“I believe you say truly that nothing would have induced you to leave me, in good or evil fortune, if I had wished you to remain with me.“Such a wish on my part would be very selfish. You have long known my desire that you should marry whenever a suitor worthy of you should offer. Indeed, it hasbeen my strong desire to see you settled in the world before my death. You have now made your own unbiased choice; and from the character of Mr. Johnston, I anticipate for you a happy marriage, because I believe from your own good sense, you will conform to your conductor, and make him a good and loving wife.”
“I believe you say truly that nothing would have induced you to leave me, in good or evil fortune, if I had wished you to remain with me.
“Such a wish on my part would be very selfish. You have long known my desire that you should marry whenever a suitor worthy of you should offer. Indeed, it hasbeen my strong desire to see you settled in the world before my death. You have now made your own unbiased choice; and from the character of Mr. Johnston, I anticipate for you a happy marriage, because I believe from your own good sense, you will conform to your conductor, and make him a good and loving wife.”
The days passed in retirement at Wheatland were filled with quiet content. The end came as peacefully as the night itself. He awoke from a gentle sleep, murmured, “O Lord, God Almighty, as Thou wilt!” and passed serenely into that other sleep, which knows not dreams.
The impenetrable veil between us and eternity permits no lifting of its folds; there is no parting of its greyness, save for a passage, but perhaps, in “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns” Anne Coleman and her lover have met once more, and the long life of faithfulness at last has won her pardon.
The trees bow their heads in sorrow,While their giant branches wave,With the requiems of the forest,To the dead in a soldier’s grave.The pitying rain falls softly,In grief for a nation’s brave,Who died ’neath the scourge of treasonAnd rest in a lonely grave.So, under the willow and cypressWe lay our dead away,And cover their graves with blossoms,But the debt we never can pay.All nature is bathed in tears,On our sad Memorial day,When we crown the valour of heroesWith flowers from the garments of May.
The trees bow their heads in sorrow,While their giant branches wave,With the requiems of the forest,To the dead in a soldier’s grave.The pitying rain falls softly,In grief for a nation’s brave,Who died ’neath the scourge of treasonAnd rest in a lonely grave.So, under the willow and cypressWe lay our dead away,And cover their graves with blossoms,But the debt we never can pay.All nature is bathed in tears,On our sad Memorial day,When we crown the valour of heroesWith flowers from the garments of May.
By the slow passing of years humanity attains what is called the “historical perspective,” but it is still a mooted question as to how many years are necessary.
We think of Lincoln as a great leader, and it is difficult to imagine him as a lover. He was at the helm of “the Ship of State” in the most fearful storm it ever passed through; he struck off the shackles of a fettered people, and was crowned with martyrdom; yet in spite of his greatness, he loved like other men.
There is no record for Lincoln’s earlier years of the boyish love which comes to many men in their school days. The great passion of his life came to him in manhood but with no whit of its sweetness gone. Sweet Anne Rutledge! There arethose who remember her well, and to this day in speaking of her, their eyes fill with tears. A lady who knew her says: “Miss Rutledge had auburn hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. She was pretty, rather slender, and good-hearted, beloved by all who knew her.”
Before Lincoln loved her, she had a sad experience with another man. About the time that he came to New Salem, a young man named John McNeil drifted in from one of the Eastern States. He worked hard, was plucky and industrious, and soon accumulated a little property. He met Anne Rutledge when she was but seventeen and still in school, and he began to pay her especial attention which at last culminated in their engagement.
He was about going back to New York for a visit and leaving he told Anne that his name was not McNeil, but McNamar—that he had changed his name so that his dependent family might not follow him and settle down upon him before he was able to support them. Now that he wasin a position to aid his parents, brothers, and sisters, he was going back to do it and upon his return would make Anne his wife.
For a long time she did not hear from him at all, and gossip was rife in New Salem. His letters became more formal and less frequent and finally ceased altogether. The girl’s proud spirit compelled her to hold her head high amid the impertinent questions of the neighbors.
Lincoln had heard of the strange conduct of McNeil and concluding that there was now no tie between Miss Rutledge and her quondam lover, he began his own siege in earnest. Anne consented at last to marry him provided he gave her time to write to McNamar and obtain a release from the pledge which she felt was still binding upon her.
She wrote, but there was no answer and at last she definitely accepted Lincoln.
It was necessary for him to complete his law studies, and after that, he said, “Nothing on God’s footstool shall keep us apart.”
He worked happily but a sore conflict seemed to be raging in Anne’s tender heart and conscience, and finally the strain told upon her to such an extent that when she was attacked by a fever, she had little strength to resist it.
The summer waned and Anne’s life ebbed with it. At the very end of her illness, when all visitors were forbidden, she insisted upon seeing Lincoln. He went to her—and closed the door between them and the world. It was his last hour with her. When he came out, his face was white with the agony of parting.
A few days later, she died and Lincoln was almost insane with grief. He walked for hours in the woods, refused to eat, would speak to no one, and there settled upon him that profound melancholy which came back, time and again, during the after years. To one friend he said: “I cannot bear to think that the rain and storms will beat upon her grave.”
When the days were dark and stormyhe was constantly watched, as his friends feared he would take his own life. Finally, he was persuaded to go away to the house of a friend who lived at some distance, and here he remained until he was ready to face the world again.
A few weeks after Anne’s burial, McNamar returned to New Salem. On his arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office and both were sorely distressed. He made no explanation of his absence, and shortly seemed to forget about Miss Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln’s heart until the bullet of the assassin struck him down.
In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss Mary Owens, and admired her though not extravagantly. From all accounts, she was an unusual woman. She was tall, full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair; she was well educated and quite popular in the little community. She was away for a time, but returned to New Salem in 1836, and Lincoln at once began to call upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty.At that time she was about twenty-eight years old.
