Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

The charm the elder Hawthorne threw over the rocky land of New England is evident in the Pot of Gold, by Edward Richard Shaw (Belford, Clarke & Co.). Here is the barren, sandy coast, with a few rough fishermen, the cold, heaving sea, enlightened by no love, but made attractive by the shadowy play of adventure found in piratical ships, that come and go as if they were phantoms of a half-forgotten past. With all the dim, misty character of the piratical craft, the author gives us the coast and its atmosphere, the rough, ignorant characters of its inhabitants, in a way to prove that he is an artist and has made good use of his study. To the average reader, as well as the more cultured, this book is very attractive.

Edgar Saltus, whose immature book, The Truth about Tristrem Varick, won him wide mention as the author of a grotesque bit of immorality, comes to the front again in Eden, a novel published by Belford, Clarke & Co. There is the marked progress in this volume we prophesied in the young author. He has great ability, marred by certain affectations, that will in time, we hope, disappear. Mr. Saltus has been roughly assaulted by the critics. He probably deserved all that he got. We can say to him, as the fond parent said to his son after the youth had been kicked in the face by a mule, "He will not be so handsome hereafter, but he will have more sense."

Mr. Saltus builds his novels on the French methods. His narrative and conversations find expression in short epigrammatic sentences. To the average reader this is easy and delightful, for there is a sense of wisdom that to such is quite captivating. To the more cultured it has the effect of an old-fashioned corduroy road over a swamp. It simply jolts one, and the knowledge that the short sticks and logs cover a quagmire is not comforting. The characters are nearly all alike; and their conversation so much so, that to a listener to one who reads aloud, omitting the names, it seems to be one person dealing out worldly wisdom in short, jerky sentences. As a specimen of style we quote:

"Then, Miss Menemon, you must know the penalty which is paid for success." He straightened himself, the awkwardness had left him, and he seemed taller than when he entered the room. "Yes," he continued, "the door to success is very low, and the greater is he that bends the most. Let a man succeed in any one thing, and whatever may be the factors with which that success is achieved, Envy will call a host of enemies into being as swiftly as Cadmus summoned his soldiery. And these enemies will come not alone from the outer world, but from the ranks of his nearest friends. Ruin a man's home, he may forget it. But excel him, do him a favor, show yourself in any light his superior, then indeed is the affront great. Mediocrity is unforgiving. We pretend to admire greatness, but we isolate it and call that isolation Fame. It is above us; we cannot touch it; but mud is plentiful and that we can throw. And if no mud be at hand, we can loose that active abstraction, malice, which subsists on men and things. No; had I an enemy I could wish him no greater penance than success – success prompt, vertiginous, immense! To the world, as I have found it, success is a crime, and its atonement, not death, but torture. Truly, Miss Menemon, humanity is not admirable. Men mean well enough, no doubt; but nature is against them. Libel is the tribute that failure pays to success. If I am slandered, it is because I have succeeded. But what is said of my father is wholly true. He did make shoes, God bless him! and very good shoes they were. Pardon me for not having said so before."

Again, here is another character speaking, and it seems a continuation of what we have quoted. It is not; there are nearly a hundred pages between the two, and a world-wide difference in sex. Now read:

"Before I met you I thought myself in love. Oh, but I did, though. And it was not until after I had known you that I found that which I had taken for love was not love at all. How did I know? Well – you see, because that is not love which goes. And that went. It was for the man I cared, not the individual. At the time I did not understand, nor did I until you came. Truly I don't see why I should speak of this. Every girl, I fancy, experiences the same thing. But when you came life seemed larger. You brought with you new currents. Do you know what I thought? People said I married you for money. I married you because – what do you suppose, now? Because I loved you? But at that time I told myself I had done with love. No, it was not so much for that as because I was ambitious for us both. It was because I thought Wall Street too small for such as you. It was because I discerned in you that power which coerces men. It was because I believed in the future; it was because I trusted you. Yes, it was for that, and yet this afternoon – "

The advance made in this brilliant book, for such it is with all its faults, from that grotesquely immoral work called The Truth about Tristrem Varick, justifies our expressed faith in the ability of Edgar Saltus. This novel is clearly highly dramatic and intensely interesting. There is the making of a foremost master of fiction in the young man when he shall have shaken off his affectations.

