FOOTNOTES:
[E] Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
THE ORIOLE.
BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Oriole, sitting asway
High on an emerald spray,
Why that melodious zest,
Bird of the beautiful breast,
Bright as the dawn of the day?
What are the words that you say?—
"Sing and be merry with May,
Since to be merry is best,"
Oriole?
Winter has wasted away;
Gone are the skies that were gray:
Hear the glad bird near its nest!
Come let us join in its jest,—
Join in the joy of the gay
Oriole!
A TRIP AROUND CAPE ANN.
BY ELIZABETH PORTER GOULD.
Mr. and Mrs. Gordon allowed no summer to pass without going with their family to some place noted for its beautiful or historical attractions. Their ten days' stay in Nantucket, in July, 1883, as well as their intelligent sojourn in Concord the following summer, had been to them a fruitful source of many an hour's conversation and pleasure.
And now the summer of 1885 was approaching, and where should they go? To be sure they could not have the delightful company of Miss Ray, the young lady who had been with them for several seasons, for she had married, and gone to reside in Colorado. But their daughter Bessie was still with them, and also their son Tom. He was now a student in the Institute of Technology. This constituted the Gordon family.
After a little discussion, it was decided to yield to Mrs. Gordon's desire to visit the home of her childhood, Manchester, Mass., and take what she had not taken for twenty years, a ride round the Cape. Bessie and Tom had never taken this trip, and Manchester was a good place to start from. These were two important considerations which finally decided the matter.
As they finished talking, Mrs. Gordon, in her zeal for historical truth, begged that whenever they thought of or wrote the name of the Cape, they would spell it with an e. She could not imagine Queen Anne spelling her name Ann.
"Indeed," she added, "your Uncle Tenney in his 'Coronation' spells it with an e, and so does Smith's 'Narrative,' the first document which tells of it. That should be authority, surely."
When the middle of July came, the Gordons started, as they had planned to do, to go to the home of Mrs. Gordon's mother in Manchester (now so well known as Manchester-by-the-Sea), on old High Street. The town had changed the name of this street to Washington, but the old lady could not be tempted to call it so, for she had always lived on High Street, indeed was born there, and she didn't see "why it wasn't the same street that it always was." The good-sized brick house in which she lived was particularly dear to Mrs. Gordon, since in it she first saw the light of this world, and in it some of her pleasantest child-days had been spent. So when upon their arrival she saw Tom boyishly stop to swing on the linked iron chains which marked the front entrance to the house, she herself was swinging on them, as in the olden days.
Upon entering the house, she found herself spontaneously going, just as she used to do, through the hall to the piazza on the back of the house, to catch a glimpse of the fresh green garden, with its summer houses—one of which enclosed the well—which to her youthful eye had been so grand. How prettily the nasturtiums, growing over the wall, adorned the time-honored lane by the house! No wonder that they had caught the artistic eye of Enneking. For these nasturtiums, with the dear old lane which had known her childish feet, the large elm tree, and even a portion of the house itself, as caught by his genius, had greeted her eye when a short time before she had been in New York city. Then the house had another and peculiar interest, since it had been dedicated, like a church. A relative of hers, a well-to-do sea-captain, had built it some fifty years ago, and although he was no professor of religion, yet he conceived this idea concerning it. Perhaps the size of the house had suggested this to him, since it was a large one for those days. Everybody thought it was so strange to have the minister come and hold a regular dedication service. The house was full of people to witness it. But when, many years afterward, the first services of a church which was formed from the old one were held in the parlors of this very house, many thought Captain Allen's act prophetic.
The morning after the arrival of the Gordon family at this interesting brick house, familiar to all old frequenters of Manchester, Mr. Gordon made arrangements for a ride around the town. Every year, he said, had something new to show. They went first in the direction of Gale's Point. The sight of the comfortable Smith farm, where Mrs. Gordon used to visit when a girl, brought to her mind the fact that the whole of this Gale's Point, where now there were no less than sixteen fine houses was then a part of this farm known as Major's Smith's pasture land. It could have been bought for a mere song. But now some of the land had brought over six thousand dollars an acre. How she did wish that her father had been far-seeing enough to have bought up all this shore when he could have done so for a mere pittance!
