Chapter 7

He took the street-cleaning department from under the control of the police and made it an independent department with a special head. The local machine tried to stop him by holding out the inducement of another term. But he sent back the answer:

"I'm mayor now, and I'm going to run things in the interest of the city and to suit myself. There is no use leaving any work to a second term."

The next election he was defeated, but in 1884, when Cleveland was running for President, Grace ran for mayor as an independent, and was easily elected. The work of his second term was along the same lines as that of his first.

His business interests with Peru continued to increase in importance, for his brother, Michael Grace, had established himself as the leading man in the country. He helped develop the banking system, railroads and mines of the country, and also aided in founding a regular line of steamships between there and New York. In 1890 he organized a corporation which assumed the Peruvian national debt, and in return for doing this the company was given control of the canals, roads, and other sources of revenue in Peru.

Although much of his time was given to his business with South America, he was also interested in many home enterprises, and was a director in a score of big corporations.

LETTERS FAMOUS FOR BREVITY.

A Few Pointed Lines Written by Sharp-Witted People Have Been Effective in Taking the Conceit Out of Their Correspondents.

Almost telegraphic brevity distinguishes some of the most famous letters that have ever been written. A writer in _Notes and Queries_ gives a sheaf of these laconic messages, with such editorial illumination as is necessary to make their meaning clear.

According to Campbell's "Lives of the Admirals," Sir George Walton was sent in pursuit of a Spanish squadron, and reported what took place in the following dispatch to the admiral in command:

SIR--I have taken or destroyed all the Spanish ships as per margin. Yours, etc., G. WALTON.

Horace Walpole, in one of his papers in "The World," praises the following letter, written by Lady Pembroke in the reign of Charles II. I quote from memory, but think that Lady Pembroke wrote to Lord Arlington, who had insisted on her allowing Sir Joseph Williamson to be returned member for her borough of Appleby:

SIR--I have been bullied by a usurper, I have been neglected by a court, but I will not be dictated to by a subject. Your man sha'n't stand. ANNE PEMBROKE.

I have some memory of a story that some person wrote to the first Duke of Wellington, threatening to publish certain letters of his, and that he replied:

DEAR JULIA--Publish and be damned. Yours, WELLINGTON.

When Lord John Russell announced the breaking up of Earl Grey's cabinet on May 27, 1834, Mr. Stanley, colonial secretary, wrote the following to Sir James Graham, first lord of the Admiralty:

MY DEAR G.--Johnny has upset the coach. Yours, etc.

Sir Walter Scott said that the most pointed letter he knew was the answer of Lord Macdonald to the head of the Glengarry family:

MY DEAR GLENGARRY--As soon as you can prove yourself to be _my chief_, I shall be ready to acknowledge you; in the meantime, I am _yours_, MACDONALD.

The following is quoted as Francis Jeffrey's wicked reply to a begging letter:

Sir--I have received your letter of 6th inst., soliciting a contribution in behalf of the funds of ----. I have very great pleasure in subscribing [with this word the writer contrived to end the first page, and then continued overleaf] myself,

Yours faithfully,

FRANCIS JEFFREY.

A certain lady having written to Talleyrand informing him of the death of her husband, he replied:

DEAR MARQUISE--Alas! Your devoted TALLEYRAND.

At a later date the same lady wrote telling him of her approaching marriage. To this he replied:

DEAR MARQUISE--Ho, ho! Your devoted TALLEYRAND.

BRAHMA.

THE SUBTLE VERSES IN WHICH EMERSON GAVE EXPRESSION TO THE MYSTICISM INVESTING HINDU RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY.

The four stanzas composing Emerson's poem "Brahma" afford perhaps in the smallest compass the best example of the Concord philosopher's subtle mode of expression with a meaning so elusive as to require careful thought on the reader's part to render it intelligible.

There is a pleasing vagueness which the music of the lines imbues with a nameless charm. Here, more than anywhere else, Emerson has caught in a few simply written stanzas the very essence of mysticism--strange, fleeting, and yet full of suggestiveness that shifts and shimmers like the shadow and the sunlight of which the poem tells.

The interpretation of the poem is to be found in an understanding of what Brahma really means in the Hindu religion and philosophy. It is not a personal divinity; but rather the creative force of the universe, an all-pervading presence, bringing power, devotion, and holiness, unlimited by time or space, and signifying soul and spirit. Hence, Brahma views with equal unconcern both life and death, both doubt and faith, both shame and fame. Those who attain to a true conception of this ideal have no need to think of heaven, since heaven is everywhere.

By RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

The First Piano in Camp.

BY SAM DAVIS.

