FROM THE ”BACK SEAT?
I Driving a horse is one of those simple
processes, like sailing a b08t,"'wl.1‘lt3h.
anyone can master without prevmus
. experience. Everybody knows that
there is nothing difficult about it, and
tlrose that, have never done it are per-
fectly aware cf their. ability to do 1t,
if they choose. * .
But “driving from the back seat” is
quite a different thing; that is a grave
andserious affair, an undertaking of
tragic intensity. There is not one mo-
ment of calm, peaceful enjoyment for
those so employed. Every circum-
stance and incident to them is vital
and momentous; each turn in. the road
bids fair to be a certain pathway to
destruction; every signboard is a false,
deceitful snare set to mislead them,
while each movement of the horse is
but an index of vicious propenSItles
about to be revealed. In fact. .this
method of driving is not only physxcal-
l y exhausting, but mentally depressmg
and spiritually demoralizing, and not
alone does the driver suffer, but also
all who are unfortunate enough to_
,find themselves in the same vehicle
svith'such a one. -.
Perhaps a brief description of my
own will best serve to illustrate my
theme. .3
I had run down to spend a coupleof
days with my friehds the Graziers,
who were occupying a charming coun-
try place for the summer. On the
afternoon of my arrival my hostess
suggested that possibly I might enjoy-
a drive over to Pine Knoll, which they
deemed a most desirable point from
which to view the country round about.
I. of course, expressed my delight with
the idea of a. quiet country drive after
the rush and turmoil of the city, from
which I had just escaped. '
Immediately after luncheon a light
two-seated wagon drawn by a pair of
spirited ,bays appeared at the door.
Mrs. Grazier and I took our seats be~
hind and Mr, Grazier. springing into
the seat in front, took the reins apd
we were whirled away down the long,
.smoothdriveway, beneath rows of fine
old elms. I glanced cdmiringly at
them as we passed along and turned
to my hostess enthusiastically: “What
magnificent trees these are," I ejacu-
lated. - -
She, however, failed to reSpond, and
I noticed that her lips. were .tightly
compressed. “Be careful, Willard.
when you turn into the road.” she
said, warningly, and I perceived that
we were approaching the picturesque
stone gateway, over which much su-
perb English ivy was gracefully twin-
mg.
“We’re very proud of that ivy.” Mr-
Grazier remarked, eyeing it with satige
faction, as the bays turned smoothly
out into the road.
“It is beautiful,” I murmured, trans-
ferring my attention to his wife, who
avas- holding her breath and firmly
grasping her side of, the wagon.
"Are you timid about driving?” I
‘ asked, sympathetically.
“Oh, no,” she returned,
husband absolutely disregards every
suggestion of mine," and'slie sighed
deeply. ._ *-
«"‘,Indeed,” I said, lowering my tone
so that it might reach her ears alone,
whileleye‘d the bays uneasily, “and
isn’t Mr, Grazier used to driving?”
“flea-ought to be,” she responded,
”for helias driven since he Was a-bgy.”
I felt relieved, though still puzzled.
“But you are a great horsewoman
yourselfkthen," I persisted.
51M: Shrugged her shoulders. “Not
in the least, 1 never touch the reins
if I can help it.” she concluded.
At this ‘Point I became convinced
that Mr.~ Grazier had. very sharp ears.
for. as I continued to regard her ques-
tioningly, he remarked. lightly: “Mr. .
Grazier drives from the back seat."
"Willard, here comes one of those
dreadful coaches,” his mentor began
almost immediately. “Be sure that you
. turnout more than you did the other
wafternoon. 1 never saw~a man take
such risks.” .
'In a few minutes one of; the horses
whisked his tail over one of the reins,
cyhigh was promptly freed by Mr. Gra-
_- zigrs thig gave his better half a chance
'to suggest that a tighter rein would
have prevented the ‘ catastrophe.
“Some one was telling me the other
day, Willard,” she went on. “that
when a horse gets his tail over the
reins no one knows what he may do;
in fact, he is just as likely to run away
as not." .
A little later we reached the shore of
a beautiful lake and I exclaimed with
raptpre over the glimpse of the ver-
dant hills rising majestically upon the
other Side.-
-‘-‘This is indeed «W 3-49.31 .Spot.” I
' burst forth, but Mrs. Grazier had no
eyes for the beauties of the landscape
just then.
