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LOUNSBURY IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES VOLUME VII ¥ ‘el te THE COMPLETE WRITINGS OF Charles Dudley Warner BEING A BOY ON HORSEBACK HARTFORD, CONN. he American Publishing Companp MCMIV COPYRIGHT 1877 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. COPYRIGHT 1888 BY CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER COPYRIGHT 1904 BY THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED <¢ Being a Boy’? and ‘* On Horseback’’ are included in this uniform edition of Charles Dudley Warner's Works under special arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. © | Gas WA Ar Ed. 190% Sit EDITOR’S NOTE EING A Boy was published at the end of Novem- ber, 1877. Portions of it had probably appeared previously in various periodicals, and possibly most of tt ; but with the exception of one chapter, which came out in the “St. Nicholas” for Fanuary, 1874, none of them have been traced. “On Horseback,” the record of a horseback ride in I884, taken mainly in the mountain region of North Carolina, came out originally in the “ Atlantic Monthly,” in three articles which appeared in the numbers for July, August, and September, 1885. In 1888 these were published in book form in conjunction with “ Mexican Notes” and “ The Golden Hesperides.” “ Mexican Notes” appeared originally in 1887 in “ Harper's Magazine,” in the numbers for the months of April to August, inclusive. “The Golden Hesperides” was originally published in the “Atlantic Monthly” in the number for Fanuary, IS88. 6 Ces ing be wiBng . ,A DE ‘ ele? ‘ , of Se Sie AON ae x GEN Nig Te BEING I. Il. Ill, IV. VI. VII. VIII. IX. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. CONTENTS Ae BOY, BEING A BOY . ‘ : : THE BOY AS A FARMER : : THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING. A NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY ° THE BOY’S SUNDAY . 4 . THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE . ; FICTION AND SENTIMENT . : THE COMING. OF THANKSGIVING ° THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE ° FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD HOME INVENTIONS . : A THE LONELY FARMHOUSE . , JOHN’S FIRST PARTY . A 2 THE SUGAR CAMP. : c THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND : JOHN’S REVIVAL WAR. : ry : : COUNTRY SCENES. : : A CONTRAST TO THE NEW ENGLAND BOY ON HORSEBACK ., : : : MEXICAN NOTES I, II. FROM EL PASO TO THE CITY OF MEXICO . CUAUTLA . ° ° . PAGE 14 19 24 30 42 48 54 59 65 72 86 93 IOI 112 121 131 137 261 288 1V CONTENTS III. COATEPEC IV. MORELIA AND PATZCUARO , V. TCZINTCZUNTCZAN — URUAPAN THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES - ESTO - 334 “1350 - 383 ILLUSTRATIONS PHOTOGRAVURES IN THE HAY-FIELD . Alice Barber Stephens FRONTISPIECE TURNING THE GRINDSTONE . : : : ear 40 PLAYING SICK . : : : ; : ; AL EIG OUR PARTY : : ° ° , . , RAG Cee, i. = e Ly ls ' ? 7 a te f , tod >, aL t. a al i. Lack eo Bie ‘ ' . i Ga cae | a = oe | ean G ASAIN \ aka ” / " i 7 wen: ade ep)! 4 i apne rates HAI baal BEING A BOY I BEING A BOY NE of the best things in the world to be is () a boy; it requires no experience, though it needs some practice to be a good one. The disadvantage of the position is that it does not last long enough; it is soon over; just as you get used to being a boy, you have to be something else, with a good deal more work to do and not half so much fun. And yet every boy is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the restrictions that are put upon him as a boy. Good fun as it is to yoke up the calves and play work, there is not a boy on a farm but would rather drive a yoke of oxen at real work. What a glorious feeling it is, indeed, when a boy is for the first time given the long whip and permitted to drive the oxen, walking by their side, swinging the long lash, and shouting “ Gee, Buck!” “Haw, Golden!” “Whoa, Bright!” and all the rest of that remarkable language, until he is red in the face, and all the neighbors for half a mile are aware that something unusual isgoingon. If I were | a boy, I am not sure but I would rather drive the oxen than have a birthday. The proudest day of my life was one day when I 10 BEING A BOY ~ rode on the neap of the cart, and drove the oxen, all alone, with a load of apples to the cider-mill. I was so little that it was a wonder that I didn’t fall off, and get under the broad wheels. Nothing could make a boy, who cared anything for his appearance, feel flatter than to be run over by the broad tire of a cart-wheel. But I never heard of one who was, and I don’t believe one ever will be. As I said, it was a great day for\me, but I don’t remember that the oxen cared much about it. They sagged along in their great clumsy way, switching their tails in my face occasionally, and now and then giving a lurch to this or that side of the road, attracted by a choice tuft of grass. And then I “came the Julius Cesar” over them, if you will allow me to use such a slang expression, a liberty I never should permit you. I don’t know that Julius Cesar ever drove cattle, though he must often have seen the peasants from the Campagna “haw” and “gee” them round the Forum (of course in Latin, a language that those cattle understood as well as ours do English); but what I mean is, that I stood up and “hollered” with all my might, as everybody does with oxen, as if they were born deaf, and whacked them with the long lash over the head, just as the big folks did when they drove. I think now that it was a cow- ardly thing to crack the patient old fellows over the face and eyes, and make them wink in their meek manner. If I am ever a boy again on a farm, I shall speak gently to the oxen, and not go screaming round the farm like a crazy man; and I shall not hit them a cruel cut with the lash every few minutes, BEING A BOY II because it looks big to do so and I cannot think of anything else to do. I never liked lickings myself, and I don’t know why an ox should like them, espe- cially as he cannot reason about the moral improve- ment he is to get out of them. Speaking of Latin reminds me that I once taught my cows Latin. I don’t mean that I taught them to read it, for it is very difficult to teach a cow to read Latin or any of the dead languages, — a cow cares more for her cud than she does for all the classics put together. But if you begin early, you can teach a cow, or a calf (if you can teach a calf anything, “which I doubt), Latin as well as English. There Pap! were ten cows, which I had to escort to and from pasture night and morning. To these cows I gave the names. of the Roman numerals, beginning with Unus and Duo, and going up to Decem. Decem was, of course, the biggest cow of the party, or at least she was the ruler of the others, and had the place of honor in the stable and everywhere else. I admire cows, and especially the exactness with which they define their social position. In this case, Decem could “lick”? Novem, and Novem could “lick” Octo, and so on down to Unus, who could n’t lick anybody, except her own calf. I suppose I ought to have called the weakest cow Una instead of Unus, considering her sex; but I didn’t care much to teach the cows the declensions. of adjectives, in which I was not very well up myself; and, besides, it would be of little use to a cow. People who devote themselves too severely to study of the classics are apt to become dried up; and you should never do 12 BEING A BOY anything to dry up a cow. Well, these ten cows knew their names after a while, at least they ap- peared to, and would take their places as I called them. At least, if Octo attempted to get before Novem in going through the bars (I have heard people speak of a “ pair of bars” when there were six or eight of them), or into the stable, the matter of precedence was settled then and there, and, once settled, there was no dispute about it afterwards. Novem either put her horns into Octo’s ribs, and Octo shambled to one side, or else the two locked horns and tried the game of push and gore until one | gave up. Nothing is stricter than the etiquette of a party of cows. There is nothing in royal courts equal to it; rank is exactly settled, and the same individuals always have the precedence. You know that at Wind- sor Castle, if the Royal Three-Ply Silver Stick should happen to get in front of the Most Royal Double- and-T'wisted Golden Rod, when the court is going in to dinner, something so dreadful would happen that we don’t dare to think of it. It is certain that the soup would get cold while the Golden Rod was pitching the Silver Stick out of the Castle window into the moat, and perhaps the island of Great Britain itself would split in two. But the people are very careful that it never shall happen, so we shall — probably never know what the effect would be. Among cows, as I say, the question is settled in short order, and in a different manner from what it sometimes is in other society. It is said that in other society there is sometimes a great scramble for the first place, for the leadership, as it is called, and BEING A BOY 13 that women, and men too, fight for what is called position; and in order to be first they will injure their neighbors by telling stories about them and by backbiting, which is the meanest kind of biting there is, not excepting the bite of fleas. But in cow society there is nothing of this detraction in order to get the first place at the crib, or the farther stall in the stable.~ If the question arises, the cows turn in, horns and all, and settle it with one square fight, and that ends it. I have often admired this trait in cows. | Besides Latin, I used to try to teach the cows a little poetry, and it is a very good plan. It does not do the cows much good, but it is very good exer- cise for a boy farmer. I used to commit to memory as good short poems as I could find (the cows liked to listen to “‘ Thanatopsis”’ about as well as anything), and repeat them when I went to the pasture, and as I drove the cows home through the sweet ferns and down the rocky slopes. It improves a boy’s elocu- tion a great deal more than driving oxen. It is a fact, also, that if a boy repeats “ Thanatop- sis ’’ while he is milking, that operation acquires a certain dignity. IT THE BOY AS A FARMER the current notions about farming were not so very different from those they entertain. What passes for laziness is very often an unwillingness to farm in a particular way. For instance, some morn- ing in early summer John is told to catch the sorrel mare, harness her into the spring wagon, and put in the buffalo and the best whip, for father is obliged to drive over to the “ Corners, to see a man” about some cattle, to talk with the road commissioner, to go to the store for the “women folks,” and to attend to other important business; and very likely he will not be back till sundown. It must be very press- ing business, for the old gentleman drives off in this way somewhere almost every pleasant day, and appears to have a great deal on his mind. Meantime, he tells John that he can play ball after he has done up the chores. As if the chores could ever be “done up” ona farm. He is first to clean out the horse-stable; then to take a bill-hook and cut down the thistles and weeds from the fence cor- ners in the home mowing-lot and along the road towards the village; to dig up the docks round the garden patch ; to weed out the beet-bed ; to hoe the early potatoes; to rake the sticks and leaves out of Cd B=: in general would be very good farmers if THE BOY AS A FARMER 16 the front yard; in short, there is work enough laid out for John to keep him busy, it seems to him, till he comes of age; and at half an hour to sundown he is to go for the cows, and mind he don’t run’em! “< Yes, sir,” says John, “is that all?” “Well, if you get through in good season, you might pick over those potatoes in the cellar; they are sprouting; they ain’t fit to eat.” John is obliged to his father, for if there is any sort of chore more cheerful to a boy than another, on a pleasant day, it is rubbing the sprouts off potatoes in a dark cellar. And the old gentleman mounts his wagon and drives away down the enticing road, with the dog bounding along beside the wagon, and refus- ing to come back at John’s call. John half wishes he were the dog. The dog knows the part of farming that suits him. He likes to run along the road and see all the dogs and other people, and he likes best of all to lie on the store steps at the Corners — while his master’s horse is dozing at the post and his mas- ter is talking politics in the store — with the other dogs of his acquaintance, snapping at mutually annoying flies, and indulging in that delightful dog gossip which is expressed by a wag of the tail and a sniff of the nose. Nobody knows how many dogs’ characters are destroyed in this gossip, or how a dog may be able to insinuate suspicion by a wag of the tail as a man can by ashrug of the shoulders, or sniff a slander as a man can suggest one by raising his eye- brows. John looks after the old gentleman driving off in state, with the odorous buffalo-robe and the new 16 BEING A BOY whip, and he thinks that is the sort of farming he would like to do. And he cries after ‘his departing parent, — “ Say, father, can’t I go over to the farther pasture and salt the cattle?” John knows that he could spend half a day very pleasantly in going over to that pas- ture, looking for bird’s-nests and shying at red squir- rels on the way, and who knows but he might “see”’ a sucker in the meadow brook, and perhaps get a> “‘jab”’ at him with a sharp stick. He knows a hole where there is a whopper; and one of his plans in life is to go some day and snare him, and bring him homein triumph. It is therefore strongly impressed upon his mind that the cattle want salting. But his father, without turning his head, replies, — “No, they don’t need salting any more ’n you do!” And the old equipage goes rattling down the road, and John whistles his disappointment. When I was a boy on a farm, and I suppose it is so now, cattle were never salted half enough. John goes to his chores, and gets through the stable as soon as he can, for that must be done; but when it comes to the out-door work, that rather drags. There are so many things to distract the atten- tion, —a chipmunk in the fence, a bird on a near tree, and a hen-hawk circling high in the air over the barn- yard. John loses a little time in stoning the chip- munk, which rather likes the sport, and in watching the bird, to find where its nest is ; and he convinces Mi himself that he ought to watch the hawk, lest it © pounce upon the chickens, and therefore, with an easy conscience, he spends fifteen minutes in halloo- THE BOY AS A FARMER 17 ing to that distant bird, and follows it away out of sight over the woods, and then wishes it would come back again. And then a carriage with two horses, and a trunk on behind, goes along the road; and there is a girl in the carriage who looks out at John, who is suddenly aware that his trousers are patched on each knee and in two places behind; and he wonders if she is rich, and whose name is on the trunk, and how much the horses cost, and whether that nice-looking man 1s the girl’s father, and if that boy on the seat with the driver is her brother, and if he has to do chores; and as the gay sight disap- pears, John falls to thinking about the great world beyond the farm, of cities, and people who are al- ways dressed up, and a great many other things of which he has a very dim notion. And then a boy, whom John knows, rides by in a wagon with his father, and the boy makes a face at John, and John returns the greeting with a twist of his own visage and some symbolic gestures. All these things take time. The work of cutting down the big weeds gets on slowly, although it is not very disagreeable, or would not be if it were play. John imagines that yonder big thistle is some whiskered villain, of whom he has read in a fairy book, and he advances on him with “ Die, rufhan!” and slashes off his head with the bill-hook; or he charges upon the rows of mul- lein-stalks as if they were rebels in regimental ranks, and hews them down without mercy. What fun it might be if there were only another boy there to help. But even war, single handed, gets to be tire- some. It is dinner-time before John finishes the 2 18 BEING A BOY weeds, and it is cow-time before John has made much impression on the garden. This garden John has no fondness for. He would rather hoe corn all day than work in it. Father seems to think that it is easy work that John can do, because it is near the house! John’s continual plan in this life is to go fishing. When there comes a rainy day, he attempts to carry it out. But ten chances to one his father has different views. As it rains so that work cannot be done out-doors, it is a good time to work in the garden. He can run into the house between the heavy showers. John accord- ingly detests the garden ; and the only time he works briskly in it is when he has a stent set, to do so much weeding before the Fourth of July. If he is spry, he can make an extra holiday the Fourth and” the day after. Two days of gunpowder and ball- playing! When I was a boy, I supposed there was some connection between such and such an amount of work done on the farm and our national freedom. I doubted if there could be any Fourth of July if my stent was not done. I, at least, worked for my Independence. Ill THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING hea are so many bright spots in the life of a farm-boy, that I sometimes think I should like to live the life over again; I should almost be willing to be a girl if it were not for the chores. There is a great comfort to a boy in the amount of work he can get rid of doing. It is some- times astonishing how slow he can go on an errand, —he who leads the school in a race. The world is new and interesting to him, and there is so much to take his attention off, when he is sent to do any- thing. Perhaps he himself could n’t explain why, when he is sent to the neighbor’s after yeast, he stops to stone the frogs; he is not exactly cruel, but he wants to see if he can hit em. No other living thing can go so slow as a boy sent onan errand. His legs seem to be lead, unless he happens to espy a wood- chuck in an adjoining lot, when he gives chase to it like a deer; and it is a curious fact about boys, that two will be a great deal slower in doing anything than one, and that the more you have to help on a piece of work the less is accomplished. Boys have a great power of helping each other to do nothing; and they are so innocent about it, and unconscious. “I went as quick as ever I could,” says the boy: his father asks him why he did n’t stay all night, when he 20 BEING A BOY has been absent three hours on a ten-minute errand. The sarcasm has no effect on the boy. Going after the cows wasa serious thing in my day. I had to climb a hill, which was covered with wild strawberries in the season. Could any boy pass by those ripe berries ? And then in the fragrant hill pas- ture there were beds of wintergreen with red berries, tufts of columbine, roots of sassafras to be dug, and dozens of things good to eat or to smell, that I could not resist. It sometimes even lay in my way to climb a tree to look for a crow’s nest, or to swing in the top, and to try if I could see the steeple of the village church. It became very important sometimes for me to see that steeple; and in the midst of my inves- tigations the tin horn would blow a great blast from the farmhouse, which would send a cold chill down my back in the hottest days. I knew what it meant. It had a frightfully impatient quaver in it, not at all like the sweet note that called us to dinner from the hay-field. It said, “‘ Why on earth doesn’t that boy come home? It is almost dark, and the cows ain’t milked!” And that was the time the cows had to start into a brisk pace and make up for lost time. I wonder if any boy ever drove the cows home late, who did not say that the cows were at the very far- ther end of the pasture, and that “‘ Old Brindle” was hidden in the woods, and he could n’t find her for ever so long! The brindle cow is the math scape- goat, many a time. No other boy knows how to appreceam a holiday as the farm-boy does; and his best ones are of a peculiar kind. Going fishing is of course one sort. THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING a1 The excitement of rigging up the tackle, digging the bait, and the anticipation of great luck! These are pure pleasures, enjoyed because they are rare. Boys who can go a-fishing any time care but little for it. Tramping all day through bush and brier, fighting flies and mosquitoes, and branches that tangle the line, and snags that break the hook, and returning home late and hungry, with wet feet and a string of speckled trout on a willow twig, and having the family crowd out at the kitchen door to look at ’em, and say, “« Pretty well done for you, bub; did you catch that big one yourself? ’’ —this is also pure happiness, the like of which the boy will never have again, not if he comes to be selectman and deacon and to “ keep store.” But the holidays I recall with delight were the two days in spring and fall, when we went to the dis- tant pasture-land, in a neighboring town, maybe, to drive thither the young cattle and colts, and to bring them back again. It was a wild and rocky upland where our great pasture was, many miles from home, the road to it running by a brawling river, and up a dashing brookside among great hills. What a day’s adventure it was! It was likea journey to Europe. The night before, I could scarcely sleep for thinking of it, and there was no trouble about getting me up at sunrise that morning. The breakfast was eaten, the luncheon was packed in a large basket, with bottles of root beer and a jug of switchel, which packing I superintended with the greatest interest ; and then the cattle were to be collected for the march, and the horses hitched up. Did I shirk any duty? Was 22 BEING A BOY I slow? I think not. I was willing to run my legs off after the frisky steers, who seemed to have an idea they were going on a lark, and frolicked about, dash- ing into all gates, and through all bars except the right ones; and how cheerfully I did yell at them ! It was a glorious chance to “holler,” and I have never since heard any public speaker on the stump or at camp-meeting who could make more noise. I have often thought it fortunate that the amount of - noise in a boy does not increase in proportion to his size; if it did, the world could not contain it. The whole day was full of excitement and of free- dom. We were away from the farm, which toa boy is one of the best parts of farming; we saw other farms and other people at work; I had the pleasure of marching along, and swinging my whip, past boys whom I knew, who were picking up stones. Every ~ turn of the road, every bend and rapid of the river, the great bowlders by the wayside, the watering- troughs, the giant pine that had been struck by light- ning, the mysterious covered bridge over the river where it was most swift and rocky and foamy, the chance eagle in the blue sky, the sense of going some- where, — why, as I recall all these things I feel that even the Prince Imperial, as he used to dash on horse- back through the Bois de Boulogne, with fifty mounted hussars clattering at his heels, and crowds of people cheering, could not have been as happy as was I, a boy in short jacket and shorter pantaloons, trudging in the dust that day behind the steers and colts, crack- ing my black-stock whip. I wish the journey would never end; butat last, THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING 23 by noon, we reach the pastures and turn in the herd; and after making the tour of the lots to make sure there are no breaks in the fences, we take our lunch- eon from the wagon and eat it under the trees by the spring. This is the supreme moment of the day. This is the way to live; this is like the Swiss Family Robinson, and all the rest of my delightful acquaint- ances inromance. Baked beans, rye-and-indian bread , (moist, remember), doughnuts and cheese, pie, and Noe beer. What richness! You may live to dine bee Delmonico’s, or, if- those Frenchmen do not eat each other up, at Philippe’s, in Rue Montorgueil in Paris, where the dear old Thackeray used to eat as good a dinner as anybody; but you will get there neither doughnuts, nor pie, nor root beer, nor any- thing so good as that luncheon at noon in the old pasture, high among the Massachusetts hills! Nor will you ever, if you live to be the oldest boy in the world, have any holiday equal to the one I have described. But I always regretted that I did not take along a fishline, just to “‘ throw in” the brook we passed. I know there were trout there. IV NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY of boys, it is my impression that a farm with- out a boy would very soon come to grief. What the boy does is the life of the farm. He is the factotum, always in demand, always expected to do the thousand indispensable things that nobody else will do. Upon him fall all the odds and ends, the most difficult things. After everybody else is through, he has to finish up. His work is like a woman’s, — perpetual waiting on others. Everybody knows how much easier it is to eat a good dinner than it is to wash the dishes afterwards. Consider what a boy on a farm is required to do; things that must be done, or life would actually stop. It is understood, in the first place, that he is to do all the errands, to go to the store, to the post office, and to carry all sorts of messages. If he had as many legs as a centipede, they would tire before night. His two short limbs seem to him entirely inadequate to the task. He would like to have as many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate about in the same way. This he sometimes tries to do; and people who have seen him “turning cart-wheels” along the side of the road have supposed that he was amusing himself, and idling his time; he was only — Ge what you will about the general usefulness NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 25 trying to invent a new mode of locomotion, so that he could economize his legs and do his errands with greater dispatch. He practices standing on his head, in order to accustom himself to any position. Leap- frog is one of his methods of getting over the ground quickly. He would willingly go an errand any distance if he could leap-frog it with a few other boys. He has a natural genius for combining plea- sure with business. This is the reason why, when he is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, and the family are waiting. at the dinner-table, he is ab- sent so long; for he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his hand over the spout and squirt the water a little while. He is the one who spreads the grass when the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn ; he rides the horse to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary rows ; he picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and water and splits kindling ; he gets up the horse and puts out the horse ; whether he is in the house or out of it, there is always something for him to do. Just before school in winter he shovels paths; in summer he turns the grindstone. He knows where there are lots of wintergreens and sweet flag-root, but instead of going for them, he is to stay in-doors and pare apples and stone raisins and pound something in a mortar. And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an idle boy who has nothing to busy himself with but school and chores! He 26 BEING A BOY would gladly do all the work if somebody else would do the chores, he thinks, and yet I doubt if any boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advan- tages of a liberal education in the way of chores. A boy on a farm is nothing without his pets; at least a dog, and probably rabbits, chickens, ducks, and guinea-hens. A guinea-hen suits a boy. It is entirely useless, and makes a more disagreeable noise thana Chinese gong. I once domesticated a young fox which a neighbor had caught. It is a mistake to sup- pose the fox cannot be tamed. Jacko wasa very clever | little animal, and behaved, in all respects, with pro- priety. He kept Sunday as well as any day, and all the ten commandments that he could understand. He was a very graceful playfellow, and seemed to have an affection for me. He lived in a wood-pile in the dooryard, and when I lay down at the entrance to his house and called him, he would come out and sit on his tail and lick my face just like a grown per- son. I taught him a great many tricks and all the virtues. That year I had a large number of hens, and Jacko went about among them with the most perfect indifference, never looking on them to lust after them, as I could see, and never touching an egg or a feather. So excellent was his reputation that I would have trusted him in the hen-roost in the dark without counting the hens. In short, he was domes- ticated, and I was fond of him and very proud of him, exhibiting him to all our visitors as an example of what affectionate treatment would do in subduing the brute instincts. I preferred him to my dog, whom et NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 2 I had, with much patience, taught to go up a long hill alone and surround the cows, and drive them home from the remote pasture. He liked the fun of it at first, but by and by he seemed to get the notion that it was a “chore,” and when I whistled for him to go for the cows, he would turn tail and run the other way, and the more I whistled and threw stones at him, the faster he would run. His name was Turk, and I should have sold him if he had not been the kind of dog that nobody will buy. I suppose he was not a cow-dog, but what they call a sheep-dog. At least, when he got big enough, he used to get into the pasture and chase the sheep to death. That was the way he got into trouble, and lost his valuable life. A dog is of great use ona farm, and that is the ~ reason a boy likes him. He is good to bite peddlers and small children, and run out and yelp at wagons that pass by, and to howl all night when the moon shines. And yet, if I were a boy again, the first thing I would have should be a dog; for dogs are great companions, and as active and spry as a boy at doing nothing. They are also good to bark at woodchuck- holes. A good dog will bark at a woodchuck-hole long after the animal has retired to a remote part of his residence, and escaped byanother hole. This deceives the woodchuck. Some of the most delightful hours of my life have been spent in hiding and watching the hole where the dog was not. What an exquisite thrill ran through my frame when the timid nose ap- peared, was withdrawn, poked out again, and finally followed by the entire animal, who looked cautiously 28 BEING A BOY about, and then hopped away to feed on the clover. At that moment I rushed ‘in, occupied the “ home base,” yelled to Turk, and then danced with delight at the combat between the spunky woodchuck and the dog. They were about the same size, but science and civilization won the day. I did not reflect then that it would have been more in the interest of civil- ization if the woodchuck had killed the dog. I do not know why it is that boys so like to hunt and kill animals ; but the excuse that I gave in this case for the murder was, that the woodchuck ate the clover and trod it down, and, in fact, was a woodchuck. It was not till long after that I learned with surprise that he is a rodent mammal, of the species Arctomys monax, is called at the West a ground-hog, and is eaten by people of color with great relish. But I have forgotten my beautiful fox. Jacko continued to deport himself well until the young chickens came; he was actually cured of the fox vice of chicken-stealing. He used to go with me about the coops, pricking up his ears in an intelligent man- ner, and with a demure eye and the most virtuous droop of the tail. Charming fox! If he had held out a little while longer, I should have put him into a Sunday-school book. But I began to miss chickens. They disappeared mysteriously in the night. I would not suspect Jacko at first, for he looked so honest, and in the daytime seemed to be as much interested in the chickens as I was. But one morn- ing, when I went to call him, I found feathers at the » entrance of his hole, — chicken feathers. He could n’t deny it. He was a thief. His fox nature had come NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 29 out under severe temptation. And he died an un- natural death. He had a thousand virtues and one crime. But that crime struck at the foundation of society. He deceived and stole; he was a liar anda thief, and no pretty ways could hide the fact. His intelligent, bright face could n’t save him. If he had been honest, he might have grown up to bea large, ornamental fox. Vv THE BOY'S SUNDAY to begin Saturday night at sundown; and the sun is lost to sight behind the hills there before it has set by the almanac. I remember that we used to go by the almanac Saturday night and by the visible disappearance Sunday night. On Saturday night we very slowly yielded to the influences of the holy time, which were settling down upon us, and submitted to the ablutions which were as inevitable as Sunday; but when the sun (and it never moved so slow) slid behind the hills Sunday night, the effect upon the watching boy was like a shock from a gal- vanic battery ; something flashed through all his limbs and set them in motion, and no “ play” ever seemed so sweet to him as that between sundown and dark Sunday night. This, however, was on the supposition that he had conscientiously kept Sunday, and had not gone in swimming and got drowned. This keeping of Saturday night instead of Sunday night we did not very well understand ; but it seemed, on the whole, a good thing that we should rest Saturday night when we were tired, and play Sunday night when we were rested. I supposed, however, that it was an arrange- ment made to suit the big boys who wanted to go “courting ’’ Sunday night. Certainly they were not G © ban in the New England hill towns used THE BOY’S SUNDAY 31 to be blamed, for Sunday was the day when pretty girls were most fascinating, and I have never since seen any so lovely as those who used to sit in the gallery and in the singers’ seats in the bare old meet- . ing-houses. Sunday to the country farmer-boy was hardly the relief that it was to the other members of the family; for the same chores must be done that day as on others, and he could not divert his mind with whis- tling, hand-springs, or sending the dog into the river after sticks. He had to submit, in the first place, to the restraint of shoes and stockings. He read in the Old Testament that when Moses cameto holy ground, he put off his shoes ; but the boy was obliged to put his on, upon the holy day, not only to go to meeting, but while he sat at home. Only the emancipated country-boy, who is as agile on his bare feet as a young kid, and rejoices in the pressure of the warm soft earth, knows what a hardship it is to tie on stiff shoes. The monks who put peas in their shoes as a penance do not suffer more than the country-boy in his penitential Sunday shoes. I recall the celerity with which he used to kick them off at sundown. Sunday morning was not an idle one for the farmer- boy. He must rise tolerably early, for the cows were to be milked and driven to pasture; family prayers —were a little longer than on other days; there were the Sunday-school verses to be relearned, for they did not stay in mind over night; perhaps the wagon was to be greased before the neighbors began to drive by; and the horse was to be caught out of the pasture, ridden home bareback, and harnessed. 32 BEING A BOY This catching the horse, perhaps two of them, was very good fun usually, and would have broken the Sunday if the horse had not been wanted for taking the family to meeting. It was so peaceful and still in the pasture on Sunday morning ; but the horses were never so playful, the colts never so frisky. Round and round the lot the boy went calling, in an entreat- ing Sunday voice, “ Jock, jock, jock, jock,” and shak- ing his salt-dish, while the horses, with heads erect, and shaking tails and flashing heels, dashed from corner to corner, and gave the boy a pretty good race before he could coax the nose of one of them into his dish. The boy got angry, and came very near saying “dum it,” but he rather enjoyed the fun, after all. The boy remembers how his mother’s anxiety was divided between the set of his turn-over collar, the parting of his hair, and his memory of the Sunday- school verses; and what a wild confusion there was through the house in getting off for meeting, and how he was kept running hither and thither, to get the hymn-book, or a palm-leaf fan, or the best whip, or to pick from the Sunday part of the garden the bunch of caraway-seed. Already the deacon’s mare, with a | wagon-load of the deacon’s folks, had gone shambling past, head and tail drooping, clumsy hoofs kicking up clouds of dust, while the good deacon sat jerking the reins, in an automatic way, and the “ women- folks”’ patiently saw the dust settle upon their best summer finery. Wagon after wagon went along the ‘sandy road, and when our boy’s family started, they became part of a long procession, which sent up a mile of dust and a pungent, if not pious smell of WHE BOY’S SUNDAY RK buffalo-robes. There were fiery horses in the train which had to be held in, for it was neither etiquette nor decent to pass anybody on Sunday. It was a great delight to the farmer-boy to see all this procession of horses, and to exchange sly winks with the other boys, who leaned over the wagon-seats for that pur- pose. Occasionally a boy rode behind, with his back to the family, and his pantomime was always some- thing wonderful to see, and was considered very dar- ing and wicked. The meeting-house which our boy remembers was a high, square building, without a steeple. Within, it had a lofty pulpit, with doors underneath and closets where sacred things were kept, and where the tithing-men were supposed to imprison bad boys. The pews were square, with seats facing each other, those on one side Jow for the children, and all with hinges, so that they could be raised when the con- gregation stood up for prayers and leaned over the backs of the pews, as horses meet each other across a pasture fence. After prayers these seats used to be slammed down with a long-continued clatter, which seemed to the boys about the best part of the exer- cises. The galleries were very high, and the singers’ seats, where the pretty girls sat, were the most con- spicuous of all. To sit in the gallery away from the family, was a privilege not often granted to the boy. The tithing-man, who carried a long rod and kept order in the house, and out-doors at noon- time, sat in the gallery, and visited any boy who whispered or found curious passages in the Bible and showed them to another boy. It was an awful 3 34 BEING A BOY moment when the bushy-headed tithing-man ap- proached a boy in sermon-time. The eyes of the whole congregation were on him, and he could feel the guilt ooze out of his burning face. At noon was Sunday-school, and after that, be- fore the afternoon service, in summer, the boys had a little time to eat their luncheon together at the watering-trough, where some of the elders were likely to be gathered, talking very solemnly about cattle; or they went over to a neighboring barn to see the calves; or they slipped off down the road- side to a place where they could dig sassafras or the root of the sweet-flag,— roots very fragrant in the mind of many a boy with religious associations to this day. There was often an odor of sassafras in the afternoon service. It used to stand in my mind as a substitute for the Old Testament incense of the Jews. Something in the same way the big bass-viol in the choir took the place of “ David’s harp of solemn sound.” The going home from meeting was more cheerful and lively than the coming to it. There was all the bustle of getting the horses out of the sheds and» bringing them round to the meeting-house steps. At noon the boys sometimes sat in the wagons and swung the whips without cracking them: now it was permitted to give them a little snap in order to bring the horses up in good style; and the boy was rather proud of the horse if it pranced a little while the timid “women-folks” were trying to get in. The boy had an eye for whatever life and stir there’, was ina New England Sunday. He liked to drive THE BOY’S SUNDAY 35 home fast. The old house and the farm looked pleasant to him. There was an extra dinner when they reached home, and a cheerful consciousness of duty performed made it a pleasant dinner. Long before sundown the Sunday-school book had been read, and the boy sat waiting in the house with great impatience the signal that the “day of rest” was » over. A boy may not be very wicked, and yet not see the need of “rest.’’ Neither his idea of rest nor work is that of older farmers. VI THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE hardens the lot of the farmer-boy, it is the grindstone. Turning grindstones to grind scythes is one of those heroic but unobtrusive occu- pations for which one gets no credit. It is a hope- less kind of task, and, however faithfully the crank is turned, it is one that brings little reputation. There is a great deal of poetry about haying — I mean for those not engaged in it. One likes to hear the whetting of the scythes on a fresh morning and the response of the noisy bobolink, who always sits upon the fence and superintends the cutting of the dew-laden grass. There is a sort of music in the “swish” and a rhythm in the swing of the scythes in concert. The boy has not much time to attend to it, for it is lively business “spreading” after half ., a dozen men who have only to walk along and lay the grass low, while the boy has the whole hay-field on his hands. He has little time for the poetry of haying, as he struggles along, filling the air with the wet mass which he shakes over his head, and pick- ing his way with short legs and bare feet amid the short and freshly cut stubble. But if the scythes cut well and swing merrily, it is due to the boy who turned the grindstone. Oh, it |: there is one thing more than another that } : ‘ Fl | ee sRINDSTONES OR LIFE § 37 was nothing to do, just turn the grindstone a few minutes for this and that one before breakfast ; any “hired man” was authorized to order the boy to turn the grindstone. How they did bear on, those great strapping fellows! Turn, turn, turn, what a weary go it was. For my part, I used to like a grindstone that “‘ wabbled”’ a good deal on its axis, for when I turned it fast, it put the grinder on a lively lookout for cutting his hands, and entirely satisfied his desire that I should “turn faster.” It was some sport to make the water fly and wet the grinder, suddenly starting up quickly and surprising him when I was turning very slowly. I used to wish sometimes that I could turn fast enough to make the stone fly into a dozen pieces. Steady turning is what the grinders like, and any boy who turns steadily, so as to give an even motion to the stone, will be much praised, and will be in demand. I advise any boy who desires to do this sort of work to turn steadily. If he does it by jerks and in a fitful man- ner, the “ hired men” will be very apt to dispense with his services and turn the grindstone for each other. This is one of the most disagreeable tasks of the boy farmer, and, hard as it is, I do not know why it is supposed to belong especially to childhood. But it is, and one of the certain marks that second child- hood has come to a man on a farm is, that he is asked to turn the grindstone as if he were a boy again. When the old man is good for nothing else, when he can neither mow nor pitch, and scarcely “rake after,” he can turn grindstone, and it is in this way 38 BEING A BOY that he renews his youth. “ Ain’t you ashamed to have your granther turn the grindstone? ” asks the hired man of the boy. So the boy takes hold and turns himself, till his little back aches. When he gets older, he wishes he had replied, “ Ain’t you ashamed to make either an old man or a little boy do such hard grinding work?” Doing the regular work of this world is not much, the boy thinks, but the wearisome part is the waiting on the people who do the work. And the boy is not far wrong. This is what women and boys have to do on a farm, wait upon everybody who “ works.” The trouble with the boy’s life is, that he has no time that he can call his own. He is, like a barrel of beer, always on draft. The men-folks, having worked in the regular hours, lie down and rest, stretch them- selves idly in the shade at noon, or lounge about after supper. Then the boy, who has done nothing all day but turn grindstone, and spread hay, and rake after, and run his little legs off at everybody’s beck and call, is sent on some errand or some house- hold chore, in order that time shall not hang heavy on his hands. The boy comes nearer to perpetual ., motion than anything else in nature, only it is not altogether a voluntary motion. The time that the farm-boy gets for his own is usually at the end of a stent. We used to be given a certain piece of corn to hoe, or a certain quantity of corn to husk in so many days. If we finished the task before the time set, we had the remainder to ourselves. In my day it used to take very sharp work to gain anything, but we were always anxious to take the chance. I BHE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE 39 think we enjoyed the holiday in anticipation quite as much as we did when we had won it. Unless it was training-day, or Fourth of July, or the circus was coming, it was a little difficult to find anything big enough to fill our anticipations of the fun we would have in the day or the two or three days we had earned. We did not want to waste the time on any common thing. Even going fishing in one of the wild mountain brooks was hardly up to the mark, for we could sometimes do that on a rainy day. Go- ing down to the village store was not very exciting, and was, on the whole, a waste of our precious time. Unless we could get out our military company, life » was apt to be a little blank, even on the holidays for which we had worked so hard. If you went to see another boy, he was probably at work in the hay-field or the potato-patch, and his father looked at you askance. You sometimes took hold and helped him, so that he could go and play with you; but it was usually time to go for the cows before the task was done. The fact is, or used to be, that the amuse- ments of a boy in the country are not many. Snar- ing “suckers”’ out of the deep meadow brook used to be about as good as any that I had. The North American sucker is not an engaging animal in all respects; his body is comely enough, but his mouth is puckered up like that of a purse. The mouth is not formed for the gentle angle-worm nor the delu- sive fly of the fishermen. It is necessary, therefore, to snare the fish if you want him. In the sunny days he lies in the deep pools, by some big stone or near the bank, poising himself quite still, or only stirring 40 BEING A BOY his fins a little now and then, as an elephant moves his ears. He will lie so for hours, or rather float, in perfect idleness and apparent bliss. The boy who also has a holiday, but cannot keep still, comes along and peeps over the bank. “ Golly, ain’t he a big one!” Perhaps he is eighteen inches long, and weighs two or three pounds. He lies there among his friends, little fish and big ones, quite a school of them, perhaps a district school, that only keeps in warm days in the summer. The pupils seem to have little to learn, except to balance themselves and to turn gracefully with a flirt of the tail. Not much is taught but “‘deportment,” and some of the old suck- ers are perfect Turveydrops in that. The boy is armed with a pole and a stout line, and on the end of it a brass wire bent into a hoop, which is a slip- noose, and slides together when anything is caught in it. The boy approaches the bank and looks over. There he lies, calm as a whale. The boy devours him with his eyes. He is almost too much excited to drop the snare into the water without making a noise. A puff of wind comes and ruffles the surface, so that he cannot see the fish. It is calm again, and there he still is, moving his fins in peaceful security. The boy lowers his snare behind the fish and slips it along. He intends to get it around him just back of the gills and then elevate him with a sudden jerk. It is a delicate operation, for the snare will turn a little, and if it hits the fish, he is off. However, it goes well; the wire is almost in place, when suddenly the fish, as if he had a warning in a dream, for he appears to see nothing, moves his tail just a little, THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE 41 glides out of the loop, and with no seeming appear- ance of frustrating any one’s plans, lounges over to the other side of the pool; and there he reposes just as if he was not spoiling the boy’s holiday. This slight change of base on the part of the fish requires the boy to reorganize his whole campaign, get a new position on the bank, a new line of approach, and patiently wait for the wind and sun before he can lower his line. This time, cunning and patience are rewarded. The hoop encircles the unsuspecting fish. The boy’s eyes almost start from his head as he gives a tremendous jerk, and feels by the dead-weight that he has got him fast. Out he comes, up he goes in the air, and the boy runs to look at him. In this transaction, however, no one can be more surprised than the sucker. Vil FICTION AND SENTIMENT Pr “AHE boy farmer does not appreciate school vacations as highly as his city cousin. When school keeps, he has only to “do chores and go to school,” but between terms there are a thousand things on the farm that have been left for the boy to do. Picking up stones in the pas- tures and piling them in heaps used to be one of them. Some lots appeared to grow stones, or else “the sun every year drew them to the surface, as it coaxes the round cantelopes out of the soft garden soil; it is certain that there were fields that always gave the boys this sort of fall work. And very lively work it was on frosty mornings for the barefooted boys, who were continually turning up the larger “stones in order to stand for a moment in the warm place that had been covered from the frost. A boy can stand on one leg as well as a Holland stork; ~ and the boy who found a warm spot for the sole of his foot was likely to stand in it until the words, “< Come, stir your stumps,” broke in discordantly upon his meditations. For the boy is very much given to meditations. If he had his way, he would do nothing in a hurry; he likes to stop and think about things, and enjoy his work as he goes along. He picks up potatoes as if each one were a lump of FICTION AND SENTIMENT 43 gold just turned out of the dirt, and requiring care- ful examination. Although the country-boy feels a little joy when school breaks up (as he does when anything breaks up, or any change takes place), since he is released from the discipline and restraint of it, yet the school is his opening into the world,— his romance. Its opportunities for enjoyment are numberless. He does not exactly know what he is set at books for; he takes spelling rather as an exercise for his lungs, standing up and shouting out the words with entire recklessness of consequences ; he grapples doggedly with arithmetic and geography as something that must be cleared out of his way before recess, but not at all with the zest he would dig a woodchuck out of his hole. But recess! Was ever any enjoyment so keen as that with which a boy rushes out of the schoolhouse. door for the ten minutes of recess? He is like to burst with animal spirits ; he runs like a deer; he can nearly fly; and he throws himself into play with entire self-forgetfulness, and an energy that would overturn the world if his strength were proportioned to it. For ten minutes the world is absolutely his; the weights are taken off, restraints are loosed, and he is his own master for that brief time, —as he never again will be if he lives to be as old as the king of Thule,—and nobody knows how old he was. And there is the nooning, a solid hour, in which vast projects can be carried out which have been slyly matured during the school-hours: expe- ditions are undertaken ; wars are begun between the Indians on one side and the settlers on the other; 44 BEING A BOY the military company is drilled (without uniforms // or arms), or games are carried on which involve miles of running, and an expenditure of wind sufh- cient to spell the spelling-book through at the high- est pitch. Friendships are formed, too, which are fervent, if not enduring, and enmities contracted which are fre- quently “ taken out”’ on the spot, after a rough fash- ion boys have of settling as they go along; cases of long credit, either in words or trade, are not frequent with boys; boot on jack-knives must be paid on the nail; and it is considered much more honorable to out with a personal grievance at once, even if the explanation is made with the fists, than to pretend fair, and then take a sneaking revenge on some con- cealed opportunity. The country-boy at the district school is introduced into a wider world than he knew at home, in many ways. Some big boy brings to school a copy of the Arabian Nights, a dog-eared copy, with cover, title-page, and the last leaves miss- ing, which is passed around, and slyly read under the desk, and perhaps comes to the little boy whose ‘/parents disapprove of novel-reading, and have no work of fiction in the house except a pious fraud called ‘“‘ Six Months in a Convent,” and the latest comic almanac. The boy’s eyes dilate as he steals some of the treasures out of the wondrous pages, and he longs to lose himself in the land of enchantment open before him.’ He tells at home that he has seen the most wonderful book that ever was, and a big boy has promised to lend it to him. “Is it a true book, John?” asks the grandmother ; “ because, if ‘a FICTION AND SENTIMENT 45 it isn’t true, it is the worst thing that a boy can read.” (This happened years ago.) John cannot answer as to the truth of the book, and so does not bring it home; but he borrows it, nevertheless, and conceals it in the barn, and, lying in the hay-mow, is lost in its enchantments many an odd hour when he is supposed to be doing chores. There were no chores in the Arabian Nights; the boy there had - but to rub the ring and summon a genius, who © would feed the calves and pick up chips and bring in wood ina minute. It was through this emblazoned portal that the boy walked into the world of books, which he soon found was larger than his own, and filled with people he longed to know. And the farmer-boy is not without his sentiment and his secrets, though he has never been at a chil- dren’s party in his life, and, in fact, never has heard that children go into society when they are seven, and give regular wine-parties when they reach the ripe age of nine. But one of his regrets at having the summer school close is dimly connected with a little girl, whom he does not care much for, — would a great deal rather play with a boy than with | her at recess, — but whom he will not see again for some time,—da sweet little thing, who is very friendly with John, and with whom he has been known to exchange bits of candy wrapped up in paper, and for whom he cut in two his lead-pencil, and gave her half. At the last day of school she goes part way with John, and then he turns and goes a longer distance towards her home, so that it is late when he reaches his own. Is he late? -He 46 BEING A BOY didn’t know he was late; he came straight home when school was dismissed, only going a little way home with Alice Linton to help her carry her books. In a box in his chamber, which he has lately put a padlock on, among fishhooks and lines and bait- boxes, odd pieces of brass, twine, early sweet apples, pop-corn, beechnuts, and other articles of value, are some little di/ets-doux, fancifully folded, three-cor- nered or otherwise, and written, I will warrant, in red or beautifully blue ink. These little notes are © parting gifts at the close of school, and John, no doubt, gave his own in exchange for them, though the writing was an immense labor, and the folding was a secret bought of another boy for a big piece of sweet flag-root baked in sugar, a delicacy which John used to carry in his pantaloons-pocket until his pocket was in such a state that putting his fin- gers into it was about as good as dipping them into the sugar-bowl at home. Each precious note contained a lock or curl of girl’s hair, —a rare col- lection of all colors, after John had been in school many terms, and had passed through a great many parting scenes, — black, brown, red, tow-color, and _ some that looked like spun gold and felt like silk. The sentiment contained in the notes was that which was common in the school, and expressed a mel- ancholy foreboding of early death, and a touching desire to leave hair enough this side the grave to constitute a sort of strand of remembrance. With little variation, the poetry that made the hair precious was in the words, and, as a Cockney would say, set to the hair, following : FICTION AND SENTIMENT 47 «<' This lock of hair, Which I did wear, Was taken from my head; When this you see, Remember me, Long after I am dead.”’ John liked to read these verses, which always made a new and fresh impression with each lock of hair, and he was not critical; they were for him vehi- cles of true sentiment, and indeed they were what he used when he inclosed a clip of his own sandy hair to a friend. And it did not occur to him, until he was a great deal older and less innocent, to smile at them. John felt that he would sacredly keep every lock of hair intrusted to him, though death should come on the wings of cholera and take away every one of these sad, red-ink correspondents. When John’s big brother one day caught sight of these treasures, and brutally told him that he “ had hair enough to stuff a horse-collar,” John was so outraged and shocked, as he should have been, at this rude invasion of his heart, this coarse sugges- tion, this profanation of his most delicate feeling, that he was kept from crying only by the resolution to “lick” his brother as soon as ever he got big enough. VIll THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING NE of the best things in farming is gather- () ing the chestnuts, hickory-nuts, butternuts, and even beechnuts, in the late fall, after the frosts have cracked the husks and the high winds have shaken them, and the colored leaves have strewn the ground. On a bright October day, when the air is full of golden sunshine, there is nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor // is the pleasure of it altogether destroyed for the boy by the consideration that he is making himself use- ful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. The getting-in of potatoes and corn is a different thing; that is the prose, but nutting is the poetry, of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find it very irksome, though, if he were obliged to work at nut-gathering in order to procure food for the family. He is willing to make himself useful in his own way. The Italian boy, who works day after day at a huge pile of pine-cones, pounding and cracking them and taking out the long seeds, which are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are almost as good as pumpkin-seeds, another favorite with the Italians), probably does not see the fun of nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at pounding off the walnut-shucks and opening the COMING OF THANKSGIVING § 49 prickly chestnut-burs as a task, he would think him- self an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles in his fingers would be! But now he digs them out with his jack-knife, and enjoys the process, on the whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of work if it is called play. In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and industrious than the boy. I like to see a crowd of boys swarm over a chestnut-grove; they leave a desert behind them like the seventeen-year locusts. To climb a tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it of its fruit, and pass to the next, is the sport of a brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper over our grass-plot under the chestnut-trees, each one as active as if he were a new patent picking- machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and disappear over the hill before I could go to the door and speak to them about it. Indeed, I have noticed that boys don’t care much for conversation with the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily make their fortunes if they would work as rapidly in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like it, except a flock of turkeys removing the grasshoppers from a piece of pasture. Perhaps it is not generally known that we get the idea of some of our best military maneuvers from the turkey. The deploying of the skirmish-line in advance of an army is one of them. The drum-major of our holiday militia companies is copied exactly from the turkey gobbler; he has the same splendid appearance, the same proud step, and the same mar- tial aspect. The gobbler does not lead his forces in 4 50 BEING A BOY the field, but goes behind them, like the colonel of a regiment, so that he can see every part of the line and direct its movements. This resemblance is one of the most singular things in natural history. I like to watch the gobbler maneuvering his forces in a grasshopper-field. He throws out his company of two dozen turkeys ina crescent-shaped skirmish-line, the number disposed at equal distances, while he walks majestically in the rear. They advance rapidly, pick- ing right and left, with military precision, killing the foe and disposing of the dead bodies with the same peck. Nobody has yet discovered how many grass- hoppers a turkey will hold; but he is very much like a boy at a Thanksgiving dinner, —he keeps on eat- ing as long as the supplies last. ‘The gobbler, in one of these raids, does not condescend to grab a single grasshopper, — at least, not while anybody is watch- ing him. But I suppose he makes up for it when his dignity cannot be injured by having spectators of his voracity ; perhaps he falls upon the grasshoppers when they are driven into a corner of the field. But he is only fattening himself for destruction ; like all greedy persons, he comes to a bad end. And if the turkeys had any Sunday-school, they would be taught °' this. The New England boy used to look forward to Thanksgiving as the great event of the year. He was apt to get stents set him,—so much corn to husk, for instance, before that day, so that he could have an extra play-spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, he would work at his task with the rapidity of half a dozen boys. He always had the day after Thanks- VN ——— COMING OF THANKSGIVING — 51 giving as a holiday, and this was the day he counted on. Thanksgiving itself was rather an awful festival, , —very much like Sunday, except for the enormous dinner, which filled his imagination for months be- fore as completely as it did his stomach for that day and a week after. There was an impression in the house that that dinner was the most important event / since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, who did not resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but who had prepared for himself in his day some very sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal of the best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed with asafetida, for one thing), never had anything like a Thanksgiving dinner ; for do you suppose that he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four dif- ., ferent kinds of pie at one dinner? Therein many a New England boy is greater than the Roman empe- ror or the Assyrian king, and these were among the most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. But something more is necessary to make good men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no doubt found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the head was a mode the people had of expressing dis- approval of their conspicuous men. Nowadays they elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission to some foreign country, if they do not do well where they are. For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy was kept at work evenings, pounding and paring and cutting up and mixing (not being allowed to taste much), until the world seemed to him to be made of fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, —a 52 BEING A BOY world that he was only yet allowed to enjoy through his nose. How filled the house was with the most — delicious smells! The mince-pies that were made! If John had been shut in solid walls with them piled about him, he could n’t have eaten his way out in four weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in those two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with good living, if they had been scattered along in it. But people were probably all the better for scrimping themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. And it was not by any means over inaday. There were weeks deep of chicken-pie and other pastry. The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, and it took a long time to excavate all its riches. Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilar- ity of it being so subdued by going to meeting, and the universal wearing of the Sunday clothes, that the boy could n’t see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, he ate a great deal. The next day was the real holi- day. Then were the merry-making parties, and per- haps the skatings and sleigh-rides, for the freezing weather came before the governor’s proclamation in many parts of New England. The night after Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the first real party — that the boy had ever attended;'with live girls in it, dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those philandering songs, and played those sweet games of forfeits, which put him quite beside himself, and kept him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the end of his first chicken-nap. What a new world did that party open to him! I think it likely that he saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words COMING OF THANKSGIVING _ 53 to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, who seemed to him like a new order of being. He could see her face just as plainly in the darkness of his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awk- ward he was, and how short his trousers-legs were. He blushed as he thought of his rather ill-fitting shoes; and determined, then and there, that he wouldn’t be put off with a ribbon any longer, but would have a young man’s necktie. It was somewhat painful, thinking the party over, but it was delicious, too. He did not think, probably, that he would die for that tall, handsome girl; he did not put it exactly in that way. But he rather resolved to live for her, — which might in the end amount to the same thing. At least, he thought that nobody would live to speak twice disrespectfully of her in his presence. Ix THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE \ ), Y HAT John said was, that he didn’t care much for pumpkin-pie ; but that was after he had eaten a whole one. It seemed to him then that mince would be better. The feeling of a boy towards pumpkin-pie has never been properly considered. There is an air of festivity about its approach in the fall. The boy is willing to help pare and cut up the pumpkin, and he watches with the greatest interest the stirring-up pro- cess and the pouring into the scalloped crust. When | the sweet savor of the baking reaches his nostrils, he ~ is filled with the most delightful anticipations. Why should he not be? He knows that for months to come the buttery will contain golden treasures, and that it will require only a slight ingenuity to get at them. mi The fact is, that the boy is as good in the buttery as in any part of farming. His elders say that the boy is always hungry ; but that is a very coarse way to put it. He has only recently come into a world that is full of good things to eat, and there is, on the whole, a very short time in which to eat them; at least, he is told, among the first information he receives, that life is short. Life being brief, and pie and the like fleeting, he very soon decides upon an - THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE ‘655 active campaign. It may be an old story to people who have been eating for forty or fifty years, but it is different with a beginner. He takes the thick and thin as it comes, as to pie, for instance. Some people: do make them very thin. I knew a place where they were not thicker than the poor man’s plaster; they were spread so thin upon the crust that they were better fitted to draw out hunger than to satisfy it. They used to be made up by the great oven-full and kept in the dry cellar, where they hardened and dried to a toughness you would hardly believe. This was a long time ago, and they make the pumpkin-pie in the country better now, or the race of boys would have been so discouraged that I think they would have stopped coming into the world. The truth is, that boys have always been so plenty that they are not half appreciated. We have shown that a farm could not get along without them, and yet their rights are seldom recognized. One of the most amusing things is their effort to acquire per- sonal property. The boy has the care of the calves ; they always need feeding, or shutting up, or letting out; when the boy wants to play, there are those calves to be looked after, — until he gets to hate the name of calf. But in consideration of his faithfulness, two of them are given to him. There is no doubt that they are his: he has the entire charge of them. When they get to be steers, he spends all his holidays in breaking them in to a yoke. He gets them so broken in that they will run like a pair of deer all over the farm, turning the yoke, and kicking their heels, while he follows in full chase, shouting the ox language 56 - BEING A BOY till he is red in the face. When the steers grow up to be cattle, a drover one day comes along and takes them away, and the boy is told that he can have another pair of calves; and so, with undiminished» faith, he goes back and begins over again to make his fortune. He owns lambs and young colts in the same way, and makes just as much out of them. There are ways in which the farmer-boy can earn money, as by gathering the early chestnuts and taking them to the corner store, or by finding turkeys’ eggs and selling them to his mother; and another way is to go without butter at the table— but the money~” thus made is for the heathen. John read in Dr. Livingstone that some of the tribes in Central Africa (which is represented by a blank spot in the atlas) use the butter to grease their hair, putting on pounds of it ata time ; and he said he had rather eat his but- ter than have it put to that use, especially as it melted away so fast in that hot climate. Of course it was explained to John that the mis- . sionaries do not actually carry butter to Africa, and that they must usually go without it themselves there, it being almost impossible to make it good from the milk in the cocoanuts. And it was further explained ~ to him that even if the heathen never received his butter or the money for it, it was an excellent thing for a boy to cultivate the habit of self-denial and of benevolence, and if the heathen never heard of him, he would be blessed for his generosity. This was all true. But John said that he was tired of supporting the heathen out of his butter, and he wished the rest of THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE 57 the family would also stop eating butter and save the money for missions; and he wanted to know where the other members of the family got their money to send to the heathen; and his mother said that he was about half right, and that self-denial was just as good for grown people as it was for little boys and girls. The boy is not always slow to take what he con- siders his rights. Speaking of those thin pumpkin-pies kept in the cellar cupboard. I used to know a boy, who afterwards grew to be a selectman, and brushed his hair straight up like General Jackson, and went to the legislature, where he always voted against every measure that was proposed, in the most honest man- ner, and got the reputation of being the “ watch-dog of the treasury.” Rats in the cellar were nothing to be compared to this boy for destructiveness in pies. He used to go down whenever he could make an excuse, to get apples for the family, or draw a mug of cider for his dear old grandfather (who was a famous story-teller about the Revolutionary War, and would no doubt have been wounded in battle if he had not been as prudent as he was patriotic), and come upstairs with a tallow candle in one hand and the apples or cider in the other, looking as innocent and as unconscious as if he had never done anything in his life except deny himself butter for the sake of the heathen. And yet this boy would have buttoned under his jacket an entire round pumpkin-pie. And the pie was so well made and so dry that it was not injured in the least, and it never hurt the boy’s clothes a bit more than if it had been inside of him instead 58 BEING A BOY of outside; and this boy would retire to a secluded place and eat it with another boy, being never sus- pected because he was not in the cellar long enough to eat a pie, and he never appeared to have one about him. But he did something worse than this. When his mother saw that pie after pie departed, she told the family that she suspected the hired man ; and the boy never said a word, which was the meanest kind of lying. That hired man was probably regarded with suspicion by the family to the end of his days, and if he had been accused of robbing, they would have believed him guilty. I should n’t wonder if that selectman occasionally has remorse now about that pie; dreams, perhaps, that it is buttoned up under his jacket and sticking to him like a breastplate ; that it lies upon his stomach like a round and red-hot nightmare, eating into his vitals. Perhaps not. It 1s difficult to say exactly what was the sin of stealing that kind of pie, especially if the one who stole it ate it. It could have been used for the game of pitching quoits, and a pair of them would have made very fair wheels for the dog-cart. And yet it is probably as wrong to steal a thin pie as a thick one; and it made no difference because it °' was easy to steal this sort. Easy stealing is no better than easy lying, where detection of the lie is difficult. The boy who steals his mother’s pies has no right to be surprised when some other boy steals his water- melons. Stealing is like charity in one respect, — it | 1s apt to begin at home. Xx FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD country, —the best kind of boy to be in the summer, —I would be about ten years of age. As soon as I got any older, I would quit it. The trouble with a boy is, that just as he begins to enjoy himself he is too old, and has to be set to doing some- thing else. If a country boy were wise, he would stay at just that age when he could enjoy himself most, and have the least expected of him in the way of work. Of course the perfectly good boy will always pre- fer to work and to do “chores” for his father and errands for his mother and sisters, rather than enjoy |: I were forced to be a boy, and a boy in the himself in his own way. I never saw but one such ™ boy. He lived in the town of Goshen, — not the place where the butter is made, but a much better Goshen than that. And I never saw im, but I heard of him; and being about the same age, as I sup- posed, I was taken once from Zoah, where I lived, to Goshen to see him. But he was dead. He had been dead almost a year, so that it was impossible to see him. He died of the most singular disease : it was from of eating green apples in the season of them. This boy, whose name was Solomon, before he died, would rather split up kindling-wood for 60 BEING A BOY his mother than go a-fishing, — the consequence was, that he was kept at splitting kindling-wood and such work most of the time, and grew a better and more useful boy day by day. Solomon would not disobey his parents and eat green apples, — not even when they were ripe enough to knock off with a stick, — but he had such a longing for them, that he pined, and passed away. If he had eaten the green apples, he would have died of them, probably; so that his example is a difficult one to follow. In fact, a boy is a hard subject to get a moral from. All his little playmates who ate green apples came to Solomon’s funeral, and were very sorry for what they had done. John was a.very different boy from Solomon, not “half so good, nor half so dead. He was a farmer’s boy, as Solomon was, but he did not take so much interest in the farm. If John could have had his way, he would have discovered a cave full of diamonds, and lots of nail-kegs full of gold-pieces and Spanish dollars, with a pretty little girl living in the cave, and two beautifully caparisoned horses, upon which, taking the jewels and money, they would have ridden off together, he did not know where. John had got thus far in his studies, which were apparently arith- » metic and geography, but were in reality the Arabian Nights, and other books of high and mighty adven- ture. He was a simple country-boy, and did not _ know-much about the world as it is, but he had one of his own imagination, in which he lived a good deal. I daresay he found out soon enough what the world is, and he had a lesson or two when he was quite young, in two incidents, which I may as well relate. FIRST EXPERIENCE 61 If you had seen John at this time, you might have thought he was only a shabbily dressed country lad, and you never would have guessed what beautiful thoughts he sometimes had as he went stubbing his toes along the dusty road, nor what a chivalrous little fellow he was. You would have seen a short boy, barefooted, with trousers at once too big and too short, held up perhaps by one suspender only, a checked cotton shirt, and a hat of braided palmleaf, frayed at the edges and bulged up in the crown. It is impossible to keep a hat neat if you use it to catch bumble-bees and whisk ’em ; to bail the water from a leaky boat; to catch minnows in; to put over honey-bees’ nests, and to transport pebbles, straw- berries, and hens’ eggs. John usually carried a sling in his hand, or a bow, or a limber stick, sharp at one end, from which he could sling apples a great dis- tance. If he walked in the road, he walked in the middle of it, shuffling up the dust; or if he went elsewhere, he was likely to be running on the top of the fence or the stone wall, and chasing chip- munks. John knew the best place to dig sweet-flag in all the farm; it was in a meadow by the river, where the bobolinks sang so gayly. He never liked to hear the bobolink sing, however, for he said italways reminded him of the whetting of a scythe, and ¢hat reminded him of spreading hay; and if there was anything he hated, it was spreading hay after the mowers. “ I guess you would n’t like it yourself,” said John, “with the stubbs getting into your feet, and the hot sun, and the men getting ahead of you, all you could do.” *” 62 BEING A BOY Towards evening, once, John was coming along the road home with some stalks of the sweet-flag in his hand; there is a succulent pith in the end of the stalk which is very good to eat, —tender, and not so strong as the root; and John liked to pull it, and carry home what he did not eat on the way. As he was walking along he met a carriage, which stopped opposite to him; he also stopped and bowed, as country boys used to bow in John’s day. A lady leaned from the carriage, and said: “< What have you got, little boy?” She seemed to be the most beautiful woman John had ever seen; with light hair, dark, tender eyes, and the sweetest smile. There was that in her gra- cious mien and in her dress which reminded John of the beautiful castle ladies, with whom he was well acquainted in books. He felt that he knew her at once, and he also seemed to be a sort of young prince himself. I fancy he did n’t look much like one. But of his own appearance he thought not at all, as he replied to the lady’s question, without the least embarrassment : “ It’s sweet-flag stalk ; would you like some?” ‘Indeed, I should like to taste it,”’ said the lady, ., with a most winning smile. “I used to be very fond of it when I was a little girl.” John was delighted that the lady should like sweet- flag, and that she was pleased to accept it from him. He thought himself that it was about the best thing to eat he knew. He handed upa large bunch of it. The \ady took two or three stalks, and was about to return the rest, when John said: FIRST EXPERIENCE 63 “‘ Please keep it all, ma’am. I can get lots more. I know where it’s ever so thick.” “Thank you, thank you,” said the lady ; and as the carriage started, she reached out her hand to John. He did not understand the motion, until he saw a cent drop in the road at his feet. Instantly all his illusion and his pleasure vanished. Something like tears were in his eyes as he shouted : “T don’t want your cent. I don’t sell flag!” John was intensely mortified. “I suppose,” he said, “ she thought I was a sort of beggar-boy. To think of selling flag!” At any rate, he walked away and left the cent in the road, a humiliated boy. The next day he told Jim Gates about it. Jim said he was green not to take the money; he’d go and look for it now, if he would tell him about where it dropped. And Jim did spend an hour poking about in the dirt, but he did not find the cent. Jim, however, had an idea ; he said he was going to dig sweet-flag, and see if another carriage would n’t come along. John’s next rebuff and knowledge of the world was of another sort. He was again walking the road at twilight, when he was overtaken by a wagon with one seat, upon which were two pretty girls, and a young gentleman sat between them, driving. It was a merry party, and John could hear them laughing and singing as they approached him. The wagon stopped when it overtook him, and one of the sweet- faced girls leaned from the seat and said, quite seri- ously and pleasantly : * Little boy, how’s your mar?” 64 BEING # or John was surprised and puzzled for a moment. He had never seen the young lady, but he thought that she perhaps knew his mother; at any rate, his instinct of politeness made him say : “She ’s pretty well, I thank you.” *“ Does she know you are out?” And thereupon all three in the wagon burst into a roar of laughter, and dashed on. It flashed upon John in a moment that he had been imposed on, and it hurt him dreadfully. His self-respect was injured somehow, and he felt as if his lovely, gentle mother had been insulted. He would like to have thrown a stone at the wagon, and in a rage he cried: “You ‘re a nice’ — but he could n’t think of any hard, bitter words quick enough. Probably the young lady, who might have been almost any young lady, never knew what a cruel thing she had done. XI HOME INVENTIONS 4b winter season is not all sliding down- hill for the farmer-boy, by any means; yet he contrives to get as much fun out of it as from any part of the year. There is a difference in boys: some are always jolly, and some go scowling always through life as if they had a stone-bruise on each heel. I likea jolly boy. I used to know one who came round every morn- ing to sell molasses candy, offering two sticks for a cent apiece; it was worth fifty cents a day to see his cheery face. That boy rose in the world. Heis now the owner of a large town at the West. To be sure, there are no houses in it except his own; but there is a map of it, and roads and streets are laid out on it, with dwellings and churches and academies and a college and an opera-house, and you could scarcely tell it from Springfield or Hartford,— on paper. He and all his family have the fever and ague, and shake worse than the people at Lebanon ; but they do not mind it; it makes them lively, in fact. Ed May is just as jolly as he used to be. He calls his town Mayopolis, and expects to be mayor of it; his wife, however, calls the town Maybe. The farmer-boy likes to have winter come for __ one thing, because it freezes up the ground so that 5 66 BEING A BOY he can’t dig in it; and it is covered with snow so that there is no picking up stones, nor driving the cows to pasture. He would have a very easy time if it were not for the getting up before daylight to build the fires and do the “ chores.”” Nature intended the long winter nights for the farmer-boy to sleep ; but in my day he was expected to open his sleepy eyes when the cock crew, get out of the warm bed and light a candle, struggle into his cold pantaloons, and pull on boots in which the thermometer would have gone down to zero, rake open the coals on the hearth and start the morning fire, and then go to the barn to “fodder.” The frost was thick on the kitchen windows, the snow was drifted against the door, and the journey to the barn, in the pale light of dawn, over the creaking snow, was like an exile’s trip to Siberia. The boy was not half awake when he stumbled into the cold barn, and was greeted by the lowing and bleating and neighing of cattle wait- ing for their breakfast. How their breath steamed up from the mangers, and hung in frosty spears from their noses. Through the great lofts above the hay, where the swallows nested, the winter wind whistled, and the snow sifted. "Those old barns were well °: ventilated. . I used to spend much valuable time in planning a barn that should be tight and warm, with a fire in it, if necessary, in order to keep the temperature some- where near the freezing-point. I could n’t see how the cattle could live in a place where a lively boy, full of young blood, would freeze to death in a short time if he did not swing his arms and slap his hands, — ‘4, HOME INVENTIONS 67 and jump about like a goat. I thought I would have a sort of perpetual manger that should shake down the hay when it was wanted, and a self-acting machine that should cut up the turnips and pass them into the mangers, and water always flowing for the cattle and horses to drink. With these simple arrangements I could lie in bed, and know that the “chores” were doing themselves. It would also be necessary, in order that I should not be disturbed, that the crow should be taken out of the roosters, but I could think of no process to do it. It seems to me that the hen-breeders, if they know as much as they _ say they do, might raise a breed of crowless roosters, © for the benefit of boys, quiet neighborhoods, and sleepy families. There was another notion that I had about kin- dling the kitchen fire, that I never carried out. It was to have aspring at the head of my bed, connect- ing with a wire, which should run to a torpedo which I would plant over night in the ashes of the _ fireplace. By touching the spring I could explode the torpedo, which would scatter the ashes and cover the live coals, and at the same time shake down the sticks of wood which were standing by the side of the ashes in the chimney, and the fire would kindle itself. This ingenious plan was frowned on by the whole family, who said they did not want to be waked up every morning by an explosion. And yet they expected me to wake up without an explosion! A boy’s plans for making life agreeable are hardly ever heeded. } I never knew a boy farmer who was not eager to 68 BEING A BOY go to the district school in the winter. There is such a chance for learning, that he must bea dull boy who does not come out in the spring a fair skater, an accurate snowballer, and an accomplished slider- down-hill, with or without a board, on his seat, on his stomach, or on his feet. Take a moderate hill, with a foot-slide down it worn to icy smoothness, and a “go-round” of boys on it, and there is nothing like it for whittling away boot-leather. The boy is the shoemaker’s friend. An active lad can wear down a pair of cowhide soles in a week so that the ice will scrape his toes. Sledding or coasting is also slow fun compared to the “‘ bareback” sliding down a steep hill over a hard, glistening crust. It is not only dangerous, but it is destructive to jacket and pantaloons to a degree to make a tailor laugh. If any other animal wore out his skin as fast as a school- boy wears out his clothes in winter, it would need a new one oncea month. In a country district-school patches were not by any means a sign of poverty, but of the boy’s courage and adventurous disposi- tion. Our elders used to threaten to dress us in leather and put sheet-iron seats in our trousers. The Yj boy said that he wore out his trousers on the hard ° seats in the schoolhouse ciphering hard sums. For that extraordinary statement he received two castiga- tions, — one at home, that was mild, and one from the schoolmaster, who was careful to lay the rod upon the boy’s sliding-place, punishing him, as he jocosely called it, on a sliding scale, according to the thinness of his pantaloons. What I liked best at school, however, was the HOME INVENTIONS 69 study of history, —early history, —the Indian wars. |!‘ We studied it mostly at noontime, and we had it illustrated as the children nowadays have “ object- lessons,”— though our object was not so much to have lessons as it was to revive real history. Back of the schoolhouse rose a round hill, upon which, tradition said, had stood in colonial times a block-house, built by the settlers for defense against the Indians. For the Indians had the idea that the whites were not settled enough, and used to come nights to settle them with a tomahawk. It was called Fort Hill. It was very steep on each side, and the river ran close by. It was a charming place in sum- mer, where one could find laurel, and checkerber- ries, and sassafras roots, and sit in the cool breeze, looking at the mountains across the river, and listen- ing to the murmur of the Deerfield. The Metho- dists built a meeting-house there afterwards, but the hill was so slippery in winter that the aged could not climb it, and the wind raged so fiercely that it blew nearly all the young Methodists away (many of whom were afterwards heard of in the West), and finally the meeting-house itself came down into the valley, and grew a steeple, and enjoyed itself ever afterwards. It used to be a notion in New England that a meeting-house ought to stand as near heaven as possible. The boys at our school divided themselves into two parties: one was the Early Settlers and the other the Pequots, the latter the most numerous. The Early Settlers built a snow fort on the hill, and a strong fortress it was, constructed of snowballs, rolled 70 BEING A BOY up to a vast size (larger than the cyclopean blocks of stone which form the ancient Etruscan walls in Italy), piled one upon another, and the whole ce- mented by pouring on water which froze and made the walls solid. Tuhe Pequots helped the whites build it. It had a covered way under the snow, through which only could it be entered, and it had bastions and towers and openings to fire from, and a great many other things for which there are no names in military books. And it had a glacis and a ditch out- side. When it was completed, the Early Settlers, leav- ing the women in the schoolhouse, a prey to the Indians, used to retire into it, and await the attack of the Pequots. There was only a handful of the garrison, while the Indians were many, and also bar- barous. It was agreed that they should be barbarous. . And it was in this light that the great question was settled whether a boy might snowball with balls that he had soaked over night in water and let freeze. They were as hard as cobble-stones, and if a boy should be hit in the head by one of them, he could not tell whether he was a Pequot or an Early Settler. It was considered as unfair to use these ice-balls in open fight, as it is to use poisoned ammunition in real war. But as the whites were protected by the fort, and the Indians were treacherous by nature, it was decided that the latter might use the hard mis- siles. The Pequots used to come swarming up the hill, with hideous war-whoops, attacking the fort on all sides with great noise and a shower of balls. The A yee ee a - , af HOME INVENTIONS 71 garrison replied with yells of defiance and well- directed shots, hurling back the invaders when they attempted to scale the walls. The Settlers had the advantage of position, but they were sometimes over- powered by numbers, and would often have had to surrender but for the ringing of the school-bell. The Pequots were in great fear of the school-bell. I do not remember that the whites ever hauled down their flag and surrendered voluntarily ; but once or twice the fort was carried by storm and the garrison were massacred to a boy, and thrown out of the fortress, having been first scalped. To takea boy’s cap was to scalp him, and after that he was dead, if he played fair. There were a great many hard hits given and taken, but always cheerfully, for it was in the cause of our early history. The history of Greece and Rome was stuff compared to this. And we had many boys in our school who could imitate the Indian war-whoop enough better than they could scan arma, virumque cano. XII THE LONELY FARMHOUSE P | “AHE winter evenings of the farmer-boy in. New England used not to be so gay as to tire him of the pleasures of life before he became of age. A remote farmhouse, standing a little off the road, banked up with sawdust and earth to keep the frost out of the cellar, blockaded with snow, and flying a blue flag of smoke from its chim- ney, looks like a besieged fort. On cold and stormy winter nights, to the traveler wearily dragging along in his creaking sleigh, the light from its windows suggests a house of refuge and the cheer of a blazing fire. But it is no less a fort, into which the family retire when the New England winter on the hills really sets in. The boy is an important part of the garrison. He is not only one of the best means of communicating with the outer world, but he furnishes half the enter- + tainment and takes two thirds of the scolding of the family circle. A farm would come to grief without a boy on it, but it is impossible to think of a farm- house without a boy in it. 3 “That boy” brings life into the house ; his tracks are to be seen everywhere; he leaves all the doors open; he has n’t half filled the wood-box; he makes noise enough to wake the dead; or he is in a brown- THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 73 study by the fire and cannot be stirred, or he has fastened a grip into some Crusoe book which cannot easily be shaken off. I suppose that the farmer- boy’s evenings are not now what they used to be; that he has more books, and less to do, and is not half so good a boy as formerly, when he used to think the almanac was pretty lively reading, and the comic almanac, if he could get hold of that, was a supreme delight. Of course he had the evenings to himself, after he had done the “ chores” at the barn, brought in the wood and piled it high in the box, ready to be heaped upon the great open fire. It was nearly dark when he came from school (with its continuation of snow- balling and sliding), and he always had an agreeable time stumbling and fumbling around in barn and wood-house, in the waning light. John used to say that he supposed nobody would do his “ chores” if he did not get home till mid- night; and he was never contradicted. Whatever happened to him, and whatever length of days or sort of weather was produced by the almanac, the cardinal rule was that he should be at home before dark. John used to imagine what people did in the dark ages, and wonder sometimes whether he was n’t stil] in them. Of course, John had nothing to do all the evening, after his “‘ chores,’ — except little things. While he drew his chair up to the table in order to get the full radiance of the tallow candle on his slate or his book, the women of the house also sat by the table 74 BEING A BOY knitting and sewing. The head of the house sat in his chair, tipped back against the chimney ; the hired — man was in danger of burning his boots in the fire. John might be deep in the excitement of a bearstory, or be hard at writing a “‘ composition ” on his greasy slate; but whatever he was doing, he was the only one who could always be interrupted. It was he who must snuff the candles, and put on a stick of wood, and toast the cheese, and turn the apples, and crack the nuts. He knew where the fox-and-geese board was, and he could find the twelve-men-Morris. Con- sidering that he was expected to go to bed at eight o’clock, one would say that the opportunity for study was not great, and that his reading was rather inter- rupted. There seemed to be always something for him to do, even when all the rest of the family came as near being idle as is ever possible in a New Eng- land household. No wonder that John was not sleepy at eight o’clock ; he had been flying about while the others had been yawning before the fire. He would like to sit up just to see how much more solemn and stupid it would become as the night went on; he wanted to tinker his skates, to mend his sled, to finish that chapter. Why should he go away from that bright blaze, and the company that sat in its radiance, to the cold and solitude of his chamber? Why did n’t the people who were sleepy go to bed? How lonesome the old house was; how cold it was, away from that great central firein the heart of it; how its timbers creaked as if in the contracting pinch of the frost; what a rattling there was of win- THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 75 dows, what a concerted attack upon the clapboards ; how the floors squeaked, and what gusts from round corners came to snatch the feeble flame of the candle from the boy’s hand. How he shivered, as he paused at the staircase window to look out upon the great fields of snow, upon the stripped forest, through which he could hear the wind raving in a kind of fury, and up at the black flying clouds, amid which the young moon was dashing and driven on like a frail shallop at sea. And his teeth chattered more than ever when he got into the icy sheets, and drew him- self up into a ball in his flannel nightgown, like a fox in his hole. For a little time he could hear the noises down- stairs, and an occasional laugh; he could guess that now they were having cider, and now apples were going round ; and he could feel the wind tugging at the house, even sometimes shaking the bed. But this did not last long. He soon went away into a country he always delighted to be in: a calm place where the wind never blew, and no one dictated the time of going to bed toany oneelse. I like to think of him sleeping there, in such rude surroundings, ingenious, innocent, mischievous, with no thought of the buffeting he is to get from a world that has a good many worse places for a boy than the hearth of an old farmhouse, and the sweet, though undemon- strative, affection of its family life. But there were other evenings in the boy’s life, that were different from these at home, and one of them he will never forget. It opened a new world to John, and set him into a great flutter. It produced 76 BEING A BOY a revolution in his mind in regard to neckties; it made him wonder if greased boots were quite the thing compared with blacked boots ; and he wished he had a long looking-glass, so that he could see, as he walked away from it, what was the effect of round patches on the portion of his trousers he could not see, except in a mirror; and if patches were quite stylish, even on everyday trousers. And he began to be very much troubled about the parting of his hair, and how to find out on which side was the natural part. The evening to which I refer was that of John’s first party. He knew the girls at school, and he was interested in some of them with a different interest from that he took in the boys. He never wanted to “take it out”? with one of them, for an insult, in a stand-up fight, and he instinctively softened a boy’s natural rudeness when he was with them. He would help a timid little girl to stand erect and slide; he would draw her on his sled, till his hands were stiff with cold, without a murmur; he would generously give her red apples into which he longed to set his own sharp teeth; and he would cut in two his lead- pencil for a girl, when he would not for a boy. Had he not some of the beautiful auburn tresses of Cynthia Rudd in his skate, spruce-gum, and winter- green box at home? And yet the grand sentiment of life was little awakened in John. He liked best to be with boys, and their rough play suited him better than the amusements of the shrinking, flutter- ing, timid, and sensitive little girls. John had not learned then that a spider-web is stronger than a THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 77 cable; or that a pretty little girl could turn him round her finger a great deal easier than a big bully of a boy could make him cry “ enough.” John had indeed been at spelling-schools, and had accomplished the feat of “going home with a girl” afterwards ; and he had been growing into the habit of looking around in meeting on Sunday, and no- ticing how Cynthia was dressed, and not enjoying the service quite as much if Cynthia was absent as when she was present. But there was very little sentiment in all this, and nothing whatever to make John blush at hearing her name. But now John was invited toa regular party. There was the invitation, in a three-cornered billet, sealed with a transparent wafer: ‘“‘ Miss C. Rudd requests the pleasure of the company of,” etc., all in blue ink, and the finest kind of pin-scratching writing. What a precious document it was to John! It even exhaled a faint sort of perfume, whether of lavender or cara- way-seed he could not tell. He read it over a hun- dred times, and showed it confidentially to his favorite cousin, who had beaux of her own and had even “ sat up” with them in the parlor. And from this sympa- thetic cousin John got advice as to what he should wear and how he should conduct himself at the party. XIII JOHN’S FIRST PARTY Cynthia Rudd’s party, having broken through the ice on the river when he was skating that day, and, as the boy who pulled him out said, “come within an inch of his life.” But he took care not to tumble into anything that should keep him from the next party, which was given with due formality by Melinda Mayhew. John had been many a time to the house of Deacon Mayhew, and never with any hesitation, even if he knew that both the deacon’s daughters — Melinda and Sophronia—were at home. The only fear he had felt was of the deacon’s big dog, who always surlily watched him as he came up the tan-bark walk, and made a rush at him if he showed the least sign of wavering. But upon the night of the party his courage vanished, and he thought he would rather face all the dogs in town than knock at the front door. The parlor was lighted up, and as John stood on the broad flagging before the front door, by the lilac- bush, he could hear the sound of voices— girls’ voices — which set his heart in a flutter. He could face the whole district school of girls without flinch- ing, — he did n’t mind ’em in the meeting-house in their Sunday best ; but he began to be conscious that [< turned out that John did not go after all to ein - "gs yy” Fo A SE f JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 79 now he was passing to a new sphere, where the girls are supreme and superior, and he began to feel for the first time that he was an awkward boy. The girl takes to society as naturally as a duckling does to the placid pond, but with a semblance of shy timidity ; the boy plunges in with a great splash, and hides his shy awkwardness in noise and commotion. When John entered, the company had nearly all come. He knew them every one, and yet there was something about them strange and unfamiliar. They were all a little afraid of each other, as people are apt to be when they are well dressed and met together for social purposes in the country. To be at a real party was a novel thing for most of them, and puta constraint upon them which they could not at once overcome. Perhaps it was because they were in the awful parlor, — that carpeted room of haircloth furni- ture, which was so seldom opened. Upon the wall hung two certificates framed in black,— one certi- fying that, by the payment of fifty dollars, Deacon Mayhew was a life member of the American Tract Society, and the other that, by a like outlay of bread cast upon the waters, his wife was a life member of the A. B. C. F. M., a portion of the alphabet which has an awful significance to all New England child- hood. These certificates are a sort of receipt in full for charity, and are a constant and consoling reminder to the farmer that he has discharged his religious ° duties. There was a fire on the broad hearth, and that, with the tallow candles on the mantelpiece, made quite an illumination in the room, and enabled the 80 BEING A BOY boys, who were mostly on one side of the room, to see the girls, who were on the other, quite plainly. How sweet and demure the girls looked, to be sure! Every boy was thinking if his hair was slick, and feel- ing the full embarrassment of his entrance into fash- ionable life. It was queer that these children, who were so free everywhere else, should be so constrained now, and not know what to do with themselves. The shooting of a spark out upon the carpet was a great relief, and was accompanied by a deal of scrambling to throw it back into the fire, and caused much gig- gling. It was only gradually that the formality was at all broken, and the young people got together and found their tongues. John at length found himself with Cynthia Rudd, to his great delight and considerable embarrassment, for Cynthia, who was older than John, never looked so pretty. To his surprise he had nothing to say to her. They had always found plenty to talk about before, but now nothing that he could think of seemed worth saying at a party. ‘It is a pleasant evening,”’ said John. “It is quite so,” replied Cynthia. “Did you come in a cutter?” asked John anx- » iously. ““No; I walked on the crust, and it was perfectly lovely walking,” said Cynthia, in a burst of confi- dence. “‘ Was it slippery?” continued John. Note errs John hoped it would be slippery — very — when he walked home with Cynthia, as he determined to JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 81 do, but he did not dare to say so, and the conversa- tion ran aground again. John thought about his dog and his sled and his yoke of steers, but he didn’t see any way to bring them into conversation. Had she read the “Swiss Family Robinson”? Only a little ways. John said it was splendid, and he would lend it to her, for which she thanked him, and said, \ with such a sweet expression, she should be so glad to have it from him. That was encouraging. And then John asked Cynthia if she had seen Sally Hawkes since the husking at their house, when Sally found so many red ears; and didn’t she think she was a real pretty girl. “ Yes, she was right pretty ;”’ and Cynthia guessed that Sally knew it pretty well. But did John like the color of her eyes? No; John did n’t like the color of her eyes exactly. “‘ Her mouth would be well enough if she did n’t laugh so much and show her teeth.” John said her mouth was her worst feature. “Oh, no,” said Cynthia warmly; “her mouth is better than her nose.” John did n’t know but it was better than her nose, and he should like her looks better if her hair was n’t so dreadful black. But Cynthia, who could afford to be generous now, said she liked black hair, and she wished hers was dark. Whereupon John protested that he liked light hair — auburn hair — of all things. And Cynthia said that Sally was a dear, good girl,. and she did n’t believe one word of the story that she only really found one red ear at the husking that 6 ’ 82 BEING A BOY night, and hid that and kept pulling it out as if it were a new one. And so the conversation, once started, went on as briskly as possible about the paring-bee, and the spelling-school, and the new singing-master who was coming, and how Jack Thompson had gone to North- ampton to be a clerk in a store, and how Elvira Red- dington, in the geography class at school, was asked what was the capital of Massachusetts, and had an- swered “ Northampton,” and all the school laughed. John enjoyed the conversation amazingly, and he half wished that he and Cynthia were the whole of the party. But the party had meantime got into operation, and the formality was broken up when the boys and girls had ventured out of the parlor into the more comfortable living-room, with its easy-chairs and everyday things, and even gone so far as to pene- trate the kitchen in their frolic. As soon as they forgot they were a party, they began to enjoy them- selves. But the real pleasure only began with the games. The party was nothing without the games, and, in- deed, it was made for the games. Very likely it was ” one of the timid girls who proposed to play some- thing, and when the ice was once broken, the whole company went into the business enthusiastically. There was no dancing. We should hope not. Not in the deacon’s house; not with the deacon’s daugh-* ters, nor anywhere in this good Puritanic society.‘+ Dancing was a sin in itself, and no one could tell what it would lead to. But there was no reason JOHN’S FIRST PARTY $3 why the boys and girls shouldn’t come together and kiss each other during a whole evening occa-~ sionally. Kissing was a sign of peace, and was not at all like taking hold of hands and skipping about to the scraping of a wicked fiddle. In the games there was a great deal of clasping hands, of going round in a circle, of passing under each other’s elevated arms, of singing about my true love, and the end was kisses distributed with more or less partiality, according to the rules of the play ; but, thank Heaven, there was no fiddler. John liked it all, and was quite brave about paying all the forfeits imposed on him, even to the kissing all the girls in the room; but he thought he could have amended that by kissing a few of them a good many times instead of kissing them all once. But John was destined to have a damper put upon his enjoyment. They were playing a most fascinating game, in which they all stand in a circle and sing a philandering song, except one who is in the center of the ring, and holds a cushion. Ata certain word in the song, the one in the center throws the cushion at the feet of some one in the ring, indicating thereby the choice of a mate, and then the two sweetly kneel upon the cushion, like two meek angels, and — and so forth. Then the chosen one takes the cushion and the delightful play goes on. It is very easy, as it will be seen, to learn how to play it. Cynthia was holding the cushion, and at the fatal word she threw it down, not before John, but in front of Ephraim Leggett. And they two kneeled, and so forth. John was astounded. He 84 BEING A BOY had never conceived of such perfidy in the female heart. He felt like wiping Ephraim off the face of the earth, only Ephraim was older and bigger than he. When it came his turn at length, —thanks to a plain little girl for whose admiration he didn’t care a straw, — he threw the cushion down before Me- linda Mayhew with all the devotion he could muster, and a dagger look at Cynthia. And Cynthia’s per- fidious smile only enraged him the more. John felt wronged, and worked himself up to pass a wretched evening. When supper came, he never went near Cynthia, and busied himself in carrying different kinds of pie and cake, and red apples and cider, to the girls he liked the least. He shunned Cynthia, and when he was accidentally near her, and she asked him if he would get her a glass of cider, he rudely told her — like a goose as he was—that she had better ask Ephraim. That seemed to him very smart; but he got more and more miserable, and began to feel that he was making himself ridiculous. Girls have a great deal more good sense in such matters than boys. Cynthia went to John, at length, and asked him simply what the matter was. John © blushed, and said that nothing was the matter. Cyn- thia said that it would n’t do for two people always to be together at a party; and so they made up, and John obtained permission to “see’’ Cynthia home. It was after half-past nine when the great festiv- ities at the Deacon’s broke up, and John walked home with Cynthia over the shining crust and under the stars. It was mostly a silent walk, for this was JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 85 also an occasion when it is difficult to find anything fit to say. And John was thinking all the way how he should bid Cynthia good-night; whether it would do and whether it wouldn’t do, this not being a game, and no forfeits attaching to it. When they reached the gate, there was an awkward little pause. John said the stars were uncommonly bright. Cyn- thia did not deny it, but waited a minute and then turned abruptly away, with “ Good-night, John!” “ Good-night, Cynthia!” And the party was over, and Cynthia was gone, and John went home in a kind of dissatisfaction with himself. It was long before he could go to sleep for think- ing of the new world opened to him, and imagining how he would act under a hundred different circum- stances, and what he would say, and what Cynthia would say; but a dream at length came, and led him away to a great city and a brilliant house; and while he was there, he heard a loud rapping on the under floor, and saw that it was daylight. XIV THE SUGAR CAMP enjoys more than the making of maple sugar ; it is better than “ blackberrying,” and nearly as good as fishing. And one reason he likes this work is, that somebody else does the most of it. It is a sort of work in which he can appear to be vefy active, and yet not do much. And it exactly suits the temperament of a real boy to be very busy about nothing. If the power, for instance, that 1s expended in play by a boy between the ages of eight and fourteen could be applied to some industry, we should see wonderful results. But a boy is like a galvanic battery that is not in connec- tion with anything; he generates electricity and plays it off into the air with the most reckless prodigality. And I, for one, would n’t have it otherwise. It is as | THINK there is no part of farming the boy SS much a boy’s business to play off his energies into + space as it is for a flower to blow, or a catbird to sing snatches of the tunes of all the other birds. In my day maple-sugar-making used to be some- thing between picnicking and being shipwrecked on a fertile island, where one should save from the wreck tubs and augers, and great kettles and pork, and hen’s eggs and rye-and-indian bread, and begin at once to lead the sweetest life in the world. I am THE SUGAR CAMP 87 told that it is something different nowadays, and that there is more desire to save the sap, and make good, pure sugar, and sell it for a large price, than there used to be, and that the old fun and picturesqueness of the business are pretty much gone. I am told that it is the custom to carefully collect the sap and bring it to the house, where there are built brick arches, over which it is evaporated in shallow pans, and that pains is taken to keep the leaves, sticks, and ashes and coals out of it, and that the sugar is clarified ; and that, in short, it 1s a money-making business, in which there is very little fun, and that the boy is not allowed to dip his paddle into the kettle of boiling sugar and lick off the delicious . sirup. The prohibition may improve the sugar, but it is cruel to the boy. As I remember the New England boy (and Iam ,. very intimate with one), he used to be on the gui vive in the spring for the sap to begin running. I think he discovered it as soon as anybody. Perhaps he knew it by a feeling of something starting in his own veins, —a sort of spring stir in his legs and arms, which tempted him to stand on his head, or throw a handspring, if he could find a spot of grousd from which the snow had melted. The sap stirs early in the legs of a country-boy, and shows itself in uneasiness in the toes, which get tired of boots, and want to come out and touch the soil just as soon as the sun has warmed ita little. The country-boy goes barefoot just as naturally as the trees burst their buds, which were packed and varnished over in the , fall to keep the water and the frost out. Perhaps “en sh mae SG. aes * tel ae B3 ay BEING A BOY the boy has been out digging into the maple-trees with his jack-knife ; at any rate, he is pretty sure to announce the discovery as he comes running into the house in a great state of excitement — as if he had heard a hen cackle in the barn — with “Sap’s runnin’ !” And then, indeed, the stir and excitement begin. The sap-buckets, which have been stored in the garret over the wood-house, and which the boy has. occasionally climbed up to look at with another boy, for they are full of sweet suggestions of the annual spring frolic, —the sap-buckets are brought down and set out on the south side of the house and scalded. The snow is still a foot or two deep in the woods, and the ox-sled is got out to make a road to the sugar camp, and the campaign begins. The boy is everywhere present, superintending everything, asking questions, and filled with a desire to help the excitement. It is a great he when the cart is loaded with the buckets and the procession starts into the woods. The sun shines almost unobstructedly into the forest, for there are only naked branches to bar it; the snow is soft and beginning to sink down, leaving the young bushes spindling up everywhere; the snowbirds are twittering about, and the noise of shouting and of the blows of the axe echoes far and wide. This is spring, and the boy can scarcely contain his delight that his out-door life is about to begin again. In the first place, the men go about and tap the trees, drive in the spouts, and hang the buckets under. The boy watches all these operations with THE SUGAR CAMP 89 the greatest interest. He wishes that some time, when a hole is bored in a tree, the sap would spout out in a stream as it does when a cider-barrel is tapped ; but it never does, it only drops, sometimes almost in a stream, but on the whole slowly, and the boy learns that the sweet things of the world have to be patiently waited for, and do not usually come other- wise than drop by drop. Then the camp is to be cleared of snow. The shanty is re-covered with boughs. In front of it two enormous logs are rolled nearly together, and a fire is built between them. Forked sticks are set at each end, and a long pole is laid on them, and on this are hung the great caldron kettles. The huge hogsheads are turned right side up, and cleaned out to receive the sap that is gathered. And now, if there is a good “sap run,” the establishment is under full headway. The great fire that is kindled up is never let out, night or day, as long as the season lasts. Somebody is always cutting wood to feed it ; somebody is busy most of the time gathering in the sap; somebody is required to watch the kettles that they do not boil over, and to fill them. It is not the boy, however; he is too busy with things in general to be of any use in details. He has his own little sap-yoke and small pails, with which he gathers the sweet liquid. He has a little boiling-place of his own, with small » logs and a tiny kettle. In the great kettles the boil- ing goes on slowly, and the liquid, as it thickens, is dipped from one to another, until in the end kettle it is reduced to sirup, and is taken out to cool and settle, until enough is made to “ sugar off.” To 90 BEING A BOY “sugar off” is to boil the sirup until it is thick enough to crystallize into sugar. This is the grand event, and is done only once in two or three days. But the boy’s desire is to “sugar off’’ perpetu- ally. He boils his kettle down as rapidly as possible ; he is not particular about chips, scum, or ashes ; he is apt to burn his sugar; but if he can get enough to make a little wax on the snow, or to scrape from the bottom of the kettle with his wooden paddle, he is happy. A good deal is wasted on his hands, and the outside of his face, and on his clothes, but he does ~~ not care; he is not stingy. To watch the operations of the big fire gives him constant pleasure. Sometimes he is left to watch the boiling kettles, with a piece of pork tied on the end of a stick, which he dips into the boiling mass when it threatens to go over. He is constantly tasting of it, however, to see if it is not almost sirup. He has a long round stick, whittled smooth at one end, which he uses for this purpose, at the constant risk of burning his tongue. The smoke blows in his face ; he is grimy with ashes; he is altogether such a mass of dirt, stickiness, and sweetness, that his own mother would n’t know him. “t He likes to boil eggs in the hot sap with the hired man; he likes to roast potatoes in the ashes, and he would live in the camp day and night if he were v permitted. Some of the hired men sleep in the bough shanty and keep the fire blazing all night. To sleep there with them, and awake in the night and hear the , wind in the trees, and see the sparks fly up to the sky, is a perfect realization of all the stories of adventures THE SUGAR CAMP gt he has ever read. He tells the other boys afterwards that he heard something in the night that sounded very much like a bear. The hired man says that he was very much scared by the hooting of an owl. The great occasions for the boy, though, are the times of “ sugaring-off.” Sometimes this used to be done in the evening, and it was made the excuse for a frolic in the camp. The neighbors were invited ; sometimes even the pretty girls from the village, who filled all the woods with their sweet voices and merry laughter and little affectations of fright. The white snow still lies on all the ground except the warm spot about the camp. The tree branches all show dis- tinctly in the light of the fire, which sends its ruddy glare far into the darkness, and lights up the bough shanty, the hogsheads, the buckets on the trees, and the group about the boiling kettles, until the scene is like something taken out of a fairy play. If Rem- brandt could have seen a sugar party in a New Eng- land wood, he would have made out of its strong contrasts of light and shade one of the finest pic- tures in the world. But Rembrandt was not born in Massachusetts ; people hardly ever do know where © to be born until it is too late. Being born in the right place is a thing that has been very much neglected. At these sugar parties every one was expected to eat as much sugar as possible; and those who are practiced in it can eat a great deal. It is a peculiarity about eating warm maple sugar, that though you may eat so much of it one day as to be sick and loathe the thought of it, you will want it the next day more than ever. At the “sugaring-off” they used to pour the OP way BEING A BOY hot sugar upon the snow, where it congealed, with- out crystallizing, into a sort of wax, which I do sup- pose is the most delicious substance that was ever invented. And it takes a great while to eat it. If one should close his teeth firmly on a ball of it, he would be unable to open his mouth until it dissolved. The sensation while it is melting is very pleasant, but one cannot converse. The boy used to make a big lump of it and give it to the dog, who seized it with great avidity, and closed his jaws on it, as dogs will on anything. It was funny the next moment to see the expression of perfect surprise on the dog’s face when he found that he could not open his jaws. He shook his head ; he sat down in despair; he ran round in a circle; he dashed into the woods and back again. He did everything except climb a tree, and howl. It would have been sucha relief to him if he could have howled. But that was the one thing he could not do. et a, ee ee XV THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND not turn out a poet, or a missionary, or.a peddler. ~ Most of them used to. There is everything in the heart of the New England hills to feed the ima- gination of the boy, and excite his longing for strange countries. I scarcely know what the subtle influence is that forms him and attracts him in the most fas- cinating and aromatic of all lands, and yet urges him away from all the sweet delights of his home to become a roamer in literature and in the world, — a poet and a wanderer. There is something in the soil and the pure air, I suspect, that promises more romance than is forthcoming, that excites the imagi- nation without satisfying it, and begets the desire of adventure. And the prosaic life of the sweet home does not at all correspond to the boy’s dreams of the world. Inthe good old days, I am told, the boys on the coast ran away and became sailors; the country- boys waited till they grew big enough to be mission- aries, and then they sailed away, and met the coast boys in foreign ports. John used to spend hours in the top of a slender hickory-tree that a little detached itself from the forest which crowned the brow of the steep and lofty pasture behind his house. He was sent to make war on the |: is a wonder that every New England boy does | 94 BEING A BOY bushes that constantly encroached upon the pasture- land; but John had no hostility to any growing thing, and a very little bushwhacking satisfied him. When he had grubbed up a few laurels and young tree-sprouts, he was wont to retire into his favor- ite post of observation and meditation. Perhaps he fancied that the wide-swaying stem to which he clung was the mast of a ship; that the tossing forest behind him was the heaving waves of the sea; and that the wind which moaned over the woods and murmured in the leaves, and now and then sent him a wide circuit in the air, as if he had been a blackbird on the tip-top of a spruce, was an ocean gale. What life, and action, and heroism there was to him in the multitudinous roar of the forest, and what an eternity of existence in the monologue of the river, which brawled far, far below him over its wide stony bed! How the river sparkled and danced and went on, now in a smooth amber current, now fretted by the pebbles, but always with that continuous busy song! John never knew that noise to cease, and he doubted not, if he stayed here a thousand years, that same loud murmur would fill the air. On it went, under the wide spans of the old — wooden, covered bridge, swirling around the great rocks on which the piers stood, spreading away be- low in shallows, and taking the shadows of a row of maples that lined the green shore. Save this roar, no sound reached him, except now and then the rumble of a wagon on the bridge, or the muffled far-off voices of some chance passers on the road. Seen from this high perch, the familiar village, sending its HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 95 brown roofs and white spires up through the green foliage, had a strange aspect, and was like some town in a book, say a village nestled in the Swiss moun- tains, or something in Bohemia. And there, beyond the purple hills of Bozrah, and not so far as the stony pastures of Zoah, whither John had helped drive the colts and young stock in the spring, might be, per- haps, Jerusalem itself. John had himself once been to the land of Canaan with his grandfather, when he was a very small boy; and he had once seen an actual, no-mistake Jew, a mysterious person, with uncut beard and long hair, who sold scythe-snaths in that region, and about whom there was a rumor that he was once caught and shaved by the indignant farmers, who apprehended in his long locks a con- tempt of the Christian religion. Oh, the world had vast possibilities for John. Away to the south, up a vast basin of forest, there was a notch in the horizon and an opening in the line of woods, where the road ran. Through this opening John imagined an army might appear, perhaps British, perhaps Turks, and banners of red and of yellow advance, and a cannon wheel about and point its long nose, and open on the valley. He fancied the army, after this salute, winding down the mountain road, deploying in the meadows, and giving the valley to pillage and to flame. In which event his position would be an excellent one for observation and for safety. While he was in the height of this engagement, perhaps the horn would be blown from the back porch, remind- ing him that it was time to quit cutting brush andv go for the cows. As if there were no better use for 96 BEING A BOY a warrior and a poet in New England than to send ~ him for the cows! John knew a boy —a bad enough boy I daresay — who afterwards became a general in the war, and went to Congress, and got to be a real governor, who also used to be sent to cut brush in the back pas- tures, and hated it in his very soul; and by his wrong conduct forecast what kind of a man he would be. This boy, as soon as he had cut about one brush, would seek for one of several holes in the ground (and he was familiar with several), in which lived a white-and- black animal that must always be nameless in a book, but an animal quite capable of the most pungent defense of himself. This young aspirant to Congress would cut a long stick, with a little crotch in the end of it, and run it into the hole; and when the crotch was punched into the fur and skin of the animal, he would twist the stick round till it got a good grip on the skin, and then he would pull the beast out; and when he got the white-and-black just out of the hole so that his dog could seize him, the boy would take to his heels, and leave the two to fight it out, content to scent the battle afar off. And this boy, who was in training for public life, would do this sort of thing » all the afternoon, and/when the sun told him that he had spent long enough time cutting brush, he would industriously go home as innocent as anybody. There are few such boys as this nowadays; and that is the reason why the New England pastures are so much overgrown with brush. John himself preferred to hunt the pugnacious woodchuck. He bore a special grudge against this HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 97 clover-eater, beyond the usual hostility that boys feel for any wild animal. One day on his way to school a woodchuck crossed the road before him, and John gave chase. The woodchuck scrambled into an or- chard and climbed a small apple-tree. John thought this a most cowardly and unfair retreat, and stood under the tree and taunted the animal and stoned it. Thereupon the woodchuck dropped down on John and seized him by the leg of his trousers. John was both enraged and scared by this dastardly attack ; the teeth of the enemy went through the cloth and met; and there he hung. John then made a pivot of one leg and whirled himself around, swinging the woodchuck in the air, until he shook him off; but in his departure the woodchuck carried away a large piece of John’s summer trousers-leg. The boy never forgot it. And whenever he had a holiday, he used to expend an amount of labor and ingenuity in the pursuit of woodchucks that would have made his for- tune in any useful pursuit. There was a hill pasture, down on one side of which ran a small brook, and this pasture was full of woodchuck-holes. It required the assistance of several boys to capture a woodchuck. It was first necessary by patient watching to ascertain that the woodchuck was at home. When one was seen to enter his burrow, then all the entries to it except one — there are usually three — were plugged up with stones. A boy and a dog were then left to watch the open hole, while John and his comrades went to the brook and began to dig a canal, to turn the water into the residence of the woodchuck. This was often a difficult feat of engineering, and a long i, 98 BEING A BOY job. Often it took more than half a day of hard labor with shovel and hoe to dig the canal. But when the canal was finished and the water began to pour into the hole, the excitement began. How long would it take to fill the hole and drown out the woodchuck ? Sometimes it seemed as if the hole was a bottomless pit. But sooner or later the water would rise in it, and then there was sure to be seen the nose of the woodchuck, keeping itself on a level with the rising flood. It was piteous to see the anxious look of the hunted, half-drowned creature as it came to the sur- face and caught sight of the dog. There the dog stood, at the mouth of the hole, quivering with excitement from his nose to the tip of his tail, and behind him were the cruel boys dancing with joy and setting the dog on. The poor creature would dis- appear in the water in terror; but he must breathe, and out would come his nose again, nearer the dog each time. At last the water ran out of the hole as well as in, and the soaked beast came with it, and made a desperate rush. But in a trice the dog had him, and the boys stood off in a circle, with stones in their hands, to see what they called “fair play.” They maintained perfect “neutrality ’’ so long as the dog was getting the best of the woodchuck; but if the latter was likely to escape, they “interfered” in the interest of peace and the “ balance of power,” and killed the woodchuck. This is a boy’s notion of jus- tice ; of course, he’d no business to be a woodchuck, —an “unspeakable woodchuck.” I used the word “aromatic” in relation to the New England soil. John knew very well all its sweet, HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 99 aromatic, pungent, and medicinal products, and liked to search for the scented herbs and the wild fruits and exquisite flowers ; but he did not then know, and few do know, that there is no part of the globe where the subtle chemistry of the earth produces more that is agreeable to the senses than a New England hill- pasture and the green meadow at its foot. The poets have succeeded in turning our attention from it to the comparatively barren Orient as the land of sweet- * smelling spices and odorous gums. And it is indeed a constant surprise that this poor and stony soil elabo- rates and grows so many delicate and aromatic pro- ducts. John, it is true, did not care much for anything that did not appeal to his taste and smell and delight in brilliant color; and he trod down the exquisite ferns and the wonderful mosses without compunction. But he gathered from the crevices of the rocks the columbine and the eglantine and the blue harebell ; he picked the high-flavored alpine strawberry, the blueberry, the boxberry, wild currants and goose- berries, and fox-grapes; he brought home armfuls of the pink-and-white laurel and the wild honeysuckle ; he dug the roots of the fragrant sassafras and of the sweet-flag; he ate the tender leaves of the winter- green and its red berries ; he gathered the peppermint and the spearmint; he gnawed the twigs of the black birch; there was a stout fern which he called “ brake,” which he pulled up, and found that the soft end “tasted good;”” he dug the amber gum from the spruce-tree, and liked to smell, though he could not chew, the gum of the wild cherry ; it was his melan- 100 BEING A BOY choly duty to bring home such medicinal herbs forthe garret as the gold-thread, the tansy, and the loath- some “‘ boneset;”’ and he laid in for the winter, like a squirrel, stores of beechnuts, hazel-nuts, hickory- nuts, chestnuts, and butternuts. But that which lives most vividly in his memory and most strongly draws him back to the New England hills is the aromatic sweet-fern; he likes to eat its spicy seeds, and to crush in his hands its fragrant leaves; their odor is the unique essence of New England. XVI JOHN’S REVIVAL P AHE New England country-boy of the last generation never heard of Christmas. There was no such day in his calendar. If John ever came across it in his reading, he attached no meaning to the word. If his curiosity had been aroused, and he had asked his elders about it, he might have got the dim impression that it was a kind of Popish holiday, the » celebration of which was about as wicked as “ card- playing,” or being a “ Democrat.” John knew a couple of desperately bad boys who were reported to play “seven-up” in a barn, on the haymow, and the enormity of this practice made him shudder. He had once seen a pack of greasy “playing-cards,” and ” it seemed to him to contain the quintessence of sin. If he had desired to defy all Divine law and outrage all human society, he felt that he could do it by shuffling them. And he was quite right. The two bad boys enjoyed in stealth their scandalous pastime, because they knew it was the most wicked thing they could do. If it had been as sinless as playing mar- bles, they would n’t have cared for it. John some- times drove past a brown, tumble-down farmhouse, whose shiftless inhabitants, it was said, were card- playing people ; and it isimpossible to describe how 102 BEING A BOY wicked that house appeared to John. He almost yf expected to see its shingles stand on end. In the old New England one could not in any other way so express his contempt of all holy and orderly life as by playing cards for amusement. There was no element of Christmas in John’s life, any more than there was of Easter; and probably nobody about him could have explained Easter ; and he escaped all the demoralization attending Christmas gifts. Indeed, he never had any presents of any kind, either on his birthday or any other day. He expected nothing that he did not earn, or make in the way of “trade” with another boy. He was taught to work for what he received. He even earned, as I said, the extra holidays of the day after the Fourth and the day after Thanksgiving. Of the free grace and gifts of Christmas he had no conception. The single and melancholy association he had with it was the quak- ing hymn which his grandfather used to sing in a cracked and quavering voice: «« While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground.’’ The “ glory ” that “shone around ” at the end of it —the doleful voice always repeating, “and glory shone around ”— made John as miserable as “ Hark! from the tombs.” It was all one dreary expectation of something uncomfortable. It was, in short, “ reli- gion.” You’d got to have it some time; that John believed. But it lay in his unthinking mind to put off the “ Hark! from the tombs ” enjoyment as long. as possible. He experienced a kind of delightful JOHN’S REVIVAL 103 wickedness in indulging his dislike of hymns and of Sunday. John was not a model boy, but I cannot exactly define in what his wickedness consisted. He had no inclination to steal, nor much to lie; and he despised “‘meanness’”’ and stinginess, and had a chivalrous feeling toward little girls. Probably it never occurred to him that there was any virtue in not stealing and lying, for honesty and veracity were in the atmosphere about him. He hated work, and he “got mad” easily ; but he did work, and he was always ashamed when he was over his fit of passion. In short, you could n’t find a much better wicked boy than John. When the “revival”’ came, therefore, one summer, _ John was ina quandary. Sunday meetingand Sunday- school he didn’t mind; they were a part of regular life, and only temporarily interrupted a boy’s plea- sures. But when there began to be evening meetings at the different houses, a new element came into affairs. There was a kind of solemnity over the community, and a seriousness in all faces. At first these twilight assemblies offered a little relief to the monotony of farm life; and John liked to meet the boys and girls, and to watch the older people coming in, dressed in their second best. I think John’s im- agination was worked upon by the sweet and mourn- ful hymns that were discordantly sung in the stiff old parlors. There was a suggestion of Sunday, and sanctity too, in the odor of caraway-seed that pervaded the room. The windows were wide open also, and the scent of June roses came in, with all the languish- ing sounds of a summer night. All the little boys 104 BEING A BOY had a scared look, but the little girls were never so pretty and demure as in this their susceptible serious- ness. If John saw a boy who did not come to the evening meeting, but was wandering off with his sling down the meadow, looking for frogs, maybe, that boy seemed to him a monster of wickedness. After a time, as the meetings continued, John fell also under the general impression of fright and seri- ousness. All the talk was of “ getting religion,” and he heard over and over again that the probability was if he did not get it now, he never would. The chance did not come often, and if this offer was not improved, John would be given over to hardness of heart. His obstinacy would show that he was not one of the elect. John fancied that he could feel his heart hardening, and he began to look with a wistful anxiety into the faces of the Christians to see what were the visible signs of being one of the elect. John put on agood deal of a manner that he “ did n’t care,’ and he never admitted his disquiet by asking any questions or standing up in meeting to be prayed for. But he did care. He heard all the time that all he had to do was to repent and believe. But there was nothing that he doubted, and he was perfectly willing to repent if he could think of anything to repent of. It was essential, he learned, that he should have a “conviction of sin.”’ This he earnestly tried to have. Other people, no better than he, had it, and he won- dered why he could n’t haveit. Boys and girls whom he knew were “under conviction,” and John began to feel not only panicky, but lonesome. Cynthia JOHN’S REVIVAL 105 Rudd had been anxious for days and days, and not able to sleep at night, but now she had given herself up and found peace. There was a kind of radiance in her face that struck John with awe, and he felt that now there was a great gulf between him and Cynthia. Everybody was going away from him, and his heart was getting harder than ever. He could n’t feel wicked, all he could do. And there was Ed Bates, his intimate friend, though older than he, a “whaling,” noisy kind of boy, who was under con- viction and sure he was going to be lost. How John envied him! And pretty soon Ed “experienced religion.” John anxiously watched the change in E.d’s face when he became one of the elect. Anda change there was. And John wondered about another thing. Ed Bates used to go trout-fishing, with a , tremendously long pole, in a meadow brook near the river; and when the trout didn’t bite right off, Ed would “get mad,” and as soon as one took hold he would give an awful jerk, sending the fish more than three hundred feet into the air and landing it in the bushes the other side of the meadow, crying out, ‘Gut darn ye, Ill learn ye.””’ And John wondered ~ if Ed would take the little trout out any more gently now. John felt more and more lonesome as one after another of his playmates came out and made a pro- fession. Cynthia (she too was older than John) sat on Sunday in the singers’ seat; her voice, which was going to be a contralto, had a wonderful pathos in it for him, and he heard it with a heartache. ‘‘ There she is,” thought John, “singing away like an angel 106 BEING A BOY in heaven, and I am left out.” During all his after life a contralto voice was to John one of his most bitter and heart-wringing pleasures. It suggested the immaculate scornful, the melancholy unattainable. If ever a boy honestly tried to work himself into a conviction of sin, John tried. And what made him miserable was, that he could n’t feel miserable when everybody else was miserable. He even began to pretend to be so. He put on a serious and anxious look like the others. He pretended he did n’t care for play; he refrained from chasing chipmunks and snaring suckers; the songs of birds and the bright vivacity of the summer-time that used to make him turn handsprings smote him as a discordant levity. He was not a hypocrite at all, and he was getting to be alarmed that he was not alarmed at himself. Every day and night he heard that the spirit of the Lord would probably soon quit striving with him, and leave him out. The phrase was that he would “grieve away the Holy Spirit.” John wondered if he was not doing it. He did everything to put himself in the way of conviction, was constant at the evening meet- ings, wore a grave face, refrained from play, and tried to feel anxious. At length he concluded that he must ° do something. One night as he walked home from a solemn meet- ing, at which several of his little playmates had ‘‘ come forward,” he felt that he could force the crisis. He ~ was alone on the sandy road; it was an enchanting summer night; the stars danced overhead, and by his side the broad and shallow river ran over its stony bed with a loud’but soothing murmur that filled all JOHN’S REVIVAL 107 the air with entreaty. John did not then know that it sang, “ But I go on forever,” yet there was in it for him something of the solemn flow of the eternal world. When he came in sight of the house, he knelt down in the dust by a pile of rails and prayed. He prayed that he might feel bad, and be distressed about himself. As he prayed he heard distinctly, and yet not as a disturbance, the multitudinous croaking of the frogs by the meadow spring. It was not dis- cordant with his thoughts ; it had in it a melancholy pathos, as if it were a kind of call to the uncon- verted. What is there in this sound that suggests the tenderness of spring, the despair of a summer night, the desolateness of young love? Years after it happened to John to be at twilight at a railway station on the edge of the Ravenna marshes. A little way over the purple plain he saw the darkening towers and heard “the sweet bells of Imola.” The Holy Pontiff Pius IX. was born at Imola, and passed his boyhood in that serene and moist region. As the train waited, John heard from miles of marshes round about the evening song of millions of frogs, louder and more melancholy and entreating than the vesper call of the bells. And instantly his mind went back — for the association of sound is as subtle as that of . odor — to the prayer, years ago, by the roadside and the plaintive appeal of the unheeded frogs, and he wondered if the little Pope had not heard the like importunity, and perhaps, when he thought of him- self as a little Pope, associated his conversion with this plaintive sound. John prayed, but without feeling any worse, and 108 BEING A BOY then went desperately into the house, and told the family that he was in an anxious state of mind. This~ was joyful news to the sweet and pious household, and the little boy was urged to feel that he was a sinner, to repent, and to become that night a Chris- ~ tian; he was prayed over, and told to read the Bible, and put to bed with the injunction to repeat all the texts of Scripture and hymns he could think of. John did this, and said over and over the few texts he was master of, and tossed about in a real discon- tent now, for he had a dim notion that he was play- ing the hypocrite a little. But he was sincere enough in wanting to feel, as the other boys and girls felt, that he was a wicked sinner. He tried to think of his evil deeds; and one occurred to him; indeed, it often came to his mind. It was a lie; a deliberate, awful lie, that never injured anybody but himself. John knew he was not wicked enough to tell a lie to injure anybody else. | This was the lie. One afternoon at school, just before John’s class was to recite in geography, his pretty cousin, a young lady he held in great love and respect, came in to visit the school. John was a favor- ite with her, and she had come to hear him recite. — As it happened, John felt shaky in the geographical lesson of that day, and he feared to be humiliated in the presence of his cousin; he felt embarrassed to that degree that he could n’t have “ bounded ” Mas- sachusetts. So he stood up and raised his hand, and said to the schoolma’am, “‘ Please, ma’am, I’ve got ~“* the stomach-ache; may I go home?” And John’s character for truthfulness was so high (and even this JOHN’S REVIVAL 109 was ever a reproach to him), that his word was instantly believed, and he was dismissed without any medical examination. For a moment John was delighted to get out of school so early; but soon his guilt took all the light out of the summer sky and the pleasantness out of nature. He had to walk slowly, without a single hop or jump, as became a diseased boy. The sight of a woodchuck at a distance from his well-known hole tempted John, but he restrained himself, lest somebody should see him, and know that chasing a woodchuck was inconsistent with - the stomach-ache. He was acting a miserable part, but it had to be gone through with. He went home and told his mother the reason he had left school, but he added that he felt “some” better now. The “some” didn’t save him. Genuine sympathy was lavished on him. He had to swallow a stiff dose of nasty ‘‘picra,’’— the horror of all childhood, and he was putin bed immediately. The world never looked so pleasant to John, but to bed he was forced to go. He was excused from all chores; he was not even to 4 go after the cows. John said he thought he ought to go after the cows, — much as he hated the business usually, he would now willingly have wandered over the world after cows, —and for this heroic offer, in the condition he was, he got credit for a desire to do his duty ; and this unjust confidence in him added to his torture. And he had intended to set his hooks that night for eels. His cousin came home, and sat by his bedside and condoled with him; his school- ma’am had sent word how sorry she was for him, John was such a good boy. All this was dreadful. IIO BEING A BOY He groaned in agony. Besides, he was not to have any supper; it would be very dangerous to eat a morsel. The prospect was appalling. Never was there such a long twilight; never before did he hear so many sounds out-doors that he wanted to inves-- tigate. Being ill without any illness was a horrible condition. And he began to have.real stomach-ache now; and it ached because it was empty. John was hungry enough to have eaten the New England Primer. But by and by sleep came,.and John for- got his woes in dreaming that he knew where Mada- gascar was just as easy as anything. It was this lie that came back to John the night he was trying to be affected by the revival. And he was very much ashamed of it, and believed he would never tell another. But then he fell thinking whether, with the “ picra,” and the going to bed in the after- noon, and the loss of his supper, he had not been sufficiently paid for it. And inthis unhopeful frame __. of mind he dropped off in sleep. : And the truth must be told, that in the morning John was no nearer to realizing the terrors he desired to feel. But he was a conscientious boy, and would do nothing to interfere with the influences of the season. He not only put himself away from them all, but he refrained from doing almost everything that he wanted to do. There came at that time a newspaper, a secular newspaper, which had in it a long account of the Lang Island races, in which the _ famous horse “ Lexington” was a runner. John was — fond of horses, he knew about Lexington, and he had looked forward to the result of this race with JOHN’S REVIVAL. 