Forbes Robinson........... Frontispiece

Forbes Robinson (1880)

Forbes Robinson (1887)

p with their dyspepsia too much to suit me!"

As his wife turned rebuking eyes upon him he pursued doggedly: "Not that their dyspepsia and religion are always mixed; they have their dyspepsia seven days in the week!"

She joined in their laughter over Ellis' exaggerated defense, then turned again to her brother.

"What are you going to do with that nasty thing you shot, Dick?"

"Nasty?" broke in Ellis in quick alarm. "You didn't shoot a skunk, did you?"

She ignored her husband and persisted: "Tell me why you shot that fox, Dick. You have been out hunting nearly every day for two weeks and have shot nothing else, so I know you have a reason."

"I'm not going to help eat it!" Ellis broke in. "I've heard they are stringy—and a bit smelly."

"Ellis, will you stop being ridiculous? Dick, why have you hunted that fox so long?"

Ellis had seen that Terry was not to be pumped, that this was another of his queer quests. He tried again to shunt Susan away.

"Maybe it was a personal matter between him and the fox, Sue."

She turned on him a look she endeavored to make disdainful, but only succeeded in raising another laugh from both. But she was not to be deterred. Her eyes lit with sudden inspiration.

"I'll bet—I'll bet anything—" she began.

"Susan Terry Crofts! Even Dick would not bet on Sunday!"

"I will bet anything," she insisted, "that it is something for Deane—for Christmas!"

In the slight flush that rose in her brother's face Susan learned that she had hit the mark. But she was instantly sorry that she had pressed the issue, as she had learned long before to respect what was to her his queer reticence.

Ellis hurried into the breach: "Wonder what Bruce will give Deane this Christmas? He is about due to present her with something really worth while—like a patent mop!"

Even Terry laughed. The struggle for Deane's favor between Bruce Ballard and Terry had been in progress nearly ten years and had become one of the town's institutions. The first formal offerings tendered by the two boys on the occasion of her graduation from high school typified the contrasting characters of the rivals: Terry, idealistic, impressionable, reserved, had sent her a beautiful copy of the "Love Letters of a Musician," while Bruce, sincere, obvious and practical, had given her a hat-pin.

On her succeeding birthday Terry, after a six-hour climb, had won for her a box of trailing arbutus from Mount Defiance's cool top; Bruce had sent her candy. From his medical college at Baltimore Bruce had sent, as succeeding Christmas gifts, an ivory toilet set, a thermos bottle, a reading lamp and a chafing dish.

Terry's offerings on those occasions had been a Japanese kimono embroidered with her favorite flower—a wondrous thing secured by correspondence with the American consul at Kobe: a pair of Siamese kittens which he named Cat-Nip and Cat-Nap: a sandal-wood fan out of India; and a little, triple-chinned, ebony god of Mirth, its impish eyes rolled back in merriment, mouth wrinkled with utter joy of the world.

The rivalry had divided the town into two camps. The pro-Bruce faction, composed largely of men folk, claimed for their protÉgÉ a splendid common sense in selection of his gifts: but the women and girls, who made up the other group, envied Deane not only the gifts Terry gave her, but also—and more so—the rarefied romantic spirit of the youth who conceived and offered them.

Deane realized that both Bruce and Terry stayed on in the dull old town principally to be near her. This was true of Bruce particularly, as he was a young surgeon of such promise that he had twice been invited into junior association with Albany's greatest specialist. She had strongly urged him to embrace the increased opportunity for service and profit which the city afforded.

But Terry was only six months out of college, a six months spent in futile effort to adjust himself to the theme of the village, to find appropriate outlet for that urgent desire to be of use in the world which dominated his character. As the Terrys were of those families termed "comfortable" in Crampville, he felt no need of devoting himself to adding to an already ample estate. At his sister's request, he had undertaken to manage a shoe store that represented one of their holdings but at the end of a couple of months had given it up—also in accord with her wishes. Higgins, their old clerk, had come to her with tearful warnings that Terry's unwillingness to refuse credit to any one who came in with a tale of hard-luck was ruining the business: and Terry had lost the custom of several good families by declining to humor their crotchety unreasonableness.

But Higgins did not know how they came to lose the trade of the Hunter family. At the end of a trying day of insistent demand for smaller shoes than feminine feet could accommodate, of viewing bunions and flat arches and wry-jointed toes, he had written Deane:

Deane Dear:—

I used to think that the true glory of Trilby rested in the wondrous mesmeric voice—but after a month in the shoe business I know better. Between perfect vocal cords and perfect feet, give me the feet.

