No More Learning

So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck,
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck.
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harbored;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered -
Jews black, and brown, and gray:
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did naught but scratch and pray:


## p. 14717 (#291) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14717
Their dirty children puking —
Their dirty saucepans cooking-
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
-
To starboard, Turks and Greeks were -
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave Iberia bowling
Before the break of day—
When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding:
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed places;


## p. 14718 (#292) ##########################################

14718
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them
And splashed and overset them:
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah! "
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them,
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,


## p. 14719 (#293) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14719
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;
A
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)-
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potztausend!
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend! ”
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER! "
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields:
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case:
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.


## p. 14720 (#294) ##########################################

14720
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is:
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace,-
All these you eat at TERRÉ's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed a rich and savory stew 'tis ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
IS TERRÉ still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter, nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray? "
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder:
"Monsieur is dead this many a day. "-
"It is the lot of saint and sinner:
So honest TERRE'S run his race. ".
"What will Monsieur require for dinner? ».
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? »
-
-
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer:
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ? » —
"Tell me a good one. "—"That I can, sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal. "
"SO TERRÉ's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustomed corner-place:
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. "


## p. 14721 (#295) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14721
XXV-921
My old accustomed corner here is,
The table still is in the nook:
Ah! vanished many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face;
And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place - but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me
There's no one now to share my cup.
**
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is:
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!


## p. 14722 (#296) ##########################################

14722
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
PEG OF LIMAVADDY
IDING from Coleraine
R (Famed for lovely Kitty),
Came a Cockney bound
Unto Derry city;
Weary was his soul;
Shivering and sad, he
Bumped along the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Mountains stretched around. —
Gloomy was their tinting;
And the horse's hoofs
Made a dismal clinting;
Wind upon the heath
Howling was and piping,
On the heath and bog,
Black with many a snipe in.
Mid the bogs of black,
Silver pools were flashing,
Crows upon their sides
Pecking were and splashing.
Cockney on the car
Closer folds his plaidy,
Grumbling at the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Through the crashing woods
Autumn brawled and blustered,
Tossing round about
Leaves the hue of mustard;
Yonder lay Lough Foyle,
Which a storm was whipping,
Covering with the mist
Lake and shores and shipping.
Up and down the hill
(Nothing could be bolder),
Horse went with a raw
Bleeding on his shoulder.
"Where are horses changed? "
Said I to the laddy
Driving on the box:
"Sir, at Limavaddy. "


## p. 14723 (#297) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14723
Limavaddy inn's
But a humble bait-house,
Where you may procure
Whisky and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to this hotel come.
Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby's cradle rocking.
To the chimney nook
Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies;)
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it,
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!
Up and down the stair
Two more young-ones patter,—
Twins were never seen
Dirtier or fatter;
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have Here the host
Kindly interposes:·
"Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir:
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir? "
-
:-
Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gads! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant:


## p. 14724 (#298) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14724
Hebe's self, I thought,
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled;
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!
With a curtsy neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer.
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word)
On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Misses, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal
'Specially Miss Peg's was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was),
That the joyful sound
Of that mingling laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.
Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel,
Singing Giovinetti,'-
Fancy Peggy's laugh,
-
Sweet and clear and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!


## p. 14725 (#299) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
When the laugh was done,
Peg, the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room
Wonderfully busy:
Now she looks to see
If the kettle keeps hot;
Now she rubs the spoons,
Now she cleans the teapot;
Now she sets the cups
Trimly and secure;
Now she scours a pot:
And so it was I drew her.
Thus it was I drew her
Scouring of a kettle.
(Faith! her blushing cheeks
Reddened on the metal! )
Ah! but 'tis in vain
That I try to sketch it:
The pot perhaps is like,
But Peggy's face is wretched.
No! the best of lead
And of india-rubber
Never could depict
That sweet kettle-scrubber!
See her as she moves:
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,-
Vestris never showed
Ankles like to Peggy's.
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably bodiced.
This I do declare:
Happy is the laddy.
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were,
Blest would be the daddy
14725


## p. 14726 (#300) ##########################################

14726
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare
In the land of Paddy,-
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.
Citizen or Squire,
Tory, Whig, or Radi-
cal would all desire
Peg of Limavaddy.
Had I Homer's fire,
Or that of Serjeant Taddy,
Meetly I'd admire.
Peg of Limavaddy.
And till I expire,
Or till I grow mad, I
Will sing unto my lyre
Peg of Limavaddy!
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
ERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter:
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
WER
Charlotte was a married lady;
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body.
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.


