PAUL LEICESTER FORD
Stitt Publishing Company New YorkHenry Holt & Co.
1894
To
THOSE DEAR TO ME AT STONEY WOLDE, TURNERS, NEW YORK; PINEHURST; NORWICH, CONNECTICUT; BROOK FARM, PROCTORSVILLE, VERMONT; AND DUNESIDE, EASTHAMPTON, NEW YORK,
THIS BOOK, WRITTEN WHILE AMONG THEM, IS DEDICATED.
CHAPTER I.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr. Pierce was generally talking. From the daythat his proud mamma had given him a sweetmeat for a very inarticulate"goo" which she translated into "papa," Mr. Pierce had found speechprofitable. He had been able to talk his nurse into granting him everyindulgence. He had talked his way through school and college. He hadtalked his wife into marrying him. He had talked himself to the head ofa large financial institution. He had talked his admission into society.Conversationally, Mr. Pierce was a success. He could discussSchopenhauer or cotillion favors; St. Paul, the apostle, or St. Paul,the railroad. He had cultivated the art as painstakingly as aprofessional musician. He had countless anecdotes, which he introducedto his auditors by a "that reminds me of." He had endless quotations,with the quotation marks omitted. Finally he had an idea on everysubject, and generally a theory as well. Carlyle speaks somewhere of an"inarticulate genius." He was not alluding to Mr. Pierce.
Like most good talkers, Mr. Pierce was a tongue despot. Conversationmust take his course, or he would none of it. Generally he controlled.If an upstart endeavored to turn the subject, Mr. Pierce waited till theintruder had done speaking, and then quietly, but firmly would remark:"Relative to the subject we were discussing a moment ago--" If any oneventured to speak, even _sotto voce_, before Mr. Pierce had finished allhe had to say, he would at once cease his monologue, wait till theinterloper had finished, and then resume his lecture just where he hadbeen interrupted. Only once had Mr. Pierce found this method to fail inquelling even the sturdiest of rivals. The recollection of that day isstill a mortification to him. It had happened on the deck of an oceansteamer. For thirty minutes he had fought his antagonist bravely. Then,humbled and vanquished, he had sought the smoking-room, to moisten hisparched throat, and solace his wounded spirit, with a star cocktail. Hehad at last met his superior. He yielded the deck to the fog-horn.
At the present moment Mr. Pierce was having things very much his ownway. Seated in the standing-room of a small yacht, were some eightpeople. With a leaden sky overhead, and a leaden sea about it, the boatgently rose and fell with the ground swell. Three miles away could beseen the flash-light marking the entrance to the harbor. But thoughslowly gathering clouds told that wind was coming, the yacht now laybecalmed, drifting with the ebb tide. The pleasure-seekers had beentogether all day, and were decidedly talked out. For the last hour theyhad been singing songs--always omitting Mr. Pierce, who never so trifledwith his vocal organs. During this time he had been restless. At onepoint he had attempted to deliver his opinion on the relation of verseto music, but an unfeeling member of the party had struck up "JohnBrown's Body," and his lecture had ended, in the usual serial style, atthe most interesting point, without even the promise of a "continuationin our next." Finally, however, the singers had sung themselves hoarsein the damp night air, the last "Spanish Cavalier" had been safelyrestored to his inevitable true-love, and the sound of voices and banjofloated away over the water. Mr. Pierce's moment had come.
