.

Of hell we heard sometimes, it is true, for Andover Seminary
believed in it—though, be it said, much more comfortably
in the days before this iron doctrine became the bridge of
contention in the recent serious, theological battle which has
devastated Andover. In my own case, I do not remember to have
been shocked or threatened by this woful doctrine. I knew that
my father believed in the everlasting misery of wicked people
who could be good if they wanted to, but would not; and I was,
of course, accustomed to accept the beliefs of a parent who
represented everything that was tender, unselfish, pure, and
noble, to my mind—in fact, who sustained to me the ideal
of a fatherhood which gave me the best conception I shall ever
get, in this world, of the Fatherhood of God. My father
presented the interesting anomaly of a man holding, in one dark
particular, a severe faith, but displaying in his private
character rare tenderness and sweetness of heart. He would go
out of his way to save a crawling thing from death, or any
sentient thing from pain. He took more trouble to give comfort
or to prevent distress to every breathing creature that came
within his reach, than any other person whom I have ever known.
He had not the heart to witness heartache. It was impossible
for him to endure the sight of a child’s suffering. His
sympathy was an extra sense, finer than eyesight, more
exquisite than touch.

Yet, he did believe that absolute perversion of moral
character went to its “own place,” and bore the consequence of
its own choice.

Once I told a lie (I was seven years old), and my father was
a broken-hearted man. He told me then that liars went to
hell. I do not remember to have heard any such personal
application of the doctrine of eternal punishment before or
since; and the fact made a life-long impression, to which I
largely owe a personal preference for veracity. Yet, to analyze
the scene [pg 296] strictly, I must say that
it was not fear of torment which so moved me; it was the
sight of that broken face. For my father wept—only
when death visited the household did I ever see him cry
again—and I stood melted and miserable before his
anguish and his love. The devil and all his angels could not
have punished into me the noble shame of that moment.

PROFESSOR AUSTIN PHELPS, FATHER OF ELIZABETH STUART
PHELPS.

From a photograph by Warren, Boston.

I have often been aware of being pitied by outsiders for the
theological discipline which I was supposed to have received in
Andover; but I must truthfully say that I have never been
conscious of needing compassion in this respect. I was taught
that God is Love, and Christ His Son is our Saviour; that the
important thing in life was to be that kind of woman for which
there is really, I find, no better word than Christian, and
that the only road to this end was to be trodden by way of
character. The ancient Persians (as we all know) were taught to
hurl a javelin, ride a horse, and speak the truth.

I was taught that I should speak the truth, say my prayers,
and consider other people; it was a wholesome, right-minded,
invigorating training that we had, born of tenderness, educated
conscience, and good sense, and I have lived to bless it in
many troubled years.

What if we did lend a little too much romance now and then
to our religious “experience”? It was better for us than some
other kinds of romance to which we were quite as liable. What
if I did “join the church” (entirely of my own urgent will, not
of my father’s preference or guiding) at the age of twelve,
when the great dogmas to which I was expected to subscribe
could not possibly have any rational meaning for me? I remember
how my father took me apart, and gently explained to me
beforehand the clauses of the rather simple and truly beautiful
chapel creed which he himself, I believe, had written to
modernize and clarify the old one—I wonder if it were
done at that very time? [pg 297] And I remember that it all
seemed to me very easy and happy—signifying chiefly,
that one meant to be a good girl, if possible. What if one
did conduct a voluminous religious correspondence with the
other Professor’s daughter, who put notes under the fence
which divided our homes? We were none the worse girls for
that. And we outgrew it, when the time came.

PROFESSOR M. STUART PHELPS, ELDEST SON OF PROFESSOR
AUSTIN PHELPS, AND BROTHER OF ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

Professor M. Stuart Phelps died in 1883, at the age of
34. He was professor of philosophy in Smith College, was
called by those entitled to judge, the most promising young
psychologist in this country, and a brilliant future was
prophesied for him. The above portrait is from a photograph
by Pach Brothers, New York.

One thing, supremely, I may say that I learned from the
Andover life, or, at least, from the Andover home. That was an
everlasting scorn of worldliness—I do not mean in the
religious sense of the word. That tendency to seek the lower
motive, to do the secondary thing, to confuse sounds or
appearances with values, which is covered by the word as we
commonly use it, very early came to seem to me a way of looking
at life for which I know no other term than underbred.

There is no better training for a young person than to live
in the atmosphere of a study—we did not call it a
library, in my father’s home. People of leisure who read might
have libraries. People who worked among their books had
studies.

The life of a student, with its gracious peace, its beauty,
its dignity, seemed to me, as the life of social preoccupation
or success may seem to children born to that penumbra, the
inevitable thing.

As one grew to think out life for one’s self, one came to
perceive a width and sanctity in the choice of
work—whether rhetoric or art, theology or sculpture,
hydraulics or manufacture—but to work, to work
hard, to see work steadily, and see it whole, was the way to be
reputable. I think I always respected a good blacksmith more
than a lady of leisure.

I know it took me a while to recover from a very youthful
and amusing disinclination to rich people, which was surely
never trained into me, but grew like the fruit of the
horse-chestnut trees, ruggedly, of nature, and of Andover Hill;
and which dropped away when its time came—just about as
useless as the big brown nuts which we cut into baskets and
carved into Trustees’ faces for a mild November day, and then
threw away.

