The gold-embroidered cloths—Delhi is famous for them—made me think of those embroidered in stone which we had just seen in the Dewani Khas. These people seem to dream in curves and flowing lines, as the German dreams in chords and meandering tones, the Italian in colors and ripe forms.

("And as the American—?" said Bhima Gandharva with a little smile as we were walking down the Chandni Chowk.

"The American does not dream—yet," I answered.)



We saw much of the embroidered fabrics known as "kincob" (properly, kunkhwab) and "kalabatu;" and Bhima Gandharva led me into an inner apartment where a nakad was manufacturing the gold thread (called kalabatoon) for these curious loom embroideries. The kalabatoon consists of gold wire wound about a silk thread; and nothing could better illustrate the deftness of the Hindu fingers than the motions of the workman whom we saw. Over a polished steel hook hung from the ceiling the end of a reel of slightly twisted silk thread was passed. This end was tied to a spindle with a long bamboo shank, which was weighted and nearly reached the floor. Giving the shank of the spindle a smart roll along his thigh, the workman set it going with great velocity: then applying to the revolving thread the end of a quantity of gold wire which was wound upon a different reel, the gold wire twisted itself in with the silk thread and made a length of kalabatoon about as long as the workman. The kalabatoon was then reeled off on a separate reel, and the process continually repeated.

We stopped at the office of our banker for a moment on our way along the Chandni Chowk in order to effect some changes of money. As we were leaving, Bhima Gandharva inquired if I had observed the young man in the red cotton turban who had politely broken off in our favor a long negotiation with our banker, which he resumed when we had finished our little business.

"Of course I did," I replied. "What a beautiful young man he was! His aquiline nose, his fair complexion, his brilliant eyes, his lithe form, his intelligent and vivacious expression,—all these irresistibly attracted me to him."

"Ha!" said Bhima Gandharva, as if he were clearing his throat. He grasped my arm: "Come, I thought I saw the young man's father standing near the door as we passed out. I wonder if he will irresistibly attract you?" He made me retrace my steps to the banker's office: "There he is."

He was the image of the son in feature, yet his face was as repulsive as his son's was beautiful: the Devil after the fall, compared with the angel he was before it, would have presented just such a contrast.

"They are two Vallabhacharyas," said my companion as we walked away. "You know that the trading community of India, comprehended under the general term of Baniahs, is divided into numerous castes, which transmit their avocations from father to son and preserve themselves free from intermixture with others. The two men you saw are probably on some important business negotiation connected with Bombay or the west of India; for they are Bhattias, who are also followers of the most singular religion the world has ever known—that of the Vallabhacharya or Maharaja sect. These are Epicureans who have quite exceeded, as well in their formal creeds as in their actual practices, the wildest dreams of any of those mortals who have endeavored to make a religion of luxury. They are called Vallabhacharyas, from Vallabha, the name of their founder, who dates from 1479, and acharya, a "leader." Their Pushti Marga, or eat-and-drink doctrine, is briefly this: In the centre of heaven (Gouloka) sits Krishna, of the complexion of a dark cloud, clad in yellow, covered with unspeakable jewels, holding a flute. He is accompanied by Roaha, his wife, and also by three hundred millions of Gopis, or female attendants, each of whom has her own palace and three millions of private maids and waiting-women. It appears that once upon a time two over-loving Gopis quarreled about the god, and, as might be expected in a place so given over to love, they fell from heaven as a consequence. Animated by love for them, Krishna descended from heaven, incarnated himself in the form of Vallabha (founder of the sect), and finally redeemed them. Vallabha's descendants are therefore all gods, and reverence is paid them as such, the number of them being now sixty or seventy. To God belong all things—Tan (the body), Man (the mind) and Dhan (earthly possessions). The Vallabhacharyas therefore give up all first to be enjoyed by their god, together with his descendants (the Maharajas, as they royally term themselves) and his representatives, the gosains or priestly teachers. Apply these doctrines logically, and what a carnival of the senses results! A few years ago one Karsandas Mulji, a man of talent and education, was sued for libel in the court at Bombay by this sect, whose practices he had been exposing. On the trial the evidence revealed such a mass of iniquity, such a complete subversion of the natural proprietary feelings of manhood in the objects of its love, such systematic worship of beastly sin, as must for ever give the Vallabhacharyas pre-eminence among those who have manufactured authority for crime out of the laws of virtue. For the Vallabhacharyas derive their scriptural sanction from the eighth book of the Bhagavata Purana, which they have completely falsified from its true meaning in their translation called the Prem Sagar, or "Ocean of Love." You saw the son? In twenty years—for these people cannot last long—trade and cunning and the riot of all the senses will have made him what you saw the father."



On the next day we visited the Jammah Masjid, the "Great Mosque" of Shah Jehan the renowned, and the glory of Delhi. Ascending the flight of steps leading to the principal entrance, we passed under the lofty arch of the gateway and found ourselves in a great court four hundred and fifty feet square, paved with red stone, in the centre of which a large basin supplied by several fountains contained the water for ceremonial ablutions. On three sides ran light and graceful arcades, while the fourth was quite enclosed by the mass of the mosque proper. Crossing the court and ascending another magnificent flight of stone steps, our eyes were soon commanding the facade of the great structure, and reveling in those prodigious contrasts of forms and colors which it presents. No building could, for this very reason, suffer more from that lack of simultaneity which is involved in any description by words; for it is the vivid shock of seeing, in one stroke of the eye, these three ripe and luxuriant domes (each of which at the same time offers its own subsidiary opposition of white and black stripes), relieved by the keen heights of the two flanking minarets,—it is this, together with the noble admixtures of reds, whites and blacks in the stones, crowned by the shining of the gilded minaret-shafts, which fills the eye of the beholder with a large content of beautiful form and color.

As one's eye becomes cooler one begins to distinguish in the front, which is faced with slabs of pure white marble, the divisions adorned by inscriptions from the Koran inlaid in letters of black marble, and the singularly airy little pavilions which crown the minarets. We ascended one of the minarets by a winding staircase of one hundred and thirty steps, and here, while our gaze took flight over Delhi and beyond, traversing in a second the achievements of many centuries and races, Bhima Gandharva told me of the glories of old Delhi. Indranechta—as Delhi appears in the fabulous legends of old India, and as it is still called by the Hindus—dates its own birth as far back as three thousand years before our era. It was fifty-seven years before the time of Christ that the name of Delhi began to appear in history. Its successive destructions (which a sketch like this cannot even name) left enormous quantities of ruins, and as its successive rebuildings were accomplished by the side of (not upon) these remains, the result has been that from the garden of Shahlimar, the site of which is on the north-west of the town, to beyond the Kantab Minar, whose tall column I could plainly distinguish rising up nine miles off to the south-west, the plain of Delhi presents an accumulation and variety of ruins not to be surpassed in the whole world.



LIFE-SAVING STATIONS.

With their enthusiasm fairly kindled for the work which the government carries on in the signal-service department of the little house on the beach,[A] our exploring party descended the narrow ladder and found themselves in a ten-by-twelve room, warmed by a stove and surrounded by benches. It is used, the old captain who has volunteered as guide tells us, by the men on the life-saving service during the nine months in which they are on duty. A cheerful fire was burning in the stove, and we gathered about it: the wind blew a stronger gale each moment outside, barring out the far sea-horizon with a wall of gray mist. The tide rolled up on the shelving beach beneath the square window with a sullen, treacherous roar.

"It's the bar that gives the sea that sound," said the captain. "This is the ugliest bit of coast for vessels from Nova Scotia to Florida. It's like this," drawing his finger across the table in the vain effort to map out the matter intelligibly to a landsman's comprehension. "Here's the Jersey coast. You've got to hug it close with your vessel to make New York harbor—there; and all along it, from Sandy Hook to Cape May, runs the bar—so. Broken, but so much the worse. A nor'-easter drives you on it, sure. I've known from sixteen to twenty wracks in a winter on this coast before the companies or government took up the matter."

[Footnote A: See the article entitled "The House on the Beach," in Lippincott's Magazine for January. Since the publication of that paper a letter of distinction has been received by General Albert J. Myer from the International Congress of Geographical Sciences, held in Paris in 1875, which states that the United States signal service appeared to the Congress to deserve an exceptional reward. "This service, so remarkably organized, has been the cause of such progress in meteorological science that the distinctions provided by the regulations of the Congress would not be commensurate for it." The letter of distinction was therefore sent as the highest award decreed by the Congress.]

"That only argued bad seamanship," said one of his listeners. "When every ship's captain knew the bar—"

"That's precisely what they didn't know. It alters with every year; and on a dark night, with a driving sea and wind both against you, there's small chance of clearing it. However, I don't mean to say that all of them vessels were wracked fair and square. It got to be customary with owners of wornout coast-schooners to send them out with light cargoes and run them on the Jersey bar. The captain and crew would time it so's they could get ashore, and the sea would soon break up the vessel, and then up they goes to York for insurance on ship and cargo. There was a good deal of that sort of work went on when I was a boy, until the underwriters got wind of it and established the wracking system."

