"George Washington! as true as I live."
Just then the man unsheathed his sword and waved it in the direction of the boys, as if wishing to summon them nearer.
"The old fellow looks kind of ghostly," said Max, irreverently. "But we are sixteen to his one. Come on! We will let him speak for himself, if he can speak."
On the line moved with slow long strokes, in perfect unison, till they came within a few feet of the shore.
"You come up in good style. I always like to see the young American show himself the soldier," said the strange man.
Then Gordon, as spokesman, said, raising his cap, "Have we the pleasure of welcoming to the Curve George Washington, whose birthday we celebrate?"
"You have," replied the person addressed, bowing low, and speaking in a deep bass voice. "Of all the places where the anniversary of my birth is being honored to-day none has offered more attraction than this. It reminds me of scenes from my past life which can never be effaced from my memory. The cliffs that surround this Curve, this frozen stream, this fire even, built in my honor, recall the terrible winter at Valley Forge, and that memorable night when I with my brave followers crossed the Delaware."
Here the General drew forth a large bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
"Who can it be?" whispered the boys.
"And where did he find that rig—'The old three-cornered hat, and the breeches and all that'?" said Donald Gray, who was always ready, on every occasion, with a quotation.
Meanwhile the General had recovered from his emotion, replaced his bandanna, and resumed his speech.
"My experience amid the scenes of war has made me very sympathetic, and I am easily affected to tears. If you have studied your histories, as you should, you already know that I was very kind to my men, and always tried to make them as comfortable as circumstances would permit."
"The Commander-in-Chief is pretty eloquent," said Clarence to Ralph, "He is using large words. Have you any idea who it is?"
"I have my suspicions," answered Ralph, "but I am not sure. Hush! he isn't through with his oration."
"You all know the old fisherman down at the Ledge?" continued the speaker, inquiringly.
"Uncle Simon?" said half a dozen voices at once. "Should say so."
"Yes, Uncle Simon. I think there is not a boy here that he has not befriended, mended his fish-poles, disentangled his lines, patched his boats, saved him from drowning in summer and from freezing in winter. Well, Uncle Simon is down with rheumatism, and hasn't fire enough to keep him warm. When I happened to hear of the fine stock of wood you had laid in for a big bonfire, I thought now is Uncle Simon's chance to get warm. Now Uncle Simon's young friends can come to the rescue. What do you say, boys, shall we form ourselves into a skating brigade, pile the wood on these sleds that you forgot to take home, and carry it down the river to Uncle Simon? All in favor say 'Aye.'"
The response to this appeal did not come at once. The boys thought this rather a tame ending to their contemplated sport.
"One good turn deserves another," said the General, persuasively. "Remember that Uncle Simon has helped most of you out of some difficulty. Now, once more, all in favor say 'Aye.'"
This time there was not a boy that did not respond. The cliffs around echoed with the young voices.
With the General's assistance they set to work. Two large logs were laid on each sledge, with a third log on the top, and some brush that Max said would do for Uncle Simon's kindling wood.
"Eight boys to a sledge, four on each side, with a firm grasp on the strap, and no racing, unless—well, unless you have to keep up with the other sledge," commanded the General. "Now on with your skates again."
"Can you skate, General?" asked Gordon.
"Skate? Of course I can. Brigade is a pretty high-sounding name for so small a company, but we shall do the work of one."
"The fire is pretty low," said Jack, regretfully, as he looked at the fast-dying flames.
"I don't care," said Hugh Bently. "Uncle Simon sha'n't suffer from cold if I can help it."
Before starting off, General Washington produced a large covered basket from behind a log. This he placed on the front of one of the sledges, and secured firmly. He said that it was his present to Uncle Simon.
While these scenes were being enacted at the Curve, Uncle Simon, in his cottage at the Ledge, sat by his hearth, looking despondently into the fire that was fast disappearing up the chimney in smoke. His thoughts ran something in this way:
"I shall have to go to bed pretty soon and stay there to keep warm. No more wood, and nothin' to eat in the house."
Here a twinge of rheumatism made him screw up his face, and his thoughts became, in consequence, still more bitter.
"I've done many a good turn to folks in my life. Every boy in Landon ought to be here this minute waiting on me. The ungrateful little rascals, never to think of—" Just here his thoughts were interrupted by a loud rap on the door. "Come in," said Uncle Simon, starting up, then sinking back in his chair as another twinge seized him. "Come in."
But he was not prepared to see sixteen of the young rascals march in with skates on their arms, and headed by a tall figure in military dress carrying a basket. The small room was full.
