No More Learning

the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
A
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake, my little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its cup be dry. ”
*« Flinging a Stone into the Cup was the signal for «To Horse! ) in the
Desert. » -- FITZGERALD.


## p. 8564 (#172) ###########################################

8564
OMAR KHAYYÁM
1
II
Stanza xxxvii. of the First Edition
AH, fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet?
III
Stanza lxiv. of the First Edition
Said one,— «Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell:
They talk of some strict Testing of us — Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well. ”
»
IV
Stanza xiv. of the Second Edition
WERE it not Folly, Spider-like to spin
The Thread of present Life away to win -
What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall
Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!
V
Stanza lxv. of the Second Edition
IF BUT the Vine- and Love-abjuring Band
Are in the Prophet's Paradise to stand,
Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise
Were empty as the hollow of one's Hand.
11
VI
Verse given among Fitzgerald's notes to the (Rubáiyát,' but not included in
the body of the text
BE of Good Cheer: the Sullen Month will die,
And a young Moon requite us by-and-by:
Look how the Old one, meagre, bent, and wan
With Age and Fast, is Fainting from the Sky!


## p. 8565 (#173) ###########################################

8565
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
(1849-)
LEXANDER KIELLAND, one of the foremost of the living authors
of Norway, belongs in Norwegian literature to the genera-
tion subsequent to Björnson, Ibsen, and Lie, the three great
names that most readily recur among the contemporary writers of
his native country. In point of fact, he has very little in common
with them or their predecessors, but in many ways inarks a new
tendency in the literature of Norway, which in its most recent devel-
opment owes not a little to his incentive. In this attitude he and
his immediate contemporary Arne Garborg
though direct antitheses in some respects,
here stand together,— an intermediate devel-
opment between the oldest and the newest
phases of that extraordinary literature that
has attracted to it the attention of the
world.
Kielland was born in 1849, in Stavanger,
Norway. His father was a ship-owner and
merchant of abundant means and social
position, as had been his ancestors for gen-
erations before him. At the University of
Christiania he studied law, which however
he never practiced, although he duly took ALEXANDER KIELLAND
his examination at the end of the course.
Instead he chose at the outset a business career; and bought a brick
and tile factory at Malk, near Stavanger, which he managed with
ability until 1881, when it was sold to a stock company.
His first literary work saw the light under these conditions. His
career began with a series of short stories, which appeared anony-
mously in the Christiania Dagblad. These first tales, with others
written subsequently, went to make up the material of his first two
books, Novelletter) (1879), and Nye Novelletter» (1880).
Several winters spent in Paris, and the study of modern French
literature, established the characteristic tendency of his genius. Many
of his novelettes and short stories are so essentially French in method
and manner, that except for their environment they might equally
well have been the product of French soil. To associate him with
Daudet is natural and inevitable; for in his point of view and treat-
ment of material he most resembles that great master of short stories.



## p. 8566 (#174) ###########################################

8566
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
1
!
Kielland's use of the Norwegian language is a revelation, and it
flows from his pen in incisive and often sparkling sentences. No one
ever before has used the language as he uses it. In his hands it is
a medium of the utmost clarity, and transmits every delicate shade of
meaning. It lends itself readily to translation, but very little has as
yet found its way into English. “Garman and Worse' has been trans-
lated by W. W. Kettlewell (London, 1885), Skipper Worse by the
Earl of Ducie (London, 1885), and William Archer has translated a
number of short stories which have been published under the title of
(Tales of Two Countries) (1891).
Kielland's first novel, Garman and Worse) (1880), demonstrated his
seriousness of purpose. It is a social study of bourgeois life in the
towns of the western coast of Norway, and treats of types of char-
acter with which the author has all his life been familiar. Inevita-
bly it is autobiographical, particularly in the incidents of the boyhood
of Gabriel Garman. A faithful picture of the life of a small Nor-
wegian town, it is full of clever satire and humorous delineation.
Discontent with existing social conditions ramifying in various
directions is the psychological element in most of Kielland's novels.
Kielland's second novel, Laboring People (1881), is the pathology as
well as the psychology of vice, and treats of the corrupting influence
of the upper classes upon the lower. The horrors of the subject are
not disguised; and from this book it may be understood why Georg
Brandes, in his brilliant essay upon Kielland, should trace in his
writings the influence of Balzac and Zola. In point of structure and
composition 'Skipper Worse ranks among the best of his novels; and
here as always there is the suggestion of Daudet, for the theme of
the story—a study of Pietism in Norway - is similar to that of
(L'Évangéliste. His strength and earnestness are nowhere better
exemplified than in this psychological study.
Kielland's development has been uniform and steady, and his
recent work shows an immense increase in power. His later books
all indicate the trend of his socialistic tendency. (Snow) is a protest
against blind orthodoxy. The wintry Norwegian landscape is sym-
bolical of the icy fetters of tradition, but there is a hint and promise
of spring. In Jacob, however, pessimism settles like a heavy fog,
rayless and dispiriting. It is a revolt against senseless optimism and
poetic justice, and a plea for what he believes to be reality. Kiel-
land's characteristic is the spirit of liberalism in politics, ethics, and
religion. Of aristocratic social connections, a conservative by birth
and education, Kielland is the champion of democracy. So outspoken
is he, indeed, that the government itself, through a committee ap-
pointed to investigate his claims to the customary literary pension,
has protested against a literature opposed to the prevailing moral