"This building?—"

"No, no! Don't confound the two things. This is government work altogether, and maintained solely for the saving of life. The crew of the lifeboat here are not allowed to touch a pound of freight or baggage on a wracked ship. The wracking-masters were appointed and paid by the board of underwriters in New York. Old Captain Brown was general agent on this beach. They took the coast in charge, as you might say, long before this government service was started. It was managed—like this," resorting again to his finger and the imaginary lines on the table. "A vessel came ashore on the bar. The first man who saw it gave warning to the wracking-master, who took command of the men ashore and the cargo in behalf of the insurance companies."

"Were there any signals then to rouse the coast in case of wreck?"

"Lord save you! no: every man warned his neighbor. There weren't but a few scattered folks along the coast then, but in time of a wrack you'd see them in the dead of night ready and waiting along the beach. No need of your signal-flags for them, I reckon. They knew there'd be dead men and plenty of wrack coming ashore before morning."

"And every man was ready to go out in his boat?" cried an enthusiastic townsman, "or to carry a line to the sinking ship?"

"Well—hardly," said the captain with a dry smile. "Folks that know the water don't go exactly that way to work. There was regular wracking-boats, built for the surf, and crews for each, you see: best man in the starn. The man in the starn, he generally owned the boat and chose his crew. Picked men. He kept them year after year. Then the wracking-masters hired him, his boat and his crew. Best crew chosen first, of course. Two dollars a day each was reckoned good pay. They got famous names, some of them surfboat crews," reflectively. "There was William Chadwick—Bill Shattuck he goes by—his crew was known from Sandy Hook to Hatteras. There's one of them now: he can tell you about it better than me.—Hello, Jake!"

We looked out of the window and saw the fisherman whom we had met in the afternoon lazily drawing his slow length along the beach, two or three blue mackerel dangling from his hand: he had not enough of energy, apparently, to hold them up. This was the fellow whom, an hour before, we had pitied as a dull soul to whom the wreck was "timber" and the life-saving station a "shed." We all had a vague ideal before us of a gallant sailor, with eyes of fire and nerves of steel, plunging into the cruel surf to rescue the sinking ship. We accepted the slouching Jacob instead with disrelish. He was not the stuff of which heroes in books are made.

"Jake," said the captain, "where is Shattuck's boat now? I was speaking of it to the gentlemen here."

"Take a cigar," interpolated one of the party.

Jacob took a cigar, bit off the end and dropped easily into a seat: "Bill's boat? Well, it's drawed up ashore at the head of Barnegat—down there. You kin see it out of the window ef you like."

"There is very seldom any call for the surf-boats and crews in summer," explained the captain. "The men follow fishing usually. But in winter they're always ready if a ship comes on the bar."

"Your crew has done good service in saving life, I hear, Jacob?" said one of the strangers.

"Well, I dunno. We're generally the first called on by the wracking-master. Sure of the best pay. There's Shattuck and Curtis and Van Note and George Johnson, and Fleming in the starn," checking them off with his fingers—"all good men to bring off trade in a heavy pull."

"You don't mean that these surf boat crews are paid to save the cargo, and that human life is left to the care of the government?" cried a listener indignantly.

"The government undertakes the life-saving service, and we're paid by the wracking-master, certainly," said Jacob calmly. "To save the cargo. But the human bein's is took out first. Of course. As you say. It's not likely any man's a-goin' to bring trade out of a wrack's long's there's a live critter aboard."

"There's not one of these men," said the captain with a little heat in his tone, "who has not saved many a life at the risk of his own. Isn't that true, Jacob?"

"I dunno. We jist work ahead at what's got to be done. I know Van Note saved my life. The way of it was this. It was the time the Clara Brookman went down: you mind the Clara Brookman, cap'n? She was homeward bound after a long cruise—three year—and she struck the bar just below, a mile or two. It was a swashin' sea an' a black night. Our surfboat was overturned with thirteen aboard: 'leven of us was picked up by the other boat. The men, they stood in the starn an' hauled us aboard by main force—lifted us clear out of the water. Van Note's a tremendous musc'lar fellar, he is. He caught me by the wrist jest as I was goin' down for the last time: I'm not a small fish, either," slapping his brawny thigh. "Yes, sir. Van Note and I never mixed much together afore or sence. But he did that for me: I don't deny it."

"You remember some terrible scenes of suffering no doubt, Jacob?"

"Well, I've seen vessels pretty well smashed up, sir. There was the Alabama, coast-schooner: all the crew went down on her in full sight; and the Annandale: she was a coal-brig, and she run aground on a December night. It was a terrible storm: but one surfboat got out to her. They took off what they could—the women and part of the crew. I was a boy then, and I mind seein' them come ashore, their beards and clothes frozen stiff. After the boat left, some of the crew jumped into the sea, but they couldn't live in it two minutes. It was nigh dawn when the boat got out to the brig agen, and there wasn't a livin' soul aboard of her; only the body of the mate lashed tight to the mainmast, a solid mass of ice. He couldn't be got down, and I've heerd my father say it was awful to see him, with one hand held out as if p'intin' to shore, rockin' to and fro there overhead till the brig went under. Months after, some of the bodies of the crew was thrown up by the tide; they was as fresh as if they'd jest gone to sleep."

"How could that be? Where had they been?"

"Sucked into the sand. Them heavy nothe-easters always throws up a bar, an' they was sucked under it. When the bar give way the tide threw them up. But as soon as the air tetched them they began to moulder."

There was a short silence. The evening was gathering fast, cold and threatening, the little fire threw our shadows high up on the wall, and the wail of the wind and thunder of the incoming tide gave a ghastly significance to this matter-of-fact catalogue of horrors. As we looked through the little window at the vast gray plain of water, it seemed as if every wave covered a wreck or dead men's bones.

"Now, George Johnson," continued Jacob, "he was the first man as saw the John Minturn come ashore. That was the worst storm I ever seen on this coast.—You mind it, cap'n?"

The captain nodded gravely: "February 15, 1846. It was the night old Phoebe Hall died, and I was sitting with the body when I heerd the guns fired from the Minturn," he remarked.—"But go on, Jacob," waving his pipe.

"The current was a-settin' south. Sech a tide hadn't been knowd sence the oldest men could remember: the sea broke over all the mashes clear up to the farm-houses. Well, sir, I was but a lad, but I couldn't sleep: seemed as ef I ought to be a doin' something, I didn't rightly know what. About three o'clock in the morning I heerd a gun, and in a minute another, 'Mother,' I says, 'there's a vessel on the bar.' So, as I gets on my clothes, she makes me a mug of hot coffee. 'You must drink this, Jacob, an' eat some'at,' she says, 'before you go out.' So to quiet her I takes the mug, but I hadn't half drunk it when I hears shouting outside. It was one of the Shattucks: he says, 'There's a ship come ashore up by Barnegat' I says, 'No,' I says: 'the guns are from off the inlet.' So I runs one way, and Shattuck the other. The night was dark as pitch, and the storm drivin' like hell. And we was both right, for there was two vessels—a coast-schooner down by Squan, where I goes, and this big ship, the John Minturn, just here," pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to the beach outside and bar beyond.

"Were there many lives lost?"

"Over three hundred—all but fourteen. They come ashore tied on to boards or hencoops or the like—seven of the crew and seven passengers. We tried to launch the surfboat, but the boat was never built that could live on that sea. She was bound from New Orleans to New York, and the most of her passengers were wealthy people, going to the North for the winter. At least, so we jedged from her papers and the bodies and clothes of them that come ashore—some pretty little children, I mind, babies and their black nurses, and their mothers—delicate women with valooable rings on their hands. Some of them's buried in the graveyard in the village, and their friends took some away."

"There was the Minerva, too," said the captain as Jacob paused to light his cigar again. "I forgit how many emigrants went down on that ship, but I remember picking up on the beach next day a clay pipe, with a stem nigh a yard long, not even chipped. It seemed curious that a useless thing like that should be washed safe ashore and hundreds of human lives be lost. And there was the New Era—went down near Deal: three hundred emigrants drowned. The captain had nailed down the hatches on them. Oh, that's generally done," he added, seeing the look of horror on our faces: "in a storm the steerage can't be managed otherwise."

"I remember," said one of the listeners, "an incident which occurred when I was in China about ten years ago. Five hundred Chinese soldiers were being taken across the Inland Sea to quell an insurrection: when off Hoang-Ho the ship sprung a leak. The boats could only give a chance of escape to about eighty. The troops were all ordered on deck, while a detachment was selected to fill the boats. The rest remained immovable, standing under arms without a word, until the ship went down."

Somebody reminded him of the story of the Birkenhead, which sank within four miles of the English coast with a regiment aboard that was coming home after five years' absence in India. They too stood in solid rank on deck, their homes almost in sight, while the women and children were taken off and the ship slowly sank, the officers, with swords drawn, presenting arms to Death.

"Discipline! discipline!" said the captain. "But one wouldn't have looked for it in them heathen Chinees."

Duty! duty! we thought, and were quite sure heathenism had never interfered with that kind of heroism.

