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Towards a Church Architecture Primary Source Edition
Peter Hammond Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Peter Hammond
ISBN(s): 9781293726273, 1293726273
File Details: PDF, 20.90 MB
Year: 2014
Language: english
 Towards a

Church Architecture

/
BDITBD BY Peter Hammond

THE ARCHITECTURAL PRESS

LONDON
 *"Sl•MQllll:w lla&M "--------

,.__ 'tlsr?
 Content•

Acknowledgements 8
Foreword 9
Note on Contributors 13
A Radical Approach to Church Architecture 1 s
Peter Hammond
2 Modern Architectura\ Theory and the Liturgy 08
Nigel Melhuish
3 Meaning and Understanding 65
Robert Maguire
4 Material Fabric and Symbolic Pattern 78
Keith Mu"ªY
5 A Liturgica\ Brief 91
H. Benedict Green
6 Church Architecture and the Liturgy 107
Charles Davis
The Theologica\ Basis of Church Architecture 128
7 James A. Whyte

8 Liturgy and Society 191

Patrick McLaughlin
The Church and the Community 206
9 Patrick Nuttgens
Architectural Seriousness 220
JO
Lance Wright
Appendix 245

~DE~ .........

.._!j_L5 72-
 lllu•tratlon•

129 Rudolf Schwarz, Corpus Christi, Aachen.

132 Rudolf Schwarz, Chapel of St Albert, Leversbach.
134 Rudolf Schwarz, Church of the Holy Family, Oberhausen.
137 Rudolf Schwarz, St Christopher, Cologne-Niehl.
140 Rudolf Schwarz, St Anthony, Essen.
143 Rudolf Schwarz, St Andrew, Essen.
144 Rudolf Schwarz, St Michael, Frankfurt am Main.
145 Emil Steffann and Klaus Rosiny, 'Maria in den Benden',
Dilsseldorf-Wersten.
148 Emil Steffann, St Lawrence, Munich.
149 André Le Donné, Church of the Sacred Heart, Mulhouse.
152 André Le Donné, St Ciare, Porte de Pantin, Paris.
154 Robert Maguire and Keith Murray, St Paul, Bow Common,
London
159 Robert Maguire and Keith Murray, St Matthew, Perry
Beeches, Birmingham.
161 Rainer Senn, Chapel at St André, near Nice.
162 Rainer Senn, project for a pentagonal timber chapel.
164 Rainer Senn, Our Lady of Lourdes, Pontarlier.
167 Rainer Senn, Seminary chapel, Pelousey, near Besan~on.
169 Rainer Senn, project for a prefabricated church.
171 Rainer Senn, Church at Villejuif, Paris.
172 Kaija and Heikki Siren, Chapel at Otaniemi, Finland.
176 Mies van der Rohe, Chapel, Illinois Institute of Technology,
Chicago.
Acknowledcement•

Acknowledgments are due to Verlag Aschendorff, Dr Theodor Klauser,

and the German Liturgical Commission for permission to translate from
the original German, and to reproduce their directives for church building
(translated from Ruhtlinien f1ir die Gesta/tu11g des Gotteshauses aus dem
Geiste dn riimischen Liturgie, compiled by Theodor Klauser al the order
of, and in collaboration with, the German Liturgical Commission. Verlag
Aschendorff, Münster, Westphalia, 1955. Also to the Reverend William
Wenninger, Chairman of the Diocesan Liturgical Commission of Superior,
Wisconsin, for permission to reproduce the Diocesan Church Building
Directives issued by that Commission.
Also to the following for permission to reproduce illustrations: Dipl.-
Ing. Frau Maria Schwarz and F. H. Kerle Verlag, pp. 12ir44; Emil
Steffann and Klaus Rosiny, pp. 145-7, photographs Konrad Mahns; Emil
Steffann, p. 148, photographs JO Inge Bock-Fetzer, JI Gustl Vogel; André
le Donné, pp. '49-5J• photographs J2, J4• 35, J6, J7 Yves Guillemaut, JJ,
41, 42 Chevojon; Robert Maguire and Keith Murray, pp. 154-60, photo-
graphs 44, 45, 47 H. de Burgh Galwey, Arphot (by courtesy of The Archi-
tutural Re<oiew), 46, 49, 50, 52 Norman Gold; Rainer Senn, pp. 161-71,
photographs 61, 64, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 7J Walter Gründer; Kaija and
Heikki Siren, pp. 172-5, photographs 74 Havas, 75, 76, 77 Pietinen;
Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, p. 176, photograph 81 Hedrich-Blessing.
 F'oreword

This book is a by-product of a discussion which has bcen going on

within the New Churches Research Group since its foundation in
1957. Most of the eBBays which it contains originated in papen read
at conferences organized by the group during the last three years,
though severa( of them have been completely rewritten in the light
of subsequent debate and criticism. The NCRG has from the outset
been an inter-denominational body, drawing its membership from
most of the major Christian communities; it also includes a number
of architccts who would not describe themselves as Christians at ali,
but who recognize that many of the problems which the group has
tried to face are problems affecting modero architecture in general:
not merely a single building type, which, whatever its importance
in the past, may seem today to be of somewhat marginal concern.
The contributors to this symposium include five Anglicans, four
Reman Catholics and a Presbyterian, and, granted that the present
debate about church design cuts right across denominational frontiers,
differences of opinion are inevitable. 1 have made no attempt to
reconcile conflicting views or to gloss over such differences where
they exist. The purpose of the book is to stimulate further discussion
and to raise fundamental questions, not to provide an agreed
statement.
But while the reader will have no difficulty in detecting occasional
differenccs of emphasis or opinion, what is surely more remarkable
is the fact that ten writers, who if they do not represent the full
diversity of denominational allegiance to be found within the some-
what ill-defined frontiers of the NCRG, are at any rate drawn from
severa! very diverse traditions, should find so large a measure of
common ground. It seems to me significant that wherever the pro-
blems of church design are being discussed today at a really funda-
mental leve!, and in a theological context, one finds a substantial
measure of agreement, not only in regard to baa.ic principies, but
even where particular applications are concerned.
 Tawards a Chwrch ArchikctNre
So far as the book has a thesis, it can be summed up in the title
of the first essay: the first essential for church builders today is a
radical approach, an approach which, paradoxical as this may seem,
involves forgetting al! about architecture - at any rate in the early
stages of the design process. The second essential is architectural
seriousness: and everything that is said here about the need for
analysis and the consideration of human activities assumes the need
for a deeply serious architecture.
In a talk which formed part of a series arranged by the NCRG in
collaboration with the University of London in the autumn of 1959,
Pctcr Smithson proposed the following 'spiritual cxercises' for
churchmen and architects; they bear very closely on the theme of
this book:
For churchmtn
i. Keep on hammering away at the 'functional' requirements being
met.
ii. Try to make committees and architects scrutinize their proposals,
so that even if they cannot invest every part of the building with
meaning, in thc deepest sense, they can at least eliminate the
obviously meaningless.
and for architects
i. Remember that what is most importan! is the 'general solution':
that the formal organization should serve first that which is
'central to the problem', as Mies van der Rohe would say.
ii. That the great baroque churches are not at ali theatrical in thc
expressionist (or Gordon Craig) sense, but rather communicate
their meaning primarily by space, and by absolute consistency of
plastic language. And these tools are still available - in fact are the
only tools of architecture.
iii. That there is no reason why the technology and materials of
churches should be in any way different from normal building, in
fact they have to be the same (the ideation of the commonplace
and so on).
In other 'IJJOTds, we should be heading towards rather plain brick bo:res
fl1ith no tricks.
That is a very convcnient summary of the theme of these essays
and thc illustrations havc been chosen primarily to show what this
can mean in practicc. Al! the buildings illustrated are parish churches
 For""°'d
or churches designed to serve needs not substantially different from
those of a parochial community; they do not include monastic
buildings, pilgrimage or mortuary chapela, or other churchea with
functions radically different from those of the typical dtm1US ecckritu.
Apart from the two Anglican parish churches illustrated on pagea
154-6o and the chapels at Otaniemi and Chicago illustrated on
pages 172-76, ali the buildings shown are designed for the celebra-
tion of the liturgy according to the Roman rite. I suapect that a
good many English Free Churchmen would feel far more at home
in a church like the one at Perry Beeches (pages 159""6o) or in Rainer
Senn's chapel for a Catholic seminary at Pelouaey (pagea 167-8)
than they would in the First Presbyterian Church at Stamford,
Connecticut (see page 24); as 1 remarked in an earlier essay on
church architecture, 'one of the ironies of the present situation is
that the classic principks o/ Anglican rrorship are being given far more
convincing architectural expression in modern Reman Catholic
churches on the Continent than in Anglican buildings in London,
Coventry or the New Towns'. Similar ironies abound today in every
situation where the leaven of the new reformation is at work: the
need for a radical approach is not confined to the realm of church
architecture.