“Willard, what is the matter with
the horse on this side? He looks very
strange.” .
l-‘fig’s all right, my dear; only the
flies bother him a little,” and Mr. Gra-
zia; prayed his whip lightly over the
offending animal’s head,
-‘—‘W.i.l.lard. how can you do that, when
you know he is so nervous, unless,”
she added", plaintively, “you really
want him to run away and smash us
up!!! . .-
‘E’I‘hat’s my idea, precisely.” he an-
swgped. pleasantly, as we left the lake
drive and began to climb a neighbor-
ing hill. During our ascent Mrs. .Gra-
zier fixed her attention upon the'check
reins. _
“It seems to me, Willard, that these
horses are checked unnecessarily tight;
it is nothing but that, I am sure, that
makes them act so.” .
”But they haven’t acted so,”vher hus-
band reiponstrated. .
“Well, they will—I’m perfectly posi-
tive they will—when they come to go
. down this steep hill; . I can tell by the
way that they prick up their ears.”
'1 At the summit we drew rein. “Not
a bad view here,” my host announced,
" painting with his whip‘to the glorious
picture spread out beneath us.
" “New. Willard, you watch the horses
[and lotus admire the view,” Mrs. Gra-
zier earnestly admonished,
i. T
without
I
4 my surmises.
“only my
eliciting any response from. the occu-
pant of the front seat, who continued
to point out to me special features in
the surrounding landscape, despite her
protest. '. ' ' -
We shortly. began to descend the
hill, which process I foresaw would
permit my hostess ample opportunity
to lend her ever ready assistance from
the back seat, and I was quite right in;
lt was, “Willard, what a loose rein ',
you have! Can’t you . realize that -
they’re likely to stumble at any mo-
ment?” Or, “Willard, we’re coming to
one of those dangerous ‘thankoyou- ;
ma’ams;‘ do be careful.”
_ I sat by wondering at Mr. Grazier’s
unrufiled composure under the contin-
ual fire, but reflected that doubtless
he was used to it.
Next we reached the crossroads, and
Mr. Grazier turned the horses to the
right, remarking: “Here we leave the
main road for a drive through the
woods.” . ‘ ‘
“Oh, no, Willard, I’m sure you’re
mistaken,” his wife declared, “We
ought to keep to the main road for at
least a mile more. I remember perfect-
-1y just how every inch. of the road
looked the last time I drove over it.”
. “My dear, I am absolutely sure that
‘this is the road,” he replied, whipping
,up the horses. ’
Mrs. Grazier leaned back in her seat
with an expression of intense resigna-
tion depicted upon her face. “Very
well; take us anywhere you please,
provided that you get us home finally.
I shall not say another word; I have
offered all the advice that I intend to
this afternoon.”
I heard this statement with much
satisfaction, feeling that advice was
not, after all, the necessary accom-
paniment. of a thoroughly charming
country drive.
“This woody road is lovely, at all
events, and so shady and cool,” I put
in timidly.
“Yes, it is very pretty here,” Mrs.
Grazier assented; then she added:
“Willard, I see a farmer coming'and I
want you just to ask him if this is the
right road.”
“But I know it is the road.”
“No matter, I should think you
might ask him, if only to set my mind
at rest. ”
“I suppose it would rest it very much
if he said it was the wrong road.” '
“There, that’s why you won’t in-
quire; you know he’ll say it’s the
wrong road.” 0
Just then the farmer came alongside,
and Mr. Grazier, who was apparently
determined not to stop, suddenly drew
rein, more abruptly, I fancied, than
was wholly necessary, and my compan-
ion on the back seat, after exclaiming:
“How could you, Willard?” eagerly
addressed the farmer: . . ;. -.
“Is this the road to Pine Knoll?”
“To Pine What?” he questioned.
blankly.
“Pine Knoll, a hill with trees on it,”
she explained.
“Wall, I can’t say,” he responded.
“I ain’t much acquainted up thisway, _
but I reckon you’ll find pines all about’
here.” >
“Thank you,” his interlocutor said
briefly, and we drove on.
“Now, we must stop and ask at the
next farmhouse, Willard,” my hostess
announced; “they certainly are ac-
quainted with the neighbophood.”
,“But how absurd, when I know that
the Knoll is not half a mile from this
very farmhouse."
“So you imagine, Willard, but I
think differently. 11ers gomes an-
other man, and I am going to speak to
him.”
Man number two, however, did not
wait to be spoken to, but accosted us
with a broad - mile.-
“Good day. Mr. Grazier. goin’ up to
the Knoll again?”