"What's this? What's this?" said the old man.
"We are the Landon Skating Brigade," said their leader. "Our headquarters are at the Curve, and we have brought you some wood and some provisions for Washington's birthday. We intend to split the wood, too."
The boys looked at one another in dismay. This was more than they had bargained for, and Ralph gave a low growl of disapproval. The spirit of the occasion, however, was on them, and the General went on, uninterrupted:
"Perhaps you don't remember the boy you fished out of the Dip five summers ago, just as he was going down the third time?" With this remark the General took off his cocked-hat, and with it came the wig.
"George Hastings!" exclaimed the old man.
"Yes, George Washington Hastings." Young Hastings explained that he was home from college to spend his birthday, had heard of Uncle Simon having a visit from his old enemy, the rheumatism, and of the preparations going on at the Curve. "Then I planned this campaign," he ended.
"It beats everythin'—it beats everythin'! You are a second George Washington," said Uncle Simon, in a choked voice.
The boys made three more trips to the Ledge that night, and on the last one they insisted on giving George Washington a ride.
Uncle Simon did not suffer any more from cold or hunger, for he was cared for by the Landon Skating Brigade.
After Abel Norton had left the young man whom he supposed to be his friend George Frothingham, the spy, he hurried over to the westward toward the rocky shore of the Hudson. Abel had never seen the "other half," and did not know that George had a twin brother who might pass for his reflection in a mirror, even to the curve of his little finger-tip.
The scheme for the capture of General Howe or his brother had fallen through completely, and the two gentlemen, for some reason, had been more wary than usual about accepting promiscuous invitations. Abel's only wish now was to assist in relieving George (now that his wound enabled him some freedom) from the danger of being a "mysterious prisoner." He knew that if the latter's identity were disclosed he would get short shrift and no favor.
"Was it not lucky I met him? They must fare well at the sugar-house," Abel said to himself, as he plunged down a steep bank into a rocky hollow.
There was a cluster of huts nestling opposite. Wooden screens from which in the spring and fall the fish-nets were hung to dry surrounded them. A few boats were hauled bottom upward before the door, and the icy water of the Hudson lapped the shore of a small inlet only a stone's throw distant. As he reached the door of one of the larger hovels he was seized with a violent attack of coughing, and in the midst of it the door was opened, and a rough, bearded man stood there holding a flickering candle, which he was shielding with his knotty fingers.
"What in the name of glory have we here?" he asked.
"Jonas, good friend, it is I," spluttered Abel. "There's work for you and Roger to-night, and money in it."
"Well," replied the man, speaking in a deep drawling tone, "come inside."
He held the door open, and Mr. Norton essayed to pass him. A coughing fit more violent than the first struck him like an internal hurricane, and, being close to the candle, the blast from his lips extinguished the light in an instant.
"You must have swallowed the north wind," said the fisherman. "Roger, lad, get a light."
There was a movement in the further corner, and a young man raking together the embers of the fire in the large stone fireplace. A blaze broke out, and the candle was soon relit, throwing dancing shadows over the beams strung with gill and seine nets. Piles of floats were littered about, a sheaf of oars and a few sturgeon lances stood in the corner. The floor was covered with shavings.
"And what is the business on a night like this?" spoke up the younger man, whom the other addressed as "Roger."
"You are to row a silent man across the river."
"It's a bad night to cross," growled the older fisherman, looking out through the little window at the snow-flakes sifting through the ray of light.
"There's gold for you in the venture," coughed Abel Norton, who had regained his composure partly, but was wheezing badly. He shook the water from the shoulders of his great coat, and dove into a capacious pocket. "This will be doubled if you succeed," he said, putting two gold pieces on the edge of a sawhorse.
"What time and where, Mr. Norton?" said the younger man, more respectfully.
"Be at Striker's wharf at eleven o'clock. A tall young man will hail you. Ask no questions, but put him on the other side. He may add something to this himself."
"Will we try it, lad?" put in the older fisherman.
"Aye," was the response; "we have butted the tide at a worse hour for good reason."
A minute more Abel was outside and climbing the bank; he skirted through the vacant fields, and again was amidst the houses. The effect of his illness was apparent, his steps were rather faltering, and it was ten o'clock when he reached Broadway. He turned down the lane, and stopped before the brick house in which Mr. Anderson had once held his school. He knocked on the door, and a lanky servant girl admitted him. "I would see your master at once," said Abel, as he passed on into the study.
Mr. Anderson was seated at the end of the long table, his great horn spectacles giving him an expression of constant surprise. A green shade shielded his eyes from the glare of a bright lamp. "Gadzooks!" he exclaimed. "Are you not taking risks, out on such a night as this?"