The story which is published herewith under the title of "The First Piano in Camp" originally appeared several years ago in the Virginia City _Chronicle_, and was then named "A Christmas Carol." Its literary merit, quaint humor, and pathos were at once recognized, and in the course of the next six months it was republished in scores of newspapers throughout the country. It next reached England, and from there its popularity spread to the Continent, with the result that it was translated into nearly every European language.

In several cases newspapers in reprinting the story failed to give the name of the author, and, believing that it had originally been published anonymously, a number of persons asserted that it had been written by them. These claims were quickly disproved, however, and in the numerous collections of specimens of American humor in which it now appears due credit is given to Sam Davis, who was brought up in the same atmosphere which gave life to the genius of Bret Harte and Mark Twain. Mr. Davis was for several years editor of the Virginia City _Enterprise_ and the Virginia City _Chronicle_. He is now the State Comptroller of Nevada and the proprietor and editor of the Carson _Appeal_.

"The First Piano in Camp," as here printed, is taken from "Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor," edited by Thomas L. Masson, and published by Doubleday, Page & Co.

In 1858--it might have been five years earlier or later; this is not a history for the public schools--there was a little camp about ten miles from Pioche, occupied by upward of three hundred miners, every one of whom might have packed his prospecting implements and left for more inviting fields any time before sunset.

When the day was over, these men did not rest from their labors, like honest New England agriculturists, but sang, danced, gambled, and shot one another, as the mood seized them.

One evening the report spread along the main street (which was the only street) that three men had been killed at Silver Reef and that the bodies were coming in. Presently a lumbering old conveyance labored up the hill, drawn by a couple of horses well worn out with their pull. The cart contained a good-sized box, and no sooner did its outlines become visible, through the glimmer of a stray light, than it began to affect the idlers.

Death always enforces respect, and even though no one had caught sight of the remains, the crowd gradually became subdued, and when the horses came to a standstill the cart was immediately surrounded. The driver, however, was not in the least impressed with the solemnity of his commission.

"All there?" asked one.

"Haven't examined. Guess so."

The driver filled his pipe and lighted it as he continued:

"Wish the bones and load had gone over the grade!"

A man who had been looking on stepped up to the teamster at once.

"I don't know who you have in that box, but if they happen to be any friends of mine I'll lay you alongside."

"We can mighty soon see," said the teamster coolly. "Just burst the lid off, and if they happen to be the men you want, I'm here."

The two looked at each other for a moment, and then the crowd gathered a little closer, anticipating trouble.

"I believe that dead men are entitled to good treatment, and when you talk about hoping to see corpses go over a bank all I have to say is that it will be better for you if the late lamented ain't my friends."

"We'll open the box. I don't take back what I've said, and if my language don't suit your ways of thinking, I guess I can stand it."

With these words the teamster began to pry up the lid. He got a board off, and then pulled out some rags. A strip of something dark, like rosewood, presented itself.

"Eastern coffins, by thunder!" said several, and the crowd looked quite astonished.

Some more boards flew up, and the man who was ready to defend his friend's memory shifted his weapon a little. The cool manner of the teamster had so irritated him that he had made up his mind to pull his weapon at the first sight of the dead, even if the deceased was his worst and oldest enemy. Presently the whole of the box-cover was off, and the teamster, clearing away the packing, revealed to the astonished group the top of something which puzzled all alike.

"Boys," said he, "this is a pianner."

A general shout of laughter went up, and the man who had been so anxious to enforce respect for the dead muttered something about feeling dry, and the keeper of the nearest bar was several ounces better off by the time the boys had given the joke due attention.

Had a dozen dead men been in the box their presence in the camp could not have occasioned half the excitement that the arrival of that lonely piano caused. But the next morning it was known that the instrument was to grace a hurdy-gurdy saloon, owned by Tom Goskin, the leading gambler in the place. It took nearly a week to get this wonder on its legs, and the owner was the proudest individual in the State. It rose gradually from a recumbent to an upright position amid a confusion of tongues, after the manner of the Tower of Babel.

Of course, everybody knew just how such an instrument should be put up. One knew where the "off hind leg" should go, and another was posted on the "front piece."

Scores of men came to the place every day to assist.

"I'll put the bones in good order."

"If you want the wires tuned up, I'm the boy."

"I've got music to feed it for a month."

Another brought a pair of blankets for a cover, and all took the liveliest interest in it. It was at last in a condition for business.

"It's been showin' its teeth all the week. We'd like to have it spit out something."

