Chapter 13

With respect to methods of learning to read, the difference must appear even greater to one who has ever seen or who dimly remembers an old-fashioned _primer_. There was the alphabet to begin with, then some syllables and little words neatly arranged in columns, and directly upon that the reading-lesson, introduced, it may be, by the picture of a child in long pantalettes contemplating a shrub which, figuratively speaking, lent color to a few conventional remarks upon the rose,--as that it is red and smells sweet. Such was the whole system. We are aware now that to storm the citadel of letters in that fashion was absurd; that, on the contrary, it should be scientifically approached in the taking of outworks; and nevertheless here also is the fact to be reckoned with that children did learn by the old system, and that they learned with what looks in these days like marvellous celerity is a mitigating circumstance which has even yet a certain charm for some minds. There was a precision, too, about acquirements under the ancient method which is not always found under the new. At present the very mother of a child of eight years may not be quite clear as to her daughter's attainments; she _can_ read, but still, "you know, they teach them now to write first," and it appears eventually that Nellie writes so well and reads so ill as to be obliged to copy off her lessons for the advantage of learning them from her own handwriting.

But all this is simply in support of the proposition that children can learn to read anyhow, and, assuming thus much to be demonstrated, we may pass to something else. _What_ is a weightier consideration in the matter of reading than either _how_ or _when_. As a question, it would be differently answered in different ages of the world. We know that Dr. Johnson once took a little girl on his knee and put her directly down again because she had not read "Pilgrim's Progress." The great lexicographer might take up and put down a good many children nowadays before he found the right one; and we need not think the worse of them on that account. We feel that even a child who had the advantage of Dr. Johnson's acquaintance ought not to be required to comprehend the Immortal Allegory. It is true he may have expected her to enjoy it without comprehending it, and that gives the case a different aspect. Considering how few books the little maid had of her own, and especially if it was an illustrated edition of Bunyan's works which, lying on the table, prompted the good doctor's question, one is half inclined to agree with him that the demons in the Valley of the Shadow of Death and the angelic forms which meet the Pilgrim as Two Men of the Land of Beulah ought to have enticed her imagination into reading, whether she understood or not.

Certain it is, at all events, that comprehension is not necessary to the appreciation of masterpieces. In an age less remote than Dr. Johnson's, although still antediluvian with respect to the now prevailing flood of juvenile literature, children often read and liked what they did not understand. There were fairy-tales, to be sure, even then, and tales popular and moral, also a few such books as "Amy Herbert" and "Laneton Parsonage," but children who were fond of reading soon had those by heart, and would then browse, perchance, in their elders' pastures, by which means it happened that one child used to derive no little satisfaction from the "True Account of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal to Mrs. Barlow." Told as it is with Defoe's inimitable circumstantiality, she was so far from understanding it as to rather more than half believe it. She knew well that ghosts at night-time, robed in white, were fabulous and never to be thought of, especially when one was alone in the dark; but a ghost that paid visits in broad daylight, dressed in bonnet and shawl like anybody else, and whose proceedings were gravely chronicled for grown persons and labelled _true_,--what were you to think of that? It may be remembered that when Mrs. Barlow asks Mrs. Veal any question the answering of which would seem to be inconsistent with her ghostly state, Defoe says, "However, she waived that;" and, _waive_ not being at that time in the vocabulary of the young reader, she always imagined Mrs. Veal putting the question away from her, as it were, with a motion of her hand, and gazing the while in stony silence at Mrs. Barlow. This dramatic situation was calculated to have a certain effect upon the nerves, and in fact it was then that the profound silence of the room, accentuated by the ticking of the clock, used to seem fraught with the possibility of a ghost abroad with her visiting-list, who might presently be _waiving_ such courtesies as even an unwilling hostess would feel constrained to offer.