"There are larger risks often taken," responded the older man, throwing himself back in a chair and pulling at his neckerchief. "I am going to break a rule, for the matter is urgent. We must talk despite the embargo laid on certain subjects of conversation. Listen. Our young friend has escaped. Number Four has broken out."
"I did not know it was to be to-night," said Mr. Anderson. "Are you sure? I was at the prison this afternoon, and saw no signal. You remember, if everything was ready, he was to place two crusts of bread outside the door of his cell. Only one was there. That meant to-morrow."
"Nevertheless, I saw him and talked with him not two hours agone," answered Abel.
"The boat—" began the schoolmaster, excitedly.
"They will meet him at Striker's wharf at eleven o'clock. The last patrol goes down at half past ten."
"You have done good work; but one more question, and then, we will resume the rules. How was he dressed?"
"In the uniform of a British officer," answered Abel.
"Whew!" whistled Mr. Anderson. "There may be some mistake."
"No chance of it," said Abel. "I talked with him."
Mr. Anderson had arisen and taken off his spectacles. He reached down from a hook a fine fur-lined coat, and was stretching it across his shoulders. "You had best home and to bed, good friend," he said. "We'll say no more upon the subject. It's a fine night."
"Aye, for in-doors," coughed Abel Norton; and both conspirators passed out into the cold air. They parted on the door-step. It had stopped snowing.
A wise plan for plotters to follow is that of never referring, even amongst themselves, by word of mouth to the matter they wish kept secret. If each receives his instructions from one source, and acts accordingly, there is a better chance for success and less danger of detection.
The friends of American liberty that had remained banded together in the city for the purpose of supplying Washington with information had adopted this wise plan. Their orders were received from Number One, who was none other than that trusted servant of the King, Rivington, printer by special appointment to his Majesty. This worthy had come to the patriot cause early in the fall. But he was the last man to suspect.
The conspirators were seldom or never seen in one another's company, and some were not even supposed to know the others. The action and discoveries of each, however, were made understood by their system of cipher correspondence. As an instance of the relation, the captain and lieutenant (Rivington and Anderson) were supposed to be on terms of bitter enmity.
The latter was now making all haste to gain the lower part of town. A suspicion had seized him that perhaps everything was not right. When he came to the City Arms he hurried into the coffee-room.
A young officer with a deep bass voice was singing a song full of sighs and apostrophes to some distant fair one.
Mr. Anderson slid into an empty chair and joined in the noise and applause that followed the musical effort. He then turned to his neighbor.
"Ah, Captain Markham," he said, "have you seen our handsome young friend, Lieutenant Frothingham, to-night?"
"I was talking to him less than an hour ago," replied the Captain, who, strange to say, was not in his cups. "He was to return, I take it, from what he said."
Hardly had bespoken the words when the subject of them entered. William's face wore a preoccupied expression, and seeing one of the inn servants, he beckoned him to one side. Mr. Anderson caught the gesture, and noticed that the servant had followed the Lieutenant into the hallway.
If by chance he could have seen what occurred he would have been surprised, for, after a short conversation, the servant departed with three gold pieces clinking in his palm. He had then made his way to the stables and aroused one of the tall young grooms. From the stables he had walked to William's lodgings with a complete suit of the groom's clothing over his arm. It comprised a short jacket and leather gaiters like those worn by the young prisoner at the sugar-house, a good costume for facing the snow.
William entered the room a second time, and seeing Mr. Anderson, dragged a chair across and sat down close to him.
The little schoolmaster drew a secret from a simple nature with as much delight as a keen terrier would draw a badger from his hiding-place.
"What do you think has happened?" he inquired, to see how much the young man knew.
"Concerning what?" answered William, on his guard.
"Concerning the person uppermost in your mind," returned the schoolmaster.
"I hope nothing ill," was William's anxious interruption.
"No, no, perhaps not ill. 'Twas good you warned me."
"It has caused me many sleepless hours," said William. "Let us draw apart, for I must talk freely with you."
They pushed back their chairs, and sought a deserted corner by the open fireplace.
"As a lad," remarked Mr. Anderson, "your brother was not prone to waste words. You are like him. Talk quickly."
"I am betwixt two fires," said the young man—"my duty and my affections, Mr. Anderson. You know me. I love my brother as I love my life, but I serve my—"
"King," suggested the schoolmaster.