## p. 14727 (#301) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14727
LITTLE BILLEE
AIR Il y avait un petit navire'
THE
HERE were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain's biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree. "
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we. "
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender—
We're old and tough, so let's eat he.
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie. "
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me. "
"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. "There's land I see:
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee;
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B. "
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee:
But as for little Bill he made him
The captain of a seventy-three.


## p. 14728 (#302) ##########################################

14728
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
FROM THE PEN AND THE ALBUM ›
>
GⓇ
O BACK, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!
Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood,-you welcome it.
Kind lady! till my last of lines is penned,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,—
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!
Not all are so that were so in past years:
Voices familiar once, no more he hears;
Names often writ are blotted out in tears.
So be it: joys will end and tears will dry. —
Album! my master bids me wish good-by.
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery.
Nor signed the page that registered a lie.
AT THE CHURCH GATE
LTHOUGH I enter not,
A
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming:
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell:
She's coming, she's coming!


## p. 14729 (#303) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14729
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes-she's here - she's past-
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly:
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.
THE MAHOGANY-TREE
HRISTMAS is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,—
C
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,-
Shelter about
The Mahogany-Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom:
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.


## p. 14730 (#304) ##########################################

14730
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Life is but short;
THE
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet:
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite :
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
THE END OF THE PLAY
HE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.


## p. 14731 (#305) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14731
It is an irksome word and task;
And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
One word ere yet the evening ends; –
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas-time.
On life's wide scene you too have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play:
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!
Good-night! I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
-
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the foo'
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be he who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,


## p. 14732 (#306) ##########################################

14732
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
2
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
Who brought him to that mirth and state?
His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow.
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize. -
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead —
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still,-
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.


## p. 14733 (#307) ##########################################

14733
OCTAVE THANET
(1860 ? -)
HE Arkansas and other stories of the South and West by Oc-
tave Thanet-known in private life as Miss Alice French
are part of the vital contribution to sectional American lit-
erature. She belongs with those writers in the United States who
are studying with insight and sympathy varied types of humanity;
and while producing good literature, are drawing East and West,
North and South together, by making them better known to each
other. Miss French's stories are skillful in workmanship, warm with
humanity, and very dramatic in conception
and handling. She is a realist in the best
sense; basing her fiction on close observa-
tion and understanding of the characters
she creates. She is doing for a certain part
of the Southwest what no previous author
has done so well.
—

Although Arkansas is her favorite study
ground, and Iowa is her present home,
Miss French was born about 1860 at Ando-
ver, Massachusetts; and comes of an old
New England family, which traces back to
Massachusetts Bay colonists. Her father
went West for his health, and settled in
Davenport, Iowa; keeping in touch with
the East, however, by annual visits to the Massachusetts coast and
sojourns in Boston. Alice was graduated at Andover Academy. Her
early tastes in reading were historical, and she began by writing on
social and economic themes. Her first story to attract attention was
( The Bishop's Vagabond,' in the Atlantic Monthly; a South Carolina
watering-place sketch, which contains a salient bit of characterization
humorously presented, yet with strong undercurrents of pathos and
tragedy, and which proved the forerunner of many which revealed to
her and her public the true scope and nature of her powers.
Miss French passes her winters on her plantation, Clover Bend,
on the Black River, in Arkansas; and it is there that she has made
the careful studies of the native life upon which her tales are based.
The scenery, the characters, and even the incidents, in some of her
OCTAVE THANET


## p. 14734 (#308) ##########################################

14734
OCTAVE THANET
fiction, are direct transcripts of what she has seen and heard, ideal-
ized by the artist touch. The pseudonym "Octave Thanet" is in
derivation a curious composite: the first of the two names is that of
a school room-mate, the second was discovered on the side of a pass-
ing freight-car.
Miss French's first collection of short stories was 'Knitters in the
Sun' (1884): and it has been followed by 'Expiation,' a novel (1890);
'Otto the Knight, and other Trans-Mississippi Stories' (1891); 'We
All,' another novel (1891); Stories of a Western Town' (1893); 'An
Adventure in Photography,' a practical treatise on amateur picture-
taking (1893); and 'The Missionary Sheriff,' in which the West instead
of the Southwest is depicted, -the tales being laid in Iowa and
Illinois. The author's growth, from the lurid massing of horrors in
'Expiation, an Arkansas war-tale of the most grewsome sort,- to
the later short stories, with their artistic restraint and fine sense of
balanced comedy and tragedy, has been steady in the direction of an
assured command of her material. Her fiction as a whole furnishes
an admirably vivid interpretation of a very individual and interest-
ing kind of American life. Dialect, character, and scenery are put
before the reader with force and truth; and while interest is aroused
by the fresh locale, it is held by the writer's power in story-making,
and in dramatic situations. When she shifts the scene from Arkansas
to Iowa, as in the title-story, The Missionary Sheriff,'— one of her
most enjoyable character studies, she displays the same effective
qualities. She deals with the main motives and passions of plain
men and women. Miss French is strongest in the short story; that
medium affords her talent its best expression. She is at once accu-
rate and picturesque in her descriptions. The land of the canebrake
and the cypress swamp, of the poor white, the decayed planter and
the negro, the Western town with its crude energy and strongly
marked types, are painted in a way to make it all real; yet a fine
romanticism colors Miss French's work: she has faith in the good in
rough, uncouth folk; she finds nobler traits masking in unexpected
quarters. Her interest in the great practical problems that concern
her country is illustrated in the series of Stories of Capital and
Labor,' which at the present writing stand for her latest work. Her
fiction thus satisfies the desire for truth in the literal sense, and for
that higher truth which is just as true and much more inspiring.


## p. 14735 (#309) ##########################################

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14735
THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF
From The Missionary Sheriff. Copyright 1897, by Harper & Brothers
HERIFF WICKLIFF leaned out of his office window, the better to
watch the boy soldiers march down the street.
The huge
SHE
pile of stone that is the presumed home of Justice for the
county, stands in the same yard with the old yellow stone jail.
The court-house is ornate and imposing, although a hundred
active chimneys daub its eaves and carvings; but the jail is as
plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet during Sheriff Wickliff's adminis
tration, while Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron,
window-gardens brightened the grim walls all summer, and
chrysanthemums and roses blazoned the black bars in winter.
Above the jail the street is a pretty street, with trim cottages.
and lawns and gardens; below, the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into
shabby one and two story wooden shops devoted to the humbler
handicrafts. It is not a street favored by processions: only the
little soldiers of the Orphans' Home Company would choose to
tramp over its unkempt macadam. Good reason they had, too;
since thus they passed the sheriff's office, and it was the sheriff
who had given most of the money for their uniforms, and their
drums and fifes outright.
A voice at the sheriff's elbow caused him to turn.
"Well, Amos," said his deputy with Western familiarity, "get-
ting the interest on your money? "
Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame: he was six feet
two inches in height, with bones and thews to match his stat-
ure. A stiff black mustache, curving about his mouth and lift-
ing as he smiled, made his white teeth look the whiter. One of
the upper teeth was crooked. That angle had come in an ugly
fight (when he was a special officer and detective) in the Chicago
stock-yards; he having to hold a mob at bay, single-handed, to
save the life of a wounded policeman. The scar seaming his jaw
and neck belonged to the time that he captured a notorious gang
of train robbers. He brought the robbers in—that is, he brought
their bodies; and "That scar was worth three thousand dollars
to me," he was wont to say. In point of fact it was worth more;
because he had invested the money so advantageously, that thanks
to it and the savings which he had been able to add, in spite
of his free hand, he was now become a man of property.
The


## p. 14736 (#310) ##########################################

14736
OCTAVE THANET
sheriff's high cheek-bones, straight hair (black as a dead coal),
and narrow black eyes, were the arguments for a general belief
that an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage of his
genealogical tree. All that people really knew about him was
that his mother died when he was a baby, and his father about
the same time was killed in battle, leaving their only child to
drift from one reluctant protector to another, until he brought
up in the Soldiers' Orphans' Home of the State. If the sheriff's
eyes were Indian, Indians may have very gentle eyes. He turned
them now on the deputy with a smile.
"Well, Joe, what's up? " said he.
"The lightning-rod feller wants to see you as soon as you
come back to the jail, he says. And here's something he dropped
as he was going to his room. Don't look much like it could be
his mother. Must have prigged it. "
The sheriff examined the photograph,- an ordinary cabinet
card. The portrait was that of a woman, pictured with the re-
lentless frankness of a rural photographer's camera. Every sad
line in the plain elderly face, every wrinkle in the ill-fitting silk
gown, showed with a brutal distinctness, and somehow made the
picture more pathetic. The woman's hair was gray and thin;
her eyes, which were dark, looked straight forward, and seemed
to meet the sheriff's gaze. They had no especial beauty of form;
but they, as well as the mouth, had an expression of wistful kind-
liness that fixed his eyes on them for a full minute. He sighed
as he dropped his hand. Then he observed that there was writ-
ing on the reverse side of the carte, and lifted it again to read.
In a neat cramped hand was written:
"FEB. 21, 1889.
"To Eddy, from Mother.
"The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to
shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. "
Wickliff put the carte in his pocket.
"That's just the kind of mother I'd like to have," said he:
"awful nice and good, and not so fine she'd be ashamed of me.
And to think of him. "
"He's an awful slick one," assented the deputy cordially.
«< Two years we've been ayfter him. New games all the time;
but the lightning-rods ain't in it with this last scheme,- working


## p. 14737 (#311) ##########################################

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14737
hisself off as a Methodist parson on the road to a job, and stop-
ping all night, and then the runaway couple happening in, and
that poor farmer and his wife so excited and interested, and of
course they'd witness and sign the certificate: wisht I'd seen them
when they found out! "
"They gave 'em cake and some currant wine, too. "
"That's just like women. Say, I didn't think the girl was
much to brag on for looks -
>>
"Got a kinder way with her, though," Wickliff struck in.
"Depend on it, Joseph, the most dangerous of them all are the
homely girls with a way to them. A man's off his guard with
them: he's sorry for them not being pretty, and being so nice
and humble; and before he knows it they're winding him round
their finger. "
"I didn't know you was so much of a philosopher, Amos,"
said the deputy, admiring him.
"It ain't me, Joe: it's the business. Being a philosopher, I
take it, ain't much more than seeing things with the paint off;
and there's nothing like being a detective to get the paint off.
It's a great business for keeping a man straight, too, seeing the
consequences of wickedness so constantly,-especially fool wicked-
ness that gets found out. Well, Joe, if this lady"-touching his
breast pocket-"is that guy's mother, I'm awful sorry for her,
for I know she tried to train him right. I'll go over and find
out, I guess. "
So saying, and quite unconscious of the approving looks of
his subordinate (for he was a simple-minded, modest man, who
only spoke out of the fullness of his heart), the sheriff walked
over to the jail.
The corridor into which the cells of the unconvicted prison-
ers opened was rather full to-day. As the sheriff entered, every
one greeted him, even the sullen-browed man talking with a
sobbing woman through the bars,—and every one smiled. He
nodded to all, but only spoke to the visitor.
He said, "I guess
he didn't do it this time, Lizzie; he won't be in long. "
―――
"That's what I been tellin' her," growled the man, "and she
won't believe me; I told her I promised you- >>
"And God A'mighty bless you, sheriff, for what you done! "
the woman wailed. The sheriff had some ado to escape from her
benedictions politely; but he got away, and knocked at the door
of the last cell on the tier. The inmate opened the door himself.
XXV-922


## p. 14738 (#312) ##########################################

14738
OCTAVE THANET
He was a small man, who was still wearing the clerical habit
of his last criminal masquerade; and his face carried out the
suggestion of his costume, being an actor's face, not only in the
clean-shaven cheeks and lips, but in the flexibility of the features
and the unconscious alertness of gaze. He was fair of skin, and
his light-brown hair was worn off his head at the temples. His
eyes were fine, well shaped, of a beautiful violet color and an
extremely pleasant expression. He looked like a mere boy across
the room in the shadow; but as he advanced, certain deep lines
about his mouth displayed themselves and raised his age. The
sunlight showed that he was thin; he was haggard the instant
he ceased to smile. With a very good manner he greeted the
sheriff, to whom he proffered the sole chair of the apartment.
"Guess the bed will hold me," said the sheriff, testing his
words by sitting down on the white-covered iron bedstead.
"Well, I hear you wanted to see me. "
"Yes, sir. I want to get my money that you took away from
me. "
"Well, I guess you can't have it. " The sheriff spoke with a
smile, but his black eyes narrowed a little. "I guess the court
will have to decide first if that ain't old man Goodrich's money
that you got from the note he supposed was a marriage certifi
cate. I guess you'd better not put any hopes on that money,
Mr. Paisley. — Wasn't that the name you gave me? "
"Paisley 'll do," said the other man indifferently. "What be-
came of my friend? "
"The sheriff of Hardin County wanted the man; and the
ladywell, the lady is here boarding with me. "
"Going to squeal? "
«< Going to tell all she knows. "
Paisley's hand went up to his mouth; he changed color.
"It's like her," he muttered; "oh, it's just like her! " And he
added a villainous epithet.
"None of that talk," said Wickliff.
The man had jumped up and was pacing his narrow space,
fighting against a climbing rage. "You see," he cried, unable to
contain himself,- "you see, what makes me so mad is now I've
got to get my mother to help me: and I'd rather take a licking! "
"I should think you would," said Wickliff dryly. "Say, this
your mother? " He handed him the photograph, the written side
upward.


## p. 14739 (#313) ##########################################

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14739
"It came in a Bible," explained Paisley with an embarrassed
air.
"Your mother rich? "
"She can raise the money. "
"Meaning, I expect, that she can mortgage her house and lot.
Look here, Smith, this ain't the first time your ma has sent you
money; but if I was you I'd have the last time stay the last.
She don't look equal to much more hard work. "
"My name's Paisley, if you please," returned the prisoner stol-
idly; and I can take care of my own mother. If she's lent me
money I have paid it back. This is only for bail, to deposit — »
"There is the chance," interrupted Wickliff, "of your skipping.
Now I tell you, I like the looks of your mother, and I don't
mean she shall run any risks. So if you do get money from
her, I shall personally look out you don't forfeit your bail. Be-
sides, court is in session now, so the chances are you wouldn't
more than get the money before it would be your turn. See ? »
"Anyhow I've got to have a lawyer. "
"Can't see why, young feller. I'll give you a straight tip.
There ain't enough law in Iowa to get you out of this scrape.
We've got the cinch on you, and there ain't any possible squirm-
ing out. "
>>
"So you say;
-the sneer was a little forced; "I've heard
of your game before. Nice kind officers, ready to advise a man
and pump him dry, and witness against him afterwards. I ain't
that kind of a sucker, Mr. Sheriff. "
"Nor I ain't that kind of an officer, Mr. Smith. You'd ought
to know about my reputation by this time. "
self. "
-
«< They say you're square," the prisoner admitted: "but you
ain't so stuck on me as to care a damn whether I go over the
road; expect you'd want to send me for the trouble I've given
you; "—and he grinned. "Well, what are you after? "
"Helping your mother, young feller. I had a mother my-
"It ain't uncommon. "
«< Maybe a mother like mine- and yours — is, though. ”
The prisoner's eyes traveled down to the face on the carte.
"That's right," he said, with another ring in his voice.
<< I
wouldn't mind half so much if I could keep my going to the pen
from her. She's never found out about me. "
"How much family you got? " said Wickliff thoughtfully.


## p. 14740 (#314) ##########################################

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14740
"Just a mother. I ain't married. There was a girl, my
sister-good sort too, 'nough better 'n me. She used to be a
clerk in the store,- typewriter, bookkeeper, general utility, you
know. My position in the first place; and when I-well — re-
signed, they gave it to her. She helped mother buy the place.
Two years ago she died. You may believe me or not, but I
would have gone back home then and run straight if it hadn't
been for Mame. I would, by! I had five hundred dollars
then, and I was going back to give every damned cent of it to
ma, tell her to put it into the bakery-»
"That how she makes a living? "
"Yes-little two-by-four bakery; -oh, I'm giving you straight
goods; - makes pies and cakes and bread,- good, too, you bet:
makes it herself. Ruth Graves, who lives round the corner,
comes in and helps-keeps the books, and tends shop busy
times; tends the oven too, I guess. She was a great friend of
Ellie's and mine. She's a real good girl. Well, I didn't get
mother's letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had a mind
to go right down to Fairport and go in with ma. That- She
stopped it. Got me off on a tear somehow, and by the time I
was sober again the money was 'most all gone. I sent what was
left off to ma, and I went on the road again myself. But she's
the devil. "
―――
-
"That the time you hit her? "
The prisoner nodded. "Oughtn't to, of course. Wasn't
brought up that way. My father was a Methodist preacher, and
a good one. But I tell you the coons that say you never must
hit a woman don't know anything about that sort of woman:
there ain't nothing on earth so infernally exasperating as a
woman. They can make you worse than forty men. ”
It was the sheriff's turn to nod; which he did gravely, with
even a glimmer of sympathy in his mien.
"Well, she never forgave you," said he: "she's had it in for
you since. »
"And she knows I won't squeal, 'cause I'd have to give poor
Ben away," said the prisoner: "but I tell you, sheriff, she was at
the bottom of the deviltry every time; and she managed to bag
the best part of the swag too. "
"I daresay. Well, to come back to business: the question
with you is how to keep these here misfortunes of yours from
your mother, ain't it?