One day Miss Owens was out walking with a lady friend and when they came to the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them. He walked behind with Miss Owens, and talked with her, quite oblivious to the fact that her friend was carrying a heavy baby. When they reached the summit, Miss Owens said laughingly: “You would not make a good husband, Abe.”
They sat on the fence and a wordy discussion followed. Both were angry when they parted, and the breach was not healed for some time. It was poor policy to quarrel, since some time before he had proposed to Miss Owens, and she had asked for time in which to consider it before giving a final answer. His letters to her are not what one would call “love-letters.” One begins in this way:
“Mary:—I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should have written sooner. It is but little difference, however, as I have very little even yet to write. And more, thelonger I can avoid the mortification of looking in the post-office for your letter, and not finding it, the better. You see I am mad about that old letter yet. I don’t like very well to risk you again. I’ll try you once more, anyhow.”
“Mary:—I have been sick ever since my arrival, or I should have written sooner. It is but little difference, however, as I have very little even yet to write. And more, thelonger I can avoid the mortification of looking in the post-office for your letter, and not finding it, the better. You see I am mad about that old letter yet. I don’t like very well to risk you again. I’ll try you once more, anyhow.”
The remainder of the letter deals with political matters and is signed simply “Your Friend Lincoln.”
In another letter written the following year he says to her:
“I am often thinking about what we said of your coming to live at Springfield. I am afraid you would not be satisfied. There is a great deal of flourishing about in carriages here, which it would be your doom to see without sharing it. You would have to be poor without the means of hiding your poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently?“Whatever woman may cast her lot with mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention to do all in my power to make her happy and contented; and there is nothing I can imagine that would make me more unhappy than to fail in the effort.“I know I should be much happier with you than the way I am, provided I saw no signsof discontent in you. What you have said to me may have been in the way of jest, or I may have misunderstood it.“If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise I much wish you would think seriously before you decide. For my part, I have already decided.“What I have said I will most positively abide by, provided you wish it. My opinion is that you would better not do it. You have not been accustomed to hardship, and it may be more severe than you now imagine.“I know you are capable of thinking correctly upon any subject and if you deliberate maturely upon this before you decide, then I am willing to abide by your decision.”
“I am often thinking about what we said of your coming to live at Springfield. I am afraid you would not be satisfied. There is a great deal of flourishing about in carriages here, which it would be your doom to see without sharing it. You would have to be poor without the means of hiding your poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently?
“Whatever woman may cast her lot with mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention to do all in my power to make her happy and contented; and there is nothing I can imagine that would make me more unhappy than to fail in the effort.
“I know I should be much happier with you than the way I am, provided I saw no signsof discontent in you. What you have said to me may have been in the way of jest, or I may have misunderstood it.
“If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise I much wish you would think seriously before you decide. For my part, I have already decided.
“What I have said I will most positively abide by, provided you wish it. My opinion is that you would better not do it. You have not been accustomed to hardship, and it may be more severe than you now imagine.
“I know you are capable of thinking correctly upon any subject and if you deliberate maturely upon this before you decide, then I am willing to abide by your decision.”
Matters went on in this way for about three months; then they met again, seemingly without making any progress. On the day they parted, Lincoln wrote her another letter, evidently to make his own position clear and put the burden of decision upon her.
“If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me [he said], I am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while, on the other hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind you faster, if I can be convinced that it willin any considerable degree add to your happiness. This, indeed, is the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable—nothing more happy than to know you were so.”
“If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me [he said], I am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while, on the other hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind you faster, if I can be convinced that it willin any considerable degree add to your happiness. This, indeed, is the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable—nothing more happy than to know you were so.”
In spite of his evident sincerity, it is not surprising to learn that a little later, Miss Owens definitely refused him. In April, of the following year, Lincoln wrote to his friend, Mrs. L. H. Browning, giving a full account of this grotesque courtship:
“I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote] at which I very unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance.“I was mortified it seemed to me in a hundred different ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and at the same time never doubting that I understood them perfectly; and also, that she, whom I had taught myself to believe nobody else would have, had actually rejected me, with all my fancied greatness.“And then to cap the whole, I then, for the first time, began to suspect that I was really a little in love with her. But let it all go. I’ll try and outlive it. Others have beenmade fools of by the girls; but this can never with truth be said of me. I most emphatically in this instance made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason I can never be satisfied with any one who would be blockhead enough to have me!”
“I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote] at which I very unexpectedly found myself mortified almost beyond endurance.
“I was mortified it seemed to me in a hundred different ways. My vanity was deeply wounded by the reflection that I had so long been too stupid to discover her intentions, and at the same time never doubting that I understood them perfectly; and also, that she, whom I had taught myself to believe nobody else would have, had actually rejected me, with all my fancied greatness.
“And then to cap the whole, I then, for the first time, began to suspect that I was really a little in love with her. But let it all go. I’ll try and outlive it. Others have beenmade fools of by the girls; but this can never with truth be said of me. I most emphatically in this instance made a fool of myself. I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason I can never be satisfied with any one who would be blockhead enough to have me!”
The gist of the matter seems to be that at heart Lincoln hesitated at matrimony, as other men have done, both before and since his time. In his letter to Mrs. Browning he speaks of his efforts to “put off the evil day for a time, which I really dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an Irishman does the halter!”
But in 1839 Miss Mary Todd came to live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian Edwards, at Springfield. She was in her twenty-first year, and is described as “of average height and compactly built.” She had a well-rounded face, rich dark brown hair, and bluish grey eyes. No picture of her fails to show the full, well-developed chin, which, more than any other feature is an evidence of determination. She was strong, proud, passionate, gifted with akeen sense of the ridiculous, well educated, and swayed only by her own imperious will.
