McClure\'s Magazine, January, 1896, Vol. VI. No. 2 written by Various

V >> Various >> McClure\'s Magazine, January, 1896, Vol. VI. No. 2

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The Princess Osra, being thus left alone, sat for a little while in
deep thought. There rose before her mind the picture of Monsieur de
Merosailles riding mournfully through the gloom of the forest to his
death; and although his conduct had been all, and more than all,
that she had called it, yet it seemed hard that he should die for
it. Moreover, if he now in truth felt what he had before feigned, the
present truth was an atonement for the past treachery; and she said
to herself that she could not sleep quietly that night if the marquis
killed himself in the forest. Presently she wandered slowly up to her
chamber, and looked in the mirror, and murmured low, "Poor fellow!"
And then with sudden speed she attired herself for riding, and
commanded her horse to be saddled, and darted down the stairs and
across the bridge, and mounted, and, forbidding any one to accompany
her, rode away into the forest, following the tracks of the hoofs of
Monsieur de Merosailles's horse. It was then late afternoon, and the
slanting rays of the sun, striking through the tree-trunks, reddened
her face as she rode along, spurring her horse and following hard on
the track of the forlorn gentleman. But what she intended to do if she
came up with him, she did not think.

When she had ridden an hour or more, she saw his horse tethered to a
trunk; and there was a ring of trees and bushes near, encircling an
open grassy spot. Herself dismounting and fastening her horse by the
marquis's horse, she stole up, and saw Monsieur de Merosailles sitting
on the ground, his drawn sword lying beside him; and his back was
towards her. She held her breath, and waited for a few moments. Then
he took up the sword, and felt the point and also the edge of it,
and sighed deeply; and the princess thought that this sorrowful mood
became him better than any she had seen him in before. Then he rose to
his feet, and took his sword by the blade beneath the hilt, and turned
the point of it towards his heart. And Osra, fearing that the deed
would be done immediately, called out eagerly, "My lord, my lord!" and
Monsieur de Merosailles turned round with a great start. When he saw
her, he stood in astonishment, his hand still holding the blade of the
sword. And, standing just on the other side of the trees, she said:

"Is your offence against me to be cured by adding an offence against
Heaven and the Church?" And she looked on him with great severity; yet
her cheek was flushed, and after a while she did not meet his glance.

"How came you here, madam?" he asked in wonder.

"I heard," she said, "that you meditated this great sin, and I rode
after you to forbid it."

"Can you forbid what you cause?" he asked.

"I am not the cause of it," she said, "but your own trickery."

"It is true. I am not worthy to live," cried the marquis, smiting the
hilt of his sword to the ground. "I pray you, madam, leave me alone
to die, for I cannot tear myself from the world so long as I see your
face." And as he spoke he knelt on one knee, as though he were doing
homage to her.

The princess caught at a bough of the tree under which she stood, and
pulled the bough down so that its leaves half hid her face, and the
marquis saw little more than her eyes from among the foliage. And,
thus being better able to speak to him, she said, softly:

"And dare you die, unforgiven?"

"I had prayed for forgiveness before you found me, madam," said he.

"Of Heaven, my lord?"

"Of Heaven, madam. For of Heaven I dare to ask it."

[Illustration: SHE STOLE UP AND SAW MONSIEUR DE MEROSAILLES SITTING ON
THE GROUND.]

The bough swayed up and down; and now Osra's gleaming hair, and now
her cheek, and always her eyes, were seen through the leaves. And
presently the marquis heard a voice asking:

"Does Heaven forgive unasked?"

"Indeed, no," said he, wondering.

"And," said she, "are we poor mortals kinder than Heaven?"

The marquis rose, and took a step or two towards where the bough
swayed up and down, and then knelt again.

"A great sinner," said he, "cannot believe himself forgiven."

"Then he wrongs the power of whom he seeks forgiveness; for
forgiveness is divine."

"Then I will ask it, and, if I obtain it, I shall die happy."

Again the bough swayed, and Osra said:

"Nay, if you will die, you may die unforgiven."

Monsieur de Merosailles, hearing these words, sprang to his feet, and
came towards the bough until he was so close that he touched the green
leaves; and through them the eyes of Osra gleamed; and the sun's rays
struck on her eyes, and they danced in the sun, and her cheeks were
reddened by the same or some other cause. And the evening was very
still, and there seemed no sounds in the forest.