## p. 8567 (#175) ###########################################

ALEXANDER KIELLAND
8567
A
and religious ideas of the nation,” and refused to sanction his writ-
ings by granting the stipend petitioned by his friends. As a com-
pensation, his popularity with the people is unbounded; and in spite
of the frowns of the government, he has virtually remained master
of the field.
1
AT THE FAIR
From (Tales of Two Countries. )
Copyright 1891, by Harper & Brothers
I"
seau
+
T was by the merest chance that Monsieur and Madame Tous-
came to Saint-Germain-en-Laye in the early days of
September.
Four weeks ago they had been married in Lyons, which was
their home; but where they had passed these four weeks they
really could not have told you. The time had gone hop-skip-
and-jump: a couple of days had entirely slipped out of their
reckoning; and on the other hand they remembered a little sum-
mer-house at Fontainebleau, where they had rested one evening,
as clearly as if they had passed half their lives there.
Paris was, strictly speaking, the goal of their wedding journey,
and there they established themselves in a comfortable little
hôtel garni. But the city was sultry, and they could not rest; so
they rambled about among the small towns in the neighborhood,
and found themselves one Sunday at noon in Saint-Germain.
« Monsieur and Madame have doubtless come to take part
in the fête ? » said the plump little landlady of the Hotel Henri
Quatre, as she ushered her guests up the steps.
The fête ? They knew of no fête in the world except their
own wedded happiness; but they did not say so to the landlady.
They soon learned that they had been lucky enough to drop
into the very midst of the great and celebrated fair which is held
every year, on the first Sunday of September, in the Forest of
Saint-Germain.
The young couple were highly delighted with their good hap.
It seemed as though Fortune followed at their heels, or rather
ran ahead of them, to arrange surprises. After a delicious tête- .
à-tête dinner behind one of the clipped yew-trees in the quaint
garden, they took a carriage and drove off to the forest.
In the hotel garden, beside the little fountain in the middle of
the lawn, sat a ragged condor which the landlord had bought to


## p. 8568 (#176) ###########################################

8568
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
08
amuse his guests. It was attached to its perch by a good strong
rope. But when the sun shone upon it with real warmth, it fell
a-thinking of the snow-peaks of Peru, of mighty wing-strokes
over the deep valleys- and then it forgot the rope.
Two vigorous strokes with its pinions would bring the rope
up taut, and it would fall back upon the sward. There it would
lie by the hour, then shake itself and clamber up to its little
perch again.
When it turned its head to watch the happy pair, Madame
Tousseau burst into a fit of laughter at its melancholy mien.
The afternoon sun glimmered through the dense foliage of the
interminable straight-ruled avenue that skirts the terrace. The
young wife's veil fluttered aloft as they sped through the air, and
wound itself right around Monsieur's head. It took a long time
to put it in order again, and Madame's hat had to be adjusted
ever so often. Then came the relighting of Monsieur's cigar, and
that too was quite a business,- for Madame's fan would always
give a suspicious little Airt every time the match was lighted;
then a penalty had to be paid, and that again took time.
The aristocratic English family which was passing the summer
at Saint-Germain was disturbed in its regulation walk by the
passing of the gay little equipage. They raised their correct
gray or blue eyes; there was neither contempt nor annoyance in
their look — only the faintest shade of surprise. But the condor
followed the carriage with its eyes until it became a mere black
speck at the vanishing-point of the straight-ruled interminable
avenue.
« “La joyeuse fête des Loges” is a genuine fair, with ginger-
bread cakes, sword-swallowers, and waffles piping hot.
evening falls, colored lamps and Chinese lanterns are lighted
around the venerable oak which stands in the middle of the fair-
ground, and boys climb about among its topmost branches with
maroons and Bengal lights.
Gentlemen of an inventive turn of mind go about with lan-
terns on their hats, on their sticks, and wherever they can possi-
bly hang; and the most inventive of all strolls around with his
sweetheart under a great umbrella, with a lantern dangling from
each rib.
On the outskirts, bonfires are lighted; fowls are roasted on
spits, while potatoes are cut into slices and fried in drippings.
Each aroma seems to have its amateurs, for there are always
As the


## p. 8569 (#177) ###########################################

ALEXANDER KIELLAND
8569
-
1
people crowding round; but the majority stroll up and down the
long street of booths.
Monsieur and Madame Tousseau had plunged into all the fun
of the fair. They had gambled in the most lucrative lottery in
Europe, presided over by a man who excelled in dubious witti-
cisms. They had seen the fattest goose in the world, and the
celebrated flea, “Bismarck," who could drive six horses. Further-
more they had purchased gingerbread, shot at a target for clay
pipes and soft-boiled eggs, and finally had danced a waltz in the
spacious dancing-tent.
They had never had such fun in their lives. There were no
great people there—at any rate, none greater than themselves.
As they did not know a soul, they smiled to every one; and
when they met the same person twice they laughed and nodded
to him.
They were charmed with everything. They stood outside
the great circus and ballet marquees and laughed at the shouting
buffoons. Scraggy mountebanks performed on trumpets, and
young girls with well-floured shoulders smiled alluringly from the
platforms.
Monsieur Tousseau's purse was never at rest; but they did
not grow impatient of the perpetual claims upon it. On the
contrary, they only laughed at the gigantic efforts these people
would make, to earn perhaps half a franc, or a few centimes.
Suddenly they encountered a face they knew. It was a young
American whom they had met at the hotel in Paris.
"Well, Monsieur Whitmore! » cried Madame Tousseau gayly,
"here at last you've found a place where you can't possibly help
enjoying yourself. ”
“For my part,” answered the American slowly, “I find no
enjoyment in seeing the people who haven't money making fools
of themselves to please the people who have. ”
"Oh, you're incorrigible! ” laughed the young wife. But I
must compliment you on the excellent French you are speaking
to-day. ”
After exchanging a few more words they lost each other in
the crowd: Mr. Whitmore was going back to Paris immediately.
Madame Tousseau's compliment was quite sincere. As a rule
the grave American talked deplorable French; but the answer he
had made to Madame was almost correct.
It seemed as though
it had been well thought out in advance --as though a whole
-