Hull, March 1962 Peter Harnmond

 Note on Contrlbutorm

CHARLES DAVIS was born in 1923 and studied at St Edmund's

College, Ware. After ordination in 1946 he went to Rome for further
theological study at the Gregorian University. Since 1952 he has
been professor of dogmatic theology at St Edmund's College, Ware.
He is editor of The Clergy Review and a regular contributor to this
.nd other periodicals. He is author of Liturgy and Doctrine: the
Doctrinal Basis o/ the Liturgical Movement.
HUMPHREY BENEDICT GREEN was born in 1924. He read greats
and theology at Merton College, Oxford, studied for ordination at
Cuddesdon College, and then worked for five years in a suburban
parish before joining the staff of King's College, London. Since 196o
he has been a member of the Community of the Resurrection,
Mirfield. He is a contributor to several theological reviews.
PETE R HA MM o N D was born in 1921 and studied at the Bromley
College of Art, Merton College, Oxford, the U niversity of Salonica
and Cuddesdon College. After ordination in 1951 and a period on
the staff of St Thomas, Regent Street, he became rector of a emall
country parish near Cirencester, where the NCRG was founded in
1957. Since January 1962 he has been lecturer in the history of art
and complementary studies at the Regional College of Art, Hull. His
publications include The Waters o/ Marah and Liturgy and Archi-
tecture.
PATRICK MCLAUGHLIN was born in 1909. He read P.P.E. at
Worcester College, Oxford, and was ordained in 1935. After seven
years parochial work in Birmingham and Essex, and a period as
secretary of the Church Union committee for social action, he became
warden of St Anne's House, Sobo, and vicar of St Thomas, Regent
Street: two of the liveliest centres of the movement for reform within
the Church of England during the 'fifties. He was one of the founders
of the Parish and People movement and is author of The 1\"ecessity
o/ Worship.
13
Ton·ards a Church Architecture

ROBERT MAGUIRE was born in 1931 and studied at the Archi-

tectural Association School, London. With Keith Murray, he has
worked for sorne ten years on problems of church design, both
theoretically and practically. The partnership's first building was
St Paul's church, Bow Common.
NI GEL MELHUISH was born in 1927 and trained asan architect at
Cambridge and the R.W.A. School in Bristol, where he wrote an
unpublished thesis on Church Architecture and the Liturgical Move-
ment which anticipates much of the discussion of the last five years.
After eight years' varied experience as an assistant he is now in
private practice.
KEITH MURRAY was born in 1929 and studied at the Central
School of Arts and Crafts, London. He has been managing director
of a firm of church furnishers and has practised as a designer
under the name of Keith Fendall. He is now in partnership with
Robert Maguire.
PATRICK NUTTGENS was born in 1930 and is the son of a stained
glass artist. He studied at the Edinburgh College of Art and Edin-
burgh University, where he was a lecturer in architecture from 1957
until 1961. He is now director of the Institute of Advanced Archi-
tectural Studies in the U niversity of York. He is author of a book on
the Scottish church architect Reginald Fairlie.
JAMES WHYTE was born in 1920 and studied at Edinburgh
University and New College, Edinburgh. He ministered in two
Scottish parishes befare taking up bis present post as professor of
practica! theology and Christian ethics in the University of St
Andrews in 1958. He is also chairman of the Scottish Pastoral
Association.
LANCE WRIGHT was born in 1915 and studied at University
College, London, and the A.A. School of Architecture. From 1947
to 1953 he was a lecturer at the Royal West of England Academy
School of Architecture, Bristol. Since 1951 he has been a member of
the Lay Apostolate Group, an informal group set up by the Roman
Catholic hierarchy of England and Wales to develop the part of the
laity in the Church. Since 1953 he has been technical editor of The
Architects' Jaurnal and The Architectural Review.

14
 1. A Radlcal Approach to Church Archltecture

PETER HAMMOND

In talking about modern church architecture one is talking about

something the very existence of which is open to question. If any-
thing that can properly be described as modern church architecture
exists at all today it does so only in embryonic forro. There are plenty
of new churches: they have been going up in their hundreds during
the last few years all over the world, from Finland to Australia. How
many of these churches can really be called modern buildings is an-
other matter altogether. The great majority are essentially backward-
looking; they merely take the formal concepts of the past and deck
them out in a new and brightly coloured wrapper; they are like
glossy paperback editions of minar nineteenth-century classics, and
they are frequently issued with extravagant blurbs.
There are a few churches which do not fall into this category. They
are almost invariably unpretentious structures which bear little re-
semblance to the popular image of a modern church. Frequently they
are constructed of traditional materials. They offer little scope to the
artist. The fact remains that they hint obscurely at possibilities as
yet unrealized; and, significantly, they all reftect preoccupations
which are social and theological rather than formal or stylistic.
Where church architecture is concerned we are, it seems to me,
still very much in the period of 'towards an architecture'. So far as
an embryonic church architecture does exist today, it is largely as the
result of a movement which is not directly concerned with architec-
ture at ali, but which seeks to create within the Church a deeper
understanding of its own nature and function in the modern world.
This movement of reform and renewal first sprang up in Belgium
during the years immediately preceding the First World War. lt
quickly spread to Germany, where the Benedictine abbey of l\.laria
Laach was from the outset its focal point, and then to Austria. Since
the Second World War it has developed out of ali recognition, and
 Towards a <'hurch Architecture
the papal encyclical Mediator Dei, issued in 1947, the restoration of
the Easter Vigil and the international liturgical congress held at
Assisi in 1956 ali bear witness to the way in which the general prin-
cipies of the movement - if not ali of their particular applications -
have come to be widely accepted within the Roman Catholic Church.
In other Christian communities too, the movement is now a force to
be reckoned witb: indeed, one of its most striking characteristics is
its capacity for transcending denominational frontiers and for estab-
lishing a surprising measure of common ground between Christians
of very diverse traditions.
The character of this liturgical movement, as it is commonly known,
has unfortunately been widely misunderstood. In English-speaking
countries in particular, where the influence of the movement has so
far been slight, its significance has long been obscured by certain
widely-held misconceptions. It has, to take only three examples of
such misconceptions, been regarded as a misguided attempt to restare
the outward observances of the primitive Church; as a programme of
specific practica! reforms; even, strange as this may seem to anyone
who has known the movement from within, as the latest fashion in
church furnishings: an esoteric cult of spiritual nudity and bare stone
altars, slap in the middle of the congregation.1 Such misconception'
have arisen mainly as the result of a failure to distinguish between

