TYPES OF PROSE NARRATIVES
TYPES OF PROSE
NARRATIVES
A TEXT-BOOK FOR THE
STORY WRITER
BY
HARRIOTT ELY FANSLER
Assistant Professor of English in the University of the
Philippines. Formerly Instructor in English
in Western Reserve University
at Cleveland, Ohio
CHICAGO
ROW, PETERSON & COMPANY
Copyright, 1911,
Harriott Ely Fansler.
[v]
PREFACE
Inspiration for any craftsman lies in the history of
his art and in a definite problem at hand. He feels his
task dignified when he knows what has been done before
him, and he has a starting point when he can enumerate
the essentials of what he wants to produce. He then
goes to his work with a zest that is in itself creative.
There is a popular misconception, especially in the
minds of young people and seemingly in the minds of
many teachers and critics of literature, that geniuses
have sprung full-worded from the brain of Jove and
have worked without antecedents. There could not be
to a writer a more cramping idea than that. It is the
aim of the present volume to help dispel that illusion,
and to set in a convenient form before students of narrative
the twofold inspiration mentioned—a feeling for
the past and a series of definite problems.
There has been no attempt at minuteness in tracing
the type developments; though there has been the constant
ideal of exactness and trustworthiness wherever
developments are suggested. In other words, this book
is not a scrutiny of origins, but a setting forth of
essentials in kinds of narratives already clearly established.
The analysis that gives the essentials has, of
course, the personal element in it, as all such analyses
must have; but the work is the work of one mind and is
at least consistent. Since I have not had the benefit of
other texts on the subject (for there are none that I[vi]
know of) and since the inquiry into narrative types
with composition in view is thus made, put together with
illustrations, and published for the first time, it has been
my especial aim to exclude everything dogmatic. As
can readily be seen, the details have been worked out in
the actual classroom. The safe thing about the use of
such a text by other instructors is the fact that they and
their pupils can test the truth of the generalizations by
first-hand inquiry of their own.
The examples chosen from literature and here printed
are specific as well as typical. They have been selected
not only to illustrate general principles, but for other
reasons as well—some for superior intrinsic worth; some
for historical position; all because of possible inspiration.
But none have been selected as models.
The themes written by my present and former pupils
are added for the last reason—as sure reinforcement of
the inspiration, as provokers to action. Often students
fail to write because there is held up to them a model,
something complicated and perfect in detail. They feel
their apprenticeship keenly and hesitate to attempt a
likeness to a masterpiece. But, on the other hand, when
they get a glimpse of history and when they see the work
of a fellow tyro, they know that an equally good or even
better result is within their reach and so set to work at
once. The productions of pupils under this historical-illustrative
method, wherever it has been tried, have been
encouraging. Seldom has any one failed to present an
acceptable piece of work. Once in a while a "mistake"
has been made that has reassured a teacher and a class
of the accuracy of the contamination theory—the historical
cross-grafting or counter influence of types; that[vii]
is, sometimes in the endeavor to produce a theme that
should vary from those he thought the other students
would write, an earnest worker has unconsciously produced
an example of the next succeeding type to be
studied; unconsciously, because hitherto, of course, the
classes have gone forward without a printed text.
This statement leads to the question, Why publish the
literary examples? Why not merely give the references?
Because school and even town libraries are limited.
Twenty-five card-holders can scarcely get the same
volume within the same week. Besides, the plan I consider
good to insure the pupil's thorough acquaintance
with the library accessible to him and with library
methods and possibilities is quite other than this. This
book is meant as a work-table guide for the student and
as a time-saver for the teacher; hence all the necessary
material should be immediately at hand. The instructor's
concern in the teaching of narrative writing
is just the twofold one mentioned before—to orientate
the young scribbler and to give him a quick and sure
inspiration. After that he is to be left alone to write,
and the fewer the books around him the better.
The bibliography is added for two other classes of
persons: those who desire to make a somewhat further
and more minute study of type developments, and those
who wish merely to read extensively or selectively in
the works of fiction and history themselves. The list of
books and authors is intended simply to be helpful, not
exhaustive, and consequently contains, with but few exceptions,
only those works that one might reasonably
expect to find in a well-stocked college or city library.
I confess I hope that some amateur writer out of[viii]
college or high school may chance upon the book and be
encouraged by it to persevere. There are many delightful
hours possible for one who enjoys composition, if
he can but get a bit of a lift here and there or a new
impulse to an occasionally flagging imagination. All
but the very earliest literature has been produced thus—namely,
by a conscious writing to a type, with an idea
either of direct imitation, as in the case of Chaucer, who
gloried in his "authorities;" or of variation and combination,
as in the case of Walpole; or of equaling or
surpassing in excellence, as in the case of James Fenimore
Cooper; or of satire and supersedence, as in the
case of Cervantes.
But to go back to the student themes here presented.
They were written, with the exception of two, for
regular class credit. These two were printed in a college
paper as sophomore work. A number of the
remaining came out in school publications after serving
in the English theme box. All in all, they are
the productions of actual students; from whom, it is
hoped, other young writers may get some help and a
good deal of entertainment. In each case the name of
the author is affixed to his narrative, since he alone is
responsible for the merits and faults of the piece.
In regard to the Filipino pupils no word is necessary:
they speak for themselves. The work here given as
theirs is theirs. I have not treated it in any way different
from the way I treat all school themes, American
or other. It is everyday work—criticized by the instructor,
corrected by the pupil, and returned to the
English office. The examples could be replaced from
my present stock to the extent literally of some ten,[ix]
some twenty, some two hundred fold. Naturally, of
course, as is true of all persons using a foreign language,
the Filipinos mistake idiom more often than anything
else, and they write more fluently than they talk; but
there is among them no dearth of material and no lack
of thought. Indeed, the publishers have been embarrassed
by the supply of interesting stories, especially
in the earlier types. The temptation has been to add
beyond the limits of the merely helpful and illustrative
and to pass into the realm of the curious and entertaining.
Regardless of literary quality, Filipino themes
have today an historic value; many of them are the
first written form of hitherto only oral tradition.
To say to how great an extent a writer and talker
is indebted to his everyday working library is difficult.
Like a sculptor to an excellent quarry, a teacher can
indeed forget to give credit where credit is due,
especially to the more general books of reference such as
encyclopedias and histories of literature—Saintsbury,
Chambers, Ticknor, Jusserand. I would speak of the
"Standard Dictionary," that does all my spelling for me
and not a little of my defining; and the "Encyclopedia
Britannica," which in these days of special treatises is
sometimes superciliously passed over, though it offers in
its pages not only much valuable literary information,
but some of that information in the form of very valuable
literature. Next to these might be placed Dunlop's
"History of Fiction;" and last, particular and occasional
compilations like Brewer's and Blumentritt's, and
criticism like Murray's, Keightley's and Newbigging's.
Then there is the "World's Great Classics Series." Just
how much I owe to these general texts I cannot perhaps[x]
tell definitely; though I am not conscious of borrowing
where I have not given full credit. As I have said
before, direct treatises on my subject are lacking; so I
shall have to bear alone the brunt of criticism on the
analysis, or the main body of the book. I know of no
one else to blame.
Grateful acknowledgment is due to my husband,
Dean Spruill Fansler, for long-suffering kindness in
answering appeals to his opinion and for reading the
manuscript, compiling the bibliography, and making the
index. Without his generous help I should hardly have
found time or courage to put the chapters together.
In justice to former assistant English instructors in
the United States who have successfully followed earlier
unpublished outlines, and to my colleagues in the University
of the Philippines who have been teaching from
the book in manuscript form for nine months, it ought
to be said that, whatever faults the work may have—and
I fear they are all too many—it can hardly be dismissed
as an immature and untried theory.
If there should be found any merit in the content of
the book in general, I should like to have that ascribed
to the influence of the department of English and Comparative
Literature of Columbia University, where I
had the privilege of graduate study with such scholars
as Ashley Horace Thorndike, William Peterfield Trent
and Jefferson Butler Fletcher.
My chief material debt is to the publishing firms
who have very courteously permitted the reprinting of
narratives selected from their copyrighted editions.
H. E. F.
University of the Philippines, Manila, 1911.
[xi]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
| List of Stories |
xv-xx |
| Introduction |
xxi-xxvi |
| Part 1. Narratives of Imaginary Events |
| Chapter I. The Primitive-Religious Group |
1-82 |
| I. Myth—Classes of myths: primitive-tribal and artificial-literary—Myth
age not a past epoch—How traditional
myths are collected—How original myths are composed—Difference
between myth and allegory, and myth
and legend—Working definition—List of mythological
deities: Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Hindu, Russian, Finnish,
Norse, Filipino—Examples |
1 |
| II. Legend—Myth and legend compared—Saga—Saint
legends—Geoffrey of Monmouth—Legendary romance—Modern
literary legends—How to select and record a
legend of growth—How to write a legend of art—Working
definition—Examples |
22 |
| III. Fairy Tale—Attitude toward fairy stories—Fundamental
characteristics of fairies—Northern fairies and
their attributes—Some literary fairy tales—How to proceed
to write a fairy tale—Summary definition—Partial
lists of fairies of different countries: Northern, Irish
and Scotch, Filipino, Russian, Arabian, and Miscellaneous—Examples |
43 |
| IV. Nursery Saga—Origin—The brothers Grimm—English
nursery sagas—Distinguishing elements: kind of
hero, rhymes, repetition of situation, supernatural element—A
few specific suggestions—Working definition—Examples |
65 |
| Chapter II. Symbolic-Didactic Group |
83-127 |
| I. Fable—Æsop—Other early fabulists—"Hitopadesa"
and "Panchatantra"—"Reynard the Fox" and bestiaries—Some
more writers of fables—Working definition—Classes
of fables: rational, non-rational, mixed—How
to write an original fable—Maxims upon which fables
may be built—Examples |
83 |
| [xii]
II. Parable—Distinguishing characteristics—Tolstoy—Suggestions
on writing a parable—Working definition—A
list of proverbs that might be expanded into parables—Examples |
101 |
| III. Allegory—Characteristics—Plato's "Vision of
Er"—Modern allegories—Some famous English allegories—Allegory
fable, and parable differentiated—Working
definition—How to write an allegory—Present-day interest
in primitive types—Examples |
112 |
| Chapter III. Ingenious-Astonishing Group |
128-254 |
| I. Tale of Mere Wonder—Definition—Collections of
wonder stories, ancient and modern—Suggestions for
writing—Characteristic elements—Mediæval tales of chivalry—Heroic
romances—Examples |
128 |
| II. Imaginary Voyage with a Satiric or Instructive
Purpose—Distinguishing elements—Source of the type—Famous
imaginary voyages—Suggestions on how to write
a satiric imaginary voyage—Examples | 150 |
| III. Tale of Scientific Discovery and of Mechanical
Invention—Relation to imaginary voyages—Essential
elements—Kind of stories included in this type—Suggestions
on how to write the type—Examples |
194 |
| IV. The Detective Story and Other Tales of Pure
Plot—The detective story: connection with stories of
ingenuity—Poe and Doyle—Other stories of plot—Romance—A
few suggestions—Examples |
225 |
| Chapter IV. The Entertaining Group |
255-344 |
| I. Tale of Probable Adventure—Characteristics and
definition—How to write a probable adventure—A warning—Examples |
255 |
| II. The Society Story—Definition—Pastoral Romance—Suggestions
on writing a society story—Examples |
277 |
| III. The Humorous Story—Definition—Fableaux—Picaresque
romance—Difference between a humorous story
and a comic anecdote—Examples |
299 |
| IV. The Occasional Story—The spirit of the occasional
story—Its masters—Suggestions for subjects—Examples |
313 |
| [xiii]
Chapter V. The Instructive Group |
345-394 |
| I. The Moral Story—Differentiated from the symbolic-didactic
group—Great authors who have written this type:
Hawthorne, Johnson, Voltaire, Tolstoy, Cervantes—What
to put in and what to leave out—Examples |
345 |
| II. The Pedagogical Narrative—Definition—Some
famous pedagogical books—Froebel—Examples |
361 |
| III. The Story of Present Day Realism—What
realism is—The realistic school—Suggestions on characters
to treat—Examples |
370 |
| Chapter VI. The Artistic Group: the Real Short-Story |
395-478 |
| I. The Psychological Weird Tale—Origin—The
School of Terror—Poe, Stevenson, Maupassant, and others—Suggestions
on writing a weird tale—Material and
method—Form—Examples |
398 |
| II. Story That Emphasizes Character and Environment—Kipling—Mary
E. Wilkins Freeman—Hamlin
Garland—Bret Harte—Suggestions and precautions—The
"Character": Overbury and Hall—Novel of Manners—Trollope's
Cathedral Town Studies—Examples |
426 |
| III. Story That Emphasizes Character and Events—Difference
between character-place story and character-events
story—Component elements of this type—A scrapbook
suggestion—Other suggestions—Examples |
455 |
| Part II. Narratives of Actual Events |
| Chapter VII. Particular Accounts |
479 -556 |
| I. Incident—Definition—How to tell an incident—Examples
|
480 |
| II. Anecdote—Meaning of the term—Ana—Collection of
anecdotes—How to write an original anecdote—Examples |
490 |
| III. Eye-Witness Account—What it is and how to
write it—An ancient eye-witness account—Literary eyewitness
accounts—Examples |
499 |
| IV. Tale of Actual Adventure—The one necessary
element—Suggestions for writing—Examples |
512 |
| V. The Traveler's Sketch—What a traveler's sketch
includes—Great travel books—Fielding's gentle warning—A
motto for the narrator—Examples |
530 |
| [xiv]
Chapter VIII. Personal Accounts |
557-611 |
| I. Journal and Diary—The two distinguished—The
range of journals—"Vida del Gran Tamurlan"—Great
diaries—How to write journal and diary—Examples |
557 |
| II. Autobiography and Memoirs—Distinction—Cellini,
Franklin, and others—Selection and coherence—Examples |
572 |
| III. Biography—Beginning in England of literary
biography—Great biographies in English—Writer and
subject—Beginning, emphasis, and attitude—Outline for
a life—Examples |
590 |
| Chapter IX. Impersonal Accounts |
612-645 |
| I. Annals—What annals are—Famous old annals—Stow—Suggestions
on material—Examples |
613 |
| II. Chronicles—Definition—Froissart, Ayala, "General
Chronicle of Spain"—Saxo Grammaticus—Holinshed—True
relations—Examples |
626 |
| Bibliography |
647-660 |
| Index |
661-672 |
NARRATIVES OF FICTITIOUS EVENTS
Myths |
| | | PAGE |
| The World's Creation and the Birth of Wainamoinen |
From the Kalevala | 14 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Origin of the Moon |
Emanuel Baja |
16 |
| The First Cocoanut Tree |
Manuel Reyes | 18 |
| The Lotus |
Ida Treat |
21 |
Legends |
| Kenach's Little Woman |
William Canton |
28 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Legend of Gapan |
Teofilo Corpus |
36 |
| Manca: a Legend of the Incas |
Dorothea Knoblock |
38 |
| The Place of the Red Grass |
Sixto Guico |
42 |
Fairy Tales |
| The Boggart |
From the English |
55 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Cafre and the Fisherman's Wife |
Benito Ebuen |
57 |
| The Friendship of an Asuang and a Duende |
Emanuel Baja |
58 |
| A Tianac Frightens Juan |
Santiago Ochoa |
61 |
| The Black Cloth of the Calumpang |
Eusebio Ramos |
63 |
Nursery Tales |
| Princess Helena the Fair |
From the Russian |
69 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Juan the Guesser |
Bienvenido Gonzalez |
73 |
| The Shepherd who became King |
Vicente Hilario |
78 |
Fables |
| Jupiter and the Countryman |
From the Spectator |
90 |
| The Drop of Water (Persian) |
From the Spectator |
91 |
| The Grandee at the Judgment Seat |
Kriloff |
91 |
| [xvi]
The Lion and the Old Hare |
From the Hitopadesa |
92 |
| The Fox and the Crab |
From the Turkish |
93 |
| The Fool who Sells Wisdom |
From the Turkish |
94 |
| The Archer and the Trumpeter |
From the Turkish |
95 |
| Students' Themes— |
| The Courtship of Sir Butterfly |
Maximo M. Kalaw |
96 |
| The Hat and the Shoes |
José R. Perez |
98 |
| The Crocodile and the Peahen |
Elisa Esguerra |
99 |
| The Old Man, his Son, and his Grandson |
Eutiquiano Garcia |
100 |
Parables |
| The Three Questions |
Tolstoy |
104 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Master and his Servant |
Eusebio Ramos |
110 |
| The Parable of the Beggar and the Givers |
Dorothea Knoblock |
111 |
Allegories |
| The Artist |
Oscar Wilde |
120 |
| The House of Judgment |
Oscar Wilde |
120 |
| Students' Themes— |
| The Chain that Binds |
Elizabeth Sudborough |
123 |
| The Love which Surpassed All Other Loves |
Florence Gifford |
125 |
Tales of Mere Wonder |
| The Story of the City of Brass |
From the Arabian Nights |
132 |
| Student's Theme— |
| The Magic Ring, the Bird, and the Basket |
Facundo Esquivel |
147 |
Imaginary Voyages |
| Mellonta Tauta |
Edgar Allan Poe |
155 |
| Student's Theme— |
| Busyong's Trip to Jupiter |
Manuel Candido |
173 |
Tale of Scientific Discovery and Mechanical Invention |
| A Curious Vehicle |
Alexander Wilson Drake |
200 |
| Students' Themes— |
| The Spyglass of the Past |
Hazel Orcutt |
218 |
| Up a Water Spout |
Edna Collister |
221 |
[xvii]
Detective Story and Tale of Mere Plot |
| Thou Art the Man |
Edgar Allan Poe |
228 |
| Student's Theme— |
| The Picture of Lhasa |
Hazel Orcutt |
248 |
Tales of More-or-Less Probable Adventure |
| Fight with a Bear |
Charles Reade |
257 |
| Student's Theme— |
| Secret of the Jade Tlaloc |
Dorothea Knoblock |
267 |
Society Stories |
| The Fur Coat |
Ludwig Fulda |
277 |
| Student's Theme— |
| The Lady in Pink |
Wilma I. Ball |
289 |
Humorous Stories |
| The Expatriation of Jonathan Taintor |
Charles Battell Loomis |
302 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Kileto and the Physician |
Lorenzo Licup |
307 |
| The Lame Man and the Deaf Family |
Santiago Rotea |
311 |
Occasional Stories |
| The Lost Child |
François Coppée |
315 |
| Students' Themes— |
| The Peace of Yesterdays |
Katherine Kurz |
334 |
| A Christmas Legend |
Ida F. Treat |
342 |
Moral Story |
| Jeannot and Colin |
Voltaire |
348 |
Pedagogical Narratives |
| Gertrude's Method of Instruction |
Pestalozzi |
365 |
| Student's Theme— |
| Lawin-lawinan (a Filipino game) |
Leopoldo Uichanco |
368 |
[xviii]
Stories of Present-Day Realism |
| The Piece of String |
Maupassant |
374 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Social Error |
Ida Treat |
382 |
| The Lot of the Poor |
Agnes Palmer |
388 |
| Filipino Fear |
Walfrido de Leon |
390 |
Psychological Weird Tales |
| The Signal-Man |
Charles Dickens |
403 |
| Student's Theme— |
| Like a Thief in the Night |
Dorothea Knoblock |
420 |
Stories That Emphasize Character and Environment |
| Muhammad Din |
Rudyard Kipling |
432 |
| Students' Themes— |
| The Fetters |
Katherine Kurz |
436
|
| When Terry Quit |
Dorothea Knoblock |
446 |
| Nora Titay and Chiquito |
Joaquina E. Tirona |
453 |
Stories That Emphasize Character and Events |
| The Necklace |
Maupassant |
460 |
| Student's Theme— |
| Andong |
Justo Avila |
470 |
NARRATIVES OF ACTUAL EVENTS
Incidents |
| A Near Tragedy |
Fielding |
482 |
| An Incident before Sadowa: Birds Divulge Army Secrets |
Newspaper |
483 |
| An Incident Related in a Letter |
Robert Louis Stevenson |
484 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Hero Dead |
Ida Treat |
485 |
| My First Day at School |
Máximo Kalaw |
487 |
| The Guinatan Prize |
Leopoldo Faustino |
488 |
Anecdotes |
| Coleridge's Retort |
493 |
| An Inevitable Misfortune |
494 |
| A Point Needing to be Settled |
494 |
| Patience |
494 |
| [xix]
Preaching and Practice |
495 |
| Johnson's Dictionary |
495 |
| The Boy Kipling |
496 |
| Sir Godfrey Kneller |
Spence |
496 |
| Pope and the Trader |
Spence |
497 |
| The Capitan Municipal and the
Jokers |
José Feliciano |
497 |
| An Instance of Bamboo Spanish |
Pilar Ejercito |
498 |
| Mr. Taft's Mistake |
Amando Clements |
499 |
Eye-Witness Accounts |
| The Portuguese Revolution |
Newspaper |
503 |
| Student's Theme— |
| A Contrast |
Adolfo Scheerer |
509 |
Tales of Actual Adventures |
| The Bear Hunt |
Tolstoy |
514 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Saladin and I Fight an Alupong |
Cecilio Esquivel |
525 |
| I Get Two Beatings |
Facundo Esquivel |
527 |
| The Fall of Juan |
Gregorio Farrales |
528 |
| A Narrow Escape from a Wild Carabao |
José Cariño |
529 |
Travellers' Sketches |
| On the Way to Talavera |
George Borrow |
534 |
| Smyrna—First Glimpses of the East
Thackeray |
539 |
| Student's Theme— |
| A Trip from Curimao to Laoag |
Fernando Maramag |
551 |
Journals and Diaries |
| Extracts from Pepys' Diary |
562 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Diary of Four Days |
Facundo Esquivel |
564 |
| A Journal: Mock Heroic |
Victoriano Yamzon |
567 |
Autobiography and Memoirs |
| The Life of David Hume, Esq. |
Written by himself |
575 |
| Student autobiography |
Domingo Guanio |
585 |
| What I Remember of the Coming of
the Americans |
Leopoldo Faustino |
588 |
[xx]
Biographies |
| Queen Christina |
Hawthorne |
595 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Juan Luna's Life |
Dolores Asuncion |
604 |
| Life of Elizabeth Glade |
Nellie Barrington |
607 |
| The Biography of a Traitor |
Walfrido de Leon |
609 |
Annals |
| The State of England, in Stephen's
Reign |
Peterborough Chronicle |
616 |
| Students' Themes— |
| Annals of Mangaldan |
Translated by Bernabe
Aquino |
621 |
| Annals of Pagsanjan |
Dolores Zafra |
622 |
Chronicles |
| Rivalry between Two Towns |
Froissart |
630 |
| Students' Themes— |
| A Short History of Ilagan |
Fernando Maramag |
636 |
| Some Incidents of the Rebellion of
1898: A True Relation |
Marcelino Montemayor |
639 |
There are many interesting possibilities for both the
reader and the writer in a study of narrative types.
It is a truism to say that everybody loves a story. Every
race, every nation, every tribe, every family, has its
favorite narratives. Every person has his and likes to
repeat them. Even the driest old matter-of-fact curmudgeon
delights in relating an incident if nothing else.
Perhaps he tells you of how he lost and found again his
pocket talisman—a buckeye, maybe, or a Portuguese cruzado.
He will assure you that he does not really believe
that the unfortunate events that followed his loss of it
were occasioned by its absence, or the return of good-luck
casually connected with its recovery; but still, he adds,
he feels much better with the old thing in his pocket.
"And that was a queer coincidence, wasn't it?" he insists,
starting again over the details of the happening.
So with us all: we all know and love stories, our own
or another person's.
It is a fine thing to write a story. It is good through
one's imagination and skill to entertain one's fellows or
through one's accurate observation of life and history
to benefit society. The narrator has always been honored.
In earliest times he was the seer and prophet, forming
the religion of his wandering tribe; later he was the
welcomed guest, for whom alone the frowning castle's
gate stood always open; and after the dark ages, in the
time of the revival-of-the-love-of-written-things, he was[xxii]
the favorite at the court of favoring princes, who lavished
upon him preferment and money and humbly
offered him the laurel crown, their highest tribute. In
our own day his reward surpasses that of kings and
presidents. They come to him, and for immortality invoke
his name. In earliest times he composed in verse
so that his story might be remembered and handed down.
In latest times he writes most often in prose—a more
difficult medium to handle with distinction, but one more
widely understood and more readily appreciated than
poetry.
Narrative as a general type needs no definition. What
pure description is the ordinary reader might hesitate
to assert, or exposition, or argumentation; but not story:
he knows that. Let an author combine these others with
a series of events, let him put them in as aids to the
understanding or as ornaments on the thread of his
recital, and they are accepted without question as elements
of narration, be it prose or verse in form, true or
fictitious in content. That is to say, though a story often
contains to some extent all the other forms of writing
too, we think of it as narrative because it carries us
along a course of events. Frequently the teller spends
much time in studying different styles and kinds of
description and in analyzing various devices used to
secure definite effects, because he wishes to call to his
aid every bit of skill possible in portraying his characters
and places; but general readers take his fine
points of description and exposition as matters of course
and are crudely interested in the happenings he has to
relate. They are unconscious of the fact that much of
their enjoyment comes from knowing how a hero looks,[xxiii]
what his surroundings are, and what his disposition and
usual character. A story-writer gives no small amount
of attention also to transcribing conversations; but the
ordinary reader takes these likewise as expected parts
of narrative. But there is one thing that the author
and the reader agree on at the outset as necessary to be
settled; namely, the kind of story to be written or
to be read.
It is pleasant to know that there are definite types
of narratives that the world has always loved, and that
there are new forms growing up as civilization becomes
more complex. Some of the kinds of stories discussed
in this book are older than the English language, older
than Christianity, older even than the divisions of
Aryan speech. They seem to be inherent forms of all
literatures, to be as ancient as thought and as young as
inspiration. They are in use to-day in every tongue.
This book attempts to set forth the distinguishing
elements of the types that have persisted, those matters
that a writer must take into account when producing or
a critic when judging. Though its title emphasizes the
fact that now-a-days most persons think of stories as
being always in prose, the book discriminates but little
in this respect. In reality a student of narrative cares
hardly at all whether the vehicle be meter or not. He
is concerned with something else. Language form is
rather an accident of the time and the fashion than anything
essential. It is not dependent on the author's
personality even. Chaucer undoubtedly would write in
prose to-day, whereas our modern idealists would certainly
have lisped in numbers a hundred years ago.
We study narrative types, therefore, with the idea that[xxiv]
verse tales are but measured and rhythmical expression
of the same forms—sometimes the best, sometimes
merely the most popular expression—but that the development
in presentation has been toward prose,
especially for the more psychological and complex material.
On the basis of content, narratives fall naturally into
two large divisions: those that recount imaginary happenings
and those that recount actual happenings. These
large divisions in turn fall into smaller and still smaller
groups upon one basis or another—source, purpose,
method, or what not.
Under the division of narratives of fictitious events
we notice six groups, when we are thinking of source and
purpose: (1) the primitive-religious; (2) the symbolic-didactic;
(3) the ingenious-astonishing; (4) the merely
entertaining; (5) the instructive; (6) the artistic.
Within these groups come the following individual
types: (1) myth, legend, fairy tale, nursery saga; (2)
fable, parable, allegory; (3) the tale of mere wonder,
the imaginary voyage with a satiric or expository purpose,
the tale of scientific discovery and mechanical invention,
the detective story; (4) the probable adventure,
the society story, the humorous and picaresque story, the
occasional story; (5) the moral tale, the pedagogical
narrative, the realistic sketch; (6) the psychological
weird tale; the story that emphasises place and character,
the story that emphasizes events and character.
On the basis of form and of the attitude of the
teller, narratives of actual events fall into three groups.
The first set has five types: incident, anecdote, eye-witness
account, traveler's sketch, and the tale of actual[xxv]
adventure. The second set includes journal and diary,
autobiography and memoirs, biography. The third set
is composed of annals, and chronicles and true relations.
Instead of naming these sets, we might describe them
thus: The first is made up of particular accounts of the
doings of the writer and others in chance groups; the
second, of more-or-less extended accounts of the sayings
and doings of individual personages who for the time
are important and either write about themselves or are
written about; the third, of impersonal accounts of the
doings of larger or smaller sections of mankind as units.
Of course, the types fade into one another, and it is
only in analyzing that a person would draw a hard and
fast line between any two of them; but it is permissible
to draw this line for the convenience of study and discussion.
After an investigator has learned all the kinds,
he may classify a given story into one or the other group
according to the predominating characteristics, or he
may make a group of narratives of mixed kinds, and consider
the various elements.
If he is trying, however, to write also, as well as to
study according to the suggestions of this book, it would
be a good plan for him to endeavor to produce at each attempt
a rather more than less pure example of the type
under consideration, so as to get as a result not only an
interesting narrative, but a working model either for criticism
or further production. For a person to have studied
carefully an analysis of a type, to have read a distinct
literary example of it, and to have attempted to put together
a narrative that contains the essential elements,
ought to mean that he has in his possession a piece of
knowledge that will be valuable to him all his life, irrespective[xxvi]
of any purely artistic quality of his achievement.
That quality will probably be present much more
surely than he at first expects; for a large part of the excellence
of a piece of literature results from definite
knowledge on the part of the writer, a clear aim to produce
a particular kind of composition, and an indefatigable
perseverance in revision of details. By emphasis
on knowledge and work one would not preclude inspiration.
Indeed, one would thereby court it; for, as we all
know, it comes usually only to the expert and patient
toiler. Even Robert Burns labored long over his reputedly
spontaneous songs. The thought came to him often
at the plough, it is true; but he confesses that afterwards
he spent many hours polishing his lines.
PART I
NARRATIVES OF IMAGINARY
EVENTS
[1]
TYPES OF PROSE NARRATIVES
CHAPTER I
THE PRIMITIVE-RELIGIOUS GROUP
The traditional types—myth, legend, fairy tale, and
nursery saga—are designated as primitive-religious in
order to express the fact that they grew up in response
to the reverent credulity of simple folk. The myths
of all races are the embodiment of their highest prehistoric
religious thinking. The legends are their semi-historical,
semi-religious thinking. The fairy and nursery
stories are modified forms of the other two. Consequently
they all belong together in one group.
I. The Myth
There are two general classes of myths: the primitive-tribal
and the artificial-literary, or myths of
growth and myths of art.
From the point of view of ethnology, the myth of
growth is primitive philosophy, and represents racial
anthropomorphic thinking concerning the universe.
Anthropomorphic is a term derived from the Greek
ἄνθρωπος, meaning man, and μορφἠ, meaning shape or
form, and is used to describe the tendency of people to[2]
represent invisible forces as having human form (for
example, the Deity), or natural forces like fire and wind
as being animate, volitional agents. It is probably
true that, at a very early stage in the development of
both the individual and the race, every object is looked
upon as having life; and later, if any distinction is
made between animate and inanimate, spirits are yet
regarded as agents controlling the inanimate and causing
changes therein. A myth of growth is the verbal
expression of this attitude of the mind of a people in
its wider and deeper imaginings.
Doubtless after the first or second repetition of a
myth, which some seer of a tribe chants in rude verse,
the primitive listener is confused between fact and
fancy. The non-essential incidents which the narrator
adds from sheer love of making up a story are not distinguished
from the incidents that really express the
working of natural forces. So it happens that, in
the time between the first starting up of the account
and the analysis and explanation of it by some philosopher,
a narrative handed down from father to son is
believed in, word for word, as religious truth, though
gaining details and losing its original meaning as it
goes. As some one has said, it was because the Greeks
had forgotten that Zeus meant the bright sky that they
could talk of him as a king ruling a company of manlike
deities on Mount Olympus.
There are many beautiful myths existing to-day in
prose and poetry. In the tribal species, there is the
great mass of Greek and Roman early religious stories
and there are the Oriental and the Norse cycles. In
the artificial group there are the later Greek and Roman[3]
myths like those devised by Plato and Plutarch,
and there are our more modern beautiful creations with
myth elements like Milton's "Comus" and many of
the poems of Keats, where not only the incidents are
newly made but the deities also. In prose we have the
delightful "Wonder Book," which Hawthorne prepared
for children. We have become so familiar with
"Paradise Lost" that we hardly realize that it is essentially
myth—a great seer's expression of the anthropomorphism
of his people. Like a true bard of old, Milton
added much also to his people's thinking on the universe.
How much he added we see fully only when we
deliberately compare the extension and concreteness
of his account with the meagerness of the Hebrew
Scriptures.
Myth age
not a past
epoch
An error we are liable to fall into concerning myths
is that of presuming that they are wholly things of the
past; that nowadays nobody believes in
them or tells them. In fact, many persons
and many tribes believe in them and tell
them. The myth age is not a past epoch, but a condition
of thinking. It is always present somewhere and
present to some extent always among all races. The
primitive tribes of the Philippines believe implicitly in
their myths. The Bontoc Igorots, for example, tell how
the Moon woman, Kabigat, cut off the head of a child
of the Sun man, Chal-chal, and thus taught head-hunting
to earth people; some of them tell, too, how Coling,
the Serpent Eagle, was made, and happens to be always
hovering over their pueblo. Even the youngest child
knows how the rice-bird came about, and why an
Igorot never harms O-wug, the snake. These stories[4]
are being gathered to-day by American scientists and
are being written down for the first time. The native
college students of the Islands have joined in a movement
to preserve the traditions of the more civilized
tribes also, and are industriously putting into written
form the stories of their people. Most of these are not
beliefs that are past, but beliefs about the past—a
distinction noteworthy to the student of myths. Little
children of all races are naturally in a myth age, and
many of their imaginings are as beautiful as those of the
old Greeks, and, if made known, would be as contributive
to literature, I dare say. Poets are but grown-up
children to whom Nature makes a continued concrete
appeal, and they are always thinking myth-wise, we
well know.
So it happens that even the most learned man is
willing to listen to a new myth. All the reader demands
is that it shall be either a scientifically made
record of some present tribal belief or a beautiful and
philosophical interpretation of the workings of nature—such
a one as a simple, early pagan, but poetic and
essentially refined, mind might imagine. Plato's myths
were advisedly artificial. He deliberately set out to
modify and improve the government of his time by
means of religious stories, and he begged the other
philosophers to attempt the like also. He gave his
magnificent "Vision of Er" as an example of what
might be done.
How traditional
myths are
collected
If one wishes to collect traditional myths among a
primitive people, this is in general the way he proceeds:
He calls to his aid the more elderly folk and the
little children—those that have time and inclination to[5]
talk. If he can not speak their dialect, he obtains an
interpreter—if possible, one very intimate and sociable
with the tribe. Then he himself tries to get
into good fellowship with all, and to induce
free and natural talking. He asks for tales
of the sun and moon, the wind and the rain,
grasses, flowers, birds, clouds, mountain-systems, river-chains,
lightning, thunder, and whatever else their gods
have charge of. He asks about the relation of these
gods with the deities of neighboring peoples—which, if
any, are to be feared and why. Then he makes note of
as many historical facts as he can about the tribe—where
it first lived, what are the topographical features
of the remote and the immediate places of abode, how
powerful the warriors are, what respect they command
from outsiders, what are considered most honored occupations,
and so on. These facts are not to go explicitly
into the story, but are to form the background of
explanation if he cares to seek or give one. Then, too,
they may aid him in making a happy translation of the
primitive oral narrative. The aim of the collector, however,
is accuracy rather than beauty, though beauty may
be present in his versions.
How original
myths
are composed
The writer of an original myth, on the other hand,
tries to make his diction as exquisite as he can without
affectation. He proceeds somewhat differently,
though with no less forethought. If
he wishes to use gods and goddesses already
known, he attempts not to violate the generally
accepted notions of their characteristics. He
bears in mind that the beings of myths are large,
ample, superhuman, of the race of the infinite. Above[6]
mortals, they rule mortals or ignore them. The gods
are never petty, though they may be trivial. They
belong to the over-world. They are essential: they
make day and night, the coming of the seasons, the
roll of the ocean, the rising and setting of the constellations.
Connected with them too, of course, he
knows, are the lesser events of Nature's activity, the
speaking of echo, the blooming of the slender narcissus
at the edge of the pool, the drooping of the poplars.
Hence the writer of a myth of art modifies or adds, but
avoids making radical changes. If he chooses wholly
to invent his deities, he picks out for each a definite
phenomenon and keeps it steadily in mind in order
that his created personage may be an appropriate one
to perform the well-known actions of the natural force
he is explaining. He makes the deeds of his beings
far-reaching in result and does not forget to give them
euphonious and suggestive names.
Difference
between
myth and
allegory
There is a difference between myth and allegory
as narratives, although myth is fundamentally allegorical
in the broad sense of the term. The
actors of myth are rather representative
than figurative. Being grander they are at
once more simple and dignified than those
of allegory. The gods are not thin abstractions raised
to concreteness, but are powerful forces reduced to the
likeness of men.
Pure myth is different from pure legend likewise,
though legend may have gods in it. Legend is generally
confined to a particular person or event, or is connected
with a definite spot and a limited result; whereas
myth deals with universal phenomena.
[7]
Working
definition
of
myth
The collector or composer of myths, accordingly,
posits for himself some such working definition as
this: A myth is a story accounting in a fanciful
way for a far-reaching natural phenomenon.
The basis on which the narrator proceeds
is emphatically not science, but imagination
and philosophy. He pictures the activities of the
universe as the conduct of personal beings, as gods and
goddesses doing good or evil, creating and destroying,
ruling man or ignoring him, punishing and rewarding.
A List of Deities
| Great Greek Deities | Great Roman Deities |
| Zeus | Jupiter (king) |
| Appollon | Apollo (the sun) |
| Ares | Mars (war) |
| Hermes | Mercury (messenger) |
| Poseidon | Neptune (ocean) |
| Hephaistos | Vulcan (smith who made the armor of the gods) |
| Hera | Juno (queen) |
| Demeter | Ceres (tillage) |
| Artemis | Diana (moon, hunting) |
| Athena | Minerva (wisdom) |
| Aphrodite | Venus (love and beauty) |
| Hestia | Vesta (home life) |
| Dionysos | Bacchus (wine and revelry) |
| Eros | Cupid (the lad Love) |
| Pluton | Pluto (king of Hades) |
| Kronos | Saturn (Time, who devoured all his children except Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto)
|
[8]
Juno was the wife of Jupiter, Hera of Zeus,
Venus of Vulcan, Aphrodite of Hephaistos.
Persephone was wife of Pluton, Proserpine was
wife of Pluto, Cybele was wife of Saturn,
Rhea was wife of Kronos.
Egyptian Gods
Ra—the sun, usually represented as a hawk-headed
man. He protects mankind, but has nothing in common
with men.
Shu—light, a type of celestial force, for he is represented
supporting the goddess of heaven. His consort
was Tefnet.
Seb—the god of the earth; Nut was the goddess of
heaven. These two are called "father of the gods."
Osiris—the good principle. He is in perpetual warfare
with evil. He is the source of warmth, life and
fruitfulness. Isis, his wife, was his counterpart
in many respects. Osiris became the judge of the
under-world, and Isis was the giver of death.
Horus—the son of Osiris. He avenged his father, who
was slain by Typhon.
Seth, or Typhon—the brother of Osiris, and his chief
opponent. He represented physical evil; he was
the enemy of all good. His consort was Nebti.
Thoth—the god of letters, the clerk of the underworld,
and the keeper of the records for the great judge,
Osiris. The chief moon-god.
Ptah—the Egyptian Hephaestus, the divine architect.
Ma-t—the goddess of truth. She is characterized by
the ostrich feather, the emblem of truth, on her
head.
[9]
Anubis—the jackal-headed, presided over tombs and
mummification.
The Sphinx—a beneficent being who personified the
fruit-bearing earth, and was a deity of wisdom and
knowledge.
Hindoo Gods
Dyaus—the most ancient name for the supreme god.
Dyaus, the heaven, married Prithivi, the earth, and
they became the father and mother of the other
Hindu gods. Dyaus is also the god of rain.
Indra—the rain-bringer. The son of Dyaus. He is a
strong, impetuous warrior, drives a chariot drawn
by pawing steeds, bears a resistless lance that is
lightning.
Vishnu—one name for the sun; second god of the
Hindu triad, literally the Pervader. (Brahma and
Siva are the other two of the trinity.)
Vishnu is represented as being of blue color. His
sacti, or wife, is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth.
Mitra—another name for the sun-god.
Rudra—the father of the storm-gods, the Maruts.
Maruts—the storm gods. "They overturn trees, destroy
whole forests, they roar like lions, are swift as
thought. In the Maruts we see blind strength and
fury without judgment."
Vayu—sometimes the wind was thought of as a single
personality. He was called Vayu.
Agni—the fire-god. Considered the messenger between
the Hindus and heaven. He carried their offerings
to Dyaus-pitar.
Varuna—the noblest figure of the Vedic religion. The[10]
supreme god at one time. Sometimes he was the
All-Surrounder. Later he was ruler of the seas.
Yama—the judge of the dead. He had a dog with
four eyes and wide nostrils, whom he sent to earth
to collect those about to die.
Vritva—an evil snake which had stolen some treasure
and a maiden, Ushas. She was rescued by Indra.
Ushas (Ahana)—a pure, white-robed being from whose
presence every dark thing fled away. Ushas never
grows old, but she makes others old. (Same as Eos,
Greek; Aurora, Latin.) She is the dawn; is also
known by the name of Dahana.
Rita—a word to signify the all-pervading law of nature.
It was the power that settled the path of the
sun. The abode of Rita was in the east, and finally
every good thing traveled in the path of Rita.
Asoura Medhas—the wise living one, the animation of
moving mind and matter. He is the mysterious
principle of life, is represented as one god high over
everything. However, he mingles in the affairs of
men.
Surya (same as Gr. Helios)—the special god who dwelt
in the body of the sun.
Savitar—another personification of the sun. He is
spoken of as golden-eyed, golden-tongued and
golden-handed.
MINOR DEITIES
Kuvera—the god of riches.
Kamadeva—the god of love, represented as riding on a
dove, and armed with an arrow of flowers and a
bow, whose string is formed of bees.
Ganesha—the god of prudence and policy.
[11]
Russian Gods
Peroun—Lightning; the chief god.
Svaroga—begetter of fire and of the sun gods. Used
also sometimes as name of chief god.
Dajh'bog—grandfather of the sun.
Kolyada—beneficent spirit who was supposed to visit
the farms and villages in mid-winter and bring fertility
to the pent-up herds and frost-bound seeds.
A festival in honor of Kolyada was held about
December 25, the date when the sun was supposed
to triumph over the death in which Nature had
gripped him, and to enter again on his new span of
life.
Stribog—wind-god.
Finnish Mythology (derived from Kalevala)
Ahto—god of the sea.
Hisi—evil spirit, also called Lempo. His son was Ahti,
another name for Lemminkainen.
Lowjatar—Tuoni's daughter; mother of the nine
diseases.
Mana—also called Tuoni; the god of death.
Manala—also called Tuonela; the Deathland, for it was
the abode of Mana.
Suonetar—the goddess of the veins.
Tapio—the forest-god.
Ukko—the greatest god of the Finns.
Mielikki—the forest-goddess.
Osmotar—the wise maiden who first made beer.
Sampo—the magic mill forged by Ilmarinen, which
brought wealth and happiness to its possessor.
[12]
Norse Deities
Odin—the All-father.
Thor—the thunderer.
Baldr—the shining god; he typifies day.
Freyr (Fro)—fruitfulness; the patron of seafarers.
Tyr—the god of war and athletic sports.
Bragi—god of poetry and eloquence.
Hodur—Baldur's twin brother; the god of darkness.
Heimdall—kept the keys of heaven; was the watchman
of Asgard.
Ulle—god of the chase and of archery. A fast runner
on stilts or snowshoes.
Mimir—most celebrated of the giants; god of wisdom
and knowledge.
Loki—the god of strife and the spirit of evil. He had
three cruel and hateful children: Fenris, a huge
wolf; Hel, half black and half blue, who lived on
men's brains and marrow; and Formungard, the
monstrous serpent of Midgard. Loki's wife was
Sigura.
Filipino Deities
TAGALOG
Atasip—a demon of the ancient Tagalogs.
Bathala—principal god of the Tagalogs.
Dian Masalanta—the god which was the patron of
lovers and the god of procreation.
Idinale—the god of husbandry.
Lakhanbakor or Lakhanbakod—a god who cured sickness.
Lakambui—a god who first (according to some writers)
gave food.
Pasing-tabi sa nono—with this phrase the Tagalogs[13]
used to pray the gods of the fields to allow them to
walk on the fields and cultivate them.
Sinaya—a divinity which the fishermen used to pray to.
Sitan—a kind of evil spirit (a Mohametan word).
Sonat—the pontifex maximus of the ancient Tagalogs.
VISAYAN
Laon—the supreme god.
Makabantog—the god of licentiousness and tumult.
Sigbin—certain familiar spirits, which used to accompany
any woman. They made a bargain with her
and served her constantly.
Solad—the Inferno.
Sikabay—Eve, the first woman.
Sikalak—the first man, Adam.
Sinburanen—the god who conducted the souls of the
dead consigned to Hades.
| Suigaguran | } |
| Suinuran | gods of the Inferno. |
| Sumpay |
Tagalabong—spirits who lived in the fields and woods.
Yatangao—a god which made himself visible in the
rainbow. Warriors going to battle invoked this god.
BAGOBOS
Bayguebay—the first woman or Eve.
Damakolen—the god who made the hills and mountains.
Makakoret—the god who created the air.
Makaponquis—the god who created water.
Malibud—the deity (fem.) who created woman.
[14]
Mamale—the god who created the earth.
Rioa-Rioa—a horrible and evil being which, suspended
from the zenith like a large pendulum, approaches
the earth and devours those men which his servant
Tabankak gives him.
Salibud—the god who taught the first men to cultivate
the fields, to trade, and to practice other industries.
Note: In the Filipino themes a foreign word is italicized
only the first time it appears.
The World's Creation and the Birth of Wainamoinen
Long, long ago, before this world was created, there
lived a lovely maiden called Ilmatar, the daughter of
the Ether. She dwelt in the air—there were only air
and water then—but at length she grew tired of always
being on high, and came down and floated on the surface
of the water. Suddenly, as she lay there, a mighty
storm-wind began to blow and poor Ilmatar was tossed
about helplessly on the waves, until at length the wind
died down, the waves became still, and Ilmatar, worn
out by the violence of the tempest, sank beneath the
waters.
Then a magic spell overpowered her, and she swam
on and on vainly seeking to rise above the waters, but
always unable to do so. Seven hundred long weary
years she swam thus, until one day she could not bear
the loneliness longer, and cried out: "Woe is me that
I have fallen from my happy home in the air, and cannot
now rise above the surface of the waters. O great
Ukko, ruler of the skies, come and aid me in my sorrow!"
No sooner had she ended her appeal to Ukko than
a lovely duck flew down out of the sky, and hovered[15]
over the waters looking for a place to alight; but it
found none. Then Ilmatar raised her knees above the
water, so that the duck might rest upon them; and no
sooner did the duck spy them than it flew towards
them and, without even stopping to rest, began to build
a nest upon them.
When the nest was finished, the duck laid in it six
golden eggs, and a seventh of iron, and sat upon to
hatch them. Three days the duck sat on the eggs, and
all the while the water around Ilmatar's knees grew
hotter and hotter, and her knees began to burn as if
they were on fire. The pain was so great that it caused
her to tremble all over, and her quivering shook the
nest off her knees, and the eggs all fell to the bottom
of the ocean and broke in pieces. But these pieces
came together into two parts and grew to a huge size,
and the upper one became the arched heavens above us,
and the lower one our world itself. From the white
part of the egg came the moonbeams, and from the yolk
the bright sunshine.
At last the unfortunate Ilmatar was able to raise
her head out of the waters, and she then began to create
the land. Wherever she put her hand there arose a
lovely hill, and where she stepped she made a lake.
Where she dived below the surface are the deep places
of the ocean, where she turned her head towards the
land there grew deep bays and inlets, and where she
floated on her back she made hidden rocks and reefs
where so many ships and lives have been lost. Thus
the islands and the rocks and the firm land were created.
After the land was made Wainamoinen was born,
but he was not born a child, but a full-grown man,[16]
full of wisdom and magic power. For seven whole
years he swam about in the ocean, and in the eighth
he left the water and stepped upon the dry land. Thus
was the birth of Wainamoinen, the wonderful magician.—From the Kalevala.
"Finnish Legends for English Children," by R. Eivind (T.
Fisher Unwin).
TRIBAL MYTH
Origin of the Moon
South and east of Manila Bay stretches a piece of
land, on which there used to be a large forest surrounded
and fringed by the Sierra Madre mountains on the
east, and guarded by the active Taal volcano on the
south. This volcano, which is on a small lake, is said
to be always looking toward the east, shouting with his
big mouth the name of Buan Buan, a very beautiful
nymph who dwelt once in this deep forest. The large
trees formed towering pillars, the vines and moss that
grew wild, together with the blooming flowers, were
ornaments of her court. The birds, the insects, and all
kinds of animals were her subjects.
The people who live now in this land say that in
the beginning of the world there was no such thing as
the moon that shines at night. They assert that the
origin of the moon came in this wise:
Many thousands of years ago, when the beautiful
nymph Buan was in her court, a warlike tribe settled
on her land of enjoyment. The invaders began to cultivate
the rich soil of this place. Buan, seeing that
her flowers would be destroyed and her birds driven
away, fled toward the west in grief. On the sea she[17]
saw a little banca into which she climbed and in which
she drifted along until she came to an island near where
the Sun sleeps.
One afternoon when the Sun was about to hide his
last rays, he was met by the beautiful nymph, who at
once said to him, "O Sun, bear me with you, and I
will be your faithful wife forever." Without hesitation
or doubt, the gallant Sun, who had been shining
over the earth with open eyes looking for a wife, took
Buan under his golden arm, and they together, as true
lovers, departed.
The Arch-Queen of the Nymphs, ever quarrelsome
and jealous, seeing the departure of Buan, sent lightning
and hurled thunderbolts after the two fleeing lovers.
Buan, who was peacefully slumbering on the
breast of her lover, fell down into the water. The Sun
in his fright ran away, and continued his course as
usual. Pitied by the gods Buan did not drown, but
floated on the foam of the sea. The Sun lighted the
world the next morning with a great deal of heat and
sorrow in his eyes, searching for his lost sweetheart.
Buan, who was hidden in the foam that floated on the
sea, did not come out until evening. By that time Sun
had retired to his wonderful cave beneath the ocean.
Buan wandered about until finally she saw a glittering
light within the waves. In her fright she cried aloud.
The Sun, who was suddenly awakened from his
cave by her grief, saw her. With a satisfied heart he
took her into his cave, where they dwelt for a whole
night. They sat and talked about their love. The Sun
taught her how to travel across the sky. However, he
asked Buan not to follow him in any of his journeys.
[18]
One afternoon Buan was sitting before the door of
the cave waiting for her lover. Longing and sentiment
grew strong in her, and she remembered the past days
when she had lived in her forest court. This state of
mind made her come out of the cave, and she rode on
the air by magic. For fifteen successive nights she did
this, yet she could not see her old home. Finally she
asked her husband to bear her across heaven in order
that she might see her home. The next morning the
Sun took Buan on his back, and they sailed across the
sky. The world became dark, for the sun could not then
well illuminate the earth. The gods were astonished.
The Arch-Queen of the Nymphs sent a storm of wind
and rain, which made Buan turn into a soft brilliant
mass of light. She was to be with her husband but once
every thirty days. She was also punished by not being
allowed to show herself entirely every night. She could
not sail across heaven for more than thirteen or fourteen
days at a time.
—Emanuel Baja.
TRIBAL MYTH
The First Cocoanut Tree and the Creation of Man
There were three gods, Bathala, Ulilangkalulua, and
Galangkalulua. Bathala, a very large giant, ruled the
earth; Ulilangkalulua, a very large snake, ruled the
clouds; and Galangkalulua, a winged head, wandered
from place to place. In fact, each of these gods thought
that he was the only living being in the universe.
The earth was composed of hard rocks. There were
no seas and no oceans. There were also no plants and
no animals. It was indeed a very lonely place. Bathala,[19]
its true inhabitant, had often wanted to have some companions,
but he wondered how he could provide these
companions with food, drink, and shelter when there
was nothing on the earth but rocks.
What was true of Bathala was also true of Ulilangkalulua.
In his kingdom Ulilangkalulua saw nothing
but white clouds. His solitary condition led him to
visit other places. He often came down to the earth
and enjoyed himself climbing high mountains and entering
deep caves.
As he was at the top of a very high hill one day,
he saw some one sitting on a large stone down below
him. He was very greatly amazed and it was a very
long time before he could speak. At last he said, "Sir,
tell me who you are."
"I am Bathala, the ruler of the universe," answered
the god. Ulilangkalulua was filled with anger when he
heard these words. He approached Bathala and said,
"If you declare yourself to be the ruler of all things, I
challenge you to combat."
A long struggle took place, and after the fighting
had continued about three hours Ulilangkalulua was
slain. Bathala burned his body near his habitation.
Not many years after this event Galangkalulua, the
wandering god, happened to find Bathala's house. Bathala
received him and treated him kindly. Thus, they
lived together for many years as true friends.
Unfortunately, Galangkalulua became sick. Bathala
did not sleep day and night for taking care of his friend.
When Galangkalulua was about to die, he called Bathala
and said, "You have been very kind to me, and I have
nothing to repay your kindness with. But if you will[20]
do what I tell you, there is a way in which I can benefit
you. You once told me that you had planned to create
creatures of the same appearance as you in order that
you might have subjects and companions, and that you
had not been successful because you did not know how
you could supply them with all the necessary things.
Now, when I die, bury my body in Ulilangkalulua's
grave. In this grave will appear the thing that will
satisfy you."
Bathala did what Galangkalulua told him, and Galangkalulua's
promise was fulfilled. From the grave
grew a plant, whose nut contained water and meat. Bathala
was very anxious to examine the different parts
of the tree because he had never seen such a thing before.
He took a nut and husked it. He found that its
inner skin was hard and that the nut itself resembled
the head of his friend, Galangkalulua. It had two eyes,
a flat nose, and a round mouth. Bathala then looked at
the tree itself and discovered that its leaves were really
the wings of Galangkalulua and its trunk the body of his
enemy, Ulilangkalulua.
Bathala was now free to carry out his plan. He
created the first man and woman. He built a house
for them, the roof and walls of which were made of
the leaves of the cocoanut and the posts of which were
cocoanut tree trunks. Thus lived happily under the
cocoanut palm this couple for many years until the
whole world was crowded with their children. These
children still use the cocoanut for food and clothing—the
leaves for making mats, hats, and brooms, and the
fiber for rope and other things.
—Manuel Reyes.
[21]
ORIGINAL MYTH
The Lotus
Long ago, when the world was young, the Nile loved
a maiden. She was Isis, daughter of a hundred stars,
who, as she nightly climbed the dark pinnacle of cloud,
drew her silver drapery across the stream's dark bosom.
Many were the sighs he breathed throughout the long
nights—but Isis heard him not; for the wind had told
her of Osiris, Osiris the beautiful, the well-beloved, who
daily waked the dreaming earth with his warm kiss.
And afterwards Mira, the great Star-Mother, bending
from her gleaming throne, had spoken of Osiris and
his glittering steeds, while Isis listening, yearned for
him whom she had never seen, whose radiance was
brighter even than that of Nefra-the-fire-bearer, who,
once in a century, flashed through the still heavens. So
Isis heeded not the Nile, moaning at her feet, for her
eyes were ever bent on the rim of the world, whence
would come in rosy haste the heralds of Osiris.
But one morning, when the starry sisters were fleeing,
one by one, to the silent underworld, Isis stayed
in the dark cloudland. The night winds called her to
hasten, but she heard them not, and stood waiting—while
above the eastern horizon rose the Hours, streaking
the heavens with their amber veils, and borne along
behind them, Osiris himself, more radiant than her
dreams. But Osiris, glad in the greetings of the jubilant
earth, saw only a star-maiden lingering in her pale robes
on the borders of the forbidden Kingdom. Catching up
a barbed shaft, he hurled it shrieking through the air—and
Isis fell.
The winds fled in horror from the earth; the air[22]
shuddered, and shrank away; but the Nile, roaming in
agony through the fields, stretched out his mighty arms
and, with a great cry, gathered the lifeless star-maiden
to his bosom. And there, where Isis fell, rose a starry
flower, pale, but with the stain of the dawn in its heart.
—Ida F. Treat.
II. The Legend
Myth and
legend
compared
Historically the legend may or may not be a later
development than the myth. The bards may have
ascribed the fanciful deeds of the gods to
their tribal heroes, or they may have
elevated their tribal heroes into gods by
exaggerating actual adventures into far-reaching phenomena.
For our present study the descent is immaterial;
the distinction is all. In the myth the chief
actors are gods; in the legend, men—men endowed
with superhuman strength often, to be sure, but still
men, though the favorites of the gods. The course of
events in the typical myth is pure and absolute imagination;
the course of events in the typical legend is
somewhat held down by facts. When the deeds are
magnified or wholly fanciful, the characters are semi-historical;
when the events or places are historical, the
chief actors are generally imaginary.
Saga
In the myth-legend, or saga, the deeds transcend the
ordinarily credible and the heroes are often directed
by superhuman agencies. Perhaps the oldest
examples of this kind are those recorded
in the Sanscrit "Mahabharata" and "Ramayana", and
the Persian "Shah Nameh." In the last occurs the beautiful
story of Sohrab and Rustam, who lived six hundred[23]
years before Christ. Firdousi, writing as late as
the first decade of the eleventh century, was therefore
working over very ancient material. Such combinations
likewise of older tradition and later writing are the
Anglo-Saxon "Beowulf", the French "Chanson de Roland",
the Spanish "Cid", the Italian "Orlando Furioso"
(which is the French story adapted), the German
"Hildebrand", "Waltharilied", and "Nibelungen
Nôt", and the Icelandic "Grettir the Strong" and
"Volsunga Saga". The "Volsunga Saga" as we have
it today is prose with some songs from the "Elder
Edda". Legend in its written form as a composition
type we think of as prose, though it may be verse, or
prose and verse combined.
Saint
legends
To the early church a legend meant the narrative of
the life of a saint or a martyr, especially the account
of his triumphs over temptation and of the miracles he
witnessed or performed. Even to-day in some monasteries
such stories are read at meals while the
monks eat. It is interesting to note that the
church distinguishes between legenda, things to be
read, and credenda, things to be believed. What appears
to be the earliest of these legends and the model
of the others is said to have been written by St. John
of Damascus, a monk of Syria, who lived in the eighth
century. It is called "Barlaam and Josaphat" and
contains besides the lives of the prince and the prophet
many beautiful parables, one of which Shakespeare
immortalized in the casket scene in the "Merchant of
Venice". The life of Josaphat is in turn said to be
the legendary life of the Buddha. There are many beautiful
Celtic and Anglo-Saxon Christian stories of this[24]
type. In the Cynewulfian group of Anglo-Saxon Lives
of the Saints, the "Andreas" is considered very fine.
With its account of St. Andrew's miraculous rescue of
St. Matthew from prison among the heathen is a
sturdy, realistic description of a stormy voyage on
northern seas. "The Golden Legend", published by
Caxton in 1483, is a translation of a celebrated medieval
collection of lives of the greater saints, composed in
Latin by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican archbishop
of Genoa, in the thirteenth century.
Geoffrey of
Monmouth
The great English legendary history and a great
source-book of English literary legend is the Historia
Britonum of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Besides
giving us the original story of Lear and
many other things in his record of British rulers down
to the Saxon Invasion, this twelfth century author,
building on the meager basis of an unknown Nennius
and possibly a cleric's version of Welsh traditions,
started the magnificent Arthurian cycle on its way.
This Latin account joined the great stream of continental
legendary romance, added to it and took from it,
and came back into English in Layamon's "Brut" in
the form of a series of metrical legends for the common
people.
Legendary
romance
That most original and enchanting of all the medieval
legendary romance books, Malory's "Morte Darthur",
stands between the old and the new
English fiction in that it has the content of
the one and the form of the other. In it were gathered
up the religious element (that had come in with the
tradition of Joseph of Arimathæa), the love element
(of the Launcelot-Guinevere stories), and the national[25]
element (Arthur, his wonderful Excalibur and his
knights), and so emphasized, so incomparably set forth,
so shaken together, if you please, that they combined
and stayed together ever afterwards. On the form
side, this work is prose and it is art—the first English
prose fiction, so announced and so taken. It is literary
legend. An artist conscious of his art offered the
material not as history or religion, but as a thing of
beauty. The preface states, "And for to pass the time
this book shall be pleasant to read in, but for to give
faith and belief that all is true that is contained herein,
ye be at your liberty."
When stories such as these, either by an aim at history
or at art, emphasize what has been believed, they
are classed as legend; when they emphasize magic and
combine history in a riotous way for the mere sake of
astonishing, they are classed as wonder tales.
While on the one side legend shades off into myth
and wonder tales, on the other it shades off into anecdote.
A tendency to write legend instead of fact is
always present. As soon as a man or a place becomes
prominent, fictitious stories begin to spring up, founded
not only on what was done, but also on what might
have been done. But to persist, a legendary account
must be true to the character and traits of the hero
or town or tribe or race with which it deals; at least,
it must be true to the popular conception of the character.
Though innumerable, the versions of the Faust
story, for example, are nevertheless essentially consistent.
Typical legends shading off into history and
anecdote are those about William Tell, Robert the
Bruce, Alfred the Great, John Smith and Pocahontas,[26]
and many of the popular tales about Columbus, Washington,
Lincoln, and Rizal.
Modern
literary
legends
There are modern literary legends. An exquisite
legend of a place is "Rip Van Winkle" by Washington
Irving. A terrific French novel is founded
on the legendary idea of the Wandering
Jew. A wholesome boys' story that is often
mistaken for history is "The Man Without a Country."
Selma Lagerlöf, who was given the Nobel prize in 1909
for the most original piece of literature, has written
among others a saint's legend about a hermit who was
won to brotherly love by a pair of birds that built a
nest and hatched their young in his outstretched palms
as, keeping a vow, he stood day and night praying
heaven to take vengeance and destroy the sinful world.
Allied to this species is one of Count Tolstoy's most
widely read stories. It is built upon an idea current in
all races and appearing in many legends; namely, of an
angel sent by God to live a while among men. But
Tolstoy, with his fervent devotion to the good of the
people, has turned his narrative into a parable, and
calls it "What Men Live By." Another beautiful religious
narrative, an art legend tangent to tradition, is
Henry Van Dyke's "The Other Wise Man."
How to select
and
record a
legend of
growth
It is easy for one to select a place legend. Every
town in the world, I suppose, has stories connected with
it that are only typically true. Almost every
prominent topographical feature has an explanatory
narrative current about it. Take
any of these popular tales concerning the
cliffs, river, mountain peak, spring, lake,
gully, or pictured rocks of your neighborhood and[27]
you have a legend, so long as your story confines itself
to that particular spot, and does not let its subject
be emphatically the result of great natural forces or of
the cause of all subsequent similar formations. In
other words, one must remember that the basis of
legend is particular incident, while that of myth is
universal phenomenon; the content of legend is exaggerated
history, while the content of myth is fanciful
science. All one needs to do to record such a place
legend is to arrange the details in a coherent fashion
and to write out the sentences in good, clear, simple
English, sticking as close to the original oral account
as correct syntax will allow. If one cares to write
about people instead of places, one follows in general
the same directions, being sure not to fall into mere
anecdote or incident, but to have a full, complete
account.
How to
write
a legend
of art
To write a literary art legend, an author selects in
history some period that he likes very much or some
hero or heroine he has always admired, and
notes down a number of facts that are connected
with one another and with his subject;
then he lets his imagination loose
upon them. He uses terms and expressions of the age
of which he is writing; phrases that now appear quaint
add a flavor of reality to the tale. But he is careful,
however, not to misuse words and thus commit what
the critics call anachronism, by putting the idioms
peculiar to one age or one people into the mouth of
another. An occasional special touch is good, but too
much straining for effect spoils a story. He gets rather
into the mood of simple faith in greatness and goodness,[28]
and tells of brave deeds and generous actions that
might well have happened. Dramatic truth there must
be; literal truth, not necessarily. A working definition
runs somewhat like this:
Working
definition
Legend is a narrative partly true and partly imaginary,
about a particular person, event, place or natural
feature; a story that has the semblance of
history, but is in reality almost altogether
fanciful, since the basic fact is amplified, abridged, or
wholly changed at the will of the narrator.
Kenach's Little Woman
As the holy season of Lent drew nigh the Abbot
Kenach felt a longing such as a bird of passage feels
in the south when the first little silvery buds on the
willow begin here to break their ruddy sheaths, and the
bird thinks tomorrow it will be time to fly over seas to
the land where it builds its nest in pleasant croft or
under the shelter of homely eaves. And Kenach said,
"Levabo oculos—I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills
from whence cometh my help," for every year it was
his custom to leave his abbey and fare through the
woods to the hermitage on the mountainside, so that he
might spend the forty days in fasting and prayer in the
heart of solitude.
Now on the day which is called the Wednesday
of Ashes he set out, but first he heard the mass of
remembrance and led his monks to the altar steps, and
knelt there in great humility to let the priest sign his
forehead with a cross of ashes. And on the forehead
of each of the monks the ashes were smeared in the[29]
form of a cross, and each time the priest made the
sign he repeated the words, "Remember, man, that thou
art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."
So with the ashes still in his brow and with the
remembrance of the end of earthly days in his soul,
he bent his steps towards the hermitage; and as he
was now an aged man and nowise strong, Diarmait, one
of the younger brethren, accompanied him in case any
mischance should befall.
They passed through the cold forest, where green
there was none, unless it were the patches of moss and
the lichens on the rugged tree trunks and tufts of
last year's grass, but here and there the white blossoms
of the snowdrops peered out. The dead gray leaves
and dry twigs crackled and snapped under their feet
with such a noise as a wood fire makes when it is newly
lighted; and that was all the warmth they had on their
wayfaring.
The short February day was closing in as they
climbed among the boulders and withered bracken on
the mountainside, and at last reached the entrance of
a cavern hollowed in the rock and fringed with ivy.
This was the hermitage. The Abbot hung his bell
on a thick ivy bough in the mouth of the caves; and
they knelt and recited vespers and compline; and thrice
the Abbot struck the bell to scare away the evil spirits
of the night; and they entered and lay down to rest.
Hard was the way of their sleeping; for they lay
not on wool or on down, neither on heather or bracken,
nor yet on dry leaves, but their sides came against the
cold stone, and under the head of each there was a
stone for pillow. But being weary with the long journey,[30]
they slept sound and felt nothing of the icy mouth
of the wind blowing down the mountainside.
Within an hour of daybreak, when the moon was
setting, they were awakened by the wonderful singing
of a bird, and they rose for matins and strove not to
listen, but so strangely sweet was the sound in the
keen moonlight morning that they could not forbear.
The moon set, and still in the dark sang the bird, and
the gray light came, and the bird ceased; and when
was white day they saw that all the ground and every
stalk of bracken was hoary with frost, and every ivy
leaf was crusted white round the edge, but within the
edge it was all glossy green.
"What bird is this that sings so sweet before day
in the bitter cold?" said the Abbot. "Surely no bird
at all, but an Angel from heaven waking us from the
death of sleep."
"It is the blackbird, Domine Abbas," said the
young monk; "often they sing thus in February, however
cold it may be."
"O soul, O Diarmait, is it not wonderful that the
senseless small creatures should praise God so sweetly
in the dark, and in the light before the dark, while we
are fain to lie warm and forget His praise?" And
afterwards he said, "Gladly could I have listened to
that singing, even till tomorrow was a day; and yet it
was but the singing of a little earth wrapped in a handful
of feathers. O soul, tell me what it must be to
listen to the singing of an Angel, a portion of heaven
wrapped in the glory of God's love!"
Of the forty days thirty went by, and oftentimes
now, when no wind blew, it was bright and delightsome[31]
among the rocks, for the sun was gaining strength,
and the days were growing longer, and the brown trees
were being speckled with numberless tiny buds of white
and pale green, and wild flowers were springing between
the boulders and through the mountain turf.
Hard by the cave there was a wall of rock covered
with ivy, and as Diarmait chanced to walk near it, a
brown bird darted out from among the leaves. The
young monk looked at the place from which it had
flown, and behold! among the leaves and the hairy
sinews of the ivy there was a nest lined with grass,
and in the nest there were three eggs—pale green with
reddish spots. And Diarmait knew the bird and knew
the eggs, and he told the Abbot, who came noiselessly,
and looked with a great love at the open house and
the three eggs of the mother blackbird.
"Let us not walk too near, my son," he said, "lest
we scare the mother from her brood, and so silence
beforehand some of the music of the cold hours before
the day." And he lifted his hand and blessed the
nest and the bird, saying, "And He shall bless thy
bread and thy water." After that it was very seldom
they went near the ivy.
Now after days of clear and benign weather a shrill
wind broke out from beneath the North Star, and
brought with it snow and sleet and piercing cold. And
the woods howled for distress of the storm, and the
gray stones of the mountain chattered with discomfort.
Harsh cold and sleeplessness were their lot in
the cave, and as he shivered, the Abbot bethought him
of the blackbird in her nest, and of the wet flakes
driving in between the leaves of the ivy and stinging[32]
her brown wings and patient bosom. And lifting his
head from his pillow of stone he prayed the Lord of
the elements to have the bird in His gentle care, saying,
"How excellent is Thy loving kindness, O God!
therefore the children of men put their trust under the
shadow of Thy wings."
Then after a little while he said, "Look out into
the night, O son, and tell me if yet the storm be
abated."
And Diarmait, shuddering, went to the mouth of the
cavern, and stood there gazing and calling in a low
voice, "Domine Abbas! My Lord Abbot! My Lord
Abbot!"
Kenach rose quickly and went to him, and as they
looked out the sleet beat on their faces, but in the
midst of the storm there was a space of light, as though
it were moonshine, and the light streamed from an
Angel, who stood near the wall of rock with outspread
wings, and sheltered the blackbird's nest from the wintry
blast.
And the monks gazed at the shining loveliness of
the Angel, till the wind fell and the snow ceased and
the light faded away and the sharp stars came out
and the night was still.
Now at sundown of the day that followed, when
the Abbot was in the cave, the young monk, standing
among the rocks, saw approaching a woman who carried
a child in her arms; and crossing himself, he cried
aloud to her, "Come not any nearer; turn thy face to
the forest, and go down."
"Nay," replied the woman, "for we seek shelter[33]
for the night, and food and the solace of fire for the
little one."
"Go down, go down," cried Diarmait; "no woman
may come to this hermitage."
"How canst thou say that, O monk?" said the
woman. "Was the Lord Christ any worse than thou?
Christ came to redeem woman no less than to redeem
man. Not less did He suffer for the sake of woman
than for the sake of man. Women gave service and
tendance to Him and His Apostles. A woman it was
who bore Him, else had men been left forlorn. It was
a man who betrayed Him with a kiss; and woman it
was who washed His feet with tears. It was a man
who smote Him with a reed, but a woman who broke
the alabaster box of precious ointment. It was a man
who thrice denied Him; a woman stood by His cross.
It was a woman to whom He first spoke on Easter morn,
but a man thrust his hand into His side and put his
finger in the prints of the nails before he would believe.
And not less than men do women enter the
heavenly kingdom. Why, then, shouldst thou drive
my little child and me from thy hermitage and thy hospitality?"
Then Kenach, who had heard all that was said,
came forth from the cave, and blessed the woman. "Well
hast thou spoken, O daughter; come, and bring the
small child with thee." And turning to the young
monk, he said, "O soul, O son, O Diarmait, did not
God send His Angel out of high heaven to shelter the
mother bird? And was not that, too, a little woman
in feathers? But now hasten, and gather wood and
leaves, and strike fire from the flint, and make a hearth[34]
before the cave, that the woman may rest and the boy
have the comfort of the bright flame."
This was soon done, and by the fire sat the woman
eating a little barley bread; but the child, who had
no will to eat, came round to the old man, and held
out two soft hands to him. And the Abbot caught him
up from the ground to his breast, and kissed his golden
head, saying, "God bless thee, sweet little son, and
give thee a good life and a happy, and strength of thy
small body, and if it be His holy will, length of glad
days; and ever mayest thou be a gladness and deep joy
to thy mother."
Then, seeing that the woman was strangely clad in
an outland garb of red and blue and that she was
tall, with a golden-hued skin and olive eyes, arched,
very black eyebrows, aquiline nose, and a rosy mouth,
he said, "Surely O daughter, thou art not of this land
of Erinn in the sea, but art come out of the great world
beyond?"
"Indeed, then, we have traveled far," replied the
woman; "as thou sayest, out of the great world beyond.
And now the twilight deepens upon us, and we would
sleep."
"Thou shalt sleep safe in the cave, O daughter, but
we will rest here by the embers. My cloak of goat's
hair shalt thou have, and such dry bracken and soft
bushes as may be found."
"There is no need," said the woman, "mere shelter
is enough," and she added in a low voice, "Often has
my little son had no bed wherein he might lie."
Then she stretched out her arms to the boy, and
once more the little one kissed the Abbot, and as he[35]
passed by Diarmait he put the palms of his hands
against the face of the young monk, and said laughingly,
"I do not think thou hadst any ill-will to us,
though thou wert rough and didst threaten to drive us
away into the woods."
And the woman lifted the boy on her arm, and
rose and went towards the cavern; and when she was
in the shadow of the rocks she turned towards the
monks beside the fire and said, "My son bids me thank
you."
They looked up, and what was their astonishment
to see a heavenly glory shining about the woman and
her child in the gloom of the cave. And in his left
hand the child carried a little golden image of the
world, and round his head was a starry radiance, and
his right hand was raised in blessing.
For such a while as it takes the shadow of a cloud
to run across a rippling field of corn, for so long the
vision remained; and then it melted into the darkness,
even as a rainbow melts away into the rain.
On his face fell the Abbot, weeping for joy beyond
words; but Diarmait was seized with fear and trembling
till he remembered the way in which the child
had pressed warm palms against his face and forgiven
him.
The story of these things was whispered abroad, and
ever since, in that part of Erinn in the sea, the mother
blackbird is called Kenach's Little Woman.
And as for the stone on which the fire was lighted
in front of the cave, rain rises quickly from it in mist,
and leaves it dry, and snow may not lie upon it, and
even in the dead of winter it is warm to touch. And[36]
to this day it is called the Stone of Holy Companionship.
—William Canton.
"W. V.'s Golden Legend" (Dodd, Mead & Co.).
A Legend of Gapan
In the early part of December, in the year 1889, a
poor man named Carlos left the town where he lived to
go to Gapan, about twenty miles distant.
Day was beginning to break as Carlos reached the
foot of a hill, which he was just about to climb, when
he heard the sound of music. Looking upward to find
whence the sound came, he saw a bright white cloud.
From the center of this cloud shone a ray of light,
forming a circle in which were all the colors of the
rainbow.
Carlos could scarcely believe his eyes, till he heard
a sweet voice call his name. He hastened to climb the
hill, and at the top found a very beautiful woman,
around whom shone a light that made the stones and
bushes sparkle like gems.
When the man had drawn near, our Blessed Lady—for
it was she—told him that she wished a church to
be built on that spot, and bade him go to Gapan and
tell this fact to the priest. On reaching the town,
Carlos went straight to the priest, and related what
the Blessed Virgin had confided to him.
"I believe you," said the priest, "but to be still
more certain, ask her who sends you for some sign by
which we may know that she is really the Mother of
God."
Afterwards Carlos went to the spot where the[37]
Blessed Mother was waiting for him. As soon as he
saw her, he immediately threw himself at her feet, and
told her what the priest had said. With great tenderness
our Lady bade him come to her the next day,
saying she would give him the sign for which the priest
had asked.
Carlos came the next day. "Go now," said the
Blessed Virgin, "to the top of the hill, and gather the
roses that are blooming there. Put them in your handkerchief,
and bring them to me; I will tell you what to
do with them."
Though Carlos believed that there were no roses
there, he obeyed without a word. How great, then,
was his surprise to find a garden rich with flowers!
Filling his handkerchief with roses, he hurried back to
the Blessed Virgin.
Our Lady took the roses in her pure hands, and
letting them drop back into the handkerchief, said to
Carlos, "Present these roses to the priest, and say that
they are the proof of the command I give you. Do
not show any one what you carry, and open your handkerchief
only in the presence of the priest."
Thanking the Blessed Virgin, Carlos started once
more for the town. When he reached the convent and
was brought before the priest, he opened his handkerchief
to show the sign that was to prove his words, and
fresh, sweet-smelling roses, wet with dew, fell to the
floor, while on the handkerchief itself appeared a beautiful
picture of the Mother of God.
"The Blessed Virgin is here," said the father, and
then he knelt before the picture and gave praise to
God. The miraculous handkerchief was placed in the[38]
church of Gapan, where it remained until a suitable
chapel was built on the very top of the hill, as our Lady
desired.
—Teofilo P. Corpus.
A Legend of the Incas
"We will rest here for a time, Uira." The hollow-eyed,
tired-looking youth dismounted from his burro.
His companion Uira, a short, swarthy-skinned Peruvian,
turned and gazed down the mountainside whence
they had come, upon the flat roofs of Quito, which
seemed like a dream city, so lovely did the distance
make it. "It is beautiful, is it not, Juan? My home,
the home of the Incas, the most ancient city in all the
land?"
"Yes, indeed, it is beautiful, and, Uira, while we
rest, you shall tell me a tale of your people; some pretty
legend of the Incas. I think nothing else would so
thoroughly refresh me." Now Juan could by no exercise
of ingenuity have touched a more responsive
chord in the nature of his friend.
"Well, what shall it be, Juan? You have never
heard the story of Manca, have you? It may not be
what you would call a pretty legend; yet I think you
would like it," said Uira, readily complying.
"Very well, I know I cannot help but enjoy it,"
said Juan, as he settled himself comfortably, with dried
leaves for a couch and a tree stump for a pillow.
"Well," began Uira, his gaze still on the town below
them.
"Uira, you're not beginning right; you should say
many, many, years ago." The fine-featured Spanish[39]
boy looked mischievously at the stolid descendant of
the Incas.
"You perhaps have heard," went on Uira, discouraging
flippancy by disregarding it, "of the story of
Attahualpa; at least you have known something of it
from the histories you have studied; how, before he
died, the mighty Huayan Capar divided his kingdom
between his two sons, Attahualpa and Huascar, half-brothers,
giving to Attahualpa the northern region,
Quito, which your geography calls Ecuador; how Huascar,
arrogant in his newly-acquired greatness, demanded
tribute from Quito. You know how Attahualpa angrily
refused; how he came at the head of a great
army to the seat of his brother's power, defeated Huascar,
and taking from the conquered man kingdom and
freedom, left him only his life. Then the Spaniards,
curses on them all——"
"You forget that I am proud of my Spanish blood,
Uira," the lad interrupted, his cheeks flushing with
resentment.
"Ah, yes, Juan, I forgot. Forgive my hasty speech
and unintended insult. But to go on, the Spaniards,
mad with lust for gold, marched with armies legion in
number. If you do not know, boy, how many legion is,
look at the tree tops above you; the leaves are countless;
they are legion. The invaders, with the Pizarro
at their head, burned our homes, desecrated our temples,
and captured Attahualpa, who, elated with his conquest,
was returning to Quito. The Attahualpa, the records
say, collected in one room and gave the Pizarro the
wealth of the Incas; and your traditions tell you that in
fear of his own life, Pizarro put his captive to death.[40]
This is the story of Attahualpa as you have been
taught it.
But I will now tell you what it is given only the
few in whose veins still flows the blood of the Incas to
know. Huayan had a daughter Manca, whose name
is not written in the annals. She was sister to Attahualpa,
and in her heart was all the mighty pride of
the Incas. Oh, how she loved the name of her race!
How she rejoiced in their conquests, their prowess!
How she delighted to look upon the gold in the temples,
and think that it was all part of the prosperity of her
people! There was a woman, Juan, perhaps not beautiful,
I cannot say, well worthy to bear the name of an
Incan.
How she wept when Pizarro, with his Spanish
followers, seized Attahualpa! But do not think that
it was for fear that she wept, Juan. It was for injured
pride; for sorrow that she was to lose her dearest
friend, her brother.
But when the loyal girl found that Attahualpa,
a ruler, a conqueror of men, and most of all, an Incan,
was bargaining for his life with a roomful of gold as
the price, she prayed to the gods she worshiped, to
take her brother to the spirit world, before he should
place this blot upon the nation. She—heroine that she
was—would rather a thousand times have lost her companion
than have had him coward enough to buy his
life thus. Day and night she pondered and prayed, and
planned ways by which she might ward off so awful
an outrage against Incan pride. After a week of despair
and vain thought, while Attahualpa was robbing
the shrines of their ornaments to fill the great chamber[41]
chosen by the Spanish general, Manca determined
that since she could not by pleading with Attahualpa
or by playing upon his love for his sister or his country
or even for his gods, move him from his purpose,
she would at least save him from himself.
This was Manca's purpose. Perhaps, Juan, I failed
to tell you that Manca bore a very strong resemblance
to her brother," and for the first time Uira looked away
from Quito, and glanced questioningly at Juan. The
boy nodded. "Go on," he said, his gaze, too, traveling
to the city of antiquity, where, centuries ago, Manca
made her hitherto unrecorded sacrifice.
"The spirited girl," went on Uira, "realized that
when Pizarro had his booty, his cowardly fear for himself
would outweigh his honor, and cause him to kill
his prisoner; and so, when the day came on which Attahualpa
was to open the doors of the treasure-filled
chamber, Attahualpa lay at his home, guarded by servants,
who were not to liberate him till sundown; and
Manca, garbed in her brother's clothes, gave to Pizarro
the store of wealth. As she walked home, along a lonely
forest path, she received the poisoned arrow intended
for Attahualpa. He, when he discovered his sister's
bravery, slunk off to the mountains, with never a thought
of the rumors which would forever darken his name.
Thus Manca's life, by the sacrifice of which she had
hoped that she might keep bright the fame of her
brother, was given up for the sake of a coward's reputation.
By crediting herself with the surrender of the
wealth, she had intended that Attahualpa, though he
had been defeated in battle, should still remain the hero
of the Incas."
[42]
There was a pause. The man and the boy both were
now staring down at Ecuador's capital city, whose pillars
seemed to be floating in the mist just rising from
Pinchincha's side.
"As you said, it is not a pretty legend. But don't
you think, Uira, that Manca must have been very
beautiful?"
—Dorothea Knoblock.
The Place of the Red Grass: or, The Invasion of Pangasinan
by the Ilocanos
Long before the Spaniards discovered the Philippines,
there was war in Luzon among the Pangasinan and
Ilocano tribes. Each tribe had powerful chiefs of remarkable
courage and bravery. It was believed that
they were sons of gods, and possessed magical power.
Among them was Palaris, the distinguished chief of the
Pangasinanes, and Lumtuad, the skillful chief of the
Ilocanos. These rulers were neighbors and the army
of the one plundered the towns of the other. On account
of this reason and also of the ambition of each
to enlarge his dominion, a war broke out. Lumtuad
collected three hundred ships in Laoag, Ilocos Norte.
These ships were loaded with his chosen men armed
with bolos, spears, and bows and arrows. These ships
sailed toward the south, and entered the Gulf of Lingayen,
Pangasinan. Palaris and his army went to meet
them.
At first, the battle took place on the water. Lumtuad
showed his skill to his enemy. He fought jumping
from one ship to another. Unfortunately he was
shot by an arrow and fell into the water. After his[43]
death, his soldiers fought furiously, and drove back
the enemy into the town.
When the invading army had landed all its forces,
it pursued Palaris's army as far as Mangaldan, a town
fifteen miles from Lingayen. When Palaris foresaw
the future defeat of his army, he escaped into a sugar
field. There by Lumtuad's scouts he was found sleeping.
They thrust a lance through the middle of his
body. But Palaris whirled himself free from the lance,
killed some of these soldiers, and pursued the rest until
his last breath was gone. He was then succeeded
by his lieutenant Afilado, and the battle was renewed.
Afilado's forces were entirely defeated and those who
survived were killed outright. A river of blood flowed
from the spot where the battle took place, and the grass
that grows there today is red. The place where Palaris
was struck was named after him.
After the war the victorious Ilocanos settled in the
province of Pangasinan; so that now they constitute a
greater number in population than the Pangasinanes
themselves.
—Sixto Guico.
III. The Fairy Tale
The attitude
toward
fairy
stories
"From Ghoulies and Ghoosties, long-leggetty Beasties,
and Things that go Bump in the Night, Good Lord,
deliver us!" the quaint old litany pleads,
and is probably better representative of the
attitude of primitive peoples toward the
extraordinary personages of the sub-world
than is our more modern and debonair view. We have
come to look upon a fairy story as a mental holiday,[44]
to enjoy which the narrator and the listener are off
on a picnic. But not so do the unsophisticated folk
think of the events. The grown-up primitive man believes
more seriously in the tricks of goblins and sprites
than do our most credulous modern children. To him,
the good or malicious influence of the nunu or ticbalan
is not a fiction, but a reality that must be reckoned
with. Luckily he can reckon with it; for even in the
earlier folk tales the fairies are not generally immortal,
and they do not have unlimited power.
Fundamental
characteristics
of
fairies
One chief characteristic that distinguishes these extra-natural
beings from the gods is that the extra-natural
are for the most part small and
belong to the under-world. They are not
so much superhuman as other than human.
They may be checked or outwitted or even
finally overcome. They have power to tease a man,
though not the power utterly to destroy him. A pixy
may cast a spell, but not forever. Jack-o-lantern, or
Will-o-the-wisp, may lead astray into a bog and may
hope that his victim be not a good wader, but the trick
and the malicious wish are the extent of the evil. The
victim usually in the end escapes. If he perishes, he has
forgotten his charms or neglects to say his prayers.
There is a somewhat well-fixed literary atmosphere
for English fairy stories and allusions. As we have
said, they must have about them the air of holiday.
The English elfin people are a merry folk from the
dainty queen to the clumsiest boggart, and enjoy a bit
of fun even at their own expense,—though, to tell the
truth, the joke is usually the other way.
If you wish to write an original narrative about[45]
these charming creatures, the best way to prepare is to
get acquainted with them. No doubt you know where
some of them live. Perhaps only this morning you
chanced upon a forgotten hammock left swinging between
two stout little sprigs of grass where a fairy had
slept, or maybe last night you clearly heard the tinkle
of pranckling feet and were too lazy or indifferent to go
to the window to catch a glimpse of a wondrous sight.
I pray you, if you have the chance again, join the
masquerade, remembering only that if Oberon asks
you why you are there, you must speak out frankly.
His promise is
"We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true."
Oh, yes, one more thing to remember! Leave before
cock-crow if you expect to bring your wits with you.
If you are afraid to try the experiment of original
sightseeing and fear Sir Topas's fate, do the next best
thing. Seek out somebody who has witnessed a fairy
revel, or been at a brownies' banquet, has outtricked a
bogie, or propitiated an angry gnome, or, best of all,
likely, has made a little green cloak and hood for the
lubber-fiend of the kitchen hearth, and has seen him
fling himself out-of-doors in high glee to return no
more except with good luck. Watchers who have seen
these things, I dare say, will have much to tell you. Get
their narratives.
The Filipino fairies are not so winsome as the English,
but they are far more actual. The English fairies
are "but mortals beautifully masquerading," says Mr.[46]
W. B. Yeats. He could find no fault with the Filipino
fairies; for they are potent forces. Like the Irish
deenee shee, the Filipino supernatural beings are thoroughly
believed in by the peasants, and, like the Irish
creatures, the Malayan are not always small, but may
be small or large at will. Some of their manifestations
are indeed gruesome; a few are harmless or even helpful;
all are very interesting.
The educated young people of the Philippines have a
mission to perform for the native fairies. It has become
the fashion in some places to frown upon the unseen
folk and to attempt to drive them out. The endeavor
is commendable so far as it discriminates. The bad
fairies should go. The wholesome ones should stay.
They should stay for the sake of future native poetry
and for the sake of all the little brown children who
love stories.
Northern
fairies and
their attributes
A bare list of the names of fairies and subhuman
beings is inspiring. In the Norse countries there are
dwarfs, known also as trolls, kobalds, goblins,
brownies, pucks, or elle-folk. It is said
that 'they are less powerful than gods, but
far more intelligent than men; that their
knowledge is boundless and extends even to the future.
They can transport themselves with celerity from one
place to another, and love to hide behind rocks and
repeat the last words of every conversation they overhear.
Echoes are known as dwarfs' talk. A Tarnkappe
each one owns, a tiny red cap which makes the
wearer invisible. Dwarfs are ruled by a king spoken
of in various northern countries as Andvari, Alberich,
Elbegast, Gondemar, Laurin, or Oberon. He dwells[47]
in a magnificent subterranean palace and owns a magic
ring, an invisible sword, and a belt of strength. His
subjects often fashion marvelous weapons and girdles.
In general, dwarfs are kindly and helpful: sometimes
they knead bread, grind flour, brew beer, and perform
countless other household tasks; sometimes they harvest
and thresh grain for the farmers. If ill-treated
or turned to ridicule, these little creatures forsake the
house never to come back to it again. Sometimes they
take vengeance by means of changelings. Changelings
are the weazened and puny offspring of the dwarfs
which they substitute for unbaptized children that they
steal from people who have offended them. The dwarfs,
envious of the taller stature of the human race, desire
to improve their own, and so consider it good morals
thus to make their enemies their benefactors.'
Fairies, elves, and ariels include all the small
creatures who are fair, good, and useful. They have
their dwelling-place, it is said, 'in the airy realm of
Alf-heim (home of the light-elves), situated between
heaven and earth, whence they can flit downwards
whenever they please, to attend to the plants and flowers,
sport with the birds and butterflies, or dance in
the silvery moonlight on the green.' They have golden
hair, sweet musical voices, and magic harps. These
gentle aerial beings, scholars say, were introduced into
Europe by the Crusaders and the Moors of Spain. Before
that time the creatures of the North had been cold
and ungenial, like their heath-clad mountains, chilly
lakes, and piny solitudes; but after the advent of the
Peri of the East, who live in the sun or the rainbow
and subsist on the odor of flowers, the Northern elves[48]
took on more winning attributes and finally became
beneficent and beautiful.
Many of the stories in the so-called fairy books are
technically not fairy stories but nursery sagas, as we
use the term today; for instance, most of those in Miss
Mulock's "Fairy Book" and the larger part in the
"Blue and the Green Fairy Books." They are English,
French, German, and other Märchen retold. Jean
Ingelow's "Mopsa the Fairy" has a good-sounding
title for a typical fairy book, though the material seems
to be literary rather than traditional. Brentano's
creatures in translation surely bear literary names,
whatever they have in the original. Dream-my-Soul
and Sir Skip-and-a-Jump are suggestive of the pen.
But Puck of Pook's Hill comes near to being of the
solid traditional Northern type—at least in declaration.
He says he is the oldest Old Thing in England—very
much at your service if you care to have anything
to do with him; but, by Oak and Ash and Thorn, he
hates the painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head
set of imposters! He is for Wayland-Smith
and magic and the old days before the Conquest.
Charles Kingsley's Madam How and Lady Why are
noble fairies without dispute—really goddesses; yet,
strange to say, they have revealed themselves to a pedagogue
and have permitted their work to be the subject
of lectures. Still, they are companionable and
wholesome and none the less marvelous than their more
common sisters. This is an interesting contamination
of genres—the pedagogical narrative combined with
the fairy tale. Usually the combination is not so
happily made.
[49]
How to
proceed
to write a
fairy-tale
If a writer cares to attempt a new "old" fairy tale
of the real sort, he might observe the following more
specific suggestions, which were written out
before "Puck of Pook's Hill" came into the
hands of the author of this book, but which
happen to express fairly well what might be
deduced as Kipling's procedure. (1) Decide on the
country in which the events are to take place. (2) If
you are not already familiar with that country through
the medium of traveling or residence, make yourself familiar
with it by reading. The more you know about
the common people and their superstitions, the better
your story will be. (3) Make lists of names of the
good and bad spirits of that country together with
their occupations and powers. (4) From these lists
pick out the being you are going to treat as your chief
personage and clearly define to yourself its relation to
the other spirits. (5) Then weave about this personality
a series of events for which it is directly or indirectly
responsible. (6) Be sure to make the fairies or
spirits of the other world the chief actors. If living
man comes in, he must be simply the object to whom
they offer their favors or on whom they play their
pranks or wreak their vengeance. It is the doings of
the fairies or of the beings of the extra-natural world
that you must make your reader interested in. (7) If
you care to write a weird fairy tale, select the unpleasant
spirits and proceed; but be sure not to make
your story revolting instead of weird. A good weird
tale is the work of a master and pleases because of its
art. A horrible story any bungler can tell. (8) Finally,[50]
remember the working definition: Summary
definition A fairy tale is a
narrative of imaginary events wherein the chief actors
are beings other than man and the gods—beings
who have power to help man or to tease
and molest him, but not the power utterly to destroy
him.
PARTIAL LIST OF FAIRIES, GOOD AND BAD, OF DIFFERENT
COUNTRIES:
Northern Fairies
Duergar, or Dwerger—Gotho-German dwarfs, dwelling
in rocks and hills; noted for their strength, subtlety,
magical powers, and skill in metallurgy. They are
personifications of the subterranean powers of
nature.
Kobold—a house-spirit in German superstition; same
as English Robin Goodfellow, or Puck.
Nick—a water-wraith or Kelpie. There are nicks
in sea, lake, river, or waterfall. Sometimes represented
as half-child, half-horse, the hoofs being
reversed.
Nis, or Nisse—a Scandinavian fairy friendly to farm-houses.
Trolls—similar to Duergar; dwarfs of Northern mythology
living in hills and mounds. They are represented
as stumpy, misshapen, humpbacked, inclined
to thieving and fond of carrying off children or substituting
one of their own offspring for that of a
human mother. They are said to dislike noise very
much.
Stromkarl—a Norwegian musical spirit, like Neck.
[51]
Irish and Scotch Fairies
Banshee—domestic Spirit of certain Irish or Highland
Scotch families; supposed to take an interest in their
welfare.
Boggart (Scotch)—a local hobgoblin or spirit.
Bogie (Scotch, Welsh, and Irish)—a scarecrow, a goblin.
Brownie—the house spirit in Scottish superstition.
Called in England Robin Goodfellow. Farms are
his favorite abode.
Jack-a-lantern—a bog or marsh spirit who delights to
mislead.
Lepracaun, or Leprechaun (Irish)—a fairy shoemaker.
Filipino Fairies and Other Minor Supernatural Creatures
The list that follows is necessarily very brief, for
every tribe of the Philippine Islands has its host of mischievous
creatures, whose chief delight is to annoy or
frighten men. Others are of a more malignant nature,
however; some cause sickness; some insanity; and occasionally
some cause death, for the Filipinos as well
as the Hungarians have their vampires.
The name of the tribe in which the belief in the
spirit is most common is given in parentheses after the
description:
Salut—the spirits of pestilence in general and cholera
in particular. They are described as tall, thin persons
dressed in flowing black robes, who walk the
streets at night and knock at the doors of the houses
to which they wish to carry death. (Tagalog,
Pampango, Bicol.)
Matanda sa punso—a little old man who lives in a[52]
mound of earth. He loves children, and is willing
to help those who respect him and his house.
(Tagalog.)
Lampong—a tall harmless creature with a horse's head
and feet but a man's body. He lives in the woods,
can travel very rapidly, and is deathly afraid of a
rosary. He possesses some magic power. (Pangasinan.)
Camana—an evil spirit that lives in gloomy places. It
can assume the form of any small animal, or can
make itself invisible. If a person who comes across
the camana does not propitiate it with food or something
entertaining, he will become sick; and he can
be cured only by an old woman who is a manganito.
(Parts of Zambales.)
Patianak—Accounts about patianak are very contradictory.
It is most commonly believed, however, to
be a mischievous fairy that assumes the form of a
small child and misleads travelers at night. It has
a mirthful laugh that is very attractive. The only
way for the victim to drive the fairy away and to
find the right road is for him to take off his coat
and wear it inside out. (Tagalog and Bicol.)
Mamamarang—a sorceress who fights with travelers in
lonely places and tries to kill them that she may
eat them. (Visayan.)
Managbatu—a spirit in the form of a man, which lives
in trees and at midnight throws stones and clods at
the houses near his dwelling. He can cause sickness
to those that try to injure him. (Cagayan.)
Cafre—an enormous black man that smokes long
cigars. He does very little harm, but delights in[53]
frightening people. Some say he can transform
himself into almost anything from a pig to a ball of
fire. He appears only at night, of course. (Pampango,
Tagalog, Bicol.)
Tigbalang—a demon who lives in trees, especially the
baliti tree. His body is covered with long hair and
one of his feet is a horse's hoof. His chief delight
is to lead people astray and make them crazy, or to
ravage banana plantations, to empty water jars,
shake houses, and disturb people generally.
(Tagalog.)
Tigabulak—a demon who in the form of an old man
entices children with candy and cakes. After he has
led them far from home, he puts them in a sack and
carries them to his dwelling. Then he kills them
and makes money out of their blood. (Tagalog.)
Caibaan—little mischievous field spirits who play tiny
guitars. They steal dishes and hide them, and indulge
in other pranks. (Pangasinan and Ilocano.)
Russian Fairies and Witches
Domovoy—the Russian brownie that lives behind the
stove. If he is neglected, he waxes wroth and
knocks the tables and benches around at night.
Baba-yaga—an ogress who lives on the edge of the
forest, in a hut built so as to turn with the wind
like a weathercock.
Rusalki—water sprites.
Vodianoi—river genii.
Lieshii and the Liesnik—forest demons.
Vampires—ghosts who steal by night from their tombs,
and suck the blood of the living during their sleep.
[54]
Arabian Fairies and Witches
Jinn—a sort of fairies of Arabian mythology—the offspring
of fire. (The singular of jinn is jinnee.)
Afreet—a sort of Arabian ghoul or demon—the epitome
of what is terrible and monstrous in Arabian superstition.
Peri (plural of Peris)—Peri are delicate, gentle, fairy-like
beings of Eastern mythology, begotten by fallen
spirits. With a wand they direct the pure in mind
the way to heaven.
Miscellaneous Fairies and Other Supernatural Creatures
Esprit Follet—the house-spirit of France.
Familiar spirit—a spirit or demon supposed to be summoned
by a necromancer or a soothsayer from the
unseen world to attend upon him as a servant.
Fay—the French word for fairy, anglicised.
Gnome—one of a fabulous race of dwarfed and misshapen
earth-spirits or goblins, reputed to be special
guardians of mines and miners. (<French gnome,
from the Greek.)
Hag—a forbidding or malicious old woman; a witch.
(<A. S. haegtes, a fury.)
Hamadryad—a wood-nymph fabled to live and die with
the tree she inhabited, the oak being considered as
the tree preferred. (Greek mythology.)
Hornie, or Horny—the devil; so called because commonly
represented with horns.
Imp—an evil spirit of low rank; a small, puny, or contemptible
devil. (Russian folk tales often make use
of this spirit.)
Undine—a female water-spirit without a soul, with[55]
which she might be endowed only by marrying a
mortal and bearing a child. (<Latin unda, wave.)
Werwolf—a person who, according to mediæval superstition,
became voluntarily or involuntarily a wolf
and in that form practiced cannibalism. (<A. S.
wer, man + wulf, wolf.)
Wraith—a fantom of a living person, supposed to be
ominous of that person's death.
Lamia—a female demon or vampire that enticed youths
and fed upon their flesh and blood. (Classical
mythology.)
Merrow—a mermaid. (Irish mythology.)
Monaciello—the house-spirit of Naples.
Nightmare—an evil spirit once supposed to oppress
people during sleep. Called also Incubus. (<A. S.
niht, night + maere, a nightmare.)
Ogre—a demon or monster that was supposed to devour
human beings. (<French ogre. The derivation is
uncertain.)
Ouphe—an elf or fairy. (<the Scandinavian. A
variation of oaf = elf.)
Pigwidgeon—a very small fairy.
Sprite—a spirit of the earth or air.
Sylph—originally, a being, male or female, living in
and on the air and intermediate between material
and immaterial beings. (Used by Paracelsus. The
word is undoubtedly of Greek origin.)
The Boggart
In the house of an honest farmer in Yorkshire, named
George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode.
He here caused a good deal of annoyance, especially[56]
by tormenting the children in various ways. Sometimes
their bread and butter would be snatched away, or
their porringers of milk be capsized by an invisible
hand; for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at
other times the curtains of their beds would be shaken
backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press
on them and nearly suffocate them. The parents had
often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid. There
was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on
the kitchen stairs, and a large knot having been driven
out of one of the deal boards of which it was made,
there remained a hole. Into this one day the farmer's
youngest boy stuck the shoe horn with which he was
amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out
again, and hit the boy on the head. The agent was,
of course, the Boggart, and it soon became the children's
sport (called laking with Boggart) to put the shoe horn
into the hole and have it shot back at them.
The Boggart at length proved such a torment that
the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and
let him have it all to himself. This decision was put
into execution, and the farmer and his family were
following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbor
named John Marshall came up: "Well, Georgey," said
he, "and soa you're leaving t'ould hoose at last?"
"Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm forced tull it; for that
villain Boggart torments us soa, we can neither rest
neet nor day for't. It seems loike to have such a malice
again t'poor bairns, it ommost kills my poor dame here
at thoughts on't, and soa, ye see, we're forced to flitt
loike." He scarce had uttered the words when a voice
from a deep upright churn cried out: "Aye, aye,[57]
Johnny, we 're flitting, ye see." "Od hang thee," cried
the poor farmer, "if I'd known thou'd been there, I
wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's no use, Mally,"
said he to his wife, "we may as weel turn back to
t'ould hoose as be tormented in another that's not so
convenient."
From "English Fairy and Other Folk Tales." Selected and
edited by Edwin Sidney Hartland (Walter Scott Pub. Co.).
Cafre and the Fisherman's Wife
Once in the little village of Babancal there lived a
happy couple. They were poor and it was necessary
for them both to work for their living. The husband's
occupation was farming during the wet season and fishing
during the dry season. The wife kept the house,
helped the husband in some of his work, and in addition,
made mats of buli, pandan, or ticay, and sacks of
buli.
One night, at about six o'clock after a slight supper,
when it was dolom (moonless), the husband went to
fish. The wife remained alone at home and sat waiting
for the husband, and, at the same time, making a
mat. The house was lighted with a home-made lamp
of bamboo and earth. The lampwick of ragged doth
dipped in oil made from the fruit of the bitaog tree
gave a very poor light.
At about midnight some one threw a dalag (a kind
of fish) through the window. The wife was frightened
and surprised. In a minute she recovered herself.
"Come in, Gregorio," she said, for she thought her
husband was outside.
No one answered.
[58]
"Stop this nonsense. You know it is late now,"
she said angrily. "You had better come in and let us
cook the fish and eat our supper." She did not rise
from her seat and went on with her work.
In a few minutes a rod with another dalag hanging
on it was thrust into the room. The fish fell on the
floor before her.
"Oh, how foolish! Come in, I say," she said.
Hardly had she uttered the last word when the fish
on the hook came down upon her head. She muttered
some oaths and tried to catch the fish and take hold
of the rod. But before she could do so, it was raised.
Then she got up, took the lamp, and went to the window.
When she peeped out, she saw Cafre, the Spirit,
grinning at her. His smile showed his large white
teeth, forming a strong contrast with his dark complexion
and the darkness of the night. The woman was
frightened. She trembled and could not move an inch.
She bent down her head to avoid his gaze. At last
when she raised her eyes, he was gone.
—Benito C. Ebuen.
The Friendship of an Aswang and a Duende
About a half mile from Noveleta there is a small
pond. The tall bamboo trees that grow at the edge of
the water bow their heads toward each other so that
they form a complete vaulted arch over the pond. There
are but small spaces left between the thick leaves above
and so the sunshine can hardly go through them. The
lilies, the sea weed, and the falling leaves of the bamboo
trees, decaying under the water have deposited a deep
layer of sediment.
[59]
A long time ago a shooting meteor from heaven
fell on the water of this pond. This meteor bore within
it a beautiful nymph named Bituin. Her slender white
body, whose skin was very delicate, was covered with
beautiful leaves of the lilies whenever she came out of
the water. Every night numberless fireflies lighted her
dwelling with their fresh rays. Bituin had a large
diamond, which she always put on a floating leaf at
the center of the pond to serve as a light when it was
dark.
Bituin had no neighbors for a number of years,
and so she was not familiar with the form of man.
However, as time glided on she was known by many,
who began to love her. She did not dare to speak
with men, because she was not familiar with the ugly
complexion of the skin of mortals. One night an aswang
was passing by this pond, and he heard the musical
vibration of the bamboo leaves in harmony with
the whistling sound of the wings of fireflies. He stopped
and admired the beautiful nymph, who was sitting on
the water, watching the wonderful rays of light from
her large diamond. He was led to wonder at her
beauty, and he fell in love with her. He asked Bituin
to approach him, but his words had hardly died from
his ugly lips when Bituin upon hearing his unfamiliar
voice disappeared. There began the sadness of this
aswang. Every night he passed by the pond only to
see and to speak with Bituin, the beautiful and
elusive nymph. Yet all his hopes and efforts were in
vain.
This aswang laid himself to die near a heap of hay.
Here lived an army of small men called duendes. The[60]
duendes are usually good to those who are very strongly
in love with women. At midnight one of these little
creatures came out of the hay with a flute longer than
himself. Little duende blew the flute, and the aswang
thinking that the sweet vibration of the air came from
the lips of Bituin, at once raised up his head and
looked around. Aswang being a wild man said, "How
is it that you little duendes are so troublesome?" "Master,"
said the little duende, "I came here to restore
the broken heart of a lover and it is you." "How now
can you comfort me?" said the aswang. "Come with
me," said the little duende, "and show me where Bituin
lives."
So they started toward the pond. On their way
the duende, being as small as a little doll, often lost
himself from the sight of his friend aswang. The
duende was full of fun and jokes, and he was happy
all the way. When they came near the pond little
duende jumped over the thorny bushes that fringed
the dwelling of Bituin. Now he rode on a lily leaf floating
on the water, and he was singing a song at the
same time that he was playing on his flute. He gathered
some lily flowers and put one of them on his head.
Duende skipped over the sea weeds as light as could
be. Strange to say, the attractive music caught the
ears of Bituin, and so she appeared before the duende.
The music was so sweet, so charming, and so pleasant
to her ears that fear of such a being never entered her
thoughts. She approached the little duende, but he
would not allow her to touch his enchanting flute. Aswang
could not come inside. He tried to jump over the
bushes, but he knew that he could not. All at once he[61]
roared with a sharp tone that put Bituin to flight, and
she never returned again.
Duende blamed the aswang for roaring, but the
broken-hearted aswang in anger said, "Why did you
not catch hold of her?" Duende did not answer and
tried to flee, but aswang held him by the neck and tore
him to pieces. So from that time on the duendes have
not often been heard of; and, if they ever come, they
do evil things and cause misfortune to little children.
None of the aswangs since has ever been afraid of small
creatures.
—Emanuel E. Baja.
A Tianac Frightens Juan
One harvest day, one of our neighbors, whose name
is Juan, built a nipa hut on a farm amid his rice plantation.
There he slept alone during the harvest time to
look after his grain.
One night about twelve o'clock he began to feel the
cold north wind, and the leaves began to rustle. By
and by the wind stopped. He tried to sleep, but he
could not, for the mosquitoes were too thick. He then
went out of his hut and gathered some dry twigs and
grasses and made a small fire to drive the mosquitoes
away. When the fire began to kindle, he sat before
his hut, facing a small hill. Not long afterward he
heard the laughing of a child from the top of the hill.
The child seemed to be very happy, for it laughed as
hard as it could. Juan then began to wonder who
the child was, for he knew that no one was living near
him. Soon the laughing grew louder and louder and
Juan began to be frightened. He supposed that the
child was approaching him, but at once the laughing[62]
stopped and again everything was silent about the field.
He looked around him several times because he did not
know what kind of creature that child was, and he
feared that she might take hold of him from behind.
While Juan was thinking of what to do, a girl with
white complexion and golden hair appeared before him
laughing as hard as she could. Juan then was about to
run away and call for help, but he knew that there
was no one to help him, so he gathered all his strength
and courage and approached the girl with his bolo in
hand and said, "Tell me who you are or else this night
is your last." The girl did not answer him, but continued
laughing. He struck at her, but she at once
vanished away and reappeared behind him laughing as
hard as she could. He struck at her several times. He
did not touch her at all and she laughed louder. Juan
then threw his bolo at her and ran home shouting as
he went along calling for help, "St. John, St. Peter,
St. Nicholas, come and help me!" When he came to
the forest a cricket alighted on his coat and began
to sing. He mistook it for the girl, so he ran very
fast. When he came to the town, the policemen tried
to stop him, but they could not. He tried to tell them
that a girl was singing behind him, but he was so terribly
frightened that his calling to the gods confused
him, and while he was running he shouted, "St. John
sings, St. John sings, etc.," until he came to his house.
His family asked him what the matter was, but he
could not speak because of fatigue. By this time the
cricket had flown away. Later the family found out
that Juan had seen a tianac.
—Santiago Ochoa.
[63]
The Black Cloth of the Calumpang Tree
Once there lived on a lonely farm about two miles
from the town of San Juan two brothers whose names
were Mariano and Pedro. They were the sons of a
farmer named Rafael.
Along the road leading from this farm to the town
there was not a single house. There was a big calumpang
tree by this road about a mile from the farm.
Some of its large branches almost touched the ground.
Many stories had been told about this calumpang; some
said that they saw a ghost in the form of a white dog
under it; others said they saw it in the form of a tall,
thin black man sitting sideways on a big branch with
eyes as large as saucers and with a big cigar a meter
long in his mouth.
One day Mariano with his little brother Pedro went
to the town to attend a procession. It was night when
they started for home. On their way when they were
out of the town, they heard a noise on one side of the
road not far from them. It seemed to them that the
noise was caused by the walking of a carabao, which
was going along the road in the same direction they
were going. They could not tell whether it was a carabao
or not, for the grass was very tall. At last at an
open side of the road, where the noise was, Pedro saw
a little white dog. "Mariano, Mariano, see that little
dog," whispered Pedro, touching the back of his brother
with his finger. Pedro looked at it with great surprise.
He could hardly believe that the little creature could
make such a loud noise. The oftener they looked at
the dog, the larger it appeared. Pedro now began to
think that this dog was the one that somebody had seen[64]
under the calumpang. He was afraid; he would not
go behind nor before his brother; his hair stood on end,
and he felt as if he were wearing a hat having a large
brim; his heart beat faster than before, but he said
not a word. The appearance of the dog reminded
Mariano of the black man of the calumpang. For this
reason he was more afraid than his little brother.
After a while a noise was again heard on the other
side of the road. There appeared a white hog about
the size of a carabao. It was also going in the same
direction as the two brothers were. The hog was grunting,
while there was seen coming from his mouth a
continuous discharge of living charcoals. The minute
the boys stopped, the dog and the hog stopped also.
The two brothers intended to go back, but suddenly
they heard another noise—pac, pac, pac. They looked
behind them and saw a tall black horse mounted by a
man dressed like the prince usually seen in comedies.
The man's feet were so long that they almost touched
the ground. The two brothers could do nothing
but walk faster, in order that the horseman might not
overtake them.
When they came near the calumpang, a black cloth
was extended across the road. This cloth prevented
their further advance, for it would bind them in case
they should touch it. Mariano was then so much frightened
that he could not keep from trembling. He felt
as if the very hand of the black man of the calumpang
was holding his head.
"Father, father!" cried Pedro with a prolonged
voice, but nobody answered. The dog growled; the
horse pounded the ground with his feet; the hog snorted,[65]
while a greater amount of charcoal than before poured
out of its mouth; the black cloth waved, producing a
sound like the groaning of a sick man. Pedro grabbed
his brother by the waist so tightly that Mariano could
hardly breathe. Then Mariano remembered that he had
in his pocket the remainder of a candle which a sexton
had given him at the procession. He quickly lighted it.
Instantly the ghosts disappeared. Mariano and Pedro
reached home, but alas! they could neither eat nor sleep,
for it seemed to them as if the ghosts were still around
them.
—Eusebio Ramos.
IV. The Nursery Saga or Märchen
Origin
The ethnologists are not agreed concerning the
history of nursery sagas, or märchen, as they call them.
