Chapter 10

"SONNY BOY'S" DIARY

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR IN CHINA

"Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son—O stricken mother's soul!All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only;Sentences broken—'gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital;At present low, but will soon be better.'"Walt Whitman

"Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son—O stricken mother's soul!

All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only;

Sentences broken—'gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital;

At present low, but will soon be better.'"

Walt Whitman

Among the most devoted of my parishioners was a certain Mrs. Allen,—devoted to the Church, of course, that is; although, if I may judge from her actions, I think she held me personally in high esteem as well. When I became acquainted with her she was a widow with one son. Other children, girls, had been born to her I learned afterward, but she had lost them in their early childhood; and, after the death of her husband, who had been a major in the marine corps of the United States navy, her life had been entirely devoted to this son, in whom her heart was so wrapped up that she fairly worshipped him.

She was a gentle, quiet, retiring little woman, sad-faced and inclined to melancholy when George, her son, was not with her. He was a hearty, healthy lad, abounding in strength and spirits, full of fun and mischief, but never vicious, and he certainly adored her with a genuine enthusiasm. His mother seemed actually to bask in the sunshine of his presence, and when they were together she was a different woman.

When I first knew them the boy had just been given an appointment at Annapolis; and though he graduated at the head of his class and should naturally have gone into the line of the navy, he had followed the family tradition by electing to serve in the marine corps, as his father and grandfather before him had done. He had risen to the grade of first lieutenant, and was one of the officers of the little band of United States marines who formed the Legation guard in Pekin during the terrible summer of 1900. I well remember the fearful anxiety and yet the superhuman resolution with which Mrs. Allen confronted those days of silence and suspense.

Sadly enough, among the first messages which got through from the besieged ministers was one announcing the death of her son. I was with her, of course, immediately upon the receipt of the news. Her grief was as silent as it was terrible. She made no complaint. The blow just struck her down. Her heart was affected in some way, and Dr. Taylor informed me, and I, in turn, told her that her days were numbered. I felt that it was best that she should know it. Now that her son had been taken, the desire to live left her, and she was almost happy in the thought that a short time—a month or two at most, the doctor said—would unite them again.

A few days after the receipt of the first bad news, freedom of communication having been restored meanwhile, the report of George's death was contradicted. Some one had blundered in the first message, and things were in such a state we could never find out who. He had been desperately wounded, they said, but would recover.

His mother brightened under this encouraging news. There was a faint rally and some improvement in her condition, but nothing of a permanent character. She realized the situation fully, but she summoned all her resolution and determination to her assistance and told me that she could not die until she had seen her son again. Dr. Taylor thought that probably she might survive under the inspiration of her devotion until the boy, about whom we continued to receive favorable reports, should come home again.

So she lingered through the summer, struggling, anxious, hopeful, determined. I happened to be with her on the eventful day when she received his first letter. The joy with which she took it from me and tore it open with her white, feeble, trembling hands was almost painful to witness. I felt as if I were intruding upon a meeting; but her blank look of astonishment changing to regret, and then to bitter disappointment, even anguish, as she mastered its contents was surprising.

"I have lost my boy," she said, with trembling lips, after a while, as she handed me the letter.

"What?" I cried.

"Oh, no; he is getting better and is coming back. I do not mean that; but—but—he is going to be married. Read it yourself."

Why, it was a letter to make any woman's heart proud, I thought, and I said so. There were sober words of thanksgiving to God that his life had been spared; a modest expression of satisfaction in the promotion to a captaincy, which had come to him for his splendid courage during the siege, notably when he led the attack on the sand-bag fort on the wall, where he was wounded; and lots of love for his mother. That was not all, though. He had been a demonstrative boy always, I suppose; he had lavished affectionate endearments upon her, and she had been first in his heart; but now—ah, there was the rub.

I realized, as I reflected on the situation, that I was only a man, and that no man had ever fathomed the subtle depths of a woman's—a mother's—heart. It was as she had said; he was going to be married. I must admit that nine-tenths of the letter was filled with descriptions of the young woman to whom he had plighted his troth. He sang her praises with the blindness of youth and the ardor of manhood.

They had met for the first time during the siege. She had been a belated traveller who had been caught in the Boxer uprising, and had been forced to take shelter in the Legation. She had shown herself to be a heroine, of course. Everybody was heroic in those days. We all expected they would be, and they were. After George had been wounded she had nursed him back to life and won her way into his heart in the process. It was all quite natural, certainly, and very romantic. She was coming back with him. They were to be married by one of the missionaries in the Legation, where the romance had begun, as soon as he was able to stand it, and he hoped soon to present to his mother a new daughter, who was "the best, the sweetest, the noblest little woman in the world, and whom I love and adore with all my heart," and so on until the end of the letter.

I thought myself that he might have spared her a little of that; and, as I watched Mrs. Allen's face and tried to talk to comfort her, I began to have a dim realization of what a shock it was. That boy had been everything to her, as I said, and she to him. She had always been first in his affection and he in hers. Alone in the world, the two had grown up together. Now that his life was spared, she confronted the fact that she was called upon to share him with another woman.

Oh, the bitterness of jealousy in old age! It was there. Oh, the hopeless feeling that comes over a mother when she realizes that, in a certain sense, she is supplanted! I saw it in the white face, the pressed lips, the trembling hands of the stricken woman leaning back in the chair before me. It matters not that it is the usual course of life; that did not make it easier for her. Other mothers had to bear such things, we both knew, but now it seemed different.

Well, I comforted her as best I could, said all things possible before I left her, but to little purpose, I fear. The next day she was dead. The second shock had been too much for her. I was with her when she passed away. When I came into the room I noticed that the table by her bed was covered with a pile of common red-backed blank books, which I had never seen before.

"Sonny Boy!"—that's what she called him; in spite of the fact that he was a great big fellow, and as manly as a soldier should be, he was always in her heart what he had been as a child—"Sonny Boy's diary," she whispered to me; "I want you to take them—keep them until he comes home and then give them to him. And I want you to read them, too, so that you may know—and—and—sympathize."

Sympathize with whom? I wondered. With George or with her? Ah, I soon found out. I thought she had gone after the prayers had been said, she lay on the bed so still and quiet. But she opened her eyes presently and whispered brokenly in the silence,—

"Tell him—I love him better than—than—any one in the whole world—will—ever—love him—Sonny—Boy."

After that her eyes remained open until I closed them.

I took the books home, and the evening of the day of the funeral I sat down to read them. It was late at night, or rather early in the morning, when I finished them, and then I did something for which my conscience has troubled me ever since.

I wish that I could tell you all that was in those little worn blank books. Every word of them had been written by her own hand. She began with his birth, the first entry being made as soon as she was able to hold a pen. She chronicled religiously every event that bore even the remotest relation to the boy. You could see how he grew into her life, how he became a part of it, and, finally, as the years passed by, all of it. There was nothing that he did or said which was not noted. His most trivial actions, his most unimportant words, were all faithfully set down and commented upon. In those books was the history of the development of a human being,—nay, the development of a great passion as well.

As he grew older, and his mother lost successively his father and the two little girls, it was easy to see how the boy became more and more to her. The entries were longer and more connected,—more coherent, I should say. There were whole pages filled with her speculations concerning him. She set down the ambitions she had cherished for his work, the hopes born in her heart for his future, her dreams of his achievements that were to be; she quoted freely from his letters when he was away at school. She inserted photographs of him in all stages of development. She wrote out the prayers she made for his welfare.