1 The idea that the liturgical movement is 1nothing more than a fteeting
phase of ecclesiastical fashion' has recently been given a new lease of life by
Peter F. Anson's fascinating, but in sorne ways profoundly misleading book
Fashions in Church Furnishings 1840-1940, Faith Press 1960. Mr Anson is
not interested in theology and he entirely fails to recognize the biblical,
doctrinal and pastoral roots from which the movement has sprung. Nobody
reading his book would suppose that the liturgical movement had any
doctrinal basis. Only once does he hint that fundamental issues are in-
volved, when, on p. 357 1 he writes that 'the only solution (to the chaos of
the 'thirties) was a return to the basic principies o/ Christian worshiºp' (my
italics). But we hear no more about basic principies; instead, we learn a
few pages la ter: 'So started yet another fashion in church furnishings,
based on a return to the age o/ the Catacombs' (my italics). That, as Mr
Anson is well aware, is not precisely what Continental theologians mean
when they talk about a retour aux sources. For a very different interpretation
of the significance of the liturgical movement see Louis Bouyer, Lije and
Liturgy, Sheed & Ward 1956, and Charles Davis, Liturgy and Doctri11e,
Sheed & Ward 1960.
 A Radical Approach to Church Architecture
basic principies and detailed (and sometimes ill-considered) practica!
applications.
In fact, the whole basis of the liturgical movement has from the
earliest days been doctrinal and pastoral. So far from being concerned
only with outward observances and ceremonial frills, this movement
of reform and renewal has led in the course of the last fifty years to a
radical reassessment of the whole content of the Christian faith. The
movement is concerned with the fundamentals of doctrine : with issues
no less basic than those which were at stake in the controversies of
sixteenth century: the resurrection and the paschal mystery as the
central theme of the Christian message; the theology of the Church,
the Bible and the sacraments; the activity of the Holy Spirit; the
character and function of the Christian layman; and the nature of the
Christian assembly as the mystery of the Church realized in one par-
ticular place and time. It has led to so many practica! reforms, has
reached out to so many points on the periphery of the Church's
activity, precisely because it goes theologically deep. It affects our
whole understanding of the Christian mystery; it touches the life
of the body of Christ at its deepest and most hidden levels. Based
as it is on a far more critica! appreciation both of early Christian
tradition, and also of its development during the Middle Ages, than
was attainable four hundred, or even one hundred years ago, the
liturgical movement is the latest, and by far the most promising
attempt that has yet been made to cure a sickness which has vexed
the whole body of the western Church - Catholic and Protestant -
for many centuries. Its full significance can be grasped only when it
is set in its proper theological context: when it is seen against the
background of the revolutionary developments which took place in
the western half of Christendom during the Middle Ages, and which,
despite the efforts of earlier reformen, have continued to exercise a
powerful inf\uence right down to the present day.
In Germany, by the mid-'twenties, the debate about church build-
ing was already being drawn into a wider debate concerning the
Church itself, its nature, its structure, the worship that is its dis-
tinctive activity, and its function in the modero world. The nascent
liturgical movement was beginning to provide the radical theological
thinking that was so desperately needed, not only by church archi-
tects but by ali who were seeking to embody authentic Christian
tradition in forms of equal authenticity. Architecture was beginning

17
Towarcls a Church Architecture
\o be re\a\ed to \heo\ogy and it was becoming clear, that in order to
understand the purpose of the domus ecclesiae, one must first seek to
unders\and \he purpose of the ecclesia itself: that the first necessity
for church bui\ders was to forget a\\ about architecture and to study
the anatomy of Christ's body, the structure of the temple built of
\ivi.n<g, stones.
l\.rchi.tectura\ reviva\ism was dead; but it was impossible to create
a new church architecture mere\y by accepting the technological
revo\u\i.on. \t was necessary to go deeper. The new technology was
capab\e of providing the Church with a living language. So much
was c\ear from Perret's church at Le Raincy and Karl Moser's
l\.ntoniuskirche at ~as\e, where the means and forms of our time had
becn uscd with transparent honesty and immense rigour. What tech-
no\ogy cou\d not provide was the substance of the discourse: the
meani.ngs and va\ucs that architecture must express. That could come
on\y from a new understanding of Christian tradition. As the German
arch\tect Rudo\f Schwarz wrote in 1937: 'It does not suffice to work
honest\y with the means and forms of our time. It is only out of
sacred rea\ity that sacred building can grow. What begets sacred
works is not the \ife of the world but the life of faith - the faith,
however, o{ our time. . . The substance of ali church building is
the \iving Church. The "structure" is her "visibleness", so much so
that the building itse\f, taken together with ali its contents as a living
unity, is the revea\ed form, the revealed structure of the Church.' 2
Before architects cou\d hope to exploit the possibilities for church
building o{ the new world of forms opening up ali around them,
bcfore the unchanging substance of Christian tradition could again
be CX\)tesscd in the \anguage of the living, there had to be a recovery
within the Church of the meaning of the Church. The need was
urgent. A\\ too frequently churchmen seemed to have lost their hold
on truths which were central to their faith, while they continued to

'Vom Bau dn Kirche, Heidelberg 1938; English translation by Cynthia

Harria: The Church Incarnate, the Sacred Function of Christian Architecture,
Henry Regnery Company, Chicago, 1958, pp. 10 and 212. Now that this
book is al last available in English it should be required reading for every·
one concerned with church building. Mies van der Rohe has called it
'one o! the truly great booll.s . . a book which i\luminates the whole
problem o! architecture itself'. See also Schwarz's last published work:
Kirchenbau, Welt llOT der Schwellt, F. H. Kerle Verlag, Heidelberg, 1960.
 A Radical Approaeh to Church Architecture
cling tenaciously to much that was at best peripheral. The first step
towards a church architecture was 'a renewal of the religious con-
sciousness of Christian people'. 3
By the late 'twenties the signs of renewal were multiplying rapidly.
The German liturgical movement centred on Maria Laach, together
with the biblical renewal stemming from Klosterneuburg in Austria
and the Belgian movement for reform, with its strongly pastoral em-
phasis, promised to bring about a radical transformation in the
Church's understanding of itself and its mission. The riches of authen-
tic Christian tradition were being laid bare. The accretions which had
obscured the true meaning of the ecclesia were being stripped away.
There was a general return to essentials, to the great central truths of
the Christian message.
The effect of this theological and liturgical renewal on church de-
sign can be seen from two remarkable churches which Rudolf
Schwarz, himself deeply involved in the growing debate between the
theologians and the architects, built during the years 1928-33: the
Fronleichnamskirche at Aachen and the chapel of St Albert at Levers-
bach, near Düren.' He re at last church architecture has recovered
its true function. Once again the church has become a house for the
people of God: an instrument for forming a human community,
which is itself an instrument for the restoration of ali things in Christ.
These churches are essentially liturgical and pastoral tools. The peri-
pheral distractions have gene and the true purpose of the building
is disclosed. The incipient revolution in church architecture begun
by architects like Perret and Moser has been carried a stage further.
If the Antoniuskirche had brought about a technical revolution in
church building, Schwarz's church at Aachen 'started another one,
deeper and more radical. 1t makes architects develop, as a new prob-
lem, the essential church out of its theological, liturgical and practica/
conception. ' 5
The significance of these churches líes in the fact that they are
the product of a really radical approach to architecture: an approach
3 Charles Davis, op. cit, 1 p. 18.

'See illustrations, pp. 129-133. The photograph of the interior of the

chapel at Levenbach was tak.en before the war. lt has subsequently under-
gone a rather unfortunate transformation.
6 H. A. Reinhold 1 'The Architecture of Rudolf Schwarz,' ArcJuºtectural

Forum, January 1939, p. a4.

Towards a Church Architectrm

which starts not from formal concepts but from the analysis of human
activities. In the case of a church, it is hardly necessary to add, such
an approach involves asking sorne very fundamental questions abou1
the nature of these activities and that of the community which takes
part in them. One may begin by asking 'what is a church for?', but
if one is going to be radical one cannot stop there; it is necessary to
ask 'what is the Church for?', what sort of a community is it?', 'what
are its distinctive structures?', 'what is the inner meaning of the
various activities to which it appears to attach such importance?',
'what is the relationship between what goes on inside the church
building and the Church's mission to society at large?', and so on.
Unless architecture and theology are in deep communication with
each other - as they were in Germany between the wars - it is un-
likely that these questions will be answered. A radical approach to
architecture must involve the client, no less than the architect, in
sorne hard thinking and analysis. The churches at Aachen and Levers-
bach could never have been built had not the nascent liturgical renewal
already compelled the Church in Germany to re-examine its tradi-
tions and to rediscover the sources of its life.
Modero church architecture began with a rediscovery of essentials.
'For the celebration of the Lord's supper,' wrote Schwarz, 'a moder-
ately large, well-proportioned room is needed, in its centre a table
and on the table a bowl of bread and a cup of wine. That is ali.
Table, space and walls make up the simples! church. There have
been greater forms of church building than this one, but this is not
the right time for them. We cannot continue on from where the last
cathedrals left off. lnstead we must enter into the simple things at the
source of the Christian life. We must begin anew and our new be-
ginning must be genuine. '6 If we are to build on the foundations that
were laid in Germany during the 'twenties and the early 'thirties, then
we too must be prepared to forget about architecture and to enter
into the simple things at the source of the Christian life. There is no
other way to build real churches, churches which will revea! the
structure of the ecc/esia itself.