When I came in due time to observe that property and a
hardened character were not identical, and that families of
ease in which one might happen to visit were not deficient in
education because their incomes were large—I think it was
at first with a certain sense of surprise. It is impossible to
convey to one differently reared the delicious
naïveté of this state of
mind.

[pg 298]

Whatever the “personal peculiarities” of our youthful
conceptions of life, as acquired at Andover, one thing is
sure—that we grew into love of reality as naturally as
the Seminary elms shook out their long, green plumes in May,
and shed their delicate, yellow leaves in October.

I can remember no time when we did not instinctively despise
a sham, and honor a genuine person, thing, or claim. In mere
social pretension not built upon character, intelligence,
education, or gentle birth, we felt no interest. I do not
remember having been taught this, in so many words. It came
without teaching.

My father taught me most things without text-books or
lessons. By far the most important portion of what one calls
education, I owe to him; yet he never preached, or prosed, or
played the pedagogue. He talked a great deal, not to us, but
with us; we began to have conversation while we were still
playing marbles and dolls. I remember hours of discussion with
him on some subject so large that the littleness of his
interlocutor must have tried him sorely. Time and eternity,
theology and science, literature and art, invention and
discovery came each in its turn; and, while I was still making
burr baskets, or walking fences, or coasting (standing up) on
what I was proud to claim as the biggest sled in town, down the
longest hills, and on the fastest local record—I was
fascinated with the wealth and variety which seem to have been
the conditions of thought with him. I have never been more
interested by anything in later life than I was in my
father’s conversation.

I never attended a public school of any kind—unless we
except the Sunday-school that studied Acts—and when it
came time for me to pass from the small to the large private
schools of Andover, the same paternal comradeship continued to
keep step with me. There was no college diploma for girls of my
kind in my day; but we came as near to it as we could.

There was a private school in Andover, of wide reputation in
its time, known to the irreverent as the “Nunnery,” but bearing
in professional circles the more stately name of Mrs. Edwards’s
School for Young Ladies. Two day-scholars, as a marked favor to
their parents, were admitted with the boarders elect; and of
these two I was one. If I remember correctly, Professor Park
and my father were among the advisers whose opinions had weight
with the selection of our course of study, and I often wonder
how, with their rather feudal views of women, these two wise
men of Andover managed to approve so broad a curriculum.

Possibly the quiet and modest learned lady, our principal,
had ideas of her own which no one could have suspected her of
obtruding against the current of her times and environment;
like other strong and gentle women she may have had her “way”
when nobody thought so. At all events, we were taught wisely
and well, in directions to which the fashionable girls’ schools
of the day did not lift an eye-lash.

I was an out-of-door girl, always into every little mischief
of snow or rainfall, flower, field, or woods or ice; but in
spite of skates and sleds and tramps and all the west winds
from Wachusett that blew through me, soul and body, I was not
strong; and my father found it necessary to oversee my methods
of studying. Incidentally, I think, he influenced the choice of
some of our text-books, and I remember that, with the exception
of Greek and trigonometry—thought, in those days, to be
beyond the scope of the feminine intellect—we pursued the
same curriculum that our brothers did at college. In some cases
we had teachers who were then, or afterwards, college
professors in their specialties; in all departments I think we
were faithfully taught, and that our tastes and abilities were
electively recognized.

I was not allowed, I remember, to inflict my musical talents
upon the piano for more than one hour a day; my father taking
the ground that, as there was only so much of a girl, if she
had not unusual musical gift and had less than usual physical
vigor, she had better give the best of herself to her studies.
I have often blessed him for this daring individualism; for,
while the school “practice” went on about me, in the ordinary
way, so many precious hours out of a day that was all too short
for better things—I was learning my lessons quite
comfortably, and getting plenty of fresh air and exercise
between whiles.

I hasten to say that I was not at all a remarkable scholar.
I cherished a taste for standing near the top of the class,
somewhere, and always preferred rather to answer a question
than to miss it; but this, I think, was pure pride, rather than
an absorbing, intellectual passion. It was a wholesome pride,
however, and served me a good turn.

At one epoch of history, so far back that I cannot date it,
I remember to have been a scholar at Abbott Academy long enough
to learn how to spell. Perhaps one ought
[pg 299] to give the honor of this
achievement where honor is due. When I observe the manner in
which the superior sex is often turned out by masculine
diplomas upon the world with the life-long need of a
vest-pocket dictionary or a spelling-book, I cherish a
respect for the method in which I was compelled to spell the
English language. It was severe, no doubt. We stood in a
class of forty, and lost our places for the misfit of a
syllable, a letter, a definition, or even a stumble in
elocution. I remember once losing the head of the class for
saying: L-u-ux—Lux. It was a terrible blow, and I
think of it yet with burning mortification on my cheeks.

In the “Nunnery” we were supposed to have learned how to
spell. We studied what we called Mental Philosophy, to my
unmitigated delight; and Butler’s Analogy, which I considered a
luxury; and Shakespeare, whom I distantly but never intimately
adored; Latin, to which dead language we gave seven years
apiece, out of our live girlhood; Picciola and Undine we
dreamed over, in the grove and the orchard; English literature
is associated with the summer-house and the grape arbor, with
flecks of shade and glints of light, and a sense of
unmistakable privilege. There was physiology, which was
scarcely work, and astronomy, which I found so exhilarating
that I fell ill over it. Alas, truth compels me to add that
Mathematics, with a big M and stretching on through the
books of Euclid, darkened my young horizon with dull despair;
and that chemistry—but the facts are too humiliating to
relate. My father used to say that all he ever got out of the
pursuit of this useful science in his college days—and he
was facile valedictorian—was the impression that there
was a sub-acetate of something dissolved in a powder at the
bottom.