Lincoln was attracted at once, and strangely enough, Stephen A. Douglas crossed his wooing. For a time the two men were rivals, the pursuit waxing more furious day by day. Some one asked Miss Todd which of them she intended to marry, and she answered laughingly: “The one who has the best chance of becoming President!”
She is said, however, to have refused the “Little Giant” on account of his lax morality and after that the coast was clear for Lincoln. Miss Todd’s sister tells us that “he was charmed by Mary’s wit and fascinated by her quick sagacity, her will, her nature, and culture.” “I have happened in the room,” she says, “where they were sitting, often and often, and Mary led the conversation. Lincoln would listen, and gaze on her as if drawn by some superior power—irresistibly so; he listened, but scarcely ever said a word.”
The affair naturally culminated in an engagement, and the course of love was running smoothly, when a distracting element appeared in the shape of Miss Matilda Edwards, the sister of Mrs. Edwards’s husband. She was young and fair, and Lincoln was pleased with her appearance. For a time he tried to go on as before, but his feelings were too strong to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavoured to get his sister to marry Lincoln’s friend, Speed, but she refused both Speed and Douglas.
It is said that Lincoln once went to Miss Todd’s house, intending to break the engagement, but his real love proved too strong to allow him to do it.
His friend, Speed, thus describes the conclusion of this episode. “Well, old fellow,” I said, “did you do as you intended?”
“Yes, I did,” responded Lincoln thoughtfully, “and when I told Mary I did not love her, she, wringing her hands, said something about the deceiver being himself deceived.”
“What else did you say?”
“To tell you the truth, Speed, it was too much for me. I found the tears trickling down my own cheeks. I caught her in my arms and kissed her.”
“And that’s how you broke the engagement. Your conduct was tantamount to a renewal of it!”
And indeed this was true, and the lovers again considered the time of marriage.
There is a story by Herndon to the effect that a wedding was arranged for the first day of January, 1841, and then when the hour came Lincoln did not appear, and was found wandering alone in the woods plunged in the deepest melancholy—a melancholy bordering upon insanity.
This story, however, has no foundation; in fact, most competent witnesses agree that no such marriage date was fixed, although some date may have been considered.
It is certain, however, that the relations between Lincoln and Miss Todd were broken off for a time. He did go toKentucky for a while, but this trip certainly was not due to insanity. Lincoln was never so mindless as some of his biographers would have us believe, and the breaking of the engagement was due to perfectly natural causes—the difference in temperament of the lovers, and Lincoln’s inclination to procrastinate. After a time the strained relations gradually improved. They met occasionally in the parlor of a friend, Mrs. Francis, and it was through Miss Todd that the duel with Shields came about.
She wielded a ready and a sarcastic pen, and safely hidden behind a pseudonym and the promise of the editor, she wrote a series of satirical articles for the local paper, entitled: “Letters from Lost Townships.” In one of these she touched up Mr. Shields, the Auditor of State, to such good purpose that believing that Lincoln had written the article, he challenged him to a duel. Lincoln accepted the challenge and chose “cavalry broadswords” as the weapons, but the intervention of friendsprevented any fighting, although he always spoke of the affair as his “duel.”
As a result of this altercation with Shields, Miss Todd and the future President came again into close friendship, and a marriage was decided upon.
The license was secured, the minister sent for, and on November 4, 1842, they became man and wife.
It is not surprising that more or less unhappiness obtained in their married life, for Mrs. Lincoln was a woman of strong character, proud, fiery, and determined. Her husband was subject to strange moods and impulses, and the great task which God had committed to him made him less amenable to family cares.
That married life which began at the Globe Tavern was destined to end at the White House, after years of vicissitude and serious national trouble. Children were born unto them, and all but the eldest died. Great responsibilities were laid upon Lincoln and even though he met thembravely it was inevitable that his family should also suffer.
Upon the face of the Commander-in-chief rested nearly always a mighty sadness, except when it was occasionally illumined by his wonderful smile, or when the light of his sublime faith banished the clouds.
Storm and stress, suffering and heartache, reverses and defeat were the portion of the Leader, and when Victory at last perched upon the National standard, her beautiful feet were all drabbled in blood, and the most terrible war on the world’s records passed down into history. In the hour of triumph, with his great purpose nobly fulfilled, death came to the great Captain.
The United Republic is his monument, and that rugged, yet gracious figure, hallowed by martyrdom, stands before the eyes of his countrymen forever serene and calm, while his memory lingers like a benediction in the hearts of both friend and foe.
She is standing alone by the window—A woman, faded and old,But the wrinkled face was lovely once,And the silvered hair was gold.As out in the darkness, the snow-flakesAre falling so softly and slow,Her thoughts fly back to the summer of life,And the scenes of long ago.Before the dim eyes, a picture comes,She has seen it again and again;The tears steal over the faded cheeks,And the lips that quiver with pain,For she hears once more the trumpet callAnd sees the battle arrayAs they march to the hills with gleaming swords—Can she ever forget that day?She has given her boy to the land she loves,How hard it had been to part!And to-night she stands at the window alone,With a new-made grave in her heart.And yet, it’s the day of Thanksgiving—But her child, her darling was slainBy the shot and shell of the rebel guns—Can she ever be thankful again?She thinks once more of his fair young face,And the cannon’s murderous roll,While hatred springs in her passionate heart,And bitterness into her soul.Then out of the death-like stillnessThere comes a battle-cry—The song that led those marching feetTo conquer, or to die.“Yes, rally round the flag, boys!”With tears she hears the song,And her thoughts go back to the boys in blue,That army, brave and strong—Then Peace creeps in amid the pain.The dead are as dear as the living,And back of the song is the silence,And back of the silence—Thanksgiving.