The entries abounded with expressions of her ever-growing, absorbing love for him. Yes, and when he had his boyish flirtations and had evidently written to her about charming girls he had met, the jealousy of a mother's heart spoke in her comments. It was quite evident to me as I read on, absorbed in it all, that she would never be able to bear the idea of any one coming between her and that lad. How she rejoiced in his successes and love for her! There were troubles, too,—illnesses, scrapes; but her love never wavered, and things always seemed to come right in the end.

I could see that the keeping of that diary had become a passion with her. She confessed herself to it as a devotee might to some spiritual adviser. She poured out her heart on those pages which no living eye but mine had ever seen, I verily believe. She was absolutely true; entirely frank. The book was a self-revelation, all unconscious. I could see the ennobling effect of that great passion. She grew greater as I read on and on. A soul was laid bare in the written pages. I seemed to be treading on hallowed ground as I tenderly turned the faded leaves. No one could ever have spoken aloud as she wrote. It's not in nature to do so. It was her secret heart, her most sacred feelings, her inmost soul that lived and vibrated in the silent letters. I seemed to be looking upon things not meant for mortal eyes.

And through it all there was a note of depreciation. Was she, could she, be worthy of him? Oh, the sweetness of the humility of a mother!

But I cannot linger to tell all the story, all I read, all I divined. At last came the entries of the present year. When he had gone away she had sworn she would be brave. He was a soldier, he must do his duty and uphold the honored name of his father; but, oh, the anxiety of it all! I could see that it had almost killed her; yet she had kept up under the dreadful strain until the news of his death came.

I am not ashamed to say that I put the book down and cried like a baby when I read what she had written. Broken-hearted sentences, bits of prayer, words of Scripture, "Oh, Absalom, my son, my son!" Tears on the pages. The leaves were alive with her words. As I said, they spoke as no human voice could have spoken. They told a tale which humanity could not have revealed. And her heart was broken.

Then came the entry on the day when I had told her she was doomed. The subdued joy with which she heard the news, with which she looked forward to the prospect of a speedy meeting, was quite evident. One phrase struck me on that page:

"The work of years is over; I lay down the pen," she had written. "Sonny Boy"—she never failed to use that title; she clung to it the more tenaciously as he grew older; it seemed very sweet to me—"is gone and I am going, thank God! In death as in life we will be together. 'The book may close over' and be opened no more. He cannot return to me, but I shall go to him. I shall write no more. I have left directions that this story of a life—or two lives, his and mine—shall be burned when I am gone to meet Sonny Boy."

But on the next page the entries began again. She had taken up her wonted life-long task once more when she found that he was living. Curiously enough, while there was joy in the pages now, I seemed to read in them more of regret—in spite of herself. The doom written against her could not be revoked. Yet the conditions were changed. She had to look forward to a long parting instead of an eternal meeting, and it hurt her. Yet she must live until he came back. I saw it was her will power alone that kept her up. She must see him again before she went out into the dark, or the light rather, to wait for him.

So, in a hand that grew more feeble from day to day, she jotted down her hopes and longings for her son. How much the trembling letters told of her growing weakness! how different were the characters from the bold, flowing, graceful writing of the beginning!

Finally I came to the entry—the last—on the day she had received the news of his approaching marriage. Oh, the anguish that ran through the written words! They seemed to gasp out her grief from the page; sometimes I could scarcely decipher them. I turned back to the entry following the report of his death, and I declare it was no more heart-broken. Another woman had come between them. With unconscious cruelty, in that fatal letter George had told her over and over again how much he loved the woman he was about to marry. She could not get away from it. Innocently enough, he had given her to understand that he loved the girl more than all the world. Thoughtlessly he plunged this dagger into his gentle mother's heart.

I didn't blame him for his feelings. He could not help them; and, as I said, it was human nature anyway. The experience is common to every mother in greater or less degree. She had to expect it, or she ought to have done so. Still, I did wish he had not been quite so enthusiastic; not that it would have made much difference, for it was the fact that killed. His mother had intuition enough, she loved him enough to divine the truth through any reticence.

"I can't bear it," I read, "to know that I have no longer the first place, that another woman is nearer to him than I. To feel that the first of his love is given to a stranger! The best of his heart is hers! Who is she? What right had she to come between us? What has she done for him compared to me? Ever since he was first put in my arms, ever since I heard him cry the first time after the awful pain and anguish of deliverance, he has been mine! Mine! Mine! And she has taken him! Oh, God, pity me! I cannot give him up and live! He must not bring her here. I shall never like her! I hate her! I do not believe she is—Oh, how wicked I am! And he will be so happy while I suffer! I'm glad he will be happy—but it kills me. Thank God! it will not be for long. I don't want to see her. Pity me, my Saviour! You had a mother! I am an old, lonely, dying woman. Mercy, mercy! I don't want to see him—either—that I should write it—my son! with a light in his eyes and love in his voice for another woman. I shall die now. Perhaps I may find comfort then. But I shall never forget. He wrote about her on seven pages of his letter, and one was enough for me. Oh, Sonny Boy, to lose you, to—your little old mother is breaking her heart! Be assured of one thing, my son, I love you and I have loved you better than any one in the whole world will ever love you"—these were the words she had whispered to me on her death-bed—"no matter how much joy you may have, how much happiness, no matter where you may go, whom you may meet, what they may say, no one in this world will ever love you as I have. No one will ever think of you as your mother."

That was all. And I'm afraid it was true.

"There is noneIn all this cold and hollow world, no fountOf deep, strong, deathless love, save that withinA mother's heart."

"There is none

In all this cold and hollow world, no fount

Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within

A mother's heart."

I sat there in the gray of the morning with the open book in my hand. She had told me to give the volumes to George when he returned, and I could not—if I desired to do so—disregard her wish; yet to lay before him the sorrow, the regret, the sadness of that last entry: to leave with him that final thought of his mother, to cloud his wedded life with a suspicion which I knew he could never dispel, that his joy had been her death, his marriage had broken her heart—I could not do it! Still, to withhold from that boy the last words of his mother—it did not seem right!

What did I do? you ask. Well, with a horribly guilty feeling, I cut the last leaf containing those terribly piteous words out of the diary. I did it carefully so that he would never know that anything had been taken away. I felt like a thief all the time, somehow.

I did not destroy the leaf. I could not do so. I put it away carefully with my other treasures, and when George came home with his sweet, beautiful young wife,—and I thanked God he had her to help him bear his unfeigned sorrow at the loss of his mother,—I gave him the diary without the missing leaf; and her last message to him, as I delivered it, was one simply of love and blessing. And I almost felt as if his mother thanked me for it. I hope so.

I take out that missing leaf sometimes when I am alone in my study, and read it over and wonder whether, after all, I did right or not.

Extravaganzas

"'Tis a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle usIs a source of enjoyment, though slightly ridiculous."Oliver Wendell Holmes

"'Tis a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle usIs a source of enjoyment, though slightly ridiculous."

"'Tis a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle us

Is a source of enjoyment, though slightly ridiculous."

Oliver Wendell Holmes

"A careless song with a little nonsense in it now and then does not misbecome a monarch."Walpole

"A careless song with a little nonsense in it now and then does not misbecome a monarch."

Walpole

THE AMAZING YARN OF THE BO'S'N'S MATE

AN ACCOUNT OF AN UNUSUAL PRIZE

"Now this is the tale that was told to meBy a battered and shattered old son of the sea,To me and my messmate, Silas Green,When I was a guileless young marine."Ancient Sea Song

"Now this is the tale that was told to meBy a battered and shattered old son of the sea,To me and my messmate, Silas Green,When I was a guileless young marine."

"Now this is the tale that was told to me

By a battered and shattered old son of the sea,

To me and my messmate, Silas Green,

When I was a guileless young marine."