All that I am able to recall of the study of “my brother’s
text-books,” in this department, is that there was once a
frightful odor in the laboratory for which Professor Hitchcock
and a glass jar and a chemical were responsible, and that I
said, “At least, the name of this will remain with me to
my dying hour.” But what was the name of it? “Ask me no
more.”

In the department of history I can claim no results more
calculated to reflect credit upon the little student who hated
a poor recitation much, but facts and figures more. To the best
of my belief, I can be said to have retained but two out of the
long list of historic dates with which my quivering memory was
duly and properly crowded.

I do know when America was discovered; because the
year is inscribed over a spring in the seaside town where I
have spent twenty summers, and I have driven past it on an
average once a day, for that period of time. And I can tell
when Queen Elizabeth left this world, because Macaulay wrote a
stately sentence:

“In 1603 the Great Queen died.”

It must have been the year when my father read De Quincey
and Wordsworth to me on winter evenings that I happened for
myself on Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The first little event
opened for me, as distinctly as if I had never heard of it
before, the world of letters as a Paradise from which no
flaming sword could ever exile me; but the second revealed to
me my own nature.

The Andover sunsets blazed behind Wachusett, and between the
one window of my little room and the fine head of the mountain
nothing intervened. The Andover elms held above lifted eyes
arch upon arch of exquisite tracery, through which the far sky
looked down like some noble thing that one could spend all
one’s life in trying to reach, and be happy just because it
existed, whether one reached it or not. The paths in my
father’s great gardens burned white in the summer moonlights,
and their shape was the shape of a mighty cross. The June
lilies, yellow and sweet, lighted their soft lamps beside the
cross—I was sixteen, and I read Aurora Leigh.

A grown person may smile—but, no; no gentle-minded man
or woman smiles at the dream of a girl. What has life to offer
that is nobler in enthusiasm, more delicate, more ardent, more
true to the unseen and the unsaid realities which govern our
souls, or leave us sadder forever because they do not? There
may be greater poems in our language than Aurora Leigh, but it
was many years before it was possible for me to suppose it; and
none that ever saw the hospitality of fame could have done for
that girl what that poem did at that time. I had never a good
memory—but I think I could have repeated a large portion
of it; and know that I often stood the test of hap-hazard
examinations on the poem from half-scoffing friends, sometimes
of the masculine persuasion. Each to his own; and what
Shakespeare or the Latin Fathers might have done for some other
impressionable girl, Mrs. Browning—forever bless her
strong and gentle name!—did for me.

I owe to her, distinctly, the first visible
[pg 300] aspiration (ambition is too
low a word) to do some honest, hard work of my own, in the
World Beautiful, and for it.

It is April, and it is the year 1861. It is a dull morning
at school. The sky is gray. The girls are not in
spirits—no one knows just why. The morning mail is late,
and the Boston papers are tardily distributed. The older girls
get them, and are reading the head-lines lazily, as girls do;
not, in truth, caring much about a newspaper, but aware that
one must be well-informed.

Suddenly, in the recitation room, where I am refreshing my
accomplishments in some threatening lesson, I hear low murmurs
and exclamations. Then a girl, very young and very pretty,
catches the paper and whirls it overhead. With a laugh which
tinkles through my ears to this day, she dances through the
room and cries:

“War’s begun! War’s begun!“

An older girl utters a cry of horror, and puts her hand upon
the little creature’s thoughtless lips.

“Oh, how can you?” so I hear the older girl. “Hush,
hush, hush!”

THE TOUCHSTONE.

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

THE King was a man that stood well before the
world; his smile was sweet as clover, but his soul withinsides
was as little as a pea. He had two sons; and the younger son
was a boy after his heart, but the elder was one whom he
feared. It befell one morning that the drum sounded in the dun
before it was yet day; and the King rode with his two sons, and
a brave army behind them. They rode two hours, and came to the
foot of a brown mountain that was very steep.

“Where do we ride?” said the elder son.

“Across this brown mountain,” said the King, and smiled to
himself.

“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger
son.

And they rode two hours more, and came to the sides of a
black river that was wondrous deep.

“And where do we ride?” asked the elder son.

“Over this black river,” said the King, and smiled to
himself.

“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger
son.

And they rode all that day, and about the time of the
sun-setting came to the side of a lake, where was a great
dun.

“It is here we ride,” said the King; “to a King’s house, and
a priest’s, and a house where you will learn much.”

At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them,
and he was a grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and
she was as fair as the morn, and one that smiled and looked
down.

“These are my two sons,” said the first King.

“And here is my daughter,” said the King who was a
priest.

“She is a wonderful fine maid,” said the first King, “and I
like her manner of smiling.”

“They are wonderful well-grown lads,” said the second, “and
I like their gravity.”

And then the two Kings looked at each other, and said, “The
thing may come about.”

And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the maid, and
the one grew pale and the other red; and the maid looked upon
the ground smiling.

“Here is the maid that I shall marry,” said the elder. “For
I think she smiled upon me.”

But the younger plucked his father by the sleeve. “Father,”
said he, “a word in your ear. If I find favor in your sight,
might not I wed this maid, for I think she smiles upon me?”