Whether such stories as "Jack-the-Giant-Killer"
are reduced and modified forms of
once greater sagas or whether they are immature stories
arrested in their growth toward sagas, the scientists are
still discussing. But happily for the narrator, as we noticed
before, the question of origin is not of prime
importance. He need consider it only so far as it
helps to reveal the distinctions of the type.
As the generic title indicates, nursery sagas are
tales told to children after lessons are done. Nobody
wants instruction; nobody wants facts. "Once upon a
time in a certain village" is definite enough. What the
listener desires is action, things a-doing, Jack to kill
the giant, Cinderella to marry the prince, Tom Thumb
to get safely home. The end is always happy, no matter
how many troubles the hero or heroine encounters
during the course of the narrative. The brothers[66]
Grimm expressed their realization that such an end is
essential to a märchen. Their devoted scientific collecting
and their charmingly sympathetic retelling have
given back not only to Germany but also to the whole
world much of its otherwise lost pleasure.
English
nursery
sagas
Good native nursery sagas are scarce in English.
Many of our best known, like Cinderella, are importations.
"Jack-the-Giant-Killer" and "Jack
and the Bean-Stalk" and "Rumpelstiltskin"—or
"Tom Tit Tot," as the older version
has it—are recorded, however, as of English origin.
They have been handed down verbally and in chapbooks
and various other written forms for hundreds
of years.
Distinguishing
elements—the
kind
of hero
The most important distinguishing element of a
nursery saga is the kind of hero. He is always human,
very often sagacious of himself as well as
finally fortunate because of the aid of some
supernatural being or charm; but before the
beginning of his adventure he is pretty generally
considered foolish or a lazy ne'er-do-well. He
is always of obscure origin, and is persistently ignored
by history. The place where he lives or where he performs
his deeds is selected at random, is of no practical
importance, and might just as well have been
any other. If the locality is definite and the details
of the story are really pertinent, we have crossed the
borderland into legend, which is very near to nursery
saga. Indeed, say the students of folk-lore, the same
story is often told in one country as a nursery saga
and in another as a dignified national epic.
Rhymes
The uncouth rhymes occurring here and there[67]
within the story are to the nursery saga what the refrain
is to the ballad—a sure sign of its type. All the
original tales I dare say had rhymes at first,
even if many are without them to-day.
The artificial nursery saga is not always marked
off closely from the fairy story. Some writers do not
appear to have felt the traditional distinctions; but,
when a differentiation is made, it is on the basis of the
chief actor. The irresistible Alice is a true nursery
saga heroine. Whether in "Wonderland" or
"Through the Looking Glass" her adventures are her
adventures, and not a fairy's. And although the dialogue
of the characters is imposed by the brilliant
naïveté of the author, it is yet clearly within our
classification—as the delectable rhymes attest.
Repetition
of situation
Another characteristic you will observe is the repetition
of situation: Cinderella goes to the ball more
than once; Jack-of-the-Bean-Stalk visits the
castle in the sky three times; the king's wife
is allowed two false guesses; and there are Cormelian's
and Thunderdell's heads to be cut off as well and
Gallingantus's.
Two of our worthy literary men, G. K. Chesterton
and Bernard Shaw, have recently bandied words over
the value and significance of such heroes as Jack.
When you come to write an original nursery saga, you
can decide for yourself whether you want your hero
to conquer a foe greater and stronger than he or
whether you want your hero to conquer a foe lesser
than he because he himself is greater and stronger
than all his foes and conquers by the magic force of
his personality. In making the decision, however, you[68]
should remember that "greater" and "lesser" are
terms subject to a number of varying interpretations.
Supernatural
element
After you have decided which kind your hero is to
be, you must set about making him human despite
the wonderful deeds you mean him to do. The more
human, the more interesting; but he must be naturally
human, not merely philosophically so. The homeliest
touches of every-day life are exactly in keeping with
your subject. No poetry here. If you have metrics
interspersed, they must be "from jigging veins or
rhyming mother wits." Nothing higher than "Fee,
fi, fo, fum," or "Ninny, ninny not," or "Be bold, be
bold, but not too bold," or "It is not so, nor 'twas not
so, but indeed God forbid it should be so." Although
your hero is to be human, he need not stand
alone; he may have supernatural aid. A fairy, a
witch, a charm, or anting-anting may help him. Success,
of course, however, must ultimately depend upon
his own bravery and wit. What makes the nursery
saga different from the fairy story is just
the element of the independence and prominence
of the human hero. If supernatural agents are
present in the nursery saga, they are only assistants:
they are not the chief actors; in fact, they are usually at
first opponents. The human person is the chief actor.
Tolstoy's Ivan the Fool surely wins by the force
of his personality alone. He is one of the pure fools
who think no evil and therefore make men good.
Although he has the power the imps have given him to
call up soldiers, rub gold out of oak leaves, and to
cure the sick, he uses this power only for fool-wise
ends: he heals beggars, gives away the gold, and[69]
makes the soldiers sing. Despite its didactic purpose,
this is a typical märchen in having the human fool
hero in repeated situations, chanting crude rhymes,
and being assisted finally by the supernatural agents
that first opposed him.
A few
specific
suggestions
When you come to the writing, remember that your
story is for a child, grown-up or not grown-up, and
that you must therefore make the language
simple and vivid. Use a good many crude
similes and metaphores. Be concrete in comparisons
about size, shape, color, garb, and the like.
Though you select your hero with care, you need make
no fine distinctions of character, since broad strokes
will be most effective. Endow your personages, both
the hero and his enemy, with a few mannerisms and
let them display these often. Get quickly into the
action of the story and keep things lively to the end.
Working
definition
Here is the working definition: A nursery saga
is a narrative of imaginary events wherein is celebrated
a hero of a more-or-less humble
origin, a child's hero, who, by his own wit
and energy, together with the possession of a charm,
is enabled to do stupendous deeds, which bring to him
material happiness.
Princess Helena the Fair
We say that we are wise folks, but our people dispute
the fact, saying, "No, no, we were wiser than you
are." But shaskas tell us that before our grandfathers
had learned anything, before their grandfathers were
born——
There lived in a certain land an old man of this[70]
kind who instructed his three sons in reading and writing
and all book learning. Then he said to them, "Now,
my children, when I die, mind you, come and read
prayers over my grave."
"Very good, father, very good," they replied.
The two elder brothers were such fine strapping
fellows, so tall and stout! But as for the youngest
one, Ivan, he was like a half-grown lad or a half-fledged
duckling, terribly inferior to the others. Well,
their old father died. At that very time there came
tidings from the king that his daughter, the Princess
Helena the Fair, had ordered a shrine to be built for
her with twelve columns, with twelve rows of beams.
In that shrine she was sitting upon a high throne and
awaiting her bridegroom, the bold young youth who
with a single bound of his swift steed should reach high
enough to kiss her on the lips. A stir ran through the
whole youth of the nation. They took to licking their
lips and scratching their heads, and wondering to whose
share so great an honor would fall.
"Brothers," said: Vanyusha (Ivan), "our father is
dead; which of us is to read prayers over his grave?"
"Whoever feels inclined, let him go!" answered the
brothers.
So Vanya went. But as for his elder brothers they
did nothing but exercise their horses and curl their
hair and dye their mustaches.
The second night came.
"Brothers," said Vanya, "I've done my share of
reading. It is your turn now; which of you will go?"
"Whoever likes can go and read. We've business
to look after; don't you meddle."
[71]
And they cocked their caps and shouted and whooped
and flew this way and shot that way and roved about
the open country.
So Vanyusha read prayers this time also—and on
the third night, too.
Well, his brothers got ready their horses, combed
out their mustaches and prepared to go next morning
to test their mettle before the eyes of Helena the Fair.
"Shall we take the youngster?" they thought. "No,
no. What would be the good of him? He'd make
folks laugh and put us to confusion; let's go by ourselves."
So away they went. But Vanyusha wanted very
much to have a look at the Princess Helena the Fair.
He cried, cried bitterly, and went out to his father's
grave. And his father heard him in his coffin, and
came out to him, shook the damp earth off his body,
and said, "Don't grieve, Vanya. I'll help you in your
trouble."
And immediately the old man drew himself up and
straightened himself and called aloud and whistled with
a ringing voice, with a shrill whistle.
From goodness knows where appeared a horse, the
earth quaking beneath it, a flame rushing from its ears
and nostrils. To and fro it flew, and then stood still
before the old man, as if rooted in the ground, and
cried, "What are thy commands?"
Vanya crept into one of the horse's ears and out of
the other, and turned into such a hero as no skazka can
tell of, no pen describe! He mounted the horse, set
his arms akimbo, and flew, just like a falcon, straight
to the home of the Princess Helena. With a wave of[72]
his hand, with a bound aloft, he failed only by the
breadth of two rows of beams. Back again he turned,
galloped up, leapt aloft, and got within one beam row's
breadth. Once more he turned, once more he wheeled,
then shot past the eye like a streak of fire, took an
accurate aim, and kissed the fair Helena right on the
lips!
"Who is he? Who is he? Stop him!" was the cry.
Not a trace of him was to be found!
Away he galloped to his father's grave, let the horse
go free, prostrated himself on the earth, and besought
his father's counsel. And the old man held counsel
with him.
When he got home, he behaved as if he hadn't been
anywhere. His brothers talked away, describing where
they had been, what they had seen, and he listened to
them as of old.
The next day there was a gathering again. In the
princely halls there were more boyars and nobles than
a single glance could take in. The elder brothers rode
there. Their younger brother went there, too, but on
foot, meekly and modestly, just as if he hadn't kissed
the Princess, and seated himself in a distant corner.
The Princess Helena asked for her bridegroom, wanted
to show him to the world at large, wanted to give him
half her kingdom; but the bridegroom did not put in
an appearance! Search was made for him among the
boyars, among the generals; everyone was examined
in his turn—but with no result! Meanwhile, Vanya
looked on, smiling and chuckling, and waiting till the
bride should come to him herself.
"I pleased her then," says he, "when I appeared as[73]
a gay gallant; now let her fall in love with me in my
plain caftan."
Then up she rose, looked around with bright eyes
that shed a radiance on all who stood there, and saw
and knew her bridegroom, and made him take his seat
by her side, and speedily was wedded to him. And he—good
heavens! How clever he turned out, and how
brave, and what a handsome fellow! Only see him
mount his flying steed, give his cap a cock, and stick
his elbows akimbo! Why, you'd say he was a king,
a born king! You'd never suspect he was once only
Vanyusha.
From "Russian Fairy and Folk Tales." Translated and
edited by W. R. S. Ralston (Hurst and Company).
Juan the Guesser
Once there lived a youth by the name of Juan. He
was the only son of a family and so he was dearly loved.
One day his father said to him, "Juan, you are quite
old now so you have to study." "Yes, father," said
Juan obediently. Juan was then sent to a large town
to school. But he did not study; he spent all his time
going to places of amusement. When vacation was coming
near, Juan bought a reader so that he could give
proof that he studied. His father was very anxious
to see him and so prepared a large fiesta in honor of
his arrival. When Juan arrived, he would not speak his
dialect, and if he was asked something he just answered
"Si, señor." Everybody then was astonished; for all
thought that he had learned so much that he had forgotten
his own dialect.
One day Juan threw his father's plow into a well[74]
because he wanted to show the people that he knew how
to divine. The father came to him then and said, "Dear
Juan, will you tell me where I can find the plow which
I lost yesterday?" "Ah, father!" said Juan, "there
is no difficulty in finding it; fetch my book and I will
look it up." The father obeyed instantly and Juan
looked in his book and said:
"A B C, A B C,
Oh, my father's plow is lost!
A B C, A B C,
It has the well for a host."
"Well, my book tells me that it is in the bottom
of the well." The father ordered the servants to look
in the well, and sure enough they found the plow in it.
The father was very proud of his son now, for he had
had a real proof of his ability. So Juan was called
prophet and his name was heard everywhere.
Once the princess of his country lost a very valuable
ring, and the king offered to marry her to the one who
could find the ring. But he ordered that anyone who
might attempt and not guess rightly should be beheaded.
Many of the wise men in the kingdom attempted to
guess, but nobody was right and so they had to be killed.
The rumors of Juan's knowledge reached the king's
ears, so he sent a carriage to his home in order to
bring him to the palace. Juan did not want to go because
he knew that he would surely be killed. He could
not disobey the king, however, and so he got into the
carriage. As soon as he entered the carriage he became
very sad and thoughtful and repented of having tricked[75]
his father. When they were quite near the town of
the king, Juan opened his book and groaned sadly:
"Someone is to die,
Not far from here, oh, my!"
Instantly the carriage stopped and the driver presented
himself before Juan and said, "Oh, sir! I beg
you to pardon me; I am the one who stole the princess's
ring. She was washing her hands in a dish one day
and took the ring off her hand, and then threw the
water away. While I was cleaning the garden I saw
it and picked it up. Kindly forgive me, here is the
ring!" Juan did not take the ring, but said, "I forgive
you now; I thought you would not tell me anything
about it, and I was going to tell the king to have you
killed, for I knew, that you were the one who stole it;
my book said so. As soon as we arrive at the palace,
place the ring under the stairs and cover it with a
cocoanut shell." The driver was very happy and promised
to do everything he was commanded.
Juan was received with honors in the palace and
when he was asked about the ring, he told everything
about the theft of it from the information he had got
from the driver and said, "My book tells me all of this
and says that now it is under a cocoanut shell under
the stairs." Everybody went down to look for it and
they found it. Once more now Juan's knowledge was
talked of everywhere. According to the king's promise,
he was married to the princess. The marriage ceremony
was celebrated with much pomp and splendor, and many
kings from different countries came to attend it.
[76]
Once a neighbor king came to Juan's country. When
he went to the palace and met the other king, he said,
"If your son-in-law is really a prophet, I propose to you
a wager. I have three watermelons in my ship; one of
them has one seed, the other has two, and the other has
three. Should your son-in-law guess which has one,
which has two, and which has three seeds, I will give
you half of my kingdom. But if he fails, you will have
to give me half of yours." The king was well pleased
to hear the proposal, and being confident of Juan's
knowledge, he accepted it. Fortunately, while the two
kings were conversing, the vassals of the foreign king
stood near the door of Juan's room and talked about
the watermelons. One of them said, "If I were the
one to guess I would say that the smallest has three seeds,
the largest has two, and the middle-sized has one, then
I should be very rich and would be as powerful a king
as our master." Juan, after hearing all that the
men had said, went to his bed and pretended to be
asleep. When the foreign king had gone away, his father-in-law
went to awake him in his room, and told
him everything about the challenge. Juan said that he
was afraid of no defiance so long as he had his book.
The next morning, when the king and he went to the
boat, Juan told exactly the number of seeds in each watermelon,
according to what he had heard, after reading,
or rather feigning to read, some characters in his book.
The fruits were cut open then and it was found out
that Juan was right. The king, his father-in-law, was
very happy and liked Juan very much, for he said that
Juan was, without any doubt, the wisest man the world
ever knew.
[77]
Not long after this another king came on a large
ship loaded with money. He came to propose another
challenge. He said that he had three earthen jars, filled
with salt, water, and vinegar. And if Juan should guess
what each contained, the load of this ship would be his
father-in-law's; but if he should fail, the king had to
give him in turn another ship full of money also. The
king accepted the proposal immediately; but Juan was
very sad because he knew that the king would order
him to be beheaded if he should not guess rightly. So
he decided to commit suicide before the day when he
should appear before the contending monarchs. During
the night he went down silently and threw himself in
the river behind the palace, in which the foreign ship
was anchored. He tried to drown himself, but he could
not, for he knew how to swim. He heard then some
men talking in the ship, and one of them said, "If
that guesser could just know that the jar with white
marking on the neck contains salt, and the one which
has the largest lid holds vinegar, he would be the richest
man on earth." Juan swam quietly back after
hearing this and slept. The next morning Juan and
the king went to the ship, and Juan, after turning
back and forth the leaves of his reader, told rightly the
contents of every jar. The king was very happy and
held a large festival in honor of the wise Juan the
Prophet.
Juan was afraid to hazard his life any more, so he
burned his magic volume. From that time on he never
guessed any more, because he said that his book was
gone and so his knowledge, too.
—Bienvenido Gonzales.
[78]
The Shepherd Who Became King
Many years before the birth of Christ, when the
victorious legions of Rome were gradually conquering
the then known world, there lived in a foreign country
a cruel and despotic king. He had a daughter in the
very bloom and freshness of youth. She was so beautiful
that many a young man of the country asked her
father to allow him to be his son-in-law. The suitors
were so many that the king determined to marry his
daughter to somebody. But he could not find the right
man. He sent proclamations to the different provinces
of his kingdom, telling the people that he intended to
marry his daughter to the man who could accomplish
three things which the king would require the competitor
to do; but if the competitor should fail to do the
three things within the required time, his head should
be cut off. Many young men attempted, but they were
all killed.
Near the king's palace there was living at that time
a shepherd. This man had, since his boyhood, devoted
his life to the interests of his fellow countrymen. Everybody
loved him.
One day while he was tending his sheep out in the
fields, an old woman saw him and said, "Receive this
pipe as a present from me. Whenever you want anything
from any animal, blow this pipe and the desired
animal will come to you. Keep this carefully for it
will be of great service to you." The shepherd thanked
her and went away. He wanted to know whether the
woman was telling the truth or not. So he blew the
pipe and said, "Come here, all the serpents." He
no sooner said these words than hundreds of serpents[79]
came to him hissing and twisting. Then he dismissed
them.
He decided to compete for the hand of the princess.
So he went to the palace in the evening and expressed
his desire. "Ha! ha!" said the king, "do you want
to have your head cut off, young man?" "We will see
the result," said the shepherd proudly. "All right,"
said the king; "the first thing you must do is to eat
in one day all of the bread there is to be found in my
granary. You must either eat the bread or lose your
head."
"I will go to the granary now and begin eating,"
said the shepherd.
"Well, go!" said the king, and he told a soldier to
conduct the shepherd to the granary. The shepherd
was locked up in the granary with nobody but himself
and the bread. He took out the pipe which he had concealed
under his coat. He blew the instrument and said,
"Come here, all of the rats." He had just finished his
command when thousands of rats came to him. He told
them to eat all of the bread. The rats were so numerous
that all of the bread was eaten before daybreak. Not a
single crumb was left. Many rats arrived too late to get
their share.
When the king and his court went to the granary
in the morning, they were surprised to see that the
building which was full of bread the day before was now
totally empty. "All right," said the king, "you have
to do the second thing. You must separate in one day
the grains of corn from the grains of rice. Go to my
granary, where you will find the corn and the rice. Remember
the punishment."
[80]
"All right," said the shepherd; "I'll go to the
granary this evening and begin my work."
So he went to the building where the corn and the
rice were and there he was locked up again. He then
blew his pipe and said, "Come here, all of the ants."
Just then millions of ants arrived. He told the big ants
to pick up all of the grains of corn and place them on
one side of the granary. To the small ants he assigned
the work of selecting the grains of rice and placing them
on the other side of the building. The ants were so numerous
that the entire work was finished before morning.
The king and his court were surprised to see that
the shepherd had done his work. "Very well," said
the king, "you have to accomplish the third and last
thing and then you may marry my daughter."
"I'll do the work this afternoon," said the shepherd.
"Good!" said the king. "Come here this afternoon at
two o'clock. I'll give you twelve wild hares. Tomorrow
afternoon at two o'clock you must return them to me
without a change in any of them. The number must be
exact."
At two o'clock in the afternoon the shepherd went
to the palace. The king gave him the twelve hares.
They were no sooner in the hands of the shepherd than
they ran away. The king and his court laughed loudly
and said, "He will not catch them. He is sure to fail
in his work."
"We will see," said the shepherd proudly. He then
went to his cottage. He blew his pipe and said, "Come
all of the twelve hares of the king." He had no sooner
said these words than the twelve hares came to him and
began to jump about him.
[81]
An hour later the king sent one of his servants to
see whether the shepherd was out looking for the hares
or not. When the servant reached the shepherd's cottage,
he was surprised to see the hares sleeping quietly
by the side of the shepherd. The servant went back to
the king and related to him all that he saw. The king
grew pale and did not know what to do. He told the
princess to go to the shepherd and try to get one of the
hares. So the princess disguised herself as a country
girl and went to the shepherd's cottage. The shepherd
recognized her immediately. Her solicitations were all
in vain. At last the shepherd said, "I'll give you one
of the hares if you scrub my kitchen for me." To prevent
herself from being married to the shepherd she
said "Yes." So the shepherd told her to do her work.
When she had finished her work, the shepherd gave her
one of the hares. When she was a hundred yards from
the shepherd's cottage, the shepherd blew his pipe and
said, "Come here, the hare with the princess." He
had just finished speaking when the hare ran away from
the princess to the side of the cottage.
The princess was crying when she reached the palace
and told the king how she had been fooled. The
king determined to get one of the hares by means of
money. So he disguised himself as a merchant, mounted
a horse with two panniers slung on the sides, and went to
the shepherd's cottage. But the shepherd recognized
him at once. His solicitations also were in vain. Even
the bag of gold was useless. The shepherd would not
allow himself to be fooled. At last he said, "I'll give
you one of the hares if you wash my feet." To prevent
the marriage of the princess with the shepherd, the king
[82]
agreed. So he dismounted and washed the shepherd's
dusty feet. Then the shepherd gave him one of the
hares. The King put the animal in one pannier and
went away. But his undertaking was unsuccessful. The
note of the pipe and the cry of the shepherd excited the
hare, who jumped out of the pannier and ran away.
The king went to the palace with a sad face. He
told his courtiers how unsuccessful he had been, and
went to his private room. The next day at two o'clock
in the afternoon the shepherd returned the twelve hares.
Not a single hare was changed.
But the king still refused to fulfill his promise. He
told the shepherd to fill a bag with all the bad words
he knew. The shepherd uttered every kind of bad
words; but the bag was still empty. But one thing
came to his mind. He said loudly, "The princess
scrubbed my kitchen yesterday afternoon." The princess
jumped from her seat and said, "The bag is full."
"No," said the king. "Continue." "The king,"
said the shepherd, "wa—wa—wash——" The king
jumped from his throne and said, "That's enough," and
tied the bag. The marriage was then arranged and the
next day the shepherd and the princess were married.
From this time on the shepherd and princess lived
happily for many years. He succeeded his father-in-law
as king.
—Vincente M. Hilario.
[83]
CHAPTER II
THE SYMBOLIC-DIDACTIC GROUP
We now turn to a set of stories with a new basis,
the symbolic-didactic narratives: fables, parables, and
allegories. By the word "symbolic" we shall understand
that the stories mean something more than appears
on the surface. By "didactic," the fact that the
narratives are told for the purpose of teaching a lesson.
The hearer no more believes in the mere literal
occurrence than does the narrator himself. The meaning
is the concern of both. For the time being, the
story-teller has set himself up as a preacher, or the
preacher as a story-teller. His object is to make vivid
and dramatic a lesson in manners, morals, religion,
politics, or art.
I. The Fable
Æsop
The fable is a very old type of narrative, so old
that critics are not sure of the place of its origin. Some
think that it rose at the court of Crœsus
with Æsop and spread eastward and westward.
Others maintain that it came from India to the
court of the Lydian king, and was adopted by Æsop, the
king's state orator, as a most convenient device for impressing
political lessons on a restless people in a scattered
empire. Others say that there never was a man
Æsop at all. But legend goes into detail to the effect that[84]
this ancient politician was once a slave and that he
rose from his servile condition to be the counsellor of
kings by the sheer force of his brains and an appreciation
of practical problems (much as our self-made men
of today have risen). Once even, when sent as a royal
messenger to a rebellious and distant part of the empire,
he quelled a mob and saved his own life by his
ready wit in telling a story and applying the moral.
He wrote nothing himself, legend goes on to admit,
but he scattered his practical narratives far and wide,
and they were finally collected as a distinct species of
literature.
Other early
fabulists
Whatever the truth of the legend may be, it is certain
that there were in the Greek language early collections
of fables called "Æsop." More
than three hundred years before Christ,
Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle translated
stories from "Æsop." Plutarch and Lucian, in the
second century after Christ, remade them. In the
thirteenth century Marie de France versified a hundred
of them, using an old English source which we
cannot now find. She called her collection Ysopet, or
"Little Æsop." Finally in 1447, Planudes, a monk of
Constantinople, put forth in prose a collection of about
three hundred stories, which bears the name of
"Æsop."
Hitopadesa
and Panchatantra
The East never stopped to cavil about the source of
fables. It has always loved the type. The Hindoos
have two very ancient Sanscrit collections
of fable-like discourses—the "Panchatantra"
(Five Books), written in prose, and
the "Hitopadesa" (Friendly Instruction), in verse.[85]
These differ from ordinary sets of fables in having the
principle of connection throughout and in being, instead
of mere brief tales, rather romantic and dramatic
dialogues and expositions designed as text-books for
the instruction of princes and those called to govern.
Many selections, however, have been taken out, translated,
modified, and used either as whole stories or as
elements of larger ones.
Reynard
the Fox and
beastiaries
The very widely read and extensively translated
eleventh century "Reynard the Fox" is a beast-epic,
and not a fable in the technical sense of the
term. As likewise the bestiaries are not
fables. Those quaint medieval collections of
false lore, modeled probably on some earlier Greek
or Latin physiologus, were meant as doctrinal expository
allegories rather than zoological treatises or
than narratives which would fall within our present
classification. Yet they are allied to this group in that
they are symbolic and didactic and permit unnatural
natural history.
Some more
writers of
fables
There have always been men who wrote of their
own times original satires in the form of fables, exposing
vice and folly. Phædrus, a freedman of
Augustus, wrote five such books in the reign
of Tiberius. Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and
Poggio knew and used the type. The greatest name in
modern literature in connection with the fable is that
of the Frenchman Jean de la Fontaine, who lived at
the court of Louis Fourteenth. He expressed in exquisite
verse-narrative very high social maxims. Many
of our finest well-known fables are paraphrases of his
lines. His own favorite was the "Oak and the Reed."[86]
He is supposed to have drawn his inspirations from
Phædrus. Our own English writers, Gay and Pope,
Addison and Prior, Steele and Dodsley, Moore, Goldsmith,
Cowper, and others, wrote fables both in prose
and verse. Indeed, worthy old Henryson, of "Robin
and Makyne" fame, wrote in the fifteenth century a
book of "Morall Fables of Esope the Phrygian" in
Chaucerian stanzas. One of these poems he calls the
"Uplondish Mous and the Berger Mous." Kriloff, the
Russian fabulist, who died in the middle of the nineteenth
century, disputes the highest place with La
Fontaine in the minds of many critics, especially for
his originality. A twentieth century humorous set of
rational apologues is George Ade's "Fables in Slang."
The popular "Uncle Remus" stories are negro
animal-myths rather than fables. Though Kipling's
first "Jungle Book" narratives are in effect sui generis,
they belong with fable typically if anywhere, as the
unnatural very natural beast philosophy evinces.
"His Majesty's Servant," the last of the volume, is
easily classified. Some of the later tales are animal-myths,
however—to wit, "How Fear Came" and
"How the Camel Got His Hump;" and some, like "The
Miracle of Purun Bhagat," are legends; but the talk
and actions of the animals in all are fable-wise. The
French, it seems, have lately pushed the type the
farthest, though in a logical direction. They have retained
the animal talk and the satire, but have cast
away the narrative. Under the patronage of Rostand,
Sir Chanticler has come before the footlights. This play
happens to be an anomalous union of the two old distinct
meanings of the word "fable"—one, the undelying[87]
story of a drama; the other, a symbolic, usually
satiric, didactic tale.
Working
definition
In the narrative sense of the term, a fable is a very
brief invented, double-meaning story in which a lesson
of every day practical morality is taught.
The kind of lesson is one of the points that
distinguish fable from parable and allegory. The
fable never aims higher than inculcating maxims of
prudential conduct—industry, caution, foresight, and
the like—and these it will sometimes recommend at the
expense of the higher, self-forgetting virtues. A typical
fable reaches just the pitch of morality which the
world will approve. In spirit the fable is often humorous,
often ironical. In diction it is always simple,
forceful, and appropriate.
Three classes of fables have been noticed: (1) the
rational—in which the actors and speakers are solely
human beings or the gods of mythology, (2) the non-rational—in
which the heroes are solely animals, trees,
vegetables, or inanimate objects, (3) the mixed—in
which the rational and non-rational are combined.
Classes of
fables
Now what distinguishes all these from myth and
legend is the presence of the evident and acknowledged
didactic purpose. What distinguishes
the first class, the rational fable, from a
parable is the low plane of the motive. Above the
utilitarian the fable never rises. If the fable teaches
honesty, it teaches it merely as the best policy. What
distinguishes the non-rational and the mixed fables
from allegory is both the limitation of the moral and
the kind of hero. The lesson of the fable is always
piquant, single, and clear. The actors in a fable are[88]
always things concrete in nature as well as in the
story.
The most popular, and hence the most typical of
the three classes of fables, is the second, often called
also the "beast fable." The beast fable departs somewhat
from the laws of nature. In the dialogue, animals
and inanimate objects act like human beings. A fox
and a bear, for instance, will philosophize on politics.
A lion and a mouse will exchange courtesies. But it
is a remarkable feature of this type of story that we
do not resent the incongruity. And that we do not
resent it is because there is a truthfulness that is more
interesting to us than is the natural order of the universe—namely,
the truthfulness of characterization.
Here the verisimilitude must be complete. Although
acting the part of rational beings, the animals must be
true to our accepted notion of their animal nature—a
fox must be foxy; a bear, bearish; a lion, haughty; a
mouse, timid; a cat, deceptive; a monkey, mischievous;
a canary, dependent; an eagle, lofty; and so on, and so
on. It is not necessary that they have no other characteristics,
but it is necessary that they possess the
commonly ascribed ones.
How to
write an
original
fable
To write what is strictly a fable, a person will need
to observe the distinctions of the type in general as
cut off from parable on the one hand and
allegory on the other, and to observe the distinctions
of the subdivisions within the type.
Then he must decide, of course, which subdivision
he is going to follow, must select his moral,
pick out his actors, think over their characteristics,
and finally narrate a brief occurrence in a vivid, homely[89]
style. The dialogue, while correct, should be very
colloquial. It is well for one to pay especial attention
to author's narrative, likewise, that it may be informing
though limited. After all is told, the writer may
or may not affix a maxim at the end, definitely and
neatly stated. In either case, however, the lesson
taught should be unmistakable. Original and spirited
fables could be written in the field of civic morals,
about which the world has just begun to think seriously.
Despite the good work that is being done in
the name of charity, there is room surely for pleasant
satire when a Happy Childhood Society gives elaborately
dressed dolls to naked babies.
If one chooses to write a rational fable, where the
actors are human beings, one must be careful not to
write a parable. The lesson of a fable is always
unsentimentally practical—not spiritual. Where the
actors are gods, or gods and men, the student-writer
must distinguish fable from myth. He should not aim
at explaining a universal phenomenon, but simply at
teaching a single, acute, work-a-day lesson.
Armenian proverbs that might be used for fable maxims
1. When a man sees that the water does not follow
him, he follows the water.
2. Strong vinegar bursts the cask.
3. Dogs quarrel among themselves, but against
the wolf they are united.
4. Only a bearded man can laugh at a beardless
face.
5. Make friends with a dog, but keep a stick in
your hand.
[90]
6. One should not feel hurt at the kick of an ass.
7. Running is also an art.
8. He who speaks the truth must have one foot
in the stirrup.
9. Before Susan had done prinking, church was
over.
10. When you are going in, first consider how you
are coming out.
11. The ass knows seven ways of swimming, but
when he sees the water he forgets them all.
12. A shrewd enemy is better than a stupid friend.
13. Because the cat could get no meat he said,
"Today is Friday."
14. A goat prefers one goat to a whole herd of
sheep.
15. A near neighbor is better than a distant kinsman.
16. When I have honey, the flies come even from
Bagdad.
RATIONAL, WITH THE ACTORS GODS AND MEN
Jupiter and the Countryman
Jupiter, to reward the piety of a certain countryman,
promised to give him whatever he would ask. The countryman
desired that he might have the management of
the weather in his own estate. He obtained his request,
and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine
among his several fields as he thought the nature of the
soil required. At the end of the year when he expected
to see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest fell infinitely
short of that of his neighbors. Thereupon he[91]
desired Jupiter to take the weather again into his own
hands, for the countryman knew that otherwise he should
utterly ruin himself.
—Spectator No. 25.
NON-RATIONAL—INANIMATE OBJECT
The Drop of Water
A drop of water fell out of a cloud into the sea, and
finding itself lost amid such a countless number of its
companions, broke out in complaint of its lot. "Alas!
what an insignificant creature am I in this vast ocean
of waters! My existence is of no concern to the universe;
I am reduced to a kind of nothing, and I am less
than the least works of God." It so happened that an
oyster, which lay in the neighborhood of this drop,
chanced to gape and swallow it up in the midst of its
humble soliloquy. The drop lay a great while hardening
in the shell till by degrees it was ripened into a
pearl. The pearl fell into the hands of a diver, after a
long series of adventures, and is at present the famous
ornament fixed on the top of the Persian diadem.
—Persian fable. Adapted in the Spectator No. 293.
POLITICAL SATIRE
The Grandee at the Judgment-Seat
Once in the days of old a certain Grandee passed
from his richly dight bed into the realm which Pluto
sways. To speak more simply, he died. And so, as was
anciently the custom, he appeared before the justice seat
of Hades. Straightway he was asked, "Where were you
born? What have you been?"
[92]
"I was born in Persia, and my rank was that of a
Satrap. But, as my health was feeble during my lifetime,
I never exercised any personal control in my province,
but left everything to be done by my secretary."
"But you—what did you do?"
"I ate, drank, and slept; and I signed everything
he set before me."
"In with him then at once to Paradise."
"How now, where is the justice of this?" thereupon
exclaimed Mercury, forgetting all politeness.
"Ah, brother," answered Eacus, "you know nothing
about it. But don't you see this? The dead man
was a fool. What would have happened if he, who had
such power in his hands, had unfortunately interfered
in business? Why, he would have ruined the whole
province. The tears which would have flowed then
would have been beyond all calculation. Therefore, it is
that he has gone into Paradise, because he did not interfere
with business."
I was in court yesterday, and I saw a judge there.
There can be no doubt that he will go into Paradise.
—Kriloff.
BEAST FABLES
The Lion and the Old Hare
On the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named
Fierce-of-Heart, and he was perpetually making massacre
of all the wild animals. The thing grew so bad that
the beasts held a public meeting, and drew up a respectful
remonstrance to the Lion in these words:
"Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage[93]
of us all? If it may please you, we ourselves will daily
furnish a beast for your Majesty's meal." Thereupon
the Lion responded, "If that arrangement is more agreeable
to you, be it so;" and from that time a beast was
allotted to him daily, and daily devoured. One day
it came to the turn of an old hare to supply the royal
table, who reflected to himself as he walked along, "I
can but die, and will go to my death leisurely."
Now Fierce-of-Heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger,
and seeing the Hare so approaching, he roared out,
"How darest thou thus delay in coming?"
"Sire," replied the Hare, "I am not to blame. I
was detained on the road by another lion, who exacted
an oath from me to return when I should have informed
your Majesty."
"Go," exclaimed King Fierce-of-Heart in a rage;
"show me instantly where this insolent villain of a lion
lives."
The Hare led the way accordingly until he came
to a deep well, whereat he stopped, and said, "Let my
lord the King come hither and behold him." The Lion
approached, and beheld his own reflection in the water
of the well, upon which, in his passion, he directly flung
himself, and so perished.
—Hitopadesa. Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.
The Fox and the Crab
The Fox and the Crab lived together like brothers;
together they sowed their land, reaped the harvest,
thrashed the grain and garnered it.
The Fox said one day: "Let us go to the hill-top, and[94]
whoever reaches it first shall carry off the grain for his
own."
While they were (starting) to mount the steep, the
Crab said:
"Do me a favor; before we set off running, touch me
with your tail, so that I shall know it and be able to
follow you."
The Crab opened his claws, and when the Fox touched
him with his tail, he leaped forward and seized it, so that
when the Fox reached the goal and turned around to
see where the Crab was, the Crab fell upon the heap of
grain and said: "These three bushels and a half are all
mine." The Fox was thunderstruck and exclaimed:
"How did you get here, you rascal?"
This fable shows that deceitful men devise many
methods and actions for getting things their own way,
but that they are often defeated by the feeble.
—Turkish Fable. Translated by Epiphanius Wilson.
RATIONAL, WITH THE ACTORS MEN
The Fool Who Sells Wisdom
A certain fool kept constantly passing through the
streets of a town.
"Who will buy wisdom?" he cried in a loud voice.
A citizen met him on his way, accosted him, and presented
him with some small pieces of money.
"Sell me a little wisdom," he said.
"Here it is," replied the other, cuffing him heartily,
and immediately putting into his hands a long thread.
"If you wish in the future to be wise and prudent,"
said the hawker to him, "always keep as far away from
fools as the length of this thread."
[95]
Moral: We should avoid all connection and communication
with fools and cranks.
—Ibid.
ALMOST A PARABLE
The Archer and the Trumpeter
The Archer and the Trumpeter were travelling together
in a lonely place. The Archer boasted of his
skill as a warrior, and asked the Trumpeter if he bore
arms.
"No," replied the Trumpeter, "I cannot fight. I can
only blow my horn, and make music for those who are at
war."
"But I can hit a mark at a hundred paces," said
the Archer. As he spoke, an eagle appeared, hovering
over the tree tops. He drew out an arrow, fitted it on
the string, shot at the bird, which straightway fell to
the ground, transfixed to the heart.
"I am not afraid of any foe; for that bird might
just as well have been a man," said the Archer proudly.
"But you would be quite helpless if anyone attacked
you."
They saw at the moment a band of robbers, approaching
them with drawn swords. The Archer immediately
discharged a sharp arrow which laid low the foremost
of the wicked men. But the rest soon overpowered him
and bound his hands.
"As for this trumpeter, he can do us no harm, for
he has neither sword nor bow," they said, and did not
bind him, but took away his purse and wallet.
Then the Trumpeter said: "You are welcome,
friends, but let me play you a tune on my horn."
[96]
With their consent he blew loud and long on his
trumpet, and in a short space of time the guards of the
King came running up at the sound, and surrounded the
robbers and carried them off to prison.
When they unbound the hands of the Archer, he said
to the Trumpeter: "Friend, I have learned to-day that
a trumpet is better than a bow; for you have saved our
lives without doing harm to anyone."
This fable shows that one man ought not to despise
the trade of another. It also shows that it is better to
be able to gain the help of others than to trust to our
own strength.
—Ibid.
The Courtship of Sir Butterfly
It was a beautiful May morning. The air was soft
and balmy, still retaining the freshness of the evening.
Sir Butterfly woke up very early to go to the garden
and pay a visit to the beautiful flowers that grew there.
The garden looked inviting. For there was already Miss
Sampaguita, fresh as the morning with little drops of
dew on her cheeks; there was the tall and graceful Miss
Champaka; there was Miss Ilang-ilang, giving perfume
to the balmy air that kissed her; there was Miss Sunflower
with her face toward the Eastern Gate—all of
them were expecting early and courteous visitors.
However, Sir Butterfly was a shrewd critic, and
could find faults in each one of these beauties. But
when he came before Miss Rose, he found himself at a
loss what to say. In fact, he was fascinated by her
beauty, and soon began to flutter about her. After a
while he addressed her in this way:
[97]
"Fair Rose, thou art the queen of flowers;
This throne I give alone to thee;
And this I'll say at all hours,
The sweetest nectar thine must be.
"Thy garment of the purest green
Befits right well thy being a queen;
And this I have to say to thee,
The sweetest nectar thine must be.
"Thy cheeks are rosy, lips are red
With tints of freshness never dead;
Come, give me a kiss, sweet Rose,
Of thine own nectar sweet, a dose."
Here Miss Rose interrupted him. "Nay, nay, please
do not flatter me," she said in a tone of affected coquetry.
But Sir Butterfly continued his recitation:
"Thy graceful form invites me
A dear embrace to give thee."
Saying this, he drew near her and passed his arms
around her body. But what an embrace! The thorns
held him fast; he was now a wounded prisoner. In a
tone of anger and despair he cried: "Let me free, you
ugly, ugly Miss Rose!"
Moral: The seemingly desirable is not always desirable,
or circumstances alter estimates.
—Máximo M. Kalaw.
[98]
The Hat and the Shoes
Once a man owned two faithful servants, a hat and
a pair of shoes. The shoes had always been jealous of
the hat: in the first place, because the master carried
the hat instead of the hat's carrying him; secondly, because
the hat was given a great deal of care and had a
regular place where it was put; while the shoes, who carried
both the master and the hat, were just thrown anywhere
after their service.
Of course the shoes did not feel satisfied with such
partial treatment, and had long wished to have a short
talk with the hat to discuss this matter of importance;
but they had always been put far apart.
One day, while their master was asleep and while
they were having a rest, a child got hold of the hat and
the shoes as playthings. The shoes were then glad of
this; for they could have a hearty chat. Soon afterwards,
the child grew tired of playing and feel asleep.
They then discussed their respective positions.
"Why is it, my friend," asked the shoes, who began
the discussion, "that you are always carried by our
master and taken good care of?"
"Don't be envious of my position, my friend shoes.
Our master takes such good care of me because I protect
the most important part of his body, while you, you just
serve his feet," replied the hat.
"You are mistaken. Yes, you are entirely mistaken.
I serve not only his feet, but his legs, body, and hands,
and head too, and what is more, I, a servant, also
serve you who are like myself," argued the shoes. The
hat was ashamed because of what the shoes had expounded
and was unable to continue the discussion.
[99]
Moral: When you occupy a position of dignity,
don't think that those below you are your servants and
their work is of little value; for generally those men are
the ones who support you, and their services may be of
more importance than yours.
—José R. Perez.
The Crocodile and the Peahen
Once there lived a young crocodile on the bank of the
Pasig River. He was so fierce and so greedy that no
animals dared to approach him. One day while he was
resting on a rock, he thought of getting married. He
said aloud, "I will give all that I have for a wife." As
he pronounced these words, a coquettish peahen passed
near him. The naughty crocodile expressed his wish
again. The coquette listened carefully, and began to
examine the crocodile's looks.
She said to herself, "I will marry this crocodile. He
is very rich. Oh, my! If I could only have all those
pearls and diamonds, I should be the happiest wife in
the world." She made up her mind to marry the crocodile.
She then alighted on the rock where the crocodile
was, who made his offer again with extreme politeness,
as a hypocrite always does. She thought that the big
eyes of the crocodile were two beautiful diamonds and
that the rough skin was made of pearls, so she accepted
the proposal. The crocodile asked the peahen to sit on
his mouth, that she might not spoil her beautiful feathers
with mud. The foolish bird did as she was told.
What do you think happened! He made a good dinner
of his new wife.
Moral: Be attracted by quality rather than wealth.
—Elisa R. Esquerra.
[100]
The Old Man, His Son, and His Grandson
In olden times, when men lived to be two or three
hundred years old, there dwelt a very poor family near a
big forest. The household had but three members—a
grandfather, a father, and a son. The grandfather was
an old man of one hundred and twenty-five years. He
was so old that the help of his housemates was needed
to feed him. Many a time, and especially after meals,
he related to his son and to his grandson his brave
deeds while serving in the king's army, the responsible
positions he filled after leaving a soldier's life; and he
told entertaining stories of hundreds of years gone by.
The father was not satisfied with the arrangement, however,
and planned to get rid of the old man.
One day he said to his son, "At present, I am receiving
a peso daily, but half of it is spent to feed your
worthless grandfather. We do not get any real benefit
from him. To-morrow let us bind him and take him to
the woods, and leave him there to die."
"Yes, father," said the boy.
When the morning came, they bound the old man and
took him to the forest. On their way home the boy said
to his father, "Wait, I will go back, and get the rope."
"What for?" asked his father, raising his voice. "To
have it ready when your turn comes," replied the boy,
believing that to cast every old man into the forest
was the usual custom. "Ah! if that is likely to be the
case with me, back we go, and get your grandfather
again."
—Eutiquiano Garcia.
[101]
II. Parable
Parable
contrasted
with fable
The parable, like the fable, is a short didactic story;
but the lesson of the parable is always spiritual, though
not necessarily religious. The fable never
rises above the common-place: it preaches
a worldly morality. Self-interest and prudence
are its tenets; it often satirizes; it laughs at
mankind. The parable, on the contrary, is always
serious: it is earnest and high in its purpose. It tries
to win mankind to generosity and self-forgetting, or
tries to shame him for his neglect by presenting good
deeds in contrast with his, or tries to drive him forth
to an awe-struck repentance by a representation of
righteous anger.
The actors in a parable never violate the laws of
nature. If animals appear, for instance, they do not
talk. They follow as the friends or subjects of man,
as in actual life. Man's dominion over them is spiritual;
hence they may have a place in the parable along
with him but not without him.
Characteristics
of
parables
Where the parable departs from the true story is in
the fact that the men in the parable are types, and the
deeds are symbolic. We have not Mr. John
W. Richards, a particular farmer and an
individual, plowing a field of corn in Mason
County, Illinois, on July 3; but instead we have such
statements as these: "The Farmer went out to plow
his corn," "The Sower went out to sow the seeds,"
"A Householder hired laborers for his vineyard;" or
"Once a King had two servants," or "The Prodigal
sat among the swine in a far country." If the name[102]
of an actor is ever individual—like that of Abraham,
for instance, in Franklin's prose parable, or Abou Ben
Adhem in Leigh Hunt's poem—the actor himself is
nevertheless representative. Abraham stands for the
whole Jewish people in its exclusiveness; and Abou
Ben Adhem, for all doubters who yet love their fellow-men.
A character's seeing of angels or hearing
of the voice of the Deity does not break the versimilitude
of parables; for these matters are readily taken
subjectively.
The spiritual truth of a parable is generally independent
and separable from the story, which can always
be read as narrative of actual events, though it is
meant to be symbolic. The interpretation comes from
without. It is either left to be inferred by the reader
or is written before or after the narrative in the form
of a summarizing figure of speech or a detailed collated
exposition. You remember that Christ took his
disciples aside and explained his parables to them.
Tolstoy
Count Tolstoy has written many parables. He
combines his teaching with virile realism until he is
as enthusiastically read as are the popular
and less spiritual authors. "What Men Live
By" is an exquisite example of his teaching, and, while
it embodies a church legend, is a regular parable in
form. It has the requisite generic atmosphere about
it: the shoemaker and his wife, the rich purchaser, the
kind foster-mother, and the children are all types.
The intense realism comes in in the representation of
Russian life. The lesson is given in an orderly exposition
after the narrative of events is finished.
Suggestions
on writing
parables
In writing an original parable, one should avoid[103]
the diction of the Bible, that is, should avoid phraseology
archaic or especially religious; but it would be
well to imitate the simplicity and straightforwardness
of the Biblical narrative. A modern
parable writer to be successful would avoid
mawkishness, and what is popularly designated as
"preaching,"—but he would shadow forth nevertheless
very clearly a high, spiritual truth. He would
study living examples carefully so as to express inevitable
actions in a few luminous words. There are
many noble lessons to be taught by the actions of
typical men in typical situations.
Working
definition
The adjectives symbolic, serious, spiritual, typical,
and natural might be embodied in a working definition
thus: A parable is a narrative of imaginary events, a
symbolic didactic story, wherein the actors are always
types of men or types of men and animals
(never exclusively of animals), and whereof
the lesson is always spiritual, single, and separate, and
the tone is always serious, and the events always
appear natural and customary.
A list of proverbs that might be expanded into parables
1. God understands the dumb.
2. What a man acquires in his youth serves as a
crutch in his old age.
3. Begin with small things that you may achieve
great.
4. He who steals an egg will steal a horse also.
5. One can spoil the good name of a thousand.
6. One bad deed begets another.
[104]
7. The grandfather ate unripe grapes and the
grandson's teeth were set on edge.
8. What is play to the cat is death to the mouse
(modern, political parable).
9. When a man grows rich, he thinks his walls
are awry.
10. Better lose one's eyes than one's calling.
11. What the wind brings it will take away.
12. No one is sure that his light will burn till
morning.
13. The scornful soon grow old.
14. A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.
15. Love ever so well, there is also hate; hate ever
so much, there is also love.
16. To rise early is not everything; happy are they
who have the help of God.
17. By asking, one finds the way to Jerusalem.
18. When God gives, he gives with both hands.
19. Until you see trouble you will never know
joy.
20. We are intelligence, that we may be will.
21. Act only on that maxim which thou couldst
will to become a universal law.
The Three Questions
It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always
knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who
were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid;
and, above all, if he always knew what was the most
important thing to do, he would never fail in anything
he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it[105]
proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give
a great reward to any one who would teach him what
was the right time for every action, and who were the
most necessary people, and how he might know what
was the most important thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered
his questions differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know
the right time for every action, one must draw up in
advance, a table of days, months and years, and must
live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could
everything be done at its proper time. Others declared
that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right
time for every action; but that, not letting oneself be
absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to
all that was going on, and then do what was most needful.
Others, again, said that however attentive the King
might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one
man to decide correctly what is the right time for
every action, but that he should have a Council of wise
men, who would help him to fix the proper time for
everything.
But then again others said there were some things
which could not wait to be laid before a Council, but
about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake
them or not. But in order to decide that, one
must know beforehand what was going to happen. It
is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order
to know the right time for every action, one must
consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question.
Some said, the people the King most needed were[106]
his councillors; others, the priests; others, the doctors;
while some said the warriors were the most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important
occupation: some replied that the most important
thing in the world was science. Others said it was
skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious
worship.
All the answers being different, the King agreed with
none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still
wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided
to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted,
and he received none but common folk. So the King
put on simple clothes, and before reaching the hermit's
cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard
behind, went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was digging
the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the King, he
greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was
frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade
into the ground and turned a little earth, he breathed
heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to
you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions:
How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time?
Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I,
therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And
what affairs are the most important, and need my first
attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing.
He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.
[107]
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the
spade and work a while for you."
"Thanks," said the hermit, and, giving the spade to
the King, he sat down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and
repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer,
but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade, and
said:
"Now rest awhile—and let me work a bit."
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued
to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun
began to sink behind the trees, and the King at last
stuck the spade into the ground, and said:
"I come to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions.
If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will
return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit,
"let us see who it is."
The King turned around, and saw a bearded man
come running out of the wood. The man held his hands
pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from
under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting
on the ground moaning feebly. The King and the
hermit unfastened the man's clothing. There was a
large wound in his stomach. The King washed it as
best as he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief
and with a towel the hermit had. But the blood would
not stop flowing, and this King again and again removed
the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and
rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased
flowing, the man revived and asked for something to
drink. The King brought fresh water and gave it to him.[108]
Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So
the King with the hermit's help, carried the wounded
man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on
the bed the man closed his eyes and was quiet; but
the King was so tired with his walk and with the work
he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold,
and also fell asleep—so soundly that he slept all through
the short summer night. When he awoke in the morning,
it was long before he could remember where he was, or
who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and
gazing intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice,
when he saw that the King was awake and was looking
at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you
for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that
enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you
because you executed his brother and seized his property.
I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I
resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day
passed and you did not return. So I came out from
my ambush to find you, and I came upon your bodyguard,
and they recognized me, and wounded me. I
escaped from them, but should have bled to death had
you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and
you have saved my life. Now if I live, and if you wish it,
I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid
my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with his
enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend,
and he not only forgave him, but said he would send his[109]
servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised
to restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King
went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit.
Before going away he wished once more to beg
answer to the question he had put. The hermit was outside,
on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been
dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said:
"For the last-time, I pray you to answer my questions,
wise man."
"You have already been answered," said the hermit
still crouching on his thin legs, and looking at the King,
who stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the
King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had
not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug
these beds for me, but had gone your way, that man
would have attacked you, and you would have repented
of not having stayed with me. So the most important
time was when you were digging the beds; and I was the
most important man, and to do me good was your most
important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to
us, the most important time was when you were attending
to him, for if you had not bound up his wounds he
would have died without having made peace with you.
So he was the most important man, and what you did for
him was your most important business. Remember then:
there is only one time that is important—Now! It is the
most important time because it is the only time when we
have any power. The most necessary man is he with[110]
whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever
have dealings with any one else: and the most important
affair is, to do him good, because for that purpose alone
was man sent into this life!"
—Count Leo M. Tolstoy.
"Twenty-Three Tales from Tolstoy," translated by L. and
A. Maude (Oxford Press).
A Master and His Servant
Once a rich man was riding on horseback over a
desert. He was going to the palace to be knighted by
the king. With him was his trusty servant, who was
to take care of their baggage and their food. As the
master's horse was stronger than the servant's, the master
went very far ahead. At last he came to a lonely
tree by the road. He intended to stop in the shade, but
when he got there, he found a poor trader almost dying
of hunger. He had pity on him, so he threw him a piece
of cake, which fell on his breast. Alas! the poor man
could not move his hands to pick it up. The master, however,
would not dismount and help the wretched man,
but started on, leaving him about to die.
Soon the servant came to the same place. His heart
was greatly moved upon seeing the traveler's pitiful
appearance. As the servant was about to drink a few
drops of water that still remained in a bottle, the suffering
man looked at him. Therefore, he dismounted
from his horse, and poured the water into the man's
mouth. After a while the man could move his body a
little. The servant thought that with a cup of pure warm
water the poor traveler would recover his strength. But
no water could be found in the desert. So he killed his[111]
horse, took the blood from its heart, and gave it to the
traveler. The servant did not leave the traveler until
he could get up without help. At last the servant started
on his journey with the baggage on his head, leaving his
dead horse and the traveler in the middle of the desert.
He left to the traveler some bread, clothes, the saddle and
his hat.
It was evening when he arrived at the palace. His
master had been waiting for him impatiently. Without
asking a question, the master began to whip his servant,
because he had lost everything except their baggage.
The servant would have suffered more had not the king
chanced to see him. Both were brought before the king,
who asked the servant what the matter was. The poor
servant knelt before the king with his hands crossed over
his breast, and then told the whole story. Seeing that
the servant was as respectful, brave, and kind as a knight
ought to be, the king made him a noble instead of his
master.
—Eusebio Ramos.
The Parable of the Beggar and the Givers
"Good people, alms! Alms for the poor!" whined an
uncouth beggar who stood huddled close, to the cold
stones of a shop wall, and there sought shelter from the
wind.
Two brothers, well clad and warm, walking homeward
together, turned and looked to see whence the appeal
came. The elder carelessly tossed a silver piece into the
out-stretched palm, and muttered, "Odious beggars!"
Then he hastened on. The younger man, however,
stopped and asked how such willing pauperism had
gained ascendancy over pride. The alms-seeker then told[112]
a story of search for employment, of repeated failures,
and of the final surrender of self-esteem. The youth
pitied the vagrant, and offered to furnish him a method
of gaining independence. He readily accepted the help
and a new worker began to labor in the vineyards of
the brothers.
Some years later, when the time arrived for the people
to send a new burgher to the capital to represent
them, men came from the city to ask the fruit-gatherers
which of their employers should be the choice for the
office. Then the chief of the workmen spoke out, "The
elder will fling you a coin and a curse. The younger
will give you laws and improvements for your city. He
will teach you to earn the coin for yourself."
The next year the giver of charity went to the great
council in Berlin, while the giver of alms superintended
the vine-growing and envied his brother's good fortune.
—Dorothea Knoblock.
III. Allegory
The word allegory is used widely to signify any
figurative and symbolic writing (proverb, parable,
metaphor, simile, or allegory proper); but we are going
to use it in its distinctive and academic sense as a
rhetorical and narrative type.
Characteristics
Like the fable and the parable, the allegory teaches
a lesson; like them it is a story, but longer than either,
more detailed than either. Connected with
the actors in it are generally abstract ideas
used figuratively, directly personified as people on adventures
or used to form the atmosphere, the goal of[113]
attainment, the place of destination, the road over
which the hero travels. For instance, Youth sets out
from the House of Innocence over the Road of Life
and strays into the Path of Temptation that leads
through the Wood of Error. Here he meets Falsehood
and Shame, and overcomes them, for the time at least,
and passes through the clearing of Experience toward
the Castle of Perseverance, grim and dark and uninviting,
that stands hard by, yet beyond, the House
of Mirth, etc., etc.
When you write an allegory, you will not be so
trite as this illustrative example, but will get a good
idea, a good spiritual lesson, and will teach it with a
unique and original plot in which the adventures themselves
are interesting. The world's greatest prose
allegory, "Pilgrim's Progress," has always been read
for the story. The "Faerie Queene" as a metrical romance
and a triple allegory of religion, Elizabeth's
court, and the perfect man, has been a storehouse for
prose narrators as well as for poets for three hundred
years. Practically all the old morality plays were
allegories. "Everyman," the best extant, is very vital
indeed when put on the stage.
Plato's
"Vision
of Er"
Plato's great myth-allegory in the "Republic" was
designed by him to teach his people his theory of the
transmigration of souls and how they might
safely pass over the river of Forgetfulness
without being defiled and might hold fast
to the heavenly way and follow after Justice and
Virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal
and able to endure every sort of good and every sort
of evil. Popularly the story is known as a vision; but[114]
Socrates, Plato's literary character who tells the story,
calls it a tale, a tale of a brave man Er, the Son of
Armenius, who, on the twelfth day, as he was lying
on the funeral pile, returned to life and told what he
had seen in the other world.
This device of a vision was widely adopted, doubtless
indirectly from Plato, as a good framework for
allegory. We find the medieval poets dreaming dreams
and letting their souls depart from their bodies pretty
generally.
Modern
Allegories
The romance and the allegory were the prime
medieval types, and we find them persisting together
or apart in our own English literature from
William Langland's "Piers the Plowman"
with its Tower of Truth, Conscience, Envy, Advice of
Hunger, and the like, to Henry Van Dyke's "Blue
Flower" with its crystal river flowing from a mysterious
source. "The Hunter" and the "Artist's Secret"
by Olive Schreiner and "Poems in Prose" by
Oscar Wilde are exquisite modern examples. Nathaniel
Hawthorne wrote scarcely anything that is not
inlaid with allegory. The "Great Stone Face" is a
fine instance of how concrete pure allegory can be.
It teaches a beautifully spiritual truth by the portrayal
of American customs and everyday human shortsightedness.
A good German prose allegory is "Peter
Schlemihl: or, The Man Who Sold his Shadow." Stevenson's
tremendous study, "The Strange Case of Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," is really allegory.
A review of the names of the older but famous
allegories will be perhaps more interesting and suggestive
than the perusal from beginning to end of any[115]
one of them would be, for they are for the most part
long and tedious.
Some
famous
English
allegories
In early Anglo-Saxon verse we find appearing the
favorite device of allegory, the vision. In the "Dream
of the Rood" the author tells of how he saw
a strange Tree, the gallows of shame, now
the glorious Tree of the Savior, and how it
told its life-history. "The Address of the Soul to the
Body" is a grim allegorical dialogue. In "The
Phoenix," the fabulous bird represents Christ, as does
also the Panther in the other poem, the sweet-breathed,
lonely, harmless beast. These are all verse, and with
the exception of the "Dream of the Rood" hardly narrative.
The last two are really English bestiaries.
"The Romaunt of the Rose," the greatest medieval
allegory, in its English form, contains seventy-six
hundred ninety-eight lines. You will find all these
included in Chaucer's work, but only seventeen hundred
five are his.[1] The "Parlament of Foules" and
the "House of Fame," however, are his, but not "The
Court of Love," "the Flower and the Leaf," "The
Cockowe and the Nightingale." Between Chaucer and
Spenser come Dunbar's "Thistle and the Rose" and
"The Golden Targe;" Lydgate's "Temple of Glass;"
Hawes's "Pastime of Pleasure;" Douglas's "Palace of
Honour" and "King Hart;" Lyndesay's "Dream" and
"Complaint of Papingo;" Barclay's "Ship of Fooles;"
Sackville's "Induction" to the "Mirror for Magistrates."
After Spenser, besides Phineas Fletcher's "The
Purple Island" and Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress,"
come Addison's "Vision of Mirza," Parnell's "Paradise
of Fooles," Thomson's "Castle of Indolence,"
Johnson's "Journey of a Day," Collin's "The Passions,"
and Aikin's "The Hill of Science."
[116]
In the beautiful Elizabethan English translation we
have also the allegories of the Bible, of which the
"Twenty-third Psalm" is doubtless the best known example,
as it is perhaps the best loved quotation from
the Old Testament. All the psalms put their truths
allegorically in the broad literary sense. Ezekiel,
Isaiah, and the other prophets often speak in strict
allegorical narratives, which they explain either immediately
or later. The great literary beauty of the
"Revelation" depends on the exquisite use of allegory;
the leaves of the tree of life are for the healing of the
nations; the water of the river of life is for everyone
that thirsteth.
Allegory
and
parable
distinguished
Mention of Hawthorne's use of allegory calls to
mind the distinction a student of narrative types must
make between parable on the one hand and a
particular kind of allegory on the other, that
kind in which there are no abstractions. He
asks himself, What is the difference when
both narratives have only people for actors? He finds
the answer in the fact that the actors of the parable
are always representatives of a type, doing nothing
outside the type, nothing individual, while the actors
of that sort of allegory in which there are no personified
abstractions are always individual men even
though they may have universal vices or virtues; that
is, they perform individual deeds and go through peculiar
experiences, that not all the men of their class
could perform and go through. But although more[117]
individual, the allegory is less human than the parable;
for the happenings of the parable are always probable,
while those of the allegory may be probable, improbable,
or so fantastic as to be wholly impossible.
The allegory is usually longer also than the parable.
Besides, unlike the parable, the allegory demands no
interpretation from without, but carries its interpretation
along from name to name. Hence the allegory can
be said to be an extended metaphor, and the parable,
a long half simile. On the other hand, many proverbs
are concise parables and many are also brief allegories.
Allegory
and fable
distinguished
Allegory meets fable on the fact that both may be
satiric; but stands aside from fable on the fact that
allegory is much longer and employs personified
abstractions as characters. Hawthorne's
"Celestial Railroad" is an example
of humorous-satiric allegory. Parable, we
recall, is always spiritual, allegory often so, and fable
never.
Working
definition
When you set out to write, therefore, you will have
in mind a general summary somewhat like this: An
allegory is a narrative of imaginary events
designed to teach a series of utilitarian or
spiritual truths—the actors in the events being either
individuals with typical follies, vices, and virtues, or
personified abstractions that go through individual and
particular experiences.
How to
write
allegory
To proceed to write original allegory you will need
to pay especial attention to (1) the series of
lessons you mean to teach: Shall it be in the
realm of politics, trade, education, or general
morals? (2) The tone of your teaching: Shall it be[118]
humorous or grave? (3) The kind of personages: Shall
they be real persons made more-or-less typical and abstract,
or shall they be abstractions made more-or-less
concrete and individual? (4) The course of the action:
What shall happen? There must be something a-doing
that is in itself interesting and that has a beginning,
a middle, and an end. You must not fall into the error
of merely enumerating and cataloguing. You must
have a definite action going forward in which your
personages take a necessary part. Allegory fell into
disrepute in the past because of the attempts of lazy
and careless writers. There is evidence of its revival
as a popular type. A present-day writer in the
Atlantic Monthly has shown us how vigorous, informing,
and pungent it may be: "The Novelist's Allegory"
is entirely worth while with its good old-fashioned
flavor. (5) You must pay attention to the characterizations:
you must see to it that the speeches you
put into the mouths of your creatures could be delivered
by them in the world or society you have got
together. Everything in the action—the time, the
place, the characters of the persons—must conform to
the ideal nature of the subject. The laws of the actual
universe you may violate, but not the laws of your
imaginary universe. Moreover, the nearer the actual
and the imaginary come together on essentials, the
more effective your preaching will be. What you
write as author's narrative must be vital and contributive.
Make your description of dress and gesture so
vivid that it will quicken the imagination of your
readers. Never yourself think of your personages as[119]
abstractions. Let them live and move before you as
real beings; then tell about them.
A testimony to the return of allegory into good
favor is its use on the stage. We no longer are afraid
to see that Ibsen's "Peer Gynt" is an allegorical satire
and not the bucolic love tale that some persons try to
make it, and that even the wonderful scene of Ase's
death is pathos serving satire. Maeterlinck's "Blue
Bird," which is unmistakable allegory, has pleased the
latest theater-going public high and low.
Present-day
interest
in primitive
types
This thought leads to a word in general on primitive
types. Although it is becoming the fashion to be
interested in them, and hence many poor
specimens both in prose and verse will get
into print, yet the writing of such simple
and idealistic things by way of reaction
from our intense and often hectic realism, is surely in
the main wholesome, regardless of the value of the
individual pieces. Years ago Count Tolstoy said, "The
artist of the future will understand that to compose a
fairy-tale, a little song which will touch, a lullaby or a
riddle which will entertain, a jest which will amuse,
or to draw a sketch such as will delight dozens of
generations or millions of children and adults, is incomparably
more important and more fruitful than to
compose a novel, or a symphony, or paint a picture of
the kind which diverts some members of the wealthy
classes for a short time and is then forever forgotten.
The region of this art of the simplest feelings accessible
to all is enormous, and it is as yet almost untouched."
Of course the hope of literary excellence
for such an epoch, if it comes, will lie in the possibility[120]
of the pieces being kept as Tolstoy's own are, very
near to the naïve.
The Artist
One evening there came into his soul the desire to
fashion an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment.
And he went forth into the world to look for
bronze. For he could think only in bronze.
But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared,
nor anywhere in the whole world was there any
bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image
of The Sorrow that endureth Forever.
Now this image he had himself, and with his own
hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one
thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead
thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own
fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of
man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man
that endureth forever. And in the whole world there
was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.
And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it
in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.
And out of the bronze of the Image of The Sorrow
that endureth forever, he fashioned an image of The
Pleasure that abideth for a moment.
—Oscar Wilde.
"Poems in Prose" (Fortnightly Review, July 1, 1894).
The House of Judgment
And there was silence in the House of Judgment,
and the Man came naked before God.
And God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
[121]
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil,
and thou hast shown cruelty to those in need of succor,
and to those who lacked help thou hast been bitter and
hard of heart. The poor called to thee and thou did'st
not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of my
afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou did'st
take unto thyself, and thou did'st send the foxes into the
vineyard of thy neighbor's field. Thou did'st take the
bread of the children and give it to the dogs to eat,
and my lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at
peace and praised me thou did'st drive forth on the highway,
and on mine earth out of which I made thee thou
did'st spill innocent blood."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And again God opened the Book of the Life of the
Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil,
and the Beauty I have shown, thou hast sought for, and
the Good I have hidden, thou did'st pass by. The walls
of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the
bed of thine abominations thou did'st rise up to the sound
of flutes. Thou did'st build seven altars to the sins I
have suffered, and did'st eat of the thing that may not
be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was broidered
with the three signs of shame. Thy idols were neither of
gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth.
Thou did'st stain their hair with perfumes, and put
pomegranates in their hands. Thou did'st stain their
feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With
antimony thou did'st stain their eyelids and their bodies
thou did'st smear with myrrh. Thou did'st bow thyself
to the ground before them, and the thrones of thy idols[122]
were set in the sun. Thou did'st show to the sun thy
shame and to the moon thy madness."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so
did I."
And the third time God opened the Book of the Life
of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Evil hath been thy life,
and with evil did'st thou requite good, and with wrong-doing
kindness. The hands that fed thee thou did'st
wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou did'st
despise. He who came to thee with water went away
thirsting and the outlawed men who hid thee in their
tents at night thou did'st betray before dawn. Thine
enemy who spared thee thou did'st slay in an ambush,
and the friend who walked with thee thou did'st sell for
a price, and to those who brought thee Love, thou did'st
ever give Lust in thy turn."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so
did I."
And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man and
said, "Surely I will send thee to Hell. Even into Hell
will I send thee."
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not
send thee to Hell, and for what reason?"
"Because in Hell I have always lived," answered the
Man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
And after a space God spake, and said to the Man,
"Seeing that I may not send thee into Hell, surely I
will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto Heaven will I
send thee."
[123]
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not
send thee unto Heaven and for what reason?"
"Because never, and in no place, have I been able to
imagine it," answered the man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
—Ibid.
The Chain That Binds
It was morning when the youth started out from his
father's house and sought the highway. Those the young
man met on the road inquired of him, "Where are you
going? What do you seek?"
He answered, "I seek Freedom!"
"Freedom!" exclaimed his questioners. "Are you
not free? Are we not all our own masters?"
The young man smiled. "I do not mean freedom of
thought and speech. That you may have. What I seek
is liberation from heredity and environment, from the
physical, intellectual, and spiritual laws that tyrannize
over us and make us slaves."
His listeners turned away, some laughed, and some
scorned, and some wept, and the young man traveled on.
But all along the road he met those that scorned him and
laughed at him, and soon his steps lagged, and his feet
seemed leaden. Looking down, he saw a chain binding
his ankles—the chain of Public Opinion. Now he must
delay. Angrily he tore at the chain until the hasps
broke, and he stood unbound.
Then he made haste; for he had already lost much
time. Soon he met a vender of goods, and the vender
stopped and besought the youth to buy a jewel. The
young man desired the jewel, and he thought, "Why can[124]
I not beat this man and steal his jewel?" But lo, his
hands were fettered with the chain of Conscience, and
he wrenched the chain till it fell apart. Then he beat
the man and took his jewel and went on his way.
Ahead of him he saw a cloud, and from the cloud
arose a mist, and the mist formed itself into many shapes,
strange signs and symbols, the like of which he had never
seen before. The youth cried out, "This is a new faith;
I will embrace it." But his arms were bound behind him
with the chain of Superstition; and he strove to break
the chain, but when the lock gave way, the cloud and
mist had disappeared.
Thus year after year sped on; the youth became a
man; the man grew old before his time. When he broke
a fetter, a new one took its place. The chains that bound
him were innumerable. One by one he broke the laws
that society and the ages had formed for him, but each
wish that he gratified gave place to another.
The chains that he had worn and wrenched weighed
on him. His flesh and spirit were chafed and sore. Weak
and disheartened he sank down, and the memory of his
fruitless life recurred to him. A voice arrested him, and
looking up he saw a man older and more withered than
he was.
And the stranger said, "Behold the chain that binds
you now." The Seeker-after-Freedom looked down. His
ankles were encumbered by the heaviest chain he had yet
worn.
The old man continued. "You flaunted yourself in
the face of your fellows. You boasted that you were
greater than they. You are, in that you are the arch-sinner.
You have sought to destroy those gifts with[125]
which the Almighty endowed you. You found it easy
to break the fetter of Love, of Conscience, of Remorse.
This chain you cannot break. You welded it yourself.
The strength of an armed force cannot tear it asunder;
the fires of Perdition cannot melt it."
The traveler died, bound with the chain of Insatiable
Desire.
—Elizabeth Sudborough.
The Love Which Surpassed All Other Loves
The girl's heart was lonely. She had never had the
comforts of a home. And there was a yearning for some
love which would fill her life. So she determined to set
out in search of such a love. In her wanderings she met
many hardships, and was scorned by everyone as a simpleton.
After she had wandered a year, one day a great eagle
flew to her, and said, "I know what you are seeking. I
can satisfy your wants. I am the governing force of the
world; I am Love of Gold. Take me, and while I am
with you, all will be well with you."
For a moment the girl was dazzled by the comforts
which seemed stretched out before her if she would accept
this Love. But her heart was not satisfied, and she
shook her head. The eagle flew away with a taunting
laugh.
Another year passed and still she had met nothing
to quiet her longing. But one day as she was walking
through a village, she saw a happy family seated on the
door-step of a neat cottage. While she was looking at
this group, she heard a voice, and, glancing down, saw a
beautiful little wren.
[126]
"I am the Love of a Mother's Heart," said the little
bird. "When all others fail, I still remain true. Take
me and hide me in your bosom, that your mother's heart
may be tender to you."
Tears came to the girl's eyes, for the little bird had
touched a wound in her life, the neglect of her by her
mother. But her longing was not yet satisfied, and so she
passed on.
At the end of another year she was walking along
the side of a quiet pond. She stopped and looked at
the water, envying it its peace. A blue-jay was perched
on the branch of a tree nearby, and soon he spoke to her.
"I am the Love of Man for Woman. I have been known
since the beginning of time. Let me be with you, that
you may be a good wife."
The girl was strongly tempted to take this Love of
which she had heard so much. Perhaps this was, after
all, the Love she was seeking. As she meditated, the old
longing came back with redoubled force. It would not
do to make this Love a part of her life, so she sadly left
the blue-jay, and went on.
The next year came, and the girl had become a
woman, but her heart was still empty of love. She entered
a quiet grove one evening, and, wearied, sat down
on a log.
A lovely nightingale came and perched itself on her
shoulder, and in a sweetly comforting tone said, "Many
have had the same longing which you have had; but few
have possessed the courage to resist temptations offered
by other loves. I am the Love of Woman for Woman,
the Love of True Friendship. I am greater and more enduring
than any other love. Take me and hide me in[127]
your heart. You will be happy then as few are privileged
to be."
The girl was comforted, and she took the beautiful
bird and placed it next her heart. At last her longing
was satisfied, and she praised God for His Gift.
—Florence Gifford.
[128]
CHAPTER III
THE INGENIOUS-ASTONISHING GROUP
This large division of narratives of imaginary events
is somewhat hard to name briefly, though it is definitely
enough marked off as a distinct class when we
consider the tone, the source, and the purpose. The
whole air of these extravagant tales is that of sophistication.
No reader however ignorant would mistake
them for stories of primitive people. Though they
sometimes contain supernatural creatures as actors,
though they recount stupendous deeds, though they
often proceed in simple diction, yet the reader is never
confused as to the state of mind of the narrator. It
is plain that, however much he may seem to wish to
create credulity in the mind of the reader, the story-teller
has none in his own mind. He is a non-believer—or
better perhaps, a "make-believer," in the children's
sense of the term. The source of his narrative
is ingenuity, and the purpose is astonishment or satire.
In the present study we shall notice four smaller divisions
of this group: (1) the tale of mere wonder,
(2) the imaginary voyage with a satiric or instructive
purpose, (3) the tale of scientific discovery and
mechanical invention, (4) the detective story and other
tales of pure plot.
[129]
I. The Tale of Mere Wonder
Collections
of wonder
stories
In the species Tales of Mere Wonder, we mean to
classify those stories of marvels that are told with the
simple purpose of astonishing. The adventures
of Sinbad the Sailor are typical. He
comes upon a bird's egg, for instance, which
he at first mistakes for the dome of a cathedral, or
walks in a valley covered with diamonds the size of
apples. The "Persian Tales" like the Arabian "Thousand
and One Nights" are stories of wonder and
enchantment. Though they are very old, many of
them much older than their written form and traceable
to the traditions of various countries, these
Oriental stories as we have them to-day are not folk-tales
in the strict sense of the term. They are put into
a frame-work and are acknowledged to be narratives
of ingenuity. The two earlier sets, translated into
French, produced many imitations. Besides these there
are the "Tartar Tales," the "Chinese Tales," "Mogol
Tales," the "Turkish Tales," and so on. The most
literary and perhaps the most valuable from the point
of view of real thinking displayed in them are the
very modern Oriental stories of George Meredith, published
under the title "The Shaving of Shagpat."
They are all wonder tales though extremely philosophical.
Robert Louis Stevenson has given us the
"New Arabian Nights."
Suggestions
for
writing
To write one of these exaggerations you need only
recall your own or other persons' attempts at
the fireside when the stock of folk stories has
run low. You address your efforts to your
eight and ten-year-old brothers who have got past Jack-the-Giant-Killer[130]
and are in the stage of development that
the people of the twelfth century were to whom Marie
de France told her fables and her stories of mere
wonder. The fine ladies and gentlemen of Henry the
Second's day loved to hear of costly robes and magic
carpets and jewelled beds worth half a kingdom, that
came at the touch of a ring or at the murmuring of a
secret phrase. Unfortunate princes, too, they enjoyed
being told about, who allowed themselves to be misled
by wily councilors, and lost for a time their kingdoms;
beautiful princesses who sat enchanted in gorgeous
underground palaces, waiting their deliverers; wonderful
plants with otherwhere unheard-of properties;
and animals with stupendous powers, like the monstrous
birds that the Arabian writer says carried
Nimrod through the air in a cage or with out-stretched
wings sheltered Solomon's army from the sun.
Chaucer, you know, began and
"left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride."
This horse had a screw in his ear. If one got upon
his back, turned the screw, and whispered a word, one
might be instantly in the kingdom one named. If you
can not dream out an original oriental story of your
own, you might finish this of Chaucer's—The Squire's
Tale. Remember that probability is not called for,[131]
but only magnificence, splendor, magic, daring, and
success on the part of your hero or heroine. Either
may have wealth untold, dominion unlimited, and
knowledge supernatural. Your diction may range
from the simplest and the baldest to the most luxuriant
and extravagant. Whatever matches your subject,
no matter how extravagantly improbable, will be
acceptable.
Medieval
tales of
chivalry
Like the stories of mere wonder in—fact a blending
of them with legend—were the medieval tales of chivalry
in the later and perverted editions.
The elements are the same as those of the
wonder tale, with the addition of riotous
history; that is, the using of any deed of any hero for
him or for someone else, with all the glamour of magic
and luxuriance thrown about it.
Heroic
romances
To modern readers a very uninteresting perversion
of this type of narrative is the heroic romance of the
second and third quarters of the seventeenth
century, best represented perhaps by Le
Grand Cyrus of Madam de Scudéri. Nobody, I suppose,
to-day who had not a theory to prove could be
persuaded to wade through the 6,679 pages of the ten
octavo volumes of this walty story. But although the
particular style of writing of Scudéri and her contemporaries
has passed away, and fortunately never
can return—thanks to Molière and Boileau—fantastic
and gorgeous prose history had great popularity both
on the Continent and in England for fifty years. The
attitude of mind of those narrators is found in many
moderns; namely, a desire to deal only with titled
folk, or at least millionaires, for fear that heroes of[132]
lower social standing or smaller bank accounts might
be dull.
Our present-day mixers of fact and non-fact lean
toward the probable, of course, rather than the marvelous,
and would resent being classed with the heroic
romancers; but any narrator would be proud to be
able to tell well, as everybody with a child-like heart
is delighted to listen to, an out-and-out story of mere
wonder.
Story of the City of Brass
There was in olden times in Damascus of Syria a
caliph named Abdel-Melik, the son of Marwan. One day
as he was sitting with the great men of his empire, many
of them being kings and sultans, a discussion took place
among them about the tales of ancient nations. They
called to mind the stories of Solomon, the son of David,
and the power God gave him over genies and wild beasts
and birds and other creatures, and they said, "We have
heard, from those who lived before us that God bestowed
not upon any one the like of that which he bestowed upon
Solomon. So great was his power that he used to imprison
genies and evil spirits in bottles of brass, and pour
molten lead over them, and seal this cover with his seal."
Then Talib, one of the sultans, related that a man
once embarked in a ship with a company of others, and
they sailed away towards the island of Sicily, until a
storm arose which drove them out of their course and
carried them to the shores of an unknown land. This
happened during the darkness of the night. In the
morning, there came out to them from caves in that land,
black men who wore no clothes, and who neither spoke[133]
nor understood any language. They had a king of their
own race, and he knew Arabic. The king, with a party
of his companions, came to the ship, saluted and welcomed
those who were in it, and inquired who they were
and to what country they belonged. When they informed
him, he said to them, "No harm shall befall you.
There hath not come to us one of the sons of Adam before
you."
The king then entertained them with a banquet, and
after this the people of the ship went to amuse themselves
on the shore. There they found a fisherman who
had cast his net into the sea to catch fish. He drew
the net up, and in it was a bottle of brass stopped
with lead, which was sealed with the seal of Solomon,
the son of David. The fisherman broke the seal, and
there came forth from the bottle a blue smoke which
united with the clouds of heaven, and instantly they
heard a horrible voice saying, "Repentance! repentance!
O prophet of God!" Then they saw the smoke
form into a man of frightful appearance and gigantic
size, whose head reached as high as a mountain, and immediately
he disappeared from before their astonished
eyes.
The blacks thought nothing of this event, but the
people of the ship were terrified at the spectacle, and
they went to the king to inquire about it. In answer to
their inquiries the king said, "This is one of the genies
who rebelled against King Solomon, and Solomon, to
punish them, imprisoned them in bottles and threw them
into the sea. When the fisherman casts his net, it generally
brings up one of these bottles, and when the bottle
is broken, a genie comes forth, and thinking that[134]
Solomon is still living, he repents and cries out, "Repentance!
O Prophet of God!"
The Prince of the Faithful, Abdel-Melik, wondered
very much at this story, and he said, "I desire to see
some of these bottles." Talib replied, "O Prince of the
Faithful, thou canst do so. Send to thy viceroy in the
western country, the Emeer Moosa, ordering him to journey
to the sea we have mentioned, and to bring what
thou desirest of these bottles." The Prince of the Faithful
approved of this advice, and he sent Talib himself
with a letter to the Emeer Moosa.
When the Emeer received the letter he read it, and
he said to Talib, "I hear and obey the command of the
Prince of the Faithful." Then he called together his
great men, and he inquired of them about the bottles of
King Solomon, and they told him to send for Abdes-Samad,
"for," said they, "he is a knowing man and has
traveled much. He is acquainted with the deserts and
wastes and the seas, and their inhabitants, and their
wonders, and their countries, and their districts. Send
for him, and he will direct thee to the object of thy
desire." So the Emeer sent for Abdes-Samad, and
when he came he said to him, "O Abdes-Samad, our
lord the Prince of the Faithful has commanded us to
get for him some of the bottles of Solomon. I have little
knowledge of the place where they are to be found,
but it has been told to me that thou art acquainted
with that country and routes. Wilt thou then help us
to accomplish the wish of the Prince of the Faithful?"
To this Abdes-Samad replied, "O Emeer, the route
is difficult, far extending, and there are few tracks. It
is a journey of two years going and the same returning,[135]
and on the way there are dangers and horrors and
extraordinary and wonderful things. Nevertheless,
since it is the wish of the Prince of the Faithful, I am
willing to undertake the journey with thee."
Then they began to make preparations, and as soon
as everything was ready, the Emeer Moosa and Talib
and Abdes-Samad set forth, accompanied by a troop of
soldiers, and taking with them all things necessary for
their expedition. They journeyed on till they came to
a great palace. As the gates were opened, and they saw
no guards at the doors, they dismounted from their
horses and entered. The rooms were all of vast size
and richly furnished, and the ceilings and walls were
decorated with gold and silver, but in the whole building
they did not see a single human being. In the midst
of the palace was a chamber covered with a lofty dome,
rising high into the air, around which were four hundred
tombs. They went into one chamber, and they
found in it a table with four feet made of alabaster,
and having this inscription engraved on it
"Upon this table a thousand one-eyed kings
have eaten and a thousand kings each sound in
both eyes. All of them have quitted the world
and taken up their abode in the burial grounds
and the graves."
The Emeer Moosa and his companions took this table
with them and went forth from the palace. Then they
proceeded on their journey and traveled for three days,
when they came to a high hill. On the top of the hill
was a horseman of brass with a spear in his hand. The[136]
spear had a flat, wide head, and it was so bright that it
almost dazzled the eyes of the Emeer and his companions.
Nevertheless they looked at it closely, and they were astonished
at finding the following words inscribed upon it:
"O thou who comest unto me, if thou know
not the way that leads to the City of Brass,
rub the hand of the horseman, and he will turn,
and then will stop, and in whatever direction he
faces when he stops, travel in that direction
without fear, for it will lead thee to the City of
Brass."
When he read this the Emeer Moosa rubbed the hand
of the horseman. Immediately the figure turned round
with the speed of lightning, and when it stopped it faced
a different direction from that in which they had been
traveling. The party therefore turned to the way
pointed out by the brazen horseman, and proceeded on
their journey. One day they came to a round pillar of
black stone, on the top of which appeared the upper half
of the body of a black giant, or genie, with the lower part
sunk down in the pillar. He was an object frightful to
behold. He had two huge wings and four arms. Two
of the arms were like those of a man, and the other two
were like the legs of a lion. He had hair upon his head
like the tails of horses, two eyes like two burning coals,
and he had a third eye in his forehead, like the eye of a
lynx, from which sparks of fire shot forth.
When the Emeer Moosa's party saw this genie they
almost lost their senses through fear, and they turned
round to flee away, but the Emeer told them that in the[137]
state in which he was he could do them no harm. Then
Abdes-Samad drew near to the pillar, and raising his
voice he said to the genie, "O thou person, what is thy
name, what is thy nature, and what has placed thee here
in this manner!" Immediately the genie answered saying,
"I am a genie and my name is Dahish." [And then
he told them his nature and what had placed him there.]
And then Abdes-Samad said to the genie in the pillar,
"Are there in this place any of the genies confined in
bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered,
"Yes, in the sea of El-Karkar, where dwell some
of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge
did not reach. They are separated from the rest of the
sons of Adam." "And where," said Abdes-Samad, "is
the way to the City of Brass, and the place in which
are the bottles? What distance is there between us and
it?" The genie answered, "It is near."
The party then proceeded in their journey, and in a
little while they saw in the distance a great black object,
and in it there seemed to be two fires corresponding
with each other in position. "What is this great
black object," asked the Emeer Moosa, "and what are
these two corresponding fires?" "Be rejoiced, O
Emeer," answered Abdes-Samad; "it is the City of
Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described
in the book of hidden treasures—that its wall
is of black stones and it has two towers of brass, which
resemble two corresponding fires; hence it is named the
City of Brass."
Hastening on they arrived at the city, and they
found that it was strongly fortified, and that its buildings
were lofty, rising high into the air. Its walls were[138]
one hundred and twenty feet high, and it had five and
twenty gates. They stopped before the walk and endeavored
to find one of the gates, but they could not.
Then Emeer Moosa said to Abdes-Samad, "I do not see
any gate to this city." Abdes-Samad answered, "I
find it described in the book of hidden treasures that it
has five and twenty gates, and that none of them may
be opened but from within the city."
Then the Emeer Moosa took Talib and Abdes-Samad
with him, and they ascended a mountain which was close
by. And looking down upon the city, they saw it was
greater and more beautiful than anything they had ever
beheld. Its palaces were lofty, its domes were shining;
rivers were running within it, and there were delightful
gardens with trees bearing ripe fruit. But they did not
see a human being within its walls. It was empty, still,
without a voice, or a cheering inhabitant but the owl
hooting in its gardens, and birds skimming in circles in
its areas, and the raven croaking in its great streets.
After coming down from the mountain they passed
the day trying to devise means of entering the city. At
last it occurred to them to make a ladder, and the Emeer
called to the carpenters and blacksmiths and ordered
them to construct a ladder covered with plates of iron.
This work occupied a month, and when it was finished,
the ladder was set up against the wall, and one of the
party ascended it. When he reached the top he stood,
and, fixing his eyes towards the city, clapped his hands
and cried out with a loud voice, "Thou art beautiful!"
Then he cast himself down into the city and was killed.
Seeing this the Emeer Moosa said, "If we do this with
all our companions, there will not remain one of them,[139]
and we shall be unable to accomplish the wish of the
Prince of the Faithful. Let us depart and have no more
to do with this city." But one of them answered, "Perhaps
another may be more steady than he." Then a
second ascended, and he did the same as the first, and
then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and they continued
to ascend by that ladder to the top of the wall,
one after another, until twelve men of them had gone,
acting as the first had acted.
Abdes-Samad now arose and said, "There is none
can do this but myself." So he ascended the ladder, reciting
verses of the Koran until he reached the top, when
he clapped his hands and fixed his eyes. The people
therefore called out to him, "O Abdes-Samad, do not
cast thyself down. If you fall, we all perish." Then
Abdes-Samad sat down upon the wall for a long time,
reciting verses of the Koran, after which he rose and
cried out, "O Emeer, no harm shall happen to you, for
God has averted from me the effect of the artifice and
fraud of the Evil One." The Emeer then said to him,
"What hast thou seen, O Abdes-Samad?" He answered,
"When I reached the top of the wall, I saw ten damsels,
beautiful to behold, who made a sign to me with their
hands as though they would say, 'Come to us.' And it
seemed to me that beneath me was a sea, or great river,
and I desired to cast myself down as our companions did.
But I saw them dead, and I recited some words of the
Koran, and so I cast not myself down. Therefore the
damsels departed. There is no doubt that this is an enchantment
contrived by the inhabitants of the city to
keep every one from entering it."
Abdes-Samad then walked along the wall till he came[140]
to the two towers of brass, when he saw that they had
two gates of gold, without locks upon them, or any
sign of the means of opening them. He remained looking
at them a long time, and at last he saw in the
middle of one of the gates a figure of a horseman of
brass, having one hand stretched out as though he were
pointing with it, and on the hand these words were inscribed:
"Turn the pin that is in the middle of the
front of the horseman's body twelve times, and
then the gate will open."
Abdes-Samad, having read this inscription, examined
the horseman, and found in the middle of the front of
this body a pin, strong, firm, and well fixed. He turned
it twelve times, and immediately the gate opened with a
noise like thunder. Abdes-Samad entered, and he walked
on until he came to stairs, which he descended. At the
foot of the stairs he found a place with handsome wooden
benches on which there were dead people, and over their
heads were shields, and swords, and bows, and arrows.
One of the dead men, who appeared to be the oldest,
was upon a high bench above the rest. Abdes-Samad
thought that the keys of the city might be with this
man. "Perhaps," said he to himself, "he was the gatekeeper,
and these were under his authority." He therefore
went up to the man, and raised his outer garment,
and he found the keys hung to his waist. At the sight
of them Abdes-Samad rejoiced exceedingly, and he took
the keys and approached the gate in the wall of the
city. He found that the keys fitted the locks, so he[141]
turned them, and pulled the gate, which opened with a
great noise. Then he cried out with a cry of joy, and
the Emeer Moosa rejoiced at the safety of Abdes-Samad,
and the opening of the gate of the city. The people
thanked Abdes-Samad for what he had done, and they
all hastened to enter the gate. But the Emeer Moosa
cried out to them, saying, "O people, some accident may
happen, and if all enter, all may perish. Therefore, let
half of us enter and half remain outside."
The Emeer Moosa then entered the gate, and with
him half of his troops, carrying their weapons of war.
They saw their companions lying dead, and they buried
them. They then entered the market of the city, which
contained a number of lofty buildings. The shops were
open, the scales hung up, and the stores full of all
kinds of goods, but the merchants were all dead. They
passed on to the silk market, in which were silks and
brocades interwoven with gold and silver upon various
colors, and the owners were dead, lying upon skins, and
appearing almost as though they would speak. Leaving
these they went on to the market of the money
changers, all of whom they found dead, with varieties
of silks beneath them, and their shops filled with gold
and silver. After going through several other markets
they came to a lofty palace, which they entered. There
they found banners unfurled, and swords, and bows,
and shields hung up by chains of gold and silver. In
the passages of the palace were benches of ivory, ornamented
with plates of brilliant gold and with silk, on
which were dead men, whose skins had dried upon
their bones. Going into the interior of the palace they
came to a great hall, and four large and lofty chambers,[142]
each one fronting another, and decorated with gold
and silver and various colors. In the midst of the hall
was a great fountain of alabaster, over which was a
canopy of brocade, and in the chambers were decorated
fountains, and tanks lined with marble, and channels
of water flowed along the floors, the four streams meeting
together in a great tank made of colored marbles.
The Emeer Moosa and his companions now entered
the first chamber, and they found it filled with gold
and silver, and pearls and jewels, and jacinths and precious
minerals. They found in it chests full of red and
yellow and white brocades. They then went into the
second chamber, and opened a closet in it, and it was
filled with weapons of war, consisting of gilded helmets,
and coats of mail, and swords, and lances, and other instruments
of war and battle. Then they passed to the
third chamber, in which they found closets having upon
their doors closed locks, and over them were curtains
worked with various kinds of embroidery. They opened
one of these closets, and found it filled with weapons
decorated with varieties of gold and silver and jewels.
From there they went to the fourth chamber, and it was
full of utensils for food and drink, consisting of various
vessels of gold and silver, and saucers of crystal, and
cups set with brilliant pearls, and cups of carnelian.
They took what suited them of these things, and each
of the soldiers carried off what he could.
Then they passed on, and found a chamber constructed
of polished marble adorned with jewels. They
thought that upon the floor was running water, and if
any one walked upon it he would slip. The Emeer
Moosa therefore ordered Abdes-Samad to throw upon it[143]
something, that they might be enabled to walk on it, and
he did so, and they passed on. And they found in it a
great dome constructed of stones gilt with red gold. The
party had not beheld in all that they had seen anything
more beautiful than this. In the midst of it there was a
great dome-crowned structure of alabaster, around which
were lattice windows, decorated and adorned with oblong
emeralds. In it was a pavilion of brocade, raised
upon columns of red gold, and within this were birds,
the feet of which were emeralds. Beneath each bird
was a net of brilliant pearls, spread over a fountain,
and by the brink of the fountain was placed a couch
adorned with pearls and jewels and jacinths, on which
sat a damsel resembling the shining sun. Eyes had not
beheld one more beautiful. She wore a garment of brilliant
pearls, on her head was a crown of red gold, on her
neck was a necklace of jewels, and upon her forehead
were two jewels the light of which was like that of the
sun. She seemed as though she were looking at the people
round about her, and observing them to the right
and left.
When the Emeer Moosa beheld this damsel, he wondered
extremely at her loveliness, and he saluted her
respectfully. But Talib said to the Emeer, "This damsel
is dead. There is no life in her. How, then, can she
return the salutation?" And he added, "O Emeer,
she is skillfully embalmed. Her eyes were taken out
after her death, and quicksilver put beneath them, after
which they were restored to their places; so they gleam,
and whenever the air puts them in motion the beholder
imagines that she twinkles her eyes, though she is
dead." Then they saw that the couch upon which the[144]
damsel sat had steps, and upon the steps were two slaves,
one of them white and the other black. In the hand of
one of them was a weapon of steel, and in the hand of the
other a jeweled sword that dazzled the eyes. Before
the two slaves was a tablet of gold on which was the
following inscription:
"O thou, if thou know me not, I will acquaint
thee with my name and descent. I am
Tedmur, the daughter of the King of the
Amalekites. I possessed what none of the kings
possessed, and ruled with justice. I gave and
bestowed, and lived a long time in the enjoyment
of happiness and an easy life, and emancipated
female and male slaves. Thus I did until
death came to my abode, and the case was
this: Seven years in succession came upon us,
during which no water descended on us from
heaven, nor did any grass grow for us on the
face of the earth. So we ate what food we had
in our dwellings, and after that we fell upon the
beasts and ate them, and there remained nothing.
Upon this I caused the wealth to be
brought, and measured it with a measure, and
sent it by trusty men, who went about with it
through all the districts, not leaving unvisited
a single large city, to seek for some food. But
they found none, and they returned to us with
the wealth, after a long absence. Then we exposed
to view our riches and our treasures,
locked the gates of the fortresses in our city,
and we all died, as thou beholdest and left what[145]
we had built and what we had treasured. This
is our story. Whoever arrives at our city, and
enters it, let him take of the wealth what he
can, but not touch anything that is on my body,
for it is the covering of my person, and the attire
with which I am fitted forth from the
world. Therefore, let him not seize aught of
it; for he would destroy himself."
The Emeer Moosa, when he read these words, was
greatly astonished. Then he said to his companions,
"Bring the sacks, and fill them with part of these riches
and these vessels and rarities and jewels." But Talib
said to him, "O Emeer, shall we leave this damsel with
the things that are upon her? They are things that
have no equal, and they are more than the riches thou
hast taken, and will be the best present for the Prince
of the Faithful." But the Emeer replied, "Seest thou,
not that which the damsel hath given as a charge, in the
inscription upon this tablet?" Talib, however, said,
"And on account of these words wilt thou leave these
riches and these jewels, when she is dead? What then
should she do with these things, which are the ornaments
of the world, and the decoration of the living? With a
garment of cotton this damsel might be covered, and
we are more worthy of the things than she." Then he
drew near to the steps, and ascended them until he
reached the spot between the two slaves, when suddenly
one of them smote him upon his back and the other smote
him with the sword that was in his hand, and struck off
his head, and he fell down dead. Seeing this the people
were much terrified, and the Emeer Moosa commanded[146]
them to leave the city and close the gate as it was
before.
They then proceeded on until they came in sight
of a high mountain overlooking the sea. In it were
many caves in which was a people of black, clad in hides,
whose language was not known. And when the blacks
saw the troops they ran away from them, while their
women and children stood at the entrance of the cave.
So the Emeer Moosa said, "O Abdes-Samad, what are
these people?" And he answered, "These are the objects
of the inquiry of the Prince of the Faithful."
They therefore alighted and the tents were pitched and
they had not rested when the king of the blacks came
down from the mountain, and drew near to the troops.
He was acquainted with the Arabic language, and when
he came to Emeer Moosa he saluted him, and the Emeer
returned his salute and treated him with honor. Then
the king of the blacks said to the Emeer, "Are ye of
mankind, or of the genies?" The Emeer answered,
"We are of mankind, but as to you, there is no doubt
that ye are of the genies, because of the greatness of your
size." But the king of the blacks replied, "Nay, we
are a people of the race of Adam, of the sons of Ham,
the son of Noah. And this sea is known by the name of
El-Karkar."
The Emeer then said to him, "We are the messengers
and servants of the Caliph Abdel-Melik, and we
have come on account of the bottles of brass that are here
in your sea, in which are the genies imprisoned from
the time of Solomon, the son of David. He hath commanded
us to bring him some of them, that he may see
them. Wilt thou help us in this matter?" The king of[147]
the blacks replied, "Most willingly." Then he ordered
the divers to bring up from the sea some of the bottles
of Solomon, and they brought up twelve bottles, which
the king gave to the Emeer. The Emeer Moosa was delighted,
and Abdes-Samad also, and the soldiers, on account
of the accomplishment of the wish of the Prince of
the Faithful. The Emeer then presented to the king of
the blacks many gifts.
Then they bade him farewell, and they journeyed
back until they came to the land of Syria, and went to
the palace of the Prince of the Faithful. The Emeer
Moosa told him of all that he had seen, and of the case
of Talib. And the Prince of the Faithful said to him,
"Would that I had been with you that I might have
beheld what ye beheld." He then took the bottles, and
proceeded to open one after another, and the genies
came forth from them saying, "Repentance! O Prophet
of God! We will not return to the like conduct ever."
After this the Prince of the Faithful caused the riches
to be brought before him, and divided them among the
people.
This is the end of that which hath come down to us
of the history of the City of Brass.
"Stories from the Arabian Nights." Selected and edited by
M. Clarke. (American Book Company.)
The Magic Ring, the Bird, and the Basket
The night was clear and cool when Juan and his
father went to bed. Soon they fell asleep, lulled by the
wind whistling among the trees. When midnight came,
they were aroused from their sound sleep by the shouting
of men and the roaring of fire. Juan and his father[148]
jumped out of the house to save themselves. As they
were hiding under a bamboo tree, four men came and
tied the hands of the father and son with vines. Juan
was strong enough to break the vines, but he did not try
to, for fear that the robbers would kill them. The four
men carried the poor captives to their boat and sailed
away. Many of Juan's friends and relatives were also
captured.
As they were sailing southward a terrible storm came.
All the boats were sunk by the merciless waves. Before
Juan reached the bottom, for he could not swim, a very
big shark swallowed him. The shark, after swallowing
Juan, went to its home in a big cave under the water.
While he was kicking in the stomach of the shark, his
knife fell from his pocket and the vines with which his
hands were tied, broke. He opened his knife with his
hands and teeth, and cut a hole through the stomach of
the shark. Instead of floating to the surface of the water,
Juan began to sink and sink as if something were
pulling him downward. At last he came to a dry place.
He met nobody there except a gray-bearded man, who
asked him where he was going. Juan told his story.
"You are unfortunate, my boy," said the old man,
"you will have a very hard time in reaching your
home."
"But how may I reach home again?" said Juan.
The old man told him to climb the high mountain
which could be seen from where they were standing.
"When you reach the top, jump into the hole and you
will be thrown up to the other world." When Juan was
about to go, the old man gave him a ring. "This ring,"
he said, "is powerful. You can conquer the fiercest demon[149]
on earth with the help of this ring. Ask from it
anything, food, clothes, and other things, and you will
have what you want. If you want to go to some place,
you can reach it in a second. This ring will carry you
to the top of the mountain."
When the old man was through giving the instructions,
Juan found himself on the top of the mountain.
Then he jumped into the hole. Suddenly he was blown
up through the water and up in the air. He fell back
on the water. He wished he were on land and instantly
he was carried to a small village full of savages. Juan
performed many miracles for the savages, so they elected
him king.
One day they went hunting and soon they caught a
deer. While they were taking off the hide, a big bird
swooped and took the deer with it. Juan clung to the
horns of the deer trying to take it from the bird, but in
vain. The bird did not mind Juan for he was very
small compared with it. It alighted on a very high cliff,
left Juan and the dead deer there, and flew away. On
the cliff was the bird's nest, and in it were three diamond-like
round eggs which were about three feet in
diameter.
Juan asked his magical ring to give him a very big
basket. The basket came. Then he rolled the eggs into
the basket. Juan seated himself between the eggs and
asked his ring again to take him and the basket home.
The basket was so heavy that the ring could not make
it fly very fast. While they were sailing in the air, the
bird came with its mate. They held the handle of the
basket with their beaks and carried the basket back to
the cliff. The power of the magical ring was helpless[150]
because the birds were very strong. Juan, then, wished
to be clad in armor. So said, so done. But he had no
sword, so he asked the ring to give him one. When the
birds reached the cliff, they alighted. Juan stepped from
the basket and drew his sword. Whenever the birds
pecked him, he would strike them on their necks with
his sword. After fighting with him for more than half
a day, the birds fell helpless on the rock.
Then the victor, Juan, asked the ring again to take
him and the basket to his old home. When he reached
the place, the once flourishing village was gone. Only
a few huts were left standing.—Facundo Esquivel.
II. The Imaginary Voyage with a Satiric or Instructive
Purpose
To the class of marvelous tales belong also what
are known in France as "Voyages Imaginaires." In
so far as the adventurers meet with super-extraordinary
beings, or ride on fleas of the dimensions of
elephants, or have monstrous spiders weave for a field
of battle a web between the moon and the morning
star, or in so far as they sail on seas of milk to islands
of cheese and altogether suspend the semblance of possibility—in
so far are they heroes of absurd tales of
wonder. But the narrators of the stories of imaginary
voyages for the most part had primarily other objects
than mere amusement in view; namely, ridicule of the
extravagant narrative by means of imitation and
exaggeration, or ridicule of political and philosophic
tenets by absurd application; or the story-tellers had
instruction to give in civic and social theories by presenting
the ideal in contrast with the real.
[151]
Source of
the type
The first example and perhaps the source of this
whole species of narrative is the "True History" of
Lucian, which, is professedly fabulous and
satiric. Lucian says that by his seas of milk
and islands of cheese and the like, he is ridiculing the
extravagant relations of the old poets and historians
who tell incredible tales. Hundreds of years after
Lucian, Marco Polo and Sir John Mandeville by their
marvelous accounts of remote countries set themselves
in the class Lucian satirized. But we will take them
up later, since they were real travellers simply exaggerating
what they had seen in order the more surely
to please a perverted historical taste. We are dealing
now with acknowledged imagination. There are many
famous imaginary voyages professedly satiric besides
Lucian's. Savinien Cyrano de Bergerac's "History of
the States and Empires of the Moon" is a satire on the
pedantry and scholastic disputations of his age, the
early seventeenth century, concerning the uninhabitableness
of the lunar world. To the moon Bergerac
makes an excursion and settles matters for himself.
"Niel Klim's Underground Journey," by Ludvig
Holberg of Denmark, is another famous imaginary
trip.
Swift and
Defoe
But no nation has surpassed England, and none
indeed has even equalled her, in the production of this
class of stories. "Gulliver's Travels,"
"Gaudentio de Lucca," and "Robinson
Crusoe" are supreme. Swift's marvelous tale is, of
course, satire; Berkley's extravagant one, philosophy
and polemic; Defoe's seemingly true narration, religious
dissent. But in the minds of the critics—and[152]
in the mind of every school boy, I suppose—there is
the judgment that Defoe succeeded in writing the best
pure "story" story in all the world. On the one hand,
accordingly, by its content of a sea voyage and a wreck
on an unknown shore and by the controversial purpose
of its author, and by the fact that it became the progenitor
of a long line of marvelous narratives, the
story of "Robinson Crusoe" links itself with the
species of imaginary voyages and stands forth as the
highest, though because of its virtues not the most
representative, attainment of the class. On the other
hand, "Robinson Crusoe" by its unaffected simplicity
of diction, by its many minute circumstances, by its
particularity as to persons, places, dates, and references,
stands at the head as the greatest and best
representative of another type of narratives,—the
story of probable adventures. But one would finally
class Defoe's story with realistic romance.
More typical of the present species, because more
extravagant and not so seemingly actual, is the somewhat
charming though long-forgotten story of the
"Voyage of Peter Wilkins," written about 1750 by R.
Paltock or Pultock. In this narrative the author
created a new species of beings, which have been
ranked among the most beautiful offsprings of imagination.
In the "Curse of Kehama" Southey acknowledged
them as the origin of the Glendoveers,
"The loveliest race of all of heavenly birth,
Hovering with gentle motion o'er the earth,
Amid the moonlight air,
In sportive flight, still floating round and round."
[153]
In Paltock's story they are not fairies, but flying
men and women.
In imitation of Bergerac's voyage to the moon there
appeared descriptions of journeys to the various
heavenly bodies. The planet Venus, for instance,
afforded opportunity for satire on amatory tendencies;
Mercury, on fraud and avarice; and so on through the
other planets and vices. Ridicule of the predominant
passions of individuals was come at also. The arrant
boaster is delectably set forth in the "Adventures of
Baron Munchausen."
To narrate an imaginary voyage, therefore, on lines
laid down in the past, you must take to yourself to
begin with either a political and social theory or a
general spirit of ridicule, either an instructive or a
corrective temper.
If you take a political and social theory to establish
you must show it in operation in a realm where there
is perfect and ideal wisdom, where the obstacles in the
world do not hold, as they do not in the Happy Valley,
Utopia, and the New Atlantis.
Suggestion
on how to
write a
satiric
imaginary
voyage
If you undertake to ridicule present mistaken tendencies
and follies, your task will be a little harder.
First you must work out your argument
somewhat in detail before you begin your
voyage, since you will need to fit adventures,
objects, people, and speeches, either
by way of exaggeration or oppositeness, to
their modern counterparts. Next, you
should have definitely in mind a few prominent leaders
in the movement or a few promoters of the policy you
mean to laugh at. You may take the portrait and[154]
characteristics of these men as basis, and exaggerate
and modify to suit your purpose. Just as a good cartoonist
must know anatomy and the rules of correct
drawing, so a caricaturist and satirist must know real
people. It will happen probably that readers not in
the secret of your originals will fail to recognize them
surely, as people now fail to recognize de Bergerac's
and Swift's; yet your story can not but be the livelier
and better for your concrete thinking. And as we now
read the "Journey to the Moon" and "Gulliver's
Travels" for the amusing adventures, so your audience
will enjoy your story for the same reason and no other.
But you can hardly create amusing adventures without
something to create them of, and the lives of real
people are to be the stuff. This suggestion is merely
the embodiment of the psychological fact that all the
chimeras that man ever thought of are but modifications
of real images. Then it will be well also to
remember the convenience of allegory and to use it
upon occasion. In fact, many imaginary voyages are
but rough-and-ready allegories. Yet you must be careful
not to over-do the allegory; for in the fourth place,
you should strive for minute versimilitude. The nearer
like the details of a real journey your small incidents
are, the better your readers will be pleased with your
large incidents. It is the little surprises of familiarity
among strangeness that create the emotion of pleasure.
Last of all, and first of all, and altogether requisite
is this virtue: To be a good narrator of imaginary
voyages, you must be, like Defoe, the "best of liars."
Nothing is too stupendous to tell if you only know
how to tell it.
[155]
Mellonta Tauta
On Board Balloon "Skylark,"
April 1, 2848.
Now, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to
suffer the infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you
distinctly that I am going to punish you for all your impertinences
by being as tedious, as discursive, as incoherent,
and as unsatisfactory as possible. Besides, here
I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with some one or two
hundred of the canaille, all bound on a pleasure excursion
(what a funny idea some people have of pleasure!),
and I have no prospect of touching terra firma for a
month at least. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do.
When one has nothing to do, then is the time to correspond
with one's friends. You perceive then, why it is
that I write you this letter—it is on account of my ennui
and your sins.
Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to
be annoyed. I mean to write at you every day during
this odious voyage.
Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human
pericranium? Are we forever to be doomed to the thousand
inconveniences of the balloon? Will nobody contrive
a more expeditious mode of progress? The jog-trot
movement, to my thinking, is little less than positive
torture. Upon my word, we have not made more
than a hundred miles the hour since leaving home!
The very birds beat us—at least some of them. I assure
you that I do not exaggerate at all. Our motion,
no doubt, seems slower than it actually is—this on account
of our having no objects about us by which to estimate
our velocity, and on account of our going with the[156]
wind. To be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have
a chance of perceiving our rate, and then, I admit, things
do not appear so very bad. Accustomed as I am to this
mode of traveling, I cannot get over a kind of giddiness
whenever a balloon passes us in a current directly overhead.
It always seems to me like an immense bird of
prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its
claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise,
and so nearly overhead that its drag-rope actually
brushed the net-work suspending our car, and caused us
very serious apprehension. Our captain said that if the
material of the bag had been the trumpery varnished
"silk" of five hundred or a thousand years ago, we
should inevitably have been damaged. This silk, as he
explained it to me, was a fabric composed of the entrails
of a species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully
fed on mulberries—a kind of fruit resembling a
water-melon—and, when sufficiently fat, was crushed in
a mill. The paste thus arising was called papyrus in its
primary state, and went through a variety of processes
until it finally became "silk." Singular to relate, it
was once much admired as an article of female dress!
Balloons were also very generally constructed from it.
A better kind of material, it appears, was subsequently
found in the down surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant
vulgarly called euphorbium, and at that time botanically
termed milk-weed. This latter kind of silk was designated
as silk-buckingham, on account of its superior
durability, and was usually prepared for use by being
varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a substance
which in some respects must have resembled the
guttapercha now in common use. This caoutchouc was[157]
occasionally called Indian rubber or rubber of twist, and
was no doubt one of the numerous fungi. Never tell
me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.
Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this
moment knocked a man overboard from one of the small
magnetic propellers that swarm in the ocean below us—a
boat of about six thousand tons, and, from all accounts,
shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques should
be prohibited from carrying more than a definite number
of passengers. The man, of course, was not permitted
to get on board again, and was soon out of sight,
he and his life-preserver. I rejoice, my dear friend, that
we live in an age so enlightened that no such a thing as
an individual is supposed to exist. It is the mass for
which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talking of
Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is
not so original in his views of the Social Condition and
so forth, as his contemporaries are inclined to suppose?
Pundit assures me that the same ideas were put nearly
in the same way, about a thousand years ago, by an Irish
philosopher called Furrier, on account of his keeping a
retail shop for cat peltries and other furs. Pundit
knows, you know; there can be no mistake about it. How
very wonderfully do we see verified every day, the profound
observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted
by Pundit): "Thus must we say that, not once or twice,
or a few times, but with almost infinite repetitions, the
same opinions came round in a circle among men."
April 2d.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in
charge of the middle section of floating telegraph wires.
I learn that when this species of telegraph was first put
into operation by Horse, it was considered quite impossible[158]
to convey the wires over sea, but now we are at a
loss to comprehend where the difficulty lay! So wags the
world. Tempora mutantur—excuse me for quoting the
Etruscan. What would we do without the Atlantic telegraph?
(Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient adjective.)
We lay to a few minutes to ask the cutter some
questions, and learned, among other glorious news, that
civil war is raging in Africa, while the plague is doing
its good work beautifully both in Yurope and Ayesher.
Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent
light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was
accustomed to regard War and Pestilence as calamities?
Do you know that prayers were actually offered up in
the ancient temples to the end that these evils (!) might
not be visited upon mankind? Is it not really difficult to
comprehend upon what principle of interest our forefathers
acted? Were they so blind as not to perceive
that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only
so much positive advantage to the mass!
