Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

'But come now,' I at last had to say, 'this is our first, but by no means our best church; wait until you see St. Peter's.'

The ride from Old Swedes Church to St. Peter's has nothing to recommend it; but it is short, and we were soon standing in one of the finest bits of Colonial church architecture in America.

'Why,' exclaimed Craig, 'we have nothing more beautiful in London, and there is certainly nothing in New York or Boston that can touch it.'

'Certainly, there is n't,' I said: 'and if you were a Philadelphian and had an ancestor buried in this church or within its shadow, you would not have to have brains, money, morals, or anything else. Of course, these accessories would do you no harm, and in a way might be useful, but the lack of them would not be ruinous, as it would be with ordinary folk.' Then I spoke glibly the names of the dead whom, had they been living, I should scarcely have dared to mention, so interwoven are they in the fabric of the social, or as some might say, the unsocial, life of Philadelphia.

'And these people,' said Craig, 'do they look like other people-do you know them?'

It was a delicate question. It was not for me to tell him that a collateral ancestor was a founder of the Philadelphia Assembly, or to boast of a bowing acquaintance with that charming woman, Mrs. John Markoe, whose family pew we were reverently approaching. Craig could, of course, know nothing of what a blessed thing it is to be a member, not of St. Peter's, but of 'St. Peter's set,' which is a very different matter; but he fully appreciated its architectural charm, and as we strolled about, he observed with the keenest interest the curious arrangement of the organ and altar at one end of the church, and the glorious old pulpit and readingdesk at the other, with a quite un

necessary sounding-board surmounting them like a benediction.

'How dignified and exclusive the square pews are!' said Craig. 'They look for all the world like the lord of the manor's, at home.'

'Yes,' said I, 'and not half so exclusive as the people who occupy them. You could have made a very pretty picture of this church crowded with wealth and fashion and beauty a hundred and fifty years ago, if you had been lucky enough to live when there was color in the world; now we all look alike.'

'I know,' said Craig; 'it's too bad.' I could have told him a good deal of the history of Christ Church, which we next visited. It is only a short distance from St. Peter's; indeed, in the early days, Christ Church and St. Peter's formed one parish. The present structure was built in 1727, of bricks brought over from England. Architecturally, it is the finest church in Philadelphia; and so expensive was it for the congregation of two hundred years ago that, in order to finish its steeple and provide it with its fine chime of bells, recourse was had to a lottery! Indeed, two lotteries were held before the work was completed. Philadelphians all felt that they had a stake in the enterprise, and for a long time the bells were rung on every possible occasion. Queen Anne sent over a solid-silver communion service, which is still in use, and its rector, Dr. William White, after the Revolution, became the first Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, having finally been consecrated at Lambeth after years of discussion as to how the episcopacy was to be carried on. So 'Old Christ,' as it is affectionately called, may properly be regarded as the Mother Church in this country. When Philadelphia was the national capital, Washington attended it, as did John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, occasionally — perhaps not often enough,

But our time was limited and there was much to see: Carpenter's Hall, and the State House with its beautiful windows, which Craig called Palladian, and its splendid Colonial staircase, from which I was powerless to draw his attention to the far-famed Liberty Bell.

'I know all about that,' said Craig; 'I've been reading it up; but if you can tell me in what single respect an Englishman has n't just as much liberty as an American, I shall be glad to listen.'

Having forgotten to point out the grave of our greatest citizen, Benjamin Franklin, who, we love to tell Bostonians, was born in Philadelphia at seventeen years of age, we retraced our steps -if one can be said to retrace one's steps in a motor-to the Christ Church burying-ground at Fifth and Arch Streets. There, peering through the iron railing, we read the simple inscription carved according to his wish on the flat tomb: 'Benjamin and Deborah Franklin, 1790.' I have always regretted that I had not availed myself of the opportunity once offered me of buying the manuscript in Franklin's hand of the famous epitaph which he composed in a rather flippant moment in 1728 for his tombstone. The original is, I be lieve, among the Franklin papers in the State Department at Washington, but he made at least one copy, and possibly several. The one I saw reads:

THE BODY of

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

PRINTER

(Like the cover of an old book
Its contents torn out

And stript of its lettering and gilding)
Lies here, food for worms.
But the work shall not be lost
For it will (as he believed) appear once more
In a new and more elegant edition
Revised and corrected

by

THE AUTHOR.