"King," repeated William, wondering why he had found it so difficult to say country, as he had intended. "I would die to save my brother's life, I think most honestly," went on the young Lieutenant. "I would that he was free, but I cannot, any more than you, connive at the escape of a prisoner who might bear important news to the enemy. There is nothing wrong in feigning to know naught of his existence, but to aid in his escape I could not. Therefore I told you, and left the matter in your hands, knowing your interest. You think not harshly of me? Pray think how you would feel were you in my position. I feel sometime as if I were not young at all, as if the separation from the brother who is in my heart had aged me far beyond my years, so deeply do I feel it."
"You said that you could trust me with his welfare. Now, prithee, what has brought the subject up in this new light?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson. "Remember that should it be known who he was, and the authorities should find out what a dangerous person had been amongst them, his life would not be worth the dregs in that wine-glass."
William shuddered. "There's a plot to aid in his escape."
"That I know well," returned the schoolmaster. "If it were frustrated and he kept safe, you would rejoice—hey?"
"'Twould be my duty," returned William.
"Have you aught against the calling of a spy?" inquired Schoolmaster Anderson.
William reflected. "If it were base to be one," he replied, "my brother George would have been far from it, that I promise you. A spy risks his life to serve his king—"
"Or country," put in Mr. Anderson. "Ay, he is usually a brave, fearless man, and should not be condemned. He can harm no one but his enemy."
"The stake he plays for is his life," continued William.
"Now the one who spoke to you to-night—" said Mr. Anderson, as if carrying on a train of thought of his own.
"Spoke to me, sir? I said naught concerning that," answered the young man, hastily.
"If he had knowledge who you were—"
"But he mistook me," again interrupted William. "What are you driving at? To whom do you refer?"
"His name has slipped me," replied the schoolmaster. "You may be able to jog my memory. I saw you talking with him a short while ago. I can find out easily."
"No; listen," said William. And then he told of his meeting with Abel Norton, and the conversation in the doorway, omitting, however, entirely the reference to the boat.
When he had finished Mr. Anderson replied. "This is interesting news to me," he said; "but it was not to this strange person that I referred. It was to your neighbor at the table, Captain—what's his name?—over there, who had been talking to you before you left. So that was an adventure on the street? What are you going to do?"
William saw that he had been trapped into telling what he had better, perhaps, have kept quiet. "I have been ordered to the forces at the north," he said, confused.
"Indeed?" replied Schoolmaster Anderson. "Success to you. I judged that you were not a kind to idle in tavern parlors, or your regiment one to grow stale in barracks."
"But I am going alone," said William, entrapped again.
"Ah!" said the schoolmaster; "much better, mayhap; changes are oft for the best." A roar of laughter from the table attracted his attention. "Come, we are missing all the gayety," he said. And slipping his arm through William's, he strolled up and joined the group, who were listening to a red-faced adjutant relating a story of being lost in an Irish bog.
When William looked around a moment or so later the schoolmaster had disappeared.
He had slipped away unnoticed, and his nimble feet were flying up the road. He swung about the corner into Vine Street. The sentry at the door of the prison was fast asleep, his heavy head resting on his folded arms. The schoolmaster ducked adroitly underneath him and opened the door; he crossed the court-yard to the prison entrance, and pulled the bell. There was a stirring within, and the jailer stood there unsteadily, half asleep, with a blanket thrown about his shoulders.
"What want you now?" he asked.
"The prisoner on the second floor," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "His Lordship would have him examined. Know you whether he has a birth-mark on his cheek?"
"I don't know or care," answered the jailer.
"'Tis to decide a wager," said the little man, clicking his heels together, "and if he has not one, half of it is for yourself. You remember the inspection the other day?"
"Ay," said the jailer. "Is the bet for a large amount?"
"Wait until you hear," laughed the schoolmaster. "I saw it plainly. Come, let us up, I say."
But now the jailer took a sudden turn. "I would not have him disturbed. I have a kindly feeling for the lad."
"What, turning soft-hearted?" answered the schoolmaster, who had already pushed half up the stairway. He picked up a lantern from the wall.
"Leave the poor lad alone," said the jailer, gruffly.
By this time the sound of Mr. Anderson's heels was echoing down the corridor. He held the lantern above his head, and a look of astonishment spread over his features.
He retraced his steps to where the jailer stood, leaning against the wall, his hands outstretched for support.
"You may save your pity and your solicitude," said Mr. Anderson, banging up the lantern. "There will be some reckoning made for this condition of affairs to-night."
"What? What?" stammered the jailer.
"Mark what I say," went on the schoolmaster, looking the other squarely in the face with his twinkling ferretlike eyes. "Your prisoner has escaped. You careless sluggard!"
