The Libby herald. [volume], October 19, 1911, Image 2

About The Libby herald. [volume] (Libby, Mont.) 1911-1913

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F ALL the Normandy towns,
none is more charming than
Coutances, writes Edna Hal
loran in the Los Angels Times.
After several hours of jolting
through a beautiful country, a
ridiculous little box of a train depos
Ited us at the gate of Coutances on a
gray morning in June.
'The old ramparts which bound the
(town on three sides, give it, in per
spective, the appearance of clinging
to the hillside. The double row of
;giant trees edging the boulevard, rear
their massive boughs above the house
tops; the lofty spires of the cathedral
dominate the landscape. Steep, nar
row streets thread the ancient quar
ters. Old houses, blackened with age,
crowd together on the edge of the
sidewalks, their flat chimneys and
pointed roofs making a sharp, irregu
lar skyline. In almost every square,
smoky window a pot of flowering
plants makes a bit of color against the
dullness of the gray walls. The
heavy front doors are sometimes beau
tifully carved, a remnant of former
prosperity. And at an occasional
window hangs a curtain of fine lace.
it is essentially a town where the
land of Progress has been stayed.
Nothing changes, nothing advances,
snothing needs to. It is perfect as it
Is, and absolutely contented. On a
sunny morning old women, in their
immaculate fluted caps, full skirts and
'wooden sabots, sit on the doorsteps
annd knit incessantly, rat sleepy cats
bask in the pleasant warmth; boys
from the boulangerle, in their coarse
blue aprons, balance wicker baskets
filled with long loaves of bread; maids
sent out to market stop to gossip on
the Place; children clotter over the
cobblestones in their wooden shoes, a
serviette, bulging with school books,
under their arms.
In summer, in Normandy, the twi
light lasts all night. It never grows
dark from sunset to sunrise. Soon
after dinner in the evening, the sound
of voices and snatches of song came
up from the shadows in the valley
through which the river flows. The
women of the neighborhood were
washing in the lavoir, beating their
clothes on the wet stones at the
water's edge. Although knotted and
gnarled by hard work, yet these peas
ant women are good-humored and po
lite. One was a particularly friendly
soul, and told me that in Normandy
one did not speak French, only a
patois, for, ma fol, one had not the
time to learn pure French; life was
too shcat, and labor was too heavy.
The women indeed do men's work,
herding cattle, plowing fields, mowing
hay, carrying immense bundles, poised
on the shoulder, with no apparent ef
tort
In the shops, ruddy-faced old women
beam at you from under their clean
starched caps, and smilingly make you
buy, charging you two prices because
you are a foreigner. With all the
graciousness imaginable, everything
in stock is set out for your inspeo
tion - sabots, pictures, postcards,
trinket, lace-and a running fire of
conversation kept up in the mean
time. Madam has both time and cu
riosity for the strangers.
The cathedral is the one thing of
Coutances. It has long been consid
ered among the most beautiful exam
ples of Gothic architecture in France.
it is indeed magnificent, lofty and
pure in Its beauty. The slim coupled
columns meet in Gothic arches, the
lantern is formed from the beautiful
central tower, the rose window in the
nave are of old stained glass, the
carving of the triforium is exquisite,
the altars are works of a master hand.
The long pointed windows in the body
of the church, throw mellow, many
colored lights aeross the stone floor,
lighting here and there the deep
shadows of the aisles.
The greater part of the cathedral
waa built during the thirteenth cen
tury and is cited by Ruskin in his
"Lectures on Architecture" as being
"one of the earliest, if not the very
earliest, examples of the fully-devel
oped spire, showing the complete do
mesticity of the work, the evident
treatment of the church spire merely
as a magnified house roof."
The view from the top of the west
ern tower is deservedly renowned.
Below, in the foreground, are the
sloping fields; the green of the or
chards on the hillsides; an old mill
and its quiet stream; farther away,
the ruins of the Roman aqueduct; in
the distance, through the haze, rise
the Isle of Jersey and the roofs of
St. Malo.