She is standing alone by the window—A woman, faded and old,But the wrinkled face was lovely once,And the silvered hair was gold.As out in the darkness, the snow-flakesAre falling so softly and slow,Her thoughts fly back to the summer of life,And the scenes of long ago.Before the dim eyes, a picture comes,She has seen it again and again;The tears steal over the faded cheeks,And the lips that quiver with pain,For she hears once more the trumpet callAnd sees the battle arrayAs they march to the hills with gleaming swords—Can she ever forget that day?She has given her boy to the land she loves,How hard it had been to part!And to-night she stands at the window alone,With a new-made grave in her heart.And yet, it’s the day of Thanksgiving—But her child, her darling was slainBy the shot and shell of the rebel guns—Can she ever be thankful again?She thinks once more of his fair young face,And the cannon’s murderous roll,While hatred springs in her passionate heart,And bitterness into her soul.Then out of the death-like stillnessThere comes a battle-cry—The song that led those marching feetTo conquer, or to die.“Yes, rally round the flag, boys!”With tears she hears the song,And her thoughts go back to the boys in blue,That army, brave and strong—Then Peace creeps in amid the pain.The dead are as dear as the living,And back of the song is the silence,And back of the silence—Thanksgiving.
Certain barbaric instincts in the human race seem to be ineradicable. It is but a step from the painted savage, gorgeous in his beads and wampum, to my lady of fashion, who wears a tiara upon her stately head, chains and collars of precious stones at her throat, bracelets on her white arms, and innumerable rings upon her dainty fingers. Wise men may decry the baleful fascination of jewels, but, none the less, the jeweller’s window continues to draw the crowd.
Like brilliant moths that appear only at night, jewels are tabooed in the day hours. Dame Fashion sternly condemns gems in the day time as evidence of hopelessly bad taste. No jewels are permitted in any ostentatious way, and yet a woman may, even in good society, wear a fewthousand dollars’ worth of precious stones, without seeming to be overdressed, provided the occasion is appropriate, as in the case of functions held in darkened rooms.
In the evening when shoulders are bared and light feet tread fantastic measures in a ball room, which is literally a bower of roses, there seems to be no limit as regards jewels. In such an assembly a woman may, without appearing overdressed, adorn herself with diamonds amounting to a small fortune.
During a season of grand opera in Chicago, a beautiful white-haired woman sat in the same box night after night without attracting particular attention, except as a woman of acknowledged beauty. At a glance it might be thought that her dress, although elegant, was rather simple, but an enterprising reporter discovered that her gown of rare old lace, with the pattern picked out here and there with chip diamonds, had cost over fifty-five thousand dollars. The tiara, collar, and few rings she wore, swelled the grandtotal to more than three hundred thousand dollars.
Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls, and opals—these precious stones have played a tremendous part in the world’s history. Empires have been bartered for jewels, and for a string of pearls many a woman has sold her soul. It is said that pearls mean tears, yet they are favourite gifts for brides, and no maiden fears to wear them on her way up the aisle where her bridegroom waits.
A French writer claims that if it be true that the oyster can be forced to make as many pearls as may be required of it, the jewel will become so common that my lady will no longer care to decorate herself with its pale splendour. Whether or not this will ever be the case, it is certain that few gems have played a more conspicuous part in history than this.
Not only have we Cleopatra’s reckless draught, but there is also a story of a noble Roman who dissolved in vinegar and drank a pearl worth a million sesterces,which had adorned the ear of the woman he loved. But the cold-hearted chemist declares that an acid which could dissolve a pearl would also dissolve the person who swallowed it, so those two legends must vanish with many others that have shrivelled up under the searching gaze of science.
There is another interesting story about the destruction of a pearl. During the reign of Elizabeth, a haughty Spanish ambassador was boasting at the Court of England of the great riches of his king. Sir Thomas Gresham, wishing to get even with the bragging Castilian, replied that some of Elizabeth’s subjects would spend as much at one meal as Philip’s whole kingdom could produce in a day! To prove this statement, Sir Thomas invited the Spaniard to dine with him, and having ground up a costly Eastern pearl the Englishman coolly swallowed it.
Going back to the dimness of early times, we find that many of the ancients preferred green gems to all other stones.The emerald was thought to have many virtues. It kept evil spirits at a distance, it restored failing sight, it could unearth mysteries, and when it turned yellow its owner knew to a certainty that the woman he loved was false to him.
The ruby flashes through all Oriental romances. This stone banished sadness and sin. A serpent with a ruby in its mouth was considered an appropriate betrothal ring.
The most interesting ruby of history is set in the royal diadem of England. It is called the Black Prince’s ruby. In the days when the Moors ruled Granada, when both the men and the women of that race sparkled with gems, and even the ivory covers of their books were sometimes set with precious stones, the Spanish king, Don Pedro the Cruel, obtained this stone from a Moorish prince whom he had caused to be murdered.
It was given by Don Pedro to the Black Prince, and half a century later it glowed on the helmet of that most picturesqueof England’s kings, Henry V, at the battle of Agincourt.
The Scotchman, Sir James Melville, saw this jewel during his famous visit to the Court of Elizabeth, when the Queen showed him some of the treasures in her cabinet, the most valued of these being the portrait of Leicester.
“She showed me a fair ruby like a great racket ball,” he says. “I desired she would send to my queen either this or the Earl of Leicester’s picture.” But Elizabeth cherished both the ruby and the portrait, so she sent Marie Stuart a diamond instead.
