Puslapio vaizdai

offer from our company, the man is ours. I am the manager of the company."

"How can you subsidize a man by giving him his own? Will the legal aspect of Dunsmuir's claim affect its justice in his own eyes?" asked Philip.

"It does not now; but his light will grow. Property that has no existence in law can't be peddled about under the name of a water-right. I think he has had his misgivings that his claim was wearing pretty thin. Observe, he never consulted his lawyer till the other day, when he knew he had to; he did n't want to be too sure. It's the nature of dreams to look queer by daylight. Dunsmuir's fifteen years' fight will look very strange to him six months from now. However, it makes no difference to me; let him take our offer, or walk off with his pride and an empty pocket."

"What is it you propose to offer him, now?" "Make him chief engineer and give him a little stock."

"And how will you put the offer of stock to a man who has no rights in the scheme?

"We shall put it this way: Parties might have got hold of that location who would have given us more trouble than you have; who would have forced us to build before we were ready. This is to pay you for keeping up the right for us."

"That is very clever," said Philip, who thought it infernally clever; "but Dunsmuir will take it as a taunt. You can never compromise him through offering him a share in his own scheme. You might as well try to suborn an author, offering him a royalty on his book."

"Yes, yes; I know the pride he has in his design, his responsibility, and all that. But his plans went out of his hands in our first deal. He will find, after a while, that he is being taken care of on this scheme, and that I am taking care of him."

Philip rose from the table and walked to the open window, where the purest of morning breezes drifted in from the fields of blossoming alfalfa.

"Why does your company want to own its engineer?" he asked.

"I am the company here," said Mr. Norrisson, disdaining the shelter of the collective noun; and for the first time in his various expositions of the dispute between himself and Dunsmuir he showed the bad blood he had always attributed to Dunsmuir alone.

"I submit that it will never occur to Dunsmuir that he is being 'taken care of,'" said Philip; and he triumphed in the thought. His sympathies were with the man of his own profession. "The work is his by every right of discovery, of design, of fitness, and of sacrifice.

Why should he not take it? Who is the man that can say, 'I gave it him in pity for his delusions'?”

"He will take it, that's what I say," scoffed Norrisson. "He will take the stock, too. He knows the worth of money, and he knows the need of it. What shall follow remains to be seen. I am satisfied, remember, though I seem to have backed down on a vital point. Dunsmuir is chief engineer; well and good. And my son will be his first assistant. How does that strike you?"

It struck Philip in so many different ways at once that he could not choose instantly the best answer-the truest-to his scruples, his doubts, and his deep, excited joy.

"May I ask, sir, if this is part of the 'deal'?" was what he said.

Mr. Norrisson answered indirectly. "It is understood that you are to have the position."

"Whether Dunsmuir wants me or not? I should find it unpleasant to be foisted on my chief."

"You are not supposed to know it. I need not have told you; but it's impossible to foresee what you will shy at next. We have another meeting fixed for this afternoon," Mr. Norrisson added, rising, and touching the bell. "We shall put in our final proposition as I have stated it. I want you there. I want Dunsmuir to see you before he 's had time to take a prejudice."

"I must ask you to excuse me," said Philip, decidedly.

"Why excuse you? It was for this I sent for you."

Philip, who coveted Dunsmuir's favor for reasons too delicate, too personal, and as yet too vague, to be spoken, had no resource but to bear his father's contempt for what must appear merely another instance of coxcombry belonging to the schools.

"What the devil is it now? You are as mysterious as a woman!"

But nothing would induce Philip to go near those embittered men in council, committed to the side which he was not on. He entreated that his name be withheld for the present. Let Dunsmuir's affairs be settled first.

"It won't take half an hour to settle that," said the man of business. "I want to know if you will take that place; for your name will come up whether you are there or not. You will do as you please about that; the other matter I want settled."

"I will take it gladly, provided Dunsmuir be left free to discharge me as he would any other man's son, if my work should not suit."