## p. 8570 (#178) ###########################################

8570
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
series of impressions had condensed themselves into these words.
Perhaps that was why his answer sank so deep into the minds of
Monsieur and Madame Tousseau.
Neither of them thought it a particularly brilliant remark;
on the contrary, they agreed that it must be miserable to take
so gloomy a view of things. But nevertheless his words left
something rankling. They could not laugh so lightly as before;
Madame felt tired, and they began to think of getting homewards.
Just as they turned to go down the long street of booths in
order to find their carriage, they met a noisy crew coming up-
ward.
“Let us take the other way,” said Monsieur.
They passed between two booths, and emerged at the back of
one of the rows. They stumbled over the tree-roots before their
eyes got used to the uncertain light which fell in patches between
the tents. A dog which lay gnawing at something or other rose
with a snarl, and dragged its prey further into the darkness
among the trees.
On this side the booths were made up of old sails and all sorts
of strange draperies. Here and there light shone through the
openings, and at one place Madame distinguished a face she
knew.
It was the man who had sold her that incomparable ginger-
bread — Monsieur had half of it still in his pocket.
But it was curious to see the gingerbread-man from this side.
Here was something quite different from the smiling obsequious-
ness which had said so many pretty things to her pretty face,
and had been so unwearied in belauding the gingerbread — which
really was excellent.
Now he sat crouched together, eating some indescribable mess
out of a checked pocket-handkerchief - eagerly, greedily, without
looking up.
Farther down they heard a muffled conversation. Madame was
bent upon peeping in; Monsieur objected, but had to give in.
An old mountebank sat counting a handful of coppers, grum-
bling and growling the while. A young girl stood before him,
shivering and pleading for pardon; she was wrapped in a long
waterproof.
The man swore and stamped on the ground. Then she threw
off the waterproof and stood half naked in a sort of ballet cos-
tume. Without saying a word, and without smoothing her hair


## p. 8571 (#179) ###########################################

ALEXANDER KIELLAND
8571
10
or preening her finery, she mounted the little steps that led to
the stage.
At that moment she turned and looked at her father. Her
face had already put on the ballet simper, but it now gave place
to a quite different expression. The mouth remained fixed, but
the eyes tried for a second to send him a beseeching smile. The
mountebank shrugged his shoulders, and held out his hand with
the coppers; the girl turned, ducked under the curtain, and was
received with shouts and applause.
Beside the great oak-tree the lottery man was holding forth
as fluently as ever. His witticisms, as the darkness thickened,
grew less and less dubious. There was a different ring, too, in
the laughter of the crowd; the men were noisier, the mounte-
banks leaner, the women more brazen, the music falser — so it
seemed at least to Madame and Monsieur.
As they passed the dancing-tent the racket of a quadrille
reached their ears. “Great heavens! - was it really there that
we danced ? ” said Madame, and nestled closer to her husband.
They made their way through the rout as quickly as they
could; they would soon reach their carriage,- it was just be-
yond the circus marquee.
It would be nice to rest and escape
from all this hubbub.
The platform in front of the circus marquee was now vacant.
Inside, in the dim and stilling rotunda, the performance was in
full swing.
Only the old woman who sold the tickets sat asleep at her
desk. And a little way off, in the light of her lamp, stood a
tiny boy.
He was dressed in tights, green on one side, red on the other;
on his head he had a fool's cap with horns.
Close up to the platform stood a woman wrapped in a black
shawl. She seemed to be talking to the boy.
He advanced his red leg and his green leg by turns, and
drew them back again.
At last he took three steps forward on
his meagre shanks and held out his hand to the woman.
She took what he had in it, and disappeared into the dark-
ness.
He stood motionless for a moment, then he muttered some
words and burst into tears.
Presently he stopped, and said, “Maman m'a pris mon sou! ”
and fell to weeping again.


