It was a
beautiful
moment to her, and a dan-
gerous one to him.
gerous one to him.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v11 - Fro to Gre
In truth, it becomes more
and more clear that it is the part of us, the watchmen of Zion,-
more now than ever before, to watch and pray. "
The pastor sat and meditated. He looked oppressed and sor-
rowful. It was too quiet for Hans: he moved away to Hauk and
Ragna. The chaplain appeared to like this, and became more
calm.
"Dear pastor," said he after a while, "just as surely as there
is truth in our work,—yes, this question presses itself more and
more in upon me,- as surely as there is truth in our work: that
we shall watch over God's house and people,— we cannot remain
silent and be calm when we see a spirit like this coming bearing
in upon us a spirit which is directly founded upon heathenism,
and so plainly shows its Satanic origin. Shall it be? Can we
answer for that before our Lord and God? »
The pastor was silent. He was in great doubt and uncer-
tainty of mind. "I do not believe that it is right to bring poli-
tics into the house of God," said he at last.
"Politics, no! But this is not politics; this is a spirit of the
times, a view of life which takes the outward garb of politics,
but at the bottom is merely a new outbreak of the same old
heathenism that the Church at all times has had to contend with.
I, for my part, do not believe that I can keep silent with a quiet
conscience. "
## p. 6192 (#162) ###########################################
6192
ARNE GARBORG
The pastor held his peace and thought. "This is a hard
question," he said finally. "May our Lord give us wisdom! ”
"Amen," said the chaplain.
That night the old pastor did not sleep well. He walked up
and down his chamber and thought. "When it comes to the
point," said he to himself, "Balle is right; there is something
bad and evil in the spirit of the time; there is something devil-
ish. Merely look, now, at this Eystein Hauk, this clever fine fel-
low: he is not to be got at. He is frozen to ice and hardened
to steel, slippery and smooth as a serpent. There came such an
uncanny spirit from him that he made me downright sick: no
respect, no veneration even for his own father; God knows how
he can hold fast to his Christian faith. They call it freedom,
humanity; but it is not that. It is hate, venom, bad blood. —
They will tear from them all bonds, as Balle says, raise a re-
volt-revolt against all that is beautiful and good, against God,
against belief. H'm! Build the State, this whole earthly life,
upon a heathen foundation! Sever connection with Christianity,
cast the Church away from them like old trash. That is terrible!
And free love, free thought the Christian religion out of the
schools-no! that is Satan himself who rages. Free thoughts in
my time were not so: they were warm and beautiful; there was
heart in them; they made us good and happy. " He shook him-
self, as if to throw off a chill. Should one be silent at such
things? Should one look quietly on while this evil spirit eats
itself in among the people? or should one, like a disciple of God,
lift up the sword of the Word and the Spirit against this poison-
ous basilisk?
-
He read in the Bible and in Luther. Then he got up again
and walked. The clock struck hour after hour, but the old man
did not hear it. He thought only of the heavy responsibility.
Was it not to profane the house of God and the holy office, to
drag the struggle and strife of the day into it? Was he not set
to watch over word and teaching, but not to be a judge in the
world's disputes? But of his flock, the people of the Church,
the Bride of Christ, whom he should watch, but who stood in the
midst of a wicked world, and whose souls were harmed when
such evil gusts blew? Would not every soul at the Judgment
Day be demanded at his hands? And was he a good shepherd,
who indeed kept watch against the wolf when the wolf came hav-
ing on his right garb, but looked on and was silent when he came
## p. 6193 (#163) ###########################################
ARNE GARBORG
6193
clothed in sheep's garments and pretended to belong among the
good? He read anew in Luther. At last he knelt down and
prayed for a long time, and ended with a fervent and heartfelt
«< Our Father. "
Then he arose as if freed from doubt, looked meekly up to
heaven, and said, "As thou wilt, O Lord! " He seated himself
in his arm-chair, weary but happy, and fell asleep for a while.
Presently, however, the day grew gray in the east and he awoke.
He read the morning prayers to himself, chose his text, and
thought about the sermon. When the bell began to ring he
went to church. He was pale, but calm and kindly. The
farmers looked at him and greeted him more warmly than usual.
The pastor's wife and Ragna came shortly after; Hans and
Eystein did not arrive at the church until the pastor stood in
the pulpit.
The Christmas sermon was fervid and good. He spoke about
the angels' song, "Peace on earth. " They had seldom heard the
old man preach so well. But at the end came a turn in the
thought that caused some astonishment. It was about politics.
"Dear Christians," he said, "how is it in our days with
'peace on earth'? Ah, my brothers, we know that all too well.
Peace has gone from us. It has vanished like a beautiful even-
ing cloud. Evil powers rise up in these hours. The Devil is
abroad, and tempts anew mankind to eat of the tree of knowledge
and to tear themselves loose from God. Take heed, take heed,
dear brothers! Take heed of the false prophets, who proclaim a
new gospel and promise you 'freedom' and 'enlightenment,' and
all that is good,—yes, promise you righteousness and power, if
you will eat of the forbidden tree. They give themselves out
for sheep, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. They promise
you freedom, but they give you thraldom, the thraldom of sin,
which is the worst of all. They promise you blessings and joy,
but they steal you away from Him who alone has blessings and
freedom for our poor race. They promise you security and
defense against all tyranny and oppression, but they give you
gladly into his power who is the father of all tyranny and of
all evil; he who is the destroyer of man from the beginning.
Dear Christians, let us watch and pray! Let us prove the spirit,
whether it is from God! Let us harden our ears and our hearts
against false voices and magic songs that deceive, which come to
us out of the dark chasms and abysses in this wicked world!
XI-388
## p. 6194 (#164) ###########################################
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ARNE GARBORG
Let us be fearful of this wild and sinful thought of freedom,
that from Adam down has been the deep and true source of all
our woe! Let us pray for 'peace on earth,' for only then can
our Lord God have consideration for mankind. " With this he
ended his sermon.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by William H.
Carpenter
## p. 6195 (#165) ###########################################
6195
HAMLIN GARLAND
(1860-)
H
AMLIN GARLAND is a favorable example of a class of young
writers which is coming to the fore in the Middle West of
the United States,-fresh, original, full of faith and energy,
with a robust and somewhat aggressive Americanism. In native en-
dowment he is a strong man, and his personal character is manly,
clean, and high. At times, carelessness of technique and lack of taste
can be detected in his writings, but his strength and spirit make
amends for these defects.
Mr. Garland was born September 16th,
1860, in the La Crosse Valley, Wisconsin.
His family is of Scotch descent,- sturdy
farmer folk, remarkable for their physical
powers. His maternal grandfather was an
Adventist, with the touch of mysticism that
word implies. Garland was reared in the
picturesque coulé country (French coulée, a
dry gulch); living in various Western towns,
one of them being the Quaker community
of Hesper, Iowa. His early education was
received from the local schools; the uncon-
scious assimilation of the Western ways
came while he rode horses, herded cattle,
and led the wholesome, simple open-air life of the middle-class
people. Some years were spent in a small seminary at Osage, Wis-
consin, whence he was graduated at twenty-one years of age. His kin
moved to Dakota, but Hamlin faced Eastward, eager to see the world.
Two years of travel and teaching in Illinois found him in 1883 << hold-
ing down" a Dakota claim - the only result of the land boom being a
rich field of literary ore. Then in 1884 he went to Boston, made his
headquarters at the Public Library, read diligently, taught literature
and elocution in the School of Oratory, and became one of the liter-
ary workers there, remaining until 1891. Since then he has lectured
much throughout the country, and has settled in Chicago, his sum-
mer home being at West Salem, Wisconsin, ir the beautiful coulé
region of his boyhood.
HAMLIN GARLAND
Mr. Garland's main work is in fiction, but he has also tried his
hand at verse and the essay. His volume Crumbling Idols, pub-
lished in 1894, a series of audacious papers in which the doctrine of
realism is cried up and the appeal to past literary canons made a
## p. 6196 (#166) ###########################################
6196
HAMLIN GARLAND
mock of, called out critical abuse and ridicule, and no doubt shows
a lack of perspective. Yet the book is racy and stimulating in the
extreme. The volume of poetry, 'Prairie Songs' (1893), has the merit
of dealing picturesquely and at first hand with Western scenery and
life, and contains many a stroke of imaginative beauty. Of the half-
dozen books of tales and longer stories, Main-Traveled Roads,' Mr.