“A word in yours,” said the King his father. “Waiting is
good hunting, and when the teeth are shut the tongue is at
home.”

“HE WAS A GRAVE MAN, AND BESIDE HIM STOOD HIS
DAUGHTER.”

[pg 301]

Now they were come into the dun, and feasted; and this was a
great house, so that the lads were astonished; and the King
that was a priest sat at the end of the board and was silent,
so that the lads were filled with reverence; and the maid
served them, smiling, with downcast eyes, so that their hearts
were enlarged.

Before it was day, the elder son arose, and he found the
maid at her weaving, for she was a diligent girl. “Maid,” quoth
he, “I would fain marry you.”

“You must speak with my father,” said she, and she looked
upon the ground smiling, and became like the rose.

“Her heart is with me,” said the elder son, and he went down
to the lake and sang.

A little after came the younger son. “Maid,” quoth he, “if
our fathers were agreed, I would like well to marry you.”

“You can speak to my father,” said she, and looked upon the
ground and smiled and grew like the rose.

“She is a dutiful daughter,” said the younger son, “she will
make an obedient wife.” And then he thought, “What shall I do?”
and he remembered the King her father was a priest, so he went
into the temple and sacrificed a weasel and a hare.

Presently the news got about; and the two lads and the first
King were called into the presence of the King who was a
priest, where he sat upon the high seat.

“Little I reck of gear,” said the King who was a priest,
“and little of power. For we live here among the shadows of
things, and the heart is sick of seeing them. And we stay here
in the wind like raiment drying, and the heart is weary of the
wind. But one thing I love, and that is truth; and for one
thing will I give my daughter, and that is the trial stone. For
in the light of that stone the seeming goes, and the being
shows, and all things besides are worthless. Therefore, lads,
if ye would wed my daughter, out foot, and bring me the stone
of touch, for that is the price of her.”

“A word in your ear,” said the younger son to his father. “I
think we do very well without this stone.”

“A word in yours,” said his father. “I am of your way of
thinking; but when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home.”
And he smiled to the King that was a priest.

“‘MAID,’ QUOTH HE, ‘I WOULD FAIN MARRY YOU.'”

But the elder son got to his feet, and called the King that
was a priest by the name of father. “For whether I marry the
maid or no, I will call you by that word for the love of your
wisdom; and even now I will ride forth and search the world for
the stone of touch.” So he said farewell and rode into the
world.

“I think I will go, too,” said the younger son, “if I can
have your leave. For my heart goes out to the maid.”

“You will ride home with me,” said his father.

So they rode home, and when they came to the dun, the King
had his son into his treasury. “Here,” said he, “is the
touchstone which shows truth; for there is no truth but plain
truth; and if you will look in this, you will see yourself as
you are.”

And the younger son looked in it, and saw his face as it
were the face of a beardless youth, and he was well enough
pleased; for the thing was a piece of a mirror.

“Here is no such great thing to make a work about,” said he;
“but if it will get me the maid, I shall never complain. But
what a fool is my brother to ride into the world, and the thing
all the while at home.”

So they rode back to the other dun, and showed the mirror to
the King that was a priest; and when he had looked in it, and
seen himself like a King, and his house like a King’s house,
and all things like themselves, he cried out and blessed God.
“For now I know,” said he, “there is no truth but the plain
truth; and I am a King indeed, although my heart misgave me.”
And [pg 302] he pulled down his temple
and built a new one; and then the younger son was married to
the maid.

In the meantime the elder son rode into the world to find
the touchstone of the trial of truth; and whenever he came to a
place of habitation, he would ask the men if they had heard of
it. And in every place the men answered: “Not only have we
heard of it, but we alone of all men possess the thing itself,
and it hangs in the side of our chimney to this day.” Then
would the elder son be glad, and beg for a sight of it. And
sometimes it would be a piece of mirror, that showed the
seeming of things, and then he would say: “This can never be,
for there should be more than seeming.” And sometimes it would
be a lump of coal, which showed nothing; and then he would say:
“This can never be, for at least there is the seeming.” And
sometimes it would be a touchstone indeed, beautiful in hue,
adorned with polishing, the light inhabiting its sides; and
when he found this, he would beg the thing, and the persons of
that place would give it him, for all men were very generous of
that gift; so that at the last he had his wallet full of them,
and they chinked together when he rode; and when he halted by
the side of the way, he would take them out and try them, till
his head turned like the sails upon a windmill.

“A murrain upon this business!” said the elder son, “for I
perceive no end to it. Here I have the red, and here the blue
and the green; and to me they seem all excellent, and yet shame
each other. A murrain on the trade! If it were not for the King
that is a priest, and whom I have called my father, and if it
were not for the fair maid of the dun that makes my mouth to
sing and my heart enlarge, I would even tumble them all into
the salt sea, and go home and be a King like other folk.”

But he was like the hunter that has seen a stag upon a
mountain, so that the night may fall, and the fire be kindled,
and the lights shine in his house, but desire of that stag is
single in his bosom.

Now after many years the elder son came upon the sides of
the salt sea; and it was night, and a savage place, and the
clamor of the sea was loud. There he was aware of a house, and
a man that sat there by the light of a candle, for he had no
fire. Now the elder son came in to him, and the man gave him
water to drink, for he had no bread; and wagged his head when
he was spoken to, for he had no words.