11t keen interest. But to read the account of it how he felt might destroy his seriousness of mind, and — in all reverence and simplicity he felt it — be a means of “ grieving away the Holy Spirit.” He therefore hid away the paper in a table-drawer, intending to read it when the revival should be over. Weeks after, when he looked for the newspaper, it was not to be found, and John never knew what “ time” Lexington made nor anything about the race. This was to him a serious loss, but by no means so deep as another feeling that remained with him; for when his little world returned to its ordinary course, and Jong after, John had an uneasy apprehension of his own separateness from other people, in his insensi- bility to the revival. Perhaps the experience was a damage to him; and it is a pity that there was no one to explain that religion for a little fellow like him is not a “ scheme.” XVII WAR ar boy who is good for anything is a“ natural savage. The scientists who want to study the primitive man, and have so much difficulty in finding one anywhere in this sophisti- cated age, could n’t do better than to devote their./ attention to the common country-boy. He has the primal, vigorous instincts and impulses of the Afri- can savage, without any of the vices inherited from a civilization long ago decayed or developed in an unrestrained barbaric society. You want to catch your boy young, and study him before he has either virtues or vices, in order to understand the primitive man. | Every New England boy desires (or did desire a generation ago, before children were born sophisti- cated, with a large library, and with the word “ cul- ture”’ written on their brows) to live by hunting,~y fishing, and war. The military instinct, which is the special mark of barbarism, is strong in him. It arises not alone from his love of fighting, for the boy is” naturally as cowardly as the savage, but from his fondness for display, — the same that a corporal or a general feels in decking himself in tinsel and taw- dry colors and strutting about in view of the female sex. Half the pleasure in going out to murder WAR 113 another man with a gun would be wanting if one did not wear feathers and gold-lace and stripes on his pantaloons. The law also takes this view of it, and will not permit men to shoot each other in plain clothes. And the world also makes some curious distinctions in the art of killing. To kill people with arrows is barbarous; to kill them with smooth-bores and flintlock muskets is semi-civilized ; to kill them with breech-loading rifles is civilized. That nation is the most civilized which has the appliances to kill “* the most of another nation in the shortest time. This is the result of six thousand years of constant civilization. By and by, when the nations cease to be boys, perhaps they will not want to kill each other at all. Some people think the world is very old; but here is an evidence that it is very young, and, in fact, has scarcely yet begun to be a world. When the volcanoes have done spouting, and the earthquakes are quaked out, and you can tell what land is going to be solid and keep its level twenty- four hours, and the swamps are filled up, and the deltas of the great rivers, like the Mississippi and the Nile, become ¢erra firma, and men stop killing their fellows in order to get their land and other property, then perhaps there will be a world that an angel would n’t weep over. Now one half the world are employed in getting ready to kill the other half, some of them by marching about in uniform, and \ the others by hard work to earn money to pay taxes to buy uniforms and guns. John was not naturally very cruel, and it was prob- ably the love of display quite as much as of fighting 8 114 BEING A BOY that led him into a military life ; for he, in common with all his comrades, had other traits of the savage. One of them was the same passion for ornament that induces the African to wear anklets and bracelets of hide and of metal, and to decorate himself with tufts of hair, and to tattoo his body. In John’s day there was a rage at school among the boys for wearing bracelets woven of the hair of the little girls. Some of them were wonderful specimens of braiding and twist. hese were not captured in war, but were sen- timental tokens of friendship given by the young maidens themselves. John’s own hair was kept so short (as became a warrior) that you couldn’t have made a bracelet out of it, or anything except a paint- brush; but the little girls were not under military law, and they willingly sacrificed their tresses to deco- rate the soldiers they esteemed. As the Indian is hon- ored in proportion to the scalps he can display, at John’s school the boy was held in highest respect who could show the most hair trophies on his wrist. John himself had a variety that would have pleased a Mo- hawk, fine and coarse and of all colors. There were the flaxen, the faded straw, the glossy black, the lus- trous brown, the dirty yellow, the undecided auburn, .. and the fiery red. Perhaps his pulse beat more quickly under the red hair of Cynthia Rudd than on account of all the other wristlets put together ; it was a sort of gold-tried-in-the-fire-color to John, and burned there with a steady flame. Now that Cynthia had become a Christian, this band of hair seemed a more sacred if less glowing possession (for all de- tached hair will fade in time), and if he had known “Ne ts WAR 115 anything about saints, he would have imagined that it was a part of the aureole that always goes with a saint. But I am bound to say that while John had a tender feeling for this red string, his sentiment was not that of the man who becomes entangled in the meshes of a woman’s hair; and he valued rather the number than the quality of these elastic wristlets. John burned with as real a military ardor as ever inflamed the breast of any slaughterer of his fel- lows. He liked to read of war, of encounters with the Indians, of any kind of wholesale killing in glittering ~~ uniform, to the noise of the terribly exciting fife and drum, which maddened the combatants and drowned the cries of the wounded. In his future he saw him- self a soldier with plume and sword and snug-fitting, decorated clothes, — very different from his some- what roomy trousers and country-cut roundabout, made by Aunt Ellis, the village tailoress, who cut out clothes, not according to the shape of the boy, but to what he was expected to grow to, — going where glory awaited him. In his observation of pictures, it was the common soldier who was always falling and dying, while the officer stood unharmed in the storm of bullets and waved his sword in a heroic attitude. John determined to be an officer. It is needless to say that he wasanardent member | | of the military company of his village. He had risen from the grade of corporal to that of first lieutenant ; the captain was a boy whose father was captain of the grown militia company, and consequently had inher- ited military aptness and knowledge. The old cap- tain was a flaming son of Mars, whose nose militia ae BEING A BOY war, general training, and New England rum had painted with the color of glory and disaster. He was one of the gallant old soldiers of the peaceful days of our country, splendid in uniform, a martinet in drill, terrible in oaths, a glorious object when he marched at the head of his company of flintlock muskets, with the American banner full high advanced, and the clamorous drum defying the world. In this he fulfilled his duties of citizen, faithfully teaching his a\ uniformed companions how to march by the left leg, and to get reeling drunk by sundown; otherwise he — did n’t amount to much in the community; his house was unpainted, his fences were tumbled down, his farm was a waste, his wife wore an old gown to meet- ing, to which the captain never went; but he was a good trout-fisher, and there was no man in town who spent more time at the country store and made more shrewd observations upon the affairs of his neigh- bors. Although he had never been in an asylum any more than he had been in war, he was almost as per- fect a drunkard as he was soldier. He hated the British, whom he had never seen, as much as he loved rum, from which he was never separated. The company which his son commanded, wearing .. his father’s belt and sword, was about as effective as the old company, and more orderly. It contained from thirty to fifty boys, according to the pressure of “chores” at home, and it had its great days of parade and its autumn maneuvers, like the general training. It was an artillery company, which gave every boy a chance to wear a sword, and it possessed a small mounted cannon, which was dragged about WAR 117 and limbered and unlimbered and fired, to the im- minent danger of everybody, especially of the com- ‘pany. In point of marching, with all the legs going together, and twisting itself up and untwisting, breaking into single-file (for Indian fighting), and forming platoons, turning a sharp corner, and getting out of the way of a wagon, circling the town pump, frightening horses, stopping short in front of the tavern, with ranks dressed and eyes right and left, it was the equal of any military organization I ever saw. It could train better than the big company, and I think it did more good in keeping alive the spirit of patriotism and desire to fight. Its discipline was strict. If a boy left the ranks to jab a spectator, or make faces at a window, or “ go for”’ a striped snake, » he was “ hollered ” at no end. It was altogether a very serious business; there was no levity about the hot and hard marching, and as boys have no humor, nothing ludicrous occurred. ~ John was very proud of his office, and of his ability to keep the rear ranks closed up and ready to exe- cute any maneuver when the captain “ hollered,” which he did continually. He carried a real sword, which his grandfather had worn in many a militia campaign on the village green, the rust upon which John fancied was Indian blood; he had various red and yellow insignia of military rank sewed upon dif- ferent parts of his clothes, and though his cocked hat was of pasteboard, it was decorated with gilding and bright rosettes, and floated a red feather that made his heart beat with martial fury whenever he ~ looked at it. The effect of this uniform upon the 118 BEING A BOY girls was not a matter of conjecture. I think they really cared nothing about it, but they pretended to think it fine, and they fed the poor boy’s vanity, — the weakness by which women govern the world. The exalted happiness of. John in this military service I daresay was never equaled in any subse- quent occupation. The display of the company in the village filled him with the loftiest heroism. There was nothing wanting but an enemy to fight, but this could only be had by half the company staining themselves with elderberry juice and going into the _ woods as Indians, to fight the artillery from behind trees with bows and arrows, or to ambush it and tomahawk the gunners. This, however, was made to seem very like real war. Traditions of Indian cruelty, . were still fresh in western Massachusetts. Behind John’s house in the orchard were some old slate tombstones, sunken and leaning, which recorded the names of Captain Moses Rice and Phineas Arms, who had been killed by Indians in the last century while at work in the meadow by the river, and who slept there in the hope of the glorious resurrection. Phineas Arms — martial name — was long since dust, and even the mortal part of the great Captain Moses Rice had been absorbed in the soil and passed per- haps with the sap up into the old but still blooming apple-trees. It was a quiet place where they lay, but they might have heard —if hear they could — the loud, continuous roar of the Deerfield, and the stir- ring of the long grass on that sunny slope. There was a tradition that years ago an Indian, probably the last of his race, had been seen moving along the crest of WAR 119g the mountain, and gazing down into the lovely valley which had been the favorite home of his tribe, upon the fields where he grew his corn, and the sparkling stream whence he drew his fish. John used to fancy at times, as he sat there, that he could see that red specter gliding among the trees on the hill; and if the tombstone suggested to him the trump of judg- ~ ment, he could not separate it from the war-whoop that had been the last sound in the ear of Phineas Arms. The Indian always preceded murder by the war-whoop ; and this was an advantage that the artillery had in the fight with the elderberry Indians. It was warned in time. If there was no war-whoop, the killing did n’t count; the artillery man got up and killed the Indian. The Indian usually had the worst of it; he not only got killed by the regulars, but he got whipped by the homeguard at night for ‘staining himself and his clothes with the elderberry. But once a year the company had a superlative parade. This was when the military company from the north part of the town joined the villagers in a general muster. This was an infantry company, and not to be compared with that of the village in point of evolutions. There was a great and natural hatred between the north town boys and the center. I don’t know why, but no contiguous African tribes could be more hostile. It was all right for one of either» section:to “lick” the other if he could, or for half a \/\dozen to “lick” one of the enemy if they caught him alone. The notion of honor, as of mercy, comes into +-the boy only when he is pretty well grown; to some neither ever comes. And yet there was an artificial 120 BEING A BOY military courtesy (something like that existing in the feudal age, no doubt) which put the meeting of these two rival and mutually detested companies ona high plane of behavior. It was beautiful to see the seriousness of this lofty and studied condescension on both sides. For the time everything was under martial law. The village company being the senior, Its captain commanded the united battalion in the march, and this put John temporarily into the posi- tion of captain, with the right to march at the head and “ holler;” a responsibility which realized all his hopes of glory. I suppose there has yet been dis- covered by man no gratification like that of march- ing at the head of a column in uniform on parade, — unless, perhaps, it is marching at their head when they are leaving a field of battle. John experienced all the thrill of this conspicuous authority, and I daresay that nothing in his later life has so exalted him in his own esteem; certainly nothing has since happened that was so important as the events of that parade day seemed. He satiated himself with all the delights of war. XVIII COUNTRY SCENES land country-boy becomes conscious that his trou- sers-legs are too short, and is anxious about the part of his hair and the fit of his woman-made roundabout. These harrowing thoughts come to him later than to the city lad. At least, a generation ago he served a long apprenticeship with nature only for a master, absolutely unconscious of the artificial- ities of life. But I do not think his early education was neg- lected. And yet it is easy to underestimate the influ- ences that, unconsciously to him, were expanding his mind and nursing in him heroic purposes. There was the lovely but narrow valley, with its rapid mountain stream; there were the great hills which he climbed, only to see other hills stretching away to a broken and tempting horizon ; there were the rocky pastures, and the wide sweeps of forest through which the winter tempests howled, upon which hung the haze of summer heat, over which the great shadows of summer clouds traveled; there were the clouds themselves, shouldering up above the peaks, hurrying across the narrow sky, — the clouds out of which the wind came, and the lightning and the sudden dashes of rain; and there were days | : is impossible to say at what age a New Eng- 122 BEING A BOY when the sky was ineffably blue and distant, a fath- omless vault of heaven where the hen-hawk and the eagle poised on outstretched wings and watched for their prey. Can you say how these things fed the imagination of the boy, who had few books and no contact with the great world? Do you think — any city lad could have written “ Thanatopsis”’ at © eighteen ? If you had seen John, in his short and roomy trousers and ill-used straw hat, picking his bare-~ footed way over the rocks along the river-bank of a cool morning to see if an eel had “ got on,” you would not have fancied that he lived in an ideal world. Nor did he consciously. So faras he knew, he had no more sentiment than a jack-knife. Al- though he loved Cynthia Rudd devotedly, and blushed scarlet one day when his cousin found a lock of Cynthia’s flaming hair in the box where John kept his fishhooks, spruce gum, flag-root, tickets of standing at the head, gimlet, dz//ets-doux in blue ink, a vile liquid in a bottle, to make fish bite, and other precious possessions, yet Cynthia’s society had no attractions for him comparable to a day’s trout- fishing. She was, after all, only a single and a very undefined item in his general ideal world, and there was no harm in letting his imagination play about her illumined head. Since Cynthia had “got reli- gion” and John had got nothing, his love was tem- - pered with a little awe and a feeling of distance. He was not fickle, and yet I cannot say that he was not ready to construct a new romance, in which Cynthia should be eliminated. Nothing was easier, Perhaps COUNTRY SCENES 123 it was a luxurious traveling carriage, drawn by two splendid horses in plated harness, driven along the sandy road. There were a gentleman and a young lad on the front seat, and on the back seat a hand- some pale lady with a little girl beside her. Behind, on the rack with the trunk, was a colored boy, an imp out of a story-book. John was told that the black boy was a slave, and that the carriage was from ““ Baltimore. Here was a chance foraromance. Slay- ery, beauty, wealth, haughtiness, especially on the part of the slender boy on the front seat, — here was an opening into a vast realm. The high-stepping horses and the shining harness were enough to excite John’s admiration, but these were nothing to the little girl. His eyes had never before fallen upon that kind of girl; he had hardly imagined that such a lovely creature could exist. Was it the soft and dainty toilet, was it the brown curls, or the large laughing eyes, or the delicate, finely cut features, or the charming little figure of this fairy-like person? Was this expression on her mobile face merely that of amusement at seeing a country-boy? Then John hated her. On the contrary, did she see in him what John felt himself to be? Then he would go the world over to serve her. In a moment he was self-con- scious. His trousers seemed to creep higher up his | legs, and he could feel his very ankles blush. He hoped that she had not seen the other side of him, for, in fact, the patches were not of the exact shade of the rest of the cloth. The vision flashed by him in a moment, but it left him with a resentful feeling. Perhaps that proud little girl would be sorry some 124 BEING A BOY day, when he had become a general, or written a_. book, or kept a store, to see him go away and marry another. He almost made up his cruel mind on the instant that he would never marry her, however bad she might feel. And yet he could n’t get her out of his mind for days and days, and when her image was present, even Cynthia in the singers’ seat on Sunday looked a little cheap and common. Poor Cynthia! Long before John became a general or had his re- venge on the Baltimore girl, she married a farmer and was the mother of children, red-headed; and when John saw her years after, she looked tired and discouraged, as one who has carried into womanhood» ~ none of the romance of her youth. Fishing and dreaming, I think, were the best amusements John had. The middle pier of the long covered bridge over the river stood upon a great rock, and this rock (which was known as the swim- ming-rock, whence the boys on summer evenings dove into the deep pool by its side) was a favorite spot with John when he could get an hour or two from the everlasting “ chores.’’ Making his way out to it over the rocks at low water with his fish-pole, there he was content to sit and observe the world; and there he sawa great deal of life. He always expected to catch the legendary trout which weighed two pounds and was believed to inhabit that pool. He always did catch horned dace and shiners, which he despised, and sometimes he snared a monstrous sucker a foot and a half long. But in the summer the sucker isa flabby fish, and John was not thanked for bringing him home. He liked, however, to lie COUNTRY SCENES 126 with his face close to the water and watch the long fishes panting in the clear depths, and occasionally he would drop a pebble near one to see how grace- fully he would scud away with one wave of the tail into deeper water. Nothing fears the little brown boy. The yellow-bird slants his wings, almost touches the deep water before him, and then escapes away under the bridge to the east with a glint of sunshine on his back; the fish-hawk comes down with a swoop, dips one wing, and, his prey having darted under a stone, is away again over the still hill, high soaring on even-poised pinions, keeping an eye perhaps upon the great eagle which is sweep- ing the sky in widening circles. But there is other life. A wagon rumbles over the bridge, and the farmer and his wife, jogging along, do not know that they have startled a lazy boy into a momentary fancy that a thunder-shower is coming up. John can see as he lies there on a still summer day, with the fishes and the birds for + company, the road that comes down the left bank of the river, —a hot, sandy, well-traveled road, hidden from view here and there by trees and bushes. The chief point of interest, however, is an enormous syca- more-tree by the roadside and in front of John’s house. The house is more than a century old, and its timbers were hewed and squared by Captain Moses Rice (who lies in his grave on the hillside above it), in the presence of the Red Man who killed him with arrow and tomahawk some time after his house was set in order. The gigantic tree, struck with a sort of leprosy, like all its species, 126 BEING A BOY appears much older, and of course has its tradition. They say that it grew from a green stake which the first land-surveyor planted there for one of his points of sight. John was reminded of it years after when he sat under the shade of the decrepit lime- tree in Freiburg and was told that it was originally a twig which the breathless and bloody messenger carried in his hand when he dropped exhausted in the square with the word “ Victory!” on his lips, announcing thus the result of the glorious battle of Morat, where the Swiss in 1476 defeated Charles the Bold. Under the broad but scanty shade of the great button-ball tree (as it was called) stood an old watering-trough, with its half-decayed penstock and well-worn spout pouring forever cold, sparkling water into the overflowing trough. It is fed bya spring near by, and the water 1s sweeter and colder than any in the known world, unless it be the well Zem-zem, as generations of people and horses which have drunk of it would testify, if they could come back. And if they could file along this road again, what a procession there would be riding down the valley !—antiquated vehicles, rusty wagons adorned with the invariable buffalo-robe even in the hottest” days, lean and long-favored horses, frisky colts, drawing, generation after generation, the sober and pious saints, that passed this way to meeting and to mill. What a refreshment is that water-spout! All day long there are pilgrims to it, and John likes no- “~ thing better than to watch them. Here comes a gray horse drawing a buggy with two men, — cattle- COUNTRY SCENES 127 buyers, probably. Out jumps a man, down goes the check-rein. What a good draught the nag takes! Here comes a long-stepping trotter in a sulky ; man in a brown linen coat and wide-awake hat, — disso- lute, horsey-looking man. They turn up, of course. Ah, there is an establishment he knows well : a sorrel horse and an old chaise. The sorrel horse scents the water afar off, and begins to turn up long before he reaches the trough, thrusting out his nose in antici-.~ pation of the cool sensation. No check to let down; he plunges his nose in nearly to his eyes in his haste to get at it. Two maiden ladies — unmistakably such, though they appear neither “anxious nor aim- less” — within the scoop-top smile benevolently on the sorrel back. It is the deacon’s horse, a meeting- going nag, with a sedate, leisurely jog as he goes; and these are two of the “salt of the earth,” — the brevet rank of the women who stand and wait, — going down to the village store to dicker. There come two men ina hurry, horse driven up smartly and pulled up short; but as it 1s rising ground, and the horse does not easily reach the water with the wagon pulling back, the nervous man in the buggy hitches forward on his seat, as if that would carry the wagon a little ahead! Next, lumber-wagon with load of boards; horse wants to turn up, and driver switches him and cries “ G’lang,” and the horse re- luctantly goes by, turning his head wistfully towards the flowing spout. Ah, here comes an equipage strange to these parts, and John stands up to look ; an elegant carriage and two horses; trunks strapped on behind; gentleman and boy on front seat and 128 BEING A BOY two ladies on back seat,— city people. The gentle- man descends, unchecks the horses, wipes his brow, takes a drink at the spout and looks around, evi- — dently remarking upon the lovely view, as he swings his handkerchief in an explanatory manner. Judi- cious travelers. John would like to know who they are. Perhaps they are from Boston, whence come all the wonderfully painted peddlers’ wagons drawn by six stalwart horses, which the driver, using no rein, controls with his long whip and cheery voice. If so, great is the condescension of Boston; and John follows them with an undefined longing as they drive away toward the mountains of Zoar. Here is a footman, dusty and tired, who comes with lagging steps. He stops, removes his hat, as he should to such a tree, puts his mouth to the spout, and takes along pull at the lively water. And then he goes on, perhaps to Zoar, perhaps to a worse place. So they come and go all the summer afternoon ; but the great event of the day is the passing down the valley of the majestic stage-coach, — the vast yel- low-bodied, rattling vehicle. John can hear a mile off the shaking of chains, traces, and whiffletrees,_, and the creaking of its leathern braces, as the great bulk swings along piled high with trunks. It repre- sents to John, somehow, authority, government, the right of way; the driver is an autocrat, — everybody” must make way for the stage-coach. It almost satis- fies the imagination, this royal vehicle; one can go in it to the confines of the world,—to Boston and © to Albany. There were other influences that I daresay con- COUNTRY SCENES 129 tributed to the boy’s education. I think his imagi- nation was stimulated by a band of gypsies who used to come every summer and pitch a tent on a little roadside patch of green turf by the river-bank, not “ far from his house. It was shaded by elms and butternut-trees, and a long spit of sand and pebbles ran out from it into the brawling stream. Probably they were not a very good kind of gypsy, although the story was that the men drank and beat the women. John didn’t know much about drinking ; his experience of it was confined to sweet cider; yet he had already set himself up as a reformer, and ‘” joined the Cold Water Band. The object of this Band was to walk in a procession under a banner that declared, << So here we pledge perpetual hate To all that can intoxicate; ”’ and wear a badge with this legend, and above it the device of a well-curb with a long sweep. It kept John and all the little boys and girls from being drunkards till they were ten or eleven years of age; ~ though perhaps a few of them died meantime from eating loaf-cake and pie and drinking ice-cold water at the celebrations of the Band. The gypsy camp had a strange fascination for John, mingled of curiosity and fear. Nothing more ‘alien could come into the New England life than this tatterdemalion band. It was hardly credible that here were actually people who lived out-doors, who slept in their covered wagon or under their tent, and cooked in the open air; it was a visible romance transferred from foreign lands and the remote times 9 130 BEING A BOY of the story-books ; and John took these city thieves, who were on their annual foray into the country, trading and stealing horses and robbing hen-roosts and cornfields, for the mysterious race who for thousands of years have done these same things in all lands, by right of their pure blood and ancient lineage. John was afraid to approach the camp when any of the scowling and villainous men were lounging about, pipes in mouth; but he took more courage when only women and children were visible. The swarthy, black-haired women in dirty calico frocks were anything but attractive, but they spoke softly to the boy, and told his fortune, and wheedled him into bringing them any amount of cucumbers and green corn in the course of the season. In front of the tent were planted in the ground three poles that met together at the top, whence depended a kettle. This was the kitchen, and it was sufficient. The fuel for the fire was the driftwood of the stream. John noted that it did not require to be sawed into stove-lengths; and, in short, that the “chores”’ about this establish- ment were reduced to the minimum. And an older person than John might envy the free life of these wanderers, who paid neither rent nor taxes, and yet — enjoyed all the delights of nature. It seemed to the boy that affairs would go more smoothly in the world if everybody would live in this simple manner. Nor did he then know, or ever after find out, why it is that the world permits only wicked people to be Bohemians. XIX A CONTRAST TO THE NEW ENGLAND BOY NE evening at vespers in Genoa, attracted by () a burst of music from the swinging curtain of the doorway, I entered a little church much frequented by the common people. An unex- pected and exceedingly pretty sight rewarded me. It was All Souls’ Day. In Italy almost every day is set apart for some festival, or belongs to some saint or another, and I suppose that when leap year brings around the extra day, there is a saint ready to claim the 29th of February. Whatever the day was to the elders, the evening was devoted to the children. The first thing I noticed was, that the quaint old church was lighted up with innumerable wax tapers, —an uncommon sight, for the darkness of a Catholic church in the evening is usually re- lieved only by a candle here and there, and by a blaz- ing pyramid of them on the highaltar. The use of gas is held to bea vulgar thing all over Europe, and especially unfit for a church or an aristocratic palace. Then I saw that each taper belonged to a little boy or girl, and the groups of children were scat- tered all about the church. There was a group by every side altar and chapel, all the benches were 130 BEING A BOY occupied by knots of them, and there were so many circles of them seated on the pavement that I could with difficulty make my way among them. There were hundreds of children in the church, all dressed in their holiday apparel, and all intent upon the illu- mination, which seemed to be a private affair to each one of them. | And not much effect had their tapers upon the darkness of the vast vaults above them. The tapers were little spiral coils of wax, which the children unrolled as fast as they burned, and when they were tired of holding them, they rested them on the ground and watched the burning. I stood some time by a group of a dozen seated in a corner of the church. They had massed all the tapers in the cen- ter and formed a ring about the spectacle, sitting with their legs straight out before them and their toes turned up. The light shone full in their happy faces, and made the group, enveloped otherwise in — darkness, like one of Correggio’s pictures of chil- dren or angels. Correggio was a famous Italian art- ist of the sixteenth century, who painted cherubs like children who were just going to heaven, and children like cherubs who had just come out of it. But then, he had the Italian children for models, and they get the knack of being lovely very young. An Italian child finds it as easy to be pretty as an American child to be good. One could not but be struck with the patience these little people exhibited in their occupation, and the enjoyment they got out of it. There was no noise; all conversed in subdued whispers and A CONTRAST 133 behaved in the most gentle manner to each other, especially to the smallest, and there were many of them so small that they could only toddle about by the most judicious exercise of their equilibrium. I do not say this by way of reproof to any other kind of children. These little groups, as I have said, were scattered all about the church; and they made with their tapers little spots of light, which looked in the dis- tance very much like Correggio’s picture which is at Dresden, —the Holy Family at Night, and the light from the Divine Child blazing in the faces of all the attendants. Some of the children were infants in the nurses’ arms, but no one was too small to have a taper, and to run the risk of burning its fingers. There is nothing that a baby likes more than a lighted candle, and the church has understood this longing in human nature, and found means to gratify it by this festival of tapers. The groups do not all remain long in place, you may imagine; there isa good deal of shifting about, and I see little stragglers wandering over the church, “like fairies lighted by fireflies. Occasionally they form a little procession and march from one altar to another, their lights twinkling as they go. But all this time there is music pouring out of the organ-loft at the end of the church, and flood- ing all its spaces with its volume. In front of the organ is a choir of boys, led by a round-faced and jolly monk, who rolls about as he sings, and lets the deep bass noise rumble about a long time in his stomach before he pours it out of his mouth. I can 134 BEING A BOY see the faces of all of them quite well, for each singer has a candle to light his music-book. And next to the monk stands the boy, —the handsomest boy in the whole world probably at this moment. I can see now his great, liquid, dark eyes, and his exquisite face, and the way he tossed back his long waving hair when he struck into his part. He resembled the portraits of Raphael, when that artist was a boy; only I think he looked better than Raphael, and without trying, for he seemed to be a spontaneous sort of boy. And how that boy did sing! He was the soprano of the choir, and he had a voice of heavenly sweetness. When he opened his mouth and tossed back his head, he filled the church with exquisite melody. He sang like a lark, or like an angel. As we never heard an angel sing, that comparison is not worth much, I have seen pictures of angels singing, — there is one by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck in the gallery at Berlin,—and they open their mouths like this boy, but I can’t say as much for their sing- ing. The lark, which you very likely never heard“ either, — for larks are as scarce in America as angels, —jis a bird that springs up from the meadow and begins to sing as he rises in a spiral flight, and the higher he mounts, the sweeter he sings, until you think the notes are dropping out of heaven itself, and you hear him when he is gone from sight, and you think you hear him long after all sound has ceased, And yet this boy sang better than a lark, because he had more notes and a greater compass and more A CONTRAST 135 volume, although he shook out his voice in the same gleesome abundance. I am sorry that I cannot add that this ravishingly beautiful boy was a good boy. He was probably one of the most mischievous boys that was ever in an organ-loft. All the time that he was singing the vespers he was skylarking like an imp. While he was pouring out the most divine melody, he would take the opportunity of kicking the shins of the boy next to him, and while he was waiting for his ~ part, he would kick out behind at any one who was incautious enough to approach him. There never was such a vicious boy; he kept the whole loft in a ferment. When the monk rumbled his bass in his stomach, the boy cut up monkey-shines that set every other boy into a laugh, or he stirred up a row that set them all at fisticuffs. And yet this boy was a great favorite. The jolly monk loved him best of all, and bore with his wild- est pranks. When he was wanted to sing his part and was skylarking in the rear, the fat monk took him by the ear and brought him forward ; and when he gave the boy’s ear a twist, the boy opened his lovely mouth and poured forth such a flood of melody as you never heard. And he didn’t mind his notes; he seemed to know his notes by heart, and could sing and look off like a nightingale on a bough. He knew his power, that boy; and he stepped forward to his stand when he pleased, cer- tain that he would be forgiven as soon as he began to sing. And such spirit and life as he threw into the performance, rollicking through the Vespers 136 BEING A BOY with a perfect abandon of carriage, as if he could sing himself out of his skin if he liked. While the little angels down below were pattering about with their wax tapers, keeping the holy fire burning, suddenly the organ stopped, the monk shut his book with a bang, the boys blew out the candles, and I heard them all tumbling down-stairs in a gale of noise and laughter. The beautiful boy I saw no more. About him plays the light of tender memory ; but were he twice as lovely, I could never think of him as having either the simple manliness or the good fortune of the New England boy. ON HORSEBACK ON HORSEBACK I P NAHE way to mount a horse ” — said the Pro- fessor. “If you have no ladder’ — put in the Friend of Humanity. The Professor had ridden through the war for the Union on the right side, enjoying a much better view of it than if he had walked, and knew as much about a horse as a person ought to know for the sake of his character. The man who can recite the tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims, on horseback, giving the contemporary pronunciation, never missing an accent by reason of the trot, and at the same time witch North Carolina and a strip of East Tennessee with his noble horsemanship, is a kind of Literary Centaur of whose double instruction any Friend of Humanity may be glad to avail himself. “The way to mount a horse is to grasp the mane with the left hand holding the bridle-rein, put your left foot in the stirrup, with the right hand on the back of the saddle, and ’’?— Just then the horse stepped quickly around on his hind feet, and looked the Professor in the face. The Superintendents of Affairs, who occupy the flagging in front of the hotel, seated in cane-bottomed chairs tilted back, smiled. These useful persons appear to ta 140 ON HORSEBACK have a life-lease of this portion of the city pavement, and pretty effectually block it up nearly all day and evening. When a lady wishes to make her way through the blockade, it is the habit of these observ- ers of life to rise and make room, touching their hats, while she picks her way through, and goes down the street with a pretty consciousness of the flutter she has caused. The war has not changed the Southern habit of sitting out-of-doors, but has added a new element of street picturesqueness in groups of colored people lounging about the corners. There appears to be more leisure than ever. The scene of this little lesson in horsemanship was the old town of Abingdon, in southwest Virginia, on the Virginia and East Tennessee railway ; a town of ancient respectability, which gave birth to the John- stons and Floyds and other notable people; a town that still preserves the flavor of excellent tobacco and something of the easy-going habits of the days of slavery, and is a sort of educational center, where the young ladies of the region add the final graces of in- tellectual life in moral philosophy and the use of the globes to their natural gifts. The mansion of the late _ and left Floyd is now a seminary, and not far from it is the Stonewall Jackson Institute, in the midst of a grove of splendid oaks, whose stately boles and wide-spreading branches give a dignity to educa- tional life. The distinction of the region is its superb oak-trees. As it was vacation in these institutions of learning, the travelers did not see any of the vines that traditionally cling to the oak. The Professor and the Friend of Humanity were ON HORSEBACK 141 about starting on a journey, across country south- ward, through regions about which the people of Abingdon could give little useful information. Ifthe travelers had known the capacities and resources of the country, they would not have started without a sup- ply train, or the establishment of bases of provisions in advance. But, as the Professor remarked, know- ledge is something that one acquires when he has no use forit. The horses were saddled ; the riders were equipped with flannel shirts and leather leggings; the saddle-bags were stuffed with clean linen, and novels, and sonnets of Shakespeare, and other baggage, — it would have been well if they had been stuffed with hard-tack, for in real life meat is more than raiment. The hotel, in front of which there is cultivated so much of what the Germans call sitzfleisch, is a fair type of the majority of Southern hotels, and differs from the same class in the North in being left a little more torunitself. The only information we obtained about it was from its porter at the station, who re- plied to the question, “ Is it the best?” “ We warrant you perfect satisfaction in every respect.” This seems to be only a formula of expression, for we found that the statement was highly colored. It was left to our imagination to conjecture how the big chambers of the old house, with their gaping fireplaces, might have looked when furnished and filled with gay com- pany, and we got what satisfaction we could out of a bygone bustle and mint-julep hilarity. In our strug- gles with the porter to obtain the little items of soap, water, and towels, we were convinced that we had arrived too late, and that for perfect satisfaction we 142 ON HORSEBACK should have been here before the war. It was not always as now. In colonial days the accommodations and prices at inns were regulated by law. In the old records in the court-house we read that if we had been here in 1777, we could have had a gallon of good rum for sixteen shillings ; a quart bowl of rum toddy made with loaf sugar for two shillings, or with brown sugar for one shilling and sixpence. In 1779 prices had risen. Good rum sold for four pounds a gallon. It was ordered that a warm dinner should cost twelve shillings, a cold dinner nine shillings, and a good breakfast twelve shillings. But the item that pleased us most, and made us regret our late advent, was that for two shillings we could have had a “ good lodging, with clean sheets.” The colonists were fas- tidious people. Abingdon, prettily situated on rolling hills, and a couple of thousand feet above the sea, with views of mountain peaks to the south, is a cheerful and not too exciting place for a brief sojourn, and hospitable and helpful to the stranger. We had dined —so much, at least, the public would expect of us — with a descendant of Pocahontas; we had assisted on Sunday morning at the dedication of a new brick Methodist church, the finest edifice in the region, — a dedication that took a long time, since the bishop would not proceed with it until money enough was raised in open meeting to pay the balance due on it: a religious act, though it did give a business aspect to the place at the time; and we had been the light spots in the evening service at the most aristocratic church of color. The irresponsibility of this amiable ON HORSEBACK 143 race was exhibited in the tardiness with which they assembled: at the appointed time nobody was there except the sexton; it was three quarters of an hour before the congregation began to saunter in, and the sermon was nearly over before the pews were at all filled. Perhaps the sermon was not new, but it was fervid, and at times the able preacher roared so that articulate sounds were lost in the general effect. It was precisely these passages of cataracts of sound and hard breathing which excited the liveliest responses, — “Yes, Lord,” and “Glory to God.” Most of these responses came from the “ Amen corner.” The sermon contained the usual vivid description of the last judgment-ah, and | fancied that the congregation did not get the ordinary satisfaction out of it. Fashion had entered the fold, and the singing was mostly executed bya choir in the dusky gallery, who thinly and harshly warbled the emotional hymns. It occu- pied the minister a long time to give out the notices of the week, and there was not an evening or after- noon that had not its meetings, its literary or social gathering, its picnic or fair for the benefit of the church, its Dorcas society, or some occasion of reli- gious sociability. The raising of funds appeared to be the burden on the preacher’s mind. Two collections were taken up. At the first, the boxes appeared to get no supply except from the two white trash pre- sent. But the second was more successful. After the sermon was over, an elder took his place at a table within the rails, and the real business of the evening began. Somebody in the Amen corner struck up a tune that had no end, but a mighty power of setting 144 ON HORSEBACK the congregation in motion. The leader had a voice ‘like the pleasant droning ofa bag-pipe, andthe faculty of emitting a continuous note like that instrument, without stopping to breathe. It went on and on like a Bach fugue, winding and whining its way, turning the corners of the lines of the catch without a break. The effect was soon visible in the emotional crowd : feet began to move in a regular cadence and voices to join in, with spurts of ejaculation; and soon, with an air of martyrdom, the members began to leave their seats and pass before the table and deposit their contributions. It was a cent contribution, and we found it very difficult, under the contagious influence of the hum from the Amen corner, not to rise and go forward and deposit a cent. If anything could extract the pennies from a reluctant worldling, it would be the buzzing of this tune. It went on and on, until the house appeared to be drained dry of its cash ; and we inferred by the stopping of the mel- ody that the preacher’s salary was secure for the time being. On inquiring, we ascertained that the pecu- niary flood that evening had risen to the height of a dollar and sixty cents. All was ready for the start. It should have been © early in the morning, but it was not; for Virginia is not only one of the blessed regions where one can get a late breakfast, but where it is almost impossible to get an early one. At ten a. m. the two horsemen rode away out of sight of the Abingdon spectators, down the eastern turnpike. The day was warm, but the air was full of vitality and the spirit of adventure. It was the 22d of July. The horses were not ambi- ON HORSEBACK ° 146 tious, but went on at an easy fox-trot that permits observation and encourages conversation. It had been stipulated that the horses should be good walk- ers, the one essential thing in a horseback journey. Few horses, even in a country where riding is gen- eral, are trained to walk fast. We hearmuch of horses that can walk five miles an hour, but they are as rare as white elephants. Our horses were only fair walk- ers. We realized how necessary this accomplishment is, for between the Tennessee line and Asheville, North Carolina, there is scarcely a mile of trotting- ground. We soon turned southward and descended into the Holston River Valley. Beyond lay the Tennessee hills and conspicuous White-Top Mountain (5530 feet), which has a good deal of local celebrity (stand- ing where the States of Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina corner), and had been pointed out to us at Abingdon. We had been urged, personally and by letter, to ascend this mountain, without fail. People recommend mountains to their friends as they do patent medicines. As we leisurely jogged along we discussed this, and endeavored to arrive at some rule of conduct for the journey. The Pro- fessor expressed at once a feeling about mountain- climbing that amounted to hostility, — he would go nowhere that he could not ride. Climbing was the most unsatisfactory use to which a mountain could be put. As to White-Top, it was a small mountain, and not worth ascending. The Friend of Humanity, who believes in mountain-climbing as a theory, and for other people, and knows the value of being able Io 146 ON HORSEBACK to say, without detection, that he has ascended any high mountain about which he is questioned, — since this question is the first one asked about an explo- ration in a new country,— saw that he should have to use a good deal of diplomacy to get the Professor over any considerable elevation on the trip. And he had to confess also that a view from a mountain is never so Satisfactory as a view of a mountain, from a moderate height. The Professor, however, did not argue the matter on any such reasonable ground, but took his stand on his right as a man not to ascend a mountain. With this appeal to first principles, — a position that could not be confuted on account of — its vagueness (although it might probably be demon- strated that in society man has no such right), — there was no way of agreement except by a compro- mise. It was accordingly agreed that no mountain under six thousand feet is worth ascending; that disposed of White-Top. It was further agreed that any mountain that is over six thousand feet high is too high to ascend on foot. With this amicable adjustment we forded the Holston, crossing it twice within a few miles. This upper branch of the Tennessee is a noble stream, © broad, with a rocky bed and a swift current. Ford- ing it is ticklish business except at comparatively low water, and as it 1s subject to sudden rises, there must be times when it seriously interrupts travel. This whole region, full of swift streams, is without a bridge, and, as a consequence, getting over rivers and brooks and the dangers of ferries occupy a prominent place in the thoughts of the inhabitants. ON HORSEBACK 147 The life necessarily had the “frontier” quality all through, for there can be little solid advance in civil- ization in the uncertainties of a bridgeless condition. An open, pleasant valley, the Holston, but cultiva- tion is more and more negligent and houses are few and poorer as we advance. We had left behind the hotels of “ perfect satis- faction,” and expected to live on the country, trust- ing to the infrequent but remunerated hospitality of the widely scattered inhabitants. We were to dine at Ramsey’s. Ramsey’s had been recommended to us as a royal place of entertainment, the best in all that region; and as the sun grew hot in the sandy valley, and the weariness of noon fell upon us, we magnified Ramsey’s in our imagination, — the nobil- ity of its situation, its cuisine, its inviting restfulness, —and half decided to pass the night there in the true abandon of plantation life. Long before we reached it, the Holston River which we followed had become the Laurel, a most lovely, rocky, wind- ing stream, which we forded continually, for the valley became too narrow much of the way to ac- commodate a road and ariver. Eagerly as we were looking out for it, we passed the great Ramsey’s without knowing it, for it was the first of a little settlement of two houses and a saw-mill and barn. It was a neat log house of two lower rooms and a summer kitchen, quite the best of the class that we saw, and the pleasant mistress of it made us welcome. Across the road and close to the Laurel was the spring-house, the invariable adjunct to every well- to-do house in the region, and on the stony margin 148 ON HORSEBACK of the stream was set up the big caldron for the family washing; and here, paddling in the shallow stream, while dinner was preparing, we established an intimacy with the children and exchanged philo- sophical observations on life with the old negress who was dabbling the clothes. What impressed this woman was the inequality in life. She jumped to the unwarranted conclusion that the Professor and the Friend were very rich, and spoke with asperity of the difficulty she experienced in getting shoes and tobacco. It was useless to point out to her that her al fresco life was singularly blessed and free from care, and the happy lot of any one who could loiter all day by this laughing stream, undisturbed by debt or ambition. Everybody about the place was bare- footed, except the mistress, including the comely daughter of eighteen, who served our dinner in the kitchen. The dinner was abundant, and though it seemed to us incongruous at the time, we were not twelve hours older when we looked back upon it with longing. On the table were hot biscuit, ham, pork, and green beans, apple-sauce, blackberry pre- serves, cucumbers, coffee, plenty of milk, honey, and apple and blackberry pie. Here we had our first experience, and I may say new sensation, of “ honey on pie.’ It has a cloying sound as it is written, but the handmaiden recommended it with enthusiasm, and we evidently fell in her esteem, as persons from an uncultivated society, when we declared our inex- perience of “ honey on pie.” “ Where be you from?” It turned out to be very good, and we have tried to introduce it in families since our return, with indif- ON HORSEBACK 149 ferent success. There did not seem to be in this family much curiosity about the world at large, nor much stir of social life. The gayety of madame appeared to consist in an occasional visit to paw and maw and grandmaw, up the river a few miles, where she was raised. Refreshed by the honey and fodder at Ramsey’s, the pilgrims went gayly along the musical Laurel, in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, which played upon the rapids and illumined all the woody way. Inspired by the misapprehension of the colored phi- losopher and the dainties of the dinner, the Pro- fessor soliloquized : ««So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-lockéd treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of wealth they thinly placéd are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet.”’ Five miles beyond Ramsey’s the Tennessee line was crossed. The Laurel became more rocky, swift, full of rapids, and the valley narrowed down to the river- way, with standing room, however, for stately trees along the banks. The oaks, both black and white, were, as they had been all day, gigantic in size and splendid in foliage. There is a certain dignity in riding in such stately company, and the travelers clat- tered along over the stony road under the impression of possible high adventure in a new world of such freshness. Nor was beauty wanting. The rhododen- 150 ON HORSEBACK drons had, perhaps, a week ago reached their climax, and now began to strew the water and the ground with their brilliant petals, dashing all the way with color; but they were still matchlessly beautiful. Great banks of pink and white covered the steep hillsides ; the bending stems, ten to twenty feet high, hung their rich clusters over the river; avenues of glory opened away in the glade of the stream ; and at every turn of the winding way vistas glowing with the hues of romance wrenched exclamations of delight and wonder from the Shakespearean son- neteer and his humble Friend. In the deep recesses of the forest suddenly flamed to the view, like the splashes of splendor on the somber canvas of an old Venetian, these wonders of color,—the glowing summer-heart of the woods. It was difficult to say, meantime, whether the road was laid out in the river, or the river in the road. In the few miles to Egger’s (this was the destination of our great expectations for the night) the stream © was crossed twenty-seven times,—or perhaps it would be more proper to say that the road was crossed twenty-seven times. Where the road did not run in the river, its bed was washed out and as stony as the bed of the stream. This is a general and accu- rate description of all the roads in this region, which wind along and in the streams, through narrow val- leys, shut in by low and steep hills. The country is full of springs and streams, and between Abingdon and Egger’s is only one (small) bridge. In a region with scarcely any level land or intervale, farmers are at a disadvantage. All along the road we saw ON HORSEBACK Ig nothing but mean shanties, generally of logs, with now and then a decent one-story frame, and the peo- ple looked miserably poor. As we picked our way along up the Laurel, obliged for the most part to ride single-file, or as the Pro- fessor expressed it, «* Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one,”’ we gathered information about Egger’s from the infrequent hovels on the road, which inflamed our imaginations. Egger was the thriving man of the region, and lived in style in a big brick house. We began to feel a doubt that Egger would take us in, and so much did his brick magnificence impress us that we regretted we had not brought apparel fit for the society we were about to enter. It was half-past six, and we were tired and hungry, when the domain of Egger towered in sight, —a gaunt, two-story structure of raw brick, unfinished, standing in a narrow intervale. We rode up to the gate, and asked a man who sat in the front-door porch if this was Egger’s, and if we could be accom- modated for the night. The man, without moving, allowed that it was Egger’s, and that we could prob- ably stay there. This person, however, exhibited so much indifference to our company, he was such a hairy, unkempt man, and carried on face, hands, and clothes so much more of the soil of the region than a prudent proprietor would divert from raising corn, that we set him aside as a poor relation, and asked for Mr. Egger. But the man, still without the least 152 ON HORSEBACK hospitable stir, admitted that that was the name he went by, and at length advised us to “lite” and hitch our horses, and sit on the porch with him and enjoy the cool of the evening. The horses would be put up by and by, and in fact things generally would come round some time. This turned out to be the easy way of the country. Mr. Egger was far from being inhospitable, but was in no hurry, and never had been in a hurry. He was not exactly a gentle- man of the old school. He was better than that. He dated from the time when there were no schools at all, and he lived in that placid world which is without information and ideas. Mr. Egger showed his superiority by a total lack of curiosity about any other world. This brick house, magnificent by comparison with other dwellings in this country, seemed to us, on nearer acquaintance, only a thin, crude shell of a house, half unfinished, with bare rooms, the plastering already discolored. In point of furnishing it had not yet reached the “‘ God bless our Home” stage in crewel. In the narrow meadow, a strip of vivid green south of the house, ran a little stream, fed by a copi- © ous spring, and over it was built the inevitable spring- house. A post, driven into the bank by the stream, supported a tin wash-basin, and here we performed our ablutions. The traveler gets to like this freedom and primitive luxury. The farm of Egger produces corn, wheat, grass, and sheep; it is a good enough farm, but most of it lies at an angle of thirty-five to forty degrees. The ridge back of the house, planted in corn, was ON HORSEBACK 153 as steep as the roof of his dwelling. It seemed in- credible that it ever could have been plowed, but the proprietor assured us that it was plowed with mules, and I judged that the harvesting must be done by squirrels. The soil is good enough, if it would stay in place, but all the hillsides are seamed with gullies. The discolored state of the streams was accounted for as soon as we saw this cultivated land. No sooner is the land cleared of trees and broken up than it begins to wash. We saw more of this later, especially in North Carolina, where we encoun- tered no stream of water that was not muddy, and saw no cultivated ground that was not washed. The process of denudation is going on rapidly wherever the original forests are girdled (a common way of preparing for crops), or cut away. As the time passed and there was no sign of sup- per, the question became a burning one, and we went to explore the kitchen. No sign of it there. No fire in the stove, nothing cooked in the house, of course. Mrs. Egger and her comely young bare- footed daughter had still the milking to attend to, and supper must wait for the other chores. It seemed easier to be Mr. Egger, in this state of existence, and sit on the front porch and meditate on the price of mules and the prospect of a crop, than to be Mrs. Egger, whose work was not limited from sun to sun; who had, in fact, a day’s work to do after the men-folks had knocked off; whose chances of neighborhood gossip were scanty, whose amusements were confined toa religious meeting once a fortnight. Good, honest people these, not unduly puffed up 154 ON HORSEBACK by the brick house, grubbing away year in and year out. Yes, the young girl said, there was a neighbor- hood party, now and then, in the winter. What a price to pay for mere life! Long before supper was ready, nearly nine o'clock, we had almost lost interest in it. Meantime two other guests had arrived, a couple of drovers from North Carolina, who brought into the circle — by this time a wood-fire had been kindled in the sitting- room, which contained a bed, an almanac, and some old copies of a newspaper— a rich flavor of cattle, and talk of the price of steers. As to politics, although a presidential campaign was raging, there was scarcely an echo of it here. This was Johnson County, Tennessee, a strong Republican county ; but dog-gone it, says Mr. Egger, it’s no use to vote ; our votes are overborne by the rest of the State. Yes, they’d got a Republican member of Con- gress,— he ’d heard his name, but he ’d forgotten it. The drover said he ’d heard it also, but he didn’t take much interest in such things, though he was n’t any Republican. Parties is pretty much all for office, both agreed. Even the Professor, who was traveling in the interest of Reform, could n’t wake up a discus- sion out of such a state of mind. Alas ! the supper, served in a room dimly lighted with a smoky lamp, ona long table covered with oilcloth, was not of the sort to arouse the delayed and now gone appetite of a Reformer, and yet it did not lack variety: corn-pone (Indian meal stirred up with water and heated through), hot biscuit, slack- baked and livid, fried salt-pork swimming in grease, ON HORSEBACK 155 apple-butter, pickled beets, onions and cucumbers raw, coffee (so-called), buttermilk, and sweet milk when specially asked for (the correct taste, however, is for buttermilk), and pie. This was not the pie of commerce, but the pie of the country, — two thick slabs of dough, with a squeezing of apple between. The profusion of this supper staggered the novices, but the drovers attacked it as if such cooking were a common occurrence, and did justice to the weary labors of Mrs. Egger. Egger is well prepared to entertain strangers, hav- ing several rooms and several beds in each room. Upon consultation with the drovers, they said they ’d just as soon occupy an apartment by themselves, and we gave up their society for the night. The beds in our chamber had each one sheet, and the room other- wise gave evidence of the modern spirit; for in one corner stood the fashionable esthetic decoration of our Queen Anne drawing-rooms,—the spinning- wheel. Soothed by this concession to taste, we crowded in between the straw and the home-made blanket and sheet, and soon ceased to hear the barking of dogs and the horned encounters of the drovers’ herd. We parted with Mr. Egger after breakfast (which was a close copy of the supper) with more respect than regret. His total charge for the entertainment of two men and two horses— supper, lodging, and breakfast — was high or low, as the traveler chose to estimate it. It was $1.20: that is, thirty cents for each individual, or ten cents for each meal and lodging. 156 ON HORSEBACK Our road was a sort of by-way up Gentry Creek and over the Cut Laurel Gap to Worth’s, at Creston Post Office, in North Carolina, — the next available halting place, said to be fifteen miles distant, and turning out to be twenty-two, and a rough road. There is a little settlement about Egger’s, and the first half mile of our way we had the company of the schoolmistress, a modest, pleasant-spoken girl. Neither she nor any other people we encountered had any dialect or local peculiarity of speech. Indeed, those we encountered that morning had nothing in manner or accent to distinguish them. The novelists had led us to expect something different; and the modest and pretty young lady with frank and open blue eyes, who wore gloves and used the common English speech, had never figured in the fiction of the region. Cherished illusions vanish often on near approach. The day gave no peculiarity of speech to note, except the occasional use of “hit” for “it.” The road over Cut Laurel Gap was very steep and stony, the therrmometer mounted up to 80’, and, notwithstanding the beauty of the way, the ride became tedious before we reached the summit. On the summit is the dwelling and distillery of a colonel famous in these parts. We stopped at the house for a glass of milk; the colonel was absent, and while the woman in charge went after it, we sat on the veranda and conversed with a young lady, tall, gent, well favored, and communicative, who leaned in the doorway. “‘ Yes, this house stands on the line. Where you sit, you are in Tennessee; I’m in North Carolina.” ON HORSEBACK as. “Do you live here?” “ Law, no; I’m just staying a little while at the colonel’s. I live over the mountain here, three miles from Taylorsville. I thought I’d be where I could step into North Carolina easy.” “ How’s that?” “Well, they wanted me to go before the grand jury and testify about some pistol-shooting down by - our house, —some friends of mine got into a little difficulty, —and I didn’t want to. I never has no difficulty with nobody, never says nothing about © nobody, has nothing against nobody, and I reckon nobody has nothing against me.” “Did you come alone?” “Why, of course. I come across the mountain by a path through the woods. That’s nothing.” A discreet, pleasant, pretty girl. This surely must be the Esmeralda who lives in these mountains, and adorns low life by her virgin purity and sentiment. As she talked on, she turned from time to time to the fireplace behind her, and discharged a dark fluid from her pretty lips, with accuracy of aim, and with a nonchalance that was not assumed, but belongs to our free-born American girls. I cannot tell why this habit of hers (which is no worse than the sister habit of “ dipping’’) should take her out of the romantic setting that her face and figure had placed her in; but somehow we felt inclined to ride on farther for our heroine. «And yet,” said the Professor, as we left the site of the colonel’s thriving distillery, and by a winding, picturesque road through a rough farming country 158 ON HORSEBACK descended into the valley, — ‘and yet, why fling aside so readily a character and situation so full of romance, on account of a habit of this mountain Helen, which one of our best poets has almost made poetical, in the case of the pioneer taking his west- ward way, with ox-goad pointing to the sky: << « He’s leaving on the pictured rock His fresh tobacco stain.’ “To my mind the incident has Homeric elements. The Greeks would have looked at it in a large, legendary way. Here is Helen, strong and lithe of limb, ox-eyed, courageous, but woman-hearted and love-inspiring, contended for by all the braves and daring moonshiners of Cut Laurel Gap, pursued by the gallants of two States, the prize of a border warfare of bowie knives and revolvers. This Helen, magnanimous as attractive, is the witness of a pis- tol difficulty on her behalf, and when wanted by the areopagus, that she may neither implicate a lover nor punish an enemy (having nothing, this noble type of her sex, against nobody), skips away to Mount Ida, and there, under the egis of the flag of her country, ° in a Licensed Distillery, stands with one slender foot in Tennessee and the other in North Carolina” — “ Like the figure of the Republic itself, superior to state sovereignty,” interposed the Friend. “I beg your pardon,” said the Professor, urging up Laura Matilda (for so he called the nervous mare, _ who fretted herself into a fever in the stony path), “TY was quite able to get the woman out of that position without the aid of a metaphor. It is a large ON HORSEBACK 159 and Greek idea, that of standing in two mighty States, superior to the law, looking east and looking west, ready to transfer her agile body to either State on the approach of messengers of the court; and I'll be hanged if I didn’t think that her nonchalant rumi- nation of the weed, combined with her lofty moral attitude, added something to the picture.” The Friend said that he was quite willing to join in the extremest defense of the privileges of beauty, —that he even held in abeyance judgment on the practice of dipping; but when it came to chewing, gum was as far as he could go as an allowance for the fair sex. «s When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment ’’— The rest of the stanza was lost, for the Professor was splashing through the stream. No sooner had we descended than the fording of streams began again. The Friend had been obliged to stipulate that the Professor should go ahead at these crossings, to keep the impetuous nag of the latter from throwing half the contents of the stream upon his slower and un- complaining companion. What a lovely country, but for the heat of noon and the long wearisomeness of the way ! — not that the distance was great, but miles and miles more than expected. How charming the open glades of the river, how refreshing the great forests of oak and chestnut, and what a panorama of beauty the banks of rhododendrons, now intermingled with the lighter pink and white of the laurel! In this region the 160 ON HORSEBACK rhododendron is called laurel, and the laurel (the sheep-laurel of New England) is called ivy. At Worth’s, well on in the afternoon, we emerged into a wide, open farming intervale, a pleasant place of meadows and streams and decent dwellings. Worth’s is the trading center of the region, has a post office and a saw-mill and a big country store; and the dwelling of the proprietor is not unlike a roomy New England country house. Worth’s has been immemorially a stopping-place in a region where places of accommodation are few. The pro- prietor, now an elderly man, whose reminiscences are long ante bellum, has seen the world grow up about him, he the honored, just center of it, and a family come up into the modern notions of life, with a boarding-school education and glimpses of city life and foreign travel. I fancy that nothing but tradition and a remaining Southern hospitality could induce this private family to suffer the incursions of this wayfaring man. Our travelers are not apt to be surprised at anything in American life, but they did not expect to find a house in this region with two pianos and a bevy of young ladies, whose clothes were certainly not made on Cut Laurel Gap, and to read in the books scattered about the house the evidences of the finishing schools with which our country is blessed, nor to find here pupils of the Stonewall Jackson Institute at Abingdon. With a flush of local pride, the Professor took up, in the roomy, pleasant chamber set apart for the guests, a copy of Porter’s “ Elements of Moral Science.” “Where yousee the ‘ Elements of Moral Science,’” ON HORSEBACK 161 the Friend generalized, “there ’ll be plenty of water and towels;” and the sign did not fail. The friends intended to read this book in the cool of the day; but as they sat on the long veranda, the voice of a maiden reading the latest novel to a sewing group behind the blinds in the drawing-room ; and the antics of amule and a boy in front of the store opposite ; and the arrival of a spruce young man, who had just ridden over from somewhere, a matter of ten miles’ gallop, to get a medicinal potion for his sick mother, and lingered chatting with the young ladies until we began to fear that his mother would recover before his return; the coming and going of lean women in shackly wagons to trade at the store ; the coming home of the cows, splashing through the stream, hooking right and left, and lowing for the hand of the milker,—all these interruptions, together with the generally drowsy quiet of the approach of evening, interfered with the study of the Elements. And when the travelers, after a refreshing rest, went on their way next morning, considering the Ele- ments and the pianos and the refinement, to say nothing of the cuisine, which is not treated of in the text-book referred to, they were content with a bill double that of brother Egger, in his brick mag- nificence. The simple truth is, that the traveler in this re- gion must be content to feed on natural beauties. And it is an unfortunate truth in natural history that the appetite for this sort of diet fails after a time, if the inner man is not supplied with other sort of food. There is no landscape in the world that is J 43 162 ON HORSEBACK agreeable after two days of rusty bacon and slack biscuit. “ How lovely this would be,” exclaimed the Pro- fessor, “if it had a background of beefsteak and conee |)’ We were riding along the west fork of the Laurel, _ distinguished locally as Three Top Creek, — or, rather, we were riding in it, crossing it thirty-one times within six miles ; a charming wood (and water) road, under the shade of fine trees, with the rhodo- dendron illuminating the way, gleaming in the forest and reflected in the stream, all the ten miles to Elk Cross Roads, our next destination. We had heard a great deal about Elk Cross Roads ; it was on the map, it was down in the itinerary furnished by a member of the Coast Survey. We looked forward to it asa sweet place of repose from the noontide heat. Alas! Elk Cross Roads is a dirty grocery store, encumbered with dry-goods boxes, fly-blown goods, flies, loafers. In reply to our inquiry we were told that they had nothing to eat, for us, and not a grain of feed for the horses. But there was a man a mile farther on, who was well to do and had stores of food, — old man Tatem would treat us in bang-up style. The difficulty of getting feed for the horses was chronic all through the journey. The last corn crop had failed, the new oats and corn had not come ‘in, and the country was literally barren. We had noticed all along that the hens were taking a vacation, and that chickens were not put forward as an article of diet. We were unable, when we reached the residence of old man Tatem, to imagine how the local super- ON HORSEBACK 163 stition of his wealth arose. His house is of logs, with two rooms, a kitchen and a spare room, with a low loft accessible by a ladder at the side of the chimney. The chimney is a huge construction of stone, sepa- rating the two parts of the house ; in fact, the chim- ney was built first, apparently, and the two rooms were then built against it. The proprietor sat ina . little railed veranda. These Southern verandas give an air to the meanest dwelling, and they are much used ; the family sit here, and here are the wash- basin and pail (which is filled from the neighboring spring-house), and the row of milk-pans. The old man Tatem did not welcome us with enthusiasm ; he had no corn, —these were hard times. He looked like hard times, grizzled times, dirty times. It seemed time out of mind since he had seen comb or razor, and although the lovely New River, along which we had ridden to his house, —a broad, inviting stream, — was in sight across the meadow, there was no evi- dence that he had ever made acquaintance with its cleansing waters. As to corn, the necessities of the case and pay being dwelt on, perhaps he could find a dozen ears. A dozen small ears he did find, and we trust that the horses found them. _ Wetooka family dinner with old man Tatem in the kitchen, where there was a bed and a stove, —a meal that the host seemed to enjoy, but which we could not make much of, except the milk ; that was good. A painful meal, on the whole, owing to the presence in the roomof a grown-up daughter with a graveyard cough, without physician or medicine, or comforts. Poor girl! just dying of “a misery.” 