Garland's first collection of short stories, including work as strik-
ing as anything he has done, gives vivid pastoral pictures of the
Mississippi Valley life. A Little Norsk' (1893), along with its realism
in sketching frontier scenes, possesses a fine romantic flavor. And
'Rose of Dutcher's Coolly' (1895), decidedly his strongest full-length
fiction, is a delineation of Wisconsin rustic and urban life, including
a study of Chicago, daringly unconventional, but strong, earnest, evi-
dently drawn from the author's deepest experiences and convictions.
Other books of fiction are 'Jason Edwards,' 'A Member of the Third
House,' 'A Spoil of Office,' and 'Prairie Folks. '
Mr. Garland's work in its increasing command of art, its under-
standing of and sincere sympathy with the life of the great toiling
population of the Middle West, and its unmistakable qualities of
independence, vigor, and ideality, is worthy of warm praise. A rich,
large nature is felt beneath his fiction. His literary creed is "truth
for truth's sake," and his conception of his art is broad enough to
include love of country and belief in his fellow-man.
A SUMMER MOOD
From Prairie Songs. Copyright 1893 by Hamlin Garland, and published
by Stone & Kimball
Ο"
H, to be lost in the wind and the sun,
To be one with the wind and the stream!
With never a care while the waters run,
With never a thought in my dream.
To be part of the robin's lilting call
And part of the bobolink's rhyme.
Lying close to the shy thrush singing alone,
And lapped in the cricket's chime!
Oh, to live with these beautiful ones!
With the lust and the glory of man
Lost in the circuit of springtime suns.
Submissive as earth and part of her plan;
To lie as the snake lies, content in the grass!
To drift as the clouds drift, effortless, free,
Glad of the power that drives them on,
With never a question of wind or sea.
## p. 6197 (#167) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6197
A STORM ON LAKE MICHIGAN
From 'Rose of Dutcher's Coolly. Copyright 1895 by Hamlin Garland, and
published by Stone & Kimball
A
S THE winter deepened, Rose narrowed the circle of conquest.
She no longer thought of conquering the world; it came
to be the question of winning the approbation of one
human soul. That is, she wished to win the approbation of the
world in order that Warren Mason might smile and say "Well
done! "
She did not reach this state of mind smoothly and easily. On
the contrary, she had moments when she rebelled at the thought
of any man's opinion being the greatest good in the world to
her. She rebelled at the implied inferiority of her position in
relation to him, and also at the physical bondage implied. In
the morning, when she was strong, in the midst of some social
success, when people swarmed about her and men bent deferen-
tially, then she held herself like a soldier on a tower, defying
capture.
But at night, when the lights were all out, when she felt her
essential loneliness and weakness and need, when the world
seemed cold and cruel and selfish, then it seemed as if the
sweetest thing in the universe would be to have him open his
arms and say "Come! "
There would be rest there, and repose. His judgment, his
keen wit, his penetrating, powerful influence, made him seem a
giant to her; a giant who disdained effort and gave out an ap-
pearance of indifference and lassitude. She had known physical
giants in her neighborhood, who spoke in soft drawl and slouched
lazily in action, but who were invincible when aroused.
She imagined she perceived in Mason a mental giant, who
assumed irresolution and weakness for reasons of his own. He
was always off duty when she saw him, and bent more upon
rest than a display of power. Once or twice she saw him roused,
and it thrilled her; that measured lazy roll of voice changed to
a quick, stern snarl, the brows lowered, and the big plump face
took on battle lines. It was like a seemingly shallow pool, sud-
denly disclosed to be of soundless depths by a wind of passion.
The lake had been the refuge of the distracted and restless
girl. She went to it often in the autumn days, for it rested
her from the noise of grinding wheels, and screams, and yells.
――
## p. 6198 (#168) ###########################################
6198
HAMLIN GARLAND
Its smooth rise and fall, its sparkle of white-caps, its sailing
gulls, filled her with delicious pleasure. It soothed her and it
roused her also. It gave her time to think.
The street disturbed her, left her purposeless and power-
less; but out there where the ships floated like shadows, and
shadows shifted like flame, and the wind was keen and sweet,-
there she could get her mental breath again. She watched it
change to wintry desolation, till it grew empty of vessels and was
lonely as the Arctic Sea; and always it was grand and thought-
inspiring.
She went out one day in March, when the home longing was
upon her and when it seemed that the city would be her death.
She was tired of her food, tired of Mary, tired of her room.
Her forehead was knotted tensely with pain of life and love-
She cried out with sudden joy, for she had never seen the
lake more beautiful. Near the shore a great mass of churned
and heaving ice and snow lay like a robe of shaggy fur. Beyond
this the deep water spread, a vivid pea-green broken by wide
irregular strips of dark purple. In the open water by the wall a
spatter of steel blue lay like the petals of some strange flower,
scattered upon the green.
Great splendid clouds developed, marvelously like the clouds
of June, making the girl's heart swell with memories of summer.
They were white as wool, these mountainous clouds, and bot-
tomed in violet, and as they passed the snow-fields they sent
down pink-purple misty shadows, which trailed away in splendor
toward the green which flamed in bewildering beauty beyond.
The girl sat like one in a dream, while the wind blew the green
and purple of the outer sea into fantastic, flitting forms which
dazzled her eyes like the stream of mingled banners.
Each form seemed more beautiful than the preceding one;
each combination had such unearthly radiance, her heart ached
with exquisite sorrow to see it vanish. The girl felt that spring
was coming on the wing of the southern wind, and the desire to
utter her passion grew almost into pain.
It had other moods, this mighty spread of water. It could be
angry, dangerous. Sometimes it rolled sullenly, and convoluted
in oily surges beneath its coverlid of snow, like a bed of mon-
strous serpents. Sometimes the leaden sky shut down over it,
and from the desolate northeast a snow-storm rushed, hissing and
howling. Sometimes it slumbered for days, quiet as a sleeping
## p. 6199 (#169) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6199
boa, then awoke and was a presence and a voice in the night,
fit to make the hardiest tremble.
Rose saw it when it was roused, but she had yet to see it in
a frenzy. The knowledge of its worst came to her early in May,
just before her return to the Coulé.
The day broke with the wind in the northeast. Rose, lying
in her bed, could hear the roar of the lake; never before had its
voice penetrated so far. She sprang up and dressed, eager to see
it in such a mood. Mary responded sleepily to her call, saying
the lake would be there after breakfast.
Rose did not regret her eagerness, though it was piercingly
cold and raw. The sea was already terrific. Its spread of tawny
yellow showed how it had reached down and laid hold on the
sand of its bed. There were oily splotches of plum color scat-
tered over it where the wind blew it smooth, and it reached to
the wild east sky, cold, desolate, destructive.
It had a fierce, breathing snarl like a monster at meat. It
leaped against the sea-wall like a rabid tiger, its sleek and spotted
hide rolling. Every surge sent a triangular sheet of foam twenty-
five feet above the wall, yellow and white and shadowed with
dull blue; and the wind caught it as it rose, and its crest burst
into great clouds of spray, which sailed across the streets and
dashed along the walk like rain, making the roadway like a
river; while the main body of each upleaping wave, falling back
astride the wall, crashed like the fall of glass, and the next
wave met it with a growl of thunderous rage, striking it with
concave palm with a sound like a cannon's exploding roar.
Out of the appalling obscurity to the north, frightened ships
scudded at intervals, with bare masts bending like fire-trimmed
pines. They hastened like the homing pigeons, which do not
look behind. The helmsmen stood grimly at their wheels, with
eyes on the harbor ahead.
The girl felt it all as no one native to the sea can possibly
do. It seemed as if the bounds of the flood had been overcome,
and that it was about to hurl itself upon the land. The slender
trees, standing deep in the swash of water, bowed like women in
pain; the wall was half hidden, and the flood and the land seemed.
mingled in battle.
Rose walked along the shore, too much excited to go back
to her breakfast. At noon she ate lunch hurriedly and returned
to the shore. There were hundreds of people coming and going
## p. 6200 (#170) ###########################################
-6200
HAMLIN GARLAND
along the drive; young girls shrieking with glee, as the sailing
clouds of spray fell upon them. Rose felt angry to think they
could be so silly in face of such dreadful power.