April 3d.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend
the rope-ladder leading to the summit of the balloon-bag,
and thence survey the surrounding world.
From the car below you know the prospect is not so
comprehensive—you can see little vertically. But seated
here (where I write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned
opened piazza of the summit, one can see everything that
is going on in all directions. Just now there is quite a
crowd of balloons in sight, and they present a very animated
appearance, while the air is resonant with the
hum of so many millions of human voices. I have heard
it asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit will have it)
Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut,[159]
maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere
in all directions, by merely ascending or descending
until a favorable current was attained, he was
scarcely hearkened to at all by his contemporaries, who
looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort of madman,
because the philosophers (!) of the day declared the
thing impossible. Really now, it does seem to me quite
unaccountable how anything so obviously feasible could
have escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in
all ages the great obstacles to advancement in Art have
been opposed by the so-called men of science. To be
sure, our men of science are not quite so bigoted as those
of old—oh, I have something so queer to tell you on this
topic. Do you know that it is not more than a thousand
years ago since the metaphysicians consented to relieve
the people of the singular fancy that there existed but
two possible roads for the attainment of Truth! Believe
it if you can! It appears that long, long ago, in the
night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher (or
Hindoo possibly), called Aries Tottle. This person introduced
or at all events propagated what was termed
the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He
started with what he maintained to be axioms, or "self-evident
truths," and thence proceeded "logically" to
results. His greatest disciples were one Neuclid, and one
Cant. Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme until the
advent of one Hog, surnamed the "Ettrick Shepherd,"
who preached an entirely different system, which he
called the a posteriori or inductive. His plan referred
altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by observing,
analyzing, and classifying facts—instantiae naturae, as
they were affectedly called—into general laws. Aries[160]
Tottle's mode, in a word, was based on noumena; Hog's
on phenomena. Well, so great was the admiration excited
by this latter system that, at its first introduction,
Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he recovered
ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth
with his more modern rival. The savans now maintained
the Aristotelian and Baconian roads were the sole possible
avenues to knowledge. "Baconian," you must know,
was an adjective invented as equivalent to Hog-ian and
more euphonious and dignified.
Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively,
that I represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority;
and you can easily understand how a notion so
absurd on its very face must have operated to retard the
progress of all true knowledge—which makes its advances
almost invariably by intuitive bounds. The ancient
idea confined investigations to crawling; and for
hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about
Hog especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking,
properly so called. No man dared utter a truth to which
he felt himself indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered
not whether the truth was even demonstrably a truth, for
the bullet-headed savans of the time regarded only the
road by which he had attained it. They would not even
look at the end. "Let us see the means," they cried,
"the means!" If, upon investigation of the means, it
was found to come under neither the category Aries (that
is to say, Ram), nor under the category Hog, why then
the savans went no farther, but pronounced the
"theorist" a fool, and would have nothing to do with
him or his truth.
Now, it cannot be maintained even that by the crawling[161]
system the greatest amount of truth would be attained
in any long series of ages, for the repression of
imagination was an evil not to be compensated for by
any superior certainty in the ancient modes of investigation.
The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch,
these Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the
way, were our own immediate progenitors), was an error
quite analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies
that he must necessarily see an object the better the
more closely he holds it to his eyes. These people
blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded
Hoggishly, their "facts" were by no means always facts—a
matter of little consequence had it not been for assuming
that they were facts and must be facts because
they appeared to be such. When they proceeded on
the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely as straight
as a ram's horn, for they never had an axiom which was
an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not
to see this, even in their own day; for even in their own
day many of the long "established" axioms had been
rejected. For example, "Ex nihilo nihil fit"; "a body
cannot act where it is not"; "there cannot exist antipodes";
"darkness cannot come out of light"—all
these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly
admitted without hesitation as axioms, were, even at
the period of which I speak, seen to be untenable. How
absurd in these people, then, to persist in putting faith
in "axioms" as immutable bases of Truth! But even
out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy
to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their
axioms in general. Who was the soundest of their logicians?
Let me see! I will go and ask Pundit and be[162]
back in a minute.... Ah, here we have it! Here
is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and lately
translated from Inglitch—which, by the way, appears
to have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit
says it is decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its
topic, Logic. The author (who was much thought of
in his day) was one Miller, or Mill; and we find it recorded
of him, as a point of some importance, that he
had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us glance at
the treatise!
Ah! "Ability or inability to conceive," says Mr.
Mill, very properly, "is in no case, to be received as a
criterion of axiomatic truth." What modern in his
senses would ever think of disputing this truism? The
only wonder with us must be, how it happened that
Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at anything
so obvious. So far, good—but let us turn over another
paper. What have we here? "Contradictories cannot
both be true—that is, cannot coexist in nature."
Here Mr. Mill means, for example, that a tree must be
either a tree or not a tree—that it cannot be at the
same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask
him why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be
anything else than this—"Because it is impossible to
conceive that contradictories can both be true." But
this is no answer at all, by his own showing; for has
he not just admitted as a truism that "ability or inability
to conceive is in no case to be received as a
criterion of axiomatic truth"?
Now I do not complain of these ancients so much
because their logic is, by their own showing, utterly
baseless, worthless and fantastic altogether, as because[163]
of their pompous and imbecile proscription of all other
roads of Truth, of all other means for its attainment
than the two preposterous paths—the one creeping and
the one of crawling—to which they have dared to confine
the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.
By the by, my friend, do you not think it would have
puzzled these ancient dogmaticians to have determined
by which of their two roads it was that the most important
and most sublime of all their truths was, in
effect, attained? I mean the truth of Gravitation.
Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his
three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all
laws which led the great Inglitch mathematician to his
principle, the basis of all physical principle—to go behind
which we must enter the Kingdom of Metaphysics:
Kepler guessed—that is to say, imagined. He was
essentially a "theorist"—that word now of so much
sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it
not have puzzled these old moles, too, to have explained
by which of the two "roads" a cryptographist unriddles
a cryptograph of more than usual secrecy, or by which
of the two roads Champollion directed mankind to those
enduring and almost innumerable truths which resulted
from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics?
One word more on this topic and I will be done
boring you. Is it not passing strange that, with their
eternal prattling about roads to Truth, these bigoted
people missed what we now so clearly perceive to be the
great highway—that of Consistency? Does it not seem
singular how they should have failed to deduce from
the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency
must be an absolute truth! How plain has been[164]
our progress since the late announcement of this proposition!
Investigation has been taken out of the hands
of the groundmoles and given, as a task, to the true and
only true thinkers, the men of ardent imagination. These
latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout of scorn
with which my words would be received by our progenitors
were it possible for them to be now looking over my
shoulder? These men, I say, theorize; and their theories
are simply corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared,
little by little, of their dross of inconsistency—until,
finally, a perfect consistency stands apparent
which even the most stolid admit, because it is a consistency,
to be an absolute and an unquestionable truth.
April 4th.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction
with the new improvement with gutta percha.
How very safe, commodious, manageable, and in every
respect convenient are our modern balloons? Here is
an immense one approaching us at the rate of at least
a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be
crowded with people—perhaps there are three or four
hundred passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation
of nearly a mile, looking down upon poor us with sovereign
contempt. Still, a hundred or even two hundred
miles an hour is slow traveling after all. Do you remember
our flight on the railroad across the Kanadaw
continent? Fully three hundred miles the hour—that
was traveling. Nothing to be seen, though—nothing
to be done but flirt, feast and dance in the magnificent
saloons. Do you remember what an odd sensation was
experienced, when, by chance, we caught a glimpse of external
objects while the cars were in full flight? Everything
seemed unique—in one mass. For my part, I cannot[165]
say but that I preferred the traveling by the slow
train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted
to have glass windows—even to have them open—and
something like a distinct view of the country was
attainable.... Pundit says that the route for the
great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some measure
marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he
goes so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are
still discernible—traces referable to a period quite as
remote as that mentioned. The track, it appears, was
double only; ours, you know, has twelve paths; and three
or four new ones are in preparation. The ancient rails
are very slight, and placed so close together as to be,
according to modern notions, quite frivolous, if not dangerous,
in the extreme. The present width of track—fifty
feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough.
For my part, I make no doubt that a track of some
sort must have existed in very remote times, as Pundit
asserts; for nothing can be clearer, to my mind, than
that, at some period—not less than seven centuries ago,
certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw continents
were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have
been driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the
continent.
April 5th.—I am almost devoured by ennui. Pundit
is the only conversible person on board; and he, poor
soul, can speak of nothing but antiquities. He has been
occupied all the day in the attempt to convince me
that ancient Americans governed themselves! Did ever
anybody hear of such an absurdity? That they existed
in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the
fashion of the "prairie dogs" that we read of in fable.[166]
He says that they started with the queerest ideas conceivable,
viz: that all men are born free and equal—this
in the very teeth of the laws of gradation so visibly impressed
upon all things both in the moral and physical
universe. Every man "voted," as they called it—that is
to say, meddled with public affairs—until at length, it
was discovered that what is everybody's business is nobody's,
and that the "Republic" (so the absurd thing
was called) was without a government at all. It is related,
however, that the first circumstance which disturbed,
very particularly, the self-complacency of the philosophers
who constructed this "Republic" was the startling
discovery that universal suffrage gave opportunity for
fraudulent schemes, by means of which any desired
number of votes might at any time be polled, without
the possibility of prevention or even detection, by any
party which should be merely villainous enough not
to be ashamed of the fraud. A little reflection upon
this discovery sufficed to render evident the consequences,
which were that rascality must predominate—in
a word, that a republican government could never
be anything but a rascally one. While the philosophers,
however, were busied in blushing at their stupidity
in not having foreseen these inevitable evils, and
intent upon the invention of new theories, the matter
was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of the name of
Mob, who took everything into his own hands and set up
a despotism, in comparison with which those of the
fabulous Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable
and delectable. This Mob (a foreigner, by the by) is
said to have been the most odious of all men that ever
encumbered the earth. He was a giant in stature—insolent,[167]
rapacious, filthy; had the gall of a bullock with
the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He
died, at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted
him. Nevertheless, he had his uses, as everything
has, however vile, and taught mankind a lesson
which to this day it is in no danger of forgetting—never
to run directly contrary to the natural analogies.
As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for
it upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case
of the "prairie dogs," an exception which seems, to demonstrate,
if anything, that democracy is a very admirable
form of government—for dogs.
April 6th.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha
Lyrae, whose disk, through our captain's spy glass, subtends
an angle of half a degree, looking very much as
our sun does to the naked eye on a misty day. Alpha
Lyrae, although so very much larger than our sun, by
the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its atmosphere,
and in many other particulars. It is only
within the last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary
relation existing between these two orbs began even to
be suspected. The evident motion of our system in
the heavens was (strange to say!) referred to an orbit
about a prodigious star in the center of the galaxy.
About this star, or at all events about a center of gravity
common to all the globes of the Milky Way and
supposed to be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one
of these globes was declared to be revolving, our own
performing the circuit in a period of 117,000,000 of
years! We, with our present lights, our vast telescopic
improvements, and so forth, of course find it difficult
to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its[168]
first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must
presume, to this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in
the first instance; but, this being the case, he should
have at least adhered to analogy in its development. A
great central orb was, in fact, suggested; so far Mudler
was consistent. This central orb, however, dynamically,
should have been greater than all its surrounding
orbs taken together. The question might then have
been asked, "Why do we not see it?" We, especially,
who occupy the mid region of the cluster—the very
locality near which, at least, must be situated this inconceivable
central sun. The astronomer, perhaps, at
this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity;
and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even
admitting the central orb non-luminous, how did he
manage to explain its failure to be rendered visible by
the incalculable host of glorious suns glaring in all
directions about it? No doubt what he finally maintained
was merely a center of gravity common to all
the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must have
been let fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a
common center of gravity, but it does this in connection
with and in consequence of a material sun whose
mass more than counterbalances the rest of the system.
The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an infinity
of straight lines; but this idea of the circle—this
idea of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we
consider as merely the mathematical, in contradistinction
from the practical, idea—is, in sober fact, the practical
conception which alone we have any right to entertain
in respect to those Titanic circles with which we
have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our[169]
system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the
center of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human
imaginations but attempt to take a single step toward
the comprehension of a circuit so unutterable! It would
scarcely be paradoxical to say that a flash of lightning
itself, traveling forever upon the circumference of this
inconceivable circle, would still forever be traveling in
a straight line. That the path of our sun along such
a circumference—that the direction of our system in
such an orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate
in the slightest degree from a straight line even in a
million of years, is a proposition not to be entertained;
and yet these ancient astronomers were absolutely
cajoled, it appears, into believing that a decisive curvature
had become apparent during the brief period of
their astronomical history—during the mere point—during
the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years!
How incomprehensible, that considerations such as this
did not at once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that
of the binary revolution of our sun and Alpha
Lyrae around a common center of gravity!
April 7th.—Continued last night our astronomical
amusements. Had a fine view of the five Neptunian
asteroids, and watched with much interest the putting
of a huge impost on a couple of lintels in the new temple
at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think
that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing
so little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a
mechanical ingenuity so much superior to our own. One
finds it difficult, too, to conceive the vast masses which
these people handle so easily, to be as light as our own
reason tell us they actually are.
[170]
April 8th.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A
balloon from Kanadaw spoke us today and threw on
board several late papers; they contain some exceedingly
curious information relative to Kanawdian or rather
Amriccan antiquities. You know, I presume, that laborers
have for some months been employed in preparing
the ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor's
principal pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears,
has been, literally speaking, an island time out of mind—that
is to say, its northern boundary was always (as
far back as any record extends) a rivulet, or rather a
very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was gradually
widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile.
The whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth
varies materially. The entire area (so Pundit says)
was, about eight hundred years ago, densely packed with
houses, some of them twenty stories high: land (for
some most unaccountable reason) being considered as
especially precious just in this vicinity. The disastrous
earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally uprooted
and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost
too large to be called a village) that the most indefatigable
of our antiquarians have never yet been able
to obtain from the site any sufficient data (in the shape
of coins, medals or inscriptions) wherewith to build up
even the ghost of a theory concerning the manners, customs,
etc., etc., etc., of the aboriginal inhabitants. Nearly
all that we have hitherto known of them is that they
were a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages
infesting the continent at its first discovery by Recorder
Riker, a knight of the Golden Fleece. They were by
no means uncivilized, however, but cultivated various[171]
arts and even sciences after a fashion of their own. It
it related of them that they were acute in many respects,
but were oddly afflicted with monomania for
building what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated
"churches"—a kind of pagoda instituted for the
worship of two idols that went by the names of Wealth
and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the island became,
nine-tenths of it, church. The women, too, it appears,
were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the
region just below the small of the back—although, most
unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether
in the light of a beauty. One or two pictures
of these singular women have, in fact, been miraculously
preserved. They looked very odd, very—like something
between a turkeycock and a dromedary.
Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended
to us respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It
seems, however, that while digging in the center of the
emperor's garden (which, you know, covers the whole
island), some of the workmen unearthed a cubical and
evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several
hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having
received, apparently, little injury from the convulsion
which entombed it. On one of its surfaces was a marble
slab with (only think of it!) an inscription—a
legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstasies. Upon detaching
the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden
box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names,
several documents which appear to resemble newspapers,
with other matters of intense interest to the antiquarian!
There can be no doubt that all these are genuine
Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe called Knickerbocker.[172]
The papers thrown on board our balloon are
filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography,
etc., etc. I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker
inscription on the marble slab:
This Corner Stone of a Monument to the
Memory of
GEORGE WASHINGTON,
was laid with appropriate ceremonies on the
19th day of October, 1847,
the anniversary of the surrender of
Lord Cornwallis
to General Washington at Yorktown,
A. D. 1781,
under the auspices of the
Washington Monument Association of the
City of New York.
This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done
by Pundit himself, so there can be no mistake about it.
From the few words thus preserved, we gleam several
important items of knowledge, not the least interesting
of which is the fact that a thousand years ago actual
monuments had fallen into disuse—as was all very
proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now,
with a mere indication of the design to erect a monument
at some future time; a cornerstone being cautiously
laid by itself "solitary and alone" (excuse me
for quoting the great Amriccan poet Benton!) as a
guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We ascertain,
too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription, the
how as well as the where and the what, of the great[173]
surrender in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown
(wherever that was), and as to the what, it was
General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in
corn). He was surrendered. The inscription commemorates
the surrender of—what?—why, "of Lord Cornwallis."
The only question is what could the savages
wish him surrendered for. But when we remember
that these savages were undoubtedly cannibals, we are
led to the conclusion that they intended him for sausage.
As to the how of the surrender, no language can
be more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for
sausage) "under the auspices of the Washington Monument
Association"—no doubt a charitable institution
for the depositing of cornerstones. But, Heaven bless
me! what is the matter? Ah, I see—the balloon has collapsed,
and we shall have a tumble into the sea. I have,
therefore, only time enough to add that, from a hasty
inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, etc., etc., I
find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans,
were one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a
tailor.
Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever
get this letter or not is point of little importance, as I
write altogether for my own amusement. I shall cork
the MS. up in a bottle, however, and throw it into the
sea.
Yours everlastingly,
PUNDITA.
—Edgar Allan Poe.
Busyong's Trip to Jupiter
Singular indeed among such ordinary men as we
come across in our everyday life Busyong might have[174]
seemed to us, both on account of his features and of his
attitude. He had wrinkles on his face which showed
that he had smiled and laughed much in his life; but
his expression was rather sardonic. He was a lively
man, with a keen sense of what is serious and what
is ludicrous. Owing to this peculiarity Busyong did
not have many acquaintances among his tribe. However,
he did not feel lonesome or forlorn; often he
amused himself in observing in his people what he regarded
as the overstepping of limits of propriety and
decency. He was not a man of vast knowledge, yet he
had exquisite common sense, which his few good friends
admired.
Busyong entertained the idea of visiting the brightest
planet, next to Venus, of our solar system, namely,
Jupiter; for he had read in a certain book that Jupiter
is inhabited, and the inhabitants can float in the air
because of their lightness. "This is something to me,"
he said to himself. "Let us see what sort of people
they are." So, led by curiosity, Busyong after several
attempts succeeded in finding means by which he could
go to Jupiter. He made a large balloon-like machine.
When Busyong had prepared everything necessary for
this aerial voyage, he began ascending from the top
of Mt. Makiling at sunset. Nobody witnessed him, because
he did not make the purpose of his voyage known
to anybody. While he was ascending, he was delighted
to observe the earth growing smaller and smaller. The
machine of the balloon was so powerful that by turning
a sort of button to its maximum capacity, as Busyong
did, he had the balloon soon piercing the clouds
and like a large condor soaring in the sky. When Busyong[175]
found out that he could hardly breathe, he accelerated
the speed of the balloon, so that in a few moments
he found himself in a different atmosphere where he
could breathe as well as before when he was yet near
the earth. He was now near Jupiter, whose brightness
had served him as a lighthouse. He had puffed
out some of the vapor in the balloon, so that he might
go down nearer the planet. It being very early in the
morning, he resolved to take a rest; for he was tired
of seeing nothing but stars and sky.
Presently, after about two hours, when the sun was
just appearing from behind the planet, Busyong woke
up. He was glad; for he had dreamt that he should
see things which he had never seen before. After rubbing
his eyes with a handkerchief, he began to look
around him. With the aid of a telescope which he
had brought he saw to his surprise large and small
bodies of land and water, which he took for continents,
islands, oceans, and lakes, respectively. Descending
lower, he perceived mountains, some of which were hidden
by clouds, and others that were unhidden, covered
with trees. When he had directed his telescope towards
a valley, he noticed to his happiness a poor dwelling
of some human being. It was a hut with a roof similar
to nipa and with a wooden ladder, near which was
a cock. The sight of this dwelling gave rise in Busyong
mind to a train of ideas regarding the inhabitants
of the planet. So far it certainly looked like the
country he had come from: it might still be the
Philippines. Busyong decided to alight from his balloon
on the top of a mountain near the hut. After he
had eaten his breakfast, he began to descend the mountain.[176]
It was not long before he reached its foot through
devious paths.
When he appeared before the entrance of the cottage
and looked in, he found a haggard middle-aged
man, a sluttish old woman, and a wan-faced boy, all
of a swarthy appearance, sitting on the floor. They
were eating their frugal breakfast, which consisted of
fried rice, coffee, and dried fish. They did not use
spoons, but their plain dirty-nailed fingers. Busyong
was surprised to find so great a similarity both in the
form of the house and in the manner of eating between
these people and those of his own country. Presently
upon his saluting these inmates with a magandang
araw po, a small lean red dog began to bark at him.
The man, who was sitting in a squatting posture, turned
his face and remained for a few moments staring at
Busyong with a little fright mingled with wonder. Unfortunately
when the old woman had cleaned her shriveled
hands unconsciously with a piece of brown ragged
cloth, the dog vomited on it without being noticed by
any one of the family. Then with her disheveled hair
she stood up to receive Busyong, who was a stranger
to them; but the man prevented her from doing so.
The man did not appear to understand Busyong, who
again bade him a good morning, and so Busyong resolved
to talk to him like a mute by signs. Having
noticed a large farm not very far from the hut, Busyong
beckoned the man, and made signs, asking him who
the owner of the field was. The man, who seemed to
be a farm laborer, pointed to him the way to the rich
farmer's house. Busyong soon left him still staring
with a vacant countenance and wide-open mouth.
[177]
Busyong had noticed the folly of the old woman
when she wiped her hands with the dirty piece of cloth.
It was not long after he had started to go that he
heard such loud retchings from the hut that he stopped
and turned around. He returned anxious to see what
the matter was. When he appeared before the entrance
of the cottage, he saw the peasant, who kept asking his
wife in a compassionate manner what was the matter
with her. The man received no answer; for his wife
kept on retching so constantly that she thought that, like
a sea cucumber, she had everted all her alimentary canal
or was going to do so. The poor husband was so perplexed
that he did not know what to do with her; sometimes
he patted her breast; sometimes he rubbed her
back as if he were stroking the bulik sa pula (a cock
spotted with white and red, but mostly with red) that
was near the ladder of the hut.
Presently, when the peasant saw Busyong observing
his action, he drew near to him and said something in
a tremulous voice. Busyong explained to the man by
motions that the cause of all the trouble was perhaps
the vomit of the dog on the piece of cloth. The man
hurried to convince himself; and in his great anger he
would have killed the poor animal, were it not for Busyong,
who stopped him. The husband and the wife,
whose convulsions had calmed somewhat, were angry
with the dog, and even their little boy, pouting with
smeared face, showed his anger by squalling at and
whipping the animal; but at the same time the man
and the old woman were afraid that Busyong might
call an ambulance to take them all to a hospital or police
station. In the midst of this excitement Busyong[178]
availed himself of the opportunity to "strike when the
emotional iron was hot." He exhorted the family concerning
the custom of eating with fingers in such a
philippic as might have had a very deep impression
on the minds of all his hearers if they had understood
him.
Busyong then departed, and he said to himself nodding,
"Aha, I remember my grandmother often said to
me when she would tell me amusing stories that in the
vineyard of the Lord there are all sorts of things. I
see now that her statement seems to hold good even in
this new planet." When he had walked some distance,
he looked around him, and took his handkerchief out of
a pocket of his coat and with it wiped off the perspiration
on his face. Feeling himself warm, he whiffed
and said, "I see, this country appears to have the same
warm climate as that of my native land. I wonder if
the people here are all brown like the farm-laborer and
me." After a few minutes' walk he saw a large town
at a short distance, and among the small houses he perceived
a steep roof which he took for the steeple of
the church of the village. The first house he came to
in the town was that of the rich farmer. It was a two-storied
square wooden structure; in front of it was a
small garden, and behind a small orchard. Busyong
knocked at the door, and in a few moments a servant
appeared.
"Is the farmer in?" Busyong inquired, hardly expecting
to be understood. He knew no language but his
own, and had to try to get along with that.
"Yes, sir," answered the servant, whose curiosity
was awakened by the rather unfamiliar appearance of[179]
Busyong, but who seemed to wonder not at all at his
speech.
"Tell him, please, that a stranger desires to speak
with him."
Without uttering a word, the servant went to comply
with Busyong's request.
"Yes, invite him to come in," said the old farmer
to his servant. "And, Andoy," he added, "tell Islao to
come here to try these new sound assorters."
"Yes, sir," was the boy's reply as he went down
the stairs.
The servant first led Busyong before the farmer.
"Here, Islao, see if you can put these new filterers
into your ears without discomfort. I've improved on the
others considerably, I think," said the old man as Busyong
stepped into the room.
"Good morning, sir," said Busyong very respectfully,
taking the proffered package and bowing, though
he understood not a word.
"Oh! excuse me, sir, excuse me! I mistook you for
my son," exclaimed the farmer, but seeing that Busyong
was confused he motioned him to sit down, and
then drawing from his ears a tiny pair of soft
elastic-looking objects, put them back and motioned Busyong
to imitate him by applying what was in the package
to his own ears. Being naturally very curious and
desiring above all things to make a good impression
on the inhabitants of this strange planet, Busyong
obeyed. But what was his astonishment to find that
he now began to understand perfectly what the old man
was saying, whom before he had not comprehended in the
least, although the old fellow was already well launched[180]
on a long exposition. Busyong's understanding began
to work at about this point: "You see, I have greatly
improved them. There has always hitherto been a sort
of buzzing accompaniment. You don't feel any, do you?
You understand me perfectly, don't you? I
told my son Islao the difficulty could be overcome,
But, you see, people have been so accustomed to getting
along with the noise that they stopped being impatient
at it. But I said since we had all the language sounds
assorted and distributed to their proper concept centers,
there was no reason why we should not be able to
conduct outward the so-to-say 'mechanical' sounds.
You understand me perfectly, don't you, sir, and with
no buzzing. Is not that so?"
"Yes, truly; but much to my astonishment," replied
Busyong, "for a moment ago I did not understand you,
and now I do. On our planet I have heard of light or
ray filterers that would distribute colors on a sensitive
camera plate, but this is the first time I've heard of a
language filterer, though I see that it works perfectly.
But, sir, I remember that you were very busy when I
came in, and now I am bothering you."
"Oh, no, sir; keep your seat, keep your seat, please.
This is the time when I attend to visitors; from nine
to twelve o'clock in the morning and from three to five
o'clock in the afternoon; and even at any other time
I am disposed to receive a guest, especially a stranger."
"Thank you, sir. My intrusion is perhaps justifiable
by my being a stranger to this planet."
"A stranger to this planet! Will you explain yourself?
Otherwise I shall think you are some ghost."
"Why, yes, I'll make myself clear as I can. I arrived[181]
here just this morning from the planet Earth.
Near the foot of that neighboring mountain I saw the
hut of your farm laborer, who showed me your house."
"But how did you come to this planet!"
"By a special balloon which I made myself."
"Oh, yes, I remember now; I remember to have read—I
do not recollect the name of the book—that such
an aerial voyage from the earth to this planet or vice
versa is possible. Oh, please, stay here with us; we
shall be very glad to have you remain with us."
"Thank you, sir; yes, I'll stay here. Especially if
you will explain to me this wonderful device by means
of which I can understand your language and you
mine. Now on Earth we have to go to the labor of
memorizing a whole dictionary if we wish to converse
with a fellow mortal of another nationality."
"Oh, yes; that's very bad. A great loss of time
and energy. A long while ago, after we had perfected
mechanical talking machines, somebody realized that we
were wasting a great amount of time conversing with
machinery when we couldn't understand our fellow
men. So he set himself to thinking and he soon saw
that the difference in languages is not a difference in
ideas, but in sounds. So if he could just filter the
sound waves as they entered the cranium, he could trust
to consciousness to do the rest; for it always responds
to phenomena after its own nature, not after the nature
of the phenomena that it takes up—as the philosophers
had long before proved. But I must stop talking.
I want to hear about the Earth. I dare say your planet
is much wiser than ours. Ours is very foolish in many
ways, as you will see before long." And the farmer[182]
got up to order one of his servants to prepare a room
for Busyong.
The family of the old man, consisting of a wife and
a grown-up son and a young daughter, then spent most
of the day in eagerly questioning Busyong about the
earth and its inhabitants. Night came on and the
farmer remained alone conversing with Busyong beside
a window until very late. They were beginning to feel
sleepy when a confused noise of stringed instruments
was heard from a neighboring house. Busyong soon
lost his drowsiness.
"What is that music for? What does it mean at
such at an hour as this? 'Tis one o'clock," Busyong
said.
"These people are courting a lady, and their cackling
is intended to win the love of the maiden—nay,
I should say to annoy and disturb the neighbors from
their rest; for that's really what they do," replied the
old man with indignation. "This custom," he added,
"although not widespread in this country, is yet after
all very troublesome and indeed very ridiculous also."
"Now, I wonder if these people know the woman
for whom they are offering their sacrifices."
"That is another folly about them. That is often
the case; these people work hard making a loud noise
with their wooden rattles in order to attain their purpose,
but they don't have the slightest idea of the real
character of the woman for whom they die deliriously;
nay, they don't know even how she looks; whether she
is ugly and haggard or whether she is like Venus,
charming with beauty."
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, O Folly! But let us not fret[183]
ourselves at the errors of mankind, for they seem to
be natural both to this planet and to that of mine.
Hark! who is that singing now so affectedly?"
"That is the head of the band, the Faust. Listen
to his fastidious voice and the balder-dash with which
it is accompanied."
Silence reigned for a time between the old man and
Busyong. Upon hearing no longer the music which had
occasioned his remarks the old man said, "Thanks to
Dios, I think they are gone. Now let us go to bed. You
must be very tired, Busyong. Good night."
"Good night," replied Busyong.
Next morning the old man told his son Islao to take
a walk with Busyong around the town. In this exploration,
for such did it appear rather than just a
mere promenade to Busyong, who was a stranger to the
planet, Islao led his friend directly to his large farm of
rice. Then they went to the busiest part of the large
town, where Busyong was delighted to observe the different
kinds of stores—dry goods and hardware. When
they came to a very lively street, Busyong found occasion
to laugh in his characteristic sarcastic manner at
the tremendous numbers of different kinds of signboards,
some hanging flat against the doors of the stores,
and some sticking out a long distance or even stretching
across the entire width of the street. The size of
the signboards ranged from the smallest of those which
professional men use to the very large ones with which
the managers of theaters announce a dramatic performance.
While the two friends were walking slowly along the
street, for there were many people out, their attention[184]
was very curiously attracted by the appearance of a
scrawny young man, who came mincing by them. They
stopped beside a telegraph post, while the young man
went on, meeting a friend at a short distance, to whom
he said, "Hallo, Tetoy (Aniceto). Donde vamus you?"
"Hallo, Balatong," replied the friend. The rest of their
conversation went on in a low tone in their peculiar
dialect. Busyong and Islao overheard only their slipshod
greetings.
"Islao, who is that man—that one who wears the
hat with a wide ribbon whose colors are light blue
and green, and black with white stripes resembling the
skin of a skunk?" inquired Busyong.
"What man? Excuse me, I was looking at somebody
else," said Islao. "Do you mean that one who wears
a bright red, yellow, and green——"
"Crumpled small fish net around his collar I should
say; yes, exactly, that one. Who's he?"
"Ha, ha, ha; oh, yes. He is one of the suitors of
the girl who lives in front of our house. Balatong, I
think is his name."
"Aha, the one who cackled last night, as your father
said?"
"I don't know," laughing.
"And that other one with cross eyes, whose trousers
are folded up five times, I think, showing his stockings,
which are like the tidies of a chair back—who's he?"
"Who? That one who wears broad ribbon-like strings
on his shoes? I don't know him. Don't you think he
looks like a woman—I mean both of them—with their
way of dressing? Aha, one of them—not the cross-eyed—has
powder on his face, I think."
[185]
"Oh, yes, yes. You know, in my native country in
the planet Earth only women are fond of and use
such gaudy colors and such kind of stockings; and, indeed,
they are only proper for women. But we used
to——"
"But that's not all here; the worst is when these
people use stockings—as I have had occasion to notice
many times—stockings which are elaborately ornamented
with the queerest fantastic designs; such as a burning
dainty heart, a dove carrying a bunch of dama de noche
with its toes—rather, a falcon or vulture I should say—great
goodness!—make the dove carry a flower in its
claws!"
"Aha, is that so? Why, thanks to goodness, in my
native land no such queer people are to be found now,
except very, very few. There used to be—but do you
know what we call them in pure, simple Tagalog? We
call them binabae; that is a bit worse than the English
term 'sissy.' But from your own experience, tell me,
Islao, what living being other than man have you observed
making such a liberal display of gaudy colors
in that most affected manner?"
"Why, among plants you mean? Like the parasite
with beautifully colored flowers hanging on that window?"
"Well, not so low in the organic world as that,"
laughing heartily. "I don't mean a plant; I mean——"
"Oh, I get your point. You mean among birds like
the gayly colored rooster of that man who is now hawking
in that store, don't you?"
"Exactly, upon my wish, you have slipped from
your tongue what I was precisely going to say."
[186]
"And I think you know why the birds, most especially
the males, do have such bright colors."
"Why, yes; I suppose those smart young men have
the same view in mind as that of the male birds, and
meditate and dream that it is 'not proper at all for a
man to be alone,' as, thinking of Priscilla, Miles Standish
would say."
"Possibly, possibly," laughing. Islao did not understand
the allusion, but he let it pass.
"Now be careful; don't speak loud," whispered
Busyong.
Presently the two friends who were the object of
Busyong and Islao's rather severe remarks shuffled towards
Busyong and Islao, stopping near the telegraph
post beside them. The two chums were going to separate
when one of them, the cross-eyed, jabbered, "Oh,
you teni espijo, ah? Porque? You ajos malo, eh?"
A sudden insuppressible peal of laughter was heard
from Busyong and Islao, who soon tried to act as if they
did not hear the blunder.
"Cosa ajos? Am no cook as you," said the other
grinning over his glasses a little more easily than the
first one.
"Cosa esti?" asked the cross-eyed one, pointing to
his eyes with his dirty-nailed finger.
"T'at is call 'esquinting eyes.'"
"Ah, yes. Porque got espijo you, esquinting ais?"
"Oh, you don' know its value; t'at is to add weight,"
erecting his body and raising his low chest, but forgetting
that the other had called him cross-eyed.
Their gabble would have lasted longer if it were not
for two ladies who passed between them. Balatong, as the[187]
young man who wore spectacles was called, started to
mince along the busy street, scowling at Busyong and
at Islao, who were suppressing their laughter as best
they could, as he strutted before them. In a few moments
Busyong and Islao began also to move about, and
soon kept pace with two bald-headed men who happened
to be walking the street in the same direction
as theirs. Presently, one of the old men observed Balatong,
who was peering at and caressing with a handkerchief
one of his tapped shoes which had been stepped
upon by a "brat," to use his own expression, as he had
struggled along, distorting carefully his body to force a
way through an idle crowd. Then in a sarcastic but
indignant manner and forgetting what his companion
was speaking about, the man said, "Oh, look at that
Enigo. See how the lower edge of his long cloak flaps
like a sail battered by the wind!"
"No," said the other old man, "that is not a cloak,
but a plain coat."
"Well, I thought it was a cloak like those used by
the people in the neighboring continent in time of cold
weather. That's the reason why I said he was Enigo,
for he uses a cloak now when it is warm, and I suppose
he would use light clothes when it is cold."
"That is the fashion they say—and the latest one,
too."
"Go to, the fashion!"
Meanwhile Busyong nudged Islao and whispered close
to his ear, "Did you hear what these old men were
talking about?"
Islao nodded, smiling.
Then the two old men climbed into a vehicle very[188]
much like a carretela, and drove away. Busyong and
Islao went into a saloon of fresh drinks and asked for
a refreshment similar to milkshake.
"The owner of this saloon is a woman, according
to the signboard at the door," remarked Busyong.
"Yes," said Islao, smiling; "I am sorry to say."
In the meantime Balatong stopped in front of a dry
goods store on the opposite sidewalk and began to ruminate
on his image as reflected in the glass of a counter,
and at times twitched his scrawny body. Busyong and
Islao were observing him. After a while a clerk of the
store opened the door of the counter and turned a button
on the back of a puppet, which hereto had been
unnoticed by Balatong. Soon the dainty hands of the
puppet, which were raised in front of its small breast,
began to move back and forth, especially the delicate
fingers, as if the whole figure had come to life. Balatong
looked at the doll rather pleased at first. But
when he noticed the remarkable similarity of all the
clothes of the puppet with his own clothes, he began
to be aroused and to feel offended, insomuch that he
could not help going into the store to complain. He
approached the man who had made the hands of the
puppet move and called him to come outside. The man,
who thought that he was going to show something on
the counter which he wished to buy, followed him obediently.
They stuttered in their native tongue, which
ran thus in English:
"I think that that puppet is intended to offend me,
because it is dressed exactly in the same way as I am;
that is, with the same clothes, necktie, and hat, which I
bought from this very store some time ago. However,[189]
you have willfully—made—the—pup—pup—pup—pet—move
its hands in such a way as that—pointing to
himself and then to me—that is as much as to say I
am a puppet," said Balatong, who began to be angry
with the man, who was laughing candidly.
The man went back into the store, shrugging his
square shoulders and paying no attention to the complaint
of Balatong. Balatong insisted, squalling at the
door in an aggressive attitude, "Aren't you goin' to
take 'way the puppet from t'at counter?"
"E ko visa," muttered the clerk in his native dialect
as he was dusting the chairs in the store.
Presently Busyong and Islao, who all this while
had been mute spectators of the fray, came out of the
saloon with a view to settle the dispute peacefully and
justly, for, after all, they pitied Balatong, who, they
thought, had got now into an inextricable strait. Islao,
who could speak a little the peculiar dialect of the
clerk, addressed the clerk confidentially in his own
tongue, asking him what was the matter. The man answered
in the same language which Busyong understood
thus: "Why, this friend orders me to remove the puppet
from that counter; for he says that he is not pleased
with it."
"Well, well, is that the whole cause of this fuss?"
asked Busyong, smiling.
Meanwhile Balatong was setting forth to Islao earnestly
all his complaint with many, many studied complicated
movements of both hands and body. Islao waited
for him to finish stuttering, for he wanted to talk
with him. Then, suspecting from the tone of his voice
a smack of Kamkangan blood in Balatong, Islao thought[190]
it best to feign comradeship for the sake of persuading
him to behave in a more manly way. So, when Balatong
had finished jabbering, Islao addressed him in the
most friendly manner, saying laconically, "Abe, e ka
makisankut ketang é mo balú.[2]"
Upon hearing these words, which he at first pretended
not to have understood, Balatong suddenly became
excited and perplexed. He gnashed his widely
separated teeth, clenched his fists, and looked up into
Islao's face with fiery eyes, saying, "Why d'you insult
an' curse me? If I ha-have done wron', show me how;
an' if not, qua de causa?"
Busyong and Islao smiled pityingly and ironically
instead of being offended. On the other hand, bursting
into a peal of laughter, the juvenile clerk said jocosely
in a sort of Kamkanga dialect the following: "Aroo,
our abe is an evangelical man—fine!—nay, he is a priest.
How was it?—qua re cosa—ha, ha, ha."
Balatong became the more angry with the clerk
inasmuch as he saw that the clerk was poking fun at
him.
"I don' want to be the laughing stock of anybody,"
said Balatong indignantly.
"Don't be touchy, abe," said the clerk in his own
dialect.
All of a sudden the exasperated Balatong seized a
big stone from the street and dashed it against the glass
of the counter, which broke into a thousand pieces. The
people of the store and some passers-by were alarmed
at the violent action of Balatong. Presently a robust
[191]old man came hurriedly shuffling with his wooden shoes
towards Balatong, and would have strangled him were
it not for the opportune presence of a fat man who
was one of the idle crowd that had been gathering at
the door of the shop.
The fat man, who was carrying under his arm two
large scissors in a folded white coat, interposed himself
between the aggressor and Balatong, saying in dialect,
"For the sake of our beloved country! Don't behave
that way, fellow patriot! Don't, especially with one
of the same skin as yours and in whose veins runs the
same pure blood as that of yours. For the noblest ideal
of our Talukap[3] party, countrymen, bethink yourselves!"
"Surely," replied the old man, whose anger was
appeased by the slushy encomium of the intruder. "But
this fellow here does not seem to be like a true native
of this country, for look at what he has done with that
counter, simply because he says he isn't pleased with
that puppet there."
"Well, well," said in a friendly manner the intruder
as he faced Balatong, "why do you behave that way?"
"Sherup! don' interfere with me; you had better
mind only your incisors," retorted Balatong, imitating
with his bony fingers the movement of the scissors he
meant.
Busyong and Islao suddenly burst into prolonged
laughter, while the rest remained silent drivelling with
wide-opened mouths as they beheld the two men laughing
heartily.
[192]
"Do you see! This friend is angry with me according
to the tone of his voice. What did he say?"
asked the fat man turning towards Busyong and Islao.
Islao nudged Busyong to get him to come out of the
store.
"Come, come, let us go home, lest we hurt with
our laughing their susceptible feelings, especially of that
young dandy—pardon me, I mean doctor," said Islao
aside to Busyong when they reached the corner of a
street and turned to the left.
"O Momus, son of Mox!" exclaimed Busyong smiling
after a short time, "how jocund indeed must you be
with the people here!"
"Surely, he must be," said Islao.
"By the way, I remember that the tailor—that is,
the fat man—seemed to boast a political party."
"Oh, yes!"
"What is that party?"
"It is called the National Talukap Party. You know,
this country is a democracy in name, but an oligarchy
in fact, as the people here say, for the government is
in the hands of only a very few of the native countrymen;
most of the power is in foreign hands. So the
Talukap party aims to reverse the condition of things;
nay, to have the control of the government wholly in
the hands of the people of this country. I am warmly
in favor of this policy. But what I do find objectionable
in this Talukap party is their affectation and tautology,
and their pretension and empty show in their outward
conduct. For my part, I believe in doing things
silently but effectively. On the other hand, I am not
in favor of the other party, which is called the National[193]
Kinagisnan Party, whose policy is to be contented
slavishly with the present condition of things or with
whatever condition for the time being. The people
who belong to this Kinagisnan party are very few in
comparison with those that belong to the Talukap party.
Being in very close contact with the sovereign, the
Kinagisnan people are very apt to become flatterers."
"Moreover, the ideal of your Talukap party, I think,
becomes less feasible, if not impossible, when you consider
these dandies like those two chums over there who
are clasping one another by the waist. Indeed, they
live in a very peculiar world by themselves."
"And with Momus, I suppose, as their Supreme
Being."
"Ha, yes, I should think so, too. But after all they
are not to be blamed. Everything goes step by step.
Even my native country in the planet Earth has had
the same defects practically as these people here. Now
I am glad that there in my native land the people,
especially the young men, have reached, by education
and the bitter lesson of experience, of course, a stage
where their old views of the world have become greatly
changed, most especially in this respect: now they hate
affectation under any form whatever, whether in dress,
manners, knowledge or in deeds."
"Why, that is a condition to be envied greatly."
By this time the two friends, Busyong and Islao,
were standing in front of the farmer's house. The old
man and his wife were awaiting them in order that all
might dine together. The rest of the day glided by
pleasantly.
Next morning Busyong decided to return to the[194]
planet Earth, although the old farmer and his son tried
to delay him longer in Jupiter. He promised to come
back to them. While in his large balloon, and recollecting
vividly all the things he had observed in the
country he was leaving, Busyong let his mind run upon
the following ancient lines:
"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!"
Just then he remembered with a start that when
he had begun to crank his balloon he had taken out
his sound assorters and laid them on the edge of the
car. He had wanted to hear the familiar noise without
distribution in order to feel that all was safe. And now
when he looked for those precious assorters he could
not find them. They must have fallen overboard. And
worst of all, he had neglected to get the whole explanation
from the Jupiterite.
—Manuel Candido.
III. Tale of Scientific Discovery and Mechanical
Invention
Beginning
in
imaginary
voyages
Tales of scientific discovery and mechanical invention
appeal to us as being extremely modern.
Yet the essential elements had a beginning at
least two centuries and a half ago. The
quality of the marvelous is easy enough to
trace; and the logicalness hardly less so. We find[195]
both in the imaginary voyages. De Bergerac discovers
that he can lift himself from the earth by the expansion
of phials of dew affixed to his person, and from this
experiment he goes on to invent an elastic machine
which bears him to the moon. Klim, too, arrives at his
wonderful adventures by a scientific beginning: he
sets out to explore a rocky orifice in the Weathercock
Mountain, and causes himself to be let down by a rope.
The rope snaps, and he is precipitated into an intra-terrestrial
astral system, where he begins immediately
to revolve around a planet Azar, his biscuits which he
had attempted to throw away performing meanwhile
an orbit around his own body. He alights, of course,
finally by accident, and goes on with his governmental
experiences.
Difference
one of
emphasis
These learned elements in the imaginary voyages
point definitely to our modern stories. The difference
lies in the emphasis: our modern stories are
severely and consistently logical, and interest
centers in the machine or the scientific
theory. The reader does not ask to go on long journeys
to see chimeras, but he asks to see ultra-logical man.
He does not encourage the author in being satiric; he
wants him to be inventive, to be more ingenious than
the race has been. The reader wants the author to
show him what man would be if he were consistently
progressive and wise, what he would come to if he
worked day and night at his science and applied what
he learned,—indeed, what he already knows. For it
is an open secret in the scientific world that there is
hardly a wonderful modern machine that is not an
almost foolishly simple application of a well-known[196]
law. Take our marvelous future trains, for instance,
that are to run on one rail and be as wide and commodious
as houses—they are but to follow a principle
that every school-boy sees in operation when he spins
a top. I dare say, if some person would only write
a story telling us where to affix the wheel and the
balance, we might convert our present houses into
private Pullmans, as it were, that could at any time
transport us, family and all, with everyone of our
personal and familiar conveniences intact therein, to
any spot we chose, the only extra expense to us for
each trip being a slight rent for wheel space for the
time that we were running over the single-rail track
that led thitherward.
Essential
elements
Shading off from the imaginary voyage type, therefore,
is this modern one which I have designated by
the somewhat long title, tales of scientific
discovery and mechanical invention. By
this title I mean to distinguish stories in which the
occurrences, though startling, are perfectly logical in
sequence, granted the premise—extraordinary, but not
improbable under the conditions set forth. The words
discovery and mechanical express the fact that the
sustaining structure of a story such as these is often
some invention superimposed upon modern science. In
the use of electricity, for instance, the characters in the
narrative go one step further than Mr. Edison; in the
construction and operation of the flying-machine, several
steps further than the Wright brothers; in the
discovery of elements, someone finds something more
useful and of greater power than radium; or, after long
experimenting, he mixes a paint so black or so white[197]
that the object beneath it becomes invisible; and so on
and so on—but all plausible, all with precise truth-likeness.
Stories of
this type
Many of our present-day magazine stories are of
this type. Of the earlier modern, the "Diamond Lens"
by Fitz-James O'Brien is interesting. "The
Spider's Eye" is still sometimes read. "The
Life Magnet" is well known. A burlesque verse tale of
mechanical invention is "The Wonderful One Hoss
Shay" by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The prince of all
ingenious story-tellers, however, is Frank R. Stockton.
To construct a narrative of this class, you must of
course first get your underlying theory. Experiments
in the chemical and physical laboratory will afford
many a starting point. They will at least suggest the
realm in which to proceed. Astronomy, meteorology,
geology, mechanics, mineralogy, geometry, optics,
domestic science even,—select a simple problem in any
of these and begin to imagine.
Suggestions
on how to
write the
type
After you have the starting point, it is a good idea
to fix your goal. Where should you like to go, what
should you like to do, what powers should
you like to have above those of your
fellows? Do you wish to overcome the
restrictions of distance, absence, darkness,
death, birth, poverty, the past, the future, the present?
With these points of your theory settled, you must
then look to the course of events. Shall the incidents
befall you while discovering or while applying the
scientific fact, while constructing or while working
your machine? Shall you be looking forward or shall
you be looking back upon the events? Next you must[198]
find the point of greatest stress. The climax of a story
with the first alternative will evidently be reached at
the culmination of the inventor's labors; with the
second alternative, at the most exciting adventure in
the use of the machine or in the direct application of
the scientific fact.
The logical close of the story is in both cases the
disappearance of the machine or the scientist; but you
will be repaid by thinking carefully over this matter
and being here as elsewhere as ingenious and original
as you can.
Your deductions must appear to be sound. Of
course, your reasoning may have to be largely specious
and in the gross, as it were, unless you are a better
inventor than the inventors. But you have this advantage
over the practical man: you can avoid the greater
difficulties by keeping silent about them; and for actual
achievement you can substitute assertion. You must
seem on the surface, however, to be perfectly logical.
The reader will not question you too closely, if you
are only spirited and entertaining. But the next is a
point that you must note without fail.
If the reader's interest in any particular part of
your narrative will depend upon an understanding of
a bit of mechanism or a scientific theory, you must be
careful to supply the information beforehand. However
trite to a mechanic or a scientist the principle
may be, you must not assume that the casual reader
knows it. He probably does not know it, or if he does,
more than likely he has forgotten it. On the other hand,
you must not appear to be self-assertively instructing
him. What you can do is this: you can politely seem[199]
to be recalling something to his memory, and can thus
make the point clear, so that your future use of it will
not fall flat.
To add a semblance of reality, it will be permissible
to employ a few technical terms; but these also must
be indisputably clear in meaning, and their use must
not be pedantic. You should study, however, to put
into the mouths of your characters the vocabulary that
would be actually used by the kind of people you
represent.
Genial humor is a fine asset to a writer of this type
of narrative. If you can be artistically serious and
philosophically gay at the same time you will not fail
to please. The relationship of stories of scientific discovery
and mechanical invention to imaginary voyages
is testified to by the reader's expectation of a display
of wit. But in the scientific, ridicule is softened down
to genial logic. Although the aim in this kind of narrative
is good construction rather than character-sketching,
yet every neat touch of portraiture that you can
add will help draw your composition away from the
mere exercise and toward the literary production.
If you should choose your theory in the realm of art, you
would by that very choice raise your story above the ordinary—I
mean to say, of course, you would if you knew
anything about art. Mr. Alexander Wilson Drake knows
a great deal about art and has given us, besides many other
beautiful surprises in Saint Nicholas and the Century,
some narratives embodying exquisite theories of shadow
and color.
[200]
The Curious Vehicle
Reprinted by permission of the Century Company.
It was midnight in early December. A dense silver
mist hid the sleeping city, the street-lamps gave a faint
yellow glimmer through the almost impenetrable gloom,
the air was like the cold breath from the dying, the fog
hanging in great drops on my clothing. Stray policemen
had taken refuge in sheltering doorways, and my own footsteps
echoed with unfamiliar and uncanny sound down the
long street—the only sound that broke the midnight stillness,
save the hoarse whistles of wandering and belated
ferryboats on the distant river.
As I emerged from a narrow street into the main
thoroughfare, my shivering attention was attracted to a
curious covered vehicle standing in the bright glare of an
electric light. It was neither carriage nor wagon, but an
odd, strongly made affair, painted olive green, with square
windows in the sides, reaching from just above the middle
of the roof, and a smaller window in the back near the
top. On each side of the middle window were two panels
of glass. From the middle window only a dim light shone,
like the subdued light from a nurse's lamp. On the seat in
front, underneath a projecting hood, sat a little old black[201]
man wrapped in a buffalo-robe and a great fur coat partly
covered with a rubber cape or mackintosh, and with a fur
cap pulled down over his ears. The horse was heavily
blanketed, and also well protected with rubber covers.
Both man and beast waited with unquestioning patience.
Both seemed lost in reverie or sleep.
With chattering teeth I stood, wondering what could be
going on in that queer box-like wagon at that time of night.
The silence was oppressive. There stood the dimly lighted
wagon; there stood the horse; there sat the negro—and I
the only observer of this queer vehicle.
I stepped cautiously to the side of the wagon, and
listened. Not a sound from within. Shivering and
benumbed, I, too, like the policemen, took refuge in a doorway,
and waited and watched for some sound or sign from
that mysterious interior. I was too fond of adventure to
give it up. It seemed to me that hours passed and I stood
unrewarded. Just as I was reluctantly leaving, much
chagrined to find that I had waited in vain, I saw, thrown
against the window for a few moments only, a curious
enlarged shadow of a man's head. It seemed to wear a
kind of tam-o'-shanter, below which was a shade or visor
sticking out beyond the man's face like the gigantic beak
of a bird. A mass of wavy hair and beard showed underneath
the cap. Suddenly the shadow disappeared, much to
my disappointment, and although I watched in the fog and
dampness for half an hour longer, it did not again appear.
I wandered home, puzzled and speculating, but determined
that I would wait until morning if I were ever
fortunate enough to come across the vehicle again. Weeks
passed before the opportunity occurred, and even then, had
it not been for a very singular incident, I doubt if I should[202]
ever have fathomed the mystery of the curious vehicle.
It was Christmas eve, the night bitterly cold. I had
clothed myself in my thickest ulster. My feet were incased
in arctics, my hands in warm fur gloves, and with rough
Scotch cap I felt sure I could brave the coldest night. Thus
equipped, I started out, and when I returned at midnight
in the beginning of a whirling, almost blinding snowstorm,
the Christmas chimes were ringing, and the whole
air seemed filled with Christmas cheer.
Turning a corner, I discovered the vehicle in the same
place and position. This time, as I had before resolved, I
would wait until morning if necessary. So I began pacing
up and down the sidewalk in front of the vehicle, taking
strolls of five or ten minutes apart, and then returning. I
walked until I was almost exhausted. In spite of my heavy
ulster I began to feel chilly, so I again took refuge in the
doorway of a building opposite.
Should I give it up, I asked myself, after waiting so
long? I stood debating the question. No, I would wait
a little longer; so, puffing my pipe, I shivered, and watched
for developments. At last I was about determined that I
must go or perish, when suddenly I saw through the blinding
snow the shadow of a pair of hands appear at the dimly
lighted window, adjusting a frame or inner sash. You can
imagine my interest in the proceedings.
Just at this moment a street sparrow, numb with the
cold, and crowded from a window-blind by its companions,
dropped, half falling, half flying, to the sidewalk directly in
front of the window of the vehicle. It sat blinking in the
bright rays of the electric light, quite bewildered, turning
its little head first one way, then the other. In the meantime
the shadows of the two hands were still visible. The[203]
sparrow, probably attracted by the light and the movement
of the hands, suddenly flew up, not striking the glass, but
hovering with a quick motion of the wings directly in front
of the window, its magnified shadow thrown on it by the
rays of the electric light. Then the bird dropped to the
ground. The occupant was evidently much startled by the
large shadow coming so suddenly and at such a time of
night. The shadow of his hands quickly disappeared, and
so did the frame. In another moment the door of the
vehicle opened, giving me a glimpse of a cozy and remarkable
interior. It seemed, in contrast with the cold and
storm without, filled with warmth and sunshine. It was
like a pictorial little room rather than the inside of a wagon
or carriage. The occupant looked out in a surprised,
excited, and questioning way, as much as to say, "What
could that have been?" His whole manner implied that
he had been disturbed.
This was my opportunity, and, seizing it instantly, I
walked boldly to the door of the vehicle, and said, "It was
a little sparrow benumbed with the cold, that fluttered
down to the sidewalk, where it lay for a moment, until,
probably attracted by the light, it hovered for a few seconds
before your window, then fell to the ground again."
I felt the man eying me intently, studying me with a
most searching glance. Was he in doubt as to my sincerity?
Was it a hidden bond of sympathy between us that
made him suddenly relent and invite me to enter his vehicle?
What else could have prompted him? For my own
part, I instinctively felt for the man, without knowing
why, a deep pity.
"Please step inside," he said; "it is cold."
And so, at last, I was really admitted, invited into the[204]
little interior—that little interior which had piqued my
curiosity for so long a time. Yes, I was admitted at last,
and now had a chance to look about, and to study the general
appearance of the occupant as he moved over for me
to sit beside him on the roomy, luxurious seat. What
a curious personality! He was a tall, raw-boned man of
strong character. His soft, gray beard and hair made a
marked contrast to the dark surroundings. Now I understood
the shadow which I had seen thrown on the window
for a few seconds. He wore a tam-o'-shanter cap, and beneath
it, to protect his eyes from the lamp-light, a large
visor, or shade, which threw his entire face into deep
shadow, giving him the look of a painting by an old master.
He had on a loose coat of some rough material.
Surely the interior of no conveyance could be more interesting
than this. In the front, just back of the driver, were
two square windows with sliding wooden shutters, and between
the two was a little square mirror. Above these was
a rod, from which hung a dark-green cloth curtain which
could be drawn at will. Underneath was a chest, or cabinet,
of shallow drawers filling the entire width of the carriage,
with small brass rings by which to pull them out.
On top of this cabinet stood several clear glass jars half
filled with pure water. There were two or three oil-lamps
with large shades hung in brackets with sockets like
steamer-lamps, only one of which was lighted. Underneath
the seat was a locker. On the floor of the conveyance,
along its four sides, were oblong bars of iron, and in the
center was a warm fur rug. One side only of the carriage
opened. On the side opposite the door was a rack reaching
from the window to the floor, in which stood six or eight
light but strongly made frames, over which was stretched[205]
the thinnest parchment-like paper. The top of the vehicle
was tufted and padded. The prevailing color was dark
green. In shape it was somewhat longer and broader than
the usual carriage. There was a small revolving circular
ventilator in front, over the mirror, which could be opened
or closed at will, and which could also be used by the occupant
for conversing with the driver.
The man arose, and, opening the ventilator, told the
coachman to drive on. Meanwhile I enjoyed the wonderful
effect of the little interior—its rich gloom, the strong light
from the shaded lamp which was thrown over the floor,
the bright electric light gleaming through the falling snow
into the window on my left.
The night, being so disagreeable, made the interior seem
very bright and comfortable by contrast, as the man closed
the sliding wooden shutters, separating us entirely from
the snowstorm without. There was an artificial warmth
which I could not understand, and with it all a sense of
security and coziness. The stranger's manner was both
gentle and reassuring. We rode in silence over the rough
pavement until we reached the smooth asphalt. Then he
began:
"I do not consider myself superstitious, but somehow I
don't like it—that little bird hovering in front of my window.
It seems like a bad omen, and it was a shadow which
startled me. My life seems haunted with shadows, and
they always bring misfortune to me."
We were both silent for a time, when he went on: "How
curious life is! Here am I riding with you, a total
stranger, long past midnight. You are the first I have
ever admitted into this wagon, with the exception of my
faithful Cato, who is driving. If one could only see[206]
from the beginning how strangely one's life is to be
ordered."
The stranger's voice was rich and deep. I hoped he
would continue so that I might get some idea of him and
his peculiar mode of life, and what was going on night
after night in this interior. I waited for him to proceed.
"Have you known trouble or sorrow in your life?" he
asked.
"Yes," I replied; "I have lost nearly all who were dear
to me in this round world."
"Then," said he, "I will tell you my story with the hope
that it will be both understood and appreciated. I loved
from childhood a charming girl, sweet and pure. I need
not go into the detail of all that boyish love, but in my
early manhood and her early womanhood we were married—and
what a sweet bride she was!
"We lived in an old white farmhouse in a village near
the great city—a beautiful place, a long, low, two-story-and-attic,
farmhouse, probably fifty or sixty years old.
How well I can see it—its sloping roof, the extension, the
quaint doorway with side-lights and with a window over
the top, the front porch with graceful shaped newels, the
long piazza running the entire length of the extension,
great chimneys at each end, and enormous pine-trees in
front of the house! The house stood on a little elevation,
with terraced bank, and with a pretty fence inclosing it.
Beyond was an old well with lattice-work sides and door,
and a pathway trodden by the foot of former occupants,
long since dead. In front of the house were circular beds
of old-time flowers—sweet-williams, lady's-slippers, larkspur,
and foxglove. At the rear, great banks of tiger-lilies
threw their delicate blue shadows against the white surface[207]
of our little home. In one corner of our garden we had
left the weeds to grow luxuriantly, like miniature forest
trees, and found much pleasure in studying their beautiful
forms. How fine they looked in silhouette against the
sunset sky! On one side of the old-fashioned doorway
were shrubs and a rose-of-Sharon tree, and on the other,
honeysuckle and syringa-bushes. There were also many
kinds of fruit and shade-trees.
"How happily we walked up and down the shady lanes
of that little village! For us the birds sang sweetly. We
took delight in our flowers and everything about us. In
the evening we would enjoy the sunsets, returning home
arm in arm in the afterglow, to sit in the cool of the
evening on the piazza and to listen to the wind as it sighed
through the pines. What music they made for us! We
compared it with what poets of all ages had sung of them,
and went to sleep, lulled to rest by the wind through their
soft boughs."
He paused again, evidently thinking of the happy time.
"How can I tell you," he resumed, "of the life that went
on in that simple old farmhouse? Our pleasant wood-fire
on the hearth; a few photographs from the old masters on
the walls; our favorite books of poetry and fiction, which
we read together during the long winter evenings, while
the pine-trees sighed outside, and all was so comfortable
and cozy within; or the lovely walks in spring and summer,
through the byways of the pretty little village, with
its hedgerows, blackberries, and wild flowers. How we
watched for the first violets, and what joy the early blossoms
gave us! What pleasure we took in those delightful
years, and how smoothly our lives ran on! Each day I
went to the city, and was always cheered by the thought[208]
that my sweet wife would be at the station to meet me.
How pure she looked in the summer evening, clad in her
thin white dresses, with a silver fan and brooch, her dark
hair and eyes like those of a startled fawn!
"Well, I need not dwell longer on all this. It was only
for a few short years, when one cruel, cold day, about the
happy Christmas-time, she was taken ill, and grew steadily
worse, and all that could be done for her would not save
her. She died. I can see her now—her dark hair laid
back on the pillow, and the peaceful, happy smile on her
face. We buried her beneath the snow, in the old graveyard
overlooking the river, and I went home broken-hearted."
I heard the poor fellow sigh, and for a time he was
silent as the carriage went on through the snow. "What
can be the connection of this queer craft with what he is
telling me?" I thought. When he resumed, he said:
"For months I tried to live on in the little house, but
life became terrible. In the evenings, as I sat by the pleasant
log-fire, I would imagine I heard her footsteps on the
stairs, and her voice calling me. I did my best to conquer
my grief, but it was of no use. The light seemed gone
out of my life. At last I could stand it no longer, and I
moved all my worldly possessions to another house in the
same village. I could not bear to think of going away
from the place entirely.
"When the springtime came again, and the lovely flowers
were in bloom, and the birds were singing their sweet
songs; when the wind breathed softly through the pine-trees,
and she was gone, the sunsets were in vain, and all
nature seemed mourning. After this I busied myself with
all kinds of occupation, but without success. Life became[209]
sadder and sadder, until finally in despair I took a foreign
trip. I traveled far and wide, but always with the same
weary despondency and gloom. The image of my loved one
was always with me. Nothing in life satisfied me. I
wandered through country after country, looking at the
old masters, grand churches, listening to cathedral music,
but always before me was the same picture—the old, white
farm-house, the great mournful pines, and with it all the
memory of the sweet life now departed, for which nothing
could make amends."
Then he was silent, and as we drove over the soft, snow-covered
asphalt he became absorbed in thought.
"After a year or so of restless travel I drifted back to
my own country and to the little village. Night after
night I wandered around the empty house where we had
lived, and through the little garden, and would stand at
midnight listening to the sad sighing of the wind through
the pine-trees, which to me sounded like a requiem for the
dead. Many a moonlight night have I stood gazing into
the windows, and imagined her looking out at me as in
the happy days of old, and I would walk up and down the
path thinking, oh, how sadly! of the times we used to
return by it from our evening walks.
"Finally the little village became hateful to me. I could
endure it no longer, and I shook its dust from my feet.
With reluctance I moved away into the heart of the great
city, but with the same longing in my heart—the same
despair. I hunted up my two faithful black servants who
had lived with us for several years. I bought a house in
the old part of the city, and there we now live, and I am
well cared for by them. Let me read you portions of a
letter from her—one of the last she wrote," and he took[210]
from his pocket a little morocco book with monogram in
silver script letters. He rose and asked the driver to stop,
and, turning the light up, said: "This will give you some
idea of the sweet life, with its love of nature, that went
on in and about that little cottage. The letter was written
to me when I was in another city." He read as follows:
"My dear, I can hardly tell you how lovely the shadows
looked as I strolled around our little house this evening,
and was filled with delight by their beautiful but evasive
forms. To begin with, you remember the exquisite, almost
silhouette, shadow of the rose-of-Sharon bush by the front
door. I gave it a long study to-night. Its fine, decorative
character reminded me of a Japanese drawing, only it is
far more delicate and subtle. If this could be painted in
soft gray on the door-posts and around the little side windows,
how it would beautify our plain dwelling, and what
a permanent reminder it would be of our delightful summer
days!
"But if I spend too much time on a single shadow, I
shall have no room left to tell you of the greater ones we
have enjoyed together.... From the path near the gate,
and looking toward the house, I saw to-night, and seemed
to feel for the first time, the wonderful tenderness of the
great shadow which nearly covers the end and side of our
home. How mysterious our kitchen became, with its shed
completely inclosed in velvety gloom, suggesting both sorrow
and tragedy; while the other end of the house was
covered with fantastic forms, soft and ethereal, and with a
delicacy indescribable.... But when the moon came up,
and the soft shadows of the pines were cast on the pure
white weather-boards of our little home,—the shadows of
our own pines, the pines we love so well, and through whose[211]
branches we have heard music sweet and low, soft and sad,—then
I thought of you as I studied their masses tossing
so gently, their movement almost imperceptible, and I
longed for you as I studied their moving forms, their richness,
variety, and texture—for you tell me of their artistic
beauty—your delicate, poetic appreciation of their loveliness....
And at last, may the sun and moon shine
brightly and cast beautiful shadows among and over the
tombstones for you and for me, my dear, and may a blessed
hope make the sunset of life glorious for us both."
When he had finished reading, and had asked the driver
to drive on, he became absorbed and silent, and I thought,
"How strange to be riding through the streets of the city
after midnight in a whirling snow-storm with a stranger,
in a vehicle so remarkable, listening to such a pathetic love-story,
such a beautiful description of quiet domestic life."
It was a charming idyl.
"You can get an idea from this," he said, "of the delightful,
contented life which went on in the little cottage,"
and he sat holding the book in his hands as though he were
living it all over again, while the bright silver script monogram
gleamed and glistened on the cover until he turned
down the light, and for a time we drove over the smooth
asphalt in utter silence.
"Do you wonder," he suddenly asked, "that the shadow
of that little bird has caused me uneasiness, and yet do you
not see that almost the last letter she wrote to me was filled
with omens, shadows? It is but natural that I should
have some feeling about it—and yet, why should I care?
I have only myself and my two old servants who could be
affected by it, bad or good. For myself, my only desire
is to live long enough to complete my work; then I am[212]
both ready and willing to go. I shall welcome death with
delight."
I had become so absorbed in his story that I had forgotten
all about my surroundings; but now as he paused
I again asked myself what strange connection had this sad
story, and the letter, and all that he had been telling me,
with the wagon; for I was sure that in some queer way
the story would help to explain it all.
"While in Europe," he went on, "I studied the old masters
a great deal, particularly the halos and nimbuses surrounding
the heads of the saints. I cannot begin to tell
you how interesting they became to me. I was struck with
the exquisite workmanship bestowed on many of them, but
fine as they were, they never came up to my idea of what
a halo should be. As my loved one was so pure and gentle,
I always thought of her as a saint (and indeed she is
such), and I would become interested and imagine what
kind of halo I would surround her with if I were painting
her—not one of the halos of the old masters seemed fine
enough or ethereal enough for her. I had always been
fond of art, and had been considered a fair amateur artist.
One evening after I had moved to the city, and while
riding in a cab (oh, how gloomy!) on a snowy evening
something like this very night, I looked through the window
at an electric light, and there I saw the loveliest halo,
in miniature. Such tints! A heavenly vision! I thought
of the old masters, of the beautiful Siena Madonnas, and
with sudden joy I thought: Why should I not paint the
image of her I love? Why should I not clothe her in
Madonna-like robes, with a halo which could come only out
of the nineteenth century? Why should she not have a
halo far outshining and far surpassing in beauty halo[213]
ever painted by mortal man?' I rode nearly the whole
night through, evidently to the despair of the driver, as I
repeatedly asked him to stop opposite electric lights and
street-lamps.
"From that day I had a new purpose in life. I had this
wagon built just as you see it. For months I thought of
it. Over and over again I drew my plans before the vehicle
was actually constructed. Then I began my work. Old
Cato, who is driving, sits night after night, unmindful of
the cold, wrapped in his great fur coat, and he waits and
I work through the midnight hours to conceive and make
real the new Madonna."
What a strange, subtle connection the whole thing had,
as he suddenly tapped on the small window and we stopped
directly in front of an electric light! As he opened the
sliding shutter I saw, through the frosted window and the
feathery snow, such a vision of loveliness—a little halo
that could scarcely be described in words. It was like a
miniature circular rainbow, intensified and glorified by the
glittering rays of the penetrating electric light.
"What could be more beautiful than that? Isn't it exquisite?"
he asked. "Did ever painted saint have a halo
like that?"
I held my breath, for I had never seen anything so
beautiful.
"I have worked at it for a long time. I have not yet
accomplished it, but I hope to. I am coming nearer to it
every night in which I can work. There are not many
during the winter; the conditions of atmosphere and temperature
must be just right. On foggy nights, or when
the air is filled with light, flying snow—these are the nights
in which the little halos glow around the electric lights,[214]
street-lamps, and lights in show-windows. Oh," he said,
"they fill me with a happiness and delight I cannot describe,
as I try all kinds of experiments to transfix the
beautiful colors of their delicate rays!
"Let me show you," he went on, and he lifted one of
the frames which I have already described, covered with a
thin parchment-like paper. This he carefully buttoned
to a groove in the window. On the surface of the stretched
parchment the little halo glowed with its prismatic tints,
and again I held my breath at the beauty of it. I, too,
was becoming a halo-worshiper. Then he lifted from the
rack on the side, and held up to the light, first one and
then another of the frames, on the parchment surface of
which he had actually traced lines of color, against the
gloom beyond, radiating lines crossing and re-crossing,
glowing with rainbow tints seen through and against the
window.
"Do you know anything of Frankenstein's wonderful
Magic Reciprocals, sometimes called Harmonic Responses?"[4]
he asked. "How I longed for his marvelous
power, so that I might experiment with them. But they
were far beyond my skill, and also, perhaps, too scientific
[215]and geometric for my purpose; and so I was forced to discard
them and begin afresh in my own way. I have had
reasonable success, although I have not yet reached the
purity of color nor the brilliancy that I wish. I do not
know that mortal man ever can. I have tried all sorts of
experiments—lines of silver crossed with lines of gold;
prismatic threads of silk; and now I have abandoned them
all, and am beginning again, perhaps for the fortieth time.
But if I am only able to do it, nothing can give me greater
happiness. I can close my eyes in peace at last."
After he had shown me his experiments, he removed the
little frame from the window, closed the sliding shutter
on the side, and, turning the circular ventilator, asked the
driver to drive on.
"Now for an extended view," he said, and he opened the
shutter of one of the front windows, and then of the other
on each side of the mirror. What a vista of loveliness! A
long perspective of glowing halos, vanishing down the
street through the flying snow, until they were mere specks
of light in the distance. The whole atmosphere was filled
with circular rainbows, and again he dwelt on their beauty.[216]
They glowed with ultramarine, with delicate green, with
gold and silver, and like light from burnished copper, and
our little vehicle seemed a moving palace of delight as we
drove on through the blinding storm. Turning into one of
the narrower streets, away from the electric lights, we saw
the long line of receding gas-lamps, each with its softly
subdued nimbus, and he said in a low and gentle voice,
almost a whisper, "The street of halos."
When he had closed the shutters again he said, "Let me
show you my cabinet of colors and working tools." He
pulled out a shallow drawer, and there, on small porcelain
plaques (the kind used by water-color painters), side by
side, in regular order, was every shade of red, from the
faintest pink to the deepest crimson. He opened the next
drawer, and instead of the red was an arrangement of
blues, from delicate turquoise to deepest ultramarine. In
the third drawer was an arrangement of yellows, running
from Naples to deepest cadmium.
"I deal in primary colors," he said, "for what would you
paint rainbows in but red, blue, and yellow?"
Then he opened the fourth drawer, and there, laid with
precision, were long-handled brushes from the finest sable
(mere pin-points) up to thick ones as large as one's finger.
There were flat ones and round ones, short ones and long
ones. As he opened the fifth drawer, "For odds and ends,"
he said. This was a little deeper than the others, and in
it were sponges fine and coarse, erasers, scrapers, and boxes
of drawing-tacks of various sizes. In the last drawer were
soft white rags and sheets of blotting-paper of assorted
sizes.
After he had shown me the contents of the cabinet he
said, "I have been quite disturbed by the shadow of that[217]
little bird. Will you join me in a glass of old sherry?"
He opened the locker underneath the seat, and brought out
an odd-shaped bottle, which he unscrewed, handing me a
small, thistle-shaped glass and a tin box containing
crackers.
"It is a bad night," he said, "a very bad night. I feel
it, even with the warmth of this interior. Those long bars
of iron are filled with hot water, which usually keeps me
very warm."
Then he passed through the ventilator, to the driver,
some crackers and sherry. After he had closed it, and put
away the bottle, box, and glasses, we both mused a long
time, the halo-painter completely lost in reverie, and I
thinking of the undying love of such a man—a man who
could love but one, and for whom no other eyes or voice
could ever mean so much. With him love was an all-absorbing
passion. He had given his heart without reserve,
and for him no other love could ever bloom again. I
thought of him sitting, night after night, in his solitary
vehicle working at the halo—a new halo which should surround
the head of her he loved. I thought of him in the
lonely early morning hours, working at a nimbus which
was far to outshine in beauty and delicacy any painted or
dreamed of by God-fearing saint-painters of old.
He opened the shutters, and the light from the lamp
began to grow dimmer as the early morning light shone
faintly through the windows. I noticed the deep furrows
of care and sorrow which marked his strong, pathetic face,
purified by suffering and lighted by divine hope—the face
of one who lived in another world, and for whom all of
life was centered in his ideal—one who was in the world,
but not of it.
[218]
As he bade me good-by, his face beamed in the early
Christmas morning light with indescribable tenderness;
and as the little wagon with its faithful old black driver
disappeared through the snow, I thought again and again
of the beautiful, touching love of the man who would sit
night after night trying to realize his dream of beauty, to
clothe in the garb of a saint the form of her he loved.
—Alexander W. Drake.
The Spyglass of the Past
It is possible for a man to have two hobbies. Dr.
Aukirt demonstrated the fact. No one would have
thought that the quiet man, who was so often poring
over the Egyptian cases at the British Museum, was an
optician; but then the truth is apt to be unsuspected.
He used to say that it was all a mistake—that he was
an explorer pure and simple, but that he explored the
past and the heavens instead of the forest and rivers.
At any rate, an archeologist he was, and a noted one
too, or the British government would not have put him
at the head of the expedition to excavate the ruins of
Karnac, that greatest of all temples.
The men had gone to their camp as usual, but Dr.
Aukirt remained behind. During the day an interesting
inscription had been uncovered, and the moon shone
in among the pillars of Karnac before the explorer
thought of leaving the scene of the day's work. As he
turned to go, he noticed a slight movement at his feet,
and stopped. A tiny stream of sand was sliding slowly
into a crevice between two stones in the pavement, and
was disappearing beneath him. He seized a pick and[219]
at length was able to dislodge the block. A flight of
steps led down into the darkness. He soon stood at the
foot of the stairway with the wealth of his discovery
about him. The light from his pocket lamp was reflected
from the thousands of silver points in the ceiling
of lapis lazuli and from the porphyry pillars with their
exquisite capitals of lotus leaves. Under a frieze of
small windows was a divan with the imprint of a head so
plainly visible in the draperies that it seemed as though
the sleeper must have but just arisen, but the fabric
crumbled to dust under the Doctor's hand.
At the other side of the room was a table, evidently
a student's desk, with a litter of writing materials and
curious instruments. Across an unfinished papyrus lay
a brass tube with a lens at each end. Dr. Aukirt picked
up the strange telescope and instinctively applied it to
his eye, although he was convinced that he should be
unable to see anything, for the body of the glass was a
double curve, like a much elongated S. But as he pointed
the lens toward the divan, a priestly figure seemed to be
sleeping there, and this room brightened, light streamed
in through the windows which had been hidden by the
sand of hundreds of years. The Doctor looked up; everything
was dusty and deserted.
When he reached the open air again, he saw that
the sun was rising away at the rim of the desert; and
once more he looked through the new-found spy-glass.
The surface of the Nile that had been so peaceful a
moment ago, was aswarm with boats. Figures of dusky
slaves with sad Hebraic features passed and repassed
with their burdens. He turned to the ruin which he[220]
had just left, and beheld a stately temple with the sunbeams
flashing from its carved and polished façade.
The puzzled and astonished archeologist went to his
tent with his treasures, the papyrus and the glass, and
for weeks he studied them that he might learn to use
the instrument. Sometimes it seemed to him as though
his search were to be rewarded, but the truth constantly
eluded him, although by a smaller and smaller margin,
or so he was pleased to think. One day he brought his
glass once more to the banks of the Nile near Karnac.
Victory seemed very near just now. Carefully he
opened the instrument to its full extent—and saw a
savage people warring with each other on the peaceful
river bank. Then came a stronger tribe, and then a
stronger still, until at length he saw the mighty procession
of the Pharaoh coming to inspect the temple of
Karnac. He saw the rise and fall of nations: the slow
march of the ages passed before his vision like the gliding
of a dream. The Egyptian had written truth:
"I have made an instrument which will gather up the
scattered and tangled images of the past, and focus them
upon the present."
Appalled at the magnitude of his discovery, Dr. Aukirt
stood in silence, and then the thought came, "Victory
is not complete, the instrument can be so adjusted
as to presage the future." He made what seemed to
him the necessary changes; but when he attempted to
look through his glass again, there was no light; the lens
was broken.
—Hazel Adelle Orcutt.
[221]
Up a Water-Spout
I was a poor, hard-working sailor on a fishing smack
plying between Nantucket Island and Cape Cod. My
parents before me had been of scanty means, living from
hand to mouth, and I was compelled early in life to provide
for myself. Naturally, I had little education; that
is, education from books; but if traveling possesses half
the advantages attributed to it in that line, I own I
must be the best educated man—I say this with all modesty—on
this small globe of ours.
Once a year the captains of the several boats with
their respective crews made a more extended trip down
the coast for pickerel. This year with the usual company
of fishing-craft we sailed southward toward the
Bahamas.
Favorable winds hastened our journey until at a
point just off Cape Fear we ran into a dead calm. For
four days we never moved. The heat was scorching.
The boards warped and cracked, and not even a flapping
sail indicated the slightest disturbance in the air. All
the boats had dropped anchor within hailing distance
of each other, so with the aid of the dories to carry us
around from one ship to another we passed the time
quite agreeably.
On the fifth morning, however, a thick rim of cloud
covered the western horizon and seemed to be moving
rapidly toward us. Almost in the center of this cloud
projected a small point of mist. It grew and widened,
then shrank back to half its size, finally running down
a long, slender finger until it reached the water. Instantly
foam and spray began to rise, and we knew that[222]
we were in the path of a water-spout. All anchors had
been hoisted and the captains were giving hoarse orders
to put on every inch of sail. But there seemed to be
an upper current that was carrying that water-spout
right among us; yet we were still becalmed and helpless.
As it approached it grew in circumference into a
huge column of water, foaming and swirling in a horrible
manner. Every man rushed for the cabin. We
tightly closed the doors and windows. Then—we waited.
The boat gave a sharp twist as we entered the whirling
pool, and a great wave passed over us.
Silently we sat there expecting the boat to be swamped
and broken into bits. But this is far from what really
took place; for after the first shock, we felt the boat to
be rising. Trembling and cautious we peeped out of
the window. All the other boats were circling around
in the air near us, and were rising too. We seemed to
be surrounded by a hollow cylinder of water, also rising
like ourselves. It seemed impossible, and yet we
were forced to recognize the fact that we were inside
the water-spout, and the suction that was drawing up
the water, had picked our vessel up bodily and was carrying
us—where? Where, indeed? Miles we went.
Finally we left behind the column of water which had
been growing thinner and thinner, and we passed swiftly
through clouds and mists. Gradually these cleared away
and the earth came into view. For three months our
journey lasted. We wandered here and there over the
earth wherever currents bore us. Luckily, we had an extraordinarily
large supply of provisions on board.
One day we saw a dim speck in the distance and the
watch involuntarily cried out, "A sail." We laughed,[223]
but sure enough, within a few hours, another boat
wheeled up along side. We had no way of stopping, so
our communication was short. It was found out that
they had met the same fate as we, and had, like us, probably
been reported at home as lost at sea. They said
that if by any chance we should return to earth, we
should tell their friends that they were quite happy,
only, were weary of such constant travel, but must continue
it, they supposed, unless sometime in their course
they might come upon another water-spout to afford
them a passage to earth again. And I might add here,
if we had not been thus fortunate, we should still be
journeying monotonously through the heavens.
But the circumstance of all our trip that I felt
would interest you most, is the fact that we saw and
talked with Captain Anson. You remember Captain Anson,
the man who set out in an airship to find the South
Pole? Well, he has found it. He declares that it is a
veritable Eden to which man can gain admittance only
by passing through a water-spout, and it seems that his
machine was thus transported, being caught in a spout
while crossing an inland lake. Also he wished us to
tell the people at home not to expect his return, for, he
declares, he is supremely happy and has found a place
far superior in climate and beauty to anything yet discovered
on the earth. There, he asserts further, and we
know this to be true for we beheld it ourselves, the problem
of supplying energy is not a problem at all; for as
a result of the magnetic force, so strong everywhere
there, perpetual motion machines are used entirely for
mechanical purposes. And I might add here that it
was only through this magnetic attraction for the bolts[224]
in our ship that we were able to stop at all. But here
we hovered for several days until a particularly strong
current seized the boat and carried us on. We sped from
ocean to ocean, time and time again until we, too, were
almost in despair, of ever seeing the earth again, except
by a bird's-eye view.
But one cloudy day, as we were shipping quietly
through the mist, we all experienced a sensation of falling.
The mist began to grow thicker, and we were again
surrounded by curved walls of rising water. We were
filled with a sense of familiarity, for we recognized our
water-spout. Having reached the bottom, with one short
dive we were through that wall of water, and were sailing
swiftly across the Atlantic in an opposite direction
from the water-spout, which was fast disappearing over
the horizon. We looked at it with regret; for we realized
that probably never again should we have the opportunity
of another such trip, unless perhaps sometime in
our future journeyings we should come upon its like.
If fortune should never so favor us, then the way
to that delightful land of the South Pole would be closed
forever.
But if any of you feel inclined to travel, and see the
world in a large perspective, go to some body of water,
and watch for one of these natural elevators, and if one
does happen in your way, be sure that all the hatches
and windows are closed, and then steer straight for the
center of that swirling mass; for this is a pleasant mode
of travel—slow, and doesn't jar.
—Edna Collister.
[225]
IV. The Detective Story and Other Tales of Pure Plot
Detective
story:
Connection
with stories
of ingenuity
A few detective stories could be classed with our
last preceding type as well as with this. Those like
F. R. Burton's suppressed prize contribution
to a Western newspaper might be put under
mechanical inventions; that is, all that contain,
like his, a practicable theory. The
report goes that Mr. Burton and a friend
worked together and produced a story of bank robbers
who overcame the time-lock device. So explicitly was
the ingenious method written out that the editors
decided not to publish it, convinced that if they spread
the knowledge abroad no time-lock thereafter would
be secure. "The Black Pearl" by Victorien Sardou,
on the other hand, might be called a scientific-discovery
detective tale. It perfectly combines the two elements—mystery
and the astounding action of a nature phenomenon.
Not all detective stories, however, are so dangerous
or so interesting as these. Most, rather, are amusing
or merely entertaining; but we class them in the
ingenious group because of the effort at pure plot.
There are many crude attempts at writing detective
stories, and the cheap, ten-cent-novel kind disgusts
persons of taste; but the popularity of the type attests
its excellence. When in the hands of such men as
Edgar Allan Poe and A. Conan Doyle, it yields an
artistic short-story. "The Purloined Letter" and the
"Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" are worthy of their
fame. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and the
"Mystery of Marie Rogêt" are not so pleasant, but are
equally ingenious.
[226]
Of course, the author of the ordinary tale of this
type has the advantage over the real detective, since
the author first creates the mystery before solving it.
His ingenuity, therefore, will lie revealed in the construction
of the crime which he pretends to be
unearthing and explaining. Evidently, though, his
process of mind can be no different from that of the
actual analyzer, who must unravel what to him is a
real mystery. He, too, if he is to succeed, must
re-image the whole train of events, not as points or
dots, but as vivid scenes. Thus only will both workers
come at small incidents that are original and ingenious
and essentially pertinent. It happened that Poe, in
the story of Marie Rogêt, was acting the part of a real
detective, since he was reasoning upon an actual
mystery, the details of which had baffled the police.
In his imaginary case he reinstalled the crime as he
felt it must have taken place, and, strange to say—or
rather not strange to say, for Poe had the qualities of
more than a paper detective—the facts, by a woman's
confessions later, were found to be exactly as Poe had
imagined them, even in minor details.
Other
stories of
plot
But stories that emphasize plot do not wholly lie in
the detective's realm. There is the pure reasoner's
great domain of fancy. "The Lady or the
Tiger" illustrates the class completely, even
by the whimsical ending. The man that
could make up that situation could have solved it, or
have carried it on interminably, as he laughingly shows
you in the "Discourager of Hesitancy." His "Transferred
Ghost" is another quirk, of "reasonable" fantasy.
Poe's "Gold Bug" is almost pure plot and has[227]
the interesting device of the cryptogram in addition.
Pushkin's "Snow Storm" is built upon a queer coincidence.
The story that emphasizes plot is primarily a narrative
of a series of happenings, and only incidentally
the record of character or place. The author has no
interest in what kind of men perform the deeds, except
that they shall be the general large types: the soldier
and his friend, the lover and his rival, the magistrate
and the citizen, the sovereign and his subject, the
doctor and his patient, and so on. Interest centers in
the question, What will they do next? not, What are
they and what will they become?
Romance
In longer prose the story with a plot is the romance,
the modern romance. In it, too, the author is concerned
mainly with the course of events.
Take "Ivanhoe" or "The Prisoner of Zenda,"
for instance, and what have you?—actors about whom
there is no question of character growth. What they
were at the beginning, that they are at the end—except,
perhaps, Rebecca. In romance the happenings
are largely adventure. As they become preposterous
the narrative borders on the mere wonder type.
A few
suggestions
To write a detective tale or other story of pure plot,
you must first get your plot—as the old fisherman
would say about the eel when you wish to
skin it. If you can grasp one and hold it,
you are an expert. The difficulty will be that
you will probably find your plot a shadow, when you
hoped for a good solid piece of reasoning. In the detective
tale you must propound your mystery at the beginning
of the narrative and then work backwards to the[228]
first step. In the other story, you must start out with the
simplest and seemingly most insignificant incident and
work steadily up to a fantastic or astounding climax.
In the second you naïvely keep adding one to one, as
it were, and get a hundred; in the first, you subtract
one after one from your hundred until you get a
unit.
Thou Art the Man
I will now play the Œdipus to the Rattleborough
enigma. I will expound to you—as I alone can—the secret
of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough
miracle—the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed,
the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity
among the Rattleburghers and converted to the
orthodox of the grandames all the carnal-minded who
had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event—which I should be sorry to discuss in a
tone of unsuitable levity—occurred in the summer of
18—. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy—one of the wealthiest
and most respectable citizens of the borough—had
been missing for several days under circumstances which
gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy
had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday
morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention
of proceeding to the city of——, about fifteen miles
distant, and of returning the night of the same day.
Two hours after his departure, however, his horse returned
without him, and without the saddle-bags which
had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal
was wounded too, and covered with mud. These circumstances
naturally gave rise to much alarm among the[229]
friends of the missing man; and when it was found,
on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance,
the whole borough arose en masse to go and
look for his body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this
search was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a
Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called,
"Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow."
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether
it was that the name itself has an imperceptible effect
upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain;
but the fact is unquestionable, that there never
yet was any person named Charles who was not an
open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted
fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to
hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in
the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience
myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above
doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless,
"walking gentlemen", of the stage are very certain
to be called Charles.
Now, "Old Charley Goodfellow," although he had
been in Rattleborough not longer than six months or
thereabouts, and although nobody knew anything about
him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had experienced
no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance
of all the respectable people in the borough.
Not a man of them but would have taken his bare word
for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women,
there is no saying what they would not have done to
oblige him. And all this came of his having been christened
Charles, and of his possessing, in consequence, that[230]
ingenuous face which is proverbially the very "best letter
of recommendation."
I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one
of the most respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the
most wealthy man in Rattleborough, while "Old Charley
Goodfellow" was upon as intimate terms with him as if
he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen
were next-door neighbors, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy
seldom, if ever, visited "Old Charley," and
never was known to take a meal in his house, still that
did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly
intimate, as I have just observed; for "Old Charley"
never let a day pass without stepping in three or four
times to see how his neighbor came on, and very often
he would stay to breakfast or tea, and always to dinner;
and then the amount of wine that was made way
with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be
a difficult thing to ascertain. "Old Charley's" favorite
beverage was Chateau Margaux, and it appeared to do
Mr. Shuttleworthy's heart good to see the old fellow
swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one
day, when the wine was in and the wit, as a natural consequence,
somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he
slapped him upon the back: "I tell you what it is, 'Old
Charley,' you are, by all odds, the heartiest old fellow I
ever came across in all my born days; and, since you
love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I'll be darned
if I don't have to make thee a present of a big box of
the Chateau Margaux. Od rot me," (Mr. Shuttleworthy
had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went
beyond "Od rot me," or "By gosh," or "By the jolly
golly"). "Od rot me," says he, "if I don't send an order[231]
to town this very afternoon for a double box of the best
that can be got, and I'll make ye a present of it, I will!—ye
needn't say a word now—I will, I tell ye, and there's
an end of it; so look out for it—it will come to hand
some of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking
for it the least!" I mention this little bit of liberty on
the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing
you how very intimate an understanding existed between
the two friends.
Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it
came to be fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had
met with foul play, I never saw any one so profoundly
affected as "Old Charley Goodfellow." When he first
heard that the horse had come home without his master,
and without his master's saddle-bags, and all bloody
from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and
through the poor animal's chest without quite killing
him—when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the
missing man had been his own dear brother or father,
and shivered and shook all over as if he had had a fit
of the ague.
At first he was too much overpowered with grief to
be able to do anything at all, or to decide upon any plan
of action; so that for a long time he endeavored to dissuade
Mr. Shuttleworthy's other friends from making a
stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait a while—say
for a week or two, or a month, or two—to see if something
wouldn't turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy
wouldn't come in the natural way, and explain his reasons
for sending his horse on before. I dare say you
have often observed this disposition to temporize, or to
procrastinate, in people who are laboring under any very[232]
poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered
torpid, so that they have a horror of anything
like action, and like nothing in the world so well as to
lie quietly in bed and "nurse their grief," as the old
ladies express it—that is to say, ruminate over the
trouble.
The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an
opinion of the wisdom and discretion of "Old Charley,"
that the greater part of them felt disposed to agree with
him, and not make a stir in the business "until something
should turn up," as the honest old gentleman worded it;
and I believe that, after all, this would have been the
general determination, but for the very suspicious interference
of Mr. Shuttleworthy's nephew, a young man
of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad
character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather,
would listen to nothing like reason in the matter of
"lying quiet," but insisted upon making immediate
search for the "corpse of the murdered man." This
was the expression he employed, and Mr. Goodfellow
acutely remarked at the time, that it was "a singular
expression, to say no more." This remark of "Old
Charley's" too, had great effect upon the crowd; and
one of the party was heard to ask, very impressively,
"how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so
intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected
with his wealthy uncle's disappearance, as to feel authorized
to assert, distinctly and unequivocally, that
his uncle was 'a murdered man.'" Hereupon some little
squibbling and bickering occurred among the various
members of the crowd, and especially between "Old
Charley" and Mr. Pennifeather—although this latter[233]
occurrence was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for little
good-will had subsisted between the parties for the
last three or four months; and matters had been gone
so far that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked down
his uncle's friend for some alleged excess of liberty that
the latter had taken in the uncle's house, of which the
nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion "Old
Charley" is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation
and Christian charity. He arose from the blow,
adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation
at all—merely muttered a few words about "taking summary
vengeance at the first convenient opportunity,"—a
natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger, which
meant nothing, however; and, beyond doubt, was no
sooner given vent to than forgotten.
However these matters may be (which have no reference
to the point now at issue), it is quite certain that
the people of Rattleborough, principally through the persuasion
of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the determination
of dispersion over the adjacent country in
search of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they
came to this determination in the first instance. After
it had been fully resolved that a search should be made,
it was considered almost a matter of course that the
seekers should disperse—that is to say, distribute themselves
in parties—for the more thorough examination of
the region round about. I forgot, however, by what ingenious
train of reasoning it was that "Old Charley"
finally convinced the assembly that this was the most
injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them,
however, he did—all except Mr. Pennifeather; and, in
the end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted,[234]
carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers
en masse, "Old Charley" himself leading the way.
As for the matter of that, there could have been no
better pioneer than "Old Charley," whom everybody
knew to have the eye of a lynx; but, although he led
them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners,
by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing
in the neighborhood, and although the search was
incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a week,
still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered.
When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood
to speak literally; for trace, to some extent, there certainly
was. The poor gentleman had been tracked, by
his horse's shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about
three miles to the east of the borough, on the main road
leading to the city. Here the track made off into a bypath
through a piece of woodland—the path coming out
again into the main road, and cutting off about half a
mile of the regular distance. Following the shoemarks
down this lane, the party came at length to a pool of
stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the
right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of
the track was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that
a struggle of some nature had here taken place, and it
seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger
and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the bypath
to the pool. This latter was carefully dragged
twice, but nothing was found; and the party were upon
the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result,
when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the
expediency of draining the water off altogether. This
project was received with cheers, and many high compliments[235]
to "Old Charley" upon his sagacity and consideration.
As many of the burghers had brought spades
with them, supposing that they might possibly be called
upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and
speedily effected; and no sooner was the bottom visible,
than right in the middle of the mud that remained was
discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly
every one present immediately recognized as the property
of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn
and stained with blood, and there were several persons
among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its
having been worn by its owner on the very morning of
Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure for the city; while there
were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required,
that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question
at any period during the remainder of that memorable
day; nor could any one be found to say that he
had seen it upon Mr. P.'s person at any period at all
subsequent to Mr. Shuttleworthy's disappearance.
Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr.
Pennifeather, and it was observed, as an indubitable
confirmation of the suspicions which were excited against
him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what
he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying
a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode
of living had left him deserted him at once to a man,
and were even more clamorous than his ancient and
avowed enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on
the other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow
shone forth with only the more brilliant lustre through
contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defense
of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than[236]
once to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young
gentleman—"the heir of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy"—for
the insult which he (the young gentleman) had, no
doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon
him (Mr. Goodfellow). "He forgave him for it," he
said, "from the very bottom of his heart; and for himself
(Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious
circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry
to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he
(Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion in his
power, would employ all the little eloquence in his possession
to—to—to—soften down, as much as he could
conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly
perplexing piece of business."
Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer
in this strain, very much to the credit both of his
head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted people
are seldom opposite in their observations—they run into
all sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal-apropos-isms,
in the hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend—thus,
often with the kindest intentions in the world, doing
infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to advance
it.
So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the
eloquence of "Old Charley"; for, although he labored
earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet it so happened,
somehow or other that every syllable he uttered of which
the direct but unfitting tendency was not to exalt the
speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect
of deepening the suspicion already attached to the
individual whose cause he pled, and of arousing against
him the fury of the mob.
[237]
One of the most unaccountable errors committed by
the orator was his allusion to the suspected as "the heir
of the worthy old gentleman, Mr. Shuttleworthy." The
people had really never thought of this before? They
had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance
uttered a year or two previously by the uncle (who had
no living relative except the nephew), and they had,
therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a
matter that was settled—so single-minded a race of beings
were the Rattleburghers; but the remark of "Old
Charley" brought them at once to a consideration of
this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility of
the threats having been nothing more than a threat.
And straightway hereupon, arose the natural question
of cui bono?—a question; that tended even more than the
waistcoat to fasten the terrible crime upon the young
man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me
to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly
brief and simple Latin phrase which I have
employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived.
"Cui bono" in all the crack novels and elsewhere—in
those of Mrs. Gore, for example (the author of "Cecil"),
a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to
Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, "as needed,"
upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford—in all the
crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens
to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little
Latin words cui bono are rendered "to what purpose?"
or (as if quo bono), "to what good?" Their true meaning,
nevertheless, is "for whose advantage." Cui, to
whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal
phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have[238]
under consideration, where probability of the doer of a
deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing
to this individual or to that from the deed's accomplishment.
Now in the present instance, the question cui
bono? very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His
uncle had threatened him, after making a will in his
favor, with disinheritance. But the threat had not been
actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not
been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable
motive for murder on the part of the suspected would
have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this
would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation
into the good graces of the uncle. But the will being
unaltered, while the threat to alter remained suspended
over the nephew's head, there appears at once
the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity;
and so concluded very sagaciously, the worthy citizens
of the borough of Rattle.
Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon
the spot, and the crowd, after some further search, proceeded
homeward, having him in custody. On the route,
however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm
the suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose
zeal led him to be always a little in advance of the party,
was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces, stoop,
and then apparently to pick up some small object from
the grass. Having quickly examined it, he was observed
too, to make a sort of attempt at concealing it in his
coat pocket; but this action was noticed, as I say, and
consequently prevented, when the object picked up was
found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at
once recognized as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover,[239]
his initials were engraved upon the handle. The
blade of this knife was open and bloody.
No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew,
and immediately upon reaching Rattleborough he was
taken before a magistrate for examination.
Here matters again took a most unfavorable turn.
The prisoner, being questioned as to his whereabouts on
the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's disappearance, had
absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that very
morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in
the immediate neighborhood of the pool where the bloodstained
waistcoat had been discovered through the sagacity
of Mr. Goodfellow.
This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his
eyes, asked permission to be examined. He said that a
stern sense of the duty he owed his Maker, not less than
his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to remain
silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young
man (notwithstanding the latter's ill-treatment of himself,
Mr. Goodfellow), had induced him to make every
hypothesis which imagination could suggest, by way of
endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in
the circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather;
but these circumstances were now altogether
too convincing—too damning; he would hesitate no longer—he
would tell all he knew, although his heart (Mr.
Goodfellow's), should absolutely burst asunder in the
effort. He then went on to state that on the afternoon
of the day previous to Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure
for the city, that worthy old gentleman had mentioned to
his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow's), that his
object in going to town on the morrow was to make a[240]
deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the
"Farmers' and Merchants' Bank," and that, then and
there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed
to the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding
the will originally made, and of cutting him
off with a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly
called upon the accused to state whether what he (the
witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in
every substantial particular. Much to the astonishment
of every one present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted
that it was.
The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a
couple of constables to search the chamber of the accused
in the house of his uncle. From this search they
almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound,
russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman
had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its
valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and the
magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the prisoner
the use which had been made of them, or the place of
their concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied all
knowledge of the matter. The constables also discovered,
between the bed and sacking of the unhappy man, a
shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials
of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the
blood of the victim.
At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of
the murdered man had just expired in the stable from
the effects of the wound he had received, and it was proposed
by Mr. Goodfellow that a post-mortem examination
of the beast should be immediately made, with the
view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This was accordingly[241]
done; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a question
the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable
searching in the cavity of the chest, was enabled
to detect and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary
size which, upon trial, was found to be exactly
adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather's rifle, while
it was far too large for that of any other person in the
borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even surer
yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw
or seam at a right angles to the usual suture, and upon
examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an
accidental ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged
by the accused himself to be his own property.
Upon finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate
refused to listen to any further testimony, and immediately
committed the prisoner for trial—declining
resolutely to take any bail in the case, although against
this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated,
and offered to become surety in whatever amount might
be required. This generosity on the part of "Old
Charley" was only in accordance with the whole tenor
of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire
period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the
present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried
away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he
seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go
bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow)
did not possess a single dollar's worth of property
upon the face of the earth.
The result of the committal may be readily foreseen.
Mr. Pennifeather, amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough,
was brought to trial at the next criminal sessions,[242]
when the chain of circumstantial evidence
(strengthened as it was by some additional damning
facts, which Mr. Goodfellow's sensitive conscientiousness
forbade him to withhold from the court), was considered
so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the jury,
without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict
of "Guilty of murder in the first degree." Soon
afterward the unhappy wretch received sentence of
death, and was remanded to the county jail to await the
inexorable vengeance of the law.
In the meantime, the noble behavior of "Old Charley
Goodfellow" had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens
of the borough. He became ten times a greater
favorite than ever; and, as a natural result of the hospitality
with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were,
perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his
poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very
frequently had little réunions at his own house, when wit
and jollity reigned supreme—dampened a little, of
course, by the occasional remembrance of the untoward
and melancholy fate which impended over the nephew
of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.
One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was
agreeably surprised at the receipt of the following letter:
Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough.
From H., F., B. & Co.
Chat. Mar. A.—No. 1—6 doz. bottles. (½ gross.)
"Charles Goodfellow, Esquire:
"Dear Sir—In conformity with an order
transmitted to our firm about two months since,
by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabas[243]
Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding
this morning, to your address, a double box of
Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet
seal. Box numbered and marked as per margin.
"We remain, sir,
"Your most ob'nt ser'ts,
"Hoggs, Frogs, Bogs & Co."
"City of——,
June 21, 18—.
"P. S.—The box will reach you by wagon,
on the day after your receipt of this letter. Our
respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.
"H., F., B. & Co."
The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death
of Mr. Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever
receiving the promised Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore,
looked upon it now as a sort of especial dispensation
of Providence in his behalf. He was highly delighted,
of course, and in the exuberance of his joy, invited
a large party of friends to a petit souper on the
morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Shuttleworthy's
present. Not that he said anything about
"the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy" when he issued the
invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded
to say nothing at all. He did not mention to any one—if
I remember aright—that he had received a present of
Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to come
and help him drink some of a remarkably fine quality
and rich flavor that he had ordered up from the city a
couple of months ago, and of which he would be in the
receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself[244]
to imagine why it was that "Old Charley" came to the
conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine
from his old friend, but I could never precisely understand
his reason for the silence, although he had some excellent
and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.
The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very
large and highly respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow's
house. Indeed, half the borough was there—I
myself among the number—but, much to the vexation of
the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a
late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by
"Old Charley" had been done very ample justice by the
guests. It came at length, however—a monstrously big
box of it there was, too—and as the whole party were in
excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that
it should be lifted upon the table and its contents disembowelled
forthwith.
No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand;
and, in a trice, we had the box upon the table, in the
midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a few of which
were demolished in the scuffle. "Old Charley," who was
pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face,
now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the
head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with
a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order
"during the ceremony of disinterring the treasure."
After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored,
and, as very often happens in similar cases, a
profound and remarkable silence ensued. Being then
requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course,
"with an infinite deal of pleasure." I inserted a chisel,
and giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top[245]
of the box flew suddenly off, and, at the same instant,
there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing
the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse
of the murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed
for a few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying
and lack-lustre eyes, full into the countenance of
Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and impressively,
the words, "Thou art the man!" and then, falling
over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied,
stretched out its limbs quivering upon the table.
The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description.
The rush for the doors and windows was terrific,
and many of the most robust men in the room fainted
outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr.
Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget
the more than mortal agony which was depicted in
that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph
and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a
statue of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy
of their gaze, to be turned inward and absorbed in the
contemplation of his own miserable, murderous soul. At
length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out
into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he
sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head
and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the
corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed
confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather
was then imprisoned and doomed to die.
What he recounted was in substance this: He followed
his victim to the vicinity of the pool; there shot
his horse with a pistol; despatched its rider with the butt[246]
end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and, supposing
the horse dead, dragged it with great labor to the
brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the
corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure
place of concealment a long distance off through
the woods.
The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet
had been placed by himself where found, with the
view of avenging himself upon Mr. Pennifeather. He
had also contrived the discovery of the stained handkerchief
and shirt.
Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words
of the guilty wretch faltered and grew hollow. When
the record was finally exhausted, he arose, staggered
backward from the table, and fell—dead.
The means by which this happily-timed confession
was extorted, although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr.
Goodfellow's excess of frankness had disgusted me, and
excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when
Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression
which then arose upon his countenance, although
momentary, assured me that his threat of vengeance
would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared
to view the maneuvering of "Old Charley" in a
very different light from that in which it was regarded
by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw at once
that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly
or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly
opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair
of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the
horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers[247]
had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the
horse, and another where it went out. If it were found
in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw
clearly that it must have been deposited by the person
who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed
the idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood
on examination proved to be capital claret, and no more.
When I came to think of these things, and also of the
late increase of liberality and expenditure an the part of
Mr. Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was
none the less strong because I kept it altogether to myself.
In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private
search for the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good
reasons, searched in quarters as divergent as possible
from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his party.
The result was that, after some days, I came across an
old dry well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by
brambles; and here, at the bottom, I discovered what I
sought.
Now, it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy
between the two cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had
contrived to cajole his host into the promise of a box of
Chateau-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured
a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of
the corpse; and deposited the latter in an old wine box—taking
care so to double the body up as to double the
whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly
upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with
nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these
latter were removed, the top would fly off and the
body up.
[248]
Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered
and addressed it as already told; and then writing a
letter in the name of the wine merchants with whom
Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant
to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a
barrow, at a given signal from myself. For the words
which I intended the corpse to speak I confidently depended
upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect,
I counted upon the conscience of the murderous
wretch.
I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr.
Pennifeather was released upon the spot, inherited the
fortune of his uncle, profited by the lessons of experience,
turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever afterward
a new life.
—Edgar Allan Poe.
The Picture of Lhasa
"Jim, Jim, come here quick! She's in sight! Oh,
hustle!"
"Well, she'll stay where she is until I get there, won't
she?" came a drawl from a little lower down on the
precipitous path, as the speaker, in spite of his indifferent
words, made strenuous efforts to join his companion
on the rocky ledge with as little delay as possible. Behind
him, scarcely visible, lay the trail winding about
along the sides of the lofty mountains which have for so
long been keeping this little corner of the earth from
the knowledge of Western nations, while, far beneath
him, rolled a little stream, the Kyi-chu, which dashed
against the rocks as though it were impatient to be out
in a broader world.
[249]
"I'm glad she's in sight, Chad," Jim continued, when
he had gained the shelf of rock on which his companion
stood, "but what is she, anyhow? I don't believe you
said," and he laughed, with his eyes fastened upon the
flash of reflected sunlight, his first sight of Lhasa and
her wonderful Buddhist Cathedral.
"Is the camera all right?" Chad's voice was anxious.
"It would be a pity to come so far and then have the
plates no good."
"What's wrong with you, Chad? You don't intend
to take a picture of a place ten miles away, do
you?"
"Of course not, you idiot, but I wish that you had
kept the camera yourself, instead of leaving it with
John's load. I don't like the look of his yellow cap just
now."
"You're too suspicious, Chad. John's a good fellow;
aren't you Chinkey?" Jim called out as an evil-looking
Chinaman came around a bend in the trail.
The Chinaman's only response was a look of utter
ignorance, at which Jim laughed again, and said, "Just
one look at the man ought to convince you that he is
too dull to frighten a Yankee. Besides, he doesn't understand
English, and can't possibly know that we are
here to get the picture of Lhasa, and that of the Grand
Lama, too, if we can." Had either of the men been
looking, he might have seen the cunning in the one
black eye of the servant; but the expression passed unnoticed.
"Another day and we'll be near enough to begin
on the pictures. I'll be glad to start home, too. It has
been a hard trip. I don't see why Milligan couldn't[250]
have taken the pictures for his book himself, instead
of sending us off here for them."
"Jim, my boy, where's your regard for your daily
bread—and the butter therefor? Where should you be
if you hadn't had this chance?"
"Well," Jim returned quickly, "I shouldn't have
been ruining my constitution in this infernal climate,
at any rate."
Chad looked him over with profound gravity.
"Well, Jim, I'm glad you are telling me that you are
cut out for an early grave; I should never have believed
it if you hadn't said so yourself."
"Wouldn't there be a rumpus if the Lamas knew
about this trip of ours?" Chad resumed as though fascinated
with the idea. "I can see ourselves calling
each other lucky because we only got kicked over this
precipice here."
"You can occupy yourself with such thoughts if you
want to," exclaimed Jim; "but I'm going to hustle
up that John Chinaman. It seems to me he's pretty
slow this evening, and I'm hungry."
"If your constitution is spoiled?" laughed Chad.
"Well, good luck; call me when you're ready," and
the young reporter threw himself down upon the rocks
and looked off toward Lhasa. In a few minutes he
heard Jim's voice raised in alarm. "John! John!
Oh, John-n!" As Chad sprang up and started along
the path, he met Jim coming back.
"Say, Chad, that rascal of a chink has vanished
completely with a good half of the supplies, and if you
say, 'I told you so,' I'll light out too!"
"Is the camera safe?" was Chad's instant response.
[251]
"Why, I guess so; the box is anyhow—I didn't look
inside."
"Well, I guess we'll get along then. I ought to
be able to cook well enough to suit a man of your
enfeebled condition," and Chad looked at Jim's broad
shoulders in some amusement in spite of the seriousness
of the situation.
"Really, Chad, is it safe to go on? Do you think
we ought to risk it?"
"Risk it! Are we going to take three months for
preparation, and then come four thousand miles on a
trip of this sort, only to give it up in sight of the
end, because a rogue runs off? Well, I guess not."
"All right," Jim returned laconically, "I just wanted
to know how you felt about it."
Some three hours later the two men were wrapped
up in their furs ready for the night. "Say, Chad,"
said Jim, as he lay watching the stars in the clear sky,
"what makes a Chinaman so afraid of a camera? I
am quite certain that you never told me."
"I believe that they think a man's soul is killed
when his picture is taken," said Chad sleepily.
"'Buddha doesn't like it' is quite reason enough for
most of 'em." The last sentence was half lost in a
snore, and the Grand Lama was photographed a dozen
times in Jim's dreams.
The next morning the two men set out again with
the one donkey and its load which the Chinaman left
to them, and, after a few hours' hard travel, they came
to the mountain spur just above the capital of Tibet.
The city was well within range, and a few minutes after
they had arrived the camera was set up, and Chad was[252]
finding the focus. While they were both occupied busily,
a group of yellow-clad figures was approaching from a
lamasery that was half-hidden on the mountainside. The
leader of the band, a one-eyed Chinaman with an almost
idiotic expression, was evidently greatly respected
by his followers; for the party did not change its position
without his direction. Slowly and with the utmost
caution they approached the unconscious workers and
surrounded them; then with a yell the mob of Buddhist
priests was about the camera. In another instant it was
rattling down the mountainside, Chad and Jim were
firmly bound, and the march back had begun.
The few rays of sunlight that found entrance into
the Buddhist lamasery served only to reveal the filthiness
of the place; but not even the disgusting sights
and odors could suppress the strangers' curiosity. In
the first room was an immense statue of Buddha with a
large cylinder in front of it. "A prayer wheel," whispered
Chad. Jim nodded.
Suddenly Chad's eyes flashed with an inspiration.
Turning to the leader he exclaimed, "You speak English
now, don't you?"
The man bowed gravely, courteously. The honorable
strangers' honorable conversation was greatly edifying,
he murmured.
"Well, then," Chad continued, "Will you tell me
why we are detained here?"
"The insignificant custom of the Tibetans is to resent
having their souls destroyed." The voice was calm
and matter-of-fact, but the words were terrible to the
two men looking into the circle of hostile faces which
showed so clearly their superstition and ignorance.