In an essay which appeared towards the end of 1959 Sir John

Summerson asserted that there is now, what there was not as recen ti y
as the late 'thirties, a real school of modero design in Britain. He
'Op. cit., p. 35 f.
 A Radical Approach to Church Architecture
hastened to add that what he had in mind was not 'Englishness' or
national character or anything of that sort, but rather the existence
of a very general agreement among serious architects in this country
as to what is the right approach to modern building. 'This agreement',
he went on, goes deeper than a sharing of stylistic conventions,
1

which come and go fashionwise; it is an agreement to be radical, to

be continuously critical of results and to go back again and again to
the programme and to wrestle with its implications till it yields an
answer which has the stamp of reality. This radicalism is the great
thing in English architecture today. Once lose it and "English
modern'' becomesjust so much provincial back-wash from the Chan-
nel and the Atlantic."
Shortly after reading this essay 1 happened to be present at a
meeting between a parish priest, faced with the task of building a
new church, and the architect whom he had chosen. 1 would stress
the fact that, by English standards at least, this was an exceptional
project in that the client had made a real effort to take his responsi-
bilities seriously. He and his people had done a great deal of pre-
liminary study; there had been visits to other new churches in the
diocese; a lecturer from the local university had talked about the
liturgical movement and shown slides of recent churches on the Con-
tinent ¡ a written programme had been drawn up, circulated and
twice revised. The architect had been chosen with unusual care. Al-
though he had never built a church, and was unknown to the arch-
deacon and the diocesan advisory committee, he had designed several
secular buildings in the neighbourhood which had greatly impressed
the parochial church council. Now, after ayear of intensive discussion,
the parish had decided that the time had come to present their re-
quirements to the architect. This was the purpose of the meeting.
The parish priest began by explaining that what he proposed to do
was to run through the brief, as he called it, section by section,
starting with the church itself and going on to consider the ancillary
buildings, which included a large hall, a committee room and a par-
sonage house. He would assume that the architect was quite happy
unless he interrupted the reading to ask questions. The architect
agreed and the briefing began: the church must consist of a single,
unobstructed space, without aisles. The altar must be its focal point,
and there must be seating for three hundred persons and a choir of
' Foreword to Dannatt, 1'1odern Architecture in Britain, Batsford 1959.
Towards a Church Architecture
tbirty at the west end of the nave, behind the congregation. A choir
ia\\ery was permissib\e. The sanctuary must be clearly defined but it
need not be contained in an apse; the pulpit should stand on the
north si.de of the nave and there must be a coherent visual relationship
between a\tar, pu\pit, \ectern and priest's desk; the font should not
be placed near the entrance to the church but should stand in full
vi.ew of the congregation ..
Had \ been the architect, and not a mere observer, the briefing
wou\d not have proceeded very far without interruption. 1 should
have wanted to ask: in what sense is the altar to be the focal point of
the building? what exactly is the choir going to do? what is the func-
ti.ona\ basis of these 'coherent visual relationships'? and so on. None
of these questions was asked. The architect listened attentively and
made occasiona\ notes, but he appeared to be quite satisfied. Within
\ess than ten minutes we had turned from the church to the parish
ha\\ without a single question asked. But at this point the architect
sudden\y carne to life: 'you say you need a large hall; now before we
go any further, what are people going to do in this building?' lmmedi-
ate\y the whole atmosphere changed, and in no time at ali client and
architect were discussing the nature of badminton. lnstead of talking
about architectura\ concepts - aisles, galleries, apses, etc. - they were
dea\ing with the prob\em at the deeper leve! of human needs and
activities.
l mention this experience because it seems to me to go a long way
towards exp\aining why, out of al\ the hundreds of new churches
bui\t within the \ast ten years, there are so few which can truthfully
be described as modern buildings. Modern architecture is not simply
a matter of stylistic conventions, new materials and structural sys-
tems. lt is a\so the product of a radical approach to building which
breaks through the crust of formal concepts to the underlying social
rca\ities. No matter what the building in question may be, whether
it is a houae, a achoo\ or a factory, the firat step in the design procese
wil\ be to ask basic queations about the human activities, relation-
ships and va\ues which the building exists to serve and to articulate.
In other words, one has to start by trying to empty one's mind of
forma\ concepta, by forgetting all about architecture, in order to
study the specific activity or 'ritual' from which the building derives
ita purpoae.
Thus, the design of a houae wil\ start from the consideration of a
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “All right,” said Hugh, “step in,” and, with this, Judge Lynn was
ushered into the directors’ room.
He struck an attitude of great dignity, thrusting one hand deep
into his waistcoat, and, with the other resting upon his hip, he said,
“Gentlemen, you-alls ‘ll pardon me, but I’m desirin’ to jist ask two or
three questions.”
The directors nodded their heads, as much as to say, “Go on.”
“Captain Osborn,” said the judge, “did n’t I onderstand you to say
that person’ly you’d like to ‘commodate me with the loan of a
thousand dollars?”
“I believe I did,” replied the captain.
“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, turning to Mr. Doole, “did n’t I
onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d no objections to loanin’
me the money?”
“I think I made such an observation,—yes!” replied Mr. Doole.
“Stanton,” continued the judge, with awful seriousness, “is n’t it a
fact that you said you’d be glad to ‘commodate me if it was a
personal matter of your own?”
“Yes, I think I said something like that, Judge,” replied Hugh.
“Well, gentlemen, person’ly each and every one of you would like
to ‘commodate me, but collectively you’ve turned me down; is n’t
that ‘bout it?”
The directors nodded their heads.
“But you see—” said the captain.
“Never mind, Captain,” interrupted the judge, “explainin’ don’t
count. Here’s what I want to say to you-alls. I jist want to say that
person’ly I think you’re a mighty nice lot o’ fellers, but collectively
I’m assoomin’ you’re the darndest lot of skates I ever run up agin’.”
And, with this parting shot, the judge hastily left the room,
muttering dire vengeance against bloated bondholders and coupon-
clippers.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.—THE PRAIRIE-
FIRE