16aee ON HORSEBACK In the spare room were two beds; the walls were decorated with the gay-colored pictures of patent- medicine advertisements — a favorite art adornment of the region ; and a pile of ancient illustrated papers with the usual patent-office report, the thoughtful gift of the member for the district. The old man takes in the “ Blue Ridge Baptist,” a journal which we found largely taken up with the experiences of its editor on his journeys roundabout in search of sub- scribers. This newspaper was the sole communication of the family with the world at large, but the old man thought he should stop it, — he did n’t seem to get the worth of his money out of it. And old man Ta- tem was a thrifty and provident man. On the hearth in this best room — as ornaments or memento mori — were a couple of marble gravestones, a short head- stone and foot-stone, mounted on bases and ready for use, except the lettering. These may not have been so mournful and significant as they looked, nor the evidence of simple, humble faith; they may have been taken for debt. But as parlor ornaments they had a fascination which we could not escape. It was while we were bathing in the New River, that afternoon, and meditating on the grim, unre- lieved sort of life of our host, that the Professor said, “« Judging by the face of the ‘Blue Ridge Baptist,’ he will charge us smartly for the few nubbins of corn and the milk.” The face did not deceive us; the charge was one dollar. At this rate it would have broken us to have tarried with old man Tatem (perhaps he is not old, but that is the ‘name he goes by) over night. ON HORSEBACK 165 It was a hot afternoon, and it needed some cour- age to mount and climb the sandy hill leading us away from the corn-crib of Tatem. But we entered almost immediately into fine stretches of forest, and rode under the shade of great oaks. The way, which began by the New River, soon led us over the hills to the higher levels of Watauga County. So far on our journey we had been hemmed in by low hills, and without any distant or mountain outlooks. The excessive heat seemed out of place at the elevation of over two thousand feet, on which we were traveling. Boone, the county seat of Watauga County, was our destination, and, ever since morning, the guide- boards and the trend of the roads had notified us that everything in this region tends towards Boone as a center of interest. The simple ingenuity of some of the guide-boards impressed us. If, on coming to a fork, the traveler was to turn to the right, the sign read, To Boone 10 M. If he was to go to the left, it read, .M or ENOOB oT A short ride of nine miles, on an ascending road, through an open, unfenced forest region, brought us long before sundown to this capital. When we had ridden into its single street, which wanders over gentle hills, and landed at the most promising of the taverns, the Friend informed his comrade that Boone was 3250 feet above Albemarle Sound, and believed by its inhabitants to be the highest village east of the Rocky Mountains. The Professor said that it might 166 ON HORSEBACK be so, but it was a God-forsaken place. Its inhabit- ants numbered perhaps two hundred and fifty, a few of them colored. It had a gaunt, shaky court-house and jail, a store or two, and two taverns. The two taverns are needed to accommodate the judges and lawyers and their clients during the session of the court. The court is the only excitement and the only amusement. It is the event from which other events date. Everybody in the county knows exactly when court sits, and when court breaks. During the ses- sion the whole county is practically in Boone, men, women, and children. They camp there, they attend the trials, they take sides ; half of them, perhaps, are witnesses, for the region is litigious, and the neighbor- hood quarrels are entered into with spirit. To be fond of lawsuits seems a characteristic of an isolated people in new conditions. The early settlers of New England were. Notwithstanding the elevation of Boone, which insured a pure air, the thermometer that afternoon stood at from 85° to 89°. The flies enjoyed it. How they swarmed in this tavern! They would have car- ried off all the food from the dining-room table (for flies do not mind eating off oilcloth, and are not particular how food is cooked), but for the machine with hanging flappers that swept the length of it; and they destroy all possibility of sleep except in the dark. The mountain regions of North Carolina are free from mosquitoes, but the fly has settled there, and is the universal scourge. This tavern, one end of which was a store, had a veranda in front, and a back gallery, where there were evidences of female ON HORSEBACK 167 refinement in pots of plants and flowers. The land- lord himself kept tavern very much as a hostler would, but we had to make a note in his favor that he had never heard of a milk punch. And it might as well be said here, for it will have to be insisted on later, that the traveler, who has read about the illicit stills till his imagination dwells upon the indulgence of his vitiated tastes in the mountains of North Car- olina, is doomed to disappointment. If he wants to make himself an exception to the sober people whose cooking will make him long for the maddening bowl, he must bring his poison with him. We had found no bread since we left Virginia ; we had seen corn- meal and water, slack-baked ; we had seen potatoes fried in grease, and bacon incrusted with salt (all thirst-provokers), but nothing to drink stronger than buttermilk. And we can say that, so far as our example is concerned, we left the country as temper- ate as we found it. How can there be mint juleps (to go into details) without ice? and in the summer there is probably not a pound of ice in all the State north of Buncombe County. There is nothing special to be said about Boone. We were anxious to reach it, we were glad to leave it; we note as to all these places that our joy at departing always exceeds that on arriving, which is a merciful provision of nature for people who must keep moving. This country is settled by genuine Americans, who have the aboriginal primitive traits of the universal Yankee nation. The front porch in the morning resembled a carpenter’s shop; it was literally covered with the whittlings of the row of 168 ON HORSEBACK natives who had spent the evening there in the seda- tive occupation of whittling. We took that morning a forest road to Valle Crusis, seven miles, through noble growths of oaks, chestnuts, hemlocks, rhododendrons, — a charming wood road, leading to a place that, as usual, did not keep the promise of its name. Walle Crusis has a blacksmith shop and a dirty, fly-blown store. While the Professor consulted the blacksmith about a loose shoe, the Friend carried his weariness of life with- out provisions up to a white house on the hill, and negotiated for boiled milk. This house was occu- pied by flies. They must have numbered millions, settled in black swarms, covering tables, beds, walls, the veranda; the kitchen was simply a hive of them. The only book in sight, Whewell’s “ Elements of Morality,’ seemed to attract flies. Query, Why should this have such a different effect from Por- ter’s? A white house, —a pleasant-looking house at a distance, amiable, kindly people in it, — why should we have arrived there on its dirty day? Alas! if we had been starving, Valle Crusis had nothing to. offer us. So we rode away, in the blazing heat, no poetry exuding from the Professor, eight miles to Banner’s Elk, crossing a mountain and passing under Hang- ing Rock, a conspicuous feature in the landscape, and the only outcropping of rock we had seen: the. face of a ledge, rounded up into the sky, with a green hood on it. From the summit we had the first extensive prospect during our journey. The road can be described as awful, — steep, stony, the horses ON HORSEBACK 169 unable to make two miles an hour on it. Now and then we encountered a rude log cabin without barns or outhouses, and a little patch of feeble corn. The women who regarded the passers from their cabin doors were frowzy and looked tired. What with the heat and the road and this discouraged appearance of humanity, we reached the residence of Dugger, at Banner’s Elk, to which we had been directed, nearly exhausted. It is no use to represent this as a dash across country on impatient steeds. It was not so. The love of truth is stronger than the desire of display. And for this reason it is impossible to say that Mr. Dugger, who is an excellent man, lives in a clean and attractive house, or that he offers much that the pampered child of civilization can eat. But we shall not forget the two eggs, fresh from the hens, whose temperature must have been above the nor- mal, nor the spring-house in the glen, where we found a refuge from the flies and the heat. The higher we go, the hotter it is. Banner’s Elk boasts an elevation of thirty-five to thirty-seven hundred feet. We were not sorry, towards sunset, to descend along the Elk River towards Cranberry Forge. The Elk is a lovely stream, and, though not very clear, has a reputation for trout; but all this region was under operation of a three-years game law, to give the trout a chance to multiply, and we had no opportunity to test the value of its reputation. Yet a boy whom we encountered had a good string of ‘quarter-pound trout, which he had taken out with a hook and a feather rudely tied on it, to resemble a fly. The road, though not to be commended, was much 170 ON HORSEBACK better than that of the morning, the forests grew charming in the cool of the evening, the whippoor- will sang, and as night fell the wanderers, in want of nearly everything that makes life desirable, stopped at the Iron Company’s hotel, under the impres- sion that it was the only comfortable hotel in North Carolina. II of civilization fairly driven into the north- west mountains of North Carolina. A narrow- gauge railway, starting from Johnson City, follows up the narrow gorge of the Doe River, and pushes into the heart of the iron mines at Cranberry, where there is a blast furnace; and where a big company store, rows of tenement houses, heaps of slag and refuse ore, interlacing tracks, raw embankments, denuded hillsides, and a blackened landscape, are the signs of a great devastating American enterprise. The Cranberry iron is in great esteem, as it has the peculiar quality of the Swedish iron. There are re- mains of old furnaces lower down the stream, which we passed on our way. The present “plant” is that of a Philadelphia company, whose enterprise has infused new life into all this region, made it access- ible, and spoiled some pretty scenery. When we alighted, weary, at the gate of the pretty hotel, which crowns a gentle hill and commands a pleasing, evergreen prospect of many gentle hills, a mile or so below the works, and wholly removed from all sordid associations, we were at the point of willingness that the whole country should be devastated by civilization. In the local imagination (Jor cvitzation FORGE is the first wedge 172 ON HORSEBACK this hotel of the company is a palace of unequaled magnificence, but probably its good taste, com- fort, and quiet elegance are not appreciated after ail. There is this to be said about Philadelphia, — and it will go far in pleading for it in the Last Day against its monotonous rectangularity and the babel- like ambition of its Public Building, —that wherever its influence extends, there will be found comforta- ble lodgings and the luxury of an undeniably excel- lent cuisine. The visible seal that Philadelphia sets on its enterprise all through the South is a good hotel. This Cottage Beautiful has on two sides a wide veranda, set about with easy chairs; cheerful par- lors and pretty chambers, finished in native woods, among which are conspicuous the satin stripes of the cucumber-tree; luxurious beds, and an inviting table, ordered by a Philadelphia landlady, who knows a beefsteak from a boot-tap. Is it “low” to dwell upon these things of the senses, when one is on a tour in search of the picturesque? Let the reader ride from Abingdon through a wilderness of corn- pone and rusty bacon, and then judge. There were, to be sure, novels lying about, and newspapers, and fragments of information to be picked up about a world into which the travelers seemed to emerge. They, at least, were satisfied, and went off to their rooms with the restful feeling that they had arrived somewhere, and no unquiet spirit at morn would say “to horse.” To sleep, perchance to dream of Tatem and his household cemetery ; and the Pro- fessor was heard muttering in his chamber, ON HORSEBACK 173 ‘* Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body’s work ’s expir’d.”’ The morning was warm (the elevation of the hotel must be between twenty-five hundred and three thousand feet), rainy, mildly rainy ; and the travelers had nothing better to do than lounge upon the veranda, read feeble ten-cent fictions, and admire the stems of the white birches, glistening in the moisture, and the rhododendron-trees, twenty feet high, which were shaking off their last pink blossoms, and look down into the valley of the Doe. It is not an excit- ing landscape, nothing bold or specially wild in it, but restful with the monotony of some of the wooded Pennsylvania hills. Sunday came up smiling, a lovely day, but offer- ing no church privileges, for the ordinance of preach- ing is only occasional in this region. The ladies of the hotel have, however, gathered in the valley a Sunday-school of fifty children from the mountain cabins. A couple of rainy days, with the thermome- ter rising to 80°, combined with natural laziness to detain the travelers in this cottage of ease. They enjoyed this the more because it was on their con- sciences that they should visit Linville Falls, some twenty-five miles eastward, long held up before them as the most magnificent feature of this region, and on no account to be omitted. Hence, naturally, a strong desire to omit it. The Professor takes bold ground against these abnormal freaks of nature, and it was nothing to him that the public would demand 174 ON HORSEBACK that we should see Linville Falls. In the first place, we could find no one who had ever seen them, and we spent two days in catechizing natives and stran- gers. The nearest we came to information was from a workman at the furnace, who was born and raised within three miles of the Falls. He had heard of people going there. He had never seen them him- self. It was a good twenty-five miles there, over the worst road in the State — wed think it thirty before we got there. Fifty miles of such travel to see a little water run down-hill! The travelers reflected. Every country has a local waterfall of which it boasts; they had seen a great many. One more would add little to the experience of life. The vagueness of information, to be sure, lured the trav- elers to undertake the journey; but the temptation was resisted — something ought to be left for the next explorer — and so Linville remains a thing of the imagination. ; Towards evening, July 29, between showers, the Professor and the Friend rode along the narrow- gauge road, down Johnson’s Creek, to Roan Station, the point of departure for ascending Roan Moun- ° tain. It was a ride of an hour and a half over a fair road, fringed with rhododendrons, nearly blossom- less; but at a point on the stream this sturdy shrub had formed a long bower whereunder a table might have been set for a temperance picnic, completely overgrown with wild grape, and still gay with bloom. The habitations on the way are mostly board shan- ties and mean frame cabins, but the railway is intro- ducing ambitious architecture here and there in the ON HORSEBACK 176 form of ornamental filigree work on flimsy houses; ornamentation is apt to precede comfort in our civil- ization. Roan Station is on the Doe River (which flows down from Roan Mountain), and is marked at 2650 feet above the sea. The visitor will find here a good hotel, with open wood fires (not ungrateful ina July evening), and obliging people. This railway from Johnson City, hanging on the edge of the precipices that wall the gorge of the Doe, is counted in this region by the inhabitants one of the engineering wonders of the world. The tourist is urged by all means to see both it and Linville Falls. The tourist on horseback, in search of exercise and recreation, is not probably expected to take stock of moral conditions. But this Mitchell County, although it was a Union county during the war and is Repub- lican in politics (the Southern reader will perhaps prefer another adverb to “although’’), has had the worst possible reputation. The mountains were hid- ing-places of illicit distilleries; the woods were full of grog-shanties, where the inflaming fluid was sold as “native brandy,” quarrels and neighborhood diffi- culties were frequent, and the knife and pistol were used on the slightest provocation. Fights arose about boundaries and the title to mica mines, and with the revenue officers ; and force was the arbiter of all dis- putes. Within the year four murders were committed in the sparsely settled county. Travel on any of the roads was unsafe. The tone of morals was what might be expected with such lawlessness. A lady who came up on the road on the 4th of July, when an excur- 176 ON HORSEBACK sion party of country people took possession of the cars, witnessed a scene and heard language past be- lief. Men, women, and children drank from whisky bottles that continually circulated, and a wild orgy resulted. Profanity, indecent talk on topics that even the license of the sixteenth century would not have tolerated, and freedom of manners that even Teniers would have shrunk from putting on canvas, made the journey horrible. The unrestrained license of whisky and assault and murder had produced a reaction a few months previous to our visit. The people had risen up in their indignation and broken up the groggeries. So far as we observed temperance prevailed, backed by public opinion. In our whole ride through the moun- tain region we saw only one or two places where liquor was sold. It is called twelve miles from Roan Station to Roan Summit. The distance is probably nearer four- teen, and our horses were five hours in walking it. For six miles the road runs by Doe River, here a pretty brook shaded with laurel and rhodo- dendron, and a few cultivated patches of ground, and infrequent houses. It was a blithe morning, and the horsemen would have given full indulgence to the spirit of adventure but for the attitude of the Pro- fessor towards mountains. It was not with him a mat- ter of feeling, but of principle, not to ascend them. But here lay Roan, a long, sprawling ridge, lifting itself 6250 feet up into the sky. Impossible to go around it, and the other side must be reached. The Professor was obliged to surrender, and surmount a ON HORSEBACK i777 difficulty which he could not philosophize out of his mind. From the base of the mountain a road is very well engineered, in easy grades for carriages, to the top; but it was in poor repair and stony. We mounted slowly through splendid forests, specially of fine chestnuts and hemlocks. This big timber continues till within a mile and a half of the summit by the wind- ing road, really within a short distance of the top. Then there is a narrow belt of scrubby hardwood, moss-grown, and then large balsams, which crown the mountain. As soon as we came out upon the southern slope we found great open spaces, covered with suc- culent grass, and giving excellent pasturage to cattle. These rich mountain meadows are found on all the heights of this region. The surface of Roan is uneven, and has no one culminating peak that commands the country, like the peak of Mount Washington, but several eminences within its range of probably a mile and a half, where various views can be had. Near the highest point, sheltered from the north by balsams, . stands a house of entertainment, with a detached cottage, looking across the great valley to the Black Mountain range. The surface of the mountain is pebbly, but few rocks crop out; no ledges of any size are seen except at a distance from the hotel, on the north side, and the mountain consequently lacks that savage, unsubduable aspect which the White Hills of New Hampshire have. It would, in fact, have been dificult to realize that we were over six thousand feet above the sea, except for that pallor in the sun- light, that atmospheric thinness and want of color 12 178 ON HORSEBACK which is an unpleasant characteristic of high altitudes. To be sure, there is a certain brilliancy in the high air, —it is apt to be foggy on Roan, —and objects appear in sharp outline, but I have often experienced on such places that feeling of melancholy, which would, of course, deepen upon us all if we were sensible that the sun was gradually withdrawing its power of warmth and light. The black balsam is neither a cheerful nor a picturesque tree; the frequent rains and mists on Roan keep the grass and mosses green, but the ground damp. Doubtless a high mountain covered with vegetation has its compen- sation, but for me the naked granite rocks in sun and shower are more cheerful. The advantage of Roan is that one can live there and be occupied for a long time in mineral and botan- ical study. Its mild climate, moisture, and great elevation make it unique in this country for the bot- anist. The variety of plants assembled there is very large, and there are many, we were told, never or rarely found elsewhere in the United States. At any rate, the botanists rave about Roan Mountain, and spend weeks at a time on it. We found there ladies » who could draw for us Grey’s lily (then passed), and had kept specimens of the rhododendron (not grow- ing elsewhere in this region) which has a deep red, almost purple color. The hotel (since replaced by a good house) was a rude mountain structure, with a couple of comfort- able rooms for office and sitting-room, in which big wood fires were blazing ; for though the thermometer might record 60°, as it did when we arrived, fire was ™ ra ON HORSEBACK 179 welcome. Sleeping-places partitioned off in the loft above gave the occupants a feeling of camping out, all the conveniences being primitive; and when the wind rose in the night and darkness, and the loose boards rattled and the timbers creaked, the sensation was not unlike that of being at sea. The hotel was satisfactorily kept, and Southern guests, from as far south as New Orleans, were spending the season there, and not finding time hang heavy on their hands. This statement is perhaps worth more than pages of description as to the character of Roan, and its contrast to Mount Washington. The summer weather is exceedingly uncertain on all these North Carolina mountains; theyare apt at any moment to be enveloped in mist; and it would rather rain on them than not. On the afternoon of our arrival there was fine air and fair weather, but not a clear sky. The distance was hazy, but the outlines were preserved. We could see White Top, in Vir- ginia; Grandfather Mountain, a long serrated range ; the twin towers of Linville; and the entire range of the Black Mountains, rising from the valley, and apparently lower than we were. They get the name of Black from the balsams which cover the summits. The rain on Roan was of less annoyance by reason of the delightful company assembled at the hotel, which was in a manner at home there, and, thrown upon its own resources, came out uncommonly strong in agreeableness. There was a fiddle in the house, which had some of the virtues of that celebrated in the history of old Mark Langston; the Professor was enabled to produce anything desired out of the 180 ON HORSEBACK literature of the eighteenth century ; and what with the repartee of bright women, big wood fires, reading, and chat, there was no dull day or evening on Roan. I can fancy, however, that it might tire in time, if one were not a botanist, without the resource of women’s society. he ladies staying here were probably all accomplished botanists, and the writer is indebted to one of them for a list of plants found on Roan, among which is an interesting weed, catalogued as Humana, perplexia negligens. ‘The species is, however, common elsewhere. The second morning opened, aftera night of high wind, with a thunder-shower. After it passed, the visitors tried to reach Eagle Cliff, two miles off, whence an extensive western prospect is had, but were driven back by a tempest, and rain practically occupied the day. Now and then through the parted clouds we got a glimpse of a mountain-side, or the gleam of a valley. On the lower mountains, at wide intervals apart, were isolated settlements, commonly a wretched cabin and a spot of girdled trees. A clergyman here, not long ago, undertook to visit some of these cabins and carry his message to them. ‘In one wretched hut of logs he found a poor woman, with whom, after conversation on serious subjects, he desired to pray. She offered no objection, and he kneeled down and prayed. The woman heard him, and watched him for some moments with curiosity, in an effort to ascertain what he was doing, and then sald : “Why, a man did that when he put my girl ina hole.” ON HORSEBACK 181 Towards night the wind hauled round from the south to the northwest, and we went to High Bluff, a pointon the north edge, where some rocks are piled up above the evergreens, to get a view of the sun- set. In every direction the mountains were clear, and a view was obtained of the vast horizon and the hills and lowlands of several States — a continental prospect, scarcely anywhere else equaled for variety or distance. The grandeur of mountains depends mostly on the state of the atmosphere. Grandfather loomed up much more loftily than the day before, the giant range of the Blacks asserted itself in grim inac- cessibility, and we could see, a small pyramid on the southwest horizon, King’s Mountain in South Caro- lina, estimated to be distant one hundred and fifty miles. To the north Roan falls from this point abruptly, and we had, like a map below us, the low country all the way into Virginia. The clouds lay like lakes in the valleys of the lower hills, and in every direction were ranges of mountains wooded to the summits. Off to the west by south lay the Great Smoky Mountains, disputing eminence with the Blacks. Magnificent and impressive as the spectacle was, we were obliged to contrast it unfavorably with that of the White Hills. The rock here is a sort of sand or pudding stone; there is no limestone or granite. And all the hills are tree-covered. To many this clothing of verdure is most restful and pleasing. I missed the sharp outlines, the delicate artistic sky lines, sharply defined in uplifted bare granite peaks and ridges, with the purple and violet color of the 182 ON HORSEBACK northern mountains, and which it seems to me that limestone and granite formations give. There are none of the great gorges and awful abysses of the White Mountains, both valleys and mountains here being more uniform in outline. There are few preci- pices and jutting crags, and less is visible of the giant ribs and bones of the planet. Yet Roan isa noble mountain. A lady from Ten- nessee asked me if I had ever seen anything to com- pare with it — she thought there could be nothing in the world. One has to dodge this sort of question in the South occasionally, not to offend a just local pride. It is certainly one of the most habitable of big mountains. It is roomy on top, there is space to move about without too great fatigue, and one might pleasantly spend a season there, if he had agreeable company and natural tastes. Getting down from Roan on the south side is not as easy as ascending on the north; the road for five miles to the foot of the mountain is merely a river of pebbles, gullied by the heavy rains, down which the horses picked their way painfully. The travelers endeavored to present a dashing and cavalier appear- ance to the group of ladies who waved good-by from the hotel, as they took their way over the waste and wind-blown declivities, but it was only a show, for the horses would neither caracole nor champ the bit (at a dollar a day) down-hill over the slippery stones, and, truth to tell, the wanderers turned with regret from the society of leisure and persiflage to face the wilderness of Mitchell County. “‘ How heavy,” exclaimed the Professor, pricking ON HORSEBACK 183 Laura Matilda to call her attention sharply to her footing — «< How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek — my weary travel’s end — Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, « Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend!’ The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind; My grief lies onward and my joy behind.”’ This was not spoken to the group who fluttered their farewells, but poured out to the uncomplaining forest, which rose up in ever statelier and grander ranks to greet the travelers as they descended — the silent, vast forest, without note of bird or chip of squirrel, only the wind tossing the great branches high over- head in response to the sonnet. Is there any region or circumstance of life that the poet did not forecast and provide for? But what would have been his feel- ings if he could have known that almost three cen- turies after these lines were penned, they would be used to express the emotion of an unsentimental traveler in the primeval forests of the New World? At any rate, he peopled the New World with the children of his imagination. And, thought the Friend, whose attention to his horse did not permit him to drop into poetry, Shakespeare might have had a 184 ON HORSEBACK vision of this vast continent, though he did not refer to it, when he exclaimed: «« What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend ?”’ Bakersville, the capital of Mitchell County, is eight miles from the top of Roan, and the last three miles of the way the horsemen found tolerable going, over which the horses could show their paces. The valley looked fairly thrifty and bright, and was a pleasing introduction to Bakersville, a pretty place in the hills, of some six hundred inhabitants, with two churches, three indifferent hotels, and a court-house. This mountain town, 2550 feet above the sea, is said to have a decent winter climate, with little snow, favor- able to fruit-growing, and, by contrast with New England, encouraging to people with weak lungs. This is the center of the mica mining, and of con- siderable excitement about minerals. All around, the hills are spotted with “diggings.” Most of the mines which yield well show signs of having been worked before, a very long time ago, no doubt by the occu- pants before the Indians. The mica is of excellent quality and easily mined. It is got out in large irregu- lar-shaped blocks and transported to the factories, where it is carefully split by hand, and the laminz, of as large size as can be obtained, are trimmed with shears and tied up in packages for market. The quantity of refuse, broken, and rotten mica piled up about the factories is immense, and all the roads round about glisten with its scales. Garnets are often found imbedded in the lamina, flattened by the ON HORSEBACK 185 extreme pressure to which the mass was subjected. It is fascinating material, this mica, to handle, and we amused ourselves by experimenting on the thinness to which its scales could be reduced by splitting. It was at Bakersville that we saw specimens of mica that resembled the delicate tracery in the moss-agate and had the iridescent sheen of the rainbow colors — the most delicate greens, reds, blues, purples, and gold, changing from one to the other in the reflected light. In the texture were the tracings of fossil forms of ferns and the most exquisite and delicate vegetable beauty of the coal age. But the magnet shows this tracery to be iron. We were shown also emeralds and “‘ diamonds,”’ picked up in this region, and there is a mild expectation in all the inhabitants of great min- eral treasure. A singular product of the region is the flexible sandstone. It is a most uncanny stone. A slip of ita couple of feet long and an inch in diameter each way bends in the hand like a half-frozen snake. This conduct of a substance that we have been taught to regard as inflexible impairs one’s confidence in the stability of nature and affects him as an earthquake does. This excitement over mica and other minerals has the usual effect of starting up business and creating bad blood. Fortunes have been made, and lost in riotous living; scores of visionary men have been disappointed; lawsuits about titles and claims have multiplied, and quarrels ending in murder have been frequent in the past few years. The mica and the illicit whisky have worked together to make this region one of lawlessness and violence. The travel- 186 ON HORSEBACK ers were told stories of the lack of common morality and decency in the region, but they made no note of them. And, perhaps fortunately, they were not there during court week to witness the scenes of license that were described. This court week, which draws hither the whole population, is a sort of Satur- nalia. Perhaps the worst of this is already a thing of the past; for the outrages a year before had reached such a pass that by a common movement the sale of whisky was stopped (not interdicted, but stopped), and not a drop of liquor could be bought in Bakers- ville nor within three miles of it. The jail at Bakersville is a very simple residence. The main building is brick, two stories high and about twelve feet square. The walls are so loosely laid up that it seems as if a colored prisoner might butt his head through. Attached to this is a room for the jailer. In the lower room is a wooden cage, made of logs bolted together and filled with spikes, nine feet by ten feet square and perhaps seven or eight feet high. Between this cage and the wall is a space of eighteen inches in width. It has a narrow door, and an opening through which the food is passed to the prisoners, and a conduit leading out of it. Of course it soon becomes foul, and in warm weather somewhat warm. A recent prisoner, who wanted more ventilation than the State allowed him, found some means, by a loose plank, I think, to batter a hole in the outer wall opposite the window in the cage, and this ragged opening, seeming to the jailer a good sanitary arrangement, remains. Two murderers occupied this apartment at the time of our ON HORSEBACK 187 visit. During the recent session of court, ten men had been confined in this narrow space, without room enough for them to lie down together. The cage in the room above, a little larger, had for tenant a per- son who was jailed for some misunderstanding about an account, and who was probably innocent — from the jailer’s statement. This box is a wretched resi- dence, month after month, while awaiting trial. We learned on inquiry that it is practically impos- sible to get a jury to convict of murder in this region, and that these admitted felons would undoubtedly escape. We even heard that juries were purchasable here, and that a man’s success in court depended upon the length of his purse. This is such an un- heard-of thing that we refused to credit it. When the Friend attempted to arouse the indignation of the Professor about the barbarity of this jail, the latter defended it on the ground that as confinement was the only punishment that murderers were likely to receive in this region, it was well to make their deten- tion disagreeable to them. But the Friend did not like this wild-beast cage for men, and could only exclaim, «Oh, murder! what crimes are done in thy name.” If the comrades wished an adventure, they had a small one, more interesting to them than to the pub- lic, the morning they left Bakersville to ride to Burns- ville, which sets itself up as the capital of Yancey. The way for the first three miles lay down a small creek and in a valley fairly settled, the houses, a store, and a grist-mill giving evidence of the new enterprise of the region. When Toe River was reached, there was a choice of routes. We might ford the Toe at 188 ON HORSEBACK that point, where the river was wide, but shallow, and the crossing safe, and climb over the mountain by a rough but sightly road, or descend the stream by a better road and ford the river at a place rather dangerous to those unfamiliar with it. The danger attracted us, but we promptly chose the hill road on account of the views, for we were weary of the limited valley prospects. The Toe River, even here, where it bears westward, is a. very respectable stream in size, and not to be trifled with after a shower. It gradually turns north- ward, and, joining the Nollechucky, becomes part of the Tennessee system. We crossed it by a long, diagonal ford, slipping and sliding about on the round stones, and began the ascent of a steep hill. The sun beat down unmercifully, the way was stony, and the horses did not relish the weary climbing. The Professor, who led the way, not for the sake of Jeadership, but to be the discoverer of laden black- berry bushes, which began to offer occasional refresh- ment, discouraged by the inhospitable road and perhaps oppressed by the moral backwardness of things in general, cried out: ‘¢’'Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, — As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, And purest faith unhappily foresworn, And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, ON HORSEBACK 189 And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.”’ In the midst of a lively discussion of this pessi- mistic view of the inequalities of life, in which desert and capacity are so often put at disadvantage by birth in beggarly conditions, and brazen assumption raises the dust from its chariot wheels for modest merit to plod along in, the Professor swung himself off his horse to attack a blackberry bush, and the Friend, representing simple truth, and desirous of getting a wider prospect, urged his horse up the hill. At the top he encountered a stranger, on a sorrel horse, with whom he entered into conversa- tion and extracted all the discouragement the man had as to the road to Burnsville. Nevertheless, the view opened finely and exten- sively. There are few exhilarations comparable to that of riding or walking along a high ridge, and the spirits of the traveler rose many degrees above the point of restful death, for which the Professor was crying when he encountered the blackberry bushes. Luckily the Friend soon fell in with a like tempta- tion, and dismounted. He discovered something that spoiled his appetite for berries. Huis coat, strapped on behind the saddle, had worked loose, the pocket was open, and the pocket-book was gone. This was serious business. For while the Professor was the cashier, and traveled like a Rothschild, with large drafts, the Friend represented the sub-treasury. That very morning, in response to inquiry as to the 190 ON HORSEBACK sinews of travel, the Friend had displayed, without counting, a roll of bills. These bills had now dis- appeared, and when the Friend turned back to com- municate his loss, in the character of needy nothing not trimm’d in jollity, he had a sympathetic listener to the tale of woe. Going back on such a journey is the woefulest experience, but retrace our steps we must. Perhaps the pocket-book lay in the road not half a mile back. But not in half a mile, or a mile, was it found. Probably, then, the man on the sorrel horse had picked it up. But who was the man on the sor- rel horse, and where had he gone? Probably the coat worked loose in crossing Toe River and the pocket-book had gone down-stream. The number of probabilities was infinite, and each more plausible than the others as it occurred tous. We inquired at every house we had passed on the way, we questioned every one we met. At length it began to seem im- probable that any one would remember if he had picked up a pocket-book that morning. This is just the sort of thing that slips an untrained memory. At a post office or doctor’s shop, or inn for drov- ers, it might be either or neither, where several horses were tied to the fence, and a group of men were tilted back in cane chairs on the veranda, we unfolded our misfortune and made particular inqui- ries fora man ona sorrel horse. Yes, such a man, David Thomas by name, had just ridden towards Bakersville. If he had found the pocket-book, we would recover it. Hewasan honest man. It might, however, fall into hands that would freeze to it. ON HORSEBACK Ig! Upon consultation, it was the general verdict that there were men in the county who would keep it if they had picked it up. But the assembly mani- fested the liveliest interest in the incident. One suggested Toe River. Another thought it risky to drop a purse on any road. But there was a chorus of desire expressed that we should find it, and in this anxiety was exhibited a decided sensitiveness about - the honor of Mitchell County. It seemed too bad that a stranger should go away with the impression that it was not safe to leave money anywhere in it. We felt very much obliged for this genuine sympa- thy, and we told them that if a pocket-book were lost in this way on a Connecticut road, there would be felt no neighborhood responsibility for it, and that nobody would take any interest in the incident except the man who lost, and the man who found. By the time the travelers pulled up at a store in Bakersville they had lost all expectation of recover- ing the missing article, and were discussing the investment of more money in an advertisement in the weekly newspaper of the capital. The Professor, whose reform sentiments agreed with those of the newspaper, advised it. There was a group of idlers, mica acquaintances of the morning, and philosophers in front of the store, and the Friend opened the colloquy by asking ifa man named David Thomas had been seen intown. He was in town, had ridden in within an hour, and his brother, who was in the group, would go in search of him. The informa- tion was then given of the loss, and that the rider had met David Thomas just before it was discovered, 192 ON HORSEBACK on the mountain beyond the Toe. The news made a sensation, and by the time David Thomas appeared a crowd of a hundred had drawn around the horse- men eager for further developments. Mr. Thomas was the least excited of the group as he took his position on the sidewalk, conscious of the dignity of the occasion and that he was about to begin a duel in which both reputation and profit were concerned. He recollected meeting the travelers in the morning. The Friend said, “I discovered that I had lost my purse just after meeting you; it may have been dropped in Toe River, but I was told back here that if David Thomas had picked it up, it was as safe as if it were in the bank.” “What sort of a pocket-book was it?” asked Mr. Thomas. “It was of crocodile skin, or what is sold for that, very likely it is an imitation, and about so large” — indicating the size. Sa hat had stun ates “Various things. Some specimens of mica; some bank checks, some money.” “ Anything else?” “Yes, a photograph. And, oh, something that I presume is not in another pocket-book in North Carolina, — in an envelope, a lock of the hair of George Washington, the Father of his Country.” Sensation, mixed with incredulity. Washington’s hair did seem such an odd part of an outfit for a journey of this kind. “* How much money was in it?” “That I cannot say, exactly. I happen to remem- ON HORSEBACK 193 ber four twenty-dollar United States notes, and a roll of small bills, perhaps something over a hundred dollars.” “Is that the pocket-book?” asked David Thomas, slowly pulling the loved and lost out of his trousers pocket. So thiges, “You ’d be willing to take your oath on it?” “‘] should be delighted to.” “Well, I guess there ain’t so much money in it. You can count it [handing it over]; there hain’t been nothing taken out. I can’t read, but my friend here counted it over, and he says there ain’t as much as that.” Intense interest in the result of the counting. One hundred and ten dollars! The Friend selected one of the best engraved of the notes, and appealed to the crowd if they thought that was the square thing to do. They did so think, and David Thomas said it was abundant. And then said the Friend : “I’m exceedingly grateful to you besides. Washington’s hair is getting scarce, and I did not want to lose these few hairs, gray as they are. You ’ve done the honest thing, Mr. Thomas, as was expected of you. You might have kept the whole. But I reckon if there had been five hundred dollars in the book and you had kept it, it would n’t have done you half as much good as giving it up has done ; and your reputation as an honest man 1s worth a good deal more than this pocket-book. [The Pro- fessor was delighted with this sentiment, because it reminded him of a Sunday-school.] I shall go away 13 194 ON HORSEBACK with a high opinion of the honesty of Mitchell County.” “Oh, he lives in Yancey,” cried two or three voices. At which there was a great laugh. “Well, I wondered where he came from.” And the Mitchell County people laughed again at their own expense, and the levee broke up. It was exceed- ingly gratifying, as we spread the news of the recov- ered property that afternoon at every house on our way to the Toe, to see what pleasure it gave. Every man appeared to feel that the honor of the region had been on trial and had stood the test. The eighteen miles to Burnsville had now to be added to the morning excursion, but the travelers were in high spirits, feeling the truth of the adage that it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have lost at all. They decided, on reflection, to join company with the mail-rider, who was going to Burnsville by the shorter route, and could pilot them over the dangerous ford of the Toe. The mail-rider was a lean, sallow, sinewy man, mounted on a sorry sorrel nag, who proved, how- ever, to have blood in her, and to be a fast walker ., and full of endurance. The mail-rider was taciturn, a natural habit for a man who rides alone the year round, over a lonely road, and has nothing whatever to think of. He had been in the war sixteen months, in Hugh White’s regiment, — reckon you ’ve heerd of him? “* Confederate?” | Which? 7 “Was he on the Union or Confederate side?” ON HORSEBACK 195 “Oh, Union.” “Were you in any engagements?” « Which?” ** Did you have any fighting?” “ Not reg’ lar.” “What did you do?” “© Which?” “ What did you do in Hugh White’s regiment?” ‘Oh, just cavorted round the mountains.” “You lived on the country ?” «Which ?” | ** Picked up what you could find, corn, bacon, horses ? ”’ ‘That ’s about so. Did n’t make much difference which side was round, the country got cleaned out.” “‘ Plunder seems to have been the object ?” “© Which?” “You got a living out of the farmers? ” ‘.¥ ou bet.”’ Our friend and guide seemed to have been a jay- hawker and mountain marauder — on the right side. His attachment to the word “ which”’ prevented any lively flow of conversation, and there seemed to be only two trains of ideas running in his mind: one was the subject of horses and saddles, and the other was the danger of the ford we were coming to, and he exhibited a good deal of ingenuity in endeavoring to excite our alarm. He returned to the ford from every other conversational excursion, and after every silence. “1 do’ know’s there ’s any great danger ; not if you know the ford. Folks is carried away there. The Toe gits up sudden. There’s been right smart rain lately. 196 ON HORSEBACK If you’re afraid, you can git set over in a dugout, and I ll take your horses across. Mebbe you ’re used to fording? It’s a pretty bad ford for them as don’t know it. But you ’ll get along if you mind your eye. There’s some rocks you’ll have to look out for. But you ’ll be all right if you follow me.” Not being very successful in raising an interest in the dangers of his ford, although he could not forego indulging a malicious pleasure in trying to make the strangers uncomfortable, he finally turned his atten- tion to a trade. “ This hoss: of mine;~) he sarge as just the kind of brute-beast you want for this country. Your hosses is too heavy. How’ll you swap for that one o’ yourn?”’ The reiterated assertion that the horses were not ours, that they were hired, made little impression on him. All the way to Burnsville he kept referring to the subject of a trade. The instinct ‘of “swap” was strong in him. When we meta yoke of steers, he turned round and bantered the owner fora trade. Our saddles took his fancy. They were of the army pattern, and he allowed that one of them would just suit him. He rodea small flat English pad, across which was flung the United States mail pouch, apparently empty. He dwelt upon the fact that his saddle was new and ours were old, and the advan- tages that would accrue to us from the exchange. He did n’t care if they had been through the war, as they had, for he fancied an army saddle. The Friend answered for himself that the saddle he rode belonged to a distinguished Union general, and had abullet in it that was put there bya careless Confederate in the first battle of Bull Run, and the owner would not ON HORSEBACK 197 part with it for money. But the mail-rider said he did n’t mind that. He would n’t mind swapping his new saddle for my old one and the rubber coat and leggings. Long before we reached the ford we thought we would like to swap the guide, even at the risk of drowning. The ford was passed, in due time, with no inconvenience save that of wet feet, for the stream was breast high to the horses; but being broad and swift and full of sunken rocks and slippery stones, and the crossing tortuous, it is not a ford to be com- mended. There is a curious delusion that a rider has in crossing a swift broad stream. It is that he is rap- idly drifting up-stream, while in fact the tendency of the horse is to go with the current. The road in the afternoon was not unpicturesque, owing to the streams and the ever noble forests, but the prospect was always very limited. Agriculturally, the country was mostly undeveloped. The travelers endeavored to get from the rider an estimate of the price of land. Not much sold, he said. ‘“‘ There was one sale of a big piece last year; the owner entho- rited Big Tom Wilson to sell it, but I d’ know what he got for it.” All the way along, the habitations were small log cabins, with one room, chinked with mud, and these were far between; and only occasionally thereby a similar log structure, unchinked, laid up like a cob house, that served forastable. Not much cultivation, except now and then a little patch of poor corn on a steep hillside, occasionally a few apple-trees, and a peach-tree without fruit. Here and there was a house that had been half finished and then abandoned, or 198 ON HORSEBACK a shanty in which a couple of young married people were just beginning life. Generally the cabins (con- firming the accuracy of the census of 1880) swarmed with children, and nearly all the women were thin and sickly. In the day’s ride we did not see a wheeled vehicle, and only now and then a horse.. We met on the road small sleds, drawn by a steer, sometimes by a cow, on which a bag of grist was being hauled to the mill, and boys mounted on steers gave us good- evening with as much pride as if they were bestrid- ing fiery horses. In a house of the better class, which was a post- house, and where the rider and the woman of the house had a long consultation over a letter to be | registered, we found the rooms decorated with patent- medicine pictures, which were often framed in strips of mica, an evidence of culture that was worth noting. Mica was the rage. Every one with whom we talked, except the rider, had more or less the min- eral fever. The impression was general that the mountain region of North Carolina was entering upon a career of wonderful mineral development, — and the most extravagant expectations were enter- tained. Mica was the shining object of most “ pro- specting,” but gold was also on the cards. The country about Burnsville is not only mildly picturesque, but very pleasing. Burnsville, the county-seat of Yancey, at an elevation of 2840 feet, is more like a New England village than any hitherto seen. Most of the houses stand about a square, which contains the shabby court-house; around it ~ ON HORSEBACK 199 are two small churches, a jail, an inviting tavern, with a long veranda, and a couple of stores. On an overlooking hill is the seminary. Mica mining is the exciting industry, but it is agriculturally a good country. The tavern had recently been enlarged to meet the new demands for entertainment, and is a roomy structure, fresh with paint and only partially organized. The travelers were much impressed with the brilliant chambers, the floors of which were painted in alternate stripes of vivid green and red. The proprietor, a very intelligent and enterprising man, who had traveled often in the North, was full of projects for the development of his region and foremost in its enterprises, and had formed a con- siderable collection of minerals. Besides, more than any one else we met, he appreciated the beauty of his country, and took us toa neighboring hill, where we had a view of Table Mountain to the east and the nearer giant Blacks. The elevation of Burns- ville gives it a delightful summer climate, the gentle undulations of the country are agreeable, the views noble, the air is good, and it is altogether a “liv- able” and attractive place. With facilities of commu- nication, it would be a favorite summer resort. Its nearness to the great mountains (the whole Black range is in Yancey County), its fine pure air, its opportu- nity for fishing and hunting, commend it to those in search of an interesting and restful retreat in summer. But it should be said that before the country can attract and retain travelers, its inhabitants must learn something about the preparation of food. If, for instance, the landlord’s wife at Burnsville had 200 ON HORSEBACK traveled with her husband, her table would proba- bly have been more on a level with his knowledge of the world, and it would have contained something that the wayfaring man, though a Northerner, could eat. We have been on the point several times in this journey of making the observation, but have been restrained by a reluctance to touch upon polli- tics, that it was no wonder that a people with such a cuisine should have rebelled. The travelers were in a rebellious mood most of the time. The evidences of enterprise in this region were pleasant to see, but the observers could not but regret, after all, the intrusion of the money-making spirit, which is certain to destroy much of the pre- sent simplicity. It is as yet, to a degree, tempered by a philosophic spirit. The other guest of the house was a sedate, long-bearded traveler for some Phila- delphia house, and in the evening he and the land- lord fell into a conversation upon what Socrates calls the disadvantage of the pursuit of wealth to the exclusion of all noble objects, and they let their fancy play about Vanderbilt, who was agreed to be the richest man in the world, or that ever lived. “ All I want,” said the long-bearded man, “is enough to be comfortable. I would n’t have Vander- bilt’s wealth if he’d give it to me.” “Nor I,” said the landlord. “Give me just enough to be comfortable. [The tourist could n’t but note that his ideas of enough to be comfortable had changed a good deal since he had left his little farm and gone into the mica business, and visited New York, and enlarged and painted his tavern. | ON HORSEBACK 201 I should like to know what more Vanderbilt gets out of his money than I get out of mine. I heard tell of a young man who went to Vanderbilt to get employment. Vanderbilt finally offered to give the young man, if he would work for him, just what he got himself. The young man jumped at that —he’d be perfectly satisfied with that pay. And Vanderbilt said that all he got was what he could eat and wear, and offered to give the young man his board and clothes.” ‘1 declare,” said the long-bearded man. “That’s just it. Did you ever see Vanderbilt’s house? Neither did I, but I heard he had a vault built in it five feet thick, solid. He put in it two hundred millions of dollars, in gold. After a year, he opened it and put in twelve millions more, and called that a poor year. They say his house has gold shutters to the windows, so I’ve heard.” “T should n’t wonder,” said the landlord. “I heard he had one door in his house cost forty thou- sand dollars. I don’t know what it is made of, un- less it’s made of gold.” Sunday was a hot and quiet day. The stores were closed and the two churches also, this not being the Sunday for the itinerant preacher. The jail also showed no sign of life, and when we asked about it, we learned that it was empty, and had been for some time. No liquor is sold in the place, nor within at least three miles of it. It is not much use to try to run a jail without liquor. . _ In the course of the morning a couple of stout fellows arrived, leading between them a young man 202 ON HORSEBACK whom they had arrested, — it did n’t appear on any warrant, but they wanted to get him committed and locked up. The offense charged was carrying a pis- tol; the boy had not used it against anybody, but he had flourished it about and threatened, and the neighbors would n’t stand that; they were bound to enforce ‘the law against carrying concealed weapons. The captors were perfectly good-natured and on friendly enough terms with the young man, who offered no resistance, and seemed not unwilling to go to jail. Buta practical difficulty arose. The jail was locked up, the sheriff had gone away into the country with the key, and no one could get in. It did not appear that there was any provision for board- ing the man in jail; no one in fact kept it. The sheriff was sent for, but was not to be found, and the prisoner and his captors loafed about the square all day, sitting on the fence, rolling on the grass, all of them sustained by a simple trust that the jail would be open some time. Late in the afternoon we left them there, trying to get into the jail. But we took a personal leaf out of this experience. Our Virginia friends, solicitous for our safety in this wild country, had urged us not to venture into it without arms —take at least, they insisted, a revolver each. And now we had to con- gratulate ourselves that we had not done so. If we had, we should doubtless on that Sunday have been waiting, with the other law-breaker, for admission into the Yancey County jail. Ill ROM Burnsville the next point in our route Hes Asheville, the most considerable city in western North Carolina, a resort of fashion, and the capital of Buncombe County. It is distant some forty to forty-five miles, too long a journey for one day over such roads. The easier and common route is by the Ford of Big Ivy, eighteen miles, — the first stopping-place; and that was a long ride for the late afternoon when we were in condition to move. | The landlord suggested that we take another route, stay that night on Caney River with Big Tom Wil- son, only eight miles from Burnsville, cross Mount Mitchell, and go down the valley of the Swannanoa to Asheville. He represented this route as shorter and infinitely more picturesque. There was nothing worth seeing on the Big Ivy way. With scarcely a moment’s reflection, and while the horses were sad- dling, we decided to ride to Big Tom Wilson’s. I could not at the time understand, and I cannot now, why the Professor consented. I should hardly dare yet confess to my fixed purpose to ascend Mount Mitchell. It was equally fixed in the Professor’s mind not to do it. We had not discussed it much. But it is safe to say that if he had one well-defined purpose on this trip, it was not to climb Mitchell. “ Not,” as he put it, — 204 ON HORSEBACK << Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,”’ had suggested the possibility that he could do it. But at the moment the easiest thing to do seemed to be to ride down to Wilson’s. When there we could turn across country to the Big Ivy, although, said the landlord, you can ride over Mitchell just as easy as anywhere—a lady rode plump over the peak of it last week, and never got off her horse. You are not obliged to go; at Big T’om’s, you can go any way you please. Besides, Big Tom himself weighed in the scale more than Mount Mitchell, and not to see him was to miss one of the most characteristic productions of the country, the typical backwoodsman, hunter, guide. So we rode down Bolling Creek, through a pretty, broken country, crossed the Caney River, and followed it up a few miles to Wilson’s planta- tion. There are little intervales along the river, where hay is cut and corn grown, but the region is not much cleared, and the stock browse about in the forest. Wilson is the agent of the New York owner of a tract of some thirteen thousand acres of forest, including the greater portion of Mount Mitchell, a wilderness well stocked with bears and deer, and full of streams abounding in trout. It is also the play- ground of the rattlesnake. With all these attrac- tions Big Tom’s life is made lively in watching game poachers, and endeavoring to keep out the foraging cattle of the few neighbors. It is not that the cattle do much injury in the forest, but the looking after them is made a pretense for roaming around, and the ON HORSEBACK 205 roamers are liable to have to defend themselves against the deer, or their curiosity is excited about the bears, and lately they have taken to exploding powder in the streams to kill the fish. Big Tom’s plantation has an openwork stable, an ill-put-together frame house, with two rooms and a kitchen, and a veranda in front, a loft, and a spring- house in the rear. Chickens and other animals have free run of the premises. Some fish-rods hung in the porch, and hunter’s gear depended on hooks in the passage-way to the kitchen. In one room were three beds, in the other two, only one in the kitchen. On the porch was a loom, with a piece of cloth in pro- cess. The establishment had the air of taking care of itself. Neither Big Tom nor his wife was at home. Sunday seemed to be a visiting day, and the travel- ers had met many parties on horseback. Mrs. Wil- son was away for a visit of a day or two. One of the sons, who was lounging on the veranda, was at last induced to put up the horses ; a very old woman, who mumbled and glared at the visitors, was found in the kitchen, but no intelligible response could be got out of her. Presently a bright little girl, the housekeeper in charge, appeared. She said that her paw had gone up to her brother’s (her brother was just married and lived up the river in the house where Mr. Murchison stayed when he was here) to see if he could ketch a bear that had been rootin’ round in the corn-field the night before. She ex- pected him back by sundown —by dark anyway. Les he’d gone after the bear, and then you could n’t tell when he would come. 206 ON HORSEBACK It appeared that Big Tom was a thriving man in the matter of family. More boys appeared. Only one was married, but four had “ got their time.” As night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good deal of lively and loud conversation about the stock and the chores, in all of which the girl took a leading and intelligent part, showing a willingness to do her share, but not to have all the work put upon her. It was time to go down the road and hunt up the cows ; the mule had disappeared and must be found before dark ; a couple of steers had n’t turned up since the day before yesterday, and in the midst of the gentle - contention as to whose business all this was, there was an alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the girl started off on a run in that direction. It was due to the executive ability of this small girl, after the cows had been milked and the mule chased and the boys properly stirred up, that we had supper. It was of the oilcloth, iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread and honey variety, distinguished, however, from all meals we had endured or enjoyed before by the intro- duction of fried eggs (as the breakfast next morn- ing was by the presence of chicken), and it was served by the active maid with right hearty good-will and genuine hospitable intent. While it was in progress, after nine o’clock, Big Tom arrived, and, with a simple greeting, sat down and attacked the supper and began to tell about the bear. There was not much to tell except that he hadn’t seen the bear, and that, judged by his tracks and his sloshing around, he must be a big one. But a trap had been set for him, and he judged it ON HORSEBACK 207 would n’t be long before we had some bear meat. Big Tom Wilson, as he is known all over this part of the State, would not attract attention from his size. He is six feet and two inches tall, very spare and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and honest blue eyes. He has a reputation for great strength and endurance ; a man of native simplicity and mild manners. He had been rather expecting us from what Mr. Murchison wrote ; he wrote (his son had read out the letter) that Big Tom was to take good care of us, and anybody that Mr. Mur- chison sent could have the best he’d got. Big Tom joined us in our room after supper. This apartment, with two mighty feather-beds, was hung about with all manner of stuffy family clothes, and had in one end a vast cavern fora fire. The floor was uneven, and the hearthstones billowy. When the fire was lighted, the effect of the bright light in the cavern and the heavy shadows in the room was Rembrandtish. Big Tom sat with us before the fire and told bear stories. Talk? Why, it was not the least effort. The stream flowed on without a ripple. ‘Why, the old man,” one of the sons confided to us next morning, “can begin and talk right over Mount Mitchell and all the way back, and never make a break.” Though Big Tom had waged a lifelong warfare with the bears, and taken the hide off at least a hundred of them, I could not see that he had any vindictive feeling towards the varmint, but simply an insatiable love of killing him, and he regarded him in that half-humorous light in which the bear always appears to those who study him. As to deer — he 208 ON HORSEBACK could n’t tell how many of them he had slain. But Big Tom was a gentleman: he never killed deer for mere sport. With rattlesnakes, now, it was different. There was the skin of one hanging upon a tree by the route we would take in the morning, a buster, he skinned him yesterday. There was an entire absence; of braggadocio in Big Tom’s talk, but somehow, as he went on, his backwoods figure loomed larger and larger in our imagination, and he seemed strangely familiar. At length it came over us where we had met him before. It was in Cooper’s novels. He was the Leather-Stocking exactly. And yet he was an original ; for he assured us that he had never read the Leather-Stocking Tales. What a figure, I was think- ing, he must have made in the late war ! Such a shot, such a splendid physique, such iron endurance! I almost dreaded to hear his tales of the havoc he had wrought on the Unionarmy. Yes, he was in the war, he was sixteen months in the Confederate army, this Homeric man. In what rank? “ Oh, I wasa fifer!” But hunting and war did not by any means occupy the whole of Big Tom’s life. He was also engaged in “‘Jawin’.” He had a long-time feud with a neighbor - about a piece of land and alleged trespass, and they ’d been “ lawin’ ” for years, with no definite result ; but as a topic of conversation it was as fully illustrative of frontier life as the bear-fighting. Long after we had all gone to bed, we heard Big Tom’s continuous voice, through the thin partition that separated us from the kitchen, going on to his little boy about the bear; every circumstance of how he tracked him, and what corner of the field he ON HORSEBACK 209 entered, and where he went out, and his probable size and age, and the prospect of his coming again; these were the details of real everyday life, and worthy to be dwelt on by the hour. The boy was never tired of pursuing them. And Big Tom was just a big boy, also, in his delight in it all. Perhaps it was the fascination of Big Tom, perhaps the representation that we were already way off the Big Ivy route, and that it would, in fact, save time to go over the mountain,and we could ride all the way, that made the Professor acquiesce, with no protest worth noticing, in the preparations that went on, as by a natural assumption, for going over Mitchell. At any rate, there was an early breakfast, luncheon was put up, and by half-past seven we were riding up the Caney,—a half-cloudy day,— Big Tom swinging along on foot ahead, talking nineteen to the dozen. There was a delightful freshness in the air, the dew- _laden bushes, and the smell of the forest. In half an hour we called at the hunting shanty of Mr. Murchi- son, wrote our names on the wall, according to cus- tom, and regretted that we could not stay fora day in that retreat and try the speckled trout. Making our way through the low growth and bushes of the valley, we came into a fine open forest, watered by a noisy brook, and after an hour’s easy going reached the serious ascent. From Wilson’s to the peak of Mitchell it is seven and a half miles; we made it in five and a half hours. A bridle path was cut years ago, but it has been entirely neglected. It is badly washed, it is stony, muddy, and great trees have fallen across it which 14 210 ON HORSEBACK wholly block the way for horses. At these places long detours were necessary, on steep hillsidesand through gullies, over treacherous sink-holes in the rocks, through quaggy places, heaps of brush, and rotten logs. Those who have ever attempted to get horses over such ground will not wonder at the slow pro- gress we made. Before we were halfway up the ascent, we realized the folly of attempting it on horse- back ; but then to go on seemed as easy as to go back. The way was also exceedingly steep in places, and what with roots, and logs, and slippery rocks and stones, it was a desperate climb for the horses. What a magnificent forest! Oaks, chestnuts, pop- lars, hemlocks, the cucumber (a species of magnolia, with a pinkish, cucumber-like cone), and all sorts of northern and southern growths meeting here in splendid array. And this gigantic forest, with little diminution in size of trees, continued two thirds of the way up. We marked, as we went on, the maple, the black walnut, the buckeye, the hickory, the locust, and the guide pointed out in one section the largest cherry-trees we had ever seen ; splendid trunks, each worth a large sum if it could be got to market. After the great trees were left behind, we entered a garden of white birches, and then a plateau of swamp, thick with raspberry bushes, and finally the ridges, densely crowded with the funereal black balsam. Halfway up, Big Tom showed us his favorite, the biggest tree he knew. It was a poplar, or tulip. It stands more like a column than a tree, rising high into the air, with scarcely a perceptible taper, perhaps sixty, more likely a hundred, feet before it puts out a limb. ON HORSEBACK ant Its girth six feet from the ground is thirty-two feet ! I think it might be called Big Tom. It stood here, of course, a giant, when Columbus sailed from Spain, and perhaps some sentimental traveler will attach the name of Columbus to it. In the woods there was not much sign of animal life, scarcely the note of a bird, but we noticed as we rode along in the otherwise primeval silence a loud and continuous humming overhead, almost like the sound of the wind in pine tops. It was the humming of bees! The upper branches were alive with these industrious toilers, and Big Tom was always on the alert to discover and mark a bee-gum, which he could visit afterwards. Honey hunting is one of his occu- pations. Collecting spruce gum is another, and he was continually hacking off with his hatchet knobs of the translucent secretion. How rich and fragrant are these forests! The rhododendron was still in occasional bloom, and flowers of brilliant hue gleamed here and there. The struggle was more severe as we neared the summit, and the footing worse for the horses. Occa- sionally it was safest to dismount and lead them up slippery ascents; but this was also dangerous, for it was difficult to keep them from treading on our heels, in their frantic flounderings, in the steep, wet, narrow, brier-grown path. At one uncommonly pokerish place, where the wet rock sloped into a bog, the rider of Jack thought it prudent to dismount, but Big Tom insisted that Jack would “ make it” all right, only give him his head. The rider gave him his head, and the next minute Jack’s four heels were in the air, and 212 ON HORSEBACK he came down on his side in a flash. The rider fortu- nately extricated his leg without losing it, Jack scram- bled out with a broken shoe, and the two limped along. It was a wonder that the horses’ legs were not broken a dozen times. As we approached the top, Big Tom pointed out the direction, a half mile away, of a small pond, a little mountain tarn, overlooked by a ledge of rock, where Professor Mitchell lost his life. Big Tom was the guide that found his body. That day, as we sat on the summit, he gave in great detail the story, the general outline of which is well known. The first effort to measure the height of the Black Mountains was made in 1835, by Professor Elisha Mitchell, professor of mathematics and chemistry in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Mr. Mitchell was a native of Connecticut, born in Washington, Litchfield County, in 1793 ; graduated » at Yale, ordained a Presbyterian minister, and was for a time state surveyor; and became a professor at Chapel Hill in 1818. He first ascertained and pub- lished the fact that the Black Mountains are the highest land east of the Rocky Mountains. In 1844 ° he visited the locality again. Measurements were subsequently made by Professor Guyot and by Sen- ator Clingman. One of the peaks was named for the senator (the one next in height to Mitchell is de- scribed as Clingman on the state map), and a dispute arose as to whether Mitchell had really visited and measured the highest peak. Senator Clingman still maintains that he did not, and that the peak now known as Mitchell is the one that Clingman first ON HORSEBACK 21? described. The estimates of altitudes made by the three explorers named differed considerably. The height now fixed for Mount Mitchell is 6711; that of Mount Washington is 6285. There are twelve peaks in this range higher than Mount Washington, and if we add those in the Great Smoky Mountains which overtop it, there are some twenty in this State higher than the granite giant of New Hampshire. In order to verify his statement, Professor Mitchell (then in his sixty-fourth year) made a third ascent in June, 1857. He was alone, and went up from the Swannanoa side. He did not return. No anxiety was felt for two or three days, as he was a good moun- taineer, and it was supposed he had crossed the mountain and made his way out by the Caney River. But when several days passed without tidings of him, a search party was formed. Big Tom Wilson was with it. They explored the mountain in all directions unsuccessfully. At length Big Tom separated him- self from his companions and took a course in accord- ance with his notion of that which would be pursued by a man lost in the clouds or the darkness.. He soon struck the trail of the wanderer, and, following it, discovered Mitchell’s body lying in a pool at the foot of a rocky precipice some thirty feet high. It was evident that Mitchell, making his way along the ridge in darkness or fog, had fallen off. It was the ninth (or the eleventh) day of his disappearance, but in the pure mountain air the body had suffered no change. Big Tom brought his companions to the place, and on consultation it was decided to leave the body undisturbed till Mitchell’s friends could be present. 