They stopped every little while to enjoy the fine ocean-views which the Point afforded. Mr. Gordon's business eye was noticing every improvement.
"They'll miss it," he said, as they passed in sight of the observatory on Doctor Bartol's place across the stream, "if they do not build a bridge over to Tuck's Landing. People then could drive directly there from Point Rocks here, instead of going way round through the town. It must come in time. It will come."
He seemed thus to have settled the matter, as far as himself was concerned; and then wondered why that little wooden building was being erected on the landing owned by the town. He found out its use, however, when, a few weeks later, he was an invited guest to one of the annual picnics held by the "Elder Brethren." These gatherings, he learned, had become quite an institution for the mingling of fish chowders and bright speeches.
Continuing their drive, they soon paused in front of the Howe place, for its fine sea-view, and, later on, by the Black residence, for the added inland view. The sight of Lobster Cove brought to mind the many good picnics once enjoyed there. Soon Gale's Point was behind them, and they were driving past the Masconomo, the hotel which gives such a pretty background of human interest to Old Neck beach. This Indian name suggested Indian history to Mrs. Gordon. She was so surprised that her children were ignorant of Masconomo, the sagamore of Agawam.
"Why, this town ought to have been named Masconomo," she added, after having told them of his kind treatment of Governor Endicott's men, when in 1630 they landed on these, his shores. "I am glad that Mr. Booth remembered him when he built this hotel. I thanked him once for it."
As she finished speaking, she called attention to the quaint, sloping-roof house perched upon a large, high rock, which they were then passing. This was the one which Mr. James T. Fields had built and occupied a number of summers before his death. The sight of it brought to mind some pleasant little experiences of her friendship with him, which she related as they continued their drive down the Old Neck road. On this they passed the house, perhaps a hundred years old, now owned and occupied by John Gilbert, the actor. A little further on they came to the Towne place, which, through the courtesy of its owner, gave them a good look at Eagle Head and the pretty houses which dot the surrounding shore. Returning, they drove for a while on the singing sands of Old Neck beach, before going back through the town towards West Manchester to Doctor Bartol's observatory. On reaching that, through the kindness of the venerable doctor, they were privileged to view from the top its fine outlook.
"What a short distance to Gale's Point," exclaimed Tom pointing in that direction, "but what a long ride round!"
"That's what I said," responded his father. "The bridge must come."
After driving through one or two of the neighboring places, and also through the Higginson woods, where as yet there was but one house, they drove back to the centre of the town. Before returning home they spent some little time in Allen's favorite corner-store, where they indulged with its genial owner—who was an old friend of Mrs. Gordon's—in pleasant reminiscences. He told them much of the present condition of the town, and of its projected changes. He said that the taxes, which had been as high as thirteen or fourteen dollars a thousand, and as low as four dollars and eighty cents, were just now six dollars and ten cents a thousand. He greatly interested Bessie and Tom by telling amusing and even thrilling anecdotes of some old ancestors of theirs who had been prominent in town affairs. He told of one in particular, an old sea-captain, who was captured by the British in the revolutionary war for being an American; how he suffered everything while incarcerated in Dartmoor prison, rather than deny his birthright. The originality of this old "grandsir," as he was called, also interested them. He always called the gentry, or the "upper ten," the "Qual." This was his name for the quality, as others called them. Tom was specially pleased to hear that the farm which he owned and lived on was still owned and occupied by his descendants, having been in the same family name since 1640. What is called "Leach Mountain" belongs to the estate.