"Now, the usual run of American sailors," said Jacob, who felt by this time that his final verdict was needed, wouldn't have done that. Passengers is easier managed in time of a storm than sailors, especially them of coast-ships. Passengers is like sheep: they're so skeert they'll do what you bids 'em; but the sailors broach the liquor first thing. I'd rather manage so many pigs than sailors when they get holt of the grog. There was the City of New York. When she went down the mate stood with a club in his hand to keep the crew off the Scotch ale which was part of the freight. Well; sir, they got it, and thar they stayed, drinkin', till the vessel parted amidships: couldn't be got off no-how. There was three hundred passengers landed from that ship. We used the apparatus for her: government had taken hold of the matter then."

"Before we say anything about the government service, one question about the Jersey wreckers. They bear a bad name. The story goes that the Barnegat pirates in old times drew vessels ashore by false lights, and plundered the shipwrecked people. How about that, Jacob? Honestly, now!"

"Well, sir, them stories is onjust. Them men as is called Barnegat pirates are not us fishermen—never were: they're from the main—colliers and sech—as come down to a wrack, and they will have something to kerry home when they're kept up all night. They do their share of stealin', I'll confess; but from Sandy Hook to Cape May it's innocent to what is done on Long Island. It's the stevedores and rigger-men on Long Island—reg'lar New York roughs. No man or woman was ever robbed on this beach till they was dead. Of course I don't mean their trunks and sech, but not the body. The Long Islanders cut off the fingers of livin' people for rings, but the Barnegat men never touch the body till it's dead. No, sir."

"And you understand," interposed the captain eagerly, "these Barnegat robbers are a very different class from Jacob and the crews of surf boats?"

"Certainly. We understand the noble work which these wrecking-crews have done.—By the way, how do they choose their captain, Jacob—the man in the stern, as you call him? The most brave, heroic fellow, I suppose?"

"I dunno about that," with a perplexed air. "We don't calcoolate much on heroism and sech: we choose the man that's got the best judgment of the sea—a keerful, firm man. These six men hes got to obey him—hes got to put their lives altogether in his hand, you see. They don't want a headlong fellow: they want a man that knows the water—thorough."

"Besides," added the captain, "it is as with any other business—the best crew is surest of employment and pay. Each owner of a wracking-boat chooses his men for their muscle and skill: and the wracking-master chooses the best boat and crew. There's competition, competition. On the contrary, the life-saving service, like all other government work, for a good many years fell into the hands of politicians: the superintendent was chosen because he had given some help to his party, and he appointed his own friends as lifeboat-men, often tavern loafers like himself. A harness-maker from Bricksburg held the place of master of the station below here for years—a man who probably never was in a boat, and certainly would not go in one in a heavy sea."

"One would hardly expect to find fishermen in this solitary corner of the world struggling for political preferment on the seats of a lifeboat," laughed one of the party.

But the captain could see no joke in it: "Well, sir, it's a fact that it was done. And the consequence was, the people's money was thrown away, and hundreds of human beings was left to perish within sight of land. If the administration—"

But while the captain and his companions labor over the well-trodden road thus opened, we will look into the work done in the house on the beach with the help of authorities more accurate than himself and Jacob.

Oddly enough, the first effort anywhere to stop the enormous loss of human life by shipwreck was made by that most selfish of rulers, George IV., and the first lifeboat was built by a London coachmaker, Lukin, who, it is said, had never seen the sea. After that other models of lifeboats were produced in England, none of which proved satisfactory until in 1850 the duke of Northumberland offered one hundred guineas as a prize for the best model, which was gained by James Beeching. A modification of his boat is now used by the National Lifeboat Institution, to which the entire care of the English life-saving service is committed. There is probably no object on which the British nation has more zealously expended sentiment, enthusiasm and money than this service, yet despite its grand record of work done there can be no doubt that it has been grossly mismanaged, and is ineffective to cope with the actual need. The roll of the National Lifeboat Institution numbers names of the most noble, humane and wealthy men and women in Great Britain; the queen is its patron; its resources are amply sufficient; no pains have been spared to secure the most scientific and perfect appliances. The whole work is made, in a degree, a matter of sentiment—exalted and humane sentiment, but, like all other emotional service, apt to be gusty and at times unpractical. The man who saves human life is rewarded with silver or gold medals: the individual lifeboats are themes of essays and song, and when one wears out a tablet is raised with the record of its services. It is the beautiful and touching custom, too, for mourners to offer a memorial lifeboat to the memory of their dead, instead of a painted window or a showy monument. But with all this genuine feeling and actual expenditure of time and money the fact remains that the loss of human life from shipwreck is five hundred per cent. larger on the coast of Great Britain than on our own, although there are 242 stations on their comparatively small extent of shore, and but 104 on our whole Atlantic seaboard. In three cases of shipwreck on the English coast in 1875 the loss of life was directly traceable to the lack of some necessary appliance or to the absence of guards at the stations. In one instance there were no means of telegraphing for boats or aid: in the case of the Deutschland, as late as last November, where the disaster occurred on a stretch of coast known as the most dangerous in England (except that of Norfolk)—a spot where shipwrecks have been numbered literally by thousands—there was no lifeboat nor any means of taking a line to the ship. The secret of these failures lies in the fact that the institution relies for its work on spontaneous service and emotion, and is not, like ours, a legalized, systematic business. No permanent force or watch is kept at the stations: a reward of seven shillings is paid to anybody who gives notice of a wreck to the coxswain of the boat. The crews of the boats are volunteers, and if they do not happen to report themselves at the time of a disaster, their places are filled with any good oarsmen who offer. In short, the whole system is based upon the occasional zeal and heroism of men, instead of tried and paid skill, fitness for the work and a simple sense of duty.

Our own life-saving service is founded on wholly different principles. It dates from 1848, when Hon. William Newell of New Jersey (incited probably by the recent terrible loss of the John Minturn, of which the captain told us) brought before Congress the frightful dangers of the coast of that State, and procured an appropriation of ten thousand dollars for "providing surf boats, carronades, etc. for the better protection of life and property from shipwreck on the coast between Sandy Hook and Little Egg Harbor." The next session a similar appropriation was obtained. Small houses were built and furnished, but no persons were paid or authorized to take charge of them, and the business was managed in the well-meaning but slipshod English fashion. In 1854 the wreck of the Powhatan on Squan Beach and the loss of three hundred lives produced a storm of public indignation which aroused Congress, and twenty thousand dollars were appropriated for lifeboats, etc. for the coast of New Jersey, and a similar sum for the ocean side of Long Island. A superintendent was appointed for each coast and a keeper for each of the houses, but for sixteen years no regular crews were employed. It was during this period, too, that the petty offices of superintendent and keeper became the reward of small village politicians, and wreckers who, like Jacob, had worked for years without pay in saving human life, showed their righteous indignation at these political favorites by refusing to work under them. Several terrible disasters in the winter of 1870 and '71 called public attention again to the subject, and Captain John Faunce was appointed by the department to inspect the coast and the stations. He reported the houses as generally in a filthy, dilapidated condition, and often so far gone as to be worthless; the apparatus rusty, and many of the most necessary articles wanting; in some stations nothing which could be carried away was left; the keepers were utterly unfit for their position, and the crews which they employed worse. Yet, notwithstanding this mismanagement and lack of system, and although no regular official record had been kept, there was proof that 4163 lives had been saved and $716,000 worth of property.

In 1871, S.I. Kimball, to whom the Revenue Marine Bureau was then given in charge, proceeded to completely reorganize the service. New houses were built or the old ones repaired and enlarged; competent men were appointed as keepers, and strict orders given as to the selection of experienced and skillful surfmen as crews; the houses were thoroughly furnished with every appliance requisite in time of disaster, for which the keeper is held responsible. The average distance between the stations is three miles. Immediate proof of the efficacy of the improvements in the service was given, as in the twenty-two wrecks occurring that season on the Long Island and New Jersey coasts not a single life was lost. In a word, Mr. Kimball began successfully the seemingly hopeless task of converting the dirty, ruinous station-houses and their lazy, disorderly keepers and crews, scattered along the coast, to the order, discipline and efficiency of forts and drilled soldiers, and the result proved that order and discipline, when evolved out of the worst materials, can grapple with and conquer even the sea. In 1873 the seventy-one station-houses were increased to eighty-one, the line having been extended along the coasts of Cape Cod and Rhode Island. Congress having appropriated one hundred thousand dollars for the establishment of new stations, twenty-three were contracted for, giving the Maine coast five; New Hampshire, one; Massachusetts, five; Virginia, two; North Carolina, ten. The connection between the life-saving and storm-signal service was effected at several stations, thus supplying telegraphic communication between the department and the coast outposts. This, probably, was the most marked advance made by the service: it was the nerve-line which brought the working members under control of an intelligent head. In thirty-two wrecks occurring during the year on the coasts where stations were established but one life had been lost.