[253]
"You know, John, or Your Highness, if that suits
your present position better," the Chinaman's face remained
impassive, "you know how carefully we guarded
the black box. Did you know that it was not an
ordinary instrument, but the home of a spirit more powerful
than even your Buddha there? The photographic
spirit is the child of the Fire God, and the Fire God
protects all who guard his children. See, here is a part
of the Spirit's house," and Chad pulled an extra lens
from his pocket. "With this I can attract the god's
attention, and he will do my bidding." He placed
the glass in the sunlight and the robe of the nearest
Lama began to smolder. The priests started back in
great alarm, but Chad continued with only a sufficient
number of pauses for the leading Lama to translate to
the others. "While you were masquerading as my servant,
you saw how careful I was of the camera; you
can judge for yourself whether or not the Fiery One
will protect me. What do you think will be the fate
of you who have destroyed this mighty spirit's home?
I will tell you. He will descend from the sky and will
burn you with a hotter fire than you have ever felt—a
fire so hot that the spirit of the camera cannot approach
it in intensity." And the Lama screamed as he
felt the heat of the powerful ray upon his arm. "What
do you think? Will you anger this mighty one by further
crimes against his favorites?"
"Buddha will protect us," stolidly responded a
priest.
"Ask your leader if Buddha could protect him
from the burning of the camera spirit, and then judge[254]
whether Buddha can guard you against the power of
the Fire Dragon when he is roused to vengeance.
Panic began to seize upon the priests. One by one
they disappeared until at length only the Chief Lama
was left. "If the honorable gentlemen will tarry for
a few moments I will bring them their beasts." When
the donkeys were brought in, Chad looked their packs
over and prepared them for the journey, while Jim
started back to the ledge, hoping that part of their
supplies might have been unmolested. When Chad came
around the rock ten minutes later, he stopped in amazement
and stared at the camera, which Jim had rescued
from the tree in which it had lodged uninjured save
for a broken plate.
As Chad approached, Jim looked up and said, "I've
got one; I'll bet it's a dandy!"
—Hazel Orcutt.
[255]
CHAPTER IV
THE ENTERTAINING GROUP
In the group "entertaining" we may class all those
narratives that are told simply for the purpose of
pleasing the reader and passing away his time for him—tales
of probable adventure, society stories, humorous
stories, and stories for special occasions, like Thanksgiving and
Christmas. The bulk of magazine fiction
is of this kind. The chief endeavor of the writer is to
create the illusions of probability for a series of events
that after all is imaginary. However numerous may
be the actual incidents embodied, the course of the
happening as a whole is nevertheless made-up. There
is always a heightening or lowering of natural color, a
modification of real occurrences, in order to produce
the desired effect; namely, acceptance by the reader of
the whole series, and especially the climax, which may
be, for instance, the capture of the wild animal, the
culmination of the love episode, the emphasis of the
funny point, or the accident at the special celebration.
I. The Tale of Probable Adventure
Adventure narratives are essentially boys' stories—the
grammar and high school boys who are past the
"foolishness" of fairy tales and even of Oriental
wonder stories, but are not yet appreciative of realism,[256]
the quiet reflection of humdrum life. For many decades
The Youth's Companion has furnished among its other
good things excellent stories of adventure probable
and actual. Stevenson's masterpiece is, of course, one
of the two top-notches of excellence in the extended
form of this type of story. How the species may be
historically but a modification of the voyages imaginaires
is obviously suggested no less by "Treasure
Island" than by "Robinson Crusoe." It is the short
form of this type that we are dealing with at present.
Definition
Stories of probable adventure are narratives of
exciting and extraordinary events that, though really
fictitious, might have happened. We can tell
many of them from true adventures only by
the testimony of the authors. "Captain Singleton's Tour
Across Africa," critics have said, seems to the general
reader quite as true an account as Stanley's; while the
"Memoirs of a Cavalier," which records the adventures
of a soldier in the army of Gustavus Adolphus, was
long mistaken for autobiography.
The
writing
of a
probable
adventure
To write a tale of this kind you must put yourself
into the mood of the bold hunter or traveller. You
must imagine exciting things. Many of your
own experiences have just missed being
astounding. Add what-might-have-been,
and you have a story of the type we are
discussing. You catch the bear or the bear catches
you. You swim across a turbulent river. You spend
the night on an iceberg. You coast down the frightful
curves of the twenty-five miles of the Benguet road
with the steering gear of your automobile entirely
useless. Remember, though, that the adventure must[257]
seem real, however much you have drawn on your
reading and imagination. You must know enough of
animal, plant, and human life, and of geography, to be
particular here and there and thus give verisimilitude
to your pictures. In order to get a subject, suppose
you think of what you consider the bravest physical
act; then build up around it a swift, crisp narrative.
You may use technical terms once in a while, such as a
nervous story-teller would be likely to fling off and
then explain; only be sure they are intelligible very
soon.
An ordinary imagination supplemented by a "Baedeker"
will enable any one to construct an acceptable
probable adventure. Superior excellence will lie in the
diction and style.
A warning
Because of the prevalence of this kind of narrative,
you will need to guard yourself with especial care
against the temptation to plagiarize. Be sure
that your certification of authorship really
tells the truth. It is easier to be original than you think;
as George Bernard Shaw says, any man with brains can
more easily compose a story or a play than steal one.
A Fight with a Bear
One day, being in a forest a few leagues from Dusseldorf,
as Gerard was walking like one in a dream,
thinking of Margaret and scarce seeing the road he trod,
his companion laid a hand on his shoulder, and strung
his cross-bow with glittering eye. "Hush!" said he,
in a low whisper that startled Gerard more than thunder.
Gerard grasped his axe tight, and shook a little;
he heard a rustling in the wood hard by, and at the[258]
same moment Denys sprang into the wood, and his crossbow
went to his shoulder, even as he jumped. Twang!
went the metal string; and after an instant's suspense
he roared, "Run forward, guard the road! he is hit!
he is hit!"
Gerard darted forward, and, as he ran, a young bear
burst out of the wood right upon him; finding itself
intercepted, it went upon its hind legs with a snarl,
and, though not half-grown, opened formidable jaws
and long claws. Gerard, in a fury of excitement and
agitation, flung himself on it, and delivered a tremendous
blow on its nose with his axe, and the creature
staggered; another, and it lay groveling, with Gerard
hacking it.
"Hallo, stop! You are mad to spoil the meat."
"I took it for a robber," said Gerard, panting.
"I mean I had made ready for a robber, so I could
not hold my hand."
"Ay, these chattering travelers have stuffed your
head full of thieves and assassins; they have not got
a real live robber in their whole nation. Nay, I'll carry
the beast; bear you, though, my cross-bow."
"We will carry it by turns, then," said Gerard,
"for 'tis a heavy load; poor thing, how its blood drips.
Why did we slay it?"
"For supper and the reward the baillie of the next
town shall give us."
"And for that it must die, when it had but just
begun to live; and perchance it hath a mother that
will miss it sore this night, and loves it as ours love
us; more than mine does me."
"What, know you not that his mother was caught[259]
in a pitfall last month, and her skin is now at the
tanner's? and his father was stuck full of clothyard
shafts t'other day, and died like Julius Cæsar, with his
hands folded on his bosom, and a dead dog in each of
them?"
But Gerard would not view it jestingly. "Why,
then," said he, "we have killed one of God's creatures
that was all alone in the world—as I am this day, in
this strange land."
"You young milksop," roared Denys, "these things
must not be looked at so, or not another bow would be
drawn nor quarrel fly in the forest nor battlefield. Why,
one of your kidney consorting with a troop of pike-men
should turn them to a row of milk pails; it is
ended; to Rome thou goest not alone; for never wouldst
thou reach the Alps in a whole skin. I take thee to
Remiremont, my native place, and there I marry thee
to my young sister. She is blooming as a peach. Thou
shakest thy head? Ah! I forgot; thou lovest elsewhere,
and art a one-woman man, a creature to me scarce
conceivable. Well, then, I shall find thee, not a wife,
nor a leman, but a friend; some honest Burgundian
who shall go with thee as far as Lyons; and much I
doubt that honest fellow will be myself, into whose
liquor thou hast dropped sundry powders to make me
love thee; for erst I endured not doves in doublet and
hose. From Lyons, I say, I can trust thee by ship to
Italy, which being by all accounts the very stronghold
of milksops, thou wilt there be safe; they will
hear thy words, and make thee their duke in a twinkling."
Gerard sighed. "In sooth I love not to think of[260]
this Dusseldorf, where we are to part company, good
friend."
They walked silently, each thinking of the separation
at hand; the thought checked trifling conversation,
and at these moments it is a relief to do something,
however insignificant. Gerard asked Denys to
lend him a bolt. "I have often shot with a long-bow,
but never with one of these."
"Draw thy knife and cut this one out of the cub,"
said Denys slyly.
"Nay, nay, I want a clean one."
Denys gave him three out of his quiver.
Gerard strung the bow and leveled it at a bough
that had fallen into the road at some distance. The
power of the instrument surprised him; the short but
thick steel bow jarred him to the very heel as it went
off, and the swift steel shaft was invisible in its passage.
Only the dead leaves, with which November
had carpeted the narrow road, flew about on the other
side of the bough.
"Ye aimed a thought too high," said Denys.
"What a deadly thing! No wonder it is driving
out the long-bow—to Martin's much discontent."
"Ay, lad," said Denys, triumphantly, "it gains
ground every day, in spite of their laws and their
proclamations to keep up the yewen bow, because, forsooth,
their grandsires shot with it, knowing no better.
You see, Gerard, war is not pastime. Men will
shoot at their enemies with the hittingest arm and the
killingest, not with the longest and missingest."
"Then these new engines I hear of will put both
bows down; for these, with a pinch of black dust and[261]
a leaden ball, and a child's finger, shall slay you Mars
and Goliath and the Seven Champions."
"Pooh! pooh!" said Denys, warmly; "petrone nor
harquebuss shall ever put down Sir Arbalest. Why, we
can shoot ten times while they are putting their charcoal
and their lead into their leathern smoke belchers,
and then kindling their matches. All that is too fumbling
for the field of battle; there a soldier's weapon
needs be aye ready, like his heart."
Gerard did not answer, for his ear was attracted
by a sound behind them. It was a peculiar sound, too,
like something heavy, but not hard, rushing softly over
the dead leaves. He turned round with some little curiosity.
A colossal creature was coming down the road at
about sixty paces distance.
He looked at it in a sort of calm stupor at first;
but the next moment he turned ashy pale.
"Denys!" he cried. "O God! Denys!"
Denys whirled round.
It was a bear as big as a cart horse.
It was tearing along with its huge head down, running
on a hot scent.
The very moment he saw it, Denys said in a sickening
whisper:
"The cub!"
Oh! the concentrated horror of that one word, whispered
hoarsely, with dilating eyes! For in that syllable
it all flashed upon them both like a sudden stroke of
lightning in the dark—the bloody trail, the murdered
cub, the mother upon them, and it. DEATH.
All this in a moment of time. The next she saw
them. Huge as she was, she seemed to double herself[262]
(it was her long hair bristling with rage); she raised
her head big as a bull's, her swine-shaped jaws opened
wide at them, her eyes turned to blood and flame, and
she rushed upon them, scattering the leaves about her
like a whirlwind as she came.
"Shoot!" screamed Denys, but Gerard stood shaking
from head to foot, useless.
"Shoot, man! ten thousand devils, shoot! Too late!
Tree! tree!" and he dropped the cub, pushed Gerard
across the road, and flew to the first tree and climbed
it, Gerard the same on his side; and, as they fled, both
men uttered inhuman howls like savage creatures grazed
by death.
With all their speed one or other would have been
torn to fragments at the foot of his tree; but the bear
stopped a moment at the cub.
Without taking her bloodshot eyes off those she was
hunting, she smelt it all round, and found, how, her
Creator only knows, that it was dead, quite dead. She
gave a yell such as neither of the hunted ones had ever
heard, nor dreamed to be in nature, and flew after
Denys. She reared and struck at him as he climbed. He
was just out of reach.
Instantly she seized the tree, and with her huge
teeth tore a great piece out of it with a crash. Then she
reared again, dug her claws deep into the bark and
began to mount it slowly, but as surely as a monkey.
Denys's evil star had led him to a dead tree, a mere
shaft, and of no very great height. He climbed faster
than his pursuer, and was soon at the top. He looked
this way and that for some bough of another tree to
spring to. There was none; and if he jumped down[263]
he knew the bear would be upon him ere he could
recover the fall, and make short work of him. Moreover,
Denys was little used to turning his back on danger,
and his blood was rising at being hunted. He
turned to bay.
"My hour is come," thought he. "Let me meet
death like a man." He kneeled down and grasped a
small shoot to steady himself, drew his long knife, and
clenching his teeth, prepared to job the huge brute as
soon as it should mount within reach.
Of this combat the result was not doubtful.
The monster's head and neck were scarce vulnerable
for bone and masses of hair. The man was going to
sting the bear, and the bear to crack the man like a
nut.
Gerard's heart was better than his nerves. He saw
his friend's mortal danger, and passed at once from
fear to blindish rage. He slipped down his tree in a
moment, caught up the cross-bow which he had dropped
in the road, and, running furiously up, sent a bolt into
the bear's body with a loud shout. The bear gave a
snarl of rage and pain and turned its head irresolutely.
"Keep aloof," cried Denys, "or you are a dead
man."
"I care not," and in a moment he had another bolt
ready and shot it fiercely into the bear, screaming "Take
that! that! that!"
Denys poured a volley of oaths down at him. "Get
away, idiot!"
He was right; the bear finding so formidable and
noisy a foe behind him, slipped growling down the tree,
rending deep furrows in it as she slipped. Gerard ran[264]
back to his tree and climbed it swiftly. But while his
legs were dangling some eight feet from the ground the
bear came rearing and struck with her forepaw, and
out flew a piece of bloody cloth from Gerard's hose. He
climbed and climbed, and presently he heard as it were
in the air a voice say, "Go out on the bough!" He
looked, and there was a long massive branch before
him shooting upwards at a slight angle; he threw his
body across it, and by a series of convulsive efforts
worked up it to the end.
Then he looked round panting.
The bear was mounting the tree on the other side.
He heard her claws scrape; and saw her bulge on both
sides of the massive tree. Her eye not being very quick,
she reached the fork and passed it, mounting the main
stem. Gerard drew breath more freely. The bear
either heard him or found by scent she was wrong;
she paused; presently she caught sight of him. She
eyed him steadily, then quietly descended to the fork.
Slowly and cautiously she stretched out a paw and
tried the bough. It was a stiff oak branch, sound as
iron. Instinct taught the creature this; it crawled carefully
out on the bough, growling savagely as it came.
Gerard looked wildly down. He was forty feet from
the ground. Death below. Death moving slow but sure
on him in a still more horrible form. His hair bristled.
The sweat poured from him. He sat helpless, fascinated,
tongue-tied.
As the fearful monster crawled growling towards
him, incongruous thoughts coursed through his mind.
Margaret, the Vulgate, where it speaks of the rage of a
she-bear robbed of her whelps—Rome—Eternity.
[265]
The bear crawled on. And now the stupor of death
fell on the doomed man; he saw the open jaws and
bloodshot eyes coming, but in a mist.
As in a mist he heard a twang; he glanced down;
Denys, white and silent as death, was shooting up at
the bear. The bear snarled at the twang; but crawled
on. Again the cross-bow twanged; and the bear snarled
and came nearer. Again the cross-bow twanged, and
the next moment the bear was close upon Gerard, where
he sat, with hair standing stiff on end, and eyes starting
from their sockets, palsied. The bear opened her
jaws like a grave, and hot blood spouted from them upon
Gerard as from a pump. The bough rocked. The
wounded monster was reeling; it clung, it stuck its sickles
of claws deep into the wood; it toppled, its claws held
firm, but its body rolled off, and the sudden shock to
the branch shook Gerard forward on his stomach with
his face upon one of the bear's straining paws. At
this, by a convulsive effort, she raised her head up, up,
till he felt her hot fetid breath. Then huge teeth
snapped together loudly close below him in the air,
with a last effort of baffled hate. The ponderous carcass
rent the claws out of the boughs; then pounded
the earth with a tremendous thump. There was a shout
of triumph below, and the very next instant a cry of
dismay, for Gerard had swooned, and, without an attempt
to save himself, rolled headlong from the perilous
height.
Denys caught at Gerard and somewhat checked his
fall; but it may be doubted whether this alone would have
saved him from breaking his neck or a limb. His best
friend now was the dying bear, on whose hairy carcass[266]
his head and shoulders descended. Denys tore him
off her. It was needless. She panted still, and her limbs
quivered, but a hare was not so harmless; and soon she
breathed her last, and the judicious Denys propped
Gerard up against her, being soft, and fanned him. He
came to by degrees, but confused, and feeling the bear
all round him, rolled away, yelling.
"Courage," cried Denys, "le diable est mort."
"Is it dead, quite dead?" inquired Gerard from
behind a tree; for his courage was feverish, and the
cold fit was on him just now, and had been for some
time.
"Behold," said Denys, and pulled the brute's ear
playfully, and opened her jaws and put in his head,
with other insulting antics; in the midst of which Gerard
was violently sick.
Denys laughed at him.
"What is the matter now?" said he; "also, why
tumble off your perch just when we had won the day?"
"I swooned, I trow."
"But why?"
Not receiving an answer, he continued, "Green girls
faint as soon as look at you, but then they choose time
and place. What woman ever fainted up a tree?"
"She sent her nasty blood all over me. I think the
smell must have overpowered me. Faugh! I hate
blood."
"I do believe it potently."
"See what a mess she has made me!"
"But with her blood, not yours. I pity the enemy
that strives to satisfy you."
[267]
"You need not to brag, Maitre Denys; I saw you
under the tree, the color of your shirt."
"Let us distinguish," said Denys coloring; "it is
permitted to tremble for a friend."
Gerard, for answer, flung his arm around Denys's
neck in silence.
—Charles Reade.
From "The Cloister and the Hearth."
The Secret of the Jade Tlaloc
"If only this paper on jade were finished!" sighed
tall, dignified, blond Dolores. "These notes sound so
interesting. 'Jade implements,'" she read, "'found in
Mexico—source of mineral not yet discovered—theory
that implements are relics of Eastern invasion disproved—jade
said to exist in America,' My! I do think
jade is the most delightful subject for investigation."
"Um-m!" Elsa, who, like her Spanish mother, was
small, quick, dark, and adventure-loving, did not consider
jade a particularly fascinating topic for study.
"Now if—we—a—we—a——" she ruminated.
"If we—a——?" Dolores's sentences were always
clearly thought out before she spoke them.
"If we—a—now if we could finish that paper, we
might be able to sell it, you know," Elsa went on. "We
certainly haven't an enviably large fortune." She
reached into one of the dark pigeon-holes of her father's
ponderous desk. "Ook-ook!" she pursed up her full
red lips, as she held a yellow scroll from her and gingerly
flicked away the dust which had collected upon
it since her father's death. "Now here's what I call
interesting. An old letter or something, written on[268]
agave-leaf paper." From their long association with
their father in his archeological researches, the girls had
gained a more than superficial knowledge of Aztec customs
and antiquities. "'We, the Aztecs, are a proud
race,'" she readily translated. "'It is not for the
Spaniards to glory in complete victory over us, for
though they have conquered our bodies, they have not
conquered our spirits. Well may they rejoice in the
ruining of our beautiful cities. But when they search,
and search in vain, for the wealth which they know
has been ours, how they will rage! But their anger
shall be as vain as their searching. Those of us who
are left will not see the invaders glorying in what was
once the splendor of the Aztecs. Rather will we bury,
and hide from all future generations, if need be, the secrets
of our riches. It is that my descendants may one
day scoff at the descendants of those who have made
me, who was a prince, a slave, that I am making this
record. Among the mountains which the Spaniards have
called the "Corderillas" is one in whose top is a hole
of great depth, from which it is said, there once flowed
streams of liquid fire, the vengeance of the gods upon
the people. This mountain stands between two sister
mountains of far greater height than itself, and is near
the middle of the range.' Why, that might be Ahualtaper,
right near here." Elsa had the topography of
the country around their home very clearly mapped
out in her mind.
Dolores nodded. "Go on," she said.
"'Half-way up the side which faces the rising
sun,'" Elsa continued, "'is a ledge, upon which is a
rock, apparently one with the mountainside, and in[269]
which, when viewed from a distance, can be seen a resemblance
to the cross of Tlaloc. One day a descendant
of mine will find and displace this rock; whereupon,
the entrance to the tomb of my ancestors will be revealed.
There are many such tombs and many such
mountains as those which I have described, but which
I have not named. However, in the particular burial
place to which I refer is a jade image of the god Tlaloc.
It is studded with valuable turquoise. Where this image
is found will also be found what should be the source
of untold wealth to the discoverer.
"'In warning, let me say that none but the eldest
son of a family must ever know of this document; and
should he be tempted, ever, to part with it, let him
remember that bodily want is preferable to the curses
of the dead!'"
The two girls remained silent for a few moments.
"Well," asked Elsa, at last, "what do you think of
that?"
Dolores turned again to the desk. "It is interesting,"
she replied, "but of what use can it ever be to
us? We could never find the place. Why, we've been
in dozens of burial grottos already, and they are all
pretty much alike." She opened another drawer. "Here
is father's diary."
The book fell open at the page upon which the
last entry had been made. "'May 15'—the day father
became ill—'poor wrinkled old Gomez died today,'"
she read. "'He wanted to give me information about
a jade Tlaloc, some famous image which has been lost.
He tried with his last breath to do me the service of
aiding me in my research. He gave me also a very ancient[270]
manuscript. I do not know where he got it. I
hardly feel equal, to-night, to the task of translating it.
Perhaps Elsa will do the translation tomorrow. If I
could find such an idol, it would be of great value to
me in my treatise on jade.'"
Elsa waited long enough only for Dolores to stop
reading. "Dolores, we must find that idol."
Dolores looked gravely at her sister. "This is really
a serious matter, Elsa. It would save us from the necessity
of working if we could find it. But how can
you and I alone accomplish anything? We should have
to go into the mountains, and have a donkey, and camp
in the open air, and——"
"Well," Elsa impatiently interrupted the enumeration
of objections, "what of that? You and father
and I used often to go into the mountains, and have a
donkey, and camp in the open air; and father always
depended more upon us than we upon him. You think
it over while I get tea." Elsa left her sister sitting
alone and looking out of the study windows to the solemn
rugged Corderillas.
Dolores did consider the matter, with the result that,
after a few weeks of study, of consulting maps and
plans, and of preparation for the journey, the sisters
were ready to begin the daring exploit whose aim was
to complete the investigations which their father had
begun.
Clad in rough, unsightly denim, and leading a burro
which carried a very considerable store of provisions,
they clambered up the jagged sides of Ahualtapec;
they tore their way through thickets and fell upon
cacti.
[271]
"We're lost," panted Dolores, finally, as she pulled
the many thorns from her clothing. "Elsa, we're
lost."
They had stopped, at about noon on the tenth day
of their trip, to rest, and again to consult their maps.
Elsa stood upon a ledge and looked across to where,
between two lofty mountains, rising to the south of
Ahualtapec, a smaller rock mass showed itself, like a
much overgrown hill-the shell of a long extinct volcano,
and a very counterpart of Ahualtapec.
"Dolores," she pointed straight before her, "do
you remember? A stone in which, when viewed from
a distance, can be seen a resemblance to the cross of
Tlaloc?"
"Oh, dear," complained Dolores, dejectedly, "and
all this time wasted!"
"Now, Dolores!" small Elsa turned about determinedly,
"you ought to shout for joy, for that certainly
must be it. The rocks are bare around that spot,
and you can see it plainly from here. It's on a ledge,
too, just like the one we're on. We will start this very
minute, Dolores."
Delaying long enough only for Elsa, who had a fine
sense of location, to impress upon her mind the position
of the cross, they began once more the tedious
scrambling, tearing, tumbling down slopes and up slopes,
across streams and through, streams; but they did not
lose themselves again.
"Do you suppose," Dolores anxiously asked, "that
we can ever move it?" as she saw how the ages had
packed, and hardened the damp soil about the base of
the boulder.
[272]
"We must." Elsa was resolved not to be defeated.
"We absolutely must," she reiterated.
"How?" demanded Dolores.
Elsa's reply was to unstrap a bag from the burro's
back, to take from it two trowels, and silently to offer
one to Dolores. No explanation was necessary. For
five days the girls scraped and dug away the hardened
soil from the lower part of the cross-shaped stone, until
at last the block began to tremble as though about to
fall.
"Dolores! Dolores! It's top heavy, bless it!" Elsa
was enthusiastically, insanely happy.
The fact that the stone was top-heavy made it possible
for the girls, by dint of much tugging, heaving,
and pushing, to roll it over the ledge, and to send it
bumping down the mountainside. A narrow passage,
wide enough to admit only one at a time, was thus
opened. Pine torches were lit. Even Dolores was excited.
They squeezed into the entrance, Elsa first. They
rushed through the short tunnel, until, at the end, Elsa
stumbled and sank to her knees.
"Oh, my! Dolores, just look!" she was holding her
torch down to see what had caused her fall. "It's it,"
she remarked, disregarding rhetoric, while she pointed
to a small turquoise-studded image of Tlaloc, the Neptune
of the Aztecs.
The girls carried the idol into the little ante-room
which was always a part of the burial grotto of an
Aztec noble family. How pleasant, how cool, and damp
it seemed in here, after their hot toil outside. The sisters
had been in too many tombs to know any fear, to
have any feeling of the presence of the dead. Their[273]
own breathing sounded loud and labored amid the silence
of the cave.
Dolores sat down on the moist floor, and examined
the statues; she was thinking of the treasure; but Elsa,
now that she was sure of finding the gold, or the jewels,
or whatever the promise might have meant, desired to
explore the grotto.
From the little ante-room she passed into the larger
chamber. Here, for the first time, she felt chilled;
she seemed so alone. She was sure she felt a ghost
whisper near her. Her feet slipped on the wet earth.
On the further side of the tomb she saw upon the ground
an urn, on which rested a skull. By the shape of the
urn and by the arrangement of the ornaments above it
Elsa knew that it contained the ashes of a warrior. A
drop of water splashed down from the ceiling and
aroused her. She held her torch aloft. She looked unbelievingly
at the roof. Then she walked slowly around
the room, wonderingly, feeling and scrutinizing the
walls.
"Dolores!" she called, "come quick!"
Dolores was not long in coming.
"And here is also what should be the source of untold
wealth to the discoverer," Elsa was murmuring.
"Dolores, do you see that green, that dull gray? How
it shines? Don't you know, Dolores? It's jade, royal
jade, Dolores!"
—Dorothea Knoblock.
II. The Society Story
What the
society
story is
Society stories are those non-consequential narratives
of modern fashionable life which have in their[274]
very lightness their sole excuse for being. They are set
up as only partial reflections of the actual. Since their
chief purpose is to please, they have no studied realism
in them. All things intense and unattractive
are omitted. If trouble appears, it is but as
"sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh,"
as one of their authors might promptly quote, and everything
is brought to harmonize with everything else at
last. Richard Harding Davis for his "Van Bibber"
tales seems to have found a wide public.
The
pastoral
romance
An older representative of the society story is the
pastoral romance, once a very popular form of the love
tale. In it we have a picture of country life,
but it is not the hard, toil-beleaguered life of
the real peasant. It is the imaginary out-of-doors
living-for-a-few-days of the courtier who masquerades
as a shepherd and sits cavalierly on a grassy
bank with a golden crook in his hand, sighing out his
heart in silvery madrigals. His lady-love is no ordinary
milk-maid, but a courtly princess on vacation. In
this romantic land of shepherd loves, nothing realistic
enters. The talk in even the first examples is philosophic
and in the later becomes euphuistic as well.
The critics maintain that the pastoral romance as a
type does not go more than ten years back of the
middle of the fourteenth century, although we have
"Aucassin and Nicolette" of the thirteenth and
"Daphnis and Chloe" of the fifth. The prime fact of
the history of the pastoral romance as a society story
is that it grew up as a revolt against the licentious
realism of the Italian novellieri. The "Arcadia" by
Sannazaro, written about 1500, is the book that made[275]
the epoch and established the rule for pastoral romance
in all languages. Sannazaro took what had been foreshadowed
by Boccaccio in the "Ameto" in 1340, and,
enriching it with elements derived from Theocritus and
Virgil, created the "perfect" example. From Sannazaro,
Sir Philip Sidney borrowed the spirit, many
episodes, and part of the name for his notable combination
of prose and verse—the "Countess of Pembroke's
Arcadia." Shakespeare, too, derived much
from this important Italian book. For one thing, he
took the name Ophelia; for another, his charming
society pastoral drama "As You Like It" goes historically
back to Sannazaro's "Arcadia" for its lyrics,
out-of-doors courting, its real shepherds, its obvious
love of nature, its touch of magic, and its wholesome
morality. The lack of allegorical significance is also
straight example from Sannazaro; but the love chain,
the disguised shepherd princesses, the humorous element
in connection with the coarse shepherds, a touch
of adventure, and the cavalier tone are of later Spanish
and English contamination, immediately through
Lodge's prose romance "Rosalynd," and more remotely
through Greene's three pastorals—"England's Mourning
Garment," "Menaphon," and "Pandosto,"—and
through Cervantes's "Galatea" and Montemayor's
"Diana," and Ribeyro's Portuguese "Fragments."
Though the pastoral romance, as we notice, became
more and more artificial, it always remained pure in
tone. It centered itself in idealism and stood against
the low, utterly debased, more realistic novella, which
was its predecessor and continued rival for popularity.
The pastoral held the field as the chief and most[276]
influential prose form in Spain until the picaresque
romance came to be recognized as a distinct genre.
Suggestions
for writing
To write a modern society story that will be worth
while is no easy task; for here an author readily
descends to banalities, and the class itself
is hardly acceptable to the serious critic.
Yet stories of this kind are so popular and form (I am
sorry to say) so large a part of the reading of our
young women—and our young men, too, for that matter—that
the type surely has come to stay for sometime
and must be taken account of. To make your story
commendable, then, you will need to be original and
striking in your choice of situation and to write with a
succinctness and verve that will animate even the commonplace.
Be careful not to be sentimental. If you
touch on love, do so with dignity—with either clean,
pure humor, or unaffected seriousness. Try hard to
save your hero from being a cad. The namby-pamby,
third-generation-millionaire protagonist, if not altogether
uninteresting, is surely exasperating to a sensible
reader. By playful imitation, you might write a
good satire on this class of story. If you do so, you
will need to be familiar with one or more of the
popular examples in order to use them specifically. Or
you might try your hand at a pastoral, just for the
history of the thing. If you care to adhere to certain
elements of the genre, you could put together under
this guise allegorical scenes in which the present lords
of the earth figure as weak or lusty shepherds piping a
tune to the watch-dogs of war, the sheep of commerce,
and the Goddess of Getting-On. If you wish to be
more than half serious, you can find countenance in a[277]
number of our most recent light stories that undoubtedly
turn toward the pastoral. This type, too, will give
you a chance at a mixture of prose and verse. Here
you can put in some of those fetching sylvan lyrics
that you must have composed long before now and
have always been afraid to mention.
The Fur Coat
Translated by Mrs. J. M. Lancaster. Copyright, 1903, by
The Current Literature Publishing Company. Reprinted by
permission.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch
Berlin, November 20.
Dear Gustav—I have some news to tell you to-day
which will certainly surprise you. I have separated from
my wife, or rather we have separated from each other. We
have come to an amicable agreement henceforth to live
entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone to
her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain.
I am for the present in our old house; perhaps
in the spring I may look for a smaller house—perhaps
not, for I can hardly hope to find so quiet a
workroom as I now have, and the idea of moving appals
me, especially when I think of my large library. You will,
of course, want to know what has happened, though, to
tell the truth, nothing has happened. The world will seek
for all possible and impossible reasons why two people who
married for love and who have for eleven years lived what
is called happily together should now have decided to part.
Yes, this world which thinks itself so wise, but whose
judgments are nevertheless so petty, so superficial, will
[278]doubtless be of the opinion that there is something hidden—will
include this case too in one of the two great categories
prepared for such affairs, because it can not conceive of the
fact that life in its inexhaustible variety never repeats
itself and that the same circumstances may assume different
aspects according to the character and disposition
of those interested. I need not tell you this, my dear
Gustav. You will understand how two finely organized
natures should rebel against a tie which binds them together
after they have once become fully convinced that
in all matters of real importance a mutual understanding
is possible.
My wife and I are too unlike. Between her views of
life and mine there yawns an impassable gulf. The first
few years I hoped to influence her, to win her to my ways
of thinking—she seemed so docile, so yielding, took so
warm an interest in my work, so willingly allowed herself
to be taught by me. Not till after our children's death did
she begin to change. Her grief at this loss—a grief which
neither of us has ever been able to live down—matured
her, made her independent of me. A tendency to morbid
introspection took possession of her, and gave increased
tenacity to those ideas and convictions which my influence
had hitherto held in check, though not wholly eradicated.
She plunged deeper and deeper into those mists of sentimentally
fantastic imaginings, passionately demanding my
concurrence in her views. She lost all interest in my professional
work, evidently regarding the results of my researches
in natural science as troops from an enemy's camp.
At last there was hardly a subject in the wide realm of
nature and human existence on which we agreed. To be
sure we never came to an open quarrel, but the breach[279]
between us was constantly widening. Every day we saw
more and more plainly that though we lived side by side,
we no longer belonged to each other. This discovery irritated
and distressed us, and at last forced all other feelings
into the background. If we had not once loved each other
so dearly, or even if we had now ceased to feel a mutual
respect, this state of affairs might perhaps have lasted for
years, but our ideas of the true meaning of marriage were
too lofty, our sense of our own dignity as human beings
too profound to permit us to be content with so incomplete
a realization of our ideals. I hardly know who spoke first,
but our resolution was at once taken, and the decisive
words uttered as calmly and naturally as the overripe fruit
falls from the tree. For the first time in many years we
were able with perfect unanimity of sentiment to discuss
a subject of the greatest importance to us both, and this
fact alone soothed our overwrought nerves. We parted
yesterday with the utmost decorum, without a word of
reproach, a note of discord.
The many beautiful memories of our early married
life, of the long years we had lived together, made it
difficult to refrain from some manifestation of tenderness,
and I assure you that I never felt greater respect for my
wife than at the moment when, all petty considerations
cast aside, the true magnanimity of her nature asserted
itself. Her manner, what she said, and also what she did
not say, robbed the situation of all trace of the commonplace,
and gave it dignity. Deeply moved, almost in tears,
we clasped hands in farewell, so we may look back upon
the closing scene of our wedded life with unalloyed satisfaction.
I had already, with her consent, referred all business[280]
details to our lawyers, for we were not even to communicate
with each other by letter.
Life must begin again for both of us, and already I
breathe more freely. The Rubicon is passed. I believe
that you will congratulate me.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch
Berlin, December 12.
Dear Gustav—Pardon me that I have so long delayed
thanking you for your answer of friendly sympathy to my
last letter.
I have been in no condition to write, and even now find it
difficult. You congratulate me without reserve on a step
which you regard as essential to my welfare and to my
intellectual development, but you do not take into consideration
what it means to separate from one who has
for eleven years been one's constant companion, day and
night. Indeed, it is only during these last dreary weeks
that I, myself, have realized what the change signifies to
me. Habit is all powerful, especially with men who, like
you and me, live in the intellectual world and so require a
solid sub-structure.
How are we to take observations from the tower battlements
when its foundations are not firmly established?
Of course, I am as certain as ever I was that our decision
is for the best interests of us both, but in this queer world
of ours we can take no step without unlooked-for results.
I am bothered from morn till night with trifles to which
I have never given a thought since my bachelor days—things
which I will not mention, so absurdly insignificant
are they—and yet they rob me of my time and destroy my[281]
peace. I am at a loss what steps to take to rid myself of
the thousand petty cares and annoyances which my wife
has hitherto borne for me. These servants! Now that
the cat is away they think that they can do just as they
please, and you have no idea of the silly obstacles over
which I am continually stumbling, of the wretched pitfalls
which beset my path. Here is one instance out of many:
For several days it has been very cold, and I can not find
my fur coat. With the chambermaid's assistance I have
turned the whole house upside down, until she finally remembered
that my wife, last spring, sent it to a furrier's
to be kept from the moth. But to which furrier? I have
been to a dozen and can not find it.
If I had only not agreed with my wife that we were,
under no circumstances, to write to each other, I should
simply ask her—but it is best so. No strain of the commonplace
must mingle with the sad echoes of our farewell.
No—a farce never follows a drama. Perhaps she might
even imagine that I seize the first pretext to renew relations
with her.
Never!
To-day it is six below zero.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand
Berlin, December 14.
Dear Emma—You will be greatly surprised at receiving
a letter from me in spite of our mutual agreement, but
do not fear that I have any intention of opening a correspondence
with you. Our relations terminated with all
possible dignity, and the sealed door shall never be re-opened.
I have but to ask a simple question which you[282]
alone can answer. What is the name of the man to whom
you sent my fur coat last spring? Lina has forgotten the
address. Hoping soon to receive an answer, for which I
thank you in advance,
Max.
Frau Emma Wiegand to Prof. Max Wiegand
Freiburg, December 15.
Dear Max—His name is Palaschke, and he is on Zimmer
Street. I can not understand Lina's forgetfulness, as
she took the coat there herself.
Emma.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand
Berlin, December 17.
Dear Emma—I must trouble you once more—for the
last time. Herr Palaschke refuses to let the coat go without
the ticket, as he has had several disagreeable experiences
which have made it necessary to be very strict. But
where is the ticket? I spent the whole morning looking
for it, and, of course, Lina has not the slightest idea where
it is. She flew into a rage when I found a little fault with
her, and she leaves the house to-morrow. I prefer paying
her till the end of her engagement, and in addition
shall give her a moderate Christmas gift, for I can
not stand for a great length of time such an impertinent
person about me.
Well—be so kind as to write me a line telling me where
to find the ticket. I have already taken a severe cold for
want of the fur coat.
Hoping that you are well and quite comfortable with
your family.
Max.
[283]
Frau Emma Wiegand to Prof. Max Wiegand
Freiburg, December 19.
Dear Max—The ticket is either in the second or third
upper drawer of the little wardrobe in the dressing-room or
in my desk, in the right or left pigeon-hole. I could find it
in a minute if I were there. Lina has great faults, but
she is very respectable. I doubt whether you can do better,
and now, just before Christmas, you will not be able
to replace her. You should have put up with her at least
a fortnight longer, but it is none of my business. I hope
your cold is better. I am quite well.
Emma.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand
Berlin, December 21.
Dear Emma—The ticket is not to be found either in
the wardrobe or in the desk. Perhaps it slipped out when
you were packing, and was thrown away. I can think of
no other explanation.
To-morrow or next day I will again go to Herr Palaschke,
and try to wheedle him out of my property by all possible
blandishments and assurances, but to-day I am confined to
my room, for my cold has resulted in a severe attack of
neuralgia.
I had a dreadful scene with the cook yesterday. On the
day of your departure she gave me notice, and when I tried
to persuade her to remain she turned on me and told me in
a very insolent manner that I knew nothing about house-keeping,
and that it was only out of sympathy for you,
dear Emma, that she had so long remained with us at such
low wages, and that she should leave immediately. I
answered calmly, but firmly, that she must stay till the[284]
end of her engagement. Then she began to cry and storm,
and at last was so outrageously impertinent as to declare
that even you could not manage to live with me. I lost
my temper and must, I suppose, have called her an "impudent
woman," though I can not remember saying it. Unfortunately
for me I have had no experience in dealing
with viragos.
Two hours later, after supper, I rang and discovered
that she was already gone, bag and baggage, leaving in the
kitchen a badly spelled billet doux, in which she threatened
me with a lawsuit for calling her an "impudent woman,"
in case I should refuse to give her a certificate of character.
I am now entirely without servants. The porter's wife
blacks my shoes for a handsome consideration, and brings
me from the café meals which ought to be condemned by
the health inspector. As you have truly remarked, it will
be impossible to replace these women before the New Year,
but I have already written to a dozen employment bureaus,
and will go myself as soon as I am able to leave the house.
This has grown into a long letter, my dear Emma, but
when the heart is full the pen runs rapidly.
I also suspect that abominable cook of taking my gold
sleeve buttons—those left me by Uncle Friedrich—though
I have, of course, no proof. Have you any idea where they
are? If so please drop me a line. Good-by, my dear Emma,
and I trust you are more comfortable than I am.
Your Max.
Frau Emma Wiegand to Prof. Max Wiegand
Freiburg, December 23.
Dear Max—I have read with much sympathy your account
of your little mishaps and annoyances. The cook[285]
often spoke to me very much as she did to you, but I put
up with it because she is a good cook, and only cooks who
know nothing are polite. Now you see what I have had to
stand for years, and that there are problems in that department
also which can not be solved by natural science.
I can not, at this instance, advise you what to do, and
should not consider myself justified in doing so now that
our intimate relations have been terminated in so dignified
a manner, as you so truly remark in your first letter. As
for the furrier's ticket and the sleeve buttons, I will wager
that I could find them both in five minutes. You must
remember how often you have hunted in vain for a thing
which I have found at the first attempt. Men occasionally
discover a new truth but never an old button.
Since a correspondence has been begun by you, I have a
little request to make. I forgot before I left to ask you
for the letters which you wrote me during our engagement,
and which at my request you put in your safe. They are
my property, and I should like to have them as a reminder
of happier days. Will you be so kind as to send them
to me?
Wishing you a Merry Christmas,
Emma.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand
Berlin, December 25.
My Dear Emma—Your kind wish that I might have
a Merry Christmas has not been fulfilled. I never spent
so melancholy a Christmas Eve. You will not wonder that
I could not bear to accept the invitations of friends—to
be a looker-on at family rejoicings—so I stayed at home,
entirely alone. I found it utterly impossible to get a servant[286]
before New Year's, and yesterday was even without a helper
from outside. The porter's wife put a cold supper on the
table for me early in the afternoon, for she was too busy
later with Christmas preparations for her children. A
smoky oil lamp took the place of the Christmas tree which
you always adorned so charmingly and with such exquisite
taste every year, and there were none of those pretty surprises
by which you supplied my wants and wishes almost
before I was conscious of them. There was nothing on
the Christmas table but my old fur coat, which Herr
Palaschke—softened by my entreaties and assurances and
perhaps also by the spirit of Christmastide—had allowed
me to take the preceding day. It was as cold as charity
in the room, for the fire had gone out and it was beyond
my skill to rekindle it, so I put on the fur coat, sat down
by the smoky lamp, and read over the letters which I wrote
you during the time of our engagement and which I had
taken from their eleven years' resting-place to send to you
to-day.
Dear Emma, I can not tell you how they have moved me.
I cried like a child, not over the tragic ending of our marriage
alone, but at the change in myself which I recognize.
They are very immature and in many ways not in accordance
with my present way of thinking, but what a fresh,
frank, warm-blooded fellow I was then, and how I loved
you! How happy I was! How artlessly and unreservedly
did I give myself up to my happiness! Till now I have
thought that there has been a gradual, slow change in you
alone, but now I see that I also have altered, and God
knows, when I compare the Max of those days with the
Max of to-day, I do not know to which to give the preference.
In the sleepless nights which I have lately spent, I[287]
have thought over the possibility of transforming myself
into the Max I then was, and grave doubts have suggested
themselves whether the differences in our views of matters
and things were really as great as they seemed to us,
whether there is not outside of them something eternally
human, some neutral ground where we might continue to
have interests in common.
Try and see, dear Emma, whether such a voice does not
speak also to your soul. We can not undo the past, but
nothing could give me greater consolation in my present
unhappy condition than to know that you could say yes
to this question, for your departure has left a void in my
house and in my life that I can never, never fill.
Thy most unhappy Max.
Frau Emma Wiegand to Prof. Max Wiegand
Freiburg, December 27.
Dear Max—I very willingly gave you information as
long as it related only to tickets and sleeve buttons, but I
must decline answering the question contained in your last
letter. Did you really believe, you old Pedant, that I left
your home—which was also mine—because we disagreed in
our views of matters and things in general? Then you are
mightily mistaken. I left you because I saw more plainly
every day that you no longer loved me. Yes, I had become
a burden to you—you wanted to get rid of me. If in that
dignified parting scene you had said one single tender word
to me, I should probably have stayed, but, as usual, you
were on your high horse, from which you have now had
so lamentable a tumble just because your servants have left
you. I too have served you faithfully, though you do not[288]
seem to have recognized that fact. I never let the fire go
out on your hearth. It was not my fault when it grew cold.
Who knows whether you would have noticed the void
left by my going if your fur coat had not also been missing?
This gave you an opportunity of opening a correspondence
with me, and it seems to be only fitting that it should now
close, since you have once more regained possession of your
property. I, at least, have nothing more to say.
Good-by forever,
Emma.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch
Berlin, January 8.
Dear Gustav—I have a great piece of news to tell you.
My wife returned to me yesterday, and at my earnest
solicitation. I thought I could no longer live with her, but
I find it equally impossible to live without her. I have just
discovered that she too was very unhappy during the time
of our separation, but she would never have acknowledged
it, for hers is the stronger character of the two. I do not
know how to explain the miracle, but we love each other
more dearly than ever. We are celebrating a new honeymoon.
The great questions of life drove us apart, but is
it only the little ones which have reunited us? Would you
suppose that one could find a half-desiccated heart in the
pocket of an old fur coat? The stately edifice of my
worldly knowledge totters on its foundations, dear Gustav.
I have a great deal to unlearn.
Max.
—Ludwig Fulda.
[289]
The Lady in Pink
If I hadn't had to stop in the middle of my painting
and run down to the house to get some more rose-madder
I never in the world should have seen her; I
had to leave all my things up on the hill with little
David, and on the way down to the village I passed the
place.
The only thing I remember now is that I was hurrying
along by a stone wall which was higher than my
head and that above it dark pines clustered in pointed
masses against a blue and white sky—it was just the
kind of sky Bougereau would have loved, with soft,
opaque clouds—when I came past the gate, and one can
never go by a gate, you know, and not look in, and it
was there that I saw her. She was sitting on a bench
built under a tree—the trunk of which did for the
perpendicular in the composition and gave such a good
contrast in color, too, for she—well, there she was just
sitting there with her hands in her lap, her head against
the tree and her feet out in front of her, and oh, dreams
of loveliness—her dress was pink! Think of that! Rose
pink where it touched the grass, lavender pink where
it fell in shadows, shell pink where the sun flickered on
it—and in her hand she held a kind of golden straw
hat, and that was just dripping with roses, and they
were the pinkest of all. Oh! it was a picture for the
gods. I made quick work of my errand and hastened
back to tell David about it.
"Well, I've seen it," I announced breathlessly, coming
up the slope.
"Seen what?" asked David, not stopping from his
clover chain.
[290]
"My masterpiece," I answered, squirting out much
more of the rose-madder than I needed—this paltry little
sketch I was working on now would have to be finished
up and gotten out of the road for real work.
"Where?" asked David, with the laconic briefness
of childhood.
"Down inside the big gate—behind the stone wall."
"Oh, that's where the Cory's live—there's a stream
there, with pollywogs in it." David's mind was beginning
to wander.
"But you never saw such a study in pink in all
your life—think of it—pink dress—all different shades
of pink—pink roses for the high-note, and then pale
pink repeated in the cheeks and then way off in the
background there were some pink hollyhocks." "My,
oh, my," I added to myself, stubbing gamboge into the
canvass to get a sunshiny effect, "My, oh, my—she sat
there just like a Grenze—a Gainsborough lady, now,
never would have had the courage to have leaned against
the tree in that lackadaisical manner; the Lady in Pink—Whistler
painted a Lady in White—I shall paint the
Lady in Pink! Tomorrow I shall begin, David," I
said, "tomorrow I am going down to get my masterpiece."
"Well, but you can't go in the Cory's to get it,"
said David; "that's private grounds."
Private grounds! The words stunned me. Couldn't
an artist usually go any place he liked?
"Private grounds!" I echoed, "oh, yes; why that's
so. Why, what on earth will I do?"
"I don't know," said David, with a half-rising inflection
showing an abstract sympathy.
[291]
"Think of that! And there it all is just waiting
to be painted. Why, look here, David, how on earth
did you ever get in to know there were pollywogs?"
"Oh," said David, "the folks were away."
"Well, I will wait then till they are all away! But,
good heavens, what am I thinking about! The garden
isn't what I want—it's the Lady in Pink." I began
packing up my paints—there was no use trying to do
anything more now.
"Well, at any rate, we will go down tomorrow,"
said I, wiping some brushes on my handkerchief, "and
maybe in the meanwhile we can think up a way to
get in."
"Oh, let's go now," suggested David, seeing that
things were really moving.
"You mean it?" I asked, rather astonished at his
sudden desire for action.
"All right, then! You fold up the camp stool and
umbrella and I'll take the box and the pallet along
with me."
"Dear me! What on earth now will we ever say
when we get there?" I began on the way down the
hill.
"We might ask for a glass of milk."
"Oh, no, we can't do that—it isn't in the country."
"Well, I might ask for some hollyhocks."
"Well, I guess not! The hollyhocks can't be picked—they're
part of the masterpiece."
"Then you think something yourself," and David
lapsed into a discouraged silence.
But I couldn't think of anything save that I must
and would have the lady at any cost and though I[292]
couldn't see how I was going to get it, I had a very
clear picture of myself in the garden, painting away.
"You just wait till we get there," I said to David,
as we stumped down the walk together. David was used
to my enthusiasms over all sorts of things which he
usually only vaguely assented that he could see, and
though he never said much when I fell to talking about
principles of art, I liked to have him with me always
when I worked, because he had such a joyous, fresh
little face. I couldn't help but catch the sunshine of it
when I did an outdoor sketch; and if I had lived in the
days when no picture was complete without a Love in
it, David would always have been the one to have posed
for me.
Presently we came near the gate and, to speak truly,
I was becoming a bit fearful as to just what was going
to happen, but David, eager and anticipatory, hopped
on ahead of me and peered in.
"Oh!" he called back, "there isn't anything here at
all."
"Oh, isn't there?" I said; "you don't mean to say
it's gone in."
"If you mean the lady, she isn't here."
And true enough, when I came up there wasn't a
soul in sight. How empty the place looked! It was
just like a disappointing exhibition—here were all the
people come to see the great works, and when the door
was reached, there hung a sign which said that the
management was sorry, but the best paintings had been
delayed on the way, and wouldn't be here till tomorrow
at two o'clock! I gazed at my ruined masterpiece—the
background was all there, but there was no picture,[293]
for what moaning had broad green masses of
foliage and shaded distances apart from a contrasting
center of interest, of what meaning was there anyhow in
a landscape without a human touch?
David pressed his hand on the latch of the gate
and it opened for him. I have always liked to think
since that he was the one that really opened the way
there.
"Let's go in," he said in a half challenging whisper,
but with eyes pleading authority from me.
I couldn't resist. "Well, all right—it will be like
Corot wandering around in the forest of Fontainbleau—and
if anybody comes——" I didn't know what I
would do, so I took my pallet in my hand fancying to
myself it would do very well for a shield against any
contingent. So we slowly walked up the winding path
together.
"The pollywogs are over there," said David, pointing
a slender finger toward the house.
"You never mind them," I answered, "what we are
here for is to get the setting of this picture. My! Almost
any view would do—I never saw so many colors
in all my life. Look, David, at that bust over there with
the gray-green leaves brushing up against the gray stone—oh,
there ought to be a peacock under there, to give
a strong iridescent blue note—do you suppose there is a
peacock around any place?" I said, laying down my
pallet and circling my eyes with my hands so as to
localize the color masses better.
But David was sorting pebbles on the walk and so
I expected no answer from him, but was scarcely prepared
for the one I did receive.
[294]
"No, there is no peacock here, but—can I do anything
for you?"
I swept around and there was that radiant figure in
pink, melting into the green behind her, the soft roundness
of her figure echoed in the larger circling outlines
of the trees, her brown hair the delicate counterpart in
color of the ground she stood on, and her eyes, deep
ultramarine, the concentrated blue of all the pale sky—what
a picture, what a picture! My imagination
flew to grasp it, and I forgot everything but that I
must have it, swept up clean from the pallet and made
living on the canvas.
"Yes," I said, "yes—there is something you can
do for me. You can stay right there—or you can go
over there and sit down, while I get you," and I dashed
back to the gate after my paints.
When I returned she was still standing and the
corners of her lips were twitching. They were very red.
I began unpacking my tubes and unfolding my easel.
"Wouldn't you like to sit on the bench over there?
You have no idea how much the tree trunk will help
out the composition." And I begged her silently.
But she stood there perfectly still and looked at me
with eyes full of question; they had a moving highlight
in them, like the sun on a wave—if I could only catch
that!
"You want to get me!" she finally stammered.
"Oh, yes!" I said, "don't you see? I was walking
by the gate and I saw you, and I want you to pose
for me," and then as I saw her hesitate, "oh, surely
you don't mind being gotten?" With what a terror
the thought filled me—but I had to do it somehow.
[295]
"Well—only—but why don't you paint the little
boy?"
"Oh, David! Oh, I paint him in everything—he
comes in the sunshine and the blowing wind and all
the feeling of movement I ever get in a picture—and
then if people are happy when they look at the picture,
that is because David was with me when I painted it.
David is a little Love."
Well, she never said a word, but I think she understood
what I meant, because she went over and sat
down and called David to her and began talking with
him. I am sure I had no idea what she was saying to
him, because I set to the work then with all my might.
I sketched in the figure, and set up my pallet with
plenty of color and then flew to the brushes; it seemed
as if I could work with the culminative inspiration of
all the painting I had ever done.
While I was blocking in the hat with the roses, she
looked up.
"Won't you tell me what it is going to be?" she
asked with the air of having thought of the question
some time before.
"Well," I replied, knowing I would have to make a
step somehow, "Whistler painted a Lady in White, so
I thought I would call this the Lady in Pink; and if it
comes out and I really get you——"
"If you really get me?"
"Why, yes; if I can just catch you the way I want
you; that is one of the troubles of the artist, you know—he
never really is sure whether he is going to be able
to get what he wants or——"
"Not even when he is so eager about it?"
[296]
"No, not always then," I laughed, wondering though
if she didn't know that inspiration was in truth something
more than eagerness.
"Not even—when he is painting in a garden—like
this?"
Her eyes were brimming with a half-concealed mirth.
"Oh, this garden is a lovely place," I answered,
"but it wouldn't make all the picture—there's got to
be some spirit in it beside—a kind of informing mood.
Now it is very quiet here and you are posing for
me——"
"Oh! so I must be quiet, too?"
"Yes, I suppose so," I answered boldly enough;
"only, of course, a different kind of quiet, you know;
for if the garden is still, that's because—well, there
isn't anybody mowing the grass, or there isn't any wind
or—oh, the quietness of a person sitting in a garden is
quite a different thing."
She kept looking at me all the time I was saying this,
and then replied slowly:
"I see; you don't want me just to sit still."
"Certainly not," I answered. "I want you to be—"
Her eyes suddenly became dreamy, and I felt much
more at ease.
"It's like David and the sunshine," she went on.
"Yes, just exactly; you are to be the spirit of the
garden, the human symbol of its mood—its real meaning,"
and happy that she understood the way I felt
about David, I fell to laying on the paint in broad, easy
strokes, wondering how I could ever imitate the emerald
transparency of the trees.
She did not speak again and presently my glance[297]
returned to her. She was holding David's cap in her
hand and looking out—nowhere, I guess. I stopped
my work, stepping back to study it and survey the
scene.
"I'm glad you like my garden," she finally said,
smiling; and such a smile as she gave me—it was like
a stream of golden haze on a white flower, a change
very subtle, and yet so striking.
"Your garden is the very best place yet I've found
to work in," I said, well pleased. "It is just as fine a
place as the Forest of Fontainebleau, and Corot did some
great masterpieces there."
"Well, then, this surely ought to be your masterpiece,
because, according to your own definition, you
have all the conditions just perfect; the garden, and
David——"
"Besides you," I interrupted, looking at her through
the point of the easel, hoping to see the smile again;
but she had suddenly changed her position, quite unconscious
that in doing so she had spoiled the composition.
But it made no difference, for I already had the
posture, and the dress with its lavender and shell-pink
lights and all the green behind—it was all there on the
canvas, and the echo of it all on my pallet just like
the memory of an overture which has played with all
the various themes; and as to the rest—ah, she had indeed
given me a glimpse of the tender mood and the
stilling charm with which I wished to finish the picture.
I was quite content.
Presently a tide of yellow evening light flooded into
the garden, making the ground luminous and throwing
deep shadows everywhere. I laid down my brushes.
[298]
"I shall have to stop now," I said, "evening is coming
on—I shall have to be going," and I whistled for
David.
He came running across the grass, one hand full of
hollyhocks. "Oh, my stars, David!" I exclaimed, "what
have you been doing?"
"Never mind," said the lady, "you know you have
been helping yourself to things, too," and she rose and
came over.
"Oh, there I am," she said lightly, looking at what
I had done.
"No, indeed," I hastened to assure her, "that isn't
you—yet; so far it is a composition in pink and green,
but you aren't in it. When I put in the sunlit background,
then David comes, you know, and then when I
put a gentle repose in every line of the figure, and a
dreamy, tender sweetness in the face, then I will be
painting the real spirit of the garden—don't you see?"
And then, oh, my heart, she smiled again, but this
time such a smile as no man deserves twice—and stooped
and kissed David.
"He says he wants to get me for his painting, David.
Shall I let him?"
"Why, hasn't he gotten you already?" asked David,
tying the hollyhocks with grass.
"Yes, I think he has," she answered slowly. "David,
you are a little Love," she added.
"Yes, isn't he, though!" I said.
—Wilma I. Ball.
[299]
III. The Humorous Story
The humorous story is but the other side of the
society story. It is not a thorough study in realism
either, for then it would be sad for a large part—as
George Meredith has shown us; but it is rather a course
of events more or less skilfully arranged to produce a
laugh. There is transposition here, suppression there,
exaggeration in many places. The reader joins the
author in the conspiracy to concoct fun, and as a result
both have a good time. The refinement and taste of
these narratives range all the long distance from the
vulgar horse-play and impossible dialect of the newspaper
"funny page" to the genuine humor of Mrs.
Stowe's "Sam Lawson" fireside stories and the quiet
pleasantness of Sarah Orne Jewett's character sketches
in "The Country of the Pointed Firs." Mark Twain
began the foundation of that distinction which he now
has as the greatest of modern humorists in his early
volume of sketches, entitled "The Celebrated Jumping
Frog."
The fableau
This type of story probably originated in the
medieval French fableau,[5] which was a short humorous
tale of the people—one recounting some
ludicrous situation. It was generally written
in octosyllabic couplets, a metrical form which was
admirably suited to sharp, spirited narrative by reason
of its skip, its carelessness, its sauciness. Boccaccio
and his long train of Italian and other followers retold
in prose many of these French stories; but it must be
admitted that the condensation and the rapidity of the
[300]older metrical tales become diffuseness and sometimes
tediousness in the prose version. The fableau was
sometimes satiric; usually baldly, even coarsely realistic.
Its purpose, however, was always to amuse.
Chaucer retold five or more fableaux. He is a jolly
narrator, and carries one along often in spite of one's
prejudice in favor of modesty and decency. He is
honest enough, however, to warn the reader of possible
unpalatableness and modern enough to attempt to
excuse himself on the basis of art.
Picaresque
romance
That the picaresque romances embody such stories
as the fableau is perfectly evident. Dissect, for instance,
"Lazarillo de Tormes," or better,
"Guzman de Alfarache," and you will see
that the various adventures of the heroes would make
capital fableaux or humorous contes. The idea of combining
low adventures into a series connected with one
hero comes down from the days of Nero, when
Petronius Arbiter wrote his "Satyricon." But the
term picaresque romance refers to the Spanish popular
tales of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the
heroes of which are rascals, or picaros. As sharpers,
they are the prototypes of our more modern Yankee in
fiction who always "does" the other fellow before the
other fellow "does" him. Some of them, like the
"Yank," are not so much mean as just bold and
resourceful when at a disadvantage. They go to court
like the Connecticut Yankee and see their betters,
whom they criticise most straightforwardly. They are
older and naughtier Tom Sawyers and Huckleberry
Finns. In short, by their vernacular of the highway
and by their impudent deeds they stand in the historical[301]
line of types which includes the heroes of the
fableau and the heroes of the modern burlesque or
comic tale. The difference between humorous and
comic and between comic and burlesque is a difference
of degree.
Of the direct imitations of these Spanish rogues
there is the French Gil Blas; there are the English
Roderick Random, Jonathan Wild, and Miss Becky
Sharp; there is the Amateur Cracksman; and, come to
think about it, there is our own late American Saturday
Evening Post's ubiquitous Mr. Farthest North,
promoter, success attend him!
To write a humorous story you will need to employ
epigram, point, climax, colloquialisms, and perhaps
dialect. If you touch dialect, however, take care to
know what you are about; for nothing is more repellent
to a reader familiar with a particular vernacular
than to be confronted with pitiful and incorrect
attempts at it. To write negro dialect you should be
as well versed as Joel Chandler Harris; to write Irish,
as apt as Samuel Lover or W. B. Yeats; to reveal children,
as sympathetic as Kate Douglas Wiggin; to give
us boy's fun, as charming and wholesome as Thomas
Bailey Aldrich; to combine humor and the ingenious tale,
you should be as inventive as Frank R. Stockton; and to
smile at Americans and their foibles you should be as
patriotic and kindly as Charles Battell Loomis.
George Washington Cable, Ian Maclaren, Thomas
Nelson Page, J. M. Barrie, and Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
have written excellent dialect, but they are not
primarily humorists. They use the vernacular of the
people as aids to character revelation.
[302]
The difference between a humorous story and comic
anecdote is the difference of length and veracity. An
anecdote purports to be true. A humorous story, only
"drawn from life."
The Expatriation of Jonathan Taintor
Reprinted by permission from Loomis's "Cheerful Americans."
Copyright, Henry Holt and Company.
While I was in London I met a New York friend who
was stopping in that America-in-London, Bloomsbury, and
during our conversation he told me that he had for a
fellow-boarder no less a person than Jonathan Taintor.
I felt that I ought to know Jonathan Taintor, and I
have since found out that most people have heard something
concerning him; but although the name had a good
old Connecticut sound, I could not fit Mr. Taintor into any
nook, so I frankly said to my friend: "Jonathan Taintor
lies in the future for me."
"Why, I'll have to introduce you. I believe he's been
written up before, but he's such a character that it will do
you good to meet him. Can't you come to dinner tonight?"
Now, I had been reckoning on going that evening to the
opera at Covent Garden; but characters do not pop around
every corner, and, besides, I had not seen my New York
friend for a long time, so I accepted his cordial invitation.
That evening at seven I went to the American boarding-house
in Bedford Place, just off High Holborn, and was
soon sitting at dinner with my friend.
Directly opposite me sat a man who might have left
the valley of the Connecticut five minutes before. There
are Taintors all about the Haddams that look just like
[303]him. He was short, thick-set, with dreamy blue eyes, a
ruddy face that betokened a correct life, a curved nose,
broad, straight, shaven upper lip, and a straggling silver
chin-beard.
There was more or less twang in the tones of every one
at the table, but his voice had a special nasal quality that
seemed to bespeak a lifetime of bucolic Yankee existence.
It was really so pronounced as to sound stagy.
The talk at dinner was desultory, and Mr. Taintor said
little. I noticed that he had a dish of corned beef and
cabbage, although the pièce de résistance for the rest of us
was beef with a Yorkshire pudding. He left the table
before coffee was served, but not before my friend had
asked him to join us later on the balcony for a smoke and
chat.
When we went up we found him already on the balcony,
smoking a corn-cob pipe of American manufacture. My
friend introduced us, and he shook my hand with one
downward jerk. How often have I felt that pressure in
the rural districts of Connecticut!
When Mr. Taintor learned that I had been in London
only a week and had just come from Middletown, his face
lighted up with interest, and he said:
"You have passed my wife in the street. She often
comes to town market days."
"Oh, then she's not with you," was my somewhat idiotic
reply.
"No, she ain't; an' unless the good Lord heaves enough
sand into the Atlantic to make the walkin' good, she won't
never be with me."
"You must be anxious to get back? Been over here
some weeks?" said I.
[304]
"A matter of thirty year," he replied, and sighed prodigiously.
"Why, you must be quite an Englishman by this time."
He looked troubled. "Dew I look English?" said he.
"No, no," I replied, comfortingly; "you might pass for
Uncle Sam."
"Well, I hope I'll never pass fer anythin' wuss," said
he. "It's jest thirty year in November sence I left
America, an' I've be'n in this dreary taown ever sence; but
I ain't never read an English noospaper nor ridden in an
English omnibus or horse-car or steam-car, neither, an' I
try to eat as much as possible what I would ef I was at
home with Cynthy. An' I'm a Republican clean through."
"Well, what's keeping you here?" said I.
Mr. Taintor pressed down the tobacco in his pipe to
make it burn better, and said: "I can't stan' the trip. Y'see,
when we was married we thought we'd cross the ocean
on aour weddin'-trip. Father hed lef' me comfor'ble, an'
Cynthy hed be'n dead-set on crossin' all through aour
courtship. Fact is, her sister Sairy said 'at 'at was all
she was marryin' fer; but of course Sairy was a great
joker, an' I knowed better. Well, we went daown to Noo
York the day before the steamer sailed, an' we put up at
a hotel there on Broadway, an' durin' the evenin' some
women got talkin' to Cynthy, an' told her haow awful sick
she was like to be ef she hedn't never be'n on the ocean
before. Well, it frightened her so that she backed plumb
aout er the harness—said she guessed we'd better go to
Saratogy instead; an' the upshot was we hed aour fust an'
last quar'l then. I told her I'd bought the tickets fer
Europe an' we'd hev to go, an' she said she would n' expose
herself to two or three weeks of sickness under the idee it[305]
was a picnic party, an' all I could say to her couldn't
shake her. Well, it was bad enough losin' the price of one
ticket, but I couldn't lose the price of two, an' so we
finally come to an agreement. She was to go up to Saratogy,
although the season up ther' was over, an' I was to
cross the ocean alone. It was too late to git my money
back, an', to tell the truth, I allers did hate to give a plan
up, 'thout I hed sufficient reason; so nex' mornin' we went
daown to the dock, fer we'd made up, an' she was comin'
ter see me off. She took on consid'able, an' I was cut up
myse'f, partic'larly when I thought of the ticket thet was
bein' thrown away. But she caught a glimpse of the waves
behind a ferry-boat, an' she turned white as a sheet an'
shook her head; so I kissed her good-by, an' the steamer
sailed away with me on it, an' her a-wavin' her arms an'
cryin' on the dock."
"Poor fellow!" said I, sympathetically.
"Well, the amount of seasickness she saved herself by
stayin' to hum couldn't be reckoned 'thougt I was a
scholar, which I ain't. I took to my berth before we was
aout of sight of land, an' ef the brimstun of the future is
any wuss 'an what I suffered, I don't want to die. But I
wished I could die all the way over. I come right here to
London, because there was a man I knew comin' here, too,
an' I wrote to Cynthy to come right over as soon as she
could, an' we'd live aour lives aout here; fer bad as it was
here, nothin' on top of creation could temp' me to go back,
not even her pretty face."
He stopped a minute and half closed his eyes, and I
fancy he was calling her pretty face back through the
thirty years.
"Well, well, that was hard lines," said I.
[306]
"Yes, but it was wuss when I got her reply. She told
me she hed n't hed a happy minute sence I left, although
she hed gone up to Saratogy, but the water tasted like
something was into it, an' she'd come away after one day,
an' was now on the farm at Goodspeed's Landing. An'
she said thet ef I'd be'n so sick she 'd proba'ly die, an' she
could n't bear to think of bein' heaved into the Atlantic,
an' must stop where she was. Ah me! Sence then we 've
be'n as lovin' as we could be, writin' reg'lar an' rememberin'
each other's birthdays an' aour weddin' anniversaries;
but we hain't sot eyes on each other, an' won't until
we 're both safe on that other shore they tell us abaout.
An' I hope thet trip 'll be a smooth one."
"And what does Mrs. Taintor do all alone?"
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it into
his pocket before he replied:
"She runs the old farm as I never could have run it.
She's a born farmer, that wife of mine is. She has a
hired man to help, but she does a good share of the work
herself, an' every year she sen's me half the airnings; an'
I live on here, hatin' it all an' hopin' for the time to come
when the ocean'll either dry up or freeze over, or that
Cynthy will overcome her dislike to the trip. Married
life ain't e'zac'ly pleasant so fur apart, but I c'n truthfully
say we 've never quar'led sence I come here, an' I ain't
seen a woman sence I landed thet could hold a candle to
Cynthy. Cynthy is a pretty gal."
Shortly afterward the old man retired to his own room,
and then my friend, who had not spoken once since we came
out, wickedly hinted that maybe Mr. Taintor only imagined
that he loved Cynthia, and that they were happier
separated; but I hate to spoil idyls in that way. To me it[307]
is very beautiful, the thought of that dear old lady in
Connecticut, who runs the farm and writes loving letters
to her expatriated spouse and sends him a share of the
profits, but who cannot overcome her antipathy to the
unstable sea. And when I think of Mr. Taintor as he
appeared that evening in Bloomsbury, with his honest
Yankee traditions, and his ardent love far his absent wife,
I say, "Hurrah for both of them!"
—Charles Battell Loomis.
Kileto and the Physician
It was now about a month and a half since Kileto
felt something harsh in his throat. He took a mirror
and opened his mouth as wide as possible. On looking
at the mirror he saw some of his large papillae. He
was so greatly frightened to see such "red bodies," as
he called them, that he exclaimed, "Ah, dear Life, you
are going to depart soon! But, anyhow, I will at once
go to the doctors to have these things identified." Without
further delay, he went to a doctor, whose name
I must not mention, lest he be angry with me for publishing
this piece of news.
The doctor, after examining Kileto's throat, opened
his book of medicine and searched in it for half an hour.
Then after he was tired of not finding the right place
to read, he said to Kileto, "Such sickness as you have
is rarely found in other men. Your disease is called
'Sampaga' in our dialect. However, I will give you a
prescription." "Doctor," said Kileto, "do you think I
shall ever be cured of my sickness?" "Why, yes," answered[308]
the doctor; "only it will take several months
before your disease can be cured. Perhaps, with the
help of God and me, you will recover sooner. I want
to ask you several questions. Will you answer me
patiently?"
"Yes," answered Kileto.
"Well, do you smoke cigarettes?"
"Yes, sir; three packages a day would not be
sufficient."
"Well, this is the first habit you must abstain from.
Do you chew betel-nut?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is the second habit you must abstain from.
Do you often go to church?"
"Yes, sir; once in a year, if my wife happens to
remind me of it."
"You!—a Catholic!—or a pagan?"
"I am both Catholic and pagan."
"Well, well, if ever you expect to recover, these
three things you must do—you must abstain from smoking,
chewing betel-nut, and you must go to church every
Sunday, for the purification of your soul."
Kileto went home, somewhat relieved. He told his
wife what the doctor bade him do. He did all that
the doctor had ordered. He went to the church every
day—morning and afternoon—praying the whole "rosario."
Moreover, he confessed his sins to the priest. He
abstained from smoking and from chewing betel-nut.
Every day, after he had gone to church, he went
to consult the doctor, who always gave him medicine.
Almost all sorts of poisons to kill bacteria were prescribed.
One day the doctor said to Kileto, "Do not[309]
come here for several days. I am going to study about
your sickness. I will tell you the truth—you will die
when your sampaga bursts." This statement of the
doctor made Kileto very sad.
After a week, Kileto consulted the doctor again. "I
think," said the doctor, "I had better burn your 'sampaga.'
What do you say?"
"Well, you may do whatever you think best."
"But no," rejoined the doctor; "I'd better inject
medicine into your body."
"All right, sir. I told you that you may do whatever
you think best." Then the doctor injected medicine
into Kileto's body. Kileto, because of the results
of this injection, was displeased with the doctor, for he
could hardly walk home.
One day as Kileto's wife was looking in a mirror,
she found the image of her large papillae, which were
like her husband's. Of course, she was very much
frightened, lest she also had "Sampaga." She took her
small boy of ten years to the window and looking at his
tongue, found out that he also had papillae. "These
sampagas," she said, "must be common." So she examined
the tongues of everybody who came near her.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "these things must be natural.
Oh, God, you save my husband! But I will fool my
husband. I will tell him I have the same disease that he
has."
When her husband came, she immediately led him to
the window and showed her papillae. "You see," she
said, "I have the same disease as you have. How
now? Then we shall die together." To frighten her
husband more, she said, "Open your mouth, and let me[310]
see how your 'sampagas' are getting along." Then
Kileto opened his mouth. His wife examined then, and
said to him, "Your sampagas are increasing." At this
statement Kileto jumped with great horror, and said,
"Oh, yes, my end is coming." "Now I see," replied the
wife, "how like a small boy you are. I have been told
by a student that with these 'red bodies' we taste our
food. So you need not be afraid. Just look at the
tongues of everybody, and you will see that they have
the 'papillae,' as the student calls them."
Kileto was convinced, and regretted the great error
he had committed. He had spent on medicine all his
and his wife's earnings for two years.
One day Kileto, when left alone in the house, said
to himself, "I know now the reason why the doctor
said that I would die when my 'sampagas' burst. Of
course, these are not 'sampagas'; and how could they
burst? These things grow with the man. I am uncertain,
however, whether the doctor had a private purpose
in not telling me at once that the things I have on my
tongue are 'papillae,' or whether he had not acquired
enough knowledge in his medical studies to be able to
distinguish the papillae from the disease called 'sampaga.'
"But in spite of all the trouble he gave me—injecting
medicine into my limbs, which made me lame
for three days, wringing, as it were, all my money
from my hands—I am grateful to him. Why? Because
I was made religious, going to church once every two
days. I abstained from chewing betel-nut, and smoking
cigarettes, and now I care no more for them."
Whenever the members of the family are in good[311]
humor, they talk of this story and laugh until they are
out of breath.
—Lorenzo Licup.
A FILIPINO FABLEAU[6]
The Lame Man and the Deaf Family
One cloudy afternoon while I was wandering along
the road between Paco and Pandacan, I met a lame man
limping down the way. The man seemed very tired, and
he was carrying on his head a pot which I thought
contained water. The fellow was a mestizo and was
dressed in a white suit. Seeing me, he said, "Will you
please show me a house where I can ask for a drink
of water?" I could not answer him at once, because
I nearly laughed in his face when I saw it was only
his long bigote that made his split upper-lip unnoticed
at a distance. Wishing to have some fun out of him I
showed him the house that stood in an orchard on one
side of the road.
The house that I pointed out belonged to a family all
the members of which were deaf; namely, the father, the
mother, and a daughter. Because of a kind of sickness
that occurred in the family some years before, they had
lost their sense of hearing. People had nicknamed them
the "Deaf Family."
The man, or Mr. Bigote as I shall call him in honor
of his long mustache, went limping directly to the house;
and, without letting Mr. Bigote notice me, I followed
[312]him and hid behind the tall grasses that grew near the
orchard. From my place I had a good view of the orchard
and could hear the conversation between Mr.
Bigote and the members of the family.
The orchard was a trapezium in shape. Except the
front, which was separated by a wire fence from the
road, all sides of it were surrounded by tall grasses. On
each vertex of the trapezium stood an ilang-ilang tree.
At the center stood a small nipa house facing the road.
Around the house were several banana trees and camote
plants. The house was old, and yet its stairs were made
of stone. Under the bamboo floor of the building I
could see a large blind dog. Near the foot of the stairs
the daughter of the Deaf Family was sitting on a stone,
giving food to her hog. It was a very fat hog, but
neither ear nor tail could be seen attached to its great
body.
The dialogue was begun by Mr. Bigote. "Good morning,
madam," he said politely.
"We do not want to sell our hog, sir," answered the
girl.
"I do not mean to buy your hog, but I only ask for
a drink of water, for I am very thirsty," said the lame
man quietly.
"Sir, it is very fat, because I always feed it well.
You will not see its ears and tail because that bad dog
ate them when their owner was yet small," answered
the girl, pointing to the blind dog that was barking at
Mr. Bigote.
Noticing that she did not hear him very well, Mr.
Bigote shouted, "Let me have a drink of water!"
"Mother, here is a man who wants to buy our hog,"[313]
shouted the young person to her mother, who was then,
I supposed, cooking their lunch.
The mother peeped through the window and when
she saw Mr. Bigote exclaimed angrily, "What! Are you
going to marry that Bangus? I will wake your father.
Tambucio, here is your daughter. She wants to marry a
bangus."
"I am only asking for a drink of water, madam,"
said Mr. Bigote.
But when the father saw his wife very angry at the
man who was standing near their stairs, he asked Mr.
Bigote angrily, "Why did you hurt my dog?"
"Do not be angry, sir. I come to ask for a drink of
water and not to harm your dog," answered Mr. Bigote.
Thinking that the man had said something bad to
him, the father took a piece of wood and went down
stairs. Seeing the danger, Mr. Bigote ran limping to
the road, but the father followed him and struck the pot
he was carrying on his head. The pot, which I had
thought contained water, was broken, and I was very
much surprised to see Mr. Bigote covered with molasses.
—Santiago Y. Rotea.
IV. The Occasional Story
The spirit
of the
occasional
story
A story for a special occasion may be of any narrative
type the author chooses: it may be a
legend, a tale of mere wonder, a humorous
story, a study in realism, a weird tale, or
a ghost story (if one should select All Saints'
Eve). Anything the author feels inclined to write[314]
will fall within the class provided it have about it the
general atmosphere of a particular celebration. If
that be the Fourth of July, the reader expects patriotism
or its popular substitute, firecrackers; if Thanksgiving,
gladness and generosity; if Christmas, reverence
and good-will, and for the Northern people some
pagan jollity in addition, for it is well recognized that
we Anglo-Saxons have incorporated into the Christian
festival our Druidical Yule-tide; if New Year's, then
forgiveness and well-wishing to all and a sense of
everybody's putting his best foot foremost; if Easter,
hope and the joy of spring-time.
Its
masters
It might be well to think and read a little about
Easter if you want to write a special story. Not much
has been done with that season, though it is
full of possibilities. It, too, is a combination
of old and new ideals. We have many beautiful
Christmas legends and tales, even by the great authors—Dickens,
Thackeray and many of the French and
Spanish short-story tellers; and by our later writers,
as well. Professor Van Dyke, Professor Mabie, Kate
Douglas Wiggin, William Canton, Bret Harte, almost
everyone who has written, in fact,—but Easter stories
are harder to find.
Suggestions
The English-speaking peoples have not so many
special days as have the Latin. The adherents of the
Catholic church have all the Saints' days to
celebrate. These yield many pretty fancies.
Keats has made famous St. Agnes' Eve. The other
religions, too, are worth thinking about. The Mohammedans
and the Buddhists are devotees, and have
interesting customs. Besides the religious memorials[315]
there are the nations' hero days. And then, too, the
special anniversaries of societies and associations.
One's own school commencement, the best event of
one's favorite college—there are surely many inspirations
for occasional stories.
The Lost Child
Translated by J. Matthewman. Copyright, 1894, by The
Current Literature Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission.
On that morning, which was the morning before Christmas,
two important events happened simultaneously—the
sun rose, and so did M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy.
Unquestionably the sun, illuminating suddenly the whole
of Paris with its morning rays, is an old friend, regarded
with affection by everybody. It is particularly welcome
after a fortnight of misty atmosphere and gray skies, when
the wind has cleared the air and allowed the sun's rays
to reach the earth again. Besides all of which the sun
is a person of importance. Formerly, he was regarded
as a god, and was called Osiris, Apollyon, and I don't
know what else. But do not imagine that because the
sun is so important he is of greater influence than M.
Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, millionaire banker, director of the
Comptoir Général de Crédit, administrator of several big
companies, deputy and member of the General Counsel of
the Eure, officer of the Legion of Honor, etc., etc. And
whatever opinion the sun may have about himself, he certainly
has not a higher opinion than M. Jean-Baptiste
Godefroy has of himself. So we are authorized to state,
and we consider ourselves justified in stating, that on the
[316]morning in question, at about a quarter to eight, the sun
and M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rose.
Certainly the manner of rising of these two great powers
mentioned was not the same. The good old sun began by
doing a great many pretty actions. As the sleet had, during
the night, covered the bare branches of the trees in the
boulevard Malesherbes, where the hôtel Godefroy is situated,
with a powdered coating, the great magician sun amused
himself by transforming the branches into great bouquets
of red coral. At the same time he scattered his rays
impartially on those poor passers-by whom necessity sent
out, so early in the morning, to gain their daily bread.
He even had a smile for the poor clerk, who, in a thin
overcoat, was hurrying to his office, as well as for the
grisette, shivering under her thin, insufficient clothing; for
the workman carrying half a loaf under his arm, for the
car-conductor as he punched the tickets, and for the dealer
in roast chestnuts, who was roasting his first panful. In
short, the sun gave pleasure to everybody in the world.
M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, on the contrary, rose in quite
a different frame of mind. On the previous evening he
had dined with the Minister for Agriculture. The dinner,
from the removal of the potage to the salad, bristled with
truffles, and the banker's stomach, aged forty-seven years,
experienced the burning and biting of pyrosis. So the
manner in which M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rang for his
valet-de-chambre was so expressive that, as he got some
warm water for his master's shaving, Charles said to the
kitchen-maid:
"There he goes! The monkey is barbarously ill-tempered
again this morning. My poor Gertrude, we're going to
have a miserable day."
[317]
Whereupon, walking on tiptoe, with eyes modestly cast
down, he entered the chamber of his master, opened the
curtains, lit the fire, and made all the necessary preparations
for the toilet with the discreet demeanor and respectful
gestures of a sacristan placing the sacred vessels on the
altar for the priest.
"What sort of weather this morning?" demanded M.
Godefroy curtly, as he buttoned his undervest of gray
swansdown upon a stomach that was already a little too
prominent.
"Very cold, sir," replied Charles meekly. "At six o'clock
the thermometer marked seven degrees above zero. But,
as you will see, sir, the sky is quite clear, and I think we
are going to have a fine morning."
In stropping his razor, M. Godefroy approached the window,
drew aside one of the hangings, looked on the boulevard,
which was bathed in brightness, and made a slight
grimace which bore some resemblance to a smile.
It is all very well to be perfectly stiff and correct, and
to know that it is bad taste to show feeling of any kind
in the presence of domestics, but the appearance of the
roguish sun in the middle of December sends such a glow
of warmth to the heart that it is impossible to disguise the
fact. So M. Godefroy deigned, as before observed, to smile.
If some one had whispered to the opulent banker that his
smile had anything in common with that of the printer's
boy, who was enjoying himself by making a slide on the
pavement, M. Godefroy would have been highly incensed.
But it really was so all the same; and during the space of
one minute this man, who was so occupied by business matters,
this leading light in the financial and political worlds,
indulged in the childish pastime of watching the passers-by,[318]
and following with his eyes the files of conveyances as
they gaily rolled in the sunshine.
But pray do not be alarmed. Such a weakness could not
last long. People of no account, and those who have nothing
to do, may be able to let their time slip by in doing
nothing. It is very well for women, children, poets, and
riffraff. M. Godefroy had other fish to fry; and the work
of the day which was commencing promised to be exceptionally
heavy. From half-past eight to ten o'clock he had
a meeting at his office with a certain number of gentlemen,
all of whom bore a striking resemblance to M. Godefroy.
Like him, they were very nervous; they had risen with the
sun, they were all blasés, and they all had the same object
in view—to gain money. After breakfast (which he took
after the meeting), M. Godefroy had to leap into his
carriage and rush to the Bourse, to exchange a few words
with other gentlemen who had also risen at dawn, but who
had not the least spark of imagination among them. (The
conversations were always on the same subject—money.)
From there, without losing an instant, M. Godefroy went
to preside over another meeting of acquaintances entirely
void of compassion and tenderness. The meeting was held
round a baize-covered table, which was strewn with heaps
of papers and well provided with ink-wells. The conversation
again turned on money, and various methods of gaining
it.
After the aforesaid meeting he, in his capacity of
deputy, had to appear before several commissions (always
held in rooms where there were baize-covered tables and
ink-wells and heaps of papers). There he found men as
devoid of sentiment as he was, all utterly incapable of
neglecting any occasion of gaining money, but who, nevertheless,[319]
had the extreme goodness to sacrifice several hours
of the afternoon to the glory of France.
After having quickly shaved he donned a morning suit,
the elegant cut and finish of which showed that the old
beau of nearly fifty had not ceased trying to please. When
he shaved he spared the narrow strip of pepper-and-salt
beard round his chin, as it gave him the air of a trustworthy
family man in the eyes of the Arrogants and of
fools in general. Then he descended to his cabinet, where
he received the file of men who were entirely occupied by
one thought—that of augmenting their capital. These
gentlemen discussed several projected enterprises, all of
them of considerable importance, notably that of a new
railroad to be laid across a wild desert. Another scheme
was for the founding of monster works in the environs of
Paris, another of a mine to be worked in one of the South
American republics. It goes without saying that no one
asked if the railway would have passengers or goods to
carry, or if the proposed works should manufacture cotton
nightcaps or distil whisky; whether the mine was to be of
virgin gold or of second-rate copper: certainly not. The
conversation of M. Godefroy's morning callers turned exclusively
upon the profits which it would be possible to
realize during the week which should follow the issue of
the shares. They discussed particularly the values of the
shares, which they knew would be destined before long to
be worth less than the paper on which they were printed
in fine style.
These conversations, bristling with figures, lasted till
ten o'clock precisely, and then the director of the Comptoir
Général de Crédit, who, by the way, was an honest man—at
least, as honest as is to be found in business—courteously[320]
conducted his last visitor to the head of the stairway.
The visitor named was an old villain, as rich as Crœsus,
who, by a not uncommon chance, enjoyed the general esteem
of the public; whereas, had justice been done to him, he
would have been lodging at the expense of the State in
one of those large establishments provided by a thoughtful
government for smaller delinquents; and there he would
have pursued a useful and healthy calling for a lengthy
period, the exact length having been fixed by the judges of
the supreme court. But M. Godefroy showed him out
relentlessly, notwithstanding his importance—it was absolutely
necessary to be at the Bourse at 11 o'clock—and went
into the dining-room.
It was a luxuriously furnished room. The furniture and
plate would have served to endow a cathedral. Nevertheless,
notwithstanding that M. Godefroy took a gulp of
bicarbonate of soda, his indigestion refused to subside, consequently
the banker could only take the scantiest breakfast—that
of a dyspeptic. In the midst of such luxury,
and under the eye of a well-paid butler, M. Godefroy could
only eat a couple of boiled eggs and nibble a little mutton
chop. The man of money trifled with dessert—took only
a crumb of Roquefort—not more than two cents' worth.
Then the door opened and an overdressed but charming
little child—young Raoul, four years old—the son of the
company director, entered the room, accompanied by his
German nursery governess.
This event occurred every day at the same hour—a
quarter to eleven, precisely, while the carriage which was
to take the banker to the Bourse was awaiting the gentleman
who had only a quarter of an hour to give to paternal
sentiment. It was not that he did not love his son. He did[321]
love him—nay, he adored him, in his own particular way.
But then, you know, business is business.
At the age of forty-two, when already worldly-wise and
blasé, he had fancied himself in love with the daughter of
one of his club friends—Marquis de Neufontaine, an old
rascal—a nobleman, but one whose card-playing was more
than open to suspicion, and who would have been expelled
from the club more than once but for the influence of M.
Godefroy. The nobleman was only too happy to become
the father-in-law of a man who would pay his debts, and
without any scruples he handed over his daughter—a simple
and ingenuous child of seventeen, who was taken from a
convent to be married—to the worldly banker. The girl
was certainly sweet and pretty, but she had no dowry except
numerous aristocratic prejudices and romantic illusions,
and her father thought he was fortunate in getting rid of
her on such favorable terms. M. Godefroy, who was the
son of an avowed old miser of Andelys, had always remained
a man of the people, and intensely vulgar. In spite
of his improved circumstances, he had not improved. His
entire lack of tact and refinement was painful to his young
wife, whose tenderest feelings he ruthlessly and thoughtlessly
trampled upon. Things were looking unpromising,
when, happily for her, Madame Godefroy died in giving
birth to her firstborn. When he spoke of his deceased wife,
the banker waxed poetical, although had she lived they
would have been divorced in six months. His son he loved
dearly for several reasons—first, because the child was an
only son; secondly, because he was a scion of two such
houses as Godefroy and Neufontaine; finally, because the
man of money had naturally great respect for the heir to
many millions. So the youngster had golden rattles and[322]
other similar toys, and was brought up like a young
Dauphin. But his father, overwhelmed with business worries,
could never give the child more than fifteen minutes
per day of his precious time—and, as on the day mentioned,
it was always during "cheese"—and for the rest of the day
the father abandoned the child to the care of the servants.
"Good morning, Raoul."
"Good morning, papa."
And the company director, having put his serviette
away, sat young Raoul on his left knee, took the child's
head between his big paws, and in stroking and kissing it
actually forgot all his money matters and even his note
of the afternoon, which was of great importance to him,
as by it he could gain quite an important amount of
patronage.
"Papa," said little Raoul suddenly, "will Father Christmas
put anything in my shoe to-night?"
The father answered with "Yes, if you are a good child."
This was very striking from a man who was a pronounced
freethinker, who always applauded every anti-clerical attack
in the Chamber with a vigorous "Hear, hear." He made
a mental note that he must buy some toys for his child that
very afternoon.
Then he turned to the nursery governess with:
"Are you quite satisfied with Raoul, Mademoiselle
Bertha?"
Mademoiselle Bertha became as red as a peony at being
addressed, as if the question were scarcely comme il faut,
and replied by a little imbecile snigger, which seemed
fully to satisfy M. Godefroy's curiosity about his son's
conduct.
"It's fine to-day," said the financier, "but cold. If you[323]
take Raoul to Monceau Park, mademoiselle, please be careful
to wrap him up well."
Mademoiselle, by a second fit of idiotic smiling, having
set at rest M. Godefroy's doubts and fears on that essential
point, he kissed his child, left the room hastily, and in the
hall was enveloped in his fur coat by Charles, who also
closed the carriage door. Then the faithful fellow went
off to the café which he frequented, Rue de Miromesnil,
where he had promised to meet the coachman of the baroness
who lived opposite, to play a game of billiards, thirty
up—and spot-barred, of course.
Thanks to the brown bay—for which a thousand francs
over and above its value was paid by M. Godefroy as a result
of a sumptuous snail supper given to that gentleman's
coachman by the horse-dealer—thanks to the expensive
brown bay which certainly went well, the financier was
able to get through his many engagements satisfactorily.
He appeared punctually at the Bourse, sat at several committee
tables, and at a quarter to five, by voting with the
ministry, he helped to reassure France and Europe that the
rumors of a ministerial crisis had been totally unfounded.
He voted with the ministry because he had succeeded in
obtaining the favors which he demanded as the price of
his vote.
After he had thus nobly fulfilled his duty to himself and
his country, M. Godefroy remembered what he had said to
his child on the subject of Father Christmas, and gave his
coachman the address of a dealer in toys. There he bought,
and had put in his carriage, a fantastic rocking-horse,
mounted on castors—a whip in each ear; a box of leaden
soldiers—all as exactly alike as those grenadiers of the
Russian regiment of the time of Paul I, who all had black[324]
hair and snub noses; and a score of other toys, all equally
striking and costly. Then, as he returned home, softly
reposing in his well-swung carriage, the rich banker, who,
after all, was a father, began to think with pride of his
little boy and to form plans for his future.
When the child grew up he should have an education
worthy of a prince, and he would be one, too, for there
was no longer any aristocracy except that of money, and
his boy would have a capital of about 30,000,000 francs.
If his father, a pettifogging provincial lawyer, who had
formerly dined in the Latin Quarter when in Paris, who
had remarked every evening when putting on a white tie
that he looked as fine as if he were going to a wedding—if
he had been able to accumulate an enormous fortune,
and to become thereby a power in the republic; if he had
been able to obtain in marriage a young lady, one of whose
ancestors had fallen at Marignan, what an important personage
little Raoul might become. M. Godefroy built all
sorts of air-castles for his boy, forgetting that Christmas
is the birthday of a very poor little child, son of a couple
of vagrants, born in a stable, where the parents only found
lodging through charity.
In the midst of the banker's dreams the coachman cried:
"Door, please," and drove into the yard. As he went up
the steps M. Godefroy was thinking that he had barely time
to dress for dinner; but on entering the vestibule he found
all the domestics crowded in front of him in a state of
alarm and confusion. In a corner, crouching on a seat,
was the German nursery-governess, crying. When she saw
the banker she buried her face in her hands and wept still
more copiously than before. M. Godefroy felt that some
misfortune had happened.
[325]
"What's the meaning of all this? What's amiss? What
has happened?"
Charles, the valet de chambre, a sneaking rascal of the
worst type, looked at his master with eyes full of pity and
stammered: "Mr. Raoul—"
"My boy?"
"Lost, sir. The stupid German did it. Since four
o'clock this afternoon he has not been seen."
The father staggered back like one who had been hit by
a ball. The German threw herself at his feet, screaming:
"Mercy, mercy!" and the domestics all spoke at the same
time.
"Bertha didn't go to parc Monceau. She lost the child
over there on the fortifications. We have sought him all
over, sir. We went to the office for you, sir, and then
to the Chamber, but you had just left. Just imagine, the
German had a rendezvous with her lover every day, beyond
the ramparts, near the gate of Asniéres. What a shame!
It is a place full of low gipsies and strolling players. Perhaps
the child has been stolen. Yes, sir, we informed the
police at once. How could we imagine such a thing? A
hypocrite, that German! She had a rendezvous, doubtless,
with a countryman—a Prussian spy, sure enough!"
His son lost! M. Godefroy seemed to have a torrent
of blood rushing through his head. He sprang at
Mademoiselle, seized her by the arms and shook her furiously.
"Where did you lose him, you miserable girl? Tell me
the truth before I shake you to pieces. Do you hear? Do
you hear?"
But the unfortunate girl could only cry and beg for
mercy.
[326]
The banker tried to be calm. No, it was impossible.
Nobody would dare to steal his boy. Somebody would find
him and bring him back. Of that there could be no doubt.
He could scatter money about right and left, and could
have the entire police force at his orders. And he would
set to work at once, for not an instant should be lost.
"Charles, don't let the horses be taken out. You others,
see that this girl doesn't escape. I'm going to the Prefecture."
And M. Godefroy, with his heart thumping against his
sides as if it would break them, his hair wild with fright,
darted into his carriage, which at once rolled off as fast as
the horses could take it. What irony! The carriage was
full of glittering playthings, which sparkled every time a
gaslight shone on them. For the next day was the birthday
of the divine Infant at whose cradle wise men and simple
shepherds alike adored.
"My poor little Raoul! Poor darling! Where is my
boy?" repeated the father as in his anguish he dug his
nails into the cushions of the carriage. At that moment
all his titles and decorations, his honors, his millions, were
valueless to him. He had one single idea burning in his
brain. "My poor child! Where is my child?"
At last he reached the Prefecture of Police. But no one
was there—the office had been deserted for some time.
"I am M. Godefroy, deputy from L'Eure—. My little
boy is lost in Paris; a child of four years. I must see the
Prefect."
He slipped a louis into the hand of the concièrge.
The good old soul, a veteran with a gray mustache, less
for the sake of the money than out of compassion for the
poor father, led him to the Prefect's private apartments.[327]
M. Godefroy was finally ushered into the room of the man
in whom were centred all his hopes. He was in evening
dress, and wore a monocle; his manner was frigid and
rather pretentious. The distressed father, whose knees
trembled through emotion, sank into an armchair, and,
bursting into tears, told of the loss of his boy—told the
story stammeringly and with many breaks, for his voice
was choked by sobs.
The Prefect, who was also father of a family, was inwardly
moved at the sight of his visitor's grief, but he
repressed his emotion and assumed a cold and self-important
air.
"You say, sir, that your child has been missing since
four o'clock."
"Yes."
"Just when night was falling, confound it. He isn't
at all precocious, speaks very little, doesn't know where he
lives, and can't even pronounce his own name?"
"Unfortunately that is so."
"Not far from Asnières gate? A suspected quarter. But
cheer up. We have a very intelligent Commissaire de Police
there. I'll telephone to him."
The distressed father was left alone for five minutes.
How his temples throbbed and his heart beat!
Then, suddenly, the Prefect reappeared, smiling with
satisfaction. "Found!"
Whereupon M. Godefroy rushed to the Prefect, whose
hand he pressed till that functionary winced with the pain.
"I must acknowledge that we were exceedingly fortunate.
The little chap is blond, isn't he? Rather pale? In blue
velvet? Black felt hat, with a white feather in it?"
[328]
"Yes, yes; that's he. That's my little Raoul."
"Well, he's at the house of a poor fellow down in that
quarter who had just been at the police office to make his
declaration to the Commissaire. Here's his address, which
I took down: 'Pierron, rue des Cailloux, Levallois-Perret.'
With good horses you may reach your boy in less than an
hour. Certainly, you won't find him in an aristocratic
quarter; his surroundings won't be of the highest. The
man who found him is only a small dealer in vegetables."
But that was of no importance to M. Godefroy, who,
having expressed his gratitude to the Prefect, leaped down
the stairs four at a time, and sprang into his carriage. At
that moment he realized how devotedly he loved his child.
As he drove away he no longer thought of little Raoul's
princely education and magnificent inheritance. He was
decided never again to hand over the child entirely to the
hands of servants, and he also made up his mind to devote
less time to monetary matters and the glory of France and
attend more to his own. The thought also occurred to him
that France wouldn't be likely to suffer from the neglect.
He had hitherto been ashamed to recognize the existence
of an old-maid sister of his father, but he decided to send
for her to his house. She would certainly shock his lackeys
by her primitive manners and ideas. But what of that?
She would take care of his boy, which to him was of much
more importance than the good opinion of his servants.
The financier, who was always in a hurry, never felt so
eager to arrive punctually at a committee meeting as he
was to reach the lost little one. For the first time in his
life he was longing through pure affection to take the child
in has arms.
The carriage rolled rapidly along in the clear, crisp night[329]
air down boulevard Malesherbes; and, having crossed the
ramparts and passed the large houses, plunged into the
quiet solitude of suburban streets. When the carriage stopped
M. Godefroy saw a wretched hovel, on which was the
number he was seeking; it was the house where Pierron
lived. The door of the house opened immediately, and a
big, rough-looking fellow with red mustache appeared.
One of his sleeves was empty. Seeing the gentleman in the
carriage, Pierron said cheerily: "So you are the little one's
father. Don't be afraid. The little darling is quite safe,"
and, stepping aside in order to allow M. Godefroy to pass,
he placed his finger on his lips with: "Hush! The little
one is asleep!"
Yes, it was a real hovel. By the dim light of a little oil
lamp M. Godefroy could just distinguish a dresser from
which a drawer was missing, some broken chairs, a round
table on which stood a beer-mug which was half empty,
three glasses, some cold meat on a plate, and on the bare
plaster of the wall two gaudy pictures—a bird's-eye view
of the Exposition of 1889, with the Eiffel Tower in bright
blue, and the portrait of General Boulanger when a handsome
young lieutenant. This last evidence of weakness of
the tenant of the house may well be excused, since it was
shared by nearly everybody in France. The man took the
lamp and went on tiptoe to the corner of the room where,
on a clean bed, two little fellows were fast asleep. In the
little one, around whom the other had thrown a protecting
arm, M. Godefroy recognized his son.
"The youngsters were tired to death, and so sleepy,"
said Pierron, trying to soften his rough voice. "I had no
idea when you would come, so gave them some supper and
put them to bed, and then I went to make a declaration[330]
at the police office. Zidore generally sleeps up in the
garret, but I thought they would be better here, and that
I should be better able to watch them."
M. Godefroy, however, scarcely heard the explanation.
Strangely moved, he looked at the two sleeping infants on
an iron bedstead and covered with an old blanket which
had once been used either in barracks or hospital. Little
Raoul, who was still in his velvet suit, looked so frail and
delicate compared with his companion that the banker
almost envied the latter his brown complexion.
"Is he your boy?" he asked Pierron.
"No," answered he. "I am a bachelor, and don't suppose
I shall ever marry, because of my accident. You see, a
dray passed over my arm—that was all. Two years ago a
neighbor of mine died, when that child was only five years
old. The poor mother really died of starvation. She wove
wreaths for the cemeteries, but could make nothing worth
mentioning at that trade—not enough to live. However,
she worked for the child for five years, and then the neighbors
had to buy wreaths for her. So I took care of the
youngster. Oh, it was nothing much, and I was soon
repaid. He is seven years old, and is a sharp little fellow,
so he helps me a great deal. On Sundays and Thursdays,
and the other days after school, he helps me push my handcart.
Zidore is a smart little chap. It was he who found
your boy."
"What!" exclaimed M. Godefroy—"that child!"
"Oh, he's quite a little man, I assure you. When he left
school he found your child, who was walking on ahead,
crying like a fountain. He spoke to him and comforted
him, like an old grandfather. The difficulty is, that one
can't easily understand what your little one says—English[331]
words are mixed up with German and French. So we
couldn't get much out of him, nor could we learn his address.
Zidore brought him to me—I wasn't far away; and
then all the old women in the place came round chattering
and croaking like so many frogs, and all full of advice.
"'Take him to the police,'" said some.
But Zidore protested.
"That would scare him," said he, for like all Parisians,
he has no particular liking for the police—"and besides,
your little one didn't wish to leave him. So I came back
here with the child as soon as I could. They had supper,
and then off to bed. Don't they look sweet?"
When he was in his carriage, M. Godefroy had decided
to reward the finder of his child handsomely—to give him
a handful of that gold so easily gained. Since entering
the house he had seen a side of human nature with which
he was formerly unacquainted—the brave charity of the
poor in their misery. The courage of the poor girl who had
worked herself to death weaving wreaths to keep her child;
the generosity of the poor cripple in adopting the orphan,
and above all, the intelligent goodness of the little street
Arab in protecting the child who was still smaller than
himself—all this touched M. Godefroy deeply and set him
reflecting. For the thought had occurred to him that there
were other cripples who needed to be looked after as well
as Pierron, and other orphans as well as Zidore. He also
debated whether it would not be better to employ his time
looking after them, and whether money might not be put
to a better use than merely gaining money. Such
was his reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping
children.
Finally, he turned round to study the features of the[332]
greengrocer, and was charmed by the loyal expression in
the face of the man, and his clear, truthful eyes.
"My friend," said M. Godefroy, "you and your adopted
son have rendered me an immense service. I shall soon
prove to you that I am not ungrateful. But, for to-day—I
see that you are not in comfortable circumstances, and I
should like to leave a small proof of my thankfulness."
But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the
banker, which was diving into his coat-pocket where he
kept bank-notes.
"No, sir; no! Anybody else would have done just as
we have done. I will not accept any recompense; but
pray don't take offense. Certainly, I am not rolling in
wealth, but please excuse my pride—that of an old soldier;
I have the Tonquin medal—and I don't wish to
eat food which I haven't earned."
"As you like," said the financier; "but an old soldier like
you is capable of something better. You are too good to
push a handcart. I will make some arrangement for you,
never fear."
The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly:
"Well, sir, if you really wish to do something for me—"
"You'll let me care for Zidore, won't you?" cried M.
Godefroy, eagerly.
"That I will, with the greatest of pleasure," responded
Pierron, joyfully. "I have often thought about the child's
future. He is a sharp little fellow. His teachers are delighted
with him."
Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came
over his face which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one
of distrust. The thought evidently was: "Oh, when he
has once left us he'll forget us entirely."
[333]
"You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take
him to the carriage. He'll be better at home than here,
of course. Oh, you needn't be afraid of disturbing him.
He is fast asleep, and you can just pick him up. He must
have his shoes on first, though."
Following Pierron's glance M. Godefroy perceived on the
hearth, where a scanty coke fire was dying out, two pairs
of children's shoes—the elegant ones of Raoul, and the
rough ones of Zidore. Each pair contained a little toy and
a package of bonbons.
"Don't think about that," said Pierron in an abashed
tone. "Zidore put the shoes there. You know children
still believe in Christmas and the child Jesus, whatever
scholars may say about fables; so, as I came back from the
commissaire, as I didn't know whether your boy would have
to stay here to-night, I got those things for them both."
At which the eyes of M. Godefroy, the freethinker, the
hardened capitalist, and blasé man of the world, filled with
tears.
He rushed out of the house, but returned in a minute
with his arms full of the superb mechanical horse, the box
of leaden soldiers, and the rest of the costly playthings
bought by him in the afternoon, and which had not even
been taken out of the carriage.
"My friend, my dear friend," said he to the green grocer,
"see, these are the presents which Christmas has brought
to my little Raoul. I want him to find them here, when he
awakens, and to share them with Zidore, who will henceforth
be his playmate and friend. You'll trust me now,
won't you? I'll take care both of Zidore and of you, and
then I shall ever remain in your debt, for not only have
you found my boy, but you have also reminded me, who[334]
am rich and lived only for myself, that there are other poor
who need to be looked after. I swear by these two sleeping
children, I won't forget them any longer."
Such is the miracle which happened on the 24th of
December of last year, ladies and gentlemen, at Paris, in
the full flow of modern egotism. It doesn't sound likely—that
I own; and I am compelled to attribute this miraculous
event to the influence of the Divine Child who came down
to earth nearly nineteen centuries ago to command men to
love one another.
—François Coppée.
The Peace of Yesterdays
It was a wet, unpleasant evening in February, and
little Miss Hicks, hurrying homeward with her chop for
to-morrow's dinner, felt wet and unpleasant, too. Her
jacket was too thin for such weather, and her worn shoes,
splashing over the muddy pavement, made her dread
the twinges of rheumatism which would surely follow.
She paused a moment for breath beneath the sheltering
awning of a book-store, and, as she shook her dripping
skirts, she glanced into the gaily lighted windows. It
happened to be the evening before Valentine's day, and
the windows of the shop were filled with the usual
"tokens of affection"; riotous cupids with garlands of
roses and forget-me-nots, reposing on beds of celluloid;
lovely scrolls in delicate pinks and blues with amorous,
gilded verses inscribed on them; wonderful creations in
silks of brilliant hue, at which all the small girls of the
neighborhood gazed covetously. On one side lay a heap
of comic valentines in ugly, staring reds and yellows,
but Miss Hicks never noticed them, for she had eyes[335]
only for the gorgeous visions on the other side. As she
looked at them, a flood of suddenly-released memories
came into her head which made her cheeks for a moment
grow youthfully pink and her faded eyes glow like stars.
The door of the shop closed with a final bang, and the
lights went out suddenly. But Miss Hicks only smiled
happily to herself, as she hurried through the remaining
squares to her own dingy little house in dingy little
Lombard street. The dim street lamp showed a sign,
battered and discolored, of "Miss M. Hicks, Fashionable
Milliner," and as the owner of the shop opened the creaking
door, stepped inside, and lighted a lamp, a few old-fashioned
hats and bonnets could be faintly discerned on
the narrow counter, while in the one small showcase
were sundry faded ribbons and drooping birds.
"It's a wonder to me," her nearest neighbors would
often say, "how that Miss Hicks manages to get along;
kith nor kin she don't seem to have none, and the customers
she's got ain't enough to keep body and soul together.
But I've heard as how she gets an annuity from
some dead relatives and that probably helps her out, if
she's real good at scrimping and saving."
But in spite Of the solicitude of her neighbors, they
never found out any certain facts about the little woman
in rusty black, who was always either sitting at her window,
sewing on the hats of her few customers, or else
taking a solitary stroll through the dingy, narrow streets.
She went walking usually when the daylight was nearly
gone, for in a timid, childish way she shrank from observation,
and preferred to commune with herself rather
than join her neighbors in friendly gossip.
Generally she liked to be slow about preparing and[336]
eating her meals, for in this way they took up quite a
part of the long, lonely day; but to-night she was in
such a hurry about her few preparations and did everything
with such an air of abstraction that she nearly amputated
a finger while cutting bread, and entirety forgot
to put anything in the tea-pot except hot water. When
at last the dishes had been washed and carefully put
away, each in its own proper place, when the sleek white
cat had been given a generous saucer of milk, then Miss
Hicks, with an air of trembling and hesitating eagerness,
placed a chair against the old-fashioned cupboard in
the living-room, and reaching up, to the peril of life and
limb, drew forth from its inmost recesses a square pasteboard
box. She carefully wiped off the dust on its surface—it
was probably the only dusty article in her whole
establishment—and, carrying the box to the kitchen
table, deposited it there with a loving little pat.
But now, when her intentions seemed practically accomplished,
something held her back; it seemed an though
invisible fingers were closing over her own to keep her
from opening the box, from prying into the things which
she had not had the courage to look at for such long,
long years. She thought, with a shiver, of these years.
Fifteen of them! And so clear does memory sometimes
become that Miss Hicks could distinctly remember when
she had placed the last letter in the box—her "Treasure
Box" she had often called it lovingly—and as she
thought of all that had happened since she had put that
letter in, of all the loneliness and desolation of those fifteen
years, she bent her head on the little green box and
cried softly.
After a while she raised her head, and with a quick[337]
flash of determination in her grey eyes, took the lid from
the box and turned the contents out on the table. On
top of the heap lay several yellowed envelopes, quaintly
embossed, with "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks" written on
them in faded, boyish writing. With a caressing touch
Miss Hicks put these aside and picked up a bent tintype
of a boy with laughing eyes and a tender, pleasant
mouth. At this she looked a long time, at first with a
little answering smile for the smile in the picture, then
with misty reminiscent eyes. More modern valentines
came next in the pile; much more elaborate, too, these
were, and the verses seemed chosen by a more discriminating
eye. She put them all aside, with a sigh and a
loving look for each, and picked up the one at the very
bottom; the envelope bore a western postmark and was
not elaborate nor fanciful as the others had been, nor
were the contents anything more than a sheet of paper
folded around the picture of a man—a man who, in spite
of the lines of weariness in his face, had still the boyish
eyes and kind mouth of the other picture. On the paper
was written, in a strong, angular hand:
"Dear heart, try to think of me and remember me
to-day, even though I am so far away from home and
you. I am sorry that I have no other valentine to send
you, but there is more love in this scrap of paper than in
all the valentines in creation. I am thinking just now
how, a year ago, you and I were sitting in the dear old
home parlor, making valentines for the neighbors' children,
and when I think of the difference between then
and now, I feel as sad and depressed as the wailing pines
around me. I have had such strange premonitions to-day,[338]
too; I seem to see such a long vista of years before
me and you do not seem to have a share in any of them.
Dear heart, I want you to promise me that you will
never forget me, no matter where I may be, whether I
am living or dead. If I know this it will take away, in
part at least, my loneliness and my feeling of desertion
on this desolate ranch. Good-bye, dear, and God bless
you.
Your Dan."
The paper dropped from Miss Hicks' nerveless fingers
as she remembered that first long year of separation—a
lonely year, even though it was she herself who had
urged Dan to be independent of his rich, crotchety old
uncle and to seek his own fortune away somewhere, so
that he might be the man she wanted him to be. She
remembered achingly how long she had waited for another
letter, at first with eager anticipation, later with
dread; how slowly time had passed after that tender little
valentine note, and how one day some of her own letters
came back to her, marked unclaimed. And then she
thought of the time, several years later, when her mother
had died and when she felt for the first time the old grief
of utter loneliness and misery, and the desolation of those
months came over her again, in one great sickening
wave that made her shake from head to foot; she recalled
the days that followed, full of visits from kind and
condoling neighbors, who gradually let her alone when
they saw how much she desired it; the nights, full of
grief and unsatisfied longing, when she gave way unrestrainedly
to the sorrow which was pent up during
the day.
But—and Miss Hicks straightened up with a proud[339]
little smile, though her lips still trembled—at all events
she had remained faithful to her promise; though doubts
had often assailed her, she had kept the tryst bravely,
and she comforted herself often by thinking, when she
felt especially tired and alone, that if Dan were living,
he would surely find his way back to her some day, and
if he were dead she had a childish little feeling of relief
that he was watching over her and protecting her
all the time.
The clock struck eleven slow, even strokes, and Miss
Hicks, in amazement at the lateness of the hour, hastily
put the valentines in the box, and with one last look, set
it back on the shelf, and went to bed. She tossed restlessly
for a long time, for her thoughts and the recollections
they had awakened were sadder than usual. But
still she felt glad that at last she had had the courage
to call back openly the memories that she had striven
to put aside for so long. And when she did finally fall
asleep, her dreams made her thin lips part in happy
curves, and caused her to utter now and then deep, unconscious
sighs of content.