As the Gordons were leaving the friend who had so entertained them, he invited them to go in the afternoon to the Essex woods to see the Agassiz rock, and the immense boulder near it. This invitation they were happy to accept. Bessie was the only one of the party who had visited the place. She had taken a trip there the summer before with a party of scientific people, and had not wearied in speaking of its peculiar characteristics. No wonder that Agassiz himself had come to see it, and expressed his admiration for it. Then such an immense boulder resting upon another boulder and bearing upon its summit a thrifty pine tree, was certainly a wonder. And they all thought so too, when in the afternoon they were climbing the rough ladder (manufactured by two Manchester gentlemen for the purpose) to obtain the views over all the trees of the town, and islands, with the ocean winding in and out. They found it hard to believe that such boulders found in thick woods could have been borne hither in ages gone by, by the force of the waters of the sea. But Tom declared, with a student's air which did not escape his father's attention, that since they all showed the marks of glacial action, it must have been so. After visiting this novel freak of nature, they drove up through the Essex woods. These woods of nearly four miles in length were especially dear to Mrs. Gordon, since they were so associated with good times of her youth. She silently thanked the far-seeing people who, to preserve them from the hand of the wood-cutter had secured a portion on each side of the road.
These drives around Manchester led her to reflect how the town was improving under the influence of its summer residents. New roads had been made, and one long since closed had been reopened. Bessie had told of this the summer before, when she had driven over its several miles of woods to the Chebacco lakes. The streets were now lighted and watered, and even some of the fences had been removed. This she considered a great improvement. Indeed, since her visit to Williamstown, and other towns in the Berkshire hills, she could not be wholly satisfied with any place seeking beauty as long as the houses were shut in by fences. She looked upon these as relics of barbarism, necessary only to primitive or disorderly regions. To be sure she did not see but four or five of the eleven or twelve cabinet manufactories which she used to see, but she saw a public library well patronized by the nearly two thousand inhabitants.
The large cobble-stones in front of some of the houses so attracted Tom's attention that they all decided to go the next day to Cobble-stone Beach to see these "hard-boiled eggs of the sea" which the ocean for ages had been rounding into perfect shape. This they did before they went to Norman's Woe to enjoy, with a party of friends, an old-fashioned picnic. While sitting on the rocks at Norman's Woe, Tom, at Bessie's request, recited The Wreck of the Hesperus. She could never think of the one without the other, the poet had so immortalized it.
They had several yacht sails, one day going as far as Marblehead Neck, where they landed, and enjoyed the hospitality of the Club House. Their swift return to Manchester in less than an hour's time was a great pleasure. But the days were going, and they were yet to go round the Cape. The day that was finally set for this purpose proved to be one of the loveliest of the season. By nine o'clock they were driving through the Manchester woods, where every now and then the sweet wild roses greeted them by the roadside. As Mrs. Gordon looked in among the stately pines she felt as never before the steady friendship of nature. The thought rested her. These old trees were as true to her to-day as they were years ago. She soon saw in the distance on Graves' Beach the house which the poet Dana, as one of the first summer residents, had built some forty years ago. This was still in the Dana name, and the one near it was the summer-house of the poet's grandson and his wife, the daughter of Longfellow.
Later they passed the Manchester poorhouse, with its good ocean-view, and caught a glimpse of Baker's island. When they came to a small pond by the roadside, separated from the salt water by only a narrow strip of land, Mrs. Gordon recalled how, when it was owned by the town (it now belonged to the Jefferson Coolidge estate), she and her brother used to gather its pond-lilies with the pink-tinted leaves. They were thought to be extra fine. Just before they reached the Crescent beach in Magnolia, they saw among the trees on the right the summer home of James Freeman Clarke. After pausing for a good look at Magnolia with its Hesperus, its Sea-View hotels, and its pretty cottages in the distance, and passing the boundary stone between Manchester and Gloucester, they found themselves in the Gloucester woods. They drove leisurely along to enjoy their fragrance. They passed the swamp where the magnolia plant grows, away from its Virginia home. Bessie, the day before, had seen for the first time in her life, in a garden in the village, its white fragrant blossoms on a plant which had successfully thrived, after having been transplanted from this swamp. Others had thrived as well, much to the delight of their owners.