The unprecedented success of the service to this point justified its demand for larger means and fuller powers. In the last session of the Forty-second Congress a bill was introduced by Hon. John Lynch of Maine to provide for the establishment of additional stations on the North Atlantic seaboard, and directing the Secretary of the Treasury to report the points on the entire sea and lake coasts at which stations would best subserve the interests of humanity and commerce, with estimates of the cost. This bill passed, and was approved March 3, 1873. The commission appointed consisted of Mr. Kimball, Captain John Faunce and Captain J.H. Merryman. Their report is the result of minute examination into the wrecks and disasters on every mile of coast for the previous ten years—a research into ghastly horrors for a practical end unparalleled perhaps in accuracy and patience. They recommended the erection of twenty-three life-saving stations complete, twenty-two lifeboat stations and five houses of refuge. The first class, containing all appliances for saving life on stranded vessels, and manned by regular crews during the winter months, were for flat beaches with outlying bars distant from settlements, and were required on certain points of the shores of the great lakes and on the Atlantic coast as far south as Hatteras. "Upon the coast of Florida the shores are so bold," the report states, "that stranded vessels are usually thrown high enough upon the beach to permit easy escape from them; therefore the usual apparatus belonging to the complete stations are not considered necessary. The section of that coast from Indian River Inlet to Cape Florida is almost destitute of inhabitants, and persons cast upon its inhospitable shores are liable to perish from starvation and thirst, from inability to reach the remote settlements." Upon these coasts it was recommended that houses of refuge should be built large enough to accommodate twenty-five persons, supplied with provisions to support them for ten days, and provided with surfboat, oars and sails. For the majority of points on the Pacific and lake coasts, where disasters were infrequent, lifeboats only were considered necessary, these in general to be manned by volunteer crews. It was proposed that these crews should be paid for services rendered at each wreck, and a system of rewards adopted in the shape of medals of honor. The estimated cost of a life-saving station complete was $5302; of a house of refuge, $2995; of a lifeboat station, $4790. A bill founded on this report was prepared by Mr. Kimball, the chief both of the Revenue Marine and Life-saving Service, and became a law June, 1874. This bill provides for the protection of the entire lake and sea-coasts of the United States by a cordon of stations, lifeboats or houses of refuge placed at all dangerous points. The stations on the Pacific coast are not yet built, but it is hoped that all will be finished and in working order by the fall of 1876. The United States will then offer to the shipwrecked voyager security and protection through her vast extent of coast such as is afforded by no other nation. The measures promoting this end were carried through Congress by Senators Newell, Stockton, Hamlin, Boutwell, Chandler and Frelinghuysen, and Representatives Lynch, Hale of Maine, Cox, Hooper and Conger. But the actual credit of this great national work of humanity is due to Sumner I. Kimball, who not only conceived the idea of the complete guarding of the coast and prepared the bill for Congress, but has reorganized the entire system and carried it out successfully in all of its minute practical details.

The work accomplished by the service may be clearly understood by a glance at the following figures. There is no record of the loss of life on stranded vessels previous to its formation in 1848. There remain only the terrible legends, such as those which the captain and Jacob told us, of numbers of emigrant ships and steamers yearly going down with three to four hundred souls on board. The coasts of Long Island and New Jersey have justly been called "the despair of mariners and shipowners." During the first twenty years of the operation of the service, despite its mismanagement, the number of lives lost yearly was reduced to an average of twenty-five. Since 1871 the period of its reorganization, the loss of life on the coasts of New Jersey and Long Island has averaged but one per annum. The report for these four years, inclusive of the whole coast guarded by stations, is—

Total number of disasters, 185 Total number of lives imperiled, 2583 Total number of lives saved, 2564 Total number of lives lost, 19 Total number of shipwrecked persons sheltered at the stations, 368 Total number of days' shelter afforded, 1307 Total value of property imperiled, $6,293,658 Total value of property saved, 4,514,756 Total value of property lost, 1,742,902

Included in this report are the fourteen lives lost on the Italian bark Giovanni near Provincetown, Cape Cod, in a storm unprecedented for its terrors. A story found its way into the papers at the time that the powder used in the mortar was damp, and that from this trifling neglect help could not be extended from the station. A strict investigation was made, and it was proved by the testimony of the people in Provincetown that all the apparatus was in perfect order and the keepers and surfmen exerted themselves heroically in aid of the doomed vessel, but that she was stranded so far from shore that it was simply impossible to reach her. In another case, that of the Vicksburg, wrecked on the Long Island coast, where a life was lost through the remissness of the keeper, the whole force of the station was discharged, and the order to that effect read to every crew in the service.

The localities of the stations and houses of refuge now legally authorized are—

Districts. Location. Stations.

1st. Coasts of Maine and New Hampshire, 6 2d. Coast of Massachusetts, 14 3d. Coasts of Long Island and Rhode Island, 36 4th. Coast of New Jersey, 39 5th. Coasts of Delaware, Maryland and Virginia, 8 6th. Coasts of Virginia and North Carolina, 10 7th. Eastern coast of Florida, 5[A] 8th. Coasts of Lakes Ontario and Erie, 9 9th. Coasts of Lakes Huron and Superior, 9 10th. Coast of Lake Michigan, 12 11th. Pacific coast, 8

[Footnote A: Houses of refuge.]

While we have been looking into these facts and figures the exploring party in the house on the beach have told many a terrible tale of shipwreck and half-hinted horrors, among others that of the ill-fated Giovanni.

"Suppose that a ship should be driven on this bar in the middle of the night, a storm raging," said one of the party, "what would then be the keeper's duty?"

The captain threw open the door of the larger room, which in the fading light looked full, but for a moment only, of ghostly shadows. There we saw boats suspended halfway from the ceiling, other mysterious apparatus ranged on either side, anchors, great cables coiled accurately in heaps, and all in as exact neatness as though upon the deck of a man-of-war.

"When a wrack is sighted," said the captain, "the signal-officer up stairs telegraphs to the other near stations, whose keepers at once send their lifeboats, cars and surfmen here. The ship is signaled—by flags in daytime, by rockets at night." He opened a closet in which were arranged the cases of lights, with books of instruction for their use. "The keepers ought to understand these as well as all other apparatus in the station, and under the new management they usually do. The keeper here is an old wracker, and has 'good judgment of the sea,' as Jacob would say. He never made harness or friends in Congress," the captain threw in with fine satire. "If the ship can be reached by a boat, this lifeboat is run into the surf. It moves on wheels, you see, and in two minutes ought to be launched and the men aboard. This ridge on the outside is an air-tight chamber for giving buoyancy. Here are the oars swung in place and the buckets for bailing, as you see."

"Is this the English lifeboat?"

"No, sir. Two years ago the service imported a lifeboat and rocket apparatus from England to test them here. The lifeboat was found to be nearly perfect, but too heavy for launching on our flat beaches with light crews: she weighed four thousand pounds. This boat was invented by Lieutenant Stodder."

"But if the sea be too heavy for the lifeboat to live in it?"

"Then we give the ship a line: the ball is fired from this mortar, the line being fastened to the shot by a spiral wire. Mortar, powder and matches are set, you see, ready for instantaneous use. The ball must be shot so that the line falls over the ship. Not an easy mark to hit in the night and the storm driving. Sometimes it is not done until after many trials: sometimes, as in the case of the Giovanni, it cannot be reached at all. I saw the Argyle go down eight years ago with all on board, after we had tried all night to reach her. One man was washed ashore, and we made a rope of hands out beyond the first breaker, and so got him in."

"The men farthest out on the line had not much better chance than he?"

"No, but the man had to be got in," carelessly. "I was going to say that as soon as the line does fall over the ship it is hauled aboard. There is a hauling-line fastened to it, and a hawser to the hauling-line. Here they all are in order. When the hawser reaches the ship it is made taut and secured to the mizzentop or mainmast, high enough to swing clear of the taffrail. It is fastened on shore by this sand-anchor. Then we send over the breeches-buoy," pointing to a complete suit of india-rubber very similar in appearance to that used by Paul Boyton. "One man can be sent safely to shore in that. But we use the life-car most frequently."

"A boat?"

"You may call it a covered boat if you will. That life-car, sir, was invented by Captain Douglass Ottinger, and this is the first one ever used. It was sent out to the ship Ayrshire, and more than two hundred souls were saved by it when there was no other way of giving them human help. There she is, sir." He laid his hand with a good deal of feeling on the queer shell that hung from the ceiling.

The Ottinger life-car, the patent for which the generous inventor gave to the; public, is simply an egg-shaped case with bands of cork about it. Along the top are iron rings through which it is slung on the hawser. The car is drawn by another line from the shore to the vessel. It opens by means of a door or lid two feet square on top. Eleven passengers can be crowded inside. The lid is then screwed down and the car drawn ashore.

"Eleven!" cried one of the party. "It would not hold four comfortably."

"Men in that extremity are not apt to stand on the order of their going," said another.

"Nor women, neither," added the captain; "though women always do cry out to go in the open boat rather than the car, though there isn't half the chance for them."

"How is it ventilated?"

"Ventilated? Lord bless you! What would be the good of it if it wasn't air-tight? It's under the water all the time, upside down, over and over a hundred times. There's air in it enough to last 'em for three minutes, and it's calculated that it can be brought ashore in less time. I've seen husbands put their wives into it, and mothers their little babies—them standing on deck, never hoping to live to see them again."

"And when it was opened—"

"Well, sir, there's curious things seen on the beach on nights of shipwreck. I'm no hand at describing. Some men stagger out of the car sick, some crying or praying, some as cool as if they'd just stepped off the train."