"Very well," Mr. Norrisson assented, with the smile of a patient man who is nearing the limit of his pet virtue. "We will put it that

way then. You don't want to be 'taken care of,' either; is that it ? "

Philip did not explain. His father was, on the whole, more amused than displeased by his coyness. It was, as he understood it, partly youth's high conceit of itself, and partly the skittishness of a proud young novice in business, unacquainted with the practical nature of a 'deal.' However, as they left the house together he felt called on to straighten the young man's views on one point.

"Foisted' is a good word," said Mr. Norrisson, "but it does n't apply to a straight demand that my son, a graduate of the Polytechnic, and the very man for the place, should have it. You understand?"

"I do," smiled Philip; "and I take back the word. And, frankly, I know that I can do the work; but I want the relation to be a pleasant one, and I don't want it to begin to-day in the midst of a discussion which may, or may not, take a happy turn. Give me time, and a fair show of pleasing my chief, and I think we can hit it off."

"There is sense in that; and it's your concern, the social part, not mine. The cañon will be your headquarters, and you don't want to live there in a bees' bike. They 're a set of outlandish, prejudiced exiles, anyhow. It's all right; I sha'n't hurry you."

While Philip was dressing for dinner that evening there came a summons from the telephone. He hurried into his clothes, and went to the tube. The call was from the company's office: one of the young men wishing to know if Dunsmuir were in town, or if any of his people were in. Philip could not say, and asked who wanted Dunsmuir.

Answer came: "His son."

"Where is his son ?"

"You are in this scheme, gentlemen, for your money's worth; I am in it, now, for the sole sake of my work. Is it likely you will tamper with that? Your guarantees I have nothing to do with. I will be bound by no time-limit of your making in my deal with powers that are beyond your cognizance."

"I don't quite tumble to your talk of revenge," said Norrisson, apparently in reference to some previous threat of Dunsmuir's. "How, if it's a fair question, would you propose to take it? In the courts, for instance? Because I can tell you-"

"In the people's court of the electionsI could meet you there. Bear in mind, all that your farmers want to make head against you is a leader-a man who knows something and who has nothing to lose. I have heard a word of buying their representatives; maybe those gentlemen, whose politics are in their pockets, may think to buy me?"

Philip knocked twice before his father shouted "Come in!" The men were all on their feet; Dunsmuir pacing the floor, his gaunt cheekbones reddened, his blue eyes blazing, his graygolden hair tumbled on his head as by a wind of strife. He wheeled upon Philip, who, as no one spoke to introduce him, was forced to come bluntly out with his errand:

"I have the pleasure to tell you, sir, that your son is in town. He is at the office, asking for you."

"My son? What office? Who is this youngster?" he demanded of the company generally, without taking his eyes from Philip's face.

"My son. Your engineer, Dunsmuir, the boy I was telling you about."

Dunsmuir took no notice of Philip in either of the given characters.

"Is it a waif word you bring?" he asked,

"Here. Came in to-night-engineers' team with a tremor in his deep-strung tones; "or

from camp."

"What camp?"

"Fielding's. Lower Snake."

"Ask him to come up here."

After an interval the reply was: "Can't do it. He's all broke up."

"Get a carriage and bring him, some of you. I'll find his father."

Philip rushed over to the stable where Dunsmuir kept his team; the horses were being put to. The stableman said Dunsmuir's orders were that his rig should be at the Transcon. by six o'clock. It was then ten minutes to six.

Philip jumped in beside the man, and they drove to the hotel. He was shown at once to Mr. Westerhall's rooms. The door of the parlor, at the far end of a long corridor, stood ajar, and a voice which he took to be Dunsmuir's was thundering. He could not avoid hearing the words:

do you come from my son, himself?"

"I bring you the message as it came by telephone from the company's office. He was there fifteen minutes ago, asking for his father. They said he was ill, and I took it on me to have him brought to our house. He will be there before we can get there. Your team is below."

"Man, are you sure here is no mistake? I cannot bear to be jostled by such news if it be not the truth." He spoke harshly, lapsing into his Scotch accent, and Philip answered as to

a woman:

"Shall we not go and see?"