Of course all this requires an explanation.
It had been a momentous day for the prisoner in the little cell. The signal, as agreed upon in another cipher letter which had been smuggled in to him, was this: If the bars were ready to be misplaced he would put two crusts of bread outside the doorway of his cell; if for any reason the time should be postponed, only one would be placed on the flagging. Some one on an ostensible visit to another part of the jail would be on the lookout for this simple sign. It happened that just before this visit was paid, the under jailer, unseen, swept away one of the crusts of bread, so the signal appeared to read for the following night.
The bars, however, were ready to be removed. It would take but a slight exertion to make a hole large enough for him to draw his body through. But how to escape from the door below or to pass the sentry at the gateway?
When the second jailer appeared early in the evening, George stopped him and handed him five golden guineas. "Have a feast at my expense," he said. "Share it with the people here who have been so good to me; to-day is my birthday." (This was a fact, and, for that reason, William's as well.) "Listen, also; go you to Fraunce's Tavern and buy four bottles of the best Lone Star Madeira. Present them to the head prison-keeper with the compliments of an officer. Pretend you do not know from whom they come. He might not accept them from a prisoner in his care."
Probably the man had never held so much gold in the grasp of his dirty fingers before. He fairly grovelled. "Lord bless you, sir, leave me to do the lying," he said.
George's last generous offer had almost proved his undoing, for shortly after dark he had heard the sounds of carousing and some merriment from the jailer's quarters. The sentry at the head of the stairs had disappeared, and the sound of the file biting away the last remaining bits of steel would have been audible were it not for the clamor below. He was about to push the loosened iron out when a wheezy voice humming a snatch of a song was heard coming down the corridor. It was the head jailer.
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,"
he chanted thickly. "I can be generous as well as other folk. I am not a hard man. My guest of honor must drink with me." In an instant he was before the doorway. "Here's a good health to you, my unknown friend. Long live the King!" With that the jailer wavered unsteadily and tossed off a glass of Madeira.
George feared that he was about to be discovered, and pretended sleep; but this was all the visit amounted to, for soon he heard the heavy footsteps lumber down the stairway, still protesting that it was not "a flint heart."
Now was the time. George pushed the bars gently, and they came off without much trouble. He laid them on the quilt, and drew himself through the aperture, then he tiptoed carefully down the steps.
A ray of light from a room to the right showed that the door was partly ajar. He looked inside. The jailer was fast asleep. Before him on the table wore three empty bottles of Madeira. A heavy military cloak hung from a peg at one side, and a huge three-cornered hat above it. George throw the cloak about his shoulders and placed the hat upon his head. It came down over his ears. He drew the bolt of the big front door and stepped out under the stars—for it had ceased snowing—and into the court-yard. The only entrance was guarded by a man leaning on his musket.
How to pass him was the question. But as the young fugitive drew nearer he perceived that the tall soldier was fast asleep. He was leaning on one side of the door with his foot propped against a post on the other. His leg made a barrier.
Making his body as small as possible, George essayed to stoop under the outstretched leg; but his shoulder jostled the sentry, and he awoke. George recognized the ex-corporal.
"Well, well, McCune," he said, shaking the man roughly; "asleep at your post, man! It will never do!"
The sentry drew himself up as best he could, and his musket snapped to a present. "Pardon me, Lieutenant," he said. "Do not report me, or I will get the lash." The poor fellow trembled as he spoke.
"Let it not occur again," said George, "and I will see."
"May the saints bless you, sir!" said the sentry thickly, as he watched the figure of his supposed officer disappearing about the corner. It was at this moment that Anderson and William were holding their talk at the tavern.
At eleven o'clock a small boat jumped about under the rafters at the end of Striker's wharf. A man with a boat-hook held it securely against the pier head.
"'Tis time he were coming," he said to another behind.
At that moment a soft hail was heard, and a young man bent over the edge of the timbers. In an instant he had lowered himself into the boat, the oars were manned, and it had swept out into the swirling tide of the river.
Hardly had it disappeared when another figure of the same size and general appearance came on a quick walk to the water's edge. He hailed softly, looking under the pier.
There was no answer, or no boat in sight. The cloaked figure then turned about and hurried back to the eastward.
Had something gone amiss?