Ancient Sea Song

The second dog-watch, from six to eight in the evening, is the sailor's play-time. Unless some emergency requires it, drills and duties are suspended for the time being and Jackie, except for supper, has his time to himself. The older seamen usually collect on the forecastle; sometimes in the lee gangway in rough weather. There they sprawl themselves on the deck, or dispose themselves comfortably against the rails or the bitts, or even the anchor-fluke, if every place is occupied, or the boom boats if the waist be the place of assemblage, and smoke their pipes and yarn.

The ordinary seamen, the landsmen, and the ship's boys, if they are not rigorously excluded from the top-gallant forecastle, or from close proximity to the group of worthies who literally "take the deck," are forced to stand afar off, at any rate, where they listen to marvellous recitals as best they can. The midshipmen, however, as a species of privileged intermediaries between officers and men, often make a part of these exclusive circles, especially when yarning is going on.

Among all the tellers of strange tales on the famous United States frigateNeversink, Jack Lang, the old bo's'n's mate, held the chief place by general consent, and the sound of his deep voice raised in narration was sure to attract to his side every available reefer not specifically on duty, and all the old shellbacks, to whom yarning and listening to yarns were as the breath of life. And nowhere will you find better listeners than at a dog-watch "gam" on a ship's forecastle. The old man's services on theNeversinkwere invaluable in every way, his word was law forward of the mast as the captain's was on the quarter-deck, and even as a story-teller he was supreme.

One mild, pleasant evening this before-the-mast autocrat and raconteur found himself the centre of an interested group on the forecastle. The midshipmen were burning for a yarn. They had learned, however, that the surest way not to have their desire gratified was to ask a sailor for a story. Certainly this was true of this particular old salt, and it was necessary to approach him by indirection. The conversation turned, as it frequently does in the forecastle, on the quarter-deck, and everywhere else, on woman.

"Wot's the matter with leetle Sammy Bowline?" queried the old man in a pause in the conversation. "I seed him a-weepin' an' a-bellerin' like wot you Yankees call a 'caow' in the fust dog-watch."

"A cow don't weep, Jack," answered a maintopman who had been a lumbering bucolic dairyman when theNeversinkleft port six months since, but who was now a smart young light yardman.

"Hev you seen all the cow critters on the yearth, youngster?"

"No, but——"

"Well, some cows weeps, I sez, an' this'n' did," answered the old sailor, sententiously. "Anyway, Sammy Bowline, he bawled awful."

"I reckon he's homesick fer his ma," remarked Billy Clumpblock, the captain of the maintop. "I just guv him a few teches with me colt to take it out'n him, w'ich I've larned that w'alin' is werry good fer homesickness, an' sent him up in the top, as he calls it, to 'spell a watch.'"

"It's a sing'lar thing," continued the old bo's'n's mate, "how much men an' boys thinks of feemales, sech as mothers an' sech like pussons. It stands ter reason thay ain't necessary to nobody's existence, though it's agreed that we all had 'em onct, though I've got no evidence of it in my own case 'ceptin' general report. Look at this ship, now. There ain't a woman on board of her, an' if they was, she'd be considerably disorganized, w'ich I means the ship an' p'raps the feemale too."

"They seems ter be necessary on shore, though," remarked the chief quartermaster, a much-married man.

"P'raps they be. But they're no 'count on sea."

"I've heered them called the weaker sex," said the purser's yeoman, who was fond of literature of the dime novel variety. "I guess that's becus they can't make sailor-men out'n 'em."

"Wall, naow," drawled the Jack-o'-the-dust, a studious New Englander, given to historic research as he could manage it, "there hev been wimmin sailor-men. I've read abaout 'em. There was two pyrates once an' they was wimmin. An' they was the wust kind of pyrates, too."

"That's nateral," said the autocrat of the forecastle; "it stands ter reason that a woman'd be a bad sailor an' she'd also make a bad pirate."

"They wus good pyrates," continued the down-easter.

"Good pirates? There ain't no sech thing," chimed in another sailor, filling the responsible position of captain of the hold.

"I mean they wus bludthirsty feemale villains, an' they done the pyrate bisness up jest's fine's if they'd a-bin men."

"I had an amazin' experience with wimmin onct," said the old bo's'n's mate, reflectively.

"I should say you had," broke in a young midshipman; "I've heard you speak of your 'ol' woman' hundreds of times, and all the trouble you've caused her."

"I don't mean her, Mr. Bobstay. God rest her soul; she's dead, sir; an', as fer the kids, my darter's married an' the boys is God knows where. I brung 'em up ter be good sailor-men, though, an' wherever they is, I guess they're a-doin' of their dooty. This was another kind of a feemale. You see, lads an' young gentlemen all, in the Med't'ranean in 1800 I was bo's'n's mate, an', like this yere ship, we didn't kerry no bo's'n on the little hookerGrampus, the luckiest barkie that ever carried the American flag. She was schooner rigged w'en I was on her. Then they turned her inter a brig, an' now they're thinkin' o' makin' a full-rigged ship of her. They've done everything they kin to spile her. She's the slowest old tub afloat now, I'm telled, but let anything British take arter her an' she jest naterally takes a bone in her teeth an' rips away. Lordie, to think of that little ship a-doin' all the things she's done! Wall, where was I, mates?"

"You wa'n't now'ere. You was gittin' ready to go som'er's, tho', I guess," said the quartermaster.

"To be sure. Wall, as I was sayin', I was bo's'n's mate, an' that was bein' ekal to bein' bo's'n on that 'ere schooner, an' Commodore Rattlin was jest takin' command of her. My, but he's a sailor an' a fighter! I never seed any one like him an' I have fit in some right good hard battles sence, onless 'twas Commodore Paul Jones, w'en we tuk theSerrypisnigh onto forty years ago. I was a smart young foretopman in them days, lads, an' it was me wot the commodore sent out on that main-yard-arm to drop them grenades down the hatchway of theSerrypisthat blowed her up. So I allus thought that I won a deal of that battle myself, though the commodore got the most credit. Let's see. W'ere was I?"

"You was on theGrampusw'ich Commodore Rattlin was takin' command of," said the Jimmy-Legs, lighting his pipe.

"So I was. So I was, tho' he was only a leftenant then, lads," continued the old man. "Wall, we was mighty keen for prize money in them days, an', fer that matter, I ain't never seed the day, so far's I'm consarned, w'en I wasn't ekally desirous of gittin' my share of the same. Now, you youngsters, an' you haymakers,—w'ich is a bit unjest to you, p'r'aps, becus you've larned to be putty fair sailor-men sence we tuk our departure from Boston,—ye know prize money's divided into twenty parts by the laws of the United States. The cap'n he gits three parts; the leftenants an' sailin'-master, they gits two parts; the marine officers, surgeon, purser, bo's'n, gunner, carpenter, master's mates, an' chaplain, they gits two; three parts goes to the steerage an' chief petty officers, the other petty officers gits three, an' the balance of the crew gits seven."

"Seems to me the crew don't git no fair share," interrupted one of the new hands.

"We're lucky to git anything at all," commented the old sea philosopher. "They used to say you throwed the prize money at a ladder. Wot went through was diwided betwixt the cap'n an' th' officers an' petty officers, the cap'n takin' the biggest share. Wot stuck to the rounds was fer the crew. An' if they hadn't tarred the rounds in sum instances I knows of," he went on, mendaciously, "they wouldn't a-got none. Howsomever, this yere explanation is necessary fer to understand this yarn."

"I'd like to know wot prize money's got to do with wimmin," remarked Billy Clumpblock.