Upon nearing Gloucester, the rocks became more apparent. The beautiful Hovey place on the right gave particular satisfaction to Mr. Gordon for its combination of woods, ocean-view, and look of solid comfort.
Soon Gloucester harbor, with Eastern Point lighthouse in the distance, came before them. Then they crossed the little narrow bridge under which the Massachusetts and Ipswich Bays meet. Tom had curiosity enough to notice that the Ipswich was then running into the Massachusetts.
After passing the Pavilion Hotel, and driving through Gloucester's main street with its busy outlook, they came to the Rockport road, with its quaint houses, resembling those of Marblehead. While on this road they saw, off on the right, Bass Rock, where was the summer home of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Just before entering Rockport the rocks were so many and connected that, if they had chosen, they could have walked to the highway on Ipswich Bay on them alone. No wonder that such a place was called Rockport.
While in the town they went to the Cove to see something of the extensive fish business carried on there. They walked on to the Point, to see the old fort which, in the time of the revolutionary war, contained enough plucky men to seize a barge with men and a cannon, which a passing British man of War sent to besiege them. The men were taken to Gloucester, but the cannon was left there where it remained until it found a better place in the town-hall yard. There, all renovated, it now stands as a precious relic of American pluck.
Mr. Gordon was interested to see where the breakwater was to be, for which government had been petitioned. This he considered a necessity sure to come.
From Rockport they went on to Pigeon Cove, passing on the way thrifty-looking houses, the Rockport Granite Company quarries, and also those of the Pigeon Cove Company.
After having done justice to the good dinner which the Pigeon Cove House afforded, they continued their ride around the Cape. Driving on to Phillips Avenue, they passed the Ocean View House, and later the summer home of Sara Jewett, the actress. Next to this was the house of the late Doctor Chapin, who was a pioneer in Pigeon Cove as a summer resident. After passing other cottages, and some boarding-houses, they came to Halibut Point, the extreme point of Cape Ann. Here they alighted, and went down on the rocks, and spent some time, on this perfect summer day, in enjoying the grand old ocean. They then retraced their steps, and were soon driving past more pretty cottages nestling among the pine trees, surrounded by wild roses and well-directed care, until they come out to the main road again. They then drove through Folly Cove, a fishing-place facing Ipswich Bay, and also Lanesville, where they saw work going on in the Lanesville Granite Company quarries. At Bay View they visited the Cape Ann quarries. Here they saw the model of the Flying Mercury, which, cut in granite, had just been sent on to the new post-office in Baltimore. They also saw some granite balusters being made for the same place. All this reminded Mrs. Gordon of her visit here some fourteen years before, when she had seen the workmen cutting the eagle for the Boston post-office. The polishing of the granite attracted their attention. They learned that it took three days of constant rubbing of sand and water over the granite by machine to obtain the polish required. They next visited the place of General B. F. Butler, near there, and also the one adjoining it of Colonel Jonas French. Thence they returned to Gloucester, through the pretty winding road by the Squam river, leaving the village of Annisquam, connected by a bridge, at the right. They arrived in Manchester in the early evening, delighted with their all-day trip. Mrs. Gordon had enjoyed the striking and many changes which the twenty years had brought; while Mr. Gordon was more than ever convinced of the value of this shore to those seeking the beauty and healing strength of woods. They lingered a day or two longer in Manchester, in which they enjoyed a moonlight stroll on the beach, as well as a long, interesting drive all over Beverly Farms. While driving through Franklin Haven's beautiful grounds, which he so generously opens to the public, they, with others who had gone before them, gratefully appreciated this privilege of seeing such beauty away from the public thoroughfare. "In a peculiar sense," mused Mrs. Gordon, "such men are benefactors. They rest the tired eye, and calm the troubled nature."
The Gordons returned to their suburban Boston home wiser than they left it. And they are fully determined to take another trip next summer. (If they do, the readers of the New England Magazine shall hear of it.)
EDITOR'S TABLE.