## p. 8572 (#180) ###########################################

8572
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
-
18
T
anovanced
is liter
one of les
ble real
berarise
e origin
The w
He dried his eyes and left off for a time, but as often as he
repeated to himself his sad little history — how his mother had
taken his sou from him — he was seized with another and a bit.
terer fit of weeping.
He stooped and buried his face in the curtain. The stiff,
wrinkly oil painting must be hard and cold to cry into. The
little body shrank together; he drew his green leg close up
under him, and stood like a stork upon the red one.
No one on the other side of the curtain must hear that he
was crying. Therefore he did not sob like a child, but fought
as a man fights against a broken heart.
When the attack was over, he blew his nose with his fingers,
and wiped them on his tights. With the dirty curtain he had
dabbled the tears all over his face until it was streaked with
black; and in this guise, and dry-eyed, he gazed for a moment
over the fair.
Then: “Maman m'a pris mon sou” — and he set off again.
The back-sweep of the wave leaves the beach dry for an
instant while the next wave is gathering. Thus sorrow swept
in heavy surges over the little childish heart.
His dress was so ludicrous, his body so meagre, his weeping
was so woefully bitter, and his suffering so great and man-like-
But at home at the hotel — the Pavillon Henri Quatre, where
the Queens of France condescended to be brought to bed — there
the condor sat and slept upon its perch.
And it dreamed its dream — its only dreamits dream about
the snow-peaks of Peru and the mighty wing-strokes over the
deep valleys; and then it forgot its rope.
It uplifted its ragged pinions vigorously, and struck two sturdy
strokes. Then the rope drew taut, and it fell back where it was
wont to fall — it wrenched its claw, and the dream vanished. -
Next morning the aristocratic English family was much con-
cerned, and the landlord himself felt annoyed; for the condor lay
dead upon the grass,
New Orle
in du
and be
itisiac
in the ci
dilen
miting
ichi
TE
4
Translation of William Archer.


## p. 8573 (#181) ###########################################

8573
i often as he
mother hai
r and a bit
a
The stif
.
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
nto. The
(1858-)
close up
that he
at fought
a
his fingers
ain he had
eaked with
a moment
I again
.
dry for an
TOW swep:
is weeping
man-like-
utre, where
ned-ther
N 1886 there appeared in the New Princeton Review a story
called "Monsieur Motte,' which attracted instant attention in
this country as in England, and subsequently in France, and
announced that America had a new writer who would add distinction
to its literature. The story dealt with a certain social phase in the
life of New Orleans; it had a touch of Gallic quality, and was
subtle reading of Creole character and of the negro race also; but
otherwise it had the note of universality which is found in all gen-
uine original literature.
The writer was Grace Elizabeth King of
New Orleans, the daughter of William M.
King, during his life a prominent lawyer,
and before the war a sugar planter in
Louisiana. Miss King passed her childhood
in the city and upon her father's plantation,
and was educated in the French schools
of New Orleans. It is evident from her
writings that she was a keen observer of
country and city life, and a close student of
human nature. New Orleans, when she was
a child, had more affiliations with Paris
than with New York, and her education was GRACE ELIZABETH King
decidedly French; indeed, it may be said
that her sympathy for French literature and her comprehension of it
were so strong and native, that when lately she made a considerable
sojourn in the French capital she did not seem to be in a foreign
atmosphere. To her knowledge of French she added an almost equal
facility in Spanish; so that she was well equipped for both the inves-
tigation and interpretation of the history and romance of Louisiana.
Her first success was followed by several short novels and sto-
ries: 'Bonne Maman,' (Earthlings,' Balcony Stories, some of which
were collected in a volume called "Tales of a Time and Place. The
Balcony Stories) were exquisite and subtle creations, and revealed
in the author an art, a finish in form, and a refined literary quality
which we are accustomed in criticism to call Parisian. No better
work in this sort has been done by any modern writer.
It was natural that Miss King, who is an enthusiastic and accurate
student, should be attracted to the dramatic and romantic history of

eam abort
over the
K'O sturer
ere it was
shed. -
zuch con
ondor lar
Archer


## p. 8574 (#182) ###########################################

8574
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
1
the lower Mississippi. The first results of this study were a life of
Bienville, the founder of New Orleans; a school history of Louisiana,
in collaboration with Professor Fichlin of Tulane University; and a
volume on New Orleans, a sort of personal tribute to her beloved
city. At this writing she is engaged on a life of De Soto, and as a
member of the Louisiana Historical Society is doing excellent work
in original research. While she is likely to increase her reputation
as a local historian, it is easy to predict that her strong constructive
imagination and her bent for fiction will lead her to make use of
her knowledge of early Louisiana for a romance, or for romances,
that will truly interpret the achievements and chivalry of the early
adventurers on our southwest coast. This abundant material for his-
torical novels of a high order she is already trained to handle.
The short stories of Miss King reveal a rare literary artist, and
many of them a power of depicting passion and the actualities of
life transmuted into ideal pictures by her genius of sympathy. They
would be marred unless given entire; and we have preferred to pre-
sent in this volume a brilliant description of an episode in American
history, which has never been so picturesquely and adequately set
forth.
THE GLORIOUS EIGHTH OF JANUARY
From New Orleans, the Place and the People. ) Copyright 1895, by Macmil-
lan & Co. Reprinted by permission of the author and publishers
T
our
I
WAS on the morning of the 2d of December, 1814, as
preferred chronicler of this period, Alexander Walker, relates,
that General Jackson and escort trotted their horses up the
road that leads from Spanish Fort to the city. On arriving at
the junction of Canal Carondelet and Bayou St. John, the party
dismounted before an old Spanish villa, the residence of one of
the prominent bachelor citizens of the day; where, in the marble-
paved hall, breakfast had been prepared for them,-a breakfast
such as luxury then could command from Creole markets and
cooks, for a guest whom one wished to honor. But, the story
goes, the guest of honor partook --- and that sparingly-only of
hominy. This reached a certain limit of endurance. At a whis-
per from a servant, the host excused himself, left the table, and
passed into the antechamber.
He was accosted by his fair friend
and neighbor who had volunteered her assistance for the occa-
sion.
"Ah, my friend, how could you play such a trick upon me?
You asked me to prepare your house to receive a great general.


