IN THE LAND OF JOSEPHINE. 373

for one of the Eskimos to make a feintwith the lance as if to strike the rightside of the bear as it rears on its hindlegs, then the other Eskimo plungeshis spear into the unguarded left side.Accounts vary regarding the courage ofthe Polar bear. He is agile, notwith-standing his size, and is very powerful.A full-grown specimen will weigh fromtwelve to fifteen hundred pounds.

On another occasion Dumphy sungout from his perch in the crow’s nestthat there was a bear ahead. Off theport bow, not far distant, his Polarmajesty was seen resting on a small icecake. As we steamed nearer, it wasproposed to lower the boat, that wemight have a nearer and more interest-ing combat. But Captain Pike orderedthe Kite to steam up to the ice cake.As we approached within one hundredyards, the superb, white-haired animalbegan to grow uneasy, and finally stoodon his hind quarters and gazed at uswith evident anxiety. When we were

I N T H E L A N D

BY WALTER

about one hundred and fifty feet fromhim, the word was given and severalbullets took effect. He started forward,staggered, recovered himself, ran for-ward again as if to jump off into thewater, then changed his mind. He turned,roared in rage, reared himself on hishaunches and reached out his powerfulfore legs, as if he would strangle us all.A second volley stretched him on theice. It was a pity to slaughter the pooranimal in such a manner, when he wascompletely at our mercy. It wouldhave been far more interesting if wehad turned loose the five magnificentEskimo dogs which Lieutenant Pearyhad brought along. They were thesmall remnant of thirteen that he tookwith him on his inland trip, and werefine specimens, the best bear dogs inNorth Greenland. The bear was soonhauled on board with block and tackle.He was young, seven feet long, andwith long, soft, white hair. This wasour last hunt in the Arctic regions.

O F J O S E P H I N E .

L. BEASLEY.

Concluded from January.

ONE has to go but a few stepsin the land of Josephine to bereminded of the power of theChurch; for along all the road-

ways on the top of the Mornes areshrines and stations of the Cross, someof these fitly embedded in the depth ofwoodland foliage. How often have Iseen a kneeling figure bending low be-fore these tiny altars? How often haveI listened to the chimes of the cathedral,the vesper bell calling all to a com-mon shrine?

Who could ever forget the impas-sioned fervor of a confirmation, or a firstcommunion day? The throngs of piouslookers on; the procession of white-veiled maidens treading solemnly downthe aisle; the fine ceremonial pomp, theuniformed chamberlain with plumedhat and gilded staff giving plentifulorders to maintain due reverence; thefinal march of the bride-like confirmantsheaded by the bishop and his retinueof priests carrying holy banners ontheir way to the residence of his gracein the rear, near the Cimetiere Du

gateway of governor’s residence. (p. 374.)

374 O U T I N G F O R F E B R U A R Y .

Mouillage; and the final dispersion amid among these, The Chappelle of “Lathe congratulations of admiring friends Calvarie,” which crowns the summit ofand parents. the hill just back of the city, and is the

The special objective point of our pil- largest and finest of the many shrinesgrimage, the home of Josephine, is on the island.reached from Fort de France, which is On certain evenings, when the bandonly an hour anda hal f ’ s r ide bythe little steamertha t l e ave s S t .Pierre twice daily.The voyage thith-er is made nearthe main land,close enough toobserve the cocoa-nuts h a n g i n gfrom the long, al-mos t unbrokens p a n o f c o c o apalms that l inethe beach, Nowand then the boatglides past pre-cipitous cliffs, soabrupt that theys e e m t o h a v ebeen chiseled bythe hand of man;back of these arerising elevationswhose pinnaclesstand out in boldrelief from their

a creole beauty.

plays, one can seehere the wholeplace on dress pa-rade . Europeanladies frequent itin company withthe gay uniformedofficers, all prom-e n a d i n g t o t h es t e p o f Frenchairs, while to andfro pass gorgeous-ly dressed creolebeauties.