She came upon Mason, dressed in a thick mackintosh coat,
taking notes rapidly in a little book. He did not look up, and
she passed him, wishing to speak, yet afraid to speak. Near him
a young man was sketching.
Mason stood like a rock in his long, close-fitting rain coat,
while she was blown nearly off her feet by the blast. She came
back against the wind, feeling her soul's internal storm rising.
It seemed quite like a proposal of marriage to go up and speak
to him- yet she could not forego the pleasure.
He did not see her until she came into his lee; then he
smiled, extending his hand. She spoke first:-
"May I take shelter here? "
His eyes lightened with a sudden tender humor.
"Free anchorage," he said, and drew her by the hand closer
to his shoulder.
It was a beautiful moment to her, and a dan-
gerous one to him. He took refuge in outside matters.
"How does that strike your inland eyes? " He pointed to the
north.
"It's awful. It's like the anger of God. " She spoke into his
bowed ear.
"Please don't think I'm reporting it," he explained.
"I'm
only making a few notes about it for an editorial on the need of
harbors. "
Each moment the fury increased, the waves deepened. The
commotion sank down amid the sands of the deeper inshore
water, and it boiled like milk. Splendid colors grew into it near
at hand; the winds tore at the tops of the waves, and wove them
into tawny banners, which blurred the air like blown sand. On
the horizon the waves leaped in savage ranks, clutching at the
sky like insane sea monsters,- frantic, futile.
"I've seen the Atlantic twice during a gale," shouted the
artist to a companion, "but I never saw anything more awful
than this. These waves are quicker and higher. I don't see
how a vessel could live in it if caught broadside. "
"It's the worst I ever saw here. "
"I'm going down to the south side: would you like to go? "
Mason asked of Rose.
"I would indeed," she replied.
## p. 6201 (#171) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6201
Back from the lake shore the wind was less powerful but more
uncertain. It came in gusts which nearly upturned the street
cars. Men and women scudded from shelter to shelter, like be-
leaguered citizens avoiding cannon shots.
"What makes our lake so terrible," said Mason in the car, "is
the fact that it has a smooth shore no indentations, no harbors.
There is only one harbor here at Chicago, behind the break-
water, and every vessel in mid-lake must come here. Those fly-
ing ships are seeking safety here like birds. The harbor will be
full of disabled vessels. "
―
As they left the car, a roaring gust swept around a twenty-
story building with such power [that] Rose would have been taken.
off her feet had not Mason put his arms about her shoulders.
༥
"You're at a disadvantage," he said, "with skirts. " He knew
she prided herself on her strength, and he took no credit to him-
self for standing where she fell.
It was precisely as if they were alone together; the storm
seemed to wall them in, and his manner was more intimate than
ever before.
It was in very truth the first time they had been
out together, and also it was the only time he had assumed any
physical care of her. He had never asserted his greater muscu-
Power and mastery of material things, and she was amazed
to see that his lethargy was only a mood. He could be alert and
agile at need.
It made his cynicism appear to be a mood also;
at least, it made her heart wondrously light to think so.
lar
They came upon the lake shore again, near the Auditorium.
The refuge behind the breakwater was full of boats, straining
at anchor, rolling, pitching, crashing together. Close about the
edge of the breakwater, ships were rounding hurriedly, and two
broken vessels lay against the shore, threshing up and down in
the awful grasp of the breakers. Far down toward the south
the water dashed against the spiles, shooting fifty feet above the
wall, sailing like smoke, deluging the street, and lashing against
row of buildings across the way.
the
Mason's keen eye took in the situation:
Every vessel that breaks anchor is doomed! Nothing can
keep them from going on shore. Doubtless those two schooners
lost anchor—that one there is dragging anchor. " He said sud-
denly, «She is shifting position, and see that hulk-»
Rose for a moment could not see it. She lay flat on her side,
a two-master, her sails flapping and floating on the waves. Her
--
## p. 6202 (#172) ###########################################
6202
HAMLIN GARLAND
anchor still held, but she had listed her cargo, careened, and so
lay helpless.
"There are men on it! " cried some one.
"Three men - don't
you see them? The water goes over them every time! "
"Sure enough! I wonder if they are going to let them drown,
here in the harbor! "
Rose grew numb with horror. On the rounded side of the
floating hulk three men were clinging, looking like pegs of tops.
They could only be seen at intervals, for the water broke clear
over their heads. It was only when one of them began to move
to and fro that the mighty crowd became certainly aware of life
still clinging to the hull. It was an awful thing to stand help-
lessly by and see those brave men battle, but no life-boat or tug
could live out there. In the station, men wept and imprecated
in their despair; twice they tried to go to the rescue of the
beleaguered men, but could not reach them.
Suddenly a flare of yellow spread out on the wave.
arose:-
A cry
"She's breaking up! "
Rose seized Mason's arm in a frenzy of horror.
"O God! can't somebody help them? "
"They're out of reach! " said Mason solemnly. And then the
throng was silent.
"They are building a raft! " shouted a man with a glass, speak-
ing at intervals for the information of all. "One man is tying a
rope to planks; . . he is helping the other men;
he
has his little raft nearly ready;
him—»
they are crawling toward
.
"Oh, see them! " exclaimed Rose.
There! they are gone-the vessel has broken up. "
On the wave nothing now lived but a yellow spread of lum-
ber; the glass revealed no living thing.
Mason turned to Rose with a grave and tender look.
"You have seen human beings engulfed like flies-»
"No! no! There they are! " shouted a hundred voices, as if
in answer to Mason's thought.
"Oh, the brave men!
Thereafter the whole great city seemed to be watching those
specks of human life, drifting toward almost certain death upon
the breakwater of the south shore. For miles the beach was clus-
tered black with people. They stood there, it seemed for hours,
watching the slow approach of that tiny raft. Again and again
## p. 6203 (#173) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6203
the waves swept over it, and each time that indomitable man
rose from the flood and was seen to pull his companions aboard.
Other vessels drifted upon the rocks. Other steamers rolled
heavily around the long breakwater, but nothing now distracted
the gaze of the multitude from this appalling and amazing
struggle against death. Nothing? No; once and only once did.
the onlookers shift their intent gaze, and that was when a vessel
passed the breakwater and went sailing toward the south through
the fleet of anchored, straining, agonized ships. At first no one
paid much attention to this late-comer till Mason lifted his
voice.
"By Heaven, the man is sailing ! »
It was true; steady, swift, undeviating, the vessel headed
through the fleet. She did not drift nor wander nor hesitate.
She sailed as if the helmsman, with set teeth, were saying:-
"By God! If I must die on the rocks, I'll go to my death
the captain of my vessel! "
And so with wheel in his hand and epic oaths in his mouth,
he sailed directly into the long row of spiles, over which the
waves ran like hell-hounds; where half a score of wrecks lay
already churning into fragments in the awful tumult.
The sailing vessel seemed not to waver, nor seek nor dodge
seemed rather to choose the most deadly battle-place of waves
and wall.
"God! but that's magnificent of him! " Mason said to himself.
Rose held her breath, her face white and set with horror.
"Oh, must he die? »
"There is no hope for him. She will strike in a moment
she strikes! -she is gone! "
The vessel entered the gray confusion of the breakers and
struck the piles like a battering-ram; the waves buried her from
sight; then the recoil flung her back; for the first time she
swung broadside to the storm. The work of the helmsman was
over. She reeled-resisted an instant, then submitted to her
fate, crumbled against the pitiless wall like paper, and thereafter
was lost to sight.
―
This dramatic and terrible scene had held the attention of the
onlookers-once more they searched for the tiny raft. It was
nearing the lake wall at another furious point of contact. An
innumerable crowd spread like a black robe over the shore, wait-
ing to see the tiny float strike.
## p. 6204 (#174) ###########################################
6204
HAMLIN GARLAND
A hush fell over every voice. Each soul was solemn as if
facing the Maker of the world. Out on the point, just where the
doomed sailors seemed like to strike, there was a little commo-
tion. A tiny figure was seen perched on one of the spiles. Each
wave, as it towered above him, seemed ready to sweep him away,
but each time he bowed his head and seemed to sweep through
the gray wall. He was a negro, and he held a rope in his
hands.