"I cannot believe that you forgive. The crime is so great," said he.

"It was great; yet I forgive."

"I cannot believe it," said he again, and he looked at the point of
his sword, and then he looked through the leaves at the princess.

"I can do no more than say that if you will live, I will forgive. And
we will forget."

"By Heaven, no!" he whispered. "If I must forget to be forgiven, then
I will remember and be unforgiven."

The faintest laugh reached him from among the foliage.

"Then I will forget, and you shall be forgiven," said she.

The marquis put up his hand and held a leaf aside, and he said again:

"I cannot believe myself forgiven. Is there no other token of
forgiveness?"

"Pray, my lord, do not put the leaves aside."

"I still must die, unless I have sure warrant of forgiveness."

"Ah, you try to make me think that!"

"By Heavens, it is true!" and again he pointed his sword at his heart,
and he swore on his honor that unless she gave him a token he would
still kill himself.

"Oh," said the princess, with great petulance, "I wish I had not
come!"

"Then I should have been dead by now--dead, unforgiven!"

"But you will still die!"

"Yes, I must still die, unless--"

"Sheath your sword, my lord. The sun strikes it, and it dazzles my
eyes."

"That cannot be; for your eyes are brighter than sun and sword
together."

"Then I must shade them with the leaves."

"Yes, shade them with the leaves," he whispered. "Madam, is there no
token of forgiveness?"

An absolute silence followed for a little while. Then Osra said:

"Why did you swear on your honor?"

"Because it is an oath that I cannot break."

"Indeed, I wish that I had not come," sighed Princess Osra.

Again came silence. The bough was pressed down for an instant; then it
swayed swiftly up again; and its leaves brushed the cheek of Monsieur
de Merosailles. And he laughed loud and joyfully.

"Something touched my cheek," said he.

"It must have been a leaf," said Princess Osra.

"Ah, a leaf!"

"I think so," said Princess Osra.

"Then it was a leaf of the Tree of Life," said Monsieur de
Merosailles.

"I wish some one would set me on my horse," said Osra.

"That you may ride back to the castle--alone?"

"Yes, unless you would relieve my brother's anxiety."

"It would be courteous to do that much," said the Marquis.

So they mounted, and rode back through the forest. In an hour the
Princess had come, and in the space of something over two hours they
returned; yet during all this time they spoke hardly a word; and
although the sun was now set, yet the glow remained on the face and
in the eyes of Princess Osra; while Monsieur de Merosailles, being
forgiven, rode with a smile on his lips.

But when they came to the castle, Prince Rudolf ran out to meet them,
and he cried almost before he reached them.

"Hasten, hasten! There is not a moment, to lose, if the marquis
values life or liberty!" And when he came to them, he told them that
a waiting-woman had been false to Monsieur de Merosailles, and, after
taking his money, had hid herself in his chamber, and seen the first
kiss that the princess gave him, and having made some pretext to gain
a holiday, had gone to the king, who was hunting near, and betrayed
the whole matter to him.

"And one of my gentlemen," he continued, "has ridden here to tell me.
In an hour the guards will be here, and if the king catches you, my
lord, you will hang, as sure as I live."

The princess turned very pale, but Monsieur de Merosailles said,
haughtily, "I ask your pardon, sir, but the king dares not hang me,
for I am a gentleman and a subject of the king of France."

"Man, man!" cried Rudolf. "The Lion will hang you first and think of
all that afterward! Come, now, it is dusk. You shall dress yourself as
my groom, and I will ride to the frontier, and you shall ride behind
me, and thus you may get safe away. I cannot have you hanged over such
a trifle."

"I would have given my life willingly for what you call a trifle,
sir," said the marquis, with a bow to Osra.

"Then have the trifle and life, too," said Rudolf, decisively. "Come
in with me, and I will give you your livery."

When the prince and Monsieur de Merosailles came out again on the
drawbridge, the evening had fallen, and it was dark; and their horses
stood at the end of the bridge, and by the horses stood the princess.

"Quick!" said she. "For a peasant who came in, bringing a load of
wood, saw a troop of men coming over the crown of the hill, and he
says they are the king's guard."

"Mount, man!" cried the prince to Monsieur de Merosailles, who was now
dressed as a groom. "Perhaps we can get clear, or perhaps they will
not dare to stop me."

But the marquis hesitated a little, for he did not like to run away;
and the princess ran a little way forward, and, shading her eyes with
her hand, cried, "See there; I see the gleam of steel in the dark.
They have reached the top of the hill, and are riding down."

