Chapter 13

How stately tall your ship, how vast, With night nailed to your leaning mast, With mighty stars of hammered gold And moon-wrought cordage manifold! Good-by, Bret Harte, good night, good night!

"THE LITTLE CHURCH 'ROUND THE CORNER."

In Twenty-Ninth Street, New York, and only a few paces distant from Fifth Avenue, stands a low, rambling, picturesque brown structure that has the appearance of a modest chapel to which various additions have been built from time to time. Between this building and the street is a well-shaded lawn, and there is scarcely a day in the year on which the twittering of birds among the boughs of the big trees does not attract the attention of passers-by. There is a sort of rural atmosphere about the quaint church and its yard that seems so singularly out of place in the heart of a big city that strangers invariably glance curiously at the board on which are inscribed the hours of service and the name "Church of the Transfiguration."

To most strangers this means nothing more than the name of any other church. But were some friend to add, "It is also known as the 'Little Church 'Round the Corner,'" a new light would dawn on the stranger's mind, and he would know that he was standing before one of the most celebrated church edifices in the United States--a church supported largely by members of the theatrical profession--a church that has been famous for many romantic wedding ceremonies, and from which hundreds of dead actors and actresses have been borne to the grave.

The manner in which this church came by the name by which it is now popularly known is as follows:

In 1870 the veteran actor, George Holland, died in New York, and Mrs. Holland's sister desired the funeral to be held at her own church--a fashionable place of worship in Fifth Avenue. Joseph Jefferson, as an old friend of the family, went to the minister with one of Holland's young sons. Mr. Jefferson told the rector that his friend was an actor, and the rector replied that under the circumstances he should have to decline holding the services at the church.

The boy was in tears. Mr. Jefferson was too indignant to say a word, but as he and the boy left the room he asked if there was any other church from which his friend might be buried. The rector replied that there was a little church around the corner where it might be done.

Mr. Jefferson said: "Then if this be so, God bless 'the little church around the corner.'"

And it was in "The Little Church 'Round the Corner" that the ceremony was performed by the Rev. George H. Houghton, its rector, who, beloved by all members of the theatrical profession, continued in this pulpit until his death in 1897, when he was succeeded by his son.

The author of the following lines was a New York playwright who won popularity a generation ago.

BY A.E. LANCASTER.

"Bring him not here, where our sainted feet Are treading the path to glory; Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet Repeats for us His story. Go, take him where 'such things' are done-- For he sat in the seat of the scorner-- To where they have room, for we have none, To 'that little church 'round the corner.'"

So spake the holy man of God, Of another man, his brother, Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod, Had only asked that a Christian rite Might be read above them by one whose light Was, "Brethren, love one another"; Had only asked that a prayer might be read Ere his flesh went down to join the dead.

Whilst his spirit looked, with suppliant eyes, Searching for God throughout the skies; But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare Of love in the sight of the mourner; And they looked for Christ and found Him--where? In "that little church 'round the corner."

Ah, well! God grant, when with aching feet We tread life's last few paces, That we may hear some accents sweet And kiss to the end, fond faces; God grant that this tired flesh may rest (Mid many a musing mourner), While the sermon is preached and the rites are read, In no church where the heart of love is dead, And the pastor a pious prig at best, But in some small nook where God's confessed-- Some "little church 'round the corner."

Captain Obstinate.

ANONYMOUS.

One fine evening in the month of July, an old soldier of the "grand army," who had left one of his arms on the field of battle, was seated at the door of his pretty cottage.

He was surrounded by a group of young villagers, who were clamorously reminding him of his promise to tell them some of his military adventures.

After a moment of pretended resistance to their wishes, the old man took his pipe from his mouth, passed the back of his remaining hand across his lips, and thus commenced his tale:

"In my time, my friends, the French would have disdained to fight against Frenchmen in the streets, as they do in these days. No, no, when we fought it was for the honor of France, and against her foreign enemies.

"But my story commences on the 6th of November, 1812, a short time after the battle of Wiazma. We beat a retreat, not before the Russians, for they were at a respectful distance from our camp, but before the sharp and bitter cold of their detestable country, a cold more terrible to us than the Russians, Austrians, and Bavarians all put together.

"During the preceding days our officers had told us that we were approaching Smolensko, where we should get food, fire, brandy, and shoes; but in the meantime we were perishing in the glaciers, and continually harassed by the Cossacks.

"We had marched for six hours without stopping to take breath, for we knew that repose was certain death. An icy wind blew the drifting snow in our faces, and from time to time we stumbled over the frozen corpse of a comrade. We neither spoke nor sang, even complaints were no longer heard, and that was a bad sign.