"My lad," said the bo's'n's mate, sapiently, "prize money's got a lot to do with wimmin, as you'll find out, especially if you go ashore with a pocketful of it. It had suthin' to do with the wimmin I'm goin' to tell ye of, anyway. One pleasant day in December, 1803, we was a ratchin' to an' fro in the Med't'ranean on theGrampusa-lookin' out fer Algerian cruisers, w'en we run acrost a ketch."

"What's a ketch, Jack?" asked one midshipman.

"Well, a ketch—an' the rest on you pay attention, too; if ye just take notice to wotever I says, ye lubbers, you'll soon know a heap about the sea an' other things. Bein' a silent man myself, I don't say much, as ye may hev noticed; therefur, w'en I do say suthin' it's wal'able. A ketch is a wessel wot has one big mast set well aft about midships an' a little one way aft of the fust one. This is to leave a cl'ar space forrard fer a bum [bomb]. They're mostly used fer that, w'ich is w'y they are called bum ketches, ye know. This one, however, had a cargo more dangerous an' onsettlin' than bums would ha' been, fer w'en we ranged alongside an' throwed a shot over her, you never heered sech a screechin' an' yellin' in all yer life.

"'Good Lord!' said Cap'n Rattlin out loud, w'ich as he was young an' impulsive like an' not used to controllin' his feelin's like me, he jest spoke right out. 'Good Lord!' he sez, 'wot hev we run inter?'

"'It 'pears to me,' spoke up Mr. Parbuckle, actin' as his first luff, w'ich he was only a midshipman an' had no experience wotever with the feemale sex,—but I've allus noticed that it's them as has little experience as knows the most, specially 'bout wimmin,—'it 'pears to me,' he sez, 'that them's wimmin.'

"'Wimmin?' roars the cap'n. 'Wot are they a-doin' there? Well,' he sez, 'we'll soon find out,' sez he. With that he shoved the schooner in clus to the ketch an' hailed her. Of course, the conwersation bein' carried on in lingo Franco, w'ich I understands, it was all werry clear to me, an' I told the rest of the fok's'l wot was happ'nin'.

"'Ahoy!' the cap'n cried, 'wot ship is that?' An' then a measly old Turk he come over to the side an' throwed his flag in the water an' waved his arms an' bowed to the deck, but didn't say nuthin'. He was so skeered he was most frightened out of his baggy britches. He could see the smokin' matches, an' we was jest itchin' to turn our guns loose on the old heathen, with his wildcats, or wotever they was. The cap'n bein' young an' impetuous like, he hails ag'in. He sez,—

"'W'y don't you answer me?' he sez. 'Ain't ye got no tongue?' he sez. 'Don't you hear me? W'ere are you from? W'ere are you bound? Wot hev ye got on board? If ye don't speak up I'll turn a broadside on ye.'

"With that that old Turk he unstoppered his jaw tackle an' reels off an extr'ordin'ry lot o' stuff, but we makes out, me an' the cap'n does, that he was from Tripoli three days out. That his ketch's name was theStamico, or sum sech other outlandish name, an' that she was loaded with feemale slaves fer the Sultan of Turkeys.

"Gosh-o'-mighty, if the cap'n hadn't insisted all the time on the most sharpest dissypline on that there leetle ship, I'd a yelled an' laughed outrajus, an' the men would hev busted inter cheers. As it was, I didn't dare to tell the crew all that bit of news; I jest guv 'em a leetle to keep 'em goin' an' hove to under the lee of the foremast where nobody seed me an' cut loose a few steps myself.

"'This is a putty how-de-do,' sez Cap'n Rattlin.

"'Wot'll we do, sir?' axes Mr. Parbuckle. 'Wot'll we do with them feemale slaves? I reckon we'll have to bring 'em aboard here, fer we can't let the ketch go,' sez that youngster.

"He was as excited as any of us, an' I reckon the cap'n was hisself, if the truth was to be told. Sech a prize as that ain't picked up every day at sea, ye know, shipmates.

"'You know old Commodore Ringtailboom,' continoos Mr. Parbuckle, grave-like; 'you know, sir, he wants a boat jest like this ketch for inshore work.'

"'You're right, sir,' sez Rattlin, werry solemn; 'take a boat, Mr. Parbuckle, an' go over there an' tell that beastly Turk we'll have to transship his cargo over here aboard theGrampus.'

"I was cox'n of that boat, young gentlemen, an' we went off armed to the teeth, not so much fer fear of the Turks, but on account of them feemales. You see, we didn't know wot'd happen to us with a ketch load of wimmin folk, an' we went prepared fer the wust. Wall, may I be jiggle-toggled, shipmates, but sech a screechin' an' yellin' you never heered w'en we got aboard. Bein' a chief petty officer an' the next in command, as it was, an' the most experienced, bein' a married man, Mr. Parbuckle, he tells me to go below an' see wot I could make out of the lot, w'ile he speaks to the beastly Turkey cap'n. Fer a reefer, young gentlemen," said the old sailor, "he was the bashfullest feller I ever seed. 'Tis a rare and onsettlin' quality in the class,—meanin' no offence," he added, amid a general laugh, in which the midshipmen heartily joined. "I didn't want nuthin' better'n that job, so I jumped below to tackle it, took off my hat, an' sez, most pleasant like, 'Ladies, yer most obejient an' 'umble sarvant.'

"They all run forrard at that an' crowded inter the eyes of the ship to git away from me. I suppose I must ha' looked mighty fierce, wot with cutlass an' pistol an' the pigtail we allus wore them days, an' w'en I tried to tell 'em that I come peaceable like, they was makin' sech a noise that they didn't seem to pay no 'tention to wot I said. I thought the best way to ca'm 'em an' to assure 'em of my peaceful intentions was—well—er—I jest caught the nearest one by the arm, slipped my own arm 'bout her waist, an'—an'—smacked her good!"

"Oh, Jack, you old sinner!" yelled the youngsters in chorus.

"Dooty, gentlemen; a true sailor-man is allus ready to sakerfice hisself fer his country, an' I done it cheerful then, bein' as 'twas in the line of dooty."

"I guess you did," said Midshipman Cringle, sagely.

"Thankee, sir," continued the bo's'n's mate, oblivious to the sarcasm. "She yelled sum at fust, but she seemed to like it. Of course, I repeats, it was all one to me, jest in the line of duty, as I sez, though I hev done more disagreeable jobs than that. I jest patted her on the head a bit w'en I got hold of her, an' told her to ca'm down, that we wa'n't goin' to hurt her, an' she seemed to feel summat assured, but, as we arterwards larned, she didn't understand a word I was a-sayin'! Howsomever, suthin' satisfied her. Perhaps 'twas my actions. Well, now, you youngsters, you must remember that I was younger then than I am now, an' there wa'n't a likelier sailor-man on the sea, ef I do say so myself. The rest of the cargo stopped makin' that infernal noise w'en they seed wot was happ'nin', an'——"

"Jack!" said Midshipman Futtocks, severely, "and you an old man! I'm ashamed of you!"

"Mr. Futtocks," said the old sailor, "as I hev said, it was strictly in the line of dooty, an' I was a young man at that time, sir. Mr. Parbuckle, he ordered me to pacify 'em, an' I was a-doin' the best I could. I was only a poor ignorant sailor-man in them days, an' couldn't be blamed fer a thing like that. W'ich I've got more experience now, tho' I don't say I wouldn't be willin' to sakerfice my feelin's to my dooty again if 'twas demanded of me. Well, I got 'em quiet by this means, anyway, w'ich I'm sorry to say you blames me fer, but w'ich my conscience is clear, an' I wish I could do it ag'in, an' I got 'em up on deck, too.