The next morning was sunshiny, with no trace of
yesterday's gloom, and the little street seemed to have
become dry as if by magic, and to have lost for the time
being its dinginess in the sunshine poured out on it so
liberally. Miss Hicks sat at her window, busied with re-trimming
an old bonnet; but there was no reflection of
sunshine in her face. The reaction due to what she
had done last night had come over her, and the memories
which had seemed sweet then were unpleasant and bitter
this morning. All her life, she thought sadly, was
made up of unrealised hopes and ungranted desires;[340]
whatever had been dear to her had been taken away
when she most needed it; every disaster and trouble had
come upon her when she was least ready to meet it. And
now she thought with a sigh, she had become too old to
ever have it different; it seemed to her that never had
her eyes been so lifeless, her mouth so lined and careworn,
her hair so thin and grey as they had appeared
this morning in her little mirror. What an unfair thing
the world was anyway, she thought, as she bit off her
thread reflectively and watched the mail-carrier coming
briskly across the street. What a lot of mail those people
next door did get! Even that was not divided fairly.
But—and she stared in astonishment—the mail-carrier
was actually coming to her house; at this very minute
he was climbing her rickety little steps and knocking
at her battered little door. She hastily dropped her
work and hurried to open the latch.
"It must be the wrong place," she began deprecatingly,
but he shoved a bulky envelope through the crack
in the door and with a pleasant "Guess it's yours, all
right; good morning," was off again before she could
demonstrate further. It certainly must be hers, for it
said, "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks, Lombard Street, Midville,"
in big, bold characters on the envelope; it was
an embossed one, too, with gay cupids and garlands of
roses on the border. Miss Hicks looked at it wonderingly
at first; then she smiled with the pleased anticipation
of a child, and she prepared to cut the envelope
carefully, carefully. She looked at the post-mark, but
it was too blurred to be plainly seen—and just then a
thought came to her that made her grow suddenly white
and tremble. No, no, it was impossible; but what if—?[341]
Such things had happened, many and many a time, and
just because such things never had happened to her was
no reason that they might not occur now. She was almost
afraid to see what the envelope held, and she turned
it over hesitatingly in her hand; but finally with shaking
fingers she cut the paper, blew it open, and drew out the
folded paper inside. Expectantly she unfolded it, her
heart beating high, her lips parted in anticipation. Then
suddenly daylight seemed to leave her, and when the
mistiness had cleared away, she found herself staring
at a hideous cartoon in flaring red and green, of an
old maid with cork-screw curls, a thin, angular figure,
and a long hooked nose, while underneath was boldly
printed:
"You're the meanest old maid in the city—
With that we'll all surely agree;
We know you once thought you were pretty,
But no trace of it now can we see.
And, say, have you e'er learned the meaning
Of sweetheart, or lover, or beau?
One look at your face, and we needn't
Take the trouble to hear you say 'no'."
The cutting doggerel seemed imprinted in letters of
fire on Miss Hicks's brain; it burned through her and
made her heart beat nearly to suffocation. But the two
small boys who were waiting at the corner, were grievously
disappointed; they expected at least to see her
come out off her house in wrath, and demand justice
somewhere, as several others of their victims had done.
They waited for nearly an hour; then, when a mate called
them across the street, they ran off with him, forgetting[342]
their disappointment altogether after a few moments of
play.
But the numb little figure in the milliner's shop had
not forgotten; at noon she was still sitting limply in
her chair, gazing out at nothing with burning, brilliant
eyes, that now had knowledge in their depths where before
there had been only wonder. Her mouth quivered
pitifully, though she tried bravely to make it firm and
resolute. She had had a glimpse into the Present, harsh
and unsympathetic, and she shrank back again into the
Past, where she had been much more happy and contented.
The To-days were not for her; from henceforth,
she knew, all her solace and companionship, all her brief
happiness and pleasures, all her longings and desires—the
rest of her life, in short—must be lived in the quiet,
peace-bringing Yesterdays.
—Katherine Kurz.
A Christmas Legend
There was great commotion in the forest, for the
south wind, heavy with cloying fragrance of the jasmine,
had been the bearer of wondrous tidings. The forest
sang with joy, for, after these many years, it was to
have a share in the great festival of the Master's birthday.
This, was the news that the south wind had
brought, and he had told, too, how an angel would come
to choose the tree whom the Master had most loved.
"It is I whom the Master loves," spoke the oak, rearing
his great head in the still air. "I heard the angels
sing at his birth; and often has he rested in the shade
at my feet. It is fitting that I be chosen."
"Nay, old oak," cried the palm, shaking her plumes[343]
in eager denial. "Whose branches did the multitude
wave at the Master's entry into Jerusalem? I have been
already chosen!" There were many in the forest who
nodded their approval to this speech of the palm's, but
the olive sighed, and whispered:
"I have watched with him in Gethsemane, and he
has wet my feet with his tears."
"But I," cried the cedar, stretching his tense arms to
the listening stars, "I heard his dying groans, and my
heart is stained with his blood; it was upon me that his
body was nailed—me, who watched over his boyhood on
the plains of Nazareth!" The forest was very still as
the cedar finished, and only the chestnut ventured to
speak—shaking out her broad leaves, and distilling everywhere
the heavy fragrance of her blossoms.
"I am ready for the feast," she said complacently.
"Last night, while all of you were sleeping, an angel
came, and lit these candles of mine."
Thus spoke among themselves the rulers of the forest,
while the south wind played among their branches; nor
did they notice the tiny tree that listened at their feet,
and crooned lullabies to the drowsy birds.
The winged months flew by. In the forest, the days
passed as before; and, after the south wind had sung its
farewell to the tree-tops, the forest forgot the tidings
which the breeze had brought. Only one tree remembered;
the lullaby which it sang to the birds nestled
in its arms was of the wonderful birthday festival of the
Master.
Finally came the North Wind, calling to the forest
to prepare for its long sleep. The trees, one by one, cast
off their brilliant raiment—the cedar, last of all—and[344]
stood gaunt and naked under the dark sky. Only the
tiny tree in the shadow of the oak did not heed, and
bravely defied the fierce jestings of the North Wind.
"Oho' little tree," he roared, whirling the snowflakes
through its tiny boughs, "doff your green garment and
go to sleep! Or, perhaps, you are waiting for the angel?"
Then the forest laughed long and loud. "Little
tree," it jeered, "cling to the oak; the angel will step
upon you!"
But even as it jeered, a great light broke through the
forest; the trees were afraid and bowed themselves as
before a storm. And when they lifted up their heads,
behold! the little tree stood straight and tall in its robes
of green, and in its topmost branch there gleamed a
star.
—Ida F. Treat.
[345]
CHAPTER V
THE INSTRUCTIVE GROUP
The Instructive Group is composed of those narratives
whose chief purpose is to inform the reader of
certain conditions and problems of which he ought to
take intelligent account. The writer may offer a solution,
as in the moral story; or a theory, as in the
pedagogical narrative; or he may simply present the
picture, as in a realistic sketch, and leave knowledge
to bring reform by the sheer natural law by which
daylight scatters the evils of darkness.
I. The Moral Story
Distinguished
from symbolic-didactic
group
The moral story must not be confused with the
fable, parable, or allegory. It is like them in that its
chief purpose is to teach, but it differs from
them in not being figurative or symbolic. It
is always particular and professedly literal.
Its boast is that it sticks close to facts—the
facts of "life," people's needs, if not their
history. In other words, though fictitious, it pretends
to be entirely worth while because of the concrete
lesson it teaches. It sets out to show you the evil
consequences of some vice or folly or the good result
of a pious act.
The critics have never had a very cordial word for[346]
this type of narrative: the usual smugness of it is
offensive. Many old legends are moral tales. The
"Gesta Romanorum" was largely meant to instruct in
pious ways. Boccaccio, even, cares for ethical effect,
when he writes such stories as "Griselda." A modern
reader is entirely out of patience with the complacent
self-righteousness of Gualtieri. Chaucer's easy and
captivating style and his true pathos and appreciation
of dramatic moments can not altogether keep down our
irritation at an egregious monster parading under the
guise of a beneficent lord and a loving husband. Our
irritation, of course, is really directed not toward
Chaucer or Boccaccio, but toward the Middle Ages,
that could take such a character as this and feel no
umbrage—no shadowing of the brute over man.
Hawthorne
There have been a number of examples of moral
tales in modern literature. Hawthorne's "Ambitious
Guest" is one. "Lady Eleanor's Mantle" is
another, though it is also a legend; for a moral
narrative, just as an occasional narrative, may be of any
type the author chooses. "Murad the Unlucky" by
Maria Edgeworth is the Oriental wonder tale turned
didactic. What makes this or that a story with a moral
is the author's obvious concern about the lesson he
means to teach. His narrative is nothing in itself: it
is what it is because of the author's purpose. Stowe Doubtless
the most widely influential moral story ever written
is "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It is a striking
example of how much more powerful is concrete
narrative than abstract argument. The Americans
were ready for the sermon, but they never would have
listened to it from the pages of a controversial tract. A[347]
story, they took to their heads and their hearts. It is
the fate of moral narratives of this sort, however, to
be for the time only; and seldom do any rise to the
plane of real literature. "Rasselas" has endured
partly because of the fame of its great author, and
partly because of its high and true pessimism. Readers
naturally like pessimism, and when it is of this good,
philosophic sort, they feel justified in their taste. Johnson
and
Voltaire
The theme is Johnson's favorite topic—the vanity
of human wishes, the futility of the
quest for happiness. Voltaire's "Candide,"
which came out in France two weeks before "Rasselas,"
is on the same topic with practically the same
moral. But Voltaire was an agnostic and a cynic,
while Johnson was a most conventional pietist. Addison
and Steele as well as Johnson included didactic
stories in their periodicals. Tolstoy,
Cervantes Count Tolstoy, in his
desire to help his countrymen, has written
many parables, allegories, and moral tales.
They are read by foreigners because of the pictures of
Russian life. So are Cervantes's "Novelas Ejemplares"
read for their fresh and spritely character-pictures of
Andalusia. They are instructive moral tales, as their
name indicates and as their author very definitely
asserted. So idiomatic, spirited, and graceful are they
that, though the oldest stories of their class in Spanish
literature, they are without successful rivals.
An exercise in this kind of narrative surely will not
hurt you, and you may get some benefit from it, even
if the chance reader should not like your preaching.
Try, however, to make the story interesting in itself
and to have the moral seem to grow naturally out of[348]
the action, rather than the action out of the moral.
Avoid platitudes, and reveal the customs and manners
of your people so faithfully that the student of social
science might use your narrative for data.
Jeannot and Colin
Many trustworthy persons can vouch for having seen
Jeannot and Colin when they went to school at Issoire
in Auvergne, a town famous all over the world for its
college and its kettles. Jeannot was the son of a dealer
in mules, a man of considerable reputation; Colin owed
his existence to a worthy husbandman who dwelt on the
outskirts of the town, and cultivated his farm with the
help of four mules, and who, after paying tolls and tallage,
scutage and salt duty, poundage, poll-tax, and
tithes, did not find himself particularly well off at the
end of the year.
Jeannot and Colin were very handsome lads for natives
of Auvergne; they were much attached to each
other, and had little secrets together and private understandings,
such as old comrades always recall with pleasure
when they afterward meet in a wider world.
Their school days were drawing near their end, when
a tailor one day brought Jeannot a velvet coat of three
colors, with a waistcoat of Lyons silk in excellent taste
to match. This suit of clothes was accompanied by a
letter addressed to Monsieur de La Jeannotiere. Colin
admired the coat, and was not at all jealous; but Jeannot
assumed an air of superiority which distressed Colin.
From that moment Jeannot paid no more heed to his lessons,
but was always looking at his reflection in the glass,
and despised everybody but himself. Some time afterward[349]
a footman arrived post-haste bringing a second letter,
addressed this time to His Lordship the Marquis de
La Jeannotiere; it contained an order from his father
for the young nobleman, his son, to be sent to Paris. As
Jeannot mounted the chaise to drive off, he stretched out
his hand to Colin with a patronizing smile befitting his
rank. Colin felt his own insignificance, and wept. So
Jeannot departed in all his glory.
Readers who like to know all about things may be informed
that Monsieur Jeannot, the father, had rapidly
gained immense wealth in business. You ask how those
great fortunes are made? It all depends upon luck.
Monsieur Jeannot had a comely person, and so had his
wife; moreover, her complexion was fresh and blooming.
They had gone to Paris to prosecute a lawsuit which was
ruining them, when Fortune, who lifts up and casts down
human beings at her pleasure, presented them with an
introduction to the wife of an army hospital contractor,
a man of great talent, who could boast of having killed
more soldiers in one year than the cannon had destroyed
in ten. Jeannot took the lady's fancy, and Jeannot's
wife captivated the gentleman. Jeannot soon became a
partner in business, and entered into other speculations.
When one is in the current of the stream, one need only
let one's self drift, and thus an immense fortune may
sometimes be made without any trouble. The beggars
watch you from the bank, as you glide along in full
sail, open their eyes in astonishment; they wonder how
you have managed to get on; they envy you, at all events,
and write pamphlets against you which you never read.
That was what happened to Jeannot senior, who was soon
styled Monsieur de La Jeannotiere, and, after buying a[350]
marquisate, at the end of six months he took the young
nobleman, his son, away from school, to launch him into
the fashionable world of Paris.
Colin, always affectionately disposed, wrote a kind
letter to his old schoolfellow, offering his congratulations.
The little marquis sent him no answer, which grieved
Colin sorely.
The first thing that his father and mother did for
the young gentleman was to get him a tutor. This tutor,
who was a man of distinguished manners and profound
ignorance, could teach his pupil nothing. The marquis
wished his son to learn Latin, but the marchioness would
not hear of it. They consulted the opinion of a certain
author who had obtained considerable celebrity at that
time from some popular works which he had written.
He was invited to dinner, and the master of the house
began by saying:
"Sir, as you know Latin, and are conversant with the
manners of the court—"
"I, sir! Latin! I don't know a word of it," answered
the man of learning; "and it is just as well for
me that I don't, for one can speak one's own language
better when the attention is not divided between it and
foreign tongues. Look at all our ladies; they are far
more charming in conversation than men; their letters
are written with a hundred times more grace of expression.
They owe that superiority over us to nothing
else but their ignorance of Latin."
"There, now! Was I not right?" said the lady. "I
want my son to be a man of wit, and to make his way in
the world. You see that if he were to learn Latin it
would be his ruin. Tell me, if you please, are plays and[351]
operas performed in Latin? Are the proceedings in
court conducted in Latin, when one has a lawsuit on
hand? Do people make love in Latin?"
The marquis, confounded by these arguments, passed
sentence, and it was decided that the young nobleman
should not waste his time in studying Cicero, Horace,
and Virgil.
"But what is he to learn, then? For, I suppose, he
will have to know something. Might he not be taught a
little geography?"
"What good will that do him?" answered the tutor.
"When my lord marquis goes to visit his country-seat,
will not his postillions know the roads? There will be
no fear of their going astray. One does not want a
sextant in order to travel, and it is quite possible to make
a journey between Paris and Auvergne without knowing
anything about the latitude and longitude of either."
"Very true," replied the father; "but I have heard
people speak of a noble science, which is, I think, called
astronomy."
"Bless my soul!" rejoined the tutor. "Do we regulate
our behavior in this world by the stars? Why should
my lord Marquis wear himself out in calculating an
eclipse, when he will find it predicted correctly to a
second in the almanac, which will moreover inform him
of all the movable feasts, the age of the moon, and that
of all the princesses in Europe?"
The marchioness was quite of the tutor's opinion, the
little marquis was in a state of highest delight, and his
father was very undecided.
"What is my son to be taught, then?" said he.
"To make himself agreeable," answered the friend[352]
whom they had consulted; "for, if he knows the way
to please, he will know everything worth knowing. It
is an art which he will learn from her Ladyship, his
mother, without the least trouble to either of them."
The marchioness, at these words, smiled graciously
upon the courtly ignoramus, and said:
"It is easy to see, sir, that you are a most accomplished
gentleman; my son will owe all his education to
you. I imagine, however, that it will not be a bad
thing for him to know a little history."
"Nay, madam, what good would that do him?" he
answered. "Assuredly, the only entertaining and useful
history is that of the passing hour. All ancient history,
as one of our clever writers has observed, is admitted
to consist of nothing but fables, and for us moderns
it is an inextricable chaos. What does it matter to
the young gentleman, your son, if Charlemagne instituted
the twelve Paladins of France, or if his successor
had an impediment in his speech?"
"Nothing was ever more wisely said!" exclaimed the
tutor. "The minds of children are smothered under a
mass of useless knowledge, but of all sciences, that which
seems to me the most absurd, and the one best adapted
to extinguish every spark of genius, is geometry. That
ridiculous science concerns itself with surfaces, lines,
and points which have no existence in nature. In
imagination a hundred thousand curved lines may be
made to pass between a circle and a straight line which
touches it, although in reality you could not insert as
much as a straw. Geometry, indeed, is nothing more
than a bad joke."
The marquis and his lady did not understand much[353]
of the meaning of what the tutor was saying, but they
quite agreed with him. "A nobleman like his Lordship,"
he continued, "should not dry up his brain with such
unprofitable studies. If, some day, he should want one
of those sublime geometricians to draw a plan of his
estates, he can have them measured for money. If he
should wish to trace out the antiquity of his lineage,
which goes back to the most remote ages, all he will have
to do will be to send for some learned Benedictine. It is
the same with all the other arts. A young lord born under
a lucky star is neither a painter, nor a musician, nor
an architect, nor a sculptor, but he may make all these
arts flourish by encouraging them with his generous approval.
Doubtless it is much better to patronize than to
practice them. It will be quite enough if my lord the
young Marquis has taste; it is the part of artists to work
for him, and thus there is a great deal of truth in the
remark that people of quality (that is, if they are very
rich), know everything without learning anything, because,
in point of fact and in the long run, they are masters
of all the knowledge they can order and pay for."
The agreeable ignoramus then resumed his part in
the conversation, and said:
"You have well remarked, madam, that the great end
of man's existence is to succeed in society. Is it, forsooth,
any aid to the attainment of this success to have
devoted one's self to the sciences? Does any one ever
think in select company of talking about geometry? Is
a gentleman ever asked what star rises to-day with the
sun? Does any one at the supper-table ever want to
know if Clodion, the Long-Haired, crossed the Rhîne?"
"No, indeed!" exclaimed the marchioness de la Jeannotiere,[354]
whose charms had been her passport into the
world of fashion, "and my son must not stifle his genius
by studying all that trash. But, after all, what is he to
be taught? For it is a good thing that a young lord
should be able to shine when occasion offers, as my noble
husband has said. I remember once hearing an abbé remark
that the most entertaining science was something
the name of which I have forgotten—it begins with a B."
"With a B, madam? It was not botany, was it?"
"No, it certainly was not botany that he mentioned;
it began, as I tell you, with a B, and ended in onry."
"Ah, madam, I understand! It was blazonry, or
heraldry. That is indeed a most profound science. But
it has ceased to be fashionable since the custom has died
out of having one's coat of arms painted on one's carriage
doors; it was the most useful thing imaginable in
a well-ordered state. Besides, that line of study would
be endless, for at the present day there is not a barber
who is without his armorial bearings, and you know that
whatever becomes common loses its attraction."
Finally, after all the pros and cons of the different
sciences had been examined and discussed, it was decided
that the young marquis should learn dancing.
Dame Nature, who arranges everything according to
her own will and pleasure, had given him a talent which
soon developed, securing him prodigious success; it was
that of singing street ballads in a charming style. His
youthful grace accompanying this superlative gift caused
him to be regarded as a young man of the highest promise.
He was a favorite with the ladies, and, having his
head crammed with songs, he had no lack of mistresses
to whom to address his verses. He stole the line "Bacchus[355]
with the Loves at play" from one ballad, and made
it rhyme with "night and day" taken from another,
while a third furnished him with "charms" and
"alarms." But inasmuch as there were always a few
feet more or less than were wanted in his verses, he had
them corrected at the rate of twenty sovereigns a song.
And "The Literary Year" placed him in the same rank
with such sonneteers as La Fare, Chaulieu, Hamilton,
Sarrasin, and Voiture.
Her ladyship the marchioness then believed that she
was indeed the mother of a genius, and gave a supper
to all the wits of Paris. The young man's head was soon
turned; he acquired the art of talking without knowing
the meaning of what he said, and perfected himself in
the attainment of being fit for nothing. When his father
saw him so eloquent, he keenly regretted that he had not
had him taught Latin, or he would have purchased some
high legal appointment for him. His mother, who was
of more heroic sentiments took upon herself to solicit a
regiment for her son; in the meantime he made love—and
love is sometimes more expensive than a regiment.
He squandered his money freely, while his parents
drained their purses and credit to a lower and lower
ebb by living in the grandest style.
A young widow of good position in their neighborhood,
who had only a moderate income, was kind enough
to make some effort to prevent the great wealth of the
Marquis and Marchioness de La Jeannotiere from going
altogether, by consenting to marry the young marquis
with a view to appropriating what remained. She enticed
him to her house, let him make love to her, allowed
him to see that she was not quite indifferent to him, and[356]
made him her devoted slave without the least difficulty.
At one time she would give him commendation, and at
another time counsel; she became his father's and
mother's best friend. An old neighbor suggested marriage.
The parents, dazzled with the splendor of the alliance,
joyfully fell in with the scheme, and promised their only
son to their most intimate lady friend. The young marquis
was thus about to wed the woman he adored, and
by whom he was loved in return. The friends of the
family congratulated him; the marriage settlement was
ready to be signed; the bridal dress and the nuptial
hymn were both well under way.
One morning our young gentleman was on his knees
before the charmer whom fond affection and esteem were
so soon to make his own. They were tasting in animated
and tender converse the first fruits of future happiness,
settling how they should lead a life of perfect bliss, when
one of his mother's footmen presented himself, scared
out of his wits.
"Here's fine news which may surprise you!" said he;
"the bailiffs are in the house of my lord and lady, removing
the furniture. Everything has been seized by
the creditors. There is talk of arresting people, and I
am going to do what I can to get my wages paid."
"Let us see what has happened," said the marquis,
"and discover the meaning of all this."
"Yes," said the widow, "go and punish those rascals—go,
at once!"
He hurried homeward. When he arrived at the
house his father was already in prison, and all the servants
had fled, each in a different direction, carrying off
whatever they had been able to lay their hands on. His[357]
mother was alone, helpless, forlorn, and bathed in tears;
she had nothing left her but the remembrance of her
former prosperity, her beauty, her faults, and her foolish
extravagance.
After the son had condoled with his mother for a long
time, he said at last:
"Let us not despair. This young widow loves me to
distraction; she is even more generous than she is
wealthy, I can assure you. I will fly to her for help,
and bring her to you."
So he returned to his mistress, and found her engaged
in private conversation with a fascinating young
officer.
"What! Is that you, my Lord de La Jeannotiere?
What business have you with me? How can you leave
your mother by herself in this way? Go, and stay with
the poor woman, and tell her that she shall always have
my good wishes. I am in want of a waiting woman now,
and will gladly give her the preference."
"My lad," said the officer, "you seem pretty tall and
straight; if you would like to enter my company, I will
make it worth your while to enlist."
The marquis, utterly astounded and inwardly furious,
went off in search of his former tutor, confided all
his troubles to him, and asked his advice. He proposed
that he should become like himself, a tutor of the young.
"Alas! I know nothing; you have taught me nothing
whatever, and you are the primary cause of all my
unhappiness!" And as he spoke he began to sob.
"Write novels," said a wit who was present; "it is
an excellent resource to fall back upon in Paris."
The young man, in more desperate straits than ever,[358]
hastened to the house of his mother's father-confessor.
He was a Theatine monk of the very highest reputation,
who had charge of the souls of none but ladies of the
first rank in society. As soon as he saw him, the reverend
gentleman rushed to meet him.
"Good gracious! My lord Marquis, where is your carriage?
How is your honored mother, the Marchioness?"
The unfortunate young fellow related the disaster
that had befallen his family. As he explained the matter
further the Theatine assumed a graver air, one of
less concern and more self-importance.
"My son, herein you may see the hand of Providence;
riches serve only to corrupt the heart. The Almighty
has shown special favor to your mother in reducing her
to beggary. Yes, sir, so much the better! She is now
sure of her salvation."
"But, father, in the meantime are there no means
of finding some help in this world?"
"Farewell, my son! A lady of the court is waiting
for me."
The marquis almost fainted. He was treated after
much the same manner by all his friends, and learned
to know the world better in half a day than he had in
all the rest of his life.
While thus plunged in overwhelming despair, he saw
an old-fashioned traveling chaise, more like a covered
tumbril than anything else, and furnished with leather
curtains, followed by four enormous wagons, all heavily
laden. In the chaise was a young man in rustic attire;
his round and rubicund face had an air of kindness and
good temper. His little wife, whose sunburnt countenance
had a pleasing if not refined expression, was[359]
jolted about as she sat beside him; and since the vehicle
did not go quite so fast as a dandy's chariot, the traveler
had plenty of time to look at the marquis as he stood
motionless, absorbed in his grief.
"Oh, good heavens!" he exclaimed, "I believe that is
Jeannot there!"
Hearing that name, the marquis raised his eyes, and
the chaise stopped.
"'Tis Jeannot himself! Yes, it is Jeannot!"
The fat little man sprang to the ground with a single
leap, and ran to embrace his companion. Jeannot recognized
Colin, shame showing in his face.
"You have forsaken your old friend," said Colin,
"but be you as grand a lord as you like, I shall never
cease to love you."
Jeannot, confounded and cut to the heart, amid sobs,
told him something of his history.
"Come into the inn where I am lodging, and tell me
the rest," said Colin; "kiss my little wife, and let us go
and dine together."
They went, all three of them, on foot, and the baggage
followed.
"What in the world is all this paraphernalia? Does
it belong to you!" inquired Jeannot.
"Yes, it is all mine and my wife's; we are just come
from the country. I am at the head of a large tin, iron,
and copper factory, and have married the daughter of a
rich tradesman and general provider of all useful commodities
for great folks and small. We work hard, and
God gives us His blessing. We are satisfied with our
condition in life, and are quite happy. We will help
our friend Jeannot. Give up being a marquis; all the[360]
splendor in the world is not worth a good friend. Return
with me into the country. I will teach you my
trade, which is not a difficult one to learn; I will give
you a share in the business, and we will live together
with light hearts in the little place where we were
born."
Jeannot, overcome by this kindness, struggled between
sorrow and joy, tenderness and shame. He said
to himself:
"All my fashionable friends have proved false to me,
and Colin, whom I despised, is the only one who comes
to my rescue. What a lesson!"
Colin's example in generosity revived in Jeannot's
heart the germ of goodness that the world had never
quite choked. He felt that he could not desert his father
and mother.
"We will take care of your mother," said Colin, "and
as for your good father, who is in prison—I know something
of business matters—his creditors, when they see
that he has nothing more, will agree to an easy settlement.
I will see to all that myself."
Colin was as good as his word, and succeeded in effecting
the father's release from prison. Jeannot returned
to his old home with his parents, who resumed
their former occupation. He married Colin's sister,
who, being like her brother in disposition, rendered her
husband very happy. And so Jeannot the father, and
Jeannotte the mother, and Jeannot the son, came to see
that vanity is no true source of happiness.
—Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire.
From "Little Masterpieces of Fiction," Vol. VII (Doubleday,
Page & Co).
[361]
II. The Pedagogical Narrative
Some
famous
pedagogical
books
The pedagogical narrative can hardly be called
"story," not only because of the intent of the writer
to instruct, but also because of the specialness
of the subject-matter itself. "Leonard
and Gertrude," however, has continued to
be read as story in an interpreted form for
many years. "Interpreted" connotes what the modern
versions of "Leonard and Gertrude" really are, redactions.
When the cumbersome and somewhat eccentric
sentences of the original were made over, the plot was
found to be of a good deal of interest, the character-sketching
peculiarly fine, and the lessons taught high
and noble and practical as well. Pestalozzi himself had
gradually learned how to teach children, and he not
only told, but showed others. For that is what a pedagogical
story is—a working theory of instruction set
up in scenes and actions: it is exposition made narrative.
Do you want to know how to teach Jimmy and
Margaret? This good old Swiss pedagogue will show
you how Gertrude taught her children, mother and
school mistress, priest and village reformer as she was.
If you had lived in Queen Elizabeth's day and wanted
to know how and what to teach your boy or girl, you
could have asked the gentle Roger, the queen's own
schoolmaster. You can ask him now how he taught;
for he put his thoughts down in a volume which bears
the name of his professional office—quaintly spelled
"Scholemaster"—and shows you his methods of work
in forming the mind of the perfect gentleman. This
sober pedagogical treatise, which is not narrative, not[362]
story, was published only after Ascham's death; but
many years before, when he was a very young man and
much gayer but hardly less wise, he set forth in
"Toxophilus," the archer, a picture of how amusement
and learning can be combined. The exposition proceeds
in the form of a dialogue (the old fashioned literary
type called débat) between a lover of books and a lover
of exercise. "Toxophilus" is not exactly story either,
but it approaches story, and is important to our type
because of the intense and far-reaching influence it
has had on modern pedagogy in inspiring a looking-out
for the development of the body as well as the mind,
and in emphasizing the giving of instruction in an
interesting form.
From Ascham's "Schoolmaster" John Lyly got the
suggestion for his two famous romances of Euphues,
the "well-formed" one. A young man should be
euphues in all things, said Ascham, and Lyly undertook
to show a Briton thus as he moved about in society,
at home, abroad, in friendship and love. So popular
did Euphues become that all the ladies and gentlemen
of Elizabeth's court modelled their speech on his.
Charming old Sir Isaac Walton joined the pedagogues
and gave us a set of delightful walks and talks
on angling. He teaches one to be a "complete" angler—an
artist at his pastime.
A sort of hand-book of etiquette for the golden
youths of the Renaissance was Castiglione's "Courtier,"
"a sketch of a cultivated nobleman in those most
cultivated days." The author shows by what precepts
and practice a fine gentleman is made. So well did he
write that his own name ever since has been a synonym[363]
for nobility and manliness. He gives us a picture of
the purest and most elevated court in Italy, that of
Guidobaldo da Montefeltra, duke of Urbino. A discussion
is held in the duchess's drawing-room to settle
the question, what constitutes a perfect courtier. The
type selected differs in no material way from the ideal
gentleman of the present day.
All of these books are the work of persons who set
out seriously to teach—except perhaps the gentle Isaac,
who probably wrote what he wrote for sheer pleasure
and taught by the way. And they all include what the
modern pedagogical narrative includes—disguised
exposition. For the most part the modern species is
short. A publisher now-a-days, I suppose, could hardly
be induced to present an educational system thinly
disguised in a long romance. Consequently most of
such stories come out in our educational periodicals as
better or poorer literature, better or poorer teaching.
Rousseau's "The New Héloise" and "Emile" might
be mentioned here were they not more nearly harangues
than stories. Their effect in renovating France
domestically, though, will forever connect them with
the word pedagogy. They are surely a pedagogue's
"fiction," since their author took no care of his real
children.
These treatises were almost immediately influential
in England, but now the theories began to be set forth
in more truly narrative form. In "The Fool of Quality"
(by Henry Brooke), the hero goes about spreading
benevolence and cash and displaying his physical
strength and an educational theory as well, as to how
an English Christian young gentleman should be[364]
brought up. The later development of such teaching
was naturally books addressed directly to children.
Thomas Day's "Sandford and Merton" had in it stories
and dialogues for young people to read for themselves,
in which they were taught the value of the sciences
and the virtues. Maria Edgeworth's "Frank" and
"Rosamond" and Jacob Abbott's "Rollo Books" are
for still more juvenile audiences, and in Froebel's
"Mother Plays" the baby, even, comes into its own.
Froebel
This work necessarily, however, was addressed to
the parent. A tiny cyclopedia of story, song, game,
and theory, it is great pedagogy, and in the
original, at least, acceptable literature. The
object of all teaching-narratives should be that which
Froebel expresses in his comment on one of his own little
games taught in a dialogue between a mother and her son.
You recall that his double purpose is to teach the
mother what and how to teach the child. He says,
"The deep import of The Light-Bird is hinted in the
song and motto. Beware, however, of the only one contained
in the play. Not only The Light-Bird but all the
plays which precede and follow it have many meanings.
Neither must it be supposed that the meaning
suggested by me is, if not the sole, at least the highest
one. My songs, mottoes, and commentaries are offered
simply with the hope that they may aid you to recognize
and hold fast some part of what you yourself feel
while playing these games and to suggest to you how
you may awaken corresponding feelings in your child."
If you want to write a pedagogical narrative that
will startle the world, adopt the motto of Froebel, the
charm of Ascham and Walton, the graciousness of[365]
Castiglione, and the hard common sense of Pestalozzi,
and then proceed. But hold! You will need to have
something to teach. Perhaps you would better not try
romance as a vehicle, but would better stick to our
briefer types. Suppose you put into narrative form,
as others have done since the days of the great kindergartner,
a simple game for children, or your favorite
and most helpful method of study.
Gertrude's Method of Instruction
It was quite early in the morning when Arner (the
people's father), Glulhi (his lieutenant), and the pastor
went to the mason's cottage. The room was not in order
when they entered, for the family had just finished
breakfast, and the dirty plates and spoons still lay upon
the table. Gertrude was at first somewhat disconcerted,
but the visitors reassured her, saying kindly: "This is
as it should be; it is impossible to clear the table before
breakfast is eaten!"
The children all helped wash the dishes, and then
seated themselves in their customary places before their
work. The gentlemen begged Gertrude to let everything
go on as usual, and after the first half hour, during which
she was a little embarrassed, all proceeded as if no
stranger were present. First the children sang their
morning hymns, and then Gertrude read a chapter of
the Bible aloud, which they repeated after her while
they were spinning, rehearsing the most instructive passages
until they knew them by heart. In the mean time,
the oldest girl had been making the children's beds in
the adjoining room, and the visitors noticed through the
open door that she silently repeated what the others were[366]
reciting. When this task was completed, she went into
the garden and returned with vegetables for dinner,
which she cleaned while repeating Bible-verses with the
rest.
It was something new for the children to see three
gentlemen in the room, and they often looked up from
their spinning toward the corner where the strangers
sat. Gertrude noticed this, and said to them: "Seems
to me you look more at these gentlemen than at your
yarn." But Harry answered: "No, indeed! We are
working hard, and you'll have finer yarn to-day than
usual."
Whenever Gertrude saw that anything was amiss
with the wheels or cotton, she rose from her work, and
put it in order. The smallest children, who were not old
enough to spin, picked over the cotton for carding, with
a skill which excited the admiration of the visitors.
Although Gertrude thus exerted herself to develop
very early the manual dexterity of her children, she was
in no haste for them to learn to read and write. But she
took pains to teach them early how to speak; for, as she
said, "of what use is it for a person to be able to read
and write, if he cannot speak?—since reading and writing
are only an artificial sort of speech." To this end
she used to make the children pronounce syllables after
her in regular succession, taking them from an old A-B-C
book she had. This exercise in correct and distinct
articulation was, however, only a subordinate object in
her whole scheme of education, which embraced a true
comprehension of life itself. Yet she never adopted the
tone of instructor toward her children; she did not say
to them: "Child, this is your head, your nose, your[367]
hand, your finger;" or: "Where is your eye, your
ear?"—but instead, she would say: "Come here, child,
I will wash your little hands," "I will comb your hair,"
or: "I will cut your finger-nails." Her verbal instruction
seemed to vanish in the spirit of her real activity,
in which it always had its source. The result of her system
was that each child was skillful, intelligent and active
to the full extent that its age and development allowed.
The instruction she gave them in the rudiments of
arithmetic was intimately connected with the realities of
life. She taught them to count the number of steps from
one end of the room to the other; and two of the rows
of five panes each, in one of the windows, gave her an
opportunity to unfold the decimal relations of numbers.
She also made them count their threads while spinning,
and the number of turns on the reel, when they wound
the yarn into skeins. Above all, in every occupation of
life she taught them an accurate and intelligent observation
of common objects and the forces of nature.
All that Gertrude's children knew, they knew so thoroughly
that they were able to teach it to the younger
ones; and this they often begged permission to do. On
this day, while the visitors were present, Jones sat with
each arm around the neck of a smaller child, and made
the little ones pronounce the syllables of the A-B-C book
after him; while Lizzie placed herself with her wheel between
two of the others, and while all three spun, taught
them the words of a hymn with the utmost patience.
When the guests took their departure, they told Gertrude
they would come again on the morrow. "Why?"
she returned. "You will only see the same thing over[368]
again." But Glulphi said: "That is the best praise you
could possibly give yourself." Gertrude blushed at this
compliment, and stood confused when the gentlemen
kindly pressed her hand in taking leave.
The three could not sufficiently admire what they had
seen at the mason's house, and Glulphi was so overcome
by the powerful impression made upon him, that he
longed to be alone and seek counsel of his own thoughts.
He hastened to his room, and as he crossed the threshold,
the words broke from his lips: "I must be schoolmaster
in Bonnal!" All night visions of Gertrude's schoolroom
floated through his mind, and he only fell asleep
toward morning. Before his eyes were fairly open, he
murmured: "I will be schoolmaster!"—and hastened
to Arner to acquaint him with his resolution.
—Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi.
"Leonard and Gertrude" (D. C. Heath & Co.).
Lawin-Lawinan
In the beautiful town of Santa Maria, children were
very fond of playing many curious games. Not a single
day or moonlight evening could pass without one's seeing
some children playing along the wide streets.
One bright evening in the month of July, after the
angelus bell rang, Mapacla, in company with some playmates,
went to Zandoval Street, where many children
were romping. When they reached the place, they
agreed to play Lawin-lawinan. Mapacla was chosen by
all to be the sisiw (chicken), and a playmate, Malacas
by name, to be the lawin (hawk). The chicken and the
hawk were the principal characters of the game. The
rest of the children formed a circle: each one with outstretched[369]
arms held the hand of the one next him till the
circle was formed. The space between each two children
was called the door, the owners of which were the children
by whom it was formed. The chicken stood inside
the circle, and the hawk stood outside.
The game was then begun. The hawk went to the
first door, asking, "What door is this?"
"To your honorable stomach," answered the owner
of the door.
"And this?" asked the hawk, after approaching
another door.
"To your long throat," answered the owner.
The hawk repeated the same question, as he went
around from door to door, till he reached the last one.
"Have you anything to sell me?" asked the hawk
of the door owner.
"A good fat red chicken!" answered the owner.
"Let me see its scales," remarked the hawk, as he
grasped the feet of the chicken. "This is a fine quality
of wild bird," he added; "will you have him crow?"
"Crow!" said the owner to the chicken.
"Tic—to—la—la—oe," cried the chicken.
"Fine!" said the hawk. "How much will you sell
him for?"
"For one peso," answered the owner.
After the bargain had been made and the hawk was
about to catch the chicken, the circle began to whirl
around, allowing no space for the hawk to enter. By
chance, however, the hawk, thrusting himself through a
space, reached the interior of the circle. Every owner
was then afraid that the chicken might be caught by
the hawk. The whirling of the circle was immediately[370]
stopped, and every door was left wide open. The chicken
with all his might ran swiftly out of the circle. The
hawk was so slow in following that he was captured inside.
The circle began to whirl again, till, accidentally,
the hawk, struggling for his escape, made his way out.
Sometimes the chicken, pursued by the hawk, entered the
circle, but immediately ran out whenever there was
danger of being caught. At last when the chicken became
tired, the hawk caught him.
The punishment was then inflicted. The hawk
ordered himself to be carried on the shoulders of the
chicken. The order was obeyed without delay. After
the chicken had walked a few paces with the heavy load
on him, he stopped and started another game, choosing
another chicken to be chased by the hawk.
—Leopoldo Uichanco.
III. The Story of Present Day Realism
Realism
"Realism," says Mr. Howells, "is nothing more and
nothing less than the truthful treatment of material."
The business of the narrator is to observe and
record, he says; all that enters into fiction
should be simple, natural and honest. The material must
be plain, average, everyday humanity. There is no need
of a hero or heroine. There is no need of a plot. The
love of the passionate and heroic is a crude and unwholesome
thing.
Following these tenets there has grown up a school
of writers who undertake to present the world just as
it is with no heightening and no lowering of color.
They select bits of life and reproduce them exactly.[371]
The process is "not so much photographic as microscopic."
Nothing is too inane or commonplace. All
that a workman needs is a seeing eye, honesty, and a
vocabulary, say they. Many of the sketches, of course,
seem extremely flat, and the reader involuntarily asks,
Why and wherefore? The answer is laconic—life:
these are the actual problems of humanity rather than
abstract moral truths or highflown idealism; the Scab
and Trusty No. 49 are with us in the street; these are
the Children of the Public, the Children of the Ghetto;
this is the modern Jungle; these are Vignettes of Manhattan;
these are the feelings of a maiden lady in a
Massachusetts village; these are the happenings of a
real Wedding Journey; thus the new-rich build houses
in the Back Bay district and attempt to get into
society; this is a Modern Instance.
For source of realistic method we shall need to
notice again the audacious intimacy of the picaresque
romance and the extraordinary minuteness of detail
that marked the illustrations and pretended anecdotes
of the controversial pamphleteers of the early eighteenth
century. Take for illustration the verisimilitude
of the repetitions and digressions in the "True Relation
of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal," by which Defoe hoodwinked
the public—so completely, in fact, that critics
are even now divided on the question as to whether he
was or was not reporting a real interview. Most of his
contemporaries took the matter as bona fide news;
their successors took it as invention; and now Mr.
George Aitken comes forward with proof of its occurrence;
that is, he maintains that Defoe got—in just the
way he says he got it—the written report of the actual[372]
interview with the person who saw the ghost. The
contention only goes to demonstrate that Defoe was a
great captain of the pen who could sail extremely close
to life. That he could make romance truer than fact we
well know.
Added to the patient minuteness of the controversialists
and the boldness of the rogue narrators who
dared to take us to the back-doors and bed-rooms of
the nobility and to the haunts of criminals, came later
as an element of realistic method, Jane Austen's home
subjects, non-partizanship, and gentle raillery.
Some
realistic
writers
When "Daisy Miller" was written a few decades
ago, the Americans were incensed. Henry James did
not care, however. Just so we appear
abroad, he said, among the more restrained
and more cultivated peoples. Howells's
"Lady of the Aroostook" seemed a kinder if similar
and no less true picture. These brief narratives are
hardly novels; and though they are more than tales,
they yet are not what we technically call the artistic
short-story; they are surely, however, studies in
realism.
It is upon this distinction,—namely, that absolute
realism would naturally preclude even the slight artificiality
that there must be about the truly technical
short-story—that we make two divisions in our study
of such work as that of Howells, James, and Mary E.
Wilkins Freeman. The point is, realism may be as
long-drawn out or as brief as life. The technical short-story,
however, has a limit on both sides. So has the
novel. Each of our great realists has attempted novels;
all have written exquisite short stories.
[373]
Suggestions
on
characters
to treat
To write a present-day realistic sketch you will not
need to look far for a subject. Just divest yourself of
preconceived ideas of the romantic in fiction,
and begin anywhere. Everything is of
interest to the realist. A butcher's boy; an
octogenarian millionaire; a petty thief; a
plodding, respectable, humdrum government clerk; an
ordinary mother with her ordinary baby on an ordinary
day; a flighty society belle, and a society belle
who is not flighty; a sensible matron; an idiot child,—all
are his. The interest of your sketch will be in the
particularity and niceness of details. You will need to
be more truthful than a camera, which always makes
people and surroundings look either better or worse
than they are. Color and sound and smell and atmosphere
and temperature, and temperament, gesture and
thought, passing impression and settled purpose, you
can record. If any of your characters succeeds, it must
be as in life—with half defeat; if any one is defeated,
it must be as in life—with half success and a conflicting
sense of shame and of relief. You must have something
happening, however slight, and thus avoid a mere
enumeration of characteristics. You are to show us
the person in action. A mere analysis of his vices and
virtues, his general mental attitude, would be pure exposition,
when you want narrative.
Your diction should be as good as you can make it
by care and revision. Howells and James are both
stylists of the most polished kind; though Tolstoy,
whom Howells recognizes as master, thirty years ago
left off any concern for sentence effect. He repeats or
reiterates at will. You, however, cannot afford to disregard[374]
the rules of the rhetoricians—not until you have
become as famous as the Russian count or have a
message as distinct as his.
Remember, then, that a good realistic sketch demands
on your part an honest, and truthful purpose, a
mind freed from the glamor of romance or climax, a
sure eye, and exquisite workmanship, in the relation of
an ordinary, every-day event.
The Piece of String
On all the roads leading to Goderville the peasants
and their wives were coming to town for market day.
The men shambled along at an easy-going gait, with
bodies bent forward. Their long legs were deformed and
twisted through hard work—from the weight of the
plough, which at the same time throws the left shoulder
too high and ruins the figure; from mowing the grain,
which effort causes the knees to spread too far apart;
and from all the other slow and painful labours of
country life. Their blue blouses, starched to a sheenlike
varnish and finished at collar and waistbands with little
designs in white stitching, stood from their bony bodies
like balloons ready for flight, with a head, two arms and
two feet protruding.
Some of the men had a cow or calf in tow at the
end of a rope, while their wives followed close behind
the animal, switching it over the haunches with a leafy
branch to hasten its pace.
The women carried large baskets, out of which stuck
the heads of chickens and ducks. They took much
shorter and quicker steps than the man. Their lanky,
spare figures were decorated with mean little shawls[375]
pinned across their flat breasts. Each head bore a white
linen cover, bound close to the hair and surmounted by
a cap.
Now and then there went by a waggonette drawn by
a pony on a jerky trot, which jostled the two men on
the seat in a ludicrous manner and made the woman
at the end of the cart hold the sides firmly for ease from
the rough jolting.
In the Goderville market-place was a great crowd of
men and animals. The horns of the cattle, the high, long-napped
hats of the well-to-do peasants, and the head-dresses
of women bobbed above the level of that crowd.
Noisy voices, sharp and shrill, kept up a wild and ceaseless
clamour, only outdone now and then by a great
guffaw of laughter from the strong lungs of a jolly
bumpkin, or a prolonged moo from a cow tied to the wall
of some house.
Everywhere it smelled of stables, of milk and manure,
of hay and sweat. The air was redolent with that
sourish, disagreeable odour savouring of man and beast
which is peculiar to the labourers of the fields.
Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just arrived
at Goderville and was directing his steps to the square
when he observed on the ground a little bit of string.
Economical like all true Normans, Master Hauchecorne
considered that anything useful was worth picking up,
and he bent down painfully, for he suffered from
rheumatism. He picked up the scrap of twine from the
ground, and was preparing to wind it up carefully when
he noticed Master Malandain, the harness-maker, looking
at him from his doorway. Once they had a quarrel
over a halter and had kept angry ever since, both of[376]
them holding spite. Master Hauchecorne was smitten
with a certain sense of shame at being seen thus by his
enemy searching in the dirt for a mere bit of string. He
hastily hid his find under his blouse, then in the pocket
of his breeches—after which he pretended to be still
looking at his feet for something which he had not yet
found. At length, he started toward the market-place,
his body almost bent double by his chronic pains.
He lost himself at once in the slow, clamorous throng,
which was agitated by perpetual bickerings. The prospective
buyers, after looking the cows over, would go
away only to return perplexed; always fearing to be
taken in; never reaching a decision, but narrowly watching
the seller's eyes, seeking in the end to detect the
deceit of the man and the defect in his animal.
The women, having put their big baskets at their
feet, had pulled out the poultry, which lay upon the
ground with legs tied, with frightened eyes and scarlet
combs.
They listened to offers, maintaining their prices with
a sharp air and impressive face, or else at a sweep
accepting a reduced price, crying after the customer who
left reluctantly, "It's settled, Anthime; I'll let you have
them!"
Then, by degrees, the square emptied, and, as the
Angelus struck noon, those living at a distance flocked
to the inns.
At Jourdain's, the dining-room was filled with guests,
as full as the great courtyard was with vehicles of every
description—carts, gigs, waggonettes, tilburies, nondescript
jaunting cars, yellow with mud, misshapen,
patched up, lifting their shafts to heaven like two arms,[377]
or else in a sorry plight with nose in the mud and back
in the air.
Right opposite to where the diners were at table, the
immense fireplace, all brightly aflame, imparted a genial
warmth to the backs of the people ranged on the right.
Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with
pigeons, and with legs of mutton; and a delicious odour
of roast meat and of gravy gushing over roast brown
skin took wing from the hearth, kindled good humour,
and made mouths water.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there
at Jourdain's, the innkeeper who dealt in horses—a
shrewd fellow, who had a goodish penny put by.
The dishes were passed and emptied, as were likewise
huge jugs of yellow cider. Every one recounted
his dealings—his buying and selling. They gave news
of the crops. The weather was good for greens, but
somewhat wet for wheat.
All at once a drum rolled in the court before the
house. Almost everybody save the too indifferent, immediately
sprang to their feet and ran to the door, or
to the windows, with mouth still full and napkin in
hand.
After the public crier had stopped his racket, he
launched forth in a jerky voice, making his pauses at
the wrong time:
"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and in
general to all persons present at the market, that there
was lost this morning on the Beauzeville road, between
nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing
five hundred francs and business papers. You are
requested to return it to the mayor's office at once, or[378]
to Master Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There
will be twenty francs reward."
Then the man went away. They heard once more
from afar the dull drum-beats and the fading voice of
the crier.
After that, they began to discuss this event, counting
the chances Master Houlbreque yet had of recovering
or not recovering his pocketbook.
And the meal went on.
They were finishing their coffee when the corporal
of police appeared on the threshold.
He asked:
"Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté—is he here?"
Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table,
answered:
"Here I am."
And the corporal resumed:
"Master Hauchecorne, will you have the kindness
to come with me to the mayor's office? The mayor would
like to speak to you."
The peasant, surprised and disturbed, tossed off his
drink and arose, worse bent than in the morning; because
the first steps after a rest were always especially
difficult. He started off, repeating:
"Here I am; here I am."
And he followed the corporal.
The mayor was awaiting him, seated in his official
chair. He was the notary of the place, a large, grave
man of pompous speech.
"Master Hauchecorne," he said, "you were seen
this morning, on the Beauzeville road, to pick up the
pocket-book lost by Master Houlbreque, of Manneville."
[379]
The countryman, confused, stared at the mayor, already
frightened by this suspicion attaching to him—why
he could not understand.
"I—I—I picked up that pocket-book?"
"Yes, you."
"On my word of honour, I didn't even know nothing
about it."
"You were seen."
"They saw me—me? Who's they what saw me?"
said Master Hauchecorne.
"Master Malandain, the harness-maker."
Then the old man remembered, understood, and reddened
with anger.
"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me
pick up this here string. Look, your worship."
And, rummaging at the bottom of his pocket, he
pulled out the little piece of string.
But the incredulous mayor shook his head.
"You will not make me believe, Master Hauchecorne,
that Master Malandain, who is a man worthy of all
respect, has taken this bit of cord for a pocket-book."
The peasant, furious, raised his hand, and spit at
his side to bear witness to his honour, repeating:
"F'r all that, it's God's truth, holy truth, your
worship. There! My soul and my salvation knows it's
true!"
The mayor resumed:
"After having picked the article up, you even
searched also a long while in the mud to make sure if
money had fallen out of it."
The good man choked with rage and terror.
"If them can say—if them can say—such lies as that[380]
to take away an honest man's name! If them can
say—"
However he might protest, he was not believed.
He was confronted by Master Malandain, who repeated
and supported his statement. They railed at
each other for an hour. Master Hauchecorne demanded
that they search his pockets. Nothing was found upon
him.
Finally, the mayor, very much perplexed, let him
go with the warning that he would inform the public
prosecutor, and ask for orders.
The news had spread abroad. When he came out
of the mayor's office, the old man was the centre of
curiosity and questioning, both serious and jeering, but
into which not the least resentment entered. And he
began recounting the long rigmarole of the string. They
did not believe him. They grinned.
He went along, stopped by every one, or accosting
his acquaintances, going over and over his story and
his protestations, pointing to his pockets turned inside
out to prove he had nothing.
They said to him:
"Come now, you old rascal!"
And he became angry, exasperated, feverish, disconsolate
at being doubted, and forever telling his story.
Night fell. It became time to go home. He started
out with three of his neighbours, to whom he pointed
out the spot where he had picked up the bit of string;
and, all along the road, he recited his adventure.
That evening he made a round of the village of
Bréauté so as to tell everyone. He found only unbelievers.
[381]
He was ill of it all through the night.
The next day about one in the afternoon, Marius
Paumelle, a farm helper of Master Breton, the market-gardener
at Ymauville, returned the pocket-book and its
contents to Master Houlbreque of Manneville.
This man maintained he had found it on the road,
but, not knowing how to read, had carried it home and
turned it over to his master.
The news spread to the suburbs. Master Hauchecorne
was informed. Immediately he set himself the
task of going about relating his story, capping it with
this climax. He was triumphant.
"What hurt me the mostest," he said, "was not the
thing itself, don't you see, but the lies. Nothing hurts
so as when lies 's told about you."
All day long he talked of his adventure. He told it
on the roads to the people passing, at the tavern to
people who were drinking, and then to the people coming
out of church the next Sunday. He even stopped
strangers to tell them the tale. He felt relieved by this
time, yet something troubled him without his knowing
just what it was. People had a mocking manner as they
listened.
They did not appear convinced. He almost felt their
tattle behind his back.
Tuesday of the next week, he went to the Goderville
market, solely impelled by the need of recounting his
affair.
Malandain, standing in his doorway, began to laugh
as he saw him pass. For what?
He accosted a farmer of Criquetot who did not permit
him to finish, but, landing him a thump in the pit[382]
of the stomach, cried in his face, "Get out, you great
rogue!" Then he turned on his heel.
Master Hauchecorne, altogether abashed, grew more
and more disturbed. Why had he been dubbed "a great
rogue?"
When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern, he again
began to explain the particulars.
A Montvilliers horse-dealer yelled at him:
"Don't tell me, you old fox! I know your piece of
string yarn!"
Hauchecorne stammered, "B—b—but it's found, the
pocket-book!"
To which the other retorted:
"That'll do, daddy! There's one who finds, and
another who gives up. Neither is no one the wiser."
The peasant was choked off. At last he understood.
They accused him of having had the pocket-book returned
by a crony—by an accomplice.
He tried to protest. The whole table started to
laugh.
He could not finish his meal, and took his leave
amidst their mocking and derision.
He returned to his home, ashamed and indignant,
stifled with rage, with confusion; all the more dejected
because, with his Norman cunning, he was capable of
having done what they accused him of, and even of
bragging of it as a good trick. His innocence vaguely
appeared to him as impossible to prove; his roguery was
too well known. And he felt struck to the heart by the
injustice of the suspicion.
Again he commenced to tell of his adventure; every
day its recital lengthened, each time containing new[383]
proofs, more energetic protestations, and more solemn
oaths which he prepared in his solitary hours. His mind
was altogether occupied by the story of the piece of
string. He was believed all the less as his defense grew
more complicated and his arguments more artful.
"Now, those are the proofs of a liar," they said behind
his back.
He felt this. It consumed his strength. He exhausted
himself in useless efforts.
He went into a visible decline.
The jokers now made him detail the story of "The
Piece of String" to amuse them, just as you persuade a
soldier who has come through a campaign to tell his
version of a battle. At last his mind began to give way.
Near the end of December he took to his bed.
He died the first week in January, and, in the delirium
of the throes of death he protested his innocence,
repeating, "A little piece of string—little piece of string—see,
here it is, your worship."
—Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant.
"Little Masterpieces of Fiction," Vol. VI (Doubleday, Page
& Co.).
A Social Error
The little kindergarten teacher turned hastily from
the office window.
"Miss Adams," she said abruptly, "I'm worried."
The "Lady Head" looked up from her ledger.
"Worried," she repeated, with an odd little smile,
"are you ever anything so plebeian?"
The other woman tossed her chin impatiently.
"Really, Miss Adams," she said stiffly, "I wish you[384]
had given that class of Italians to—well, anyone but
Caroline."
The lady at the desk stiffened perceptibly.
"And why not?" she inquired tersely. "You certainly
must be aware that the reason I chose Caroline
to fill the vacancy was because I thought her fitted—particularly
fitted," she added, with deliberate emphasis.
The little woman looked down at her excited chief
with a quietly speculative smile.
"Do you think," she said slowly, "that Caroline has
the real social instinct?"
The Lady Head was becoming annoyed.
"One might think," she snapped, "that the training
Caroline has received in her own home would amply
fit her to meet—"
"Any of the men of her own set," interrupted the
other woman. "But as for managing a club of hot-headed
Italians—"
"Well, doesn't she manage them?" reiterated the
woman at the desk, half rising from her low chair. "I
should like to have you name a club that is more orderly—more—"
"Indeed, it is orderly enough," admitted the little
kindergartner.
"There!" sniffed the Lady Head triumphantly, then
with a sudden change of tone, "I really do not understand
your objection. As for the boys—they adore her!"
"That is where the trouble lies." The little kindergartner
leaned forward over the desk and her voice was
very serious. "Miss Adams," she began slowly, "you
have been here five weeks—I have worked in this[385]
district for fifteen years. I know every boy and girl,
every man and woman, who comes to this house. And
I also know"—the speaker paused impressively—"that
when a girl who is as young and as good-looking as
Caroline treats the young men of her club with the same
informality that she would show to the callers in her
father's home—believe me, there will be disastrous consequences."
"Do you mean—Do you dare—" the Lady Head's
lifted eyebrows completed her question.
This little kindergartner stood firm. "I think
Caroline should be warned," she insisted quietly. "Her
Italians are so young—so hot-blooded, and I'm afraid
she has been encouraging them a little, too—"
"Nonsense!" the other woman sprang quickly to her
feet. "I have never heard anything so ridiculous—so
utterly preposterous! Do my years of experience count
for nothing in comparison with yours? Am I entirely
lacking in good judgment—in common sense? My dear
woman, I have always made friends of my club boys,
invited them to my home—even young anarchists! Falling
in love with her! Preposterous!" She paused for
a moment breathless, and then began a fresh onslaught.
"If Caroline has not sufficient tact—"
A girl's blonde head appeared in the office doorway.
"Did you call met?" she lisped sweetly. "I was passing
through the hall and I thought I heard my name
spoken." She paused, with a questioning glance at the
two women.
The Lady Head was the first to recover her composure,
and she rustled across the room with outstretched
hands. "My dear Caroline," she said. "We were just[386]
speaking of you—and your charming little club," she
added, with a side glance at her assistant.
The girl threw back her dark furs with a smile.
"How good of you," she said gratefully. "I'm frightfully
late to-day, but to-night is our party, and I stopped
down town for the boys."
The Lady Head patted the girl's plump fingers.
"Are you going to dance, too?" she inquired.
The girl laughed. "Indeed I am. But I really don't
know how I'm going to manage it. The boys are all so
jealous, and Tony—oh, Tony is the grandest dancer!"
She flitted out of the tiny office, and the two women
watched her as she climbed the broad stairs followed
closely by her chattering, gesticulating pupils.
As the last peal of laughter floated down over the
balusters the little kindergartner turned to the Lady
Head.
"You see?" she said simply.
The Lady Head turned upon her a sweet, uncomprehending
smile. "I think it is lovely!" she breathed.
The night lamp burned steadily in the office of the
settlement. The wind howled through the deserted
street, flinging the rain in noisy gusts against the window
panes and shrieking dismally down the empty corridors.
From somewhere on the floor above came the rhythmic
banging of a piano and the shuffle and stamp of dancing
feet.
The Lady Head closed her book with a yawn.
"What a stupid evening," she sighed. The kindergarten
teacher laid down her sewing and walked slowly
to the window.
"The elements are attempting to enliven things,"[387]
she remarked dryly as she lifted the heavy curtains.
Even as she spoke there was a blinding flash, a click and
the house was dark.
Up stairs the music ceased, there was a confused murmur
of voices—a shout—a crash—and a woman's scream.
The lights come on again—the two women turned, their
faces ashen, and hastened up the long stairs.
A pale-faced girl was crouched against the farther
wall of the big gymnasium. At her feet sprawled the
limp body of a man, and behind her a swarthy black-browed
girl was struggling in the grasp of two stalwart
Italians who were trying to wrest something from her
frantic fingers. Her hands relaxed as the two women
appeared in the door, and a shining bit of steel flew
across the room and tinkled on the floor at the feet of the
Lady Head. She picked it up grimly and pushed her
way to the center of the crowd. The girl by the wall
sprang to her feet with a wild shriek, but the woman
turned on her savagely.
"Hush!" she hissed, "you little fool!" Then to the
crowd, "What does this mean?" she demanded sternly.
"What does this mean?"
A young Italian, who stood at one side nursing his
slashed knuckles, was the spokesman.
"Him—" with a wave towards the man on the floor—"he's
Tony De Sil', and her"—the gesture included the
hysterical girl—"She dance with Ton' all-a-time."
"And she?" The Lady Head looked toward the
Italian girl whose stiletto she was holding gingerly between
her fingers.
"Her?"—the narrator pointed a laconic forefinger.
"She's Tony's girl."
[388]
When the weeping Caroline had been sent home in
her father's carriage, and when the ambulance had
creaked out through the gateway, the Lady Head turned
to her little assistant.
"If there are any fatal results from this—this
criminal bit of negligence," she stated coldly, "I shall
hold you personally responsible. You should have informed
me of this long ago. Remember, you have been
here fifteen years!"
—Ida F. Treat.
The Lot of the Poor
Two women were walking with rapid but tired steps
down one of the most disreputable streets in the city.
"My," said the tallest one, turning up the collar of
her threadbare coat, "don't this wind make you feel like
you was dressed in your bones?"
The other woman, who was, if possible, more shabby-looking,
pushed her red gloveless hands deeper into her
pockets.
"Yes, and I forgot to wear my sables to-day, ain't
it too bad?" she returned in a dreary tone, whose irony
was somewhat modified by the chattering of her teeth.
"Mary Jane, you just quit talkin' like that," burst
out the other, evidently the older of the two. "You
didn't never use to be that way before you commenc't
workin' out by the day. Why you was the jolliest girl
in the factory and allays made the best of everything;
but now nothin' is ever good enough for you. Of course
none of us would mind having things a little better,
but as far as I can see, things have allays been this way
with us and allays will be, wishin' or no wishin'."
[389]
"I ain't sayin' they won't," Mary Jane said shortly.
"Well, I know it, you ain't sayin' nothin'; that's just
the trouble. I wish you'd tell me what's the matter with
you, Mary Jane, 'Tain't natural for a girl like you to
be so dull and sulky."
"'Tain't natural, did you say?" flared up the other.
"'Tain't natural to wonder why the lady you work for
wears silks and satins, while your own clothes are almost
too ragged to cover you? Ain't it natural," she asked
with blazing eyes, "to want to tear a few silks off of her
back to cover your own? You ain't never seen nice
things near you, Ann. You've allays worked in the
factory; so what do you know about such things? I tell
you, if you worked in one of those palaces on Fifth Avenue
all day and then come back to this at night, you'd
see the difference."
"Don't you s'pose I've seen swell things and
people?" remonstrated the older woman. "I ain't no
fool; but I've reasoned out that there's a few people
meant to be rich, and the rest of us ain't, that's all!"
"But it ain't a few people, Ann. It seems like most
everybody had plenty to eat and wear but us. Why ain't
we in it, too? Why don't I live in that fine house where
I work instead down in this hole? It seems like we'd
been cheated somewhere; but I s'pose there ain't no use
talkin' about it. Good-night."
Ann watched the girl as she climbed the rickety steps
of the "palace" which fate had assigned to her.
"They're all that way sometimes. I remember—well,
she'll get used to it like all the rest of us."
—Agnes Palmer.
[390]
Filipino Fear.
One cloudy afternoon when a heavy rain seemed
swaying back and forth in a thick mist which was then
lowering, and long red streaks of lightning followed by
loud rolling thunder seemed trying to break the mist to
let the rain fall, there were in a little nipa house in the
country below, among aged cocoanut palms, two lonely
persons suffering from superstition and fear of the extraordinary
phenomena that surrounded them.
The house was just big enough for the two. Its roof,
windows and sides were made of cogon. The floor and
door were made of narrow bamboo strips nailed side by
side. In one corner of the room on a bed, made also of
bamboo, sat a boy of eight. There was in the expression
and look of the boy a feeling of unknown fear mingled
with surprise, because his father, a lusty old superstitious
man, who was then holding a blunt stick, had driven their
domestic creatures from the house to the open field where
there was no means of securing shelter from the heavy
rain, whose first large drops were now clattering on the
leaves. The boy had a kind disposition, especially toward
his pets—a sense that he had inherited from his father.
This was the first time that he had seen his father act
thus unkindly toward their animals. His surprise was
much increased when he saw his father dash at the
windows and doors and fling everyone of them open, then
retreat to the middle and look sideways. He saw him
draw a long agitated breath. Then, seeming to have recovered
his wits, he hastened toward one of the windows
and took from the outside a portion of a dried cocoanut
leaf. He cut two long narrow strips from it and made
them into loops. After placing one around his neck, he[391]
uttered a short prayer. He then handed the other loop
to his still amazed child and said, "Wear this, dear child,
around thy neck."
"Why, father?" inquired the innocent boy, "can
this protect me?"
"Yes, child, prayer and that alone can save us."
"What has this in it, father? It seems to me to be
nothing but a piece of cocoanut leaf. Isn't it?" said the
boy.
"It is a strip from a cocoanut leaf, but—it has—"
"If so, then," interrupted the acute boy, "why can't
these palms around us that bear these leaves protect
themselves against the elements. I have often seen,
father, palms burned to their very stalks, which older
people told me had been struck by lightning. Where did
you get this strip, father?"
"Well, I got this from a bunch of leaves which is
tied just below our front window," pointing to the place,
"together with some live leaves. That bunch you yourself
carried to the church two years ago when your
mother was yet living. You have never peeped into
church since then. But once a year in town the mass of
the Sunday immediately before Fast Friday is dedicated
to palm and olive leaves. Hundreds of children like
you crowd the church on that day carrying with them
their bunch of leaves, and while the service is being celebrated
they will joyfully shake them. After holy water
has been sprinkled on the leaves, then they are holy, and
it is not pious to play with them. After the mass the
bunch of leaves is to be tied to the door or to the window
of the house as a protection from thunder and lightning.
On days of this kind every one wears a strip of these[392]
leaves around his neck. When you go out again, you
may look at the windows of the houses to see if what I
say is true."
Indeed; those bunches of palms and olive leaves are
marked characteristics of typical Filipino houses. The
leaves are usually tied or wound in artistic ways, with
beautiful hangings on them. All the decorations, however,
are composed of the same kind of leaves.
The boy was quite satisfied at his father's story.
After a little reflection he remembered that he had truly
carried such leaves to church. The rain was then falling
fast, and the lightning and thunder still followed one
another in rapid succession. The cold winds from outside
and the fearful sight of the brilliant flashes made
the boy shrink.
"I am cold, father, and I fear those long and fiery
zigzag paths which the whip of the driver of that rolling
thunder is making in heaven. I wonder why you don't
shut those windows," said the boy.
"Never, my son, for there is danger in shutting them.
Remember that the thunder will pass thru anything and
burn that which dares obstruct its way. Besides, my
grandfather told me that days of this kind are rare, for
they are days for scourging foul things on earth. If we
shut ourselves up here, Bathala, the ruler of the earth,
who watches and sees all things done, may suspect that
we are hiding something foul and so send his scourger
here to punish us."
The young listener who was attentive to the story of
his father started up at a sudden and astounding crash
of thunder. He curled himself up in the lap of his
father, folded his arms around his father's neck, and[393]
shut his eyes. After a while he continued, "And, therefore,
every foul deed on earth will be punished?"
"Yes, everything foul; so runs our proverb: 'Debt
must be paid.' If you commit a sin you must be punished
according to the nature of your sin."
The fearful peal of thunder that had so frightened the
boy was the last. It silenced the fury of the weather.
The rain was falling lightly now and sheets of fire were
distinguished only from afar, but no more thunder
sounded. The boy was dropping off into a light slumber
when he heard his kitty mew. He opened his eyes and
saw his pet very wet and cold. He pitied the little
creature, so he said almost with tears, "I wish, father,
you had not been so unkind to our animals, our sole
friends in this solitary place. See what you have done.
You have driven them out in the rain where they could
get no shelter; and now every one of them is wet and
shivering."
"Now, don't worry about them, my boy," said his
father rather moved by his filial appeal, "they are not
hurt at all. I drove them away, not because I was cross
or unkind, but because it is not safe to keep them inside
on such a stormy day as this. For thunder is likely to
strike them. Boys of your age are likely to be harmed
by such animals. For to some of them thunder imparts
its explosive power. And sometimes thunder takes the
form of animals. Here is a story that has been told to
me by many and which they believe true.
"'Once there was a boy riding on a carabao on a
stormy day. He was hurrying home lest the rain should
catch him, but when he was near home he caught sight
of a small pig wandering aimlessly down the road. It[394]
was very fat and very tame. The boy dismounted from
the carabao and tried to catch the pig, but when he was
yet quite a long way off from it the animal ran against
a tree and there was a loud sound of thunder. The tree
ignited. The boy fell down unconscious and was slightly
hurt. He recovered only at home. His story has been
told and retold ever since. It was said that if that boy
had caught the animal and it had received a jar while
in the boy's arms it would have burst like thunder and
so burned the boy. But if the boy had safely carried it
home and treated it with a vinegar bath the explosive
power would have been gone and the animal would have
been the best kind of food on earth.' Old men say that
such animals are fruits of thunder."
"Oh, then, it would not be so bad after all, father. I
might try to catch one some time," said the boy.
"That you must not," said the father sternly.
"But is that true, father, that the fungi which we
find abounding in bamboo groves are the flowers caused
by thunder?" said the boy inquisitively.
"Yes, my son, truly, and that's why they are very
delicious. You can't find them growing except after
stormy days and after thunder and lightning. After
days of lightning and thunder like the present, groups of
women and boys may be seen roaming about the country
in search of these delicious flowers for their food."
By this time the storm was over. The two prepared
their supper, since it was already evening. After eating
they went to bed feeling secure in the efficacy of the
palm leaves hung in the door.
—Walfrido de Leon.
[395]
CHAPTER VI
THE ARTISTIC GROUP: THE REAL SHORT-STORY
The short-story as a production of an artist conscious
of rules and striving for definite effects within
limitations is a thing of the nineteenth century. Only
gradually have writers come to the feeling for singleness
and unity. It would appear that before the days
of Poe and Maupassant brief narratives were brief because
of their source or their type, or because the
author did not happen to have a rich vein of digression
and incident. They were then rather what we think of
as tales than what we have come to regard as the real
short-story.
We have hitherto in our study been making little or
no distinction in our use of the terms narrative, story,
and tale, nor have we understood the adjective short
with any but its usual significance. We shall from
now on, however, understand the term short-story
technically, and employ the hyphen, as Matthews has
employed it, to suggest the significance.
A short-story is very perceptibly shorter than a
romance or a novel. It is indeed about like a chapter
of one of these. In no case must the reading require
more than one sitting, says Poe. On the other hand,
it may not be so short as an ordinary incident or anecdote,[396]
but far longer. It is more complex, more dignified,
and has distinguishing essential elements.
It is not possible, of course, to make a hard and fast
definition, but there are certain qualities we pretty
generally expect to find. A short-story may be of any
type from a myth to a realistic sketch; it may emphasize
environment, plot, or character; but it must have
unity, it must have directness, it must have climax,
however slight. The effect should be single, not
multiple. Hence anything like digression or episode is
entirely out of place. The end should not be delayed,
nor yet should it be precipitated. It should come just
at the right time, and be as proper as the catastrophe
of a tragedy. It should be but the beginning made
special and concrete, the middle continued in harmony,
the conclusion come upon both inevitably. "Make
another end to it?" says Stevenson[7] in answering an
objection to one of his stories. "Ah, yes, but that's
not the way I write; the whole tale is implied; I never
use an effect when I can help it unless it prepares the
effects that are to follow; that's what a story consists
in. To make another end; that is to make the beginning
all wrong. The dénouement of a long story is
nothing, it is just 'a full close,' which you may approach
and accompany as you please—it is a coda, not
an essential number in the rhythm; but the body and
end of a short-story is bone-of-the-bone and blood-of-the-blood
of the beginning."
Students of this type of narrative find Poe the first
man to reveal a consciousness of any strictly limiting
[397]tenets. Poe worked to definite rules which he himself
made. He saw intrinsic reasons why a short-story
should be short. His predecessors, Irving and others,
had not seen them. Even Hawthorne, who fulfilled
them many times, said nothing about them. But Poe
both formulated and preached them. He exemplified
them, too, and other men followed.
The list of good short-story writers is so great that
particular mention of any seems invidious. Some of
our less known men have done as good work as our
best. For names by countries, you may notice the
bibliography at the end of this book. Kipling's stories
for a large part emphasize place; Poe's, very often
plot; and Hawthorne's and Stevenson's, mostly psychological
phenomena—character and whimsical expressions
of it; Miss Wilkins's altogether reveal temperament
and characteristics; while Maupassant's generally
record events which include a stab of fate.
On the basis of artistic purpose, the short-story
divides itself into three types: the weird tale, stories
that emphasize environment and typical personality,
stories that emphasize events and character.
Every narrator whenever he sets his pen to paper
must deal with place, plot, and people; but the artistic
short-story writer, because of the limitation of his form,
is forced to a selection of emphasis. He can not at will,
as the biographer can, dilate upon the ancestry of his
hero if he means to present the personage in action;
if he wants to indulge in an environment analysis, the
short-story writer has not time to wind up and unwind
a mystery; if he has decided to give us the crisis event
of a character, he must perforce touch but lightly on[398]
place. We shall find, then, that while each good short-story
has the three elements present and skilfully
managed, it has also one or the other more strongly
emphasized—or at most two, in practical neglect of
the third.
I. The Psychological Weird Tale
Origin
Our idea of the required form of the weird tale has
come to be that of the modern artistic short-story; but
all the elements of the type save form were
present in England in the middle of the
eighteenth century in the terror school started by Walpole's
"Castle of Otranto." The author declared his
work to be an attempt to blend the ancient romance and
the modern novel. By modern novel he meant the stories
of Richardson, Fielding, Smollet, and their less worthy
contemporaries; by ancient romance he must have
meant the Oriental wonder tale; for he has sliding
panels, trap doors, subterranean passages, and a general
extravagance in an attempt at magnificence. Indeed,
in regard to the multiplicity of detail, this school
is often called the Gothic. The difference between the
narratives of the school of terror and the Oriental wonder
tale is the difference of atmosphere. While the
ancient tale is mysterious, it is seldom if ever morbid.
Especially is the cheerfulness true of the stories of
mediæval chivalry that later embodied the wonder tale.
Enchantment there is, but it is airy; if there be any
vaults, they are not damp. The school
of terror But the "Castle of Otranto"
by Walpole, the "Old English Baron" by
Clara Reeve, the "Romance of the Forest,"
the "Mysteries of Udolpho," and the "Italian" by Mrs.[399]
Radcliffe, and "The Monk" by Matthew Lewis,—the
six chief romances of the school of terror,—are all damp,
dark, ghostly, and morbid. Mrs. Radcliffe, however,
added an element of eighteenth-century rationalism in
her attempt at explanation; inasmuch as she always
refers her constant suggestions of the supernatural to
ordinary causes. Moreover, she interspersed her work
with excellent landscape description in harmony or
contrast with her theme. The contributions, then, of
the romances of the school of terror are (1) frightful
mechanism, (2) a general tone of Gothic fantasticalness,
(3) weird place-impressions that can be explained
by natural causes, and (4) terror of physical or supernatural
punishment and death.
Edgar
Allen Poe
To point out how much Edgar Allan Poe on the
mere material side is indebted to this set of writers,
possibly through Charles Brockden Brown
and the American school of terror, we need
only to name over to ourselves two of his famous weird
tales together with their grosser elements. "The Fall
of the House of Usher" has general arabesqueness plus
hollow groans, echoing footsteps, high pointed windows
excluding light, a person imprisoned in a metal vault
(the hero in the "Castle of Otranto" is imprisoned in a
gigantic metal helmet), terror of death, consonant landscape
description, natural causes for weird sounds. The
"Pit and the Pendulum" has a dungeon of the Inquisition,
horrible instrument of torture, brink over which
to fall, bodily and mental fear of death (Lewis's monk
is snatched by demons from the Inquisition and carried
to a cliff of the Sierra Morena off which he is commanded
to fling himself).
[400]
But Poe is as far away from the crude and bungling
methods of the earlier writers as he is near their materials.
How cracking doors and opening vaults, quaking
houses, and walking dead, outer terrific elements and
inner terrific sensation and morbid imaginative perception
reaching madness, can be fused into one harmonized,
unified, piercing, intense prose poem he has
shown us in this same "Fall of the House of Usher."
Nothing of the kind could be better. His own cruder
attempt is set forth in the fore-study, "Berenice,"
which might be considered good if the other story were
not immeasurably better. A side sketch of quite a
different tone, yet almost as weird, is his beautiful
color symphony of the "Masque of the Red Death."
All are exquisite artistic creations.
Stevenson
Poe's "William Wilson," an imaginative psychological
horror study of conscience, has been paralleled
if not surpassed by Stevenson's "Markheim."
"Markheim" is more concrete, especially at
the beginning; there is more of story and less of symbolism
about it; but the climax is the same, or rather
the reverse; for in Poe's story William Wilson's worse
self murders his better, while in Stevenson's story
Markheim's better self, the murderer, who really hates
his deed, triumphs over his worse self, the coward and
liar.
In Poe's story the weirdness results from the fact
that Wilson's conscience, which he kills, is a concrete
double with the same name and appearance. Stevenson
has united this device of a double with weird place-description
and weird deed-narrative. He has kept the
thing more psychological and less symbolic by making[401]
the second presence explainable as an hallucination,
more shadowy than Poe's.
Maupassant
and
others
"What is It? a Mystery" by Fitz James O'Brien
shows how very, very material the horror story may be;
and yet O'Brien's is not an uninteresting
narrative; for it is full of vigor and truth-likeness
in the beginning; the end only is
bad art; where the frightened people take a plaster
cast of the mysterious being they have captured and
can not see. "The Hand" by Maupassant is another
such touch horror tale, but of course better told. His
"Apparition" is almost pure narrative and builds to a
fine realistic climax, despite the ghostliness of the visitant.
Matthew's "Venetian Glass" is also weird plot
rather than weird place, while "The Wind in the Rose
Bush" is emphatically character study, and the "Phantom
Rickshaw" is a good old-fashioned, if Oriental,
ghost story.
Suggestions
on
writing a
weird tale
For your first attempt at this type of narrative, you
might try the modern ghost story, and later, when
more practised, the delicate psychological
analysis of states of conscience. The modern
ghost stories differ from folk-tales concerning
weird beings in this respect particularly:
the modern ghost is usually explainable, a fact you
would expect because of our inheritance from the
terror school. He is a logical ghost—a creature of
one's own making, an hallucination at best or a white
cow at worst. The author sets out to depict not so
much the ghost, as the ghost's effect upon the hero. In
a number of instances the modern narrative of this
kind rises to the plane of the true short-story, complying[402]
with all the canons of art. Read for example one
of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman's six "Stories of the
Supernatural," of which the "Wind in the Rose Bush"
is one.
Material
and method
The material is comparatively simple. Get eerie
circumstances, a credulous or boastfully incredulous
mind, a probable incident, an explainable apparition,
and any modern setting that will
hold the course of events together. See to it that the
construction is unified and coherent. Build to a climax,
and stop quickly afterwards. Make the apparition a
logical outgrowth of the environment and the state of
mind of the victim. The ghost of the folk-tale usually
appears to the half-witted, the foolish, the credulous;
but the ghost of the modern story, to prove his existence,
perhaps, is far bolder; he speaks out to the skeptic,
the person who calls a shadow a shadow. That the
unearthly spirit must catch the strong man at his weak
moment is obvious—otherwise there would be no story.
But when the events are given, stop. Do not explain
too much.
Form
It is well to notice the different methods of getting
the facts before the reader. Sometimes everything is
set forth by the author, and the characters
speak but little or not at all. Sometimes one
character speaks in a continued monologue. Sometimes
the events come out in conversation or dialogue, the dramatic
method, and the author appears but little. When
he appears not at all we have true drama instead of
narrative. The larger number of stories, doubtless,
are a mixture of author and character talk.
[403]
The Signal-Man
"Halloa! Below there!"
When he heard a voice thus calling to him he was
standing at the door of his box with a flag in his hand,
furled around its short pole. One would have thought,
considering the nature of the ground, that he could not
have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but,
instead of looking up to where I stood oh the top of the
steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself
about and looked down the line. There was something
remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not
have said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable
enough to attract my notice, even though his figure
was foreshortened and shadowed down in the deep
trench, and mine was high above him, so steeped in the
glow of an angry sunset that I had shadowed my eyes
with my hand before I saw him at all.
"Halloa! Below!"
From looking down the line he turned himself about
again and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above
him.
"Is there any path by which I can come down and
speak to you?"
He looked up at me without replying, and I looked
down at him without pressing him too soon with a
repetition of my idle question. Just then there came a
vague vibration in the earth and air, quickly changing
into a violent pulsation, and an oncoming rush that
caused me to start back as though it had force to draw
me down. When such vapor as rose to my height from
this rapid train had passed me and was skimming away
over the landscape, I looked down again and saw him[404]
refurling the flag he had shown while the train went by.
I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which
he seemed to regard me with fixed attention, he motioned
with his rolled-up flag towards a point on my level,
some two or three hundred yards distant. I called down
to him, "All right!" and made for that point. There,
by dint of looking closely about me, I found a rough
zigzag descending path notched out, which I followed.
The cutting was extremely deep and unusually precipitate.
It was made through a clammy stone that
became oozier and wetter as I went down. For these
reasons I found the way long enough to recall a singular
air of reluctance or compulsion with which he had
pointed out the path.
When I came down low enough upon the zigzag
descent to see him again, I saw that he was standing
between the rails on the way by which the train had
lately passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for
me to appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and
that left elbow rested on his right hand, crossed over
his breast. His attitude was one of such expectant
watchfulness that I stopped a moment, wondering at it.
I resumed my downward way and, stepping out upon
the level of the railroad and drawing nearer to him, saw
that he was a dark, sallow man with a dark beard and
rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and
dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side a dripping-wet
wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip
of sky; the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation
of this great dungeon; the shorter perspective in
the other direction terminating in a gloomy red light,
and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel, in whose[405]
massive architecture there was a barbarous, depressing
and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its
way to this spot that it had an earthy, deadly smell;
and so much cold wind rushed through it that it struck
chill to me, as if I had left the natural world.
Before he stirred I was near enough to him to have
touched him. Not even then removing his eyes from
mine, he stepped back one step and lifted his hand.
This was a lonesome post to occupy (I said), and it
had riveted my attention when I looked down from up
yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not
an unwelcome rarity, I hoped! In me he merely saw
a man who had been shut up within narrow limits all his
life, and who, being at last set free, had a newly
awakened interest in these great works. To such purpose
I spoke to him; but I am far from sure of the
terms I used, for besides that I am not happy in opening
any conversation, there was something in the man
that daunted me.
He directed a most curious look towards the red
light near the tunnel's mouth and looked all about it,
as if something were missing from it, and then looked
at me.
That light was part of his charge—was it not?
He answered in a low voice, "Don't you know it is?"
The monstrous thought came into my mind as I
perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face that this
was a spirit, not a man. I have speculated since whether
there may have been infection in his mind.
In my turn I stepped back. But in making the
action I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me.
This put the monstrous thought to flight.
[406]
"You look at me," I said, forcing a smile, "as if
you had a dread of me."
"I was doubtful," he returned, "whether I had seen
you before."
"Where?"
He pointed to the red light he had looked at.
"There?" I said.
Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without
sound), "Yes."
"My good fellow, what should I do there? However,
be that as it may, I never was there, you may
swear."
"I think I may," he rejoined. "Yes. I am sure I
may."
His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my
remarks with readiness and in well-chosen words. Had
he much to do there? Yes, that was to say, he had
enough responsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness
were what was required of him, and of actual
work—manual labor—he had next to none. To change
that signal, to trim those lights and to turn this iron
handle now and then was all he had to do under that
head. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of
which I seemed to make so much he could only say that
the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form
and he had grown used to it. He had taught himself
a language down here—if only to know it by sight and
to have formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation
could be called learning it. He had also worked at
fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra; but
he was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures.
Was it necessary for him when on duty always to remain[407]
in that channel of damp air, and could he never rise
into the sunshine from between those high stone walls?
Why, depended upon times and circumstances. Under
some conditions there would be less upon the line than
under others, and the same held good as to certain hours
of the day and night. In bright weather he did choose
occasions for getting a little above these lower shadows;
but, being at all times liable to be called by his electric
bell and at such times listening for it with redoubled
anxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose.
He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a
desk for an official book in which he had to make certain
entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face and
needle, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On
my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he
had been well educated and (I hoped I might say without
offence) perhaps educated above that station, he
observed that instances of slight incongruity in such
wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies
of men; that he had heard it was so in work-houses, in
the police force, even in that last desperate resource,
the army; and that he knew it was so, more or less, in
any great railway staff. He had been, when young (if
I could believe it, sitting in that hut—he scarcely could),
a student of natural philosophy, and had attended
lectures; but he had run wild, misused his opportunities,
gone down, and never risen again. He had no complaint
to offer about that. He had made his bed and he
lay upon it. It was far too late to make another.
All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet
manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me
and the fire. He threw in the word "Sir" from time to[408]
time, and especially when he referred, to his youth—as
though to request me to understand that he claimed to
be nothing but what I found him. He was several times
interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages,
and send replies. Once he had to stand without
the door and display a flag as a train passed and make
some verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge
of his duties I observed him to be remarkably
exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable
and remaining silent until what he had to do was
done.
In a word, I should have set this man down as one
of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but
for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me
he twice broke off with a fallen color, turned his face
towards the little bell when it did not ring, opened the
door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy
damp), and looked out towards the red light
near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions
he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air
upon him which I had remarked, without being able to
define when we were so far asunder.
Said I, when I rose to leave him, "You almost make
me think that I have met with a contented man."
(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to
lead him on.)
"I believe I used to be so," he rejoined in the low
voice in which he had first spoken; "but I am troubled,
sir, I am troubled."
He would have recalled the words if he could. He
had said them, however, and I took them up quickly.
"With what? What is your trouble?"
[409]
"It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very
difficult to speak of. If ever you make me another visit
I will try to tell you."
"But I expressly intend to make you another visit.
Say, when shall it be?"
"I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on
again at ten to-morrow night, sir."
"I will come at eleven."
He thanked me and went to the door with me. "I'll
show my white light, sir," he said in his peculiar low
voice, "till you have found the way up. When you have
found it, don't call out! And when you are at the top,
don't call out!"
His manner seemed to make the place strike colder
to me, but I said no more than "Very well."
"And when you come down to-morrow night, don't
call out! Let me ask you a parting question. What
made you cry 'Halloa! Below there!' to-night?"
"Heaven knows," said I. "I cried something to
that effect—"
"Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words.
I know them well."
"Admit those were the very words. I said them,
no doubt because I saw you below."
"For no other reason?"
"What other reason could I possibly have?"
"You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you
in any supernatural way?"
"No."
He wished me good-night and held up his light. I
walked by the side of the down line of rails (with a
very disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind[410]
me) until I found the path. It was easier to mount
than to descend, and I got back to my inn without any
adventure.
Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on
the first notch of the zigzag next night as the distant
clocks were striking eleven. He was waiting for me at
the bottom with his white light on. "I have not called
out," I said when we came close together; "may I speak
now?" "By all means, sir." "Good-night, then, and
here's my hand." "Good-night, sir, and here's mine."
With that we walked side by side to his box, entered it,
closed the door and sat down by the fire.
"I have made up my mind, sir," he began, bending
forward as soon as we were seated, and speaking in a
tone but a little above a whisper, "that you shall not
have to ask me twice what troubles me. I took you for
some one else yesterday evening. That troubles me."
"That mistake?"
"No. That some one else."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know."
"Like me?"
"I don't know. I never saw the face. The left arm
is across the face and the right arm is waved—violently
waved. This way."
I followed his action with my eyes and it was the
action of an arm gesticulating with the utmost passion
and vehemence, "For God's sake clear the way!"
"One moonlight night," said the man, "I was sitting
here when I heard a voice cry 'Halloa! Below there!'
I started up, looked from that door, and saw this some
one else standing by the red light near the tunnel[411]
waving as I just now showed you. The voice seemed
hoarse with shouting and it cried, 'Look out! Look
out!' And then again, 'Halloa! Below there! Look
out!' I caught up my lamp, turned it on red, and ran
towards the figure, calling, 'What's wrong? What has
happened? Where?' It stood just outside the blackness
of the tunnel. I advanced so close upon it that I
wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes. I
ran right up at it, and had my hand stretched out to
pull the sleeve away, when it was gone."
"Into the tunnel," said I.
"No. I ran on into the tunnel five hundred yards.
I stopped and held up my lamp above my head and
saw the figures of the measured distance and saw the
wet stains stealing down the walls and trickling through
the arch. I ran out again faster than I had run in (for
I had a mortal abhorrence of the place upon me), and
I looked all round the red light, with my own red light,
and I went up the iron ladder to the gallery atop of it,
and I came down again and ran back here. I telegraphed
both ways, 'An alarm has been given. Is anything
wrong?' The answer came back, both ways, 'All
well.'"
Resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing
out my spine, I showed him how that this figure must
be a deception of his sense of sight, and how that figures,
originating in disease of the delicate nerves that minister
to the functions of the eye, were known to have often
troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious
of the nature of their affliction and had even proved
it by experiments upon themselves. "As to an imaginary
cry," said I, "do but listen for a moment to the[412]
wind in this unnatural valley, while we speak so slow
and to the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires!"
That was all very well, he returned, after we had
sat listening for a while, and he ought to know something
of the wind and wires—he who so often passed
long winter nights there, alone and watching. But he
would beg to remark that he had not finished.
I asked his pardon and he slowly added these words,
touching my arm:
"Within six hours after the appearance the memorable
accident on this line happened, and within ten
hours the dead and the wounded were brought along
through the tunnel over the spot where the figure had
stood."
A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my
best against it. It was not to be denied, I rejoined, that
this was a remarkable coincidence, calculated deeply to
impress his mind. But it was unquestionable that remarkable
coincidences did continually occur and they
must be taken into account in dealing with such a subject.
Though to be sure I must admit, I added (for I
thought I saw that he was going to bring the objection
to bear upon me), men of common sense did not allow
much for coincidence making the ordinary calculations
of life.
He again begged to remark that he had not finished.
I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into
interruptions.
"This," he said, again laying his hand upon my arm
and glancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes, "was
just a year ago. Six or seven months passed and I had
recovered from the surprise and shock, when one morning,[413]
as the day was breaking, I, standing at the door,
looked towards the red light and saw the spectre again."
He stopped with a fixed look at me.
"Did it cry out?"
"No. It was silent."
"Did it wave its arm?"
"No. It leaned against the shaft of the light with
both hands before the face. Like this."
Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It
was an action of mourning. I have seen such an attitude
in stone figures on tombs.
"Did you go up to it?"
"I came in and sat down, partly to collect my
thoughts, partly because it had turned me faint. When
I went to the door again, daylight was above me and the
ghost was gone."
"But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?"
He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice
or thrice, giving a ghastly nod each time.
"That very day, as the train came out of the tunnel,
I noticed at a carriage window on my side what looked
like a confusion of hands and heads and something
waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver, stop!
He shut off and put his brake on, but the train drifted
past here a hundred and fifty yards or more. I ran
after it and as I went along heard terrible screams and
cries. A beautiful young lady had died instantaneously
in one of the compartments and was brought in here and
laid down on this floor between us."
Involuntarily I pushed my chair back suddenly,
as I looked from the boards, at which he pointed, to
himself.
[414]
"True, sir. True. Precisely as it happened, so I
tell it you."
I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and
my mouth was very dry. The wind and the wires took
up the story with a long lamenting wail.
He resumed. "Now, sir, mark this and judge how
my mind is troubled. The spectre came back a week
ago. Ever since it has been there, now and again, by
fits and starts."
"At the light?"
"At the danger-light."
"What does it seem to do?"
He repeated, if possible, with increased passion and
vehemence, that former gesticulation of, "For God's
sake, clear the way!"
Then he went on. "I have no peace or rest for it.
It calls to me, for many minutes together, in an agonized
manner, 'Below there! Look out! Look out!' It stands
waving to me. It rings my little bell—"
I caught at that. "Did it ring your bell yesterday
evening when I was here and you went to the door?"
"Twice."
"Why, see," said I, "how your imagination misleads
you. My eyes were on the bell and my ears were open
to the bell, and if I am a living man it did not ring at
those times. No, nor at any other time, except when it
was rung in the natural course of physical things by
the station communication with you."
He shook his head. "I have never made a mistake
as to that yet, sir. I have never confused the spectre's
ring with the man's. The ghost's ring is a strange vibration
in the bell that it derives from nothing else, and I[415]
have not asserted that the bell stirs to the eye. I don't
wonder that you failed to hear it. But I heard it."
"And did the spectre seem to be there when you
looked out?"
"It was there."
"Both times?"
He repeated firmly: "Both times."
"Will you come to the door with me and look for
it now?"
He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat
unwilling, but arose. I opened the door and stood on
the step while he stood in the doorway. There was the
danger-light. There was the dismal mouth of the
tunnel. There were the high, wet stone wells of the
cutting. There were the stars above them.
"Do you see it?" I asked him, taking particular note
of his face. His eyes were prominent and strained, but
not very much more so, perhaps, than my own had been
when I had directed them earnestly towards the same
spot.
"No," he answered. "It is not there."
"Agreed," said I.
We went in again, shut the door, and resumed our
seats. I was thinking how best to improve this advantage,
if it might be called one, when he took up the
conversation in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming
that there could be no serious question of fact
between us, that I felt myself placed in the weakest of
positions.
"By this time you will fully understand, sir," he
said, "that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question,
What does the spectre mean?"
[416]
I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.
"What is its warning against?" he said, ruminating,
with his eyes on the fire and only by times turning them
on me. "What is the danger? Where is the danger?
There is danger overhanging somewhere on the line.
Some dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be
doubted this third time after what has gone before. But
surely this is a cruel haunting of me. What can I do?"
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the drops
from his heated forehead.
"If I telegraph danger on either side of me, or on
both, I can give no reason for it," he went on, wiping
the palms of his hands. "I should get into trouble and
do no good. They would think I was mad. This is the
way it would work—Message: 'Danger! Take care!'
Answered: 'What danger? Where?' Message: 'Don't
know. But for God's sake, take care!' They would
discharge me. What else could they do?"
His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was
the mental torture of a conscientious man oppressed beyond
endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life.
"When it first stood under the danger-light," he
went on, putting his dark hair back from his head and
drawing his hands outward across and across his temples
in an extremity of feverish distress, "why not tell me
where that accident was to happen, if it must happen?
Why not tell me how it could be averted, if it could have
been averted? When on its second coming it hid its
face, why not tell me, instead, 'She is going to die. Let
them keep her at home?' If it came, on those two[417]
occasions, only to show me that its warnings were true
and so to prepare me for the third, why not warn me
plainly now? And I, Lord help me! A mere poor
signal man in this solitary station! Why not go to
somebody with credit to be believed and power to act?"
When I saw him in this state I saw that for the
poor man's sake, as well as for the public safety, what
I had to do for the time was to compose his mind.
Therefore, setting aside all question of reality or unreality
between us, I represented to him that whoever
thoroughly discharged his duty must do well, and that
at least it was his comfort that he understood his duty,
though he did not understand these confounding appearances.
In this effort I succeeded far better than in
the attempt to reason him out of his conviction. He
became calm; the occupations incidental to his post as
the night advanced began to make larger demands on
his attention; and I left him at two in the morning. I
had offered to stay through the night, but he would not
hear of it.
That I more than once looked back at the red light
as I ascended the pathway, that I did not like the red
light, and that I should have slept but poorly if my bed
had been under it, I see no reason to conceal. Nor did
I like the two sequences of the accident and the dead
girl. I see no reason to conceal that, either.
But what ran most in my thoughts was the consideration,
how ought I to act, having become the recipient
of this disclosure? I had proved the man to be
intelligent, vigilant, painstaking and exact; but how
long might he remain so, in his state of mind? Though
in a subordinate position, still he held a most important[418]
trust, and would I (for instance) like to stake my own
life on the chances of his continuing to execute it with
precision?
Unable to overcome a feeling that there would be
something treacherous in my communicating what he
had told me to his superiors in the company, without
first being plain with himself and proposing a middle
course to him, I ultimately resolved to offer to accompany
him (otherwise keeping his secret for the present) to
the wisest medical practitioner we could hear of in those
parts, and to take his opinion. A change in his time of
duty would come round next night, he had apprised me,
and he would be off an hour or two after sunrise, and on
again soon after sunset. I had appointed to return
accordingly.
Next evening was a lovely evening, and I walked out
early to enjoy it. The sun was not yet quite down when
I traversed the field-path near the top of the deep cutting.
I would extend my walk for an hour, I said to
myself, half an hour on and half an hour back, and it
would then be time to go to my signal-man's box.
Before pursuing my stroll I stepped to the brink and
mechanically looked down from the point from which I
had first seen him. I cannot describe the thrill that
seized upon me, when, close at the mouth of the tunnel
I saw the appearance of a man with his left sleeve across
his eyes, passionately waving his right arm.
The nameless horror that oppressed me passed in a
moment, for in a moment I saw that this appearance of
a man was a man indeed, and that there was a little
group of other men standing at a short distance to whom
he seemed to be rehearsing the gesture he made. The[419]
danger-light was not yet lighted. Against its shaft a
little low hut, entirely new to me, had been made of
some wooden supports and tarpaulin. It looked no
bigger than a bed.
With an irresistible sense that something was wrong—with
a flashing self-reproachful fear that fatal mischief
had come of my leaving the man here and causing
no one to be sent to overlook or correct what he did—I
descended the notched path with all the speed I could
make.
"What is the matter?" I asked the men.
"Signal-man killed this morning, sir."
"Not the man belonging to that box?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not the man I know?"
"You will recognize him, sir, if you knew him," said
the man who spoke for the others, solemnly uncovering
his own head and raising an end of the tarpaulin, "for
his face is quite composed."
"O, how did this happen, how did this happen?" I
asked, turning from one to another as the hut closed in
again.
"He was cut down by an engine, sir. No man in
England knew his work better, but somehow he was not
clear of the outer rail. It was just at broad day. He
had struck the light and had the lamp in his hand. As
the engine came out of the tunnel his back was towards
her and she cut him down. That man drove her and was
showing how it happened. Show the gentleman, Tom."
The man, who wore a rough dark dress, stepped back
to his former place at the mouth of the tunnel:
"Coming round the curve in the tunnel, sir," he[420]
said, "I saw him at the end, like as if I saw him down a
perspective glass. There was no time to check speed,
and I knew him to be very careful. As he didn't seem
to take heed of the whistle, I shut it off when we were
running down upon him and called to him as loud as I
could call."
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'Below there! Look out! Look out! For
God's sake, clear the way!"
I started.
"Ah! it was a dreadful time, sir. I never left off
calling to him. I put this arm before my eyes not to
see, and I waved this arm to the last; but it was no use."
Without prolonging the narrative to dwell on any
one of its curious circumstances more than any other, I
may, in closing it, point out the coincidence that the
warning of the engine driver included not only the
words which the unfortunate signal-man had repeated
to me as haunting him, but also the words which I myself—not
he—had attached, and that only in my own
mind, to the gesticulation he had imitated.
—Charles Dickens.
"Like a Thief in the Night"
"How many more days of this miserable tramping
have we before us, Ivan?" It was a rough voice that
spoke—a voice hardened with bitterness and hatred.
"But four days more, Peter, and then the railroad.
There lies Mansk below us, and it is not far from Mansk
to Vilna, not even by such a detour as we must make."
Peter paused again in his eating and looking out
from their woodland hiding-place toward the scraggly[421]
village, asked doubtingly, "You are sure they will not
fail us? For I swear, Ivan, I'll walk no further than
Vilna."
Ivan twisted his scarred lips into a semblance of a
smile. "The brotherhood never fail," he said. "And
now that we have finished our supper, we may rest for
the night, eh, Lev?" The speaker, who showed evidences
of association with the upper classes, turned to
the young Jewish lad sprawled beside him on the mouldy
ground. The boy was laboriously spelling out words in
a greasy, dog-eared tract which he tried to conceal when
he saw Ivan's eyes upon him.
"Hello," exclaimed the nihilist fanatic, "what have
we here?" He took the grimy pamphlet from the likewise
grimy hands of the youth. "Ho-ho," he laughed
boisterously, for once forgetting that sometimes even
trees have ears. "Ho-ho! a merry jest, indeed! Lev
reading up on transmigration! Did you think to become
learned, you pitiable young dog? Have you not
had meted out to you the full amount of education
allowed you miserable Jews? What can you understand
of such things as these? Ho-ho! yes, a joke
indeed!"
The boy gulped. His narrow nostrils widened, and
the corners of his sensitive mouth twitched. "I know
I don't know much, Ivan. I found it on the way and
kept it, for it helps sometimes, wh-when I wish I hadn't
come."
"Ho-ho," laughed Ivan again. "When he wishes he
hadn't come! As if he could have helped coming!
Where, indeed, could the brotherhood have found a
more innocent-looking hiding-place for their papers?[422]
But there, Lev, you shall have your thesis, since you feel
the need of amusement, you precious infant. And,
Peter, perhaps you will rest more peacefully when I tell
you that Loris Pleschivna, that government spy-cat—"
here Ivan paused to observe the interest which he knew
that this name would create, while Lev, frightened,
glanced backward—"was shot two weeks ago," finished
the narrator, impressively.
Peter's yellow face showed great relief, but the boy
whitened. "Well, Lev, are you not glad! Or perhaps,
mighty philosopher, you think that his soul will come
and steal the papers while you keep watch to-night, eh?"
And Ivan grinned—a hideous, tooth-displaying grin.
But Lev only shivered and looked around at the darkness.
The night, one of those dear nights whose very paleness
intensifies the shadows and pictures the ghosts of
the past to the guilty mind, had fallen. The two older
men rolled themselves in blankets and went to sleep
without delay.
The young Jew sat alone, waiting for morning. For
hours he remained in the same position, his hands over
his eyes that he might not see; but his ears were alert
to the slightest suggestion of sound. In those weary
minutes he lived over the scanty pleasures and the great
tribulations of his life, the joyless life of the persecuted
Polish Jew. The crackling of a dry leaf nearby aroused
him. He looked up quickly, apprehensively. A long
wailing howl came from somewhere in the darkness.
Lev stiffened, staring into the shadows before him.
From a clump of bushes directly opposite peered two
weird green eyes. The lad's lower lip sagged loosely.[423]
As the strange eyes approached he unconsciously
moaned. Ivan and Peter stirred. Suddenly Ivan
jumped up. "Lev, Lev, what is it?" But the boy sat
rigid. Ivan also looked at the green eyes in the underbrush.
Then he laughed, laughed long and heartily.
"Did you think it was a soul, Lev? A dog, and you
afraid! Perhaps it is a soulful dog." Ivan had
sufficient culture not to laugh at his own joke, but he
waited for Peter's appreciation and Peter gave it. Lev's
only reply was to draw his hand across his brow. The
palm came down damp and clammy. "But it is just
as well," went on Ivan, "that we are awake, for it will
soon be daylight, and we had best be moving."
In five minutes the trio were on their watchful way
to skirt the little village of Mansk. The trio, did I say?
No, the quartet, I meant, for two men, one with
misshapen lips, the other with decided Jewish features,
went ahead; and close behind them walked a leathery
visaged man, who had for a companion a scraggly half-starved
cur, with ghastly green eyes. Occasionally the
Jew turned, and, looking into those green eyes, shivered.
"Well," said Ivan, "perhaps it is the soul of Pleschivna,
eh?" In answer the dog whimpered. "It may be," said
the Jew, stupidly, "it may be," and he shivered again.
The cold was of the damp clinging sort, against
which no amount of clothing can protect one. The
three men on the tree-covered hill overlooking the
thatched brown cottages of Mansk, drew up their coat
collars and shivered. They had turned back and were
seeking for something. The scrawny green-eyed dog
with them whined a low whine like a human moan.
"Curse the dog!" exclaimed one vagabond in a rasping[424]
voice. "I'll have him following us no longer with
his ghostly howls. And I tell you, Ivan, it is useless
to go back further, for Lev had the papers when we
were here before."
"Yes, curse the dog," returned the man with the
ever-grinning mouth. "Curse him, of course; and since
you feel such deep affection for him, why not present
him with one of those tablets meant for Pleschivna's
palate? Perhaps they would even so fulfill their intended
purpose. What say you, Lev?"
The dull-eyed Jewish lad stared at the dog as if
fascinated. "It may be," he said and shivered again.
It was, indeed, a very cold night.
"Well, and the papers?" Peter impatiently queried.
"I say, then, it is useless to go forward to Vilna
without them. We must search about here. Perhaps
Lev has an opinion." But Lev was thinking only of a
much-thumbed philosophical tract in his pocket. "Or,
perhaps, learned theosophist, you believe that the dog
has taken them. You could not tell us somewhat of them
yourself, could you, Lev?"
"Lev! Why, he's afraid of his own shadow! He
would not dare to tell a lie, not even to himself," Peter
scoffed.
Again the dog whimpered. He went up to Lev and
licked the boy's hand. Ivan watched the performance
interestedly. "None the less," he said, "the dog shall
have his dose; and that right now. He follows us about
like an evil spirit." The men disposed themselves as
on the evening before.
How Lev had prayed for the night! And now that
his prayer was answered, how he stared into the thick,[425]
solid blackness and longed for the grey light of morning!
With straining ears he listened to the midnight
stillness. He had not even thought of sleep. If only he
could rid himself of that dullness or could concentrate
his thoughts!
A figure broke through the bushes. "Ivan, Ivan!"
came Peter's voice. "Ivan, wake up!" Ivan roused
himself. "Well, Peter, why do you create such a disturbance?"
Ivan's speech was pettish, though still
husky from interrupted sleep. "Ivan, I got up and gave
the dog the dose, as you said. He slunk off into the
woods. I followed. I don't know why. It was almost
midnight when he gave a sharp cry and dropped. I
swear I had never lost sight of him for an instant. I
went up to look. He was dead. And, Ivan, from his
very mouth I took—the papers!" Peter waxed
triumphantly dramatic, his every low-spoken word
sounding in Lev's ears with the loudness of a tribal
war-whoop. After much fumbling in the darkness he
placed in Ivan's hands a slightly torn packet.
"A light!" Ivan spoke tersely.
Peter struck a light. Trembling, Ivan spread out
the documents. A gruesome, unearthly howl, like the
triumphant screech of a resentful soul came to them
through the blackness. With an awful oath Ivan turned
to Peter. "The signatures, you ignoramus, you imbecile!"
he cried, pointing to the ragged holes in the
papers. "They are gone!"
And Lev shivered, for the night was very cold.
—Dorothea Knobloch.
[426]
II. The Story That Emphasizes Character and Environment.
Rudyard
Kipling
The large number of Kipling's stories could not
have been written outside India, or at least the Orient.
They are of the East eastern. "Without
Benefit of Clergy," "Muhammad Din,"
"The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows," "The Man Who
Would Be King"—the very names conjure up the environment.
They do more than that; they almost tell
the story. Before he began to write, Kipling knew
thoroughly his adopted literary land; in the same way
all successful writers must know theirs if they mean to
reveal the influence of surroundings on character, if
they mean to give, as many writers do, a miniature of
the locality in each sketch. To read one of Mary E.
Wilkins's stories is to catch the flavor of all New England.
Her nun is indeed a New England nun. Nowhere
else do people keep house quite so; but in scores of
Massachusetts and Connecticut homes the women, married
and single, are 'that partic'lar'—or nearly as particular
as Louisa Ellis. But wait a minute!Mary E.
Wilkins
Freeman If there are
tens of women like Louisa Ellis, wherein comes the
story? Why, do you not see?—just in the
plus, the superfluity of New Englandishness
that there is in Louisa. It is the breadth of
that more-so that gave Miss Wilkins her twenty-four
stories in the same book, and others outside it. And
here is the point: in this kind of story, your writer must
know his locality so well that the sameness of the people
has a difference in each family and in each member
of that family. In other words, his characters must be[427]
persons, not figureheads; they may be types, it is true,
but they must have the soul of individuality breathed
into them. For instance, in this one collection of stories
Miss Wilkins has two Louisas, and they both are typically
of New England, they both have suitors, and
they both are averse to marriage; moreover, each slight
course of events is built on the impulse of the woman
to avoid matrimony. But here the likeness ends; for
the women are individuals, and the lovers are different
from each other. The character-drawing of these two
stories is a daring attempt on the part of the author,
but it is a remarkably successful one.
Hamlin
Garland
Hamlin Garland has been almost as successful with
his middle Northwest as Miss Wilkins has with her
New England. His stories can not be called
quaint, as hers can, nor sweet exactly; but
they can be said to be as graphic, faithful, straightforward,
homely, and to have been compiled with as patient
and sympathetic an observation—not so minute,
but as unerring. They are freer, bolder, more like the
country he portrays. With Mr. Garland perhaps we
have more of the out-of-doors, literal country, the black
soil into which the people's lives are ploughed and from
which they come out again sometimes at the top of the
corn tassel. With Miss Wilkins the country is more
that country not built with hands, eternal in characteristics.
Of both writers the work is great work, and
you can not go astray in taking either for your model.
"Up the Coolly" is a remarkable tragedy—for tragedy
it is. "The Return of the Private" is all too pathetically
true. "Among the Corn Rows" is startlingly realistic,
and "A Branch Road"—well, doubtless people[428]
have varying opinions about the usefulness of such
pictures, but nobody can gainsay the excellence of the
craftsmanship.
Bret Harte
In a somewhat different way, with just as much
realism maybe, but surely with a large dash of romance,
Bret Harte pre-empted California as a literary
land two decades before these younger
writers staked out their claims. "Tennessee's Partner"
and "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" are perfect in their
way, and their way is this way: the place-character
narrative.
Suggestions
and
precautions
To write such a narrative, you must have vividly
and accurately in mind your selected environment. It
is to form the color of your picture. If you
do not think you know thus intimately any
locality, open your eyes. The beautiful fact
about living is, that we all always live somewhere,
and that same somewhere is full of a number of
things, and of nothing more surely than of local color.
It is your business as a writer to add this color constantly
to your stories; but the best way to proceed is
not to attempt to spread it on from the outside, but
to let it shine through from within. To be sure, it
must be on the valleys and hills, the streets and the
houses and the window curtains; but it must also be in
the speech of your peoples, in their notions, their attitude
toward each other and toward the great and
little questions of human relationship. Besides knowing
the environment, you must know indisputably some
individuals of the place. You can not draw a life-like
sketch from an abstraction. The canvas painters have
taught us that truth, and so have the sculptors. For[429]
every figure they have a living model. They must
know where the bones and sinews are, even if they
mean to etherealize. So must you, and you have a
harder problem; your figure must speak. One false
tone, and you mar the impression. Mary E. Wilkins,
excellent artist that she is, has impaired one of her
strongest stories, "The Revolt of Mother," by a lapse
of art in respect to two of her characters. The girl
and boy are not old enough for the age the author intimates;
or what she says that they are is too old for
what they prove that they are when they speak and
when they keep silent even,—especially the girl. Moreover,
we feel that the mother is ten or fifteen years
younger, than the age given her. These are minor
points, one admits, and, as we say, the story is excellent;
but in so far as it fails in little ways it is not
superfine, though one of the most lovable and dramatic,
of Miss Wilkins's productions. In art you must not
make this mistake; it is no answer to assert that in life
the woman was sixty and the boy and girl fourteen and
twenty. On the basis of the character-drawing the
woman is forty-five or fifty and the children are twins,
less than sixteen years old. In other words, a realist
that is an artist as well selects not only what is true
but also what will immediately without argument seem
true. Miss Wilkins usually is convincing.
In addition to an unmistakably clear knowledge of
place and personality, you must know both local dialect
and family vernacular. The various individuals of your
sketch, if they happen to belong to the same household,
must speak as if they so belonged. In actual life when
you converse with a company of persons, you can pick[430]
out two members of the same family as readily as you
can pick out two members of the same community.