Mr. Grazier nodded. “Is this the
shortest load?” Mrs. Grazier inquired,
promptly.
“I reckon it’s about the only one.”,,
he rejoined, grinning, as if he found
the idea of a possible second road huge-
ly amusing. "
' Pine Knoll proved to be a truly love-
ly spot, but my memory of the way
thither and back is clouded by my too
vivid recollection of my hostess’ par-
ticipation in the »management of the
bays.
If we crossed a bridge Willard was
reminded of the sign which directed us
to ”walk the horses.” If we passed a
wagoner in a narrow part of the read
he was conjured not to tip us down the
steep embankment. lithe horses quick-
ened their pace it was cruel to drive so
fast, and if they slowed up they were
overheated, or had, doubtless, stones
in their feet.
The most trying time of all was.
probably when we turned around in a
very limited since 99 the FOP 0‘ Pine
l‘Knoll- but alien that i will as? .en~
large. ,
When we reached home I felt tired
and exhausted, well~nigh sick, while
my hostess sighed deeply as she
alighted, declaring that she couldn’t
understand why driving fatigued
her so.
Even Mr. Grazier, despite his ad-
amantins nerves. creates somewhat
weary, as he replied; ”It’s not driving
that tires you, but driying from the
back seat, Mrs. Grazier.”
Since my country drive I have often
'observed people endowed with those
characteristics so prominent in Mrs.
Grazier. In every club, society or so-
cial gathering I have found them pres-‘
ent; in fact, wherever human beings
strive or struggle, wherever they con- ,
gregate for work or for amusement,
some are present who ever stand one
side, their mission being to advise. di-
rect and criticise. They make them-
selves generally useful by telling oth-
ers what theyought to do and how to
do it. .
And as often. as'it is my misfortune
to run across them (and their name is
legion, I uregret to say) my painful
country drive rises before me and I
murmur: “I know you well, my
friends; therefore I shun y a , as I ’do
all of \ your kind, who, like on, are
driving from the back seat.” Boston
Transcript. .. p . _ ,.,.
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I never told you the story of Bentley’s '
ghost, did I? Well, it all‘happene‘d dur-
ingmy second voyage to‘ Rio in the'Vix-
on. Mark Bentley had taken passage
with us, and a. likelier youngman you
never saw. .-.He was going to enter the
establishment of his uncle, Nicholas
Barton, of the firm of-‘Barton and Clip-
pinger, brokers and shipping "meta
chants, and-as old Barton was getting
_ up in. years, and had no nearer kin, it
was generally understood that young
» Bentley weald be“ heir to his large for-
tune. ‘ ' ' ‘
-We had been out a week‘from’ New
York when. Mark disappeared. [Oven
'board— that was all weeould'make of}
it, sir, and""there_ wasn't a man aboard
the Vixen but was shocked at thejinciE
dent. The whole thing was a mystery,
for there wasn’t a soul could tell for cer-
tain what had become of Bentley. But
as he was not on board, there was only
one conclusion to come to, and that was
he had fallen overboard and been lost.
But as he was a young man who never
.took strong drink, and as there had
been no stormy weather since leaving
port, the mystery about poor Bentley’s
’ disappearance seemed all the more puz-
- zling.
The night of Bentley’s disappearance
was very dark, and about three in the
morning, as I was taking my turn at the
wheel, I thought I heard a splash for-
ward, and I was pretty sure some one
had gone overboard. I threw a couple
of life buoys over and gave the alarm;
but, bless you, they only pooh-poohed at
me, and the mate flared up and says to
me:
“Spriggins, you'd- better take less
grog, and you won’t see men going over-
board like this.”
Well, they don’t make so light of me
when it is discovered that Bentley is
missing, which is not'till some hours
after; but Capt. Strong refuses to lay
by, swearing a good deal that such an
accident should happen aboard him.
“But if passengers will go staggering
overboard in fair weather,” says he,
"or, what’s more likely, commit suicide,
I am not to stand by a whole day to look
for, a corpse lying at the bottom of the
sea.”