You have taken off your overcoat and made yourself as comfortable as possible in an angular little folding-chair that never was intended to give any human being a minute's comfort. The orchestra has crashed through the last measures of the overture. The footlights are turned up; the auditorium lights are turned down; the curtain rises. You see a beautiful valley, winding away among very purple mountains till it loses itself in the crimson of the glowing sunset. The sky is as luminous as if it were nature itself, and you are almost tempted to believe that the rear wall of the theatre has been removed, and that you are looking out at something real. Presently you notice a few soft fleecy clouds drifting across the sky. The crimson fades gradually, and the pale gray of a brief twilight follows. The sky grows darker and darker, and presently you see the twinkle of a single star, then another and another. And now a gentle greenish glow begins to pervade the scene. It increases in power till the stage is flooded with the bright refulgence of a summer moon. The whole thing is beautifully managed, and is most realistic.
But after a time the moonlight fades out, and leaves behind it a threatening gloom. A dull distant peal of thunder proclaims the approach of a storm. There is a flash of lightning. The storm breaks. Peal upon peal of crashing thunder rends the sky. The wind howls and shrieks, and the sharp cut of the driving rain is distinctly heard. The curtain falls at the end of the act, and you rub your eyes and wonder if you have been dreaming or have really seen these things on a wooden stage.
The next act shows a scene in the forest, and as the sunlight filters through the rustling leaves, the dancing shadows on rock and trunk are plainly seen. Again the scene changes. This time it is a fire. The stage is filled with flames and smoke and the crash of falling timbers. You are almost tempted to believe that the house is really afire. But the same old curtain comes down at the end, and only a strong smell of powder reminds you of what you have seen. In the last act of this surprising play the hero and heroine, converted into disembodied spirits, go to the heavenly regions on a winged horse; and you see them, glowing with supernatural light, go flying across the deep blue sky. You leave the theatre in a state of wonder.
How is it all done?
Of course I have been imagining a play in which many different effects were combined; but nevertheless you have seen these illusions, though not all in the same play.
Spectral appearances are often managed nowadays with a stereopticon. For instance, in Siegfried there is a scene in the forest in which the music of the opera is supposed to depict the rustling of the leaves. In order to heighten the effect of this scene it is customary to produce the illusion of the flickering of the sunlight caused by the waving foliage. This is done by means of movable glasses, something like the arrangement of a kaleidoscope without the variety of colors. The white light is thrown through these moving glasses, and the audience sees the waving shadows, as if caused by sunlight filtering through wind-shaken leaves. In the last act of Die Walküre the sisters of Brünnhilde are heard coming through the air to their customary place of assembly to the wild measures of the "Ride of the Valkyries." It is also necessary that they should be seen. This necessity is fulfilled by the stereopticon. A picture of a Valkyr maid mounted on her steed is thrown on the dark drop-curtain at the back of the stage, and is made to pass from the upper left-hand corner down to the lower right-hand corner. By keeping the power of the light at a moderate pitch, the picture is prevented from being too hard and definite. Again, when the sisters, fleeing before the angry Wotan, depart in a body, a picture representing the group passes from the lower right-hand corner to the upper left-hand corner, while the stormy music of the "Ride" dies away. The effect is very fine indeed.
In the Flying Dutchman there is a view of the sea in the first scene, and a gale of wind is supposed to be blowing. The audience sees thin, gray, filmy scud scurrying across the sky from the beginning of the scene until the gale ends. This is also a stereopticon effect, and is produced by passing properly painted glasses across the opening of the lens. These few instances will give the reader some idea of the part which the stereopticon now plays in the illusions of the stage. It cannot be said that the results are always satisfactory, and, no doubt, in the course of time a better plan will be introduced.
One of the most familiar and beautiful effects produced upon the stage is the change from day to night or from night to day. The former, owing to the conditions surrounding stage illusions, is the more striking, and is that most frequently seen. In order to produce this effect the rearmost piece of scenery is a "drop," which is made about double the height of the ordinary scenes. This drop is painted to represent sky. The lower half is colored with the bright tints of the sunset, and these gradually blend in the middle of the drop into the subdued shades of a moonlit night. Sometimes the setting sun itself is shown, and this is effected by cutting a circular hole in the drop, pasting a piece of red muslin over the back of it, and putting a light behind it. The drop is now hung so that the lower half alone is visible. Now the scenery of the distance is painted upon a separate piece, which is "profiled"—that is, the irregular line made by trees, houses, mountains, etc., is cut out with a circular saw. This profile piece is set about four feet in front of the sky drop. Some six or eight feet further toward the front is hung what is called a cut-gauze drop, though this is sometimes omitted, especially if the view at the rear embraces an expanse of water. If it is woods, however, the cut-gauze drop is always used. This drop has sides and a top of canvas, painted as the case requires. The open central part is filled with stout gauze netting, which gives a charming aerial effect to the distance.
