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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


rax 


' 

• 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


m#v+ 


A  MAGAZINE   OF 


iLtteratttre,  Science,  ^Lrt3  anD 


VOLUME  CII 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY   COMPANY 


1908 


ConrniGHi,    1908, 
BY   HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  -1906, 
BY   THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY   COMPANY. 


AP 

2 


v. 


Pri*Ud  at  The  Rierrttdr  Prai,  Camtridge,  Man.,  V.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


INDEX  BY  TITLES. 


Across  the  Creek,  Lucy  Pratt     ....  803 

Air  of  the  City,  The,  Hollis  Godfrey  .     .  62 

And  Son,  Caroline  Brett  McLean    ...  766 

Anthropomania,  Wilbur  Larremore     .     .  668 

Automobile  Selfchness,  8.  K.  Humphrey  679 

Bancroft,  George,  William  M.  Sloane  .  275 

Bayonet-Poker  The,  S.  M.  Crothers  .  .  721 
Beatitudes  of  a  Suburbanite,  The,  John 

Preston  True 552 

Beggar's  Christmas,  A,  Edith  Wyatt .  .  845 

Bret  Harte's  Heroines,  H.  C.  Merwin  .  297 
Burma,  The  Province  of,  James  Masca- 

reneHubbard 416 

Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature, 
The .692 

Cape  Breton,  On  the  French  Shore  of, 

Harry  James  Smith 392 

Castro's  Country,  Henry  Seidel  Canby     .  683 

Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele,  The, 

James  E.  Dunning 660 

Chicago  Spiders,  Charles  D.  Stewart   .     .  447 

Civic  Righteousness  via  Percentages, 

Raymond  L.  Bridgman 797 

Closing  the  Country  Home,  Zephine  Hum- 
phrey    647 

College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of 

Freedom.  The,  Henry  S.  Pritchett  .  .  603 

Competition,  Henry  Holt 516 

Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman,  VI, 

J.  O.  Pagan 109 

Curiosities  of  Diplomatic  Life,  Herbert 

H.  D.  Peirce 511 

Democracy  and  the  Expert,  Joseph  Lee  .  611 
Diminishing  Increase  of  Population,  The, 

W.  S.  Rossiter 212 

Doctor,  The,  William  John  Hopkins   .     .  348 

Doctrinaire,  On  Being  a,  S.  M.  Crothers  585 

Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement, 

John  Bates  Clark 433 

Egypt,  The  Progress  of,  James  Mascarene 

Hubbard 539 

End  of  the  Story,  The,  Laura  Campbell   .  94 

Enforced  Railroad  Competition,  Ray 

Morris 366 

Enfranchised  Woman,  What  it  means  to 

be  an,  Ellis  Meredith 196 

England's  Pennsylvania,  In,  Arthur  Grant  556 

English  Working- Woman  and  the  Fran- 
chise, The,  Edith  Abbott  .....  343 


Enter  "  Herr   Kapellmeister,"    William 

E.  Walter 760 

Executive  Aggression,  George  W.  Alger     577 

Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool, 

The,  John  L.  Mathews 482 

Ferry  Bells,  The,  Walter  Manly  Hardy  .  463 

France,  The  Year  in,  Stoddard  Dewey     .  232 

Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola,  W.  S.  Jackson  86 

Ghosts,  Frank  Crane 823 

Godkin,  Edwin  Lawrence,  J.  F.  Rhodes    320 

Heart   of   a   Blue-Stocking,  The,    Lucy 

Martin  Donnelly 536 

Heart  of  the  United  States,  The,  James 

P.  Munroe 334 

Heroine,  The,  Harry  James  Smith  .     .     .     504 
Hillsboro's  Good  Luck,  Dorothy  Canfield     131 
Honest  Literary  Criticism,  Charles  Miner 
Thompson 179 

Ibsen  Harvest,  The,  Archibald  Henderson  258 

In  Goose  Alley,  Lucy  Pratt 203 

Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ?  A 

New  York  Editor 441 

Italy,  The  Last  Two  Years  in,  Homer 

Edmiston 772 

Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age,  The, 
Abram  S.  Isaacs 9 

King's  Son  of  Palemban,  The,  William 
John  Hopkins  .........  169 

Life  in  an  Indian  Compound,  Mary  Ana- 
ble  Chamberlain 263 

Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan,  K. 
Asakawa 73 

Madame  Arvilla,  Evelyn  S.  Schaeffer  .  .  15 
Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course,  Elizabeth 

Jordan  ..." 594 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  A  New 

Life  of,  Paul  Elmer  More 53 

Moods  of  the  Mississippi,  The,  Raymond 

S.  Spears 378 

Motoring,  The  Romance  of,  Henry  Copley 

Greene .190 

National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy, 

A,  William  H.  Allen 454 

National  Game,  The,  Rollin  Lynde  Hartt    220 


IV 


Contents 


Nature  against  Nurture,  E.  T.  Brewster  120 
Ne.w  Nationalistic  Movement  in  India, 

The,  Jabez  T.  Sunderland 526 

New  View  of  Charity,  The,  Edward  T. 

Devine .  .  737 

Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury,  Jonathan 

Thayer  Lincoln 162 

Odor  of  Affluence,  The,   Margaret  Fay 

Coughlin 315 

Old  Regime,  The,  Elsie  Singmaster  .  .  546 
On  Learning  to  Write,  Havelock  Ellis  .  626 
On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus,  Agnes  Rep- 

plier 397 

Organization  of  Higher  Education,  The, 

Henry  S.  Pritchett 783 

Oriental  Unity,  The  Ideal  of,  Paul  S. 

Reinsch 23 

"  Paradise  Lost,"  Another  Source  of,  N. 
Douglas 696 

Phillips,  Stephen,  as  a  Writer  of  Trag- 
edy, Frederick  B.  E.  Hellems  .  .'.  .  809 

Playwright  and  the  Playgoers,  The, 
Brand er  Matthews 421 

Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor,  A,  Eenton 
Foster  Murray 827 

Poe,  The  Fame  of,  John  Albert  Macy  .     .     835 

Political  Campaigning  in  England  and 
America,  Edward  Porritt 156 

Poor,  The,  Henry  C.  Rowland    ....     728 

Problem  Play,  Some  Moral  Aspects  of 
the,  Louts  W.  Flatus 638 

Races  in  the  United  States,  W.  Z.  Ripley  745 
Reading  the  Snow,  Raymond  S.  Spears  .  791 


Religion   of    Beauty   in    Woman,    The, 

Jefferson  B.  Fletcher 472 

Restatement  of  Theology,  The,  George 

Hodges 124 

"  Restoring  "  Works  of  Art,  Frank  Jew- 

ett  Mather 651 

Romance  of  Motoring,  The,  Henry  Copley 

Greene 190 

Round  the  Horn,  F.  H.  Shaw  ....  102 

Scarcity  of  Skunks,  The,  D.  L.  Sharp      .  408 

Seekin'  of  Ike,  The,  Edith  Fullerton  Scott  633 
Self-Government    in     Public     Schools, 

Bertha  H.  Smith 675 

Senor's  Vigil,  The,  Mary  Glascock      .     .  250 
Snuff-Boxes,  Holbrook  White     .      ...  704 
Social  Reconstruction  To-day,  John  Mar- 
tin    289 

Spanish  Drama  of  To-day,  The,  Elizabeth 

Wallace 357 

Story  of  Bully,  The,  Charles  D.  Stewart .  145 

Theatrical    Manager,  A    Plea  for  the, 

Lorin  F.  Deland 492 

These  Enchanted  Woods,  E.R.  Wheeler  383 
Thoreau's      "Maine      Woods,"     Fanny 

Hardy  Eckstorm 242 

Unbuilding  a  Building,'  W.  Packard  .     .  403 

Voices,  Lucy  Scarborough  Conant    .     .     .  271 

What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws  ? 

Seth  K.  Humphrey 1 

White  Birch,  The,  Candace  Wheeler  .     .  34 

Winnowing  Gold,  Judith.  Graves  Waldo  .  43 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS. 


Abbott,  Edith,  The  English  Working- 
Woman  and  the  Franchise  ....  343 

Alger,  George  W.,  Executive  Aggression  577 

Allen,  William  H.,  A  National  Fund  for 

Efficient  Democracy 454 

Asakawa,  K.,  Literature  and  Society  of 

New  Japan 73 

Brannin,  James,  Evening  in  Loudoun     .  564 
Brewster,  E.  T.,  Nature  against  Nurture  120 
Bridgman,  Raymond  L.,  Civic  Righteous- 
ness via  Percentages 797 

Campbell,  Laura,  The  End  of  the  Story  .  94 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel,  Castro's  Country     .  683 

Canjield,  Dorothy,  Hillsboro's  Good  Luck  131 
Chamberlain,   Mary   Andble,  Life   in   an 

Indian  Compound 263 

Clark,  John  Bates,  Education  and  the  So- 
cialistic Movement 433 

Clarke,  Jo$eph  I..  C.,  The  Soul  of  Nippon  621 


Cleghorn,  Sarah  N. 

Morrice  Water      ,    , 178 

Saint  R.L.S 391 

Coates,  Florence  Earle,  The  Empty  House  674 
Conant,  Charles  A.,  The  Regulation  of  the 

Stock  Exchange 307 

Conant,  Lucy  Scarborough,  Voices    .     .     .  271 
Conkling,  Grace  Hazard,  To  R.  P.  C.  .     .  789 
Coolbrith,  Ina,  With  the  Laurel :  To  Ed- 
mund Clarence  Stedman     .     .     .     .     .  202 
Coughlin,  M.  F.,  The  Odor  of  Affluence  .  315 

Crane,  Frank,  Ghosts 823 

Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 

On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 585 

The  Bayonet-Poker 721 

Davis,  Fannie  Stearns,  The  Secret  Thing  646 
Deland,  Lorin  F.,  A  Plea  for  the  Theatri- 
cal Manager 492 

Devine,  E.  T.,  The  New  View  of  Charity  737 

Dewey,  Stoddard,  The  Year  in  France  .  232 


Contents 


Donnelly,  Lucy  Martin,  The  Heart  of  a 

Blue-Stocking 536 

Dorr,  Julia  C.  E.,  Spirit  to  Spirit      .     .  108 

Douglas,  N.,  Another  Source  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost  "  696 

Dunning,  James  E.,  The  Cheerful  Feast 

of  San  Michele  '.  . 660 

Eckstorm,  Fanny  Hardy,  Thoreau's 

"Maine  Woods" 242 

Edmiston,  Homer,  The  Last  Two  Years 

in  Italy 772 

Ellis,  Havelock,  On  Learning  to  Write     .  626 

Fagan,  J.  O.,  Confessions  of  a  Railroad 

Signalman,  VI (.  .  109 

Flaccus,  Louis  W.,  Some  Moral  Aspects 

of  the  Problem  Play  ......  638 

Fletcher,  Jefftrson  B.,  The  Religion  of 

Beauty  in  Woman 472 

Gilder,  Richard  W.,  In  Helena's  Garden  38 

Glascock,  Mary,  The  Senor's  Vigil      .     .  250 

Godfrey,  Hollis,  The  Air  of  the  City   .     .  62 

Grant,  Arthur,  In  England's  Pennsylvania  556 

Greene,  H.  C.,  The  Romance  of  Motoring  190 

Guiney,  Louise  L,  A  Song  of  Far  Travel  471 

Hardy,  Walter  Manly,   The  Ferry  Bells  463 

Hartt,  Eollin  Lynde,  The  National  Game  220 

Heckscher,  E.  Valantine 

Music,  Going  Home 257 

God's  Hour- Glass 744 

Hellems,  Frederick  B.  E.,  Stephen  Phil- 
lips as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy  ....  809 

Henderson,  Archibald,  The  Ibsen  Harvest  258 

Hodges,    George,    The    Restatement    of 

Theology 124 

Holt,  Henry,  Competition 516 

Hopkins,  William  John 

The  King's  Son  of  Palemban      ...  169 

The  Doctor 348 

Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe,  The  Play  ...  822 

Hubbard,  James  Mascarene 

The  Province  of  Burma 416 

The  Progress  of  Egypt 539 

Humphrey,  Seth  K. 

What  is  the   Matter  with   our   Land 

Laws? 1 

Automobile  Selfishness 679 

Humphrey,  Z.,  Closing  the  Country  Home  647 

Isaacs,  Abram  S.,  The  Jew  and  the  Cur- 
rents of  his  Age 9 

Jackson,  W.  S.,  Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola  86 
Jordan,  Elizabeth,  Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture 

Course 594 

Larremore.  Wilbur,  Anthropomania     .     .  668 


Lee,  Joseph,  Democracy  and  the  Expert  .     611 
Lincoln,  Jonathan  Thayer,  Newport :  the 
City  of  Luxury .     162 

McLean,  Caroline  Brett,  And  Son  .     .     .     766 

Macy,  John  Albert,  The  Fame  of  Poe  .     .     835 

Martin,  John,  Social  Reconstruction  To- 
day   . 289 

Mather,  Frank  Jewett,  "Restoring" 
Works  of  Art 651 

Mathews,  John  L.,  The  Farmers'  Union 
and  the  Tobacco  Pool 482 

Mattheivs,  Brander,  The  Playwright  and 
the  Playgoers 421 

Meredith,  Ellis,  What  it  means  to  be  an 
Enfranchised  Woman 196 

Merwin,  Henry  C.,  Bret  Harte's  Heroines    297 

Messer,  Mary  Burt,  The  Closed  Door .     .     536 

More,  Paul  Elmer,  A  New  Life  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu 53 

Morris,  Ray,  Enforced  Railroad  Compe- 
tition   366 

Munroe,  James  P.,  The  Heart  of  the 
United  States 334 

Murray,  Kenton  Foster,  A  Plea  for  the 
Adult  Minor 827 

New  York  Editor,  A,  Is  an  Honest  News- 
paper Possible  ?  441 

Packard,  W.,  Unbuilding  a  Building      .     403 

Peirce,  Herbert  H.  D.,  Curiosities  of  Dip- 
lomatic Life 511 

Phinney,  Evelyn,  Rhyme  of  the  Voyager    844 

Porritt,  Edward,  Political  Campaigning 
in  England  and  America 156 

Pratt,  Lucy 

In  Goose  Alley 203 

Across  the  Creek 803 

Prentiss,  Charlotte,  Chanson  Louis  XIII    346 

Pritchett,  Henry  S. 

The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  Col- 
lege of  Freedom 603 

The  Organization  of  Higher  Education    783 

Eeinsch,  Paul  S.,  The  Ideal  of  Oriental 

Unity .  23 

Eepplier,  Agnes,  On  the  Slopes  of  Par- 
nassus   397 

Ehodes,  J.  F.,  Edwin  Lawrence  Godkiti  .  320 
Richardson,  J.  E.,  Midsummer  Abeyance  231 
Eipley,  W.  Z  ,  Races  in  the  United  States  745 
Eossiter,   W.    S.,   The    Diminishing   In- 
crease of  Population 212 

Rowland,  Henry  C.,  The  Poor    ....  728 

Schaeffer,  Evelyn  S.,  Madame  Arvilla     .  15 

Scott,  Edith  Fullerton,  The  Seekin'  of  Ike  633 

Sharp,  D.  L.,  The  Scarcity  of  Skunks     .  408 

Shaw,  F.  H.,  Round  the  Horn    ....  102 


VI 


Content* 


Silver,  Debbie  H.,  The  College  of  the  City  72 

Singmaster,  Elsie,  The  Old  Regime    .     .  546 

Sloane,  William  M.,  George  Bancroft     .  275 
Smith,  Bertha   H.,    Self-Government   in 

Public  Schools 675 

Smith,  Harry  James 

On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  392 

The  Heroine 504 

Spears,  Raymond  S. 

The  Moods  of  the  Mississippi     ...  378 

Reading  the  Snow 791 

Stewart,  Charles  D. 

The  Story  of  Bully 145 

Chicago  Spiders 447 

Sunderland,  Jabez  T.,  The  New  National- 
ist Movement  in  India 526 

Tabb,  John  B.,  Going  Blind 281 


Thomas,  Edith  M. ,  A  Beckoning  at  Sunset  314 
Thompson,  Charles  Miner,  Honest  Literary 

Criticism 179 

Torrence,  Ridgely,  Evensong  ....  14 
True,  John  Preston,  The  Beatitudes  of  a 

Suburbanite 552 

Waldo,  Judith  Graves,  Winnowing  Gold  43 
Wallace,  Elizabeth,  The  Spanish  Drama 

of  To-day 357 

Walter,  William  E.,  Enter  "  Herr  Kapell- 
meister"   760 

Ward,  Henshaw,  That  Sleep  of  D<  ch  .  427 
Wharton,  Edith,  Life  ....  .501 

Wheeler,  Candace,  The  White  Birch  .     .  34 

Wheeler,  E.  R.,  These  Enchanted  Woods  383 

White,  Holbrook,  Snuff-Boxes    ....  704 

Wyatt,  Edith,  A  Beggar's  Christmas  .     .  845 


Beckoning  at  Sunset,  A,  Edith  M.  Thomas 

Chanson  Louis  XIII,  Charlotte  Prentiss 
Closed  Door,  The,  Mary  Burt  Messer  .  . 
College  of  the  City,  The,  Debbie  H.  Silver 

Empty  House,  The,  Florence  Earle  Coates 
Evening  in  Loudoun,  James  Brannin  .  . 
Evensong,  Ridgely  Torrence 

God's  Hour-Glass,  E.  Valantine  Hecksher. 
Going  Blind,  John  B.  Tabb 

In  Helena's  Garden,  Richard  W.  Gilder  . 
Life,  Edith  Wharton 

Midsummer   Abeyance,  James  E.  Rich- 
ardson  


POETRY. 

314       Morrice  Water,  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn      .     .     178 
Music,  Going  Home,  1?.  V.  Hecksher  .     .     257 
346 


536 
72 


281 

38 

501 

231 


Play,  The,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe  Howe  . 


822 


Saint  R.  L.  S.,  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn  .     .     .  391 

674       Secret  Thing,  The,  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  646 
564      Song  of  Far  Travel,  A,   Louise  Imogen 

14          Guiney 471 

Soul  of  Nippon,  The.  Joseph  L  C.  Clarke  621 

744       Spirit  to  Spirit,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr     ...  108 


That  Sleep  of  Death,  Henshaw  Ward     .  427 

To  R.  P.  C.,  Grace  Hazard  Conkling  .     .  789 

Voyager,  Rhyme  of  The,  E.  Phinney  .     .  844 

With  the  Laurel :  To  Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman,  Ina  Coolbrith 202 


CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


Bit  of  Comparative  Criticism,  A    .     . 
Business  Law  in  the  Natural  World  . 


284 
718 

Dogberry  in  the  College  Classroom     .     .431 

Education  for  Old  Age           716 

Emancipation  of  the  Middle-Aged,  The  857 

Fishes'  Faces 142 

Hesternus  to  his  Publisher 427 

Improvised  Words •  714 

La  Cigale  in  Economics 286 

Little  Church  of  those  that  Stumble  and 

Rise,  The 856 

Lo !  the  Poor  Adjective 567 

Money  and  the  Man 569 

New  Art  Heroine,  The 574 


"  Now  who  shall  Arbitrate  ?  "   .    .     . 

On  Being  a  Scapegoat 

On  the  Folly  of  Learning  Noble  Verse 

Our  Town 

Our  Venetian  Lamp 

Plea  for  the  Black  Sheep,  A 

Plea  for  the  Unacted  Drama,  A      .     . 

Pond  Pasture,  The   .     . 

Scrooge's  Ghost 

Something  Saved 

Speed  Limit  for  Love,  A 

Spirit  of  Leisure,  The 

Toussaint  at  Rougeville,  La  .     .     •     • 
Weak    Joint     in    the     Sentimentalist' 
Armor,  The 


429 
855 
710 

282 
851 

143 

564 
283 

850 
854 
570 
572 

711 
140 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 

JULY,  1908 


WHAT  IS  THE  MATTER  WITH  OUR  LAND  LAWS? 

BY   SETH   K.   HUMPHREY 


SoME.rUNG  has  gone  wrong  with  our 
public  domain,  —  this  we  discover  as  it 
approaches  the  vanishing  point,  —  and 
now  the  probe  has  been  sent  deep,  that 
we  may,  so  to  speak,  succeed  in  getting 
the  barn  door  locked  before  the  last  and 
least  attractive  horse  is  stolen.  That 
fraud  has  been  exposed  wildly  excites 
no  one,  —  the  probe  seems  to  find  that 
in  our  system  at  every  thrust;  but  one 
thing  about  this  land-graft  exposure  that 
gives  a  distinct  shock  is  the  personnel  of 
those  caught  in  the  legal  dragnet.  Gov- 
ernors, congressmen,  high  federal  offi- 
cials, professional  men, — a  minister,  too, 
and  a  missionary  at  that,  —  are  in  the 
toils.  This  psychological  feature  should 
make  us  think,  and  ask  questions. 

Is  the  West's  moral  sense  so  dull,  as 
some  ask  us  to  believe,  that  it  has  toler- 
ated for  years  men  in  high  places  whom 
the  law  now  holds  up  as  persistent  crim- 
inals ?  Or  is  there  something  wrong  with 
our  land  laws  and  the  administration  of 
them,  so  that  now,  when  primitive  Virtue 
peers  into  the  recesses,  she  discovers  with 
horror  an  anomalous  situation? 

There  is  little  of  remedial  value  to  be 
gained  by  discussing  the  moral  sense  of 
the  men  involved  by  the  disclosures  of 
land  frauds.  One  thing  is  certain:  the 
public  domain  —  and,  therefore,  the 
public  —  will  benefit  immensely  by  the 
example  of  their  punishment,  whether 
they  entirely  deserve  it  or  not.  But  a  life- 
long personal  knowledge  of  frontier  land 
conditions  impels  the  writer  to  register  a 
few  reflections  upon  the  more  pertinent 
question,  What  is  the  matter  with  our 
land  laws? 
VOL.  102 -NO.  1 


The  homestead  law  was  designed  to 
secure  the  development  of  new  country, 
and  it  met,  most  wisely,  the  early  condi- 
tion that  men  must  be  induced  to  brave 
the  hardships  of  the  frontier,  by  provid- 
ing for  a  merely  nominal  fixed  charge 
upon  every  homesteader  who  would  settle 
upon  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of 
land,  cultivate  it,  and  make  it  his  home 
for  five  years.  This  provision  of  a  rela- 
tively small  fixed  charge  for  the  home- 
stead, irrespective  of  differences  in  land 
values,  rewarded  the  hardy  pioneer  of 
the  early  days  for  pushing  out  beyond  his 
neighbors,  by  giving  him  better  land  at 
the  same  cost  in  money  as  the  more  timid 
paid  for  their  poorer  homesteads  nearer 
civilization;  but  he  paid  the  difference, 
observe,  in  the  greater  hardships  of  de- 
veloping new  country,  and  in  that  devel- 
opment the  public  received  full  value  for 
its  land.  It  was  not  the  original  intent  of 
the  homestead  law  to  give  in  land  value 
more  than  it  exacted  from  the  home- 
steader in  industrial  value;  the  fairness 
of  the  exchange  was  self-regulating.  A 
citizen's  "  right "  to  take  up  government 
land  had  no  more  value,  in  itself,  than 
had  his  right  to  go  into  a  store  and  make 
a  bargain  for  goods.  An  appreciation  of 
these  early  conditions  will  enable  us  to 
comprehend  better  the  subsequent  per- 
version of  our  system  of  land  distribu- 
tion. 

Such  was  the  homestead  law  in  its  pris- 
tine purity,  —  a  wise  and  beneficent  law, 
so  long  as  men  needed  inducement  to 
settle  upon  public  land;  so  long  as  men 
paid  the  government  for  their  land  by 
extending  its  industrial  boundaries;  so 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws? 


^ 

bonafide  homesteaders;  but  no  longer. 

The  first  change  in  conditions  came 
with  the  advent  of  railroads  through  the 
great  unsettled  portions  of  the  Middle 
West.  Railroads  gave  the  first-coming 
homesteaders  the  peculiar  advantage  of 
good  land,  with  few  of  the  usual  respons- 
ibilities and  difficulties  of  the  pioneer; 
the  railroads  were  then,  in  fact,  the 
real  pioneers,  —  and  the  government  re- 
warded them  for  their  share  of  the  burden 
by  gifts  of  every  alternate  section  of  land 
adjacent  to  their  lines,  while  it  continued 
to  give  these  first-coming  settlers  full 
homestead  privileges  upon  the  remaining 
alternate  sections,  in  return  for  assuming 
only  a  portion  of  the  burdens  of  develop- 
ing new  country.  The  earlier  pioneers 
had  extended  civilization  single-handed, 
and  they  knew  of  civilization's  debt  to 
them;  these  later  settlers  secured  like 
benefits  for  merely  assisting  in  the  busi- 
ness of  empire-building,  —  and  they 
knew  that  they  were  getting  something 
from  the  government  at  less  than  its 
value.  Right  here  the  frontiersman's 
proud  sense  of  adequate  return  to  his  gov- 
ernment began  to  fade,  and  right  here 
the  notion  that  a  citizen's  "  right "  to 
take  up  government  land  has,  in  itself,  a 
money  value,  began  to  grow.  Here  began 
the  trafiic  in  "rights"  — the  greatest 
debauching  influence  in  the  distribution 
of  public  land. 

It  is  a  peculiar  fact  that  the  govern- 
ment, instead  of  seeking  to  check  this 
"  gift "  feature  in  its  supposedly  business 
deal  with  the  settler,  by  exacting  more 
from  him  in  the  way  of  industrial  value 
for  the  benefit  of  the  public  whose  land 
it  was  distributing,  actually  lessened  in 
some  respects  its  demands  upon  home- 
steaders. Several  provisions  of  the  law 
served  to  expedite  the  business  of  turning 
one's  "  right "  into  cash.  One  method  of 
getting  quick  returns  was  to  file  on  a 
piece  of  land  at  the  local  land  office,  then 
relinquish  the  right  to  a  later  comer,  for 
a  consideration,  to  make  a  new  entry  on 
that  tract.  These  relinquishments  were 


recognized  and  accepted  for  record,  and 
the  new  filings  entered,  without  question, 
at  all  land  offices,  although  the  very  act 
of  voluntary  relinquishment  of  one's 
homestead  right  would  suggest  to  the 
feeblest  intellect  a  consideration  paid  by 
the  new  entryman.  Again,  the  preemp- 
tion law  granted  to  a  citizen  full  title  to 
one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  after  six 
months'  residence  upon  it,  with  proof  of 
nominal  improvements  and  the  payment 
of  one  dollar  and  a  quarter  per  acre. 
Further,  the  homestead  law  provided 
that  a  homesteader  might,  at  any  time 
after  six  months,  abandon  his  determina- 
tion to  live  upon  his  homestead  for  five 
years,  in  order  to  acquire  title  without 
cost,  "  commute "  it  to  a  preemption, 
and,  by  paying  the  preemption  price, 
prove  up  his  title  at  once.  Thus  every 
settler  could  get  full  title  to  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty  acres  of  land  in  six 
months,  sell  out,  and  go  back  home. 

Under  these  provisions  of  law  the  gov- 
ernment surrendered  its  most  valuable 
compensation  for  public  land,  —  bona 
fide,  producing  settlers.  It  still  continued 
its  principle  of  land  distribution  without 
regard  to  return  of  value  in  money,  but 
it  failed  to  exact  return  in  that  most  vital 
of  values,  —  permanent  settlement  and 
development  of  new  country.  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  this  condition  increased 
enormously  the  value  of  "  rights;  "  fixed 
in  the  public  mind  the  idea  that  the  gov- 
ernment was  intent  on  giving  away  value 
in  public  land  without  regard  to  returns ; 
and  developed  on  the  frontier  a  motley 
population  of  every  class  except  farmers, 
bent  on  exercising  their  "  right "  to  gov- 
ernment land  ? 

Who  makes  our  land  laws  ?  Unfortu- 
nately, owing  to  our  system  of  legislative 
barter,  under  which  the  various  special 
interests  so  often  assist  one  another  to 
laws  framed  to  meet  their  several  special 
desires,  the  land  interests  of  the  West 
have  always  dictated  our  land  laws  and 
controlled  the  policy  of  the  Land  Office. 
That  changing  conditions,  which  made  of 
the  public  domain  an  attractive  property 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws  ? 


of  enormous  value,  should  have  been  met 
by  fundamental  changes  in  the  methods 
of  land  distribution  looking  to  its  pro- 
tection and  proper  development,  is  sim- 
ply a  bald  truism.  Just  as  certainly, 
too,  proper  restraining  legislation  could 
not  have  been  expected  of  those  who  were 
to  profit  by  lack  of  restraint.  Conse- 
quently, the  principle  of  fixed  price  per 
acre  without  regard  to  value,  first  come 
first  served,  has  been  kept  alive  by  the 
land  interests  down  to  the  present  day, 
because  it  gives  them  the  value  in  the 
land  above  that  price;  while  nearly  every 
amendment  to  the  land  laws  is  in  the 
nature  of  a  surrender  to  the  land  boom- 
ers. The  workings  of  our  absurd  system 
of  courteously  allowing  each  prisoner  to 
lock  himself  in  and  keep  the  key,  are  most 
interestingly  exemplified  in  the  history  of 
the  public  domain. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  boom  of  the 
early  eighties  in  Kansas,  Nebraska,  and 
Dakota.  Millions  of  acres  of  government 
land,  accessible  by  rail,  were  open  to 
settlement.  Six  months'  sojourn  on  the 
prairie  called  for  no  equipment  of  farm- 
ing experience  or  tools;  a  shanty,  a  well, 
and  some  convenient  neighbor  to  plough  a 
few  acres,  — these  for  "  improvements." 
What  more  was  this  than  an  invitation 
to  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  —  and 
women  —  to  make  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars "  off  the  government "  in  a  summer's 
outing  ? 

Nothing  so  grows  upon  a  man  as  the 
notion  that  he  has  something  coming  to 
him  from  the  government.  Drug  clerks, 
brakemen,  schoolma'ams,  ministers  tem- 
porarily uncalled,  adventurers  of  all  sorts, 
—  all  rushed  for  government  land,  not 
for  the  purpose  of  developing  it,  but  to 
get  the  value  there  was  in  it  above  the 
government's  fixed  charge,  —  to  cash  in 
their  "  right."  A  horde  of  land  specu- 
lators followed  in  their  footsteps,  —  these 
"  settlers  "  would  soon  have  land  to  sell. 
Still  more  in  evidence  were  the  agents  of 
loan  companies  seeking  farm  mortgages 
for  their  Eastern  investors.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  these  loan  companies  often  outbid 


the  speculators;  they  habitually  loaned 
six  hundred,  eight  hundred,  or  one  thou- 
sand dollars  on  these  farms  that  were  so 
easily  acquired  from  the  government  at 
the  fixed  price  of  two  hundred  dollars,  — 
loaned  it  to  these  pseudo-farmers  who 
had  never  milked  a  cow  and  never  ex- 
pected to. 

The  writer  has  in  mind  an  investiga- 
tion (one  of  many)  which  he  made  in 
1889  while  land  inspector  for  a  loan  com- 
pany. Forty-one  of  these  newly  acquired 
"  homes  "  in  central  Nebraska  were  ex- 
amined, all  previously  mortgaged  to  the 
company;  of  these,  three  were  occupied 
by  the  original  owners,  three  by  migra- 
tory squatters,  and  thirty -five  were  wholly 
abandoned.  These  thirty-eight  missing 
mortgagors  had  not  tried  to  farm  the 
land,  and  failed;  they  had  simply  con- 
verted their  "  right "  into  the  loan  com- 
pany's cash,  and  vanished.  What  wonder 
that  there  came  a  mournful  day  of  reck- 
oning in  the  farm -mortgage  business  ? 

Thus  the  notion  that  public  land  is 
public  spoil,  encouraged  by  the  land 
laws,  hardened  into  a  fixed  conviction. 
Little  sense  remained  of  obligation  to 
the  government.  The  principle  of  fixed 
charge,  so  essential  to  the  earlier  move- 
ments westward,  now  served  only  to  ex- 
cite cupidity.  Men  paid  one  dollar  and 
a  quarter  per  acre  for  land;  its  value 
above  that,  they  regarded  as  theirs  by 
right  of  citizenship.  In  increasing  measure 
the  distribution  of  public  land  became 
a  traffic  in  "  rights."  Of  all  the  motley 
crowd  that  helped  themselves  to  public 
land  during  the  boom  of  the  eighties, 
not  one  in  three  had  the  slightest  inten- 
tion to  remain  upon  it;  not  one  in  five 
remained  more  than  long  enough  to  prove 
up  and  sejl  out,  or  "  mortgage  out;  " 
and  not  one  in  ten  has  left  a  perma- 
nent mark  upon  the  landscape  of  Kansas, 
Nebraska,  or  Dakota.  This  is  not  a  snap 
judgment.  An  accurate  personal  know- 
ledge, gained  in  the  field,  and  extending 
over  this  whole  period,  is  warrant  for  the 
assertion  that  these  conditions,  and  not 
crop  failures,  were  mainly  responsible  for 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws? 


the  wholesale  abandonment  of  western 
farms,  and  for  the  consequent  seven-year 
industrial  depression  in  the  West.  The 
best  proof  of  this  is  the  success  now  at- 
tending the  efforts  of  the  real  farmers 
who  are  working  these  same  farms. 

Then  came  the  repeal  of  the  preemp- 
tion law  in  1891 ;  but  as  a  final  letting- 
down  of  the  bars,  the  homestead  law  it- 
self was  amended  in  the  same  act  so  as 
to  permit  final  proof  at  the  end  of  four- 
teen months,  instead  of  five  years,  without 
additional  price  or  penalty,  and  requir- 
ing actual  occupancy  during  only  eight 
months  of  the  fourteen. 

It  may  seem  that  the  government  could 
not  have  gone  further  in  encouraging  the 
public's  appetite  for  land  spoils;  but  wit- 
ness the  openings  of  Indian  reservation 
lands.  As  a  rule,  these  tracts  were  sur- 
rounded by  well -settled  country;  natural 
inequalities  of  value  were  enormously  in- 
creased by  the  proximity  of  towns  and 
railroads;  not  one  condition  remained  to 
give  the  fixed-price  method  an  excuse  for 
exercise;  yet  these  lands,  worth  $p,  $10, 
even  $25  per  acre,  were  all  thrown  open 
to  public  entry  at  fixed  prices  of  $1.50  to 
$4.00  per  acre,  —  the  price  paid  the  In- 
dians. Poor  Lo,  and  not  the  government, 
furnishes  the  spoils  at  every  opening  of 
Indian  land.  It  was  at  this  time  that  the 
government  openly  acknowledged  the 
free  gift  of  value,  openly  abandoned  all 
notion  of  adequate  return  from  the  set- 
tler, by  taking  a  hand  in  the  method  of 
dividing  the  spoils.  It  prescribed  that 
the  boomers  line  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
coveted  land,  and  at  the  crack  of  a  gun 
rush  pell-mell  for  the  coveted  prizes,  — 
and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost.  As 
there  were  anywhere  from  ten  to  five 
hundred  men  for  every  prize,  there  were 
many  necessarily  "  hindmost,"  —  dis- 
appointed seekers  of  something  for  no- 
thing. 

One  step  further  the  government  went 
in  its  destruction  of  all  honorable  notions 
of  land  distribution.  Conditions  sur- 
rounding these  land  openings  became  too 
acute  for  even  the  "  rush-at-the-crack-of- 


a-gun "  method.  Men  murdered  each 
other  in  the  frantic  scrambles;  dozens 
claimed  the  same  tract,  and  interminable 
lawsuits  resulted.  Then  the  Land  Office, 
still  held  by  law  to  the  antiquated  fixed- 
price  principle,  still  denied  the  right  to 
exact  the  five  years'  residence  which 
would  have  kept  out  most  of  the  rab- 
ble, devised  a  plan  which  came  as  near 
the  line  of  promoting  public  immorality 
as  ever  did  an  act  of  this  government. 
It  prescribed  a  lottery-drawing  for  the 
lands;  every  entryman's  name  was  to  be 
put  into  a  plain  envelope,  the  envelopes 
placed  in  a  huge  box,  and  the  box  whirled 
around  until  the  envelopes  were  well 
mixed.  Then  the  envelopes  were  to  be 
drawn  out  one  by  one;  each  entryman  to 
have  his  choice  of  land  in  the  order  in 
which  his  envelope  came  out  of  the  box. 

It  was  a  beautiful  proposition  for  those 
who  are  perennially  looking  for  some- 
thing for  nothing.  Instance  the  opening 
of  the  Rosebud  land  in  1904.  Relieved 
of  apprehension  as  to  life  and  limb,  guar- 
anteed "  fairness  and  equality  of  oppor- 
tunity "  (so  read  the  lottery  prospectus) 
in  a  pure  game  of  chance  where  the  turn 
of  an  envelope  meant  hundreds,  or  thou- 
sands,— or  nothing, — the  gambling  in- 
stinct was  aroused  in  men  as  never  before. 
They  came  in  droves  and  trainloads; 
they  descended  upon  the  local  land 
offices  until  106,296  of  them  had  their 
envelopes  in  the  big  box  to  draw  for  some 
2000  farms  —  more  than  500  applicants 
for  every  farm!  The  lottery  system  is 
now  a  feature  in  all  land  openings. 

Encouraged  and  abetted  by  the  land 
laws,  the  gambling  mania  for  public  land 
has  passed  all  bounds.  Every  land  open- 
ing is  a  wild  orgy;  the  fierce  rush  at  the 
crack  of  a  gun  was  nothing  to  the  now 
fiercer  hope  at  the  turn  of  an  envelope. 
A  frenzied,  deluded  mob  wastes  its  energy 
and  money  at  every  lottery-drawing  in 
wild  reaches  for  the  government's  bait, 
always  followed  about  by  a  horde  of  land 
speculators,  ready  to  pick  off  the  win- 
ners,— a  set  of  men  in  make-up  and  mo- 
tive as  utterly  unlike  the  men  who  made 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws? 


the  original  homestead  law  a  blessing  to 
their  country,  as  black  is  unlike  white. 

Now,  suddenly,  primitive  Virtue  turns 
the  corner.  What  does  she  find  ? 

Most  of  the  public  domain  has  been 
frittered  away  upon  entrymen  who  took 
the  land  for  the  money  there  was  in  it, 
and  left  its  development  to  those  who 
came  after  and  paid  for  it.  Large  num- 
bers of  entrymen,  impatient  of  the  obvi- 
ously perfunctory  and  ineffective  require- 
ments of  the  land  laws,  have  bargained 
away  their  "  rights  "  before,  and  not  after, 
exercising  them,  —  which  is  contrary  to 
law.  Vast  areas  of  timber  land  —  worth- 
less for  agriculture,  and  subject  to  pur- 
chase only  under  the  timber-land  acts  — 
have  been  taken  under  the  homestead 
laws  as  agricultural  land,  —  an  unmiti- 
gated fraud.  Lumbermen,  compelled  to 
buy  standing  timber  in  little  parcels  of 
one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  each,  from 
citizens  who  have  the  only  right  to  ac- 
quire it  from  the  government,  have  been 
found  guilty  of  wholesale  traffic  in  these 
citizens'  "rights,"  and  of  abetting  fraud- 
ulent entries  of  timber  land.  Gross  fraud 
in  high  places  has  been  unearthed  ad 
nauseam. 

Now  the  transgressors  are  to  be  pun- 
ished. But  why  should  we  be  so  amazed 
that  a  quarter-century  of  education  down- 
ward in  every  ideal  pertaining  to  pub- 
lic-land distribution  has  developed  a 
streak  of  yellow  across  the  moral  sense 
of  those  immediately  concerned  ?  And  is 
it  so  surprising  that  land  officials,  held 
by  absurd  laws  to  the  business  of  dissi- 
pating the  public  domain  as  legitimate 
private  spoils,  should  have  become  cal- 
lous to  illegal  graft  which  did  little  more 
than  accelerate  the  dissipation?  This  is 
not  intended  as  an  apology  for  fraud, 
but  as  an  arraignment  of  the  land  laws 
for  offering  such  wholesale,  continuous 
and  alluring  invitation  to  fraud.  Not  for 
twenty  years  has  our  policy  of  land  dis- 
tribution been  entitled  to  respect;  hence, 
its  provisions  have  not  been  respected. 
It  is  well  enough  to  indict  those  who  have 
over-reached  laws,  even  obviously  sub- 


versive laws;  but  in  the  public  mind 
the  lawmakers  should  be  indicted,  —  not 
only  the  Western  congressmen  who  pro- 
moted the  mischief,  but  those  of  the  now 
horrified  East  who  swapped  votes  with 
them,  and  without  whose  aid  in  Congress 
the  public  domain  could  not  legally  have 
been  so  plundered. 

What  should  be  done  in  order  that  the 
distribution  of  the  remaining  public  land 
may  proceed  on  a  saner  basis  ? 

Wipe  out  absolutely  the  inherent  value 
of  a  citizen's  "  right "  to  public  land  by 
exacting  a  full  equivalent  for  the  land,  — 
not  in  money,  but  mainly  in  restrictive 
obligations  which  shall  insure  to  the 
public  settled,  producing  communities  in 
exchange  for  its  lands.  Require,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  case  of  agricultural  land, 
a  full  five-year  occupancy;  sufficient 
equipment  to  make  reasonably  sure  the 
entryman's  ability  to  fulfill  his  contract; 
a  degree  of  cultivation  varying  with  con- 
ditions of  climate  and  soil,  but  well  up  to 
the  standard  of  similar  lands  improved; 
improvements  at  the  end  of  the  five-year 
term  commensurate  with  the  value  of  the 
land,  but  with  a  provision  for  misfortune 
and  accident.  In  short,  make  the  main 
charge  for  the  land  in  terms  which  are 
no  burden  whatever  to  the  bona  fde 
farmer,  because  in  direct  line  with  his 
intentions  and  best  interests,  but  which 
are  wholly  unattractive  to  the  passing 
throng  that  merely  seeks  something  for 
nothing. 

Now  comes  the  question  of  money  con- 
sideration, —  for  differences  in  land 
values  must  finally  be  leveled  up  by  a 
money  charge.  The  fixed  charge  per  acre 
levels  nothing;  it  makes  the  better  tracts 
worth  fiercely  striving  for  even  under  the 
most  ideal  restrictions,  and  may  easily 
be  too  great  a  price  for  the  poorer  lands. 
It  is  the  land  gambler's  best  friend,  and 
its  absurd  survival  is  due  solely  to  his 
efforts.  The  fixed  charge  should  be  abol- 
ished. In  localities  where  settlement  will 
in  the  nature  of  things  proceed  by  slow 
degrees,  prices  might  be  fixed  by  ap- 
praisement; but  in  all  cases  of  special 


d 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws? 


openings  of  lands  to  public  entry,  —  and 
these  will  hereafter  furnish  the  bulk  of 
good  public  land,  —  nothing  but  com- 
petitive sale,  subject  always  to  full  restric- 
tions, will  secure  a  sane,  equitable  dis- 
tribution of  the  land  to  actual  farmers. 

It  may  be  asserted  that  the  restrictions, 
coupled  with  competitive  sale,  will  not 
offer  sufficient  inducement  to  effect  rapid 
settlement  of  new  districts;  but  which 
will  prove  more  attractive  to  worthy 
farmers,  —  a  free-for-all  lottery  drawing 
for  land  on  which  the  restrictions  are  so 
notoriously  nominal  that  then*  chance  to 
draw  anything  is  cut  down  by  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  to  one  in  five  hun- 
dred, or  a  competitive  sale  of  land  under 
restrictions  which  effectually  bar  every- 
body but  themselves  ?  The  best  answer 
to  this  is  a  look  at  the  frenzied  crowd  at 
any  one  of  these  lottery-drawings.  It  goes 
without  saying  that  a  sale  restricted  to 
farmers  would  develop  much  lower  prices 
for  the  land  than  would  a  sale  open  to 
the  speculative  element,  and  would  there- 
fore be  more  attractive  to  farmers. 

Of  even  more  importance  than  the  dis- 
posal of  agricultural  land  is  the  conserv- 
ing of  our  remaining  timber.  However 
much  the  admirable  system  of  forest  re- 
serves may  be  extended,  there  will  neces- 
sarily be  vast  areas  in  the  aggregate 
which  must  be  left  subject  to  disposal 
under  the  timber  laws.  This  portion  of 
the  public  timber,  unprotected  by  re- 
serves, should  have  earnest  considera- 
tion. The  Timber  Land  Act  describes 
timber  land  as  "  valuable  chiefly  for  tim- 
ber, but  unfit  for  cultivation; "  it  also 
endows  every  citizen  of  the  United  States 
with  the  right  to  take  160  acres  of  timber 
land  at  a  fixed  minimum  price  per  acre, 
and  requires  the  applicant  to  swear  "  that 
he  does  not  apply  to  purchase  the  same 
on  speculation,  but  in  good  faith  to  ap- 
propriate it  to  his  own  exclusive  use  and 
benefit;  "  this,  against  the  certainty  that 
the  average  citizen  has  no  use  for  160 
acres  of  timber,  and  is  making  his  oath 
with  one  speculative  eye  on  the  lumber- 
men, —  if,  indeed,  he  has  not  been  fore- 


handed enough  to  get  in  advance  their  of- 
fer for  the  timber,  to  consider  in  connec- 
tion with  the  price  he  will  have  to  pay. 

Just  as  the  farming  land  should  go  to 
farmers  without  the  intervention  of  spec- 
ulators, timber  should  be  disposed  of 
to  its  logical  buyers  —  the  lumbermen. 
Cut  out  the  citizen  middleman,  and  deal 
direct  with  the  lumber  producer.  Here, 
again,  exact  the  first  consideration  in 
terms  which  are  for  the  public  welfare, 
—  terms  which  shall  make  such  land  — 
"  unfit  for  cultivation "  —  a  perpetual 
source  of  timber.  Require  that  a  certain 
percentage  of  the  smaller  trees  shall  be 
left  standing  to  protect  the  young  growth, 
hold  the  soil,  and  retain  the  moisture; 
that  the  timber  shall  be  cut  with  the  least 
possible  damage  to  the  second  growth. 
Then,  sell  the  first  cutting  to  the  lumber- 
man, but  hold  the  title  forever  in  the  gov- 
ernment, and  terminate  the  lumberman's 
interest  upon  the  removal  of  his  timber. 

Under  this  plan  every  remaining  tract 
of  public  timber  would  at  once  become  a 
perpetual  forest  reserve,  subject  to  gov- 
ernment control.  If  we  concede  that  the 
conservation  of  our  timber  cannot  be 
safely  left  to  private  enterprise,  it  follows 
without  argument  that  not  one  acre  of 
land  "  valuable  chiefly  for  timber,  but 
unfit  for  cultivation"  should  pass  to 
private  ownership,  although  millions  of 
acres  have  so  passed,  and  have  been  de- 
spoiled and  left  wholly  worthless  for  any 
purpose.  If  it  were  possible  to  overcome 
the  inborn  notion  that,  somehow,  title  to 
all  public  land  must  pass  through  the 
bare  hands  of  our  sovereign  citizens, 
there  would  be  found  plenty  of  respons- 
ible lumbermen  glad  to  escape  the  graft- 
ing middlemen,  glad  to  find  the  way  open 
for  honorable  dealing  with  the  govern- 
ment, and  glad  to  assist  in  perpetuating 
the  lumber  supply.  Our  forest-reserve 
system  is  the  most  vitally  important  pub- 
lic enterprise  of  the  day,  but  if  we  are 
really  going  to  save  our  timber  we  must 
save  the  vastly  greater  area  which  lies  in 
scattered  tracts  outside  any  prospective 
reserve. 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws? 


And  the  last  act  in  this  drama  of  ab- 
surdities is  now  on.  We  are  cheerfully 
expending  millions  to  reclaim  portions 
of  the  western  deserts;  we  brag  of  the 
immense  irrigating  systems  now  being 
constructed  in  the  arid  regions, — and  no 
wonder,  for  they  are  big  and  grand ;  but 
we  are  so  lost  in  the  bigness  of  the  work 
that  mighty  few  of  us  think  to  inquire, 

—  Who  are  going  to  get  this  reclaimed 
land,  and  how  are  they  going  to  get  it  ? 

The  Reclamation  Act  provides  that 
the  reclaimed  land,  divided  into  farming 
"units  "  of  about  forty  acres  each,  shall 
be  entered  under  the  general  homestead 
laws,  except  that  full  five  years  of  resi- 
dence shall  be  required;  and  that,  in  each 
project,  the  price  to  be  paid  —  in  not 
more  than  ten  annual  installments  — 
"  shall  be  determined  with  a  view  of  re- 
turning to  the  reclamation  fund  the  esti- 
mated cost  of  construction  of  the  project, 
and  shall  be  apportioned  equitably/' 
This  is  construed  by  the  Land  Office  as 
meaning  that  the  cost  of  a  given  project 
shall  be  assessed  equally  against  the 
irrigable  acreage  within  it.  Nothing  ap- 
pears upon  the  surface  of  this  plan  to 
excite  the  suspicion  of  the  casual  ob- 
server; but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  carries 
the  fundamental  defect  which  has  made 
a  farce  of  our  system  of  land  distribution, 

—  the  relation  of  actual  value  of  the  land 
to  the  price  to  be  charged  for  it  is  entirely 
ignored. 

Examine  the  working  of  it.  The  gov- 
ernment does  not  intend  to  undertake 
any  project  in  which  the  cost  may  exceed 
the  value  of  the  reclaimed  land;  it  is  as- 
sumed that  in  most  cases  the  land  will  be 
worth  vastly  more  than  its  cost.  In  every 
such  instance  the  government  will  be  up 
against  the  same  old  disgraceful  busi- 
ness, —  the  giving  away  of  big  values  to 
a  ravenous  horde.  Again,  it  is  not  impos- 
sible that,  through  miscalculation,  some 
projects  will  cost  more  than  the  reclaimed 
land  will  be  worth;  on  such  the  govern- 
ment must  inevitably  lose,  and,  as  it  can- 
not recoup  from  its  profitable  ventures, 
the  loss  will  be  net. 


Of  still  more  significance  are  the 
marked  inequalities  of  value  within 
any  given  project.  Under  the  flat-price 
scheme,  the  best  farms  will  be  worth 
double  or  treble  the  selling  price,  while 
the  poorer  tracts,  burdened  with  their 
» average  share  of  the  total  cost,  will  not 
be  worth  taking.  Here,  again,  the  gov- 
ernment stands  to  lose,  with  no  chance 
to  recoup.  In  every  particular  the  scheme 
presents  a  case  of  "  heads,  the  land  man 
wins;  tails,  Uncle  Sam  loses." 

But  speculation  as  to  what  may  hap- 
pen is  not  necessary.  The  thing  has  hap- 
pened. In  the  opening  of  the  Huntley 
(Montana)  project  during  the  summer 
of  1907,  the  Land  Office  has  given  us  a 
striking  example  of  what  it  proposes  to 
do  with  the  irrigated  lands,  —  an  exam- 
ple worked  out  clear  to  the  answer. 

This  Huntley  project  contains  633 
farm  units.  The  total  cost  per  acre, 
thirty -four  dollars,  was  assessed  equally 
against  the  irrigable  acreage.  What 
though  some  tracts  were  worth  one  hun- 
dred dollars  per  acre  and  others  worth 
ten  ?  A  mere  trifle  to  the  crustaceans  of 
the  Land  Office;  this  land  had  cost  thirty- 
four  dollars  per  acre,  and  thirty -four  dol- 
lars each  and  every  acre  of  it  must  bring. 
They  did  realize,  however,  that  the  values 
to  be  given  away  would  invite  murder 
under  any  ordinary  system  of  homestead 
entry.  Nothing  better,  surely,  for  this 
occasion  than  the  envelope-drawing  sys- 
tem; so  the  old  lottery  box  was  refur- 
bished, and  the  news  spread  abroad  that 
the  first-fruits  of  Uncle  Sam's  great  irri- 
gation work  were  to  be  raffled  away. 

Here  is  the  result :  — 

5400  sealed  applications  went  into  the 
box  for  a  chance  to  draw  the  prizes  among 
the  633  farms. 

Less  than  300  of  the  lucky  drawers 
availed  themselves  of  their  right  to  select 
farms. 

About  400  farms,  not  attractive  at  the 
fixed  price,  are  still  without  buyers. 

Some  200  men  "  milked  "  the  Huntley 
project  of  its  principal  value;  a  few  others 
drew  just  about  their  money's  worth; 


What  is  the  Matter  with  our  Land  Laws  ? 


8 

5100  meandered  homeward  with  blanks 
to  show  for  their  money;  and  the  govern- 
ment is  left  "  holding  the  sack  "  to  the 
extent  of  more  than  half  the  cost  of  the 
entire  project. 

Thus  ends  the  Huntley  project,  until 
such  time  as  the  government  concludes 
to  pocket  its  loss  and  sell  the  four  hun- 
dred farms  for  what  they  will  bring. 

But  whether  the  government  loses  or 
makes  in  these  irrigation  projects  is  not 
so  much  to  the  point.  The  point  is  that, 
after  the  expenditure  of  millions  to  pro- 
vide water  for  these  lands,  every  tract 
should  be  occupied,  —  and  occupied  by 
men  competent  to  make  a  success  of  the 
complicated  system  which  the  govern- 
ment has  placed  at  their  disposal.  The 
absurd  method  of  distribution  defeats 
both  of  these  objects.  Does  any  one  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  5400  farmers  — 
men  capable  of  the  intensive  methods  of 
farming  required  under  an  irrigating  sys- 
tem —  gathered  at  Billings,  Montana, 
from  all  parts  of  the  country,  to  draw 
farms  from  a  lottery,  with  the  chances 
twenty  to  one  against  them?  Certainly 
not. 

The  class  of  men  that  a  sane,  competi- 
tive sale  would  have  put  upon  every  one 
of  those  farms  is  just  the  class  that  has  no 
time  for  the  short  end  of  a  long  gamble; 
and  the  class  of  men  attracted  to  Billings 
by  this  drawing  is  just  the  class  that  has 
no  use  for  a  competitive  sale. 

It  seems  the  height  of  folly  to  deliver 
these  valuable  lands  without  one  require- 
ment as  to  equipment,  experience,  or 
capacity  which  shall  reasonably  insure 
the  success  of  the  entrymen  and  the 
payment  of  the  heavy  installments  and 
charges  as  they  come  due.  Without  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  our  irrigatecWands  will 
pass  into  quick  failure  and  partial  |ban- 
donment  under  the  present  system,  just 
as  did  the  middle  West  under  similar 
conditions.  The  failure  will  be  attributed 
to  drouth,  water,  high  Heaven,  —  but 
never  to  the  pernicious  system  of  distri- 
bution that  invites  the  riff-raff  of  the 
country  to  people  its  new  land.  Then, 


after  enormous  economic  waste,  the  lands 
will  be  redeemed  by  the  men  who  know 
how,  just  as  the  middle  West  has  already 
been  redeemed  by  the  men  who  know 
how.  This  repetition  of  a  sorry  history 
seems  so  useless  when  a  competitive  sale 
of  the  land  under  full  homestead  restric- 
tions would  make  a  natural  selection  of 
men  most  fit,  put  a  farmer  on  every  tract, 
and  practically  assure  the  success  of  the 
system  as  well  as  the  repayment  of  the 
cost  of  construction. 

But  the  western  boomer  wants  the 
public  lands  dealt  out  in  the  good  old 
way.  It  starts  off  the  new  section  with  a 
boom  and  a  hurrah  and  a  surplus  of 
people.  Some  of  this  surplus  buys  land 
in  the  surrounding  country  and  settles 
down;  and  the  disappointed  ones  who 
go  back  home  leave  many  good  dollars 
in  the  new  country.  The  106,296  partici- 
pants in  the  Rosebud  drawing  spent  in 
South  Dakota  easily  twice  the  value  of 
the  2000  farms  in  mere  expense  money; 
Billings,  Montana,  will  smile  for  some 
time  to  come  over  the  coin  left  by 
the  disappointed  Huntley  pilgrims;  and 
every  lottery-drawing  attracts  ten  times 
as  many  men  and  dollars  as  the  boomers 
could  get  together  in  any  other  way.  As 
an  advertisement,  the  lottery -drawing  is  a 
wonder;  as  a  bunco  scheme  it  cannot  be 
beaten,  — for  the  army  of  deluded  ne'er- 
do-wells  who  hopefully  follow  the  trail  of 
these  openings  have  only  their  Uncle 
Sam  to  blame  for  the  blanks  they  draw. 

Will  the  booming  "builders  of  the 
West"  tamely  give  up  a  system  that  has 
done  and  will  still  do  so  much  for  them  ? 
In  Western  parlance,  —  not  on  your  life! 
The  use  of  the  public  land  as  bait  is  an 
old  and  solidly  fixed  institution  in  the 
West.  The  present  administration  in  its 
hunt  for  guilty  men  is  merely  tickling  the 
surface  of  this  matter.  No  amount  of 
prosecution  is  going  to  dislodge  the  deep- 
seated  notion  that  the  public  lands  be- 
long to  the  West,  just  as  certain  features 
of  the  protective  tariff  are  the  special  per- 
quisites of  the  East  —  has  not  each  sec- 
tion assisted  the  other  in  maintaining  its 


The  Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age 


preserves  ?  —  and  it  is  inconceivable  that 
at  this  late  day  the  fine  balance  will  be 
disturbed  in  order  that  a  few  grains  of 
business  sense  may  be  infused  into  our 
methods  of  land  distribution. 

There  has  never  been  a  sustained  pub- 
lic interest  in  the  public  domain!  Its 
relation  to  Congress  is  that  of  a  special 
interest,  —  and  now,  with  many  other 
special  interests,  it  is  receiving  at  the 
hands  of  a  vigorous  administration  ex- 
ternal treatment  for  organic  troubles. 
The  difficulty  lies  in  the  laws.  We  suffer 
in  this  as  in  other  respects  from  hang-over 
laws  which,  having  outlived  their  use- 
fulness, are  kept  alive  by  special  interests 


to  serve  their  special  desires.  If  it  were 
possible  to  regard  our  public  land  as  a 
present  problem  and  make  laws  for  its 
present  needs  without  regard  to  the  laws 
now  on  the  statute  books,  nothing  would 
remain  of  our  antiquated  system  of  land 
distribution. 

There  is  only  one  way  to  rid  the  public 
domain  of  the  special  interests  that  have 
usurped  it;  let  public  sentiment  so  over- 
whelm Congress  that  it  will  recognize  the 
public  domain  as  belonging  to  the  whole 
nation,  take  it  off  the  legislative  barter 
list,  and  give  us  laws  for  its  adminis- 
tration founded  on  sane  business  prin- 
ciples. 


THE   JEW  AND  THE   CURRENTS   OF  HIS  AGE 

BY   ABRAM   S.    ISAACS 


THERE  are  few  more  popular  miscon- 
ceptions —  which  have  spread,  too,  in 
ranks  that  claim  to  be  academic  —  than 
the  widely  accepted  opinion  of  Jewish 
intellectual  narrowness  and  self-compla- 
cency. Jewish  thought  in  the  long  sweep 
of  centuries  is  held  to  have  been  rigid, 
exclusive,  wholly  uninfluenced  by  the  cur- 
rents of  each  age — as  fixed  and  unyield- 
ing as  the  fabled  statue  of  Memnon,  but 
responsive  to  no  melody  at  each  success- 
ive sunrise  in  the  world's  advance.  In 
other  words,  it  is  claimed  that  there  has 
been  no  intellectual  development,  in  its 
proper  sense,  in  Jewry,  that  sterile  and 
rudimentary  conditions  have  ever  pre- 
vailed, and  its  Jericho  of  torpidity  and 
ecclesiasticism  has  refused  to  fall,  despite 
all  the  trumpet-calls  of  enlightenment. 

Now,  the  slow  rise  of  the  most  rational 
opinions  is  a  disheartening  blow  to  the 
over-ardent  lover  of  mankind.  Is  it  so 
very  long  ago  since  it  was  stoutly  believed 
that  heretics  had  tails,  or  that  there  was 
some  dim  connection  between  a  Quaker's 
conference  and  a  rainy  sky?  The  pop- 


ular verdict  as  to  the  Jew  shows  as  sur- 
prising logic.  There  has  been  nothing 
too  absurd  to  say  about  him  —  a  privi- 
lege he  shares  with  priests,  princes,  wo- 
men, and  lawyers.  He  could  not  be  in 
better  company,  only  the  lash  cuts  deeper 
in  his  case  when  the  only  fact  exceptional 
about  him  has  been  the  treatment  he  has 
received  from  his  lords  and  masters,  as  if 
he  were  half  criminal,  half  clown. 

It  is  hardly  the  present  purpose  to 
enter  into  any  consideration  of  the  causes 
and  conditions  which  have  led  to  such 
fallacies  of  judgment.  Some  of  these, 
doubtless,  can  be  traced  to  the  Jew  him- 
self, to  his  tenacity  of  belief  and  scorn  of 
consequences.  An  uncompromising  re- 
ligionist is  apt  to  arouse  more  dislike  in 
certau^  minds  than  a  man  who  is  a 
"musn  of  concession."  Unconsciously, 
there  is  often  an  unlovely  aggressiveness 
in  your  man  of  resolute  faith,  especially 
when  his  tent  is  pitched  among  children 
of  darkness.  If  this  has  been  the  Jew's 
attitude,  he  would  only  have  to  blame 
himself  for  the  burdens  which  he  has 


10 


The  Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age 


borne.  But  just  as  the  Ghetto  was  no 
original  Jewish  creation,  being  forced 
upon  the  Jew  from  without  by  conditions 
beyond  his  wish  and  control,  so  this 
familiar  theory  of  an  intellectual  Ghetto 
with  its  accompaniments  —  its  disdain 
of  its  age,  its  contempt  of  any  vision  out- 
side of  the  synagogue,  its  limitless  self- 
satisfaction,  its  conceit  and  arrogance  fc- 
this  view  which  dies"  so  hard,  is  wholly 
un- Jewish  and  unhistorical. 

Forces,  it  is  true,  have  existed  in  Jewry, 
taking  their  cue  from  the  environment, 
which  from  time  to  time  have  striven  to 
produce  a  rigid  cast  of  thought  and  action, 
with  threats  of  the  ban,  if  not  the  thumb- 
screw, the  thunder,  if  not  the  lightning, 
of  church  tyranny.  There  is  little  doubt, 
for  example,  that  the  almost  contem- 
poraneous condemnation  of  Descartes' 
writings  by  the  Synod  of  Dordrecht  was 
largely  responsible  for  the  excommuni- 
cation of  Spinoza  by  the  Amsterdam 
rabbinical  authorities.  Yet  the  genius  of 
the  Jew  as  reflected  in  the  varied  activi- 
ties of  his  best  and  most  representative 
thinkers,  from  the  era  of  Isaiah,  has 
sought  as  persistently  to  break  the  yoke, 
to  catch  a  wider  rift  in  God's  sky,  a 
broader  inspiration,  and  that  without  any 
color  of  disloyalty  but  with  the  fullest 
reverence  for  the  ancient  religion. 

No  wonder  that  the  Exodus  has  been 
regarded  as  Judaism's  most  significant 
point  of  departure,  its  most  distinctive 
festival,  for  it  has  served  as  the  very 
keynote  of  emancipation,  an  everlasting 
spirit-call  for  freedom,  even  in  centuries 
when  serfdom  and  degradation  were 
among  the  inalienable  privileges  of  man. 
In  fact,  the  close  mantle  which  apparently 
he  delighted  to  wear  in  certain  inflam- 
mable eras  was  due  more  to  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  than  to  any  innate 
exclusiveness.  It  is  not  narrowness  of 
view  to  guard  one's  home  against  infec- 
tion. There  was  never  too  much  rose- 
water  atmosphere  in  court  and  camp. 

Although  conditions  thus  had  a  ten- 
dency to  keep  the  Jew  in  a  kind  of  quar- 
antine, Jewish  thought  has  not  been 


impervious  to  external  influences.  There 
has  been  a  steady  interrelation  between 
Jewish  and  non-Jewish  streams  of  opin- 
ion, points  of  contact  at  certain  periods 
of  profound  consequence  in  the  history 
of  civilization.  The  Jewish  mind  has 
been  "open  to  impressions,  it  has  recog- 
nized its  duty  to  its  age,  and  has  been  no 
laggard  in  the  work  of  human  advance- 
ment, in  which  its  interest  has  been  as 
keen  and  impassioned  as  it  is  to-day. 

An  early,  and  in  many  respects  a 
classic,  example  of  the  readiness  of  the 
Jew  to  widen  his  horizon  is  afforded  by 
the  story  of  Philo  and  the  Alexandrian 
school.  When  Alexander  founded  his  fa- 
mous city  (332  B.  c.),  a  Jewish  colony  was 
among  the  earliest  settlers,  and  it  did  not 
take  them  many  years  to  become  so  in- 
fluenced by  their  environment  as  to  write 
Greek  with  the  fluency  of  an  Athenian. 
In  the  more  or  less  favorable  conditions 
that  prevailed  for  a  considerable  period 
under  Alexander's  immediate  successors, 
they  were  Greek  citizens  without  los- 
ing their  religious  identity.  Soon  there 
sprang  up  among  them  a  school  of  writ- 
ers, poets,  dramatists,  historians,  who 
were  not  the  least  eminent  leaders  in  lit- 
erature and  philosophy.  Philo  may  be 
taken  as  the  typical  thinker  of  his  time, 
and  he  is  always  termed  Philo  Judseus. 
Greek  was  then  largely  the  vernacular  of 
the  synagogue,  and  Homer,  Plato,  Aris- 
totle, and  the  Stoics  were  as  much  read 
by  young  Israel  as  the  Pentateuch,  the 
Psalms,  the  Prophets  of  Judsea. 

Philo,  about  whose  life  only  scanty  de- 
tails are  preserved,  could  not  have  been 
a  more  loyal  Jew,  with  greater  reverence 
for  his  religion  and  firmer  attachment  to 
his  special  community,  in  whose  defense 
he  participated  in  an  embassy  to  Rome. 
Yet  he  was  broad  enough  to  see  goodness 
elsewhere,  and  he  strove  to  fuse  the  wis- 
dom of  the  Greek  with  the  faith  of  the 
Hebrew,  not  from  any  desire  to  abandon 
his  traditions,  but  to  show  their  adapt- 
ability in  a  cultured  age.  Whether  his 
system  of  allegory  was  a  success  or  not, 
and  whether  his  philosophy  was  accepted 


The  Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age 


11 


or  not  by  his  brethren  in  the  flesh,  these 
are  inquiries  absolutely  secondary  to  the 
main  issue — that  a  man  like  Philo,  with 
his  character,  training,  and  standing, 
could  feel  the  necessity  of  reconciling  his 
faith  with  current  tendencies  without 
being  less  a  Jew.  That  he  was  rejected 
by  his  people,  who  preferred  the  inter- 
pretation of  Palestine  to  that  of  Athens 
or  Alexandria,  and  that  his  writings  owe 
then*  preservation  to  the  Christian  Fa- 
thers, with  undoubted  influence  on  the 
early  theology  of  the  Church,  do  not  in- 
validate the  position  assumed.  Certainly 
the  point  of  contact  in  those  centuries 
might  have  led  to  far-reaching  conse- 
quences, if  Roman  supremacy  had  not 
precipitated  a  catastrophe  which  scat- 
tered philosophy  to  the  winds  and  made 
the  Jew  only  draw  his  cloak  closer  around 
him. 

A  no  less  suggestive  cross-fertilization 
of  ideas  took  place  in  Spain  when  the 
caliphs  founded  their  schools  and  gave 
such  a  marked  impetus  to  the  advance- 
ment of  knowledge.  Here  the  receptivity 
of  the  Jewish  mind,  its  plastic  character, 
its  readiness  to  unfold  and  expand  in  a 
genial  atmosphere,  could  not  have  been 
more  superbly  and  convincingly  illus- 
trated. Long  ages  of  devotion  to  study, 
which  began  in  the  home  circle  as  the 
young  child  was  taught  the  meaning  of 
his  religion  and  its  symbols,  —  "  Thou 
shalt  teach  them  diligently  to  thy  chil- 
dren!" reads  the  olden  command, —  this 
has  predisposed  him  to  the  pursuit  of 
learning.  Under  the  Moslem  ruler,  and 
later  under  the  Christian  kings  until  the 
era  of  relentless  persecutions  changec^the 
scholar's  pen  into  the  pilgrim's  staff,  a 
distinguished  coterie  of  thinkers  were 
spurred  on  to  independent  research,  and 
Arabic,  in  turn,  became  in  a  measure 
the  synagogue's  vernacular,  while  Jewish 
writers  competed  ardently  with  their 
Moslem  contemporaries  in  literary  skill. 

It  is  beyond  our  present  scope  to  al- 
lude to  the  Jew's  versatility,  which  made 
him  now  a  caliph's  grand  vizier,  now  a 
translator  into  Arabic  of  priceless  works, 


as  well  as  merchant,  scientist,  trader.  To 
restrict  one's  self  to  the  field  of  religious 
philosophical  thought  in  particular,  the 
point  of  contact  was  marked.  So  keen 
was  the  rivalry,  so  susceptible  the  Jewish 
mind,  that,  to  quote  the  words  of  the  late 
Professor  David  Kaufmann,  of  Budapest, 
in  some  respects  the  most  erudite  writer 
in  his  line  for  many  decades,  "  Every 
more  important  achievement  in  the  do- 
main of  Arabic  philosophy  was  noticed, 
examined,  utilized  by  Jews;  the  appear- 
ance of  a  new  Arabic  work  was  usually 
followed  by  its  Jewish  imitator."  Al- 
though Dr.  Kaufmann  insists  that  this 
imitativeness  does  not  imply  slavish  de- 
pendence, it  shows  none  the  less  an  in- 
tellectual openness  in  the  most  important 
of  all  branches  to  the  Jew  —  that  of 
religious  philosophy. 

The  men,  too,  who  were  influenced 
so  markedly  by  current  thought  were  the 
sweet  singers  of  the  synagogue  —  poets 
and  moralists  of  the  stamp  of  Gabirol 
and  Judah  Halle vi,  esteemed  the  glory 
of  mediaeval  Israel.  Nor  did  they  lose 
aught  of  fame.  Their  works  are  still 
retained  in  the  traditional  ritual  and  on 
the  solemn  days,  so  broad  after  all  is  the 
synagogue,  which  took  its  cue  from  the 
sages  who  formed  the  Old  Testament 
Canon.  These  included  the  Song  of 
Songs  as  well  as  the  Proverbs,  Ecclesi- 
astes  as  well  as  the  Psalms,  as  if  they 
meant  to  symbolize  the  light  and  shade, 
the  joy  and  sorrow  in  human  existence, 
in  the  composite  character  of  the  Bib- 
lical books. 

It  is  Maimonides  (born  at  Cordova, 
1137;  died  at  Cairo,  1204)  who  presents, 
perhaps,  the  most  salient  example  of 
Jewish  adaptiveness  in  those  centuries. 
He  was  the  "  eagle  of  the  synagogue," 
the  sage  par  excellence,  of  vast  industry 
and  extensive  knowledge,  judging  from 
his  exhaustive  works.  Yet  this  scholar  of 
scholars,  this  profound  rabbinical  author- 
ity, whose  condensed  creed  of  Judaism, 
termed  "  the  Thirteen  Principles,"  is 
accepted  practically  throughout  the  Jew- 
ish world,  exclusive  of  some  American 


The  Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age 


12 

congregations,  this  man  of  all  men  set 
himself  the  task  of  reconciling  revealed 
religion  and  Greek-Arabic  philosophy. 
In  other  words,  he  saw  the  necessity  of 
harmonizing  the  old  and  the  new,  and 
deemed  current  tendencies  serious  and 
divine  enough  to  impel  him  to  write  his 
famous  Guide  of  the  Perplexed.  This 
work,  originally  in  Arabic,  but  now  trans- 
lated into  various  tongues,  left  its  dis- 
tinct mark  on  contemporary  thought, 
furnishing  ideas  to  later  ages,  from  the 
Schoolmen  to  Spinoza. 

Here,  too,  the  main  question  is  not 
whether  this  work  is  still  of  service,  or 
whether  its  standpoint  is  hopelessly  an- 
tiquated, with  the  disappearance  of  Aris- 
totelianism  in  modern  philosophy.  The 
real  fact  for  consideration  is  that  a  Jew- 
ish authority  like  Maimonides  freely  ab- 
sorbed the  views  of  his  age,  and  was 
broad  and  open  enough  to  attempt  to 
reconcile  current  thought  with  his  tradi- 
tional faith,  —  Aristotle  and  Moses.  It 
is  true,  his  work  was  regarded  as  heret- 
ical by  a  few  prominent  rabbis,  and  his 
adherents  and  opponents  in  later  years 
had  sharp  feuds  of  their  own.  But  he 
had  written  his  book  and  given  an  ex- 
ample to  his  people,  even  if,  like  other 
thinkers  of  other  climes  and  creeds,  he 
was  a  solitary  peak  above  the  plain.  Yet 
he  was  not  entirely  alone  —  there  were 
other  minds  that  absorbed  as  keenly. 
Then  came  the  ravages  of  the  Black 
Death  and  shameless  persecutions,  which 
again  robbed  the  philosopher  of  his  calm 
idealism,  and  made  the  Jew  once  more 
a  helpless  wanderer. 

The  Renaissance  movement,  with  the 
spread  of  Humanism,  was  welcomed  by 
the  Jew  as  marking  almost  as  Messianic 
an  era  as  the  French  Revolution  and  the 
century  of  emancipation  in  its  train. 
Here  the  point  of  contact  was  peculiar, 
for,  instead  of  opposing  the  new  ideas 
and  ideals,  he  met  them  half-way  and 
gladly  opened  his  treasures  of  learning  to 
advance  their  growth.  That  was  none 
the  less  a  period  of  cruel  repression,  and 
the  exiles  from  Spain  found  it  hard  to 


gain  a  safe  foothold  anywhere  in  Europe. 
Yet  the  Jew  could  not  have  been  more 
responsive  to  the  currents  of  his  time, 
when  a  Reuchlin  could  become  his  pupil 
in  Hebrew,  and  the  disciples  of  Elias 
Levita  could  introduce  Hebrew  studies 
into  Germany.  Elias  del  Medigo  was  not 
averse  to  be  selected  as  umpire  by  war- 
ring factions  in  the  University  of  Padua, 
while  other  Jewish  teachers  at  the  uni- 
versities gave  freely  of  their  wisdom  as 
their  highest  duty  towards  their  age. 

The  Jew  was  to  be  borne  swiftly  along 
the  stream  of  a  movement  which  was 
to  be  followed  by  the  Reformation.  He 
might  have  been  excused  had  he  held 
aloof,  but  his  passion  for  knowledge  must 
have  vent.  He  became  poet,  —  Imman- 
uel  of  Rome  was  a  friend  of  Dante,  — 
philosopher,  astronomer,  mathematician, 
in  his  enthusiasm.  He  gained  fresh  cour- 
age in  the  new  atmosphere,  and  accom- 
panied Columbus  on  his  voyage,  Vasco 
da  Gama  on  his  distant  quest.  He  was 
among  the  earliest  to  see  the  possibilities 
of  the  printing-press,  which  was  to  spread 
also  his  literature,  never  designed  to  be 
a  sealed  book,  but  whose  study  was  his 
highest  duty.  He  could  develop,  too,  into 
an  ambassador  from  Turkey  to  the  Vene- 
tian republic.  In  the  flourishing  mercan- 
tile states  of  mediaBval  Italy  he  could  play 
an  active  role,  and  his  sphere  was  not 
restricted  to  finance  but  extended  to  the 
handicrafts  as  well.  He  was  quick  to 
utilize  every  invention  and  to  promote 
every  industry,  whenever  the  political 
laws  allowed  his  freedom  of  choice  and 
some  certainty  of  tenure,  and  did  not 
limit  his  vision  to  old  clothes  and  the 
junk-shop. 

No  religious  scruple  stood  in  the 
way,  nor  any  traditional  barrier  to  pre- 
vent his  imparting  of  knowledge  to  the 
stranger  without  the  gates,  for  he  recalled 
the  treasured  opinion  of  one  of  his  early 
fathers:  "A  non -Israelite  who  occupies 
himself  with  the  law  of  God  stands  in  the 
same  rank  as  the  high  priest."  No  won- 
der Reuchlin's  heart  could  go  out  to  his 
teachers  as  he  defended  Hebrew  litera- 


The  Jew  and  the  Currents  of  his  Age 


13 


tore  from  the  malice  of  the  obscurantists. 
So  close,  then,  was  the  connection  be- 
tween the  era  preparatory  to  the  Reform- 
ation and  the  teachers  of  the  Humanists, 
without  whose  pioneer  work,  perhaps, 
Luther  might  have  less  signally  tri- 
umphed. 

These  instances  of  Jewish  participa- 
tion in  the  great  movements  of  history 
might  readily  be  extended,  and  it  might 
easily  be  shown  how  the  activity  spread 
to  other  lines  besides  religious  thought, 
as  can  be  observed  to-day  in  every  civil- 
ized land.  If  the  objection  is  interposed 
that  the  illustrations  are  individual  and 
cannot  be  regarded  as  characteristic  of 
the  race,  one  might  as  well  deny  to  Isaiah, 
to  Micah,  to  the  Psalmist,  the  claim  of 
being  Jewish  and  representative  of  Jew- 
ish thought.  To  have  produced  such 
broad  genius,  such  impressionable  minds, 
there  must  have  been  always  a  central 
fire  in  the  heart  of  the  Jewish  race  which 
leaped  upward  exultantly  when  the 
moment  was  propitious,  —  a  storehouse 
of  sympathy  for  humanity  in  its  widest 
sense,  and  for  human  progress,  which 
could  be  utilized  by  prophet  or  sage. 

Among  truly  typical  thinkers  there  was 
ever  cherished  a  larger  hope,  a  wider  in- 
spiration, which  was  not  the  idle  cry  of  a 
child  for  a  star  but  the  deep  impassioned 
yearning  for  human  perfection  and  uni- 
versal brotherhood  as  the  goal  to  which 
law  and  statute,  symbol  and  ceremony 
pointed.  How  pitiful  that  outside  pres- 
sure, unrighteous  conditions  in  church 
and  state,  have  made  the  Jew's  history  a 
continuous  tragedy  and  maimed  him  at 
times  almost  beyond  recognition,  so  that 
often  the  caricature  was  taken  for  reality. 
Yet  the  miracle  of  resurrection  was  ever 
there,  the  blossom  beneath  the  snow,  the 
love  of  humanity  which  was  unconquer- 
able under  every  affliction.  In  the  world's 
welfare  he  read  and  felt  his  own  welfare. 
He  knew  he  would  not  wear  forever  his 
gaberdine.  He  could  bide  his  time.  The 
day  must  break,  the  shadows  pass  away. 
The  sword  would  change  into  the  plough- 
share, the  bitter  taunt  into  brotherly  love. 


Let  suffering  be  the  badge  of  the  tribe  — 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not. 

What  of  the  relation  of  the  Jew  to 
American  life  and  ideals  ?  Here  his  plas- 
tic quality  has  been  illustrated  in  the 
work  of  representative  men  and  women 
in  every  epoch,  from  the  Colonial  through 
that  of  the  Revolution,  and  in  the  Civil 
and  Spanish-American  Wars.  There  is 
something  divine  in  the  American  at- 
mosphere, which  causes  Old-World  ran- 
cors and  prejudices  to  weaken  and  lose 
much  of  their  keen  edge  under  its  influ- 
ence. In  the  demands  of  American  life, 
in  the  .strain  and  spur  of  competition, 
with  the  closer  contact  enforced  by  school 
and  shop,  mill  and  factory,  the  creeds, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  are  affected 
as  never  before,  and  the  Jew,  like  the 
rest,  is  broadened  by  his  environment. 
He  enters  gladly  into  the  currents  of  his 
time  —  whether  he  becomes  a  pioneer  in 
Alaska  or  an  up-builder  in  California,  as 
he  rears  his  department  store  in  the  great 
cities  or  plans  his  philanthropies  without 
distinction  of  creed.  He  upholds  the  new 
education,  is  among  the  investigators  in. 
science,  defends  the  public  schools,  is 
active  in  movements  for  civic  betterment, 
and  whether  Democrat  or  Republican, 
feels  the  stir  of  his  age.  He  is  as  proud 
of  his  Americanism  as  are  the  little  child- 
ren of  the  emigrant  in  the  intoxication 
of  their  first  flag-drill.  Patriotism  is  to 
the  American  Jew  a  part  of  his  religion, 
as  was  shown  in  the  days  of  '76  and  '61, 
and  in  the  recent  war  with  Spain,  when 
even  the  Rough  Riders  had  their  Jewish 
quota. 

Nor  is  the  Jew  less  in  touch  with 
American  ideals;  they  sound  curiously 
familiar,  for  did  not  his  fathers  hear 
the  slogan  of  old, —  "proclaim  liberty 
throughout  the  land  and  to  all  the  in- 
habitants thereof  "  ?  America  spells  free- 
dom under  the  law,  as  does  Judaism. 
The  American  ethical  standards  are  the 
old-fashioned  ones  of  justice  and  moral- 
ity, public  and  private  virtue,  even  if 


14  Evensong 

these  for  the  time  are  somewhat  obscured  in  life  and  thought,  in  sympathies  and 

by  prevalent  graft  and  greed.   And  has  achievement.     To-day   America   means 

not  Theodore  Roosevelt  been  termed  a  more  to  the  Jew  than  to  any  one  else,  for 

later  Hebrew  prophet  ?  Why  should  not  it  is  the  only  land  that  opens  wide  its 

the  American  Jew  be  at  one  with  his  gates  to  the  persecuted  and  the  down- 

country  and  its  ideals,  and  be  aroused  to  trodden.   He  and  his  children  can  never 

his  best  as  the  years  advance  ?  No  Ghetto  forget  their  obligation  in  return,  as  loy- 

has  stained  the  American  soil;  no  foul  ally,   modestly,   and   helpfully   they   do 

bigotry  to  deny  the  Jew  the  rights  of  their  part  in  realizing  the  ideals  of  our 

man.   He  will  be  spurred  on  to  breadth  Republic. 


EVENSONG 

BY,  RIDGELY   TORRENCE 

BEAUTY  calls  and  gives  no  warning, 

Shadows  rise  and  wander  on  the  day. 

In  the  twilight,  in  the  quiet  evening 

We  shall  rise  and  smile  and  go  away. 

Over  the  flaming  leaves 

Freezes  the  sky. 

It  is  the  season  grieves, 

Not  you,  not  I. 

All  our  springtimes,  all  our  summers, 

We  have  kept  the  longing  warm  within. 

Now  we  leave  the  after-comers 

To  attain  the  dreams  we  did  not  win. 

O  we  have  wakened,  Sweet,  and  had  our  birth, 

And  that 's  the  end  of  earth; 

And  we  have  toiled  and  smiled  and  kept  the  light, 

And  that's  the  end  of  night. 


MADAME  AR VILLA 


BY  EVELYN  SCHUYLER  SCHAEFFER 


MADAME  ARVILLA  had  a  great  repu- 
tation in  the  gay  seaside  city.  All  day 
long  her  patrons  walked  in  and  out  of  her 
little  office  on  the  Board  Walk.  A  tiny 
place  it  was,  for  rents  were  high;  a  nar- 
row room  —  if  indeed  it  could  be  called 
a  room ;  a  booth,  rather,  just  wide  enough 
to  afford  space  for  a  person  to  walk  care- 
fully between  the  chairs  on  each  side; 
only  half  a  dozen  chairs  in  all,  for  the 
space  was  short  as  well  as  narrow,  and 
the  farther  end  was  cut  off  by  a  screen. 
Pushing  past  the  screen,  one  came  to  the 
inner  sanctum  where  Madame  was  accus- 
tomed to  sit,  in  a  low  chair  with  a  small 
table  in  front  of  her.  A  similar  chair  on 
the  opposite  side  accommodated  the  cus- 
tomer. Palmistry  was  Madame  Arvilla's 
specialty.  Of  the  mysteries  of  clairvoy- 
ance she  maintained  that  she  knew  no- 
thing; yet  there  were  those  who  came 
away  declaring  that  only  clairvoyance 
could  explain  the  remarkable  things 
which  she  had  told  them. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  conventional 
sorceress  in  her  appearance.  She  was  a 
stoutish,  middle-aged  woman  of  benign 
aspect,  who  looked  like  some  good,  mo- 
therly soul  from  the  rural  districts.  There 
was  about  her  a  wholesome  homeliness, 
and  in  her  speech  a  certain  terseness  and 
directness,  although  in  accent  and  lan- 
guage she  showed  herself  to  be  a  person 
of  some  education.  As  a  fortune-teller 
on  the  Board  Walk  she  was  an  anomaly. 
But  her  gray  eyes  were  extraordinarily 
keen  and  her  manner  was  businesslike; 
and,  for  that  matter,  the  Board  Walk 
holds  many  anomalies. 

There  she  sat,  month  in  and  month 
out,  reading  hands  at  a  dollar  a  sitting. 
In  the  winter  and  spring  her  clientele 
was  mostly  respectable;  in  the  summer 
it  was  quite  likely  to  be  the  reverse;  for 


thus  the  hotel  population  varied  with  the 
changing  seasons.  To  her,  seated  behind 
her  little  table,  her  visitors  broadly  re- 
solved themselves  into  two  classes :  those 
who  wanted  her  to  tell  them  all  that  she 
saw  or  fancied  she  saw  in  their  hands, 
and  those  who  desired  her  to  use  a  cer- 
tain discretion.  As  she  was  wont  to  ex- 
press it :  "In  April  and  May  they  mostly 
want  me  to  tell  them  the  truth,  but  along 
in  July  and  August  they  want  me  to  be 
careful  what  I  say."  But  respectable  or 
disreputable,  she  was  interested  in  them 
all,  for  the  study  of  human  nature  was 
not  only  her  livelihood,  but  her  unfailing 
entertainment  —  her  dissipation  indeed, 
as  she  sometimes  said  to  herself.  Usually, 
with  an  eye  to  business,  she  made  her 
diagnosis  as  flattering  as  might  be.  That 
is,  she  avoided  mentioning  some  unplea- 
sant things  which  she  saw  or  divined;  yet 
she  had  been  known  to  tell  startling  home 
truths,  to  utter  warnings  and  to  give  good, 
practical  advice.  There  had  even  been 
occasions  when  she  had  not  belied  the 
impression  which  her  appearance  gave 
of  a  person  to  whom  one  might  appeal 
in  trouble;  but  in  those  rare  cases  she 
scarcely  let  her  left  hand  know  what  her 
right  hand  did ;  for,  after  all,  she  had  her 
living  to  make,  and  benevolence  is  not 
business. 

Her  benevolence  had  never  before  car- 
ried her  so  far  as  on  the  occasion  when, 
locking  up  her  office  and  foregoing  two 
days'  profits,  she  took  Christine  home  to 
her  father.  In  fact,  when  she  found  her- 
self on  the  railway  train  she  wondered  at 
her  own  impulsiveness  and  was  inclined 
to  call  herself  a  fool.  But  certainly  Henry 
Barton's  daughter  had  a  peculiar  claim 
on  her.  Christine  had  visited  her  only 
twice,  the  first  time  accompanied  by  Ros- 
siter.  Madame  Arvilla  never  forgot  the 

15 


16 


Madame  Arvilla 


astonishing  vision  of  radiant,  youthful 
beauty  which  she  presented  as,  pushing 
aside  the  screen,  she  entered  the  dusky 
little  office  and  seated  herself  in  the 
low  chair,  laughing  lightly  —  a  laugh  as 
care-free  and  irresponsible  as  a  child's. 
Madame  Arvilla  disliked  Rossiter  at  first 
sight,  and  although  at  that  time  she  knew 
nothing  about  either  of  them,  she  tried, 
while  studying  the  lines  of  the  girl's 
hands,  to  warn  her  of  the  dangers  to 
which  her  temperament  as  well  as  her 
beauty  exposed  her;  a  warning  which 
was  received  with  entire  carelessness.  It 
bore  unexpected  fruit,  however,  for  when 
the  moment  of  danger  and  perplexity 
came,  the  palmist  was  the  only  person  to 
whom  Christine  ventured  to  turn. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  as,  entering  the 
office,  she  seated  herself  once  more  in  the 
low  chair,  "  some  of  your  horrid  things 
came  true  and  I  almost  feel  as  if  you  had 
made  them  come  true  by  saying  them. 
So  now  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  to 
do  next."  Her  words  were  flippant,  but 
her  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed  and  tears 
came  to  her  eyes. 

"It  was  the  man?"  asked  Madame 
Arvilla. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  was  the  man.  He  was 
dreadful."  She  laid  her  hands,  palms 
upward,  on  the  table.  "  Can't  you  see 
what  is  going  to  become  of  me  now  ?  " 
she  asked. 

Madame  Arvilla  smiled.  "  There  are 
limits  to  what  I  can  see,"  she  said.  "  You 
had  better  tell  me  about  it,  I  think." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  difficult  for 
Christine  to  find  the  right  words.  "  Oh," 
she  said  at  last,  "  he  likes  me  very  much 
too  much,  and  of  course  his  wife  does  n't 
like  it.  She  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
stay.  And  then  he  proposed  horrid  things 
that  of  course  I  could  n't  do,  so  I  thought 
I'd  better  run  away.  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  next  and  I  thought  of  you.  I  don't 
know  another  soul  here.  And  you  told 
me  so  much  that  I  thought  perhaps  you 
could  tell  me  more." 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  ex- 
planation, she  wiped  her  eyes  and  leaned 


back,  with  the  disengaged  air  of  one  who 
has  to  a  certain  extent  divested  herself  of 
responsibility. 

Madame  Arvilla  gazed  at  her  with 
mingled  dismay  and  curiosity.  "  Were 
n't  you  frightened  when  he  proposed 
things  that  you  could  n't  do  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Why,  I  did  n't  have  to  do  them," 
said  the  girl  ingenuously.  "  And  he  is 
awfully  fond  of  me,"  she  added  indul- 
gently. 

"  And  you  were  staying  with  them  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  came  as  the  children's  gov- 
erness.   Mrs.  Rossiter  and  I  were  great 
friends.  She  spent  a  summer  in  the  town 
where  I  lived  —  and  it  was  the  only  way 
I  could  get  away  from  home." 
"  And  you  had  to  leave  home  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  could  n't  stand  it!  "  exclaimed 
the  girl.    "  Such  a  hateful  little  country 
town,  and  my  father  thinks  everything 
nice  is  wicked.    He's  a  minister,  you 
know.    Every  minute  I  spent  there  was 
a  waste  of  time.    I  had  to  get  away." 

"  And  now  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go 
back,"  said  Madame  Arvilla.  "  That  is 
as  simple  as  can  be." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  don't 
suppose  my  father  will  have  me.  He  said 
that  I  shouldn't  leave,  you  see,  so  I 
ran  away.  He  wrote  me  one  letter  that 
I  thought  very  unkind,  and  since  then  we 
haven't  had  anything  to  do  with  each 
other." 

"  And  have  you  no  mother  ?  " 
"  She  died  when  I  was  a  baby." 
This,  reflected  Madame  Arvilla,  was 
one  of  the  cases  where  she  was  called 
upon  to  act,  and  she  had  decided  to  see 
that  the  girl  was  restored  to  her  father 
even  before  further  questioning  had 
elicited  the  fact  that  Christine  was  the 
daughter  of  Henry  Barton,  and  that  the 
"  hateful  little  town  "  was  her  own  na- 
tive place :  the  place  associated  with  the 
recollections  of  her  childhood  and  with 
the  romance  of  her  youth;  the  place  of 
all  others  which  she  remembered  with 
affection  and  revisited  in  her  dreams. 

As  for  Christine,  she  thought  it  odd 
that  Madame  Arvilla  should  have  known 


Madame  Arvilla 


17 


her  father,  and  very  good  of  her  to  take 
so  much  trouble;  but  for  her  part,  she 
was  sorry  to  go  back.  "  Is  n't  there  any- 
thing else  I  can  do  ?  "  she  asked  plaint- 
ively. 

"  You  can't  possibly  do  anything  else," 
replied  Madame  Arvilla. 

"  How  dreadfully  decided  you  are," 
remonstrated  Christine.  Then  she 
laughed  her  light  laugh.  "  At  any  rate 
Mr.  Rossiter  will  be  surprised.  He  won't 
know  what  has  become  of  me  and  I  hope 
they'll  both  worry." 

"  What  an  astonishing  child  for  Henry 
Barton  to  have!  "  was  Arvilla' s  mental 
comment. 

When  they  looked  out  of  the  car  win- 
dow in  the  morning,  a  smiling  landscape 
met  their  view:  low,  undulating  hills 
checkered  with  parti -colored  fields,  some 
vividly  green,  others  still  showing  brown 
between  the  furrows;  here  and  there  a 
patch  of  woodland  or  a  group  of  fine 
trees.  A  tame  landscape  certainly;  but 
Madame  Arvilla  gazed  at  it  with  the 
swelling  heart  of  the  home-coming  exile. 
As  they  drew  near  the  village  and  she 
noted  one  familiar  landmark  after  an- 
other, her  eyes  filled.  Looking  at  Chris- 
tine through  a  mist,  she  saw  that  the  girl 
was  wiping  away  tears.  "  After  all,  she 
has  some  natural  feeling,"  thought  the 
woman,  and  leaning  forward,  she  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  the  girl's  hand.  At  this 
mark  of  sympathy  Christine  sniffed 
audibly. 

"  Is  n't  it  too  horrid  ?  "  she  said.  "  Oh, 
how  I  do  hate  this  place!  And  you've 
made  me  come  back  to  it.  Why  could  n't 
I  stay  .with  you,  Madame  Arvilla,  and 
learn  to  tell  fortunes  ?  " 

Madame  Arvilla  laughed  as  she  wiped 
her  eyes  surreptitiously.  "  By  the  way," 
she  said,  "  you  can  call  me  Mrs.  Simp- 
son now.  Not  but  what  Arvilla  is  my 
name  too.  It's  my  Christian  name,  and  I 
thought  it  answered  better  for  my  pro- 
fession." 

"  Much  better,"  agreed  Christine. 
"  We'd  better  not  say  anything  about 
the  palmistry  before  father,"  she  added. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  1 


"  He  is  n't  very  broad-minded,  you 
know." 

Arvilla  winced  a  little  even  while  she 
smiled,  and  there  was  a  silence,  broken 
at  length  by  the  girl. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  marry  Geoffrey," 
she  said  discontentedly,  **  and  goodness 
knows  I  don't  want  to." 

"  And  who  is  Geoffrey  ?  " 

The  girl's  face  dimpled.  "  He's  just 
Solid  Worth  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 
He  bores  me,  and  his  family  bore  me, 
and  father  would  be  delighted." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Madame  Arvilla,  glad 
to  be  diverted  from  her  own  thoughts. 
"  Tell  me  all  about  Geoffrey." 

"  Oh,  well,  he  and  his  relations  are  the 
pillars  of  my  father's  church.  They  think 
most  things  are  wicked.  They  have  heaps 
of  money  and  don't  spend  it  —  except  a 
little  on  missionaries.  I'd  have  to  go  to 
church  on  Sundays  in  a  nice  thick  silk 
dress,  and  to  prayer-meetings  on  week- 
day evenings  in  second-best.  I'd  never 
be  allowed  to  dance  or  play  cards  any 
more  than  I  am  now,  but  I'd  make  calls 

—  lots  of  them.   And  dinner  at  one  and 
tea  at  six  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Then  why  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Now  do  you  really  suppose  I  can 
keep  quiet  and  not  do  anything  at  all  ?  " 
asked  the  girl  with  exasperation. 

"  No,  I  certainly  don't,"  said  Madame 
Arvilla. 

"  Besides,  Geoffrey  is  rather  nice  him- 
self, and  he  cares  for  me  a  great  deal. 
And  if  I  have  n't  anything  else  to  do  I'm 
afraid  I  might  forget  his  surroundings 
long  enough  to  marry  him.  But  I'd  cer- 
tainly find  I  had  married  his  surround- 
ings too,  for  he  is  n't  his  own  master, 
poor  Geoffrey." 

"  But  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry.  You 
need  n't  settle  your  whole  life  to-day.  Do 
try  to  believe  that  to-morrow  is  coming 

—  and  more  to-morrows  after  it." 

"  If  I  could  stay  with  you,"  declared 
Christine,  "perhaps  I  could  behave. 
You  are  not  so  terribly  serious." 

Meantime  the  train  was  drawing  up 
to  the  station.  "  Here  we  are!  "  ex- 


18 


Madame  Arvilla 


claimed  Arvilla.  "  And  Christine,  I'm 
sure  your  father  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
Do  be  a  little  glad  to  see  him.'* 

Christine  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I 
could  be,"  she  said,  "  but  I  know  him 
better  than  you  do." 

When  Henry  Barton  held  out  his  arms 
to  his  daughter  his  agitation  would  have 
touched  her  more  if  it  had  not  over- 
whelmed her  with  embarrassment.  As  it 
was,  she  experienced  a  shame-faced  emo- 
tion, and  when  released  from  his  em- 
brace made  all  haste  to  fly  to  her  room, 
where,  to  her  great  surprise,  she  at  once 
burst  into  tears. 

At  first  sight,  Arvilla  thought  him 
little  changed.  The  slight  stoop,  the 
thinning  of  the  hair  on  his  temples,  and 
the  lines  on  his  face  merely  accentuated 
his  type,  which  had  always  been  that  of 
the  refined,  ascetic  Puritan  parson  of  the 
old  school.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  at 
first  somewhat  difficult  for  him  to  recog- 
nize in  her  the  Arvilla  of  the  old  days, 
until  her  voice  bridged  the  chasm,  when 
he  presently  forgot  that  he  had  noticed 
any  great  change.  She  had  dreaded  the 
moment  of  explanation,  but  Henry,  ap- 
prehensive though  he  might  be  of  the 
allurements  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and 
the  Devil,  was,  after  all,  not  of  a  sus- 
picious nature,  and  was  too  unversed  in 
the  ways  of  the  world  to  picture  its  dan- 
gers except  in  a  large  and  general  way. 
So  she  told  him  only  as  much  of  Chris- 
tine's adventures  as  she  thought  best; 
and  if  he  fancied  that  his  child's  heart 
had  turned  to  him  and  that  she  had  come 
back  of  her  own  accord,  why,  so  much 
the  better,  thought  Arvilla. 

On  his  part,  warmed  by  gratitude  to 
her  and  encouraged  by  her  sympathy, 
he  was  moved,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  known  the  doubtful  joys  and  heavy 
responsibilities  of  fatherhood,  to  unbur- 
den his  heart  of  all  his  anxieties  and 
perplexities.  Evidently  he  had  been  a 
painfully  conscientious  parent,  stifling 
his  affection  and  giving  his  sense  of  duty 
free  play.  And  now  he  was  wondering 
where  he  had  failed. 


"  She  has  a  light  nature,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  have  labored  over  her  without 
ceasing." 

"  Poor  Christine! "  was  Arvilla's  men- 
tal ejaculation.  Aloud  she  said,  "  You 
have  taken  her  too  seriously.  That  is 
just  the  trouble." 

"  Can  one  take  an  immortal  soul  too 
seriously  ?  "  he  asked  reproachfully. 

"  You  must  fit  your  tools  to  your  mate- 
rial. If  she  is  a  butterfly,  you  must 
handle  her  as  a  butterfly." 

He  only  sighed  and  shook  his  head  in 
a  discouraged  way.  Arvilla  had  already 
realized  that  he  was  more  changed  than 
she  had  at  first  supposed.  Narrow,  pre- 
judiced, and  dogmatic  he  had  always 
been;  but  ardent,  a  fiery  combatant, 
ready  to  defend  his  position,  good  or 
bad,  with  vehemence.  Now  there  seemed 
hardly  a  glow  left  in  the  ashes,  so  sub- 
dued and  weary  was  his  aspect.  He  had 
gained  in  tolerance,  perhaps,  but  it  was 
at  the  cost  of  all  his  old  enthusiasm.  Her 
suggestion  that  he  should  try  to  provide 
some  amusement  for  the  girl,  he  met  help- 
lessly. "  A  girl  is  so  hard  to  understand," 
he  said. 

Arvilla  had  intended  to  leave  in  the 
afternoon,  but  Henry  begged  her  to  spend 
at  least  one  night  under  his  roof,  and  she 
yielded.  She  always  looked  back  to  this 
as  the  strangest  day  she  had  ever  spent. 
This  was  the  parsonage  where  he  and 
she  had  expected  to  live.  There  on  the 
marble-topped  centre-table  in  the  stiff 
little  parlor  was  the  alabaster  model  of 
the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa,  which  some 
one  had  given  Henry  and  which  they  used 
to  say  was  the  first  thing  they  had  toward 
housekeeping.  When  she  went  into  the 
dining-room  she  recalled  the  tablecloths 
and  napkins  which  she  had  hemmed; 
and  there  was  the  bay  window  which  had 
been  built  for  them  and  which  she  had 
planned  to  keep  filled  with  blossoming 
plants.  There  were  plants  in  it  now, 
tended  by  the  minister's  old  servant.  But 
when  she  saw  Christine's  bedroom  she 
thought,  "  My  child's  room  would  have 
been  prettier." 


Madame  Ar villa 


19 


It  was  not  until  evening  that  she  went 
into  the  minister's  study.  Geoffrey  had 
come  to  see  Christine,  and  the  parlor 
was  left  to  the  young  people,  in  country 
fashion.  The  night  was  chilly,  and  in 
the  study  a  fire  had  been  kindled  on  the 
hearth  and  two  armchairs  were  drawn 
up  before  it.  Arvilla  looked  about  the 
room.  This,  then,  was  Henry's  study, 
the  place  where  he  really  lived.  Her 
glance  lingered  on  the  bookshelves,  filled 
with  serious  volumes,  on  the  old  writing 
table,  shabby  in  its  appointments,  but 
neat  in  its  arrangement,  and  on  the 
leather-seated  chair  in  front  of  it.  They 
sat  down  before  the  fire  and  at  first  were 
somewhat  silent.  They  had  already  ex- 
changed such  confidences  as  are  usual  on 
the  meeting  of  old  friends  —  with,  to  be 
sure,  important  omissions  on  Arvilla's 
part;  for  she  knew  his  point  of  view, 
and  why  should  she  spoil  the  comfort  of 
one  short  day?  For  the  moment  it  was 
pleasant  to  sit  without  talking. 

As  of  old,  his  mood  had  lightened 
in  the  comfortable  atmosphere  of  her 
cheerful  and  equable  temperament,  until 
now  he  seemed  somewhat  more  like 
his  former  self,  but  gentler  than  he 
had  been  in  the  old  days.  It  was  of 
course  impossible  that  both  should  not 
be  struck  by  this  phantasmal  fulfillment 
of  their  early  visions  of  fireside  compan- 
ionship; but  whereas  Arvilla  thought  of 
it  half  humorously,  half  tenderly,  as  a 
mere  curious  episode,  Henry  found  a 
strange  new  hope  springing  up  in  his 
heart.  His  familiar  room  had  taken  on 
an  unaccustomed  aspect  of  homelikeness 
with  Arvilla  sitting  opposite  him,  and 
now  that  he  had  seen  her  there  he  thought 
that  it  would  never  again  seem  like 
home  without  her.  The  old  disagree- 
ments looked  inexpressibly  unimportant 
to  him,  and  his  former  attitude  toward 
them  now  seemed  petty  and  obstinate. 
He  thought  of  his  child,  whose  heart, 
always  closed  to  him,  had  opened  to  her 
at  a  touch ;  he  thought  of  his  people,  with 
whom  he  found  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  get  on  a  footing  of  confidence.  In 


Arvilla  he  found  the  solution  of  all  his 
difficulties,  all  his  enigmas.  Possibilities 
of  a  new  life  opened  before  him. 

Arvilla  was  too  versed  in  the  study  of 
human  nature  to  remain  unconscious  of 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  "  Poor 
Henry,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  he  is  be- 
ginning to  care  for  me  again." 

A  woman  is  never  too  old  to  be  touched 
by  the  faithfulness  of  an  old  lover,  and 
Henry  had  been  her  first  love,  as  she  had 
been  his.  She  regarded  him  with  tender- 
ness, though  without  illusions;  and  to 
her  surprise,  she  found  herself  tempted. 
What  warmth  of  comfort  and  affection 
she  could  bring  into  his  lonely  and  color- 
less life.  How  successful  a  stepmother 
she  could  be  to  Christine,  and  how  she 
would  enjoy  it.  And,  yes,  what  happiness 
for  herself  in  the  satisfaction  of  her  in- 
nate longing  for  the  peaceful  joys  of  the 
domestic  hearth.  Viewed  by  the  light  of 
the  study  fire,  the  office  on  the  Board 
Walk  seemed  a  cheerless  place,  and  she 
found  herself  suddenly  tired  of  the  study 
of  unresponsive  humanity.  The  pastor's 
flock  would  be  a  welcome  exchange  for 
her  clients.  Her  old  contentment  was 
broken  up.  Then  she  pulled  herself  up 
sharply.  She  had  no  mind  to  deceive 
Henry,  even  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so 
for  long;  and  she  knew  that  her  profes- 
sion would  be  anathema  maranatha  to 
him. 

But  meantime  Henry  had  made  his  re- 
solution. His  fear  lest  she  should  vanish 
once  more  into  a  world  where  perhaps 
he  might  lose" her,  overcame  the  principle 
which  he  had  laid  down  for  himself  in 
earlier  years  as  a  bulwark  against  his 
impetuous  impulses,  of  prefacing  any  im- 
portant action  by  a  season  of  prayer  and 
meditation.  He  found  delay  unbearable, 
and  it  was  with  something  of  his  old 
ardor  that  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
The  suddenness  of  it  took  her  by  sur- 
prise, and  she  hesitated.  She  was  aware 
that  the  judicious  course  would  be  to 
refuse  him  without  explanation,  but  for 
once  she  did  not  feel  capable  of  being 
judicious.  She  was  possessed  by  a  desire 


Madame  Arvilla 


to  have  it  out  with  him  and  see  what 
would  come  of  it. 

"You  know  very  little  about  me  of  late 
years,"  she  said. 

"  No,  but  I  can  see  what  the  years 
have  done  for  you,"  he  answered. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  made  my  own  liv- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  and  I  respect  you  for  it.  You 
need  not  think  that  I  care  how  humble 
your  calling  may  have  been.  It  has  been 
blessed  to  you.  When  I  see  you,  after  all 
your  trials,  brave,  cheerful,  free  from 
bitterness,  I  blush  to  remember  the  su- 
perior attitude  which  I  assumed  in  the 
old  days." 

This  was  a  tribute  indeed,  and  ap- 
pealed to  her  sense  of  humor  at  the  same 
time  that  it  touched  her.  "  Wait! "  she 
said.  "  My  business  has  n't  been  so 
dreadfully  humble,  but  I'm  afraid  you 
have  a  prejudice  against  it." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  I  am  a  palmist." 

"A  —  what?" 

*'  You  might  call  it  a  branch  of  psy- 
chology. I  read  the  lines  of  the  hand." 

**  Arvilla!  Don't  jest  with  me  now." 
He  stared  at  her  in  bewildered  dismay. 

"  I  should  n't  dream  of  jesting.  I 
make  my  living  that  way." 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you.  You 
surely  are  not  telling  me  that  you  are  a 
mere  fortune-teller  —  you  I " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  call  it  that." 

"  And  that  you  make  your  living  by 
trading  on  the  credulity  of  fools  ?  "  His 
bewilderment  was  giving  way  to  the  deep 
indignation  of  the  man  who  feels  himself 
betrayed. 

"  Not  quite  so  fast! "  said  Arvilla, 
flushing.  Then  she  sighed.  "  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  have  explained  in  the  very  be- 
ginning," she  said,  "  but  I  could  hardly 
hope  to  make  you  understand  —  and  I 
never  expected  to  see  you  again  after  to- 
day. Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
whole  story.  I  was  very  poor  when  my 
husband  died.  I  was  alone  in  a  big  town 
—  we  had  just  moved  there  —  and  I  had 
two  little  children  to  support.  I  tried 


everything  I  could  get  —  do  you  suppose 
I  cared  how  humble  it  was  ?  But  I  could 
n't  earn  enough  to  make  them  comfort- 
able. There  were  times  when  I  had  to  see 
them  go  hungry.  Then  one  day  this  came 
into  my  head.  I  had  once  studied  palm- 
istry enough  to  play  the  gypsy  at  fairs, 
and  people  used  to  say  jokingly  that  I 
might  make  my  fortune  that  way.  It  was 
the  last  resort  —  and  it  succeeded.  Then, 
when  the  children  died  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  no  interest  in  life,  it  gave  me  an  inter- 
est, and  so  I  went  on — and  of  course  it 
was  my  livelihood  too." 

The  minister  looked  deeply  distressed. 
"  How,  after  that,  could  you  possibly 
continue  to  keep  up  the  imposture  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  But  it  is  n't  imposture.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that.  I  keep  my  share  of 
the  bargain.  I  tell  them  all  that  I  under- 
take to  tell  them." 

"  What  can  you  tell  them?  " 
"  Their  peculiarities;  things  that  have 
happened  to  them  —  people  love  to  be 
told  what  they  know  already  if  it's  about 
themselves;  and  of  course,  future  possi- 
bilities, dangers  to  avoid,  things  to  hope 
for,  warnings  and  advice  —  even  some- 
times something  like  prophecy." 
"  You  ask  me  to  believe  this  ?  " 
V  I  am  telling  you  the  truth." 
"  You  can't  possibly  believe  in  it  your- 
self?" 

"  I  suppose  you  would  say,  if  I  don't, 
it  is  fraud;  and  if  I  do,  it's  the  Devil. 
Well,  I'm  not  a  Witch  of  Endor,  but  I 
do  believe  in  it,  though  I  hardly  know 
how  I  do  it.  There  really  is  something 
in  the  lines  of  the  hand  —  however  you 
may  shake  your  head.  And  then  people 
tell  me  more  than  they  think,  with 
their  faces  and  gestures  and  the  words 
they  let  drop.  And  sometimes  when  I 
take  a  person's  hand  in  mine,  things 
seem  to  come  to  me  in  a  queer  way  — 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how.  Perhaps 
the  chief  thing  is  that  people  interest  me 
so.  Don't  you  remember  how  fond  I 
always  was  of  just  mere  human  beings, 
and  how  we  used  to  say  what  a  useful 


Madame  Arvilla 


trait  it  would  be  in  a  minister's  wife  ?  " 

"  I  remember."  The  minister's  voice 
vibrated  with  an  emotion  which  Arvilla 
did  not  stop  to  analyze. 

"  I  try  to  do  some  good  in  the  world," 
she  went  on,  "  and  I  have  more  oppor- 
tunities than  you  would  think.  Some- 
times it  's  a  girl  or  a  boy  in  trouble,  and 
a  little  advice  helps  —  and  sometimes  — 
well,  I  suppose  there  isn't  a  wickeder 
place  in  the  United  States  than  the  Board 
Walk  in  summer,  and  when  I  think  it's 
worth  while  I  speak  out  plainly.  And 
when  it  comes  to  scaring  them  about 
their  sins,  why,  Henry,  you're  not  in  it 
with  me.  You  preach  the  wrath  to  come, 
but  after  all,  preaching  is  pretty  general. 
The  thing  that  tells  is  to  go  into  detail. 
When  I,  an  utter  stranger,  look  into  "a 
person's  hand  and  say,  *  You've  done 
this  or  that,'  —  something  they  think 
nobody  knows  but  themselves, —  'and  if 
you  don't  look  out  you  're  going  to  do 
something  worse  *  —  and  tell  them  what 
it  is  they're  going  to  do  — I  can  tell  you, 
it  gives  them  a  turn.  Perhaps  it  does  n't 
do  any  good,  but  who  knows  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  evident  conviction,  and 
the  minister,  who  had  listened  with  his 
eyes  intently  fixed  on  her,  now  rose  to  his 
feet  and  began  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room.  How  often  had  she  seen  him  jump 
up  and  pace  the  floor  in  the  heat  of  dis- 
cussion! She  felt  that  the  old  fire  was 
rekindled,  and  that  anything  she  could 
say  would  be  futile;  but  she  could  not 
forbear  a  last  word. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  pretty  well  how 
you  would  feel  about  it,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  have  a  clear  conscience.  I  feel  myself 
to  be  no  worse  a  woman  —  perhaps  bet- 
ter —  than  if  I  had  earned  my  bread  as 
a  washerwoman,  for  instance  —  though 
I  would  have  done  that  too,  for  the  chil- 
dren, if  I  could  have  got  it  to  do." 

He  paused  in  front  of  her  and  again 
fixed  on  her  the  gaze  of  his  deep-set  eyes, 
in  whose  sombre  depths  a  new  fire  was 
now  burning.  She  looked  at  him  reflect- 
ively and  with  something  of  her  habitual 
humorous  expression.  "  Well,  I  suppose 


we  are  going  to  say  good-by,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  don't  imagine  we  shall  ever  meet 
again.  But  now,  as  between  you  and  me, 
Henry,  do  you  really  think  so  badly  of 
me  ?  I  am  the  same  woman  you  praised 
a  little  while  ago,  and  whatever  was  true 
of  me  then  is  just  as  true  of  me  now." 

She  waited  a  moment  for  his  answer. 
Then  he  spoke.  "  Yes,  you  are  the  same 
woman,"  he  said.  "  For  you  it  seems 
possible  to  lead  a  Christian  life  even 
when  engaged  in  an  unchristian  business. 
Truly,  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure. 
Your  palmistry  —  I  don't  believe  in  it. 
It  is  detestable.  But  I  see  how  you  have 
made  it  serve  you  —  as  you  would  have 
made  anything  else  serve  you  in  doing 
good.  But  you  say  it  is  good-by.  Is  that 
the  answer  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  any  other  answer  ? 
When  I  said  it  I  thought  you  disapproved 
of  me  too  much  to  care  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  me." 

"  I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said 
vehemently.  "  I  want  you  to  go  out  into 
the  world  with  me  and  show  me  how  to 
work  for  humanity !  " 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  leave  this 
place?" 

"  I  have  stayed  here  too  long.  I  and 
my  people  have  stagnated  together.  Once 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  ask  nothing 
better  than  to  spend  my  life  in  the  service 
of  my  own  people  whom  I  have  known 
from  my  youth  up.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  had  calls  to  other  churches,  but  I 
refused  them.  Now  I  know  that  another 
man  might  serve  my  people  better.  I 
make  no  impression  on  them.  Nothing 
that  I  can  say  goes  home.  Oh,  they  like 
me  to  be  impassioned ;  it  is  all  part  of  the 
Sunday  entertainment  —  and  I  can  no 
longer  speak  to  them  with  force.  For  I 
am  tired.  I  am  tired  of  beating  against 
a  dead  wall.  I  am  tired  of  the  measured 
thrift  with  which  prosperous  men  provide 
for  their  souls'  salvation.  I  am  tired  of 
the  women  and  their  church  sociables.  I 
am  sure  they  are  better  Christians  than 
I  am,  but  I  see  so  much  of  them!  And  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself  that  I  have  not 


22 


Madame  Arvilla 


sooner  resigned  my  place  to  some  man 
who  could  fill  it  better.  I  seemed  stupe- 
fied until  you  came,  and  I  did  not  know 
how  to  break  away  from  the  tyranny  of 
old  habit.  Now  I  am  alive  again." 

Poor  Henry,  thought  Arvilla,  how 
bored  he  has  been.  And  yet  he  cannot 
understand  Christine. 

'*  I  want  to  go  to  a  great  city,"  he  went 
on.  "I  want  to  labor  among  the  poor, 
the  wretched,  the  degraded.  I  want  to 
go  where  I  can  feel  the  beating  of  men's 
hearts.  It  is  you  who  have  waked  me  up 
—  you,  with  your  great  love  and  under- 
standing of  humanity.  For  a  long  time  I 
seem  to  have  been  paralyzed.  All  fresh- 
ness of  feeling  seemed  gone  forever  and 
I  have  gone  on  using  mere  phrases  — 
speaking  the  language  which  I  had  been 
taught,  but  without  realizing  its  meaning. 
I  began  to  think  that  my  God  had  for- 
saken me." 

He  stopped  speaking  and  resumed  his 
walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Arvilla's 
eyes  followed  him.  This  indeed  was  the 
Henry  of  her  youth  —  this  impetuous 
man  with  the  fiery  eyes.  The  years 
seemed  to  fall  from  him  as  he  straight- 
ened his  shoulders  and  held  his  head 
erect.  He  was  some  few  years  her  senior, 
but  she,  sitting  back  in  her  easy  chair, 
felt  immensely  older  than  he.  She  looked 
about  the  room  with  a  rueful  smile.  For 
her  part,  she  was  tired  of  the  turmoil  of 
the  world.  She  longed  for  the  sheltered 
quiet  of  the  country  parsonage,  the  very 
parsonage  where  she  and  Henry  had  ex- 


pected to  begin  life  together.  She  was 
not  afraid  of  being  bored  by  the  con- 
gregation. Human  nature  was  as  inter- 
esting here  as  elsewhere;  and  it  would  be 
sweet  to  end  her  days  in  her  own  native 
place.  How  had  it  happened  that  she  of 
all  people  had  so  stirred  Henry  up  ? 

He  came  and  stood  before  her  again. 
"  I  am  not  altogether  visionary,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  a  little  money  which  my  father 
left  me.  I  can  take  care  of  you  and 
Christine." 

Arvilla  reflected  comfortably  that  she 
too  had  a  little  money.  Well  —  at  least 
she  would  rather  work  in  the  slums  with 
Henry  and  make  a  home  for  him  and 
Christine,  than  go  back  to  the  loneliness 
of  the  office  on  the  Board  Walk.  And  if 
Henry  seemed  to  be  thinking  more  of  the 
interest  of  a  fresh  field  of  work  than  of  her 
personally,  why,  perhaps  she  had  thought 
almost  as  much  of  the  old  parsonage  and 
the  little  town  —  and  Christine  —  as  she 
had  of  him.  It  was  as  broad  as  it  was 
long  —  and  after  all,  they  were  neither 
of  them  as  young  as  they  had  been. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  as  he  stood 
before  her.  "  Yes,  Henry,  I  will  marry 
you,"  she  said.  "  And  I  hope  I  shall 
make  you  even  a  little  happier  than  you 
expect." 

After  all,  she  was  mistaken  in  thinking 
that  his  ardor  was  all  for  his  work.  He 
stooped  and  kissed  her  with  surprisingly 
little  embarrassment  —  considering  that 
they  were  neither  of  them  as  young  as 
they  had  been. 


THE   IDEAL   OF   ORIENTAL  UNITY 

BY   PAUL   S.   REINSCH 


To  personify  a  nation  and  to  invest  it 
with  certain  definite  attributes  has  always 
been  an  attractive  short-cut  to  know- 
ledge, and  a  convenient  basis  for  sweeping 
judgments.  It  is  not  surprising  that  this 
method  should  have  been  applied  with 
even  greater  boldness  to  a  whole  conti- 
nent, for  the  infinite  variety  of  Oriental 
life  makes  patient  inquiry  exceedingly 
perplexing.  Such  aphorisms  as  "  The 
East  is  the  East"  afford  a  welcome 
solution,  but,  it  must  be  confessed,  not 
one  which  will  long  satisfy  the  inquiring 
mind,  or  afford  a  reliable  guidance  in  po- 
litical action.  It  may  therefore  be  worth 
while  to  make  some  search  as  to  whether 
amid  all  this  diversity  of  social  phenom- 
ena there  may  actually  be  discovered  a 
bond  of  unity.  Are  there  elements  in 
Oriental  life  universal  and  powerful 
enough  to  constitute  a  living  unity  of 
sentiment  for  the  surging  multitudes  of 
the  Orient?  What  thoughts  can  they 
summon  up  which  will  stir  in  them  such 
feelings  as  overcome  us  when  we  see 
the  luminous  masterpieces  of  the  Greek 
chisel,  or  the  soaring  arches  and  pinna- 
cles of  Bourges;  when  we  think  of  the 
civic  wisdom  of  Rome,  the  blossoming 
of  Christian  ideals  of  the  middle  ages  ? 
What  names  are  there  to  compel  hom- 
age and  undying  admiration,  as  the 
great  ruler  after  whom  all  emperors  are 
named  ?  What  philosophers  to  compare 
with  the  two  master-spirits  in  whom  all 
our  thoughts  and  systems  have  their 
source?  What  representatives  of  an 
Oriental  world-literature  as  universal  as 
the  divine  bard,  or  the  exiled  Ghibelline 
of  Florence  ? 

Whether  such  a  unity  of  thought  and 
sentiment,  such  a  common  tradition  of 
powerful  personality  exists  in  the  Ori- 
ent, appears  at  first  sight  very  doubt- 


ful, indeed.  We  must  constantly  be  on 
our  guard  against  misleading  similarities 
and  antitheses.  Truth  resides  neither  in 
"  Yes  "  nor  in  "  No,"  neither  in  differ- 
ence nor  in  identity,  but  in  the  shade  or 
manner,  the  subtle  relations  of  thought 
which  lead  one  race  or  generation  to 
emphasize  classic  form,  while  another 
dwells  on  inner  force  or  romantic  charm, 
both  believing  after  all  the  same  religion 
of  beauty.  Thus  the  analogies  between 
Christianity  and  Buddhism  are  many, 
and  Confucius  solved  the  great  moral 
problems  in  a  manner  not  unlike  that 
of  other  great  moral  teachers,  so  that 
his  wisdom  often  appears  trite  to  those 
who  are  looking  for  the  strange  and  un- 
accustomed. 

Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  whatever 
has  been  thought  has,  at  some  time  or 
other,  been  thought  in  Asia.  But  though 
the  periphery  and  the  contents  of  two 
theories  may  be  almost  identical,  their 
import  may  nevertheless  be  immeasur- 
ably diverse,  according  to  the  nuance  of 
emphasis  imparted  by  the  psychological 
background  of  primal  motives  and  be- 
liefs. Thus  the  theories  of  the  advocate 
of  Stuart  absolutism  and  of  the  senti- 
mental herald  of  the  Revolution  are  al- 
most identical  in  their  component  ele- 
ments, when  statically  compared;  yet 
how  vastly  different  in  import  and  re- 
sult, through  distribution  of  emphasis 
and  grouping  of  their  various  concepts! 
Even  thus  it  is  with  Gotama,  Kapila,  and 
Confucius;  and  we  shall  probably  get 
closer  to  a  real  understanding  of  Asiatic 
unity  and  of  the  relations  of  East  and 
West,  if  instead  of  enumerating  and 
counterbalancing  qualities  and  character- 
istics, and  setting  up  a  fixed  standard 
called  Oriental,  we  should  rather  try  to 
seize  the  subtle  and  Protean  temper  ani- 

23 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


mating  Oriental  races;  and  instead  of 
dilating  upon  the  whole  complex  of  their 
beliefs  and  institutions,  atfempt  to  ap- 
preciate the  shades  and  gradations  of 
meaning,  and  to  understand  the  tem- 
peramental background  of  Oriental  life 
and  thought.  We  may  then  perhaps  find 
less  Orientalism  in  Schopenhauer,  as 
we  have  enough  of  pessimism  in  the  West 
to  supply  sundry  philosophers ;  nor  shall 
we  probably  be  confident  enough  to 
strike  a  balance  between  East  and  West 
that  will  settle  categorically  all  questions 
of  superiority  and  power  of  triumphant 
control.  No  glittering  aphorisms  will 
reward  us;  nor  sensational  thrills  and 
excitements.  These  joys  we  must  fore- 
go, if  we  desire  to  approach  the  Orient 
in  the  spirit  typified  by  a  Humboldt 
rather  than  in  the  excited  fancy  of  the 
exorcist  of  war  clouds  and  many-colored 
perils. 

The  Orient  has  always  had  a  danger- 
ous fascination  for  the  West ;  it  has  filled 
the  Western  mind  with  vague  longings, 
fantastic  imaginings,  and  lurid  forebod- 
ings. As  fair  Italy  with  Circean  charm 
enticed  the  rough  riders  of  the  Aleman- 
nian  forests,  even  so  the  Orient  has 
always  cast  a  powerful  spell  over  the  na- 
tions of  the  West.  Her  deep  philosophy, 
her  venerable  history,  command  their 
wonder  and  respect;  her  potential  energy 
and  wealth  arouse  their  cupidity.  The 
Russian  mind  has  been  especially  prone 
to  such  entrancing  dreams.  "The  grand 
and  mysterious  Orient  —  it  is  ours,  it 'is 
through  us  that  its  destiny  is  to  be  real- 
ized." Thus  spake  they,  and  they  were 
the  first  to  feel  the  mysterious  power 
which  they  hoped  to  bind  to  their  will 
and  make  the  instrument  of  a  bound- 
less ambition.  Such  vague  aspirations 
make  the  romance  of  history,  but  they 
also  make  the  heart-rending  misery  of 
the  patient  poor. 

Two  utterances  by  prominent  British 
statesmen  have  recently  caused  a  great 
wave  of  discussion  in  the  intellectual 
world  of  the  East,  particularly  in  India. 
On  account  of  their  deep  effect  —  due  to 


very  different  causes  —  they  deserve  our 
attention,  and  may  reveal  to  us  some 
interesting  views  of  the  temper  of  the 
Oriental  mind.  When  Viceroy  of  India, 
Lord  Curzon,  fond  of  imperial  display 
and  realizing  the  importance  of  an  im- 
pressive ceremonial,  was  always  ready 
to  take  advantage  of  occasions  of  public 
moment.  It  being  a  part  of  his  official 
life  to  personify  both  the  grandeur  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  British  raj,  he  was  not 
satisfied  with  the  mere  outward  pomp  and 
trappings  of  royal  splendor,  but  also  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  intelligence  of  his 
subjects  in  dignified  discourses.  But  the 
homily  which,  shortly  before  his  resigna- 
tion, he  delivered  at  the  Convocation  of 
the  University  of  Calcutta  seems  to  have 
gone  far  towards  destroying  whatever 
assuaging  effect  his  former  diplomatic 
utterances  had  exerted.  Speaking  be- 
fore a  select  body  of  the  intellectual  aris- 
tocracy of  India,  he  pronounced  his  views 
on  some  aspects  of  Oriental  character. 
Though  he  directed  his  remarks  to  the 
graduating  students,  his  words  were  in- 
terpreted by  all  his  hearers,  as  well  as 
by  those  to  whom  they  were  reechoed 
through  the  Indian  press,  as  an  insult 
deliberately  offered  to  the  moral  charac- 
ter of  India. 

The  words  which  thus  stirred  up  the 
resentment  of  a  whole  nation,  and  which 
are  even  now  being  discussed  through- 
out Asia,  would  not  at  first  sight  strike 
us  as  extravagant,  accustomed  as  we  are 
to  the  most  harebrained  generalizations 
about  Oriental  races.  But  their  solemn 
recital  in  the  face  of  a  representative 
Indian  audience,  on  an  occasion  gen- 
erally consecrated  to  soothing  common- 
places, is  a  poignant  instance  of  the  tra- 
ditional defectiveness  of  the  British  sense 
of  humor.  Such  sentences  as  the  follow- 
ing aroused  the  storm  which  has  not  yet 
subsided :  — 

"  The  highest  ideal  of  truth  is  to  a 
large  extent  a  Western  conception.  .  .  . 
Truth  took  a  higher  place  in  the  mor- 
al codes  of  the  West  long  before  it  had 
been  similarly  honored  in  the  East,  where 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


craftiness  and  diplomatic  wile  have  al- 
ways been  held  in  repute.  We  may 
prove  it  by  the  common  innuendo  that 
lurks  in  the  words  '  Oriental  diplomacy,' 
by  which  is  meant  something  rather 
tortuous  and  hypersubtle."  Lord  Curzon 
then  specified  that  the  most  ordinary 
forms  which  falsehood  takes  in  Indian 
life  are  exaggeration,  flattery,  and  vili- 
fication. 

The   retorts    to   this    salutatory    ad- 
dress were  legion,  and  ran  through  the 
whole   gamut   of    feeling,   from    bitter 
recrimination  to  dignified  regret  at  the 
Viceroy's  absolute  misunderstanding  of 
native  life  and  ideals.    There  was  no 
scarcity  of  material  for  retort,  when  the 
records  of  the  British  conquest  in  India 
were  raked  up.  Lord  Lytton's  definition 
of   a   diplomat,    and   such   well-known 
epithets   as    "  perfide   Albion,"    not   to 
speak   of   more    pointed   and   personal 
charges,    were   cited   to   neutralize   the 
innuendo ;  while  a  strange  light  was  cast 
upon  Western   veracity   by   recounting 
the  methods  of  American  fraud  concerns. 
Comparisons  between  the  Greek  and  the 
Indian  epic  readily  revealed  the  unf  ound- 
edness  of  Lord  Curzon's  allusion  to  the 
historic   development   of   the    sense   of 
truthfulness;  Greek  practice,  too,  was 
very  unfavorably  contrasted  with  that  of 
Asiatic  nations  like  Persia.  General  sur- 
prise was  expressed  at  the  rash  gener- 
alizations of  the  Viceroy :   "  The  idea  of 
summing  up  a  whole  continent  in  a  single 
phrase  can  occur  only  to  the  very  igno- 
rant or  the  very  confident."  Lord  Curzon 
had  given  rein  to  the  "  ignorant  conceit 
of  pigment  and  power,"  and  had  emu- 
lated the  modern  Elijah  in  berating  a 
whole   nation.     Sarcastic   references   to 
Western  forms  of  speech  are  now  com- 
mon in  India,  such  as :   "a  new  liquor- 
shop,  —  they  call   it   a   saloon  in   tne 
more  truthful   phraseology  of  civilized 
Europe." 

The  occurrence,  however,  stirred  up 
feelings  deeper  than  a  mere  passing  re- 
sentment and  irritation.  It  led  to  an 
earnest  self-analysis,  and  an  accounting 


was  taken  of  the  Indian  intellectual  tem- 
per in  its  relation  to  the  European  rulers. 
While  the  most  serious-minded  among 
the  educated  Hindus  freely  admitted  that 
the  strictures  of  Lord  Curzon  were  not 
entirely  unfounded,  they  with  bitterness 
of  heart  advanced  the  charge  that  if  the 
character  and  the  national  self-respect 
of  the  Indian  people  had  been  impaired, 
such  was  the  inevitable  result  of  unfree- 
dom  and  political  subjection.  "  The 
greatest  evil,"  they  said,  "  that  has  been 
wrought  by  the  political  dominion  of 
England  over  India  is  the  loss  of  our  old 
oriental  dignity  and  reserve  —  that  no- 
bility of  knowing  reticence."  Despotism 
and  lying  go  together,  as  the  national 
spirit  is  debased  by  subjection,  and  the 
individual  who  is  oppressed  will,  like  the 
boy,  look  upon  a  falsehood  as  an  abomi- 
nation unto  the  Lord,  but  a  very  present 
help  in  trouble.  That  the  head  of  the 
alien  government  should  charge  a  nation 
with  weaknesses  which  might  largely  be 
attributed  to  its  position  of  dependence, 
was  to  add  gratuitous  insult  to  an  injury 
for  which  his  own  people  were  in  part 
responsible. 

But  aside  from  a  certain  degeneracy 
imposed  by  unkind  conditions,  the  full 
tragedy  of  which  they  keenly  felt,  the 
leaders  of  Indian  thought  would  not 
admit  that  veracity  and  honesty  are  held 
in  less  esteem  in  the  Orient  than  among 
European  peoples.  They  pointed  out, 
however,  a  highly  important  difference 
in  valuations,  the  spirit  of  which  Lord 
Curzon  most  strangely  had  failed  to  per- 
ceive. While  freely  admitting  the  greater 
exactness  of  the  Western  mind  in  ob- 
servation and  statement,  they  attributed 
this  not  to  superior  honesty  but  to  a 
keener  perception  of  the  utility  of  accu- 
rate thought.  Veracity  is  a  social  and 
commercial  commodity  in  England  and 
America,  in  many  cases  scarcely  involv- 
ing any  moral  valuations  at  all.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  Oriental  is  prone  to 
exaggeration,  this  is  not  due  to  a  delib- 
erate desire  to  deceive  and  to  impart 
false  impressions.  His  temper  being  emo- 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


tional  and  idealistic,  he  makes  known  his 
impressions  in  a  language,  not  mathe- 
matically precise  and  coldly  accurate, 
but  designed  to  awaken  the  same  emo- 
tions of  surprise,  wonder,  admiration,  or 
fear,  which  he  himself  experiences.  He 
is  not  dishonest,  though  his  statements 
lack  accuracy.  In  the  words  of  an  Indian 
writer,  "  It  will  not  do  to  exaggerate  the 
heating  power  of  the  sun,  if  you  want  to 
roast  your  beef  by  his  rays.  When,  how- 
ever, you  do  not  desire  to  install  the 
luminary  of  day  as  your  chef,  but  to 
contemplate  his  majesty  and  glory,  to 
meditate  on  the  promise  of  his  morning 
rays,  and  read  the  message  of  his  dying 
splendors,  then  the  play  of  the  poetic 
imagination  becomes  an  essential  con- 
dition." Educated  Hindus  are  inclined 
to  doubt  whether  the  standard  of  utility 
is  higher  than  the  emotional  and  spiritual 
standard  of  the  Indian  mind. 

In  considering  the  question  of  the 
valuations  of  the  ideal  of  truth,!  need  not 
repeat  Max  Muller's  brilliant  vindica- 
tion of  the  essential  truthfulness  of 
Oriental  races,  nor  should  we  perhaps 
be  ready  to  follow  him  in  every  detail  of 
his  apologetics.  But  we  shall  find  that 
most  fundamental  honesty  which  requires 
that  our  actions  should  correspond  to  our 
profession  and  our  beliefs,  in  as  high 
regard  among  the  Oriental  peoples  as 
among  those  of  the  West.  The  ideals  of 
their  beliefs  may  be  less  elevated  than  our 
own,  but  at  any  rate  there  is  less  variance 
between  actions  and  belief  among  Con- 
fucians, Shintoists,  and  Buddhists  than 
among  the  majority  of  good  Christian 
people.  Moreover,  a  more  honest  atti- 
tude towards  the  problems  of  life  than 
that  which  characterizes  the  thought  of 
Buddha  and  Confucius  can  hardly 
be  imagined;  the  relations  of  life  are 
clearly  seen,  social  duties  are  faithfully 
met,  and  no  facile  optimism  is  allowed 
to  gloss  over  life's  tragedies.  Buddha 
faced  unflinchingly  the  misery  of  exist- 
ence, and  without  appealing  for  salva- 
tion to  a  future  state,  worked  with  a 
will  to  discover  the  path  by  which  men 


can  gain  peace  and  an  ennobled  life  here 
below.  Such  a  system,  if  not  true,  is  cer- 
tainly at  least  honest. 

Nothing  has  set  up  a  more  impass- 
able barrier  between  the  peoples  of  the 
East  and  the  West  than  the  profound 
discrepancy  between  Christian  profes- 
sion and  practice.  The  deceitful  selfish- 
ness, the  rapacity  and  bloodshed,  with 
which  Christian  nations  have  established 
then*  power  in  the  Orient,  the  vicious- 
ness  of  the  earlier  adventurers  and  trad- 
ers, have  thoroughly  alienated  sympathy 
and  destroyed  confidence.  When,  after 
the  revolting  record  of  the  Chinese  War, 
the  Western  nations  offer  themselves 
as  moral  exhorters,  the  cultured  Oriental 
is  tempted  to  smile  at  the  incongruity. 
But  the  disillusionment  which  is  thus 
created  has  its  tragic  side,  too.  How 
pathetic  is  the  blighted  hope  and  utter 
despair  of  an  ardent  convert  like  Nila- 
kantha  Goreh,  whose  high  expectations 
of  Christian  life  are  disappointed !  After 
cutting  loose  from  his  earlier  beliefs,  and 
thereby  bringing  deep  sorrow  on  all  his 
beloved  ones  (his  father  took  the  vow  of 
eternal  silence,  so  as  not  to  have  to  pro- 
nounce the  curse  against  his  son),  this 
young  Indian  scholar  came  to  England 
to  live  in  that  atmosphere  of  love  and 
purity  whose  ideal  simplicity  had  at- 
tracted his  soul  after  he  had  fought  his 
way  through  all  the  systems  of  Indian 
philosophy.  But,  after  six  weeks  in  Lon- 
don, he  came  to  his  Oxford  mentor  with 
the  sorrowful  words,  "  If  what  I  have 
seen  in  London  is  Christianity,  I  am  no 
longer  a  Christian."  His  noble  and  bril- 
liant intellect  was  ultimately  wrecked 
through  his  great  disillusionment.  So 
it  is  possible  that  under  the  law  of  com- 
pensation we  may  have  lost  in  honesty 
of  We  while  we  have  gained  in  exactness 
of  statement  and  thought. 

Though  the  appreciation  of  scientific 
exactness  has  of  late  increased  very  much 
in  the  Orient,  yet  Oriental  thinkers  are 
not  ready  to  give  it  quite  an  absolutely 
leading  importance  among  their  ideals. 
It  is  in  this  connection  that  the  other 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


utterance  I  have  mentioned  —  a  recent 
address  of  Mr.  Balfour  as  president  of 
the  British  Association  of  Science  — 
created  a  powerful  impression  in  the 
Orient.  He  discussed  the  electrical  the- 
ory of  matter,  the  latest  result  of  the 
advances  of  physical  science,  according 
to  which  the  world  is  motion  or  energy, 
expressed  in  terms  of  electric  monads. 
Under  recent  discoveries  the  supposed 
solidity  of  matter  has  melted  away;  with 
proper  light  we  may  now  look  through 
the  heart  of  oak,  nor  will  the  massive 
fortress  wall  resist  these  penetrating  rays. 
The  solid  mountains  and  ancient  strata 
of  our  earth  are  themselves  but  impris- 
oned energy,  and  all  our  perceptions  are 
the  result  of  winged  motion.  After  dwell- 
ing on  the  marvelous  vistas  thus  dis- 
closed, the  philosophical  prime  minister 
said,  "  It  may  seem  singular  that  down 
to  five  years  ago,  our  race  has,  without 
exception,  lived  and  died  in  a  world  of 
illusions,  and  that  these  illusions  have 
not  been  about  things  remote  or  abstract, 
things  transcendental  or  divine,  but  about 
what  men  see  and  handle,  about  those 
'  plain  matters  of  fact '  among  which 
common  sense  moves  with  its  most  con- 
fident step  and  most  self-satisfied  smile." 
Thus  our  sensual  sight  and  touch  have 
been  deceived,  and  it  is  only  through  the 
inspired  vision,  the  penetrating  imagina- 
tion, of  great  scientific  seers,  that  the 
truth  of  the  real  constitution  of  the  uni- 
verse is  beginning  to  dawn  upon  our 
intelligence.  Mr.  Balfour  further  notes 
that  through  evolution  our  senses  have 
not  been  prepared  for  the  vision  of  the 
inner  and  absolute  truth  of  things.  The 
common  sense  of  humanity  lives  in  per- 
sistent illusion;  "  matter  of  fact  "  means 
deception.  The  needs  of  self-  and  race- 
preservation  lead  to  all  the  falsehoods 
and  deceits  involved  in  the  shrewdness 
of  competitive  life,  the  illusions  of  sexual 
selection,  and  the  master  fallacy  of  nar- 
row patriotism. 

When  Western  thinkers  express  and  sug- 
gest such  thoughts  as  these  they  awaken 
a  strange  echo  in  the  philosophy  of  the 


East  in  both  Hindu  and  Buddhist  lands : 
—  the  vanity  and  illusoriness  of  sensual 
existence,  the  veil  of  Maya  cast  over  us 
which  produces  the  delusion  of  the  ego, 
of  finite  personality;  and  the  Buddhist 
belief  that  the  desire  for  individual  ex- 
istence is  the  root  of  all  suffering,  that 
true  happiness  comes  alone  from  the 
perception  of  the  transitoriness  of  all 
things  and  from  the  gradual  conquest  of 
the  error  of  self.  As  the  implications  of 
these  views  have  been  fully  realized  in 
the  East,  the  attitude  of  the  Oriental 
mind  towards  the  practical,  scientific 
knowledge,  which  we  value  so  highly, 
has  differed  greatly  from  our  own.  The 
usefulness  of  science  for  increasing  the 
comforts  of  life  is  indeed  admitted,  and 
use  will  be  made  of  its  guidance  for  prac- 
tical purposes ;  but  to  the  Oriental,  soul- 
life  will  always  be  more  important  than 
bodily  existence.  Buddhism,  in  the  words 
of  one  of  its  adherents,  finds  its  goal 
rather  in  the  delights  of  a  deep  appreci- 
ation of  the  realities  of  existence,  in  the 
exercise  of  the  higher  mental  faculties,  in 
a  life  transfused  with  every-day  beauty, 
than  in  the  possession  of  innumerable 
means  of  advancing  wealth  and  com- 
merce, of  gratifying  sense,  of  promoting 
mere  bodily  comfort. 

As  the  Oriental  strives  to  overcome 
the  fetters  and  limitations  of  personal 
existence,  so  his  mind  yearns  rather  to- 
wards the  vast  mysteries  that  surround 
life  on  all  sides ;  it  loves  to  dwell  on  the 
problems  of  infinitude  and  of  the  ulti- 
mate springs  of  human  action,  rather 
than  to  confine  itself  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  a  detailed  scientific  investiga- 
tion. Notwithstanding  the  sane  and 
positivist  teachings  of  Buddha  and  Con- 
fucius, their  insistence  on  the  duties  of 
present  life,  their  refusal  to  pass  in 
thought  beyond  the  awful  gates  of  life 
and  death,  the  yearning  of  the  Oriental 
mind  had  been  towards  the  mysteri- 
ous. From  the  Tantra  devils  of  Thibet, 
through  the  awestruck  philosophies  of 
Hinduism,  to  the  subtle  imaginings  of 
ghostly  Japan,  this  tendency  to  contem- 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


plate  the  mysterious,  the  grand,  the  far- 
away in  time  and  space,  is  powerfully 
present.  Day  with  its  solar  splendor, 
with  its  clear  and  bright  illumination, 
reveals  the  form  and  color  of  things  near 
by,  of  household,  meadow,  and  forest; 
yet  this  very  brightness  and  effulgence 
is  a  heavy  curtain  that  conceals  from  our 
sight  the  universe,  the  myriads  of  worlds 
which  the  clearness  of  night  will  unveil. 
Compared  to  these  our  empires  are  but 
fragments  of  dust.  Even  so  to  the  Ori- 
ental the  clear  light  of  experimental  sci- 
ence seems  but  a  shred  of  that  veil  of 
Maya  which  hides  the  real,  the  universal, 
the  absolute,  from  our  sight. 

The  reason  for  this  peculiar  Asiatic 
bent  toward  the  mystic,  as  compared 
with  the  white-light  intelligence  of  Eu- 
rope, may  perhaps  be  found  in  the  con- 
stant presence  of  overawing  natural 
phenomena.  Europe,  with  its  narrow 
valleys,  its  rivers  across  which  any  strong- 
limbed  man  may  swim,  its  equable  tem- 
perature, its  normal  succession  of  sea- 
sons, is  indeed  the  place  where  human 
intelligence  could  learn  to  respect  itself, 
and  man  conceive  the  thought  of  meas- 
uring his  powers  with  those  of  nature. 
But  stand  before  the  heaven-conquering 
walls  of  the  Himalayas ;  gaze  across  the 
continents  of  sand  in  Asiatic  deserts, 
shifted  again  and  again  by  storm  so  as 
to  sweep  away  or  create  anew  veritable 
mountain  ranges;  contemplate  the  tor- 
rents which  without  warning  bring  de- 
struction to  thousands,  and  the  inunda- 
tions in  which  hosts  lose  home  and  We ; 
think  of  earthquakes,  typhoons,  tidal 
waves,  and  the  black  scourge  of  famine 
and  pestilence  as  constantly  impending; 
and  then  apostrophize  man  and  his  intel- 
ligence as  the  master  of  it  all ;  and  you 
will  find  few  believers  among  the  cowed 
sufferers  from  the  imperious  caprice  of 
nature. 

Overawed  by  such  forces,  surrounded 
by  a  nature  bountiful  and  caressing  at 
one  moment,  bitterly  cruel  and  destruct- 
ive the  next,  the  Orient  could  not  avoid 
a  temper  of  mind  which  looks  on  hu- 


man contrivance  as  weak,  on  human 
existence  as  valueless,  and  sees  real  force 
and  permanent  sway  only  in  the  vast, 
mysterious  powers  of  earth  and  sky.  Per- 
sonality, a  mere  plaything  of  the  grim 
and  irresponsible,  cannot  have  any  im- 
portance in  itself;  and  the  best  solution 
is  that  all  this  terror-inspiring  existence 
is  but  a  phantasmagoria,  an  illusion,  a 
procession  of  incongruous  dream-states. 
And  yet  it  is  an  emanation  of  the  uni- 
versal force.  The  impersonality  of  the 
Orient  has  for  its  counterpart  an  intens- 
ive appreciation  of  the  universal  force, 
whatever  it  may  be  called.  For  as  the 
individual  counts  as  nothing  in  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  Brahman  and  the  Buddhist, 
in  the  polity  of  China  and  Japan,  it  is 
the  realization  of  the  universal  spirit  or 
force,  in  some  form  or  other,  that  con- 
stitutes the  chief  yearning  of  the  Asiatic 
mind. 

The  Hindu  spiritualizes  and  personi- 
fies nature  in  his  crowded  pantheon,  and 
sees  in  all  phenomena  the  expression  of 
one  mysterious  will;  Buddhism,  admit- 
ting neither  spirit,  human  or  divine,  yet 
finds  peace  and  happiness  in  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  individual  mind  to  the  plane 
of  universal  thought,  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  universal  law.  In  China  and  Ja- 
pan the  universal  is  worshiped  in  the 
form  of  ancestral  achievement,  in  that 
strange  identification  of  ancestral  spirits 
with  the  soul  of  the  country;  so  that,  in 
the  minds  of  the  people,  sacred  Fuji  and 
the  groves  and  rivers  and  seas  of  Japan 
are  united  with  the  qualities  of  that  silent 
but  ever-present  choir  of  ghosts  from 
which  Japan  draws  her  inspiration  and 
strength. 

From  our  one-sided  point  of  view,  we 
would  say  that  humanity  in  the  Orient, 
overpowered  by  destiny  in  the  shape  of 
natural  catastrophe,  famine,  pestilence, 
and  war,  has  not  yet  found  itself.  It 
has  never  enjoyed  the  shelter  of  the 
Greek  city  in  which  Western  humanity 
first  became  conscious  of  its  powers  and 
its  individuality.  For  though  the  great 
master  Gotama  had  a  clear  vision  of 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


human  spiritual  development,  his  simple 
and  austere  faith  has  been  overlaid  by 
the  powerful  impulse  of  Asiatic  nature, 
with  a  rank  growth  of  animism  and  mys- 
ticism. And  though  Confucius,  too,  clung 
to  the  practical,  his  very  authority  in  the 
course  of  time  deadened  individual  striv- 
ing and  advance.  Oriental  humanity 
has  indeed  found  itself  in  the  nation  of 
Japan,  in  that  brave  race  which,  drawing 
courage  and  poetry  from  the  very  terrors 
of  the  grave,  with  all  the  deep  suggestive- 
ness  of  Asiatic  insight,  has  still  the  iron 
grip  of  self-control  and  the  clear  vision 
of  the  practical. 

The  Orient  shuns  limitations.  In- 
deed, if  we  may  be  permitted  to  general- 
ize, one  of  the  chief  differences  between 
Oriental  and  Western  civilization  lies 
in  the  fact  that  the  former  has  never 
strictly  and  consistently  limited  the  field 
of  its  consciousness  and  of  its  endeavors, 
but  has  allowed  all  the  sensations  and 
passions  of  past  and  present,  of  the  inde- 
finite and  the  infinite,  to  crowd  in  upon 
it,  so  that  the  sense  of  individual  form 
in  thought  and  life  has  not  been  devel- 
oped. While  in  the  West,  expressing  itself 
in  the  idea  of  classicism,  and  in  the  con- 
crete sense  of  form  of  the  Greeks,  there 
has  been  a  steady  effort  to  confine  hu- 
man thought  and  sentiment  within  cer- 
tain lines,  to  dwell  on  certain  aspects 
of  life  which  seemed  to  be  most  closely 
connected  with  human  personality  as  a 
dominant  factor;  excluding  the  fierce 
and  untoward  moods  of  nature,  and  sup- 
pressing certain  weird  and  uncanny  ten- 
dencies of  thought  as  abnormal  and  in 
fact  insane. 

But  such  classic  limitations  of  individ- 
uality are  not  of  the  spirit  of  the  Orient. 
Rather  than  limit  the  individual  formally 
and  thus  allow  the  development  of  char- 
acteristic individualism,  it  would  identify 
him  with  the  social  body,  and  his  soul 
with  the  world-soul.  Thus  also,  while 
most  punctilious  of  social  forms,  and 
bowing  to  a  super-refined  social  etiquette, 
it  does  not  countenance  the  tyranny  of 
shifting  fashions,  or  the  conventional 


respectability  founded  on  a  certain  ex- 
clusiveness  of  the  individual 

It  is  considered  a  meritorious  thing  for 
the  householder  and  father  to  leave  be- 
hind him  the  confining  relations  of  family 
life  and  to  become  a  hermit  or  monk. 
The  man  who  leaves  his  home  and  fam- 
ily, dresses  himself  in  rags,  and  ravages 
his  body  with  hardships  and  ill-usage, 
may  become  an  honored  teacher,  the  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  guide  to  many. 
Men  love  to  cast  off  the  shackles  of  re- 
spectability and  take  to  the  highways 
and  the  woods ;  and  they  gain  merit  by 
so  doing.  They  are  the  religious,  the  phil- 
osophers, the  inspiration  of  the  multi- 
tudes. To  the  people  they  appear  to  real- 
ize various  immunities.  In  India,  hermits 
come  year  after  year  from  the  moun- 
tains to  visit  valley  towns,  showing  no 
signs  of  aging  as  long  as  generations 
can  remember.  This  same  longing  for 
the  unlimited,  the  unrestrained,  together 
with  the  influence  of  terrific  natural 
phenomena  in  Asia,  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  the  uncanny  horror  and  mystery  of 
Asiatic  life.  In  the  delicate  ghost  stories 
of  Japan  this  feeling  has  assumed  a 
graceful  and  poetic  aspect,  the  aesthetic 
possibilities  of  awe  and  terror  have  been 
realized  to  the  full.  But  in  India,  where 
coarse  magic  flourishes  and  preys  on  a 
superstitious  multitude,  the  awful  ness 
of  the  abysses  of  human  consciousness 
may  be  divined. 

The  Greek  portrayal  of  death  has  in 
this  respect  sounded  the  keynote  of 
our  civilization.  The  terror,  the  heart- 
rending ugliness  of  dissolution,  the  hope- 
less void,  are  not  in  the  remotest  way 
suggested;  the  gentleness  of  grief,  the 
sweetness  of  consolation,  the  companion- 
ship of  loved  ones,  are  represented ;  while 
death  himself  is  a  friendly  genius  sum- 
moning to  rest.  And  so  in  our  history 
we  early  outgrew  ancestor-worship,  and 
resolutely  turning  our  back  on  the  past, 
with  all  its  degrading  memories  and 
bestial  struggles,  we  faced  the  morning 
of  hope,  the  promise  of  a  sunny  day.1  • 

Deep  in  the  night  of  subconsciousness 


30 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


there  is  still  a  dark  and  unclean  deposit 
of  wilder  ages,  of  sordid  life,  cruelty, 
ignoble  conquest,  and  harsh  passions. 
In  the  elemental  fury  of  war,  these  lower 
instincts  awaken,  and  men  whom  we  love 
as  friends  and  brothers  may  be  dragged 
down  to  the  level  of  a  bestial  age.  But 
the  total  effect  of  our  civilization  and 
education  is  to  draw  our  consciousness 
away  from  such  impulses,  to  concen- 
trate our  vision  upon  our  present  ideals. 
For  how  could  we  preserve  a  sense  of 
individuality  and  spirituality,  were  we 
to  be  dragged  back  constantly  into  the 
terrors  and  passions  of  primitive  ages  ? 

Much  of  the  potent  charm  of  Japanese 
life  and  poetry  comes  from  the  ever 
imminent  sense  of  an  abysmal  void  which 
threatens  to  swallow  up  her  flowery 
meadows  and  her  silent  temple  groves. 
May  the  earthquake  never  come  that 
will  again  bring  uppermost  the  dead 
past  in  Japan.  The  Orient,  through  con- 
stant musing  on  the  mysterious  and  hid- 
den, may  have  fortified  itself  against  the 
coarser  aspects  of  the  primitive  in  man, 
but  its  development,  yes,  its  very  exist- 
ence, has  been  jeopardized  by  this  lack 
of  limitation.  Japan,  it  is  true,  has  trans- 
fused these  elements  into  a  marvelous 
poetry  of  life,  of  which  Lafcadio  Hearn 
is  the  eloquent  interpreter ;  but  the  other 
peoples  of  the  Orient  have  thus  far  failed 
to  attain  such  a  balance. 

While  the  psychological  unity  of  the 
Oriental  nations  has  not  been  so  clearly 
and  definitely  worked  out  as  it  has  been 
in  the  West,  notwithstanding  all  minor 
national  idiosyncrasies,  still  the  Orient 
has  also  had  its  share  of  international 
unifying  influences.  The  sacred  places 
in  India  where  the  great  teacher,  lived 
have  for  two  thousand  years  attracted 
pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  Buddhist 
world ;  and  earnest  students  have  sought 
deeper  wisdom  by  communing  with  the 
monks  of  famous  monasteries  in  Bur- 
mah  and  Ceylon.  Ever  since  the  em- 
bassy of  Emperor  Ming-ti  sought  for 
the  new  gospel  in  the  year  61,  and  the 
sage  Fa-hien  undertook  his  great  journey, 


India  has  thus  been  visited  by  seekers 
after  new  light.  Also  the  apostles  of 
India's  missionary  religion,  in  its  first 
age  of  flourishing  enthusiasm,  spread  the 
teaching  of  Gotama  to  all  the  lands  of 
Southern  and  Eastern  Asia,  even  from 
Palestine,  where  they  implanted  the 
germs  of  the  Western  monastic  system, 
to  the  far  islands  of  the  rising  sun.  Thus 
Buddhism  became  the  greatest  unifying 
force  in  Asia,  and  no  name  or  person- 
ality commands  a  wider  and  more  sincere 
homage  than  he  who  found  the  light  and 
pointed  the  way,  the  great  teacher  "  who 
never  spake  but  good  and  wise  words,  he 
who  was  the  light  of  the  world."  And 
so  it  is  that  also  in  more  recent  epochs, 
down  to  our  own  day,  his  thought  and 
life  have  been  and  are  the  chief  centre 
of  the  common  feelings  and  enthusiasms 
of  Asia. 