Socialism in America and Europe. It is a spectacle quite too sad for laughter, and yet too comical for tears, which was offered a few weeks ago by the unemployed and hungry thousands who disturbed the quiet and alarmed the fears of the people of London. That strange and unlooked-for outbreak was probably only the first act in a drama the end of which we have not yet seen. If "coming events cast their shadows before," what has happened in England, and is constantly happening in other European countries and in America, bodes ill for the stability of governments and the peace of the world. Socialistic theories fill the air, disturb the minds, and inflame the passions of men. Socialism, in one or other of its forms, counts its disciples by tens of thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. With the majority it is a dim and indistinct craving after an ideal condition of society, without any intelligent conception as to how it is to be reached and realized. The acknowledged lights and leaders of the movement, however, teach it as a philosophy, preach it as a gospel, advocate and practise it as a new style of social refinement, or labor for its adoption and establishment as a desirable scheme of social reform. There are philosophical socialists, and Christian socialists, and æsthetic socialists, and socialists whose dream can only be fulfilled by a general overturning of the existing order of things with a view to a more just and equitable distribution of wealth, labor, liberty, and happiness. They disagree in many things very radically, but they are all captured by one ideal and animated by one ambition, and it is a sublime and beautiful conception too, being nothing less than the consummation of human happiness—so far as such a thing is possible—and the creation of a heaven upon earth. Socialism contemplates a condition of society in which not only all shall share equally in work, profit, property, and enjoyment, but in which there will be no "capitalists, no middle-men, no rent-taking, and no interest-drawing, and if there is any wage-paying, only such wage as is a due and full equivalent for the portion of work done, which shall be measured by the exigencies of the community, and shall be so assessed and paid for as to leave no margin of profit to any but actual workers;" a state of society, in a word, on which all kinds of toil, the lowest as well as the highest, will be so pleasant and agreeable as to be no toil at all. With so high and admirable an aim, it seems a pity that socialism can find no better way to fulfil itself than by a resort to lawlessness and violence. Notwithstanding all that has been said, sung, and written in its favor, especially in the two great English-speaking countries, it may still be described as "a thing with its head in the clouds and its feet in the intolerable mud." However, our business with our fellow-beings, as Spinoza said, is not to censure them, nor to deplore them, but simply to understand them.
The Chinese Problem is one which is beset with so many difficulties—moral, social, religious, industrial, economic, international—that most thoughtful persons, probably, would prefer to leave it alone if the indulgence of private feeling in the matter could be made consistent with an adequate sense of public duty. As things have been, and still continue to be, however, silence is impossible. The question presses for solution, from many sides, with a painful persistency, and the further shelving of it would scarcely be good policy. Here in New England the problem may not confront us in that sternly practical aspect which it every day wears to the citizens of the Pacific Coast, and in other parts of the country, where considerable Chinese populations affect the industrial interests of the local communities. Nevertheless, its stable and satisfactory settlement is quite as much our concern as theirs. Indeed, recent incidents in and near Boston have made this perfectly plain. It is very true that the perpetration of outrage and violence on harmless and unoffending foreigners would not be tolerated for a moment by the public sentiment and lawful authorities of the New England and other Eastern States; but, in the judgment of other nations, not a section of the American people, but the whole nation, however unjustly, will be made to bear the responsibility of such lawless demonstrations of feeling as have recently taken place in the West, and endure the discredit and reproach of them.
Aside, therefore, altogether from the purely domestic bearing of this painful subject, there are strong and sufficient reasons why some immediate measures should be taken for the mitigation or removal of this grave national trouble. It is certainly not easy to say what is best to be done. Pride and prejudice of race is one of the most deep-seated and ineradicable of human infirmities, and one of the most difficult to deal with, especially when conjoined and complicated with other motives and passions equally, if not more, powerful. But, while the recent message of President Cleveland to Congress shows significantly enough how difficult the problem appears to a high-souled, benevolent minded, and practical statesman, it also contributes some valuable suggestions towards its solution, in the carrying out of which it is to be earnestly hoped he will be vigorously supported and assisted by congressional action.