Dunsmuir began to look about the room for his hat and coat. He was holding hard against the heart-shaking message, but there was a mist before his eyes. Philip helped him to his things, and almost put them on him. He found a pleasure in waiting upon him, and the omen was

a good one, though he did not think of it at the time. In silence the other men drew near, and shook Dunsmuir by the hand.

"I haven't been able to tell you how I have felt for you, Dunsmuir, in this business of your son," said Norrisson the father; and said Westerhall, who had a little fair-haired lad of his own across the water:

"Our toast to-night shall be, 'Our boys; God bless them!'"

In the wagon, driving through the streets, Dunsmuir spoke, charging himself that he must get him a man to carry a message to his womenfolk waiting in the cañon. "If this news be true, they cannot hear it too soon," he said. "I will be your man," said Philip.

then, my bonny chiel! I have been fighting against you, I confess it; I wanted no manager's son on the work. And here you come with your coals of fire! I shall be in bonds if the mercies hold; there's nothing slackens a man's war-grip like the thought, My God has remembered me."

Philip might have asked himself, had scruples been in order, Would Dunsmuir have made him his messenger to the cañon that night had he known how keen he was for the errand? A joy that was not all enthusiasm for the work was rising in his heart: already he saw himself on the darkling road; he was entering the cañon by starlight; he saw the lights in the waiting house, and a girl with startled, soft gray eyes

"Will you so? Let it be your first order, was thanking him as his news deserved.

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ERE at life's silent, shadowy gate,


O Soul, my Soul, I lie and wait;
Faint in the darkness, blind and dumb,
O Soul, my promised comrade, come!

The morn breaks gladly in the east ;
Hush! hark! the signs of solemn feast:
The softened footstep on the stair;
The happy smile, the chant, the prayer;
The dainty robes, the christening-bowl-
'T is well with Body and with Soul.
Why lingerest thou at dawn of life?
Seest not a world with pleasure rife?
Hear'st not the song and whir of bird?
The joyous leaves to music stirred ?
Thou too shalt sing and float in light;
My Soul, thou shalt be happy-quite.
But yet so young, and such unrest?
Thou must be glad, my glorious guest.
Here is the revel, here is mirth,
Here gayest melodies of earth;
Measures of joy in fullness spent ;
My Soul, thou canst but be content.

Is this a tear upon my hand?
A tear? I do not understand.
Ripples of laughter, and a moan?
Why sit we thus, apart, alone?
Lift up thine eyes, O Soul, and sing!
He comes, our lover, and our king!
Feel how each pulse in rapture thrills!
Look, at our feet the red wine spills!
And he he comes with step divine,
A spirit meet, O Soul, for thine.
Body and Soul's supremest bliss-
What, dost thou ask for more than this?

Stay, here are houses, lands, and gold;
Here, honor's hand; here, gains untold;
Drink thou the full cup to the lees;
Drink, Soul, and make thy bed in ease.
Thou art my prisoner; thou, my slave;
And thou shalt sip wherein I lave.

Nay? nay? Then there are broader fields,
Whose luring path a treasure yields;
Thou shalt the universe explore,
Its heights of knowledge, depths of lore;
Shalt journey far o'er land and sea;
And I, my Soul, wilt follow thee;
Wilt follow-follow-but I lag;
My heart grows faint, my footsteps flag.
And there are higher, holier things?
Is this a taunt thy spirit flings?
What is it, Soul, that thou wouldst say?
Thou erst had time to fast and pray.
Give me one word, one loving sign,
For this spent life of yours and mine!

I held thee fast by sordid ties?

I trailed thy garments, veiled thine eyes?
Go on, I come: but once did wait,
O Soul, for thee, at morning's gate.
Canst thou not pause to give me breath?
Perchance this shadow, Soul, is death.
I stumble, fall; it is the grave;
I am the prisoner; I the slave;
And thou, strange guest, for ay art free;
Forgive me, Soul; I could but be
The earth that soiled, the fleshly clod,
The weight that bound thee to the sod.

Dust unto dust! I hear the knell ;
And yet, O Soul, I loved thee well!

Emma Huntington Nason.