The captain locked the rocket-closet, hung the key on the nail and rearranged a coil of rope which had been displaced. "Things have to be shipshape when the lives of a crew may depend on a missing match or wet powder. The houses," he added as we came out of the door and he stopped to close it, "are built every three miles along the beach. From November 15 until April 15 the keeper and six surfmen live in this house, and take watches, patrolling the beach night and day, meeting halfway between the stations. Chief Kimball's plan is that there shall be an unbroken line of sentries along this dangerous coast during the six stormy months."

When the hearty old captain had left us, and we found our way again across the marshes, the solitude of the night and stormy sky and the moaning sea became oppressive again, and took on all their old meaning of death and disaster. But we looked back at the square black shadow of the little house upon the headland with its fluttering flag, and at the red light burning in the window, and felt a sense of protection and trust in the government which we had never known before.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.



THE EUTAW FLAG.[A]

In the early spring of the year 1780 two ladies attired in morning neglige were sitting together in the parlor of a fine old country mansion in lower South Carolina. The remains of two or three huge hickory logs were smouldering on the capacious hearth, for the cool air of the early morning made fires still comfortable, though as the day wore on and the southern sun gathered power the small-paned windows which opened on the lawn had been raised to admit the soft breeze, which already whispered of opening flowers and breathed the sweet fragrance of the jessamine and magnolia. These same embers would have furnished heat enough in a house of modern construction to have made the room intolerable, but as they reposed upon their bed of ashes in the depths of the wide-mouthed chimney-place, lazily sending up their little curls of smoke, they served only to create a draught-power which cooled the apartment by the free circulation of the flower-scented air. The wide lawn was green with the fresh spring grass, amid which a lively company of field-larks were busily searching for grasshoppers and grubs, their gay yellow breasts and jetty breastpins glancing in the sunlight as they raised their heads from time to time to utter their soft whistling notes. The blackbirds puffed their feathers and sounded their singular call from the branches of the old pecan tree, and the flashing of the oriole enlivened the sombre foliage of the enormous live-oaks in the avenue. Three or four deer-hounds were stretched about under the broad benches of the piazza or snapped at the flies under the shade of the rose-bushes, already heavy with bloom, paying no attention to the tame doe which jingled her little bell over their very heads as she stretched up to browse the young shoots of "rose-candy" above them. Two mocking-birds, one perched on the chimney-stack of the house, and the other on a straggling spray of the wild-orange hedge, vied with each other in imitating the medley of bird-language which made the air vocal on every side, pouring a rich flood of melody through the open windows and into the appreciative ears of the ladies who sat within.

"What a lovely day!" exclaimed the elder of the two as she dropped her piece of embroidery and rose to look out upon the scene.

"Oh, how I wish we could take a long ride! Here have I been staying at Oaklands three whole weeks, and I have not been in the saddle once! I declare, Jane, this horrid war will never be over;" and Rebecca Stead drew a long sigh and leaned her pretty head thoughtfully against the sash.

"Well, suppose we ride over to The Willows?" answered Jane Elliott with a ringing laugh. "If you'll take the old broken-winded mare, I'll take one of the plough-mules, and Billy can go with us on the other. Wouldn't it be fun?"

In response to the bell, Billy soon made his appearance—an elderly negro of most respectable appearance, dressed in a blue cloth coat with large brass buttons, a red plush waistcoat with flaps nearly reaching his knees, and a pair of yellow breeches with plated knee-buckles and coarse blue worsted stockings. A single glance at his face and bearing was enough to show his sense of importance and his keen appreciation of the responsibility of his position. He listened with a look of utter amazement to the orders of his young mistress, and then replied in a tone of stern authority, such as none but an old family negro servant could assume: "Miss Jane, dat mule nebber had no saddle 'pon he back sence he been born."

"Well, Billy, it's high time he should know how it feels."

"He wi' kick you' brains out 'fore you git on um, an' broke you' neck 'fore you kin git from here to de gate."

"Oh nonsense, Billy! Have the saddle put on him at once, and get the old mare for Miss Rebecca."

"Miss 'Becca can't ride de ole mare tid-day, 'cause she 'way down in de pasture, an' anybody can't ketch um in tree hour time; an' you can't ride de mule, Miss Jane, 'cause you ma done tell me I must tek good care o' you an' de house w'ile she gone, an' I ain't gwine let you broke you' neck or you' arm—not tid-day." And Billy quietly walked out and closed the door, leaving the young ladies half vexed and half amused at his summary disposal of their scheme.

"After Tarleton's troop and that horrid Tory Ball took my saddle-pony out of the pasture," said Miss Elliott, "mamma sent all the blooded horses to General Lincoln, and we hear that they were turned over to the Virginia Light Horse."

"Yes," replied Miss Stead with a mischievous smile, "and I hear that Colonel Washington has taken the beautiful bay mare for his own mount, and named her 'Jane.'"

"That's a piece of his Virginia impudence," rejoined Miss Elliott. "I have met him only once, at General Izard's, and I think he has taken a great liberty with my name. They say he behaved splendidly at Trenton and Princeton."

"Oh, I wish he would call while I am here," said her companion. "They say he is an elegant rider. I wonder if he looks like the general? I don't believe any Virginian can ride better than our young men. I wonder if he can take up a handful of sand at a gallop, like cousin John Izard?"

"Or jump his horse on the table," suggested Miss Elliott with a roguish glance, "as I've heard that Mr. Izard did one day after a club-dinner."

Miss Stead colored slightly as she said that the gentlemen all complained of the strength of the last box of claret received from Charleston before the club was broken up.

"I hear that Colonel Washington is a fine swordsman," said Miss Elliott, "and that his troop are all bold riders. They have fought Tarleton's Legion once or twice in skirmishes, and they say the red-coats are rather shy of them."

Just at this point the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Billy, bearing a peace-offering in the shape of a huge waiter of luncheon. Billy was butler and major-domo to the establishment, and the young ladies could not restrain their mirth at the profusion and variety with which the faithful fellow was evidently trying to make amends for the disappointment which his high sense of duty had compelled him to inflict upon them. Had there been a dozen instead of two, there would have been ample provision for their wants upon the broad silver salver. Cakes and jellies, preserves and sandwiches, tarts and ruddy apples, a decanter of sherry and a stand of liqueurs, left barely room enough for the dainty little plates and glasses, while Billy's special apology appeared in the form of two steaming little tumblers of rum-punch, the characteristic beverage of the day. All severity of tone and manner had disappeared, and there was something almost chivalric in the deferential smile and rude grace with which the old fellow handed his waiter to the ladies and assured them of the harmless mildness of the punch. Depositing his burden upon a little stand within easy reach of the sofa, Billy turned to leave, but paused as his eye wandered down the opening vista of the avenue, and after gazing for a moment in silence he suddenly exclaimed, "Dere's two sojer gemplemans comin' t'rough de big gate."

In an instant both the young ladies were on their feet and at the window, for such an announcement was cause enough for excitement in that time of war, when the "sojer gemplemans" might prove to be either friends or foes. Charleston had already narrowly escaped capture during the previous summer by General Prevost, who, although compelled to retire on Savannah, had worsted Lincoln's militia army, destroying about one-fourth of the little force. In October had occurred the disastrous, attack upon Savannah, in which the gallant Pulaski lost his life, and Jasper, the hero of Fort Sullivan, received his death-wound. Sumter, the "Game-Cock" of Carolina, had retired from the State with his handful of followers badly demoralized; Marion, the "Swamp-Fox," was concealed with his little band among the cypress-bays and canebrakes of the Pedee; and a tone of gloom and despondency prevailed among the people. In the neighborhood of Charleston all was uncertainty. The plantation residences were occupied chiefly by ladies, the gentlemen being generally with the army. Tarleton's Legion had become widely known and feared on account of the dashing forays which that famous command was constantly making under the lead of its brave and impetuous chief. No wonder, then, that the hearts of the two young ladies at Oaklands beat quick with anxiety as they strained their gaze down the avenue, uncertain whether they should see the hated scarlet uniforms of the British troopers or the welcome blue of the Continental cavalry.

But the "big gate" to which Billy had alluded was a full quarter of a mile distant, and although the first glance satisfied the excited watchers that their visitors were friends, little more could be certain until they should approach more nearly. Patience, however, was hardly to be expected under the circumstances, and its place was effectually supplied by a little red morocco-covered spy-glass which Miss Elliott took from the table. Scarcely was it brought to bear upon the approaching horsemen when she laid it down as suddenly as she had seized it, the rich color mantling to her forehead.

"Why, Jane," said her friend, "am I not to have a look at the strangers? Oh, I declare—yes, I do believe I know that horse. It must be—"

"It is Colonel Washington and some other officer whom I do not know," said Miss Elliott, who had regained her self-possession completely. "You have your wish, Rebecca."