Now all is ready for the sunset except the lights, which are arranged thus: Behind the profile a row runs across the stage to throw its light on the lower part of the sky drop. The top part is illuminated by the border lights. A similar arrangement is made in front of the profile, while the foreground depends for its light on the borders and footlights. In all new theatres these are electric lights in three circuits. One circuit consists of lights with white globes, another red, and the third green. For broad daylight effects the white are used. In the scene we are describing, beginning with sunset, the red circuit is turned on. Calcium-lights with red glasses are stationed at the sides of the stage, and thus the whole scene is suffused with a glow of red light. The change from sunset to moonlight is effected by slowly and imperceptibly lowering the sky drop. As the sun disappears behind the distant hills the red "mediums," as they are called, are turned off and the green ones gradually turned on. When the night sky has fairly got down to its place the green mediums are all turned on at full force, and green glasses are placed in front of the calciums. The stage appears now to be flooded with moonlight. Of course the moon cannot be shown, for it would naturally be too far toward the audience. I was once in a theatre where the sun went down behind a mountain, and in half a minute the moon rose in the very same place. And the strangest part of it was that the audience did not pay any attention to this astounding freak of nature.
The change from moonlight to sunrise is, of course, effected by simply reversing the process just described. Either one of these changes may be rendered more effective by certain additions. For instance, in the sunset part of the drop all the spaces between the clouds may be cut out. Muslin is then pasted over these openings, and is painted to represent the sky between the clouds. By placing lights behind this muslin a beautiful transparent sky is produced, and by gradually changing the color and intensity of the light as the sun goes down the appearance of the scene is made very realistic. This method is seldom employed, except in plays in which the scenic effects are an important element. A moonlit river is made also by cutting out the canvas, putting in muslin, and lighting it from the rear.
Moonrise is produced with a sky drop, cut out between the clouds, as in the case of the sunset just described, and a "moon-box." This moon-box is simply a box with a circular hole cut in one side of it. Over this hole is pasted a piece of white muslin, and inside the box is a light. The box is placed behind the muslin sky drop, with the hole against the drop. The light is turned on, and the moon is drawn slowly upward by wires. Of course the illuminated face of the moon shows through the muslin, and disappears when it passes behind the thick canvas clouds. By having another piece of muslin painted red, and imperceptibly fading to white in its upper part, the orb of night can be made to appear red at the horizon, and gradually change to pale yellow as it floats upward, just as it does on a summer night. A few floating clouds may be added to the general effect by hanging in front of the sky drop a gauze drop with a few muslin clouds sewn on it, and moving the whole slowly. These matters charm the eye and create an illusion when they are skilfully managed.
I spoke of a moonlit river. Sometimes you see in the theatre a river or a bay which does not simply lie calmly luminous under the rays of the stage moon, but which sparkles with dancing ripples. This is a very pretty stage effect, and is by no means difficult to produce. The position of the moon having been determined, the next thing is to make what Mr. Howard Pyle so gracefully describes as the "moon path." Beginning at the upper edge of the water, a number of irregular holes are cut in the scene. These are then covered on the back with muslin, and the whole is painted over to represent water. Behind these holes is placed an endless sheet of canvas, passing around two cylinders of wood, one at the top and the other at the bottom. The lower cylinder has a crank by which the sheet is turned. In the sheet are cut a number of holes similar to those in the scene. A strong light is now placed between the two sides of the sheet. When the crank is turned the flashing of the light from the moving holes in the sheet through the stationary ones in the scene produces a fine ripple. It is necessary to turn the crank so that the front part of the sheet is always ascending, because in this way the holes through which the light flows pass upward, and that makes the mimic waves seem to dance upward toward the sky. Sometimes the man who turns the crank becomes tired, and the audience is surprised to see the ripples go by fits and starts. For this reason an electric motor is better, or a steam attachment, if such a thing can be had in the theatre. The moonlit sky above the waters may be improved by the addition of a few twinkling stars, and these are easily enough produced by hanging large spangles on bent pins. The slightest tremor of the drop will cause them to shake, and the flashing of the light which they reflect produces the illusion of twinkling.