As they comprehended his danger the crowd cheered him, but
in the thunder of the surf no human voice could avail. The bold
negro could not cry out, he could only motion; but the brave
man on the raft saw his purpose-he was alone with the ship-
wrecked ones.
In they came, lifted and hurled by a prodigious swell. They
struck the wall just beneath the negro and disappeared beneath
the waves.
All seemed over, and some of the spectators fell weeping;
others turned away.
Suddenly the indomitable commander of the raft rose, then
his companions, and then it was perceived that he had bound
them all to the raft.
The negro flung his rope and one man caught at it, but it
was swept out of reach on a backward-leaping billow. Again
they came in, their white, strained, set faces and wild eyes
turned to the intrepid rescuer. Again they struck, and this time
the negro caught and held one of the sailors, held him while the
foam fell away, and the succeeding wave swept him over the
spiles to safety. Again the resolute man flung his noose and
caught the second sailor, whose rope was cut by the leader, the
captain, who was last to be saved.
As the negro came back, dragging his third man over the
wall, a mighty cry went up, a strange, faint, multitudinous cry,
and the negro was swallowed up in the multitude.
Mason turned to Rose and spoke: "Sometimes men seem to
be worth while! "
## p. 6205 (#175) ###########################################
6205
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
(1810-1865)
RITICS agree in placing the novels of Mrs. Gaskell on a level
with the works of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronté. It is
more than probable that future generations will turn to her
stories for correct pictures of simple every-day life that must fade in
the swift succession of years. She has been compared to a naturalist
who knows intimately the flora and fauna of his native heath.
Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson was born in Chelsea, England, Sep-
tember 29th, 1810, the daughter of William Stevenson, a literary man,
who was keeper of the records of the Treas-
ury. She lived with her aunt at Knutsford
in Cheshire, was sent to a private school in
Stratford-on-Avon, and visited London and
Edinburgh, where her beauty was much
admired. In 1832 she was married to the
Rev. William Gaskell, minister of a Unita-
rian chapel in Manchester. Mrs. Gaskell
did not begin to write until she had reached
middle age, and then chiefly to distract her
thoughts after the death of their only son
in 1844. Her first book, 'Mary Barton,'
published anonymously in 1848, achieved
extraordinary success. This was a "novel ELIZABETH S. GASKELL
with a purpose," for Mrs. Gaskell believed
that the hostility between employers and employed, which constantly
disturbed the manufacturing beehive of Manchester, was caused by
mutual ignorance. She therefore set herself the task of depicting
faithfully the lives of the people around her. It must be remem-
bered, too, that the social types chosen by her were at that moment
peculiarly interesting to a public weary of the novel of fashionable.
high life.
The story provoked much public discussion; and among
other critics, the social economist Mr. W. R. Greg, in his Essay on
Mary Barton,' published in 1849, took the part of the manufacturer.
'Mary Barton' has been translated into French, German, and other
languages, including Hungarian and Finnish. The story has for its
central theme the gradual degeneration of John Barton, a workman
who has a passionate hatred of the classes above him, and who, em-
bittered by poverty and the death of his son and wife, joins the
## p. 6206 (#176) ###########################################
6206
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
law-breakers of the town, and finally murders Henry Corson, a mas-
ter manufacturer. North and South,' published in 1855, was written
from the point of view of the masters, an admirable contrast to Barton
being found in Thornton, the hero of this novel.
In 1850, when Dickens was about to establish Household Words, he
invited Mrs. Gaskell to contribute. This magazine contained her story
'Lizzie Leigh' and those immortal pictures of village life known
as 'Cranford. ' Mrs. Gaskell's other novels are: 'Ruth,' the tragi-
cal story of a pretty young milliner's apprentice; 'Sylvia's Lovers,'
whose scene is Monkhaven (Whitby), at the end of the last century;
'Cousin Phillis,' a simple story of a farmer's daughter, which ap-
peared first in the Cornhill Magazine in 1863-64; and Wives and
Daughters,' also contributed to the Cornhill, and left unfinished by
her death in Manchester, November 12th, 1865. By many persons
the last novel is considered her best work, owing to its strength of
characterization. Molly Gibson, the heroine; Cynthia, a heartless
coquette; Squire Hamley and his sons Roger and Osborne, of Ham-
ley Hall; and the Earl of Cumnor and his family at the Towers,- all
are treated with impartial skill. Her famous Life of Charlotte
Bronté' appeared in 1857. She became acquainted with Miss Bronté
in 1850, and they were friends at once.
A collected edition of Mrs. Gaskell's works, published in seven
volumes in 1873, includes the short stories The Grey Woman,'
'Morton Hall,' 'Mr. Harrison's Confessions,' 'A Dark Night's Work,'
'The Moorland Cottage,' 'Round the Sofa,' 'The Old Nurse's Story,'
'The Well of Pen-Morfa,' 'The Sexton's Hero,' 'Lois the Witch,' and
others. Cranford is identified as the town of Knutsford.
Its popu-
lation consists of widows and maiden ladies, in bonds to their ancient
gentility. With deft touch Mrs. Gaskell brings out the humor and
pathos of these quaint characters, her finest creation being Miss
Matty Jenkyns.
OUR SOCIETY
From Cranford'
IN
IN THE first place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all-
the holders of houses, above a certain rent, are women.
If a
married couple come to settle in the town, somehow the
gentleman disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by
being the only man in the Cranford evening parties, or he is
accounted for by being with his regiment, his ship, or closely
engaged in business all the week in the great neighboring com-
mercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad.
## p. 6207 (#177) ###########################################
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
6207
In short, whatever does become of the gentlemen, they are not
at Cranford. What could they do if they were there? The sur-
geon has his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but
every man cannot be a surgeon. For keeping the trim gardens
full of choice flowers without a weed to speck them; for fright-
ening away little boys who look wistfully at the said flowers
through the railings; for rushing out at the geese that occasion-
ally venture into the gardens if the gates are left open; for
deciding all questions of literature and politics without troubling
themselves with unnecessary reasons or arguments; for obtaining
clear and correct knowledge of everybody's affairs in the parish;
for keeping their neat maid-servants in admirable order; for
kindness (somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tender good
offices to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies of
Cranford are quite sufficient. "A man," as one of them observed
to me once, "is so in the way in the house! " Although the
ladies of Cranford know all each other's proceedings, they are
exceedingly indifferent to each other's opinions. Indeed, as each
has her own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly
developed, nothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but somehow,
good-will reigns among them to a considerable degree.
The Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel,
spurted out in a few peppery words and angry jerks of the
heads; just enough to prevent the even tenor of their lives from
becoming too flat. Their dress is very independent of fashion:
as they observe, "What does it signify how we dress here at
Cranford, where everybody knows us? " And if they go from
home, their reason is equally cogent: "What does it signify how
we dress here, where nobody knows us? " The materials of
their clothes are in general good and plain, and most of them
are nearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler of cleanly memory; but I
will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petti-
coat in wear in England, was seen in Cranford - and seen with-
out a smile.
-
-
I can testify to a magnificent family red-silk umbrella, under
which a gentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and
sisters, used to patter to church on rainy days. Have you any
red-silk umbrellas in London? We had a tradition of the first
that had ever been seen in Cranford; and the little boys mobbed
it, and called it "a stick in petticoats. " It might have been the
very red-silk one I have described, held by a strong father over
## p. 6208 (#178) ###########################################
6208
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
a troop of little ones; the poor little lady - the survivor of all
could scarcely carry it.
-
Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls;
and they were announced to any young people who might be
staying in the town, with all the solemnity with which the old
Manx laws were read once a year on the Tinwald Mount.
"Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your
journey to-night, my dear" (fifteen miles in a gentleman's car-
riage); "they will give you some rest to-morrow, but the next
day, I have no doubt, they will call; so be at liberty after twelve
from twelve to three are our calling hours. "
Then, after they had called:-
"It is the third day: I daresay your mamma has told you, my
dear, never to let more than three days elapse between receiving
a call and returning it; and also, that you are never to stay
longer than a quarter of an hour. "
-
"But am I to look at my watch? How am I to find out
when a quarter of an hour has passed?
and more clear that it is the part of us, the watchmen of Zion,-
more now than ever before, to watch and pray. "
The pastor sat and meditated. He looked oppressed and sor-
rowful. It was too quiet for Hans: he moved away to Hauk and
Ragna. The chaplain appeared to like this, and became more
calm.