"I marched by the side of my captain; short, strongly built, rough, and severe, but brave and true as the blade of his sword; we called him 'Captain Obstinate'; for when once he said a thing, it was fixed; he never changed his opinions. He had been wounded at Wiazma, and his usually crimson face was then ghastly pale, while a ragged white handkerchief, all stained with blood, was bound round his head, and added to the pallor of his countenance.

"All at once I saw him stagger on his legs like a drunken man, then fall like a block to the ground.

"'_Morbleu!_ captain,' said I, bending over him, 'you can not remain here.'

"'You see that I can, since I do it,' replied he, showing his legs.

"'Captain,' said I, 'you must not give way.' Lifting him in my arms, I tried to put him on his feet. He leaned on me, and attempted to walk, but in vain; he fell again, dragging me with him.

"'Jobin,' he said; 'all is over. Leave me here, and rejoin your company as quickly as possible. One word before you go: at Voreppe, near Grenoble, lives a good woman, eighty-two years of age, my--my mother. Go and see her, embrace her for me, and tell her that--that--tell her what you will, but give her this purse and my cross. It is all I have! Now go.'

"'Is that all, captain?'

"'That is all. God bless you! Make haste. Adieu!' My friends, I do not know how it was, but I felt two tears roll down my cheeks.

"'No, captain,' I cried, 'I will not leave you; either you come with me, or I will remain with you.'

"'I forbid you to remain.'

"'You may put me under arrest, then, if you like, but at present you must let me do as I please.'

"'You are an insolent fellow.'

"'Very good, captain, but you must come with me.'

"He bit his lips with rage, but said no more.

"I lifted him, and carried him on my shoulders like a sack. You can easily imagine that with such a burden I could not keep pace with my comrades. In fact, I soon lost sight of their columns, and could discern nothing around me but the white and silent plain.

"I still walked on, when presently appeared a troop of Cossacks galloping toward me, with furious gesticulations and wild cries.

"The captain was by this time completely insensible, and I resolved, whatever it might cost me, not to abandon him. I laid him down on the ground, and covered him with snow; then I crept beneath a heap of dead bodies, leaving, however, my eyes at liberty.

"Presently the Cossacks came up, and began to strike with their lances right and left, while their horses trampled us under their feet. One of these heavy beasts set his foot upon my right arm, and crushed it.

"My friends, I did not speak, I did not stir; I put my right hand into my mouth to stifle the cry of torture which nearly escaped from me, and in a few minutes the Cossacks had dispersed.

"When the last of them had disappeared, I quitted my refuge, and proceeded to disinter the captain. To my joy he gave some signs of life; I contrived to carry him with my one arm toward a rock which offered a sort of shelter, and then I laid myself by his side, wrapping my cloak round us both.

"The night had closed in, and the snow continued to fall.

"The rear-guard had long since disappeared, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the night was the whistle of a bullet, or the howling of the wolves feasting on the corpses that lay stretched around.

"God knows what thoughts passed through my soul during that dreadful night, which, I felt sure, would be my last upon earth. But I remembered the prayer which my mother had taught me long before, when I was a child at her knee, and bending low, I repeated it with fervor.

"My children, that did me good, and remember always that a sincere and fervent prayer is sure to comfort you. I felt astonishingly calmed when I returned to my place by the captain. But the time passed, and I had fallen into a state of half stupor, when I saw a group of French officers approach. Before I had time to speak to them, their chief, a little man, dressed in a furred pelisse, stepped forward toward me, and said:

'What are you doing here? Why are you away from your regiment?'

"'For two good reasons,' said I, pointing first to the captain, and then to my bleeding arm.

"'The man says true, Sire,' said one of those who followed him; 'I saw him marching in the rear of his regiment, and carrying this officer on his back.'

"The emperor--for, my friends, it was he!--gave me one of those glances that only he, or the eagle of the Alps, could give, and said: 'It is well. You have done very well.' Then opening his pelisse, he took the cross which decorated his green coat, and gave it to me. At that instant I was no longer hungry, no longer cold; I felt no more pain from my arm than if that awkward beast had never touched it.

"'Davoust,' added the emperor, addressing the officer who had spoken to him, 'see this man and his captain placed in one of the baggage-wagons. Adieu!' And making me a motion of the hand, he went away."

Here the veteran ceased, and resumed his pipe.

"But tell us what became of 'Captain Obstinate,'" cried many impatient voices.