"'How did you get 'em quiet, Jack?' axed Mr. Parbuckle, who was busy arrangin' with the measly old Turkey w'en he seed me a leadin' 'em from below.

"'Well, sir,' sez I, 'I jest hauled alongside the nearest one, hove to, laid her aboard, an' s'luted her with a few light guns, an' the rest stopped a-yellin' at onct.'

"'Gad, man!' said the youngster, 'you've a genius fer dealin' with wimmin.' W'ich I tuk as a compliment, altho' comin' from one with no experience. Anyway, we got 'em aboard theGrampusall right arter aw'ile, an' ranged 'em on the quarter-deck. We didn't lose a solitary one, tho' they did beller an' bawl wuss'n Sammy Bowline at gittin' into the cutter. Mr. Parbuckle he was left in command of the prize, an' he a-protestin' bitterly; but the cap'n he sez he might send some of the prize over arter aw'ile to keep him company, but fer the present they must be mustered on theGrampus. Wall, we claimed that they all must be diwided up accordin' to law, bein' a lawful prize, an' we wasn't goin' to wait fer no prize court, nuther. The cap'n, bein' only a boy, he was in fer a lark like the rest on us, so he mustered the crew an' he made a speech.

"'Men,' he sez, 'as you knows, the prize laws of the United States diwides the prizes inter twenty parts. There ain't no money, but there are one hundred an' twenty feemale wimmin in this lot w'ich we've tuk. That's six wimmin to a part. I gits three, an' I'll make my ch'ice now. Ladies, yer most obejient,' he sez, grinnin' at 'em, an' them a-grinnin' back, becus, like me, he was young an' well favored them days, an' the feemales was havin' great larks, too. Then he steps forrard and picks out eighteen of the youngest and purtiest. Among 'em was the one I endeavored to impress myself on the ketch, an' as she passed me she made languishin' eyes at me; but she had to go with the rest, me bein' only a bo's'n's mate. So the cap'n he ranged his eighteen aft on deck, then the leftenants tuk their turn, an' the cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, w'ich he was on the prize an' couldn't choose hisself, an' a mad young officer he was, too, seein' plain wot was a-goin' on an' him not there. Wall, arter the cap'n, the leftenants, an' the chief petty officers tuk their share, blast my eyes if there wa'n't left an assortment of the ugliest old wrecks you ever seed—forty-two of 'em—for the crew, an' them jest beginnin' to understand the game, too," said Jack, laughing, "fer they showed the greatest willin'ness to be tuk. An' sum of 'em must ha' been old enough fer grandmothers, too.

"The cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, … an' a mad young officer he was, too!"

"We carried about eighty of a crew, w'ich meant there wa'n't enough to go round. There was an awful lot of protestin' from the crew on theGrampusover this yere diwidin' business. They said it wa'n't no fair. But the cap'n, he sez, it was accordin' to law, an' we was lucky to get what was there, an' to hurry an' pick 'em out. So we turned to, an' then sech a screamin' you never seed! Each woman had two men a-holdin' each arm an' claimin' of 'em, an' we was a-pullin' an' a-haulin' an' a-laughin' all over the decks.

"I tell ye, messmates, a shipload of feemales is the most disorganizin' body that kin board a ship-o'-war. Ef the oldConfederation, the flag-ship, hadn't a-hove in sight jest then, I don't know wot'd a-happened. We was so okerpied in this diwidin' bisness that nobody was a-watchin' out fer her. We was a-scramblin' an' a-dancin' an' a-raisin' Ned, an' the cap'n was a-protestin' an' a-tryin' to restore order, w'en the old frigate shoved alongside, an' Commodore Ringtailboom was that rageful he could hardly speak w'en he sees us all. He settled the hull thing by takin' all them feemales on board his own ship an' then sendin' 'em to Algiers an' settin' 'em free till the Turkeys got a hold of 'em ag'in, w'ich we never seed 'em ag'in. Cap'n Rattlin he got transferred to the frigate to onct fer punishment, an' we was scattered among the fleet, cos they said 'twarn't safe to leave sech a crowd together no more.

"Shipmates, we was only jokin' about diwidin' of 'em, but arter the commodore crossed our course we was the maddest lot of officers an' men you ever seed, but that was all there was to it. You can be sure that nobody never got athwart the hawse of Commodore Ringtailboom deliberate; he was a peppery old gent, sure, an' 'twas as much as a man's life was worth to go agin him.

"Now, that's an example of how disorganizin' wimmin 'ud be on board a ship."

"Jack," said little Futtocks, amid the laughter with which this amazing story was greeted, "do you mean to tell me that this is a true yarn?"

"Hev I brung you up, Master Futtocks, to doubt me?" asked the old man, his twinkling eyes belying the resentment in his voice.

"I am not doubting you, Jack. I'm just asking you a question."

"Wall, wall, I'll tell ye wot to do. The next time you see Commodore Rattlin you jest ask him wot was done with them feemale slaves we captured in theStamicow'en we was together in the oldGrampusin the Med't'ranean in 1803."

"But, Jack——"

"Eight bells, sir," said the old man, rising as the four couplets proclaimed the hour. "All the starboard watch!" he cried, shrilling his pipe as a sign that the play-time was over.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT

THE STORY OF A WANDERING SENSATION

"I loaf and invite thee, my soul,Leave thy fetters of flesh and be free;Soar abroad, scorning earthly control,On a sort of a spiritual spree."Timothy Blake

"I loaf and invite thee, my soul,Leave thy fetters of flesh and be free;Soar abroad, scorning earthly control,On a sort of a spiritual spree."

"I loaf and invite thee, my soul,

Leave thy fetters of flesh and be free;

Soar abroad, scorning earthly control,

On a sort of a spiritual spree."

Timothy Blake

Common sense—hard, practical common sense—is a great and important factor in this world's concerns. I am not a common-sense person myself,—though Geraldine will tell you that I am a man of uncommon sense,—but it is to common-sense people that I address myself; people who say, if they ever so far forget themselves as to read "Rappaccini's Daughter," for instance, or that other story by the gifted son of his gifted father, which hides its weird fascination under the name of "Archibald Malmaison," and you ask them if they like the stories: "Oh, of course not; I never heard of such improbable things. Why, how is it possible for a man?" etc. It is to these people I write.

I live in the enterprising Western city of Kalamalant. As my family and Geraldine's family have lived there many years, we are all well known, and any of my neighbors, among whom are a judge of the District Court, a retired major-general of the army, a United States Senator, and other persons of undoubted veracity, can affirm the truth of the strange incidents of which I am the principal subject. Geraldine will say that this is not the only case in which I am the principal subject, royally assuming for the once—but I digress. Geraldine says I always take too much time in getting at the point of the story, and as Geraldine is the only critic of whom I am afraid, here goes.

I, James Henry Rettew, commonly called Harry, was about twenty-six years old in the year of our Lord 1901. I was a sleepy, and people say a dreamy, abstracted young man. Geraldine thinks me handsome. She is alone in her belief, unless I agree with her in this, as in most things. I was possessed of a little fortune, and was a well-informed young man of studious bent, having read largely in a rather desultory way. My favorite study was the spiritual essence, or soul of man, especially my own.

It is a thing I believe most people have, though Geraldine says you have to take it on faith in the case of a great many people. What was it? Where was it, this pervading vital force within me? How did it exist within my body? What kept it there? Was death the result of a disassociation of the two? Was no man capable of ever separating the one from the other?