T h e c h i e fcharm, however,to the visitor, isthe marble statueof Josephine, re-calling a mourn-ful tale of royalglory. It was thegift of NapoleonIII. to the lovingfolk of the islandto perpetuate thememory of Jose-phine in the land

shadowy surroundings. On turning the of her birth. It stands near the cen-rocky projection the harbor and bay ofFort de France comes in sight. Steam-ing up to the long wooden pier, youalight amidst a host of market-women,Chinamen, coolies, merchants and plant-ers, and find yourself in the faded andhistoric city—the great Gibraltar of theWest Indies in former days, whosesquadron was the terror of the Antilles,and whose Governor’s son, AlexanderBeauharnais, became the husband of theyoung maid Josephine. Fort de France,or Port Royal, as it was formerly called,has a population of some 15,000 and re-ceives its impetus from the fact of itsbeing the center of all the governmentoffices. as well as the residence of theGovernor, which is on a bluff, overlook-ing the sea.*

Fort de France possesses a number ofattractions worthy of passing note,

*Since the return of the wri ter , news has beenreceived of the almost total destruction of Fort deFrance by fire. This is the second time devastation hasfallen upon the place. On the former occasion it wasvisited by an earthquake.

ter of the green Savannah, surroundedby nine ta l l s tate ly palms. A gownof the F i r s t Empi re enc i r c l e s thegracious form, the right arm is gentlyfolded while the other rests on a medall-ion of Napoleon. From beneath the cool-ing shades of one of the huge tamarindsthat skirts the borders of the Savannah,I longingly gazed at the chiseled crea-tion. It was late in the afternoon of aMay day, the warm south wind wassoftly blowing through the boughs ofthe tamarinds and mangoes, and theair was filled with some fairy odorwafted by the tropic zephyrs. No soundsave the chirping of some featheredsongster over head, or the dull thud of acoolie reaper’s blade mowing in the dis-tance disturbed the scene.

Nature seemed to remind me thatI was in the presence of a royal spirit.A drapery of mist had clothed themarble form; then, with one of thosesudden outbursts of tropic splendor,like a meteor of the night, there arose

I N T H E L A N D O F J O S E P H I N E . 375

from out the veil of gray, in a glis-tening mantle of stone, the resplendentvision of Josephine, the once idolizedEmpress of the French. To the beholderit is but one of the many pictures ofcherished hopes beaten down by the everchanging tempests of the world. Hermotionless figure seemed tinged withthe halo of holy meditation, and fromout the realms of my own fantasies, sheappeared a living, breathing saint, ratherthan marble immovable.

Through silver morning mists andgolden sunsets, beneath spectral skiesand moonlight nights, this snow whitef i gu re in peace fu l r e ve r i e i s g az-ing over the mirrored waters, far outinto the depths of celestial splendor,toward the purple slopes of dreamy

sions—the most pleasing and interest-ing of them all—namely, the visit to theold Pagerie homestead, where the Em-press Josephine was born. Taking ad-vantage of the brisk breeze of an earlymorning, with guide and boatman, I setsail, and soon the little craft was speed-ing through the blue waters, its prowturned towards Trois-Islets. We glidedinto a half-circle harbor, where we passedseveral cane-laden barges, which weremoored, waiting to be towed to somedistant refinery. A few shaky bamboopoles and planks form a sort of landing,upon which were a number of half-cladboys, who gazed at us with astonish-ment. Climbing the steep hill that leadsto the village above, the first object thatgreets the visitor is the church wherein

on the beach—st. pierre (p. 374.)

Trois-Islets where, among the droopingferns that encased her silvan home, thebirds once sang their fitful lullabies inthe halcyon clays of childhood, long ago.

I lingered several days here at theHotel de l’Europe, which overlooks theSavannah, waiting for an opportune timeto make the last of my Martinque excur-

Josephine was baptized and where hermother is entombed. Being a feast day,the church was nearly filled. On the out-side of the steps were a large number ofmen and women, the latter cleanly clad,their heads bedecked with turbans. Thewhite visitor was looked upon with somesurprise, and as soon as I entered the

O U T I N G F O R F E B R U A R Y .376

a bamboo grove.

usher offered to take me to forward seats,but this honor I declined. The goodpriest was severely scoring them inFrench for their non-attendance atchurch and evident carelessness as totheir spiritual condition. After the ser-mon, which was not a long one, I ex-plained my mission to the Father, who.greeted me courteously, leading the wayto the comer of the church, where I wasshown the tomb of Josephine’s mother.”On the darkened and time-worn slabwas the following:

“Here rests the venerable MadameRose Clair Duverger De Sannois,widow of M. J. G. Tascher dela Pagerie, Mother of Her MajestyThe Empress of the French. Diedthe 2nd day of June MDCCCVIIat the age of LXXXI years.”