His Way and Her Will, by Fannie Aymar Mathews (Belford, Clarke & Co.). – This is a vivid picture of our supposed New York social life, as seen by certain writers of fiction through the plate-glass window of a fashionable modiste in an atmosphere heavy with the cheap scents of a barber-shop. We are introduced to most elegant people of high birth and culture through many generations. The villain is a villain because he is the son of a lowborn and base stonemason.

We have two sorts of fiction affected mainly by our American novelists. One is of the English sort, not Braddon, but Trollope and Miss Austen, where the interest, of a mild sort, turns on the social law of caste. "The hero and the heroine paddle about in the shallow sea of affection, never out of sight of the church-steeple," and it is a poor plebeian girl beloved by a lord, or a noble lady, rich and well-born, who is sought for by a lover of base origin. The other, or French method, is to have the characters tossed upon an awful ocean of passion, where the rag of chastity is torn in shreds by the lurid storm.

The novel before us is of the English class. As we have no aristocracy, one is created. It is, of course, one of birth. The old Knickerbockers and the Puritans of the Mayflower furnish the lofty pedigree, and chivalrous gentlemen and silken dames appear in or come out of elegant drawing-rooms, and love and make love in a most refined and lofty sort.

The stories are not only imaginary, but the foundations for the same are of the stuff dreams are made of. There is no such social life in this land of ours. The aristocracy we have here is one of wealth, and of necessity is without culture. Money-getting, in its best aspect, is a mere instinct. As we have to get our living from the hard crust of earth on which we are born, nature has given us the instincts necessary to that living, and a man gathers the good things about him very much as swine seek shelter and make a bed before a viewless coming storm. As we cultivate the animal we destroy the instinct; hence it is that when a man ceases to accumulate and goes to spending he loses the power of accumulation.

We do not mean to say by this that a man may not, through an exercise of his reason, accumulate property also. The goose that flies a thousand miles on a line due north is emulated by the mariner, who, by the use of a compass, will sail with the same accuracy. But the goose carries its own stomach, and the sailor a rich cargo of silks and velvets. The rule, or rather, the law, is that when reason takes the place of instinct, the instinct is lost. The man who from natural impulse and motive makes his money is unable to enjoy what he has made. He is a mere animal, and of these animals is our aristocracy made.

When, therefore, we apply to American life the characters, motives, and manners of European social existence, we make an egregious blunder. The aristocracy of Europe, mainly of England, is not one of wealth alone, for many commoners are richer than their lords. Nor is it of pedigree, for the great majority of them are without such. It is the power of a hereditary class. It dominates not only the social but the political structure as well. The lords we look up to and dwell upon, so fascinated, are the masters, and, relieved from the necessary toil for an existence, have time and means to be cultured.

It is a class with the prestige of power. Take this away, and a lord would be no more than the ring-master of a circus, and not half so amusing as the clown.

Our social aristocrats play at being such, and are ring-masters and clowns, admired by the ignorant and laughed at by all.

Again, there is no class in the United States that has the leisure necessary to learn. We have no idle class. We have a continuous stream of would-be aristocrats, but they come and go so rapidly that no time is given for the cultivation of manner, nor can there be the repose necessary to aristocratic ways. The duration of family life on Murray Hill, or any other fashionable locality in New York or elsewhere, is that of the penitentiary or the car-horse – about five years. All the families change in that time. Whence they come they carefully conceal; whither they go no one cares to learn. There are enormous fortunes made in a day, that disappear in a night.

All the while the money-getting and – losing continue. There is no pause. The masculine element of such society is made up of men who carry the anxieties of their work into parlors and ball-rooms. The late dinners and later parties are frequented by fathers and brothers who know that at counting-rooms and offices they must be every morning by ten o'clock, to worry all day with an anxiety that kills. These noble scions of male American aristocracy carry protested notes on their dyspeptic countenances, and the female specimens their bills for jewelry and gorgeous wearing apparel. The surface of the whole creation is not even good veneer, but the thinnest sort of a scratched varnish.