In the medieval town of Dol the fif
teenth century houses are rather fa
mous for their oddity. Situated on
the Rue St. Jacques, their upper sto
ries project far over the lower, and
are supported by stone pillars, the
thatched roofs slope low over the
street, the rooms are mere holes,
blackened by squalor and constant
use. However, that does not at all
prevent their being occupied at the
present time, and the daily routine of
life continues quite as well within
their walls as between those of fresh
er and newer houses. Dol has also
a famous cathedral and one hoteL
And the hotel has a reputation of its
own. All the guide books state that
the b'st chocolate served in France
is to be had here.
The cathedral stands apart some
what isolated at the edge of the
town. Its most striking feature is the
fifteenth century portal on the south
side, with the beautiful porch of Saint
Magloire. It is most unique in its.
effect, its massive arches are exquis
itely carved, with designs in delicate
tracery over the doorway and about
the windows. Otherwise the exterior
is extremely simple, even plain, and is
not enhanced by one of the towers be.
ing unfinished.
The somber gloom of the interior
was lightened by dozens of candles
burning on the high altar. It was a
fete day, in whose honor the chapels
were decorated with gaudy artificial
flowers. The original stained glass
of the thirteenth century is still in.
tact in a large window in the choir;
in one of the transepts is the tomb of
Bishop James, who died in 1503; un
fortunately its sculpturing is mutilated
and marred and its statue by Jean
Juste, is lost.
One of the most beautiful inner
chapels is built in honor of St. Sam
son, an English monk to whom the ca
thedral is dedicated, and who to said
to have crossed the channel and
founded a monastery on the site of
DoL
Such Is Life.
"Here is the story in the morning
paper about a man who is the keeper
of one of the most vicious elephants
in captivity."
"Well, what about him?"
"Oh, nothing unusual. He claims
that he is being mistreated by his 90,
pound wife."
HONESTY OF THE CHINESE
Always Pay for Being Smuggled Into
This Country Even If Sent
Back.
"A talk with any smuggler who eves
sigaged in the business of bringing
Chinese into the United States con
trary to the immigration laws will suf
flce to establish the Chinaman's pro
verbial honesty in business transac
tions," said Guy E. Runyan of De
troit.
"I know of one old French Canadian
who in his younger days was a pro
fessional smuggler and operated on
the Canadian border. He did not deal
in furs or any articles of commerce.
Ie made a practise of smuggling
Chinamen across the border, and ac
cording to his own statement amassed
enough money to set himself up in a
comfortable business.
"He 'has often said that the duty of
a professional smuggler ended when
the Chiraman was landed on the soil
of the United States. Then it was
that the smuggler got his money. Aft
er that it did not fall to him to look
out for the Oriental who had been his
charge. Ninety-nine times out of a
hundred the Chinaman was appre
hended and sent back to his former
abode by the immigration authorities.
"Nevertheless the smuggler received
his pay. Nevcr, according to the story
told me by the old man and numerous
others who have been connected in
different ways with the smuggling of
Chinamen, has there been known an
instance where the smuggler was de
frauded of the price promised him.
This illustrates the predominant trait
of honesty in the Chinese character."
Satisfied Ignorance.
At the recent French cooks' show
in Duluth Armand Guillenant, a vet
eran who once cooked for Baron
Rothschild, said:
"American cooking would be bettter
if American cooks would take lessons
from France. But many American
cooks are very independent. They
rather remind me ,in their indepen.
dence, of the Senegalese, who visited
Paris.
"These men, on their return to Sen.
egal, recounted, at a gathering of the
tribe, what they had seen. An old
woman said:
"'But, chiefs, were ye not embar
rassed by your ignorance of the lan"
guage?'
"The head chief frowned and an.
swered haughtily:
"'It's true, as ye say, woman, that
we could make neither head nor tail
of all their chatter. But what of that,
what of that? They were as bad ofil
-'ith our tongue as we with theirs.'"
It's a Gay Life.
The musician has the gayest lot,
from Moscow down to Cuba. Just
think, he only has to blow 0l day
upon a tuba or beat the box with
fevered hands, and dish up dashiag
airs, or tease a fiddle all night long.
His life is free from cares. He riset
late and grabs his food, and crams it
in his mouth, then beats it for the
noon express, and leaves unshaved his
brush. He hits the job at 12 a. m. and
wheezes through his horn, all after
noon and through the night, and into
early morn.