The two visitors cantered rapidly up the broad avenue, and found Billy waiting to receive them. One was a tall, soldierly-looking man of about twenty-eight, his fine face bronzed by exposure, and his easy seat in the saddle betokening one who had been a horseman from his youth. He wore the blue coat with yellow facings and the buckskin breeches of the Continental cavalry, his red sash bound over a broad sword-belt which supported a strong sabre, while the handsome and well-muscled bay mare which he rode carried a leather portmanteau in addition to the heavy bearskin holster. His large cavalry-boots were well bespattered, and his whole bearing was that of an officer on duty, rather than of a gallant bent on visiting lady fair. His companion was a mere youth, seemingly not over seventeen, well mounted also, and dressed in the simple uniform of an orderly, but evidently the friend and social equal of his superior officer. The young man sat his horse with the ease and grace of one born to the saddle, and his fiery chestnut seemed to know and understand his rider thoroughly. Like the other, he was provided with holsters and portmanteau, a heavy blue cavalry cloak being strapped over the unstuffed saddle-tree. Entering the drawing-room, Colonel Washington presented his companion to Miss Elliott as "Mr. Peyton of Virginia," and both gentlemen were in turn presented to Miss Stead, who received their courtly bows with one of those graceful, sweeping courtesies which may be ranked among the lost arts of a past generation. Billy had followed the guests to the parlor-door, where he stood as if waiting orders.

"You seem to have ridden far," said: the fair hostess when the ordinary salutations had passed. "Let me order your horses to the stable to be fed."

"I thank you very kindly, miss, but there will be scarcely time, for we are under marching orders, and must be in Charleston before sunset," replied the colonel with a bow; and there was something in his tone which faintly suggested a mental desire to see the said marching orders in Jericho.

Perhaps young Peyton detected this, for he said immediately, "I think we had best accept Miss Elliott's kindness, for we have a long ride before us, and we cannot tell what orders may be awaiting us at the end of it."

"I believe Peyton is right," said the colonel, "and if you will permit me I will ask him to give some directions to the servant."

Billy, however, had heard enough to give him his cue, and had disappeared, nor did the summons of the bell bring him back until full ten minutes had elapsed. When he did return it was to bring in two more tumblers of punch, but this time of "the regulation size" and strength, which were handed to the guests and disposed of with bow and sentiment; and then the young orderly went out with him to see the horses stripped and the holsters deposited on the piazza before the animals were led off to be fed.

"We shall have to defer accepting your invitation to attend the dress parade until your return to camp," said Miss Elliott.

"I regret to be obliged to say that the fortunes of war have deprived us for the present of that honor. My orders extend to the command, which broke camp this morning and is now on its march to Charleston."

"Oh, what are we to do? We felt so safe while they were near us."

The remark burst involuntarily from Miss Stead, who blushed and cast down her eyes as if conscious of having said too much for maidenly propriety, but the smile of acknowledgment on Colonel Washington's face gave way to a look of grave anxiety as he replied, "No lady of Carolina shall ever need a defender while a man of my command is left to draw a sword; but we have news of movements on the enemy's part which require our presence nearer to the city, and I have advised that all noncombatants who can possibly move into Charleston should do so at their earliest convenience. Perhaps we may meet there in a few days."

A momentary pallor had overspread Miss Elliott's face, but it was succeeded immediately by a proud flush as she said, "It is true, then, that General Clinton has left Savannah and is moving on Charleston?"

"Such is the report, and I fear we are badly prepared to meet him."

"We have a righteous cause, and God is on our side," replied the brave girl with flashing eyes. "Governor Rutledge has issued a call for all men not in service to take up arms, and the whole upper country will swarm down to meet these hireling British."

"So we all hope and expect; and if they are only in good time, there will be no fear of the result."

"Fear! Who fears these upstart baronets and their insolent soldiers? Oh, how I wish women could fight! If the men can't drive them back, let us take the field, and Clinton shall never set his foot in the streets of Charleston;" and the brave little beauty looked as if she meant every word she said.

"The men cannot fail to be heroes when the eyes of such women are upon them," exclaimed the gallant colonel, looking with amused admiration at the lovely face all aglow with patriotic excitement. "But you must let us do the fighting, Miss Elliott, while you cheer and support us with your smiles and your prayers.—Peyton, what do you think would be the result of a charge by a squadron of ladies upon Tarleton's Legion?"

"I can't answer for Tarleton," laughingly replied the orderly, who had just entered the room, "but I am afraid I should throw down my arms and desert in the face of the enemy."

"You are an ungallant fellow, Peyton, to hint even that the ladies could ever be your enemies."

"Oh, do look there!" cried Miss Stead with a silvery laugh, and pointing through the open window: "shall we take the issue of that struggle as an omen?"

The whole party rushed to the window and looked out on the lawn. A brilliant redbird, the proximity of whose nest perhaps had fired his timid heart with courage, had made a savage assault on a bluejay, the colors of whose feathers were strikingly suggestive of the Continental uniform. For a moment the two combatants fluttered in angry strife, and the result seemed doubtful, when a female mocking-bird flew from her nest in the shrubbery and drove them both ingloriously from the field.

"That settles the matter," exclaimed Colonel Washington, laughing gayly. "If Governor Rutledge calls out the ladies, I shall throw up my commission at once, and retire in good order to the security of private life."

"Perhaps then Lieutenant Peyton would succeed to the command?" rejoined Miss Elliott, glancing archly at the young orderly.

"I am almost sorry that your corps has not been organized, miss, for I might then consider myself gazetted for promotion, and claim my lieutenant's commission over your signature." The young man spoke in a tone of gay badinage, but a shade of annoyance came over his features as he added with a slight bow, "I am only plain 'Mr.' Peyton as yet."

"I beg pardon," said Miss Elliott, "but I thought 'lieutenant' was an ensign's proper title."

"If Peyton were the ensign of the troop, his office would be a sinecure," laughed the colonel, "seeing we have no standard for him to carry."

"You surely don't mean, colonel, that your gallant corps fights without colors?" said Miss Stead.

"Why, we cannot use those that we captured from the enemy, and I fear our lady friends will be unable to present us with a stand until the war is over and silk becomes more plentiful."

Miss Elliott's eyes flashed with a sudden impulse, and the color deepened on her cheek as she eagerly asked, "Would you carry so poor a little flag as a Carolina girl can present to you? Many a good knight has gone into battle with no richer standard than a lady's scarf."

"If Miss Elliott will honor my command by entrusting her kerchief to its keeping, I swear to fly it in the face of Tarleton's Legion and defend it to the last drop of my blood."

"Then let this be your flag," cried the noble girl with a burst of enthusiasm which echoed that which rung in Colonel Washington's tones. A large fauteuil, covered with heavy crimson silk embroidered with raised laurel-leaves, was standing near. Miss Elliott seized, as she spoke, the scissors from her work-basket, and in a moment had cut out the rectangular piece which covered the back and offered it to her distinguished guest. Washington bowed low with courtly grace and touched his lips to the fair hand which presented it, while young Peyton, carried away by the excitement of the moment, sprang to his feet with a cheer which started the wild birds from the shrubbery: "Colonel Washington, I claim the right, by Miss Elliott's commission, to carry that flag into action, and I swear that it shall never be stained with dishonor while Walter Peyton has a right hand to grasp its staff."

"Take it, my boy," said the colonel in a voice tremulous with emotion, "and guard it with your life. With God's help we will make that flag a terror to the enemies of our country.—Miss Elliott, accept a soldier's gratitude for your precious gift to-day. No prouder banner ever waved over battle-field or claimed the devotion of patriotic hearts. It shall be fringed and mounted this very night in Charleston, and I pledge my sacred honor that Washington's Light Horse shall prove worthy of their trust."

There was a pause in the conversation which was broken by young Peyton, who rattled on for some time with Miss Stead in that light vein which the most serious circumstances cannot long repress when youth and beauty meet. Colonel Washington spoke but little, and with an evident effort at gayety which ill agreed with the earnest, thoughtful look which settled on his features, while Miss Elliott could not conceal the embarrassment which her heightened color and downcast eyes betrayed as she toyed with her embroidery, avoiding the glances of deep and ardent yet restrained admiration with which her distinguished guest regarded her. The hour had arrived when the soldiers must resume their journey; and while Rebecca Stead stood watching from the piazza the final preparations which the young orderly was making for the march, Colonel Washington took the hand of his fair hostess and after a moment's hesitation bowed low and pressed it to his lips, but with somewhat more of warmth than was required by the stately courtesy of the day. Their eyes met for an instant, and then, without one word of spoken adieu, they parted. When Miss Stead turned to join her friend she found herself alone with old Billy, who was gazing after the fast-receding forms of the troopers. "Mass' Tahlton done ketch de debbil ef he meet dem Virginia man to-night," said the old fellow sententiously as he slowly retired into his pantry.

[Footnote A: This fine old relic of the Revolution is preserved by the Washington Light Infantry of Charleston, South Carolina. It was borne by Colonel William Washington's corps at Cowpens and Eutaw.]



II.