214 ON HORSEBACK There was some talk of burying him on the moun- tain, but the friends decided otherwise, and the remains, with much difficulty, were got down to Asheville and there interred. Some years afterwards, I believe at the instance of a society of scientists, it was resolved to transport the body to the summit of Mount Mitchell; for the tragic death of the explorer had forever settled in the pop- ular mind the name of the mountain. The task was not easy. A road had to be cut, over which a sledge could be hauled, and the hardy mountaineers who undertook the removal were three days in reaching the summit with their burden. The remains were accompanied by a considerable concourse, and the last rites on the top were participated in by a hun- dred or more scientists and prominent men from different parts of the State. Such a strange cortege had never before broken the silence of this lonely wilderness, nor was ever burial more impressive than this wild interment above the clouds. We had been preceded in our climb all the way by a huge bear. That he was huge, a lunker, a mon- strous old varmint, Big Tom knew by the size of his tracks; that he was making the ascent that morning ahead of us, Big Tom knew by the fresh- ness of the trail. We might come upon him at any moment; he might be in the garden; was quite likely to be found in the raspberry patch. That we did not encounter him I am convinced was not the fault of Big Tom, but of the bear. After a struggle of five hours we emerged from the balsams and briers into a lovely open meadow, ON HORSEBACK ars of lush clover, timothy, and blue grass. We un- saddled the horses and turned them loose to feed in it. Ihe meadow sloped up to a belt of balsams and firs, a steep rocky knob, and climbing that on foot we stood upon the summit of Mitchell at one o'clock. We were none too soon, for already the clouds were preparing for what appears to be a daily storm at this season. The summit is a nearly level spot of some thirty or forty feet in extent either way, with a floor of rock and loose stones. The stunted balsams have been cut away so as to give a view. The sweep of prospect is vast, and we could see the whole horizon except in the direction of Roan, whose long bulk was enveloped in cloud. Portions of six States were in sight, we were told, but that is merely a geo- graphical expression. What we saw, wherever we looked, was an inextricable tumble of mountains, without order or leading line of direction, — domes, peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere, some in shadow, some tipped with shafts of sunlight, all wooded and green or black, and all in more softened contours than our Northern hills, but still wild, lonesome, terrible. Away in the southwest, lifting themselves up in a gleam of the western sky, the Great Smoky Mountains loomed like a frown- ing continental fortress, sullen and remote. With Clingman and Gibbs and Holdback peaks near at hand and apparently of equal height, Mitchell seemed only a part and not separate from the mighty congregation of giants. In the center of the stony plot on the summit lie 216 ON HORSEBACK the remains of Mitchell. To dig a grave in the rock was impracticable, but the loose stones were scooped away to the depth of a foot or so, the body was deposited, and the stones were replaced over it. It was the original intention to erect a monument, but the enterprise of the projectors of this royal entomb- ment failed at that point. The grave is surrounded by a low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor adds one, and in the course of ages the cairn may grow to a good size. The explorer lies there without name or headstone to mark his awful resting-place. The mountain is his monument. He is alone with its majesty. He is there in the clouds, in the tem- pests, where the lightnings play, and thunders leap, amid the elemental tumult, in the occasional great calm and silence and the pale sunlight. It is the most majestic, the most lonesome grave on earth. As we sat there, awed a little by this presence, the clouds were gathering from various quarters and drifting towards us. We could watch the process of thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests. I have often noticed on other high mountains how the clouds, forming like genii released from the earth, mount into’ the upper air, and in masses of torn fragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a ren- dezvous of witches. This was a different display. These clouds came slowly sailing from the distant horizon, like ships on an aérial voyage. Some were below us, some on our level; they were all in well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, below trailing rain, and attended on earth by gigan- tic shadows that moved with them. This strange ON HORSEBACK 217 fleet of battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, was maneuvering for an engagement. One after another, as they came into range about our peak of observation, they opened fire. Sharp flashes of lightning darted from one to the other; a jet of flame from one leaped across the interval and was buried in the bosom of its adversary ; and at every discharge the boom of great guns echoed through the mountains. It was something more than a royal salute to the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for the masses of cloud were rent in the fray, at every discharge the rain was precipitated in increasing torrents, and soon the vast hulks were trailing torn fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away shrouds and sails of ships in battle. Gradually, from this long-range practice with single guns and exchange of broadsides, they drifted into closer con- flict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the indi- vidual combatants in the general tumult of this aérial war. We had barely twenty minutes for our observa- tions, when it was time to go; and had scarcely left the peak when the clouds enveloped it. We hastened down under the threatening sky to the saddles and the luncheon. Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete arbor, or tunnel, of rhododen- drons. This cavernous place a Western writer has made the scene of a desperate encounter between Big Tom and a catamount, or American panther, which had been caught in a trap and dragged it there, pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly graphic narrative, and is enlivened by the statement that Big 218 ON HORSEBACK Tom had the night before drunk up all the whisky of the party which had spent the night on the sum- mit. Now Big Tom assured us that the whisky part of the story was an invention; he was not (which is true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did take any, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if we had a flask, he remarked that a taste of it would do him good then and there. We regretted the lack of it in our baggage. But what inclined Big Tom to discredit the Western writer’s story altogether was the fact that he never in his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never had seen one in these mountains. Our lunch was eaten in haste. Big Tom refused the chicken he had provided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw salt pork, which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and saddled our horses, who were reluctant to leave the rich feed, enveloped ourselves in waterproofs, and got into the stony path for the descent just as the tor- rent came down. It did rain. It lightened, the thun- der crashed, the wind howled and twisted the treetops. It was as if we were pursued by the avenging spirits of the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempest on this height had its terrors even for our hardy guide. He preferred to be lower down while it was going on. The crash and reverberation of the thunder did not trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches in our faces and the horrible road, with its mud, trip- ping roots, loose stones, and slippery rocks. Pro- gress was slow. The horses were in momentary danger of breaking their legs. For the first hour there was ON HORSEBACK 219 not much descent. In the clouds we were passing over Clingman, Gibbs, and Holdback. The rain had ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, if any had been attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged. The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were compelled a good deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks. From the peak to the Widow Patten’s, where we proposed to pass the night, is twelve miles, a dis- tance we rode or scrambled down, every step of the road bad, in five and a half hours. Halfway down we came out upon a cleared place, a farm, with fruit- trees and a house in ruins. Here had been a sum- mer hotel, much resorted to before the war, but now abandoned. Above it we turned aside for the view from Elizabeth rock, named from the daughter of the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, said Big Tom, before she went out of this world. It is a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking south, is unquestionably the finest, the most pleasing and picture-like, we found in these mountains. In the foreground is the deep gorge of a branch of the Swannanoa, and opposite is the great wall of the Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the most capricious and inexplicable system) making off to the Blacks. The depth of the gorge, the sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of the scene to the sunny south made this view both grand and charming. Nature does not always put the needed dash of poetry into her extensive prospects. Leaving this clearing and the now neglected spring, where fashion used to slake its thirst, we 220 ON HORSEBACK zigzagged down the mountain-side through a forest of trees growing at every step larger and nobler, and at length struck a small stream, the North Fork of the Swannanoa, which led us to the first settlement. Just at night, —it was nearly seven o'clock, — we entered one of the most stately forests I have ever seen, and rode for some distance in an alley of rho- dodendrons that arched overhead and made a bower. It was like an aisle in a temple; high overhead was the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic col- umns. Few widows have such an avenue of approach to their domain as the Widow Patten has. _ _ Cheering as this outcome was from the day’s strug- gle and storm, the Professor seemed sunk in a pro- found sadness. The auguries which the Friend drew from these signs of civilization of a charming inn and a royal supper did not lighten the melancholy of his mind. “ Alas,” he said, — «« Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? ’'T’ is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief: Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.”’ “ Loss of what?” cried the Friend, as he whipped up his halting steed. “* Loss of self-respect. I feel humiliated that I con- sented to climb this mountain.” ON HORSEBACK 221 “ Nonsense! You’ll live to thank me for it, as the best thing you ever did. It’s over and done now, and you ’ve got it to tell your friends.” “That ’s just the trouble. They ll ask me if I went up Mitchell, and I shall have to say I did. My character for consistency is gone. Not that I care much what they think, but my own self-respect is gone. I never believed I would do it. A man can’t afford to lower himself in his own esteem, at my time of life.” The Widow Patten’s was only an advanced settle- ment in this narrow valley on the mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a fence, and a gate gave it the air of a place, and it had once been better cared for than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and the art of entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into desuetude. We unsaddled at the veranda, and sat down to review our adventure, make the acquaint- ance of the family, and hear the last story from Big Tom. The mountaineer, though wet, was as fresh as a daisy, and fatigue in no wise checked the easy, cheerful flow of his talk. He was evidently a favor- ite with his neighbors, and not unpleasantly conscious of the extent of his reputation. But he encountered here another social grade. The Widow Patten was highly connected. We were not long in discovering that she was an Alexander. She had been a school- mate of Senator Vance, — “ Zeb Vance” he still was to her,——and the senator and his wife had stayed at her house. I wish I could say that the supper, for which we waited till nine o’clock, was as “highly con- nected”’ as the landlady. It was, however, a supper 222 ON HORSEBACK that left its memory. We were lodged in a detached house, which we had to ourselves, where a roaring wood fire made amends for other things lacking. It was necessary to close the doors to keep out the wan- dering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that, notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there the sleep of peace. In the morning a genuine surprise awaited us ; it seemed impossible, but the breakfast was many de- grees worse than the supper; and when we paid our bill, large for the region, we were consoled by the thought that we paid for the high connection as well as for the accommodations. This is a regular place of entertainment, and one is at liberty to ee it without violation of delicacy. The broken shoe of Jack required attention, and we were all the morning hunting a blacksmith, as we rode down the valley. Three blacksmith’s shan- ties were found, and after long waiting to send for the operator it turned out in each case that he had no shoes, no nails, no iron to make either of. We made a detour of three miles to what was represented as a regular shop. The owner had secured the ser- vice of a colored blacksmith for a special job, and was not inclined to accommodate us; he had no shoes, no nails. But the colored blacksmith, who appreciated the plight we were in, offered to make a shoe, and to crib four nails from those he had laid aside for a couple of mules; and after a good deal of delay, we were enabled to go on. The incident shows, as well as anything, the barrenness and shift- lessness of the region. A horseman with whom we ON HORSEBACK 223 rode in the morning gave us a very low estimate of the trustworthiness of the inhabitants. The valley is wild and very pretty all the way down to Colonel Long’s,— twelve miles, — but the wretched-looking people along the way live in a wretched manner. Just before reaching Colonel Long’s we forded the stream (here of good size), the bridge having tumbled down, and encountered a party of picnickers under the trees — signs of civilization; a railway station is not far off. Colonel Long’s is a typical Southern establishment: a white house, or rather three houses, all of one story, built on to each other as beehives are set in arow, all porches and galleries. No one at home but the cook, a rotund, broad-faced woman, with a merry eye, whose very appearance suggested good cooking and hospitality ; the Missis and the children had gone up to the river fishing; the Colonel was somewhere about the place ; always was away when he was wanted. Guess he’d take us in, — mighty fine man the Colonel; and she dispatched a child from a cabin in the rear to hunt him up. The Colonel was a great friend of her folks down to Greenville; they visited here. Law, no, she didn’t live here. Was just up here spending the summer, for her health. God-forsaken lot of people up here, poor trash. She would n’t stay here a day, but the Colonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in Greenville. Nobody round here she could ’sociate with. She was a Presbyterian, the folks round here mostly Baptists and Methodists. More style about the Presbyterians. Married? No, she hoped not. She did n’t want to support no husband. Got ’nuff 224 ON HORSEBACK to do to take care of herself. That her little girl? No; she’d only got one child, down to Greenville, just the prettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody. How did she what? reconcile this state of things with not being married and being a Presbyterian? Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was mighty handy occasionally, mebbe not all the time. Yes, indeed, she enjoyed her religion. The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial welcome. The fat and merry cook blustered around and prepared a good dinner, memorable for its “light”? bread, the first we had seen since Cran- berry Forge. The Colonel is in some sense a public man, having been a mail agent, and a Republican. He showed us photographs and engravings of North- ern politicians, and had the air of a man who had been in Washington. This was a fine country for any kind of fruit, — apples, grapes, pears; it needed a little Northern enterprise to set things going. The travelers were indebted to the Colonel for a delight- ful noonday rest, and with regret declined his press- ing invitation to pass the night with him. The ride down the Swannanoa to Asheville was ° pleasant, through a cultivated region, over a good road. The Swannanoa is, however, a turbid stream. In order to obtain the most impressive view of Ashe- ville we approached it by the way of Beaucatcher Hill, a sharp elevation a mile west of the town. I suppose the name is a corruption of some descriptive French word, but it has long been a favorite resort of the frequenters of Asheville, and it may be tradi- tional that it is a good place to catch beaux. The ON HORSEBACK 225 summit 1s occupied by a handsome private residence, and from this ridge the view, which has the merit of ‘bursting’ upon the traveler as he comes over the hill, is captivating in its extent and variety. The pretty town of Asheville is seen to cover a number of elevations gently rising out of the valley, and the valley, a rich agricultural region, well watered and fruitful, is completely inclosed by picturesque hills, some of them rising to the dignity of mountains. The most conspicuous of these is Mount Pisgah, eighteen miles distant to the southwest, a pyramid of the Balsam range, 5757 feet high. Mount Pisgah, from its shape, is the most attractive mountain in this region. The sunset light was falling upon the splendid panorama and softening it. The windows of the town gleamed as if on fire. From the steep slope below came the mingled sounds of children shout- ing, cattle driven home, and all that hum of life that marks a thickly peopled region preparing for the night. It was the leisure hour of an August after- noon, and Asheville was in all its watering-place gayety, as we reined up at the Swannanoa hotel. A band was playing on the balcony. We had reached ice-water, barbers, waiters, civilization. 15 IV SHEVILLE, delightful for situation, on small hills that rise above the French Broad below its confluence with the Swannanoa, is a sort of fourteenth cousin to Saratoga. It has no springs, but lying 2250 feet above the sea and ina lovely valley, mountain girt, it has pure atmosphere and an equable climate; and being both a summer and winter resort, it has acquired a watering-place air. There are Southerners who declare that it is too hot in summer, and that the complete .circuit of mountains shuts out any lively movement of air. But the scenery is so charming and noble, the drives are so varied, the roads so unusually passable for a Southern country, and the facilities for excursions so good, that Asheville is a favorite resort. Architecturally the place is not remarkable, but its surface is so irregular, there are so many acclivities and deep valleys that improvements can never oblit- erate, that it is perforce picturesque. It is interesting also, if not pleasing, in its contrasts— the enter- prise of taste and money-making struggling with the laissez faire of the South. The negro, I suppose, must be regarded as a conservative element; he has not much inclination to change his clothes or his cabin, and his swarming presence gives a ragged as- pect to the new civilization. And to say the truth, the new element of Southern smartness lacks the ON HORSEBACK 227 trim thrift the North is familiar with; though the visitor who needs relaxation is not disposed to quar- rel with the easy-going terms on which life is taken. Asheville, it is needless to say, appeared very gay and stimulating to the riders from the wilderness. The Professor, who does not even pretend to patron- ize Nature, had his revenge as we strolled about the streets (there is but one of much consideration), immensely entertained by the picturesque contrasts. There was more life and amusement here in five minutes, he declared, than in five days of what people called scenery — the present rage for scenery, anyway, being only a fashion and a modern invention. The Friend suspected from this penchant for the city that the Professor must have been brought up in the country. There was a kind of predetermined and willful gayety about Asheville, however, that is apt to be present in a watering-place, and gave to it the melan- choly tone that is always present in gay places. We fancied that the lively movement in the streets had an air of unreality. A band of musicians on the balcony of the Swannanoa were scraping and tooting and twanging with a hired air, and on the opposite bal- cony of the Eagle a rival band echoed and redoubled the perfunctory joyousness. The gayety was conta- gious: the horses felt it; those that carried light bur- dens of beauty minced and pranced, the pony in the dog-cart was inclined to dash, the few passing equi- pages had an air of pleasure ; and the people of color, the comely waitress and the slouching corner-loafer, responded to the animation of the festive strains. In 228 ON HORSEBACK the late afternoon the streets were full of people, wagons, carriages, horsemen, all with a holiday air, dashed with African color and humor—the irrespon- sibility of the most insouciant and humorous race in the world, perhaps more comical than humorous; a mixture of recent civilization and rudeness, peculiar and amusing; a happy coming together, it seemed, of Southern abandon and Northern wealth, though the North was little represented at this season. As evening came on, the streets, though wanting gas, were still more animated; the shops were open, some very good ones, and the white and black throng 1 increasing, especially the black, for the negro is preéminently a night bird. In the hotels dancing was promised — the german was announced; on the galleries and in the corridors were groups of young people, a little loud in manner and voice, — the young gentleman, with his over-elaborate manner to ladies in bowing and hat-lifting, and the blooming girls from the lesser Southern cities, with the slight provincial note, and yet with the frank and engaging cordiality which is as charming as it is characteristic. I do not know what led the Professor to query if the Southern young women were not superior to the Southern young men, but he is always asking ques- tions nobody can answer. At the Swannanoa were half a dozen bridal couples, readily recognizable by the perfect air they had of having been married a long time. How interesting such young voyagers are, and how interesting they are to each other! Columbus never discovered such a large world as they have to find out and possess each in the other. ON HORSEBACK 229 Among the attractions of the evening it was diffi- cult to choose. There was a lawn-party advertised at Battery Point (wherea fine hotel has since been built) and we walked up to that round knob after dark. It is a hill with a grove, which commands a charming view, and was fortified during the war. We found it illuminated with Chinese lanterns; and little tables set about under the trees, laden with cake and ice- cream, offered a chance to the stranger to contribute money for the benefit of the Presbyterian Church. I am afraid it was not a profitable entertainment, for the men seemed to have business elsewhere, but the ladies about the tables made charming groups in the lighted grove. Man is a stupid animal at best, or he would not make it so difficult for the womenkind to scrape together a little money for charitable purposes. But probably the women like this method of raising money better than the direct one. The evening gayety of the town was well dis- tributed. When we descended to the Court-House Square, a great crowd had collected, black, white, and yellow, about a high platform, upon which four glaring torches lighted up the novel scene, and those who could read might decipher this legend on a standard at the back of the stage: HAPPY JOHN. ONE OF THE SLAVES OF WADE HAMPTON. COME AND SEE HIM! Happy John, who occupied the platform with Mary, a “ bright” yellow girl, took the comical view 230 ON HORSEBACK of his race, which was greatly enjoyed by his audi- ence. His face was blackened to the proper color of the stage-darky, and he wore a flaming suit of calico, the trousers and coat striped longitudinally according to Punch’s idea of “ Uncle Sam,” the coat a swal- low-tail bound and faced with scarlet, and a bell- crowned white hat. This conceit of a colored Yankee seemed to tickle all colors in the audience amazingly. Mary, the “bright” woman (this is the universal designation of the light mulatto), was a pleasing but bold yellow girl, who wore a natty cap trimmed with scarlet, and had the assured or pert manner of all traveling sawdust performers. “‘ Oh, yes,” exclaimed a bright woman in the crowd, “* Happy John was sure enough one of Wade Hamp- ton’s slaves, and he’s right good looking when he’s not blackened up.” Happy John sustained the promise of his name by spontaneous gayety and enjoyment of the fleeting moment; he had a glib tongue and a ready, rude wit, and talked to his audience with a delicious mingling of impudence, deference, and patronage, commenting upon them generally, administering advice and cor- — rection in a strain of humor that kept his hearers in a pleased excitement. He handled the banjo and the guitar alternately, and talked all the time when he was not singing. Mary (how much harder featured and brazen a woman is in such a position than a man of the same caliber!) sang, in an untutored treble, songs of sentiment, often risgué, in solo and in com- pany with John, but with a cold, indifferent air, in contrast to the rollicking enjoyment of her comrade. ON HORSEBACK 231 The favorite song, which the crowd compelled her to repeat, touched lightly the uncertainties of love, expressed in the falsetto pathetic refrain: «« Mary ’s gone away wid de coon.”’ All this, with the moon, the soft summer night, the mixed crowd of darkies and whites, the stump elo- quence of Happy John, the singing, the laughter, the flaring torches, made a wild scene. The entertain- ment was quite free, with a “ collection ” occasionally during the performance. What most impressed us, however, was the turn- ing to account by Happy John of the “nigger” side of the black man as a means of low comedy, and the enjoyment of it by all the people of color. They appeared to appreciate as highly as anybody the comic element in themselves, and Happy John had emphasized it by deepening his natural color and exaggerating the “nigger” peculiarities. I presume none of them analyzed the nature of his infectious gayety, nor thought of the pathos that lay so close to it, in the fact of his recent slavery, and the distinc- tion of being one of Wade Hampton’s niggers, and the melancholy mirth of this light-hearted race’s bur- lesque of itself. A performance followed which called forth the ap- preciation of the crowd more than the wit of Happy John or the faded songs of the yellow girl. John took two sweet-cakes and broke each in fine pieces into a saucer, and after sugaring and eulogizing the dry messes, called for two small darky volunteers from the audience to come up on the platform and t 232 ON HORSEBACK devour them. He offered a prize of fifteen cents to the one who should first eat the contents of his dish, not using his hands, and hold up the saucer empty in token of his victory. The cake was tempting, and the fifteen cents irresistible, and a couple of boys in ragged shirts and short trousers and a suspender apiece came up shamefacedly to enter for the prize. Fach one grasped his saucer in both hands, and with face over the dish awaited the word “go,” which John gave, and started off the contest with a banjo accom- paniment. To pick up with the mouth the dry cake and choke it down was not so easy as the boys ap- prehended, but they went into the task with all their might, gobbling and swallowing as if they loved cake, , occasionally rolling an eye to the saucer of the con- testant to see the relative progress, John strumming, ironically encouraging, and the crowd roaring. As the combat deepened and the contestants strangled and stuffed and sputtered, the crowd went into spasms of laughter. The smallest boy won by a few seconds, holding up his empty saucer, with mouth stuffed, vigorously trying to swallow, like a chicken with his _ throat clogged with dry meal, and utterly unable to speak. The impartial John praised the victor in mock heroics, but said that the trial was so even that he would divide the prize, ten cents to one and five to the other—a stroke of justice that greatly in- creased his popularity. And then he dismissed the assembly, saying that he had promised the mayor to do so early, because he did not wish to run an oppo- sition to the political meeting going on in the court- house. ON HORSEBACK 233 The scene in the large court-room was less ani- mated than that out-doors; a half-dozen tallow dips, hung on the wall in sconces and stuck on the judge’s long desk, feebly illuminated the mixed crowd of black and white who sat in, and on the backs of, the benches, and cast only a fitful light upon the orator, who paced back and forth and pounded the rail. It was to have been a joint discussion between the two presidential electors running in that district, but, the Republican being absent, his place was taken by a young man of the town. The Democratic orator took advantage of the absence of his opponent to describe the discussion of the night before, and to give a por- trait of his adversary. He was represented as a cross between a baboon and a jackass, who would be a natural curiosity for Barnum. “I intend,” said the orator, “to put him in a cage and exhibit him about the deestrict.” This political hit called forth great applause. All his arguments were of this pointed character, and they appeared to be unanswerable. The orator appeared to prove that there wasn’t a respectable man in the opposite party who was n’t an office-holder, nor a white man of any kind in it who was not an office-holder. If there were any issues or principles in the canvass, he paid his audi- ence the compliment of knowing all about them, for he never alluded to any. In another state of society, such a speech of personalities might have led to sub- ‘sequent shootings, but no doubt his adversary would pay him in the same coin when next they met, and the exhibition seemed to be regarded down here as satisfactory and enlightened political canvassing for 234 ON HORSEBACK votes. The speaker who replied, opened his address with a noble tribute to woman (as the first speaker had ended his), directed to a dozen of that sex who sat in the gloom of a corner. The young man was moderate in his sarcasm, and attempted to speak of national issues, but the crowd had small relish for that sort of thing. At eleven o’clock, when we got away from the unsavory room (more than half the candles had gone out), the orator was making slow headway against the relished blackguardism of the evening. The german was still “on” at the hotel when we ascended to our chamber, satisfied that Asheville was a lively town. The sojourner at Asheville can amuse himself very well by walking or driving to the. many pic- turesque points of view about the town; livery stables abound, and the roads are good. The Beau- catcher Hill is always attractive; and Connolly’s, a private place a couple of miles from town, is ideally situated, being on a slight elevation in the valley, commanding the entire circuit of mountains, for it has the air of repose which is so seldom experienced in the location of a dwelling in America whence an ’ extensive prospect is given. Or if the visitor is dis- inclined to exertion, he may lounge in the rooms of the hospitable Asheville Club; or he may sit on the sidewalk in front of the hotels, and talk with the colonels and judges and generals and ex-members of Congress, the talk generally drifting to the new commercial and industrial life of the South, and only to politics as it affects these; and he will be pleased, if the conversation takes a reminiscent turn, with ON HORSEBACK Laie the lack of bitterness and the tone of friendliness. The negro problem is commonly discussed philoso- phically and without heat, but there is always discov- ered, underneath, the determination that the negro shall never again get the legislative upper hand. And the gentleman from South Carolina who has an upland farm, and is heartily glad slavery is gone, and wants the negro educated, when it comes to ascend- ency in politics — such as the State once experienced — asks you what you would do yourself. This is not the place to enter upon the politico-social question, but the writer may note one impression gathered from much friendly and agreeable conversation. It is that the Southern whites misapprehend and make a scarecrow of “social equality.” When, during the war, it was a question at the North of giving the col- ored people of the Northern States the ballot, the argument against it used to be stated in the form of a question: “ Do you want your daughter to marry a negro?” Well, the negro has his political rights in the North, and there has come no change in the social conditions whatever. And there is no doubt that the social conditions would remain exactly as they are at the South if the negro enjoyed all the civil rights which the Constitution tries to give him. The most sensible view of this whole question was taken by an intelligent colored man, whose brother was formerly a representative in Congress. “Social equality,” he said in effect, “is a humbug. We do not expect it, we do not want it. It does not exist among the blacks themselves. We have our own social degrees, and choose our own associates. We simply want the 236 ON HORSEBACK ordinary civil rights, under which we can live and make our way in peace and amity. This is necessary to our self-respect, and if we have not self-respect, it is not to be supposed that the race canimprove. I'll tell you what I mean. My wife is a modest, intelli- gent woman, of good manners, and she is always neat, and tastefully dressed. Now, if she goes to take the cars, she is not permitted to go into a clean car with decent people, but is ordered into one that is repel- lent, and is forced into company that any refined woman would shrink from. But along comes a flaunt- ingly dressed woman, of known disreputable charac- ter, whom my wife would be disgraced to know, and she takes any place that money will buy. It is this sort of thing that hurts.” We took the eastern train one evening to Round Nob (Henry’s Station), some thirty miles, in order to see the wonderful railway that descends, a distance of eight miles, from the summit of Swannanoa Gap (2657 feet elevation) to Round Nob Hotel (1607 feet).. The Swannanoa Summit is the dividing line between the waters that flow to the Atlantic and those that go to the Gulf of Mexico. This fact was im- — pressed upon us by the inhabitants, who derive a good deal of comfort from it. Such divides are always matter of local pride. Unfortunately, perhaps, it was too dark before we reached Henry’s to enable us to see the road in all its loops and parallels as it appears on the map, but we gained a better effect. The hotel, when we first sighted it, all its windows blazing with light, was at the bottom of a well. Beside it—it was sufficiently light to see that—a column of water ON HORSEBACK 237 sprang straight into the air to the height, as we learned afterwards from two official sources, of 225 and 265 feet; and the information was added that it is the highest fountain in the world. This stout column, stiff as a flagstaff, with its feathery head of mist gleam- ing like silver in the failing light, had the most charm- ing effect. We passed out of sight of hotel and fountain, but were conscious of being whirled on a circular descending grade, and very soon they were in sight again. Again and again they disappeared and came to view, now on one side and now onthe other, until our train seemed to be bewitched, making frantic efforts by dodgings and turnings, now through tun- nels and now over high pieces of trestle, to escape the inevitable attraction that was gravitating it down to the hospitable lights at the bottom of the well. When we climbed back up the road in the morning, we had an opportunity to see the marvelous engi- neering, but there is little else to see, the view being nearly always very limited. The hotel at the bottom of the ravine, on the side of Round Nob, offers little in the way of prospect, but it is a picturesque place, and we could understand why it was full of visitors when we came to the table. It was probably the best-kept house of entertain- ment in the State, and being in the midst of the Black Hills, it offers good chances for fishing and mountain climbing. In the morning the fountain, which is, of course, artificial, refused to play, the rain in the night having washed in dééris which clogged the conduit. But it soon freed itself and sent up for a long time, like a 238 ON HORSEBACK sulky geyser, mud and foul water. When it got free- dom and tolerable clearness, we noted that the water went up in pulsations, which were marked at short distances by the water falling off, giving the column the appearance ofaspine. The summit, always beat- ing the air in efforts to rise higher, fell over in a veil of mist. There are certain excursions that the sojourner at Asheville must make. He must ride forty-five miles south through Henderson and Transylvania to Ce- sar’s Head, on the South Carolina border, where the mountain system abruptly breaks down into the vast southern plain; where the observer, standing on the edge of the precipice, has behind him and before him the greatest contrast that nature can.offer. He must also take the rail to Waynesville, and visit the much-frequented White Sulphur Springs, among the Balsam Mountains, and penetrate the Great Smoky range by way of Quallatown, and make the acquaintance of the remnant of Cherokee Indians liv- ing on the north slope of Cheoah Mountain. The Professor could have made it a matter of personal merit that he escaped all these encounters with wild — and picturesque nature, if his horse had not been too disabled for such long jaunts. It is only necessary, however, to explain to the public that the travelers are not gormandizers of scenery, and were willing to leave some portions of the State to the curiosity of future excursionists. But so much was said about Hickory Nut Gap that a visit to it could not be evaded. The Gap is about twenty-four miles southeast of Asheville. In ON HORSEBACK 239 the opinion of a well-informed colonel, who urged us to make the trip, it is the finest piece of scenery in this region. We were brought up on the precept, “get the best,” and it was with high anticipations that we set out about eleven o’clock one warm, foggy morning. We followed a very good road through a broken, pleasant country, gradually growing wilder and less cultivated. There was heavy rain most of the day on the hills, and occasionally a shower swept across our path. The conspicuous object toward which we traveled all the morning was a shapely conical hill at the beginning of the Gap. At three o’clock we stopped at the Widow Sher- rill’s for dinner. Her house, only about a mile from the summit, is most picturesquely situated on a rough slope, giving a wide valley and mountain view. The house is old, rambling, many-roomed, with wide gal- leries on two sides. If one wanted a retired retreat for a few days, with good air and fair entertainment, this could be commended. It is an excellent fruit region; apples especially are sound and of good flavor. That may be said of all this part of the State. The climate is adapted to apples, as the hilly part of New England is. I fancy the fruit ripens slowly, as it does in New England, and is not subject to quick decay like much of that grown in the West. But the grape also can be grown in all this mountain region. Nothing but lack of enterprise prevents any farmer from enjoying abundance of fruit. The industry car- ried on at the moment at the Widow Sherrill’s was the artificial drying of apples for the market. The apples are pared, cored, and sliced in spirals, by 240 ON HORSEBACK machinery, and dried on tin sheets in a patented — machine. The industry appears to be a profitable one hereabouts, and is about the only one that calls in the aid of invention. While our dinner was preparing, we studied the well-known pictures of “Jane” and “ Eliza,” the photographs of Confederate boys, who had never returned from the war, and the relations, whom the traveling photographers always like to pillory in mel- ancholy couples, and some stray volumes of the Sun- day-school Union. Madame Sherrill, who carries on the farm since the death of her husband, is a woman of strong and liberal mind, who informed us that she got small comfort in the churches in the neighbor- hood, and gave us, in fact, a discouraging account of the unvital piety of the region. The descent from the summit of the Gap to Judge Logan’s, nine miles, is rapid, and the road is wild and occasionally picturesque, following the Broad River, a small stream when we first overtook it, but roaring, rocky, and muddy, owing to frequent rains, and now and then tumbling down in rapids.. The noisy stream made the ride animated, and an occasional cabin, a * poor farmhouse, a mill, a schoolhouse, a store with an assemblage of lean horses tied to the hitching rails, gave the Professor opportunity for remarks upon the value of life under such circumstances. The valley which we followed down probably owes its celebrity to the uncommon phenomena of occa- sional naked rocks and precipices. The inclosing mountains are from 3000 to 4000 feet high, and gen- erally wooded. I do not think that the ravine would ON HORSEBACK 241 be famous in a country where exposed ledges and buttressing walls of rock are common. It is only by comparison with the local scenery that this is remark- able. About a mile above Judge Logan’s we caught sight, through the trees, of the famous waterfall. From the top of the high ridge on the right, a nearly perpendicular cascade pours over the ledge of rocks and is lost in the forest. We could see nearly the whole of it, at a great height above us, on the oppo- site side of the river, and it would require an hour’s stiff climb to reach its foot. From where we viewed it, it seemed a slender and not very important, but certainly a very beautiful cascade, a band of silver in the mass of green foliage. The fall is said to be 1400 feet. Our colonel insists that it is a thousand. It may be, but the valley where we stood is at least at an elevation of 1300 feet; we could not believe that the ridge over which the water pours is much higher than 3000 feet, and the length of the fall certainly did not appear to be a quarter of the height of the mountain from our point of observation. But we had no desire to belittle this pretty cascade, especially when we found that Judge Logan would regard a foot abated from the 1400 as a personal grievance. Mr. Logan once performed the functions of local judge,a Republican appointment, and he sits around the premises now in the enjoyment of that past dig- nity and of the fact that his wife is postmistress. His house of entertainment is at the bottom of the valley, a place shut in, warm, damp, and not inviting to a long stay, although the region boasts a good many natural curiosities. 16 249 ON HORSEBACK It was here that we encountered again the political current, out of which we had been fora month. The Judge himself was reticent, as became a public man, but he had conspicuously posted up a monster pro- spectus, sent out from Augusta, of a campaign life of Blaine and Logan, in which the Professor read, with shaking knees, this sentence: “ Sure to be the greatest and hottest [campaign and civil battle] ever known in this world. The thunder of the supreme struggle and its reverberations will shake the continents for months, and will be felt from Pole to Pole.” For this and other reasons this seemed a risky place to be in. There was something: sinister about the murky atmosphere, and a suspicion of mosqui- toes besides. Had there not been other travelers staying here, we should have felt still more uneasy. The house faced Bald Mountain, 4000 feet high, a hill that had a very bad reputation some years ago, and was visited by newspaper reporters. This is, in fact, the famous Shaking Mountain. For a long time it had a habit of trembling, as ifin an earthquake spasm, but with a shivering motion very different from that produced by an earthquake. The only ~ good that came of it was that it frightened all the “moonshiners,” and caused them to join the church. It is not reported what became of the church after- wards. It is believed now that the trembling was caused by the cracking of a great ledge on the moun- tain, which slowly parted asunder. Bald Mountain is the scene of Mrs. Burnett’s delightful story of “Touisiana,” and of the play of “ Esmeralda.” A rock is pointed out toward the summit, which the beholder ON HORSEBACK 243 is asked to see resembles a hut, and which 1s called ** Hsmeralda’s Cottage.” But this attractive maiden _has departed, and we did not discover any woman in the region who remotely answers to her descrip- tion. In the morning we rode a mile and a half through the woods and followed up a small stream to see the celebrated pools, one of which the Judge said was two hundred feet deep, and another bottomless. These pools, not round, but on one side circular excava- tions, some twenty feet across, worn in the rock by pebbles, are very good specimens, and perhaps re- markable specimens, of “‘pot-holes.”’ They are, how- ever, regarded here as one of the wonders of the world. On the way to them we saw beautiful wild trumpet- creepers in blossom, festooning the trees. The stream that originates in Hickory Nut Gap is the westernmost branch of several forks of the Broad, which unite to the southeast in Rutherford County, flow to Columbia, and reach the Atlantic through the channel of the Santee. It is not to be confounded with the French Broad, which originates among the hills of Transylvania, runs northward past Ashe- ville, and finds its way to the Tennessee through the Warm Springs Gap in the Bald Mountains. As the French claimed ownership of all the affluents of the Mississippi, this latter was called the French Broad. It was a great relief the next morning, on our return, to rise out of the lifeless atmosphere of the Gap into the invigorating air at the Widow Sher- rill’s, whose country-seat is three hundred feet higher 244 ON HORSEBACK than Asheville. It was a day of heavy showers, and apparently of leisure to the scattered population ; at every store and mill was a congregation of loafers, who had hitched their scrawny horses and mules to the fences, and had the professional air of the idler and gossip the world over. The vehicles met on the road were a variety of the prairie schooner, long wagons with a top of hoops over which is stretched a cotton cloth. The wagons are without seats, and the canvas is too low to admit of sitting upright, if there were. The occupants crawl in at either end, sit or lie on the bottom of the wagon, and jolt along in shiftless un- comfortableness. Riding down the French Broad was one of the ori- ginal objects of our journey. Travelers with the same intention may be warned that the route on horseback is impracticable. The distance to the Warm Springs is thirty-seven miles; to Marshall, more than half- way, the road is clear, as it runs on the opposite side of the river from the railway, and the valley is some- thing more than river and rails. But below Marshall the valley contracts, and the rails are laid a good por- tion of the way in the old stage road. One can walk ~ the track, but to ride a horse over its sleepers and culverts and occasional bridges, and dodge the trains, is neither safe nor agreeable. We sent our horses round, —the messenger taking the risk of leading them, between trains, over the last six or eight miles, —and took the train. The railway, after crossing a mile or two of mead- ows, hugs the river all the way. The scenery is the reverse of bold. The hills are low, monotonous in ON HORSEBACK 245 form, and the stream winds through them, with many a pretty turn and “reach,” with scarcely a ribbon of room to spare on either side. The river is shallow, rapid, stony, muddy, full of rocks, with an occasional little island covered with low bushes. The rock seems to be a clay formation, rotten and colored. As we approach Warm Springs the scenery becomes a little bolder, and we emerge into the open space about the Springs through a narrower defile, guarded by rocks that are really picturesque in color and splin- tered decay, one of them being known, of course, as the “ Lover’s Leap,” a name common in every part of the modern or ancient world where there is a settle- ment near a precipice, with always the same legend attached to it. There is a little village at Warm Springs, but the hotel — since burned and rebuilt — (which may be briefly described as a palatial shanty) stands by itself close to the river, which is here a deep, rapid, turbid stream. A bridge once connected it with the road on the opposite bank, but it was carried away three or four years ago, and its ragged butments stand as a monument of procrastination, while the stream is crossed by means of a flatboat and a cable. In front of the hotel, on the slight slope to the river, is a meager grove of locusts. The famous spring, close to the stream, is marked only by a rough box of wood and an iron pipe, and the water, which has a temperature of about one hundred degrees, runs to a shabby bath-house below, in which is a pool for bathing. The bath is very agreeable, the tepid water being singularly soft and pleasant. It has a slightly 246 ON HORSEBACK sulphurous taste. Its good effects are much certified. The grounds, which might be very pretty with care, are ill-kept and slatternly, strewn with dédrts, as if everything was left to the easy-going nature of the servants. The main house its of brick, with verandas and galleries all round, and a colonnade of thirteen huge brick and stucco columns, in honor of the thir- teen States, —a relic of post-Revolutionary times, when the house was the resort of Southern fashion and romance. These columns have stood through one fire, and perhaps the recent one, which swept away the rest of the structure. The house is extended in a long wooden edifice, with galleries and outside stairs, the whole front being nearly seven hundred feet long. In a rear building is a vast, barrack-like dining-room, with a noble ball-room above, for dan- cing is the important occupation of visitors. The situation is very pretty, and the establish- ment has a picturesqueness of its own. Even the ugly little brick structure near the bath-house im- poses upon one as Wade Hampton’s cottage. No doubt we liked the place better than if it had been | smart, and enjoyed the wegligé condition, and the easy terms on which life is taken there. There was a sense of abundance in the sight of fowls tiptoeing about the verandas, and to meet a chicken in the parlor was a sort of guarantee that we should meet him later on in the dining-room. There was nothing incongruous in the presence of pigs, turkeys, and _ chickens on the grounds; they went along with the good-natured negro-service and the general hospi- tality; and we had a mental rest in the thought ON HORSEBACK 247 that all the gates would have been off the hinges, if there had been any gates. The guests were very well treated indeed, and were put under no sort of restraint by discipline. The long colonnade made an admirable promenade and lounging-place and point of observation. It was interesting to watch the groups under the locusts, to see the management of the ferry, the mounting and dismounting of the riding-parties, and to study the colors on the steep hill opposite, halfway up which was a neat cottage and flower-garden. The type of people was very pleasantly Southern. Colonels and politicians stand in groups and tell stories, which are followed by explosions of laughter; retire occasionally into the saloon, and come forth reminded of more stories, and all lift their hats elaborately and suspend the narratives when a lady goes past. A company of soldiers from Richmond had pitched its tents near the hotel, and in the evening the ball-room was en- livened with uniforms. Among the graceful dancers —and every one danced well, and with spirit — was pointed out the young widow of a son of An- drew Johnson, whose pretty cottage overlooks the village. But the Professor, to whom this informa- tion was communicated, doubted whether here it was not a greater distinction to be the daughter of the owner of this region than to be connected with a President of the United States. A certain air of romance and tradition hangs about the French Broad and the Warm Springs, which the visitor must possess himself of in order to appre- ciate either. This was the great highway of trade 248 ON HORSEBACK and travel. At certain seasons there was an almost continuous procession of herds of cattle and sheep passing to the Eastern markets, and of trains of big wagons wending their way to the inviting lands watered by the Tennessee. Here came in the sum- mer-time the Southern planters in coach and four, with a great retinue of household servants, and kept up for months that unique social life, a mixture of courtly ceremony and entire freedom, —the civili- zation which had the drawing-room at one end and the negro-quarters at the other, — which has passed away. It was a continuation into our own restless era of the manners and the literature of George the Third, with the accompanying humor and happy- go-lucky decadence of the negro slaves. On our way down we saw on the river-bank, under the trees, the old hostelry, Alexander’s, still in decay, —an attractive tavern, that was formerly one of the nota- ble stopping-places on the river. Master, and fine lady, and obsequious, larking darky, and lumbering coach, and throng of pompous and gay life, have all disappeared. There was no room in this valley for the old institutions and for the iron track. «« When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, . . . We, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.’” This perverted use of noble verse was all the response the Friend got in his attempt to drop into the senti- mental vein over the past of the French Broad. ON HORSEBACK 249 The reader must not think there is no enterprise in this sedative and idle resort. The conceited Yan- kee has to learn that it is not he alone who can be accused of the thrift of craft. There is at the Warm Springs a thriving mill for crushing and pulveriz- ing barites, known vulgarly as heavy-spar. It is the weight of this heaviest of minerals, and not its lovely crystals, that gives it value. The rock is crushed, washed, sorted out by hand, to remove the foreign substances, then ground and subjected to acids, and at the end of the process it is as white and fine as the best bolted flour. This heavy adulterant is shipped to the North in large quantities, — the man- ager said he had recently an order for a hundred thou- sand dollars’ worth of it. What is the use of this powder? Well, it is of use to the dealer who sells white lead for paint, to increase the weight of the lead, and it is the belief hereabouts that it is mixed with powdered sugar. The industry is profitable to those engaged in it. It was impossible to get much information about our route into Tennessee, except that we should go by Paint Rock, and cross Paint Mountain. Late one morning, —a late start is inevitable here, — ac- companied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the rope ferry, and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the stream and tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift water and over- hanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of the river), to Paint Rock, — six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked precipice by the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large local repu- 250 ON HORSEBACK tation. It is said that its face shows painting done by the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold, crumbling cliff, innumerable vis- itors have written their names. We stared at it a good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, but could see nothing except iron stains. Round the corner is a farmhouse and place of call for visitors, a neat cottage, with a display of shells and minerals and flower-pots; and here we turned north, crossed the little stream called Paint River, the only clear water we had seen in a month, passed into the State of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain. The open forest road, with the murmur of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating, and as we rose the prospect opened, —the lovely valley below, Bald Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountains rising as we came over the ridge. Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men, knew anything of the route, or could give us any information of the country beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the coun- try and the farms decidedly improved, — apple-trees. and a grapevine now and then. A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle’s, hungry and disposed to receive hospitality. We passed by an old farm building to a new two-storied, gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived by appearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, had nothing to offer us, except some buttermilk. Why should anybody be obliged to feed roving stran- gers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby in her arms declared, — ww ON HORSEBACK 251 “We ’ve got nothing for stock but roughness ; perhaps you can get something at the other house.” “ Roughness,” we found out at the other house, meant hay in this region. We procured for the horses a light meal of green oats, and for our own din- ner we drank at the brook and the Professor pro- duced a few sonnets. On this sustaining repast we fared on nearly twelve miles farther, through a roll- ing, good farming country, offering little for com- ment, in search of a night’s lodging with one of the brothers Snap. But one brother declined our com- pany on the plea that his wife was sick, and the other because his wife lived in Greenville, and we found ourselves as dusk came on without shelter in a tav- ernless land. Between the two refusals we enjoyed the most picturesque bit of scenery of the day, at the crossing of Camp Creek, a swift little stream, that swirled round under the ledge of bold rocks before the ford. This we learned was a favorite camp-meeting ground. Mary was calling the cattle home at the farm of the second Snap. It was a very peaceful scene of rural life, and we were inclined to tarry, but Mary, instead of calling us home with the cattle, advised us to ride on to Alexander’s before it got dark. It is proper to say that at Alexander’s we began to see what this pleasant and fruitful country might be, and will be, with thrift and intelligent farming. Mr. Alexander is a well-to-do farmer, with plenty of cattle and good barns (always an evidence of pros- perity), who owes his success to industry’ and an open mind to new ideas. He was a Unionist during the war, and is a Democrat now, though his county 259 ON HORSEBACK (Greene) has been Republican. We had been riding all the afternoon through good land, and encounter- ing a better class of farmers. Peach-trees abounded (though this was an off year for fruit), and apples and grapes throve. It is a land of honey and of milk. The persimmon flourishes; and, sign of abundance generally, we believe, great flocks of turkey-buzzards — majestic floaters in the high air — hovered about. This country was ravaged during the war by Union- ists and Confederates alternately, the impartial pa- triots as they passed scooping in corn, bacon, and good horses, leaving the farmers little to live on. Mr. Alexander’s farm cost him forty dollars an acre, and yields good crops of wheat and maize. This was the first house on our journey where at break- fast we had grace before meat, though there had been many tables that needed it more. From the door the noble range of the Big Bald is in sight and not distant; and our host said he had a shanty on it, to which he was accustomed to go with his family for a month or six weeks in the summer and enjoy a real primitive woods life. * Refreshed by this little touch of civilization, and with horses well fed, we rode on next morning towards Jonesboro, over a rolling, rather unpicturesque country, but ennobled by the Big Bald and Butt ranges, which we had on our right all day. At noon we crossed the Nollechucky River at a ford where the water was up to the saddle girth, broad, rapid, muddy, and with a treacherous stony bottom, and came to the little hamlet of Boylesville, with a flour- mill, and a hospitable old-fashioned house, where we ON HORSEBACK 253 found shelter from the heat of the hot day, and where the daughters of the house, especially one pretty girl in a short skirt and jaunty cap, contradicted the cur- rently received notion that this world is a weary pil- grimage. The big parlor, with its photographs and stereoscope, and bits of shell and mineral, a piano and a melodeon, and a coveted old sideboard of mahogany, recalled rural New England. Perhaps these refinements are due to the Washington College (a school for both sexes), which is near. We noted at the tables in this region a singular use of the word fruit. When we were asked, Will you have some of the fruit? and said Yes, we always got apple- sauce. Ten miles more in the late afternoon brought us to Jonesboro, the oldest town in the State, a pretty place, with a flavor of antiquity, set picturesquely on hills, with the great mountains in sight. People from further South find this an agreeable summering place, and a fair hotel, with odd galleries in front and rear, did not want company. The Warren Institute for negroes has been flourishing here ever since the war. A ride of twenty miles next day carried us to Union. Before noon we forded the Watauga, a stream not so large as the Nollechucky, and were entertained at the big brick house of Mr. Devault, a prosperous and hospitable farmer. This is a rich country. We had met in the morning wagon-loads of watermelons and muskmelons, on the way to Jones- boro,and Mr. Devault set abundance of these refresh- ing fruits before us as we lounged on the porch before dinner. 254 ON HORSEBACK It was here that we made the acquaintance of a colored woman, a withered, bent old pensioner of the house, whose industry (she excelled any modern patent apple-parer) was unabated, although she was by her own confession (a woman, we believe, never owns her age till she has passed this point) and the testimony of others a hundred years old. But age had not impaired the brightness of her eyes, nor the limberness of her tongue, nor her shrewd good sense. She talked freely about the want of decency and mo- rality in the young colored folks .of the present day. It wasn’t so when she was a girl. Long, long time ago, she and her husband had been sold at sheriff’s sale and separated, and she never had another hus- band. Not that she blamed her master so much — he couldn’t help it; he got in debt. And she expounded her philosophy about the rich, and the danger they are in. The great trouble is that when a person is rich, he can borrow money so easy, and he keeps drawin’ it out of the bank and pilin’ up the debt, like rails on top of one another, till it needs a ladder to get on to the pile, and then it all comes down in a heap, and the man has to begin on the — bottom rail again. If she’d to live her life over again, she’d lay up money ; never cared much about it till now. The thrifty, shrewd old woman still walked about a good deal, and kept her eye on the neighborhood. Going out that morning she had seen some fence up the road that needed mending, and she told Mr. Devault that she didn’t liké such shift- lessness; she didn’t know as white folks was much better than colored folks. Slavery? Yes, slavery was ON HORSEBACK ass pretty bad— she had seen five hundred niggers in handcuffs, all together in a field, sold to be sent South. About six miles from here is a beech grove of his- torical interest, worth a visit if we could have spared the time. In it is the large beech (six and a half feet around six feet from the ground) on which Daniel . Boone shot a bear, when he was a rover in this region. - He himself cut an inscription on the tree recording his prowess, and it is still distinctly legible: D. BOONE CILT A BAR ON THIS TREE, 1760. This tree is a place of pilgrimage, and names of people from all parts of the country are cut on it, until there is scarcely room for any more records of such devotion. The grove is ancient looking, the trees are gnarled and moss-grown. Hundreds of peo- ple go there, and the trees are carved all over with their immortal names. A pleasant ride over a rich rolling country, with an occasional strip of forest, brought us to Union in the evening, with no other adventure than the meet- ing of a steam threshing-machine in the road, with steam up, clattering along. The devil himself could not invent any machine calculated to act on the nerves of a horse like this. Jack took one look and then dashed into the woods, scraping off his rider’s hat, but did not succeed in getting rid of his burden or knocking down any trees. Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little villages, with some three hundred inhabitants and a forlorn hotel, kept by an ex-stage-driver. The vil- 256 ON HORSEBACK lage, which lies on the Holston, has no drinking- water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not a well nor a spring in its limits; and for drinking- water everybody crosses the river to a spring on the other side. A considerable part of the labor of the town is fetching water over the bridge. On a hill overlooking the village is a big, pretentious brick house, with a tower, the furniture of which is an object of wonder to those who have seen it. It be- longed to the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of Andrew Johnson. The whole family of the ex-President have departed this world, but his memory is still green in this region, where he was almost worshiped — so the people say in speaking of him. Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord’s daughters were beginning to draw the lines in rural refinement. One of them had been at school in Abingdon. Another, a mature young lady of fifteen, who waited on the table, in the leisure after supper asked the Friend for a light for her cigarette, which she had deftly rolled. “Why do you smoke?” i ‘So as I shan’t get into the habit of dipping. Do you think dipping is nice?”’ The traveler was compelled to say that he did not, though he had seen a good deal of it wherever he — had been. | “ All the girls dips round here. But me and my sisters rather smoke than get in a habit of dipping.” To the observation that Union seemed to be a dull place : “Well, there’s gay times here in the winter — ON HORSEBACK 267 dancing. Like to dance? Well, I should say! Last winter I went over to Blountsville to a dance in the court-house ; there was a trial between Union and Blountsville for the best dancing. You bet I brought back the cake and the blue ribbon.” The country was becoming too sophisticated, and the travelers hastened to the end of their journey. The next morning Bristol, at first over a hilly coun- try with magnificent oak-trees, — happily not girdled, as these stately monarchs were often seen along the roads in North Carolina, — and then up Beaver Creek, a turbid stream, turning some mills. When a closed woolen factory was pointed out to the Pro- fessor (who was still traveling for Reform), as the result of the agitation in Congress, he said, Yes, the effect of agitation was evident in all the decayed dams and ancient abandoned mills we had seen in the past month. Bristol is mainly one long street, with some good stores, but generally shabby, and on this hot morning sleepy. One side of the street 1s in Tennessee, the other in Virginia. How handy for fighting this would have been in the war, if Tennessee had gone out and Virginia stayed in. At the hotel — may a kind Pro- vidence wake it up to its responsibilities — we had the pleasure of reading one of those facetious hand- bills which the great railway companies of the West scatter about, the serious humor of which is so pleas- ing to our English friends. This one was issued by the accredited agents of the Ohio and Mississippi Railway, and dated April 1, 1984. One sentence will suffice : 17 258 ON HORSEBACK “ Allow us to thank our old traveling friends for the many favors in our line, and if you are going on your bridal trip, or to see your girl out West, drop in at the general office of the Ohio and Mississippi Railway and we will fix you up in Queen Anne style. Passengers for Dakota, Montana, or the Northwest will have an overcoat and sealskin cap thrown in with all tickets sold on or after the above date.” The great republic cannot yet take itself seriously. Let us hope the humors of it will last another gen- eration. Meditating on this, we hailed at sundown the spires of Abingdon, and regretted the end of a journey that seems to have been undertaken for no purpose. * MEXICAN NOTES I Pee PASO TO THE CITY iOF MEXICO ATURALLY one shrinks a little from IN crise about Mexico after passing less than two months in its vast territory. There is so much to be said, and there are so many qualifi- cations to be made to whatever is said. The longer one remains there, the more he will hesitate to put down even his impressions, and I fancy that in time one would abandon altogether any attempt to write out his conflicting ideas: so much depends upon the tem- per, the temperament, the tastes, the endurance, of the traveler. One person returns from a trip through Mexico in a glow of enthusiasm, interested in the people, enchanted with the climate, full of wonder over the scenery; another, weary with the long jour- neying, disgusted with the people, half starved by the unaccustomed diet, admits that the scenery 1s won- derful, though it is monotonous, and that the climate —except that the coast is too warm and the highland air is too rare — is delicious, and is heartily glad that the expedition has been made and is over. To me Mexico is one of the most interesting 262 MEXICAN NOTES countries I have seen, and so novel on every hand that I enjoyed in a way that which is disagreeable almost as much as that which is pleasing. It is novel, and yet, now and again, strangely familiar ; for in its life it is a patchwork sort of country, with a degraded civilization, constantly suggesting, in a second-hand way, a half-dozen other countries and peoples. I spent most of my time outside the city of Mexico —for it is not there that the life, except a certain sort of artificial society life, is more advantageously to be studied —and in these papers I purpose to touch upon general life and manners and aspects of nature that came under my observa- tion, with the intention of replying to some of the questions that a returning traveler is commonly asked about the pseudo-republic.