SHALL never forget two aphorisms given me by an old grave-digger in Greece. He was one of a class that corresponds very much to the old-fashioned poacher in England and on the Continent, in whom the illegitimate pursuit is not only followed for gain, but has become an exciting sport, a wild instinct with a touch of the romance that hovered round the gentleman of the road and the bandit. He had followed his favorite pursuit in all parts of Attica, in Bootia, and in Eubœa, and had sold many a beautiful object of ancient art and craft to the Athenian dealer, which objects, no doubt, are now ornamenting some museum of a great European metropolis. As such excavation is forbidden by law, and as the exportation of all objects of antiquity found in Greece is also forbidden, he had twice suffered confinement in prison for a considerable period; and this in spite of all his shrewdness and caution, for he did nearly all his digging at night. He had now turned his hand to honest work, and had become a workman in our corps of excavation, in both Boeotia and Euboea. Though he was invaluable in cautiously clearing away the soil that had been massed in a tomb, and thus extracting without a breakage a delicate vase, or a piece of goldwork, or a bronze mirror, it was just as well always to keep a strict watch over his every movement; for, having extracted securely from its hiding-place in the earth some valuable object of antiquity, he might also return it to some hiding-place of which we knew not, which would be even more secure than was the accumulated soil, so far as any chance of our getting it again was concerned. But I shall always be grateful to him for the two epigrams which he gave me one day, and which are, in a way, fundamental and most important lessons for any archæologist who intends to excavate.

I was maintaining to some colleagues that there was sure to be a wall under a certain configuration of the soil, to which opinion I was led by a series of arguments archæological and practical, and to strengthen my own position I appealed to old Barba Spiro for a confirmation of my view. He looked at the spot for a long time; then gave a side glance at me; then scratched his head, and, fixing his eyes on one button of my waistcoat, he enunciated two short phrases: "O xakteрos àpya1 The pictures in this article are made from photographs taken by Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Oswald.

ο λόγος εἶναι ὁ κασμάς,” and “ Σκάψε ἕως τὸ στερεό,” the first meaning, "The best archæologist is the spade," and the second, "Go down to the native soil."

I believe it was chiefly owing to my remembering these two aphorisms, and acting upon them, that I succeeded in discovering what we may now call the Tomb of Aristotle. Though a considerable amount of archæological study and reasoning, a careful working through of all the ancient and modern authorities on topography, a collection of all the passages in ancient authors dealing with the works of art which once existed in a certain district, and innumerable other considerations of a more theoretical nature, must precede the choice of any site of excavation, and must continually be present in the mind of the excavator, it is, after all, the act of digging itself, and the unbiased examination of what the spade and pick may turn up, upon which the archeologist must chiefly rely. And if the naturalist in examining any object in nature, or any member of an organic body, whether with the naked eye or under the microscope, must guard against the "personal equation," the archeologist must be equally careful not to allow his preconceptions and his own desires to warp his vision and examination of the objects which his excavations lay bare. The second advice is almost still more important. He must never be satisfied with what he has found, nor cease from working when he has not found anything, until he has reached the virgin, the unworked, soil. It requires considerable experience to distinguish between worked and unworked soil, and it is important that every archæologist should inform himself of this difference, and practise the art of distinguishing between them with eye and hand. When there are small fragments of pottery or building-material to be found mixed in the earth, it is plain sailing; but when these indexes are wanting, it becomes much more difficult, for the characteristics of virgin soil vary with the actual nature of the earth in different parts, and the workmen are often more easily discouraged through unsuccess than is the morally and intellectually superior archæolo gist, and are prone to cryout, "Etepeó!" ("Virgin soil!") long before they have really reached it.