No doubt the plain marble slab, with the simple name and date (for Franklin needs no epitaph in Philadelphia), is more dignified, but I have always wished that his first idea had been carried out.

As we were only a stone's throw from the Quaker Meeting-House, we paid it a hasty visit, and I confessed, in reply to the question, that, often as I had passed the austere old brick building, I had never entered it before, although I had always intended to.

At last I looked at my watch — unnecessarily, for something told me it was lunch-time. We had had a busy morning; Craig had made sketches with incredible rapidity while I bought photographs and picture-postals by the score. We had not been idle for a moment, but there was more to be seen, Fairmount not the Park; there was no time for that, and all parks are more or less alike, although ours is most beautiful; but the old-time 'water-works,' beautifully situated on the hillside, terraced and turreted, with its three Greek temples, so faultlessly proportioned and placed as to form what Joe Pennell says is one of the loveliest spots in America, and which, he characteristically adds, we in Philadelphia do not appreciate.

But Craig did. It was a glorious day in mid-November, the trees were in their full autumn regalia of red and gold, the Schuylkill glistened like silver in the sun, and in the distance tumbled, with a gentle murmur of protest at being disturbed, over its dam into the lower level, where it becomes a river of use if not of beauty. I thought how seldom do we business men pause in the middle of the day to look at anything so free from complications as a ‘view.' My factory was within ten-minutes' walk; there, penned up amid dirt and noise, I spend most of my waking hours, discussing ways and means by which I

may increase the distance between myself and the sheriff, neglecting the beauty which unfolds itself at my very door. I determined in future to open my eyes occasionally; but hunger put an end to my meditations. Food is required even on the most perfect day; by this time the literati must have met and parted. Back to the city we sped, lunched at my club, thence to Lynnewood Hall, the palatial residence of Mr. Widener, some miles from the centre of the city.

On our arrival we were ushered, through the main entrance-hall, beautifully banked with rare flowers, into the gallery in which is housed one of the finest collections of pictures in America. Bennett and George Hellman were already there, and Mr. Widener, the old gentleman who had formed the collection, was doing the honors.

Harry, his grandson, was there, too, and to the amazement of Bennett welcomed me with outstretched arms. 'I got your telephone message, but too late to connect with you; I've been in New York. Why did you not come to lunch? You were not at your office. I left messages for you everywhere.'

Bennett looked greatly relieved; so I was not an intruder after all and, wonderful to relate, nothing had happened to Craig.

Mr. Widener seemed relieved to see me, and I soon grasped the reason. He did not know who his guest was.

'Who is this man?' he whispered to

me.

'Arnold Bennett, the distinguished English author,' I replied.

'Does he know anything about pictures?' he asked.

'I have no doubt he does,' I replied. 'Here is a man who certainly does.' And I presented Craig, who, to the great relief of his host, was vocal.

And then I saw how things had been going. Bennett, with his almost un

canny power of observation, had seen and doubtless understood and appreciated everything in the gallery, but had remained mute; an 'Oh' or an 'Ah' had been all that Mr. Widener was able to extract from him. The old gentleman had seemingly been playing to an empty house, and it irked him. Craig had the gift of expression; knew that he was looking at some of the masterpieces of the world, and did not hesitate to say so.

We strolled from one gallery to another, and then it was suggested that perhaps we would care to see-But the afternoon was going; Bennett had to be in New York at a certain hour; it was time to move on.

'Spend another night in Philadelphia,' I said to Craig; 'you must not go without seeing Harry's books. After a while there will be tea and toast and marmalade and Scotch and soda; life will never be any better than it is at this minute.'

Craig did not require much urging. Why should he? We were honored guests in one of the finest houses in the country, in a museum, in fact, filled to overflowing with everything that taste could suggest and money buy; and for host we had the eldest son of the eldest son of the house, a young man distinguished for his knowledge, modesty, and courtesy. We went to Harry's apartment, where his books were kept, where I was most of all at home, and where finally his mother joined us. In the easy give-and-take of conversation time passed rapidly, until finally it was time to go, and we said good-bye. It was my last visit to Lynnewood Hall, as Harry's guest. Five months later, almost to a day, he found his watery grave in the Atlantic, a victim of the sinking of the Titanic.