Alas! there wasn't a man to be found who could play upon the instrument. Goskin began to realize that he had a losing speculation on his hands. He had a fiddler, and a Mexican who thrummed a guitar. A pianist would have made his orchestra complete. One day a three-card-monte player told a friend confidentially that he could "knock any amount of music out of the piano, if he only had it alone a few hours to get his hand in." This report spread about the camp, but on being questioned he vowed that he didn't know a note of music. It was noted, however, as a suspicious circumstance, that he often hung about the instrument and looked upon it longingly, like a hungry man gloating over a beef-steak in a restaurant window. There was no doubt but that this man had music in his soul, perhaps in his finger-ends, but did not dare to make trial of his strength after the rules of harmony had suffered so many years of neglect. So the fiddler kept on with his jigs, and the greasy Mexican pawed his discordant guitar, but no man had the nerve to touch the piano. There were doubtless scores of men in the camp who would have given ten ounces of gold-dust to have been half an hour alone with it, but every man's nerve shrank from the jeers which the crowd would shower upon him should his first attempt prove a failure. It got to be generally understood that the hand which first essayed to draw music from the keys must not slouch its work.

* * * * *

It was Christmas eve, and Goskin, according to his custom, had decorated his gambling-hell with sprigs of mountain cedar and a shrub whose crimson berries did not seem a bad imitation of English holly. The piano was covered with evergreens, and all that was wanting to completely fill the cup of Goskin's contentment was a man to play the instrument.

"Christmas night, and no piano-pounder," he said. "This is a nice country for a Christian to live in."

Getting a piece of paper, he scrawled:

$20 REWARD TO A COMPETENT PIANO PLAYER

This he stuck up on the music-rack, and though the inscription glared at the frequenters of the room until midnight, it failed to draw any musician from his shell.

So the merrymaking went on; the hilarity grew apace. Men danced and sang to the music of the squeaky fiddle and worn-out guitar as the jolly crowd within tried to drown the howling of the storm without. Suddenly they became aware of the presence of a white-haired man, crouching near the fireplace. His garments--such as were left--were wet with melting snow, and he had a half-starved, half-crazed expression. He held his thin, trembling hands toward the fire, and the light of the blazing wood made them almost transparent. He looked about him once in a while as if in search of something, and his presence cast such a chill over the place that gradually the sound of the revelry was hushed, and it seemed that this waif of the storm had brought in with him all the gloom and coldness of the warring elements. Goskin, mixing up a cup of hot egg-nogg, advanced and remarked cheerily:

"Here, stranger, brace up! This is the real stuff."

The man drained the cup, smacked his lips, and seemed more at home.

"Been prospecting, eh? Out in the mountains--caught in the storm? Lively night, this!"

"Pretty bad," said the man.

"Must feel pretty dry?"

The man looked at his streaming clothes and laughed, as if Goskin's remark was a sarcasm.

"How long out?"

"Four days."

"Hungry?"

The man rose up, and, walking over to the lunch-counter, fell to work upon some roast bear, devouring it as any wild animal would have done. As meat and drink and warmth began to permeate the stranger he seemed to expand and lighten up. His features lost their pallor, and he grew more and more content with the idea that he was not in the grave. As he underwent these changes the people about him got merrier and happier, and threw off the temporary feeling of depression which he had laid upon them.

"Do you always have your place decorated like this?" he finally asked of Goskin.

"This is Christmas eve," was the reply.

The stranger was startled.

"December 24, sure enough."

"That's the way I put it up, pard."

"When I was in England I always kept Christmas. But I had forgotten that this was the night. I've been wandering about in the mountains until I've lost track of the feasts of the Church."

Presently his eye fell upon the piano.

"Where's the player?" he asked.

"Never had any," said Goskin, blushing at the expression.

"I used to play when I was young."

Goskin almost fainted at the admission.

"Stranger, do tackle it, and give us a tune! Nary man in this camp ever had the nerve to wrestle with that music-box." His pulse beat faster, for he feared that the man would refuse.

"I'll do the best I can," he said.

There was no stool, but seizing a candle-box, he drew it up and seated himself before the instrument. It only required a few seconds for a hush to come over the room.

"That old coon is going to give the thing a rattle."

The sight of a man at the piano was something so unusual that even the faro-dealer, who was about to take in a fifty-dollar bet on the tray, paused and did not reach for the money. Men stopped drinking, with the glasses at their lips. Conversation appeared to have been struck with a sort of paralysis, and cards were no longer shuffled.

The old man brushed back his long white locks, looked up to the ceiling, half closed his eyes, and in a mystic sort of reverie passed his fingers over the keys. He touched but a single note, yet the sound thrilled the room. It was the key to his improvisation, and as he wove his cords together the music laid its spell upon every ear and heart. He felt his way along the keys like a man treading uncertain paths, but he gained confidence as he progressed, and presently bent to his work like a master. The instrument was not in exact tune, but the ears of his audience did not detect anything radically wrong. They heard a succession of grand chords, a suggestion of paradise, melodies here and there, and it was enough.

"See him counter with his left!" said an old rough, enraptured.

"He calls the turn every time on the upper end of the board," responded a man with a stack of chips in his hand.