The word "shoe" used to bring to my mind thoughts of calfskin, kid, patent leather. But no more! Now I think of—well, many things.

I am glad that your family is not among those who favor this establishment with its patronage. I am very happy in this, as it is good to think that your dear shoes are but a part of you, are incidental to your being, and not a consequence of drear barter and "fitting."

I will not be over to-night. But I will be thinking of you.

Dick.

A bit puzzled, she had shown the note to her father. Irate, he had issued a mandate that produced the effect Terry had asked. Mr. Hunter was acutely sensitive about twin corns which had been a part of his toes so long that he honestly thought them congenital.

After quitting the store Terry had turned his attention to their farm properties but, as a careful investigation covering three months had demonstrated them to be in capable hands, he had returned them to the full management of the old tenants at the end of the harvest. He had then studied the possibilities of enlarging their only other business, a small pulp plant, but after satisfying himself that the meager water power was being fully utilized and that the location of the mill at Crampville precluded competition with those more favorably located that were operated with steam power, he had abandoned the project. For a month he had been seeking outlet for his restless energy.

Deane, anxiously watching his endeavor to fit himself into one of Crampville's narrow grooves and vaguely understanding his unvoiced craving for wider horizons, dreaded the break she knew would take him away. Susan, studying him with the uneasy solicitude of an older sister, saw in Deane an anchor which would hold him to the town. Ellis had been less concerned, as he had recognized that Terry's intolerance of the village was but the outcropping of a sane young spirit that gauged the peaks and sought real service. He had been trying lately to prepare his wife for Terry's departure to other fields, as he thought it inevitable. It was a word to this effect that had precipitated the tears with which she had greeted her brother before dinner.

Ellis plagued Susan throughout the leisurely meal, Terry adding an occasional word whenever the flow of affectionate badgering lagged. Fanny, who had served them since they were children, bustled in and out, redfaced, wholesome, fruitlessly trying to press upon Terry an excess of the over-ample dinner. It was a sort of unwritten law in Crampville that the Sunday dinner should be sufficiently heavy to drive the menfolk to a long digestive nap.

Ellis lingered at the table after Terry had excused himself and gone out into the barn again. Susan helped Fanny clear the old mahogany table, then sank into a chair beside her abstracted husband.

"Sue," he said finally, "Dick hasn't said anything lately about accepting that position in the Philippines, has he?"

A worried look crept into her smooth face: "No. I supposed he had decided against it."

He patted her hand consolingly: "Don't be too confident about his staying home, Sue. He wants to see things—do things! There isn't much in this town to hold one of his nature."

"There's—Deane," she said, hopefully.

"Sue, don't be so sure of that, either. You know that you and I hold different theories about that. Don't bank too heavily on yours." He drummed the polished table a moment before continuing: "He received another telegram from Washington yesterday—I thought he might have mentioned it to you."

"No," she quavered.

"Nor to me. Guess he doesn't want to worry you."

She was close to tears again: "I wish he had never met that young Bronner in college—he gave Dick all these crazy ideas about going to those horrid islands where his brother is!"

"Well, Sue, he made me feel the same way—and I'm a fat married man! I enjoyed his stories of his brother's experiences with the wild people over there. It must be an interesting life."

"You don't talk like that to Dick, do you?" she implored.

"Of course not. But I think you've been too sure that he would stay on here indefinitely—I think it will take very little to tip the scales the other way."

He yawned prodigiously, rousing Susan to an ire that stemmed the flow of tears which had threatened to overflow her blue eyes. Then, content with his tactics, he went upstairs for his traditional nap.

---

Later, Terry came into the big living room and stood in front of the fireplace a long time, his lean face grave and thoughtful. Decision made, he wrote a note of sincere apology to Doctor Mather, his pastor. He also wrote Deane that he would not be over in the evening but would see her during the week, and made the delivery of the notes an excuse to get the faithful Fanny out into the crisp December afternoon.

The light in the Terry library burned long after Crampville's other lights had winked out. He had been picked up by Stevenson and carried by that pathetic master into the far places of the earth.

---

The next morning he was in the barn, his gay mood revealed by the running talk addressed to the pelt on which he worked.

"Well, old boy, only four days to get you into shape for your dedication, but the book says it can be done. So you might as well soften up now—"he vigorously rubbed the dried bare side with some oily preparation—"as later."