On our way back to our hotel we agreed that we would go to the theatre

and have supper afterward; there was just time to change, once again gnawing a sandwich. By great good fortune there was a real comedy playing at one of the theatres; seats were secured without unusual difficulty, and we were soon quietly awaiting the rise of the curtain. After the performance we had supper, which had been ordered in advance. We were at the end of a perfect day, a red-letter day, a day never to be forgotten, Craig said. We had known each other something like twenty-four hours, yet we seemed like old friends.

'I can't hope to give you such a day as we have had, when you come to London; but you'll look me up, won't you?' 'Yes, of course, and meantime I want you to do something for me.'

'Anything, my dear boy; what is it?' 'I want a presentation copy of Buried Alive, with an inscription in it from Arnold Bennett, and on a fly-leaf I want a little pencil sketch by you.'

'Right-o. I'll send it directly I get to New York.'

But I had to wait several days before I received a small package by express, which, on opening, I found to be a beautiful little water-color painting by Craig of the picturesque old stone bridge over the Thames at Sonning; and in another package, the book, Buried Alive, with a characteristic inscription. The author was doubtful of my identity to the very last, for he wrote, "To Mr. Newton of Philadelphia, I believe, with best wishes from Arnold Bennett.'

WOOD NUPTIAL

BY JOSEPH AUSLANDER

THE Woods are still; the scent of old rain stirs
Out of the trampled fronds and over us;
And now the evening air is glamorous
With parley of the bramble gossipers,

And fireflies who trace diameters

Of light along a winking radius,
And rasping saws, and the continuous
Insistence of the thicket carpenters.

The architects of night are scaffolding

Our minster to a pandemonium

Of flute and timbrel, warmth of brass and string,

And thrill of triangle and tympanum;

The Reverend Beetle hems his fa's and do's,

And frogs intone their oratorios.

THE INTERPRETER. II

A ROMANCE OF THE EAST

BY L. ADAMS BECK

EARLY in the pure dawn the men came, and our boat was towed up into the Dal Lake through crystal waterways and flowery banks, the men on the path keeping step and straining at the rope until the bronze muscles stood out on their legs and backs, and shouting strong rhythmic phrases to mark the pull.

"They shout the Wondrous Names of God as they are called,' said Vanna, when I asked. "They always do that for a timed effort. Badshah! The Lord, the Compassionate, and so on. I don't think there is any religion about it, but it is as natural to them as one, two, three to us. It gives a tremendous lift. Watch and see.'

It was part of the delightful strangeness that we should move to that strong music.

We moored by a low bank, under a great wood of chenar trees, and saw the little table in the wilderness set in the greenest shade, with our chairs beside it, and my pipe laid reverently upon it by Kahdra.

Across the glittering water lay, on one side, the Shalimar Garden, known to all readers of Lalla Rookh - a paradise of roses; and beyond it again the lovelier gardens of Nur-Mahal, the Light of the Palace, that imperial woman who ruled India under the weak Emperor's name she whose name he set

I

thus upon his coins: 'By order of King Jehangir, gold has a hundred splendors added to it by receiving the name of Nur-Jahan the Queen.'

Has any woman ever had a more royal homage than this most royal woman - known first as Mihr-u-Nissa, Sun of Women; later, as Nur-Mahal, Light of the Palace; and, latest, NurJahan-Begam, Queen, Light of the World?

Here, in these gardens, she had lived

had seen the snow mountains change from the silver of dawn to the illimitable rose of sunset. The life, the color beat insistently upon my brain. They built a world of magic where every moment was pure gold. Surely — surely to Vanna it must be the same! I believed in my very soul that she who gave and shared such joy could not be utterly apart from me.

Just then, in the sunset, she was sitting on deck, singing under her breath and looking absently away to the Gardens across the Lake. I could hear the words here and there, and knew them.

'Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now who lies beneath

your spell?

Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway

far,

Before you agonize them in farewell?'

'Don't!' I said abruptly. 'You did that on purpose!'

« ElőzőTovább »