Your character-narrative must reveal this likeness, not
by declaration especially, but by a subtle unity of vocabulary
that does not at the same time preclude
individuality.
The
character
Overbury
and Hall
The writers of this kind of short-story owe much to
the past. We are inclined to think of quiet and truthful
character sketchers, who reveal an appreciative
knowledge of the influence of environment,
as distinctly a late nineteenth
century brotherhood; but the fact is that
while moderate realism is undoubtedly the last artistic
word on the subject of effective character-revelation,
it is also the first. The modern novel of manners (and
the artistic short-story of the same class as an offshoot
of it) drew from a full stream of realism. As far back
as the age of Overbury and Bishop Hall the public was
interested in prose character-sketches. The fact that
essays could have such names as "The Tinker" and
"The Milkmaid" was a promise of the light of common
day. Then the gentle de Coverley papers came on with
their slight narrative and continued portrait, their delightful
skits on class environment and tradition;The novel
of manners then,
Tristram Shandy's frank shamelessness about familiar
things; then the Vicar of Wakefield's struggling poverty;
and finally the women entered—Evelina,
Belinda, Emma, Mary Barton, and the
gentle ladies of Cranford, bringing with
them the tea-table and the trials of the parlor and of
factory life. The only thing that was needed to make
the archetype complete by the middle of the nineteenth[431]
century was for some one to take persistently the same
large yet specific environment. Trollope's
Cathedral
Town
Studies Anthony Trollope did
so in his Cathedral Town Studies. What ran
parallel for a time with the novel of manners,
but had a later and fuller development,
is the psychological problem novel,
begun by Richardson and Fielding and handed over
to the late nineteenth century writers by Charlotte
Brontë. This psychological problem novel bears the
same relation to the novel of manners as the character-events
short-story bears to the character-environment
one.
You doubtless realize, as every one realizes, that a
good short-story is hard to write, but in the hardness
comes the inspiration. If you succeed, you have scored
a triumph. But for your comfort, be assured that the
possibility is not beyond even a high-school student.
The attempt in very instructive at least.
Remember that you are not writing a biography,
but a place-character narrative in the short-story form.
You are not called on to record every incident in the
life of your subject or even every important incident.
The happenings may all be minor, in fact. The only
essential thing is that you reveal the indissoluble connection
between environment and characteristics. The
person is what he is because he has lived at that place
with those habitual surroundings.
There is this precaution, however, that you must
take; you must not let your narrative degenerate into
a mere analysis and enumeration of qualities. You are
to write a story. And to write a story you must have
a happening or a series of happenings, however mild.[432]
Usually one of these should be of more importance than
the others, and the others should be related to it as
subordinates, in order that the effect may be single.
Any part of the life of your people that lies behind the
day of your revelation, if mentioned at all, should be
told in retrospect; whatever lies ahead, if mentioned
at all, can be only prophecy. And, finally, here is a
little secret, an open one among artists, but one shut
away from the herd of common scribblers; what you
do not tell but only skilfully suggest is what makes
for excellence and immortality.
The Story of Muhammad Din
"Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at
home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and
crying."—Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo ball was an old one, scarred, chipped and
dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems
which Iman Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me.
"Does the heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam
Din, deferentially.
The heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of
what use was a polo ball to a khitmatgar?
"By your honour's favour, I have a little son. He
has seen this ball and desires it to play with. I do not
want it for myself."
No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam
Din of wanting to play with polo balls. He carried out
the battered thing into the veranda, and there followed
a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet,
and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the
ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside[433]
the door to secure his treasure. But how had he
managed to see that polo ball?
Next day, coming back from office half an hour
earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the
dining-room—a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate
shirt, which came, perhaps, half way down the
tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb
in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the
pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son."
He had-no business in my room, of course; but was
so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never
noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room
and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the
ground with a gasp. His eyes opened and his mouth
followed suit. I knew what was coming and fled, followed
by a long, dry howl which reached the servants'
quarters far more quickly than any command of mine
had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the
dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned
to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner,
who was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief.
"This boy," said Imam Din, judiciously, "is a
budmash—a big budmash. He will, without doubt, go
to the jail-khana for his behaviour." Renewed yells
from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself
from Imam Din.
"Tell the baby," I said, "that the Sahib is not angry
and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness
to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt
round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a
sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said
Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime,[434]
"is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from
present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his
father's arms and said gravely, "It is true that my name
is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I
am a man!"
From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad
Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room;
but on the neutral ground of the garden we
greeted each other with much state, though our conversation
was confined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side,
and "Salaam, Muhammad Din" from mine. Daily on
my return from office the little white shirt and the fat
little body used to rise, from the shade of the creeper-covered
trellis where they had been hid, and daily I
checked my horse there that my salutation might not be
slurred over or given unseemly.
Muhammad Din never had any companions. He
used to trot about the compound, in and out of the
castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own.
One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far
down the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in
dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold flowers in a
circle round it. Outside that circle again was a rude
square, traced out in its bits of red brick alternating
with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by
a little bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb
put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was
only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure my
garden.
Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the
child's work then or later; but that evening a stroll
through the garden brought me unawares full on it, so[435]
that I trampled, before I knew, marigold heads, dust
bank and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion
past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon
Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin
I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that
the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the
garden, and he had scattered his rubbish, using bad
language the while. Muhammad Din laboured for an
hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery
fragments, and it was with a tearful and apologetic
fact that he said, "Talaam, Tahib," when I came home
from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing
Muhammad Din that, by my singular favour,
he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased.
Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the
ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball
creation.
For some months the chubby little eccentricity revolved
in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes
and in the dust; always fashioning magnificent palaces
from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth
water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers
pulled, I fancy, from my fowls—always alone, and always
crooning to himself
A gaily spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close
to the last of his little buildings, and I looked that
Muhammad Din should build something more than
ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I
disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an
hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he
began tracing in the dust. It would certainly be a
wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and[436]
a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never
completed.
Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head
of the carriage-drive, and no "Talaam, Tahib" to welcome
my return. I had grown accustomed to the greeting,
and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din
told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever
and needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an English
doctor.
"They have no stamina, these brats," said the
doctor, as he left Imam Din's quarters.
A week later, though I would have given much to
have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mussulman
burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one other
friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth,
all that was left of little Muhammad Din.
—Rudyard Kipling.
"Plain Tales from the Hills." (Doubleday, Page & Co., 1907.)
The Fetters
The cool maples rustled temptingly before the open
kitchen window, and seemed to mock the busy worker
within. Flies buzzed at the screen, door, and at intervals
found entrance through sundry gaps in the rusty
screening. Inside there was the endless clatter of
dishes, the hissing sound of frying meat, and occasionally
a sharp exclamation in a nervous, high-pitched
voice. The owner of the voice, a woman of about thirty-five,
was walking busily around the kitchen. A soiled
gingham apron nearly covered a worn gray skirt, and
several large safety-pins held her waist together over
her flat chest. Premature wrinkles hardened her eyes[437]
and mouth. Her hair drawn back over a high, bony
forehead, was twisted into an untidy little knot at the
back of her head. On each of her cheeks, just below
the bone, came and went bright spots of color—the
only color about her, for her hair had no glints of
light and her apathetic blue eyes seemed absolutely devoid
of luster.
As she hastened back and forth, opening the oven
door, setting the table, inspecting the contents of various
kettles steaming on the big stove, she still found
time to throw a glance, now and then, out to the rickety
porch, where a pale-faced little girl sat in an old red
porch-chair. The child's big eyes, startlingly prominent
in her wan face, followed the woman, and, when the
latter looked at her, a sudden smile would curve the
straight little lips. But at times she would look away
from the kitchen out beyond to the wheat-fields, gleaming
yellow in the August sun—and still farther to the cool
green woods, with the hard blue sky above them. Then
the child would sigh, and her face would grow wondering
and anxious, as she turned back again and smiled
at the woman in the kitchen—a curious, wistful, unchildlike
smile. On the step beside her lay a worn
little home-made crutch.
"Here come the men-folks, mother," the child exclaimed
suddenly. Her mother came to the door, and
shading her eyes with her apron, peered up the dusty
lane. Then she went back to the house and hurriedly
finished setting the table. The heavy plates and cups
were hardly in place on the red-checked cloth before
the men came clattering up the walk and up the porch.
Most of them had a smile for the pale little girl in the[438]
chair, and one had brought her a bunch of red field-poppies,
already half withered, in his big hand. The
child took them eagerly, laying their vivid petals lovingly
against her pale cheek. The rest of the men filed
past with a grin or a roughly tender, word—all but
the last. He came up the steps, his forehead wrinkled
in a scowl evidently habitual, his mouth hard, his eyes
deep-set and forbidding. He did not even notice the
child, and she shrank back in her chair, her lip trembling,
her eyes wide with fear.
"Dinner near ready, Jane?" he demanded in a gruff
tone. Jane gave a brief little nod and hurried on with
the rest of the preparations. Rough laughter, scraping
of boots, loud clattering of knives on plates, and a
continual demand for replenishment, followed the
course of the dinner. Jane sat wearily, but her plateful
of cabbage and pork lay untasted before her. Out
on the porch the little girl sipped a glass of milk and
watched the cool dimness of the distant woods.
The men pushed back their chairs, wiped their
mouths with the backs of their brown hands, and hurried
away to the fields. Jane's husband stopped for a
moment to mend a rip in his boot. It was a difficult
rip to mend and his temper was soon exhausted.
"Why don't ye learn that white-faced brat out there
to work!" he stormed, "us short o' hands an' her less
good than none at all—an' a nuisance to boot." Jane
suddenly turned and let a saucer fall. Her lips were
compressed for a moment, then she went down on one
knee and carefully picked up the fragments of china.
"What a snap ye've got, next to what brother Dan's
wife had," Jim went surlily on. "Dan made her go[439]
out an' tend his grapes, while all ye've got to do is cook
a little and wash up—an' ye act as if ye was worked
hard. Dan's wife never kicked—she'd be'n sorry if
she had," and he gave a hard dry laugh in appreciation
of his own humor.
But Jane did not hear this last remark; she was
thinking of her brother-in-law's wife, a frail little
woman whose life had been made up of pruning grapevines
or cutting grapes, working side by side with the
Italian women whom her husband hired, working harder
than any of them did, too, and for far less recompense.
She remembered how angry Dan had been because his
wife had appeared one afternoon in a shirt-waist, instead
of the usual wrapper. It was a clumsy, cheap, ill-made
thing, but Margaret's eyes had danced when Jane came
to see her that day. And she remembered how Dan
had come in and declared he wanted no high-falutin'
things around his house; that he had married to get
some one to work for him, not for a parlor ornament.
Poor little Margaret! How her thin cheeks had flushed
and her timid eyes filled with tears! But she died not
long after—Jane gave a half-envious sigh.
"Goin' to stand there all day lookin' at nothin'?"
a gruff voice asked suddenly, and she started. The
knife with which she had been peeling potatoes to
fry for supper, slipped and cut her finger. She went
over to the sink and wiped away the red streak, while
her husband shufflingly made his exit, grumbling to
himself over the foolishness of ever bothering with
such a useless baggage as a woman. On the porch he
stumbled over the little crutch and kicked it aside with
an oath.
[440]
The afternoon wore away slowly. Little Meg slept
on her cot upstairs, her cheeks hot and damp, her arms
flung wide in the weariness of childhood. Jane sewed
steadily at a heap of burlap grain bags, until the sun
went down in a riot of yellow and crimson behind the
trees. Jane put away her sewing, gently woke Meg,
and prepared to go downstairs to get supper ready.
She stopped to look at the sunset before she went down.
Along the road beyond came the rattle of wheels; a
buggy passed in which sat a woman in solitary state.
A striped silk dress enveloped her ample person, a hat
with nodding red roses and a broad white brim shaded
a pair of stupid, comfortable eyes, and cast its shadow
over a mouth that fairly sagged with good humor and
good living. Her fat hands, lying idly in her lap and
holding the reins loosely, were pulled back and forth
by the jogging brown horse. Jane recognized in the
woman Mrs. Petersen, her nearest neighbor, and half
hungrily surmised that she was returning home from a
meeting of the "Tuesday Social Club." The buggy
leisurely passed the house and disappeared along the
dusty lane.
Suddenly, in one rush of emotion, the whole barrenness
of Jane's lot came over her. She thought of the
long days filled with unceasing labor—the dull, gray
days that stretched endlessly behind her and yet more
endlessly before her. Her life seemed one wearying
round of dish-washing and cooking, of going to bed utterly
worn out and of rising next morning just as tired
as she had been the night before. She felt a terrible
grudge rise in her against her husband—and she allowed
this grudge now to fill her soul completely, instead[441]
of crushing out such feelings as she had hitherto
done. Why had he never helped her to have a good
time as other women had? Why had he forgotten that
she was a woman and fond of dainty things? She
thought of the stern young fellow who had courted her
when she was a girl—so very long ago that was. And
how she had married him, and how proud she had been
of him, and how she had boasted of his thrift to all her
neighbors. And then she remembered how sternness which
she admired in the youth had changed into surliness in
the man; how gradually—little by little—she had lost
hope—she who had hoped for so much and had
had to little given her. On her, and on her alone,
the brunt of all his displeasure and of all his wrath had
fallen.
Then suddenly her face cleared; as she heard a
sleepy yawn from the bed; little Meg lay watching
her, her sleep-filled eyes smiling their same brave smile.
At least, Jane thought, she had Meg—and Dan's wife
had not even had a Meg. Dan's wife had never known
the sweetness of clinging hands and the comfort of
damp baby kisses. So even for her, life still held compensation.
She looked out at the west where the riotous
reds had now faded to soft rose and gray. The outlines
of the woods were softened and the nodding tree-tops
seemed beckoning her to come away with them.
Almost involuntarily the woman stretched out her hands
towards the trees, and her hungry eyes filled with tears.
Perhaps some day, when little Meg became stronger—perhaps
some day they two—just they—might go away
somewhere, together—somewhere where the world was all
soft rose and gray, where there were no endless days of[442]
toil, no angry voice, nothing but peace. Then perhaps
Meg would—
"Jane," a rough voice broke in on her musings, "fer
God's sake, woman, what ails ye? Seven o'clock an' no
bite to eat ready!"
Jane hurriedly rose from the window. For the first
time in her life she had let her day-dreams really make
her forget her dull, common-place world. She stopped
to smooth Meg's moist curls, and ran downstairs. There
at the foot stood her husband, a whole day's displeasure
frowning forth in his face, an angry light in his eyes.
"I know it's late, Jim—it's too bad," Jane faltered,
"but you never had to wait before. I was busy—I was
thinking—I—"
"Busy!" he sneered. "Busy! Settin' down doin'
nothin' but hushin' that blamed brat. Let her alone.
She ain't only a nuisance anyhow—spend yer time on
something worth while."
Half unconsciously Jane looked at her hands; the
forefinger of the right was rough and needle-pricked,
and her hands were red and raw from much dish-washing
and cleaning. She thought to herself how often she
longed to caress little Meg, to hug her and rock her for
a whole afternoon, to love, love, love her to her heart's
content—but she had never found time. Then her husband's
last cutting words came back to her. She took
a step forward, the suffering of years in her face. The
red spots on her cheeks were very red now. "Can I
help it," she gasped, "that my baby is a puny little
thing? Is it my fault? What care has she ever had,
excepting what I have been able to steal for her? If
you were a man like other men—not a brute—then perhaps[443]
you would understand!" She clinched her hand
and looked defiantly up into his face.
Jim stood still for a moment, astonished at the outburst
from his meek wife. Then his quick anger blazed
up, and, lifting his big hand, he struck Jane full in the
face. She fell back against the stairway, her face white,
save for the red spots which were livid now. Her eyes,
were full of tears from the force of the blow. She heard
Jim's voice from a distance.
"No use waitin' here forever," he grumbled. "I'll
go to Reynold's an' get a bite; his wife'll probably have
it waitin'." And she saw him turn to the door along
which Meg just came tapping. The child hurried to
get out of his way. Jim slouched heavily through the
room, and out of the house, his big boots creaking as he
went.
Jane sat down on the step. Her head ached from
the force of the blow. She felt dazed with the suddenness
of everything. Little Meg came and sat down beside
her, patting Jane's rough hand with her soft palm
to attract her attention; then she settled down quietly
beside her, her bright head leaning on her mother's
apron. Darkness came, but Jane did not stir. Meg had
gone to sleep.
Suddenly the crutch beside them slipped and rattled
against the wall. Meg woke and cried out with
fright. Jane absently took the child in her arms and
tried to soothe her, but Meg was thoroughly frightened
and refused to be comforted. At length she was quiet
and Jane carried her to bed. In a few moments, her
baby-fear forgotten, she was again fast asleep. Jane
went over to the window and crouched there, bitterness[444]
in her heart. Over in the west the shadowy outlines
of the trees looked mysterious, aloof, unsympathetic;
so did the cold white stars over them. Sympathy
seemed to have gone out of everything in the whole
world. And Jane leaned heavily on the sill and thought.
For a long time she sat there, until she heard Meg
stir restlessly on the bed. Then she rose and looked
mechanically towards the Reynolds house. A bright
light burned in a lower room, so she knew that her husband
was still there, talking over the day's affairs with
Farmer Reynolds. Her husband! She felt a sudden
shrinking at the mere word. She decided that she hated
him, she knew that she hated him, with the pent-up
hatred of years. And she shuddered when she thought
of to-morrow and the next to-morrow, and all the dull
to-morrows that would have to come—and he must be in
them all; that was the thought which made her sick and
faint. She lay down on the bed beside Meg, merely
loosening her waist and uncoiling her hair. Physical
weariness brought a dreamless sleep. She woke with a
start, after a sleep that seemed to have lasted for centuries.
There was strange noises downstairs—gruff, muffled
voices, queer shuffling as of heavy boots, and then a
sudden scraping against the outer door. With a quick
unreasoning fear at her heart, Jane flew down the stairs
and out into the kitchen. Some one had lighted the oil
lamp there. Her eyes saw at first only a blurred group
before her. Her vision cleared gradually, until the blur
resolved itself into four men, with alarmed, puzzled
faces, who were carrying several boards on which lay
something covered with a big coat. Jane held her breath,
while the men looked sheepishly at one another. Then[445]
she ran to the heap, lifted the coat, and looked down
at her husband. His face was hard and set, the jaw
projecting; but the usual sneer was gone from his mouth,
and his closed eyes gave him an expression of peace.
Jane dropped the coat as if dazed and turned helplessly
to the men. They, equally helpless, nudged Farmer
Reynolds forward to act as spokesman. His big, kindly
face was abashed and solemn, his fingers nervously
twirled his rough cap.
"It was a stroke, mum," he managed to jerk out
at last, "some kind of a fit, Doc says. It carried him
right, off, too, quicker'n a wink, an' not a mite o' pain.
There he was a-sittin' an' scrappin' like a good feller
one minute—an' then his face kind o' went pale, an'
over he keeled. First we knew it was him on the floor,
clean knocked out." Reynolds was becoming garrulous
in his efforts to relieve the embarrassment of the situation,
but Jane had already forgotten him. They had
laid Jim on the floor and Jane sat down beside him,
carefully adjusting his tumbled coat and smoothing the
rough hair off his low forehead. She did it all in a calm
and matter-of-fact way. The men looked helplessly at
one another, while Jane, utterly unconscious of them,
continued her ministrations to the dead. Was it a few
hours ago or was it many years ago that she had vowed
never to call him husband again? She had forgotten—after
all, it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered
now.
Suddenly there came a tapping down the steps. The
stair door was pushed open, and a towsled, barefooted,
night-gowned little figure appeared on the threshold.
"Mother," Meg quivered, "where are you?" When she[446]
saw her mother, she made straight for her, almost
tumbling over the crutch in her haste. She threw her
arms, lovingly around her mother's neck. Jane started—the
queer, dazed look left her eyes, though her cheeks
were still pale, save for one long red mark. With a little
sob she turned, crushed the child to her, and began
to cry.
"Oh, but we did love him, Meg, didn't we?" she
sobbed. "And he was good to us, just as good as he
knew how to be. Oh, Meg, Meg, if I had only been a
better wife to him!"
—Katherine Kurz.
When Terry "Quit"
"Gad! and to think, Jim, that I ever lived on Front
street!" The frock-coated, silk-hatted stage manager
removed the big black cigar from his mouth, and with a
pudgy little finger, on which sparkled a blue diamond
of unusual size, he flicked away the ashes. "Though it
really was a rather decent sort of a place then, you
know." He addressed his companion, a press-agent,
first, however, carefully readjusting the cigar so that it
should be at such an angle to his lips as to suggest
sportiness.
Now, the south side of the thoroughfare just mentioned
consists chiefly of warehouses and saloons, the
north side chiefly of saloons and pawnshops. On summer
days the street squirms with chickens, bulldogs and
babies; but on the warm evenings, when the pawnshops
and the warehouses are closed, when the saloons are
doing a lucrative business, then the chickens roost on
the back fences, the bulldogs doze lazily on the stone[447]
flaggings, and in the stuffy little sleeping apartments
above the saloons the children of the saloon-keepers
dream of the envy which, by means of delicious chili-sauce
sandwiches, they will create the next day among
the children of the pawnbrokers.
The two men were now approaching the most prosperous
saloon in the street. Streams of light, coming
from both above and below the little green baize door,
shone on a swinging signboard. "Tim Dugan's Café,"
the gilt letters informed any who were unacquainted
with the neighborhood. Boorish men could be heard
calling jocularly for more beer, and the constant slamming
of the cash drawer mingled with the clinking of
heavy glasses.
"A song! It's time fer a chune!" called a raucous
voice.
"Aha, yer right there, it's Terry fer us," acquiesced
one of the crowd.
"Terry! Terry! it's oop on the table fer ye, Terry."
The cry was accompanied by much loud laughter and
the shuffling of heavy boots. Labor-hardened hands
clapped approval, and then for a moment there was
silence.
"'A sailor's wife a sailor's star shall be.'"
The sweet, though untrained tenor voice, rang high
and clear.
"'Yo-ho-oh, boyoys, ho—'"
The two fashionably dressed men stopped in front
of the short door.
"Jove! what a voice!" the manager breathed.
"'A long, long life to my sweet wife!'"
No sound interrupted the ringing sailor ballad.
[448]
"Let's go in and have a drink," suggested the press-agent,
when the song was finished.
As unobtrusively as possible the two men entered.
"More! more!" the appreciative, if unschooled, audience
was demanding, and in the clatter of applause the
strangers were unnoticed.
"'I have come to say good-bye, Dolly Grey.'"
The then new popular song thrilled the listeners
with its martial rhythm, as the plaintive cadences of
the beautiful voice rang in their ears.
"'Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you.'"
The singer's glance fell on the new listeners. His
merry eyes wavered and his face flushed until it became
as red as his curly hair. He stopped short in the chorus.
"I guess it's me that's been yowling anough fer tunight,
byes," he mumbled, as he climbed down from the
table and, sliding behind the counter, donned the white
apron which proclaimed him a bartender.
"Wy, Terry, wat's the matter wit ye? We got a
have one more afore ye quit."
But Terry shook his head vigorously in an emphatic
"no," as he rapidly cleaned the thick glasses.
The two men from the world of dazzling footlights
ordered drinks, paid doubly for them, made a bluff at
enjoying the poor liquor, and then quietly left the café,
and continued their walk past the warehouses, pawnshops
and saloons of Front street.
The next morning, when the heavy wagons were rattling
over the cobble-stones of the narrow, dirty thoroughfare,
and the children of the pawnbrokers were engaged
in throwing "spit-balls" at the children of the saloon-keepers,
"Tim Dugan's Café" was for the second time[449]
honored with the entrance of the stage-manager of the
minstrel show which was to be in town the next week.
This potentate had come on ahead of his company to
adjust some little difficulty with the play-house owners,
and now that that business had been settled, another matter
of importance presented itself: the tenor soloist, no
longer in his prime, had left.
The manager sauntered up to the bar, rested his
right elbow on the marble slab, settled his "silk" hat
more comfortably on his head, shoved his left hand deep
into his trousers' pocket—whereupon an attractive chinking
sound could be heard—and crossed his gaitered feet.
"One," he announced, and the ruddy-haired Irish
lad, who had been busy washing glasses, quickly, deftly,
filled a mug with frothy beer.
"Ahem!" The manager puffed up his heavy chest
and leaned both elbows on the bar.
Then, ensued a whispered dialogue, during which
Terry Flynn's laughing eyes alternately grew round with
wonder and twinkled with pleasure.
"Sorry!" gasped the bartender at last, "not a bit
of it. Ye cin bet yer shiny, boots, an' it's me as 'll
do it!"
The manager, smiling with the satisfaction of having
clinched an excellent bargain, made his way among the
chickens, bulldogs and babies of Front street and soon
left the beery atmosphere far behind him.
Terry, however, kept his own council. Not until the
following Monday did he give any information concerning
the identity of the "swell gent" who had so strangely
visited him.
Then how the inhabitants of Front street rejoiced![450]
Terry Flynn—often called "Irish" for short—redheaded
Terry Flynn, who had many a time caused a
quarrel to be forgotten by breaking into a song as he
rattled the mugs on the bar—Terry—their Terry—was
going on the stage! He would own a silk tile, and wear
diamond studs—but he would sing no more for Front
street.
How the bony-fisted, generous men, in spite of their
keen regret at losing him, rejoiced in Terry's good
fortune!
"Ha'n't I said, ag'in an' ag'in, as Terry could
sing twicet as fine as the feller 'at sang 'atween the acks
o' 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' one time w'en I went an' seen
it? Ha'n't I now?" queried a delighted teamster.
"Aye, that ye 'ave, Jawn, that ye 'ave," replied a
pensioned sailor, also jubilant over the fame in store for
Terry.
As for Terry himself, he had not yet recovered from
his surprise, and so had little room for other emotions.
He was too ignorant, too fresh from his peat-carrying
labors in the shamrock country, to have any fear of stage
fright. Indeed, that word was not in his stunted vocabulary.
He went that afternoon to rehearse "Nancy Lee,"
with the rest of the company, newly arrived, who were
to join him in the "yo-ho's." How well the song
sounded when supplemented by such a chorus! Terry's
blood quickened! He did not observe the coldness of the
other singers towards him. He would have cared little
if he had felt the lack of friendliness, for so sunny was
his Irish temperament, so strong his Irish independence
and congeniality, that he would not easily have lost[451]
hope of winning the good will of his associates. Moreover
Terry was so humble that he would rather have
expected them to stand a little aloof at first; but when,
black-faced and white-gloved, he stood upon the great
stage of the Opera House, and filled the domed auditorium
with his strong, beautiful tenor notes, he knew
nothing save that he was one of "them actor fellows"
now; that the men and women from the world of wealth
were listening to him. His eyes sparkled with excitement.
"A long, long life to my sweet wife," he sang.
In the silence of the people Terry instinctively recognized
their appreciation.
"Nancy Lee—"
The vaulted ceiling sent the round, high notes back
to the eager ears of the audience.
"Yo-ho-boyoys, ho—"
The "yo-ho" didn't sound with the proper vigor.
It was flat. A frown appeared between Terry's arched
eyebrows. He was singing his "Yo-ho's" alone!
Slowly he turned, still singing, to face the other minstrels.
Some one snickered, "Do you see us singing
with a bar-tender?"
"Nance—"
Terry stopped. A calloused fist, with strong muscle
and Irish temper to speed it, shot out.
"Curtain!" called the manager, wildly. The audience,
though somewhat surprised, accepted this performance
as a ridiculous climatic ending to one of the
"stunts," and gave a vigorous applause. But Terry
heeded neither applause nor curtain. He was demonstrating
to these unmannerly show men, that though[452]
they might refuse to sing with a bar-tender, they could
not refuse to accept from one a lesson in pugilism.
Terry paused to take a long breath. He glared at
the men, one of whom was holding a handkerchief to a
rapidly swelling eye, another of whom was hugging an
aching side. Terry had done his work quickly. The
manager hastened up to interfere.
"They might a' told me so afore. It isn't me as
they need be makin' a fool of. I'm made as good as
them, even if it do be a truth that I sell the beer they
drink," Terry said, dazed. He picked up the battered
opera hat which had been part of his costume and
started towards the door.
"My dear Mr. Flynn, I will adjust this little misunderstanding.
I assure you, it shall not occur again."
Terry turned. "Why," he laughed strangely, as
he picked a bit of lint from his sleeve. "Aren't ye
knowin'? I'd be ashamed t' sing, with such dum poor
excuses fer men," he replied, and made his way down
the rickety stairway, to the street, not stopping even
to remove the grease-paint.
"It's them as might a been men, and told me," he
sobbed as he walked slowly back again to dirty, ill-lighted
Front street, to don again his white apron; to
pass the amber-colored foamy liquid over the bar; to
sing "Nancy Lee" in Tim Dugan's Café; to sing for
the rough men who would deem it a sacrilege to lift
their harsh voices with Terry's sweet plaintive tones.
—Dorothea G. Knoblock.
[453]
Nora Titay and Chiquito
Nora Titay, a widow of fifty, came home from the
gambling house one afternoon in bad humor. Her hair
hung carelessly over her wrinkled face, which always
looked as if it had been dipped in a barrel of flour. As
she walked along the street, she spat and muttered, with
her mouth full of buyo, "Pshe, this cursed panguingue
will ruin me. I had bad luck this week. Yesterday I
lost ten pesos, and now twelve. I haven't a single penny
left. I wonder where Rosa and I will get the money to
buy our food. I have sold her ring to pay my debts.
To-morrow, there will be another game. I shall play
again to see if I can recover what I have lost. But
where shall I get money? Oh, I see! Chiquito is coming
to-night to court Rosa. He is very rich, and is willing
to give anything he has if he can only win my daughter's
love. But foolish girl! She does not like him, because
he is a Chinaman. She prefers to love that poor,
simple student, Pedro. I will force her to marry
Chiquito; then I can play panguingue at any time. I
shall soon be rich."
"Rosa," said Titay as soon as she arrived at the
house, "you must look well to-night, for Chiquito is coming.
You must not show any sour face to him. I want
you to marry him whether you like to or no. Do you understand
me? Now, don't say anything or I will whip
you," said Titay, seriously. "Why don't you marry
him yourself, mamma? You will be a good partner for
him since you love him better than I do," said Rosa
laughing. "What, you foolish girl! Do you mean to
joke me, your mother? I am looking out for your good,"[454]
said Titay angrily, then slapped and pinched her daughter.
They were still quarreling when Chiquito came.
"Buena noche, Nola Tetay y Senolita Losa," said
Chiquito in his poor Spanish, when he came.
"Buenas noches, Chiquito," replied Titay with a
smile. "Here is a basket of oranges and tikoy for you
and Senolita Losa," said Chiquito, while he was uncovering
the basket. "What a very good son-in-law, I have!"
murmured Titay. "Chiquito, to-morrow afternoon you
must come here ready to marry Rosa. Bring a priest
with you, and get a wedding dress for her. But, by the
way, lend me a sum of money, for I must buy something."
Chiquito was so glad that he immediately
handed to her his purse. "What kind of dress shall I
bring, mother?" asked Chiquito eagerly. "You must
ask Rosa about that," murmured Titay. Chiquito went
to Rosa, who was looking out of the window, absorbed
in thought. "Senolita Losa, what kind of dress should
you like for our wedding?" asked Chiquito politely.
"Baboy! (swine) what wedding do you mean? Do you
think I would marry you, baboy?" said Rosa, angrily.
"Your mother told me that I must come here to-morrow
afternoon, and you and I should be married," said
Chiquito. "You had better marry mother. She is more
fit for you. Now, go away." Nora Titay was so busily
counting her money and thinking how many times she
could play panguingue with it that she did not hear the
quarrel. "Nola Tetay, Losa is angry with me. She does
not want to marry me," said Chiquito.
"Never mind, you can go home now, Chiquito, and be
ready for to-morrow. I will see that she accepts the
proposal," said Titay. Chiquito went home gladly, and[455]
Titay got busy compelling Rosa to marry Chiquito, till
the daughter was forced to make a promise.
The next day, at the appointed hour, Chiquito came
with a priest. But Rosa could not be found in the
house. A letter was found instead saying that Rosa had
eloped with Pedro. Chiquito, disliking to lose his money,
asked for Titay's hand. They were married that very
day.
—Joaquina E. Tirona.
III. The Story That Emphasizes Character and Events
Difference
between
character-place
story
and character-events
story
Obviously the character-events story is different
from the character-place story just in the emphasis and
because of it. The personality of the chief
actor of a story of events, does not necessarily
spring from the scene of action. In
fact, the personality very often is in strong
contrast with the place. A soldier for instance
by some chance may be left stranded
on an oasis in the desert; the purpose of the
writer in having him there may be to set
forth a number of strange occurrences that bring out
his character, or the author may wish to demonstrate
some truth about wild animals. A woman may be on a
Pullman car bringing her dying husband home with her
from Denver to New York. The author will then be concerned
with an analysis of the woman's mind as events
come to her. A person may be standing at the prisoner's
dock and may tell his life. Place will concern the
author a great deal in a certain sense, but it will be
not the character-making place, but the event-making[456]
place,—the battle-ground, the cricket field. If a different
character met the same events in the same place,
he might act otherwise. It is the conjunction of character
and events that the author is revealing and the
reader watching. Let us name over a few of the great
stories and collections of this kind to see if the titles
suggest anything: "The Necklace" by Maupassant;
"The Father" by Björnson; "The Siege of Berlin" by
Daudet; "The Substitute" by Coppée; "The Insurgent"
by Halévy; "Mateo Falcone" by Mérimeé; "The
Shot" by Pushkin; "The Greater Inclination," "Crucial
Instances," "The Descent of Man, and Other
Stories," by Mrs. Wharton.
Component
elements
of this
type
We might say that the representative short-story of
this type is a combination of romanticism, realism,
metaphysics, and modern journalism. A
concentrated extract of the work of Scott,
Jane Austen, Thackeray, George Eliot and
Reade. The list suggests the history of the
novel since Fielding's day and the elements it acquired
and transmitted to the short-story. You have probably
studied how Scott, when Lord Byron out-ran him,
turned from metrical to prose romance; how Scott
created with the "Waverley Novels" (which of course
are not novels in the usual sense) a new romance, the
historical, which immediately took its place as a permanent
type of literature. On the side of stirring
events our present short-story often epitomises Scott.
He said himself he wrote for soldiers, sailors, and young
people of bold and daring dispositions. There is no
limit, therefore, in choice of events. The record may
be the most startling. It usually, however, is not extravagant[457]
beyond what a healthy and cheerful imagination
can enjoy. Our temperance is due no doubt to
the restraining influence of Jane Austen and her late
followers in realism. She tried to teach her own age
to laugh at itself good-naturedly and to bridle romance
with common sense. "Northanger Abbey," written in
1798, was a direct satire of the terror school, which was
popular before her day and Scott's. Moderns have enthroned
Jane Austen as a perfect artist, and all good
fiction writers have learned the lesson she taught. In
general, her work belongs with the story that emphasizes
manners and environment; but her most popular
novel, "Pride and Prejudice," has in addition to the
reflection of environment a sequence of interesting
events and a spiritedness that together make it an
extended prototype of the story that emphasizes both
character and happenings. To Scott's boldness and
Jane Austen's satiric restraint, time added George
Eliot's metaphysical curiosity. Since her day we are
all interested in duty, destiny, freedom of will, mind-habit.
She showed us how a neighborly man becomes a
miser, how a miser becomes once more a neighborly
man; how a lovable but morally and physically timid
man becomes a scoundrel. Most of our short stories
now-a-days display an element of such analysis; many
of them are wholly constituted upon an inquiry; some,
beginning just in front of the crisis, give us a feeling
of past complicating events, and with one flash show us
the present tangle; others with a swift relentlessness
pile happening upon happening until, panting for
breath, we stumble upon the momentous climax. Very
often, too, at the end, we are left in an atmosphere of[458]
pessimism—sometimes it is only a companionable little
chill like that Thackeray used to give us, wherein,
laughing and chattering, we shake hands with our
brothers to keep warm; sometimes, it is like Maupassant's,
a hard, dull bitterness of cold—
"A chill no coat however stout,
Of homespun stuff can quite shut out."
Wherever the pessimism comes from, almost invariably
a little bit of it joins swiftness, realism, metaphysical
curiosity, and one other element probably inherited
from the novel; namely, a striking semblance
of actuality. No matter how thrilling the events may
be, they are usually convincing. Charles Reade had
the trick of taking his facts from newspaper reports.
Many of our present-day writers keep a scrap-book,
and they very often build their most successful stories
on actual events, making up the participants from
what they imagine they must have been.
The characters, then, in this kind of narrative are
often more or less fictitious, being a combination of
traits well-known to the author—traits of different individuals
of the type displayed; while in the other kind
of artistic short-story, it is the slight course of events
that is made up, to fit the actual character and the
actual place.
A scrap-book
suggestion
Whatever else you do as a writer—even as an amateur
one in school—it will surely repay you
to keep a scrap-book. The very old adage
that facts are stranger than fiction is indisputably
true. When in your newspaper reading you[459]
run across a fine course of events that is character-revealing,
or ought to be, just cut out the report and
paste it in your book. Think upon the case leisurely
and let the personages develop; then write up the
events as simply and swiftly as you can consistent with
the effect you mean to produce. Hawthorne's "Ambitious
Guest" originated thus.
Other suggestions
If at present you have in mind no series of happenings,
suppose you ask some acquaintance what is the
strangest course of actual events he ever personally
knew about. When he answers you,
then question him on the actors concerned, remembering
that this time you are going to write not a
pure plot story but one that will express the conjunction
of character and events. Keep in mind also your
present limitations. You do not need to tell everything
that might be told about your protagonists; you do not
have to follow them from the baptismal font to the
marriage altar and from the marriage altar to the
grave. You may not know the facts about them connected
therewith; you may know only a small portion
of their lives; but ten to one you will know more incidents
than it is necessary to mention. What you do
tell, however, must be absolutely clear. The actual
events may have been but a string of episodes in real
life, but when you relate them they must appear like a
full, round period. Look carefully after your connectives;
on them hangs largely the success of your story.
It goes without saying that you must have a climax,
or highest point. Every sentence that you write before
it, even the first, must lead toward it; every sentence
that you write after it, even the last, must lead from[460]
it. You must ruthlessly suppress any phrase that does
not add strength to your chosen scene. Be sure your
story has totality.
The Necklace
She was one of those pretty, charming girls who are
sometimes, as if through the irony of fate, born into a
family of clerks. She was without dowry or expectations,
and had no means of becoming known, appreciated,
loved, wedded, by any rich or influential man; so
she allowed herself to be married to a small clerk belonging
to the Ministry of Public Instruction. She
dressed plainly because she could not afford to dress well,
and was unhappy because she felt she had dropped from
her proper station, which for women is a matter of attractiveness,
beauty, and grace, rather than of family
descent. Good manners, an intuitive knowledge of what
is elegant, nimbleness of wit, are the only requirements
necessary to place a woman of the people on an equality
with one of the aristocracy.
She fretted constantly, feeling all things delicate and
luxurious to be her birthright. She suffered on account
of the meagreness of her surroundings, the bareness of
the walls, the tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains;
deficiencies which would have left any other woman of
her class untouched, irritated and tormented her. The
sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble
housework engendered hopeless regrets followed by fantastic
dreams. She thought of a noiseless, hallowed anteroom,
with Oriental carpets, lighted with tall branching
candlesticks of bronze and of two big, knee-breeched footmen,
drowsy from the stove-heated air, dozing in great[461]
armchairs. She thought of a long drawing-room hung
with ancient brocade, of a beautiful cabinet holding
priceless curios, of an alluring, scented boudoir intended
for five o'clock chats with intimates, with men famous
and courted, and whose acquaintance is longed for by all
women.
When she sat down to dinner, at the round table
spread with a cloth three days old, opposite her husband,
who uncovered the tureen, and exclaimed with ecstasy,
"Ah, I like a good stew! I know nothing to beat this!"
she thought of dainty dinners, of shining plate, of tapestry
which peopled the walls with human shapes, and
with strange birds flying among fairy trees. And then
she thought of delicious viands served in costly dishes,
and of murmured gallantries which you listen to with a
comfortable smile while you are eating the rose-tinted
flesh of a trout or the wing of a quail.
She had no handsome gowns, no jewels—nothing,
though these were her whole life; it was these that meant
existence to her. She would so have liked to please, to
be thought fascinating, to be envied, to be sought out.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent,
who was very rich, but whom she did not like to go
to see any more because she would come home jealous,
covetous.
But one evening her husband returned home jubilant,
holding a large envelope in his hand.
"Here is something for you," he said.
She tore open the cover sharply, and drew out a
printed card bearing these words: "The Minister of
Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau request
the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel's company at the[462]
palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January
18th."
Instead of being delighted as her husband expected,
she threw the invitation on the table with disgust, muttering,
"What do you think I can do with that?"
"But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. You
never go anywhere, and this is such a rare opportunity.
I had hard work to get it. Every one is wild to go; it
is very select, and invitations to clerks are scarce. The
whole official world will be there."
She looked at him with a scornful eye, as she said
petulantly, "And what have I to put on my back?"
He had not thought of that. He stammered, "Why, the
dress you wear to the theatre; it certainly looks all right
to me."
He stopped in despair, seeing his wife was crying.
Two big tears rolled down from the corners of her eyes
to the corners of her mouth.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" he faltered.
With great effort she controlled herself, and replied
coldly, while she dried her wet cheeks:
"Nothing, except that I have no dress, and for that
reason, cannot go to the ball. Give your invitation to
some fellow-clerk whose wife is better provided than
I am."
He was dumfounded, but replied:
"Come, Mathilde, let us see now—how much would a
suitable dress cost; one you could wear at other times—something
quite simple?"
She pondered several moments, calculating, and
guessing too, how much she could safely ask for without[463]
an instant refusal or bringing down upon her head a
volley of objections from her frugal husband.
At length she said hesitatingly, "I can't say exactly,
but I think I could do with four hundred francs."
He changed color because he was laying aside just
that sum to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting
next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several
friends, who went down there on Sundays to shoot larks.
Nevertheless, he said: "Very well, I will give you four
hundred francs. Get a pretty dress."
The day of the ball drew nearer, and Mme. Loisel
seemed despondent, nervous, upset, though her dress was
all ready. One evening her husband observed: "I say,
what is the matter, Mathilde? You have been very queer
lately." And she replied, "It exasperates me not to
have a single ornament of any kind to put on. I shall
look like a fright—I would almost rather stay at home."
He answered: "Why not wear flowers? They are very
fashionable at this time of the year. You can get a handful
of fine roses for ten francs."
But she was not to be persuaded. "No, it's so mortifying
to look poverty-stricken among women who are
rich."
Then her husband exclaimed: "How slow you are!
Go and see your friend, Mme. Forestier, and ask her to
lend you some jewels. You know her well enough to
do that."
She gave an exclamation of delight: "True! I never
thought of that!"
Next day she went to her friend and poured out her
woes. Mme. Forestier went to a closet with a glass door,
took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it,[464]
and said to Mme. Loisel, "Here, take your choice, my
dear."
She looked at some bracelets, then at a pearl necklace,
and then at a Venetian cross curiously wrought of
gold and precious stones. She tried on the ornaments
before the mirror, hesitated, was loath to take them off
and return them. She kept inquiring, "Have you any
more?"
"Certainly, look for yourself. I don't know what
you want."
Suddenly Mathilde discovered, in a black satin box,
a magnificent necklace of diamonds, and her heart began
to beat with excitement. With trembling hands she took
the necklace and fastened it round her neck outside
her dress, becoming lost in admiration of herself as she
looked in the glass. Tremulous with fear lest she be
refused, she asked, "Will you lend me this—only this?"
"Yes, of course I will."
Mathilde fell upon her friend's neck, kissed her passionately,
and rushed off with her treasure.
The day of the ball arrived.
Mme. Loisel was a great success. She was prettier
than them all, lovely, gracious, smiling, and wild with
delight. All the men looked at her, inquired her name,
tried to be introduced; all the officials of the Ministry
wanted a waltz—even the minister himself noticed her.
She danced with abandon, with ecstacy, intoxicated with
joy, forgetting everything in the triumph of her beauty,
in the radiance of her success, in a kind of mirage of bliss
made up of all this worship, this adulation, of all these
stirring impulses, and of that realization of perfect surrender,
so sweet to the soul of woman.
[465]
She left about four in the morning.
Since midnight her husband had been sleeping in a
little deserted anteroom with three other men whose
wives were enjoying themselves. He threw over her
shoulders the wraps he had brought, ordinary, everyday
garments, contrasting sorrily with her elegant ball dress.
She felt this, and wanted to get away so as not to be
seen by the other women, who were putting on costly
furs.
Loisel detained her: "Wait a little; you will catch
cold outside; I will go and call a cab."
But she would not listen to him, and hurried downstairs.
When they reached the street they could not
find a carriage, and they began to look for one, shouting
to the cabmen who were passing by. They went down
toward the river in desperation, shivering with cold. At
last they found on the quays one of those antiquated, all-night
broughams, which, in Paris, wait till after dark
before venturing to display their dilapidation. It took
them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once
more, wearily, they climbed the stairs.
Now all was over for her; as for him, he remembered
that he must be at the office at ten o'clock. She threw off
her cloak before the glass, that she might behold herself
once more in all her magnificence. Suddenly she uttered
a cry of dismay—the necklace was gone!
Her husband, already half-undressed, called out,
"Anything wrong?"
She turned wildly toward him: "I have—I have—I've
lost Mme. Forestier's necklace!"
He stood aghast: "Where? When? You haven't!"
They looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of[466]
her cloak, in her pocket, everywhere. They could not
find it.
"Are you sure," he said, "that you had it on when
you left the ball?"
"Yes; I felt it in the corridor of the palace."
"But if you had lost it in the street, we should have
heard it fall. It must be in the cab."
"No doubt. Did you take his number?"
"No. And didn't you notice it either?"
"No."
They looked at each other, terror-stricken. At last
Loisel put on his clothes.
"I shall go back on foot," he said, "over the whole
route we came by, to see if I can't find it."
He went out, and she sat waiting in her ball dress,
too dazed to go to bed, cold, crushed, lifeless, unable to
think.
Her husband came back at seven o'clock. He had
found nothing. He went to Police Headquarters, to
the newspaper office—where he advertised a reward. He
went to the cab companies—to every place, in fact, that
seemed at all hopeful.
She waited all day in the same awful state of mind
at this terrible misfortune.
Loisel returned at night with a wan, white face. He
had found nothing.
"Write immediately to your friend," said he, "that
you have broken the clasp of her necklace, and that you
have taken it to be mended. That will give us time to
turn about."
She wrote as he told her.
By the end of the week they had given up all hope.[467]
Loisel, who looked five years older, said, "We must plan
how we can replace the necklace."
The next day they took the black satin box to the
jeweler whose name was found inside. He referred to
his books.
"You did not buy that necklace of me, Madame. I
can only have supplied the case."
They went from jeweler to jeweler, hunting for a
necklace like the lost one, trying to remember its appearance,
heartsick with shame and misery. Finally,
in a shop at the Palais Royal, they found a string of
diamonds which looked to them just like the other. The
price was forty thousand francs, but they could have it
for thirty-six thousand. They begged the jeweler to keep
it three days for them, and made an agreement with him
that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand,
francs if they found the lost necklace before the last
of February.
Loisel had inherited eighteen thousand francs from
his father. He could borrow the remainder. And he
did borrow right and left, asking a thousand francs
from one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three
louis there. He gave notes, assumed heavy obligations,
trafficked with money-lenders at usurious rates, and,
putting the rest of his life in pawn, pledged his signature
over and over again. Not knowing how he was to
make it all good, and terrified by the penalty yet to come,
by the dark destruction which hung over him, by the
certainty of incalculable deprivations of body and tortures
of soul, he went to get the new bauble, throwing
down upon the jeweler's counter the thirty-six thousand
francs.
[468]
When Mme. Loisel returned the necklace, Mme. Forestier
said to her coldly: "Why did you not bring it
back sooner? I might have wanted it."
She did not open the case—to the great relief of her
friend.
Supposing she had! Would she have discovered the
substitution, and what would she have said? Would she
not have accused Mme. Loisel of theft?
Mme. Loisel now knew what it was to be in want, but
she showed sudden and remarkable courage. That awful
debt must be paid, and she would pay it.
They sent away their servant, and moved up into a
garret under the roof. She began to find out what heavy
housework and the fatiguing drudgery of the kitchen
meant. She washed the dishes, scraping the greasy pots
and pans with her rosy nails. She washed the dirty
linen, the shirts and dish-towels, which dried upon the
line. She lugged slops and refuse down to the street
every morning, bringing back fresh water, stopping on
every landing, panting for breath. With her basket on
her arm, and dressed like a woman of the people, she
haggled with the fruiterer, the grocer, and the butcher,
often insulted, but getting every sou's worth that belonged
to her. Each month notes had to be met, others
renewed, extensions of time procured. Her husband
worked in the evenings, straightening out tradesmen's
accounts; he sat up late at night, copying manuscripts
at five sous a page.
And this they did for ten years.
At the end of that time they had paid up everything,
everything—with all the principal and the accumulated
compound interest.
[469]
Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become a domestic
drudge, sinewy, rough-skinned, coarse. With
towsled hair, tucked-up skirts, and red hands, she would
talk loudly while mopping the floor with great splashes
of water. But sometimes, when alone, she sat near the
window, and she thought of that gay evening long ago,
of the ball where she had been so beautiful, so much admired.
Supposing she had not lost the necklace—what
then? Who knows? Who knows? Life is so strange and
shifting. How exceedingly easy it is to be ruined or
saved!
But one Sunday, going for a walk in the Champs
Élysées to refresh herself after her hard week's work,
she accidentally came upon a familiar-looking woman
with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, still
lovely, still charming.
Mme. Loisel became agitated. Should she speak to
her? Of course. Now that she had paid, she would tell
her all about it. Why not? She went up to her.
"How do you do, Jeanne?"
The other, astonished at the easy manner toward her
assumed by a plain housewife whom she did not recognize,
said:
"But, Madame, you have made a mistake; I do not
know you.
"Why, I am Mathilde Loisel!"
Her friend gave a start.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde," she cried, "how you have
changed!"
"Yes; I have seen hard days since last I saw you;
hard enough—and all because of you."
"Of me? And why?"
[470]
"You remember the diamond necklace you loaned me
to wear at the Ministry ball?"
"Yes, I do. What of it?"
"Well, I lost it!"
"But you brought it back—explain yourself."
"I bought one just like it, and it took us ten years
to pay for it. It was not easy for us who had nothing,
but it is all over now, and I am glad."
Mme. Forestier stared.
"And you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace
mine?"
"Yes; and you never knew the difference, they were
so alike." And she smiled with joyful pride at the
success of it all.
Mme. Forestier, deeply moved, took both her hands.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! My necklace was paste. It
was worth only about five hundred francs!"
—Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant.
"Little Masterpieces of Fiction." Volume V. (Doubleday,
Page & Co.)
Andong
Andong was the only son of Isio, an ex-gobernadorcillo
(president) of Tuao, Cagayan. At an early age
Andong went to Manila to study; but, unfortunately,
his father died and the boy could not finish his career,
but returned to his native town to take care of his helpless
mother. Shortly after his arrival at Tuao, his
mother died, and Andong became a poor orphan. During
his orphanage he lived miserably, but worked hard in
order to release himself from poverty. He cultivated,
year after year, his small piece of land, which he inherited[471]
from his father. After ten years he had earned
a considerable sum, and bought twenty-five carabaos and
one hundred hectares of land. He made a trip to Ilocos
Norte, and succeeded in getting several Ilocano families
to live and to work on his plantation.
One day, while he was working in his field, he received
a message from the gobernadorcillo, notifying him
of his nomination as a cabeza de barangay (councilor),
and Andong, instead of insulting the police, as many
had done, said, "Well, leave with me the letter, and I
will call on the gobernadorcillo this afternoon." When
Andong had finished his work in the field, he called at
the gobernadorcillo's house, and talked with him about
his unexpected nomination. Andong said, "I have no
objection to serving my municipality, for it is the duty
of every citizen to serve his town government the best
he can, and I am thankful to the government for having
nominated me as one of the principales; but before I accept
the office, I wish to see the tax list of my district
to know whether any of the people are in arrears, for I
do not want to lose my property, which I have earned
by hard labor, to answer for the debts of the people of
my district, nor can I go to look for them in other
provinces, nor—"
"Whether you are willing, or not, you are forced to
accept your nomination," interrupted the gobernadorcillo,
"and to-day your property is hypothecated to pay
the debts of your people to the government."
"But, sir, who has hypothecated my property? Is
it possible that anybody has the right to confiscate my
property?"
"Surely," said the gobernadorcillo. "Some of the[472]
principales and I have been informed that you own
many hectares of land, and that you are immensely rich,
so the governor of our province has confirmed your nomination
as cabeza de barangay."
"I accept my nomination, but I do not want to answer
for the debt of the people under my command,"
said Andong.
"Whether you like it or not, you will be cabeza de
barangay, and be compelled to pay all the debts of your
people," answered the gobernadorcillo.
"Well, I will think about the matter first," replied
Andong, and he went to the house of Aning, an old ex-gobernadorcillo,
to consult him.
The gobernadorcillo was not surprised at Andong's
nomination, for he was one of those principales who had
recommended Andong to the council. Aning advised
Andong to accept the office. "A cabeza de barangay is
always respected and honored by the people," said the
gobernadorcillo. "He receives no salary, to be sure,
but he gets gifts of eggs, chickens, pigs, fruits, which
when sold bring much money. Besides, when he wants
to build a house for himself, some of his people bring him
lumber, rattan, cogon, and other materials, while the
others erect the house without any pay." "But I do not
like to molest my people, and I hate to see them serve
me as a master, for they are my brothers," answered
Andong.
"Do you prefer then to die from hunger rather
than to cheat your people as your predecessors
did?" asked Aning. "Yes, I prefer death, to seeing
my people oppressed," replied Andong. Disgusted at
the servile conversation of the ex-gobernadorcillo, Andong[473]
left him in vegetating complacency, sitting on a
bamboo chair with a fan in his hand.
Unwillingly Andong became a cabeza de barangay.
During the first year of his office he gave eighty pesos
to the government to pay the debts of his runaway
people.
Now his wealth was decreasing, for his duties made
him neglect his work in the field. The fact that he was
becoming poorer each day, led him into despair. He
remembered the advice of Aning; but he had no courage
to abuse his poor people. He could not deceive them,
for to deceive such people would be the same as stealing.
But who would pay back the money lost? This was the
question which worried him many times.
To forget his painful situation he took to drinking
basi (Ilocano wine which is extracted from the sugar
cane), and became a drunkard. He forgot entirely his
old business, and in his intoxicated moments he often
exclaimed: "While I live, let me enjoy the fruit of my
own toil instead of paying it all over to the government."
On account of his drunkenness, he neglected to collect
the taxes from his people, and the deficit doubled
the following year. At first nobody wanted to lend him
money to pay his debt to the government; for his property
was already hypothecated; but, at last a kind and
rich officer lent him the money he needed, at twenty per
cent interest, and with the condition that if he could
not pay his debt within the period of two-years, his
property would be pledged for the second time in favor
of the creditor. Andong fell into a long meditation. He
remembered once more the advice of Aning, and he was
revolving in his mind plans which might release him[474]
from bankruptcy. Meanwhile, he decided to go to Ittong,
an ex-cabeza de barangay, to ask for advice.
Andong asked Ittong to work for his election to the
office of gobernadorcillo, in order that he might be saved
from his critical situation. But wise Ittong advised him
not to seek such an office; for it was worse than a
cabeza de barangay: "The best thing for you to do is
to let the government confiscate your property, go to
prison, and then when you are released from jail, you
can earn again your lost property," he said.
"Your advice seems excellent to me," answered Andong,
"but can't they nominate me again as cabeza de
barangay when I accumulate more property?"
"Since you have not held the office during a period
of ten years, they can oblige you to accept the office
again," said Ittong.
Andong, after a long pause, said to Ittong: "I
want to be elected gobernadorcillo so that I can save my
property instead of going to jail."
"If you desire it, I can recommend you to my friends
Islao, Ansong, Momong, Ipi, and Cadio, who will nominate
you as the candidate of our party for the coming
election," said Ittong. "I thank you for your kindness,"
said Andong, and bade good-bye to his future advocate,
Ittong.
Andong was nominated as the candidate of Ittong's
party for gobernadorcillo. Ambeng, the candidate of
the opposing party, was more popular than Ittong, consequently
he was more sure to succeed in the coming
election. The critical day was approaching. Many of
the cabezas de barangay went to pay their contributions
to the municipal treasurer, in order to be allowed to vote.[475]
On the eve of the election the drum of the tribunal
never stopped beating and the voters of the town kept
flocking to the polling-place. On the morning of the
election, all the principales in their holiday dresses
awaited the governor at the tribunal. When the governor
came, they took off their hats and followed him.
They entered the tribunal, and sat around a long table,
presided over by the governor. Before beginning the
election, the governor delivered a short speech of welcome
and he emphasized that they must elect that man
who was rich, honest, and capable. After a long discussion,
Ambeng was elected by a big majority.
Andong was disappointed and disgusted over his
defeat. But while Ambeng's party was still celebrating
their triumph the governor of the province received a
telegram from the central government, announcing Andong's
nomination as gobernadorcillo of Tuao. Ambeng
was elected by the people, but Andong had been recommended
to the governor-general by the curate of the
town, the governor of the province, and the chief of the
guardia civil; so Andong was appointed to the office he
sought.
On the day of Andong's possession, the people of Tuao
held a holiday in his honor. There was a land parade
in which all the princapales of the town took part. After
the parade, Andong went to the tribunal to take his
oath before the justice of the peace. After this ceremony
the chief of police read his administrative program,
in which he obliged every one of his people to go
to mass on Sundays and holidays, and prohibited gambling,
drunkenness, and stealing.
Time flew. After three months' administration, Andong[476]
became worried over his business; for he was compelled
to visit every day his superiors, and to go to mass
on Sundays and holidays. However, he was a zealous
ruler. He organized a militia. He succeeded in pacifying
the Igorrotes, who were fighting one another, and
he caught many of the bandits, who were ravaging the
neighboring towns.
Everything was going all right, when, unexpectedly,
Andong received an order from the court of justice to
appear before the judge to answer all the complaints of
the people about his abuses in the government. Andong,
before going to court went to see Ittong, his old advocate.
Ittong advised him not to be afraid. "Call officially
your witnesses," he said, "and tell them that you
will put them into prison if they declare against you."
The wind was strong against Andong. Nobody could
save him from his trouble. The prison was awaiting
him. Andong was perplexed; he did not know what to
do. While he was looking at the neighboring mountains,
a wise thought came to his mind. "I will go
and live in those woods with the Igorrotes, rather than
to suffer the oppression of my superiors and the hatred
of my own people!" he exclaimed. Meanwhile, he received
an urgent despatch from a friend, announcing
that the government had discharged him from his office,
and had sentenced him to be put into prison. Immediately,
Andong and one of his servants fled from
Tuao and sought refuge in the neighboring forests, there
to live like wild men, with no ambition above that of
the brute, caring only for their next meal, but harboring
in their hearts a deadly hatred of Spanish rule.
—Justo E. Avila.
[477]
PART II
NARRATIVES OF ACTUAL
EVENTS
[478][479]
CHAPTER VII
PARTICULAR ACCOUNTS
The second large division heading explains itself.
In an atmosphere of facts all the true narrative types
stand. Whether these types are used as retainers
of truth only is another question. Manifestly they are
not. Manifestly there is much fiction that succeeds
merely because it is cast in the true story mold. But the
concern of the writer who chooses any one of these forms
is to pour truth into it, whether the truth be historical
actualities or only artistic probabilities.
It is more helpful to consider the types on their simplest
basis; hence in a study like this, one would assume
for content always real happenings. The necessity that
the story go unquestioned does not, however, excuse the
recorder of actual events from using his imagination.
Indeed, only by using it can he come to write true history
or true biography. Without "the inward eye" one cannot
see the past. Without sympathy—which is another
word for imagination—one cannot know his fellowman.
A biographer, an historian, above all else should be able
to see the unseen, not the unseen of the unreal, but the
unseen of the real, a vastly different thing! The two are
exact opposites, the what-is and the what-was set over
against the what-was-not and the what-could-not-be.
In this chapter five types of narratives of actual
events are grouped as particular accounts, or adventitious[480]
history, in contrast with continuous personal history, and
continuous impersonal, or community history.
Particular accounts have to do with those small happenings
that seem to come by chance, those events that
form, as it were, complete and detachable bits of life.
That is to say, each relation is of something that has
taken place or been witnessed in a comparatively short
time—an incident of a trip downtown, a characteristic
action of a great man, an important political event, an
adventure, a brief series of pleasures.
I. The Incident
Definition
The word "incident" comes from the Latin and
means "falling upon or into something, impinging from
without;" hence something depending upon
or contained in another thing, as its principal.
In narrative, then, it is the record of a subordinate act or
of an event happening at the same time as some other
event and of less importance. Any little occurrence
may be considered an incident. The report of it generally
has excuse for being in the fact that knowledge
of it throws light on the main event or intensifies interest
therein. Accordingly every good narrative of this
type possesses a horizon larger than itself. Somewhere
within the story there is a clause connecting the event
with other occurrences or with the prime occurrence.
How to
tell an
incident
An incident may or may not be an eye-witness account.
Indeed, an incident may be told by
a person removed the third, the hundredth
degree from the happening. The essential
thing is the evidence of reality. Of course there are[481]
fictitious incidents—like those in "Robinson Crusoe"—but
the whole care of the writer in such cases is to
simulate truth. Very often a work of fiction is but a
skillful piecing together of actual small happenings.
An incident is valued in itself for one of two reasons—either
for the fact which it records or for the author's
humanity revealed in the narration. Though slight, an
incident should be well told. It need not be pointed,
but it should proceed in an orderly and interesting
fashion. The diction should be natural. As hinted
before, an incident should have a setting. The reader
ought to be able to feel something of where the characters
have come from and whither they are going.
The more nicely such a coherence is suggested, the
more pleasing the little story will be.
One thinks of the quiet delightfulness of Wordsworth's
Incidents which he calls "Poems on the Naming
of Places." They are small stories out of his life
and the lives of his friends—natural records out of natural
living, but as charming and interesting as any
tale of
"Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance."
Robert Browning's "Incident of the French Camp"
is an example of the more stirring small happening.
Books of travel are largely series of incidents, but because
of the continued presence of the same personality
fall into a class distinct from this. Good letter-writers
are usually fascinating relators of incidents.
Cowper, Jane Welsh Carlyle, Dorothy Osborne, Gray,[482]
Lowell, Edward Fitzgerald, charmed not only their
correspondents but all their later readers. The earlier
accounts of his life away from home that "R. L. S."
sent back to his mother contain exquisite small bits of
narration.
A Near Tragedy
A most tragical incident fell out this day at sea.
While the ship was under sail, but making, as will appear,
no great way, a kitten, one of four of the feline
inhabitants of the cabin, fell from the window into the
water: an alarm was immediately given to the captain,
who was then upon deck, and received it with the utmost
concern. He immediately gave orders to the steersman
in favor of the poor thing, as he called it; the sails
were instantly slackened, and all hands, as the phrase
is, employed to recover the poor animal. I was, I own,
extremely surprised at all this; less, indeed, at the captain's
extreme tenderness, than at his conceiving any possibility
of success; for, if puss had had nine thousand
instead of nine lives, I concluded they had been all lost.
The boatswain, however, had more sanguine hopes; for,
having stript himself of his jacket, breeches, and shirt,
he leapt boldly into the water, and, to my great astonishment,
in a few minutes, returned to the ship, bearing the
motionless animal in his mouth. Nor was this, I observed,
a matter of such great difficulty as it appeared
to my ignorance, and possibly may seem to that of my
fresh-water readers: the kitten was now exposed to air
and sun on the deck, where its life, of which it retained
no symptoms, was despaired of by all.
The captain's humanity, if I may so call it, did not so[483]
totally destroy his philosophy as to make him yield himself
up to affliction on this melancholy occasion. Having
felt his loss like a man, he resolved to show he could bear
it like one; and, having declared he had rather have lost
a cask of rum or brandy, betook himself to thrashing at
backgammon with the Portuguese friar, in which innocent
amusement they passed nearly all their leisure
hours.
But as I have, perhaps, a little too wantonly endeavored
to raise the tender passions of my readers in
this narrative, I should think myself unpardonable if
I concluded it without giving them the satisfaction of
hearing that the kitten at last recovered, to the great
joy of the good captain; but to the great disappointment
of some of the sailors, who asserted that the drowning
a cat was the very surest way of raising a favorable
wind: a supposition of which, though we have heard several
plausible accounts, we will not presume to assign
the true original reason.
—Henry Fielding.
"Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon."
Birds Divulge Army Secrets
During the night, before the battle of Sadowa, an
Austrian division commanded by the archduke, retreating
before the Prussian army, had bivouacked near a
town in Bohemia, facing north, says Sir Evelyn Wood,
in the London Gazette.
At midnight the archduke, when resting in a peasant's
cottage, was awakened by the arrival of a gypsy,
having come to report the advance of the enemy.
The archduke, who spoke Romany fluently, asked:[484]
"How do you know? Our outposts have not reported
any movement."
"That, your highness, is because the enemy is some
way off."
"Then how do you know?"
The gypsy, pointing to the dark sky, lighted by the
moon, observed: "You see those birds flying over the
woods from north to south?"
"Yes; what of them?"
"Those birds do not fly by night unless disturbed,
and the direction of their flight indicates that the enemy
is coming this way."
The archduke put his division under arms and reinforced
the outposts, which in two hours' time were
heavily attacked.
An Incident Related In a Letter
7:20 P. M.—I must tell you a thing I saw to-day. I
was going down to Portobello in the train, when there
came into the next compartment (third-class) an artisan,
strongly marked with smallpox, and with sunken, heavy
eyes—a face hard and unkind, and without anything
lovely. There was a woman on the platform seeing him off.
At first sight, with her one eye blind and the whole cast
of her features strongly plebeian, and even vicious, she
seemed as unpleasant as the man; but there was something
beautifully soft, a sort of light of tenderness, as
on some Dutch Madonna, that came over her face when
she looked at the man. They talked for a while together
through the window; the man seemed to have been asking
for money. "Ye ken the last time," she said, "I
gave ye two shillings for your lodgin', and ye said—"it[485]
died off in a whisper. Plainly Falstaff and Dame
Quickly over again. The man laughed unpleasantly,
even cruelly, and said something; and the woman turned
her back on the carriage and stood a long while so, and,
do what I might, I could catch no glimpse of her expression,
although I thought I saw the heave of a sob in
her shoulders. At last, after the train was already in
motion, she turned and put two shillings into his hand.
I saw her stand and look after us with a perfect heaven
of love on her face—this poor one-eyed Madonna—until
the train was out of sight; but the man, sordidly happy
with his gains, did not put himself to the inconvenience
of one glance to thank her for her ill-deserved kindness.
—Robert Louis Stevenson.
In letter to Mrs. Stillwell, Sept. 16, 1873.
A Hero Dead
It was very dark in the east corridor of the Armory,
and, save for the quiet footfall of the ever-watchful orderly,
there was no sound in the silent room where the
nation's dead lay wrapped in the great silk flag. In the
shadow of the stairway, a group of secret-service men
were nervously whispering among themselves, with occasional
glances that strove to penetrate the black void
that lay beyond the crape-hung doorway.
Their sergeant stood a little apart from the others,
an alert figure, with a hand that lingered suggestively
about his hip-pocket. For three days he had kept unwearied
watch while thousands had paid their last homage
to the dead servant of the people, and the strain
was telling upon him. The nation had lost a hero, but
John MacDonald had lost his idol—and his best friend.[486]
Through his mind was sweeping a strong revulsion at
conditions which could have fostered so wanton a murder;
and a sudden and passionate hatred of the dark
race to whose salvation this man had been a martyr
threatened almost to unman this stern son of the service.
That very day he had sent away with a curse a paralytic
old negro who had brought his handful of field-lilies to
the bier of the savior of his race. MacDonald had felt
no qualm at his action, and when, later, he had found
the poor flowers lying withered outside the closed door,
he kicked them aside with an oath. In a measure, the
stern old Scotchman had not been responsible for his actions
at that time, for it was just then that he had
heard the dread rumor which was spreading its dark
wake through the crapehung corridors. That very night
while the whole nation was yet bowed in its sorrow, an
attempt was to be made to steal the body of the dead
hero. The crime seemed scarcely to be believed, but the
men of the secret-service, scattered throughout the dark
corridor, were awake and ready.
John MacDonald, striving vainly in his grief-saddened
heart to frame a reason for it all, wondered how
he had been able to resist the old negro with his tear-wet
face and pleading voice. That black creature was
a man like himself, and he, also, had loved the great
man who was lying so quietly in the folds of his country's
flag. "O Lincoln," he spoke, raising a clenched
hand toward the black doorway, "they have murdered
you, they have taken you from us, but still—" Suddenly
his muscles stiffened, and something very akin to
a chill crept about the roots of his hair. There had come
the quiet but unmistakable sound of a footfall from the[487]
room where the dead lay. The Scotchman stood a man
of stone, and while his very hair stiffened with horror, a
mighty wrath swept over his whole being. They were
at it, then, those fiends who dared to desecrate the body
of his lord with their filthy touch. With a movement
like a cat, MacDonald drew his ready weapon, and, with
a call to his startled subordinates, stepped boldly over
the threshold.
In a moment, the room was filled with the glare of
torches, and the secret-service men, crowding in the
doorway, saw the leveled weapon of their chief sink inertly
to his side.
On the black catafalque the hero lay, beneath the
outstretched wings of the eagle of the republic, and at
his feet, sobbing out his grief-stricken heart, knelt an old
negro.
—Ida Treat.
My First Day at School
The room was not large enough for a schoolroom.
The floor, the wall, and the roof were all made of bamboo.
In the center of the room was a long, narrow,
roughly-made table, at which sat closely twenty or thirty
pupils. There were also two or three benches here and
there, on which sat new boys and girls. At the end of
the long table sat a rather old but fierce-looking man,
the schoolmaster. In his left hand he held a book, and
in his right, a whip; for at that time the principle governing
schools was that knowledge could not be gained
without severe bodily punishment.
When I entered the schoolroom, my "cartilla" in
hand, this was the first scene that met my eyes. It happened[488]
that Titay, a cousin of mine, had been sent to
school on that day also; so we had the same lesson. In
harsh tones the teacher ordered us to study the vowels
of the Spanish alphabet. And with a loud voice we repeated
again and again, a, e, i, o, u, until we knew them—at
least we thought so—by heart.
At last our turn came; and we were called to go to
our teacher. My cousin (a girl) was at his left side,
while I was at his right.
"What is this?" the teacher asked my cousin.
"A," she answered, correctly.
However, at his second, third, and fourth questions,
she was confused and could not answer. But I really
knew "a, e, i, o, u," by heart, for my kind mother had
taught them to me; so I proudly corrected every mistake
she had made. After every correction, the teacher would
say to me, "Tira la oreja" (meaning, "Pull her ears").
And with what boyish pleasure did I pull her ears! She
cried and resolved never to go to school again.
When I returned home, I was very boastful, and told
everybody in the household of my triumph. Thus I received
encouragement in my first school day, and after
that I continued to study with interest till I myself received
some bodily punishment.
—Máximo M. Kalaw.
The Guinatan Prize
One day I came to the schoolhouse tardy. When I
entered the door, I saw the pupils standing side by side
in a row and facing the teacher. There was one column
of numbers on the blackboard, near which the teacher
stood with a long wooden pointer in his hand. As soon[489]
as I saw the numbers on the board, I knew at once
that there would be a contest. So I laid down my books
on the floor, took off my hat, and stood next to the last
boy.
"Teacher, Leopoldo does not belong here. He is the
captain-general. Therefore, he should stand next to
Federico," said the last boy as soon as he saw me.
"No," said the teacher, "he came in tardy. Boys,
you must learn to come to school on time," he continued.
The teacher then gave us names: he named the first
boy general, the second major-general, the third captain-general,
and so on. I, being the last boy, was named
ranchero, or the cook of the army.
"He who is the general at the end of the contest
will be given a cup of guinatan as a prize," said the
teacher.
"Now begin, Martin," he continued. Martin began
to add the numbers on the board with accuracy, and
finished within forty seconds. The major-general did the
same, but he finished within forty-five seconds. The captain-general
added the numbers within forty-two seconds.
So he pulled the ear of the major-general, and
they exchanged places. Before, my turn came, there
had been many changes already, a soldier had beaten a
colonel, a sergeant had passed a lieutenant.
"All right, Leopoldo," said the teacher.
"One—six—fourteen—twenty-two—thirty—thirty-six—forty-five.
Carry four. Eight—ten—fifteen—twenty-one—twenty-nine—thirty-five—forty!"
I said without stopping to take a breath.
"Forty seconds!" announced the teacher.
[490]
The teacher wanted to try me again, but the boys
said they should like to hear the general first.
"All right. Go on, Martin," said the teacher.
This time Martin failed. He finished within thirty-seven
seconds, but he made a mistake. The boys shouted.
Fortunately, the time was up. So I was pronounced
the victor. The teacher bought a cup of guinatan, the
sweet fruit mixture that Filipino children so much love,
and gave it to me. I was very proud then. When I
reached home, I told my mother all that had happened.
She was very happy.
—Leopoldo Faustino.
II. The Anecdote
Meaning
of the
term
In the sense in which a proverb is a condensed parable,
an anecdote is a condensed character-sketch or
biography. Like many of our other terms
the word "anecdote" itself reveals to an extent
its present meaning. It is derived from
the Greek and signifies "something not published."
This is the sense in which Cicero uses it when he speaks
of a book of anecdotes on which he was engaged, but
which he talks of confiding to a single friend only, as if
it were not intended ever to be published. In literature
the word has been used to denote either secret
histories or portions of ancient writers which have
remained long in manuscript and are edited for the
first time. The anecdotes of Procopius, which were
published in London in 1674 under the title "The Secret
History of the Court of Justinian," are evidence
of the first significance; and Dr. Johnson's reference
to the English-French fashion of using the word for a[491]
"biographical minute passage of private life" establishes
the second meaning.
In our day, collections of anecdotes—criticisms and
observations, smart sayings and ludicrous tales, delivered
by eminent men in conversation and recorded by
their friends or discovered among their papers after
their death, and put together with historical incidents
concerning them—are published under the term
ana.
Ana
The ancients were in the habit of indulging in this
species of literature. From earliest periods Oriental
nations have preserved the intimate talk
of their wise men. From them the Greeks
and Romans took up the practice. Plato and Xenophon
recorded the colloquially expressed ideas of their master
Socrates. It appears that Julius Cæsar compiled a book
of apophthegms in which he related the bon mots of
Cicero; and a freedman of that orator, taken with his
master's liveliness and wit, composed three books of a
work entitled "De Jocis Ciceronis."
Eighteenth
century
collections
But the term ana seems to have been applied to
such collections only so far back as the fifteenth century.
The information and anecdotes picked
up by Poggio and his friend Barthelemi
Montepolitiano during a literary trip in
Germany "are to be called," says another friend in
a letter, "Poggiana and Montepolitiana." Perhaps the
most typical, and surely a very famous and interesting,
production of this species of narrative in English is
the "Walpoliana," a transcript of the literary conversation
of Horace Walpole, Earl of Oxford. Selden's
"Table Talk" was considered by Dr. Johnson good[492]
ana, better than the French. But incomparably superior
to all, a collection the most remarkable in the
English language-and indeed, in any language (as a
writer in the "Britannica" asserts)—is James Boswell's
"Life of Samuel Johnson." Though not conforming
to the type of collection either in name or in form of
presentation, this, according to Carlyle, "the greatest
production of the eighteenth century," depends for its
value mainly upon its ana. "Its interest," the same
writer goes on to say, "arises, not from the details it
furnishes of the events of Dr Johnson's career, still
less from any attempt at a discriminating estimate of
his work and character, but the graphic representation
it gives of his habitual manner of life and speech.
The animate greatness of Johnson appears, more than
in all his writings, in his portrait delineated with the
exactness of sharply-defined photograph, as he appeared,
to the eyes of his admiring biographer, in his
daily deshabille."
That is the secret of anecdote—it must get at the
real man in however small a part.
While a book of ana is a collection of short, pointed,
true colloquial relations of more or less detached interesting
particulars concerning a person of consequence,
a single anecdote is one of those interesting particulars
entirely detached, short, pointed, true, and colloquial.
A book of anecdotes is a group of stories, miscellaneous
so far as subject matter is concerned. Spence's "Anecdotes"
is a very famous eighteenth century literary
set; and Percy's is an early nineteenth, with the stories
selected—as the preface ostensibly gives notice—for
their moral effect, and arranged according to the virtue[493]
illustrated or the subject treated—humanity, generosity,
kindness; science, art, and so on.
How to
write an
anecdote
As we have seen, to be most interesting an anecdote
must be singularly expressive of the peculiarities of the
person represented; or if the event recorded
is not in the form of a character episode, but
rather in the form of an unusual happening,
it must be consonant with the accepted popular notion
of the man's personality. To write an original anecdote
you will need to pick out of your past experience
or the experience of some one of your acquaintances a
story of a more or less important personage in your
neighborhood, a happening that has never hitherto
been written down. If the person concerned is not
very well known or if the trait of character revealed
would not be immediately recognized by his friends,
you might prefix a slight statement that will help point
your narrative. Remember, however, that an anecdote
must be very brief; also that it must have a single and
complete climax; and that you must under no circumstance
be induced to add another word after the
climax is reached.
Coleridge's Retort
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was so bad a horseman
that when he mounted he generally attracted unfavorable
notice. On a certain occasion he was riding along
a turnpike road in the country of Durham, when he was
met by a wag, who, mistaking his man, thought the rider
a good subject for sport. "I say, young man," cried the
rustic, "did you see a tailor on the road?" "Yes, I[494]
did; and he told me that if I went a little farther, I
should meet a goose."
An Inevitable Misfortune
When Boswell was first introduced to Dr. Johnson,
he apologized to him for being a Scotchman. "I find,"
said he, "that I am come to London at a bad time when
great popular prejudice has gone forth against us North
Britons; but when I am talking to you, I am talking to
a large and liberal mind, and you know that I cannot
help coming from Scotland." "Sir, replied the doctor,
archly, "no more can the rest of your countrymen."
A Point Needing to Be Settled
A Scottish clergyman, being one day engaged in
visiting some member of his flock, came to the door of a
house where his gentle tapping could not be heard for
the noise of contention inside. After waiting a little, he
opened the door and walked in, saying with an authoritative
voice, "I should like to know who is the head
of this house?"
"Weel, sir," said the husband and father, "if ye sit
doon a wee, we'll may be able to tell ye, for we're just
trying to settle that point."
Patience
When Lord Chesterfield was one day at Newcastle
House, the Duke happened to be particularly busy, so
the Earl was requested to sit down in an anteroom.
"Garnet upon Job," a book dedicated to the Duke, happened
to lie in the window; and his Grace, upon entering[495]
found the Earl so busily engaged in reading, that
he asked how he liked the commentary. "In any other
place," replied Chesterfield, "I should not think much
of it; but there is such great propriety in putting a
volume upon patience in the room where every visitor
has to wait for your Grace, that here it must be considered
as one of the best books in the world."
Preaching and Practice
Dr. Channing had a brother, a physician, and at one
time they both lived in Boston. One day, a countryman
in search of a divine, knocked at the doctor's door, when
the following dialogue ensued:
"Does Mr. Channing live here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can I see him?"
"I am he."
"Who—you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must have altered considerably since I heard
you preach!"
"Oh, I see your mistake now. It's my brother who
preaches. I practice."
Johnson's Dictionary
When Dr. Johnson had completed his dictionary,
which had quite exhausted the patience of Mr. Andrew
Millar, his bookseller, the latter acknowledged the receipt
of the last sheet, in the following note:
"Andrew Millar sends his compliments to Mr. Samuel
Johnson with the money for the last sheet of the[496]
copy of the dictionary, and thanks God he has done with
him."
To this rude note the doctor returned the following
smart answer:
"Samuel Johnson returns his compliments to Mr.
Andrew Millar, and is very glad to find (as he does by
his note), that Andrew Millar has the grace to thank
God for anything."
—Percy's "Anecdotes."
The Boy Kipling
Rudyard Kipling's keen and sympathetic understanding
of all the diversified and picturesque varieties
of human nature found in British India, is too well recognized
as part of his power to need assertion; but a
little anecdote which his mother remembers of his boyhood
is not without a pretty allegorical significance. It
was at Nasik, on the Dekhan plain, not far from Bombay,
when the little fellow, trudging over the ploughed
field, with his hand in that of the native husbandman,
called back to her in the Hindustani, which was
as familiar to him as English, "Good-by, this is my
brother!"
—Professor Norton, in a biographical sketch.
Sir Godfrey Kneller
Pope tells the following story about the great portrait
painter:
"As I was sitting by Sir Godfrey Kneller one day,
whilst he was drawing a picture, he stopped and said:
'I can't do so well as I should do, unless you flatter me
a little; pray flatter me, Mr. Pope! you know I love[497]
to be flattered.' I was at once willing to try how far
his vanity would carry him, and, after considering a picture,
which he had just finished, for a good while very
attentively, I said to him in French (for he had been
talking for some time before in that language): "On lit
dans les Écritures Saintes, que le bon Dieu faisoit
l'homme aprés son image: mais, je crois, que s'il voudroit
faire un autre a présent, qu'il le feroit apres l'image que
voilá.' Sir Godfrey turned round and said very gravely,
'Vous avez raison, Mons Pope; par Dieu, je le crois
aussi.'"
—Pope.
Here is another: Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey
Kneller one day, when his nephew, a Guinea trader,
came in. "Nephew," said Sir Godfrey, "you have the
honor of seeing the two greatest men in the world." "I
don't know how great you may be," said the Guinea
man, "but I don't like your looks; I have often bought
a man much better than both of you together, all muscles
and bones, for ten guineas."
—Dr. Warburton.
The Capitan Municipal and the Jokers
Once there lived in the town of Balanga an old Capitan
Municipal who was nicknamed carabao; for he was
a very big man and also a very great eater.
One day as a land parade was going on in honor of
Dr. Rizal, three well-known jokers of the town were
following the procession, when they suddenly came to a
small pond in the street. And one of them said, "What
a nice time our public carabao had taking his mid-day
bath in here." "Oh! yes, he must have had a very good[498]
time indeed," replied the two. But unexpectedly the
Capitan was at their back, hearing all they said about
him.
Therefore as soon as the procession was over, they
were arrested in the Municipal building. And on the
next day they were tried and sentenced by the Capitan
to fill in all the ponds of the streets around the town,
and also to drain them properly.
—José Feliciano.
An Instance of Bamboo Spanish
In the Ateneo de Manila all the pupils are forbidden
to speak any language except Spanish.
One day the pupils of the college went out to the
yard to play baseball. It happened that one of the
boys who was watching the game was hurt at the kneejoint,
and fell down on the ground. The boy cried so
loud that the rector at once went hurriedly to see what
was happening in the yard. He saw the boy sitting
on the ground with one of his legs bent. He approached
him, and said, "What has happened to you, my boy?"
And the boy feeling yet the pain that the ball had
caused him, answered, "Father, while I was watching
my companions who were playing baseball my—, my—,"
"What?" said the rector, impatiently. "Father, my—,
my—," answered the boy, showing his kneejoint as he
was pronouncing the word "my." "Do you mean your
leg?" said the rector. "No, father I mean my—," replied
the boy. "But your what" cried the rector, "say
what you mean to say." The boy, who was trying hard
to find the word in Spanish for kneejoint, answered at
last, "my vino-vinohan, father, was hurt." The rector,[499]
though very angry at the boy's dullness, laughed heartily
at his dictionary-making powers.
Note—The word in Tagalog for knee-joint is "alak-alakan,"
which is similar to the Tagalog word "alak,"
meaning wine in English and vino in Spanish. The boy,
not knowing the proper word in Spanish for knee-joint,
derived the word "vino-vinohan" from the Spanish
word vino, which means alak (wine) in Tagalog.
Mr. Taft's Mistake
It was a bright day when a crowd of people stood
before a platform decorated with palm leaves and roofed
with a banner of stars and stripes. The eyes of the
spectators, who were all eager to hear the speech of the
well-known eloquent orator and skillful politician, Mr.
William H. Taft, were fixed on the personages on the
platform.
At last, after an ovation by the multitude, Mr. Taft
rose up and addressed the audience thus: "Señoras y
caballos."[8]
—Amando Clemente.
III. The Eye-Witness Account
Eye-witness account is to true story what realism
is to fiction. Exactness is the aim of the narrator.
He endeavors to tell precisely what he saw and heard.
A great deal of our newspaper "copy" is supposed to
be of this type, and likewise much court testimony.
The attorneys try to separate distinctly fact from
fancy. What a man really must have seen and what
he thought he saw are often very different. It appears
[500]at first that an unembellished account would be the
easiest thing in the world to give, but it takes only a
little observation to convince one that few persons can
tell what they see or hear; few indeed know what they
see or hear. With the bare actuality, they are constantly
confounding what they thought or inferred.
As a rule, only the man educated to the work can
report truthfully.
A unique and curious ancient document of this type
is found in a little book that was published by the
Spanish Academy of History in 1783, called "El Passo
Honroso" or the Passage of Honor. It is a formal eyewitness
account prepared on the spot by Delena, one of
the authorized scribes of John II, and gives minutely
the events of a passage of arms held against all comers
in 1434 at the bridge of Orbigo, near the city of Leon,
during thirty days, at a moment when the road was
thronged with knights going over for a solemn festival
to the neighboring shrine of Santiago.[9] Suero de
Quiñones, the challenger, was a true gentleman of chivalry,
it seems, and had been wearing in sentimental
bondage to a noble lady a chain of iron around his
neck one day in each week. From his bondage he
could be freed only by bringing to her as ransom a
minimum number of real spears broken by him and his
friends in fair fight. So they stood—ten of them—for
thirty days challenging all comers. Delena records
sixty-eight opponents; six hundred and twenty-seven
encounters; sixty-six broken lances; one dead knight;
and many wounded, among whom were Quiñones himself
[501]and eight of his fellow-champions. Along with the
general narrative is a full account of the religious and
chivalric ceremonies as they were actually indulged in
from day to day. Such a minute and elaborate and
fully authenticated eye-witness record of not fictitious
but real "knightly guists and fierce encounters" is
manifestly invaluable to a student of chivalry.
It is interesting to think of this dapper young scribe
sitting on the side-lines watching the combatants and
taking down his notes as the telling rushes were made
by either party; and then sending his copy hot from
the pen to his royal reader. I suppose we might well
call Señor Delena the historical prototype of our
modern athletics reporter.
Many of our best literary men have had longer or
shorter apprenticeships at getting "copy." Dickens
served for a number of years. Facts for a reporter do
not come at call; he can not turn them on, so to speak,
nor is he permitted to make them up. He must find
them. Consequently to be successful he needs to have
an ear for news, and an eye for the graphic, a simple
but full vocabulary, and a pen made supple by much
practice. He must seem to be at home in any department
of human action. All his words must carry with
them a large tone of veracity. He can hardly afford to
make slips even on his minor details, since his brother
reporters visit the same scene at the same time.
Literary eye-witness account, however, need not be
devoid of all expression of personal feeling. It is only
necessary that the writer make clear to his reader
which are thoughts and feelings and which are facts.
Indeed, the best effect of such a narration will often[502]
come from the contrast. The artist lets us into his own
state of mind, describes perhaps more or less minutely
the stage-setting of his little occurrence—especially if
any part is necessary to complete understanding later—portrays
in general the types of people who were or
might have been concerned, and then drops from his
pen one by one the facts cold, clear-cut, unembellished,
orderly in sequence, with their participants graphically
and cleanly outlined, and thus gains his effect. He is as
precise as a lawyer, but he has been also as crafty, in
the good sense of the word. He has prepared us to
appreciate his facts. If he interprets to us afterwards,
he does so in a reflective and an apparently hesitating
way that seems to leave us in full possession of our own
opinions, which will prove to be in reality only corroborative
of his.
It will be good practice for you to attempt to give
an eye-witness account of some occurrence. If two or
three of your friends were present at the same happening,
you may enjoy comparing reports. There will
probably be more than one incident to relate; if there
is, you must be careful to have sequence and coherence
in all that you say. You should anticipate and answer
any questions one would naturally ask of an oral
reporter. Stop when you have finished. Doubtless you
have noticed the unpleasant habit many narrators have
of starting over again and repeating all or part of the
tale. The temptation does not so readily come to a
writer, of course, as to a speaker—unless the writer is
paid by the word.
Your readers will not resent interpretation even if
it be philosophical, if it be not mixed with the narration[503]
and be only honest and of the pragmatic school—interrogative
and not dogmatic. Indeed, mankind likes
philosophy when it seems to come as an inevitable
though tentative summing-up of our almost bewilderingly
multiple phenomena.
Story of the Revolution in the Portuguese Capital
Cherbourg, October 8.—On board the Royal Mail
Steam Packet liner Asturias, which arrived from Lisbon
this morning, were a number of passengers who witnessed
the fighting in the Portuguese capital on Wednesday,
among them M. Octave Castaigne, a lawyer, of
Tournai, who was among the passengers by the Asturias
who ventured to land at Lisbon on Wednesday.
"On Tuesday evening," said M. Castaigne, "we were
informed by a wireless message that the revolution had
broken out in Portugal. From far out at sea was heard
the thunder of the cannon and as we entered the Tagus
the crackle of rifle fire. On our arrival before Lisbon
we noticed that the cruisers Sao Rafael and Adamastor,
which were flying the Republican flag, were still firing
on the town.
"About ten o'clock the fusillade ceased and a party
of five passengers, including two Americans and myself,
went ashore. The lower part of the town had the appearance
of a city of the dead. The houses were shut
and marks of rifle-shots and shells were to be seen everywhere.
The centre of the city, on the contrary, was
alive with people. The crowd was vociferously acclaiming
the Republican flag, which was flying, not only from
the public buildings, but from nearly every house. It
struck me very clearly that anyone who had had the[504]
courage to shout "Long live the King!" would have been
shot dead on the spot. The crowd was largely composed
of soldiers and sailors under arms, and patrols were also
moving about in automobiles to any part of the town
that appeared to be greatly menaced by the Royalist
troops.
"We reached the City Hall, which was surrounded
by a huge crowd, just at the moment when the Republic
was being proclaimed. The Republican leaders from the
balcony of the building were haranguing the people,
whose enthusiasm was indescribable. From time to time
the cheers of the crowd were broken by rifle volleys and
the reports of cannon.
"When the official ceremony was ended, we succeeded
in entering the City Hall. The new Ministers were receiving
visitors and were conversing with anyone who
presented himself. One of the passengers by the
Asturias approached President Braga, and in a short
speech congratulated him on the proclamation of the
Republic. Dr. Braga replied that he was happy to receive
our visit, and added that the Portuguese Republic
was definitely established.
"After leaving the City Hall, we proceeded to the
most dangerous part of the city, that is to say, the
Avenida do Liberdade and the Dom Pedro square. The
houses showed signs off cannon shots and the roofs of the
majority of them had collapsed. The Avenida do Liberdade
was still occupied by the opposing forces. The
Republican troops occupied one end of the street, while
the Royalists were in possession of the other extremity,
being separated by a distance of about five hundred
yards. The battle was still in progress. I admit that I[505]
was somewhat afraid, and as the shots whistled by I hid
myself behind the shelter of a house.
"At the risk of being killed any minute our party
succeeded in reaching the Avenida restaurant. That
part of the restaurant facing the Avenida do Liberdade
was in ruins, and the walls were full of bullet holes. (M.
Castaigne has saved some of the bullets as souvenirs.)
The Recio railway station had been destroyed by artillery
fire and the railway lines had been torn up. The Necessidades
Palace shows traces of numerous shells, but it is
stated that the interior of the royal residence has suffered
even more, shells having simply rained on the roof.
"The Red Cross Society showed admirable devotion
during the fighting. I saw its members go into the
thick of the fight to pick up the wounded, who on
Wednesday were estimated to number over a thousand.
The number of killed is considerable, but at the time
it was impossible to obtain correct figures."
London, October 9.—The Royal Mail Steam Packet
Company's steamer Asturias, which left Lisbon on Thursday,
arrived at Southampton yesterday morning, having
among her passengers several Englishmen and South
Americans who witnessed many of the episodes of the
revolution. Among these was General Garcia, who has
had experience enough of revolution in South America.
The general told an "Evening News" correspondent
that he and six others went into Lisbon on Wednesday.
"We found the streets littered with wounded," he said.
"A body of troops was being moved from one side of
the city to the other, and in the districts through which
they passed people were flying panic-stricken, but otherwise
everybody was orderly and the city was quiet.
[506]
"The Republican flags were on the buildings and all
trace of resistance was over. Soldiers were going into
shops and houses pulling down pictures of the king, tearing
them up and trampling them underfoot. As we
passed along, a picture of the King came flying out of
a doorway and dropped at our feet. My secretary picked
it up. He was immediately surrounded by soldiers, who
ordered him to destroy it at once.
"I went to the municipal buildings and there saw
members of the provisional government, who allowed me
to cable to my own government in Cuba. I should say
the estimate of fifty killed and three hundred wounded
is not high enough, but the list is remarkably small, all
considered. I have seen many revolutions, but none so
beautifully carried out as this."
Paris, October 9.—"The abounding joying joy of the
people—tempered by admirable self-control—and repeated
evidences of careful organization—these were the
things which impressed me most."
In these words Mr. Charles H. Sherrill, American
Minister to Argentina, told a Herald correspondent at
the Hotel Majestic last night, of a visit he paid to Lisbon
on Wednesday, a few hours after the overthrow of the
Portuguese monarchy. With Mrs. Sherrill and their
young son he was a passenger on the Asturia, which
touched at Lisbon.
"The shooting began about two o'clock on Tuesday
morning," he continued. "It was at six o'clock on
Wednesday morning that we came into the harbor. The
bombardment of the palace had ceased, but with our
glasses we could see the dents which the shells had made
in the walls.
[507]
"I disembarked at about one o'clock in the afternoon
and went to the American Legation to see if it had
suffered damage. I found the streets swarming with
inhabitants, who were singing and shouting in their joy.
Save for this celebration there were few evidences of the
conflict in the lower part of the town.
"But it was different in the Avenida, the broad
thoroughfare leading to the elevation back of the city.
The insurgents had permitted the Royalists to form in
Rocio square, in the down town district. The insurgents
then took their position on the hills above, holding the
Royalists in a trap, hedged in on the other side by the
attacking ships in the bay.
"From the elevation at the upper end of the field,
guns had been aimed down the Avenida. The avenue
had been stripped of trees, windows had been shattered
and the fronts of buildings which projected farther than
others had been partly demolished. The American Legation
escaped even the slightest damage.
"Occasionally I encountered a wall which bore
striking evidence of the battle. Blood was matted upon
it and blood had coagulated in the gutters, indicating
only too plainly that several lives had been lost there.
Whole groups in the sidewalk had been mowed down by
shell from the field-guns.
"Nearly every man I saw and many boys carried
guns. They were not rifles of the 'homespun' variety—these
arms—but Mausers and equally effective weapons.
These were evidences of preparation. Fully a thousand
people were waving flags—the red and green flag of the
new Republic—a further proof that the revolution had
not come just when it did by accident.
[508]
"For the new Portuguese flag is a rather complicated
affair. Across a blue circle in the centre is a curved line
in white bearing the inscription, 'Patria e Liberdade.'
Half the space of the background is red—revolution—and
green, symbolizing hope.
"I followed a crowd and a band into the City Hall.
There in a large room I saw the President and his cabinet
in session, probably drawing up one of the new government's
addresses to the people. It was plain to me that
these were not men who had been 'pitchforked' into
office over night. Their appearance was that of sober,
responsible officials. I was simply a curiosity-seeker, of
course, and kept my identity concealed.
"As I walked along I heard two shots fired in a side
street. A moment later a cart drove by in which lay
two bodies. A crowd formed at the scene of the shooting,
but there was no suspicion of a riot. Among the
thousands of people I saw that day there was not a single
person who appeared to be under the influence of liquor.
There seemed to be no looting; no outrages were committed.
It was a most impressive object-lesson of the
self-control which a Latin people is able to maintain
when it is imbued with a serious purpose.
"Country folk were pouring into town by the thousands,
and these reflected the joy and satisfaction felt
by the residents of the city. They afforded a rebuke
to the suspicion that the revolutionary feeling was confined
to Lisbon itself. The spirit of the people was best
expressed by two words, composing a headline which
stretched across the front page of an afternoon newspaper.
Translated, it read simply: 'At Last!'
"And it was apparent also that the revolution was[509]
accomplished with as little bloodshed as possible. The
insurgents were merciful—if that term is permissible in
this connection. Shells fired from the ships in the bay
were directed in such a way that they should explode
over the town, carrying the desired warning, but causing
the minimum amount of damage.
"I was told that the dead and wounded numbered
three thousand. I am certain this was a great exaggeration.
My estimate is about 600 or 700, basing these
figures on information obtained at the headquarters of
the Red Cross Society.
"Most of the residents of Lisbon give the greatest
share of credit for the result to the seamen. A hero was
made of every sailor who appeared in the streets. The
crowds cheered him heartily, but the army officers
aroused much less enthusiasm.
"Save for these evidences of jubilation Lisbon was
quiet and orderly—think of it, only a few hours after
such an uprising as this! The bodies of the dead had
been removed, the wounded were being nursed and business
was proceeding almost normally. In front of every
bank was a guard of sailors to protect the financial interests
of the people. It seems strange that I, who have
lived in South America two years, was forced to come
to Europe in order to see a revolution."
A Contrast
On the night of February 4, 1910, the eve of the
carnival, I went to take a walk in the Luneta. Already
from the distance I could see the hippodrome in the
carnival grounds well illuminated. "What is going on
in there?" I asked myself, and not being able to explain[510]
the matter, and urged by my curiosity to know everything,
I walked in that direction.
Many people, foreigners as well as natives, were
crowding up and down the sidewalk near the fence enclosing
the carnival grounds. There were also constabulary
guards at almost every thirty spaces to prevent
the people from peeping through the fence. But in spite
of the presence of these guards some people, nevertheless,
seized the opportunity that offered now and then
while the guard was not looking, and peeped through the
fence.
I then saw that I was not the only one who was
anxious to know what was going on in the hippodrome,
and, what is more, my anxiety grew stronger. Then a
moment came when I lost a little self-control, and I, too,
shared some of those opportunities that offered. But
suddenly there came the guard who warned us to stop
the business. At that very moment, an American came
along and he, too, could not help wanting to see what
was going on inside. But the guard went to him at once
and said: "No se permite eso, si tu quieres ver lo que
hay adentro, puede Vd. pasar por la puerta central."
"Vd. sabi muy bein que eso no verdad, sabi," replied
the American angrily. Then the guard told him that he
had received orders to see that people did not peep
through the fence. "To h—— with your orders!" said
the American. "Well, este habla el commanding officer,"
replied the guard. "Oh, nom porta!" At this moment
an American policeman came along and asked the American
what was the matter. "This fellow wants to prevent
me from peeping through this fence when I am on neutral
ground," "Well, that is just what I am going to[511]
do," replied the policeman, and he again explained him
the order. "I don't care for that order!" "Well, if
you don't shut up, I shall take you to the police station!"
"You may!" Then the policeman told him to walk on;
for he did not know what he was talking about. "All
right," said the gentleman, and he walked away; but he
came back and asked the policeman what his number
was. "It makes no difference what my number is," said
the officer of the law. "Well, I want to know it." "My
number is——, and my name is——; and what's your
name?" "My name is——, and I am the secretary in
the public——"(!). "All right," said the policeman,
and both men took opposite directions.
Two bystanders who witnessed this incident began
to argue as to what would have happened had the American
gentleman been a Filipino. One of them said that
if the man were a Filipino and had argued with the
officer of the law in that way, he would have received a
good knock on his head. The other said that he was
satisfied with the way the American policeman behaved
himself.
I then returned and walked toward the central gate
of the carnival grounds, and there, to my surprise, I saw
the very same American gentleman come and walk
straight inside without saying a word to the guard.
Then a Filipino came along and asked the guard to be
allowed to go in, but, unfortunately, according to the
guard, only the stockholders were allowed to enter.
Was the American gentleman a stockholder? He
alone knows.
—Adolfo Scheerer.
[512]
IV. The Tale of Actual Adventure
Tales of actual adventure differ from the other true
narratives in the fact of the necessary presence of an
exciting occurrence. Danger at hand and overcome is
the keynote of the action. The happening may be
slight or tremendous, or serious or humorous; but in
every case it acquires a certain amount of dignity from
the possible disaster.
The narration is usually in the first person, though
not necessarily. In the "Library of Universal Adventure,"
compiled by William Dean Howells and
Thomas Sergeant Perry eighteen years ago, the larger
number of the stories are autobiographic in form.
This book is a quaint comment on Howells's non-sensationalistic
attitude of today. Though purporting to be
true, these stories are almost lurid in their romanticism.
They present man in the familiar struggle with untimely
death, led thither by various motives and accidents.
We see Pliny the Elder with insatiable curiosity
sailing calmly toward the destructive volcano; we see
the lonely scientist Audubon on his Western trip in
early America weighing his chance of life against his
watch, that is coveted by a murderous hag and her
two drunken sons; we see the runaway slave Frederick
Douglass, attempting to slip along the very precarious
underground railroad to safety; of course, there is
mutiny at sea, and shipwreck on unknown shores. Indeed,
here we find all the despised paraphernalia of
blood-curdling romance, true, with Mr. Howells's name
signed on the package.[10]
[513]
Obviously such stories are written to climaxes,
though any manifest straining for emphasis in a true
narrative is resented by the reader. All the skill you
have got from your former attempts to write realistically
ought to help you here. You should put in
enough minutiæ to convince, but omit enough to be
interesting. The general effect of your style should
be that of directness and swiftness. Whatever power
of psychological analysis you have, should come to your
aid, but it should appear only in keen and brief flashes
as you hurry along with the events. Descriptive touches
of objective nature may be used for emphasis in harmony
or contrast, especially at the end or the beginning
of the adventure, though these are a somewhat
trite device. Whatever else you do, try to write simply
and naturally. Do not exaggerate. You will be judged
chiefly on your tone of veracity.
There is a large and interesting field here for the
amateur writer. This type of story allies itself with the
probable adventure, and in fact is generally lost therein.
The successful authors of boys' books for the most
part make use of the coalescence. Boys at a certain
age are extremely exacting, and when their entertainers
have to relate their stories orally as well as pen
them, they are often as solicitous to find authority for
their fictions as were Macpherson and Chatterton.
[514]
The Bear-Hunt
(The adventure here narrated is one that happened to Tolstoy
himself in 1858. More than twenty years later he gave
up hunting on humanitarian grounds.)
We were out on a bear-hunting expedition. My
comrade had shot at a bear, but only gave him a flesh
wound. There were traces of blood on the snow, but
the bear had got away.
We all collected in a group in the forest to decide
whether we ought to go after the bear at once or wait
two or three days till he should settle down again. We
asked the peasant bear-drivers whether it would be
possible to get round the bear that day.
"No. It's impossible," said an old bear-driver.
"You must let the bear quiet down. In five days' time
it will be possible to surround him; but if you followed
him now, you would only frighten him away and he
would not settle down."
But a young bear-driver began disputing with the
old man, saying that it was quite possible to get round
the bear now.
"On such snow as this," said he, "he won't go far,
for he is a fat bear. He will settle down before evening;
or, if not, I can overtake him on snow-shoes."
The comrade I was with was against following up
the bear, and advised waiting. But I said:
"We need not argue. You do as you like, but I will
follow up the track with Damian. If we get round the
bear, all right. If not, we lose nothing. It is still early,
and there is nothing else for us to do to-day."
The others went back to the sledges and returned to[515]
the village. Damian and I took some bread and remained
behind in the forest.
When they had all left us, Damian and I examined
our guns, and after tucking the skirts of our warm coats
into our belts, we started off, following the bear's tracks.
The weather was fine, frosty and calm; but it was
hard work snow-shoeing. The snow was deep and soft;
it had not caked together at all in the forest, and fresh
snow had fallen the day before, so that our snow-shoes
sank six inches deep in the snow, and sometimes more.
The bear's tracks were visible from a distance, and
we could see how he had been going; sometimes sinking
in up to his belly and ploughing up the snow as he
went. At first, while under large trees, we kept in sight
of his track; but when it turned into a thicket of small
firs, Damian stopped.
"We must leave the trail now," said he. "He has
probably settled somewhere here. You can see by the
snow that he has been squatting down. Let us leave the
track and go round; but we must go quietly. Don't
shout or cough, or we shall frighten him away."
Leaving the track, therefore, we turned off to the
left. But when he had gone about five hundred yards,
there were the bear's traces again right before us. We
followed them and they brought us out onto the road.
There we stopped, examining the road to see which way
the bear had gone. Here and there in the snow were
prints of the bear's paw, claws and all, and here and
there the marks of a peasant's bark shoes. The bear
had evidently gone towards the village.
As we followed the road, Damian said:
"It's no use watching the road now. We shall see[516]
where he has turned off, to right or left, by the marks
in the soft snow at the side. He must have turned off
somewhere, for he won't have gone on to the village."
We went along the road for nearly a mile, and then
saw, ahead of us, the bear's track turning off the road.
We examined it. How strange! It was a bear's track
right enough, only not going from the road into the
forest, but from the forest onto the road! The toes were
pointing towards the road.
"This must be another bear," I said.
Damian looked at it and considered a while.
"No," said he. "It's the same one. He's been playing
tricks, and walked backwards when he left the
road."
We followed the track and found it really was so!
The bear had gone some ten steps backwards, and then,
behind a fir tree, had turned round and gone straight
ahead. Damian stopped and said:
"Now, we are sure to get round him. There is a
marsh ahead of us and he must have settled down there.
Let us go round it."
We began to make our way round through a fir
thicket. I was tired out by this time, and it had become
still more difficult to get along. Now I glided onto
juniper bushes and caught my snow-shoes in them, now
a tiny fir tree appeared between my feet, or, from want
of practice, my snow-shoes slipped off; and now I came
upon a stump or a log hidden by the snow. I was
getting very tired, and was drenched with perspiration,
and I took off my fur cloak. And there was Damian all
the time, gliding along as if in a boat, his snow-shoes
moving as if of their own accord, never catching against[517]
anything, nor slipping off. He even took my fur and
slung it over his shoulders, and still kept urging me on.
We went on for two more miles, and came out on the
other side of the marsh. I was lagging behind. My
snow-shoes kept slipping off, and my feet stumbled.
Suddenly Damian, who was ahead of me, stopped and
waved his arm. When I came up to him, he bent down,
pointing with his hand and whispered:
"Do you see the magpie chattering above that undergrowth?
It scents the bear from afar. That is where he
must be."
We turned off and went on for more than another
half-mile, and presently we came onto the old track
again. We had, therefore, been right round the bear,
who was now within the track we had left. We stopped,
and I took off my cap and loosened all my clothes. I
was as hot as in a steam bath, and as wet as a drowned
rat. Damian, too, was flushed, and wiped his face with
his sleeve.
"Well, sir", he said, "we have done our job, and
now we must have a rest."
The evening glow already showed red through the
forest. We took off our snow-shoes and sat down on
them, and get some bread and salt out of our bags. First
I ate some snow, and then some bread; and the bread
tasted so good that I thought I had never in my life
had any like it before. We sat there resting until it
began to grow dusk, and then I asked Damian if it was
far to the village.
"Yes," he said, "it must be above eight miles. We
will go on there tonight, but now we must rest. Put on
your fur coat, sir, or you'll be catching cold."
[518]
Damian flattened down the snow, and breaking off
some fir branches made a bed of them. We lay down
side by side, resting our heads on our arms. I do not
remember how I fell asleep. Two hours later I woke up,
hearing something crack.
I had slept so soundly that I did not know where I
was. I looked around me. How wonderful! I was in
some sort of a hall, all glittering and white with gleaming
pillars, and when I looked up I saw, through delicate
white tracery, a vault, raven black and studded with
coloured lights. After a good look I remembered that
we were in the forest and that what I took for a hall and
pillars were trees covered with snow and hoar-frost, and
the coloured lights were stars twinkling between the
branches.
Hoar-frost had settled in the night; all the twigs
were thick with it, Damian was covered with it, it was
on my fur coat, and it dropped down from the trees.
I woke Damian, and we put on our snow-shoes and
started. It was very quiet in the forest. No sound was
heard but that of our snow-shoes pushing through the
soft snow, except when now and then a tree, cracked by
the frost, made the forest resound. Only once we heard
the sound of a living creature. Something rustled close
to us and then rushed away. I felt sure it was the bear,
but when we went to the spot whence the sound had
come we found the footmarks of hares, and saw several
young aspen trees with their bark gnawed. We had
startled some hares while they were feeding.
We came out on the road and followed it, dragging
our snow-shoes behind us. It was easy walking now.
Our snow-shoes clattered as they slid behind us from[519]
side to side of the hard-trodden road: The snow creaked
under our boots, and the cold hoar-frost settled on our
faces like down. Seen through the branches, the stars
seemed to be running to meet us, now twinkling, now
vanishing, as if the whole sky were on the move.
I found my comrade sleeping, but woke him up and
related how we had got round the bear. After telling
our peasant host to collect beaters for the morning, we
had supper and lay down to sleep.
I was so tired that I could have slept on till midday
if my comrade had not roused me. I jumped up and
saw that he was already dressed and busy doing something
to his gun.
"Where is Damian?" said I.
"In the forest long ago. He has already been over
the tracks you made, and been back here, and now he
has gone to look after the beaters."
I washed and dressed and loaded my guns, and then
we got into a sledge and started.
The sharp frost still continued. It was quiet and
the sun could not be seen. There was a thick mist above
us and hoar-frost still covered everything.
After driving about two miles along the road, as we
came near the forest, we saw a cloud of smoke raising
from a hollow, and presently reached a group of peasants,
both men and women, armed with cudgels.
We got out and went up to them. The men sat
roasting potatoes and laughing and talking with the
women.
Damian was there, too, and when we arrived the
people got up and Damian led them to place them in the
circle we had made the day before. They went along[520]
in single file, men and women, thirty in all. The snow
was so deep that we could only see them from their
waists upwards. They turned into the forest and my
friend and I followed in their track.
Though they had trodden a path, walking was
difficult; but, on the other hand, it was impossible to
fall; it was like walking between two walls of snow.
We went on in this way for nearly half a mile, when
all at once we saw Damian coming from another direction—running
towards us on his snow-shoes and beckoning
us to join him. We went towards him and he showed
us where to stand. I took my place and looked round
me.
To my left were tall fir trees, between the trunks of
which I could see a good way, and, like a black patch
just visible behind the trees, I could see a beater. In
front of me was a thicket of young firs about as high
as a man, their branches weighed down and stuck together
with snow. Through this copse ran a path thickly
covered with snow, and leading straight up to where I
stood. The thicket stretched away to the right of me and
ended in a small glade where I could see Damian placing
my comrade.
I examined both my guns and considered where I had
better stand. Three steps behind me was a tall fir.
"That's where I'll stand," thought I, "and then I
can lean my second gun against the tree;" and I moved
towards the tree, sinking up to my knees in the snow at
each step. I trod the snow down, and made a clearance
about a yard square to stand on. One gun I kept in my
hand; the other, ready cocked, I placed leaning up
against the tree. Then I unsheathed and replaced my[521]
dagger, to make sure that I could draw it easily in case
of need.
Just as I had finished these preparations, I heard
Damian shouting in the forest:
"He's up! He's up!"
And as soon as Damian shouted, the peasants round
the circle all replied in their different voices.
"Up, up, up! Ou! Ou! Ou!" shouted the men.
"Ay! Ay! Ay!" screamed the women in high pitched
tones.
The bear was inside the circle, and as Damian drove
him on, the people all round kept shouting. Only my
friend and I stood silent and motionless, waiting for the
bear to come towards us. As I stood gazing and listening,
my heart beat violently. I trembled, holding my
gun fast.
"Now, now," I thought. "He will come suddenly.
I shall aim, fire, and he will drop—"
Suddenly, to my left, but at a distance, I heard something
falling on the snow. I looked between the tall fir
trees, and, some fifty paces off, behind the trunks, saw
something big and black. I took aim and waited, thinking:
"Won't he come any nearer?"
As I waited I saw him move his ears, turn and go
back, and then I caught a glimpse of the whole of him
in profile. He was an immense brute. In my excitement
I fired and heard my bullet go "flop" against a
tree. Peering through the smoke I saw my bear scampering
back into the circle and disappearing among the
trees.
"Well," thought I, "My chance is lost. He won't[522]
come back to me. Either my comrade will shoot him or
he will escape through the line of beaters. In any case
he won't give me another chance."
I reloaded my gun, however, and again stood listening.
The peasants were shouting all round, but to the
right, not far from where my comrade stood, I heard a
woman screaming in a frenzied voice:
"Here he is! Here he is! Come here, come here!
Oh! Oh! Ay! Ay!"
Evidently she could see the bear. I had given up expecting
him and was looking to the right at my comrade.
All at once I saw Damian with a stick in his hand, and
without his snow-shoes, running along a footpath towards
my friend. He crouched down beside him, pointing his
stick as if aiming at something, and then I saw my friend
raise his gun and aim in the same direction. Crack!
He fired.
"There," thought I, "he has killed him."
But I saw that my comrade did not run towards the
bear. Evidently he had missed him, or the shot had not
taken full effect.
"The bear will get away," I thought. "He will go
back, but he won't come a second time towards me. But
what is that?"
Something was coming towards me like a whirlwind,
snorting as it came, and I saw the snow flying up quite
near me. I glanced straight before me, and there was
the bear, rushing along the path through the thicket
right at me, evidently beside himself with fear. He was
hardly half a dozen paces off; and I could see the whole
of him—his black chest and enormous head with a reddish
patch. There he was, blundering straight at me and[523]
scattering the snow about as he came. I could see by his
eyes that he did not see me, but, mad with fear, was
rushing blindly along, and his path led him straight at
the tree under which I was standing. I raised my gun
and fired. He was almost upon me now, and I saw that
I had missed. My bullet had gone past him, and he did
not even hear me fire, but still came headlong towards
me. I lowered my gun and fired again, almost touching
his head. Crack! I had hit but not killed him.
He raised his head and, laying his ears back, came at
me, showing his teeth.
I snatched at my other gun, but almost before I had
touched it he had flown at me and, knocking me over
into the snow, had passed right over me.
"Thank goodness, he has left me," thought I.
I tried to rise, but something pressed me down and
prevented my getting up. The bear's rush had carried
him past me, but he had turned back and had fallen on
me with the whole weight of his body. I felt something
heavy weighing me down and something warm above my
face, and I realized that he was drawing my whole face
into his mouth. My nose was already in it, and I felt
the heat of it and smelt his blood. He was pressing my
shoulders down with his paws so that I could not move;
all I could do was to draw my head down towards my
chest, away from his mouth, trying to free my nose and
eyes, while he tried to get his teeth into them. Then I
felt that he had seized my forehead just under the hair
with the teeth of his lower jaw and the flesh below my
eyes with his upper jaw, and was closing his teeth. It
was as if my face were being cut with knives. I struggled
to get away, while he made haste to close his jaws,[524]
like a dog gnawing. I managed to twist my face away,
but he began drawing it again into his mouth.
"Now," thought I, "my end has come!"
Then I felt the weight lifted and, looking up, I saw
that he was no longer there. He had jumped off me and
run away.
When my comrade and Damian had seen the bear
knock me down and begin worrying me, they rushed to
the rescue. My comrade, in his haste, blundered and,
instead of following the trodden path, ran into the deep
snow and fell down. While he was struggling out of the
snow the bear was gnawing at me. But Damian, just
as he was, without a gun and with only a stick in his
hand, rushed along the path shouting:
"He's eating the master! He's eating the master!"
And, as he ran, he called to the bear:
"Oh, you idiot! What are you doing? Leave off!
Leave off!"
The bear obeyed him and, leaving me, ran away.
When I rose there was as much blood on the snow as if a
sheep had been killed, and the flesh hung in rags above
my eyes, though in my excitement I felt no pain.
My comrade had come up by this time, and the other
people collected round; they looked at my wound and
put snow on it. But I, forgetting about my wounds,
only asked:
"Where's the bear? Which way has he gone?"
Suddenly I heard:
"Here he is! Here he is!"
And we saw the bear again running at us. We seized
our guns, but before any one had time to fire he had run
past He had grown ferocious and wanted to gnaw me[525]
again, but, seeing so many people, he took fright. We
saw by his track that his head was bleeding, and we
wanted to follow him up, but, as my wounds had become
very painful, we went, instead, to the town to find a
doctor.
The doctor stitched up my wounds with silk and they
soon began to heal.
A month later we went to hunt that bear again, but
I did not get a chance of finishing him. He would not
come out of the circle, but went round and round, growling
in a terrible voice.
Damian killed him. The bear's lower jaw had
been broken and one of his teeth knocked out by my
bullet. He was a huge creature and had splendid black
fur.
I had him stuffed and he now lies in my room. The
wounds on my forehead healed up so that the scars can
scarcely be seen.
—Leo M. Tolstoy.
"Twenty-three Tales from Tolstoy." (Oxford.) Written about
1872.
Saladin and I Fight an Alupong
As I remember, it was a windy afternoon in April,
1906, that I was nearly bitten by an alupong, a very
poisonous snake, when I was out on our farm during
harvest. The day was beginning to cool. The men and
women were busy cleaning the rice that had been
threshed the night before.
I went out with my dog, Saladin, to play with the
other boy on the farm. While we were running and
jumping on the great, long pile of hay I heard my dog
barking. I quickly ran to see what was the matter.[526]
Saladin was leaping and running as he barked. He was
after a big snake, which from time to time stopped and
raised its crested head to bite.
I was very much excited. I shouted to encourage my
dog. I took a good-sized lump of dried earth and threw
it with all my might at the snake. Then I cried to the
boys, "A snake, a snake! Come, here is a big snake!
Look!"
All the boys came, but when they reached the place
the poisonous animal was gone. Saladin was standing
on his hind legs and was barking as he scratched the side
of an ant hill. I went near the dog. I saw what was
the matter. Then I turned to the boys and said, "It is
gone into this hole. Let us make it come out."
I pulled up one of the poles of the fence surrounding
the place where the rice was being cleaned, and with it I
hastened back to the ant hill. Then I pushed this
pointed pole, about one and one-half inches in diameter
and four feet in length, into the hole. The other boys
were far from me, but my dog was alert near the place.
I heard the snake spit and hiss inside. Then I suddenly
pulled away the pole. When I saw the animal coming
out quickly, I speedily turned to run, but I missed my
first step and fell to the ground.
You may fancy how greatly I was frightened. During
that short, critical moment I expected the deadly
bite, but to my great relief I had time to stand up without
being bitten. I looked back and saw how my dog
had saved my life. He was fighting with the snake. In
that very place the two killed each other, after a short
time.
—Cecilio R. Esquivel.
[527]
I Get Two Beatings
One afternoon my mother beat me for some cause
which I have forgotten. After I had wiped my tears I
went into our orchard just across the road. It was very
nice to stay under the orange and cocoa trees because of
the sweet breeze which was coming from the river at the
end of the orchard.
As I was rambling about I came to the river bank,
which is about thirty feet high. When I looked down I
saw two wild tomato plants full of red fruit. "Ah!" I
exclaimed, "what good tomato plants. I will take the
fruit home to appease mother's anger." Accordingly I
began to look for a path down to the water. The path
which I found was very steep, and so it was hard for me
to go down. When I reached the edge of the water I
saw a man catching insects to use for bait.
"Where are you going, my lad?" he said.
"I am going to get the fruit of those two tomato
plants. Can't you see them?" I asked, pointing to the
plants.
"I tried to get those this morning, but I could not."
"Anyhow, I will try," I continued.
So I began to climb the steep slope with both hands
and feet. While I was climbing the man said, "Look
out. If you fall, you will surely roll into the water."
My desire to appease my mother's anger was so great
that I paid no heed to what he said. After struggling
for a few minutes I caught hold of a long root of the
madre cacao tree, which was growing on the bank. With
the help of this and several others I reached the place
where the tomatoes were. When I had filled one of my
pockets with the red fruits the root to which I was holding[528]
broke in two and down I rolled, with my head foremost,
into the water. I should have drowned had not
the man saved me. When I was carried on land I found
out that my back was badly hurt. I had received two
wounds, one over the left eyebrow and one in the forehead,
from some thorns. The scars can be seen to this
day. When I went home my mother asked me why I
had my clothes wet. I told her the whole story, but when
she saw my wounds she became so angry that she beat
me again.
—Facundo Esquivel.
The Fall of Juan
One day while Juan, Pedro and I were in the church
tower looking at a procession, we saw a nest hanging
from the cogon roof. For a while no one of us seemed
to want it, but soon Juan said, "That is mine." Then
Pedro approached him, saying, "I will have it," and he
pushed Juan away. As I was very much interested in
the beautiful nest, I went near them and said, "The first
one that can get it shall have it." So I jumped and
grabbed it. Then Pedro said, "Let us divide the eggs
so that each of us will have a share."
"No, no," I cried, "I must have it all."
For a long time the quarrel grew worse and worse
until it finally became a fight. Then a sad thing occurred.
Pedro rushed toward me and snatched at the
nest, but I pushed him away. Then Juan came with the
same intention. Seeing that I was in danger, I laid the
nest on the floor and grasped Juan by the neck. As he
tried to throw me, I pushed him out of the door. Down,
down he went as fast as an arrow. Now all of us thought
that he would be dashed to pieces, but when, by scrambling[529]
and sliding, we at last reached the bottom of the
long, dark, winding stairs, we found him swelling with
pride and boasting of himself as a brave boy.
—Gregorio Farrales.
A Narrow Escape from a Wild Carabao
In 1903 I narrowly escaped being killed by a wild
carabao. There were many of us pursuing this animal,
but, after seeing that the buffalo was very fierce, all of
my companions got so afraid that they withdrew. Since
I had the best horse, I continued following the wild
beast. My ambition to distinguish myself both in horseback
riding and in catching wild cattle was great. So,
at the time when we were pursuing the animal, I had in
mind that if I alone could succeed in catching the wild
carabao, it would surely be an honor to me. So I followed
the animal closely. When I was just a few feet
behind it it suddenly turned back and fell upon my
pony. I also tried to turn back, but in vain; the carabao
overcame us. At this time I was entirely hopeless of
my life. The sharp horn of the cruel beast stuck deeply
into the thighs of my poor pony. I did not know what
to do then, for the cruel beast would surely pursue me
if I should dismount. So I grasped my saddle with all
my might. But after a while my poor pet languished
and fell. Then I did my best to get away from danger.
The carabao would have pursued me at once, but its
horns stuck tight into the muscles of my horse, and consequently
it was delayed a little. Meanwhile I got into
a cell of a big rock, and exactly at the very moment I
squeezed in the mad buffalo struck the opening with its
horns. Fortunately, the aperture was too small for the[530]
head of the animal to enter. But still the sharp points
of its horns could reach me and I received a wound at
the back of my neck. Luckily, I had a bolo with me, and
reaching out bravely, I stabbed the nose of the cruel
beast. It surely received a severe wound. But, instead
of running away, the animal became angrier than before
and butted again and again at the opening. My eyes
were nearly struck by the sharp pointed horns. In order
to save myself from further injury I stabbed this time
one of the glowing eyes of the buffalo. Blood gushed
out at me. When the wild beast felt the pains of the
wounds it began to move away with regret. After the
carabao had gone I bemoaned the death of my favorite
pony. I decided to take revenge upon the beast. In
order to accomplish this I first went home. When I told
my parents about the accident they at once consented to
my taking their gun. So the next morning I set out
with many companions. We easily found the same wild
carabao roaming in the broad forest. It was still very
mad, for it began to chase us immediately, coming
swiftly towards us, looking sidewise with its one eye.
Without hesitation I let my bullet go and the beast fell
dead.
—José M. Cariño.
V. The Traveler's Sketch
A traveler's sketch is an orderly and extended account
of the incidents of a journey—the sights, sounds,
experiences, impressions and conclusions of the writer.
Incidents and anecdotes may be given by the narrator
in the first or third person; but a traveler's sketch is[531]
always first person. There may be the other forms included,
together with descriptions and historical references;
but what makes a traveler's sketch a traveler's
sketch is the personal flavor. The question the reader
always asks is, not what kind of city is Lisbon, but
what impression did it make on Fielding.
Great
travel
books
There have been only a few great travel books
written. Perhaps, because the people that are worth
while are not gadabouts; perhaps, because
only a few men are generous enough or idle
enough to give themselves over completely
to impressions; surely, because not every one who
travels has the ability to see what ought to be seen or
to express himself entertainingly after he has seen it.
The narrator needs an eye made quiet, that looks into
the heart of things. He needs also wit and a wide
humanity. If he stalks his way through a place as an
Englishman only, or if he buys it through lavishly as
an American, he will have nothing to tell that we care
to listen to. The public is not won by a string of foreign
names merely. A little trip from New York to
Boston would furnish a Smollet or a Sterne with more
observations than a journey around the world would
a dull-minded pedant. George Borrow could tell of
distributing Bibles in Spain, and yet give us one of the
best travel books in any language. Henry Fielding
could be on his death journey, as he was on his voyage
to Lisbon, and well know it, as he did, and yet he
could write with such an 'indomitable gallantry of
spirit, such an irrepressible joy of life, such an insatiably
curious eye for humanity,' such a new relish for
every fresh face, that the reader could easily imagine[532]
that the laughing, genial, ironic, but altogether compassionate
and broad-minded, manly fellow had not a
care in the world.
The "Voyage and Travaille of Sir John Mandeville"
is a book very precious to the English language,
if not to the history of facts. It was intended as a
road-book to the Holy Land, and was produced as early
as 1356. It is precious not only because of the marvelous
tales skillfully woven in as reports of the belief
of various cities—stories which have been inspirations
to hundreds of romancers—but because of the fact that
it was, so far as we know, the first piece of English
prose of any considerable extent to depart from the
beaten track of medieval theology and philosophy,
and the first piece of original prose to reveal any personality,
to have any style, any flavor of the author.
Altho because of its stooping to the delight that men
of that day took in marvels it places itself really in the
class of imaginary voyages, it yet belongs with good
travel books in this one essential—vivacity and personal
charm.
Marco Polo, the Venetian traveler of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, because of his irresponsibility
in padding his account with marvelous tales, placed
himself with Mandeville and the wonder books; but
the result of his "Travels" was scientific in the effect
his evidence that he had really been to the far East
had upon Columbus and the earlier navigators.
An interesting bit of Anglo-Saxon actual travel
account is the story of Ohthere and Wulfstan inserted
by King Alfred into his translation of the "History of
Orosius," and told as the king took it down from the[533]
lips of these sea-rovers themselves sometime during the
ninth century.
Sturdy old Sam Johnson by his "Journey to the
Western Isles" added a substantial volume to the very
short eight-or-ten-inch shelf of great travel book.
In many ways Bayard Taylor was the ideal traveler,
putting himself into sympathy with the people whom
he went among, wearing their dress, eating their food,
speaking their language. But he failed to produce
great literature, for some reason or other—perhaps because
he wrote for the newspapers. His "Views Afoot,
or Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff" and other
"copy" of the sort are interesting reading, however.
Darwin's record of the Voyage of the Beagle is invaluable
to science.
Richard Henry Dana's "Two Years Before the
Mast" is an excellent boys' book, and has a fine feeling
of adventure about it. But we may not mention the
work of any more travel writers, Stevenson, James,
Curtis, Stanley, Roosevelt, or others in other languages.
Fielding's
gentle
warning
Many of our travel books were written as letters
and journals; some, as notes or strict diaries. You
might put your sketch into the form of a
letter to a friend. The chief thing you need
to remember in relating any journey, however
long or short, is Fielding's gentle warning to
know what to omit: "To make a traveler an agreeable
companion to a man of sense, it is necessary, not only
that he should have seen much, but that he should
have overlooked much of what he hath seen....
A motto
for the
narrator[Some voyage-writers] waste their time and paper with
recording things and facts of so common a kind that[534]
they challenge no other right of being remembered
than as they had the honor of having happened to the
author, to whom nothing seems trivial that in any
manner happens to himself. Of such consequence do
his own actions appear to one of his kind that he would
probably think himself guilty of infidelity should he
omit the minutest thing in the detail of his journal.
That the fact is true, is sufficient to give it a place there
without any consideration whether it is capable of
pleasing or surprising, of diverting or informing
the reader." By implication Fielding
gives the travel book its motto: to please
and surprise, divert and inform.
"On the Way to Talavera"
The next day's journey brought me to a considerable
town, the name of which I have forgotten. It is the
first in New Castile, in this direction. I passed the night
as usual in the manger of the stable, close beside the
Caballeria; for, as I traveled upon a donkey, I deemed it
incumbent upon me to be satisfied with a couch in keeping
with my manner of journeying, being averse, by any
squeamish and over delicate airs, to generate a suspicion
amongst the people with whom I mingled that I am aught
higher than what my equipage and outward appearance
might lead them to believe. Rising before daylight, I
again proceeded on my way, hoping ere night to be able
to reach Talavera, which I was informed was ten leagues
distant. The way lay entirely over an unbroken level,
for the most part covered with olive trees. On the left,
however, at the distance of a few leagues, rose the mighty
mountains which I have already mentioned. They run[535]
eastward in a seemingly interminable range, parallel
with the route which I was pursuing; their tops and
sides were covered with dazzling snow, and the blasts
which came sweeping from them across the wide and
melancholy plains were of bitter keenness.
"What mountains are those?" I inquired of a barber-surgeon,
who, mounted like myself on a grey burra,
joined me about noon, and proceeded in my company for
several leagues. "They have many names, Caballero,"
replied the barber; "according to the names of the
neighbouring places so they are called. Yon portion of
them is styled the Serriania of Plasencia; and opposite
to Madrid they are termed the Mountains of Guadarama,
from a river of that name which descends from them;
they run a vast way, Caballero, and separate the two
kingdoms, for on the other side is Old Castile. They are
mighty mountains, and though they generate much cold,
I take pleasure in looking at them, which is not to be
wondered at, seeing that I was born among them, though
at present, for my sins, I live in a village of the plain.
Caballero, there is not another such range in Spain; they
have their secrets, too—their mysteries—strange tales
are told of those hills, and of what they contain in their
deep recesses, for they are a broad chain, and you may
wander days and days amongst them without coming to
any termino. Many have lost themselves on those hills,
and have never again been heard of. Strange things are
told of them; it is said that in a certain place there are
deep pools and lakes in which dwell monsters, huge
serpents as long as a pine tree, and horses of the flood,
which sometimes come out and commit mighty damage.
One thing is certain, that yonder, far away to the west,[536]
in the heart of those hills, there is a wonderful valley, so
narrow that only at midday is the face of the sun to be
descried from it. That valley lay undiscovered and unknown
for thousands of years; no person dreamed of
its existence, but at last, a long time ago, certain hunters
entered it by chance, and then what do you think they
found, Caballero? They found a small nation or tribe
of unknown people, speaking an unknown language, who
perhaps, had lived there since the creation of the world,
without intercourse with the rest of their fellow
creatures, and without knowing that other beings besides
themselves existed! Caballero, did you never hear
of the valley of the Batuecas? Many books have been
written about that valley and those people, Caballero, I
am proud of yonder hills; and were I independent, and
without wife or children, I would purchase a burra like
that of your own, which I see is an excellent one, and far
superior to mine, and travel amongst them till I knew
all their mysteries, and had seen all the wondrous things
they contain."
Throughout the day I pressed the burra forward, only
stopping once in order to feed the animal; but, notwithstanding
that she played her part very well, night came
on, and I was still about two leagues from Talavera. As
the sun went down, the cold became intense; I drew the
old Gypsy cloak, which I still wore, closer around me,
but I found it quite inadequate to protect me from the
inclemency of the atmosphere. The road, which lay over
a plain, was not very distinctly traced, and became in
the dusk rather difficult to find, more especially as cross
roads leading to different places were of frequent occurrence.
[537]
I however, proceeded in the best manner I could,
and when I became dubious as to the course which
I should take, I invariably allowed the animal on which
I was mounted to decide. At length the moon shone out
faintly, when suddenly by its beams I beheld a figure
moving before me at a slight distance. I quickened the
pace of the burra, and was soon close at its side. It
went on, neither altering its pace nor looking round for
a moment. It was the figure of a man, the tallest and
bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in Spain, dressed in a
manner strange and singular for the country. On his
head was a hat with a low crown and broad brim, very
much resembling that of an English waggoner; about his
body was a long loose tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse
ticken, open in front, so as to allow the interior garments
to be occasionally seen; these appeared to consist
of a jerkin and short velveteen pantaloons. I have said
that the brim of the hat was broad, but broad as it was,
it was insufficient to cover an immense bush of coal-black
hair, which, thick and curly, projected, on either side;
over the left shoulder was flung a kind of satchel, and in
the right hand was held a long staff or pole.
There was something peculiarly strange about the
figure, but what struck me the most was the tranquility
with which it moved along, taking no heed of me, though
of course aware of my proximity, but looking straight
forward along the road, save when it occasionally raised
a huge face and large eyes toward the moon, which was
now shining forth in the eastern quarter.
"A cold night," said I at last. "Is this the way to
Talavera?"
"It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold."
[538]
"I am going to Talavera," said I, "as I suppose you
are yourself."
"I am going thither, so are you, Bueno."
The tones of the voice which delivered these words
were in their way quite as strange and singular as the
figure to which the voice belonged; they were not exactly
the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was something
in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation
also was correct, and the language, though singular,
faultless. But I was most struck with the manner
in which the last word, bueno, was spoken. I had heard
something like it before, but where or when I could by
no means remember. A pause now ensued; the figure
stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference,
and seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid
conversation.
"Are you not afraid," said I at last, "to travel these
roads in the dark? It is said that there are robbers
abroad."
"Are you not rather afraid," replied the figure, "to
travel these roads in the dark?—you who are ignorant of
the country, who are a foreigner, an Englishman?"
"How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?"
demanded I, much surprised.
"That is no difficult matter," replied the figure;
"the sound of your voice was enough to apprise me
of that."
"You speak of voices," said I; "suppose the tone of
your own voice were to tell me who you are?"
"That it will not do," replied my companion; "you
know nothing about me—you can know nothing about
me."
[539]
"Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted
with many things of which you have little idea."
"For example," said the figure.
"For example," said I, "you speak two languages."
The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment
and then said slowly, bueno.
"You have two names," I continued; "one for the
house and the other for the street; both are good, but
the one by which you are called at home is the one which
you like best."
The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner
as he had previously done; all of a sudden he turned,
and taking the bridle of the burra gently in his hand,
stopped her. I had now a full view of his face and
figure, and those huge features and Herculean form still
occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing
in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his
deep calm eyes. At last he said:
"Are you then one of us?"
—George Borrow.
"The Bible in Spain." The World's Classics (Oxford Press).
"Smyrna: First Glimpses of the East"
"I am glad that the Turkish part of Athens was
extinct, so that I should not be baulked of the pleasure
of entering an Eastern town by an introduction to any
garbled or incomplete specimen of one. Smyrna seems
to me the most Eastern of all have seen; as Calais will
probably remain to the Englishman, the most French
town in the world. The jack-boots of the postilions don't
seem so huge elsewhere, or the tight stockings of the
maid-servants so Gallic. The churches and the ramparts[540]
and the little soldiers on them, remain forever impressed
upon your memory; from which larger temples and
buildings, and whole armies have subsequently disappeared;
and the first words of actual French heard
spoken, and the first dinner at 'Quillacq's' remain after
twenty years as clear as on the first day. Dear Jones,
can't you remember the exact smack of the white
hermitage, and the toothless old fellow singing 'Largo
al factotum?'"
The first day in the East is like that. After that
there is nothing. The wonder is gone, and the thrill of
that delightful shock, which so seldom touches the nerves
of plain men of the world, though they seek for it everywhere.
One such looked out at Smyrna from our steamer
and yawned without the least excitement, and did not
betray the slightest emotion, as boats with real Turks
on board came up to the ship. There lay the town
with minarets and cypresses, domes and castles; great
guns were firing off, and the blood-red flag of the Sultan
flaring over the gulf's edge, and as you looked at them
with the telescope, there peered out of the general mass
a score of pleasant episodes of Eastern life—there were
cottages with quaint roofs; silent cool kioska, where the
chief of the eunuchs brings down the ladies of the harem.
I saw Hassan, the fisherman, getting his nets; and Ali
Baba going off with his donkey to the great forest for
wood. Smith looked at these wonders quite unmoved;
and I was surprised at his apathy; but he had been at
Smyrna before. A man only sees the miracle once:
though you yearn after it ever so, it won't come again.
I saw nothing of Ali Baba and Hassan the next time we
came to Smyrna, and had some doubts (recollecting the[541]
badness of the inn) about landing at all. A person who
wishes to understand France and the East should come
in a yacht to Calais or Smyrna, land for two hours, and
never afterward go back again.
But those two hours are beyond measure delightful.
Some of us were querulous up to that time and doubted
of the wisdom of making the voyage. Lisbon, we owned,
was a failure. Athens a dead failure; Malta very well,
but not worth the trouble and seasickness; in fact, Baden-Baden
or Devonshire would be a better move than this;
when Smyrna came and rebuked all mutinous Cockneys
into silence. Some men may read this who are in want
of a sensation. If they love the odd and picturesque, if
they loved the "Arabian Nights" in their youth, let
them book themselves on board one of the Peninsular and
Oriental vessels and try one dip into Constantinople or
Smyrna. Walk into the bazaar and the East is unveiled
to you; how often and often have you tried to fancy
this, lying out on a summer holiday at school! It is
wonderful, too, how like it is; you may imagine that you
have been in the place before, you seem to know it so
well!
"The beauty of that poetry is, to me, that it was
never too handsome; there is no fatigue of sublimity
about it. Schacabac and the little Barber play as great
a part in it as the heroes; there are no uncomfortable
sensations of terror; you may be familiar with the great
Afreet, who was going to execute the travelers for killing
his son with a date stone. Morgiana, when she kills
the Forty Robbers with boiling oil, does not seem to hurt
them in the least; and though King Schahrier makes a
practice of cutting off his wives' heads, yet you fancy[542]
they got them on again in some of the back rooms of the
palace, where they are dancing and playing on dulcimers.
How fresh, easy, good-natured is all this! How
delightful is that notion of the pleasant Eastern people
about knowledge, where the height of science is made to
consist in the answering of riddles and all the mathematicians
and magicians bring their great beards to bear
on a conundrum!
"When I got into the bazaar among this race, somehow
I felt as if they were all friends. There sat the
merchants in their little shops, quiet and solemn, but
with friendly looks. There was no smoking, it was the
Ramazan; no eating—the fish and meats fizzing in the
enormous pots of the cook-shops are only for the
Christians. The children abounded; the law is not so
stringent upon them, and many wandering merchants
were there selling figs (in the name of the Prophet,
doubtless), for their benefit, and elbowing onward with
baskets of grapes and cucumbers. Countrymen passed
bristling over with arms, each with a huge bellyful of
pistols and daggers in his girdle; fierce, but not the
least dangerous. Wild swarthy Arabs, who had come
in with the caravans, walked solemnly about, very different
in look and demeanor from the sleek inhabitants
of the town. Greeks and Jews squatted and smoked,
their shops tended by sallow-faced boys, with large
eyes, who smiled and welcomed you in; negroes bustled
about in gaudy colors; and women, with black nose-bags
and shuffling yellow slippers chattered and bargained at
the doors of the little shops. There was the rope quarter
and the sweetmeat quarter, and the pipe bazaar and the
arm bazaar, and the little turned-up shoe quarter, and[543]
the shops where ready-made jackets and pelisses were
swinging, and the region where, under the ragged awnings,
regiments of tailors were at work. The sun peeps
through these awnings of mat or canvas, which are
hung over the narrow lanes of the bazaar and ornaments
them with a thousand freaks of light and shadow. Cogia
Hassan Alhabbal's shop is in a blaze of light; while his
neighbor, the barber and coffee-house keeper, has his
premises, his low seats and narghilés, his queer pots
and basins, in the shade. The cobblers are always good-natured;
there was one who, I am sure, has been revealed
to me in my dreams, in a dirty old green turban,
with a pleasant wrinkled face like an apple; twinkling
his little gray eyes as he held them up to the gossips,
and smiling under a delightful old gray beard, which
did the heart good to see. You divine the conversation
between him and the cucumber man, as the Sultan used
to understand the language of birds. Are any of those
cucumbers stuffed with pearls, and is that Armenian
with the black square turban Haroun Alraschid in disguise,
standing yonder by the fountain where the children
are drinking—the gleaming marble fountain,
checked all over with light and shadow, and engraved
with delicate Arabesques and sentences from the
Koran?
"But the greatest sensation of all is when the camels
come. Whole strings of real camels, better even than in
the procession of Blue Beard, with soft rolling eyes and
bended necks, swaying from one side of the bazaar to
the other to and fro, and treading gingerly with their
great feet. Oh, you fairy dreams of boyhood! Oh, you
sweet meditations of half-holidays, here you are realized[544]
for half an hour! The genius which presides over youth
led up to do a good action that day. There was a man
sitting in an open room ornamented with fine long-tailed
sentences of the Koran; some in red, some in blue;
some written diagonally over the paper; some so shaped
as to represent ships, dragons, or mysterious animals.
The man squatted on a carpet in the middle of this room,
with folded arms, waggling his head to and fro, swaying
about, and singing through his nose choice phrases from
the sacred work. But from the room above came a clear
voice of many little shouting voices, much more musical
than that of Naso in the matted parlor, and the guide
told us it was a school, so we went upstairs to look.
"I declare, an my conscience, the master was in the
act of bastinadoing a little mulatto boy; his feet were
in a bar, and the brute was laying on with a cane; so
we witnessed the howling of the poor boy, and the confusion
of the brute who was administering the correction.
The other children were made to shout, I believe,
to drown the noise of their little comrade's howling; but
the punishment was instantly discontinued as our hats
came up over the stair-trap, and the boy cast loose, and
the bamboo huddled into a corner, and the schoolmaster
stood before us abashed. All the small scholars in red
caps, and the little girls in gaudy handkerchiefs turned
their big wondering dark eyes toward us; and the caning
was over for that time, let us trust. I don't envy some
schoolmasters in a future state. I pity that poor little
blubbering Mahometan; he will never be able to relish
the 'Arabian Nights' in the original as long as he
lives.
"From this scene we rushed off somewhat discomposed[545]
to make a breakfast off red mullets and grapes,
melons, pomegranates, and Smyrna wine, at a dirty little
comfortable inn to which we were recommended; and
from the windows of which we had a fine, cheerful view
of the gulf and its busy craft, and the loungers and
merchants along the shore. There were camels unloading
at one wharf, and piles of melons much bigger than
the Gibraltar cannon-balls at another. It was the fig
season, and we passed through several alleys encumbered
with long rows of fig-dressers, children and women for
the most part, who were packing the fruit diligently into
drums, dipping them in salt water first, and spreading
them neatly over with leaves; while the figs and leaves
are drying, large white worms crawl out of them and
swarm over the decks of the ships which carry them to
Europe and to England, where small children eat them
with pleasure—I mean the figs, not the worms—and
where they are still served at wine parties at the universities.
When fresh they are not better than elsewhere;
but the melons are of admirable flavor, and so
large that Cinderella might almost be accommodated
with a coach made of a big one, without any very great
distention of its original proportions.
"Our guide, an accomplished swindler, demanded two
dollars as the fee for entering the mosque, which others
of our party subsequently saw for sixpence, so we did
not care to examine that place of worship. But there
were other cheaper sights, which were to the full as
picturesque, for which there was no call to pay money,
or indeed, for a day, scarcely to move at all. I doubt
whether a man who would smoke his pipe on a bazaar
counter all day, and let the city flow by him, would not[546]
be almost as well employed as the most active curiosity
hunter.
"To be sure he would not see the women. Those in
the bazaar were shabby people for the most part, whose
black masks nobody would feel a curiosity to remove.
You could see no more of their figure than if they had
been stuffed in holsters; and even their feet were brought
to a general splay uniformity by the double yellow slippers
which the wives of true believers wear. But it is
in the Greek and Armenian quarters, and among those
poor Christians who were pulling figs, that you see the
beauties; and a man of a generous disposition may lose
his heart half a dozen times a day in Smyrna. There
was the pretty maid at work at a tambour frame in an
open porch, with an old duenna spinning by her side,
and a goat tied up to the railings of the little court
garden; there was the nymph who came down the stair
with the pitcher on her head, and gazed with great calm
eyes, as large and stately as Juno's; there was the gentle
mother, bending over a queer cradle, in which lay a
small crying bundle of infancy. All these three charmers
were seen in a single street in the Armenian quarter,
where the house doors are all open, and the women of
the families sit under the arches in the court. There
was the fig girl, beautiful beyond all others, with an
immense coil of deep black hair twisted round a head
of which Raphael was worthy to draw the outline, and
Titian to paint the color. I wonder the Sultan has not
swept her off, or that the Persian merchants, who come
with silks and sweetmeats have not kidnapped her for
the Shah of Tehean.
"We went to see the Persian merchants at their khan,[547]
and purchased some silks there from a swarthy, black-bearded
man with a conical cap of lambswool. Is it
not hard to think that silks bought of a man in a lambswool
cap, in a caravanseria, brought hither on the backs
of camels, should have been manufactured after all at
Lyons? Others of our party bought carpets, for which
the town is famous; and there was one absolutely laid
in a stock of real Smyrna figs, and purchased three or
four real Smyrna sponges for his carriage; so strong
was his passion for the genuine article.
"I wonder that no painter has given us familiar
views of the East; not processions, grand sultans, or
magnificent landscapes, but faithful transcripts of everyday
Oriental life, such as each street will supply to him.
The camels afford endless motives, couched in the market
places, lying by thousands in the camel square, snorting
and bubbling after their manner, the sun blazing down
on their backs, their slaves and keepers lying behind
them in the shade; and the Caravan Bridge, above all,
would afford a painter subjects for a dozen of pictures.
Over this Roman arch, which crosses the Meles river, all
the caravans pass on their entrance to the town. On one
side, as we sat and looked at it, was a great row of plane
trees; on the opposite bank a deep wood of tall cypresses,
in the midst of which rose up innumerable gray tombs,
surmounted with the turbans of the defunct believers.
Beside the stream the view was less gloomy. There was
under the plane trees a little coffee house, shaded by
a trellis-work, covered over with a vine and ornamented
with many rows of shining pots and water-pipes, for
which there was no use at noonday now, in the time of
Ramazan.
[548]
"Hard by the coffee house was a garden and a bubbling
marble fountain, and over the stream was a broken
summerhouse, to which amateurs may ascend for the
purpose of examining the river, and all round the plane
trees plenty of stools for those who were inclined to sit
and drink sweet, thick coffee or cool lemonade made of
fresh green citrons. The master of the house, dressed
in a white turban and light blue pelisse, lolled under the
coffee-house awning; the slave in white with a crimson
striped jacket, his face as black as ebony, brought up
pipes and lemonade again, and returned to his station
at the coffee house, where he curled his black legs together
and began singing out of his flat nose to the
thrumming of a long guitar with wire string. The
instrument was not bigger than a soup ladle, with a
long straight handle, but its music pleased the performer,
for his eyes rolled shining about, and his head
wagged, and he grinned with an innocent intensity of
enjoyment that did one good to look at. And there was
a friend to share his pleasure; a Turk dressed in scarlet
and covered all over with dagger and pistols, sat leaning
forward on his little stool, rocking about and grinning
quite as eagerly as the black minstrels. As he sang
and we listened, figures of women bearing pitchers went
passing over the Roman bridge which we saw between
the large trunks of the planes; or gray forms of camels
were seen stalking across it, the string preceded by the
little donkey, who is always here their long-eared conductor.
"These are very humble incidents of travel. Wherever
the steamboat touches the shore adventure retreats
into the interior, and what is called romance vanishes.[549]
It won't bear the vulgar gaze; or rather the light of
common day puts it out, and it is only in the dark that
it shines at all. There is no cursing and insulting of
Giaours now. If a cockney looks or behaves in a particularly
ridiculous way, the little Turks come out and
laugh at him. A Londoner is no longer a spittoon for
true believers; and now that dark Hassan sits in his
divan and drinks champagne, and Selim has a French
watch, and Zuleika perhaps takes Morrison's pills,
Byronism becomes absurd instead of sublime, and is
only a foolish expression of cockney wonder. They still
occasionally beat a man for going into a mosque, but this
is almost the only sign of ferocious vitality left in the
Turk of the Mediterranean coast, and strangers may
enter scores of mosques without molestation. The
paddlewheel is the great conqueror. Wherever the captain
cries 'Stop her!' civilization stops, and lands in the
ship's boat, and makes a permanent acquaintance with
the savages on shore. Whole hosts of crusaders have
passed and died and butchered here in vain. But to
manufacture European iron into pikes and helmets was
a waste of metal; in the shape of piston rods and furnace
pokers it is irresistible; and I think an allegory might
be made showing how much stronger commerce is than
chivalry, and finishing with a grand image of Mahomet's
crescent being extinguished in Fulton's boiler.
"This I thought was the moral of the day's sights
and adventures. We pulled off the steamer in the afternoon—the
Inbat blowing fresh and setting all the craft
in the gulf dancing over its blue waters. We were
presently under weigh again, the captain ordering his
engines to work only at half power, so that a French[550]
steamer which was quitting Smyrna at the same time
might come up with us and fancy she could beat the
irresistible Tagus. Vain hope! Just as the Frenchman
neared us, the Tagus shot out like an arrow and the discomfited
Frenchman went behind. Though we all
relished the joke exceedingly, there was a French gentleman
on board who did not seem to be by any means
tickled with it; but he had received papers at Smyrna
containing news of Marshal Bugeaud's victory at Isley
and had this land victory to set against our harmless
little triumph at sea.
"That night we rounded the Island of Mitylene, and
next day the coast of Troy was in sight, and the tomb
of Achilles—a dismal-looking mound that rises on a low,
dreary, barren shore—less lively and not more picturesque
than the Schelot or the mouth of the Thames.
Then we passed Tenedos and the forts and town at the
mouth of the Dardanelles. The weather was not too hot,
the water as smooth as at Putney, and everybody happy
and excited at the thought of seeing Constantinople tomorrow.
We had music on board all the way from
Smyrna. A German commis voyageur, with a guitar,
who had passed unnoticed until that time, produced his
instrument about midday and began to whistle waltzes.
He whistled so divinely that the ladies left their cabins
and men laid down their books. He whistled a polka so
bewitchingly that two young Oxford men began whirling
round the deck and performed that popular dance with
much agility until they sank down tired. He still continued
an unabated whistling, and as nobody would
dance, pulled off his coat, produced a pair of castanets
and whistling a mazurka, performed it with tremendous[551]
agility. His whistling made everybody gay and happy—made
those acquainted who had not spoken before, and
inspired such a feeling of hilarity in the ship that that
night, as we floated over the Sea of Marmora, a general
vote was expressed for broiled bones and a regular supper
party. Punch was brewed and speeches were made,
and, after a lapse of fifteen years, I heard the 'Old English
Gentleman' and 'Bright Chanticleer Proclaims the
Morn,' sung in such style that you would almost fancy
the proctors must hear and send us all home."
—William Makepeace Thackeray.
"A Journey from Cornhill to Cairo."
A Trip from Currimao to Laoag
Late in the afternoon of last April third, Mr. C.
Guia and I left Currimao for San Nicolas and Laoag,
respectively. We traveled in a cart drawn by a fat
gray cow.
At first it was not altogether pleasant to go now up
then down the irregular road, and besides, the cart—a
shoe-box-shaped sort of buggy with bamboo sides and
floor—was far from being comfortable. The driver was
a sturdy broad-shouldered country fellow, dressed in a
red home-spun shirt worn outside of his tight dark-green
trousers, rolled up above his knees. His big bolo, suspended
from his tough belt that he wore outside, was
at his left; while his callugung—a saucer-shaped hat
made from a dried wild squash—was dangling at his
right.
Since we left Currimao he had not addressed us a
single word, but all of a sudden when the cart stopped
in front of a ragged cottage, he cried out loud as if we[552]
were deaf, "Apu, arac quen maiz," which means, "Sirs,
wine and corn." Mr. Guia and I rose from our squatting
posture on the floor by the side of our steamer
trunks and suit cases and got down to buy for our driver
the things that he needed.
When we entered, the inner appearance of the cottage
in the dim light of a small oil lamp hanging from
the middle of the ceiling aroused somewhat my pity for
the occupants. In one corner a rather old though fat
woman was cooking supper, while in another corner
were fishing nets, a new plow, a hunting spear and a
callugung. In the corner near the door were rough boxes
on which were ragged mats and red pillows. In the
middle of the room was a basket of corn which an old,
muscular man was husking when we entered and which
he left to attend to our needs. We were invited to sit
on a long bamboo bench which occupied one side of the
room and where we remained as mute as statues until
our driver, having filled his stomach with vino and
having given his animal enough corn, summoned us to
continue our journey.
We went out, and as the moon was now shining
brightly, we had a front view of the cottage. The cogon
roof, on which were perched some chickens, was pyramid-like,
and the walls, broken at places but patched
with rice-sacks through which the dim light of the lamp
was visible, were made of bamboo. The porch, at the
middle of which was a wooden staircase shaded by broad
eaves, was piled full of corn.
After we paid the old man for what he supplied our
now half-drunk driver, we again assumed our uncomfortable
position in the cart. The road was now smooth[553]
and I was surprised to find ourselves suffering still the
disagreeable upward and downward movement of the
cart. I examined the two solid wooden wheels, and I
found that they were not round, but oval. But the
beautiful panorama of the country soon made me forget
my discomfort in the cart. On our left and right were
square rice-fields—some yellow with ripe grain and
others green with young leaves—dotted here and there
with hamlets or solitary trees so that they resembled a
checker-board.
All the while that I was admiring this view, Mr.
Guia seemed to be buried in deep thought. We were
cabin-mates in the steamship Bustamante that brought
us from Manila, and therefore I had known him for but
three days, during which he was always cheerful and
gay. But now what a sad and mournful countenance!
His youthful and oval face, hitherto jovial and beaming
with health, was pale. I was very sorry to see my companion
thus afflicted with grief, and I said in a sympathetic
voice, "Mr. Guia, are you sick?" He answered,
"No, I am not. But, my friend, my mo-mo-mother died
nine days ago, and that's why, as you see, I am mourning."
Indeed, he was mourning, for he wore a black cap,
suit, tie and shoes. I dared not continue our conversation
along that line, for I knew it would but grieve him the
more. So I expressed my condolence by silence. After a
moment of quietude he told the driver something in
Ilocano which I did not understand.
Suddenly the driver began to sing with a tremulous
voice a common country ditty called "Dalla-dalluc."
As it was getting late, I was soon lulled into a sound
sleep. I think I had slept for about two hours when a[554]
loud barking of five dogs awoke me. When I looked
around, I found that we were in a town, for we were
passing by a church whose stone wall was black with
moss and at whose rear a river was flowing. I asked
Mr. Guia in what town we were and he answered, "Why,
we are in San Nicolas now." I replied, "Then here we
part." He exclaimed, "Oh, no! You are very tired,
and it would be better for you to spend the rest of the
night at my house. Besides you will not, I am sure, be
able to wake the banquero (boatman), for it is now past
midnight. To-night is also the celebration of what we
call Umbras in honor of my dead mother, and I should
like you to be my special guest." I thanked him very
much for his kind invitation, and, of course, in the face
of the obstacle he foretold, I was glad enough to accept.
The cart turned a corner and stopped suddenly in
front of a somewhat large wooden corrugated iron roofed
house—a typical town residence in the Philippines. We
got down immediately from the cart, and we were met
at the gate by a boy of about fifteen years of age. After
Mr. Guia told the boy to look to our baggage, he conducted
me to the sala, where he met his relatives.
While the affectionate greetings were going on between
Mr. Guia and his family, I had time to observe
all that was in the room. In one corner were young
women and young men playing cards around a circular
marble table, while in another corner were old women,
talking of the high merits of the departed one. In the
corner near the door where I was standing, a crowd of
old fellows were drinking basi—a wine made from sugar
cane—and I noticed our driver joining them. The walls
seemed to be very plain; indeed all the decorations were[555]
covered with black cloth. In the center of the sala was
a large rectangular table on which were different kinds
of food ready to be eaten. The viands, however, were
cold, so I judged that the table must have been set early
in the evening.
As I was wondering why the table was placed there,
Mr. Guia came and took me into his room where my
baggage was put. My thought was still centered upon
the table, and my curiosity led me to ask my friend about
it. Before he answered me, he smiled, and then
said, "You must know that it is the custom of the
Ilocanos the ninth night after the death of any grown-up
person to celebrate a mourning festival called Umbars.
Each friend of the dead person brings during that day
food either cooked or uncooked. That on the table is
the cooked food, which is considered to be sacred and
which, as you have just seen, is being watched by the
people in the room. Nobody is supposed to touch the
food before the prayer, which will begin at three o'clock.
After the prayer is over, which will last for about two
hours, then all the guests will eat the food, but at the
head of the table a vacant seat is left for the spirit of
the dead to sit. After the feast the guests depart, and
the festival ends."
During the time that Mr. Guia was explaining to
me the Umbras, I was able to wash myself and to change
my traveling suit. So after he finished, he conducted
me into the dining-room where we both ate a hearty
meal. Naturally, after we had finished eating, we joined
the company of young men and young women, to each
of whom I was introduced and with whom we played
cards until the time for prayers. In the midst of the[556]
prayer I asked the permission of Mr. Guia to go to his
room to pack up my things so that I should be able to
leave after the prayer.
When all the guests had departed, I bade good-bye
to my friend and his sorrow-stricken relatives. Within
fifteen minutes I reached Laoag, and was once more safe
in the hands of a brother with whom I spent a pleasant
three weeks' sojourn.
—Fernando M. Maramág.
[557]
CHAPTER VIII
PERSONAL ACCOUNTS
Within the group of personal accounts come the more-or-less
extended records of the sayings and doings of
men and women in their most acute individuality. It is
intimate, detailed living that is expressed in a diary, in
memoirs, or a biography. These have a peculiar charm.
We expect endearing things in a diary, interesting ones
in an autobiography, and, if not surprisingly informing,
then surely upright and praiseworthy ones, often patriotic,
in a biography.
I. Journal and Diary
Definition
As words, journal and diary mean the same thing.
They both denote a daily record. Journal comes immediately
from the French jour meaning day,
and remotely from the same Latin word from which we
get diurnal. Diary comes directly from the Latin dies.
If there be any difference in the use of the titles, it lies
in the object the maker of the daily record has in
mind. A journal is written for a reader. A diary is
kept for the writer's own amusement or profit. Both
mix little and great affairs promiscuously.
The range
of journals
A journal, of course, is likely to treat of a fewer
number of trivial things than is a diary, and oftener[558]
the less personal, though Swift's wonderful "Journal
to Stella," written in the little language and meant for
"no eye but hers and the faithful Dingley's"
is as personal as can be. James
Madison's stately record of the American Constitutional
Convention stands at the antipodes, we might
say; and Hesdin's "Journal of a Spy in Paris during
the Reign of Terror," far off to the right perhaps; and
the Swiss poet, Henri Fréderic Amiel's private philosophical
and moral reflections, his "Journal Intime,"
far to the left. In the middle might come the travelers'
journals—like Fielding's "Voyage to Lisbon" and
Montaigne's "Voyage in Italy," or even John C.
Fremont's soldier explorations—as typical of the daily
record that is personal, yet not intensely so, and is
written to be read.
A quaint and at once extremely romantic travel-journal
of this sort is the Vida del Gran Tamurlan,
perhaps the oldest piece of travel writing in Spanish
literature. It is the daily record of the voyages and
residences of the ambassadors of Henry the Third on a
diplomatic mission to Tamburlane the Great—that
same old Tartar potentate and conqueror whom Marlowe
made immortal by putting into his mouth those
high-astounding terms and that flowing blank verse,
which so exactly suited his character as well as Marlowe's
own. The adventures of this embassy were
minutely written down by Ruy Gonsalez de Clavijo
from May, 1403, when it started, to March, 1406, when
it returned. In the report he describes the city of
Constantinople which the ambassadors passed through
when it was at the height of its tottering greatness.[559]
An incident recorded is very quaint. These fifteenth
century public servants, extremely human and not at
all unlike our modern ones, were desirous when off on
special business not only to serve their government
well but also to do as much sight-seeing on their own
account as possible. Hence they haunted the churches
and other places of relics. But one day they failed to
see all they wished to in the church of San Juan de la
Piedra, and for the following reason, bless you! "The
Emperor went to hunt, and left the keys with the
Empress his wife, and when she gave them she forgot
to give those where the said relics were, etc., etc."
Delicious episode! Exactly the essence of this type of
narrative. It makes one suspect that despite all the
pompous history that has been got together about them
the kings and queens of old were really human beings.
But Clavijo was writing a journal as well as a diary,
for he tells us of bigger things. He and his two friends
go on to Samarcand and find the great Conqueror and
experience his lavish hospitality in a series of magnificent
festivals, but, strange to say, witness also his
death; at least he dies when they are at his court, and
Clavijo tells of the troubles the embassy had therefore
in getting ready to return. Argote de Molina, in 1582,
a hundred and seventy-six years later, wrote a discourso
upon Clavijo and got out the first public edition
of this journal, which, for the sake of sales probably,
he called "The Life of the Great Tamerlane," a thing
it was not, but only partly. Marlowe wrote his "Tamburlane"
in 1586 or 1587. He might well have seen
Clavijo's journal.
Great
diaries
Diary is for the most part more intimate, more[560]
private than journal, though a diary need not necessarily
be private. In fact a writer of such a record
sometimes hands it about among his friends—that
is, part of it. Other parts he invariably
keeps to himself, either never to be read by another or
to be read only after the writer has ceased to live or
has ceased to care about the effect of his words. The
astoundingly frank and intimate diary of the famous
Samuel Pepys, kept up by him through the first nine
years of the Restoration, has only just now reached its
complete publication. Details at first suppressed for
one reason or another have, as they have been made
public from time to time, gradually changed the
world's conception of the character of this bustling
servant of the crown. And not strange to say; for a
diary of all forms of writing is the most revealing.
John Evelyn, the friend and patron of Pepys, wrote
himself down no less surely a non-genius than Pepys
wrote himself a genius. They both, however, give us,
in addition to a knowledge of their personal affairs,
invaluable pictures of the men and doings of their day.
Fanny Burney's "Diary," egotistical and minute, but
one of the great books of literature, is a gallery of
portraits of the late eighteenth century celebrities—King
George and Queen Charlotte, Reynolds, Burke,
Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Thrale, Garrick, and many others—all
her friends. Gideon Welles's "Diary," which
appeared in the Atlantic Monthly during 1909-10,
though, like that of Pepys, an account of public matters,
was, like that of Pepys, a private account not
meant to be seen at the time. All these records have[561]
their value for late readers in their honesty and
minuteness. It is on such revelations that we depend
for our correct conception of by-gone affairs.
A diary or a journal, then, is first of all a narrative
of real events. Fiction in this form, like Defoe's
"Journal of the Plague" or the diary parts of Charles
Reade's "Cloister and the Hearth," is so for the sake
of the verisimilitude.
Writing
the type
If you wish to write a journal, you might imagine
yourself sending it across the ocean to some relative or
acquaintance who cares to know about the
doings of you yourself, your family, your
friends, your community. You may reflect your own
sentiments and those of others; you may give anecdotes,
eye-witness accounts, reports, hear-says, incidents,
opinions, explanations, and bare facts. You may
touch upon your pleasures, your joys, and even your
troubles; but your vexations and regrets you would
surely reserve for your diary.
If you write a diary, you should be frank and absolutely
natural. Any playing to the gallery is a denial
of the whole tone of diary. You may be ever so selfish
and egotistical, or ever so trivial and vain, if you are
only honest. If we feel that you are recording exactly
what you think, revealing exactly what is, we shall
read you with delight, so seldom does one man get at
the real thought of another. You may even be pious—a
most severe trial on a reader's interest—and we will
follow you so long as you are sincere.
[562]
Extracts from Diary of Samuel Pepys
November, 1661.
3d. (Lord's day.) At night my wife and I had a
good supper by ourselves of a pullet hashed, which
pleased me much to see my condition come to allow ourselves
a dish like that.
4th. With my wife to the opera, where we saw "The
Bondman," which of old we both did so doate on, and do
still, though to both our thinking not so well acted here,
having too great expectations, as formerly at Salisbury
Court. But for Betterton, he is called by us both the
best actor in the world.
5th. To the Dolphin, where Armiger and I and Captaine
Cocke sat late and drank much, seeing the boys in
the streets flying their crackers. This day being kept all
day very strictly in the city.
7th. I met with letters at home from my Lord at
Lisbon, which speak of his being well, and he tells me he
had seen at the court there, the day before he wrote this
letter, the Juego de Toro (bullfight). Peg Kite now
hath declared she will have the beggarly rogue the
weaver, and so we are resolved neither to meddle nor
make with her.
8th. This morning up early, and to my Lord Chancellor's,
with a letter to him from my Lord, and did
speak with him, and he did ask me whether I was son
to Mr. Talbot Pepys or no (with whom he was once
acquainted in the Court of Requests), and spoke to me
with great respect. To the Sunne in New Fish Street,
where Sir J. Minnes, Sir William Batten and we all
were to dine, and by discourse found Sir J. Minnes a
fine gentleman and a very good scholler.
[563]
9th. With my Lady all the afternoon. My Lady did
mightily urge me to lay out money upon my wife, which
I perceived was a little more earnest than ordinary, and
so I seemed to be pleased with it, and do resolve to bestow
a lace on her.
10th. (Lord's day.) At St. Gregory's, where I heard
our Queen Katherine the first time by name publicly
prayed for. And heard Dr. Buck upon "Woe unto thee,
Corazin," &c., where he started a difficulty, which he
left to another time to answer, about why God should
give means of grace to those people which he knew would
not receive them, and deny to others, which he himself
confesses, if they had had them, would have received
them and they would have been effectual, too. I would
I could hear him explain this when he do come to it.
11th. Captain Ferrers carried me the first time that
ever I saw any gaming-house, to one, entering into Lincolne's
Inn Fields, at the end of Bell Yard, where
strange the folly of men to lay and lose much money,
and very glad I was to see the manner of a gamester's
life, which I see is very miserable and poor and unmanly.
And thence he took me to a dancing school in Fleet
Streete, where we saw a company of pretty girls dance,
but I do not in myself like to have young girls exposed
to so much vanity. So to the Wardrobe, where I found
my Lady had agreed upon a lace for my wife at £6,
which I seemed much glad of that it was no more, tho
in my mind I think it too much, and I pray God to keep
me so to order myself and my wife's expenses that no inconvenience
in purse or honour follow my prodigality.
"Diary and Correspondence of Samuel Pepys," 4 volumes.
(David McKay. 1889. Philadelphia.)
[564]
A Diary of Four Days
Feb. 5, Saturday.
I awoke at 6 o'clock. It has become my habit not to
get up earlier than half past 6 on vacation days. After
breakfast I went to the physics laboratory to make up
my back work.
The first experiment that I tried to perform was
about Atwood's Machine. I was not half thru when
the string broke. Not being able to find another, I went
to the office to see whether I had a letter or not. I was
very glad to receive one, for it was from home. I was
very much disappointed, however, to hear that my
mother was sick. My father asked me to go and see Dr.
Bautista, so after dinner I went to Santa Cruz. The
office was closed when I reached it. At last the doctor
came. I had a long talk with him about the sickness of
my mother. He gave me the formula of the medicine
which my mother should take and told me the dose.
After giving him five pesos I went away and bought the
medicine. I stayed in the Escolta till it was dark, looking
for some one who was going to our town. Not being
able to find anybody, I have come back to my boarding-house
with the determination to go home myself and take
mother's medicine. I must study my lesson in physics,
however, before I go to bed.
Feb. 6, Sunday.
At about 6 o'clock this morning I was in the railroad
station. At 6 sharp the train left for San Isidro. I was
very lonely in the car, for the passengers were few.
There were six Chinamen and a few Filipinos. While
the train was going on I kept myself busy reading my
textbook in chemistry. I reached the station of San[565]
Isidro at 10 o'clock. It was about 11 when I reached
home. I was very glad to find my mother better then.
I ate my dinner with all the members of our family.
After staying at home for about two hours I started for
San Isidro with my brother. I was delayed at the ferry,
for a company of American soldiers was using the banca.
I reached the station at about 2 o'clock, and as the train
would not leave for an hour, I went to the cock-pit nearby.
It so happened that they were having a surtada.
This is the first time I have entered a cock-pit since 1904.
At 3 o'clock the train came. I reached Manila at 8
o'clock. It is now 9:30. I am going to bed earlier than
usual, for I am very tired.
Feb. 7, Monday.
I went to school as usual this morning, though I did
not recite my lessons very well. This evening I attended
the Harty Club. We were few in number, so Father
Finnegan, our director, took us with him to the observatory.
All of us had a chance to look at the moon. Thru
the telescope the moon looked like the yolk of an egg
with black spots. The astronomer said that the black
spots are craters of volcanoes. The moon when seen
thru the telescope is not so beautiful as when you look
at it with the naked eye.
The astronomer, who was a Spanish priest, explained
the way the moon gets its light. He could speak English
very well, but his pronunciation was bad. He pronounced
"sun," "soon," and "top," "tawp." There
were many other words which he did not pronounce very
well, but he used these two so often that they were impressed
on my mind. Another word he used very often
was "extremities."
[566]
When you asked this fat man a question, he would
laugh at you if what you asked was not sensible. Lava
asked him what planets are inhabited. He laughed without
ceasing for about two minutes, and then said, "Why,
my boy, none except ours. If any planet is inhabited,
the people must be very different from us."
It was 8 o'clock when we went home. Tomorrow is
a laboratory day, so I am going to bed, for I have no
lesson to prepare except in English.
Feb. 8, Tuesday.
I was awakened from a sound sleep by a dreadful
dream. When I opened my eyes it was daylight. My
dream was about Halley's comet. We talked so much
about this thing last night that it came into my dream.
I thought it was the 19th of May. My mother roused
me, for they could see something beautiful. When I
looked out I saw that it was Halley's comet. I tried to
explain to them what it was, but I was interrupted in
my explanation because I perceived that the comet was
coming nearer to us. We were obliged to leave the house,
for the comet was coming directly toward us. When
we were out of the house the comet struck it. It was set
on fire. We tried our best to quench the flames, but in
vain. While the house was burning I awoke. I was very
glad that I awoke, for my lesson in English was not yet
prepared.
I recited my lessons as usual. This afternoon Mr.
Bulatao and I visited the observatory again. Our guide
showed all the pieces of apparatus to us. From the top
of the building I had a very fine general view of Manila.
After our visit I came home, and now I am going to
study my lessons.
—Facundo Esquivel.
[567]
"Something Doing"
A JOURNAL: MOCK HEROIC
Thursday, March 17, 1910.—My friend Protasio and
I went to one of the fairs in the Tondo church-yard to
buy an awit for the instructor in English. On our way
home we met a group of gentlemen, eight of them, among
whom I recognized one of my schoolmates, Pedro Pineda.
My companion looked Pedro squarely in the face, but
this one came up to us, with arms akimbo, and presently
addressed my companion in this manner: "What do you
want? Why do you look at me?" "Is there any cause
for which you speak to me thus?" answered my companion.
"Why? What do you want? Let us have a
boxing match!"
I did my best to make my acquaintances desist from
their plan, but my efforts were in vain. Protasio took
off his diamond ring and handed it to me. I put it on
the upper part of my right thumb, suspecting nothing
from the companions of Pedro.
In the dark this unworthy fellow thrust his hands
into his big pocket, and by the dim light of the evening
star I noticed him put on iron knuckles. Mad with rage,
I shouted, "Take off your—!" but hardly had I begun
when just above my left ear fell a terrible blow. I felt
no pain, but the stroke deafened me. Still I lost no time
mustering my courage, and no sooner had I summoned
my latent forces than I stood with my back against the
church-yard fence. Confronted by four young men, one
of whom was the sturdy machinist who delivered me the
first blow, I raised my right arm to ward off another
dreadful box in the face, when, to my surprise, I heard
the crash of an iron rod. The cane which I had with me[568]
had done its duty; when I was about to receive a blow
more serious than the first, up rose my hand and with
an impulse it hit hard the right shoulder of my sturdy
opponent. Overjoyed at this incident I caused my bent
cane to swing back and forth until my four opponents,
realizing that I had an iron cane, ran away as fast as
their legs could carry them.
Protasio received several wounds from the iron
knuckles—one on the right arm, two on the head and one
just above the left ear. Breathless and bloody, I heard
him utter the cry, "What! Four people to one?" The
people at the fair overheard the tumult; they rushed to
the scene and saw us two, one bloody, the other holding
a bent cane, safe and sound. But our good opponents
had run away, carrying with them my friend's new
baliwag hat.
"Fie! Cowards!" roared my companion, as we
turned around the narrow street beside the church.
"Why did those folks fight with us four to one?"
"Well, although they have made a serious mistake,
Tasio," I remarked, "you cannot blame them; you will
know the cause when you study the psychology of a
mob."
He found no word with which to answer me; his
right arm he could hardly raise, and the blood streamed
in great quantities from the back of his head. I conducted
him to his house and told him not to go to school
for two days. For my part, I felt nothing particularly
painful except two things—a swelling on my forehead
and the bruised place on my face where I received that
blow without notice.
Friday, March 18.—This morning I went to school,[569]
and, although I was tired from last night's pugilistic
contest, I worked at the office of the English department.
But in the midst of my meditations on a perplexing mistake
which a second-year student had made in his short-story
theme, upon my shoulders fell two hands. I looked
up, rather amazed at the sudden attack, but I saw Mr.
Fansler's familiar face. "Ready, Victor!" said he.
"Ready for the banquet, do you mean?" "No, to meet
Mr. Beattie."
I remembered I had to go with several people on a
launch to meet Mr. Beattie, who had returned from a
visit to the States. I put on my buntal hat, with a
minute-man's start, and ran down the flight of steps of
the Normal School building.
Gathered around the portico were the superintendent
of the Normal School, the representatives of the faculty
and the representatives of the various classes. Mr.
Fansler and I joined the cheerful group, three-fifths of
which consisted of blooming femininity. As we walked
along the acacia grove we felt no heat, but on the open
road, where fell the blistering sun's rays, the women
lagged. "They feel the heat, to be sure!" I said to
myself. "These women at the Normal, I suppose, are
not used to heat. Tender and fresh, they have little or
no exercise."
But necessity was to compel them to run a short race
that day. The buzz of the street car wire along Calle
Real made them walk faster, and finally they really
began to run; as lightly as doves, however. The car
took us down to Plaza de Magallanes, back of the Treasury
building, but we did not find our launch there.
As I walked along the edge of the Pasig River bank[570]
I noticed a small, booth-like hut, in which I saw an old
woman seated on a stool. She held in her right hand a
bunch of perforated banana leaves, with which she drove
away the flies that tried to alight on the rice and fried
fish. Presently a man came, ate his ten-centavo meal of
rice and a half fish, and departed after the manner of a
Frenchman. But soon I saw my companions going on
board the launch and I followed them.
The boat was not very big; it had just enough room
to accommodate the young women and to allow the fellows
to sit contiguously on the sides. All at once the
launch began sailing down the smooth river and within
ten minutes we had passed around Engineer Island.
Out in the bay the billows rose. The foam began to
appear in greater quantities as we sailed farther and
farther into the sea. The boat swung to and fro as she
courtesied to the waves. But upon looking round, I discovered
that some of the young ladies were seasick. I
was trying to reason out the cause of this malady when
all of a sudden a spray of salt water threw itself directly
at my face and my tongue felt the liquid.
"What a nasty taste salt water has!" I exclaimed, as
I tried to suppress with an effort the sudden change in
my stomach.
"How do you like it, Yamzon?" asked fat Memije,
the spherical student of the Academy. Without waiting
for an answer, "That's good! The water will make you
fat. Should you like to know how I got fat?" continued
he, whom I always compare to a sponge because of his
capacity for imbibing water in great quantities. "Yes,"
I muttered, ungraciously. "Well, I drink four glasses
of water before meals and after meals." "But not salt[571]
water," I rejoined. "No, no; fresh water is what you
need."
Just then we spied the Tean, which was bringing
back Mr. Beattie. As we approached we saw a man who
was so much like him that the ample instructor of the
correspondence department exclaimed in her not too
melodious and high-pitched voice, "There's our dear old
superintendent!"
"He's no longer your dear old superintendent,"
thought I.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Mr. Beattie showed no
signs of ever having come back. But when the ship-master
appeared on the upper deck he told us Mr.
Beattie would soon be ready to show his face to us. And
he was. We cheered him and hailed him; hats were
taken off; handkerchiefs waved in the air; and the former
superintendent of the Normal School responded to
us, while a twelve-inch smile beamed on his countenance.
Saturday, March 19, 1910.—My short trip yesterday
reminded me of our voyage to Lucena last Thanksgiving.
The first thing I did immediately after breaking-my-fast
was to go to my desk and take out from the lowest
case the account of this trip which I wrote while we
were sailing. I have read the thing through and I will
gladly repeat it for you. It begins thus:
"On Thanksgiving afternoon the Normal debating
team, on board of the steamer Lal-Loc, set out for
Lucena."—There! I can't write it for you now. My
brother is calling me. But I'll just say we won the debate
and had a glorious time.
—Victoriano Yamzon.
[572]
II. Autobiography and Memoirs
Distinction
between
autobiography
and
memoirs
Although the words "autobiography" and "memoirs"
are often used interchangeably, the meanings
differ somewhat as journal and diary; that
is, an autobiography is always written to be
read by a public, large or small; memoirs
are sometimes secret, like those of Mirabeau
when on his mission to Prussia. The two
forms are both, however, personal accounts by the
writer of his own doings and sayings as well as of the
doings and sayings of others connected with him in the
same events.
Gibbon has used the word memoirs as a title for
what we generally call his autobiography; but critics
consider the term "memoirs" strictly as signifying a
record of events put down within a limited time in the
author's life—or a record of important events that he
can "remember," selected out of a long life. Memoirs
in the first sense are usually written by persons of large
affairs, like Prince von Metternich in the French-Austrian
crisis, or Mme. de Staël-Holstein during her
ten years of exile, or the Italian poet Silvio Pellico
while serving his decade of imprisonment for taking
part in the Carbonari movements. Many of the writers
other than English seem to try to exclude the personal
element from memoirs; though Catherine II of Russia
in her account of her life as Grand Duchess is straightforward
and intimate enough. Frederick the Great,
too, in his memoirs of his military and political campaigns
has succeeded in delineating quite exactly his
own character as conceived of by others; while Charles[573]
V in his "Autobiographical Leaves" (which are
memoirs) has revealed to the world an entirely new
side of himself.
Cellini,
Franklin
and others
Autobiography is more extended than memoirs.
This "self-life-writing" runs from the birthday of the
author to the time of the composition of the
narrative. Details are sometimes many,
sometimes few, according to the taste and
leisure of the recorder, but the account is always complete
and unified. One of the greatest autobiographies
written is that of Benvenuto Cellini, a Florentine artist
of the sixteenth century. Men lived intense and violent
lives in those days, fervidly devoted to ideals and
grossly material at the same time. Cellini epitomizes
them all. His narrative is an Italian classic. A most
entertaining English autobiography is Colley Cibber's
"Apology for My Life." Actor and dramatist, he too
had much to tell. But the American philosopher and
statesman, Benjamin Franklin, has carried off the prize
for widespread popularity and readableness. The story
goes, whether true or not, that his "Autobiography"
has been translated into more languages than any other
book except the Bible. The narrative is full of shrewd
common-sense and practical example. Our fathers used
to say that no one is a true American who has not read
it. What is of value to us now in the consideration of
it is its simplicity both in diction and tone. Franklin
was truly a very great man, and nowhere greater than
in his unpretentious honesty.
Like a diary, an autobiography should be most
genuine and original in content. Sometimes the
impulse to record one's life goes even so far as to take[574]
the form of confessions, like those of the great Latin
father, St. Augustine. Our own English ecclesiastic,
Cardinal Newman, defended himself and his faith in
his "Apologia." But this that ought to be the truest
of the true forms very easily becomes forced and hectic,
like Rousseau's. Though a man must be honest, there
is no need for him to tell everyone of his inmost
thoughts, or mention all his meannesses. De Quincey's
"Confessions of an English Opium Eater" long ago
justified itself by its high tone, and by the fact that it
became the basis of his "Autobiography."
Some
points to
be observed
in
writing
It is easy to start an autobiography. Most writers
begin with their birth and parentage. To proceed after
the first few pages is not so easy perhaps,
because of the possibilities. What to choose
is the question; for everybody has had more
experiences than he could possibly record.
Apt selection is what makes a good life history—selection
under a governing sense of unity and
progression. Moreover, a writer of any chronical story
should carefully arrange the transitions. Good including
phrases both backward and forward-looking should
be used, as well as precise small conjunctions. Such
sets as Cellini has, "At this moment the whole world
was, etc.," "I am now making a great leap forward
when I tell," "Continuing as I did my artillery practice
for a whole month," "In the meantime I had," "I
must not forget to give some indication of how large
the figure was, a thing which I can best do by telling
you a very laughable occurrence," "The more I longed
for rest the more did troubles spring up," "Before this
I should have told of my friendship with, etc." The[575]
diction of memoirs is somewhat determined by circumstances
and subject; but if you write an autobiography,
you should see to it that your words and constructions
are unmistakably simple. Be as modest as is consistent
with your great deeds, and as cheerful as the fates will
allow. If you make yourself out a good fellow, do so
by the general impression of your narrative, not by
assertion. Set before the reader enough of your actions
and he will tabulate your character for you. Your
business is to relate; his, to judge. You may, however,
disclose some of your motives. The only difficulty here
is, that people may not believe you, or you may not
have understood yourself at the time. Whatever else
you do, be sure to let us see a human being like ourselves,
not some impossible creature made out of paper
and ink. If you care for an outline, it would not be
amiss to follow that prepared for biography.
The Life of David Hume, Esq., Written by Himself
It is difficult for a man to speak long of himself without
vanity; therefore, I shall be short. It may be
thought an instance of vanity that I pretend at all to
write my life; but this narrative shall contain little more
than the history of my writings; as indeed almost all my
life has been spent in literary pursuits and occupations.
The first success of most of my writings was not such as
to be an object of vanity.
I was born the twenty-sixth of April, 1711, old style,
at Edinburgh. I was of a good family, both by father
and mother: my father's family is a branch of the Earl
of Home's, or Hume's; and my ancestors had been proprietors
of the estate which my brother possesses, for[576]
several generations. My mother was daughter of Sir
David Falconer, president of the college of justice; the
title of Lord Halkerton came by succession to her
brother.
My family, however, was not rich, and being myself
a younger brother, my patrimony, according to the mode
of my country, was, of course, very slender. My father,
who passed for a man of parts, died when I was an infant,
leaving me, with an elder brother and a sister,
under the care of our mother, a woman of singular merit,
who, though young and handsome, devoted herself entirely
to the rearing and educating of her children. I
passed through the ordinary course of education with
success, and was seized very early with a passion for
literature, which has been the ruling passion of my life
and the great source of my enjoyments. My studious
disposition, my sobriety and my industry gave my family
a notion that the law was the proper profession for
me; but I found an insurmountable aversion to everything
but the pursuits of philosophy and general learning,
and while they fancied I was poring upon Voet and
Vinnius, Cicero and Virgil were the authors I was
secretly devouring.
My very slender fortune, however, being unsuitable
to this plan of life, and my health being a little broken
by my ardent application, I was tempted, or rather
forced, to make a very feeble trial for entering into a
more active scene of life. In 1734 I went to Bristol with
some recommendations to several eminent merchants, but
in a few months found that scene totally unsuitable to
me. I went over to France with a view of prosecuting
my studies in a country retreat, and I there laid that[577]
plan of life which I have steadily and successfully pursued.
I resolved to make a very rigid frugality supply
my deficiency of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my
independency, and to regard every object as contemptible
except the improvement of my talents in
literature.
During my retreat in France, first at Rheims, but
chiefly at La Fletche, in Anjou, I composed my Treatise
of Human Nature. After passing three years very
agreeably in that country, I came over to London in
1737. In the end of 1738 I published my treatise, and
immediately went down to my mother and my brother,
who lived at his country house and was employing himself
very judiciously and successfully in the improvement
of his fortune.
Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than
my Treatise of Human Nature. It fell dead-born from
the press, without reaching such distinction as even to
excite a murmur among the zealots. But being naturally
of a cheerful and sanguine temper, I very soon recovered
the blow and prosecuted with great ardor my studies in
the country. In 1742 I printed at Edinburgh the first
part of my Essays. The work was favorably received
and soon made me entirely forget my former disappointment.
I continued with my mother and brother in the
country, and in that time recovered the knowledge of
the Greek language, which I had too much neglected in
my early life.
In 1745 I received a letter from the Marquis of Annandale,
inviting me to come and live with him in England;
I found also that the friends and family of that
young nobleman were desirous of putting him under my[578]
care and direction, for the state of his mind and health
required it. I lived with him a twelve-month. My appointments
during that time made a considerable accession
to my small fortune. I then received an invitation
from General St. Clair to attend him as a secretary to
his expedition, which was at first meant against Canada,
but ended in an incursion on the coast of France. Next
year, to wit, 1747, I received an invitation from the
general to attend him in the same station in his military
embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin. I then wore
the uniform of an officer and was introduced at these
courts as aide-de-camp to the general, along with Sir
Harry Erkine and Captain Grant, now General Grant.
These two years were almost the only interruptions
which my studies have received during the course of my
life: I passed them agreeably and in good company; and
my appointments, with my frugality, had made me reach
a fortune which I called independent, the most of my
friends were inclined to smile when I said so: in short,
I was now master of near a thousand pounds.
I had always entertained a notion that my want of
success in publishing the Treatise of Human Nature had
proceeded more from the manner than the matter, and
that I had been guilty of a very usual indiscretion in
going to the press too early. I, therefore, cast the first
part of the work anew in the Inquiry concerning Human
Understanding while I was at Turin. But this piece was
at first little more successful than the Treatise of Human
Nature. On my return from Italy I had the mortification
to find all England in a ferment on account of Dr.
Middleton's Free Inquiry, while my performance was
entirely overlooked and neglected. A new edition, which[579]
had been published at London, of my Essays, moral and
political, met not with a much better reception.
Such is the force of natural temper that these disappointments
made little or no impression on me. I
went down, in 1749, and lived two years with my brother
at his country house, for my mother was now dead. I
there composed the second part of my Essay, which I
called Political Discourses, and also my Inquiry concerning
the Principles of Morals, which is another part of
my Treatise that I cast anew. Meanwhile my bookseller,
A. Millar, informed me that my former publications (all
but the unfortunate Treatise) were beginning to be the
subject of conversation; that the sale of them was gradually
increasing and that new editions were demanded.
Answers by reverends and right reverends came out two
or three in a year, and I found by Dr. Warburton's railing
that the books were beginning to be esteemed in good
company. However, I had fixed a resolution, which I
inflexibly maintained, never to reply to anybody, and not
being very irascible in my temper, I have easily kept
myself dear of all literary squabbles. These symptoms
of a rising reputation gave me encouragement, as I was
ever more disposed to see the favorable than unfavorable
side of things, a turn of mind which it is more happy to
possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a
year.
In 1751 I removed from the country to the town, the
true scene for a man of letters. In 1752 were published
at Edinburgh, where I then lived, my Political Discourses,
the only work of mine that was successful on its
first publication. It was well received at home and
abroad. In the same year was published at London my[580]
Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, which, in
my own opinion (who ought not to judge on that subject),
is, of all my writings, historical, philosophical or
literary, incomparably the best. It came unnoticed and
unobserved into the world.
In 1752 the Faculty of Advocates chose me their
librarian, an office from which I received little or no
emolument, but which gave me the command of a large
library. I then formed the plan of writing the History
of England, but, being frightened with the notion of
continuing a narrative through a period of seventeen
hundred years, I commenced with the accession of the
house of Stuart, an epoch when, I thought, the misrepresentations
of faction began chiefly to take place. I was,
I own, sanguine in my expectations of the success of this
work. I thought that I was the only historian that had
at once neglected present power, interest and authority
and the cry of popular prejudices, and as the subject
was suited to every capacity, I expected proportional applauses.
But miserable was my disappointment; I was
asailed by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even
detestation; English, Scotch and Irish, Whig and Tory,
churchman and sectary, free thinker and religionist,
patriot and courtier, united in their rage against the
man who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the
fate of Charles I and the Earl of Strafford; and after
the first ebullitions of their fury were over, what was
still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink into oblivion.
Mr. Millar told me that in a twelve-month he had
sold only forty-five copies of it. I scarcely, indeed, heard
of one man in the three kingdoms, considerable for rank
or letters, that could endure the book. I must only[581]
except the primate of England, Dr. Herring, and the
primate of Ireland, Dr. Stone, which seemed two odd
exceptions. These dignified prelates separately sent me
messages not to be discouraged.
I was, however, I confess, discouraged; and had not
the war been at that time breaking out between France
and England, I had certainly retired to some provincial
town of the former kingdom, have changed my name and
never more have returned to my native country. But as
this scheme was not now practicable, and the subsequent
volume was considerably advanced, I resolved to pick up
courage and to persevere.
In this interval I published at London my Natural
History, of Religion, along with some other small pieces.
Its public entry was rather obscure, except only that Dr.
Hurd wrote a pamphlet against it, with all the illiberal
petulance, arrogance and scurrility which distinguished
the Warburtonian school; This pamphlet gave me some
consolation for the otherwise indifferent reception of my
performance.
In 1756, two years after the fall of the first volume,
was published the second volume of my history, containing
the period from the death of Charles I till the
revolution. This performance happened to give less
displeasure to the Whigs and was better received. It
not only rose, itself, but helped to buoy up its unfortunate
brother.
But though I had been taught by experience that the
Whig party were in possession of bestowing all places,
both in the state and in literature, I was so little inclined
to yield to their senseless clamor that in above a hundred
alterations, which study, reading or reflection engaged[582]
me to make in the reigns of the two first Stuarts, I have
made all of them invariably on the Tory side. It is
ridiculous to consider the English constitution before
that period as a regular plan of liberty.
In 1759, I published my history of the house of
Tudor. The clamor against this performance was almost
equal to that against the history of the two first Stuarts.
The reign of Elizabeth was particularly obnoxious. But
I was now callous against the impressions of public folly
and continued very peaceably and contentedly, in my
retreat at Edinburgh, to finish in two volumes the more
early part of the English history, which I gave to the
public in 1761 with tolerable, and but tolerable, success.
But, notwithstanding this variety of winds and seasons,
to which my writings had been exposed, they had
still been making such advances that the copy money
given me by the book-sellers much exceeded anything
formerly known in England; I was become not only independent
but opulent. I retired to my native country
of Scotland, determined never more to set my foot out
of it; and retaining the satisfaction of never having preferred
a request to one great man or ever making advances
of friendship to any of them. As I was now
turned of fifty, I thought of passing all the rest of my
life in this philosophical manner, when I received, in
1763, an invitation' from the earl of Hertford, with
whom I was not in the least acquainted, to attend him
on his embassy to Paris, with a near prospect of being
appointed secretary to the embassy, and in the meanwhile
of performing the functions of that office. This
offer, however inviting, I at first declined; both because
I was reluctant to begin connections with the great, and[583]
because I was afraid that the civilities and gay company
of Paris would prove disagreeable to a person of my age
and humor; but on his lordship's repeating the invitation
I accepted of it. I have every reason, both of pleasure
and interest, to think myself happy in my connections
with that nobleman, as well as afterwards with his
brother, General Conway.
Those who have not seen the strange effects of modes
will never imagine the reception I met with at Paris,
from men and women of all ranks and stations. The
more I recoiled from their excessive civilities, the more I
was loaded with them. There is, however, a real satisfaction
in living at Paris, from the great number of
sensible, knowing and polite company with which that
city abounds above all places in the universe. I thought
once of settling there for life.
I was appointed secretary to the embassy; and in
summer, 1765, Lord Hertford left me, being appointed
lord lieutenant of Ireland. I was chargé d'affaires till
the arrival of the Duke of Richmond, towards, the end of
the year. In the beginning of 1766 I left Paris, and
next summer went to Edinburgh, with the same view as
formerly of burying myself in a philosophical retreat.
I returned to that place, not rich but with much more
money, and a much larger income by means of Lord
Hertford's friendship, than I left it; and I was desirous
of trying what superfluity could produce; as I had formerly
made an experiment of a competency. But in
1767 I received from Mr. Conway an invitation to be an
undersecretary, and this invitation both the character of
the person and my connections with Lord Hertford prevented
me from declining. I returned to Edinburgh in[584]
1768, very opulent (for I possessed a revenue of one
thousand pounds a year), healthy and, though somewhat
stricken in years, with the prospect of enjoying long my
ease and of seeing the increase of my reputation.
In spring, 1775, I was struck with a disorder of the
bowels, which at first occasioned no alarm, but has since,
as I apprehended it, become mortal and incurable. I
now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suffered
very little pain from my disorder, and, what is more
strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my
person, never suffered a moment's abatement of my
spirits; insomuch that were I to name a period of my
life which I should most choose to pass over again, I
might be tempted to point to this later period. I possess
the same ardor as ever in study and the same gayety in
company. I consider, besides, that a man of sixty-five,
by dying cuts off only a few years of infirmities; and
though I see many symptoms of my literary reputation's
breaking out at last with additional luster, I know that
I could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to
be more detached from life than I am at the present
time.
To conclude historically with my own character: I
am, or rather was (for that is the style I must now use
in speaking of myself, which emboldens me the more to
speak my sentiments); I was, I say, a man of mild disposition,
of command of temper, of an open, social and
cheerful humor, capable of attachment, but little susceptible
of enmity, and of great moderation in all my
passions. Even my love of literary fame, my ruling
passion, never soured my temper, notwithstanding my
frequent disappointments. My company was not unacceptable[585]
to the young and careless, as well as to the
studious and literary; and as I took a particular pleasure
in the company of modest women, I had no reason
to be displeased with the reception I met with from them.
In a word, though most men anywise eminent have
found reason to complain of Calumny, I never was
touched or even attacked by her baleful tooth; and
though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both
civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed
in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never
had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my
character and conduct; not but that the zealots, we may
well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate
any story to my disadvantage, but they could never
find any which they thought would wear the face of
probability. I cannot say that there is no vanity in
making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is
not a misplaced one, and this is a matter of fact which is
easily cleared and ascertained.
April 18, 1776.
Autobiography
I was born on the twentieth of December in the year
1887, in Gapan, province of Nueva Ecija.
My mother, Manuela Tinio, died when I was but two
years of age, and I was left to the care of my beloved
grandfather, Esteban Tinio, uncle Quintin Tinio and my
aunts Paula and Felipa Tinio. I had two brothers and
three sisters, but all of them died except one of my
brothers, Valentin, who is now attending the Philippine
Medical School. My uncle Valentin was one of the
active leaders of the revolutionary movement in Nueva[586]
Ecija. He bore a deadly hatred against the Spaniards.
On several occasions secret meetings were held in our
house shortly before the uprising of the people. When
the revolution broke out unexpectedly in 1896 he was
forced to flee to the mountain, where he was captured
afterwards, and was finally shot. My grandfather died
in 1903 in his eighty-ninth year, and thus I was left to
the care of my father, Francisco Guanio, and my two
aunts, Paula and Felipa, who are still unmarried. Altho
my aunts are over sixty years of age, yet they are still
strong, active and diligent women. They have never
wasted their time in idleness, and are always at work
from morning till night. To them who are more than
mothers to me I owe my present education.
I was born in the most extraordinary period of
Philippine history. I lived to see the days when our
fathers were struggling hard against Spain. During my
boyhood I saw men imprisoned, exiled and executed for
no offense whatever. I have heard the voice of the oppressed
people crying for justice. I have seen men, rich
and poor, wise and ignorant, fighting for the common
cause of the Filipino people. I witnessed one of the
fierce attacks of our patriots upon the Spanish regiment
at Gapan. When I was twelve years old many towns
were entirely depopulated; churches, and schoolhouses
converted into hospitals; men and women impelled by
fear to flee from their homes with their children. I once
enjoyed seeing the humiliating race-distinction effaced.
Early one morning I was awakened from my sleep by
the loud booming of cannon and by the shouting of the
once happy and satisfied people, inaugurating the short-lived
Philippine republic. These past events changed[587]
my gentle nature entirely. It has been my ambition
ever since to make the most of myself for my country's
sake.
I attended the public school at Gapan in 1894. Here
I learned the alphabet and catechism. At that time
Spanish was taught in nearly all the schools of the
Islands. The sudden outbreak of the revolution of 1896
brought about the closing of the schools for a short time.
And altho they were soon reopened, yet there was not
the same enthusiasm for learning among the great mass
of students as had been previously shown. They attended
schools simply because they were compelled to
do so by the government (for education was compulsory
under the Spanish administration in these islands). In
1898 I attended school very irregularly on account of the
revolution. Then in the beginning of the year 1899
schools were closed on account of the troubles which the
Filipinos had had with the Americans, and consequently
I had to stay at home for two years. In October, 1901,
I entered the Gapan Intermediate School, which was
then under the supervision of an American teacher. On
January 1, 1904, I left the school of Gapan and attended
the S. Isidro High School. In June, 1905, I
was transferred to the Philippine Normal School, where
I have stayed since then.
My uncle Quintin's plan was to make me a lawyer,
but his unexpected death prevented his desire. My
father and my two aunts, Paula and Felipa, allowed me
to pursue any course I liked. It is their wish to give
me a good and thorough education.
My own plan is different from that of my uncle Quintin.
I desire to complete the high school course first,[588]
then the college course, and finish with the engineering
course.
—Domingo T. Guanio.
What I Remember of the Coming of the Americans
In the afternoon of November 15, 1900, while I was
at a small private school conducted by an educated
woman, the wife of the colonel in Ponciano's army, one
of my classmates called my attention to the running of
men and women up and down the street.
"What is the matter? Why are those people running?"
asked our teacher of her husband, who was then
entering the gate.
"They say there is a casco of rice in Laguna de Bay.
I do not know what kind of casco it is; it has a flag.
Send all the children home," said the colonel.
"The class is dismissed," said our teacher to us.
She had scarcely spoken these words when we
jumped to our feet and ran as fast as we could to our
homes.
"Have you not seen your father? Where is he?"
said my mother as soon as she caught sight of me. I
looked back and saw my father coming.
"Here he comes," I said to my mother.
"Prepare yourself, Leopoldo. We will go to the
mountain," said my mother.
"Why? There is a casco of rice coming," I answered.
"No, that is not a casco of rice. If that is a casco
of rice, the people on the beach wouldn't run away to
the mountain. Get yourself ready, quick," replied my
mother.
[589]
It was a cloudy afternoon. The wind blew hard.
Nothing could be heard but the moaning of the wind on
the trees and houses, the running of men and women
along the streets and the crying of babies. The streets
were full of people, all running in the same direction.
Some carried trunks on their heads, others had bundles
of clothes on their backs. Some carried infants in their
arms, others had them on their hips. The little boys and
girls ran beside their parents. It was indeed a piteous
sight!
While my father and mother were busy putting our
things in a carreton I was going up and down the stairs
every ten minutes. I did not know what to do. When
I was upstairs I wanted to go downstairs. When I was
downstairs I wanted to go up. I wished to carry with
me my shoes because I knew I needed them on the mountain.
But I also wanted to carry my black coat. At last
I thought of the bread that my mother had bought that
morning. I took it all. Just then my father and mother
had put our trunks, in the carreton. We all got into the
carreton—my father, my mother, my little brother, my
sister, and myself. My father was the driver. We left
our home, our minds full of the gloomiest forebodings.
We had not gone very far from the town when we
heard per-r-rrok-rok-pook-pook-pook-pok—bung.
"Jesus, Maria, y Josep!" exclaimed my mother.
We all looked at each other speechless. At a distance
we heard a cry, "Nacu! nanay co."
"Perhaps a bullet struck that man," I said to myself.
In a few minutes we arrived at the Lecheria hill. It
was already dark. There was a moon, but it was hidden[590]
behind the clouds. At the bottom of the hill was a large
house made of nipa and bamboo. The house was very
dark. When we came to it a voice inside said, "Who is
that? Aniceto?"
"Yes," answered my father.
"Why are you late? Have you eaten your supper?"
asked the voice.
"No, but we have to go now. The bullets will reach
us here. We can eat our supper in the carreton," replied
my father.
All the people in the house silently went down to the
ground. They got into their carts and we began our
journey. There were four vehicles in all. One was
loaded with rice. Uncle Paulino and his family were in
one. The other one was occupied by Grandmother
Tereza and her four sons. We traveled over low hills
and valleys beneath the outspreading branches of the
wild trees and over thick cogon grasses. The moon
had gained full brightness, but the night was cold.
After I had eaten my supper I fell asleep. My mother
wrapped me in her blanket. When I awoke I found
that we were in Pasong Calabaw. It was four o'clock in
the morning. We had been traveling all night.
—Leopoldo Faustino.
III. Biography
Beginning
in England
of
literary
biography
With Johnson's "Lives of the Poets" biography in
England took on a literary quality. Before that time
such work had been perfunctory and had been done
by hack writers; but with the appearance of the "Life
of Savage" (1744), says Macaulay, a new era began.[591]
"The little work with all its faults was a masterpiece.
No finer specimen of literary biography existed in any
language living or dead. The discerning
critic might confidently have predicted that
the author was destined to be the founder
of a new school of English eloquence." And
he was. Thirty-three years later, after he
had become famous, a company of booksellers called
on Dr. Johnson to add to the "Life of Savage" a
series of biographical prefaces for an edition of the
poets from Cowley downwards. Although intending at
first to write only a few short paragraphs, this great
and good talker let himself run on until he handed, over
to the publishers ten volumes—somewhat short volumes
to be sure, but a fine piece of work, and most of it very
precious. From that time on, no biographer who
expected to be read, dared be uninteresting. Prejudiced
in temperament he might be, mistaken sometimes,
but henceforth he must prove himself lively,
vigorous, faithful, penetrating, sagacious, warm yet
discriminating in praise, reasonable in censure, fearless
in judgments, and fresh and exact in expression. The
model had been set. The thing had been done not for
one poet, but for many. Biography was now a literary
type, to be written with care by a qualified person. It
is worthy of note that the original type was short.
Great biographies
in
English
Since Johnson's day English literature has gained
through biography some of the best books in the world.
Boswell's "Life of Johnson" and Lockhart's
"Life of Scott" are to be so ranked. Lockhart
did also a superfine example of the
short form, a biographical sketch of Theodore Hook,[592]
a very strange "bohemian." Lockhart's "Life of
Napoleon" and "Life of Burns" are also standard.
Trevelyan's "Life of Macaulay," Forster's "Life of
Goldsmith" and "Life of Dickens" rank here, as possibly
likewise Southey's "Life of Nelson," Mrs. Gaskell's
"Life of Charlotte Bronté," and Thomas Moore's
brilliant "Life of Lord Byron." Macaulay's own short
"Life of Johnson," though displaying Macaulay's
faults of prejudice and exaggeration, is in itself a
classic.
Writer and
subject
Very naturally a biography is a double revelation—one
of writer and subject. What you choose to praise
or blame, how you praise or blame, what
you notice, what you omit, how you emphasize,
how you show your erudition, where you give
your sympathy, the largeness or smallness of your view
of life—all these and more are tale-tellers of your own
personality. A luminous illustration of this fact is
Goldy's "Life of Beau Nash." Oliver and the great
beau had much in common, and when the biographer
is commenting on "the mixed silliness and shrewdness"
of his subject, "the taste and tawdriness, blossomed-colored
coats and gambling debts, vanity, carelessness,
and good-heart," he is writing a critique of
his own life, past and to come. When he mentions
Nash's "ill-controlled sensibility which was so strong
that, unable to witness the misfortunes of the miserable,
he was always borrowing money, to relieve them,"
we see the unlucky and reckless poet himself.
Beginning
Since it is the uncertain quantity of your own personality
that will make your narrative dry or entertaining,
we need hardly say more on the tone side of[593]
the work, unless it be to caution you about your diction,
to have it simple and fresh. On the other hand, you
might profitably notice at the end of this division
the outline of general facts that the
world expects in every biography. A certain number of
questions ought to be answered, not in any set order,
not with any set emphasis, but surely in sum finally.
See if you can not be original in your beginning and
ending. The amount of space that you will devote to
one topic or the other will be determined by your
purpose and your audience. If you are writing for
children, as Hawthorne was in his "Biographical
Sketches," you will emphasize those divisions of the
life that a child would most naturally be
interested in, or would be instructed by. Emphasis Be careful, however, not to make your poor hero or
heroine the opportunity for a sermon. Besides being
not quite fair, the device is trite and tiresome. Hawthorne
we may forgive for preaching when we remember
the taste of his day and the nearness of it to
Puritanical ideals; but you live in an age that likes to
take its own lessons from unvarnished facts and from
truths put forth concretely, not deduced. Avoid fulsomeness
and heroics. Attitude Set yourself to the task
of revealing the personality just as it was, and
it will teach its own lesson. Many people are more
inspired by an erring soul that yet achieved, than they
are by an icy paragon who knew no struggles. Be sure
that in this history of another person you give us a
human fellow.
Now, do not fly to the encyclopedia and cull facts
about Napoleon or Cromwell. Take some one whom[594]
you know—a man or woman of attainment in your own
neighborhood. Do the character-sketching with care.
Be crisp and original in attack. The outline given
below is a skeleton which you must hide with a pleasing
exterior. But do not forget to put the heart and
lungs in him. Exact and full information is the motor
power of a living biography.
Outline for a Life
- I. Birth: place and date—country, city, epoch.
- Nationality of parents and noteworthy facts
connected with the family.
- II. Boyhood and early education:
- Disposition and temperament displayed by the
youth.
- His chief interests; hobbies.
- Anecdotes about the boy: both true and only
typical.
- Primary and secondary schooling: at private
or public institutions.
- III. Later education and the choice of a career:
- College life.
- His family's plan for his profession or career.
- His own plan.
- Circumstances influencing the ultimate choice.
- Success resulting from the choice:
- Intellectual and personal.
- Financial and worldly.
- Final professional training.
- Travel.
- IV. Family and domestic life: marriage, children.
- Influence of wife and children on his success.
- [595]
Anecdotes and particular instances to illustrate
personality and character.
- V. Friends and enemies: names, professions, and
influence.
- VI. Accomplishment and title to fame:
- His rank in his own nation and the world.
- His especial characteristics as displayed in
style and subject-matter.
- His masterpieces: something of their content.
Queen Christina
(Born 1626. Died 1689.)
In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of
Sweden, there was born, in 1626, a little princess. The
king, her father, gave her the name of Christina, in
memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in
love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus, and he
was also called the Lion of the North, because he had
gained greater fame in war than any other prince or
general then alive. With this valiant king for their
commander, the Swedes had made themselves terrible to
the Emperor of Germany and to the King of France,
and were looked upon as the chief defense of the Protestant
religion.
The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child.
To confess the truth, she was remarkably plain. The
queen, her mother, did not love her so much as she
ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina's want
of beauty, and also both the king and queen had wished
for a son, who might have gained as great renown in
battle as his father had.
[596]
The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of
the infant princess. When Christina was very young
she was taken violently sick. Gustavus Adolphus, who
was several hundred miles from Stockholm, traveled
night and day and never rested until he held the poor
child in his arms. On her recovery he made a solemn
festival in order to show his joy to the people of Sweden
and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event
he took his daughter with him in all the journeys which
he made throughout his kingdom.
Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little
girl. When she was two years old the king and herself,
in the course of a journey, came to the strong fortress
of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers clad in
steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. There were
likewise great cannons, pointing their black mouths at
Gustavus and little Christina and ready to belch out
their smoke and thunder; for, whenever a king enters a
fortress, it is customary to receive him with a royal
salute of artillery.
But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and
his little daughter as they were about to enter the
gateway.
"May it please your Majesty," said he, taking off
his steel cap and bowing profoundly, "I fear that, if we
receive you with a salute of cannon, the little princess
will be frightened almost to death."
Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was
indeed apprehensive that the thunder of so many cannon
might perhaps throw her into convulsions. He had
almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter the
fortress quietly, as common people might have done,[597]
without all this head-splitting racket. But, no; this
would not do.
"Let them fire," said he, waving his hand. "Christina
is a soldier's daughter and must learn to bear the
noise of cannon."
So the captain uttered the word of command and immediately
there was a terrible peal of thunder from the
cannon and such a gush of smoke that it enveloped the
whole fortress in its volumes. But amid all the din and
confusion Christina was seen clapping her little hands
and laughing in an ecstasy of delight. Probably nothing
ever pleased her father so much as to see that his daughter
promised to be fearless as himself. He determined to
educate her exactly as if she had been a boy and to teach
her all the knowledge needful to the ruler of a kingdom
and the commander of an army.
But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence
had created her to be a woman, and that it was
not for him to make a man of her.
However, the king derived great happiness from his
beloved Christina. It must have been a pleasant sight
to see the powerful monarch of Sweden playing in some
magnificent hall of the palace with his merry little girl.
Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested upon
his shoulders. He forgot that the wise Chancellor Oxenstiern
was waiting to consult with him how to render
Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He forgot that
the Emperor of Germany and the King of France were
plotting together how they might pull him down from
his throne.
Yes, Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares and
pompous irksomeness of a royal life, and was as happy[598]
while playing with his child as the humblest peasant in
the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance along
the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, with his
upright, martial figure, his war-worn visage and commanding
aspect, and the small, round form of Christina,
with her rosy face of childish merriment! Her little
fingers were clasped in her father's hand, which had
held the leading staff in many famous victories. His
crown and scepter were her playthings. She could disarm
Gustavus of his sword, which was so terrible to the
princes of Europe.
But, alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy
Christina's society. When she was four years old Gustavus
was summoned to take command of the allied
armies of Germany, which were fighting against the emperor.
His greatest affliction was the necessity of parting
with his child; but people in such high stations have
little opportunity for domestic happiness. He called an
assembly of the senators of Sweden and confided Christina
to their care, saying that each one of them must be
a father to her if he himself should fall in battle.
At the moment of his departure Christina ran
towards him and began to address him with a speech
which somebody had taught her for the occasion. Gustavus
was busied with thoughts about the affairs of the
kingdom, so that he did not immediately attend to the
childish voice of his little girl. Christina, who did not
love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped short and
pulled him by the coat.
"Father," said she, "why do not you listen to my
speech?"
In a moment the king forgot everything except that[599]
he was parting with what he loved best in all the world.
He caught the child in his arms, pressed her to his
bosom and burst into tears. Yes; though he was a brave
man, and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast,
and though armies were waiting for him to lead them
to battle, still his heart melted within him and he wept.
Christina, too, was so afflicted that her attendants began
to fear that she would actually die of grief. But probably
she was soon comforted, for children seldom remember
their parents quite so faithfully as their parents
remember them.
For two years more Christina remained in the palace
at Stockholm. The queen, her mother, had accompanied
Gustavus to the wars. The child, therefore, was left to
the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the kingdom.
But these wise men knew better how to manage
the weighty affairs of state than how to govern and educate
a little girl so as to render her a good and happy
woman.
When two years had passed away tidings were
brought to Stockholm which filled everybody with triumph
and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes had
won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But, alas! the warlike
King of Sweden, the Lion of the North, the father of
our little Christina, had been slain at the foot of a great
stone, which still marks the spot of that hero's death.
Soon after this sad event a general assembly of congress,
consisting of deputations from the nobles, the
clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of Sweden, was
summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the purpose
of declaring little Christina to be Queen of Sweden and
giving her the crown and scepter of her deceased father.[600]
Silence being proclaimed, the Chancellor Oxenstiern
arose.
"We desire to know," said he, "whether the people
of Sweden will take the daughter of our dead King
Gustavus Adolphus to be their queen."
When the chancellor had spoken an old man, with
white hair and coarse apparel, stood up in the midst of
the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars Larrson by name,
and had spent most of his life in laboring on a farm.
"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" asked the old
man. "We do not know her. Let her be shown to us."
Then Christina was brought into the hall and placed
before the old peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see
a child—a little girl of six years old—offered to the
Swedes as their ruler instead of the brave king, her
father, who had led them to victory so many times.
Could her baby fingers wield a sword in war? Could her
childish mind govern the nation wisely in peace?
But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves
these questions. Old Lars Larrson took Christina
up in his arms and gazed earnestly into her face. He
had known the great Gustavus well, and his heart was
touched when he saw the likeness which the little girl
bore to that heroic monarch.
"Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his
furrowed cheeks, "this is truly the daughter of our Gustavus!
Here is her father's brow!—here is his piercing
eye! She is his very picture! This child shall be our
queen!"
Then all the proud nobles of Sweden and the reverend
clergy, and the burghers, and the peasants knelt
down at the child's feet and kissed her hand.
[601]
"Long live Christina, Queen of Sweden!" shouted
they.
Even after she was a woman grown, Christina remembered
the pleasure which she felt in seeing all these
men at her feet and hearing them acknowledge her as
their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn
that power does not insure happiness. As yet, however,
she had not any real power. All the public business, it
is true, was transacted in her name; but the kingdom
was governed by a number of the most experienced
statesmen, who were called a regency.
But it was considered necessary that the little queen
should be present at the public ceremonies and should
behave just as if she were in reality the ruler of the
nation. When she was seven years of age, some ambassadors
from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swedish
court. They wore long beards and were clad in a strange
fashion, with furs and other outlandish ornaments; and
as they were inhabitants of a half-civilized country, they
did not behave like other people. The Chancellor Oxenstiern
was afraid that the young queen would burst out
laughing at the first sight of these queer ambassadors,
or else that she would be frightened by their unusual
aspect.
"Why should I be frightened?" said the little queen.
"And do you suppose that I have no better manners
than to laugh? Only tell me how I must behave and I
will do it."
Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were introduced,
and Christina received them and answered their
speeches with as much dignity and propriety as if she
had been a grown woman.
[602]
All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you
must not suppose that she was left to act as she pleased.
She had a preceptor, named John Mathias, who was a
very learned man and capable of instructing her in all
the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach
her the delicate graces and gentle virtues of a woman.
She was surrounded almost entirely by men, and had
learned to despise the society of her own sex. At the
age of nine years she was separated from her mother,
whom the Swedes did not consider a proper person to be
intrusted with the charge of her. No little girl who sits
by a New England fireside has cause to envy Christina
in the royal palace at Stockholm.
Yet she made great progress in her studies. She
learned to read the classical authors of Greece and Rome,
and became a great admirer of the heroes and poets of
old times. Then as for active exercises, she could ride
on horseback as well as any man in her kingdom. She
was fond of hunting and could shoot at a mark with
wonderful skill. But dancing was the only feminine accomplishment
with which she had any acquaintance.
She was so restless in her disposition that none of her
attendants were sure of a moment's quiet either day or
night. She grew up, I am sorry to say, a very unamiable
person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, and, in short,
unfit to make those around her happy or to be happy
herself. Let every little girl who has been taught self-control
and a due regard for the rights of others thank
Heaven that she has had better instruction than this poor
little Queen of Sweden.
At the age of eighteen Christina was declared free to
govern the kingdom by herself without the aid of a regency.[603]
At this period of her life she was a young
woman of striking aspect, a good figure and intelligent
face, but very strangely dressed. She wore a short habit
of gray cloth, with a man's vest over it; and a black scarf
around her neck; but no jewels nor ornaments of any
kind.
Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appearance,
there was something in her air and manner
that proclaimed her as the ruler of a kingdom. Her
eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old
General Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of
Sweden to tremble in battle, actually trembled himself
when he encountered the eyes of the queen. But it
would have been better for Christina if she could have
made people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks,
instead of affrighting them by such terrible glances.
And now I have told you almost all that is amusing
or instructive in the childhood of Christina. Only a
few more words need be said about her; for it is neither
pleasant nor profitable to think of many things that
she did after she grew to be a woman.
When she had worn the crown a few years, she began
to consider it beneath her dignity to be called a
queen, because the name implied that she belonged to
the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be
proclaimed King; thus declaring to the world that she
despised her own sex and was desirous of being ranked
among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her age
Christina grew tired of royalty and resolved to be
neither a king nor a queen any longer. She took the
crown from her head with her own hands and ceased
to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not greatly[604]
regret her abdication, for she had governed them ill,
and had taken much of their property to supply her
extravagance.
Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina
left Sweden and traveled over many of the countries
of Europe. Everywhere she was received with great
ceremony, because she was the daughter of the renowned
Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful queen. Perhaps
you would like to know something about her personal
appearance in the latter part of her life. She is
described as wearing a man's vest, a short gray petticoat,
embroidered with gold and silver, and a black wig, which
was thrust awry upon her head. She wore no gloves,
and so seldom washed her hands that nobody could tell
what had been their original color. In this strange dress,
and, I suppose, without washing her hands or face, she
visited the magnificent court of Louis XIV.
She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, nor
regretted her death, nor planted a single flower upon
her grave. Happy are the little girls of America who
are brought up quietly and tenderly at the domestic
hearth, and thus become gentle and delicate women!
May none of them ever lose the loveliness of their sex
by receiving such an education as that of Queen Christina.
—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Biographical Stories. (Houghton Mifflin Company.)
Joan Luna's Life
The parents of Juan Luna, the greatest and most
eminent Filipino painter, were Ilocanos and of humble
birth. The young artist was born in Ilocos Norte in the[605]
year 1857 and died in Hong Kong in 1899. From childhood
he was hot-tempered. His early education was at
home. At the age of twelve he was a good caricaturist.
His father then sent him to Manila to attend the "Ateneo
Municipal." At the age of twenty-one he was sent to
Madrid, where he studied art under several famous
Spanish and Italian painters. He was given prizes at
the expositions in Madrid and Paris. In Spain he met
Miss Paz Pardo de Tavera, whom he married three years
later. He became very popular. Some of his friends
were Dr. Jose Rizal, Dr. Roxas, the famous Italian tenor,
Payarre, and many of the French and Spanish nobility.
He was especially loved by women, of whose hearts and
inclinations he showed a knowledge very intimate. Juan
Luna had an art which is seldom found in man, an instinct
found only in real genius, a power to portray and
interpret life, tenderness and the emotions of wrath and
pity.
He was tall and well built, with a high forehead, a
short flat nose and large black impressive eyes. In about
the year 1890, while he was at Paris, a terrible thing
occurred. His wife began to be untrue to him. It is
said that one day Paz asked Juan to let her go to a certain
shop to buy some thread. He allowed her to go,
but soon followed her because he suspected her. He
saw that Paz did not go to a shop but to a private house.
He walked in and found his wife with another man.
Then the crisis began. Luna was blind with anger. He
took Paz home and asked her to explain to him her late
behaviour. After many a tear, after many excuses and
explanations, after many promises to be good, Paz was
pardoned.
[606]
Two months later Luna asked his wife to go with
him and their two children to live in a village near by.
Paz at first said she would not go; but through the request
of her mother and brothers, she assented to Luna's
plan. On the day of their departure, when the carriages
which were to take them to the neighboring village were
in front of the door, Paz went to the bath-room with her
mother. Juan knocked at the door and asked her to
come down for it was getting late. Paz then shouted
out of the window, saying that her husband was killing
her. All at once Luna rushed to his room, took his pistol,
opened the bath-room door with a sudden push, and fired
at every one who came in his way. His mother-in-law,
wife and elder son were killed, and his younger son was
wounded.
In this deed we see the real character of Luna. He
was generous and cold-blooded; but when his pride,
name and honor were wounded, his blood boiled in his
head, he trembled, and saw nothing before him—neither
God nor man—but only the guilty.
The police then arrested him. He was tried the following
day. The newspapers spread this piece of news
to the world under their title: "La Tragedia en Paris."
Fortunately he was acquitted. The judges decided that
man's honor is his life, and that when it is once destroyed
it can never be supplied.
Luna was the greatest artist and painter that the
Philippines has ever produced. He is great in his own
country and ranks among the world's good painters.
In 1899 he came back to the Philippines; but on his
way home, while at Hong Kong, he died of apoplexy and
a broken heart. His son was brought to Manila by a[607]
friend. Andres, his son, is now twenty years of age and
is also a good painter, but not like his father.
The Philippines produced one of the world painters,
showing the fact that a great worker and a great mind
can not be hidden, even by tyranny and oppression.
—Dolores Asuncion.
Elizabeth Glade
Elizabeth Glade was born in Baltimore, Maryland,
about the year 1816. Her mother was a poor widow, but
gave her as much money as the family purse could afford,
for education in those days was very expensive.
Having finished with school, Elizabeth began to
occupy herself in making buttons and fringe, which at
that time were made by hand. At the age of twenty-three
she married John Arnold, a carpenter. They both
moved to the city of Washington to live. In 1849, when
gold was discovered in California, Mr. Arnold caught
the fever of the excitement and joined the forty-niners.
A few years afterwards his wife received news of his
death.
Elizabeth was left with only two hundred dollars,
and with five children who looked to her for food and
care. So she began the trade she had learned in her
girlhood and struggled along in spite of hard times.
Her mother took care of the children while Elizabeth
gave her entire attention to her trade.
Gradually her work increased. She bought land in
the business part of Washington and started a store.
Later she bought more property. As Washington grew,
land and houses became more valuable, and Elizabeth
became wealthy. She expended much money on her[608]
children's education. One son she sent to Yale college
and afterwards to Europe to continue his studies. This
son died before he had opportunity to make a name for
himself. Her other two sons also died young; but her
two daughters lived to survive her, and were a great
comfort to her.
Elizabeth had a peculiar disposition; for, though she
was exceedingly charitable, in small things she sometimes
showed indifference to other people's feelings. In this
petty selfishness, however, she was always frank and
never attempted to hide her actions.
When a young girl, before she married, Elizabeth
once went to town to buy two veils for herself and her
sister. She had received from her sister the money for
her veil. Before Elizabeth bought the veils she saw a
poor woman, who asked her for money. Elizabeth opened
her purse and gave the women the money for her sister's
veil. She then bought a veil for herself and returned
home. Her sister was surprised to see her with only one
veil and asked her where the other was. "I thought
that as you were younger you would not mind losing
your veil, and that you would like to give the money
to the poor woman," Elizabeth replied in her most
innocent manner.
One time she had company to supper and, as was her
custom, took all the cream off the milk for her own
coffee before passing the pitcher to anyone else. The
guest, when asked if she would have milk in her coffee,
said: "No, I do not care for milk in my coffee when
the cream has been taken off." Elizabeth burst out
laughing and said, "Well, Jane, I did not think anybody
saw me do that."
[609]
Elizabeth supported two of her brothers and their
families when they became ill and poor.
—Nellie Barrington.
Biography of a Traitor
Vicente was born in Santa Cruz, Laguna, in the year
1868. His parents were poor, so that he did not have a
high education. Very little is known about his childhood.
He seemed to have attended the primary school
of the town, where he learned a little Spanish. He was
not properly brought up by his parents. He was allowed
to indulge in bad society. Being thus left alone, exposed
to vice, he grew to be an unscrupulous and unruly young
man. He became an orphan at the age of eighteen. To
earn his living and to satisfy his craving for any easy,
idle and dependent life, he joined the Guardia Civil, a
body of soldiers employed by the Spaniards to maintain
peace in the islands. Unfortunately, instead of being
the guardians of peace, these men became the malefactors
of the country. As I have said, Vicente joined this most
dreaded army of oppressors and in a few days he became
one of the most cruel and abusive men in the corps.
He put many guiltless persons in prison, just because of
animosity or revenge. He sent many innocent persons to
the block simply because he wished to gain the favor of the
high officials. Such injustices were much admired and
were even encouraged by the Spaniards—for they also
practised such acts. Often such base conduct brought
promotion to a soldier of that behavior. So Vicente was
appointed a sergeant. Being thus gratuitously rewarded
he grew more atrocious than before. He was, then, a
terror, an awful monster to humble citizens, a murderer[610]
and a robber in every sense. His tyrannical and arbitrary
character, however, often succumbed to the tinkling
of coins—a fact that was universally true of government
officials of that time, from the highest to the lowest.
Once or twice through perfidious ways, Vicente acquired
a few large tracts of land, but this unlawfully attained
property was soon lost in gambling.
Spanish rule was ended by the revolution of 1898.
This body of Guardia Civiles was torn asunder. Many
of them were killed in the fight, but many were taken
prisoners and some were pardoned. Vicente, evidently,
was to live longer to play another plot against his
country.
At the beginning of the Filipino-American war, while
all the people left the town, with a heartless friend
Vicente surrendered. They allied themselves with the
Americans to betray their countrymen in the battlefield.
During the year following 1898, these two men
were the sole guides of the Americans in their campaigns.
They caused many to be thrown in prison. They laid
heavy taxes upon the goods of the tradesmen for their
own use.
Vicente's friend was elected president of the town
the first time that the civil government was established
here. He was unfortunate, however, in being stabbed to
death soon afterwards. Vicente succeeded his friend in
1900, and later married the wife of his predecessor. By
this time Vicente was very rich with the spoils of his
own countrymen. In fact, he was, then, living a glorious
life at the expense of his suffering country. He did not
wield his power long. Naturally, the Americans had no
confidence in him. When the war was over, his office[611]
was taken from him and was given to a good and honest
citizen.
From that time Vicente lived a retired life with his
family. Because of cock-fighting, gambling and card
playing, his seemingly abounding wealth was soon exhausted.
After all, he was a poor ordinary man, devoid
of influence, respect and rank in society. Even his house
was sold. He then rented his former house and set up
as a notary public in 1904; by which he could hardly
support his family. His repressed ambition for power
was, however, kindled again and in January, 1909, he
proclaimed himself candidate for the presidency in the
coming election. But fortune, health and success deserted
him. He grew consumptive and, after a few
weeks, he was confined to his bed.
One night in June, 1909, Vicente suddenly rose from
his bed and before his companions could ask him what
he wished, he jumped out of the window, shouting that
he was chased by some devils who were compelling him
to go with them to hell. He did not live long after this
event. He died a few hours later. In the morning, the
incident of his tragical death reached the ears of almost
everybody, and all these people said, "He is just paying
for some of his injustices. God is punishing him. Who
knows what punishment he will receive in the other
world!"
—Walfrido de Leon.
[612]
CHAPTER IX
IMPERSONAL ACCOUNTS
In its general sense narrative history includes all
true-story forms, even incidents and eye-witness
accounts. But annals and chronicles may be grouped
by themselves on the basis of the non-personal and
scientific attitude of the writer and the fact that the
story is usually of the doings of a set of people living as
a unit. Of course we find such type blendings as the
"Annals" of Goethe, which are true but autobiographical,
and the "Annals of the Parish" by John Galt, and
the "Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family,"
which though collective are fictitious; yet for the most
part these forms are thought of as embodying community
and actual history, and we will take them up
as such, remembering that fiction has drawn on all true-narrative
forms for verisimilitude. History is often
classified into narrative, scenic, and philosophical.
Only with the first kind have we anything to do.
There are a number of histories that have extraordinary
literary value, that are not mere recitals of past
events with tame descriptions of by-gone scenes and
more-or-less acute analysis of epochs and causes, but
are intense human documents with the life-blood of
nations throbbing and beating in their pages. Green
gave his health and the best days of his living to write[613]
his "History of the English People," and we love it.
It has something more than a scholar's accuracy in it.
It has a broad and deep inspiration that brings a catch
in the throat and a gleam of pride in the eye of any
who are fortunate enough to belong to the magnificent
race whose deeds it records. Enthusiasts fought for
Macaulay's "History" at the door of the bindery,
fulfilling the author's hope that it might be considered
more interesting than a novel. Motley's "Rise of the
Dutch Republic" is one of the most creditable things
in American letters. Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella,"
"Conquest of Mexico" and of "Peru," and
Parkman's "Montcalm and Wolfe" are along side for
literary qualities. Carlyle's "French Revolution" is a
unique and graphic set of pictures. Gibbon's "Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire" has long stood as
a classic example of literary high-seriousness in an
allied department. Grote's "History of Greece,"
Machiavel's "History of Florence," Sismondi's "Italian
Republics," Hallam's "Middle Ages," Symond's
"Italian Renaissance" and Schiller's "Thirty Years'
War" are all worthy the name of literature and have
excellent narrative in them. We can study at present,
however, only those forms of history that are shorter
and are merely narrative—annals, chronicles, and true
relations.
I. Annals
What annals
are
Annals are a concise historical record in which
events are arranged chronologically, year by
year. The accounts of necessity are brief,
since they are made and kept for reference. They[614]
contain any matter the recorders deemed worthy of
notice, especially, of course, whatever affected the
community as a whole. The report stands in relation
to the community much as a diary stands in relation to
a person. Intimate facts are to be expected. The
ambitions, hopes, defeats, expenditures, future plans,
of the city or state, are mentioned perhaps, as are also,
maybe, its success and honor—in the carrying out of a
town fiesta or county fair, or in being host to some
distinguished visitor or to a session of some large
political party. The essential element of this kind of
narrative history is the yearly periods, though the term
"annals" has been loosely used in modern literature to
signify almost any temporal order. Indeed, except in
studies like this such titles are never very strictly
applied. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for instance, is
in large part annals. However, we have a few clear
cases, especially among the ancients.
Famous
old annals
Tacitus wrote annals. Then later there are the
Annales Ecclesiastici of Baronius; the Annales et
Historia de Rebus Belgicis by Grotius,
published at Amsterdam in 1557; Hailes's
"Annals of Scotland from the Accession of Malcolm III
to the Accession of the House of Stuart;" Chamber's
"Domestic Annals of Scotland," and others. John
Stow bears a very high reputation as "an accurate and
impartial recorder of public events." He travelled on
foot through a considerable part of England examining
old manuscripts in cathedrals and other places of
preservation. He wrote down impartially what he
judged to be the truth, and, unswayed by "fear, favor,
or malice," as he himself declared, he established[615]
trustworthy history in his native land. His "Survey
of London" (1598) is the best known of his writings.
A scholarly piece of work, it has served us the foundation
of all subsequent histories of the metropolis.
American history, so badly treated in the past, is
being written accurately for the first time, think our
present day historians. They go about their work in
the good old Stow fashion: they use authenticated
local records. The friendly fable is current that the
way a noted professor composes his many histories is
this: he merely reaches about from left to right and
up and down of his mammoth desk and pulls from the
numerous cubby-holes bundles of closely written pages,
sorts them a little, ties a string around them, and says,
"Here's your book." But these closely written pages
are carefully prepared, minutely accurate material—monographs
on the local annals and traditions of
various places, done by the professor's own students
under the scrutinizing eye of their master. Whether
the fable is based on truth or not, it is illustrative of the
value of annals.
Suggestions
on
material
If you live in a small town, you can easily get at its
records, and with the permission of a person in
authority copy a few items. If you yourself
very well know the events written of, you
might edit the report, adding details of your
own by way of notes. You should not change the
statements, however, in the original; but, where there
is evidence of error or omissions, you could supply a
corrective amendment with the real facts in support.
If you translate from one tongue into another be careful
to give the idiomatic equivalent. The annals of a[616]
society or club might be easily enough compiled. All
that you would need to do would be to arrange the
narrative by years, culling your facts from the secretaries'
reports.
The State of England in Stephen's Reign
1137. This year King Stephen went across the sea
to Normandy. There he was well received because the
people thought that he must be the same sort of man as
his uncle; for he still had his treasure and he distributed
it and squandered it foolishly. In large quantities had
King Henry gathered gold and silver together. No good
did any of it do his soul, however.
When King Stephen came to England he made his
parliament at Oxenford. There he took Robert, bishop of
Salisbury; Alix, bishop of Lincoln; also Chancellor
Robert, his nephew; he put them all in prison until they
gave up their castles. When the traitors understood that
he was a mild man, soft and good, and did no justice,
they did every kind of wrong. They had sworn homage
to him, had made oaths, but they did not keep faith.
All were foresworn and their word of truth was gone.
For every rich man made him a castle, which they all
held against the king. They filled the land full of castles.
They oppressed very much the wretched men of the land
with castle-building. When the castles were finished,
they filled them with evil and devilish men. They captured
and imprisoned there by night and by day all
persons whom they thought had any possessions, both
men and women. They put them in prison for the sake
of gold and silver. They tortured them with indescribable
tortures; never were martyrs tormented as were[617]
these people. They hanged up men by the feet and
smoked them with foul smoke. Some were hanged up
by the thumbs, others by the head, and burning things
were hung on to their feet. They put knotted strings
around men's heads and writhed them until they went
into the brain. They put men into prison where adders
and snakes and toads were crawling, and so they tormented
them. Some they put into a chest short and
narrow and not deep, that had sharp stones within, and
forced men therein so that they broke all their limbs.
In many of the castles were hateful and grim things
called tachenteges, which two or three men had enough
to do to carry. It was thus made: it was fastened to a
beam and had a sharp iron to go around a man's neck
and throat, so that he might noways sit, or lie, or sleep,
but he bore all the iron. Many thousands they starved
with hunger.
I cannot nor may I tell all the wickedness and all the
torture which they did the poor wretches of this land.
This condition lasted nineteen years while Stephen was
king, and it grew ever worse and worse. They laid
tribute on the enclosures (tunes) always, and called it
censerie. When the miserable inhabitants had no more
to give, then they were plundered. The nobles burned
all the enclosures. So that you might easily go a whole
day's journey and you would find no man sitting in his
enclosure. No land was tilled. Corn was dear; also
flesh, cheese, and butter, for there was none in the
country. The wretched peasants died of hunger. Some
who were once rich men went a begging; others fled the
country.
Never was there before more destitution and suffering[618]
in the land; never did heathen men act worse than they
did. For everywhere subsequently did they forbear
neither church or churchyard; but they took all the
property that was in them. And sometimes they burned
the church and all together. Nor did they spare bishops'
land, or abbots', or priests'. They spoiled monks and
clerks. And every man (plundered) the other wherever
he could. If two or three men came riding up to an enclosure,
all the people of the farmstead fled because of
them; for they thought that they were robbers. The
bishops and the clergy always cursed them, but that was
nothing to them; for they were all fore-cursed, fore-sworn,
and lost.
Wheresoever the peasants cultivated, the earth produced
no grain; for the land was all destroyed with such
deeds. And they said openly that Christ and his saints
slept. Such things and more than we can mention we
suffered nineteen years because of our sins.
During all this evil time Abbot Martin held his abbacy
twenty years, six months and eight days, with great
toil. He provided his monks and his guests all that they
needed; he practiced much charity in his house. Nevertheless
he worked on the church, and appointed for its
lands and rents. He endowed it richly, he caused it to
be roofed, he brought them (the monks) into the new
minister on St. Peter's day (June 29) with much honor.
And he went to Rome; there he was well received by
Pope Eugenius. He obtained privileges; one, of all the
lands of the abbacy and another, of the lands which belong
to the office of sacrist. And, if he might live longer,
he meant to do the same with respect to the office of
treasurer. And he gained property in lands that powerful[619]
men held by force or violence; from William Maldint,
who held Rockingham, he obtained Cottingham and
Easton, and from Hugo of Walteville he secured Irlingborough
and Stanwick, and forty sols from Oldwinkle
each year. And he created many monks and planted
vineyards. And he performed many works. And he
changed the town to a better state than it ever was before.
He was a good monk and a good man; therefore God and
other men loved him.
Now we will say a little about what befell in King
Stephen's time. During his reign the Jew of Norwich
bought a Christian boy before Easter and tortured him
with all the torture that our Lord suffered. And on
Good Friday they hanged him to a cross for the love of
our Lord. Then they buried him. They thought it would
be concealed, but our Lord showed that he was a holy
martyr. The monks took him and buried him splendidly
in the minster. And he performed through our Lord
many wonderful miracles. They called him Saint William.
1138. This year King David of Scotland came to this
land with an immense army. He wanted to obtain possession
of the country by fighting. And there came
against him William, Earl of Albermar, to whom the
king had entrusted York and to other faithful men with
a few followers, and fought with him. He put the king
to flight at the battle of the Standard, and slew very
many of his army.
1140. This year King Stephen wanted to take Robert,
Earl of Gloucester, King Henry's son; but he could not,
for he became aware of it.
Thereafter in the Lenten season the sun and the day[620]
grew dark, about the ninth hour of the day, while people
were eating; so that they had to light candles to eat by.
It was on the 20th of March that the inhabitants were
so greatly astonished.
Later William, archbishop of Canterbury, died. And
the king made Theobald archbishop, who was abbot in
the abbey of Bec.
Then there waxed a very great war between the king
and Randolf, earl of Chester, not for the reason that he
(the king) did not give him (evidently the earl) all that
he demanded of him, as he did to all the others. But
always the more he gave them, the worse they were to
him. The earl held Lincoln against the king and deprived
him of all that he ought to have. Thither went
the king and besieged the earl and his brother William
of Romare in the castle. But the earl stole out and went
after Robert, earl of Gloucester, and brought him thither
with a large army. They fought hard on Candlemas day
against their lord. They captured him because his men
betrayed him and fled. They led him to Bristol and put
him in prison. Then was all England stirred more than
it ever was before. And all kinds of evil were in the
land.
Later came King Henry's daughter that had been
empress of Germany. Now she was the countess of
Anjou. She came to London and the London folk
wanted to seize her. And she fled and lost there very
much.
Then Henry, bishop of Winchester, brother of King
Stephen, spoke with Earl Robert and with the empress
and swore them oaths that he would never again hold
with the king his brother, and he cursed all those that[621]
were allied to him. And he told them that he would give
up to them Winchester, and he caused them to come
thither. When they were within the castle, the king's
queen came with all her forces and besieged them. And
a great famine occurred in the castle. When they could
no longer endure it, they stole out and fled. But those
without were aware, and followed them. And they took
Robert, earl of Gloucester, and led him to the Rochester
and put him in prison. The empress escaped into a
minster. Then went wise men between the king's friends
and the earl's friends. And they negotiated that the
king should be let out of prison in exchange for the
earl, and so they exchanged captives.
—Peterborough Chronicle.
Annals of the Town of Mangaldan, 1879-1882
I. July 2, 1879. An army of locusts swept over the
town. Crops were destroyed; panic followed.
II. August 8, 1879. The cura (priest) ordered the
improvement of streets.
III. August 21, 1879. A cardinal from Rome visited
the town. The priests waited on his table. Several
persons arrested for violating a certain ordinance were
pardoned through the grace of the holy visitor.
IV. February 29, 1880. The gold rosary of the
image of Virgin Mary was stolen; consequently, the cura
forbade the procession on the evening of that day.
V. July 17. A terrible earthquake shook the town,
destroying some houses.
VI. November 27. The Governor General visited
Mangaldan. There was great rejoicing; all the houses
around the plaza were hung with damasks.
[622]
VII. December 1. A Moro was taken around the
town. He carried a flag with a pig painted on it.
—Don Domingo Ydio,[11] 1879-1880.
I. January 1, 1881. Mariano Cendaña, after murdering
all the members of his family, went around the town,
killing all whom he met. He was at last captured.
II. October. A big comet appeared in the east. It
was so low that the people said it was only as high up
as the tallest cocoanut. The rays, spreading far and
wide, struck superstitious persons with awe and admiration.
III. November. General epidemic, caused by some
disease scattered by water (perhaps cholera), killed
many people.
IV. June, 1882. Another murder, Adriano Torralba,
killed three men in the barrio of Maasin.
—Kept by Don Mariano Cortes, 1881-1882.
(Obtained and translated by Bernabe B. Aquino.)
Annals of Pagsanjan
It has been said that about the middle of the seventeenth
century some Chinese traders arrived at the
junction of the Bumbungan and the Balanac rivers.
They chose this place to establish a trading post, for the
boats and barges could anchor close to the land. At
that time the San Isidro Hill extended to the Balanac
river, and there were rice and corn fields on the site of
the present town. As time went on, the Chinese married
Filipino women, and quite a settlement grew up. The
Chinese built houses and stores, and formed a small village
[623]
with other Filipino families. This village was under
the control of Lumbang, its neighboring town. The inhabitants,
of the village went to hear mass at Lumbang.
The men, especially the Chinese and their sons, gradually
grew rich. One of these rich mestizos supported the
priest of Lumbang, who, accordingly, could not say the
mass before they were all in the church.
One day, however, when the priest was hungry, he
said the mass before their arrival. Then, the man who
supported him became angry. He assembled all his
fellowmen to talk concerning the separation of the village
from Lumbang. They all agreed to build a church
of their own and call a priest. They contributed money,
and then asked some Chinese carpenters to build a church
for them. It was completed, in 1690. At the completion
of the church they agreed to build streets and enlarge
their village in order that it might accommodate the increasing
population. They dug up a part of the San
Isidro Hill, and on that cleared space laid out the streets
which are now called Maura, Rizal, and Moret. They
also covered the fields with sand, and built other streets.
They kept enlarging the village till it became a town.
The people named this town Pinagsangajan, which means
branching. They so called it Pinagsangajan, for it was
located at the junction of the Balanac and the Bumbungan
rivers. Now the people called it Pagsanjan, contraction
of Pinagsangajan.
In 1763 the church was burned. It was rebuilt in
1764. It was not completed till 1882.
In 1880 a great earthquake occurred, and many buildings
in Pagsanjan were destroyed. These ruined buildings
were not repaired for seven years.
[624]
In 1890 a severe storm occurred, and the Balanac
and the Bumbungan rivers overflowed their banks. The
water flowed all over the town. Many buildings were
carried away by the flood, and many people were
drowned.
In 1893 a great fire happened, and more than one
hundred and fifty buildings were burned. Before the
big fire there were some large houses. Very few houses
at that time were made of stone. So after the fire the
people used stone materials in rebuilding their ruined
houses.
They made their new houses larger than the old ones.
It took them many years to finish beautifying the
town.
On November 14, 1896, the Katipunan arrived at
Pagsanjan. The next day they went to Santa Cruz to
storm the town, but they could not carry out their plan,
for all the people who were faithful to their country
fought against them. Then they returned to Pagsanjan.
They went back again to Santa Cruz, but they accomplished
nothing. On Tuesday afternoon nearly all the
inhabitants of Pagsanjan fled from the town, because
many soldiers were come to storm the place. But the
shelling did not happen; instead they pardoned those who
did not run away when they saw that the people in the
town were few. The leader of these soldiers was General
Aguirre.
In 1901 the Americans came to Pagsanjan. When
they came the church plaza served as barracks for the
soldiers. These soldiers erected their tents and staked
their horses there. This plaza has had a checkered history.
In 1892 when Don Pedro Paterno, a deputy of the[625]
first district of the province of Laguna, was spending his
vacation in Pagsanjan, a meeting was held at his house,
and he urged upon the people the advantage of erecting
a monument in the center of the park, so as to commemorate
the concession of municipal government in the
Philippines. The people all agreed with him, so immediately
they contributed money and within a week the
proposed monument was completed. In the dedication
of this monument many people joined. As the monument
was erected to thank the government of Spain, the inscription
engraven on the tablets was about the Queen
of Spain, Don Angel Aviles, the director general of the
civil administration, and others. In 1898 just after the
insurrection of the Filipinos against the Spaniards, the
four marble tablets with their inscriptions were taken
from the faces of the monument and reversed; then on
the blank surface were painted inscriptions of the revolutionary
government in honor of Emilio Aguinaldo and
Apolinario Mabini. In 1902 after the Philippines became
subject to the American government, the councillors
agreed to remove the inscriptions, replacing them with
others—William McKinley, José Rizal, W. H. Taft and
the honorable Civil Commission of the United States in
the Philippines. But the people were not contented with
the inscriptions, so after a short time an agreement was
made that the tablets were to be turned as they were
originally mounted, presenting the old inscriptions, so
that the founders and the names of those in whose honor
the monument was first erected and who granted the
early liberties should not be forgotten.
—Dolores Zafra.
[626]
II. Chronicles
Definition.
Froissart
When the order of time is most conspicuous, history
is called chronicle. The work is usually divided into
sections, each section covering a separate
period. The periods may be long or short.
The account of occurrences may be somewhat elaborate,
but it is most often bare and simple. Froissart's
chronicles (1326-1400), however, are a rich pageantry
of feudal times. "The din of arms, the shouting
of knights, and marshalling of troops are there.
Visions Of fair women rise before us. Gorgeous
feasts and spectacles in which this knight of France
and England so much delighted are set forth in copious
details, and though he is no philosopher, his shrewd
observations, and richly minute descriptions have
helped others to philosophize."[12] Froissart's Chronicles
first appeared at Paris about the end of the
fifteenth century under the title of Chroniques de
France, d'Angleterre, d'Escosse, d'Espagne, de
Bretagne, de Gascogne, de Flanders et lieux d'aleutour.
In English there are two versions: one executed in
1523-25 by Lord Berners (reprinted in 1812); and the
other 1803-5 by Thomas Johnes. The later is more
correct. In the 13th and 14th centuries chroniclers
sprung up all over Europe, and created the non-church
history of the highways.
Ayala
Contemporaneous with Froissart was Ayala, who is
first of the Spanish chroniclers to be entirely
safe as an historical source. Ayala wrote
calm, business-like prose, and was bent upon recording
[627]facts whether glorious or inglorious. In contrast with
Froissart's simple-hearted enthusiasm Ayala's attitude
is one of cool sagacity and experience. He looks quite
through the deeds of men. He as dispassionately
records the crimes of the lords of the earth as he does
their pretentions to greatness. He lived in "four wild
reigns"—those of Peter the Cruel, Henry the Second,
John the First, and Henry the Third—and, as a minister
of state in each, had every opportunity to become
disillusioned, about chivalry. An event that both
Ayala and Froissart record is the murder of Blanche
of Bourbon by her husband the king, Don Pedro the
Cruel.
The circumstantial minuteness of an account by
a chronicler, who was an eight-years' eye-witness
of the king's inhumanity to his young and beautiful
queen, and who recorded step by step the series of
murders by which the king came up to the final crime,
seems more moving to a modern reader than would
seem the wildest and most impassioned ballad on the
subject. Indeed, Ayala's account has settled the character
of Don Pedro forever, despite the occasional
attempts by some personally interested countryman to
defend him, and despite the sentimental-tragedy of the
theater, and such metrical outbursts as that of
Chaucer's in the "Monk's Tale." But Chaucer, as
Ayala himself would have told us, was an "interested
party," since he was attached to the Duke of Lancaster
who was attached to Don Pedro.
General
chronicle
of Spain
Seventy-five or eighty years before Ayala, Alfonso
the Wise had begun the general chronicle of Spain by
collecting old ballads and redoing them into prose, and[628]
by adding thereto the history of his own day. Sixty
years after him, Alfonso the Eleventh appointed a court
chronicler; and so the habit in Spain of recording the
chief events of the kingdom was kept up
from 1320 with more or less regularity down
to the establishment of the Academy of
History in the eighteenth century. It is interesting
to note that this chronicle, that first preserved the
popular metrical tales by putting them into prose, in
turn gave rise to popular metrical tales that have kept
the traditions—such as those of the Cid and Bernardo
del Carpio.
Saxo Grammaticus
Like this earlier part of the Spanish Chronicle, the
still older legendary chronicles of the North promoted
literature. That of the Britons by Geoffrey
of Monmouth and that of the Danes by Saxo
Grammaticus have served, perhaps, a better purpose
than true accounts; for they have quickened the imagination
of subsequent times and given us themes for
many ballads and for some of the marvelous productions
of Shakespeare.
Holinshed
Because of the industry of Shakespeare's commentators
in assigning so much of the great dramatist's
subject-matter to Holinshed, the Tudor
chronicler will always live. Regardless of
whatever he may be worth personally, the whole world
owes him a debt for doing the hack work and thus leaving
a great genius free to construct.
A chronicle is not hard to write. The only requirements
are that you shall select a definite period of
time, and, proceeding in order, draw in it simple and
graphic pictures of the life lived and the deeds[629]
wrought. You might put together the events of your
own neighborhood for the last three years.
True
relation
Or you might write up some important happening
as it reaches back into the past and culminates in the
present. You would then be writing a true
relation. A true relation does not differ
much from a chronicle except in the fact that the
author as one person takes full responsibility for all
the statements. He must record nothing, therefore,
that he does not himself actually know; of every thing,
else he must give warning as hearsay or as oral or
written tradition or as records of someone else. A true
relation may even be a travel sketch or a partial
biography. It differs from journal and diary in being
a narrative of the doings of units of mankind or of
events that are of scientific or general importance and
that are not necessarily recorded daily and have no
essentially personal bearing upon the author beyond,
the relationship of vouched and voucher.
In 1589 Richard Hakluyt published a folio of
various relations which he called "The Principal
Navigations, Voyages, and Discoveries Made by the
English Nation." The events recorded, however, are
not always authentic. Modern historians are impatient
with Hakluyt, because he did not select more carefully
and sacrifice bulk to trustworthiness. Well-known
Spanish relations found in Blair and Robertson's
"Philippine Islands" are those of Loarca, Chirino,
Morga, Plascencia. They are considered reliable.
[630]
CHRONICLE
Rivalry Between Two Towns
During the time that the Earl of Flanders was in his
greatest prosperity there was a citizen of Ghent, by name
John Lyon, subtle and enterprising, and very much in
favor of the earl. This man having been banished from
Ghent on account of some murder in which he had been
concerned, retired to Donay, where the earl, who is said
to have been the promotion of the murder, supported him
in the greatest affluence, after a while recovered for him
his freedom, and made him deacon of the pilots, which
office might be worth about 1,000 francs a year. At the
same time there was a family in Ghent called the
Matthews, consisting of seven brothers, who were the most
considerable of all the pilots. One of these, by name
Gilbert Matthew, from jealousy and other causes, bore
in secret great hatred toward this John Lyon, and determined,
without striking a blow, to do him the greatest
injury in his power. With this view he got acquainted
with one of the earl's chamberlains, and in the course
of conversation with him took an opportunity of saying
that if the Earl of Flanders pleased he might gain every
year a handsome revenue from the pilots; that it might
be collected on the foreign trade, provided John Lyon,
the deacon, would acquit himself honestly. The hint was
conveyed by the chamberlain to the earl, who (like other
great lords, naturally eager of gain) ordered Gilbert
Matthew to be sent for. Gilbert was introduced accordingly
and made his scheme appear so reasonable that the
earl agreed to adopt it. John Lyon was forthwith sent
for, and in Gilbert's presence the earl proposed the
scheme to him. Now John saw at once that this was not[631]
a reasonable demand, and consequently said, "What you
require, as it seems at Gilbert's proposing, I cannot execute
alone; it will be too heavy upon the mariners."
However, the earl persisted, and John Lyon replied that
he would do the best in his power.
When this conference was over, Gilbert Matthew,
whose only object was to ruin John Lyon, went to his six
brothers and said to them, "You must now give me every
possible assistance, and we shall effect our purpose. A
meeting is to be held about this tax; now, notwithstanding
all I may say at the meeting, you must refuse to
comply. I will dissemble and argue that if John Lyon
did his duty, this ordinance would be obeyed. I know
the earl well, and sooner than lose his point, John Lyon
will be displaced; from his office, which will be given to
me, and then, of course, you can comply. With regard
to the other mariners, we are too powerful for them to
oppose us."
The six brothers agreed to do exactly as Gilbert had
directed them, and at the meeting everything turned out
as he wished; for John was deposed and the office was
given to Gilbert. Not contented with having effected the
ruin of their unhappy victim, one of the brothers wanted
to contrive to have him put to death, but to this the others
would not agree, saying that he had done them no wrong
and that no man ought to lose his life but by sentence
of a judge. Things went quietly for some time, until the
people of Bruges began to make a canal from the River
Lys. The canal had often before been attempted; but
as the inhabitants of Ghent considered it to be injurious
to the interests of their town, it was always opposed by
them. On the present occasion the Earl of Flanders had[632]
sanctioned the plan, and even sent pioneers with a body
of men-at-arms to annoy them in the execution of their
work.
As chance would have it, one day a woman on her return
from a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Boulogne, being
weary, sat down in the market-place of Ghent; when
many people collected around her, asking whence she
came. "From Boulogne," said the woman, "and I have
seen on my road the greatest curse that ever befell the
town of Ghent; for there are upward of five hundred men
laboring night and day to open a canal for the Lys, and
if they be not immediately prevented, the course of the
river will soon be turned." This speech of the woman
was echoed far and wide, and served to inflame men's
minds in all directions. Many said that if John Lyon
had been deacon no such attempt would ever have been
made; and to him they resorted for advice. John
thought this a favorable opportunity to redress the injury
he had received; however, he did not wish to seem
to thrust himself forward; but when prevailed upon to
speak, after much entreaty said: "Gentlemen, if you
wish to put an end to this business, you must renew an
ancient custom which formerly existed in this town of
Ghent. I mean you must first put on white hoods and
choose a leader."
"We will have it so! We will have it so!" was heard
on all sides. "We will put on white hoods."
White hoods were accordingly provided and given
out to those who preferred war to peace; and John Lyon
was elected chief. Most willingly did he accept the office,
for he rejoiced at the opportunity of embroiling the
towns of Ghent and Bruges with each other and with[633]
the earl, their lord. Gilbert Matthew, on the other hand,
was by no means well pleased when he saw in what numbers
the white hoods had collected. News was soon
carried to the pioneers that a large force from Ghent was
coming against them, upon which they immediately left
their work and returned to Bruges, so that John Lyon
and his party returned to the town without any encounter.
During the same week in which these white
hoods had placed themselves under the command of John
Lyon, another cause of distrust originated at Ghent by
some persons who were alarmed for its franchises; which
circumstances also favored greatly John's desire of
embroiling the town. The hope of success made him more
active than ever. He spread secret rumors in different
parts and took every opportunity of suggesting "That
never could the privileges of any town be properly maintained
when offices were put to sale," intending this in
allusion to the manner in which Gilbert Matthew had
become possessed of the deaconship. Moreover, he frequently
harangued his people in public; on which occasions
he spoke so well and with so much art that he
always left them highly impressed in his favor. At
length the men of Ghent determined to send to the Earl
of Flanders requesting a redress of their grievances, and
especially that he would put a stop to the canal. The
earl, thinking to abolish the white hoods, immediately
granted the request, but John Lyon, who was present
when the earl's answer was received, thus addressed the
meeting: "My good people, you see clearly at present
the value of these white hoods. Do they not guard your
privileges better than those of the red and black, or hoods
of any other color? Be assured, then, by me, that as soon[634]
as they shall be laid aside I will not give three farthings
for all your privileges."
This speech had the desired effect upon the people,
and they determined to do as John Lyon had advised
them. But Gilbert Matthew, who was very ill at ease,
concerted a plan with the earl to arrest John and some
of the principals of the white hoods, hoping thereby to
disperse the rest. With this view the bailiff of Ghent
came to the town with about 200 horsemen; galloped up
the streets with the earl's banner in his hand, and posted
himself in the market-place, where he was joined by
Gilbert and several others. John Lyon, suspecting what
was intended, immediately got together a large body of
his men, for they were instructed to be always ready, and
ordered them to advance. The moment Gilbert Matthew
and his party saw the white hoods advancing they left the
bailiff and ran off as fast as they could. John Lyon on
entering the market-place, without saying a word, seized
the bailiff and slew him. He then ordered the earl's
banner to be dragged through the dirt and torn to pieces;
and, upon seeing this, the men at arms took to flight and
left the town, which the victorious party pillaged as they
pleased.
After this event, several of the wisest and richest of
the citizens in Ghent, tired of these constant contentions,
called an assembly in which it was debated how they
could best make up matters with the earl and promote
the advantage of the town. John Lyon and other leaders
of the white hoods were invited to attend; indeed, without
them they would not have dared to assemble. Many
proposals were made, and long debates ensued; at last,
however, it was determined to elect twelve of the most[635]
respectable inhabitants, who should entreat the earl's
pardon for the murder of the bailiff, and endeavor by
this means to obtain peace; but in this peace every
person was to be included, and nothing moved in the
business hereafter.
The resolution was acted upon, and on an appointed
day twelve citizens waited upon the earl, who pleaded
their cause so well, and appeared so contrite that the
earl was on the point of pardoning all the outrages that
had been committed, when he received information that
the castle of Andreghien had been burned to the ground.
"Burned!" replied the earl to the messenger who
brought the intelligence. "And by what means?"
"By an accidental fire, as they say," was the reply.
"Ah! ah!" answered the earl. "Now it is all over;
there can never be peace in Flanders while John Lyon
lives."
Then sending for the deputies from Ghent, he said to
them, "Wretches, you supplicate my pardon with sword
in hand. I had acceded to your wishes and your people
have been base enough to burn down my favorite castle.
Was it not sufficient to have murdered my bailiff and
trampled on my banner? Quit my presence directly;
and tell the men of Ghent they shall never have peace
until they shall have given up to me to be beheaded
those whom I shall point out."
The earl was right in his conjecture. It was, indeed,
John Lyon and a refractory band of white hoods under
him who, discontented with the proposal of the assembly,
had actually destroyed the beautiful castle of Andreghien
while the deputies were at Male in conference with
the earl. Of course the poor deputies knew nothing of[636]
John Lyon's intention; and, like people perfectly innocent,
endeavored to excuse themselves, but in vain. The
earl was now so much enraged that he would not listen
to them, and as soon as they had left he summoned all
the knights of Flanders, and every gentleman dependent
on him, to be advised by them how he could best revenge
himself on the people of Ghent.
This was the very thing that John Lyon wanted; for
the people of Ghent would now be obliged to make war,
whether they liked it or not. He therefore seized the
opportunity, and, having collected the white hoods,
publicly harangued the people, and advised them without
delay to get together all the support from neighboring
towns they could, and make an attack upon Bruges.
Such even now was his influence that in a short time he
mustered a very large army, and placing himself at their
head advanced to Bruges, which town was so taken by
surprise that after a short parley at the wicket, the
burgomaster and magistrates opened the gates and the
men of Ghent entered. A formal alliance was then
drawn up, which the men of Ghent and Bruges mutually
swore to keep, and to remain forever as good friends and
neighbors.
"Froissart's Chronicles," in World's Great Classics Series.
A Short History of Ilagan
The town of Ilagan derived its name from the inverted
form of the Ibanag word nagaly, which means
"transfer." Why the town was named Ilagan was the
fact that in early times it was moved to its present location
from a plain a few miles away, which is always overflowed
by the annual inundation of the Cagayan river.
[637]
The early inhabitants were well-trained warriors, for
they had to fight with the Igorrotes—a wild head-hunting
tribe in the mountains. Their religion was somewhat
similar to Brahmanism, for they worshiped the crocodile
and practiced anito widely. Even after the Spaniards
came to the town, the people were barbarous, and it was
only after the arrival of the Dominicans, about 1689,
that civilization began to spread itself among the people;
for these benevolent friars established schools, converted
the pagan inhabitants into Christians, and taught them
better modes of living.
Although the people seemed to be contented, still it
was not very long until they began to feel the heavy
grasp of the iron hand of Spanish oppression. In 1776
a revolt occurred, and the people in their frenzy burned
the church and nearly all the Spanish residences. The
causes of the revolt were the high rates of taxation and
the compulsory public labor. But the uprising, which
spread throughout central Luzon, was soon quelled, and
peace was restored.
Then followed a period of advancement and progress.
The inhabitants were for about one hundred and thirty
years peaceful. During this long period a new church
was finished, in 1787; the town became the capital of the
province, and commerce progressed by leaps and bounds.
But in 1897 when the news of Rizal's execution, which
caused a tide of patriotism to sweep over the land, became
known to the people, they again revolted, but
without accomplishing much. In the Filipino-American
war the inhabitants took no active part, although, owing
to the presence of a handful of Tagalog soldiers from
Palanan, then a barrio of Ilagan, where Aguinaldo was[638]
captured, some skirmishing was done in the barrio of
San Antonio.
Ilagan is situated on a three-cornered star-shaped
plateau at the junction of the Pinacanauan and Cagayan
rivers, about ninety miles from Aparri. It is divided
into four districts: Bagumbayan, which occupies the
northern corner of the star; Baculod, the eastern corner;
St. Vicente, the southwestern comer, and Central, the
center. The residences of the rich, the municipal and
provincial buildings, the church and the principal European
and Chinese business houses are in the central
district; while the farmers, artisans, shoemakers and
other classes of people inhabit the other districts. In
the district of St. Vicente are the ruins of the church
burned in 1776. The lot where it is situated is now
overgrown with large trees, and the crumbling brick wall
which formed the background of the church, and is now
covered with moss and vines, remains as a memento of
the uprising.
The inhabitants, being near the Ilocanos, are industrious,
and being far from the Tagalogs are peaceful.
But what is to be admired more than any of their other
characteristics is their political belief. The majority is—I
hope it will be always—in favor of the indefinite retention
of the islands by America, the spread of democratic
education among the people, and the speedy development
of agriculture. If the people do not depart
from their present policies, the future history of the
town will be one of happiness.
[639]
A TRUE RELATION
Some Incidents of the Rebellion of 1898
The Filipino rebellion against Spanish rule really
began in the year 1896, in southern Luzon. The northwestern
provinces rebelled much later, owing perhaps to
the lack of communication or to some disagreement
among the leaders of certain districts. I was about eight
years old at the time the war broke out in western
Pangasinan and northern Zambales, and I write from
what I saw with my own eyes, and what was afterwards
told me by my parents and older friends.
About the beginning of the year 1898 the northwestern
provinces of Luzon became restless, seeing that their
brothers in Cavite and other southern provinces were
already in the field. The Spaniards grew more and more
uneasy and so a detachment of from fifteen to twenty
Spanish soldiers was placed in each town, in addition to
the guardia civil, which was also stationed in the large
towns. It must be borne in mind that in that war no
quarter could be expected from either side and all the
prisoners were invariably put to death. So that unusual
cruelty should not be imputed to the common Filipino
fighter in the massacres which he committed.
Just about the beginning of the year 1898, some time
in the month of January, the people of my town, as well
as the neighboring towns, agreed to massacre the detachment
of soldiers in their respective municipalities.
The agreement was kept a great secret, and in my town
at least the Spanish soldiers had not the slightest idea
of the fatal compact. The day decided upon was a certain
Monday in February, 1898, the exact date of which
I do not remember.
[640]
Outside the town, in the dead of night, you would
find groups talking in whispers as to the final arrangements,
for the chief men would go to the barrios in the
night and hold secret meetings in hidden and solitary
places. In the afternoons you would find men grinding
their long bolos or talibongs in the solitude of their
houses. At the same time you would see the women
making trousers and hat-bands of red cloth for their
husbands or brothers. In the meantime the Spaniards
had a vague idea of how things were going on, and becoming
rather uneasy, they ordered a barricade of bamboo
to be built around their barracks. The guardia civil
did the same, except that instead of bamboo, they used
big logs, which they made each principal (councilor)
give. But unfortunately the very workmen themselves
were rebels, and were the first ones to strike the blow.
I also remember clearly how the lieutenant and the town
friar forbade people to talk in groups of three or more.
So men walked in the streets alone or with only one
companion, not even daring to engage in earnest conversation.
Men visited their friends, going to the back
doors at night.
It must be stated here that in order to get all the
able-bodied men to join the rebellion a form of ceremony
was gone through in the case of every single convert.
Certain men who were influential and eloquent were appointed
to do the hard work of conversion. A leader of
this kind had to coax and persuade men singly, at the
same time taking care that the Spanish forces did not
hear of his proceedings. After a man had expressed
his willingness to join, he was made to take a solemn
oath, the non-fulfilment of which would bring upon him[641]
temporal and spiritual condemnation. Besides, his arm
was pricked with a sharp knife, and with his own blood
he wrote, or else caused to be written, his name in a
large book. This made the ceremony to the new recruit
exceedingly impressive.
One thing that made men so bold at that time was
the belief in the power of the anting anting (talisman).
There were two kinds of anting anting that were bullet
proof. They were made of flour like sacred bread, except
that they were as large in circumference only as a
peseta. Some Latin words were printed on them. One
kind was eaten, while the other was placed on the forehead.
So after the town was in the hands of the revolutionists,
everybody seemed to be having a headache,
for they all had their foreheads bound around with
handkerchiefs, or more often with red bands of cloth.
I must add that the color of the revolution was red, the
sign of blood. I remember that when we left the town to
hide in the country I left my expensive felt hat, and used
a cheap native sombrero with a red band around it.
When the town was again retaken by the Spaniards
we tore off all these red signs and buried them in the
ground.
As I have said, the day agreed upon for the massacre
was Monday. My uncle told me the Spanish soldiers in
town heard of the people in the barrios assembling, but
they entirely ignored the danger, feeling sure that the
rebels with bolos would not by any means dare to cope
with their powerful Mausers. My uncle further added
that, had the Spanish been discreet, considering that they
were twenty-two in number, including a lieutenant, besides
the town friar, they would have fortified the convent[642]
and would have been able to hold out till reinforcements
from eastern Pangasinan could come.
On the morning of that fatal day I was in the house
of my grandmother, which was near the plaza where the
soldiers had their quarters. I could not see the whole
of the slaughter, for my grandmother when she saw us
looking at the fight, sent us to the cellar, and made us
lie there flat on our stomachs to protect us from spent
bullets.
Early that morning about eight o'clock the guardia
civil, hearing that there was a great crowd of armed men
near the town cemetery about a mile away, went out
there. The guardia civil soldiers, who were all Filipinos,
were in league with the movement, but their sergeant was
a Spaniard. When they saw the men near the cemetery
and when the sergeant ordered them to fire, they did not
aim at the rebels. But the rebels instead, thinking that
the soldiers had changed their minds, fought in earnest
and killed the guardia civil to a man.
In the meantime the Spanish soldiers in the town
were being massacred. At the appointed time a workman
who was working on the barricade, gave the guard
a blow with his axe, and the guard fell without a groan.
Then the rest of the workmen went up to the barracks
with the pretense of asking for their pay. When the
big drum began to beat they seized the guns and hacked
and struck the unarmed soldiers.
The slaughter was indeed terrible to see. From all
the streets of the town leading to the public square issued
hundreds of men all at the same time. I think I still
see those men with red-banded hats shouting at the top
of their lungs, holding and wielding aloft their long[643]
sharp bolos, which as they caught the rays of the morning
sun dazzled our eyes. These men advanced toward
the barracks and there finished the massacre. Some of
the Spaniards, deprived of their guns and hard pressed
by the workmen who had gone up to the barracks,
jumped down from the windows; but it was like jumping
from the frying pan to the fire, for they were met
by bristling swords and lances.
Of the twenty-one soldiers, four chanced to be out,
two being in the market, and two being in my uncle's
house. On hearing the tumult and seeing men issue from
all the streets and alleys, they ran like mad to their
quarters; but they were all killed before reaching the
place. One of the soldiers had a bayonet slung to his
belt, and drawing it he tried to ward off the blows rained
upon him from all sides; but in a moment a shower of
clubs and stones laid him low. Some of the soldiers fell
on their knees and implored for mercy, but the blood of
those men, many of whom had already experienced
cruelty and torture under the Spanish servitude, was
boiling with vengeance toward the Spaniards as a whole
people.
The lieutenant was just going from the convent,
where he had his quarters, to the barracks, and on seeing
the hordes of men, he turned back, ran up in the church
steeple, and from there with his revolver fired shot after
shot at the multitude below. Strange to say he hit not
even a man, probably through excitement. The men,
seeing him, climbed up the tower. He surrendered, knelt
down and threw away his revolver; but no quarter was
given. He was cut all through and his body was thrown
from the dizzy height of about a hundred and fifty feet[644]
to the ground. His blood, which trickled from the tower
down the church wall may still be seen to this day.
In the afternoon two native carts full of corpses, their
arms and legs dangling in the air, were all that was left
of those twenty-two cazadores. I liked the Spanish
soldiers, for they were such jolly, good fellows, fond of
dancing fandango and singing airs of old Spain. Many
of them were mere boys seized and shipped over here
from their unwilling parents. To them the only civilized
and good country was Spain; and they often excited my
boyish fancy with exaggerated descriptions of the wonders
of Spain and extravagant tales about its people. So
as the carts passed by our house and I saw the dead,
I felt quite sad, wondering within my childish heart
what fault they had committed to entitle them to such
a sad end.
The town friar, the town tyrant and dictator, had
now also come to the end of his reign. Men who formerly
used to kneel to him denounced him and gave
vent to all their accumulated hatred. The friar was
sentenced to death and a few days afterwards was executed
outside the town. The infuriated ignorant people
sacked the convent, which at that time was like a palace.
They were so enraged that even the library of the convent
was burned and cut to pieces. A funny incident is
connected with the convent. It was circulated about
that on the outbreak of the disturbance the friar had
dropped a large box of silver into one of the convent
wells, of which there were several. A few years after the
war some people began to inquire as to which of the
wells the money had been dropped into; for the American
soldiers, on occupying the convent, filled up some of the[645]
wells. Finally there was discovered on the trunk of a
santol tree growing near one of the wells a cross carved
in the wood. People said it was the sign made by the
friar to mark the spot, and henceforth began to dig up
the well. They worked for days and days expecting
every moment to find the box, but in vain. As a result
of their over-credulity they expended a good deal of
hard labor.
—Marcelino Montemayor.
[646][647]
BIBLIOGRAPHY
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
A. B.—Ariel Booklets (G. P. Putnam's Sons).
Bohn.—Bohn's Libraries (Geo. Bell, London).
C. N. L.—Cassell's National Library (Cassell).
E. L.—Everyman's Library (Dent and Dutton).
N. U. L.—New Universal Library (E. P. Dutton).
P. W. C.—Putnam's World's Classics (G. P. Putnam's Sons).
T. C.—Temple Classics (J. M. Dent).
W. C.—World's Classics (Oxford University Press).
W. G. C.—World's Great Classics (Colonial Press).
GENERAL REFERENCE WORKS ON THE HISTORY OF
FICTION
Dunlop, History of Prose Fiction, 2 vols. (Bohn, 1896).
Ticknor, History of Spanish Fiction, revised edition (Boston,
1866).
Raleigh, The English Novel from its Origin to Sir Walter
Scott (Scribner).
Cross, The Development of the English Novel (Macmillan).
Simonds, An Introduction to the Study of English Fiction
(Heath).
Warren, History of the Novel Previous to the Seventeenth
Century (Holt).
Hamilton, Clayton, The Materials and Methods of Fiction, with
introd. by Brander Matthews (The Baker and Taylor Co.)
Jusserand, The English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare
(Putnam).
Forsyth, Novels and Novelists of the Eighteenth Century
(Appleton).
Matthews, The Short-Story (American Book Co.)
Jessup and Canby, The Book of the Short-Story (Appleton).
Canby, H. S., The Short-Story in English (Holt).
Stoddard, Evolution of the English Novel (Macmillan).
Tuckerman, History of English Prose Fiction (Putnam).
In Lanier's The English Novel, Whitcomb's The Study of a
Novel, and Barrett's Short-Story Writing the criticism is
analytical rather than historical.
[648]
CHAPTER I. PRIMITIVE RELIGIOUS GROUP
Myth
CRITICAL BOOKS.
Andrew Lang, Custom and Myth (Longmans). Max Müller,
Chips from a German Workshop, vol. II and IV. Max Müller,
Last Essays, 2nd series. W. G. Wood Martin, Traces of the Elder
Faiths in Ireland, 2 vols. E. B. Tylor, Primitive Culture. Laura
E. Poor, Sanscrit and Its Kindred Literatures. Jacob Grimm,
Teutonic Mythology.
DICTIONARIES
Fernando Blumentritt, Dictionario Mitológico de las Filipinas.
Isabelo de los Reyes, La Religion Antigua de los Filipinos. E. C.
Brewer, Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (Altemus). A. S. Murray,
Manual of Mythology.
COLLECTIONS OF MYTHS
Hawthorne's Wonder Book and Tanglewood Tales (E. L.).
The works of Jeremiah Curtin: Creation Myths of Primitive
America; Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland; Myths and Folk-tales
of the Russians, Western Slavs, and Magyars; A Journey in
Southern Siberia [the religion and myths of the Mongols]. The
works of C. M. Skinner: American Myths and Legends, 2 vols;
Myths and Legends of Our New Possessions and Protectorates;
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, 2 vols.; Myths and Legends
Beyond Our Borders. Florence J. Stoddard's As Old as the Moon
[Folk-lore of the Antillas] (Doubleday, Page); Myths of the
Quichas. Guerber's Myths of Greece and Rome; Bulfinch's Age
of Fable; Katherine B. Judson's Myths and Legends of the
Pacific Northwest (McClurg); T. G. Thrum's Stories of the
Menehunes (1910).
Legend and Saga
The Legends of St. Patrick, by Aubrey de Vere (C. N. L.);
H. A. Guerber's Legends of Switzerland, and Legends of the
Rhine; Sidney Lanier's Boys' Library of Legend and Chivalry
contains The Boy's King Arthur, The Boy's Percy, and The
Knightly Legends of Wales (Scribners); Selma Lagerlöf's
Invisible Links; Ruskin's King of the Golden River (A. B.);
Canton's W. V.'s Golden Legend (Dodd, Mead); Finnish Legends,
stories from the Kalevala, told by Eivind (T. Fisher Unwin).
S. Baring Gould's Curious Myths of the Middle Ages (Longmans)
are really legends. Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales includes a
number of legends. Mediaeval Tales in Morley's Universal
Library contains stories from the Gesta Romanorum and the Faust
legend. Nutt's Legends of the Holy Grail. Dr. Whitley Stokes[649]
has translated many of the early Irish sagas (Revue Celtique,
1869-1902, and in Irische Texte, 1880-1902). Kipling's Puck of
Pooh's Hill [fairy tale and legend] (Doubleday); Eleanor H.
Broadus' The Book of the Christ Child (Appleton); Van Dyke's
Other Wise Man (Harpers) is purely literary. The Story of
Grettir the Strong, translated from the Icelandic by Magnusson
and Morris (Longmans); The Volsunga Saga, translated by
Magnusson and Morris (Scott); Beowulf, translated into modern
English prose, by J. Clark Hall (Sonnenschein); J. Baldwin's
Story of Roland (Scribners); C. D. Wilson's Story of the Cid for
Young People. The Nibelungenlied is well translated in the
World's Great Classics Series and contains a good introduction.
Orlando Furioso, translated by W. S. Rose (Bohn). The Mabinogion,
translated by Lady Charlotte Guest (Nutt); The Stories
of the Ramayana and Mahabharata, told by Oman (Bohn). An
English translation of the Shah Nameh may be found in Oriental
Literature (W. G. C.).
Fairy Tale and Nursery Saga
Collectors have not distinguished carefully between fairy tales
and nursery sagas. Many of the collections cited as fairy tales
contain nursery sagas. A general term often used to include both
is folk-tales; Tolstoy has re-done several of the Russian folk
stories, which may be found in Twenty-three Tales from Tolstoy,
translated by L. & F. Maude (W. C.). T. G. Thrum's Hawaiian
Folk-Tales; F. H. Cushing's Zuñi Folk-Tales (Putnam); Blue, Red,
Green, Gray, Yellow, Pink, Violet, Crimson, and Brown Fairy
Books, edited by A. Lang (Longmans). The Fairy Library
(Putnam), collected and edited by Joseph Jacobs, contains English,
Celtic, Indian, East Indian, Persian, Chinese, South Sea Island,
African, and Japanese fairy tales. W. R. S. Ralston's Russian
Fairy and Folk Tales (Hurst); English Fairy and Folk Tales,
edited by E. S. Hartland (Scott); Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales,
edited by Sir Geo. Douglas (Scott); Irish Fairy and Folk Tales,
edited by W. B. Yeats (Scott); Grimm's Household Tales in any
of the good editions (E. L., Lippincott, Bohn); Hans Christian
Andersen's Fairy Tales (E. L.). Burt's Fairy Library includes
among others Cossack Fairy Tales, Russian Fairy Tales, Turkish
Fairy Tales. Fairy Gold, stories chosen by E. Rhys (E. L.).
Thomas Keightley's Fairy Mythology (Bohn) is a standard reference
work. Alfred Nutt's Fairy Mythology of Shakespeare (1900).
CHAPTER II. SYMBOLIC-DIDACTIC GROUP
Fable
Thomas Newbigging's Fables and Fabulists (New York), critical
and historical discussion of writers of the type.
Fables in the Bible, Judges 9:8-15; II Kings 14:9. Kalilah[650]
and Dimnah, or the Fables of Bidpai: an historical account with
a translation into English, by Keith Falconer (London, 1885);
Hitopadesa (The Book of Good Counsels), translated by Sir Edwin
Arnold: Oriental Literature, vol. III (W. G. C.), also in N. U.
L.; Aesop's Fables (Astor Library, Crowell; P. W. C.); Fables
of Phaedrus, translated into prose and verse (Bohn); La Fontaine's
Fables (T. C., Bohn); Iriarte's Literary Fables (first
publ. 1782), English version by Rockliffe, 3rd edition, 1866; Gay's
Fables, in Muses Library (Dutton); Richard Steele's Mastiff and
His Puppy (Tatler, No. 115); Kriloff and His Fables, translated
by J. R. S. Ralston (J. S. Ogilvie, N. Y.); Turkish Fables [46 in
number], translated by Epiphanius Wilson: Turkish Literature
(W. G. C.).
Parable
R. C. Trench, Notes on the Parables of Our Lord.
Parables of the Bible: II Samuel 12:1-4; 14:5-7; I Kings
20:39-40; Isaiah 5:1-6; 28:23-28; Matthew 13:4-7, 24-33; 18:23-35;
20:1-16; 21:33-41; 22:1-14; 25:1-13; 26:14-30, 31-46.
For a summary of Barlaam and Josaphat, see Dunlop's History
of Fiction, vol. I, pp. 64-77.
Hamilton W. Mabie's Parables of Life. A number of the
stories in Twenty-three Tales from Tolstoy (W. C.).
Allegory
James Baldwin's The Famous Allegories (Silver, Burdett);
Olive Schreiner's Dreams; Oscar Wilde's Poems in Prose, (Fortnightly
Review, 1894), also in Ideal Series of Little Masterpieces;
Everyman, and eight other Moralities (E. L.); Henry Van Dyke's
Blue Flower (Scribners); Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales and
Mosses from an Old Manse (Houghton). Alfred de Musset's
Story of a White Blackbird (Brentano) is a unique and daring
autobiographical allegory.
CHAPTER III. INGENIOUS-ASTONISHING GROUP
Tale of Mere Wonder
Meredith's Shaving of Shagpat (Bozhill edition); Stevenson's
New Arabian Nights, and More New Arabian Nights (Scribners);
H. W. Weber's Tales of the East, 3 vols. (Edinburgh, 1812);
Dandin's Hindoo Tales (London, 1873); S. Julien's Nouvelles
Chinoises (Paris, 1860). History of the Forty Vezirs, Turkish
tales translated by Epiphanius Wilson: Turkish Literature, pp.
361-460 (W. G. C.). Egyptian Tales, translated by W. F. Petrie:
Egyptian Literature, pp. 135-177 (W. G. C.). Moorish Tales,
translated by Rene Basset, Chauncey Starkweather, and others:
Moorish Literature (W. G. C.). Tales of the Genii, translated[651]
from the Persian by Sir Charles Morell (Bohn); Arabian, Nights'
Entertainments, edited by Stanley Lane-Pool, in 6 vols. (A. B.), or
in 4 vols. (Bohn); The Golden Ass, by Apuleius (Bohn).
Imaginary Voyage With a Satiric or Instructive Purpose
Lucian 's Trips to the Moon (C. N. L. No. 71); More's Utopia
(T. C.); Bacon's New Atlantis (Bohn); Barclay's Argenis, English
translation by Sir R. Le Grys, 1629; Swift's Gulliver's
Travels (T. C.). For Swift's obligations to previous writers, see
article by Borkowsky in "Anglia," vol. 15. F. C. Sibbern (1785-1872),
a Scandinavian writer, wrote "Contents of a MS. of the
year 2,135." The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, by Rudolphe
Eric Raspe (P. W. C.); Robinson Crusoe, in Defoe's Works, vol.
7 (Bohn).
For summaries of the imaginary voyages of Lucian, Holberg,
Cyrano de Bergerac, Berkeley, and others, see Dunlop History of
Prose Fiction, vol. II, pp. 518-538, 588-591, 619-622 (Bohn, revised
edition, 1896).
Tale of Scientific Discovery and of Mechanical Invention
H. G. Wells's stories and novels are good examples of the
pseudo-scientific tale. His imaginary voyages are not without
gentle satire on the learned theories of the day (Scribners, Harpers,
Century). "With the Night Mail; a Story of 2000 A. D.,"
by Rudyard Kipling (Doubleday, 1909); The Mystery, by Stewart
Edward White and Samuel Hopkins Adams. Most of the short
stories of this type mentioned in the discussion can be found in
the collections of short stories (see below).
The Detective Story and Other Tales of Mere Plot
Among the earliest detective stories and stories of crime belong
Charles Brockden Brown's Edgar Huntley and Arthur Mervyn
(Works, Philadelphia, 1877); Edgar Allan Poe's famous detective
stories have been mentioned in the text. Emile Gaboriau (1835-1873)
popularized the story of crime in France. M. Lecoq is a
direct forerunner of Sherlock Holmes. His Works are published
(in English translation) in 6 vols. A. Conan Doyle's Adventures
of Sherlock Holmes, Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of
Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of the Four, A Study in Scarlet, The
Hound of the Baskervilles, etc., are worth reading. Anna Katherine
Green surely does not lack popularity whatever else she may
lack. Her earlier stories are better than her later, with the
exception of The Filigree Ball, which is perhaps her best. Meredith
Nicholson's House of a Thousand Candles has a good mysterious
plot. The works of Rodriguez Ottolengui (Putnam). For
other stories of pure plot see writers mentioned in bibliography
to Chapter VI.
[652]
CHAPTER IV. THE ENTERTAINING GROUP
Tale of Probable Adventure
Tales of Daring and Danger, by G. A. Henty; F. H. Spearman's
Held for Orders; Tales of Railroad Life (McClure), Nerve
of Foley and other Railroad Stories (Harpers); Cy Warman's
The Last Spike and Other Railroad Stories and The Express Messenger
(Scribners); Stewart Edward White's Blazed Trail Stories
and Stories of the Wild Life (Doubleday). Many of R. L. Stevenson's
tales.
The Society Story
This is the type of the larger number of love tales in current
periodicals. When well done under certain restrictions of length
and development a narrative of this kind rises to the class of the
artistic short-story.
Pastoral Romance—Aucassin and Nicolette, translated by
Andrew Lang (Chiswick Series); Greek Romances of Heliodorus,
Longus, and Achilles Tatius (Bohn); Cervantes' Galatea is a typical
example. It is published in English translation in Bohn's
Libraries. Montemayor's Diana is summarized rather fully in
Dunlop II, pp. 365-376. For Sidney's pastoral see E. A. Baker's
edition of the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia. Lodge's Rosalind
(C. N. L.). For historical criticism of the type, see E. K. Chambers'
English Pastorals (Warwick Library), W. W. Greg's Pastoral
Poetry and Pastoral Drama, 1906, and J. B. Fletcher's The Pastoral
(Types of English Literature, Houghton Mifflin & Co.).
The Humorous Story
As in the case of the society story, the best collections of humorous
stories are the cheaper current magazines.
Fableaux—A. de Montaiglon et G. Raynaud, Receuil général et
complet des fabliaux des XIIIe et XIVe siecles, Paris, 1872-88,
6 vols. See Dunlop, History of Fiction, vol. II, p. 23 et seqq.
Picaresque romances—Romances of Roguery, by F. W. Chandler,
2 vols., 1899, is the standard book of criticism of the type.
For the picaresque romances themselves, see Petronius Arbiter's
Satyricon, English translation (Bohn); Apuleius' Golden Ass,
English translation (Bohn). English translations of Lazarillo de
Tormes, by Roscoe, and Guzman d'Alfarache, by Brandy, can be
obtained from Lemcke and Buechner (N. Y.). Gil Blas, 2 vols.
(W. C.); Smollett's Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Ferdinand,
Count Fathom, in works, edited by Saintsbury (London,
1895); Fielding's Jonathan Wild, in works, edited by Saintsbury
(London, 1893); Thackeray's Barry Lyndon (Macmillan); E. W.
Hornung's Amateur Cracksman (Tauchnitz) and Further Adventures
of the Amateur Cracksman.
[653]
The Occasional Story
Christmas Stories from the French and Spanish, translated by
Antoinette Ogden (McClurg, 1892). E. E. Hale's In His Name,
and Christmas Stories (Library edition); Stockton's The Christmas
Wreck (Scribners); Dickens' Christmas Books and Stories, 2 vols.
(Houghton); Thackeray's Christmas Books (Macmillan). The
source of the nineteenth century emphasis of Christmas festivities
in English was Irving's Christmas Sketches. Unter dem Christbaum
(Heath) contains five Christmas stories by Helene Stökl.
CHAPTER V. THE INSTRUCTIVE GROUP
The Moral Story
Edgeworth's Stories for Children (Bohn), Moral Stories
(Tauchnitz), Murad the Unlucky (C. N. L.); Gesta Romanorum
(P. W. C., Bohn); Forty Tales from the "Decameron" (Morley's
Universal Library); Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson (P. W. C., A. B.,
Burt); Voltaire's Tales (Bohn); Cervantes' Novelas Ejemplares,
translated into English by W. K. Kelly (Bohn); Essays and Tales,
from Addison (C. N. L.); Essays and Tales, from Steele (C. N.
L.); Twenty-three Tales, from Tolstoy (W. C.); Hawthorne's
Twice Told Tales (Houghton). Leopoldo Alas's Cuentos Morales
(in Spanish), and Emilia Pardo-Bazán's Novelas Ejemplares
(also in Spanish).
The Pedagogical Commentary and Story
Pestalozzi's Leonard and Gertrude (Heath); Ascham's Scholemaster
(Heath); Machiavelli's Prince (Oxford, W. C.); Thomas
Elyot's The Boke Named the Governour, edited by Croft, 2 vols.
(London, 1883); Ascham's Toxophilus (Arber's Reprints); Walton's
Compleat Angler (editions innumerable); Castiglione's
Courtier; Froebel: The Mottoes and Commentaries of Froebel's
Mother Play (Appleton).
The Story of Present Day Realism
Kipling's Life's Handicap and Plain Tales from the Hills
(Doubleday); William Carleton's Traits and Stories of the Irish
Peasantry, edited by D. J. O'Donoghue, 4 vols. (London and New
York, 1896); Edgeworth's Castle Rackrent and Other Irish Tales
(A. B.); O. Henry's Trimmed Lamp and Other Stories of the Four
Million; B. Matthew's Vignettes of Manhattan (Harper); W. D.
Howells' A Modern Instance (Houghton), The Lady of the Aroostook,
The Rise of Silas Lapham, etc.; Israel Zangwill's Children
of the Ghetto (Macmillan); Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (1906);
Jacob A. Riis's Children of the Tenements; Henry James' Daisy[654]
Miller (Harpers). Count Tolstoy's method is always realistic,
although his types are extremely varied; see A Russian Proprietor
and Other Stories (Crowell). In method at least, most of the
stories of Bret Harte, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and Hamlin Garland
are of this type. In his Kriegsnovellen (Berlin, 1899) Detlev
von Liliencron gives vigorous and sincere pictures of the Franco-German
war, though he sees with the eye of the poet and selects
his material.
CHAPTER VI. THE SHORT STORY
Collections of Short Stories
Stories by American Authors, 10 vols. (Scribners).
Stories by English Authors, 9 vols. (Scribners).
Stories by Foreign Authors, containing works from the French,
German, Italian, Russian, Scandinavian, Spanish, Polish, Greek,
Belgian, Hungarian, 10 vols. (Scribners). Tales from "Blackwood,"
2 vols. (Tauchnitz). Masterpieces of Fiction, 8 vols.
(Doubleday, Page). American Short Stories, edited by Charles S.
Baldwin (Wampum Library of American Literature). A selection
of the World's Greatest Short Stories, edited by Sherwin Cody
(World's Best Series). The Short Story, by Brander Matthews
(American Book Co.), contains twenty-three short stories. The
Book of the Short Story, by Jessup and Canby (Appleton), contains
eighteen representative examples. For bibliography of other
collections of the short stories of the world, see lists at the ends
of the chapters in Jessup and Canby.
The Psychological Weird Tale
E. A. Poe's Prose Tales, 3 vols. (Illustrated Sterling edition).
The Odd Number Series contains Maupassant's Odd Number.
Mary E. Wilkins' The Wind in the Rose-Bush, and other Stories of
the Supernatural (1903); Irving's Tales of a Traveller, 2 vols.
(A. B.); Modern Ghosts, edited by G. W. Curtis (Harpers, 1890).
Gothic Romance as Source. Horace Walpole's Castle of
Otranto (C. N. L. No. 10); Clara Reeve's The Old English Baron
(C. N. L., No. 127); Mrs. Radcliffe's Italian, Romance of the
Forest, and Mysteries of Udolpho (London, 1877); Lewis's The
Monk (Phila., 1884); Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein (Routledge's
Pocket Library). Peacock satirized the school of terror and other
forms of romance in Nightmare Abbey (E. L.), and Crotchet
Castle (C. N. L. No. 56).
Miscellaneous Short-Story Writers of Europe and America
SPAIN
- Pedro Antonio de Alarcon (1833-1891).
- Leopoldo Alas (1852-1901).[655]
- Emilia Pardo-Bazán (b. 1851).
- Gustavo Adolfo Becquer (1836-1870).
- Vicente Blasco Ibañez (b. 1867).
- Fernán Caballero (1796-1877).
- Benito Pérez Galdós (b. 1845).
- Antonio de Trueba (1819-1889).
- Juan Valera y Alcalá Galiano (b. 1824).
- Armand Palacio Valdes (b. 1853).
- Antonio Maré.
FRANCE
- Edmond About (1828-1885).
- Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850).
- Paul Bourget (b. 1852).
- François Coppee (b. 1842).
- Alphonse Daudet (b. 1840).
- Gustav Droz (b. 1832).
- Alexandre Dumas the Elder (1806-1870).
- Alexandre Dumas the Younger (1824-1895).
- Emile Erckmann (1822-1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826-1890).
- Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880).
- Theophile Gautier (1811-1872).
- Paul Margueritte (b. 1860).
- Ludovic Halévy (b. 1834).
- Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893).
- Prosper Mérimée (1803-1870).
- Alfred de Musset (1810-1851).
- Eugene Marcel Prévost (b. 1862).
- George Sand [pseud. of Mm. Dudevant] (1804-1876).
- Julien Viaud ("Pierre Loti") (b. 1850).
- Emile Zola (b. 1840).
GERMANY
- Berthold Auerbach (1810-1882).
- Rudolf Baumbach (b. 1840).
- Adelbert von Chamisso (1781-1881).
- Gustav Freytag (1816-1895).
- Wilhelm Hauff (1802-1827).
- Paul Heyse (b. 1830).
- Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1776-1822).
- Leopold Kompert [Austrian] (1822-1886).
- Detlev von Liliencron (b. 1844).
- Johann Karl August Musäus (1735-1787).
- Joseph Victor von Scheffel (1826-1886).
- Theodor Storm (1817-1888).
- Hermann Sudermann (b. 1857).
- J. Ludwig Tieck (1773-1853).
- Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke (1771-1848).
[656]
RUSSIA
- Alex. Bestiezheff (1797-1837).
- Nicolai V. Gogol (1809-1852).
- Alex. Poushkin (1802-1837).
- A. Pyeshkoff ["Gorky"] (b. 1868).
- A. P. Tchéhoff (1860-1904).
- Lyof N. Tolstoi (1828-1910).
- Ivan Turgenev (1818-1883).
SCANDINAVIA
- Björastjerne Björnson (b. 1832).
- Juhani Aho.
- Frederika Bremer (1801-1865).
- Meyer Aaron Goldschmidt [Danish] (1819-1887).
- Alex. Lange Kielland (b. 1849).
- Selma Lagerlöf (b. 1858).
- Hans Christian Andersen [Danish] (1805-1875).
ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, IRELAND, UNITED STATES
- Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907).
- James Matthew Barrie (b. 1860).
- H. C. Bunner (1855-1896).
- George W. Cable (b. 1844).
- William Canton (b. 1845).
- William Carleton (1794-1869).
- Samuel L. Clemens [Mark Twain] (1835-1910).
- Wilkie Collins (1824-1889).
- Richard Harding Davis (b. 1864).
- Charles Dickens (1812-1870).
- A. Conan Doyle (b. 1859).
- Maria Edgeworth (1767-1849).
- Edward Eggleston (1837-1902).
- Mary Ann Evans [George Eliot] (1819-1880).
- Hamlin Garland (b. 1860).
- Edward Everett Hale (1822-1909).
- Joel Chandler Harris (b. 1848).
- Thomas Hardy (b. 1840).
- Francis Bret Harte (1839-1902).
- Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864).
- Anthony Hope Hawkins (b. 1863).
- William Dean Howells (b. 1837).
- Washington Irving (1783-1859).
- Henry James (b. 1843).
- Sarah Orne Jewett (b. 1849).
- Rudyard Kipling (b. 1865).
- Charles J. Lever (1806-1872).
- Jack London (b. 1876).
- [657]
Samuel Lover (1791-1868).
- James Brander Matthews (b. 1852).
- George Meredith (1828-1909).
- Mary N. Murfree [Charles Egbert Craddock] (b. 1850).
- Fitz-James O'Brien (1828-1862).
- Thomas Nelson Page (b. 1853).
- Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849).
- Charles Reade (1814-1884).
- Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894).
- F. Hopkinson Smith (b. 1838).
- Frank B. Stockton (1834-1902).
- Louise de la Ramée ["Ouida"] (d. 1909).
- Harriet Beecher Stowe (1812-1896).
- William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1862).
- Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward (b. 1844).
- John Watson [Ian Maclaren] (1850-1907).
- Edith Wharton (b. 1862).
- Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (b. 1862).
CHAPTER VII
Incident
Many well-told and interesting incidents are found in the correspondence
of the letter-writers whose works are indicated below.
The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, 2 vols. (Scribners);
The Letters of Thomas Gray, 2 vols. (Bohn); Cowper's Letters,
edited by E. V. Lucas (W. C.); Lady Montagu's Letters (E. L.);
Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle, by J. A. Froude, 2
vols. (Scribners); Letters of Charles Lamb, 2 vols. (E. L.); Letters
of Mme. de Sévigné (In French—Paris, 1844); Life and Letters
of George Eliot, by J. W. Cross, 2 vols. (Crowell); Matthew
Arnold's Letters, collected by George W. E. Russell (Macmillan);
Darwin's Life and Letters, 2 vols. (Appleton); Letters of Robert
Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, with notes by R. Barrett
Browning and F. G. Kenyon, 2 vols.
Anecdote
Spence's Anecdotes: a selection (Scott Library); Johnsoniana,
edited by J. Wilson Croker (Philadelphia, 1842); The Percy
Anecdotes, by Reuben and Sholte Percy (Warne: London); The
Jest Book, by Mark Lemon (Cambridge, 1865); Anecdotes of
Samuel Johnson, by Hester Lynch Poizzi (C. N. L. No. 106);
Familiar Anecdotes of Sir Walter Scott, by James Hogg (Harpers,
1834).
[658]
Eye-Witness Account
Eye-witness accounts may be found in autobiographies, memoirs,
letters, travel sketches, diaries and journals, and some true relations.
(See bibliography of these types.)
Tale of Actual Adventure
J. Burroughs's Camping and Tramping with President Roosevelt
(Houghton); H. W. G. Hyrst's Adventures in the Great
Deserts; Hakluyt's Voyagers' Tales (C. N. L., No. 23); Library
of Universal Adventure by Sea and Land, including the original
narratives and authentic stories of personal prowess and peril in
all waters and regions of the globe from the year 79 A. D. to the
year 1888 A. D., compiled and edited by William Dean Howells
and Thomas Sergeant Perry (Harper, 1893).
The Traveler's Sketch
Mandeville's Voyages and Travels (C. N. L.); Marco Polo's
Voyages and Travels (Bohn); Captain Cook's Voyages of Discovery
(E. L.); Travels of Mungo Park (E. L.); Hakluyt's
Voyages, 8 vols. (E. L.); Darwin's Voyage of the Beagle (E. L.);
Fielding's Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon (W. C.); Smollett's
Travels through France and Italy (W. C.); Borrow's Bible in
Spain (E. L.) and Wild Wales (E. L.); Bayard Taylor: Library
of Travel, 6 vols.; W. D. Howells's Italian Journeys and London
Films; Henry James's Little Tour in France; F. Hopkinson Smith's
White Umbrella in Mexico; H. M. Stanley's In Darkest Africa and
How I Found Livingstone; Lafcadio Hearn's Gleanings in Buddha-fields
and Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan; W. E. Curtis's Between
the Andes and the Ocean and Egypt, Burma, and British Malaysia.
For Western travel and adventure in America between 1748 and
1846, see Early Western Travels, 32 vols. (A. H. Clark & Co.
Cleveland, 1904). A tour through the island of Luzon in 1800 is
charmingly recorded by Joaquin Martinez y Zuñiga in his
Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ed. by W. E. Retana (Madrid).
An English translation under the title An Historical View of the
Philippine Islands was issued at London in 2 vols. 1814 (printed
for J. Asperne). A breezy artist-sketch, written with the purpose
only to please and to satirize, is Heine's Die Harzreise (American
Book Co.).
CHAPTER VIII
Journal and Diary
John Evelyn's Diary and Correspondence (E. L., Bohn);
Amiel's Journal Intime, translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. 2
vols. (Macmillan); Mme. D'Arblay's Diary and Letters, edited[659]
by her niece, with preface and notes by Austin Dobson, 6 vols.
Samuel Pepys's Diary and Correspondence (Globe edition); Fielding's
Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon (W. C.); Hesdin's Journal
of a Spy in Paris during January-July, 1794 (Harpers, 1896);
Swift's Journal to Stella (N. U. L., Bohn); Journal of the
Reigns of George III and William IV, by Charles C. F. Greville.
3 vols. (Longmans). Gideon Welles' Diary (Atlantic Monthly,
1909-1910); John W. Audubon's Western Journals 1849-1850 (A
H. Clark, Cleveland).
Autobiography and Memoirs
J. S. Mill's Autobiography (Holt); Benvenuto Cellini's Autobiography
(E. L.); Autobiography of Franklin (P. W. C., A. B.);
Helen Keller's Story of My Life (Doubleday); Gibbon's Autobiography
(W. C.); Herbert Spencer's Autobiography, 2 vols.
(Appleton). Joseph Jefferson's Autobiography. A good collection
of memoirs and autobiography is the Colonial Press's Classic
Memoirs, 3 vols. (W. G. C.). J. H. Newman's Apologia pro Vita
Sua (N. U. L.); De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium-Eater
(E. L.); St. Augustine's Confessions (E. L.).
Biography
Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay, by G. O. Trevelyan (Longmans);
History of Carlyle's Life, by J. A. Froude (Longmans);
Life of Shakespeare, by Sidney Lee. Life of Sir Walter Scott, by
J. G. Lockhart, 5 vols. (Macmillan); Life of Johnson, by James
Boswell, edited by Geo. Birkbeck Hill, 6 vols. (Cambridge);
Lives of the Poets, by Samuel Johnson, edited by G. B. Hill (Cambridge);
J. Forster's Life of Dickens, 2 vols. (Scribners), Life of
Goldsmith (Stokes); Gaskell's Life of Charlotte Bronte (Crowell);
Goldsmith's Biographies, vol. IV of collected works (Bohn); Lockhart's
Life of Burns (E. L.); Southey's Life of Nelson (Bohn);
Hazlitt's Life of Napoleon, 6 vols. (Illust. Cabinet Ed.); Macaulay's
Life of Johnson (Heath); Carlyle's Life of John Sterling
(W. C.); Carlyle's Life of Frederick the Great, 8 vols. (Scribners).
CHAPTER IX
Notable Histories
Grote's History of Greece, 12 vols. (E. L.); Green's Short
History of the English People (American Book Co.). History of
the English People, 4 vols. (Burt); Macaulay's History of England,
3 vols. (E. L.); Hume's History of England, 6 vols.
(Harper); Machiavelli's History of Florence (W. G. C.); Gibbon's[660]
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 7 vols. (W. C.);
Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic, 3 vols. (E. L., W. C.);
Sismondi's Italian Republics (E. L.); Hallam's Middle Ages
(W. G. C.); Prescott's Works, 14 vols. (Lippincott); Parkman's
Works, 12 vols. (Library edition); J. A. Symond's Renaissance in
Italy, 7 vols. (Holt); Carlyle's French Revolution, 2 vols. (E. L.).
Annals
Tacitus's Annals (E. L.); Annals of English History, by
Roger de Hoveden, 2 vols. (Bohn). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, with
an English translation by Richard Price: in the "Monuments
Historica Britannica" (1848). Voltaire's Annales de l'Empire
was first published in 1753-4. It has been translated into English.
Chronicles and True Relations
Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda, de rebus gestis Samsonis
Abbatis Monasterii Sancti Edmundi (Camden Society, London,
1840). The second book of Carlyle's Past and Present is based on
this old chronicle. Froissart's Chronicles (E. L.); William of
Malmesbury's Chronicles of the Kings of England (Bohn); Old
English Chronicles, including Ethelwerd's Chronicle, Geoffrey of
Monmouth's History of the Britons, Gildas's Chronicle, Nennius's
Chronicle, and the spurious Chronicle of Richard of Cirencester,
(Bohn); Chronicles of the Crusades, by Lord John de Joinville
(Bohn).
Ticknor discusses in detail the origin, subjects, and character
of the Spanish chronicles, in his History of Spanish Literature,
Vol. I. pp. 166-228 (fourth American edition, Houghton, Mifflin &
Co.). For account of early French chronicles see Saintsbury's
Short History of French Literature, Book I, chapter XI (Oxford,
1907).
Blair and Robertson's The Philippine Islands, 1493-1898, in 55
vols. (A. H. Clark Co., 1905) contains many early Spanish relations
translated into English. Among the notable ones are
Loarca's Relacion (vol. 5), Chirino's Relacion (vols. 12-13),
Morga's Sucesos (vols. 15-16), Medina's Historia de la Orden de
S. Agustin (vols. 23-24).
[661]
INDEX
- Abbott, Jacob (1803-1879), 364.
- Abou Ben Adhem, 102.
- Actual adventure, Tale of: 512-513;
characteristics, 512;
directions for writing, 513.
- Addison, Joseph (1672-1719), 86, 115, 347.
- Address of the Soul to the Body, 115.
- Ade, George (b. 1866), 86.
- Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 225.
- Adventures;
see Probable adventure;
Actual adventure.
- Aesop (619?-564 B. C.), 83-84.
- Aikin, John, M. D. (1747-1822), 116.
- Aitken, George, 371.
- Alberich, 46.
- Aldrich, T. B. (1836-1907), 301.
- Alfred the Great, (848-901), 532
- Alfonso the Wise (1221-1284), 627.
- Alice in Wonderland, 67.
- Allegory: 112-120, 154, 345;
defined, 112, 117;
combined with myth, 113-114;
distinguished from myth, 6;
distinguished from parable, 116;
how to write, 117-118;
distinguished from fable, 117.
- Amateur Cracksman, 301.
- Ambitious Guest, 346, 459.
- Ameto, 275.
- Amiel, Fréderic (1821-1881), 558.
- Among the Corn Rows, 427.
- Ana, 491-492;
defined, 491.
- Andreas, 24.
- [662]
Andvari, 46.
- Anecdote: 490-496, 302, 371;
compared with legend, 25;
defined, 490, 492;
how to write an, 493.
- Anecdotes (Percy's), 492.
- Anecdotes (Spence's), 492.
- Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 614.
- Annals: 613-616;
defined, 613-614;
suggestions on material, 615.
- Annales Ecclesiastici, 614.
- Annales et Historia de Rebus Legicis, 614.
- Annals (Goethe's), 612.
- Annals of the Parish, 612.
- Annals of Scotland, 614.
- Apologia pro Sua Vita (Newman's), 574.
- Apology for My Life (Cibber's), 573.
- Apparition, The, 401.
- Arabian Nights, The, 129.
- Arcadia (Sannazaro), 274.
- Arcadia, Countess of Pembroke's, 275.
- Aristotle (383-320 B. C.), 84.
- Arthur, King (500?-537?), 24-25.
- Artist's Secret, The, 114.
- Ascham, Roger (1515-1568), 361-362.
- As You Like It, 275.
- Atlantic Monthly, 118, 560.
- Aucassin and Nicolette, 274.
- Austen, Jane (1775-1817), 372, 456, 457.
- Autobiography: 572-575;
distinguished from memoirs, 572;
suggestions for writing, 574-575.
- [663]
Autobiographical Leaves, 573.
- Audubon, John James (1780-1851), 512.
- Autobiography of Cellini, 573.
- Autobiography of De Quincey, 574.
- Autobiography of Franklin, 574.
- Ayala, Pedro Lopez de (1332-1407), 626-627.
- Barlaam and Josaphat, 23.
- Barclay, Alexander (1475?-1552), 115.
- Baron Munchausen, 153.
- Baronius, 614.
- Barrie, J. M. (b. 1860), 301.
- Beast epics, 88.
- Belinda, 430.
- Berenice, 400.
- Bergerac, Cyrano de (1619-1655), 151, 153, 154.
- Berkeley, George (1685-1753), 151.
- Beowulf, 23.
- Berners, Lord (1467-1533), 626.
- Bestiaries, 85, 115.
- Bible, 3, 103, 116.
- Bibliography, 648-660.
- Biographical Sketches, 593.
- Biography: 590-595;
beginnings of English literary biography, 591;
great biographies in English, 591-592;
special characteristics, 592-593;
outline for, 594-595.
- Björnson, Björnsterne (b. 1832), 456.
- Black Pearl, The, 225.
- Blue Bird, The, 119.
- Blue Flower, The, 114.
- Boccaccio, Giovanni (1313-1375), 85, 275,
299, 346.
- Boileau, Nicolas (1636-1711), 131.
- Borrow, George (1803-1881), 531.
- [664]
Boswell, James (1740-1795), 492, 591.
- Branch Road, A, 427.
- Brentano, Clemens (1778-1842), 48.
- Bronté, Charlotte (1816-1855), 431.
- Brooke, Henry (1703-1783), 363.
- Brown, Charles Brockden (1771-1810), 399.
- Browning, Robert (1812-1889), 481.
- Brut, The, 24.
- Buddha (6th century B. C.), 23.
- Bunyan, John (1628-1688), 115.
- Burney, Frances (1752-1840), 560.
- Burton, F. R. (b. 1861), 225.
- Byron, Lord (1788-1824), 456.
- Cable, G. W. (b. 1844), 301.
- Caesar, Julius (100-44 B. C.), 491.
- Candide, 347.
- Canton, William (b. 1845), 314.
- Captain Singleton, 256.
- Career of Farthest North, The, 301.
- Carlyle, Jane Welsh (1801-1866), 481.
- Carlyle, Thomas (1795-1881), 492, 613.
- Castiglione, Baldasarre (1478-1529), 362.
- Castle of Indolence, The, 116.
- Castle of Otranto, The, 398-399.
- Catherine II (1729-1796), 572.
- Caxton, William (1422-1491), 24.
- Celestial Railroad, The, 117.
- Cellini, Benvenuto (1500-1571), 573.
- Cervantes (1547-1616), 275, 347.
- Changelings, 47.
- [665]
Chanson de Roland, The, 23.
- "Character," The, 430.
- Character-environment story: 426-432.
- Character-events story: 455-460.
- Charles V (1500-1558), 570.
- Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770), 513.
- Chaucer, Geoffrey (1340-1400), 115, 130,
300, 346, 627.
- Chesterton, G. K. (b. 1874), 67.
- Chinese Tales, 129.
- Chirino, Pedro, 629.
- Chivalry, Tales of, 131.
- Christmas, 314.
- Chronicles: 626-629;
defined, 626.
- Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family, 612.
- Chroniques de France, etc., 626.
- Cibber, Colley (1671-1757), 573.
- Cicero, Marcus Tullius (106-43 B. C.), 490, 491.
- Cid, The, 23.
- Cinderella, 65, 66, 67.
- Clavijo, Ruy Gonzales de (15th century), 558-559.
- Clemens, Samuel Langhorne ['Mark Twain'] (1835-1910), 299.
- Cloister and the Hearth, The, 561.
- Cockowe and the Nightingale, The, 115.
- Collins, William (1721-1759), 116.
- Complaint of Papingo, The, 115.
- Comus, 3.
- Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, 574.
- Conquest of Mexico, 613.
- Coppee, Francois (b. 1842), 456.
- Country of the Pointed Firs, The, 299.
- Court of Love, The, 115.
- Courtier, The, 362-363.
- [666]
Cowper, William (1731-1800), 86, 481.
- Coverley Papers, de, 430.
- Craik, Dinah Maria (née Mulock) (1826-1887), 48.
- Cranford, 430.
- Croesus (fl. 560 B. C.), 83.
- Crucial Instances, 456.
- Curse of Kehama, The, 152.
- Curtis, W. E. (b. 1850), 533.
- Cynewulf, 24.
- Daisy Miller, 372.
- Dana, R. H., Jr. (1815-1882), 533.
- Dante (1265-1321), 85.
- Daudet, Alphonse (b. 1840), 456.
- Daphnis and Chloe, 274.
- Darwin, Charles Robert (1809-1882), 533.
- Davis, Richard Harding (b. 1864), 274.
- Day, Thomas (1748-1789), 364.
- Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 613.
- Defoe, Daniel (1660?-1731), 151, 152, 154, 371, 561.
- Deities—
Egyptian, 8;
Filipino, 12-13;
Finnish, 11;
Greek, 7;
Hindoo, 9-10;
Norse, 12;
Roman, 7;
Russian, 11.
- De Jocis Ciceronis, 491.
- Delena (scribe to John II of Spain), 500-501.
- De Quincey, Thomas (1785-1859), 574.
- Descent of Man (Wharton), 456.
- Detective story: 225-228;
relation to tales of ingenuity, 225;
suggestions for writing, 227.
- Dialect, 301, 429.
- Diamond Lens, The, 197.
- Diana, 275.
- Diary: 533, 557-561;
defined, 557;
distinguished from journal, 557;
[667] great diaries and their characteristics, 560;
suggestions on writing, 561.
- Diary of Mme. D'Arblay [Fanny Burney], 560.
- Diary of Evelyn, 560.
- Diary of Gideon Welles, 560.
- Diary of Pepys, 560.
- Dickens, Charles (1812-1870), 314, 501.
- Discourager of Hesitancy, The, 226.
- Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 114.
- Dodsley, Robert (1703-1764), 86.
- Domestic Annals Of Scotland, 614.
- Douglass, Frederick (1817-1895), 512.
- Douglas, Gawain (1474?-1522), 115.
- Doyle, A. C. (b. 1859), 225.
- Drake, Alexander Wilson (b. 1843), 199.
- Dream, 115.
- Dream of the Rood, The, 115.
- Dunbar, William (1465-1530), 115.
- Easter, 314.
- Edgeworth, Maria (1767-1849), 346, 364.
- Elbegast, 46.
- Elder Edda, 23.
- Eliot, George (1820-1881), 456, 457.
- El Passo Honroso, 500-501.
- Emile, 363.
- Emma, 430.
- England's Mourning Garment, 275.
- Euphues, 362.
- Evelina, 430.
- Evelyn, John (1620-1706), 560.
- Everyman, 113.
- Eye-witness account: 499-503;[668]
defined, 499;
methods of writers of the, 501-502;
suggestions on writing, 502-503.
- Fable, 83-89, 345;
distinguishing characteristics, 87-88;
kinds of fables, 87-88;
defined, 87;
origin, 83-84;
distinguished from allegory, 117.
- Fables in Slang, 86.
- Fableaux, 299-300.
- Faerie Queene, 113.
- Fairies:
characteristics of, 44, 45,
46, 47;
Northern, 46, 50;
Irish, 51;
Scotch, 51;
Filipino, 51-53;
Russian, 53;
Arabian, 54;
Malayan, 46;
Miscellaneous, 54-55.
- Fairy tale: 43-50;
characteristics of, 43;
distinguished from nursery sagas, 48;
directions for writing, 49;
defined, 50.
- Fall of the House of Usher, The, 399-400.
- Father, The, 456.
- Faust, legend of, 25.
- Ferdinand and Isabella, 613.
- Fielding, Henry (1707-1754), 398, 431, 531, 533, 534, 558.
- Firdousi [Abul Kasim Mansur] (c. 940-1020), 23.
- FitzGerald, Edward (1809-1883), 482.
- Fletcher, Phineas (1582-1650?), 115.
- Flower and the Leaf, The, 115.
- Fontaine, Jean de la (1631-1697), 85.
- Fool of Quality, The, 363.
- Forster, John (1812-1876), 592.
- Frank, 364.
- Franklin, Benjamin (1706-1790), 102, 573.
- Frederick the Great (1711-1786), 572.
- [669]
Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins (b. 1862), 301, 372, 397, 402, 420, 427, 429.
- Fremont, J. C. (1813-1890), 558.
- French Revolution, 613.
- Froebel, Friedrich Wilhelm August (1782-1852), 364.
- Froissart, Jean (1337-1410), 626.
- Galatea, 275.
- Galt, John (1779-1839), 612.
- Garland, Hamlin (b. 1860), 427-428.
- Gaskell, Mrs. [Elizabeth Stevenson] (1810-1865), 592.
- Gate of the Hundred Sorrows, The, 426.
- Gaudentio de Lucca, 151.
- Gay, John (1685-1732), 86.
- General Chronicle of Spain, 628.
- Geoffrey of Monmouth (12th century), 24, 628.
- Gesta Romanorrum, 346.
- Gibbon, Edward (1737-1794), 572, 613.
- Gil Blas, 301.
- Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (1749-1832), 612.
- Gold Bug, The, 226-227.
- Golden Legend, The, 24.
- Golden Targe, The, 115.
- Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-1774), 86, 592.
- Gondemar, 46.
- Gothic romances, 398-399;
characteristics of, 399.
- Gray, Thomas (1716-1771), 481.
- Great Stone Face, The, 114.
- Greater Inclination, The, 456.
- Green, J. R. (1837-1883), 612.
- Greene, Robert (1560?-1592), 275.
- Grettir the Strong, 23.
- Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863), 66.
- [670]
Grimm, Wilhelm (1786-1859), 66.
- Griselda, 346.
- Grote, George (1794-1871), 613.
- Grotius, 614.
- Gulliver's Travels, 151, 154.
- Guzman de Alfarache, 300.
- Hailes, Sir David Dalrymple, Lord (1726-92), 614.
- Hakluyt, Richard (1553-1616), 629.
- Halévy, L. (b. 1834), 456.
- Hall, Bishop Joseph (1574-1656), 430.
- Hallam, Henry (1777-1859), 613.
- Hand, The, 401.
- Harris, J. C. (b. 1848), 301.
- Harte, Bret (1839-1902), 314, 428.
- Hawes, Stephen (?-1523?), 115.
- Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804-1864), 3, 114, 116, 117, 346, 397, 459, 593.
- Henryson, Robert (15th century), 86.
- Heroes of nursery sagas: 66, 67-68;
of legends, 22, 27.
- Heroic romances, 131.
- Hesdin, Raoul, 558.
- Hildebrand, 23.
- Hill of Science, The, 116.
- Historia Britonum, 24.
- History of England (Macauley's), 613.
- History of Orosius, 532.
- History of the English People, 613.
- History of the States and Empires of the Moon, 151.
- Hitopadesa, 84-85.
- Holberg, Ludwig (1684-1754), 151.
- Holinshed, Ralph (died about 1580), 628.
- Holmes, C. W. (1809-1894), 197.
- [671]
Hook, Theodore (1788-1841), 591.
- House of Fame, The, 115.
- Howells, W. D. (b. 1837), 370, 371, 372, 373, 512.
- Humorous story: 299-302;
relation to fableau 299;
relation to picaresque romance, 300;
relation to comic anecdote, 302.
- Hunt, Leigh (1784-1859), 102.
- Hunter, The, 114.
- Ibsen, Heinrich (1828-1906), 119.
- Igorots, 3.
- Imaginary voyage: 150-154;
characteristics, 150;
suggestions on how to write, 153-154.
- Incident: 480-482;
defined, 480;
distinguished from eye-witness account, 480.
- Incident of the French Camp, An., 481.
- Ingelow, Jean (1830-1897), 48.
- Insurgent, The, 456.
- Irving, Washington (1783-1859), 26, 397.
- Italian Republics, 613.
- Italian, The, 398.
- Italian Renaissance, 613.
- Ivan the Fool, 68.
- Ivanhoe, 227.
- Jack and the Beanstalk, 66, 67.
- Jack the Giant Killer, 65, 66, 67.
- Jacobus de Voragine (13th century), 24.
- James, Henry (b. 1843), 371, 372, 373, 533.
- Jewett, Sarah Orne (b. 1849), 299.
- John of Damascus (b. at end of 7th century; died c. 760?), 23.
- Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784),[672]
116, 347, 491, 492, 533, 590, 591.
- Johnes, Thomas, 626.
- Jonathan Wild, 301.
- Journal: 533, 557-561;
defined, 557;
distinguished from diary, 557;
great journals and their characteristics, 558;
suggestions on writing, 561.
- Journal Intime, 558.
- Journal of the Plague, 561.
- Journal of a Spy in Paris. A, 558.
- Journal to Stella, 558.
- Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, A, 558.
- Journey of a Day, The, 116.
- Journey to the Western Isles, A, 533.
- Jumping Frog, The, 299.
- Jungle Book, The, 86.
- Keats, John (1795-1821), 3, 314.
- King Hart, 115.
- Kingsley, Charles (1819-1875), 48.
- Kipling, Rudyard (b. 1865), 48, 49, 86, 397, 426.
- Kriloff (1768-1844), 86.
- Lady Eleanor's Mantle, 346.
- Lady of the Aroostook, The, 372.
- Lady or the Tiger, The, 226.
- Lagerlöf, Selma (b. 1858), 26.
- Langland, W. (14th century), 114.
- Laurin, 46.
- Layamon (fl. 1200), 24.
- Lazarillo de Tormes, 300.
- Legend: 22-28;
defined, 28;
compared with myth, 6, 22;
myth-legend or saga, 22-23;
saint legends, 23;
legends of growth, 25;
legends of art, 26-27;
legend compared with anecdote, 25;
legends about[673]
places, 26;
legends about persons, 24-25, 131.
- Legendary Romance, 24-25.
- Le Grand Cyrus, 131.
- Leonard and Gertrude, 361.
- Letters, 481, 533.
- Lewis, Matthew (1775-1818), 399.
- Library of Universal Adventure, 512.
- Life of Beau Nash, 592.
- Life of Burns, 592.
- Life of Byron, 592.
- Life of Charlotte Bronte, 592.
- Life of Dickens, 592.
- Life of Goldsmith, 592.
- Life of Johnson (Macaulay's), 592.
- Life of Macaulay, 592.
- Life Magnet, The, 197.
- Life of Napoleon, 592.
- Life of Nelson, 592.
- Life of Samuel Johnson (Boswell's), 492, 591.
- Life of Savage, 590, 591.
- Life of Scott, 591.
- Lives of the Poets, The, 590, 591.
- Loarca, Miguel de, 629.
- Lockhart, J. G. (1794-1854), 592.
- Lodge, Thomas (1558?-1625), 275.
- Loomis, Charles Battell (1861-1911), 301.
- Lover, Samuel (1791-1868), 301.
- Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891), 482.
- Lucian (125?-210?), 84, 151.
- Lyly, John (1554?-1606), 362.
- Lyndesay, Sir David (1490-1555?), 115.
- Mabie, Hamilton (b. 1846), 314.
- Macaulay, T. B. (1800-1859), 590, 592, 613.
- [674]
Machiavelli (1469-1527), 613.
- Maclaren, Ian [Reverend John Watson] (b. 1850), 301.
- Macpherson, James (1738-1796), 513.
- Madam How and Lady Why, 48.
- Madison, James (1751-1836), 558.
- Maeterlink, Maurice (b. 1862), 119.
- Mahabharata, The, 22.
- Malory, Thomas (15th century), 24-25.
- Man Who Would be King, The, 426.
- Man without a Country, The, 26.
- Mandeville, Sir John (14th century), 151, 532.
- Märchen, 48, 65-69.
- Marie de France (12th century), 84, 130.
- Markheim, 400.
- Marlowe, Christopher (1564-1593), 558.
- Mary Barton, 430.
- Masque of the Red Death, The, 400.
- Mateo Falcone, 456.
- Matthews, Brander (b. 1852), 396n, 401.
- Maupassant, Guy de (1850-1893), 395, 397, 456, 458.
- Memoirs: 572-575;
distinguished from autobiography, 572;
suggestions for writing, 574.
- Memoirs of a Cavalier, The, 256.
- Memoirs of My Life and Writings (Gibbon's), 572.
- Menaphon, 275.
- Merchant of Venice, The, 23.
- Meredith, George (1828-1909), 129.
- Merimée, Prosper (1803-1870), 456.
- Metternich, Prince von (1773-1859), 572.
- [675]
Middle Ages, 613.
- Milton, John (1608-1674), 3.
- Mirabeau, Comte de (1749-1791), 572.
- Mirror for Magistrates, A, 115.
- Mogol Tales, 129.
- "Molière" [pseud. of John Baptiste Poquelin] (1622-1673), 131.
- Monk, The, 399.
- Monk's Tale, The, 627.
- Montaigne, Michel Eyquem (1533-1592), 558.
- Montcalm and Wolfe, 613.
- Montemayor, Jorge de (d. 1561), 275.
- Montepolitiano, Barthelemi (15th century), 491.
- Moore, Thomas (1779-1852), 86, 592.
- Mopsa the Fairy, 48.
- Moral story, 345-348;
distinguished from symbolic-didactic group, 345;
purpose defined, 345-346.
- Morall Fables of Æsop the Phrygian, 86.
- Morga, Dr. Antonio de, 629.
- Morte d'Arthur, 24.
- Mother Plays, 364.
- Motley, John (1814-1877), 613.
- Muhammad Din, 426.
- Mulock, Miss, see Craik.
- Murad the Unlucky, 346.
- Murders in the Rue Morgue, The, 225.
- Mystery of Marie Rogêt, The, 225-226.
- Mysteries of Udolpho, The, 398.
- Myths: 1-15;
classes of, 1;
Igorot myths, 3;
how to collect, 4-5;
how to compose, 5-6;
distinguished from allegory, 6;
distinguished from legend, 6, 22;
defined, 7.
- Necklace, The, 456.
- Nennius, (fl. 796?), 24.
- [676]
New Atlantis, 153.
- New Arabian Nights, 129.
- New England Nun, A, 426.
- New Heloise, 363.
- Newman, J. H. (1801-90), 573.
- Nibelungenlied, 23.
- Niel Klim's Underground Journey, 151.
- Northanger Abbey, 457.
- Novel, 430-431;
manners, 430;
psychological problem novel, 431.
- Novelas Ejemplares, 347.
- Novelist's Allegory, The, 118.
- Nursery saga: 65-69;
origin, 65;
distinguishing elements, 66-68;
defined, 69.
- Oak and the Reed, The, 85.
- Oberon, 46.
- O'Brien, Fitz-James (1828-1862), 197, 401.
- Occasional story, 313-315;
spirit of the, 313, 314;
suggestions for writing, 314.
- Ohthere, 532.
- Old English Baron, The, 398.
- One Hoss Shay, The, 197.
- Orlando Furioso, 23.
- Osborne, Dorothy (1627-1695), 481.
- Other Wise Man, The, 26.
- Outcasts of Poker Flat, The, 428.
- Overbury, Thomas (1581-1613), 430.
- Page, Thomas Nelson (b. 1853), 301.
- Palace of Honor, The, 115.
- Paltock, R. (1697-1767), 152-153.
- Panchatantra, 84-85.
- Pandosto, 275.
- Panther, The, 115.
- Paradise Lost, 3.
- Paradise of Fooles, 115.
- Parable: 101-103;
contrasted[677]
with fable, 101;
defined, 103;
characteristics, 101-102;
suggestions on writing, 103;
distinguished from allegory, 116-117.
- Parkman, Francis (1823-1893), 613.
- Parlament of Foules, The, 115.
- Parnell, Thomas (1679-1718), 115.
- Passions, The, 116.
- Pastime of Pleasure, The, 115.
- Pastoral romance, 274-276.
- Pedagogical narrative: 48, 361-365;
characteristics, 361, 363.
- Peer Gynt, 119.
- Pellico, Silvio (1788-1854), 572.
- Pepys, Samuel (1633-1703), 560.
- Percy (anecdote writers), 492.
- Peri, 47.
- Perry, T. S., 512.
- Persian Tales, 129.
- Pessimism, 347.
- Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1745-1827), 361, 365.
- Peter Schlemihl, 114.
- Petrarch, Francesco (1304-1374), 85.
- Petronius Arbiter (d. 62), 300.
- Phædrus (time of Nero), 85.
- Phantom 'Rickshaw, The, 401.
- Philippines, 3, 46, 629.
- Phoenix, The, 115.
- Picaresque romance, 300-301, 371.
- Piers Plowman, 114.
- Pilgrim's Progress, The, 113, 115.
- Pit and the Pendulum, The, 399.
- Planudes, 84.
- Plasencia, Juan de la, 629.
- Plato (427-347 B. C.), 3, 4, 84, 113-114,
491.
- Pliny the Elder (23-79), 512.
- Plot, Tales of Pure, 225-8.
- [678]
Plutarch (46?-120?), 3, 84.
- Poe, E. A. (1809-1849), 225-226, 395, 396, 397, 399, 400.
- Poems in Prose, 114.
- Poems on the Naming of Places, 481.
- Poggio, Gian Francesco (1380-1459), 85, 491.
- Polo, Marco (1254-1324), 151, 532.
- Pope, Alexander (1688-1744), 86.
- Prescott, W. H. (1796-1859), 613.
- Pride and Prejudice, 457.
- Principal Navigations, Voyages, and Discoveries, 629.
- Prior, Matthew (1664-1721), 86.
- Prisoner of Zenda, The, 227.
- Probable adventure:
tale of, 255-257;
definition, 256;
the writing of, 256-257.
- Procopius (6th century), 490.
- Proverbs:
Armenian to be used for fables, 89-90;
to be used for parables, 103-104.
- Puck of Pook's Hill, 48, 49.
- Purloined Letter, The, 225.
- Purple Island, The, 115.
- Pushkin, A. (1802-1837), 227, 456.
- Quiñiones, Suero de, 500, 501.
- Radcliffe, Anne (1764-1822), 399.
- Ramayana, 22.
- Rasselas, 347.
- Reade, Charles (1814-1884), 458, 561.
- Realism, 370, 371, 372, 373, 457.
- Realism, story of present day: 370-374;
elements of, 370-371;
suggestions on types to treat, 373.
- Reeve, Clara (1729-1807), 398.
- Religion, Primitive, 1-2.
- [679]
Reporting, 501.
- Republic, The, 113.
- Return of the Private, The, 427.
- Revelation, The, 116.
- Revolt of Mother, The, 429.
- Reynard the Fox, 85.
- Rhyme in nursery sagas, 66, 67, 68.
- Ribeyro, Bernardino (fl. 1500), 275.
- Richardson, Samuel (1689-1761), 398, 431.
- Rise of the Dutch Republic, 613.
- Rip van Winkle, 26.
- Robin and Makyne, 86.
- Robinson Crusoe, 151, 152, 256, 481.
- Roderick Random, 301.
- Rollo Books, The, 364.
- Romance, 114, 130-131, 227.
- Romance of the Forest, The, 398.
- Romaunt of the Rose, The, 115.
- Roosevelt, Theodore (b. 1858), 533.
- Rosalynd, 275.
- Rosamond, 364.
- Rostand, Edmond (b. 1862), 86.
- Rousseau, Jean Jacques (1712-1778), 363, 574.
- Rumpelstiltskin, 66.
- Sackville, Thomas (1536?-1608), 115.
- Saga:
defined, 22;
compared with legend, 22-23;
compared with nursery tale, 65.
- St. Augustine (354-430), 574.
- Saints, legends of, 23-24.
- Sam Lawson's Fireside Stories, 299.
- Sandford and Merton, 364.
- Sannazaro, Jacopo (1458-1530), 274-275.
- Sardou, Victorien (b. 1831), 225.
- [680]
Saturday Evening Post, 301.
- Satyricon, 300.
- Saxo Grammaticus (fl. 12th century), 628.
- Schiller, Johann Friedrich (1759-1805), 613.
- Scholemaster, The, 361-362.
- School of Terror, 398-399.
- Scientific discovery, tale of: 194-199;
origin, 194;
differentiated from imaginary voyage, 195-196;
essential elements, 196;
suggestions for writing, 197-199;
humor in, 199.
- Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832), 456, 457.
- Scrap-books, 458-459.
- Schreiner, Olive (b. 1862), 114.
- Scudéri, Mme. de (1607-1701), 131.
- Secret History of the Court of Justinian, 490.
- Selden, John (1584-1654), 491.
- Shah Nameh, 22.
- Shakespeare, (1564-1616), 23, 275, 628.
- Shaving of Shagpat, The, 129.
- Shaw, G. B. (b. 1856), 67, 257.
- Ship of Fooles, The, 115.
- Short-story, the artistic: 395-398;
elements analyzed, 396, 497;
compared with romance and novel, 395-396;
kinds of, 397.
- Shot, The, 456.
- Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586), 275.
- Siege of Berlin, The, 456.
- Sismondi (1773-1842), 613.
- Skeat, Walter William, 115n.
- Smollett, Tobias (1721-1771), 398, 531.
- Snow Storm, The, 227.
- Society story: 273-277;
defined, 274;
compared with pastoral romance, 274-275;
suggestions for writing, 276-277.
- [681]
Socrates (469-399 B. C.), 84, 491.
- Southey, Robert (1774-1843), 152, 592.
- Spence, Joseph (1699-1768), 492.
- Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599), 115.
- Spider's Eye, The, 197.
- Squire's Tale, The, 130.
- Staël-Holstein, Mme. de (1776-1817), 572.
- Stanley, Sir Henry M. (1841-1904), 256, 533.
- Steele, Richard (1672-1729), 86, 347.
- Stevenson, R. L. (1850-1894), 114, 129, 256, 397, 400, 482, 533.
- Stockton, F. R. (1834-1902), 197, 301.
- Stories of the Supernatural, 402.
- Stow, John (1525-1605), 614-615.
- Stowe, Harriet Beecher (1812-1896), 299, 346, 347.
- Substitute, The, 456.
- Supernatural elements, 67-68.
- Survey of London, 615.
- Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745), 151, 558.
- Symonds, J. A. (1840-1893), 613.
- Taal volcano, eruption of, 512, 513n.
- Table Talk, 491.
- Tacitus, Caius Cornelius (fl. about 75-120), 6.
- Tamburlane, 558-559.
- Tartar Tales, 129.
- Tarnkappe, 46.
- Taylor, Bayard (1825-1878), 533.
- Temple of Glass, The, 115.
- Tennessee's Partner, 428.
- Terror, School of, 398-399.
- [682]
Thackeray, W. M. (1811-1863), 314, 466, 458.
- Theocritus (fl. 3rd century B. C.) 275.
- Thirty Years' War, 613.
- Thistle and the Rose, The, 115.
- Thomson, James (1700-1748), 116.
- Tiberius (45 B. C.-37 A. D.), 85.
- Ticknor, George (1791-1871), 500n.
- Tolstoy, Count Leo (1828-1910), 26, 68, 102, 119, 347, 373.
- Tom Tit Tot, 66.
- Toxophilus, 362.
- Transferred Ghost, The, 226.
- Traveler's sketch, 530-534;
defined, 530.
- Travels of Marco Polo, 532.
- Treasure Island, 256.
- Trevelyan, Sir George Otto (b. 1838), 592.
-
Tristram Shandy, 430.
- Trollope, Anthony (1815-1882), 431.
- True History, 151.
- True relation of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal, 371.
- True relations, 629;
distinguished from chronicle, 629.
- Turkish Tales, 129.
- Twain, Mark [pseud. of Samuel L. Clemens]. See Clemens.
- Two Years Before the Mast, 533.
- "Uncle Remus" stories, 86.
- Uncle Tom's Cabin, 346.
- Uplondish Mous and the Berger Mous, 86.
- Up the Coolly, 427.
- Utopia, 153.
- Van Bibber, and Others, 274.
- Van Dyke, Henry (b. 1852), 26, 114, 314, 626n.
- [683]
Venetian Glass, The, 401.
- Vicar of Wakefield, The, 430.
- Vida del Gran Tamurlan, 558-559.
- Views Afoot, 583.
- Virgil (70-19 B. C.), 275.
- Vision of Er, The, 4, 113-114.
- Vision of Mirza, The, 115.
- Volsunga Saga, The, 23.
- Voltaire, F. Arouet de (1694-1778), 347.
- Voyage and Travaille, 532.
- Voyage in Italy, A, 558.
- Voyage of Peter Wilkins, The, 152.
- Voyage of the Beagle, The, 533.
- Voyages Imaginaires, 150, 256.
- Walpole, Horace (1717-1797), 398, 491.
- Walpoliana, 491.
- Waltharilied, 23.
- Walton, Isaac (1593-1683), 362-363.
- Wandering Jew, legend of the, 26.
- Waverley Novels, 456.
- Weird tale: 49, 398-402;
origin, 398;
material and method, 402;
form, 402;
suggestions for writing, 401-402.
- [684]
Welles, Gideon (1802-1878), 560.
- Wharton, Edith (b. 1862), 456.
- What is It? a Mystery, 401.
- What Men Live By, 26, 102.
- Wiggin, Kate Douglas (b. 1857), 301, 314.
- Wilde, Oscar (1856-1900), 114.
- William Wilson, 400.
- Wind in the Rose Bush, The, 401, 402.
- Without Benefit of Clergy, 426.
- Wilkins, M. E.; see Freeman.
- Wonder Book, 3.
- Wonder, tales of mere: 6, 25, 128,
129-132, 346, 398;
defined, 129;
suggestions for writing, 129-131;
contrasted with folk tales, 129.
- Wordsworth, William (1770-1850), 481.
- Wulfstan, 532.
- Xenophon (435 B. C.), 491.
- Yeats, William Butler (b. 1865), 46, 301.
- Youth's Companion, 256.
- Ysopet, 84.
- Zeus, 2.
Transcriber's Note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired.
Corrections
p. xvii
- The Expatriation of Jonathan Trantor
- The Expatriation of Jonathan Taintor
p. 9
- They overturn trees, destoy whole forests
- They overturn trees, destroy whole forests
p. 49
- From these lists pick our the being
- From these lists pick out the being
p. 81
- When she was a hundred yards from the shehperd's cottage,
- When she was a hundred yards from the shepherd's cottage,
p. 90
- 9. Before Susan had done princking, church was over.
- 9. Before Susan had done prinking, church was over.
p. 101
- we have such statements are these:
- we have such statements as these:
p. 130
- or at the murmuring of a secret phase.
- or at the murmuring of a secret phrase.
p. 149
- Juan asked him magical ring to give him
- Juan asked his magical ring to give him
p. 177
- for his wife kept on retching so constanty that
- for his wife kept on retching so constantly that
p. 184
- by the appearance of a scawny young man
- by the appearance of a scrawny young man
p. 213
- through the frosted window and the feathery snow, such a vision of
lovliness
- through the frosted window and the feathery snow, such a vision of
loveliness
p. 259
- bow would be drawn nor quarel
- bow would be drawn nor quarrel
p. 274
- but it is not the hard, toil-beleagured life of
- but it is not the hard, toil-beleaguered life of
p. 284
- of taking my gold sleeve bottons
- of taking my gold sleeve buttons
p. 323
- the faithful fellow went off to the café which he frequentel
- the faithful fellow went off to the café which he frequented
p. 377
- at Jourdain's, the inkeeper who dealt in horses
- at Jourdain's, the innkeeper who dealt in horses
p. 425
- After much fumbling in the darkness he placed in Ivan't hands
- After much fumbling in the darkness he placed in Ivan's hands
p. 433
- But how had be managed to see that polo ball?
- But how had he managed to see that polo ball?
p. 460
- the tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains; deficienices which would
- the tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains; deficiencies which would
p. 475
- the governor delivered a short spech of welcome
- the governor delivered a short speech of welcome
p. 483
- retreating before the Prussian army, had bivoucked near a town
- retreating before the Prussian army, had bivouacked near a town
p. 549
- the little Turks come out and
laugh it him.
- the little Turks come out and
laugh at him.
p. 629
- If differs from journal and diary
- It differs from journal and diary
p. 677
- Peirs Plowman, 114.
- Piers Plowman, 114.