Some one, and it is unnecessary to mention the sex, had given a sigh,and regretted that nineteenth century life was so prosaic andunromantic. Clearing his throat, quite as much to pre-empt the pause asto articulate the better, Mr. Pierce spoke:
"That modern times are less romantic and interesting than bygonecenturies is a fallacy. From time immemorial, love and the battlebetween evil and good are the two things which have given the worldromance and interest. Every story, whether we find it in the myths ofthe East, the folklore of Europe, the poems of the Troubadours, or inour newspaper of this morning, is based on one or the other of thesefactors, or on both combined. Now it is a truism that love never playedso important a part as now in shaping the destinies of men and women,for this is the only century in which it has obtained even a partialdivorce from worldly and parental influences. Moreover the great battleof society, to crush wrong and elevate right, was never before sobravely fought, on so many fields, by so many people as to-day. Butbecause our lovers and heroes no longer brag to the world of theirdoings; no longer stand in the moonlight, and sing of their 'deringdoes,' the world assumes that the days of tourneys and guitars were theonly days of true love and noble deeds. Even our professed writers ofromance join in the cry. 'Draw life as it is,' they say. 'We findnothing in it but mediocrity, selfishness, and money-loving.' By allmeans let us have truth in our novels, but there is truth and truth.Most of New York's firemen presumably sat down at noon to-day to adinner of corned-beef and cabbage. But perhaps one of them at the samemoment was fighting his way through smoke and flame, to save life at therisk of his own. Boiled dinner and burned firemen are equally true. Arethey equally worthy of description? What would the age of chivalry be,if the chronicles had recorded only the brutality, filthiness andcoarseness of their contemporaries? The wearing of underclothingunwashed till it fell to pieces; the utter lack of soap; the eating withfingers; the drunkenness and foul-mouthedness that drove women from thetable at a certain point, and so inaugurated the custom, now continuedmerely as an excuse for a cigar? Some one said once that a man finds ina great city just the qualities he takes to it. That's true of romanceas well. Modern novelists don't find beauty and nobility in life,because they don't look for them. They predicate from their inner soulsthat the world is 'cheap and nasty' and that is what they find it to be.There is more true romance in a New York tenement than there ever was ina baron's tower--braver battles, truer love, nobler sacrifices. Romanceis all about us, but we must have eyes for it. You are young people,with your lives before you. Let me give you a little advice. As you gothrough life look for the fine things--not for the despicable. It won'tmake you any richer. It won't make you famous. It won't better you in aworldly way. But it will make your lives happier, for by the time youare my age, you'll love humanity, and look upon the world and call itgood. And you will have found romance enough to satisfy all longings formediaeval times."
"But, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anythingromantic in life," said a voice, which, had it been translated intowords would have said, "I know you are right, of course, and you willconvince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it seemsto me that--" the voice, already low, became lower. "Now"--a moment'shesitation--"there is--Peter Stirling."
"Exactly," said Mr. Pierce. "That is a very case in point, and provesjust what I've been saying. Peter is like the novelists of whom I'vebeen talking. I don't suppose we ought to blame him for it. What can youexpect of a son of a mill-foreman, who lives the first sixteen years ofhis life in a mill-village? If his hereditary tendencies gave him achance, such an experience would end it. If one lives in the country,one may get fine thoughts by contact with Nature. In great cities one isdeveloped and stimulated by art, music, literature, and contact withclever people. But a mill-village is one vast expanse of mediocrity andprosaicness, and it would take a bigger nature than Peter's to recognizethe beautiful in such a life. In truth, he is as limited, as exact, andas unimaginative as the machines of his own village. Peter has noromance in him; hence he will never find it, nor increase it in thisworld. This very case only proves my point; that to meet romance onemust have it. Boccaccio said he did not write no
vels, but lived them.Try to imagine Peter living a romance! He could be concerned in a dozenand never dream it. They would not interest him even if he did noticethem. And I'll prove it to you." Mr. Pierce raised his voice. "We arediscussing romance, Peter. Won't you stop that unsocial tramp of yourslong enough to give us your opinion on the subject?"
A moment's silence followed, and then a singularly clear voice, comingfrom the forward part of the yacht, replied: "I never read them, Mr.Pierce."
Mr. Pierce laughed quietly. "See," he said, "that fellow never dreams ofthere being romance outside of novels. He is so prosaic that he isunconscious of anything bigger than his own little sphere of life. Petermay obtain what he wants in this world, for his desires will be of thekind to be won by work and money. But he will never be controlled by agreat idea, nor be the hero of a true romance."
Steele once wrote that the only difference between the Catholic Churchand the Church of England was, that the former was infallible and thelatter never wrong. Mr. Pierce would hardly have claimed for himselfeither of these qualities. He was too accustomed in his business towriting, "E. and O.E." above his initials, to put much faith in humandicta. But in the present instance he felt sure of what he said, and thelittle group clearly agreed. If they were right, this story is like thatrecounted in Mother Goose, which was ended before it was begun. But Mr.Pierce had said that romance is everywhere to those who have the spiritof it in them. Perhaps in this case the spirit was lacking in hisjudges--not in Peter Stirling.