"Dear pastor," said he after a while, "just as surely as there
is truth in our work,—yes, this question presses itself more and
more in upon me,- as surely as there is truth in our work: that
we shall watch over God's house and people,— we cannot remain
silent and be calm when we see a spirit like this coming bearing
in upon us a spirit which is directly founded upon heathenism,
and so plainly shows its Satanic origin. Shall it be? Can we
answer for that before our Lord and God? »
The pastor was silent. He was in great doubt and uncer-
tainty of mind. "I do not believe that it is right to bring poli-
tics into the house of God," said he at last.
"Politics, no! But this is not politics; this is a spirit of the
times, a view of life which takes the outward garb of politics,
but at the bottom is merely a new outbreak of the same old
heathenism that the Church at all times has had to contend with.
I, for my part, do not believe that I can keep silent with a quiet
conscience. "
## p. 6192 (#162) ###########################################
6192
ARNE GARBORG
The pastor held his peace and thought. "This is a hard
question," he said finally. "May our Lord give us wisdom! ”
"Amen," said the chaplain.
That night the old pastor did not sleep well. He walked up
and down his chamber and thought. "When it comes to the
point," said he to himself, "Balle is right; there is something
bad and evil in the spirit of the time; there is something devil-
ish. Merely look, now, at this Eystein Hauk, this clever fine fel-
low: he is not to be got at. He is frozen to ice and hardened
to steel, slippery and smooth as a serpent. There came such an
uncanny spirit from him that he made me downright sick: no
respect, no veneration even for his own father; God knows how
he can hold fast to his Christian faith. They call it freedom,
humanity; but it is not that. It is hate, venom, bad blood. —
They will tear from them all bonds, as Balle says, raise a re-
volt-revolt against all that is beautiful and good, against God,
against belief. H'm! Build the State, this whole earthly life,
upon a heathen foundation! Sever connection with Christianity,
cast the Church away from them like old trash. That is terrible!
And free love, free thought the Christian religion out of the
schools-no! that is Satan himself who rages. Free thoughts in
my time were not so: they were warm and beautiful; there was
heart in them; they made us good and happy. " He shook him-
self, as if to throw off a chill. Should one be silent at such
things? Should one look quietly on while this evil spirit eats
itself in among the people? or should one, like a disciple of God,
lift up the sword of the Word and the Spirit against this poison-
ous basilisk?
-
He read in the Bible and in Luther. Then he got up again
and walked. The clock struck hour after hour, but the old man
did not hear it. He thought only of the heavy responsibility.
Was it not to profane the house of God and the holy office, to
drag the struggle and strife of the day into it? Was he not set
to watch over word and teaching, but not to be a judge in the
world's disputes? But of his flock, the people of the Church,
the Bride of Christ, whom he should watch, but who stood in the
midst of a wicked world, and whose souls were harmed when
such evil gusts blew? Would not every soul at the Judgment
Day be demanded at his hands? And was he a good shepherd,
who indeed kept watch against the wolf when the wolf came hav-
ing on his right garb, but looked on and was silent when he came
## p. 6193 (#163) ###########################################
ARNE GARBORG
6193
clothed in sheep's garments and pretended to belong among the
good? He read anew in Luther. At last he knelt down and
prayed for a long time, and ended with a fervent and heartfelt
«< Our Father. "
Then he arose as if freed from doubt, looked meekly up to
heaven, and said, "As thou wilt, O Lord! " He seated himself
in his arm-chair, weary but happy, and fell asleep for a while.
Presently, however, the day grew gray in the east and he awoke.
He read the morning prayers to himself, chose his text, and
thought about the sermon. When the bell began to ring he
went to church. He was pale, but calm and kindly. The
farmers looked at him and greeted him more warmly than usual.
The pastor's wife and Ragna came shortly after; Hans and
Eystein did not arrive at the church until the pastor stood in
the pulpit.
The Christmas sermon was fervid and good. He spoke about
the angels' song, "Peace on earth. " They had seldom heard the
old man preach so well. But at the end came a turn in the
thought that caused some astonishment. It was about politics.
"Dear Christians," he said, "how is it in our days with
'peace on earth'? Ah, my brothers, we know that all too well.
Peace has gone from us. It has vanished like a beautiful even-
ing cloud. Evil powers rise up in these hours. The Devil is
abroad, and tempts anew mankind to eat of the tree of knowledge
and to tear themselves loose from God. Take heed, take heed,
dear brothers! Take heed of the false prophets, who proclaim a
new gospel and promise you 'freedom' and 'enlightenment,' and
all that is good,—yes, promise you righteousness and power, if
you will eat of the forbidden tree. They give themselves out
for sheep, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. They promise
you freedom, but they give you thraldom, the thraldom of sin,
which is the worst of all. They promise you blessings and joy,
but they steal you away from Him who alone has blessings and
freedom for our poor race. They promise you security and
defense against all tyranny and oppression, but they give you
gladly into his power who is the father of all tyranny and of
all evil; he who is the destroyer of man from the beginning.
Dear Christians, let us watch and pray! Let us prove the spirit,
whether it is from God! Let us harden our ears and our hearts
against false voices and magic songs that deceive, which come to
us out of the dark chasms and abysses in this wicked world!
XI-388
## p. 6194 (#164) ###########################################
6194
ARNE GARBORG
Let us be fearful of this wild and sinful thought of freedom,
that from Adam down has been the deep and true source of all
our woe! Let us pray for 'peace on earth,' for only then can
our Lord God have consideration for mankind. " With this he
ended his sermon.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by William H.
Carpenter
## p. 6195 (#165) ###########################################
6195
HAMLIN GARLAND
(1860-)
H
AMLIN GARLAND is a favorable example of a class of young
writers which is coming to the fore in the Middle West of
the United States,-fresh, original, full of faith and energy,
with a robust and somewhat aggressive Americanism. In native en-
dowment he is a strong man, and his personal character is manly,
clean, and high. At times, carelessness of technique and lack of taste
can be detected in his writings, but his strength and spirit make
amends for these defects.
Mr. Garland was born September 16th,
1860, in the La Crosse Valley, Wisconsin.
His family is of Scotch descent,- sturdy
farmer folk, remarkable for their physical
powers. His maternal grandfather was an
Adventist, with the touch of mysticism that
word implies. Garland was reared in the
picturesque coulé country (French coulée, a
dry gulch); living in various Western towns,
one of them being the Quaker community
of Hesper, Iowa. His early education was
received from the local schools; the uncon-
scious assimilation of the Western ways
came while he rode horses, herded cattle,
and led the wholesome, simple open-air life of the middle-class
people. Some years were spent in a small seminary at Osage, Wis-
consin, whence he was graduated at twenty-one years of age. His kin
moved to Dakota, but Hamlin faced Eastward, eager to see the world.
Two years of travel and teaching in Illinois found him in 1883 << hold-
ing down" a Dakota claim - the only result of the land boom being a
rich field of literary ore. Then in 1884 he went to Boston, made his
headquarters at the Public Library, read diligently, taught literature
and elocution in the School of Oratory, and became one of the liter-
ary workers there, remaining until 1891. Since then he has lectured
much throughout the country, and has settled in Chicago, his sum-
mer home being at West Salem, Wisconsin, ir the beautiful coulé
region of his boyhood.
HAMLIN GARLAND
Mr. Garland's main work is in fiction, but he has also tried his
hand at verse and the essay. His volume Crumbling Idols, pub-
lished in 1894, a series of audacious papers in which the doctrine of
realism is cried up and the appeal to past literary canons made a
## p. 6196 (#166) ###########################################
6196
HAMLIN GARLAND
mock of, called out critical abuse and ridicule, and no doubt shows
a lack of perspective. Yet the book is racy and stimulating in the
extreme. The volume of poetry, 'Prairie Songs' (1893), has the merit
of dealing picturesquely and at first hand with Western scenery and
life, and contains many a stroke of imaginative beauty. Of the half-
dozen books of tales and longer stories, Main-Traveled Roads,' Mr.