* Josephine is buried in the Church of Rueil, SouthernFrance by the side of her daughter Hortense, who,through her marriage with Louis Napoleon, becameQueen of Holland.

Following the public roadas it winds around the top ofa r idge, the l i t t le curvedha rbor comes in to v i ewwhile in the distance is theoutline of Fort de France,with its gray old fort. Turn-ing to the left from near acrude statuesque shrine ofthe Virgin, I left the high-way and entered a val leyglowing in all the splendorsof tropic vegetation. Tra-versing the valley pathwayfor a mile or so, I reachedthe base of a gentle slopinghill, which was climbed ineager expectancy, in responseto a shout from the guideahead, “C’est la Maison deJosephine.” I paused underthe shade of a tree andl o o k e d b e l o w . N e s t l i n gthere in its decaying seclu-sion was the famous littlestructure, tenantless, a grimremnant of by-gone daysand imperial traditions—ameet resting-place, seeming-ly afar from the peopledworld, under the shadow ofimmortal hills.

Here extensive gardenswere once laid out, filledwith all the fragrant plantsand flowers of the tropics,whose growing vines formed

a ladder of entwining foliage, making adelicious retreat from the heated sun.Here, it is said, Josephine was wont toswing her hammock, and fanned by the

flowers, would read or listen to theperfumed breezes of the sweet-scented

Creole songs and folk-lore stories told byher attendants. But, alas! the relentlessscythe of Time has long since cut downthese shining beds of nature; one ortwo palms alone remain, casting blackshadows on the barren ground. Nearby is the well where it is alleged the oldnegress predicted the splendid future of

These all tend to recall the past, andJosephine—that of becoming a queen.

betoken freshening recollections of itsroyal occupant. Wondrous career thatof the planter Pagerie’s daughter; pre-senting every contrast of l ight andshade, joy and grief, intermingled withall the splendor, pomp and royalty thatcould be crowded into a lifetime. Few,

I N T H E L A N D O F J O S E P H I N E . 377

perchance, in the days of the old regime, entered, and climbing up a shatteredever dreamed that in the cycle of a few stairway, found myself in Josephine’syears the imperial palace of the Tuil- room. It will be remembered that someeries—the gilded home of Catherine de few weeks before her birth a terrificMedicis, of Louis XVI. and Marie An- hurricane swept over the Antilles ac-

a valley in martinique.

toinette—would become the abode of companied by water-spouts and earth-Josephine, the Martinique Creole. quakes, destroying everything in its

In company with the old keeper of the path. Huge slips in the harbor of Portestate, who for a quarter of a century Royal were tossed as bubbles into thehas watched over the little edifice, I air, buildings and plantations leveled

378 O U T I N G F O R F E B R U A R Y .

to the ground. The Pagerie residencestood on an eminence, and was a targetfor the fury of the elements. M. Pagerie,perceiving the imminent danger his fam-ily was in, took refuge in the sugar re-finery, whose thick walls and low loca-tion might withstand the ravages of thestorm. In this humble retreat Marie-Rose (afterwards christened Josephine)de la Pagerie was born, June 23, 1763.

One is pleased to linger here, lulled bythe shades of historic reverie. As I

came out the dark shadows were steal-ing over the land, and the southern sky,once cushioned with its lining of silverand gold, was now besprinkled withsomber masses. Bidding adieu to theold keeper, I wended my way towardthe hill-top, only to take a last farewellglance at the little home. The windwas sighing through its darkened cham-bers, and the crumbling roof was beingslowly enveloped in the hectic-tintedlong drapery of the melting clouds.

“c’est la maison de josephine.” (p. 376.)

THE MEXICAN DANCING GIRL.

BY JEAN LA RUE BURNETT.

SUDDEN tumult of wild melody,Then, shadow-like, athwart the terrace stairShe darts, and pausing in the moonlight there,

She flings her snapping castanets on high.

We hear the music surge and softly die,O’er creamy arms a sea of ebon hairFalls rippling down where supple limbs are bare;

A satin-slippered toe taps fretfully.

And then, we mark the rhyme of twinkling feet;Beneath a turbaned brow chameleon eyes

Flash passioned star-flames ’mid the amber gloom

As o’er us steals a languor strangely sweet,And while the dreamy songs of maidens rise

We catch the floating breath of spiced perfume.