So, with sails set, we continued our
'course to Rio. Of the West Indies a
heavy squall struck us and carried us
far out of our course, and for the next
week the weather was about as rough
as one would want to see. Aside from
> a small leak which was sprung and
some cabin skylight-s which were
smashed by falling yards, the Vixen
suffered no damage to speak of.
i ”I think it was the night after the
storm had blowed itself out that Bent-
ley’s ghost.;was first seen. It was well
on in the :night, and I was taking my
turn' at, the wheel, when all of a sudden
.,l\.fagsby comes on deck looking white as
a sheet. 'Magsby was a man of about
forty who had taken passage to Rio,
such-barring the fact that -he drank a
good deal of liquor, I' knew nothing
about him. Well, he comes up to the
binnacle, and leaning on the rail looks
as if he might go over, so white and
shaky was he. .
After standing there for a moment
and saying nothing, he asks:
“Do you believe in dead men‘s
ghosts?” .
“I can’tsay,” I replied, “being as I
never saw one.” > .
“Well,” says he, after a moment’s si-
lence, “if I didn't see Bentley’s ghost in
my cabin just now, then I never saw
anything in my life."
01’ course, I thought he had only
been drinking a little too much,and had
imagined he had seen a ghost. So I
only smiled and said that I guessed he
had been dreaming or had had a night-
mare. . I
“No, sir,” he said, running his hand
over his face, as if to brush something
away; “it was no dream, and I say to
you, as certain as God lives, I saw the
ghost of Mark Bentley this night!”
“Nonsense l ” said I. “Surely you can’t
believe what youare saying. It's only
a fancy.” '
But for all that there was something
in the man’s look that gave me a kind
, of “creepy” feeling.
“Say what you will,” he replied, “but
just come to my cabin with me as soon
as you are relieved from your post, and
you can see for yourself.”
With "this,»he” walked forward and
sto d leaning on the rail, gazing into
the sea. Athough it is no uncommon
thing to see sailors who firmly believe
in such superstitious stories, I am not
one of them. Still, I couldn’t get the
man’s words and looks out of my mind,
and when I was relieved I went to him,
and, in a light tone, said:
.“Come now, and we’ll go down and
take a look at Bentley’s ghost.”
Without a word, he led the way to his
cabin. It was quite dark in there, for
there was no light save what came
through a bit of skylight that hadn’t
:been covered with a tarpaulin. I was
about to strike a light, when helcaught
me by the arm and turned my ‘face
{toward the bunk where he had been
' sleeping.
“Look!” he cried, in a frightened
whisper, his hold- tightening on my.
arm. “I saw it again, but it faded
av'vay! There—there it is!”
I turned my face toward the bunk.
and as I did so I saw akind of shimmer-
ing light hovering over the pillow.
It seemed to move back and forth with
the swaying of the vessel.‘ Then all of
a'sudden it grew brighter, and. as I am
' living, there was the face‘ofMark Bent-
icy as plain as I’see yours this moment.
Well, sir, you might have knocked me
down with a feather. I stood there look-
ing atit till a kind of dry came frOm
Magsby, '
~ “You see it ‘2” he asked, just as if
they were the last words he would ever
speak. ‘ .
“Yes,” says I, “1—! saw something—”
He uttered a. groan, and I think he
<
' would have fallen had I not caughthima
' When I ma again,
4
5‘,
, f»
the strange vision
" ‘ . i I
had disappeared. _ . ~
. Magsby andl went from the cabin to?
gether',and from that moment he never
entered the place‘again. 'i ‘ 1' T
The, next night a- crowd of “sailors
visited the cabin where :the vision had
appeared, but nothing was seen‘of the ;
ghostly .visitant.‘ Magsby, however, ‘
kept aloof from the place; and eculd‘not p ,~
'be'induced to enter- .He seemedrtobe'
cheeks were hollow, his face ha‘gga’ik‘i.
and he was forever glancing about him,
as if he expected any monientto see
something dreadful. - 1.
One night he came to ~lny cabin, and ,_
throwing himself on acreage 0f the
.bunk, said in a husky voice}? ‘ g
“ ’Tain’t no use in ~tryingfilggcan't.
stand this; it’s worrying'the life‘out' (it
me." ' ' . .
' “Why—what is?” I asked, though!
well knew what lie-meant. . f :r l: _ "
“Bentley's ghost,” was the reply.
“It’s going to drive me into the sea yet,
to follow poor Bentley.” . ,
“That’s all foolish talk,” Isaid. :‘it
is a—little strange what we saw in the
cabin that night, but what’s thélharm'
of it? Didn’t I see as well. as your--
self? Still, I don’t see as that’s any
reason that I should go-talking of
jumping into the sea over it.”