A
KANSAS prairie is a veritable inland sea. From Meade to the
northwest a broad expanse of buffalo-grass lands stretched
away for many miles, almost as level as the top of a table,
without even a single gully or rill to break its tiresome monotony.
Often, at night, I have walked along some quiet roadway far into the
country, listening to the silence that enveloped me. Sometimes the
very air that, seemingly, pulsed with monotonous stillness, would be
startled by the sharp, quick bark of a wolf in the distance. I have
looked out across these flat table-lands, dimly lighted by the moon
in its last quarter, and for hours watched half-formed shadows of
passing clouds flit vaguely on across this vast sea of silence, while
others followed in countless numbers, until vision became confused
and imagination triumphed over knowledge. At such times, in fancy I
stood on the beach of a mighty ocean, and each shadow was a
sable-shrouded sail-boat carrying my hopes away to some unknown
shore of mystery.
The hot winds had dried and browned the buffalo-grass. Then the
rain came and freshened the landscape into a new life. Several
weeks of warm, windy weather had now intervened. The country
was becoming parched and dry again. The thick, matted buffalo-
grass was cured as effectually as is the Eastern farmer’s hay when it
is cut into swaths and dried before it is bunched into windrows. It,
however, retained its nutritiousness. Indeed, it was said to be more
fattening for the vast herds of cattle than prior to the hot winds.
One afternoon a thin line of smoke was discernible afar in the
western horizon. It seemed like a black ribbon reaching from No-
Man’s-Land, on the south, to the sand-hills, a distance of almost a
hundred miles to the north. These remarkable mounds of sand, in
width from five to fifteen miles, border the Arkansas River on its
south bank. They separate the river from the table-lands lying
farther to the south. To the inexperienced observer, the dark border
in the western horizon had more the appearance of dust-clouds,
caused by innumerable whirlwinds, than of smoke, but the older
frontiersmen recognized in the menacing dark border, a prairie-fire.
As Hugh Stanton was walking along the street, his attention was
called to this distant cloud, by Judge Lynn.
“I say, Stanton,” said he, “do you see that line of smoke? Onless I
don’t know a thing or two, the cattlemen will have to shift their
herds to a new range. You bet yer life they will. Reckon I knows a
thing or two.”
“Why, is that smoke?” asked Hugh. “Looks like a whirlwind of dust
to me.”
“Yes, sirree, that’s smoke, and one of the tarnallest, biggest
prairie-fires is ragin’ over there that ever scorched dry buffalo-grass.
Things’ll be sizzin’ hot ‘round here soon. You bet I know what I’m
talkin’ ‘bout.”
Hugh gazed intently while the Judge was speaking, and then
observed, “Well, if it were n’t so far away I should like to drive over
and see a genuine prairie-fire.”
“See a prairie-fire! Why, dang my buttons, man, I’m lowin’ you ‘re
liable to see enough prairie-fire afore mornin’ to last you the rest of
your nach’al days. You bet if it once gets started this way things’ll be
poppin’ ‘round here, an’ the whole country will be locoed:”
“Why, how so?” asked Hugh. “That dust line, or smoke, or
whatever it is, must be fully a hundred miles away.”
Lynn laughed in derision. “Gee, Stanton, not speakin’ onfeelin’ or
careless-like, but you’re tender. You’re dead easy. ‘Course it’s a
hundred miles away, maybe more, but if the wind gets a-comin’ an’
a-blowin’ this way, you’ll see the all-firedest time in these diggin’s
you ever heerd tell of, an’ somethin’ mighty thrillin’ will happen. You
bet I’m not ‘round makin’ a virtue out of duty, but, speakin’
onrestrained-like, every able-bodied man’ll have a duty to perform if
that fire gets to racin’ this way, an’ I’m not assoomin’ any spechul
knowledge in sayin’ it. I reckon I can tell a fire when I see smoke,
an’ there’s no misonderstandin’ ‘bout that.”
It was not long until several hundred townspeople were on the
street, discussing the great prairie-fire that was raging in the
western counties. Some of the more timid expressed alarm, but the
majority had never experienced a Kansas prairie-fire, and even in the
dullest soul there was a pronounced novelty in anticipation of so
grand a sight.
The smoke-cloud grew blacker and thicker near the earth, and
gradually rose higher and higher. A strong wind set in from the west,
and, before five o’clock, the ominous-looking pillars of smoke had so
dimmed the sun that it appeared like a great shield of bronze. The
earth was overcast with a yellow, subdued light; and the winds in
their onward sweeping seemed surcharged with presentiment—
burdened with dread. To the onlookers it did not seem possible that
danger to them lurked in this unchained fire demon, so far away.
Some one suggested that it might be well to plow furrows around
the western limits of the town, and back-fire, but he was quickly
laughed into silence for his fears. The increasing throng seemed to
enjoy a scene that all the while was growing plainer and grander in
the western horizon.
It was perhaps eight o’clock that night when the residents of
Meade discovered a thin glow of fire cutting the dark belt near the
earth, like a blood-red sickle. The line reached for miles from north
to south. The sight was novel and inspiring. The rapidly-moving
smoke-clouds, in their spiral twistings, had floated far to the east,
and they now presented an appearance as spectacular as an aurora
borealis. Great, reddened banks of clouds mounted almost to the
zenith, while on either side were interspersed columns of rolling
smoke of inky blackness.
The people ceased jesting now, for the scene was awe-inspiring. A
stillness fell over the assemblage. Presently the rumble of wagons
was heard on the different country roads leading into Meade. The
country folks had taken alarm, and, with well-filled wagons
containing their more valuable belongings, were hastening away
from their lonely dugouts to the protection of the town.
Some of the townspeople were inclined, at first, to jeer at the
fears of the farmers and ranchmen; but beneath their jeering there
had anchored a universal lodestone of depression and apprehension.
Arrangements were hastily made to protect the town by back-firing,
and by plowing furrows in the prairie sod on its western, southern,
and northern limits. Hundreds of willing hands volunteered to do this
work. The fireline grew plainer as it continued its eastward advance.
The shifting banks of smoke now resembled a seething ocean of
tumult. Some of the clouds were as yellow as molten gold, while
others appeared blood-stained, and fearful to look upon. The entire
western sky was aglow; and even high in the heavens were restless,
shifting banks of rose-tinted clouds, that feathered and paled into a
fringe of dissolving pink and white.
The streets were crowded with the inhabitants of the surrounding
country. By midnight a quiver of fear had shot through every heart,
and the weird light of the fire was casting a deathlike pallor over
every face. A dull, threatening roar could be heard. The flames were
leaping one upon another, like the incoming waves of the billowy
deep, ever changing and seething like an army of hissing serpents.
Their forked tongues shot high into the emblazoned clouds,
fantastically lighting up the landscape.
The hoarse, doleful bellowing of cattle was heard in the distance.
A smell of burning grass filled the air with stifling odor. The cattle
came nearer, and the sound of their trampling hoofs resembled the
sullen mutterings of thunder. A command was given to turn the
herds from the principal streets, but it was unavailing. Before the
people realized the danger, nearly a thousand beeves, bellowing in
stampeded terror, rushed pell-mell through the streets of Meade,
horning each other in their fury, and trampling to death any
unfortunate who happened to get in their way. They finally corralled
themselves in the public square.
Captain Osborn’s sonorous voice was heard above the tumult,
calling for additional volunteers to help fight the oncoming flames.
 Horses were hastily hitched to wagons in which barrels of water
were placed. Blankets, old coats, quilts, gunny-sacks, and every
conceivable kind of cast-off garments were hastily secured and
fastened to hoe and fork handles and poles, to be used by the brave
men in fighting the fire. These recruits hastened to the limits of the
town, and joined the fire-fighters, who were now begrimed with soot
and smoke even beyond recognition. They continued back-firing, but
it was practically unavailing. The fire would burn in the buffalo-grass
only when going with the wind. The teams and breaking-plows were
hastily transferred to a point nearer the town, and here wide, deep
furrows were plowed. The firemen then burned the grass between
these headlands, but their efforts were to prove futile in checking
the sweeping flames.
Then a wildly novel scene occurred. Flocks of prairie-hens, quails,
meadow-larks, and thrushes, all blinded, singed, and frightened,
began flying against the buildings, many of them falling to the earth
either crippled or dead. The entire town echoed with fluttering
wings. Wolves, driven from their dens and haunts by the prostrating
heat, rushed by the fire-fighters in frantic fright. Soon the town was
fairly besieged by these frenzied animals. Their advent seemed to
madden the already infuriated cattle, and a general mjlie and
warfare to the death ensued. The yelps and barking cries of this
bedlam were at once pitiful and terrible. Dozens of wolves were
gored to death.
Hundreds of jack-rabbits, their long ears lying flat upon their
backs, came bounding in from the burning prairie. The wolves had
been intimidated by the sharp horns of the terrified cattle, but now
they turned, with many a snarl and growl, upon the rabbits, and
killed scores of these helpless habituis of the Great Southwest.
The people had taken refuge in the upper stories, and on the roofs
of buildings, to protect themselves from the savage arena below. As
the fire drew nearer, and the light and heat became more intensified,
a spectral hue fell over the blanched faces of all.
A suffocating fear, far exceeding even that of the hot winds,
enveloped the beleaguered town of Meade. The situation was
desperate. The flames, in their maddened fury of triumph, were
rushing on the wings of the wind toward their defenseless victims.
The brave battalion of firefighters was forced to retire in haste
before the stifling heat. The western fronts of the buildings were as
light as noonday, while to the eastward the long shadows danced,
grew less distinct, and then darkened, as the scarlet smoke rose and
fell, producing strange and weird phantoms.
The rapidly-gliding columns of smoke, resting “one upon another—
one upon another,” seemed to have ignited and become a surging
sea—a pyrotechnical display of fire waves. A few buildings on the
outskirts caught fire from the great heat. Millions of flying sparks, as
countless as the stars, filled the air, threatening complete
annihilation. The menacing flames were advancing upon their
helpless prey with a fierceness that seemed to partake of hellish
glee. The cries of rabbits, the yelps of coyotes, the moaning howl of
wolves, the frantic roarings of cattle, and the wail of hysterical and
fainting women,—all produced the wildest pandemonium. Above this
terrible tumult could be heard the hissing, crackling, seething laugh
of the undulating, death-dealing labyrinth of flames,—on they
rushed, in awful fury. Extinction seemed imminent. The burning
buildings were already crumbling into charred ruins; while others
were being enveloped with roaring, swirling sheets of fire. Like
prophets, they seemed to be foretelling, by example, a certain
destruction. The cattle, the wolves, the jack-rabbits and the people,
were alike demoralized and stampeded by an overpowering fear.
The fire now advanced like a line of molten lava. On, on it came,
to the very limits of Meade. Man and beast seemed about to be
offered up on a fiery altar. The cattle moaned a sacrificial dirge. The
smothering smoke crept stealthily down through the streets, and
suffocation hushed the wail of the people. Like hordes of painted
savages, the flames seemed to be brandishing bloody tomahawks,
as they rushed at their victims with demoniacal shrieks of exultation.
Then, God smote the rock of deliverance,—a divine hand reached
out in infinite compassion. The heavens opened, the rain descended
in blinding torrents, the earth trembled with deafening peals of
thunder, the lightning pierced the clouds in fearful grandeur, as if the
Almighty, in His immeasurable goodness, were hurling an admonition
at the flames.
Providence grappled the devouring demon by the throat, as he
was in the very act of exulting over an almost certain victory. The
fire-king of terror surrendered to an omnipotent decree. Its mighty
strength was broken, and what a few moments before had seemed
an irresistible artillery of power and defiance became a charnel-
house, wrapped in the sable robes of its own defeat. Then there
went up a cry from the people, “God lives! Our lives are spared! All
praise to the Ruler of the universe!”
When the wreck and ruin had been surveyed in the gray dawn and
morning of a new day, these loyal people, with a fortitude unequaled
in the history of communities, returned to the burning embers of
their dugout homes, and, forgetting the devastation of the hot winds
and the calamity of the greatest prairie-fire that had ever swept over
the Southwest, they went on loving Kansas,—the land of sunshine
and of sunflowers.
 CHAPTER XXXV.—A BUCKING
BRONCO