What absurd fictions, then, are our society novels!

We have in reality our social life, and it is of the best and highest. The millions of homes over the land have their comedies and tragedies well worth putting to record, but they are American, not European. Why cannot our gifted authors, such as Miss Mathews, for example, turn to these and give us a fiction worthy the name? The book she has given us, with all its defects, is entertaining. From title-page to close the interest in the plot and characters holds the reader who does not look too narrowly into the probability.

Of the same sort of work is the volume entitled That Girl from Texas, by Jeannette H. Walworth (Belford, Clarke & Co.), an amusing story under a bad name. The idea is not so original, as Sancho Panza remarked, but what we might have met it before. The "Fair Barbarian" who invades England and crops out in English novels, much to our discredit, and the like character from the far West who assaults fashionable life East, are getting to be somewhat monotonous. Society is shocked in both localities by the rough ways of the maiden; but as she is ever beautiful, rich, and shrewd, she plays a leading rôle and comes out victor in the end. If "Elmira does not stab that deep-dyed villain, the Count," she circumvents him in the most adroit and unexpected manner, so that virtue triumphs and vice is exposed and punished.

We cannot comprehend why it is that when a sprig of English nobility seeks our shores, he should always be a cad or an idiot, and in many instances blooming specimens of both. Time was when this specimen proved a fraud, and the so-called lord turned out a lackey. But now his ancestors are the real lace, but his intellect, morals, and manners are at a heavy discount.

Nor is it understandable why the newly rich of the far West are such ignorant boors, while the same articles at the East are refined and intellectual. We observe that the difference between the two is to have the Western man spell his words as they are pronounced, while all the correct spelling is given to the Eastern gentleman. This is scarcely fair to the citizen of means from a Texan ranch or a Nevada mine. But the dramatic effect is good, so we must not complain.

Allowing for these slight defects, That Girl from Texas is a well-told story, and, like the preceding, His Way and Her Will, is a healthy book. There is nothing in either to shock even the sense of propriety, let alone morals, and both give evidence of a talent for story-telling that if properly cultivated will make the fair authors famous.

Some years since Théophile Gautier published a strange story of transformation in which the soul of the lover was passed to the body of a husband, and the inner life of the husband transferred to the body of the lover. Morbidly-inclined readers are referred to this ingenious but disgusting work for entertainment. The author of The Princess Daphne, too modest to put his or her name upon the title-page (Belford, Clarke & Co.), to accommodate morbid readers unacquainted with French, has translated Gautier's plot and adapted it to American taste by making the transferee female instead of the coarser sex. "Whether it was worth while to go through so much for so little," as Sam Weller's school-boy remarked when he got done with the alphabet, "is a matter of taste." We think, in the case of The Princess Daphne, that it was not.

THE QUEEN OF THE BLOCK

By Alexander L. Kinkead

CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY BALL

Bill Kellar played the first fiddle and called the figures; Blind Benner was second fiddle, and Hunch Blair blew the cornet. A curious trio they were.

William Kellar had come from an Eastern city, where he had been the leader of a successful orchestra. The noises of the streets had proved too much for his sensitive hearing, and he had fled from them to the stillness of the forest. He lived at the foot of Coot Hill, where he was frequently visited by Blind Benner, a young man to whom he had taken a fancy and whom he taught to play on the violin.

Blind Benner had a Christian name, but the people of Three-Sisters did not know what it was, and they always spoke of him by the title his infirmity suggested.

Hunch Blair did odd jobs at the furnace store at Three-Sisters, a village located at the foot of a spur of the Alleghany Mountains. Only his father called Hunch by his Christian name. He was a mannish dwarf. Somewhere he had learned to play the cornet.

These were the musicians at the Queen's ball, and lively music they played.

"Move round there, you huckleberry-huckster, and keep some sort of time to the music," Bill shouted at Mrs. Wright from Tihank.

She sold berries in their season and was a quaint character. Spurred by the caller's sharp reprimand, she got ahead of the others, and left her partner before it was time to "turn corners."