A Short History of Napoleon the First.[F] Naturally gifted with a fine faculty for historical criticism, and possessing an uncommon breadth and completeness of information in that department of historical research which his professional duties have called him specially to cultivate, Professor Seeley's historical judgments have acquired a weight and authority quite their own. We were, therefore, prepared, before opening this book, to find in its pages a careful and discriminating estimate of the military career and character of the Child of the Revolution,—and we have not been disappointed. The task Professor Seeley set himself was one requiring as much courage as intelligence and critical skill; and he has displayed all these qualities in a most admirable manner, with the result that a great historical problem has been appreciably advanced towards its true solution. Mr. Seeley is quite aware of the difficult and delicate nature of his undertaking. This feeling betrays itself constantly. "He lends himself readily to unmeasured panegyric or invective," says the Professor, "but scarcely any historical person is so difficult to measure." Again: "No one can question that he leaves far behind him the Turennes, Marlboroughs, and Fredericks, but when we bring up for comparison an Alexander, a Hannibal, a Cæsar, a Charles, we find in the single point of marvellousness Napoleon surpassing them all. Every one of those heroes was born to a position of exceptional advantage. Two of them inherited thrones; Hannibal inherited a position royal in all but the name; Cæsar inherited an eminent position in a great empire. But Napoleon, who rose as high as any of them, began life as an obscure provincial, almost as a man without a country. It is the marvellousness which paralyzes our judgment. We seem to see at once a genius beyond all estimate, a unique character and a fortune utterly unaccountable."
But, while admitting that the personality and the fortune of Napoleon were both alike surprising, Mr. Seeley contends that it is only the accidental combination of both which has impressed and captivated the imagination of mankind; and he believes that the separation of these factors by a calm exercise of the judgment will greatly simplify the problem and reduce the marvel of the great soldier's achievements. There will, of course, be some divergence of opinion as to this, but it seems to us that, on the whole, it is a judgment which subsequent historians will be likely to accept without serious modifications. It can hardly be called an absolutely impartial judgment. At no more than a distance of seventy years from Waterloo, that was not in the nature of things possible, if indeed it will ever be. The historian that would tell the story of the French Revolution, and estimate the character and result of Napoleon's military and political action, without bias or betrayal of personal sympathy or antipathy, would be a most extraordinary person; he could not be an Englishman; he could not be a Frenchman; he could not be a German; he could scarcely be an American, for obvious reasons. Bearing this in mind we cannot but think that Mr. Seeley has achieved considerable success in the difficult task he has undertaken in the later and more valuable portion of his book. Fully admitting, as he does, Napoleon's extraordinary military talents, his astonishing versatility and fruitfulness of resource, the promptitude, rapidity, and unerring precision of his movements, Mr. Seeley maintains that what is really marvellous is the remarkable combination of favorable circumstances which at the outset furnished his field, and the equally remarkable flow of good fortune which made him so successful in it. Commenting on the brilliant victory of Marengo, which the professor designates "his crowning victory," he says, "Genius is prodigally displayed, and yet an immense margin is left for fortune." He points out Napoleon's superstitious belief in his own unfailing good luck, and shows how, by expecting results entirely unwarranted by the probabilities, as at Leipsic, for instance, his strange hallucination finally proved ruinous to himself and to France.
The thanks of all lovers of literature are due to our enterprising contemporary, the Century, for securing and presenting to the public the opinions of leading American journalists, authors, and scholars on the subject of international copyright. The truly laudable endeavor of the Century Company to obtain for the noble army of thinkers and writers on both sides the Atlantic the protection they desire and deserve will, it is hoped, not prove vain and futile. That any immediate and satisfactory step will be taken in this direction is scarcely to be expected. But the discussion of the question, in the form presented by the Century, will, at least, do something to break up the supineness and indifference of the reading public. That once done, some substantial redress of an old-standing grievance will not be much longer delayed.