Poets have lavished their fancies upon the origin of the opal, but no one seems to know why it is considered unlucky. Women who laugh at superstitions of all kinds are afraid to wear an opal, and a certain jeweller at the head of one of the largest establishments in a great city has carried his fear to such a length that he will not keep one in his establishment—not only this, but it is said that he has even beenknown to throw an opal ring out of the window. The offending stone had been presented to his daughter, but this fact was not allowed to weigh against his superstition. It is understood when he entertains that none of his guests will wear opals, and this wish is faithfully respected.
The story goes that the opal was discovered at the same time that kissing was invented. A young shepherd on the hills of Greece found a pretty pebble one day, and wishing to give it to a beautiful shepherdess who stood near him, he let her take it from his lips with hers, as the hands of neither of them were clean.
Many a battle royal has been waged for the possession of a diamond, and several famous diamonds are known by name throughout the world. Among these are the Orloff, the Koh-i-noor, the Regent, the Real Paragon, and the Sanci, besides the enormous stone which was sent to King Edward from South Africa. This has been cut but not yet named.
The Orloff is perhaps the most brilliantof all the famous group. Tradition says that it was once one of the eyes of an Indian idol and was supposed to have been the origin of all light. A French grenadier of Pondicherry deserted his regiment, adopted the religion and manners of the Brahmans, worshipped at the shrine of the idol whose eyes were light itself, stole the brightest one, and escaped.
A sea captain bought it from him for ten thousand dollars and sold it to a Jew for sixty thousand dollars. An Armenian named Shafras bought it from the Jew, and after a time Count Orloff paid $382,500 for this and a title of Russian nobility.
He presented the wonderful refractor of light to the Empress Catherine who complimented Orloff by naming it after him. This magnificent stone, which weighs one hundred and ninety-five carats, now forms the apex of the Russian crown.
The Real Paragon was in 1861 the property of the Rajah of Mattan. It was then uncut and weighed three hundredand seven carats. The Governor of Batavia was very anxious to bring it to Europe. He offered the Rajah one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and two warships with their guns and ammunition, but the offer was contemptuously refused. Very little is known of its history. It is now owned by the Government of Portugal and is pledged as security for a very large sum of money.
It has been said that one could carry the Koh-i-noor in one end of a silk purse and balance it in the other end with a gold eagle and a gold dollar, and never feel the difference in weight, while the value of the gem in gold could not be transported in less than four dray loads!
Tradition says that Karna, King of Anga, owned it three thousand years ago. The King of Lahore, one of the Indies, heard that the King of Cabul, one of the lesser princes, had in his possession the largest and purest diamond in the world. Lahore invited Cabul to visit him, and when he had him in his power, demandedthe treasure. Cabul, however, had suspected treachery, and brought an imitation of the Koh-i-noor. He of course expostulated, but finally surrendered the supposed diamond.
The lapidary who was employed to mount it pronounced it a piece of crystal, whereupon the royal old thief sent soldiers who ransacked the palace of the King of Cabul from top to bottom, in vain. At last, however, after a long search, a servant betrayed his master, and the gem was found in a pile of ashes.
After the annexation of the Punjab in 1849, the Koh-i-noor was given up to the British, and at a meeting of the Punjab Board was handed to John (afterward Lord) Lawrence who placed it in his waistcoat pocket and forgot the treasure. While at a public meeting some time later, he suddenly remembered it, hurried home and asked his servant if he had seen a small box which he had left in his waistcoat pocket.
“Yes, sahib,” the man replied; “I found it, and put in your drawer.”
“Bring it here,” said Lawrence, and the servant produced it.
“Now,” said his master, “open it and see what it contains.”
The old native obeyed, and after removing the folds of linen, he said: “There is nothing here but a piece of glass.”
“Good,” said Lawrence, with a sigh of relief, “you can leave it with me.”
The Sanci diamond belonged to Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who wore it in his hat at the battle of Nancy, where he fell. A Swiss soldier found it and sold it for a gulden to a clergyman of Baltimore. It passed into the possession of Anton, King of Portugal, who was obliged to sell it, the price being a million francs.
It shortly afterward became the property of a Frenchman named Sanci, whose descendant being sent as an ambassador, was required by the King to give the diamond as a pledge. The servant carrying it to the King was attacked by robbers on the way and murdered, not, however, until he had swallowed the diamond. Hismaster, feeling sure of his faithfulness, caused the body to be opened and found the gem in his stomach. This gem came into the possession of the Crown of England, and James II carried it with him to France in 1688.
From James it passed to his friend and patron, Louis XIV, and to his descendants, until the Duchess of Berry at the Restoration sold it to the Demidoffs for six hundred and twenty-five thousand francs.
It was worth a million and a half of francs when Prince Paul Demidoff wore it in his hat at a great fancy ball given in honour of Count Walewski, the Minister of Napoleon III—and lost it during the ball! Everybody was wild with excitement when the loss was announced—everybody but Prince Paul Demidoff. After an hour’s search the Sanci was found under a chair.
After more than two centuries, “the Regent is,” as Saint-Simon described it in 1717, “a brilliant, inestimable and unique.” Its density is rather higher than that of theusual diamond, and it weighs upwards of one hundred and thirty carats. This stone was found in India by a slave, who, to conceal it, made a wound in his leg and wrapped the gem in the bandages. Reaching the coast, he intrusted himself and his secret to an English captain, who took the gem, threw the slave overboard, and sold his ill-gotten gains to a native merchant for five thousand dollars.
It afterwards passed into the hands of Pitt, Governor of St. George, who sold it in 1717 to the Duke of Orleans, then Regent of France, for $675,000. Before the end of the eighteenth century the stone had more than trebled in worth, and we can only wonder what it ought to bring now with its “perfect whiteness, its regular form, and its absolute freedom from stain or flaw!”
The collection belonging to the Sultan of Turkey, which is probably the finest in the world, dates prior to the discovery of America, and undoubtedly came from Asia. One Turkish pasha alone left to the Empireat his death, seven table-cloths embroidered with diamonds, and bushels of fine pearls.