## p. 8575 (#183) ###########################################

GRACE ELIZABETH KING
8575
re a life di
f Louisiana
'sity; and
er beora
, and as a
lent werk
eputatlar
structive
? use
mances
che eats
al for his
idle.
artist, and
tualities
thy. The
red to pares
America
juately set
I did so.
And I prepared a splendid breakfast. And now! I
find that my labor is all thrown away upon an old (Kaintuck'
flatboatman, instead of a great general with plumes, epaulettes,
long sword, and mustache. ”
Indeed, to female eyes, trained upon a Galvez, a Carondelet,
a Casa Calvo, Andrew Jackson must have represented indeed
a very unsatisfactory commandant-general. His dress — a small
leathern cap, a short blue Spanish cloak, frayed trousers, worn
and rusty high-top boots was deficient; and even for a flatboat-
man, threadbare.
But his personality, to equitable female eyes,
should have been impressive if not pleasing: a tall, gaunt, inflex-
ibly erect figure; a face sallow, it is true, and seamed and
wrinkled with the burden of heavy thought, but expressing to
the full the stern decision and restless energy which seemed the
very soul of the man; heavy brows shaded his fierce bright eyes,
and iron-gray hair bristled thick over his head.
From the villa the party trotted up the Bayou Road to its
intersection with the city, where stood a famous landmark in old
times: the residence of General Daniel Clarke, a great American
in the business and political world of the time. Here carriages
awaited them, and a formal delegation of welcome, — all the nota-
bilities, civil and military, the city afforded, headed by Governor
Claiborne and the mayor of the city: a group which, measured
by after achievements, could not be considered inconsiderable
either in number or character.
General Jackson, who talked as he fought — by nature - and
had as much use for fine words as for fine clothes, answered the
stately eloquence addressed him, briefly and to the point. He
had come to protect the city, and he would drive the enemy into
the sea or perish in the attempt. It was the eloquence for the
people and the time. As an interpreter repeated the words in
French, they passed from lip to lip, rousing all the energy they
conveyed. They sped with Jackson's carriage into the city,
where heroism has ever been most infectious; and the crowd that
ra n after him through the streets to see him alight, and to cheer
the flag unfurled from his headquarters on Royal Street, expressed
not so much the conviction that the savior of the city was there
in that house, as that the savior of the city was there in every
man's soul.
That evening the “Kaintuck” flatboatman was again subjected
to the ordeal of woman's eyes. A dinner party of the most
by Macmi
hers
4, as our
-; relates
s up the
riving at
he party
f one of
marble-
breakfast
sets and
de stort
only of
3 whic
le, and
T friend
e acca
On 720
general


## p. 8576 (#184) ###########################################

8576
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
(
>>
fashionable society had already assembled at a prominent and
distinguished house, when the host announced to his wife that he
had invited General Jackson to join them. She, as related by a
descendant, did what she could under the trying circumstances;
and so well prepared her guests for the unexpected addition to
their party, that the ladies kept their eyes fixed upon the door
with the liveliest curiosity, expecting to see it admit nothing
less than some' wild man of the woods, some curious specimen
of American Indian, in uniform. When it opened and General
Jackson entered, grave, self-possessed, martial, urbane, their aston-
ishment was not to be gauged. When the dinner was over and
he had taken his leave, the ladies all exclaimed with one impulse
to the hostess, “Is this your red Indian! Is this your wild man
of the woods! He is a prince. ”
!
From now on, the city was transformed into a martial camp.
Every man capable of bearing arms was mustered into service.
All the French émigrés in the community volunteered in the
ranks, only too eager for another chance at the English. Pris-
oners in the Calaboose were released and armed. To the old
original fine company of freemen of color another was added,
formed of colored refugees from St. Domingo, - men who had
sided with the whites in the revolution there. Lafitte, notwith-
standing the breaking up and looting of his establishment at
Barataria, made good his offer to the State by gathering his
Baratarians from the Calaboose and their hiding-places, and or-
ganizing them into two companies under the command of Domi-
nique You and Beluche. From the parishes came hastily gathered
volunteers, in companies and singly. The African slaves, catching
the infection, labored with might and main upon the fortifica-
tions ordered by Jackson; and even the domestic servants, it is
recorded, burnished their masters' arms and prepared ammunition
with the ardor of patriots.
The old men
were formed into a
home guard and given the patrol of the city. Martial law was
proclaimed. The reinforcements from the neighboring territories
arrived: a fine troop of horse from Mississippi, under the gallant
Hinds; and Coffee, with his ever-to-be-remembered brigade of
"Dirty Shirts,” who after a march of eight hundred miles, an-
swered Jackson's message to hasten by covering in two days the
one hundred and fifty miles from Baton Rouge to New Orleans.
At the levee, barges and flatboats landed the militia of Tennes-
see, under Carroll.