The player wandered off into the old ballads they had heard at home. All the sad and melancholy and touching songs, that came up like dreams of childhood, this unknown player drew from the keys. His hands kneaded their hearts like dough and squeezed out tears as from a wet sponge.

As the strains flowed one upon the other, the listeners saw their homes of the long ago reared again; they were playing once more where the apple-blossoms sank through the soft air to join the violets on the green turf of the old New England States; they saw the glories of the Wisconsin maples and the haze of the Indian summer blending their hues together; they recalled the heather of Scottish hills, the white cliffs of Britain, and heard the sullen roar of the sea, as it beat upon their memories, vaguely. Then came all the old Christmas carols, such as they had sung in church thirty years before; the subtle music that brings up the glimmer of wax tapers, the solemn shrines, the evergreen, holly, mistletoe, and surpliced choirs. Then the remorseless performer planted his final stab in every heart with "Home, Sweet Home."

When the player ceased the crowd slunk away from him. There was no more revelry or devilment left in his audience. Each man wanted to sneak off to his cabin and write the old folks a letter. The day was breaking as the last man left the place, and the player, with his head on the piano, fell asleep.

"I say, pard," said Goskin, "don't you want a little rest?"

"I feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me rest here for the matter of a day or so."

He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying, and stretched himself upon them.

"I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't last long. I've got a brother down in the ravine--his name's Driscoll. He don't know I'm here. Can you get him before morning? I'd like to see his face once before I die."

Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew Driscoll well.

"He your brother? I'll have him here in half an hour."

As Goskin dashed out into the storm the musician pressed his hand to his side and groaned. Goskin heard the word "Hurry!" and sped down the ravine to Driscoll's cabin. It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was pale as death.

"My God! I hope he's alive! I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago."

They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face. The two stood a moment, awed by the thought that he might be dead. Goskin lifted the blanket and pulled it down, astonished. There was no one there!

"Gone!" cried Driscoll wildly.

"Gone!" echoed Goskin, pulling out his cash-drawer. "Ten thousand dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose change in the drawer!"

The next day the boys got out, followed a horse's track through the snow, and lost them in the trail leading toward Pioche.

There was a man missing from the camp. It was the three-card-monte man, who used to deny pointblank that he could play the scale. One day they found a wig of white hair, and called to mind how the "stranger" had pushed those locks back when he looked toward the ceiling for inspiration on the night of December 24, 1858.

ALL KINDS OF THINGS.

George Washington as the Farmer of Mount Vernon--The Dress, Manners, and Personality of John Hancock--Men Whose Names Live in Their Inventions--The Strange Story of a Revolutionary Spy and a Silver Bullet--Treasure Trove in Unexpected Hiding-Places--Political Routes That Have Led to the White House--With Other Items of Interest from Various Sources.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

THE THRIFTY FARMER OF MOUNT VERNON.

FIFTEEN SQUARE MILES OF LAND.

System of Crop Rotation Made the Wheels Go Round Smoothly on Washington's Plantation.

As military leader and statesman, George Washington is the great figure in our history. His greatness as a farmer is not so generally appreciated. Yet as soon as the Revolution ended he turned his attention to agriculture with a keen eye to improve his estate.

Finding that the cultivation of tobacco exhausted his land, he gradually substituted grass and wheat, as better suited to the soil. He began a new method of rotation of crops, drawing up an exact scheme by which all his fields were numbered and the crops assigned for several years in advance.

The extent of his farming operations appears in the following account, printed many years ago in the _Maine Cultivator_:

The farm of General Washington at Mount Vernon contained ten thousand acres of land in one body--equal to about fifteen square miles. It was divided into farms of convenient size, at the distance of two, three, four, and five miles from his mansion house. These farms he visited every day in pleasant weather, and was constantly engaged in making experiments for the improvement of agriculture.

Some idea of the extent of his farming operations may be formed from the following facts: In 1787 he had five hundred acres in grass; sowed six hundred bushels of oats, seven hundred acres of wheat, and as much more in corn, barley, potatoes, beans, peas, etc., and fifty with turnips.

His stock consisted of one hundred and forty horses, one hundred and twelve cows, two hundred and thirty-five working oxen, heifers, and steers, and five hundred sheep. He constantly employed two hundred and fifty hands, and kept twenty-four plows going during the whole year, when the earth and the state of the weather would permit.

In 1786 he slaughtered one hundred and fifty hogs for the use of his family and provisions for his negroes, for whose comfort he had great regard.

ELABORATE APPAREL OF OLD JOHN HANCOCK.

APTNESS AT PUNISHING THE PUNCH.

Pen Picture of the Revolutionary Statesman Shows Him Garbed Gorgeously in a Blue Damask Gown.