These are but a sample of the speculations in which I indulged. And I actually found myself in the way of solving some of these problems at last. Rummaging in the library of a deceased philosopher, I came across a treatise on this very subject by a sage of ancient times, the learned Egyptian Archidechus. No, you will not find his name in the encyclopædias. I have purposely altered it, lest any one should search for the pamphlet and, finding it, become as I was—but I anticipate.

I seized upon the old moth-eaten parchment volume with avidity. This rare—I do not think there was another copy in existence except the one I read—and wonderful book treated of the spirit or essence of life as distinguished from the gross and visible body. The writer held that it was possible to separate the one from the other; in other words, according to Archidechus, the spirit might leave the body and return to it at pleasure; in fact, the writer knew of such a case and cited it; he also gave minute directions for accomplishing this wonderful feat. I shall not reveal them to you nor to Geraldine, though that is the only secret I do not share with her, so beware how you confide in me.

Of course the thing was ridiculous; no such separation was possible, so I reasoned. There were the directions, however; they fascinated me. I was always an imaginative fellow and a great tryer of all sorts of strange experiments; why should I not try this one? I confided my intentions to no one, not even to Geraldine. I locked myself in my room and devoured the old book. Great stress was laid upon the faith necessary and the condition of the mind. It was stated that any violent emotion might be of great assistance at the final moment of—shall I call it dissolution?

Now I was at peace with all the world except John Haverford. Haverford was in love with Geraldine Holabird, but as I felt sure of her affection, I was not able to get up any violent jealousy on her account. Geraldine has since told me that if she had known I felt so confident of her affection she would have supplied me with several emotions on that score of an exceedingly violent nature; I don't believe it.

However, I complied with the other directions, and I even contrived to assume a reasonable amount of faith, but I could not quite manage the separation. I could apparently concentrate my vital force on one spot, for instance; but, exert myself as I would, I could not break the tie. The idea possessed me; I could think of nothing else. Geraldine says I was the most intensely unsatisfactory lover at this time that one could imagine, and that she had serious thoughts of giving me up for John Haverford.

Our love, which was a secret affair,—and none the less sweet for that, by the way,—was violently opposed by the heads of both our houses, there being some grudge between them. Although I was devoted to her and she to me, as I now know, though I did not at the time, yet I had never dared to take more of a lover's privilege than a respectful salute upon her hand. Geraldine was a tall and extremely dignified girl, and how she ever came to meet me clandestinely and write me those little notes—I have them yet—I don't know. She says she doesn't either.

But to come back to my experiment. My want of complete success preyed upon me. I grew thin, lost my appetite, could think of nothing but that. This, I imagine, was one of the reasons for my final success. Geraldine says I ought not to have said that, as it will spoil the dénouement. However, it is too late now. One afternoon, more than usually discouraged at my repeated failures, when I was about to consign the volume to the fire as a false prophet, my sister, who acted as our Mercury, threw a note into my room from Geraldine. I opened it, I must confess, rather listlessly.

Good heavens! Her father had discovered my last letter, he was furiously angry, swore she should marry John Haverford, and she was now locked in her own room; I would recognize it by the white ribbon hanging from the window-sill, and I must do something soon, for her father was terribly angry, and she loved me and me only, her own Harry,—and you know the rest! (Geraldine protests against these unflattering allusions to her notes.)

What happened a moment after, or how it happened, I am not prepared to state; one thing I do know. I found myself in the street and, without a thought of how I came there, was hurrying toward Geraldine's house; with reckless speed I ran headlong full-tilt into a lady of my acquaintance. The concussion nearly stunned me. What was my surprise, as I hastily took off my hat to apologize for my carelessness, to see the young lady calmly walk past me, apparently unconscious of my presence, and giving no evidence of having been in a collision with me! This rather astonished me, but Geraldine was so much in my mind that I dismissed it and hastened on. It was not far to her house, and, sure enough, there was a white ribbon fluttering from the window I knew to be hers.

In my reckless desire to do something for her, I opened the gate and walked into the yard,—that is, I found myself there, and, of course, could have come no other way. I am not much of an athlete and could not have jumped the fence. These reflections did not occur to me at the time, but the next thing which happened did astonish me. While I was standing there in the walk, wondering what to do next, the front door opened and old Mr. Holabird came out. His face was red with anger, and he was armed with a thick club, presumably for me. Now, I am not a very brave man,—though Geraldine thinks me a perfect hero,—and I confess I trembled. However, I walked up to him and said, "Mr. Holabird, your daughter——"

He absolutely did not see me, and as he passed me, with excess of courage I laid my hand upon his arm, but he took no more heed of that than of my voice. What could have been the matter?

I began to feel a little alarmed, and gave myself a good pinch to see if I were awake, the usual resource of people in a like situation—Geraldine says that no one ever was in a like situation before. I certainly was awake, for the pinch hurt me. Marvelling more and more, I decided to go into the house. The old gentleman was my most dangerous opponent, and with him out of the way I felt I could brave the rest of the household. If I could get at Geraldine, I hoped to persuade her to fly with me; and I did not doubt, once we were safely married, her father would forgive us, or if he would not, I should not greatly care, so long as I could have Geraldine.

Thinking thus, I walked up to the door and, placing my hand on the bell, gave it a good strong pull. The little silver-plated handle did not move an inch! I rubbed my eyes and tried it once more—no effect! I then sat down to consider. Was all the world bewitched? I racked my brain until the door opened and one of the children ran out. She came over to the chair I sat in and dropped into my lap. I got out of the chair in a second, just how I could not say. I am not over-fond of children of that age.

"Why, Jennie!" I cried, somewhat indignantly. "What do you mean by jumping on my lap in this unceremonious manner? Where is Geraldine? Go tell her I want to see her at once."

I was getting angry; but, would you believe it? that child went on playing with her doll and completely ignored me! It was too much; I wondered whether the whole town were in a conspiracy to drive me crazy. In despair I resolved to see Geraldine at once, and at the risk of being shot for a burglar, I turned to the door the little girl had fortunately left open and walked in.

As I entered the hall my foot slipped on the marble tiling and I fell heavily against an exquisite bisque head standing on the newel post. When I picked myself up, sufficiently sore from my fall to be convinced that it was a real one, the bisque figure-head was standing safely and smiling at me—it was a-laughing head—in a way I conceived to be particularly exasperating. I was so excited by this time that I struck it a furious blow with my fist, and still that infernal head stood and grinned at me!

If I did not see Geraldine soon I felt that I would go mad, so I marched upstairs until I came to the door of her room. I knocked gently on the door; there was no sound! I tried the handle with the same ill success as before. This was the last straw. I confess I stood at that door and shouted and screamed and kicked it,—pounded on it until I sank exhausted on the floor,—and still no thought of my real condition entered my head.

It happened that in my present situation my eyes were just on a level with the key-hole. I peeped in. There was Geraldine; I could see her plainly; and in another moment I saw her take a letter from her dress, kiss it passionately, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears. I was so wrought up by this time that in spite of my fatigue I jumped to my feet, and in another second I found myself by her side.

She was clad in some soft white wrapper, her hair all unbound, and was kneeling with her face in her arms on a chair. I was inexpressibly touched by her heart-broken attitude. I had never been anything but a very formal lover, as I said before; however, I thought the circumstances might warrant me in waiving a little ceremony, especially as she evidently needed a comforter sadly, so I walked quickly over to her and laid my hand on her shoulder.

"Geraldine," I said, "my darling, I am here to help you. Geraldine, won't you speak to me?"