Then Prince Rudolf sprang on his horse, calling again to Monsieur de
Merosailles: "Quick! quick! Your life hangs on it!"

Then at last the marquis, though he was most reluctant to depart, was
about to spring on his horse, when the princess turned and glided back
swiftly to them. And--let it be remembered that evening had fallen
thick and black--she came to her brother, and put out her hand, and
grasped his hand, and said:

"My lord, I forgive your wrong, and I thank you for your courtesy, and
I wish you farewell."

Prince Rudolf, astonished, gazed at her without speaking. But she,
moving very quickly in spite of the darkness, ran to where Monsieur
de Merosailles was about to spring on his horse, and she flung one arm
lightly about his neck, and she said:

"Farewell, dear brother--God preserve you! See that no harm comes to
my good friend Monsieur de Merosailles." And she kissed him lightly
on the cheek. Then she suddenly gave a loud cry of dismay, exclaiming,
"Alas, what have I done? Ah, what have I done?" And she hid her face
in her two hands.

Prince Rudolf burst into a loud, short laugh, yet he said nothing to
his sister, but again urged the marquis to mount his horse. And the
marquis, who was in a sad tumult of triumph and of woe, leaped up, and
they rode out, and, turning their faces towards the forest, set spurs
to their horses, and vanished at breakneck speed into the glades.
And no sooner were they gone than the troopers of the king's guard
clattered at a canter up to the end of the bridge, where the Princess
Osra stood. But when their captain saw the princess, he drew rein.

"What is your errand, sir?" she asked, most coldly and haughtily.

"Madam," said the captain, "we are ordered to bring the Marquis
de Merosailles alive or dead into the king's presence, and we have
information that he is in the castle, unless indeed he were one of the
horsemen who rode away just now."

"The horsemen you saw were my brother the prince and his groom," said
Osra. "But if you think that Monsieur de Merosailles is in the castle,
pray search the castle from keep to cellar; and if you find him, carry
him to my father, according to your orders."

Then the troopers dismounted in great haste, and ransacked the castle
from keep to cellar; and they found the clothes of the marquis and the
white powder with which he had whitened his face, but the marquis they
did not find. And the captain came again to the princess, who still
stood at the end of the bridge, and said:

"Madam, he is not in the castle."

"Is he not?" said she, and she turned away and, walking to the middle
of the bridge, looked down into the water of the moat.

"Was it in truth the prince's groom who rode with him, madam?" asked
the captain, following her.

"In truth, sir, it was so dark," answered the princess, "that I could
not myself clearly distinguish the man's face."

"One was the prince, for I saw you embrace him, madam."

"You do well to conclude that that was my brother," said Osra, smiling
a little.

"And to the other, madam, you gave your hand."

"And now I give it to you," said she, with haughty insolence. "And if
to my father's servant, why not to my brother's?"

And she held out her hand that he might kiss it, and turned away from
him, and looked down into the water again.

"But we found Monsieur de Merosailles's clothes in the castle!"
persisted the captain.

"He may well have left something of his in the castle," said the
princess.

"I will ride after them!" cried the captain.

"I doubt if you will catch them," smiled the princess; for by now the
pair had been gone half an hour, and the frontier was but ten miles
from the castle, and they could not be overtaken. Yet the captain
rode off with his men, and pursued till he met Prince Rudolf returning
alone, having seen Monsieur de Merosailles safe on his way. And Rudolf
had paid the sum of a thousand crowns to the marquis, so that the
fugitive was well provided for his journey, and, travelling with
many relays of horses, made good his escape from the clutches of King
Henry.

But the Princess Osra stayed a long time looking down at the water in
the moat. And sometimes she sighed, and then again she frowned, and,
although nobody was there, and it was very dark into the bargain, more
than once she blushed. And at last she turned to go in to the castle.
And, as she went, she murmured softly to herself:

"Why I kissed him the first time I know--it was in pity; and why I
kissed him the second time I know--it was in forgiveness. But why
I kissed him the third time, or what that kiss meant," said Osra,
"Heaven knows."

And she went in with a smile on her lips.

MISS TARBELL'S LIFE OF LINCOLN.

The response to our New Life of Lincoln is so extraordinary as to
demand something more than mere acknowledgment from us.