"The captain recovered, and is now a general on the retired list. But the best of the joke was, that as soon as he got well, he put me under arrest for fifteen days, as a punishment for my infraction of discipline.

"This circumstance came to the ears of Napoleon, and after laughing heartily, he not only caused me to be set free, but promoted me to the rank of sergeant. As to the decoration, my children, here is the ribbon at my button-hole, but the cross I wear next my heart."

And opening his vest, he showed his eager audience the precious relic, suspended from his neck in a little satin bag.--_Harper's Magazine_, 1854.

THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO.

BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR.

Oh, a wandering stream is the river Time, As it runs through the realms of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, And blends with the ocean of years.

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, And the summers like buds between, And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime. And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of this isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there: There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, There are broken vows, and pieces of rings, And the garments that _she_ used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed isle, All the day of life till night-- When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, May that greenwood of soul be in sight!

* * * * *

Born at Lowville, New York, in 1819, Benjamin Franklin Taylor died at Cleveland, Ohio, in 1887. During the Civil War he was the Chicago _Journal_ war correspondent with the Western armies.

Mr. Taylor wrote a number of books, among which are several volumes of verse and a novel, "Theophilus Trent." He is best remembered, however, as author of "The Isle of the Long Ago," that singularly felicitous picture of the home of sweet-sad memories.

Niagara, the June Bride's Paradise.

The Eloquent Language in Which the Great Cataract Was Described by Sir Edwin Arnold, and John Galt's Romantic Account of Its Discovery.

The compass of the honeymooner, like the compass of the mariner, has four points, but on that of the honeymooner the points are rather differently indicated. The East is represented by the term "abroad," the South by Washington, the West by almost anything lying between Pittsburgh and the Pacific, and the North by Niagara.

The honeymooner who finds it less difficult to make money than to kill time shapes his matrimonial course via Pittsburgh or Paris. The good, patriotic, homespun sort of chap, who finds it more easy to kill time than to make money, and who may one day be the father of a President of the United States, whirls his bride off to Washington or Niagara. Washington is a little dull and rather warm after Congress adjourns, so the June bride is most likely to pick the last of the rice-grains out of her hair within earshot of the great Northern cataract.

Two selections that have to do with the big waterfall are given herewith. Of these, one has been called the finest description of Niagara ever written. It is from the pen of the late Sir Edwin Arnold, the author of "The Light of Asia," and appeared originally in the London _Daily Telegraph_.

The second selection is John Galt's account, partly historical and partly imaginative, of the discovery of the cataract. John Galt (1779-1839) was a native of Scotland. He was the author of several novels that were popular in their day. He traveled extensively, and wrote many articles on historical and geographical subjects.

THE SPLENDOR OF NIAGARA.

BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

Before my balcony the great cataract is thundering, smoking, glittering with green and white rollers and rapids, hurling the waters of a whole continent in splendor and speed over the sharp ledges of the long, brown rock by which Erie, "the Broad," steps proudly down to Ontario, "the Beautiful."

The smaller but very imposing American Falls speaks with the louder voice of the two, because its coiling spirals of twisted and furious flood crash in full impulse of descent upon the talus of massive boulders heaped up at its foot.

The resounding impact of water on rocks, the clouds of water-smoke which rise high in the air, and the river below churned into a whirling cream of eddy and surge and backwater, unite in a composite effect, at once magnificent and bewildering.

Far away, Niagara River is seen winding eagerly to its prodigious leap. You can discern the line of the first breakers, where the river feels the fatal draw of the cataracts, its current seeming suddenly to leap forward, stimulated by mad desire, a hidden spell, a dreadful and irresistible doom.

Far back along the gilded surface of the upper stream, these lines of dancing, tossing, eager, anxious, and fate-impelled breakers and billows multiply their white ranks, and spread and close together their leaping ridges into a wild chaos of racing waves as the brink is approached. And then, at the brink, there is a curious pause--the momentary peace of the irrevocable. Those mad upper waters--reaching the great leap--are suddenly all quiet and glassy, and appear rounded and green as the border of a field of young rye, at the moment when they turn the angle of the dreadful ledge and hurl themselves into the snow-white gulf of noise and mist and mystery underneath.

There is nothing more translucently green, nor more perennially still and lovely, than Niagara the greater. At this, her awful brink, the whole architrave of the main abyss gleams like a fixed and glorious work wrought in polished aquamarine or emerald. This exquisitely colored cornice of the enormous waterfall--this brim of bright tranquillity between fervor of rush and fury of plunge--is its principal feature, and stamps it as far more beautiful than terrible. Even the central solemnity and shudder-fraught miracle of the monstrous uproar and glory is rendered exquisite, reposeful, and soothing by the lovely rainbows hanging over the turmoil and clamor.