“Have you the touchstone of truth?” asked the elder son; and
when the man had wagged his head, “I might have known that,”
cried the elder son; “I have here a wallet full of them!” And
with that he laughed, although his heart was weary.

And with that the man laughed too, and with the fuff of his
laughter the candle went out.

“Sleep,” said the man, “for now I think you have come far
enough; and your quest is ended, and my candle is out.”

Now, when the morning came, the man gave him a clear pebble
in his hand, and it had no beauty and no color, and the elder
son looked upon it scornfully and shook his head, and he went
away, for it seemed a small affair to him.

All that day he rode, and his mind was quiet, and the desire
of the chase allayed. “How if this poor pebble be the
touchstone, after all?” said he; and he got down from his
horse, and emptied forth his wallet by the side of the way.
Now, in the light of each other, all the touchstones lost their
hue and fire, and withered like stars at morning; but in the
light of the pebble, their beauty remained, only the pebble was
the most bright. And the elder son smote upon his brow. “How if
this be the truth,” he cried, “that all are a little true?” And
he took the pebble, and turned its light upon the heavens, and
they deepened above him like the pit; and he turned it on the
hills, and the hills were cold and rugged, but life ran in
their sides so that his own life bounded; and he turned it on
the dust, and he beheld the dust with joy and terror; and he
turned it on himself, and kneeled down and prayed.

“Now thanks be to God,” said the elder son, “I have found
the touchstone; and now I may turn my reins, and ride home to
the King and to the maid of the dun that makes my mouth to sing
and my heart enlarge.”

Now, when he came to the dun, he saw children playing by the
gate where the King had met him in the old days, and this
stayed his pleasure; for he thought in his heart, “It is here
my children should be playing.” And when he came into the hall,
there was his brother on the high seat, and the maid beside
him; and at that his anger rose, for he thought in his heart,
“It is I that should be sitting there, and the maid beside
me.”

“Who are you?” said his brother. “And what make you in the
dun?”

“I am your elder brother,” he replied. “And I am come to
marry the maid, for I have brought the touchstone of
truth.”

[pg 303]

“ALL THAT DAY HE RODE, AND HIS MIND WAS QUIET…. ‘HOW
IF THIS POOR PEBBLE BE THE TOUCHSTONE, AFTER ALL?’ SAID
HE.”

Then the younger brother laughed aloud. “Why,” said he, “I
have found the touchstone years ago, and married the maid, and
there are our children playing at the gate.”

Now at this the elder brother grew as gray as the dawn. “I
pray you have dealt justly,” said he, “for I perceive my life
is lost.”

“Justly?” quoth the younger brother. “It becomes you ill,
that are a restless man and a runagate, to doubt my justice or
the King my father’s, that are sedentary folk and known in the
land.”

“Nay,” said the elder brother; “you have all else, have
patience also, and suffer me to say the world is full of
touchstones, and it appears not easily which is true.”

“I have no shame of mine,” said the younger brother. “There
it is, and look in it.”

So the elder brother looked in the mirror, and he was sore
amazed; for he was an old man, and his hair was white upon his
head; and he sat down in the hall and wept aloud.

“Now,” said the younger brother, “see what a fool’s part you
have played, that ran over all the world to seek what was lying
in our father’s treasury, and came back an old carle for the
dogs to bark at, and without chick or child. And I that was
dutiful and wise sit here crowned with virtues and pleasures,
and happy in the light of my hearth.”

“Methinks you have a cruel tongue,” said the elder brother;
and he pulled out the clear pebble, and turned its light on his
brother; and behold, the man was lying; his soul was shrunk
into the smallness of a pea, and his heart was a bag of little
fears like scorpions, and love was dead in his bosom. And at
that the elder brother cried out aloud, and turned the light of
the pebble on the maid, and lo! she was but a mask of a woman,
and withinsides she was quite dead, and she smiled as a clock
ticks, and knew not wherefore.

“Oh, well,” said the elder brother, “I perceive there is
both good and bad. So fare ye all as well as ye may in the dun;
but I will go forth into the world with my pebble in my
pocket.”

[pg 304]

MAGAZINE NOTES.

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD—DR. JOWETT.

The late Dr. Jowett is reported to have once said to
Mrs. Humphry Ward: “We shall come in the future to teach
almost entirely by biography. We shall begin with the life
that is most familiar to us, ‘The Life of Christ,’ and we
shall more and more put before our children the great
examples of persons’ lives so that they shall have from the
beginning heroes and friends in their thoughts.”
The editors of this magazine thoroughly agree with Dr.
Jowett. It has been, for a long time, their great desire to
publish in these pages a “Life of Christ” which shall be,
to quote Mr. Hall Caine’s words in the December MCCLURE’S,
“as vivid and as personal from the standpoint of belief as
Renan’s was from the standpoint of unbelief.”

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND.