“But you don’t know all,” he went on,
in a strange, h’esitating way. Then,
letting his voice sink to a whisper, he
said, with a sort of gasp, as if the words
Were forced from him: “Spriggins,
I’ve got to tell it to some one'LfiI mur-
dered Mark Bentley!” _ , " ‘ ‘ '
“What! Do you mean to tel-line that
you killed Bentley?” I gasped, as
soon as I was able to find my voice.
“It is the truth, as I live and as God is
my witness!” he replied. .
I could only stare at him in‘blank I
amazement. - 2‘.-
“Yes,” he went on, “I pushed him
overboard the night you. thought” some
as.
one had fallen over. Why did I commit
‘ the dreadful deed? Well, I can soon tell
you, though I reckon the word ‘drink’
would explain it, for, though I had
reasons to want him out of the way, I
would never have taken a human life
except when under the influence of
strong drink. My name is not M agsby.
but Silas Green, and I am a first cousin
of Bentley, 'though he did not know
me when I came aboard, for we liad
not met before for many years. You
see, I had some notion that I might ’n-
herit the most of Nicholas Barton's
fortune if Mark was out of the way. ,
but as my life had been a wild one, I
knew that my uncle would leave mt.-
nothing once Mark should reach Rio.
I did not know that my cousin was on
board till after we hadset sail, and.
then I was so filled with rage and dis-
appointment that I began ‘to‘ drink
heavily. It was in a fit Of drunken
madness that the "idea of putting my
soon came. I found him leaning ow-r
«the rail one dark night, and, striking:
him a heavy blow, Ihurledliim into the
sea. That is the story. His ghost has;
returned to haunt me, and I shall give
myself to the authorities when ”ch-:-
Vixen returns to America." _
lVith these words he left me. I in~
formed the captain of Magsby’s con
fession, and, like myself, he was at
first inclined to doubt the man’s sun
ity; but it was thought best to keep
a watch upon him till the affair could
be investigated on our arrival at. Rio.
But there was a surprise awaiting
us, for when we dropped anchor in Rio
harbor, who should come on board but
Mark Bentley, alive and well, and not
looking the least bit like a ghost.
Well, you can imagine the surprise .
of every soul of us when he stepped
upon the. deck. As for Magsby, he
looked like a copse; but when he .
found that it was really Bentley in the .
flesh, lie was the happiest mortal I
ever set eyes on.
Bentley had escaped a watery grew.
by almost a miracle. He was stunned
when thrown overboard, but the 'cool
water revived him, and while,swim-
ming about in the darkness, he came in
contact with one of the life -preservers
I had thrown overboard. He managed
to cling to'this till daylight, when he
was picked up by the Penguin, a steam- ‘
er bound for Rio, so he arrived in port
nearly a week ahead of us. ' r ’
Magsby—or Green, as h‘isereal name
was—was so repentant for what he had
done that Bentley forgave him, and a
few days later he shipped in an En};-
lish vessel for Liverpool, and that was
the last I ever saw of him. As to the
ghost—well, it was a very simple thing '
” when we came to understand it. ; When .
the story was told to Bentley, he
seemed puzzled at first, butin a mo-
ment he .smiled quietly, and said he
could soon explain the whole affair: .
With this he mounted the sk’ylight,
and soon came back with a small square
of glass in his hand. It was what he
called a “dry-plate photograph nega-
tive, and contained his .mvn picture.-._
He was an amateur photographer, and
had been printing some pictures he
had taken on shore, and had placed
them on the skylight of one of the
cabins, so as to be out of the way. An
old negative of himself he had thrown
aside, and it had'got caught in a crevice
of the sash and stuck there. After-
ward, when some of the skylights had
been broken in the storm, a tarpaulin
was. placed ‘over them to keep out the
spray from the waves, and; as the spo:
where the negative lay became uncov-
ered, the moon shining through it had
had something of the effect of a magic
lantern, and had caused an enlarged
picture of himself to be thrown into
the cabin below. When a cloudfpassed ,_
while we were looking at it that night,- ..
the picture disappeared. It: was all
simple enough when we understood
it; but if Bentley had never turned up
to explain the afiair, I would never
have been certain Idid not see a ghost~
that night aboard the Vixen—N. Y.
Ledger.
ca" an *r- 4kg“
terribly downeast, and in, a fewdpysa
great change had comeovcr him. His . f \
~-‘
rival for my unc’le’s'money’out of the . ..
way first came to me. Theopportuniti“ j " ' i ' ’ ’
over the moon, as it undoubtedlydid; "
Norwalk Chronicler