* Everything is on a vast scale. High ranges of bare mountains running parallel for hundreds of miles, with plains between, often stony and inhos- pitable, often good grazing land, verdure-clad under the summer rains, but brown and barren, except when irrigated, through the long rainless season from | October to June, —this is the general character of the highlands. Vastness is not picturesqueness, but those who prefer the Siérra-sort of scenery which characterizes our own Great West, to that of the New England and the Blue Ridge, like it. Descend- ing from the mountains about the city of Mexico in any direction to the coast by a succession of terraces, one has scenery of a different sort, but still grandiose, and any warmth of temperature desired. * The journey was made in February and March, 1887. EE PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 263 Entering the country by the gate of El] Paso, — a gate of ash-heaps for hills, and sand, through . which the Rio Grande sprawls over quicksands, — one has still twelve hundred miles to traverse — two days and a half by rail— before reaching the city of Mexico. The road runs mainly through valleys with low hills on either side; but it is by no means a highland level; the road is constantly ascending and descending. Starting from a height of 3700 feet above the sea at El Paso, and never descending below this level, some high mountains are climbed on the way. The course is generally upward until the mountain silver-mining city of Zacatecas comes in view, about 8000 feet above the sea. From here. there is a sharp descent, but a high level is generally maintained till Marguez is reached, when the lost height is recovered in something over 8000 feet, and a descent made into the Tula Valley, the scenery and vegetation becoming more interesting. Then the great Spanish drainage cut (begun in the seventeenth century ), six or seven miles long, the Tajo de Nochis- tongo, is entered, and the traveler emerges upon the valley of the city of Mexico, about 7400 feet (some calculations make it two hundred feet less) above the sea. Sandy El Paso seldom has any rain, but its air, unaffected by the moisture of vegetation, is simply delicious, like that of the barren plains of western Texas. With five railways centering there, it is grow- ing rapidly, and is full of speculators, traders, gam- blers, and the usual accompaniments of frontier civilization. We changed money here, getting for 264. MEXICAN NOTES $200 in United States money 249 Mexican silver dollars, as big and as valuable as our silver dollars ; but the advantage of the change was not immedi- ately apparent, for we paid at the stations one dollar for the same sort of meals we had paid seventy-five cents for in Texas. The Mexican Central road is smooth and good, except that the sand ballasting makes it occasionally dusty ; but nothing whatever is to be said in favor of the fare at its stations. The first decently served meal found was that at Aguas Calientes, and that was Mexican. The line does not run through a single town —all lie a mile or a mile and a half to one side, and are reached by horse-cars. Whether the people objected to having the railway near, or whether the company building it thought it more profitable to run street-cars to the towns, I do not know. Both reasons are given for the location. The way at first was over a rising plain, with brown serrated hills on both sides. For the first twenty-four hours the country was much in appearance like west- ern Texas — dry and sterile at this season. Chihua- . hua, as we saw it, a mile and a half off, is a brown city with conspicuous cathedral towers. As we got farther into the country, the people idling at the railway stations began to be very picturesque and poverty-stricken. The hats made the most distinct impression. Everybody seems to invest his fortune in his hat. They are in great variety, but all are high- crowned, of felt or straw, with a brim six inches broad, sometimes the crown black and the brim white, always ornamented with silver or white braid, or a Pre PASO? TO’ CITY OFF MEXICO 26% broad strap and buckle. The poor class is all in rags, cotton pantaloons, and a serape generally in strings, and irretrievably grimy. The towns on the road, — brown clusters of sun-baked mud,— the little adobe houses, the flat plain and pyramidal hills, reminded us of Egypt, as did the squalid people also. Nor was there wanting the peculiar minor cry or singsong of boys keeping the cattle on the plains. Now and then was seen a woman with fine dark eyes and comely copper-colored features. Handsome boys in rags were common, and pretty babies. At the stations was always a crowd of spectators. The favorite occupation of the men, clad in big hats, cotton trousers, and ragged colored serapes drawn about the shoulders, was to stand perfectly motionless, holding up some building. As we went south more life and more cattle appeared, — herds on herds, indeed, scattered over the brown plains, —and sheep also. Donkeys abounded. The rider of a donkey sits so far in the rear that a perpendicular line from his head would hit the ground, so that the donkey’s hind-legs seem to belong to the boy riding. The country improved in appearance when we were between five hundred and six hundred miles on our journey — still brown and dry, but evidently fruitful. Trees were wanting, but mesquit appeared, and small species of cacti. There was a good deal of color in the soil, and some lovely effects in the plains and the mountains. We were beginning to get one of the charms of Mexico, namely, atmospheric color, which makes a,garment for the fairest landscape — a drapery which the artists say is usually wanting in our Northern regions. 266 MEXICAN NOTES At a little station, very early in the morning, be- fore we reached Calera, was a sort of gypsy, oriental encampment — tents, wagons, donkeys, vagabond men, women, and a band composed of harp, fiddle, and bass-viol, which hailed the rising sun with festive music. ‘These hospitable and hilarious people offered refreshments — coffee and something stronger—to the train passengers, and the women solicited them to go to a house near by and extemporize a dance. I supposed at first that this was a communal emigra- tion from one part of the country to another. But no. These people lived along the base of the moun- tains, and had come together for a frolic of a few days, with cock-fighting and plenty of whisky or its equivalent, aguardiente. Zacatecas, with its forty to fifty thousand inhab- itants, is an imposing city as seen from the rail which skirts it, and indeed looks down on it. The elevation is over eight thousand feet, and the town lies in a sort of cup in the mountains, a compact lot of small houses, yellow, red, blue, green, and a great cathe- dral in the midst. On the hillsides all about and in | the valley below it are the silver mines and works. The whole effect of color in the thin air is silver-gray. The wind is keen, and sweeps clouds of dust around the station, where there is a lively crowd of fruit hucksters and spectators, in great variety of colorand — costume. At a station beyond, a Mexican lady of quality comes on board. She is of the Spanish type, over-dressed in a flowered silk and black mantilla, rich dark complexion, through which the red blood shows, large black eyes, heavy cheeks, and coarse meena yOr CITY OFeMEXICO . 267 mouth. With her are an elderly woman in black, and several young men, gentlemen, in big hats, fan- tastically braided trousers, and semibrigandish air. Aguas Calientes, where we have at the station a civilized dinner, is in the distance a well-shaded, pretty city. It is the fashionable Mexican hot-springs resort, and the stream from the springs, in which there is promiscuous bathing for a mile, is said to give one a fair idea of the Mexican disregard for conven- tionalities. At the table d’héte are several typical people: a light-haired Mexican, with high, narrow, empty forehead, very grave; the loud, swashbuckler major-domo of a neighboring hacienda, in an enor- mous white hat, fancy coat, and braided trousers, and a long pistol conspicuous in his belt; a big fat young gentleman with intensely black, small eyes, broad, heavy face, thin mustache, like a youth over- ripe, small forehead, and a big hat, talking to a little withered, parchment-faced man, attentive and obse- quious. Novel pictures constantly present themselves. The lady of quality descends at a way-station, where she is met by a handsome open carriage, with servants in livery, and a modern Spanish-looking gentleman, handsome, and not too extravagantly dressed in the Spanish mode. Her hacienda is not far off, at the foot of the hills. The lady is very well known in the city, and hasa history. Mexico abounds in “histories.” At all the stations are crowds of boys, men, and women, who offer for sale oranges, sweets, Mexican “‘ messes,” and queer-looking fruits which are out of season, and do not taste good, and they make a tremendous 268 MEXICAN NOTES clamor, like Italian venders. The region beyond Silao boasts that it has ripe strawberries every month in the year. At Irapuato we bought a little basket of this fruit for fifty cents, not ripe, but still sweet. The basket was solidly filled with cabbage leaves ; and disposed on top neatly, so as to hide the leaves, were a couple of dozen berries. These simple peo- ple have nothing to learn of Northern market-men. We have struck a very old civilization. Tuesday morning at seven, having left El] Paso Saturday night at seven, we passed through the fa- mous deep cut or canal of Nochistongo. It is not picturesque, the walls being of hard earth, with little rock visible. This cut was first made by the Indians as a drain for the valley. People have wondered what they did with the excavated earth; acquaint- ance with the Indians suggests the explanation that they kept most of it on their persons. They are no longer attached to the soil as peons, but the soil is attached to them, and most of them are dirty enough to be called real estate. We are at last in the valley of the city of Mexico. This long route, through _ valleys and over mountains, somewhat dusty, always in the sunshine, with a temperate heat and good air, is monotonous in all its variety, but exceedingly interesting in the retrospect, considering that it is a railway journey, for we have seen many sorts of people and many strange costumes. The valley of the city of Mexico is circular in form, with an average breadth of thirty to thirty- five miles, and flat, save for some little hillocks. It has two shallow lakes, Chalco and Tezcoco, the one Bae pao LO CITY ORIMEXICO 265 fresh and the other brackish. Chalco is connected directly with the city by a canal twelve miles long. The area is more generally marshy than otherwise, and cut by canals and irrigating ditches. To the north of the city some four miles is the hill and town of Guadalupe, with its sacred mineral spring ; g to the south three miles, at the end of the Paseo - drive, is the hill of Chapultepec. This basin is com- - pletely surrounded by mountains of varying height. — To the west they rise 10,000 feet (above the sea), and east, southerly, are the twin snow peaks Iztacci- huatl and Popocatepetl, the latter 17,500 feet high, and the former, the White Woman, a little lower. All the streams from the hills run into this basin, and there is absolutely no outlet for the water except the cut of Nochistongo, which affects only a small portion of the valley. Exit from the city to the country is on slightly raised causeways. Thus Mex- ico, which, from its elevation and superb, equable climate, should be the healthiest city in the world, is, wanting drainage, subject to various malarial and typhoid fevers and to pneumonia. One hesitates to speak of the climate, for that is so much a matter of individual adaptation. T’o most people, I think, the climate of the valley is delicious. The rare air, the necessity of breathing fast to get oxygen enough, quickens the pulse, and many new-comers have headache and a pain in the back of the neck; but these usually pass off in a few days. It may not suit those who have tendency to heart-disease, and much better places can be found in the republic for those with irritated throats and delicate lungs. The aver- 270 MEXICAN NOTES age temperature, summer and winter, is about 70°, running from 60° to 80° and over. The winter is rainless and dry from, say, October to the last of May; the trees and hedges are dusty, and the land- scape brown; in summer the heat is no greater, but the air is cleared of dust and haze by daily showers, everything is green, blooming, and sparkling, and the atmosphere is said to be delicious. April and May are the warmest months of the year. With the sum- mer rains, which turn to snow on the highest moun- tains, of course the two volcanoes have much more snow than in winter. Occasionally in January the thermometer falls below the average, the snow lies for some hours on the encircling foothills, and the city experiences some chilly, uncomfortable days, for which it is wholly unprepared. The mass of the people and the soldiers, who wear cotton clothes the year round, evidently do not expect this sort of thing. For a Northerner I should say the dress for summer and winter should be his ordinary woolen apparel for spring and autumn, with a light overcoat for driving. ; No railways run into the city; the stations of all the roads are outside in the suburbs; but carriages are plenty and not dear, and street railways traverse the city in all directions, and run to the outlying vil- lages. These cars always go in pairs, a first-class closely followed by a second-class. For funerals, an open platform-car performs the service of a hearse. It used to be necessary, when the country was unsafe, for cars going into the villages to make up a train of at least three, with a guard of soldiers. Pi FASO LO CITY OF FMEXICO 27% The city, with some 300,000 inhabitants, spreads over a large area, with more houses of two than of three stories. The streets are of good width, laid at right angles, and often there is the agreeable per- spective of a mountain at the end; the house architec- ture is generally simple, square, with square windows, balconies, awnings, and with considerable color in the houses, — reddish, pink, cream, — colors usually toned down, but which give life and even refinement to the streets. For variety there are some solid, stately, half-Spanish buildings, now and then one very handsome with tiles, some fantastically painted, and the picture-decorated pulque shops. In churches and public buildings the city does not lack imposing architecture, yet the general effect is that of same- ness. There are many fine shops and pleasant ar- cades, especially in San Francisco Street, and about the Plaza; and of course there is more or less con- centration of such in the center of the city ; but as a rule the city differs from our cities in not having a business quarter and a residence quarter ; like Paris, shops are scattered all over the city, and the people live over them. The monotony of the right-angled streets is broken by some picturesque market squares ; by the large Cathedral Plaza; by the Alameda, a long narrow plot of ground with trees and semi-tropical vegetation; and the very broad and well-planted Paseo. This is lined with gardens and a few country houses, has some statues, and, running out three miles to Chapultepec, is the favorite driving and riding and display ground of all the world late in the afternoon. Of course it is understood that many of the edifices, 272 MEXICAN NOTES hotels, public buildings and private, are built about courts, and that there are many pretty patios and gar- dens. In the shop windows is a good deal of cheap jewelry and a display of meretricious taste ; but there are more book and art stores, more pictures and engravings, than can be found in any southern city of the United States, and the art and fancy windows are usually thronged with spectators. The aspect of street life as to dress, in most parts of the town, is European, but it is motley as to color, most of the Mexicans being hybrids of all shades. Now and then appears an Indian woman, short and squat, with high cheek-bones, clad in a single piece of cotton cloth ingeniously wrapped about her. The water-carriers, half naked, with the jar on the back supported by a strap across the forehead, remind one of the Orient ; there are not many beggars, but the sidewalks are beset with women and children selling lottery tickets for daily drawings —the curse of the city; all the women, except in the upper class, wear invariably the graceful ribosa —a long shawl woven of cotton, with a deep fringe, generally light blue, worn over . the head or draped about the shoulders. The serape, or blanket, the national garb for the men, appears less frequently in the city than in the country. Men are watering the streets with pails and garden water- ing-pots. There are plenty of boarding-houses, built about courts, with interior galleries, most of the rooms opening only on the court, the fare being Mexican, and not bad when one is accustomed to it; seve- ral of the hotels are comfortable lodging-houses — DP ey pm BE PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 273 pleasant if one gets a room with a window outside and a door upon the sunny court—and they have res- taurants attached. But all these, and all those in the city, are decidedly of the third class, and not tempt- ing to people with delicate appetites. There is no excuse for this poor cooking and indifferent service, for the markets are well supplied, and in private houses and clubs the tables are excellent. A good hotel would be much appreciated by travelers. The custom of the country is to take morning coffee, breakfast at twelve, and dine at six or seven o'clock. In itself, considering its mongrel population, cli- mate, and easy-going mode of life, and compared with any city of the United States, Mexico is interest- ing; contrasted with Continental cities, it is less so, and after its few “sights” are exhausted it becomes tiresome for the transient visitor — tiresome, that is, unless one devotes himself to the language, to a study of antiquities, or to social problems, such as that of the mixed race. All big cities are much alike after the surface novelties are worn off. There remains, of course, “society,” somewhat secluded under the republic, and slightly enlivened by the foreign lega- tions. There are many German and French mer- chants, and a few Englishmen doing business, but there are no American merchants. Generally speak- ing, the Americans, who have drifted in from the frontier as adventurers, or have fled here for personal reasons, have not been men who gave the Mexicans a favorable idea of American breeding, manners, or character. The railway service has carried there a different element. The Mexican himself thinks a 18 274 MEXICAN NOTES great deal of manners and exterior courtesy, though his ideas of integrity are decidedly oriental. In its shops the city is more modern than the trav- eler expects to find it. Antiquity shops are few, and these have been pretty well ransacked by excursion- ists and dealers. Old Spanish lace and mantillas can be had only by chance, and old Spanish and Indian curios have been mostly picked up; yet treasures remain to the patient searcher in the way of old books, especially Spanish; and odd things illustrating the costumes and the industries of the country can be found occasionally. But as a rule the most charac- teristic things in the republic are to be sought in the provincial cities and the small villages. Lack of com- munication has preserved loca] peculiarities. Wher- ever the traveler goes, he will find some local flavor and some habits and costumes new to his experience. As to the “sights” of the city, they have been so fully written of that description in any detail would be out of place in a general view of this sort. The old tourist will probably most enjoy wandering about town and seeing how the Mexicans live; but there are a few sights that he must see in order to retain the respect of his home friends: these are the Cathe- dral, the Museum and Picture Gallery, the National Library, Chapultepec, Guadalupe, the Noche Triste Tree, and the canal leading to Lake Chalco. The Cathedral is perhaps imposing by its size, not otherwise — a jumble of bad Spanish architecture, and barren and uninteresting within, in comparison with Continental cathedrals. The Picture Gallery, San Carlos, may have interest historically ; artistically Peeenow re CrrY ORME XICO 275 it has none. The walls are hung with old Spanish sacred rubbish, and the modern paintings are as bad, showing little new life or growth. There is not a painting that one would care to bring away for the cost of carriage. But the government has a school here, where pupils draw from casts and architectural designs. Much of the work of the pupils was credit- able, and the school is full of promise. At the Mu- seum of Mexican Antiquities the visitor will care to spend more time, though the country has been stripped of the relics of the old races by foreigners. There is a fair display of Aztec pottery, a little gold, a few ornaments, part of a dress worn by Monte- zuma; but the most interesting object in the part of the Museum that is arranged is the Aztec picture- writing. In a large lumber-room opening out of the court below, and usually kept locked, are the larger monuments of the old civilization. This room has an earth floor, and is in disorder. Carpenters are said to be at work in it, and the government has been for years putting it in order, but it is in about the condition of the Sultan’s museum of antiqui- ties at Constantinople. Here is the Calendar Stone, with its enigmatical figures, and sacrificial stones, the uncouth images, the heavy recumbent figures, with head raised and knees drawn up, the conical stones, having serpents with feathers coiled about them. The impression made upon my mind by these objects was that of grotesqueness. Probably they are not meaningless, but they seem so. There is nothing in our civilization or tradition that brings us ex rapport with them, or enables us to comprehend ag 276 MEXICAN NOTES them. There is no beauty of form to appeal to us; nothing in the sculpture or designs that comes within the scope of our ideas; nothing intellectual. The inscriptions and characters give us no starting-point of sympathy. They seem to us not simply fantastic, but the work of people whose fancies were entirely out of the line of our own development. In this they differ wholly from the Egyptian remains, which are simpler, and, though we cannot understand them, appeal to something that we have in common with all antiquity. I am not referring to the comparative difficulty of reading the Egyptian hieroglyphics and the Mexican characters or ornamental designs, but to the essential difference in the appearance to our eyes; the one is civilized, and the other barbarous. The National Library, housed in a sequestrated church, is a vast collection of Spanish and mainly ecclesiastical literature, wanting a catalogue and pro- per arrangement, but no doubt a good mousing- place for the student. On the 17th of February, in the afternoon, when we drove out the broad Paseo to Chapultepec, the _ wind was fresh and chilly, the day was cloudy, and later there was a little rain. Indeed, about this time of year clouds begin to gather late in the day, the air becomes thick and hazy in the distance, so that the high mountains are obscured. This thickening of the atmosphere does not mean usually immediate rain, but daily the cloudiness increases until the daily summer rains begin. After they set in, the atmos- phere for the greater part of the day is dazzlingly clear. For scenery, therefore, Mexico should be eek) CIUY O8MMIEXICO 274 visited in the summer. The temperature is no higher than in the winter, on the high lands, but vegetation is fresh, and the air is clear. From the Paseo drive the twin snow-clad volcanoes Popocatepetl and Iz- taccihuatl are visible; but, especially in the winter atmosphere, they seem distant, and do not dominate the city as one is led to expect from the pictorial representations. Chapultepec is a mass of rock perhaps two hun- dred feet high, springing abruptly from the plain, but behind it are low elevations gradually rising to the foothills. About the foot of this hill are semi- tropical gardens and the famous Cypress Grove. The roads winding through the noble avenues are the favorite resort for driving and riding. These trees, towering to a great height, magnificent in the stately upspringing of their trunks, and lovely in the deep cinnamon-color of the bark, are not to be compared to anything I have seen elsewhere. They are very old; one of them is called the Tree of Montezuma, and the grove was no doubt old when he reigned. I put the tape to one of them five feet above the ground, and got a girth of thirty-nine feet. I believe the Montezuma tree is larger. The summit of the hill is reached by a winding carriage road, and here on a small uneven plateau are massed the President’s palace and the Military School, the West Point of the republic. Admission is by card from the governor of the city, and usu- ally gives access simply to the grounds; but as one of our party had friends in the school, we were very courteously shown everything in the academy and 278 MEXICAN NOTES the palace. The cadets were fine, intelligent young fellows; the place was thoroughly neat, and disci- pline seemed good. I do not know enough about war to compare this with other schools of the same char- acter, but its appliances seemed rather limited. There is, however, a cannon foundry in the neighborhood, and a manufactory of Winchester arms. We looked with interest at the monument erected to the memory of the cadets who fell in the defense of the place in our war with Mexico — mere striplings who fought like heroes, and are held in great honor. There is still a good deal of feeling about this fight in the academy. If the Mexican soldiers had been as cour- ageous and manly as these boys, our capture of the city would have been a much more difficult under- taking. The palace, in process of refurnishing for the residence of the President, is only a tolerably fine building, but the interior decorations are ele- gant, very costly, and for the most part in exquisite taste. This taste, however, except 1n some rooms whose walls are tiled with beautiful tiles distinctly Persian in color and effect, is the taste of New York. The palace has charming galleries and ombras, and pretty cultivated gardens in its inclosure. The charm of it, however, is in its noble situation. There are grander views in the world than that from its espla- nade, but few more poetical, or offering so great vari- ety, few that change more in varied beauty with the different lights and changing atmosphere. One does not need to summon all the romance and history of the place to enjoy the prospect. It is that of the vast basin of Mexico, with its shining city, its glittering BIZ PASO TO CITY OK MEXICO 279 lakes, its silver canals, its luxury of vegetation, its villages and church towers, and around all the circuit of mountains, huge, hazy, and dreamy, the whole steeped in color, and lording it over all the twin snow peaks, white, spotless, standing on the edge of eter- nal summer, pure as the rare air of their perpetual winter. On the tramway that runs to Atzcapotzalco over the causeway, in the little hamlet of Popotla, some three miles from the Plaza, stands what remains of the Noche Triste Tree. It is said that Cortez halted by this tree and wept on the awful night of his expulsion from the city. This touch of emotion in the conqueror has consecrated the spot more than a victory. This once gigantic cypress is now only a decayed stump, the interior half burned out, but it still supports a few straggling branches, from which gray moss depends like a funeral trapping. It is pro- tected by an iron fence, and a policeman lounges near to see that no visitor chips off a relic from it. There was not much life about the open triangle where it stands, only a beggar, the usual young girl with a baby, a barefooted Indian trotting by with her basket, and some Mexican women in the door of a pulque shop. Guadalupe, famous for the shrine of Our Lady of that name, is a rocky hill, very like Chapultepec, and about as far north of the city as Chapultepec is to the south. They are two corresponding sentinels of the plain. At the foot of the hill is the cathedral, very large, but remarkable for nothing except a su- perb altar railing of silver. Near it is a pretty public 280 MEXICAN NOTES garden, with a fountain and sweet-smelling shrubs, the ground carpeted with violets. It speaks much for the gentle and refined character of the Mexicans that such cool little nooks of beauty and repose are common. Ata little distance, but still on the plain, is the highly decorated chapel of Our Lady. In the vestibule and covered by an iron cage is a bubbling spring of cool mineral water, pungent, but agreeable to the taste, and much resorted to by the thirsty and the devout. It sprang up in the spot where Our Lady appeared to the peasant, a most gracious mir- acle. From this chapel a zigzag paved road, with shrines set at the angles, leads up the hill to the church and cemetery on the top. The church— al- ways filled with peasant worshipers, men in ragged attire, kneeling women with the graceful ribosa drawn over the head, and half-clad children — is only a bare chapel, but there are some fine tombs in the ceme- tery, and there lies Santa Anna, the hero of so many defeats. The view from the esplanade is very fine, and of the same character and extent as that from Chapultepec, except that Lake Tezcoco is a more - prominent feature in the landscape. It is a place to dream in; romance, history, beauty, the contrasts of nature — what has not Heaven done for this deli- cious land? Is it true that where nature is most lav- ish the people are least worthy? But whatever these people lack, they have apparent contentment. What a gentle atmosphere of peace and repose there was about the shrine, and in the garden, and in the shadow of the cathedral, where the women sat selling little cakes, variegated in color, about as big as Lima EL PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 281 beans, which they patted into shape, and baked over charcoal fires in sight of the purchasers. Whatever the tourist omits, he should not neglect a ride on La Viga, the canal that connects the city with Lake Chalco. If he cannot spend a day thread- ing this tropical marshland, this unique country of dikes, ‘‘ floating gardens,” waterfowl, brilliant vege- tation, and semi-amphibious people, let him at least go as far as the hamlet of Santa Anita, in the midst of the Chinampas —a pleasure resort of the middle and lower classes. Here are a world and a life dif- ferent from any other, and yet curiously suggestive of many others; a mixture of Egypt, Venice, and the South Sea Islands. We took boat at the Embar- cadero, on an arm of the canal that enters the city, a most unsavory but picturesque place. Here are rows of barges, vegetable boats, and canoes. Our boat was a flat-bottomed parallelogram, with striped calico awning and curtains, and seats along the sides. The size of the boat and the lowness of the canopy are determined by the low arch of a bridge which has to be passed by all boats in the main canal. Our boat- man was a squat, sturdy-legged, yellow Mexican, who stood in the bow, and used a pole to propel the boat. When once we were clear of the small canal, with its washer-women, loafers, evil-smelling habitations, tanneries, and the ruck of city life, and came into the broad silver stream, the poling boatman sent us on with an easy, lulling motion, different from the gyration of the gondola, but as fascinatirig; and we were in a world of novelty, color, and repose —a blue sky, a gentle breeze that just makes sparkling 282 MEXICAN NOTES the placid stream, and banks offering constant noy- elties. In the neglect and decay there is a certain charm ; low houses overrun with honeysuckle and Castilian roses, ruins embowered in callas, poplars and cotton- woods overhanging the water, gardens wild and tan- gled, a low doorway in a brown adobe hut, with a group of dark-skinned girls and children, a field of yellow grain strewn with flaming poppies, the great sweep of level vegetation, intersected by ditches and canals stretching away off to the white twin moun- tains. The scene, so reposeful, is full of life. A road runs by the canal, and here dash along horse- men in gay trappings, big-hatted, silver-spangled riders, and saddles and bridles stiff with ornament, carriages with lolling beauties, or packed with noisy pleasure-seekers, swarthy Indian women, wrapped in a single strip of cotton, trotting along under their burdens; there are the tinkling of guitars in wayside resorts, the calls of boatmen and of laborers in the gardens. The stream is enlivened by crafts of all sorts — dugouts, canoes, barges, each on its errand ° of business or pleasure. Whatever the occupation, whatever the want, or the dissipation, or the indi- gence, it all seems like a holiday. Barges going to the city market are piled high with vegetables, — golden carrots, blood-red beets, green cabbages, laid up in square masses like masonry, — heaps of.color ; boatloads of flowers — sweet peas, poppies, pinks, roses, gillyflowers — flaming in the sun, and filling the air with perfume as they pass, and long scows packed with men, women, and children, of the shop- EL PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 283 keeping class, out for a holiday. One boatload of rev- elers draws to our side, and as we float along through this enchanting land, the men, thrumming the guitar, the mandolin, and the zither, play for us the Mexican national anthem and the minor dance music which comes down from the Moors of Spain, and the wo- men, dark, comely, with Egyptian features and Egyp- tian languor, shoot glances from under their ribosas at the foreigners. These people have the good- humor, the complacency, the passion, of their clime. Santa Anita is an Indian village, a collection of low thatched houses, African in appearance, set in plantations of bananas and cacti, with narrow, clean- swept streets, pulque shops, and houses of entertain- ment for the lower orders. It is a shabby sort of paradise ; the city rough is here, the dissolute players on mandolins, the bedizened young Mexican, the shapely, bronze-limbed Indian who works in the fields or poles the boats through the network of canals, the painted city yellow-girl, the broad-faced Indian girl who sells flowers cut out of beets and carrots, and the hot little messes which the Mexicans love; and here the municipal police are more numerous than elsewhere, for here is always a more or less suspi- cious lot of idlers and pleasure-seekers, come to eat stewed duck, tamales, and the piquant compounds of chile and chopped meat, and above all to drink pulque. The chinampas, or so-called floating gardens, which surround this hamlet and occupy all this vast marsh territory, and which supply the city with vege- tables and flowers, are not at all floating. They are little patches of ground, sometimes not bigger than 284 MEXICAN NOTES a blanket, formed by scraping up the earth in a mound, which is held in place by wattles. The water flows around each patch of ground, so that the whole region is a network of ditches and canals, set with little squares of vegetables and flowers. The people who cultivate these damp spots live in their boats or in the most primitive huts, and pass, as we said, a semi-amphibious existence, on a moral plane as low as their country; yet they seem to be a vigorous race, and the sculptor would find many good models here. Flowers, music, an equable climate that calls for no more exertion in winter than in summer, and demands not much in the way of food or clothing, a mixed blood in which flow the vices of two conti- nents — it is not here that one expects the virile Puritan virtues that make an effective people. But so fascinating, so picturesque, so full of light and color and warmth, is this region of Capuan sugges- tions that it is not till afterward that the tourist indulges in such reflections. In returning, we followed the small canal down into the heart of the city, to one of the great popu- Jar market-places. Here, where lie the barges with their gay loads of fruits, flowers, and vegetables, where the canal crosses the streets under low, flat arches, one is faintly reminded of the Rialto. But it is one of the lowest parts of the city, and at night might be dangerous. It swarms with ill-favored, ill- savored people, a brutal populace, streets of second- hand shops, rags, low resorts, and pulque shops, with as many drunken women as drunken men. One can study in the city, as in any large city, all Pia PASOO VO CITY OF MEXICO § 28% sorts of life, but the ordinary tourist finds it want- ing in the attractions of Continental cities. But the city is not only the capital, it is the center of all the political life of the republic. For in all outward forms this is a federal republic. The city and its environs form the federal district, in the State of Mexico. Besides this state there are twenty-six other states, each with its governor and local legisla- ture, its system of schools. The federal constitution is a model one, there is all the machinery of a republican government, two elected Houses, a Presi- dent popularly chosen for a term of six years, who is ineligible again until a term has intervened. But the President is, in fact, elected by agreement among a knot of leaders, and the office is a matter of arrange- ment, bargained for usually a long time in the future. Every governor of a state is practically dic- tated by this little junta at the capital, and every officer, even to mayors of cities, is so chosen. It is the most purely personal government in the world. Whatever elective forms are gone through with, this is the fact. When the first term of Diaz expired, Gonzales came in by arrangement ; when the latter retired, it was to a governorship. Diaz has a pre- dominance of Indian blood, Gonzales of Spanish. In his first term Diaz took an enlightened view of the needs of Mexico and its external relations. He invited capital and promoted railways by libe- ral subsidies. The railways were built; the subsidies have not been paid. The country was infested with brigands. These brigands were not Indians, but of the mixed Spanish race who had possessions, and 286 MEXICAN NOTES took to the highways only on occasion, or when the country was politically disturbed. Vigorous efforts were made to suppress this by the government. Gon- zales had the reputation of being the head of these quasi-brigands. When he came into power, brig- andage was still more effectively suppressed. Peo- ple say that his method was to put all the brigands in office, make them governors, mayors, and high district officials, where they could make more than by intercepting caravans, stopping diligences, and carrying off owners of haciendas. And it is univer- sally believed in Mexico that Gonzales in his term of four years saved out of his salary between twelve and eighteen millions of dollars, which is now well invested. These leaders are astute diplomatists, as wary and as supple and subtle as the Turks. Who- ever makes a treaty with them is likely to be con- fused by the result; whoever invests money in Mex- ico, either in public works or in private enterprise, does so at his risk. Any basis of confidence is wanting in business. The Mexicans do not trust each other. They always seem surprised when a foreigner does as he said he would do. The moral condition is some-’' thing like that of Egypt. The atmosphere of Egypt is one of universal lying. We who are accustomed to do business on universal faith—the presumption being that a man is honest until the contrary is proved — cannot understand a social state where the contrary is the assumption. One can readily grant to Diaz patriotic intentions, and the desire to have Mexico take an honorable place in the world; but justice is not had priceless PeeenoorLOrCITY ORSMEXICO 287 in the courts, the officials are all serving their own interests, and official corruption is universal. And yet travel is now safe, public order is maintained, and there is marked progress in education. Still, whatever the government is, there is no public, no public opinion, no general comprehension of polit- ical action, no really representative government, or representative election. There are few newspapers, - the people are not informed, and the mass of them are indifferent, so long as they personally are not disturbed. In only one case (the action of the Con- gress in regard tothe English debt — action promoted by a determined demonstration of the students in the city) has there been any sign of the independence of the legislature. Mexico remains, in effect, a personal government, with no political public. I am making no sweeping declaration as to the character of the mongrel population; it has its good points. These will appear as we travel farther. II CUAW TIER (Jee emp is a typical Mexican village in the temperate region, about four thousand feet above the sea, in the State of Morelos, which adjoins the State of Mexico on the south. It is reached by a railway — eighty miles in seven hours — which climbs out of the valley eastward, and then runs south and west, making an almost exact half-circle to its destination. In Mexico the railways must run where the mountains permit. The first part of the way lies over the flat plain, through the chinampas, or little patches of truck gardens, over narrow canals and ditches, through overflowed ground with tufts of marsh-grass, and between the two lakes. The whole region is alive with teal ducks, which rise from the lagoon and whirl - away in flocks as the train passes. On the slightly’ elevated roads donkeys laden with vegetables (the patient beast which a witty woman calls “ the short and simple animal of the poor”); Indian women, also bent to their burdens, short, with flat faces, brown legs, small feet, and small hands, —the aristocracy of the soil; and Mexican laborers in ragged serapes and broad straw hats, file along toward the city. Soon abrupt elevations in the plain are reached, picturesque heights with churches, and the foothills are entered. CUAUTLA 289 The journey grows more interesting as we ascend, the adobe villages have a more foreign character, and the mixed population becomes more picturesque in costume and habits. The train is made up of first, second, and third-class cars. The Mexican men in the first-class, yellow half-breeds, are gorgeous in array, wearing enormous and heavy high-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, loaded with silver and gold bul- lion, trousers braided down the seams or thick-sewn with coins or buttons of silver, every man with a pistol ostentatiously strapped on his waist, and many of them carrying guns. These gentlemen are going to hunt at some hacienda in the hills, and at the sta- tions where they alight there is great scurrying about, getting into rickety carriages, mounting heavily capar- isoned little horses, which fidget and curvet. There is an amusing air of bravado about it all. The third-class cars have four parallel benches run- ning from end to end, and are packed with a motley throng — Indian-looking Mexican women in blue ribosas, plenty of children and babies, men in soiled serapes and big hats, everybody eating some odd mess. At all the stations the train makes a long halt, and the sides of the cars swarm with hucksters, mostly women and boys, offering the zapotas and other taste- less fruits, tamales and other indescribable edibles, ices (flavored and colored snow), pink drinks faintly savored with limes, and pulque. The tamal is a favor- ite composite all over the republic. It consists of chopped meat, tomatoes, and chile rolled in a tor- tilla. The tortilla, perhaps it is necessary to say the almost universal country substitute for bread, is a 19 290 MEXICAN NOTES cake made of maize, and about the size of a large buckwheat cake. Its manufacture is one of the chief occupations of the women. In almost every hut and garden one can hear the grinding and the patting of the tortilla. Seated on the ground, the woman has beside her a dish of soaking grains of maize. In front of her is a curved stone, and upon this she mashes the maize with a stone roller held in both hands until it is a paste. This paste she moulds and skillfully pats into shape, and lays upon a piece of sheet-iron to bake over a charcoal fire. Too often it is like Ephraim — “a cake not turned.” Beggars abound, hideously malshapen and afflicted. At one station a sightless giant (who could, however, see a train of cars and pick up a piece of money), six feet four inches in his bare feet, a mass of streaming hair and tattered clothes, roared aloud for charity. Kneeling on the ground opposite the cars, so that his face was about on a level with the windows, he delivered a long oration in sonorous Spanish. When a bit of money was thrown him, he picked it up and kissed it fervently, and called down all the blessings | of Heaven on the giver. When he got nothing, he” cursed the entire train in a blast of anti-Scriptural language enough to blow it off the track. He does very well at this business, and is the owner of houses, and is a comfortable citizen when not excited by a railway train. The population, on the whole, looks poor and degraded; but the women, though squat in figure and aboriginal in feature, the Indian type predominating over the Spanish, have pleasant faces, and wear an aspect of patience. CUAUTLA 291 Atand before we reached Amecameca, an elevation of over eight thousand feet, the twin snow mountains rose in view, and thereafter lorded it over the landscape in all our winding way. From Amecameca the ascent of Popocatepetl is usually made, and the cone shows very grandly across the ravine from its elevation. This is the village of sacred shrines and noble groves, much resorted to by pilgrims and excursionists. At the sacred festival in May as many as forty thousand worshipers assemble here. At Ozumba, where the road begins to descend, we breakfasted very well for fifty cents, in a rude shanty, on eggs, rice, beefsteak, three or four other kinds of meat and stews, sweets, pulque, and black coffee. The pulque is best in these high regions. It is a viscous milk-white fluid, very whole- some and sustaining, and would be a most agreeable drink if it “tasted good.” In fact, it tastes, when it has been a few days fermented, like a mixture of but- termilk and sour cider. But many strangers become very fond of it. The older it grows, the more intoxi- cating it is. As the reader knows, probably, it is drawn from the maguey plant, called by us the “cen- tury,” which grows on these elevations to a great size, and is the cleanest-limbed and most vigorous and wholesome-looking product of the region. When it matures, it shoots up a stout spike ten or twenty feet high from the center, bearing brilliant orange flowers. When the plant is ready to tap, the center stalk is cut out, and the sap collects in the cup thus formed. It is dipped out, or sucked out by a tube, and when first drawn is mild, cool, and refreshing. In about three days it begins to ferment. As it is often carried 292 MEXICAN NOTES to market on the backs of natives in pig or goat-skins, it gets a disagreeable favor. The maguey plant has many uses. It is eaten cut up and preserved like melon rinds. Its long tough fiber is very extensively used in making ropes and cordage. The end of each leaf terminates in a hard, sharp, black thorn. Break ~ off this thorn and strip down the fibers attached to it, and you have a capital needle and thread for coarse sewing. The muleteers use it to mend their saddles and broken harness straps. What encouragement is there to industry when nature furnishes in one plant drink, food, needles and thread, and a rope for lariats? From Ozumba the descent was rapid, in most ex- traordinary loops and curves, the Jong train, which was nearly all freight cars, so doubling on itself that the passengers in the rear car could almost shake hands with the engineer on the curves. The air on the summit had been cool, but it grew rapidly warm as we descended to Cuautla. Olive groves were seen on the slopes, and peach-trees were in bloom in the little mud villages. The descent was exciting in its rapidity, and the ever-changing view —a vast pano- " rama of mountains and valleys — kept us on the qui vive. In our windings the twin volcanoes were always in sight, first on one side and then on the other, Popocatepetl, almost a regular cone of snow, 17,500 feet in the azure sky, and Iztaccihuatl, a little lower, but longer, with a jagged, serrated summit, and buttressed by gigantic ledges. Nothing is finer than the majesty of these mountains, so rich in color, so changing in hue at different angles of vision, so SUAUTES 293 nobly dominating the vast slopes down which we were rushing. The country was brown in this dry season, but the soil looked fertile, ready to burst into bloom with the summer rains. As we wound down into the valley, shabby brown villages, both Mexican and Indian, were passed, each with its big cathedral, some of the churches almost in ruins and deserted, remnants of the old Spanish religious en- thusiasm. In some of these Indian villages quite primitive customs still prevail, and the inhabitants are as shy of foreigners as they were before the con- quest. The plain of Cuautla is watered by a cool mountain stream, and abundantly irrigated ; trees dot the valley, and we had the welcome sight of green fields. Just before reaching the town we ran through vast plantations of cane in all stages of growth. Cuautla, which is too hot and damp in the sum- mer, has a singularly agreeable winter climate, with a warm, direct sun, but a very genial atmosphere. The railway has a picturesque station and storehouse in an abandoned church. We passed from that across a tree-planted square to the Hotel San Diego. This is a house of one story, with interior colonnades, built about a large court or garden. All the rooms, — which have brick or stone floors, and are furnished only with movable cots, a chair, a small washstand, a bit of mirror (when the irresponsible maid-of-all- work does not carry it away to some other apart- ment), and perhaps a mat by the cot-side, — open on the court, and most of them have no other open- ing for light and air except the door. A few on the 294. MEXICAN NOTES street have windows and wooden shutters. The fare is not quite as primitive as the apartments, for the French landlord introduces some variety into the Mexican cuisine. The garden, although the kitchen is on one side of it, and it is not altogether tidy, is a sunny, lovely spot, with a fountain, flowers, bananas, a date-palm, zapotas, jinnies, and other fruit and flowering plants, and Popocatepetl is seen over its trees. It is difficult to give an idea of a village so foreign to general experience, oriental in so many of its aspects, and semi-tropical in its vegetation. Its main streets are regular, continuous blocks of one-story adobe houses and shops, — the latter like those in an Italian village, — and present mainly blank walls to the passer-by, through the doors of which one looks into a court or a garden. There is a formal plaza, with the municipal buildings and shops on three sides, and the principal church on the other, none of them remarkable; but the plaza has fountains, sweet shrubs, trees, and flowers, and a band-stand. The minor streets are simply monotonous rows of adobe walls, some are narrow and roughly paved, but — half the town consists of lanes, dusty and unpaved, bordered with gardens and huts, and overhung with the foliage of fruit-trees and with vines. It is all novel, however; the odd little shops— bakers’, butchers’, barbers’, jewelers’, all on a small scale and primitive — and the queer costumes, bits of colors in the walls, groups of yellow children, a dog riding a donkey, pretty girls in the doorways, women in ribosas, men in white, always with the enormous CUAUTLA 295 hats : some strange sight continually catches the eye. In one of the churchyards are the handsome trees whose flowers are bunches of long crimson tassels, and in another are the parotas, splendid growths, one of them overrun with a gigantic vine, the copa de oro, which hung out all over it its great yellow flowers, literal cups of gold. In the large church a few peo- ple were kneeling on the floor, women mostly ; the interior was cheap and shabby, and gaudily painted in staring colors. The reason that the shops are so small and of little consequence is that almost all the buying and selling is done in open market on the regular market- day. To this the dealers take their merchandise, and the country people bring their produce. In Cuautla Sunday is the chief market-day, and to the market we went after morning coffee. It was a large open space, dusty, with booths about the sides, and a couple of roofed platforms in the middle. Here were for sale meats, vegetables, fruits, mats, hats, sugar, cloth, every sort of merchandise, mostly spread upon the ground, oriental fashion. But for the absence of camels and turbans and derweeshes one might have fancied him- self ina North African market-place. It was thronged. The women in cotton gowns of sober colors, now and then one of faint pink; all wore the ribosa, and all had broad faces and Indian features. But the real Indian women were easily distinguished; shorter, with heavy masses of coarse black hair, and rather copper than yellow in color, they uniformly wore two strips of dark blue cloth, which were wrapped about them so as to reveal part of the bosom and leave the sturdy 296 MEXICAN NOTES brown legs bare. Themen wore white shirts, pleated and starched before and behind, and worn outside the white cotton trousers, and of course the broad hat, usually of straw. These people, except the Indians, who came in from their little villages with a handful of vegetables or some tortillas to sell, are hybrids of various shades, with much of the Spanish courtesy and civility, but indolent in manner, and apparently perfectly satisfied in their ignorance and poverty. As good a specimen of a semi-tropical garden as one will see anywhere is that of Cortina Mendoza. It is an extensive fruit plantation, and is rather an orchard than a garden, though it resembles neither in our experience. It is a thicket of luxuriant and sweet-smelling and spicy vegetation, and one strays in its dark and damp a//ées in a tropical gloom, into which the sun penetrates in rifts and gleams. Water diverted from the river rushes through it in swift streams — pure water, the ever-pleasant moisture of which fills all the garden — and small conduits from the canals keep the whole surface water-soaked, ex- cept the elevated paths. Here grow in a wild tangle — bananas and plantains, thickly set along the streams as rushes by a meadow brook; the mango, the ma- mey, and papaya—all large trees; the orange, lemon, and the lime, and the coffee-plant. It is a wilderness of strange foliage, swinging vines, penetrating odors, and brilliant colors. Amid the dark leaves gleam the white blossoms of orange and lemon and their golden globes of fruit, the yellowing mangoes, and the red coffee-berries. Coming into this place of deep shade, dampness, and coolness, out of the hot and dusty CUAUTLA 297 street, this fenced section of green foliage and bright fruit, one appreciates the passion the Orientals have for running water and shade. But it is all unkempt and untidy, and to the eye accustomed to neatness and orderly cultivation, this wild plantation is typical of the character of this civilization. It is the slack time of the year (February) for fruits in this region, and the few, like the chico pa- paya, that are ripening are flat and tasteless — indeed, the majority of tropical fruits are always insipid to our palates. But it is the time of the maturing of the coffee-berry. This plant requires abundant water and heat and shade. When not planted by water- ways in such a fruit forest as this, it is set out in ba- nana thickets, whose broad leaves protect it from the direct rays of the sun. The plant is a hardy shrub, with a stem from two to three inches in diameter, and growing ten or twelve feet high —a very respectable tree. From some of the young saplings I cut good walking-sticks. The berries grow on the slender branches, which droop under the weight like the willow: if you lift one, it is as heavy as if it were strung with beads of glass. When ripe, the berry is deep red in color, oval in form, and in size varying from that of a thorn-apple to a hazelnut. Inside the skin is a soft sweetish pulp, and this imbeds the two beans, which lie with the flat faces touching, and each further protected by a thin membrane. When the majority of the berries are red, they are stripped from the branches and spread upon mats to dry, and some- times upon the ground. Dried, the berries shrivel and become black, and they are then passed through 298 MEXICAN NOTES a machine to separate the pulp from the berries. The beans, after further drying, are pounded in a wooden mortar to free them from the thin mem- brane. The bean, which is then of a faint green color, is ready for market; but it needs age before it is fit to be ground for coffee, and the older it is the better; in two years’ time it gets a good flavor. In this way of harvesting and curing of course the un- ripe and imperfect berries are included with the good, and the product is inferior. While drying, if the berry gets wet from the dew or a chance shower, its flavor is impaired ; and when it is spread on earth floors to dry, I fancy it gets an earthy taste. The Mexican coffee, which with proper care is as delicious as any in the world, not excelled for richness and fineness of flavor by the Arabian, is as a rule rudely prepared. It will come into great popularity under more scien- tific handling. The product, which is large, is nearly all consumed at home, for the Mexicans are great coffee-drinkers ; but with its soil and climate there is no reason why Mexico cannot grow coffee for all the Western world. There is a great mystery about the varieties and grades of coffee — Java, Old Java, Mocha, Rio, ete. It is my opinion, from what I saw of the growth and preparation in Mexico, that the same plant produces in appearance all these varieties — though I do not mean to say that there is not a difference in flavor in the coffee-bean grown in Brazil, Mexico, the Sand- wich Islands, and Arabia. A considerable proportion of the Mexican coffee is grown from the Arabian or Mocha bean. The Mocha, as we know it in Europe CUAUTLA 299 or in this country, is a small round berry, not flat- tened on one side, but creased. Each berry contains only one bean. Now all the coffee-plants that I saw in Mexico bear berries with one bean and with two beans; on very old plants there are more single-bean berries than on the young plants, and single-bean berries grow on the ends of the branches. There is a famous variety of coffee in Mexico called the Colima, said to be from the Mocha berry. I have no doubt that it is. But coffee resembling the Colima bean in appearance and flavor is produced elsewhere in Mexico, and is merely a matter of selection. I saw it at Uruapan in the west, and at Coatepec on the east coast. Pick out from the beans of any field all the small round ones, and you have Mocha; then select the fair, well-grown flat beans, and you have a good quality of Java; the refuse, broken and imperfectly ripened beans, you can send to market under any name you please. I suppose that the low repute the Mexican coffee of commerce has had is owing to the fact that it has been thrown into the market green and without selec- tion. Its cultivation and handling are usually very primitive. Ripe and unripe berries are stripped from the stalk; in drying on mats or the ground it is likely to acquire foreign flavors, and no care is taken to reject the imperfect beans. Careful growers, for- eigners, are beginning to use more scientific processes. They will pick or buy none but the red, perfectly ripe, berries. These are immediately put through the machines for removing the pulp. The beans are then dried on frames in ovens with low artificial heat, and 300 MEXICAN NOTES the grains are carefully picked over before they are sacked. The natives say that the coffee gains a desir- able flavor by being dried in the sweet pulp. All the Mexican coffee, of sufficient age, that I tasted, has a delicious flavor, but it is often spoiled in its prepara- tion for the table. It iscommonly burned too much. Ground to a fine powder, and placed in a vessel with a fine sieve bottom, water is poured on, and the fluid drips through slowly, drop by drop, requiring hours to collect a small cup of liquor. This 1s very strong, and black as ink. It is the very essence or extract of coffee, and a tablespoonful of it is enough when added to hot milk to make a large cup of coffee. The traveler will do well to procure a bottle of this extract in order to strengthen his hotel coffee. We spent a week at Cuautla, and might have stayed there months, as many tourists and invalids do, and not have tired of its easy-going, picturesque life. We wander along one of the dusty lanes, vine-embowered, mount some uneven stone steps, and through a door in the wall enter, not a house, but a garden. Yet it is a house, and we are in the midst of domestic life. There is a pool of water, perhaps a running stream; _ large fruit-trees cast a dense shade; splendid olean- ders are in flower ; the coffee-berries are ripening red ; the great plantain leaves, whipped to strings by the wind, rustle in the breeze. Children, half-naked, are playing about, racing after the donkey or chasing each other in the leafy a//ées. Somber-looking men lounge about the huts in a perpetual siesta. Some of the huts are of adobe, open in front, with an earth floor. By the entrance, sitting on the ground, a woman is grind- CUAUTLA 301 ing corn on a stone and baking tortillas. Always one hears in all these houses and gardens, at all hours of the day, the soft pat-patting of the tortilla cakes. Very likely the hut is of cane, a mere shelter from the sun and dew, and several of them grouped to- gether make the different rooms of the house; or it may be a more pretentious dwelling, round in form, the walls of cane, and the conical roof heavily thatched with brown grass. Perhaps there is a palm-tree near, and, with the bananas, the picture is exactly that of a Central African hut with its surroundings. The whole family, allits branches, with swarms of children, live in this garden, eating its fruits, sucking cane- stalks, and procuring, I know not how, the one indis- pensable thing — maize to make the tortillas. In this fashion live a considerable proportion of the pop- ulation of Mexico. How long will it be before they will care anything for politics or literature, and feel the restlessness of modern life? Very oriental all this — the thatched, conical huts, the luxuriant vege- tation, the dark, lazy people. Cuautla has some reputation for its sulphur baths, to which rheumatic and other invalids resort occa- sionally. We drove one morning in the only vehicle the place possesses—a rumbling, rickety carriage —out across the river bridge, and over a broken country, mostly a brown barren waste of land, with dried-up aromatic shrubs and coarse herbage, a mile and a half to the baths. Beyond the bridge is a collec- tion of huts and a shanty of entertainment, to which the lower orders resort for dancing and reveling. In a little rocky valley flows a strongly alkaline, clear 302 MEXICAN NOTES stream, smelling of sulphur, and where it falls into a couple of basins in the rock the bathers were assem- bled. The pools are of greenish hue, and clear as crystal. The bathing is delicious, but the arrange- ments for it are very primitive. The pools were occupied by men, women, and children, and others were undressing and dressing on the margin. Shelter there was none, except an angle in the rocky wall and a couple of little cane huts. After waiting a long time until the women and children were withdrawn, I secured the angle in the rock, and succeeded in getting a dip in the crystal brook; but none too soon, for fresh company continually arrived. I men- tion this because it is a custom of the country, and the Mexicans do not mind this promiscuous bathing, though I believe they are as modest in fact as many of the bathers along our Atlantic coast. Strolling down the stream after the bath, I made the acquaint- ance of a Mexican family out for a holiday. They had bathed, and were now building a fire under a spreading sycamore to cook their midday meal, and enjoy an afternoon siesta. There was the vigorous _ mother, three or four young girls, prettier than Mexican young women usually are, and half a dozen small children. The whole party were full of merri- ment and good-nature, did not seem to regard the presence of a stranger as an intrusion, pressed upon me the hospitality of their unappetizing-looking ‘messes,’ and were friendly and cordial and simple, and as little self-conscious as if I had been a native. The country all about was a broken dry plain, with strange, fantastic flowering plants, a few cacti, and CUAUTLA 303 no grass. But the air was delicious, and the sky blue and cloudless. The Cuautla Valley is a vast sugar plantation, most of it the property of one man, Cortina Men- doza, a wealthy Mexican, reputed to be worth six millions of dollars, and the builder and chief owner of the Morelos Railway. His large hacienda and sugar factory are a few miles down the valley, and we reached them by a branch railway running through the cane-fields. The whole region is perfectly irri- gated. Cane matures in this country and blossoms as it never does in the short Louisiana season. We passed fields in all stages of growth — wet ground just set with new sprouts, stubble fields springing up anew, fields with green blades like young maize, fields nearly matured, with the red, sturdy stalks, and fields where the cutters were at work. The richness of the cane is judged not only by the size of the stalks, but by the length of the joints. The mature cane here was exceedingly rich in sugar. The hacienda is a vast establishment, a pile of buildings — dwelling-house, factory, sheds, stables, all together, the whole inclosed by a high wall, with cannon mounted at intervals. When the country was disturbed, this defensive preparation was needed by all the haciendas, which had to guard against attacks by brigands and chance plunderers. This 1s said to be the largest sugar hacienda in Mexico. I do not know the number of acres of cane under cultivation; it is about two thousand; but the owner employs 600 men in the mill, and 2500 altogether on his vast estate. He has imported and set up improved 304 MEXICAN NOTES machinery to the value, it is said, of half a million dollars. The cane 1s maturing all the time, winter as well as summer, and the grinding goes on every day in the year. The sugar, which has one of the requi- sites of good sugar, great sweetness, is brown in color, and cast into conical loaves of twenty-five pounds each, the reported net profit to the owner on each loaf being one dollar. The Mexicans consume a great deal of sugar, probably nearly all they produce; and they say that they prefer the dark because it is sweeter than the white and the refined, and purer. Within the walls the scene was a very animated one. The area was strewn with crushed cane-stalks. Carts loaded with fresh cane, carts loaded with the crushed stalks, were constantly arriving and depart- ing; half-naked men, their dark bodies shining with perspiration, dragged the cane from the carts, bound it for the swinging derricks that carried it to the crushers, or piled the vehicles with the refuse. Every- body was in a hurry; the boys lashed the mules and shouted, and the incessant whirring of the mill ma- chinery seemed to communicate its energy to the whole plantation. The crusher was always revolving; © the stream of sweet sap was always pouring from its wheels into the channel to the boiling-vats; the boilers were always steaming; in sticky, molasses- saturated rooms the centrifugals were always whirl- ing; in long chambers men_ passed to and fro bearing the melted sugar and pouring it into the molds; in great drying-rooms stood rows on rows of sugar-loaves; and in the shipping-house all was bustle and activity. We groped about in the half- GUAUTES 305 dark caverns and recesses of this vast establishment, slipping on the sticky floors, sprinkled by the cen- trifugals, up-stairs and down, until we were stunned by the noise and saturated with sweetness. Floors, walls, machinery, the ground — everything was plas- tered with sugar. I thought that if the premises _ were “cleaned up,” as gold-mills are, sugar enough would be “ tried out” to supply Cuautla for a year. The center of all this life and whirl was one man; his presence it was that made the mule carts race through the fields, the men shout and hurry in the yards, the wheels grind, the vats run, and the sugar take form. In a high, broad, dirty, recessed gallery, above the yard, and attached to the main factory, sits Cortina Mendoza, a giant of a man, long past the age of sixty, in a light summer suit, his ample forehead shaded by a broad straw hat, black, keen eyes glow- ing through his spectacles. Before him is a plain deal table, with an inkstand and a few papers. About him are dogs, servants, children, messengers coming and going, swarms of dark-skinned, half-clad heathen, amid the whir of the machinery and the braying of donkeys. This is his office. From this platform he overlooks the whole moving panorama. Here he sits, hour after hour, day after day, a man taciturn, morose in appearance, dispatching all business with a few curt words. He stops a minute in his work to greet us civilly, details an attendant to show us the mill, and asks afterward what he can do for us; even rises when we depart, and regrets that he has not more time for hospitality. There he sits, reading and an- swering his correspondence, receiving hourly reports 20 306 MEXICAN NOTES from every part of his plantation, from each section of his works. He knows every hour just how much cane is brought in, what rate of sugar it is yielding, exactly the day’s product, how many pounds have been made, how much shipped. The premises swarm with flies; attracted by the sweets; they pervade the place, settling in black masses or darkening the air. It is an Egyptian plague. They literally cover the stalwart proprietor as he sits at his deal table. Cortina Mendoza is a widower. Years ago he lost his lovely and beloved wife, and the story is, he has since that bereavement devoted himself exclusively with a grim determination to his sugar hacienda. I was told that he is actually alone in the world. Of society certainly he can have little in that mongrel crew among whom his life is passed. He is very rich, as I said; he has a fine house luxuriously furnished in Mexico. Seldom, if ever, does he visit it; seldom does he seek other society than that of his laborers and dependents. It is a hot place, that recess, hot even in February. But there sits, day after day, year in and year out, surrounded by swarms of steaming, — half-naked servants, donkeys, and dogs, one of the’ richest men in Mexico, covered with flies ! The capacity of this country for sugar-growing seems to me enormous. How can it be otherwise in regions where the soil is fertile, as it is 1n all the val- leys, upland or lowland, where water is abundant for irrigation, where frost never comes, and the cane ma- tures for grinding every day in the year, and where labor is still cheap? There would seem to be no limit to its production, except the capital that is put into GUAUT ES 307 it. But notwithstanding the present cheapness of labor, —from twelve cents to twenty-five cents a day, — Mexico, in order, with its cane sugar, to compete in the markets of the world with the beet sugar, needs capital for labor-saving machinery and improved pro- cesses. And it is not easy to get that capital. There are very few Mexicans who have the energy or the ability to handle it if they had it. And there is the smallest encouragement for foreigners to go there. The law protects them in their rights just about in proportion to their ability to buy that protection from judges and the political officials. Every sort of hin- drance is put upon business and commerce. There are heavy import duties, heavy export duties, stamp duties, octroi duties, duties between states. All this tax might be borne if it were steady and fixed at dif- ferent ports and places of entry, and if the taxes and customs were honestly levied and paid into the trea- sury. But they are not. The state of things existing in Egypt years ago obtains now in Mexico. A great proportion, perhaps the larger part, of the tax and custom dues goes into the pockets of the officials, and not into the treasury of the government. If the taxes laid and wrung from natives and foreigners went into the treasury, Mexico would be out of debt and financially prosperous. I think no one can deny this. The officials all get rich, the natives are kept poor, and the foreigners live in uncertainty. There is no uniformity in the official plundering. Importers of goods prefer to bring them in by the Central Rail- way rather than by Vera Cruz, because they can make better terms with the inland officials. I heard the 308 MEXICAN NOTES story of an English ship captain who brings cargoes to the west coast, which I have reason to believe is true. When he reaches a western port, he anchors, and lands in his smal] boat and ascertains what terms he can make at the custom-house. If they are unsatis- factory, he sails to another port, and then to another; and he finally takes his