Garland's first collection of short stories, including work as strik-
ing as anything he has done, gives vivid pastoral pictures of the
Mississippi Valley life. A Little Norsk' (1893), along with its realism
in sketching frontier scenes, possesses a fine romantic flavor. And
'Rose of Dutcher's Coolly' (1895), decidedly his strongest full-length
fiction, is a delineation of Wisconsin rustic and urban life, including
a study of Chicago, daringly unconventional, but strong, earnest, evi-
dently drawn from the author's deepest experiences and convictions.
Other books of fiction are 'Jason Edwards,' 'A Member of the Third
House,' 'A Spoil of Office,' and 'Prairie Folks. '
Mr. Garland's work in its increasing command of art, its under-
standing of and sincere sympathy with the life of the great toiling
population of the Middle West, and its unmistakable qualities of
independence, vigor, and ideality, is worthy of warm praise. A rich,
large nature is felt beneath his fiction. His literary creed is "truth
for truth's sake," and his conception of his art is broad enough to
include love of country and belief in his fellow-man.
A SUMMER MOOD
From Prairie Songs. Copyright 1893 by Hamlin Garland, and published
by Stone & Kimball
Ο"
H, to be lost in the wind and the sun,
To be one with the wind and the stream!
With never a care while the waters run,
With never a thought in my dream.
To be part of the robin's lilting call
And part of the bobolink's rhyme.
Lying close to the shy thrush singing alone,
And lapped in the cricket's chime!
Oh, to live with these beautiful ones!
With the lust and the glory of man
Lost in the circuit of springtime suns.
Submissive as earth and part of her plan;
To lie as the snake lies, content in the grass!
To drift as the clouds drift, effortless, free,
Glad of the power that drives them on,
With never a question of wind or sea.
## p. 6197 (#167) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6197
A STORM ON LAKE MICHIGAN
From 'Rose of Dutcher's Coolly. Copyright 1895 by Hamlin Garland, and
published by Stone & Kimball
A
S THE winter deepened, Rose narrowed the circle of conquest.
She no longer thought of conquering the world; it came
to be the question of winning the approbation of one
human soul. That is, she wished to win the approbation of the
world in order that Warren Mason might smile and say "Well
done! "
She did not reach this state of mind smoothly and easily. On
the contrary, she had moments when she rebelled at the thought
of any man's opinion being the greatest good in the world to
her. She rebelled at the implied inferiority of her position in
relation to him, and also at the physical bondage implied. In
the morning, when she was strong, in the midst of some social
success, when people swarmed about her and men bent deferen-
tially, then she held herself like a soldier on a tower, defying
capture.
But at night, when the lights were all out, when she felt her
essential loneliness and weakness and need, when the world
seemed cold and cruel and selfish, then it seemed as if the
sweetest thing in the universe would be to have him open his
arms and say "Come! "
There would be rest there, and repose. His judgment, his
keen wit, his penetrating, powerful influence, made him seem a
giant to her; a giant who disdained effort and gave out an ap-
pearance of indifference and lassitude. She had known physical
giants in her neighborhood, who spoke in soft drawl and slouched
lazily in action, but who were invincible when aroused.
She imagined she perceived in Mason a mental giant, who
assumed irresolution and weakness for reasons of his own. He
was always off duty when she saw him, and bent more upon
rest than a display of power. Once or twice she saw him roused,
and it thrilled her; that measured lazy roll of voice changed to
a quick, stern snarl, the brows lowered, and the big plump face
took on battle lines. It was like a seemingly shallow pool, sud-
denly disclosed to be of soundless depths by a wind of passion.
The lake had been the refuge of the distracted and restless
girl. She went to it often in the autumn days, for it rested
her from the noise of grinding wheels, and screams, and yells.
――
## p. 6198 (#168) ###########################################
6198
HAMLIN GARLAND
Its smooth rise and fall, its sparkle of white-caps, its sailing
gulls, filled her with delicious pleasure. It soothed her and it
roused her also. It gave her time to think.
The street disturbed her, left her purposeless and power-
less; but out there where the ships floated like shadows, and
shadows shifted like flame, and the wind was keen and sweet,-
there she could get her mental breath again. She watched it
change to wintry desolation, till it grew empty of vessels and was
lonely as the Arctic Sea; and always it was grand and thought-
inspiring.
She went out one day in March, when the home longing was
upon her and when it seemed that the city would be her death.
She was tired of her food, tired of Mary, tired of her room.
Her forehead was knotted tensely with pain of life and love-
She cried out with sudden joy, for she had never seen the
lake more beautiful. Near the shore a great mass of churned
and heaving ice and snow lay like a robe of shaggy fur. Beyond
this the deep water spread, a vivid pea-green broken by wide
irregular strips of dark purple. In the open water by the wall a
spatter of steel blue lay like the petals of some strange flower,
scattered upon the green.
Great splendid clouds developed, marvelously like the clouds
of June, making the girl's heart swell with memories of summer.
They were white as wool, these mountainous clouds, and bot-
tomed in violet, and as they passed the snow-fields they sent
down pink-purple misty shadows, which trailed away in splendor
toward the green which flamed in bewildering beauty beyond.
The girl sat like one in a dream, while the wind blew the green
and purple of the outer sea into fantastic, flitting forms which
dazzled her eyes like the stream of mingled banners.
Each form seemed more beautiful than the preceding one;
each combination had such unearthly radiance, her heart ached
with exquisite sorrow to see it vanish. The girl felt that spring
was coming on the wing of the southern wind, and the desire to
utter her passion grew almost into pain.
It had other moods, this mighty spread of water. It could be
angry, dangerous. Sometimes it rolled sullenly, and convoluted
in oily surges beneath its coverlid of snow, like a bed of mon-
strous serpents. Sometimes the leaden sky shut down over it,
and from the desolate northeast a snow-storm rushed, hissing and
howling. Sometimes it slumbered for days, quiet as a sleeping
## p. 6199 (#169) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6199
boa, then awoke and was a presence and a voice in the night,
fit to make the hardiest tremble.
Rose saw it when it was roused, but she had yet to see it in
a frenzy. The knowledge of its worst came to her early in May,
just before her return to the Coulé.
The day broke with the wind in the northeast. Rose, lying
in her bed, could hear the roar of the lake; never before had its
voice penetrated so far. She sprang up and dressed, eager to see
it in such a mood. Mary responded sleepily to her call, saying
the lake would be there after breakfast.
Rose did not regret her eagerness, though it was piercingly
cold and raw. The sea was already terrific. Its spread of tawny
yellow showed how it had reached down and laid hold on the
sand of its bed. There were oily splotches of plum color scat-
tered over it where the wind blew it smooth, and it reached to
the wild east sky, cold, desolate, destructive.
It had a fierce, breathing snarl like a monster at meat. It
leaped against the sea-wall like a rabid tiger, its sleek and spotted
hide rolling. Every surge sent a triangular sheet of foam twenty-
five feet above the wall, yellow and white and shadowed with
dull blue; and the wind caught it as it rose, and its crest burst
into great clouds of spray, which sailed across the streets and
dashed along the walk like rain, making the roadway like a
river; while the main body of each upleaping wave, falling back
astride the wall, crashed like the fall of glass, and the next
wave met it with a growl of thunderous rage, striking it with
concave palm with a sound like a cannon's exploding roar.
Out of the appalling obscurity to the north, frightened ships
scudded at intervals, with bare masts bending like fire-trimmed
pines. They hastened like the homing pigeons, which do not
look behind. The helmsmen stood grimly at their wheels, with
eyes on the harbor ahead.
The girl felt it all as no one native to the sea can possibly
do. It seemed as if the bounds of the flood had been overcome,
and that it was about to hurl itself upon the land. The slender
trees, standing deep in the swash of water, bowed like women in
pain; the wall was half hidden, and the flood and the land seemed.
mingled in battle.
Rose walked along the shore, too much excited to go back
to her breakfast. At noon she ate lunch hurriedly and returned
to the shore. There were hundreds of people coming and going
## p. 6200 (#170) ###########################################
-6200
HAMLIN GARLAND
along the drive; young girls shrieking with glee, as the sailing
clouds of spray fell upon them. Rose felt angry to think they
could be so silly in face of such dreadful power.