T
HE great fire left nothing in its trail but ruin and hunger. The
farmers were, indeed, in sad circumstances. Want and misery
were in reality glaring at the people with gaunt and hollow
eyes. The spring sunshine and rain had clothed the landscape in
brilliant green; the hot winds had changed all, as if by magic, into a
world of dullest brown; while the great fire had spread over the
prairie a sable robe of ruin. Nor had the fire-king been entirely
cheated of the sacrifice of flesh and blood. The brown prairie had
been turned into a vast graveyard where suffocated men, horses,
cattle, wild animals, and flying things had, alike, been offered up to
the insatiable greed of the flames. Side by side lay these half-burned
carcasses and bones, telling where the victims had fallen,
vanquished in their race for life.
Time, however, would strangely change this field of desolation.
Other seasons would come, and here, where blackened embers lay
scattered for miles in every direction, new hopes would blossom.
Springing up from among these very bones, and enriched by them,
would grow the johnny-jump-ups, the daisies, and the dandelions.
The plum bushes that grow in straggling bunches along the sand-
dunes would again blossom and yield their plenteous offerings of
scarlet-red sand-plums. A new carpet of growing green, interspersed
with a myriad of rainbow-tinted flowers, would cover these barren
plains with a mantle of renewed life and beauty. This hope
stimulated the people and robbed their defeat of many remorseful
stings.
Major Buell Hampton came to the rescue. In his usual magnificent
generosity, he announced through the Patriot that there would be
ample assistance for the comfort of all. Arrangements were made for
the farmers to drive their teams northward, along the old “Jones and
Plummer” trail, to Dodge City, the nearest railroad point, and there
load their wagons with provisions for man and beast. In a few days
plenty once more blessed the impoverished people.
Major Hampton was ably seconded in his benevolence by John
Horton, Captain Osborn, and others.
“I am of the opinion,” said Major Hampton, when talking to Hugh
Stanton, “that in the crucible of suffering, God separates the dross
from the gold. It is necessary to jar men into a realization of ‘man’s
dependence upon his brother man.’.rdquo;
“Every condition that arises, Major,” replied Hugh, “brings to light a
new phase of your character. You have donated thousands of dollars
to these unfortunates, and you should be almost idolized by them
for your rare generosity.”
“My dear Stanton, let me say to you that praise, even though
deserved, is, after all, only flattery. I am not entitled to your
complimentary words. To feed the hungry, visit the sick, and clothe
the naked is a command from the Supreme Ruler. The only real
happiness in the world is in making others happy.”
John Horton rode up the street while they were talking, and
reported to Major Hampton that a hundred head of beeves would
arrive that evening for distribution among the sufferers.
“Well, Stanton, my boy,” said the major, “I am going into the
country this afternoon, but shall try to see you to-morrow.” With this
he turned toward the Patriot office, leaving Hugh to marvel at this
strange man whose liberality to the needy seemed limitless.
In the meantime Mrs. Horton had awakened to a realization that
she had been unfairly influenced in many ways by the late Mrs.
Osborn.
She now wondered why she had been so blinded. She was a
woman of great nobility of heart and of excellent judgment in most
matters, and she was beginning to acknowledge to herself that she
had committed a great error in her foolish Anglomania ambitions.
She seldom did things by halves. Discovering that Ethel was
irrevocably in love with Doctor Redfield, she determined to make
amends for the miserable daubs she had painted in the stage setting
of an unsuccessful English comedy. She therefore wrote at once to
Doctor Redfield, assuring him of her unqualified approval of his suit,
and urging him to stop at the Grove, as their guest, as long as he
remained in the Southwest. This urgent request was supplemented
by the rugged and yet whole-souled invitation of the cattle king.
Accordingly, the doctor left Hugh Stanton’s rooms at the hotel for
the hospitality of Horton’s Grove, where he might be with Ethel.
Hugh was filled with a keen sense of loneliness when Jack drove
away with his fiancie. Her tender eyes shone with a new light when
in Jack Redfield’s presence. She coaxingly told Hugh that he must
come over to the Grove every day, and, if he did not, they would
surely send for him.
When they were gone, Hugh turned back to his room, marveling
at the transformation in Ethel. Her cheeks glowed with the pink tinge
of ruddy health and her lips were like well-ripened cherries, while
the whole expression of her youthful face was one of contentment
and of hope. “Love is a wonderful thing,” said he, as he stood by the
window watching the carriage containing Jack and Ethel drive away
toward the country. He sighed, muttered something to himself, and
turned from the window.
“After all,” said he, aloud, “marriage is a mystery, the prelude an
illusion decked with ribbons of flattery, the awakening an
introduction to the real, where the happiness of each hangs upon
the caprice of both; while life, at best, is only a straw blown about
on the surface of chance, with the devil ever standing near,
beckoning us on to a labyrinth of confusion and misery.” Then he
thought of Ethel’s fair hand, which he had so recently held in his
own, and there crept into his soul, as the fanning breath of
springtime, a feeling of reverence, loyalty and respect.
The next morning, as Hugh was walking down the street, he met
Marie Hampton. A rich color mounted her cheek at their meeting.
“You are quite a stranger,” said she, smiling pleasantly. “We have not
seen you at our home for more than a week, and papa says you
have ceased calling at the Patriot office, altogether.”
“A friend has been visiting me,” replied Hugh, “and I have given
him considerable of my time, but that’s over with now,” said he, with
a sigh, “and I shall hope to see more of you and your father, too.”
“Oh, has he gone away so soon?” asked Marie.
“No,” replied Hugh, moodily, “but he does not need me any
longer.”
“Indeed?” said Marie, and there was an interrogative accent in her
voice.
“Yes,” replied Hugh, nervously. “Come, I will walk with you and tell
you a romance.”
They turned down the street toward Major Hampton’s home, and,
as they walked along, Hugh told Marie of Jack Redfield’s love affair.
“Oh, how romantic!” she exclaimed, when he had finished. “Just
like a story in a novel. I am impatient to see Ethel and this hero of
hers.”
They had reached Marie’s home, and she was standing on the
veranda, leaning her pretty head, with its wealth of bronzed hair,
against one of the supports. Her eyes were resting radiantly on
Hugh’s face.
“I doubt not,” Hugh was saying, “that they are very happy, and I
presume it is only a question of time until we shall lose Ethel.”
“Papa says he fears you will also go away now that the hot winds
have destroyed the crops and the big fire has generally devastated
the country.”
Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “The greater the pressure, the
better the wine.” He laughed a little and continued, “The test has
been a crucial one. Perhaps I will be compelled to go. When one is
conquered, the surrender should be unconditional.”
“That might be true of a woman,” said Marie, “but a man should
resist.”
“And why of a woman more than of a man?” inquired Hugh.
 “A man has greater strength,” she replied. “A woman is all heart
and sentiment, and, while her fortress is a strong one, yet she
expects to be conquered, and once she surrenders, she loves no one
more than her conqueror.”
Hugh thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, I presume that is
the rule.”
“Not the rule, but the condition,” replied Marie.
“But there are rules that govern lives,” persisted Hugh. “Do you
not think so?”
“Perhaps in a commercial sense, but not in love affairs,” said
Marie, laughing. “Now what sort of a rule could possibly have
governed Ethel and her lover?”
“Certainly a poor one,” replied Hugh.
“Are you quite sure, Mr. Stanton, that this Dr. Jack Redfield loves
Ethel as a hero in a novel seems to love his fiancie?”
“The illusion seems to be perfect,” replied Hugh, smiling.
“Do you believe in love, Mr. Stanton?” asked Marie, demurely.
“Yes, I presume there is such a sentiment,” replied Hugh.
“And do you think,” Marie went on, “that true love will endure any
sort of a test?”
“I do not know, I’m sure,” said Hugh.
“Well,” persisted Marie, “what is the test of a man’s love for a
woman?”
“The test,” replied Hugh, “of a man’s love for a woman?” He
looked afar across the valley as if meditatively weighing the question
that has perplexed the sages of all centuries. Finally he said, “A man
not infrequently lies with reckless prodigality to the woman he truly
loves, while to those toward whom he entertains sentiments of
indifference he will confess the truth without clothing it with
sufficient covering to even hide its nakedness.”
“I do not believe in your definition at all,” said Marie, with
heightened color, “and I look upon rules as the most worthless
baggage with which a life can be encumbered. A principle may apply
to all conditions, but a rule is narrow; while your idea of love’s test is
horrid.”
Hugh smiled at her philosophy and looked at the blushing girl with
increasing interest. “You are quite a reasoner, as well as a genius,”
said he, “even if you do not agree with my ideas of the test of man’s
love for woman. May I come tonight and hear you sing and play?”
“You may come,” she replied, “and I will play for you a simple little
melody,—one I have recently learned. You persist in saying I am a
genius; if so, I must be eccentric, and one of my whims is simplicity.”
“I like you all the better for your whims,” said Hugh, gallantly, and,
as he lifted his hat and turned away, he noticed that the compliment
had deepened the color in Marie’s face.
As he walked along the street, still thinking of his conversation
with Marie, he met Bill Kinne-man, riding a bronco. Kinneman called
out to him, “Look ‘e ‘ere, pardner, I thought you agreed not to
browse on my range.”
“What’s the matter with you, Kinneman, anyway?” asked Hugh,
angrily.
“Waal, I’ll jist tell you what’s a-chafin’ me, an’ makin’ me feel a
heap careless,” replied the cowboy. “You want to keep away from
Major Hampton’s an’ quit foolin’ ‘round Miss Marie, my wayfarin’
friend, or you’ll git into a whole lot o’ trouble that’ll result in yer
nach’ally git-tin’ uncorked and spilled.”
“Oh, is that so?” replied Hugh, contemptuously.
“You bet yer life, it’s so,” replied Kinneman, “an’ speakin’ sort o’
quick and hostile-like, you’ve bin stealin’ my thunder, an’ now you
may nach’ally expect to git a dose o’ my forked-tongued lightnin’.”
“You may do your worst,” said Hugh, angrily. “I shall call on Major
Hampton and his daughter as often as I like, as long as it is
agreeable to them. You are a contemptible whelp at best, and as far
beneath Miss Hampton as hades is below heaven, and if she had the
faintest suspicion that you aspired to her hand, she would be so
incensed at your presumption that she would never speak to you
again. Now go on about your business, if you have any, and never
again dare speak to me.”
Hugh turned on his heel and walked briskly away toward the bank,
while Bill Kinneman rode his pony into a side street, muttering dire
vengeance.
As Hugh neared the bank he saw John B. Horton riding madly
down the street. His fiery bronco seemed to have gotten beyond his
control. It reared, pitched, plunged forward, kicked viciously, and
pawed the earth. The cattle king sat in his saddle like a born
equestrian, but it was evident that he was pretty well exhausted.
Presently the pony started swiftly forward into a mad, breakneck
run. When directly in front of Captain Osborn’s bank, the mustang
suddenly shied, reared into almost an upright position, and then, as
its fore feet came down, it “bucked,” made a wicked plunge, and
kicked high in the air. The onlookers, though accustomed to bucking
broncos, were beginning to be alarmed. Another mad plunge, and
still another. Suddenly the saddle-girth broke, and Mr. Horton was
thrown violently from the pony, his head striking against the curb of
the sidewalk. By a strange coincidence, the ugly red scar that Hugh
had noticed at their first meeting was cut open by the fall.
Captain Osborn rushed from the bank, and, with the assistance of
Hugh and others, the bleeding man was carried into the captain’s
private room and a physician hastily summoned.
Before the physician could arrive, a report was circulating on the
streets of Meade that John B. Horton, the cattle king, had been
thrown from a bronco and killed.
 CHAPTER XXXVI.—A STARTLING
REVELATION