From its crest of chrysoprase and silver, indeed, to its broad foot of milky foam and of its white-stunned waves, too broken and too dazed to begin at first to float away, Niagara appears not terrible, but divinely and deliciously graceful, glad and lovely--a specimen of the splendor of water at its finest--a sight to dwell and linger in the mind with ineffaceable images of happy and grateful thought, by no means to affect it in seeing or to haunt it in future days of memory with any wild reminiscences of terror or of gloom.

THE DISCOVERY OF NIAGARA.

BY JOHN GALT.

Among the earliest missionaries sent to convert the Indians to the Christian belief was Joseph Price, a young man who had received directions to penetrate farther into the vast forests which clothe the continent of America toward the north than had been at that time accomplished. In this hazardous undertaking he was accompanied by Henry Wilmington, who, actuated by the same religious motives, had volunteered to attend him.

They had been landed at Boston, then a very small but thriving village, about a month previous, where they made the necessary preparations for their expedition, and recruited themselves after a passage of thirteen weeks from Plymouth, for so long a passage was not uncommon in those times in traversing the Atlantic.

It was a fine morning in the latter end of May when they bade adieu to the inhabitants, by whom they had been hospitably entertained, and, accompanied by the good wishes of all, proceeded toward the hitherto unexplored forest.

The buds were now beginning to expand into leaves, and the sun was often darkened by the vast flocks of migratory pigeons, which, when the woods allowed, sometimes flew so close to the ground that the travelers could beat them down with their sticks. Before sailing from England they had often heard persons who had crossed the Atlantic mention this circumstance, but they suspected them of exaggeration until they witnessed it themselves.

It was their intention to visit a distant tract of country, of which nothing was known except vague reports of sheets of water so immense that, but for the circumstance of their being fresh, might have led them to suppose they were on an island. These reports were for the most part gathered from the Indians, on whose testimony little reliance could be placed, as none of their informers could speak from their own knowledge.

Into the Wilderness.

To aid them in their pursuit, they were provided with compasses and armed with fowling-pieces. They, directing their course toward the place to which most of the Indians alluded, had, it is true, but slight grounds on which to rest their hopes of success; animated, however, with the desire of fulfilling what they had undertaken, they thought little of the difficulties which might attend it: accordingly, it was without regret that they were now leaving the settled part of the country.

Having traveled several days without seeing anything worthy of notice, they arrived at the ultimate farm they could expect to meet with before their return. After remaining there for the night, they continued their journey through the forest, which had most likely never been previously trodden by the feet of civilized man. The startled deer frequently crossed their path, and a few birds were the only objects that varied the silent solitude around.

Guided by their compasses, they continued their progress many days until they arrived at the banks of a large and rapid river, which they in vain attempted to pass, as its breadth and swiftness precluded the hope of their being able to swim across it.

After proposing many expedients, all of which they soon found to be impracticable, they determined on trusting themselves to some one of the many fallen trees which lay in every eddy along its banks; and having selected one whose branches lay in such a manner as would prevent it from turning over, they entwined boughs to form a small kind of basket, into which, having provided themselves with stout poles, they entered, taking care that neither their guns nor ammunition suffered from the water; they then steadily pushed it from the shore into the stream, and continued doing so until the water grew so deep that the poles were of no avail, and they were obliged to trust to Providence to carry them to the other side.

For some time they continued in the middle of the river, without inclining toward either bank, when they perceived that, by the help of the wind, they were quickly gaining on a large pine, which was slowly floating downward. On reaching it, they stretched out their poles with a great effort, and succeeded in pushing themselves into water where they could again find bottom.

After much labor, our travelers touched the bank, on which they quickly leaped, and having taken out their arms they continued their journey rejoicing.

A Battle of Stags.

They soon after arrived at a spot where they deemed it fit to wait till the following morning, and, it being their custom, they went out hunting in order to provide provision for the next day's wants, at that time easily accomplished, as the forests abounded with herds of deer, which, having been seldom disturbed, were exceedingly tame.

On this occasion they soon beheld a great number watching a furious encounter between two large bucks, which, with the utmost animosity, were endeavoring to gore each other. Surprised at a sight they had never before seen, they determined to await the result; and after some time one of the combatants, by an amazing leap, sprang past the other, and, swiftly turning round, drove his horns into the side of his adversary and instantly killed him.