He was none other than the stalwart, handsome, dignified owner of the Three-Sister furnaces, and known to all the iron trade as Colonel Jerry Hornberger. He had honored the Queen's ball with his presence and was dancing the first quadrille with Mrs. Wright.

"Seat your partners," Bill shouted presently, "and give Hunch a chance to fill that extra lung he carries on his back."

The party was given in honor of Elizabeth McAnay, the Queen of the Block of Blazes, who had become twenty-one that day.

Tall, strong, light-footed, and graceful, she was the best dancer in Three-Sisters and eagerly sought as a partner at all the balls. Although not pretty, her face was full of character. Her eyes and hair, which was worn short, were black. Her walk was erect, and her manner regal. She was always grave and dignified, yet could enter heartily into the spirit of a jolly occasion. However, she never lost her womanly dignity as many girls do at balls or parties in the country, by playing practical jokes on the young men; and because she would not join in such tricks, one of the girls had given her the nickname, "The Queen of the Block."

"Twenty-one dances, mind," said Bill, tuning his fiddle for the second dance. "Your positions for number two. Huckleberries, you dance here where I can tap you with the fiddle-bow."

Mrs. Wright, taking a place on the floor by the side of John Gillfillan, the head clerk at the furnace store, turned up her nose at Bill, and joined another set.

Snap! Blind Benner broke a fiddle string, and was so grieved that he could not play that Bill delayed the dance until the string was again tuned.

Elizabeth was dancing with her oldest brother Levi. Her partner in the first quadrille had been her aged father, who danced no more that night.

Levi was tall and wore his hair long, falling on his shoulders. He was a school-teacher, and a strange combination of faculties found expression in his methods of instruction and discipline. His smile was potent with his pupils being both their reward and punishment; to the deserving it was a benediction, to the unfaithful it was a mocking grin, confounding and abashing them. He was gallant to his sister, and walked gracefully through the dance with her.

Elizabeth's partner in the third dance was Matthew McAnay, her brother, four years older than she. By occupation a wood-chopper, he was an active, strong man, but rather a clumsy dancer. Sometimes his face wore a smile similar to Levi's; to acquaintances it was tantalizing, to strangers annoying.

Cassius McAnay was Elizabeth's partner in the fourth dance. He, too, was her brother, two years her senior, and much like their elder brothers. He was his father's assistant in the coaling.

After the fourth dance John Gillfillan made his way along the ball-room to Elizabeth's side. The change of her manner as she accepted his arm for the next dance showed how welcome he was, yet they were not avowed lovers. He had not made his declaration, but she was expecting it that night. It came, yet not as she had hoped for it.

The ball-room was a long porch, which had once been the platform where freight was received when the Block had been a warehouse, Three-Sisters at that time being the terminus of a railroad. When the railroad was carried farther up the river, the warehouse was found to be unnecessary, and Colonel Hornberger, desiring to turn it into a tenement-house, bought it from the railroad company.

In it a dozen families could be comfortably accommodated, each family having five rooms, three upstairs and two down. The long platform was divided by fences, and to each door steps led from the street. In the openings thus made in the floor of the platform trap-doors were fitted.

These porches were the wash-rooms of the families; and on a Monday, when the washing of clothes took place, so many quarrels arose between the women that the house was given the nickname of the Block of Blazes.

On the night of Elizabeth's party there was harmony in the Block. The wash-tubs and benches were removed, the middle fences were taken away, the trap-doors were down, and the platform made a dancing-floor, which was lighted by candles placed in the windows, and by perforated stable-lanterns, swung on ropes above the heads of the dancers.

John, or Gill, as he was called, conducted Lizzī – for that was what her brothers shortened her name to – to the end of the porch opposite the musicians, who had seats raised above the floor.

Many of the guests were grouped near this platform, gathered around Jacob McAnay and his wife; and Gill and Lizzī had the other end of the porch to themselves. She leaned over the rail and looked at a star twinkling near the horizon, which was made in the West for Three-Sisters by a ridge that was precipitous and high.

"Lizzī," said Gill, "will you be my wife?"

"I will, John."

The shrill voice of Bill Kellar broke upon their ears.