Calliope was some swell dash, but
Time has cheapened her; the time
here when she is slashed by men
eighteen per. I'd rather be a hoin
less "bo" or fever struck in Cuba tha.
spend my precious time and wind is
blowing on a tuba. The hours are
'ong, the pay is poor, musicians never
play; it's plug along both day and
night. I'd rather far make hay.
The New Year.
The late Julia Ward Howe was nc
believer in New Y: ar's resolutions.
"We should make and keep good
resolutions all the year round," the
celebrated author once caid in Boston.
'I am no great believer in New Year's
vows, for, although they are splendid
things, they really don't amount tc
much more than Oliver Wendell
Holmes' tobacco resolution.
"Mr. Holmes, with affectett gravity,
said to a friend on the first day of the
year:
"'I really must not smoke so per
.istently; I must turn over a new leaf
-a tobacco leaf-and have a cigar
only after each-" here he paused a:
if, to say "meal," but he continued
"after each cigar.' "
Made It Stronger.
In the state department is a colored
doorkeeper who is unusually well edu
cated, and his language is set off with
a lot of long and surprising words.
Now and then Huntington Wilson, as
sistant secretary of state, stops on his
way out of the building and asks the
doorkeeper a question to bring forth
an amusing answer.
One afternoon Wilson saw a man
walking down a corridor as if under
the influence of strong drink. "That
man," he remarked, "seems to be nat
igating with difficulty."
"I fancy," said the doorkeeper, "that
his axoids would not present a satis
factory appearance if viewed through
the azimuth compass."-The Sunday
Magazine.
Woman Civil Engineer.
Miss Lena R. Haas, the civil en*
gineer of Los Angeles, writes her
name L. R Haas, consequently when
she applied for entrance to the course
of engineering at Columbia College,
she was, told to come on, and it was
not until she arrived that her sex wag
discovered. She was the one girl In
a class of 150 men, but she proved
that she could do the work with the
riot of them.
ONE FRIEND ALWAYS
POET NEVER ENTIRELY DEVOID
OF ADMIRERS.
Surely the Writer Can Laugh at Die
)araging Critics When He Is
Really Conscious of the
Merit of His Lines.
When I take my verses from table
or shelf and sit down at Pase in
my chair and con my lines o'er
there all by myself, those delicate
verses and rare; when I read my
lines in the glow of the lamp, those
musical lines of my own, and find
my eyes both sentimentally damp,
there in the dim lamplight alone;
when I note the exquisite pathos
and sweet, the sentiment tender and
true, the faultless perfection of word
ing and feet, the tales of old joys
and of new; when I sound the depths
of humanity's heart, and lift It to
glorious height; when with divine
genius and consummate art I bring
songs of joy and delight; when on
my tuned ear all the harmony rings,
the harmony clear and divine, and
I find all through such half secrets,
on wings as butterflies, light and as
fine-I say when I sit down and
read my own lines, it's simple as
can be to see the fire of true genius
that endlessly shines-Jim Riley has
nothing on me.
When I read the humor I've written
myself, such side-splitting humor
and real; when I get my manu
ecript down from the shelf-Ah,
well, you must know how I feel;;
when I'm tired of Dean Swift
and Bret Harte and Nye, and
crave the high mountain and lone, I
pass all the everyday humorists by
and read some good stuff of my own;
It may not be printed, but pray, what
of that? I know every word, line and
page; beside it the humor the world
roads is flat, but mine seems to
ripen with age; so much other humor
I've read is pure rot, redeemed by
some luminous name, but mine is the
kind that just touches the spot and
burns with real humor's bright flame;
I see in it points that are drawn
subtly fine, and framed for the
doubly elect; there's hardly a sen
tence, indeed scarce a line, but so
ber reflection is wrecked on un
charted rocks of pure, unalloyed fun,
on reefs of insight that are deep, and
I find quite often that ere I am
done I've laughed myself soundly to
sleep; and so I'm consumed with
conviction" that's sure, and all of my
senses agree that I've written humor
that's bound to endure-Sam Clem
ens has nothing on me.