On the 12th of May, 1780, General Lincoln, after sustaining a close siege of more than a month's duration, surrendered Charleston, with five thousand men and four hundred pieces of artillery, into the hands of Sir Henry Clinton. The dark cloud which had long been threatening Lower Carolina now settled like a pall over the whole State, and but for two causes the whole issue of the war might have been changed. One of these was the severity of Cornwallis, who succeeded Clinton in the command, and who by his unwise policy drove the despondent people to desperation: the other was the indomitable courage and self-devoted heroism of the women, which encouraged and strengthened the flagging patriotism of the men. The militia who had been captured with the city regarded themselves as absolved from a parole which did not protect them from enlistment in the ranks of the Crown, and the irregular bands of Marion, Pickens and Sumter received large accessions. Mill-saws were roughly forged into sabres and pewter table-ware melted and beaten into slugs for the shot-guns with which the men were armed. The British dared not forage except in force, the pickets were shot from ambushes, and their Tory allies hung whenever captured. In August the disastrous battle of Camden destroyed Gates's army, and the Congress sent Greene to supersede him. Making his head-quarters in North Carolina, this experienced commander divided his force and sent General Morgan, with about one thousand men, into South Carolina to harass Cornwallis in the rear. The latter at once sent Tarleton with eleven hundred troopers, among them his famous Legion, to cut off Morgan or drive him back upon Greene. In the latter part of December the Americans were in the region of the upper Broad River, in Spartanburg district, South Carolina, Morgan having but one hundred and thirty mounted men—they could hardly be called cavalry—among whom was Washington's troop.

It was about nine o'clock on the night of the 16th of January, 1781, that the little army was encamped between the Pacolet and Broad rivers, near a piece of thin woodland known as Hannah's Cowpens. The weather was very cold, for the elevation of that part of the country produces a temperature equal in severity to that of a much higher latitude, but neither tents nor shanties protected the sleeping soldiers from the frosty air. Here and there a rough shelter of pine boughs heaped together to windward of the smouldering camp-fires told of a squad who had not been too weary to work for a little show of comfort; but in most cases the men were stretched out on the bare ground, their feet toward the embers and their arms wrapped up with them in their tattered blankets, which scarcely served to keep out the cold. The regular troops, who had seen some service, might have been easily distinguished from the less experienced militia by their superior sleeping arrangements. Two and sometimes three men would be found wrapped in one blanket, "spoon-fashion," with another blanket stretched above them on four stakes to serve as a tent-fly, and their fires were usually large and well covered with green branches to prevent their burning out too rapidly. One and all, however, slept as soundly as if reposing on beds of down, while the same quiet stars smiled on them and on the anxious wives and mothers who lay waking and praying in many a distant home. In and out among the weird and shifting shadows of the outer lines the dim figures of the sentinels stalked with their old "Queen Anne" muskets at the "right-shoulder shift," or tramped back and forth along their beats at the double quick to keep their blood in circulation. At a little distance from the infantry camp the horses of Washington's dragoons and M'Call's mounted Georgians were picketed in groups of ten, the saddles piled together, and a sentinel paced between every two groups, while the men were stretched around their fires, sleeping on their arms like the infantry, for it was known that Tarleton had crossed the Pacolet that day, and an attack was expected at any time. A party of officers were asleep near one of the fires, with nothing, however, to distinguish them from the men but the red or buff facings of their heavy cloaks. One of these lay with his face to the stars, sleeping as placidly as if his boyish form were safe beneath his mother's roof. One arm lay across his chest, clasping to his body the staff of a small cavalry flag, while the other stretched along his side, the hand resting unconsciously upon a holster-case of pistols. As the glare of the neighboring fire played over his features it was easy to recognize Walter Peyton, guarding faithfully, even in his sleep, the banner which Jane Elliott had cut from her mother's parlor fauteuil, and which had already become known to the enemy. A rough log cabin stood a little way from the bivouac, before which two sentinels in the uniform of the Continental regulars were pacing up and down. The gleam of the roaring lightwood fire flashed through the open seams between the logs, and heavy volumes of smoke rolled out of the clay chimney. Just in front of the huge fire-place stood the tall, burly figure of Morgan, and near him were grouped, in earnest consultation, the manly figure of William Washington, the brave and knightly John Eager Howard of Maryland, McDowell, Triplett, Cunningham and other officers of the field and staff. Determination not unmingled with gloom was visible upon the faces of all. Every arrangement had been made for the probable fight of the morrow, and the council was about to disperse, when the silence of the night was broken by the call of a distant sentinel, taken up and repeated along the line. Morgan instantly despatched an orderly, to the bivouac of the guard, and the party were soon cheered by the intelligence that a courier had just arrived who reported the near approach of Pickens with three hundred Carolina riflemen—a timely and valuable addition to the little force of patriots.

The first gray pencilings of dawn were scarcely visible when the slumbering camp was roused by the rolling notes of the reveille from the drum of little Solly Barrett,[A] the drummer-boy of Howard's Maryland Regulars. Fully refreshed by a good night's rest, the men prepared and ate their breakfasts with but little delay, and by seven o'clock the entire force was in line of battle, awaiting the approach of the enemy.

[Footnote A: "Solly" resided for many years after the war at Easton, Maryland. A good portrait of him is still there.]

Tarleton, flushed with the assurance of easy victory, had made a forced march during the night, and his command was much jaded when at eight o'clock he came in sight of Morgan's outposts: notwithstanding this, however, he determined, as was fully expected by those who knew his disposition and mode of warfare, to attack the American lines forthwith. It must be left to the historian to tell how the battle raged with varying fortunes until Howard's gallant Marylanders taught the British regulars that the despised provincials had learned the trick of the bayonet, and decided the issue of the day. Up to this moment the cavalry, which had been posted in reserve behind a slight wooded eminence, had been chafing for a hand in the fray. As has been stated, these troops consisted of McCall's mounted militia and Washington's Light Dragoons. The latter were all well mounted and armed, for their frequent successes in skirmishes with the enemy's horse kept them well supplied. They were a crack corps, and well had they earned their reputation. Just as Howard's regulars turned savagely on their disorderly pursuers and put them to the rout, a squadron of British light horse made a dash at McCall, whose men were unused to the sabre, and had been demoralized by the first bayonet-charge of the enemy, which they had sustained on foot. Now was Washington's chance.

"Are you ready, men? Charge!" The words were scarcely off his lips ere the noble mare which he rode shot forward, touched by her rider's spur. With a wild yell, which drowned the regular cheer of the Englishmen, the men dashed after their brave and impetuous leader, who was ever the first to cross a sabre with the enemy. Rising in his stirrups as the gallant chestnut answered the spur, Walter Peyton looked backward at the men as he raised the light staff of his little banner and shook its folds to the breeze, and the next moment he was close by the side of his chief in the very thickest of the melee. For a moment all was dust and confusion, for Tarleton's veterans were not the men to break at the first onset, and they met the furious charge of the Virginians with a determination which promised a bloody and doubtful struggle. One stout fellow, mounted on a powerful horse, singled out the young ensign as his special quarry, not noticing, in his ardor to capture the daring little rebel flag, that the trooper who rode next to it was the gallant colonel himself. Reining back his horse almost upon its haunches, he had raised his sabre in the very act to strike when that of Washington came down with tremendous force, severing the upper muscles of his sword-arm, and at the same instant Peyton, for the first time observing his danger, dropped his rein and, grasping the flagstaff with both hands, swung it full in the face of his assailant. The man's horse shied violently as the folds of the little banner flapped across his eyes, and as his rider fell heavily from the saddle dashed at full speed through the British line. Already this had begun to waver, and in another moment the panicstricken troopers were flying in wild confusion toward their reserve. To rally a body of frightened cavalry is no easy matter under any circumstances, but when a determined pursuing force is pressing hotly on the rear it becomes a simple impossibility. The entire command gave way as the fugitives approached, and in a little while was in full retreat. Colonel Washington, as usual far in advance of his men, caught sight of the British commander, who, with two of his aides, was endeavoring to rally a favorite regiment, and without a thought of support pressed toward the group, accompanied only by Peyton with Jane Elliott's flag and a little bugler, a mere boy, who carried no sword, but who had drawn a pistol from his holster and kept close to the colors all through the day.

Tarleton was not deficient in personal courage, and turned to meet his old enemy in a hand-to-hand encounter. The officer nearest him struck at Washington as he passed, but missed his blow and received a bullet in his side from the young bugler's pistol.

"Carter," cried Tarleton to the other aide, who rode near him, "a captain's brevet if you take that woman's petticoat," pointing with his sword to the saucy little flag, the story of which had reached the British camps.

But it was no woman's hand which was there to defend it, and as the Englishman wheeled his horse for the attack Peyton's pistol flashed almost in his face, and he fell forward on his charger's neck, convulsively clasping it as the animal ran wildly forward unguided toward the American lines. Meanwhile, the two commanders had crossed swords, and as both were good fencers, a duel a l'outrance seemed imminent. But Tarleton had no time for chivalrous encounters. His opponent beat down his guard, and with a sudden thrust wounded the British colonel in the hand. The latter drew a pistol, and as he wheeled to follow his flying squadrons discharged it at his adversary, the ball taking effect near the knee. The battle was now really at an end, and the pursuit was abandoned at this point.

As Walter Peyton lay down beside his camp-fire that night it was with a body worn down by excitement and fatigue, but with a heart beating high with pride as he looked at the flag he had so gallantly defended, and remembered his colonel's words of commendation, which he more than hoped meant promotion to a captain's commission.