"Cotton, Lizzī! cotton, quick! or there'll be no more dancing here to-night."

Lizzī turned impatiently toward him.

"Never mind him; he's drunk," said Gill.

"Lizzī, the devil is here, and wants a dance, and if I don't get some cotton for my ears, I'll have to give it to him."

"I must humor him, John," said Lizzī, and disappeared in the house.

There she encountered Gret Reed, Seth Reed's wife, who, knowing Bill's eccentricities, had gone for some cotton when he first asked for it.

"I have it, Lizzī," said Gret; "your mother told me where it was."

"Just like you, Gret; always the first to do anything that is asked."

Gret took the cotton to Bill, who stuffed it in his ears. Then he shouted, "Partners for the fifth dance."

Gill led Lizzī to the floor. She was very happy, betrothed to the man she loved. How light her step, how graceful her movement, as the tall, comely girl walked through the quadrille by the side of her promised husband!

After the dancers were seated when this quadrille was finished, Bill took Hunch aside and asked:

"Hunch, are you afraid of the devil?"

"Ain't afeard uv nuthin'!"

Hunch looked it. His wrinkled old face, with its expression of cunning, and his disfigured form suggested that he was on intimate terms with all sorts of evil spirits.

"The devil is here to-night, Hunch, begging me to play for him to dance, and I don't want to hear him. That's why I put the cotton in my ears. But I will have to play for him. He never lets me go without a dance when he comes around. If I refuse to play, he gives me a lower-region chills-and-fever that makes my bones ache and my flesh burn. But to-night he will have to wait until the party is over; then I will play for him. He will dance on the roof. When I give you the nod, just take your cornet, sneak up on the roof and blow a hole through him, will you?"

"I will thet;" and Hunch jerked his head in a way that showed he intended to ventilate Satan effectively.

When Bill returned to the musician's stand, Blind Benner, who knew the mood that was upon his master, asked the privilege of playing second fiddle for the devil's dance.

"Sorry, Benner, but Old Nick wouldn't have it. He will dance to but one fiddle, and insists that I shall play it. And if he don't get his dance to-night, he will give me an ague that quinine won't cure."

Blind Benner looked sad. Hunch was given the privilege of driving Satan away; but he could not extend to his teacher, tortured into playing for the demoniacal dance, the sympathy of an accompanying violin. With a sigh, he twanged the strings of his violin to learn if they were in tune.

The last dance was a Virginia Reel. With Colonel Hornberger as a partner, Lizzī took the head to lead off.

When the reel was finished, the guests prepared to leave.

"Not yet," shouted Bill. "Don't go yet. Seats, everybody, and we will have a jig by the devil."

A shiver passed over the guests, and they remained standing in groups.

Bill, who was tuning his violin, seemed to have been suddenly transformed. A demon seemed to have taken possession of him. His look was wild, and his eagerness to play almost a frenzy. Before he put the instrument under his chin he unstopped his ears. Immediately, when his bow crossed the strings, he gave himself up to a delirium of melody. His eyes glared, and his body swayed. His auditors were frightened into silence. However, Hunch was self-possessed, and held his horn ready to perforate Satan with a blast from it. Blind Benner wept silently.

Finally Bill nodded, and Hunch hastened from the porch. A minute after he entered the Block, a discordant blast from the roof broke the spell, restored the player to his senses, and relieved the others, who to this day declare that they distinctly heard the cloven hoof keeping time to the music on the shingles.

On his way home Bill muttered:

"What infernal business had Old Nick at Lizzī's party?"

In after-time he knew.

CHAPTER II.

GILL ELECTS A SQUIRE

John Gillfillan was chief clerk at the furnace store. Upon him was the entire responsibility of its management; to him was given the sole charge of its business. Colonel Hornberger was always boasting of his ability and trustworthiness, and made him his deputy with full power to act for him. John went to the city and bought the goods for the store and put the selling price on them. He knew just how much stock there was on hand. He was a genius in a way, having a remarkable memory, which relieved him of the trouble of keeping an order book. Gill was the quickest and shrewdest buyer with whom the wholesalers had to deal.