It is hard to realize the meaning of these figures,
which represent the present circulation of MCCLURE’S
MAGAZINE. Three years ago five magazines—”The
Century,” “Harper’s,” “Scribner’s,” “The Cosmopolitan,” and
“Munsey’s”—apparently occupied the whole magazine
field. But their total circulation was not over five
hundred thousand copies. The circulation of MCCLURE’S is
now equal to three-fifths of the combined circulation of
all its rivals at the time it started.
“Harper’s Magazine” and “The Century” for many years
supplied the need of the American people for great
illustrated monthlies. One imagines that every intelligent
family in the United States takes one or the other, or
both, of these magazines. “Harper’s” is over half a century
old, and “The Century” has just completed twenty-five years
of splendid life.
MCCLURE’S has a circulation equal to both these giants
of the magazine world.
We mention these facts, not for the mere sake of
comparison, but simply to enable our friends to understand
what a circulation of three hundred thousand means.
And while we are speaking about ourselves we might
mention that for three months—October, November, and
December—we had, month by month, more paid
advertising than any other magazine, while our December
number had more pages of paid advertising than any other
magazine at any time in the history of the world.
Another interesting fact is that during the two months
of November and December, MCCLURE’S MAGAZINE made greater
strides in permanent circulation than any other magazine
ever made.

OUR OWN PRINTING ESTABLISHMENT.

We have been compelled by the large circulation of the
MAGAZINE to purchase a complete printing and binding plant.
This we hope to install before the first of March. The
capacity of the plant will be not less than five hundred
thousand copies a month, and, under pressure, we can print
six hundred thousand copies.
We have secured the best and most modern presses, and,
with proper pressmen, shall be able to print as beautiful a
magazine as can be made anywhere.

ANTHONY HOPE’S NEW NOVEL

begins in our April number. It is a spirited story of
adventure. It is his first novel since “The Prisoner of
Zenda,” and has even more action than that splendid
story.

THE LIFE OF LINCOLN

will increase in interest as the history comes nearer
our own time. Every chapter will contain much that is new,
and every number of the magazine will have several
portraits of Lincoln.

THE EARLY LIFE OF LINCOLN.

We have collected the first four Lincoln articles, added
new matter both in text and pictures, and shall, in a few
days, issue a volume with the above title. It will contain
twenty portraits of Lincoln, and over one hundred other
pictures, and will deal with the first twenty-six years of
Lincoln’s life.

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS

in the next two numbers tells about the writing of “The
Gates Ajar.” She was then only twenty years old. The effect
of the book on the public, the correspondence it brought
her, and the acquaintances it secured her, will be amply
dwelt upon. These are two remarkable papers in literary
autobiography.

COLONEL ELLSWORTH, BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

Ellsworth’s death at Alexandria—”the first
conspicuous victim of the war”—although he was only
twenty-four, was the dramatic end of a most romantic and
picturesque career; and no one knows its details so well as
Colonel Hay. Ellsworth “was one of the dearest of the
friends of my youth,” says Colonel Hay. Moreover, he was a
particular favorite and protégé of
President Lincoln’s when Colonel Hay was Lincoln’s private
secretary. Colonel Hay’s paper, therefore, is one of quite
extraordinary interest. There will be published with it
some very interesting pictures.

“THE SABINE WOMEN”—A CORRECTION.

Changes made in Mr. Low’s article in the January number
at the very moment of going to press, occasioned a mistake
which should be corrected, though, no doubt, most of our
readers have detected it for themselves. In the note to
David’s picture of “The Sabine Women,” the picture was
described as portraying the seizure of the Sabine women by
the Romans, whereas it portrays the interposition of the
women in a battle following the seizure.

McClure’s Magazine

February, 1896.

Vol. VI. No. 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

By Ida M. Tarbell.

LINCOLN’S LIFE AT NEW SALEM FROM 1832 TO 1836.

LOOKING FOR WORK.

DECIDES TO BUY A STORE.

THE EARLIEST PORTRAIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. (REPRINTED FROM McCLURE’S FOR NOVEMBER).

LINCOLN IN 1859.

LINCOLN IN THE SUMMER OF 1860.

LINCOLN EARLY IN 1861.—PROBABLY THE EARLIEST PORTRAIT SHOWING HIM WITH A BEARD.

LINCOLN IN 1861.

THE STATE-HOUSE AT VANDALIA, ILLINOIS—NOW USED AS A COURT-HOUSE.

LINCOLN’S SURVEYING INSTRUMENTS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR McCLURE’S MAGAZINE.

FACSIMILE OF A TAVERN LICENSE ISSUED TO BERRY AND LINCOLN MARCH 6, 1833, BY THE COUNTY COMMISSIONERS’ COURT OF SANGAMON COUNTY.

BERRY AND LINCOLN’S STORE IN 1895.

HE BEGINS TO STUDY LAW.

DANIEL GREEN BURNER, BERRY AND LINCOLN’S CLERK.

THE REV. JOHN M. CAMERON.

JAMES SHORT, WHO SAVED LINCOLN’S HORSE AND SURVEYING INSTRUMENTS FROM A CREDITOR.

SQUIRE COLEMAN SMOOT.

SAMUEL HILL—AT WHOSE STORE LINCOLN KEPT THE POST-OFFICE.

MARY ANN RUTLEDGE, MOTHER OF ANN MAYES RUTLEDGE.

JOHN CALHOUN, UNDER WHOM LINCOLN LEARNED SURVEYING.

LINCOLN’S SADDLE-BAGS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR McCLURE’S MAGAZINE.

REPORT OF A ROAD SURVEY BY LINCOLN—HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.

A MAP MADE BY LINCOLN OF A PIECE OF ROAD IN MENARD COUNTY, ILLINOIS—HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.

BERRY AND LINCOLN GET A TAVERN LICENSE.

A WAYSIDE WELL NEAR NEW SALEM, KNOWN AS “ANN RUTLEDGE’S WELL.”