Rather unhealthy reading, one would say, but yet not so bad as it sounds; for the book was no sooner shut than the whole impression dissolved, though it might be renewed at will, as it often was. It was in the same family that all the children at an early age took possession of "Oliver Twist" as a juvenile book. They wept over little Dick's farewell to Oliver, and shuddered when Nancy saw coffins, enjoying it all extremely, and taking in so little of it that it has appeared to them since as not one of the least of Dickens's glories that he could write a book about the scum of London which children may read and re-read well into their young girlhood without receiving even the shadow of an impression of any evil beyond pocket-picking and house-breaking and general hard-heartedness.

And so it might not be far from the truth to say that children can read anything. They can, and do, even now when they have a literature of their own; for persons who would be shocked at the idea of turning a child loose in an adult library, where things unsuitable might pass harmlessly over its head, think nothing of taking a book off a counter and presenting it to their little ones, they themselves knowing no more than the man in the moon what it contains, although certain that the contents, whatever they may be, will be readily assimilated by the youthful mind. Suppose simply that such a book is full of slang and bad grammar, the antediluvians had an advantage there: if you want that sort of thing to amuse children with, the language of thieves is peculiarly suitable, in so far that if ever the young people who devoured "Oliver Twist" had over among themselves any of the Dodger's and Charley Bates's racy expressions it was with a wholesome sense of its being highly improper; whereas one cannot imagine the little folk of to-day seeing any impropriety in an equally debased decoction of English--albeit somewhat more mildly drawn--when put into the mouths of children like themselves. Then, again, the ancient young people used to read Scott's and Cooper's novels, and found there much that was entirely beyond them, which they knew was only for grown persons, and therefore, though they read of love, courtship, and marriage, they remained as unsophisticated as before. But how is a child to be unsophisticated nowadays, when all these topics are manipulated for its especial benefit?--when there is a devoted boy in the story, and, in due course of time, proposal, engagement, and the wedding? In the same way one can affirm without fear of contradiction that the lads who formerly enjoyed pirates and Red Rovers from their parents' book-shelves had a healthier mental food than those who at present are provided with Rovers of their own, carefully adapted to their mental capacity, in the shape of small boys who meet the world single-handed and make their way to fame and fortune. Then, finally, were not the kings and courtiers, the Crusaders and Saracens, the Indians and pioneers of former days better training for the imagination than descriptions of picnics, skating-parties, and children's balls, enlivened with such small squabbles or adventures as are incident thereto? Realism has invaded even the children's department, and to that extent that there seems to be nothing left for fancy but to go off on a tangent in frantic imitation of Jules Verne or feeble copies of "Alice in Wonderland."

Of course this is not to deny that there are gems in children's literature which they may be thankful to possess and we may be glad to share with them: indeed, the foregoing observations should be taken simply to the effect that there is room for a choice among juvenile books, and very little choosing. We started out with the happy idea that reading-lessons cost nothing, and are come round to the conviction that it is a pity they are not expensive, that there is not some one who, for a consideration, would take the children in hand,--not only those who are expected to read by and by, but also the born readers,--and, through a judicious selection of what is within their range, gradually educate them up to a correct literary taste. For there is something sadder even than being totally unable to read, and that is reading a great deal and never anything worth while. What is worth while includes, naturally, much besides novels; but, then, a person who appreciates a good novel usually reads other good things; and, at all events, children must begin with fiction, and, even were they to end there, that this should be excellent of its kind is a step in the right direction. It would not be a bad aim to have in view that they should come by degrees to a just appreciation of Thackeray and his compeers. And where parents are unwilling--or, by reason of being themselves no readers, unable--to plan a course of reading to that effect, why, in all seriousness, should they not place the matter in the hands of some sound-minded family counsellor, who would thenceforward look after the children's literary taste, as the dentist looks after their teeth?