However full of moments of thrilling excitement-moments that in their intensity have no equal in any other department of scientific work or of sport- the practice of excavation may be, there are days and even weeks of

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discouraging ill success, which sorely try the patience of even the most sanguine and persevering. Thus perseverance is one of the qualities most needed by him who would dig for antiquities. But often there may be a call upon more active qualities, physical and intellectual, than perseverance, in order to withstand the serious hardships to which excavation in some parts of Greece must necessarily expose the digger. The excavations of the American School of Archeology of Athens at Eretria in Euboea during the months of February and March of last year, one of the results of which was the discovery of this interesting tomb, certainly were accompanied with severe hardships to all who took part in them. My colleague, Professor Richardson, who joined me in the second visit, during which we suffered most,―owing to the unusual inclemency of the weather, assured us that during his winter campaign in our own civil war he had not encountered such discomfort.

My first trip to Eretria, leaving Athens on February 1, was comparatively an easy one. It consisted of a two-days' ride across Attica, till we reached the harbor of the ancient Oropos, on the narrow strait, called Euripus, which separates Euboea from the mainland, and immediately opposite Eretria. Our sail across the Euripus, which ought to have occupied but an an hour and a quarter, took six hours, during which we had to rely upon the clumsy rowing of the fishermen who owned the heavy boat which carried us across. Dusk was just beginning to set in, and with it came rain, as we landed in the picturesque harbor of the small deserted village which now occupies the site of the proud city of Eretria, at one time the rival of Athens in prosperity and power. Situated on this narrow strip of sea, which looks like an inland lake, this plain, once so fertile, is bounded on the west by a range of mountains, beautiful in outline, while across the strait rise the classical hills and mountains of Attica and Boeotia, with Parnassos looming dimly in the far distance. This spot is at all times one of the most strikingly beautiful in Europe. Yet even the surpassing beauty of the site could not dispel the disappointment and annoyance which gained on us as we proceeded to make arrangements for a prolonged stay.

Mr. Fossum of Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, a student of the School, who labored with enthusiasm and skill during the whole period of the excavation, had preceded us by a day, and was at the harbor to meet us. He was accompanied by a black-bearded man of western European appearance, who wore a gray ulster and a shooting-cap. At first sight he looked more like an Italian than like a Greek. I soon found that he was thoroughly Europeanized, and at

one time had been Greek vice-consul at some Italian port. He spoke Italian fairly well. He had proved hospitable to Mr. Fossum, and was very affable and effusive in his greeting to us. I at once asked for the demarch, or mayor, of the town, and was told that I should presently be taken to his house. I knew it was an important matter at once to gain the friendly coöperation and assistance of this the chief functionary in the district. Mr. Fossum, aided by his host, had already explored all the resources of the town, and had found them worse than scanty. Unlike all other villages, even in the remotest parts of Greece, it appeared impossible to find any peasant or inhabitant who for good pay would migrate to some kinsman's house, or allow himself to be relegated to the ground-floor of his hut, leaving to us the upper room, which is approached by wooden steps from without, to clean and to furnish with our camp-beds. The reason for this was that there were but few thrifty and working inhabitants, and most of the houses had been deserted. We looked at two of these deserted houses, but with the rain that had fallen, with no window-panes, with a broken-down fireplace and a rotting floor, they presented so miserable an aspect, and looked so unwholesome, that we could not think of making either of them our headquarters. We were not much comforted when we learned that the cause of this desertion was the unwholesomeness of this fever district.

It was one of the great, but equally unpracticable ideas of the late King Otho of Greece to transplant to this site of the ancient Eretria the brave inhabitants of the island of Psara (when, after the war of independence, this Greek island was not added to the Hellenic kingdom), granting to each a large piece of land, and laying out a city by the ancient harbor. In keeping with his generous though visionary character, the king undertook the work on a large scale. Engineers were called in, and laid out the city with broad streets and open squares, which, even at present, though there are only ruined houses and but few inhabitants, bear the names of University street, Marine Square, etc. He even proceeded to build there a large nautical school, which was meant to rear future mariners and admirals, and which now, without a roof, and with crumbling walls, stares with tragic irony at the deserted houses, a monument of noble quixotism. The energetic and vigorous members of this new Psara soon left, and are scattered over Greece and in distant parts of the globe, and have, many of them, amassed great wealth, retaining considerable pride in the patriotic traditions of their Psariot ancestors. The few hundred that have remained, chiefly women and children and old men, are unthrifty in character, with health

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