There was no answer and no intermit to the sobs and tears she was pouring on my letter. I thought this was pushing shyness to the limit, and I had never suspected her of being timid. However, as she made no objection to my hand being on her shoulder, I thought that was a good sign, and I knelt down beside her and slipped my arm around her neck and said,—

"Geraldine dearest, do not cry so,—courage,—it will be all right—" (Pause.) "Won't you speak to me? Please, please look at me!" (Longer pause.) "Geraldine!" I shouted, savagely, "look at me at once or I'll leave you forever!"

No response of any kind!

By heaven! Whatdidit mean? I rose and dropped into a chair, remarking,—

"I'll sit here and look at you till you do get up and say something to me, if your father comes in here and kills me!"

So I waited and watched her. Presently she raised her beautiful eyes, red with weeping, and fixed them straight on me without the slightest sign of recognition, not even the fear that would have filled them had I been a stranger. What could be the matter?

I rushed over to the long swinging mirror in the corner, determined to look at myself and see what was wrong. I stood directly in front of the glass and glanced at its bright surface to make a last effort to solve the mystery. Reader, I will solemnly assert that when I looked in that mirror, expecting to see myself,I was not there!

There was nothing reflected there but the room and contents and Geraldine beyond, completely oblivious of me. She had taken a small picture of me I had given her and was alternately looking at it and pressing it to her heart. This evidence of an affection which I scarcely dared to hope that she entertained for me was certainly very gratifying, and at any other moment would have filled me with happiness; but in the light of the fact that I was not there, where I felt myself to be, I was too horror-struck for anything else.

I stood mechanically glaring at Geraldine, at the glass which did not reflect me, and at myself. I could see myself with my own eyes perfectly, hear my own voice distinctly, or touch myself with my own hands; in fact, I could see and feel as well as ever. I resolved to make one more effort.

"Geraldine," I said, softly. "Geraldine," louder. "Geraldine!" in a perfect scream, "I am going to kiss you this moment!"

She was lying back in a large chair, her hands listlessly crossed in her lap and her eyes closed. I walked firmly to her, hesitated a second, and then bent and kissed her upon the lips.

She says now it was very ungenerous of me to have taken advantage of her, but I submit that I had given every possible warning of my intention, and besides I was wrought up to such a pitch by the events of the afternoon I scarcely knew what I did; so I kissed her again and again, and this did really have some effect upon her. At first she blushed a warm, beautiful crimson, and as I kissed her a second and a third time, she started, raised her head, opened her eyes with a little scream, and said,—

"Oh, I must have fallen asleep and dreamed he was here—I suddenly felt a kiss, it seemed—Oh, Harry, Harry, why do you not come and help your girl?" and her head sank back in the chair and tears came again into her eyes. "Oh, Harry, why are you not here?"

I was nearly frantic by this time.

"Geraldine," I said, "Iamhere. I did kiss you, really and truly, a moment ago."

But she paid no attention, and even while I was speaking kept up her little agonized appeal for me to come and help her. I rushed to the window, leaped out on the porch, jumped recklessly to the ground, dashed right into the arms of Mr. Holabird, ran through the streets to my own house, burst into the house, tore up the stairs to my room, and saw—what?

Myself, calmly and composedly lying back in the chair with Geraldine's letter in my hand! This was too awful; I sank down in the other chair, and as I did so my eyes fell upon the volume of the learned Archidechus. The mystery was solved! There in the other chair was my physical body, and in this one I sat, a disembodied spirit!

The explanation was so simple and evident it brought great relief to me. Everything was explained. Of course no looking-glass could reflect the spirit of a man, no one could feel him—or it—or hear him or see him; of course he could not open doors or strike people or lift anything, though, to be sure, no door could prove a barrier to such an ethereal, immaterial entity as a disembodied spirit.

That accounted for my finding myself in Geraldine's room in spite of the locked door, for the child sitting down on my lap, for the bisque head smiling at my buffet, for Geraldine's ignorance of my presence. As to the kiss—well, love was the highest and noblest sensation (love such as we felt for each other) and as nearly a spiritually ethereal feeling as any human one could be; so, when I had kissed her, her spiritual being had responded to mine. This explanation fell easily in with the rest.

So far as I was concerned, I was, to put it plainly and simply, only my feelings and sensations; I was a wandering sensation! Doubtless my spirit took the same form as my visible body, but it was a thing so utterly immaterial as to be absolutely invisible to the human eye. I could talk, walk, see, and hear, because I had all my sensations with me, the guiding essence of my brain, too; but really my voice, for instance, was not audible, because when I opened my spiritual mouth it was only with the sensation of speaking, and no real sound was made; or, to put another explanation before you, my voice had become refined in proportion with the rest of me, and was pitched in such a sound-wave as the human ear was not capable of receiving and concentrating.

At that moment this seemed very interesting to me, and I settled myself comfortably back in my chair and laughed long and loudly. Of course I could go back into my own body at any time, and matters would straighten themselves out at once. I sat speculatively contemplating my body. It was a dramatic moment, indeed!

My body was sitting in the chair in exactly the same position I had been when I left it, or rather, I should say,wehad been when I left it. I bent over and touched it—or him?—he felt warm and natural, but not as if asleep. There was no beating of the heart, no rise or fall of the breast as in breathing, the eyes were opened and fixed but not glassy, the joints appeared to be flexible still, though, of course, I could not have moved one to see—in short, my body presented every appearance of suspended animation. I resolved not to try to get back into it just at present, and was still sitting there speculating upon my double self when the door opened and my sister—the one who brought the letter—came in; she was my favorite, and we were great friends. She glanced at me, and, supposing I was asleep, drew a chair over to the window and waited for me to awaken.

The fire was burning brightly in the grate, and, as ill-luck would have it, a bright little coal sprang out and fell on my lap,—that is, the lap of my body. It seemed as if there was yet some sort of a connection between us, because while the coal burnt into the leg of my body, it was I who felt the sensation. I rushed over to myself and attempted to brush it off. Of course I could not. The pain was really unbearable, and, forgetting my state, I called to Mary, my sister; of course she did not hear me! This was a worse dilemma than before. I decided at once to resume my proper condition, when, horror of horrors! I found that I did not know how.

It was true! I had been so constantly occupied in endeavoring to get out of myself, as it were, that I had completely omitted to learn the way to get in! This was worse than anything previous. I forgot all about the glowing coal which was still burning me, in the dreadful possibility which rose before me. Suppose they should bury me, would I suffer the pangs of suffocation forever, or at least until my body resolved itself into its primordial elements? I knew, of course, my spirit would never die, and if my body did turn to dust, would my spirit go with those of other departed beings, as the Bible teaches us, or would the fact that I had taken my spirit in my own hands, as it were, condemn me to wander forever in my present state?

I certainly felt my spiritual hair turn gray. What would become of Geraldine? Would I ever see her again or, rather, would she ever see me? Would she at last forget me and marry some one else, and force me to stand powerless looking on? I ground my spiritual teeth in rage and clinched my spiritual hand and swore—but what was the use of swearing? I could do nothing. I was too utterly ethereal, too entirely disembodied to even haunt any one, too ephemeral for a ghost even! Oh, horror! I thought my brain would give way. I thought of everything I could to help me out.

I had dabbled a little in hypnotism and had experimented surreptitiously on various members of my family, principally my sister Mary, and with some effect. Now, hypnotism is the controlling of one will by another. The will is an essential attribute of the spirit; there is nothing gross about it. It is true that the weakest and most physically imperfect specimens of this twofold race of ours sometimes possess the most powerful wills; plainly, then, body, physically considered, had nothing to do with this will power which is the secret of hypnotic force. Apparently I had my will power in better shape for use than at any time in my corporate body. I had it separated, under command, and could concentrate it more easily and advantageously. I would try it.