In the war with Russia, in 1778, Turkey borrowed $30,000,000 from the Ottoman Bank on the security of the crown jewels. The cashier of the bank was admitted to the treasure-chamber and was told to help himself until he had enough to secure his advances.
“I selected enough,” he says, “to secure the bank against loss in any event, but the removal of the gems I took made no appreciable gap in the accumulation.”
In the imperial treasury of the Sultan, the first room is the richest in notable objects. The most conspicuous of these is a great throne or divan of beaten gold, occupying the entire centre of the room, and set with precious stones: pearls, rubies, and emeralds, thousands of them, covering the entire surface in a geometrical mosaic pattern. This specimen of barbaric magnificence was part of the spoils of war taken from one of the shahs of Persia.
Much more interesting and beautiful,however, is another canopied throne or divan, placed in the upper story of the same building. This is a genuine work of old Turkish art which dates from some time during the second half of the sixteenth century. It is a raised square seat, on which the Sultan sat cross-legged. At each angle there rises a square vertical shaft supporting a canopy, with a minaret or pinnacle surmounted by a rich gold and jewelled finial. The entire height of the throne is nine or ten feet. The materials are precious woods, ebony, sandal-wood, etc., with shell, mother-of-pearl, silver, and gold.
The entire piece is decorated inside and out with a branching floriated design in mother-of-pearl marquetry, in the style of the fine early Persian painted tiles, and the centre of each of the principal leaves and flowers is set with splendidcabochongems, fine balass rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls.
Pendant from the roof of the canopy, and in a position which would be directly overthe head of the Sultan, is a golden cord, on which is hung a large heart-shaped ornament of gold, chased and perforated with floriated work, and beneath it hangs a huge uncut emerald of fine colour, but of triangular shape, four inches in diameter, and an inch and a half thick.
Richly decorated arms and armour form a conspicuous feature of the contents of all three of these rooms. The most notable work in this class in the first apartment is a splendid suit of mixed chain and plate mail, wonderfully damascened and jewelled, worn by Sultan Murad IV, in 1638, at the taking of Bagdad.
Near to it is a scimetar, probably a part of the panoply of the same monarch. Both the hilt and the greater part of the broad scabbard of this weapon are incrusted with large table diamonds, forming checkerwork, all the square stones being regularly and symmetrically cut, of exactly the same size—upward of half an inch across. There are many other sumptuous works of art which are similarly adorned.
Rightfully first among the world’s splendid coronets stands the State Crown of England. It was made in 1838 with jewels taken from old crowns and others furnished by command of the Queen.
It consists of diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, set in silver and gold. It has a crimson velvet cap with ermine border; it is lined with white silk and weighs about forty ounces. The lower part of the band above the ermine border consists of a row of one hundred and ninety-nine pearls, and the upper part of this band has one hundred and twelve pearls, between which, in the front of the crown, is a large sapphire which was purchased for it by George IV.
At the back is a sapphire of smaller size and six others, three on each side, between which are eight emeralds. Above and below the sapphires are fourteen diamonds, and around the eight emeralds are one hundred and twenty-eight diamonds. Between the emeralds and sapphires are sixteen ornaments, containingone hundred and sixty diamonds. Above the band are eight sapphires, surmounted by eight diamonds, between which are eight festoons, consisting of one hundred and forty-eight diamonds.
In the front of the crown and in the centre of a diamond Maltese cross is the famous ruby of the Black Prince. Around this ruby to form the cross are seventy-five brilliant diamonds. Three other Maltese crosses, forming the two sides and back of the crown, have emerald centres, and each contains between one and two hundred brilliant diamonds. Between the four Maltese crosses are four ornaments in the form of the Frenchfleur-de-lis, with four rubies in the centre, and surrounded by rose diamonds.
From the Maltese crosses issue four imperial arches, composed of oak leaves and acorns embellished with hundreds of magnificent jewels. From the upper part of the arches are suspended four large pendant pear-shaped pearls, with rose diamond caps. Above the arch stands the mound,thickly set with brilliants. The cross on the summit has a rose cut sapphire in the centre, surrounded by diamonds.
A gem is said to represent “condensed wealth,” and it is also condensed history. The blood of a ruby, the faint moonlight lustre of a pearl, the green glow of an emerald, and the dazzling white light of a diamond—in what unfailing magic lies their charm? Tiny bits of crystal as they appear to be—even the Orloff diamond could be concealed in a child’s hand—yet kings and queens have played for stakes like these. Battle and murder have been done for them, honour bartered and kingdoms lost, but the old magic beauty never fades, and to-day, as always, sin and beauty, side, by side, are mirrored in the flash of a jewel.
Straight to the sunrise my ship’s sails are leaning,Brave at the masthead her new colours fly;Down on the shore, her lips trembling with meaning,Love waits, but unanswering, I heed not her cry.The gold of the East shall be mine in full measure,My ship shall come home overflowing with treasure,And love is not need, but only a pleasure,So I wait for my ship to come in.Silent, half troubled, I wait in the shadow,No sail do I see between me and the dawn;Out in the blue and measureless meadow,My ship wanders widely, but Love has not gone.“My arms await thee,” she cries in her pleading,“Why wait for its coming, when I am thy needing?”I pass by in stillness, all else unheeding,And wait for my ship to come in.See, in the East, surrounded by splendour,My sail glimmers whitely in crimson and blue;I turn back to Love, my heart growing tender,“Now I have gold and leisure for you.Jewels she brings for thy white breast’s adorning,Measures of gold beyond a queen’s scorning”—To-night I shall rest—joy comes in the morning,So I wait for my ship to come in.Remembering waters beat cold on the shore,And the grey sea in sadness grows old;I listen in vain for Love’s pleading once more,While my ship comes with spices and gold.The sea birds cry hoarsely, for this is their songing,On masthead and colours their white wings are thronging,But my soul throbs deep with love and with longing,And I wait for my ship to come in.