Within ten days of the publication of the magazine no less than
forty thousand new buyers were added to our list, and at this writing
(November 25th) the increase has reached one hundred thousand, making
a clear increase of one hundred thousand in three months, and bringing
the total edition for the present number up to a quarter of a million.

But even more gratifying have been the strong expressions of approval
from many whose intimate knowledge of Lincoln's life enables them to
distinguish what is _new_ in this life.

As Mr. Medill says in an editorial in the Chicago "Tribune," "It is
not only full of new things, but is so distinct and clear in local
color that an interest attaches to it which is not found in other
biographies."

And Mr. R.W. Diller, of Springfield, Illinois, who knew Mr. Lincoln
intimately for nearly twenty years before his election to the
Presidency, writes to us about Miss Tarbell's article: "As far as read
she goes to rock-bottom evidence and will beat her Napoleon out of
sight."

There are certainly few men more familiar with all that has been
written about Lincoln than William H. Lambert, Esq., of Philadelphia,
whose collection includes practically every book, pamphlet, or printed
document about Lincoln, and who has one of the finest collections of
Lincolniana in the world. He writes:

"I have read your first article with intense interest, and I am
confident that you will make a most important addition to our
knowledge of Lincoln."

But perhaps it is better to print some of the letters we have received
commenting on the first article and on the early portrait and other
portraits and illustrations.

John T. Morse, Jr., author of the lives of Abraham Lincoln, John
Quincy Adams, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin,
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. in their "American Statesmen
Series," and editor of this series, writes as follows about the early
portrait:

6 FAIRCHILD STREET, BOSTON,

_November 2, 1895._

S.S. MCCLURE, ESQ.--_Dear Sir_: I thank you very much for the
artist's proof of the engraving of the earliest picture of
Abraham Lincoln.

I have studied this portrait with very great interest. All
the portraits with which we are familiar show us the man _as
made_; this shows us the man _in the_ _making_; and I think
every one will admit that the making of Abraham Lincoln
presents a more singular, puzzling, interesting study than the
making of any other man known in human history.

I have shown it to several persons, without telling them who
it was. Some say, a poet; others, a philosopher, a thinker,
like Emerson. These comments also are interesting, for Lincoln
had the raw material of both these characters very largely in
his composition, though political and practical problems
so over-laid them that they show only faintly in his later
portraits. This picture, therefore, is valuable evidence as to
his natural traits.

Was it not taken at an earlier date than you indicate as
probable in your letter? I should think that it must have
been.

I am very sincerely yours,

JOHN T. MORSE, JR.

Dr. Hale also draws attention to the resemblance of the early portrait
to Emerson:

ROXBURY, MASSACHUSETTS,

_October 28, 1895._

_My dear Mr. McClure_:--I think you will be interested to know
that in showing the early portrait of Lincoln to two young
people of intelligence, each of them asked if it were not a
portrait of Waldo Emerson. If you will compare the likeness
with that of Emerson in Appleton's "Cyclopedia of Biography,"
I think you will like to print copies of the two likenesses
side by side.

Yours truly,

EDWARD E. HALE.

Mr. T.H. Bartlett, the eminent sculptor, who has for many years
collected portraits of Lincoln, and has made a scientific study of
Lincoln's physiognomy, contributes this:

The first interest of the early portrait to me is that it
shows Lincoln, even at that age, as a _new man_. It may to
many suggest certain other heads, but a short study of it
establishes its distinctive originality in every respect.
It's priceless, every way, and copies of it ought to be in the
gladsome possession of every lover of Lincoln. Handsome is
not enough--it's great--not only of a great man, but the first
picture representing the only new physiognomy of which we
have any correct knowledge contributed by the New World to the
ethnographic consideration of mankind.

Very sincerely,

T.H. BARTLETT.

An eminent member of the Illinois bar, one who has been closely
identified with the legal history of Illinois for nearly sixty years,
and who is perhaps the best living authority on the history of the
State, writes:

That portion of the biography of Mr. Lincoln that appears in
the November number of McCLURE'S MAGAZINE I have read with
very great interest. It contains much that has not been
printed in any other life of Lincoln. Especially interesting
is the account given of pioneer life of that people among whom
Mr. Lincoln had his birth and his early education. It was a
strange and singular people, and their history abounds in
much that is akin to romance and peculiar to a life in the
wilderness. It was a life that had a wonderful attractiveness
for all that loved an adventurous life. The story of their
lives in the wilderness has a charm that nothing else in
Western history possesses. It is to be regretted that there
are writers that represent the early pioneers of the West to
have been an ignorant and rude people. Nothing can be further
from the truth. Undoubtedly there were some dull persons among
them. There are in all communities. But a vast majority of the
early pioneers of the West were of average intelligence
with the people they left back in the States from which
they emigrated. And why should they not have been? They were
educated among them, and had all the advantages of those by
whom they were surrounded. But in some respects they were much
above the average of those among whom they dwelt in the older
communities east of the Alleghany Mountains. The country
into which they were about to go was known to be crowded
with dangers. It was a wilderness, full of savage beasts and
inhabited by still more savage men--the Indians. It is evident
that but few other than the brave and most daring, would
venture upon a life in such a wilderness. The timid and less
resolute remained in the security of an older civilization.

The lives of these early pioneers abounded in brave deeds,
and were often full of startling adventures. The women of that
period were as brave and heroic as were the men--if not more
so. It is doubtless true Mr. Lincoln's mother was one of that
splendid type of heroic pioneer women. He was brave and good
because his mother was brave and good. She has since become
distinguished among American women because her child, born in
a lowly cabin in the midst of a wild Western forest, has since
been recognized as the greatest man of the century--if not of
all centuries. It was fortunate for our common country that
Mr. Lincoln was born among that pioneer people and had his
early education among them. It was a simple school, and the
course of studies limited; but the lessons he learned in that
school in the forest were grand and good. Everything around
and about him was just as it came from the hands of the
Creator. It was good, and it was beautiful. It developed
both the head and the heart. It produced the best type of
manhood--both physical and mental. It was in that school he
learned lessons of heroism, courage, and of daring for the
right. It was there he learned lessons of patriotism in its
highest and best sense; and it was there he learned to love
his fellow-man. It was in the practice of those lessons his
life became such a benediction to the American nation.

The story of that people among whom Mr. Lincoln spent his
early life will always have a fascination for the American
people; and it is a matter of congratulation so much of it has
been gathered up and put into form to be preserved.

The portraits the work contains give a very good idea of that
pioneer race of men and women. The one given of Mr. Lincoln's
step-mother is a splendid type of a pioneer woman. A touching
contribution are the brief lines of which a facsimile is
printed:

"Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
God knows When."

These words--simple as they are--will touch the heart of the
American people through all the years of our national history.
It was "his hand and pen" that wrote many beautiful thoughts.
It was his "hand and pen" that wrote those kindest of all
words, "With malice towards none, with charity for all." It
was his "hand and pen" that traced the lines of that wonderful
Gettysburg speech; and it was his "hand and pen" that wrote
the famous proclamation that gave liberty to a race of slaves.
It was then God knew he was "good."

If the remainder of the work shall be of the same character as
that now printed, it will be both an instructive and valuable
contribution to American biography.

There is so much in Mr. Medill's editorial in the Chicago "Tribune,"
and he is entitled to speak with such authority, that we print it
complete herewith.

Mr. Medill says:

THE NEW LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

It is apparent at the very outset that the new "Life of
Abraham Lincoln," edited by Miss Ida M. Tarbell, the first
installment of which appears in McCLURE'S MAGAZINE for
the current month, will be one of the most important and
interesting contributions yet made to Lincoln literature, as
it will contain much matter hitherto unpublished, and will be
enriched with a large number of new illustrations. It will be
a study of Abraham Lincoln as a man, and thus will naturally
commend itself to the people.

The first installment covers about the first twenty-one years
of Lincoln's life, which were spent in Kentucky and Indiana.
The story is told very briefly, in simple, easy style, and
abounds with reminiscences secured from his contemporaries.
It is not only full of new things, but it is so distinct and
clear in local color that an interest attaches to it which is
not found in other biographies. A large part of this credit
must be awarded not alone to the text and to its careful
editing, but also to the numerous pictures which upon every
page illustrate the context and give the scenes of the
story. It is particularly rich in portraits. Among these are
portraits from an ambrotype taken at Macomb, Illinois, in
1858, during his debate with Douglas, the dress being the
same as that in which Lincoln made his famous canvass for
the Senate; a second from a photograph taken at Hannibal,
Missouri, in 1858; a third from an ambrotype taken at Urbana,
Illinois, in 1857; and a fourth from an ambrotype taken in a
linen coat at Beardstown, Illinois.

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