"What a destiny, old chap! Surely no other fox ever born to lady-fox can be as happy as you're going to be!" He rubbed industriously. "You're not for me, you know. No, sir! I wouldn't bring you out of the hills into this burg—where they kill ambition by preaching content with your lot, where the hoarders of pennies are venerated and the pluggers canonized—I wouldn't bring you here just for me. For I'm not worthy of you. No, sir-ree! Don't you know I'm no good—didn't you see that yesterday? Why, Old Samuel Terwilliger said I'm an atheist because I quoted Ingersoll's graveside oration—said no Christian would repeat anything that man ever said, even if his watch is a bargain at a dollar!... Samuel likes bargains."

Working rapidly, with no lost motions, he rambled on, congratulatory, reproachful, whimsical. Having carried the curing to a point where a twenty-four-hour time process was the next essential factor, he carefully pegged the skin to the barn door.

---

That evening Susan came running home excitedly, having learned that one of the elders had asked that a meeting be called to consider Dick's case, and that the young pastor had very promptly and very emphatically vetoed the proceeding. It seemed that Bruce had heard of the move and persuaded his father not to support it, after a stormy scene in which he had threatened to resign his own membership if they moved against Terry.

Ellis looked long at Terry: "Nothing small about Bruce, Dick. Some fellows, under the circumstances—all the circumstances—might have let you have it to the hilt."

Terry smiled gravely. "Good old Bruce," he said.

He left the room, slowly, and sat alone in the library. It had struck deep, that even one God-fearing but not God-loving old man should think him unfit to sit in the church in which his father and mother had been married, from which they had been carried side by side for their long rest. It was midnight when he went up the broad staircase to his room.

The following afternoon he dropped in to see Father Jennings, the gentle little priest who had been beloved by two generations of all denominations—and those of none. Terry loved the old study, which in forty years had taken on something of the priest's character. It was a comfortable room; cheerful in its wide windows, warm with a bright hearthfire, and well worn with long years of service.

Terry had found friendship and counsel here since his boyhood, had been one of the procession that passed through the door in search of wisdom and cheer. All the gossip of the town came to the priest: he knew of Terry's hunting trip and of the climax which had scandalized the sterner factions of the community. He was of those who knew Terry best, and entertained no misgivings about the state of his immortal soul.

They talked fitfully, as intimate friends do. The old man knew that it was worry over the town's harsh reaction to the Sunday fox hunt that had brought Terry to him. He broached the subject.

"Dick, I have wanted to see you since Sunday morning. I had a question to ask you nobody else could answer."

As Terry turned to him with somber mien he concluded, his eyes twinkling: "I wanted to know if it was the best fox ever!"

And that was all, though Terry stayed to sup with him. Till nine o'clock they sat before the fire, the priest in a worn rocker drawn up close to the hearth: the single log burning glorified his fine old face as he placidly rocked and pondered.

He had spent the morning among his foreign parishioners, who lived in the squalid section of the town, across the river. A frugal, law-abiding lot, they furnished the brawn needed in the three pulp factories and lived a life apart from the balance of the towns-people, bitterly but voicelessly resenting the villagers' careless ostracism of all who came under the easy classification of the term "wop." There existed a tacit agreement among property owners that no house north of the river should be sold or leased to a foreigner, and that no garlic might taint the atmosphere their children breathed in school, they had erected a small schoolhouse upon the southside. So, sequestered six days in the week in a settlement that was entirely foreign, communicating their thoughts in the tongues of the Mediterranean and the Balkans, the southsiders mingled with Americans only during the brief hours of Sunday worship.

In his morning visit Father Jennings had again met with several evidences of Terry's curious influence over the foreigners. Terry understood them instinctively, grasped their viewpoints and ideals, and was the only layman on the northside in whom they confided, called in to settle knotty problems and to partake of the hospitality they lavished upon appropriate occasions of weddings, christenings and the neverending procession of days of patron saints. Subtle, romantic, circumscribed by alien environment, they recognized in him a kindred spirit and opened their hearts wide to him. Terry, his ardent young pastor—Dr. Mather—and Father Jennings were the only northsiders whom they called friends. None of the three had been named on the town's "Committee on Americanization." ...

The priest roused from his revery and for a long time contemplated the quiet, thoughtful lad who sat beside him. Gradually a deep concern spread across his comfortably aged features, a presentiment of impending loss shadowed his pleasant eyes. He reached out to lay his hand on Terry's forearm.

"Dick," he said, "there is plenty for you to do right here in Crampville—what is this I hear about your going to the Philippines?"

---

e fully made me Recompence.

Captain R. T. July 10. 1710.

Underwritten.

Friend Captain T,

If thou can'st C,

Mind what I have to say to thee,

Thy Strumpet Wh--re abominable,

Which thou didst kiss upon a Table,

Has made thy manly Parts unable.

Farewel, &c. Z. B.

Toy, at Hampton-Court, 1708.

D--n Molley H——ns for her Pride,

She'll suffer none but Lords to ride:

But why the Devil should I care,

Since I can find another Mare?

L. M. August.

Star-Inn at Coventry, in a Window.

Letter to Will S---rs, Esq;

Dear Will,

I ever will

Be at your will,

Whene'er you will,

And where you will;

So that your Will

Be Good-Will,

I never will

Dispute your Will;

But give you Will

For Will.

At this Time,

At all Times,

Or any Time,

But such Times

As bad Times:

For Lemon Thyme,

Or Common Time,

Or Tripple Time,

Are not Times

Like your Times

And my Times

For Pastimes.

Then betimes

Suit your Time

To my Time;

Or my Time

Is lost Time.

I wish you well,

And hope you're well,

As I am well;

So all's well

That ends well;

Then farewell.

R. B. April 17. 1714.

Star at Coventry, on a Window.

Drunk at Comb-Abbey, horrid drunk;

Hither I came, and met my fav'rite Punk.

But she as well might have embrac'd a Log,

All Night I snor'd, and grunted like a Hog,

Then was not I a sad confounded Dog!

R. H.

I'll never get drunk again,

For my Head's full of Pain,

And it grieves me to think,

That by Dint of good Drink,

I should lie with my Phillis in vain.

R. H. 1712.

Salisbury, the King's Arms, on the Wall.

Here was a 'Pothecary's Wife,

Who never lov'd her Spouse in all her Life;

And for want of his Handle,

Made use of a Candle:

—— Light as a Feather,

To bring Things together.

S. C. 1710.

Underwritten.

Thou Fool, 'twas done for want of Sense,

I tickl'd her Concupiscence:

And that is enough to save her Credit.

S. B. 1712.

Under this is wrote.

From the Story above,

The Girls that love,

Have learn'd the Use of Candles;

And since that, by Jove,

And the God of Love,

We have lost the Use of Handles.

W. S——pe, Feb. 2. 1714.

Stockbridge, at the Kings-Head.

Salley Stukely is the prettiest Girl in England,

I wish I was to play a Game with her single-hand.

R. S.

Windsor, at the Cardinal's-Cap.

Now my Sun is retired,

My Heart is all fired;

My Sylvia's lost

And I am toss'd,

Into Love's Flames,

What shall I do to gain her?

Sure something must restrain her,

Or else she'd come.

Then I'm undone.

Help me, dear Cupid,

Or I shall grow stupid;

And if you won't help me,

Then Bacchus protect me.

R. M. 1709.

Greyhound, at Maidenhead.

Dear Doll is a Prude,

And I tumbled her down;

And I tickled her Fancy

For half a Crown.

R. M——r, July 17. 1714.

At the Same Place.

Chloe's Character.

Her Voice is as clear as the Stream;

Her Character light as the Sun;

Her Dealings are hard as a Stone;

But her Promise as sure as a Gun.

A. P--pe, 1712.

At the same Place.

A Hog, a Monkey, and an Ass,

Were here last Night to drink a Glass,

When all at length it came to pass,

That the Hog and the Monkey,

Grew so drunkey,

That both were ready to kiss the A--se

of Tom. Dingle. April 17. 1710.

At the White-Hart, Windsor.

How, do I fear my Lover will not come;

And yet I bid him not: But should he come,

Then let him read ——

Let Man--r--ing love on, Iwill requite thee,

Taming my wild Heart to thy loving Hand.

If thou dost love, my Kindness shall incite thee,

To bind our Loves up in a holy Band.

Anne Oph---lia, 1708.

Salisbury, at the King's-Arms; seemingly to give the Reason why Miles seem shorter in one Place than another.

When I set out from London, Itramp'd on the Way,

I was brisk, and my Courage and Heart was full gay;

So I fancy'd my Journey was nothing but Play,

But as I went forward, a Day or two longer,

The Miles seem'd more lengthen'd as I grew less stronger,

And I wish'd in this Case to grow younger and younger.