## p. 8577 (#185) ###########################################

GRACE ELIZABETH KING
8577
On the oth of December, eight days after Jackson's arrival
in the city, the British fleet entered Lake Borgne. In the har-
bor of Ship Island, in the pass between it and Cat Island, out to
Chandeleur Islands, as far as the spy-glass could carry, the eye
of the lookout saw; and saw British sails. Never before had so
august a visitation honored these distant waters. The very names
of the ships and of their commanders were enough to create a
panic. The Tonnant, the heroic Tonnant, of eighty guns, capt-
ured from the French at the battle of the Nile, with Vice-
Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane and Rear-Admiral Codrington;
the Royal Oak, seventy-four guns, Rear-Admiral Malcolm; the
Ramillies, under Sir Thomas Hardy, Nelson's friend; the Norge,
the Bedford, the Asia, all seventy-four-gunners; the Armide, Sir
Thomas Trowbridge; the Sea Horse, Sir James Alexander Gor-
don, fresh from the banks of the Potomac, — there were fifty sail,
in all carrying over a thousand guns, commanded by the élite of
the British navy, steered by West-Indian pilots, followed by a
smaller fleet of transports, sloops, and schooners. It seemed only
proper that with such ships and such an army as the ships car-
ried, a full and complete list of civil officers should be sent out,
to conduct the government of the country to be annexed to his
Majesty's dominions, - revenue collectors, printers, clerks, with
printing-presses and office paraphernalia. Merchant ships accom-
panied the squadron to carry home the spoils; and even many
ladies, wives of the officers, came along to share in the glory and
pleasure of the expedition. «I expect at this moment,” remarked
Lord Castlereagh in Paris almost at the exact date, “that most
of the large seaport towns of America are laid in ashes; that we
are in possession of New Orleans, and have command of all the
rivers of the Mississippi Valley and the Lakes; and that the
Americans are now little better than prisoners in their own
country. ”
The city must indeed have appeared practically defenseless to
any foe minded to take it. There was no fortification, properly
speaking, at the Balise. Fort St. Philip, on the river below the
city, was small, out of repair, badly equipped and poorly muni-
tioned. Back of the city there was pretty, picturesque Spanish
Fort, a military bauble; a hasty battery had been thrown up
where Bayou Chef Menteur joins Bayou Gentilly; and further
out, on the Rigolets, was the little mud fort of Petites Coquilles
(now Fort Pike). As every bayou from lake to river was, in
high water, a high-road to the city, these had been closed and
XV-537


## p. 8578 (#186) ###########################################

8578
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
rafted by order of the government; and by the same token,
Bayou Manchac has remained closed ever since.
Vice-Admiral Cochrane promptly commenced his programme.
Forty-five launches and barges, armed with carronades and manned
by a thousand soldiers and sailors, were sent to clear the lakes
of the American flag.
What the Americans called their fleet on the lakes consisted
of six small gunboats, carrying thirty-five guns, commanded by
Lieutenant T. Ap Catesby Jones. These had been sent by Com-
modore Patterson to observe the English feet, and prevent if
possible the landing of their troops. If pressed by a superior
force, they were to fall back through the Rigolets upon Fort
Petites Coquilles. In obeying his orders, Jones in vain tried to
beat through the Rigolets, with the current against him; his
boats were carried into the narrow channel between Malheureux
Island and Point Clear, where they stuck in the mud.
Jones
anchored therefore in as close line as he could, across the chan-
nel; and after a spirited address to his force of one hundred and
eighty-two men, awaited the attack.
It was about ten o'clock of a beautiful December morning.
The early fog lifted to show the British halting for breakfast,
gay, careless, and light-hearted as if on a picnic party. The sur-
face of the lake was without a ripple, the blue heavens without
a cloud.
At a signal the advance was resumed. On the flotilla
came, in the beautiful order and in the perfect line and time with
which the sturdy English oarsmen had pulled it through the
thirty-six miles, without pause or break, from Ship Island; each
boat with its glittering brass carronade at its prow, its serried
files of scarlet uniforms and dazzling crest of bayonets, and the
six oars on each side flashing in and out of the water.
The American boats lay silent, quiet, apparently lifeless.
Then
a flash, a roar, and a shot went crashing through the scarlet line.
With an
answer from their carronades, the British barges leaped
forward and clinched with the gunboats. It was musket to mus-
ket, pistol to pistol, cutlass to cutlass, man to man; with shouts
and cries, taunts and imprecations, and the steady roar through-
out of the American cannon, cutting with deadly aim into the
open British barges, capsizing, sinking them,—the water spot-
ting with struggling red uniforms.
Two of the American boats were captured, and their guns
turned against the others; and the British barges closing in, the
American crews one by one were beaten below their own decks


## p. 8579 (#187) ###########################################

GRACE ELIZABETH KING
8579
and overpowered. By half-past twelve the British flag waved
triumphant over Lake Borgne.
The British troops were forwarded in transports from the fleet
to the Île des Pois, near the mouth of Pearl River: a bare little
island and a desolate camp, where, with no tents, the men were
drenched with dew and chilled with frosts during the night, and
during the day parched with the sun; many died from it. From
some fisherman it was learned that about fifty miles west of Île
aux Pois there was a bayou that had not been closed and was
not defended, and which was navigable by barges for twelve
miles, where it joined a canal leading to a plantation on the
river a few miles below the city. To test the accuracy of the
information, Sir Alexander Cochrane dispatched a boat under
charge of the Hon. Captain Spencer, son of the Earl of Spencer,
to reconnoitre the route. Arrived at the Spanish fishermen's
village on the banks of Bayou Bienvenu, the young captain and
a companion, disguising themselves in the blue shirts and tar-
paulins of fishermen, paddled in a pirogue through the bayou
and canal (Villeré's), walked to the Mississippi, took a drink of
its waters, surveyed the country, interviewed some negroes; and
returned with the report that the route was not only practicable
but easy.
Sixteen hundred men and two cannon were embarked imme-
diately for the bayou. The sky was dark and lowering; heavy
rains fell during the whole day; the fires of charcoal, which could
be kept burning in daylight, were extinguished at night; and the
sharp frost cramped the soldiers into numbness. A detail sent
in advance on a reconnoissance surprised and captured four pick-
ets, who were held at the mouth of the bayou until the flotilla
came up to it. One of the prisoners, a Creole gentleman, was
presented to Sir Alexander Cochrane, the British commander,-
a rough-looking, white-haired old gentleman, dressed in plain
and much-worn clothing; and to General Keane, a tall, youthful,
black-whiskered man in military undress. Their shrewd cross-
questioning extracted from the Creole only the false statement
that Jackson's forces in the city amounted to twelve thousand
men, and that he had stationed four thousand at English Turn.
As the untruth had been preconcerted, it was confirmed by the
other prisoners, and believed by the British officers.
At dawn the barges entered the bayou. The English sail-
ors standing to their oars, pushed their heavy loads through the