F
AR into the night John Horton lay in an unconscious condition,
between life and death. The physician characterized the wound
as an ugly one, and expressed great doubt as to the outcome.
Agreeable to his advice, it was thought best not to move the patient
for a few hours at least; and a comfortable cot was provided, on
which he lay moaning, tossing, and mumbling incoherently. By his
side sat the grim-visaged Captain Osborn, whose heart was tender
with sympathy and solicitude. Occasionally the captain would
exchange a few words with Hugh Stanton, in subdued tones,
regarding the doctor’s orders and the ices that were to be kept
constantly on the wound. The name “Ethel” escaped the patient’s
lips amidst his moaning, and again the words “little Hugh.”
It was after midnight when he seemed to arouse from the
unconscious condition in which he had lain, and began moaning
again and pulling at the bandages on his wound. It required no little
effort on the part of his attendants to prevent him from tearing the
bandages entirely away. Presently he started up as if awakening
from a troubled sleep. He opened his eyes and for a few minutes
looked vacantly at Captain Osborn. Then, in a quick, nervous tone,
he asked, “Where is my canteen and sword?”
“They are all right,” replied the captain, soothingly, “don’t think
anything about them at present. What you need now is quiet and
sleep.”
“Where am I?” the wounded man next asked, and then, without
waiting for a reply, he continued, “Did we whip them or did they
whip us?”
“There, there,” said the captain, gently, “you have a bad wound.
Don’t disturb yourself by trying to think. Go to sleep now, and I will
tell you all about the affair in the morning.”
“Very kind of you, stranger, I am sure,” said Horton. “I have had
all the sleep I care for. I must now join my regiment.” As he said this
he tried to arise from the cot. Both Hugh and Captain Osborn had all
they could do to prevent him from doing so. They persuaded him to
believe that the physician had forbidden undue exertion. The
wounded man lay back on his cot, exhausted from his effort, and
looked at his attendants in half anger, while his eyes lighted up with
the fire of a soldier.
“My duty as a soldier,” he protested, “outranks the order of the
hospital physician. As civilians, you, perhaps, cannot understand
this, but it is imperative that I join my regiment, the Twenty-ninth,
immediately.”
Hugh started to speak, but the old captain motioned him to
silence. “He is badly out of his head,” thought he, “and I must
handle him by strategy.” Perhaps Captain Osborn remembered the
gallant services of the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts regiment, of
which he had been the colonel, and was pardonably proud of his
achievements while defending the flag during the war.
“The Twenty-ninth is all right, comrade,” observed the captain.
“Officers and men behaved like heroes.”
“A glorious report!” cried the wounded man, enthusiastically. “That
repays me for this painful wound on my head, and lying around in
the hospital insensible for I know not how many hours. It was a
grand charge our men made,—right in the face of bristling bayonets,
shot and shell from the ‘gray coats.’ Our captain commanded the
right wing, the second lieutenant the left, while I occupied the
central position, and, in the doublequick charge that we were
making, something struck me on the head, just as our boys crossed
over a little brook, and then—well, I knew nothing more until just
now, when I came to my senses in this improvised hospital.” As he
concluded, he let his eyes wander about the small, dimly-lighted
room.
The captain looked at Hugh, and shook his head doubtfully.
 “Perhaps you would like to send a report to the commander of
your brigade, comrade?”
“Good idea,” said Mr. Horton. “By the way, as we whipped the
‘rebs,’ communication with the North is still open, and I would like
also to send a few lines to a noble little wife away up in
Massachusetts.”
“Let me be your amanuensis,” said Hugh, drawing his chair to the
captain’s table, and arranging some writing material.
“Thank you, sir; are you ready?”
“Quite ready,” replied Hugh.