THE FIRM HIRES A CLERK.

LINCOLN APPOINTED POSTMASTER.

A NEW OPENING.

CONCORD CEMETERY.

SURVEYING WITH A GRAPEVINE.

BUSINESS REVERSES.

STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS.

THE KINDNESS SHOWN LINCOLN IN NEW SALEM.

LINCOLN’S ACQUAINTANCE IN SANGAMON COUNTY IS EXTENDED.

MAJOR JOHN T. STUART, THE MAN WHO INDUCED LINCOLN TO STUDY LAW.

HE FINALLY DECIDES ON A LEGAL CAREER.

LINCOLN ENTERS THE ILLINOIS ASSEMBLY.

JOSEPH DUNCAN, GOVERNOR OF ILLINOIS DURING LINCOLN’S FIRST TERM IN THE LEGISLATURE.

THE STORY OF ANN RUTLEDGE.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN AT TWENTY-SIX YEARS OF AGE.

GRAVE OF ANN RUTLEDGE IN OAKLAND CEMETERY.

A GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL.

By Ian Maclaren,

“I WENT UP TO MR. PERKINS’S ROOM WITHOUT CEREMONY.”

“‘HE HAD THE JOLLIEST LITTLE DINNER READY YOU EVER SAW.'”

THE FASTEST RAILROAD RUN EVER MADE.

By Harry Perry Robinson,

VIEW BACK ON THE TRACK.—A SNAP-SHOT TAKEN BY MR. ROBINSON FROM THE REAR PLATFORM OF THE LAST CAR WHEN THE TRAIN WAS RUNNING AT ABOUT EIGHTY MILES AN HOUR.

JOHN NEWELL, LATE PRESIDENT OF THE LAKE SHORE AND MICHIGAN SOUTHERN RAILWAY.

THE TEN-WHEEL ENGINE 564, WITH WHICH ENGINEER TUNKEY MADE THE RUN FROM ERIE TO BUFFALO, ATTAINING A SPEED OF 92.3 MILES AN HOUR.

THE BROOKS ENGINE 599, WHICH DREW THE TRAIN FROM ELKHART TO TOLEDO. ALL BUT ONE (THE LAST) OF THE FIVE ENGINES USED ON THE RUN WERE OF THIS TYPE.

THE ENGINEERS WHO BROUGHT FROM CHICAGO TO BUFFALO THE FASTEST TRAIN EVER RUN.

A CENTURY OF PAINTING.

By Will H. Low.

GEORGE ROMNEY, PAINTER OF “THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER,” SHOWN ON PAGE 257. FROM A MEDALLION BY THOMAS HALEY.

THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER. FROM A PAINTING BY GEORGE ROMNEY IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

JOHN CONSTABLE. FROM AN ENGRAVING BY LUCAS, AFTER A PORTRAIT BY C.E. LESLIE.

FLATFORD MILL, ON THE RIVER STOUR. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

THE HAY-WAIN. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

THE “FIGHTING TEMERAIRE” TUGGED TO HER LAST BERTH. FROM A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER.

JOSEPH MALLORD WILLIAM TURNER. FROM A DRAWING BY SIR JOHN GILBERT.

PEACE—BURIAL AT SEA OF THE BODY OF SIR DAVID WILKIE. FROM A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

PORTRAIT OF A BOY. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN OPIE, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

JOHN HOPPNER. FROM A DRAWING BY GEORGE DANCE, NOVEMBER 10, 1793.

PORTRAIT OF A LADY. FROM A PAINTING KNOWN AS “THE CORAL NECKLACE,” BY JOHN HOPPNER.

PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

MRS. SIDDONS. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

LADY BLESSINGTON. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. AFTER A PAINTING BY CHARLES LANDSEER.

MISS BARRON, AFTERWARDS MRS. RAMSEY. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

PORTRAIT OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR WILLIAM BEECHEY.

GARFIELD IN 1881, WHILE PRESIDENT. AGE 49.

THE TRAGEDY OF GARFIELD’S ADMINISTRATION.

THE EARLIEST PORTRAIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. (REPRINTED
FROM McCLURE’S FOR NOVEMBER).

LINCOLN EARLY IN 1861.—PROBABLY THE EARLIEST
PORTRAIT SHOWING HIM WITH A BEARD.

THE STATE-HOUSE AT VANDALIA, ILLINOIS—NOW USED AS
A COURT-HOUSE.

LINCOLN’S SURVEYING INSTRUMENTS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR
McCLURE’S MAGAZINE.

FACSIMILE OF A TAVERN LICENSE ISSUED TO BERRY AND
LINCOLN MARCH 6, 1833, BY THE COUNTY COMMISSIONERS’ COURT
OF SANGAMON COUNTY.

JAMES SHORT, WHO SAVED LINCOLN’S HORSE AND SURVEYING
INSTRUMENTS FROM A CREDITOR.

SAMUEL HILL—AT WHOSE STORE LINCOLN KEPT THE
POST-OFFICE.

JOHN CALHOUN, UNDER WHOM LINCOLN LEARNED
SURVEYING.

LINCOLN’S SADDLE-BAGS—PHOTOGRAPHED FOR McCLURE’S
MAGAZINE.

REPORT OF A ROAD SURVEY BY LINCOLN—HITHERTO
UNPUBLISHED.