Oh, thousands of times have my
sketches and rhymes come down, to
be read, from some shelf; my verses
have been read vast thousands of
times--I've read them that many my
self; I find in my hunger for truth and
In what I might call the Pierian thirst
so many things Shakespeare and I
have both thought, though Shake
speare had thought of them first; and
though I read him with unenvious eye,
his verses have not quite the tone, the
real ringing truth that I always des
cry in reading some lines of my
own; I don't begrudge- Shakespeare
the fame he may get; he's not In the
race now for pelf; there isn't an au
thor that I'd sooner set in author
ship next to myself; and so when
dull critics may smite me to show
how little their shriveled souls be,
I'm never dismayed in the least, for
I know I've one real admirer In Me!
-J. W. Foley, in New York Times.
The Home Voice.
Have you ever noticed the close re
lationship between the home voice
and the home atmosphere? And as
the atmosphere is the sensitive, in
tangible thing, it is affected by the
voice, not by the atmosphere.
If the head of the house, whether it
be the husband or the wife, has a
whining voice, the atmosphere of that
home is apt to be depressed. Every
thing is limp, so to speak, and spine
less. Even the draperies hang in de
jected folds. Nothing ever is right or
bright or cheery. The home is a cen
ter of complaints.
In the home where the dominant
voice is gruff or surly, an atmosphere
of antagonism seems to prevail. No
body seems to want to do what he
ought to do. His manner implies a
protest, a sulky compliance.
Take again the patronizing voice
In the home, the voice that conde
scends to tell the others what they
should do. The family sit uneasily
under it. There is a feeling of sub
jection in that home, a lack of indi.
viduality.
The Partisanship of Historians.
Every historian likes to be impar
tial; but how can an Englishman be
expected calmly to weigh and adjust
the motives and methods of the Span
ish in the Armada? What biographer
of Lord Nelson appreciates the disci
pline and strategy of his French and
Spanish opponents? What Frenchman
feels that the German campaign of
1806 was a causeless assault upon a
weaker power? War breeds war; the
conqueror feels the need of maintain.
ing his reputation, and the conquered
seeks revenge. Then tlv incidents of
warfare in the field leave an inefface
able mark of savagery, writes Prof.
Albert Bushwell Hart; so that for de.
cades women in western Europe terri
fled their whimpering children into
silence by the threat that the Croats
would get them. There are parts of
central France where the brutality of
the Angevin kings of England is stll
remembered after six centuries.
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THERE is no European court
without the taint of an adven
turess. In most of them the
scandal has been repeated
time and again. Thrones have
tottered and monarchs have fallen be
cause of these women who had infatu
ated kings and so been raised to rank
and riches. But you will search the
history of Europe vainly to find a
more balefully brilliant career than
that of Lola Montez-the Spanish
dancer-who lost to Ludwig his king
dom of Bavaria and finally herself,
old, disgraced and forgotten, went to
America to die. She is buried in
Greenwood cemetery, New York.
Lola Montez came of that rare ra
cial combination, an Irish father and
a Spanish mother. She was born in
Limerick in 1818 and named Marie
Dolores Eliza Rosanna Gilbert But
the Gilbert family cast off her father
at her birth and he started the child's
adventures by hurrying to an army
post in India.
The mother found one Sir Abraham
Lumley, and Indian judge of great
wealth, whom she aimed to marry to
Lola. The girl, hearing of 1it, rebelled
and showed the spirit that was to
characterize all the later years of her
career when she eloped with Capt.
Thomas Jefferson.
By this time Lola had become really
one of the most beautiful girls on the
peninsular continent. It was recog
nized at the viceregal court where she
was petted so willingly that her hus
band carried her away.
In 1842, at the height of her beauty
and wit, the girl started back for Lon
don, seeking a divorce from Captain
James, with whom she was already
bored to death, in order that she
might be free to wed a Captain Lenox
she had met on shipboard.
But the courts weren't quite as sus
ceptible to her raving beauty as Lola
had expected, for, while they gave her
a divorce, they forbade her marrying
again.
Up to this time, probably, the girl
had given small thought of becoming
a dancer. She had known that her
mother (Lola Oliver) had followed
that profession with indifferent suc
cess for a time, but Lola's ambition
was far more bent along the line of
a wealhty match.