That would put an end to the singular anomaly by which parents, who doubtless mean to guard their sons and daughters from evil society as they would from the plague, know, as a matter of fact, nothing at all of their inmost companions. When the novel-devouring period is reached, this is especially remarkable: a mother may then look at her young daughter sitting apart, silent, entranced, drinking in what she takes for the true philosophy of life from some romance of modern society which has been recommended to her as "splendid" by the girls at school, and find no more appropriate reflection to make upon this spectacle than that "Mary is never so happy as when she is buried in a book." But one imagines the family counsellor, under similar circumstances, interesting himself or herself to discover what sort of a book it is that Mary is buried in, and, if it should prove to be a tissue of false sentiment, false pathos, and even false morals from beginning to end, directing her attention to that fact, and giving her as an antidote something which, whether grave or gay, amusing or affecting, should be written in good English and in sound taste.

GRACE H. PEIRCE.

MITHRA.

What comes with sound of stately trumpets pealing, With flash of torches, flaring out the stars? What majesty, what splendor slow revealing, What mystery through the night's unfolding bars, In gloom, cloud-multiform, delaying long, Bursts into flower of flame and shower of song?

What march of multitudes in rhythmic motion, What thunder of innumerable feet, What mighty diapasons like the ocean, Reverberating turbulently sweet Through far dissolving silences, are blown Worldward upon the winds' low monotone?

The mountains hear the warning and awaken, In hushed processional issuing from the night, Like Druid priests with mystic white robes shaken, Communing in some immemorial rite: Round their old brows burns what pale augury, What benison, what ancient prophecy?

The sea has heard; through all its caverns under Whither its giant broods have fled dismayed, There goes a voice of wailing and of wonder: "He comes, with gleaming spears and ranks arrayed, And clang of chariot-wheels, and fire of spray: We hear, we fear, we tremble and obey."

The earth has heard it, and, arising breathless, Sets wide her doors and leans with beckoning palms Over the quickening east: "Resistless, deathless Father of worlds and lord of storms and calms, Thou at whose will the seasons bloom and fail, Dispenser and destroyer, hail, all hail!"

What are these prophecies and preludes golden, Legends of light, and clarions that blow? What is this secret of the skies, long holden In star-girt solitudes, disclosing now? 'Tis manifest--'tis here; the doubt is done: The day-heart leaps and throbs--behold the sun!

CHARLES L. HILDRETH.

A BACKWOODS ROMANCE.

The light of the just-risen moon shone upon the black letters of the guide-post which said that it was one mile to Clear Lake Settlement, and illuminated as lonely a region as could be found in the whole world. On one side of the snowy road a deep pine wood rose tall and dark against the evening sky. On the other were stretches of field and marsh-land, which, even when warm and green with summer, had a desolate aspect, with their background of low, monotonous hills, and both before and behind were more lonesome hills, more dreary fields, and black masses of woodland. Not one homely roof was visible in the hard, white moonlight, nor the glimmer of a lamp, nor a waft of chimney-smoke; not even the tinkle of a sleigh-bell or a foot-step was to be heard. The silence seemed whispering to the hills. One star glimmered in the orange after-glow of sunset.

It had been an unusually warm day for late December, and the faint, delicate scent of melting snow was still in the air, though it was growing crisp and cold and icicles were forming on the branches of the trees.

Two paths which diverged widely as they trailed through the woods came almost together as they reached the road, and presently from one of these paths emerged the dark figure of a man carrying a lighted lantern. Stepping into the road, he paused for a moment at the opening of the other path, and, hearing footsteps and a slow, grave voice humming an old love-song, leaned against the creaking guide-post and waited for the singer to approach. He was young, apparently not over twenty-eight or nine years, was dressed like a lumberman, and was of somewhat broad and clumsy build. But in his face, which was clearly revealed by the flickering flame of the lantern, though he stood in deep shadow, there was no coarse rusticity. The full but finely-formed features had a most gentle and amiable cast, resembling those of one of Raphael's cherubs in their halo of yellow hair. A grave smile lingered in his sea-blue eyes.

As he listened to the voice, however, a look, half amusement, half annoyance, crossed his mild countenance, and his smiling eyes became steel-colored and flashed with something like anger; but it was only for an instant.