## p. 8580 (#188) ###########################################

8580
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
»
tortuous shallow water. By nine o'clock the detachment was safe
on shore. «The place," writes the English authority, an officer
during the campaign, “was as wild as it is possible to imagine.
Gaze where we might, nothing could be seen except a huge
marsh covered with tall reeds. The marsh became gradually
less and less continuous, being intersected by wide spots of firm
ground; the reeds gave place by degrees to wood, and the wood
to inclosed fields. "
The troops landed, formed into columns, and pushing after
the guides and engineers, began their march. The advance was
slow and toilsome enough to such novices in swamping. But
cypresses, palmettos, cane-brakes, vines, and mire were at last
worried through; the sun began to brighten the ground, and the
front ranks, quickening their step, broke joyfully into an open
field near the expected canal. Beyond a distant orange grove,
the buildings of the Villeré plantation could be seen. Advancing
rapidly along the side of the canal and under cover of the orange
grove, a company gained the buildings, and spreading out, sur-
rounded them. The surprise was absolute. Major Villeré and
his brother, sitting on the front gallery of their residence, jumped
from their chairs at the sight of the red-coats before them; their
rush to the other side of the house only showed them that they
were bagged.
Secured in one of his own apartments, under guard of Brit-
ish soldiers, the young Creole officer found in his reflections the
spur to a desperate attempt to save himself and his race from a
suspicion of disloyalty to the United States, which under the cir-
cumstances might easily be directed against them by the Ameri-
cans. Springing suddenly through his guards, and leaping from
a window, he made a rush for the high fence that inclosed the
yard, throwing down the soldiers in his way. He cleared the
fence at a bound, and ran across the open field that separated
him from the forest. A shower of musket-balls fell around him.
“Catch or kill him! ” was shouted behind him. But the light,
agile Creole, with the Creole hunter's training from infancy, was
more than a match for his pursuers in such a race as that.
He
gained the woods, a swamp, while they were crossing the field,
spreading out as they ran to shut him in.
He sprang over
the boggy earth, into the swamp; until his feet, sinking deeper
and deeper, clogged and stuck. The Britons were gaining; had
reached the swa mp.
He could hear them panting and blowing,


## p. 8581 (#189) ###########################################

GRACE ELIZABETH KING
8581
6
i
1
1
.
1
umns.
and the orders which made his capture inevitable. There was
but one chance: he sprang up a cypress-tree, and strove for the
thick moss and branches overhead. Half-way up, he heard a
whimpering below. It was the voice of his dog, his favorite set-
ter, whining, fawning, and looking up to him with all the pathos
of brute fidelity. There was no choice; it was her life or his,
and with his, perhaps the surprise and capture of the city. Drop-
ping to the earth, he seized a billet of wood and aimed one blow
between the setter's devoted eyes; with the tears in his own eyes,
he used to relate. To throw the body to one side, snatch some
brush over it, spring to the tree again, was the work of an in-
stant. As he drew the moss around his crouching figure and
stilled his hard breathing, the British foundered past. When
they abandoned their useless search, he slid from his covert,
pushed through the swamp to the next plantation, and carried
the alarm at full speed to the city.
The British troops moved up the road along the levee, to the
upper line of the plantation, and took their position in three col-
Headquarters were established in the Villeré residence, in
the yard of which a small battery was thrown up. They were
eight miles from the city and separated from it by fifteen planta-
tions, large and small. By pushing forward, General Keane in
two hours could have reached the city; and the battle of New
Orleans would have taken place then and there, and most proba-
bly a different decision would have been wrested from victory.
The British officers strongly urged this bold line of action; but
Keane, believing the statement that General Jackson had an army
of about fifteen thousand in New Orleans, a force double his
own, feared being cut off from the fleet. He therefore concluded
to delay his advance until the other divisions came up. This
was on the twenty-third day of December.
"Gentlemen,” said Jackson to his aides and secretaries, at half-
past one o'clock, when Villeré had finished his report, “the British
are below: we must fight them to-night. ”
He issued his orders summoning his small force from their
Plauche's battalion was two miles away at Bayou
St. John, Coffee five miles off at Avart's, the colored battalion
at Gentilly.
They were commanded to proceed immediately to
Montreuil's plantation below the city, where they would be joined
by the regulars. Commodore Patterson was directed to get the
gunboat Carolina under way. As the Cathedral clock was strik-
ing three, from every quarter of the city troops were seen coming
various posts.