A MAP MADE BY LINCOLN OF A PIECE OF ROAD IN MENARD
COUNTY, ILLINOIS—HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.

A WAYSIDE WELL NEAR NEW SALEM, KNOWN AS “ANN RUTLEDGE’S
WELL.”

MAJOR JOHN T. STUART, THE MAN WHO INDUCED LINCOLN TO
STUDY LAW.

JOSEPH DUNCAN, GOVERNOR OF ILLINOIS DURING LINCOLN’S
FIRST TERM IN THE LEGISLATURE.

“I WENT UP TO MR. PERKINS’S ROOM WITHOUT
CEREMONY.”

“‘HE HAD THE JOLLIEST LITTLE DINNER READY YOU EVER
SAW.'”

VIEW BACK ON THE TRACK.—A SNAP-SHOT TAKEN BY MR.
ROBINSON FROM THE REAR PLATFORM OF THE LAST CAR WHEN THE
TRAIN WAS RUNNING AT ABOUT EIGHTY MILES AN HOUR.

JOHN NEWELL, LATE PRESIDENT OF THE LAKE SHORE AND
MICHIGAN SOUTHERN RAILWAY.

THE TEN-WHEEL ENGINE 564, WITH WHICH ENGINEER TUNKEY
MADE THE RUN FROM ERIE TO BUFFALO, ATTAINING A SPEED OF
92.3 MILES AN HOUR.

THE BROOKS ENGINE 599, WHICH DREW THE TRAIN FROM
ELKHART TO TOLEDO. ALL BUT ONE (THE LAST) OF THE FIVE
ENGINES USED ON THE RUN WERE OF THIS TYPE.

THE ENGINEERS WHO BROUGHT FROM CHICAGO TO BUFFALO THE
FASTEST TRAIN EVER RUN.

GEORGE ROMNEY, PAINTER OF “THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER,”
SHOWN ON PAGE 257. FROM A MEDALLION BY THOMAS HALEY.

THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER. FROM A PAINTING BY GEORGE ROMNEY
IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

JOHN CONSTABLE. FROM AN ENGRAVING BY LUCAS, AFTER A
PORTRAIT BY C.E. LESLIE.

FLATFORD MILL, ON THE RIVER STOUR. FROM A PAINTING BY
JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

THE HAY-WAIN. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN CONSTABLE, NOW IN
THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

THE “FIGHTING TEMERAIRE” TUGGED TO HER LAST BERTH. FROM
A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER.

JOSEPH MALLORD WILLIAM TURNER. FROM A DRAWING BY SIR
JOHN GILBERT.

PEACE—BURIAL AT SEA OF THE BODY OF SIR DAVID
WILKIE. FROM A PAINTING BY J.M.W. TURNER IN THE NATIONAL
GALLERY.

PORTRAIT OF A BOY. FROM A PAINTING BY JOHN OPIE, IN THE
NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.

JOHN HOPPNER. FROM A DRAWING BY GEORGE DANCE, NOVEMBER
10, 1793.

PORTRAIT OF A LADY. FROM A PAINTING KNOWN AS “THE CORAL
NECKLACE,” BY JOHN HOPPNER.

PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

MRS. SIDDONS. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

LADY BLESSINGTON. FROM A PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS
LAWRENCE.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. AFTER A PAINTING BY CHARLES
LANDSEER.

MISS BARRON, AFTERWARDS MRS. RAMSEY. FROM A PAINTING BY
SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

PORTRAIT OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. FROM A PAINTING BY
SIR WILLIAM BEECHEY.

GARFIELD IN 1863, THE YEAR IN WHICH, AT THE AGE OF 32,
AND WITH THE RANK OF MAJOR-GENERAL, HE RETIRED FROM THE
ARMY TO BECOME A MEMBER OF CONGRESS.

GARFIELD IN 1867, WITH HIS DAUGHTER. AT THIS TIME HE
WAS CHAIRMAN OF THE COMMITTEE ON MILITARY AFFAIRS, IN THE
LOWER HOUSE OF CONGRESS.

“FROM THE LONG GRASS BY THE RIVER’S EDGE A YOUNG MAN
SPRANG UP, AND, WITH A VERY LOW BOW, DREW ASIDE TO LET HER
PASS.”

“‘YOU ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD,’ HE ANSWERED
SMILING, AND HE KISSED HER HAND.”

“‘LISTEN!’ SHE CRIED, SPRINGING TO HER FEET. ‘THEY ARE
HORSES’ HOOFS.’ … AND SHE CAUGHT HIM BY THE HAND, AND
PULLED HIM TO HIS FEET.”

“HE LEANED FROM HIS SADDLE AS HE DASHED BY, AND …
SNATCHED THE KING’S SWORD AWAY FROM HIM, JUST AS THE KING
WAS ABOUT TO THRUST IT THROUGH HIS SISTER’S LOVER.”

PROFESSOR AUSTIN PHELPS, FATHER OF ELIZABETH STUART
PHELPS.

PROFESSOR M. STUART PHELPS, ELDEST SON OF PROFESSOR
AUSTIN PHELPS, AND BROTHER OF ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

“HE WAS A GRAVE MAN, AND BESIDE HIM STOOD HIS
DAUGHTER.”

“ALL THAT DAY HE RODE, AND HIS MIND WAS QUIET…. ‘HOW
IF THIS POOR PEBBLE BE THE TOUCHSTONE, AFTER ALL?’ SAID
HE.”