Harper's Round Table, August 27, 1895 Part 5

_I_ don't mind being ill at all, if darling grandma'll make her Nice dose she used to make for pa when he was young--stewed Quaker.

HIS WHEEL SAVED HIS LIFE.

The bicycle has proved useful as a life-saving machine in many instances, but it remained for John O'Hara, of Broome Street, in New York, to discover how good a bicycle is as a means of escape from a mail dog. John is a well-grown lad, and is so fond of bicycle-riding that he goes on wheeling trips through the streets of the Fast Side. All of these streets are crowded, but probably no one of them is so jammed full of pedestrians and push-carts and peddlers' wagons as Forsyth Street.

Experts say that no other part of the world is so thickly populated as this neighborhood, so you can easily imagine how difficult it must be to go wheeling a bicycle through it.

John O'Hara was enjoying a pleasant spin on the smooth asphalt pavement of Forsyth Street, near Broome, at noon the other day, when he noticed the crowd scattering right and left, and diving into open hallways and down cellar stairs. Presently he heard a cry of "Mad dog!" He wheeled around and turned to flee to the southward. As he hurried away he looked back over his shoulder, and saw a big white dog galloping after him, its red tongue lolling out, and yellow foam dripping from its open jaws. As the dog ran it turned and snapped viciously right and left. The cries of the crowds on the sidewalk warned everybody on the pavement, so that there was a clear field ahead of O'Hara for several blocks. He pushed hard on the pedals, and sprinted away as hard as he could. If he could only be sure of plenty of headway he knew he would be safe. The dog was not running very fast, for his gait was uncertain, and he wavered from side to side.

If O'Hara had turned out into any of the side streets he would have been safe, but in the excitement of the moment he did not think of this. His one idea was to run ahead as fast as possible. Now and then the carts and wagons in the street were slow in turning out, and O'Hara had to slow up. In this way he ran five blocks, now gaining on the dog, and now almost overtaken. At Ca.n.a.l Street there was such a jam of vehicles that the bicycle rider almost had to stop. The dog galloped ahead of him, snapping at the wheel as it went past. O'Hara might have even then turned northward for safety, but he was too excited, as probably most of us would have been in his place. He kept straight ahead, and as the dog fell in front of him, the wheels of the bicycle pa.s.sed over its neck and stunned it. Away went O'Hara at full speed, and a policeman, fortunately near at hand, shot and killed the dog before it could recover. Probably this is the first time that a bicycle was ever used as a weapon as well as a means of flight from danger.

TWO BRAVE MEN.

It has frequently been a.s.serted that no fortifications of masonry could resist modern ordnance, and this is doubtless true so far as heavy siege guns are concerned. But in the recent war against China the j.a.panese troops found on several occasions that with their light batteries of field and mountain artillery they were unable to make any impression upon the heavy stone defences of some of the walled Chinese towns. The gates, especially, seemed able to resist any amount of bombarding, for the masonry was much thicker and higher at these points, and frequently there were three and four heavy iron-bound oaken doors to be broken open before an entrance could be effected. The attacks on these walled towns furnished occasions for a number of brave deeds on the part of the j.a.panese soldiers, who proved themselves to be reckless in the display of courage, and absolutely fearless in the face of the greatest dangers.

One of the first occasions of the kind was at Kin-chow, a good-sized town surrounded by a very high stone wall with only a few gates. The j.a.panese artillery had been firing at the princ.i.p.al gate for an hour or so without effect, and the infantry had made a.s.sault after a.s.sault against the perpendicular walls without being able to dislodge the enemy, who were well screened behind battlements and embrasures. At last the commander of the attacking force decided that the only way to get into the town would be to blow open the gate with dynamite or nitro-glycerine. It was all very well to decide upon this, after looking at the heavy doors from a distance through field-gla.s.ses, but it was an entirely different matter to put the explosive in place and set it off.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TOKUYI BLOWING UP THE GATES OF KIN-CHOW.]

Nevertheless, as soon as it was announced that it had been determined by the commander to blow open the gates, Onoguchi Tokuyi, a private soldier of the corps of engineers, volunteered to take the cartridge and place it under the doors. He rushed from among his companions and ran straight for the wall, from the top of which the Chinese poured a perfect hail of bullets at him. But the Chinese soldiery never aim, and usually fire with their eyes closed, so that Tokuyi reached the gate unharmed. He placed the bomb under one of the hinges, lit the fuse, and only had time to retreat a few steps when with a roar and a crash the great oaken doors were torn to pieces and fell inward. The soldier was knocked down by the force of the explosion, but he quickly picked himself up, and, leaping through the dust and smoke, placed a second cartridge under the inner gate and blew that open in the same way. By this time a perfect avalanche of j.a.panese infantry was pouring through the opened doorway, and in a very few minutes the Chinese were in full rout. Tokuyi was found unconscious after the fight, lying near the second door. He had been hit in the shoulder by a bullet as he entered the outer gate. He was treated by the army surgeons, and sent home to j.a.pan to get well, and then he was decorated for his bravery by the Mikado.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MIMURA CLIMBING THE WALLS OF PING-YANG.]