## p. 8582 (#190) ###########################################

8582
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
>
-
at a quickstep through the streets, each company with its own
vernacular music, Yankee Doodle, La Marseillaise, Le Chant
du Depart. The ladies and children crowded the balconies and
windows to wave handkerchiefs and applaud; the old men stood
upon the banquettes waving their hats, and with more sorrow
in eyes and heart over their impotence than age had ever yet
wrung from them.
Jackson, on horseback, with the regulars drawn up at his
right, waited at the gate of Fort St. Charles to review the troops
as they passed. The artillery were already below, in possession
of the road. The first to march down after them were Beale's
Rifles,- or as New Orleans calls them, Beale's famous Rifles,—
in their blue hunting-shirts and citizens' hats, their long-bores
over their shoulders; sharpshooters and picked shots every one
of them; all young, active, intelligent volunteers, from the best
in the professional and business circles, asking but one favor, the
post of danger. At a hand gallop, and with a cloud of dust,
came Hinds's dragoons, delighting General Jackson by their
gallant, dare-devil bearing. After them Jackson's companion in
arms, the great Coffee, trotted at the head of his mounted gun-
men, with their long hair and unshaved faces, in dingy woolen
hunting-shirts, copperas-dyed trousers, coonskin caps, and leather
belts stuck with hunting-knives and tomahawks. “Forward at a
gallop! ” was Coffee's order, after a word with General Jackson,
and so they disappeared. Through a side street marched a gay,
varied mass of color; men all of a size, but some mere boys in
age, with the handsome, regular features, flashing eyes, and un-
mistakable martial bearing of the French. "Ah! here come the
brave Creoles,” cries Jackson; and Plauche's battalion, which had
come in on a run from Bayou St. John, stepped gallantly by.
And after these, under their white commander, defiled the
freemen of color, and then passed down the road a band of
hundred Choctaw Indians in their war paint; last of all, the reg-
ulars. · Jackson still waited, until a small dark schooner left the
opposite bank of the river and slowly moved down the current.
This was the Carolina, under Commodore Patterson. Then Jack-
son clapped spurs to his horse, and followed by his aides, galloped
after his army.
The veteran corps took the patrol of the now deserted streets.
The ladies retired from balcony and window, with their brave
smiles and fluttering handkerchiefs; and hastening to their re-
spective posts, assembled in coteries to prepare lint and bandages,
a
.


## p. 8583 (#191) ###########################################

GRACE ELIZABETH KING
8583
»
»
1
1
and cut and sew; for many of their defenders and Jackson's
warriors had landed on the levee in a ragged if not destitute
condition. Before Jackson left Fort St. Charles, a message had
been sent to him from one of these coteries, asking what they
were to do in case the city was attacked. "Say to the ladies,”
he replied, “not to be uneasy. No British soldier shall ever enter
the city as an enemy, unless over my dead body. ”
As the rumored war-cry of the British was Beauty and
Booty,” many of the ladies, besides thimbles and needles, had
provided themselves with small daggers, which they wore in
their belts.
Here it is the custom of local pride to pause and enumerate
the foes set in array against the men hastening down the levee
road.
First, always, there was that model regiment the Ninety-third
Highlanders, in their bright tartans and kilts; men chosen for
stature and strength, whose broad breasts, wide shoulders, and
stalwart figures widened their ranks into a formidable appear-
ance. The Prince of Orange and his staff had journeyed from
London to Plymouth to review them before they embarked. Then
there were six companies of the Ninety-fifth Rifles; the famous
Rifle Brigade of the Peninsular campaign; the Fourteenth Regi-
ment, the Duchess of York's Light Dragoons; two West-Indian
regiments, with artillery, rocket brigade, sapper and engineer
corps — in all four thousand three hundred men, under command
of Major-General John Keane, a young officer whose past reputa-
tion for daring and gallantry has been proudly kept bright by
the traditions of his New Orleans foes. To these were added
General Ross's three thousand men, fresh from their brilliant
Baltimore and Washington raid. Choice troops they were: the
gallant and distinguished Fourth, or King's Own; the Forty-fourth,
East Essex Foot; the Eighty-fifth, Buck Volunteers, commanded
by one of the most brilliant officers in the British service, Colo-
nel William Thornton; the Twenty-first Royal, North British
Fusileers,— with the exception of the Black Regiments and the
Highlanders, all tried veterans, who had fought with Wellington
through his Peninsular campaign, from the beginning to his tri-
umphant entry into France.
Only the first boat loads, eighteen hundred men, were in Vil.
Zeré's field on the afternoon of the twenty-third. They lay around
their bivouac fires, about two hundred yards from the levee,


## p. 8584 (#192) ###########################################

8584
GRACE ELIZABETH KING
1
(
enjoying their rest and the digestion of the bountiful supper of
fresh meat, poultry, milk, eggs, and delicacies, which had been
added to their rations by a prompt raid on the neighboring
plantations. General Keane and Colonel Thornton paced the gal-
lery of the Villeré house, glancing at each turn towards the wood,
for the sight of the coming of the next division of the army.
The only hostile demonstration during the afternoon had been
the firing of the outpost upon a reconnoitring squad of dragoons,
and a bold dash down the road of a detachment of Hinds's horse-
men - who, after a cool, impudent survey of the British camp,
had galloped away again under a volley from the Rifles.
Darkness gathered over the scene. The sentinels were doubled,
and officers walked their rounds in watchful anxiety. About
seven o'clock some of them observed a boat stealing slowly down
the river.