S. O. Oct. 17. 1717.

I walk'd all the Way between London and Exeter.

At the Crown at Harlow.

When Daizies gay, and Violets blue,

And Cowslips with their yellow Hue,

And Lady's Smocks of Silver white,

Paint all the Meadows with Delight,

Then shall I meet my charming Fair,

On ouzy Banks to take the Air;

There shall we taste delicious Love,

Equal to what is known Above.

R. T. April 14. 1716.

Upon a Window at the Old Crown at Ware in Hertfordshire; supposed to be wrote by a slighted Lover.

Go you false and faithless Fair,

Gods above forbid my Fate,

First me Joys you do prepare,

Then you Sorrows do create;

For 'tis the Nature of your Sex,

First to pleasure, then perplex,

Happy's he without your Smiles.

Ever-blest he lives content;

In exorbitant Exiles,

Never can his Fate repent;

All his Wishes and Desires,

To destroy Love's burning Fires.

R. C. June 14. 1731.

At the Crown at Epping.

Tom. Rudge won the Hat from George Redman.

April 17. 1714.

He lifted with such Might and Strength,

As would have hurl'd him twice his Length,

And dash'd his Brains (if any) out:

But Mars that still protects the stout,

In Pudding-Time came to his Aid.

Well done Tom; and George was a clever Fellow too. C.H. 1714.

Sent to the Compiler from a Drinking-Glass at Pontack's-Head Tavern in Fleet-Street.

Might all my Wishes but propitious prove,

And all my Wants supply'd by mighty Jove;

Give me dear W———rs, and I'll ask no more,

But think her dearer than the golden Shower.

C. M.

Sent to the Compiler from the same.

From the Bog-House at Pancras-Wells.

Hither I came in haste to sh-t,

But found such Excrements of Wit,

That I to shew my Skill in Verse,

Had scarcely Time to wipe my A--se.

Underwritten.

D——n your Writing,

Mind your Sh-t-ng.

On a Wainscoat, at the Crown at Harlow.

Whilst Lady Mary slept at Ease,

Secure from Jealousy and Fleas,

Her Lord with vig'rous Love inclin'd,

To kiss her Maid, and ease his Mind:

The Maiden did not long resist,

But gently yielded to be kist;

And in the Dance of Lovers move,

With sprightly Bounds to shew her Love.

When in the Height of am'rous Fire,

She cry'd, my Lord, I've one Desire,

Tell me, my Peer, tell me, my Lord,

Tell me, my Life, upon your Word,

Who does it best, my Dame or me?

And then she fell in Extasy.

My Lord in Fire of his Love,

Call'd her his Minion, Turtle Dove;

You have the only Art to please,

All this he swore upon his Knees:

Your Dame is like a Log of Wood,

Her Love is never half so good.

My Lord, says she, all that I know;

For all the World has told me so.

S———d———rs, April, 1717.

In a Barber's Shop.

Will. —— —— always fights with his Cunning,

Whilst one Foot stands still, th'other is running.

At the Sugar-Loaf in Bell-Yard, Temple-Bar.

If Venus, or if Bacchus, be my Boast,

Claret's my Liquor, and Miss C—— my Toast,

Upon all the Windows of Note on the Roads.

If one Stone splits the most obdurate Glass,

Why needs there two to split a pretty L--ss.

Underwritten.

Thou Fool, I say, you never yet did know,

A L--ss was split without the Use of two.

R. F.

Underwritten.

Nor that neither.

M. L.

From a Bog-House at Hampstead.

Hard Stools proceed from costive Claret;

Yet mortal Man cannot forbear it.

So Childbed-Women, full of Pain,

Will grunt and groan, and to't again.

At Hampstead, in a Window.

Gammer Sprigins had gotten a Maidenhead,

And for a Gold Guinea she brought it to Bed;

But I found by embracing that I was undone;

'Twas a d---n'd p-ck-y Wh--re, just come from London.

R. L. 1710.

A strange Thing written upon a Glass Window in Queen Elizabeth's Time.

I, C, S, X, O, Q, P, U.

This must be left to the Decypherers.

Pancras Bog-House.

If Smell of T——d makes Wit to flow,

Laud! what would eating of it do.

From the Temple Bog-House.

If you design to sh--te at Ease,

Pray rest your Hands upon your Knees.

And only give a gentle squeeze.

F I N I S.

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N.B. A Third Part of this Work being in the Press, we intreat our kind Correspondents would be speedy in sending their Letters to J.Roberts.