A similar exhibition of courage was given by an infantryman at the storming of the Gemmun Gate at Ping-Yang. There, too, the thick stone walls proved impervious to j.a.panese shot and sh.e.l.l, and after two fruitless a.s.saults it was decided to try some other method. Lieutenant Mimura volunteered to open the gate single-handed, but Private Harada stepped out and said he would follow along and help. Both men then ran for a corner of the gateway, while their comrades diverted the attention of the Chinese defenders by keeping up a hot fusillade. Mimura and Harada clambered quickly up the face of the wall by placing their hands and feet in the c.h.i.n.ks between the stones. They succeeded in reaching the top without being seen by the Chinese, who were busy blazing away at the main body of the enemy, and then jumped down and rushed for the inside of the gate. They had to cut their way through a horde of Chinamen as soon as they had gotten inside the town; but they finally beat them off, and threw the bolts of the heavy gates, that were at once shoved in by the attacking force outside. Both Lieutenant Mimura and Private Harada were promoted the next day.

Two gentlemen had a rather lively dispute, which finally wound up in an agreement to fight it out in a duel. One of the gentlemen was extremely thin and the other stout. The stout gentleman complained that it would be useless for him to fire at such a shadow, for one might as well expect to hit the edge of a razor as to hit the man. Whereupon the lean man made the proposal to chalk a line down the fat man, and if his shot failed to take effect within the narrow side of the line it wouldn't count.

GREAT MEN'S SONS.

THE SON OF LUTHER

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decorative H]

igh on a Saxon hill-side overlooking the pleasant valley of the Itz, and in the shadow of the loftier Frankenwalds, stands an old castle now gray with age and rich in memories. In one of its many guest rooms, near an open window, about which crows and jackdaws hung with swirl and clamor, there sat, many years ago, a stockily-built, firm-featured, fearless-eyed man writing a letter.

Armed men fill the castle; upon its walls and on its highest turrets watchmen stand on guard; above it floats the standard of the Elector of Saxony; and the great gate opens only to the summons of those who come with credentials or pa.s.sword.

The time is one of anxiety and excitement, for the Protestant Princes of northern Germany have taken a bold stand against their lord the Emperor.

Messengers ride daily to and from the castle, and letters are sent now this way and now that, freighted with important measures or hot with words of protest, counsel, and appeal, strengthening those who waver, restraining those who are over-bold.

As by his open window in the ancient castle of Coburg, where his presence is honored and his word is law, the strongman sits at work.

What is the letter that he writes? Who is the Prince or preacher for whom his words of wisdom are penned? Is he a soldier issuing commands, or a councillor sending advice to Elector, Duke, or King?

We draw near the writer, and as we look over his shoulder, following the queer old German script his quick quill traces on the paper, this is what we read:

"Grace and peace in Christ. My dear little son, I am glad to hear that thou learnest well and prayest diligently. Do this, my son, and continue it; when I return home I will bring thee a fine fairing.

"I know a beautiful cheerful garden, in which many children walk about. They have golden coats on, and gather beautiful apples under the trees, and pears and cherries and plums; they sing, and jump about, and are merry; they have also fine little horses with golden bridles and silver saddles. And I asked the man, 'Whose children are they?' He replied, 'These are the children who like to pray and learn and are pious.' Then I said, 'My good man, I have a son; his name is John Luther, may he not also come to this garden to eat such nice apples and pears, and ride such fine little horses and play with these children?' And the man said, 'If he likes to pray and learn and is pious, he shall come to this garden with Philip and James; and when they all come together they shall have pipes and cymbals, lutes and other musical instruments, and dance, and shoot with little cross-bows.'

"And he showed me a fine meadow in the garden prepared for dancing, there being nothing but golden pipes, cymbals, and beautiful silver cross-bows. But it was yet early and the children had not dined. Therefore I could not wait for the dancing, and said to the man, 'My good master, I will go quickly and write all this to my dear little son John, that he may pray diligently, learn well, and be pious, that he also may be admitted into this garden; but he hath an Aunt Lena whom he must bring with him.' The man answered, 'So be it; go and write this to him.'

"Therefore, my dear little son John, learn and pray with all confidence; and tell this to Philip and James, that they also may learn and pray; and ye will all meet in this beautiful garden.

Herewith I commend thee to Almighty G.o.d. Give greetings to Aunt Lena, and also a kiss from me. Thy father who loves thee.

"19th June, 1530.

"MARTIN LUTHER."

A cheery, bright, helpful, storylike letter to a boy, is it not? And written from that old German castle in a time of danger and of controversy. And the writer is neither soldier, prince, nor priest, but greater than soldier, prince, or priest, the one man who gave the death-blow to the ignorance of the Dark Ages, and changed the history of the world. For the writer was Martin Luther, the apostle of the Reformation, the "renegade monk" who dared, in spite of Pope and Orders, to tell the world that alike the Word of G.o.d and the conscience of man were free, and who, in the year 1521, commanded by Pope and Emperor to take back his bold words, heroicly said, in the midst of enemies, and in the face of almost certain death: "I may not, I cannot retract; for it is neither safe nor right to act against conscience. Here stand I. I cannot do otherwise. G.o.d help me."