But the divorce from James left her
almost penniless. Her family in India
already had sheltered her unwillingly
twice and the handsome girl figured
on the way of a livelihood all in vain.
Finally at the suggestion of an Ameri
can woman Lola decided to try danc
ing. She studied in Spain and Italy
a little and then with superb assur
ance, but without one atom of profes
sional experience, she essayed a tri
umph at His Majesty's 'theater in
London.
Dona Lola Montez was the head
liner on the card, for Lumley, the
manager-whose name balefully coin
cides in her history with that of the
Indian judge-had advertised her de
but in a perfect fanfare of praise. The
appearance of the star in her first
dance was greeted at first with cheers
and Lumley was counting his fortune
when suddenly a shrill hiss arose
from a side stall, a man's finger point
ed at the dancer and a man's voice
cried loudly: "Why, it's Betty James."
The man was Lord Ranelagh, the
leader of the smart set, and his quick
bon mot at the expense of the divor
cee who had come back in disguise
ruined Lola's chances on the London
stage.
But though Lumley was forced to
ring down his curtain on her first per
formance Lola was in no whit dis
mayed. She made a tour of Europe,
seeking to win a fortune through her
eccentricities. She went to Paris
with not much money, but with the
reputation for the most beauty and
impudence in Europe. There she
danced and there her beauty-not her
dlancing-fascinated the journalist.
Dujarrier, who fell madly in love with
her only to be slain in a duel on the
day that they pledged themselves to
marry.
Ludwig I. was on the throne in Mu
nich. He was middle aged and had
first fought through the Napoleonio
wars while crown prince. When Lola
reached his capital he was engaged in
a great propaganda to make Bavaria
the home of all art.
Again it cannot be said that the
dancing of Lola Montes ever won for
her very particular plaudits, but it was
as a dancer that she came to Munich
and as a dancer that she first ap
peared before the king. It may be as
sumed that her beauty won this king
of the Bavarians, for within a week
Lola Montes was the star of the Mu
nich court.
That was a pity, for it wrecked not
only the throne of Ludwig, but sent
into last days of shame and squalor
the most beautiful woman of her day.
But Ludwig was straightway smit
ten to the heart. Within a month he
had given the dancer a palace and had
introduced her in court as "my best
friend." Up to this time he had been
popular with his subjects, but when
they saw the "scar of the adventur
ess" on the throne their loyalty to
their king began to fade. Ludwig
failed to perceive plain signs that the
woman was ruining his reign. He
called upon the ministry of the coun
try to create her the countess of Mans
field. The ministry peremptorily de
clined. Whereupon Ludwig dis
missed it in favor of one that would
show more consideration of his fa
vorite.
And thereupon Lola Montez began
to rule in Bavaria-through the old
king, it is true, but ruling neverthe
less so certainly that within the year
the whole of Munich was up in arms
against her. The Bavarians did not
particularly want Ludwig off the
throne, but they wanted him to get
rid of the Spanish dancer. His an
swer was that he would lose his
throne first. Very shortly the people
headed by his new ministry, called
upon Ludwig to give up Lola Montez
for all time. Weeping, he finally, con
sented. She was hurried from the
capital in a closed carriage to escape
the mobs and entrained for England
that night.
Events came quickly and badly for
the ill-starred twain after that. The
Bavarians finally decided that even
without the presence of Lola Montez
the scandal of her relationship with
their king had been too great and
they demanded his abdication. He
did not abdicate; he was forced from
his throne.
But Lola Montez declared that, be
reft, she would return to what she
caller her "art" too. Trading on the
stories of her relationship with roy
alty that had been spread over the
United States the adventuress-now
once more penniless-crossed the
seas. She essayed to dance before
New York and her beauty filled the
coffers for a little time, but she was
fading and the craze among hard
headed Americans for the foreign
beauty fell far short of that abroad.
Finally in 1861 she became ill-doc
tors said it was through the violence
of her disposition. She was on the
point of starving when a Mrs. Buchan.
an took her to her home in Astoria,
L. I. There in 1861 she died.
On her plain gravestone there is
naught to denote the flashing career
of Lola Montez, most spectacular of
European adventuresses. The inscrip.
tion simply reads: "Eliza Gilbert,
born 1818; died 186L"