"Halloo! that you out o' the woods, John Barker?" he called, in a smooth, pleasant tone.

"'Pears tew be; 'n' yeou, Reube Wetherbee,--it seems yeou're eout er the woods, tew."

"Of course I am; but then I don't hev ter travel twelve or fifteen miles ter git ter the settlement. How about the dance to-morrow night? Your camp goin' ter turn out?"

"Some o' the hands catilate ter go, I b'lieve."

"But a sober feller like you don't care for such kind er jollifications much, I reckon."

"I was thinkin' o' goin'."

"Ah! 'n' that accounts for your journey to the settlement to-night. Goin' to the tavern, of course. I say, man, we're bound there on the same arrand. What's goin' to be done about it?"

"What do you mean, Reube Wetherbee?" exclaimed Barker, with a deep frown upon his rugged features, which looked almost grotesque in the delicate moonlight.

"Oh, you know what I mean, well enough, John, and you may as well take it calmly. When two men take a farncy to the same woman there's likely to be some sarse between 'em; but that's no use. Now, we're both got to the same point on our way ter ask Drusy to go ter the dance. Your legs may be a little longer'n mine, 'n' if we should try a race you might reach the tavern a minute before me, 'n' you might not, for I'm pretty nimble 'n' all-fired long-winded. So I say, let's have things fair 'n' square. I've got a pack of cards in my pocket, 'n' I'm fur goin' into Jones's old camp--it's only a few steps beyond here, in the edge of the woods, you know--'n' playin' it out."

"I guess I kin resk it 'n' take my chances as they come," said Barker, in a voice which sounded husky and strange. And he took great strides along the crisp white road.

"Your chances! Why, you know, man, if I should get there first you wouldn't have the ghost of a chance, 'n' if we should get there at the same time do you s'pose she'd say yes to you 'n' no to me? To speak up frank, she don't seem to set great store by neither of us, but she favors me full as much as she does any other feller, that's certain. I doubt whether she'd go to the dance even with me, though. There's something the matter. Hang it if I don't sometimes think she's got another feller down-river where she come from. Still, she's been to Jones's pritty near a year now, 'n' he ain't put in an appearance, 'n' she never gets a letter from anybody, Mrs. Jones says."

"What is it to yeou, enyhow?" blazed Barker. "Keep yer suspicionin', as well as yer blarsted consate, ter yerself. I don't want ter hear yeou talk about her. Where's Henrietty Blaisdell? What right hev yeou ter take a farncy ter another woman, when yeou've been a-keepin' company with her for a year 'n' more? 'N' yeou pryin' raound ter see if Drusy gits letters--"

"Nonsense, John! As I said before, sarse won't set things straight, 'n' I've just as good a right as you or any other man ter make up to Drusy. I ain't bound to Henrietta."

"Rights seem diffrunt to diffrunt folks, I catilate. Enyhow, I hain't a-goin' ter listen ter eny more ov your tongue. I'm a-goin' along, 'n' you kin go ahead or foller as it suits you."

"Well, now, it seems ter me that we're in a kind ov embarrassin' fix, 'n' the cards would be a consolin' way to git out of it. If--"

"Come along, then, but quit chinnin' about Drusy."

And the two men turned back into the woods, in whose weird darkness the light of Reube's lantern was no more than that of a firefly. The moonlight stole into little openings, outlined the trees upon the glittering sward, and hovered like a ghost on the path before them. The camp was a somewhat ruinous affair, but had lately been occupied by a party of surveyors. With the blaze of a great fire its interior might have been cheerful, but, as it was, it seemed a ghostly, haunted place, filled with mysterious sounds and shadows. One feeble moon-ray struggled through the foliage of a tall pine-tree, and, reaching down the wide smoke-hole overhead, searched the ashes on the hearthstone with a pallid finger. The wind rustled among some dead vines which reached through the chinks between the logs, and made a creeping sound like footfalls over the snow-covered plank floor.