And the little four-year-old boy to whom this storylike letter was written was Luther's first-born, the dearly loved "son John." He was named for his grandfather Hans (or John) Luther, the Saxon miner, and he was born in June, 1526, in the cloister-home in Wittenberg, where his father, Martin Luther, had first lived as monk, and afterwards as master. For when that monk made his heroic stand, and the men of North Germany followed him as a leader, the Prince of his homeland, the Elector of Saxony, gave him as his home the Augustinian convent at Wittenberg, deserted by the monks, who would not follow him whom they called "the renegade."

Here in the cloisters of the old convent, close to the city wall, and almost overhanging the river Elbe, Martin Luther and his wife Catherine made their home; here they received into their household students, professors, travellers, and guests--men anxious to hear the glad tidings of religious freedom that this great leader proclaimed to Germany and the world, and here, as I have told you, in June, 1526, little "Hanschen," or "Johnny" Luther was born.

Luther was a man who loved home and family ties, and from babyhood little John was most dear to him. The Reformer's letters to his friends are full of references to the small stranger who had come into the Wittenberg home; and neither hot religious disputes, knotty theological problems, nor grave political happenings could crowd Johnny out of the father's heart.

We get these glimpses of "our John" frequently. "Through the grace of G.o.d there has come to us," he writes to one of his friends, "a little Hans [John] Luther, a hale and hearty first-born"; and a few days later he says that, with wife and son, he envies neither Pope nor Emperor. Of the year-old boy he writes, in May, 1527, "My little Johnny is lively and robust, and eats and drinks like a hero."

That year of 1527 some terribly contagious disease, called, as all such "catching" illnesses then were, "the plague," visited Wittenberg and converted the Luther household "into a hospital." "Thy little favorite, John"--thus he closes a letter to a friend--"does not salute thee, for he is too ill to speak, but through me he solicits your prayers. For the last twelve days he has not eaten a morsel. 'Tis wonderful to see how the poor child keeps up his spirits; he would manifestly be as gay and joyous as ever, were it not for the excess of his physical weakness." It was in the midst of the poverty and worry that the plague and the other crosses he endured brought about that Luther wrote his great hymn, "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott," one of the grand and triumphant "Hymns of the Ages," and we can imagine that, with his powerful voice, he rang the hymn out gladly when, in December, 1527, he could write thankfully, "Our John is well and strong again."

Luther was a great letter-writer, and in the midst of pressing duties and important deeds, away from his loved ones, he could always find time to write home. Many of these "letters home" remain on record, beginning "To the gracious dame Catherine Luther, my dear spouse, who is tormenting herself quite unnecessarily"; or, "To my sweet wife Catherine Luther von Bora. Grace and peace in the Lord. Dear Catherine, we hope to be with you again this week, if it please G.o.d." But one of the most famous of the Luther letters is that one which, when "our John" was just four years old, his father wrote from the old castle of Coburg, in the shadow of the Saxon mountains, and in the midst of stirring times, sitting at the window, as we have seen, while outside the crows were cawing and the jackdaws were chattering, and armed men guarded the great letter-writer as the most precious of Germany's possessions.

Five boys and girls blessed that cloister-home at Wittenberg. The Luthers were never "well-to-do"; sometimes they were so short of money--for Luther was overgenerous in his charities--as to feel the pinch of poverty. But Luther had friends in high places who would not let him want, and he was therefore able to give his boys tutors at home and good instruction later on in life.

"Son John" could scarcely be called a brilliant scholar. Indeed, he was a bit dull, and inclined to take things easy. In this his mother seems to have been just a trifle partial to her first-born, and inclined to help him thus take things easy. So, when he was sixteen, "son John" was sent away to school.

From the letter which he bore from his father to Mark Crodel, the teacher of the Latin school in the Saxon town of Torgau, young John seems to have entered the school as a sort of "pupil-teacher," for thus the letter runs:

"According to our arrangement, my dear Mark, I send thee my son John, that thou mayst employ him in teaching the children grammar and music, and at the same time superintend and improve his moral conduct. If thou succeedest in improving him, I will send thee two other sons of mine. For, though I desire my children to be good divines, yet I would have them sound grammarians and accomplished musicians."

Young John would seem to have been sent to Torgau as one needing correction; and, indeed, I am afraid he was not always a good or a dutiful son; otherwise it is hard to explain the words of Luther when one of his friends spoke of the boy's frequent attacks of illness. "Ay,"

said Dr. Luther, "'tis the punishment due to his disobedience. He almost killed me once, and ever since I have but little strength of body.

Thanks to him I now thoroughly understand that pa.s.sage where St. Paul speaks of children who kill their parents not by the sword, but by disobedience."

Just how the son "nearly killed" his father we cannot say. It may have been the great man's strong way of putting things, but evidently "son John" also needed reformation.