In the city of Charleston all was gloom and sorrow except in the little circle of society which boasted of its loyalty to the Crown. Scarcely a family but had some representative in the Continental ranks, and as all intelligence reached the city through British channels, the darkest side of every encounter between the armies was the first which the imprisoned patriots saw. The non-combatant members of all the planters' families had moved into the city before its capitulation, and while the ladies permitted the visits and acquaintance of the English officers, they never lost an opportunity to show them how hateful they esteemed the royal cause.

It was nearly a month after the victory at the Cowpens that Miss Elliott was sitting with her mother one evening in the parlor of their city residence. Conspicuous among the furniture was a large and comfortable arm-chair upholstered in heavy crimson silk damask, but while everything else in the room was neat and even elegant, this chair appeared to be more fit for the lumber-closet, the entire square of silk having been cut from the back, leaving the underlining of coarse striped cotton exposed to view. The tones of the curfew or "first bell," which may still be heard nightly in the seagirt old city, had just died away when a loud rap came from the heavy brass knocker on the street-door, and in a few moments old Billy appeared to announce "Captain Fraser."

A look of slight annoyance passed over the face of the elder lady as she arranged the snowy ruffles of her cap, while the deepened color and sparkling eyes of the younger, with the almost imperceptible sarcasm of her smile, seemed to indicate mingled pleasure, defiance and contempt. The visitor who entered was resplendent in the gay scarlet and glittering lace of the British uniform, and his redundancy of ruffles, powder and sword-knot betokened the military exquisite, his bearing presenting a singular mixture of high breeding and haughty insolence. With his right hand laid upon the spot where his heart was supposed to be, while his left daintily supported the leathern scabbard of his sword, he bowed until the stiff little queue of his curled wig pointed straight at the heavy cornice. The ladies swept the floor with their graceful courtesies, that of the younger presenting the least touch of exaggeration as with folded arms and downcast eyes she sank backward before her guest. Another knock was heard, and when the names of three more of the garrison officers were announced, Miss Elliott whispered to Billy a hasty message to some of her fair friends in the neighborhood to come in and help her entertain them. These impromptu parties were quite common, and in a little while the room was sparkling with beauty, gallantry and wit. It may seem strange that the patriotic belles of the day, the fair Brewtons and Pinckneys and Rutledges, the Ravenels and Mazycks, should have cultivated such pleasant associations with the enemies of their country. But among the officers they had many old friends and acquaintances of ante-bellum days, and not a few marriages had established even closer ties. Thus, Lord Campbell, the last royal governor, was husband to Sarah Izard, the sister of General Ralph Izard, who was brother-in-law to our former acquaintance, Rebecca Stead; and even General Washington had invited Admiral Fairfax to dine, on the ground that a state of war did not preclude the exchange of social civilities between gentlemen who served under opposing flags.

Mrs. Elliott received the attentions of her daughter's visitors with dignified grace, but with a degree of reserve which it was impossible altogether to conceal, and to which the officers had become too much accustomed to feel any offence; while the younger ladies drove the keen darts of their sarcasm home to the feelings of their hostile guests, who were forced to submit to it or forego entirely the pleasures of female society.

"May I ask if Company K has been on duty at the picket-lines to-day?" asked Miss Elliott of Captain Fraser, who had just sauntered up to her chair.

"May I answer the question after the fashion of my ancestors," was the reply, "by asking why you should think so?"

"Only because you seem to be suffering from fatigue, which a long march might explain."

Fraser's company was notoriously a "fancy corps," whose severest duty was generally to furnish the guard at head-quarters and to go through a dress parade every evening at the Battery.

"Ah, no, but I have been on inspection duty, and it's a bore, I assure you."

"Inspecting the flower-gardens, I presume, to be sure that there are no rattlesnakes under the rose-bushes, or the milliner-shops, to see that no palmetto cockades are made. May I insist upon a seat for you? Not that chair," she added hastily and with heightened color as the captain was about to occupy the mutilated fauteuil: "excuse me, but that is a 'reserved seat.'"

"Ah, I see—beg pardon," said Fraser with a slight sneer, for the story of Washington's flag was generally known, and also Miss Elliott's aversion to the use of the chair by any British officer. "Somebody seems to have carried off the back of that one."

"When last heard from," said the beauty with curling lip, "it was at Colonel Tarleton's back."

"Tarleton should be court-martialed for that affair at Cowpens," said Fraser with some warmth, and forgetting the proffered seat he prepared to take his leave.

"Perhaps Captain Fraser would like to have had a hand in the 'affair' also," added Miss Elliott with a demure smile. This allusion to Tarleton's wound was too much for the gallant captain, and again elevating the point of his queue toward the ceiling, but this time without his hand to his heart, he left the room with a face somewhat redder than his uniform.



III.

There are defeats which are more glorious than victory, and one of these it was which, on the 8th of September, 1781, gave to Jane Elliott's flag the title which has come down with it to posterity. In the earlier days of its history the saucy little standard was known to the gallant men who followed it to action as "Tarleton's Terror," and sometimes it is even now spoken of as "the Cowpens Banner." But the name by which its brave custodians most love to call it is "the Eutaw Flag," It is hard to realize as one stands beside the lovely fountains which flow to-day as they did a hundred—or perhaps a thousand—years ago, that close by these placid waters was fought one of the most desperate and bloody struggles of a long and cruel war. The sunfish and bream floated with quivering fins or darted among the rippling shadows on that autumn morning as we see them doing now. The mocking-bird sang among the overhanging branches the same varied song which gladdens our ears, and the wild deer then, as now, lay peacefully in the shady coverts of the neighboring woods. Who knows what they may have thought when they heard their only enemy, man, ring out his bugle-call to slip the war-dogs on his fellows, or when the sharp crack of the rifle told them for the first time of safety to themselves and of death to their wonted destroyers?

Already had "Light-horse Harry" Lee struck the first blow victoriously in the capture of Coffin and the discomfiture of his force. Already for several hours the old black oaks had quivered beneath the thunder of artillery more fearfully destructive than that of Heaven itself as Williams hurled back from his field-battery the iron hail with which the enemy strove to overwhelm him. Already had Howard's gallant Marylanders, the heroes of the Cowpens, crossed bayonets with the veteran "Irish Buffs" and forced them in confusion from the field. Majoribanks, with his regulars, grenadiers and infantry, was strongly posted behind a copse too dense to be forced by cavalry, and yet to dislodge him was Colonel Washington's special duty. Pointing with his sword toward a narrow passage near the water, he dashed the spurs into the flanks of his gallant mare and called on his men to follow. There was a momentary pause, for the duty was of the most desperate character, but Captain Peyton snatched the little banner which he had carried so long from the hand of the sergeant who had succeeded to its charge, and raising it above his head spurred after his leader. As the silken folds fluttered out on the air a ringing cheer went up from the troop, and the whole line, wheeling into sections so as to pass through the narrow gap, dashed forward as one man. It was a daring attempt, and terribly did they pay for their audacity. A perfect storm of bullets greeted the brave Virginians, and nearly one-half of them went down, horse and man, beneath its fearful breath ere the other half were in the midst of the enemy's ranks. Those were days when a certain simplicity of character made the soldier believe that bayonets and sabres were terrible weapons and meant to do terrible work. No rewards were then offered for "a dead cavalryman" or for "a bloody bayonet." There were cloven skulls at Eutaw as at Crecy, and men were transfixed by each other's deadly bayonet-thrusts. As Washington, maddened by the loss of his brave troopers, swung his sharp blade like the flail of death, a shot from the musket of a tall grenadier pierced the lung of his noble bay, and as the falling steed rolled over on her gallant rider the man shortened his musket and buried the sharp steel in the colonel's body. A second thrust would have followed with deadly result had not the British major, Majoribanks, seized the arm of the soldier and demanded the surrender of his fallen and bleeding foe. The tide of battle had receded like some huge swell of ocean, and as the wounded hero struggled to his feet he found himself surrounded by enemies, to contend with whom would have been folly. Turning his feeble glance for a second toward the retreating remnant of his shattered command, he caught a glimpse through the smoke and dust of his little battle-flag fluttering in the distance, and fast receding toward the point whence Hampton's bugles were already sounding the rally. Neither William Washington nor his "Eutaw Flag" was ever again in battle for the country, for the captivity of the former terminated only with the war, and the latter fades from history from that date until, in 1827, Jane Washington, for seventeen years a widow, presented it as a precious inheritance to the gallant corps of Charleston citizen soldiery, who still guard its folds from dishonor, as they do the name of the knightly paladin which they bear. The wedding was celebrated soon after the establishment of peace. Major Majoribanks escaped the carnage of the day, but he lived not to deliver his distinguished prisoner at Charleston. Sickening on the retreat with the deadly malaria of the Carolina swamps, he died near Black Oak, and his mossy grave may be seen to-day by the roadside, marked by a simple stone and protected from desecration by a wooden paling. It stands near the gate of Woodboo plantation, which old Stephen Mazyck, the Huguenot, first settled, about twenty-five miles from Eutaw and forty-three from Charleston. On the banks of the Cooper, amid the lovely scenes of "Magnolia," Charleston's city of the dead, there stands a marble shaft enwreathed in the folds of the rattlesnake, the symbol of Revolutionary patriotism, and beneath it rests all that was mortal of William Washington and Jane Elliott his wife.