Straight to the sunrise my ship’s sails are leaning,Brave at the masthead her new colours fly;Down on the shore, her lips trembling with meaning,Love waits, but unanswering, I heed not her cry.The gold of the East shall be mine in full measure,My ship shall come home overflowing with treasure,And love is not need, but only a pleasure,So I wait for my ship to come in.Silent, half troubled, I wait in the shadow,No sail do I see between me and the dawn;Out in the blue and measureless meadow,My ship wanders widely, but Love has not gone.“My arms await thee,” she cries in her pleading,“Why wait for its coming, when I am thy needing?”I pass by in stillness, all else unheeding,And wait for my ship to come in.See, in the East, surrounded by splendour,My sail glimmers whitely in crimson and blue;I turn back to Love, my heart growing tender,“Now I have gold and leisure for you.Jewels she brings for thy white breast’s adorning,Measures of gold beyond a queen’s scorning”—To-night I shall rest—joy comes in the morning,So I wait for my ship to come in.Remembering waters beat cold on the shore,And the grey sea in sadness grows old;I listen in vain for Love’s pleading once more,While my ship comes with spices and gold.The sea birds cry hoarsely, for this is their songing,On masthead and colours their white wings are thronging,But my soul throbs deep with love and with longing,And I wait for my ship to come in.
Aletter! Do the charm and uncertainty of it ever fade? Who knows what may be written upon the pages within!
Far back, in a dim, dream-haunted childhood, the first letter came to me. It was “a really, truly letter,” properly stamped and addressed, and duly delivered by the postman. With what wonder the chubby fingers broke the seal! It did not matter that there was an inclosure to one’s mother, and that the thing itself was written by an adoring relative; it was a personal letter, of private and particular importance, and that day the postman assumed his rightful place in one’s affairs.
In the treasure box of many a grandmother is hidden a pathetic scrawl that the baby made for her and called “a letter.”To the alien eye, it is a mere tangle of pencil marks, and the baby himself, grown to manhood, with children of his own, would laugh at the yellowed message, which is put away with his christening robe and his first shoes, but to one, at least, it speaks with a deathless voice.
It is written in books and papers that some unhappy mortals are swamped with mail. As a lady recently wrote to the President of the United States: “I suppose you get so many letters that when you see the postman coming down the street, you don’t care whether he has anything for you or not.”
Indeed, the President might well think the universe had gone suddenly wrong if the postman passed him by, but there are compensations in everything. The First Gentleman of the Republic must inevitably miss the pleasant emotions which letters bring to the most of us.
The clerks and carriers in the business centres may be pardoned if they lose sight of the potentialities of the letters that passthrough their hands. When a skyscraper is a postal district in itself, there is no time for the man in grey to think of the burden he carries, save as so many pounds of dead weight, becoming appreciably lighter at each stop. But outside the hum and bustle, on quiet streets and secluded by-ways, there are faces at the windows, watching eagerly for the mail.
The progress of the postman is akin to a Roman triumph, for in his leathern pack lies Fate. Long experience has given him a sixth sense, as if the letters breathed a hint of their contents through their superscriptions.
The business letter, crisp and to the point, has an atmosphere of its own, even where cross lines of typewriting do not show through the envelope.
The long, rambling, friendly hand is distinctive, and if it has been carried in the pocket a long time before mailing, the postman knows that the writer is a married woman with a foolish trust in her husband.
Circulars addressed mechanically, at somuch a thousand, never deceive the postman, though the recipient often opens them with pleasurable sensations, which immediately sink to zero. And the love-letters! The carrier is a veritable Sherlock Holmes when it comes to them.
Gradually he becomes acquainted with the inmost secrets of those upon his route. Friendship, love, and marriage, absence and return, death, and one’s financial condition, are all as an open book to the man in grey. Invitations, cards, wedding announcements, forlorn little letters from those to whom writing is not as easy as speech, childish epistles with scrap pictures pasted on the outside, all give an inkling of their contents to the man who delivers them.
When the same bill comes to the same house for a long and regular period, then ceases, even the carrier must feel relieved to know that it has been paid. When he isn’t too busy, he takes a friendly look at the postal cards, and sometimes saves a tenant in a third flat the weariness of twoflights of stairs by shouting the news up the tube!
If the dweller in a tenement has ingratiating manners, he may learn how many papers, and letters are being stuffed into the letter-box, by a polite inquiry down the tube when the bell rings. Through the subtle freemasonry of the postman’s voice a girl knows that her lover has not forgotten her—and her credit is good for the “two cents due” if the tender missive is overweight.
“All the world loves a lover,” and even the busy postman takes a fatherly interest in the havoc wrought by Cupid along his route. The little blind god knows neither times nor seasons—all alike are his own—but the man in grey, old and spectacled though he may be, is his confidential messenger.
Love-letters are seemingly immortal. A clay tablet on which one of the Pharaohs wrote, asking for the heart and hand of a beautiful foreign princess, is now in the British Museum. But suppose the postmanhad not been sure-footed, and all the clay letters had been smashed into fragments in a single grand catastrophe! What a stir in high places, what havoc in Church and State, and how many fond hearts broken, if the postman had fallen down!
“Nothing feeds the flame like a letter,” said Emerson; “it has intent, personality, secrecy.” Flimsy and frail as it is, so easily torn or destroyed, the love-letter many times outlasts the love. Even the Father of his Country, though he has been dead this hundred years or more, has left behind him a love-letter, ragged and faded, but still legible, beginning: “My Dearest Life and Love.”