She came upon Mason, dressed in a thick mackintosh coat,
taking notes rapidly in a little book. He did not look up, and
she passed him, wishing to speak, yet afraid to speak. Near him
a young man was sketching.
Mason stood like a rock in his long, close-fitting rain coat,
while she was blown nearly off her feet by the blast. She came
back against the wind, feeling her soul's internal storm rising.
It seemed quite like a proposal of marriage to go up and speak
to him- yet she could not forego the pleasure.
He did not see her until she came into his lee; then he
smiled, extending his hand. She spoke first:-
"May I take shelter here? "
His eyes lightened with a sudden tender humor.
"Free anchorage," he said, and drew her by the hand closer
to his shoulder.
It was a beautiful moment to her, and a dan-
gerous one to him. He took refuge in outside matters.
"How does that strike your inland eyes? " He pointed to the
north.
"It's awful. It's like the anger of God. " She spoke into his
bowed ear.
"Please don't think I'm reporting it," he explained.
"I'm
only making a few notes about it for an editorial on the need of
harbors. "
Each moment the fury increased, the waves deepened. The
commotion sank down amid the sands of the deeper inshore
water, and it boiled like milk. Splendid colors grew into it near
at hand; the winds tore at the tops of the waves, and wove them
into tawny banners, which blurred the air like blown sand. On
the horizon the waves leaped in savage ranks, clutching at the
sky like insane sea monsters,- frantic, futile.
"I've seen the Atlantic twice during a gale," shouted the
artist to a companion, "but I never saw anything more awful
than this. These waves are quicker and higher. I don't see
how a vessel could live in it if caught broadside. "
"It's the worst I ever saw here. "
"I'm going down to the south side: would you like to go? "
Mason asked of Rose.
"I would indeed," she replied.
## p. 6201 (#171) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6201
Back from the lake shore the wind was less powerful but more
uncertain. It came in gusts which nearly upturned the street
cars. Men and women scudded from shelter to shelter, like be-
leaguered citizens avoiding cannon shots.
"What makes our lake so terrible," said Mason in the car, "is
the fact that it has a smooth shore no indentations, no harbors.
There is only one harbor here at Chicago, behind the break-
water, and every vessel in mid-lake must come here. Those fly-
ing ships are seeking safety here like birds. The harbor will be
full of disabled vessels. "
―
As they left the car, a roaring gust swept around a twenty-
story building with such power [that] Rose would have been taken.
off her feet had not Mason put his arms about her shoulders.
༥
"You're at a disadvantage," he said, "with skirts. " He knew
she prided herself on her strength, and he took no credit to him-
self for standing where she fell.
It was precisely as if they were alone together; the storm
seemed to wall them in, and his manner was more intimate than
ever before.
It was in very truth the first time they had been
out together, and also it was the only time he had assumed any
physical care of her. He had never asserted his greater muscu-
Power and mastery of material things, and she was amazed
to see that his lethargy was only a mood. He could be alert and
agile at need.
It made his cynicism appear to be a mood also;
at least, it made her heart wondrously light to think so.
lar
They came upon the lake shore again, near the Auditorium.
The refuge behind the breakwater was full of boats, straining
at anchor, rolling, pitching, crashing together. Close about the
edge of the breakwater, ships were rounding hurriedly, and two
broken vessels lay against the shore, threshing up and down in
the awful grasp of the breakers. Far down toward the south
the water dashed against the spiles, shooting fifty feet above the
wall, sailing like smoke, deluging the street, and lashing against
row of buildings across the way.
the
Mason's keen eye took in the situation:
Every vessel that breaks anchor is doomed! Nothing can
keep them from going on shore. Doubtless those two schooners
lost anchor—that one there is dragging anchor. " He said sud-
denly, «She is shifting position, and see that hulk-»
Rose for a moment could not see it. She lay flat on her side,
a two-master, her sails flapping and floating on the waves. Her
--
## p. 6202 (#172) ###########################################
6202
HAMLIN GARLAND
anchor still held, but she had listed her cargo, careened, and so
lay helpless.
"There are men on it! " cried some one.
"Three men - don't
you see them? The water goes over them every time! "
"Sure enough! I wonder if they are going to let them drown,
here in the harbor! "
Rose grew numb with horror. On the rounded side of the
floating hulk three men were clinging, looking like pegs of tops.
They could only be seen at intervals, for the water broke clear
over their heads. It was only when one of them began to move
to and fro that the mighty crowd became certainly aware of life
still clinging to the hull. It was an awful thing to stand help-
lessly by and see those brave men battle, but no life-boat or tug
could live out there. In the station, men wept and imprecated
in their despair; twice they tried to go to the rescue of the
beleaguered men, but could not reach them.
Suddenly a flare of yellow spread out on the wave.
arose:-
A cry
"She's breaking up! "
Rose seized Mason's arm in a frenzy of horror.
"O God! can't somebody help them? "
"They're out of reach! " said Mason solemnly. And then the
throng was silent.
"They are building a raft! " shouted a man with a glass, speak-
ing at intervals for the information of all. "One man is tying a
rope to planks; . . he is helping the other men;
he
has his little raft nearly ready;
him—»
they are crawling toward
.
"Oh, see them! " exclaimed Rose.
There! they are gone-the vessel has broken up. "
On the wave nothing now lived but a yellow spread of lum-
ber; the glass revealed no living thing.
Mason turned to Rose with a grave and tender look.
"You have seen human beings engulfed like flies-»
"No! no! There they are! " shouted a hundred voices, as if
in answer to Mason's thought.
"Oh, the brave men!
Thereafter the whole great city seemed to be watching those
specks of human life, drifting toward almost certain death upon
the breakwater of the south shore. For miles the beach was clus-
tered black with people. They stood there, it seemed for hours,
watching the slow approach of that tiny raft. Again and again
## p. 6203 (#173) ###########################################
HAMLIN GARLAND
6203
the waves swept over it, and each time that indomitable man
rose from the flood and was seen to pull his companions aboard.
Other vessels drifted upon the rocks. Other steamers rolled
heavily around the long breakwater, but nothing now distracted
the gaze of the multitude from this appalling and amazing
struggle against death. Nothing? No; once and only once did.
the onlookers shift their intent gaze, and that was when a vessel
passed the breakwater and went sailing toward the south through
the fleet of anchored, straining, agonized ships. At first no one
paid much attention to this late-comer till Mason lifted his
voice.
"By Heaven, the man is sailing ! »
It was true; steady, swift, undeviating, the vessel headed
through the fleet. She did not drift nor wander nor hesitate.
She sailed as if the helmsman, with set teeth, were saying:-
"By God! If I must die on the rocks, I'll go to my death
the captain of my vessel! "
And so with wheel in his hand and epic oaths in his mouth,
he sailed directly into the long row of spiles, over which the
waves ran like hell-hounds; where half a score of wrecks lay
already churning into fragments in the awful tumult.
The sailing vessel seemed not to waver, nor seek nor dodge
seemed rather to choose the most deadly battle-place of waves
and wall.
"God! but that's magnificent of him! " Mason said to himself.
Rose held her breath, her face white and set with horror.
"Oh, must he die? »
"There is no hope for him. She will strike in a moment
she strikes! -she is gone! "
The vessel entered the gray confusion of the breakers and
struck the piles like a battering-ram; the waves buried her from
sight; then the recoil flung her back; for the first time she
swung broadside to the storm. The work of the helmsman was
over. She reeled-resisted an instant, then submitted to her
fate, crumbled against the pitiless wall like paper, and thereafter
was lost to sight.
―
This dramatic and terrible scene had held the attention of the
onlookers-once more they searched for the tiny raft. It was
nearing the lake wall at another furious point of contact. An
innumerable crowd spread like a black robe over the shore, wait-
ing to see the tiny float strike.
## p. 6204 (#174) ###########################################
6204
HAMLIN GARLAND
A hush fell over every voice. Each soul was solemn as if
facing the Maker of the world. Out on the point, just where the
doomed sailors seemed like to strike, there was a little commo-
tion. A tiny figure was seen perched on one of the spiles. Each
wave, as it towered above him, seemed ready to sweep him away,
but each time he bowed his head and seemed to sweep through
the gray wall. He was a negro, and he held a rope in his
hands.