The  great  age  of  illumination  under 
the  Sung  dynasty  in  China  saw  the  be- 
ginning of  the  attempts  to  merge  and 
fuse  Taoist,  Buddhist,  and  Confucian 
thought,  in  Neo-Confucianism,  called 
by  Okakura  "a  brilliant  effort  to  mir- 
ror the  whole  of  Asiatic  consciousness." 
It  was  Buddhist  monks  and  mission- 
aries who  acted  as  messengers  between 
China  and  Japan  in  that  great  form- 
ative period  of  a  thousand  years,  in 
which  all  the  currents  of  Indian  and 
Chinese  civilization  made  their  impress 
upon  Japanese  national  character.  And 
under  the  Tokugawa  regime  the  inde- 
pendent spirits  of  Japan  trained  them- 
selves for  the  demands  of  an  exacting 
epoch  in  the  thought  of  Wang-yang- 
ming,  or  Oyomei,  which,  informed  with 
the  noblest  ideals  and  the  deepest  in- 
sight of  Buddhism,  joins  to  these  a  zest 
in  active  life,  an  ardent  desire  to  partici- 
pate in  the  surging  development  in 
which  the  universe  and  human  destiny 
are  unfolding  themselves.  In  this  school, 
which  combines  a  truly  poetic  sentiment 
for  the  pathos  of  fading  beauty  and  fleet- 
ing fragrance,  for  the  ghostliness  of  an 
existence  made  up  of  countless  vibrations 
of  past  joy  and  suffering,  with  the  cour- 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


31 


ageous  desire  to  see  clearly  and  act  with 
energy,  to  share  to  the  full  in  this  great 
battle  we  call  life,  —  in  this  school  were 
trained  the  statesmen  and  warriors  of 
Satsuma  and  Choshiu  who  have  led 
Japan  to  greatness  in  peace  and  glory 
in  war. 

The  unity  of  Asiatic  civilization  has 
found  an  actual  embodiment  in  the  spirit 
of  Japan.  There  it  is  not  the  product  of 
political  reasoning,  nor  the  discovery  of 
philosophical  abstraction.  All  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  overpowering  natural 
world  of  Asia  are  epitomized  in  the 
islands  of  the  morning  sun,  where  nature 
is  as  luxuriant  and  as  forbidding,  as 
caressing  and  as  severe,  as  fertile  and  as 
destructive,  as  in  all  that  cyclorama  of 
storm,  earthquake,  typhoon,  flood,  and 
mountain  vastness  which  we  call  Asia. 
Even  thus  has  Japan  in  the  course  of  her 
historic  development  received  by  gradual 
accretion  the  fruit  of  ail  Asiatic  thought 
and  endeavor.  Nor  have  these  waves 
from  the  mainland  washed  her  shores  in 
vain;  her  national  life  has  not  been  the 
prey  of  capricious  conquerors  —  im- 
posing for  a  brief  time  a  sway  that  would 
leave  no  permanent  trace  on  the  national 
life.  Her  mind  and  character  have  re- 
ceived and  accepted  these  continental 
influences,  as  the  needs  of  her  own  de- 
veloping life  have  called  for  them;  they 
have  not  been  received  perforce  or  by 
caprice,  but  have  exerted  a  moulding 
influence  and  have  been  assimilated  into 
a  consistent,  deep,  and  powerful  national 
character.  A  psychological  unity  has 
thus  been  created  —  an  actual  expression 
of  the  flesh  and  blood  of  life  —  in  touch 
with  the  national  ideals  and  ambitions 
of  a  truly  patriotic  race. 

This  is  a  far  different  matter  from  the 
mere  intellectual  recognition  of  certain 
common  beliefs,  ideals,  and  institutions 
throughout  the  Orient.  On  such  a  per- 
ception of  unity  at  most  a  certain  intel- 
lectual sympathy  could  be  founded.  But 
in  Japan  the  Oriental  spirit  has  become 
flesh  —  it  has  ceased  to  be  a  bloodless 
generalization,  and  it  now  confronts  the 


world  in  the  shape  of  a  nation  conscious 
of  the  complicated  and  representative 
character  of  its  psychology,  and  ardent- 
ly enthusiastic  over  the  loftiness  of  its 
mission.  We  know  Japanese  patriotism 
as  national,  inspired  by  loyalty  to  the 
Mikado  and  by  love  for  the  land  of 
Fujiyama ;  we  may  soon  learn  to  know  it 
as  Asiatic  —  deeply  stirred  by  the  ex- 
alting purpose  of  aiding  that  Asiatic 
thought-life  which  has  made  Japan  to 
come  to  its  own  and  preserve  its  dig- 
nity and  independence  through  all  the 
ages.  Must  we  view  with  apprehension 
such  a  broadening  of  Japanese  patriot- 
ism? Does  not  danger  threaten  the 
world  from  having  Japan  inscribe  upon 
her  banner  the  unity  of  the  Orient  and 
the  preservation  of  its  ideals  ? 

It  is  said  that  Asia  is  pessimistic.  Yet 
her  pessimism  is  not  the  sodden  gloom 
of  despair,  whose  terrifying  scowl  we 
encounter  in  European  realistic  art,  and 
which  is  the  bitter  fruit  of  perverted 
modes  of  living.  The  pessimism  of  Asia, 
which  makes  the  charm  of  her  poetry, 
from  Firdusi  to  the  writers  of  the  deli- 
cate Japanese  Haikai,  is  rather  a  sooth- 
ing, quieting,  aesthetic  influence,  like  the 
feeling  of  sadness  which  touches  the  heart 
at  the  sight  of  great  beauty,  and  which 
perhaps  is  due  to  the  memory  of  all  the 
yearnings  and  renunciations  in  the  ex- 
perience of  a  long  chain  of  lives.  The 
pessimism  of  the  Orient  is  tragic,  rather 
than  cynical,  and  Japan  at  the  present 
time  gives  proof  of  the  fact  that  the  spirit 
of  tragedy  belongs  to  strong  nations. 

As  tragedy  was  the  art  of  the  Greeks 
before  Pericles  and  of  the  Elizabethan 
English,  so  modern  Japan  draws  strength 
from  that  deep  undercurrent  of  tragic 
feeling  in  her  nature.  The  attitude  of  the 
Japanese  mind  is  further  apparent  from 
its  conception  of  suicide ;  the  hara-kiri  is 
not  a  cowardly  escape  from  the  burdens 
of  life,  it  is  rather  a  supreme  effort  to 
concentrate  all  the  powers  of  personality 
towards  the  righting  of  a  wrong,  or  the 
achievement  of  a  high  purpose,  which 
no  other  sacrifice  would  attain.  Nor  is 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


Buddhism  itself  in  any  sense  nihilistic, 
as  is  so  often  supposed.  The  goal  of  Nir- 
vana is  not  a  negative — self-annihila- 
tion—  but  a  positive  ideal,  "life  made 
glorious  by  self -conquest  and  exalted  by 
boundless  love  and  wisdom."  The  pre- 
ponderance of  ill  is  admitted,  but  there 
is  no  utter  despair  of  redemption  from 
care  and  suffering :  the  diligent  develop- 
ment of  right  thought,  the  acquisition  of 
that  high  training  which  enables  the 
mind  to  extricate  itself  from  vulgar  error 
and  to  share  the  serene  peace  of  imper- 
sonal vision  —  that  is  the  way  of  salva- 
tion. Such  tendencies  of  mind  as  these 
cannot  indeed  be  branded  as  dangerous 
by  simply  stamping  them  with  the  mark 
"  pessimism." 

It  is  said  that  the  Orient  is  despotic. 
And  yet  nowhere  are  governmental 
functions  more  circumscribed  than  in 
countries  like  China.  Oriental  despot- 
ism does  not  mean  constant  govern- 
mental interference.  The  despot  is,  in- 
deed, irresistible  when  he  does  act;  but 
he  will  not  choose  to  act  contrary  to  the 
general  customs  of  the  realm,  because 
these  customs  are  sacred,  and  on  their 
sacredness  his  own  customary  authority 
depends.  It  is  the  people  who  through 
continued  action  make  the  customs,  and 
they  are  little  interfered  with  in  the  man- 
agement of  their  local  affairs.  Though 
China  has  no  parliament,  its  social  or- 
ganization is  thoroughly  democratic.  Nor 
is  the  Orient  subject  to  industrial  tyran- 
nies. Its  industries  are  carried  on  in 
the  family  home,  and  form  part  of  the 
family  life;  the  joy  of  work  has  not  de- 
parted, for  the  workman  does  not  toil 
in  a  dreary  prison-house,  and  the  soul 
has  not  been  taken  out  of  his  work.  As 
the  object  of  his  labor  grows  under  his 
hand,  he  rejoices  in  the  perfection  of 
form,  and  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  artisan 
is  added  the  delight  of  the  artist.  Thus 
it  is  that  in  the  Orient  art  with  all  the 
joy  of  beauty  that  it  brings  has  not  gone 
out  of  the  life  of  the  people,  has  not  be- 
come an  exclusive  and  artificial  language 
understood  only  by  the  few,  a  minister 


to  luxury  and  indolent  ease.  It  has 
retained  its  true  function  of  pervading 
all  human  life  with  a  subtle  aroma  of 
refinement  and  joy. 

In  ideals  such  as  these  it  would  be 
difficult  to  discover  the  rampant  and 
infuriate  dragon  of  Emperor  William's 
imagination.  Indeed,  the  temper  of  Ori- 
ental civilization  is  preeminently  peace- 
ful. China  has  imparted  her  civilization 
to  all  the  peoples  of  the  Far  East,  but 
she  has  never  attempted  to  impose  her 
rule  upon  them  by  conquest;  and  of 
Buddhism  alone  of  all  great  religions 
can  it  be  said  that  it  never  carried  on  a 
propaganda  with  the  sword.  The  great 
peoples  of  the  plains  of  India  and  China 
have  been  too  peaceful  to  resist  the  con- 
querors, but  they  have  been  strong  and 
patient  enough  to  subdue  the  victors  to 
their  own  civilization.  The  conquering 
hordes  of  Asia  have  come,  not  from  the 
civilized  plains,  but  from  the  rude  and 
inhospitable  mountain  haunts  of  Turkes- 
tan and  Mongolia.  At  their  hands  peace- 
ful Asia  has  suffered  even  more  than 
turbulent  Europe,  and  Japan  alone  has 
never  been  forced  to  bow  before  a  vic- 
torious foe. 

If  the  Orient  is  allowed  more  fully  to 
realize  these  inherent  tendencies  of  its 
spirit,  and  to  develop  along  its  own 
natural  lines,  in  a  life  of  peace  and 
artistic  industry,  true  humanity  should 
rejoice,  for  its  purposes  would  be  accom- 
plished. The  unity  of  all  human  life, 
the  brotherhood  of  man,  is  the  essential 
doctrine  of  the  most  potent  religion  of 
the  East.  Only  if  diverted  from  these 
ideals  by  continued  injustice  and  aggres- 
sion, by  a  rude  attempt  to  subject  these 
ancient  societies  to  an  alien  law  of  life, 
could  the  spirit  of  the  Orient  be  led 
to  assume  a  threatening  and  destructive 
attitude. 

After  her  great  successes,  Japan  was 
acclaimed  by  the  peoples  of  the  Orient 
as  the  Lohengrin  who  is  to  champion  and 
protect  the  honor  of  Asia;  and  though 
there  has  since  been  much  doubt  as  to 
her  real  purposes,  it  is  not  too  late  for 


The  Ideal  of  Oriental  Unity 


33 


Japan  to  realize  the  responsibilities  of 
her  position  over  against  the  countries  to 
which  she  owes  so  much  in  her  civiliza- 
tion. Thus  far  the  ideas  of  Asiatic  unity 
have  been  vague  and  conflicting;  the 
Orient  has  not  possessed  that  definite 
stock  of  common  concepts  and  ideals 
which  constitute  the  psychological  unity 
of  Europe.  And  hence,  also,  the  conven- 
tional and  vulgar  antithesis  of  Orient 
and  the  West,  with  its  sharp  delineations 
of  ideals,  has  been  altogether  misleading. 
As  the  perception  of  a  certain  unity  of 
Oriental  development  becomes  clearer, 
and  as  the  historic  sense  is  strengthened 
through  the  rise  of  a  strong  political 
entity  in  Japan,  we  may  look  for  power- 
ful conscious  efforts  to  realize  an  Oriental 
unity  of  spirit  and  civilization.  But  when 
we  examine  the  chief  elements  upon 
which  such  a  unity  would  have  to  be 
founded,  were  it  to  take  as  its  basis 
the  historic  facts  of  Asiatic  life,  we  can 
find  in  them  no  strident  contrast  to  our 
ideals. 

Nothing,  indeed,  vouches  so  much  for 
the  ultimate  unity  of  the  human  race  as 
the  fact  that  the  most  characteristic  ex- 
pressions of  Asiatic  thought  are  not  ut- 
terly alien  to  us,  but  on  the  contrary  they 
powerfully  touch  the  most  secret  heart- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  1 


strings  and  appeal  to  our  deepest  emo- 
tions. This  is,  of  course,  not  surprising 
when  we  go  back  to  the  Aryan  back- 
ground of  Indian  civilization.  The  im- 
ages and  ideas  of  the  Vedic  age  find  a 
ready  response  in  our  poetic  experience; 
Indra,  Varuna,  and  the  goddess  of  dawn 
appear  familiar  figures.  But  even  the 
favorite  words  of  Buddhist  devotion  ut- 
tered to-day  by  hundreds  of  thousands 
as  they  place  their  gifts  of  fresh  flowers 
before  the  image  of  the  Great  Teacher, — 
a  meditation  rather  than  a  prayer,  for 
there  are  no  gods  to  invoke  in  pure 
Buddhism,  —  even  these  have  not  an  ut- 
terly alien  sound  to  us :  — 

"  These  flowers  I  offer  in  memory 
of  Him,  the  Lord,  the  Holy  One,  the 
Supremely-enlightened  Buddha,  even  as 
the  Enlightened  Ones  in  ages  past,  the 
Saints  and  Holy  of  all  times  have  of- 
fered. Now  are  these  flowers  fair  of 
form,  glorious  in  color,  sweet  of  scent. 
Yet  soon  will  all  have  passed  away  — 
withered  their  fair  form,  faded  the  bright 
hues,  and  foul  the  flowers'  scent !  Thus 
even  is  it  with  all  component  things : 
Impermanent,  and  full  of  Sorrow  and 
Unreal.  —  Realizing  this,  may  we  attain 
unto  that  peace  which  is  beyond  all 
life!" 


THE  WHITE   BIRCH 


BY   CANDACE   WHEELER 


Shakes  from  white  shoulders,  green  reluctant 
leaves. 

THE  white  birch  of  our  northern  woods 
seems  to  hold  within  its  veins  more  of  the 
elixir  of  ancient  Pagandom  than  any 
other  of  our  impulsive,  untended  wood- 
growths.  Its  waving  elegance,  its  white 
smoothness  of  limb,  the  misty  inefficiency 
of  its  veil  of  green,  even  its  shy  preference 
for  untrodden  earth  and  unappropriated 
hillsides  give  it  a  half-fleeting  suggestion 
of  the  fabled  days  when  nymph  and  faun 
danced  with  the  shadows  of  the  song- 
haunted  forest. 

Coleridge  calls  the  white  birch  "the  lady 
of  the  woods,"  but  beyond  the  poetical 
suggestion  of  sex  and  award  of  beauty 
given  by  such  a  phrase  from  such  a 
source,  there  is  a  hint  in  the  young  white 
birch  tree  of  something  far  apart  from 
the  present  of  simple  perfect  tree-life. 
One  is  haunted  by  visions  of  slender 
nymphhood  always  young  and  always 
beautiful,  dancing  joyously  through  rain- 
bow-colored days  and  sleeping  lightly 
through  mists  of  star-threaded  darkness, 
waiting  for  the  golden  call  of  the  sun- 
beams to  begin  again  the  rhythmic  waltz 
of  motion.  One  has  only  to  sit  long 
enough  with  a  birch  tree  in  the  bewilder- 
ment of  summer  hours,  to  hear  and  see 
and  feel  its  relation  to  the  dreams  which 
long-ago  peoples  have  dreamed.  Its  rela- 
tion to  a  life  without  self-made  law,  lived 
as  the  birds  live,  with  their  only  code 
written  within  their  natures  by  the  hand 
which  made  them. 

The  exceeding  beauty  of  the  birch  tree 
is  apparent  at  all  times,  but  there  are 
places,  and  enrichments  of  circumstance, 
which  bring  it  to  a  point  where  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it  is  lifted  to  a  plane  which  covers 
all  our  faculties  of  feeling.  There  are 
days  in  my  memory  which  I  call  my 
34 


"  white-birch  days,"  as  full  of  sensation 
as  they  could  possibly  have  been  if  filled 
with  the  finest  human  companionship. 

One  misplaced  windy  day  in  late  May 
I  went  walking  over  the  hill-pastures 
of  New  Hampshire  looking  for  arbutus, 
sometimes  stumbling  through  a  scum 
of  dried  leaves  blown  from  neighboring 
woods  or  breaking  through  a  knee-high 
crust  of  low-growing  oak  twigs,  buffeting 
the  wind  as  I  climbed,  and  turning  every 
now  and  then  to  see  where  slopes  of  the 
hill  waved  their  breadths  of  long  ochre- 
colored  last-year's  grasses  against  the  in- 
spiring blue  of  the  sky;  enjoying  all  the 
yellows  and  browns  and  ash-colors  and 
faint  greens  of  earth  spread  out  expect- 
antly under  the  blue  promise  of  a  May 
heaven.  Suddenly  I  came  upon  a  long 
line  of  tumbled  stones,  and  then  an  angle 
of  still-standing  old  stone  wall,  where  a 
sudden  dip  in  the  ground  made  an  incon- 
venient corner  long  forgotten  of  plough 
or  scythe ;  and  there  grew  a  young  birch 
forest. 

How  intent  they  were  upon  growing! 
The  small  unfolding  leaves  were  quiver- 
ing with  effort,  and  I  noticed  for  the 
first  time,  how  the  gradual  darkening  of 
the  bark  at  the  ends  of  the  twigs  made 
them  invisible,  so  that  for  a  space  of  the 
innumerable  small  branchings,  the  young 
green  leaves  seemed  unattached  to  the 
tree  and  were  like  a  swarm  of  leaves  flut- 
tering around  it  in  a  mist  of  green.  They 
were  transparent  with  early  spring  —  the 
sap  in  them  had  not  hardened  into  the 
green  enamel  of  summer,  so  that  it  was  a 
cloud  of  gauzy  wings  which  fluttered  be- 
tween and  around  and  above  the  white 
branchings.  They  were  not  separate 
trees,  but  an  intermingling  of  wonderful 
tracery,  a  space  in  air  filled  with  a  silvery 
net  of  crossing  and  branching  and  inter- 


The  White  Birch 


35 


laced  and  beautifully  ordered  lines  of 
living  growth,  a  tangle  of  ethereal  and 
material  beauty  which  I  knew  would  not 
melt  like  frostwork  under  a  breath,  but 
go  on  living  and  growing,  higher  and 
constantly  higher,  toward  the  sky  from 
which  came  the  command  of  their  being. 

When  I  walked  down  among  them, 
fingering  their  white  young  bodies  as  I 
passed,  I  came  to  a  slice  of  lichen-covered 
primeval  rock  in  the  midst  of  them,  and 
then  into  the  heart  of  a  cloud  of  heavenly 
fragrance,  and  there  hiding  almost  under 
the  rock,  ran  the  arbutus  which  had 
called  me  from  home. 

"  Oh  how  dear  of  you  to  be  here !  just 
here!  "  I  said  as  I  parted  the  thick 
rounded  leaves  and  came  upon  the  per- 
fection of  spring  blossoming ;  then  I  sat 
ine  down  and  listened  to  and  answered 
the  silent  utterances  which  swarmed  up 
from  the  ground,  and  swam  level  from 
the  branches,  and  fell  in  small  celestial 
drops  from  the  tree-tops..  It  was  a  tran- 
substantiation  of  me  into  the  something 
which  filled  the  air,  the  very  life  of  life 
of  the  natural  wrorld.  What  mortal  voice 
could  have  drawn  me  to  the  height  where 
my  heart  sang  with  the  trees  and  rose 
with  them  to  higher  levels.  All  the  bless- 
ed morning  I  stayed  with  them,  and  all 
the  seasons  and  years  since  then  I  have 
remembered  that  birch-day  as  one  of  the 
special  joys  of  my  life. 

Birch  trees  do  not  love  to  grow  alone, 
although  they  do  not  care  greatly  for  the 
companionship  of  other  trees.  Two  will 
grow  together,  contented  with  a  dual  life, 
but  more  often  they  grow  in  groups  of 
sixes  and  sevens.  They  are  much  more 
often  spoken  of  as  "  a  clump  of  birches  " 
than  as  "  a  birch  tree."  If  by  chance  one 
starts  to  grow  alone,  it  will  stand  straight 
as  a  hickory,  cleaving  the  air  in  perfect 
perpendicular  until  it  has  reached  man- 
height,  and  then  it  begins  to  waver  — 
looking  to  east  or  west  or  north  or  south 
for  companionship  ;  and  failing  that  — 
grows  into  a  permanent  lean.  This  semi- 
crookedness  seems  to  add  character  to 


the  tree,  instead  of  taking  from  it;  what 
it  lacks  in  uprightness  it  gains  in  a  certain 
confidingness,  an  innocence  of  spirit  em- 
phasized by  its  attitude. 

The  primitive  races  of  North  America 
established  a  closer  relation  with  the  shy 
birch  tree  than  we  have  been  able  to  do, 
and  it  served  for  them  many  important 
and  friendly  purposes. 

First  and  foremost  it  carried  them 
along  rivers  and  over  lake-crossings  with 
a  security  which  we  should  never  have 
imagined,  or  experienced.  A  man  with 
shoes  on  his  feet  could  never  have  trust- 
ed the  frail  bottoms  of  Indian  canoes  to 
hold  him  safely;  in  fact,  only  the  stealthy 
certainty  of  an  Indian  foot  can  tread 
them  without  fear  or  care.  The  Indian 
strips  the  bark  from  the  wood,  and  fash- 
ions it  to  his  mind,  or  the  mind  of  some 
forefather  of  his  race,  and  straightway 
the  birch  tree  has  entered  upon  an  en- 
largement of  its  existence,  a  period  of 
the  life  of  motion;  not  as  in  the  days 
of  its  nymphhood,  —  a  dance  in  Elysian 
fields,  —  but  a  blissful  floating  over  shin- 
ing surfaces  —  where  blue  of  sky,  and 
white  of  clouds,  and  green  of  trees,  and 
brown  of  water-depths  are  mingled  and 
fused  in  sun  rays,  and  the  canoe  casts 
the  record  of  its  woodland  life  upon  the 
water  and  becomes  a  part  of  the  poetry 
of  the  woods. 

The  birch  tree  connects  itself  at  many 
points  with  what  we  call  savage  life, 
meaning  that  which  finds  its  satisfac- 
tions in  nature  instead  of  civilization ;  its 
unmanufactured  parchment  has  borne 
pictured  messages  of  war  and  warriors, 
love  and  lovers,  and  has  been  a  partner 
in  the  mysterious  incantations  of  primi- 
tive healers.  It  has  served  as  material  and 
background  for  curious  embroideries  of 
Indian  women,  done  in  color  with  dyed 
quills  of  the  porcupine.  It  has  been  fash- 
ioned into  vessels  which  carried  food  and 
water  to  sick  or  starving  men,  and  has 
lit  the  fires  and  cooked  the  meals  of  the 
human  creatures  of  the  wilderness.  First 
and  last,  wild  creature  as  the  white  birch 
continues  to  be,  it  ministers  well  to  body 


36 


The  White  Birch 


and  soul  of  man  with  its  beauty  and  its 
uses. 

The  baby  white  birch  wears  a  bark  of 
yellow  or  brown,  covering  its  slender, 
branchy  twigs;  but  the  moment  youth 
approaches,  the  tree  dons  the  white  livery 
of  the  nymphs  and  joins  the  ranks  of  its 
fellows  in  silvery  uniform. 

In  a  middle  aged  birch  tree  the  bark  is 
written  all  over  with  hieroglyphics  of  its 
experiences,  —  whether  the  black  marks 
record  inner  or  outer  history  we  know  not, 
since  no  man  has  found  the  key  to  that 
sign  language;  but  as  the  days  go  on,  and 
seasons  succeed  one  another,  and  hap- 
penings arrive,  the  hieroglyphics  grow, 
until  some  day  perhaps  the  birch  tree 
becomes  a  roll  of  history  hidden  in  secret 
places  of  the  deep  woods,  covered  with 
signs  as  inscrutable  as  those  of  ancient 
papyrus  in  Egyptian  tombs. 

One  of  my  white- birch- tree  days  I  shall 
always  remember  as  having  been  curi- 
ously influenced  by  a  present  and  past  of 
world-thought  which  seemed  to  infest  it. 
It  was  in  that  part  of  the  forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  which  lies  neighboring  Barbi- 
zon.  The  forest  itself  was  purely  a  forest; 
instinct  with  tree-life,  and  bird-life,  and 
animal-life;  although  the  latter  had  a 
smack  of  conventionality,  or  even  arti- 
ficiality, which  was  not  a  natural  condi- 
tion. One  had  a  feeling  that  the  animals 
had  been  wound  up,  to  walk  through 
prescribed  deer-paths,  and  cheat  the 
sight  with  a  semblance  of  wild  life,  like 
a  forest  glade  in  a  theatre.  Yet  in  large 
quiet,  and  amid  rocks  and  springing 
tufts  of  wood-growths  and  patches  of  un- 
disturbed mosses  and  ferns,  there  stood 
a  group  of  white  birches,  beautiful  to 
behold.  The  shadow  of  the  gray  rock 
against  which  it  braced  itself,  smelled 
softly  damp,  like  the  shadows  of  rocks 
I  knew  in  far-off  mountains;  and  small 
vermilion-colored  umbrella-shaped  toad- 
stools grew  in  it,  and  over  it  was  a  sky 
as  ethereal,  as  deeply  blue,  as  unstained, 
as  the  sky  which  bent  over  the  great 
mountains  of  other  birch-tree  haunts  of 
the  wide,  wide  world.  These  trees  had 


reached  middle  age,  and  were  old  enough 
to  remember  the  forest  pageants  of  the 
latest  Napoleonic  period.  They  might 
have  seen  the  beautiful  Eugenie  as  she 
sat  in  Winterhalter's  portrait,  with  a  for- 
est setting  for  herself  and  her  favorite 
ladies. 

"That  is  what  makes  of  these  birch 
trees  ladies  instead  of  nymphs,"  I  said 
to  myself,  as  I  unfolded  my  camp-chair 
and  spread  the  legs  of  a  folding  easel, 
and  opened  my  color-box.  "  They  look 
like  New  England  trees,  but  they  re- 
member sophisticated  people;  the  air  is 
full  of  thoughts  and  motions  of  courts 
and  kings  and  of  to-day  motives  and 
strivings.  Some  painter  with  a  mind  full 
of  thoughts  of  technique,  and  flitting  fore- 
dreams  of  personal  success,  has  painted 
them.  His  mind  has  wrestled  with  ad- 
vanced painters  for  admission  to  the 
Salon,  while  his  eyes  were  noting  the 
transparencies  of  June  drapery,  and  the 
wonderful  symmetry  of  limb  of  these 
ladies  of  the  woods.  The  air  is  still  in- 
stinct with  his  flying  thoughts  and  glit- 
tering with  little  snapshots  of  his  bodily 
presence.  I  may  get  a  portrait  to-day, 
but  I  shall  not  have  a  vision."  And  all 
the  while  the  blues  were  deepening  on 
my  canvas,  and  the  grays  and  greens  and 
golds  coming  forward  into  sunshine  or 
going  back  into  shadow,  and  the  long 
white  stems  growing  into  birch  trees. 

By  and  by  I  began  to  feel  their  own 
reserved  life;  I  absorbed  a  subtle  under- 
standing of  its  individual  and  personal 
reality.  Of  course  the  trees  were  not  liv- 
ing in  lower  air ;  they  were  rising  above  it 
into  the  pure  ether  which  is  attainable  by 
all  earthly  things.  I  was  conscious  that 
the  tree-sense  lived  and  dominated  the 
little  ambitions  and  vagaries  of  human 
life  both  past  and  present.  I  recognized 
the  God-thought,  planted  and  growing 
upward,  and  unconscious  of  lower  things 
in  its  pure  instinct  of  beauty,  simplicity, 
and  truth.  All  the  insect  trivialities  which 
multiply  in  the  imagination  of  man,  and 
fly  forth  and  become  an  almost  imperish- 
able environment,  were  scattered.  While 


The  White  Birch 


37 


I  painted  and  pondered,  a  deer  walked 
out  into  the  open  on  delicate  feet,  and 
withdrew  again  silently  into  the  misty 
obscurity  of  the  forest;  but  he  was  no 
longer  to  me  a  suggestion  of  man's  con- 
trivance; he  was  a  real,  heavenly-con- 
ceived creature,  made  to  consort  with  and 
enjoy  other  wild  things  of  his  creation. 
In  the  stillness  rabbits  chased  one  another 
across  my  very  foreground,  and  a  wood- 
pecker walked  upside  down  along  the 
arm  of  an  old  oak  which  projected  across 
my  sky  line. 

There  were  no  more  fashion  plates  or 
wrangles  of  methods  or  ambitions  in  the 
air  —  nothing  but  the  group  of  birch 
trees  with  its  beautiful,  silent,  upward 
reach  into  heaven,  and  the  blue  and  gold 
and  silver  of  a  June  day  in  the  great 
historical  forest. 

But  at  night,  when  I  had  set  my  birch- 
tree  portrait  up  to  dry  on  the  stone  shelf 
above  the  cottage  fireplace,  and  stretched 
myself  upon  the  smooth  hardness  of  a 
cottage  bed,  and  darkness  filled  the  small 
one- windowed  room,  I  lay  and  wondered 
in  the  deep  of  my  heart,  how  much 
remained  of  the  uttered  thought  and 
completed  acts  of  our  precedent  fellow- 
mortals?  Had  they  only  a  fleeting  and 
perishable  existence  ?  or  was  the  air  filled 
with  the  active  and  transparent  ghosts 
of  them  as  I  had  felt  them  in  the  for- 
est ?  There  all  the  space  around  me  had 
seemed  thick  with  foregone  life,  only  the 
serene  spirit  of  the  trees  was  uncon- 
scious of  it. 

Even  the  branches  which  reached 
within  touch  of  humanity  seemed  to 
make  their  own  atmosphere,  and  stand 
in  beautiful  and  perfect  harmony  both 
with  solitude  and  society,  loving  the  one 
and  accepting  the  other.  It  reminded  me 
of  some  dear  misplaced  souls  I  have 
known,  planted,  and  fast-grown  amidst 
unworthy  things,  —  who  have  kept  them- 
selves unspotted  from  the  world,  and  by 
some  alchemy  of  spirit  brought  out  hid- 
den gold  from  life's  unworthiness. 


And  after  all,  if  it  is  our  instinct  and 
mission  to  seek  for,  and  enjoy,  and  profit 
by  beauty  —  we  must  realize  that  it  lives 
everywhere,  that  it  pervades  the  earth. 
It  is  easy  to  understand  that  our  eyes, 
trained  to  recognize  only  material  form 
and  color,  and  the  wonderful  combina- 
tions of  them  in  God's  material  world, 
may  fail  at  times  to  recognize  beauty  in 
colorless  miracles  of  spiritual  growth, 
while  in  the  sight  of  wide-eyed  angels 
they  may  be  the  perfection  of  which  the 
beautiful  things  in  nature  are  but  a  type. 

The  spirit  of  a  heavenly-minded  man 
may  outgrow  the  height  of  the  tallest 
elm  —  and  the  love  and  brooding  of  a 
man-loving  man  may  spread  its  arms 
beyond  the  breadth  of  the  broadest  oak. 

Is  it  not  our  true  privilege  in  life,  not 
only  to  love  the  highest  beauty,  both  in 
nature  and  man,  but  to  grow  within  our- 
selves the  most  perfect  form  and  shape 
according  to  our  kind,  and  to  love  with 
all  our  hearts  the  spiritual  growth  of  other 
mortals,  according  to  their  kind  ?  They 
may  be  like  baby  firs,  beautiful  and  entic- 
ing in  youth,  growing  ragged  and  un- 
sightly with  stress  of  years;  or  slender 
half-naked  elm  bodies,  growing  finally 
into  power  and  strength;  or  helpless  hu- 
man saplings,  choked  by  the  world  —  but 
they  have  been  planted  in  the  world  of 
spirits,  and  may  be  helped  by  wakeful 
love,  or  hindered  by  the  want  of  it. 

All  these  suggestions  came  to  me  from 
a  group  of  captive  and  tamed  birch  trees 
in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau.  Still  in 
my  mind  its  sisters  remain  forever  and 
always  nymphs  of  the  woods  and  moun- 
tain; the  sap  of  the  forest  coursing 
through  their  veins  ,  vital  with  conscious 
life,  and  their  graceful  feet  dancing  the 
nymph-dance,  in  flecks  of  shadow,  or 
gilding  of  sun.  Sometimes  on  a  windy 
day  I  have  seen  a  group  of  them  bending 
as  if  they  longed  to  join  the  chase  of 
the  winds;  and  remembered  my  group 
of  birches  in  the  historical  forest  and  was 
glad  at  heart  to  have  known  them  both. 


IN  HELENA'S   GARDEN 

BY   RICHARD   WATSON   GILDER 

THE   SUNSET   WINDOW 

THROUGH  the  garden  sunset-window 

Shines  the  sky  of  rose; 
Deep  the  melting  red,  and  deeper, 

Lovelier  it  grows. 

Musically  falls  the  fountain; 

Twilight  voices  chime; 
Visibly  upon  the  cloud-lands 

Tread  the  feet  of  Time. 

Evening  winds  from  down  the  valley 

Stir  the  waters  cool; 
Break  the  dark,  empurpled  shadows 

In  the  marble  pool. 

Rich  against  the  high-walled  grayness 

The  crimson  lily  glows, 
And  near,  O  near,  one  well-loved  presence 

Dream-like  comes  and  goes. 

THE   GRAY   WALLS    OF   THE   GARDEN 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden 
Hold  many  and  many  a  bloom; 

A  flame  of  red  against  the  gray 
Is  lightning  in  the  gloom. 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden 

Hold  grassy  walks  between 
Bright  beds  of  yellow  blossoms. 

Golden  against  the  green. 

And  in  the  roof  of  the  arbor 

Leaves  woven  through  and  through,  — 
Great  grape  leaves,  making  shadows,  — 

Shine  green  against  the  blue. 

And,  O,  in  the  August  weather 
What  wonders  new  are  seen! 


In  Helena's  Garden  39 

Long  beds  of  azure  blossoms- 
Are  blue  against  the  green. 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden 

Hold  paths  of  pure  delight, 
And,  in  the  emerald,  blooms  of  pearl 

Are  white  against  the  night. 


THE    MARBLE    POOL 

The  marble  pool,  like  the  great  sea,  hath  moods  — 
Fierce  angers,  slumbers,  deep  beatitudes. 

In  sudden  gusts  the  pool,  in  lengthened  waves,  — 
As  in  a  mimic  tempest,  —  tosses  and  raves. 

In  the  still,  drowsy,  dreaming  midday  hours 

It  sleeps  and  dreams  among  the  dreaming  flowers. 

'Neath  troubled  skies  the  surface  of  its  sleep 
Is  fretted;  how  the  big  drops  rush  and  leap! 

Now  't  is  a  mirror  where  the  sky  of  night 
Sees  its  mysterious  face  of  starry  light; 

Or  where  the  tragic  sunset  is  reborn, 
Or  the  sweet,  virginal  mystery  of  morn. 

One  little  pool  holds  ocean,  brink  to  brink; 
One  little  heart  can  hold  the  world,  I  think. 


THE   TABLE    ROUND 

i 

What  think  you  of  the  Table  Round 
Which  the  garden's  rustic  arbor 
In  pride  doth  harbor? 

And  what  its  weight,  how  many  a  pound? 
Or  shall  you  reckon  that  in  tons? 
For  this  is  of  earth's  mighty  ones: 
A  mill-stone  't  is,  that  turns  no  more, 
But,  on  a  pier  sunk  deep  in  ground. 
Like  a  ship  that's  come  to  shore, 
Content  among  its  flowery  neighbors 
It  rests  forever  from  its  labors. 


40  In  Helena's  Garden 

ii 

Now  no  more  'mid  grind  and  hammer 
Are  the  toiling  moments  past, 
But  amid  a  milder  clamor 
Stays  it  fast. 

For  the  Garden  Lady  here, 
When  the  summer  sky  is  clear, 
With  her  bevy  of  bright  daughters 
(Each  worth  a  sonnet) 
To  the  tune  of  plashing  waters 
Serves  the  tea  upon  it. 


in 

And  when  Maria,  and  when  Molly, 
Frances,  Alice,  and  Cecilia, 
Clara,  Bess,  and  Pretty  Polly, 
Lolah  and  the  dark  Amelia, 
Come  with  various  other  ladies, 
Certain  boys,  and  grown-ups  graver,  — 
Then,  be  sure,  not  one  afraid  is 
To  let  his  wit  give  forth  its  flavor, 
With  the  fragrant  odor  blent 
Of  the  Souchong,  and  the  scent 
Of  the  roses  and  sweet-peas 
And  other  blossoms  sweet  as  these. 
Then,  indeed,  doth  joy  abound 
About  the  granite  table  round, 
And  the  stream  of  laughter  flowing 
Almost  sets  the  old  stone  going. 

THE   SUN-DIAL 

On  the  sun-dial  in  the  garden 
The  great  sun  keeps  the  time; 

A  faint,  small  moving  shadow, 

And  we  know  the  worlds  are  in  rime: 

And  if  once  that  shadow  should  falter 
By  the  space  of  a  child's  eye-lash,  — 

The  seas  would  devour  the  mountains, 
And  the  stars  together  crash, 


In  Helena's  Garden  41 

"  SOMETHING    MISSING   FROM   THE    GARDEN  " 

Something  missing  from  the  garden? 

But  all  's  bright  there; 
Color  in  the  daytime, 

Perfume  in  the  night  there. 

Something  wanting  in  the  garden? 

Yet  the  blossoms 
Bring  the  hum-birds  to  the  sweetness 

In  their  bosoms. 

And  by  day  the  sunlight  golden 

On  the  granite 
Glistens,  —  and  by  night  the  silver  starlight 

From  some  near  planet. 

Something  missing  from  the  garden?  • 

But  the  mountain 
Ceaseless  pours  a  secret  streamlet 

Filmy  from  the  fountain; 

And  that  streamlet  winds  blow,  wave-like, 

Down  the  flowers, 
And  —  in  the  mist  —  faint,  flickering  rainbows 

Flash  through  mimic  showers. 

Something  wanting  in  the  garden 

When  all's  bright  there? 
Color  in  the  daytime, 

Perfume  in  the  night  there? 

Then  what  missing  from  the  garden 

Spoils  its  pleasance  ?  — 
Just  a  breath  of  something  human; 

Just  one  presence. 

THREE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  GARDEN 

Three  blossoms  in  a  happy  garden  grow,  — 
Have  care,  for  this  one,  lo,  is  white  as  any  snow: 
Its  name  is  Peace. 

Three  flowers,  —  and  one,  in  hue,  a  delicate  gold ; 

A  harsh  breath,  then  its  golden  leaves  shall  droop  and  fold: 

Its  name  is  Joy. 


42  In  Helena's  Garden 

Three  flowers,  —  and  one  is  crimson,  rich  and  strong; 
This  will,  if  well  entreated,  all  others  outlive  long: 
Its  name  is  Love. 

EARLY  AUTUMN 

The  garden  still  is  green 

And  green  the  trees  around,  — 

But  the  winds  are  roaring  overhead 
And  branches  strew  the  ground. 

And  to-day  on  the  garden  pool 

Floated  an  autumn  leaf: 
How  rush  the  seasons,  rush  the  years, 

And,  O,  how  life  is  brief! 

THE   LAST   FLOWER    OF   THE   GARDEN 

One  by  one  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
To  autumn  yielded  as  waned  the  sun; 

So  prisoners,  called  by  the  cruel  Terror, 
To  death  went,  one  by  one. 

Roses,  and  many  a  delicate  blossom. 
Down  fell  their  heads,  in  the  breezes  keen, 

One  by  one;  and  the  frost  of  autumn 
Was  the  blade  of  their  guillotine. 

And  at  last  an  hour  when  the  paths  of  the  garden 
Grew  from  green  to  a  wintry  white; 

And  a  new,  strange  beauty  came  into  the  garden 
In  the  full  moon's  flooding  light. 

For  a  radiance  struck  on  the  columned  fountain 
As  it  shot  to  the  stars  in  a  trembling  stream, 

And  a  rainbow,  leaping  across  the  valley, 
Was  the  dream  of  a  dream  in  a  dream. 

And  we  who  loved  well  that  place  of  flowers 
Looked  with  awe  on  the  wondrous  birth, 

And  knew  that  the  last  flower  of  the  garden 
Was  something  not  of  earth. 


WINNOWING   GOLD 


BY   JUDITH   GRAVES   WALDO 


THE  arroyo  ran  back  from  the  river, 
among  the  gray  hills,  clear  to  the  high 
basin  which  dammed  in  the  early  floods. 
There  it  held,  deep  in  the  rocky  walls 
that  leaned  above  it,  wells  of  sweet,  cool 
water  which  a  traveler,  avoiding  the 
river-way  for  reasons  of  his  own,  found 
with  great  profit  and  relief.  Adam  was 
looking  for  these  wells  when  he  came 
upon  Santa  Olaya,  dry- washing  along  the 
arroyo's  upper  edges. 

He  was  so  close,  leaning  to  gaze  at  her 
across  the  ridge  of  rock  that  had  hid  the 
arroyo  from  the  deep  trail  till  now,  that 
he  thought  she  must  see  him  or  have 
heard  the  sound  that  leaped  to  his  lips 
at  sight  of  her.  But  she  never  lifted  her 
intent  gaze  from  the  gyrating  dust  that 
shifted  rhythmically  from  her  pan  at  the 
quiver  of  her  bended  wrists,  a-top  the 
straight  young  arms. 

Along  the  slopes  rising  out  of  the  Agua 
Caliente,  Adam  had  often  come  upon  the 
Indian  women,  in  the  early  mornings 
when  the  soft  wind  of  the  hills  is  grown 
persistent,  winnowing  their  pounded 
wheat  in  just  that  way.  But  it  was  pound- 
ed gravel  Santa  Olaya  winnowed.  She 
stood  at  the  upper  edge  of  a  tanned  bul- 
lock's hide,  spread  on  ground  that  sloped 
a  little;  then,  poising  the  pan  above  her 
head,  she  leaned  to  the  current  of  the 
wind,  and,  with  that  permeating  quiver 
of  the  wrist  that  some  believe  belongs 
only  to  the  Indian  women,  sent  the 
dust  in  heaps  of  graded  fineness  across 
the  hide  at  her  feet.  Adam  knew  she  was 
no  Indian  maid,  although  her  feet  were 
moccasined,  and  her  hair,  parted  from 
brow  to  nape,  hung  in  two  thick  braids 
across  her  breast,  as  many  an  Indian 
girl  in  her  pride  wears  hers;  she  was  as 
lean  and  supple  as  he,  with  clean  grace 
of  limb  and  posture,  and  her  hair  was  fair 


with  the  sun  upon  it,  and  under  the  tan 
of  her  cheek  and  throat  and  slim  bare 
arms  there  was  the  glow  of  a  white  girl's 
blush.  Adam  watched  her  in  delight  of 
heart. 

The  winnowing  was  nearly  over,  the 
last  bits  of  gravel  rattled  on  the  edge  of 
the  pan  and  skipped  to  their  place  on  the 
hide,  the  pan  swung  down,  slowly,  to  her 
side,  and  Santa  Olaya  turned  her  head 
and  smiled  into  Adam's  waiting  eyes. 

"You  are  looking  for  the  wells,  sefior  ?" 
she  said,  in  sweet,  foreign  English.  "Fol- 
low the  trail  you  are  on  —  it  ends  there." 

Now  Adam  knew  that,  because  his 
canteen  clanked  empty  since  the  night 
before  and  he  was  looking  for  those  wells, 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  say  but, 
"Thank  you  very  kindly,"  and  go  on  his 
way.  If  he  had  said  anything,  it  would 
have  been  that  he  had  already  found  the 
wells  he  sought.  But  he  did  not,  he  only 
slipped  his  pack  to  the  ground  and  leaned 
a  little  further  over  the  ledge  and  smiled 
back  at  Olaya. 

"The  water  there  is  still  deep,"  she 
said.  She  stood  quite  still,  the  pan  at  her 
side.  She  was  waiting  for  him  to  go  on. 
It  roused  in  Adam  a  desire  to  put  that 
rocky  ledge  from  between  them,  at  least. 
He  leaped  upon  it,  lightly,  and  was  about 
to  drop  into  the  arroyo  when  the  girl's 
voice  stopped  him. 

"Don't  come  down  here." 

It  was  not  loud,  not  frightened  at  all, 
but  very  quiet  and  sure.  Adam,  half-way 
over,  caught  his  balance  on  the  ledge 
with  knee  and  hand. 

"Why?  "he  said. 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  here,"  said 
the  girl. 

"Oh."  Adam  stayed  on  the  ledge,  but 
swung  his  legs  over  and  came  to  a  sitting 
position. 

43 


44 


Winnowing  Gold 


"I  don't  want  you  there  either." 

She  did  not  smile  now,  but  her  grave- 
ness  covered  neither  anger  nor  fear. 

"Does  this  belong  to  you?"  Adam 
asked.  He  did  not  smile,  either,  in  defer- 
ence to  her  lead.  His  tone  instinctively 
fitted  to  her  rather  quaintly  measured 
one,  as  one  comes  to  the  mood  of  a  child 
by  affecting  its  speech. 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Yes,  it  belongs  to  me." 

"You  are  not  quite  sure?" 

"It  is  you  who  doubt,  senor,"  she  an- 
swered quickly.  She  still  looked  directly 
into  his  eyes,  and  hers  were  so  deep  with 
unexplored  sweetness  that  Adam's  quiv- 
ered before  them. 

"Are  the  wells  —  yours,  too?"  he 
asked,  to  regain  his  self-possession. 

"No  —  the  water  is  free  to  all." 

"But  gold  is  not?" 

The  girl's  face  changed  now.  Her 
glance  fell  to  the  heaps  of  dust  at  her 
feet,  a  smile  tugged  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth,  fought  with  its  gravity,  and  con- 
quered it. 

"  That  is  true,  senor.  I  do  not  wish 
to  lose  the  gold." 

"Ah."  Adam  dropped  into  the  arroyo. 
"There  is  no  harm  in  me,"  he  cried.  "I 
am  not  after  gold.  I  was  only  a  thirsty 
man  following  the  morning  track  of 
beasts ;  but  seeing  you  at  your  winnowing, 
think  I  have  already  drunk  of  cool  water, 
sweet  from  the  heart  of  the  rocks." 

He  strode  down  to  her,  and  Olaya's 
eyes  stayed  wide  in  his.  She  stirred,  the 
pan  rattled  to  the  ground,  and  her  two 
hands  clasped  each  other. 

"You  must  not  come  any  nearer,"  she 
said,  very  simply.  The  hide  with  its  dust 
heaps  was  between  them. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  Adam  promised  just 
as  simply. 

"Did  you  miss  the  river- way?"  she 
asked.  Her  eyes  had  not  left  his,  but 
Adam  felt  she  knew  the  whole  of  him, 
and  it  flushed  him,  cheek  and  heart. 

"No,  I  kept  away  from  the  river  settle- 
ments —  I  came  this  way  on  purpose." 
did  not  need  a  hidden  way?" 


"Yes."  He  smiled  at  the  startled 
trouble  of  her  question. 

She  turned  quickly,  then,  to  where  an 
olla  was  sunk  in  wet  sand  under  the 
shadow  of  leaning  rocks,  and  dipped  up  a 
gourd  full  of  water.  "The  thing  has  not 
driven  you  hard,"  she  said,  handing  it  to 
him.  "  Why  is  your  canteen  empty  ?" 

"I  may  have  been  afraid  to  go  where 
men  draw  water,"  he  answered,  and  she 
laughed. 

"It  was  not  fear  of  men,"  she  said 
straight  to  him. 

"No,  it  was  not  fear  of  men,"  he  an- 
swered back;  but  how  did  she  know  it 
was  not,  and  what  did  that  wide  gaze, 
fearless  itself,  and  firm  and  sweet,  know 
of  such  other  fears?  Adam  drank  the 
water  and  she  took  the  gourd  from  him, 
and  they  stood,  staring  openly  at  each 
other.  There  was  no  question  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  just  a  glad  acceptance  of  his  pre- 
sence and  a  very  girlish  satisfaction  in 
the  big  breadth  of  his  frame  and  comely 
accoutrements.  But  Adam's  eyes  sought 
for  an  answer,  and  the  persistence  of 
their  seeking  pierced  her  unconscious 
pleasure  and  sent  her,  suddenly  bashful, 
to  her  work.  She  knelt  at  the  edge  of  the 
bullock's  hide,  her  face  a-quiver  with  the 
revelation,  and  began,  with  a  large  horn 
spoon,  to  scoop  up  the  dust  and  grains 
of  a  certain  heap  into  the  pan  again. 
Adam  came  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"Is  it  pay-dirt?"  he  asked,  and  in- 
stantly her  face  was  all  for  serious  busi- 
ness. 

"Yes  —  I  have  shaken  it  down  three 
times  and  it  is  showing  clean  already.  I 
can  wash  it  through  now." 

"Don't  you  lose  a  great  quantity  this 
way?" 

"Not  so  much,"  she  answered  specu- 
latively.  "I  don't  shake  it  down  without 
a  good  wind.  But  if  I  lose  I  must  —  I 
cannot  dig  and  haul  in  the  mines,  so  I 
dry- wash  the  arroyos  that  catch  the  drift 
from  some  bed  above  or  cut  the  ledge 
and  lay  it  bare  for  me."  She  dipped  a 
gourd  of  water  into  the  pan  and  began 
draining  off  the  refuse.  "It  is  good 


Winnowing  Gold 


45 


enough  when  I  find  an  arroyo  like  this 
one,"  she  added. 

"Good  enough?"  cried  Adam,  "I 
should  think  it  would  be!  Does  it  come 
often  like  this?"  He  bent  over  the  pan 
with  a  more  eager  face  than  the  girl's, 
calculating  the  weight  of  the  heap  of  yel- 
low grains. 

"Yes  —  rarely  better;  but  sometimes 
none  at  all.  Yesterday  I  could  not  find 
where  my  good  luck  had  hid  away.  You 
have  brought  her  back  to  me,  senor." 
She  smiled  at  him  over  the  little  buck- 
skin bag  into  which  she  dropped  the 
gold. 

They  were  very  close  to  each  other  as 
they  knelt  there,  and  Adam  wished  to 
touch  her  hair,  to  wind  the  long  braids 
about  her  throat,  to  leave  his  hand 
against  her  cheek.  He  remembered  a 
Mexican  girl  washing  her  linen  on  the 
stones  of  a  little  creek  where  he  had 
come  one  warm,  deep-scented  day  in 
October,  and  how  the  delicate  quiver 
of  the  flesh  just  above  the  hollow  of  her 
bending  arm  had  held  the  pleasure 
of  his  eyes  until  he  had  stooped  and 
kissed  it,  not  thinking  of  the  girl  at  all. 
She  had  hid  her  face  in  a  pleased  trouble 
and  then  suddenly  lifted  it  to  his,  and  he 
had  kissed  her  and  gone  on,  and  laughed 
to  hear  her  singing  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
But  about  this  girl  there  hung  some  es- 
sence of  herself,  like  a  nebula  that  shields 
the  starlight.  It  held  his  very  thought  in 
leash. 

He  stood  up  when  she  did  and  watched 
her  knot  the  treasure-bag  about  her  waist. 

"What  is  your  name?"  said  Adam. 

"Olaya." 

"You  are  not  Mexican?" 

"No." 

"Nor  gypsy?" 

"No." 

"What  then?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Olaya,  looking 
gravely  at  him. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  said  Adam. 

The  girl  turned  away  and  lifted  the 
crowbar  to  continue  her  work. 

"I  shall  help  you,  Santa  Olaya,"  said 


Adam  decisively,  and  he  took  the  crow- 
bar from  her.  Besides  the  pan  and  spoon 
it  was  the  only  tool  she  used,  sharpened 
at  each  end,  and  so  light  as  to  be  easily 
handled. 

Olaya  led  the  way  to  the  ledge  she 
was  working;  it  had  been  exposed  by 
a  torrent  cutting  through  the  gorge  in 
some  spring  wash-out.  She  accepted 
Adam's  help  as  simply  as  she  had  ac- 
cepted him;  showed  him  how  to  follow 
the  ledge,  scraping  the  surface  carefully ; 
and  with  her  spoon  and  pan  she  gathered 
up  the  earth  he  loosened  and  took  it  away 
to  pound  and  prepare  for  the  winnowing. 
She  sang  a  little  in  the  shade  of  the  mes- 
quite  tree  that  leaned  from  the  edge  of 
the  arroyo,  and  Adam  sang,  too,  sudden 
bursts  of  sound,  starting  up  in  him  like 
laughter  that  comes  because  it  must  and 
knows  no  reason  for  itself. 

But  when  Olaya  had  spread  the  bul- 
lock's hide  again  and  gone  to  the  win- 
nowing, Adam  had  to  watch  her.  It 
was  so  lovely  a  thing  to  him,  the  lithe 
young  grace  of  her,  the  buoyant  ease 
and  grace  of  every  movement,  that  made 
what  she  did  as  alluring  as  the  step- 
ping of  a  young  doe.  Sometimes  she 
turned  to  glance  at  him  across  her 
shifting-pan,  and  smiled  with  such  art- 
less pleasure  and  comradeship  when  she 
found  his  look  upon  her,  that  Adam 
had  to  hold  himself  to  keep  at  work, 
and  not  fling  it  all  aside  and  take  Olaya 
by  the  hand  and  go  away  to  where  the 
sun  was  hot  on  the  hills,  and  the  river 
shone  up  to  them  from  its  tarrying  be- 
tween the  banks  of  tufting  arrow-weed, 
and  the  cottonwoods  and  willows  flung 
their  red  bursting  buds  out  on  its  brown 
flood.  For  it  was  spring  in  the  desert,  and 
the  cattle  left  the  flats  to  graze  toward 
the  mesas,  in  search  of  the  first  young 
grass  just  springing  from  between  the 
stones.  Adam  could  hear  them  lowing  as 
they  came. 

Olaya  put  down  her  pan  when  the  sun 
was  straight  over  them  and  said,  "Now 
you  will  eat  with  me,  senor."  And  Adam 
answered,  — 


46 


Winnowing  Gold 


"Yes,  I  shall  like  to  do  that  very 
much." 

He  had  plenty  of  food  in  the  pack  left 
on  the  trail,  but  it  was  part  of  his  pleas- 
ure that  Olaya  should  share  her  meal 
with  him.  It  consisted  of  tortillas  with 
thick  slices  of  bacon  between;  and  there 
was  a  generous  piece  of  cheese.  Olaya 
divided  it  unequally  and  gave  Adam  the 
larger  share.  When  he  protested  she 
said,  quite  seriously,  — 

"No,  that  is  right;"  and  he  laughed 
and  took  it. 

She  put  the  gourd  full  of  water  be- 
tween them  and  they  drank  from  it,  turn 
about. 

"I  am  very  well  content,  Santa  Olaya," 
said  Adam. 

"I  am  content,  too,"  she  said;  "but 
why  do  you  call  me  Santa  Olaya?  I 
said  to  you  only  '  Olaya.'  " 

"I  do  not  know,  Adam  said,  "only 
that  it  comes  to  me  to  call  you  so.  Does 
no  one  else  say  'Santa  Olaya'?" 

"Yes,  Father  Bernardino  does,  but 
that  is  all." 

"Who  is  Father  Bernardino?" 

"My  dear  friend  and  ghostly  adviser." 

"The  priest  of  the  village  where  you 
live  —  or  don't  you  live  in  a  village?" 

"I  live  in  the  settlement  below  here, 
and  Father  Bernardino  lives  close  by  the 
church,  farther  down  the  river.  He  is  the 
priest  for  the  reservations  where  there 
are  Catholics,  and  for  some  of  the  river 
camps  and  settlements.  He  knows  men 
arid  is  very  good  to  them.  He  is  good 
even  to  Mexicans,  and  I  know  it  is  a 
great  cross  to  him  that  there  are  so  many 
in  the  country  he  loves.  Often,  I  'm  sure, 
he  sets  them  a  soft  penance,  because  it 
punishes  his  own  carnal  desire  to  be 
cruel  to  them,"  said  Olaya. 

"Why  is  he  carnally  wishful  to  be  cruel 
to  Mexicans?" 

"He  is  an  Indian." 

"I  have  never  heard  of  an  Indian 
priest." 

"He  was  raised  by  white  men,  and 
they  gave  him  all  a  white  man  has  and 
made  him  a  priest.  But  they  always  re- 


membered what  they  had  done  for  him, 
so  the  best  of  it  was  gone,  and  Father 
Bernardino  came  to  speak  of  it  himself, 
aloud,  when  they  should  have  left  it  a 
warm,  soft  thing  in  his  heart."  Olaya 
hesitated  a  moment,  considering.  "Of 
course,"  she  went  on,  "it  is  a  very  great 
thing  to  be  a  priest,  but  Father  Ber- 
nardino says  an  untouched  Indian  is  as 
much  a  spirit  of  earth  and  sky  as  the 
wind,  and  is  so  judged  before  God. 
There  is  great  love  and  understanding 
between  us,"  she  added  gently. 

"And  do  you  wish,  too,  that  they  had 
left  him  an  untouched  Indian?" 

"Ah,  he  does  not  wish  that,  senor. 
The  gratitude,  too  much  spoken  of,  turns 
it  about  in  his  mind;  and  when  there  is 
the  sound  of  wind  in  the  brush  where 
there  is  no  wind,  and  the  blue  herons  go 
up  the  river,  he  thinks  about  it  and  won- 
ders—  that  is  all.  And  I  could  never 
wish  it  —  no  other  priest  would  have 
kept  watch  along  the  banks  in  high  water ; 
for  my  people  came  down  the  river  in 
flood-time  and  were  drowned,  and  Fa- 
ther Bernardino  saw  my  little  white  head 
—  he  says  it  was  white  then"  —  she 
smiled  tenderness  for  the  little  head  into 
Adam's  intent  eyes  —  "bobbing  about 
in  the  eddy,  and  he  had  no  boat.  Now 
this  is  a  miracle,  senor,  for  the  padre  had 
never  learned  to  throw  a  lasso,  and  he 
was  a  baby  when  he  was  taken  to  the 
cities  by  white  men ;  but  he  took  the  rope 
from  his  tethered  cow  and  made  the 
noose  very  deftly,  and  then  cast  it  forth 
from  the  bank  and  covered  my  tiny  head. 
'  There  was  never  a  rough  scratch,  even, 
on  my  baby  flesh  when  he  brought  me 
in  so  safe.  It  was  a  great  miracle." 

"It  was  a  very  beautiful  miracle,"  said 
Adam. 

"Father  Bernardino,"  said  Olaya, 
looking  thoughtfully  at  her  brown,  dusty 
hands,  "says  it  was  no  miracle  at  all, 
because,  from  clear  back  in  the  begin- 
ning, his  fathers  had  thrown  the  lasso, 
and  he  had  to,  that  was  all." 

"I  think  that  is  the  miracle,"  said 
Adam  softly. 


Winnowing  Gold 


47 


"Oh,"  Santa  Olaya  whispered,  look- 
ing a  long  time  into  Adam's  eyes  and  not 
seeming  to  know  that  he  was  looking 
into  hers,  "7  think  that  way,  too."  Then 
she  looked  off  at  the  hills,  her  eyes  shy 
and  misty  with  this  new  discovery. 

"And  the  padre  called  you  Santa 
Olaya  and  took  care  of  you,  and  you 
are  dry-washing  the  gulches  to  get  gold 
for  his  missions?" 

"No,"  said  Olaya  hastily,  "no,  the 
Sefiora  is  my  guardian.  If  I  had  been  a 
boy  he  would  have  kept  me,  and  taught 
me  to  be  a  priest,  maybe;  but  I  was  a  girl, 
and  the  Sefiora  and  her  people  took  me 
—  I  do  this  work  for  them.  But  Father 
Bernardino  had  great  care  of  me,  always, 
and  taught  me." 

"What  did  he  teach  you?" 

"Oh,  to  read  his  books,  and  the  mean- 
ing of  wind  and  great  stillness,  and  to 
know  the  stars  for  safety,  and  the  use  of 
herbs,  and  about  the  earth,  and  the  dif- 
ference between  good  and  evil,  and  the 
needs  of  animals,  and  the  knowledge  of 
men." 

"The  knowledge  —  of  men  ?" 

"Father  Bernardino  knows  men,  and 
he  would  have  me  know  them,  too,  be- 
cause, it  is  never  to  lack  in  time  of  need, 
he  says." 

"But  it  is  only  a  small  settlement, 
Olaya.  Whom  do  you  ever  see  besides  — 
do  you  see  many  —  men  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Olaya  gravely,  "always 
I  have  seen  many  men.  The  Sefiora  her- 
self has  seven  sons ;  and  there  are  a  great 
many  white  men  and  Mexicans  —  they 
come  and  go  always,  but  always,  too, 
there  are  many  of  them."  She  started  up 
suddenly,  with  an  anxious  eye  to  the  sun. 
"It  is  time  for  the  work  to  go  on,"  she 
cried,  "and  I  have  loitered  too  long;" 
then  with  some  wistful  apology,  "but 
sefior,  there  are  days  at  a  time  that  I  do 
not  speak  to  living  things  except  the  word 
night  and  morning  —  it  was  your  kind- 
ness to  let  me  talk." 

They  worked  again  as  through  the 
morning,  and  Adam  wondered  idly 
enough  what  the  Sefiora  did  with  all  the 


gold;  for  he  knew  from  the  pannings  of 
that  morning  that  the  little  buckskin  bag 
carried,  from  day  to  day,  what  must  be 
wealth  in  a  Mexican  village.  It  did  not 
matter,  he  thought,  but  he  would  like  to 
fancy  the  use  of  it  so  fair  a  thing  to  follow 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  girl  at  work,  as  to 
bring  a  very  certain  delight  when  he  knew 
it.  She  looked  up  at  him  just  then  from 
where  she  knelt,  draining  the  last  pan. 

"Olaya,"  he  said,  "why  do  you  take 
this  gold  to  the  Sefiora?" 

Olaya  answered  him  with  the  straight- 
forward simplicity  that  marked  every- 
thing she  said:  "Because  she  and  her 
people  cared  for  me  in  my  little  helpless 
days  and  have  always  been  very  good  to 
me." 

"Yes?" 

That  was  all.  She  rose  from  her  work 
with  a  glance  at  the  canon's  side  where 
the  dusk  was  stealing  on. 

"It  is  time  you  made  your  camp, 
sefior,  before  the  dark  hides  it.  Just 
above  the  wells,  you  climb  along  the  walls 
there,  do  you  see  ?"  She  came  and  stood 
by  Adam  and  sketched  his  trail  for  him 
with  outstretched  hands.  "There  is  the 
clump  of  bisnaga  at  the  base  —  go  just 
beyond  it  up  the  ravine  ten  steps,  and 
there  are  two  palo  verdes  on  a  little  shelf 
— -  they  will  give  you  wood  for  your  fire 
and  't  is  clean  there  and  hid  away.  Once 
I  was  afraid  to  go  home  and  I  stayed 
there  all  night." 

"I  will  camp  jthere.  Why  were  you 
afraid  to  go  home?" 

"Oh,"  said  Olaya  indifferently,  stow- 
ing the  tools  away  under  a  bush,  "I  had 
panned  nothing  for  two  days,  and  there 
is  no  beauty  in  an  empty  hand."  Then, 
lifting  herself,  she  unknotted  a  blue  ker- 
chief from  about  her  waist,  shook  it  out, 
and  smoothed  it  upon  her  knee,  and 
placed  it  corner  wise  over  her  head.  She 
caught  the  ends,  fluttering  by  her  ears, 
and  held  them  under  her  chin. 

"I  thank  you,  sefior,"  she  said,  smiling 
shyly  at  Adam.  "Adios." 

"I  am  going  with  you." 

"Oh."    They  stood  again  to  stare  at 


48 


Winnowing  Gold 


each  other,  Olaya,  with  protest  strug- 
gling through  desire,  and  the  mastery  of 
Adam's  eyes  over  her.  She  turned  slowly 
down  the  trail.  He  was  at  her  shoulder. 

"It  is  very  far,"  she  said,  turning  her 
head  ever  so  little,  "and  it  will  be  very 
.  dark  even  before  we  can  get  there." 

"That  is  why  I  am  going,"  said 
Adam. 

The  trail  was  narrow  and  rough,  and 
slippery  with  loose  stones  that  had  been 
washed  free  of  encompassing  earth  down 
the  ragged  ravines  and  gulches  in  many 
a  roaring  flood-time.  But  Olaya's  inoc- 
casined  feet  did  not  heed  them,  and  she 
set  a  swinging  pace  through  the  tumble 
of  gray  hills,  which  hurried  Adam  to 
keep  his  post  at  her  shoulder.  Against 
the  coming  night  the  brush  and  stunted 
chollas  of  the  hillsides  were  beginning  to 
crouch  weirdly. 

"Do  you  often  go  as  late  as  this  ? "  said 
Adam.  The  flutter  of  her  kerchief  was 
against  his  cheek. 

"When  I  have  found  only  a  little  gold 
it  is  later  —  sometimes  very  late  —  and 
the  coyotes  stand  still  on  the  ridges  there, 
against  the  sky,  and  watch  me  —  some- 
times they  howl." 

"Does  no  one  come  for  you  when  it  is 
so  late?" 

"It  is  better  alone,"  said  Santa  Olaya. 
In  a  moment  she  added,  "One  is  not 
afraid  of  night  and  coyotes  —  but  if  they 
howl  I  shall  be  glad  that  you  are  there 
behind  me." 

"You  feel  safe  with  me,  Olaya?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said,  turning  her  wide 
eyes  to  him  for  a  second;  "a  man  who  is 
not  afraid  does  not  make  others  fear." 

And  Adam  pondered  on  the  meaning 
of  it. 

They  had  come  through  the  tumble  of 
gray  hills  to  an  open  valley  close  to  the 
river  and  fed  by  its  overflow,  for  the 
arrow-weed  grew  rank  here,  and  they 
could  hear  the  cattle  chewing  their  cud 
under  the  mesquite  trees.  Now  and  again 
a  gaunt  steer  stood  across  the  trail  and 
only  moved  on  at  the  slap  of  Olaya's 
hand  upon  his  flank.  The  air  blew  in 


cool  off  the  river,  and  the  smell  of  damp 
earth  and  rotting  twigs  and  pungent 
marsh  things  came  about  them. 

"  We  are  near  the  river  ?  "  asked  Adam. 

"Yes,  beyond  this  turn  I  can  see  the 
lights  from  the  houses."  Olaya  slowed 
her  pace. 

"I  will  see  them,  too,"  Adam  answered. 

"It  will  be  such  a  blackness  to  make 
camp  in,"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  do  not  mind  the  blackness." 

"  You  will  not  know  the  way  back." 

"  I  can  find  it,"  said  Adam.  He  had 
accepted  the  joy  of  her,  in  the  beginning, 
without  a  thought  of  who  she  was  out- 
side of  the  golden  arroyo.  But  now  his 
mind  was  busy  about  her  and  gravely 
troubled.  She  had  told  her  own  story 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  priest's  miracle. 
And  who  was  this  guardian  and  her  peo- 
ple, who  let  her  work  so  hard  and  so  late 
that  she  must  needs  scurry  through  those 
wild  canons  long  after  nightfall,  or  stay 
alone  in  the  weird  gorges  of  the  "hidden 
way,"  because  she  was  afraid  to  go  home 
without  gold  ?  And  among  those  Mexi- 
cans —  she  was  of  his  own  blood  — 
Adam  knew  that  — 

"There  are  the  lights,"  she  cried,  and 
stood  still.  He  came  beside  her,  and  for  a 
moment  they  watched  the  bleared  lights 
from  the  low  jacals  of  the  river-flats. 
"  There  are  the  lights,"  she  said  again. 
"You  must  go  back,  and  I  thank  you, 
senor." 

"  Is  there  no  white  man's  house  in  that 
village?"  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  live  in  one  of  those  jacals  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Which  one?" 

She  twisted  the  corners  of  her  kerchief 
into  a  knot  under  her  chin.  "  Maybe  we 
cannot  see  its  light  from  here,"  she  said ; 
"  it  is  —  just  one  among  the  rest.  Adios, 
seiior." 

"  Olaya,  will  you  come  winnowing  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  be  gone  early  on 
your  hidden  trail." 

"Will  you  be  sorry?" 


Winnowing  Gold 


49 


"  Yes." 

"  Sorry  to  have  me  gone  because  I 
brought  your  good  luck  back  —  is  it  that, 
Olaya  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Olaya.  She  moved  along 
quickly  and  then  stopped,  and  he  waited. 
"  I  think  it  was  because  you  came  and 
will  be  gone  to-morrow  —  and  —  I  do 
not  remember  if  the  coyotes  howled  to- 
night." 

"  I  shall  be  there  to-morrow,"  he 
cried,  "  and  the  next  day,  and  after!  " 

"  Oh! "  she  stood  still  a  second  longer. 
"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Adam." 

"  Adios,  Senor  Adam,"  she  called 
softly,  and  he  heard  the  flurry  of  her  feet 
down  the  trail. 

In  the  days  that  followed  in  the  arroyo 
d'  oro  —  for  that  was  what  Adam  called 
it,  and  Olaya  smiled  with  eyes  that  tried 
to  elude  the  import  too  bold  in  his — 
Adam  forgot  why  he  had  fled  from  his 
own  world  of  men  and  cities  to  wander  up 
and  down  in  unfrequented  places.  He 
even  forgot,  at  whiles,  to  consider  the 
mystery  of  Olaya's  life  away  from  their 
common  one  in  the  arroyo.  He  came 
down  from  his  camp  with  the  first  light 
each  morning  and  filled  the  olla  among 
the  rocks  with  fresh  water  for  her,  and 
waited  there  until  she  came  suddenly  out 
of  the  hills  with  no  warning  of  slipping 
stone  or  rattling  bush,  and  greeted  him. 
She  was  never  quite  sure  that  he  would 
be  there  the  next  morning,  and  the  glad 
surprise  of  it  was  always  in  her  eyes  to 
give  Adam  fresh  bounty  for  his  dallying. 

They  worked  together,  he  at  the  dig- 
ging, she  at  the  grinding  and  winnowing, 
and  then,  when  the  gold  began  showing 
clean,  washed  it  through  and  murmured 
together  in  satisfaction  if  it  were  rich,  and 
hopefully  explained  the  reason  to  each 
other  when  it  panned  thin.  At  noon  they 
ate  tortillas  and  bacon  and  cheese  to- 
gether under  the  mesquite  tree,  and 
looked  their  contentment,  one  to  the 
other,  across  the  gourd-rim,  and  talked 
of  whatever  Olaya  would  —  of  the  In- 
dian priest,  the  river  and  sky  and  green- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  1 


ing  earth,  and  the  secrets  of  the  thorny, 
desert  shrubs  —  never  of  her  life  in  the 
village,  or  of  the  Senora  and  her  people. 
But  the  omission  was  so  uncontrived  that 
it  left  in  Adam  an  utter  inability  to  ask  a 
question  without  a  show  of  most  un- 
seemly prying.  And  although  Adam 
talked,  too,  and  Olaya  listened  and  for- 
got to  look  away  from  his  eyes,  inquiring, 
always,  in  her  sweet  unconscious  long- 
ing, for  all  his  meaning,  yet  it  piqued  him 
that  never  once  did  she  ask  a  question  or 
show  that  she  thought  beyond  his  wish 
to  tell. 

"  It  is  the  Indian  training,"  he  said 
to  himself;  it  was  this  Indian  training 
that  charmed  and  baffled  him  by  turns. 

It  was  when  night  came  on,  and  Olaya 
was  troubled  with  the  slimness  of  the 
buckskin  bag  or  elated  over  its  bulk,  that 
Adam's  mind  grew  busy  again  with  the 
desire  to  know  what  the  need  could  be  for 
so  much  gold  that  she  should  be  allowed 
to  come,  unthought-of  and  uncared-for, 
except  for  the  full  bag  she  brought  home, 
into  those  lonely  canons,  to  work  at  a 
man's  work — that  fair  young  thing,  com- 
panionless  in  those  solitary  wilds.  Adam's 
thoughts  were  very  turbulent.  This  was 
at  night  when  the  shadows  were  deep- 
ening fast,  and  there  was  the  long  trail 
yet  to  take,  and  he  fretted  at  the  peril  of 
her  nights,  and  days  too,  past  before 
he  came  to-  her.  In  the  mornings  the 
longing  to  be  with  her  again  recon- 
ciled him  to  anything  that  brought  her, 
clear-eyed  and  joyous,  back  to  the  golden 
arroyo. 

"  Olaya,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  they 
were  taking  the  homeward  trail  one  night, 
"does  Father  Bernardino  wish  to  have 
you  work  so  hard,  away  off  in  these 
lonely  places  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  be- 
fore Olaya  said,  "Father  Bernardino  is 
the  guardian  of  my  spiritual  being."  And 
then,  as  though  the  intimacy  of  their  com- 
panionship might  have  the  right  to  a  little 
confidence,  she  added,  "  If  some  one  who 
has  done  you  a  big  kindness  remembers 
it  so  that  it  comes  to  be  spoken  ever 


50 


Winnowing  Gold 


aloud,  it  cannot  just  be  warm  and  still  in 
your  heart  any  more,  and  you  must  make 
up  that  kindness  twice  over  in  whatever 
way  you  may,  senor.  If  you  cannot,  your 
soul  will  shrivel  a  little,  ever  so  little, 
with  the  thing  growing  cold  in  you.  Fa- 
ther Bernardino  knows  this,  as  I  have 
told  you,  and  he  is  very  glad  that  the 
arroyos  of  the  river  hold  gold  that  a  girl 
may  come  by.  There  are  other  ways  to 
pay  the  kindness  —  ways  that  might 
stain  one's  soul,  too,  as  well  as  the  hands. 
Father  Bernardino  and  I  have  talked  of 
these  things,"  she  ended  simply. 

Then  Adam,  given  this,  was  troubled 
yet  a  little  more,  but  hopeful,  too,  and 
asked  no  more  questions  until  a  little 
ripple  of  very  girlish  laughter  came  to 
him  across  Olaya's  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it,  Olaya?  "  he  begged. 

"  When  you  remember,  Senor  Adam, 
what  you  have  done  for  me,  what  a  woe 
it  will  be,  and  the  sweet  that  will  turn 
brackish  —  for  I  can  never  repay." 

"  Olaya,"  Adam  cried,  with  a  sudden 
emotion,  "it  is  you  who  have  done  the 
big  kindness  —  you  have  kept  me  out  of 
hell.  I  came  in  terrible  need  and  you 
wiped  out  my  trouble!  "  And  straight- 
way, being  spoken  of,  the  trouble  began 
buzzing  again,  very  dully,  in  Adam's 
brain. 

It  was  the  very  next  morning  that 
Olaya  glanced  up  from  the  shifting-pan 
at  Adam,  who  could  never  let  her  win- 
nowing go  unwatched,  and  saw  him, 
standing  very  still,  looking  with  straining 
eyes  through  the  rift  in  the  hills  to  the 
river.  He  had  forgotten  his  surroundings, 
and  when  he  came  back  to  them  it  was 
to  go  restlessly  about,  plucking  here  and 
here  at  the  brush,  or  to  kick  a  stone 
down  a  pathway,  following  it  idly  to  kick 
it  on  again.  He  worked  in  sudden  bursts 
of  energy  all  day,  but  forgot  to  sing. 
When  they  ate  their  noon-day  meal  under 
the  mesquite  tree,  he  could  not  talk,  and 
Olaya,  too,  was  very  silent.  In  the  after- 
noon, as  he  wandered  near  where  she  was 
pounding  gravel,  he  caught  her  watching 
him  furtively,  with  troubled  eyes.  He 


laughed,  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
told  her  he  was  as  restless  as  a  bad  devil 
who  had  been  cinched,  and  she  answered, 
"  Si,  senor,"  and  they  worked  silently 
together. 

The  next  day  Adam  came  late  to  the 
arroyo  and  the  olla  was  unfilled.  He  was 
haggard  from  lack  of  sleep,  and  worn  with 
tramping  all  night  long.  He  sat  moodily 
under  the  mesquite  tree,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  chin  on  his  clenched 
knuckles.  Later,  he  tried  to  rouse  himself 
and  went  to  see  how  much  Olaya  had 
panned  that  day.  He  had  avoided  look- 
ing at  her,  having  much  shame  in  him, 
but  he  could  not  leave  the  arroyo,  and 
she  had  been  good  to  greatness  in  keep- 
ing her  eyes  off  him,  not  to  give  him  the 
irritation  of  being  watched.  She  smiled, 
with  the  knowledge  of  brooding  trouble 
wiped  out  of  her  eyes,  and  held  up  the 
pan  she  had  just  finished  draining. 

"  It  is  the  best  of  all,  senor,"  she  said. 
It  was  a  rich  panning,  and  the  gleam  from 
the  tiny  grains  flashed  like  a  line  of  fire 
across  the  blackness  of  Adam's  mood. 
He  was  on  his  knees  by  her  in  a  second. 
He  caught  up  the  yellow  grains  in  his 
hand,  fingering  them  eagerly,  his  lips 
moving  in  some  quick  calculation.  He 
did  not  see  that  Olaya  watched  his  face 
with  wistful  concern.  He  did  not  see  her 
at  all.  When  she  held  open  the  buckskin 
bag  he  dropped  the  gold  in,  the  leaping 
fire  dying  from  his  eyes  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  flashed  up.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
again,  making  some  further  effort  to  cast 
off  the  shadow  of  the  past  two  days. 

"  You  have  taken  many  rich  pannings 
from  this  arroyo,  Olaya,"  he  said  idly. 

"  Yes,  and  they  doubled  with  your 
coming,  senor." 

"Is  the  Senora  very  well  satisfied  with 
what  you  bring  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  does  she  do  with  it?  "  The 
question  was  out  at  last,  surprising  Adam 
as  much  as  it  did  Olaya. 

She  looked  straight  up  at  him  from 
where  she  was  getting  her  next  pan 
ready. 


Winnowing  Gold 


51 


"I  have  never  asked  you  why  you 
needed  a  hidden  way,"  she  said. 

Adam  started,  reddening  violently. 
When  he  could  speak  he  said,  "  Olaya, 
I  knew  that  was  the  thing  you  guarded; 
I  did  not  mean  to  force  you  into  chiding 
me  —  the  gold  brought  it  out.  But  it  is 
the  thing  I  have  most  wanted  to  know  — 
what  the  Sefiora  and  those  seven  sons  do 
with  the  gold.  It  has  come  to  me  more 
and  more  that  it  is  not  a  good  thing;  if 
it  menaces  you  I've  got  to  know  it, 
Olaya." 

She  answered  him  gravely:  "  It  is  not 
of  me,  so  I  have  not  told  it.  It  is  all  of 
them;  and  it  does  not  menace  me,  senor. 
Also  it  was  not  fair  of  me  to  say  that  I 
had  not  asked  you  why  you  came  by  hid- 
den ways;  if  I  had  not  known  I  might 
have  asked  you  —  I  do  not  think  so,  but 
I  might." 

Adam  glanced  at  her  quickly.  "  Know 
why  I  keep  away  from  the  towns,  why  — 
how  could  you?" 

"  You  have  told  me  very  often." 

Adam  laughed  in  some  relief.  **  How 
have  I  told  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Ah,  how  can  I  remember  —  a  little 
word,  your  mouth;  a  look  —  your  eyes 
that  have  so  much  in  them  way  behind." 
Olaya  stood  up  now  and  the  girlishness 
slipped  away  from  her  —  she  was  a 
woman,  very  stern  and  appealing.  "  You 
looked  at  me  over  the  ledge  that  morning 
with  eyes  that  were  glad  of  what  they 
looked  at  because  —  oh,  you  did  not  say 
it  in  your  head  —  but  because  you  were 
forgetting  while  you  looked.  It  was  some 
wrong  to  yourself,  senor  —  it  was  not 
murder,  it  was  not  wrong  to  a  woman, 
nor  any  hateful  little  thing  like  theft  — 
it  was  a  wrong  to  yourself  that  you  love 
so  you  will  not  put  it  by  —  you  will  not, 
senor." 

"  Yes,"  said  Adam,  staring  at  her. 

"  '  Yes,'  you  say ;  you  could  —  for  you 
so  easy  —  you  could  say,  *  It  is  over, 
there ; '  and  make  it  over ;  but  you  love 
it  so  you  will  not,  and  let  it  chase  you  up 
and  down  like  a  coyote,  over  all  the  hid- 
den trails.  And  two  days  ago  I  saw  that 


thing  steal  into  this  arroyo  that  —  that 
you  have  called  the  arroyo  d  'oro,  for  its 
secret  meaning  to  you  and  to  me,  and 
write  its  name  on  your  face  —  I  know  it ! 
I  have  seen  that  thing  before!  " 

It  was  still  light,  but  Olaya  gathered 
her  tools  and  hid  them  away  in  the 
brush.  She  knotted  the  buckskin  bag 
about  her  waist  and  undid  the  blue 
kerchief  and  smoothed  it  deftly  over  her 
knee.  Adam  watched  her.  His  face  was 
drawn  in  lank,  white  lines,  like  a 
starched  garment. 

"  May  I  —  go  with  you  ?  "  He  tried 
to  smile  at  her,  but  his  lips  could  not. 
The  thing  in  his  eyes  was  worse  than 
tears.  "  You  once  said  that  a  man  who 
was  not  afraid  did  not  make  others  fear. 
Now  that  you  know  I  am  afraid,  will 
it  be  better  on  the  trail  alone?" 

"  You  may  always  come,  senor,"  said 
Olaya. 

So  they  went  down  through  the  tumble 
of  gray  hills  together  without  a  word, 
passed  the  cattle,  coming  up  from  their 
night  drinking  at  the  river  to  chew  their 
cud  under  the  mesquite  trees,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  turn  of  the  hill  above  the 
village,  the  lights  were  beginning  to  come 
out  in  all  the  squalid  jacals  of  the  flats. 
As  they  stood  there  for  the  moment,  to- 
gether, Adam  could  have  flung  himself 
down  and  clung  about  her  knees  with  the 
whole  hateful  heart  of  him  poured  out  to 
its  cleansing.  But  he  did  not.  He  only 
said,  a  little  too  gayly,  — 

"  Adios,  my  Saint  Olaya." 

"Is  it  to  drive  you  out  again  to- 
morrow, senor,"  she  asked  timidly.  "  Is 
it  for  always  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  pitching  his  voice  so 
he  could  handle  it.  "I  think  it  is.  You 
have  been  very  —  it  has  been  —  the 
morning  I  saw  you  — 

"  Do  not  say  it,"  she  cried,  in  a  broken 
whisper,  and  then,  rallying  a  little, 
"  Adios,  senor,  I  thank  you."  And  she 
was  away  like  a  fleeing  deer. 

Adam  did  not  go  back  to  his  camp,  but 
sat  down  close  to  the  trail  and  tried  to 
think  what  he  would  do.  Above  all  else 


Winnowing  Gold 


he  must  have  Olaya.  He  knew  that  the 
moment  she  took  flight.  And  then  he  put 
his  head  down  on  his  knees  and  said  to 
himself  that  she  was  right:  if  he  could 
once  say,  "  It  is  over,"  it  would  be;  but 
he  would  not  say  it.  He  told  himself,  too, 
that  if  she  had  been  kind  to  him  he  could 
have  thrown  off  the  curse  then  and  there. 
It  was  an  easy  refuge,  that  thought,  "  if 
she  had  been  kind  to  him ; "  and  he  stayed 
in  it  a  long  time.  When  shame  dragged 
him  out  of  it  at  last,  he  was  up  and 
started  along  the  village  road.  He  did 
not  know  just  what  he  was  going  to  do 
except  find  Olaya,  and  there  was  a  dumb 
sort  of  prayer  in  him  that  he  would  find 
her  soon.  From  all  the  jacals  along  the 
outskirts  lean  dogs  ran  out  to  bark  at 
him  and  snap  at  his  heels  and  run  yelp- 
ing away.  He  kicked  against  a  bone  or 
tin  can  every  second  or  two,  and  tangled 
bits  of  wire  caught  on  his  boot  and 
tripped  him.  He  could  see  the  dim  out- 
lines of  donkeys  and  hear  the  thud  of 
their  hobbled  feet  as  they  nosed  about 
the  dooryards  for  refuse  melon-rinds. 
Everywhere  there  rose  the  indescribable 
smell  of  a  Mexican  village. 

The  lights  were  very  few  and  dim  in 
the  centre  of  the  village.  Olaya  had  said 
the  place  in  which  she  lived  was  only 
"one  among  the  others,"  and  Adam  won- 
dered where  to  ask  for  her.  A  little  back 
from  the  road,  and  shielded  along  the 
front  by  mesquite  trees  and  palo  verdes, 
there  was  a  long  adobe  building  which 
was  not  a  jacal  at  all,  but  which  Adam 
thought  might  be  a  store,  only  it  was 
away  from  the  central  traffic  of  the  high- 
way. He  went  close  to  it  and  saw  that 
there  was  light  coming  from  the  chinks 
in  its  wooden  shutters.  He  went  around 
this  house,  wondering  how  late  it  was, 
and  if  he  should  knock,  and  what  Olaya 
would  say — how  she  would  look — when 
he  found  her.  And  then  his  thought  lost 
any  shape  at  all  with  the  throbbing  in 
his  throat. 

At  the  far  side  of  the  house,  against 
the  hills,  there  was  an  unshuttered 
window  that  drew  Adam  slowly  to  its 


gray  light.  He  went  up  to  it  hesitat- 
ingly, and  peered  through.  The  instant 
he  saw  the  interior,  he  was  on  his  knees 
with  his  face  flattened  against  the  pane 
and  his  hands  shielding  the  reflection. 
The  room  was  low-ceilinged  and  white- 
washed, with  kerosene  lamps  hung  at 
intervals  from  the  rafters  and  on  oppo- 
site walls;  but  what  was  filling  Adam's 
eyes  was  the  ten  or  more  smooth,  shining 
tables,  the  strained,  sallow  faces  above 
them,  the  piles  of  silver,  the  little  heaps 
of  golden  nuggets,  and  the  cards.  He 
looked  until  his  eyes  were  red  holes  in 
his  head  and  his  lips  dragged  free  of  his 
teeth  and  his  breath  whistled  in  and  out. 

Some  one  came  down  the  centre  of 
the  room  and  broke  the  spell  only  to  fix 
it  deeper.  It  was  a  Mexican  woman,  old 
and  very  fat,  but  with  erect,  complacent 
shoulders.  A  man  at  a  table  near-by 
raised  his  eyes  to  her  and  she  went  to 
deal  there.  Adam  could  see  the  man  wet 
his  lips  with  his  tongue  and  glance  fur- 
tively at  his  companion.  He  put  his  hand 
up  to  his  own  mouth  and  wiped  away  the 
slaver  that  was  smearing  it,  and  then 
began  feeling  through  his  pockets,  hur- 
riedly, and  spying  about  the  room  for 
the  entrance.  There  was  a  heavy,  rough- 
hewn  door  at  one  end,  and  Adam  thought 
some  one  leaned  against  the  lintel  there; 
but  it  was  too  dark  to  be  sure  —  it  might 
be  a  hanging  garment.  The  trouble  and 
fight  of  the  two  days  past  was  out  of  his 
face  now ;  his  eyes  were  black  with  a  gust 
of  new  life.  He  crept  along  the  wall  and 
around  the  corner  and  tapped,  ever  so 
lightly;  then  he  leaned  against  the  jamb, 
for  he  was  trembling. 

A  firm  hand  unlatched  the  door  and 
swung  it  back  quickly,  but  Adam  had 
time  to  think  that  it  really  must  have  been 
some  one  close  to  the  door  that  he  had 
seen  —  almost  the  hand  on  the  latch 
waiting  for  his  signal.  He  drew  himself 
up  from  the  door-jamb,  and  then  caught 
at  it  again,  checked  with  such  sudden 
reaction  that  he  leaned  there  bewildered, 
for  Olaya  stood  between  him  and  the 
light  of  the  room  beyond.  Shame  swept 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu 


53 


over  him  first,  and  then  understanding 
came  in  a  great  rush,  carrying  him  out 
of  himself,  and  with  that,  the  full  revela- 
tion of  those  days  in  the  golden  arroyo. 

Olaya's  eyes,  scornful  and  appealing, 
searched  his  face. 

"  Will  you  come  in  —  sefior?  "  she 
said. 

"  No,"  said  Adam.  He  caught  hold 
of  her  hand.  "Come  away,"  he  said, 
"  come  away  from  this  —  come,"  and  he 
dragged  her  out  of  the  doorway. 

She  swung  the  big  door  to  behind  her, 
and  for  a  second  they  stood,  breathing 
fast,  and  each  blinking  to  see  the  other's 
face  in  the  sudden  darkness.  And  then 
Adam's  hands  groped  for  her  and  she 
was  in  his  arms,  being  hurried,  stum- 
bling along,  to  the  road.  "Sefior  Adam! 
Sefior  Adam !  "  she  kept  whispering,  but 
it  was  from  out  her  own  clinging  arms 
that  soothed  him. 


"  You ! "  he  said  at  last.  "  You  to  come 
out  of  a  hell  like  that  —  you!  " 

"  I  have  not  been  there  much,  sefior. 
I  dry- wash  the  arroyos  to  keep  from  it; 
only  just  now  I  have  been  —  two  or  three 
times." 

"  How  could  you  —  how  could  you  — 
if  that  harpy  made  you  — 

"  She  did  not  make  me,  sefior.  I 
feared  you  would  come  —  I  knew  you 
would  come  —  I  had  to  be  there !  " 

"  You  knew  I  would  come?  " 

"  Yes,  sefior,"  she  pleaded,  and 
laughed  through  her  pleading  because 
his  arms  were  so  close  they  hurt  her. 
"  Where  are  you  taking  me,  sefior  ?  " 

"  Where  is  that  priest  who  taught  you 
to  know  men  ?  " 

"  Are  we  going  to  him?  "  whispered 
Olaya,  turning  her  face  down  the  river. 

"  Yes." 

"  This  is  the  way,  senor." 


A  NEW  LIFE  OF  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 


BY   PAUL    ELMER    MORE 


THE  LETTERS  of  Lady  Mary,  as  ed- 
ited by  Mr.  W.  Moy  Thomas,  with  the 
editor's  Memoir,  and  the  Introductory 
Notes  of  her  granddaughter,  Lady  Lou- 
isa Stuart,  had,  I  confess,  never  been 
able  to  dispel  the  impression  of  that 
female  wit  left  by  the  two  satirists,  who 
in  succession  link  the  whole  eighteenth 
century  together  with  a  chain  of  glitter- 
ing scandal.  So  much  is  there  omitted 
from  her  correspondence,  so  much  of  the 
panegyric  must  be  taken  on  credit,  that 
in  the  end  memory  still  reads  under  the 
portrait  Pope's  "Furious  Sappho"  and 
Walpole's  "  Moll  Worthless." 

Unfortunately,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
the  new  work  l  by  Miss  E.  M.  Symonds 

1  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  and  Her 
Times.  By  GEORGE  PASTON.  New  York: 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1907. 


("  George  Paston  ")  clears  up  the  real 
obscurity  of  her  career,  for  at  the  very 
critical  point  of  the  story  the  docu- 
ments are  still  in  part  missing  and  in 
part  withheld.  But  it  does  add  a  good 
deal  to  our  knowledge  of  another  period, 
and  so  far  serves  strongly  to  justify  the 
wife  —  at  the  expense  of  the  husband. 
I  say  period,  for  Lady  Mary's  life,  more 
than  is  commonly  the  case,  was  sharply 
marked  off  by  circumstances.  There  are 
at  the  beginning  the  years  of  her  court- 
ship and  early  married  experience ;  these 
are  followed  by  the  long  journey  through 
Europe  and  the  residence  in  Turkey; 
then,  for  the  third  period,  we  find  her 
again  in  Great  Britain,  now  a  confessed 
belle  and  wit,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
notorious  circle  of  Twickenham;  and, 
last,  comes  the  lonely  exile  in  Italy  and 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


France,  with  the  final  journey  home  to 
arrange  her  affairs  and  to  die. 

Now,  for  one  of  these  periods,  the  first, 
Miss  Symonds  has  a  mass  of  new  and 
really  enlightening  material.  By  the  kind- 
ness of  the  Earl  of  Harrowby  she  was  per- 
mitted to  examine  the  Wortley- Montagu 
manuscripts  at  Sandon  Hall,  where  she 
found  a  hundred  and  more  unpublished 
letters  from  Lady  Mary,  with  some  fifty 
or  sixty  written  by  Mr.  Wortley;  and  it  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  portions 
of  these  printed  in  the  present  memoir 
give  us  the  clue  to  one  of  the  most  ex- 
traordinary tales  of  courtship  and  elope- 
ment ever  enacted. 

Mary  Pierrepont  was  born  in  London, 
in  1689,  her  father  being  the  great- 
grandson  of  the  first  Earl  of  Kingston 
and  himself  afterwards  the  fifth  earl.  Her 
infancy  she  passed  with  her  grandmother, 
but  from  her  eighth  year,  her  mother  and 
grandmother  being  both  dead,  she  grew 
up  without  any  proper  feminine  over- 
sight. Her  father,  she  says  in  an  auto- 
biographical fragment,  "  though  natur- 
ally an  honest  man,  was  abandoned  to 
his  pleasures,  and  (like  most  of  those  of 
his  quality)  did  not  think  himself  obliged 
to  be  very  attentive  to  his  children's  edu- 
cation." But  he  was  at  least  proud  of 
his  little  daughter,  and  one  of  his  acts 
shows  her  in  a  situation  so  picturesque 
in  itself  and  so  significant,  that  it  cannot 
be  omitted  here,  however  familiar  it  may 
be  from  repetition.  Lady  Louisa  Stuart 
tells  the  story:  — 

"  As  a  leader  of  the  fashionable  world, 
and  a  strenuous  Whig  in  party,  he  of 
course  belonged  to  the  Kit-Cat  Club. 
One  day,  at  a  meeting  to  choose  toasts 
for  the  year,  a  whim  seized  him  to  nomi- 
nate her,  then  not  eight  years  old,  a  can- 
didate; alleging  that  she  was  far  prettier 
than  any  lady  on  their  list.  The  othqr 
members  demurred,  because  the  rules  of 
the  club  forbade  them  to  elect  a  beauty 
whom  they  had  never  seen.  '  Then  you 
shall  see  her,'  cried  he;  and  in  the  gaiety 
of  the  moment  sent  orders  home  to  have 
her  finely  dressed  and  brought  to  him  at 


the  tavern,  where  she  was  received  with 
acclamations,  her  claim  unanimously 
allowed,  her  health  drunk  by  every  one 
present,  and  her  name  engraved  in  due 
form  upon  a  drinking-glass.  The  com- 
pany consisting  of  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent men  in  England,  she  went  from  the 
lap  of  one  poet,  or  patriot,  or  statesman, 
to  the  arms  of  another,  was  feasted  with 
sweetmeats,  overwhelmed  with  caresses, 
and,  what  perhaps  already  pleased  her 
better  than  either,  heard  her  wit  and 
beauty  loudly  extolled  on  every  side. 
Pleasure,  she  said,  was  too  poor  a  word 
to  express  her  sensations ;  they  amounted 
to  ecstasy;  never  again,  throughout  her 
whole  future  life,  did  she  pass  so  happy 
.a  day." 

Poor  little  lady!  it  seems  that  even  in 
childhood  she  was  to  be  the  victim  of  her 
wit  and  beauty;  she  little  recked  how 
ruthlessly  in  later  life  men  were  to  deal 
with  these  lauded  gifts.  But  there  was  an 
extraordinary  trial  of  patience  and  sub- 
mission for  her  to  undergo  before  she 
came  to  the  real  battle  of  life.  Among  her 
girl  friends  in  London  were  Anne  and 
Katherine  Wortley  Montagu,  at  whose 
home  she  became  acquainted  with  that 
small  wit  and  unconscionable  prig,  Ed- 
ward Wortley  Montagu,  the  friend  of 
Addison  and  Steele,  the  "  Gripus  "  and 
"  Avidien  "  of  Pope. 

When,  in  1709,  she  went  to  Thoresby 
in  the  country  she  must  of  course  ex- 
change letters  with  her  dear  Anne  at 
Wharncliffe  some  thirty  miles  away,  and 
what  more  natural  than  that  the  brother 
should  take  a  hand  in  the  correspond- 
ence ?  At  first  he  merely  directs  his  sister, 
speaking  of  himself  in  the  third  person; 
but  he  becomes  more  and  more  in  evi- 
dence, and  after  the  death  of  Anne,  in 
that  same  year,  we  find  him  writing  to 
Lady  Mary  as  a  professed  but  secret  lover. 
He  did  indeed  approach  her  father  for 
her  hand,  and  was  at  first  favored.  But 
an  obstinate  quarrel  soon  arose  over  the 
settlements;  Mr.  Wortley,  who  showed 
early  the  penurious  traits  that  afterwards 
grew  to  a  vice,  refused  to  settle  property 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


55 


on  an  unborn  heir  who  might  —  as  in- 
deed he  proved  in  the  sequence  to  do 
—  turn  out  a  spendthrift  and  wanton; 
while  Lady  Mary's  father  would  not  risk 
seeing  his  grandchildren  left  beggars. 
Pin-money  and  jointures  also  came  in 
to  embitter  the  wrangle.  Mr.  Wortley's 
arguments  on  that  topic  may  be  read 
in  one  of  the  Taller  papers,  worked  up 
by  Steele  from  his  notes,  and  the  whole 
ignoble  dispute  furnished  Richardson 
with  his  material  for  the  episode  of  Sir 
Thomas  Grandison  and  his  daughter 
Caroline. 

The  twists  and  turns  of  the  corre- 
spondence that  followed  between  the 
young  man  and  the  young  woman,  the 
clandestine  meetings  at  the  house  of 
Richard  Steele  and  elsewhere,  the  secret 
messengers,  the  bribery  of  servants,  the 
evasions  and  hesitations,  the  romantic 
elopement  in  the  end  —  all  these  may  be 
read  in  the  letters  quoted  by  Miss  Sy- 
monds ;  a  tale  not  easily  matched  in  the 
tortuous-wooing  fiction  of  the  age.  In 
the  end  Lady  Mary  comes  out  far  better 
than  her  swain;  it  is  clear  that  she  fell 
heartily  in  love  with  her  incomprehen- 
sible suitor,  and  endured  his  bickerings 
and  insulting  insinuations  despite  the 
protests  of  reason  and  pride.  She  has  her 
maidenly  reserves  in  language,  and  at 
times  she  can  argue  with  canny  prudence ; 
but  on  the  whole  one  gets  from  her  let- 
ters the  impression  of  a  troubled  com- 
mon sense  and  of  a  natural  girlishness 
playing  the  role  of  wisdom. 

Mr.  Wortley  is  simply  an  insufferable 
egoist;  it  is  not  easy  to  use  language  too 
strong  for  his  ignoble  jealousies.  He  has 
been  compared,  not  inaptly,  with  Sir 
Willoughby  Patterne,  — .a  very  stodgy 
and  mercenary  Sir  Willoughby,  one  must 
add,  —  and  Lady  Mary  in  these  early 
years  might  be  likened  not  unfairly  to 
Clara  Middleton.  Mr.  Wortley's  game  is 
simply  to  draw  out  the  lady's  unshamed 
confession  of  love  without  compromising 
his  own  calculating  reserve,  and  to  sub- 
due her  to  complete  absorption  in  him- 
self without  surrendering  any  of  his  own 


precious  independence.  It  is,  in  the  sec- 
ond part  at  least,  a  well-recognized  mas- 
culine sport,  but  you  resent  the  spectacle 
when  the  fairest  and  wittiest  woman  in 
England  is  the  victim,  and  you  are  not 
unprepared  to  pardon  if  in  due  time  she 
gets  her  revenge. 

This  intriguing  despotism  might  be 
dismissed  with  calling  the  gentleman  a 
cad,  or  a  "  puppy,"  to  take  the  word  of 
his  own  day,  but  you  cannot  help  asking 
all  the  while  what  it  is  that  so  keeps  his 
suspicions  and  jealousies  on  edge.  Grant- 
ed the  initial  wrong  of  deceiving  her 
father,  the  language  and  acts  of  Lady 
Mary  were,  so  far  as  they  appear,  with- 
out reproach.  At  first  his  complaints  are 
inexplicable,  and  then,  as  you  read,  a 
certain  note  comes  up  so  frequently  that 
you  begin  to  discern  a  reason  which,  if 
it  does  not  excuse,  yet  throws  some  light 
on  his  uneasiness.  "  Could  any  woman," 
he  says,  "  write  with  so  much  wit,  and  be 
so  much  upon  her  guard,  with  one  she 
was  afraid  of  losing?"  And  again,  "I 
beg  you  will  this  once  try  to  avoid  being 
witty,  and  to  write  in  a  style  of  business, 
tho'  it  should  appear  to  you  as  flat  as 
mine."  And  still  more  frankly,  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  how  to  deceive  me,  if  you  think 
it  worth  your  while?  Avoid  seeming 
witty  (which  all  do  naturally  when  they 
are  serious),  and  say  nothing  that  does 
not  seem  probable." 

The  simple  fact  is  that  this  dull, 
plodding  fellow  felt  the  superiority  of 
Lady  Mary's  mind,  and  winced  at  it. 
He  could  not  understand  her  vivacity, 
which  at  once  attracted  and  discon- 
certed him.  It  is  the  same  story  that 
makes  the  whole  triumph  and  trag- 
edy of  her  life.  As  a  wit  precociously 
versed  in  the  classics  and  endowed  with 
the  seemingly  incongruous  charm  of 
beauty,  Lady  Mary  first  attracted  her 
husband  and  afterwards  conqmered  so- 
ciety ;  it  was  the  same  quality  that  awak- 
ened his  suspicions  and  in  the  end  helped 
to  drive  her  out  of  England.  She  might 
well  have  wished  the  words  of  Ovid  in- 
scribed on  her  tomb:  INQENIO  PERU, 


56 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


trusting  that  the  world  would  not  add: 
tenerorum  lusor  amorum. 

But  of  her  character  as  a  wit  it  will  be 
time  to  speak  more  specifically  when  she 
has  returned  from  Constantinople  in  the 
fullness  of  her  reputation.  For  a  while 
after  her  marriage,  in  1712,  she  was  con- 
siderately kept  in  the  country,  while  her 
jealous  and  already  neglectful  lord  at- 
tended to  business  and  pleasure  —  and 
commonly  the  two  were  one  to  that  pru- 
dent soul  —  in  the  city.  Part  of  the  time 
she  was  alone,  at  other  times  she  stayed 
with  her  husband's  relatives  or  was 
graced  with  his  own  condescending  pre- 
sence. There  were  cares  of  house-furn- 
ishing and  housekeeping  to  occupy  her, 
and  in  due  season  the  nursing  of  her  son, 
who  was  to  turn  out  one  of  the  reproaches 
of  England  and  the  particular  horror  of 
his  mother.  She  endured  dutifully  these 
years  of  surly  neglect,  but  the  experience 
left  its  sting,  and  apparently  helped  to 
harden  her  character.  "  I  was  then 
[1714]  in  Yorkshire,"  she  afterwards 
wrote.  "  Mr.  W.  (who  had  at  that  time, 
that  sort  of  passion  for  me,  that  would 
have  made  me  invisible  to  all  but  himself, 
had  it  been  in  his  power)  had  sent  me 
thither.  He  stayed  in  town  on  the  ac- 
count of  some  business,  and  the  Queen's 
death  detained  him  there."  The  fretful 
ennui  of  "  The  Bride  in  the  Country  " 
forms  the  subject  of  one  of  .her  satirical 
ballads. 

But  release  was  near.  She  had  aided 
her  husband  as  she  could,  and  even 
pushed  him  forward  in  his  political  am- 
bitions. 

In  1716  Mr.  Wortley  was  appointed 
Ambassador  to  the  Porte,  and  on  Au- 
gust 1,  he,  with  his  wife,  three-year-old 
son,  and  suite  set  out  for  Constantinople. 
I  shall  not  follow  them  on  their  journey 
across  the  Continent,  nor  try  to  give  an 
account  of  what  Lady  Mary  saw,  and  so 
vividly  described,  in  Paris  and  Vienna,  in 
the  wild  regions  of  Hungary,  and  then  in 
the  home  of  the  Turk.  She  was  an  ideal 
traveler,  adapting  herself  facilely  to  the 
customs  of  the  place,  and  feeling  no  prud- 


ish alarm  at  the  different  moral  codes 
that  met  her.  In  particular  she  writes 
with  curious  complacency  of  the  Aus- 
trian "  sub-marriages,"  and  remarks  of 
the  Italian  ladies  that  "  the  custom  of 
cicisbeos  has  very  much  improved  their 
airs."  It  is  only  fair  to  add  her  amusing 
apology  from  Vienna:  "  I'll  assure  you, 
a  lady,  who  is  very  much  my  friend  here, 
told  me  but  yesterday,  how  much  I  was 
obliged  to  her  for  justifying  my  conduct 
in  a  conversation  on  my  subject,  where 
it  was  publicly  asserted  that  I  could  not 
possibly  have  common  sense,  that  I  had 
been  about  town  above  a  fortnight,  and 
had  made  no  steps  towards  commencing 
an  amour."  And  at  Constantinople  she 
found  the  ways  of  life  peculiarly  to  her 
taste;  the  Turkish  women  she  declared 
to  be  "  the  only  free  people  in  the  em- 
pire." 

All  these  things  she  described  in  let- 
ters of  which,  after  the  manner  of  the 
age,  she  kept  faithful,  or  unfaithful, 
copies,  or  which  she  afterwards  wrote  up 
for  the  half-public  from  her  diaries.  On 
them  her  fame  as  a  writer  depends  almost 
exclusively  to-day,  and  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  they  fully  deserve  their  repu- 
tation. Letters  of  travel  somehow  have 
generally  less  staying  power  than  those 
from  home;  what  they  give  can  be  better 
given  in  a  formal  treatise,  while  they  miss 
the  little  touches  of  satire  and  friendship, 
the  pleasant  familiarities,  the  display  of 
character  at  ease  in  its  proper  environ- 
ment, which  make  the  charm  or  the 
humor  of  the  best  correspondence.  These 
qualities  for  the  most  part  Lady  Mary's 
epistles,  as  they  may  be  called,  do  not 
possess.  But  they  have  other  traits,  rarer, 
if  less  engaging.  She  shows  a  kind  of 
familiarity  with  things  strange,  which 
carries  the  reader  with  her.  Her  lan- 
guage is  clear  and  firm,  but  less  formal 
than  that  of  Pope  and  Bolingbroke  and 
the  other  professed  epistolary  authors  of 
the  day.  She  puts  a  curb  on  their  in- 
curable trick  of  dealing  in  moral  plati- 
tudes. In  a  word,  she  strikes  the  happy 
and  difficult  balance  between  the  general 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


57 


and  the  particular,  the  descriptive  and 
the  personal.  She  stands  to  the  front 
among  the  second  grade  of  letter- writers. 

One  feels  her  excellence  in  a  special 
way  in  the  letters  exchanged  with  Pope, 
who  is  here  by  no  means  at  his  best.  For 
a  short  while  before  their  departure  for 
the  East  she  had  been  permitted  by  Mr. 
Wortley  to  live  in  London  and  to  renew 
her  acquaintance  with  the  intellectual 
society  of  whom  Pope  was  the  acknow- 
ledged chief,  and  it  was  under  this  ex- 
citing stimulus  that  she  wrote  her  Town 
Eclogues,  three  of  which  the  mysterious 
Curll  published  piratically,  in  1715,  un- 
der the  title  of  Court  Poems  by  a  Lady  of 
Quality,  with  the  intimation  that  they 
were  really  composed  by  "  the  laudable 
translator  of  Homer."  They  were  appar- 
ently handed  about  the  coterie  in  manu- 
script, and  were  but  one  move  in  the 
dangerous  game  Lady  Mary  then  began 
to  play.  At  any  rate,  the  intimacy  be- 
tween her  and  Pope  quickly  ripened  to 
gallantry,  and  letters  of  the  most  exag- 
gerated sentiment  followed  the  lady  on 
her  Eastern  wanderings.  He  would  be 
a  bold  critic  who  should  attempt  to  say 
how  much  of  this  philandering  on  the 
part  of  the  little  man  was  sincere,  and 
how  much  a  bad  literary  copy  of  the  let- 
ters of  Voiture;  likely  enough  the  writer 
himself  would  have  been  puzzled  to  dis- 
criminate ;  it  was  the  prescribed  role.  We 
may  give  him  the  credit  of  believing  that 
at  times  a  note  of  genuine  passion  is 
heard  breaking  through,  or  making  use 
of,  the  convention  of  the  day  —  as  in  that 
touching  appeal  to  her  after  a  fit  of  ill- 
ness :  — 

"  This  last  winter  has  seen  great  revo- 
lutions in  my  little  affairs.  My  sickness 
was  preceded  by  the  death  of  my  father, 
which  happened  within  a  few  days  after 
I  had  writ  to  you  inviting  myself  to  meet 
you  in  your  journey  homewards.  I  have 
yet  a  mother  of  great  age  and  infirmities, 
whose  last  precarious  days  of  life  I  am 
now  attending,  with  such  a  solemn  pious 
kind  of  officiousness  as  a  melancholy  re- 
cluse watches  the  last  risings  and  fallings 


of  a  dying  taper.  My  natural  temper  is 
pretty  much  broke,  and  I  live  half  a  her- 
mit within  five  miles  of  London  [at  Chis- 
wick].  A  letter  from  you  soothes  me  in 
my  reveries ;  it  is  like  a  conversation  with 
some  spirit  of  the  other  world,  the  least 
glimpse  of  whose  favor  sets  one  above 
all  taste  of  the  things  of  this:  indeed, 
there  is  little  or  nothing  angelical  left  be- 
hind you;  the  women  here  are —  women. 
I  cannot  express  how  I  long  to  see  you 
face  to  face;  if  ever  you  come  again,  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  behave  with  de- 
cency. I  shall  walk,  look  and  talk  at 
such  a  rate,  that  all  the  town  must  know  I 
have  seen  something  more  than  human. 
Come,  for  God's  sake;  come,  Lady 
Mary;  come  quickly!  " 

And  how  did  the  lady,  addressed  in 
these  tones  of  almost  blasphemous  devo- 
tion, reply  ?  In  the  extreme  of  good  sense, 
it  must  be  allowed.  From  Vienna  she 
had  written  the  14th  September,  1716: 

"  Perhaps  you'll  laugh  at  me  for 
thanking  you  gravely,  for  all  the  obliging 
concern  you  express  for  me.  'T  is  certain 
that  I  may,  if  I  please,  take  the  fine  things 
you  say  to  me  for  wit  and  raillery,  and  it 
may  be  it  would  be  taking  them  right. 
But  I  never  in  my  life  was  half  so  dis- 
posed to  believe  you  in  earnest;  and  that 
distance  which  makes  the  continuation 
of  your  friendship  improbable,  has  very 
much  increased  my  faith  in  it,  and  I  find 
that  I  have  (as  well  as  the  rest  <rf  my  sex), 
whatever  face  I  set  on't,  a  strong  dispo- 
sition to  believe  in  miracles." 

That  is  not  just  the  answer  we  may 
fancy  to  have  been  desired  by  a  gentle- 
man who  no  doubt  preferred  the  wit  to 
be  all  on  his  own  side  and  the  simplicity 
on  the  lady's.  If  there  is  any  one  single- 
minded  utterance  in  his  correspondence, 
it  is  the  exclamation:  "  A  plague  of  fe- 
male wisdom :  It  makes  a  man  ten  times 
more  uneasy  than  his  wont."  Again, 
poor  Lady  Mary!  she  was  yet  to  learn, 
what  she  might  have  guessed  from  such 
a  confession,  that  superiority  in  a  woman 
is  an  attraction  that  too  often  turns  into 
what  most  repels. 


58 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


There  was,  one  sees,  a  pretty  casiis 
belli  lurking  under  this  exchange  of  court- 
esies from  the  beginning,  and  the  quar- 
rel, when  it  came,  was  sure  to  be  bitter 
and  relentless.  In  1718  the  Wortleys  were 
recalled,  and  Lady  Mary  returned  home 
reluctantly,  carrying  with  her  a  daugh- 
ter, —  destined,  after  a  season  of  anxiety, 
to  give  her  as  much  satisfaction  as  her 
son  was  to  bring  disgrace,  —  the  practice 
of  inoculation,  which  with  much  diffi- 
culty she  got  naturalized  in  England, 
and  —  to  join  things  disparate  —  a  mind 
quite  disencumbered  of  conventions. 

In  England,  we  soon  find  the  family 
established  at  Twickenham,  where  Pope 
(it  was  Lady  Mary  herself  who  later  on 
dubbed  him  "  the  wicked  wasp  of  Twick- 
enham ")  had  made  himself  the  centre 
of  a  little  society  of  wits,  and  from  whence 
he  shot  his  venomous  bolts  at  any  one 
who  balked  at  his  intellectual  and  moral 
supremacy.  I  should  like,  from  the  me- 
moirs and  letters  of  the  day,  to  draw  out 
a  picture  of  that  brilliant  and  perilous 
society.  Across  the  river  lay  Richmond 
Lodge;  Hampton  Court  and  Kew,  with 
their  royal  associations,  were  near  by; 
Dawley,  where  Bolingbroke  retired  to 
sulk  and  scheme,  was  also  within  driv- 
ing distance.  And  when  the  resources 
of  these  places  failed,  London  offered  its 
dissipations,  was,  indeed,  already  push- 
ing its  way  up  the  river  to  absorb  these 
half-rural  retreats.  Lady  Mary,  we  may 
presume,  was  heartily  welcomed  into  this 
circle.  A  "  rake  at  reading,"  as  she 
called  herself,  she  had  at  the  age  of 
twenty  translated  the  Latin  version  of 
Epictetus  under  the  direction  of  Gilbert 
Burnet,  Bishop  of  Salisbury.  Her  satir- 
ical poems  had  already  attracted  notice, 
and  her  fame  had  been  increased  by  her 
letters,  which,  after  the  manner  of  the 
day,  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 
Now,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  she  was  return- 
ing, in  the  full  flush  of  her  beauty,  and 
with  the  glamour  of  the  East  upon  her. 
Pope  had  made  "  Wortley's  eyes  "  noto- 
rious, and  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
passion  and,  so  to  speak,  proprietorship. 


It  is  not  strange  if  the  lady's  head  was 
turned  for  a  while,  and  if  she  fell  into  a 
way  of  life  that  invited  scandal.  "  In 
general,"  she  writes  to  her  sister,  "  gal- 
lantry never  was  in  so  elevated  a  figure 
as  it  is  at  present.  Twenty  pretty  fel- 
lows (the  Duke  of  Wharton  being  presi- 
dent and  chief  director)  have  formed 
themselves  into  a  committee  of  gallantry. 
They  call  themselves  Schemers,  and  meet 
regularly  three  tunes  a  week  to  consult 
on  gallant  schemes  for  the  advantage  and 
advancement  of  that  branch  of  happi- 
ness. .  .  .  'T  is  true  they  have  the  envy 
and  curses  of  the  old  and  ugly  of  both 
sexes,  and  a  general  persecution  from  all 
old  women;  but  this  is  no  more  than 
all  reformations  must  expect  in  their  be- 
ginning." The  friendship  of  Wharton 
("  Poor  W.  .  .  .  nipt  in  folly's  broadest 
bloom!  ")  was  not  without  its  danger  for 
the  woman  who  accepted  it,  and  there 
are  other  names  that  have  become  asso- 
ciated too  closely  with  Lady  Mary's.  She 
may  have  reckoned  on  this  peril  when 
she  entered  the  lists  of  gallantry,  but, 
though  warned,  she  can  scarcely  have 
foreseen  the  true  nature  of  the  calamity 
before  her  from  the  other  side  of  that  life. 

"  It  was  about  the  time  of  Cowley," 
says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  that  wit,  which  had 
been  till  then  used  for  Intellection,  in 
contradiction  to  Will,  took  the  meaning, 
whatever  it  be,  which  it  now  bears."  Dr. 
Johnson  needed  only  to  consult  the  career 
of  his  favorite  Pope  to  have  spoken  more 
precisely;  or,  indeed,  he  might  have 
quoted  Pope's  explicit  words :  "  The  life 
of  a  wit  is  a  warfare  upon  earth."  And 
it  was  a  war  for  hearth  and  gods;  said 
Chesterfield  one  day  in  Parliament,  giv- 
ing at  once  a  shrewd  definition  and  an 
apt  illustration:  "Wit,  my  Lords,  is  a 
sort  of  property  —  the  property  of  those 
who  have  it,  and  too  often  the  only  pro- 
perty they  have  to  depend  on.  It  is  in- 
deed a  precarious  dependence.  We,  my 
Lords,  thank  God,  have  a  dependence 
of  another  kind."  The  game  was  simply 
to  raise  one's  self  in  estimation  by  ren- 
dering a  rival,  or,  if  need  be,  a  friend, 


/ 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu 


59 


ridiculous  or  odious.  Cleverness  was  the 
arms,  vanity  the  motive.  Personal  satire 
was  raised  into  the  chief  branch  of  liter- 
ature, and  the  motto  to  all  comers,  Woe 
to  the  vanquished.  Every  feint  of  warfare 
was  legitimate  —  so  long  as  it  was  not 
made  ignominious  by  detection.  One  of 
the  commonest  strategems,  as  old  in  prac- 
tice as  the  days  of  Martial,  but  now  em- 
ployed scientifically,  was  to  write  a  libel- 
ous  poem  and  accuse  another  of  being 
the  author,  whereby  you  killed  two  birds 
with  one  stone  — 

Vipereumque  vomat  nostro  sub  nomine  virus. 
The  result  is  a  literature  which  would  be 
deprived  of  all  human  interest,  were  not 
envy  and  malice,  like  an  inverted  charity, 
one  of  the  strongest  and  most  binding  of 
social  instincts. 

Now,  the  tragedy  of  Lady  Mary's  life 
was  just  this,  that,  being  a  woman,  and 
a  beautiful  woman  of  the  world,  she  en- 
tered the  lists  and  was  beaten.  Men 
could  take  their  bufferings  and  continue 
in  the  fight.  Mrs.  Manley,  too,  might 
shock  society  and  even  suffer  imprison- 
ment for  her  libelous  New  Atlantis  — 
she  had  no  character  to  lose.  Mrs.  Astell 
might  brave  the  world  and  the  male 
"  puppies  "  by  her  Essay  in  Defence  of 
the  Female  Sex  —  she  was  never  properly 
of  the  world.  And,  at  a  later  date,  Mrs. 
Montagu  and  the  other  Hues  might  write 
and  palaver  to  fheir  heart's  content  — 
they  were  careful  not  to  enter  into  real 
competition  with  their  sensitive  lords; 
they  belong  to  the  distinctly  female  cur- 
rent of  eighteenth-century  life.  But  it  was 
otherwise  with  Lady  Mary.  She  took  the 
field  where  her  name  was  at  stake,  and 
having  lost  that,  she  lost  all.  She  found 
that  in  this  game  the  men,  like  the  Abbe 
Galiani's  grand  fripon  la-haut,  played 
with  loaded  dice.  It  may  seem  to  us  un- 
just, hard,  absurd;  it  was  the  fact. 

She  herself  knew  the  prejudice  under 
which  she  fought.  As  early  as  1710  she 
had  written  to  her  mentor,  Dr.  Burnet: 
"  There  is  hardly  a  character  in  the  world 
more  despicable,  or  more  liable  to  uni- 
versal ridicule,  than  that  of  a  learned 


woman."  Nor  was  she  without  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  tenderness  of  a  wo- 
man's name  under  scandal.  There  was, 
for  instance,  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Murray, 
who  had  been  attacked  by  her  footmen. 
-  "  A  very  odd  whim  has  entered  the 
head  of  little  Mrs.  Murray,"  writes  our 
Lady;  "  do  you  know  she  won't  visit  me 
this  winter?  I,  according  to  the  usual 
integrity  of  my  heart  and  simplicity  of 
my  manners,  with  great  naivete  desired 
to  explain  with  her  on  the  subject,  and 
she  answered  that  she  was  convinced  that 
I  had  made  the  ballad  upon  her,  and  was 
resolved  never  to  speak  to  me  again."  It 
is  an  odd  thing  that  so  much  of  Lady 
Mary's  trouble  should  have  arisen  from 
poems  she  did  not  write.  And  as  for  this 
indecent  ballad,  whether  she  was  guilty 
of  it  or  not,  she  certainly  stands  credit- 
ed with  an  "  Epistle  from  Arthur  Grey, 
the  Footman,"  which  might  well  bring  a 
blush  to  the  "  lovely  nymph  "  to  whom 
it  is  so  flatteringly  addressed. 

And  of  the  more  particular  source  of 
danger  Lady  Mary  certainly  received 
due  warning.  Addison  had  written  to 
her:  "  Leave  Pope  as  soon  as  you  can; 
he  will  certainly  play  you  some  devilish 
triek  else;  "  but  she  preferred  to  dally 
with  the  fire.  As  to  the  causes  of  the  quar- 
rel, the  new  biography,  unfortunately, 
leaves  us  as  much  at  puzzle  as  we  were 
before;  the  documents  are  still,  and  ap- 
parently will  always  be,  wanting.  Ac- 
cording to  the  tradition  preserved  by 
Lady  Louisa  Stuart,  Lady  Mary's  own 
statement  was  "  that  at  some  ill-chosen 
time,  when  she  least  expected  what  ro- 
mances call  a  declaration,  he  made  such 
passionate  love  to  her,  as,  in  spite  of  her 
utmost  endeavors  to  be  angry  and  look 
grave,  provoked  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter ;  from  which  moment  he  became 
her  implacable  enemy" — naturally,  and 
for  the  same  reason  that  he  raged  at 
Colley  Gibber's  infamous  anecdote.  But 
there  is  large  room  to  doubt  Lady 
Louisa's  story.  It  is  notable,  for  one 
thing,  that  as  early  as  1722  Lady  Mary 
"  very  seldom  "  saw  "  Mr.  Pope,"  where- 


60 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 


as  the  rupture  did  not  occur  until  about 
1727,  when,  it  may  be  observed,  she  was 
in  her  thirty-ninth  year.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  Spence  gives  quite  a  different,  and 
utterly  trivial,  explanation  of  the  breach, 
which  he  professes  to  have  had  from 
Lady  Mary.  And  as  for  Pope,  his  story 
is  that  "  he  discontinued  their  society 
[that  of  Lady  Mary  and  Lord  Hervey] 
because  he  found  they  had  too  much  wit 
for  him"  —which,  in  a  general  way, 
sounds  likest  the  truth.  At  least  it  tallies 
with  the  account  of  the  matter  that  Pope 
repeated  in  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot  : 
Yet  soft  by  nature,  more  a  dupe  than  wit, 
Sappho  can  tell  you  how  this  man  was  bit. 

More  dupe  than  wit !  No,  that  is  too  bad, 
Mr.  Pope;  let  us  take  your  manuscript 
version :  — 

Once,  and  but  once,  his  heedless  youth  was  bit, 
And  liked  that  dangerous  thing,  a  female  wit : 
Safe,  as  he  thought,  though  all  the  prudent 

chid; 
He  writ  no  libels,  but  my  Lady  did. 

Now,  whether  the  scurrilous  ballads  on 
Pope,  published  by  the  Duke  of  Wharton 
or  Sir  William  Yonge,  were  written  be- 
fore or  after  the  quarrel,  and  whether,  as 
Pope  believed,  Lady  Mary  had  a  finger 
in  them,  does  not  appear.  It  is  at  least 
suspicious  that  Lady  Mary  has  again  to 
deny  her  part  in  verses  that  might  have 
disagreeable  consequences.  Certainly 
there  is  good  evidence  to  show  that  she 
wrote  part  or  all  of .  the  Verses  to  the 
Imitator  of  Horace,  which  came  out  in 
the  full  tide  of  the  quarrel  and  incited 
Pope  to  retort  with  epigrams  of  almost 
incredible  savageness.  He  fastened  the 
name  of  Sappho  upon  her;  he  ruined 
her  reputation  for  the  time,  and  for  the 
future. 

One  question  raised  by  these  incrimi- 
nations  can  scarcely  be  passed  over,  deli- 
cate as  it  may  seem.  Was  Lady  Mary 
really  the  immoral  creature  he  made  her  ? 
Now,  in  judging  Pope  we  must  remember 
always  that  he  was,  perhaps,  the  great- 
est writer  of  personal  satire  the  world  has 
ever  known,  and  that  he  acquired  his 
fame  and  his  terrors  not  by  striking  at 


random,  but  by  striking  true.  When 
Hervey,  or  Lady  Mary,  tried  to  injure 
him  by  comparing  him  with  Horace :  — 

Thine  is  just  such  an  image  of  his  pen, 
As  thou  thyself  art  of  the  sons  of  men, 
Where  our  own  species  in  burlesque  we  trace, 
A  sign-post  likeness  of  the  human  face, 
That  is  at  once  resemblance  and  disgrace.- 
Horace  can  laugh,  is  delicate,  is  clear, 
You  only  coarsely  rail,  or  darkly  sneer  ; 
His  style  is  elegant,  his  diction  pure, 
Whilst  none  thy  crabbed  numbers  can  endure ; 
Hard  as  thy  heart,  and  as  thy  birth  obscure  — 

they  might  pain  him  by  laughing  at  his 
humble  origin  and  his  crooked  body,  but 
to  the  world  at  large  their  physical  satire 
would  appear  merely  stupid  and  brutal , 
for  the  reason  that  in  its  moral  and  intel- 
lectual parts  it  was  so  palpably  false.  To 
call  his  numbers  crabbed  was  to  dis- 
credit their  own  taste;  to  speak  of  the 
hard  heart  of  the  author  of  Eloisa  to 
Abelard  was  equally  to  discredit  their  own 
feelings.  Who,  in  those  days,  had  not 
dropped  a  tear  to  the  concluding  lines  of 
that  poem,  addressed  to  Lady  Mary  her- 
self when  in  the  Orient :  — 

And  sure  if  fate  some  future  bard  should  join 
In  sad  similitude  of  griefs  to  mine, 
Condemned  whole  years  in  absence  to  deplore, 
And  image  charms  he  must  behold  no  more  ; 
Such  if  there  be,  who  loves  so  long,  so  well ; 
Let  him  our  sad,  our  tender  story  tell ; 
The  well-sung  woes  will  soothe  my  pensive 

ghost ; 
He  best  can  paint  them  who  shall  feel  them 

most. 

To  such  satire  as  Lady  Mary's  Pope 
could  say  exultingly,  "It  is  a  pleasure 
and  comfort  at  once  to  find  that  with  so 
much  mind  as  so  much  malice  must  have 
to  accuse  or  blacken  my  character,  it  can 
fix  on  no  one  ill  or  immoral  thing  in  my 
life."  He  did  not  himself  proceed  in  that 
way.  He  might,  he  undoubtedly  did, 
exaggerate  and  distort,  but  he  started 
with  significant  facts. 

She  had,  though  in  all  innocence  it 
may  be,  allowed  a  certain  Frenchman  to 
address  letters  of  gallantry  to  her,  and 
had  invested  sums  of  money  for  him  in 
the  unfortunate  South  Sea  Stock;  Pope 
writes :  — 


A  New  Life  of  Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu 


61 


Whence  hapless  Monsieur  much  complains  at 

Paris 
Of  wrongs  from  Duchesses  and  Lady  Maries. 

Again,  Mr.  Wortley  was  notoriously 
avaricious,  and  his  wife  had  early  con- 
tracted something  of  his  penuriousness ; 
Pope  writes :  — 

Avidien,  or  his  wife  .  .  . 

Sell  their  presented  partridges  and  fruits, 

And  humbly  live  on  cabbages  and  roots : 

One  half -pint  bottle  serves  them  both  to  dine, 

And  is  at  once  their  vinegar  and  wine. 

But  on  some  lucky  day  (as  when  they  found 

A  lost  bank-bill,   or    heard    their    son    was 

drowned) 

At  such  a  feast  old  vinegar  to  spare, 
Is  what  two  souls  so  generous  cannot  bear : 
Oil,  though  it  stink,  they  drop  by  drop  impart, 
But  souse  the  cabbage  with  a  bounteous  heart. 

Again,  Lady  Mary's  sister  fell  into  a 
melancholy,  and,  having  been  wrested 
from  the  care  of  Lord  Grange,  her  hus- 
band's brother,  was  kept  in  confinement 
by  Lady  Mary ;  Pope  writes :  — 

Who  starves  a  sister,  or  forswears  a  debt. 

Again,  Lady  Mary  grew  with  years 
into  slovenly  habits;  Pope  writes:  — 

As  Sappho's  diamonds  with  her  dirty  smock  ; 
Or  Sappho  at  her  toilet's  greasy  task, 
With  Sappho  fragrant  at  an  evening  mask. 

All  this  cunning  in  satire  makes  it  hard 
to  believe  that  there  was  not  some  basis 
for  the  more  licentious  lines,  which  need 
not  be  here  quoted.  And  the  common 
opinion  of  the  day  confirms  such  a  view. 
Thus,  one  is  not  surprised  to  find  the 
mild  Mrs.  Montagu,  in  one  of  her  letters, 
alluding  to  the  scandal  of  Lady  Mary's 
life  as  a  thing  well  known,  or  to  see  her 
mentioned  casually  in  one  of  Chester- 
field's Characters  as  "  eminent  for  her 
parts  and  her  vices."  Lord  Chesterfield 
was  no  common  scandal-monger;  he 
measured  his  words,  and  I  confess  that 
this  chance  phrase  of  his  has  had  great 
weight  in  forming  my  judgment.  Pos- 
sibly her  reputation  was  merely  the  result 
of  Pope's  satire.  Now  satire,  however 
based  on  facts,  has  never  scrupled  to  add 
its  own  superstructure,  and  we  may  close 
this  discussion,  already  too  long,  by  say- 


ing that  the  lady  was  indiscreet.  Even 
her  latest  panegyrist,  Miss  Symonds, 
grants  as  much  as  that. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  in  July  of 
1739,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  Lady  Mary  left 
her  home  and  her  family  and  set  out  for 
her  long,  lonely  sojourn  in  Italy  and 
France.  No  special  quarrel  with  her  hus- 
band has  been  unearthei,  and  she  con- 
tinued to  write  to  him  letters  full  of  re- 
spect; they  had  apparently  just  drifted 
apart.  Her  daughter  was  married;  her 
son  was  totally  estranged  from  her.  Eng- 
land had  been  made  uncomfortable,  and, 
when  opportunity  offered,  she  took  her- 
self out  of  the  way.  Her  correspondence 
during  these  years  of  exile  is  full  of  inter- 
esting details,  and  pages  might  be  made 
up  of  extracts  on  a  variety  of  topics.  It 
is  not,  in  my  judgment,  as  entertaining 
as  the  letters  from  the  Orient,  and  it 
indicates,  also,  I  think,  a  certain  letting 
down  of  her  character.  The  fact  is,  her 
career  shows  a  slow  and  steady  degener- 
ation from  the  frank,  fondly-wise  girl- 
hood which  Miss  Symonds  has  thrown 
into  pleasant  and  artistic  relief.  More 
especially,  her  war  with  the  wits  had 
hardened  and  coarsened  her  mind.  It  is 
not  easy,  for  instance,  to  forgive  the  com- 
plete lack  of  feeling  she  displays  toward 
her  son,  however  worthless  and  wild  he 
may  have  been.  It  is  not  pretty  to  begin  a 
letter,  as  she  does  one  to  her  husband 
from  Genoa,  "  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you 
on  so  disagreeable  a  subject  as  our  son; " 
and  she  rarely  mentions  his  name  with- 
out some  rancorous  remark.  The  best 
that  can  be  said  is  that  her  language  is 
no  more  outrageous  than  that  used  by 
Queen  Caroline  in  regard  to  her  grace- 
less son,  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

On  the  death  of  her  husband,  in  1761, 
she  returned  to  England  to  settle  up  his 
affairs;  he  left,  it  was  estimated,  ,£800,- 
000  in  money,  and  £17,000  per  annum 
in  land,  mines,  etc. :  an  enormous  fortune 
for  those  days.  She  took  a  small  furn- 
ished **  harpsichord  "  house  in  Great 
George  Street,  and  there  for  a  while  was 
the  wonder  of  London.  Walpole's  ac- 


The  Air  of  the  City 


count  of  his  visit  to  her  is  one  of  the  best- 
known  morceaux  in  his  Correspondence 
—  a  strange  and  terrible  pendant  to  his 
portrait  of  her  as  he  had  seen  her  in 
Florence  twenty-two  years  earlier :  — 

"Lady  Mary  Wortley  is  arrived;  I 
have  seen  her;  I  think  her  avarice,  her 
dirt,  and  her  vivacity,  are  all  increased. 
Her  dress,  like  her  language,  is  a  gali- 
matias of  several  countries;  the  ground- 
work, rags,  and  the  embroidery,  nasti- 
ness.  She  wears  no  cap,  no  handkerchief, 
no  gown,  no  petticoat,  no  shoes.  An  old 
black-laced  hood  represents  the  first,  the 
fur  of  a  horseman's  coat,  which  replaces 
the  third,  serves  for  the  second ;  a  dimity 
petticoat  is  deputy,  and  officiates  for  the 
fourth;  and  slippers  act  the  part  of  the 
last.  When  I  was  at  Florence,  and  she 


was  expected  there,  we  were  drawing 
Sortes  Virgilianas  —  for  her,  we  literally 
drew 

Insanam  vatem  aspicies. 
It  would  have  been  a  stronger  prophecy 
now,  even  than  it  was  then." 

Again,  and  for  the  last  time,  Lady 
Mary  suffered  from  the  impertinence  of 
masculine  wit,  and  what  a  change  from 
the  picture  of  the  young  girl  toasted  at 
the  Kit-Cat  Club!  We  may  believe  that 
her  latest  enemy  drew  freely  upon  his 
imagination. 

She  died  August  21,  1762,  leaving,  as 
Walpole  wrote,  "  twenty-one  large  vol- 
umes in  prose  and  verse,  in  manuscript." 
The  story  of  how  her  letters  got  into 
print  is  one  of  the  puzzles  of  Hterary 
annals,  but  is  not  within  our  range. 


THE   AIR   OF  THE   CITY 


BY   HOLLIS   GODFREY 


WHEN,  on  that  long-past  burning 
August  day,  the  wide-mouthed  crater  of 
Vesuvius  poured  down  an  overwhelming 
cloud  on  little  Herculaneum  and  greater 
Pompeii,  the  daily  life  of  rich  and  poor 
was  choked  out  suddenly  by  that  terrific 
burial  in  dust.  As  we  pass  from  some 
fierce  dust-storm  in  our  cities,  gasping 
and  coughing  with  the  load  of  dirt  which 
has  enveloped  us,  as  we  behold  dark 
wreaths  of  heavy  smoke  pouring  from 
soft-coal  fires  on  every  side,  the  thought 
must  sometimes  come  that  our  commun- 
ities to-day  endure  a  peril  far  too  much 
like  that  which  in  that  distant  time  en- 
gulfed city  and  town  about  the  Bay  of 
Naples. 

What  does  the  air  of  the  city  hold? 
How  does  it  differ  from  pure  mountain 
air  ?  Wherein  lie  its  dangers  ?  What  can 
be  found  to  remedy  its  perils  ?  All  these 
are  questions  whose  answers  immediate- 
ly concern  every  dweller  in  community 


centres.  We  know,  chemically  speaking, 
that  air  in  its  normal  state  is  chiefly  com- 
posed of  oxygen  and  nitrogen,  approx- 
imately one-fifth  oxygen  to  four-fifths 
nitrogen.  Besides  these  it  contains  some 
carbon  dioxide,  a  little  watery  vapor,  a 
few  inert  elementary  gases,  and  small 
traces  of  compounds  formed  from  nitro- 
gen. How  much  do  we  know  of  the  uses 
of  those  substances  or  of  the  wealth  of 
life  which  the  atmosphere  holds?  Day 
after  day  we  go  trudging  to  and  fro  along 
our  various  paths,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
gaseous  ocean  which  surrounds  us,  eating 
and  sleeping,  working  with  hand  and 
brain,  yet  giving  scarce  a  thought  to  the 
essential  part  which  the  air  plays  in  our 
common  life. 

Of  all  the  engines  cunningly  devised 
by  man  not  one  can  equal  that  master- 
piece of  construction,  the  engine  of  the 
human  frame.  To  run  that  engine,  air 
is  the  first  necessity.  Construct  it  how 


The  Air  of  the  City 


63 


you  will,  the  greater  part  of  the  energy 
which  feeds  a  power  plant  is  lost  before  it 
reaches  the  applying  machine.  The  body 
only  has  the  power  of  using  energy  really 
economically  and  efficiently.  Its  food  is 
its  fuel.  To  be  available,  all  the  constitu- 
ents of  that  food  must  be  burned,  pro- 
ducing heat  and  power.  For  that  burning 
the  oxygen  of  the  air  is  essential.  Equally 
true  is  it  that  nitrogen  must  be  present 
to  prevent  the  rapid  combustion  which 
would  take  place  in  oxygen  alone.  But 
whether  the  combustion  be  fast  or  slow, 
the  action  is  the  same.  The  body  burns 
the  carbon  and  hydrogen  of  its  food  and 
gives  out  the  oxides  of  these  substances, 
carbon  dioxide  (carbonic  acid  gas)  and 
hydrogen  oxide  (water).  The  water  that 
is  formed  within  the  body  by  the  burning 
of  hydrogen  is  of  comparatively  slight 
importance  in  a  consideration  of  the  vital 
questions  of  the  effect  of  city  air  upon  the 
individual,  but  the  other  factor,  the  car- 
bon dioxide  formed  in  the  body,  is  of 
direct  importance. 

Farther  and  farther  outward  stretch 
the  high  city  walls  of  brick  and  stone,  — 
engulfing  tree  and  shrub,  —  laying  bare 
grassy  knoll  and  living  green.  Higher  and 
higher  rise  the  chimneys,  and  with  their 
rise  increases  daily  the  great  outpouring 
of  carbon  dioxide  and  other  gases,  rush- 
ing into  the  air  from  the  fuel  burning  in 
the  fires  below.  Every  type  of  fuel  is  car- 
bon in  its  main  essential,  and  every  type 
chiefly  produces  carbon  dioxide  as  the 
result  of  its  combustion.  Set  a  factory 
chimney  in  the  midst  of  a  grassy  plain, 
or  send  forth  huge  volumes  of  hot  gases 
from  a  steamer  in  mid-ocean,  and  the 
resulting  carbon  dioxide  added  to  the  air 
is  of  but  little  consequence.  The  wind 
scatters  it  to  infinite  dilution.  The  air 
of  the  city  rising  from  hundreds  of  chim- 
neys and  confining  walls  has  no  such 
chance.  The  task  is  too  heavy  for  even 
the  sweeping  winds  to  accomplish,  robbed 
as  they  are  of  their  chief  helper  in  the 
disposition  of  carbonic  acid  gas,  the  liv- 
ing green  of  plant  life. 

Those  city  fathers  who  see   nothing 


but  aesthetic  value  in  park  "or,  tree-lined 
boulevard,  recognize  not  all  the  sanitary 
value  of  such  breathing  spots.  Every 
leaf,  every  blade  of  grass,  is  a  highly  spe- 
cialized factory  for  the  care  and  disposal 
of  carbon  dioxide  gas.  Their  growth, 
their  very  existence,  depends  upon  the 
power  possessed  by  their  tiny  cells  to 
take  that  gas  from  the  surrounding  at- 
mosphere and  break  it  down  into  its 
component  parts.  That  done,  the  car- 
bon stays  within  the  plant,  forming  its 
structure;  the  oxygen  returns  into  the 
air,  ready  to  unite  once  more  wherever 
oxidizable  materials  are  found.  Every 
moment  of  every  day  the  never-ceasing 
"  cycle  of  carbon "  continues  on  its 
round.  The  carbon  of  wood,  coal,  or 
plant,  be  it  used  for  fuel  or  for  food,  is 
burned  with  evolution  of  the  compound 
gas,  carbon  dioxide.  That  gas  is  seized 
by  the  plant,  is  separated,  and  once  more 
assumes  the  simple  form.  The  carbon 
which  was  the  beginning  is  the  end  as 
well.  The  modern  city,  with  its  bricks 
and  mortar,  in  most  cases  leaves  but  little 
room  for  these  billions  of  plant  factories. 
Its  high  walls  bar  the  cleansing  winds. 
Excess  of  carbon  dioxide  is  but  too  likely 
to  result. 

In  a  most  careful  study  of  Air  and 
its  Relation  to  Vital  Energy,  Professor 
Woodbridge  takes  up  this  point  in  a  light 
somewhat  different  from  that  in  which 
it  has  been  most  commonly  considered. 
Carbon  dioxide  gas  exists  in  the  air  in  far 
too  small  a  quantity,  even  when  materi- 
ally in  excess  of  the  normal,  to  act  in  any 
way  as  a  direct  poison.  It  is  in  the  effect 
of  such  excess  upon  the  structure  of  the 
human  frame  that  danger  may  lie. 

The  air  of  the  lungs  normally  con- 
tains about  a  hundred  times  as  much 
carbon  dioxide  as  does  the  atmosphere 
around  them.  Our  lung -bellows,  by 
double  action,  produce  the  draft  which 
keeps  alive  our  body-fires  and  takes 
away  the  products  of  combustion,  act- 
ing over  the  great  surface  of  some  four 
hundred  square  feet.  Their  boundary 
walls  hold  venous  blood  on  one  side 


64 


The  Air  of  the  City 


air  on  the  other.  Through  these  walls 
the  carbonic  acid  gas  brought  there  by 
the  blood  passes  into  the  air  of  the  lungs, 
thence  to  issue  with  that  air  through  nose 
and  mouth.  It  is  on  the  fact  that  the 
heavier  carbon  dioxide  within  the  blood 
has  a  greater  tension  than  the  lighter  air 
in  the  lungs,  that  the  exchange  depends. 
Lessen  that  tension,  increase  the  heavi- 
ness of  the  air  within  the  lungs  by  adding 
even  a  slight  quantity  of  carbonic  acid  gas 
from  the  atmosphere,  and  the  exchange 
may  slacken.  If  the  burned  wastes  of 
the  body  remain  within  the  blood,  they 
must  clog  the  fires  and  produce  disease. 
So  finely  are  the  body -fires  adjusted  that 
the  least  disturbance  of  normal  condi- 
tions may  tend  toward  injury.  It  cannot 
be  denied  that  many  scientists  look  upon 
the  presence  of  carbon  dioxide  in  excess 
in  the  air  as  of  less  importance  than  Pro- 
fessor Woodbridge  imputes  to  it,  yet  in 
general  the  indication  of  the  foulness  of 
the  air  shown  by  carbon  dioxide  is  con- 
sidered of  direct  importance.  In  any 
case,  where  city  walls,  uncooled  by  oases 
of  grass  or  trees,  lie  baking  under  our 
summer  tropic  sun,  the  gases  from  the 
city  chimneys  cannot  but  bear  heavily 
on  man  and  beast. 

.Device  after  device  has  been  brought 
forward  by  inventors  to  secure  a  sat- 
isfactory regulation  of  temperature  in 
houses  and  public  buildings  —  cold- air 
regulators  for  furnaces,  steam  regulators 
for  steam  heaters,  checks  of  various  sorts. 
The  principle  of  heat  regulation  in  the 
body  has  been  carried  on  for  centuries 
effectively  and  well  by  three  simple  uni- 
form methods.  At  high  temperatures  we 
perspire  and  evaporate  the  perspiration 
to  cool  the  body.  At  medium  tempera- 
tures we  combine  evaporation  with  varia- 
tion of  blood-flow,  or  change  the  condi- 
tion of  the  vessels  of  the  skin.  At  lower 
temperatures  we  must  depend  on  in- 
creasing the  body-fires  to  warm  ourselves 
and  burn  our  food  more  rapidly.  \ 

The  variation  of  body  temperature  is 
affected  by  the  outer  cold  or  heat,  by 
humidity  or  wind.  Outside  temperature, 


humidity,  or  wind,  important  as  they  are, 
can  be  but  little  controlled  by  city  ordi- 
nances or  private  efforts.  Wind  is  shut 
off  by  walls.  Inside  temperature  errs,  if 
anything,  on  the  side  of  excess.  Humid- 
ity is  commonly  overlooked  altogether. 
The  water  vapor  of  the  air  conducts  heat 
from  the  body  more  rapidly  than  dry  air, 
and  interferes  with  the  evaporation  of 
perspiration.  Those  two  factors  seriously 
disarrange  the  regulation  of  the  body 
heat.  The  discomfort  of  the  "  dog  days," 
as  well  as  no  small  amount  of  the  uneasi- 
ness of  a  crowded  room,  comes  from  the 
excess  of  water  vapor  in  the  air. 

With  the  outpouring  of  the  city's  chim- 
neys has  come  another  problem  in  these 
later  days,  a  cloud  which  shadows  all  our 
cities,  covering  with  its  blackness  wall 
and  pavement,  entering  alike  to  house 
and  factory,  —  the  city's  smoke.  Life  in 
the  soft-coal  cities  comes  to  be  existence 
in  a  gray,  blackened  world.  Whiteness  of 
cloth,  cleanliness  of  face  or  hands,  be- 
comes a  shadowy  hope,  not  a  reality. 

The  reason  for  these  conditions  is  by 
no  means  hard  to  find.  Soft  coal  differs 
from  hard  coal  most  of  all  in  this :  when 
burned,  its  carbon,  turning  but  in  part  to 
oxide,  leaves  a  cloud  of  soft  black  soot, 
that  carbon  uncombined  which  soots  the 
study  lamp  or  rises  from  the  snuffed-out 
candle.  The  coating  which  such  soot 
casts  on  the  lining  of  the  lungs  is  one  of 
the  hardships  of  the  city-dweller,  despite 
the  fact  that  our  breathing  organs  possess 
a  most  extraordinary  power  of  taking 
care  of  foreign  bodies  which  invade  their 
midst.  Of  all  the  particles  that  enter,  no 
small  portion  returns,  coughed  back  from 
the  mouth  or  else  ejected  from  the  nose 
where  tiny  filters  held  them  as  they  en- 
tered. Those  which  persist  and  lodge 
in  windpipe  or  in  bronchial  tubes  find 
there  a  horde  of  soldiers  placed  to  drive 
the  invader  back,  the  cilia.  These  are 
cells  shaped  like  tiny  fingers,  each  finger 
fringed  on  its  free  end  with  a  myriad  of 
infinitesimal  hairs  which  swing  unceas- 
ingly through  life,  and  as  they  swing  bear 
back  and  upwards  towards  the  mouth- 


The  Air  of  the  City 


65 


invading  solids.  Besides  the  cilia  the 
phagocytes,  those  sanitary  engineers  of 
the  blood,  stand  ready  to  seize,  encom- 
pass, and  destroy  any  harmful  substances 
that  may  enter. 

Yet  through  all  these  defenses  solids 
can  pass,  and  many  do  pass.  Once  in 
the  lungs,  they  settle  on  the  walls  where 
passes  out  carbonic  acid  from  the  blood, 
where  enters  air  carrying  life-giving  oxy- 
gen to  the  fires  within.  Where  they  fall, 
they  clog  the  way.  In  city  life,  the  fresh 
pink  of  a  normal  person's  lung  is  streaked 
and  spotted  with  black  lines  which  chart 
the  blocked-up  roads  where  breath  of  life 
once  entered,  where  burned-out  wastes 
once  passed.  In  reason  this  may  do 
no  serious  harm,  because  of  the  tremen- 
dous space  through  which  the  boundary 
walls  extend.  But  as  the  coal-miner, 
from  morning  until  night  inspiring  soft 
and  clinging  masses  of  black  coal,  dies 
long  before  his  prime  because  his  lungs, 
bounded  by  atrophied  film,  no  longer 
serve  their  purpose,  so  the  city-dweller, 
breathing  day  and  night,  year  in  and 
year  out,  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
black  smoke,  shortens  the  course  of  life 
which  should  have  been  his  own. 

In  smoky  cities  the  proper  ventilation 
of  houses,  one  of  the  greatest  essentials 
in  stamping  out  tuberculosis,  becomes 
more  difficult.  The  doors  and  windows 
of  the  tenements  are  closed,  and  the 
stifled  air  within  hastens  disease  and 
death.  On  humid  days  the  smoke  which 
fills  the  streets  unites  with  the  water 
vapor  of  the  air  to  form  the  fogs  which 
overhang  the  city.  Fogs  can  exist  only 
when  the  gaseous  water  of  the  air  is  liqui- 
fied upon  solid  particles.  The  bits  of  car- 
bon floating  through  the  ways  give  such 
foundation,  and  the  water  condensing  on 
them  forms  a  mist.  Probably  without 
direct  injurious  effect,  a  fog  depresses, 
renders  resistance  to  disease  more  diffi- 
cult, sets  up  a  barrier  to  the  cleansing, 
life-giving  sun. 

The  pity  of  it  is  that  all  the  evils 
which  come  from  smoke  are  prevent- 
able. Smoke-consumers  exist  which  have 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  1 


proved  their  worth.  Due  care  in  running 
fires  will  do  much.  No  more  fuel  is  re- 
quired under  careful  management  to  pro- 
duce combustion  which  shall  be  practi- 
cally smokeless.  These  statements  have 
been  proved  over  and.  over  again.  It  is 
a  matter  of  community  supervision,  of 
laws  rightly  framed  and  fearlessly  ad- 
ministered. Fortunately  inspection  is  by 
no  means  a  difficult  matter.  One  city,  for 
example,  handles  that  problem  by  means 
of  a  chart  holding  six  pictures  of  a  chim- 
ney above  a  factory,  the  first  of  which 
shows  the  chimney  with  no  smoke,  the 
second  with  a  light  smoke  issuing,  the 
other  four  showing  greater  and  blacker 
volumes.  The  first  conditions  are  pass- 
able. The  last  are  dangerous.  The  in- 
spector takes  a  photograph  of  any  ques- 
tionable chimney  and  compares  it  with 
the  standard  pictures.  The  comparison 
tells  the  story.  The  factory  is  pronounced 
"passed,"  or  the  owner  is  warned  to 
conform  immediately  to  the  regulations, 
under  penalty  of  the  law. 

The  West  as  a  whole  is  far  beyond  the 
East  in  its  abatement  of  the  smoke  nuis- 
ance. In  St.  Paul  some  four  years  ago, 
the  work  was  given  over  to  the  depart- 
ment of  health,  whose  first  act  was  to  lay 
the  following  question  before  the  local 
and  national  unions  of  steam  engineers 
and  firemen :  "  Can  the  smoke  nuisance 
as  it  exists  to-day  be  reasonably  pre- 
vented without  injury  to  trade  and  manu- 
facturing interests  ?  "  This  question  was 
unanimously  answered  in  the  affirmative 
by  the  members  of  both  unions.  No- 
tice was  taken  of  all  dubious  cases,  and 
fines  were  imposed  when  necessary:  a 
minimum  fine  of  twenty-five  dollars  for 
the  first  offense,  doubled  for  each  suc- 
ceeding one.  The  work  has  been  most 
successful,  and  besides  an  abatement  of 
smoke,  a  saving  of  fuel  is  reported. 

In  Milwaukee  an  ordinance  which 
has  gone  through  periods  of  relaxation 
and  others  of  strict  enforcement,  has 
been  successful  when  properly  managed. 
About  half  the  city  at  the  time  of  a  re- 
cent report  used  smoke-consuming  de- 


66 


The  Air  of  the  City 


vices;  about  one-fourth  used  hard  coal 
or  smokeless  fuel.  The  general  condition 
of  the  city  was  admirable.  So  admirable, 
indeed,  that  the  title  of  the  ordinance 
passed  by  the  Common  Council  is  worth 
quoting  in  full  as  an  epitome  of  what  such 
an  ordinance  should  be. 

An  Ordinance  declaring  it  to  be  a 
nuisance  to  cause  or  permit  dense  black 
smoke  to  be  emitted  from  the  chimneys 
or  smoke-stacks  of  furnaces,  boilers, 
heating,  power  or  manufacturing  plants, 
boats,  vessels,  tugs,  dredges,  stationary 
or  locomotive  engines,  and  creating  the 
office  of  smoke-inspector,  fixing  his  salary 
and  prescribing  his  duties,  and  creating 
a  board  for  the  suppression  of  smoke. 

Close  as  is  the  relation  between  the 
products  of  combustion  and  the  public 
health,  there  is  a  yet  closer  one  between 
the  other  burden  which  the  atmosphere 
carries — dust  —  and  disease.  For  many 
centuries  the  world  believed  that  air  was 
.  a  vehicle  of  disease,  and  many  a  histo- 
,  rian  of  pestilential  years  told  of  foul  and 
1  heavy  vapors  which  hung  daily  over 
doomed  cities  and  seemed  to  carry  death 
,as  they  spread.  From  stage  to  stage 
passed  the  beliefs  in  the  causation  of  epi- 
demic disease,  but  with  ever-recurring 
persistence  they  returned  in  one  way  or 
.  another  to  some  belief  in  the  transmission 
.agency  of  the  gases  of  the  air.  Only  in 
that  clarifying  time  when  Schwann  and 
Pasteur,  Lister  and  Tyndall  worked,  was 
it  made  evident  that  the  disease  proper- 
ties of  the  atmosphere  came  not  from  the 
air  itself  but  from  the  burden  of  living 
organisms  which  it  bore.  From  that  great 
demonstration  came  the  germ  theory  of 
disease. 

In  the  rush  of  modern  scientific  re- 
search the  work  done  a  generation  ago 
is  likely  to  be  lost  to  sight.  It  is  well 
worth  a  moment's  pause,  however,  to 
recall  the  brilliant  research  by  which 
John  Tyndall,  in  1868,  proved  the  pre- 
sence of  organic  matter  in  the  air.  Like 
many  another  experimenter,  Tyndall 


found  what  he  did  not  seek.  He  sought 
knowledge  on  the  decomposition  of  va- 
pors by  light.  He  found  the  relation 
between  dust  and  disease.  The  sunlight 
passing  through  a  chink  in  the  shutters 
reveals  its  path  by  the  motes  dancing  in 
its  ray.  To  obtain  the  results  he  wished, 
it  was  necessary  for  Tyndall  to  remove 
all  floating  matters  from  the  air  of  his 
tubes.  He  attempted  to  do  this  in  various 
ways,  finally  passing  his  air  over  the 
flame  of  a  lamp.  To  his  intense  surprise 
the  matter  disappeared.  It  had  been 
burned  by  the  flame.  His  mind  instantly 
leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
organic  matter,  though  practically  every 
scientist  had  hitherto  believed  that  the 
floating  matter  of  the  air  was  wholly 
inorganic  and  non-combustible.  Tyndall 
created  a  living  world  at  a  bound,  the 
world  wherein  moves  the  living  matter 
of  the  air.  He  pushed  his  inquiry  farther. 
He  placed  a  lamp  in  a  beam  of  light. 
Strange  wreaths  of  blackness  rose,  black- 
er, as  he  says,  "  than  the  blackest  smoke 
ever  seen  issuing  from  the  funnel  of  a 
steamer."  Carrying  the  inquiry  on,  he 
tried  the  same  experiment  with  red  hot 
iron,  to  preclude  any  possibility  that  the 
blackness  might  be  smoke  from  a  flame. 
"  The  same  whirling  masses  of  darkness 
rose,  —  smoke  was  out  of  the  question." 
One  conclusion  remained.  The  darkness 
was  that  of  stellar  space,  of  the  night 
which  holds  between  the  far-hung  stars. 
The  heat  had  burned  the  organic  matter 
of  the  air,  the  inorganic  had  settled,  no 
material  substance  remained  to  reflect 
light.  Dust  was  in  part  organic.  Nay, 
more.  Dust  was  made  up  of  two  parts : 
the  inorganic,  matter  like  the  rolling 
sands  of  the  sea,  the  organic,  germ  masses 
of  living  organisms,  infinitesimal,  yet 
each  complete  in  itself. 

These  micro-organisms  of  the  air  were 
soon  proved  capable  of  many  things. 
Among  other  powers,  they  were  proved 
to  be  carriers  of  disease.  The  surgeon's 
scalpel  laid  on  a  dusty  shelf  had  time 
after  time  introduced  the  germs  of  evil 
into  the  wound  it  was  meant  to  cure. 


The  Air  of  the  City 


67 


An  operation  was  a  dread  event  where 
death  was  almost  as  likely  as  recovery. 
Lister's  discovery  of  the  possibilities  of 
bacteriological  cleanliness  meant  .exclu- 
sion of  germ-life  from  wound  and  instru- 
ment, from  surgeon's  hand  and  winding 
bandage.  It  brought  life  to  thousands. 
Swiftly  the  new  theory  made  its  way. 
Germ-life  which  could  cause  disease  ex- 
isted in  the  atmosphere.  Methods  arose 
to  combat  the  various  forms  of  ill  which 
it  brought.  Knowledge  grew  as  to  the 
specific  germs  of  evil  and  their  brothers 
of  good. 

The  marvelous  life  of  the  earth,  the 
teeming  billions  of  micro-organisms 
which  inhabit  the  soil,  have  already  been 
considered  in  "  City  Water  and  City 
Waste."  l  It  is  sufficient  to  recall  here 
that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  earth's 
surface  contains  a  vigorous  microscopic 
life  which  serves  many  important  pur- 
poses in  the  economy  of  nature.  When 
earth  is  dried  and  driven  by  the  wind 
about  the  streets,  various  types  of  micro- 
organisms rise  with  the  dust  clinging  to 
sand  or  splinter  or  floating  by  themselves. 
Of  these  forms,  the  bacteria  interest  us 
the  most.  The  great  service  which  they 
perform  lies  in  the  power  which  many  of 
them  possess  of  taking  dangerous  or 
exhausted  organic  material  and  turning 
it  into  harmless  inorganic  form.  That 
service  is  turned  to  account  in  every 
modern  sewage  plant.  The  great  injury 
which  they  may  cause  comes  from  a  few 
forms  in  which  lie  the  beginnings  of  dis- 
ease. Growing  with  intense  rapidity, 
these  tiny  plants,  shaped  like  balls,  rods, 
or  spirals,  spread  wherever  they  may  fall. 
Moist  surfaces  hold  the  germs,  and  be- 
sides the  soil,  they  abound  in  manure  and 
all  decaying  organic  bodies,  while  those 
which  find  suitable  homes  in  the  human 
body  multiply  there  with  serious  results. 
They  appear  in  dust  in  billions  piled  on 
billions,  when  the  dried  earth,  sweeping 
into  the  air  with  the  varying  impulse  of 
the  breeze,  carries  with  it  dried  masses 
of  bacteria. 

1  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1906. 


The  city  street  is  a  provider  of  bac- 
terial hosts  which  has  few  equals.  The 
concourse  of  the  mart,  the  moving  to  and 
fro  of  many  people,  the  constant  throw- 
ing forth  of  human  sputum,  the  dirt 
brought  by  the  passing  of  many  horses 
and  domestic  animals  confined  within  a 
comparatively  meagre  space,  all  tend  to 
furnish  a  constant  supply  of  bacteria  to 
the  soil  of  the  streets.  When  the  soil  has 
once  been  dried,  the  pounding  of  heavy 
wagons  and  the  suction  of  the  great 
wheels  of  motor  cars  form  a  fine  pulver- 
ized surface  powder  on  the  road  surface, 
ready  to  rise  in  clouds  with  every  wan- 
dering breeze.  The  healthiest  period 
which  exists  in  city  air  is  that  during  or 
just  after  a  rain  or  snow.  Moisture  brings 
the  germ  content  of  the  street  most  teem- 
ing with  bacterial  life  to  figures  low  in 
the  extreme. 

The  germs  which  modern  city  air  con- 
tains are  chiefly  of  two  classes.  The  first 
group  affects  the  respiratory  organs.  Of 
these  the  tubercle  bacillus,  the  bacterial 
form  which  underlies  consumption,  and 
the  pneumococcus,  the  dreaded  micro- 
organism from  which  pneumonia  comes, 
are  chief.  The  second  group  embraces 
those  diseases  which  are  eruptive  in  their 
nature.  Scarlet  fever,  measles,  and  the 
like  send,  with  drying  scales,  their  quota 
to  the  dust  around. 

To  oppose  the  entry  of  these  germs 
stands  that  same  chain  of  defenses  which 
the  respiratory  tract  raises  against  in- 
vading coal-dust,  and,  as  well,  that  con- 
tinuity of  armor  which  the  body  holds. 
Cased  in  the  air-tight  coverings  of  the 
skin  without,  lined  with  the  barrier  of  the 
epithelia  within,  the  human  frame  is  well 
equipped  by  nature  for  the  war  against 
disease.  Those  coverings  must  be  pene- 
trated before  disease  can  enter.  A  ragged 
sliver  in  the  hand  or  foot  often  produces 
injuries  far  from  proportional  to  its  size. 
Why?  Because  the  poisoned  arrow  of 
the  Malay,  though  swifter,  carries  no 
more  toxic  poison  than  may  come  from 
a  splinter  of  the  streets.  The  danger  of 
the  dust  lies,  beyond  all  else,  in  the  fact 


The  Air  of  the  City 


that  every  dust-storm,  bearing  thousands 
of  small  sharp  grains  of  sand,  tiny  splin- 
ters of  wood,  and  bits  of  stone,  is  a  flight 
of  poisoned  arrows  driven  against  the 
body  covering  of  the  passer-by.  The 
poison  which  they  bear  may  or  may  not 
come  from  the  dried  organic  matter  of 
the  street.  It  may  be  lying  at  the  point  of 
entrance  where  the  germs  growing  in  the 
warm  moisture  of  the  respiratory  tract 
lurk  within  the  body  like  bandits  beneath 
a  fortress  wall.  In  whatever  way  they 
come,  it  is  most  difficult  for  bacteria  to 
pass  through  the  body  armor  except 
when  sharp  particles  such  as  those  of 
dust  make  wounds  or  lesions  in  the  inner 
walls.  Once  such  openings  are  made, 
dangerous  micro-organisms  are  but  too 
ready  to  avail  themselves  of  the  oppor- 
tunity. Once  they  are  within,  disease  of 
major  or  minor  type  soon  shows  their 
presence. 

Within  the  walls  of  dwelling,  hall, 
or  office-building,  the  direct  dust-storm 
penetrates  less  easily,  but  only  too  often 
comes  another  danger  from  the  difficulty 
of  removing  the  fine  cloud  of  dust  which 
enters  by  every  door  and  window  from 
the  streets,  coating  the  furniture,  hang- 
ing to  curtain  and  rug  and  clinging  there 
with  a  persistence  which  renders  many 
a  city  home  a  veritable  storehouse  of 
ancient  micro-organic  life.  Especially  is 
this  true  where  hangings  of  cloth,  up- 
holstered furniture,  and  heavy  carpets 
furnish  excellent  abiding-places  for  the 
germs.  Few  sanitary  reforms  have  meant 
more  than  modern  hard-wood  floors, 
light  unupholstered  furniture,  and  wash- 
able curtains. 

One  question  must  inevitably  rise  with 
any  discussion  of  these  points.  "  If  such 
dangers  exist  about  us  in  the  city  air 
which  we  all  breathe,  how  can  any  es- 
cape ?  "  It  is  easy  to  understand  the  free- 
dom of  individuals  from  specific  conta- 
gion such  as  comes  from  impure  water  or 
impure  milk.  Disease  from  such  causes 
can  strike  only  in  isolated  spots  or  sepa- 
rate communities.  It  is  far  more  diffi- 
cult to  understand  the  immunity  which 


is  afforded  the  individual  in  the  smoke- 
and  dust-laden  air  of  thousands  of  Amer- 
ican cities.  Yet  there  is  no  question  that 
great  numbers  show  no  signs  of  harm. 
Their  vital  resistance  is  so  great  as  to 
make  them  triumphant  over  any  form  of 
disease.  On  the  other  hand,  since  there 
are  thousands  in  any  community  who 
are  susceptible  to  these  attacks,  it  is  the 
duty  of  the  whole  community  to  shield 
those  thousands. 

One  germ  found  in  dust  needs  especial 
mention.  Tuberculosis,  which  may  be 
classed  among  the  dust  diseases,  ravages 
our  country  beyond  all  other  plagues  to- 
day. The  consumptive  sheds  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  living  tubercle  bacilli 
every  time  he  sends  forth  sputum  where 
it  can  mix  with  the  dust  of  street  or  room. 
Once  mixed  with  that  dust,  deposited  on 
sand  or  other  cutting  particle,  the  pois- 
oned weapon  flies  upward,  ready  to  cut 
through  and  enter  the  body  through  the 
lesion  formed  in  the  lungs.  In  case  after 
case  we  find  in  the  lungs  of  perfectly 
healthy  persons  small  tubercular  lesions 
which  have  healed,  showing  that  they 
were  able  to  combat  the  poison  when  at- 
tacked. But  how  about  the  time  of  low 
resistance?  How  can  the  citizen  tell 
when  that  time  may  come  to  him  or  to 
his  family?  The  magnificent  crusade 
against  tuberculosis  is  doing  much  to 
convince  the  individual  of  the  necessity 
of  care  against  scattering  contagion.  The 
municipality  can  do  almost  as  much  to- 
wards the  stamping  out  of  the  plague  by 
a  steady  constant  struggle  to  achieve  the 
cleanest  possible  street. 

In  the  dirt  of  the  assembly  hall,  of  the 
theatre,  of  the  hotel  and  the  railway-car 
we  find  conditions  in  which  the  difficul- 
ties which  exist  in  the  private  house  are 
fourfold  multiplied.  For  hours  the  crowds 
of  people  in  such  places  sit  breathing  the 
accumulated  dust  brought  from  the 
streets,  which,  rising  from  the  floor,  floats 
in  clouds  into  the  air  and  settles  heavily 
on  the  antiquated  plush  still  in  high  favor 
for  such  places.  It  is  but  a  year  or 
two  ago  that  the  newspapers  considered 


The  Air  of  the  City 


69 


briefly  the  dangers  of  that  bacterial  para- 
dise, the  Pullman  sleeping-car.  A  brief 
spasm  of  remonstrance  passed  over  the 
country,  and  disappeared  as  suddenly  as 
it  came.  The  peril  from  such  sources 
was,  however,  recognized  two  decades 
ago  by  more  than  one ;  and  these  words 
of  Dr.  Mitchell  Prudden,  concerning  the 
presence  of  tuberculosis  in  such  places, 
written  almost  as  long  ago,  are  no  less 
true  to-day :  — 

"  Sleeping-cars  and  the  state-rooms  of 
steamships  and  hotel  bedrooms  are  al- 
most always  liable  to  contain  infectious 
material,  if  they  have  been  recently  used 
by  uncleanly  consumptives  or  those  ig- 
norant of  the  danger  of  their  expectora- 
tion. When  the  infectious  nature  of 
consumption  becomes  generally  appre- 
ciated, hotels  and  transportation  compa- 
nies over  long  routes  will  be  compelled 
to  provide  special  accommodations  for 
such  persons  as  are  known  to  be  thus 
affected." 

Tuberculosis  is  but  one  of  the  con- 
tagious diseases  which  can  be  spread  in 
this  way.  The  outdoor  treatment  of  tu- 
berculosis is  coming  more  and  more  to 
be  recognized  as  consisting  primarily  of 
three  things.  First,  —  that  the  patient 
shall  have  an  ample  supply  of  good  nour- 
ishing food.  Second,  —  that  the  patient 
shall  have  an  abundance  of  oxygen-laden 
air.  Third,  —  that  that  air  shall  be  as 
free  as  possible  from  bacterial  forms. 
Climate  and  environment  both  seem  to 
be  secondary  to  these  requirements,  and 
the  spread  of  outdoor  treatment  from  its 
original  field  of  tuberculosis  to  that  of 
other  respiratory  diseases,  such  as  grippe 
and  pneumonia,  is  along  the  same  line. 

First  of  all  steps  to  be  taken  in  freeing 
the  city  from  dust,  is  the  laying  of  proper 
pavements.  Most  of  our  present  pave- 
ments are  little  better  than  those  of  com- 
mon country  roads  piled  high  in  time  of 
drought  with  shifting  sands.  So  long  as 
dry  and  unstable  earth  caps  the  broken 
stone  of  many  a  city  street,  so  long  the 
dust  clouds  will  send  many  a  patient  to 
the  doctors  and  the  hospitals.  The  in- 


creasing use  of  the  automobile  will  in- 
evitably make  proper  street-cleansing 
easier.  To-day  the  roads  torn  up  by  the 
suction  of  the  huge  machines  show  lit- 
tle promise  of  advance,  but  the  future 
should  tell  a  different  tale.  Continuous 
pavements  like  those  of  asphalt  are  ideal, 
because  of  their  smoothness  for  motor 
carriage,  and  when  the  horse  passes  from 
the  city,  streets  so  paved  will  be  wholly 
available.  And  the  horse  in  time  will 
have  to  go,  as  almost  all  the  other  wild 
and  domestic  beasts  have  disappeared 
from  community  centres.  An  anachro- 
nism in  himself,  the  filth  which  follows 
him  acts  as  a  shelter  for  disease.  With 
proper  pavements,  with  the  dirt  of  ani- 
mals excluded,  street-cleansing  can  be 
properly  performed. 

Within  the  house  the  vacuum-cleansing 
processes  are  sweeping  out  and  com- 
pletely removing  from  many  a  dwelling 
and  public  building  the  accumulated  dust 
of  years.  In  the  vastly  greater  extension 
of  such  devices,  in  such  increase  of 
service  as  shall  bring  them  within  the 
constant  use  of  every  household,  lies  the 
great  possibility  here.  City  rooms  will 
no  longer  be  considered  rightly  ventilated 
by  the  dusty  air  of  the  sidewalk  driven 
in  by  fans  blowing  through  open  win- 
dows. Satisfactory  air-filters  will  take 
their  place,  filters  not  left  to  the  intermit- 
tent, semi-annual  care  of  a  janitor.  One 
watchword  of  the  model  city  of  the  future 
will  be  "  Freedom  from  Dust." 

As  the  centres  of  population  become 
more  and  more  crowded,  as  the  distance 
between  the  workrooms  and  the  bed- 
rooms of  the  city  grows  greater,  more  of 
our  population  burrow  beneath  the  earth 
on  their  daily  passing  to  and  fro.  The 
condition  of  the  air  in  the  subways  of 
the  cities  has  been  a  moot  point  since 
their  first  establishment.  No  subway  has 
undergone  more  criticism  in  this  respect 
than  has  the  long  winding  tunnel  which 
lies  beneath  New  York.  The  trouble 
began  with  the  first  opening  of  the  sub- 
way, while  its  stifling  heat  during  the 
terrific  summer  of  1905  is  a  matter. of 


70 


The  Air  of  the  City 


painful  memory  to  thousands.  That  heat 
was  made  yet  more  intolerable  by  the 
peculiar  "  subway  smell."  From  those 
causes  grave  questions  inevitably  arose 
as  to  the  healthfulness  of  the  air  within 
the  subway.  Those  queries  have  now 
been  answered  in  large  part  by  an  in- 
vestigation made  by  Dr.  George  Soper, 
which  considered  temperature,  humidity, 
odor,  bacteria,  and  dust.  The  first  two 
of  these  divisions,  important  as  they  are, 
have  comparatively  little  relation  to  our 
theme,  but  the  last  three  are  pertinent. 

The  belief  in  the  injurious  effects  of 
the  odor  of  the  subway  was  a  relic  from 
the  period  when  certain  forms  of  illness 
were  supposed  to  be  directly  connected 
with  evil  smells.  With  the  exception  of 
the  ill  effects  which  certain  gaseous  com- 
pounds of  sulphur  and  carbon  produce, 
there  seems  to  be  scarcely  any  ground  for 
relating  disease  and  evil  odor.  Constant 
exposure  to  any  smell,  be  it  bad  or  good, 
is  likely  to  produce  nervous  irritation  and 
exhaustion.  On  the  great  rose-farms  of 
southern  France  for  example,  the  stranger 
wandering  among  the  fragrant  fields  soon 
feels  the  same  heavy  headache  which  a 
persistently  objectionable  odor  like  that 
of  a  soap  factory  is  likely  to  produce.  A 
lowering  of  energy  from  any  type  of  odor 
may  put  the  individual  into  a  condition 
to  invite  disease,  but  is  little  likely  to  be 
the  direct  cause  of  contagion.  In  the  case 
of  the  subway,  the  odor  came  chiefly 
from  the  smell  of  the  trap-rock  employed 
in  the  stone  ballast  of  the  road-bed, 
mingled  with  lubricating  oil  and  gear 
grease,  and  combined  with  occasional 
slight  infusions  of  human  odor.  Dis- 
agreeable as  it  might  be  when  long  in- 
haled, there  was  no  reason  to  believe  it 
dangerous. 

The  dust  of  the  subway  was  quite  an- 
other matter.  It  was  very  distinct  from 
the  dust  of  the  streets,  blacker,  more 
clinging.  As  a  horseshoe  magnet  was 
brought  near  a  heap  of  dust  the  powdery 
mass  sprang  into  magnetic  curves.  Fol- 
lowing this  line,  two  magnets  of  similar 
size  were  hung,  one  in  the  subway  and 


one  in  an  iron  foundry;  and  the  first 
showed  clusters  of  black  magnetic  stuff 
far  heavier  than  the  second.  Analysis  af- 
ter analysis  showed  almost  half  as  much 
dust  again  by  weight  in  the  subway  as 
was  found  outside.  Over  sixty  per  cent 
of  that  dust  was  iron.  A  passenger  trav- 
eling for  half  an  hour  inhaled  on  an  aver- 
age some  .42  of  a  milligram  of  the  dust, 
a  very  appreciable  amount,  and  received 
into  his  lungs  a  goodly  number  of  iron 
missiles.  Add  to  them  the  tuberculosis 
germs  forever  floating  in  the  cars,  and 
you  have  a  very  dangerous  combination. 
The  iron  came  from  the  wearing  down 
of  the  brake-shoes  on  the  wheels,  and 
it  is  computed  that  the  huge  figure  of 
twenty-five  tons  of  iron  and  steel  is 
ground  into  powder  in  the  New  York 
Subway  in  the  course  of  a  month.  Here 
is  a  type  of  dust  almost  wholly  disre- 
garded up  to  the  present  time,  which 
may  mean  much  in  the  tuberculosis  cam- 
paigns of  the  future. 

The  bacteria  found  in  the  subway  were 
commonly  less  in  number  than  those 
found  outside,  but  amounted  to  the  fairly 
high  figure  of  some  five  hundred  thou- 
sand per  gram  of  dust,  sometimes  run- 
ning as  high  as  two  million.  The  pas- 
senger waiting  for  the  train,  however, 
was  engaged  in  no  more  harmful  occu- 
pation so  far  as  danger  was  concerned 
than  he  would  have  been  if  waiting  for 
a  car  on  the  street  outside. 

In  summing  up  the  situation,  the  en- 
gineer in  charge  states :  "  My  own  con- 
clusion was  that  the  general  air  (of  the 
subway)  although  disagreeable  was  not 
actually  harmful,  except,  possibly,  for 
the  presence  of  iron  dust."  An  investi- 
gation of  that  exception  is  now  going  on, 
and  it  is  the  opinion  of  no  small  number 
of  engineers  that  the  word  "  possibly  " 
in  the  quotation  just  made  is  likely  to 
be  stricken  out. 

One  other  point  concerning  subway 
air  should  be  mentioned.  The  constant 
renewing  of  the  atmosphere  by  the  mo- 
tion of  the  trains  keeps  the  carbon  diox- 
ide in  the  tunnel  so  little  more  than  that 


The  Air  of  the  City 


71 


on  the  surface  that,  on  that  account,  no 
more  injury  should  be  charged  against 
the  subway  than  against  the  streets. 

Of  all  the  odors  and  gases  which  were 
considered  perilous  by  sanitarians  of  an 
older  day,  sewer  gas  stands  preeminent. 
The  average  citizen  looks  upon  sewer  air, 
or  leaky  joints  in  his  plumbing,  with  more 
fear  than  he  would  upon  a  perfect  bath 
of  tubercle  bacilli  or  a  glass  of  water  filled 
with  typhoid  germs.  To  a  research  re- 
cently completed  at  the  Massachusetts 
Institute  of  Technology  we  owe  much 
of  our  latest  knowledge  of  the  subject. 
During  a  period  of  over  three  months  a 
current  of  air  was  passed  through  sewage 
under  varying  conditions,  and  the  flight 
upward  of  the  bacteria  was  noted.  That 
was  done  in  order  to  answer  the  follow- 
ing question :  "  What  is  the  bacterial  con- 
dition of  the  atmosphere  where  sewer  air 
is  present  ?  " 

Without  considering  the  ingenious  and 
effective  way  in  which  the  experiments 
were  carried  on,  we  may  pass  immediately 
to  the  results ;  in  brief  they  follow.  With  a 
very  strong  current  of  air  it  is  possible  to 
drag  a  few  dangerous  bacteria  from  sew- 
age lying  in  a  trap,  and  take  them  fifteen 
feet  or  more  up  through  a  drain.  Even 
under  the  most  favorable  conditions, 
however,  the  number  of  germs  so  pulled 
upward  is  very  small.  Ordinary  sewage 
contains  something  like  three-quarters 
of  a  billion  per  litre  of  the  organisms 
studied.  In  the  maximum  case,  not  forty 
of  this  vast  number  were  found  to  have 
risen  through  the  drain.  The  result  of 
this  research  must  lead  us  to  believe  that 
carriage  of  disease  germs  from  a  house- 
drainage  system  is  extremely  improbable. 

There  is,  however,  one  record  of  an 
even  more  recent  investigation  which 
stands  in  opposition  to  these  conclusions. 
Major  Horrocks  of  England  has  recent- 
ly concluded  a  study  of  a  similar  type 
in  which  striking  results  were  obtained. 
Certain  specific  classes  of  bacteria  not 
found  in  the  atmosphere  about  the  place 
in  which  the  experiments  were  carried  on, 
were  drawn  upward  by  currents  of  air 


through  traps  in  drain-pipes.  Remark- 
able results  were  obtained.  The  tiny 
organisms  were  found  in  large  numbers, 
spread  from  one  end  of  the  building  in  the 
military  hospital  to  the  other.  Results  so 
unusual  as  these,  and  so  contrary  to  most 
modern  conclusions,  should  be  noted. 

But  no  single  experiment  to-day  can 
be  taken  as  absolutely  conclusive,  either 
for  or  against.  Especially  is  precaution 
wise,  since  there  remains  one  further 
possibility.  Can  sewer  gas  so  debilitate 
the  human  system  as  to  prepare  it  for 
the  inroads  of  disease?  That  remains 
a  subject  for  further  investigation,  and, 
until  that  is  settled  by  longer  and  more 
rigorous  experimentation,  it  is  wiser  to  be 
on  the  safe  side  and  keep  to  thoroughly 
conservative  plumbing  regulations. 

The  whole  problem  of  the  air  of  a  city 
tends  to  fall  under  certain  definite  head- 
ings: excess  of  carbonic  acid,  the  smoke 
nuisance,  the  dust  evil,  the  problem  of 
sewer  gas.  For  each,  the  city  can  pro- 
vide a  remedy.  Limiting  the  height  of 
buildings,  widening  the  narrow  streets, 
providing  parks  and  squares  with  green 
trees,  grass,  and  shrubs  will  do  much 
toward  diluting,  scattering,  and  remov- 
ing excess  of  carbon  dioxide.  Laws 
passed,  and  enforced,  requiring  smoke- 
consumers  and  proper  firing  will  abso- 
lutely do  away  with  the  smoke  nuisance. 
Proper  pavements,  with  good  street- 
cleaning,  will  diminish  germ-laden  dust 
to  a  minimum.  Proper  plumbing  regu- 
lations will  guard  us  from  any  possible 
danger  from  sewage  in  our  houses. 

It  is  all  in  the  city's  hands.  Commun- 
ity life  is  apparently  the  inevitable  se- 
quence of  our  modern  age.  The  fortunate 
who  can,  the  intelligent  who  know,  will 
turn  more  and  more  for  their  hours  of 
recreation  and  of  sleep  to  wide  stretches 
of  heath  and  hill,  or  to  the  comparative 
cleanliness  of  the  suburbs.  But  for  the 
thousands  of  the  narrow  streets  the 
cleansing  of  the  city  air  is  a  necessity. 
To  every  pallid  weary  worker  should 
come  the  rushing  breath  of  purifying 
winds,  the  free  and  open  air  of  heaven. 


THE   COLLEGE   OF  THE   CITY 

BY   DEBBIE   H.   SILVER 

SAW  you  the  stately  palace  that  stands 
Fronting  the  wind-swept  sky? 
The  stately  palace,  reared  on  a  height, 
In  the  teeth  of  the  winds  of  the  sky? 

Nobler  than  ever  a  lordly  hold, 
Greater  than  kingly  keep, 
Or  the  mightiest  fastness,  buttress-bound, 
Where  a  thousand  legends  sleep; 

j  For  a  legion  camps  there,  eager-eyed, 
Flushed  with  the  spirit's  fires; 
They,  whom  the  elder  lands  would  not  — 
Younger  sons  of  the  sires! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  —  a  stubborn  breed ! 
There  stirs  in  the  atrophied  vein, 
The  quickened  pulse  of  a  soul  re-born  — 
The  prophets'  dormant  strain. 

Brother  and  brother  —  parched  of  their  thirst! 
They  drink  at  the  fountain  head; 
They  taste  of  the  manna  long  denied; 
They  eat  of  the  fruit  and  are  fed. 

Again !    Yet  again  —  the  waters  of  life ! 
You  shall  hear  from  them,  country  mine! 
Hewers  and  builders,  captains  of  men, 
Thinkers,  poets  divine  — 

These,  whom  the  elder  lands  would  not! 
Patience,  fools!    Ye  shall  see. 
For  a  nation  reapeth  as  it  hath  sown. 
And  the  reaping  is  yet  to  be! 


LITERATURE  AND  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  JAPAN 


BY   K.    ASAKAWA 


No  attempt  will  here  be  made  to 
sketch  the  evolution  of  literature  in  New 
Japan,  or  to  treat  the  present  period  as 
a  chapter  in  the  twelve  centuries  of  the 
literary  history  of  the  nation.  The  former 
subject,  dating  as  it  does  from  about 
1885,  seems  hardly  to  have  acquired  a 
sufficient  perspective  for  historical  treat- 
ment, while  the  latter  is  too  vast  for  a 
single  article.  We  shall  aim  to  interpret 
some  of  the  literary  productions  of  the 
new  era  as  a  reflection  of  the  remarkable 
transformation  through  which  Japan's 
social  life  is  just  passing;  for  in  this 
sense  the  young  literature,  otherwise  of 
too  local  interest,  would  seem  to  pos- 
sess an  important  and  even  universal 
significance.  From  this  point  of  view, 
however,  it  would  be  impossible  to  do 
justice  to  the  relative  importance  to  one 
another  of  the  individual  authors  and 
works,  and  we  could  not  even  exhaust 
the  list  of  those  whose  merit  is  greatest. 
We  are  even  obliged  to  exclude  a  few 
great  works  by  Roban  and  Shoyo,  for 
they  touch  themes  of  universal  human 
interest  rather  than  reveal  the  spirit  of 
modern  Japan.  Our  choice  will  be  con- 
fessedly partial,  but  will  include  little 
that  is  not  in  some  manner  or  other  ex- 
pressive of  the  society  of  the  present 
day. 

It  might  be  thought  necessary  to  de- 
fine in  simple  words  the  meaning  of  the 
terms  literature  and  society  as  here  used. 
"Literature  "  is  intended  to  comprise  all 
or  any  artistic,  as  opposed  to  scientific, 
writing  on  man  and  nature,  but,  in  this 
article,  is  confined  to  such  essays  and 
novels  as  seem  to  reflect  the  social  life  of 
New  Japan.  "  Society  "  does  not  lend 
itself  to  a  precise  definition;  the  com- 
mon sense  would  scarcely  include  the 
physical  surroundings,  the  institutions, 


and  the  domestic  and  foreign  political 
relations  of  a  nation,  but  would  regard 
it  rather  as  aggregate  effects  of  all  these 
things  and  of  the  nation's  collective  life 
upon  the  daily  habit,  material  and  moral, 
of  the  individual.  It  is  unnecessary  for 
our  purpose  to  go  further  and  make  scho- 
lastic improvements  upon  this  crude 
definition,  —  it  sufficiently  indicates  the 
complex  and  largely  inexplicable  nature 
of  the  question.  Hence  it  is  that  litera- 
ture delineates,  rather  than  analyzes  or 
explains,  society.  Literature  is,  there- 
fore, a  mirror  —  often  a  dim  and  un- 
even mirror — of  society,  and  an  attempt, 
like  the  present,  to  interpret  the  object 
through  the  image,  must  needs  be  seri- 
ously defective. 

No  impartial  account  of  the  literature 
of  New  Japan  should  fail  to  accord  Tsu- 
bouchi  Yuzo  (pseudonyms,  Shoyo  and 
Haru-no-ya)  a  distinguished  place  in  its 
history.  No  other  writer  has  been  so 
reflective  and  so  modest,  and  yet  so  un- 
ceasingly and  brilliantly  growing,  and  so 
largely  a  leader  of  the  literary  tendencies 
of  the  nation,  as  this  sage  poet  of  Okubo. 
For  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  has  been 
engaged  in  training  the  youth  at  Waseda 
University,  whence  thousands  saturated 
with  the  natural  but  profound  influence 
of  the  conscientious  master  have  spread 
over  the  land,  and  hundreds  have  estab- 
lished themselves  in  the  literary  world, 

We  much  regret  that  our  present  pur- 
pose forbids  us  to  follow,  beyond  its  very 
first  stage,  the  marvelous  literary  career  of 
Dr.  Tsubouchi,  first  as  a  novelist,  then 
as  an  essayist,  philosopher,  educator,  and 
dramatist;  for,  so  far  as  his  own  literary 
works  are  concerned,  they  are  too  uni- 
versal in  import  to  be  expressive  merely 
of  the  Japanese  society  of  to-day.  His 
first  appearance  in  1885-86  as  a  novelist, 

73 


74 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


however,  should  serve  as  the  starting 
point  of  our  account.  The  To-sei  sho-sei 
katagi  (The  Modern  Student)  came  as  a 
bolt  in  a  clear  sky,  caused  consternation 
in  the  followers  of  the  old  literary  forms, 
and  powerfully  turned  the  trend  of 
thought  of  the  novelists  in  a  new  direc- 
tion. Hitherto  most  writers  had  been 
wont  to  assign  different  abstract  qualities 
to  different  characters  in  the  story,  and 
arrange  their  acts  and  careers  in  such  a 
way  as  to  point  toward  some  wholesome 
moral  exhortation.  Individual  charac- 
ters were  often  overshadowed  either  by 
inexorable  Fate  and  unforeseen  accidents 
or  by  the  commanding  power  of  the  fam- 
ily or  public  institutions.  The  To-sei 
sho-sei  katagi,  except  in  the  earlier  por- 
tion of  its  story,  completely  ignored  the 
worn-out  conventions  of  fiction-making. 
A  novel  without  a  hero  as  it  was,  it  re- 
vealed more  than  half  a  dozen  young 
students  with  their  different  character- 
istics in  full  activity  in  the  heart  of  bus- 
tling Tokyo.  The  student's  salute  and 
the  jinrikisha-man's  shout  are  heard  on 
every  hand ;  the  society  is  new,  crude,  and 
bare;  the  virtues  of  the  past  feudal  ages 
are  not  much  in  evidence,  while  the  old 
vices  remain  and  have  gained  force  in  the 
new  age  of  egoistic  hedonism.  In  this 
vigorous  but  unembellished  society,  each 
student  is  left  amid  temptations,  and 
makes  his  own  career  according  to  his 
character  and  environment. 

It  is  a  decidedly  transitional  society 
that  the  rising  novelist  depicted  in  1885 
and  that  a  host  of  others  have  since  es- 
sayed to  portray.  It  is  a  society  in  which 
old  customs  persist  side  by  side  with  a 
rifew  order  of  things,  and  old  intellectual 
and  moral  habit  obtains  amid  new  laws 
and  institutions.  It  is  a  society,  what  is 
more,  in  which  the  old  social  sanction 
has  passed  away,  but  the  old  social  mind 
still  subsists  to  a  large  extent,  while  a 
new  social  sanction  and  new  social  morals 
have  hardly  been  developed.  For  al- 
though New  Japan  has,  during  the  forty 
years  of  her  existence,  succeeded  in  re- 
building her  legal,  political,  and  educa- 


tional organs  upon  new  foundations,  and 
pushing  her  economic  life  into  the  new- 
est stage  of  the  world's  material  progress, 
her  art,  religion,  and  social  life,  which 
from  their  very  nature  cannot  be  artifi- 
cially changed  by  laws  or  by  individual 
self-interest,  are  still  far  from  seeing  the 
dawn  of  a  new  era.  For  many  years  to 
come,  the  old  and  the  new  elements  in 
each  of  these  fields  must  exist  in  inhar- 
monious juxtaposition,  and,  quite  nat- 
urally, this  condition  is  nowhere  more 
evident  and  more  intimately  felt  than  in 
the  daily  social  life  of  the  people.  It 
would,  of  course,  be  beyond  our  power 
to  unravel  this  confused  state  of  society. 
All  we  may  hope  to  accomplish  would  be 
to  make  an  attempt  to  point  out  some  of 
the  more  striking  aspects  of  social  life 
and  show  them  reflected  in  a  few  notable 
literary  productions. 

It  is  well  known  that  Japan's  feudal- 
ism was  abolished  by  law  not  more  than 
forty  years  ago,  and  yet  in  this  short 
space  of  time  it  has  been  replaced  by  the 
new  order  of  things  perhaps  more  com- 
pletely than  in  England  or  Germany. 
The  transformation  is,  however,  more 
institutional  than  social.  Let  us  first  ob- 
serve that  Japan  has  hardly  had  time 
enough  to  outlive  the  psychic  habit  which 
she  acquired  during  the  seven  centuries 
of  her  feudal  regime.  For  the  last  two 
hundred  and  sixty  years  of  this  rule,  par- 
ticularly, the  land  was  parceled  into 
nearly  three  hundred  fiefs,  largely  auto- 
nomous and  in  a  measure  exclusive  and 
jealous  of  each  other,  and  the  people  were 
bound  fast  by  a  rigid  system  of  social 
classes,  order,  and  etiquette.  Moreover, 
the  country  was  during  this  period  almost 
entirely  protected  from  foreign  influences. 

The  universal  rule  of  status  held  down 
the  ambition  and  stifled  the  competition 
of  the  individual,  while  little  stimulus 
came  from  abroad  to  kindle  in  the  popu- 
lar mind  yearnings  for  a  wider  horizon. 
If  the  natural  competition  of  the  fiefs  and 
a  long  period  of  peace  resulted,  as  they 
did,  in  developing  greatly  diversified  arts 
of  life,  in  diffusing  culture  among  the 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


75 


lower  classes  of  society,  and  creating  in 
the  character  of  the  average  citizen  a 
degree  of  both  intelligence  and  chivalry, 
all  of  which  have  proved  invaluable  as- 
sets in  the  new  career  of  the  nation,  the 
social  conditions  did  not  at  the  same  time 
fail  to  circumscribe  the  range  of  the 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  individual 
Japanese.  It  is  the  effects  of  this  long 
process  of  limiting  one's  mental  operation 
that  the  nation  has  not  yet  succeeded  in 
outgrowing. 

Unfortunately,  despite  the  sudden  ex- 
tension of  the  sphere  of  her  activity  since 
1868,  Japan's  economic  difficulty  of  main- 
taining an  increasing  population  with  lim- 
ited resources — a  difficulty  which  is  only 
beginning  to  be  lessened  by  industrial 
openings  abroad — seems  to  have  retard- 
ed not  a  little  the  passing  away  of  the 
cramped  mental  habit  of  old.  The  pre- 
sent Japan  may  indeed  have  so  improved 
in  this  regard  in  recent  years  as  to  appear 
almost  a  strange  land  to  the  Japanese  of 
half  a  century  ago  or  to  the  Korean  of 
to-day.  An  American  who  does  not  relish 
even  the  rather  innocent  gossip  of  the  New 
England  town,  and  feels  at  odds  with  the 
narrow-minded  social  thinking  in  some 
countries  of  the  Old  World,  would  be 
annoyed  in  Japan  by  the  way  in  which 
every  slight  success  excites  unmerited 
applause  from  some  and  inevitable  jeal- 
ousies from  others,  by  the  readiness  with 
which  the  native  mind  moves  along  small 
artificial  channels  of  thought  and  feeling, 
and  by  the  petty  criticisms  and  intrigues 
by  means  of  which  not  a  few  seek  to 
climb  the  ladders  of  life.  It  would  seem 
singular,  but  it  is  a  natural  result  of  their 
historic  training,  that  the  same  people 
who  have  shown  themselves  to  be  cap- 
able at  critical  times  of  the  utmost  sacri- 
fice and  of  an  absolute  national  unity, 
should  in  their  daily  struggle  of  life  allow 
their  minds  to  run  into  old  grooves  that 
neutralize  the  growth  of  open  coopera- 
tions and  manly  conflicts. 

The  Ukigumo  (Floating  Clouds)  by 
Hasegawa  (nom  de  plume,  Niyotei  Shi- 
mei)  appeared  in  1887-88,  and  has  been 


regarded  as  the  first  novel  in  which  the 
development  of  individual  characters  is 
the  theme.  This  plain  story,  told  deli- 
cately in  a  simple  prose  style,  may  per- 
haps be  cited  as  an  illustration,  though 
not  quite  as  adequate  as  one  would  wish, 
of  the  points  we  have  been  discussing. 
Uchimi,  a  young  official  who  early  lost 
his  parents  and  has,  since  he  was  fifteen, 
been  living  with  his  uncle  in  Tokyo,  falls 
in  love  with  the  latter's  daughter,  who  is 
vain  and  light-hearted.  He  is,  however, 
so  reserved  and  so  inflexible  in  his  man- 
ners that  the  chief  of  the  bureau  under 
whom  he  has  been  serving  places  him  on 
the  list  of  men  to  be  discharged.  At  once 
the  aunt,  who  was  formerly  a  professional 
singer,  and  has  seemed  kind  enough  to 
Uchimi,  begins  to  make  it  manifest  to  him 
that  his  presence  in  the  family  is  unwel- 
come and  that  he  should  not  hope  to 
become  her  son-in-law.  One  of  his  for- 
mer colleagues,  Honda,  a  smooth-tongued 
youth,  who  is  a  favorite  of  the  chief 
official,  now  frequently  visits  the  house, 
ingratiates  himself  in  many  ways  with 
the  aunt  and  her  daughter,  and  skillful- 
ly plays  upon  the  wounded  feelings  of 
Uchimi,  who  is  dejected  and  growing  pes- 
simistic. One  day  the  latter  has  a  heated 
dialogue  with  the  daughter.  "  Oh,  yes," 
says  she  at  last,  "  I  like  Mr.  Honda,  but 
what  is  that  to  you  ?  " 

Side  by  side  with  the  limited  mental 
sweep  of  the  people,  one  will  discern  the 
survival  of  some  old  customs  and  institu- 
tions. If  the  former  may  be  considered 
a  potentiality  inherent  in  the'  average 
Japanese,  the  latter  are  organs  through 
which  the  nation  habitually  performs  its 
functions  of  life.  Of  these  old  survivals, 
the  most  persistent  and  powerful  are  per- 
haps those  of  the  family.  The  framers  of 
the  new  Civil  Code  of  Japan,  which  has 
been  largely  derived  from  European  laws, 
have  shrunk  from  making  as  bold  changes, 
or  introducing  as  novel  provisions,  in  the 
family  law,  as  they  have  in  other  parts 
of  the  Code.  Although  every  member  of 
the  family  stands  under  the  direct  rule 
and  protection  of  law,  the  Code  still  ab- 


76 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


stains  from  interfering  with  the  old  cus- 
tom of  the  parents  and  their  married 
children  living  under  one  roof,  and  with 
the  moral  pressure  which  the  parent  may 
bring  to  bear  upon  the  child  in  the  choice 
of  the  latter's  life  companion.  It  is  ex- 
pedient that  in  these  matters  law  should 
not  precede,  but  follow,  changes  in  popu- 
lar usage.  Old  customs  about  the  right  of 
the  family  as  against  wishes  of  the  in- 
dividual still  prevail  to  a  large  extent  in 
Japan,  while  her  younger  generation 
often  resists  their  tyranny.  Perhaps  it 
might  be  said  that  almost  every  educated 
youth  has  some  personal  experience  of 
the  conflicts  of  the  old  and  new  family 
ideas.  The  difficulty  is  either  settled 
amicably  by  the  gracious  consent  of  the 
older  relatives  to  the  youth's  desires,  or 
results  in  the  latter's  revolt  or  acquies- 
cence. Of  these  conflicts,  the  writers  of 
fiction  naturally  delight  in  depicting  those 
particularly  relating  to  marriage.  In  this 
connection,  reference  may  be  made  to 
two  of  Koyo's  novels. 

Ozaki  Koyo  was  a  consummate  master 
of  prose  style,  and  was  so  prolific  a  writer 
that  during  the  seventeen  years  before 
1903,  when  his  lamented  death  occurred, 
he  published  not  less  than  eighty-five 
novels  and  essays,  a  few  of  them  running 
to  several  volumes  each.  His  Iro-zange 
(Confessions  of  Love),  published  in  1889, 
is  a  story  of  a  feudal  age.  The  pathetic 
incidents  would  never  occur  in  the  actual 
life  of  to-day,  but  the  customs  described 
in  it  still  remain  operative,  though  in 
much  feebler  forms. 

The  solitary  hut  of  a  young,  beautiful 
nun,  Wakaba,  is  visited  one  summer 
evening  by.  another  unknown  nun  of  like 
age,  who  begs  for  lodging  over  the  night. 
The  latter  is  touched  by  a  letter  pasted 
on  a  wall,  which  the  hostess  in  her  lonely 
nights  is  wont  to  read  and  ponder.  It  is 
addressed  to  Wakaba  by  her  former  hus- 
band, she  explains,  whom  she  had  mar- 
ried only  a  few  days  before  he  departed 
for  a  battlefield,  and  states  in  affection- 
ate terms  that  he  is  obliged  to  divorce  her, 
and  counsels  second  marriage  to  a  suit- 


able person.  The  visitor  in  return  nar- 
rates her  pathetic  life-story,  which  the 
novelist  puts  in  his  own  graphic  words. 
A  little  away  from  the  scene  of  a  fierce 
battle,  a  wounded  young  warrior  meets 
his  uncle,,  who  brought  up  the  nephew  in 
his  childhood,  after  he  had  lost  his  par- 
ents, but  who  is  now  on  the  enemy's  side. 
The  lad  is  exhausted,  and  otherwise  dares 
not  raise  his  hand  against  his  foster- 
father,  who  challenges  him  to  fight.  The 
bleeding  Koshiro  is  carried  away  by  his 
servant  to  the  uncle's  home,  where  he  is 
attended  on  his  sick-bed  by  the  latter's 
daughter  Yoshino,  to  whom  he  was  once 
betrothed.  When  he  regains  conscious- 
ness, she  gently  torments  him  by  such 
questions  as  these:  "Do -I  hear  aright 
that  constancy  is  the  greatest  virtue  for 
the  woman  ?  "  "  Pray  tell  me  whether 
a  gentleman  may  have  more  than  one 
lover,  while  a  lady  should  not  marry 
twice  ?  "  She  has  been  constant  in  her 
tender  love  for  Koshiro,  but  he  has  mar- 
ried another. 

He  married  another  in  order  not  to 
stain  the  name  of  his  ancestry  by  mar- 
rying an  enemy's  daughter,  but  has  also 
divorced  his  wife  and  set  out  for  the 
war,  with  the  full  intention  of  falling  in 
battle  and  thus  atoning  with  death  for 
his  forced  ingratitude  toward  his  uncle. 
He  has  been  ignobly  saved  by  this  very 
uncle  in  a  moment  of  incapacity.  Hear- 
ing now,  however,  that  his  lord  has  died 
in  the  war,  he  quietly  commits  suicide. 
When  this  narrative  of  the  visiting  nun 
is  ended,  the  hostess  exclaims,  "  Then 
you  are  the  betrothed  of  my  late  hus- 
band." "And  you  are  his  wife,"  replies 
Yoshino.  As  they  marvel  at  each  other's 
destiny  so  deftly  interwoven,  the  night 
slowly  recedes  and  a  new  day  dawns. 

Koyo's  Futari  nyobb  (Two  Wives)  is  a 
modern  story  of  the  plebeian  sort.  An 
old  official  has  two  daughters,  the  elder 
pretty  and  lively  and  the  younger  homely 
but  reliable.  The  former  becomes  the 
second  wife  of  a  high  official.  She  bears 
no  children,  and  constantly  worries 
about  her  fastidious  mother-in-law.  The 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


77 


trouble  is  increased  when  his  sister,  with 
her  husband,  an  army  officer,  comes  from 
Kumamoto  to  live  with  the  family.  Crit- 
ical eyes  watch  over  the  conduct  of  the 
poor  mistress  of  the  house.  The  mother- 
in-law  is  so  dissatisfied  with  things  in 
general  that  she  moves  into  the  new 
home  of  the  officer,  who  has  lately  estab- 
lished Jus  own  quarters,  and  receives  her 
purse-money  from  her  son.  Soon  she  is 
at  odds  with  the  new  people.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  high  official  loses  his  posi- 
tion, and  his  mother,  now  receiving  from 
him  less  money  than  before,  returns  to 
his  home.  The  younger  daughter,  who 
is  less  pretty  and  more  business-like  than 
the  elder,  is  married  to  an  honest  friend 
of  her  childhood  who  now  earns  modest 
wages  at  the  government  arsenal,  and  is 
happy  and  contented.  There  is  no  mo- 
ther-in-law to  harass  her;  she  loves  her 
husband,  and  has  a  baby,  in  whom  she 
can  forget  the  ills  of  life. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  certain  peculiarities 
of  the  social  mind  of  the  Japanese  people 
which  differentiate  it  from  that  of  the 
Anglo-Saxons.  Seriously  as  one  may 
doubt  the  oft-repeated  assertion  that  the 
Japanese  have  a  low  esteem  for  human 
life,  he  cannot  be  blind  to  the  fact  that- 
they  have  hardly  attained  to  the  full 
power  of  the  conception  of  the  dignity  of 
the  individual  person  which  is  felt  among 
the  more  enlightened  Britons  and  Ameri- 
cans. Here,  it  is  true,  one  deals  with  a 
question  of  degrees;  but  of  high  signifi- 
cance is  whatever  little  difference  that 
exists  between  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the 
Japanese  in  regard  to  their  ideas  as  to 
the  worth  of  the  individual  relative  to  the 
institutions  about  him,  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  Eastern  and  Western  societies 
view  and  discuss  the  conduct  of  their 
respective  members,  to  the  esteem  in 
which  their  press  holds  the  honor  of  the 
average  citizen,  and  to  the  independence 
of  thought,  not  necessarily  its  correctness 
or  depth,  of  the  masses  about  moral  ques- 
tions and  public  affairs.  Behind  this 
difference,  however  slight,  there  must  be 
historic  lessons  of  the  greatest  import. 


Another  no  less  important  peculiarity 
of  the  Japanese  social  mind  is  its  com- 
parative weakness  in  the  idea  of  service, 
—  service  to  one's  fellowmen  as  distin- 
guished from  loyalty  to  one's  superiors. 
It  may  be  said  that  here  again  is  a  ques- 
tion of  difference  of  small  degrees,  for, 
on  the  one  hand,  Japan's  annals  contain 
noble  stories  of  persons  devoting  their 
lives  to  the  welfare  of  society,  and,  on  the 
other,  there  is  perhaps  no  civilized  coun- 
try on  earth  where  the  universal  and  prac- 
tical acceptance  of  the  idea  of  service 
would  not  cause  a  veritable  social  revo- 
lution. A  nation,  however,  whose  masses 
have  inherited  the  notion  at  least  as  an 
ideal  or  a  watchword,  and  whose  few 
actually  build  their  lives  upon  it  and  are 
never  tired  of  reminding  their  fellow- 
citizens  of  its  importance,  may  be  said 
to  be  morally  far  richer  than  a  people  in 
whom  the  idea  is  well  known  but  not 
so  well  as  to  form  a  predominant  part 
of  their  collective  ethical  consciousness. 
The  latter  is  the  case  with  Japan. 

Of  her  serious  defects  in  this  respect,  at 
least  one  manifest  cause  is  discernible  in 
history.  The  two  and  a  half  centuries  of 
the  Tokugawa's  feudal  rule  inculcated  the 
idea  of  loyalty  to  the  lord,  and  of  the 
preponderance  of  each  upper  class  of  so- 
ciety over  the  lower.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  ancient  Chinese  notion  of  the  ruler's 
duty  to  the  people  lacked  elements  in 
both  China  and  Japan  to  make  it  more 
than  a  rhetorical  declaration.  The  idea 
that  the  official  is  a  master,  instead  of  a 
servant  of  the  people  seems,  despite  the 
clamorous  arguments  of  the  political  the- 
orists to  the  contrary,  intact  among  the 
uneducated  multitudes,  and  is  naturally 
taken  advantage  of  by  the  lesser  or  local 
officials  in  the  present  bureaucratic  sys- 
tem of  Japan.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
discover  among  them  many  who  regard 
their  posts  as  a  trust  from  or  a  service  to 
the  common  people.  For  similar  reasons, 
perhaps,  the  official  is  as  meek  to  his 
superior  as  he  is  overbearing  to  his  in- 
ferior. His  position,  too,  is  so  shifting 
that  his  conception  of  governmental  duty 


78 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


is  often  remarkably  mechanical  and  in- 
sincere. One  visits  the  public  office  with 
an  instinctive  sense  of  its  cold  formal- 
ism and  ponderous  irresponsibility.  It 
is  little  wonder  that  the  average  official 
seems  soon  to  become  an  old,  care-worn 
person.  The  lack  of  the  sense  of  service 
is,  however,  not  limited  to  his  class,  for 
an  unconscious  copy  of  the  bureaucratic 
system  and  its  clannish  selfishness  has 
the  tendency  to  develop  in  any  organiza- 
tion of  power  or  wealth,  or  even  of  know- 
ledge. 

How  to  check  this  general  spirit  which 
dampens  the  cheer  of  society  and  hin- 
ders wholesome  competition  among  the 
ambitious,  is  the  serious  problem  that 
faces  the  otherwise  gifted  nation.  As  for 
the  permanent  introduction  among  the 
nation  of  the  larger  idea  of  service,  as 
well  as  of  the  value  of  the  individual  per- 
son, perhaps  nothing  would  aid  it  better 
than  a  powerful  spiritual  impulse. 

Between  these  two  great  ideas  we  need 
not  assume  any  historical  relation,  but  it 
is  not  difficult  to  find  a  logical  connection 
between  them.  For  the  sense  of  service, 
whatever  its  origin,  implies  relations  to 
a  group  of  persons  each  one  of  whom  is 
an  individual  entity.  The  case  of  feudal 
Japan  suggests  that  in  a  community 
where  fixed  status  prevents  the  develop- 
ment of  social  and  economic  competition 
among  its  members,  the  whole  fabric  of 
its  moral  customs  is  apt  to  be  founded 
upon  the  relation  of  the  person  to  the 
institutions  controlling  him,  —  upon  the 
exact  grading  of  the  classes  and  other  so- 
cial relationships, — rather  than  upon  his 
relations  to  his  fellow-beings,  each  one 
of  whom  has  rights  to  enjoy,  duties  to 
perform,  a  career  to  make,  and  a  person- 
ality to  realize.  For  the  sake  of  conven- 
ience, let  us  call  the  former  the  old  and 
the  latter  the  new  view  of  social  morals. 

That  this  seemingly  theoretical  differ- 
ence has  a  tremendous  significance  in  the 
practical  daily  life  of  a  society,  seems 
well  borne  out  in  a  careful  comparison 
of  some  of  the  Protestant  communities 
with  Japan,  where  the  old  view  dies  hard 


and  the  new  principle  is  far  from  having 
taken  hold  of  society.  The  very  fact  that 
the  old  view  has  partly  died  makes  the 
absence  of  a  new  all  the  more  evident. 
The  old  social  system  which  brought  its 
moral  habit  into  existence  has  been  nearly 
swept  away  during  the  last  four  decades, 
so  that  the  latter  subsists  as  a  psychic 
potentiality,  and  does  not  cooperate  with 
parts  of  the  new  social  order.  It  is,  for 
example,  totally  absent  outside  of  organ- 
izations, official  or  otherwise,  where  any 
distinction  of  classes  or  other  relation- 
ship is  possible.  A  young  man  who  is 
deferential  to  his  father  or  his  professor 
throws  down  his  mask  at  the  class 
banquet,  where  if  the  father  or  the  pro- 
fessor were  present  his  dignity  would  be 
scantily  recognized. 

The  loss  of  the  old  principle  and 
the  absence  of  a  new  is  painfully  con- 
spicuous in  all  places  —  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  public  meetings,  de- 
bates, banquets,  hotels,  electric  and 
steam  cars,  —  where  people  meet  on 
the  basis  of  equality.  There  each  per- 
son seems  eager  to  enforce  his  sense  of 
individual  comfort,  and  seems  to  forget 
his  neighbor;  or  else  he  puts  so  little  re- 
straint on  his  speech  and  conduct  that 
one  would  wonder  where  is  the  dignity 
of  their  author  and  of  the  many  persons 
who  are  compelled  to  hear  and  see  them. 
Compared  with  the  chaotic  individual- 
ism seen  in  the  second-class  railway  car 
in  Japan,  the  busiest  streets  of  Chicago 
present  a  picture  of  order.  It  would  seem 
almost  impossible  to  realize  that  the 
same  individual  who  is  so  gentle  to  his 
elders  and  so  loyal  to  his  ruler  should,  as 
he  does,  as  soon  as  he  touches  elbow  with 
the  rank  and  file,  behave  as  if  he  had  lost 
his  moral  sanity. 

A  natural  effect  of  this  state  of  things 
is  the  want,  or  else  the  weak  immaturity, 
of  recognized  social  customs  regarding 
certain  relations  of  life.  In  these  mat- 
ters, particularly  in  courtship  and  mar- 
riage, the  social  vagaries  are  often  in- 
congruous and  ludicrous.  Let  us  in  this 
connection  sketch  two  stories  by  Koyo, 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


79 


which  seem  rather  too  unreal  even  in 
New  Japan,  but  yet  which  could  have 
been  produced  nowhere  else. 

In  the  Nen-ge  bi-sho,  one  reads  of  a 
young  petty  official,  who,  as  he  walks 
every  morning  to  his  office,  meets  on  the 
street  a  beautiful  maiden  going  to  school 
in  a  jinrikisha.  After  a  few  months,  they 
begin  to  bow  to  each  other  with  a  smile. 
One  day  he  goes  to  see  chrysanthemum 
shows  at  Dango-zaka  with  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  finds  the  young  lady  walk- 
ing among  the  flowers  with  her  mother, 
two  maid-servants,  and  a  gentleman. 
The  last  individual  the  official  concludes 
to  be  the  husband  of  the  person  he  has 
silently  loved.  It  is  unknown  what  has 
offended  her  on  his  part,  but  after  this 
incident  she  no  longer  bows  to  the  young 
official  at  their  usual  meetings  on  the 
street,  and  he  is  compelled  to  pretend 
not  to  see  her  as  she  is  passing.  He  is 
later  told  by  his  colleagues  that  the  head 
of  the  bureau  in  which  he  serves  had  two 
daughters,  the  elder  of  whom  was  mar- 
ried against  her  wishes  to  a  person  of 
high  position  and  soon  afterwards  died. 
Taking  lesson  from  this  sad  experience, 
he  sought  to  marry  the  younger  daughter 
to  any  person  she  loved,  and  learned  that 
a  young  official  whom  she  saw  daily  on 
her  way  to  school  had  taken  her  fancy. 
While  the  father  was  endeavoring  to  find 
out  who  the  young  man  might  be,  the 
daughter  saw  him  one  day  at  Dango- 
zaka  with  his  mother  and  wife.  She  was 
thereafter  married  to  a  young  doctor  who 
had  just  returned  from  Germany,  and 
to  whom  she  offered  no  particular  objec- 
tion. 

The  story  of  the  Ko  no  nushi  by  the 
same  author,  published  also  in  1890,  is 
as  follows.  Ono  Shunkichi,  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  a  student  in  the  Imperial 
University,  has  no  parents,  and  lives  in 
Tokyo  with  his  younger  brother,  Shunji, 
thirteen  years  old,  and  an  old  servant. 
The  residents  of  the  next  house  are 
wealthy  and  have  a  daughter,  named 
Tatsu,  who  secretly  feels  an  ardent  love 
for  the  student.  The  latter,  however, 


is  a  stolid  character  who  believes  in 
celibacy.  In  spite  of  his  strenuous  ob- 
struction, however,  Tatsu  succeeds  at 
last  in  befriending  his  younger  brother, 
whom  she  would  use  as  a  lever  to  move 
the  elder.  When  Shunji  is  confined  in  his 
house  from  the  wound  inflicted  by  a  mad 
dog  belonging  to  her  family,  the  maiden 
sees  a  splendid  opportunity  to  visit  Ono's 
home  and  inquire  after  the  condition 
of  her  little  friend.  Her  visits  on  seven 
successive  days,  however,  fail  to  bring 
enough  sense  of  gratitude  to  the  stu- 
dent to  meet  and  thank  her  in  person. 
Shunji  recovers  from  the  bite,  and  se- 
cretly visits  the  kind  fair  friend.  She 
hands  him  a  letter  to  his  brother,  who, 
on  receiving  it,  is  so  offended  as  to  forbid 
him  to  go  out  except  to  school.  During 
his  forced  confinement  the  lad  plays  the 
game  of  fukiya,  which  consists  in  blow- 
ing a  needle  through  a  pipe,  aiming  at 
some  birds  in  the  neighbors'  garden.  His 
brother  joins  him,  and  the  needle  acci- 
dentally hits  Tatsu  above  the  eye,  and 
causes  her  to  fall  from  momentary  sur- 
prise. In  his  confusion  the  young  man 
rushes  to  her,  and  raises  her  from  the 
ground,  when  she  declares  her  love  for 
him  and  asks  for  a  promise.  "  I  will 
marry  you ! "  exclaims  Shunkichi,  in 
great  emotion,  "  you.  will  be  Mrs.  Ono." 
"  Banzai!  banzai!"  cries  Shunji. 

Perhaps  no  civilized  society  of  modern 
times  is,  or  should  be,  so  sufficient  unto 
itself  as  to  present  an  appearance  of  a 
complete  organic  unity.  There  would  be 
little  progress  where  there  were  no  new 
forces  continually  remodeling  old  cus- 
toms and  institutions.  This  is  so  true  that 
if  one  should  ask  individual  Americans 
or  Germans  what  their  social  morals  and 
social  sanction  were,  he  would  probably 
get  conflicting  answers.  Yet  we  venture 
to  say  that  a  society  is  rarely  so  inorganic, 
so  indeterminate,  and  so  full  of  friction, 
as  in  New  Japan.  A  reason  for  this  cir- 
cumstance we  have  already  found  in  the 
transitional  character  of  the  society.  An- 
other cause  may  be  the  smallness  of  na- 
tional resources  and  opportunities  in  pro- 


80 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


portion  to  the  population,  a  condition 
under  which  success  is  not  guaranteed 
to  all  worthy  aspirants,  and  which  neces- 
sitates a  reduction  of  their  numbers.  Still 
another  cause  may  be  the  inadequacy, 
especially  in  education,  of  the  apparatus 
for  the  training,  discipline,  and  applica- 
tion of  individual  talents.  Too  often  a 
person  fails  to  develop  what  is  in  him, 
and,  moreover,  his  efforts  do  not  always 
bring  commensurate  recognition  from 
others,  society  being  either  excessively 
appreciative  or  totally  unresponsive,  or 
perhaps  both  at  the  same  time.  These 
irregularities  are  undoubtedly  being  re- 
moved by  the  growing  wealth  and  en- 
larging opportunities  of  the  nation,  but 
are  still  potent  and  hinder  the  develop- 
ment of  the  individual  citizen. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  is  little 
wonder  that  one  cannot  point  out  any 
such  thing  as  the  social  morals  and  the 
social  sanction  of  New  Japan.  Every 
man  of  strong  will  and  few  scruples  is  his 
own  master,  so  long  as  he  does  not  per- 
petrate crimes  explicitly  defined  by  law. 
Types  of  this  character  are  occasionally 
found  among  the  new  wealthy  classes, 
whose  lowly  forefathers  were  perhaps 
never  subject  to  the  rigorous  feudal  code 
of  honor,  and  who  themselves  have 
worked  hard  to  wrest  wealth  from  the 
world,  and  would  now  find  compensation 
in  an  unlimited  satisfaction  of  their  phys- 
ical wants.  No  one,  they  would  say,  is  en- 
titled to  a  word  regarding  the  manner  of 
spending  the  money  which  they  them- 
selves have  made.  It  is  not  only  some  plu- 
tocrats who  avail  themselves  of  the  want 
of  a  social  sanction,  but  all  classes  of  peo- 
ple exhibit  the  same  untidiness  of  social 
conscience.  Observe  the  ridiculous  con- 
ceit of  the  educated  and  the  dignified,  yet 
irresponsible,  bureaucrats.  A  student,  a 
merchant,  or  a  soldier  is  a  double-faced 
being;  he  may  be  highly  conscientious 
individually  and  in  relations  wherein  the 
old  morals  obtain,  but  be  socially  vicious 
where  no  common  censure  is  heard,  and 
be  none  the  less  honorable.  The  press, 
which  has  little  regard  for  the  individual 


person,  is  glad  to  expose  social  wrongs; 
but  the  offender  sustains  a  comparatively 
slight  wound  from  the  taunt,  and  soon 
recovers  from  it,  for  society  does  not 
judge  and  has  a  short  memory. 

We  select  one  out  of  several  novels 
which  reflect  these  social  traits.  Toku- 
tomi  Kenjiro's  Hototogisu  (Nightingale), 
for  the  comparatively  sound  morals  of  its 
contents  and  also  for  the  lovable  char- 
acter of  its  author,  went  through  many 
editions  within  a  few  years  after  its  publi- 
cation in  1900,  and  has  even  been  trans- 
lated into  English  under  the  title  Nami- 
ko. 

Nami,  eldest  daughter  of  Lieu  ten  ant- 
General  Kataoka,  lost  her  mother  when 
eight  years  old,  and  has  been  brought  up 
by  a  stepmother,  who  has  studied  many 
years  in  England,  and  who  does  not  feel 
a  deep  affection  for  her.  Nami  at  last 
leaves  her  beloved  father,  and  marries 
Second  Lieutenant  Kawashima,  who  ten- 
derly loves  his  young  bride.  She  is,  how- 
ever, under  the  constant  circumspection 
of  the  old  mother-in-law,  in  whose  con- 
servative mind  family  succession  is  an 
absorbingly  sacred  duty. 

Young  Chichi-iwa,  First  Lieutenant  of 
the  General  Staff,  was  brought  up  as  an 
orphan  in  the  Kawashima  family,  and 
has  always  wished  to  make  Nami  his 
own,  and  so  utilize  the  favor  of  her  great 
father  in  his  self-advancement.  Inured 
from  childhood  to  a  cynical  view  of  life, 
he  hates  the  world  and  conceives  an 
enmity  for  Second  Lieutenant  Kawashi- 
ma, his  successful  rival  in  love.  The  lat- 
ter knows  it  not.  The  First  Lieutenant, 
in  collusion  with  one  Yamaki,  a  wealthy 
merchant,  makes  use  of  certain  official 
secrets  for  speculative  purposes.  Ka- 
washima, on  his  return  from  his  honey- 
moon, is  ordered  to  go  on  a  cruise  for  half 
a  year.  During  his  absence,  Chichi-iwa 
forges  a  document  with  Kawashima  as 
surety,  and  borrows  three  thousand  yen. 

As  the  Second  Lieutenant  returns,  Ya- 
maki tries  in  vain  to  persuade  him  to  in- 
vest twenty  or  thirty  thousand  in  what  he 
claims  to  be  a  profitable  enterprise.  On 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


81 


Kawashima's  refusal,  Chichi-iwa,  who 
is  present  at  the  interview  and  does  not 
know  that  the  former  has  already  dis- 
covered his  forgery,  requests  him  to  loan 
him  three  thousand,  and  Yamaki  prompt- 
ly puts  his  seal  as  surety  on  the  legal 
paper  which  his  friend  produces.  This 
money  is  intended  for  the  payment  of 
the  other  debt  for  which  the  very  name 
and  seal  of  Kawashima  have  been  ille- 
gally used.  The  latter  not  only  declines 
to  accede  to  the  bold-faced  request,  but 
denounces  the  evil  principles  of  Chichi- 
iwa,  and  declares  that  he  will  from  this 
day  sever  his  friendship  with  him.  Soon 
afterwards,  his  illegal  collusion  with  Ya- 
maki having  been  discovered,  the  young 
officer  is  transferred  from  the  General 
Staff  to  a  regiment. 

Meanwhile,  Nami  is  taken  with  con- 
sumption, the  disease  which  killed  her 
mother,  and  moves  with  her  husband  to 
Dzushi  on  the  seashore.  During  their 
absence,  Chichi-iwa  frequently  visits  Ka- 
washima's  mother,  and  with  villainous 
cleverness  brings  her  mind  to  the  convic- 
tion that  the  welfare  of  the  Kawashima 
family  forbids  the  continued  presence  in 
it  of  a  consumptive  bride.  When  her  son 
visits  her  on  the  eve  of  another  cruise, 
she  gently  broaches  the  question  of 
divorce.  The  shocked  son  pleads  that 
the  divorce  would  kill  Nami,  and  that, 
if  she  must  die,  she  should  be  allowed  to 
die  as  his  wife.  "  Sacrifice  the  small  to 
save  the  great,"  says  the  mother.  "  There 
are  many  cases  like  this  in  the  world. 
There  are  divorces  of  wives  who  do  not 
suit  the  customs  of  the  families,  or  who 
bear  no  children,  or  who  have  bad  dis- 
eases. This  is  the  rule  in  the  world  — 
there  is  no  injustice  and  no  inhumanity 
in  it."  "  If  that  is  the  rule  in  the  present 
world,"  says  the  son,  "  the  present  world 
may  be  destroyed,  and  should  be." 

He  argues  that  if  he,  instead  of  Nami, 
fell  ill,  and  if  on  that  account  she  was  re- 
called by  her  parents,  the  mother  would 
not  like  it.  "  That  is  a  different  matter," 
replies  she.  "  Is  not  a  man  different  from 
a  woman  ?  "  "  Do  you  command  me," 
VOL.  102-NO.l 


cries  the  excited  son  at  last,  "  to  bring 
death  to  Nami  ?  "  The  mother  brings 
out  the  mortuary  tablet  of  the  father, 
and  calls  her  son  unfilial.  "  But  human 
nature  — ,"  begins  he.  "  Nature  and 
justice  again?  Do  you  think  that  the 
wife  is  more  important  than  the  parent  ? 
Which  is  the  more  important,  the  wife 
or  the  parent?  What?  The  family?" 
The  son  at  length  makes  the  painful 
compromise  of  accepting  the  principle, 
but  entreats  the  old  lady  to  do  nothing 
about  the  matter  till  his  return  from  the 
cruise.  He  then  goes  to  see  Nami,  and 
their  parting  scene  is  touching. 

Nami  is  now  as  good  as  divorced.  Ya- 
maki, who  has  always  wished,  for  his 
interest,  to  marry  his  silly  daughter  to 
Lieutenant  Kawashima,  succeeds  in  find- 
ing a  place  for  her  in  the  old  Madame 
Kawashima's  home  as  pupil  of  house- 
hold etiquette.  The  advice  the  father 
gives  the  daughter  on  parting  is  instruct- 
ive. When  she  marries  the  young  officer, 
as  he  expects  she  will  on  Nami's  divorce, 
the  displeasure  of  the  mother-in-law  is 
to  be  warded  off  by  not  seeming  to  live 
on  too  intimate  terms  with  the  husband. 
"  You  ought  to  make  her  feel,"  says  he, 
"  that  you  are  her  daughter-in-law,  rather 
than  the  wife  of  her  son.  The  quarrel 
between  the  mother-in-law  and  the  daugh- 
ter-in-law usually  arises  from  the  too  great 
intimacy  of  the  young  couple,  which  gives 
a  solitary  feeling  to  the  old  lady." 

Despite  the  parting  entreaty  of  her 
son,  Madame  Kawashima  is  so  worked 
upon  by  Chichi-iwa  as  to  divorce  Nami. 
Finding  out  the  fact  on  his  return,  the 
son  at  once  responds  to  a  call  for  going 
to  war,  and,  fighting  gallantly  at  the  naval 
battle  in  the  Yellow  Sea,  in  1894,  sus- 
tains a  severe  wound.  At  the  hospital, 
he  receives  an  anonymous  present,  and 
writes  brief  letters  to  Nami.  "  There  is 
not  a  day,"  says  one  of  the  letters,  "  when 
I  do  not  think  of  you/'  The  worn-out 
Nami,  who  has  been  so  recently  wounded 
by  the  divorce,  sees  before  her  nothing 
but  darkness  and  misery,  and  is  saved 
from  a  desperate  attempt  to  drown  her- 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


self,  by  a  Christian  woman.  From  the 
latter's  sympathetic  exhortations  she  be- 
gins to  feel  the  dawn  of  her  spiritual  life. 

Chichi-iwa  has  laid  down  his  life  like 
a  true  soldier  in  one  of  the  battles  of  the 
war.  Kawashima  again  goes  to  war,  on 
recovering  from  his  wound,  and  acci- 
dentally rescues  Lieutenant-General  Ka- 
taoka,  his  former  father-in-law,  from  the 
hands  of  a  Chinese  assassin.  No  sooner 
*  does  he  return  home  than  he  is  called  to 
Formosa.  At  Yamashina,  near  Kyoto, 
from  a  train  passing  by,  Nami  perceives 
him  in  another  train,  and  throws  on  his 
lap  a  violet  silk  handkerchief. 

Soon  afterwards  she  passes  away,  leav- 
ing for  her  absent  lover  a  ring  and  a  letter 
written  in  tremulous  hand.  Her  last  utter- 
ance was :  "  I  shall  return,  I  shall  return, 
shall  I  not,  dear  ?  —  Mother,  I  am  com- 
ing, I  am  coming.  —  O,  are  you  still  — 
here?" 

Returning  from  Formosa,  Kawashima 
visits  the  tomb  of  the  deceased,  and  there 
finds  the  Lieutenant-General,  her  father. 
44  Lieutenant,"  says  the  latter,  "  Nami  is 
dead,  but  I  am  still  a  sort  of  father  to  you. 
Be  of  good  cheer  —  you  have  a  long 
career  before  you.  Everything  is  given 
for  the  training  of  a  man.  O,  it  is  a  long 
time  since  we  were  together,  Lieutenant. 
Come,  let  me  hear  your  stories  of  For- 
mosa." 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  for  a  mo- 
ment that,  aside  from  the  question  of 
social  morals,  Japan  possesses  distinct 
national  or  ethnic  morals  which  set  her 
apart  as  a  striking  example  of  an  abso- 
lute unity  of  national  mind.  One  has  not 
learned  the  greatest  thing  about  her  who 
fails  to  discern  the  overmastering  trait  of 
her  psychic  life  which  even  so  late  as 
during  the  recent  war  with  Russia  en- 
abled her  entire  population  of  forty-six 
millions  to  think  and  act  like  one  man. 
This  trait  has  thus  far  manifested  itself  as 
patriotism  and  loyalty,  but  we  think  that, 
potentially,  its  substance  is  an  intensely 
chivalrous  sentiment,  which  may  change 
its  mode  of  expression  at  different  times 
and  in  different  persons.  The  absorbing 


passion  seems  to  be  too  universal  among 
the  nation  and  too  deeply  rooted  in  the 
heart  of  the  individual  to  have  yet  been 
adequately  pictured  in  the  novels. 

We  have  reserved  until  now  our  dis- 
cussion of  some  of  the  tendencies  of  a 
class  of  people  which  requires  a  separate 
treatment,  as  it  is  a  species  by  itself,  — 
the  young  men,  especially  the  students, 
of  New  Japan.  Their  well-known  zeal 
for  knowledge,  aided  by  the  universal 
faith  which  the  modern  world  has  in  the 
efficacy  of  education,  has  tended  to  put 
unusually  large  numbers  of  young  people 
into  the  higher  schools.  These  students, 
forming  by  themselves  the  most  sus- 
ceptible but  least  responsible  class  of 
society,  reflect  in  an  exaggerated  form 
some  of  the  social  traits  that  have  al- 
ready been  noted.  Being  naturally  rather 
idealistic,  and  some  of  them  gifted  with 
keen  moral  sensibilities,  the  students  feel, 
perhaps  many  of  them  unconsciously  but 
all  of  them  none  the  less  deeply,  the 
pangs  of  the  moral  desolation  of  society. 
Add  to  this  the  effect  upon  their  minds 
of  the  merciless  conduct  of  the  govern- 
ment so  insistently  to  encourage  educa- 
tion in  its  own  schools,  as  distinguished 
from  private  institutions,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  offer  so  few  of  these  schools, 
that  a  vast  majority  of  the  applicants  for 
entrance  —  perhaps  as  many  as  three- 
fourths  of  the  total  number  —  are  thrust 
aside  to  shift  for  themselves.  Moreover, 
the  supply  of  schoolbred  men  is  con- 
siderably larger  than  the  demand  of  so- 
ciety for  them.  This  material  difficulty, 
the  universal  moral  famine,  and  the  un- 
known fate  which  so  imminently  awaits 
them  at  the  gate  of  a  higher  public 
school,  casts  a  sort  of  unconscious  gloom 
upon  the  students  even  as  early  as  in 
their  preparatory  grade.  A  tinge  of  blind 
pessimism  —  it  may  be  cynicism  — 
seems  to  be  creeping  over  the  mass  of  the 
poor  students.  Into  this  dangerous  state 
they  have  been  gradually  led  during  the 
past  few  years,  and  will  be  further  im- 
pelled in  the  new  age  of  peace. 

From  this  state,  also,  no  great  man  nor 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


83 


any  great  religion  has  so  far  been  able 
effectively  to  rescue  the  best  of  the  youth, 
nor  has  there  appeared  a  Werther  to  ex- 
press the  common  sorrow  and  awaken 
the  young  society  to  the  realization  of  its 
malady.  A  worse  time  is  probably  yet  to 
come.  How  serious,  however,  this  dis- 
satisfaction already  appears  to  be  may 
be  illustrated  by  the  marvelous  fact  that 
some  of  the  young  men  were  not  diverted 
from  their  reflection  even  by  the  stirring 
events  of  the  late  war,  and  do  not  feel  the 
least  concerned  with  the  commanding 
position  which  their  empire  has  assumed 
in  the  East  and  with  their  greatly  added 
responsibility  to  the  fatherland.  When 
one  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  society  in 
which  a  moral  and  spiritual  chaos  reigns, 
they  would  say,  what  leisure  has  he  to 
burden  his  mind  with  such  an  artificial 
organization  as  the  state?  This  is,  of 
course,  an  extreme  case,  and  should  not 
be  taken  as  typical.  Another  and  the 
lowest  extreme  of  the  effects  of  the  com- 
mon discontent  is  the  cheap  sentiment- 
alism  among  certain  classes  of  students, 
who  find  a  feeble  justification  of  their 
irresponsible  conduct  in  the  words  of 
some  European  poems  and  fiction.  We 
should  not,  however,  be  detained  by  these 
rather  exceptional  manifestations  of  the 
moral  unrest  of  the  students,  but  remem- 
ber its  fundamental  causes  and  its  gen- 
eral nature,  and  look  for  some  of  the  more 
normal  modes  of  its  expression. 

If  one  may  classify  the  intellectual 
attitude  of  man  in  general  into  three 
parts,  that  which  studies  the  truth  of 
things,  that  which  judges  their  value, 
and  that  which  makes  new  things,  or, 
more  briefly,  investigation,  criticism,  and 
creation,  it  is  the  second  attitude  that 
appears  to  have  largely  characterized  the 
thinkers  and  scholars  of  Old  Japan,  par- 
ticularly of  the  Confucian  schools,  and 
to  be  deeply  affecting  the  mental  activity 
of  the  new  students.  Outside  of  such 
matter-of-fact  studies  as  the  natural 
sciences  and  medicine,  a  continual  ten- 
dency of  the  Japanese  student  is  to  criti- 
cise things  before  learning  their  full 


truth.  How  often  the  young  man  eagerly 
takes  up  a  book  or  a  subject  of  study,  and 
is  in  its  first  stages  so  deeply  impressed 
by  its  importance  or  apparent  unim- 
portance that  he  is  unable  to  go  forward 
to  complete  it!  He  takes,  as  it  were,  less 
interest  in  the  subject  than  in  the  im- 
pression it  gives  him.  His  attitude  seems 
to  be  essentially  modal:  he  seeks  more 
adjectives  than  substantives.  In  some 
respects,  students  of  few  countries  per- 
ceive more  quickly  than  he  the  general 
perspective  of  a  complex  subject,  or  are 
able  to  speak  more  wisely  and  display  a 
readier  appreciation  of  its  value,  although 
in  a  life-long  competition  of  research  the 
premature  Japanese  might  probably  fall 
behind  his  slow  but  steady  foreign  rivals. 
His  propensity  to  criticise  is  by  no  means 
limited  to  his  intellectual  activity,  but 
pervades  his  whole  mental  life. 

Naturally  and  unfailingly  the  young 
man  determines  in  his  mind  the  great- 
ness or  smallness  of  a  new  instructor  or 
a  new  acquaintance  at  the  first  meeting, 
and  judges  with  great  facility  the  value  of 
a  new  course  of  study  or  a  new  literary 
or  artistic  production.  All  the  magazines 
which  he  reads  are  thoroughly  critical  in 
their  nature,  as  are  the  clever  short  stories 
he  may  himself  write.  If  he  goes  abroad, 
his  mind  is  occupied  every  moment  with 
criticisms  of  men  and  things  about  him, 
an  objectified  picture  of  which  would 
.  astonish  the  American  with  their  preco- 
cious, intricate,  and  stunted  character. 

This  sort  of  mental  practice,  which  we 
have  for  lack  of  a  better  term  called  crit- 
icism, should  be  strictly  distinguished 
from  criticism  in  the  scientific  sense,  for 
it  does  not  consist  in  seeking  and  weigh- 
ing evidence  and  judging  the  value  of 
one's  conclusion  from  the  standpoint  of 
objective  truthfulness.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  the  process  of  estimating  the  worth 
of  things  by  a  largely  subjective  standard, 
which  may  in  some  cases  consist  of  cer- 
tain philosophic  principles  that  the  stu- 
dent has  learned  from  some  source,  or  a 
set  of  moral  ideas  which  controls  his  con- 
duct and  moulds  his  point  of  view,  or, 


84 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


not  indeed  infrequently,  bold  notions 
with  which  he  unconsciously  justifies  his 
own  temperament  or  that  of  his  com- 
munity. Critical  habit  in  this  sense  has, 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  taken  hold  of 
the  student  world  of  New  Japan. 

It  is  not  implied  either  that  the  Japan- 
ese student  is  naturally  dogmatic  or  that 
he  is  immovably  bound  to  his  opinions, 
for  it  seems  he  really  possesses  to  a  re- 
markable degree  that  fairness  and  catho- 
licity of  mind  which  frankly  succumbs  to 
evidence,  and  which  might  be,  as  it  very 
often  has  been,  trained  into  a  transparent 
scientific  attitude.  We  only  refer  to  the 
interesting  fact  that  the  otherwise  sus- 
ceptible mind  is  extremely  busy  in  pass- 
ing judgments  on  matters  and  personal- 
ities from  the  throne  of  its  limited  know- 
ledge and  sentiment. 

This  critical  habit  of  the  young  man 
has  several  times  since  the  beginning  of 
New  Japan  changed  its  forms  of  expres- 
sion, according  to  changes  in  the  social 
conditions.  During  the  eighties  of  the 
last  century,  for  example,  when  the  dif- 
ference of  political  views  between  the 
conservative  government  and  the  radi- 
cals absorbed  the  attention  of  society, 
many  of  the  students  applied  their  critical 
faculty  to  things  political,  protesting 
against  the  insufficient  popular  rights 
granted  by  the  authorities,  and  severely 
condemning  their  behavior  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  political  theories  they 
had  learned  from  Europe.  Champions 
of  liberty,  such  as  Kono,  Suehiro,  and 
Ozaki,  were  acclaimed,  and  novels  de- 
scribing the  persecution  and  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  imaginary  heroes  of  popular 
freedom,  enlivened  with  a  modicum  of 
romance  used  to  lend  color  to  the  narra- 
tive, enjoyed  a  large  circulation  among 
the  students.  Since  that  time,  social  con- 
ditions have  altered,  and  the  young  critics 
have  changed  their  visual  angle  more 
than  once.  What  is  of  special  interest  to 
us  is  the  latest  development,  which  is 
becoming  manifest  under  the  general 
social  tendencies  already  discussed  in 
preceding  paragraphs. 


Several  educated  Japanese,  some  of 
them  from  sincere  motives,  have  become 
professed  socialists,  and  then*  generaliz- 
ing arguments  have  found  an  incredible 
number  of  sympathizers  among  the  stu- 
dents and  even  among  pupils  in  the  sec- 
ondary schools.  The  practice  of  judging 
the  iniquity  of  the  existing  social  condi- 
tions in  a  brilliant,  sweeping  manner 
must  indeed  seem  fascinating  to  the 
young  man  whose  eye  is  ever  turned  out- 
ward and  whose  lips  are  always  ready  to 
denounce  others.  The  apparent  sincer- 
ity of  the  call,  too,  adds  much  to  its 
strength.  The  students,  who  have  once 
cursed  the  political  injustice  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  devoured  the  novels  by 
Suehiro  and  Shiba,  now  find  the  object 
of  their  reproach  in  the  economic  wrongs 
of  society,  and  hence  applaud  the  doings 
of  Tanaka  Shozo  and  the  writings  of 
Kinoshita  Shoko,  interpreting  them  in 
the  light  of  their  socialistic  understanding 
of  whatever  kind. 

Another  set  of  young  men  is  interested 
in  the  more  refined  work  of  the  "  criti- 
cism of  civilization."  Being  untrained  in 
economics  and  law,  but  inclined  to  liter- 
ature, and  having  tasted  the  rudiments  of 
philosophy,  they  readily,  though  super- 
ficially, appreciate  the  ideas  of  Nietzsche, 
Zola,  Ibsen,  Tolstoy,  and  other  modern 
writers  who  have  in  different  ways  criti- 
cised the  value  of  our  civilization.  Works 
of  these  writers  and  those  of  great  living 
authors  in  Europe,  it  is  strange  to  note, 
seem  to  be  more  extensively  read  and 
more  quickly  taken  up  in  Japan  than 
in  America.  Even  more  strange  is  the 
prevailing  tone  of  the  current  literature 
among  the  young  Japanese,  which  criti- 
cises phases  of  modern  civilization  in  an 
extremely  clever  but  petty  and  immodest 
manner  that  is  to  the  foreigner  almost 
bewildering. 

Of  this  general  tendency,  an  embodi- 
ment was  found  in  the  late  Takayama 
Rinjird,  whose  premature  death  took 
place  in  1903.  Highly  intelligent  and 
susceptible  by  nature,  the  young  Taka- 
yama, after  graduation  from  the  Im- 


Literature  and  Society  of  New  Japan 


85 


perial  University  of  Tokyo,  perhaps  in 
1896  had  already  established  his  fame 
as  a  charming  writer  of  philosophic  and 
aesthetic  criticism.  From  that  time  till 
his  death,  his  ideas  underwent  the  great 
change  from  those  of  an  extreme  advo- 
cate of  nationalism  to  those  of  the  most 
irresponsible  individualist,  declaring  in 
1901  that  his  earlier  notions  were  but 
an  expression  of  the  superficial  part  of 
his  true  nature.  This  change,  however, 
as  was  evident  to  any  one  who  had  fol- 
lowed his  career,  was  a  gradual  unfolding 
of  his  temperament,  the  traits  of  which 
were  discernible  even  before  his  entrance 
into  the  university. 

During  the  last  two  or  three  years  of 
his  life,  he  was  avowedly  a  subjective 
critic,  and  his  standpoint  that  of  "a 
species  of  individualism,"  as  he  himself 
termed  it,  "  tinged  with  Romanticism." 
"If  I  were  a  poet,"  said  he,  "I  would 
be  a  Korner,  a  Byron,  or  a  Heine."  He 
designated  as  "critics  of  civilization" 
Whitman  and  Nietzsche,  the  latter  of 
whom  he  was  at  particular  pains  to 
introduce  to  the  nation.  He  boldly  de- 
nounced morals  as  self-contradictory,  for, 
argued  he,  anything  that  ignored  "  the 
natural  desires  of  man  "  obstructed  the 
aim  of  human  life.  Human  knowledge 
was  foolish,  and  moral  worth  of  things 
was  dubious,  the  only  absolute,  intrinsic, 
and  positive  value  being  the  "  aesthetic." 
Of  the  purest  aesthetic  value  was  the 
gratification  of  the  instincts,  and  the  most 
perfect  aesthetic  life  was  love. 

He  bent  his  whole  energy  and  his  great 
talent  as  a  writer  to  the  exposition  of  this 
irresponsible  doctrine  of  "  the  aesthetic 
life,"  and  was  enthusiastically  received 
by  the  students.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see 
the  reason  for  his  immense  popularity 
with  them.  The  visibly  sad  undertone 


of  his  writings,  due  probably  in  part 
to  his  incurable  disease,  appealed  to  the 
corresponding  undertone  among  a  large 
part  of  the  young  men.  His  theory  of  the 
gratification  of  the  instincts  found  re- 
sponse among  both  the  morally  depraved 
and  the  over-literary  classes,  while  his 
noble  sensibility,  which  gave  a  certain 
elevation  to  his  words,  attracted  even  the 
more  spiritual.  His  general  attitude  of 
doubting  the  fundamental  nature  of  civil- 
ization was  representative  of  the  tend- 
ency among  a  large  body  of  young  people. 
He  was  thus  hailed  as  the  exponent  of  the 
student  world,  and  his  popularity,  to- 
gether with  his  remarkable  susceptibility, 
led  him  onward  in  the  chosen  path,  until 
his  death  intervened.  From  a  certain 
point  of  view,  however,  he  might  be 
deemed  a  victim  of  the  critical  tendency 
of  the  student  of  the  new  age.  He  was 
caught  and  swallowed  by  it,  and  his  high 
intellectual  power,  which  might  other- 
wise have  been  productive  of  permanent 
contributions  to  truth  or  poetry,  was  en- 
listed in  the  service,  it  is  regrettable  to 
say,  of  subjective  criticism. 

In  no  less  real  sense  are  many  of  the 
young  men  in  the  danger  of  falling  moral 
victims  to  the  general  conditions  of  so- 
ciety. New  Japan  presents  a  picture  of 
striking  contrasts  within  herself.  Polit- 
ically and  economically,  on  the  one  hand, 
the  issues  of  the  nation  are  growing 
larger  and  clearer,  and  its  outlook  bright- 
er and  more  cheerful.  In  the  same  ratio, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  becoming  apparent 
the  want  of  a  new  moral  order  of  society. 
Fortunately,  the  brightness  of  the  former 
is  far  too  great  to  be  visibly  eclipsed  by 
the  darkness  of  the  latter.  The  disparity 
between  the  two  would,  however,  seem 
none  the  less  interesting  to  the  observer 
and  dangerous  to  the  nation. 


FRESH   SNOW  ON  LA  GRIVOLA 


BY   W.   S.    JACKSON 


A    PILGRIMAGE   TO    COGNE 

WHAT  traveler  in  Switzerland  —  I  do 
not  say  tourist — has  not  heard  of  Cogne  ? 
Who  among  the  number  has  not  wished 
to  reach  it  and  be  at  rest  ?  How  few  the 
favored  ones  who  have  succeeded! 

Our  fathers  have  told  us  of  the  Swit- 
zerland of  their  day:  a  land  of  peace 
and  quiet,  of  cheery  welcome  and  honest 
hearts;  a  land  where  all  men  were  friends. 
But  the  Grindelwald  and  Zermatt  of  old 
have  departed.  They  have  vanished  for- 
ever with  their  kindly  hosts  and  friendly 
servants,  whose  modest  inns  have  given 
way  to  vast  modern  hotels  with  French 
cookery  and  advertised  comforts.  The 
cow-tracks  have  grown  into  streets  with 
seductive  shops.  The  eager  populace 
roam  about  seeking  for  tips.  The  dress 
coat  is  nightly  to  be  seen  in  the  land.  The 
saddened  mountaineer  hastens  to  hide 
his  well-worn  Norfolk  in  cabanes  and 
hutten,  with  the  memories  of  other  days 
heavy  in  his  soul.  The  sweetest  sound  in 
nature  was  the  tinkling  of  the  countless 
bells  of  the  Wengera  Alp,  as  it  rose  aloft 
to  the  climber  on  the  Monch,  and  swelled 
and  faded  with  the  light  breeze.  Now  its 
silvery  music  is  drowned  by  the  raucous 
scream  of  the  locomotive  on  the  Kleine 
Scheidegg.  The  glorious  view  from  the 
platform  of  the  Gornergrat  has  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  erection  of  the  wooden 
barn  of  the  Belvedere,  where  a  noisy 
throng  assemble  daily  and  quack  poly- 
glot banalites  on  the  giants  of  the  Pen- 
nines.  Wherever  railway,  boat,  or  dili- 
gence can  force  its  way,  there  it  disgorges 
its  loads  of  trippers  from  the  Vaterland, 
Birmingham  and  Manchester  men  with 
their  interesting  families,  excursion  par- 
ties from  every  state  in  the  Union. 

And  the  worst  is  not  yet.   Already  the 


greed  of  a  company  has  tunneled  the 
hoary  old  Eiger,  and  is  attacking  the 
Jungfrau,  purest,  peerless  among  maid- 
ens. A  suspension  tram  is  to  haul  its 
gaping  freight  up  the  precipices  of  the 
Wetterhorn.  Trains  on  runners  are  to 
defile  the  sacred  sweep,  of  the  Aletsch. 
The  majesty  of  the  Matterhorn  itself  is 
to  be  desecrated,  if  the  ears  of  the  legis- 
lators are  deaf  to  the  fervent  appeals 
from  within  and  without  the  land;  and 
its  tented  roof  will  soon  be  gored  by  a 
many- windowed  gallery,  and  a  Guide  — 
bewahrel  —  will  lecture  to  the  Person- 
ally Conducted  on  the  distant  scenes  and 
the  tragic  history  of  the  peak. 

Cogne  —  variously  pronounced  in  the 
neighborhood,  Con,  Cun,  and  Cunzhe 
being  the  most  popular  varieties  —  owes 
its  fame  and  attractiveness,  not  to  its 
circling  sea  of  ice  and  snow,  nor  to  the 
charm  of  its  valley  and  the  gloomy  terror 
of  its  gorges,  nor  even  to  the  glorious 
trinity  of  La  Grivola,  Gran  Paradiso,  and 
Herbetet,  but  to  an  old-time  simplicity 
still  kept  unspotted  from  the  world  by 
the  difficulties  and  disagreeables  of  get- 
ting there. 

To  begin  with,  if  untoward  circum- 
stances prevent  you  from  reaching  it  by 
the  natural  means  of  a  mountain  pass,  a 
back-breaking  diligence  must  be  taken 
for  hours  along  a  hot,  white,  dusty  road, 
much  beloved  of  scorching  automobilists. 
Why,  par  parenthese,  do  these  odorsome 
gentry  so  particularly  affect  the  dustiest 
roads  ?  But  it  were  as  sensible  to  ask  why 
they  all  seem  to  bear  a  striking  family 
resemblance.  Anyhow,  the  Italian  Auto- 
mobile Touring  Club  makes  this  a  favor- 
ite run,  and  the  wayside  chalets  from 
Aosta  to  Courmayeur  are  dotted  with 
notices  of  Benzina  a  vendere. 

The  diligence  and  the  motors  are  left 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


87 


on  the  shadeless  high  road  about  half  a 
mile  above  the  village  of  Aymaville.  The 
mule,  that  you  have  wired  to  meet  you 
exactly  then  and  there,  is  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  After  waiting  for  an  irritating  time 
in  dust  and  sun,  the  conviction  grows 
that,  if  your  luggage  is  to  get  down  to  the 
village  at  all,  you  will  have  to  carry  it 
yourself,  and  you  take  up  your  burden. 
In  Aymaville  a  horse  has  been  standing 
all  ready  for  an  hour;  and  you  had  better 
not  get  out  of  temper  with  the  owner. 
His  charge  is  exorbitant  of  course ;  much 
more  so,  if  you  foolishly  take  a  petite 
voiture,  as  he  will  eloquently  try  to  per- 
suade you,  telling  of  the  trials  of  twenty- 
five  kilometers  uphill  along  a  rugged 
road.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  turns  out 
to  be  fairly  good  walking,  is  not  at  all 
trying  for  any  one  in  decent  condition, 
and  could  easily  be  done  under  four 
hours,  if  the  driver  would  permit. 

After  mounting  the  first  tiresome  slopes 
out  of  Aymaville,  the  road  becomes  easier 
but  narrower,  till  it  is  for  the  most  part 
a  mere  ledge  some  eight  or  ten  feet  wide 
on  the  face  of  a  precipice.  In  about  half 
an  hour  the  grim  defile  of  the  Val  d'Eypia 
is  entered.  There  is  no  pretense  at  railing 
or  parapet,  and  it  requires  at  times  some 
address  to  pass  the  occasional  vehicles 
and  heavily  laden  peasants  without  going 
over  the  side  into  the  abyss  below. 

The  scenery  becomes  wilder.  The  road 
rises  to  a  great  height  above  the  Grand* 
Eypia,  which  boils  below  in  tireless  battle 
with  obstructing  rocks,  after  the  manner 
of  headstrong  Alpine  torrents.  A  fine 
cascade  and  several  smaller  falls,  glacier 
tributaries  of  the  Eypia,  are  passed. 
The  stones  along  the  road's  edge  are 
margined  with  masses  of  delicate  ferns ; 
oakferns,  hartstongues,  spleen  worts  pre- 
dominating. The  sharp  turns  in  the  val- 
ley bring  us  from  twilight  into  bright  sun- 
shine. Here  butterflies  rare  and  common, 
exquisite  fritillaries,  brilliant  moths, 
nearly  all  of  smaller  size,  flutter  about 
the  gayly  colored  flowers  that  fairly  cover 
every  available  patch  of  soil. 

Few  things  strike  the  stranger  to  the 


mountains  more  forcibly  than  the  alti- 
tudes at  which  the  flowers  and  insects 
flourish.  Every  alp  is  a  bright  carpet  of 
primary  hues,  though  it  freezes  hard 
there  as  soon  as  the  sun  departs.  I  have 
seen  hundreds  of  butterflies  —  I  think 
they  were  the  common  red  admiral  — 
on  the  rocks  of  the  Ruinette,  at  a  height 
of  over  11,000  feet.  Mosquitoes  have 
followed  me  high  up  the  snows  of  Mount 
Temple.  I  have  picked  white  flowers  just 
below  the  abandoned  upper  hut  on  the 
Matterhorn  (12,526  feet);  and  have  a 
photograph  of  the  Alpine  saxifrage  on 
the  summit  of  Emilius  (11,675  feet), 
which  was  long  thought  to  be  a  flaw  in 
the  film. 

In  the  ravines  running  down  to  the 
river  bed  grow  ancient  larches  with  curi- 
ously distorted  trunks,  twisted  out  of  all 
resemblance  to  the  slender  arrowy  tree 
we  know,  by  the  violence  of  the  winds  that 
sweep  up  the  valley.  Here,  on  the  rock 
ledges,  and  wherever  there  is  soil  to  be 
found,  the  thrift  of  the  peasant  raises  his 
tiny  plot  of  corn,  vines,  potatoes.  Some- 
times the  melting  of  the  winter's  snows 
washes  away  a  valuable  field  several 
yards  in  extent;  sometimes  it  enriches  a 
more  fortunate  proprietor  with  a  corre- 
sponding increase  of  estate. 

Imagine  the  wife  saying  to  the  hus- 
band in  spring,  as  they  inspect  the  fut- 
ure potato-patch — eight  feet  by  four — 
two  hours'  perpendicular  climb  from  the 
chalet,  — 

"  At  least  three  inches  of  soil  have  col- 
lected on  this  rock.  Shall  we  not  plant 
a  hill  here?" 

Husband :  "  Well,  my  dear,  it  is  per- 
haps worth  the  trial ;  but  I  am  afraid  the 
seed  will  be  wasted." 

The  men  plough,  mow,  reap.  The 
women  assist  them,  and  carry  the  crops 
down  to  the  valley  below  in  huge  bundles 
on  their  backs.  Horses  or  mules  are  sel- 
dom used  in  the  harvest;  for  they  cost 
money,  and  the  path  is  often  too  steep 
for  either,  at  least  in  descending.  The 
size  of  the  burdens  is  enormous;  yet  the 
bearers  step  out  lightly.  They  are  accus- 


88 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


tomed  to  it  almost  from  birth.  The  little 
tot  of  four  years  old  carries  her  tiny  bun- 
dle on  her  shoulders  like  the  rest.  This 
early  toil,  added  to  the  habit  of  tucking 
up  the  skirts  round  the  waist,  gives  the 
girls  a  figure  curiously  distended  about 
the  hips.  The  women  often  go  bare- 
headed, the  men  never  —  they  even  put 
on  woolen  nightcaps  in  bed.  The  younger 
girls  have  a  fresh  complexion,  and  often 
very  pretty  faces,  both  more  suggestive 
of  Switzerland  proper  than  of  Italy.  But 
good  looks  and  brilliant  color  soon  de- 
part; at  middle  age  they  are  prematurely 
old,  withered,  and  wrinkled;  in  old  age 
they  are  crippled  witches. 

After  a  time  we  come  to  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Vieyes,  at  the  mouth  of  the  pic- 
turesque glen  of  the  Nomenon.  Here 
there  is  a  cantina,  and  the  driver  affects 
great  concern  for  the  welfare  of  his  ani- 
mal, which  has  been  walking  for  nearly 
two  hours  under  the  oppression  of  a  small 
portmanteau  and  a  rucksack  (total 
twenty-eight  kilogrammes  by  the  railway 
scales) .  Half  an  hour's  halt  for  hay,  wine, 
and  tobacco.  Keep  your  temper,  and 
pay  up  like  a  man. 

The  Italian  vetturino,  if  not  a  high- 
class  driver,  is  certainly  a  magnificent 
whip.  It  rather  gets  on  one's  nerves  at 
last,  the  incessant  cracking  of  the  lash 
which  occupies  the  intervals  between 
applying  it  to  the  poor  beast's  head  and 
sides.  Fortunately  for  him,  he  does  not 
seem  to  mind  it  much,  for  he  does  not 
alter  his  pace  in  the  least.  There  is  some- 
thing homelike  in  the  continual  cries  of 
"  Whoo-oop  Gee!"  varied  occasionally 
by  a  sound  like  "  Coom-ong."  But  the 
only  really  effective  method  of  quicken- 
ing the  speed  seemed  to  be  addressing  re- 
proaches to  him  in  a  mild,  pained  voice. 
This  caused  surprise  at  first,  till  I  dis- 
covered that  it  was  the  regular  prelude 
to  the  final  resort  of  twisting  his  tail, 
otherwise  employed  in  towing  his  master 
uphill. 

At  one  turn  only  in  the  road  we  are 
vouchsafed  a  view  of  La  Grivola.  It  is 
the  curved  snow  arete  of  her  northwest- 


ern side  that  she  presents  to  us  for  a  few 
minutes ;  an  unbroken  sweep  of  dazzling 
purity  from  summit  to  base.  There  is 
something  so  transcendent,  so  arresting, 
in  the  sudden  revelation  of  that  cold 
splendor  high  overhead  in  the  blue  sky, 
as  for  one  brief  space  the  night  of  the 
gloomy  cliffs  is  split,  that  we  hold  our 
breath  in  silent  homage.  The  driver, 
familiar  as  he  is  with  the  sight,  stops  to 
admire,  and  for  the  only  time  noises  fail 
him. 

But,  fascinating  as  is  this  passing 
glimpse  of  her  soaring  spire,  La  Grivola 
is  seen  to  best  advantage  from  one  of  the 
near  peaks  to  the  northeast  or  southwest. 
Then  the  length  of  flanking  rock-wall, 
which  takes  so  much  from  her  stature 
when  seen  across  the  Trajo  glacier,  dis- 
appears; and  she  becomes  a  graceful 
white  lady,  with  dainty  head  bending 
slightly  forwards,  and  slender,  sloping 
neck;  fit  mate  for  the  grim  black  Matter- 
horn  across  the  way,  broad  brow  erect, 
resolutely  buffeting  the  blasts  with  ag- 
gressive shoulders. 

The  valley  opens  out  at  length  into  a 
fair  green  plain,  a  kilometer  wide,  girt 
with  a  cirque  of  fir-clad  cliffs.  Three 
mountain  streams  come  parting  the  fields 
from  north  and  south  and  east,  and  at  the 
meeting  of  the  waters  is  a  rambling  hud- 
dle of  chalets  and  white  stone  buildings, 
overseen  by  a  quaint  church  tower. 

And  that  is  Cogne. 

There  is  not  much  embarrassment  in 
the  choice  of  hotels.  There  are  just  two 
of  them,  named  of  course  La  Grivola 
and  Gran  Paradise.  The  former,  which 
I  choose,  is  kept  by  a  Gerard,  relative  of 
the  well-known  guides;  the  other  by  the 
cure  of  the  parish.  There  are  no  stuffy 
carpets  in  rooms  or  halls,  but  the  white 
boards  are  riddled  with  the  nails  of  a 
generation  of  climbers.  Everything  is 
scrupulously  clean.  Every  one  is  charm- 
ingly hospitable  and  attentive.  As  I  am 
vigorously  removing  the  traces  of  the 
day's  tramp  in  my  room,  enter  two  maids 
with  fresh  linen  for  the  bed.  Far  from 
fleeing  incontinent  at  the  splashing,  they 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


89 


stop  to  chat  and  give  eager  information 
about  recent  ascents,  the  state  of  the 
bergschrund  on  Paradiso,  the  rocks  on 
Grivola  —  for,  of  course,  signore  has 
come  to  climb  ? 

Thank  goodness,  no  one  does  come  as 
yet  for  other  purposes  than  climbing, 
tramping,  or  naturalizing;  but  how  long 
will  this  blessed  state  of  things  last  ?'  The 
sacra  fames  is  already  compelling  the 
foolish  inhabitants,  and  they  are  agitat- 
ing for  a  widening  of  the  road  and  a  tri- 
weekly vettura  service,  which  shall  in- 
troduce the  German,  the  American,  and 
the  British  tourist  to  this  earthly  Eden, 
which  will  then  promptly  cease  to  exist. 
Even  so  has  many  another  restful  nook 
of  olden  times  perished  by  the  high  road 
that  leadeth  to  destruction. 

A  similarly  delightful  state  of  patri- 
archal simplicity  reigns  in  the  other  de- 
partments of  the  establishment;  though 
there  is  no  hay  now  in  the  bedrooms,  nor 
do  the  chickens  any  longer  flutter  down 
from  perches  overhead  to  share  your 
food,  as  old  Seraphin  Bessard  tells  of. 

The  dining-room  is  also  reading,  writ- 
ing, and  smoking-room.  This  is  as  it 
should  be.  Ladies  who  object,  or  don't 
smoke  —  I  did  not  meet  any  —  can  al- 
ways take  their  meals  in  comfort  on  the 
doorstep.  A  sweet  little  maid  of  fourteen 
presides,  and  is  touchingly  interested  in 
your  appetite.  I  think  mine  pleased  her. 
The  red  wine,  far  superior  to  the  ordinary 
Valdostano,  may  be  described  as  a  light 
Burgundy  with  a  dash  of  Cape  Madeira. 
The  food  is  excellently  cooked,  and  the 
dishes  much  too  luxurious  T^r  people  who 
are  earnestly  trying  to  train  down  to 
something  like  decent  condition.  That 
wholly  good  and  indescribable  gray- 
green  soup  that  goes  so  well  with  Par- 
mesan; fresh  trout  from  a  neighboring 
brook;  a  local  dressing  for  spaghetti  that 
is  worth  working  up  an  appetite  for  — 
if  they  would  only  stop  with  these.  The 
landlord  discusses  the  guides,  examines 
your  nails,  and  grows  reminiscent  of  the 
days  when  Mr.  Coolidge  and  Mr.  Yeld 
used  to  come  to  Cogne.  And  his  charges 


—  but  I  am  not  going  to  give  them  away. 
No  act  of  mine  shall  hasten  the  bitter  end, 
and  contribute  to  the  ruin  of  this  haven 
of  peace. 

Full  in  front  of  my  bedroom  window 
the  snows  of  Gran  Paradiso,  visible 
through  a  V  in  the  black  cliffs,  are  crim- 
son with  the  Alpengliihen,  as  I  retire  to 
early  rest;  for  the  Punta  Tersiva  is  the 
morrow's  training  climb.  But  a  few  min- 
utes, and  the  moon  has  transmuted  them 
to  purest  silver.  The  growing  cold  tears 
me  away  from  the  contemplation  of  their 
lonely  mystery,  towering  solemnly  into 
the  purple  mezzotint  of  the  sky.  One 
more  lingering  look  at  Mont  Blanc,  shin- 
ing starlike  down  the  valley  thirty  miles 
away,  and  into  bed  with  you.  Prix  — 
No  wonder  it  is  cold.  We  are  over  five 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  Even  this 
absurd  down  quilt,  which  only  reaches 
from  breast  to  knees,  is  welcome.  Let 
me  try  it  diamond- wise. 

The  general  population  of  the  place 
are  equally  friendly.  They  give  you 
"  Good-day,"  when  they  meet  you,  and 
"  Bless  you,"  when  you  sneeze.  They  are 
replete  with  information  when  you  start 
for  a  tramp;  they  congratulate  and  ask 
particulars  on  your  return  from  a  climb. 
Young  and  old  profess  surprise  and  dis- 
may when  they  learn  of  your  departure. 
For  the  time  comes  at  length  when  you 
must  leave  Cogne,  and,  sadder  still,  re- 
turn to  Aymaville  and  the  high  road,  to 
the  dust  and  the  motors  and  the  dili- 
gences, to  the  wretched  comforts  of  civil- 
ization. 

Then  the  question  of  how  to  get  back 
has  to  be  faced.  If  the  gymnastically- 
minded  visitor  requires  a  change  in  the 
nature  of  his  exertions,  let  him  drive  back 
in  a  petite  voiture  to  catch  the  morning 
diligence.  If  he  is  one  of  those  lazy  fel- 
lows who  generally  walk,  he  will  prob- 
ably be  extremely  surprised;  and  his 
aching  body  will  suggest  a  source  that 
might  have  inspired  the  first  massageurs 
with  the  idea  of  passive  exercise.  If,  in 
addition,  the  horse  be  one  that  is  much 
given  to  shying  at  fallen  trees,  old  women, 


90 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


calves,  and  the  like,  he  will  not  complain 
of  the  monotony  of  the  way.   The  slabs 
on  La  Grivola  are  less  exciting. 
Crede  experto. 


LA   GRIVOLA 

IT  is  a  good  many  years  since  I  first 
saw  La  Grivola.  It  was  a  case  of  love  — 
hot,  burning  love  —  at  first  sight.  Rest- 
ing for  breath  on  the  rocks  of  Emilius, 
my  gaze  was  attracted  by  a  snowy  spire 
that  was  beginning  to  rise  Valsavaranche- 
wards.  The  guide,  an  ancient  duffer  who 
knew  no  tongue  but  the  Valdostan  dialect, 
managed  to  explain  that  its  name  was 
La  Grivola.  A  beautiful  name,  that  be- 
fits the  owner:  La  Grivola,  the  famous, 
the  Matterhorn  of  the  Eastern  Graians. 

From  the  summit  of  our  peak  she  pre- 
sented a  truly  remarkable  appearance. 
Two  sides  of  her  pyramid  were  visible: 
one  a  solid  black  rock-face  from  apex 
to  base:  the  other  an  unbroken  slope  of 
purest  white.  She  at  once  became  the 
object  of  my  climbing  ambition.  Nor 
was  there  any  likelihood  of  forgetting  her. 
There  is  no  loftier  rival  to  hide  her  lovely 
face  from  the  kings  of  the  Mont  Blanc, 
Grand  Combin,  and  Monte  Rosa  groups, 
the  three  great  ranges  that  stretch  east 
and  west  to  the  north  of  her.  From  many 
a  summit  of  these  I  have  since  looked  for 
her  graceful  figure,  and  seldom  in  vain. 
She  is  always  visible,  if  your  own  eyes  be 
not  clouded. 

"  Our  peaks  are  always  clear  on  a  fine 
day,"  says  Pierre,  as  we  throw  ourselves 
down  panting  on  a  mountain-top,  and 
see  the  ranges  round  us,  from  Dauphine 
to  Oberland,  veiled  in  summery  cirrus 
draperies. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  in  the  process 
of  time  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Cogne. 

There  are  two  Gerards  known  to  fame 
as  guides ;  but  on  my  arrival  I  found  them 
both  engaged.  The  landlord  recommend- 
ed a  third  brother,  Pierre  by  name, — 
every  one  speaks  French  in  Cogne,  and 
very  fair  French,  for  they  are  carefully 
taught  it  in  the  schools, — and  I  had  no 


reason  to  be  sorry  for  the  exchange.  He 
proved  himself  steady,  capable,  most 
attentive  to  his  monsieur,  and  excellently 
acquainted  with  his  own  country.  A 
fourth  brother,  Sylvester,  turned  up  for 
this  expedition  as  porteur,  and  we  started 
for  the  cabane  de  Pousset.  I  learned 
later  that  it  would  have  been  far  better 
to  start  from  the  hotel  and  do  it  all  in 
one  day.  But  good  advice  and  experience 
are  apt  to  reach  us  a  little  behind  time. 

There  had  been  only  one  ascent  of  La 
Grivola  so  far  in  the  season,  made  by 
Pierre  himself  with  two  English  climbers. 
But  much  snow  had  fallen  on  her  since 
then,  and  her  black  dress,  usually  show- 
ing so  clean  between  the  edges  of  her 
ermine  mantle,  was  now  wearing  a  sus- 
piciously spotty,  guinea-fowl  look.  The 
famous  guide  Burgener  had  arrived  at  the 
hotel  that  morning  from  Zermatt,  with 
two  German  climbers,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  doing  La  Grivola.  He  abso- 
lutely refused  to  attempt  it,  and  they 
had  to  content  themselves  with  a  tedious 
grind  up  the  Gran  Paradiso. 

It  occurred  to  me  at  the  time  as  rather 
a  sporting  act  to  wipe  the  eye  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  and  Pierre,  being  young 
and  enthusiastic, —  I  like  keenness  in  a 
guide,  and  prefer  to  attend  to  the  discre- 
tion myself „ — was  more  than  willing; 
but  later  we  began  to  entertain  respect 
for  our  superior's  opinion,  when  we  were 
clawing  for  handholds  on  ice-varnished 
rocks.  It  recurred  to  our  minds  with  in- 
creasing weight,  as  we  sprawled  on  those 
evil  slabs  of  the  last  rib.  It  takes  a  truly 
great  guide  to  refuse  on  occasion. 

The  cabane  is  reached  by  the  usual 
four  hours'  weary  zigzagging  up  the  steep 
side  of  the  Val  d'Eypia.  Drawing  near  it, 
I  was  rewarded  with  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting sights  in  all  my  hill  experience. 

Some  gray  spots  were  seen  moving 
along  a  ledge  on  the  cliff  ahead.  The 
brothers  grew  excited,  and  proclaimed 
them  as  bouquetins.  They  might  as  well 
have  been  sheep  at  the  distance;  but  just 
then  two  royal  chasseurs  came  swinging 
down  valley- wards,  provided  with  power- 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


91 


ful  field-telescopes.  One  amiably  made 
a  rest  with  his  cap  on  a  rock  and  took 
careful  aim  with  the  longuevue,  and  I 
was  soon  able  to  watch  four  live  bouque- 
tins  at  a  seeming  interval  of  some  hun- 
dred feet.  The  first  was  a  noble  beast 
with  huge  horns;  the  last  was  barely 
three  parts  grown.  The  elders  were  still 
wearing  much  of  their  gray  winter  over- 
coats :  the  junior  had  come  out  in  a  new 
summer  suit.  As  they  nibbled  along  in 
single  file,  the  leader  suddenly  looked 
up  at  an  invisible  ledge  overhead,  appar- 
ently a  dozen  feet  above  him,  probably 
between  six  and  seven,  and  without  tak- 
ing a  step  jumped  up  to  it  "all  stand- 
ing." Numbers  2  and  3  followed  suit, 
and  finally  the  youngster  rose  to  it  with- 
out an  effort,  bird-like.  The  grace  of  the 
action  cannot  be  described.  After  this  a 
light-hearted  chamois  practicing  dance- 
steps  on  the  rocks  all  by  himself  pro- 
voked only  a  languid  interest. 

The  bouquetin  is  the  most  daring  and 
skillful  mountaineer  known.  Formerly 
roaming  all  over  the  Alps,  as  the  names 
of  the  Dent  des  Bouquetins,  of  exciting 
memory,  and  of  other  peaks  prove,  his 
comparative  boldness  has  led  to  his  de- 
struction; while  the  shyer  nature  of  the 
chamois  has  enabled  the  latter  to  prolong 
a  precarious  existence.  The  mountains 
about  Cogne  are  a  shooting  preserve  of 
the  King  of  Italy,  and  here  the  last  of 
the  bouquetins  are  carefully  protected. 
According  to  the  natives,  their  numbers, 
now  estimated  at  over  two  hundred,  are 
increasing.  They  are  frequently  to  be 
seen  by  the  climber  in  this  part  of  the 
Graian  Alps. 

The  cabane  de  Pousset  is  not  the  worst 
climbing  hut  in  the  Alps.  If  the  floor  was 
clay,  it  was  fairly  dry.  If  the  wooden 
tray  in  the  corner  contained  neither  rugs, 
hay,  nor  straw,  at  least  we  did  not  have 
to  share  it  with  unpleasant  companions. 
There  was  neither  stove  nor  chimney, 
but  we  had  the  stone  fireplace  all  to  our 
own  cooking,  and  the  brisk  wind  that 
blew  through  the  holes  in  the  walls  soon 
drove  the  smoke  out  of  doors. 


Mountaineers  who  can  do  their  climb- 
ing from  a  hotel,  starting  with  a  warm 
breakfast,  after  sleep  in  a  comfortable 
bed,  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  The 
case  is  different  when,  after  a  sleepless 
night,  with  joints  aching  rheumatically 
from  the  hardness  of  the  couch,  unrested, 
half -frozen,  and  insufficiently  fed,  the 
climber  has  perhaps  to  face  the  hardest 
toil  of  his  life ;  when,  in  spite  of  lacerated 
fingers,  strained  sockets,  and  quivering 
muscles,  the  eye  must  be  clear  and  the 
head  steady ;  when  hand  and  foot,  numb- 
ed and  aching  with  the  cold,  must  do 
their  duty  without  a  slip.  Useful,  neces- 
sary as  the  rope  is  on  ice  or  snow,  often 
though  it  may  save  one  from  the  conse- 
quences of  a  stumble,  woe  unto  him  — 
and  his  guide  —  that  putteth  his  trust 
therein  on  precipitous  crags! 

With  thoughts  like  these  I  stumbled 
out  at  3  A.  M.,  in  a  wind  that  chilled  to 
the  bone,  and  followed  Pierre's  lantern 
to  the  steep  snows  that  lead  to  the  foot 
of  the  Col  de  Pousset.  A  glorious  dawn 
was  flushing  the  Graian  snow-peaks  to 
pink,  as  we  breasted  the  slopes,  and  soon 
we  were  scrambling  up  the  upright  but 
easy  rocks  to  the  summit  of  the  col. 
Arrived  at  the  top,  the  rope  was  put  on, 
for  now  the  neve  of  the  Trajo  glacier  had 
to  be  crossed  diagonally.  The  snow  was 
frozen  hard  after  yesterday's  thaw,  and 
we  made  rapid  progress  to  the  foot  of 
our  peak,  with  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun 
shining  gratefully  on  our  backs.  Here 
the  neve  runs  up  to  steep  ice  slopes  that 
bridge  the  bergschrund  and  meet  the 
mountain  proper. 

The  ascent  from  the  Trajo  glacier  is 
made  entirely  up  the  rock-face  of  La 
Grivola's  pyramid.  On  the  other  sides 
it  is  made  principally  up  snow  and  ice. 
The  two  edges  of  the  rock-face  are  easy 
curves  and  from  a  distance  look  feasible 
and  tempting.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  owing 
to  deep  clefts  and  slabby  gendarmes, 
they  are  all  but  impossible.  A  broad  cen- 
tral couloir  and  a  smaller  one  to  the  right 
run  far  up  the  face  between  three  pre- 
cipitous rock-ribs.  Under  favorable  con- 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


ditions  it  is  possible  to  make  much  of  the 
ascent  by  these  couloirs,  but  on  this  occa- 
sion the  new  snow  put  their  use  altogether 
out  of  the  question.  The  route  begins  on 
the  rib  to  the  left  of  the  great  couloir; 
when  this  becomes  impracticable,  the 
couloir  must  be  crossed  to  the  centre  rib, 
and  so  on;  till  the  original  line  brings 
the  climbers  out  on  the  summit.  Neither 
arete  is  touched  from  start  to  return. 
Ordinarily  speaking,  the  only  danger  is 
from  the  falling  stones  that  continually 
sweep  the  couloirs,  but  to-day  it  is  the  one 
that  is  wanting,  doubtless  owing  to  the 
fresh  snow  on  the  upper  crags. 

We  found  the  rocks  on  the  first  rib 
upright  but  good,  with  but  a  little  snow 
in  the  hollows,  and  stuck  to  them  for 
several  hundred  feet,  before  it  became 
necessary  to  cross  the  great  couloir  to  the 
rib  on  its  right.  Here  our  troubles  began. 
The  rocks  were  less  steep,  but  slabby 
and  much  harder,  the  downward  and 
outward  dip  of  the  strata  being  very  pro- 
nounced, and  the  cracks,  which  should 
have  made  them  easy,  filled  with  hard 
snow  or  ice.  We  soon  had  to  cross  the 
smaller  couloir  to  get  something  simpler. 
But  here  the  verglas  began  to  make  itself 
objectionable.  The  rocks  of  this  buttress 
were  glazed  with  a  coating  like  brown 
glass,  sometimes  in  ropes  and  lumps  sev- 
eral inches  thick.  I  have  never  seen 
worse.  Gloves  were  not  to  be  thought 
of,  and,  to  add  to  my  misery,  each  good 
prominent  handhold  was  decorated  with 
a  tuft  of  snow,  till  frozen  fingertips  be- 
came sodden  too. 

Back  again.  But  little  improvement. 
Once  more  across  the  great  couloir  to  the 
perpendicular  rocks  of  the  left-hand  rib, 
with  the  summit  crags  overhanging  us 
up  in  the  sky.  Still  the  hideous  verglas 
everywhere. 

"Ferme,  Pierre?" 

"  Non,  monsieur ;  mais  il  faut  avancer." 

Foot  by  foot;  with  painf ul  caution,  the 
top  is  neared.  The  rocks  become  harder 
and  the  holds  less  frequent,  but  the  work 
grows  pleasanter,  for  the  ice  coating  is 
beginning  to  disappear  in  the  sun. 


It  was  about  time.  Not  only  were  fin- 
gers in  a  deplorable  condition,  the  mem- 
ory of  which  was  to  abide  for  several  days 
to  come,  but  there  were  two  awkward 
corners  to  be  turned  with  a  stretch  of  va- 
rappe — that  is,  crackless  slab — between; 
a  mauvais  pas  that  can  sometimes  be 
avoided  by  taking  hereabouts  to  the 
northeastern  arete.  As  I  was  vainly  feel- 
ing round  the  buttress  with  leg  and  arm 
for  knob  or  notch,  the  thought  kept  in- 
truding, "  What  will  this  be  like  in  de- 
scending ?  "  Fortunately  Pierre  is  a  good 
guide  and  does  not  pull  on  the  rope,  but 
leaves  you  to  work  out  your  own  pro- 
blems. At  the  worst  corner  we  were  hori- 
zontally placed,  and  a  tug  would  prob- 
ably have  sent  us  both  to  the  bottom. 

This  pulling  habit  is  one  of  the  worst 
vices  in  a  guide.  When  on  the  knife-edge 
of  a  giddy  arete,  they  will  take  a  pull  at 
the  rope  that  nearly  sends  you  into  an 
abyss  below.  They  think  to  give  you 
support.  They  simply  upset  your  deli- 
cate balance.  Is  it  not  Leslie  Stephen 
who  relates  how  on  a  peak  one  day  he 
met  a  countryman,  who  piteously  im- 
plored him  to  tell  him  the  German  for 
"  don't  pull"? 

Immediately  under  the  summit  the  rib 
leans  inwards,  and  as  we  mount  rapidly, 
I  wonder  how  we  are  to  get  over  the  pro- 
jecting edge.  A  convenient  cleft  in  the 
coping  comes  into  view,  through  which 
we  crawl,  and  at  nine  o'clock  stand  on  the 
summit  of  La  Grivola. 

A  cloudless,  windless  sky  greeted  us 
as  we  clambered  on  to  the  little  flattened 
snow  cone  to  the  right,  that  forms  the 
allerhochste  Spitee,  just  big  enough  to 
hold  two  at  once.  Third  dejeuner  at  once 
on  the  edging  rocks,  with  our  boots  dan- 
gling over  vacancy.  All  the  old  familiar 
faces  are  smiling  at  us  to-day,  from  the 
black  Viso  in  the  Cottians  to  the  grand 
old  Finsteraarhorn,  the  monarch  of  the 
Oberland.  The  Meije,  Ecrins,  Mont 
Blanc,  Aiguille  Verte,  Grand  Combin, 
Dent  Blanche,  Matterhorn,  and  Monte 
Rosa  are  as  usual  most  forward  in  claim- 
ing recognition.  Before  noon,  however, 


Fresh  Snow  on  La  Grivola 


93 


all  our  northern  friends  have  retired  into 
seclusion  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  question  of  returning  soon  forced 
itself  on  our  notice.  The  snows  of  the 
southwestern  face  looked  tempting,  and 
our  shining  ice-wall  at  the  foot  of  the 
rocks  half  a  mile  below  us,  dead  under  the 
overhang  of  the  edge,  did  not.  But  Val- 
savaranche  is  a  good  day's  tramp  from 
Cogne,  and  our  rucksacks  had  been  left 
below.  It  was  my  last  day  in  the  district, 
for  Henri  Garny  was  to  meet  me  at  Cour- 
mayeur  the  following  evening,  and  the 
petite  voiture  had  been  engaged.  A  tra- 
verse was  plainly  out  of  the  question. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done. 
We  waited  an  hour  or  so  to  give  the  sun, 
now  well  on  the  rocks,  time  to  thaw  out 
the  verglas,  and,  with  a  wholly  unneces- 
sary admonition  to  caution  from  Pierre, 
lowered  ourselves  on  to  the  face  of  the 
mountain. 

As  long  as  possible  we  stuck  to  the 
same  route.  I  had  not  been  mistaken. 
The  two  corners  were  worse  in  descend- 
ing. It  is  still  a  mystery  to  me  how  I  ever 
got  round  the  last;  and  the  glisten  of  the 
ice-wall  at  the  foot  kept  catching  my  eye 
as  I  looked  down. 

But  the  holds  were  no  longer  glazed, 
and  all  went  merrily  till  we  reached  the 
last  crossing  of  the  great  couloir.  Pierre 
was  just  about  to  step  on  it,  when  a 
small  schild-lawine  broke  away,  starting 
apparently  from  our  steps  above.  It  was 
not  very  big,  but  quite  unnecessarily  so 
for  sweeping  us  to  annihilation  —  or 
eternity.  There  was  clearly  a  lot  more 
to  come  from  above;  and  come  it  did 
later  on,  with  the  grand  roar  that  is  so 
absurdly  disproportioned  to  such  a  tame- 
looking  thing  as  a  snow-avalanche. 

No  help  for  it.  We  must  stick  to  the 
bad  slabs  of  the  right-hand  rib  all  the 
way  to  the  foot.  Thank  the  stars,  there 
was  no  more  verglas.  Only  a  trickle  of 
water  everywhere  instead.  Unpleasant, 
yes ;  but  what  if  it  had  still  been  ice  ? 

With  much  relief  we  got  down  to  our 
ice-ladder,  and  found  the  steps  still  sound. 


We  hurried  down  them  and  started  on  the 
looked-for  glissade.  Alas,  the  sun  had  so 
softened  the  snow  that  it  was  hopeless, 
and  we  had  to  dig  in  our  heels  —  and 
sometimes  our  legs  —  till  the  neve  was 
reached.  The  bergschrund  seems  to  be 
kept  well  filled  with  avalanches  descend- 
ing from  the  couloirs. 

The  neve  was  by  this  time  soft  and 
tiresome,  and  progress  in  the  deep  snow 
very  tedious.  We  unroped  on  the  coZ, 
took  breath  and  another  breakfast,  and 
then  lowered  ourselves  down  the  rocks 
with  lightsome  hearts,  looking  on  all  sides 
for  bouquetins.  We  saw  none,  for  it  was 
probably  too  early  for  them  to  come  from 
the  heights  to  graze.  We  made  one  more 
attempt  to  glissade  on  the  last  slopes. 
General  result,  partial  disappearance. 
Personal  result,  solid  burial  to  the  hips. 
I  had  to  be  dug  out  to  the  boots  by  the 
slow  aid  of  the  ice-axes. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  we  got  back 
to  the  cabane.  Here  we  indulged  in  a 
square  meal;  that  is,  we  ate  up  every- 
thing that  was  left.  Apparently  there  was 
nothing  left  to  drink.  And  then  I  had  my 
first  pipe  that  day.  Smoker-climbers  will 
understand  without  more  words  all  that 
this  statement  conveys.  Non-smokers  do 
not  deserve  to  know. 

A  cordial  welcome  from  guides  and 
hotel  people  awaited  us  at  Cogne.  It 
appeared  then  that  there  had  been  some 
doubts  entertained  about  the  success  of 
the  expedition,  and  they  were  doubtless 
pleased  to  have  the  temporary  condemna- 
tion of  their  chief  attraction  reversed. 
For  La  Grivola  is  the  general  object  of 
the  climber's  ambition  in  the  Eastern 
Graians.  Her  height,  13,022  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  is  surpassed  only  by 
her  consort,  the  Gran  Paradiso.  The 
singular  beauty  of  her  form  is  conspicu- 
ous from  the  summits  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent peaks  in  the  Cottian,  Graian, 
and  Pennine  groups.  And  her  conquest, 
whether  by  rock-face  or  snow  arete,  af- 
fords the  mountaineer  a  climb  of  the 
most  interesting  description. 


THE   END   OF  THE  STORY 


BY   LAURA   CAMPBELL 


THE  matron's  letter  had  said  that  a 
carriage  would  be  waiting  at  St.  Alban's 
station.  But  at  a  glance,  as  she  stepped 
from  the  train,  Miss  Whitman  saw  that 
it  was  not  there.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
in  indecision  on  the  platform,  nervously 
gathering  her  soft  black  skirts  about  her, 
and  hoping,  in  a  sudden  rush  of  shame 
that  thrilled  her  all  the  more  sharply  for 
its  very  foolishness,  that  none  of  the  few 
persons  standing  beneath  the  shed  had 
recognized  in  her  a  new  inmate  for  the 
Old  Ladies'  Home  on  the  hill.  The 
swift,  cold  drizzle  of  a  snow-threatening 
rain  penetrated  her  veil;  she  shivered, 
stepping  uncertainly  toward  the  station 
doorway. 

The  waiting-room  was  empty  —  she 
was  glad  of  that.  Only  the  blue-capped 
head  of  the  station-agent  peered  at  her 
for  a  moment,  in  glimpsing  unconcern, 
through  the  little  cage-like  window  of  the 
ticket-office.  She  crossed  the  room,  gasp- 
ing a  little  at  the  warm,  fetid  air,  and 
took  up  her  station,  rigidly,  before  the  far- 
thest window.  Straight  before  her,  dim 
through  the  rivuleted  panes,  stretched 
the  long  vista  of  the  hill  road.  She  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  its  horizon  with  strained 
expectancy. 

Now  that  the  hour  of  ordeal  had 
come,  she  wished,  fiercely,  for  the  cul- 
minating moment  and  its  swift  passing. 
The  culminating  moment,  she  supposed, 
would  be  that  in  which  she  actually 
stepped  across  the  institutional  thresh- 
old, when  the  doors  barring  her  from 
further  intercourse  with  the  world  of 
affairs  and  men  had  closed  in  finality 
upon  her.  There  shaped  for  her  on  the 
blurring  panes  a  picture,  a  colorless 
vision.  She  could  almost  feel,  in  the 
throes  of  her  present  imaginings,  the  de- 
pressing, lifeless  monotony  of  that  aged 

94 


atmosphere,  made  maddening  by  the 
pressure  of  the  forbidding  walls  which 
helped  produce  it;  already,  it  seemed,  as 
she  probed  with  restless  intent  into  her 
future,  the  cold  lengths  of  the  public  cor- 
ridors invited  her  endless  tread;  and 
everywhere  —  in  her  half-morbid  thought 
she  searched  among  them  —  bent  nod- 
ding, gray-streaked  heads,  peered  wrin- 
kled visages. 

The  picture  flung  back  at  her  tor- 
mentingly  with  grotesque  detail.  Her 
face  stiffened.  Her  hands  sought  the 
hard  edge  of  the  windowsill  and  closed 
upon  it  tightly.  Unknowingly  and  half- 
aloud  she  breathed  her  utter  despair: 
"  Dear  —  God ! "  The  whisper,  with  its 
accompanying  relief,  brought  a  quick 
flush  to  her  face.  "  What  a  simpleton  I 
am !  and  I  so  —  old!  "  She  repeated  the 
last  phrase  determinedly,  trying  to  accus- 
tom herself  to  the  new  thought;  for  surely 
it  had  been  but  a  few  months  before  that 
she  had  held  up  her  head  with  the  rest, 
an  independent  wage-earner  carrying  her 
burden  of  work  with  capable  hand  and 
an  eager  heart.  She  marveled  —  would 
she  ever  cease  to  marvel !  —  at  the  ab- 
ruptness of  the  transition.  Providence, 
she  reflected  bitterly,  in  so  turning  up 
her  calendar  without  warning,  had  dealt 
more  severely  with  her  than  was  her  due. 

She  turned  toward  the  bench  against 
the  wall,  half-startled  from  her  reverie 
by  the  sudden,  noisy  entrance  of  a  rug- 
ged-faced mother  who,  stepping  heavily 
across  the  room,  deposited  her  sleeping 
child,  with  quick  adjustment,  across  the 
seats  —  looking  up  with  expectant  ges- 
ture as  she  took  her  place  beside  it.  But 
Miss  Whitman  drew  in  her  skirts  reserv- 
edly, turning  her  head  away  in  nervous 
distaste  as  the  other  coughed  tenta- 
t  vely. 


The  End  of  the  Story 


95 


"  You  —  you  waitin'  for  the  Old 
Ladies*  Stage?" 

There  was  a  certain  quality  of  rough 
sympathy  in  the  voice.  Miss  Whitman 
rebelled  against  her  impulse  to  turn,  to 
grasp  the  crumb  of  comfort.  The  other 
watched  her  pityingly,  taking  no  offense 
at  the  stiff,  uncompromising  nod.  "  I've 
heard,"  she  said,  nodding  her  eager 
assurance,  "  I've  heard  as  how  they 
sometimes  have  mighty  good  dinners  up 
there,  an'  some  have  rooms  that  are  as 
pretty  as  a  young  girl's.  Mis'  Elihu  Legg, 
my  neighbor  that  was,  was  through  the 
buildin'  onst.  She  says  they  stare  at  you 
as  though  they  never  seen  a  human  bein* 
before.  An'  some  of  them  are  dreadful 
gossips,  an'  some  don't  talk  at  all ;  "  — 
she  looked  at  Miss  Whitman  quizzically ; 

—  "  but  she  says  that  the  most  of  them 
are  real  nice  and  sociable,  considerin'. 
Are  you  —  goin'  in  on  relatives  ?  " 

"  No."   Miss  Whitman  writhed. 

The  other  sighed.  "  It's  terrible  with- 
out any  kin  o'  one's  own.  On  friends,  I 
s'pose  ?  " 

"  No."  It  was  not  a  lie.  She  held  her 
head  stiffly  erect.  They  were  not  friends 

—  those  who  had  induced  her  to  take 
the  step,  who  had  made  it  so  honorably 
possible  for  her  to  end  her  days  comfort- 
ably in  this  sheltered  retreat;  who,  grasp- 
ing eagerly  at  this  circumstance  in  her 
life,  had  taken  it  as  a  providential  acci- 
dent whereby  they  might,  with  pious  sat- 
isfaction to  themselves,  relieve  their  con- 
sciences of  a  certain  delicately  shaded 
social  debt  which  they  had  owed  her  for 
long  years  since.   Miss  Whitman  fought 
against  a  slowly-rising  spectre  of  dutiful 
gratitude.    Not  friends,  —  she  began  to 
draw  a  finely  nice  line  of  sharp  distinc- 
tion. 

"  Not  on  friends!  "  The  torturing  voice 
trilled  with  large  amazement.  "Why, 
you  don't  mean  to  say "  —  again  the 
roughly  sympathetic  quality  quite  dom- 
inated —  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  ain't  got  no  —  friends  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  —  that's  just  it!  "  said 
Miss  Whitman.  This  time  she  faced  the 


other,  her  lips  quiveringly  parted  into  a 
smile. 

"  You  poor  thing  —  you  poor  thing!  " 
The  phrase  was  softly  muffled,  and  the 
woman  sat  quiet,  pondering.  Her  hand 
wandered  gently  to  the  head  of  the  sleep- 
ing child.  She  bent  above  it,  crooning 
with  clumsy  tenderness.  "  Janey,  you 
wake  up!  train's  comin',  dearie!  "  She 
stood  before  Miss  Whitman  in  an  em- 
barrassed, unwonted  silence,  but  the  lat- 
ter, to  her  own  astonishment,  held  out 
her  hand.  "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by."  The  handshake  was  sin- 
cere and  hearty.  "  An'  I  hope  they  treat 
you  right!  I  hope  you'll  be  real  com- 
fortable." 

When  she  had  gone,  Miss  Whitman  sat 
facing  a  clarified  interval.  She  no  longer 
questioned  why.  She  dispassionately  em- 
braced the  truth.  For  ah,  to  have  no 
friends!  Here  was  the  keynote  to  her 
real  agony  of  shame.  Beside  the  staring 
fact  of  her  own  utter  friendlessness,  the 
dreaded  institution  reared  up  in  parallel 
mockery  —  a  concrete  symbol.  She  be- 
gan to  wonder,  to  question  and  compare, 
looking  back  upon  her  life  and  its  large 
cycle  of  activities  in  bitter  realization  of 
its  emptiness.  But  she  had  always  — 
she  weakly  defended  to  herself  —  been 
so  exultantly  occupied  with  her  work. 

She  recalled  the  many  men  and  women 
she  had  met  in  the  business  world  — 
how  skillful  she  had  been  in  the  daily 
competitive  touch-and-go  with  them,  or 
in  reservedly  holding  herself  aloof  when 
the  need  had  risen.  Oh,  she  had  been 
an  excellent  woman  of  affairs;  excellent, 
she  pondered  keenly — her  employer  had 
even  condescended  to  "  use  "  her  beyond 
the  usual  age-limit  (she  had  really  "  kept 
her  age "  well,  she  reflected). — How  tired 
she  had  been  at  night!  —  seldom  had 
she  been  able  to  use  those  brief  spare 
hours  for  social  intercourse  with  her  fel- 
low beings.  And  at  the  end  —  she  re- 
called, with  a  shudder,  her  long,  long  ill- 
ness, her  terror  at  her  rapidly-dwindling 
'*  rainy-day  "  fund.  She  wondered  now 
at  her  impracticability  in  having  made 


96 


The  End  of  the  Story 


the  fund  so  light.  But  —  again  she 
feebly  defended  —  she  had  needed  to 
live  well,  to  keep  constant  to  that  always 
necessary  "  appearance."  Besides,  she 
had  contributed  largely  to  charities.  And 
here  she  started — clutching  at  the  mem- 
ory; she  had  surely  given  thought,  in 
the  light  of  human  kindliness,  to  her 
fellow  beings,  had  attempted  to  bridge 
the  gulf.  But  this  pale  memory,  though 
she  continued  to  dwell  upon  it  for  a 
moment  in  dim  hope,  still  left  her  empty 
at  heart. 

Greedily,  as  she  sat  on  the  station 
bench,  she  passed  in  mental  review  all 
the  years  of  her  life's  story,  searching 
for  some  gleam  of  happy  social  contact 
that  would  save  her  from  her  final  con- 
demnation of  herself,  fast-stripping  each 
experience  till  the  final  hollow  day  flung 
back  upon  her.  Ah  then,  the  lucid  cause 
was  in  herself —  some  curious  aloofness, 
a  lacking  of  some  mysterious  common 
quality  which  served  to  make  men  kin. 
She  felt,  of  a  sudden,  as  one  detached, 
apart.  She  groped  in  terror  — 

The  door  opened  noisily.  Miss  Whit- 
man faced  it  dumbly.  A  man  in  liveried 
uniform  came  toward  her. 

"  You'll  need  a  light  early  to-night. 
I'm  sorry  your  first  day  was  so  bad." 
The  matron,  who  had  superintended  the 
bringing  up  of  Miss  Whitman's  trunk, 
stood  in  the  doorway,  her  capable,  steady 
eyes  inspecting  keenly  every  detail  of  the 
new  inmate's  personality.  "  If  there  is 
anything  you  want,"  she  continued, 
"  anything  you  needy  please  let  me 
know."  She  glanced  around  the  little 
room  in  satisfied  decision.  "  You  ought 
to  be  comfortable  here.  I  think  that  your 
trunk  had  better  go  in  that  other  corner." 
She  paused,  considering,  her  skirts  rus- 
tling stiffly  as  she  turned  to  go.  "  You'll 
find  the  rules  beside  your  door  in  the 
corridor." 

Miss  Whitman  stood,  immovable  and 
quiet,  when  the  matron  had  gone,  a 
strange,  dragging  sense,  as  of  some  heavy 
anchorage,  holding  her  for  the  first  few 


minutes  incapable  of  action.  But  when 
the  personnel  of  the  little  room  began  to 
intrude  upon  her,  she  looked  up,  her  eyes 
meeting  this  object  and  that  with  ques- 
tioning intentness,  scanning  the  homely 
appurtenances  swiftly.  The  room  was 
only  saved  from  utter  commonplaceness 
by  two  quaint  dormer-windows  which 
recessed  cozily  into  the  wall.  "  I'm  glad 
they  face  the  east.  I  shall  see  the  rising 
sun."  She  framed  the  thought  half  in 
wonder;  evidently  old  age  was  not  to  be 
without  its  few  small  pleasures  of  antici- 
pation. The  windows  looked  out  over 
a  low,  narrow  valley,  she  discovered,  the 
near  horizon  being  the  smoothly  undulat- 
ing top  of  a  bleak,  brown-breasted  hill. 

Halfway  up  the  hill  —  Miss  Whitman 
absently  followed  the  gray,  ribbon-like 
path  leading  up  to  them  —  was  hud- 
dled a  dense  cluster  of  sturdy  white  cot- 
tages —  little  homes.  She  let  her  eyes 
fall  hungrily  upon  one  red-lighted  win- 
dow, striving  to  picture  to  herself  the 
drawing  close  of  the  family  ties  at  the 
approaching  nightfall.  There  was  going 
to  be  some  comfort  for  her,  she  found, 
in  this  outlook  from  her  windows.  Even 
on  this  first  day,  rain-driving  and  dreary 
though  it  was,  there  was  afforded  her  a 
glimpse  into  that  outside  world  from 
which,  she  felt,  she  was  already  so  utterly 
buried.  The  glimpse,  at  the  first,  would 
serve  as  a  slowly-assuaging  balm.  As  the 
hill  grew  dim  beneath  the  fast-falling 
dark,  Miss  Whitman's  mind,  tired  almost 
to  the  point  of  emptiness  though  it  was, 
returned  with  sensitive  dread  to  her  pre- 
sent condition,  and  to  the  coming  ordeal 
of  the  first  meal.  She  remembered  what 
the  matron  had  said  about  an  early  light. 
And  at  the  sudden,  clear  resonance  of  a 
gong  in  the  corridor  without,  she  began 
in  a  sort  of  guilty,  half-childish  haste  to 
search  upon  the  little  table  for  a  possible 
box  of  matches.  When  she  stood  at  last 
in  the  bright  glare  of  the  gaslight,  she 
laughed  through  her  panting,  at  her  fool- 
ishness. "  Well  —  I  am  old!  They  usu- 
ally get  like  that,  I  believe." 

She  drew  herself  up,  gasping  bravely 


The  End  of  the  Story 


97 


for  composure,  determining,  at  all  costs, 
to  hold  to  the  last  shreds  of  her  previous 
dignity  of  independence.  She  was  still 
standing  motionless,  an  erect,  slender 
figure  with  quiet  eyes  and  half-smiling 
mouth,  when  her  door,  without  prelim- 
inary knock,  was  suddenly  flung  open. 
An  unabashed  old  woman,  curiously  at- 
tired in  a  heavily  embroidered  red  waist, 
stood  leaning  on  a  crutch  on  the  thresh- 
old, taking  advantage  of  the  other's  star- 
tled silence  to  flash  her  greedily  inquisi- 
tive eyes  from  corner  to  corner  of  the 
room.  At  the  last,  they  fastened  with 
gelid  penetration  upon  Miss  Whitman's 
own. 

"  My!  ain't  you  got  your  bonnet  off 
yet  ?  You  came  an  hour  ago,  did  n't  you  ? 
Well  "  —  she  hobbled  across  to  the  one 
easy-chair.  "  I'll  wait  for  you.  But  you 
better  hurry.  She  only  allows  me  five 
minutes  extry  'count  o'  the  tardiness  o' 
my  crutch." 

"Is  it  — the  dinner-hour?"  The 
dread  again  upon  her,  Miss  Whitman 
fumbled  clumsily  at  her  hair. 

"  Ain't  you  read  the  rules  ?  Did  n't  she 
tell  you  ?  'T  is  lucky  I  thought  to  stop 
in  for  you.  I'm  Mrs.  William  Sharp.  I 
always  stop  in  for  the  new  ones  if  I  like 
their  looks.  I  saw  you  when  you  was 
comin'  in.  You  from  the  city  ?  " 

Miss  Whitman  nodded,  starting  im- 
pulsively for  the  door.  The  other  hobbled 
after.  "  You're  kind  o'  young-lookin'  to 
be  here  so  soon.  My  sakes!  but  your 
back  is  straight!  How'd  you  keep  it?  " 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  ram- 
bled on,  the  sharp  tap-tap  of  her  crutch 
making  a  clicking  accompaniment  to  her 
voice.  "  No,  not  that  way,"  she  directed 
as  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs; 
"  we  have  to  turn  here  —  the  dinin'- 
room's  through  that  door.  An'  if  I  was 
you" — she  looked  up,  her  eyes  cunning- 
ly resentful — "if  I  was  you  I  would  n't 
hold  my  head  so  stiff.  It  don't  exactly 
take  here.  They'll  talk." 

She  held  back  the  door  for  Miss  Whit- 
man, and  as  they  passed  down  the  long 
room  together,  the  buzz  of  talk  at  the 
VOL.  102 -NO.  1 


tables  subsided  into  a  tensely  suspended 
hush.  In  spite  of  her  aged  conductor's 
warning,  the  newcomer  felt,  as  she  ran 
the  gauntlet  of  eagerly  peering  eyes,  that 
she  was  holding  her  head  up  "  stiff."  To 
her  relief,  however,  the  hush  was  broken 
again,  and  old  heads  bending  once  more 
over  their  plates,  even  before  she  had 
taken  the  seat  assigned. 

"  See  that  sparklin'  old  lady  over 
there,  —  the  one  that's  always  showin' 
off  her  hands  ?  She  was  once  a  prom'nent 
actress  on  the  stage.  They  say  her  hands 
was  great!  "  Miss  Whitman  glanced 
across  the  table  to  where  a  little  old  lady 
whose  bright  black  eyes  flashed  vividly 
in  her  heavily  wrinkled  face  was  talking 
with  vertiginous  rapidity.  Those  around 
her,  listening,  were  laughing  and  nodding 
in  approval.  "  An'  see  that  quiet  one  ?  " 
Mrs.  Sharp  went  on — "  the  one  with  the 
ear-trumpet  at  her  side?  That's  Mrs. 
;  "  the  old  voice  whispered  it  ex- 
citedly. "  You  remember  her  ?  It  was 
all  about  her  in  the  papers.  She  had 
six  husbands  and  five  divorces!  They 
say — ."  Miss  Whitman  lost  the  rest,  so 
absorbed  had  she  become  in  placing  in 
her  mind's  category  of  humanity  this 
little  world  about  her. 

It  was,  indeed  a  world  of  a  timbre 
peculiar  to  itself,  a  world  in  which, 
she  swiftly  concluded,  the  paramount 
interests,  evidently,  were  tea,  pedigree, 
and  the  latest  stitch  in  capelines,  these 
making  stable  points  of  common  interest 
about  which  played  a  constant  inter- 
change of  personal  reminiscence  and  the 
lively,  biting  gossip  of  small  daily  occur- 
rences in  the  Home.  Snatches  of  sen- 
tences here  and  there,  from  the  general 
drift  of  conversation,  came  to  her :  — 
"  Did  you  hear  what  the  matron  found 
out  this  morning  ?  You  did  n't  ?  Old 
Mrs.  Cassidy  smokes  in  her  room!  Sh-h! 
Yes,  a  pipe !  Is  n't  it  easy  to  trace  some 
folks'  origin  ?"  — "  That  airish  Miss 
White  came  down  with  a  red  bow  in  her 
cap  this  morning.  Did  you  ever  ?  Some 
folks  would  n't  know  that  they  were  in 
their  dotage  unless  it  was  clubbed  into 


98 


The  End  of  the  Story 


them.  Next  thing  you  know,  it'll  be  a 
red  rose!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  a  red  rose!  Why, 
even  in  my  young  days  — " 

Listening,  watching,  Miss  Whitman's 
heart  grew  heavy  with  foreboding.  To 
be  plunged  —  so  swiftly  —  into  this !  She 
found  herself  presently,  now  reaching 
back  again,  wistfully,  toward  her  busy, 
all-active  life,  now  peering  forward  with 
fearful  ease  into  the  years  ahead.  Ah,  it 
was  such  a  simple  chapter  to  read,  that 
coming  last  one.  Once  again,  she  bitterly 
toyed  with  the  pages,  cowering  beneath 
the  prospect  of  her  vast  loneliness.  For 
with  these  people,  she  felt,  among  whom 
the  remaining  years  of  her  life  were  de- 
stined to  be  cast,  the  difficult  adjustment 
of  the  measures  of  friendliness  would 
require  even  more  of  a  nicety  than  had 
been  called  for  in  the  outside  world.  Ap- 
prehensively, in  her  tense  quiet  as  spec- 
tator, she  glanced  from  face  to  face;  at 
the  same  time  almost  envying  them, 
these  fellow  women,  with  all  the  small 
and  everlasting  weaknesses  which  bound 
them  each  to  each  in  the  leveling  ca- 
maraderie of  sheer  femininity. 

"  Look  —  over  there  —  at  the  end !  " 
Mrs.  Sharp's  raucous  voice  and  nudging 
elbow  once  again  claimed  her  attention. 
"  She's  just  come  in!  —  with  the  piles  of 
snowy- white  hair  —  all  her  own,  too ! 
That  ys  Mrs.  Lucy  Osborn,  Lucy  Sill  that 
was ;  an'  —  ain't  she  the  sweetest  here  ? 
Ain't  she  got  the  youngest  eyes  you  ever 
saw?" 

Startled,  even  as  she  looked  Miss 
Whitman  turned  away  abruptly.  The 
"  young  "  eyes,  deeply  blue,  interested 
and  penetrating,  had  flashed  in  swift  and 
friendly  glance  upon  her  own.  Once 
again  she  felt  her  neighbor's  elbow  nudg- 
ing, this  time  impatiently.  "  Why,  she 
smiled  at  you!  "  Mrs.  Sharp  looked  up 
indignantly.  "Well  —  you're  the  first 
that  never  smiled  back  at  Lucy  Sill!  " 

Miss  Whitman  flushed,  stumbling  forth 
her  eager  apology.  "  Ah,  but  she  is  sweet, 
gentle-faced.  Tell  me  about  her.  You 
knew  her  —  before  ?  " 

"  Yes.   There  ain't  much  story  about 


her.  It's  just  her  —  herself  makes  up  the 
story.  I  knew  her  in  Lyndhaven  when 
she  was  just  a  girl.  My  mother  used  to 
make  her  dresses.  I  used  to  carry  them 
home  to  her."  She  looked  across  the 
table,  smiling  reminiscently.  '*  But  you 
must  n't  think  that  she  looked  down  on 
me.  She  treated  me  like  a  —  friend.  She 
was  —  she  was  —  why,  Lucy  Sill  was  the 
friendliest  human  bein'  you'd  want  to 
meet.  Ev'ry  one  liked  her,  loved  her. 
An'  that's  what  makes  it  so  —  queer  " 
Mrs.  Sharp's  wrinkled  brows  drew  close 
in  puzzled  bewilderment  —  "so  queer 
that  she's  here,  you  know,  an'  that  all 
those  heaps  o'  friends  have  died,  an'  she 
the  only  one  left  an'  —  here !  Why,  when 
I  found  't  was  her,  just  after  she  come,  I 
could  o'  dropped  my  crutch  an'  stood,  I 
was  so  surprised.  Well,  we  never  dream 
when  we're  young  what's  goin'  to  come 
to  us  when  we  get  old.  There,  look  at  her 
now,  talkin'  to  that  Miss  White.  Look  at 
her  face,  all  interested.  That  way  of  hers 
was  what  took  so  with  folks  when  she 
was  a  girl.  She's  never  exactly  lost  it. 
She's  got  such  wonderful  —  manners!  " 

With  effort,  Miss  Whitman  broke  away 
from  her  absorbed  contemplation  of  the 
face  opposite.  "  And  you  say  she  was 
beautiful  —  then  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sharp  shook  her  head  with  de- 
cision. "No  —  not  beautiful;  but  just 
like  that  —  herself;  an'  that  same  deli- 
cate lift  to  her  head.  She  carried  off  the 
finest  man  in  the  county.  Mr.  Bob 
Osborn  worshiped  her.  He  died  only  a 
few  years  after  they  were  married.  I 
often  wonder  what  he  'd  —  think  —  if 
he  could  come  upon  her  here.  (Sh-h !  am 
I  talkin'  loud?)  See  her  eyes  turn  this 
way  then  —  all  smilin'  ?  She  caught  his 
name."  The  old  lady  fumbled  clumsily 
with  her  knife,  ill-hiding  her  shame- 
facedness  at  being  caught.  "  She  knows 
I'm  talkin'  about  her  —  but  nothin' 
mean.  She  knows  I  would  n't.  I  can't 
get  over  her  bein'  here.  I  tell  her  so  all 
the  time.  She  laughs  at  me.  Oh,  she's 
Lucy  Sill,  even  if  she  has  white  hair.  If 
't  was  her  sister  Martha  now  who  was 


The  End  of  the  Story 


99 


here  —  if  she  had  lived  "  —  the  old  lady 
paused,  her  thin  lips  pressing  together 
in  one  decisive  white  line;  "well,  I 
could 've  understood  her  bein'  here.  I 
didn't  like  her.  Not  many  folks  did. 
She  was  all  held-in,  sort  of,  an'  silent,  — 
stand-offish ;  an'  Lucy  thought  the  world- 
an'-all  of  her.  Some  said  that  Martha 
thought  the  same  o'  Lucy,  too;  but  if 
she  did,"  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
unbelievingly,  "  she  never  showed  it. 
Martha  died  in  the  middlin'  twenties. 
An'  Lucy's  here!  Now  watch  her,  get- 
tin'  up  —  the  way  she  holds  herself. 
She's  goin'  to  the  sun-room.  They're 
waitin'  for  her.  She  plays  the  piano  for 
us  every  Wednesday  night." 

Old  Mrs.  Sharp  was  hurriedly  folding 
her  napkin.  Miss  Whitman  awkwardly 
handed  her  her  crutch,  and  slowly  fol- 
lowed after  as  the  grotesque  little  old 
woman  led  the  way. 

At  the  wide  door  of  the  sun-room  where 
the  lights  fell  warmly  on  huge  green 
palms  and  nestling  flower-boxes,  Miss 
Whitman  with  shy  adroitness  stepped 
aside,  seeking,  on  her  usual  impulse  of 
reserve,  the  shadow  in  the  passageway 
without.  And  when  the  little  group  had 
settled  itself  within,  she  watched  it  won- 
deringly,  her  eyes  eagerly  searching  each 
withered  face  as  the  strains  of  music 
from  the  piano  in  the  alcove  vibrated 
softly  through  the  room.  She  noted  that 
one  gray  head,  even  at  the  first  few  notes, 
had  already  begun  to  nod.  The  others, 
sitting  motionless,  listened  for  the  most 
part  with  spiritless,  unresponding  faces, 
— the  reverie  of  age,  so  different  from 
the  reverie  of  youth,  enfolding  them, 
apparently,  in  a  dull,  uncaring  apathy 
in  which  —  Miss  Whitman  in  difficulty 
decided  —  was  surely  neither  pleasure 
nor  pain.  But  was  this,  in  its  innermost 
timbre,  content? 

In  a  swift  revulsion  of  feeling  she 
turned  away,  her  hands  clenching  pas- 
sionately in  her  sudden  and  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  escape  — to  be  freed.  When 
she  reached  the  solitude  of  her  dormer- 
room,  she  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  table, 


half-smiling,  bitterly,  in  her  self-com- 
miseration at  the  weakness  of  her  trem- 
bling body.  She  wondered  how  long  it 
was  going  to  take,  this  difficult  read- 
justment, and  where,  eventually,  the  last 
casting  of  the  swinging  balances  would 
place  her.  She  looked  shrinkingly  about 
the  quiet  room  which  seemed  so  mock- 
ingly conscious  of  her  presence  and  her 
mood.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  there, 
immovable  and  stiff,  in  the  chair  beside 
the  table,  her  chin  sunk  rigidly  on  her 
palms,  her  mind  set  grimly  on  her  nar- 
rowly-margined future ;  from  her  past  she 
was  now  learning  to  hold  herself  sternly 
aloof  — her  almost  utter  lack  of  those 
memories  which  are  the  solace  of  age 
terrifying  her  when  she  tried,  in  glimps- 
ing hopelessness,  to  search  for  them.  She 
grew  more  rigid  in  her  reverie. 

She  thought,  at  first,  that  it  was  the 
light  rain  driving  softly  against  the  win- 
dow that  had  roused  her.  Then,  as  she 
listened,  tense  in  the  silence,  there  came 
a  gentle,  imperative  knock  at  the  door. 
In  her  lonesomeness,  Miss  Whitman  felt 
her  heart  leap  intuitively : "  It's  that  Mrs. 
Osborn  —  Lucy  Sill."  But  when,  at  her 
shortly  ejaculated,  half-rude  invitation, 
the  door  swung  softly  open,  and  Mrs. 
Osborn's  friendly  eyes  were  full  upon 
her,  she  sat  reserved  and  unapproach- 
able, wordless  before  the  other's  pre- 
sence. 

"I've  —  invited  myself  to  tea  if  you 
will  —  have  me."  Hesitant  at  first,  half- 
smiling,  she  interrogatively  waited  at  the 
threshold ;  and  then,  as  though  in  tactful 
interpretation  of  the  ensuing  pause,  she 
stepped  across  the  room,  and  in  delib- 
erative, unembarrassed  grace  made  room 
on  the  little  table  for  the  tray  she  carried. 
"  I've  invited  the  tea  and  the  lady  cakes 
too ;  they  are  —  old-lady  cakes.  Will  you 
have  me  ?  " 

She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  with 
a  quaint,  bird-like  motion,  her  keen, 
compelling  eyes  searching  the  other's  face 
whimsically. 

"  If  —  if  you'll  have  me!  "  said  Miss 
Whitman;  in  the  unaccustomed  atmo- 


100 


The  End  of  the  Story 


sphere  of  intimate  friendliness,  she  felt 
herself  struggling  for  a  footing. 

The  other  laughed  aloud.  "  Oh,  you 
are  like  her."  Then,  cautiously,  "  S-sh !  " 
—  she  tiptoed  back  to  the  door  again, 
like  a  mischievous  girl  breaking  the  rules 
at  a  boarding-school,  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock.  "  It  is  n't  exactly  allowed, 
here,  you  know  —  this"  she  explained, 
as  she  took  her  place  opposite  Miss  Whit- 
man. She  leaned  forward,  scanning  the 
other's  features  in  swift,  eager  inspection. 
"Yes,  you  are  like  her  "  —she  nodded 
again,  her  wonderful  crown  of  hair  flash- 
ing beneath  the  light.  "  I  mean  that 
you  are  like  my  sister  —  she  died  —  my 
sister  Martha.  I  noticed  it  downstairs. 
Something  about  your  eyes  and  mouth, 
and  Oh !  that  — '  If  you'll  have  me  ' ! " 
She  laughed  again,  holding  her  hearer 
breathless  beneath  her  charm;  "  that  was 
Martha,  too,  never  certain  of  her  own 
likableness.  We  were  great  friends,  Mar- 
tha and  I." 

She  turned  to  the  table,  and  Miss 
Whitman,  fascinated,  watched  the  deli- 
cate, finely- wrinkled  hands,  like  master- 
pieces of  rare  old  porcelain,  as  they 
manipulated  the  tray. 

"  You  take  —  two  lumps  ?  "  She  held 
the  sugar-tongs  poised.  "  Martha  did," 
she  coaxed  convincingly. 

"  Two."  Miss  Whitman  smiled  shyly 
in  return,  unconsciously  drawing  her 
chair  up  closer. 

"  This  is  old  Mrs.  Jessup's  favorite 
brand.  Oh,  don't  be  frightened.  I  am 
not  going  to  repeat  that  long  dissertation 
we  heard  at  dinner."  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  wrinkled  humorously.  Then  she 
grew  serious,  her  eyes  dark  with  grave 
concern.  "  How  do  you  like  it  here  ? 
That,  I  know,  is  an  unfair  question  on 
the  first  day.  But— how  do  you  find  it  ?  " 

"I  find  it  — hard." 

Mrs.  Osborn  mused  upon  the  pause. 
"  But  later,  you  know,"  —  her  voice  fell 
softly  low  in  gentle,  persuasive  sympathy, 
—  "  it  is  n't  so  bad ;  one  gets  used  to  it. 
And  it's  an  excellent  school  for  human 
tolerance.  Indeed,  after  the  last  twinge 


of  the  final  readjustment  is  over  " — she 
settled  back  comfortably  in  her  chair, 
making  a  little  gesture  of  contentment, 
serene  in  its  implied  resignation.  *'  Be- 
lieve me,  life  is  sometimes  very  interest- 
ing here."  Her  face  grew  vivid. 

Miss  Whitman  watched  her  breath- 
lessly. "  Oh,  but  you  are  different!  You 
are  —  wonderful !  " 

Mrs.  Osborn  shook  her  head.  "  No, 
I've  merely  a  sort  of  knack  at  living 
along.  It  was  my  Robert  taught  me. 
And  here  —  the  knack  comes  easily." 
She  leaned  forward,  her  finger-tips  tap- 
ping slowly  together  in  convincing  enu- 
meration. "You  know,  in  spring,  out- 
doors —  it  is  delightful.  Wild  things  all 
over  the  grounds.  Down  in  the  valley 
there  it's  one  wild  tangle-garden,  — 
violets  and  columbine,  rock-pink  and 
maidenhair,"  —  she  paused,  smiling  — 
"  all  sorts  of  gentle-growing  things  for 
slow  old  ladies.  Besides,  there  is  the 
live  world  —  squirrels,  little  red  chip- 
munks, birds.  And  they  all  like  us.  Oh, 
they  are  most  flattering,  I  assure  you!  " 

She  went  on.  As  one  athirst,  Miss 
Whitman  listened,  her  city-pent  spirit 
becoming  slowly  enthralled  before  the 
joy  of  the  coming  season,  before  the 
healthy  good-cheerfulness  of  the  other's 
philosophy  of  life.  And  Mrs.  Osborn 
was  not  over-reminiscent.  That,  per- 
haps, her  listener  decided,  was  part- 
secret  of  her  youthful-like  vitality  of 
spirit.  And  as  she  talked,  dwelling  upon 
this  phase  and  that  phase  of  her  present 
life  with  humorous  sympathy  and  kindly 
interpretation,  enlarging,  with  every  dis- 
closure, the  perspective  of  the  new- 
comer's outlook,  Miss  Whitman  found 
herself  presently  looking  forward  with 
her,  unconsciously  framing  an  eager 
question  now  and  then,  or  disclosing,  in 
the  sweet  freedom  of  this  new  intimacy, 
somewhat  of  her  own  frail  hopes  and 
fears. 

At  the  final  pause,  before  the  other's 
courteous,  interrogative  smile,  she  bent 
forward,  her  eyes  intent  and  piteous 
upon  her  visitor's  face.  "  Ah,  if  I  could 


The  End  of  the  Story 


101 


only  —  with  these  people — Mrs.  Osborn, 
I've  been  all  my  life,  in  the  midst  of 
the  crowd,  so  fearfully  alone  —  without 
any — friend."  She  brought  out  her  con- 
fession with  awkward  intonation,  her 
sallow  cheeks  flushing.  "  Why,  I  did  n't 
know  people  could  be  so  nice!  "  She 
beamed  with  frank  admiration  upon  her 
visitor. 

Mrs.  Osborn  laughed,  pleased.  "  Well, 
it's  merely  that  —  on  your  great  high- 
way, you  somehow  missed  the  pleasant 
little  by-paths.  Some  do."  Then,  as  she 
rose  to  go,  "But  we've  lots  of  faults, 
you  know.  Oh,  you've  a  whole  unex- 
plored country  before  you  here.  To- 
morrow "  —  she  looked  about  the  bare 
walls  of  the  room  —  "I  am  coming  in 
to  help  you  'fix  up.'  Your  room  needs 
homing  '  somethin'  awful,'  as  our  friend, 
Mrs.  Sharp,  would  say." 

Miss  Whitman  felt  her  cheeks  tingling. 
"I  —  did  n't  bring  many  of  my  things. 
I  did  n't  seem  to  think  —  It  did  n't  seem 
any  use.  I  have  only  a  few  books." 

"Ah,  you  kept  your  books!"  The 
friendly  eyes  lighted,  seeking  the  other's 
shyly  in  a  new  recognition.  A  flash  of 
mutual  comprehension  passed  between 
them.  "  Well,  I  shall  come  to-morrow 
to  help  you  fix  your  books." 

She  looked  back,  her  head  finely  lifted, 
as  in  promise,  from  the  doorway.  But 
when  at  last  she  passed  into  the  corridor 
without,  there  fell  upon  Miss  Whitman  a 
poignant,  dream-like  sense  of  unreality. 
Swiftly  she  opened  the  door,  and  peered 
into  the  dark  hall,  calling  softly  in  a  sud- 
den, unreasoning  terror.  But  when  the 
other  stood  once  more  before  her,  she 
reproved  herself,  in  shame,  for  her  fool- 
ishness. 

"I—  I—  Oh,  I'm  foolish,"  she  feebly 


explained.   "I  wanted  just  to  see  you  — 
to  make  sure  "  — 

Mrs.  Osborn  again  held  out  her  deli- 
cately assuring  hands,  pushing  the  other 
gently  back  into  the  room.  "  My  dear 

—  why,  you  are  all  unstrung!  You  need 
rest.    You  need  some  one  *  magerful ' ' 

—  she  laughed  —  "to  order  you  about. 
It  isn't  likely  that  I'll  leave  just  yet. 
We'll  maybe  have  long  years  together. 
Oh,  my  dear  "  —  She  reached  up  her 
hands,  placing  them  as  in  gentle  bene- 
diction upon  the  other's  shoulder.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  life- tried  eyes. 
Unconsciously,  the  knowledge  of  the  dig- 
nity of  their  years  caused  their  heads  to 
lift  to  higher  poise.   A  certain  reverence 
fell  upon  them  — 

When  Miss  Whitman  had  turned  out 
the  light,  she  sat  in  quiet  content  by  the 
window,  smiling  to  herself  in  the  dark, 
and  watching,  with  musing  absorption, 
the  shadow-draperies  shaping  patterns  to 
themselves  upon  the  wall.  There  would 
be  so  much  to  talk  about,  to  tell,  to  hear. 
"  Why,  I've  never  talked  like  that  to  a 
woman.  I've  never  had  a  woman — the 
real  kind." 

The  spell  of  Mrs.  Osborn's  youthful 
eyes  was  still  upon  her.  Well,  it  had 
come  late,  this  discovery  of  the  need^of 
warm  relationship,  of  kinship,  with  other 
human  beings,  but  not  for  all  her  youth 
would  she  have  given  it  up  again.  With 
mind  alert,  and  on  the  strength  of  her 
first  lesson,  she  began  to  read  the' letters 
of  the  established  bond,  flashing  forward 
swiftly  and  without  terror  to  the  last 
Great  Hour.  When  that  should  come  — 
she  breathed  deeply,  serene  in  her  sure 
intuition  —  she  would  not  be  alone. 
That  comforted  her. 


ROUND   THE  HORN 


BY   F.   H.   SHAW 


As  far  as  eye  can  see  there  is  nothing 
but  a  gray-green  waste  of  turbulent  wa- 
ters, rising  and  falling  with  a  mountain- 
ous sweep,  surging  and  roaring,  hissing 
and  crashing,  bearing  the  flaky  foam- 
crests  high  in  air  and  dipping  them 
thousands  of  feet  beneath  the  surface. 
There  is  nothing  to  stop  that  gigantic 
ocean  roll.  No  resisting  continents  have 
erected  a  formidable  bulwark  to  its  ad- 
vance; the  sea  goes  on  its  way  around 
the  whole  globe,  for  this  is  the  most- 
dreaded  stretch  of  ocean  that  the^mind 
of  mariner  knows. 

Over  the  northern  horizon  now  out 
of  sight,  there  lies  a  single  hummock, 
cone-shaped,  insignificant,  not  worthy  a 
second  glance.  But  this  puny  bit  of 
land  is  Cape  Horn,  the  last  remnant  of 
the  mighty  Andes,  which,  after  rearing 
proud  pinnacles  to  the  tropic  sky,  sweep 
southward  in  an  ever-diminishing  chain 
until  the  last  link  dips  under  the  sea. 
Still  below  the  far  horizon,  but  more  to 
the  west,  a  small  clump  of  jagged  rocks 
tear  the  turbulent  swell  to  pieces;  but  the 
Diego  Ramirez  are  not  to  be  seen  now  — 
there  is  nothing  save  the  gray-hard  sky 
and  the  gray-hard  sea.  Nothing,  that 
is,  save  a  stately  albatross,  scornfully 
ploughing  its  way  into  the  very  teeth  of 
the  gale  that  is  rolling  over  lie  world. 
It  always  blows  a  gale  off  Cape  Horn; 
always  is  the  sea  torn  into  frothing  anger; 
always,  the  storm-defying  albatross  soars 
betwixt  sea  and  sky. 

Far  to  the  north,  only  a  speck  of  silver 
suddenly  shown  up  by  a  wan  gleam  of. 
sun,  which  is  so  surprised  at  its  existence 
that  it  instantly  disappears,  something 
shows  —  then  vanishes  into  nothingness. 
The  hours  glide  by;  the  speck  becomes 
a  blur,  the  blur  becomes  reality.  Speed- 
ing out  of  the  stormy  north,  bearing 

102 


steadfastly  on  to  the  stormier  south, 
there  comes  a  ship.  Her  long  gaunt 
masts  are  swinging  in  a  reeling  quadrant; 
her  vibrating  hull  cleaves  the  foamy 
waste  like  a  thing  of  magnificent  life. 
She  lifts  her  roaring  forefoot  from  the 
water,  higher  and  higher,  still  higher, 
until  the  red  keel  is  exposed  to  the  very 
foremast;  and  then,  crashing  downwards 
in  momentary  homage  to  her  master,  the 
sea,  she  buries  her  bows  from  sight  in  a 
flurry  of  far-flung  foam. 

Now  she  is  here,  here  where  the  alba- 
tross soars  on  far-spread  wing.  But  that 
bird  of  omen  makes  no  sound;  for  the 
silence  of  a  great  solitude  is  upon  him; 
he  utters  no  welcome,  makes  no  plaint. 

The  ship  still  reels  on,  plunging  deeply 
into  the  mountains  and  valleys,  swinging 
her  ponderous  bulk  through  and  above 
all  tie  waves  that  leap  hungrily  in  her 
track,  that  rise  in  volume  of  might  to 
drag  her  down,  that  retire  beaten  to  rush 
on  and  on  in  a  world-encompassing 
circle.  Her  spars  are  stripped  almost 
bare;  only  two  puny  rags  of  straining 
canvas  are  flung  to  the  gale,  but  the 
white  cloud  beneath  her  forefoot  is  as 
mighty  as  though  she  were  clothed  with 
glistening  canvas  from  truck  to  scupper. 

The  gale  is  at  her  stern,  it  is  carrying 
her  on  to  her  allotted  goal;  nothing  is 
needed  for  the  skillful  shipmaster  to  do, 
save  let  her  run  and  keep  his  eye  on  those 
two  sheets  of  dull  brown  sail-cloth  that 
are  spread  aloft.  But  he  must  keep  both 
eyes  on  them  now,  for  there  is  a  flurry  in 
the  gale.  It  no  longer  booms  in  a  gigantic 
diapason;  it  screams  and  snorts,  rising 
in  a  violent  crescendo,  flitting  to  and  fro, 
now  backing,  now  filling;  until  the  dis- 
tracted ship  is  bewildered,  and  slews 
giddily  round  on  her  heel. 

Even  the  very  sea  conspires  with  the 


Round  the  Horn 


103 


gale  to  drive  the  ship  up  to  where  those 
cruel  fangs  are  lurking,  in  readiness  for 
their  prey.  The  stealthy  Pacific-Antarc- 
tic Drift  —  a  baffling  current  —  runs 
here,  and  woe  betide  the  man  who  once 
lets  his  ship  get  into  the  grip  of  that 
whirling  stream!  It  were  better  that  he 
should  throw  her  high  on  one  of  those 
pitiless  icebergs  that  steal  silently  by  in 
a  ghostly  procession  to  the  south,  for 
then  a  chance  might  remain  for  dear  life ; 
but  no  man  strikes  the  Diego  Ramirez 
and  lives. 

Close  on  three  thousand  tons,  four- 
masted,  manned  by  Britons,  the  ship 
cleaves  her  way  onwards  and  ever  on. 
She  has  a  precious  freight  beneath  her 
closely-battened  hatches;  her  skipper  is 
one  of  the  true-blue  breed,  a  man  who 
revels  in  storm,  who  flings  his  gauntlet 
in  the  very  face  of  death,  and  laughs  as 
the  challenge  goes  forth.  He  is  standing 
now  on  the  spray-swept  poop,  a  burly, 
white-bearded  figure,  swathed  in  oilskins 
to  the  eyes,  his  feet  defying  the  cold  and 
wet  in  their  stout  sea-boots.  Standing 
by  the  binnacle,  with  one  eye  on  the 
straining  canvas,  the  other  on  the  waver- 
ing compass-needle,  he  feels  the  change 
in  the  temper  of  the  gale,  and  knows  well 
that  what  has  so  far  been  his  friend  is 
developing  into  his  hate-filled  foe. 

The  wind  raises  a'  mighty  comber 
high  on  the  beam,  and  licks  off  the 
top  as  if  it  were  but  a  drop  of  water.  A 
hundred  tons  of  solid  ocean  come  swoop- 
ing over  the  vessel's  decks,  sluicing  along 
with  the  roar  of  mighty  thunder,  carry- 
ing a  mass  of  shattered  debris  to  and  fro, 
until  the  clanging  wash-ports  fling  the 
unwelcome  visitor  back  to  the  parent 
sea.  Then  the  tautened  canvas  aloft 
quivers  complainingly,  the  heavy  chain- 
sheets  rattle  in  their  sheaves ;  the  massive 
topsail  yards  groan  as  the  down-bearing 
tension  is  removed;  but  long  before  the 
sound  has  died  away,  the  voice  of  the 
watchful  captain  is  booming  along  the 
wave-washed  decks,  and  one  by  one, 
figures  clad  in  oilskin  emerge  from  snug 
hiding-places,  stagger  perilously  along 


the  sloping  planks,  clutching  at  every 
chance  rope  and  belaying-pin,  until  the 
entire  crew  is  mustered  at  the  break  of 
the  poop. 

"  Hands  wear  ship !  "  The  breeze  has 
flown  to  the  northwest,  dead  in  the  teeth 
of  the  vessel,  and  she  must  either  ratch 
off  towards  the  ice-flecked  seas  of  the 
Antarctic,  or  take  her  luck  in  her  hands 
and  endeavor  to  beat  past  the  Diego 
Ramirez. 

Each  man  has  his  place,  and  knows  it. 
Without  undue  confusion,  yet  slowly,  for 
the  men  must  walk  as  fate  allows  them, 
—  now  staggering  a  few  paces  forward, 
now  clutching  frantically  at  a  stanchion, 
while  a  stunning  mass  of  living  green 
pours  pitilessly  over  the  bulwarks,  and 
descends  on  their  shivering  forms,  insin- 
uating itself  between  clothing  and  skin, 
and  rendering  the  stoutest  water-proofs 
of  no  avail,  —  somehow  of  other  they 
get  to  their  stations;  numbed  fingers 
cast  loose  the  gaskets  that  hold  the  fore- 
topmast  staysail  in  safe  bondage;  a 
couple  of  agile  figures  dart  aloft  up  the 
quivering  shrouds,  and  lay  out  on  the 
great  foreyard,  casting  off  the  ropes  that 
have  lashed  the  sail  to  the  spar. 

The  weather  clew  of  the  foresail  drops 
down,  and  a  hoarse-voiced  chorus  rings 
out  as  the  sail  is  sheeted  home.  The  cho- 
rus continues  and  the  insignificant  tri- 
angle of  water-soaked  canvas  jumps  up 
the  foretopmast  stay  in  a  series  of  uneven 
jerks,  sometimes  stopping  for  whole  min- 
utes; again,  as  the  waves  wash  clear, 
climbing  high  on  the  stay,  frapping  thun- 
derously in  the  lashing  breeze.  All  is  now 
in  readiness.  There  is  enough  canvas 
ahead  of  the  ship  to  ensure  her  head  pay- 
ing off  before  the  wind,  once  the  helm  is 
jammed  up,  and  the  captain's  voice  rings 
along  the  deck:  "  Helm  a- weather!  " 

The  second  mate  leads  his  watch  to  the 
main-braces,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  for 
there  is  a  great  weight  of  wind  in  the  sail, 
the  main-yards  swing  round,  until  the 
shivering  sail  is  flat  aback.  There  is  no 
resistance  now  to  the  swinging  bow;  the 
ship  circles  round  gallantly  on  her  heel; 


104 


Round  the  Horn 


a  broad  patch  of  smooth  water  to  wind- 
ward shows  where  she  has  drifted  down 
to  leeward.  Then,  high  to  windward, 
looming  black  and  awful  like  some  fran- 
tic spirit  of  the  unexplored  ocean,  a  huge 
mountain  of  greenish-black  sea,  foam- 
crested  and  menacing,  hangs  poised  in 
air.  It  rushes  on  with  a  lightning  speed, 
growing  in  volume  as  it  comes ;  until  the 
very  sky  is  shut  out  by  that  dense  threat- 
ening mass. 

"  Up  aloft,  all  of  you,  for  your  lives!  " 
There  was  no  need  for  the  order.  The 
men  at  the  braces  look  once  at  the  coming 
avalanche,  then,  with  a  nimbleness  that 
is  surprising,  considering  their  ungainly 
appearance,  they  dart  like  squirrels  into 
the  rigging,  and  gain  safety.  They  hang 
aloft  breathless  for  a  while,  and  the  sea 
crashes  over  the  rails,  deluging  the  decks 
to  the  height  of  the  topgallant  rails;  and 
the  sore-stricken  ship  surges  soddenly  to 
the  weight  of  another  thousand  tons  of 
water.  For  as  long  as  a  man  may  count 
a  dozen,  she  staggers  under  the  furious 
blow,  every  bolt  and  rivet  groaning  its 
complaint;  while  the  life-boats,  swung 
high  on  then*  davits,  are  whipped  free 
from  their  guarding  lashings,  swing  out 
at  the  ends  of  their  tackles,  then  disap- 
pear to  leeward  in  a  whirl  of  foam.  A 
clean  sweep!  Smoke  and  ashes  come 
eddying  from  the  galley,  and  the  seamen 
realize  regretfully  that  there  will  be  no 
hot  dinner  for  them  that  day.  Some  dar- 
ing spirit  runs  down  to  the  deck,  and 
wades  arm-deep  in  the  water  to  where 
the  cook  is  lying  half-stunned  under  a 
spare  spar,  surrounded  by  the  imple- 
ments of  his  trade.  Nothing  movable  has 
been  left  in  the  galley :  food  and  pots, 
pans  and  tools,  all  are  lying  in  a  chaotic 
heap  under  three  feet  of  sea-water. 

But  for  the  moment  the  danger  is  past. 
A  second  wave  rushes  on  to  complete  its 
fellow's  work,  but  already  the  gallant 
ship  has  recovered  from  the  blow.  She 
dips  her  proud  bow,  and  her  stern  climbs 
waveringly  against  the  sky;  then  her 
prow  heaves  itself  clear;  the  spidery  bow- 
sprit soars  aloft  like  a  rocket;  tons  upon 


tons  of  water  sweep  over-side,  and  with  a 
gloriously  free  action,  like  a  racer  recov- 
ering from  a  momentary  stumble,  the 
vessel  reels  on  and  on. 

The  second  wave  expends  its  energy 
on  her  staunch  steel  side,  and  retires  dis- 
comfited; but  the  blow  on  the  quivering 
plates  has  been  like  the  thrust  of  a  batter- 
ing ram. 

The  men  slide  down  the  backstays,  or 
clamber  down  the  ratlines,  and  stand 
once  more  on  deck,  the  tangled  braces 
in  their  hands.  The  two  stalwart  veter- 
ans at  the  wheel  have  been  washed  to  the 
limits  of  their  stout  lashings,  but  they 
have  regained  their  post;  and  the  captain, 
drenched  and  breathless,  is  clinging  like 
a  limpet  to  the  mizzen  backstays. 

"  Forrard,  and  get  the  foreyards 
round !  "  his  voice  cleaves  the  moment- 
ary lull,  and  the  men  obey.  The  fore- 
yards  are  swung  and  pointed  to  the  wind, 
the  foresail  is  clewed  up  to  the  sound  of 
that  deep-throated  chorus,  the  foretop- 
mast-staysail  is  lowered,  and  the  ship, 
answering  to  the  hastily-hoisted  after- 
sail,  which  a  couple  of  gasping  appren- 
tices have  loosed  and  flung  to  the  breeze, 
comes  slowly  up  into  the  eye  of  the  wind. 
She  is  heading  due  north  now,  her  bow 
pointing  straight  to  Cape  Horn,  but  her 
speed  is  diminished,  and  she  merely 
crawls  along.  Her  creamy  wake  stretches 
away  to  windward  as  she  sags  off  be- 
fore the  booming  gale  and  the  battering 
seas;  she  will  lose  many  a  one  of  those 
glorious  knots  that  preceded  the  shift  of 
wind,  but  for  the  moment  the  work  is 
done,  and  nothing  remains  but  to  wait. 

"Steward!  Splice  the  main-brace!" 
The  bare-armed  servitor  of  the  cabin 
emerges  on  deck  with  the  grog-bottle 
clutched  to  his  breast,  hi  his  hand  a  tin 
pannikin,  and  on  his  face  a  smile  of 
greasy  complacency.  The  men  struggle 
to  the  poop,  and  take  then*  tots  with  the 
appreciation  of  men  who  have  well 
earned  their  reward,  wiping  their  mouths 
on  the  sleeves  of  their  oilskins,  touching 
their  shaggy  forelocks  to  the  old  skipper 
whose  kindliness  had  prompted  this  re- 


Round  the  Horn 


105 


cognition  of  their  arduous  work.  Then 
they  disappear  into  their  hiding-places, 
and  the  ship  lays  herself  down  to  the  gale 
and  snorts  along  through  the  boisterous 
sea  with  many  complainings. 

Little  is  to  be  seen  now,  save  that  the 
serene  albatross  soars  steadily  around 
the  mizzen  truck,  keeping  its  position 
without  a  single  flutter  of  the  mighty 
wings  that  can  break  a  man's  legs  with 
one  blow.  The  gale  is  only  just  begin- 
ning, for  the  moment  it  shows  sign  of 
abating  the  pessimistic  albatross  will  be 
skimming  the  wave-crests,  on  the  lookout 
for  chance  greasy  morsels  thrown  over 
from  the  galley.  A  mob  of  chattering 
Cape  pigeons,  birds  that  have  all  the 
beauty  of  our  own  domesticated  carriers, 
with  the  beaks  and  heads  of  gulls,  flutter 
over  the  creamy  wake,  while  a  couple  of 
Molly  hawks  (those  birds  which  are,  by 
seamen,  supposed  to  contain  the  souls  of 
dead  skippers)  wing  their  flight  in  the 
vessel's  rear,  croaking  monotonously 
from  time  to  time. 

The  dense  cloud-masses  ahead  part 
for  a  second  to  give  a  glimpse  of  hard, 
steel-blue  sky.  Out  of  that  momentary 
breach  a  fresh  burst  of  wind  comes  roar- 
ing over  the  sea.  It  springs  upon  the  stag- 
gering ship  like  a  beast  of  prey,  and  every 
spar  vibrates  to  the  sudden  blow.  Clew- 
lines, braces,  downhauls;  sheets,  and 
spilling-lines,  every  one  of  the  number- 
less ropes  that  clothe  the  gaunt  masts, 
sings  a  song  of  defiance  to  the  gale:  the 
unsteady  frap-frap  of  rope  on  wood  has 
given  place  to  a  constant  chatter  —  the 
true  voice  of  the  storm. 

Wave  follows  wave  in  unbroken  suc- 
cession over  the  bulwarks  now;  there 
is  no  inch  of  safety  on  all  the  vessel's 
decks.  Clouds  of  biting  spindrift  whirl 
through  the  air,  the  ship  heels  over 
to  the  shock,  over  and  over,  until  the 
heart  rises  into  the  throat,  for  fear 
that  she  will  never  right  herself  again. 
Still  over  she  heels,  and  the  men  at  the 
wheel  are  bracing  themselves  against  the 
gratings,  for  the  feet  can  find  no  hold  on 
the  sloping  deck.  The  skipper  is  hanging 


by  his  arms  from  the  weather  rigging, 
trying  to  make  his  deep-sea  voice  carry 
to  the  mate's  ear,  but  though  that  officer 
is  hanging  to  the  next  shroud,  he  can 
hear  no  word,  and  only  shakes  his  head 
in  dumb  show.  But  his  eyes  never  leave 
the  weather-sheet  of  the  foretopsail,  for 
with  that  terrific  weight  pressing  the  ship 
down,  something  must  carry  away. 

There  is  one  tense,  heart-stopping  min- 
ute, and  then,  with  a  report  like  a  can- 
non-shot, the  foretopsail  splits  down  its 
whole  length.  The  rent  widens,  rags  of 
canvas  detach  themselves  and  whip  about 
frantically,  until  they  are  torn  away  and 
flutter  off  to  leeward  like  tiny  birds.  The 
jerking  of  the  fore-yard,  with  the  bat- 
tering of  the  suddenly  loosened  canvas, 
is  a  serious  menace  to  the  safety  of  the 
ship.  At  any  moment  the  spar  may  carry 
away  and  descend  to  the  deck  like  a 
falling  death;  even  if  it  fall  overboard, 
the  iron  chains  of  the  sheets  will  hold  it 
alongside  while  the  furious  sea  beats  it 
resistlessly  against  the  thin  steel  sides. 
And  then  —  a  great  chasm  in  the  ship's 
skin,  a  sucking  gurgle  of  escaping  air, 
a  downward  plunge  —  and  another  ves- 
sel posted  as  "  missing  "  at  Lloyd's. 

But  this  is  not  to  be.  The  mate  has 
already  left  his  post,  and  is  scrambling 
forward  on  hands  and  knees.  Once 
more  the  crew  emerge,  look  doubtfully 
aloft  at  the  jumping  yards,  and  then, 
tightening  then*  belts  and  cramming 
their  sou'westers  on  their  heads,  com- 
mence to  climb  the  shivering  rigging. 
The  wind  pins  them  to  the  ratlines,  the 
breath  is  driven  from  their  bodies,  they 
hang  powerless,  gripping  with  tenacious 
fingers,  until  their  further  progress  is 
possible.  After  gigantic  efforts  they  reach 
the  yard,  and  scramble  out  on  the  foot- 
ropes,  while  the  giddy  dance  of  the  ship 
recommences.  The  men  spring  up  and 
down  like  monkeys,  now  lying  flat  on 
the  yard,  now  clutching  wildly  at  a  slip- 
pery jackstay,  until  all  are  there.  There 
is  not  much  left  to  save,  but  they  grapple 
the  flapping  shreds  of  the  sail,  and  hold 
to  them  while  the  blood  starts  from  their 


106 


Round  the  Horn 


bruised  finger- tips.  The  bitter  cold  has 
frozen  the  sail  to  the  hardness  of  steel, 
their  fingers  can  catch  no  grip,  and  when 
they  do  secure  a  hold  and  drag  the  sail 
on  to  the  yard,  a  sudden  gust  snatches 
their  hard- won  prize  from  their  clutch, 
and  once  again  the  sail  roars  out  trium- 
phantly. 

They  do  it  again,  and  again,  and  again, 
gasping  strange  oaths  into  the  storm, 
leaning  recklessly  over  the  turbulent  sea, 
working  with  both  hands  and  hanging 
on  by  their  eyebrows,  and  gradually,  an 
inch  at  a  time,  the  rebellious  sail  is  won 
into  safety,  and  the  stout  gaskets  are 
passed  over  the  quietened  cloths. 

The  ship  feels  the  relief  at  once,  and 
rises  upright,  only  to  plunge  more  deeply 
into  the  sea.  There  is  little  of  her  to  be 
seen  now  save  her  denuded  masts.  Her 
decks  are  one  mass  of  water,  the  ropes 
are  lying  in  tangled  masses  in  the  scup- 
pers, a  fowl-pen  has  become  dislodged 
from  its  lashings  and  is  hurtling  to  and 
fro  along  the  decks,  battering  dreadfully 
at  the  bulwarks.  This  standing  menace 
to  the  safety  of  the  crew  must  be  reduced 
to  order,  and  the  mate  leads  a  forlorn 
hope  to  the  rescue.  It  is  precarious  work, 
this,  for  the  thing  has  become  ungovern- 
able, and  hurls  back  and  forth  like  a 
Juggernaut,  crushing  fingers  and  toes 
remorselessly.  After  a  wild,  breathless 
struggle,  the  pen  is  secured  in  some  mys- 
terious sailorly  fashion,  one  or  two  men 
run  aft  to  the  steward  to  have  their  hurts 
attended  to,  and  the  inaction  begins 
anew. 

Night  creeps  down  on  the  tumultuous 
sea,  and  the  horrors  of  the  storm  are  in- 
creased tenfold.  Before,  men  could  see 
the  danger  that  hung  over  their  heads; 
now  they  can  only  imagine  it,  and  the 
imagination  increases  the  peril  to  an 
indescribable  extent.  They  must  lie  in 
shivering  groups  on  the  poop,  ready  for 
an  instant  emergency,  unable  to  secure 
sleep  or  food,  drenched  and  salt-sore, 
now  starting  into  instant  activity  as  a 
loud  thunder  breaks  out  from  the  furled 
foretopsail,  now  sinking  back  into  shiv- 


ering lassitude  as  no  order  volleys  to 
their  ears  from  the  wakeful  man  who 
clutches  the  binnacle,  and  gazes  with 
unseeing  eyes  into  the  stormy  night. 

At  intervals  a  couple  of  men  detach 
themselves  from  the  groups,  and  struggle 
aft  to  the  wheel,  relieving  the  nigh-frozen 
men  there,  while  those  who  have  stood 
for  two  hours  win  a  hazardous  way 
along  the  decks  to  their  forecastle,  there 
to  .snatch  a  smoke  until  some  cry  shall 
come  to  them,  demanding  their  instant 
presence  on  the  poop. 

The  angry  dawn  leaps  up  out  of  the 
sky,  and  men  stare  at  men's  faces  with 
dazed  eyes.  The  white  salt  has  caked 
on  hair  and  beard,  the  young  men  of  the 
past  day  have  grown  old  and  grizzled, 
their  faces  are  deep-lined  with  anxiety; 
but  there  is  no  sign  of  drooping  in  that 
sturdy  old  figure  by  the  wheel. 

The  sea,  terrible  before,  is  doubly 
terrible  now.  During  the  night  it  has  in- 
creased alarmingly;  wave  follows  mount- 
tainous  wave  in  unbroken  rush,  the  ship 
throws  herself  about  like  a  cork,  now 
swooping  into  a  watery  cavern,  now  gid- 
dily topping  a  lofty  wave,  while  men  hold 
their  breath  in  awe. 

Bang!  The  lee  clew  of  the  maintop- 
sail  has  carried  away,  and  the  sail  is  lash- 
ing about  like  a  flail  of  death.  But  the 
canvas  of  this  sail  is  strong  and  doubly 
strong;  though  it  whips  about  with  a 
noise  of  artillery,  the  sail  does  not  split; 
only  a  length  of  chain  is  leaping  in  the 
air  and  threatening  to  brain  any  man 
who  shall  venture  within  its  sweep. 

The  work  must  be  done,  no  matter 
what  happens.  The  mate  looks  a  ques- 
tion at  the  captain,  the  latter  thinks  for  a 
moment.  He  dare  not  strip  his  ship  of 
her  canvas  entirely :  under  bare  poles  she 
could  do  nothing  save  run  down  to  the 
south  among  the  spectral  icebergs.  There 
is  one  of  them  now  under  her  quarter, 
looming  like  some  fairy  palace  on  the 
horizon. 

"  Goose- wing  it!  " 

They  do  it —  somehow,  though  no 
man,  on  descending,  can  tell  how  the 


Round  the  Horn 


107 


work  was  done.  They  have  a  vague 
memory  of  clambering  up  the  ice-coated 
rigging,  slipping  down  a  foot  and  climb- 
ing up  a  yard,  of  dragging  their  toil-worn 
bodies  out  to  the  lee  yard-arm,  and  there 
grappling  blindly  with  the  frapping  sail, 
while  that  hurtling  chain  cracks  and 
rattles  above  their  heads.  The  loose  cor- 
ner of  the  sail  is  dragged  on  the  yard, 
stout  ropes  are  lugged  from  the  forepeak 
and  passed  round  and  round  sail  and 
yard;  men  haul  on  ropes  that  seem  to 
lead  nowhere,  and  curse,  with  tears,  the 
adamantine  hardness  of  the  frozen  cloths. 
But  they  do  it  —  for  they  are  British  sea- 
men. Within  an  hour  the  sail  is  quiet- 
ened, the  lee  clew  fast  on  the  yard,  the 
weather  clew  still  set.  This  is  goosewing- 
ing  —  and  is  only  resorted  to  in  moments 
of  extreme  stress,  when  it  is  impossible 
to  attach  another  lashing  to  the  clew  that 
has  carried  away. 

But  the  wind  is  shifting  to  the  south, 
and  the  ship  drives  soddenly  due  north. 
She  cannot  hold  on  long  at  this  work,  for 
the  Diego  Ramirez  are  there  in  her  direct 
path.  Something  looms  out  of  the  storm- 
haze  ahead,  it  takes  shape,  and  resolves 
itself  into  a  gallant  clipper  homeward 
bound.  She  is  carrying  a  press  of  canvas 
that  threatens  to  drive  her  under;  she 
cuts  through  the  waves  like  a  thing  of  life ; 
her  stately  bow  puts  aside  the  encroach- 
ing waters  as  a  parish  beadle  puts  aside 
a  crowd  of  inquisitive  children.  By  her 
black  low  hull,  built  on  the  lines  of  a 
yacht,  by  her  five  masts  and  her  yellow 
spars,  her  identity  is  disclosed  at  once. 
She  is  one  of  the  German  P.  line  of  West 
Coast  clippers,  making  a  record  run 
home.  Men  turn  to  one  another  and  say 
that  this  ship  has  run  from  Valparaiso 
to  the  Lizard  in  fifty-seven  days,  beat- 
ing the  majority  of  steamers  on  the  run. 
They  say  her  skipper  receives  a  bonus 
for  every  day  he  takes  off  the  run;  and 
would  receive  instant  dismissal  should 
he  exceed  seventy  days  on  his  passage. 
Other  men  tell  how  the  commanders 
of  those  ships  have  driven  their  panic- 
stricken  crews  to  the  braces  at  the  muz- 


zles of  leveled  revolvers,  daring  them  to 
refuse  their  duty.  But  a  flag  is  flung  to 
the  gale  from  the  onrushing  clipper,  and 
the  red,  white,  and  black  ensign  dips 
gayly  thrice.  It  is  the  salute  of  one  brave 
ship  to  another. 

Then  the  spindrift  hides  her,  she  blurs 
away  into  nothingness,  and  the  struggling 
outward-bounder  is  alone.  What  is  that 
sudden  cry  that  comes  from  forward  ?  It 
blanches  a  dozen  faces,  and  sends  the 
suddenly-stilled  heart  into  the  throat. 
"  Land  on  the  lee  beam!  "  There  above 
the  horizon,  like  a  mouthful  of  venomous 
fangs  waiting  to  crunch  and  grind  their 
prey,  the  Diego  Ramirez  show  moment- 
arily, then  disappear.  The  inaction  of 
the  ship  gives  place  to  sudden  life.  There 
is  a  ceaseless  stream  of  hard-voiced 
orders ;  the  programme  of  the  day  before 
is  followed,  and  the  ship  wears  round 
on  her  heel.  It  is  terribly  dangerous  work 
now,  for  every  rushing  wave  threatens 
to  envelop  the  ship,  and  drive  her  to  her 
doom;  the  captain  begins  to  talk  of  rig- 
ging sea-anchors  in  order  that  the  ves- 
sel's head  might  be  wrenched  round  off 
the  shore,  but  by  dint  of  skillful  manoeu- 
vring the  work  is  once  more  done,  and 
the  ship  lurches  drunkenly  away  to  the 
south,  leaving  the  rocks  behind. 

So  it  goes  on,  sometimes  for  days  and 
weeks  on  end.  Now  an  iceberg  passes 
within  a  musket-shot,  making  men  shiver 
at  the  thought  of  running  headlong  upon 
the  ice-island  in  the  dark  of  night; 
now  a  five-masted  French  clipper  swings 
along,  loaded  to  the  scuppers,  and  keep- 
ing afloat  by  Heaven  knows  what  means. 
But  the  gale  dies  away  into  fitful  moan- 
ings,  it  veers  to  the  south,  one  by  one  the 
ice-incrusted  sails  are  loosed  from  their 
gaskets,  and  fall  grotesquely  down,  while 
the  toil-worn  seamen  drag  the  sheets  out 
with  hands  that  seem  dead  to  pain.  Tier 
on  tier  the  canvas  rises  into  glorious 
pyramids,  every  sail  sings  a  booming 
triumphant  song  of  dangers  overcome, 
and  with  a  fair  wind  and  plenty  of  it,  the 
good  ship  cleaves  her  way  into  the  quieter 
waters  of  the  Pacific  Ocean. 


SPIRIT  TO   SPIRIT 

BY   JULIA   C.    R.    DORR 


or  centuries,  or  years  ago  — 
We  two  were  man  and  woman,  thou  and  I, 
On  yon  dear  earth  now  swinging  far  below 
The  star-mists  floating  by. 

But  now  we  are  two  spirits,  in  the  wide 

Mysterious  realm  whereof  all  mortals  dream; 
The  unknown  country  where  the  dead  abide 
Beyond  the  sunset  gleam. 

And  I  —  I  cannot  find  thee  anywhere! 

I  roam  from  star  to  star  in  search  of  thee; 
I  wander  through  the  boundless  fields  of  air, 
And  by  the  crystal  sea. 

I  scan  all  faces  and  I  question  all; 

I  breathe  thy  name  to  every  wind  that  blows; 
Through  the  wide  silences  I  call  and  call  — 
But  still  the  silence  grows. 

Dost  thou  remember  how,  one  midnight  drear, 

We  sat  before  a  fading  fire  alone, 
Dreaming  young  dreams  the  while  the  wan  old  year 
Reeled  from  his  trembling  throne? 

And  thou  didst  whisper,  "  Dear,  from  farthest  skies, 

From  utmost  space,  my  love  shall  summon  thee 
Though  the  grave-mould  lie  darkly  on  thine  eyes, 
To  keep  this  tryst  with  me!  " 

Was  it  last  year?    O  Love,  I  do  not  know! 

The  high  gods  count  not  time.    We  are  as  they. 
All  silently  the  tides  of  being  flow; 
A  year  is  as  a  day! 

I  only  know  I  cannot  find  thee,  dear! 

This  mighty  universe  is  all  too  wide; 
Where  art  thou?    In  what  far-removed  sphere 
Is  thought  of  me  denied? 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 

New  lives,  new  loves,  new  knowledge,  and  new  laws! 

I  still  remember.    Does  thy  soul  forget? 
Heart  unto  heart  if  love  no  longer  draws, 
Then  the  last  seal  is  set! 


109 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A  RAILROAD   SIGNALMAN 

VI 

BY   J.    O.    FAGAN 


AT  the  present  day,  public  attention 
is  being  constantly  aroused  and  focused 
upon  all  questions  that  immediately  con- 
cern the  general  welfare  of  the  people. 
In  this  way  the  efficiency  of  the  service 
on  American  railroads  has,  of  late,  been 
freely  discussed,  not  only  by  railroad  men, 
but  by  thoughtful  people  in  all  the  walks 
of  life.  The  reason  for  this  universal  in- 
terest is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  an 
inquiry  into  an  ordinary  preventable  rail- 
road accident  entails,  at  the  same  time, 
a  study  of  the  actual  working  conditions 
that  exist  in  America  between  the  rights 
and  interests  of  the  workingman,  and  the 
more  important  rights  and  interests  of 
the  general  public.  Of  course,  figures  and 
tables  in  regard  to  efficiency  of  service 
cannot  always  be  taken  at  their  face 
value,  and  yet  the  conclusions  that  one  is 
sometimes  compelled  to  draw  from  them 
are  altogether  too  significant  to  be  light- 
ly dismissed  from  the  public  mind. 

For  example,  in  the  year  1906,  a  total 
of  1,200,000,000  passengers  was  carried 
on  British  railroads  on  27,000  miles  of 
track,  against  800,000,000  passengers 
carried  on  American  railroads  on  a  mile- 
age of  200,000.  Generally  speaking,  col- 
lisions and  derailments  form  quite  a 
reliable  standard  from  which  to  make 
comparisons  in  regard  to  efficiency  of 
service.  It  must  also  be  remembered 
that  the  chances  for  accidents  are  nat- 
urally increased  with  increase  of  traffic 


and  consequent  multiplication  of  train 
movements.  One  might  reasonably  ex- 
pect, therefore,  to  find  the  density  of  con- 
ditions in  Great  Britain  reflected  in  a 
startling  list  of  fatalities,  as  compared 
with  the  United  States.  Yet  if  we  take 
the  year  1906  to  illustrate  our  theories 
and  anticipated  conclusions,  we  find  that 
there  were  13,455  collisions  and  derail- 
ments in  this  country,  and  only  239  in 
Great  Britain.  In  the  same  year  146 
passengers  were  killed  and  6000  injured 
in  the  United  States,  against  58  passen- 
gers killed  and  631  injured  in  Great 
Britain.  The  number  of  employees  killed 
and  injured  in  train  accidents  was  re- 
spectively 13  and  140  in  Great  Britain, 
against  879  and  7483  in  this  country. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that 
figures  and  returns  like  the  above,  re- 
peated from  year  to  year  with  the  same 
marked,  and,  indeed,  ever  increasing 
disparity,  should  give  rise  to  widespread 
discussion  and  criticism,  consequently 
leading  up  to  a  better  understanding  of 
the  nature  of  the  problem  that  is  now 
submitted,  with  all  necessary  facts  and 
illustrations,  practically  for  the  first  time, 
to  the  American  people.  For  it  must  be 
understood,  to  begin  with,  that  from  its 
very  nature  and  from  the  circumstances 
connected  with  the  safety  problem,  the 
intervention  of  public  opinion  and  of 
some  kind  of  public  action  is  impera- 
tively called  for.  Numerous  difficulties, 


110 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


mistakes,  and  inconsistencies  relating  to 
the  handling  of  trains,  to  the  conduct 
of  employees,  and  to  the  present  status 
of  the  railroad  manager,  have  been  ex- 
posed and  explained  during  the  course 
of  these  confessions.  But  after  all,  these 
are  merely  side  issues  and  details  of  the 
service;  the  real  heart  of  the  situation, 
as  insisted  upon  from  first  to  last  in  these 
articles,  is  significantly  outlined  in  a 
recent  issue  of  the  Engineering  Maga- 
zine, as  follows :  — 

"  Even  more  serious  as  a  predisposing 
cause  of  railroad  accidents,  is  the  lament- 
able lack  of  discipline  which  is  becoming 
increasingly  manifest  in  these  days  of 
labor-union  interference.  This  has  been 
carried  to  such  a  point  that  the  officials 
of  our  railroads  have  no  longer  that  direct 
control  of  the  employees  which  is  abso- 
lutely essential  to  the  maintenance  of 
discipline.  Until  this  condition  has  been 
changed  it  is  hopeless  to  look  for  any 
material  reduction  in  the  number  of 
killed  and  injured  on  our  railroads." 

Such,  then,  being  the  truthful  and  logi- 
cal diagnosis  of  the  situation,  the  final 
and  most  important  question  of  all  re- 
mains to  be  considered.  From  individu- 
als in  no  way  connected  with  railroad 
life,  as  well  as  from  employees  and  man- 
agers in  different  sections  of  the  country, 
the  general  interest  in  the  matter  has 
been  expressed  in  the  following  inquiries : 
"  What  are  you  now  going  to  do  about 
it?  Granting  this  and  granting  that, 
what  is  your  plan  of  construction  or  re- 
construction ?  What  can  you  propose  as 
a  practical  method  of  reform  ?  " 

After  a  careful  review  and  considera- 
tion of  the  conditions  that  obtain  on 
American  railroads  at  the  present  day, 
these  significant  and  final  questions,  in 
the  opinion  of  the  writer,  must  all  be 
answered  in  terms  of  external  authority. 
It  is  really  too  bad  to  have  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  no  reform  can  be  ex- 
pected, or  indeed  is  possible,  from  within. 
The  men,  the  organizations,  and  the  man- 
agements must  now  be  called  upon  to 
submit  to  publicity  and  to  correction,  to 


be  administered  by  the  stern  arm  of  the 
law.  A  proper  adjustment  of  the  interests 
of  the  men  and  the  management,  with  a 
view  to  the  safety  of  travel  is,  under  pre- 
sent conditions,  absolutely  impossible. 

Ample  opportunity  and  time  have  been 
Afforded  these  parties  to  solve  the  safety 
problem  between  themselves,  without 
outside  interference.  ,The  Canadian  gov- 
ernment has  already  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  is  useless  to  wait  any 
longer,  and  accordingly  it  has  taken 
measures  to  safeguard  the  rights  of  the 
traveling  public.  In  like  manner,  just  as 
soon  as  the  government  of  the  United 
States  arrives  at  the  same  conclusion  and 
sees  fit  to  designate  carelessness  on  a  rail- 
road as  a  crime,  punishable  in  the  same 
way  as  carelessness  in  driving  horses  or 
automobiles  on  a  crowded  thoroughfare, 
a  revolution  will  take  place  in  the  service 
on  American  railroads.  When  the  man- 
agement and  the  men  are  called  upon  to 
face  public  examination  and  public  crit- 
icism, there  will  be  no  more  hair-split- 
ting in  the  interpretation  and  adminis- 
tration of  discipline.  The  men  and  the 
management  will  then  very  quickly  re- 
cognize the  necessity  of  adjusting  their 
differences  and  combining  their  forces  in 
the  interests  of  the  public.  In  a  word, 
authority  will  become  supreme,  and  it 
will  not  take  long  for  it  to  assert  itself 
in  terms  of  effectual  discipline.  Such, 
according  to  my  view  of  it,  is  the  only 
possible  solution  of  the  safety  problem 
on  American  railroads. 

AH  other  topics  and  questions,  although 
closely  related  to  the  problem,  are  hi 
reality  merely  matters  of  detail.  For  ex- 
ample, the  lack  of  adequate  supervision 
means,  of  course,  unchecked  negligence 
and  points  the  way  to  no  end  of  trouble; 
and  yet  the  most  comprehensive  sys- 
tem of  supervision  imaginable  would  be 
of  little  use,  unsupported  by  a  reason- 
able and  effective  system  of  discipline. 
While,  therefore,  my  opinion  as  to  the 
immediate  necessity  for  the  intervention 
of  the  national  government  holds  good, 
a  general  description  of  the  American 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


111 


method  of  discipline,  upon  which  the 
efficiency  of  the  service  is,  in  the  mean 
time,  absolutely  dependent,  should  nev- 
ertheless prove  interesting  to  all  classes 
of  readers. 

To  a  great  extent,  a  system  of  disci- 
pline represents  a  state  of  mind,  the  ideals 
of  an  individual  or  of  a  community,  and 
sometimes,  under  certain  special  condi- 
tions, an  economical  habit  or  business  ne- 
cessity. In  the  old  countries  of  Europe, 
where  the  public  interests  smother  indi- 
vidual rights  as  well  as  the  schedules  of 
labor  organizations,  the  railroads  have 
taken  for  their  motto,  "  He  that  sinneth 
shall  die."  Cassio,  faithful  and  true,  with 
an  honorable  and  spotless  record  in  the 
public  service,  falls  from  grace  in  an  un- 
guarded moment,  and  is  sorrowfully  yet 
absolutely  doomed  to  dismissal  by  the 
high-minded  Othello.  "Never  more  be 
officer  of  mine."  Such  in  spirit,  and,  to 
a  great  extent,  in  actual  railroad  life,  is 
the  European  interpretation  of  disci- 
pline. The  European  officials  work  upon 
the  plan  and  with  the  unswerving  deter- 
mination to  protect  the  traveling  public 
at  all  costs.  The  record  of  accidents  on 
their  railroads  leaves  little  doubt  as  to  the 
correctness  of  their  methods  of  railroad- 
ing. On  the  other  hand,  in  the  United 
States,  the  railroad  manager,  backed  to  a 
certain  extent  by  public  opinion,  says  to 
an  offending  employee,  "  Your  sin  has 
enlightened  and  purified  you,  go  back 
to  your  job."  This  is  the  mental  method 
of  discipline.  A  man  is  called  upon  to 
think,  without  at  the  same  time  being 
called  upon  to  feel. 

On  a  railroad  nowadays,  when  a 
"  green  "  man  makes  a  mistake,  he  is 
quietly  informed  by  his  superintendent 
that  five  or  ten  demerit  marks  have  been 
placed  against  his  name  on  the  record 
book.  The  shock  he  receives  on  the  com- 
mission of  his  first  mistake  is  not  very 
striking.  He  has  perhaps  been  called 
upon  to  think,  but  in  order  to  give  his 
thoughts  pungency  and  direction,  he 
should  also  have  been  called  upon  to  feel. 
Good  habits  are  induced  by  feeling  plus 


thought  much  more  surely  and  expedi- 
tiously  than  by  thought  alone.  Feeling 
plus  thought  is  the  scientific  route.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  thought  alone  will  prove 
sufficient,  but  a  railroad  is  no  place  to 
experiment  with  Utopian  possibilities. 
What  is  necessary  is  the  best  and  quick- 
est way  to  originate  good  habits.  The 
whole  nervous  system  in  man  is  first 
organized  by  habit.  The  feeling  plus 
thought  method  of  discipline  is  humane 
as  well  as  scientific,  and  is  the  most  po- 
tent instigator  and  prompter  of  habit. 

According  to  Webster,  discipline  is 
"  subjection  to  severe  and  systematic 
training."  In  the  American  method  of 
discipline  on  railroads,  there  is  no  sys- 
tematic training  of  any  kind;  sensation 
or  feeling  plays  no  part  in  it,  and  thought 
is  left  to  take  care  of  itself. 

Theoretically,  the  mental  process  has 
a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  its  favor,  but 
in  actual  operation  the  system  has  proved 
to  be  disastrous,  and  the  records  on  Amer- 
ican railroads  illustrate  only  too  elo- 
quently the  fallacy  of  the  principle,  under 
any  conditions,  where  human  lives  are 
at  stake.  It  is  simply  a  question  between 
the  ethics  and  philosophy  of  Portia,  and 
the  blind  impartiality  of  Othello  as  ap- 
plied to  the  railroad  business.  In  social 
affairs  and  in  relation  to  conduct  between 
individuals,  the  standards  of  Portia  are 
gracious  and  commendable;  but  on  a 
battleship,  in  the  army,  and  just  as  surely 
on  a  railroad,  the  services  of  the  rugged 
Othello  will  be  found  at  all  times  to  be 
the  most  effectual.  In  the  United  States, 
however,  there  is  a  certain  altruistic  sen- 
timent that  would  fain  submerge  the 
ethics  and  principles  of  the  old-time  dis- 
ciplinarian. Not  only  does  this  criticism 
apply  to  affairs  on  a  railroad,  but  our 
educational  methods,  in  every  direction, 
seem  to  be  threatened  with  the  same  peril. 
On  all  sides  there  now  appears  to  be 
a  disinclination  to  use  authority.  There 
seems  to  be  something  in  the  nature  of 
a  national  kick  against  constraint  or 
discipline  of  any  kind.  The  ideals  and 
rugged  characteristics  of  American  man- 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


hood,  both  on  railroads  and  in  our 
schools,  are  threatened  with  the  coddling 
process. 

Within  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years, 
many  railroads  have  changed  or  modi- 
fied their  system  of  discipline,  as  a  trib- 
ute, in  part,  to  this  popular  sentiment. 
Perhaps  in  making  these  changes  the 
managers  did  the  best  they  could  under 
the  circumstances.  They  found  them- 
selves fast  losing  the  backing  and  author- 
ity necessary  to  enforce  the  old  system, 
and  the  new  method  was  at  least  a  work- 
ing arrangement  with  harmony  for  its 
basis. 

A  great  majority  of  the  railroads  of 
the  United  States  are  now  using  some 
sort  of  a  merit  system  in  the  administra- 
tion of  discipline.  Most  of  these  methods 
are  adaptations  of  the  Brown  system, 
which  was  invented  by  Mr.  G.  R.  Brown, 
at  one  time  vice-president  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania. Brown  figured  it  out  for  him- 
self, while  he  was  taking  all  the  steps 
from  trainman  up,  on  the  Fall  Brook 
Railroad ;  and  when  he  got  to  be  general 
manager  he  put  it  in  on  his  road.  The 
system,  as  modified  by  most  of  the  roads, 
is  a  sort  of  bookkeeping,  with  debits  and 
credits  in  the  shape  of  marks,  to  the  ac- 
count of  each  man.  Generally  speaking, 
a  perfect  record  for  any  term  of  years 
may  not  be  entered  as  a  credit  item  in  the 
book,  although  conspicuous  instances  of 
heroism  or  devotion  to  duty  are  some- 
times noted.  But  a  perfect  record  for  a 
certain  period  will  wipe  out  previous 
debits.  An  employee  has  access  to  his 
record  book  at  any  time,  otherwise  the 
record  is  kept  in  absolute  secrecy.  On 
some  roads  "  rolls  of  honor  "  are  kept 
and  published,  usually  in  the  railroad 
magazines.  The  names  of  the  men,  to- 
gether with  an  account  of  the  meritori- 
ous action,  receive  special  mention.  But 
on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  mention, 
either  of  names  or  particulars,  in  regard 
to  the  debits  when  employees  make  mis- 
takes. 

Railroad  managers  appear  to  be  satis- 
fied with  this  Brown  system  of  discipline, 


and  the  statement  has  repeatedly  ap- 
peared in  the  public  prints  that  the  adop- 
tion of  these  rules  has  resulted  in  better 
service  to  the  companies.  So  far  as  the 
safety  of  travel  and  the  general  efficiency 
of  the  service  are  concerned,  the  figures 
and  reports  issued  periodically  by  the 
Interstate  Commerce  Commission  are 
calculated  to  convey  a  very  different 
impression.  Railroad  officials  inform  us 
that  the  Brown  system  is  an  attempt  to 
promote  good  feeling  between  the  men 
and  the  management.  This  is  doubtless 
true,  but  the  statement  lets  the  cat  out 
of  the  bag.  The  employee  appreciates 
the  fact  that  the  sting  is  extracted  from 
a  reprimand  when  it  is  administered  in 
secret.  Doubtless,  if  the  sole  aim  has 
been  to  secure  harmonious  relations  be- 
tween men  and  management,  little  fault 
can  be  found  with  the  Brown  system, 
but  it  appears  in  a  somewhat  different 
light  when  we  study  it  in  relation  to  the 
safety  problem. 

For  example,  a  man  makes  a  serious 
mistake,  without  actual  injury  to  persons 
or  damage  to  property.  He  is  punished 
to  the  extent  of  ten  demerit  marks.  In 
the  course  of  a  few  months  five  or  six 
other  men  commit  the  same  mistake.  In 
every  instance  a  secret  record  of  the  mis- 
take has  been  kept.  When  a  mistake  re- 
mains unchecked,  sooner  or  later  it  ar- 
rives at  the  epidemic  stage  and  reaches 
its  climax  in  a  wreck,  and  then  finally  a 
man  is  discharged  for  it.  The  demerit 
marks  have  had  no  corrective  or  pre- 
ventive effect  whatever.  Under  this  sys- 
tem the  trouble  is  allowed  to  evolve  in  a 
natural  way,  from  a  simple  case  of  un- 
checked negligence  into  a  disaster  in 
which,  perhaps,  a  community  is  called 
upon  to  suffer. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  system  that  takes 
publicity  and  the  pocketbook  for  its 
principal  factors  enlists  every  corrective 
element  in  its  favor.  You  cannot  sepa- 
rate suspension  and  loss  of  pay  from 
publicity,  to  a  certain  degree.  In  all  sys- 
tems of  punishment  or  correction,  in  a 
police  court  or  elsewhere,  there  are  usu- 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


113 


ally  two  or  three  elements  that  are  de- 
pended upon  to  bring  about  beneficial 
results.  These  factors  are  the  shame  that 
is  attached  to  the  publication  of  names, 
the  pecuniary  loss  in  the  shape  of  a  fine, 
and  the  danger  of  imprisonment.  The 
Brown  system  has  abolished  publicity 
and  done  away  with  pecuniary  loss.  The 
employee  is  now  aware  that  no  one  can 
touch  his  pocketbook,  no  one  can  wound 
his  pride,  or  hold  him  up  as  an  example 
to  his  fellows.  Of  course  it  is  too  bad  that 
a  railroad  man  should  be  called  upon  to 
take  his  discipline  home  with  him,  that 
his  wife  and  children  should  have  to  share 
the  shame  and  the  penalty;  and  yet  the 
decisions  of  courts  and  of  human  tribu- 
nals everywhere  are  all  subject  to  the 
same  criticism. 

The  Brown  system,  in  a  modified 
form,  is  to-day  the  American  method, 
and  while  its  supposed  primary  object 
may  be  to  increase  efficiency,  its  actual 
working  is  all  in  the  interests  of  harmony 
between  the  men  and  management.  The 
proof  of  the  efficiency  of  any  system  of 
discipline  is  to  be  found  in  the  freedom 
from  accidents  of  all  sorts.  Within  the 
last  few  months,  I  have  heard  railroad 
managers  who  heartily  approve  of  the 
Brown  system,  deplore  in  the  same 
breath  the  alarming  increase  of  acci- 
dents. One  of  these  gentlemen  went  so 
far  as  to  inform  me  that  it  is  the  only 
possible  system,  so  long  as  the  men  and 
the  political  influence  of  the  organiza- 
tions are  allowed  to  control  the  situation. 

The  men  very  much  prefer  to  take 
punishment  on  the  installment  plan,  in 
the  dark,  to  any  settlement  on  a  cash 
basis  in  open  and  above-board  fashion. 
Discipline  in  the  dark,  on  the  install- 
ment plan,  has  all  the  facts,  experience, 
and  records  of  the  past  and  present,  and 
the  probabilities  of  the  future,  arrayed 
against  it.  When  you  ask  the  manager 
how  it  happens  that  the  United  States 
does  not  recognize  the  efficacy  of  the 
mental  method  on  the  installment  plan, 
and  treat  him  as  the  Brown  system 
treats  the  employees,  he  merely  shrugs 
VOL.  102-NO.l 


his  shoulders.  When  an  infraction  of  the 
"  safety-appliance  law  "  or  the  "  nine- 
hour  law  "  is  brought  home  to  a  man- 
ager, the  action  of  the  government  or  the 
law  recognizing  the  superior  efficacy  of 
the  mental  treatment  might  reasonably 
be  expected  to  say  to  him,  "  I  give  you 
ten  demerit  marks.  Your  mistake  has 
enlightened  and  purified  you;  go  back 
to  your  desk."  A  manager  is  surely  as 
susceptible  to  mental  influence  and  sug- 
gestion as  an  engineman  or  a  conductor. 
Yet  there  is  not  a  suspicion  of  the  Brown 
system  of  discipline  in  the  actual  fines 
and  imprisonment  which  the  government 
has  agreed  upon  as  the  best  and  quickest 
way  to  enforce  obedience  in  the  interests 
of  the  public  welfare. 

The  general  introduction  of  the  Brown 
system  on  American  railroads  has  been 
brought  about  by  the  "  irritation  "  of  the 
men  when  their  pay  or  their  time  has 
been  interfered  with.  This  was,  in  gen- 
eral, the  power  that  gave  the  impetus  and 
encouragement  to  the  movement. 

The  exact  amount  of  "  irritation  "  in 
loss  of  money  to  employees  for  one 
month  has  been  figured  out  by  one  rail- 
road, as  follows :  — 

Engineers 

Discharged  4    Merits  0 

Demerits  455    Amount  saved 

to  the  men  $1706 

Firemen 

Discharged  2    Merits  10 

Demerits  1265    Amount  saved      $263 

Conductors 

Discharged  4    Merits  10 

Demerits  485    Amount  saved    $1523 

Operators 

Discharged       .       10    Merits  0 

Demerits  310    Amount  saved      $514 

Trainmen 

Discharged  21     Merits  0 

Demerits  696    Amount  saved    $1553 

That  is  to  say,  a  certain  number  of 
men  hadjbeen  awarded  "  demerits  "  for 
offences  instead  of  suspension  with  loss 
of  pay,  which  in  one  month  would  have 
amounted  to  $5559.  Of  course,  most  of 


114 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


this  amount  would  have  been  earned 
by  spare  men,  but  this  consideration  by 
no  means  allays  the  "  irritation  "  of  the 
regular  men. 

Multiply  this  irritation  by  the  number 
of  railroads  in  the  United  States,  and  the 
Brown  system  of  discipline  is  accounted 
for.  From  the  safety  point  of  view,  the 
greater  the  "  irritation  "  the  more  evi- 
dent becomes  the  necessity  for  some  sys- 
tem calculated  to  control  and  put  a  stop 
to  the  negligence  that  produces  the  irrita- 
tion. The  Brown  system  very  effectively 
allays  this  irritation  at  the  expense  of  the 
public  safety,  by  treating  the  negligence 
as  a  matter  of  secondary  importance. 

But  although  the  Brown  system  and 
its  modifications  may  reasonably  be 
termed  the  American  method,  neverthe- 
less here  and  there  one  comes  across  an 
instance  of  an  American  railroad  that 
has  discarded  it  and  adopted  a  radically 
different  method,  with  exceedingly  satis- 
factory results.  One  of  the  roads  that  has 
broken  away  from  the  Brown  system  is 
the  Chicago  &  Alton. 

A  few  months  ago,  while  in  Blooming- 
ton,  Illinois,  the  writer  paid  a  visit  to 
what  is  termed  "The  C.  &  A.  Stereop- 
ticon  Car."  So  far  as  I  am  aware  there 
are  only  two  or  three  of  these  cars  on 
American  railroads.  The  car  is,  in  fact, 
a  training  school  and  lecture  hall  for  the 
benefit  of  the  employees.  Mr.  Perdue, 
the  man  in  charge,  is  a  veteran  employee 
of  over  thirty  years'  experience,  extending 
over  practically  every  department  of  rail- 
road life.  In  order  to  enter  the  service  of 
the  Chicago  &  Alton,  every  man  has  to 
pass  through  this  car  and  take  the  neces- 
sary examinations.  In  this  way  Mr. 
Perdue  has  become  personally  acquaint- 
ed with  practically  every  man  in  the 
operating  department  of  the  Chicago  & 
Alton.  He  knows  the  weak  men  and  the 
strong  men,  and  his  watchful  eye  is  over 
them  all.  He  has  the  necessary  author- 
ity to  call  any  man  into  the  car  for  reex- 
amination,  and  to  withhold  him  from 
duty  if  necessary,  in  the  interests  of  the 
service. 


Mr.  Perdue  kindly  allowed  me  to  re- 
main in  the  car  while  he  was  conducting 
the  exercises.  There  were  some  twenty 
or  thirty  railroad  men  seated  before  him. 
The  lecturer  held  in  his  hand  a  small 
bundle  of  papers.  They  were  the  record 
of  the  disciplines  for  the  month.  Some 
of  the  wrong-doers  had  been  called  into 
the  car  to  listen  to  a  description  and  an 
analysis  of  their  mistakes.  Mr.  Perdue 
is  very  kindly,  yet  forceful,  both  in  man- 
ner and  speech.  He  talks  vigorously  to 
the  men  in  their  own  everyday  language. 
He  takes  one  accident  after  another,  and 
by  the  actual  representation  of  it  on  his 
screen,  he  demonstrates  just  how  it  hap- 
pened and  how  to  avoid  it  for  the  future. 
He  then  tells  a  certain  man  to  stand  up, 
and  questions  him  closely  as  to  what  he 
would  do  under  such  and  such  circum- 
stances. Finally,  he  turns  to  his  screen 
and  shows  his  audience  how  to  smash 
a  carload  of  household  goods  by  rough 
handling  and  by  giving  careless  motions, 
and  on  the  other  hand,  how  to  be  loyal 
to  the  road  and  at  the  same  time  true  to 
themselves  by  rendering  careful  and  ef- 
ficient service. 

Altogether  Mr.  Perdue's  work  and 
story  are  so  interesting  that  I  am  tempt- 
ed to  give  a  part  in  his  own  words :  — 

"  I  have  kept  a  record  of  the  men 
handled  during  the  past  two  or  three 
years.  I  promoted  148  brakemen  to  be 
conductors,  264  firemen  to  be  engineers, 
and  instructed  in  all  3839  men.  Practi- 
cally all  the  men  passed,  because  if  they 
failed  to  begin  with,  they  kept  coming 
to  me  until  I  had  educated  them  up  to 
my  standard.  I  believe  the  Chicago  & 
Alton  has  the  finest  and  most  loyal  body 
of  employees  on  any  railroad  in  the 
United  States.  I  may  be  accused  of 
blowing  my  own  trumpet,  but  I  honestly 
believe  it  is  nearly  all  due  to  my  method 
of  training  and  discipline.  By  the  way, 
this  method  is  copyrighted  by  President 
Murphy  of  the  Cincinnati  Southern  Rail- 
road. Of  course  the  method  is  one  thing, 
and  the  man  who  handles  the  method  is 
another,  and  a  most  important  consider- 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


115 


ation.  That  is  why  I  point  with  pride  to 
my  record  with  the  boys  on  the  Chicago 
&  Alton.  I  want  them  to  get  the  credit 
for  it,  for  without  their  cooperation  my 
work  would  be  thrown  away.  To  begin 
with,  I  make  a  point  of  getting  the  men 
interested,  not  only  in  their  own  records, 
but  in  the  records  and  reputation  of  the 
Chicago  &  Alton.  I  tell  you  one  thing, 
and  that  is,  you  cannot,  with  impunity, 
malign  or  abuse  the  Chicago  &  Alton 
Railroad  in  the  hearing  of  one  of  my 
boys. 

"Then  again,  I  have  no  favorites.  I 
make  it  a  point  to  work  with  absolute 
impartiality  and  uniformity.  Every  man 
knows  he  must  stand  or  fall  on  his  own 
merits,  that  is,  on  his  record  as  a  flagman, 
a  fireman,  or  an  engineer;  and  when  he 
gets  into  trouble,  his  character  as  a  man 
is  taken  into  account.  Please  don't  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  I  made  these  Chi- 
cago &  Alton  boys.  I  made  good  men 
out  of  them  because  I  aroused  an  interest 
in  every  man.  We  are  all  proud  to  be 
able  to  say  that  we  work  for  the  Chicago 
&  Alton,  and  we  point  to  our  road  as  the 
best,  safest,  and  most  comfortable  in  the 
country  to-day.  To  give  you  an  idea  of 
our  splendid  service,  you  should  take 
a  ride  on  our  *  Red  Train,'  on  '  The 
Prairie  Express  '  or  '  The  Hummer.' 

"  In  1904,  during  the  World's  Fair  at 
St.  Louis,  we  carried  thousands  more 
passengers  than  any  other  road,  and  we 
neither  killed  nor  injured  a  single  pas- 
senger. I  spent  two-thirds  of  my  time 
riding  round  with  the  boys  during  the 
Fair  season.  We  heard  of  numerous 
accidents  happening  on  other  roads,  and 
one  thing  leading  to  another,  the  word 
was  finally  passed  around,  '  Boys,  not 
a  scratch  to  a  passenger  on  the  Chicago 
&  Alton.'  And  we  lived  up  to  our  motto, 
I  can  tell  you.  This  kind  of  work  is  part 
of  my  method.  It  is  a  system  of  personal 
effort  and  personal  direction,  and  I  can 
tell  you  it  pays.  If  you  don't  think  so, 
just  take  a  look  at  the  accident  records 
of  the  other  roads  during  the  same 
period. 


"  In  regard  to  discipline,  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  being  too  severe.  It's  what  you 
hold  up  your  sleeve  and  have  the  power 
to  use  periodically,  that  counts.  Yet  we 
are  severe  enough  on  the  Chicago  & 
Alton.  No  merit  or  demerit  marks  for 
us.  For  minor  offenses,  from  five  to  ten 
days'  lay-off,  with  loss  of  pay.  For  ne- 
glecting to  have  your  watch  inspected, 
we  give  as  many  as  fifteen  days'  lay-off, 
and  once  in  a  great  while,  the  penalty  for 
serious  offenses  goes  up  to  thirty  days. 
But  discipline  to  any  great  extent  is  un- 
called for.  When  a  man  has  been  through 
my  car,  he  may  need  it  once,  but  very 
seldom  a  second  time.  If  you  will  com- 
pare the  number  of  preventable  accidents 
on  the  Chicago  &  Alton  during  the  years 
1897,  1898,  and  1899  with  any  year  or 
period  since  I  took  charge  of  this  system 
in  1900,  you  will  get  a  very  good  idea  of 
what  the  'Stereopticon  Car'  and  all  that 
it  stands  for  has  done  for  the  Chicago 
&  Alton  Railroad." 

But  now,  making  an  end  in  this  way 
of  our  survey  of  conditions  on  American 
railroads,  there  is  yet  one  topic  of  another 
nature  that  should  prove  unusually  in- 
teresting to  the  general  public. 

To  the  writer  of  these  articles  it  has 
always  seemed  strange  that  the  public  in- 
terest and  anxiety  in  regard  to  these  dis- 
tressing railroad  accidents  should  never 
yet  have  taken  the  form  of  a  very  nat- 
ural curiosity  to  find  out  to  what  extent 
and  by  whom  these  matters  have  been 
systematically  studied  and  thought  out. 
Doubtless  the  public  has  the  impression 
that  its  interests  are  being  cared  for  some- 
how by  somebody.  But  impressions  of 
this  kind  must  not  be  mistaken  for  evi- 
dence. What,  for  instance,  are  the  names 
of  the  employees,  the  managers,  the  poli- 
ticians, or  the  legislators  who  have  studied 
these  railroad  accidents  at  close  range  and 
given  the  public  the  benefit  of  their  in- 
vestigations ?  If  these  authorities  have 
given  little  time  and  no  thought  to  the 
subject,  the  public  should  be  informed 
why  they  have  avoided  the  discussion. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  investigation  has 


116 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


been  avoided,  practically  by  all  hands, 
for  the  reason  that  no  man  can  honestly 
apply  any  kind  of  a  probe  to  a  serious 
railroad  accident,  without  running  the 
risk  of  a  clash  with  the  labor  organiza- 
tions. No  such  neglect,  for  this  or  other 
reasons,  of  a  great  public  issue  can  be 
pointed  to  in  any  other  department  of 
American  industry  or  civilization. 

For  instance,  from  time  to  time  we 
read  in  the  public  prints  of  prizes  being 
offered  by  cities  and  states,  and  some- 
times by  the  national  government,  for  the 
best  designs  for  some  public  building  or 
memorial.  Without  delay  architects  and 
artists  all  over  the  country  concentrate 
then*  minds  on  the  subject.  Those  who 
are  capable  of  submitting  valuable  opin- 
ions and  plans  are  invited  and  encouraged 
to  do  so.  Money  and  brains  and  pro- 
fessional pride  are  enlisted  in  the  under- 
taking, and  thus  we  actually  secure  the 
best  results  that  the  concentrated  thought 
and  talent  of  the  profession  is  capable 
oi  producing. 

Now  it  will  certainly  occur  to  most  of 
us  that  it  is  quite  as  serious  and  import- 
ant an  undertaking  to  try  to  save  thou- 
sands of  lives  on  the  railroads  as  it 
is  to  provide  commodious  and  artistic 
public  buildings.  Upon  examination  at 
close  range,  however,  it  soon  becomes 
evident  that  no  concentration  of  thought 
whatever  is  being  directed  to  this  safety 
problem,  such  as  all  other  questions  of 
national  importance  immediately  bring 
into  play.  If  this  point  is  well  taken,  it 
surely  must  result  in  bringing  to  light  a 
most  unusual  and  almost  incomprehens- 
ible state  of  affairs.  From  my  point  of 
view,  then,  neither  money,  brains,  nor 
professional  pride  are  in  any  way  enlisted 
in  the  undertaking,  except  along  the  lines 
of  least  resistance.  The  lines  of  least  re- 
sistance in  these  railroad  problems  are 
concerned  with  and  embrace  all  manner 
of  signals  and  safety  devices  for  the  pro- 
tection of  life  and  property.  The  thought 
and  money  that  are  being  lavished  on 
this  side  of  the  problem  can  be  realized 
by  a  glance  at  any  or  all  of  the  scientific 


periodicals.  But  the  lines  of  greatest  re- 
sistance, and  at  the  same  time  of  the 
greatest  importance,  which  call  for  a 
study  of  the  human  element,  that  is  to 
say  of  the  conduct  of  the  men  in  relation 
to  efficiency  of  service,  have  as  yet  failed 
to  receive  the  attention  and  thought 
which  the  importance  of  the  problem  un- 
deniably calls  for. 

Undoubtedly  this  view  of  the  matter 
will  meet  with  considerable  criticism. 
It  is  a  distinct  reflection  on  the  policies 
and  methods  of  the  officials  and  the  au- 
thorities to  whom  the  public  is  in  the 
habit  of  looking  for  assistance  and  en- 
lightenment. Nevertheless,  a  short  con- 
sideration of  the  subject  will,  I  think,  be 
sufficient  to  sustain  my  contention,  and 
at  the  same  time  it  will  serve  as  an  intro- 
duction to  a  chapter  in  the  railroad  busi- 
ness that  is  replete  with  interesting  par- 
ticulars, as  well  from  the  industrial  as 
from  the  sociological  point  of  view. 

From  the  nature  of  the  railroad  busi- 
ness, with  its  multiplicity  of  rules,  sig- 
nals, and  customs,  which  constitute  the 
mysteries  of  the  operating  department, 
little  assistance  is  to  be  expected,  in  a 
direct  way,  from  the  ideas  and  opinions 
of  the  general  public  in  the  devising  or 
initiating  of  improved  methods  of  opera- 
tion. Public  opinion,  however,  has  its 
proper  function  and  influence,  which  can 
be  profitably  utilized  in  other  directions. 

In  the  same  way,  judging  from  experi- 
ence and  our  knowledge  of  the  past,  little 
assistance  in  the  way  of  thought  or  co- 
operation is  to  be  anticipated  from  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  men.  No  amount  of 
public  stimulation  or  official  encourage- 
ment has  so  far  had  any  effect  in  rousing 
the  average  engineman,  conductor,  or  sta- 
tion agent,  and  inducing  him  to  devote 
any  part  of  his  spare  time  or  his  talents 
to  a  fearless  discussion  of  these  railroad 
problems,  which  are  so  intimately  re- 
lated to  the  safety  of  the  traveling  public. 
Neither  in  the  railroad  magazines  nor 
in  the  newspapers,  will  you  ever  come 
across  an  article  or  any  kind  of  appeal 
calling  upon  the  organizations  to  take  a 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


117 


hand,  in  any  public  way,  by  cooperation 
with  managers  or  otherwise,  in  improving 
the  scandalous  accident  record,  which 
at  the  present  day  is  the  distinguishing 
feature  of  the  American  railroad  service. 
Every  railroad  man  seems  to  be  a  special- 
ist in  his  own  department,  and  up  to  date 
there  is  no  suspicion  of  a  social  conscience 
in  any  way  connected  with  his  job  or  his 
schedules.  In  a  word,  the  employee  has 
not  devoted  to  the  subject  of  railroad  ac- 
cidents any  systematic  thought  or  con- 
sideration whatever. 

Turning  now  to  the  officials  of  our 
railroads,  to  the  trainmasters,  superin- 
tendents, and  managers,  the  evidence  is 
even  less  satisfactory.  For  it  must  be  al- 
lowed that  any  systematic  and  persistent 
study  of  these  matters  on  the  part  of  the 
railroad  officials  would  sooner  or  later 
become  known  to  the  public,  through  the 
press.  But  there  is  absolutely  no  evidence 
of  the  kind  in  existence.  The  press  of  the 
country  can  be  carefully  scrutinized  and 
watched  for  an  account  of  a  railroad 
accident  that  has  been  fearlessly  and 
thoroughly  analyzed  by  railroad  officials 
and  published  for  the  information  of  the 
public.  Personally,  after  carefully  watch- 
ing the  outcome  of  a  score  of  cases,  I  am 
of  the  opinion  that  the  investigation  of 
a  railroad  accident  by  the  management 
of  an  American  railroad  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  hushing-up  process,  in 
which  the  officials  are  assisted  by  the 
railroad  commissioners,  who  frequently 
dodge  main  issues  by  taking  circuitous 
routes. 

For  instance,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
railroad  commissioners  in  general  are 
aware  that  interference  with  discipline  in 
aggravated  form  is  a  recognized  principle 
on  our  railroads.  The  Massachusetts 
Commissioners,  for  example,  found  them- 
selves face  to  face  with  the  issue,  a  few 
years  ago,  during  their  investigation  of 
what  is  known  as  the  Baker  Bridge  dis- 
aster. In  their  report  of  this  accident, 
they  characterized  the  principle  as  vicious 
and  let  it  go  at  that,  and  yet  they  are 
just  as  well  aware  as  I  am  of  the  duties 


and  habits  of  a  grievance  committee,  as 
well  as  of  the  fact  that  the  privilege  of 
unlimited  appeal  from  the  discipline  of 
the  superintendent  is  to  be  found  in  al- 
most every  agreement  between  men  and 
management. 

I  am  not  presuming,  in  any  way,  to  de- 
fine the  functions  or  duties  of  the  Rail- 
road Commissioners ;  my  object  is  simply 
to  discover,  if  possible,  by  whom  and  in 
what  manner  these  railroad  accidents 
are  being  studied  and  analyzed  in  the 
interests  of  the  traveling  public.  All  our 
evidence,  therefore,  points  to  the  fact  that 
trainmasters,  superintendents,  and  man- 
agers, —  that  is  to  say,  the  only  men  in 
the  country  who  are  thoroughly  posted  in 
all  the  details  of  railroad  life,'and  there- 
fore the  only  men  with  the  ability  and 
equipment  to  think  out  these  problems 
to  successful  solution,  —  are  absolutely 
tongue-tied  and  pen-paralyzed  on  the 
subject.  Occasionally,  perhaps,  one  of 
these  gentlemen  may  emerge  from  his  se- 
clusion with  an  interesting  essay  on  cer- 
tain phases  of  railroad  life.  In  a  general 
way  he  may  call  attention  to  the  import- 
ance of  certain  cardinal  characteristics 
and  virtues.  He  may  emphasize  a  serr 
mon  on  the  absolute  necessity  of  obedi- 
ence to  the  rules  with  numerous  and  in- 
teresting illustrations;  but  when  it  comes 
to  a  question  of  enlightening  the  public 
in  regard  to  the  actual  working  arrange- 
ments that  exist  between  the  manage- 
ment and  men,  he  immediately  draws  a 
wide  black  line. 

If  a  superintendent  should  have  the 
temerity  to  come  out  in  the  open  and 
describe,  for  the  benefit  of  the  public, 
the  process  of  running  his  division  by 
a  combination  of  rules,  schedules,  and 
grievance  committees,  with  himself  as 
an  almost  impersonal  factor  in  the  midst 
of  it  all,  turning  the  crank  merely  as 
director  of  the  machinery,  he  would  in 
short  order  be  called  upon  to  back  up 
his  story  with  his  resignation.  This 
would  be  a  perfectly  natural  consequence 
of  his  loyalty  to  the  public  interests  and 
of  his  lack  of  consideration  for  the  tra- 


118 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


ditions  and  etiquette  of  his  office.  Not 
only  is  this  true,  but  his  usefulness  as 
a  superintendent  would  be  at  an  end; 
he  would  be  placed  on  the  unfair  list  by 
employees,  and  thus  he  would  quickly 
become  persona  non  grata  to  his  super- 
iors, whose  harmonious  relations  with  the 
organizations  he  would  constantly  be  in 
danger  of  upsetting. 

But  if  the  public  should  think  fit  to 
follow  up  the  investigation  suggested  and 
initiated  by  the  superintendent  in  this 
way,  it  would  quickly  find  itself  face  to 
face  with  the  fundamental  antagonism 
that  exists  in  the  highest  railroad  circles 
between  the  rival  interests  of  harmony  and 
efficiency.  So  far  as  our  railroads  are  con- 
cerned, this  is  the  "  land's  end  "  of  discus- 
sion on  the  safety  problem.  Harmony  is 
the  altar  upon  which  the  interests  of  the 
traveling  public  are  continually  being 
sacrificed.  Harmony  is  the  final  ad- 
juster, arbitrator,  and  referee.  Harmony 
dictates  the  policy  of  the  railroad,  the  na- 
ture and  severity  of  its  discipline,  while 
efficiency  follows  in  the  rear,  as  best  it 
can.  Just  as  soon  as  the  public  gets  in- 
terested sufficiently  in  preventable  rail- 
road accidents  to  call  for  all  the  facts  in 
relation  to  them,  then,  and  not  until  then, 
will  harmony  be  dethroned  from  its 
dictatorship.  So  I  think  I  am  justified 
in  repeating  the  statement  that  these 
preventable  railroad  accidents  and  the 
causes  which  lead  up  to  them  have  not 
yet  received  proper  attention  and  thought 
at  the  hands  either  of  the  public,  of  the 
employees,  or  of  the  managing  bodies  of 
the  railroads.  The  superintendent  allows 
the  public  to  remain  in  ignorance  out  of 
regard  for  his  job,  and  the  manager  does 
the  same  in  the  interest  of  harmony. 

It  must  not  be  imagined,  however, 
that  the  management  is  alone  to  blame 
in  the  matter.  Only  too  often,  in  the 
past,  when  a  railroad  manager,  in  the 
interests  of  good  service,  has  made  a 
test  case  of  his  power,  he  has  had  the 
public  as  well  as  the  men  to  contend 
against.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  even  at  the 
present  day,  the  public  is  not  in  a  mood 


to  give  much  credit  or  attention  to  ex- 
planations and  statements  that  emanate 
from  railroad  headquarters.  It  is  an  un- 
comfortable truth  that  public  opinion, 
as  a  rule,  looks  upon  official  announce- 
ments or  reports  of  railroad  accidents  as 
being  more  or  less  tainted,  and  the  idea 
is  deeply  imbedded  in  the  public  mind 
that  a  superintendent  is  open  to  the  same 
suspicion  that  is  commonly  attached  to 
a  manipulator  of  stocks  in  Wall  Street. 

As  it  seems  to  me,  then,  the  conclusion 
that  little  enlightenment  in  regard  to 
railroad  accidents  is  to  be  looked  for 
from  management  or  men  has  impressed 
itself  in  some  way  on  the  public  mind, 
and  the  appointment  of  boards  of  rail- 
road commissioners  to  look  after  the 
public  interests  has  been  the  natural  con- 
sequence. But  when  we  come  to  hunt 
up  the  evidence  in  regard  to  the  study 
of  railroad  accidents  by  railroad  com- 
missioners, a  most  unlooked-for  state  of 
affairs  is  disclosed. 

Undoubtedly  most  of  the  problems  that 
come  up  before  the  commissioners  for 
solution  are  well  within  the  sphere  of 
their  talents  and  business  ability,  but  a 
fair  and  impartial  investigation  of  rail- 
road accidents  calls  for  a  thorough  ex- 
amination and  sifting  of  the  evidence  by 
men  who  are  actually  in  touch  with  the 
working  of  the  rules  and  the  movements 
of  the  trains.  It  is  not  sufficient  for 
commissioners  to  call  for  the  evidence 
and  to  listen  to  a  rehearsal  of  some  of  the 
rules  that  apply  to  the  case.  A  fair- 
minded  and  unprejudiced  listener  at  any 
"hearing"  conducted  by  these  boards 
would  quickly  be  impressed  with  the 
conclusion  that  in  New  England,  at  any 
rate,  the  commissioners  are  not  fitted 
by  training,  study,  or  experience  to  fur- 
nish the  public  with  intelligent  criticism 
of  the  simplest  case  of  a  preventable  rail- 
road accident.  I  have  not  the  slightest 
hesitation  in  recording  this  as  the  whis- 
pered opinion  of  all  railroad  men  who 
have  given  any  thought  to  the  subject, 
although,  of  course,  it  would  be  highly 
imprudent  for  any  one  to  say  so  out  loud. 


Confessions  of  a  Railroad  Signalman 


119 


Not  only  to  railroad  men,  but  to  the 
public  as  well,  the  following  illustration 
will  be  as  plain  and  to  the  point  as  words 
can  make  it :  — 

On  September  15,  1907,  a  head-on 
collision  occurred  near  West  Canaan, 
N.  H.,  between  two  passenger  trains, 
in  which  twenty-five  passengers  were 
killed  and  about  as  many  more  injured. 
The  accident  was  the  result  of  an  error, 
either  in  sending  or  receiving  a  train 
order  —  possibly  both  the  sender  and 
receiver  were  at  fault.  One  of  these  men 
was  the  train  dispatcher  in  the  main  of- 
fice, the  other  was  a  telegraph  operator 
at  a  way  station.  With  a  view  of  placing 
the  responsibility  and  explaining  the  dis- 
aster, an  investigation  was  immediately 
entered  into  by  the  Board  of  Railroad 
Commissioners  of  the  State  of  New 
Hampshire.  These  gentlemen  were  as- 
sisted in  their  duties  by  the  Attorney- 
General  of  the  state,  their  legal  adviser. 
Replying  to  the  direct  question  of  the 
board,  "How  do  you  think  this  accident 
happened?  What  occasioned  it?"  the 
General  Superintendent  of  the  Boston  & 
Maine  Railroad,  himself  an  operator  and 
train  dispatcher,  testified  as  follows :  — 

"I  would  say,  in  my  thirty  years'  ex- 
perience, closely  connected  with  the  dis- 
patching of  trains  —  we  run  something 
like  700,000  trains  a  year  —  I  have 
never  known  a  similar  error  to  be  made 
and  I  never  have  heard  of  it.  An  error 
certainly  was  made  and  due,  as  I  believe, 
to  a  failure  of  the  mental  process,  either 
in  the  brain  of  the  dispatcher  at  Con- 
cord, the  operator  -at  Canaan,  or  both, 
and  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  deter- 
mine which  one  made  the  failure,  or 
whether  or  not  they  both  made  it" 

Such  was  the  opinion  of  an  expert  rail- 
road man,  recognized  as  such  by  the  com- 
missioners themselves.  Thereupon  the 
general  superintendent,  at  the  request 
and  for  the  benefit  of  the  board,  entered 
into  a  minute  and  exact  account  of  the 
methods  employed  in  moving  and  han- 
dling trains  on  the  Boston  &  Maine  Rail- 
road, in  so  far  as  this  was  necessary  to 


explain  the  situation  at  the  time  of  the  ac- 
cident. The  narrative  of  the  general  su- 
perintendent was  interrupted  at  frequent 
intervals  by  questions  from  the  attorney- 
general  and  the  commissioners.  He,  the 
manager,  was  called  upon  to  explain,  not 
only  the  rules  of  the  road,  but  the  com- 
monest principles  and  movements  in  the 
train  service.  "What  is  a  'block'?" 
"  What  do  you  mean  by '  O.  K.'  and '  com- 
plete'?" Explain  in  detail  your  train- 
order  system."  "As  a  matter  of  curiosity 
let  me  ask  how  this  signal  works."  These 
questions  are  not  put  as  a  mere  legal  form 
or  habit,  for  many  of  the  points  call  for 
reiterated  explanation  before  they  are 
comprehended  by  the  board.  The  lan- 
guage is  plain  enough :  they  don't  under- 
stand this,  they  are  not  familiar  with  that, 
and  the  section  of  track  on  which  the 
accident  happened  they  know  nothing 
about.  In  a  word,  the  board  goes  to  school 
to  learn  something  about  the  elements  of 
railroading  and  the  details  of  train  move- 
ments by  telegraph,  and  having  in  this 
way  been  thoroughly  drilled  into  an  un- 
derstanding of  the  accident,  and  having 
listened  to  all  the  evidence,  the  investiga- 
tion comes  to  an  end. 

On  October  11,  1907,  the  finding  or 
report  of  the  commissioners  was  pub- 
lished. After  reviewing  the  accident, 
the  evidence  in  relation  to  it,  and  the 
methods  of  operation  in  the  train  serv- 
ice of  the  Boston  &  Maine  Railroad, 
all  of  which  was,  in  fact,  simply  a  re- 
production of  the  testimony  of  the  gen- 
eral superintendent,  the  board  concludes 
its  analysis  by  pointing  to  the  train  dis- 
patcher at  Concord  as  the  "more  than 
probable"  transgressor,  and  actually  un- 
dertakes to  describe  the  train  of  mental 
wanderings  by  means  of  which  the  error 
was  arrived  at!  In  the  face  of  the  de- 
claration of  the  expert  railroad  manager 
that  it  was  impossible  to  single  out  the 
offender,  the  commissioners,  on  the  same 
evidence,  but  without  the  expert  under- 
standing of  it,  are  satisfied  to  send  this 
train  dispatcher  out  into  the  world  with 
the  stigma  of  implied  guilt  and  respon- 


120 


Nature  against  Nurture 


sibility  for  the  death  of  twenty-five 
people  on  his  head.  Train  dispatchers 
all  over  the  country  were  very  much  ex- 
ercised and  indignant  at  this  "finding" 
of  the  commissioners,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced it  would  be  very  difficult  to  find 
a  telegraph  operator  in  the  United  States 
who  would  be  willing  to  say  a  word  in  its 
favor. 

That  public  officials  should  feel  them- 
selves justified  in  expressing  opinions 
having  the  nature  of  verdicts,  upon  deli- 
cate questions  relating  to  the  train-order 
system  of  train  movements,  while  confess- 
ing themselves  ignorant  of  the  terms 
"O.  K."  and  "complete,"  is  beyond  the 
comprehension  of  railroad  men;  and 
public  opinion  would  quickly  see  the 
point  and  recognize  the  justice  of  this 
criticism,  if  its  attention  should  happen 
to  be  called  to  the  members  of  a  naval 
board  of  inquiry,  for  example,  whose 
previous  experience  had  been  such  that 
they  were  unfamiliar  with  the  terms 
"port"  and  "starboard." 

A  careful  perusal  of  the  foregoing  ar- 
guments and  illustrations  should  have 
the  effect  of  impressing  upon  the  public 


mind  two  simple,  yet  very  significant, 
conclusions :  — 

In  the  first  place  it  will  be  evident  that 
the  safety  problem  on  American  railroads 
must  be  taken  in  hand  and  solved  by  the 
people.  The  present  tangled  condition  of 
affairs  can  be  straightened  out  only  by 
supreme  authority. 

And  our  second  conclusion  is  the  re- 
velation that  the  area  in  American  in- 
dustrial life  covered  by  these  prevent- 
able railroad  accidents  and  the  causes 
that  lead  up  to  them  is  practically,  at  the 
present  day,  a  terra  incognita.  Of  course 
the  railroad  man  who  steps  out  from  the 
rank  and  file  and  undertakes  to  give 
away  the  plans  and  topography  of  the 
country  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  are 
interested  in  improving  conditions  ex- 
poses himself  to  all  sorts  of  cynical  criti- 
cism in  the  minds  of  his  fellows.  How- 
ever, as  a  matter  of  fact,  your  true 
philosopher  thrives  in  this  kind  of  atmo- 
sphere. He  is  born  of  the  battle  and  the 
breeze,  and  spends  a  lifetime  in  fortify- 
ing the  walls  of  his  "tub,"  into  which, 
when  hard  beset,  he  retires  to  enjoy 
himself. 


NATURE  AGAINST  NURTURE 


BY  E.   T.   BREWSTER 


OUR  knowledge  of  the  way  in  which 
living  things  have  come  to  be  what  they 
are,  and  of  the  means  by  which  they  may 
be  made  something  else, —  bionomics,  as 
we  are  learning  to-  call  it,  —  has  come 
a  long  way  since  1902.  The  changed 
aspect  of  the  science  appears,  not  un- 
strikingly,  in  the  two  excerpts  which  fol- 
low :  one  by  an  English  man  of  science,  a 
Fellow  of  Gonville  and  Caius;  the  other 
by  an  Illinois  farmer  writing  in  a  farm 
paper.  Both  are  by  men  who  have  them- 
selves done  the  things  they  write  about. 

"Less  than  two  years  have  passed 


since  the  first  edition  of  this  little  book 
appeared,  yet  so  rapid  has  been  the  pro- 
gress of  Mendelian  studies,  that  part  of 
what  was  then  written  is  already  out  of 
date.  Why  the  dwarf  pea  sprung  from 
tall  ancestors  breeds  true  to  dwarf  ness; 
why  the  progeny  of  a  black  and  a  white 
rabbit  are  in  one  case  all  black,  and  in 
another  all  of  the  wild  gray  color;  why 
the  'pure'  blue  Andalusian  fowl  must 
ever  remain  a  mongrel  —  these  and  other 
seeming  paradoxes  were  clear  two  years 
ago.  But  why  two  white  sweet  peas 
should  give  a  purple,  and  why  two  hair- 


Nature  against  Nurture 


121 


less  stocks  should  revert  to  the  hairy  form 
—  these  were  questions  that  were  then 
unsolved.  That  experiment  would  give 
us  the  solution  we  were  confident,  and 
our  confidence  has  been  justified  by  the 
event.  The  sweet  pea  and  the  stock  have 
yielded  up  their  secret,  and  we  are  at  last 
able  to  form  a  clear  conception  of  the 
meaning  of  'reversion'." 

"You  may  with  these  laws  [of  Mendel] 
make  a  breed  with  these  combinations: 
Black  Angus  with  horns;  same  with 
white  face ;  same  with  white  face  and  no 
horns;  you  can  put  the  Hereford  white 
face  on  the  buffalo  (as  has  Colonel 
Jones);  you  can  obtain  any  character 
you  desire  from  any  breed  and  graft  this 
character  on  to  your  favorite  breed,  and 
at  the  same  time  eliminate  all  the  other 
heredities  gotten  from  the  borrowed 
breed." 

Ten  years  ago,  organic  evolution  was 
one  of  the  speculative  sciences.  To-day, 
the  farmer  has  only  to  specify  that  his 
wheat  must  ripen  by  such  and  such  a 
date;  stand  up  under  a  certain  wind 
velocity;  thrive  in  this,  that,  or  the  other 
soil ;  bear  in  its  seeds  so  much  protein  or 
so  much  starch;  and  the  United  States 
Department  of  Agriculture  or  the  Seed- 
Grain  Society  for  Sweden  builds  him  the 
plant  to  order.  What  was  but  lately  the 
solicitude  of  the  theologian  has  now  be- 
come the  concern  of  the  market  gardener. 

How  such  things  are  done,  and  the 
theory  which  underlies  their  doing,  ap- 
pears in  a  group  of  books  whose  number 
attests  the  world's  perennial  interest  in 
the  topic.  A  few  of  the  group,  to  be 
sure,  are  more  readable  than  fresh  or 
important.1  Yet  even  among  these,  Mr. 
TruinbuH's  brief  work  is  noteworthy  for 

1  Darwinism  and  the  Problems  of  Life.  By 
CONRAD  GUENTHER,  Ph.  D.  Translated  from 
the  third  German  edition  by  JOSEPH  McCABE. 
New  York  :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1907. 

Life  and  Evolution.  By  F.  W.  HEADLEY, 
F.  Z.  S.  New  York:  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 
1907. 

Evolution  and  Religion.  By  WILLIAM  TRUM- 
BULL,  LL.B.  New  York :  The  Grafton  Press. 
1907. 


the  unaffected  sincerity  with  which  it  sets 
forth,  as  to  a  boy  just  getting  too  old  for 
Sunday-School,  the  evolutionary  basis  of 
morality.  De  Vries  2  is  as  always  —  De 
Vries,  the  world's  first  authority  in  his 
field,  an  investigator  who  writes  with  the 
clarity  of  one  who  sees  his  subject  steadily 
and  whole.  Of  his  three  general  works, 
this  is  much  the  briefest  and  least  tech- 
nical. The  two  Californians  lecture  each 
year  to  their  university  public;  and  the 
inevitable  book,3  skillfully  made  as  befits 
two  such  practiced  writers,  brings  to  an 
old  topic  enough  that  is  new  and  Western 
to  commend  itself  even  to  the  hardened 
evolutionist.  In  much  the  same  fashion, 
the  junior  author4  alone  treats  a  single 
aspect  of  the  larger  problem.  Both  au- 
thors, in  controverted  matters,  follow  the 
middle  way;  each  book,  though  too  con- 
densed for  easy  reading,  is  on  the  whole 
the  best  of  its  kind. 

A  zoologist  at  Columbia  surveys  a 
field  in  which  he  has  himself  done  much 
sound  and  not  a  little  brilliant  work.5 
Professor  Morgan  was  one  of  the  first  in 
this  country  to  take  up  zoology  from  the 
experimental  side,  and  few  men  in  the 
world  are  better  equipped  to  write  a 
general  work  on  the  subject.  In  addi- 
tion, since  the  passing  of  the  group  of 
which  Hyatt  and  Shaler  were  the  best- 
known  figures,  he  has  been  the  most  im- 
portant American  opponent  and  critic  of 
Darwinism.  Of  the  two  Englishmen, 
both  students  at  first  hand  of  the  topics 

2  Plant  Breeding :  Comments  on  the  Experi- 
ments of  Nilsson  and  Burbank.    By  HUGO  DE 
VRIES.  Chicago  :  The  Open  Court  Publishing 
Company.     1907. 

3  Evolution  and  Animal  Life.     By  DAVID 
STARR  JORDAN  and  VERNON  LYMAN  KEL- 
LOGG.    New  York :  D.  Appleton  &  Co.    1907. 

4  Darwinism  To-day.     A  discussion  of  pre- 
sent-day scientific  criticism  of  the  Darwinian 
selection   theories,  together  with  a  brief  ac- 
count of  the  principal  other  proposed  auxiliary 
and  alternative   theories  of  species-forming. 
By  VERNON  L.  KELLOGG.    New  York :  Henry 
Holt  &  Co.     1907. 

5  Experimental  Zoology.   By  THOMAS  HUNT 
MORGAN.    New  York :  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany.    1907. 


122 


Nature  against  Nurture 


they  discuss,  Lock  *  covers  the  wider 
field;  while  Punnett,2  from  whom  comes 
my  first  quotation,  seems  to  me  to  have 
achieved  the  best  simple  exposition  yet 
in  print  of  Mendelism  and  the  Mutation 
Theory. 

Prom  the  University  of  Aberdeen 
comes  an  orderly  summing-up  of  all  that 
is  known  and  much  that  has  been  guessed 
concerning  natural  inheritance.3  The 
well-known  Evolution  of  Sex  of  the  same 
author  has  for  years  been  the  one  book 
to  which  the  lay  student  turns  first;  this 
newest  work,  strikingly  like  the  older  in 
method,  may  well  attain  the  same  high 
repute.  Inevitably,  since  all  bionomic 
roads  now-a-days  lead  to  the  same  Rome, 
Professor  Thompson's  book  overlaps 
others  of  the  group  whose  nominal  sub- 
jects are  quite  different.  Of  them  all, 
however,  his  is  aimed  most  frankly  at 
the  general  reader;  his  in  consequence 
deals  most  fully  with  man. 

Yet  while  Mendel  and  Mutation  bulk 
large  in  all  these  books,  they  have  for  the 
three  Britons  a  significance  deeper  than 
any  scientific  or  economic  interest.  Eng- 
land, more  perhaps  than  any  other 
civilized  nation,  has  realized  that  high 
social  development  and  rapid  material 
progress  are  not  of  necessity  accompanied 
by  any  improvement  of  the  stock  itself. 
Thanks  in  no  small  part  to  Mendel,  we 
can  to-day  distinguish  pretty  clearly  be- 
tween those  qualities  of  men  which,  not 
being  inherited,  perish  with  their  posses- 
sors; those  other  qualities  which,  by  con- 
tinuous selection,  can  be  brought  to  a 
fixed  pitch,  only  to  deteriorate  again,  the 
moment  selection  ceases;  and  those  other 
qualities  which,  less  dependent  on  selec- 
tion, remain  as  long  as  the  race  endures. 
With  a  sound  and  workable  theory  of 
heredity  at  last  established,  it  is  inevit- 

1  Eecent  Progress  in  the  Study  of  Variation, 
Heredity  and  Evolution.    By  ROBERT  HEATH 
LOCK,  M.  A.    New  York  :  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 
1906. 

2  Mendelism.     By  R.   0.  PUNNETT.    New 
York :  The  Macmillan  Company.     1907. 

3  Heredity.  By  J.  ARTHUR  THOMPSON,  M.  A. 
New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1908. 


able  that  English  men  of  science  should 
wish  to  apply  that  theory,  to  stop  the  de- 
generation of  one  of  the  finest  of  human 
stocks. 

To  this  important  topic  are  devoted 
also  the  latest  Boyle  4  and  Spencer  5  lec- 
tures. The  two  men  who  made  modern 
biometrics  have  for  years  been  pointing 
out  just  where  the  nation's  efforts  to  bet- 
ter itself  have  been  based  on  a  fundamen- 
tal misconception  of  the  nature  of  living 
things.  At  last,  suddenly,  the  nation  has 
found  ears  to  hear.  The  two  printed  lec- 
tures and  Mr.  Punnett's  essay  are,  all 
three  together,  but  an  evening's  reading 
—  but  they  are  tracts  for  the  times. 

The  making  and  unmaking  of  men  is 
also  the  burden  of  a  larger  work.6  Un- 
fortunately, it  seems  to  be  the  fate  of 
sociologist  and  educator,  when  they  at- 
tempt to  found  their  conclusions  upon 
more  fundamental  sciences,  to  select 
only  the  wilder  theories  of  science,  and 
to  build  their  special  doctrines  upon 
some  principle  which  the  scientific  world 
promptly  repudiates.  Witness,  for  ex- 
ample, Spencer's  belief  in  the  inheritance 
of  acquired  characters,  or  that  ancient 
myth,  still  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  child- 
student,  that  the  young  animal  repeats 
in  its  life-stages  the  history  of  its  adult 
ancestors.  Mr.  Chatterton-Hill  does  not 
altogether  escape  the  common  failing.  An 
ardent  disciple  of  Weismann,  he  has 
chosen  to  put  special  stress  upon  pre- 
cisely those  parts  of  Weismann's  teaching 
—  "ids,"  namely,  "determinants"  "ger- 
minal  selection,"  the  whole  fanciful  the- 
ory of  inheritance  —  which  biologists 
have  allowed  to  drop  quietly  out  of  sight. 
Mr.  Chatterton-HilPs  science,  good  so  far 
as  it  goes,  belongs  to  the  last  decade  of 

4  The  Scope  and  Importance  to  the  State  of 
the  Science  of  National  Eugenics.  By  KARL 
PEARSON,  F.  R.  S.  New  York :  Henry  Frowde. 
1907. 

6  Probability,  the  Foundation  of  Eugenics. 
By  FRANCIS  GALTON,  F.  R.  S.  New  York : 
Henry  Frowde.  1907. 

6  Heredity  and  Selection  in  Sociology.  By 
GEORGE  CHATTERTON-HILI/.  New  York: 
The  Macmillan  Company.  1907. 


Nature  against  Nurture 


123 


the  nineteenth  century  rather  than  to  the 
first  decade  of  this. 

Nor  is  Mr.  Chatterton-Hill  altogether 
sound  in  passages  like  the  following,  in 
which  he  expresses  pretty  completely  an 
opinion,  fundamental  not  only  to  him- 
self, but  also  to  the  entire  group  to  which 
he  belongs. 

"But  cannot  human  reason  put  an  end 
to  this  state  of  conflict,  cannot  it  bring 
about,  for  the  higher  forms  of  human 
society,  a  cessation  of  strife?  The  reply 
must  be  negative.  Only  through  the 
medium  of  conflict  can  selection  operate; 
and  if  conflict  be  suppressed,  the  ac- 
tion of  selection  is  rendered  impossible. 
What  must  be  the  result?  Stagnation 
and  consequent  extinction.  By  the  sup- 
pression of  conflict  human  society  would 
suppress  itself." 

The  facts  are,  of  course,  quite  the 
contrary.  The  most  rapid  evolution 
that  we  know  anything  about  appears 
in  polled  cattle  and  rustless  wheats  —  in 
precisely  those  organisms,  in  short,  which, 
most  completely  removed  from  the 
struggle  for  existence,  are  being  selected 
in  accordance  with  an  ideal.  A  domes- 
ticated species  in  the  hands  of  Nilsson 
makes  more  progress  overnight  than  na- 
ture, with  her  free-for-all  competition,  can 
effect  in  a  hundred  years.  Now,  civilized 
man  is  not  a  wild  species  but  a  domes- 
ticated species.  His  immediate  problem 
is  not  so  much  how  the  tiger  acquired  his 
claws  and  the  ape  lost  its  tail,  as  how 
Burbank's  cactus  lost  its  spines  and  Web- 
ber's oranges  learned  to  withstand  frost. 
One  may  indeed  learn  from  the  sociolo- 
gists all  that  he  cares  to  know  concerning 
the  causes  of  racial  decay;  he  must  look 
to  the  biologists  if  he  would  learn  the 
possibilities  of  racial  advance. 

There  really  are  two  different  pro- 
blems confronting  a  modern  state.  One, 
to  hold  its  population  up  to  the  standard 
of  fitness  which  it  has  already  reached,  as 
nature  holds  a  wild  species  up  to  its  sur- 
vival level.  The  other  and  quite  different 
task  is  to  transform  and  improve  a  popu- 
lation with  every  advance  of  civilization, 


as  a  domesticated  race  is  moulded  to  fol- 
low the  demands  of  the  market.  The  first 
of  these  might  have  been  begun  at  any 
time  within  the  last  twenty  years;  the 
second  has  awaited  precise  knowledge 
which  has  come  only  within  the  last  five. 

Given  that  knowledge,  there  is  little 
that  a  nation  might  not  do  for  itself.  It 
took  Biffin  at  Cambridge  University  only 
three  seasons  to  fix  immunity  to  yellow 
rust  in  one  of  the  worst  rusting  of  English 
wheats.  It  took  Castle  at  Harvard  less 
than  a  year  to  put  another  toe  on  the 
hind  foot  of  a  guinea-pig.  In  hardly 
longer  time,  Tower  at  Chicago  turned 
out  a  race  of  Colorado  beetles,  so  much 
hardier  and  more  prolific  than  the  com- 
mon potato-bug,  that  he  was  constrained 
to  put  them  all  to  the  sword  lest  they  de- 
vastate half  a  continent.  Thanks,  among 
others,  to  the  authors  of  several  of  the 
books  now  before  us,  a  benevolent  and 
all-powerful  despot  backed  by  a  scienti- 
fic commission  could  "Burbank"  the 
soberness  of  Jew  or  Chinaman  into  the 
most  drunken  of  races,  and  make  the 
saloon  as  innocuous  as  the  public  library. 
A  free  people,  who  realized  in  full  their 
duty  to  their  children  and  the  state,  could 
make  of  themselves  a  race  of  able  men 
who  should  do  with  ease  and  pleasure 
the  tasks  which  they  now  perform  with 
toil  and  pain.  Either  could  solve  the 
problem  of  the  unemployed  by  having 
no  more  unemployable. 

The  general  case  of  domesticated  man 
against  wild  nature  is  put  most  uncom- 
promisingly by  a  distinguished  anato- 
mist too  little  known  on  this  side  of  the 
water.1  We  might,  if  we  only  would, 
say  various  men  of  science,  work  diverse 
profitable  miracles.  We  must,  says  the 
former  director  in  the  British  Museum, 
whether  we  will  or  not.  Civilized  man 
has  long  ceased  to  take  unresistingly 
what  nature  gives  him.  Now  he  comes 
to  a  parting  of  the  ways,  where  he  must 
either  go  forward  to  a  complete  conquest 

1  The  Kingdom  of  Man.  By  E.  RAT  LAN- 
KESTER,  M.  A.,  D.  Sc.,  LL.  D.,  F.  R.  S.  New 
York :  Henry  Holt  &  Co. 


124 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


of  nature — and  himself;  or  else  "perish 
miserably  by  the  vengeance  certain  to 
fall  on  the  half-hearted  meddler  in  great 
affairs."  Man  has  defied  nature,  and  one 
or  other  of  them  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. Once  more,  this  time  in  a 
Romanes  lecture,  an  English  naturalist 
calls  upon  science  for  a  new  kind  of  Eng- 
lishman. 

The  same  living  faith  in  the  power  of 
science  to  transform  humanity  and  there- 
by to  make  men  happy,  explains,  I  think, 
the  vogue  of  Elie  Metchnikoff  *  among 
thoughtful  people.  The  ideal  for  which 
the  man  of  to-day  is  to  strive  is  not  the 
harmonious  development  of  all  his  pow- 
ers. Those  powers  nature  made,  haltingly 
and  blunderingly,  to  fit  another  environ- 

1  The  Prolongation  of  Life:  Optimistic 
Studies.  By  Elie  Metchnikoff.  New  York: 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1908. 


ment  than  ours.  Civilized  man  has  re- 
made the  earth  —  and  seen  that  it  is  not 
good.  It  now  remains  for  him  to  trans- 
form himself  into  the  kind  of  man  who 
will  be  happy  amid  his  own  handiwork. 
"Human  nature,  which,  like  the  consti- 
tution of  other  organisms,  is  subject  to 
evolution,  must  be  modified  according  to 
a  definite  ideal.  Just  as  a  gardener  or 
stock-raiser  is  not  content  with  the  ex- 
isting nature  of  the  plants  and  animals 
with  which  he  is  occupied,  but  modifies 
them  to  suit  his  purposes,  so  also  the 
scientific  philosopher  must  not  think  of 
existing  human  nature  as  immutable,  but 
must  try  to  modify  it  for  the  advantage 
of  mankind." 

Much  of  this  could  be  begun  now.  All 
of  it  will  have  to  be  done  sooner  or 
later.  The  world  is  the  heritage  of  that 
nation  which  does  it  first. 


THE  RESTATEMENT  OF  THEOLOGY 


BY   GEORGE   HODGES 


ONE  who  reads  the  theological  books 
of  the  past  twelve  months  finds  that  a 
great  number  of  them  are  engaged  in  dis- 
cussing the  restatement  of  theology.  This 
is,  indeed,  one  of  the  oldest  of  debates. 
Arius  and  Athanasius  represented  the 
opposing  sides  of  it.  The  Council  of 
Trent  and  the  Westminster  Assembly  of 
Divines  were  busy  with  it.  But  the  con- 
tention turns  to-day  upon  a  new  point. 
The  present  proposition  is  not  to  sub- 
stitute a  new  creed  for  an  old  one,  but 
to  change  the  emphasis  of  interest  from 
a  theological  system  to  a  theological 
method. 

The  previous  arguments  have  been  for 
and  against  a  system,  but  the  men  who 
are  just  now  doing  the  most  interesting 
work  in  theology  are  not  occupied  in  the 
defense  or  in  the  demolition  of  any  par- 
ticular body  of  results.  Their  whole  de- 


sire is  to  know  the  truth  of  God,  and  the 
point  of  variance  is  in  the  question 
whether  the  student  is  to  be  free  to  find 
whatever  truth  he  can,  or  is  to  be  forbid- 
den to  find  any  truth  which  is  out  of  ac- 
cord with  the  accepted  system.  This  is 
plainly  a  more  radical  difference  than 
that  which  arises  in  the  discussion  of  any 
single  article  of  the  creed,  for  it  is  a  de- 
bate between  the  claims  of  authority  on 
the  one  side  and  of  reason  on  the  other. 
It  involves  the  entire  process  of  theo- 
logical study,  and  the  place  of  theology 
in  the  curriculum  of  learning.  Shall  the 
teacher  of  theology  hear  recitations  or 
shall  he  give  lectures?  Shall  he  depend 
on  a  text-book  or  shall  he  verify  and  in- 
crease the  knowledge  of  the  past  by  his 
own  research  ?  The  restatement  of  theo- 
logy, as  at  present  debated,  implies  not  so 
much  a  proposition  or  series  of  proposi- 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


125 


tions,  as  a  privilege.  It  is  a  question  of 
method.  Thus  the  latest  Bampton  Lec- 
turer, in  his  book,  The  Reproach  of  the 
Gospel,1  says  that  if  the  restatement  of  the 
creeds  means  "an  official  recasting  of 
dogma  in  the  language  of  the  twentieth 
century,  then  such  a  scheme  might  be 
summarily  dismissed  as  impossible;  all 
would  end  in  a  cloud  of  new  controversy, 
and  confusion  worse  confounded."  But 
if  this  means  "that  our  conception  of 
God  must  develop  with  the  mental  and 
moral  growth  of  each  succeeding  genera- 
tion, the  process  is  not  only  desirable  but 
inevitable." 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  almost  all  the 
new  books  are  written  by  the  advocates 
of  change.  The  old  text  is  revised  to  read, 
"the  new  is  better."  The  conservatives, 
indeed,  are  busy  with  their  pens,  but 
they  are  writing  denominational  tracts, 
or  letters  to  ecclesiastical  newspapers,  or 
little  books  issued  by  publishing  houses 
which  have  a  rather  limited  constituency. 
This  situation  has  two  unfortunate  re- 
sults: it  increases  the  misunderstanding 
between  the  reflective  and  the  unreflect- 
ive  classes,  and  it  impels  the  believers  in 
things-as-they-are  to  substitute  the  super- 
ficial argument  of  compulsion  for  the 
convincing  argument  of  reason. 

The  new  books  are  in  substantial  agree- 
ment in  deploring  the  misunderstanding 
between  the  reflective  and  the  unreflect- 
ive  classes.  A  good  many  of  them  are 
written  in  the  endeavor  to  recall  the 
scholar,  the  philosopher,  the  man  of  let- 
ters, to  his  old  place  in  the  fraternity  of 
the  faithful  people.  They  invite  him  back, 
however,  on  somewhat  new  conditions. 
They  tell  him  that  a  great  number  of 
sermons  have  been  preached  since  last  he 
went  to  church,  and  that  they  are  better 
now  than  they  used  to  be.  They  assure 
him  that  not  only  has  the  doctrine  of  evo- 
lution been  commonly  accepted,  but  that 
to  it  has  been  added  the  doctrine  of  the 
immanence  of  God,  and  that  all  doc- 

1  The  Reproach  of  the  Gospel.  By  JAMES  H. 
F.  PEILB.  London :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
1907. 


trines  are  interpreted  and  valued  accord- 
ing to  the  principle  of  the  pragmatic 
philosophy.  And  this  means  a  great 
change.  For  the  doctrine  that  God  is  in 
the  world,  as  interpreted,  for  example,  by 
Professor  Bowne  in  The  Immanence  of 
God,2  makes  the  natural  as  divine  as  the 
supernatural.  God,  then,  is  in  the  ordi- 
nary processes  of  nature,  in  the  green  hills 
as  in  the  volcano,  in  the  journey  of  the 
modern  traveler  through  the  Suez  Canal 
as  in  the  journey  of  the  people  of  Israel 
across  the  Red  Sea.  God  is  in  all  history, 
in  the  slow  progress  of  nations  as  well  as 
in  dramatic  battles;  and  in  all  thought, 
assisting  not  only  the  prophet  but  the 
student.  The  old  notion  that  God  makes 
himself  known  only  by  the  intervention  of 
miracle  passes  away  and  leaves  us  free 
to  examine  the  miraculous,  and  even  in 
this  and  that  instance  to  deny  it,  without 
feeling  that  we  are  thereby  dismissing 
God.  Also  the  principle  of  valuing  doc- 
trine according  to  its  result  in  conduct,  as 
set  forth,  for  example,  by  Professor  James 
in  his  Pragmatism,3  makes  great  changes 
in  the  perspective  of  theology.  The  most 
important  thing  in  life,  according  to  this 
philosophy,  is  conduct,  action,  pragma. 
And  the  most  important  truths  for  us  are 
those  which  actually  affect  our  lives  the 
most.  Other,  lesser  propositions,  may 
be  equally  true,  but  not  of  equal  "cash 
value."  These  the  wise  religious  teacher 
will  set  in  the  background,  and  by  this 
distribution  of  truths  will  practically 
make  a  restatement  of  theology. 

Unhappily,  however,  while  the  progres- 
sive brethren  are  thus  enlarging  upon  the 
doctrine  of  immanence  and  the  method 
of  pragmatism,  and  are  gaining  the  ac- 
ceptance of  the  reflective,  the  brethren 
of  the  conservative  side  are  teaching  the 
great  body  of  the  people  that  these  doc- 
trines are  not  only  untrue  but  perni- 
cious ;  while  they  are  apparently  making 

2  The  Immanence  of  God.  By  BOBDEN  P. 
BOWNE.  Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1905. 

8  Pragmatism.  By  WILLIAM  JAMES.  New 
York :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  1907. 


126 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


no  serious  attempt  to  commend  their 
position,  on  either  its  positive  or  its  nega- 
tive side,  to  persons  of  learning  and  cul- 
tivation. That  is,  the  progressives,  being 
writers  of  books,  are  saying  one  thing  to 
the  reflective  classes;  the  conservatives, 
being  writers  of  tracts,  are  saying  another 
thing  to  the  unreflective  classes. 

The  two  voices  are  bad  enough,  but 
the  separation  between  the  classes  is  not 
only  increased  but  embittered  by  an  en- 
deavor on  the  part  of  the  conservatives 
to  silence  the  progressives.  They  are 
trying  to  bring  about  a  uniformity  of 
teaching,  not  by  a  better  understanding, 
not  by  conciliation,  nor  even  by  arbitra- 
tion, but  by  a  process  of  ecclesiastical 
lock-out.  This  is  a  confession  of  weakness, 
and  thus  far  is  encouraging  to  liberal  theo- 
logians. The  man  who  is  sure  of  the  sta- 
bility of  his  position  will  argue  gladly  and 
everlastingly;  he  will  welcome  all  inves- 
tigation, and  will  be  satisfied  to  entrust 
his  case  to  the  decision  of  the  common 
sense  of  public  opinion.  He  will  have  no 
desire  to  strengthen  his  side  by  putting 
his  neighbor  to  silence.  That  will  be  as 
repugnant  to  him  as  the  foul  endeavor 
of  an  athletic  team  to  win  a  game  by 
crippling  their  opponents.  That  this 
summons  of  the  police  and  invocation  of 
the  ecclesiastical  court  is  indeed  a  true 
sign  of  a  sense  of  weakness,  is  confirmed 
by  the  prevailing  minor  key  of  the  con- 
servative voice,  and  by  the  general  con- 
servative agreement  that  things  are  going 
every  day  from  bad  to  worse.  The  con- 
trast in  current  literature  between  the 
depression  of  the  conservatives  and  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  progressives  is  both 
notable  and  significant. 

The  contrast  is  altogether  warranted 
by  the  progress  which  is  evident  in  the 
restatement  of  theology.  That  is,  the 
method  of  free  study  has  established  it- 
self beyond  recall.  That  part  of  the  de- 
bate which  has  regard  to  the  parliament- 
ary procedure  of  theologians  is  settled. 
The  attempt  to  evade  the  rules  of  the 
game  by  processes  of  excommunication 
is  as  futile  as  the  attempt  of  a  soldier  to 


protect  himself  against  powder  and  shot 
by  wearing  chain  armor.  The  effect  of 
such  evasion  of  debate,  the  use  of  force 
instead  of  reason,  is  only  to  array  against 
orthodoxy  the  sympathies,  and  presently 
the  convictions,  of  liberally  educated 
people.  There  is  at  present  an  invincible 
distrust  of  a  system  which  needs  to  be 
propped  up  after  that  manner.  There  is 
a  general  feeling  that  truth  is  able  to 
stand  alone. 

How  naturally  and  gradually  the  idea 
of  ecclesiastical  authority  in  doctrine  grew 
among  Christian  people  is  shown  by 
Mr.  Durell  in  his  book  of  citations  from 
the  early  fathers,  entitled,  The  Historic 
Church.1  At  first,  there  was  none  of  it.  In 
the  New  Testament  it  has  no  place.  St. 
Peter,  afterwards  taken  as  the  apostle  of 
authority,  speaks  with  singular  restraint 
and  humility.  Then  the  Montanists  and 
the  Gnostics  came,  and  they  compelled 
definition.  The  Montanists  said,  "Are 
not  we  laymen  priests  as  well  as  you?" 
and  thus  necessitated  a  definition  of  the 
church.  The  Gnostics  said,  "What  we 
say  is  true,  what  you  say  is  false,"  and 
the  simplest  mode  of  reply  was  to  refer  to 
church  tradition.  "Go  to  the  Apostolic 
churches,  and  hear  what  they  say.  They 
have  the  truth  which  was  committed  by 
Christ  to  the  apostles."  In  the  East,  the 
fathers  were  fond  of  philosophical  debate, 
and  they  argued  the  Nicene  Creed,  for 
and  against,  for  fifty  years.  But  in  the 
West,  men  were  imperfectly  acquainted 
with  metaphysics,  and  impatient  of  phi- 
losophy, and  intent  on  doing  things,  and 
in  the  habit  of  commanding  and  obey- 
ing, and  the  convenient  reference  to  tra- 
dition prevailed.  It  saved  the  trouble  of 
laboriously  thinking  the  thing  out.  This, 
however,  while  it  contented  the  Latin 
mind,  did  not  abidingly  satisfy  the  very 
different  temper  of  the  Teuton.  Hence 
the  Reformation.  Hence  also  the  differ- 
ence in  point  of  view  between  Scholasti- 
cism and  Modernism. 

Of  course,  there  are  a  lot  of  people  to 

1  The  Historic  Church.  By  J.  C.  V.  DURELL. 
Cambridge  :  The  University  Press.  1906. 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


127 


whom  authority  is  absolutely  necessary. 
And  in  this  company  most  of  us  find 
ourselves  at  one  time  or  another ;  one  re- 
members Mr.  Chesterton's  happy  phrase 
—  "The  human  race,  to  which  so  many 
of  my  readers  belong."  But  there  is  a 
great  difference  between  authority  as  a 
free  public  utility  and  as  a  monopoly. 
We  all  use  it  and  are  glad  to  use  it;  but 
when  any  company  of  gentlemen  an- 
nounce that  we  must  henceforth  use 
their  authority  on  pain  of  divers  unpleas- 
ant consequences  here  or  hereafter,  we 
instinctively  revolt,  because  we  are  made 
that  way.  This  being  the  case,  at  least 
with  the  reflective  classes,  one  is  per- 
plexed to  see  why  a  method  of  teaching 
which  arouses  inevitable  dissent  should 
not  be  given  up  for  a  method  which  pro- 
duces a  reasonable  conviction  of  the 
truth.  That  the  modern  method  is 
adapted  to  the  maintenance  of  conserv- 
ative positions  is  admirably  shown  by 
Dr.  Orr  in  his  vigorous  discussion  of  the 
Virgin  Birth  of  Christ.1  The  demand 
for  a  restatement  of  this  particular  art- 
icle of  the  creed  has  usually  been  made 
by  men  who  have  already  rejected  the 
supernatural,  and  has  been  refused  by 
men  who  seem  to  have  no  understanding 
of  the  serious  difficulties  which  are  in- 
volved. In  this  futile  debate,  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  find  a  champion  of  orthodoxy  who, 
with  neither  fears  nor  tears,  proceeds  at 
once  to  state  and  defend  his  position 
with  a  good  knowledge  of  the  intellectual 
situation.  There  is  a  downright  quality 
in  Dr.  Orr's  dialectic  which  sometimes 
carries  conviction  beyond  the  argument. 
Indeed,  whatever  weakness  there  is  in  it 
comes  from  a  resolute  purpose  to  defend 
his  thesis  at  all  points.  The  truth  is  that 
there  are  some  points  which  are  much 
more  obscure  than  the  argument  allows. 
The  reflective  reader  would  prefer  some 
recognition  of  these  hard  places,  some 
confession  that  honest  men  are  not  wholly 
without  reason  in  their  incredulity. 

1  The  Virgin  Birth  of  Christ.  By  JAMBS 
ORB.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1907. 


That  would  seem  less  like  an  appeal  to 
a  jury  and  more  like  a  sympathetic  study 
of  a  great  mystery. 

The  mystery  finds  no  place  in  Dr. 
Campbell's  dealing  with  this  doctrine  in 
The  New  Theology.2  He  restates  it  by 
elimination.  He  thinks  that  it  is  true,  but 
that  it  never  happened.  The  truth  which 
it  contains  is  that "  the  emergence  of  any- 
thing great  and  beautiful  in  human  char- 
acter and  achievement  is  the  work  of  the 
divine  spirit  within  human  limitations." 
Thus  the  Virgin  Birth,  he  says,  is  akin  to 
the  myth  of  the  making  of  the  world,  and 
is  repeated  perennially  in  experience. 
"The  spiritual  birth  described  in  the  con- 
versation between  our  Lord  and  Nicode- 
mus  as  given  in  the  third  of  John,  is, 
properly  speaking,  a  virgin  birth.  Every 
man  who  deliberately  faces  towards  the 
highest,  and  feels  himself  reinforced  by 
the  spirit  of  God  in  so  doing,  is  quickened 
from  above;  the  divinely  human  Christ 
is  born  in  him,  the  Word  has  become  flesh 
and  is  manifested  to  the  world." 

One  hesitates  to  speak  of  Dr.  Camp- 
bell's work  in  any  other  terms  than  those 
of  appreciation,  partly  because  of  the 
spiritual  earnestness  which  is  everywhere 
evident  in  it,  and  partly  because  his  im- 
mediate neighbors  are  just  now  adminis- 
tering to  him  all  the  criticism  which  is 
really  needed  for  his  soul's  health.  He 
says  in  the  preface  to  his  Christianity  and 
the  Social  Order,3  "At  the  present  mo- 
ment I  am  in  the  position  of  having  been 
quietly  excluded  from  an  active  share  in 
every  Nonconformist  organization  with 
which  I  was  formerly  connected,  with  the 
exception  of  the  City  Temple  itself." 
But  his  dealing  with  the  doctrine  of  the 
Virgin  Birth  explains  in  some  measure 
the  reason  for  this  disapprobation.  The 
constitution  of  the  human  mind  is  such 
that  we  are  inclined  to  take  plain  hostility 
in  better  part  than  injurious  fraternity. 

2  The  New  Theology.  By  R.  J.  CAMPBELL. 
New  York  :  The  Macmillan  Company.  1907. 

8  Christianity  and  the  Social  Order.  By  R.  J. 
CAMPBELL.  New  York :  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany. 1907. 


128 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


We  prefer  a  straight  denial  of  the  creed 
to  an  acceptance  of  it  which  at  the  same 
time  virtually  contradicts  its  meaning. 
We  greatly  dislike  to  be  comforted  in  our 
loss  of  a  fact  by  the  offer  of  a  "truth" 
of  the  same  name ;  and  if  the  comfort  is 
administered  in  an  affectionate  manner 
we  greatly  resent  it.  The  psalmist  who 
said,  "  Let  the  righteous  rather  smite 
me  friendly  and  reprove  me,"  hastened 
to  add  (in  the  Prayer-book  version)  "but 
let  not  their  precious  balms  break  my 
head."  Dr.  Briggs,  in  his  learned  inter- 
pretation of  the  Psalms l  in  the  Interna- 
tional Critical  Commentary,  says  that 
this  is  not  a  good  translation.  Neverthe- 
less, it  expresses  a  state  of  mind  which  is 
common  enough.  Whether  the  psalmist 
intended  it  or  not,  there  are  precious 
balms  which  hurt  more  than  clubs.  We 
are  of  the  same  mind  with  the  small  child 
who  said,  "Mother,  I  don't  care  how 
hard  you  scold  me,  if  only  you  won't  put 
your  arm  around  me."  Some  of  the  dis- 
favor with  which  Dr.  Campbell's  work 
is  received  is  due  to  the  fact  that  while  he 
scolds  us  he  puts  his  arm  around  us. 
Against  that  our  souls  revolt. 

When  Dr.  Campbell's  books  are  set 
beside  The  Substance  of  the  Faith 2  by  Sir 
Oliver  Lodge,  and  Through  Scylla  and 
Charybdis  3  by  Father  Tyrrell,  we  have 
the  case  against  immutable  orthodoxy 
stated  from  three  quite  different  points  of 
view,  by  a  Protestant,  by  a  Catholic,  and 
by  a  man  of  science. 

Bishop  Gore,  in  The  New  Theology 
and  the  Old  Religion*  expresses  a  decided 
preference  for  the  position  of  Sir  Oliver 
Lodge  as  contrasted  with  that  of  Dr. 

1  A  Critical  and  Exegetical  Commentary  on 
the  Psalms.    By  CHARLES  AUGUSTUS  BRIGGS 
and  EMELEE  GRACE  BRIGGS.     New  York : 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1907. 

2  The  Substance  of  the  Faith.    By  OLIVER 
LODGE.  New  York  :  Harper  &  Brothers.  1907. 

8  Through  Scylla  and  Charybdis.  By  GEORGE 
TYRRELII.  London  and  New  York :  Long-- 
mans, Green  &  Co.  1907. 

4  The  New  Theology  and  the  Old  Religion. 
By  CHARLES  GORE.  New  York:  E.  P. 
Dutton  &  Co.  1907. 


Campbell.  "The  New  Theology,"  he 
says,  "is  of  course  to  be  differently  esti- 
mated when  it  is  proposed  to  us  from  the 
side  of  science,  and  when  it  is  advocated 
by  ministers  of  the  Catholic  creed,  or  of 
Nonconformist  bodies  who  have  been 
identified  with  the  same  fundamental  be- 
lief." In  the  latter  cases  "it  represents 
abandonment,  not  progress.  But,  viewed 
as  an  advance  from  the  side  of  science,  I 
desire  to  give  the  warmest  welcome  to  so 
spiritual  a  creed." 

Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  Father  Tyrrell,  and 
Dr.  Campbell  agree  that  there  is  need  of 
a  restatement  of  theology.  The  relation  of 
theology  to  religion  is  like  the  relation  of 
biology  to  life.  The  task  of  the  theologian 
is  to  set  forth  in  an  ordered  way  our  best 
knowledge  of  God.  But  in  this  region  two 
changes  are  in  constant  progress;  there 
is,  in  the  first  place,  a  change  in  our  man- 
ner of  expression,  so  that  each  genera- 
tion must  be  addressed  in  its  own  tongue 
wherein  it  is  born,  the  old  sermons  be- 
coming inevitably  obsolete,  even  the  best 
of  them,  and  the  old  commentaries  be- 
coming hopelessly  unreadable;  and  there 
is,  in  the  second  place,  an  increase  in  our 
knowledge  of  God,  partly  by  better  ac- 
quaintance with  the  manifestation  of  God 
in  nature  and  in  experience,  partly  by 
better  understanding  of  the  revelation  of 
God  in  the  Bible,  as  the  study  of  the  book 
goes  on  year  after  year,  and  partly  by  an 
indefinable  but  perceptible  leading  of 
divine  influence  which,  age  by  age,  brings 
humanity  into  the  presence  of  new  pro- 
blems and  assists  in  their  solution. 

It  is  by  recognition  of  these  changes 
that  men  came  into  that  attitude  towards 
theology  which  is  called  Modernism. 
The  Modernist  perceives  in  ecclesiastical 
history  a  record  of  doctrinal  development. 
The  gradual  formation  of  doctrine  re- 
garding the  atonement,  the  church,  the 
eucharist,  the  scriptures,  illustrates  this 
order  of  normal  change  and  consequent 
restatement.  "For  the  exigences  of  this 
ceaselessly  developing  life,  an  unalter- 
able theology,"  says  Father  Tyrrell, 
"would  be  a  strait- waistcoat,  a  Procrus- 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


129 


tean  bed ;  every  day  it  would  become  less 
helpful,  and  at  last  hurtful  and  fatal. 
The  soul  that  is  alive,  and  wants  to  live 
and  grow,  must  have  a  congenial,  intelli- 
gible idea  of  the  world  it  would  live  in, 
and  will  therefore  either  adapt  and  inter- 
pret the  current  theologies  to  suit  its  re- 
quirements, or  else  break  away  from 
them  altogether  and  make  a  home  for 
itself." 

This,  of  course,  involves  the  possibility 
of  such  a  restatement  of  theology  as  is 
made  by  Dr.  Campbell.  He  is  addressing 
conservative  people,  shut  up,  as  he  thinks, 
in  stout  prisons  of  ignorance  and  preju- 
dices. The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  let  them 
free,  and  in  order  to  do  this  the  pris- 
on doors  must  be  opened.  The  prisoner 
being  unwilling  to  draw  the  bolts  him- 
self and  admit  the  rescuer,  the  rescuer 
must  resort  to  battering-rams.  But  this 
is  most  unpleasant  for  the  prisoner,  who 
is  very  comfortable  and  satisfied  with  the 
prison.  As  the  demolition  proceeds,  he 
foresees  that  presently  the  roof  will 
descend  upon  his  head.  He  regards  these 
big  blows  not  as  the  breaking  of  a  jail, 
but  as  the  ruin  of  a  home.  It  is  in  this 
spirit  that  he  hears  Dr.  Campbell  say, 
"By  the  Deity  we  mean  the  all-control- 
ling consciousness  of  the  universe,  as 
well  as  the  infinite,  unfathomable,  and 
unknowable  abyss  of  being  beyond." 
And  again,  "Jesus  was  God,  but  so  are 
we.  He  was  God  because  his  life  was  the 
expression  of  divine  love ;  we  too  are  one 
with  God  in  so  far  as  our  lives  express  the 
same  thing."  And  again,  "It  is  quite  a 
false  idea  to  think  of  Jesus  and  no  one 
else  as  the  Son  of  God  incarnate.  We  can 
rise  toward  Him  by  trusting,  loving,  and 
serving  Him;  and  by  so  doing  we  shall 
demonstrate  that  we  too  are  Christ,  the 
eternal  Son."  The  problem  of  modern 
preaching  has  been  defined  as  consisting 
in  the  difficulty  of  telling  the  truth  with- 
out scaring  your  grandmother.  During 
Dr.  Campbell's  preaching  the  ushers  are 
busy  removing  grandmothers  in  various 
conditions  of  collapse. 

And  this,  cries  the  sensitive  soul,  is 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  1 


Modernism!  this  is  the  New  Theology! 
But  the  reply  is  Yes  and  No.  Modernism 
does  indeed  carry  with  it  the  possibility 
of  such  conclusions,  but  not  of  necessity. 
The  restatement  of  theology,  implying 
as  it  does  the  free  play  of  the  mind  upon 
the  materials  of  religious  truth,  involves 
entire  liberty  to  try  experiments,  to  dis- 
cuss audacious  propositions,  and  even  to 
make  serious  mistakes.  What  then? 
Shall  we  fall  into  panic  fear?  Shall  we 
call  on  the  arm  of  authority  to  put  the 
questioner  to  silence?  Shall  we  retire 
trembling  behind  the  breastworks  of  ex- 
communication ?  Who  is  afraid?  Who 
is  in  terror  lest  the  mathematicians  shall 
invalidate  the  multiplication  table,  or  lest 
the  geologists  shall  undermine  the  hills  ? 
Is  not  the  actual  procedure  now  in  pro- 
cess not  only  the  most  dignified,  the  most 
reasonable,  the  most  believing,  but  also 
the  most  effective  method?  Dr.  Camp- 
bell's neighbors  are  showing  their  dissent 
by  quietly  leaving  him  off  from  Noncon- 
formist committees,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Birmingham  answers  him  in  a  book.  This 
beats  the  major  excommunication  and 
the  Encyclical  Pascendi  out  of  sight.  It 
not  only  confirms  the  faith  of  hesitating 
persons,  but  it  gives  Dr.  Campbell  a 
chance  to  change  his  mind.  And  truth 
will  be  no  worse  for  it.  "Whoever  knew 
Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free  and  open 
encounter?  Let  her  and  Falsehood 
grapple."  And  Milton's  next  splendid 
sentence  is  worth  remembering  also: 
"Who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong, 
next  to  the  Almighty;  she  needs  no  pol- 
icies, nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings  to 
make  her  victorious ;  those  are  the  shifts 
and  the  defences  that  error  uses  against 
her  power." 

Moreover,  the  New  Theology  as  Dr. 
Campbell  interprets  it  is  not  Modernism ; 
it  is  but  a  passing  eccentricity  in  a  strong, 
discriminating,  and  in  the  main  conserva- 
tive, movement.  Thus  Sir  Oliver  Lodge, 
even,  as  one  might  say,  from  the  out- 
side, deals  with  the  matters  which  Dr. 
Campbell  is  discussing  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent manner.  "The  most  essential  ele- 


130 


The  Restatement  of  Theology 


ment  in  Christianity,"  he  says,  "is  its 
conception  of  a  human  God;  of  a  God, 
in  the  first  place,  not  apart  from  the  uni- 
verse, not  outside  of  it  and  distinct  from 
it,  but  immanent  in  it;  yet  not  immanent 
only,  but  actually  incarnate,  incarnate 
in  it  and  revealed  in  the  Incarnation. 
The  Christian  idea  of  God  is  not  that  of 
a  being  outside  of  the  universe,  above  its 
struggles  and  advances,  looking  on  and 
taking  no  part  in  the  process,  solely  ex- 
alted, beneficent,  self-determined,  and 
complete;  no,  it  is  also  that  of  a  God  who 
loves,  who  yearns,  who  suffers,  who 
keenly  laments  the  rebellious  and  mis- 
guided activity  of  the  free  agents  brought 
into  being  by  Himself  as  part  of  Himself, 
who  enters  into  the  storm  and  conflict 
and  is  subject  to  conditions,  as  the  soul 
of  it  all." 

And  Bishop  Gore  says,  "What  we 
need  is  frankness  of  mind.  In  any  set- 
tled period,  the  permanent  faith  becomes 
encrusted  with  more  or  less  temporary 
elements,  the  gold  becomes  mixed  with 
dross;  and  when  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of 
thought  takes  place  we  must  have  the 
intellectual  courage  to  seek  to  dissociate 
the  permanent  from  the  impermanent,  to 
draw  distinctions  between  essential  and 
accidental,  to  make  concessions  and  seek 
readjustment."  There  speaks  the  true 
Modernism. 

Thus  the  restatement  of  theology  as  it 
is  set  forth  in  the  writings  of  Father 
Tyrrell  is  for  the  most  part  an  asser- 
tion of  this  intellectual  liberty.  It  is 
not  a  body  of  novel  dogmas,  but  a 
state  of  mind.  It  is  "a  movement,  a 
process,  a  tendency,  and  not,  like  Schol- 
asticism, a  system  —  the  term  or  *  ar- 
rest' of  a  movement.  It  is  a  movement 
away  from  scholasticism  in  a  variety 
of  directions.  But  whereas  in  former 
years  such  movements  have  been  in  quest 
of  some  new  position  to  be  occupied  as 
final  and  permanent,  Modernism  re- 
cognizes movement  as  itself  a  permanent 
condition,  and  seeks  only  to  discover  its 
laws  and  determine  its  direction.  Growth 
is  its  governing  category.  In  other  words, 


it  is  an  attempt  to  reconcile  the  essentials 
of  Catholic  faith  with  those  indisputable 
results  of  historical  criticism  which  are 
manifestly  disastrous  to  the  mediaeval 
synthesis  of  scholastic  theology.  It 
does  not  demand  a  new  theology,  or  no 
theology  at  all,  but  a  moving,  growing 
theology,  —  a  theology  carefully  distin- 
guished from  the  religious  experience  of 
which  it  is  the  ever  imperfect,  ever  per- 
fectible expression." 

This  explanation  at  once  defines 
Modernism  and  shows  why  the  disciples 
of  Scholasticism  inveterately  suspect  it. 
Scholasticism  holds  to  a  formulation  of 
theology  made  by  philosophical  and 
statistical  minds  in  the  Middle  Ages.  It 
differs  from  Modernism  as  Aristotle  from 
Plato,  or  mechanics  from  art,  or  a  canal 
from  a  river,  or  a  plotted  and  planted 
garden  from  a  forest,  or  a  pile  of  boards 
from  a  tree.  Some  people,  perhaps  tem- 
peramental, are  exclusively  interested  in 
one  or  the  other  of  these  aspects  of  life. 
Thus  the  ecclesiastic  and  the  prophet 
look  at  the  world  from  very  different 
points  of  view.  The  ecclesiastic  prefers 
truth  in  the  form  of  boards  built  into  neat 
houses,  the  prophet  prefers  truth  in  the 
form  of  living  trees.  The  two  come  into 
contention  only  when  one  side  proposes 
to  turn  all  the  trees  into  boards,  or  the 
other  side  proposes  to  abolish  boards 
and  return  to  the  old  fashion  of  living 
in  caves  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  woods. 

For  example,  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison, 
in  The  Creed  o)  a  Layman  l  and  in  The 
Philosophy  of  Common  Sense,2  preaches 
a  Human  Faith  which  he  finds  answer- 
able to  his  own  spiritual  needs  as  a  "real, 
vital,  sustaining,  unfailing,  and  insepar- 
able religion."  He  believes  in  a  Provi- 
dence that  enters  into  every  side  of  daily 
life,  and  in  an  immortality  "wherein  our 
feeble  span  in  the  flesh  will  be  continued 

1  The  Creed  of  a  Layman.    By  FREDERIC 
HARRISON.   New  York :  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany.    1907. 

2  The  Philosophy  of    Common   Sense.      By 
FREDERIC  HARRISON.   New  York  :  The  Mac- 
millan Company.     1907. 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


131 


as  a  living  force  till  it  is  incorporated  in 
the  great  Being  which  knows  not  death." 
For  this  religion,  he  says,  there  is  no  need 
of  church  or  ritual  or  priest,  or  even  of 
clasped  hands  or  bended  knees.  The 
blue  roof  of  its  universal  sanctuary  is  in- 
laid with  stars.  But  Father  Tyrrell  points 
out  in  twenty  places  that  humanity  needs 
more  than  this.  The  woods,  indeed,  for 
hermits,  for  mystics,  for  rare  souls  who 
respond  to  the  inaudible  influences  of  the 
Divine  Spirit  in  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers;  but  for  most  of  us,  duller  per- 
sons, houses  and  churches,  which  though 
they  do  shut  out  the  sky,  shut  out  also 
the  wind  and  the  rain. 

They  who  believe  that  theology  ought 
to  be  as  frankly  open  to  restatement  as 
biology  draw  a  distinction  between  the- 
ology and  revelation.  Revelation  is  a 
divine  and  certain  disclosure  of  truth, 


whereby  religion  has  a  foundation  other 
than  the  conjectures  of  philosophers.  It 
is  variously  defined  and  limited  as  con- 
sisting generally  of  the  Bible,  or  of  the 
ecumenical  creeds,  or  of  the  Deposit  of 
Faith.  But,  however  defined,  it  is  the 
subject  matter  with  which  theology  deals. 
The  idea  of  the  liberal  theologian  is  that 
revelation  and  theology  are  related  as  the 
mind  of  man  is  related  to  the  books  of 
the  psychologists.  Let  the  psychologists 
study  the  mind  with  all  the  diligence 
they  may.  Let  them  report  what  they  dis- 
cover, and  submit  their  reports  to  the 
test  of  all  honest  criticism.  Let  them 
enjoy  the  common  human  privilege  of 
making  mistakes,  and  let  them  correct 
the  errors  one  of  another  without  heat  or 
anxiety,  and  without  fear  lest  truth  suffer 
in  the  process.  And  let  the  theologians 
do  likewise. 


HILLSBORO'S  GOOD   LUCK 


BY   DOROTHY   CANFIELD 


WHEN  the  news  of  Hillsboro's  good  for- 
tune swept  along  the  highroad  there  was 
not  a  person  in  the  other  three  villages 
of  the  valley  who  did  not  admit  that  Hills- 
boro'  deserved  it.  Every  one  said  that  in 
this  case  Providence  had  rewarded  true 
merit,  Providence  being  represented  by 
Mr.  Josiah  Camden,  king  of  the  Chicago 
wheat  pit,  whose  carelessly  bestowed 
bounty  meant  the  happy  termination  of 
Hillsboro's  long  and  arduous  struggles. 

The  memory  of  man  could  not  go  back 
to  the  time  when  that  town  had  not  had  a 
public  library.  It  was  the  pride  of  the  re- 
mote village,  lost  among  the  Green  Moun- 
tains, that  long  before  Carnegie  ever  left 
Scotland  there  had  been  a  collection  of 
books  free  to  all  in  the  wing  of  Deacon 
Bradlaugh's  house.  Then  as  now  the  feat 
was  achieved  by  the  united  efforts  of  all 
inhabitants.  They  boasted  that  the  town 


had  never  been  taxed  a  cent  to  keep  up  the 
library,  that  not  a  person  had  contributed 
a  single  penny  except  of  his  own  free  will ; 
and  it  was  true  that  the  public  spirit  of 
the  village  concentrated  itself  most  har- 
moniously upon  this  favorite  feature  of 
their  common  life.  Political  strife  might 
rage  in  the  grocery  stores,  religious  dif- 
ferences flame  high  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
church,  and  social  distinctions  embitter 
the  Ladies'  Club,  but  the  library  was  a 
neutral  ground  where  all  parties  met, 
united  by  a  common  and  disinterested 
effort. 

Like  all  disinterested  and  generous 
actions  it  brought  its  own  reward.  The 
great  social  event  of  the  year,  not  only  for 
Hillsboro',  but  for  all  the  outlying  coun- 
try, was  the  annual  "Entertainment  for 
buying  new  books,"  as  it  was  named  on 
the  handbills  which  were  welcomed  so 


132 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


eagerly  by  the  snow-bound,  monotony- 
ridden  inhabitants  of  the  Necronsett  Val- 
ley. It  usually  "ran"  three  nights  so  that 
every  one  could  get  there,  the  people  from 
over  Hemlock  Mountain  driving  twenty 
miles.  There  was  no  theatre  for  forty 
miles,  and  many  a  dweller  on  the  Hem- 
lock slopes  had  never  seen  a  nearer  ap- 
proach to  one  than  the  town  hall  of  Hills- 
boro'  on  the  great  nights  of  the  "Library 
Show." 

As  for  Hillsboro'  itself,  the  excitement 
of  one  effort  was  scarcely  over  before 
plans  for  the  next  year's  were  begun.  Al- 
though the  date  was  fixed  by  tradition  on 
the  three  days  after  Candlemas  (known 
as  "  Woodchuck  Day"  in  the  valley),  they 
had  often  decided  what  the  affair  should 
be  and  had  begun  rehearsals  before  the 
leaves  had  turned.  There  was  no  corner 
of  the  great  world  of  dramatic  art  they 
had  not  explored,  borne  up  to  the  loftiest 
regions  of  endeavor  by  their  touchingly 
unworldly  ignorance  of  their  limitations. 
As  often  happens  in  such  cases  they  be- 
lieved so  ingenuously  in  their  own  capa- 
cities that  their  faith  wrought  miracles. 

Sometimes  they  gave  a  cantata,  some- 
times a  nigger-minstrel  show.  The  year 
the  interior  of  the  town  hall  was  changed, 
they  took  advantage  of  the  time  before 
either  the  first  or  second  floor  was  laid, 
and  attempted  and  achieved  an  indoor 
circus.  And  the  year  that  an  orchestra 
conductor  from  Albany  had  to  spend  the 
winter  in  the  mountains  for  his  lungs, 
they  presented  //  Trovatore.  Everybody 
sang,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  those 
whose  best  efforts  in  this  direction 
brought  them  no  glory  had  their  innings 
the  year  it  was  decided  to  give  a  play. 

They  had  done  East  Lynne  and  Ham- 
let, Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  and  Macbeth,  and 
every  once  in  a  while  the  local  literary 
man,  who  was  also  the  undertaker,  wrote 
a  play  based  on  local  traditions.  Of 
course  they  gave  The  Village  School  and 
Memory's  Garland,  and  if  you  don't  re- 
member those  delectable  home-made  en- 
tertainments, so  much  the  worse  for  you. 
It  is  true  that  in  the  allegorical  tableau 


at  the  end  of  Memory's  Garland,  the 
wreath,  which  was  of  large  artificial  roses, 
had  been  made  of  such  generous  propor- 
tions that  when  the  Muses  placed  it  on 
the  head  of  slender  Elnathan  Pritchett, 
representing  "The  Poet,"  it  slipped  over 
his  ears,  down  over  his  narrow  shoulders, 
and  sliding  rapidly  towards  the  floor  was 
only  caught  by  him  in  time  to  hold  it  in 
place  upon  his  stomach.  That  happened 
only  on  the  first  night,  of  course.  The 
other  performances  it  was  perfect,  lodg- 
ing on  his  ears  with  the  greatest  precision. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that 
the  responsibilities  of  Hillsboro'  for  the 
library  ended  with  the  triumphant  count- 
ing out  of  the  money  after  the  entertain- 
ment. This  sum,  the  only  actual  cash  ever 
handled  by  the  committee,  was  exclus- 
ively devoted  to  the  purchase  of  new 
books.  It  was  the  pride  of  the  village  that 
everything  else  was  cared  for  without 
price,  by  their  own  enterprise,  public 
spirit,  and  ingenuity.  When,  the  books 
had  overflowed  the  wing  of  Deacon  Brad- 
laugh's  house,  back  in  1869,  they  were 
given  free  lodging  in  the  rooms  of  the 
then  newly  established  and  flourishing 
Post  of  the  G.  A.  R.  In  1896  they  burst 
from  this  chrysalis  into  the  whole  lower 
floor  of  the  town  hall,  newly  done  over  for 
the  purpose.  From  their  shelves  here  the 
books  looked  down  benignly  on  church 
suppers  and  sociables,  and  even  an  occa- 
sional dance.  It  was  the  centre  of  village 
life,  the  big,  low-ceilinged  room,  its  win- 
dows curtained  with  white  muslin,  its 
walls  bright  with  fresh  paper  and  colored 
pictures,  like  any  sitting-room  in  a  village 
home.  The  firewood  was  contributed,  a 
load  apiece,  by  the  farmers  of  the  country 
about,  and  the  oil  for  the  lamps  was  the 
common  gift  of  the  three  grocery  stores. 
There  was  no  carpet,  but  bright-colored 
rag  rugs  lay  about  on  the  bare  floor,  and 
it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  the  Ladies' 
Aid  Society  o£  the  church  to  keep  these 
renewed. 

The  expense  of  a  librarian's  salary  was 
obviated  by  the  expedient  of  having  no 
librarian.  The  ladies  of  Hillsboro'  took 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


133 


turns  in  presiding  over  the  librarian's 
table,  each  one's  day  coming  about  once 
in  three  weeks.  "Library  Day"  was  as 
fixed  an  institution  in  Hillsboro'  as  "wash 
day, "and  there  was  not  a  busy  housewife 
who  did  not  look  forward  to  the  long 
quiet  morning  spent  in  dusting  and  car- 
ing for  the  worn  old  books,  which  were 
like  the  faces  of  friends  to  her,  familiar 
from  childhood.  The  afternoon  and  even- 
ing were  more  animated,  since  the  library 
had  become  a  sort  of  common  meeting- 
ground.  The  big,  cheerful,  sunlighted 
room  full  of  grown-ups  and  children,  talk- 
ing together,  even  laughing  out  loud  at 
times,  did  no!  look  like  any  sophisticated 
idea  of  a  library,  for  Hillsboro'  was  as 
benighted  on  the  subject  of  the  need  for 
silence  in  a  reading-room  as  on  all  other 
up-to-date  library  theories.  If  you  were 
so  weak-nerved  and  sickly  that  the  noise 
kept  you  from  reading,  you  could  take 
your  book,  go  into  Elzaphan  Hall's  room 
and  shut  the  door,  or  you  could  take  your 
book  and  go  home,  but  you  could  not  ob- 
ject to  people  being  sociable. 

Elzaphan  Hall  was  the  janitor,  and  the 
town's  only  pauper.  He  was  an  old 
G.  A.  R.  man  who  had  come  back  from 
the  war  minus  an  arm  and  a  foot,  and 
otherwise  so  shattered  that  steady  work 
was  impossible.  In  order  not  to  wound 
him  by  making  him  feel  that  he  was  de- 
pendent on  public  charity,  it  had  been  at 
once  settled  that  he  should  keep  the  fire 
going  in  the  library,  scrub  the  floor,  and 
keep  the  room  clean  in  return  for  his  food 
and  lodging.  He  "boarded  round"  like 
the  school-teacher,  and  slept  in  a  little 
room  off  the  library.  In  the  course  of 
years  he  had  grown  pathetically  and  ex- 
asperatingly  convinced  of  his  own  import- 
ance, but  he  had  been  there  so  long  that 
his  dictatorial  airs  and  humors  were  re- 
garded with  the  unsurprised  tolerance 
granted  to  things  of  long  standing,  and 
were  forgiven  in  view  of  his  devotion  to 
the  best  interests  of  the  library,  which 
took  the  place  of  a  family  to  him. 

As  for  the  expenses  of  cataloguing,  no 
one  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing.  Cata- 


logue the  books  ?  Why,  as  soon  hang  up 
a  list  of  the  family  so  that  you  would  n't 
forget  how  many  children  you  had;  as 
soon  draw  a  plan  of  the  village  so  that 
people  should  not  lose  their  way  about. 
Everybody  knew  what  and  where  the 
books  were,  as  well  as  they  knew  what 
and  where  the  fields  on  their  farms  were, 
or  where  the  dishes  were  on  the  pantry 
shelves.  The  money  from  the  entertain- 
ment was  in  hand  by  the  middle  of  Feb- 
ruary; by  April  the  new  books,  usually 
about  a  hundred  in  number,  had  arrived ; 
and  by  June  any  wide-awake,  intelligent 
resident  of  Hillsboro'  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  confess  that  he  did  not  know 
the  location  of  every  one. 

The  system  of  placing  on  the  shelves 
was  simplicity  itself.  Each  year's  new 
acquisitions  were  kept  together,  regard- 
less of  subject,  and  located  by  the  name 
of  the  entertainment  which  had  bought 
them.  Thus,  if  you  wished  to  consult  a 
certain  book  on  geology,  in  which  sub- 
ject the  library  was  rich,  owing  to  the 
scientific  tastes  of  Squire  Pritchett,  you 
were  told  by  the  librarian  for  the  day, 
as  she  looked  up  from  her  darning  with  a 
friendly  smile,  that  it  was  in  the  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  section."  The  Shakespeare 
set,  honorably  worn  and  dog's-eared, 
dated  back  to  the  unnamed  mass  coming 
from  early  days  before  things  were  so 
well  systematized,  and  was  said  to  be  in 
the  "Old  Times  section;"  whereas  Ib- 
sen (for  some  of  Hillsboro's  young  people 
go  away  to  college)  was  bright  and  fresh 
in  the  "East  Lynne  section." 

The  books  were  a  visible  and  sincere 
symbol  of  Hillsboro's  past  and  present. 
The  honest,  unpretending  people  had 
bought  the  books  they  wished  to  read,  and 
every  one's  taste  was  represented,  even 
a  few  French  legends  and  pious  tales 
being  present  as  a  concession  to  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  element  among  the  French 
Canadians.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
E.  P.  Roe,  there  was  all  of  Mrs.  South- 
worth  —  is  it  possible  that  anywhere 
else  in  the  world  there  is  a  complete 
collection  of  that  lady's  voluminous  pro- 


134 


Hittsboro's  Good  Luck 


ductions?  —  but  beside  them  stood  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists  and  a  translation 
of  Dante.  The  men  of  the  town,  who  after 
they  were  grown  up  did  not  care  much 
for  fiction,  cast  their  votes  for  scientific 
treatises  on  agriculture,  forestry,  and  the 
like;  and  there  was  an  informal  history 
club,  consisting  of  the  postmaster,  the 
doctor,  and  the  druggist,  who  bore  down 
heavily  on  history  books.  The  school- 
teacher, the  minister,  and  the  priest  had 
each,  ex  officio,  the  choice  of  ten  books 
with  nobody  to  object,  and  the  children 
in  school  were  allowed  another  ten  with 
no  advice  from  elders. 

It  would  have  made  a  scientific  libra- 
rian faint,  the  Hillsboro'  system,  but  the 
result  was  that  not  a  book  was  bought 
which  did  not  find  readers  eager  to  wel- 
come it.  A  stranger  would  have  turned 
dizzy  trying  to  find  his  way  about,  but 
there  are  no  strangers  in  Hillsboro'.  The 
arrival  even  of  a  new  French-Canadian 
lumberman  is  a  subject  of  endless  dis- 
cussion. 

It  can  be  imagined,  therefore,  how 
electrified  was  the  village  by  the  appa- 
rition, on  a  bright  June  day,  of  an  auto- 
mobile creaking  and  wheezing  its  slow 
way  to  the  old  tavern.  The  irritated 
elderly  gentleman  who  stepped  out  and 
began  blaming  the  chauffeur  for  the  de- 
lay, announced  himself  to  Zadok  Foster, 
the  tavern-keeper,  as  Josiah  Camden  of 
Chicago,  and  was  electrified  in  his  turn 
by  the  calmness  with  which  that  mighty 
name  was  received. 

During  the  two  days  he  waited  in  Hills- 
boro' for  the  repair  of  his  machine,  he 
amused  himself  first  by  making  sure  of 
the  incredible  fact  that  nobody  in  the 
village  had  ever  heard  of  him,  and  second 
by  learning  with  an  astounded  and  insa- 
tiable curiosity  ah1  the  details  of  life  in  this 
forgotten  corner  of  the  mountains.  It 
was  newer  and  stranger  to  him  than  any- 
thing he  had  seen  during  his  celebrated 
motor-car  trip  through  the  Soudan.  He 
was  stricken  speechless  by  hearing  that 
you  could  rent  a  whole  house  (of  only 
five  rooms,  to  be  sure)  and  a  garden  for 


thirty-six  dollars  a  year,  and  that  the 
wealthiest  man  in  the  place  was  supposed 
to  have  inherited  and  accumulated  the 
vast  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars.  When 
he  heard  of  the  public  library  he  inquired 
quickly  how  much  it  cost  to  run  that  ? 
Mr.  Camden  knew  from  experience  some- 
thing about  the  cost  of  public  libraries. 

"Not  a  cent,"  said  Zadok  Foster 
proudly. 

Mr.  Camden  came  from  Chicago  and 
not  from  Missouri,  but  the  involuntary 
exclamation  of  amazed  incredulity  which 
burst  from  his  lips  "was, "Show  me!" 

So  they  showed  him.  The  denizen  of 
the  great  world  entered  tKe  poor,  low- 
ceilinged  room,  looked  around  at  the 
dreadful  chromos  on  the  walls,  at  the 
cheap,  darned  muslin  .curtains,  at  the 
gaudy  rag  rugs,  at  the  shabby,  worn 
books  in  inextricable  confusion  on  the 
shelves,  and  listened  with  gleaming  eyes 
to  the  account  given  by  the  librarian  for 
the  day  of  the  years  of  patient  and  uncom- 
plaining struggles  by  which  these  poverty- 
stricken  mountaineers  had  secured  this 
meagre  result.  He  struck  one  hand  into 
the  other  with  a  clap.  "It's  a  chance  in 
a  million!"  he  cried  aloud. 

When  his  momentous  letter  came  back 
from  Chicago,  this  was  still  the  recurrent 
note,  that  nowadays  it  is  so  hard  for  a 
poor  millionaire  to  find  a  deserving  object 
for  his  gifts,  that  it  is  the  rarest  oppor- 
tunity possible  when  he  really  with  his 
own  eyes  can  make  sure  of  placing  his 
money  where  it  will  carry  on  a  work  al- 
ready begun  in  the  right  spirit.  He  spoke 
in  such  glowing  terms  of  Hillsboro's 
pathetic  endeavors  to  keep  their  poor  lit- 
tle enterprise  going,  that  Hillsboro',  very 
unconscious  indeed  of  being  pathetic, 
was  bewildered.  He  said  that  owing  to 
the  unusual  conditions  he  would  break 
the  usual  rules  governing  his  benefactions 
and  ask  no  guarantee  from  the  town.  He 
begged  therefore  to  have  the  honor  to 
announce  that  he  had  already  dispatched 
an  architect  and  a  contractor  to  Hills- 
boro', who  would  look  the  ground  over, 
and  put  up  a  thoroughly  modern  library 


Hillsboro's  Good  Lack 


135 


building  with  no  expense  spared  to  make 
it  complete  in  equipment;  that  he  had 
already  placed  to  the  credit  of  the  "  Hills- 
boro'  Camden  Public  Library"  a  suffi- 
cient sum  to  maintain  in  perpetuity  a 
well-paid  librarian,  and  to  cover  all  ex- 
penses of  fuel,  lights,  purchase  of  books, 
cataloguing,  etc.;  and  that  the  Library 
School  in  Albany  had  already  an  order 
to  select  a  perfectly  well-balanced  library 
of  thirty  thousand  books  to  begin  with. 

Reason  recoils  from  any  attempt  to 
portray  the  excitement  of  Hillsboro'  after 
this  letter  arrived.  To  say  that  it  was  as 
if  a  gold  mine  had  been  discovered  under 
the  village  green  is  the  feeblest  of  meta- 
phors. For  an  entire  week  the  town  went 
to  bed  at  night  tired  out  with  exclaiming, 
woke  in  the  morning  sure  it  had  dreamed 
it  all,  rushed  with  a  common  impulse  to 
the  post-office  where  the  letter  was  posted 
on  the  wall,  and  fell  to  exclaiming  again. 

Then  the  architect  and  contractor  ar- 
rived, and  with  the  jealous  instinct  of 
New  Englanders  to  hide  emotions  from 
outsiders,  Hillsboro'  drew  back  into  its 
shell  of  sombre  taciturnity,  and  acted,  the 
contractor  told  the  architect,  as  though 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  having  libraries 
given  them  three  times  a  week  regularly. 

The  architect  replied  that  these  moun- 
taineers were  like  Indians.  You  could  n't 
throw  a  shock  into  them  that  would 
make  them  loosen  up  any. 

Indeed,  this  characterization  seemed 
just  enough,  in  view  of  the  passive  way  in 
which  Hillsboro'  received  what  was  done 
for  it  during  the  months  which  followed. 
It  was  the  passivity  of  stupefaction,  how- 
ever, as  one  marvel  after  another  was 
revealed  to  them.  The  first  evening  the 
architect  sketched  the  plans  of  a  pictur- 
esque building  in  the  old  Norse  style,  to 
match  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  lovely 
valley.  The  next  morning  he  located  it 
upon  a  knoll  cooled  by  a  steady  breeze. 
The  contractor  made  hasty  inquiries 
about  lumber,  labor,  and  houses  for  his 
men,  found  that  none  of  these  essentials 
were  at  hand,  decided  to  import  every- 
thing from  Albany;  and  by  noon  of  the 


day  after  they  arrived  these  two  brisk 
young  gentlemen  had  departed,  leaving 
Hillsboro'  still  incredulous  of  its  good 
fortune. 

When  they  returned  ten  days  later, 
however,  they  brought  solid  and  visible 
proof  in  the  shape  of  a  train-load  of 
building  materials  and  a  crowd  of  Ital- 
ian laborers,  who  established  themselves 
in  a  boarding-car  on  a  side-track  near 
the  station. 

"We  are  going,"  remarked  the  con- 
tractor to  the  architect,  "to  make  the 
dirt  fly." 

"We  will  make  things  hum,"  answered 
the  architect,  "as  they've  never  hummed 
before  in  this  benighted  spot." 

And  indeed,  as  up  to  this  time  they  had 
never  hummed  at  all,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Hillsboro'  caught  its  breath  as  the 
work  went  forward  like  Aladdin's  pal- 
ace. The  corner-stone  was  laid  on  the 
third  of  July,  and  on  the  first  of  October 
the  building  stood  complete.  By  the  first 
of  November  the  books  had  come,  al- 
ready catalogued  by  the  Library  School 
and  arranged  in  boxes  so  that  they  could 
be  put  at  once  upon  the  shelves;  and  the 
last  details  of  the  interior  decoration 
were  complete.  The  architect  was  in  the 
most  naive  ecstasy  of  admiration  for  his 
own  taste.  The  outside  was  deliciously 
unhackneyed  in  design,  the  only  repro- 
duction of  a  Norwegian  Stave-Kirke  in 
America,  he  reported  to  Mr.  Camden; 
and  while  that  made  the  interior  a  little 
dark,  the  quaint  wooden  building  was  ex- 
quisitely in  harmony  with  the  landscape. 
As  for  the  interior,  it  was  a  dream !  The 
reading-room-was  like  the  most  beauti- 
ful drawing-room,  an  education  in  itself, 
done  in  dark  oak,  with  oriental  rugs, 
mission  furniture,  and  reproductions  of 
old  masters  on  the  walls.  Lace  sash- 
curtains  hung  at  the  windows,  covered  by 
rich  draperies  in  oriental  design,  which 
subdued  the  light  to  a  delightful  sober- 
ness. The  lamps  came  from  Tiffany's. 

When  the  young-lady  librarian  arrived 
from  Albany  and  approved  enthusiastic- 
ally of  the  stack-room  and  cataloguing, 


136 


Httlsboro's  Good  Luck 


the  architect's  cup  of  satisfaction  fairly 
ran  over ;  and  when  he  went  away,  leav- 
ing her  installed  in  her  handsome  oak-fin- 
ished office,  hecould  hardly  refrain  from 
embracing  her,  so  exactly  the  right  touch 
did  she  add  to  the  whole  thing  with  her 
fresh  white  shirt-waist  and  pretty,  busi- 
ness-like airs.  There  had  been  no  cere- 
mony of  opening,  because  Mr.  Camden 
was  so  absorbed  in  an  exciting  wheat 
deal  that  he  could  not  think  of  coming 
East,  and  indeed  the  whole  transaction 
had  been  almost  blotted  from  his  mind 
by  a  month's  flurried,  unsteady  market. 
So  one  day  in  November  the  pretty  li- 
brarian walked  into  her  office,  and  the 
Hillsboro'  Camden  Public  Library  was 
open. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  librarian  indeed, 
and  she  wore  her  tailor  suits  with  an  air 
which  made  the  village  girls  look  un- 
easily into  their  mirrors  and  made  the 
village  boys  look  after  her  as  she  passed . 
She  was  moreover  as  permeated  with  the 
missionary  fervor  instilled  into  her  at  the 
Library  School  as  she  was  pretty,  and 
she  began  at  once  to  practice  all  the  latest 
devices  for  automatically  turning  a  be- 
nighted community  into  the  latest  thing  in 
culture.  When  Mrs.  Bradlaugh,  wife  of 
the  deacon  and  president  of  the  Ladies' 
Aid  Society,  was  confined  to  the  house 
with  a  cold,  she  sent  over  to  the  library,  as 
was  her  wont  in  such  cases,  for  some,  en- 
tertaining story  to  while  away  her  tedious 
convalescence.  Miss  Martin  sent  back 
one  of  Henry  James's  novels,  and  was 
surprised  that  Mrs.  Bradlaugh  made  no 
second  attempt  to  use  the  library.  When 
the  little  girls  in  school  asked  for  the 
Elsie  books,  she  answered  with  a  glow 
of  pride  that  the  library  did  not  possess 
one  of  those  silly  stories,  and  offered  as 
substitute,  Greek  Myths  for  Children. 

Squire  Pritchett  came,  in  a  great  hurry, 
one  morning,  and  asked  for  his  favorite 
condensed  handbook  of  geology,  in  order 
to  identify  a  stone.  He  was  told  that  it 
was  entirely  out  of  date  and  very  incom- 
plete, and  the  library  did  not  own  it,  and 
he  was  referred  to  the  drawer  in  the  card 


catalogue  relating  to  geology.  For  a  time 
his  stubbed  old  fingers  fumbled  among 
the  cards,  with  an  ever-rising  flood  of 
baffled  exasperation.  How  could  he  tell 
by  looking  at  a  strange  name  on  a  little 
piece  of  paper  whether  the  book  it  repre- 
sented would  tell  him  about  a  stone  out 
of  his  gravel-pit!  Finally  he  appealed  to 
the  librarian,  who  proclaimed  on  all  oc- 
casions her  eagerness  to  help  inquirers, 
and  she  referred  him  to  a  handsome  great 
Encyclopedia  of  Geology  in  forty-seven 
volumes.  He  wandered  around  hopeless- 
ly in  this  for  about  an  hour,  and  in  the 
end  retreated  unenlightened.  Miss  Mar- 
tin tried  to  help  him  in  his  search,  but, 
half-amused  by  his  rustic  ignorance,  she 
asked  him  finally,  with  an  air  of  gentle 
patience,  "how,  if  he  did  n't  know  any  of 
the  scientific  names,  he  expected  to  be 
able  to  look  up  a  subject  in  an  alphabeti- 
cally arranged  book?"  Squire  Pritchett 
never  entered  the  library  again.  His 
son  Elnathan  might  be  caught  by  her 
airs  and  graces,  he  said  rudely  enough 
in  the  post-office,  but  he  was  "too  old  to 
be  talked  down  to  by  a  chit  who  did  n't 
know  granite  from  marble." 

When  the  schoolboys  asked  for  Nick 
Carter  she  gave  them  those  classics,  The 
Rollo  Books ;  and  to  the  French  Cana- 
dians she  gave,  reasonably  enough,  the 
acknowledged  masters  of  their  language, 
Voltaire,  Balzac,  and  Flaubert,  till  the 
horrified  priest  forbade  from  the  pulpit 
any  of  his  simple-minded  flock  to  enter 
"that  temple  of  sin,  the  public  library." 
She  had  little  classes  in  art  criticism  for 
the  young  ladies  in  town,  explaining  to 
them  with  sweet  lucidity  why  the  Botti- 
cellis  and  Rembrandts  and  Diirers  were 
better  than  the  chromos  which  still  hung 
on  the  walls  of  the  old  library,  now  cold 
and  deserted  except  for  church  suppers 
and  sociables,  which  were  never  held  in 
the  new  reading-room,  the  oriental  rugs 
being  much  too  fine  to  have  doughnut 
crumbs  and  coffee  spilled  on  them. 
After  a  time,  however,  the  young  ladies 
told  her  that  they  found  themselves  too 
busy  getting  the  missionary  barrels  ready 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


137 


to  continue  absorbing  information  about 
Botticelli's  rhythm  and  Durer's  line. 

Miss  Martin  was  not  only  pretty  and 
competent,  but  she  was  firm  of  purpose, 
as  was  shown  by  her  encounter  with  El- 
zaphan  Hall  who  had  domineered  over 
two  generations  of  amateur  librarians. 
The  old  man  had  received  strict  orders 
to  preserve  silence  in  the  reading-room 
when  the  librarian  could  not  be  there,  and 
yet  one  day  she  returned  from  the  stack- 
room  to  find  the  place  in  a  most  shock- 
ing state  of  confusion.  Everybody  was 
laughing,  Elzaphan  himself  most  of  all, 
and  they  did  not  stop  when  she  brought 
her  severe  young  face  among  them.  El- 
zaphan explained,  waving  his  hand  at  a 
dark  Rembrandt  looking  gloomily  down 
upon  them,  that  Elnathan  Pritchett  had 
said  that  if  he  had  such  a  dirty  face  as 
that  he'd  wash  it,  if  he  had  to  go  as  far 
as  from  here  to  the  Eagle  Rock  Spring  to 
get  the  water!  This  seemed  the  dullest 
of  bucolic  wit  to  Miss  Martin,  and  she 
chilled  Elnathan  to  the  marrow  by  her  sad 
gaze  of  disappointment  in  him.  Jennie 
Foster  was  very  jealous  of  Miss  Martin 
(as  were  all  the  girls  in  town),  and  she 
rejoiced  openly  in  Elnathan's  witticism, 
continuing  to  laugh  at  intervals  after  the 
rest  of  the  room  had  cowered  into  silence 
under  the  librarian's  eye. 

Miss  Martin  took  the  old  janitor  aside 
and  told  him  sternly  that  if  such  a  thing 
happened  again  she  would  dismiss  him; 
and  when  the  old  man,  crazily  trying  to 
show  his  spirit,  allowed  a  spelling-match 
to  go  on,  full  blast,  right  in  library  hours, 
she  did  dismiss  him,  drawing  on  the  end- 
less funds  at  her  disposal  to  import  a 
young  Irishman  from  Albany,  who  was 
soon  playing  havoc  with  the  pretty  French- 
Canadian  girls.  Elzaphan  Hall,  stunned 
by  the  blow,  fell  into  bad  company  and 
began  to  drink  heavily,  paying  for  his 
liquor  by  exceedingly  comic  and  disre- 
spectful imitations  of  Miss  Martin's  talks 
on  art. 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  the 
winter,  and  the  knoll  which  in  June  had 
been  the  centre  of  gratefully  cool  breezes 


was  raked  by  piercing  north  winds  which 
penetrated  the  picturesquely  unplastered, 
wood-finished  walls  as  though  they  had 
been  paper.  The  steam-heating  plant  did 
not  work  very  well,  and  the  new  janitor, 
seeing  fewer  and  fewer  people  come  to  the 
reading-room,  spent  less  and  less  time 
in  struggling  with  the  boilers,  or  in  keep- 
ing the  long  path  up  the  hill  shoveled 
clear  of  snow.  Miss  Martin,  positively 
frightened  by  the  ferocity  with  which 
winter  flings  itself  upon  the  high  narrow 
valley,  was  helpless  before  the  problem 
of  the  new  conditions,  and  could  think  of 
nothing  to  do  except  to  buy  more  fuel  and 
yet  more,  and  to  beseech  the  elusive  Celt, 
city-trained  in  plausible  excuses  for  not 
doing  his  duty,  to  burn  more  wood.  Once 
she  remarked  plaintively  to  Elnathan 
Pritchett,  as  she  sat  beside  him  at  a 
church  supper  (for  she  made  a  great 
point  of  * '  mingling  with  the  people  ") ,  that 
it  seemed  to  her  there  must  be  something 
the  matter  with  the  wood  in  Hillsboro'. 
Everybody  within  earshot  laughed,  and 
the  saying  was  repeated  the  next  day 
with  shameless  mirth  as  the  best  joke  of 
the  season.  For  the  wood  for  the  library 
had  had  a  history  distinctly  discreditable 
and  as  distinctly  ludicrous,  at  which  Hills- 
boro' people  laughed  with  a  conscious 
lowering  of  their  standards  of  honesty. 
The  beginning  had  been  an  accident,  but 
the  long  sequence  was  not.  For  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  library,  the  farm- 
er who  brought  the  first  load  of  wood  pre- 
sented a  bill  for  this  service.  He  charged 
two  dollars  a  cord  on  the  scrawled  mem- 
orandum, but  Miss  Martin  mistook  this 
figure  for  a  seven,  corrected  his  total 
with  the  kindest  tolerance  for  his  faulty 
arithmetic,  and  gave  the  countryman  a 
check  which  reduced  him  for  a  time  to 
a  paralyzed  silence.  It  was  only  on 
telling  the  first  person  he  met  outside 
the  library,  that  the  richness  of  a  grown 
person  knowing  no  more  than  that  about 
the  price  of  wood  came  over  him,  and 
the  two  screamed  with  laughter  over  the 
lady's  beautifully  formed  figures  on  the 
dirty  sheet  of  paper. 


138 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


Miss  Martin  took  the  hesitating  awk- 
wardness of  the  next  man  presenting 
himself  before  her,  not  daring  to  ask  the 
higher  price  and  not  willing  to  take  the 
lower,  for  rustic  bashfulness,  and  put  him 
at  his  ease  by  saying  airily,  "Five  cords  ? 
That  makes  thirty-five  dollars.  I  always 
pay  seven  dollars  a  cord.'*  After  that,  the 
procession  of  grinning  men  driving  lum- 
ber-sleds towards  the  library  became  in- 
cessant. The  minister  attempted  to  re- 
monstrate with  the  respectable  men  of  his 
church  for  cheating  a  poor  young  lady, 
but  they  answered  roughly  that  it  was  n't 
her  money  but  Camden's,  who  had  tossed 
them  the  library  as  a  man  would  toss 
a  penny  to  a  beggar,  who  had  now  quite 
forgotten  about  them,  and,  finally,  who 
had  made  his  money  none  too  honestly. 

Since  he  had  become  of  so  much  im- 
portance to  them  they  had  looked  up  his 
successful  career  in  the  Chicago  wheat 
pit,  and,  undazzled  by  the  millions  in- 
volved, had  penetrated  shrewdly  to  the 
significance  of  his  operations.  The  record 
of  his  colossal  and  unpunished  frauds 
had  put  to  sleep,  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, their  old  minute  honesty.  It  was 
considered  the  best  of  satires  that  the 
man  who  had  fooled  all  the  West  should 
be  fooled  in  his  turn  by  a  handful  of 
forgotten  mountaineers,  that  they  should 
be  fleecing  him  in  little  things  as  he  had 
fleeced  Chicago  in  great.  There  was, 
however,  an  element  which  frowned  on 
this  shifting  of  standards,  and,  before 
long,  neighbors  and  old  friends  were 
divided  into  cliques,  calling  each  other, 
respectively,  cheats  and  hypocrites. 

Hillsboro*  was  intolerably  dull  that 
winter  because  of  the  absence  of  the 
usual  excitement  over  the  entertainment, 
and  in  the  stagnation  all  attention  was 
directed  to  the  new  joke  on  the  wheat 
king.  It  was  turned  over  and  over,  for- 
wards and  back,  and  refurbished  and 
made  to  do  duty  again  and  again,  after 
the  fashion  of  rustic  jokes.  This  one  had 
the  additional  advantage  of  lining  the 
pockets  of  the  perpetrators.  They  egged 
one  another  on  to  fresh  inventions  and 


variations,  until  even  the  children,  not 
to  be  left  out,  began  to  have  exploits  of 
their  own  to  tell.  The  grocers  raised  the 
price  of  kerosene,  groaning  all  the  time 
at  the  extortions  of  the  oil  trust,  till 
the  guileless  guardian  of  Mr.  Camden's 
funds  was  paying  fifty  cents  a  gallon  for 
it.  The  boys  charged  a  quarter  for  every 
bouquet  of  pine-boughs  they  brought  to 
decorate  the  cold,  empty  reading-room. 
The  wash-woman  charged  five  dollars 
for  "doing-up"  the  lace  sash-curtains. 
As  spring  came  on,  and  the  damages 
wrought  by  the  winter  winds  must  be 
repaired,  the  carpenters  asked  wages 
which  made  the  sellers  of  firewood  tear 
their  hair  at  wasted  opportunities.  They 
might  have  raised  the  price  per  cord! 
The  new  janitor,  hearing  the  talk  about 
town,  demanded  a  raise  in  salary  and 
threatened  to  leave  without  warning  if  it 
were  not  granted. 

It  was  on  the  fifth  of  June,  a  year  to  a 
day  after  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Camden  in 
his  automobile,  that  Miss  Martin  yielded 
to  this  last  extortion,  and  her  action  made 
the  day  as  memorable  as  that  of  the  year 
before.  The  janitor,  carried  away  by  his 
victory,  celebrated  his  good  fortune  in  so 
many  glasses  of  hard  cider  that  he  was 
finally  carried  home  and  deposited  limply 
on  the  veranda  of  his  boarding-house. 
Here  he  slept  till  the  cold  of  dawn  awoke 
him  to  a  knowledge  of  his  whereabouts, 
so  inverted  and  tipsy  that  he  rose,  stag- 
gered to  the  library,  cursing  the  intoler- 
able length  of  these  damn  Vermont  win- 
ters, and  proceeded  to  build  a  roaring  fire 
on  the  floor  of  the  reading-room.  As  the 
varnished  wood  of  the  beautiful  fittings 
took  light  like  a  well-constructed  bon- 
fire, realization  of  his  act  came  to  him, 
and  he  ran  down  the  valley  road,  scream- 
ing and  giving  the  alarm  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs,  and  so  passed  out  of  Hillsboro* 
forever. 

The  village  looked  out  of  its  windows, 
saw  the  wooden  building  blazing  like  a 
great  torch,  hurried  on  its  clothes,  and 
collected  around  the  fire.  No  effort  was 
made  to  save  the  library.  People  stood 


Hillsboro's  Good  Luck 


139 


around  in  the  chilly  morning  air,  look- 
ing silently  at  the  mountain  of  flame 
which  burned  as  though  it  would  never 
stop.  They  thought  of  a  great  many 
things  in  that  silent  hour  as  the  sun  rose 
over  Hemlock  Mountain,  and  there  were 
no  smiles  on  their  faces.  They  are  ignor- 
ant and  narrow  people  in  Hillsboro',  but 
they  have  an  inborn  capacity  unsparing- 
ly to  look  facts  in  the  face. 

When  the  last  beam  had  fallen  in  with 
a  crash  to  the  blackened  cellar-hole,  Miss 
Martin,  very  pale  and  shaken,  stepped 
bravely  forward.  "I  know  how  terribly 
you  must  be  feeling  about  this,"  she 
began  in  her  carefully  modulated  voice, 
"but  I  want  to  assure  you  that  I  know 
Mr.  Camden  will  rebuild  the  library  for 
you  if—" 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  chief  man 
of  the  town,  Squire  Pritchett,  who  be- 
gan speaking  with  a  sort  of  bellow  only 
heard  before  in  exciting  moments  in 
town-meeting.  "May  I  never  live  to  see 
the  day!"  he  shouted;  and  from  all  the 
tongue-tied  villagers  there  rose  a  murmur 
of  relief  at  having  found  a  voice.  They 
pressed  about  him  closely  and  drank  in 
his  dry,  curt  announcement:  "As  select- 
man I  shall  write  Mr.  Camden,  tell  him 
of  the  fire,  thank  him  for  his  kindness, 
and  inform  him  that  we  don't  want  any 
more  of  it."  Everybody  nodded.  "I 
don't  know  whether  his  money  is  what 
they  call  tainted  or  not,  but  there's  one 
thing  sure,  it  ain't  done  us  any  good." 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  unshaven 
jaw  with  a  rasping  wipe  and  smiled  grimly 
as  he  concluded,  "I'm  no  hand  to  stir 
up  law-breakin'  and  disorder,  but  I  want 
to  say  right  here  that  I'll  never  inform 
against  any  Hillsboro'  man  who  keeps 
the  next  automobile  out  of  town,  if  he 
has  to  take  a  axe  to  it!" 


People  laughed,  and  neighbors  who 
had  not  spoken  to  one  another  since  the 
quarrel  over  the  price  of  wood,  fell  into 
murmured,  approving  talk. 

Elnathan  Pritchett,  blushing  and  hesi- 
tating, twitched  at  his  father's  sleeve. 
"But  father  —  Miss  Martin  —  We  're 
keeping  her  out  of  a  position." 

That  young  lady  made  one  more  effort 
to  reach  these  impenetrable  people.  "I 
was  about  to  resign,"  she  said  with  dig- 
nity. "  I  am  going  to  marry  the  assistant 
to  the  head  of  the  Department  of  Bib- 
liography at  Albany." 

The  only  answer  to  this  imposing  an- 
nouncement was  a  giggle  from  Jennie 
Foster,  to  whose  side  Elnathan  now  fell 
back,  silenced. 

People  began  to  move  away  in  little 
knots,  talking  as  they  went.  Elzaphan 
Hall  stumped  hastily  down  the  street  to 
the  town  hall,  and  was  standing  in  the 
open  door  as  the  first  group  passed  him. 

"Here,  Mis'  Foster,  you're  forgittin' 
somethin',"  he  said  roughly,  with  his  old 
surly,  dictatorial  air.  "This  is  your  day 
to  the  library." 

Mrs.  Foster  hesitated,  laughing  at  the 
old  man's  manner.  "It  seems  foolish, 
but  I  don't  know  why  notl"  she  said. 
"Jennie,  you  run  on  over  home  and 
bring  me  a  dusting-cloth  and  a  broom 
for  Elzaphan.  The  books  must  be  in  a 
nawfid  state!" 

When  Jennie  came  back,  a  knot  of 
women  stood  before  the  door,  talking  to 
her  mother  and  looking  back  at  the 
smouldering  ruins.  The  girl  followed  the 
direction  of  their  eyes  and  of  their 
thoughts.  "I  don't  believe  but  what  we 
can  plant  woodbine  and  things  around 
it  so  that  in  a  month's  time  you  won't 
know  there's  been  anything  there!"  she 
said  hopefully. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


THE  WEAK  JOINT  IN  THE  SEN- 
TIMENTALISTS*  ARMOR 

THERE  are  surely  no  more  noble- 
minded  persons  alive  than  the  man  and 
wife  who  point  the  moral  of  this  tale. 
Though  they  live  in  a  palace  of  art,  sur- 
rounded by  treasures  which  kings  might 
covet,  rarities  unexcelled,  unique,  price- 
less, yet  they  live  with  an  austerity  which 
cloistered  nuns  would  call  a  hardship  — 
and  all  for  conscience*  sake.  Fish  ?  meat  ? 
They  have  tasted  neither  for  many  years. 
No  gloves  of  leather  are  on  their  hands ; 
no  shoes  of  leather  are  on  their  feet;  no 
dress  of  silk  or  wool.  Nothing  but  cotton 
or  linen  for  them.  In  the  stern  purity  of 
then'  self-denial  they  refuse  butter  and 
eggs  and  milk.  A  plain  dish  of  boiled 
carrots,  some  olive  oil,  a  few  nuts,  a  lit- 
tle savory  relish  dressed  with  sweet  herbs, 
is  their  fare.  Compassion  is  their  creed, 
and  in  nothing  that  demands  bloodshed 
or  cruelty  will  they  share.  There  is  some- 
thing so  lofty  in  their  asceticism  that  I 
cannot  speak  of  it  without  admiration.  It 
is  one  of  the  beautiful  follies  of  the  world, 
deserving  its  own  shrine,  to  which  might 
journey  troops  of  pilgrims  anxious  to  ob- 
tain the  purity  of  heart  which  these  two 
typify  in  their  refusal  to  be  stained  with 
the  blood  of  beasts,  in  their  resolve  to  be 
free  from  entailing  any  suffering  upon 
any  creature. 

And  yet  I  find  a  flaw  in  all  their  self- 
denial,  —  the  folly  of  the  sentimentalist. 
He  is  a  man  to  beware,  if  he  be  under 
fifty,  because  he  always  knows  too  little 
to  be  trusted.  His  judgment  is  not  sound. 
His  grip  on  facts  is  but  a  fumble,  and  half 
of  his  self-sacrifice  is  worthless  because  it 
lacks  sense.  The  fundamental  trouble 
with  the  sentimentalist  is  his  ignorance  of 
common  facts.  Why  do  my  friends  refuse 
milk  ?  It  would  deprive  the  young  calf  of 
his  natural  nourishment  and  we  should 

140 


get  veal  in  consequence.  Quite  useless  to 
remind  them  of  the  objectionable  domes- 
tic character  of  most  veal  creatures  when 
grown  up;  wholly  so  to  remark  that  the 
remnant  saved  live  and  grow  up  to  be 
thriving  cows.  With  the  actual  facts  they 
have  no  concern;  nothing  satisfies  them 
but  the  total  emancipation  of  the  cow  and 
a  full  regard  for  her  rights  of  motherhood. 
(They  have  no  children  themselves.)  But- 
ter and  milk  are  off  the  programme  of  the 
world's  foods  already,  and  they  hasten 
the  day  of  the  cow  released  from  servi- 
tude, quite  free  to  make  her  own  shelter 
in  winter  and  browse  or  starve  in  liberty. 
But  why  are  eggs  denied  ?  An  egg  in  the 
course  of  nature  hatches  out  into  a  happy, 
fluffy  little  chicken,  and  fried  eggs  for 
breakfast  means  so  many  little  lives  cut 
off  from  the  joys  of  existence.  (There  are 
no  happy  little  children  in  their  home.) 
It  is  indelicate  to  remind  my  noble-mind- 
ed friends  of  the  fundamental  facts  of  life, 
to  hint  to  them  that  an  unfertilized  egg 
and  a  cold  boiled  potato  stand  an  equal 
chance  of  producing  fluffy  little  chickens. 
They  will  deny  themselves  eggs.  And 
eggs  are  off  the  list,  from  simple  ignor- 
ance of  nature's  laws.  Indeed,  ignorance 
seems  to  be  a  large  part  of  the  game.  It 
would  be  quite  impossible  to  play  it  so 
vigorously  if  the  light  were  let  in  ever  so 
little. 

But  what  causes  me  to  marvel  is  the 
complacency  with  which  my  friends  dress 
in  cotton.  Cotton!  Of  all  the  blood-dyed 
fabrics  wherewith  men  have  invested 
themselves  is  there  another  so  red  with 
human  woe  as  cotton  cloth  ?  There  have 
been  times  when  every  yard  of  it  was 
grained  with  the  life-blood  of  a  human 
being.  From  the  slave  who  raised  the 
plant  to  the  English  spinner  waiting, 
starving  for  it  by  his  idle  loom,  from  the 
hectic  woman  breathing  lint  in  the  mill 
and  the  child  robbed  of  health  and  child- 


The  Contributors9  Club 


141 


hood  and  hope,  what  a  world  of  woe  has 
been  woven  into  the  fruitage  of  the  cot- 
ton loom !  The  wool  my  friends  refuse  to 
wear,  the  sheep  would  have  pulled  out  in 
tag-locks  on  every  bramble  before  the 
summer  was  flown;  the  silk  they  deny 
themselves  could,  at  the  worst,  have  cost 
only  a  sleeping  life  in  the  chrysalis  which 
could  never  have  waked  to  more  than  a 
brief,  passionate  span  of  searching  for  a 
mate;  and,  at  the  best,  a  cunning  chemis- 
try might  have  made  it  without  the  silk- 
worm's help.  But  cotton  cloth!  I  can 
but  wish  sometimes  that,  before  they  re- 
tired from  the  world,  my  friends  of  the 
palace  of  art  might  have  seen  a  southern 
cotton  mill  understandiiigly ;  that  they 
might  have  been,  even  as  I  have  been,  a 
dweller  in  northern  mill  towns  when  the 
price  of  cotton  cloth  was  down,  and  the 
great  mills  first  ran  short  time,  and  then 
closed,  and  want  and  starvation  stared 
the  worker  in  the  face.  Then  they  might 
have  hesitated  before  the  choice  present- 
ed them ;  they  might  still  have  worn  cot- 
ton, but  not  with  complacency,  and  they 
might  perhaps  have  come  to  live  in  a 
world  of  men  and  women  where  we  face 
the  facts  the  best  we  may  and  count  our- 
selves happy  if  we  can  face  them  and  still 
keep  our  courage.  But  they  could  never 
have  haggled  with  their  consciences  as  to 
the  degree  of  wrong  involved  in  silk  and 
wool  and  cotton  and  leather  and  butter 
and  milk  and  eggs;  they  would  have 
known  good  and  evil  by  eating  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  which  grows  only  among 
living  men.  Perhaps  one  of  the  ripest 
fruits  of  that  tree,  because  the  highest  up, 
is  the  knowledge  that  some  things,  be- 
side some  others,  are  not  worth  while. 
The  instance  is  extreme.  The  worth  of 
it  is  that  it  is  not  too  extreme  to  be  possi- 
ble. It  shows  the  tendency  of  the  senti- 
mentalist, the  maggot  in  his  brain,  which, 
like  the  knight  of  La  Mancha's,  drives 
him  to  tilt  with  giants  whose  nature  he 
only  partially  perceives.  It  would  be 
quite  as  well  if  he  recognized  the  wind- 
mill by  its  real  name.  The  sentimental- 
ist rarely  knows  the  facts;  and,  more- 


over, he  seldom  cares  to  listen  to  those 
who  do  know  them.  But  it  is  the  uncom- 
fortable art  of  the  sentimentalist  to  make 
the  man  who  differs  feel  that  he  is  hard- 
hearted. Last  winter  a  kind  lady  in  Bos- 
ton wrote  the  press  that  the  pigeons  of  the 
city  were  suffering  because  their  poor, 
bare  little  feet  had  no  protection  from  the 
cold  stones.  After  that,  what  kind-hearted 
man  could  fail  to  feel  a  trifle  guilty  for 
leaving  them  without  stockings  in  the 
bitter  weather  ?  Freezing  its  feet  is  one  of 
the  rarest  accidents  that  happen  to  a  wild 
bird,  but  I  never  see  the  pigeons  strutting 
on  the  cold,  cold  stones  without  noticing 
how  red  their  feet  look!  They  make  me 
uncomfortable;  I  shall  come  to  hate  their 
bare-footed  audacity  some  day. 

After  all,  the  only  sentimentalist  who 
carries  much  weight  is  the  reformed  bad 
character.  When  he  can  prove  that  he 
was  an  ardent  and  successful  hunter  or 
fisherman  and  that  he  voluntarily  left  the 
sport  while  he  still  enjoyed  it,  the  world 
will  listen  to  him.  The  man  who  never 
liked  the  taste  of  liquor  is  not  the  best  ad- 
vocate of  temperance  with  the  hardened 
sinner  who  does  like  it.  Know  the  game, 
and  then  reform  —  provided  always  you 
do  it  while  you  are  young.  It  is  no  credit 
to  a  man  to  have  overcome  his  taste  for 
stolen  apples  and  watermelon  at  sixty; 
nature  should  have  eliminated  the  desire 
long  before.  In  like  manner  there  comes 
a  period  in  a  man's  life  when  the  active 
hunter  settles  naturally  into  the  contem- 
plative observer.  It  is  after  dinner  now 
in  life;  he  has  had  his  fill.  If  he  becomes 
a  sentimentalist  then,  it  is  sweet  and  com- 
mendable in  his  nature,  but  it  does  not 
argue  that  the  younger  man  should  feel 
the  same. 

While  it  is  well  to  "love  the  wood-rose 
and  leave  it  on  its  stalk,"  no  man  ever  be- 
came a  botanist  by  so  doing.  Exact  know- 
ledge cannot  be  obtained  by  traveling 
the  sentimentalist's  route.  Indeed, a  great 
part  of  the  sentimentalist's  contributions 
to  natural  history  are  properly  filed  un- 
der "Rubbish."  "Better  the  sight  of  the 
eye  than  the  wandering  of  the  desire," 


142 


The  Contributors'  Club 


said  the  wise  old  Preacher;  better  exact 
and  definite  information,  even  though 
the  boy  or  man  kill  the  beast  or  bird, 
than  the  slipshod  accomplishment  so 
often  passed  on  for  information.  And, 
even  as  a  sport,  hunting  and  fishing  are 
not  without  their  uses.  My  own  boy  is  of 
the  age  to  go  a-fishing,  and  with  my  good 
speed  he  shall  go.  .  Let  him  come  home 
wet  and  tired  and  dirty,  with  a  tiny  string 
of  witless  little  fish;  surely  they  deserved 
to  be  caught  by  a  tyro,  and  in  learning 
to  shift  for  himself  he  has  caught  some- 
thing more  than  fish.  He  is  a  natural 
boy,  and  I  know  what  to  do  with  him; 
but  if  he  were  a  sentimentalist  before  his 
teens,  I  confess  I  should  despair  of  ever 
making  a  man  of  him. 

FISHES'  FACES 

DID  you  ever  stop  to  examine  the  ex- 
pression on  the  face  of  a  fish  ?  I  do  not 
mean  of  some  notoriously  grotesque  fish, 
but  of  just  any  plain  seafaring  fish.  I 
confess  that  the  fascination  for  me  is  the 
same,  whether  I  stand  in  front  of  some 
great  collection  of  little  monstrosities  like 
that  in  the  Naples  aquarium,  or  whether 
I  sit  by  my  dining-room  window  and  con- 
template the  gold-fish -in  my  little  boy's 
glass  bowl.  People  watch  the  monkeys 
at  the  Zoo  and  remark  how  human  they 
are,  how  sly  and  crafty  the  old  ones,  how 
"  cute  "  and  playful  the  young  ones.  But 
for  steady  company  give  me  the  fish. 
How  restful  they  are  with  their  mouth- 
ings,  as  regular  as  if  they  were  governed 
by  a  balance-wheel !  How  quiet,  too,  for 
not  one  word  of  murmured  protest  or  of 
chattering  fault-finding  do  they  inflict 
upon  us!  How  philosophical,  as  they 
bask  in  the  sun  the  livelong  day  or  seek 
the  occasional  shade  of  the  modest  sprig 
of  greens  which  forms  the  conventional 
garnishing  of  their  watery  abode!  How 
easily  gratified  are  their  simple  tastes! 
Surely  with  their  good  manners,  their 
quiet  deportment,  and  their  stoical  bear- 
ing, gold-fish  are  the  ideal  companions 
of  the  mature  man.  Monkeys  and  dogs 


and  kittens  may  amuse  the  children  by 
their  tricks  and  antics,  but  only  the 
grown  man  can  appreciate  the  solid  quali- 
ties of  the  fish's  character  as  written  upon 
his  features. 

Not  long  ago  I  turned  to  my  old  text- 
books of  natural  history  to  see  what  the 
nature  students  had  to  say  about  the 
facial  expression  of  fish.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it?  There  were  pages  about  the 
bone  structure  of  the  creature,  his  scales 
and  his  fins,  all  having  to  do  with  his 
physical  fitness  for  the  peculiar  kind  of 
navigating  through  life  that  he  is  called 
upon  to  perform.  But  not  one  word  was 
said  about  the  features  of  his  face,  that 
racial  expression  of  receptivity  and  of 
philosophical  candor  which  is  a  constant 
sermon  and  inspiration  to  the  thoughtful 
observer.  I  put  this  down  as  one  more 
failure  of  the  scientists  to  explain  what 
poor  humanity  really  wants  to  know. 
What  do  we  care  about  the  adaptability 
of  the  fish's  body  to  the  element  for  which 
he  was  created  or  to  which  he  has  been 
banished  ?  When  it  comes  to  construct- 
ing flying-machines,  we  may  well  study 
the  structure  of  the  bird's  wings.  But  did 
any  one  ever  learn  to  swim  by  watching 
a  fish  ?  Seriously,  can  any  one  look  a  fish 
in  the  face  and  not  admit  that  there  lies 
the  highest  expression  of  the  creature's 
nature?  All  the  rest  of  the  body  is  the 
mere  machinery  for  getting  about.  One 
wonders  why  Izaak  Walton,  that  lover  of 
the  trout  and  grayling,  did  not  write  one 
of  his  inimitable  chapters  on  his  little 
fishes'  faces.  Or  rather  one  wonders  how 
Piscator  could  go  on  catching  and  cook- 
ing harmless  creatures  who  had  done  no 
harm  to  God  or  man,  and  whose  wonder- 
ing faces  are  a  constant  rebuke  to  the 
passion  of  their  cruel  captors.  Doubtless 
our  fish-mongers  and  cooks  take  good 
care  to  remove  the  death-head  of  our 
morning  purchase  before  it  appears  on 
the  table,  knowing  full  well  that  our  ap- 
petite would  perish  if  forced  to  confront 
the  cold  staring  eye  and  the  mouth  at  last 
stilled  in  death. 

But  to  return  to  the  expression  of  the 


The  Contributors'  Club 


143 


living  fish.  There  are  only  a  few  animals 
that  may  be  said  to  have  any  facial  ex- 
pression worthy  of  the -name.  The  rab- 
bit's prominent  feature  is  his  flexible 
nose;  the  cow  and  the  deer  melt  you  with 
their  great  soft  eyes ;  the  owl  sounds  our 
very  being  from  the  bottomless  depths  of 
his  great  orbs ;  the  dog  and  the  horse  find 
expression  in  the  movements  of  their 
head  and  tail.  But  when  I  think  of  these 
fish,  my  memory  goes  back  for  a  parallel 
to  the  "  ships  of  the  desert,"  those  melan- 
choly and  patient  camels  hobbled  for  the 
night  and  chewing  their  cud  in  the  mar- 
ket-place at  Tangiers.  There  is  the  same 
philosophical  rumination,  the  same  sto- 
ical determination  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
The  mouth  expresses  it  all. 

There  have  been  those  superficial  ob- 
servers who  think  that  the  fish  is  a  fool, 
that  he  has  no  brains.  "  Ignorant  comme 
une  carpe,"  say  the  French.  Well,  I  can 
only  say  that  I  have  seen  many  a  boy  on 
the  benches  at  school  whose  expression 
after  a  copious  dinner  would  compare 
unfavorably  with  that  of  a  fish.  I  have 
an  idea  that  one  of  my  little  gold-fish  does 
not  miss  much  of  what  is  going  on.  Move 
where  I  may,  his  eye  follows  me  like  that 
of  a  horse.  And  as  for  his  mouth,  —  well, 
I  can't  help  coming  back  to  the  mouth. 
You  simply  can't  escape  it.  He  seems  to 
be  all  mouth.  Yet,  his  is  not  the  mouth 
of  indiscriminate  greed,  or  of  the  vulgar 
gum-chewer.  He  chews  as  if  his  very  life 
depended  upon  it  (and  indeed  it  does), 
—  as  if  he  were  determined  not  to  let  one 
atom  that  comes  his  way  from  the  out- 
side world  escape  him.  All  the  useless 
chaff,  all  the  buzz-buzz  from  without, 
may  be  said  to  go  in  one  ear  and  out  the 
other.  But  what  is  worth  while  he  keeps 
with  fine  discrimination  to  build  into  that 
graceful  body,  and  to  deepen  that  look  of 
philosophical  dignity  which  I  envy  but 
cannot  emulate. 

You  cannot  pet  a  fish ;  you  cannot  pull 
his  tail,  and  tie  up  his  neck  with  ribbons, 
and  whisper  sweet  nothings  in  his  ear, 
as  ladies  do  with  poodle-dogs.  He  is  away 
above  that  sort  of  thing.  He  would  not 


stand  for  that  kind  of  nonsense,  and  I 
respect  him  for  his  personal  dignity. 
His  nature  does  not  lend  itself  kindly  to 
slavery,  no  matter  how  fair  may  be  the 
mistress. 

Somehow,  then,  I  feel  that  one  of  these 
fishes  knows  a  deal  more  about  the  se- 
crets of  the  universe  there  in  his  watery 
element  than  we  do  with  all  our  loud 
chatter  and  our  airy  boastings.  When  I 
consider  his  simplicity,  his  regularity,  his 
dignity,  his  receptive  expression,  —  I  am 
sure  that  he  is  a  philosopher,  and  my 
heart,  like  that  of  Saint  Francis,  goes  out 
in  sympathy  to  this  little  brother. 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  BLACK  SHEEP 

I  HAVE  always  felt  a  profound  sympa- 
thy for  characters  in  fiction  who  are  evi- 
dently disliked  by  their  authors.  Theirs 
is  perhaps  the  most  miserable  of  all  hu- 
man lots.  To  be  disliked  by  a  parent 
would  be  sufficiently  painful;  but  these 
wretches  are  in  the  state  of  children  dis- 
liked by  a  parent  who  has  complete  con- 
trol over  their  every  word  and  act,  who  is 
their  sole  reporter  and  interpreter,  and 
who  has  unlimited  power  to  punish.  They 
are  much  in  the  condition  of  those  un- 
happy ones  who  in  the  old  Calvinistic 
theology  were  predestined  by  their  Crea- 
tor to  damnation.  In  one  respect  the 
Calvinistic  non-elect  had  the  advantage : 
they  might  find  consolation  in  reflecting 
that  they  were  sacrificed  by  Inscrutable 
Justice,  whereas  their  brothers  and  sis- 
ters in  fiction  seem  often  the  victims  of 
very  human  prejudice  or  whim. 

This  imperfect  sympathy  between  cre- 
ator and  creation  in  fiction  is  most  com- 
monly seen,  I  think,  in  novels  written 
by  women.  Various  cynical  wits  and  epi- 
grammatists have  hinted  that  women  do 
not  tend  to  sympathize  keenly  with  one 
another,  and  a  good  many  things  both 
in  life  and  literature  seem  to  bear  out 
the  imputation.  A  year  or  two  ago  I  was 
standing  on  the  rear  platform  of  a  crowd- 
ed street-car  in  a  large  city.  All  the 
seats  in  the  car  were  occupied  by  women, 


144 


The  Contributors'  Club 


most  of  them  well-dressed,  many  of  them 
young.  An  old  woman,  plainly  dressed, 
with  a  crutch  and  a  large  bundle,  got  on 
the  car.  No  one  offered  to  give  her  a 
seat;  not  one  even  moved.  At  last  the 
conductor,  by  forcing  the  women  on  one 
side  of  the  car  to  crowd  closer  together, 
succeeded  in  securing  for  the  old  woman 
a  few  inches  on  the  edge  of  a  seat.  The 
incident  is  of  course  conclusive  of  nothing, 
but  it  sets  one  thinking.  Is  it  a  similar 
(if  much  more  refined)  lack  of  generosity 
toward  others  of  their  own  sex  that  causes 
even  the  great  women  novelists  some- 
times to  seem  unfair  to  the  women  in  their 
stories  ? 

I  am  a  warm  admirer  of  Jane  Austen ; 
but  I  nearly  always  lose  my  temper  when 
I  try  to  read  Mansfield  Park.  I  cannot 
believe  that  Mary  Crawford  is  as  selfish 
or  base  as  the  novelist  insists  on  making 
her  appear.  When  Mary  meets  the  "  Mr. 
Bertrams,"  for  instance,  she  prefers  Tom, 
the  elder,  to  Edmund,  as  any  sensible  girl 
would,  Edmund  being  an  intolerable 
prig.  Miss  Austen  interprets  this  prefer- 
ence in  the  worst  possible  light.  "  She 
has  felt  an  early  presentiment  that  she 
should  like  the  eldest  best.  She  knew  it 
was  her  way.'*  I  have  never  quite  for- 
given Miss  Austen  for  using  so  human 
and  delightful  a  girl  as  Mary  merely  to 
set  off  the  virtues  of  that  tediously  un- 
impeachable little  martyr,  Fanny  Price. 
Few  novelists,  men  or  women,  have 
been  broader  in  their  sympathies  than 
George  Eliot;  yet  it  seems  impossible  for 
her  to  like  her  heroines  if  they  are  pretty. 
I  have  always  felt  that  a  little  less  than 
justice  is  done  to  Hetty  in  Adam  Bede. 
Certainly  not  much  mercy  is  shown  her ; 
and  one  gets  rather  tired  of  the  eternal 
contrast  between  her  and  Dinah,  and 
wishes  that  Dinah  were  not  quite  so  pale 
and  spiritual.  I  am  more  doubtful  about 
Rosamond  Vincy;  but  I  have  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling  that  in  her  creator's  eyes 
her  prettiness  is  her  gravest  sin.  I  cannot 


help  wondering  how  Thackeray's  Amelia 
would  have  fared  in  George  Eliot's  hands. 
In  reading  The  House  of  Mirth  I  con- 
stantly felt  that  Lily  Bart  must  be  either 
a  good  deal  better  or  a  good  deal  worse 
than  she  is  represented.  Since  her  crea- 
tor seems  to  dislike  her,  it  is  plausible  as 
well  as  charitable  to  suppose  that  she  is 
not  so  black  as  she  is  painted.  A  woman 
who  has  the  occasional  good  impulses 
and  gleams  of  true  insight  that  the  novel- 
ist rather  grudgingly  grants  to  Lily,  must, 
one  would  think,  make  a  greater  effort 
to  follow  them  than  Lily  is  allowed  to 
make.  I  feel  a  similar  doubt  about  Bes- 
sie Amherst,  in  The  Fruit  of  the  Tree,  and 
wish  I  could  read  another  version  of  the 
story,  told  from  Bessie's  point  of  view. 
It  might  be  fairer,  as  well  as  less  un- 
chivalrous,  to  attribute  these  imperfect 
sympathies  to  a  moral  bias  of  the  novel- 
ists. Yet  the  fact  remains  that  human 
nature  excuses  the  sins  of  people  it  likes, 
and  reserves  its  moral  indignation  for  the 
faults  of  those  whom  it  dislikes;  so  that 
after  all  we  seem  to  come  back  to  a  basis 
of  natural  antipathies. 

I  do  not  like  thee,  Dr.  Fell, 
The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell. 

Not  many  writers  are  "  of  a  constitu- 
tion so  general  that  it  consorts  and  sym- 
pathizeth  with  all "  and  is  untouched 
by  "  those  natural  repugnancies,"  or 
have  the  power  which  Browning  showed 
in  Mr.  Sludge  the  Medium  of  represent- 
ing with  perfect  sympathy  a  character 
they  detest.  I  wish  not  so  much  to  as- 
certain the  motives  of  the  injustice  as 
to  plead  for  the  injured,  who  have  to 
contend  not  only  with  destiny  and  their 
own  innate  wickedness,  but  with  the  con- 
stant hostility  of  their  creators.  Consid- 
ered in  this  light,  how  tragic  is  the  career 
of  Rosamond  Vincy  or  of  Bessie  Am*- 
herst!  No  protagonist  of  Greek  drama  is 
so  cruelly  overmatched  by  Fate,  or  de- 
mands our  sympathy  with  so  urgent  an 
appeal. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 


AUGUST,  1908 
THE   STORY   OF   BULLY 

BY   CHARLES   D.   STEWART 


The  World 's  my  book,  with  two  leaves  spread, 
One  under  foot  —  one  overhead ; 
The  text  runs  true  to  each  man's  need  ; 
Let  him  who  will  go  forth  and  read. 

THAN  this  black  Bully,  I  never  knew 
an  ox  that  was  an  abler  near  wheeler  — 
never  a  one  that  could  sit  back  with  such 
bull-dogged  determination  and  put  the 
brakes  on  a  string  of  wild,  wrong-headed 
Texas  steers.  One  would  not  think  there 
could  be  so  much  will-power  in  a  mortal 
body. 

He  was  none  of  your  gaunt,  ungainly, 
ridge-back  cattle;  he  lived  comfortably 
in  a  roomy  physique  and  had  legs  like 
posts  at  the  four  corners  of  himself.  His 
neck  was  finely  wrinkled  and  fissured 
with  extra  pelt,  as  if  Nature  had  calcu- 
lated on  letting  out  the  tucks,  not  know- 
ing how  big  he  might  grow.  He  had  a 
wealth  of  swinging  dewlap  that  swept 
the  flowers  as  he  passed;  it  looked  as  if 
he  were  growing  sole  leather  as  a  by- 
product, an  extraneous  animal  fruit  of 
himself.  In  fact,  for  a  steer,  he  was  gen- 
erously endowed  with  everything  bovine ; 
he  looked  the  bull  en  bon  point.  Nature 
had  put  on  his  horns  the  rings  of  four 
summers. 

With  all  his  bench-legged  solidity,  he 
was  not  clumsy ;  he  was  perfectly  muscled, 
from  the  end  of  his  calfish  nose  to  the 
tassel  of  his  lion-like  tapering  tail.  His 
seat  of  power  seemed  to  be  in  his  built-up 
neck;  and  it  was  because  of  this  gristly 
mass  of  neck  that  he  was  called  Bully ; 
for  even  though  he  was  a  steer  he  had 
the  mien  and  make  of  a  sire  of  the  herd. 
From  that  neck  his  ship-shape  lines 
spread  out  expansively  to  his  four- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


stomach  middle,  slid  off  over  neat  loins, 
and  dwindled  away  in  his  tail.  Withal 
he  was  wise  and  Juno-eyed  —  and  guile- 
less as  a  calf. 

His  hair  lay  sleek  and  short, — he  was 
largely  Spanish, — and  that  was  a  great 
satisfaction  to  me.  I  have  seen  the  dust 
fly  out  of  his  yoke-mate,  Brig,  in  a  way 
that  made  me  think  I  was  beating  a 
carpet,  and  so  it  was  a  comfort  to  observe 
that  I  had  one  ox  that  cleaned  himself 
automatically  and  kept  an  ebon  smooth- 
ness. For  bovine  nobility,  general  bull- 
comeliness,  he  would  have  stood  out 
among  a  herd  —  but  that  might  be  said 
of  any  steer  that  is  selected  for  a  near 
wheeler. 

On  evenings  when  we  had  been  break- 
ing prairie  far  from  home,  and  I  was 
tired  sitting  on  the  iron  seat,  I  would 
mount  him  and  go  home  ox-back.  Or 
I  would  go  out  in  the  morning  and  mount 
him  en  pasture,  bring  him  home  to  the 
plough,  and  thence  proceed  leisurely 
across  the  open  to  the  farm  we  were 
making.  It  is  different  from  riding  a 
broncho  —  less  up  and  down  and  more 
round  and  round.  It  is,  in  truth,  the 
nearest  approach  to  motion  in  all  direc- 
tions at  once.  At  every  step  of  the  rolling, 
weltering  gait,  your  leg  is  softly  com- 
pressed between  his  swinging  paunch  and 
that  of  his  partner;  thus  you  go  along 
for  miles,  knee  deep  in  ox.  .This  feeling 
of  the  muscular  labor  of  a  ponderous 
bull  makes  it  less  like  riding  than  trans- 
portation ;  like  sitting  atop  a  load  of  life. 

He  had  a  barrel-like  body  and  a  plat- 
form of  a  back;  and  I  have  thought,  at 
such  times,  that  he  would  have  been  fit 


146 


The  Story  of  Bully 


for  the  cavalry  —  or  rather  the  bullery  — 
of  an  African  king.  Certain  of  the  Ethi- 
opian potentates  use  the  bull  in  battle; 
and  I  am  sure  that  if  he  had  ever  tried 
this  particular  bayoneted  steed,  old 
Mushwush  would  not  have  parted  with 
him  for  anything.  For  cavalry  purposes 
he  would  have  had  to  use  Bully  (after  the 
African  practice)  with  a  cincture,  using 
a  girth  to  ride  bareback.  A  horse  has  his 
pelt  fairly  well  fastened  to  him,  so  that 
if  you  stick  to  his  hide  you  stay  on  the 
horse;  but  a  bull  is  loosely  clothed  in 
his.  Therefore  the  results  are  entirely 
different.  Hence  the  African  practice; 
and  it  is  my  opinion  that  to  have  used 
Bully  with  perfect  success  in  the  cavalry 
it  would  have  been  necessary  to  use  two 
cinctures  —  a  girth  fore  and  aft  —  to 
belt  his  hide  on. 

However,  for  straight  traveling,  with- 
out much  evolution,  a  person  who  was 
a  little  used  to  ox-equitation  found  him 
a  very  good  rocking-chair.  A  woman, 
I  think,  could  have  made  out  on  him 
by  sitting  far  forward  and  taking  hold 
of  a  horn ;  but  a  man  was  more  fit  for 
him,  being  a  sort  of  clothes-pin  to  his 
loose  mantle. 

The  walnut  beam  of  his  yoke  came 
down  to  Texas  with  some  settler  from 
the  North,  and  was  carved  with  Yankee 
care;  and  when  I  scraped  down  its  an- 
cient surface  to  the  wine-colored  wood, 
my  near  wheeler  and  his  mate  looked 
handsome  in  it.  It  was  a  well-modeled 
yoke,  too;  the  rest  of  them  labored 
against  mere  hacked-out  timbers.  Jeff 
Benson  (the  Texan  to  whom  he  previ- 
ously belonged)  had  ornamented  the 
yoke,  in  front  of  the  eye-bolt,  with  a 
Lone  Star  of  brass-headed  tacks ;  and  the 
ends  of  it  were  further  decorated  with 
tin  tobacco  tags  by  the  same  artist.  It 
was  a  distinctive  yoke,  a  fit  recognition 
of  his  superiority;  and  it  sat  upon  his 
neck  as  so  much  jewelry  from  which 
depended  the  trifle  of  a  log  chain. 

This  mention  of  Jeff  reminds  me  of  a 
tug  of  war  that  Bully  was  engaged  in  by 
the  man  who  trained  him  — for  it  was 


Jeff  that  caught  him  wild  and  made  an 
ox  of  him.  Jeff  was  rather  argumentative 
in  a  dry  way  and  patriotic  to  his  own 
"  string  "  —  he  was  a  tall,  wiry,  typical 
Texan,  which  is  possibly  sufficient  de- 
scription. He  had,  I  might  add,  a  slight 
brisket  under  his  chin  (like  an  ox),  he 
chewed  the  cud,  and  spat,  and  Nature 
in  her  wisdom  had  gifted  him  with  big 
hearty  eloquence  in  certain  words  that 
oxen  consider  their  favorite  epithets. 
He  was  one  of  the  race  that  seems  to 
have  been  specially  provided  to  "  bust " 
the  soil  and  blaze  the  way  for  culture. 

Jeff,  being  bound  with  his  string  for  a 
certain  location  on  the  prairie  designated 
by  four  surveyors'  stakes,  —  the  bounda- 
ries of  the  farm  he  was  to  make,  —  came 
past  the  Colonel's  place  where  Bill  Pierce 
was  putting  on  an  addition  of  a  few  acres. 

"  Bet  you  he  can." 

"  Bet  you  he  can't." 

"  Bet  you  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  he 
can." 

The  point  was,  whether  Jeff's  wheeler 
or  Bill's  wheeler  could  hold  back  the 
hardest.  A  bull,  for  various  reasons,  can 
and  will  pull  still  more  in  a  contrary 
direction  than  he  can  or  will  pull  forward. 
It  is  due  to  peculiarities  of  his  structure, 
and  to  mechanical  reasons  incident  to  his 
sitting  back  on  all  fours;  and  further- 
more, and  not  a  bit  less,  to  his  natural 
disposition.  The  full  extent  of  his 
strength  and  will-power  can  only  be  seen 
when  he  chooses  to  make  himself  a  Sit- 
ting Bull.  And  so  it  came  to  the  test. 
First  it  was  to  be  seen  whether  Jeff,  with 
his  whip  and  other  persuasion,  could 
make  Pierce's  oxen  drag  Pierce's  wheel- 
ers. Then  Jeff's  wheelers  were  to  be  put 
in  their  place  and  show  whether  they 
could  hold  back  the  same  string,  against 
Pierce's  efforts. 

Pierce  had  a  fairly  well-broken  off 
wheeler,  but  his  main  dependence,  as 
is  usual,  was  the  near  wheeler,  one  Scot 
by  name.  Although  I  had  a  partiality 
for  Bully,  I  must  say  that  Scot  was  a 
very  good  ox  —  as  worthy  a  foe  as  Bully 
could  have  met.  Of  the  wheelers  in  that 


The  Story  of  Bully 


147 


particular  neighborhood,  Scot  had  the 
reputation  of  being  the  determinedest. 
His  indurated  bull  neck  was  worn  bare 
up  to  the  roots  of  his  horns  with  his 
dutiful  woing.  He  was  a  tawny,  tousled, 
roughish  sort  of  a  Carlyle  of  an  ox; 
his  hair  seemed  to  be  as  perverse  as 
himself.  He  had  a  horn  that  was  not 
quite  straight  on  his  head  —  but  it  was 
becoming  and  looked  well  on  him  as 
being  the  natural  offshoot  of  a  perverse 
brain.  But  it  is  no  wonder  he  was  stub- 
born. Having  had  to  do  much  breaking 
in  tough  wire-grass,  where  a  long  and 
powerful  string  of  raw,  newly  recruited 
cattle  was  needed,  he  had  been  used  to 
hard  fighting  to  bring  them  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  end  of  every  furrow.  In  this 
educated  function  of  holding  back  with 
such  odds  against  him  he  had  learned 
that  he  had  to  pitch  in  mightily  or  be 
dragged;  and  this  experience  had  made 
him  a  live  dog.  To  see  this  Texas  steer 
throw  himself  back  with  his  mind  made 
up,  and  stick  to  the  task  even  when 
he  was  being  pulled  along  stiff-legged, 
would  be  a  revelation  to  any  one  whose 
notions  of  cattle  are  based  on  the  cow  in 
ordinary.  He  was  none  of  your  meek  and 
gentle  kine.  Scot  was  older  at  the  busi- 
ness than  Bully,  but  Jeff  did  not  care  for 
that;  he  unhooked  his  cattle,  took  out 
his  wheelers,  and  renewed  the  challenge. 
I  have  long  thought  that  I  ought  to 
put  this  tug  of  war  fully  on  record,  as 
something  having  a  basic  bearing  upon 
the  winning  of  our  new  country  —  some- 
thing very  universal  and  fundamental 
and  already  passed  unrecorded  into  the 
artes  perditce  —  especially  as  it  would 
have  to  be  done  by  one  who  has  first- 
hand experience.  But  it  is  a  delicate  task 
to  undertake,  and  I  do  not  know  even 
how  to  make  excuse;  but  possibly  the 
world  will  understand  after  I  have  told 
more  about  the  ways  of  Bully.  I  have 
heard  some  very  good  deep-sea  swearing ; 
but,  as  history  would  show,  the  art  of 
ox-driving  has  required  the  world's  most 
eminent  profanists.  It  cannot  all  be  told. 
But  it  all  had  to  be  done,  even  in  Puritan 


New  England ;  and  I  doubt  if  there  is  a 
Yankee  left  who  could  put  a  fid  in  a 
chain. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  Bill  took  the  bet; 
Jeff  examined  his  cracker  and  stood  off 
at  good  lash-length  from  the  string;  Bill 
stood  at  the  left  rear  corner  of  the  outfit 
to  attend  to  his  wheeler's  state  of  mind, 
and  then  the  contest  began.  Jeff's  whip 
uncoiled  its  serpentine  length  and  hit 
vacant  space  so  hard  that  it  fractured 
the  atmosphere;  the  string  started  to 
move.  Bill  said  "Wo!"  and  Scot 
squatted.  The  yoke  slid  up  behind  his 
ears;  he  threw  up  his  head  and  caught 
the  beam  at  the  base  of  his  horns  and  he 
laid  back  "  for  keeps,"  his  stout  legs 
braced  and  set.  Jeff  plied  his  art  on  the 
cattle  ahead;  Bill  commanded  his  ox  to 
"wo,"  and  the  chain  stood  stiff  as  a 
crowbar. 

At  each  outburst  from  Jeff  the  chain 
wavered  forward,  and  still  harder  Scot 
held  back,  twelve  hundred  pounds  of 
solid  resolution.  He  balked  like  a  bull- 
dog on  the  chain.  Sometimes  it  would 
seem  that  Jeff  had  him  coming  —  but 
Scot  would  not.  Always,  with  some  new 
summoning  of  will-power,  some  inward 
do  or  die,  he  would  get  a  hold  with 
his  hoofs  and  bring  them  all  to  mere 
dead  endeavor.  But  presently  he  began 
to  slip  —  ten  feet  —  twenty  feet,  still 
struggling  for  a  chance  to  come  back 
again  with  all  fours  set.  He  nearly  did 
it;  and  then  there  seemed  to  blow  up  a 
storm  of  language.  Jeff's  eloquence 
rolled  forth  like  thunder,  and  played 
along  his  length  of  leather  lightning;  it 
created  havoc  on  the  backs  of  the  cattle 
like  a  summer  storm  on  a  shingle  roof. 
Scot  fought  like  mad.  He  went  along  a 
little  farther,  partly  dragged  and  partly 
walking  stiff-legged  as  he  struggled  to 
come  back  on  his  haunches;  and  Jeff 
kept  driving  oxen  with  a  crack  at  every 
outburst.  Scot  came  forward  a  step  at 
a  time  and  a  slide  at  a  time,  till  he  had 
been  brought  a  hundred  feet  or  more. 
Jeff  shut  himself  off  and  smiled  peace- 
fully ;  he  caught  the  cracker  in  his  hand 


148 


The  Story  of  Bully 


and  looked  perfectly  content  and  harm- 
less. 

"  Ye  can't  do  that  —  not  with  my 
Bully/'  he  said. 

Bully  was  more  leisurely  (all "  staggy  " 
steers  are)  in  his  ways  of  going  at  things. 
He  lagged  slightly  in  his  progress,  and 
as  the  beam  slid  up  his  neck  he  threw  his 
head  up  slightly  in  the  usual  way  and 
inclined  ponderously  backward  for  the 
tug  of  war.  He  always  held  his  head 
slightly  sidewise,  for  some  reason,  catch- 
ing the  beam  on  only  one  horn;  and  he 
looked  forth  at  you  with  the  one-eyed 
unconcern  of  a  Cyclops  in  the  confidence 
of  his  power.  While  Bill  did  his  best 
ahead,  Jeff  kept  addressing  his  own  ox 
in  a  subdued  and  private  tone  of  "  Wo, 
Bully."  You  have  to  address  a  near 
wheeler  personally  if  you  want  him  to 
do  his  best. 

Despite  all  the  power  the  cattle  were 
exerting,  there  was  no  motion  to  show  it. 
There  were  only  the  yokes  sunk  deeper 
in  their  worn,  scrawny  necks,  the  hori- 
zontal chain,  and  the  fixed  position  of  the 
sitting  bull.  Jeff's  feelings,  to  judge  by 
his  looks,  went  up  and  down  like  a  ther- 
mometer as  the  chain  began  to  show 
signs  of  going  forward  or  back.  He  stood 
with  bent  knees  and  watched;  and  as 
Bill  broke  forth  worse  than  ever,  he  laid 
one  hand  on  his  ox  and  said  very  confi- 
dentially, "  Wo-o-o-o,  Bully."  Suddenly 
(and  to  Jeff  it  must  have  sounded  like 
the  rending  and  tearing  of  Destiny) 
Bully  got  one  leg  out  of  the  furrow  where 
he  was  braced,  and  the  wire-grass  went 
ripping  through  the  cleft  of  his  hoof. 
They  were  dragging  the  whole  mettle- 
some mass  of  him.  They  seemed  to  have 
him  overcome,  despite  the  mechanical 
brace  of  his  short,  thick  legs.  But  only 
for  a  few  feet;  he  gave  his  head  an  im- 
patient toss,  planted  himself  anew,  and 
came  back  like  the  everlasting  buttress 
of  his  bull  determination.  The  harassed 
cattle  were  now  straining  forward  as  if 
they  would  choke  themselves  on  the 
bows ;  they  took  steps  without  advancing; 
they  veered  from  side  to  side  as  if  the 


leaders  were  trying  for  an  easier  opening 
through  the  atmosphere.  Bill  threw  out 
his  lithe  bull- whip  and  started  to  pull  out 
of  there;  they  made  Bully  plough  a  fur- 
row with  each  of  his  four  hoofs.  Jeff  put 
his  whipstock  in  front  of  the  wheeler's 
nose  and  spoke  to  him  personally  —  and 
again  Bully  woed.  This  time  he  brought 
his  hoof  back  into  the  furrow,  got  all 
fours  rooted  into  the  upturned  sward,  and 
sat  back  as  in  a  lockjaw  of  his  whole 
physique.  And  there  he  stuck.  His 
whole  welterweight  of  ox  was  now  in 
action  and  he  was  not  to  be  budged.  Jeff 
let  the  string  pull  against  Irresistible 
Force  for  a  while  longer,  not  to  have  any 
argument  about  it;  and  then  he  claimed 
the  victory.  He  had  won.  Of  course 
there  was  a  technical  argument  about 
this  and  that  point  of  the  art;  and  it  was 
still  going  till  Jeff  was  so  far  on  his  way 
again  that  his  voice  would  not  carry  back. 

This  victory  became  part  of  Bully's 
pedigree;  Jeff  submitted  it  verbally  to 
any  or^  who  talked  ox. 

In  common  with  other  staggy,  philo- 
sophic wheelers,  Bully  had  another  abil- 
ity that  surpasseth  human  wisdom.  On 
dry,  hot  days,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  af- 
ternoon, he  would  suddenly  "  wo"  on  his 
own  authority,  and  having  brought  them 
all  to  a  stop  he  would  drop  in  the  fur- 
row. Without  any  ceremony  whatever, 
he  would  stop  them  and  plump  down  on 
the  prairie  like  a  big  frog  in  a  pond.  The 
idea  of  taking  a  rest  seemed  to  strike 
him  in  the  head  with  the  force  of  a  sledge 
hammer  and  fell  him  to  earth;  and  then 
he  would  deliberately  start  chewing  the 
cud.  When  he  did  this  you  could  not 
make  any  impression  or  have  any  influ- 
ence with  him  until  the  appointed  time 
had  come.  While  you  mauled  his  staunch 
carcass,  or  put  your  boot-heel  into  his 
strong  ribs,  or  prodded  him  with  the 
whipstock,  he  would  ruminate  in  holy 
quiet,  looking  out  upon  the  world  with  a 
mild  and  gentle  eye.  You  might  torture 
his  body  if  you  would;  you  could  not 
affect  his  inner  spirit.  He  had  retired 
within  himself  for  a  season;  he  had 


The  Story  of  Bully 


149 


duties  with  his  digestion.  In  this  posture 
he  had  a  distended  Falstaffian  paunch 
and  an  air  according : — "  Shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  my  furrow  ?  "  He  seemed 
to  have  taken  in  his  feelings  where  they 
would  be  out  of  harm's  way ;  and  I  have 
thought  sometimes  that  he  might  be  one 
of  those  who  believe  in  faith.  It  was 
strange  —  but  it  must  be  remembered 
that  a  much-used  ox  is  inured  to  hard 
usage  and  abuse. 

I  must  say,  however,  that  I  seldom 
disagreed  with  him.  How  could  any  one 
differ  with  him  —  to  his  face  ?  His  eyes 
were  murkily  blue;  and  looking  into  his 
honest  face  I  could  only  wonder  how  it 
was,  anyway,  that  a  black  Spanish  bull 
could  see  his  way  to  be  so  obliging.  He 
was  indeed  innocent  to  be  so  unsophisti- 
cated of  his  great  strength ;  his  obedience 
was  a  flattery.  You  could  buy  his  affec- 
tion for  a  mere  corn  nubbin,  which  he 
would  reduce  in  his  mill  of  a  mouth,  — 
husk,  kernel,  and  cob;  and  all  the  time 
he  would  regard  things  with  a  doe-like 
eye  and  the  tears  standing  out  on  his 
nose.  Jeff,  when  he  had  him,  was  seldom 
disgruntled  by  this  habit;  he  regarded  it 
as  a  mark  of  brains  in  the  steer;  and 
being  himself  a  philosopher,  he  would 
take  a  chew,  following  the  wheeler's 
example,  and  loaf  on  the  seat.  When  the 
time  was  fulfilled,  Bully  would  arise  vol- 
untarily, and  then  he  would  be  good  for 
any  amount  of  balk  and  battle.  I  think 
it  would  have  gone  hard  with  any  other 
ox  that  tried  to  do  that.  But  Bully  had 
to  have  his  sacred  rest;  and  it  is  never 
good  policy  to  have  a  falling  out  with 
your  wheeler. 

In  a  cold  blow  —  a  dry  norther  —  an 
ox  is  the  best  of  all  walking  companions. 
A  dry  norther  is  a  sunny,  sweaty  day  in 
Texas,  and  then  a  change  that  makes  you 
feel  as  if  somebody  had  suddenly  stepped 
into  the  north  and  left  the  door  open. 
It  remains  clear  and  sunny;  the  cold  is 
entirely  in  the  wind ;  and  so,  on  the  south 
side  of  anything  it  is  as  warm  as  ever. 
You  can  take  your  choice  of  climate;  a 
walk  around  a  haystack  is  like  circum- 


navigating the  globe.  It  usually  catches 
you  when  you  are  out  on  the  shelterless 
prairie  with  your  coat  (if  you  have  one) 
at  the  other  end  of  a  long  furrow;  and 
with  the  sweat  upon  you,  you  shiver  and 
chatter.  Here  is  where  you  take  to  the 
lee-side  of  your  wheeler  and  walk  along 
with  him,  stooping  down  in  complete 
refuge  from  the  cold.  I  have  often  been 
glad  that  an  ox  is  not  a  long-legged,  high- 
up  horse  that  the  wind  can  blow  through. 
He  is  not  only  a  windbreak  but  a  whole 
broadside  of  animal  warmth;  he  is  both 
cosiness  and  company;  he  is  a  perfect 
breastwork  as  you  stalk  against  Boreas, 
with  your  hand  resting  on  his  tough  neck 
or  grasping  his  warm  horn.  Nowhere,  in 
mere  walled  warmth  or  kitchen  comfort, 
is  there  this  same  sense  of  refuge  and 
shelter  —  of  contrast  between  the  warmth 
within  and  the  cold  without;  it  contains 
the  secret  of  human  gratitude. 

And  here,  by  way  of  apology,  I  must 
remark  that  this  closeness  of  mine  to  the 
wheeler  —  this  unavoidable  relation  of 
"brother  to  the  ox  " — must  be  my  excuse 
for  writing  in  this  vein  of  bestial  intimacy. 
Even  now  I  can  feel  the  cold  wind  whisk- 
ing past  the  edge  of  his  dewlap  that  hung 
down  like  a  thick  curtain  —  his  portiere 
if  you  please.  For  half  a  day  at  a  time  I 
have  gone  back  and  forth  hugging  Bully, 
cold  on  the  up  furrow  and  warm  on  the 
down,  till  finally  the  sun,  all  too  slowly, 
went  down  like  a  big  red  wafer  and  set 
its  seal  upon  the  day. 

More  and  more  every  year  we  are  be- 
coming a  nation  of  travelers.  To  those 
who  would  travel  for  both  pleasure  and 
profit  I  can  say  a  good  word  for  plough- 
ing. It  recommends  itself  to  people  in 
whatever  circumstances,  and  for  deeply 
founded  reasons.  When  a  man  travels 
for  pleasure  he  is  likely  to  put  himself 
at  the  task  of  enjoyment;  when  he  is 
traveling  to  a  destination,  his  journey 
is  all  a  wait  —  his  business  with  the  land- 
scape is  to  leave  it  behind;  and  I  think 
it  will  be  generally  admitted  that  the  cul- 
minating pleasure  of  a  trip  is  in  the 
arrival.  Travels  are  more  useful  in  the 


150 


The  Story  of  Bully 


reminiscence,  the  fond  memory,  than  in 
the  actual  experience.  Now,  in  ploughing 
prairie  with  a  sulky,  you  have  the  greatest 
of  all  human  privileges,  to  loaf  at  work ; 
and  your  outfit  comes  at  every  step  to 
the  object  of  your  going.  Your  journey 
is  all  arrival.  It  does  not  break  in  upon 
one's  time  at  all ;  it  exhilarates  the  cogi- 
tations like  fishing  or  whittling;  and  by 
covering  the  ground  so  many  times  a 
man  becomes  thoughtful  and  thorough. 
It,  more  than  anything  else,  makes  think- 
ing quite  respectable,  giving  it  that  seem- 
ing remove  from  idleness  that  keeps  the 
neighbors  from  talking;  it  cultivates  the 
gift  of  remembering;  it  is  altogether  the 
best  mode  of  travel. 

In  the  choice  of  motive  power,  allow 
me  to  suggest  the  ox.  The  horse  leans 
forward  to  pull,  and  even  helps  himself 
along  by  bobbing  his  head;  he  jerks  a 
load  out  of  a  hard  place  by  plunging 
bodily  against  the  collar,  stopping  and 
lunging  again ;  he  strains  through  a  hard 
place  and  then  starts  suddenly  forward 
at  his  release;  he  works  himself  into  a 
lather ;  and  you,  if  you  are  the  right  kind 
of  a  person,  cannot  help  feeling  for  him 
and  assisting  him  with  inward  stress  and 
strain. 

The  ox  does  not  bob  a  horn.  He  sim- 
ply journeys,  and  the  load  goes  along. 
When  he  comes  to  a  tough  place  his 
pasterns  do  not  bend  down;  he  does  not 
squat  to  pull ;  he  does  not  pinch  along  on 
the  toes  of  his  shoes;  he  seldom  blows, 
and  he  does  not  know  how  to  sweat.  He 
does  not  exert  himself  at  a  patch  of 
woven  soil  and  then  hurry  up  when  he 
is  past  it.  The  chain  becomes  stiffer  and 
the  yoke  sits  solider  to  his  neck,  and  that 
is  all;  there  is  no  sign  of  effort.  The 
earth  may  grit  its  teeth  and  crunch  as 
it  swallows  the  plough,  but  the  ox  stalks 
on  his  way.  With  the  share  deep  or 
shallow,  or  lifted  entirely  and  hanging 
from  the  axle.  —  whether  he  is  ploughing 
earth  or  air,  —  it  makes  no  difference  to 
him.  His  most  ponderous  task  is  still 
himself,  and  he  heeds  no  incidentals. 

He  is  out  for  a  stroll ;  he  does  not  allow 


work  to  interfere  with  the  even  tenor  of 
his  way.  His  tendons  are  rigged  to  his 
outstanding  rump-bones  like  so  much 
spar  and  tackle,  and  he  goes  along  by 
interior  leverage;  inside  his  old-woman 
hulk  is  the  necessary  enginework,  and  he 
will  neither  go  slower  for  this  thing  nor 
faster  for  that.  There  is  much  about  him 
besides  his  disposition  that  is  self-con- 
tained; he  is  the  antithesis  of  the  auto- 
mobile. To  ride  on  his  back  is  a  cure  for 
the  indigestion;  to  ride  behind  him  is  a 
rest  for  the  mind;  a  course  of  ox  is  an 
antidote  for  the  ills  of  the  times. 

The  steadiness  of  ox-ploughing  is  like 
sailing  the  prairie  —  out  of  sight  of  wood 
and  water,  and  the  earth  curling  up 
before  your  prow.  A  streak  of  wire-grass 
giving  way  bitterly  beneath  you  gives  the 
machine  a  tremor  that  imbues  you  with  a 
sense  of  power  —  like  an  engine  below 
decks.  You  are  on  a  seat  of  the  mighty. 
The  yellow  medlarks  hurry  along  in  your 
wake,  keeping  close  to  the  opening  fur- 
row, steadfast  as  porpoises.  The  breeze, 
tempered  by  an  ocean  of  flowering  prai- 
rie, cocks  the  brim  of  your  sombrero  as 
you  sail  along,  close  to  the  wind.  You 
sit  on  your  seat  and  have  a  general  dis- 
position to  let  the  world  revolve. 

I  could,  if  I  had  a  mind,  write  an 
excellent  tribute  to  the  ox,  but  all  he 
needs  is  a  record  of  facts.  In  the  matter 
of  primal  motive  power,  it  was  he  that 
founded  this  United  States.  In  the  two 
great  transmigrations  of  our  people  west- 
ward, what  jeopardy  of  life  and  limb  has 
instantly  rested  on  his  sturdy  neck  — 
over  the  Alleghanies,  over  the  Rockies, 
over  the  deathful  desert,  over  the  steep 
Sierras.  In  that  great  outpouring  from 
New  England  that  began  about  1817, 
the  ox,  as  usual,  pulled  forward  and  held 
back  mightily  on  the  mountain-side  and 
laid  down  his  bones  for  humanity.  It 
was  he  who  took  our  multitudinous  an- 
cestor from  his  old  onion  farm  at  Weth- 
ersfield  and  hauled  him  with  his  house- 
hold to  the  Little  Miami;  and  there 
he  again  assumed  the  role  of  prairie 
"  buster,"  opening  up  the  more  generous 


The  Story  of  Bully 


151 


bosom  of  nature.  Again,  in  the  days  of 
'49,  he  took  up  the  trail ;  and  the  history 
of  that  exodus  was  writ  across  the  con- 
tinent in  the  bones  of  oxen.  Where  is 
deeper  reading  than  this  —  the  bones  of 
two  or  three  yoke  lying  where  they  fell, 
and  across  their  skeleton  necks  the  heavy 
beams  all  strung  along  on  a  chain  that 
would  move  a  freight  train.  It  stands  for 
departed  strength  in  a  fight  to  the  finish. 
It  means  that  the  motive  power  ran  out 
of  water. 

And  having  twice  subdivided  our 
people,  cutting  them  almost  entirely  off 
from  each  other  in  the  railroadless  days, 
the  ox  did  his  part,  along  with  horse 
and  mule,  to  bring  them  together  again. 
In  1863,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  bat- 
tle of  New  Orleans,  they  began  a  mem- 
orable work.  On  the  mountain-sides  of 
California  a  thousand  axes  began  to 
swing  and  there  was  a  roaring  of  twen- 
ty-five saw-mills  —  a  reaping  and  thresh- 
ing of  trees.  The  mountain  groaned  as 
it  brought  forth  a  railroad.  The  oxen 
strained  down  the  mountain-side  with 
logs  for  the  ties ;  they  kept  the  Chinamen 
supplied  with  rails  and  ties  a  hundred 
miles  in  advance. 

Eighteen  months  after  this,  eighteen 
thousand  men  (mostly  soldiers)  arrived 
at  Omaha  with  three  thousand  teams. 
They  were  starting  the  other  end  of  the 
railroad ;  and  the  two  halves  would  finally 
match  the  ends  of  their  rails  in  Utah. 
Omaha  was  not  connected  by  railroad 
with  any  other  place ;  they  could  not  haul 
supplies  with  locomotives;  but  Chicago 
was  building  towards  it.  Ahead  of  them 
was  a  stretch  of  a  thousand  miles  with 
but  one  tree  upon  it ;  and  then  the  plains 
again.  The  teams  brought  material  and 
locomotives  from  one  or  two  hundred 
miles;  they  hauled  the  first  locomotives 
to  the  starting-place  and  set  them  or  their 
feet,  as  it  were;  and  then  ransacked  six 
states  and  territories  for  more  material. 
Right  here  the  ox,  as  a  long-haul  ma- 
chine, handed  over  his  task  to  the  loco- 
motive forever.  When  the  ox  once  has 
the  machinery  of  "  civilization  "  a-going 


he  is  needed  no  more;  he  is  turned  loose 
and  forgotten.  Nevertheless  it  was  he 
that  started  the  country,  for  he  is  the 
father  of  having  and  hauling.  Tribute! 
The  ox  would  not  know  what  to  make 
of  such  a  thing.  You  may  work  him  all 
day  and  then  kick  him  out  to  graze  all 
night;  you  may  use  him  to  found  society 
and  then  kick  him  out  of  history.  It  is 
only  left  for  us  to  try  to  realize  the  his- 
tory of  our  country,  even  as  seen  through 
the  medium  of  an  animal.  All  hail,  say  I, 
the  traction  engine  of  our  forefathers, 
the  four-stomached,  short-levered,  grass- 
consuming,  self-supporting  ox. 

For  the  purpose  of  the  philosopher, 
the  thinker,  ox-driving  is  all  it  should  be ; 
it  is  equal  to  the  fishing  of  the  Cleve- 
landean  school  of  meditation.  There 
is  little  interruption  of  one's  train  of 
thought;  and  while  all  such  practices 
make  call  for  their  vices,  as  lying  and 
swearing,  this  needs  only  an  idle  vocifera- 
tion that  means  little  and  comes  as  a 
matter  of  habit.  And  in  the  absence  of 
line  or  bridle,  there  is  naught  to  do  but 
sit  on  the  seat  through  long,  slow  fur- 
rows and  keep  on  in  one's  way  of  think- 
ing; there  is  none  of  the  distraction  of 
newspapers  and  books  and  lectures  to 
keep  one  from  thinking.  Of  the  two 
primitive  vocations,  sheep-herding  was 
the  school  of  the  prophet.  But  prairie 
busting  with  a  sulky  plough  is  the  natural 
chair  of  philosophy.  The  former  is  pro- 
ductive of  the  expansive,  vacuous  specu- 
lations, the  iteration  of  the  metaphysical, 
mystical  Baa  (sometimes  spelled  B.  A.) ; 
but  the  latter,  on  the  substantial  iron 
seat,  is  the  natural  ruminator  of  definite 
human  fact.  WThen  a  man  has  long  been 
in  an  attitude  of  thought,  as  if  he  were 
chewing  the  cud  of  things  and  digesting 
the  world  at  leisure,  the  world,  no  doubt, 
has  a  right  to  ask  him  what  he  has 
thought.  In  view  of  this  it  has  often 
seemed  to  me  that  some  one  should  print 
the  main  points  of  the  Bovine  Philoso- 
phy. It  includes  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  things  as  seen  by  our  American 
form  of  the  Man  with  the  Ho, 


152 


The  Story  of  Bully 


I  shall  beghi  by  reminding  the  world 
of  the  three  stages  of  society  —  the  pas- 
toral, the  agricultural,  and  the  metro- 
politan, with  especial  reference  to  the 
United  States.  In  the  first  stage,  the  cow- 
man and  the  sheep-man  occupy  the  land 
in  a  nomadic  way,  and  fight  each  other 
for  what  they  call  their  rights,  the  cow- 
man objecting  to  the  sheep  because  they 
crop  grass  too  close,  and  cut  it  up  with 
their  sharp  hoofs,  thus  spoiling  the  range. 
The  "  cowboy  "  is  usually  the  aggressor, 
calling  the  other  the  Locust  of  the  West; 
and  in  their  fights  the  shepherd  is  often, 
to  the  surprise  of  many,  the  better  man. 
He  can  fight  with  a  fanatic  frenzy  pe- 
culiar to  those  who  lead  the  life  of  the 
prophet. 

The  cowboy  has  been  much  misrepre- 
sented as  a  "character;"  the  genuine 
ones  are  seriously  engaged  in  a  trade 
which  takes  some  time  to  learn,  and  it 
is  a  matter  of  business  with  them.  Even 
more  of  a  character  than  these  men 
is  the  wild  cow  with  her  strange  notions. 
Never  having  had  occasion  to  think 
otherwise,  she  has  an  idea  that  man  and 
horse  are  one  animal  —  she  believes  in 
centaurs,  and  considers  them  proper. 
One  time  I  dismounted  in  mid-range  to 
my  own  legs,  and  was  observed  of  a  cow 
with  a  calf.  She  saw  me  do  it.  Imagine 
her  feelings  to  see  her  centaur  divide 
itself  into  two  parts  and  act  like  that! 
She  immediately  felt  it  her  duty  to  kill 
off  such  a  miscarriage  of  nature;  and 
while  she  would  run  from  me  on  four  legs 
she  now  ran  at  me.  I  clapped  myself  on 
my  horse  again  just  in  time  to  avoid  a 
horn;  and  she  kept  brandishing  at  me 
as  I  loped  away.  Such  is  the  truly  wild 
cow;  she  can  run  like  a  horse,  and  will 
fight  upon  occasion;  and  she  can  dodge 
a  great  deal  easier  than  a  horse.  This  is 
where  the  cowboy's  hardest  riding  comes 
in,  for  it  is  his  business  to  outdodge  her 
—  to  drive  her  where  he  wishes  her  to  be. 
In  the  quintessence  of  his  calling  he  is 
the  artful  dodger  of  the  plains ;  and  from 
this  comes  the  peculiarity  of  his  long- 
stirrup  riding,  and  all  that  makes  his 


menage  really  different  from  that  of  other 
horsemen. 

In  this  stage  of  affairs  there  comes 
trailing  over  the  horizon  a  Jeff  Ben- 
son, his  bull- whip  in  his  hand,  his  chain 
clanking  against  the  tongue  of  his 
plough-carriage.  He  is  "  full  of  strange 
oaths ; "  he  threatens  his  chain-gang  at 
regular  intervals;  he  cracks  his  whip 
explosively  and  then  subsides  on  his  seat 
as  peaceful  as  any  fisherman.  A  gentle- 
man fly-caster  cannot  surpass  him  with 
the  pole  and  line,  for  though  he  casts  no 
flies  he  can  reach  out  and  knock  a  fly 
q^the  ear  of  his  near  leader.  He  is  come 
to  make  a  farm  for  a  German ;  and  from 
this  time  the  nomads  must  prepare  them- 
selves to  civilize  or  move  back.  And  what 
is  the  new  ploughman  driving  ?  A  string 
of  those  very  cattle  of  the  plains. 

This  first  of  all  ploughmen  never  ap- 
pears with  horses  —  always  with  cattle. 
This  is  in  the  nature  of  things.  In  the 
natural  state  of  things,  where  there  are 
as  yet  no  corn  and  oats,  the  horse  has 
stunted  endurance  but  not  muscular 
weight.  As  the  draught  horse  is  not  only 
bred,  but  more  truly  made,  out  of  corn 
and  oats,  he  may  be  said  to  be  created  by 
the  ox.  The  horse  finds  enough  nourish- 
ment, strength,  in  the  grass,  to  get  him- 
self, and  rides  nimbly  over  it,  and  that  is 
all  that  is  needed  of  him.  But  the  ox  has 
four  stomachs  —  a  large,  economic  diges- 
tive plant.  He  can  do  the  heavy  work; 
and,  because  he  has  this  thoroughness 
with  what  he  eats,  he  can  even  lie  down 
in  the  furrow  at  noon  and  eat  the  dinner 
he  has  brought  along  in  his  anatomical 
lunch-basket.  He  is  no  trouble,  no  ex- 
pense, has  more  power,  and  he  does  not 
pull  things  to  pieces  with  sudden  jerks. 
And  so  he  is  the  one  who  does  the  work 
in  the  cornless,  oatless  state  of  affairs. 
Once  he  has  done  that  tough  task  with 
the  woven  sward,  conditions  are  changed, 
and  he  does  not  get  the  benefit  of  the 
series  of  crops  he  has  started.  The  horse 
can  keep  the  fallow  field  in  order.  The 
horse  and  the  mule  are  preferred  by  a 
more  adroit  civilization;  and  so  they 


The  Story  of  Bully 


153 


come  to  eat  his  oats  and  be  what  he  has 
made  them.  The  streets  of  Chicago  used 
to  be  filled  with  oxen.  And  where  are 
the  oxen  now? 

After  the  cowboy,  the  steer  has  a  new 
master.  For  this  new  master,  tied  on 
behind,  to  make  him  go  in  any  general 
direction  is  comparatively  easy,  seeing 
that  the  steer  is  still  a  dodger.  Jeff  can 
throw  his  whip  out  this  side  or  that  and 
regulate  the  course.  But  to  stop  a  steer 
—  that  is  the  question !  The  cowboy  has 
to  trip  him  up  with  the  lasso  —  throw 
him  bodily.  And  to  perform  with  him 
the  parallel  furrows  of  the  field  —  that 
is  still  another  question.  Of  course,  if 
the  ox  were  obedient  he  would  stop  when 
you  told  him  or  pulled  on  a  rope.  He 
would  have  to  be  thoroughly  domesti- 
cated for  that;  and  a  new  country  can 
hardly  halt  civilization  until  a  whole 
army  of  steers  are  somehow  tamed  and 
educated.  Here  was  a  problem  in  ani- 
mal psychology  and  practical  politics  for 
the  ox-driver  to  solve.  The  solution  of 
it  is  that  a  bull  is  "  bull-headed,"  and 
can  hold  back  powerfully;  and  so  one 
animal  that  has  been  trained  according 
to  his  nature  will  serve  to  handle  a  whole 
string. 

Let  us  follow  Jeff  to  work.  He  is 
ploughing  "  around  "  a  field,  putting  a 
furrow  down  one  side  of  a  strip,  crossing 
over  and  coming  up  the  other  side;  and 
so  on  till  his  furrows  meet  in  the  middle 
and  he  is  done.  At  the  end  of  a  furrow  his 
wheeler  holds  back  and  makes  himself 
an  immovable  pivot,  while  the  string  is 
whipped  around  to  cross  over  to  the 
other  furrow ;  and  having  arrived  exactly 
at  it  the  wheeler  sits  back  again,  and 
they  are  brought  around  accurately  in 
the  furrow.  It  is  as  if  he  had  a  corner 
of  his  team  firmly  fastened  until  such 
time  as  the  other  end  was  pushed  around 
just  right.  Without  the  sitting  back  of 
the  wheeler,  the  whip  could  only  accom- 
plish an  erratic  scrawl  with  the  plough. 
But  with  this  restraint  upon  them  the 
driver  has  time  to  do  fine  work.  Thus  in 
ox-driving,  as  in  the  other  arts,  success 


does  not  depend  merely  upon  power,  but 
also  upon  restraint. 

It  is  the  near  or  left  wheeler  that  is 
the  principal  pivot,  because  in  this  coun- 
try we  plough  around  land  to  the  left,  not 
to  the  right  as  they  do  in  England.  We 
rebelled  against  their  way  of  ploughing. 

Thus  your  primitive  team  is  founded 
with  one  word,  "wo;"  and  that  under- 
stood by  but  one  ox.  The  ox-language 
now  begins  to  grow.  After  hard  experi- 
ence the  leaders  begin  to  observe  that 
when  the  word  is  spoken  they  are  whipped 
around  to  the  left;  and  then,  anticipating 
the  lash,  they  hurry  to  the  left  of  their 
own  accord.  You  take  them  at  their  word, 
and  soon  are  addressing  them  direct. 
The  word  "wo,"  that  formerly  meant 
"  stop,"  has  now  changed  its  meaning 
by  usage  and  means  "  turn  to  the  left." 

You  want  your  other  wheeler  to  hold 
back  also  in  emergency,  and  especially 
in  turning  to  the  right  on  a  road ;  and  for 
him  to  stop  you  have  a  word  with  a 
different  vowel  sound  —  "  back."  He 
knows  that  for  his  own.  Finally  the  lead- 
ers learn  that  this  means  to  turn  to  the 
right;  and  it  comes  to  be  their  word  for 
right.  Thus  it  is  that  in  a  new  part  of 
the  country,  as  in  Texas  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  there  were  "  wo-back"  oxen 
— and  the  English  language  seemed  to  be 
contradicting  itself.  Leaders  would  hurry 
to  the  left  or  right  at  the  words  "wo"  or 
"back."  And  then  they  learned  their 
names  —  and  a  more  general  and  vocif- 
erous "  wo  "  would  bring  them  all  to  a 
stop  without  the  work  of  the  wheeler. 
But  you  were  ploughing  from  the  first. 
Like  all  earlier  languages,  it  was  one  of 
fewer  words  and  more  inflections. 

Here  "gee"  and  "haw"  become  of 
interest,  together  with  the  usual  "wo" 
and  "back,"  which  we  all  understand 
the  meaning  of.  To  the  dictionary, 
"gee"  and  "haw"  —  terms  we  inher- 
ited from  England  —  are  a  mystery  in 
their  origin.  It  is  said  that  possibly 
"gee"  comes  from  "  gee-off,"  meaning 
to  go  away,  as  the  leaders  do  when 
they  turn.  But  that  is  simply  saying  that 


154 


The  Story  of  Bully 


"  gee  "  means  "  gee  " — hardly  an  explana- 
tion. The  fact  is  that  it  came  to  us  from 
times  so  remote  that  the  origin  is  lost. 
Now  the  clue  to  this  could  never  be  had 
by  watching  "gee-haw"  oxen,  for  a  very 
good  reason.  They  are  domesticated  ox- 
en; and  domesticated  oxen  are  broken 
one  at  a  time  by  putting  a  young  steer  in 
a  team  and  having  him  hauled  about  till 
he  knows  the  whole  vocabulary,  by  force. 
It  is  simply  handed  down  from  ox  to  ox. 
The  Texas  team  I  knew  understood  ordi- 
nary English  in  a  way  different  from  its 
meaning;  and  the  oxen  of  British  lineage 
understand  an  English  that  we  do  not 
know  the  original  meaning  of  at  all. 

This  seems  to  explain  the  mystery  of 
"gee"  and  "haw."  Were  they  not  the 
words  addressed  to  the  near  wheelers 
away  back  in  the  beginnings  of  England  ? 
Does  not  "haw"  sound  like  "ho,"  from 
the  lantern-jawed  dialect  of  an  English 
yeoman?  To  a  primitive  team,  as  we 
have  seen,  "ho"  would  come  to  mean 
left,  when  used  in  their  wild  state.  And  as 
"haw"  means  left,  to  everybody,  I  think 
it  was  originally  only  "  ho."  "  Gee  " 
might  have  been  "  gee-ap  "  —  a  corrup- 
tion of  "  get  up  "  as  spoken  to  the  near 
wheeler,  just  as  you  had  them  whipped 
around. 

However,  I  do  not  know  anything  about 
it  —  I  am  simply  trying  to  help  the  dic- 
tionary out  of  its  difficulty,  it  not  having 
had  enough  experience  with  oxen.  I 
know  nothing  about  oxen  except  in  the 
primitive  state,  when  nothing  was  in- 
herited from  former  generations;  and  it 
is  this  I  am  telling  about  particularly. 
And  such  was  the  genesis  of  bread  and 
butter;  for  before  the  cow  furnished  but- 
ter she  had  to  provide  the  bread  to  put  it 
on.  So  endeth  the  Bovine  Philosophy. 

Except,  of  course,  one  were  to  view 
the  matter  curiously,  poetically.  On  this 
matter  one  might  write  a  volume  of  his- 
tory and  speculation.  The  ox,  John- 
sonian as  he  is,  has  never  had  his  Bos- 
well.  Clothes  have  had  their  philosophy 
in  Carlyle,  but  not  the  cow.  No  seer  has 
arisen  to  expound  the  original  labor- 


saver  of  this  steel-armed,  reciprocal, 
thrust-and-pull,  wheel-filled  whirl  and 
grind  of  to-day. 

Because  of  woman's  first  desire,  man 
received  the  curse;  and  having  her  he 
had  so  much  that  he  had  to  live  on  one 
spot.  At  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
set  to  work;  and  he  soon  looked  about 
for  a  way  to  put  the  work  on  other  shoul- 
ders. Consider  him  sitting  tired  and  dis- 
couraged by  his  first  garden-patch,  view- 
ing the  stream  as  so  much  power  running 
to  waste,  and  the  beasts  so  much  more 
muscular  than  he.  And  then  his  mighty 
resolve  as  he  threw  down  the  spade  and 
decided  to  labor  by  proxy.  See  him  as 
he  views  the  woof  and  warp  of  the 
sward  while  woman  waits  hopefully  for 
him  to  produce  society  out  of  the  clay. 
Imagine  him  in  his  first  inexperienced 
essays  with  the  bull  —  what  wrecks  and 
wrestlings  with  the  wild  bull !  I  can  see, 
myself,  how  they  ran  away  with  him 
across  a  whole  township  of  Eden,  and 
finally  left  him  sitting  in  the  hoof -marked 
muck  of  a  distant  watering-hole.  There 
they  had  spilled  him. 

And  whilst  they  stand  peacefully  and 
lave  their  bellies  in  the  drink,  he  sits  there 
and  takes  thought.  He  studies  out  the 
bull's  little  weaknesses;  and  lo,  he  con- 
ceives the  idea  of  the  wheeler.  I  can  see 
the  satisfaction  come  out  on  his  face  to 
sun  itself.  Straightway  he  comes  forth 
with  the  full-rigged  team;  and  he  goes 
and  performs  the  engraved  field.  He  can 
back  and  tack  and  do  all  evolutions  — 
with  whip  and  wheeler  it  is  like  paddle 
and  rudder;  there  is  no  runaway  now. 
He  can  plough  with  never  an  idle  scribble 
or  scrawl  on  the  face  of  nature.  He 
thinks  he  has  circumvented  the  curse; 
he  has  taken  Bos  from  his  meditations 
and  become  boss  himself.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  motive  power;  and  when 
it  came  to  hauling  stone  and  timber  for 
his  first  dam  or  windmill,  then  was  the 
ox  his  true  helpmeet. 

But  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  ox  has 
not  had  his  life  written.  The  three  stages 
of  society  are  more  or  less  permanent, 


The  Story  of  Bully 


155 


and  lie  is  used  only  at  the  beginning  of 
one;  his  appearance  is  but  momentary 
when  he  gives  the  new  order  of  things 
its  first  shove. 

This  Bully  owed  his  fine  form,  and  his 
position  among  his  fellows,  to  a  piece  of 
good  fortune  that  befell  him  in  infancy. 
When  he  was  a  calf  he  was  missed  in  the 
spring  round-up.  Thus  he  was  spared 
the  branding,  the  weaning,  and  all  that 
befalls  a  young  bull  who  is  not  fine  enough 
in  breeding  to  become  a  sire  of  the  herd. 
His  mother  was  a  black  Spanish  cow  that 
had  got  up  into  that  part  of  Texas  from 
Mexico;  and  I  think  she  must  have  been 
related  to  heroes  of  the  bull-ring,  for 
Bully  looked  the  part  exactly.  His  father 
was  half  Durham,  and  so  he  got  his  short 
symmetrical  horns.  Having  been  missed 
in  the  spring  round-up,  he  took  all  ad- 
vantage of  a  most  affectionate  mother. 
She  let  him  nuzzle  at  her  far  beyond  the 
usual  time;  and  so,  on  a  mingled  diet  of 
milk  and  grass,  he  filled  out  with  the  full 
physique  of  a  bull.  When  the  riders 
found  him  out,  in  the  fall,  he  was  still 
following  his  mother  about;  and  it  was  a 
fine  sight  to  see  a  neat  black  cow  with 
so  flourishing  a  child.  He  was  almost  as 
big  as  she,  and  just  as  strong ;  it  was  hard 
work  to  upset  him  by  horn  and  jaw  to 
brand  him.  He  was  evidently  intended 
for  a  near  wheeler.  Jeff  took  hold  of  him 
as  soon  as  he  was  used  to  the  yoke. 

Even  in  a  story  of  civilization,  it  is 
necessary,  I  suppose,  to  tell  what  became 
of  the  hero.  In  the  course  of  time  he  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a  man  who  had  no  more 


work  for  him;  and  seeing  that  he  was  be- 
coming older  and  tougher  every  day  he 
was  hurried  away  to  Chicago.  There  they 
put  him  through  the  system  —  hair  for 
plaster,  horn  for  the  Japanese  to  carve, 
soles  for  shoes  and  the  high  heels  of 
beauty,  combs  for  ladies'  hair,  fertilizer, 
imitation  butter,  lily-of-the- valley  soap, 
more  gew-gaws  than  Little  Buttercup 
ever  peddled.  No  doubt  some  of  his  tough 
hide  became  harness;  and  some  of  that 
worn-out  harness  is  still  hinges  on  corn- 
cribs,  after  so  many  years. 

In  Chicago  there  was  an  old  Judas 
bull  that  was  trained  to  lead  the  herds 
across  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  I  have  seen 
him,  and  I  have  thought  how  the  near 
wheeler,  in  all  the  innocence  and  honesty 
of  his  heart,  followed  the  crowd  across 
that  stilted  runway.  Inside  there  is  a 
stall;  and  above  the  stall  is  a  board  on 
which  a  man  stands  with  a  sledge  — at 
just  the  right  height  for  the  sledge  to 
come  down  right  on  the  star  in  the  middle 
of  each  forehead.  All  day  the  man  works, 
as  if  he  were  breaking  stone  or  driving 
railroad  spikes;  and  he  fells  herd  after 
herd.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  tragic;  but 
standing  before  that  stall  I  have  felt  like 
writing  on  it,  "Here  fell  Bully,  the  father 
of  his  country."  It  must  be  remembered 
that  I  knew  him  well,  Horatio.  They 
made  beef  of  him  —  and  used  the  rest 
for  the  by-product.  But  I'll  wager  "  a 
dollar  and  a  quarter  "  they  never  con- 
quered that  callous  bull  neck  of  his. 
They  never  made  charity  soup  out  of 
that. 


POLITICAL   CAMPAIGNING  IN  ENGLAND   AND 

AMERICA 

BY   EDWARD   PORRITT 


AMERICANS  admittedly  are  much  more 
frequently  at  the  polls  than  Englishmen. 
In  municipal,  state,  and  federal  elections 
they  mark  at  least  ten  ballot  papers  for 
the  Englishman's  one;  for  nowadays, 
when  school  boards  in  England  are  no 
longer  elected  by  direct  popular  vote,  an 
Englishman  is  seldom  called  upon  to 
mark  more  than  seven  ballots  in  the 
course  of  six  years.  He  may  be  called 
upon  once  a  year  to  vote  at  a  municipal 
election.  Parliamentary  general  elections 
occur  about  once  in  every  six  years ;  and 
when  a  city-dwelling  Englishman  has 
voted  for  the  member  of  the  municipal 
council  for  his  ward  and  for  the  member 
of  the  House  of  Commons  for  his  parlia- 
mentary constituency,  his  duties  as  re- 
gards voting  are  at  an  end.  He  is  never 
called  upon  to  vote  in  the  election  of 
mayor  or  alderman.  The  choice  of  these 
lies  exclusively  with  the  city  council. 
Elections  of  judges  are  unknown  in  Eng- 
land. All  judges,  whether  of  the  local 
police  court,  the  recorder's  court,  the 
county  court,  the  court  of  quarter  ses- 
sions, or  the  higher  courts  that  go  on 
circuit  or  sit  permanently  in  London,  are 
appointed  by  the  Crown,  on  the  nomina- 
tion of  the  Secretary  of  State  for  the 
Home  Department,  who  is  a  member  of 
the  Cabinet. 

Among  local  executive  officers,  muni- 
cipal auditors  are  about  the  only  officials 
who  are  elected  directly  by  popular  vote. 
All  other  municipal  officers  are  appointed 
by  the  city  council,  and  are  answerable 
to  the  city  council  for  the  faithful  dis- 
charge of  their  duties.  In  an  average 
period  of  six  years  in  a  constituency 
where  a  parliamentary  by-election  does 
not  occur,  and  in  a  ward  in  which  death 
or  resignation  causes  no  vacancy  on  the 

156 


municipal  council,  an  English  elector 
would  not  be  called  upon  to  vote  more 
than  seven  times  for  men  to  serve  his 
ward  or  his  parliamentary  constituency. 
The  probability  is  that  in  these  six  years 
the  English  elector  would  do  nothing 
more  than  reelect  his  representative, 
both  on  the  municipal  council  and  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  Municipal  coun- 
cilors are  reflected  again  and  again,  and 
are  not  infrequently  in  the  civic  service 
for  half  a  lifetime.  If  their  record  for 
efficiency  and  loyalty  to  municipal  work 
is  satisfactory  they  look  to  reelection, 
until  they  are  chosen  as  aldermen  by  the 
municipal  council,  and  occasion  for  popu- 
lar election  is  at  an  end. 

The  English  electoral  system,  muni- 
cipal and  parliamentary,  and  the  extra- 
constitutional  machinery  which  has  be- 
come necessary  to  its  easy  working, 
makes  infinitely  less  call  on  the  time  of 
Englishmen  than  does  the  electoral  sys- 
tem of  the  United  States  —  municipal, 
state,  and  federal  —  and  the  elaborate 
and  complicated  machinery  which  has 
long  been  necessary  to  its  working.  Yet 
while  this  is  so,  while  the  American 
spends  much  more  time  in  elections,  I 
think  it  will  be  conceded  by  any  one  who 
is  familiar  with  political  life  and  thought 
in  the  two  countries,  that  in  England  the 
general  level  of  popular  political  educa- 
tion, of  women  as  well  as  of  men,  is  much 
higher  than  it  is  in  the  United  States. 
Interest  in  politics  —  municipal  and  na- 
tional —  is  keener  and  more  continuous 
in  all  classes  of  society  than  it  is  in  this 
country ;  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  great  majority  of  the  parliamentary 
voters  to-day  have  possessed  the  right  to 
vote  only  since  1885. 

It  was  1867  before  workmen  living  in 


Political  Campaigning  in  England  and  America 


157 


the  parliamentary  boroughs  were  en- 
franchised; and  another  eighteen  years 
elapsed  before  agricultural  laborers  and 
miners  who  dwell  outside  of  the  larger 
municipalities  were  able  to  vote  for  mem- 
bers of  the  House  of  Commons.  The 
widespread  interest  in  national  politics 
in  England  seems  at  first  sight  all  the 
more  remarkable  when  it  is  remembered 
how  late  in  the  nineteenth  century  the 
working  classes  were  enfranchised.  But 
this  fact  in  itself  helps  to  explain  much 
of  the  present  popular  interest  in  politics. 
From  the  American  Revolution  to  1885 
there  was  never  a  time  in  England  when 
there  was  not  a  movement  on  foot  for  the 
parliamentary  enfranchisement  of  the 
working  classes;  and  the  interest  of  the 
working  classes  in  rural  and  urban  Eng- 
land in  politics  was  kept  alive  and  stimu- 
lated for  more  than  a  century  by  the 
piecemeal  fashion  in  which  the  parlia- 
mentary franchise  was  extended. 

Had  Grey  and  Russell  and  the  other 
Whig  leaders  who  constituted  the  ad- 
ministration of  1830-32,  made  the  par- 
liamentary franchise  in  1832  as  wide  and 
inclusive  as  it  is  to-day,  when  every  man 
out  of  the  workhouse  or  jail  can  exercise 
it  who  has  a  settled  abode,  it  is  probable 
that  to-day  there  would  be  less  popular 
interest  in  Parliament  and  its  proceed- 
ings. But  the  Whigs  of  1830-32  were 
cautious.  They  were  anxious  to  impair 
as  little  as  possible  the  political  power 
of  the  governing  classes  —  of  those  who 
had  ruled  England  since  the  Revolution 
of  1688.  Only  the  fairly  well-to-do  mid- 
dle classes  were  admitted  to  the  parlia- 
mentary franchise  by  the  Reform  Act  of 
1832;  and  the  royal  assent  had  scarcely 
been  given  to  that  famous  enactment 
before  there  was  begun  another  agita- 
tion for  the  extension  of  the  franchise  to 
the  working  classes.  Out  of  this  agita- 
tion developed  the  Chartist  movement; 
and  after  much  delay  came  the  Reform 
Act  of  1867.  This  applied  only  to  the 
larger  boroughs;  and  it  admitted  to 
the  franchise  the  working  classes  only  in 
those  constituencies.  The  artisan  in  ru- 


ral communities,  the  agricultural  labor- 
er and  the  miner,  were  left  by  the  Act 
of  1867  where  they  had  been  left  by  the 
Reform  Act  of  1832.  Nothing  was  done 
for  them ;  and  the  consequence  was  that 
there  was  soon  another  popular  agitation 
for  the  enfranchisement  of  the  working 
classes  in  rural  England. 

The  third  agitation  resulted  in  the 
Reform  Act  of  1885,  which  put  the  par- 
liamentary franchise  on  its  present  demo- 
cratic basis.  Thus  for  more  than  a  cen- 
tury there  was  an  almost  continuous 
agitation  for  the  extension  of  the  par- 
liamentary franchise.  During  all  these 
years  the  working  classes  were  interested 
in  Parliament  because  it  was  in  its  power 
to  bestow  on  them  a  right  which  they 
were  anxious  to  possess.  From  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution  to  the  Reform  Act  of 
1885  the  working  classes  were  looking  to 
Parliament  for  this  right.  They  were 
continuously  in  an  expectant  mood.  The 
attitude  of  Parliament  towards  parlia- 
mentary reform,  from  the  time  that  the 
question  was  first  brought  before  the 
House  of  Commons  by  Pitt,  in  1785,  to 
the  act  which  Gladstone  carried  through 
Parliament  in  1885,  was  of  direct  and 
personal  moment  to  them,  — a  fact  which 
served  to  give  them  a  keen  and  continu- 
ous interest  in  politics. 

Foreigners  visiting  England  towards 
the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  fre- 
quently noted  the  interest  of  the  working 
classes  in  politics,  and  the  zest  with 
which  politics  was  discussed.  This  in- 
terest of  the  working  classes  was  obvious 
even  in  the  days  when  the  stage-coach 
men  and  the  carriers  were  the  principal 
purveyors  of  news,  and  long  before  news- 
papers came  generally  into  service;  be- 
fore the  London  daily  and  weekly  news- 
papers, which  cost  seven  or  eight  pence 
a  copy,  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand 
until  they  were  so  thumbed  and  worn 
that  they  would  scarcely  hold  together. 
Even  after  newspapers  were  published 
at  a  cheaper  rate,  and  every  large  town 
had  its  daily,  weekly,  or  semi-weekly 
journal,  politics  —  national  and  munici- 


158 


Political  Campaigning  in  England  and  America 


pal  —  filled  most  of  the  newspaper  space ; 
for  it  was  not  until  the  eighties  of  last 
century  that  sport  began  to  obtain  its 
present  foothold  in  English  daily  and 
weekly  newspapers,  and  began  the  con- 
test with  politics  for  preeminence  and 
right-of-way  in  the  newspaper  world. 

Widespread  popular  interest  in  politics 
in  England  can  be  dated  at  least  as  far 
back  as  the  American  Revolution.  For 
more  than  a  century  this  interest  was 
intensified  by  each  new  agitation  for  par- 
liamentary reform,  and  with  each  exten- 
sion of  the  parliamentary  and  municipal 
franchise.  These  extensions  of  the  fran- 
chise, of  necessity,  involved  the  creation 
of  some  machinery  for  parliamentary  and 
municipal  elections.  But  the  machin- 
ery has  not  become  so  intricate  or  so 
elaborate  as  to  overshadow  the  elections, 
and  the  questions  and  principles  at  issue 
in  parliamentary  or  municipal  contests. 

There  has  not  grown  up  in  England, 
what  has  long  existed  in  this  country, 
one  small  and  interested  class  exclusively 
intent  on  working  the  electoral  machin- 
ery, and  another  and  enormously  larger 
class,  much  more  loosely  held  together, 
which  does  little  more  than  march  to  the 
polls  to  vote  for  the  men  whom  the 
smaller  and  more  interested  class  — 
really  the  governing  class  —  has  nomi- 
nated for  election.  Hence  the  wholly 
different  meaning  of  the  word  politician 
in  this  country  and  in  England.  In  this 
country  my  understanding  of  the  word 
politician  is  a  man  who  is  closely,  con- 
tinuously, and  actively  concerned  in  the 
working  of  the  machine,  or  who  holds 
an  office,  or  is  a  perpetual  candidate 
either  for  elective  or  appointive  office. 
The  word  has  no  such  narrow  signifi- 
cance in  England.  It  implies  a  man  or 
woman  who  is  interested  in  political  ques- 
tions and  principles,  —  who  is  a  student 
of  politics  in  this  wider  sense. 

There  are  many  men  in  this  country 
who  would  resent  being  described  as 
politicians;  who  would  regard  such  a 
designation  as  derogatory  to  their  dig- 
nity and  social  standing.  In  England 


no  man  or  woman  who  is  known  to 
be  interested  in  political  questions  would 
in  the  least  resent  being  spoken  of  as 
a  politician.  Few  English  people  to-day 
recall,  if  they  ever  knew,  Dr.  Arnold's 
dictum  that  the  desire  to  take  an  ac- 
tive share  in  the  great  work  of  gov- 
ernment is  the  highest  earthly  desire  of 
a  ripened  mind.  But  there  are  people 
beyond  count  in  England,  in  all  walks  of 
life,  with  whom  interest  in  politics  is  as 
intense  and  as  continuous  as  it  was  with 
Dr.  Arnold.  Tens  of  thousands  of  these 
people  have  no  expectation  of  ever  being 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  even  of  a 
municipal  council.  Politics  is  chiefly  an 
intellectual  interest  with  them,  put  into 
active  exercise  only  when  they  go  to  the 
polls.  But  no  man  or  woman  in  Eng- 
land ever  apologizes  for  being  a  politi- 
cian; just  as  no  one  in  this  country  ever 
apologizes  for  being  of  a  Browning  or  a 
Dante  society,  or  for  a  love  of  music. 

There  are,  and  there  must  be,  men  in 
England  who  are  actively  interested  in 
the  organization  and  working  of  the 
machinery  of  elections.  Registration  of 
voters  must  be  continuously  attended  to 
by  party  agents.  At  elections  the  vote 
must  be  got  out,  just  as  in  this  country. 
The  law,  however,  rigorously  limits  the 
number  of  men  who  can  be  engaged  for 
pay ;  and  there  are  practically  no  remun- 
erative offices,  either  in  the  national  or 
municipal  civil  service,  that  can  be  be- 
stowed as  rewards  upon  party  workers. 
These  workers,  paid  and  voluntary,  form 
but  an  infinitesimal  group  in  any  elec- 
torate; and  in  a  campaign,  whether  na- 
tional or  municipal,  much  less  reliance 
is  placed  upon  their  efforts  than  upon 
the  work  of  the  men  of  the  machine  at 
elections  in  this  country. 

An  election  in  England,  whether  for 
the  House  of  Commons  or  for  a  mu- 
nicipal council,  is  chiefly  an  educational 
campaign,  in  which  the  spoken  and  the 
printed  word  are  the  far-reaching  and 
all-powerful  weapons.  Every  candidate 
must  make  clear  to  the  constituency 
from  which  he  would  be  elected  the 


Political  Campaigning  in  England  and  America 


159 


principles  for  which  he  stands,  and  the 
policies  in  national  or  municipal  econ- 
omy which  he  advocates.  If  he  has 
been  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  is 
seeking  reelection,  he  must  justify  the 
votes  he  has  given  in  the  Parliament  that 
has  come  to  the  end  of  its  term,  and  also 
the  policies  of  the  government  which  he 
has  supported.  He  must  also  make  popu- 
larly and  generally  understood  the  meas- 
ures and  policies  he  is  prepared  to  sup- 
port in  the  event  of  his  return  to  the 
House  of  Commons. 

It  is  much  the  same  in  municipal  pol- 
itics. A  candidate  seeking  reelection  to  a 
municipal  council  must  give  an  account 
of  his  stewardship  during  his  three  years 
in  office,  and  must  also  inform  the  elect- 
ors of  his  ward  of  the  line  that  he  ex- 
pects to  take  in  the  ensuing  three  years' 
work  of  the  council. 

In  this  country,  except  for  the  cam- 
paign buttons  and  the  banners  that  are 
stretched  across  the  streets  — banners 
on  which  are  displayed  only  the  names 
of  the  party  and  its  candidates,  —  there 
are  usually  few  out-door  indications,  even 
in  a  presidential  year,  that  an  electoral 
canvass  is  in  progress.  In  an  English 
city  during  a  parliamentary  election, 
whether  a  general  election  or  a  by- 
election,  a  new-comer  could  not  get  half 
a  dozen  blocks  from  the  railway  station 
at  which  he  had  arrived  without  oppor- 
tunities of  ascertaining  who  were  the 
candidates,  what  claims  they  had  on  the 
suffrage  of  the  constituency,  and  what 
were  the  political  issues  on  which  the 
election  was  being  fought.  An  American 
who  should  arrive  in  Liverpool  during  a 
parliamentary  contest  could  fully  and 
accurately  inform  himself  on  all  these 
points  in  a  walk  from  the  landing-stage 
to  Exchange  or  Lime  Street  Station. 

The  printed  word,  in  its  largest  and 
most  outstanding  form,  still  survives  in 
English  electioneering,  in  all  its  glory  and 
splendor  of  coloring.  On  all  the  bill- 
boards, from  the  time  the  electoral  cam- 
paign begins  until  the  returning  officer's 
writ  is  in  the  possession  of  the  successful 


candidate,  are  the  portraits  of  the  candi- 
dates, the  addresses  of  the  candidates  to 
the  electors,  the  record  of  the  government 
that  is  seeking  a  renewal  of  its  lease  of 
power,  the  criticisms  of  that  record  by 
its  political  opponents,  and  the  promises 
of  the  party  that  is  seeking  to  dislodge 
the  government  and  to  take  its  place. 

All  other  advertising  disappears  from 
the  bill-boards  during  an  election.  The 
politicians  are  in  exclusive  possession. 
Proprietary-goods  men  and  other  trade 
advertisers  willingly  surrender  their  rights 
in  the  bill-boards;  for  they  know  that 
at  election  times  it  is  a  waste  of  good 
money  to  attempt  to  dispute  possession 
with  the  politicians.  For  two  weeks  the 
public  is  solely  occupied  with  politics; 
and  at  these  times  the  bill-board  has 
nearly  as  great  an  educational  value  as 
the  platform  or  the  newspaper  press. 
These  factors  in  an  election  are  used  as 
assiduously  as  the  bill-board.  So  is  the 
post-office;  but  the  bill-board,  while  it 
commands  the  attention  of  people  who 
read  the  newspapers,  attend  political 
meetings,  and  receive  electioneering  lit- 
erature by  mail,  also  reaches  people  who 
do  none  of  these,  and  in  this  way  all 
classes  in  the  community  are  brought 
within  the  influence  of  the  educational 
machinery  of  a  parliamentary  election. 

It  is  now  twenty-four  years  since  I 
first  went  through  a  presidential  election 
in  the  United  States.  It  was  my  first  visit 
to  the  United  States ;  but  even  yet  I  have 
not  got  over  my  surprise  at  the  complete 
absence  of  bill-board  electioneering  liter- 
ature hi  the  city  of  St.  Louis,  in  the 
Blaine-Cleveland  campaign  of  1884,  and 
at  the  meagreness  and  indefiniteness  of 
what  are  called  "  cards,"  that  were  issued 
by  congressional  and  state  candidates 
in  Missouri  at  that  election.  The  Eng- 
lish elector  expects  much  more  than  a 
card  from  his  parliamentary  candidate. 
He  knows  without  a  card  to  which  politi- 
cal party  a  candidate  belongs;  and  he 
expects  from  a  candidate  who  is  seeking 
his  vote  a  carefully  written  and  detailed 
manifesto  in  which  the  candidate  must 


160 


Political  Campaigning  in  England  and  America 


set  out  without  equivocation  his  position 
on  all  the  political  questions  which  at  the 
time  of  election  are  agitating  the  country. 
In  England  these  election  addresses 
from  individual  candidates,  as  they  ap- 
pear in  the  press,  frequently  run  to  three- 
quarters  of  a  column  in  newspaper  type 
and  measure.  They  are  additional  or 
supplementary  to  the  manifestoes  which 
are  issued  by  the  parliamentary  leaders 
of  the  several  political  parties. 

At  an  English  municipal  election,  pro- 
cedure is  much  the  same.  Each  candi- 
date for  the  municipal  council  issues  his 
election  manifesto.  It  is  published  in  the 
newspapers  and  on  the  bill-boards ;  and, 
as  is  the  case  with  the  parliamentary 
candidate,  he  elucidates  or  amplifies  it  at 
the  public  meetings  of  the  electors  which 
he  is  called  upon  to  address.  There  is 
no  such  far-reaching  educational  work  in 
most  municipal  elections  in  this  country. 

At  the  time  I  write  a  municipal  can- 
vass of  much  significance  is  in  progress 
in  my  home  city  of  Hartford.  But  the 
bill-boards  are  exclusively  occupied  by 
the  theatre  men,  and  the  proprietary- 
goods  advertisers;  and  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  in  print  a  signed  and  detailed 
electoral  address  from  either  of  the  can- 
didates who  are  in  the  contest  for  the 
mayoralty.  My  home  is  in  one  of  the 
largest  wards,  but  not  a  single  one  of  the 
five  Republican  candidates  for  the  city 
council  has  made  an  appearance  on  the 
platform  in  the  ward.  The  candidates 
were  nominated  at  a  party  caucus  which 
was  so  formal  and  perfunctory  that  all 
the  business  was  transacted  in  twelve 
minutes;  and  although  three  or  four  of 
the  candidates  were  seeking  reelection, 
not  one  of  them  thought  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  give  the  meeting  any  account  of 
his  stewardship,  or  any  indication  of  his 
attitude  towards  municipal  policies.  The 
candidates  did  not  even  stand  up  in  cau- 
cus to  allow  the  electors  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  men  who  were  ask- 
ing their  electoral  support. 

It  is  a  constant  complaint  from  the 
press  and  the  pulpit  of  this  country  that 


electors  are  indifferent  to  the  caucuses. 
The  complaint  is  at  least  as  old  as  my 
acquaintance  with  American  politics.  I 
do  not  remember  the  time  when  it  was 
not  made.  But  I  am  not  surprised  that 
the  caucuses  arouse  so  little  interest  after 
my  experience  of  municipal  caucuses  in 
Hartford.  English  electors  would  not 
turn  out  for  caucuses  such  as  I  have  at- 
tended here.  English  electors  are  keenly 
interested,  not  so  much  in  the  men  for 
whom  they  are  to  vote,  as  in  what  the  men 
stand  for  in  national  and  municipal  life. 

Election  contests  in  England  owe 
then*  vitality  and  interest,  not  to  the 
men  who  are  the  candidates,  but  to 
the  questions  and  principles  that  are 
at  issue  in  the  election.  The  municipal 
candidates  for  my  ward  in  Hartford,  had 
they  been  contesting  a  ward  in  an  Eng- 
lish city,  would  have  had  to  hire  a  hall, 
and  address  meetings  open  to  Liberals 
and  Conservatives,  to  women  as  well  as 
men,  and  even  to  boys  and  girls  of  the 
upper  grades  of  the  grammar  schools. 
It  is  by  such  methods  as  these  that  the 
municipal  spirit,  so  characteristic  of  pro- 
vincial England,  has  been  developed 
since  1835;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  mu- 
nicipal spirit  in  this  country  will  not  reach 
the  high  level  of  England  until  there  is 
less  of  machine,  less  of  exclusively  par- 
tisan activity,  and  more  of  mass  meeting 
and  of  other  influences  that  are  distinctly 
educational,  and  concerned  rather  with 
questions  and  policies  than  with  the  mere 
election  to  office  of  this  or  that  man,  and 
the  success  of  the  machine  of  one  party 
over  the  machine  of  the  opposing  party. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the 
public  political  meeting  in  England  is 
much  more  educational  than  the  political 
mass  meeting  in  this  country.  I  will  con- 
cede that  Americans  in  attendance  at  a 
political  meeting  behave  with  more  pro- 
priety and  decorum  than  English  people. 
I  have  attended  many  political  meetings 
in  this  country  at  which  the  principal 
speaker  was  given  a  hearing  as  uninter- 
rupted and  respectful  as  would  be  ac- 
corded to  a  king's  chaplain  or  an  arch- 


Political  Campaigning  in  England  and  America 


161 


bishop  in  a  chapel  royal  in  London.  But 
this  characteristic  of  an  American  audi- 
ence obviously  has  its  disadvantages  as 
regards  popular  political  education. 

From  this  point  of  view  my  preference 
is  for  the  English  political  meeting,  even 
with  its  occasional  tendency  to  rowdiness, 
to  platform  storming,  and  to  marksman- 
ship practice  with  antique  eggs.  But 
these  features  are  only  occasional.  They 
break  out  at  seasons  of  intense  political 
excitement,  and  have  their  usefulness  in 
testing  the  nerve  of  the  ushers  and  police- 
men. The  English  political  meetings  at 
which  there  are  interruptions  of  the 
speaker  by  impromptu  interjections  of 
query,  approval,  or  dissent  from  the 
audience,  are  not  occasional.  Meetings 
so  interrupted  are  the  rule  at  election 
times.  Interruptions  and  interjections 
are  expected  by  a  speaker.  Usually  they 
are  welcome,  because  they  show  the 
mood  and  bias  of  the  audience,  whether 
the  speaker  is  holding  their  attention, 
and  whether  he  is  carrying  the  meeting 
with  him. 

Time  and  again  I  have  been  sorry  for 
a  political  speaker  in  this  country  who 
has  addressed  an  audience  for  an  hour 
or  more  without  eliciting  from  it  any  in- 
dication of  sympathy  or  of  disapproval. 
This  decorous  propriety  of  American 
political  gatherings  —  such  for  instance 
as  I  witnessed  when  Mr.  Secretary  Taft 
spoke  for  an  hour  to  an  audience  of  two 
thousand  in  the  Foot  Guards  Hall  in 
Hartford  —  would  chill  the  heart  of  an 
English  political  speaker,  and  result  in 
a  serious  self-examination  as  to  whether 
it  was  worth  his  while  to  continue  his 
canvass. 

For  the  audience  as  well  as  the  speaker 
the  English  style  of  public  meeting  has 
its  advantages.  It  enables  the  audience 
to  carry  the  speaker  outside  the  lines  he 
might  have  set  for  his  speech,  and  to 
direct  him  to  aspects  of  a  political  ques- 
tion other  than  those  he  had  in  mind 
when  he  prepared  his  speech.  More- 
over, the  English  style  enlivens  a  meeting 
and  adds  to  its  interest  and  educational 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


value.  Furthermore,  it  results  in  better 
newspaper  reporting  than  is  the  fortune 
of  American  political  speakers. 

In  this  country  it  is  a  common  practice 
for  a  speaker  of  verbatim  importance  in 
the  newspaper  world  to  give  a  typewritten 
duplicate  of  his  speech  to  the  Associated 
Press  or  the  local  newspaper,  and  it  is 
printed  as  written,  with  no  indications 
interwoven  in  the  text  of  the  reception 
which  was  accorded  to  it  by  the  audi- 
ence. Neither  of  a  speech  delivered  in 
Parliament,  nor  of  one  delivered  on  the 
platform,  does  an  English  statesman  ever 
hand  over  his  manuscript  to  the  press. 
It  would  not  be  safe  to  print  such  a 
speech;  because  the  marshaling  of  the 
subjects,  the  phraseology,  and  much  of 
the  content  of  the  speech  might  be  com- 
pletely changed  by  the  questions  and  in- 
terjections from  the  audience. 

All  great  speeches  in  England  are 
taken  down  verbatim  by  the  reporters 
and  telegraphed  all  over  the  country  from 
the  place  where  they  are  delivered.  Every 
cheer,  every  expression  of  approval  or 
dissent,  and  every  question  addressed  to 
the  speaker,  goes  on  the  reporter's  note, 
and  is  reported  in  the  newspaper  the  next 
day ;  so  that  newspaper  readers  are  fully 
informed  of  what  actually  happened,  and 
not  of  what  the  speaker  proposed  to  say 
when  his  speech  was  put  into  manuscript. 

English  newspaper  readers  want  to 
know  what  a  speaker  said,  not  what  a  re- 
porter conceived  that  he  might  have  said ; 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that,  in  spite  of 
many  changes  in  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
years,  —  not  all  by  any  means  adding 
to  the  civic  value  of  the  English  press, 
—  the  ability  to  take  a  verbatim  note 
and  transcribe  it  with  accuracy  is  still  a 
sine  qua  non  for  most  reporters  on  the 
staffs  of  responsible  English  newspapers. 
Shorthand  writing  is  belittled  in  the 
newspaper  world  of  this  country;  but 
the  importance  of  the  four  generations  at 
least  of  newspaper  reporters  who  have 
written  shorthand  cannot  be  over-esti- 
mated in  appreciating  popular  political 
education  in  England. 


NEWPORT:   THE   CITY   OF   LUXURY 


BY    JONATHAN   THAYER   LINCOLN 


AFTER  a  winter  spent  in  the  City  of 
the  Dinner  Pail,  in  the  midst  of  its  busy 
life  and  in  touch  with  that  vast  army  of 
toilers  which  daily  marches  to  the  sound 
of  the  factory  bells,  I  found  myself  when 
summer  came,  comfortably  settled  on  a 
sea-girt  farm  near  Newport.  At  first  it 
was  difficult  to  realize  that  the  scenes 
about  me  and  the  scenes  hi  the  life  of  the 
toiler,  to  which  I  was  so  accustomed, 
were  parts  of  the  same  drama.  Yet  the 
scenes  so  different  are  intimately  con- 
nected, and  there  is  more  than  passing 
significance  in  the  fact  that  Fall  River 
and  Newport  are  separated  by  only 
twenty  miles  of  railway  track. 

At  Newport  no  factory  bell  awakes  the 
sleeper  in  the  early  morning  hours;  the 
hum  of  industry  does  not  reach  the  ear 
at  noonday  —  here  is  no  camping  ground 
for  the  Army  of  the  Dinner  Pail.  No, 
this  quaint  old  city  by  the  sea  has  nothing 
'to  suggest  of  wealth  in  the  making  —  it 
speaks  rather  of  wealth  accumulated, 
and  by  its  splendid  pageantry  dazzles  the 
imagination  with  visions  of  America's 
material  prosperity.  Here  is  more  mag- 
nificence than  you  may  find  in  the  courts 
of  kings  —  the  lavish  display  of  princes 
in  a  democracy  where  all  men  are  created 
equal. 

My  first  impression  of  Newport,  how- 
ever, had  nothing  to  do  with  its  lavish 
pageantry  —  it  related  rather  to  the  toil 
of  fisher-folk  and  farm-hands,  and  thus 
in  the  end  became  the  means  of  unifying 
in  my  mind  the  problems  suggested  by 
the  two  cities.  The  farm  was  situated 
on  the  point  which  reaches  out  towards 
Brenton's  Reef,  on  which,  some  weeks 
before,  a  fishing  steamer  had  been 
wrecked.  For  several  days  I  studied  the 
stranded  vessel,  wondering  how  long  it 
might  be  before  the  sea  would  break  it 

162 


up,  and  if  the  ship  were  copper-fastened, 
and  if  so,  how  many  barrels  of  driftwood 
I  might  find  along  the  beach  to  burn  in 
my  study  fire  when  the  winter  evenings 
came.  But  others  had  looked  upon  the 
wreck  who  had  no  thought  of  driftwood 
fires  and  colored  flames,  but  who  saw 
anchored  there  upon  the  rocks  a  whole 
season's  fuel  for  their  homes,  and  these 
men  set  about  to  do  themselves  what  I 
had  hoped  the  wind  and  waves  might  do 
for  me.  There  on  the  reef  lay  the  wrecked 
vessel,  to  me  a  picturesque  sight,  sug- 
gesting wind  and  weather  and  the  perils 
of  the  sea,  but  to  the  farmers  and  the 
fisher-folk  it  suggested  cords  of  firewood 
and  a  winter  day's  necessity. 

Three  companies  engaged  in  reclaim- 
ing the  wreck :  one  of  Greek  fishermen, 
whose  huts  stand  on  the  beach  near  by, 
one  of  Portuguese  farmers,  whose  scant 
acres  lie  some  miles  to  the  north,  the 
other  of  farm-hands  employed  on  one 
of  the  near-by  estates.  The  work,  begun 
in  the  afternoon  when  the  tide  was  rising, 
was  carried  on  until  midnight.  Men  with 
ropes  about  their  bodies  swam  to  the 
wreck,  and  reaching  it,  hauled  great  haw- 
sers from  the  shore;  these  they  made  fast 
forward,  aft,  and  amidships.  On  shore 
yokes  of  oxen  and  teams  of  horses  strained 
and  tugged  at  the  hawsers,  wresting  from 
the  sea  its  lawful  booty,  and  at  last  haul- 
ing the  huge  dismantled  craft  upon  the 
nearer  rocks. 

The  ship,  being  derelict,  was  anybody's 
property,  so  the  work  was  carried  on  by 
moonlight,  lest  others  who  had  not  borne 
the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  should 
come  by  night  and  carry  away  the  prize. 
The  Greeks  were  more  fortunate  than 
the  rest,  for  their  part  of  the  wreck  in- 
cluded the  pilot-house.  This  they,  wad- 
ing and  swimming  beyond  the  surf  or 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


163 


tugging  from  the  shore,  towed  into  a 
little  cove  between  two  points  of  weather- 
beaten  cliffs  and  landed  it  upon  the 
beach.  In  the  pilot-house  they  camped  for 
the  night;  but  for  the  others,  they  must 
work  while  the  moonlight  lasted  and  af- 
terwards keep  vigil  until  sunrise.  A  deal 
of  labor  this  for  a  pile  of  firewood,  hard 
labor  indeed  for  the  simplest  necessity 
of  life. 

Later  in  the  season,  within  half  a  mile 
of  the  place  where  the  wreck  was  brought 
to  the  shore,  I  witnessed  another  scene  — 
a  scene  of  action  quite  as  strenuous  but 
to  a  different  purpose.  The  polo  grounds 
are  situated  on  the  same  point  where  the 
vessel  went  ashore.  The  green  field  lay 
bright  in  the  sunshine,  while  beyond 
rolled  the  ocean,  blue  as  the  sky  above 
it.  About  the  side-lines  great  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  fashion  were  gathered  to 
enjoy  the  game.  Some  sat  in  finely  up- 
holstered carriages,  drawn  by  magnifi- 
cent horses,  whose  golden  harness-trap- 
pings glittered  in  the  sunshine;  others 
sat  in  automobiles,  while  others,  clinging 
to  the  tradition  of  an  earlier  day,  were 
there  on  horseback.  On  the  piazza  of  the 
club-house  finely  gowned  women  and 
well-groomed  men  drank  tea  while  they 
watched  swift-footed  ponies,  bearing  their 
crimson-  and  yellow-clad  riders  helter- 
skelter  over  the  field.  As  for  the  game, 
it  was  a  splendid  show ;  they  played  well, 
those  husky  young  fellows,  with  a  skill 
and  courage  altogether  admirable,  giving 
the  lie  to  the  notion  that  wealth  and  dis- 
sipation necessarily  go  hand-in-hand. 

As  I  watched  the  game,  admiring  the 
skill  of  the  players  and  realizing  the 
magnificent  surroundings  in  which  they 
spend  their  lives,  —  surroundings  permit- 
ting of  infinite  leisure  for  the  cultivation 
of  body  and  mind,  —  the  words  quoted 
by  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his  beautiful 
apostrophe  to  Oxford,  came  to  my  mind. 
"There are  our  young  Barbarians  all  at 
play."  Arnold,  it  will  be  remembered, 
referred  to  the  upper,  middle,  and  lower 
classes  of  English  society  as  Barbarians, 
Philistines,  and  Populace.  The  aristo- 


crats, he  said,  inherited  from  the  Bar- 
barian nobles,  their  early  ancestors,  that 
individualism,  that  passion  for  doing  as 
one  likes,  which  was  so  marked  a  char- 
acteristic. From  the  Barbarians,  more- 
over, came  their  love  of  field  sports,  the 
care  of  the  body,  manly  vigor,  good  looks, 
and  fine  complexions.  "  The  chivalry  of 
the  Barbarians,  with  its  characteristics 
of  high  spirit,  choice  manners,  and  dis- 
tinguished bearing,  —  what  is  this,"  he 
asks,  "  but  the  commencement  of  the 
politeness  of  our  aristocratic  class  ? " 
"  There  are  our  young  Barbarians  all  at 
play."  That  line  of  Arnold's  coming  to 
my  mind,  which  at  that  moment  was  con- 
trasting the  scenes  I  have  described,  sug- 
gested the  thought  that,  despite  the  fa- 
miliar words  in  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence, and  our  inherited  repugnance 
to  the  idea,  we  have  an  upper,  middle, 
and  lower  class  in  America. 

We  cannot  refer  to  our  aristocracy  by 
the  term  Barbarians,  for  its  members  are 
not  descended  from  "  some  victor  in  a 
Border  brawl,"  their  ancestors  being  of 
the  old-world  populace.  Yet  by  whatever 
name  it  may  be  called,  our  aristocracy 
of  wealth  possesses  characteristics  curi- 
ously akin  to  the  descendants  of  the 
Goths  and  Huns. 

America  has  been  a  surprisingly  short 
time  in  creating  this  aristocracy  in  all  its 
refinement.  We  need  not  now  be  ashamed 
to  entertain  the  most  beribboned  prince 
in  our  summer  palaces  at  Newport;  and 
yet  but  little  over  fifty  years  ago  the 
author  of  "  Lotus-Eating  "  complained 
mightily  of  the  lack  of  refinement  in  the 
"Society  "  of  that  famous  watering-place. 
"  A  very  little  time  will  reveal  its  char- 
acteristic to  be  exaggeration.  The  intens- 
ity, which  is  the  natural  attribute  of  a 
new  race,  and  which  finds  in  active  busi- 
ness its  due  direction  and  achieves  there 
its  truest  present  success,  becomes  ludi- 
crous in  the  social  sphere,  because  it  has 
no  taste  and  no  sense  of  propriety."  He 
complained  that  the  aristocracy,  being 
most  successful  in  the  acquisition  of 
wealth,  knew  but  poorly  how  to  spend  it; 


164 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


that  Croesus,  having  made  his  money, 
was  bent  on  throwing  it  away,  so  he  built 
his  house  just  like  his  neighbors'  —  only 
a  little  bigger  —  and  furnished  it  with 
Louis  Quinze  or  Louis  Quatorze  de- 
formities, just  like  his  neighbors,  and 
bought  carriages  and  gave  dinners  and 
wore  splendid  clothes,  but  owned  few 
books  or  pictures ;  he  was  mastered  by  his 
means,  and  any  other  man  with  a  large 
rent-roll  was  always  respectable  and  aw- 
ful to  him. 

"What  is  high  society,"  asks  the  Lotus- 
Eater,  "  but  the  genial  intercourse  of 
the  highest  intelligence  with  which  we 
converse?  It  is  the  festival  of  Wit  and 
Beauty  and  Wisdom.  ...  Its  hall  of 
reunion,  whether  Holland  House,  or 
Charles  Lamb's  parlor,  or  Schiller's 
garret,  or  the  Tuileries,  is  a  palace  of 
pleasure.  Wine  and  flowers  and  all  suc- 
cesses of  Art,  delicate  dresses  studded 
with  gems,  the  graceful  motion  to  pas- 
sionate and  festal  music,  are  its  orna- 
ments and  Arabesque  outlines.  It  is  a 
tournament  wherein  the  force  of  the 
hero  is  refined  into  the  grace  of  the  gen- 
tleman —  a  masque,  in  which  womanly 
sentiment  blends  with  manly  thought. 
This  is  the  noble  idea  of  society,  a  har- 
monious play  of  the  purest  powers." 
And  in  Newport  he  finds  but  the  form 
of  it  —  the  promise  that  the  ideal  may 
some  day  be  realized ;  but  for  the  time  we 
must  be  content  with  the  exaggeration, 
for  "  Fine  Society  is  a  fruit  that  ripens 
slowly." 

A  generation  only  has  passed  since  the 
Lotus-Eater  wrote  his  charming  book, 
and  making  allowances  for  an  exagger- 
ation of  style  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
exaggeration  of  the  fashionable  folk 
about  whom  he  wrote,  we  may  say  that 
his  dream  of  what  American  society 
should  be  is,  in  a  measure,  a  reality. 
Here  in  Newport  is  seen  not  only  the 
form  of  a  "  Fine  Society,"  but  something 
of  the  substance.  To  be  sure,  much  of 
exaggeration  remains,  but  it  is  hardly 
fair  to  call  it  characteristic;  it  remains  in 
the  excesses  of  the  ultra-fashionable  set 

X 


—  the  very  new  aristocracy;  but  back 
of  this  excess,  the  description  of  which 
furnishes  many  fair  readers  with  so  much 
enjoyment  in  the  Sunday  papers,  there 
is  a  solid  foundation  of  good  manners, 
bred  of  culture,  in  which  we  may  find 
that  "  harmonious  play  of  the  purest 
powers,"  the  Lotus-Eater  longed  to  see. 
This  aristocracy,  founded  on  money 
though  it  be,  early  learned  that  money  is 
but  a  means,  that  culture  is  the  end,  and 
it  soon  came  about  that  a  man  must  be 
a  pretty  insignificant  sort  of  a  million- 
aire, who- by  his  benefactions  was  unable 
to  found  a  university,  or  at  least  have 
a  professorship  named  for  him,  even  if 
he  himself  were  unable  to  write  Eng- 
lish grammatically  —  and  the  children 
of  these  millionaires  benefited  by  their 
father's  aspirations.  We  may  not  say  by 
what  marvelous  means  the  transform- 
ation was  effected,  but  certain  it  is  the 
Newport  of  to-day  is  very  different  from 
the  Newport  of  a  generation  ago.  Croe- 
sus does  not  build  his  house  just  like  his 
neighbors',  only  a  little  bigger,  but  com- 
mands the  services  of  the  ablest  archi- 
tects, who  have  transformed  Newport 
from  a  city  of  commonplace  cottages  to 
one  of  rare  architectural  distinction.  If 
Croesus  lacks  the  taste  to  furnish  his 
house  becomingly,  he  has  the  sense  to 
hire  a  decorator  to  do  it  for  him  —  al- 
though in  a  larger  measure  than  we 
realize,  this  is  unnecessary;  for  Croesus 
has,  in  these  later  days,  abandoned  fast 
horses  and  flashy  waistcoats,  and  has 
learned  to  buy  pictures  and  books  for 
himself  —  and  he  enjoys  them  too,  which 
is  even  a  greater  matter.  He  does  not 
always  spend  his  money  wisely  —  that 
were  asking  too  much  in  a  single  genera- 
tion; he  still  makes  too  great  a  show  of 
his  money,  leading  humble  folk  to  im- 
agine that  there  is  some  magic  pleasure 
in  the  mere  possession  of  vast  wealth. 
He  will  overdo  things  occasionally  —  or 
at  least  Mrs.  Croesus  will ;  as  when  once 
she  built  a  temporary  ball-room  next  to 
her  stately  summer  home,  at  a  cost  — 
so  the  newspapers  said  —  of  some  forty 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


165 


thousand  dollars,  and  tore  it  down  after 
a  single  evening's  entertainment.  Mrs. 
Croesus  will  spend  vast  sums  of  money 
to  no  rational  purpose,  and  so  give  the 
socialists  a  deal  to  talk  about,  besides 
creating  the  impression  that  her  hus- 
band's wealth  was  not  inherited ;  but  on 
the  whole  she  has  made  tremendous 
progress  since  she  was  a  schoolgirl. 

Yes,  despite  all  that  we  like  to  think 
to  the  contrary,  we  have  an  upper, 
middle,  and  lower  class  in  America,  but 
these  classes  are  quite  different  from 
the  very  distinct  strata  observable  in 
Europe.  If  Arnold  had  been  describing 
American  society,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  him  to  find  a  nomenclature 
so  readily  as  he  did  when  he  described 
the  English.  To  a  degree  the  metric 
system  has  been  adopted  in  the  division 
of  Americans  into  classes  —  very  much 
depends  on  the  number  of  ciphers  to  the 
left  of  the  decimal  point.  This  is  not  to 
say  that  everywhere  in  America  a  man  is 
rated  by  the  amount  of  his  securities  — 
that  were  an  absurd  statement  so  long 
as  the  golden  dome  reflects  the  sunlight 
over  Beacon  Hill;  but  from  the  very 
nature  of  things  in  a  nation  whose  his- 
tory is  essentially  one  of  commercial 
development,  any  line  between  class  and 
class  must  be  relative  to  the  success  of 
individuals  in  competing  for  the  reward 
of  commercial  supremacy;  and  this  re- 
ward in  the  first  instance  is  a  matter  of 
dollars. 

The  history  of  society  in  America  is 
the  story  of  workingmen  rising  to  be 
employers  of  labor,  and  this  rise  is  ac- 
companied with  a  constantly  changing 
standard  of  living;  children  whose  fa- 
thers were  content  with  rag-carpets  buy, 
without  knowledge  of  their  significance, 
oriental  rugs,  and  wear  diamond  shirt- 
studs.  Their  daughters  go  to  finishing 
school  and  take  on  a  fine  surface  polish- 
ing, their  granddaughters  go  to  college 
and  learn  that  the  color  and  design  of 
the  ancestral  rug  is  what  constitutes  its 
distinction,  not  the  great  price  which 
their  successful  forebears  paid  for  it. 


This  is  how  classes  have  grown  in  our 
society,  despite  our  faith  in  the  gospel 
according  to  Jefferson;  and  it  is  just 
this  process  which  has  made  Newport 
to-day  so  very  different  from  the  New- 
port George  William  Curtis  wrote  about. 
I  recently  read  a  novel  written  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  describing  the  humilia- 
tions of  a  Western  girl,  whose  father  was 
a  wealthy  ranchman,  when  introduced 
'  to  the  polite  society  of  New  York.  At 
table  she  never  knew  which  fork  to  use, 
and  once  she  picked  geranium  leaves  out 
of  the  finger  bowl  and  pinned  them  to  her 
gown.  In  the  end,  of  course,  she  learned 
the  usages  of  good  society  —  and  married 
a  titled  Englishman.  The  villain  was  a 
Western  congressman,  who  chewed  to- 
bacco and  shocked  but  fascinated  the 
ladies  of  the  exclusive  set.  This  antithe- 
sis between  the  social  development  of  the 
West  and  the  East  was  a  constant  quarry 
for  the  novel-writer  in  the  last  generation, 
and  even  now  stories  of  this  kind  are  to 
be  found  on  the  bookstands.  The  moral 
usually  is  that  real  virtue  is  not  a  matter 
of  manners  —  and  all  good  Americans 
are  pretty  much  alike  under  the  skin. 
Such  stories  illustrate  the  fact  that  social 
classes  in  America  are  more  elastic  than 
in  the  old  world,  the  one  merging  im- 
perceptibly into  the  other  as  individuals 
rise  in  successful  competition.  In  Eng- 
land a  junk-dealer's  clerk  is  certain  to 
remain  a  clerk  until  the  end  of  his  days ; 
or  if,  by  force  of  ability,  he  should  be- 
come a  junk-dealer,  he  will  not  change 
his  social  position  by  a  hair's  breadth. 
In  America,  if  he  has  persistency,  he  is 
more  than  likely  to  be  the  proprietor  of 
a  business;  and  if  his  success  be  great 
enough,  you  may  see  him  occupying  a 
box  at  the  Newport  horse-show,  or  hear 
of  his  wife's  brilliant  entertainments  at 
her  villa.  You  may  not  read  that  Mrs. 
Blank  was  among  the  guests, — it  was  her 
grandfather  who  dealt  in  scrap  iron  and 
naturally  she  is  a  bit  exclusive,  —  but 
our  junk-dealer  has  established  himself 
as  the  ancestor  of  some  future  exclusive 
Mrs.  Blank. 


166 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


There  is  a  danger  in  generalization, 
and  we  must  not  infer  that  there  is  no 
part  of  our  American  society  claiming  re- 
finement as  its  heritage,  that  refinement 
which  is  inseparable  from  true  nobility 
and  finds  its  best  expression  in  simplicity 
of  life  and  character.  Such  society  we 
may  find  enthroned  in  the  finest  of  the 
palaces  which  front  the  sea  at  Newport; 
we  will  find  it,  too,  in  some  humble 
home  yonder  in  the  City  of  the  Dinner 
Pail.  Wealth  offers  no  barrier  to  this 
society  any  more  than  poverty  is  its  open 
sesame.  To  the  happy  mortals  who  dwell 
therein,  money  is  but  the  means  to  make 
the  world  a  happier  place  in  which  man- 
kind shall  live.  This  man  owns  a  great 
house  which  overlooks  the  sea,  beautiful 
pictures  hang  upon  its  walls,  and  in  the 
library  are  fine  books  and  precious  manu- 
scripts. It  has  been  his  pleasure  to  collect 
these  masterpieces  of  literature  and  art; 
he  shares  the  joy  of  them  with  his  friends, 
he  invites  the  student  and  the  connois- 
seur to  enjoy  his  treasures  with  him;  he 
lends  his  pictures  to  the  public  galleries 
and  holds  his  manuscripts  in  trust  for 
scholars;  and  so  his  pleasure  has  added 
to  the  public  wealth  as  surely  as  the  rail- 
roads his  industry  has  built  or  the  mine 
he  has  opened.  And  after  the  long  day's 
work  in  one  of  the  countless  factories 
which  the  genius  of  this  multi-million- 
aire has  created,  many  a  man  and  woman 
return  to  their  quiet  homes,  there  to 
enjoy  the  same  pictures  and  books  which 
enrich  his  mansion  —  for  in  this  marvel- 
ous age,  machinery,  so  despised  by  some, 
has  given  to  the  humblest  citizen  all  the 
means  of  culture. 

One  day  during  my  summer  on  the 
sea-girt  farm,  society  was  stirred  by  the 
arrival  of  a  duchess  who  came  for  a  visit 
to  a  great  house  on  the  avenue.  The  next 
afternoon  many  carriages  stopped  at  the 
door,  the  footmen  leaving  cards;  society 
paid  its  call  of  welcome.  Driving  my 
quiet  rig  by  the  house,  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  feet  upon  the  pavement  attracted 
attention  within.  The  great  doors  swung 
open;  two  flunkeys,  dressed  in  crimson 


satin  livery,  white  silk  stockings,  golden 
knee-buckles,  and  powdered  wigs,  stood 
before  me;  one  extended  a  golden  sal- 
ver to  receive  my  cards,  but,  seeing  his 
mistake,  retired.  Before  the  doors  closed 
behind  him,  I  glanced  into  the  great  hall, 
down  which  a  line  of  other  flunkies  in 
similar  livery  stood  at  attention.  Some- 
how that  livery  has  remained  in  my  mem- 
ory ever  since.  Surely,  in  the  fifty  years 
since  Mrs.  Potiphar  consulted  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Cream  Cheese  concerning  the 
color  and  cut  of  the  Potiphar  livery, 
Americans  have  made  tremendous  strides 
in  dressing  their  servants.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, the  questionable  right  of  Americans 
to  the  apostolic  succession  of  flunkydom 
that  keeps  the  vision  of  those  radiant 
servants  in  my  memory,  but  the  sugges- 
tion of  luxury  their  decorous  forms  called 
up  to  a  mind  filled,  that  afternoon,  with 
the  problems  of  poverty  and  with  specu- 
lations concerning  the  possibilities  of  a 
distribution  of  wealth  in  which  a  living 
wage  might  be  guaranteed  to  every  able- 
bodied  man  who  is  willing  to  work  for  it. 

Poverty  and  Luxury  —  these  are  the 
diseases  of  our  industrial  regime,  to  the 
cure  of  which  the  socialists  offer  their 
ineffectual  remedy;  ineffectual  since  the 
population  of  the  United  States  is  made 
up  of  ninety  million  individuals,  some 
of  whom  will  be  forever  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy,  however  great  their  income, 
and  some  frugal  and  always  carrying 
their  account  on  the  right  side  of  the 
balance-sheet,  however  small  their  an- 
nual allotment  of  wealth. 

Poverty  and  Luxury  —  twin  diseases 
sapping  the  life  of  society :  the  one  de- 
stroying ambition  by  withholding  suffi- 
cient nourishment  to  the  body ;  the  other 
rendering  men  worthless  to  society  by 
a  superabundance  of  the  good  things  of 
life.  Poverty  is  a  disease  not  indigenous 
to  our  American  soil;  it  is  a  plague 
brought  in  by  immigrant  ships  from 
worn-out  Europe,  and  the  patients  are 
cured  here  by  the  thousands.  So  long 
as  there  remains  an  uncultivated  acre 
of  land  anywhere  in  the  Union,  there  is 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


167 


no  real  cause  for  poverty,  nor  any  ex- 
cuse for  luxury  while  a  foot  of  land  is 
undeveloped. 

"  The  extreme  of  luxury,"  De  Lave- 
laye  says,  "  is  that  which  destroys  the 
product  of  many  days'  labor  without 
bringing  any  rational  satisfaction  to  the 
owner."  Another  author  calls  luxury 
"  that  which  creates  imaginary  needs, 
exaggerates  real  wants,  diverts  them  from 
their  true  end,  establishes  a  habit  of 
prodigality  in  society,  and  offers  through 
the  senses  a  satisfaction  of  self-love  which 
puffs  up,  but  does  not  nourish  the  heart, 
and  which  presents  to  others  the  picture 
of  a  happiness  to  which  they  can  never 
attain." 

Take  either  definition  you  will,  we 
behold  in  the  social  life  at  Newport  a 
measure  of  luxury  men  have  not  wit- 
nessed since  the  fall  of  Rome. 

There  was  a  time  when  economists 
apologized  for  luxury  on  the  ground  that 
those  who  supported  it  kept  money  in 
circulation,  thus  benefiting  the  poor ;  but 
that  was  when  scholars  believed  that 
money  was  wealth  in  itself,  and  fondly 
believed  that  one  might  eat  his  cake  and 
have  it  too.  "  Money  changes  hands," 
they  said,  "and  in  this  circulation  the 
life  of  business  and  commerce  consists. 
When  money  is  spent,  it  is  all  one  to  the 
public  who  spends  it."  We  have  passed 
beyond  such  specious  arguments,  but 
there  are  those  even  now  who  think  if  a 
man  builds  a  temporary  ballroom  and 
destroys  it  the  next  day,  some  one  has 
been  benefited.  The  workers  engaged 
in  building  and  demolishing  it  and  the 
men  who  employed  them  have,  no  doubt, 
obtained  an  immediate  benefit;  yet  the 
same  money  might  have  built  ten  houses 
to  be  the  homes  of  generations  of  men. 
Mrs.  Croesus  has  had  her  vanishing  pal- 
ace, but  ten  families  are  sleeping  with- 
out shelter  because  of  it.  She  should  beg 
her  husband  to  use  his  influence  at  Wash- 
ington to  restrict  immigration,  or  else  to 
employ  his  wealth  in  such  a  way  that 
these  newcomers  may  be  allowed  to  earn 
a  proper  living. 


The  sentiments  which  give  rise  to  lux- 
ury, we  are  told,  are  vanity,  sensuality, 
and  the  instinct  of  adornment;  but  the 
greatest  of  these  is  vanity,  the  desire  to 
distinguish  one's  self  and  to  appear  of 
more  importance  than  others.  It  is  this 
aspect  of  luxury  that  flaunts  itself  on  the 
avenue  during  the  season.  "  My  owner 
is  rich,  rich,  rich,"  toots  the  horn  of 
yonder  marvelously  upholstered  motor- 
car, as  it  speeds  along  regardless  of  the 
pedestrian  exercising  his  inalienable 
right  to  cross  the  street.  "  My  husband 
is  a  multi-millionaire,"  this  splendidly 
gowned  matron  declares,  trailing  her 
marvelously  wrought  skirt  in  the  mud  as 
she  steps  from  her  carriage,  while  her 
footman,  in  a  livery  more  splendid  than 
that  of  any  prince  in  Europe,  stares  va- 
cantly into  space  and  touches  his  shining 
hat.  Yes,  these  people  are  distinguished, 
but  it  would  take  an  exceptionally  sharp 
eye  to  tell  which  in  this  hierarchy  of 
ostentation  is  of  the  most  importance. 

Condemnation  of  luxury,  however,  is 
not  condemnation  of  wealth.  Luxury  is 
a  disease  merely,  which  may  attack  the 
successful  individual  just  as  poverty  may 
sink  the  unsuccessful  one  to  lower  and 
lower  depths  of  despair,  and  is  no  more 
a  necessary  result  of  a  large  income  than 
poverty  is  of  a  small  one.  The  question, 
after  all,  is  not,  how  great  is  this  man's 
fortune,  but  what  does  he  do  with  it? 
We  can  make  no  quarrel  with  the  Cap- 
tain of  Industry  because  he  possesses  so 
many  dollars  that  neither  he  nor  a  dozen 
clerks  could  count  them  in  a  twelve- 
month, if  he  has  earned  those  dollars  by 
his  skill  in  trade  and  is  conscious  of  his 
stewardship.  He  entered  the  race  on 
even  terms  with  many  thousand  others, 
and  outstripped  them;  by  the  very  bent 
of  his  genius  he  is  incapable  of  becoming 
a  prey  to  luxury,  and  uses  his  wealth  to 
develop  new  railroads  and  open  new 
mines,  and  thus  feeds  with  a  bountiful 
hand  thousands  of  half-starved  immi- 
grants from  the  old  world.  Such  a  man 
is  a  benefactor  of  mankind,  as  truly  as 
the  greatest  philanthropist.  He  is  en- 


168 


Newport :  the  City  of  Luxury 


gaged  in  a  real  service  to  the  nation,  and 
his  great  fortune  is  the  witness  of  his 
service.  It  has  become  the  fashion  of 
late  to  belittle  these  men  of  great  genius 
and  to  forget  the  benefits  which  they  have 
bestowed;  but  this  fashion  will  soon  pass 
and  men  will  again  restore  to  them  the 
praise  which  is  their  due. 

When,  in  the  economic  history  of  man, 
the  world  passed  from  the  agricultural, 
through  the  handicraft,  to  the  industrial 
stage,  the  multi-millionaire  became  in- 
evitable ;  when  the  first  factory  was  built, 
the  "  trust  "  was  its  certain  result.  The 
trust  and  the  multi-millionaire  are  essen- 
tial factors  in  our  industrial  evolution, 
stepping-stones  to  a  new  and  better  order. 
Very  well,  you  say,  we  will  accept  the 
multi-millionaire  at  his  real  value;  he  is 
indeed  a  necessary  factor  in  the  develop- 
ment of  our  industrial  world  and  we  will 
not  only  cease  to  pursue  him  with  venom- 
ous prejudice,  but  we  will  weigh  care- 
fully the  findings  of  investigating  com- 
mittees and  allow  the  rich  every  privi- 
lege guaranteed  to  the  humblest  citizen 
by  the  Constitution.  We  will  do  even 
more  than  this :  we  will  admit  the  right 
of  the  multi-millionaire  to  the  fruit  of 
his  industry,  and  allow  him  to  keep  un- 
molested his  numerous  residences,  his 
horses,  his  motor-cars  and  his  steam 
yachts.  But  what  right  has  his  son,  who 
never  earned  a  dollar  throughout  all  his 
useless  days,  to  inherit  this  vast  wealth  ? 


Well,  that  is  a  matter  for  future  phil- 
osophers and  future  statesmen  to  settle 
among  themselves.  When  the  evil  be- 
comes sufficiently  acute,  they  will,  no 
doubt,  find  some  remedy,  but  for  the  pre- 
sent we  have  more  immediate  problems. 
We  do  not  know  toward  what  end  our 
American  republic  is  moving,  whether  it 
be  toward  that  industrial  state  which  one 
enthusiastic  young  socialist  has  prophe- 
sied will  be  a  reality  within  ten  years,  or 
whether  it  be  in  quite  a  different  direc- 
tion. But  those  who  mark  the  course  of 
events  see  a  mighty  evolution  at  work 
in  our  national  life.  On  one  side  we 
behold  the  flood  of  immigration  typified 
by  the  Greek  fisher-folk  and  Portuguese 
farm-hands,  working  throughout  the  long 
night  on  Brenton's  Point,  to  win  from  the 
sea  a  scanty  pile  of  firewood ;  and  on  the 
other,  the  lords  of  wealth,  living  in  regal 
splendor  in  the  stately  homes  overlook- 
ing the  sea.  The  amazing  natural  re- 
sources of  the  new  world  have  brought 
hither  these  humble  folk  to  a  richer  life 
than  their  fathers  ever  dreamed  might 
be,  and  the  same  natural  resources  have 
made  possible  this  life  of  splendor  — 
more  vast  if  not  more  magnificent  than 
the  world  has  known  before.  What  this 
evolution  means,  we  shall  none  of  us  live 
to  understand ;  for  the  American  nation 
is  still  in  its  infancy,  its  natural  resources 
are  still  undeveloped,  and  its  contribu- 
tion to  civilization  still  lies  in  the  future. 


THE   KING'S   SON   OF   PALEMBAN 


BY   WILLIAM   JOHN   HOPKINS 


ONCE  upon  a  time,  a  great  many  years 
ago,  —  almost  a  century  ago,  in  fact,  — 
there  lived  a  lady  who  was  young  and 
fair,  and  rich  enough,  in  all  conscience, 
as  riches  went  then.  Indeed,  there  were, 
no  doubt,  many  ladies  who  were  young 
and  fair  and  rich  enough;  but  this  par- 
ticular one  was  my  great-grandmother, 
which  may  be  the  reason  for  my  telling 
this  story. 

Now  this  lady,  whom  we  will  call 
Iphigenia, 'principally  because  that  was 
not  her  name,  was  married  to  a  very 
worthy  gentleman  and  brave  man,  who 
was  the  captain  of  a  ship.  And  this  ship 
sailed,  one  voyage  after  another,  to  Bom- 
bay and  Calcutta  and  Manila  and  Ba- 
tavia  and  Singapore  and  such-like  out- 
landish ports,  from  Boston.  Captain 
Steele  had  sailed,  late  in  September  of 
the  year  1821,  on  what  was  to  be  his  last 
voyage.  When  he  should  sail  into  Boston 
Harbor  again  and  land  at  the  India 
Wharf,  he  would  retire ;  or,  at  least,  that 
was  Jiis  intention.  For  he  had  been  at 
sea,  with  certain  brief  intermissions,  for 
the  better  part  of  fifteen  years.  And,  at 
the  age  of  thirty-three,  it  is  fitting  that 
a  gentleman  should  retire  from  active 
service  at  sea,  and  should  partake  of  the 
benefits  and  amenities  of  a  life  ashore. 

Such,  at  least,  was  Captain  Steele's 
opinion;  and  such  was  the  opinion  of 
Iphigenia,  his  wife.  Indeed,  she  would 
have  been  glad  if  he  had  seen  fit  to  retire 
earlier.  For  in  what  was  she  better  than 
a  widow  —  a  widow  for  all  but  about 
three  months  out  of  every  twenty-four? 
If  she  had  been  asked  —  she  was  not 
asked,  but  if  she  had  been  —  she  would 
have  given  it  as  her  opinion  that  every 
gentleman  should  stay  ashore  for  good 
and  all  after  he  was  twenty-three,  thereby 
setting  ahead  the  date  of  retirement  by 


ten  years.  Captain  Steele  was  married  at 
twenty-three.  And  Iphigenia,  as  she  pon- 
dered upon  these  matters  in  her  own 
room,  pouted  somewhat. 

"  Nine  years  a  widow!  "  she  said. 
"  Nine  years  a  widow!  WTell,  thank 
heaven,  there  is  but  a  year  more  of  it/* 
And  she  pulled  the  bell-cord. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  own  room,  rather 
huddled  up  over  a  great  fire  that  roared 
in  the  chimney.  It  was  cold,  bitter  cold, 
outside,  and  none  too  warm  inside, 
although  the  fire  was  doing  its  brave 
best.  But  fire  in  the  rooms  does  not  warm 
the  halls,  especially  if  the  doors  be  shut, 
as  hers  was.  And,  with  the  doors  open,  it 
is  but  a  draughty  place  before  the  great 
chimney,  that  sucks  up  all  the  air  it  can 
get,  be  it  cold  or  warm ;  and  the  air  at  this 
season  was  mostly  cold.  And  Iphigenia 
had  before  her  an  embroidery  frame  and 
she  was  sitting  in  a  very  high-backed 
chair.  The  door  into  the  hall  must  open 
sometimes.  And  she  tried  to  embroider, 
but  her  fingers  were  rather  cold,  and 
besides,  to  say  the  truth,  she  did  not  want 
to.  There  was  nothing  that  she  did  want 
to  do,  and  neither  did  doing  nothing  suit 
her. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Iphigenia  was 
out  of  sorts.  Perhaps  she  missed  her 
husband.  For  I  have  always  understood 
that  Captain  Steele  was  a  very  loving 
husband,  although  he  did  not  ask  his 
wife's  opinion  as  often  as  he  might,  even 
on  matters  in  which  she  might  have  had 
a  preference  and  in  which  that  prefer- 
ence should  have  had  some  weight.  He 
did  not  ask  his  wife's  opinion  at  all.  No 
doubt  he  was  to  blame  in  that.  We 
should  not  do  so,  now  —  we  should  not 
dare.  But  I  have  always  understood, 
also,  that  it  is  never  the  way  of  sea  cap- 
tains —  it  is  not  a  habit  worth  mention- 


170 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


ing  —  to  ask  anybody's  opinion  in  regard 
to  anything,  but  to  trust  to  their  own. 
And  that  method  has  its  advantages,  too. 
The  door  opened  and  a  maid  entered. 
"Madam  rang?"  said  she,  in  the  low 
voice  that  well-trained  maids  always  use 

—  always  have  used,  since  maids  were. 
Iphigenia  did  not  turn  her  head.  "  Yes, 

Marshal],  I  rang,"  she  said;  and  her 
voice  was  not  even  and  calm,  like  Mar- 
shall's, but  its  tones  betrayed  her  irrita- 
tion. She  did  not  have  to  modulate  her 
voice  always  within  a  certain  compass, 
as  Marshall  did.  It  might  have  been 
better  for  her  if  she  had  had  to.  She  did 
not  have  to  do  anything  that  she  did  not 
want  to  do ;  it  was  only  to  convention  that 
she  bowed.  And,  if  conditions  only  be- 
came sufficiently  hard  to  bear,  why,  con- 
vention —  But  she  went  on. 

"  What  people  have  I  asked  to  supper 
here,  to-night,  Marshall  ?  " 

"  Madam  has  asked  but  three  people 
for  to-night,"  answered  Marshall,  in  the 
same  well- trained  voice.  *'  There  is  Cap- 
tain Cumnor,  and  Miss  Peake,  and  Mr. 
Hunter.  That  is  all,  madam." 

"  Have  n't  I  asked  Captain  Ammidon 

—  and  Mrs.  Ammidon  ?  "  asked  Iphi- 
genia, in  a  sort  of  panic,  as  it  seemed. 

"  No,  madam." 

Now  Iphigenia  knew  very  well  that  she 
had  not  asked  Captain  Ammidon  and 
Mrs.  Ammidon.  For,  although  it  would 
be  Christmas  Eve,  and  although  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Ammidon  had  always  been 
asked  to  sup  with  her  on  Christmas  Eve, 
she  had  omitted  them  of  set  purpose. 
Captain  Ammidon  was  old  and  white- 
haired  and  fatherly  —  Mrs.  Ammidon 
did  not  matter;  and  Captain  Cumnor 
was  not  old,  nor  was  he  white-haired  or 
fatherly,  but  he  was  her  very  devoted 
slave  —  or  so  it  appeared.  Her  friends 
were  beginning  to  whisper  that  he  was 
too  devoted.  But  I  am  not  forgetting  that 
Iphigenia  was  my  great-grandmother  or 
that  she  was  a  very  charming  woman 

—  even  to  Marshall ;  nor  that  Captain 
Steele  had  been  at  sea  almost  continu- 
ally since  they  were  married.    And  now 


it  seemed  that  she  was  remembering  some 
things,  too,  that  she  had  been  in  danger 
of  forgetting,  and  she  was  panic-stricken 
accordingly.  For  Miss  Peake  did  not 
matter,  either,  nor  did  Mr.  Hunter. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Iphigenia.  "I 
must  ask  them  at  once.  I  hope  they  will 
overlook  the  lateness  of  the  invitation 
and  come.  Oh,  Marshall,  I  hope  they 
will!" 

"  If  madam  will  excuse  me,"  said  Mar- 
shall, still  in  that  low  voice  which  con- 
trived to  hint  at  sympathy,  "  I  think  that 
they  will  come.  They  believe  that  it  is 
through  some  mistake  that  they  have  not 
received  their  invitation.  They  have  al- 
ways been  asked,  madam  knows." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Iphigenia  hastily. 
"  And  you  will  see,  Marshall,-  that  Cap- 
tain Ammidon  is  seated  on  my  right  and 
Captain  Cumnor  on  nay  left.  The  others 
will  be  —  where  you  see  fit  to  put  them, 
Marshall." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Marshall.  And 
she  opened  the  door  again,  to  go  out,  and 
there  entered  a  blast  of  air  so  cold  that 
Iphigenia  shivered  as  she  got  up  to  write 
her  belated  note  to  Captain  Ammidon. 
It  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Ammidon  and 
the  words  were  written  to  Mrs.  Ammi- 
don; but  the  spirit  of  it  was,  none  the  less, 
to  the  captain. 

And  so  it  was  come  to  Christmas  Eve 
and  the  table  was  all  dressed  prettily  — 
Marshall  had  seen  to  that;  and  Iphigenia 
was  all  dressed,  infinitely  more  prettily 
—  and  Marshall  had  seen  to  that,  too. 
And,  when  she  was  all  dressed  and  ready 
to  go  down,  she  would  first  see  her  boys. 
For  she  was  the  mother  of  two  fine  boys, 
the  older  eight  years  old  and  the  younger 
but  three.  They  were  already  in  bed. 

"  I  am  afraid,  madam,"  said  Marshall, 
"  that  Bobby  is  asleep."  She  smiled  as 
she  spoke.  "  Madam  knows  that  he 
wastes  no  time,  but  goes  immediately  to 
sleep.  But  Norton  is  awake.  He  was 
hoping  that  you  would  come  in." 

"  And  so  I  will,"  said  Iphigenia.  Then 
she  sighed.  "  We  have  too  much  com- 
pany, Marshall,  too  much  company.  It's 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


171 


going  to  be  stopped."  And,  with  that, 
she  swept  out;  and  Marshall  smiled  a 
knowing  smile  and  murmured  something 
under  her  breath. 

"  Poor  dear!  "  she  said.  **  Poor  dear! 
If  only  the  captain  would  come!  It's  full 
time." 

But  Iphigenia  swept  into  her  sons' 
room.  Norton  was  sitting  up  in  the  high 
bed  with  a  warm  wrapper  over  his  shoul- 
ders. His  eyes  were  shining.  The  room 
was  cold  and  Iphigenia  shivered. 

"  Oh,  mother!  "  cried  Norton,  softly, 
lest  he  wake  Bobby.  "  You  are  so  beau- 
tiful —  so  beautiful !  I  love  to  see  you 
ready  for  parties.  I  wish  father  could 
see  you  now." 

Iphigenia  sank  down  with  her  knees 
on  the  cushion  that  her  little  boys  used 
to  get  into  bed;  for  the  bed  was  an  old- 
fashioned,  high  affair,  with  hangings. 
And  she  flushed  in  a  fashion  that,  Norton 
thought,  made  her  more  beautiful  yet. 

"  I  wish  father  could  see  me,  my  dear 
little  boy,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  he  could!  " 
And  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and 
crushed  his  face  against  hers. 

"  But  your  pretty  dress,  mother! " 
protested  Norton,  struggling  away.  "  It  '11 
rumple  it  all  up." 

Iphigenia  was  in  a  passion  of  tender- 
ness. "  Never  mind  the  dress,  Norton," 
she  cried.  "  Never  mind  the  dress.  Give 
me  a  great  big  hug  —  a  regular  bear  hug ! 
Now!" 

And  Norton,  although  he  could  seldom 
be  prevailed  upon  to  do  such  things,  — 
he  loved  his  mother  dearly,  but  was  shy 
about  demonstrations,  —  Norton  com- 
plied. 

"  My  dear  little  boy!"  cried  Iphigenia. 
"  My  dear  little  boy!  "  And  she  kissed 
him  until  he  protested  and  hid  his  face  in 
the  pillow. 

And  Bobby  was  restless  and  talking  in 
his  sleep,  although  neither  his  mother  nor 
Norton  could  make  out  what  he  said. 
Suddenly  he  sat  up  in  bed,  crying  and 
evidently  much  frightened.  Iphigenia 
had  him  in  her  arms  in  an  instant. 

"  What  is  it,  Bobby,  dear  ?  "  she  said. 


"  Did  he  have  a  bad  dream  ?  Here  is 
mother,  and  Norton  is  right  beside  you. 
Nothing  can  hurt  Bobby." 

But  Bobby  kept  on  crying  and  sobbing. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  he  could  be 
quieted.  Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  saw 
his  mother,  and  clung  with  both  arms 
about  her  neck. 

"  Had  a  horrid  dream,"  he  faltered 
sleepily,  "  about  farver,  an'  he  was  on  a 
big  ship  an'  sailin'  over  the  wide  ocean, 
an'  some  other  little  ships  corned  an'  — 
an'  they  —  an'  —  "  And  Bobby  was 
sleeping  again,  peacefully  this  time. 

Iphigenia  laid  him  back  in  his  place. 
She  was  strangely  excited.  "  Now,  Nor- 
ton," she  said,  "  we  will  pray  to  the  good 
God  —  just  say  it  to  ourselves,  silently 
—  that  He  will  bring  father  safe  home 
again." 

And  Norton,  very  willingly,  folded  his 
hands  as  he  sat  there  in  bed,  and  his  lips 
moved,  while  Iphigenia  buried  her  face 
in  the  bedclothes  as  she  knelt.  And,  hav- 
ing done,  Iphigenia  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Good-night,  mother,"  said  Norton. 
"Now  He  will,  won't  He?" 

"  Yes,  dear  little  son,"  said  Iphigenia. 
"  Now  He  will.  Good-night." 

She  found  Captain  Cumnor  warming 
his  hands  before  the  fire.  He  had  come 
early,  for  some  reason  best  known  to 
himself.  Iphigenia  made  a  beautiful  pic- 
ture as  she  came  into  the  room  with  her 
emotion  fresh  upon  her.  Captain  Cum- 
nor advanced  to  meet  her  and  bowed  low; 
and  he  took  her  hand  in  his  and  lightly 
touched  her  fingers  with  his  lips.  Iphi- 
genia shivered. 

"  My  lady  is  looking  well,  to-night," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  His  eyes  said 
much  more.  Captain  Cumnor  had  hand- 
some eyes. 

"I  have  been  bidding  my  babies  good- 
night," said  Iphigenia,  with  a  little  trem- 
bling smile. 

There  was  something  about  that  smile 
which  seemed  to  Captain  Cumnor  to 
put  him  far  from  her.  He  did  not  like 
it. 

"  And  — "    said    Captain    Cumnor, 


172 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


"and — ?     There    is    something    else. 
What  is  it?" 

"  And  —  "  repeated  Iphigenia,  "  and 

—  "  But  she  could  not  tell  him.   "  No," 
she  replied  somewhat  coldly,  "  there  is 
nothing  else." 

Then  Captain  Ammidon  came  in,  and 
Iphigenia  was  glad.  And  Mrs.  Ammidon 
came  after  the  captain,  as  they  ever  were, 
she  following  in  his  wake  like  a  shadow 

—  or  like  a  shark  —  a  very  mild  sort  of 
shark;  more  like  a  dogfish  —  or  so  Iphi- 
genia seemed  to  think.  Iphigenia  did  not 
like  Mrs.  Ammidon.    And  Miss  Peake 
and  Mr.  Hunter  came  together,  and  after 
a  time  they  all  went  in  to  supper. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  supper 
that  Captain  Ammidon  was  giving  toasts. 
And  he  had  just  proposed  Captain 
Steele's  health,  with  the  hope  that  he 
might  have  a  fortunate  voyage  and  live 
thereafter  in  honor  and  happiness  ashore. 
Captain  Ammidon  had  retired  years 
before.  And  they  were  all  standing  and 
had  raised  their  glasses  —  little,  delicate 
glasses,  with  the  leopard's  head  cut  on 
them  —  when  Iphigenia  had  a  feeling 
that  she  was  about  to  faint.  She  braced 
herself;  she  would  not  faint.  And  then  — 

She  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  cabin 
door  on  to  the  quarter-deck  of  the  Aulis. 
Before  her  was  Captain  Steele,  in  the 
gold-laced  uniform  that  he  kept  for  state 
occasions.  The  mates,  also,  were  in  uni- 
form, which  was  unusual,  and  the  crew, 
below,  in  the  waist,  were  clad  in  the  best 
that  they  could  raise,  which  was  not  bad, 
for  the  most  part,  considering.  It  seemed 
to  be  about  seven  in  the  morning,  al- 
though the  sun  was  well  up,  being  per- 
haps two  hours  high,  or  thereabouts. 
The  weather  was  hot  and  sultry,  with  a 
promise  of  worse  to  come. 

Iphigenia  was  much  surprised  to  find 
that  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  that  she  should  be  there  at  that 
time.  There  was  a  light  air  stirring,  but 
not  enough  to  fill  the  sails,  which  hung, 
almost  flapping,  from  the  yards.  There 
was  a  cloud  of  canvas  spread,  and  Iphi- 
genia noted  that.  She  noted,  too,  that 


the  ship  was  barely  making  steerage 
way.  She  advanced  towards  the  group  of 
officers. 

Captain  Steele  was  speaking  to  the 
mate.  "  Overhaul  the  cargo,"  he  said, 
"or  as  much  of  it  as  you  can,  and  find 
something  that  will  do  for  presents." 
Iphigenia  touched  him  on  the  arm.  He 
looked  up,  and  she  was  about  to  speak, 
but  he  held  up  his  hand  for  her  to  be 
silent.  She  was  silent,  waiting.  "  Be 
quick  about  it,"  he  added,  to  the  mate. 
"  They  will  be  aboard  of  us  in  half  an 
hour." 

Then  he  turned  to  Iphigenia.  "  Good- 
morning,  my  dear,"  he  said,  smiling, 
"  and  a  merry  Christmas  to  you!  " 

Iphigenia  took  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his 
coat  with  both  hands.  She  would  have 
clung  to  him  with  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  but  that  there  were  the  two  mates 
and  the  whole  crew  to  see.  She  turned 
imploring  eyes  to  him. 

"  Is  it  Christmas  morning,  Elliott  ?  A 
merry  Christmas  to  you,  if  it  is.  I  wish 
that  you  —  you  could  —  kiss  me,  Elli- 
ott." Her  eyes  filled. 

Captain  Elliott  Steele  laughed.  "  Do 
you,  Iphigenia  ?  Well,  bless  you,  I  can." 
He  bent  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth. 
"  If  everything  were  as  easy  as  that  — 
and  as  pleasant!  A  man  may  kiss  his 
wife,  I  hope,  on  Christmas  morning,  with- 
out exciting  remark." 

She  was  happy,  then.  "  And  where 
are  you  now,  Elliott  ?  And  why  have  you 
got  your  uniform  on  —  and  why  is  — 
everything  ?  Tell  me." 

Captain  Steele  laughed  again,  a  full, 
round  laugh.  "  No  time  for  an  answer  to 
that.  We  are  in  latitude  about  nine  fifty 
south,  and  longitude  one  hundred  and 
five  forty-four  east.  I  have  not  taken  an 
observation  to-day,  but  that  land  you  see 
over  there  is  Christmas  Island,  and  the 
water  you  see  is  the  Indian  Ocean.  And 
the  feluccas  you  see  rowing  this  way  are, 
I  suspect,  buccaneers,  who  will  be  aboard 
of  us  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  now.  And 
the  wind  that  you  don't  see  is  what  I 
wish  devoutly  that  there  was,  to  help  us 


The  King's  Son  of  Palembai 


173 


show  them  a  clean  pair  of  heels.  But 
don't  you  be  frightened,  Iphigenia,"  he 
added  hastily.  "  I  think  that  we  shall 
circumvent  them." 

Iphigenia  was  not  frightened.  She 
looked  over  the  water,  that  rolled  in  long, 
lazy  swells,  unruffled  by  a  breeze,  and, 
far  down  upon  the  northern  horizon,  she 
thought  that  she  saw  the  high  land  of 
Christmas  Island,  although  she  was  not 
very  sure.  It  made  but  a  darker  patch  of 
blue  on  the  blue  of  the  horizon,  at  the 
best.  And  to  the  eastward  she  saw  four 
boats  —  the  "  little  ships  "  of  Bobby's 
dream,  she  thought  —  that,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  wind,  had  out  a  forest  of  oars 
and  were  closing  in,  in  a  leisurely  man- 
ner, upon  their  prey.  Each  little  ship 
was  crowded  with  men.  And  she  won- 
dered —  wondered  —  and  said  nothing. 

"  You  keep  near  me,"  said  Captain 
Steele,  "  and  whatever  I  may  do  —  I 
don't  know,  yet,  what  I  shall  do  —  you 
follow  my  lead.  You  understand,  Iphi- 
genia ?  Follow  my  lead." 

"  Yes,"  said  Iphigenia. 

In  the  crew  there  was  one  man  who 
could  speak  the  native  language  of  those 
parts.  Captain  Steele  had  that  man 
called  to  act  as  interpreter,  for  he  himself 
knew  but  little  of  that  tongue.  And  he 
had  a  gangway  put  over  the  side,  and  the 
first  of  the  boats  drew  near  and  hung,  a 
few  oars'  lengths  away.  A  man  stood 
out  from  the  mass  of  men,  but,  before  he 
could  speak,  the  interpreter  called  to  him. 

"  Peace  be  with  you!  "  he  said. 

And  the  man  looked  surprised,  but  he 
answered,  and  in  his  own  tongue. 

"  And  with  you,  peace,"  he  said. 

And,  with  that,  the  interpreter,  at  Cap- 
tain Steele's  bidding,  asked  him  to  come 
aboard,  with  thirty  of  his  men  —  there 
were  thirty  men  in  the  crew  of  the  Aulis 

—  and  be  the  guests  of  the  Aulis  at  din- 
ner.  And,  after  a  few  minutes  of  hesita- 
tion —  no  doubt  he  had  some  fear  that 
he  might,  I  say,  be  walking  into  a  trap, 
he  and  his  men ;  it  was  a  reasonable  fear 

—  after  a  few  minutes,  he  came,  and  cer- 
tain of  his  men  from  each  of  the  boats 


came  also.  But  the  boats  took  up  their 
stations  about  the  ship,  about  a  cable's 
length  away,  as  though  they  meant  to 
stay  there.  And  Captain  Steele,  clad  in 
his  gorgeous  uniform,  and  the  mates,  and 
Iphigenia,  a  little  timorous,  waited  at  the 
head  of  the  gangway. 

The  man  came  up  and  bounded  lightly 
on  deck,  his  men  behind  him.  He  looked 
alertly  about  him,  ready  for  anything,  it 
seemed;  then,  seeing  only  the  officers  in 
their  uniforms,  and  a  certain  timorous 
lady,  he  smiled  and  touched  his  head  and 
his  lips  and  his  breast,  and  made  a  low 
salaam,  and  said  something  which  no- 
body understood.  There  was  not  time 
for  the  interpreter;  and,  besides,  he  had 
gone  with  the  crew.  Captain  Steele  held 
out  his  hand,  which  the  man  took,  and 
he  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Steele,  although 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  understood  no 
more  of  what  was  going  on  than  they  did 
of  his  language. 

He  was  a  handsome  man,  younger  than 
Captain  Steele,  with  a  little  black  mus- 
tache which  turned  up,  quite  cunningly, 
at  the  ends,  and,  on  his  head,  a  big  turban 
of  fine  linen.  Iphigenia  laughed  as  she 
looked  into  his  eyes,  but  whether  from 
relief  or  from  nervousness  or  from  what 
other  cause  soever  she  could  not  have 
told,  for  the  life  of  her.  But  she  felt  no 
fear  of  him.  And  he,  seeing  her  laughing, 
and  her  eyes  looking  frankly  into  his, 
smiled  merrily  back  again.  And,  at  that, 
Captain  Steele  laughed  too,  and  they  all 
went  into  the  cabin  together. 

"  It's  a  little  early  for  our  Christmas 
dinner,"  said  Captain  Steele,  "  but  we'll 
have  it,  if  the  steward  has  done  his  duty. 
If  not,  I'll  string  him  up." 

And  again  they  all  smiled,  though  it 
must  have  been  more  from  the  friendly 
feeling  which  had  come  over  them  than 
because  of  Captain  Steele's  words.  And 
their  guest  was  seated  cross-legged  on 
cushions  that  had  been  placed  upon  a 
divan.  This  divan  commonly  did  duty 
as  a  transom  and  locker,  in  which  were 
kept  various  papers  of  Captain  Steele's; 
among  them,  the  log  of  the  voyage  which 


174 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


is  before  me  now.  And  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table  sat  Captain  Steele,  with 
Iphigenia  and  the  first  mate  on  either 
side;  and  the  door  opened  and  a  badly 
frightened  steward  began  serving  the 
dinner. 

It  was  a  merry  meal,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  nobody  could  understand  a  word 
that  their  guest  said;  and,  noting  that, 
which  was  plain  enough,  he  seemed  to 
have  a  certain  pleasure  in  talking  much. 
It  was  to  be  supposed  that  he  could  un- 
derstand no  more  of  what  was  said  to 
him.  And  presently,  Captain  Steele,  get- 
ting tired,  as  I  suppose,  of  understanding 
nothing  that  his  guest  said,  and  being 
equally  weary  of  keeping  the  smile  on 
his  face  and  not  knowing  what  he  smiled 
at,'  had  the  interpreter  fetched  to  help 
them  out.  It  was  rather  hard  on  him, 
taking  him  away  from  his  dinner  and 
making  him  stand  behind  the  captain's 
chair,  from  which  point  he  could  smell 
the  dinner  well  enough,  but  could  not 
get  so  much  as  a  taste  of  it.  There  was 
no  turkey,  nor  yet  goose;  but  there  was  a 
very  passable  soup,  and  excellent  salt 
horse  and  plum-duff  to  come,  and  Cap- 
tain Steele  could  keep  wines  well  enough, 
if  he  could  not  keep  fresh  meat. 

The  guest  observed  the  salt  horse  with 
some  amusement,  and  tasted  everything, 
though  he  did  scarcely  more.  Then, 
when  the  salt  horse  was  finished,  —  it 
was  the  second  course,  —  he  said  some- 
thing to  Captain  Steele,  with  much  smil- 
ing and  many  gestures.  Captain  Steele 
looked  at  the  interpreter,  whose  face  was 
glowing. 

"  He  says,  captain,  will  my  lord  par- 
don him  for  suggesting,  and  accept  a 
slight  contribution  from  his  stores?  For 
he  has  been  ashore  within  these  two  days, 
at  Java,  and  there  procured  fresh  meat 
and  a  trifle  or  two,  which  he  well  under- 
stands that  his  excellency  has  not  had 
this  long  time,  being  at  sea.  And  he  be- 
lieves the  trifles  he  mentions  will  be  grate- 
ful to  his  lord  and  honorable  lady,  and 
to  the  crew,  and  he  hopes  that  you  will 
deign  to  accept  them.  And  I  make  bold 


to  say,  captain,  that  I  hope  you  will." 

At  which  ending  Captain  Steele  burst 
out  laughing,  as  did  Iphigenia  and  the 
mate ;  and  their  guest  laughed  as  merrily, 
which  made  Iphigenia  wonder  whether 
he  really  understood  no  more  than  he 
seemed  to.  But  Captain  Steele  thanked 
him  heartily  for  his  courtesy  and  said 
that  he  would  gladly  accept  whatever  he 
offered.  And  he,  not  waiting  for  the  inter- 
preter to  interpret,  murmured  his  ex- 
cuses and  arose  and  hastened  on  deck, 
with  Captain  Steele  following  after  as 
fast  as  he  could.  But  Iphigenia  waited 
there  with  the  mate. 

And,  after  a  while,  there  entered  Cap- 
tain Steele  with  their  guest,  and,  strangely 
enough,  he  had  his  hand  on  the  man's 
shoulder,  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend. 

"  Iphigenia,"  said  the  captain,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  him?  He  understands 
English  as  well  as  I,  and  he  has  been 
fooling  us  all  this  time.  As  for  you,"  he 
added,  to  the  interpreter,  "  you  can  go 
forward  to  your  dinner." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir;  thank  you,  sir,"  said 
the  man;  and  went  out,  laughing  silently. 

"  I  make  my  apologies  to  the  lady  and 
the  honorable  captain,"  said  the  guest; 
"  but  it  was  necessary  that  I  be  sure  that 
there  was  no  plan  to  trap  us,  me  and  my 
men.  Now  we  can  enjoy  our  dinner  in 
fullness." 

"  In  fullness,"  echoed  Captain  Steele. 

Iphigenia  laughed  again.  And  imme- 
diately there  entered  men  bearing  dishes 
in  their  hands.  And  they  set  them  down 
and  whipped  off  the  covers,  and  there 
were  pheasants,  smoking  hot,  and  many 
another  thing  that  I  do  not  know  the 
name  of,  for  neither  Iphigenia,  nor  Cap- 
tain Steele  in  his  log,  has  said  what  they 
were.  But  I  am  sure  enough  that  they 
must  have  tasted  good  to  Captain  Steele 
and  his  sailors,  who  had  been  three 
months  without  fresh  meat  or  fruits,  or 
anything  much  better  than  salt  beef. 

And,  when  the  dinner  was  over,  Cap- 
tain Steele  gave  an  order,  and  there  was 
brought  in  to  him,  as  he  sat  at  the  table, 
a  box  of  carved  ebony  inlaid  on  the  top 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


175 


and  sides  with  silver.  And  the  captain 
made  a  little  speech,  which  I  will  not  try 
to  give  —  he  had  been  drinking  toasts, 
which  will  account  for  his  readiness  with 
his  tongue ;  for  he  was  not  used  to  making 
speeches,  and  he  did  not  like  to  —  he 
made  a  speech,  presenting  the  box  and 
its  contents  to  his  guest,  in  memory  of  a 
pleasant  occasion.  And  he  pushed  the 
box  across  the  table,  turned  the  silver 
key,  and  opened  it.  There  lay  a  pretty 
pair  of  pistols,  with  their  grips  inlaid 
with  some  fine  and  beautiful  design  in 
silver,  also. 

"  I  had  nothing  else  that  I  could  offer 
you,"  said  Captain  Steele.  "  I  hope  you 
will  not  be  using  them  upon  my  friends." 
And  he  laughed  in  somewhat  embar- 
rassed fashion. 

Iphigenia  saw  a  deep  red  suffuse  the 
dark  color  of  the  man's  cheek,  and  she 
feared  that  the  captain  might  have  trans- 
gressed some  rule  of  which  he  was  igno- 
rant. Then  the  man  laughed  as  if  he  was 
pleased,  and,  feeling  beneath  the  neck  of 
his  robe,  he  drew  forth  a  chain  of  pearls. 
It  was  a  long  chain,  and  they  were  beauti- 
ful great  pearls,  each  one  perfect;  and 
they  grew  from  little  to  big,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  the  loop  was  a  pendant  with 
an  enormous  blue  pearl  in  it.  Iphigenia 
drew  a  long,  shivering  breath  at  the  sight. 
She  liked  pearls  very  much;  no  doubt 
she  would  have  said  that  she  loved  them. 
And  the  man  rose,  smiling,  and  went  over 
to  Captain  Steele  and  bowed. 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  accept  this  trifle 
for  madam,"  he  said.  And,  seeing  the 
doubt  growing  on  Captain  Steele's  face, 
he  laughed.  "  I  did  not  take  it  from  one 
of  your  friends,"  he  continued.  "  It  is 
nothing.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  have 
madam  wear  it — to  remember  a  pleas- 
ant occasion." 

And  there  was  nothing  else  for  the 
captain  to  do  but  to  take  it,  which  he  did 
with  what  grace  was  in  him,  and  with 
but  feeble  protest.  As  for  Iphigenia,  she 
went  red  and  pale  by  turns,  and  could 
only  stammer  her  thanks.  And,  in  time, 
they  went  on  deck  and  the  man  betook 


him  to  his  boat  again  and  sailed  away. 
For  a  gentle  breeze  had  arisen,  with,  now 
and  then,  hard  squalls.  And  great  thun- 
der heads  darkened  the  water,  but  it  was 
yet  hot.  Iphigenia  leaned  upon  the  rail 
and  watched  the  boats  and  waved  her 
handkerchief.  She  was  no  longer  timor- 
ous. 

The  men  of  the  Aulis  were  taking  in 
sail.  Captain  Steele  leaned  on  the  rail, 
beside  Iphigenia,  and  watched  the  boats. 
Their  crews  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of 
taking  in  any  sail,  but  they  went  with  all 
that  they  could  carry.  "The  fools!" 
said  he.  "  Well  —  perhaps  they  know 
their  own  boats  best." 

And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
turned  away.  Iphigenia  watched  the 
boats  as  they  drew  abreast  of  Christmas 
Island.  It  was  very  squally  there,  the 
wind  drawing  off  the  high  land  in  puffs 
and  swirls.  She  saw  the  boats  careen, 
one  after  another,  under  one  of  these 
puffs,  and  recover;  then,  seemingly,  there 
came  a  blast  of  great  force.  It  knocked 
them  flat,  so  that  they  went  over  like  a 
row  of  ten-pins,  and  the  men  were  strug- 
gling in  the  water.  Iphigenia  gave  a 
little  scream  and  dropped  to  the  deck. 

Queer  things  were  happening  to  her. 
She  would  have  cried  out  with  the  horror 
of  it,  but  she  could  not  raise  her  voice 
above  a  whisper. 

"  Oh,  is  he  drowned  ?  "  she  said.  "  Tell 
me,  is  he  drowned  ?  " 

It  was  very  still,  and  she  was  about  to 
repeat  her  question.  Then  she  heard 
voices,  low  and  far  off.  And  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  she  saw  faces  turned  to 
hers,  over  the  candles ;  but  she  saw  them 
vaguely  and  indistinctly,  as  if  they  were 
dream-faces.  Then  they  came  nearer  and 
were  more  real,  and  she  knew  them.  She 
was  in  her  own  dining-room  and  she  still 
held  the  little  glass  in  her  hand  —  the 
little  glass  with  the  leopard's  head  cut 
in  it  —  and  her  other  hand  gripped  the 
table  so  hard  that  it  was  numb.  And 
Captain  Ammidon  and  Mrs.  Ammidon 
were  looking  at  her,  their  faces  beginning 
to  show  the  fear  they  felt,  and  they  whis- 


176 


The  King's  Son  of  Palemban 


pered  together.  Captain  Cumnor  was 
looking  at  her,  too.  Miss  Peake  and  Mr. 
Hunter  did  not  matter,  as  I  have  said. 

"  My  lady  is  not  well  ?  "  asked  Captain 
Cumnor,  in  a  low  and  anxious  voice. 
There  was  more  in  his  voice  than  in  his 
words  —  infinitely  more,  and  his  eyes 
expressed  more  than  his  voice.  They 
said  —  but  it  does  not  matter,  now,  what 
they  said;  if  he  had  only  known  it,  the 
time  was  already  past  when  it  could 
matter  to  Iphigenia  what  he  said,  whether 
with  lips  or  voice  or  eyes.  And  his  voice 
was  so  low  that  even  Captain  Ammidon, 
on  Iphigenia's  other  hand,  did  not  hear. 
But  Captain  Ammidon  was  deaf.  As  his 
lady  did  not  reply,  Captain  Cumnor 
went  on,  — 

"  Let  me  take  you  into  —  " 

And  Iphigenia  turned  upon  him  a  look 
that  would  have  frozen  his  heart  within 
him  —  if  he  had  had  a  heart  —  so  filled 
was  it  with  contempt  and  loathing. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you,"  she 
said;  and  shuddered  and  turned  again 
and  drank  her  wine.  How  long  had  she 
been  standing  there,  holding  that  glass  ? 

Captain  Cumnor  was  surprised  at  the 
look  she  gave  him;  surprised  out  of  his 
discretion.  What  could  he  know  of  the 
workings  of  a  woman's  mind  ?  What  did 
the  woman  herself  know  of  them,  for  that 
matter?  But  he  was  no  fool.  He  could 
see  through  a  hole  in  a  millstone. 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  are  well," 
he  said.  "  I  was  beginning  to  fear  that, 
perhaps,  you  were  not."  And  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

His  words  were  well  enough,  but  his 
voice  was  an  insult;  and  no  woman 
would  have  cared  to  see  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke.  Iphigenia  turned  towards  him, 
and  her  words  cut  like  knives. 

"  I  fear  it  is  you  who  are  ill,  Captain 
Cumnor,"  she  said.  "  If  you  feel  that 
you  should  go  home,  we  will  excuse  you." 

Captain  Cumnor  smiled  an  evil  smile. 
"  I  am  indebted  to  you,  madam,"  he 
said.  "  I  hesitated  to  ask  so  great  a 
favor."  He  turned  to  the  others.  "  Mrs. 
Steele  is  kind  enough  to  excuse  me  at 


once.  She  thinks  I  am  ill  and  ought  to 
be  at  home.  Good-night."  And  he  bowed 
and  was  gone. 

Mr.  Hunter  and  Miss  Peake  gaped  in 
astonishment  and  Mrs.  Ammidon  smiled 
grimly.  Only  Captain  Ammidon  reached 
over  and  took  Iphigenia's  hand.  He  did 
not  smile  but  he  looked  affectionately  at 
her.  "  Casting  pearls,  my  dear,"  said  he; 
"  casting  pearls." 

Involuntarily,  Iphigenia  reached  up  to 
feel  her  pearls.  They  were  her  own  amber 
beads  that  she  felt  between  her  fingers. 

Iphigenia  never  saw  Captain  Cumnor 
again,  which  was  just  as  well,  no  doubt. 
But  when  Captain  Steele  came  back, 
nearly  a  year  later,  he  handed  her  a 
packet.  And  she  undid  the  packet,  with 
fingers  that  trembled  a  little,  and  she 
drew  out  from  its  wrappings  a  string  of 
pearls.  It  was  a  long  chain,  and  they 
were  beautiful  great  pearls,  each  one 
perfect;  and  they  grew  from  little  to  big, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  loop  was  a  pen- 
dant with  an  enormous  blue  pearl  in  it. 
Captain  Steele  watched  her  as  she  drew 
them  forth,  but  he  said  nothing,  only 
stood  there,  smiling  slightly. 

And  Iphigenia  raised  shy  eyes  to  his. 
"  Was  he  drowned  ?  "  she  whispered. 
"  Tell  me,  was  he  drowned  ?  " 

Captain  Steele  laughed.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  can  know  about  them 
—  or  him,"  he  said.  "  But  I  will  show 
you." 

And  he  went  and  fetched  his  log:  the 
log  of  the  Aulis  on  the  voyage  from  Bos- 
ton towards  Manila,  beginning  Septem- 
ber the  twenty-seventh,  1821.  And  he 
opened  it  and  turned  to  a  certain  page, 
and  set  it  before  her.  That  same  log  lies 
open  before  me  now,  and  at  the  same 
place.  And  I  will  mention,  in  passing, 
that  I  have  that  same  string  of  pearls  in 
my  strong  box  at  the  bank.  It  is  a  long 
chain  still  —  as  long  as  when  it  was 
Iphigenia's  —  and  they  are  beautiful 
great  pearls ;  but  some  of  them  are  turned 
dark.  It  is  nearly  a  century  since  Iphi- 
genia got  them. 

At   sea    the  day  began,  for  Captain 


The  King's  Son  of  Palembai 


177 


Steele  at  least,  at  noon;  which  will  ac- 
count for  the  date  of  the  entry.  And  so 
December  the  twenty-fourth,  "  latter 
part,"  would  correspond  to  the  forenoon 
of  the  twenty-fifth,  as  we  reckon  days 
ashore.  He  mentions  it.  And,  if  Captain 
Steele  had  been  of  a  religious  turn,  he 
might  well  have  filled  a  page  of  the  book 
with  a  prayer.  Captains  of  those  days 
often  filled  nearly  a  page  with  prayers, 
of  a  Sunday  —  uncommon  long  ones,  too, 
though,  no  doubt,  they  were  sincere.  And 
this  was  Christmas  Day,  which  would 
have  been  excuse  enough,  if  one  were 
needed.  But  Captain  Steele  contents 
himself  with  the  briefest;  though  it  must 
have  been  heartfelt. 

Monday,  Dec  24th,  1821.  88  days. 
Comes  in  gentle  S.  E.  gales  and  pleas- 
ant weather.  Set  royals  and  skysails. 
Middle  part  light  airs.  Set  royal  steer- 
ing sails.  At  daylight  saw  Christmas 
Island  bearing  N.  by  W.  about  five 
leagues. 

Christmas  morning  at  home  —  and 
here.  May  God  bless  us  all  and  all  who 
are  dear  to  us,  and  grant  us  a  safe  return 
to  our  native  land.  Amen! 

Latter  part  squally,  with  thunder, 
lightning  and  rain.  Sent  down  all  steer- 
ing sails,  royals,  T.  Gallant  sails  and 
skysails  and  reef'd  main  topsail.  At  about 
10  A.  M.  pass'd  the  Island  distance  about 
three  miles.  Very  squally  while  passing 
the  Island,  with  great  numbers  of  Boo- 
bies and  Man-o'-War  birds  round  the 
Ship.  Ends  with  fresh  trades  and  passing 
clouds.  All  proper  sail  set. 

At  about  7  A.  M.  sighted  four  feluccas 
bearing  down  on  us,  which  I  took  to  be 
buccaneers.  Had  the  mates  (and  my- 
self) in  our  best  uniform  to  their  great 
astonishment,  and  the  men  in  their  best, 
and  received  them  hospitably.  Christ- 
mas dinner  at  8  A.  M.  (rather  early)  at 
which  the  captain  of  the  buccaneers 
show'd  himself  a  friendly  fellow  and  a 
man  of  a  pretty  wit.  Mirabile  dictu! 
Made  him  a  present  of  my  silver- mounted 
pistols,  with  the  hope  that  he  would  not 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


use  them  on  my  friends.  He,  in  turn, 
presented  me  with  a  string  of  pearls  for 
Mrs.  Steele.  (I  had  a  curious  sense  of  her 
presence  with  me  all  through  dinner  and 
for  a  little  while  after.  Then  she  was 
gone.)  Very  handsome  pearls,  if  I  am 
any  judge.  Wondered  where  they  came 
from,  but  asked  no  troublesome  ques- 
tions, being  thankfull  for  our  own  escape. 
God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way.  After 
dinner,  the  captain  of  the  buccaneers 
took  to  his  boats  and  stood  away  from 
us,  in  towards  Christmas  Island.  Very 
heavy  squall  capsized  all  boats.  Stood  in 
as  fast  as  we  could,  but  had  to  make  some 
sail.  Picked  up  the  captain  and  the  most 
part  of  his  people. 

And  when  Iphigenia  had  finished  the 
reading  of  the  log  for  that  day,  Captain 
Steele  stooped  and  turned  a  page. 
"  There!  "  he  said,  "  Read  that,  too." 
And  he  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile. 

So  Iphigenia  read. 

Thursday,  Dec.  27th,  1821.  91  ds. 
At  anchor  in  Mero  Bay,  the  peak  on 
Prince's  Island  bearing  N.  by  W.,  the 
North  Extreme  of  Java  N.  38  E.  the 
Watering  Place  on  Java  Shore  S.  25  E. 
Sent  the  boats  for  water.  Our  Captain 
of  Buccaneeres  gone  with  them,  with  his 
men.  The  boats  returned  at  five,  having 
2010  gals,  water.  Took  in  boats  and 
water  and  got  under  way  and  made  sail 
through  the  straits.  Stood  in  for  Anger 
at  11  A.  M.  I  went  ashore  and  left  letters 
for  Boston  and  procured  a  supply  of 
fowls,  vegetable  and  turtle.  Ends  light 
airs  from  N.  &  W. 

Friday,  Dec,  28th,  1821.  92  ds.  Comes 
in  light  airs  and  pleasant  weather.  At 
1  o'k,  I  came  on  board  with  our  sup- 
plies, procured  of  Amon,  a  Chinaman, 
having  heard  by  the  master  commandant 
(Van  Bassal)  of  the  recovery  of  Palemban 
by  the  Dutch  and  the  taking  of  the  King, 
then  a  prisoner  on  board  a  Dutch  Man  of 
War  at  Batavia,  and  the  escape  of  the 
King's  son,  with  a  party.  It  is  thought 
that  he  may  have  sailed  to  make  war 


178  Morrice  Water 

upon  the  Dutch.   Can  he  be  our  captain  Iphigenia  looked  up  from  her  reading, 

of  buccaneers!  a  question  in  her  eyes.   "  Was  he?  "  she 

Ends  with  It.  airs  and  variable.  Three  asked,  at  last. 

ships  in  sight  supposed  bound  for  Ba-  Captain  Steele  laughed.    "  He  was,  J 

tavia,  one  of  which  is  the  English  ship  found,  the  King's  son  of  Palemban." 

Amity  of  Whitby,  157  days  from  Eng-  Truly,  he  loved  a  joke,  that  King's  son 

land.  of  Palemban. 


MORRICE   WATER 

BY   SARAH   N.    CLEGHORN 

ALONG  the  shallows  of  the  river 

That  flows  by  Hemlock  Mountain's  side, 

There  is  a  street  of  elms  and  gardens, 
With  flower-de-luce  and  London-pride; 

All  green  and  blue  and  white  reflected 
Within  the  still  and  dreaming  tide. 

When  from  the  castellated  steeple 

The  bell's  melodious  long  refrain, 
Full  early  on  a  Sabbath  morning, 

Is  heard  across  the  windy  plain, 
Along  that  street  the  flowered  waistcoat 

And  polonaise  appear  again. 

In  the  Town  Hall,  at  springtime  parties, 
To  many  a  quaint  and  charming  tune, 

They  play  "Where  art  thou?"  and  "King  William;" 
And  still  beneath  the  autumn  moon 

Lead  forth  to  "  Money  Musk  "  their  partners, 
And  dance  the  reel  and  rigadoon. 

And  when  the  graybeards  fill  the  tavern 
With  talk  of  camp,  and  sword,  and  gun, 

They  mingle  Shiloh  and  Stone  River 
With  Concord,  and  with  Lexington; 

Until  through  yesterdays  forever 
The  Morrice  Water  seems  to  run. 


HONEST  LITERARY   CRITICISM 


BY   CHARLES   MINER   THOMPSON 


THERE  are  five  groups  interested  in 
literary  criticism:  publishers  of  books, 
authors,  publishers  of  reviews,  critics, 
and,  finally,  the  reading  public. 

An  obvious  interest  of  all  the  groups 
but  the  last  is  financial.  For  the  publisher 
of  books,  although  he  may  have  his 
pride,  criticism  is  primarily  an  advertise- 
ment :  he  hopes  that  his  books  will  be  so 
praised  as  to  commend  them  to  buyers. 
For  the  publisher  of  book-reviews,  al- 
though he  also  may  have  his  pride,  criti- 
cism is  primarily  an  attraction  for  ad- 
vertisements:  he  hopes  that  his  reviews 
will  lead  publishers  of  books  to  advertise 
in  his  columns.  For  the  critic,  whatever 
his  ideals,  criticism  is,  in  whole  or  in  part, 
his  livelihood.  For  the  author,  no  matter 
how  disinterested,  criticism  is  reputation 
—  perhaps  a  reputation  that  can  be 
coined.  In  respect  of  this  financial  inter- 
est, all  four  are  opposed  to  the*  public, 
which  wants  nothing  but  competent  serv- 
ice, —  a  guide  to  agreeable  reading,  an 
adviser  in  selecting  gifts,  a  herald  of  new 
knowledge,  a  giver  of  intellectual  delight. 

All  five  groups  are  discontented  with 
the  present  condition  of  American  criti- 
cism. 

Publishers  of  books  complain  that 
reviews  do  not  help  sales.  Publishers  of 
magazines  lament  that  readers  do  not 
care  for  articles  on  literary  subjects. 
Publishers  of  newspapers  frankly  doubt 
the  interest  of  book-notices.  The  critic 
confesses  that  his  occupation  is  ill-con- 
sidered and  ill-paid.  The  author  wrath- 
fully  exclaims  —  but  what  he  exclaims 
cannot  be  summarized  •,  so  various  is  it. 
Thus,  the  whole  commercial  interest  is 
unsatisfied.  The  public,  on  the  other 
hand,  finds  book-reviews  of  little  service 
and  reads  them,  if  at  all,  with  indiffer- 
ence, with  distrust,  or  with  exasperation. 


That  part  of  the  public  which  appre- 
ciates criticism  as  an  art  maintains  an 
eloquent  silence  and  reads  French. 

Obviously,  what  frets  the  commercial 
interest  is  the  public  indifference  to  book- 
reviews.  What  is  the  cause  of  that? 

In  critical  writing,  what  is  the  base  of 
interest,  the  indispensable  foundation  in 
comparison  with  which  all  else  is  super- 
structure ?  I  mentioned  the  public  which, 
appreciating  criticism  as  an  art,  turns 
from  America  to  France  for  what  it 
craves.  Our  sympathies  respond  to  the 
call  of  our  own  national  life,  and  may  not 
be  satisfied  by  Frenchmen;  if  we  turn  to 
them,  we  do  so  for  some  attraction  which 
compensates  for  the  absence  of  intimate 
relation  to  our  needs.  What  is  it?  Of 
course,  French  mastery  of  form  accounts 
in  part  for  our  intellectual  absenteeism; 
but  it  does  not  account  for  it  wholly,  not, 
I  think,  even  in  the  main.  Consider  the 
two  schools  of  French  criticism  typified 
by  Brunetiere  and  Anatole  France.  Men 
like  Brunetiere  seem  to  believe  that  what 
they  say  is  important,  not  merely  to  fel- 
low dilettanti  or  to  fellow  scholars,  but 
to  the  public  and  to  the  mass  of  the  pub- 
lic; they  seem  to  write,  not  to  display 
their  attainments,  but  to  use  their  attain- 
ments to  accomplish  their  end;  they  put 
their  whole  strength,  intellectual  and 
moral,  into  their  argument;  they  seek  to 
make  converts,  to  crush  enemies.  They 
are  in  earnest,  they  feel  responsible,  they 
take  their  office  with  high  seriousness. 
They  seem  to  think  that  the  soul  and  the 
character  of  the  people  are  as  important 
as  its  economic  comfort.  The  problem 
of  a  contemporary,  popular  author  — 
even  if  contemporary,  even  if  popular  — 
is  to  them  an  important  question;  the 
intellectual,  moral,  and  aesthetic  ideals 
which  he  is  spreading  through  the  coun- 

179 


180 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


try  are  to  be  tested  rigorously,  then  ap- 
plauded or  fought.  They  seek  to  be  clear 
because  they  wish  to  interest,  they  wish  to 
interest  because  they  wish  to  convince, 
they  wish  to  convince  because  they  have 
convictions  which  they  believe  should 
prevail. 

The  men  like  Anatole  France  —  if 
there  are  any  others  like  Anatole  France 
—  have  a  different  philosophy  of  life. 
They  are  doubtful  of  endeavor,  doubtful 
of  progress,  doubtful  of  new  schools  of 
art,  doubtful  of  new  solutions  whether 
in  philosophy  or  economics;  but  they 
have  a  quick  sensitiveness  to  beauty  and 
a  profound  sympathy  with  suffering  man. 
Not  only  do  they  face  their  doubts,  but 
they  make  their  readers  face  them.  They 
do  not  pretend,  they  do  not  conceal ;  they 
flatter  no  conventions  and  no  prejudices ; 
they  are  sincere.  Giving  themselves  with- 
out reserve,  they  do  not  speak  what  they 
think  will  please  you,  but  rather  try  with 
all  their  art  to  please  you  with  what  they 
think. 

In  the  French  critics  of  both  types  — 
the  men  like  Brunetiere,  the  men  like 
Anatole  France  —  there  is  this  common, 
this  invaluable  characteristic,  —  I  mean 
intellectual  candor.  That  is  their  great 
attraction;  that  is  the  foundation  of 
interest. 

Intellectual  candor  does  not  mark 
American  criticism.  The  fault  is  pri- 
marily the  publisher's.  It  lies  in  the  fun- 
damental mistake  that  he  makes  in  the 
matter  of  publicity.  Each  publisher,  that 
is,  treats  each  new  book  as  if  it  were  the 
only  one  that  he  had  ever  published,  were 
publishing,  or  ever  should  publish.  He 
gives  all  his  efforts  to  seeing  that  it  is 
praised.  He  repeats  these  exertions  with 
some  success  for  each  book  that  he  prints. 
Meanwhile,  every  other  publisher  is 
doing  as  much  for  every  new  book  of  his 
own.  The  natural  result  follows  —  a 
monotony  of  praise  which  permits  no 
books  to  stand  out,  and  which,  however 
plausible  in  the  particular  instance,  is, 
in  the  mass,  incredible. 

But  how  is  it  that  the  publisher's  fiat 


produces  praise  ?  The  answer  is  implicit 
in  the  fact  that  criticism  is  supported,  not 
by  the  public,  but  by  the  publisher. 
Upon  the  money  which  the  publisher  of 
books  is  ready  to  spend  for  advertising 
depends  the  publisher  of  book-reviews; 
upon  him  in  turn  depends  the  critic. 

Between  the  publisher  of  books  anx- 
ious for  favorable  reviews  and  willing 
to  spend  money,  and  the  publisher  of  a 
newspaper  anxious  for  advertisements 
and  supporting  a  dependent  critic,  the 
chance  to  trade  is  perfect.  Nothing  sor- 
did need  be  said  or  indeed  perceived ;  all 
may  be  left  to  the  workings  of  human 
nature.  Favorable  reviews  are  printed, 
advertisements  are  received ;  and  no  one, 
not  even  the  principals,  need  be  certain 
that  the  reviews  are  not  favorable  be- 
cause the  books  are  good,  or  that  the 
advertisements  are  not  given  because  the 
comment  is  competent  and  just.  Never- 
theless, the  Silent  Bargain  has  been  deco- 
rously struck.  Once  reached,  it  tends  of 
itself  to  becpme  ever  more  close,  intimate, 
and  inclusive.  The  publisher  of  books  is 
continuously  tempted  to  push  his  ad- 
vantage with  the  complaisant  publisher 
of  a  newspaper ;  the  publisher  of  a  news- 
paper is  continuously  tempted  to  pitch 
ever  higher  and  still  higher  the  note  of 
praise. 

But  the  Silent  Bargain  is  not  made 
with  newspapers  only.  Obviously,  critics 
can  say  nothing  without  the  consent  of 
some  publisher;  obviously,  their  alter- 
natives are  silence  or  submission.  They 
who  write  for  the  magazines  are  wooed 
to  constant  surrender ;  they  must,  or  they 
think  that  they  must,  be  tender  of  all 
authors  who  have  commercial  relations 
with  the  house  that  publishes  the  periodi- 
cal to  which  they  are  contributing.  Even 
they  who  write  books  are  not  exempt: 
they  must,  or  they  feel  that  they  must, 
deal  gently  with  reputations  commer- 
cially dear  to  their  publisher.  If  the  critic 
is  timid,  or  amiable,  or  intriguing,  or 
struck  with  poverty,  he  is  certain,  what- 
ever his  rank,  to  dodge,  to  soften,  to 
omit  whatever  he  fears  may  disple 


Honest  Literary  Criticism  . 


181 


the  publisher  on  whom  he  depends.  Self- 
ish considerations  thus  tend  ever  to 
emasculate  criticism,  criticism  thus  tends 
ever  to  assume  more  and  more  nearly  the 
most  dishonest  and  exasperating  form  of 
advertisement,  that  of  the  "  reading  no- 
tice "  which  presents  itself  as  sincere, 
spontaneous  testimony.  Disingenuous 
criticism  tends  in  its  turn  to  puzzle  and 
disgust  the  public  —  and  to  hurt  the  pub- 
lisher. The  puff  is  a  boomerang. 

Its  return  blow  is  serious ;  it  would  be 
fatal,  could  readers  turn  away  wholly 
from  criticism.  What  saves  the  publisher 
is  that  they  cannot.  They  have  continu- 
ous, practical  need  of  books,  and  must 
know  about  them.  The  multitudinous 
paths  of  reading  stretch  away  at  every 
angle,  and  the  traveling  crowd  must 
gather  and  guess  and  wonder  about  the 
guide-post  criticism,  even  if  each  finger, 
contradicting  every  other,  points  to  its 
own  road  as  that  "  To  Excellence." 

Wayfarers  in  like  predicament  would 
question  one  another.  It  is  so  with  read- 
ers. Curiously  enough,  publishers  de- 
clare that  their  best  advertising  flows 
from  this  private  talk.  They  all  agree 
that,  whereas  reviews  sell  nothing,  the 
gossip  of  readers  sells  much.  Curiously, 
I  say;  for  this  gossip  is  not  under  their 
control;  it  is  as  often  adverse  as  favor- 
able; it  kills  as  much  as  it  sells.  More- 
over, when  it  kills,  it  kills  in  secret:  it 
leaves  the  bewildered  publisher  without 
a  clue  to  the  culprit  or  his  motive.  How, 
then,  can  it  be  superior  to  the  controlled, 
considerate  flattery  of  the  public  press? 
It  is  odd  that  publishers  never  seriously 
ask  themselves  this  question,  for  the 
answer,  if  I  have  it,  is  instructive.  The 
dictum  of  the  schoolgirl  that  a  novel  is 
"  perfectly  lovely  "  or  "  perfectly  hor- 
rid," comes  from  the  heart.  The  com- 
ment of  society  women  at  afternoon  tea, 
the  talk  of  business  men  at  the  club,  if 
seldom  of  much  critical  value,  is  sincere. 
In  circles  in  which  literature  is  loved,  the 
witty  things  which  clever  men  and  clever 
women  say  about  books  are  inspired  by 
the  fear  neither  of  God  nor  of  man.  In 


circles  falsely  literary,  parrot  talk  and 
affectation  hold  sway,  but  the  talkers 
have  an  absurd  faith  in  one  another.  In 
short,  all  private  talk  about  books  bears 
the  stamp  of  sincerity.  That  is  what 
makes  the  power  of  the  spoken  word. 
It  is  still  more  potent  when  it  takes  the 
form,  not  of  casual  mention,  but  of  real 
discussion.  When  opinions  differ,  talk 
becomes  animated,  warm,  continuous. 
Listeners  are  turned  into  partisans.  A 
lively,  unfettered  dispute  over  a  book  by 
witty  men,  no  matter  how  prejudiced,  or 
by  clever  women,  no  matter  how  un- 
learned, does  not  leave  the  listener  in- 
different. He  is  tempted  to  read  that 
book. 

Now,  what  the  publisher  needs  in  or- 
der to  print  with  financial  profit  the  best 
work  and  much  work,  is  the  creation  of  a 
wide  general  interest  in  literature.  This 
vastly  transcends  in  importance  the  fate 
of  any  one  book  or  group  of  books.  In- 
stead, then,  of  trying  to  start  in  the  pub- 
lic press  a  chorus  of  stupid  praise,  why 
should  he  not  endeavor  to  obtain  a  re- 
production of  what  he  acknowledges  that 
his  experience  has  taught  him  is  his  main 
prop  and  support,  —  the  frank  word,  the 
unfettered  dispute  of  private  talk?  Let 
him  remember  what  has  happened  when 
the  vivacity  of  public  opinion  has  forced 
this  reproduction.  It  is  history  that  those 
works  have  been  best  advertised  over 
which  critics  have  fought  —  Hugo's 
dramas,  Wagner's  music,  Whitman's 
poems,  Zola's  novels,  Mrs.  Stowe's  Uncle 
Tom. 

Does  it  not  all  suggest  the  folly  of  the 
Silent  Bargain  ? 

I  have  spoken  always  of  tendencies. 
Public  criticism  never  has  been  and  never 
will  be  wholly  dishonest,  even  when  in 
the  toils  of  the  Silent  Bargain;  it  never 
has  been  and  never  will  be  wholly  honest, 
even  with  that  cuttlefish  removed.  But 
if  beyond  cavil  it  tended  towards  sin- 
cerity, the  improvement  would  be  large. 
In  the  measure  of  that  tendency  it  would 
gain  the  public  confidence  without  which 
it  can  benefit  no  one  —  not  even  the 


182 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


publisher.  For  his  own  sake  he  should 
do  what  he  can  to  make  the  public  regard 
the  critic,  not  as  a  mere  megaphone  for 
his  advertisements,  but  as  an  honest  man 
who  speaks  his  honest  mind.  To  this 
end,  he  should  deny  his  foolish  taste  for 
praise,  and,  even  to  the  hurt  of  individual 
ventures,  use  his  influence  to  foster  inde- 
pendence in  the  critic. 

In  the  way  of  negative  help,  he  should 
cease  to  tempt  lazy  and  indifferent  re- 
viewers with  ready-made  notices,  the 
perfunctory  and  insincere  work  of  some 
minor  employee;  he  should  stop  sending 
out,  as  "  literary  "  notes,  thinly  disguised 
advertisements  and  irrelevant  personali- 
ties; he  should  no  longer  supply  photo- 
graphs of  his  authors  in  affected  poses 
that  display  their  vanity  much  and  their 
talent  not  at  all.  That  vulgarity  he  should 
leave  to  those  who  have  soubrettes  to 
exploit;  he  should  not  treat  his  authors 
as  if  they  were  variety  artists  —  unless, 
indeed,  they  are  just  that,  and  he  himself 
on  the  level  of  the  manager  of  a  low 
vaudeville  house.  These  cheap  devices 
lower  his  dignity  as  a  publisher,  they  are 
a  positive  hurt  to  the  reputation  of  his 
authors,  they  make  less  valuable  to  him 
the  periodical  that  prints  them,  and  they 
are  an  irritation  and  an  insult  to  the 
critic,  for  one  and  all  they  are  attempts 
to  insinuate  advertising  into  his  honest 
columns.  Frankly,  they  are  modes  of 
corruption,  and  degrade  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  writing. 

In  the  way  of  positive  help,  he  should 
relieve  of  every  commercial  preoccupa- 
tion not  only  the  editors  and  contributors 
of  any  magazines  that  he  may  control, 
but  also  those  authors  of  criticism  and 
critical  biography  whose  volumes  he  may 
print.  Having  cleaned  his  own  house, 
he  should  steadily  demand  of  the  publi- 
cations in  which  he  advertises  a  higher 
grade  of  critical  writing,  and  select  the 
periodicals  to  which  to  send  his  books  for 
notice  according,  not  to  the  partiality, 
"but  to  the  ability  of  their  reviews.  Thus 
he  would  do  much  to  make  others  follow 
his  own  good  example. 


What  of  the  author?  In  respect  of 
criticism,  the  publisher,  of  course,  has  no 
absolute  rights,  not  even  that  of  having 
his  books  noticed  at  all.  His  interests 
only  have  been  in  question,  and,  in  the 
long  run  and  in  the  mass,  these  will  not 
he  harmed,  but  benefited,  by  criticism 
honestly  adverse.  He  has  in  his  writers 
a  hundred  talents,  and  if  his  selection  is 
shrewd  most  of  them  bring  profit.  Frank 
criticism  will  but  help  the  task  of  judi- 
cious culling.  But  all  that  has  been  said 
assumes  the  cheerful  sacrifice  of  the  par- 
ticular author  who  must  stake  his  all 
upon  his  single  talent.  Does  his  com- 
parative helplessness  give  him  any  right 
to  tender  treatment? 

It  does  not:  in  respect  of  rights  his, 
precisely,  is  the  predicament  of  the  pub- 
lisher. If  an  author  puts  forth  a  book 
for  sale,  he  obviously  can  be  accorded 
no  privilege  incompatible  with  the  right 
of  the  public  to  know  its  value.  He 
cannot  ask  to  have  the  public  fooled  for 
his  benefit;  he  cannot  ask  to  have  his 
feelings  saved,  if  to  save  them  the  critic 
must  neglect  to  inform  his  readers.  That 
is  rudimentary.  Nor  may  the  author 
argue  more  subtly  that,  until  criticism 
is  a  science  and  truth  unmistakable,  he 
should  be  given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
This  was  the  proposition  behind  the  plea, 
strongly  urged  not  so  long  ago,  that  all 
criticism  should  be  "  sympathetic;  "  that 
is,  that  the  particular  critic  is  qualified  to 
judge  those  writers  only  whom  on  the 
whole  he  likes.  Love,  it  was  declared,  is 
the  only  key  to  understanding.  The 
obvious  value  of  the  theory  to  the  Silent 
Bargain  accounts  for  its  popularity  with 
the  commercial  interests.  Now,  no  one 
can  quarrel  with  the  criticism  of  appre- 
ciation —  it  is  full  of  charm  and  service ; 
but  to  pretend  that  it  should  be  the  only 
criticism  is  impertinent  and  vain.  To 
detect  the  frivolity  of  such  a  pretension, 
one  has  only  to  apply  it  to  public  affairs : 
imagine  a  political  campaign  in  which 
the  candidates  were  criticised  only  by 
their  friends!  No:  the  critic  should  at- 
tack whatever  he  thinks  is  bad,  and  he 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


183 


is  quite  as  likely  to  be  right  when  he  does 
so  as  when  he  applauds  what  he  thinks 
is  good.  In  a  task  wherein  the  interest  of 
the  public  is  the  one  that  every  time  and 
all  the  time  should  be  served,  mercy  to 
the  author  is  practically  always  a  be- 
trayal. To  the  public,  neither  the  vanity 
nor  the  purse  of  the  author  is  of  the 
slightest  consequence.  Indeed,  a  criticism 
powerful  enough  to  curb  the  conceit  of 
some  authors,  and  to  make  writing  wholly 
unprofitable  to  others  would  be  an  ad- 
vantage to  the  public,  to  really  meritori- 
ous authors,  and  to  the  publisher. 

And  the  publisher  —  to  consider  his 
interests  again  for  a  moment  —  would 
gain  not  merely  by  the  suppression  of 
useless,  but  by  the  discipline  of  spoiled, 
writers.  For  the  Silent  Bargain  so  works 
as  to  give  to  many  an  author  an  exag- 
gerated idea  of  his  importance.  It  leads 
the  publisher  himself  —  what  with  his 
complaisant  reviewers,  his  literary  notes, 
his  personal  paragraphs,  his  widely  dis- 
tributed photographs  —  to  do  all  that 
he  can  to  turn  the  author's  head.  Some- 
times he  succeeds.  When  the  spoiled 
writer,  taking  all  this  au  grand  serieux, 
asks  why  sales  are  not  larger,  then  how 
hard  is  the  publisher  pressed  for  an  an- 
swer! If  the  author  chooses  to  believe, 
not  the  private  but  the  public  statement 
of  his  merit,  and  bases  upon  it  either  a 
criticism  of  his  publisher's  energy  or  a 
demand  for  further  publishing  favors,  — 
increase  of  advertising,  higher  royalties, 
what  not,  —  the  publisher  is  in  a  ridicu- 
lous and  rather  troublesome  quandary. 
None  but  the  initiated  know  what  he  has 
occasionally  to  endure  from  the  arrogance 
of  certain  writers.  Here  fearless  criticism 
should  help  him  much. 

But  if  the  conceit  of  some  authors 
offends,  the  sensitiveness  of  others  awak- 
ens sympathy.  The  author  does  his  work 
in  solitude;  his  material  is  his  own  soul; 
his  anxiety  about  a  commercial  venture 
is  complicated  with  the  apprehension  of 
the  recluse  who  comes  forth  into  the 
market-place  with  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve.  Instinctively  he  knows  that,  as 


his  book  is  himself,  or  at  least  a  fragment 
of  himself,  criticism  of  it  is  truly  criticism 
of  him,  not  of  his  intellectual  ability 
merely,  but  of  his  essential  character,  his 
real  value  as  a  man.  Let  no  one  laugh 
until  he  has  heard  and  survived  the  most 
intimate,  the  least  friendly  comment  upon 
his  own  gifts  and  traits  made  in  public 
for  the  delectation  of  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances and  of  the  world  at  large. 
Forgivably  enough,  the  author  is  of  all 
persons  the  one  most  likely  to  be  unjust 
to  critics  and  to  criticism.  In  all  ages  he 
has  made  bitter  counter-charges,  and 
flayed  the  critics  as  they  have  flayed  him. 
His  principal  complaints  are  three :  first, 
that  all  critics  are  disappointed  authors; 
second,  that  many  are  young  and  incom- 
petent, or  simply  incompetent;  third,  that 
they  do  not  agree.  Let  us  consider  them 
in  turn. 

Although  various  critics  write  with 
success  other  things  than  criticism,  the 
first  complaint  is  based,  I  believe,  upon 
what  is  generally  a  fact.  It  carries  two 
implications:  the  first,  that  one  cannot 
competently  judge  a  task  which  he  is 
unable  to  perform  himself;  the  second, 
that  the  disappointed  author  is  blinded 
by  jealousy.  As  to  the  first,  no  writer  ever 
refrained  out  of  deference  to  it  from 
criticising,  or  even  discharging,  his  cook. 
As  to  the  second,  jealousy  does  not  always 
blind,  sometimes  it  gives  keenness  of 
vision.  The  disappointed  author  turned 
critic  may  indeed  be  incompetent;  but, 
if  he  is  so,  it  is  for  reasons  that  his  dis- 
appointment does  not  supply.  If  he  is 
able,  his  disappointment  will,  on  the 
contrary,  help  his  criticism.  He  will  have 
a  wholesome  contempt  for  facile  success ; 
he  will  measure  by  exacting  standards. 
Moreover,  the  thoughts  of  a  talented  man 
about  an  art  for  the  attainment  of  which 
he  has  striven  to  the  point  of  despair  are 
certain  to  be  valuable;  his  study  of  the 
masters  has  been  intense,  his  study  of  his 
contemporaries  has  had  the  keenness  of 
an  ambitious  search  for  the  key  to  suc- 
cess. His  criticism,  even  if  saturated  with 
envy,  will  have  value.  In  spite  of  all  that 


184 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


partisans  of  sympathetic  criticism  may 
say,  hatred  and  malice  may  give  as  much 
insight  into  character  as  love.  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  a  disappointed  author,  jealous 
of  the  success  of  others. 

But  ability  is  necessary.  Envy  and 
malice,  not  reinforced  by  talent,  can  win 
themselves  small  satisfaction,  and  do  no 
more  than  transient  harm ;  for  then  they 
work  at  random  and  make  wild  and 
senseless  charges.  To  be  dangerous  to 
the  author,  to  be  valuable  to  the  public, 
to  give  pleasure  to  their  possessor,  they 
must  be  backed  by  acuteness  to  perceive 
and  judgment  to  proclaim  real  flaws  only. 
The  disappointed  critic  of  ability  knows 
that  the  truth  is  what  stings,  and  if  he 
seeks  disagreeable  truth,  at  least  he  seeks 
truth.  He  knows  also  that  continual 
vituperation  is  as  dull  as  continual  praise ; 
if  only  to  give  relief  to  his  censure,  he  will 
note  what  is  good.  He  will  mix  honey 
with  the  gall.  So  long  as  he  speaks  truth, 
he  does  a  useful  work,  and  his  motives 
are  of  no  consequence  to  any  one  but 
himself.  Even  if  he  speaks  it  with  un- 
necessary roughness,  the  author  cannot 
legitimately  complain.  Did  he  suppose 
that  he  was  sending  his  book  into  a  world 
of  gentlemen  only  ?  Truth  is  truth,  and 
a  boor  may  have  it.  That  the  standard 
of  courtesy  is  sometimes  hard  to  square 
with  that  of  perfect  sincerity  is  the  dilem- 
ma of  the  critic ;  but  the  author  can  quar- 
rel with  the  fact  no  more  than  with  the 
circumstance  that  in  a  noisy  world  he 
can  write  best  where  there  is  quiet.  If  he 
suffers,  let  him  sift  criticism  through  his 
family;  consoling  himself,  meanwhile, 
with  the  reflection  that  there  is  criticism 
of  criticism  and  that  any  important 
critic  will  ultimately  know  his  pains. 
Leslie  Stephen  was  so  sensitive  that  he 
rarely  read  reviews  of  his  critical  writ- 
ings. After  all,  the  critic  is  also  an  au- 
thor. 

The  second  complaint  of  writers,  that 
criticism  is  largely  young  and  incompe- 
tent, —  or  merely  incompetent,  —  is  well 
founded.  The  reason  lies  in  the  general 
preference  of  publishers  for  criticism  that 


is  laudatory  even  if  absurd.  Again  we 
meet  the  Silent  Bargain.  The  commer- 
cial publisher  of  book-reviews,  realizing 
that  any  fool  can  praise  a  book,  is  apt 
to  increase  his  profits  by  lowering  the 
wage  of  his  critic.  At  its  extreme  point, 
his  thrift  requires  a  reviewer  of  small 
brains  and  less  moral  courage:  such  a 
man  costs  less  and  is  unlikely  ever  to 
speak  with  offensive  frankness.  Thus  it 
happens  that,  commonly  in  the  news- 
papers and  frequently  in  periodicals  of 
some  literary  pretension,  the  writers  of 
reviews  are  shiftless  literary  hacks,  shal- 
low, sentimental  women,  or  crude  young 
persons  full  of  indiscriminate  enthusiasm 
for  all  printed  matter. 

I  spoke  of  the  magazines.  When  their 
editors  say  that  literary  papers  are  not 
popular,  do  they  consider  what  writers 
they  admit  to  the  work,  with  what  pay- 
ment they  tempt  the  really  competent, 
what  limitations  they  impose  upon  sin- 
cerity ?  Do  they  not  really  mean  that  the 
amiable  in  manner  or  the  remote  in  sub- 
ject, which  alone  they  consider  expedient, 
is  not  popular?  Do  they  really  believe 
that  a  brilliant  writer,  neither  a  dilettante 
nor  a  Germanized  scholar,  uttering  with 
fire  and  conviction  his  full  belief,  would 
not  interest  the  public?  Do  they  doubt 
that  such  a  writer  could  be  found,  if 
sought?  The  reviews  which  they  do 
print  are  not  popular;  but  that  proves 
nothing  in  respect  of  better  reviews. 
Whatever  the  apparent  limitations  of 
criticism,  it  actually  takes  the  universe 
for  its  province.  In  subject  it  is  as  pro- 
tean as  life  itself;  in  manner,  it  may  be 
what  you  will.  To  say,  then,  that  neither 
American  writers  nor  American  readers 
can  be  found  for  it  is  to  accuse  the  nation 
of  a  poverty  of  intellect  so  great  as  to 
be  incredible.  No;  commercial  timidity, 
aiming  always  to  produce  a  magazine  so 
inoffensive  as  to  insinuate  itself  into  uni- 
versal tolerance,  is  the  fundamental  cause 
of  the  unpopularity  of  the  average  critical 
article;  how  can  the  public  fail  to  be  in- 
different to  what  lacks  life,  appositeness 
to  daily  needs,  conviction,  intellectual 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


185 


and  moral  candor?  At  least  one  reason 
why  we  have  no  Brunetiere  is  that  there 
is  almost  no  periodical  in  which  such  a 
man  may  write. 

In  the  actual,  not  the  possible,  writers 
of  our  criticism  there  is,  in  the  lower 
ranks,  a  lack  of  skill,  of  seriousness,  of 
reasonable  competence,  and  a  cynical 
acceptance  of  the  dishonest  role  they  are 
expected  to  play;  in  the  higher  ranks, 
there  is  a  lack  of  any  vital  message,  a 
desire  rather  to  win,  without  offending 
the  publisher,  the  approval  of  the  ultra- 
literary  and  the  scholarly,  than  really  to 
reach  and  teach  the  public.  It  is  this 
degradation,  this  lack  of  earnestness,  and 
not  lack  of  inherent  interest  in  the  general 
topic,  which  makes  our  critical  work  un- 
popular, and  deprives  the  whole  literary 
industry  of  that  quickening  and  increase 
of  public  interest  from  which  alone  can 
spring  a  vigorous  and  healthy  growth. 
This  feebleness  will  begin  to  vanish  the 
moment  that  the  publishers  of  books, 
who  support  criticism,  say  peremptorily 
that  reviews  that  interest,  not  reviews 
that  puff,  are  what  they  want.  When 
they  say  this,  that  is  the  kind  of  reviews 
they  will  get.  If  that  criticism  indeed 
prove  interesting,  it  will  then  be  printed 
up  to  the  value  of  the  buying  power  of 
the  public,  and  it  will  be  supported 
where  it  should  be  —  not  by  the  pub- 
lisher but  by  the  people.  It  is  said  in 
excuse  that,  as  a  city  has  the  government, 
so  the  public  has  the  criticism,  which 
it  deserves.  That  is  debatable;  bu£, 
even  so,  to  whose  interest  is  it  that  the 
taste  of  the  public  should  be  improved  ? 
Honest  criticism  addressed  to  the  public, 
by  writers  who  study  how  to  interest  it 
rather  than  how  to  flatter  the  producers 
of  books,  would  educate.  The  education 
of  readers,  always  the  soundest  invest- 
ment of  the  publisher,  can  never  be  given 
by  servile  reviewers  feebly  echoing  his 
own  interested  advertisements.  They  are 
of  no  value  —  either  to  the  public,  the 
publisher,  or  the  author. 

The  publisher  of  a  newspaper  of  which 
reviews  are  an  incident  need  not,  how- 


ever, wait  for  the  signal.  If,  acting  on 
the  assumption  that  his  duty  is  not  to  the 
publisher  but  to  the  public,  he  will  sum- 
mon competent  and  earnest  reviewers  to 
speak  the  truth  as  they  see  it,  he  will 
infallibly  increase  the  vivacity  and  inter- 
est of  his  articles  and  the  pleasure  and 
confidence  of  his  readers.  He  will  not 
have  any  permanent  loss  of  advertising. 
Whenever  he  establishes  his  periodical 
as  one  read  by  lovers  of  literature,  he  has 
the  publishers  at  his  mercy.  But  suppose 
that  his  advertising  decreases  ?  Let  him 
not  make  the  common  mistake  of  meas- 
uring the  value  of  a  department  by  the 
amount  of  related  advertising  that  it 
attracts.  The  general  excellence  of  his 
paper  as  an  advertising  medium  —  sup- 
posing he  has  no  aim  beyond  profit  — 
is  what  he  should  seek.  The  public 
which  reads  and  enjoys  books  is  worth 
attracting,  even  if  the  publisher  does  not 
follow,  for  it  buys  other  things  than 
books. 

If,  however,  his  newspaper  is  not  one 
that  can  please  people  of  literary  tastes, 
he  will  get  book-advertising  only  in  neg- 
ligible quantities  no  matter  how  much 
he  may  praise  the  volumes  sent  him.  Of 
what  use  are  puffs  which  fall  not  under 
the  right  eyes? 

If,  again,  his  periodical  seems  an  ex- 
ception to  this  reasoning,  and  his  puffery 
appears  to  bring  him  profit,  let  him  con- 
sider the  parts  of  it  unrelated  to  litera- 
ture: he  will  find  there  matter  which 
pleases  readers  of  intelligence,  and  he 
may  be  sure  that  this,  quite  as  much  as 
his  praise,  is  what  brings  the  publishers' 
advertisements;  he  may  be  sure  that, 
should  he  substitute  sincere  criticism,  the 
advertisements  would  increase. 

The  third  complaint  of  the  author  — 
from  whom  I  have*  wandered  —  is  that 
critics  do  not  agree.  To  argue  that  when- 
ever two  critics  hold  different  opinions, 
the  criticism  of  one  of  them  must  be 
valueless,  is  absurd.  The  immediate 
question  is,  valueless  to  whom  —  to  the 
public  or  to  the  author  ? 

If  the  author  is  meant,  the  argument 


186 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


assumes  that  criticism  is  written  for  the 
instruction  of  the  author,  which  is  not 
true.  Grammar  and  facts  a  critic  can 
indeed  correct;  but  he  never  expects  to 
change  an  author's  style  or  make  his 
talent  other  than  it  is.  Though  he  may 
lash  the  man,  he  does  not  hope  to  reform 
him.  However  slightly  acquainted  with 
psychology,  the  critic  knows  that  a  ma- 
ture'writer  does  not  change  and  cannot 
change:  his  character  is  made,  his  gifts, 
such  as  they  are,  are  what  they  are.  On 
the  contrary,  the  critic  writes  to  influence 
the  public,  —  to  inform  the  old,  to  train 
the  young.  He  knows  that  his  chief 
chance  is  with  plastic  youth;  he  hopes 
to  form  the  future  writer,  still  more  he 
hopes  to  form  the  future  reader.  He 
knows  that  the  effect  of  good  reviewing 
stops  not  with  the  books  reviewed,  but 
influences  the  reader's  choice  among 
thousands  of  volumes  as  yet  undreamed 
of  by  any  publisher. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  public  is 
meant,  the  argument  assumes  that  one 
man's  meat  is  not  another  man's  poison. 
The  bird  prefers  seed,  and  the  dog  a 
bone,  and  there  is  no  standard  animal 
food.  Nor,  likewise,  is  there  any  stand- 
ard intellectual  food:  both  critics,  how- 
ever they  disagree,  may  be  right. 

No  author,  no  publisher,  should  think 
that  variety  invalidates  criticism.  If  there 
is  any  certainty  about  critics,  it  is  that 
they  will  not  think  alike.  The  sum  of  x 
(a  certain  book)  plus  y  (a  certain  critic) 
can  never  be  the  same  as  x  (the  same 
book)  plus  z  (a  different  critic).  A  given 
book  cannot  affect  a  man  of  a  particular 
ability,  temperament,  training,  as  it 
affects  one  of  a  different  ability,  tempera- 
ment, and  training.  A  book  is  never 
complete  without  a  reader,  and  the  value 
of  the  combination  is  all  that  can  be 
found  out.  For  the  value  of  a  book  is 
varying:  it  varies  with  the  period,  with 
the  nationality,  with  the  character  of  the 
reader.  Shakespeare  had  one  value  for 
the  Elizabethans,  he  has  a  different  value 
for  us,  and  still  another  for  the  French- 
man ;  he  has  a  special  value  for  the  play- 


goer, and  a  special  value  for  the  student 
in  his  closet.  In  respect  of  literary  art, 
pragmatism  is  right:  there  is  no  truth, 
there  are  truths.  About  all  vital  writing 
there  is  a  new  truth  born  with  each  new 
reader.  Therein  lies  the  unending  fasci- 
nation of  books,  the  temptation  to  infi- 
nite discussion.  To  awaken  an  immortal 
curiosity  is  the  glory  of  genius. 

From  all  this  it  follows  that  critics  are 
representative:  each  one  stands  for  a 
group  of  people  whose  spokesman  he  has 
become  because  he  has,  on  the  whole, 
their  training,  birth  from  their  class,  the 
prejudices  of  their  community  and  of 
their  special  group  in  that  community, 
and  therefore  expresses  their  ideals. 
Once  let  publisher  and  author  grasp  this 
idea,  and  criticism,  however  divergent, 
will  come  to  have  a  vital  meaning  for 
them.  The  publisher  can  learn  from  the 
judgment  of  the  critic  what  the  judgment 
of  his  group  in  the  community  is  likely 
to  be,  and  from  a  succession  of  such 
judgments  through  a  term  of  years,  he 
can  gain  valuable  information  as  to  the 
needs,  the  tastes,  the  ideals  of  the  public 
or  of  the  group  of  publics  which  he  may 
wish  to  serve.  Accurate  information 
straight  from  writers  serving  the  public 
—  that,  I  cannot  too  often  repeat,  is 
worth  more  to  him  than  any  amount  of 
obsequious  praise.  That  precisely  is 
what  he  cannot  get  until  all  critics  are 
what  they  should  be  —  lawyers  whose 
only  clients  are  their  own  convictions. 

'The  author  also  gains.  Although  he 
is  always  liable  to  the  disappointment 
of  finding  that  his  book  has  failed  to  ac- 
complish his  aim,  he  nevertheless  can 
draw  the  sting  from  much  adverse  criti- 
cism if  he  will  regard  not  its  face  value, 
but  its  representative  value.  He  is  writ- 
ing for  a  certain  audience;  the  criticism 
of  that  audience  only,  then,  need  count. 
If  he  has  his  own  public  with  him,  he  is 
as  safe  as  a  man  on  an  island  viewing  a 
storm  at  sea,  no  matter  how  critics  repre- 
senting other  publics  may  rage.  Not  all 
the  adverse  comment  in  this  country  upon 
E.  P.  Roe,  in  England  on  Ouida,  in 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


187 


France  on  Georges  Ohnet  ever  cost  them 
a  single  reader.  Their  audience  heard  it 
not;  it  did  not  count.  There  is,  of  course, 
a  difference  of  value  in  publics,  and  if 
these  writers  had  a  tragedy,  it  lay  in  their 
not  winning  the  audience  of  their  choice. 
But  this  does  not  disturb  the  statement 
as  to  the  vanity  of  adverse  criticism  for 
an  author  who  hears  objurgations  from 
people  whom  he  did  not  seek  to  please. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  such  objurgations 
flatter.  If,  for  example,  the  author  has 
written  a  novel  which  is  in  effect  an 
attempt  to  batter  down  ancient  preju- 
dice, nothing  should  please  him  more 
than  to  hear  the  angry  protests  of  the 
conservative  —  they  may  be  the  shrieks 
of  the  dying,  as  was  the  case,  for  instance, 
when  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  the  Autocrat ; 
they  show,  at  any  rate,  that  the  book  has 
hit. 

Now,  each  in  its  degree,  every  work 
of  art  is  controversial  and  cannot  help 
being  so  until  men  are  turned  out,  like 
lead  soldiers,  from  a  common  mould. 
Every  novel,  for  example,  even  when  not 
written  "with  a  purpose,"  has  many 
theories  behind  it  —  a  theory  as  to  its 
proper  construction,  a  theory  as  to  its 
proper  content,  a  theory  of  life.  Every 
one  is  a  legitimate  object  of  attack,  and 
in  public  or  private 'is  certain  to  be  at- 
tacked. Does  the  author  prefer  to  be 
fought  in  the  open  or  stabbed  in  the 
dark  ?  —  that  is  really  his  only  choice. 
The  author  of  a  novel,  a  poem,  an  essay, 
or  a  play  should  think  of  it  as  a  new  idea, 
or  a  new  embodiment  of  an  idea,  which 
is  bound  to  hurtle  against  others  dear  to 
their  possessors.  He  should  remember 
that  a  book  that  arouses  no  discussion  is 
a  poor,  dead  thing.  Let  him  cultivate  the 
power  of  analysis,  and  seek  from  his  crit- 
ics, not  praise,  but  knowledge  of  what, 
precisely,  he  has  done.  If  he  has  sought 
to  please,  he  can  learn  what  social  groups 
he  has  charmed,  what  groups  he  has 
failed  to  interest,  and  why,  and  may  make 
a  new  effort  with  a  better  chance  of  suc- 
cess. If  he  has  sought  to  prevail,  he  can 
learn  whether  his  blows  have  told,  and, 


what  is  more  important,  upon  whom.  In 
either  case,  to  know  the  nature  of  his 
general  task,  he  must  learn  three  things  : 
whom  his  book  has  affected,  how  much 
it  has  affected  them,  and  in  what  way  it 
has  affected  them.  Only  through  honest, 
widespread,  really  representative  criti- 
cism, can  the  author  know  these  things. 

Whatever  their  individual  hurts,  the 
publisher  of  books,  the  publisher  of  book- 
reviews,  and  the  author  should  recognize 
that  the  entire  sincerity  of  criticism, 
which  is  the  condition  of  its  value  to  the 
public,  is  also  the  condition  of  its  value 
to  them.  It  is  a  friend  whose  wounds  are 
faithful.  The  lesson  that  they  must  learn 
is  this:  an  honest  man  giving  an  honest 
opinion  is  a  respectable  person,  and  if  he 
has  any  literary  gift  at  all,  a  forcible 
writer.  What  he  says  is  read,  and  what 
is  more  it  is  trusted.  If  he  has  cultivation 
enough  to  maintain  himself  as  a  critic,  — 
as  many  of  those  now  writing  have  not, 
once  servility  ceases  to  be  a  merit,  —  he 
acquires  a  following  upon  whom  his  in- 
fluence is  deep  and  real,  and  upon  whom, 
in  the  measure  of  his  capacity,  he  exerts 
an  educational  force.  If  to  honesty  he 
adds  real  scholarship,  sound  taste,  and 
vivacity  as  a  writer,  he  becomes  a  leading 
critic,  and  his  influence  for  good  is  pro- 
portionally enlarged.  If  there  were  hon- 
est critics  with  ability  enough  to  satisfy 
the  particular  readers  they  served  on 
every  periodical  now  printing  literary 
criticism,  public  interest  in  reviews,  and 
consequently  in  books,  would  greatly  in- 
crease. And  public  interest  and  confi- 
dence once  won,  the  standing  and  with  it 
the  profit  of  the  four  groups  commer- 
cially interested  in  literature  would  in- 
fallibly rise.  This  is  the  condition  which 
all  four  should  work  to  create. 

Would  it  arrive  if  the  publisher  of 
books  should  repudiate  the  Silent  Bar- 
gain? If  he  should  send  with  the  book 
for  review,  not  the  usual  ready-made 
puff  but  a  card  requesting  only  the  favor 
of  a  sincere  opinion;  if,  furthermore,  he 
showed  his  good  faith  by  placing  his 
advertisements  where  the  quality  of  the 


188 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


reviewing  was  best,  would  the  critical 
millennium  come  ?  It  would  not.  I  have 
made  the  convenient  assumption  that 
the  critic  needs  only  permission  to  be 
sincere.  Inevitable  victim  of  the  Silent 
Bargain  he  may  be,  but  he  is  human  and 
will  not  be  good  simply  because  he  has 
the  chance.  But  he  would  be  better  than 
he  is  —  if  for  no  other  reason  than  be- 
cause many  of  his  temptations  would  be 
removed.  The  new  conditions  would  at 
once  and  automatically  change  the  direc- . 
tion  of  his  personal  interests.  He  and  his 
publisher  would  need  to  interest  the  pub- 
lic. Public  service  would  be  the  condi- 
tion of  his  continuing  critic  at  all.  He 
would  become  the  agent,  not  of  the  pub- 
lisher to  the  public,  but  of  the  public  to 
the  publisher.  And  although  then,  as 
now  in  criticism  of  political  affairs,  in- 
sincere men  would  sacrifice  their  stand- 
ards to  their  popularity,  they  would  still 
reflect  public  opinion.  To  know  what 
really  is  popular  opinion  is  the  first  step 
toward  making  it  better.  Accurately  to 
know  it  is  of  the  first  commercial  im- 
portance for  publisher  and  author,  of  the 
first  public  importance  for  the  effective 
leaders  of  public  opinion. 

This  new  goal  of  criticism  —  the  desire 
to  attract  the  public  —  would  have  other 
advantages.  It  would  diminish  the 
amount  of  criticism.  One  of  the  worst 
effects  of  the  Silent  Bargain  is  the  obli- 
gation of  the  reviewer  to  notice  every 
book  that  is  sent  him  —  not  because  it 
interests  him,  not  because  it  will  interest 
his  public,  but  to  satisfy  the  publisher. 
Thus  it  happens  that  many  a  newspaper 
spreads  before  its  readers  scores  upon 
scores  of  perfunctory  reviews  in  which 
are  hopelessly  concealed  those  few  writ- 
ten with  pleasure,  those  few  which  would 
be  welcome  to  its  public.  Tired  by  the 
mere  sight,  readers  turn  hopelessly  away. 
Now,  many  books  lack  interest  for  any 
one;  of  those  that  remain,  many  lack 
interest  for  readers  of  a  particular  publi- 
cation. Suppose  a  reviewer,  preoccupied, 
not  with  the  publisher,  but  with  his  own 
public,  confronted  by  the  annual  mass 


of  books:  ask  yourself  what  he  would 
naturally  do.  He  would  notice,  would  he 
not,  those  books  only  in  which  he  thought 
that  he  could  interest  his  readers?  He 
would  warn  his  public  against  books 
which  would  disappoint  them,  he  would 
take  pleasure  in  praising  books  which 
would  please  them.  The  glow  of  per- 
sonal interest  would  be  in  what  he  wrote, 
and  partly  for  this  reason,  partly  because 
the  reviews  would  be  few,  his  public 
would  read  them.  Herein,  again,  the 
publisher  would  gain:  conspicuous  no- 
tices of  the  right  books  would  go  to  the 
right  people.  An  automatic  sifting  and 
sorting  of  his  publications,  like  that  done 
by  the  machines  which  grade  fruit,  send- 
ing each  size  into  its  appropriate  pocket, 
would  take  place. 

But  the  greatest  gain  to  criticism  re- 
mains to  be  pointed  out.  The  critics  who 
have  chosen  silence,  rather  than  sub- 
mission to  the  Silent  Bargain,  would 
have  a  chance  to  write.  They  are  the 
best  critics,  and  when  they  resume  the 
pen,  the  whole  industry  of  writing  will 
gain. 

But  the  critic,  though  liberated,  has 
many  hard  questions  to  decide,  many 
subtle  temptations  to  resist.  There  is 
the  question  of  his  motives,  which  I  said 
are  of  no  consequence  to  the  author  or 
to  the  public  so  long  as  what  he  speaks 
is  truth ;  but  which,  I  must  now  add,  are 
of  great  consequence  to  him.  If  he  feels 
envy  and  malice,  he  must  not  cherish 
them  as  passions  to  be  gratified,  but  use 
them,  if  at  all,  as  dangerous  tools.  He 
must  be  sure  that  his  ruling  passion  is 
love  of  good  work  —  a  love  strong  enough 
to  make  him  proclaim  it,  though  done 
by  his  worst  enemy.  There  is  the  ques- 
tion again  of  his  own  limitations:  he 
must  be  on  his  guard  lest  they  lead  him 
into  injustice,  and  yet  never  so  timid  that 
he  fails  to  say  what  he  thinks,  for  fear  it 
may  be  wrong. 

I  speak  of  these  things  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  critic's  duty  to  himself; 
but  they  are  a  part  also  of  his  duty  to- 


Honest  Literary  Criticism 


189 


wards  his  neighbor,  the  author.  What 
that  duty  may  precisely  be,  is  his  most 
difficult  problem.  A  few  things  only  are 
plain.  He  ought  to  say  as  much  against 
a  friend  as  against  an  enemy,  as  much 
against  a  publisher  whom  he  knows  as 
against  a  publisher  of  England  or  France. 
He  must  dare  to  give  pain.  He  must 
make  his  own  the  ideals  of  Sarcey.  "  I 
love  the  theatre,"  he  wrote  to  Zola, 
"  with  so  absolute  a  devotion  that  I  sac- 
rifice everything,  even  my  particular 
friends,  even,  what  is  much  more  diffi- 
cult, my  particular  enemies,  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  pushing  the  public  towards  the 
play  which  I  consider  good,  and  of  keep- 
ing it  away  from  the  play  which  I  con- 
sider bad." 

That  perhaps  was  comparatively  easy 
for  Sarcey  with  his  clear  ideal  of  the  well- 
made  piece;  it  is  perhaps  easy  in  the 
simple,  straightforward  appraisal  of  the 
ordinary  book;  but  the  critic  may  be 
excused  if  he  feels  compunctions  and 
timidities  when  the  task  grows  more 
complex,  when,  arming  himself  more  and 
more  with  the  weapons  of  psychology, 
he  seeks  his  explanations  of  a  given 
work  where  undoubtedly  they  lie,  in  the 
circumstances,  the  passions,  the  brains, 
the  very  disorders  of  the  author.  How 
far  in  this  path  may  he  go  ?  Unquestion- 
ably, he  may  go  far,  very  far  with  the  not 
too  recent  dead ;  but  with  the  living  how 
far  may  he  go,  how  daring  may  he  make 
his  guess  ?  For  guess  it  will  be,  since  his 
knowledge,  if  not  his  competence,  will  be 
incomplete  until  memoirs,  letters,  diaries, 
reminiscences  bring  him  their  enlighten- 
ment. One  thinks  first  what  the  author 
may  suffer  when  violent  hands  are  laid 
upon  his  soul,  and  one  recoils;  but  what 
of  the  public  ?  Must  the  public,  then,  not 
know  its  contemporaries  just  as  far  as  it 
can — these  contemporaries  whose  strong 
influence  for  good  or  evil  it  is  bound  to 
undergo  ?  These  have  full  license  to  play 
upon  the  public;  shall  not  the  public,  in 
its  turn,  be  free  to  scrutinize  to  any,  the 
most  intimate  extent,  the  human  stuff 
from  which  emanates  the  strong  influence 


which  it  feels  ?  If  the  public  good  justi- 
fies dissection,  does  it  not  also  justify  vivi- 
section ?  Is  literature  an  amusement 
only,  or  is  it  a  living  force  which  on  pub- 
lic grounds  the  critic  has  every  right  in 
all  ways  to  measure?  Doubtless  his 
right  in  the  particular  case  may  be  tested 
by  the  importance  of  the  answer  to  the 
people,  yet  the  grave  delicacy  of  this  test 

—  which  the  critic  must  apply  himself 

—  is  equaled  only  by  the  ticklishness  of 
the  task.    Yet  there  lies  the  path  of  truth, 
serviceable,  ever  honorable  truth. 

The  critic  is,  in  fact,  confronted  by  two 
standards.  Now  and  again  he  must 
make  the  choice  between  admirable  con- 
duct and  admirable  criticism.  They  are 
not  the  same.  It  is  obvious  that  what  is 
outrageous  conduct  may  be  admirable 
criticism,  that  what  is  admirable  con- 
duct may  be  inferior,  shuffling  criticism. 
Which  should  he  choose?  If  we  make 
duty  to  the  public  the  test,  logic  seems  to 
require  that  he  should  abate  no  jot  of  his 
critical  message.  It  certainly  seems  hard 
that  he  should  be  held  to  a  double  (and 
contradictory)  standard  when  others  set 
in  face  of  a  like  dilemma  are  held  ex- 
cused. The  priest  is  upheld  in  not  re- 
vealing the  secrets  of  the  confessional, 
the  lawyer  for  not  betraying  the  secret 
guilt  of  his  client,  although  as  a  citizen 
each  should  prefer  the  public  to  the 
individual;  whereas  the  critic  who,  re- 
versing the  case,  sacrifices  the  individ- 
ual to  the  public,  is  condemned.  The 
public  should  recognize,  I  think,  his 
right  to  a  special  code  —  like  that  ac- 
corded the  priest,  the  lawyer,  the  soldier, 
the  physician.  He  should  be  relieved  of 
certain  social  penalties,  fear  of  which 
may  cramp  his  freedom  and  so  lessen 
his  value.  Who  cannot  easily  see  that  a 
critic  may  write  from  the  highest  sense 
of  duty  words  which  would  make  him 
the  "no  gentleman"  that  Cousin  said 
Sainte-Beuve  was? 

But  the  whole  question  is  thorny; 
that  writer  will  do  an  excellent  service 
to  letters  who  shall  speak  an  authorita- 
tive word  upon  the  ethics  of  criticism. 


190 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


At  present,  there  is  nothing  —  except 
the  law  of  libel.  The  question  is  raised 
here  merely  to  the  end  of  asking  these 
further  questions :  would  not  the  greatest 
freedom  help  rather  than  hurt  the  cause 
of  literature  ?  Is  not  the  double  standard 
too  dangerous  a  weapon  to  be  allowed 
to  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  upholders 
of  the  Silent  Bargain  ? 

Meanwhile  —  until  the  problem  is 
solved  —  the  critic  must  be  an  explorer 
of  untraveled  ethical  paths.  Let  him  be 
bold  —  whether  he  is  a  critic  of  the  deeds 
of  the  man  of  action,  or  of  those  subtler 
but  no  less  real  deeds,  the  words  of  an 


author !  For,  the  necessary  qualifications 
made,  all  that  has  been  said  of  literary 
criticism  applies  to  all  criticism  —  every- 
where there  is  a  Silent  Bargain  to  be 
fought,  everywhere  honest  opinion  has 
powerful  foes. 

The  thing  to  do  for  each  author  of 
words  or  of  deeds,  each  critic  of  one  or 
the  other  —  is  to  bring  his  Dwn  peb- 
ble of  conviction  —  however  rough  and 
sharp-cornered  —  and  throw  it  into  that 
stream  of  discussion  which  will  roll  and 
grind  it  against  others,  and  finally  make 
of  it  and  of  them  that  powder  of  soil  in 
which,  let  us  hope,  future  men  will  raise 
the  crop  called  truth. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  MOTORING 

BY  HENRY  COPLEY  GREENE 


"THEY  go  by  the  breath  of  Allah !  they 
go  by  the  breath  of  Allah!"  This  excla- 
mation of  kneeling  Arabs  reveals  an  awe 
in  the  presence  of  motor-cars  which  we, 
of  a  more  sophisticated  race,  hardly  feel. 
The  force  which  drives  a  six-cylinder 
machine  is,  for  us,  no  spiritual  thing.  If 
we  ride  this  sleek,  this  purring  steel  tiger, 
its  power  reminds  us  how  low  the  gaso- 
lene is  ebbing  in  our  tank,  or  what  trib- 
ute, in  the  guise  of  pay  for  that  volatile 
fluid,  we  have  poured  so  reluctantly  into 
the  golden  flood  from  which  magnates, 
in  their  moments  of  innocence,  irrigate 
the  bad  lands  of  American  education. 
But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  we  shrink  by 
the  wayside  while  the  monster  of  speed 
storms  past,  its  power  suggests  to  our 
shuddering  minds  neither  the  spirit  of 
greed,  nor  Allah's  immortal  breath.  For 
us  "what  makes  it  go"  is  a  breath,  to  be 
sure,  but  a  breath  from  the  Pit. 

When  the  doctrine  of  speed  for  speed's 
sake  was  orthodox,  this  Satanic  impres- 


sion came  hourly  to  the  wayfarer.  Now 
that  it  has  lapsed  into  heresy,  the  impres- 
sion is  so  rare  that  spectators  in  search  of 
it  troop  by  thousands  to  the  race-track. 
There  the  flash  of  dragon's-eye  lamps  at 
dawn,  the  machine-gun  fusillade  of  ex- 
plosions, the  smoke,  the  fire,  the  whirl- 
wind speed,  —  these  things  make  racing 
cars  actually  such  fierce  demons  as  their 
cousins  of  the  road  once  appeared.  Only, 
however,  to  hysterics,  human  and  equine, 
can  the  road  machines  of  to-day  seem 
diabolic.  For  the  rest  of  us,  the  lounging- 
rooms  on  wheels  which  carry  those  prin- 
cesses of  democracy,  our  eighteen-year- 
old  daughters  of  Success,  on  their  shop- 
ping bouts  and  their  calling  "bats;"  the 
motor-carts,  if  we  may  call  them  so, 
which  convey  their  furbelows  and  flowers 
to  the  paternal  mansion;  these,  and  the 
runabouts  in  which  bribe-givers  hurry  to 
court,  and  the  touring-cars  in  which 
bribe-takers  parade  back  and  forth  from 
jail,  these  are  so  usual,  so  tame,  so  tradi- 
tional, that  they  induce  in  us  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  fur-clad,  auto-riding  four- 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


191 


year-old  who  remarked,  one  winter  day : 

"Did  n't  Adam  'n  Eve  feel  cold 
speedin'?" 

If  some  brisk  little  runabout,  as  this 
youngster  supposed,  had  whisked  our 
first  parents  naked  through  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  or  if  huge  sight-seeing  "autos  " 
had  chug-chugged  into  Canterbury  on 
Geoffrey  Chaucer's  Pilgrimage,  motor- 
cars would  seem  to  us  as  legendary  as 
the  armored  chargers  that  clang  across 
the  background  of  Lord  Tennyson's  po- 
etry. But  Time  has  had  no  leisure  to 
wrap  motor-cars  in  mystery;  and  Poetry 
abashed  has  turned  away  her  head.  Un- 
veiled, except  in  dust,  they  shoot  the 
rapids  of  our  streets;  unsung,  unless  in 
coon-songs,  they  purr  across  hill  and 
meadow.  Song  will  follow  them.  The 
Egyptian  woman  hides  her  face  behind 
fold  on  fold  of  black;  behind  shining 
crimson  and  brass  the  tiger  of  modern 
speed  hides,  not  its  face,  but  a  spirit  of 
romantic  fact. 

If  Poetry  has  not  seen  it,  the  unwary 
motorist  is  to  blame.  Speed-possessed, 
he  hurls  his  "  auto,"  stonelike,  at  the 
twin  birds,  space  and  time;  and  when  its 
flight  is  once  over,  they  lie  dead  before 
his  spirit.  To  the  wise  motorist,  space 
and  time,  as  they  fly,  sing  songs  which 
thrill  and  echo  in  the  mind.  Up,  then, 
and  mount  with  the  wisest  of  your  ac- 
quaintance; up  and  be  off  with  him  where 
the  heavens'  light,  broken  into  the  colors 
of  tree,  flower,  and  grass,  accompanies 
the  song.  Then,  as  miles  and  moments 
slip  behind  you,  all  the  past  will  seem 
like  a  dim  and  soundless  cave,  and  your 
former  self  will  stand  before  you  strange 
as  a  skin-clad  cave-dweller.  So  at  least 
it  will  seem  to  your  gladdened  senses; 
nor  will  those  enthusiasts  be  seriously 
deceived.  For  in  motoring,  one's  self 
is  indeed  transformed,  and  the  world 
tinged,  for  the  awakened  mind,  with  a 
tone  lively,  fresh,  and  actual. 

This  tone  is  not,  as  skeptics  may  im- 
agine, a  mere  product  of  singing  swift- 
ness. There  are  moments  when  a  follow- 
ing breeze  stills  the  wind  of  your  motor's 


making,  moments  of  halting  on  some 
bridge,  with  the  incessant  machinery  ar- 
rested, when  the  tinkle  and  gurgle  of  a 
brook  below  melt  into  the  thrushes'  song 
among  cool  and  scented  balsams;  there 
are  moments  such  as  these  when  stillness 
beneath  dim  branches  is  tinged  with  a 
tone  as  keen  as  the  dazzle  and  swiftness 
of  day.  For  wherever  the  wise  motorist 
speeds  or  halts,  there  is  the  romance  of 
reality. 


ii 


A  wise  motorist  is  not  merely  exempt 
from  speed-mania;  he  knows  the  time, 
the  place,  the  way ;  he  has  the  skill  to 
make  each  inspired  choice  whereon  poetic 
motoring  depends.  He  knows  when  to 
brave  wind  and  sun,  when  to  seek  shelter- 
ing hillsides  or  tunnels  of  green.  Leaving 
the  allurements  of  a  road  that  would  soon 
toss  like  the  English  Channel,  he  comes, 
on  grassgrown  lanes,  to  the  ease  of  green- 
winged  locusts;  waysides  of  jagged  taw- 
driness  he  lets  pass  in  one  flare  of  color ; 
and  quenching  a  burst  of  speed,  he  makes 
beauty  linger  in  long  cadences  of  stream 
and  willow. 

All  this,  however,  he  can  do  perfectly, 
not  for  you,  but  for  himself  only.  For  in 
motoring,  as  in  love,  one  man's  poem  is 
another's  prose,  one  man's  cleansing  joy 
another's  pool  of  infamy.  Only  with 
spirits  whose  nature  he  shares  can  the 
motor-sage  share  his  romance.  If  then 
romantic  motoring  depends,  for  you,  on 
the  blindness  of  speed,  a  chauffeur's 
bought  wisdom  must  suffice  you.  If  your 
thirst  is  for  shy  lights  on  ocean  or  hillside, 
friendship  with  some  motoring  painter 
may  slake  it.  But  if  all  reality  waits  for 
you  like  a  goddess  scarcely  veiled,  if  it 
lurks  in  the  street  as  in  the  desert,  in 
the  throbbing  of  machinery  as  in  silence, 
in  the  sky  as  in  the  openness  of  a  wo- 
man's most  intimate  smile,  —  then,  for 
you,  chauffeurs  will  be  an  abomination, 
acquaintances  inept,  and  even  a  close 
friend  welcome  only  as  he  loosens  your 
too  firm  grasp  on  the  steering  wheel, 
guides  your  fingers  to  the  levers  con- 


192 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


trolling  throttle  and  electric  spark, 
"  cranks  "  your  engine,  and  with  a  word 
or  two  of  technical  reminder,  takes  the 
seat  beside  you  on  your  first  long  run. 

No  matter  what  zest  may  have  dazzled 
you  as  the  motoring-guest  of  youths  or 
gallant  maidens,  it  is  outshone  as  you  feel 
your  machine  leap,  fraught  with  power 
by  the  crook  of  one  forefinger,  or  steeled 
to  nervous  energy  by  the  other's  bending. 
To  drive  the  sun's  horses  would  seem, 
by  comparison,  dull.  But  though  you 
escape  a  Phaeton's  catastrophe,  your 
triumph  must  be  quelled.  Of  a  sudden 
your  car  shoots  willfully  to  the  left;  too 
obediently  following  your  corrective  con- 
vulsion, it  swerves  to  the  right  hand 
gutter,  then  slews  across  the  road,  and 
keeping  forward  incorrigibly,  forges  up  a 
bank,  grazes  an  apple  tree,  and  by  a  way- 
ward miracle  stops  just  short  of  a  wall. 

An  instant's  exultation  smothered  in 
shame,  this  and  no  romance  have  you 
tasted;  for  as  yet  you  are  no  sage.  On 
the  contrary,  a  self-confessed  motor-fool, 
to  the  core  of  all  your  bones,  you  descend, 
weak-kneed  and  with  dewy  brow,  from 
your  car  to  the  grass,  and  under  your 
mentor's  indulgent  eye,  seize  the  crank 
handle.  With  a  slow  twist  and  a  pull  like 
his,  you  seek  to  revive  the  engine.  A  jerk, 
a  blow,  and  the  handle  is  wrenched  away, 
leaving  you  a  spectator,  first  of  your  own 
bruised  and  bleeding  fingers,  then  of  your 
mentor's  skill  as  he  readjusts  a  lever 
which,  to  your  cost,  you  have  neglected. 

Then  you  mount  and  turn;  then  with 
brakes  hard  on,  creep  down  the  bank  to  a 
highway  all  peace  and  ease.  For  your 
muscles  no  longer  meet  each  pull  of 
the  steering-wheel  with  panicky  counter- 
tugs.  They  have  learned  their  first  lesson 
in  proportionate  readjustment,  a  lesson 
reflected  in  the  machine's  abstinence 
from  independent  sallies,  —  till  a  baby- 
carriage  on  the  uttermost  horizon  stirs 
it  to  caricature  your  unselfish  anxiety  in 
a  series  of  snaky  twinings.  But  though 
your  muscles  have  been  disciplined  into 
a  semblance  of  wisdom,  you  yourself 
must  still  grasp,  and  impart  to  those  hab- 


its at  work  in  the  twilight  of  conscious- 
ness, many  a  fact  and  many  a  mystery : 
facts  like  those  of  the  carburetor,  to  be 
learned  only  with  the  reek  of  gasolene  in 
your  nostrils ;  mysteries,  like  those  of  the 
electric  spark,  to  be  penetrated  only  by  a 
flash  of  the  imagination.  For  herein  lies 
the  sanity  of  your  novitiate,  that  it  is  a 
double  growth,  a  growth  of  faculties  both 
plodding  and  picturesque.  As  a  novice 
you  must  ascertain  by  exact  experiment 
the  mixture  of  fuel  and  air  that  will  ex- 
plode the  most  powerfully  in  your  engine- 
cylinders.  Yet  as  a  novice,  too,  you  must 
so  master  the  mysteries  of  the  accelerating 
spark  that,  like  Maeterlinck,  you  can  say, 
on  swifter  and  swifter  flights,  "  I  feel  as 
if  thousands  of  unseen  wings,  the  trans- 
parent wings  of  ghostly  great  birds  .  .  . 
had  come  to  strike  with  their  vast  cool- 
ness my  temples  and  my  eyes." 


in 

When  once  stirred,  even  silently,  to 
such  lyrical  thought  as  this,  you  grow 
irrepressible.  Impatient  to  face  alone  the 
hazards  of  the  road,  you  submit  with  an 
ill  grace  to  the  final  task  of  your  novi- 
tiate; unwillingly  you  remove,  replace, 
and  readjust  every  nut  and  cog  of  your 
machine.  But  then,  rising  from  bent 
knees,  you  find  yourself  free  to  go  whither 
you  will. 

Some  fifty  miles  away,  a  house  more 
inviting  than  others  stands  open  to  wel- 
come you,  and,  motor-fledgeling  though 
you  are,  you  fare  forth  to  attain  it.  Much 
more  than  a  fledgeling  you  feel  yourself 
as  the  city  of  your  work  begins  to  slip 
behind,  dwindling,  vanishing  under  its 
canopy  of  smoke;  for  every  nerve  and 
muscle  of  your  body,  every  thought  of 
your  mind,  tunes  itself  to  the  machine's 
efficiency.  Nor  can  you  recognize  your 
resulting  thrill  as  a  mere  echo  of  perfect 
mechanism.  So  obedient  is  the  speeding 
car  that  the  high  and  exquisite  key  of  its 
activity  seems,  on  the  contrary,  an  echo  of 
your  mastery.  Buoyantly,  then,  you  push 
forward.  A  village  appears,  keen-spired 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


193 


among  trees ;  it  sweeps  near,  sweeps  past 
on  either  hand;  and  the  road  before 
you  flows  like  a  spring  freshet  down  the 
slope  that  you  surmount.  As  you  spy 
ahead,  familiar  hills,  arching  their  backs 
on  a  horizon,  stir  you  with  prophecies. 
Your  spin  imaginatively  complete,  you 
regret  it  while  still  faring  on  past  field 
and  farm,  and  past  motorist  after  motor- 
ist, repairing  punctured  tires  by  the  way- 
side. 

As  for  you,  your  tires  are  intact,  and 
your  cylinders  hum  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 
Complacency  swells  within  you,  as  large, 
as  iridescent,  and,  alas,  as  thin  as  a  child's 
sunny  soap-bubble;  all  this  till,  like  the 
complacency  of  one  other  novice,  it  is 
touched  by  the  finger  of  fact. 

The  fledgeling  whom  I  have  in  mind 
turned  one  day  into  a  lane  whose  smooth 
length,  after  a  turn  or  two,  appeared 
buried  in  sods,  stones,  and  clods  scraped 
from  its  sides  by  a  village  "  rud-agent's  " 
road-machine.  More  annoyed  than  hin- 
dered, my  fledgeling  hastened  on,  bump- 
ing and  swinging  around  a  blind  corner 
to  where  that  plough-like  monstrosity 
straddled  a  rise  in  the  lane.  In  the  nick 
of  time  he  swerved  aside,  but  with  one 
rear  wheel  in  the  gutter,  came  helplessly 
to  a  standstill.  In  vain  he  opened  his 
throttle  to  its  widest;  that  wheel,  deep 
in  slime,  revolved  to  no  purpose  till  the 
"  rud-agent  "  came  down  from  his  over- 
grown plough,  and  threw  a  spadeful  of 
gravel  where  the  whizzing  wheel  bit  into 
it,  and  with  quieter  turnings,  carried  the 
machine  to  terra  firma. 

Thirty  horse-power  and  the  best  of 
machines  had  proved  less  efficient  than 
a  spadeful  of  gravel.  "Why  the  devil," 
asked  the  fledgeling,  correspondingly 
chagrined,  "  why  the  devil  do  you  plough 
your  road  into  a  potato-field  ?  " 

With  a  shrewd  dim  glance  came  the 
answer,  "  Yer  don't  like  the  looks  of  it  ? 
Wai,  I  guess  yer  would  n't  like  the  looks 
of  my  boy's  back,  either,  when  I '  ve  licked 
him  like  lie  needs." 

"Spare  the  plough  and  spoil  the  rud;" 
some  such  paraphrase  of  the  old,  vile 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


adage  was  so  fixed  in  the  "  rud-agent's  " 
brain,  that  even  my  fledgeling  was  mute; 
and  with  speech,  his  complacency  left 
him.  May  yours  escape  such  rude  ex- 
tinction! Yet  fact  must  extinguish  it; 
and  most  probably  it  does  so  when  you 
pass,  with  the  most  triumphant  sense  of 
contrast,  some  car  lying  derelict  beside 
the  road.  Then  with  a  gun-shot  report 
and  a  tug  at  your  steering-wheel,  Cata- 
strophe is  upon  you.  That  tug  instinct- 
ively mastered,  you  stop,  dismount,  and 
face  this  fact:  that  your  "gun-shot"  was 
the  report  of  an  exploding  tire,  a  tire 
which  you  find,  like  a  cast-off  snake- 
skin,  limply  surrounding  one  of  your 
wheels.  Because  some  wayward  urchin 
has  scattered  glass  in  the  highway,  you 
must  now,  not  only  labor  while  your 
engines  sybaritically  rest,  but  must  pay, 
pay,  pay !  Forewarned,  let  us  hope,  you 
have  paid  before  starting,  and  therefore 
carry  a  new  tire  at  the  back  of  your  car. 
If  so,  you  unstrap  it,  lay  it  by  your  wheel ; 
then  prod,  pry,  and  pull  at  the  old  tire- 
casing,  pull,  pry,  and  prod  again  at  the 
new;  insert  its  intestinal  tubing;  and 
pump,  pump,  pump  in  the  hot  sunlight 
till  the  firm,  replete,  and  distended  tire 
encircles  your  wheel  like  some  Gargan- 
tuan sausage. 

Then,  mopping  at  your  forehead,  you 
climb  aboard,  and  settle  in  your  seat, 
growling  at  the  injustice  which  has  made 
you  suffer  in  labor  and  temper  for  the 
venom  or  folly  which  scattered  that  de- 
structive glass.  With  a  jerk,  you  "throw 
in  "  the  "  clutch  "  which  connects  your 
engine  with  the  wheels  of  the  car.  To 
your  amazement  it  does  not  move.  Are 
the  brakes  on  ?  No.  What  then  ?  As  you 
sit  puzzling,  you  grow  at  last  aware  of 
a  great  stillness  around  you,  a  stillness 
stirred  only  by  the  breeze  seething  in  a 
wheatfield  across  the  wall.  Then  sud- 
denly, with  a  peal  of  laughter,  you  un- 
derstand. Smothered  in  your  own  mood, 
you  have  forgotten  a  sine  qua  non ;  you 
have  forgotten  to  start  your  engine ! 

Out  you  jump;  forward  you  scamper; 
seize  the  crank  handle,  and  turn  it  with  a 


194 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


jerk  that  rouses  your  engine  from  its  rest. 
Then  back  to  your  seat;  and  off  you  go, 
down  the  diagonal  turn  of  a  white  state- 
road,  where  you  can  drink  to  the  dregs 
those  delights  of  speed :  the  delight  of  air 
sweeping  past  with  a  sound  of  great  wa- 
ters, and  the  delight  of  the  foam-like  road 
itself,  as  it  rushes  to  vanish  beneath  you. 
Now  your  car,  like  a  yacht  skimming  a 
breaker,  skims  over  a  rolling  rise;  and 
while  the  azure  horizon  levels  dissolve 
into  a  seeming  ocean,  you  climb  in  a 
lapse  of  leisure  to  where  the  white  chalk- 
line  of  the  road  is  seen  sweeping  first 
toward  a  bowl-shaped  hollow,  then  over 
a  knoll  into  woods. 

Foreseeing  a  test  of  skill,  you  put  on 
speed,  and  as  you  gain  momentum, 
"  throw  out "  the  clutch.  So  while  your 
fingers  on  spark- and  throttle-levers  make 
the  engine's  throbbing  almost  cease,  your 
car  is  free  to  speed  yet  more  swiftly,  in 
the  grip  of  the  still  earth's  power,  down, 
down,  till  the  hollow  rising  toward  you  is 
not  a  hundred  yards  ahead.  Still,  in  the 
miracle  of  its  hushed  acceleration,  the  car 
speeds  on.  The  hollow,  now,  is  beside 
you;  now  it  is  behind  you.  Will  this  rush 
of  momentum  carry  you  over  the  knoll  ? 
Not,  you  judge,  unless  the  engine  is 
roused  to  aid  it.  So  your  finger  moves; 
and  the  machinery's  throbbing  grows 
swift  and  swifter,  pulsing  and  more  puls- 
ing, till  your  ear  believes  it  in  harmony 
with  the  car's  whirring  wheels.  Then 
you  "throw  in"  the  clutch,  reconnecting 
engine  and  car.  It  hesitates,  and  only  as 
you  open  the  throttle,  does  the  pitch  of 
the  engine's  pulse  rise  in  tune  with  your 
former  speed. 

The  test  has  failed;  the  car's  mo- 
mentary hesitation  has  proved  your  in- 
stinct wrong.  But  again,  as  you  rush 
down  a  long  incline,  you  "  throw  out " 
the  clutch,  and  soothing  the  engine  al- 
most to  sleep,  give  yourself  up  to  the 
power  of  the  earth.  Your  eye  on  a  train 
across  the  valley,  you  contrast  the  pas- 
sengers' cooped-up  suffocation  with  your 
own  draining  of  the  wind's  illimitable 
cup.  The  tail  of  your  eye  •  still  on  the 


laggard  train,  you  grow  aware  of  a  hol- 
low rising  to  meet  you;  and  again,  as 
you  cross  it,  you  listen  while  the  crook  of 
your  forefinger  converts  the  engine's  soft, 
slow  throbbing  into  an  evenly  swift  and 
swifter  beat.  Suddenly  you  feel  it  at- 
tuned to  the  speed  of  your  car,  and 
"  throwing  in  "  the  clutch,  you  find  your 
instinct  verified.  Smoothly  cog  slips  into 
cog,  and,  with  no  instant's  hesitation,  all 
the  engine's  power  joins  the  momentum 
of  the  car  to  carry  it  up  the  incline 
ahead,  and  along  its  spine-like  ridge. 

The  woodland  hill  of  your  destination, 
its  slope  dignified  by  a  house  all  grace  and 
ancient  welcome,  flashes  green  and  clear 
on  your  begoggled  eyes.  After  good  for- 
tune and  ill,  after  patience,  zest,  and  la- 
bor, your  run  is  almost  over.  Four  miles 
more,  eight  minutes  to  make  them  in, 
and  you  may  pride  yourself  on  a  success 
briskly  earned.  "  Speed,  speed,  on  this 
snow-like  road,  speed,"  you  whisper, 
"  speed ! "  and  letting  the  cylinders  in- 
hale their  explosive  vapor  through  a 
throttle  wide  open,  you  make  the  unseen 
spark  gleam  within  them  earlier  and  ever 
earlier,  till  their  purring  turns  to  a  note 
almost  musical.  "  Speed, — speed ! "  you 
whisper ;  and  your  sleek  steel  tiger  gath- 
ers force  in  a  rush  of  wind  that  sings  to 
you,  as  it  sang  to  Henley :  — 

Speed! 

Speed,  and  the  range  of  God's  skies, 

Distances,  changes,  surprises ; 

Speed,  and  the  hug  of  God's  winds 

And  the  play  of  God's  airs, 

Beautiful,  whimsical,  wonderful ; 

Clean,  fierce,  and  clean, 

With  a  throst  in  the  throat 

And  a  rush  at  the  nostrils ; 

Keen,  with  a  far-away 

Taste  of  inhuman, 

Unviolable  vastitudes, 

Where  the  Stars  of  the  Morning 

Go  singing  together 

For  joy  in  the  naked, 

Dazzling,  unvisited 

Emperies  of  Space ! 

And  the  heart  in  your  breast 

Sings,  as  the  World 

Slips  past  like  a  dream 

Of  Speed  — 

Speed  on  the  knees  of  the  Lord. 


The  Romance  of  Motoring 


195 


IV 


Breaking  into  this  glory  of  sane  ex- 
hilaration, a  blackness  against  the  road 
ahead  appears  and  defines  itself  as  a 
buggy,  whose  driver  raises  one  hand  in 
appeal  to  you,  while,  with  the  other,  he 
tries  to  control  his  horse.  The  horse 
waves  and  flaps  himself  like  a  pennant 
in  the  air,  till  you  stop  and  silence  your 
machine.  Then,  all  docility,  he  passes; 
and  you,  recording  an  inward  protest 
against  the  presence  of  mere  animals 
on  a  road,  prepare  to  pursue  your  way. 
The  engine  purring,  you  "  throw  in  "  the 
clutch.  A  rasping  sound  startles  you ;  the 
machine  stands  motionless ;  and  test  your 
clutch  as  you  may,  the  wheels  of  the  car 
remain  helplessly  disconnected  from  the 
engine. 

The  seriousness  of  your  plight  you  will 
learn  all  too  soon.  Sufficient  to  the  in- 
stant is  the  woe  thereof,  —  your  woeful 
inability,  with  a  smoothly  running,  thirty- 
horse-power  engine,  to  make  that  car 
budge.  In  vain  you  experiment ;  in  vain 
you  protestingly  wrestle  with  all  the  imps 
of  motoring.  Even  to  get  the  machine 
to  shelter  you  must  have  help,  help  that 
you  receive  at  last  from  a  ploughman 
and  two  oxen  lured  from  a  neighboring 
field. 

The  great  dull  brutes  once  yoked  to 
your  car,  you  who  have  sped  so  swiftly 
experience  a  strange  thing.  Seated  plac- 
idly, steering  lazily,  you  grow  aware  of 
a  silence  broken  only  by  the  slow  foot- 
steps of  animals  and  man,  the  whisper 
of  leaves,  the  scampering  of  squirrels 
along  a  branch  above  your  head.  And 
as  your  progress  continues,  slow  and 
measured,  toward  the  goal  of  your  small 
journey,  you  sigh  with  delight  in  spread- 
ing elms,  in  honeysuckles,  in  wild  violets, 
purple,  white,  and  yellow.  Of  all  this, 
you  abruptly  realize,  speed  would  have 
bereft  you.  Then  why  such  speed  ?  Is  it 
because  you  are  no  better  than  that 
first  of  dramatic  motoring  types,  Bernard 
Shaw's  Straker,  who  drove  a  touring-car 
at  sixty  miles  an  hour  simply  "  to  get  her 


money's  worth  out  of  her  "  ?  And  while 
you  digest  as  best  you  may  this  acid 
query,  your  ears  suddenly  ring  with  the 
laughter  of  a  girl  possessed  by  the 
Comic  Spirit. 


A  man  in  a  brown  study  steering  a  ma- 
chine which  two  ponderous  oxen  drag 
after  them,  —  this  man  is  so  laughable 
that,  unless  utterly  morose,  he  shares  the 
spectator's  hilarity.  Only  in  later  soli- 
tude is  he  gnawed  by  questionings.  But 
when  repair-bills,  reptilian  in  length,  be- 
gin to  uncoil  themselves  before  him,  he 
must  be  free-spirited  indeed  to  escape 
the  doubt  whether  this  motor-fool  can 
be  made  into  a  sage.  The  doubt,  more- 
over, is  real :  only  experience  can  solve 
it.  But  the  doubter's  mood,  meantime, 
grows  less  harassed,  less  personal,  so 
that  whatever  his  immediate  plight,  vi- 
carious pleasures  attend  him.  He  delights 
in  the  old  earth's  vitality,  doubled  and 
redoubled  in  men's  motoring;  shares  in 
imagination  their  breasting  of  snow-suf- 
fused wintry  winds;  pictures  the  loosen- 
ing tentacles  of  cities  as  they  release  their 
prisoners  to  whiz  into  open  sundown, 
starlight,  and  dawn ;  dreams  of  enormous 
organism  upon  factory  organism  created 
by  men's  new  craving  for  the  machine; 
sees  the  inventive  intellect  conceiving, 
under  the  impulse  of  the  lust  for  speed, 
mechanisms  of  such  light  yet  terrible 
energy,  that  they  overshoot  their  terres- 
trial purpose,  and  lift  us  into  the  king- 
doms of  the  air. 

In  such  outward-darting  thoughts  as 
these  the  defeated  motorist  finds  re- 
creation, then  leaps  again  into  action. 
Dreams  have  their  truth:  witness  the 
flight  of  aeroplanes  whose  engines  could 
never  have  existed  were  it  not  for  en- 
gines first  devised  for  automobiles.  But 
the  truest  of  dreams  still  lack  the  tang 
of  actuality.  Craving  this,  the  defeated 
motorist  soon  spurns  vicarious  pleasures 
for  experience  of  a  machine  sometimes 
wayward,  sometimes  whimsical,  yet  pow- 
erful as  the  spirit  that  rose  out  of  Alad- 


196 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman 


din's  jar.  By  the  magic  of  the  Machine 
its  master  grows  familiar  with  hidden 
beauties  in  smoke  and  pavement,  earth 
and  sky,  and  shares  them  in  companion- 
ship with  all  lovers  of  reality.  If  Heaven 
smiles,  he  finds  some  few  as  gayly  laugh- 


ing as  that  spectator  of  a  certain  fledge- 
ling's ox-drawn  progress;  and  if  one  of 
these  be  possessed  by  the  spirit  not  only 
of  comedy  but  of  tenderness  and  awe,  he 
may  learn  at  last  the  truest  romance  of 
motoring. 


WHAT  IT  MEANS   TO   BE  AN  ENFRANCHISED 

WOMAN 


BY   ELLIS   MEREDITH 


IT  is  not  a  truism  to  say  that  nobody 
but  the  enfranchised  woman  knows  what 
it  means  to  be  an  enfranchised  woman, 
for  apparently  this  experience  belongs  in 
the  category  with  running  hotels  and 
newspapers,  and  everybody  thinks  he 
understands  perfectly  what  it  signifies, 
even  if  he  has  only  taken  note  of  its  oper- 
ations from  a  car  window.  The  average 
critic  is  ready  to  join  in  "  Hilarion's  " 
song,  and  describe  the  ambitions  of  wo- 
men according  to  Gilbert :  — 

The  little  pigs  they  're  teaching  for  to  fly, 

For  to  fly, 
And  the  niggers  they'll  be  bleaching,  by  and  by, 

By  and  by ; 
Each  newly  joined  aspirant  to  the  clan, 

To  the  clan, 
Must  repudiate  the  tyrant  known  as  man, 

Known  as  man. 

They  mock  at  him  and  flout  him, 
For  they  do  not  care  about  him, 
And  they  're  going  to  do  without  him, 

If  they  can. 

Others,  with  more  sanguine  tempera- 
ments, but  hardly  more  judgment,  expect 
to  see  sin  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  globe. 
They  expect  the  "  kindly  earth  to  slum- 
ber, lapt  in  universal  law,"  once  woman 
is  given  a  finger,  even  a  little  finger,  in  the 
political  pie,  and  when  nightmares  con- 
tinue to  afflict  the  body  politic  they  are 
grieved  and  do  not  understand. 

When  women  were  first  enfranchised 
it  was  confidently  predicted  that  they 
would  neglect  their  homes  in  the  pursuit 


of  office.  When  a  very  small  percentage 
of  them  showed  the  slightest  disposition 
either  to  accept  or  to  seek  office,  it  was 
argued  that  the  politicians  would  have 
none  of  them,  and  that  they  would  soon 
be  eliminated  as  a  political  factor.  They 
have  had  something  the  experience  of  Ex- 
Governor  Alva  Adams,  Democrat,  who 
once  said  he  had  "never  been  able  to 
make  a  political  speech  that  pleased  the 
Republicans." 

When  Mrs.  Sarah  Platt  Decker,  the 
president  of  the  General  Federation  of 
Women's  Clubs,  was  asked  what  it  meant 
to  her  to  be  enfranchised,  she  replied,  — 

"You  can't  exactly  explain  why  suf- 
frage is  desirable.  If  you  were  to  post  a 
notice  that  all  the  workmen  of  this  state 
would  be  disfranchised  at  the  next  gen- 
eral election,  you  would  have  war  and 
bloody  war.  Why?  Does  it  make  any 
particular  difference  to  any  individual 
workman  whether  Roosevelt  or  Bryan  is 
elected  ?  Not  a  particle.  Then  why  does 
he  want  to  vote  ?  Because  the  vote  is  an 
indefinable  something  that  makes  you 
part  of  the  plan  of  the  world.  It  means 
the  same  to  women  that  it  does  to  men. 
You  never  ask  a  boy,  '  Have  you  closed 
the  saloons,  have  you  purified  politics 
and  driven  all  the  political  tricksters  out 
of  the  state  ? '  No,  you  put  your  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  you  say,  'To-day,  my 
boy,  you  are  an  American  citizen,'  and 
that  is  what  you  say  to  your  daughter." 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman 


197 


Columns  of  indiscriminate  criticism 
and  columns  of  injudicious  praise  have 
been  written  about  the  enfranchised 
woman,  yet  the  general  public  does  not 
get  her  point  of  view,  and  nobody  seems 
to  think  of  trying  equal  suffrage  by  the 
rule  suggested  by  Mrs.  Decker.  It  is 
assumed  that  it  must  mean  something 
different  in  the  case  of  woman,  and  her 
failure  to  bring  about  innumerable  re- 
forms is  considered  an  evidence  of  her 
unfitness  for  the  ballot,  while  nobody 
questions  the  fitness  of  those  who,  having 
voted  for  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
years,  have  made  reforms  necessary  in 
every  state  in  the  Union. 

What  does  the  possession  of  the  ballot 
mean  to  women  ?  Much  or  little,  accord- 
ing to  the  woman,  just  as  it  means  much 
or  little  to  the  individual  man.  Duty  is 
always  largely  a  matter  of  personal  equa- 
tion. Many  men  and  women  carry  their 
obligations  lightly.  They  pay  their  debts 
when  they  get  ready,  or  are  compelled 
by  process  of  law,  and  curfew  ordinances 
are  enacted  for  the  benefit  of  their  child- 
ren. 

And  right  at  this  point  may  be  found 
one  of  the  fundamental  differences  be- 
tween men  and  women  in  politics.  The 
man  whose  boy  is  brought  home  by  the 
policeman  or  truancy  officer  may  be 
intensely  interested  in  politics,  —  na- 
tional politics.  He  may  be  rabid  on  the 
subject  of  the  tariff  and  hardly  know  the 
name  of  his  alderman.  The  woman  who 
is  interested  in  politics  begins  at  home, 
and  has  a  vital  interest  in  the  quantity 
and  purity  of  the  water  supply.  She 
wants  to  know  why  the  streets  are  not 
kept  clean,  and  she  is  willing  to  help.  It 
was  the  women  of  Denver  who  prevailed 
on  the  authorities  to  park  Twenty-third 
Avenue,  put  up  anti-expectoration  signs, 
and  provide  garbage-cans  and  drinking 
fountains  at  the  street  corners.  Denver's 
politics  are  unquestionably  dirty,  but 
Denver  itself  is  a  clean  city.  To  be  sure 
the  smoke-consumer  ordinance  is  not 
enforced,  nor  the  Sunday  and  midnight 
closing  ordinances,  because  Denver  is  run 


upon  the  principle,  so  highly  lauded,  that 
"  municipal  government  is  business,  not 
politics,"  and  there  is  a  very  perfect  ar- 
rangement between  the  administration 
and  many  of  the  leading  businesses  of 
the  city.  Anything  that  can  be  done  for 
the  city  without  incommoding  them  can 
be  accomplished,  but  business  must  not 
be  interfered  with,  so  the  all-night  saloon 
flourishes. 

The  first  query  put  by  the  looker-on  in 
Vienna  who  hopes  to  find  out  what  the 
ballot  means  to  woman  is  nearly  always, 
"Do  the  women  vote?  "  Now,  that  is  a 
very  significant  question,  for  under  it  lies 
that  latent  distrust,  that  growing  doubt 
of  our  form  of  government  that  can  no 
longer  be  denied.  Those  who  ask  it 
doubtless  know  how  many  men  fail  to 
vote.  Not  long  ago  the  returns  showed 
that  forty  thousand  men  in  the  city  of 
Boston  had  failed  to  avail  themselves  of 
their  privilege  to  do  so.  No  wonder  we 
are  asked  if  the  women  vote. 

And  they  do.  Let  it  be  firmly  fixed  in 
the  mind  that  women  form  but  forty- 
two  per  cent  of  the  population  of  Colo- 
rado, and  that  they  cast  forty-eight  per 
cent  of  the  vote,  and  the  thoughtful  in- 
dividual will  perceive  that  practically  all 
the  women  vote.  What  is  more,  they 
vote  just  about  the  same  in  "off" years 
as  they  do  in  presidential  campaigns. 
Statistics  have  been '  gathered  several 
times,  and  the  figures  remain  relatively 
the  same.  At  one  municipal  election  in 
Colorado  Springs,  the  wealthiest  and 
most  exclusive  town  in  the  state  and  a 
Republican  stronghold,  the  women  cast 
fifty-two  per  cent  of  the  vote,  and  elected 
a  Democratic  mayor  on  a  law-enforce- 
ment platform. 

The  next  question  usually  is,  Are  the 
nominations  better  out  of  consideration 
for  the  woman's  vote  ?  This  is  a  question 
that  has  to  be  answered  in  two  ways :  if 
one  says,  "  Yes,"  there  must  be  a  quali- 
fication of  the  affirmative.  As  a  rule  can- 
didates are  better  men  morally,  but  it 
does  not  follow  that  they  are  better  offi- 
cers. Unfortunately,  the  domestic  virtues 


198 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman- 


do  not  always  insure  sound  judgment 
and  executive  ability.  In  politics  Tho- 
reau's  idea  holds  good :  it  is  not  enough 
for  a  man  to  be  good,  he  must  be  good 
for  something;  and  this  is  a  lesson  that 
women  and  reformers  have  not  yet 
learned. 

There  are  at  least  two  cases  that  de- 
serve mention  to  show  that  women  are 
not  quite  so  extreme  or  so  narrow  as 
they  are  sometimes  supposed  to  be.  Two 
men  have  been  nominated  for  judicial 
positions  at  different  times  and  in  differ- 
ent sections,  neither  of  whom  could  get 
into  the  class  with  Caesar's  wife.  Their 
judicial  record,  however,  was  above  re- 
proach. One  of  them  was  reflected  by 
the  Women's  Christian  Temperance 
Union  vote,  because  he  had  closed  the 
gambling  places.  The  other  received  the 
endorsement  of  the  Epworth  League 
because  he  had  closed  the  gambling  dens 
and  dance  halls. 

But  these  are  exceptional  cases.  As  a 
rule,  a  candidate  must  have  a  clean  bill 
of  health  morally  to  appeal  strongly  to 
the  woman  voter.  If  not,  he  may  receive 
a  half-hearted  support  from  those  of  his 
party,  but  will  lose  the  independent  vote 
entirely,  and  be  pretty  certain  to  be  badly 
scratched  on  his  own  ticket.  The  saloon 
remains  in  politics,  but  it  is  there  by  its 
representatives;  saloon-keepers  are  no 
longer  so  much  in  evidence,  personally, 
at  least.  Whereas  men  in  this  business 
were  frequently  elected  to  office  prior  to 
1893,  none  have  been  elected  since  in  a 
number  of  towns,  and  they  are  not  con- 
sidered desirable  candidates. 

On  this  subject  the  women  feel  very 
strongly.  When  the  first  charter  under 
the  new  law  was  to  be  framed  for  Denver 
a  convention  was  called  from  all  the  non- 
partisan  bodies  in  the  city,  and  they 
nominated  one-third  of  the  twenty-one 
members  of  that  convention,  asking  the 
two  parties  to  send  in  nominations  from 
which  seven  names  could  be  chosen  to 
fill  out  the  entire  quota.  The  proprietor 
of  the  Zang  Brewing  Company  was  a 
candidate  for  this  honor,  but  the  women 


were  opposed  to  him.  One,  who  had  had 
more  experience  than  the'  others,  went  to 
the  leaders  of  the  Women's  Christian 
Temperance  Union  delegation  and  stated 
her  case  this  way.  "  This  is  our  first 
chance,"  she  said,  "  to  get  at  this  indus- 
try in  the  open.  It  has  under  cover 
killed  your  local-option  laws  and  every 
other  law  you  have  proposed,  and  we 
have  n't  been  sure  who  represented  it. 
This  man  is  a  good  citizen  from  our 
standpoint,  if  he  is  in  a  bad  business.  If 
he  is  in  the  convention,  what  he  says  will 
be  authoritative,  and  we  can  probably 
secure  larger  concessions  from  him  than 
we  can  from  somebody,  unknown,  who 
will  be  looking  after  his  interests;  that 
they  will  be  looked  after,  we  know."  The 
women  were  obdurate,  however,  and  he 
was  not  named.  He  did  serve  upon  the 
second  charter  convention,  after  the  first 
charter  had  been  defeated. 

On  the  question  of  temperance  it  has 
meant  a  great  deal  to  the  women  to  be 
enfranchised,  though  this  is  not  evident 
in  the  large  cities  of  the  state.  In  Pueblo 
and  Denver  they  are  practically  power- 
less. In  Colorado  Springs  the  sale  of 
liquor  is  prohibited,  and  there  is  a  more 
or  less  continuous  warfare  against  its  il- 
licit sale  by  drugstores,  and  in  so-called 
"  clubs."  Greeley  is  also,  by  virtue  of  its 
charter,  a  "  dry  "  town,  but  in  the  mining 
camps  it  is  almost  impossible  to  make 
much  headway.  All  over  the  state,  how- 
ever, when  the  returns  come  in,  the  only 
question  involved  is  usually  "  wet "  or 
"dry,"  and  the  temperance  "arid  belt" 
seems  slowly  growing. 

One  incident  will  suffice.  Ten  years 
ago  there  was  a  little  town  of  less  than  a 
hundred  inhabitants  about  twenty-five 
miles  from  Denver.  It  was  a  very  tiny 
town,  but  it  managed  to  support  two 
saloons  with  the  aid  of  the  surrounding 
territory.  A  woman  active  in  Women's 
Christian  Temperance  Union  work 
moved  into  the  neighborhood  shortly 
before  the  spring  election,  and  learning 
that  the  sole  question  was  the  issuance 
of  licenses  to  these  saloons,  she  organ- 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman 


199 


ized  the  women,  who  had  only  lacked  a 
leader,  and  they  defeated  the  license 
ticket,  and  have  kept  the  saloon  out  of 
that  town  ever  since.  The  town  has  more 
than  quadrupled  in  size,  and  several 
important  industries  are  now  carried  on 
there. 

The  last  legislature  passed  a  local- 
option  law,  about  which  there  is  a  wide 
diversity  of  opinion.  It  requires  a  forty 
per  cent  referendum  to  submit  the  ques- 
tion of  license  or  no  license,  and  this 
is  the  main  point  of  difference;  advo- 
cates of  the  bill  when  it  was  pending 
explained  that  it  would  be  much  easier 
for  temperance  people  to  get  signatures 
than  for  saloon  men  to  do  so,  and  that 
once  "  dry,"  any  territory  would  be  much 
more  likely  to  remain  so.  The  oppo- 
nents said  that  inasmuch  as  the  initia- 
tive would  generally  rest  with  them,  it 
was  a  hardship  to  require  so  many  sig- 
natures to  a  petition  for  submission,  and 
thus  put  upon  them  the  double  work  and 
expense  of  getting  the  petition  and  mak- 
ing a  campaign  for  its  adoption.  They 
argued  that  it  would  have  been  fairer 
and  easier  to  have  secured  fifty-one  per 
cent  of  the  total  vote.  After  eighteen 
months  the  "dry"  territory  has  mate- 
rially increased.  Several  wards  excluded" 
the  saloon  in  the  May  election  in  Den- 
ver. As  usual  in  such  cases,  the  liquor 
dealers  will  contest  the  constitutionality 
of  the  law  in  the  courts. 

There  have  been  individual  campaigns 
and  candidates  that  have  shown  some- 
thing of  the  power  of  women  when  they 
have  worked  together.  The  reelection  by 
the  Civic  Federation,  of  Mr.  MacMur- 
ray  as  mayor  of  Denver,  when  he  had 
broken  with  the  Republican  machine; 
the  election  of  Mrs.  Helen  L.  Grenfell 
three  times  to  the  state  superintendency 
of  public  instruction;  the  election  of 
Judge  Ben  B.  Lindsay  when  both  party 
machines  had  an  understanding  that  he 
was  to  be  shelved,  —  these  are  signifi- 
cant instances;  but  after  all,  the  real 
meaning  of  government  lies  deeper  than 
the  choice  of  a  few  eminently  fit  candi- 


dates for  office  and  the  exclusion  of  unfit 
individuals.  If  the  franchise  were  im- 
portant only  on  the  occasion  of  Colo- 
rado's biennial  elections,  it  would  mean 
no  more  to  women  than  it — apparently 
—  does  to  men.  As  Senator  Peffer  said 
of  Kansas,  that  it  was  not  a  place  but  a 
condition,  so  one  might  say  of  the  suf- 
frage, that  it  is  not  the  ballot  itself,  or  the 
polls,  but  a  general  and  well-understood, 
even  if  undefined,  attitude  of  mind. 

The  ballot  has  brought  with  it  an 
intangible  something  that  no  one  can 
understand  who  has  not  had  to  deal  with 
public  officials  first  as  a  humble  suppliant 
and  then  as  a  constituent.  It  is  quite 
possible  to  find  men  who  will  refer  slight- 
ingly to  women,  but  that  is  not  confined 
to  suffrage  states,  and  the  men  who  sneer 
at  them  now  are  the  same  gentlemen 
who  referred  to  them  gently  as  "  old 
hens  "  and  "  hatchet-faced  females  "  in 
that  chivalrous  past  that  we  hear  so  much 
about. 

It  is,  by  the  way,  a  singular  fact  that 
men  seem  unable  to  consider  the  abstract 
question  of  voting  quite  apart  from  its 
personal  bearings.  For  instance,  one 
well-known  Denver  writer  laments  that 
since  the  disastrous  year  of  1893  he  has 
seen  upon  the  streets  of  Denver  "  the 
sad  faces  of  unloved  women."  Both 
before  and  since  that  time  the  sad  faces 
of  unloved,  unlovable  men  have  not  been 
absent  from  our  thoroughfares,  but  who 
ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  disfran- 
chising a  man  in  order  that  he  might 
be  rendered  attractive  ?  Socrates  would 
never  have  received  so  much  as  honor- 
able mention  in  a  beauty  contest.  Yet 
this  kind  of  thing  is  accepted  seriously, 
and  men  are  influenced,  not  by  argu- 
ments but  by  the  personality  of  the  one 
who  presents  them,  when  it  is  a  matter 
of  woman's  enfranchisement. 

There  are  certain  things  that  all  women 
want.  The  first  law  they  asked  for  after 
their  enfranchisement  was  one  making 
them  co-equal  guardians  of  their  child- 
ren, with  the  father,  and  it  passed  prac- 
tically without  a  dissenting  voice.  They 


200 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman 


had  not  secured  it  before,  and  such  a  law 
does  not  obtain  in  a  third  of  the  states  of 
the  Union  to-day,  though  everywhere  wo- 
men have  sought  to  obtain  it.  The  next 
thing  they  did  was  to  establish  a  State 
Home  for  Dependent  Children,  and  from 
that  time  on  they  have  passed  first  one 
and  then  another  law  for  the  protection 
of  childhood,  until  no  children  in  the 
world  are  better  cared  for  than  those  of 
Colorado.  Other  states  have  similar  laws, 
and  some  of  them  claim  to  possess  bet- 
ter ones,  but  the  peculiarity  of  the  Colo- 
rado laws  is  that  they  are  enforced.  This 
is  largely  possible  because  the  Colorado 
Humane  Society  is  a  part  of  the  state 
administration,  though  its  management 
remains  in  the  society.  This  bureau  has 
over  seven  hundred  volunteer  officers, 
scattered  all  over  the  state;  this  means 
that  in  the  vast  territory  of  one  hundred 
and  three  thousand  odd  square  miles 
there  is  no  place  so  remote,  on  lonely 
prairie  or  in  deserted  mountain  glen,  that 
the  law  cannot  hear  "  an  infant  crying 
in  the  night  .  .  .  and  with  no  language 
but  a  cry." 

The  greatest  difficulty  in  enforcing  the 
compulsory  school  law  is  in  the  cases  of 
foreigners  who  can't  understand  why  a 
man  has  not  the  right  to  work  his  own 
children  in  "  a  free  country."  One  of  the 
truancy  officers  reported  the  case  of  an 
Italian  boy  several  times.  To  evade  the 
school  law  the  father  sent  the  child  into 
the  next  county  and  put  him  to  work  in  a 
coal  mine;  but  it  is  a  state  law,  and  the 
authorities  brought  the  boy  back  and 
brought  the  father  into  court,  where  he 
was  given  his  choice  of  sending  his  boy 
to  school  or  going  to  jail  himself. 

Women  have  always  been  regarded  as 
natural  conservatives,  but  it  is  interesting 
to  note  the  gradual  effacement  of  the 
imaginary  lines  of  demarcation  between 
social  classes  where  women  are  most 
active  in  public  affairs.  The  Pingree 
Gardens,  Social  Settlements,  Neighbor- 
hood Houses,  Day  Nurseries,  and  like 
interests  fostered  by  women's  clubs  have 
done  much  to  bring  women  together, 


and  the  ballot-box  is  the  most  democratic 
of  all  social  institutions.  True,  the  wo- 
man meets  only  her  own  neighbors  at 
the  polls,  while  she  touches  elbows  with 
all  the  world  in  shops,  theatres,  and 
public  places;  but  in  all  other  places-  it 
is  an  individual  interest,  at  the  polls  it 
is  a  common  interest  and  one  that  affects 
the  public.  The  difference  is  infinite. 
And  as  the  woman  of  education  and  in- 
telligence is  apt  to  be  better  informed 
than  the  woman  of  more  restricted  op- 
portunities, she  has  greater  influence,  and 
thus  it  comes  that  slowly  but  surely  the 
process  that  seems  to  some  people  to  be 
one  of  disintegration,  becomes  a  leveling 
up. 

To  those  who  fear  the  fierce  partisan- 
ship of  women  it  may  be  rather  startling 
to  know  that  such  a  thing  as  a  party 
measure  has  never  been  espoused  by 
women  in  any  legislature,  in  Colorado  at 
least.  Women  want  the  same  things,  and 
they  have  worked  together  in  perfect 
harmony.  They  wanted  a  pure-food  law, 
and  secured  one  in  line  with  the  national 
provision  in  the  last  legislature;  they 
want  civil  service,  and  they  have  obtained 
that  in  a  measure,  though  the  ideal  thing 
is  yet  to  come;  they  want  honest  elec- 
tions and  the  elimination  of  graft. 

During  the  session  of  the  last  legis- 
lature an  attempt  was  made  to  change 
the  law  in  regard  to  the  control  of 
the  State  Bureau  of  Child  and  Animal 
Protection,  taking  it  from  the  Colorado 
Humane  Society  and  creating  a  political 
board.  Every  federated  club  in  the  state 
besieged  its  senators  and  representatives, 
and  the  vice-chairmen  of  the  two  domi- 
nant parties  waited  on  different  members 
of  the  legislature  together  to  enter  their 
protest.  Men  understand  that  in  legis- 
lative matters,  when  they  oppose  the  wo- 
men, it  is  practically  all  the  women,  and 
the  great  independent  vote  of  the  state. 

One  inference  would  be  that  this  would 
bestow  on  the  women  the  balance  of 
power,  and  make  them  invincible;  but 
long  ago  they  found  that  if  there  was 
no  politics  in  their  attempts  to  secure 


What  it  means  to  be  an  Enfranchised  Woman 


201 


cleaner  politics  by  means  of  better  reg- 
istration, primary  laws,  etc.,  there  wag 
no  politics  in  the  opposition  to  them,  and 
Republican  and  Democratic  machine 
men  agreed  that  nothing  must  be  done 
to  interfere  with  the  machine,  and  still 
agree.  Hincillcelachrimce.  After  a  dozen 
years  of  this  the  enfranchised  woman 
understands  that  eternal  vigilance  is  the 
price  of  a  republican  form  of  govern- 
ment, and  that  most  people  grow  weary 
in  well-doing  about  the  second  watch. 
Sometimes  she  grows  discouraged,  like 
that  great  home-keeping  army  of  men 
who  take  no  interest  in  politics;  in  rare 
instances  she  understands  the  belligerent 
tendencies  of  Carrie  Nation ;  and  some- 
times she  begins  to  see,  even  if  it  is 
through  a  glass  darkly,  that  government 
is  an  evolutionary  process,  and  it  does 
not  yet  appear  what  it  shall  be.  If  she  is 
a  reader  of  newspapers,  which  have  been 
fairly  successful  in  filching  from  us  our 
convictions,  leaving  nothing  more  stable 
than  a  few  opinions  in  their  place,  she 
believes  that  we  are  on  the  top  wave  of 
prosperity,  or  on  the  way  to  destruction, 
according  to  her  political  affiliations.  If 
she  has  read  a  little  history  and  learned 
to  reason,  she  thanks  God  and  takes 
courage. 

Unfortunately,  the  thinking  type  of 
citizen,  man  or  woman,  is  not  the  com- 
monest among  us.  Whatever  else  has 
caused  the  condition  prevalent  over  the 
United  States,  our  political  situation  is 
not  the  result  of  deep,  earnest,  general 
thoughtf ulness. 

But  the  enfranchised  woman  has  to 
think,  whether  she  wants  to  or  not.  At 
church  she  is  likely  to  be  reminded  that 
it  is  her  civic  duty  to  see  that  the  city  is 
made  decent  for  childish  feet;  at  the  club 
she  hears  of  the  iniquities  of  food  adul- 
teration and  learns  that  the  food  she  is 
setting  before  the  king  may  be  the  cause 
of  bibulous  habits,  while  her  own  bread 
and  honey  are  nothing  but  the  chaff  the 
wind  has  failed  to  drive  away,  and  a 
preparation  of  glucose.  When  the  county 
commissioners  misappropriate  the  public 


funds  she  knows  that  it  is  the  children's 
bread  that  is  being  given  to  dogs. 

What  does  it  mean  to  be  an  enfran- 
chised woman?  It  is  easier  to  tell  what 
it  does  n't  mean.  It  does  not  mean  the 
pleasing  discovery  that  "  politics  is  the 
science  of  government; "  it  does  not 
mean  attending  a  few  political  meetings 
and  reading  a  few  bits  of  campaign  liter- 
ature ;  it  does  not  even  mean  going  to  the 
polls  and  voting  as  conscientiously  as  one 
knows  how.  All  of  that  is  but  a  small 
portion  of  it.  The  vital  part  of  being 
enfranchised  is  not  to  be  found  in  its 
political  aspects  at  all,  but  in  its  effect 
in  teaching  us  our  relationship  with  the 
life  about  us.  The  real  significance  lies 
in  getting  in  touch  with  what  newspaper 
people  call  "  the  human  interest "  of 
daily  life,  and  finding  one's  own  place 
in  the  great  scheme  of  the  universe. 

And  to  be  enfranchised  means  to  make 
mistakes?  Yes,  dozens  of  them.  And 
failures?  Yes,  scores,  and  some  of  the 
worst  of  them  come  in  the  guise  of  suc- 
cesses. That's  what  it  means  to  be  alive. 
The  journey  to  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains does  not  lie  through  the  Elysian 
fields  but  through  the  Slough  of  Despond, 
past  the  Giant  Despair,  over  the  Hill 
Difficulty,  and  down  into  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow.  And  many  men  are  dis- 
couraged with  equal  suffrage  ?  Yes,  but 
hearken  unto  this  true  story. 

During  the  last  campaign  in  Colorado 
a  little  German  woman  walked  into  one 
of  the  state  headquarters  and  sat  down 
with  a  sigh.  "  Veil,"  she  said,  wiping  her 
forehead,  "  I  vas  most  discourached  mit 
mens.  You  know  dey  haf  change  die 
precincts  in  our  county,  und  ve  not  rech- 
ister  die  same  blace  some  more  but  fife 
miles  oudt  in  die  country.  I  vas  visiting 
mit  some  friends  dere,  und  dot  snow 
come  und  der  man  he  not  can  pull  die 
beets.  Die  mens  tink  of  nuttings  but  die 
beets  dis  fall.  I  say,  *  Now  you  cannot 
pull  die  beets,  hitch  up  vonce  und  ve  go 
rechister,'  und  er  sagen, '  Ach,  nein,  dere 
vas  blenty  of  dime ! '  I  vas  dot  provoked, 
aber  I  say, '  No,  dere  is  shust  to-day  und 


202 


With  the  Laurel 


to-morrow.  You  get  dot  big  vagon,  und 
I  go  finds  some  beeples.'  Veil,  he  get 
hitched  up,  und  I  find  zwelf  beeples,  und 
ve  drive  dot  fife  miles  und  ven  ve  get 
dere  it  was  fife  o'clock.  Der  shudge  und 
die  clerks  dey  haf  sit  dere  all  day,  und 
ve  vas  die  erste  to  come  to  rechister. 
Ach,  dese  men!  I  vas  discourached  mit 
dem!  " 

Both  men  and  women  find  human 
nature  discouraging  at  times,  and  it  be- 
hooves us  to  be  patient  with  one  another. 
The  stream  does  not  rise  higher  than  its 
source,  and  with  us  government  is  not 
a  remote  something  far  away,  but  just 
what  we,  in  our  individual  precincts,  will 
that  it  shall  be. 

When  the  school  readers  give  the  child- 
ren "  The  Launching  of  the  Ship  "  as  the 
perfect  picture  of  the  Union  that  is  to 
sail  on,  — 


In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore,  — 

they  should  give  them  also  "  The  Ship  that 
Found  Herself  "  as  a  companion  piece. 
Part  of  us  are  like  the  foremast  that  be- 
lieved the  whole  sea  was  in  a  conspiracy 
against  the  ship,  and  part  of  us  are  like 
the  rivets,  and  "  confess  that  we  can't 
keep  the  ship  together,"  and  all  of  us 
need  somebody  like  the  Steam  to  come 
along  and  tell  us  that  "  a  rivet,  and  espe- 
cially a  rivet  in  our  position,  is  really  the 
one  indispensable  part  of  the  ship." 
Until  this  miracle  happens  and  we  learn 
to  pull  together,  we  shall  continue  to 
experience  the  discomfort  that  comes 
from  pulling  apart.  The  enfranchised 
woman  has  to  find  this  out  before  she 
can  hope  to  find  herself  or  learn  what 
enfranchisement  means.  That  man  is 
still  seeking  it,  need  not  discourage  her. 


WITH  THE   LAUREL 

To  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

ON    HIS    SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY,    OCTOBEIt    8,    1903 

BY   INA    COOLBRITH 

WHO  wears  this  crown  —  greater  than  kings  may  wear 
Is  monarch  of  a  kingdom,  once  possessed, 
Nor  foe  nor  fate  from  him  may  ever  wrest! 

Illimitable  as  space  is,  and  as  fair 

As  its  illumined  depths,  he  gathers  there 
All  things,  obedient  to  his  high  behest. 
His  is  the  sea,  the  valley's  verdant  breast, 

And  his  the  mountain-summit,  lost  in  air. 

Thought's  infinite  range  to  him  no  barrier  bars; 
His  soul  no  boundary  knows  of  time  or  place; 

Bird,  beast,  flower,  tree,  to  him  in  love  belong; 
Child  of  the  earth  yet  kindred  to  the  stars, 
He  walks  in  dreams  with  angels,  face  to  face, 
And  God  Himself  speaks  in  his  voice  of  song. 


IN   GOOSE  ALLEY 


BY   LUCY   PRATT 


THE  moon  dropped  from  behind  a 
cloud  on  to  the  still  floor  of  the  sky  and 
shone  steadily  down  on  Hampton  Roads. 
By  the  edge  of  the  water  stood  a  dark  fig- 
ure looking  up,  while  swiftly,  here  and 
there,  across  the  grounds  of  the  Institute 
which  bordered  on  the  Roads,  moved 
other  dark  figures.  With  the  exception 
of  the  still  one  by  the  water,  however,  they 
all  seemed  to  be  moving  on  to  some  de- 
finite purpose,  to  have  some  final  goal  in 
view,  while  Romulus  Quick,  still  gazing 
upwards,  was  apparently  sunk  in  medi- 
tation. For  Romulus  had  just  attended 
one  of  the  Sunday  evening  meetings  in  the 
old  Virginia  Hall  chapel,  and  there  he  had 
listened  to  a  talk  which  still  ran  vaguely 
in  his  ears. 

"  We  have  got  to  lift  our  people  out 
of  this  abyss  of  ignorance  and  super- 
stition! " 

Romulus  fastened  a  boat  and  struck 
off  across  the  grounds,  still  meditating. 

"  Dat's  a  fac',"  he  ruminated. 

"It's  appalling,"  came  the  voice  in  his 
ears;  "  the  depth  of  ignorance  and  su- 
perstition among  our  people  is  nothing 
short  of  appalling." 

"  Sho!  "  murmured  Romulus,  "  cer- 
t'nly  is  a  shame !  "  He  passed  out  through 
the  gates  and  turned  into  Goose  Alley, 
while  the  moon  from  out  the  still  floor  of 
the  sky  now  shone  straight  down  into  his 
own  modest  dooryard.  Into  the  flood  of 
bright,  steady  light  bobbed  two  small 
colored  boys,  chasing  their  own  shadows 
ecstatically,  and  then  bobbing,  with  hi- 
larious tagging  movements,  around  Rom- 
ulus's  legs. 

"  Oh,  ain't  you-all  foolish  'n'  triflin' !  " 
came  a  quick  protest  of  disgust,  "run- 
nin'  roun'  an'  dodgin'  an'  bus'in'  right 
out  laffin'  on  Sunday!  Now,  why  n't 
you  'have  you'selves  ?  " 


The  two  small  colored  boys  looked 
momentarily  rebuked  and  then  dropped 
back  into  their  dodging  manoeuvres 
again. 

"  Oh,  cert'nly  mek  me  tiahed!  "  pro- 
tested Romulus;  "  look  like  a  man  cyan't 
even  have  no  peace  a-walkin'  down  de 
road  to  'is  own  do'.  Well,  it's  jes  ez  de 
gen'leman  say,  yer  's  s'  igrn'rant  I  s'pose 
yer  doan'  know  no  better,  needer  one  uv 
yer!  S'  ign'rant  an'  superstitious!  "  con- 
tinued Romulus  warmly,  "  an'  I  kin 
prove  it!  " 

The  dodgers  looked  quite  alarmed  at 
the  prospects. 

"I  kin  prove  it,"  repeated  Romulus 
with  growing  confidence,  and  glancing 
at  the  closed  door  just  before  him,  "an' 
'xpose  yer!  By  axin'  not  mo'n  two  free 
questions,  too !  An'  hyeah  's  de  fus' 
question  now,  an'  yer  kin  answer  it  ef 
yer  kin.  W'at  's  a  do'  fer  ?  " 

There  was  a  dreadful  silence,  and  the 
dodgers  felt  the  hand  of  fate  suddenly 
suspended  above  them  with  threatening 
significance,  and  an  entire  future  trem- 
bling wretchedly  in  the  balance. 

"  Huh  ?  Wat's  a  do'  fer  ?  "  demanded 
Romulus  again.  "  An'  ef  yer  cyan't  an- 
swer, w'y,  jes  say  so!  " 

"  Ter  open,"  spoke  up  one,  with  full 
realization  of  the  frightful  danger  of  the 
venture. 

"Ter  shet ! "  faintly  suggested  the  other. 

"  'T  ain'  no  sech  a  thing !  "  contradicted 
Romulus,  with  scorn  too  deep  for  really 
proper  expression,  "  co'se  sometime  a 
do'  does  open,  an'  'casion'ly  it  shets.  But 
yer  ain'  s'pose  it's  hull'  fer  dat  pu'pose, 
is  yer  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  tower  miles  above  them, 
and  the  dodgers  appeared  to  be  fast 
shriveling  away  to  indiscriminate  atoms. 

"  A  do',"  he  went  on,  his  voice  adapt- 

203 


204 


In  Goose  Alley 


ing  itself  beautifully  to  the  situation,  "  is 
p'imarily  fer  keepin'  out  mersquiters, 
wasps,  rain,  bu'glars,  fire-flies,  birds, 
tom-cats,  bumble-bees,  gnats,  all  smaller 
an'muls  an'  so  fo'th.  Nex',  a  do'  is  fer 
walkin'  inter  w'en  yer  wants  ter  go  in,  an' 
fer  walkin'  out  nv  w'en  yer  wants  ter  go 
out.  Am'  dat  so?  Well,  w'at  yer  mean 
by  stan'in'  up  dere  an'  givin'  me  sech 
triflin'  answers  fer,  anyway  ?  " 

The  dodgers  looked  as  if  they  would 
like  to  be  excused  from  living,  if  pos- 
sible, but  it  evidently  was  not  possible. 
Romulus's  voice  once  more  broke  the 
stillness. 

"  Well,  yer's  merely  'xposed  yer  ign'- 
rance  an'  superstition,  jes  ez  I  'spected 
yer  would !  But  I  'se  gwine  give  yer  one 
mo'  chance,  an'  ef  yer  doan't  improve 
dis  time,  w'y,  't  won'  be  no  hope  fer  yer 
•tall.  Wat's  yer  haid  fer?" 

The  dodgers  glanced  feebly  at  each 
other  and  regretted  the  evil  moment 
when  they  had  joyously  and  unsuspect- 
ingly gamboled  into  Goose  Alley. 

'*  Ter  r-res'  yer  hat  on!  "  ventured  one 
politely,  his  tongue  moving  thickly  in  his 
mouth. 

"  Ter  hole  yer  ears  on !  "  breathed  the 
other. 

Once  more  did  Romulus  regard  them 
from  an  incalculable  distance. 

"  Well,  now  yer's  completely  'xpose 
yerselves,  an'  dat's  de  trufe,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Ter  res'  yer  hat  on!"  he 
murmured  almost  sadly.  "  An'  ter  hole 
yer  ears  on !  Trufe  is,  yer 's  ser  deep 
down  in  de  abyss  o'  ign'rance  an'  super- 
stition, I  doan'  r'ally  think  I  kin  do 
nuthin'  fer  yer  't  all." 

They  looked  both  worn  and  humble. 

"  No,  I  jes  natchelly  am'  gwine  was'e 
my  time  wid  yer.  I'se  too  disgusted  ter 
even  mek  de  'tempt  ter  'mprove  yer." 

He  stepped  up  to  the  low  door  at  one 
side,  made  primarily  for  keeping  out 
mosquitoes,  wasps,  rain,  burglars,  and 
so  forth,  and  opened  it  slowly,  while  the 
dodgers  suddenly  dodged  away  into  the 
night  again  and  disappeared. 

But  Romulus's  dreams  were  peaceful, 


even  joyous  that  night,  in  spite  of  the 
trials  and  shocks  of  the  evening.  True,  he 
figured  largely  in  them  himself,  but  that, 
after  all,  only  added  to  the  general  effect 
of  peace  and  joy.  He  saw  himself  in  a 
succession  of  attractive  lights  —  as  an 
actual  student  at  the  Institute  in  a  natty 
blue  uniform,  as  the  proud  bearer  of  a 
diploma,  the  famous  graduate  of  gradu- 
ates, the  founder  of  the  school  of  schools, 
and  finally  as  the  general  and  final  eman- 
cipator of  the  whole  army  of  ignorant  and 
superstitious. 

In  the  light  of  his  waking  morning 
thoughts  then,  it  came  sweeping  down 
on  him  with  vivid,  uncompromising  real- 
ity that  he  had  seriously  neglected  his 
studies  of  late;  that  he  had  n't  even  been 
attending  the  Whittier  School,  that,  to 
put  it  plainly,  he  was  n't  making  any 
preparations  whatsoever  for  the  rapidly 
approaching  examinations  for  the  Insti- 
tute. But,  as  he  arrayed  himself  for  the 
day  in  a  loose  suit  of  brown  corduroy, 
which  a  benevolent  individual  of  a 
previous  date  had  once  referred  to  as  a 
hand-me-down,  his  ideas  were  fast  fo- 
cusing themselves  around  one  person  who 
would,  he  felt  certain,  prove  the  anchor 
and  final  preserver  that  he  needed  in  this 
time  of  floating  misfortune  and  distress. 
This  person  was  Miss  Augusta  Merrill, 
a  Northern  woman,  to  be  sure,  but  one 
whose  chief  interest  for  many  years  had 
been  this  particular  institution,  or  any- 
thing that  bordered  on  it  in  any  way. 
Romulus  had  bordered  on  it  ever  since 
he  had  been  born  into  the  world  in  Goose 
Alley,  and  Miss  Merrill  had  known  him 
and  befriended  him  and  urged  him  on 
in  the  paths  of  duty  and  rectitude  for 
many  years.  She  had  even,  at  one  period 
in  his  career,  helped^  him  through  the 
first  distracting  principles  of  "  substrac- 
tion,"  and  now,  in  the  face  of  approach- 
ing trouble,  for  which  he  was  ill  pre- 
pared, Romulus  recognized  that  Miss 
Merrill  wTas  the  one  above  all  others  to 
consult. 

As  he  strolled  down  the  alley  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  his  eyes  dwelling  leis- 


In  Goose  Alley 


205 


urely  on  bright  April  flowers,  blooming 
here  and  there  in  small,  tidy  dooryards, 
it  was  with  a  glow  of  satisfaction  that  he 
suddenly  recognized  Miss  Merrill  her- 
self, crossing  the  main  road  at  the  end 
of  the  alley  and  moving  slowly  on  toward 
the  school  gates.  With  a  long,  easy,  but 
quickened  stride,  he  traveled  on  until  he 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Mawnin',  Miss  Mer'l,"  he  began  in 
a  soft,  good-natured  drawl,  and  his  loppy 
felt  hat  came  down  to  his  knees  with 
easy  grace. 

"  Why,  good-morning,  Romulus!"  A 
sudden  gleam  of  high  light  seemed  to 
strike  out  from  Miss  Merrill's  eyes.  She 
had  a  sense  of  humor,  if  she  did  occa- 
sionally get  swamped  by  the  missionary 
spirit,  and  the  sight  of  Romulus  usually 
affected  her  like  a  spring  tonic. 

"Mawnin',"  repeated  Romulus  be- 
nignly. "  I'se  jes  fixin'  ter  go  'n'  inquire 
fer  yer,  Miss  Mer'l,  an'  ter  ax  yer  does 
yer  reckon  yer  kin  len'  me  a  liT  'sistance 
wid  my  books.  Yer  see  I'se  thinkin' 
'bout  tekkin*  de  'xaminations  fer  de 
Ins'tute  time  de  res'  o'  de  chil'ren  does, 
an'  —  well,  trufe  is,  Miss  Mer'l,  I'se 
studyin'  mos'  all  time  lately  'bout  my 
people.  An'  natchelly,  co'se  I  kin  see  de 
only  way  I  kin  r'ally  help  'em,  is  ter  git 
my  edjercation  fus  an'  den  'mence  'plyin' 
it." 

"  Certainly.  I  see  what  you  mean," 
agreed  Miss  Merrill.  It  was  a  long  time 
since  she  had  heard  anything  so  alto- 
gether praiseworthy.  "  When  would  you 
like  to  begin,  Romulus  ?  This  evening  ?  " 

"  Yas'm,  I  doan'  reckon  it's  nuthin' 
ter  pervent  beginnin'  dis  evenin',"  he 
agreed  meditatingly,  "  yas'm,  'tain'  r'ally 
nuth'n'  ter  pervent  it." 

'  All  right,  Romulus,  I  shall  be  at 
the  house  to  help  you  this  evening  at 
eight.  Of  course,  you  won't  keep  me 
waiting." 

"  No'm!  "  he  assured  her,  smiling  and 
nodding  gallantly  as  she  turned  to  the 
gates  and  wound  on  up  the  drive  to  the 
distant  buildings.  He  watched  her  leis- 
urely as  she  went  on,  and  then  turned 


himself  and  meandered  into  Goose  Alley 
again,  while  the  gushing  April  flowers 
nodded  and  smiled  gallantly,  too,  and 
Romulus  traveled  back  to  his  own  door 
and  sat  down  and  looked  back  at  them, 
meditating  while  the  morning  wore  on. 

But  the  day  had  worn  on  and  the  flow- 
ers had  gone  to  sleep,  and  Miss  Augusta 
Merrill  was  traveling  down  Goose  Alley 
now,  toward  the  same  door,  while  shift- 
ing, indistinct  figures  seemed  to  be  hover- 
ing there  in  the  dim  light  as  she  came 
nearer.  It  was  not  until  she  was  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  shifting  figures,  how- 
ever, that  she  was  able  to  decide  on  their 
exact  nature,  and  then  she  stopped,  a 
prominent  but  unnoticed  observer. 

Romulus  stood  facing  the  porch  where 
he  had  sat  meditating  earlier  in  the  day, 
and  across  the  porch  was  a  line  of  boys 
of  assorted  sizes.  They  were  all  seated, 
and  Romulus  was  looking  down  on  them 
from  his  standing  position  with  a  half 
indulgent,  half  patronizing  expression 
which  did  full  justice  to  the  future  eman- 
cipator of  ignorance  and  superstition. 

"  Co'se  yer  kin  see  fer  yerselves,"  he 
was  saying  in  easy  but  friendly  tones, 
"  it's  gwine  do  yer  mo'  good  ter  se'  down 
yere  an'  listen^  at  me  w'ile  I  tries  ter  r'ally 
teach  yer  a  liT  sump'n'  'bout  yer  country 
an'  edjercation  an'  helpin'  yer  people 
'n  t'  is  ter  be  dodgin'  'n'  taggin'  up  'n' 
down  de  alley  all  de  evenin'  'thout  no 
pu'pose  yer  could  r'ally  name  ef  yer's 
ax'." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  one  who  felt 
like  disputing  this  statement  openly,  but 
there  were  suspicious  signs  of  levity  up 
and  down  the  entire  line. 

"  Well,  now  de  basis  o'  de  matter  is  jes 
ez  I  said,"  broke  in  Romulus  warmly, 
"  yer  ain'  no  pu'pose  yer  could  r'ally 
mention,  not  nary  one  uv  yer !  An'  co'se 
de  natchell  consequence  o'  dat  is  yer  set 
up  dere  an'  ack  puffeckly  no-count  'n' 
triflin'.  Well  now  yer '11  jes  be  'blige  dis'- 
range  yer  plans  ef  yer's  gwine  set  on  dat 
po'ch,  caze  de  casestan's  like  dis.  Ef  yer 
wants  ter  'have  yerselves  an'  learn  some 
sense  so's  folks  wid  manners  'n'  edjerca- 


206 


In  Goose  Alley 


tion  ain'  'shame'  ter  look  at  yer  w'en  dey 
passes  yer  on  de  street,  w'y,  yer  kin  keep 
on  settin'  where  yer  is  a  liT  w'ile  longer. 
But  ef  yer  ain't,  I  jes  ain'  gwine  bother 
wid  yer  't  all,  an'  yer  kin  git  up  right  now 
'thout  stoppin'  fer  any  argament." 

At  this  point,  the  moon  slipped  up 
above  the  horizon  and  shone  down  on  a 
row  of  faces  altogether  irreproachable 
and  attentive.  Miss  Augusta  Merrill, 
leaning  lightly  against  a  fence,  fully  ap- 
preciative, but  still  unnoticed,  could  not 
find  it  in  her  heart  to  move  on  another 
step. 

"I'se  waitinY'  continued  the  speaker, 
pausing  suggestively,  "  fer  any  leave- 
takin's  or  departin's."  There  was  not  a 
movement  to  be  distinguished  from  any 
member  of  the  line,  and  Romulus  cleared 
his  throat  and  began  again. 

"  Well,  ef  yer  is  'cide'  ter  stay,  co'se 
I'se  puffeckly  willin'  ter  len'  yer  all  de 
'sistance  I  kin  todes  raisin'  yer  out  o'  de 
abyss  o'  ign'rance  an'  helpin'  yer  ter  git 
r'ally  stahted  on  de  road  ter  learnin'." 

There  were  various  sulky,  grumbling 
undertones  of  response,  one  of  which 
stood  thickly  but  unmistakably  out  from 
the  others. 

"  I  ain't  in  no  'byss  o'  ign'rance!  " 

Romulus,  with  no  rancor  of  feeling, 
ingratiatingly  changed  his  tactics. 

"  Well,  co'se  yer  ain't  r'ally  in  de 
abyss/*  he  went  on  magnanimously, 
"  but  yer's  jes  a-tippin'  on  de  ve'y  aidge! 
An*  yit  I  reckon  'tain'  too  late  ter  ketch 
yer  'fo'  yer  pitch  in,  too,  ef  some  one  only 
stops  an'  tek  a  liT  intres'.  Sho!  'Tain' 
nuth'n'  ter  wo'y  'bout,  caze  ef  yer '11  jes 
set  still  an'  'have  yerself  r'al  good,  I 
reckon  I  kin  p'raps  ketch  yer  an'  save 
yer  fum  death  myself.  An'  co'se  de  fus 
thing  ter  do  is  ter  see  ef  yer  kin  add 
up  some  simple  figgers." 

The  dissenter,  not  only  alarmed  but 
feebly  grateful,  appeared  to  be  wonder- 
ing how  this  was  going  to  save  him  from 
death. 

"  Dat  is  after  I'se  ax  jes  a  few  leadin' 
questions  on  learnin'  in  gen'al.  Co'se 
'tain'  no  use  thinkin'  yer  kin  help  yer 


people  ef  yer  ain't  'quainted  wid  a  few 
leadin'  questions  in  gen'al.  Well,  jes  ter 
git  yer  'customed  ter  answerin'  I'se 
gwine  'mence  r'al  easy."  His  hand  rose 
slowly,  pointing  up  through  a  long  shaft 
of  light. 

"  Wat's  dat  ser  bright  an'  shinin' 
settin'  up  dere  yonder  in  de  sky  ?  " 

There  were  low,  doubtful  murmurs, 
barely  audible. 

"  De  moon." 

"  De  moon,  did  yer  say?  Well,  dat's 
pretty  good  fer  de  fus'  time,"  admitted 
Romulus  gingerly,  "  co'se  I  doan'  'spec' 
much  de  ve'y  fus  time.  Wat's  de  dif- 
funce  'tween  de  sun  an'  de  moon  ?  — 
Wat's  de  diffunce  'tween  de  sun  an' 
de  moon?  "  repeated  Romulus.  "  Well, 
doan't  set  up  dere  grunt' n  'bout  it;  an- 
swer, w'y  doan't  yer  ?  Say  sump'n'  any- 
way." And  his  eyes  rested  encouragingly 
on  a  hopeful-looking  countenance  just 
before  him. 

"  'T  ain'  no  diffunce,"  returned  the 
favored  one,  taking  him  at  his  word. 

Romulus's  eye  traveled  pessimistically 
up  and  down  the  line. 

"  'T  would  'a'  been  better  ef  yer  ain't 
made  any  'tempt  't  all,"  he  commented 
briefly.  Then  his  glance  fixed  itself  drear- 
ily on  the  speaker. 

"  Co'se  I  knows  yer  ain't  never  had 
no  'xpe'ience  ter  speak  of,"  he  added, 
"  but  'side  fum  all  dat,  cert'nly  looks  ter 
me  like  it's  gwine  git  ve'y  wea'ysome  ter 
have  yer  in  de  class.  Ve'y  wea'ysome. 
Trufe  is,  de  only  way  I  kin  see  ter  keep 
yer  is  fer  yer  ter  promise  right  now  yer 
won't  nuver  speak  aloud  ag'in  under  no 
sucumstances." 

As  he  had  already  been  stricken  abso- 
lutely dumb,  the  promise  was  altogether 
unnecessary. 

"  I  ain'  gwine  ter  refer  ter  w'at  yer 
jes  said,"  continued  Romulus  delicately. 
"I'se  merely  now  gwine  pass  it  by  an' 
'splain  ter  de  class  ez  a  whole  w'at  is  de 
diffunce  'tween  de  sun  an'  de  moon.  Fus' 
uv  all  dey  ain't  de  same  an'  dey  could  n' 
be  de  same  caze  de  sun's  de  sun,  an'  de 
moon  's  de  moon.  Secon',  ef  anybody 


In  Goose  Alley 


207 


should  ax  yer  w'at's  de  diffunce  'tween  a 
dawg  an'  a  chick'n,  co'se  'tain'  nobuddy 
wid  sense  gwine  set  up  'n'  say  'tain'  no 
diffunce,  caze  fus'  place  yer  knows  by 
lookin'  at  'em  dey  is,  an'  second  place 
ef  yer  looks  at  'em  an'  r'ally  thought  de 
dawg  wuz  a  chick'n,  w'y,  co'se  yer'd 
know  af  thinkin'  'bout  it  li'l  w'ile  it 
r'ally  could  n'  be,  caze  it's  alraidy  a 
dawg,  an'  same  way  wid  de  chick'n, 
yer'd  know  praesen'ly  co'se  it  could  n' 
be  a  dawg  caze  it's  alraidy  a  chick'n. 
Same  way  ef  anybody  should  ax  yer  ter  go 
out  an'  call  in  de  dawg,  co'se  't  ain'  no- 
buddy  wid  edjer cation  gwine  out  'n'  call 
in  de  chick'n.  Furdermo'  ef  dey  should 
ax  yer  ter  go  out  an'  call  in  de  chick'n, 
co'se  't  ain'  nobuddy  gwine  out  'n'  call 
in  de  dawg.  Caze  fus'  place  a  chick'n 
only  got  two  laigs  an'  a  dawg  got  fo',  an' 
ef  yer  start  ter  call  in  de  chick'n  thinkin' 
twuz  de  dawg,  w'y,  dat's  gwine  mek 
trouble  sho,  caze  co'se  yer'd  'spec'  it  ter 
come  in  on  fo'  laigs  an'  natchelly  it 
cyan't  only  come  in  on  two.  Well,  it's 
jes  same  way  wid  de  sun  an'  de  moon  — 
an'  ez  I  wuz  say  in',  ef  yer  start  ter  call  in 
de  moon  —  ez  I  wuz  jes  sayin',  it's  jes 
same  way  'tween  de  sun  an'  de  moon  — 
an'  co'se  nobuddy  wid  sense  or  edjerca- 
tion  or  manners  is  gwine  set  up  an'  say 
't  ain'  jes  same  way,  caze  't  is,  an'  yer 
need  n'  say  't  ain'  no  diffunce  'tween  de 
sun  an*  de  moon  caze  trufe  is,  it's  a  heap 
o'  diffunce.  Fus'  place  —  " 

There  was  something  like  a  smothered 
choke  down  there  by  the  low  fence,  and 
some  one  moved  quickly  forward  in  to 
the  moonlight. 

"  Romulus!  " 

He  turned,  looking  abstractedly  down 
on  the  interrupter. 

"  Yas'm,  evenin',  evenin',  Miss  Mer'l, 
I'se  jes  'splainin'  diffun  things  to  'em, 
Miss  Mer'l.  Caze  co'se  ef  I'se  goin'  in 
de  Ins'tute  't  would  n'  be  right  not  ter 
start  helpin'  'em,  anyway,  so  dat's  de 
reason  I  tole  'em  —  " 

"  I  see,  I  see,  Romulus;  but  you  know 
you  have  an  engagement  with  me  now." 

"  Yas'm,  I'se  comin',  Miss  Mer'l.  I'se 


jes  'splainin'  to  'em  'bout  de  sun  an'  de 
moon.  Co'se  dey  oughter  know  it's  some 
diffunce  'tween  de  sun  an'  de  moon,  an' 
I  'se  jes  'splainin'  to  'em  'bout  de  diffunce 
—  fus'  place  — 

"  Yes,  but  tell  them  you  will  explain 
it  next  time!  Next  time,  Romulus!  " 

She  moved  up  the  steps,  and  the  line 
rose  to  make  way  for  her  and  broke, 
while  Romulus,  vaguely  following  her, 
still  went  on  in  exhortation. 

"  Furdermo'  de  sun  shines  'ntirely  in 
de  daytime  an'  de  moon  mos'  gen'ally 
at  night  —  " 

But  his  dispersing  class  had  ceased  to 
listen,  and  only  long,  bright  rays,  striking 
down  on  him  as  he  stood  alone,  bore 
out  the  truth  of  his  final  words  in  vivid, 
flashing  agreement. 

When  Miss  Merrill  came  out  again  he 
was  still  following  her,  profusely  appre- 
ciative of  her  evening's  services. 

As  she  moved  on  toward  some  lighted 
buildings  in  the  distance,  and  then  turned 
her  head,  looking  back,  a  figure  stood 
out  alone  again  on  the  low  porch,  stood 
out  for  just  a  moment  like  a  dark  silhou- 
ette on  a  bright  background.  Then  it 
moved  slowly  and  disappeared  through 
the  door.  She  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  Romulus!"  she  murmured, 
"  are  n't  we  undertaking  almost  too 
much!" 

But  the  next  evening  she  was  there 
again  while  figures  shifted  again  in  the 
moonlight  and  Romulus's  voice  went 
flowing  on. 

"  Is  it  the  same  class,  Romulus  ?  The 
same  class  that  you  had  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yas'm,  jes  same." 

He  knew  that  he  had  gathered  them 
in  as  they  gamboled  in  the  alley,  any- 
way, just  as  he  had  the  night  before. 
Why  should  n't  it  be  the  same  ? 

She  noticed,  however,  as  the  evenings 
went  on  and  the  fatal  day  drew  near,  that 
though  the  shifting  figures  might  increase 
or  decrease,  the  fact  was  never  com- 
mented on,  was  even  apparently  unob- 
served by  Romulus.  She  noticed,  too, 
that  occasionally  there  was  no  line  at  all 


208 


In  Goose  Alley 


across  the  steps,  that  the  figures  shifted 
and  gamboled  in  the  near  distance,  both 
unnoticed  and  unsought. 

On  one  particular  evening  she  spoke 
about  it  as  Romulus,  half  sitting,  half 
lying  on  the  low  porch,  rose  languidly  at 
her  approach. 

"  Is  it  because  to-morrow  is  the  day  for 
your  examinations  that  you  are  resting 
instead  of  teaching  this  evening  ?  " 

"Wha'm  yer  say,  Miss  Mer'l?  Did 
yer  say  ter-morrer  's  de  day  fer  de  'xam- 
inations?  No'm,  I'se  been  kine  o'  busy 
ter-day,  so  I'se  jes  tekkin'  a  liT  res'. 
But  ef  ter-morrer 's.  de  day  fer  de  'xam- 
inations  I  reckon  I'll  be  'blige  call  'em 
in,  too." 

Already  he  was  hailing  them  in  tempt- 
ing, tactful  tones,  and  already  they  were 
tumbling  gradually  towards  the  porch. 
As  they  dropped  into  a  shiftless,  grinning 
line  before  him  he  regarded  them  seri- 
ously. 

"  Well,  now  it's  jes  like  dis,"  he  began. 
"  Ter-morrer  I'se  gwine  tek  de  'xamina- 
tions  fer  de  Ins'tute.  Co'se  I  ain'  mean 
by  dat  I'se  gwine  begin  'n'  pass  yer  by 
w'en  I  meets  yer  on  de  street,  caze,  trufe 
is,  I'se  gwine  treat  yer  jes  'bout  de  same 
ez  I  allays  is.  'Tain'  r'ally  gwine  be 
'nough  diffunce  in  de  way  I  speaks  fer 
yer  ter  wo'y  'bout  it 't  all.  Nudder  thing, 
co'se  I  kin  teach  yer  all  diffun'  kine  o' 
things  w'en  I  gits  in  de  Ins'tute,  an' 
rntdder  thing,  ter-morrer  evenin'  I'se 
gwine  give  yer  a  liT  cel'bration.  An' 
w'en  yer  gits  yere  ter-morrer  evenin'  I  'se 
gwine  tell  yer  w'at  't  is." 

They  had  disappeared  in  the  near  dis- 
tance again,  and  Miss  Merrill  and  her 
pupil  had  disappeared  into  the  house. 
When  they  finally  reappeared,  after  a 
long,  last  evening  of  labor,  they  both 
looked  involuntarily  away  to  some  lighted 
buildings. 

"  Would  you  be  disappointed  if  you 
failed,  Romulus?  Of  course  —  you 
know  — 

But  Romulus  was  staring  fixedly  at 
the  lighted  buildings,  and  hardly  seemed 
to  hear. 


"  Well,  good-night.    Try  not  to  be  dis- 
appointed if  you  fail,  Romulus." 
"  Good-night,  Miss  Mer'l." 

The  sun  rose  with  a  particularly  warm 
and  beneficent  glow  the  next  morning, 
and  while  the  clock  hovered  around  nine, 
Romulus  stood  just  outside  the  big  stone 
academic  building  of  the  Institute,  bask- 
ing contentedly  in  the  cheerful  warmth, 
while  streams  of  young  colored  people 
moved  past  him  and  went  in. 

"  Reckon  I'll  go  in  too,"  he  meditated. 
"  'Tain'  gwine  do  no  good  stan'in'  yere." 

In  a  room  with  high  windows  through 
which  the  sun  shone  down  with  the  same 
cheerful  warmth,  he  was  given  a  seat 
with  perhaps  twenty  others.  At  the  desk 
stood  a  modest  little  lady  who  passed  out 
papers,  and  looked  as  if  she  might  have 
just  come  herself.  Romulus  regarded  her 
with  kindly  interest  and  glanced  down 
at  his  paper.  Then  his  brow  puckered 
concentratedly  as  he  bent  over  his  desk. 

For  almost  two  hours  he  had  worked 
on  with  the  same  puckered  brow.  Then 
papers  were  collected,  more  were  passed 
out,  and  for  almost  another  two  hours  he 
had  worked  on  again,  when  slowly  his 
hand  rose.  The  little  lady  at  the  desk  in- 
clined her  head. 

"  Will  yer  read  de  las'  question  ?  "  re- 
quested Romulus,  rising  politely  from  his 
seat  and  clearing  his  throat. 

"  The  last  ?  *  Write  a  letter  to  a  friend 
describing  the  school  you  have  attended 
during  the  past  year  and  what  you  studied 
there.'  " 

"  Yas'm,"  agreed  Romulus,  regarding 
his  paper,  "  is  it  mean  like  dis  ?  "  He 
cleared  his  throat  again  preparatory  to  a 
brief,  oral  resume  of  his  work,  but  the 
little  lady  at  the  desk  proved  quite  equal 
to  her  task. 

"  But  you  will  have  to  wait  —  for  that. 
You  know  the  others  are  at  work.  You 
will  have  to  wait  until  after  the  bell 
rings." 

"  Yas'm,"  agreed  Romulus,  "  yas'm;" 
and  just  here  a  bell  struck  sharply. 

Gradually  all  work  was  handed  in. 


In  Goose  Alley 


209 


Slowly,  one  after  another,  they  passed 
out,  the  little  lady  made  a  neat  pile  on 
her  desk,  when  again  a  voice  sounded 
questioningly  in  her  ears  and  she  looked 
up  to  find  herself  alone  with  Romulus. 

"  Of  course  I  could  n't  tell  you  any- 
thing about  it,"  she  explained.  "That 
would  n't  be  fair,  would  it  ?  " 

"  No'm.  But  yer  see,  trouble  is  I 
written  it  ter  Miss  Mer'l,"  he  argued 
doubtfully.  "  Jes  like  dis:  — 

"  *  Miss  Mer'l.  Dear  frien',  —  I  s'pose 
yer '11  be  glad  ter  hyeah  I  'se  settin'  yere 
tekkin  de  'xaminations,  an'  fer  dat  reason 
I'se  glad  ter  write  yer.'  " 

"  Well  ?  I'm  sure  it's  entirely  right  to 
have  written  to  Miss  Merrill,"  came  the 
encouraging  return,  but  the  little  lady 
was  wondering,  with  inordinate  curiosity, 
how  the  written  work  compared  with  the 
oral  interpretation.  "  Entirely  right  — 
if  you  answered  the  question." 

"  Yas'm,"  agreed  Romulus,  with  more 
assurance.  "  Well,  I  written  it  ter  Miss 
Mer'l,  anyway.  Yas'm.  I'll  read  it  ter 
yer."  And  the  oral  interpretation  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  '  Miss  Mer'l.  Dear  frien',  —  I  s'pose 
yer '11  be  glad  ter  hyeah  I'se  settin'  yere 
tekkin'  de  'xaminations  an'  fer  dat  reason 
I  'se  glad  ter  write  yer.'  "  He  glanced 
briefly  at  the  little  lady,  who  seemed  to  be 
feeling  a  bit  inadequate  to  circumstances, 
and  continued:  "  '  Fus'  place  I'se  been 
ser  busy  lately  I  ain't  had  time  fer  no 
foolishness,  an'  yer  knows  too,  I'se  mek- 
kin'  all  p'eparations  to  uplif  my  people. 
Well,  it's  some  kine  o'  wuk,  'specially  ef 
yer  deal  wid  de  ign'rant.  Co'se  ef  yer 
tek  'em  w'en  dey's  edjercated  't  would  n' 
be  ser  bad,  but  cert'nly  is  wea'ysome 
tryin'  ter  uplif  de  ign'rant,  ez  I  knows 
counten  doin'  it  myself.  At  fus'  co'se  dey 
ain't  ser  bad  twell  dey  starts  inter  laf  an' 
play  an'  den  I  tole  'em  ef  dey's  gwine 
stay  in  de  class  I  could  n'  'low  'em  nuver 
speak  't  all,  so  now  dey's  doin'  pretty 
good,  an'  ter-night  I'se  gwine  give  'em 
a  cel'bration  counten  gittin'  in  de  Ins'- 
tute.  I  ain't  'ntirely  'cided  'bout  it  but  I 
reckon  it'll  be  singin'  wid  p'raps  peanuts 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  2 


'n'  prayer.  Co'se  I  cyan't  'spec'  fer  'em 
ter  set  up  an'  'have 's  good  's  usual  at  a 
'casion  like  dat,  an'  natchelly  I'se  gwine 
give  'em  mo'  liberties  'n  dey 's  been  'cus- 
tom' to  befo',  but  I  doan'  r'ally  reckon 
it's  gwine  do  'em  no  pumanent  ha'm, 
an'  anyway,  after  I  gits  in  de  Ins'tute, 
co'se  I'll  be  'blige  mek  'em  wuk  all  time. 
W'y,  it's  a  gen'leman  over  't  de  Ins'tute 
one  Sunday,  say  it's  a  po'tion  o'  de  culPd 
folks  where 's  ser  shif'liss  'n'  lazy  look  like 
yer  cyan't  scacely  do  nuth'n  wid  'em  't 
all.  Well,  af  I  graduates  an'  start  a 
school  co'se  I  kin  teach  'em  better  in 
diffun  kine  o'  ways.  One  way  is  not  give 
'em  nuth'n' t'  eat  but  p'raps  sump'n'  like 
pieces  o'  boa'd  or  'casionally  a  ole  hat  — 
an'  nudder  way  is  ter  hide  dey  clo'es  w'en 
dey  goes  ter  baid  at  night  so  dey  cyan't 
have  'em  in  de  mawnin'  twell  dey  pro- 
mises dey '11  go  ter  wuk  'thout  no  mo' 
shif'lissnes  —  an'  nudder  way  is  make 
b'leve  yer's  gwine  move  de  furniture  an' 
p'raps  set  it  righ'  down  atop  uv  'em.  An' 
co'se  edjercation  too,  caze  co'se  all  de  res' 
ain'  gwine  do  de  leas'  good  lessen  yer 
puts  in  edjercation  too.  Dat's  jes  w'at  I 
keep  on  tellin'  'em  in  de  class,  dey  kin 
git  new  clo'es,  a  necktie  or  p'raps  a  new 
pair  pants,  but  't  ain'  gwine  do  'em  de 
leas'  good  'thout  dey  gits  edjercation  too, 
so  dey  might  jes  ez  well  keep  on  wea'in' 
dey  ole  ones.  W'y,  de  gen'leman  say  he 
know'd  a  man  once  'thout  no  laigs  or 
arms.  I  ain'  nuver  'xpe'ience  no  sech 
plaisure's  dat  myself,  but  de  stranges' 
part  uv  it  wuz,  he's  gotten  ser  much  ed- 
jercation he  could  set  all  day  an'  read  'n' 
talk  an'  nuver  miss  'em.  So  co'se  dat's 
anudder  thing  fer  edjercation,  too,  any 
time  yer  loses  yer  laigs  an'  arms  yer 
kin  set  all  day  an'  read  *n'  talk  an' 
nuver  miss  'em.  Yours  truly,  ROMULUS 
QUICK.'" 

The  reader  folded  his  paper  again  and 
glanced  at  the  modest  little  lady  for  ap- 
probation. But  she  was  blowing  her  nose 
so  violently  that  she  was  quite  unable  to 
frame  a  sentence  immediately. 

"  Does  yer  reckon  Miss  Mer'l  '11  like 
it  ?  "  interrogated  Romulus. 


210 


In  Goose  Alley 


"  I  should  think  quite  —  quite  likely," 
came  the  somewhat  floundering  reply: 
"  but  —  you  did  n't  really  answer  the 
question,  after  all,  did  you  ?  The  ques- 
tion, you  know,  about  —  about  the 
school  you  have  attended !  " 

"  No'm,"  agreed  Romulus,  "I  didn' 
r'ally  git  ter  dat  part  uv  it.  Does  yer 
reckon  I  kin  fine  out  ter-morrer  ef  I'se 


"I  should  think  so — I  certainly  should 
think  so!" 

"  Yas'm."  And  Romulus  passed  out, 
leaving  the  modest  little  lady  at  the  desk 
feeling  a  bit  weak  and  fragile. 

He  had  wandered  around  rather  aim- 
lessly that  afternoon,  and  now  he  sat  on 
the  low  porch  and  looked  away  toward 
the  burnished  tossing  water  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  watched  the  sun  drop  lower 
and  finally  drown  itself  in  the  burnished 
gold. 

"  Reckon  I'll  go  over  ter  Miss  Hoar's 
office,"  meditated  Romulus,  already  a 
little  hazy  on  previous  conversations ; 
"Miss  Hoar,  she's  de  r'al  headquarters, 
an'  she  'II  know  ef  I'se  pass;"  and  slowly 
he  pulled  himself  up  and  sauntered  away 
down  Goose  Alley,  while  the  burning 
afterglow  struck  in  warm  colors  on  his 
back. 

How  Miss  Hoar  happened  to  be  in  her 
office  at  just  that  time  Romulus  did  not 
ask.  He  merely  stood  before  her  with  a 
loppy  felt  hat  in  his  hand  and  a  question 
on  his  lips. 

"  Did  you  pass  ?  "  she  repeated  kindly, 
glancing  over  a  pile  of  papers  on  her 
desk,  which  had  already  been  brought 
in.  Then  she  stopped,  selected  two  or 
three,  and  looked  back  at  Romulus 
standing  before  her  and  fingering  at  his 
loppy  felt  hat.  Miss  Hoar  was  used  to 
this  sort  of  thing. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  you  did  n't."  From 
her  voice  Romulus  almost  had  a  notion 
that  she  had  said, "  Yes,  I  think  you  did." 

"You  say  I  — I  didn'?"  he  ques- 
tioned quickly.  "Yas'm.  Thank  you." 
And  he  turned  and  went  down  the  stairs 
again. 


As  he  came  out  of  the  building  and 
walked  away  down  the  broad  walk,  the 
colors  from  the  glowing  sky  and  water 
struck  softly  on  him  again,  and  his  shoul- 
ders seemed  to  drop  forward  under  his 
worn,  loose  coat.  But  he  walked  stead- 
ily on,  past  the  large,  homey-looking 
buildings,  down  the  long,  winding  road 
to  the  gates  —  and  then  he  turned  into 
Goose  Alley  again.  He  noticed,  as  he 
came  on,  that  there  were  figures  in  the 
distance,  shifting,  gamboling  aimlessly 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  and  his  eyes 
moved  slowly  from  the  ever-shifting  fig- 
ures to  the  glowing  sky  until  he  came  to 
the  low  porch.  Then  he  sat  down,  his 
eyes  wandering  absently,  until  the  chapel 
bell  at  the  Institute  struck  dully  on  his 
ears  and  he  pulled  himself  up  again. 

"  Reckon  I'll  go,"  he  muttered. 

The  last  notes  of  a  song  came  rushing 
out  to  him  as  he  opened  the  chapel  door, 
and  the  assembled  company  sat  down, 
while  Romulus  slid  in  softly  and  sat 
down,  too.  Then  a  man  rose  to  speak, 
and  again  Romulus's  gaze  wandered  ab- 
sently, drearily,  over  the  rows  and  rows 
of  upturned  faces,  until  suddenly  it  re- 
turned and  focused  itself  steadily  on  the 
speaker.  He  had  heard  him  before.  He 
had  heard  him  one  Sunday  evening  when 
he  had  talked  about  —  about  the  igno- 
rance and  superstition  of  his  race.  He 
had  heard  him — His  mind  stopped  short 
in  its  wanderings,  and  slow,  distinct 
words  fell  unmistakably  on  his  ears. 

"  It  is  n't  so  much  the  amount  of  edu- 
cation you  get,"  the  voice  was  saying, 
"  as  what  you  do  with  what  you  do  get. 
Why,  I  know  of  a  young  colored  man 
who  has  had  so  little  education  that  you 
young  people  here  might  not  have  much 
respect  for  it.  And  yet  what  is  he  doing  ? 
He  is  teaching  a  class  of  the  most  ignor- 
ant boys  that  he  can  find,  everything 
that  he  does  know." 

The  speaker's  voice  dropped  gently  as 
he  thought  of  his  conscientious,  hard- 
working friend,  miles  away,  and  Romu- 
lus's breath  came  quickly  and  his  eyes 
caught  a  slow  fire.  How  should  he  know 


In  Goose  Alley 


211 


—  how  should  that  gentleman  know  that 
about  him  ? 

"  They  meet  every  evening,"  went  on 
the  voice,  "  and  this  young  man  is  trying 
to  teach  them  everything  that  he  knows. 
Isn't  that  sort  of  thing  worth  talking 
about  ?  Is  n't  that  young  man  one  of  the 
leaders  that  we  want  ?  " 

Romulus  was  leaning  away  forward, 
a  deep,  burning  red  just  showing  under 
his  dark  skin,  his  eyes  glowing  steadily 
up  at  the  speaker.  He  had  n't  known 
that  it  was  all  going  to  be  about  him;  he 
had  n't  known  — 

The  speaker  sat  down,  and  Romulus 
sank  back  gently  in  his  seat,  while  words 
that  had  died  in  the  stillness  seemed  to 
come  back  and  echo  again,  louder  and 
louder,  while  the  long  rows  of  faces  still 
gazed  up. 

But  they  were  all  marching  out  again, 
the  speaker  was  slowly  descending  from 
the  platform,  and  Romulus,  with  his 
breath  coming  rapidly  again,  was  waiting 
by  the  door. 

"I  —  I'd  like  fer  you  ter  see  —  de 
class,"  he  began  unsteadily  as  the  two 
stood  for  the  moment  side  by  side. 

The  speaker  looked  at  him,  not  just 
comprehending,  and  then  they  were 
gently  pushed  on  with  the  crowd. 

"I'd  —  like  fer  you  ter  see  —  my 
class,"  repeated  Romulus.  "I  reckon 
dey  mus'  be  waitin'  now  —  on  de  po'ch." 

The  speaker  looked  up  with  an  acute, 
suddenly  comprehensive  expression. 

"  Why,  surely,"  he  returned.  "I'd 
like  to  see  your  class." 

They  moved  on  together,  the  flush  just 
visible  under  Romulus's  dark  skin,  the 


man  glancing  up  at  him  with  a  kindly, 
humorous,  penetrating  glance.  As  they 
came  into  Goose  Alley  there  seemed  to 
be  shifting  figures  before  them,  and  then, 
suddenly,  the  figures  seemed  to  shift  from 
the  scene,  and  Romulus  and  the  speaker 
were  standing  before  a  low  porch,  across 
which  sat  a  long,  silent,  waiting  row. 

They  had  remembered  the  "celebra- 
tion," and  were  ready. 

It  was  a  supreme  moment  for  Romulus, 
and  he  turned  silently  toward  the  speaker. 
Just  for  the  moment  even  the  art  of  con- 
versation seemed  to  have  flown.  But  his 
eyes  came  back  to  the  waiting  row,  and 
his  arm  moved  out  toward  it  with  a  flour- 
ish that  wholly  made  up  for  any  previous 
lack. 

"  All  dese  yere  where 's  settin'  on  de 
po'ch  is  de  class,"  he  announced.  "  I 
teaches  'em  eve'y  evenin'." 

The  line  listened  wonderingly  while  the 
same  voice  alternated  with  the  pleased, 
encouraging  one  of  the  speaker,  until 
suddenly  they  both  stopped,  and  the 
speaker,  with  the  same  kindly,  humor- 
ous, penetrating  glance,  looked  at  Rom- 
ulus and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  I  shan't  forget 
that  you're  a  leader,  one  of  our  leaders! 
I  shan't  forget  it!  " 

He  was  moving  away  down  the  alley, 
and  silently  Romulus's  eyes  followed  him 
until  he  was  lost  in  the  shadow.  Then 
they  turned  back  again  to  the  waiting 
row,  and  grew  mistily  soft. 

"  Now,  fus'  uv  all,"  he  began,  just  a 
bit  unsteadily,  and  then  he  stopped  and 
began  again;  "fus'  uv  all  —  we'll  begin 
wid  de  celebration." 


THE  DIMINISHING  INCREASE  OF  POPULATION 


BY   W.    S.    ROSSITER 


THE  forces  which  have  operated  in 
the  past  to  restrict  population  have  had 
their  origin  principally  in  turbulence  and 
ignorance.  In  this  age,  the  population 
of  civilized  nations  is  chiefly  affected  by 
two  factors,  migration  and  decreasing 
fecundity,  both  of  which  are  essentially 
economic  in  character. 

The  effect  of  migration  upon  popula- 
tion is  less  pronounced  than  that  of  de- 
creasing birth-rate.  Emigration  in  the 
twentieth  century  is  largely  a  practical 
matter.  Ambitious  or  discontented  men 
and  women  in  every  community  of  Eu- 
rope are  offered  continual  opportunity 
to  migrate  at  small  expense,  and  without 
delay,  hardship,  or  danger,  to  countries 
in  which  the  labor  market  or  natural 
resources  appear  to  be  especially  inviting. 
To  nations  developing  great  industries, 
labor  is  furnished  by  others  in  which 
industry  is  inactive  and  labor  plentiful. 
Hence  the  United  States — still  the  leader 
in  industrial  development  —  thus  far  has 
been  the  highest  bidder;  but  the  facility 
with  which  the  present-day  emigrant 
passes  from  his  native  land  to  the  United 
States  or  elsewhere,  is  no  greater  than 
that  with  which  he  can  return,  or  move 
on  to  other  lands  more  to  his  liking. 

As  the  century  advances,  emigration 
may  be  expected  to  become  even  more 
a  matter  of  business,  governed  by  the 
inducements  offered  by  this  or  that  na- 
tion, no  matter  where  located.  There  is 
likely  to  be  less  stability  to  alien  popula- 
tion, and  little  probability  that  migration 
will  continue  to  flow  in  definite  streams 
or  directions.  A  German  writer  has  re- 
cently asserted  that  the  nations  fall  into 
two  classes :  emigration  states  and  immi- 
gration states.  In  which  class  a  nation 
remains  is  likely  in  the  future  to  depend 
upon  its  enterprise,  and  thus  upon  its 

212 


ability  to  offer  greater  inducements  to 
aliens  than  those  offered  by  other  na- 
tions. A  condition  such  as  this  is  doubt- 
less new  in  the  world's  history,  but  it  is 
only  one  of  the  innumerable  ways  in 
which  our  age  is  breaking  from  all  prece- 
dent and  proving  itself  unique. 

General  and  continued  decrease  in 
fecundity  —  hence  decrease  in  the  pro- 
portion of  children  in  the  community  — 
is  apparently  another  new  factor  in  pop- 
ulation change,  new  at  least  in  certain 
aspects.  Many  causes  have  been  assigned 
for  this  present  tendency  of  civilized  na- 
tions. Most  of  these  relate  directly  or 
indirectly  to  modern  conditions  —  social 
and  educational  —  and  to  modes  of  liv- 
ing. There  is,  however,  a  cause  of  far 
greater  consequence.  From  the  earliest 
ages  until  within  the  last  twenty  years, 
population  increase  has  been  largely  a 
matter  of  instinct,  reproduction  resulting 
as  nature  determined.  Voluntary  restric- 
tion of  family,  however,  is  now  well  un- 
derstood and  widely  practiced  in  civilized 
nations.  The  ultimate  effect  upon  popu- 
lation of  such  control  cannot  thus  early 
be  measured  or  even  predicted,  but  it  is 
a  fact  which  economists  must  confront, 
that  in  the  future  the  proportion  of  in- 
stinctive or  accidental  births  will  con- 
stantly decrease,  and  that  of  deliberately 
predetermined  births  will  increase.  It  is 
obvious  that  this  knowledge  tends  toward 
decreasing  fecundity;  hence,  as  already 
suggested,  its  effect  must  be  more  far- 
reaching  upon  increase  of  population 
than  that  of  migration. 

It  is  not  possible  to  foretell  the  effect 
of  making  the  world  a  vast  labor  market 
such  as  it  is  fast  becoming,  nor  is  it  pos- 
sible fully  to  determine  the  cause  of  the 
decreasing  size  of  families  which  seems 
to  be  characteristic  of  this  period,  and 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


213 


possibly  due,  in  the  final  analysis,  to 
some  great  natural  law  made  operative 
by  modern  conditions.  These  conditions, 
indeed,  differ  so  radically  from  those  ex- 
isting in  earlier  periods  that  they  may  be 
expected  to  produce  results  along  un- 
familiar lines.  Our  age  is  comparable 
with  no  preceding  age.  Statistics,  the 
stars  which  men  in  this  century  read  to 
forecast  the  future,  merely  suggest  the 
mighty  economic  changes  which  are  in 
progress,  and  often  light  but  dim  trails. 

Changes  in  the  Population  of  Europe. 

In  1860  the  population  of  Europe,  in- 
cluding the  British  Isles,  but  exclusive 
of  Russia  and  Turkey  in  Europe  (the 
former  having  made  but  one  enumeration 
and  the  latter  none  at  all),  according  to 
the  censuses  nearest  the  date  mentioned, 
was  207,572,650.  In  1900  the  aggregate 
population  of  the  nations  previously 
included  was  265,851,708,  an  absolute 
increase  of  58,279,158,  or  slightly  more 
than  25  per  cent  in  40  years.  The  increase 
in  population  during  the  decade  from 
1860  to  1870  was  practically  nothing, 
the  direct  result  of  the  Franco-German 
war,  as  both  France  and  Germany  re- 
ported decreased  population  in  1870. 
In  1880  the  percentage  of  increase  for  the 
previous  decade  was  approximately  8  per 
cent;  in  1890,  slightly  less  than  8  per 
cent;  and  in  1900  slightly  more.  The 
population  of  Europe,  including  Great 
Britain,  has  thus  increased  at  a  slow  but 
practically  uniform  rate  for  the  past  30 
years,  although  a  continued  drain,  due 
to  emigration,  has  been  in  progress. 

The  Latin,  or  southern  nations  of  Eu- 
rope,1 are  increasing  in  number  of  inhab- 
itants less  rapidly  than  most  of  the  other 
nations  of  the  continent.  During  the 
last  two  decades  of  record,  the  German- 
ic and  Anglo-Saxon  nations2  increased 
8.8  per  cent  from  1880  to  1890,  and 
11.4  per  cent  from  1890  -to  1900,  while 

1  France,  Italy,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  Greece. 

2  Great   Britain,    Germany,    Austria,   Bel- 
gium, Holland,  Switzerland,  Sweden,  Norway, 
and  Denmark. 


the  Latin  nations  (including  Greece) 
increased  but  6  per  cent  during  the  for- 
mer, and  3.8  per  cent  during  the  latter 
decade.  This  noteworthy  difference  be- 
tween the  two  groups  is  not  explained  by 
proportionately  greater  immigration  to 
the  United  States  from  the  southern  na- 
tions, since  the  natives  of  those  countries 
living  in  the  United  States  represented 
but  0.2  per  cent  of  the  aggregate  popula- 
tion of  the  Latin  nations  in  1880,  and 
0.6  per  cent  in  1900 ;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  residents  of  the  United  States  native 
in  the  Germanic  and  British  group  were 
equivalent  to  3.9  per  cent  and  4.2  per 
cent,  respectively,  of  the  total  population 
of  those  countries. 

In  absolute  figures,  the  nine  nations  in 
the  Germanic  and  British  group  aggre- 
gated 138,722,939  population  in  1880, 
and  168,185,537  in  1900,  thus  recording 
an  increase  of  approximately  thirty  mil- 
lions ;  while  that  of  the  five  nations  in  the 
Latin  group  was  88,741,312  in  1880,  and 
97,666,171  in  1900,  showing  an  increase 
of  nearly  nine  millions.  The  population 
disparity  between  the  two  groups  in 
1880  was  50,000,000,  but  in  1900  it  had 
increased  to  70,500,000. 

If  existing  tendencies  thus  indicated 
shall  continue,  it  is  evident  that  the  pop- 
ulation of  the  Latin  nations  will  speed- 
ily reach  a  stationary  or  declining  condi- 
tion, while  the  other  group  continues  to 
increase,  even  though  much  less  rapidly 
than  at  present. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  each  of 
the  nations  here  considered  relies  almost 
wholly  upon  native  stock  for  its  increase. 
The  total  number  of  aliens  or  persons  of 
foreign  birth  reported  at  the  censuses 
of  the  various  nations  in  1900,  or  at  the 
nearest  census  thereto,  was  slightly  more 
than  two  and  a  half  millions,  or  but  one 
per  cent  of  the  total;  therefore  the  in- 
crease reported  represents  the  growth  of 
the  native  population. 

The  important  fact  brought  out  by 
this  brief  analysis  is  the  virility  of  Eu- 
rope's population,  its  reproductive  pow- 
er after  many  centuries  of  existence.  It 


214 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


is  probable,  indeed,  that  the  increase 
has  been  greater  during  the  past  century 
than  in  any  previous  period.  This  is  the 
more  significant  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  states  of  Europe  without  excep- 
tion have  contributed  freely  of  their  in- 
habitants, not  only  to  the  United  States, 
but  to  South  America  and  to  the  various 
colonies  and  commercial  centres  of  the 
world. 

Changes  in  the  Population  of  the  United 
States. 

In  1790,  at  the  beginning  of  our  con- 
stitutional government,  the  young  repub- 
lic found  itself  possessed  of  3,929,214 
inhabitants,  composed  of  3,172,006  white, 
and  757,208  negro,  or  80.7  and  19.3  per 
cent  respectively.  This  may  be  termed 
native  stock,  since  the  immigrant,  as  we 
know  him,  did  not  then  exist. 

From  1790  to  1860  the  percentage  of 
increase  remained  roughly  uniform,  that 
reported  from  1850  to  1860  (35.6  per 
cent)  being  almost  the  same  as  the  rate 
of  increase  shown  from  1790  to  1800 
(35.1  per  cent).  After  1860,  with  some 
variation  due  to  the  Civil  War,  the  rate 
of  increase  steadily  diminished,  shrinking 
to  20.7  in  the  decade  1890  to  1900,  with 
the  probability  that  the  percentage  of 
increase  from  1900  to  1910  will  approxi- 
mate but  18  per  cent. 

Of  the  two  racial  elements  of  popula- 
tion, the  increase  in  the  number  of  negroes 
has  declined  from  32.3  per  cent,  reported 
from  1790  to  1800,  to  18  per  cent  from 
1890  to  1900.  The  increase  in  the  num- 
ber of  whites,  from  35.8  per  cent  reported 
in  1800,  declined  with  irregular  changes 
to  21.2  per  cent  in  1900,  although  rein- 
forced during  the  century  by  increasing 
throngs  of  immigrants,  to  which  must  be 
added  the  mighty  company  of  their  de- 
scendants. 

It  is  impossible  to  determine  to  what 
extent  the  colonial  stock,  if  unassisted, 
would  have  increased  the  population  of 
the  United  States.  Children  born  in  this 
country  of  immigrants  are  added  to  the 
native-born ;  their  children  are  classed  as 


native-born  of  native  parents;  thus  the 
foreign  element  becomes  so  woven  into 
the  national  fabric  that  the  strands  are 
statistically  indistinguishable. 

In  1890  the  classification  of  "  native- 
born  of  native  parents  "  was  introduced 
in  Census  analysis,1  the  effect  of  which 
was  to  separate  the  native  and  foreign 
elements  one  generation  farther  back 
than  "  native-born."  Use  of  this  classifi- 
cation reveals  the  fact  that  the  increase 
in  the  number  of  persons  in  the  United 
States  born  of  native  parents,  computed 
upon  the  total  native  white  population, 
declined  nearly  one- third  from  1880  to 
1900  (20.5  per  cent  to  14.5  per  cent). 

By  a  slightly  different  process  the  in- 
crease of  the  native-born  was  computed 
at  the  census  of  1900  to  have  been  16 
per  cent  for  the  previous  decade,  and  in 
the  North  Atlantic  division  not  more 
than  9.5  per  cent.  While  the  results  of 
computations  of  increase  in  the  various 
elements  of  the  population  may  thus 
vary  slightly,  they  confirm  the  general 
fact  of  material  diminution  of  increase. 

In  1820  the  proportion  of  white  child- 
ren under  ten  years  of  age  to  the  total 
native  white  population  was  32.7  per 
cent,  or  almost  one-third.  In  fact,  twelve 
of  the  twenty-six  states  and  territories 
reported  more  than  one-third  of  their 
white  population  as  being  under  the  age 
of  ten. 

In  1900  the  proportion  which  children 
formed  of  the  total  population  classed  as 
native  white  of  native  parents,  was  26 
per  cent;  but  two  out  of  50  states  and  ter- 
ritories reported  a  proportion  of  children 
exceeding  one-third  of  the  population. 
Moreover,  in  the  majority  of  states  and 
territories  the  proportion  declined  from 
1890  to  1900.  If  the  states  in  existence 
in  1800  be  considered,  so  that  the  figures 
may  be  strictly  comparable  for  a  century, 
the  proportion  of  children  to  the  entire 
white  population  was  34.4  per  cent  in 
1800  (28.1  per  cent  in  1850)  and  24.6 
per  cent  (native  white  of  native  parents) 
in  1900.  In  New  England,  indeed,  the 
1  In  1870  and  1880  by  derivation. 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


215 


proportion  has  shrunk  almost  half,  from 
32.2  per  cent  to  17.9  per  cent. 

In  1820  no  state  reported  the  propor- 
tion of  white  children  under  10  years 
so  low  as  one-quarter  of  the  total  white 
population,  but  in  1900,  more  than  two- 
fifths  of  the  states  reported  the  propor- 
tion of  native  white  children  as  being  less 
than  one-quarter  of  the  total  native  white 
inhabitants.  This  number  included  all 
the  Pacific  Coast  states  (in  each  of  which 
the  proportion  declined  from  1890  to 
1900),  three  Western  states,  Montana, 
Nevada,  and  Colorado,  which  perhaps 
may  be  disregarded  because  of  the  dis- 
turbing influence  of  mining  communities, 
and  fourteen,  comprising  all  the  Eastern, 
Northern,  and  Middle  states  as  far  west 
as  the  Illinois  line.  It  is  significant  that 
these  fourteen  form  the  manufacturing 
centre  of  the  United  States.  They  con- 
tributed, in  1900,  71  per  cent  of  the  total 
value  of  all  manufactured  product,  and 
contained  46.2  per  cent  of  the  total  popu- 
lation. The  decrease  in  the  proportion 
of  native  children  thus  appears  to  be 
most  pronounced  in  the  wealthiest  and 
most  populous  sections,  conspicuous  for 
urban  communities  and  the  most  exten- 
sive industrial  interests. 

While,  as  shown,  it  is  impossible  to 
separate  the  early  native  element  and  the 
later  foreign  element  so  as  to  measure  the 
contribution  of  each  to  the  total  popula- 
tion, it  is  obvious  that  the  United  States, 
in  the  face  of  ever-increasing  reinforce- 
ments from  abroad,  has  recorded  a  de- 
clining rate  of  increase  and  a  decreasing 
proportion  of  children.  Having  accom- 
plished an  extremely  rapid  and  some- 
what artificial  growth,  the  American  Re- 
public appears  to  be  approaching  a  con- 
dition in  which,  were  the  ship  of  state  to 
cast  off  the  towline  of  immigration,  she 
would  make  very  slow  population  head- 
way. 

The  Effect  of  Diminishing  Increase  in 
the  United  States. 

Were  the  present  rate  of  alien  arrivals 
in  the  United  States  to  continue,  that 


fact,  in  the  light  of  the  census  record, 
would  merely  justify  expectation  of  con- 
tinued diminution  of  increase.  Were  such 
diminution  to  continue  to  the  middle  of 
the  twentieth  century,  at  the  same  rate 
per  decade  as  shown  from  1860  to  1900, 
the  population  of  continental  United 
States  in  1950  would  not  exceed  130  mil- 
lions, and  after  that  date  would  tend  to 
become  stationary.  This  figure  is  far 
below  the  forecasts  of  population,  sen- 
sational in  their  liberality,  made  by  news- 
paper and  magazine  writers  from  time  to 
time.  There  is,  indeed,  a  popular  ten- 
dency to  overestimate  future  population. 
Predictions  concerning  the  number  of 
inhabitants  likely  to  be  living  in  the 
United  States  in  1900,  which  were  made 
early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  or  within 
the  last  fifty  years,  whether  by  students 
or  statesmen,  (the  latter  including  even 
President  Lincoln *),  greatly  exceeded 
the  total  actually  reported  for  that  year. 

Three  nations  only  now  have  more 
than  one  hundred  million  inhabitants, 
—  Russia,  India,  and  China.  They  are 
largely  agricultural,  and  are  composed  of 
communities  having  limited  and  simple 
requirements.  Industrial  nations  (which 
have  more  active  and  restless  commu- 
nities) in  general  are  small  in  area,  and 
have  relatively  small  populations,  which 
are  thus  easily  subject  to  control. 

The  United  States  will  soon  join  the 
three  nations  exceeding  one  hundred 
millions  of  inhabitants,  but  differs  radi- 
cally from  them,  since  manufacturing, 
mining,  and  other  industries  are  steadily 
outstripping  agriculture.  Urban  popula- 
1  "  At  the  same  ratios  of  increase  which  we 
have  maintained,  on  an  average,  from  our  first 
national  census  of  1790  until  that  of  1860,  we 
should  in  1900  have  a  population  of  103,208,- 
415  (in  1910,  138,918,526).  And  why  may  we 
not  continue  that  ratio  far  beyond  that  period  ? 
Our  abundant  room  —  our  broad  natural  home- 
stead —  is  our  ample  resource.  .  .  .  Our 
country  may  be  as  populous  as  Europe  now  is 
at  some  point  between  1920  and  1930  —  say 
about  1925,  —  our  territory,  at  73g-  persons  to 
the  square  mile,  being1  of  capacity  to  contain 
217,186,000."  —  LINCOLN,  Annual  Message  to 
Congress,  1862. 


216 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


tion  is  increasing  four  times  as  rapidly 
as  that  of  the  country  districts  (the  in- 
crease in  the  former  in  1900  was  36.8 
per  cent,  and  in  the  latter  but  9.5  per 
cent).  These  facts  suggest  a  tendency 
toward  instability,  and  become  increas- 
ingly important  as  population  assumes 
colossal  proportions.  It  is  not  in  govern- 
ment alone  that  the  United  States  is  an 
experiment. 

National  considerations,  however,  are 
by  no  means  the  only  ones  involved  in 
great  population  increase.  There  is  a 
point  at  which  the  citizen  must  alter  his 
mode  of  life.  In  densely  populated  coun- 
tries the  liberty  of  the  individual  is  neces- 
sarily restricted,  and  economy  of  agri- 
cultural and  other  resources  becomes 
imperative.  In  the  United  States  the  im- 
provident habits  contracted  by  the  new- 
comers of  a  century  ago  still  prevail.  A 
population  materially  in  excess  of  one 
hundred  millions,  living  as  wastefully  as 
Americans  now  live,  would  soon  con- 
front the  necessity  for  federal  and  state 
regulation,  the  creation  of  many  of  the 
limitations  which  prevail  in  the  more 
populous  states  of  Europe.  Preservation 
in  any  form,  however,  of  soil  or  natural 
resources,  is  accomplished  by  restriction ; 
restriction  means  that  large  numbers  of 
the  more  restless  and  eager  will  drift  to 
newer  lands. 

Population  and  Industrial  Activity. 

Malthus,  in  his  famous  treatise  upon 
principles  of  population,  declared  that 
the  natural  tendency  toward  increase  is 
checked  by  inadequacy  of  means  of  sub- 
sistence; but  in  our  time  this  statement 
should  be  modified;  new  industries,  the 
development  of  mines  and  extension  of 
commerce,  directly  or  indirectly,  furnish 
means  of  support  for  increasing  numbers 
and  seem  to  create  a  demand  for  human 
beings,  —  causing  what  may  be  termed 
a  population  vacuum. 

The  population  of  England  and  Wales, 
for  example,  in  1701,  was  6,121,525; *  in 
1751  the  total  number  of  inhabitants  had 
1  British  Census  Report,  1863. 


increased  but  214,315,  or  3.5  per  cent  in 
fifty  years.  After  the  middle  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  however,  continuous  in- 
crease occurred,  amounting  to  three  mil- 
lions in  1801,  nine  millions  in  1851,  and 
fourteen  and  a  half  millions  in  1901. 
This  change  was  coincident  with  the 
creation  of  British  industry  and  trade. 

But  if  it  be  true  that  the  quickening 
of  industrial  life  has  tended  to  increase 
population,  the  present  stationary  con- 
dition of  population  in  parts  of  Europe, 
previously  pointed  out,  and  the  dimin- 
ishing increase  of  population  in  the 
United  States,  suggest  the  possibility  that 
what  may  be  termed  the  drawing  power 
of  natural  and  industrial  resources  upon 
population  has  culminated.  We  are  justi- 
fied at  least  in  asking  what  influences 
upon  increase  of  population,  if  any,  are 
being  exerted  by  the  marvelous  eco- 
nomic changes  now  in  progress. 

The  discovery  and  exploitation  of  the 
world's  stored-up  natural  resources  have 
made  this  age  conspicuous  among  all 
ages.  It  might  be  said,  indeed,  that  the 
human  race  is  now  living  upon  principal, 
whereas  through  all  previous  periods  of 
history  it  existed  upon  income.  Prior  to 
1840,  upon  the  sea  all  transportation  was 
accomplished  by  utilizing  the  winds  of 
heaven  as  motive  power  to  drive  ships  to 
their  desired  harbors,  and  upon  land  by 
the  use  of  beasts  of  burden.  Within  the 
short  space  of  67  years,  —  less  than  the 
allotted  lifetime  of  a  man,  —  transporta- 
tion on  sea  and  land  has  been  revolu- 
tionized ;  the  steamer  and  the  locomotive 
are  now  supreme.  In  1905  there  were 
20,746  2  ocean-going  steamships  plying 
between  the  ports  of  the  world,  and  near- 
ly 163,000  locomotives  3  in  all  lands  and 
climes  drawing  innumerable  freight  and 
passenger  cars.  To  propel  these  steamers 
against  wind  and  current,  approximately 
75,000,000  tons  of  coal  are  required  annu- 
ally, while  the  locomotives  of  the  world 
consume  approximately  133,000,000  tons. 

2  Lloyd's  Register,  1906. 

3  Interstate  Commerce  Commission,  and  by 
derivation. 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


217 


Thus  during  many  thousand  years  the 
commerce  and  passenger  traffic  of  the 
world  were  conducted  without  the  ex- 
penditure of  a  pound  of  the  natural  re- 
sources of  the  earth,  but  in  our  time 
practically  all  transportation,  although 
possessing  capacity  beyond  the  compre- 
hension of  earlier  generations,  is  secured 
by  burning  up  annually  more  than  200,- 
000,000  tons  of  coal. 

Such  staples  as  coal,  iron,  petroleum, 
copper,  and  gold,  were  left  practically 
untouched  by  the  successive  generations 
of  men  who  peopled  the  earth  prior  to 
the  nineteenth  century;  but  within  fifty 
years  the  world-old  attitude  of  the  race 
toward  these  and  other  natural  resources 
has  been  completely  reversed.  This  brief 
period  has  witnessed  a  mighty  attack 
upon  most  of  the  known  deposits  of 
metal  and  minerals.  In  order  to  increase 
the  vigor  of  the  onslaught  which  the  civ- 
ilized nations  have  made  upon  natural  re- 
sources stored  up  through  countless  ages, 
human  strength  has  been  supplemented 
by  ingenious  mining  machinery. 


The  world's  coal  product  in  1850  was 
220,535  tons;  in  1900,  846,041,848  tons; 
in  1905,  1,033,125,971  tons.  English 
writers  of  half  a  century  ago  estimated 
the  maximum  annual  production  likely 
to  be  reached  in  the  future  from  the 
British  coal-fields  at  100,000,000  tons. 
The  actual  product,  however,  in  1905 
was  235,000,000  tons. 

In  the  production  of  pig  iron  a  similar 
striking  increase  has  occurred.  The 
world's  product  advanced  from  1,585,000 
tons  in  1830,  to  54,054,783  tons  in  1905. 
Petroleum,  discovered  in  the  United 
States  in  1859,  and  aided  later  by  ex- 
tensive wells  in  Russia,  was  produced 
to  the  amount  of  3,296,162,482  gallons 
in  1890,  but  the  product  was  increased 
to  9,004,723,854  gallons  in  1905.  Of 
copper,  the  product  was  117,040,000 
pounds  in  1850;  but  the  mines  of  the 
world,  spurred  by  the  demand  of  elec- 
trical requirements,  yielded  1,570,804,480 
pounds  in  1905.  Production  of  gold  in- 
creased from  $94,000,000  in  1850,  to 
$376,289,200  in  1905. 


PER  CAPITA  i  PRODUCTION  AND  CONSUMPTION  OF  COAL,  IRON,  PETROLEUM, 
COPPER,  AND  GOLD  IN  EUROPE  AND  THE  UNITED  STATES,  1905. 


PER  CAPITA 

PRODUCTION. 

PER  CAPITA 

CONSUMPTION. 

MINERAL. 

United  States. 

Europe. 

United  States. 

Europe. 

Coal 

4.73  tons 

2.10  tons 

4.72  tons 

1.78  tons2 

Petroleum  8 

16.6    gallons 

2.22  gallons 

7.2     gallons 

3.10  gallons 

Iron 

0.27  tons 

0.12  tons 

0.20  tons 



GoET      :     : 

10.8    pounds 
1.06  dollars 

0.44  pounds 
0.06  dollars 

6.1     pounds 
0.99  dollars 

1.7     pounds 
0.66  dollars2 

1  Population  in  1905  or  nearest  year.  2  Principal  countries. 


Refined  illuminating  oil. 


With  the  exception  of  the  production 
of  coal  in  Great  Britain,  mining  in  Euro- 
pean countries  is  not  characterized  by 
the  feverish  activity  which  attends  such 
operations  in  the  United  States.  Here, 
however,  not  only  are  the  per  capitas  of 
production  and  home  consumption  very 
large,  but  it  is  evident  that  this  nation  is 
also  supplying  much  of  the  European 
requirement.  While  gratifying  as  evi- 
dence of  Nature's  liberality  to  us,  and 
also  of  American  enterprise,  is  there  no 


limit  to  the  supply  under  such  unpar- 
alleled demand? 

The  production  of  coal,  iron,  petro- 
leum, copper,  and  gold  in  America  prac- 
tically began  —  at  least  so  far  as  a 
modern  commercial  basis  is  concerned 
—  within  the  lifetime  of  many  men  now 
living.  Coal  production  in  the  United 
States  dates  approximately  from  1820. 
Eighty-five  years  later  (in  1905)  the  pro- 
duct of  American  coal  mines  was  392,- 
000,000  tons  annually,  practically  two- 


218 


The  Diminishing  Increase  of  Population 


fifths  of  the  coal  production  of  the  world. 
Advancing  into  the  future  from  1905  as 
far  as  that  date  is  distant  from  1820, 
we  should  reach  1990.  In  that  year,  ac- 
cording to  the  estimates  which  have 
been  made  by  the  leading  student  of  coal 
production,  the  output  of  American  coal 
mines  would  approximate  2,077,000,000 
tons  each  year.1 

This  age  is  preeminently  a  coal  age; 
industry  and  commerce  depend  upon 
and  follow  coal  supply.  "  In  those  locali- 
ties both  in  Europe  and  America  where 
coal  is  found,  it  has  completely  changed 
the  face  of  the  country.  It  has  created 
great  hives  of  industry  in  previously 
uninhabited  valleys  and  lonely  plains, 
drawn  the  population  from  the  agricult- 
ural districts  into  manufacturing  centres; 
it  has  altogether  modified  the  relative 
importance  of  cities,  and  has  peopled 
colonies."  2 

Jevons,  the  English  economist,  dis- 
cussing in  1865  the  relation  of  wealth  and 
political  power  hi  England  to  the  coal 
supply,  declared  that  the  industrial  pre- 
eminence of  the  English  people  was  due 
to  coal;  that  future  development  de- 
pended upon  a  continuance  of  cheap  fuel 
supply ;  but  that  it  was  not  reasonable  to 
expect  indefinite  commercial  expansion 
at  the  then  rate  of  progress.  He  predicted 
that  well  within  a  century  from  the  date 
mentioned,  a  perceptible  check  in  the 
rate  of  growth  would  be  experienced  and 
that  the  premonitory  symptom  would  be 
a  higher  price  for  fuel.3  This  economic 
prophecy  in  some  particulars  is  already 
being  fulfilled.  Not  the  least  ominous 
fact  is  the  decided  increase  in  the  price 
of  British  coal.  It  is  stated  that  at  the 
present  rate  of  production  the  cream  of 
the  South  Wales  coal-fields  will  have  been 
skimmed  in  another  half-century. 

The  United  States  is  now  the  greatest 
coal-producing  nation  in  the  world.  Even 
should  the  annual  product  attain  to  the 

1  E.  W.  Parker,  U.  S.  Geological  Survey. 

2  Thomas,  Journal  Royal  Statistical  Society, 
Ixi,  461. 

8  The  Coal  Question.   London,  1865. 


enormous  total  predicted  for  the  close  of 
the  century,  the  coal  reserve  would  not 
be  seriously  impaired  for  many  centuries 
to  come.  In  fact,  it  is  not  likely  ever  to 
become  completely  exhausted.  The  crisis 
in  the  maintenance  of  national  prosper- 
ity, however,  does  not  await  coal  ex- 
haustion, but  it  must  be  expected  when 
the  slowly  increasing  difficulty  and  ex- 
pense of  mining  coal  result  in  prices  easily 
beaten  by  newer  fields.  The  price,  there- 
fore, of  early  extravagance  in  production, 
or  in  use,  or  both,  is  the  ultimate  crea- 
tion of  irresistible  industrial  rivals.  The 
United  States  is  becoming  more  and 
more  industrial,  hence  both  prosperity 
and  population  constantly  lean  more 
heavily  upon  coal;  the  greater  the  annual 
output,  the  earlier  may  be  expected  the 
era  of  materially  advancing  prices.  Even 
if  it  be  conceded  that  such  a  result  would 
not  seriously  impair  the  industrial  effi- 
ciency of  the  United  States,  it  must  exert 
a  direct  influence  upon  population,  be- 
cause decided  increase  in  the  cost  of  coal 
means  increased  cost  of  living  and  of 
production  in  all  lines  of  industry.  More- 
over, an  increased  proportion  of  labor 
and  capital  must  be  devoted  to  the  ex- 
traction of  coal,  thereby  diminishing  the 
proportion  of  both  available  under  more 
favorable  conditions  for  other  productive 
activities. 

Old  settlers  and  newcomers  have  re- 
veled in  the  fertility  of  virgin  soil  and 
seemingly  unbounded  space  and  re- 
sources. Waste  has  been  rampant.  If 
land  ran  out,  the  farmer  made  scant 
attempt  to  renew  it,  —  he  merely  moved 
on  to  the  West  or  South.  If  the  timber, 
coal,  or  iron  supply  of  forest  and  mine 
was  depleted,  no  thought  of  economy 
arose  —  there  were  greater  forests  and 
richer  mines  elsewhere.  Thus  like  a 
spendthrift  heir,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
United  States  have  dipped  deep  into  the 
riches  of  their  mighty  inheritance,  while 
from  other  lands  millions  of  immigrants, 
glad  to  escape  the  restrictions  of  intensive 
forms  of  existence,  have  flocked  to  assist 
the  American  in  exploiting  his  resources. 


The  Diminishing  >  Increase  of  Population 


219 


How  long  can  these  resources,  though 
some  of  them  are  seemingly  limitless, 
withstand  this  attack  ?  1 

The  present  age  is  differentiated  from 
all  others  principally  by  this  exploitation 
of  natural  resources,  and  by  its  reflex 
influence  upon  men.  Had  this  onslaught 
begun,  with  equal  vigor,  a  few  hundred 
years  earlier,  conditions  in  the  present 
age  would  have  differed  so  radically  from 
what  they  actually  are,  that  even  specu- 
lation concerning  our  state  in  such  a  con- 
tingency is  futile. 

Supremely  serious  are  the  questions 
which  arise  from  consideration  of  the 
unprecedented  advancement  of  our  time : 
Has  Nature  no  penalties  in  store  for  her 

1  Clearly  no  country  has  been  so  richly 
dowered  by  nature  with  mineral  resources  of 
all  sorts.  ...  On  the  other  hand  we  must  ren- 
der tribute  to  the  extraordinary  rapidity  with 
which  these  resources  have  been  developed  of 
late  years.  ...  It  is  quite  reasonable  to  pre- 
dict that  the  time  will  come  when,  pending 
the  exploitation  of  the  coal  fields  of  China,  all 
the  world,  with  the  exception  of  northern  and 
northwestern  Europe,  which  will  almost  cer- 
tainly remain  customers  of  Great  Britain,  will 
look  to  the  United  States  for  its  coal  supply. 
...  In  production  of  iron  ore  the  United 
States  far  outdistances  all  other  countries,  its 
output  in  1902  being  over  thirty-five  million 
tons.  ...  In  1880  it  was  only  seven  million 
tons.  Comment  upon  the  rapidity  with  which 
it  has  increased  would  be  superfluous.  .  .  . 
One  is  tempted  to  ask  whether  the  ultra- inten- 
sive exploitation  to  which  the  iron  mines  are 
submitted  will  not  soon  exhaust  the  magnifi- 
cent deposits  of  the  Lake  Superior  district 
.  .  .  but  the  Americans,  relying  on  the  con- 
stant good-will  of  Nature,  are  confident  that 
they  will  discover  either  new  and  product- 
ive ranges  in  this  district  or  rich  deposits  in 
other  districts.  —  P.  LEBOY-BEAULIEU,  United 
States  in  the  Twentieth  Century,  pp.  223  et  seq. 


children  who  draw  too  liberally  from  her 
breast?  Burning  the  fires  of  life  so 
fiercely,  shall  they  not  burn  out  ?  If,  on 
the  one  hand,  phenomenal  population 
increase  resulted  from  the  quickening  of 
industrial  and  commercial  life  in  the 
civilized  nations  during  the  past  century, 
—  due  in  the  last  analysis  to  natural  re- 
sources, —  and  on  the  other,  instinct, 
manifested  in  a  score  of  local  forms,  is 
now  tending  to  restrict  population  while 
the  momentum  of  national  prosperity  is 
apparently  at  its  height,2  may  there  not 
f  be  in  operation  some  hitherto  unexecuted 
law  of  nature,  to  prevent  too  great  a  drain 
upon  the  inheritance  of  future  genera- 
tions ? 

Invention  and  discovery  may  be  ex- 
pected to  continue.  It  may  well  be  that 
the  men  of  the  future  will  succeed  in 
their  time,  as  we  have  in  ours,  but  the 
problems  which  arise  are  likely  to  be 
increasingly  serious,  as  "  the  great  world 
spins  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves 
of  change." 

2  The  fundamental  law  of  population  is, 
that  population  constantly  tends  to  increase  at 
a  greater  rate  than  the  means  of  subsistence. 
Here  we  have  the  converse  occurring  over  a 
period  embracing  nearly  the  life  of  a  genera- 
tion. Is  this  apparent  reversal  of  the  general 
law  due  to  the  establishment  of  a  higher  stand- 
ard of  existence  by  advancing  civilization,  or 
to  prosperity  having  in  some  insidious  manner 
sapped  the  reproductive  powers  of  the  nation  ? 
Whatever  be  the  cause,  we  have  to  face  the 
fact  that  the  rate  of  increase  of  the  population 
is  being  maintained  by  the  decrease  in  the 
death-rate,  and  notwithstanding  such  decrease, 
extending  over  the  past  twenty  years,  the  ex=- 
cess  of  births  over  deaths  per  thousand  has 
dropped  from  14.90  to  11.58,  or  over  twenty- 
two  per  cent.  —  THOMAS,  Journal  Royal  Sta- 
tistical Society,  Ixi,  453. 


THE   NATIONAL  GAME 


BY   ROLLIN    LYNDE   HARTT 


"  BASEBALLING,"  writes  Mr.  Hashi- 
mura  Togo,  "is  National  Sport.  Walk 
some  distance  to  suburbs  of  trolley ,when, 
all  of  a  suddenly,  you  will  notice  a  sound. 
It  is  a  very  congregational  lynch-law 
sound  of  numberous  voices  doing  it  all 
at  once.  Silence  punctuates  this.  Then 
more  of." 

Addressing  himself  to  a  policeman, 
Mr.  Togo  solicits  enlightenment :  "  Why 
all  this  yell  about,  unless  of  mania  ?  " 

"  Three  men  have  got  home,"  ex- 
plains the  officer. 

"  So  happy  to  welcome  travelers ! 
Have  them  gentlemans  been  long  absent 
for  such  public  banzai  ?  " 

Thus  we  perceive  that  Mr.  Togo  is  as 
yet  no  "  fan,"  or,  instead  of  walking  to 
"  suburbs  of  trolley,"  he  would  have 
added  himself  to  the  burden  of  some  an- 
cient and  doddering  electric  car,  which, 
languishing  else  in  oblivion,  is  fetched 
forth  to  trundle  "  red-blooded  "  citizens 
toward  yon  blessed  inclosure.  A  jocund 
air  has  that  trolley.  Though  meriting  the 
pathetic  grandeur  of  the  Grand  Army 
of  the  Republic,  it  goes  caroling,  "As 
Young  as  I  Used  to  Be."  Yet  the  throng 
aboard,  clinging  fly-fashion,  and  jammed 
gayly  man  on  man,  breathes  no  prankish 
spirit.  Theirs  is  a  calm  mood  and  a  dig- 
nified. They  are  buttressing  the  nation 
by  upholding  the  national  game,  and  a 
certain  stateliness  is  permitted  to  patriots. 

Mr.  Togo,  in  his  heathen  blindness, 
may  question  the  essential  Americanism 
of  baseball.  Until  recently  the  game 
originated  in  the  English  schoolboy  sport 
of  rounders.  To  abate  that  scandal,  an 
cecumenical  council  of  baseball  hierarchs 
has  defined  the  true  faith.  By  order  of 
the  Special  Commission,  it  shall  have 
been  "  indigenous."  Its  American  origin, 
then,  resembles  the  infallibility  of  the 

220 


Pope,  which,  as  a  Catholic  savant  once 
remarked  to  me,  is  "  a  dogma  we  un- 
fortunately have  to  believe." 

But,  despite  its  alien  lineage,  the  game 
has  become  as  characteristically  Amer- 
ican as  bull-fighting  is  characteristical- 
ly Spanish,  or  pelote  characteristically 
Basque,  or  heresy-hunting  characteristic- 
ally Scotch.  Not  that  our  national  sport 
stays  pent  within  our  traditional  fron- 
tiers; it  follows  the  flag,  and  westward, 
of  course,  the  umpire  takes  his  way.  He 
is  revered  in  Luzon,  as  is  also  the  valiant 
batsman.  Persons  reluctant  to  canonize 
our  Philippine  policy  should  observe  how 
five  thousand  natives  will  pour  down 
upon  the  diamond  to  felicitate  the  au- 
thor of  a  three-bagger,  and  continue  his 
apotheosis  for  a  solid  hour.  Meanwhile, 
baseball  has  annexed  Canada  —  leaving 
only  the  sordid  political  details  to  be 
adjusted  —  and  captured  Cuba.  "  No 
tiene  descripcion  el  entusiasmo!  "  cries 
the  Cuban  press.  "  El  publico  en  masa 
se  desborda  lienando  el  immense  campo, 
dando  Vivas !  Hurrahs !  "  Yet  it  is  in 
the  United  States  especially  that  the 
game  thrives  and  grows  and  keeps  on 
growing,  till  now  it  cheerfully  meets  an 
annual  cost  of  $5,500,000,  supports  more 
than  thirty  leagues,  major  and  minor, 
sells  its  25,000,000  tickets  a  year,  and 
evolves  a  treasurer's  report  that  reads 
like  a  mathematical  psean.  Already  it 
stands  among  our  notable  industries. 
Erelong  its  capitalization  will  reach  the 
figure  of  $20,000,000,  the  price  we  paid 
Spain  for  a  second-hand  war. 

This  glittering  phenomenon,  so  grate- 
ful to  all  who  love  their  country,  though 
to  Mr.  Togo  a  stumbling-block  and  to 
the  trolley  conductor  foolishness,  invites 
philosophy.  How  comes  it  about?  Be- 
cause the  "  grandest  of  nations  "  must 


The  National  Game 


221 


instinctively  espouse  "  the  grandest  of 
games  "  ?  Doubtless  man  might  have 
made  a  better  sport,  but  doubtless  man 
never  did.  Man  made  cricket,  enabling 
it  to  proceed  with  the  languid  tread  of  a 
Chinese  tragedy,  while  from  time  to  time 
some  hot-head  might  arise  and  exclaim, 
"Played,  sir!  Played  indeed!"  Man 
made  football,  endowing  it  with  benign 
carnage  but  giving  it  a  season  all  too 
brief.  Man  made  golf,  wherein  the  rumi- 
native derive  satisfaction  from  a  com- 
parison of  records.  Man  made  tennis,  a 
pleasant  pastime,  yet  not  for  heroes. 
Man  at  his  best  and  highest  made  base- 
ball, which  gallops  gloriously  to  its  sub- 
lime culmination,  holds  a  nation  spell- 
bound from  snow  to  snow,  provides  al- 
ways the  clash  of  player  against  player, 
and  calls  for  the  combined  exercise  of 
muscle,  brain,  skill,  and  manly  daring. 

Besides,  it  appeals  sweetly  to  senti- 
ment. Every  American  has  played  base- 
ball in  his  boyhood,  learning  the  ecstasy 
of  triumph,  the  unforgetable  anguish  of 
defeat.  Sings  Mme.  Calve:  — 

"  Plaisir  d' amour  ne  dure  qu'un  moment, 
Chagrin  d'amour  dure  toute  la  vie." 

But  she  would  be  less  confident  of  the 
supreme  pathos  of  her  theme  had  she 
been  walloped,  anciently,  by  the  Cedar- 
villes,  and  slunk  supperless  to  bed. 

The  child  is  father  of  the  "  fan,"  and 
the  middle-aged  —  the  aged,  even  —  re- 
new their  youth  while  "rooting  "  on  the 
bleachers.  And  yet  in  such  reflections, 
however  exhilarating,  we  find  no  ade- 
quate interpretation  of  the  paramount- 
cy  achieved  by  this  vociferous  amuse- 
ment. Though  the  game  existed  in  the 
forties,  it  promised  small  delirium;  it 
lacked, import;  it  was  team  against  team, 
—  mere  parochial  imbroglios,  —  and  not 
an  entire  people  struggling  mightily  all 
summer  toward  a  golden  bourn.  Then 
arose  that  Moses  of  the  diamond,  "  Fa- 
ther "  Henry  Chad  wick,  who  began  his 
career  as  law-giver  a  few  years  before  the 
Civil  War,  which  was  a  conflict  deeply 
to  be  regretted,  since  it  deflected  the  na- 
tional mind  from  the  pursuit  of  the  na- 


tional sport,  and  devoutly  to  be  praised, 
since  it  preserved  a  nation  wherein  that 
sport  might  disport  itself. 

After  the  war  came  Reconstruction, 
which  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  a 
shattered  commonwealth,  and  set  them 
upon  the  firm  foundation  of  baseball. 
The  country  had  now  a  purpose.  Hence- 
forth it  could  develop  into  a  nation  of 
"  rooters,"  the  loudest  and  maddest  on 
earth.  For  "Father"  Chadwick  had 
codified  the  rules,  thus  enabling  New 
York  to  give  battle  to  Philadelphia,  Bos- 
ton to  Detroit,  Cleveland  to  St.  Louis, 
while  affording  the  mythopoetic  faculty 
an  opportunity  not  surpassed  in  our  era. 
No  Secretary  of  Baseball  sits  in  the  Pre- 
sident's cabinet;  it  is  not  by  manhood 
suffrage  that  municipalities  elect  their 
ball-nines ;  nor  do  the  champions  receive 
the  pennant  from  the  secretary's  hand 
with  a  mediaeval  accolade  and  gain  duke- 
doms as  rewards  for  high  service;  yet  in 
the  "fan's"  thoughts  it  might  almost  be 
so,  despite  his  knowledge  that  organ- 
ized baseball  is  a  business  —  a  business 
controlled  by  a  trust;  that  the  "  clubs  " 
are  stock-companies;  that  the  players 
are  rarely  sons  of  the  cities  whose  names 
they  wear  over  their  hearts ;  and  that  the 
progressive  series  of  shows  has  been 
adroitly  devised  to  keep  him  dangling 
betwixt  hope  and  despair  throughout  the 
season,  and  get  his  money.  So  it  is  no 
trivial,  isolated,  ineffectual  fray  that  as- 
sembles yonder  multitude  this  afternoon. 

As  Pisa  fought  Venice  and  Venice 
fought  Florence,  so  the  town  dearest  to 
our  pride  is  to  take  up  arms  against  a 
loathed  and  hated  rival ;  only,  in  our  case, 
consider  how  incomparably  more  grave 
the  issue!  Our  city,  if  victorious,  will  ad- 
vance one  stage  further  toward  the  cham- 
pionship of  its  league.  If  it  wins  that 
championship,  it  will  meet  the  champions 
of  the  other  major  league,  and  battle  for 
the  championship  of  the  world.  If  tri- 
umphant then,  it  will  reign  in  a  moral 
splendor  surpassing  the  sublimity  of 
Nineveh,  Carthage,  or  Imperial  Rome, 
until  —  perish  the  thought !  —  the  arbit- 


222 


The  National  Game 


rament  of  next  year's  campaign  snatches 
the  sceptre  from  its  grasp.  In  the  light 
of  so  much  glory,  one  grieves  to  recall 
how  misguided  warriors  fought  and  bled 
on  Italian  soil  for  a  mere  petty,  back- 
yard sovereignty,  little  worth  the  fuss, 
and  one  sighs  for  a  greater  Dante  to  sing 
this  grander  warfare.  Still,  there  is  song 
in  the  souls  of  "  fans."  Said  Emerson: 
"  The  people  fancy  they  hate  poetry,  and 
they  are  all  poets  and  mystics." 

Arriving  at  the  gates  of  glee  —  gates 
piercing  an  otherwise  impervious  board- 
fence,  cruelly  devoid  of  those  cracks  and 
knot-holes  which  afford  solace  to  impe- 
cunious urchinhood  —  our  bards  under- 
go a  self-imposed  classification.  The 
frivolous,  the  detached,  the  shallow  — 
fabricators  of  "  society  verse,"  let  us 
say  —  purchase  tickets  for  the  grand- 
stand ;  those  a  shade  or  two  less  artificial 
prefer  the  fifty-cent  bleachers;  but  the 
true  runic  singers,  they  of  the  flaming  i 
heart  and  awesome  howl,  humble  them- 
selves to  be  bleached  for  a  quarter. 

Though  "Casey  at  the  Bat"  has  been 
attributed  to  all  known  poets  from  Ho- 
mer to  Theodosia  Garrison,  and  though 
its  authorship  is  claimed  by  a  wool 
merchant  named  Thayer,  it  is  clear  that 
the  ballad  reached  his  pen  by  a  process 
of  metempsychosis,  having  enjoyed  a 
previous  existence  in  the  brain  of  some 
twenty-five-cent  "  rooter."  Accordingly, 
we  shall  find  the  uncrowned  laureates  of 
baseball  among  its  lowliest  devotees. 
While  Mr.  Reginald  Van  Brunt  will  yell 
with  a  fervor  conscious  of  its  absurdity 
and  relish  this  release  from  convention, 
Mr.  Micky  O'Hooligan  will  yell  with 
impassioned  earnestness.  Between  these 
gentlemen,  however  similar  their  vocal 
outbursts,  you  note  the  same  difference 
as  between  the  carnival  Indian  and  the 
wild  Comanche.  Mr.  Van  Brunt  harbors 
a  suspicion  that  the  national  game  is  per- 
haps a  trifle  less  important  than  the  na- 
tional destiny.  Not  so  the  honest  Micky. 

Him  let  us  follow.  Through  the  joyous 
portals,  then,  with  care  to  retain  our  rain- 
checks.  In  these  read  the  first  intimation 


of  contrast  between  professional  base- 
ball and  its  collegiate  compeer.  The 
powers  of  the  air  might  spoil  a  college 
game  and  cheat  the  spectators.  Here,  if 
the  heavens  drip  before  the  middle  of 
the  fifth  inning,  we  may  go  in  free  at 
some  subsequent  game.  Thus  the  man- 
agement emboldens  the  over-weather- 
wise,  who,  when  clouds  look  ominous, 
may  perchance  obtain  more  baseball, 
instead  of  less,  for  their  money.  Inside 
the  gate,  contrasts  not  less  pronounced. 
Instead  of  the  modest  grandstand,  a 
huge,  many-canopied  pavilion,  over 
which  float  ensigns  inscribed  with  the 
name  of  our  city  and  that  of  the  despic- 
able municipality  for  whose  destruction 
we  yearn.  Instead  of  the  strings  of  car- 
riages, those  vast,  austere  tribunes,  the 
bleachers.  Instead  of  multitudinous  gay 
hats  and  gowns,  only  an  occasional  dash 
of  color,  and  that  only  in  the  grandstand. 
Instead  of  the  pennant  of  our  Alma 
Mater,  the  nation's  flag,  fluttering  a  bit 
sadly,  as  if  conscious  of  its  subservience 
to  business.  Instead  of  a  distant  pro- 
spect of  academic  spires  and  cupolas  be- 
yond the  meadows,  a  background  com- 
posed of  bill-boards,  where  advertise- 
ments of  whiskey,  beer,  and  heinous 
cigars  almost  crowd  out  the  score-board, 
while  above  them  loom  the  chimneys  of 
factories.  Everywhere  an  atmosphere 
bespeaking  capitalized  enterprise,  specu- 
lation, commercialism.  Upon  the  ear  fall 
raucous  cries :  "  Hot  roasted  peanuts, 
five  a  bag,"  "  Ice-cold  moxie,"  "  Fresh 
pop-corn  "  —  uttered  by  savage  brats  in 
white  coats  and  white  caps.  Ministering 
angels  actually,  these  young  persons  wear 
an  expression  of  cruelty,  having  caught 
thus  early  the  aggressive  spirit  of  the 
diamond. 

On  the  bleachers,  however,  there  is 
much  the  same  talk  as  among  collegians, 
though  mouthed  less  gently,  and  abso- 
lutely the  same  belief  in  the  cosmic  im- 
portance of  sport.  Have  not  vanquished 
football  braves  been  known  to  weep? 
Once,  when  a  victorious  eleven  were 
shedding  their  moleskins  amid  profane 


The  National  Game 


223 


exultings,  their  trainer  burst  into  the 
dressing-room, lifted  a  reverent  hand,  and 
cried,  "  Silence,  boys!  Now  everybody 
sing,  *  Praise  God  from  whom  all  bless- 
ings flow! '  "  —  which  they  did,  in  per- 
fect solemnity.  When  such  excesses  occur 
among  seekers  after  wisdom,  why  scorn 
poor  Micky  for  calling  baseball  the  most 
serious  occupation  of  a  serious  people? 
His  microcosmos  refuses  admittance  to 
larger  interests.  The  players  now  at  prac- 
tice down  below  —  they  are  lions,  heroes, 
sublime  demigods,  in  Micky's  eyes.  Pity 
him,  then,  for  his  failure  to  identify  them ; 
"  beneath  the  cupola,"  Paris  is  equally 
at  a  loss  to  identify  its  Forty  Immortals; 
as  Monsieur  le  Ministre  appeals  to 
Madame  la  Marechale,  so  Micky  ap- 
peals to  'Rastus  Jones,  and  'Rastus  to  a 
truckman,  who  in  turn  invites  elucida- 
tion from  a  freckled  office-boy.  There 
are  loud  assertions,  louder  contradictions, 
as  is  scarcely  surprising,  so  extraordinary 
is  the  family  resemblance  that  pervades 
the  profession.  Always  the  lithe,  nimble 
figure;  always  the  shaven  face;  always 
the  bold  nose  and  assertive  chin.  Later, 
when  the  game  is  on,  we  shall  know  the 
artists  by  reference  to  the  score-card. 

For  artists  they  are  —  sensitive  as 
violinists,  "  temperamental "  as  paint- 
ers, emotional  as  divas.  A  little  detrac- 
tion will  "  get  their  goat,"  a  little  adula- 
tion prepare  them  to  walk  upon  pink 
clouds.  As  the  Presbyterian  said  of  the 
Methodists,  they  are  "  up  attic  or  down 
cellar  all  the  while."  They  cherish  their 
dignity,  riding  only  in  Pullmans,  sleeping 
only  in  the  hotel's  most  luxurious  apart- 
ments. They  exact  from  their  manager 
a  consideration  as  delicate  as  that  dis- 
played toward  his  mariners  by  the  gallant 
captain  of  the  Pinafore.  They  demand 
dazzling  emoluments;  Corot  died  rich, 
Paderewski  carries  home  a  fortune  every 
year,  yet  how  insignificant  their  services 
to  humanity  compared  with  those  of  a 
baseball  player!  Meanwhile  the  frater- 
nity resents  imputations  of  mere  com- 
mercialism. Speak  not  of  "  Hessians." 
If  you  insist  upon  a  military  allusion,  call 


them  Swiss,  to  whom  may  one  day  be 
carven  a  Lion  of  Lucerne. 

Happy  is  their  lot,  since  their  crafts- 
manship, unlike  that  of  other  artists,  wins 
the  most  exuberant  admiration  from 
those  that  comprehend  it  least.  Hence 
their  rank  as  popular  idols.  The  physio- 
logical psychologist,  who  can  hardly  be 
said  to  abound,  admires  the  precision 
with  which  the  muscular  sense  judges  the 
whereabouts  of  a  moving  object  by  the 
tug  of  tiny  muscles  as  the  eyes  converge 
upon  it;  he  admires  the  accuracy  with 
which  the  muscles  of  eye  and  arm  adjudi- 
cate and  direct  the  effort  required  to  hurl 
a  missile  to  its  goal  after  the  muscles 
around  and  inside  the  eye  have  deter- 
mined the  range;  he  knows  that  in  that 
solemnest  of  ball-games,  an  artillery  en- 
gagement, ranges  must  be  found  mechan- 
ically. There,  with  some  incidental  en- 
thusiasm over  the  diligence  expended  in 
training  the  muscular  sense  to  such 
superb  efficiency,  his  admiration  ends. 
To  Micky,  however,  the  skill  of  a  star 
ball-player  savors  less  of  the  magnifi- 
cently natural  than  of  the  out-and-out 
miraculous.  And  our  world  consists 
mainly  of  Mickys.  Ages  ago,  when  it 
contained  no  other  folk,  such  wonder- 
working would  have  qualified  the  "  wiz- 
ard "  to  teach  spiritual  truth.  In  our 
own  day,  it  has  enabled  a  baseball  hero 
to  become  a  popular  evangelist. 

But  see,  the  game  is  about  to  begin! 
Quick,  your  score-card !  At  last  it  is  set- 
tled that  Murphy,  not  O'Toole,  is  to 
pitch,  O'Toole  having  doubtless  a  tem- 
porary "  glass  arm;  "  also  that  Kelley, 
though  spiked  a  week  ago  by  a  furious 
base-runner,  is  again  to  mount  guard 
over  yonder  hypertrophied  pincushion; 
who's  who,  we  now  know,  so  far  as  con- 
cerns "  our  boys,"  and  as  for  the  enemy, 
seated  in  a  cross-legged,  red-legged  row 
on  the  bench,  the  score-card  will  make 
them  out  for  us  as  obligingly  as  the  pro- 
gramme that  names  the  actors  "in  the 
order  of  their  first  appearance  on  the 
stage."  All  is  clear,  save  perhaps  to 
some  wretched  Togo. 


224 


The  National  Game 


Billiards  the  Japanese  intellect  can 
fathom :  "  two  sticks,  three  balls,  two 
men.  One  says  '  Damn! '  The  other 
says,  'Hard  lines!'"  But  baseball  is 
more  intricate.  It  is  billiards  in  three 
dimensions  (and  a  fourth,  sometimes, 
namely  the  umpire),  with  an  uneven  field 
for  a  table,  the  ball  shot  through  air  and 
deflected  by  wind,  and  the  play  executed 
with  chain-lightning  rapidity,  while  al- 
ways nine  men  are  pitted  against  one. 
So  you  will  bear  with  Mr.  Togo  if  his 
account  errs  through  excess  of  impres- 
sionism. Says  he,  "  One  strong-arm  gen- 
tleman called  a  Pitch  is  hired  to  throw. 
Another  gentleman  called  a  Stop  is  re- 
sponsible for  whatever  that  Hon.  Pitch 
throw  to  him,  so  he  protect  himself  from 
wounding  by  sofa-pillows  which  he  wear 
on  hands.  Another  gentleman  called  a 
Striker  stand  in  front  of  that  Stop  and 
hold  up  club  to  fright  off  that  Hon.  Pitch 
from  angry  rage  of  throwing  things.  Hon. 
Pitch  in  hand  hold  one  baseball  of  an 
unripe  condition  of  hardness.  He  raise 
that  arm  lofty  —  then  twist  —  O  sud- 
den! !  He  shoot  them  bullet-ball  straight 
to  breast  of  Hon.  Stop.  Hon.  Striker 
swing  club  for  vain  effort.  It  is  a  miss  and 
them  deathly  ball  shoot  Hon.  Stop  in 
gloves.  'Struck  once! '  decry  Hon.  Um- 
peror,  a  person  who  is  there  to  gossip 
about  it  in  loud  voice." 

Despite  traces  of  inaccuracy,  we  have 
here  a  transcription  from  reality.  Such 
titanic  efforts,  such  lifting  of  huge  hopes, 
such  scant  fruition!  They  hurl  the  ball, 
but  not  canonically.  They  hurl  the  ball 
canonically,  but  the  batsman  cowers. 
They  hurl  the  ball  canonically,  and  the 
batsman  smites  it,  but  erroneously.  They 
hurl  the  ball  canonically,  the  batsman 
smites  it  righteously,  and  then  some  fel- 
low catches  it.  This  process,  varied  with 
the  scampering  of  certain  gentlemen  in 
haste,  who  at  best  reach  only  the  point 
they  started  from,  continues  through 
nine  innings,  while  the  majority  of  the 
eighteen  demigods  stand  beside  bags  or 
guard  distant  outposts,  chewing,  chew- 
ing, or  sit  all  a-row  and  drink  water  out 


of  a  pail.  Upon  what  boresome  doings, 
then,  hangs  the  destiny  of  our  cities! 
How  justly  has  Mr.  Steffens  celebrated 
their  shame! 

To  the  "  fan,"  this  very  uneventfulness 
is  in  itself  an  event.  One  recalls  the  ardor 
of  the  shopkeeper  in  a  college  town,  who 
had  feared  that  a  football  defeat  might 
impoverish  the  gamesters  who  owed  him 
money;  hearing  that  it  had  yielded  a 
score  of  nothing  to  nothing,  he  cried, 
"Blessed  be  nothing!"  So  here.  The 
red-blooded  look  not  kindly  upon  the 
"  hippodrome  "  and  the  "  batfest."  They 
desire  that  skill  shall  match  skill  in  "  an 
even  break."  What  the  performance 
lacks  of  melodrama  it  makes  up  in  show 
of  technique,  so  that,  as  Mr.  Togo 
phrases  it,"  all  America  persons  is  settled 
in  state  of  very  hoarse  condition."  Nor 
can  even  he  suppress  a  spasm  of  admira- 
tion for  that  central  luminary,  the  twirl- 
er.  "  Hon.  Pitch  prepare  to  enjoy  some 
deathly  agony.  He  hold  that  ball  outside 
of  twisted  arm,  turn  one  half  beside  him- 
self, throw  elbows  away,  give  whirling 
salute  of  head,  caress  ankle  with  calf  of 
leg,  then  up-air  —  quickly  shoot!!  " 

Mr.  O'Hooligan,  steeped  in  the  lore  of 
the  "  spitball,"  the  drop  curve,  the  high 
in-ball,  the  out-curve,  and  the  "  fade- 
away," and  aware  that  the  finger-tips, 
as  the  "  pill  "  leaves  the  hand,  endow  it 
with  its  rotary  genius,  pays  this  wizard 
the  homage  of  a  somewhat  more  enlight- 
ened reverence.  He  will  speak  of  the 
"  cushion  of  air "  that  produces  the 
curve,  yet  gilds  his  science  with  gleams 
of  the  supernatural.  Those  enchanted 
missiles  —  lo !  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do 
they  come!  And  the  twirler  —  what 
charmer  of  political  conventions,  ser- 
pents, or  railroad  stocks  commands  a 
higher  magic  ?  Behold,  for  instance,  the 
necromantic  spitball,  how  it  drops  from 
the  batter's  hips  to  his  knees  in  two  feet 
of  forward  motion,  or  "floats  up  like  a 
chunk  of  lead  till  it  gets  close  to  the 
swatting  station  and  then  ducks  around 
the  corner  like  a  subpoena-dodger! " 
The  mere  expectation  of  a  spitball  un- 


The  National  Game 


225 


nerves  the  doughtiest  "  sons  of  swat!  " 
Physicist,  though  mystic,  Mr.  O'Hool- 
igan  dabbles  also  in  psychology.  To  him 
—  and  to  us,  for  that  matter— the  pitcher 
is  a  "  deep  thinker,"  fathoming  the  bats- 
man's heart,  discerning  his  aversions, 
and  uprooting  his  courage  by  proffering 
what  he  most  detests  at  the  least  grate- 
ful juncture.  To  "deep  thinking"  our 
twirler  adds  moral  hardihood.  It  takes 
character  to  face  a  whole  dynasty  of 
cudgel-kings,  one  after  another,  and  not 
"  go  up  in  the  air,"  especially  when  bayed 
at  the  while  by  a  maniacal  public. 

Likewise  it  takes  character  to  bat;  for 
the  batter  views  eight  allied  foes,  one  of 
whom  prepares  to  slay  him  with  a  look, 
if  not  with  the  "  pellet."  I  recall  a  portly 
batsman  whose  person  protruded  in  a 
sort  of  oriel;  though  slow  of  foot,  he 
possessed  a  talent  for  knocking  phenom- 
enally evasive  flies.  Knowing  this,  the 
pitcher  smote  him  with  the  ball  in  the 
region  of  the  watch-chain,  and,  when 
rather  severely  criticised  by  his  victim, 
'remarked,  "Perfectly  fair  ball!  Right 
over  the  plate!  "  Just  so;  but  after  that 
this  batsman  could  never  face  its  author 
with  any  pleasure.  Invariably  he  "fanned 
out."  And  even  the  slim  run  some  risk. 
Nevertheless,  such  is  their  devotion  to 
country  that,  when  necessity  requires, 
they  will  defy  the  rule  that  forbids  self- 
martyrdom,  and  deliberately  offer  their 
bodies  to  be  hit.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
it  hurts.  I  have  seen  a  batter  receive  a 
resounding  crack  on  the  funny  bone,  and 
make  for  first  base  with  a  radiant  counte- 
nance, limping  jocosely  all  the  way.  In- 
deed, one  is  tempted,  while  surveying  the 
moral  pinnacle  attained  by  cudgelers,  to 
forget  those  equally  lofty  artistic  sum- 
mits which  loom  less  splendid  because 
more  remote.  Not  only  must  the  ash 
meet  the  horsehide,  however  fantastic 
its  course;  the  clash  must  be  so  timid, 
ideally,  that  the  ball  will  come  down  in 
precisely  the  spot  intended  —  an  un- 
guarded region  of  the  "  front  yard,"  let 
us  say  —  or  perchance  some  defenseless 
section  of  "  left  garden."  Wielding  what 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


the  violinist  calls  a  perfect  instrument, 
the  man  with  the  round  club  must  juggle 
with  angles  of  incidence  and  reflection, 
complicated  by  the  manifold  eccentrici- 
ties of  an  inspired  gyroscope,  and  in- 
stantly determine  what  speed  to  give  his 
bat  as  it  describes  with  its  tip  the  arc  of  a 
circle,  since  the  hundredth  part  of  a  sec- 
ond, whether  too  soon  or  too  late,  will 
vitiate  the  entire  calculation.  Saw  you 
ever  a  task  that  called  louder  for  "  all  that 
a  man  has  of  fortitude  and  delicacy  ?  " 

Time  —  what  a  factor  in  battles !  One 
hates  to  descend  to  the  trivial,  but  it  was 
time  that  decided  Waterloo,  and  here 
every  infinitesimal  moment  is  treasured, 
as  befits  the  gravity  of  the  issue.  Fans 
understand  this,  and  bear  it  in  mind 
when  appraising  the  performance.  They 
know  why  the  management  has  selected 
a  "  south-paw"  to  man  first  base;  the 
left-handed  player  has  the  advantage  of 
being  already  in  a  position  to  throw  to 
second  when  the  ball  comes  to  him  from 
the  catcher.  They  know  why  base-run- 
ners should  slide  feet  first.  Says  Mr. 
Togo,  **  All  spectacles  in  grandstand  de- 
cry 'O  make  sliding,  Hon.  Sir!'" — and 
"  Hon.  Striker  is  sliding  to  base  by  the 
seat  of  his  stummick."  Bad  policy,  think 
the  fans.  Not  only  do  basemen  cherish  a 
distaste  for  spiked  shoes  and  a  fluttering 
of  the  heart  on  their  approach  sole  out, 
so  that  the  feet-first  onslaught  will  meet 
the  milder  discouragement;  the  main 
point  is  to  arrive  ready  to  pick  yourself 
up  in  an  instant  and  resume  your  career. 
Games  are  lost  and  won  in  fractions  of  a 
second. 

It  is  time,  again,  that  determines  the 
brilliancy  of  fielding.  When  the  ball 
whizzes  just  above  the  ground,  and  a 
man  runs  in  for  it  and  takes  it  at  his  shoe- 
lacings,  Micky's  whole  soul  rises  up  to 
bless  him.  When  the  ball  soars  across 
the  blue,  and  the  "  gardener  "  turns  his 
back  on  it,  darts  into  the  remote  distance, 
and  wiles  it  from  over  his  shoulder  into 
his  mitt,  Micky  relights  his  pipe.  Why 
this  frantic  approval  of  a  feat  by  no 
means  showy,  this  indifference  to  a  feat 


The  National  Game 


amazingly  spectacular?  Because  time, 
by  its  brevity,  glorified  the  one,  whereas 
time,  by  its  prolixity,  cheapened  the 
other.  Only  instantaneous  perception 
and  judgment  and  action  can  stop  the 
white-hot  liner.  The  very  sensationalism 
of  the  arching  path  that  a  long  fly  follows 
will  afford  time  to  decide  where  the  ball 
must  alight,  time  to  transfer  one's  activi- 
ties to  the  appointed  spot,  time  compos- 
edly to  welcome  in  that  fly  with  gently 
smiling  jaws.  As  well  solicit  applause  for 
keeping  a  tryst  with  an  express  train ! 

Thus  it  appears  that  Mr.  O'Hooligan 
appreciates,  equally  with  alacrity  of  body, 
alacrity  of  mind.  He  would  redouble  his 
enthusiasm  could  he  hear  astronomers 
discourse  of  the  "  personal  equation," 
how  it  qualifies  an  observer  to  note  with 
greater  or  lesser  precision  the  moment 
when  the  star  crosses  the  hair-line  and 
to  press  with  greater  or  lesser  prompti- 
tude the  instrument  that  records  its  tran- 
sit. Eminence  as  a  baseball-player  pre- 
supposes a  personal  equation  any  astron- 
omer might  envy,  and  this  endowment 
accounts  for  the  profusion  of  Kelleys  and 
Caseys,  of  O's  and  Mac's  on  the  nation's 
diamond.  The  nimble- witted,  the  quick- 
tempered, the  recklessly  daring  —  in  a 
word,  a  race  given  to  bulls,  half-bricks, 
and  brilliancy  on  the  firing-line  —  possess 
the  required  rapidity  of  perception  and 
intellection,  the  required  rapidity  of  nerv- 
ous reactions.  Women,  but  for  those 
limitations  to  which  humorists  attribute 
the  survival  of  the  hen,  should  play 
astounding  baseball ;  as  regards  the  per- 
sonal equation,  every  woman  is  an  Irish- 
man. 

Nowhere  a  keener  demand  for  such 
celerity  than  behind  the  bat,  where  the 
catcher  acts  as  a  collector  and  conserva- 
tor of  twisted  thunderbolts  and  as  steers- 
man of  the  sloop  of  destiny.  Alone  able 
to  scan  the  whole  battle,  he  must  shape 
its  strategy  in  moments  of  peril.  Yet 
while  there  exists  a  code  of  signals  be- 
tween pitcher  and  catcher,  and  while  ex- 
traneous counsel  from  coachers  mitigates 
the  consternation  with  which  men  on 


bases  are  so  richly  furnished,  still  further 
hints  and  persuasions  proceed  from  the 
manager.  He  signs  in  esoteric  symbols, 
unknown  to  the  foe,  though  legible  to  his 
vassals,  so  that  he  who  reads  may  run. 
Sometimes,  to  ward  off  suspicion,  he  de- 
putes the  "  signing  "  to  a  henchman,  but 
there's  risk  in  that.  Once  Sweeney,  bid- 
den to  slide  when  Lauterbach  crossed  his 
feet,  beheld  the  sign  and  slid,  thereby 
losing  the  game;  Lauterbach,  crazed  with 
excitement,  had  crossed  his  feet  uncon- 
sciously. The  manager  could  neverthe- 
less rejoice  in  the  perfection  of  his  disci- 
pline, as  when,  on  another  occasion,  Bad 
Bill  rejoined  his  comrades  at  breakfast, 
saw  the  horrified  manager  stroke  his 
beard,  and  instantly  dived  under  the 
table.  As  a  posse  of  waiters  were  ejecting 
him,  Bill  expostulated,  "  What  yous  put- 
tin'  me  out  fer  ?  Did  n't  me  manager 
sign  to  slide  ?  "  His  not  to  reason  why, 
his  but  to  do  and  die. 

Now  Micky,  despite  his  knowledge  of 
wireless  communications,  boards  of  strat- 
egy, and  the  team-play  that  alone  cap- 
tures pennants,  proffers  advice  of  his 
own,  instructing  the  players,  even  the 
manager;  and  hereby  hangs  psychology. 
A  lordly  egotist  is  Micky.  He  looms  vast 
within  his  personal  universe  because  that 
universe  is  itself  so  small.  Besides,  he  is 
a  part  of  all  that  he  sees.  He  assists  the 
progress  of  a  blood-and-thunder  play 
with  cries  of  "  Sick  'em!  "  and  "  Cheese 
it!  "  On  the  bleachers  he  not  only  com- 
ments aloud  upon  every  incident,  gasp- 
ing, "  He's  out!  "  or  "  He's  safe; "  he 
relieves  a  burning  heart  by  howling, 
"  Come  on,  Pat! "  or  "  Slide,  Kelley — 
slide!  "  It  is  not  in  the  initial  stages  of 
civilization  that  humanity  acquires  the 
art  of  thinking  with  its  mouth  shut. 
Meanwhile,  his  shrewdness  enables  him 
to  admire  a  player  for  disregarding  his 
suggestions.  When  the  man  on  third, 
whose  whole  soul  is  chanting  "  Home, 
Dearie,  Home,"  displays  a  masterly  in- 
activity, all  fans  approve  with  their  in- 
tellects, while  demurring  with  their  emo- 
tions. 


The  National  Game 


227 


Conscious  of  a  power  within  himself 
making  for  victory,  since  his  yearnings 
readily  translate  themselves  into  voli- 
tions, Micky  regards  his  whoops  and 
yells  as  by  no  means  impotent.  Nor  are 
they  always.  At  a  crisis,  "  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  " 
may  unnerve  a  batsman  or  "  rattle  "  the 
most  stoical  of  pitchers.  The  "  rooting  " 
of  his  allies,  on  the  other  hand,  may  calm 
the  quiverings  of  a  distraught  spirit  and 
convince  a  player  that  the  stars  in  their 
courses  are  fighting  for  him.  All  the 
which  goes  to  show  that  Mr.  O'Hooligan 
has  still  very  much  to  learn  concerning 
the  ethics  of  sport;  yes,  and  concerning 
its  aesthetics.  Both  on  moral  and  artistic 
grounds,  good  sportsmen  denounced  the 
college  glee  club  that  serenaded  a  visiting 
ball-nine  throughout  the  night  preceding 
a  game.  On  similar  grounds,  they  con- 
demned the  half-back  who  entered  into 
his  closet  and  prayed  for  victory.  It  is 
the  theory  of  clean  sport  that  its  partici- 
pants should  conduct  their  manoeuvres 
without  interference,  earthly  or  celestial, 
malignant  or  beneficent.  Consequently 
the  higher  priesthood  of  baseball  have  set 
their  faces  sternly  against "  rooting  "  and 
hope  to  do  it  away. 

Already  they  have  at  least  partially 
extinguished  a  more  crying  abuse.  Writes 
Hashimura  Togo,  "  Occasionally  that 
large  German  intelligence  what  set  next 
to  me  would  say  with  voice,  *  Kill  that 
umperor ! '  I  wait  for  very  large  hour  to 
see  death  of  this  Hon.  Umperor,  but  it 
did  not  occur  as  I  seen.  Too  bad !  I  had 
very  good  seat  to  see  from !  "  To  umpire 
is  human,  to  forgive  divine ;  and  fans  are 
progressing,  however  slowly,  toward  that 
commendable  altitude  of  morality.  In- 
stead of  tying  tin-cans  to  his  coat-tails, 
chasing  him  up  trees,  bedecking  him  with 
tar  and  feathers,  or  forcing  him  to  seek 
asylum  in  the  town  jail,  they  now  harry 
this  martyr  with  rhetoric  —  accusations 
of  perjury,  piracy,  and  grand  larceny,  for 
the  most  part,  with  now  and  then  a  pro- 
mise of  annihilation.  Gradually  they 
have  come  to  understand  his  modest  plea 
for  tolerance. 


"  The  umpire  may  make  mistakes  as 
well  as  any  other  mortal,"  says  the  re- 
nowned Sheridan,  "  and  if  he  does,  it 
does  n't  follow  that  he  should  hang  for 
it.  Here  are  people  seated  in  a  semi- 
circle around  the  grounds.  On  almost 
every  play  some  of  them  will  be  bet- 
ter witnesses  than  he,  yet  they  imagine 
he  ought  to  see  it  exactly  as  they  do; 
and  if  he  does  n't,  what  a  chorus  of 
yells  and  howls!  "  Good  lack, you  would 
say  so!  "Robber!"  bawl  the  fans. 
"  Liar !  Thief !  Kill  him !  "  —  till  the  up- 
roar "  has  feeding  time  at  the  zoo  faded 
to  a  whisper."  And  remember,  the  um- 
pire is  the  most  sensitive  of  all  the  beasts 
of  the  field.  Hence  the  humiliation  with 
which  patriots  reflect  that  this  compara- 
tive immunity  results  less  from  a  soften- 
ing of  the  heart  on  the  part  of  fans  than 
from  a  drastic  severity  on  the  manage- 
ment's part  toward  the  players.  For  the 
bleachers  take  their  cues  from  the  dia- 
mond, and  heavy  fines  have  taught  play- 
ers to  beware  how  they  unchain  the 
passions  of  the  mob.  Left  to  themselves, 
our  fans  bestow  upon  their  salaried  arbi- 
ter only  such  abuse  as  authors,  if  they 
had  the  pluck,  would  extend  to  his  pro- 
totype, the  editor. 

Happily,  you  may  attribute  this  vocal 
umpire-baiting  in  some  measure  to  mere 
love  of  din.  To  many,  his  crime  is  the 
occasion,  rather  than  the  cause,  of  pande- 
monium. Not  so  those  thrilling  incidents 
that  elicit  the  wild  and  terrible  "  E-e-e-e- 
yah,"  the  long  drawn  "  h'ra-a-a-ay,"  the 
ear-splitting  "  Hoo-oo-oo-wow !  "  "More 
yells  of  shouts  in  head,"  cries  Hashimura. 
"  I  am  an  enthusiasm.  Such  sound  of 
hates!  Port  Arthur  was  took  with  less 
noise!  "  Considering  the  yelps,  roars,  and 
growls  in  which  our  four-footed  ancestors 
expressed  themselves,  such  reversion  to 
type  need  hardly  perplex  us.  The  mar- 
vel is  not  that  the  bleachers  lie  so  near  the 
jungle,  but  that  they  are  separated  from 
it  by  so  vast  an  interval.  The  whooping 
and  bawling  reflect  intelligence,  intelli- 
gence finer  and  higher  than  we  are  wont 
to  believe  the  proletarians  possessed  of. 


228 


The  National  Game 


How  comes  it  that  they  command  suf- 
ficient range  of  consciousness  to  grasp 
simultaneously  all  the  phases  of  a  daz- 
zling play  or  the  nimbleness  to  foresee  all 
its  consequences  ?  May  we  not  conject- 
ure that  Micky  sees  one  facet  of  great- 
ness, 'Rastus  another,  the  office-boy  a 
third ;  that  each  acclaims  what  he  himself 
comprehends;  and  that,  by  a  felicitous 
contagion,  the  excitement  of  each  re- 
doubles the  excitement  of  the  rest?  A 
false  hypothesis.  For  the  game  is  not 
particularly  complicated,  as  games  go; 
it  is  quick  —  so  quick  that  successive 
impressions  make  a  palimpsest  of  the 
untutored  mind  (the  mind  of  the  phi- 
losopher, let  us  say,  to  whom  a  ball-game 
is  a  rare  indulgence),  whereas  no  palimp- 
sest is  inscribed  upon  Mr.  O'Hooligan. 
Having  played  baseball,  watched  base- 
ball, talked  baseball,  read  baseball, 
dreamed  baseball,  and  devoted  little  earn- 
est cogitation  to  anything  but  baseball 
ever  since  he  was  able  to  lift  a  bat,  he 
takes  in  each  new  move  as  swiftly  as  it 
occurs,  and  knows  by  lifelong  experience 
what  it  portends.  I  once  passed  an  even- 
ing at  a  resort  peopled  exclusively  by 
"  greatest  living  authorities."  Were  they 
brilliant,  these  masters  of  infinitesimal 
specialties  ?  They  were  dull.  The  same 
process  that  makes  Micky  O'Hooligan 
an  adept  in  baseball  had  made  them 
retentive  reservoirs  of  erudition.  Micky, 
had  he  devoted  equal  assiduity  to  myco- 
logy, the  evolution  of  the  aorist,  or  the 
histology  of  the  potato-bug,  might  have 
won  honorary  degrees,  I  doubt  not,  and 
a  paragraph  in  **  Who's  Who." 

Spare  the  sigh !  This  scholar  craves  no 
laurels.  Born  a  democrat,  he  adores  the 
simplicity  of  "  rooters'  row."  Not  even 
in  the  smoking-car,  where  hod-carriers 
hold  converse  with  bankers,  does  demo- 
cracy blossom  more  superbly.  Here  to 
every  fellow  it  is  permitted  to  exhibit 
frightful  suspenders,  smoke  infamous 
cigars,  wield  a  palm-leaf  fan,  swear  hor- 
ribly, advance  the  most  unpleasant  opin- 
ions, and  punch  the  heads  of  malefactors 
—  that  is,  those  who  intercept  their 


neighbors'  peanuts,  as  the  boy  tosses  up 
the  bag  from  down  below,  and  those 
who  wantonly  stand  while  the  congrega- 
tion is  seated.  Fortunately,  the  congrega- 
tion boasts  a  sheeplike  suggestibility ;  in 
general,  when  one  stands,  the  rest  stand 
also;  otherwise  nothing  short  of  legisla- 
tion analogous  to  that  against  the  theatre 
hat  could  defend  the  bleacherites  against 
mutual  annihilation. 

Thus  we  follow  the  game  in  quite 
tolerable  misery.  Hot?  It  was  never  so 
hot.  Pitilessly  the  sun  beats  down  from 
a  sky  broken  only  by  the  fleecy  white 
clouds  that  the  players  call  "angels,"  be- 
cause they  afford  so  benevolent  a  back- 
ground for  the  batted  ball.  Though  sun- 
stroke seems  inevitable,  inning  succeeds 
inning,  with  nine  men  walking  away 
slowly,  nine  others  coming  up  on  the  run, 
till  the  ultimate  inning  is  now  nearly 
completed.  Jubilant  moments  there  have 
been  —  jubilant  moments  and  moments 
glum;  awful  suspense,  too,  and  at  this 
the  eleventh  hour  the  score  stands  three 
to  two  against  us.  Amid  terrific  cheers, 
great  Murphy  strikes  an  attitude  as  of 
the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  fire  in  his  eye, 
desperate  determination  in  his  heart.  His 
cudgel  menaces  the  pitcher.  Two  men 
on  bases  dance  nervously  sidewise, 
ablaze  with  excitement.  There  are  cries 
from  the  coachers,  mingling  oddly  with 
"Ice-cold  moxie!"  and  "Fresh  popcorn, 
five  a  bag!"  The  pitcher  holds  the  ball 
meditatively  beneath  his  chin  and  glares 
defiance.  He  coils  himself  up  "like  a 
dissolute  bed-spring,"  lets  loose,  and 
then  —  oh,  mad  instant !  The  ring  of  a 
bat,  flying  forms  that  fling  themselves 
feet-first  along  the  ground  in  clouds  of 
dust,  other  forms  with  heads  thrown  back 
and  faces  upturned,  one  horror-stricken 
figure  moving  across  the  far,  far  back- 
ground, his  posture  that  of  anguish  hop- 
ing against  hope  —  and  victory  is  ours ! 
We  howl. 

Then  a  metamorphosis.  Patriots  be- 
come mere  sordid  seekers  after  slabs  of 
striped  ice-cream,  to  be  purchased  out 
of  carts  beyond  the  gates.  At  first,  one 


The  National  Game 


229 


would  rebuke  those  carts;  they  seem  a 
profanation.  Then  comes  a  saner  under- 
standing, which  crowns  them  with  all  the 
honor  due  to  the  Red  Cross.  And  their 
patrons  —  well,  is  not  the  triumph  won, 
our  city's  star  again  in  a  bright  ascend- 
ant, the  moral  order  of  the  universe 
again  vindicated?  To  die  now,  with 
striped  ice-cream  within  reach  —  why 
indulge  in  such  ex  post  facto  fanaticism  ? 
Besides,  the  nation  itself  boasts  as  its 
chief  aim  the  well-being  of  its  citizens. 
Without  citizens,  what  would  become  of 
the  nation,  and  of  its  noblest  product, 
the  national  game? 

It  now  remains  to  see  what  the  press 
will  say.  What,  forsooth,  can  it  say? 
That  our  team  has  "  lashed  another 
victim  to  its  victorious  chariot"?  That 
our  boys  "  look  good  for  the  rag "  ? 
Precisely.  But  the  journalistic  passion 
for  truth  will  not  long  content  itself  with 
such  inadequate  phrasing.  Presently  we 
shall  read  how  men  died  on  bases;  how 
batsmen  took  bites  out  of  the  pea;  how 
Stivetts  blew  up  in  a  jiffy,  because 
Schreck  had  his  kidding  clothes  on ;  how 
Sharky  poked  a  bingle;  how  Murphy 
and  McCabe  were  wedded  to  bags ;  how 
Schults  was  buffaloed  by  Killian  and 
popped  to  Coughlin;  and  how  Pfeister 
tried  his  hoodoo  snake  on  Crawford  and 
had  the  hard  hitter  tied  in  a  knot.  This 
is  something  like,  and  we  live  the  battle 
over  again,  though  the  unrighteous  affect 
perplexity.  Nonsense!  How,  save  by  a 
.gorgeous  symbolism,  shall  language  body 
forth  these  jumping  wonders  ?  How,  save 
by  employing  a  special  argot,  shall  even 
symbolism  do  them  justice?  As  men 
invent  vocables  wherewith  to  adorn  a 
ballad  or  to  give  splendor  to  a  legend,  or 
to  establish  communication  with  a  baby, 
so  men  shape  a  new  and  marvelous 
verbiage  for  baseball.  Thus  only  can  the 
heart's  deepest  emotion  find  a  voice. 
What  if  we  call  the  adored  ball  a  "pill," 
a  "pellet,"  and  a  "globule;"  what  if  we 
speak  of  the  home  plate  as  the  "pan"  ? 
Browning  addressed  Mrs.  Browning  as 
"dear  Ba."  Besides,  remember  that  base- 


ball reports  must  be  penned  while  the 
game  rages  and  that  they  cannot  but  re- 
flect the  noble  frenzies  of  their  authors. 
Yet  think  not  to-day's  game  dies 
with  to-day's  "extras."  In  two  baseball 
weeklies  it  will  reecho;  perhaps  also  in 
the  Baseball  Magazine  ;  certainly  in  that 
sacred  history  or  fan's  bible,  Spalding's 
Guide  ;  and  fans  there  are  who  will  talk 
of  it  years  hence,  to  the  joy  of  men  folks, 
the  despair  of  women  folks.  For  heavy 
is  the  burden  laid  upon  the  gentler  sex 
by  our  national  game.  To  the  maid,  it 
means  being  dragged  by  some  amiable 
though  misguided  cavalier  through  what 
should  have  been  the  "  time  of  your  life, 
Nellie,"  and  was  boresome  beyond  words ; 
to  the  wife,  it  means  a  husband  tied  to 
the  Sporting  Page  —  silent  or  cryptic- 
ally ebullient;  and,  as  old  age  arrives, 
and  the  third  generation  of  fans  vibrates 
between  the  sand-lots  and  the  bleachers, 
it  means  mortal  peril :  — 

"  Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 
But  he  unto  himself  has  said, 

'  My  grandmother  shall  die  to-day 
And  I  '11  go  see  the  Giants  play  ?  '  " 

Mr.  John  T.  McCutcheon  fixes  the 
average  daily  baseball  mortality  among 
grandmothers  at  seven  thousand. 

To  the  bleacherite,  however,  it  means 
fullness  of  life  —  not  sport  merely,  but 
learning,  hero-worship,  moral  uplift,  and 
a  wellspring  of  national  consciousness. 
He  amasses  an  erudition  worthy  the  Five 
Academies.  What  biologist  speaks  more 
confidently  of  Tigers,  Cubs,  Bisons, 
Doves,  and  Orioles?  What  ethnologist 
more  knowingly  of  Colonels,  Pirates, 
Red  Sox,  Quakers,  and  Cardinals  ?  Was 
ever  manipulator  of  logarithms  and  the 
calculus  more  ready  than  the  fans  with 
averages  and  percentages  ?  And  there  are 
pretentious  enough  climatologists  who 
can't  explain  why  the  pennant  shuns 
seaboard  cities;  there  are  specialists  in 
folk-lore  who  remain  uninformed  touch- 
ing the  baleful  phenomena  that  must  en- 
sue if  a  cat  walks  across  the  diamond; 
there  are  historians  —  think  of  it !  — 
who  have  never  traced  the  evolution 


230 


The  National  Game 


of  the  ball  from  the  "Bounding  Rock" 
(well  named)  to  its  latest  inspired  suc- 
cessor; and  who  to  save  their  necks  can't 
tell  who  was  purchased  when,  or  at  what 
price,  or  in  which  of  the  major,  bush  or 
outlaw  leagues;  or  that  it  was  Arthur 
Cummings,  and  not  the  Discobolus,  who 
accidentally  invented  the  curve. 