“Hospital near Fortress Monroe.

“To Captain Lyman Osborn, 29th Mass. Inf.:
“Will join the company to-morrow. Am all right with
the exception of a scalp wound, which is somewhat
painful. Have had a good sleep and feel refreshed.
Expect me by noon.
“Your obedient servant,
“Lieut. Hugh Stanton.”

When the wounded man had finished dictating his report he

uttered a moan, and pressed his hand against the painful wound on
his head. Hugh lifted his eyes to Captain Osborn, and saw that the
old veteran’s face was ashen white. The startling revelation had also
dawned upon Hugh, and nis hand trembled violently. Captain Osborn
controlled his feelings, and, with iron-like firmness, remarked,
“Excellent report, comrade, splendid! Now, suppose you dictate a
short letter to your wife, and I will see that it is posted on the north-
bound train that leaves here within an hour.”
Mr. Horton was evidently in great pain. He lay with closed eyes for
a few minutes, as if waiting for the throbbing of his head to cease,
and then said: “Oh, I hope the garbled telegraph reports have not
numbered me among the missing. It would break the little woman’s
heart to read such a report as that in the newspapers.”
 “I am ready,” said Hugh, huskily.
“Very well; say Fortress Monroe—don’t date it at the hospital; it
would only cause her needless anxiety.”
“All right, I will do as you request,” replied Hugh.

“My dear wife Ethel:—Yesterday, June 10th, our

company formed part of a detachment sent to dislodge
the forces under General Magruder, which were
stationed a few miles from here, in the vicinity of
Bethel Church. The battle did not last long, but was
quite severe. I was slightly wounded—nothing serious.
Will report to my company for active service within a
few hours. Have just learned that we completely
routed the enemy, which was, of course, a most
satisfactory termination of the engagement. Every man
of the Twenty-ninth proved himself a hero, for, like
myself, they were fighting for a great principle and for
loved ones at home, and this made their services to
their country a holy crusade.
“When our little Hugh—God bless him!—is older,
teach him that his father was a soldier and a defender
of hearthstones and of the glorious old stars and
stripes. The Bethel Church encounter will doubtless go
down in history as one of the most spirited
engagements of the war.
“Affectionately your husband,
“Hugh Stanton.”

It required no small effort on the part of Captain Osborn to control

his agitation at this marvelous revelation. However, he hastily
prepared an opiate that had been left by the physician, and gave it
to the wounded man, who soon after fell into a peaceful slumber.
Then he moved nervously from the side of the cot, and approached
Hugh.
 “My boy,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “what a revelation! Do
you realize that this man is none other than your father?”
“I do,” faltered Hugh.
“Yes, and by the eternal,” the captain went on, “we will save him.
To think I have failed to recognize my old lieutenant all these years
is a piece of unpardonable stupidity on my part.”
Hugh’s head had been bowed in his hands, while his whole frame
was convulsed with stifled sobs. When the captain ceased speaking,
he stood up before him, and their hands closed in a fervent hand-
clasp.
“God bless you, my old friend,” said Hugh, “you have nothing to
condemn yourself for, but together we are confronting a great
problem. Will he awake from his present sleep as John Horton, the
cattle king, or as Hugh Stanton, my father?”
 CHAPTER XXXVII.—TRYING TO
REMEMBER

C
APTAIN OSBORN had sent word to Mrs. Horton immediately
after the accident, that her husband was detained on some
business matters and would not return home until the
following day. With the gray dawn of morning, he took counsel with
Hugh whether it were better to keep up the deception or
communicate with the family, and tell them of the accident and of
Mr. Horton’s real condition. It was finally decided that the deception
was a necessity, and every effort should be made to keep the facts
from Mrs. Horton. Accordingly, the captain wrote a hasty note to
Mrs. Horton, saying that her husband had been detained on some
important business affairs, and would probably not return home for
several days. As it was nothing unusual for the cattle owner to be
unexpectedly called away in looking after his various interests, his
wife, on receipt of the captain’s note, was not at all alarmed.
Captain Robert Painter, the commander of the local G. A. R. post,
was quietly informed of the situation, and a report was promptly
circulated on the streets of Meade that J. B. Horton had sustained no
serious injuries from his fall. In the meantime, before the morning
sun had climbed above the horizon, strong and willing hands of old
comrades had tenderly carried the injured man, who was still under
the influence of opiates, to Captain Osborn’s home. Captain Painter
secured four old veterans as assistants, and held them subject to
orders in a room adjoining the one occupied by the patient. They
conversed in whispers of the strange revelation, and shook their
heads doubtfully, wondering if the sufferer would recover and be
reconciled to the two lives he had lived.
Captain Osborn and Hugh were constantly by the patient’s
bedside. The physician arrived, and, after a careful examination,
pronounced the symptoms favorable. The fever had been allayed,
while the pulse and respiration were almost normal. When the
effects of the opiates began to wear away, the patient became
restless and presently opened his eyes. “Good morning, gentlemen,”
said he, as he glanced hastily from the face of Captain Osborn and
then to Hugh. “I fear I have overslept,” and he made a motion as if
to arise from the bed.
“I don’t consider it prudent,” hastily interposed the physician,
laying his hand gently on the patient’s head, “I advise perfect quiet.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Horton, rather brusquely, pushing the
physician’s hand roughly away, “in the absence of the army surgeon
I shall decide for myself.”
“I beg of you, comrade,” interposed the captain, “not to fatigue
yourself, but rest quietly in bed. The colonel of the Twenty-ninth has
been sent for, and will be here shortly.”
“Where is your blue?” asked the patient, while his dark eyes
sparkled with a trace of indignation. “If you are a comrade of mine,
you should be wearing the colors. Perhaps, though, you are too old
for service; you look decidedly grizzled.”
“Very true, Lieutenant Stanton,” replied the captain, “as you say, I
am rather gray and grizzled; nevertheless, I am your comrade as far
as the sentiments of loyalty for the old flag are concerned. Indeed, I
am quite as ready to sacrifice my life in the defense of the stars and
stripes as you have shown yourself to be.”
“You exaggerate the severity of my wound. I assure you it is
comparatively slight. By the way,” he continued, turning toward
Hugh, “did you send my letters?” Hugh nodded affirmatively. “Very
well,” he continued, addressing the captain, “if you are a comrade of
mine you will permit me to dress and be ready to receive my
captain.” The physician caught Captain Osborn’s eye, and made a
sign that perhaps it would be best to humor the injured man’s whim.
The doctor and Hugh withdrew to an adjoining room, but Captain
Osborn remained. The cattle owner assumed a sitting position on
the side of the bed. His coat, vest, and trousers were resting on a
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