Wetherbee placed his lantern upon the creaking old shelf which served for a table, and, seating themselves upon a bench, the two men commenced their game with deep earnestness. Barker's features were white and set; his strong arm trembled as he handled the cards, and his breath came quick and hard.

It was as if he were staking his life upon the play, as if his whole fate were to be decided by it.

"Great Jupiter, man! don't look like that," said Wetherbee, regarding him for the first time as the game proceeded.

"I've been feelin' as if 'twas a case of life 'n' death myself, 'n', by George, it's no wonder, this place is so all-fired uncanny. They used ter say the camp was haunted; 'n' I b'lieve it."

A great gray owl, which had flown from his abiding-place in a hollow tree near by and perched upon the roof just on the edge of the smoke-hole, gave utterance to something which sounded like a mocking peal of laughter.

Both men started violently.

"Blarst the owl!" said Wetherbee angrily, throwing a piece of wood through the hole to frighten it away.

Then the play proceeded silently until finally Wetherbee, who had been steadily winning from the first, made the last deal and threw upon the table the lucky cards which decided him to be the victor.

"I knowed how 'twould be from the fust," said Barker; "but p'r'aps 'twon't make no great diff'rence, after all."

And the men left the camp and walked silently together to the settlement.

Jones's Tavern, as it was called, a large white house with a piazza in front and a long, low ell, stood in the midst of the primitive little settlement, and was a favorite retreat of the lumbermen whenever they had the good fortune to get out of the woods, as well as the stopping-place of the overseers and the men with supply-teams on their way to and from the camps.

"Here's two more fellers for the darnse," said the landlord, who was pouring out a glass of spiced cider for a sturdy young backwoodsman who had evidently just arrived. "A darnse is about equil to Fourth o' July, 'n' brings the boys out thicker 'n bees in a berry-pastur'. Haul up ter the fire 'n' hev somethin' warmin'. Soft weather fur lumberin', hain't it?"

With a nod and regretful glance at a handsome young woman who was wiping teacups at the other end of the room, which was extremely long and had a fireplace at one end and a cooking-stove at the other, Barker accepted the invitation. But Wetherbee, after exchanging greetings with the landlord and his companion, went over to speak to the young woman, and remained talking with her in an undertone for some time.

"The kitchen eend seems ter be the most 'tractable ter the fellers, in spite of hot cider," remarked the landlord, with a laugh. "'N' what's the mahter with yaou, John? Yaou 'pear ter be kinder daown 't the maouth 'n' absent-minded. Must ha' been pickin' up a gal. Well, a feller that's courtin' hain't no stranger tew affliction, thet's a fact. I wuz a bachelder once myself."

A deep crimson overspread Barker's honest countenance, but he did not open his mouth.

"Git eout, square!" said the other lumberman, roaring. "I b'lieve yeou was born a-jokin'."

The handsome young woman disappeared into the pantry. Wetherbee strode toward the group by the fireplace with an air of forced unconcern.

"Well, good-night, folks: I'm off," said he. "I'm a-goin' to help trim up the hall fur the dance, 'n' have got ter step pretty lively." And he made signs to Barker to follow him out of doors.

"She won't go with me, John," he said, as soon as they were alone. "As I said before, there's something the matter. But I ruther guess I shan't be obliged to go without company, anyhow."

Barker's face lighted up with a look of relief, and as he watched Wetherbee's retreating figure a little gleam of hope awoke in his breast. He stopped out under the stars a few moments for reflection, and the hope soon vanished.

"No; 'tain't no use," he said to himself. "She likes Reube better'n she does me, 'n' she wouldn't go with him. It stan's ter reason she should like him better. He's boss o' the gang, looks as smooth 'n' slick 's a parson, 'n' he's been a schoolmaster, tew. Then he's got sich kinder silky ways 'n' smiles. Not that I b'lieve in 'em much, but the wimmen-folks do. Still, 'twon't do no harm ter ask her, 'n' I reckon I'll do it, whuther er no."