I got up, made the usual passes, and ordered Mary to come and throw that coal off my leg. She did so at once. I was delighted. She stood abashed and silent in the presence of the, to her, hidden force controlling her. It flashed upon me in an instant I could cause her to open the volume of Archidechus and turn the pages for me. Joy! No sooner said than done.

I sat down beside her and willed her to do as I directed. I hastily made her turn to the part which treated of the resumption of the relationship; a new disappointment awaited me—the learned Archidechus stated that the individual in the case he studied had never resumed his mortal condition, and that the means of doing so were entirely unknown to him. That took away my last hope.

Mechanically I released Mary from the influence and then waited to see what she would do. Her glance fell upon me, and she looked at me wonderingly.

"Why," she said, "how long Harry sleeps!" She touched him on the shoulder. "Harry! Harry!" and then she looked in his face and screamed.

The family, the servants, every one, came running in. They filled my little room, and after narrowly escaping being crushed to death by our fat cook, who hysterically sank back in the chair in which I was sitting, I walked over to the corner of the room and waited. They picked him up and laid him on the bed, and tried all the simple remedies they knew to revive him. One poured brandy down his physical throat,—imagine the sensation in my spiritual one,—another one chafed his hands, one wetted a towel and struck him repeatedly with it, the old-fashioned feather was held under his physical nose—imagine my spiritual sensation a thousand times intensified and judge what I suffered.

I wished they would go away and bury me decently and let me alone; it was too much to endure quietly. I tried to hypnotize the whole lot, but unavailingly. Finally the futility of their efforts dawned upon them and they sat down to wait while one went for a doctor.

Doctor! I thought, contemptuously; what could he do? unless, indeed, they might find a stray spiritualist who could fulfil his promises and perhaps summon my spirit back into its earthly shell. Sure, never had I seemed so sweet to myself. If I ever got back to myself again I made a solemn vow never to leave myself on any pretext.

Presently the door opened and my father came in. My mother was long since dead. The old gentleman was almost heart-broken; he sat down beside me and took my physical hand. (I find the pronouns very confusing in endeavoring to relate this dual story.) I would have given worlds to comfort him. Different members of the family stood around the room talking in low, hushed whispers of the dreadful fate that had befallen me, exchanging reminiscences about me, extolling me for many virtues I never possessed. There was some consolation in hearing what a noble fellow I was. I have not heard it before, nor have I heard it since, except from Geraldine. Finally the door opened and the doctor entered. He could do nothing whatever, as I had foreseen,—he actually pronounced me dead,—and a few hours later I found myself neatly laid out in a coffin in the parlor,—that is, my physical body was.

I took the most comfortable chair—when no one else wanted it, of course—and waited for further developments. This was growing interesting, and I had become somewhat resigned to the hopelessness of my situation. I noted several curious facts. After a while I got very sleepy, intensely so, and lay back in my chair and closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep. It was no use; I could not. And yet I never so longed to go to sleep in my life. The fact was, a spirit could not sleep; and it was my body there in the coffin which felt sleepy; but I must suffer for it. It was the same way with hunger. I was hungry. I actually got so desperate as to go out to the pantry and look at the cold chicken and boiled ham there. I could easily smell them; but as to the eating—oh, it was horrible! I do not know how I got through the night.

The next day I could do nothing but sit and look at the people who came to see me and hear what they had to say. I have forgotten to mention that in my condition I seemed to have as one of its attributes a peculiar faculty of divining the real thoughts of the people who came to look at me. Among them was John Haverford. He was actually glad to see me; so at least I read his thought. Geraldine thinks I must have been mistaken; at any rate, the sight of him filled me with so much rage that I rushed over to him, I threatened him; I did more, I struck him, kicked him, nothing of which he was sensible. It was too bad.

Geraldine did not come. I waited heart-broken for her. Would she come? The old man surely would not keep her. He was a pretty good fellow, after all—he is devoted to our youngest daughter now. I thought he certainly might bring her. I did not go out I could not bear to leave my lonesome looking body in the coffin. I had no heart for further adventures, anyway. I was intensely cramped from lying so long in one position. When I die I am going to be cremated; no more coffins for me. My wife says, however, she will not hear of that.

Geraldine told me afterwards that she passed the day in longing for me to come and take her away, and wondering why I did not, besides being continually impressed with a premonition that something was going to happen. Finally, toward night on the second day of my anomalous situation, Mary—good and faithful Mary—bethought herself to go and tell Geraldine. On hearing the news that noble girl promptly fainted. She recovered herself, however, and through Mary's aid managed to get out of the house and come down to see me.

I was looking at myself very dejectedly in the parlor, half dead from loss of sleep, hunger, and thirst, and wholly crazy from loss of love and my dreadful prospects,—I surmised they would bury me to-morrow,—when I heard the outside door open, a familiar and yet nervous step sounded in the hall, and then the parlor door opened. I had recognized the step; it was Geraldine, but how changed! I forgot myself and my trouble, and as she threw herself down on her knees and clasped me in her arms and kissed me, I suffered for her agony a thousand times worse than for mine. Great heavens! Was ever man in such a predicament? I bent over her in despair, and as she turned her face up in prayer, I kissed her lips again. She sprang to her feet and screamed,—

"Oh, he is not dead! I am sure of it! I felt him kiss me! I cannot be mistaken! Mary, send for papa, and tell him to bring his newest and most powerful storage battery along. I am sure Harry is not dead; hurry, hurry!"

So it was from Geraldine herself that this new idea of torture emanated. Oh, why could they not let a disembodied spirit alone in its peaceful misery? An electric battery could do no good, and it would be worse than the burnt feather.

Old Mr. Holabird was an electrician and an enthusiast. He would have sacrificed his best friend to an experiment, and consequently did not hesitate to come and practice upon me, whom he hated so bitterly previous to the unfortunate dissolution of partnership between my body and spirit. He was soon in the parlor with a servant following him bringing the battery. He was angry and astonished at seeing Geraldine, but his experiment was too engrossing for much time to be wasted upon her then.

Having obtained the consent of my father, he began taking off my shoes and then my socks. I blushed crimson; at least my spiritual entity did. My physical body, I must confess, betrayed no evidence of shame at the exposure; and before Geraldine, too! Mary and father and the rest of the family looked on with anxiety and little apparent faith. Geraldine stood beside me, resting one hand against my breast and looking at me as if not to lose the faintest sign of life I might show. Her father, all business and energy, attached the wires with a reckless want of ceremony; I thought in wretchedly bad taste. I must confess I hoped for the result of this experiment but faintly; however, there might be something in it, so I stood with my arm around Geraldine and my head resting upon her shoulder—spiritually, of course—as the connection was made.

I was quiet enough for just one-millionth of a second, till I felt the power of the current. It was awful; worse than any other experiment. I groaned in anguish while that fiendish old man made the current stronger and stronger, and that miserably placid body of mine lay there as calm and as unfeeling as a log, while I was in torment. I flew at the old man, clinched my hands in his hair, grasped him around the throat, did everything, and yet had to bear a current strong enough to have killed a dozen men, added to which was the anguish of feeling my last hope vanish. I was doomed!

The scientific fervor of old Holabird was at last satisfied, and he allowed the current to die down to one of much less intensity, merely keeping, as he said, a little on in case of an emergency. A little! It felt like ten toothaches run into one, but was so much less than before that it seemed almost like a caress in the first moment of relief.

While I was standing there helplessly, wondering what they would do with me, the old man walked up to Geraldine, who stood wringing her hands, looking at me, with her last hope gone, too, poor girl! and said,—

"Come, Geraldine, we must go; the man is dead."

"Liar!" I shouted; but no one heard me.

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