Some agreeable writer, whose name I have forgotten, said that there was no art which had so many devotees as music, and none of which there was such widespread ignorance. If I should say that there must be in the city of New York not less than 50,000 girls engaged in learning how to play upon the piano, I should perhaps astonish some of the readers of this paper, yet it is my firm belief that these figures are much too small. Such institutions as the National Conservatory of Music and the New York College of Music have each from 600 to 800 piano students, and there are some thirty smaller conservatories in the city. The number of private pupils is enormous, and one often wonders whether it can be possible that Americans are so fond of music that every family contains a student. The truth is, however, that nine-tenths of the girls who study the piano—I had almost said study music, but they do not do that—are actuated not by a love of music, but simply by a desire to possess an accomplishment. These young women are quite contented if they can acquire sufficient technical skill to perform a few brilliant, showy pieces in such a manner as to surprise their friends. There are a few, of course, who learn to play the piano because they are really fond of music, and desire to be able to give themselves artistic pleasure. And there are a few others who are studying seriously in the hope of becoming fine artists, capable of delighting the public, or, at the worst, of becoming professors in conservatories. Even then they are not much worse off than the great artists of the concert stage, for it is only once in a generation that a man like Paderewski arises, who can earn hundreds of thousands of dollars. Most of the noted pianists are compelled to teach in order to make a living, for concert engagements are not numerous. Their devotion to their art is the result of a deep and absorbing love for it, which must be its own reward.
Life in the music schools of New York is by no means as picturesque as life in the art schools, so charmingly described by Mr. Ralph; but it is interesting, and it has a remarkable jargon of its own, quite unintelligible to the non-musical person. The girls—the boy students are very few—flock to the New York schools from the entire surrounding country. Every morning train brings them from Newark, Paterson, Elizabeth, Yonkers, Tarrytown, Nyack, Greenwich, and other outlying towns and cities, where, indeed, good teachers may often be found, but not the advantage of conservatory systems. The New York girls come in street cars, in carriages with liveried coachmen, and on foot, for the students are of all classes. It is an inspiriting sight to see them trooping in on a stormy winter morning, with their heavy wraps, their snow-covered furs, their stout overshoes, their arms full of music, their cheeks full of roses, and their eyes dancing with the glow of exercise. Then there is the usual chatter about the lessons as they assemble in the waiting-room.
"Oh, I don't believe I shall ever manage that queer passage in the bass—the one where the chord of five notes is, don't you know?"
"Yes, I had that sonata last year; but, my dear, it's child's play to the Schumann piece I have now."
"Oh, dear!" says another, drearily, "I do wish that Bach had never lived. I'm sure I can't see anything pretty in his eternal fugues."
"Well, I don't think they're any worse than these Deppe two-finger exercises."
"Wait till you begin counterpoint, dear," says another, consolingly.
And then the bell strikes, and off they all go, still chattering, to the various class-rooms or lesson-rooms. A few minutes later the conservatory becomes a dreadful babel of confused sounds. Down in the basement some one is groaning out an organ fugue by Thiele, with a great clattering of heels on the pedals. On the first floor the sight-reading class is droning angularly a part song by Weinzierl in the large room, while in the apartment next to them the "gold medal" pupil is pounding Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques into sounding brass without any tinkling of cymbals. Upstairs one young woman is pursuing the uneven sopranos of her way up and down the scale, a boy is playing a violin étude in several kinds of pitch, and a dozen girls are hammering out their semi-weekly allowance of Bach, Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, and Chopin all at once. The teachers—German, Polish, Russian, French, Italian, occasionally American—sit, stand, or pace the floor, according to their temperaments, and correct, guide, and urge gently or excitably as the case may be.
"No, my dear, the accent on the second beat, and the pedal taken after it, and held over to the first beat of the next bar."
"Ach! You, dere! You play mit your knuckle! Vat is dat? Bay, bay; hit de bay!"
"Ah, mon enfant! You sing wiz ze troat vide oppen, so—ba-a-a-ah. Is it not? Vell, I vish you sing viz ze glottis a lettle pinch, so—bu-u-u-uh. Now, sing."
And the unhappy pupil closes her throat up, as if she had a sort of artistic croup, and tries to force her voice through by main strength. In the mass of pupils in the conservatory there are always twenty or thirty who are studying seriously, with the hope of making artistic careers for themselves. These do not simply study the pianos or singing; they study music, which is a vastly more laborious undertaking. For once a week there is the lesson in harmony, which is one of the driest and most discouraging topics in the world. Yet no one can be said to know anything about music who does not understand harmony. Just think of it—harmony, counterpoint and fugue, form, theory, composition, instrumentation, sight-reading, history of music. Those are the subjects which the educated musician must know, and they are all taught in the regular music-schools. Harmony is the science of chords, you know. The teacher explains the laws by which the various intervals are governed, leading the pupil step by step till he has advanced from a simple "resolution" like this: