Zigzag Journeys in the White City. With Visits to the Neighboring Metropolis

by Hezekiah Butterworth

A CHINK CHINK STORY.

The old story-tellers in the sea-faring towns used to strike their clenched hands on their knees so as to make a sound like the chinking of money.

THE WISE LITTLE WOMAN WHO OPENED THE PEWS.[6]

I.

Have you heard of the tropical Isles of June,

The coral isles with their splendors of palms,

Where the sails hang loose in the languorous noon,

And a dusky sun is the rising moon,

And the Southern Cross hangs over the sea

Like the jewels of Heaven? Ah, me! ah, me!

Those gardens of gold in the opal main,

How they tempted the souls of the pilots of Spain!

But as John the old Sailor was wont to say,

When he told old tales in his comical way,

“’Tis only the gold that does good that is good—

And only the rightful gold is gain.

Alas for the spoil of the pilots of Spain!

’Twas fool’s gold all.”

DRAW-BRIDGES.

II.

Our John was a sailor, Sailor John,

A grizzly old sailor of Provincetown Bay,

And one queer old tale that he used to tell

By the bright fire-dogs to the boys now gone,

And the fisher-folk—I remember well.

He would tell it to us in his odd old way,

After the revels on Christmas Day,

And at evening after the hours of play.

He would lock his hands and strike them upon

His knees, like this: chink, chink, chink, chink.

It sounds like coins of gold, I know,

It sounds like coins of gold—but oh,

When you open your hands there is nothing there

But a goldless chasm of empty air!—

’Twas fool’s gold all.

III.

Our John the sailor, Sailor John,

He used to tell the tale this way,

In a very slow and deliberate way,

After the storms upon Provincetown Bay:

“’Tis about Sir Francis Drake of the Tay,

Who was born in a hut beside the Tavy,

A famous salt in Elizabeth’s day,

The old sea-dog of the British Navy.

He guarded the coast of England well,

And haunted the seas, that old invader,

And gathered spoils from the Spanish war,

From the Isles of June to Cristobel,

And flouted King Philip off Trafalgar,

And scattered the ships of the Great Armada.

The first to sail the Pacific Sea,

And first to smoke tobacco was he.

“And he said at last, ‘Our coast is hilly,

And the northern seas are dark and chilly:

I’m growing old and my veins are cold,

But still my soul is athirst for gold.

Let me go once more to the Spanish Main,

To isles of the sun, and the golden rain,

And rob the galleons old of Spain.’

He went and died ’mid the isles, ah me!

And his white ship scudded across the sea,

The ‘Golden Hinde’ in the western wind,

And never again to his home came he—

But only his gold brought home again.

’Twas fool’s gold all.

IV.

“Old Plymouth stands by the windy sea,

As lovely a city as ever was seen.

And fair are the churches of Plymouth dean,[7]

And tall was the church that stood on the quay.

“Now lonely old Susan lived on the moor,

Away from the tower of Plymouth Green,

Away from the roads of Plymouth dean.

A little old woman and poor was she,

Whose father had died on the stormy sea,

And she went to the church on each Lord’s Day,

Though her cottage was many a mile away—

To the sailor’s church that looked o’er the bay,

The church of the storms and wild sea-mews,

And she was hired to open the pews.

It made the church seem friendly and free,

To open the pews by charity.

The standing committee who seated the people,

And the grim old bell-ringer who lived in the steeple,

And the beadle who kept evil-doers in awe,

And tickled the sleeper’s nose with a straw,

And made lazy old women jump up in their dreams,

And wake all their neighbors with spasms and screams—

They were worthy folks all, but not equal in dues

To the wise little woman who opened the pews.

And the good folks on Sunday each gave her a penny,

And at weddings and Christmases twice as many,

And at Hallowe’en they gave her a guinea.

STOCK-YARDS.

“Now, one autumn morn, as she came to the church,

The sailors, lingering round the porch,

Under the trees strange stories told

Of Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold;

And Susan stopped and listened awhile,

Then opened the pews in the long, broad aisle,

Not over-pleased at the wonderful news.

‘’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain,

And I want not the gold of the pilots of Spain,’

Said the wise little woman who opened the pews.

V.

“’Twas in glimmering September—the hour, near noon;

The prayers had been read; the clerk gave out a tune,

And stood up and looked through the window, and then

His eyes oped as though he’d ne’er close them again;

His mouth opened too, and his lips rounded, so,

And left on his face just the round letter O.

Then he winked to the beadle, and winked to the squire,

And their eyes sought the window, and turned from the choir.

The horizon was broken—there were sails in the air;

And the cross of St. George on the breeze floated fair.

Then arose from the quay a tumultuous shout,

And the heads of the singers went bobbing about,

And no one looked upward, but every one out.

VI.

“The children grew restless, the tirewomen bold,

And the beadle cried out, ‘Run, run! I’ve no doubt

’Tis Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold!

It will make us all rich, and we’ll have a new bell.’

Then the beadle ran out; and the clerk and the squire

Said, ‘We’ll now put new shingles upon the old spire!’

Ran the sailors and women and tradespeople all;

And the deaconess, who could not her feelings repress,

Said, ‘Run, and it may be I’ll get a new dress.’

Till—oh, ’tis a scandalous story to tell—

Till no one was left save quaint Rector Mews

And the wise little woman who opened the pews;

Only she, and the figures of saints on the wall.

Then the rector said, ‘Susan, we might as well run;

There’s a ship coming in from the isles of the sun.

It bodes good to us all, this remarkable news;

I’ll run, while you shut up the pulpit and pews.

’Tis not every day I am called to behold

A ship from the Indies all loaded with gold!

’Twill make us so rich we’ll all things make new,

And have a new hassock in every pew!’

And he doffed his long robe in a hurry, and he

Ran after the others all down to the quay.

“Susan heard the men shouting on roof-top and shore,

The boom of the cannon, the answering gun.

But she turned from the church to her thatched-cottage door,

And was thankful her riches had made her so poor.

VII.

“Uneventful years passed, and dull was the news;

And the wise little woman still opened the pews.

And Sir Francis again from the port sailed away,

Far off from the hills of the Tavy and Tay;

And at last the good people looked out on the main

For his ship to appear in the distance again;

And the parson still preached on the sins of the Jews.

From the Isles of June came not gold, spice, nor news;

And the wise little woman who opened the pews

Used to say, ‘You must search for gold on your knees,

And look up to Heaven, not over the seas

For gold-laden ships from the bright Caribbees,

The riches that galleons bring over the deep.

’Tis only the gold that does good that is good;

And the gold that we covet and hoard up and keep,

That’s fool’s gold all.’

VIII.

“The St. Martin birds came to the church-tower tall,

And the purple-winged swallows that lived in the wall;

The mavis sang sweet, and the green hedgerows burned,

And the wayside brooks into violets turned;

The lilies tossed in the scented air,

The peach-boughs reddened, and whitened the pear.

Again on a Sunday came wonderful news,

And the little old woman who opened the pews

Again heard the shoutings of joy on the quay,

The cannon and answering gun on the sea.

But half-mast hung the flag on that battleship old.

Half-mast! Who had died ’mid the cabins of gold?

The grand ship rode into the harbor, and still

Grew the wharves and the towers and the oak-shaded hill,

And the news came at last, ’twas Sir Francis had died

’Mid his cabins of gold at the last Christmas-tide.

‘Sir Francis?’ they said. ‘Let the old bell be tolled.’

And the old bell began to toll—toll—toll,

Toll—toll—toll—toll.

We hope there was gold in Sir Francis’s soul.

And the people all turned from the long, windy quay,—

With tears turned away from the May-pleasant sea,

And talked of the brave old sea-lord who had died

’Neath the Southern Cross at Christmas-tide,

And whose form had been sunk in the deep, moving sea

In the festival days of Nativity.

IX.

“When the folks sought the church to talk of the news,

Came the wise little woman who opened the pews,

And she said to the parson, ‘I’m sorry indeed;

’Tis not that kind of gold that our spirits most need,

But the gold of the Word, the heart and the deed.

The Sea Knight has only that true gold to-day

That his honor refused, or his heart gave away.

Let us look no more to the stores of the seas,

To the isles of the sun or the bright Caribbees—

Let us envy no more the rich galleons of Spain,

’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain.

The wealth that avarice seeks to find

Is like the gold of the “Golden Hinde;”

Chink, chink, chink, chink; who it commands

Will stand at last with empty hands—

’Tis fool’s gold all!’”

[6]Permission of “St. Nicholas.”
[7]Dean, as here used, means “a small valley.”

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CHAPTER XIII.
NIGHT IN THE COURT OF HONOR.

T was a midsummer night in the Court of Honor; the crowds had vanished, and the air, the grounds, and the Lake were still. The Columbian Guards had retired from the weary duties of the day; the lights, one by one, had gone out; the constellations of electric splendors had passed away forever, for their renewal would be like the lighting of new stars.

The White City stood in the silence like Shinar Tower after the confusion, for if on the plains of Babylonia people began to speak many tongues, here the harmony of language found a prophetic expression again. The world had not built here a tower to touch the sky, from which men might enter heaven; but the beauty that fancy places in heaven was here, and into it people came and went away, and read here the fulfilment of earthly and celestial visions. The realities of Plato, Virgil, and Sir Thomas More were here. All the beautiful thoughts of creative art from the beginning of time here found expression. Egypt was here; Greece; Rome, in her long march through the world; the half-forgotten gods of the ancient world were here; Phidias was here; the Augustine age of the poets; the Roman age of colossal art.

The Peristyle was white in the starlight under the serene sky. The Columbus Quadriga, with its grand horses and Grecian grooms, seemed a thing of the Lake and sky; and the procession of heroes on the Peristyle was like a night march of the ghosts of the glorious sons of the world.

The Columbian Fountain was motionless, and Father Time sat at the helm of the barge of state, on which Columbia was enthroned, facing the stars and not the rainbows of spray and the gay gondolas. The sturdy Statue of Labor, with the plough horse and primitive harness, stood solitary by the grand basin; the swans moved to and fro on the lagoons, but all else was still life.

PERISTYLE, FROM THE AGRICULTURAL BUILDING.

The nations seemed dreaming,—England, Germany, France, Austria, in their houses and pavilions of history; Denmark, Italy, India; charming Switzerland, the mother of republics; tropical South America, where Edwin Arnold says may one day come the greatest development of the American race. The Transportation Building was like a shadow; its grand portal, like the door of the sun, had lost its glory with the light. Who can ever forget its golden door in the morning light! Wooded Island, too, with its Ho-o-den palace and Japanese garden, was a shadow; the Convent of La Rabida was a shadow,—and the Krupp Building, with its awful guns; the battle ship was a phantom; the Walking Sidewalk rested; the Eskimos were gone to their mats; the Hagenbeck animals were sleeping in their cages; Cairo, Java, Algeria, China, all slept in one great camp. There was silence in the coffee garden of Brazil.

As our friends walked down the Court of Honor toward the Peristyle, the silence seemed a prophecy; and like the song of the angels on the night of the Nativity, the air seemed to say, “The world is at peace.” They could fancy that the old Destinies were there, and that they, as of old, said to their spindles, “Thus go on forever.”

“If Shinar’s Tower was the beginning of the world’s confusion, the White City by Lake Michigan may be the beginning of the new and eternal order of harmony,” said the old Quaker, as the clocks broke the silence with twelve strokes each, in many steeples and towers.

A night watch went wandering with him up and down the avenues of white luminous walls. He was a man who had been well educated, and who had seen much of the world.

“There is one statue that has been left out,” said the old officer, “and it should stand here in the Court of Honor, for it might represent the best of all for which the world can hope!”

“Whose?” asked our venerable Quaker.

“Pestalozzi’s, the founder of the public schools. He taught that education stands for character, and not for a cunning brain, and that character means the brotherhood and peace of the world.”

THE ELECTRICAL BUILDING ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

“He was right,” said our friend. “The new education should be that of peace. It should follow the spirit of the White City here, where all is harmony and unity, and all races are families of the same common family. Our schools, our churches, our societies, should all enter into this new education. It will be one day the greatest teaching in the world.”

GERMAN BUILDING.

“It seems as though sometimes, when I wander around these streets at night,” said the watch, “that I see the world in a new light, like this: From Christ to Pestalozzi; from Pestalozzi to the White City; from the White City to the peace federations of republics; and from that to the unity and brotherhood of all men. The next century will be a missionary age in the large sense of the world.”

JAVANESE FIDDLER, FROM THE MIDWAY.

“And its watchword must be Disarm!”

“Then humanity must build again.”

THE FERRIS WHEEL AT NIGHT.

ADMINISTRATION BUILDING BY NIGHT.

“The movement must begin in the schools,” answered the old Quaker. “The new heroes of war must be those only who fought for principle and peace. I am glad that I came here, and that I have been allowed to spend the night here. Stand here in the silence and look around you. It is the beginning of a new world. A new movement will follow it; I can feel it. I rejoice over it as though it had already been!”

When the Marlowes returned home, the Folk-Lore Society summoned them to answer the questions that they had entrusted to them and especially to Mr. Manton Marlowe, their president. There was a full meeting of the Society, to hear Mr. Marlowe’s report. He answered three of the questions in the manner that we have suggested in the book:—

INDIA BUILDING.

That the most amusing thing that he saw at the Fair was the merriment of the crowds in the Street of Cairo, over the Eastern camel riders;

That the most useful thing was the Philadelphia Working Man’s house;

That the grandest thing was the White-Bordered Flag in the Court of Honor.

The greatest lesson of the Fair?

“It was this,” said Mr. Marlowe: “the agreement among the architects and artists, that each would sacrifice his own ideals and plans to the harmony of the whole. The beauty of the White City is due to that principle, and it is a lesson for all time!”

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Blank pages have been removed.

Silently corrected typographical errors.

Spelling and hyphenation variations made consistent