goods ashore at the port where he can make the best terms with the customs officials. In order to encourage mining and other industries the government admits certain machinery free of duty. That is the law. But a foreigner seldom gets in any machinery without paying heavily on it, some- times three or four hundred per cent. on its cost. It takes a good deal of money to convince the officials that it is machinery. If it is an engine, it of course comes in pieces. How can the officials tell that it is an engine? If it isa bar of steel, how can the officials tell that it is for a drill? An American miner who imported tubes to replace those worn out in his boiler had to pay six hundred dollars for what in the States cost him less than sixty dollars. A man on the line of the Central road waited weeks to get a carboy of sulphuric acid through the hands of the various officials. Its cost in El Paso was three dol- lars. He paid twenty-four dollars duties on it. When he opened the carboy it was empty! Two invoices have to be made out, one in English and one in Spanish. If any article is misspelled, not spelled exactly in the invoice as it is in the free schedule, it must pay duty. Of course it is the officials, and not the government, who profit by this clerical error. CUAUTLA 309 These are some of the hundreds of annoyances and hindrances in the way of doing business in Mexico. A foreigner must reckon, and does reckon, as a part of his necessary outlay, money to keep on the right side of the officials. Of course the root of all these evils is not in the fact that Mexico is poor, and needs to squeeze every- body for a revenue, but in the fact that the govern- ment is purely a personal one, and run for the benefit, not of the people, but of the officials. And before this can be otherwise there has to be created in Mexico a public; and this will be a long and slow process with a mongrel people civilized on the Egyp- tian basis of mutual distrust. Ifl COATEPEC NE inconvenience in traveling in Mexico is the bulky silver money with which the tour- ist must load himself down. Whenever I moved any distance from the capital, I carried a shot-bag full of the cart-wheel dollars, which were worth from nineteen to twenty-four cents less than United States money. The Bank of London and - South America, in Mexico, issues notes which are current in the States of Mexico and Michoacan, and perhaps elsewhere, but not good in the State of Vera Cruz, although the bank officials assured us they were. Consequently we have this anomaly, which is characteristic of Mexico, that while the railway com- pany of the Mexican Railway received these notes for fare at the Mexican end, they would not take them at all at the Vera Cruz terminus. The first- class fare, in an exceedingly roomy and comfortable coach, — 263 miles in about fourteen hours, — was sixteen dollars. In the train was a carload of soldiers in white cotton uniform —a precaution against rob- bers which the government takes on no other railway in the republic. At every station, also, a guard of half a dozen soldiers appeared on the platform, saluting as the train drew up. On the higher table- land these guards were mounted, and in their fine COATEPEC 311 appearance reminded one of the famous Guardias Civiles of Spain. The morning (February 26) was bright and a little cool; the twin snow peaks sparkled crystal white in the clear air. The road runs in the Mexican basin north of Lake Tezcoco, through a region highly cul- tivated, bristling with cacti of grotesque forms, the fields marked by lines of the maguey plant, frequent adobe villages, with clusters of the stately organ cactus grouped about the huts, the whole plain full of the stir of agricultural life and movement. As we rose among the hills the clean maguey plant was more abundant, and at the first station on the plateau we were at the chief shipping-point of the region for pulque. Scores of casks of it were waiting shipment. It is from this station that a considerable portion of the thousands and thousands of gallons daily needed to supply the wants of the city are sent. At this sta- tion descended several passengers — English, Amert- can, and Mexican gentlemen, who had business at some hacienda, or were out for a day’s shooting. Among them was a tall, bulky Mexican, with gigantic frame anda baby face, who would have excited admi- ration anywhere. He wore an enormous hat, hung with at least a hundred dollars’ worth of silver bul- lion, was armed with a revolver and a rifle, and had down each seam of his trousers a row of skulls and cross-bones in solid silver, each skull as big as a dollar. Everybody enjoyed the appearance of this splendid person, and no one more than he himself. At an elevation of some eight thousand feet we were running over a nearly level tableland, with gg MEXICAN NOTES high mountains in the distance — a plain brown and cheerless. A strong wind was blowing, and the dust was intolerable. Soon the country became more broken, but with the same aspect of winter barren- ness, without a tree to relieve the prospect, and the landscape frightfully gashed and gullied by the heavy summer rains. After we passed Apizaco, whence a road branches off to Puebla, the long noble moun- tain of Malintzi came in view on the south, and before we reached San Andreas the mass of Orizaba loomed up in the east over the dusty plain, — two peaks, as seen from this point, the higher a long ragged mass, ever snow-clad, rising in majestic beauty between six and seven thousand feet above the enormous elevation of this vast wind-swept plateau. From the uplands, from the coast, from the tropical valleys, from all points of view, this seems to be the prince of Mexican mountains. At Esperanza we stopped for midday breakfast —an excellent, civilized, well-served meal. Here the peach-trees were in full bloom. A little farther on, at Boca del Monte, the road begins its rapid descent to the coast level. I doubt if any other rail- way in the world, certainly none in Europe or North America, offers so many surprises to the traveler, or scenery so startling and noble in character. At Boca del Monte he looks down upon a wilderness of mountains. He is on a wide sterile plain in the temperate zone; in two hours he will be hurled down in the warmth and luxuriance of a tropical vegetation. Below are mountains, precipices, deep valleys, clouds, mists, which part occasionally and COATEPEC Gai show green fields through the rifts. The descent seems impossible. But the train moves on in long curves round the edge of the mountain, doubling on itself, piercing a promontory, clinging to the edge of a precipice, leaping bya slender bridge from one hill to another, running backward and forward, but always down, down, until the mountains, nobly wooded, begin to rise above us; at one point we look sheer down the precipice upon the plain and town of Maltrato, 2000 feet below. At Bota, a pic- turesque station clinging to the precipice, there are crowds of women and maidens offering fruits of all sorts, and pulque, which is not good lower down. Before we know it we have dropped down to Mal- trato, a little interval green with grain and trees, hemmed in completely by steep mountains, a thriv- ing town with many spires, 1691 meters above the sea. From this little mountain plain we drop to a lower level, through a wonderful defile, narrow, rocky, with a clear impetuous stream at the bottom; and as we go down, there is not so much the sensation of sink- ing as that the mountains are rising around us. The level to which we come is the fertile plain of Ori- zaba, 1227 meters above the sea. In the midst of it stands the handsome and highly civilized city of Orizaba — city and valley shut out from the world by immense mountain walls. On this plain we ran into the clouds that we had seen from the heights above, and passing it, we went swiftly down a broad valley, all grain, grass, turf even, pasture-lands, meadows, luxuriant cane-fields, well watered and 314 MEXICAN NOTES vernal, not unlike the valley of the Connecticut, except for the yucca and cacti, and strange plants and flowers. From this valley we dropped again down a narrow, rocky defile, passed through a tunnel, and came into a lower valley that leads to the city of Cordova. The whole of Mexico has this terrace character. It had rained a little at Cordova, and the vegetation showed a climate different from that on — the west of the great mountain chain. All the east side of the mountains is liable in winter to “ north- ers,” which bring lower temperature, clouds, and occasional rain, so that the whole State of Vera Cruz is less brown and sere in the dry season than the western uplands. At Cordova we were in a semi-tropical region, 827 meters (about 2600 Eng- lish feet) above the sea; we had dropped from winter into summer. On either side spread acres and acres of bananas, wide coffee plantations, agaves and pines, and brilliant flowering shrubs ; one, the tuli- pan, as large as a peach-tree, with splendid scarlet flowers like the tiger-lily. At the station, pineapples and oranges in heaps were for sale. As we went down through the foothills, passing a finer gorge’ than any above, with a lovely waterfall, the foliage became more and more tropical; big-leaved plants grew rank along the way, and enormous convolvuli adorned the trees and hedges. It was eight o’clock when we reached the abso- lute sea-level and Vera Cruz, and were driven in a rickety carriage through a broad business street of two-story houses to the Hotel Diligencia, on the little plaza. The hotel, over the first story of shops, COATEPEC 315 is entered by broad stone stairs in the inner court, and is itself an open hall abouta court, the hall serv- ing as assembly-room and dining-room, the chambers opening out from it. All the floors are brick. The rooms on the plaza front have balconies, and are primitively furnished, though comfortable enough, the beds being well protected by mosquito-netting. Rooms, furniture, attendance, all bespeak the negli- gence of a warm climate; it is, in short, a thoroughly Spanish-Mexican inn, and the table sustains its repu- tation. Vera Cruz has a bad repute, and I suppose that, travestying the remark about Naples, I am expected to exclaim, “Smell Vera Cruz and die!” But I found the little city of ten thousand people rather agreeable. It is, to be sure, when you are in it, an uninteresting city of two-story buildings of coral limestone, right-angled streets, perfectly flat, built on marshy ground, and the gutters are open and unsightly. The sidewalk crossings of the principal streets are peculiar ; they are small bridges thrown over the gutters, but instead of being on the line of the sidewalk, they are set back in the side street, so that the heedless pedestrian is likely at any moment to step into the ditch. But the houses are solid ; many of them have pretty courts, and arcaded fronts are frequent. Shabby or elegant, it is thoroughly foreign and picturesque. By daylight it is shabby. The most pleasing view of the town is from the sea, with the castle of San Juan de Ulua in the fore- ground, and the water-line of arcaded buildings, with the towers and cathedral dome, behind. But the view 316 MEXICAN NOTES of the blue gulf, with its islands and sails, from the long pier, is as lovely as that from almost any Medi- terranean port. The air was delicious, mild and yet not enervating. With the sea on one side and the mountains so near on the other, Vera Cruz ought, with a little engineering skill for drainage, to be per- fectly healthful. But no summer passes without spo- radic cases of yellow fever, and once in three years it is epidemic. To my senses the climate was most agreeable, and it was luxury to breathe the air after the thin atmosphere of the tableland. Indeed, I met many foreigners who were charmed with Vera Cruz. I know Americans who go there without fear in the summer, for the bathing, and find their stay most agreeable. The scene on the plaza, which was brilliantly illuminated with both gas and electric lights, was exceedingly gay. The strong light brought into relief the cathedral dome and spires, the arcaded shops, and masses of shrubs and flowering plants, and the swaying arms of the whispering palms. It is thronged with promenaders, with loafers, with chil- | dren, with ladies in fashionable attire, with officers and soldiers and servants —a thoroughly democratic assembly. The cool evening is the time for enjoy- ment and recreation, and everybody was out-of- doors; ladies in light muslins, armed only with the fan, went round and round arm in arm, chatting and laughing, never the sexes mingling in the treadmill of the promenade, except in case of family groups ; children, small girls and boys too young to be out without their nurses, were jumping the rope and COATEPEC 317 playing other noisy games in a part of the plaza till after nine o’clock ; men of the lower orders lounged about clad only in under-shirts and drawers, or their cotton trousers that had the effect of drawers ; the clerks in the shops, dressed in the same summer style, and invariably with a cigar in the mouth, waited on their customers in languid indifference. All the wine shops and saloons were open and thriv- ing; small tables incumbered the sidewalks, where the citizens sat in cool costume sipping mild pota- tions. Everybody had the free and easy air which is always begotten by confidence in steady good weather. The prominent impression, however, was of the mixed, mongrel race, a population lacking stamina, with Central American morals and Cuban inertia. We were called at four o’clock of a foggy morn- ing for the five-o’clock train to Jalapa. This jour- ney is unique, for the whole distance of seventy miles is by tramway, except the first sixteen, to Paso de San Juan, on the Mexican Railway. After a cup of coffee in a cheap café by the station, I went to buy my tickets. The agent peremptorily refused to take the Bank of London notes, even at a discount. My servant expostulated with all the officials of the place. We could not think of remaining over in Vera Cruz another whole day. No exchange shops were open. Our money was perfectly good. Why then subject travelers tosuch annoyance? But it was no use to remonstrate, the officials were more than inexorable, they were indifferent; the train was just starting. I happened to remember that I had in my 318 MEXICAN NOTES pocket a note of introduction to Colonel Thrailkill, the superintendent of the Jalapa road. I produced it. No one could read it, and, for all they knew, it might have been my hotel bill; but it sufficed. With a good-nature as unreasonable as the former indif- ference, we were told to go aboard, and pay when we found the superintendent. At San Juan the tram-cars were waiting, two, a first and a second-class, each with four mules. Our car was very comfortable, roomy, with broad leather- cushioned seats, open at the sides, with a canopy to keep off the sun. At the signal the mules were let go, and they started on a run; they had their ten miles to make, and seemed bound to do it at a spurt. The country was at first level, the track good, but the car swung and swerved at the rapid pace, and our motion created a strong breeze; the fog was lift- ing, disclosing a luxuriant vegetation, palms, cacti, and large sycamore-trees, in form and color like our buttonball. The buzzards were still roosting in the trees, but the convolvuli were opening, and new bird-notes were heard in the thickets. Everything was strange, exotic. Every moment a new object for — exclamation. A handsome, brilliant bird, as large as a hawk, with a long tail, darted from tree to tree with a harsh cry; it was the papey, a fleshless, useless bird ; equally valueless was the coracoracaa, a smaller bird, like the pheasant; there was also the calandra, bril- liant yellow; but most interesting of all, the prima vera, a brown warbler, the bird of spring. Here and there, by the track, the Te del campo, a large lizard, hastened to get out of the way. COATEPEC 319 For we went thundering on, regardless of beast or bird. The mules have more vim and malicious energy than the steam-engine. Here and there a poor plantation was passed, and the house was invari- ably an openwork structure of cane, with a heavily thatched roof. This is the old national road, the route of General Scott to the city of Mexico, following most of the way the ancient Spanish highway, often paved, and with substantial bridges. The old Spaniards had energy, and built roads and churches; the Mexicans have let them decay. When the fog cleared, the sky was deep blue, and the air delicious. The peak of Orizaba appeared a white mass in the blue horizon, the base hidden by mountain ranges. The Puente Nacional is a fine, picturesque Spanish bridge, with parapets, and here is a collection of mean adobe houses, and near them, in a thicket of cacti, the white palace of Santa Anna, falling to ruins. Here he had a considerable planta- tion. We also passed in sight of the battlefield of Cerro Gordo —a cheerless region. The villages on the line are much alike, — usually one shabby street, —with a mongrel population. The most curious shops are the butchers’; the meat hangs before the door in long strips, is usually black, and sold by the foot. At Rinconada, where we met the down train, we stopped an hour for breakfast — a very palatable meal, with Mexican dishes, that are not bad if you can make up your mind to them, especially the gar- nachas, compounded of maize, chopped meat, cheese, chiles, tomatoes, and onions. It is as good as the 320 MEXICAN NOTES famous enchilada, which is chopped meat, raisins, almonds, and other condiments rolled inside of a tortilla. The passengers whom we met were covered with dust, and we were in the same state. The road had begun to ascend rapidly, and there were long stretches where we dragged slowly up the grades, in sun and dust, with only occasionally the exhilaration of a dash down-hill. The views became finer — great sweeps of rounded hills, with few trees, and mountains in the distance. Occasionally a hacienda was seen perched on a hill, or the square tower of an old church, but for the most part the country was monotonous in its winter barrenness. Still it was all novel, and our interest in the drive scarcely flagged when, at six o’clock, we galloped through the paved streets of Jalapa, and knew that we were 4000 feet above the sea. Jalapa, the capital of the State of Vera Cruz, and the residence of the governor, is an exceedingly inter- esting and pretty city, well paved, solidly built, pictur- esquely situated on the foothills, and surrounded by giant mountains. The region is fertile, and it is just the right elevation for a delightful summer and winter climate. The views from the neighboring hills of the town, the uneven landscape, the semi-trop- ical vegetation, the snow mountains, are of almost incomparable beauty. The town itself, though the streets are winding, and many of them steep, and the houses have no great architectural pretensions, is clean, thrifty, and has a highly civilized aspect. There are many fine, substantial residences, which make no exterior show, but have lovely interior COATEPEC 321 courts adorned with flowers, and vocal with foun- tains and the singing of birds. The rich interiors are evidence of wealth and refinement. The cathedral, a noble, handsome building, stands on a pretty plaza, but its situation on the side of a slope gives a unique effect to the interior. The floor, which is beautifully paved with tiles, slopes up to the altar at a decided angle, so that the worshiper, in advancing to the apse, has a sense of “going up to the house of the Lord.” From the end of the street on which it stands, and indeed from other streets, there are charming vistas of the country, a country tropical in its foliage, and always with the background of purple mountains and snow domes. The noble Ori- zaba is the chief attraction, but the long range of the nearer Cofre de Perote, which bars the way to the west, tawny and full of color, may be fairly termed magnificent. Its sharp ridges, 14,000 feet above the sea, are just low enough to escape the crown of per- petual snow. The great market-place on Sunday morning pre- sented a very animated spectacle. In the center of the square, surrounded by arcaded buildings, is the market itself, a structure of pillars and roof; but the traffic was not confined to it. The whole plaza and all the surrounding corridors and the side streets were covered with goods, merchandise of all sorts, fruits, vegetables, pottery, and swarmed with buyers and sellers. This is the day when the Indians from the mountain villages come in with their grain, tor- tillas, preserves, basket-work, pottery, and “ truck,” and we saw here specimens of three or four tribes 2I 322 MEXICAN NOTES who adhere to their own dialects, and speak Spanish not at all, or very reluctantly. The Mexican men wore usually white trousers and white shirts, with perhaps a gay serape flung over the shoulders. The women, in plain frocks and the invariable ribosas, add little in the way of color to the scene, and almost nothing of beauty. They are not pretty ; but so pro- ductive! Children swarmed. And the sad pity of it, to think that they will all grow up and become Mex- , icans! There was a circus in town, and the mem- bers of it were making an advertising parade, riding about through the dense crowd, bespangled, brazen women and harlequin men, greeted with shouts and laughter. There is certainly nothing gloomy about Sunday in Jalapa. We breakfasted with Colonel Thrailkill, the super- intendent of the Jalapa road. The table was set in a veranda opening upon a pretty garden. Our host is a bird-fancier ; but most residents in Mexico fall into this fancy, for in no other land are there birds of more delicious song and exquisite plumage. In shops, in house courts, in hotels, in bath-houses, everywhere, one hears the music of caged birds. Dozens of cages * hung about the veranda and in the garden, an un- rivaled aviary of color and song. There were many brilliant small birds, but the favorite for its song — indeed, the queen of all Mexican singing birds — is the clarin. This is a shapely brown bird, in size and form not unlike the hermit-thrush, but its long, liquid, full-throated note is more sweet and thrilling than any other bird-note I have ever heard; it is hardly a song ora tune, but a flood of melody, elevating, inspiring COATEPEC Kye: as the skylark, but with a touch of the tender melan- choly of the nightingale in the night. There was one of these birds filling the court with melody when I went to take a bath in Jalapa. Mex- ico has one evidence of civilization that some other civilized countries lack. In every city, in nearly every town, there are attractive bath-houses. However mean the town may be otherwise, the public bath-house is pretty sure to be neat and attractive, and is often highly ornamental and luxurious. There are bathing- places of various degrees of cost, some plunges and pools where the populace can take a dip for a tlaco (about a cent and a half), and others more exclusive, where the common charge for hot and cold water, linen, soap, rubbing fiber, and oil 1s twenty-five cents. There is an inner court, luxuriant and beautiful with flowers and tropical foliage, surrounded by galleries in two stories, in the arches of which stand hun- dreds of the red flower-pots of the country brilliant with gay flowers. A fountain splashes in the center, and caged birds, fluttering in the sunlight, sing, and add the element of gayety to the pretty scene. The bathing-rooms, opening on the gallery, are primi- tive, but clean; and if they were ruder than they are, the bather has so many senses gratified that in this respect at least he is willing to confess that the Mexicans excel us in civilization and refinement. At Cuautla I saw a substitute for the Turkish bath, used sometimes also by our northern Indians. This was a stone structure, somewhere in the shade of the house inclosure, in shape like a long, low oven, with an: opening in front large enough for a person to 324 MEXICAN NOTES crawl in. In the interior are placed hot stones, water is poured upon these till the oven is full of steam, and then the patient crawls in, closes the aperture, and takes his steam bath. From Jalapa the tramway extends nine miles south- west to Coatepec, which lies 500 feet lower than the capital, and enjoys a somewhat warmer climate. I went down there and spent some days with American and English friends who are engaged in coffee-plant- ing and in the preparation of the berry for the mar- ket. Coatepec is a typical Mexican town of the bet- ter sort, where nobody is very rich and nobody very poor. It is quite withdrawn from the world and its excitements — has no newspapers, no news, no agi- tations. The houses are mostly of one story, the streets are broad, well paved, and clean, and the coun- try about is well cultivated. With the exception of the family with whom I stayed, and a Belgian who has lived there many years, I believe there are no foreigners. ‘‘ Society ”’ can hardly be said to exist, but a club had recently been formed; in the bare rooms it occupied there were neither newspapers, books, nor any of the common paraphernalia of club life. So— far as I could judge, the Mexicans here, who are of the ordinary yellow variety, have little intellectual life or ambition, or knowledge of the world. The chief occupation is coffee-raising ; all about the town are large and small plantations of it, intermingled with the banana and the plantain. The coffee-trees are seen in all the town gardens; and at this season, in the streets and courtyards, the coffee-berry spread on mats was everywhere seen drying in the sun. COA TEPEC 325 The house where I stayed, perhaps the most com- modious in the place, is worth a line of description, as typical of the better sort in Mexico. On the street it has a solid two-story front, with windows of glass, and is built around three sides of a very pretty court, which has a fountain, tropical plants and flowers, and singing birds in cages. Most of the houses have no glass, and the window openings, which close with inner shutters, are protected with bars of iron or wood, Spanish fashion, and the inmates have the appear- ance of being imprisoned. A gallery runs round the inner second story of the house I speak of, and is a most agreeable lounging-place day and evening. Here are books, music, the latest English and American newspapers. In the sitting-room is a Steinway grand, which in this equable climate always keeps in tune. Every evening when there is music, there is an or- derly crowd in the street below. From this gallery is one of the most lovely prospects. One looks over the court and the garden beyond, over the huddled brown roofs of the town, the cathedral towers, the tall trees of the plaza with its arcaded buildings, over the rising nearest foothills and their semi-tropical vege- tation, to the vast ridge of the Cofre de Perote, purple against the sky. Almost every feature of the land- scape is Italian, and the view is wonderfully like that from the Villa Nardi in Sorrento of the gardens and amphitheater of hills. But in one respect it far sur- passes the famous Italian landscape. For there to the left rises in the blue sky the great dome of Ori- zaba, pure white, stainless, towering up like a cloud, its purity glowing in the rosy light of morning, or 326 MEXICAN NOTES taking on a purple hue at evening. The place has altogether an air of repose, of stability, of softness, an indescribable charm. This region is a paradise for the naturalist as well as the sightseer. I could see, but cannot describe, hundreds of novel wild flowers and plants — plants aromatic, plants and vines with strange and brilliant blooms, tree-ferns, and all sorts of feathery and grace- ful growths. My friend had a collection of butterflies and moths dazzling to the eyes of a novice, but of still more interest to the student ; his explorations of the hills have discovered many species hitherto unknown to science. Not only the naturalist, but the ordinary traveler, would find much that is interesting in exploring these mountains. In their recesses are villages that retain all the simplicity of primitive communities. I have some coins from one of them, Las Vegas, which reveal this. The subsidiary coinage in Mexico is in a very bad way. Much of it is local, and all of it is worn and defaced beyond recognition. Yet when the government attempted some years ago to call it in and substitute something else, the popular — discontent was so great that it was obliged to desist. The commonest popular coin is the ¢/aco, usually a big round piece of copper worn perfectly smooth. Its current value is a little over a cent and a half. Two tlacos make a cuartilla; two cuartillas make a medio ; two medios make a rea/; and two reals make twenty-five cents. The inhabitants of Las Vegas, being short of the small circulating medium, manu- facture their own, which is taken and given in all COATEPEC 327 purchases. One of the Las Vegas “coins” that I have is a small square piece of soap, stamped with the value. The others are a square and a circular block of wood, over an inch in diameter, rudely whittled out, but stamped with name and value. Each of these passes for a tlaco. This seems to be an ideal sort of money; any one can have as much as he can make, and it has two advantages, — the wood will last, and the soap will redeem itself in time. It is an unexciting life that one would lead at Coatepec amid all this natural beauty. Even the jail, which stands on one side of the plaza, has a friendly aspect. It is a two-story edifice, with pillars supporting the upper gallery. In the upper story is a rude hospital. The lower story consists of one long, obscure room, with a floor of earth, in which all the prisoners are huddled together. The guards pace the corridor outside, and watch the inmates through the grated windows. Prison reform has not yet reached Mexico. There is one person in Coatepec who has ideas and tastes above his fellows. This is an honest car- penter, who is the antiquarian of the region. In his little stone cottage, overrun and half hidden by vegetation, he has collected Indian relics, stone idols and images, a few manuscripts and books, and a great variety of natural curiosities. The house stands on the slope of a pure and pretty stream that runs through the village, and here he has laid out a gar- den that is unique. It is a miniature museum out- of-doors, planted with tropical shrubs and flowers, 328 MEXICAN NOTES intersected with winding walks, along which stand Indian idols and fragments of antique sculpture, leading to quaint grottoes, paved and ‘set with old tiles, bits of glass, and odd pieces of plate. The whole effect is fantastic and curious. This carpenter is an artist as well as antiquarian. A little while be- fore my visit he had the misfortune to lose his third wife. A few days after, he brought to my friend a skull and cross-bones, “ life”’ size, beautifully carved in wood — perfect imitation of these emblems of mortality. The carving of these mementos was his grim way of taking consolation in his bereavement. The country about Coatepec might well detain the traveler for weeks in agreeable excursions. The only drawback to riding is that all the roads are paved with round stones —at least, all the roads con- necting the principal villages. This is no doubt necessary in the rainy season, but it makes rough traveling. We rode one day over the rolling land, up-hill and down, half a dozen miles to see the bar- ranca of Tecalo. This is one of the minor barrancas, but it gives a good idea of these peculiar formations. ,, A barranca is of the nature of a cafion; that is to - say, it is a deep gorge, abruptly sinking below the level of the surrounding country, and has a stream at the bottom. We had no sign of the barranca of Tecalo until we stood upon its brink, and looked down the rugged chasm a thousand feet. It is not a straight cut in the land, but winding, as if the stream had made it by slow process and irregular flowing, but its rocky sides are nearly perpendicular. We made COATEPEC 329 our way by a zigzag path down one of the faces to the bottom, where we found a substantial bridge and a clear, rapid stream. Looking up the walls on either side we had a vision of wild and exquisite beauty. The sky was a narrow strip above. The walls of rock that shut us in were completely clad with vegetation, luxuriant, and wonderful in color. I know nothing to compare with it except the La- tomia of Syracuse, in Sicily. Every foot of the pre- cipices was covered with creepers, hanging vines, ferns exquisite in fineness, a mass of green and gray, in which gleamed flowers of scarlet and of a dozen bright hues, and here and there from ledges hung vegetable cables, ropes swinging freely in the air, with flowering plants at the end, like baskets let down. As we ascended from this bewildering vale of beauty, there was great Orizaba hanging like a thunder-head in the sky. Coatepec, Jalapa, all the eastern slope of the great ‘mountains have a delightful winter climate, warmer than the Mexican tablelands by reason of the lower altitude, but, as I have said, not so arid, for the “northers”’ bring occasionally clouds and a damp atmosphere, which freshens the vegetation a little. The return down the tramway from Jalapa to Vera Cruz was more rapid than the ascent — three hours shorter in time, and exciting and exhilarating. Whirl- ing down this strange land in an open car, with the mules at a gallop, every mile offering some novel sight, is, I fancy, a unique experience in travel. It was half-past four when we came to Vera Cruz, and we had time before nightfall to satisfy all our curi- 330 MEXICAN NOTES osity about the city. It cannot be said to improve much on acquaintance, but the sea view from the end of the long stone pier is very fine, with the old Castle, and the sailboats and steamers in the harbor. The town also is picturesque from this point, with its church domes and towers and the arcaded and bal- conied houses on the shore, painted in blue, red, yel- low, and green, all faded into harmonious tones. Again we were reminded of Italy. At sunset hundreds of buzzards came to roost on the cornices of the plaza buildings, and the great dome of the cathedral was literally black with them. Gas and electric light again blazed, and the ceaseless promenading and animation of street life began. Chil- dren swarm, ladies in light muslins come out to enjoy the night air, men in white, and as thinly clad as possible, lounge listlessly about. ‘he more we see of the people, the more inferior they seem — an easy- going, poor, mixed race. We were up at five for the train. The night had been hot; with the long windows open on the plaza and sea side, there was not a breath of air— even a sheet was a burden. Till late at night there was noise and gabble in the streets, bells were chiming, and the big bell of the cathedral booming the hours. In the early morning the streets were almost deserted, here and there a cargador in white, or a woman, too early or too late, shuffled along the pavement. The big buzzards on the cathedral dome were beginning to stir in the early light, birds were singing among the whispering palms of the plaza, and paroquets called and screamed after us. COATEPEC 331 The road skirts the city and then runs straight to the foothills over a plain uninteresting except for the always picturesque palms. But at Cordova, a busy, pretty town among the mountains, and overlooked by Mount Orizaba, the vegetation is very rich, the air is sweet with orange blossoms, the foliage is dark, the red coffee-berries gleam in the banana planta- tions, the palm, the yucca, the cacti add to the trop- ical character of the picture, and brilliant flowers and rampant vines lighten and drape the landscape in color and grace. From here to Orizaba the scenery appeared more grand than in the descent, the moun- tains serrated, sharp peaks, blue and lovely in the distance, standing in a jumble, and the snow peak above them always wonderful. We drag up through the lovely gorge with the pretty waterfall, make the circle of the great loop in the road, cross a high bridge, pass through several tunnels, and are in the shut-in plain of Orizaba. No description can do jus- tice to this wonderful road. Orizaba, which is about four thousand feet above the sea, is a favorite winter resort, but it is too warm in summer for those accustomed to the air of the table- land. It is, however, a beneficial change for many from the very rare air of the city of Mexico. The city itself is very well built, has a big and varied market, and an alameda as fine as any in the republic, with splendid trees and charming a//ées, and is bounded on one side by a swift stream, which sweeps the base of a precipitous mountain wall. This situation adds nobility to its loveliness. From my window and balcony at the Hotel La Borda I looked up a clear, 332 MEXICAN NOTES rapid stream in a green setting of foliage, with white houses and gardens beyond, a white spire, and a vast _ background of mountains, the shoulder of Orizaba visible, but not its snow. The snow peak is not in sight from the central part of the city itself. Orizaba is interesting for a few days’ sojourn, and pleasant excursions may be made from it into the hills and the lateral valleys, but it is too much shut in for my taste. It is a fairly enlightened and well-governed city, and has very good schools, where English is taught, after a fashion, and on which the attendance is, I believe, compulsory. While I was there, a German, whose knowledge of English was very limited, was holding, by the aid of the government, a normal school, to teach teachers how to teach English and German, and he had some eighty-five pupils, old and young, from the various towns in the State of Vera Cruz: In traveling here and elsewhere in Mexico, an American is struck with the little deference paid to women. No matter who is present, everybody smokes, at the table, in the cars, even those of the first-class, in the horse-cars, everywhere, — there is no escape from the smoke. But then, most of the Mexican women smoke also. It was now the sth of March, and signs of spring multiplied ; as we ascended the mountains the young foliage was almost as bright in hue as ours is in autumn. This drapery of color was very pleasing. We could imagine what Mexico would be in its renewed vegetation. The train moved slowly up COATEPEC 333 the slopes, conquering the height foot by foot. The valleys deepened, the mountains sunk. When we ’ reached the summit of Boca del Monte, it seemed as if we must have climbed to the top of the world. But lo! there in the sky was the white dome of Orizaba, apparently just as high above us as ever. IV MORELIA AND PATZCUARO BRANCH of the Mexican National Railway (which is all narrow gauge) runs west from the city over the mountains to Toluca, thence turns northwest to Acambaro; at this station a branch runs southwest to Morelia and Patzcuaro; the main line continues northward, crosses the Mexican Cen- tral at Celaya, and goes on to San Miguel de Allende. From this point it is expected to continue through San Luis Potosi to Saltillo, completing the connec- tion with the north. When this gap of 350 miles is spanned, there will be an all-rail route from San An- tonio to the city of Mexico, and the railway distance between the two cities will be shortened by some eight hundred miles. The road out of the Mexican basin follows the winding narrow valley of a pretty stream, offer- ing at first pleasing and then grand views, until at the station of Salazar it reaches the summit and an altitude of 10,027 feet. At this station it is always cool; there is a frost every night in the year, and the passengers who got out fora glass of pulque or a cup of coffee and a tortilla were cheered by the warmth of a stove in the agent’s shanty. This was the for- mer diligence route, and this mountain region was the scene only three or four years ago of numerous rob- MORELIA AND PATZCUARO — 335 beries and murders. The diligence was certain to be attacked if it carried passengers who were suspected of having valuables. The robbers in all cases were the Mexican citizens of the neighboring villages, and never the Indians. These Mexicans, who seem to have been sustained by public opinion, simply varied the monotony of their ordinary occupations by high- way robbery. If there were any political disturbance, throwing the administration into confusion, these good people would undoubtedly take to the road again. Here, as elsewhere in the republic, the more trustworthy part of the population are Indians and not the hybrids. From the summit the descent was rapid. Twilights are brief in this latitude, and it was dusk at a little after seven (we had left Mexico at five), when we came to the station in the plain of Toluca, and took the tram-cars for the city, distant a mile anda half. To- luca, one of the most beautifully situated and pleas- ing cities in Mexico, is seated on gentle hills rising out of an extensive and fertile plain, and is about eighty-five hundred feet above the sea. We were set down at the Hotel Lion de Oro, as the decorated sign which the French proprietor has brought with him testified. This hotel, which is of two stories, built about a court, with spacious rooms, prepossessed us in favor of the city, for it 1s neat and comfortable, and by far the best and cleanest hotel we found in the republic. The following morning was splendid, the air elas- tic, inspiring. I do not know which most to admire, the view of the town from a neighboring hill, or 336 MEXICAN NOTES the view of the lovely valley and its guardian moun- tains from the terrace. The snow mountain of Toluca, whence the runners in the old Spanish days and the runners now bring the snow for cooling drinks, is a beautiful object in this clear atmosphere. The city is well paved and substantially built, has some fine old churches and towers, and is not only the cleanest city in Mexico, but is cleaner than any city in the United States. One of the small features of the place that attracted attention were queer frames, skeleton structures, like the electric-light stands, with small tanks on top. One of these stood in the governor’s garden next door to the hotel. The frame was sixty or seventy feet high and gayly painted; on top was a platform with a gay railing supporting the tank, and this was surmounted by a pagoda canopy, also brilliantly painted, and ornamented with images of large gilded butterflies on each corner. These things are the fashion here, and there is a strife between the wealthy citizens to have the highest and gaudiest. Water is pumped into the tanks, and we were told that they are used as shower-baths. The town has a small plaza prettily planted, with two fountains and an abundance of flowers ; at this season it was carpeted with violets and daisies. One of the most interesting pieces of architecture is a chapel attached to one of the ancient churches, which has a dome covered with colored mosaics very ori- ental in character. The market hall is a large, long building, with the roof supported on heavy Egyptian columns, painted in high colors —another of the many oriental suggestions in Mexico. In the arcades MORELIA AND PATZCUARO = 337 about the market square are many little eating and drinking shops. The place on Sunday morning was crowded with traffickers, and the objects for sale were spread all about — fruits, meats, vegetables, all sorts of merchandise, coarse and brilliantly painted pot- tery, rope like the Manila, made from the maguey, and pretty basket-work and mats. Large numbers of Indians had come in from the mountain villages. They were usually short, thick-chested, and heavy- limbed, and with black coarse hair and broad faces and high cheek-bones — very Indian in appearance. The women were clad in two pieces of blue cloth, wrapped about the body so as to leave the arms and legs free, and the breasts convenient to the calls of their offspring. Every woman was nursing a baby, and even the little girls commonly had charge of a more helpless specimen of their race. I suppose that these aborigines are substantially what they were when Cortez conquered the country, with the same native vigor and inferior, semibarbarous aspect, with their habits perhaps a little modified by a pseudo- Christianity. In the afternoon, an unusual thing for the season, there was a brief thunder-shower with hail, with loose high-sailing clouds and fine effects of shadows on the plain. We saw the sun set from a sharp hill over- looking the town, where there are the earthworks of what may have been a fort. The prospect was superb, one of the rare views of the world, over the flat-roofed town, out upon the vast green plain, the mountains lovely in the slant light, and the peak of Toluca rosy. The notable and surprising thing, 22 338 MEXICAN NOTES however, was the high and careful culture. The plain was like a garden, the only lines of demarca- tion being rows of the maguey plant. We had not expected such careful agriculture in Mexico. The great squares of brown earth, ready for the seed or newly sown, were tilled as finely as garden mold, and alternated pleasingly with the vast patches of green wheat and barley. We were told that the weeds in the wheat-fields are pulled up by hand, and the whole country gave evidence of this minute personal cultivation. The effect of this high culture was to give a very refined landscape. The view was very extensive, and grew more and more attractive with the light on the church towers and the round hills in the valley ; and when at last a rainbow spanned the plain, over which thin mists were trailing, the prospect was nothing less than enchanting. This is one of the richest valleys in the republic. It pro- duces a winter crop by irrigation, and a summer crop in the rainy season. The patience of the traveler is tried in two ways on the railway to Morelia — by the uncomfortable cars with small windows, from which it is difficult » to see anything, and the time consumed. We were twelve and a half hours in going about two hundred miles. After emerging from the fertile plain of To- luca we ascended into a broken country, the road rising and falling among the hills with many a long loop and curve. Many of these curves were unneces- sary feats of engineering, laid out when the build- ers expected the promised bonus of ten thousand dollars a mile; the curves are now being reduced, MORELIA AND PATZCUARO — 339 and the road shortened proportionally. The view was interesting, and often wide and glorious, the mountains fine in form, and the valleys irrigated, green,and lovely. Even the uncultivated spaces were covered with wild growth, among them a very sweet- scented acacia-bush with bright yellow flowers. We breakfasted at Flor de Maria, a neat station with a good table, and took coffee at four o’clock at Acam- baro in a station-shanty kept by Mexican Jim, who has the reputation among foreigners of being proba- bly the most honest Mexican now living. He was for many years the trusted body-servant of General McClellan during his Northwestern explorations. Toward evening we ran along the shore of Lake Cuitzco, a large body of water, containing many islands, and surrounded by noble mountains grace- ful in form. It seemed to me more beautiful than Lake George or Lake Winipiseogee; but perhaps the luminous warm atmosphere enhanced its beauty, for Mexico certainly has this advantage over our North- ern landscapes in an atmosphere full of color, which drapes hills and valleys like a delicate garment, as in _ southern Italy and Sicily. We came to the Morelia station after dark, and took the horse-railway to the town and the Hotel Michoacan. Morelia, the present capital of the State of Micho- acan, is a city of, I should think, fifty thousand to sixty thousand inhabitants, bright, cheerful, well built, surrounded by a lovely hilly country, and at an ele- vation of about fifty-five hundred feet. I am conscious that I am open to the charge of enthusiasm in gen- eral expressions of admiration for this charming and 340 MEXICAN NOTES interesting city, and I have hardly space in this paper for details to make good my partiality. It is unne- cessary to go elsewhere for a more delicious climate than we found there in the month of March. The charm of the air is indescribable, so fresh, so balmy, so full of life, days of strong, genial sun, nights of mild serenity, so dry and temperate that we sat in the public square at midnight without need of a wrap. The night of our arrival the town seemed to be en féte. The large Zocolo, or principal plaza, pret- tily laid out in flower-beds and winding walks and fine trees, seats and music-stands, with several foun- tains, was gayly illuminated with Chinese lanterns and thronged with promenaders. In the streets and open spaces were erected hundreds of stands for the sale of sweets and native edibles, lighted by flaming torches, which threw a fantastic light upon the strange groups about them. These street venders are always to be seen at night cooking their indescribable “messes” in the open air, and many of the inhabit- ants seem to take their suppers regularly at these cheap stands. In the pagoda a fine military band was playing the music of Beethoven and Wagner. It was the famous band of the Eighth Regiment, the nucleus of that great orchestra which made such a musical sensation at the New Orleans Exposition. The air was sweet with the odor of the night-bloom- ing jasmine. In respect to its music, its gardens, cultivation of flowers, and its simple architecture, Morelia shows a high degree of civilization. I shall speak of some of the peculiar features of MORELIA AND PATZCUARO | 341 ‘the place without any attempt at exhaustive or sys- tematic description. The hotel accommodation is inadequate, and the restaurant frequented by stran- gers is third-class. The new hotel, slowly rising room by room, on the plaza, promises to change all this. The cathedral has massive towers and great domes, and although of the Spanish composite order of architecture, is a noble building, the finest in Mexico. In full moonlight, or in the rosy light of sunset, it is wonderfully beautiful. In the large tower hangs the monster bell, which is rarely sounded, but there are many others of moderate size which are continually chiming. All these bells, and, indeed, nearly all the bells in the republic, are remarkable for sweetness and softness of tone. It is very rarely that one hears a harsh bell. They are exceedingly melodious and pleasing. It is sometimes explained that this is due to the mixture of silver in the bell- metal, and that the new bells are cast from old metal. I believe that the chief reason why the Mexican bells are so much more musical than ours is that the Mexican bells are artistically made, shaped with reference to tone, thin at the edge, each one a work of art intelligently manipulated, not mechanically cast without reference to the sound it shall produce. The great bells are struck with a clapper, and not swung. There would be much less objection to the use of church bells in the United States —the harsh and barbarous jangle which shocks the Sunday stillness — if our bells had any of the musical quality of the Mexican. The houses of Morelia are generally plain and mostly of one story, but in the principal streets 342 MEXICAN NOTES and about the plaza are many buildings of fine proportions, and simple, noble facades, with elegant carvings in low relief. Even the new buildings in light cream-colored stone preserve the old elegance, the architects being as yet untouched by the modern craze for monstrous roofs, oddity, and over-orna- mentation. This is not the best season for fruits and flowers, but the spacious market was well supplied with tropi- cal fruits, great variety of bananas and plantains, oranges, mangoes, the several sorts of the zapota fam- ily, the chirimoya, the granadilla, and so forth; and the abundance of flowers of the common sort —roses, carnations, and sweet peas — testifies to the lca love of them. At the end of the main street begins the Calzada — literally, the “ shod-place.” Here, on and near an open square, are the bath-houses — cheap swimming tanks for the populace—and the decorated courts and apartments for the more wealthy. Not far off is a most humane institution, — a horse-bath, —a large deep reservoir, entered by an inclined plane, where the horses are taken, and enjoy a refreshing swim. ° The Calzada is half a mile of large ash-trees arched over a wide paved trottoir, with a continuous row of high-backed stone benches on each side. It isa famous place for promenading in the late afternoon. The drive runs on each side, fronted by a row of low, plain residences with pretty courts and flower- gardens. Upon some of the walls we saw the gor- geous camelina (or Bougainvillea) vine, the terminal leaf like a flower, some red and others purple. MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 343 The stroller, who is detained by the pleasantness of this shaded Calzada, is surprised to find at the end of it new wonders — an open, tree-planted space ; in front of him a picturesque old convent-church with quaint towers, and to the right the great arches of aqueducts and entrancing vistas of forest and mountains. As he advances step by step and the view opens, his wonder increases. The place is unique, bewildering. The charm of the parti-colored church is increased by rows of ancient cedars in front, which all lean slanting across its facade, as if swept by a strong wind. Some say that an earthquake gave these venerable trees this cant. To the right, paths lead under the arches of the aqueduct to the Alameda. The aqueduct, reminding one of the noble structures that stride across the Roman Campagna, comes in from the mountains, and skirts the Alameda, while a branch at a sharp angle runs toward the town. Thus a series of noble interlacing arches is presented to the eye as one approaches from the Calzada, and the view through these is so novel and beautiful that the spectator is literally spellbound with delight. The glimpse of forests and purple hills through the arches is lovely, and the perspective of the giant aqueduct across the plain to the mountains is noble. Passing under the arches, we enter the Alameda, which is unlike any other in the world. It is at once a forest and a tangled garden, once trim and well kept, now more beautiful than ever in its neglected lux- uriance and reminiscence of former order. It has the charm of some old garden of a once magnificent estate. The grounds are a couple of miles in circum- 344 MEXICAN NOTES ference, circled by a charming drive. The original plan seems to have been paths like the spokes of a wheel from a “ round ”’ in the center, but outside this round there are other centers and intersecting walks, offering in every direction the most charming vistas, through arching trees and vines and a//ées of flowers and tropical foliage. Although this park is public ground, individuals have obtained the privilege of living here and cultivating vegetable gardens and flowers, and here and there the wanderer comes across a half-ruined cottage hidden in the rampant vegeta- tion, surrounded by hedges of roses, acres of sweet peas, acres of carnations, a wilderness of scent and bloom. Crumbling monuments, circular seats of stone about the ruins of a fountain, pretty arbors, grass-grown paths —all formality lost in the neglect of man and the kindly luxuriance of nature. Such glorious foliage, such an inspiring, sparkling air, such a tender blue in the sky! I thought at the time that I had seen nothing of the kind lovelier in the world. And the whole scene is touched with the pathos of neglect and decay. On the afternoon of Shrove Tuesday all the city was out en féte. A band was playing in the Calzada; its benches were filled; its pavement was thronged. It was a féte of the common people, only now and then members of the better class mingling with the throng or passing in carriages. All the women of this class were invariably overdressed in exceedingly bad taste, in flamboyant colors of blue and green. Some very young girls appeared, mincing along in ridiculous costume — silk gowns made in the waist MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 345 exactly like those of grown women, but with short, pleated skirts, long silk stockings, and white satin shoes. There were a few maskers and mummers rushing through the crowd in fantastic costumes, but the mass of the people were of the peasant class. And what a kaleidoscopic scene it was of shifting oddity and color, — every complexion invented by man, from black to cream — black hybrids, yellow hybrids, Spanish types, Indian types, — all a jumble of miscegenation, in bright serapes, graceful ribosas, big hats, wonderfully decorated trousers; and most notable of all, the dandies of the city, slender-legged, effeminate young milksops, the fag-end of a decayed civilization, without virility or purpose. I noticed that every woman, every child, and some of the men of the lower class were marked on the forehead with the sign of the cross in lampblack, and following the throng into the chapel, I saw the priests affixing this mark of consecration to the brows of the devout. It was altogether an orderly, polite, pleasing crowd, amusing itself simply and heartily in the sunshine. Nearly everybody was nibbling a head of lettuce. The Morelia lettuce is trained to grow in long blanched heads, and is the tenderest and sweetest in the world. It is delicious eaten without any condi- ment. All about the place piles of it were for sale, and each head was decorated with a scarlet poppy. These people have an artistic eye for color and effect. In the Alameda the scene was fully as picturesque, if less animated. In all the a//ées were seen pretty family groups, gay companies picnicking under the trees, and making merry with the simplest fare. That 346 MEXICAN NOTES night, with music and moonlight in the balmy air, the plaza was as gay as a theater; the common peo- ple were cooking and eating a sort of Shrove- Tuesday cake, tortillas fried and sprinkled with sugar and grated nutmeg and cinnamon ; innumerable little fires of soft wood in elevated iron braziers cast a fantastic light upon the motley groups. These people have the secret of enjoyment at small expense. Morelia has a thriving state college in the nature of a general school for boys of all grades and ages, having a well-ordered library, mostly ecclesiastical, but with a fair collection of Greek and Latin classics, and some interesting old Spanish books. No attempt is made to keep up with modern literature. Morelia is apparently well ordered, and the State of Michoacan is at present peaceful. But I could not find that the people, though there is nominally gen- eral suffrage, have anything to do with the govern- ment, or take any interest in politics. Officers are retained or elected as dictated by the central personal government. It was the observation of American and English residents that the elections are a farce. What- ever votes are registered on election day, the result is predetermined. I was told of the case of a foreigner whowas employing a couple of hundred men in a min- ing operation which would be seriously interrupted if the men took a day or two off to vote. He stated his case to a government official, and was told that he might cast the votes of the men himself; and this he did. If the most of the officials, including the judges, are not venal, they are much belied by common re- port. Foreigners engaged in business reckon as part DIOR E LEA, AND PAWZCUARO . 347 of their ordinary and necessary expenses money paid to judges and other officials to secure simple justice. In mentioning this I only repeat common talk. The Mexicans themselves rarely have confidence in each other. A great complaint throughout the republic is the rapacity of the customs and other officials. There ts little uniformity as to duties exacted. There are, as before said, not only the national duties, but duties on the border of each state, and the entrance to each city. The laws seem to be arbitrarily changed by the central authority, and the regulations are exceedingly vexatious to business men, who never know what to depend on. The republic sequestrated the monasteries and nunneries, and confiscated most of the church pro- perty. It also forbade all public religious processions, and the wearing in public of clerical garments. The priests are therefore not generally distinguishable by their dress. In Morelia, however, owing to the intense ecclesiasticism of its population, this rule was never severely enforced, and the priests retained a clerical garb. I think lately that there is visible in the country at large a little relaxation of severity against ecclesiasticism. If common report is accepted, the lives of most of the priests are not morally reputable. It would be unjust to take street gossip as final evi- dence of the morality of a people; but some facts are indisputable. Asa rule the Indians are not formally married, but they are said to be generally faithful in their domestic relations. For the ordinary Mexicans marriage is difficult, because of its expense and the 348 MEXICAN NOTES many vexatious requirements. Informal relations are therefore common. In the higher classes it is said that the state of morals is little better than in the lower, but intercourse between the sexes is hedged about by the old Spanish customs. Women are watched and secluded. Chances of acquaintance are rare. The the- ory is that couples who are to marry never see each other alone till after the marriage ceremony. But human nature is human, nature as well in Mexico as elsewhere, and opportunities are found or made. Idle young men and equally idle young women, who nei- ther read nor work, will exercise their ingenuity. Courting is an elaborate science, and has a litera- ture and code of its own. I saw one afternoon a slender young gentleman, in the modified Mexican costume of the dandy of to-day, leaning against a col- umn of an arcade on the plaza, and ogling and mak- ing signs toward a window in the second story of a house diagonally across from where he stood. My companion, who knew the young gentleman, offered to engage him in conversation, while I sauntered along and looked up to the balcony, at the open win- dow of which sat the young lady who was replying to — the signals of her lover. —The young man was “ play- ing the bear.” Everybody who passed knew it, and accepted as a thing of course this semi-public furtive courtship. The lovers were using the sign-manual of the deaf-mutes. Their courtship had been going on for a year. It might continue for two or three years longer, and then, if the parents consented, it might end in marriage. In theory, the young people would never have an opportunity of meeting until such time MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 349 as the parents arrange the betrothal, when the young man would be admitted to the house, and see his sweetheart in the presence of her relatives. In point of fact, he would come at night, especially if the night were dark, and stand under her window and talk with her, bring her flowers and fruit, exchange notes, and perhaps climb up and kiss her hand. Generally the lover bribes the servant to carry messages, and secretly to admit the lover to the apartment of his mistress. The young ladies are very devout in attendance on church services, for to church the lovers go also, and while the demure maid is kneeling beside her duefia or her mother, the young gentleman is kneeling against a pillar near by, and the two are talking with their fingers. When the apartments of the family of the beloved are on the ground-floor, courtship 1s carried on more satisfactorily at night through the window- bars. This policy of repression and seclusion, of distrust of the honor and virtue of women, has its natural result. Courtship becomes intrigue, and clan- destine meetings are always more dangerous than open intercourse. Lovers are proverbially ingenious. There is on sale everywhere and in universal use a cheaply printed little pamphlet entitled ‘ El Secre- tario de los Amantes.”’ It is the guide and handbook of lovers. It contains the language of flowers, the sig- nificance of the varied wearing and handling of the sombrero, the language of the fan, the language of fruits, the meaning of the varied use of the handker- chief, emblems for designating the hours of day and night in making appointments, the use of the nume- rals in cipher writing, several short chapters on the 350 MEXICAN NOTES conduct of a love affair, and the deaf-mute alphabet for one hand. This literary gem seems to be more studied than any other in the republic. On the 12th of March we took the train for Lagonilla (a distance of some twenty miles, or two hours in time), then the end of the rail. The road is now finished to Lake Patzcuaro. The morning, as usual, was lovely, the air light, warm, superb. We had a fair view of Morelia as we left it and ascended; its domes and towers and situation in the plain gave it an oriental appearance, and suggested, without much resembling it, Damascus. The coun- try was irrigated in spots, and the vivid green patches with the hills and trees made a charming landscape. At Lagonilla our party of seven had chartered the four-wheeled diligence, a Concord coach, at a cost of twelve dollars, for the drive of fifteen miles, in three hours, over the wretched road to Patzcuaro. A high wind was blowing, and the way was exceed- ingly dusty. In all this region in the month of March a wind from the southwest arises about ten o'clock, and increases in violence all day till sunset, when it dies away. The country was rolling, much broken, cultivated in irrigated patches, the fine mountains in the distance. We passed through two or three paved, picturesque, and dirty villages. As we ascended, the weather grew cooler, the wind in- creased in force. The road was very bad, full of stones, bowlders, and pitch-holes, in places almost impassable. The line of the railway was most of the time in sight, and at intervals we encountered gangs of workmen throwing up slight embankments. The MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 351 mode of working was peculiar. No wheelbarrows were used. Each workman had a small piece of matting or cloth about as big as a large dinner nap- kin. This he filled with dirt in the trenches, took up by the corners, and carried up and emptied on the embankment. Occasionally he would take up a chunk of earth in his hands. The pay of laborers was twenty-five cents a day. The effort to make them use wheelbarrows in grading had failed (many of the laborers carried the barrows on their heads after they had filled them), and the engineers insisted that the men accomplished more work in a day than a like gang would with barrows. The reason was that time is lost in filling the barrows and wheeling them up the roundabout plank inclined planes; the laborers run up and down the embankment quickly, and move more dirt in a day than by the method in use with us. Two miles outside of Patzcuaro we struck a wide road paved with small bowlders which nearly shook the coach to pieces. No sort of riding could be greater torture. The village lies in a hollow, a league from the lake, only parts of which are visible from certain elevations in the town. If it lay in sight of the lake, it would have one of the most beautiful situations possible. The town is sud generis, prim- itive and solid, and as yet very little affected by intercourse with the outside world. The new railway station is on the shore of the lake, two or three hundred feet lower than the town, and a couple of miles distant from the hollow in which it nestles. It has a large plaza, shaded by splendid ash-trees, 352 MEXICAN NOTES and surrounded by arcades and colonnades, in which are very inferior shops. Friday is market-day, but there was no great display, the chief sellers being Indians from the neighboring villages, who brought in pottery, tortillas, and wilted vegetables. On a second plaza of good size, which has trees and large water-tanks like the larger one, stands the Hotel Concordia, a cheerful house with an inner court, and flowers and shrubs in red pots, and a wretched restaurant. The roofs of the town are tiled, and most of the houses, being of one story, have project- ing cornices of wood with supporting beams. Judg- iny by the number of old churches and suppressed monasteries, the place had once considerable eccle- siastical importance. Some of the churches have the beauty that is given by towers and archaic statuary and the mellow colors of faded reds and yellows. One of the suppressed convents, with a church at- tached, has a pretty Italian sort of court, sweet with the perfume of orange blossoms—a meditative place of cloistered seclusion. In its demesne I saw two La Marque rose-trees, fully twelve feet high, with stems _ five inches in diameter, perfect little trees, the umbrella-shaped tops covered with roses. The town is irregular and hilly, but all paved very roughly. On its highest elevation is a third open place, planted with noble trees, and fronted by the grim walls and gaunt church of an extinct monastery. On a hill to the westward is a ruined church, which is approached by a broad avenue of superb old ash-trees — a tree which attains great dignity in this region —and lined with prayer stations. Everywhere are the signs MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 353 of a former haughty ecclesiastical domination, which perhaps reached its acme of cost and splendor in the days of Philip II. Patzcuaro gave few evidences of enterprise or busi- ness life, but it has many well-to-do citizens of cul- tivated manners and kindly hospitality. To some of these gentlemen we were indebted for many favors: they procured for us horses and mules; they planned excursions, and accompanied us on them; they brought us sweetmeats; they entertained us with the tinkle of guitars, and they were very solicitous about undue exertion or exposure, and the violation of their sanitary rules. One of the rules was never to bathe after a ride on horseback, not even to wash the face or the hands. It was considered very dangerous. These people knew nothing of the world, very little of the republic of Mexico, were to the last degree provincial, but had all the elaborate courtesy of man- ner that is called Spanish. The inhabitants, I suppose, are generally poor, and live closely, but in a week’s sojourn there we saw little abject poverty, or what was considered so there. The traders are sharp and not much to be depended on, the mechanics are dilatory, the temper of the whole people is that of procrastination. We saw very little drunkenness. The people drink to some extent pulque and a mild beer, and perhaps some strong liquors, but usually coffee, water, and drinks mildly flavored with limes and oranges. Perhaps this is as good a place as any to say that Mexico, in my observation, notwithstanding its facilities for making intoxicating beverages from the 23 354 MEXICAN NOTES cane and the maguey, and the absence of all restrict- ing legislation, is generally a temperate country. In some regions much pulque is drunk, and often much aguardiente (a fiery sort of high wine), and in the purlieus of the city of Mexico I saw many drunken men and women; but I believe the great body of the people, like the Spaniards in Spain, are essentially temperate. One of our first walks out of the town was three quarters of a mile to the top of a hill, where there is a long stone bench and a view of the lake. It isa favorite resort of the townspeople. Here on one occasion we encountered a party of revelers making too free with the bottle; but this was exceptional. From this elevation we went on a mile farther to the top of a mountain (which had two years ago an unfa- vorable reputation as the lookout of brigands), over- looking the town, the lake, long ranges of mountains, and a great stretch of country. The lake is irregular in shape, perhaps twenty miles in its widest diameter, filled with islands, and sur- rounded by shapely and noble mountains. On two of the islands are churches and fishing villages. The * fields on the border are highly tilled. I counted as many as sixteen villages in sight. The view was inex- pressibly lovely. The lake can be compared with any of our finest in beauty of outline, and it surpasses most of them in mountain surroundings. In its con- tour, steep hills, signs of an ancient and decayed civil- ization in villages and church towers, it has more likeness to the Italian lakes than to any in the United States, and the enveloping atmosphere has a color and MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 355 warmth which ours usually wants. On our walk we - picked as many as thirty varieties of wild flowers. At Patzcuaro is sold a great quantity of Indian pottery, made at Tczintczuntczan and other villages, mostly in the shape of water-jars and coolers. These utensils, even the most rude in finish and the cheapest, are almost invariably beautiful, one might say classic, forms; and made of red clay, well baked, they have a color rivaling Pompeiian ware. Some of the jars are of enormous size, as big as those described in the story of the Forty Thieves in the Arabian Nights, and each one capable of containing and concealing a man. The vase is often ornamented with geometric designs in faint dark color, suggesting the Greek taste and skill. I found in Mexico a great variety of excel- lent common pottery, exceedingly cheap, usually or- namented, sometimes with barbaric tints in colors, but. always effective. The most barbaric ornamentation has an instinct for effect in it which is truly artistic ; in the crudest ware with the most splashy decoration there is something pleasing, varied, artistic, a native grace which is wanting in what we call civilized work. At Toluca we purchased plates of a lovely cream- color, with quaint designs entirely Persian in style. At Patzcuaro we found by chance, for it was not displayed for sale, something that interested us more than anything else made in Mexico. This was a true iridescent ware. The specimens we obtained were small round and rectangular plates. The luster is the true Saracenic, Alhambra, or Gubbio luster, the real iridescence, shimmering, shifting colors in changing lights, ruby, green, blue. Would it not be singular 356 MEXICAN NOTES if this lost art were preserved in Mexico? The ware is rude. The makers of it have not the certainty of producing a particular color in a picture which dis- tinguishes the Gubbio work, and it lacks the elegance — and the glaze, the solidity and fineness, of the Alham- bra tiles. But it is genuine iridescence. The plates are exceedingly thin and brittle. The luster seems to be metallic, of copper, and the effect to be pro- duced by subjecting the ware to an exceedingly high temperature, a firing so fierce that the clay is appar- ently disintegrated, and has lost its ringing quality. It was impossible during our stay to obtain defi- nite information as to the place of its manufacture. It might be made, some one thought, in the city of Puebla, but pueblo is the general name for an Indian village, and the seller, when questioned, was doubtful. Several Mexican gentlemen of intelligence assured me that it came from Santa Fé, a small In- dian village on the north shore of Lake Patzcuaro, and that it was only brought in on Palm Sunday. Subsequently we learned that this extraordinary pot- tery is made in the little mountain village of San Felipe Torresmochas, in the State and near the town — of Guanajuato. Vv TCZINTCZUNTCZAN — URUAPAN cans, attended by a single mozo, or servant, rode on the 15th of March, on horses and mules, from Patzcuaro to Tczintczuntczan, four leagues Spanish, or about fifteen miles. The trip might have been made on the lake in the long In- dian dugouts, but at this season of the year the strong wind from the southwest which invariably rises before noon renders the lake very rough for rowboats. The day was glorious and the ride thoroughly exhilarating. Nothing else that I know equals the pleasurable excitement of being on horseback on a sparkling morning, and setting out on a journey every step of which is full of novelty. We took at first the paved road toward Morelia, but soon turned off across fields, the ancient way to Tczin- tczuntczan, which is one of the oldest of Indian vil- lages, and was formerly the capital of the State of Michoacan. In the low foreground, when we turned off, we had the lake, and beyond, high, pointed, irregular, silvery mountains. We crossed a shallow arm of the lake on a cause- way and an ancient bridge. Thousands of black ducks, and now and then a white crane, enlivened ~ ; LITTLE company of Americans and Mexi- 358 MEXICAN NOTES the lagoon, and.at the bridge stalwart Indian fisher- men were hauling a seine, their dugout moored to the bank. This boat, hollowed out from a tree trunk, was thirty feet long, deep, broader at the bottom than at the top. Some of the Indian boats are much longer than this, and their size testifies to the noble forest growth. They are propelled by poles, and by paddles shaped like a warming-pan, and are said to be perfectly safe. We skirted the lake by a very stony road for some distance. On the way we constantly met Indians, barelegged and bare-breasted, wretchedly clad, the men bending under enormous crates of pottery, and the women moving with the quick trot peculiar to them, on their way to market. In old days this was a sort of royal .road, and it is now so much traveled by foot- men that women find it profitable to set up shelves along the way for the sale of food. We crossed another long causeway, through a lagoon, sedgy, silvery, swarming with ducks; the scene was very pretty and peaceful, and the view combined the ele- ments of loveliness and grandeur. Winding up and around slight elevations through a country little tilled, we came in sight of Tczin- tczuntczan, nestling beside the blue lake, a cluster of brown flat roofs amid trees, with two old church towers rising out of the foliage. Ona height to the right are the ruins of the palace of King Caltzontzi, now a mere heap of unburnt bricks on the rocks. This royal residence of the King of the Tarascons, before the arrival of the Spaniards, overlooked a lovely domain of lake and hills and sloping fields, TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 359 and had gathered about it in rude adobe huts a popu- lation of fishermen and potters, whose descendants practice the same arts, and have no doubt the same appearance and manners, except as they are modified by the forms of the foreign religion. The interior of the town does not keep the pro- mise of the exterior for picturesqueness. The streets are broad, but full of rubbish, uneven, and mere lanes between blank adobe walls, with now and then a door opening into a garden or a miserable tenement. We alighted under sycamore-trees in front of the jail and court-house. The jail has two apartments, _half-dark rooms, partly excavated out of the hill, a floor of earth, one small grating of wood in front, which serves for door and window, and furnished with a jug of water and a mat or two on the ground for a bed. At this grating two patient women sat talking with a couple of stupid-looking young men who were locked up for theft. The prisoners seem to depend upon their relations for food. The court- room is a decent apartment, and has hanging on the wall several badly painted portraits, and a very curi- ous ancient picture, representing the arms of the city of Zinzunzan (as it is here spelled), and contains the portraits of three kings,— El Rey Cigauagau, El Rey Sinzicha Tangajuan Bulgo Caltzontzi, and El Rey Characu,—in one quarter arms and banners, in the other several heads, three castles, a man in ermine, swords, and crown. The city has no hotel or place of entertainment, and most of the houses into which we looked are mere adobe sheds, with little furniture. But the 360 MEXICAN NOTES place has a schoolroom, where the education seems to be very primitive. We ate the luncheon we had carried in the best house in the place, in a large room, displaying some taste in decorations, having some specimens of the Uruapan wooden ware and painted plates on the walls. In this house there was one of the red jars manufactured here having an excellent head in high relief on the side, Egyptian in its noble serenity, and yet graceful — the only decoration of so high a type that I saw. The chief business of the village, except fishing, is the manufacture of pottery. This is carried on entirely in private houses and gardens. The clay is obtained from a hill near the town, and is brought by the men, who also fire the kilns for the baking, and they usually tote it to market. The women do the rest of the work. They knead the clay and mold the pottery, a labor at which their small hands and pliant fingers are exceedingly deft. No wheels are used. All the utensils are made in half-molds and joined before baking. Seated on the ground, the woman has at her side a heap of clay, and before her a composing-stone. The clay she kneads and rolls and spats in her hands until it is of proper and uniform thickness (and the women are exceed- ingly skillful at this), and then it is pressed into the molds. As this ware is very cheap in the distant market, a woman must make a good deal of it in a day to support her family. A house here generally consists of an inclosure in mud walls, perhaps a shabby garden with some fine roses and other flowers, an open adobe hut where the pottery is made and TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 361 baked, and an equally rude hut where the family sleep on mats spread on the earth. At one of the pottery places was a small chapel to St. Helena, with a bedizened figure of the saint, and hung with votive offerings. A penitent, a young woman bearing a lighted candle and attended by an elderly dame, stood in front of the altar. At this house, where we were received with entire courtesy and politeness, though all the eyes of the women, children, and boys followed us with a little suspicion, as if the presence of strangers was unaccountable, I had a curious illus- tration of the morals of the community. I had in my hand a fine rose, which came from the garden where we lunched, and as an acknowledgment of the cour- tesy of the house, and when we were saying good-by, I offered it to one of the young girls. She refused it with indignation, or, rather, took it and cast it angrily on the ground, while all the group looked at us with suspicion. I could not imagine what was wrong, but my Mexican friends explained afterward that it was an insult to offer a flower to a maiden in that way, for the inference was that I had a bad motive. The Indians of this village are industrious, virtu- ous, and exceedingly poor, judging poverty by the standard of our wants. The women are short in stature, broad and sturdy, but with small feet and hands, and much resemble our Northern squaws in features, but they have a mass of thick black hair, which has in it a red glint in the sun. On the shore, where we went to see the fishermen drawing their nets, and where the view of the blue water and the 362 MEXICAN NOTES mountains is very pretty, the women and children all ran away and squatted in the bushes at our approach. The presence of a lady in our party even gave them no confidence. The present attraction of this village is not the ancient palace of the native king, nor the descend- ants of his people, who mold the antique pottery and burn candles to St. Helena. It is the romance of the Spanish ecclesiastical dominion. It is finding in this remote Indian village the remains of a splen- did hierarchy, which counted no labor too much, no sacrifice too costly, no prodigality of money too free, to secure the salvation and the tribute of the West- ern world. Tczintczuntczan was the capital of this province and the natural center for the display of the magnificence of the Church. The name was well known in Spain; the village and its people were favorites with Philip II., who seems to have | had an exaggerated notion of its importance. Here arose churches and convents, here learned and saintly devotees of the faith gave their lives to the cause of the cross, and to these poor savages Philip made a gift that any monarch or any city might envy. When we entered the walled church inclosure, we seemed to have stepped back into the sixteenth cen- tury. The scene is more Italian than Spanish in character. This large inclosure, now neglected and run to waste, was once a beautiful garden, cultivated by the monks, who liked, in their exile, to surround themselves with something to remind them of home. There are evidences that it was formally laid out and planted, but the paths are overgrown, and only TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 363 stray lilies and roses remain to attest the former care. That which most vividly recalls the Spanish mission- aries and their taste is the olive-trees that entirely surround the inclosure within the walls. Judging by their appearance, they must have been planted three centuries ago. They are the largest olive-trees I ever saw, and bear unmistakable marks of great age. Most of them are mere ruins of trees, many of them mere shells of bark, but all of them, with the tenacity of the olive, still putting forth verdant sprouts on their decayed summits, and bearing fruit. Twisted, gnarled, fantastic, hollow, with recesses where one may sit, and cleft so that one can pass through the trunk, they yet stand like shapes of vegetation in an artist’s dream of Inferno. I doubt if the world can show elsewhere a more interest- ing group of these historic trees. In the center of the inclosure some men and boys, in a leisurely and larkish mood, were digging a grave. A few other graves are there, but no headstones. Some of the mounds were very fresh, suggesting a sudden access of mortality, in this healthful region; some one remarked that March was probably the time to die, the very aged being shaken off by the rude, persistent winds of the season. A wretched beggar or two followed us. One of them, who was much deformed and had been very clinging, made a specialty of fits. I had already given him something, but it was not enough for his deserts, and when we were about to enter the house for our lunch, he threw himself on a heap of rubbish in the street and went into convulsions, foaming at the mouth. When 364 MEXICAN NOTES he saw that nobody paid any attention to him, he got up and went away. In the inclosure are two ancient churches, one with a tower and bells, the parish church, gaunt and plain, the other the chapel attached to the monas- tery. Both have an appearance of decay and non- use, the religious accommodations being now in excess of the dwindled population. —The monastery, with its outer stairway, gallery, and courts, is a de- cidedly picturesque old pile, with color subdued, but not much faded. The adjoining chapel is large, and above the average of Mexican church interiors in interest, and the cloisters are beautiful. In the center, walled by a low parapet and open to the sky, is such a garden as one finds in the decaying mon- asteries of Italy, with orange-trees and a tangle of vines, and a cat asleep inthe sun. The cloister is of two stories, with round arches, one above the other; the ceiling corners are of wood carved in arabesque, as in Moorish architecture. On the walls are very rude and high-colored paintings, representing the rites of baptism, confirmation, confession, and so forth. It is altogether a bit of the Old World, and one has here an indefinable sense of peace and repose. The aged priest who has charge of the premises and lives in apartments above the cloisters, the only intel- ligent man in the village, was unfortunately absent, and we had difficulty in persuading the girl who answered our call from the upper gallery to come down and unlock the sacristy door. In the sacristy is the treasure of Mexico. The room is oblong, and has windows only on one side, towards the west, TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 365 broad windows, closed with wooden shutters. On the walls are several so-called sacred daubs and a number of uncouth and rubbishy images. But across, and filling one end over the vestment chest, hangs “The Entombment,” by Titian. The canvas, which is inclosed in a splendid old carved wooden frame, is fif- teen and a half feet long. It contains eleven figures, all lifesize.” In the upper left-hand corner is a bit of very Titianesque landscape, exactly like those which Titian was fond of introducing into his pictures, and which his contemporaries attributed to the influence of his birthplace, Pieve di Cadore; on a hill are three crosses in relief, against an orange sky. In the lower left-hand corner is Mary Magdalen seated on the ground, contemplating the nails and crown of thorns. In the lower foreground, very realistically painted, are an ointment box and a basin. The figure of Christ, supported in a sheet, is be- ing carried to the tomb —a dark cavern in the rear. Two men, holding the sheet, support the head, and one the feet. Aiding also in this tender office is a woman, her head bowed over that of the dead Christ. Behind is St. John, Mary the Virgin, Mary whom Christ loved, and St. Joseph. There are two other figures, partially in shadow at the right, spectators of the solemn scene, and one of them is said to be a portrait of Philip II. The flesh-painting of the central figure is marvel- ously fine in imitation of the rigid pallor of death, while that of two of the figures carrying the body is equally true to robust life. The St. John 1s ex- quisitely beautiful in drawing and color, conveying 366 MEXICAN NOTES the traditional grace and manly tenderness of the beloved disciple. The vestments are in Titian’s best manner, the reds and deep blues harmonious and beautiful in tone. The grouping is masterly, natural, free, and as little academic as such a set scene well can be. Indeed, composition and color both proclaim the picture a great masterpiece. As you study it you have no doubt that it is an original, not a copy. It has the unmistakable stamp of genuineness. The picture, thanks to the atmosphere of this region, is in a per- fect state of preservation, the canvas absolutely un- injured. Is this great picture really a Titian? It seems incredible that a work of this value and importance should be comparatively unknown, and that it should be found in a remote Indian village in Mexico. But the evidence that it is a Titian is strong. It was sent to this church by Philip II., who seems to have thought that no gift was too costly or precious for the cause of the true faith, and who no doubt was deceived by the exaggerated Spanish narratives of the native civilization and taste. Titian, we know, visited at the court of Philip, and executed works to his order. It is possible that this picture is a replica of one somewhere in Europe. I think that any one familiar with the works of Titian would say that this is in his manner, that in color and composition it is like his best pictures. I trust that this description of it will lead to some investigation abroad that will settle the question. We stayed in the village several hours, and re- TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 367 turned again to look at the picture before we left. The western sun was shining into the broad win- dows, illuminating the shabby apartment in which it hung. And in this light the figures were more life- like, the color more exquisite, the composition love- lier, than before. We could not but be profoundly impressed. I cannot say how much was due to the contrast of the surroundings, to the surprise at find- ing such a work of art where it is absolutely lost to the world and unappreciated. I say unappreciated, for I do not suppose there is a human being who ever sees it, except at rare intervals a foreign visitor, who has the least conception of its beauty. And yet these ignorant natives and the priest who guards it are very much attached to it, attributing to its pre- sence here, I think, a supernatural influence. They will not consent to part with it, perhaps would not dare to let it go. A distinguished American artist was willing to pay a very large sum of money for it; the Bishop of Mexico made an effort to get posses- sion of it and carry it to the capital; but all offers and entreaties have been refused and resisted. How long it will be safe in a decaying building, in the midst of a population that has no conception of its value as a work of art, is matter of conjecture. We rode home partly on another road, through lanes densely bordered with vegetation and amid plantations under the mountain and by the lake shore. Everywhere are signs of a former ecclesiastical vigor. In the midst of one luxuriant plantation close to the lake we passed a very old church, with a detached campanile of adobe, having a bell, the only access to 368 MEXICAN NOTES © which was by a ladder. The evening was lovely, and as we climbed the winding, rough, and stony paths to Patzcuaro we had a charming view of the Jake and its islands. Our curiosity had been excited by the curiously decorated wooden ware of Uruapan, and we heard so many contradictory reports about the charms of this village, which is famous for its coffee, that I de- termined to ride over there. The shortest distance is forty-five miles, but for the sake of better roads we made it fifty. The journey must be on horseback. It was St. Patrick’s Day in the morning as we rode through the arch out of the courtyard of the inn. The morning-star was a diamond point in the rosy dawn. The mozo led the way, a sword strapped to his saddle, a pannier containing bread, cold chicken, and cheese, while the necks of a couple of bottles of wine peeped out of the basket. The wine was in case of sickness. The sword was for war. Mr. Pablo Plata, Mexican gentleman, wore leather leggings, a linen coat, and a serape over his shoulders. The white horse of the writer was a fast walker, with an easy gait, single foot or canter, and entirely bridle- ~ wise, guided by a touch of the rein on the neck or by the pressure of the knees. The Mexican horses are small, but they have endurance, and are generally agreeable under the saddle. The soft bells were ringing for matins as we rattled over the stone pavement, came out into the country lanes, and left the town in its repose. The air was deliciously fresh; birds sang in the hedgerows; there was the exhilaration of spring, of young love; TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 369 every sense was delighted. A mile beyond the town, at the parting of the paths, and in the point of a hill, we passed a cave. It used to be a lurking-place for bandits: only two years before, robbery and murder had been done there. The sun touched the mountain- tops as we passed the grewsome place. In an hour the lake was in sight ; in two hours we had descended into and crossed the plains at the foot of the lake, and passed through a couple of Indian villages ; at the end of three hours, after a considerable ascent, the lake was still in view, a lovely object in its mountain setting, the end of a vista of fertile slopes and luxuriant val- ley. The day was lovely, but at nine o’clock the wind began to blow. Coming up the mountain through a noble growth of pines, and reaching the crest, suddenly a grand prospect burst upon us— double rows of mountains on the Pacific coast, and miles and miles below, down the mountain, a vast valley, away off in the tierra caliente, swooning in a dense atmosphere. The sky was very clear, but the mountains were hazy blue, and the valley stretching into purple distance slept.in the sun. The country was for the most part untilled, and the inhabitants were few; trains of pack-mules were met carrying sacks of sugar and bales of cotton, occasionally a gypsy-like encampment by the road- side was seen, and we passed two collections of huts called ranches, and a pueblo of Indians of the Tarascon tribe. Leaving on our right the village of Tingam- bato, its church tower conspicuous in the trees, we went down, down the mountain over an intolerable stony path, and came at noon to Ziracuaritiro, a warm 24 370 MEXICAN NOTES village hidden in plantations of bananas, oranges, and all sorts of fruits of barbarous names and insipid taste, cane-fields, irrigated, and general tropical luxu- riance of vegetation. The village had a sort of center, with a rude plaza and a primitive church; but it is mainly a town of lanes, gardens, and small planta- tions, in the midst of which the inhabitants live in thatched huts of adobe or cane, semi-African in ap- pearance. We turned into a garden to eat our luncheon. I call it a garden; it was merely a tangle of shrub- bery, without flowers, and with few fruit-trees and no grass. In the inclosure was an adobe hut, only half roofed, that served as a kitchen, another small adobe hut where the family slept on mats on the ground, and an openwork hut of cane, with a rude bedstead —a couple of boards laid on trestles — for all furniture, the residence of a married daugh- ter. The visible family was the mother, a woman evidently of good sense and sterling character, a well-grown lad, asleep in the middle of the day on a mat, a couple of young girls, the young married | daughter, aged twenty-five, who had, nevertheless, a daughter aged thirteen, and a friend of the family, a rather pretty woman, of modest demeanor, who had married an old man, and lived in a neighboring thicket. These people. were wretchedly poor, but exceedingly civil and friendly. They set out a table for us in the shade, but, except some cooking uten- sils of pottery and a few coarse plates, table furniture they had none, not even knives and forks. Fruit they could not furnish. During our siesta, while TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 371 the horses were resting, — the Mexican horses are allowed no food on a journey from morning till night, — I made the acquaintance of this amiable family. They all had the curiosity of children, and were never tired of looking at my watch, compass, ring, and the antique coins attached to the watch chain. What interested them chiefly, however, was the cost of everything. The prices invariably brought from these feminine lips the softest profane exclama- tions of surprise. They all had low-pitched, sweet voices. The sole reply of the married daughter to any question was ‘“‘ Sefior,” in a rising or falling in- flection, never “Si, sefior,” or “‘ No, sefior.”” When it was time to go, the simple souls were as reluctant to have us depart as if we had been lifelong friends. The comely lad, who acted as our guide on the way to show us some of the finest fruit plantations, of pines, oranges, and bananas, was very reluctant to accept the two-real piece of silver I forced into his hand. Evidently a kindly, gentle-natured people. Our way for miles lay through hot lanes and cane- fields, with everywhere the sound of running water. At the foothills we stopped to see a large sugar hacienda, a characteristic establishment, half civil- ized, half barbarous; a mingling of mill, office, kitchens, terrace, yard, store, storehouses, lodging- rooms, dogs, mules, parrots, and mongrel men and women. And then up, up the mountain, through open pine forests, with occasionally trees of giant size, and from the ridges glorious views under the trees of great mountains and the extensive hot coun- try, with its towns and green plantations. At length, B72 MEXICAN NOTES after a long pull, we reined up on the summit, on the edge of a precipice overlooking the great plain of Uruapan. The view was a surprise. Below was the valley, five or six miles broad, plentifully irri- gated, green with maize, barley, cane; at its farther side, in the foothills, the city of Uruapan, shining in the rays of the withdrawing sun; below it, in the luxuriant plain, two lakes like mirrors; and beyond, noble mountain-peaks, stretching away to the Pa- cific, inclosing high valleys smoking with charcoal burning. All this lovely panorama projected on a background of pink sunset. After we had picked our way down a precipitous path, and passed the large hacienda of St. Cathe- rine, encountering droves of mules and cattle on the dusty roads, we entered the very broad and straight street, cut all the way longitudinally by deep ruts, that leads to the town. The way was terribly long to us and to our somewhat jaded beasts, and it seemed as if we never should reach the town. It was seven o'clock and dark when we came to the first houses, and then we had a long ride over the paved hilly .. streets, between blank walls of houses, houses with window-shutters and no glass, to the Hotel St. An- tonio. We had been warmly recommended to this as an excellent hotel, and tired, dusty, and hungry as we were, we rode into the courtyard with great expectations. It was a miserable fonda of one story about a shabby court. No one appeared to welcome us. After calling and waiting some time, a nonchalant boy, who represented the indifference of the estab- lishment, appeared, and said we could have rooms. TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 373 In the course of ten minutes more of shuffling about he showed us an apartment, and by means of a tal- low candle, which he procured after another long absence, we saw that it was a barrack of a room, con- taining two cot beds, a wooden horse for the saddles, and a rickety washstand. The window had no glass, and the shutter was tightly closed. I asked for a separate room, —a request which the boy did not even take into consideration, —and when he had brought a pitcher of water, he seemed to think his whole duty was discharged, for when we asked about supper, he went away without any reply whatever, and we saw him no more. I wandered out into the court to the family apartments. A woman with a lot of children about her was seated on the ground; she made a surly reply to my salutation, evidently regarded me with suspicion, and to my inquiry about supper deigned no answer. It was a real Spanish fonda reception. In the meantime the mozo had dis- covered that there was no food for the horses; and as they were ready at the door, we left the candle burning in the stately apartment, and, no man or woman opposing, mounted our tired horses, and rode away in the moonlight to another fonda on the plaza. The situation of this was better, the fonda worse if anything than the other, except that it had a kitchen, kept by a couple of old women, and financially dis- tinct from the hotel. The court was sunken, an un- tidy place, having a few tattered banana plants, where mules were tied at night. Our mozo looked after the horses, having to go out and buy food for them, and the proprietor contented himself with showing 374 MEXICAN NOTES us a room, the only one not occupied. It had two beds and a tightly barred window. As my comrade objected to opening even a crack to let in the deadly. night air, I had a headache in the morning. It seemed ‘to me that a hot bath, after such a long, weary ride, would be refreshing, but my proposal was met with an exclamation of horror. Almost on his knees Mr. Plata begged me not to think of such a suicidal per- formance. Fortunately for his views, it turned out that there was no public bath in this city of nine thousand inhabitants. The next day, when I searched the town for one, the women in charge of an estab- lishment to which I was sent, said that if I would order one, they would prepare it for next day. The demesne of the old women consisted of a small room with a couple of rude tables, without tablecloths, and benches, and a smaller kitchen. The earthen vessels for cooking hung on the walls, and all the center was occupied by a stone range having several little holes for charcoal fires. These women were exceedingly good-natured, promised a supper in time, and sent off their slatternly serving- _ maid to buy beer and bread. While the meal was — / in preparation, I went out to see the town. The night scene was lively. The town has a double plaza, each surrounded by arcaded dwell- ings and shops, all more or less shabby, but appear- ing well in the moonlight. The shops were open; half the town seemed to be getting its frugal supper in the open air, and the place was quite illuminated by the flaring torches of the dealers, who squatted on the ground, and offered their fragrant but uninviting TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 375 cooking to the hungry. Beyond the plaza is a very pretty paseo, a lovely promenade, well-kept walks among the trees and beds of bloom, an enchanting place in the moonlight, with the plash of the foun- tain arid the odor of night-blooming flowers. Front- ing it is the chief church of the place, a very good specimen of Spanish architecture. The town itself, I found next morning, is an out-at-the-elbow sort of place, but I know few others anywhere that have a prettier little paseo. It was nearly nine o'clock before our supper was ready —a nondescript meal, and I suppose not bad for those who like the ordi- nary Mexican cooking. We waited in the morning an hour for a cup of coffee. The traveler in Mexico has to learn that he must order his coffee the night before. Its pre- paration 1s a slow process. The berry, burned black, is ground to a fine powder, and water is let to drip through it drop by drop. The liquid, real essence of coffee, is black as ink, and a tablespoonful suffices in a cup of hot milk. As commonly made it is too much burned and bitter. But the Mexican coffee, when the berry is properly cured, and not let to acquire an earthy flavor by drying on the ground, 1s, I think, as good as any in the world. This raised in Uruapan is equal to the better-known Colima, the selected small round berries resembling Mocha in appearance and flavor. I had made the acquaintance the night before of a drifting American named Santiago, one of the adventurers who give the Mexicans their idea of the people of the United States. Born on our frontier, 376 MEXICAN NOTES he had never seen a city, nor much of civilized life, but had been cowboy, Texan rover, and associate of the lawless, and gravitating to Mexico and picking up the language, had acted as interpreter for cattle buyers and railway surveyors. He was now selling sewing- machines on the installment plan in Michoacan. The business ought to be good, for a machine cost- ing fourteen dollars in the United States sells for seventy-five in Mexico. Santiago’s business was to sell the machines, teach the women how to use them, and then collect the seven dollars a month installments. Often the machines revert, after the payment of a couple of installments, and they are often also taken out of pawn by the agent and sold over again. Santiago had another still more interesting business. This is the selling of enlarged and col- ored photograph likenesses. Finding a photograph, taken by a strolling photographer, he persuades the owner to have it enlarged. Santiago sends this to a firm in a remote town in New York, with a descrip- tion of the subject, complexion, color of hair, and eyes. This is thrown up to lifesize, properly colored, _ and returned. The noble picture costs Santiago about twenty dollars delivered, and he sells it for forty. Thus the fine arts are slowly sifting into Mexico. We explored the town that morning in search of good specimens of the Uruapan lacquered ware. It is famous the world over; it has taken the prize of gold medals at Paris, Vienna, Philadelphia. As usually happens in like cases, it was impossible to find good specimens in the town where the article is made. We visited the family whose work has taken TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 377 the prizes, but it had no finished work ; indeed, the artist whose work won the gold medals had recently died. The ware of other makers was decidedly in- ferior, and I found nowhere, in shops or private houses, specimens of the best. The work is either gourds or shallow dishes of wood cut out with a jack-knife, brilliantly decorated in colors. In the gen- uine ware a ground-color is first put on, gold or olive, or some low tone; on this the drawings, usually of flowers, are made; the figures are then cut out deeply with a knife, something as in wood-engraving, and the intaglio is filled with paint, each color being laid in separately and left to dry thoroughly before another is added. As there are as many colors as may be in a bouquet of various flowers, the process is slow. When the paint is perfectly dry, the whole surface is rubbed with a paste made of tree-caterpillars. This gives an enduring lacquer to the surface that resists grease and hot water. The ware therefore retains its brilliant color and beauty, no matter how hard the usage, till it is literally worn out. The market value of this worm paste is two dollars a pound. As the finest ware is only made by one family, a small amount is produced, and the price is high. The drawings in this family are all done by a stupid-looking girl of sixteen, and her designs are all mechanically copied. The former draughtsman always drew his flowers from nature. While waiting for breakfast, I visited the old church on the paseo. The most notable thing about it is a fine flower-garden, occupying all the ground at one side. Within I found the usual bare white walls, but 378 MEXICAN NOTES a highly decorated and gilded chancel and altar, a wood floor, a ceiling of wood carved and painted in lozenge patterns, and cornices prettily painted in blue and brown. A row of men on their hands and knees were scrubbing the floor with soap and water, using the painted wooden bowls, and groups of women were kneeling about the confessionals, either confessing or waiting for the priests. In the garden I was accosted by a very respectable man, who offered to show me the town. He was, I afterward learned, one of the first citizens of the place, a planter, dealer in iron, and a man of means. Uru- apan, lying in the foothills, is splendidly watered, a noble though artificial stream (at least with artificial banks) rushing through the suburbs, and pouring abundant life into the blooming valley. Indeed, it is the water of Uruapan that makes it widely famous as a garden of delight. We went down to the river, and followed it where it is diverted into several channels through the coffee plantations. Here, in the dense shade of bananas and other fruit-trees, gsleamed the red berries, and here were the African huts embowered in the luxuriant foliage. In these cool retreats life was " simple— men, women, and children were bathing in the canal, regardless of a censorious world. We also found on our walk a thriving cotton mill, conducted by a Scotchman, employing some two hun- dred operatives, and turning out common sheeting, which sells here for a much higher price than fine cot- ton cloth in the States; the cotton costs the manu- facturer much more than he would have to pay for a much better quality in New Orleans. I understood TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 379 him to say that the Mexican cotton was generally inferior to ours. My very civil and obliging guide invited me to his house —a substantial residence, half dwelling- house and half shop, the court bright with flowers and decorated with specimens of the Uruapan lacquered ware — and introduced me to his family. I was in- formed that the house and all it contained was mine. It was a very warm day, and after our long stroll one of the cooling Mexican drinks, say an orange sherbet, would have been enjoyable. But my hospitable enter- tainer did not offer me even a glass of water. Santiago was a character. I donot know what his Mexican speech was, but his American was the most curious mosaic of slang and profanity I ever heard. He informed me, as we sat that evening in the paseo listening to the music in the lighted and thronged church, —it being the eve of St. Joseph’s Day, —that he was on that sort of thing himself: he had just been baptized. His reasons for this step, since he had no respect for the priests and no knowledge of the Catholic religion, were not clear; but as he had been ill recently, for the first time in his life, and likely to die, I suppose he thought he might as well take all the chances. The ceremony had not changed his conversation or his mode of life, which he freely opened to me, but he appeared to think there might be safety in it. ‘ The priest told me,” Santiago rambled on, “that if I would be baptized, I would be just as if I had been born over; all that I had done would be clean rubbed out. He gave me a lot of Spanish to learn, catechism and all that; but I 380 MEXICAN NOTES could n’t do it, and I just told him that I could n’t get on to all that Bible racket. Never mind, he said, if I only believed so and so [it was the sub- stance of the Apostles’ Creed that was required], and I told him I reckoned I did. When I was going to be baptized, I said, ‘ Look a-here, I can’t go this confession business; I don’t want to tell you all the mean things I ’ve done —and I ’ve done some mighty mean things— or all the mean things 1’m going to do.’ He said I could make it general; I’d already owned up I was a big sinner; if I was bap- tized, all that would be taken away. Then | hap- pened to think, and [I said, ‘ There is one little thing that is on my mind: there’s a Jew dealer up here in Zamora that I owe seven dollars and a half for clothes. I guess I was cheated, but I felt kind of uneasy about it when I was sick.’ And the priest said, ‘ That don’t count; when you are baptized, you are a new man, just as if you had been born again, and you don’t owe that Jew any seven dollars and a half.” That is what the priest said. I don’t know anything about it.” y Notwithstanding his varied life, Santiago had the cowboy’s notion of “square dealing,” and I found that he had a reputation among the merchants of the town for business integrity. It was this, in his opinion, that distinguished him from the Mexican community. Nor did this borderer altogether lack sentiment. ‘The place of all the world I’d like to see,” he said, as we looked at the moonlight through the lace-like foliage, “is Italy. I’ve just been reading ‘The Last Days of Pompey.’ I’d like to go to Italy.” POCZINTCZUNEGZA N: 381 The next morning we were to start surely at five o’clock, in order to pass the hot plain before the sun beat down on it, and to be well on our fifty-mile ride in the cool of the day. Mr. Pablo Plata insisted on that, and arrangements were made accordingly. When I awoke, it was half-past six, the mozo had the horses saddled, but Mr. Plata was still asleep, and there was no sign of coffee. When Mr. Plata was aroused, he said that he would start at once, but while I was getting my coffee, he and the mozo, San Francisco, would step across the plaza to mass. It was St. Joseph’s Day, andit would be very unlucky, indeed dangerous, to those on the journey without mass. The morning was fresh, a breeze stirred the trees in the plaza, birds were singing ; women had set up their coffee and bread stands for those early astir, women with ribosas over their heads were going to mass, servants were sauntering to market to buy a few centavos’ worth of milk, meat, and vegetables. At the fonda the horses and mules were being saddled. In the courtyard, out of their close apartments, ap- peared muleteers, drummers, a party of sleepy Mex- ican ladies who had taken refuge there the night before, and a big Indian in Mexican costume, heavy- faced, surly, but looked up to with immense respect as the richest man in all that region. It was nearly an hour before my comrades returned from mass, and eight o’clock when we clattered over the rough pave- ments out of town. We returned by the way we came, a route much traveled by horsemen, and long trains of burros and mules, each with two big packs of sugar or cotton. 382 MEXICAN NOTES The only vehicle seen was the creaking cart, the heavy wheels of which were solid, constructed of three pieces of wood wedged together, the axle turning with the wheels. As the mozo had neglected to put up a lunch, we breakfasted with our friends at Ziracuari- tiro. The whole of the hospitable family assisted in preparing this meal, scraping the cheese, mashing the corn, and stirring the tomato and other ingredients, and I very unwisely witnessed the operations. But the result was a capital breakfast. When it was over, the mother asked me to change the two-real piece of money I had given her son, as she thought it was too smooth to pass readily. A touch of thrift makes all the world kin. At sundown we rode into the streets of Patzcu- aro, thanks to the easy gait of our horses, very little fatigued by the ride. Here, as well as anywhere else, these random notes on Mexico might as well end. It is a country with a marvelous climate, extraordinary natural beauty, full of novelty and interest to the traveler. It is a land of much politeness, amiability, and graciousness of manner. Its civilization has many points worthy of imitation. Its government, however, is, as I said, the most purely personal of any with which I am acquainted, and offers, as at present conducted, the least invitation to foreign capital or enterprise. And if any one desires to see the depressing outcome of miscegenation, he will do well to travel through it. THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 7; % art: ei ve THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES not buy Southern California when I was there in March, 1877, and sell it out the same month. I should have made enough to pay my railway fare back, and purchase provisions to last through the deserts of sand and feeding-places, and had money left to negotiate for one of the little States on the Atlantic coast, and settle down in such plain living and civili- zation as it might afford. It was all offered to me, but I hesitated, and before the end of the month it was beyond my reach. There is not much of it, little more than what you may call a strip of irrigated sand between the Mohave Desert and the Pacific Ocean ; and if you do not secure a portion of it now, it will be forever beyond your means. For there is but one California in the world (one ought to know this, after hearing it a hundred times a day), and everybody “‘ has got to have” some of it. There is nowhere else to go in the winter. Travelers who have been in Southern Italy, in North Africa, in Sicily, in Florida, in Greece, in Madeira, in Jamaica, in Bogota, in the Piny Woods, are perfectly open in telling you this. There is no climate like it. But it is rapidly going into the hands of investors, climate and all. If the present expectations of transferring half-frozen East- ern and Northern people there by the railway com- panies and land-owners are half realized, Southern 25 |: has been a subject of regret ever since that I did 386 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES California, in its whole extent, will soon present the appearance of a mass-meeting, each individual fight- ing for a lot and for his perpendicular section of cli- mate. In a year, perhaps in six months from now, you might as well attempt to buy a plot in London city, near the Bank, on which to set out an orange grove and some pepper-trees, as to get a foothold in the Garden of the World. I am not an alarmist, but I have seen London, and I know what its climate is in winter. Itis sufficient to hint to prudent folks that there are many people in the world, that there is but one California, and that there is not room enough in it for all. Somebody is going to be left out. There is nothing that will grow anywhere in the world — except, perhaps, certain great staples — that will not grow there in greater abundance and perfec- tion: oranges, lemons, limes, peaches, nectarines, grapes, figs, almonds, olives, Madeira nuts, every edi- ble vegetable known to woman,— perhaps even grass might be raised by constant and excessive irrigation. Happening one night into a Pullman smoking-room, after days of travel through the Sahara wastes of New _ Mexico and Arizona, I chanced to hear fragments of a conversation between a man familiar with the region and a new-comer, who was evidently a little discour- aged by the endless panorama of sand and dry sage- brush. “« Anything grow along here?” “ Everything, sir, everything ; the most produc- tive soil on God Almighty’s earth. All it wants is water.” seal riiits ce THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 387 “Fruits? I should say so. Every sort that’s known. This country right here is going to beat the world in fruits.” “ Melons?” “Well, yes;”’ relapsing into candor and confes- sion, “no; the fact is, melons don’t do so well here. They ain’t apt to be good. The vines grow so fast that the melons are bumped along over the ground and bruised.” “ Ah?” without any sign of surprise. “ Yes,” without a smile, and with evident desire to keep back no part of the truth, even if it were an afterthought ; “if you want to pick a melon in this country, you have to get on horseback.” And then the conversation expanded into what seemed to me a little exaggeration of the “boom ”’ in New Mexico. There is a buoyancy in the air. The traveler who has been dragged through the sordid- ness, the endless materialism of flat, muddy, or dusty land, and shanty-towns, as seen from the railway, of Kansas and Nebraska, experiences a certain elevation of spirits on coming to the high, barren vastness of New Mexico, mostly treeless and verdureless ; a sort of clean, wind-swept top of the world, free and out- doors, illimitable. The air is like wine. It is a luxury to breathe it. The American lungs expand, the pulse quickens ; it is necessary to breathe twice as fast as in the East, to get oxygen enough to satisfy one. One’s whole nature expands. The imagination 1s kindled. The tongue is loosened. Here is freedom, the real elixir. You see at once that it was a mistake ever to expect a good climate with trees and a lush, 388 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES green vegetation, requiring and giving dampness. The mind is enfranchised. The dweller desires to speak the truth, the whole truth, to give free play to it. Truth becomes buoyant, expansive, hyperbolical. It knows no limit of time or space. The difference between conversation in the East and in the West is that in the latter it is pitched an octave higher. Vast spaces, limitless horizons, thin air, clear skies, beget a certain largeness of speech. The new-comer, in my experience, is more subject to it than the old resi- dent, especially if he has invested in a bit-of land, which he may or may not want to sell. Human nature is the same everywhere, under varying con- ditions. Women who talk of the fashions and of education in the East speak about real estate in the Far West. The two pieces of advice that were given me on starting for California were, that there I must wear always the thickest flannels and the heaviest winter suit, and that I must ask no questions about any- body’s marital relations. The first was good. The second was a humorously malicious allusion to the . notion that divorces are as common there as in Chi- cago and Connecticut. It was repeatedly impressed upon me that the California climate, the best in the world, was something that one must get used to. From the heights of New Mexico to the Pacific it is a land of strange and confusing contrasts, upset- ting all one’s preconceived notions of how Nature ought toact. At Las Vegas Hot Springs, at an eleva- tion of about seven thousand feet, in a barren valley inclosed by stony brown hills, in March, there was THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 389 no sign of spring except here and there a purple wild flower in the sand, and yet it somehow looked like summer. The sky was turquoise blue, the sun rays were warm, the air splendid in quality, elastic and inspiring. From the appearance, I should have had no doubt that it was summer, — a summer without vegetation, —if I had not discovered a snowbank under my north window. It was difficult to.conceive that one needed an overcoat, or might not lounge in the easy-chairs on the broad verandas, unless one happened to observe that at ten a. M. the thermometer had risen from the freezing-point of sunrise to only 38°. It was so dry. Everything and everybody was electrified. The hotel, sumptuously furnished, heated by steam and lighted throughout by electricity, was a sort of big dynamo. We could not touch a bit of iron, turn on a light, brush against a portiere, or shake hands without experiencing a tingling shock. Inside and out, it was like being in a place enchanted. It was much the same at Santa Fé, — cold, clear, look- ing like summer, water freezing in the pitcher at night, sky blue by day, purple at sunset, the air so tenuous that Old Bald, a snow peak twelve thousand feet high, seemed close at hand; and I noticed that the moon was thin and had no body, merely a disk of silver-paper stuck on the distant sky. But it is seldom cold in the Needles and the Mo- have Desert, —a shimmering alkaline waste: 85° in March, and say 120° to 130 in July. It does not matter. The few people in the far-apart stations live in houses that have a second detached roof, put on like the fly of a tent; and the heated, desolate pas- 390 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES sage is a providential arrangement to lower the spirits of the traveler to the enjoyment of the irrigated coun- try recovered from the desert, in Southern California. It is a veritable paradise, as really such as the oasis of Fayoum in Egypt. Heavens! how the human eye does crave the green color; how grateful it is for a field of barley, a straight eucalyptus-tree, vines and roses clambering over the houses, the lustrous foli- age of the orange groves starred with globes of gold ! This is Paradise. And the climate? Perpetual sum- mer (but daily rising in price). There is no doubt of this when you reach the San Gabriel valley, Pasa- dena, and Los Angeles. Avenues of eucalyptus, pep- per, and orange-trees, two, three, four rows of them, seven and eight miles long; vast plowed fields of oranges ; the vine-stubs in the grape plantations be- ginning to bud ; barley fodder (the substitute for hay) well up and verdant ; palmettos and other semi-trop- ical plants, and all the flowers, and shrubs, and vines, gay, rampant, vigorous, ever-blooming, in dooryards, gardens, overrunning trees and houses, — surely it is summer. There is snow sprinkled on the bare, ashy .. hills, but everywhere in the plain is water, from the unfailing mountain springs, running in wooden con- duits and ditches. You can buy this water at so much an hour. All you need to buy is climate and water, — the land is thrown in. It is warm in the sun, — the thermometer may indicate 70°; it is even hot, walking out through the endless orange plantations and gardens that surround Los Angeles; but there is a chill the instant you pass into the shade; you still need your winter clothing, and if you drive, or THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 391 ride in the grip-cars over the steep hills, you require a winter overcoat. The night temperature through- out California is invariably in great contrast to that in the daytime; nearly everywhere fire is necessary at night the year round, and agreeable nearly all the year, even in Southern California. I doubt if it is ever pleasant to sit out-of-doors or on the piazzas at night, though it may be in the hotter months, in the southern portion. But it is very confusing to the mind of the new-comer to reconcile his necessity for winter clothing to what he sees and almost feels ; in short, to get used to the climate. The invalid is thrown off his guard by appearances; and I should say that there is no country in the world where a person needs to use more care about taking cold. Yet this must be said: the air is bracing and life- giving. I did not, in any part of the State, in walk- ing or taking any sort of exercise, feel the least fatigue. A “cold,” therefore, for a person in ordi- nary health and condition, is not the dragging, nearly mortal experience that it is apt to be in the East. Then the crowning advantage of the country, even if the climate is treacherous and needs watching in its effects, is that one can be out-of-doors all the time, nearly every day.in the year. Meantime he can eat oranges, if he is not particular about the variety, and get rich selling prospective or real orange groves to Eastern people. But he will never get over the surprises and contrasts of the country. We went one day, by rail, eighteen miles over the gentle hills, from Los Angeles to its lovely seaport of Santa Monica. Fine hotel, charming beach and sand bluffs, illimitable 392 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES Pacific Ocean. It was not a warm day nor a cold day, just the ordinary kind of day to sell (I suppose one could buy a day’s climate there, or half a day’s, or swap off a morning for an afternoon with the real- estate brokers, —and every man and woman is a real-estate broker), but we wore thick winter cloth- ing, and carried overcoats, which occasionally were needed. Yet as many as seventy-five sane people were bathing in the Pacific Ocean as if it had been August! Flowers, fruits, summer bathing, and winter overcoats, — you have to get used to it. It is a splendid place for invalids. The country was full of them. It will be fuller yet, if Los Angeles, lovely city of angels, growing like asparagus in a hot- bed, already with fifty thousand people, and may be ten thousand more in the season, trying to find a night’s lodging, never yet having had the least time to pay attention to ordinary sanitary precautions, does not speedily design some system of drainage out of its shut-in valley. But this is a matter of detail. And yet it cannot be neglected, for already the doctors there have cases of pneumonia, diphtheria, and typhoid fever. San Diego, lying mostly on sand hills overlooking its magnificent harbor, has already appropriated a million and a quarter of dollars for drainage, inviting the Waring system. And another thing, also a matter of taste as well as of detail: the buyer, driving around the city and the country, which for thirty miles in any direction is humming with the noise of building, and planting, and laying out streets, —the hum of populations yet to be, —the buyer, amid the myriad signs of “ Real Estate for Sale,” THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES = 393 ought not to be confronted by so many legends of “ Undertakers and Embalmers.”’ It chills ardor. Real estate for certain limited purposes, though un- limited occupation, we are all reluctant to purchase. One of the great uses of New England in the world is that of an object lesson for the devotees of the de- velopment hypothesis, of the survival of the fittest. Southern California offers to illustrate the converse. The movement of people thither is, both in quality and volume, the most striking phenomenon of mod- ern times,—d§in its character a migration perhaps unprecedented in history. It quite equals the move- “ment of 1849, perhaps surpasses it in speculative ex- citement, but its original motion is entirely different. There was mixed, in the hegira of 1849 to the west coast, a greed for sudden wealth and a spirit of reck- less adventure, which recalled the romantic heroism of both Jason and Cortez. The present emigration is not for adventure at all, and primarily not for gold ; it is a pursuit of climate. But naturally, this human desire for dwelling in a place genial and tolerant of human physical weakness has been taken advantage of, and the west coast is the arena of the most gigan- tic speculation and inflation known in American annals. I cannot conceive that the excitement of ’49 exceeded this. Wecan well understand why men and women, who discover that they have but one life to live on this engaging planet, that they are freer than plants to change their habitat, and thatall the places in the world are not alike inhospitable and not alike devoted to the development of the robust virtues, should weary of the winters of the North, and of the 394 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES blizzards and cyclones of the West, and seek a land comparatively free from physical anxiety. In the pro- cess of natural selection there has been developed a great number of people who come to regard climate as of more importance than anything else. When to this desire is added the advertised advantage of living in luxury with comparatively little labor, the migration is accounted for. The fact is, besides, that we are a poetic people ; notwithstanding the sternness of our discipline, we have a good deal of oriental imagina- tion, and if you dangle a golden orange before the eyes of a Northern man, you can lead him anywhere. The Southern California speculator has a reason- able, not to say a mathematical, basis. You can figure out of our sixty millions of population a certain num- ber of invalids and their families, or of people not exactly invalids, to whom a genial climate seems the most desirable thing, a number large enough to fill up Southern California several times over. What in- terests the traveler is the inquiry, What will all those people now there, and on the way there, do when they have sold out all the land to each other, and resold .. and resold it at constantly mounting prices, until it is beyond purchase, andit is found that no possible crop On it can pay a remunerative per cent. on the irrigated principle ? What interests the philosopher is the in- quiry, What sort of acommunity will ultimately result from this union of the Invalid and the Speculator? Assuming that Southern California is the best winter climate in the republic, and that its product is mainly small fruits, given a land as valuable as Wall Street, is it not the expectation that this shall be the home THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 395 of the rich, who must draw upon Eastern accumula- tions of capital? Agriculture is now the dependence there of labor, for at present coal is so high as to for- bid profitable manufacturing. How are the laboring people to live? I was told, in a certain region, that there were at least a thousand dressmakers and mil- liners, who had gone there expecting to live by their trades, who found the ground completely occupied, and were filling the positions of chambermaids.and other servants, glad to get any sort of work by which they could live. Many a man, who went there with a little money, expecting to enrich himself by specula- tion, or to own that gold mine, an orange grove, has had his lesson, and is glad to earn the means of sub- sistence by grooming or driving horses. It begins to be said with frequency, ‘‘ This is no place for a poor man.” If it is true that the quantity of land open to pur- chase is very limited, as the intending buyer is con- stantly told, and limited because of the difficulty of irrigating the adjacent desert, there is also at present an artificial limitation on account of the ownership of vast tracts, ranches of from twenty thousand to one hundred thousand acres, by investors and spec- ulators and railway corporations. California — one hears that already —is practically in the hands of a few rich men. It is not literally true, but vast land- ownership is certainly a feature of this Eldorado. There is an undeniable fascination about the west coast for most persons. Probably the temporary sojourner, however much he may be pleased with certain qualities of the climate, and however deeply 396 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES he may be interested in the abnormal state of things, declares, if he is in health, that nothing would induce him to live there. Possibly a majority of those who go there think they go temporarily, for the winter, or to make easily a little money. It is a common ex- perience, throughout the State, to dislike the life, the society, the whole thing, at first, and then to become as violently attached to it as a place of residence. Some- thing is apt to draw people back who have been there once: perhaps the climate, or the untrammeled life, or a certain expensiveness congenial to the American mind. I do not know whether the English language is exactly adapted to Southern California. It seems to me too tame and literal to express the exuberant growth of that region. At any rate, the real-estate people call in the aid of art and music. Brass bands, heading the processions to auction sales of city lots in the outlying deserts, excite the buyer to frenzy ; and seductive paintings, a vast broadside of boards erected at the railway stations, — pictures of vine- yards, orchards, lofty rose-covered houses and de- lectable hills, — appeal to the most stolid visitor. Indeed, our language is too poor to do justice to the prolific powers of nature, to say nothing of the pro- lific invention of man. Jack’s Beanstalk is not a myth, but simply an illustration. We are accus- tomed to regard the tree as a slow, laborious pro- duct of nature. I do not say that in California the forest tree is an annual, but if you plant eucalyptus saplings, you will have in three or four years a fine, stately grove, from which firewood is cut; and very THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 397 good firewood this fat tree makes. I was shown a big stump of a eucalyptus-tree in a Los Angeles garden, which the owner had cut down because it was too near the house. It was ninety feet high, and he had planted the sapling only seven years before. Possibly Southern California should be described as a garden rather than an agricultural region. The . most considerable plantations I saw were of vine- - yards and orange groves. The vineyards were on © flat, irrigated land, vineyards sometimes six hundred acres in extent. There is no doubt that the yield of grapes is prolific. There is also no doubt that nearly every kind of wine known to the market is made from the same field, — hock, claret, burgundy, cham- pagne; wine sweet as cordials and sour as vinegar ; wines white, red, and golden. Quantity is the thing aimed at. Good wine is produced here and there. I did not happen upon any in the hotels or vineyards of Southern California, but I tasted of a good bottle in San Francisco. I question if choice, fine wines will ever be produced on the rich flats ; certainly not by the present wholesale system of cultivation, — getting the most possible from the acre. It is prob- able that the best wine grapes will be grown in the foothills, where the producer, for the sake of quality, will be content with a yield of a quarter of the pre- sent quantity per acre. I doubt not that if a man were to limit his vineyard to fifty acres, which he could properly cultivate, and the product of which he could properly take care of, he would get a much better result as to quality of wine than he gets from two hundred acres, and that his profit would be 398 THE GOLDEN “HESPERIDESs greater. The science of wine- growing and handling is still little regarded. The effort is to obtain the greatest quantity of juice, and the manipulation and manufacture of sorts from the same juice is, I was told, becoming common, though perhaps not yet as universal as in France, where we get now almost no wine in the bottle answering to the name on the label. The orange-tree is very prolific in Southern Cali- fornia. I do not know why the best varieties would not grow there. There is, of course, as much dif- ference between oranges as between apples. The attractive golden outside is a constant deception, the cover of an unpleasant surprise. I found at Las Vegas a delicious orange, not very large, fine skin, firm, lively pulp, melting in the mouth, with little remaining fiber; sweet, but not with the insipid sweetness of so many of the Havana oranges, — very like the Malta oranges. It came from Herma- silla,in Mexico. I searched diligently in California, but I did not find in any hotel, market, chance ped- dler’s basket, or grove any orange to compare with this. Nearly all of them were sharply acrid. There is a kind called the Navel, much praised. But it was sour, wherever I came across it. Oranges were in great abundance. Perhaps I was unfortunate in not finding any in perfection. But I ate those which were praised, and the variety which I was informed had taken the premium in competition with those of Florida. All had the same sourness; and I con- cluded that the grafts must have come from Sicily or Southern Italy, where a really sweet, luscious Lib) GOLDEN HESPERIDES 399 orange is rare. I know that this is a matter of taste ; that Californians ate their own oranges and said they liked them, and seemed hurt when I sometimes asked for a lemon, to “take the taste out.” I hope the experiment will be made with other varieties, for I desire to believe that California can produce the best oranges in the world. In some fruits California certainly excels. The small olives have the nutty sweetness of those grown in Southern France; and I ate raisins, made from grapes grown in a little valley back of San Diego, which were, in my experience with this wholesome article of food, incomparably fine. With more care- ful cultivation and attention to best varieties, I see no reason why this region cannot supply the rest of the United States with abundance of small fruits and nuts which will be preferred to those now im- ported. The success of this gardening and fruit-raising, however, must depend largely upon the price the cultivator finally pays for his land, for the competi- tion will be with countries where land is cheap and wages are low. It would not pay to raise pears in Wall Street. I do not mean to say that the small industries of husbandry are neglected ; irrigation and planting keep pretty even pace with surveying, auc- tioneering, and building. But at present the leading industry is the selling of real estate, — it is about the only thing talked of. In the six months previous to March, 1887, the price of real estate in the region of Los Angeles and Pasadena had advanced four hun- dred per cent. A lady went out one morning by 400 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES rail from Los Angeles to Pasadena, where she took carriage for the ordinary drive round the country, through Baldwin’s thirty-thousand-acre ranch. As she was starting an agent asked her if she did not want to buy a lot, —they peddle lots like oranges ; he could offer her a bargain of a small building lot for fifty dollars. The lady said she didn’t mind making a little investment (the air is so stimulating, the orange blossoms are so intoxicating, there is such a noise of building and hammering everywhere, and there are so many invalids from Maine and New Hampshire, sitting in the rose-covered porches of their little cottages), and she took the lot and paid for it. On her return in the afternoon, the same agent met her, and asked her if she did not want to sell her lot. She replied that she was perfectly will- ing to sell at a fair price — her drive had been rather dusty, and she had seen a good deal of apparently unoccupied ground. The agent offered her two hun- dred dollars, and she handed back the lot and took the money, and went home to her dinner. The story has no affidavit attached to it, but it is not an exag- geration of daily occurrences. In front of San Diego and forming its beautiful harbor lies Coronado Beach, an island of sand, some- thing like two miles long and half a mile broad, with a curved tongue of beach along the Pacific, a superb bathing and driving-place. ‘This sand-heap had been bought by a company, all staked out in building lots, with shrubs planted at the corners, a shanty or two erected, and from November to March seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of lots THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 401 had been sold. How much cash had been paid I do not know. The island is reached by a ferry ; water has been carried over, a line of railway crosses the island, and on the ocean side, with a beautiful pros- pect of gray hills framing the bay and the sparkling Pacific, foundations were being laid for a hotel which was to be the largest in the country (the reader understands that everything is the largest and every view is the finest in the world), twice as big as the Raymond at Pasadena. The house is to be ready for occupation this winter, and I hear that its rooms are all engaged, and furthermore, that the sale of land on the island is already reckoned at over two millions of dollars. A friend of mine, who during the last half-dozen years or so has been gradually investing forty or fifty thousand dollars in San Diego lots, told me that they would any day bring half a million. I do not mean to say that everybody in Southern California is rich,— perhaps the majority are hav- ing a hard struggle for existence, — but everybody expects to be rich to-morrow. It gives one a feeling of the rapid accumulation of property merely to hear the ordinary conversation. But it is scarcely a restful feeling, and I must confess that for me the atmos- phere of this sunny and flowery land would be more agreeable if I could escape the uneasy sensation that the first duty of man is to buy a lot. Certainly it was not a restful place. The railways swarmed with excursion trains, the cars were crowded, and it was difficult to get a seat. The towns over- flowed with speculators, invalids, and travelers; it was not easy to obtain accommodations in hotels even / 26 402 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES by applying days in advance. Los Angeles secured temporary relief by getting up a small-pox scare, and hanging out on various houses about town danger flags, and this sent thousands to the neighboring villages. Owing partially to the sudden influx of settlers and visitors, the post-office service was com- pletely demoralized. The government refused to employ clerks enough to do the business; as a con- sequence the post offices, as at Los Angeles, were closed more than half the time for assorting and re- directing letters, and during the few open hours long cues of people waited a chance at the windows. It required a long time to procure access to the open office, to register a letter or to inquire for one. By chance a letter might be delivered promptly; by chance it might lie in the office a week. The em- ployees were worked to death. Very soon I gave up all expectation of getting letters with any regularity or promptness. This was, of course, largely the fault of the government, — though the closing of the post offices generally for several hours each day seems a relic of the Spanish-Mexican habit. But the annoyance about the telegraph is due solely to the fact that one company has a monopoly. In New Mexico and Southern California the service was intolerably vexatious. Messages were missent, lost, thrown into the waste-basket, delayed. There was no remedy, little spirit of accommodation, generally carelessness and often insolence in the employees. Yet the climate remains, with the extraordinary fertility of the irrigated land, the strange beauty of sunny valleys and brown, savage mountain spurs. THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 403 The beauty of turf, the abundant spontaneous vege- tation, and the wonderful wealth of New England landscape in summer it does not approach; but it has a loveliness of its own, partly due to contrast with the surrounding and encroaching desert, but also to the sun, the genial air, and the fruits, flowers, and semi-tropical suggestions of a perpetual summer. The grandiose scenery of the Far West — great wastes, gigantic mountains, fantastic freaks of a nature worn out with age and violence — reminds one of Spain. Southern California, with something of this character, has a softer attractiveness, and the inhab- itants like to say it is Italian. Sierra Madre Villa, nestled amid vineyards and fruit groves on the side of a mountain, with a glimpse of the ocean twenty miles distant, certainly suggests Southern Italy ; but no man who has not bought a lot can lay his hand on his heart, and say that there is here-«the picturesque- ness of the Sorrentine promontory, or the atmos- pheric color. The region should be content to be its glorious self, and unlike any other part of the United States. I should think that the camel would become this landscape, and I know that the ostrich looks more or less at home. I saw an ostrich farm, where the birds lay eggs at a dollar and a half apiece, and shed plumes at a reasonable price, with no improve- ment to their appearance. The ostrich is an inter- esting animal, with his exaggerated, stately strut, his long snake-like neck, the head carried haughtily and parallel with the ground, the big, supercilious eyes looking straight along the flat, soft bill. A proces- 4044 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES sion of these birds is even comical. They are denied, - apparently, the pleasures of the palate in eating, | everything going whole into the best digestive appa- — ratus known to the physiologists. It is a recreation — to see one dispose of an orange. It passes easily — into the capacious mouth ; then the ostrich stretches f and twists the long neck, and the round fruit is trace-_ able, slowly making its way down, round and round, a solid lump, until it disappears. If the bird could only taste the fruit in its progress, his capacity of enjoyment would be envied. | Traces of the old Spanish life are rapidly disap- pearing, but may still be seen at such a ranch and hacienda as that of Comulos (the scene of “ Ramona”), © and lingering still in Santa Barbara. At this place, besides a few dwellings in the Spanish style, exists — a refined Spanish society. Santa Barbara, lying in a valley opening southward to the Pacific, with nooks © and cafions among the hills, of wild and almost incomparable beauty, does strongly suggest a sort of Italy. The character and color of the great moun-' tain that shuts it in on the left hand, looking seaward, are very Italian. The railway has not yet reached | it, and the situation, the air, the equable climate, — genial in winter and not too warm in summer,— something reposeful and secluded, gave me great content to be there. 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