“Matter is indestructible,” so the scientists say, but what of the love-letter that is reduced to ashes? Does its passion live again in some far-off violet flame, or, rising from its dust, bloom once more in a fragrant rose, to touch the lips of another love?
In countless secret places, the tender missives are hidden, for the lover mustalways keep his joy in tangible form, to be sure that it was not a dream. They fly through the world by day and night, like white-winged birds that can say, “I love you”—over mountain, hill, stream, and plain; past sea and lake and river, through the desert’s fiery heat and amid the throbbing pulses of civilisation, with never a mistake, to bring exquisite rapture to another heart and wings of light to the loved one’s soul.
Under the pillow of the maiden, her lover’s letter brings visions of happiness too great for the human heart to hold. Even in her dreams, her fingers tighten upon his letter—the visible assurance of his unchanging and unchangeable love.
When the bugle sounds the charge, and dimly through the flash and flame the flag signals “Follow!” many a heart, leaping to answer with the hot blood of youth, finds a sudden tenderness in the midst of its high courage, from the loving letter which lies close to the soldier’s breast.
Bunker Hill and Gettysburg, Moscow and the Wilderness, Waterloo, Mafeking, and San Juan—the old blood-stained fields and the modern scenes of terror have all alike known the same message and the same thrill. The faith and hope of the living, the kiss and prayer of the dying, the cries of the wounded, and the hot tears of those who have parted forever, are on the blood-stained pages of the love-letters that have gone to war.
“Ich liebe Dich,” “Je t’aime,” or, in our dear English speech, “I love you,”—it is all the same, for the heart knows the universal language, the words of which are gold, bedewed with tears that shine like precious stones.
Every attic counts old love-letters among its treasures, and when the rain beats on the roof and grey swirls of water are blown against the pane, one may sit among the old trunks and boxes and bring to light the loves of days gone by.
The little hair-cloth trunk, with its rusty lock and broken hinges, brings tomind a rosy-cheeked girl in a poke bonnet, who went a-visiting in the stage-coach. Inside is the bonnet itself—white, with a gorgeous trimming of pink “lute-string” ribbon, which has faded into ashes of roses at the touch of the kindly years.
From the trunk comes a musty fragrance—lavender, sweet clover, rosemary, thyme, and the dried petals of roses that have long since crumbled to dust. Scraps of brocade and taffeta, yellowed lingerie, and a quaint old wedding gown, daguerreotypes in ornate cases, and then the letters, tied with faded ribbon, in a package by themselves.
The fingers unconsciously soften to their task, for the letters are old and yellow, and the ink has faded to brown. Every one was cut open with the scissors, not hastily torn according to our modern fashion, but in a slow and seemly manner, as befits a solemn occasion.
Perhaps the sweet face of a great-grandmother grew much perplexed at the sight of a letter in an unfamiliar hand, andperhaps, too, as is the way of womankind, she studied the outside a long time before she opened it. As the months passed by, the handwriting became familiar, but a coquettish grandmother may have flirted a bit with the letter, and put it aside—until she could be alone.
All the important letters are in the package, from the first formal note asking permission to call, which a womanly instinct bade the maiden put aside, to the last letter, written when twilight lay upon the long road they had travelled together, but still beginning: “My Dear and Honoured Wife.”
Bits of rosemary and geranium, lemon verbena, tuberose, and heliotrope, fragile and whitened, but still sweet, fall from the opened letters and rustle softly as they fall.
Far away in the “peace which passeth all understanding,” the writer of the letters sleeps, but the old love keeps a fragrance that outlives the heart in which it bloomed.
At night, when the fires below arelighted, and childish voices make the old house ring with laughter, Memory steals into the attic to sing softly of the past, as a mother croons her child to sleep.
Rocking in a quaint old attic chair, with the dear familiar things of home gathered all about her, Memory’s voice is sweet, like a harp tuned in the minor mode when the south wind sweeps the strings.
Bunches of herbs swing from the rafters and fill the room with the wholesome scent of an old-fashioned garden, where rue and heartsease grew. With the fragrance comes the breath from that garden of Mnemosyne, where the simples for heartache nod beside the River of Forgetfulness.
In a flash the world is forgotten, and into the attic come dear faces from that distant land of childhood, where a strange enchantment glorified the commonplace, and made the dreams of night seem real. Footsteps that have long been silent are heard upon the attic floor, and voices, hushed for years, whisper from the shadows from the other end of the room.
A moonbeam creeps into the attic and transfigures the haunted chamber with a sheen of silver mist. From the spinning-wheel come a soft hum and a delicate whir; then a long-lost voice breathes the first notes of an old, old song. The melody changes to a minuet, and the lady in the portrait moves, smiling, from the tarnished gilt frame that surrounds her—then a childish voice says: “Mother, are you asleep?”
Down the street the postman passes, bearing his burden of joy and pain: letters from far-off islands, where the Stars and Stripes gleam against a forest of palms; from the snow-bound fastnesses of the North, where men are searching for gold; from rose-scented valleys and violet fields, where the sun forever shines, and from lands across the sea, where men speak an alien tongue—single messages from one to another; letters that plead for pardon cross the paths of those that are meant to stab; letters written in jest too often find grim earnest at the end of their journey,and letters written in all tenderness meet misunderstandings and pain, when the postman brings them home; letters that deal with affairs of state and shape the destiny of a nation; tidings of happiness and sorrow, birth and death, love and trust, and the thousand pangs of trust betrayed; an hundred joys and as many griefs are all in the postman’s hands.
No wonder, then, that there is a stir in the house, that eyes brighten, hearts beat quickly, and eager steps hasten to the door of destiny, when the postman rings the bell!