As they comprehended his danger the crowd cheered him, but
in the thunder of the surf no human voice could avail. The bold
negro could not cry out, he could only motion; but the brave
man on the raft saw his purpose-he was alone with the ship-
wrecked ones.
In they came, lifted and hurled by a prodigious swell. They
struck the wall just beneath the negro and disappeared beneath
the waves.
All seemed over, and some of the spectators fell weeping;
others turned away.
Suddenly the indomitable commander of the raft rose, then
his companions, and then it was perceived that he had bound
them all to the raft.
The negro flung his rope and one man caught at it, but it
was swept out of reach on a backward-leaping billow. Again
they came in, their white, strained, set faces and wild eyes
turned to the intrepid rescuer. Again they struck, and this time
the negro caught and held one of the sailors, held him while the
foam fell away, and the succeeding wave swept him over the
spiles to safety. Again the resolute man flung his noose and
caught the second sailor, whose rope was cut by the leader, the
captain, who was last to be saved.
As the negro came back, dragging his third man over the
wall, a mighty cry went up, a strange, faint, multitudinous cry,
and the negro was swallowed up in the multitude.
Mason turned to Rose and spoke: "Sometimes men seem to
be worth while! "
## p. 6205 (#175) ###########################################
6205
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
(1810-1865)
RITICS agree in placing the novels of Mrs. Gaskell on a level
with the works of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronté. It is
more than probable that future generations will turn to her
stories for correct pictures of simple every-day life that must fade in
the swift succession of years. She has been compared to a naturalist
who knows intimately the flora and fauna of his native heath.
Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson was born in Chelsea, England, Sep-
tember 29th, 1810, the daughter of William Stevenson, a literary man,
who was keeper of the records of the Treas-
ury. She lived with her aunt at Knutsford
in Cheshire, was sent to a private school in
Stratford-on-Avon, and visited London and
Edinburgh, where her beauty was much
admired. In 1832 she was married to the
Rev. William Gaskell, minister of a Unita-
rian chapel in Manchester. Mrs. Gaskell
did not begin to write until she had reached
middle age, and then chiefly to distract her
thoughts after the death of their only son
in 1844. Her first book, 'Mary Barton,'
published anonymously in 1848, achieved
extraordinary success. This was a "novel ELIZABETH S. GASKELL
with a purpose," for Mrs. Gaskell believed
that the hostility between employers and employed, which constantly
disturbed the manufacturing beehive of Manchester, was caused by
mutual ignorance. She therefore set herself the task of depicting
faithfully the lives of the people around her. It must be remem-
bered, too, that the social types chosen by her were at that moment
peculiarly interesting to a public weary of the novel of fashionable.
high life.
The story provoked much public discussion; and among
other critics, the social economist Mr. W. R. Greg, in his Essay on
Mary Barton,' published in 1849, took the part of the manufacturer.
'Mary Barton' has been translated into French, German, and other
languages, including Hungarian and Finnish. The story has for its
central theme the gradual degeneration of John Barton, a workman
who has a passionate hatred of the classes above him, and who, em-
bittered by poverty and the death of his son and wife, joins the
## p. 6206 (#176) ###########################################
6206
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
law-breakers of the town, and finally murders Henry Corson, a mas-
ter manufacturer. North and South,' published in 1855, was written
from the point of view of the masters, an admirable contrast to Barton
being found in Thornton, the hero of this novel.
In 1850, when Dickens was about to establish Household Words, he
invited Mrs. Gaskell to contribute. This magazine contained her story
'Lizzie Leigh' and those immortal pictures of village life known
as 'Cranford. ' Mrs. Gaskell's other novels are: 'Ruth,' the tragi-
cal story of a pretty young milliner's apprentice; 'Sylvia's Lovers,'
whose scene is Monkhaven (Whitby), at the end of the last century;
'Cousin Phillis,' a simple story of a farmer's daughter, which ap-
peared first in the Cornhill Magazine in 1863-64; and Wives and
Daughters,' also contributed to the Cornhill, and left unfinished by
her death in Manchester, November 12th, 1865. By many persons
the last novel is considered her best work, owing to its strength of
characterization. Molly Gibson, the heroine; Cynthia, a heartless
coquette; Squire Hamley and his sons Roger and Osborne, of Ham-
ley Hall; and the Earl of Cumnor and his family at the Towers,- all
are treated with impartial skill. Her famous Life of Charlotte
Bronté' appeared in 1857. She became acquainted with Miss Bronté
in 1850, and they were friends at once.
A collected edition of Mrs. Gaskell's works, published in seven
volumes in 1873, includes the short stories The Grey Woman,'
'Morton Hall,' 'Mr. Harrison's Confessions,' 'A Dark Night's Work,'
'The Moorland Cottage,' 'Round the Sofa,' 'The Old Nurse's Story,'
'The Well of Pen-Morfa,' 'The Sexton's Hero,' 'Lois the Witch,' and
others. Cranford is identified as the town of Knutsford.
Its popu-
lation consists of widows and maiden ladies, in bonds to their ancient
gentility. With deft touch Mrs. Gaskell brings out the humor and
pathos of these quaint characters, her finest creation being Miss
Matty Jenkyns.
OUR SOCIETY
From Cranford'
IN
IN THE first place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all-
the holders of houses, above a certain rent, are women.
If a
married couple come to settle in the town, somehow the
gentleman disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by
being the only man in the Cranford evening parties, or he is
accounted for by being with his regiment, his ship, or closely
engaged in business all the week in the great neighboring com-
mercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad.
## p. 6207 (#177) ###########################################
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
6207
In short, whatever does become of the gentlemen, they are not
at Cranford. What could they do if they were there? The sur-
geon has his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but
every man cannot be a surgeon. For keeping the trim gardens
full of choice flowers without a weed to speck them; for fright-
ening away little boys who look wistfully at the said flowers
through the railings; for rushing out at the geese that occasion-
ally venture into the gardens if the gates are left open; for
deciding all questions of literature and politics without troubling
themselves with unnecessary reasons or arguments; for obtaining
clear and correct knowledge of everybody's affairs in the parish;
for keeping their neat maid-servants in admirable order; for
kindness (somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tender good
offices to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies of
Cranford are quite sufficient. "A man," as one of them observed
to me once, "is so in the way in the house! " Although the
ladies of Cranford know all each other's proceedings, they are
exceedingly indifferent to each other's opinions. Indeed, as each
has her own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly
developed, nothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but somehow,
good-will reigns among them to a considerable degree.
The Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel,
spurted out in a few peppery words and angry jerks of the
heads; just enough to prevent the even tenor of their lives from
becoming too flat. Their dress is very independent of fashion:
as they observe, "What does it signify how we dress here at
Cranford, where everybody knows us? " And if they go from
home, their reason is equally cogent: "What does it signify how
we dress here, where nobody knows us? " The materials of
their clothes are in general good and plain, and most of them
are nearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler of cleanly memory; but I
will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petti-
coat in wear in England, was seen in Cranford - and seen with-
out a smile.
-
-
I can testify to a magnificent family red-silk umbrella, under
which a gentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and
sisters, used to patter to church on rainy days. Have you any
red-silk umbrellas in London? We had a tradition of the first
that had ever been seen in Cranford; and the little boys mobbed
it, and called it "a stick in petticoats. " It might have been the
very red-silk one I have described, held by a strong father over
## p. 6208 (#178) ###########################################
6208
ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL
a troop of little ones; the poor little lady - the survivor of all
could scarcely carry it.
-
Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls;
and they were announced to any young people who might be
staying in the town, with all the solemnity with which the old
Manx laws were read once a year on the Tinwald Mount.
"Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your
journey to-night, my dear" (fifteen miles in a gentleman's car-
riage); "they will give you some rest to-morrow, but the next
day, I have no doubt, they will call; so be at liberty after twelve
from twelve to three are our calling hours. "
Then, after they had called:-
"It is the third day: I daresay your mamma has told you, my
dear, never to let more than three days elapse between receiving
a call and returning it; and also, that you are never to stay
longer than a quarter of an hour. "
-
"But am I to look at my watch? How am I to find out
when a quarter of an hour has passed?