Worse,  there  are  historians  who,  though 
learned  in  the  chronology  of  antiquity, 
attach  no  importance  to  the  most  signi- 
ficant dates  our  world  has  experienced  — 
1845,  when  the  first  baseball  club  was 
founded;  1859,  when  the  Excelsiors  and 
the  Atlantics  undertook  a  missionary 
tour  of  England,  vainly  hoping  to  con- 
vert the  benighted  and  hard-hearted 
islanders;  and  1876,  when  patriots  or- 
ganized the  National  League.  But  for 
one's  reluctance  further  to  humiliate  our 
chroniclers,  one  might  add  still  other 
dates,  all  of  which  have  been  mastered 
by  the  fan.  Happily,  they  are  modern, 
very  modern,  these  dates,  and  therefore 
comparatively  few.  They  leave  the  base- 
ball sage  somewhat  in  the  position  of 
those  medieval  schoolmen  to  whom, 
since  little  had  occurred  or  been  found 
out  before  their  day,  encyclopaedic  sap- 
iency  was  not  impossible.  Nor  is  a 
Micky  O'Hooligan  less  proud  in  his  wis- 
dom than  a  Duns  Scotus.  To  know  all 
about  something,  to  know  that  he  knows 
it,  and  to  know  that  all  other  informa- 
tion is  sheer  froth  and  vanity  —  what  a 
solace  to  the  ignoramus! 

And  in  Micky's  idolatrous  reverence 
for  the  players  there  is  solace  for  his  well- 
wishers.  Note  the  Greek  symmetry  of 
those  athletes'  development,  as  com- 
pared with  the  "strong  man's"  muscle- 
bound  exaggerations.  Observe  the  clear- 
ness of  their  minds,  their  quickness, 
their  level-headedness  under  affliction. 
Consider  their  moral  qualities  —  their 
grit,  their  self-control,  their  abstemious- 
ness (at  least  during  the  season),  their 
readiness  to  sacrifice  individual  glory  for 
the  glory  of  the  team,  and  especially  the 
asceticism  with  which,  to  conserve  their 
eyesight,  they  forswear  the  luxury  of 


night-time  study!  Then  ask  yourself  if, 
on  the  whole,  Micky  —  being  Micky  — 
could  bestow  his  admiration  on  a  type 
likelier  to  influence  him  favorably. 

For  encomiums  upon  the  influences  of 
the  game  itself,  consult  its  now  quite 
voluminous  literature.  There  you  will 
find  it  belauded  for  that  virtue  which  is 
next  to  godliness.  Gambling  pollutes  the 
turf  and  the  prize-ring;  save  in  sporadic 
and  insignificant  cases  of  individual  bet- 
ting, it  never  pollutes  the  diamond.  It 
can't.  Organized  gambling,  as  at  the 
race-track  and  around  the  roped  arena, 
presupposes  certainties,  not  chances;  a 
jockey  or  a  pugilist  is  "fixed."  But  how 
are  you  going  to  fix  eighteen  men  at  once, 
to  say  nothing  of  managers  and  umpires  ? 
Indeed,  it  is  the  very  certainty  that  no 
such  roguery  can  be  practiced  that  makes 
a  ball  game  so  popular.  Mr.  O'Hooligan 
is  convinced  that  every  player  is  doing 
his  best,  for  ever  so  little  listlessness  may 
exchange  the  St.  Cloud  of  the  diamond 
for  the  St.  Helena  of  a  cigar  store,  and 
your  baseball  Napoleon  "would  hate 
awfully  to  have  to  go  to  work."  I  quote 
a  famous  player.  Let  me  also  quote,  in 
order  to  exhibit  the  ethical  perfections 
that  prevail  throughout  this  sport,  the 
remarks  of  one  of  its  chief  sages  concern- 
ing the  purity  of  its  judiciary.  "Woe  be- 
tide the  player  who  falls  from  grace!" 
writes  that  charming  philosopher.  "Base- 
ball law  has  Federal  law  chased  clear 
under  the  table  when  it  comes  to  dealing 
out  justice,  and  no  skinny  shrimp  of  a 
lawyer  can  protect  a  crook  by  objecting 
to  evidence  because  it  is  against  the  letter 
of  the  law  and  contrary  to  precedent. 
When  they  find  a  crook  in  baseball,  they 
chase  him  out  so  blamed  fast  his  feet  get 
hot  hitting  the  grit!" 

So,  when  "all-America  persons  is  set- 
tled in  state  of  very  hoarse  condition," 
blending  their  voices  in  "a  very  congre- 
gational lynch-law  sound,"  Mr.  Hashi- 
mura  Togo  may  be  assured  that  those 
"yells  of  shouts"  proceed  from  emotions 
sanctified  by  moral  enthusiasm,  and  that 
they  promote  a  sense  of  national  solidar- 


Midsummer  Abeyance 


231 


ity.  The  bawling  and  braying  —  may- 
hap, had  we  a  notation  sufficiently  spirit- 
ual to  record  their  meaning,  they  might 
gain  acceptance  as  an  American  "Wacht 
am  Rhein,"  an  American  "Marseillaise," 
and  not  less  potent  than  the  war-songs 
of  older  races.  Micky  O'Hooligan  sees 
more  of  America  at  a  ball  game,  and 
hears  more  of  it,  than  anywhere  else.  He 
knows  by  its  utterances  that  its  heart  is 
right.  He  is  consciously,  hilariously,  a 
part  of  it.  And  when,  with  spirit  at  once 
softened  and  elated,  he  turns  toward 
home  and  is  halted  in  the  street  by  a 


representative  of  the  abhorred  "pluto- 
crat" class,  he  overlooks  artificial  dis- 
tinctions, as  created  by  a  Panama  hat, 
gloves,  and  a  swagger-stick,  and  un- 
grudgingly divulges  the  score.  "A  mon's 
a  mon,  for  a'  that! "  Next  day,  as  he  dis- 
cusses the  game  with  Father  Hogan  and 
Morris  Rosenberg,  with  Patrolman  Mc- 
Nally  and  a  worker  from  the  settlement, 
with  a  scab  and  a  walking  delegate, 
he  finds  always  a  glow  of  fellow-feeling, 
so  strong  and  so  genuine  as  in  some  sort 
to  bespeak  a  realization  of  that  noble 
American  ideal,  the  brotherhood  of  man. 


MIDSUMMER  ABEYANCE 

BY   JAMES    E.    RICHARDSON 

STRAMONIUM,  dank-breathed  and  sickly-sweet, 
Clings  in  the  fields,  with  heavier  scents  and  vague 
That  stifle  when  the  sun  peeps  forth  to  plague 
The  seeding  grasses,  ripe  and  parched  like  wheat. 
The  air,  cast  up  on  writhing  waves  of  heat, 
All-impotent  to  slake  each  minute's  dearth, 
Exhausted  seems;  the  whole  sun-frenzied  earth 
With  struggling  life  o'erburdened  and  replete. 

This  hour  is  not  Man's  hour;  in  verity 
Each  weedling  of  the  earth's  abundancy 
Claims  ever  as  of  yore  its  wrested  right. 
For  all  thy  mind's  indomitable  might 
It  now  must  yield,  —  to  claim  what  victory 
In  the  clear  stillness  of  some  winter's  night? 


THE  YEAR  IN  FRANCE: 

FRENCH  FINANCE 
BY  STODDARD  DEWEY 


"  IN  the  world  at  large,  France  has 
come  to  a  consciousness  of  her  real 
power."  Written  for  "The  Year  in 
France  "  of  1905  and  1906,1  these  words 
have  been  more  than  confirmed  ever 
since.  At  that  time  they  referred  to  in- 
ternational episodes  in  which  France's 
possession  of  a  great  portion  of  the 
world's  gold  had  told  decisively  for  the 
world's  peace.  From  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1907  to  the  money  panic  of  the 
year's  end  in  America,  and  afterwards 
all  through  the  financial  and  industrial 
crisis  provoked  by  the  panic  in  European 
countries,  this  possession  of  ready  gold 
by  France  has  again  been  forced  on  the 
world's  attention. 

Such  financial  predominance  is  of  far 
more  general  interest  than  the  year's 
commonplace  political  or  social  events,  or 
even  than  the  imbroglio  in  Morocco  from 
which  France  is  not  yet  extricated,  and 
which  cannot  be  written  of  understand- 


It  has  not  only  kept  unbroken  the 
prosperity  of  the  French  people,  —  it 
has  helped  England,  which  stood  in  the 
direct  line  of  commotion,  to  withstand 
the  rebound  of  panic  and  to  bring  first 
aid  to  the  wounded  in  America;  it  con- 
tinues enabling  Germany  to  endure  an 
interior  crisis  as  dangerous  to  the  empire 
and  the  world  as  war  itself;  and  it  still 
presents  a  guarantee  of  peace  against 
German  partisan  ambitions.  All  this  has 
been  only  to  meet  the  year's  extraordi- 
nary demand.  The  ordinary  permeation 
of  the  universe  by  French  gold  has  mean- 
time gone  on  as  before. 

A  dozen  years  since,  while  the  particu- 

1  By  the  present  writer  ;  published  in  The 
Atlantic  for  August,  1906. 
232 


lar  policy  of  Crispi  was  exasperating  the 
general  hostility  of  the  Triple  Alliance 
against  France,  a  journalist  of  Naples 
wrote  belligerently,  "  We  need  several 
milliards  to  pay  our  debts.  There  are 
two  or  three  in  gold  or  silver  in  the  Bank 
of  France.  Let's  go  and  take  them." 
At  the  end  of  1907  Signer  Luzzatti,  who 
merits  the  praise  of  having  put  Italian 
finances  on  their  feet,  can  think  of  no- 
thing better  to  secure  easy  money  for  the 
world  than  international  measures  for 
what  has  been  styled  "  a  more  even  dis- 
tribution among  other  nations  of  the 
gold  now  in  the  possession  of  France." 

It  is  neither  to  the  credit  nor  to  the 
interest  of  a  great  nation  like  the  United 
States  to  wait  on  the  flux  and  reflux  in  the 
world  of  ready  money,  man's  invention, 
as  if  these  were  unintelligible  acts  of 
God  like  earthquakes  or  hurricanes,  and 
so  beyond  human  laws  of  insurance 
against  accidents.  That  France  is  the 
creditor  of  all  nations  and  debtor  of  none, 
that  she  is  far  along  the  way  of  becoming 
the  world's  banker,  is  in  the  line  of  under- 
standable cause  and  effect.  It  is  no  haz- 
ard of  new  fortune.  Neither  luck  at  home 
nor  foolishness  abroad  has  led  up  to  it. 
It  is  the  natural  resultant  of  a  composi- 
tion of  moral  forces  which  may  exist  in 
any  nation ;  and  they  meet  the  same  op- 
posing forces  in  France  as  elsewhere. 

The  financial  events  of  the  year  centre 
in  certain  deliberate  operations  of  the 
Bank  of  France,  an  institution  as  inde- 
pendent within  the  limits  of  its  statutory 
privilege  as  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States  within  the  limits  of  the 
Constitution.  The  material  possibility  of 
such  operations,  like  the  riches  of  France, 
is  due  to  certain  traditional  and  spon- 


French  Finance 


233 


taneous  habits  of  the  French  people. 
These  again  are  veering  more  and  more 
toward  international  finance  under  pres- 
sure of  the  great  "credit"  banks,  whose 
phenomenal  growth  is  one  of  the  most 
disconcerting  factors  of  French  progress 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

The  events  of  the  year  have  brought 
into  play  all  these  financial  peculiarities 
of  France.  In  the  darkness  of  the  Amer- 
ican situation  they  start  up  many  burning 
questions.  Luckily  they  fall  under  a  few 
ready  formulas. 

First,  there  is  a  practical  separation 
of  Bank  and  State :  the  Bank  of  France 
controls  the  movement  of  gold  and  the 
circulation  of  currency  as  well.  Second, 
the  French  people  have  gold  in  their 
possession  as  a  reward  of  obedience  to 
their  century-old  precept,  "  When  you 
have  four  cents  spend  only  two  "  —  the 
other  two  going  to  make  up  the  famous 
French  savings,  Vepargne  nationale.  The 
same  caution  is  ingrained  in  French  com- 
merce and  industry,  inconveniently  for 
those  who  prefer  gambling  risks  on  the 
future,  but  with  final  profit  made  clear 
in  times  of  panic.  Third,  the  great  popu- 
lar banks,  which  have  the  investing  of 
their  customers'  savings  (not  of  their 
deposits,  which  are  dealt  with  otherwise 
in  France)  and  so  handle  a  major  portion 
of  the  country's  liquid  capital,  are  inde- 
pendent of  the  Bourse  —  rather,  stock- 
exchange  operations  depend  largely  on 
the  banks. 

Thanks  to  such  elementary  principles, 
French  finance  has  so  far  successfully 
withstood  all  meddling  of  politicians  in 
power,  even  when  they  give  legislation 
a  violent  trend  toward  Socialist  upturn- 
ings  of  property.  Individual  speculation, 
as  mad  and  swindling  as  anywhere  else, 
has  its  ravages  circumscribed  like  itself. 
Disasters  of  thousands  of  millions  of 
francs  come  and  go  with  no  diminution 
of  the  vital  strength  of  France.  The  ran- 
som of  the  Franco-Prussian  war  and  the 
penalty  of  Panama  were  not  too  heavy  a 
strain;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  think 
now  that  any  possible  bankruptcy  of 


Russia,  in  spite  of  the  dozen  milliards 
she  owes  to  the  French  people,  would 
shatter  the  financial  energy  of  France. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1907, 
banks  and  stock  exchanges  the  world 
over  were  involved  in  a  monetary  strin- 
gency due  to  manifold  causes  near  and 
remote,  but  directly  occasioned  by  the 
habitual  American  demand  for  more 
ready  capital  than  exists  in  the  whole 
world.  M.  Paul  Leroy-Beaulieu,  a  com- 
petent authority,  estimates  the  average 
amount  of  capital  available  in  the  world 
each  year  at  12,000,000,000  francs.  In 
a  single  year  the  United  States  clamored 
for  16,000,000,000  francs.  "  When  Mr. 
Pierpont  Morgan  talks  figures  I  grow 
dizzy,"  was  a  remark  of  the  late  Baron 
Alphonse  de  Rothschild. 

The  Bank  of  France,  warned  by  the 
experience  of  preceding  years,  had  al- 
ready taken  measures  to  prevent  the 
draining  away  of  its  gold.  Notably,  it 
ruled  out  from  its  discounts  all  merely 
financial  paper,  —  the  notorious  Amer- 
ican "  finance  bills,"  —  no  matter  what 
their  personal  or  company  endorsement. 
For  some  time,  in  strict  conformity  with 
its  statutes,  it  had  been  limiting  its  dis- 
counts to  short-term  and  quickly  realiz- 
able commercial  values,  such  as  drafts  in 
payment  of  purchases  actually  effected, 
or  bona-fide  commodity  bills.  The  terms 
of  the  national  privilege  of  the  Bank  of 
England  do  not  enable  it  to  protect  it- 
self so  well ;  and  it  bore  the  brunt  of  the 
American  demand  with  difficulty. 

The  Bank  of  France  had  every  reason 
for  coming  to  the  help  of  the  Bank  of 
England.  Gold,  like  any  other  exchange- 
able article,  finally  goes  to  the  highest 
bidder;  and  the  successive  rise  in  discount 
rates  paid  in  London  was  sure  to  draw 
gold  from  Paris.  If  the  Bank  of  France 
were  forced  to  raise  its  own  rates  in  self- 
defense,  money  would  grow  dear  at  home, 
and  French  commerce  and  industry 
would  suffer.  To  prevent  this  is  the  main 
reason  of  the  exclusive  privilege  conferred 
by  the  State  on  the  Bank  of  France. 

After    some    difficulties    of    technical 


234 


French  Finance 


negotiation — for  the  world's  great  banks, 
like  individual  capitalists,  have  their  self- 
love—it  was  agreed  that  the  Bank  of 
France  should  apply  an  unused  privilege 
of  its  statutes,  and  open,  for  the  Bank 
of  England  alone,  a  "  foreign  portfolio." 
This  meant  that  the  Bank  of  France 
would  release  gold  to  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land by  discounting  three-months'  ster- 
ling bills  drawn  on  London,  instead  of 
limiting  its  discounts  to  the  commercial 
paper  drawn  on  Paris  which  makes  up  its 
ordinary  portfolio.  The  Bank  of  Eng- 
land used  this  gold  to  meet  the  demands 
of  the  American  situation;  and  in  this 
way  some  $15,000,000  in  gold  soon  found 
its  way  from  Paris  through  London  to 
New  York.  The  stringency  relaxed,  but 
not  till  the  Bank  of  France,  in  pursuance 
of  a  deliberate  policy,  had  notified  the 
world  by  an  unexpected,  though  slight, 
increase  in  its  discount  rate,  that  it  too 
was  ready  to  act  in  self-defense.  By  the 
1st  of  July,  1907,  the  Bank  of  England 
had  completely  reimbursed  the  Bank  of 
France,  either  as  the  sterling  bills  fell 
due  or  after  renewal. 

The  American  demand  for  more  money 
than  the  world  contains  had  not  ceased. 
In  spite  of  all  the  measures  of  self-preser- 
vation which  the  banks  of  Europe  had 
everywhere  taken,  nothing  was  able  to 
withstand  the  universal  recoil  from  the 
explosion  of  American  financial  dynamite 
set  off  in  October.  The  Bank  of  France 
again  opened  a  foreign  portfolio  for  the 
Bank  of  England.  The  $16,000,000  in 
gold  which  thus  promptly  passed  from 
its  vaults  in  Paris  through  London  to 
New  York,  was  indeed  first  aid  to  the 
wounded  both  of  England  and  America. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  pour- 
ing of  foreign  gold  into  New  York  was 
little  more  than  "  throwing  snowballs 
into  a  blast  furnace."  The  crisis  affected 
credit;  but  credit  depends  on  something 
more  than  the  material  possession  of 
money  or  of  goods  exchangeable  for 
money.  Credit  presupposes  confidence; 
and  Americans  were  devoid  of  all  mental 
security  where  money  was  at  stake. 


The  Bank  of  England  with  difficulty 
protected  its  own  interests  by  raising 
steadily  its  discount  rates.  In  Germany 
the  rise  was  by  jumps  more  sudden  and 
higher  still.  Americans,  taken  up  with 
their  domestic  troubles,  do  not  realize 
that  the  German  danger  was  comparable 
to  their  own.  There,  too,  over-industrial- 
ization has  been  accomplished  by  infla- 
tion of  capital.  In  a  way,  the  German 
inflation  seems  justified  by  results;  it 
has  been  based,  for  the  most  part,  on 
valid  applications  of  the  laws  of  supply 
and  demand.  It  is  certainly  far  removed 
from  the  sheer  watering  of  stocks  known 
in  American  speculation.  This  did  not 
lessen  the  immediate  danger  of  the  crisis 
which,  through  the  open  market,  forced 
the  transfer  of  large  sums  of  gold  from 
Germany,  where  they  were  needed,  to 
America,  where  the  bidding  was  higher. 
It  is  claimed  that  $40,000,000  of  the  gold 
finally  sent  from  London  to  New  York 
was  thus  drawn  from  Germany.  Such 
a  situation  involved  French  capitalists 
and  banks  far  more  directly  than  did  the 
American  crisis.  The  Bank  of  France 
had  to  take  account  of  it  in  all  its  deci- 
sions, although  its  own  position  was  inde- 
pendent enough  to  allow  it  to  choose  its 
measures. 

The  Bank  of  England  declared  itself 
unwilling,  for  the  sake  of  America,  further 
to  increase  the  burden  of  its  liabilities  to 
the  Bank  of  France.  American  bankers 
and  the  American  government  still  held 
that  gold,  more  gold,  was  the  only,  the 
sufficient  remedy  for  present  need.  The 
United  States  government  made  known 
officially  that  it  would  see  with  pleasure 
the  Bank  of  France  release  its  gold  to 
American  banks  directly,  just  as  it  had 
been  releasing  gold  for  America,  with 
added  expense,  by  the  roundabout  way 
of  London.  The  answer  of  the  Bank  of 
France  has  been  misunderstood  and  mis- 
stated. 

First,  the  negotiations  in  which  the 
American  government  appeared  had  nat- 
urally to  pass  through  the  hands  of  the 
French  government.  They  were  taken  by 


French  Finance 


235 


Finance  Minister  Caillaux  as  an  occasion 
to  insist  that  certain  concessions  should 
be  made  in  American  customs  tariffs. 
A  year  earlier  the  same  finance  minister 
is  understood  to  have  opposed,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  national  policy,  the  opening  of  a 
foreign  portfolio  by  the  Bank  of  France 
for  the  Bank  of  England.  In  neither 
case  was  the  bank's  decision  dictated  by 
this  attitude  of  the  government  in  power. 
In  neither  case  did  the  executive  pre- 
tend to  dictate  the  decision  of  the  Bank 
of  France.  For  the  entire  duration  of  its 
privilege,  once  it  has  been  voted  by  Par- 
liament, the  Bank  of  France  is  autono- 
mous, limited  in  its  decisions  by  its  stat- 
utes alone. 

Second,  in  obedience  to  these  statutes 
of  its  privilege,  the  Bank  of  France  asked 
that  any  direct  loan  of  its  gold  to  Ameri- 
can private  banks  should  have  an  Ameri- 
can official  guarantee  corresponding  to 
that  of  the  Bank  of  England  for  the  direct 
loan  made  in  1890  during  the  Baring 
difficulties,  and,  twice  within  the  past 
few  months,  for  the  discounting  by  the 
Bank  of  France  of  sterling  bills  drawn 
on  London.  In  an  international  matter 
of  this  kind,  and  in  default  of  an  official 
central  bank  for  the  purpose,  only  the 
American  Treasury  could  act  for  the 
United  States  as  tie  Bank  of  England 
did  for  London. 

The  government  at  Washington  an- 
swered that  such  an  official  guarantee 
on  its  part  would  be  unconstitutional. 
The  Bank  of  France  could  only  reply 
that,  without  such  a  guarantee,  any  loan 
on  its  part  would  be  unstatutory  — 
illegal. 

Criticism  and  recrimination,  both  in 
America  and  in  France,  attended  the 
failure  of  these  negotiations.  A  heavy 
issue  of  short-term  treasury  notes  was 
made  by  the  American  government,  to 
procure  facilities  for  American  banks. 
In  Paris  it  was  not  understood  why  sim- 
ilar short-term  notes  could  not  have  been 
used  as  a  government  guarantee  for  the 
Bank  of  France,  taking  the  place  of  the 
sterling  bills  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


In  America,  a  special  envoy  of  La  Vie 
Finandere  of  Paris  reported  that  Mr. 
Pierpont  Morgan  considered  the  decision 
of  the  Bank  of  France  to  have  been  "  an 
unfriendly  act."  This  drew  from  the 
financial  world  a  rejoinder  in  words  of 
M.  Arthur  Raffalovich:  "The  great 
American  financier  may  be  very  much  at 
home  in  American  business  matters  .  .  . 
but  he  is  ignorant  of  the  organization  of 
central  issue  banks  and  of  their  very 
strict  duties.  There  was  no  '  unfriendly 
act '  on  the  part  of  the  Bank  of  France, 
which  was  quite  ready  to  discount  either 
American  treasury  notes  or  commercial 
paper." 

In  point  of  fact,  the  Bank  of  France 
shortly  after  discounted  over  five  million 
dollars  worth  of  American  commercial 
paper  —  all  that  was  presented.  In  the 
irritation  of  the  moment,  this  gold  and 
the  sixteen  million  dollars  first  aid  seem 
to  have  been  quite  forgotten.  M.  Raffal- 
ovich concludes:  — 

"With  such  ideas  (in  the  United 
States),  there  is  no  dodging  the  question 
whether  a  '  Central  Bank  '  —  even  sup- 
posing they  should  ever  succeed  in  found- 
ing one,  which  is  not  likely  —  would  offer 
guarantees  of  stability  and  observance  of 
statutes." 

During  all  this  period  of  extreme  finan- 
cial tension  in  the  rest  of  the  world,  the 
Bank  of  France  was  able  to  secure  easy 
and  safe  money  for  the  French  people  in 
their  domestic  commerce  and  industry. 
The  highest  discount  rate  which  it  was 
forced  to  adopt  was  three  and  four  per 
cent  lower  than  the  rates  imposed  in 
England  and  Germany. 

Most  instructive  of  all  was  the  hand- 
ling of  the  country's  currency  by  the 
Bank  of  France.  It  alone  issues  and  con- 
trols all  circulating  media,  by  virtue  of 
powers  directly  delegated  to  it  by  Parlia- 
ment when  voting  its  legal  privilege.  In 
the  exercise  of  such  power,  for  the  entire 
duration  of  the  privilege,  it  is  independ- 
ent of  passing  holders  of  the  executive 
and  legislative  power.  In  one  week  of 
the  monetary  stringency  the  Bank  of 


French  Finance 


France  was  able  to  throw  250,000,000 
francs  in  banknotes  into  the  general  cir- 
culation ;  and  it  still  had  the  right  to  issue 
500,000,000  francs  more  before  reaching 
the  limit  prescribed  to  it  in  its  privilege. 

Elasticity  of  currency  was  thus  secured 
without  publicity  or  debate.  It  drew  no 
attention  from  politicians,  who  were  left 
free  to  occupy  themselves  with  topics  less 
dangerous  and  more  within  their  com- 
petence. It  passed  unnoticed  by  the 
people  who  profited  by  it.  Supposing  the 
financial  condition  had  been  critical, 
there  was  nothing  in  such  handling  of 
the  currency  to  destroy  confidence  or  pro- 
voke panic.  Moreover,  such  measures 
are  taken  by  the  Bank  of  France  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  best  judgment  of  life- 
long experts  placed  at  the  centre  of 
information  from  home  and  abroad,  sep- 
arated from  politics  by  their  position,  and 
independent  of  the  stock  exchange  and 
all  its  manoeuvres. 

These  movements  of  currency  involve 
no  danger  of  inflation.  The  banknotes  are 
not  guaranteed  by  any  amount  of  private 
deposits  which  the  Bank  of  France  may 
have  received,  nor  by  any  deposit  or 
possession  of  public  funds  or  securities. 
Their  sole  gauge  is  the  bank's  metal  re- 
serve (of  which  the  gold  without  the  silver 
is  at  all  times  sufficient)  together  with  the 
quickly  realizable  assets  of  its  portfolio 
(discounted  commercial  paper). 

In  June,  1871,  from  the  tribune  of  the 
Parliament  of  the  brand-new  German 
empire,  Prince  Bismarck  boasted  that  he 
had  refused  the  banknotes  of  France  in 
payment  of  the  war  indemnity.  He  de- 
manded gold  or  drafts  on  other  nations, 
good  as  gold.  "  We  know  to-day's  rate 
of  these  banknotes,"  he  said;  "  but  what 
they  are  going  to  be  worth  to-morrow  is  a 
thing  unknown." 

At  the  beginning  of  1908,  in  spite  of 
all  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  through 
Moroccan  difficulties  between  the  two 
countries,  German  securities  have  once 
more  been  refused  admission  to  the  Paris 
Bourse;  the  year's  issue  of  loans  by 
Prussia  and  the  German  empire  has 


been  little  better  than  a  moderate  failure; 
German  Funds  in  the  market  are  ten 
francs  lower  than  the  French  Rentes, 
depressed  as  the  latter  are  by  Socialist 
politics ;  Germany,  to  ballast  her  finances, 
must  increase  her  public  debt  within  the 
next  five  years  by  a  milliard  of  marks,  not 
francs;  and  meanwhile  German  banks 
are  bolstered  up,  and  German  industries 
saved  from  financial  disaster,  only  by 
help  of  French  money  —  in  gold  or  in 
banknotes  of  France,  good  as  gold. 

A  Socialist  journal  formulates  the  situ- 
ation :  "  France  sells  1,200,000,000  francs' 
worth  of  goods  to  England  each  year  and 
lends  1,600,000,000  francs  in  money  to 
Germany." 

With  this  question  of  banknote  cur- 
rency there  is  sometimes  mixed  up  the 
subordinate  use  of  silver  coin  in  France. 
It  has  to  be  noticed  here,  if  only  for  the 
reason  that  undying  bimetallism  exag- 
gerates its  play  in  the  money  movement. 

The  lowest  limit  of  paper  money  is- 
sued by  the  Bank  of  France  is  the  50- 
franc  banknote.  For  all  sums  under  that 
amount,  a  circulating  medium  is  found  in 
20-franc  and  10-franc  gold  pieces,  while 
small  change  is  supplied  by  5-franc  ($1), 
2  and  1 -franc,  and  50-centime  silver  coins. 
By  virtue  of  the  Latin  Union,  this  silver 
coinage  is  current  and  interchangeable 
among  France,  Belgium,  Switzerland, 
Greece,  and,  for  5-franc  pieces,  Italy. 

We  have  here,  within  a  close  circle  and 
in  low  denominations,  an  international 
bimetallism.  Its  working  exemplifies  the 
same  laws  as  the  international  movement 
of  gold.  When  Paris  'change  on  Brus- 
sels goes  down,  Belgian  silver  flows  into 
France;  but  with  'change  low  on  Lon- 
don it  is  gold  that  comes.  This  flux  and 
reflux  of  silver  is  of  corresponding  use  to 
the  Bank  of  France  in  its  relations  with 
neighbors  of  the  Latin  Union. 

At  home,  also,  the  Bank  of  France  has 
the  right  to  pay  out,  at  its  discretion,  sil- 
ver instead  of  gold;  and  this,  in  a  meas- 
ure, helps  it  to  safeguard  the  gold  reserve 
on  which  its  international  predominance 
depends. 


French  Finance 


237 


From  October,  1906,  to  the  end  of  Jan- 
uary, 1907,  —  a  period  of  monetary  strin- 
gency, through  which  the  Bank  of  France 
had  to  protect  its  gold  reserve,  while  re- 
leasing gold  to  London  and  New  York, 
—  its  silver  reserve  was  diminished  by 
50,000,000  francs.  By  the  end  of  Janu- 
ary, 1908,  —  after  a  further  season  of 
American  panic  and  international  crisis, 
-  it  was  reduced  by  80,000,000  francs 
more. 

It  is  not  easy  to  know  how  much  of 
this  round  loss  of  $25,000,000  in  its  silver 
reserve  was  deliberately  incurred  by  the 
Bank  of  France ;  but  its  discretionary  use 
of  silver,  quite  apart  from  its  elastic  bank- 
note limit,  must  have  increased  its  ability 
to  meet  the  international  financial  crisis, 
and,  in  particular,  to  keep  money  easy 
for  people  at  home.  Let  it  be  understood 
that  the  Gold  Cure  is  best,  unique,  for 
the  healing  of  the  nations;  but  silver,  in 
France  at  least,  is  an  effective  succeda- 
neum. 

With  the  turn  of  the  financial  tide  gold, 
obedient  to  the  laws  of  its  motion,  flows 
steadily  back  to  the  Bank  of  France.  In 
the  first  week  of  May,  1908,  the  bank 
increased  its  gold  reserve  by  20,000,000 
francs  in  bars  bought  in  the  open  market 
of  London,  and  by  30,000,000  francs  in 
gold  exports  from  America.  The  fol- 
lowing week  had  a  further  increase  of 
33,000,000  francs,  mainly  from  America; 
and  the  influx  was  not  yet  over.  The 
Bank  of  England  had  already  discharged 
its  indebtedness,  and  the  foreign  portfolio 
was  closed.  To  draw  all  this  gold  to  its 
vaults  the  Bank  of  France  offered  no 
special  facilities.  The  natural  working 
of  the  rates  of  exchange  among  the  na- 
tions was  sufficient. 

With  no  national  envy  of  its  "  honest 
broker's  commission,"  we  may  take  pass- 
ing note  of  the  prosperity  of  the  Bank  of 
France  as  a  business  enterprise,  its  as- 
sured profits  in  transactions  multiplied 
by  the  year's  disturbances  and  the  steady 
rise  of  its  shares,  ^he  new  financial  year 
(May  29,  1908)  sees  the  bank  in  posses- 
sion of  three  milliards  —  $600,000,000  — 


of  gold.  This  has  long  been  the  aim  of  its 
deliberate  policy;  it  is  the  one  means  of 
preserving  that  monetary  primacy  which 
the  virtues  of  her  people  have  so  labori- 
ously won  for  France  in  the  world.  The 
other  central  banks  of  the  nations  of  Eu- 
rope have  taken  this  leaf  from  the  policy 
of  the  Bank  of  France  —  to  strengthen 
and  safeguard  to  the  utmost  their  gold 
reserves  over  against  the  time  of  need. 

The  Bank  of  France  controlling  the 
nation's  money  is  one  thing.  Govern- 
ment's administration  of  the  national 
receipts  and  expenditures  is  another. 
Upholding  both  is  the  French  people, 
thrifty  to  a  degree  which  Americans  with 
their  loose  money  habits  can  ill  appre- 
ciate. A  simple  comparison  of  the  situ- 
ation of  France  in  1908  with  the  ruin  left 
behind  by  war  thirty-seven  years  ago 
will  show  what  a  sound  financial  organ- 
ization can  do  for  an  industrious  people 
that  husbands  and  does  not  squander  its 
resources.1 

In  February,  1871,  when  war  was  over, 
the  proper  functionary  said  to  the  Fi- 
nance Minister  of  the  Government  of 
National  Defence,  "  My  hat  will  hold  all 
the  funds  we  have  to  go  on  with;  we 
have  500,000  francs." 

One  bank  in  the  world  was  willing  to 
treat  with  France  for  a  loan ;  and  French- 
men are  not  likely  now,  merely  for  a 
criticism  of  the  Bank  of  France,  to  for- 
get what  they  owe  to  the  house  of  Mor- 
gan —  "  the  only  foreign  bankers  to  hold 
out  a  hand  to  us."  The  Emprunt  Mor- 
gan was  negotiated  at  the  London  branch 
of  the  great  American  bank,  for  250,000,- 
000  francs.  At  first  it  was  demanded  that 
France  should  pledge  her  state  forests 
and  domains.  The  government,  which 
was  as  yet  scarcely  more  than  provisional, 
had  the  strength  to  refuse:  "  You  must 
trust  the  signature  of  France." 

1  For  the  following  figiires  I  atn  indebted  to 
M.  Alfred  Neymarck,  La  Situation  financiere 
de  la  France  (October,  1907) ;  to  L'Economiste 
Europten  of  M.  Edmond  The'ry  ;  and  to  the 
Budget  estimates  presented  to  Parliament  by 
Finance  Minister  Caillaux  (19  May,  1908). 


238 


French  Finance 


Bonds  at  6  per  cent,  with  a  face  value 
of  500  francs,  were  put  on  the  market  at 
400,  415,  and  425;  they  were  to  be  reim- 
bursed in  thirty-four  years.  Within  four 
years  they  were  paid  up  in  full.  France 
in  her  need  had  been  able  to  profit  only 
by  the  sum  of  208,000,000  francs.  In- 
terest and  other  charges  had  amounted 
to  more  than  8  per  cent  yearly. 

Within  the  same  short  time  the  whole 
war  indemnity  of  5,000,000,000  francs 
was  also  paid  in  full  to  Germany.  Do- 
mestic loans  had  successfully  appealed 
to  the  savings  of  Frenchmen  in  the  name 
of  the  principle  which  binds  them  in  their 
private  as  well  as  in  their  public  life, — 
respect  for  their  signature. 

In  1869,  just  before  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian war,  the  national  debt  of  France 
reached  13,000,000,000  francs,  with  an 
annual  charge  on  the  consolidated  debt 
of  320,000,000  francs.  War,  the  war  in- 
demnity with  the  heavy  interest  it  bore, 
and  the  expenses  of  departments  suffering 
from  the  invasion,  cost  France  15,000,- 
000,000  francs.  War  material,  arsenals, 
forts,  navy  and  colonial  defenses,  all  had 
to  be  made  anew;  and  this,  to  the  end  of 
1906,  has  amounted  to  41,850,000,000 
francs  according  to  the  calculations,  year 
for  year,  submitted  to  Parliament  by  ex- 
Finance  Minister  Poincare  in  a  Budget 
report  for  1908.  Ex-Finance  Minister 
Cochery,  in  his  critical  examination  of 
the  report,  brings  up  the  sum  to  53,000,- 
000,000  francs.  Moreover,  from  1870  to 
1906,  France  paid  4,719,018,253  francs 
in  military  pensions,  and  2,122,338,549 
francs  in  civil  pensions. 

For  railroads,  from  1871  to  1905,  the 
French  Parliament  appropriated  more 
than  11,000,000,000  francs;  for  canals 
2,000,000,000  francs.  In  1869  the  public 
school  expenses  of  France  amounted  to 
51,000,000  francs;  the  yearly  appropri- 
ation has  increased  steadily  to  270,000,- 
000  francs  for  1908.  In  1871  posts  and 
telegraphs,  both  government  services,  ex- 
pended 83,000,000  francs;  in  1905,  with 
telephones  added,  the  appropriation  was 
240,000,000  francs  (the  receipts  more 


than  pay  this  item).  For  state  subsidies 
of  agriculture,  commerce,  industry,  pub- 
lic assistance  and  insurance,  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  the  leaps  and  bounds  of  late 
years  have  often  been  100,000,000  francs 
annually.  The  tremendous  acquisitions 
of  colonial  territory  have  entailed,  since 
1895,  a  yearly  expense,  beyond  receipts, 
of  more  than  80,000,000  francs. 

The  French  National  Debt  (January  1, 
1907)  in  exact  francs  showed  the  fol- 
lowing figures :  consolidated  22,406,362,- 
811.85;  amortizable  by  annuities  6,727,- 
426,119.07;  total  debt,  29,133,788,930.92 
francs,  reduced  January  1,  1908,  by  74,- 
964,226.54  francs.  To  meet  the  charges 
of  this  debt,  the  finance  minister  asks 
Frenchmen  in  1909  to  pay  655,841,611 
francs  of  interest  on  the  consolidated 
debt  (3  per  cent  Rentes),  and  316,036,220 
francs  in  annuities  and  interest  on  short- 
term  treasury  notes;  to  which  he  adds 
291,662,950  francs  in  pensions  also  owed 
by  the  nation,  three-fifths  of  them  being 
military  ($34,000,000)  and  the  rest  for 
retired  civil  functionaries. 

In  1906  the  actual  receipts  of  the  gov- 
ernment were  3,837,000,186.87  francs 
(over  $767,400,000),  representing  99.50 
francs  per  head  of  the  whole  popula- 
tion. That  is,  the  French  people  are  able 
and  willing  to  pay  yearly  something  like 
$20  per  man,  woman,  and  child  for  their 
public  expenditure  as  an  organized  civil 
society.  Their  per  capita  proportion  of 
the  national  debt  —  $148  —  is  approxi- 
mated only  by  Portugal ;  but  the  average 
French  taxation  per  head  is  exceeded  in 
both  Germany  (over  $27)  and  England 
(about  $22). 

By  themselves,  such  figures  do  not 
show  the  financial  efficiency  of  the  coun- 
try. Turkey  nominally  taxes  its  inhab- 
itants little  over  17  francs  per  head,  and 
the  portion  of  each  in  the  national  debt 
is  less  than  $25,  while  each  citizen  of  the 
Republic  of  Liberia  shares  in  its  na- 
tional debt  to  the  tune  of  1  franc.  Taken 
with  other  signs  of  private  and  public 
wealth,  such  state  expenditures  and  lia- 
bilities do  show  that  France  pays  much 


French  Finance 


239 


because  her  individual  citizens  have 
much.  "  The  riches  of  France  are  inex- 
haustible," said  Thiers,  to  comfort  his 
colleagues  against  Bismarck. 

International  finance  considers  the 
earning  power  of  France  only  in  relation 
to  actual  gold  saved  up  for  use  and  in- 
vestment abroad.  Certain  officially  estab- 
lished facts  for  a  single  year,  with  others 
approximately  known,  show  the  general 
earnings  of  French  production,  from 
which,  with  the  interest  on  savings  al- 
ready invested,  new  yearly  savings  come 
to  increase  the  gold  possession  and  in- 
vestments of  the  French  people. 

France  has  long  held  the  third  place 
among  the  wheat-growing  countries ."ofc 
the  world.  In  1905  the  intensive  cultiva- 
tion of  her  soil,  which  has  been  made 
possible  by  tariff  protection,  gave  a 
yield  of  338,785,000  bushels  as  against 
692,979,000  bushels  grown  in  the  United 
States  with  immensely  greater  fields  and 
population.  This  is  but  one  instance  of 
the  successful  effort  of  French  agriculture 
to  make  itself  sufficient  to  the  needs  of 
the  French  people. 

The  gold-earning  power  of  French 
industry  must  be  estimated  from  the  pro- 
gress of  French  commerce.  Confusion 
is  apt  to  arise  here  from  a  too  obvious 
comparison  with  new  Germany.  In  1869 
the  general  foreign  commerce  of  France 
amounted  to  8,000,000,000  francs;  in 
1906  it  had  risen  to  14,000,000,000  francs 
—  an  increase  of  75  per  cent.  The  French 
population  had  meantime  increased  less 
than  4  per  cent,  while  Germany  has  aug- 
mented her  population  50  per  cent,  with 
consequent  industrial  and  commercial 
dealings  of  20,000,000  more  people  than 
France. 

This  does  not  mean  that  along  these 
lines  France  is  keeping  up,  even  pro- 
portionally, with  the  lead  of  Germany. 
The  French  people,  after  providing  for 
their  own  wants,  do  little,  in  comparison 
with  Germany  and  America  or  even  Eng- 
land, to  create  new  business.  They  do 
use  their  money  savings  to  lend  out  to 
others,  willing  to  run  into  debt  for  such 


a  purpose.  Any  valid  estimate  of  French 
progress  has  to  strike  the  balance  among 
such  national  equivalences. 

An  extra  channel  by  which  the  outside 
world's  gold,  more  and  more  each  year, 
pours  into  France  is  the  day-by-day 
expenditure  of  travelers  in  the  country. 
This  is  something  quite  apart  from  the 
general  commerce  of  importation  and 
exportation,  and  it  appears  in  no  govern- 
ment statistics.  The  sale,  on  the  spot,  of 
art  objects  and  articles  of  luxury,  in 
particular  of  female  attire,  has  become 
an  ever-increasing  source  of  wealth  to 
Paris.  This  coincides  with  the  recent 
growth  of  tourist  habits  among  the  mid- 
dle classes  of  Europe  and  America,  for 
rich  people  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
spending  their  money  in  Paris  since  the 
Second  Empire. 

This  sumptuary  impost  is  accepted, 
invited  even,  by  foreigners.  It  is  reason- 
able and  legitimate.  It  is  not  made  so  by 
French  taste  alone,  to  which,  as  to  a  sort 
of  gift  of  God,  the  envious  of  other  na- 
tions like  to  attribute  it.  French  superi- 
ority in  such  matters  is  due  to  long  and 
intelligent  training,  to  willing  applica- 
tion to  details  and  patience  in  combining, 
with  insistence  on  a  routine  standard  of 
excellence.  The  French  artisan  is  worthy 
of  his  hire.  His  work,  as  a  rule,  is  neither 
ready-made  nor  standardized,  nor  yet 
cheap  and  nasty.  He  will  lose  his  pre- 
eminence, as  John  Stuart  Mill  observed 
of  Lombardy  and  Flanders  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  only  "as  other  countries  success- 
ively attain  an  equal  degree  of  civiliza- 
tion." 

The  gayety  of  French  resorts,  the  at- 
traction of  scenery  and  historic  sites,  the 
facilities  of  automobiling  furnished  by 
the  mere  excellence  of  roads  through 
every  part  of  the  country,  —  another 
notch  up  in  civilization,  —  have  more 
than  doubled  this  revenue  from  tourists 
within  a  few  years. 

Annual  income  of  this  kind  is,  of 
course,  not  all  profit;  labor,  material,  and 
the  means  of  using  both,  cost  heavily  and 
have  to  be  employed  freely  on  the  part 


240 


French  Finance 


of  the  French.  Still,  the  direct  profits 
are  greater  than  in  other  industries.  And 
the  payments  made  by  foreign  travelers 
are  practically  always  in  gold  brought  by 
them  into  the  country. 

A  reasonable  estimate,  for  the  single 
year  1907,  of  the  gold  thus  imported 
into  France  by  travelers,  to  be  spent  in 
hotels,  transportation,  amusements,  and 
purchases,  is  three  milliards  of  francs 
($600,000,000),  a  sum  equal  to  the  high- 
est gold  reserve  of  the  Bank  of  France. 
Americans  commonly  exaggerate  both 
their  numbers  and  their  expenditures 
in  France;  but  one-fifth  of  this  sum 
($120,000,000)  may  safely  be  set  down 
as  their  share. 

This  state  of  things  in  1908  is  a  curious 
commentary  on  the  conclusion  drawn  in 
1830  from  reasonings  of  political  eco- 
nomy by  John  Stuart  Mill :  "  The  great 
trading  towns  of  France  would  undoubt- 
edly be  more  flourishing,  if  France  were 
not  frequented  by  foreigners." 

A  good  part  of  the  gold  earned  by  the 
thrifty  French  people  goes  into  their 
"  savings  in  the  house,  savings  in  land, 
savings  in  the  family,  savings  in  stocks 
and  bonds."  The  old  unproductive 
hoarding  of  such  money  —  the  peasant's 
bos  de  laine  —  has  given  way  in  France 
to  the  habit  of  handing  it  over  to  banks 
for  investment  in  foreign  securities  or  for 
lending  out  otherwise.  This,  far  more 
than  the  regulating  influence  of  the  Bank 
of  France  and  its  gold  reserve,  secures 
the  financial  predominance  of  France  in 
the  world.  In  such  a  matter  figures  can 
approximate  to  the  reality  only  within 
limits  of  hundreds  of  millions;  but  even 
so  they  form  a  valid  basis  of  judgment. 
M.  Alfred  Neymarck  has  calculated  these 
yearly  savings  of  French  citizens  at  from 
1,500,000,000  to  2,000,000,000  francs  - 
$400,000,000  added  to  the  liquid  money 
capital  of  the  French  people  each  year 
that  God  gives  them. 

It  is  evident  that  only  a  portion  of 
this  money  directly  enters  international 
finance.  Not  to  speak  of  the  steady  de- 
velopment, however  slow  in  comparison 


with  other  nations,  of  French  industry 
and  commerce  by  new  capital,  out  of 
12,000,000  householders  9,000,000  own 
their  homes,  which  supposes  a  large  em- 
ployment of  savings  in  real  estate.  In 
1905  there  was  a  total  of  4,655,000,000 
francs  of  deposits  in  the  French  savings 
banks ;  the  surplus  has  been  used  of  late 
by  government  to  keep  up  the  French 
Rentes  in  the  open  market,  whenever 
the  threat  of  Socialist  legislation  by  Par- 
liament sends  them  down. 

At  the  end  of  1907,  the  sight  deposits 
of  five  Paris  credit  banks  amounted  to 
3,424,000,000  francs,  and  those  of  the 
Bank  of  France  to  489,000,000  francs. 
Such  deposits  are  made  exclusively  in 
specie  or  banknotes,  or  in  cheques  or 
drafts  to  be  cashed  by  the  banks.  In  no 
case  can  deposited  securities  be  entered 
to  a  depositor's  account  current,  although 
the  credit  banks  would  undertake  their 
sale  and  afterwards  add  the  proceeds  to 
the  account  as  a  sight  deposit.  If  the 
depositor  wishes  the  bank  to  use  a  por- 
tion of  his  money  deposits  in  the  purchase 
of  securities,  these  again  cannot  be  cred- 
ited to  him  as  a  sight  deposit,  although 
the  bank  will  advance  money  on  them  as 
a  loan  on  security;  but  in  this  case  they 
migrate  to  the  other  (asset)  side  of  the 
bank's  balance-sheet  and  enter  into  a 
different  account  of  the  customer. 

This  watch  kept  over  the  genuineness 
of  bank  deposits  is  extended  to  the  use 
of  them  by  the  banks.  Only  short-term 
operations  are  allowed,  in  which  quick 
realization  is  possible.  The  discounting 
of  commercial  paper,  short-term  loans 
on  securities,  and  carry-overs  at  the  stock 
exchange  are  the  chief  uses  in  present 
practice.  During  the  past  year  such 
short-term  loans  constituted  a  good  part 
of  the  underground  aid  rendered  by  the 
credit  banks  of  Paris  to  German  banks. 
Offers  of  9  per  cent  interest  on  direct 
long  loans  to  German  industries  were 
refused. 

The  year  also  saw  a  clash  between 
Paris  credit  banks  and  the  official  stock- 
exchange  agents  of  the  Paris  Bourse. 


French  Finance 


241 


In  the  marasmus  of  speculation,  the  lat- 
ter began  using  in  carry-overs  the  large 
sums  originally  left  in  their  hands  by 
customers  for  investments.  This  explains 
the  excessively  low  rates  which  prevailed 
in  Paris  while  other  money  markets  were 
still  suffering  from  monetary  stringency. 
But  it  also  deprived  the  banks  of  the 
profitable  use  of  their  deposits  in  a  field 
which  they  had  come  to  consider  as  their 
own.  As  a  consequence,  the  credit  banks 
ceased  their  Bourse  operations  almost 
entirely,  leaving  the  Paris  stock  exchange 
in  the  state  of  neurasthenia  which  so 
puzzled  foreign  experts.  This  passing 
assertion  by  French  banks  of  their  power 
in  the  stock  exchange  is  a  sign  of  the 
financial  times,  and  possibly  of  a  new 
departure. 

During  the  year  1907  the  Bank  of 
France  and  the  five  credit  banks  dis- 
counted 75,000,000  different  pieces  of 
commercial  paper,  representing  an  effect- 
ive capital  of  50,000,000,000  francs.  The 
total  amount  of  loans  on  securities  and 
money  used  in  carry-overs  by  the  six 
banks  was  20,000,000,000  francs.  This 
short-term  use  of  their  depositors'  money 
($14,000,000,000  in  all)  resulted  in  two 
inestimable  advantages  for  the  French 
people  —  ease  in  specie  payments  and 
constant  circulation  of  ready  money. 

To  show  the  safety  as  well  as  the  utility 
of  this  method  of  handling  bank  deposits, 
the  situation  of  December  31,  1907,  is 
sufficient.  At  that  date  the  banknote 
circulation  not  covered  by  the  metal  re- 
serve of  the  Bank  of  France  —  the  sole 
issue  bank  — was  1,186,000,000  francs. 
This,  added  to  the  figures  already  given 
of  its  sight  deposits  and  those  of  the  five 
credit  banks,  makes  up  a  grand  total  of 
5,099,000,000  francs.  To  face  this,  the 
Bank  of  France  had  1,216,000,000  francs 
of  short-term  commercial  paper  which 
it  had  discounted;  and  the  five  credit 
banks  held  2,414,000,000  francs  more. 
In  outstanding  short-term  loans  on  se- 
curities and  in  carry-overs  at  the  Bourse 
the  Bank  of  France  had  580,000,000 
francs,  and  the  credit  banks  883,000,000 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


francs.  This  makes  another  grand  total 
of  5,093,000,000  francs  given  out  by  the 
banks  in  ready  money  for  the  every-day 
uses  of  the  French  people,  while  re- 
maining quickly  realizable  assets  against 
the  banks'  liabilities  of  5,099,000,000 
francs  received  as  deposits  or  issued  as 
uncovered  banknotes. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  international 
finance  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the 
flow  of  the  liquid  capital  of  France  has 
been  its  deliberate  "  canalization y'  in 
the  direction  of  foreign  investment  by  a 
dozen  great  banks,  of  which  the  Credit 
Lyonnais  was  the  first  and  is  still  the 
chief.  From  1880  to  1906,  the  officially 
assessed  holding  of  foreign  securities  by 
Frenchmen  more  than  doubled.  At  the 
latter  date,  M.  Neymarck  considers  that 
stocks  and  bonds  and  national  funds  to 
the  total  amount  of  100,000,000,000 
francs  were  held  in  France ;  and  of  these 
35,000,000,000  francs  ($7,000,000,000) 
are  debts  of  foreigners  to  Frenchmen. 
Even  this  does  not  include  the  securities 
—  certainly  several  milliards  —  which 
the  French  bourgeois  have  been  hiding 
of  late  years  in  foreign  banks  to  escape 
threatened  Socialist  taxes  at  home. 

It  would  be  too  long  to  give  the  list  of 
government,  railway,  and  industrial  loans 
which  the  various  countries  of  Europe 
and  America  (and  Africa)  have  entirely 
or  in  large  part  placed  in  France.  At  the 
end  of  April,  1908,  even  the  slice  of  the 
Russian  loan  of  1905  which  had  nomin- 
ally been  taken  by  Vienna  bankers  came 
over  to  the  Paris  Bourse;  and  the  London 
slice  seemed  likely  to  follow  suit.  The 
Spanish  Exterior  debt  is  held  and  a  great 
part  of  the  Spanish  railways  owned  in 
France.  So  are  the  national  debts  and 
industries  of  Greece,  Portugal,  Bulgaria, 
Egypt,  and  of  many  South  American 
states,  Mexican  banks  —  and  the  bank 
of  Morocco.  To  this  would  still  have  to 
be  added  the  Italian  national  debt  if  Italy 
had  not  copied  French  methods  of  self- 
sufficiency,  thanks  to  the  cooperation  of 
great  Paris  banks. 

There    have    been    many    reasons  — 


242 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods9' 


legal  restrictions  rather  than  distrust  of 
financial  methods  —  which  have  limited 
the  investment  of  French  gold  in  the  rail- 
ways and  industries  of  the  United  States. 
Here  too,  however,  underground  French 
finance  plays  a  greater  part  than  is  com- 
monly supposed,  escaping  government 
statistics  and  taxation. 

The  past  year  has  seen  a  renewal  of 
violent  attacks  on  the  great  French  banks 
for  their  policy  in  foreign  investments: 
first,  they  are  accused  of  risking  disaster, 
—  for  example,  in  lending  to  Russia,  — 
and,  next,  of  hindering  the  development 
of  home  industry  by  drawing  needed  new 
capital  out  of  the  country.  The  risks  of 
the  banks  are  certainly  not  speculative, 


as  was  the  case  with  Law  in  old  France 
and  with  some  of  the  trust  companies  of 
the  present  United  States.  And  any  sud- 
den catastrophe  would  seem  impossible 
from  the  immense  variety  of  investments 
—  eggs  in  widely  diverse  baskets  —  and 
from  the  permanent  gold  resources  of 
the  customers  whose  money  the  banks 
invest. 

Such  attacks  for  the  most  part  look 
toward  social  revolution.  The  banking 
practice  of  France,  like  her  riches  and 
French  financial  predominance,  rests  on 
individual  property-holding  and  the  com- 
petition of  the  nations.  They  cannot  be 
other  than  bourgeois,  capitalist,  reac- 
tionary as  regards  Socialism. 


THOREAU'S   "MAINE  WOODS 


BY   FANNY   HARDY   ECKSTORM 


IT  is  more  than  half  a  century  since 
Henry  D.  Thoreau  made  his  last  visit 
to  Maine.  And  now  the  forest  which  he 
came  to  see  has  all  but  vanished,  and  in 
its  place  stands  a  new  forest  with  new 
customs.  No  one  should  expect  to  find 
here  precisely  what  Thoreau  found; 
therefore,  before  all  recollection  of  the 
old  days  has  passed  away,  it  is  fitting 
that  some  one  who  knew  their  traditions 
should  bear  witness  to  Thoreau's  inter- 
pretation of  the  Maine  woods. 

We  hardly  appreciate  how  great  are 
the  changes  of  the  last  fifty  years;  how 
the  steamboat,  the  motor-boat,  the  loco- 
motive, and  even  the  automobile,  have 
invaded  regions  which  twenty  years  ago 
could  be  reached  only  by  the  lumber- 
man's batteau  and  the  hunter's  canoe; 
how  cities  have  arisen,  and  more  are  be- 
ing projected,  on  the  same  ground  where 
Thoreau  says  that  "  the  best  shod  travel 
for  the  most  part  with  wet  feet,"  and 
that  "melons,  squashes,  sweet-corn,  to- 
matoes, beans,  and  many  other  vege- 


tables,  could  not  be  ripened,"  because 
the  forest  was  so  dense  and  moist. 

Less  than  twenty  years  since  there 
was  not  a  sporting  camp  in  any  part  of 
the  northern  Maine  wilderness ;  now  who 
may  number  them  ?  Yet,  even  before  the 
nineties,  when  one  could  travel  for  days 
and  meet  no  one,  the  pine  tree  was  gone ; 
the  red-shirted  lumberman  was  gone;  the 
axe  was  about  to  give  place  to  the  saw; 
and  soon,  almost  upon  the  clearing  where 
Thoreau  reported  the  elder  Fowler,  the 
remotest  settler,  as  wholly  content  in  his 
solitude  and  thinking  that  "  neighbors, 
even  the  best,  were  only  trouble  and  ex- 
pense," was  to  rise  one  of  the  largest  pulp 
mills  in  the  world,  catching  the  logs  mid- 
way their  passage  down  the  river  and 
grinding  them  into  paper.  And  the  pine 
tree,  of  which  Thoreau  made  so  much  ? 
Native  to  the  state  and  long  accustomed 
to  its  woods,  I  cannot  remember  ever 
having  seen  a  perfect,  old-growth  white 
pine  tree;  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  one 
standing  in  the  state  to-day. 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods" 


243 


So  the  hamadryad  has  fled  before  the 
demand  for  ship-timber  and  Sunday  edi- 
tions, and  the  unblemished  forest  has 
passed  beyond  recall.  There  are  woods 
enough  still ;  there  is  game  enough,  — 
more  of  some  kinds  than  in  the  old  days; 
there  are  fish  enough;  there  seems  to  be 
room  enough  for  all  who  come;  but  the 
man  who  has  lived  here  long  realizes  that 
the  woods  are  being  "  camped  to  death ; " 
and  the  man  who  is  old  enough  to  re- 
member days  departed  rustles  the  leaves 
of  Thoreau's  book  when  he  would  listen 
again  to  the  pine  tree  soughing  in  the 
wind. 

What  is  it  that  The  Maine  Woods 
brings  to  us  besides  ?  The  moods  and 
music  of  the  forest;  the  vision  of  white 
tents  beside  still  waters;  of  canoes  drawn 
out  on  pebbly  beaches;  of  camp-fires 
flickering  across  rippling  rapids;  the 
voice  of  the  red  squirrel,  "  spruce  and 
fine;"  the  melancholy  laughter  of  the 
loon,  and  the  mysterious  "  night  war- 
bler," always  pursued  and  never  appre- 
hended. Most  of  all  it  introduces  us  to 
Thoreau  himself. 

It  must  be  admitted  in  the  beginning 
that  The  Maine  Woods  is  not  a  master- 
piece. Robert  Louis  Stevenson  discards 
it  as  not  literature.  It  is,  however,  a  very 
good  substitute,  and  had  Robert  Louis 
worn  it  next  the  skin  he  might  perhaps 
have  absorbed  enough  of  the  spirit  of 
the  American  forest  to  avoid  the  gaudy 
melodrama  which  closes  The  Master  of 
Ballantrae.  The  Maine  Woods  is  of  an- 
other world.  Literature  it  may  not  be, 
nor  one  of  "the  three  books  of  his  that 
will  be  read  with  much  pleasure;  "  but 
it  is  —  the  Maine  woods.  Since  Tho- 
reau's day,  whoever  has  looked  at  these 
woods  to  advantage  has  to  some  extent 
seen  them  through  Thoreau's  eyes.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  no  other  man  has  ever  put 
the  coniferous  forest  between  the  leaves 
of  a  book. 

For  that  he  came  —  for  that  and  the 
Indian.  Open  it  where  you  will  —  and 
the  little  old  first  edition  is  by  all  odds 
to  be  chosen  if  one  is  fastidious  about  the 


printed  page,  to  get  the  full  savor  of  it; 
open  where  you  will  and  these  two  speak 
to  you.  He  finds  water  "  too  civilizing;  " 
he  wishes  to  become  "  selvaggia; "  he 
turns  woodworm  in  his  metamorphosis, 
and  loves  to  hear  himself  crunching 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  tree. 
He  is  tireless  in  his  efforts  to  wrench  their 
secrets  from  the  woods;  and,  in  every 
trial,  he  endeavors,  not  to  talk  about 
them,  but  to  flash  them  with  lightning 
vividness  into  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
"  It  was  the  opportunity  to  be  ignorant 
that  I  improved.  It  suggested  to  me  that 
there  was  something  to  be  seen  if  one  had 
eyes.  It  made  a  believer  of  me  more  than 
before.  I  believed  that  the  woods  were 
not  tenantless,  but  choke-full  of  honest 
spirits  as  good  as  myself  any  day." 

It  is  sometimes  the  advantage  of  a 
second-rate  book  that  it  endears  the 
writer  to  us.  The  Thoreau  of  Walden, 
with  his  housekeeping  all  opened  up  for 
inspection,  refusing  the  gift  of  a  rug 
rather  than  shake  it,  throwing  away 
his  paperweight  to  avoid  dusting  it  — 
where 's  the  woman  believes  he  would 
have  dusted  it  ?  —  parades  his  econo- 
mies priggishly,  like  some  pious  anchoret 
with  a  business  eye  fixed  on  Heaven.  But 
when  he  tells  us  in  the  appendix  to  the 
Woods  that  for  a  cruise  three  men  need 
only  one  large  knife  and  one  iron  spoon 
(for  all),  a  four-quart  tin  pail  for  kettle, 
two  tin  dippers,  three  tin  plates  and 
a  fry  pan,  his  economy,  if  extreme,  is 
manly  and  convincing.  We  meet  him 
here  among  men  whom  we  have  known 
ourselves;  we  see  how  he  treated  them 
and  how  they  treated  him,  and  he  ap- 
pears to  better  advantage  than  when 
skied  among  the  lesser  gods  of  Concord. 

Here  is  Joe  Polis,  whose  judgment  of 
a  man  would  be  as  shrewd  as  any  mere 
literary  fellow's,  and  Joe  talks  freely, 
which  in  those  days  an  Indian  rarely 
did  with  whites.  Here  is  the  late  Hiram 
L.  Leonard,  "  the  gentlemanly  hunter  of 
the  stage,"  known  to  all  anglers  by  his 
famous  fishing  rods.  Those  who  remem- 
ber his  retiring  ways  will  not  doubt  that 


244 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods" 


it  was  Thoreau  who  prolonged  the  con- 
versation. Here  is  Deacon  George  A. 
Thatcher,  the  "  companion  "  of  the  first 
two  trips.  That  second  invitation  and 
the  deacon's  cordial  appreciation  of 
"  Henry "  bespeak  agreeable  relations 
outside  those  of  kinship.  The  Thoreau 
whom  we  meet  here  smiles  at  us.  We  see 
him,  a  shortish,  squarish,  brown-beard- 
ed, blue-eyed  man,  in  a  check  shirt,  with 
a  black  string  tie,  thick  waistcoat,  thick 
trousers,  an  old  Kossuth  hat,  —  for  the 
costume  that  he  recommends  for  woods 
wear  must  needs  have  been  his  own,  — 
and  over  all  a  brown  linen  sack,  on 
which,  indelible,  is  the  ugly  smutch  that 
he  got  when  he  hugged  the  sooty  kettle 
to  his  side  as  he  raced  Polis  across 
Grindstone  Carry. 

To  every  man  his  own  Thoreau !  But 
why  is  not  this  laughing  runner,  scatter- 
ing boots  and  tinware,  as  true  to  life  as 
any  ?  Brusque,  rude,  repellant  no  doubt 
he  often  was,  and  beyond  the  degree  ex- 
cusable; affecting  an  unnecessary  disdain 
of  the  comfortable,  harmless  goods  of 
life;  more  proud,  like  Socrates,  of  the 
holes  in  his  pockets  than  young  Alcibi- 
ades  of  his  whole,  new  coat;  wrong  very 
often,  and  most  wrong  upon  his  points 
of  pride;  yet  he  still  had  his  southerly 
side,  more  open  to  the  sun  than  to  the 
wind.  It  is  not  easy  to  travel  an  unstaked 
course,  against  the  advice  and  wishes 
and  in  the  teeth  of  the  prophecies  of  all 
one's  friends,  when  it  would  be  sweet 
and  easy  to  win  their  approval  —  and, 
Himmel !  to  stop  their  mouths !  —  by 
burning  one's  faggot.  A  fighting  faith, 
sleeping  on  its  arms,  often  has  to  be 
stubborn  and  ungenial.  What  Henry 
Thoreau  needed  was  to  be  believed  in 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  then  let 
alone;  and  the  very  crabbedness,  so  often 
complained  of,  indicates  that,  like  his 
own  wild  apples,  in  order  to  get  a  chance 
to  grow,  he  had  to  protect  himself  by 
thorny  underbrush  from  his  too  solicitous 
friends. 

There  is  a  popular  notion  that  Tho- 
reau was  a  great  woodsman,  able  to  go 


anywhere  by  dark  or  daylight,  without 
path  or  guide ;  that  he  knew  all  the  secrets 
of  the  pioneer  and  the  hunter;  that  he 
was  unequaled  as  an  observer,  and  al- 
most inerrant  in  judgment,  being  able  to 
determine  at  a  glance  weight,  measure, 
distance,  area,  or  cubic  contents.  The 
odd  thing  about  these  popular  opinions 
is  that  they  are  not  true.  Thoreau  was 
not  a  woodsman;  he  was  not  infallible; 
he  was  not  a  scientific  observer;  he  was 
not  a  scientist  at  all.  He  could  do  many 
things  better  than  most  men ;  but  the  sum 
of  many  excellencies  is  not  perfection. 

For  the  over-estimate  of  Thoreau's 
abilities,  Emerson  is  chiefly  responsible. 
His  noble  eulogy  of  Thoreau  has  been 
misconstrued  in  a  way  which  shows  the 
alarming  aptitude  of  the  human  mind 
for  making  stupid  blunders.  We  all  have 
a  way  of  taking  hold  of  a  striking  detail 
—  which  Mr.  Emerson  was  a  rare  one 
for  perceiving  —  and  making  of  it  the 
whole  story.  We  might  name  it  the  fallacy 
of  the  significant  detail.  Do  we  not  always 
see  Hawthorne,  the  youth,  walking  by 
night?  Who  thinks  of  it  as  any  less  ha- 
bitual than  eating  his  dinner  ?  And  be- 
cause Stevenson,  in  an  unguarded  mo- 
ment, confessed  that  "  he  had  played  the 
sedulous  ape"  to  certain  authors,  no 
writer,  out  of  respect  to  our  weariness, 
has  ever  forborne  to  remind  us  of  that 
pleasant  monkey  trick  of  Stevenson's 
youth.  Nor  are  we  ever  allowed  to  forget 
that  Thoreau  "  saw  as  with  microscope, 
heard  as  with  ear- trumpet,"  and  that 
"  his  power  of  observation  seemed  to 
indicate  additional  senses."  It  is  because 
the  majority  of  mankind  see  no  difference 
in  values  between  facts  aglow  with  poetic 
fervor  and  facts  preserved  in  the  cold 
storage  of  census  reports,  that  Emerson's 
splendid  eulogy  of  his  friend,  with  its 
vivid,  personal  characterizations  rising 
like  the  swift  bubbles  of  a  boiling  spring 
all  through  it,  has  created  the  unfortu- 
nate impression  that  Thoreau  made  no 
blunders. 

Emerson  himself  did  not  distinguish 
between  the  habitual  and  the  accidental ; 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods" 


245 


between  a  clever  trick,  like  that  of  lifting 
breams  guarding  their  nests,  and  the 
power  to  handle  any  kind  of  fish.  He 
even  ran  short  of  available  facts,  and 
grouped  those  of  unequal  value.  To  be 
able  to  grasp  an  even  dozen  of  pencils 
requires  but  little  training ;  to  be  able  to 
estimate  the  weight  of  a  pig,  or  the  cord- 
wood  in  a  tree,  needs  no  more  than  a 
fairly  good  judgment;  but  that "  he  could 
pace  sixteen  rods  more  accurately  than 
another  man  could  measure  them  with 
rod  and  chain,"  —  that  is  nonsense,  for 
it  puts  at  naught  the  whole  science  of 
surveying.  Emerson's  data  being  unequal 
in  rank  and  kind,  the  whole  sketch  is  a 
little  out  of  focus,  and  consequently  the 
effect  is  agreeably  artistic. 

Nor  is  the  matter  mended  by  mis- 
quotation. Emerson  says, "  He  could  find 
his  path  in  the  woods  at  night,  he  said, 
better  by  his  feet  than  his  eyes."  There 
is  nothing  remarkable  in  this.  How 
does  any  one  keep  the  path  across  his 
own  lawn  on  a  black  dark  night?  But 
even  so  careful  a  man  as  Stevenson  para- 
phrases thus :  "  He  could  guide  himself 
about  the  woods  on  the  darkest  night 
by  the  touch  of  his  feet."  Here  we  have 
a  different  matter  altogether.  By  taking 
out  that  "  path,"  a  very  ordinary  accom- 
plishment is  turned  into  one  quite  im- 
possible. Because  Emerson  lacked  woods 
learning,  the  least  variation  from  his 
exact  words  is  likely  to  result  in  some- 
thing as  absurd  or  as  exaggerated  as 
this. 

Thoreau's  abilities  have  been  over- 
rated. The  Maine  Woods  contains  er- 
rors in  the  estimates  of  distance,  area, 
speed,  and  the  like,  too  numerous  to 
mention  in  detail.  No  Penobscot  boat- 
man can  run  a  batteau  over  falls  at  the 
rate  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  as  Thoreau 
says;  no  canoeman  can  make  a  hundred 
miles  a  day,  even  on  the  St.  John  River. 
The  best  records  I  can  discover  fall  far 
short  of  Thoreau's  estimate  for  an  aver- 
age good  day's  run.  Even  when  he  says 
that  his  surveyor's  eye  thrice  enabled 
him  to  detect  the  slope  of  the  current,  he 


magnifies  his  office.  Any  woman  who 
can  tell  when  a  picture  hangs  straight 
can  see  the  slant  of  the  river  in  all  those 
places. 

But  his  worst  error  in  judgment,  and 
the  one  most  easily  appreciated  on  its 
own  merits,  is  the  error  he  made  in  climb- 
ing Katahdin.  He  writes  that  their  camp 
was  "  broad  off  Katahdin  and  about  a 
dozen  miles  from  the  summit,"  whereas 
we  know  that  his  camp  was  not  five  miles 
in  an  air-line  from  the  top  of  the  South 
Slide,  and  not  more  than  seven  from  the 
highest  peak.  The  trail  from  the  stream 
to  the  slide  has  always  been  called  four 
miles,  and  Thoreau  says  that  his  boat- 
men told  him  that  it  was  only  four  miles 
to  the  mountain;  "  but  as  I  judged,  and 
as  it  afterwards  proved,  nearer  fourteen." 
The  only  reason  why  it  proved  "  nearer 
fourteen  "  was  because  he  did  not  go  the 
short  way.  Instead  of  climbing  by  the 
Slide,  where  all  West  Branch  parties 
ascend  to-day,  he  laid  a  northeast  course 
"  directly  for  the  base  of  the  highest 
peak,"  through  all  the  debris  and  under- 
brush at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  climb- 
ing where  it  is  so  steep  that  water  hardly 
dares  to  run  down.  He  ought  to  have 
reasoned  that  the  bare  top  of  a  mountain 
is  easy  walking,  and  the  nearest  practic- 
able point,  rather  than  the  peak  itself, 
was  the  best  place  to  climb. 

But  surely  he  was  a  competent  natural- 
ist ?  There  is  no  space  to  go  over  the  text 
in  detail,  but  we  may  turn  directly  to  the 
list  of  birds  in  the  appendix.  After  mak- 
ing allowance  for  ornithology  in  the  fif- 
ties being  one  of  the  inexact  sciences,  the 
list  must  be  admitted  to  be  notably  bad. 
It  is  worse  than  immediately  appears  to 
the  student  who  is  not  familiar  with  the 
older  nomenclature.  Thoreau  names 
thirty-seven  species,  and  queries  four  of 
them  as  doubtful.  Oddly,  the  most  char- 
acteristic bird  of  the  region,  the  Canada 
jay,  which  the  text  mentions  as  seen,  is 
omitted  from  the  list.  Of  the  doubtful 
species,  the  herring  gull  is  a  good  guess ; 
but  the  yellow-billed  cuckoo  and  the 
prairie  chicken  (of  all  unlikely  guesses  the 


246 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods" 


most  improbable)  are  surely  errors,  while 
the  white-bellied  nuthatch,  which  he  did 
not  see,  but  thought  he  heard,  rests 
only  upon  his  conjecture.  Mr.  William 
Brewster  thinks  that  it  might  occur  in  that 
region  in  suitably  wooded  localities,  but 
I  can  find  no  record  west  of  Houlton  and 
north  of  Katahdin.  The  tree  sparrow, 
though  a  common  migrant,  is  more  than 
doubtful  as  summer  resident.  The  pine 
warbler  must  be  looked  upon  with  equal 
suspicion.  The  wood  thrush  is  impossible 
—  a  clear  mistake  for  the  hermit.  His 
Fuligula  albicola  (error  for  albeola)  is  not 
the  buffle-headed  duck,  which  breeds 
north  of  our  limits  (and  Thoreau  was 
here  in  July) ;  it  is  most  likely  the  horned 
grebe  in  summer  plumage,  identified  after 
his  return  by  a  picture.  Similarly  his  red- 
headed woodpecker,  which  he  vouches  for 
thus,  "  Heard  and  saw,  and  good  to  eat," 
must  have  been  identified  by  the  ver- 
nacular name  alone.  Among  our  woods- 
men the " red-headed  woodpecker"  is  not 
Picus  erythrocephalus,  as  Thoreau  names 
it,  but  Ceophloeus  pileatus  abieticola,  the 
great  pileated  woodpecker,  or  logcock,  a 
bird  twice  as  large,  heavily  crested,  and 
wholly  different  in  structure  and  color. 
Seven  out  of  the  thirty-seven  birds  are 
too  wrong  to  be  disputed;  the  white- 
bellied  nuthatch  stands  on  wholly  nega- 
tive evidence ;  and,  if  we  had  fuller  data 
of  the  forest  regions,  perhaps  several  of 
the  others  might  be  challenged. 

The  list  proves  that,  even  according 
to  the  feeble  light  of  the  day,  Thoreau 
was  not  an  ornithologist.  As  a  botanist 
he  did  much  better;  but  that  was  largely 
by  grace  of  Gray's  Manual,  then  recently 
published.  Of  the  scientific  ardor  which 
works  without  books  and  collates  and 
classifies  innumerable  facts  for  the  sake 
of  systematic  knowledge,  he  had  not  a 
particle.  His  notes,  though  voluminous 
and  of  the  greatest  interest,  rarely  furnish 
material  for  science.  If  he  examined  a 
partridge  chick,  newly  hatched,  it  was 
not  to  give  details  of  weight  and  color, 
but  to  speculate  upon  the  rare  clearness 
of  its  gaze.  If  he  recorded  a  battle  be- 


tween black  ants  and  red,  he  saw  its 
mock  heroic  side  and  wrote  an  Antiad 
upon  the  occasion;  but  he  did  not  wait 
to  see  the  fight  finished,  and  to  count  the 
slain. 

It  was  not  as  an  observer  that  Tho- 
reau surpassed  other  men,  but  as  an 
interpreter.  He  had  the  art  —  and  how 
much  of  an  art  it  is  no  one  can  realize 
until  he  has  seated  himself  before  an 
oak  or  a  pine  tree  and  has  tried  by  the 
hour  to  write  out  its  equation  in  terms 
of  humanity  —  he  had  the  art  to  see  the 
human  values  of  natural  objects,  to  per- 
ceive the  ideal  elements  of  unreasoning 
nature  and  the  service  of  those  ideals  to 
the  soul  of  man.  "  The  greatest  delight 
which  the  fields  and  woods  minister,  is 
the  suggestion  of  an  occult  relation  be- 
tween man  and  the  vegetable,"  wrote 
Emerson;  and  it  became  Thoreau's  chief 
text.  It  is  the  philosophy  behind  Tho- 
reau's words,  his  attempt  to  reveal  the 
Me  through  the  Not  Me,  reversing  the 
ordinary  method,  which  makes  his  ob- 
servations of  such  interest  and  value. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

This  power  to  see  is  rare ;  but  mere  good 
observation  is  not  supernormal.  We  must 
not  attribute  to  Thoreau's  eyes  what  was 
wrought  in  his  brain;  to  call  him  unique- 
ly gifted  in  matters  wherein  a  thousand 
men  might  equal  him  is  not  to  increase 
his  fame. 

The  Maine  Woods  also  shows  clearly 
that  Thoreau  knew  nothing  of  woodcraft. 
Do  we  realize  that  his  longest  trip  gave 
him  only  ten  days  actually  spent  in  the 
woods?  or  that  few  tourists  to-day  at- 
tempt to  cover  the  same  ground  in  less 
than  two  or  three  weeks  ?  What  his  own 
words  proclaim  there  can  be  no  disputing 
over,  and  Thoreau  admits  frankly,  and 
sometimes  naively,  that  he  was  incap- 
able of  caring  for  himself  in  the  woods, 
which  surely  is  the  least  that  can  be 


Thoreau' s  "Maine  Woods" 


247 


asked  of  a  man  to  qualify  him  as  a 
"  woodsman." 

In  the  first  place,  his  mind  does  not 
work  like  a  woodsman's.  "  We  had  not 
gone  far,"  he  writes,  "  before  I  was 
startled  by  seeing  what  I  thought  was  an 
Indian  encampment,  covered  with  a  red 
flag,  on  the  bank,  and  exclaimed  '  Camp ! ' 
to  my  comrades.  I  was  slow  to  discover 
that  it  was  a  red  maple  changed  by  the 
frost."  He  ought  to  have  been  "slow  to 
discover  "  that  it  was  anything  else. 

"  I  could  only  occasionally  perceive 
his  trail  in  the  moss,"  he  writes  of  Polis, 
"  yet  he  did  not  appear  to  look  down  nor 
hesitate  an  instant,  but  led  us  out  exactly 
to  the  canoe.  This  surprised  me,  for 
without  a  compass,  or  the  sight  or  noise 
of  the  river  to  guide  us,  we  could  not  have 
kept  our  course  many  minutes,  and  we 
could  have  retraced  our  steps  but  a  short 
distance,  with  a  great  deal  of  pains  and 
very  slowly,  using  laborious  circumspec- 
tion. But  it  was  evident  that  he  could  go 
back  through  the  forest  wherever  he  had 
been  during  the  day."  A  woodsman  may 
have  to  use  "  laborious  circumspection  " 
in  following  the  trail  of  another  man,  but 
his  own  he  ought  to  be  able  to  run  back 
without  hesitation.  •* 

"  Often  on  bare  rocky  carries,"  he  says 
again,  "  the  trail  was  so  indistinct  that 
I  repeatedly  lost  it,  but  when  I  walked 
behind  him  [Polis]  I  observed  that  he 
could  keep  it  almost  like  a  hound,  and 
rarely  hesitated,  or,  if  he  paused  a  mo- 
ment on  a  bare  rock,  his  eye  immediately 
detected  some  sign  which  would  have 
escaped  me.  Frequently  we  found  no 
path  at  all  in  these  places,  and  were  to 
him  unaccountably  delayed.  He  would 
only  say  it  was  *  ver  strange.'  " 

"The  carry-paths  themselves,"  he  says 
again,  "were  more  than  usually  indis- 
tinct, often  the  route  being  revealed  only 
by  countless  small  holes  in  the  fallen 
timber  made  by  the  tacks  in  the  drivers' 
boots,  or  where  there  was  a  slight  trail 
we  did  not  find  it."  This  is  almost  funny. 
In  those  days  the  carries  were  little  trav- 
eled except  by  the  river-drivers;  in  sum- 


mer they  were  much  choked  with  shrub- 
bery; but  what  did  the  man  expect  —  a 
king's  highway  ?  That  spring  the  whole 
East  Branch  drive,  probably  a  hundred 
men,  had  tramped  the  carry  for  days; 
and  every  man  had  worn  boots  each  of 
which,  in  those  days,  was  armed  with 
twenty-nine  inch-long  steel  spikes.  The 
whole  carry  had  been  pricked  out  like  an 
embroidery  pattern.  Those  little  "  tack- 
holes  "  were  the  carry.  If  Thoreau  could 
have  realized  that  a  river-driver  never 
goes  far  from  water,  and  that  his  track 
is  as  sure  as  a  mink's  or  an  otter's  to  lead 
back  to  water,  he  would  have  appreciated 
how  much,  instead  of  how  little,  those 
calk-marks  were  telling  him.  But  Tho- 
reau did  not  know  the  facts  of  woods 
life,  and  when  he  saw  a  sign  he  was 
often  incapable  of  drawing  an  inference 
from  it. 

The  proof  that  Thoreau  did  not  know 
the  alphabet  of  woodcraft  —  if  further 
proof  is  wanted  —  is  that,  on  Mud  Pond 
Carry,  which,  in  his  day,  was  the  most 
open  and  well-trodden  of  all  the  woods 
roads  beyond  North- East  Carry,  he  took 
a  tote-road,  used  only  for  winter  haul- 
ing, showing  neither  hoof-mark,  sled- 
track,  nor  footprint  in  summer,  and  left 
the  regular  carry,  worn  by  human  feet, 
merely  because  a  sign-board  on  the  for- 
mer pointed  to  his  ultimate  destination, 
Chamberlain  Lake.  Now  in  the  woods  a 
tote-road  is  a  tote-road,  and  a  carry  is  a 
carry;  when  a  man  is  told  to  follow  one, 
he  is  not  expected  to  turn  off  upon  the 
other ;  there  is  no  more  reason  to  confuse 
the  two  than  to  mistake  a  trolley  line  for 
a  steam-railroad  track.  No  wonder  Polis 
"  thought  little  of  their  woodcraft." 

But  aside  from  this  deficiency  in  woods 
education,  Thoreau  never  got  to  feel  at 
home  in  the  Maine  wilderness.  He  was  a 
good  "  pasture  man,"  but  here  was  some- 
thing too  large  for  him.  He  appreciated 
all  the  more  its  wildness  and  strange- 
ness; and  was  the  more  unready  to  be 
venturesome.  The  very  closeness  of  his 
acquaintance  with  Concord  conspired  to 
keep  him  from  feeling  at  home  where 


248 


Thoreau' s  "Maine  Woods" 


the  surrounding  trees,  flowers,  and  birds 
were  largely  unfamiliar;  for  the  better  a 
man  knows  one  fauna,  the  more  he  is 
likely  to  be  ill  at  ease  under  a  different 
environment.  No  man  has  expressed  so 
well  the  timidity  which  sometimes  assails 
the  stranger  when  surrounded  by  the 
Sabbath  peace  of  the  wilderness.  "You 
may  penetrate  half  a  dozen  rods  far- 
ther into  that  twilight  wilderness,  after 
some  dry  bark  to  kindle  your  fire  with, 
and  wonder  what  mysteries  lie  hidden 
still  deeper  in  it,  say  at  the  end  of  a  long 
day's  walk;  or  you  may  run  down  to  the 
shore  for  a  dipper  of  water,  and  get  a 
clearer  view  for  a  short  distance  up  or 
down  the  stream.  .  .  .  But  there  is  no 
sauntering  off  to  see  the  country,  and  ten 
or  fifteen  rods  seems  a  great  way  from 
your  companions,  and  you  come  back 
with  the  air  of  a  much- traveled  man,  as 
from  a  long  journey,  with  adventures  to 
relate,  although  you  may  have  heard 
the  crackling  of  the  fire  all  the  while,  — 
and  at  a  hundred  rods  you  might  be  lost 
past  recovery,  and  have  to  camp  out." 
That  is  all  very  true,  but  most  men  do 
not  care  to  own  it.  "  It  was  a  relief  to 
get  back  to  our  smooth  and  still  varied 
landscape,"  he  writes  after  a  week's  trip 
to  Chesuncook,  which  then,  as  now,  was 
only  the  selvage  of  the  woods. 

I  have  a  friend  of  the  old  school  who 
appreciates  Thoreau,  but  who  always 
balks  at  one  point.  **  Call  him  a  woods- 
man! "  he  cries  in  disgust;  "why,  he 
admits  himself  that  he  borrowed  the  axe 
that  he  built  his  Walden  shanty  with!  " 
(This  seems  to  him  as  indefensible  as  bor- 
rowing a  toothbrush.)  —  "  But,"  I  urge, 
"  he  says,  too,  that  he  returned  it  sharper 
than  when  he  took  it."  —  "  It  makes 
no  difference,  none  at  all,"  says  he, 
"for  I  tell  you  that  a  real  woodsman 
owns  his  axe"  The  contention  is  valid; 
moreover,  it  is  fundamental.  A  master 
workman  in  all  trades  owns  his  tools. 
Those  who  have  praised  Thoreau  as  a 
woodsman  have  probably  done  so  under 
the  impression  that  every  man  who  goes 
into  the  woods  under  the  care  of  a  guide 


is  entitled  to  the  name.  They  have  not 
understood  the  connotation  of  the  term, 
and  may  have  even  supposed  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  an  amateur  woodsman. 
But  there  are  some  few  high  professions 
where  whatever  is  not  genuine  is  counter- 
feit; half-and-half  gentlemen,  halting 
patriots,  amateur  woodsmen,  may  safely 
be  set  down  as  no  gentlemen,  patriots, 
or  woodsmen  at  all.  For  in  truth  wood- 
craft is  a  profession  which  cannot  be 
picked  up  by  browsing  in  Massachusetts 
pastures,  and  no  one  learns  it  who  does 
not  throw  himself  into  it  whole-heartedly. 

Yet  because  Thoreau  does  not  measure 
up  to  the  standard  of  the  woodsman  born 
and  bred,  it  would  be  wrong  to  infer  that 
the  average  city  man  could  have  done  as 
well  in  his  place.  Well  done  for  an  ama- 
teur is  often  not  creditable  for  a  profes- 
sional; but  Thoreau's  friends  demand 
the  honors  of  a  professional.  On  the 
other  hand,  because  he  made  some  mis- 
takes in  unimportant  details,  he  must 
not  be  accused  of  being  unreliable.  How 
trustworthy  Thoreau  is  may  be  known  by 
this,  —  that  fifty  years  after  he  left  the 
state  forever,  I  can  trace  out  and  call  by 
name  almost  every  man  whom  he  even 
passed  while  in  the  woods.  He  did  not 
know  the  names  of  some  of  them ;  possi- 
bly he  did  not  speak  to  them;  but  they 
can  be  identified  after  half  a  century. 
And  that  cannot  be  done  with  a  slip- 
shod record  of  events.  The  wonder  is, 
not  that  Thoreau  did  so  little  here,  but 
that  in  three  brief  visits,  a  stranger,  tem- 
peramentally alien  to  these  great  wilder- 
nesses, he  got  at  the  heart  of  so  many 
matters. 

Almost  any  one  can  see  superficial 
differences;  but  to  perceive  the  essence 
of  even  familiar  surroundings  requires 
something  akin  to  genius.  To  be  sure, 
he  was  helped  by  all  the  books  he  could 
obtain,  especially  by  Springer's  Forest 
Life  and  Forest  Trees,  to  which  he  was 
indebted  for  both  matter  and  manner; 
from  which  he  learned  to  narrow  his 
field  of  observation  to  the  woods  and  the 
Indian,  leaving  other  topics  of  interest 


Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods" 


249 


unexamined.  But  how  did  he  know,  un- 
less he  discerned  it  in  Springer's  account 
of  them,  that  these  remote  woods  farms, 
in  his  day  (not  now),  were  "  winter  quar- 
ters" ?  How  did  he  understand  (and  this 
he  surely  did  not  get  from  Springer)  that 
it  is  the  moose,  and  not  the  bear  nor  the 
beaver,  which  is  "  primeval  man  "  ?  How 
came  he  to  perceive  the  Homeric  quality 
of  the  men  of  the  woods  ?  Hardly  would 
the  chance  tourist  see  so  much.  And  he 
can  explain  the  Homeric  times  by  these : 
"  I  have  no  doubt  that  they  lived  pretty 
much  the  same  sort  of  life  in  the  Homeric 
age,  for  men  have  always  thought  more 
of  eating  than  of  fighting ;  then,  as  now, 
their  minds  ran  chiefly  on  '  hot  bread  and 
sweet  cakes; '  and  the  fur  and  lumber 
trade  is  an  old  story  to  Asia  and  Europe." 
And,  with  a  sudden  illumination,  "I 
doubt  if  men  ever  made  a  trade  of  hero- 
ism. In  the  days  of  Achilles,  even,  they 
delighted  in  big  barns,  and  perchance  in 
pressed  hay,  and  he  who  possessed  the 
most  valuable  team  was  the  best  fellow." 
So,  though  he  was  neither  woodsman 
nor  scientist,  Thoreau  stood  at  the  gate- 
way of  the  woods  and  opened  them  to  all 
future  comers  with  the  key  of  poetic  in- 
sight. And  after  the  woods  shall  have 
passed  away,  the  vision  of  them  as  he  saw 
them  will  remain.  In  all  that  was  best 
in  him  Thoreau  was  a  poet.  The  finest 
passages  in  this  book  are  poetical,  and  he 
is  continually  striking  out  some  glowing 
phrase,  like  a  spark  out  of  flint.  The  logs 
in  the  camp  are  "  tuned  to  each  other 
with  the  axe."  "  For  beauty  give  me 
trees  with  the  fur  on."  The  pines  are  for 
the  poet,  "  who  loves  them  like  his  own 
shadow  in  the  air."  Of  the  fall  of  a  tree 
in  the  forest,  he  says,  "  It  was  a  dull,  dry, 
rushing  sound,  with  a  solid  core  to  it, 
like  the  shutting  of  a  door  in  some  dis- 
tant entry  of  the  damp  and  shaggy  wil- 
derness." Katahdin  is  "  a  permanent 
shadow."  And  upon  it,  "rocks,  gray, 
silent  rocks,  were  the  silent  flocks  and 
herds  that  pastured,  chewing  a  rocky 
cud  at  sunset.  They  looked  at  me  with 
hard  gray  eyes,  without  a  bleat  or  low." 


I  have  seen  the  rocks  on  many  granite 
hills,  but  that  belongs  only  to  the  top  of 
Katahdin. 

Indeed,  this  whole  description  of  Ka- 
tahdin is  unequaled.  "  Chesuncook  "  is 
the  best  paper  of  the  three,  taken  as  a 
whole,  but  these  few  pages  on  Katahdin 
are  incomparable.  Happily  he  knew  the 
traditions  of  the  place,  the  awe  and  ven- 
eration with  which  the  Indians  regarded 
it  as  the  dwelling-place  of  Pamola,  their 
god  of  thunder,  who  was  angry  at  any 
invasion  of  his  home  and  resented  it  in 
fogs  and  sudden  storms.  ("  He  very  an- 
gry when  you  gone  up  there;  you  heard 
him  gone  oo-oo-oo  over  top  of  gun-bar- 
rel," they  used  to  say.)  Thoreau's  Ka- 
tahdin was  a  realm  of  his  own,  in  which 
for  a  few  hours  he  lived  in  primeval 
solitude  above  the  clouds,  invading  the 
throne  of  Pamola  the  Thunderer,  as  Pro- 
metheus harried  Zeus  of  his  lightnings. 
The  gloomy  grandeur  of  ^Eschylus  rises 
before  him  to  give  him  countenance,  and 
he  speaks  himself  as  if  he  wore  the  bus- 
kin. But  it  is  not  windy  declamation. 
He  does  not  explode  into  exclamation 
points.  Katahdin  is  a  strange,  lone,  sav- 
age hill,  unlike  all  others,  —  a  very  In- 
dian among  mountains.  It  does  not  need 
superlatives  to  set  it  off.  Better  by  far 
is  Thoreau's  grim  humor,  his  calling  it  a 
"  cloud  factory,"  where  they  made  their 
bed  "  in  the  nest  of  a  young  whirlwind," 
and  lined  it  with  "  feathers  plucked  from 
the  live  tree."  Had  he  been  one  of  the 
Stonish  men,  those  giants  with  flinty  eye- 
brows, fabled  to  dwell  within  the  granite 
vitals  of  Katahdin,  he  could  not  have 
dealt  more  stout-heartedly  by  the  home 
of  the  Thunder-God. 

The  best  of  Thoreau's  utterances  in 
this  volume  are  like  these,  tuned  to  the 
rapid  and  high  vibration  of  the  poetic 
string,  but  not  resolved  into  rhythm.  It 
is  poetry,  but  not  verse.  Thoreau's  prose 
stands  in  a  class  by  itself.  There  is  an 
honest  hardness  about  it.  We  may  ac- 
cept or  deny  Buffon's  dictum  that  the 
style  is  the  man ;  but  the  man  of  soft  and 
slippery  make-up  would  strive  in  vain 


250 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


to  acquire  the  granitic  integrity  of  struc- 
ture which  marks  Thoreau's  writing.  It 
is  not  poetical  prose  in  the  ordinary  scope 
of  that  flowery  term ;  but,  as  the  granite 
rock  is  rifted  and  threaded  with  veins  of 
glistening  quartz,  this  prose  is  fused  at 
white  heat  with  poetical  insights  and  in- 
terpretations. Judged  by  ordinary  stand- 
ards, he  was  a  poet  who  failed.  He  had 
no  grace  at  metres;  he  had  no  aesthetic 
softness;  his  sense  always  overruled  the 
sound  of  his  stanzas.  The  fragments  of 


verse  which  litter  his  workshop  remind 
one  of  the  chips  of  flint  about  an  Indian 
encampment.  They  might  have  been  the 
heads  of  arrows,  flying  high  and  singing 
in  their  flight,  but  that  the  stone  was 
obdurate  or  the  maker's  hand  was  un- 
equal to  the  shaping  of  it.  But  the  waste 
is  nothing;  there  is  behind  them  the 
Kineo  that  they  came  from,  this  prose 
of  his,  a  whole  mountain  of  the  same 
stuff,  every  bit  capable  of  being  wrought 
to  ideal  uses. 


THE   SENOR'S  VIGIL 


BY   MARY   GLASCOCK 


AT  a  tentative  suggestion  from  the  man 
of  the  house  we  had  agreed  in  the  sum- 
mer, the  four  of  us,  that  we  would  spend 
Christmas  at  our  old  haunt  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

Don  Danuelo  said  he  had  outgrown 
place.  With  so  many  severed  ties,  no 
place  was  home :  he  was  free.  The  Senor 
replied  that  all  places  were  home  to  him, 
and  he  would  be  glad  to  come  home. 
The  Judge  hesitated  —  he  lived  in  a 
small  inland  town — and  said,  "  The  old 
are  not  much  missed  at  Christmas.  Your 
children  form  ties,  and  — "  there  was 
bitterness  in  his  tone  —  "  your  absence 
is  not  regretted  as  much  as  your  com- 
pany when  your  home  is  theirs."  I 
assented  because  these  were  my  dear 
friends  and  I  was  absolutely  alone  in  a 
boarding-house,  the  harbor  of  feminine 
derelicts  —  and  a  spray  of  holly  over  a 
picture  in  a  nine  by  ten  upper-floor  room 
did  n't  mean  Christmas. 

We  met  on  the  train,  the  Sefior,  Don 
Danuelo,  and  I.  It  was  a  raw,  blustery 
night;  at  the  last  minute  I  half  wished 
that  I  had  not  consented  to  go;  but  hav- 
ing agreed  I  met  my  promise  squarely. 
I  have  never  quite  grown  used  to  setting 
out  alone  at  night.  At  the  first  plunge 


into  darkness  I  feel  the  untried  swim- 
mer's instinctive  dread;  it  takes  courage 
to  down  that  shrinking! 

I  had  taken  the  drawing-room,  a  luxu- 
rious extravagance  I  really  could  n't 
afford,  —  I  called  it  a  Christmas  gift  to 
myself, — that  we  might  spend  a  pleasant 
evening  together  undampened  by  the 
lofty  smile  of  the  superior  porter,  or  stare 
of  fellow  traveler.  I  wished  the  spirit  of 
Christmas  to  start  with  us,  to  travel  with 
us,  to  stay  with  us  when  we  reached  the 
mountains.  I  have  no  right  to  these 
youthful  fancies  at  my  years.  Sometimes 
I  am  half  ashamed  that  I  feel  so  young; 
it  is  indecorous,  in  ill  accord  with  graying 
hair.  In  the  same  spirit  I  had  brought  a 
box  of  chocolates  for  the  evening,  and  I 
took  it  from  my  bag  when  we  settled  into 
place. 

Don  Danuelo  sank  heavily  against  the 
plush  back  of  the  seat  and  put  on  his 
black  silk  skull-cap,  sighing.  The  Senor 
sat  at  the  window  watching  the  reced- 
ing arc  of  city  lights  as  the  train  curved 
the  bay. 

"It's  good  to  leave  this  desolation." 
He  nodded  when  the  last  twinkle  dis- 
appeared. "  Our  beloved  city  in  its  ashes 
has  only  the  spirit  of  its  people  to  keep 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


251 


its  holiday.  Ah !  —  ah !  it  is  sad  to  see  it 
laid  low." 

Don  Danuelo  twisted  uneasily.  "  I 
feel  a  twinge  of  my  rheumatism.  I'm  not 
sure  that  I'm  not  a  fool  to  leave  the  city 
this  time  of  year." 

**  We  are  three  wise  folk  journeying 
afar,"  the  Senor  said  blithely.  "  And, 
madam," — he  turned  to  me,  —  "  we  have 
the  happiness  of  having  a  lady  accom- 
pany us  on  our  quest.  We  are  fortunate 
indeed." 

"  Not  a  wise  woman,  I'm  afraid."  I 
shook  my  head,  laughing,  and  looked  out. 

Thick  clouds  darkened  the  sky;  we 
heard  the  wind  screech  as  it  clawed  at  the 
double  car-windows.  Yet  I  rather  liked 
flying  through  the  darkness,  now  that  I 
was  not  alone.  It  was  so  warm  and  light 
inside,  so  deliciously  comfortable  and 
cosy.  The  revolving  car-wheels  ground 
out  a  Christmas  refrain,  and  my  heart 
echoed  it.  Surely  the  Christmas  spirit 
hovered  near. 

The  Senor  leaned  toward  me  —  he  was 
not  given  to  compliment  —  and  pointed 
to  the  star  shining  through  a  clear  space 
in  the  wrack  of  cloud.  "  Madam,  your 
eyes  are  bright  as  the  Christmas  star.  It 
is  a  happy  journey  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  happy  journey,"  I  repeated.  "  To- 
morrow night  will  be  Christmas  eve  — 
and  it  will  not  be  lonely.  It  has  been  for 
many,  many  years,"  I  added  low  to  my- 
self. 

"I'm  sure  there's  no  way  of  heating 
the  rooms,  and  my  asthma  will  come 
back,"  Don  Danuelo  grumbled.  "  Why 
do  they  overheat  the  cars  so  abomin- 
ably ?  "  Don  Danuelo  was  plainly  out  of 
sorts;  his  mood  followed  the  gathering 
storm.  He  was  a  little  "  low  in  his  mind," 
as  he  graphically  expressed  the  fall  in 
the  barometer  of  his  feelings,  and  refused 
sweets.  "  I  take  better  care  of  my  diges- 
tion at  my  age,"  he  replied,  scornfully 
eyeing  the  Senor,  who  was  munching 
chocolate  creams  in  evident  enjoyment. 
"  A  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his 
stomach,"  he  continued  in  grim  dis- 
approval. 


The  swaying  of  the  car  was  soothing, 
and,  under  the  acetylene  lamp,  Don 
Danuelo  was  soon  nodding,  his  head 
drooping  forward  on  his  breast.  He  had 
aged  since  summer,  but  he  looked  peace- 
ful; the  Christmas  spirit  was  whispering 
pleasant  dreams,  from  the  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"  Do  not  wake  him."  The  Senor  laid 
finger  to  his  lip.  "  It  is  blessed  to  sleep. 
I  envy  Don  Danuelo.  The  nights  are 
long  to  us  who  wake  and  think.  But  we 
shall  all  rest  in  the  mountains,  madam." 

The  mountains  raised  naked  hands 
to  us  next  morning  in  the  gray,  sullen 
light.  Tree  and  bush,  save  evergreen, 
were  stripped  to  the  bone  of  leaf;  bare 
branches  stood  stark  against  the  sky.  A 
light  snowfall  had  whitened  the  higher 
peaks;  sombre  green  of  tall  pines  looked 
black  against  the  white.  The  river  flowed 
dark  and  swollen,  gnawing  at  granite 
boulders,  snarling  in  foamy  rage  like  a 
great  cat  tearing  at  its  bonds.  Across 
Shasta,  threatening  clouds  were  drawn. 
It  was  a  changed  world,  from  the  bright 
glow  of  summer  to  this  lowering  winter. 
Yet  the  shorn  mountains  held  a  strange 
dignity.  I  felt  depressed  as  I  shook  hands 
with  the  man  of  the  house,  but  the  cheeri- 
ness  of  his  greeting  made  sunshine.  You 
knew  he  was  glad  to  see  you.  Even  Don 
Danuelo  smiled  at  the  old  welcoming 
jokes.  And  Christmas  was  in  the  air, 
Christmas  fragrance  rose  from  every 
green  thing,  filling  the  earth.  Swaying 
limbs  were  Christmas  branches  resinous 
and  sweet,  and  young  Christmas  trees 
were  set  like  altar  tapers  thick  on  the 
edge  of  the  field. 

"It's  been  raining  a  week  solid,"  the 
man  of  the  house  said,  urging  the  patient 
horses  up  the  sticky  hill-road.  "  The 
roads  have  been  most  washed  out.  We 
were  afraid  you  might  n't  come,  and  — " 

"  We  came  to  greet  the  little  baby," 
the  Senor  said,  "  to  see  the  beautiful  gift 
laid  at  your  door." 

The  pleased  father's  face  rippled  with 
proud  good  humor. 

"  We're  going  to  make  a  fisherman 


252 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


out  of  him."  He  turned  to  Don  Danuelo. 
"  You  ought  to  see  him  grip  his  fingers 
round  *  old  reliable.'  "  "  Old  reliable  " 
was  Don  Danuelo's  favorite  stout  bam- 
boo bait-rod. 

"  A  fisherman !  "  Don  Danuelo's  ex- 
pression was  consternation  itself.  "  Man 
alive!  "  he  ejaculated  —  "  Caramba!  — 
I  brought  him  a  doll  —  a  doll.  When 
you  wrote,  you  said  a  baby  — "  He 
pounded  the  stalwart  man  of  the  house 
on  the  back.  "  Why  did  n't  you  say  a 
boy,  man.  Lordy,  lordy  —  a  doll !  "  He 
chuckled  to  himself  all  the  way  up  the 
hill.  "  He  shall  have  '  old  reliable,'  sir, 
when  he  grows  up  to  it.  I  hope  he  may 
land  as  many  fine  trout  with  it  as  I 
have  lifted  from  the  Sacramento."  The 
old  man  became  reminiscent  between 
chuckles.  "  Oh,  lordy,  a  doll !  "  he  kept 
repeating. 

We  brought  smiling  faces  to  greet  the 
Judge,  who  met  us  at  the  gate,  gaunter, 
thinner,  more  bowed  than  when  we  left 
him  in  the  summer. 

The  storm  burst  toward  night.  Rain 
fell  as  it  can  fall  only  in  the  northern 
mountains,  in  hard,  persistent  slant.  The 
wind  shrieked  from  the  top  of  the  hills, 
and  rushed  in  wild  elation  down  the 
canons  where  sullen  boom  of  river  joined 
the  roar.  The  big  fir  shading  the  porch 
rasped  the  shingles  of  the  roof.  Windows 
shook  in  their  frames,  and  one  pane  of 
glass  in  the  best  room  smashed  into  bits. 
The  old  house  trembled,  afraid;  the 
world  was  full  of  crash  of  sound.  On  a 
far  mountain-side  the  splintering  of  a 
tree  came  sharp  as  a  rifle-shot.  Outside 
it  grew  black,  dense  black,  storm- 
whipped,  and  full  of  confused  strife.  You 
could  feel  the  darkness;  it  was  thick, 
palpable.  When  I  went  to  the  door  I 
could  not  see  a  finger's  length  across  the 
porch.  The  vines  flapped  like  chained 
things  writhing  to  be  loosed.  The  door 
was  torn  from  my  grasp  and  swung  back 
and  forth  on  its  hinges. 

Inside  the  gathering-room  a  huge  fire 
leaped.  The  whole  room  swam  in  light, 
warmth.  The  door  of  the  adjoining  room 


was  ajar,  so  that  we  could  see  the  little 
child  asleep  in  its  rude  cradle.  The  cal- 
endars on  the  wall  —  there  were  many 
—  were  wreathed  in  fir.  Great  branches 
of  toyon  berries,  our  Californian  holly, 
banked  the  high  mantel-piece  —  rich, 
glossy  branches  thick  with  lustrous  red 
berries  making  the  heart  glad  with  their 
glow.  I  filled  the  top  of  the  pine  desk 
with  the  overflow,  and  every  space  was 
bright  with  fir  and  berry. 

We  were  watching  red  apples,  from 
last  fall's  trees,  turn  and  sizzle  on  strings 
before  the  blaze.  The  Sefior  broke  the 
silence. 

"  What  a  glorious  Christmas  eve! 
What  a  grand  Te  Deum  the  forest  and 
river  are  singing." 

After  he  spoke,  somehow,  we  forgot 
the  strife  and  cold  and  fretted  nerves. 

The  master  of  the  house  brought  out 
a  graphophone  and  set  it  on  a  table  in 
the  corner. 

"  We'll  have  music  to-night,"  he  said. 
"  I  bought  this  for  the  baby." 

"Lordy,  lordy — a  doll!"  I  over- 
heard Don  Danuelo  chuckle  to  himself. 

"  If  you  wish  to  hark  back  to  youth, 
play  the  old  tunes,"  I  whispered  to  the 
Judge,  as  the  man  of  the  house  started 
the  machine  with  "Down  on  the  Suwa- 
nee  River."  Don  Danuelo's  eyes  bright- 
ened, and  he  turned  to  the  little  woman, 
who  sat  where  she  could  watch  her 
baby. 

"  If  it  will  not  trouble  you,  may  we 
have  some  eggs  and  cream  and  sugar? 
I  have  some  fine  whiskey  in  my  room. 
We'll  have  a  famous  egg-nog  to-night, 
just  as  we  used  to  have  on  the  old  planta- 
tion when  I  was  a  boy." 

To  the  grinding  out  of  the  "  Suwanee 
River"  Don  Danuelo  beat  eggs;  no  one 
else  could  be  intrusted  with  that  delicate 
task.  I  was  permitted,  as  a  special  privi- 
lege, to  beat  the  whites  to  proper  stiffness 
under  strict  supervision.  The  Judge  was 
detailed  to  pour  the  whiskey  carefully, 
drop  by  drop.  Don  Danuelo  sat  before 
the  fire,  a  kitchen  apron  tied  about  his 
neck,  stirring  the  mixture  in  the  yellow 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


253 


bowl,  issuing  orders.  The  Senor  hovered 
about  interestedly,  for  the  compound 
was  new  to  him.  Don  Danuelo's  foot 
kept  time  to  the  stir  of  the  spoon. 

"  I  can  hear  old  Uncle  Billy  outside, 
rattling  the  glasses  on  his  tray !  "  he 
sighed  reminiscently ;  "  arid  I  recollect," 
he  turned  to  us,  his  eyes  glistening, 
"  when  I  was  a  boy,  sneaking  out  to  the 
pantry  and  putting  a  big  dinner  goblet 
in  place  of  the  small  glass  meant  for  me. 
And  Uncle  Billy  was  white :  he  never 
told,  but  put  his  big  hand  round  that 
corner  of  the  tray,  when  Marse  Dan's 
turn  came.  Lordy !  " 

The  graphophone  wheezed.  The  man 
of  the  house  took  up  the  brush  to 
smooth  the  flow  of  sound.  "  Here,  Judge, 
not  so  fast,"  Don  Danuelo  called.  "Whis- 
key's  like  oil;  it  must  be  poured  slow- 
ly to  mix  well."  I  showed  my  foamy 
bank.  "  Hm,  madam,  a  little  bit  stiffer. 
It  must  be  stiff  enough  to  stick  if  you 
turn  the  platter  upside  down."  His 
hearty  laugh  deadened  the  roar  of  the 
storm.  "  Turn  the  crank  of  your  machine 
again,  man.  I  can  hear  my  mother  play- 
ing that  tune  on  the  old  piano  —  and  the 
governor  snoring  in  the  corner  —  and 
Uncle  Billy  listening  behind  the  pantry 
door  —  I'm  young  again  to-night.  Your 
beating  of  the  whites  does  credit  to  you, 
madam;  they  are  light  enough  to  have 
been  done  in  the  south." 

My  wrist  ached,  but  I  was  foolishly 
pleased  at  praise  in  even  so  trifling  a 
thing;  not  many  bones  of  approbation 
are  flung  to  us  when  we  are  growing  old. 
Don  Danuelo  filled  a  glass,  and  with  a 
stately  bow,  not  at  all  impaired  by  the 
broadness  of  his  girth,  handed  it  to  me. 

"  I  shall  play  Uncle  Billy  to-night.  I 
appeal  to  your  excellent  judgment, 
madam." 

"  Nectar!  "  I  exclaimed  as  I  drank. 
Why  nectar  ?  But  that  seems  to  be  the 
summit  of  all  things  drinkable,  and  I  am 
not  of  an  inventive  mind. 

"To  the  blessed  Christmas  Eve."  The 
Senor's  glass  touched  mine,  and  all  the 
little  circle  in  the  firelight  clinked  glasses 


merrily  in  chime  of  good  fellowship.  The 
Judge's  gaunt  face  softened,  his  crusti- 
ness crumbled,  and  he  toasted  Don 
Danuelo. 

"  To  the  best  fisher  on  the  river,"  he 
pledged  gallantly. 

"  With  bait,  sir,  with  bait! "  Don 
Danuelo  disclaimed,  but  swaggered  at 
the  compliment. 

"  The  best  mixer  of  the  best  drink  on 
earth,"  the  Judge  added,  draining  his 


"  Hear  —  hear!  "  the  rest  of  us  clam- 
ored in  hearty  assent. 

Don  Danuelo  refilled  our  glasses  from 
the  yellow  bowl  with  a  kitchen  spoon. 
What  did  it  matter?  We,  too,  were  in 
that  old  drawing-room;  we,  too,  heard 
the  ancient  piano  and  were  served  by 
Uncle  Billy  with  the  thin  silver  ladle 
from  the  Canton  bowl.  We,  too,  were 
young.  The  Senor  drew  up  his  slender 
figure  and  stood. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  drink  a  very 
good  health  to  my  good,  good  friends; 
to  the  little  babe  in  the  other  room.  May 
peace  be  his  portion  of  the  drink  of  life; 
may  that  cup  be  ever  at  his  lips;  may 
peace  be  with  all  of  us  to-night,  and  for- 
ever." 

The  words  were  not  many,  but  the 
soul  wished  it  so  earnestly  that  a  trans- 
figured look  was  in  his  face.  For  a  mo- 
ment a  hush ;  then  the  wail  of  the  storm 
smote  across  the  silence.  The  man  of 
the  house  started  the  instrument  again. 
"Old  Dan  Tucker"  rollicked  among 
the  rafters;  Don  Danuelo's  foot  patted 
the  bare  board  floor. 

"  Come  on,  madam."  He  held  out  his 
hands  to  me.  "Come  on,  all.  We're 
going  to  have  a  Virginia  reel.  We  always 
ended  Christmas  Eve  with  it  on  the  old 
plantation  —  and  many's  the  reel  we 
had  at  the  Mexican  hacienda,  ay  de  mi ! " 

I  hesitated.  He  drew  me  from  my 
seat.  I  was  not  unwilling;  my  feet 
twitched;  I  felt  the  invitation  of  the 
music.  The  Judge  unbent  and  took  his 
place  in  line.  The  Senor,  willing  pupil, 
followed  the  Judge's  instructions.  No 


254 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


one  was  old ;  age  was  a  myth  —  youth, 
youth,  eternal  youth,  bubbled  like  wine 
in  our  veins.  There  was  color  in  the 
Senor's  pale  cheeks,  his  deep  eyes 
sparkled.  The  Judge !  It  was  a  slender 
young  man  who  bowed  graciously  before 
me;  and  I  dipped  and  curtsied,  full  of 
the  joy  of  it,  the  joy  of  motion  and  high 
flood  of  life.  When  we  halted,  for  pure 
lack  of  breath  and  a  break  in  the  music, 
Don  Danuelo  cut  the  finest  pigeon- wing. 
Transfixed,  we  watched  the  rhythmical 
intricacies  of  his  steps.  No  one  was  old 

—  we  had  all  gone  back !    I  held  my 
breath  in  fear  that  the  joy  of  it  would 
bring  tears. 

We  may  tell  you  adolescents  that  it  is 
wisdom,  ambition,  fortune  we  care  for. 
WTe  may  tell  you  this,  but  all  the  time  it 
is  youth  our  hearts  are  craving,  youth 
with  its  beliefs,  its  trust,  its  glow,  its 
magic  —  youth,  the  lost  pence  we  spent 
so  prodigally  —  and  will  never  have  the 
chance  of  spending  again.  Had  a  miracle 
happened  ?  My  body  was  as  light  as  my 
heart;  my  heart  beat  rapturously.  I  saw 
youth  in  all  those  faces  in  the  circle  about 
the  fire;  the  lines  born  of  the  travail  of 
life  were  smoothed  away.  Don  Danuelo 
hummed  the  air  the  graphophone  was 
playing;  the  Judge's  eyes  snapped  fire, 
and  mischief  smothered  his  usual  grav- 
ity; the  Senor  looked  serene  and  blessed 

—  and  I  —  I  vow  I  felt  twenty.  My  hair 
was  loosened,  my  cheeks  glowed;  I  felt 
the  burn  that  was  not  from  fire ;  I  did  not 
care.  I  turned  to  the  Senor  —  it  is  always 
to  the  Senor  we  turn  —  to  ask  if  it  were 
really  true — this  blessedness — when  the 
door  was  flung  open;  the  section  boss 
in  oilskins  was  swept  in  with  the  wind, 
and  a  trail  of  rain  followed  him.   A  wet 
dog  crawled  to  the  hearth  and  settled 
limply,  his  head  between  his  paws.    We 
made  way  for  both  and  waited.  A  lantern 
swung  in  the  man's  hand;  his  face  was 
troubled,  anxious.     Don   Danuelo  rose 
to  shut  the  door,  and  limped;  I  noticed 
it.    He  put  his  hand  to  his  knee  —  the 
old  gesture.    My  heart  grew  gray.   Was 
it  all  over  ?  It  could  n't  last ! 


The  man  addressed  the  man  of  the 
house :  — 

"  Jim,  the  bridge  below  the  station  has 
been  washed  away,  and  the  down  train's 
stalled.  The  suspension  foot-bridge 
'cross  to  my  cabin's  gone,  too.  The 
river's  running  bank-full.  My  wife's 
alone  on  t'other  side;  it's  a  nasty  night." 

All  these  troubles  not  a  mile  away,  and 
we  had  been  disporting  ourselves  like 
old —  Don  Danuelo  limped  painfully 
when  he  ladled  the  last  drop  from  the 
yellow  bowl  and  gave  it  to  the  man,  who 
swallowed  it  gratefully,  not  minding  that 
it  no  longer  foamed. 

"  My  wife  is  scared,"  he  said.  "  I 
can't  get  to  her;  I  can't  try;  it's  my  duty 
to  look  after  the  other  folks  who  don't 
need  me.  Jim,  you  're  the  best  friend  I '  ve 
got,  and  I've  come  to  you  to  see  if  you 
can  do  anything.  She's  alone;  there's 
a  California  lion  on  the  hill  back  of  the 
house." 

So  quietly  the  Senor  left,  I  did  not 
hear  him  go.  He  came  back  wrapped  in 
an  oilskin  coat  much  too  big  for  him. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  and  see  what  can 
be  done." 

The  baby  woke;  the  little  woman  went 
to  hush  it.  Don  Danuelo  offered  to  hold 
it  while  the  mother  searched  for  a  lantern 
for  the  man  of  the  house,  and  I  saw  a 
check  folded  in  the  tiny  hand.  He  mo- 
tioned me  to  silence. 

"  It's  nothing — a  little  Christmas  gift; 
there's  a  mortgage  on  the  ranch,  you 
know,"  he  whispered,  passing  the  baby 
over  to  me.  "  Lordy,  lordy,  a  doll!" 
again  he  chuckled  to  himself.  "  I  owe 
the  little  rascal  this  apology."  When  I 
would  have  praised  him,  he  muttered 
fretfully,  "I  told  you  on  the  train  that 
I  should  n't  have  come,  madam.  It 's 
beastly  weather,  and  my  rheumatism  cuts 
like  a  knife."  But  I  knew  that  in  his 
heart  nothing  could  have  torn  from  him 
the  memory  of  that  last  hour. 

When  the  mother  returned,  I  hastened 
for  wraps  and  my  heavy  boots.  The 
Judge  came  in,  storm-equipped.  We 
both  declared,  in  spite  of  protest,  our 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


255 


determination  to  go.  I  knew  that  I  was 
foolish  and  of  no  earthly  use  except  for 
the  comfort  that  a  woman's  presence 
might  give  to  another  woman  separated 
from  the  world  by  a  mad  river.  Young 
blood  still  coursed  in  my  veins,  and  I  was 
keen  for  adventure. 

When  we  went  out,  following  in  the 
wake  of  the  lanterns,  it  was  quite  still. 
With  a  sudden  shift  of  wind  the  gust  had 
blown  itself  out.  It  had  turned  bitter 
cold;  the  cold  bit  at  your  face  and 
tweaked  at  your  ears,  chilling  your  blood 
to  ice.  The  rain  had  stopped ;  sleet  and 
snow  were  falling,  a  hateful  mixture.  I 
put  out  my  hand  and  felt  the  sting  of  the 
icy  drops.  The  road  was  ankle-deep  in 
slushy  red  mud.  You  had  to  wrest  your 
shoe  from  one  clammy  imprint  to  make 
another;  the  ooze  made  a  sucking  sound. 
Fortunately  it  would  freeze  before  we 
came  back.  The  thick  darkness  was 
dimly  lightened  by  the  veil  of  fine  snow 
flung  against  it.  The  only  way  to  cling 
to  the  road  was  to  follow  the  tiny,  blurred 
points  of  the  two  lanterns  ahead.  I  fell 
behind  and  lost  the  light  at  a  bend 
crowded  close  by  a  dense  growth  of  sap- 
ling pine.  I  halted ;  I  was  not  afraid,  for 
fear  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  Sefior 
spoke;  I  had  not  noticed  that  he  had 
fallen  back  with  me. 

"  Had  you  not  better  return,  madam  ?" 

I  struggled  for  breath  to  answer  nega- 
tively, and  increased  my  pace. 

The  station  was  filled  with  railroad 
officials  and  impatient  travelers;  tele- 
graph instruments  ticked  rapidly.  Here, 
the  section  boss  left  us. 

"  Do  what  you  can  to  get  her  over, 
but  run  no  risks,"  he  cautioned  sternly, 
and  went  to  his  duty  toward  the  stalled 
train. 

Snow  was  coming  down  thicker ;  cedar 
and  fir  showed  white- topped  branches; 
the  slush  was  already  stiffening;  the 
thermometer,  hanging  at  the  station 
door,  was  racing  past  freezing  point. 
You  had  to  swing  your  arms  to  keep 
the  blood  moving.  I  shivered  in  my 
warm  wraps  as  we  walked  down  the 


track  to  the  clump  of  redbuds  where  the 
end  of  the  slight  bridge  had  been  an- 
chored to  a  rock.  The  roar  of  the  river 
kept  us  from  speaking;  we  had  to  shout 
to  be  heard  a  foot  away. 

Through  the  wet  redbuds,  now  shed- 
ding snow  upon  us,  we  came  to  the  river. 
In  black  rage  it  was  boiling  close  to  the 
top  of  the  bank,  the  surface  massed  with 
wreckage.  One  huge  pine-trunk  jarred 
the  bank  near  where  I  stood;  I  felt  the 
earth  shiver.  The  woman,  with  a  shawl 
pinned  over  her  head,  stood  on  the  op- 
posite bank,  lantern  in  hand,  peering 
through  the  dark.  At  the  flash  of  our 
lantern  she  swung  hers  in  return.  A  firm 
hand  signaled  us;  I  was  proud  of  my 
sex,  and  stepped  where  she  could  see  that 
there  was  a  woman  ready  to  help.  We 
tried  to  shout,  making  trumpets  of  our 
hands.  In  that  swirl  of  sound,  a  human 
voice  was  powerless  —  no  more  than  the 
pipe  of  a  reed. 

The  men  went  lower  to  examine  the 
fastenings  of  the  wire  cable  thrown  across 
the  river  by  the  McCloud  Country  Club 
for  the  purpose  of  carrying  over  its  heavy 
freight  —  the  only  communication  with 
the  other  side  left  intact  by  the  storm. 

"  It's  impossible  to  get  a  human  being 
across  to-night,"  the  man  of  the  house 
said  when  they  returned.  "  The  car's 
on  this  side,  but  it  would  be  almost  cer- 
tain death;  the  cable's  not  six  feet  above 
the  water  now." 

They  signaled  to  the  waiting  woman 
on  the  bank,  who  interpreted  their  pur- 
pose by  signs.  She  held  the  lantern  near 
her  face,  and  I  never  saw  despair  more 
plainly  written  on  human  features.  1 
saw  her  press  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
then  straighten  and  smile.  That  smile 
strengthened  me.  I  confess  I  was  crying 
and  letting  tears  freeze  on  my  cheeks.  It 
seemed  so  lone,  and  she  was  young.  The 
dark  mountain  back  of  her  rose  straight 
as  a  wall,  black  with  mystery,  —  and 
creeping  furry  things  seek  shelter  in 
storm  they  say,  —  and  who  knew  what 
the  black  trees  held  ?  It  is  these  mountain 
folk  who  can  teach  us  city-bred  weaklings 


256 


The  Senor's  Vigil 


to  endure.  She  pointed  toward  the  cable. 
The  Senor  stepped  to  the  nearest  point 
and  shook  his  head.  He  clasped  his 
hands  together  and  closed  his  eyes.  We 
bent  our  heads.  And  to  the  woman 
standing  in  the  thickening  fall  of  snow 
I  felt  that  new  courage  came. 

The  man  of  the  house  again  tried  to 
shout;  it  was  useless,  his  words  were 
tossed,  mocking,  back  across  the  widen- 
ing water.  How  the  cold  cut! 

"  We'd  better  go  home,"  he  said 
gruffly,  swallowing  hard;  "we  can  do 
no  good." 

"  A  moment.  May  I  have  your  lan- 
tern ? "  the  Sefior  begged,  and  went 
away.  He  came  back  with  heaped  arms. 
Stretching  between  two  fir  saplings  a 
piece  of  canvas  he  had  borrowed  from 
the  station-master,  he  laid  a  few  sticks 
and  paper  on  the  ground,  and  started  a 
blaze  that  spluttered  feebly  on  the  wet 
earth. 

"  It  will  burn  presently,"  he  said, 
"  when  the  pine  needles  dry  out.  Now 
if  you  can  leave  me  your  lantern,  the 
station-master  gave  me  oil,  and  I  will 
keep  my  Christmas  vigil  here." 

He  threw  an  old  sack  on  the  ground 
and  smiled  at  us,  lighting  a  cigar. 

"But  —  "  we  protested. 

"  It  is  my  wish,  my  pleasure,"  he  said, 
with  a  finality  no  one  could  question. 

The  woman  opposite  watched  him. 
Then,  as  we  turned  to  leave,  she  went 
into  her  cabin,  swinging  the  lantern  al- 
most gayly.  I  knew  that,  as  usual,  the 
Senor  had  brought  peace.  And  surely 
what  else  was  the  blessed  Christmas  Eve 
given  to  us  for  —  peace  on  earth,  good- 
will to  men!  The  remembrance  of  the 
deed  made  easy  the  dark  climb  up  the 
hill.  But  suddenly,  when  I  came  into 
light  and  warmth,  I  felt  the  weariness  of 
flesh;  I  was  very  tired  and  numb  from 
cold.  Don  Danuelo  sat  nursing  his  knee 
before  the  flame,  his  face  twisted  in 
pain. 

"  We  none  of  us  can  escape  our  in- 
heritance; our  make-believes  are  pitiful," 
I  said  half  to  myself,  hugging  the  fire. 


"  I've  got  what  any  fool  might  expect 
—  capering  at  my  age,"  Don  Danuelo 
growled.  "  Might  have  known  I  was  a 
doddering  idiot  coming  to  the  mountains 
this  time  of  year.  It's  cold  enough  to 
freeze  —  the  infernal  regions  to-night." 

"  Would  you  give  up  the  last  hours  ?  " 
I  asked  slyly.  For  even  in  my  heaviness 
of  body  I  still  was  thankful  for  the  thrill 
of  youth  that  had  been. 

The  man  of  the  house  slipped  to  the 
graphophone;  the  record  was  still  on. 
A  broad,  peaceful  smile  shone  on  Don 
Danuelo's  face,  and  he  nodded  gently 
to  sleep  in  time  with  the  tune. 

I  could  not  sleep  late;  my  mind  was 
troubled  over  the  watcher  at  the  river. 
He  was  old  and  not  over-strong.  The 
world  was  white,  unbroken  white;  dawn 
was  late  breaking  in  the  mountains. 
When  it  came  it  poured  slowly  like  silver 
over  peak,  crag,  and  meadow.  I  heard  a 
stir  in  the  gathering-room,  and,  hasten- 
ing to  dress,  went  down. 

The  Senor,  helping  a  dripping  woman, 
had  just  come  in. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,"  he  called  to 
me  gayly  and  took  off  the  broad-brimmed 
hat  with  the  old  sweeping  bow.  "  Here 
is  a  Christmas  heroine  for  you.  Mrs. 
Sant  crossed  on  the  cable  at  daybreak. 
The  intense  cold  has  kept  the  snow  from 
melting,  and  the  river  is  no  higher  — 
and,  thank  God  —  the  cable  held." 

The  woman  shivered. 

"  I  could  never  have  crossed  alone," 
she  said.  "  The  Senor"  —  they  all  knew 
him  along  the  river,  and  called  him  by 
that  name  —  "  came  over  for  me."  He 
held  up  his  hand  to  silence  her.  The 
woman  went  on.  "  He  crossed  at  day- 
break. None  of  you,"  her  voice  was  very 
grave,  "  can  know  what  that  meant.  The 
river  was  racing  like  mad,  and  the  cable 
was  frozen  and  slippery,  the  wheels 
clogged  with  ice.  Look  at  his  hands," 
she  pointed ;  "  they're  cut  and  bleeding." 
The  Senor  smiled  and  clasped  them  be- 
hind his  back.  "  I  heard  a  knock  on  my 
door  at  the  break  of  day.  For  a  minute 


Music,   Going  Home 


257 


I  was  frightened.  But  I'd  had  a  safe 
night.  Whenever  I  felt  afraid  I  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  across  the  river 
where  I  could  see  his  fire ;  that  made  me 
feel  safe;  it  steadied  my  nerves.  You 
don't  know  what  company  it  was  to  me 
to  see  that  light !  Women  are  n't  made 
like  men,  we  don't  have  to  have  things 
right  at  hand  to  believe  in  'em.  It  was 
just  feeling  somebody  was  near  made  me 
easy  in  my  mind.  I  could  have  cried 
when  the  Senor  stood  at  my  door,  and  I 
thought  nobody  but  wildcats  and  me 
were  on  that  side  of  the  river.  Was  n't 
it  lucky  the  car  was  on  the  other  side? 
After  I'd  made  coffee  he  told  me  that 
he  was  going  to  pull  me  over.  Then  my 
courage  nearly  petered  out." 

"  Madam,  madam,"  the  Senor  inter- 
rupted, "  allow  me,  your  courage  was 
admirable  —  you  never  cried  out,  you 
helped  —  " 

"  Don't  let's  talk  of  it  — yet.  I  can 
still  hear  the  noise  of  that  water;  I  can 


feel  the  car  swinging,  the  awful  fear 
when  that  big  tree  swept  by  us.  And 
when  the  car  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  river  and  you  stood  up,  I  thought  —  " 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  shud- 
dering. 

The  little  woman  led  her  away  for  dry 
clothing. 

"  Let  me  see  your  hands,"  I  demanded 
of  the  Senor. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  nothing,  madam,  nothing  but  a 
few  insignificant  scratches.  But  the  little 
lady  —  her  courage  was  splendid.  It 
was  a  terrible  trip  for  a  woman ;  it  meant 
creeping  like  a  snail,  with  a  chance  of 
never  getting  over,  with  a  whirlpool 
roaring  underneath,  so  close  it  swayed 
the  car.  And  what  do  you  think  she  said 
when  I  asked  her  if  she  were  not  afraid. 
She  said  that  she  would  do  it  again  to 
spend  Christmas  day  with  her  husband. 
You  American  women  are  a  brave  race, 
madam."  And  the  Senor  bowed. 


MUSIC,   GOING  HOME 

BY   R.    VALANTINE    HECKSCHER 

THE  vale  is  crowding  up  with  stars, 

And  I  am  stealing  home  — 
While  everywhere  the  "  chirps  "  and  '*  chirrs  " 

From  secret  cellars  come! 


The  dusk  is  busy  with  applause  — 
The  crickets  most  rejoice! 

And  everything  that  had  to  pause 
Has  found  a  cheering  voice! 

Oh!  have  I  really  come  so  near 
The  risen  Shades  of  Things, 

So  near  the  Spirits  that  I  hear 
The  music  of  their  wings? 


VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


THE   IBSEN  HARVEST 


BY   ARCHIBALD   HENDERSON 


UNTIL  after  the  death  of  Henrik  Ibsen, 
the  literature  concerned  with  his  life  and 
work  dealt  almost  solely  with  a  tradition- 
ary figure.  This  legendary  being  was  a 
little  crabbed  old  man,  taciturn,  uncom- 
municative, even  bearish,  who  occasion- 
ally broke  the  silence  only  to  lash  out 
with  envenomed  rage  at  his  enemies  or 
else  to  offend  gratuitously  the  friends  and 
admirers  who  sought  to  do  him  public 
honor.  Now  that  we  are  left  alone  with 
memories,  and  reminiscences,  both  kindly 
and  malicious,  the  spiritual  lineaments 
of  the  Norwegian  seer  tend  to  define 
themselves  to  popular  vision.  For  the 
first  time,  it  is  becoming  possible  to  dis- 
cover the  man  in  his  works,  and  to  trace 
a  few  of  the  many  vital  threads  in  the 
close-meshed  fabric  of  his  dramatic  art. 
While  such  biographies  as  those  of  Vase- 
nius,  Henrik  Jaeger,  and  Passonge  are 
mediately  accurate  in  recounting  the 
leading  events  of  Ibsen's  exterior  life, 
while  such  studies  as  those  of  Brandes, 
Ebrhard,  Shaw,  and  others  are  brilliant 
biographies  of  Ibsen's  mind,  so  far  no 
effort  has  been  made  to  relate  the  man 
to  his  work.  It  would  be  more  accurate 
to  say  that  there  has  been  no  systematic 
attempt  to  discover  the  real  human  being 
who  lurks  behind  the  cartoons  of  Vallot- 
ton,  Laerum,  and  Scotson-Clark,  the  real 
human  heart  beating  beneath  the  for- 
midable frock-coat  of  the  "  little  but- 
toned-up  man." 

The  first  biography  of  Ibsen  written 
by  Englishman  or  American  is  the  work 
of  Haldane  MacFall,1  who  confesses  with 
becoming  modesty  that  he  attempts  "  but 
to  give  an  impressionistic  picture  of  the 
man,  a  record  of  the  accidents  of  his 
living  that  we  call  life,  and  a  rough  esti- 

1  Ibsen.     New   York   and    San    Francisco : 
Morgan  Shepard  Company.     1907. 
258 


mate  of  his  genius  and  his  significance." 
The  narrow  range  of  Mr.  MacFalPs 
intercourse  with  the  Ibsen  literature  is 
compensated  for  neither  by  signal  critical 
perception  nor  by  personal  acquaintance 
with  the  subject  of  his  biography ;  and  in 
using  the  new  material  furnished  by  the 
Letters,  he  has  quoted  them  as  so  many 
records  of  fact,  without  imagination  or 
interpretation.  Supported  by  the  initial 
declaration  that  "  to  understand  Ibsen's 
full  significance  in  art,  it  is  necessary  to 
read  Ibsen's  plays,"  he  blithely  proceeds 
to  propound  Ibsen's  "  full  significance  " 
after  the  mere  perusal  of  the  plays;  and 
devotes  twenty-eight  pages  to  An  Enemy 
of  ike  People,  cutting  off  The  Master 
Builder  with  a  paltry  twelve.  The  Ibsen 
riddle  is  complacently  ignored;  another 
truism  is  shattered,  and  at  last  we  have 
an  Ibsen  which  is  "  spoon-meat  for 
babes." 

In  critical  studies  of  Ibsen,  treating 
constructively  of  his  dramatic  art  from 
a  chosen  point  of  view,  America  has  been 
singularly  deficient.  To  Ibsen,  the  coun- 
tries which  have  concerned  themselves 
with  his  life  and  art  have  given  a  defining 
title  or  character:  Norway  thought  of 
him  first  as  a  Conservative  and  later  as  a 
Radical;  Germany  was  divided  between 
those  who  classed  him,  respectively,  as 
naturalist,  individualist,  and  socialist; 
and  France  abhorred  his  anarchy  while 
celebrating  his  symbolism.  In  England, 
Ibsen  has  been  classed  as  a  literary  muck- 
raker,  as  a  thinker  of  abnormally  astute 
intellect,  or  simply  as  a  dramatist  quite 
innocent  of  polemical,  ethical,  or  redemp- 
tive intent.  In  America,  Ibsen  as  cham- 
pion of  individual  emancipation  came 
too  late,  one  might  almost  say  with  truth ; 
although  the  literature  of  exposure  is 
never  mal  a  propos  in  a  civilization  whose 


The  Ibsen  Harvest 


259 


protection  rests  upon  perpetual  publicity. 

America  surpasses  the  civilizations  of 
the  Ibsen  social  dramas  in  the  production 
of  self-assertive  individualists ;  the  Ibsenic 
iconoclasm  made  no  noise  in  America, 
for  with  us  Ibsen  was  hammering  at  an 
open  door.  It  is  quite  natural  and  logical 
to  find  the  interest  in  Ibsen  in  America 
confined  almost  exclusively  to  the  minor 
public  of  intellectual  and  literary  affilia- 
tions, and  to  American  scholars.  The 
recent  American  studies  upon  Ibsen  are 
concerned,  as  might  be  expected,  with 
specialized  phases  of  his  art  as  a  drama- 
tist, rather  than  with  disquisitions  on  his 
life,  politics,  religion,  or  philosophy. 

It  is  cause  for  gratification  that  The 
Ibsen  Secret1  is  sub-entitled,  not  The, 
but  A  Key  to  the  Prose  Dramas  of 
Henrik  Ibsen.  The  grim,  sardonic  smile 
with  which  Ibsen  greeted  interpretations 
of,  or  inquiries  as  to  the  purport  of,  his 
art  works  might  well  deter  one  from 
complacently  claiming  to  have  discovered 
the  Ibsen  secret.  Bernard  Shaw  once 
said  that  if  people  knew  all  that  a  drama- 
tist thought,  they  would  kill  him;  and 
Ibsen,  like  Sargent,  always  means  far 
more  than  he  says.  Ibsen  is  doubtless  in 
the  confessional  mood  when  he  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  Professor  Rubek  the  words 
concerning  his  own  sculptures:  "  All  the 
same,  they  are  no  mere  portrait  busts. 
.  .  .  There  is  something  equivocal,  cryp- 
tic, lurking  in  and  behind  these  busts  —  a 
secret  something  that  the  people  them- 
selves cannot  see."  In  Ibsen's  plays, 
Professor  Lee  has  found  something  cryp- 
tic, lurking  in  and  behind  the  mechanical 
framework  —  the  symbol.  Her  theory 
is  novel,  not  for  the  assertion  of  Ibsen's 
utilization  of  symbol,  but  for  the  insist- 
ence upon  the  invariability  of  its  employ- 
ment. The  ingenuity  she  displays  in  de- 
monstrating her  thesis  is  equaled  only  by 
her  success  in  draining  the  plays  of  red 
blood  and  humanly  vital  signification. 

I  find    it   as   destructive   of   the   life 

1  The  Ibsen  Secret.  By  JENNETTE  LEE. 
New»York  and  London:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sous. 
1907. 


of  Ibsen's  plays  and  of  his  characters  to 
identify  A  Doll's  House  with  a  tarantella, 
Hedda  Gabler  with  a  pistol,  or  Oswald 
Alving  with  a  burning  orphanage,  as  to 
identify  (after  Erich  Holm)  Solness  with 
the  Bourgeoisie,  Ragnor  with  Socialism, 
the  burning  of  the  old  home  with  the 
French  Revolution,  and  Hilda  with  Free- 
dom. Ibsen's  art  is  universal  enough  to 
embrace  symbol  as  one  of  its  attributes; 
and  the  latest  and  most  reputable  light 
on  Ibsen  illuminates  the  intimate  bond 
allying  his  art  with  actual  experience. 
Life  contains  no  symbols  save  those  we 
read  into  it;  and  the  secret  of  an  art, 
purporting  to  be  an  exact  replica  of  con- 
temporary life,  is  something  far  more 
human  and  universal  than  the  symbol. 

However  opinions  may  differ  in  regard 
to  Ibsen  as  symbolist,  poet,  philosopher, 
polemist,  or  man,  critics  as  a  rule  are 
agreed  that  Ibsen  was  a  great  master  of 
stagecraft.  The  world  now  awaits  the 
elaborate  critical  study,  of  which  Pro- 
fessor Brander  Matthews  has  given  the 
popular  outline.2  The  author  of  such  a 
study,  when  it  appears,  will  treat  ex- 
haustively of  Ibsen  as  technician.  While 
Ibsen's  early  plays  were  faulty  in  tech- 
nique, modeled  chiefly  upon  French 
plays  which  Ibsen  himself  produced  or 
saw  produced,  certain  it  is  that  he  devel- 
oped, comparatively  early  in  his  career, 
that  indifference  to  rules  and  categories 
of  which  he  speaks  in  one  of  his  letters; 
and  even  if  Lady  Inger  of  Ostraat,  with 
its  entangling  intrigues,  and  The  League 
of  Youth,  with  its  artificial  arrangement, 
do  follow  the  model  set  by  Scribe,  the 
first  betrays  great  dramatic  power  and 
the  second  is  the  harbinger  of  a  series  of 
masterpieces  in  the  new  manner.  Before 
A  Doll's  House  (1879),  Ibsen  accommo- 
dated himself  to  the  best  prevailing  stand- 
ards of  dramatic  art,  gradually  freeing 
himself  of  such  unreal  theatric  devices 
as  the  soliloquy  and  the  aside.  And  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  Ibsen  was  a 

2  Inquiries  and  Opinions ;  article,  "  Ibsen  the 
Playwright."  New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  1907. 


260 


The  Ibsen  Harvest 


great  constructive  thinker  and  creator, 
not  a  mere  disciple  of  Scribe;  and  it 
should  also  be  remembered  that  Ibsen 
vehemently  repudiated  the  suggestion  of 
the  slightest  indebtedness  to  Dumas  fits, 
who,  it  must  be  confessed,  heartily  re- 
turned Ibsen's  detestation.  In  spite  of 
Professor  Matthews's  ripe  scholarship, 
which  he  barely  succeeds  in  concealing, 
his  essay  betrays  so  strong  a  lack  of  sym- 
pathy with  Ibsen  and  so  manifest  a  pre- 
dilection for  French  standards  and  mod- 
els, that  one  is  forced  to  conclude  that  he 
regards  Ibsen  as  anti-social,  "  really  the 
most  extreme  of  reactionaries."  And  this 
study  of  Ibsen,  in  respect  to  his  capacity 
as  playwright,  leaves  something  to  be 
desired,  in  the  lack  of  elaboration  of  the 
technical  faults  and  virtues  of  the  social 
dramas,  and  in  its  betrayal  of  the  author's 
unfamiliarity  with  important  data  and 
studies  bearing  upon  the  evolution  of 
Ibsen's  art  as  playwright. 

In  England,  Ibsen  has  been  interpreted 
principally  by  three  men.  In  vigorous 
controversy,  in  the  Fabian  Society,  and 
on  the  lecture  platform,  Bernard  Shaw 
pronounced  Ibsen  the  superior  of  Shake- 
speare, and  through  the  columns  of  the 
Saturday  Review  poured  a  torrent  of 
devastating  satire  upon  Ibsen's  detract- 
ors (who  had  gallantly  dubbed  Shaw, 
Archer,  and  the  other  Ibsen  adherents 
"  muck-ferreting  dogs  ").  Shaw's  book 
on  Ibsen,  The  Quintessence  of  Ibsenism, 
is  a  brilliant  distillation  of  the  Ibsenic 
philosophy  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
anti-idealist,  concerning  itself  with  Ibsen 
neither  as  poet  nor  dramatist.  Edmund 
Gosse,  whose  Northern  Studies  first 
made  Ibsen  known  to  English  readers, 
appeared  to  be  interested  in  Ibsen  chiefly 
as  poet  and  dramatic  path-breaker;  this 
is  likewise  indicated  by  his  other  inter- 
pretative essays  which  appeared  in  lead- 
ing reviews.  His  eagerly  awaited  bio- 
graphy of  Ibsen  *  has  recently  appeared, 
serving  as  a  companion  volume  to  the 
Archer  edition  of  Ibsen's  plays.  "  What 

1  Henrik  Ibsen.  By  EDMUND  GOSSE.  New 
York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1908. 


has  been  written  about  Ibsen  in  England 
and  France,"  Mr.  Gosse  observes  in  the 
preface,  "has  often  missed  something  of 
its  historical  value  by  not  taking  into  con- 
sideration that  movement  of  intellectual 
life  in  Norway  which  has  surrounded 
him  and  which  he  has  stimulated.  Per- 
haps I  may  be  allowed  to  say  of  my  little 
book  that  this  side  of  the  subject  has  been 
particularly  borne  in  mind  in  the  course 
of  its  composition."  In  this  respect,  his 
book  is  admirable  and  unique  among 
books  about  Ibsen  written  in  English. 

There  is,  however,  a  curious  aloofness 
about  Gosse's  interpretation  of  Ibsen, 
which  causes  one  to  wonder  how  two 
writers  so  fundamentally  dissimilar  — 
one  so  conservative,  the  other  so  start- 
lingly  daring  —  could  ever  have  discov- 
ered the  bond  of  mutual  admiration  and 
personal  acquaintance.  An  air  of  curious 
insecurity  is  given  to  Gosse's  judgment 
by  the  fact  that,  in  any  attempt  to  relate 
Ibsen  to  his  century  by  comparison  with 
writers  not  Scandinavian,  he  sets  him  in 
juxtaposition  to  writers  quite  alien  to  him 
in  spirit.  One  has  the  feeling  that,  to 
Mr.  Gosse,  the  nineteenth  century  repre- 
sents less  the  epoch  of  the  evolution  of 
contemporary  civilization  than  a  rather 
pleasant  literary  age  in  which  flourished 
a  group  of  writers  with  whose  works  he  is 
conversant.  There  is,  moreover,  an  un- 
pleasant, rather  repelling,  impression  pro- 
duced upon  one  —  especially  upon  one 
who  long  ago  recognized  the  genuine 
humanity  in  Ibsen's  soul  —  by  Gosse's 
interpretation  of  Ibsen  as  a  personality. 

The  lay  reader  puts  down  the  book 
with  the  distressing  conviction  that  Clem- 
ent Scott  was  right  after  all :  that  Ibsen 
was  at  bottom  suburban  and  provin- 
cial, at  worst  venomous  and  egotistic, 
at  best  shy,  secretive,  undemonstrative, 
ignorant  of  literature,  kindly  disposed  to 
those  who  paid  him  homage,  a  reflective 
doubter  who  allowed  his  dubiety  to  ex- 
tend even  to  the  value  of  his  own  work. 
Many  incidents  recently  narrated,  tend- 
ing to  show  the  charm  of  Ibsen's  person- 
ality when  he  felt  himself  in  the  presence 


The  Ibseh  Harvest 


261 


of  a  truly  congenial  spirit,  —  his  genuine 
love  for  his  wife,  despite  his  amusing 
affectation  of  independence,  his  power  to 
make  warm  personal  friends  of  his  ad- 
mirers, —  these  and  like  incidents  either 
do  not  appear  in  Gosse's  book,  or,  at 
least,  are  not  given  the  stress  pertinent 
to  them  in  view  of  Ibsen's  "  popular  " 
character.  Mr.  Gosse  has  drawn  an 
admirable  portrait  of  Ibsen  —  from  a 
definite  point  of  view;  and  it  goes  with- 
out saying  that  this  point  of  view  is 
entirely  Mr.  Gosse's  own.  But  there  are 
many  humanizing  details  which  are  not 
in  the  picture;  Ibsen  in  toto  is  not  a  per- 
fect fit  in  the  Gossian  frame  of  mind. 

Mr.  Gosse  and  Mr.  Archer,  utilizing 
the  latter's  collection  of  Ibseniana  and  all 
the  important  material  up  to  the  date  of 
publication,  have  produced  a  set  of  books 
revelatory  of  the  life,  art,  and  significance 
of  Henrik  Ibsen,  which  bid  fair  to  remain 
the  definitive  works  in  English  for  many 
years  to  come.  In  the  introduction  to  his 
Henrik  Ibsen  Mr.  Gosse  says  of  Mr.  Ar- 
cher's edition  of  the  plays :  "If  we  may 
judge  of  the  whole  work  by  those  vol- 
umes of  it  which  have  already  appeared, 
I  have  little  hesitation  in  saying  that  no 
other  foreign  author  of  the  second  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  has  been  so 
ably  and  exhaustively  edited  in  English 
as  Ibsen  has  been  in  this  instance."  1 

The  Archer  edition  concerns  itself 
solely  with  Ibsen's  dramatic  works ;  and 
even  in  this  respect,  it  lacks  the  com- 
pleteness of  the  German  and  Scandina- 
vian editions  in  regard  to  the  omission  of 
Ibsen's  earliest  tragedy,  Catilina.  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  this  play,  immature 
as  it  is,  should  have  been  omitted,  in 
view  of  Ibsen's  own  confession  that  it 
was  full  of  self-revelation.  In  every  other 
respect,  the  Archer  edition  is  notable, 
alike  for  the  richness  of  the  brief  intro- 
ductions, in  which  so  much  information 

1  The  New  Edition  of  the  Works  o/  Henrik 
Ibsen.  Edited,  with  Introductions,  biograph- 
ical and  critical,  by  WILLIAM  ARCHER.  New 
York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1907.  In 
eleven  volumes. 


and  valuable  criticism  is  packed  into  such 
small  compass,  and  for  the  accuracy  of 
the  translations.  It  is  also  to  be  regretted 
that  the  introductions  contain  less  of  Mr. 
Archer's  own  personal  reminiscences  of 
Ibsen  than  one  would  wish;  but  Mr. 
Archer  has  been  rigorous  in  his  exclusion 
of  all  material  not  precisely  conforming 
to  the  conditions  set  for  the  introduc- 
tions. The  translations  of  the  plays, 
revised  and  worked  over  most  thoroughly 
from  former  translations  by  himself  and 
others,  are  admirable  for  precision  and 
straightforwardness;  and,  save  for  occa- 
sional awkwardness  or  bookishness  of 
expression,  are  models  of  their  kind.  If 
we  have  the  feeling  that,  in  Peer  Gynt 
for  example,  the  pristine  sheen  of  native 
expression  is  rubbed  off  in  translation, 
let  us  at  least  recall  that  we  have  much 
the  same  feeling  in  comparing  Peer  Gynt 
as  produced  by  Mr.  Mansfield  with  the 
same  play  as  produced  by  Norwegian 
players. 

Some  years  ago,  in  an  article  entitled 
"The  Real  Ibsen,"  Mr.  Archer  declared 
that  Ibsen  is  "  not  pessimist  or  optimist 
or  primarily  a  moralist,  though  he  keeps 
thinking  about  morals.  He  is  simply  a 
dramatist,  looking  with  piercing  eyes  at 
the  world  of  men  and  women,  and  trans- 
lating into  poetry  this  episode  and  that 
from  the  inexhaustible  pageant."  To 
such  a  broad  conception  as  is  here  dis- 
played is  due  the  excellence  of  Mr. 
Archer's  treatment  of  Ibsen;  and  in  his 
general  introduction  he  takes  occasion 
to  express  a  similar  view:  "  It  was  not 
Ibsen  the  man  of  ideas  or  doctrines  that 
meant  so  much  to  me;  it  was  Ibsen  the 
pure  poet,  the  creator  of  men  and  women, 
the  searcher  of  hearts,  the  weaver  of 
strange  webs  of  destiny."  There  are 
passages  in  the  Letters,  there  are  recent 
reminiscences,  which  tend  to  validate  the 
sanity  of  Mr.  Archer's  view,  and  to  prove 
that  Ibsen's  prose  ideal  was,  above  all 
things,  to  produce  the  illusion  of  reality. 
Take,  for  example,  that  paragraph  in 
the  letter  replying  to  Passonge's  inquiry 
about  Peer  Gynt,  in  which  Ibsen  says : 


262 


The  Ibsen  Harvest 


"  Everything  that  I  have  written  has  the 
closest  possible  connection  with  what  I 
have  lived  through,  even  if  it  has  not 
been  my  own  personal  experience;  in 
every  new  poem  or  play  I  have  aimed 
at  my  own  spiritual  emancipation  and 
purification  —  for  a  man  shares  the  re- 
sponsibility and  the  guilt  of  the  society 
to  which  he  belongs.  Hence  I  wrote  the 
following  dedicatory  lines  in  a  copy  of 
one  of  my  books :  — 

"  To  live  —  is  to  war  with  fiends 
That  infest  the  brain  and  the  heart ; 
To  write  —  is  to  summon  one's  self, 
And  play  the  judge's  part." 

The  significance  of  the  expression  "  lived 
through  "  is  not  to  be  over-estimated  for 
its  importance  as  an  actual  statement  of 
.the  form  Ibsen's  imaginative  contempla- 
tion was  accustomed  to  take.  Incidents, 
personal  traits,  characters  in  real  life 
were  all  pondered  over,  sometimes  for 
several  years,  with  the  utmost  delibera- 
tion; if  the  idea  did  come  first,  it  was 
fully  incarnated  in  the  chosen  characters 
and  incidents;  and  in  the  utilization  of 
material  Ibsen  employed  the  strictest  econ- 
omy. He  once  acknowledged  one  of  Her- 
man Bang's  stories,  Am  Wege,  with  the 
statement:  "I  see  all  these  people;  I  once 
met  your  station-agent  at  Vendsyssel."  1 
The  same  trait  is  printed  by  Brandes 
in  an  incident  he  relates  of  a  certain 
dinner  once  given  to  Ibsen.  One  of  the 
banqueters,  who  had  taken  in  the  beauti- 
ful actress,  Fraulein  Constance  Brunn, 
arose  at  the  banquet  and  said,  "My 
partner  requests  me  to  present  to  you, 
Dr.  Ibsen,  the  thanks  of  the  actresses 
of  the  Christiania  Theatre  and  to  tell 
you  that  there  are  no  roles  which  she 
would  rather  play,  or  from  which  she 
can  learn  more,  than  yours."  To  which 
Ibsen  immediately  replied,  "  I  must 
state,  at  the  outset,  that  I  do  not  write 
roles,  but  represent  human  beings;  and 
that  never  in  my  life  during  the  creation 

1  Erinnerungen  an  Henrik  Ibsen.  Von  HER- 
MAN BANG.  Die  Neue  Rundschau.  December, 
1906.  This  "  Ibsen  Number  "  contains  much 
valuable  information  about  Ibsen. 


of  a  play  have  I  had  before  my  eyes  an 
actor  or  actress."  2 

From  the  early  days  when  Ibsen  real- 
ized himself  as  Catiline,  and  incarnated 
Henrikke  Hoist  in  Eline,  to  the  later 
days  of  Emilie  Bardach  and  her  resur- 
rection in  the  figure  of  Hilda  Wangel, 
Ibsen  always  managed  somehow  to  "  get 
hold  of  "  people  for  his  dramatic  works. 

The  future  biographer  of  Ibsen  must 
work  out  the  hints  given  by  Brandes 
and  others,  and  discover  the  real  names, 
true  history,  and  actual  connection  with 
Ibsen  of  many  now  nameless  people 
who  served  as  models  for  Ibsen's  lead- 
ing characters.  Perhaps  this  will  be  a 
very  difficult  task,  in  view  of  the  sus- 
picion that  Ibsen  probably  learned  many 
traits  of  human  character  through  the 
numerous  letters,  often  from  women, 
that  he  received,  and  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  relentless  destroyer  of  letters.  If 
those  little  figures  that  stood  on  his  desk 
could  suddenly  be  endowed  with  the 
power  of  speech,  what  strange  stories 
they  might  have  to  tell!  On  the  table 
beside  Ibsen's  inkstand,  we  are  told,  was 
a  small  tray.  In  this  tray  were  extraor- 
dinary little  toys  —  "  some  little  carved 
wooden  Swiss  bears,  a  diminutive  black 
devil,  small  cats,  dogs  and  rabbits  made 
of  copper,  one  of  which  was  playing  a 
violin." 

What  did  Ibsen  do  with  these  little 
figures  —  identify  each  one  with  a  hu- 
man being,  talk  with  them  in  the  soli- 
tude of  his  room,  shift  them  hither  and 
thither,  to  take  their  parts  and  places 
in  the  new  drama  then  preparing?  "I 
never  write  a  single  line  of  any  of  my 
dramas  unless  that  tray  and  its  occupants 
are  before  me  on  the  table,"  Ibsen  once 
remarked.  "  I  could  not  write  without 
them.  It  may  seem  strange  —  perhaps 
it  is  —  but  I  cannot  write  without  them." 
And,  with  a  quiet  laugh,  he  mysteriously 
added,  "  Why  I  use  them  is  my  own 
secret." 

2  Henrik  Ibsen.  By  GEORG  BRANDES.  Die 
Literatur,  vol.  xxiii.  Berlin  :  Bord,  Marquardt 
&  Co.  1906. 


LIFE  IN  AN   INDIAN   COMPOUND: 

A  MORNING  PICTURE 
BY   MARY   ANABLE    CHAMBERLAIN 


IN  the  memory  of  one  who  has  lived 
long  in  India,  there  cannot  fail  to  be  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  Indian  compound 
in  the  early  morning  hours,  with  its 
strange  noises  and  stranger  activities, 
with  its  varied  and  peculiar  character- 
istics of  man,  beast,  and  insect  tribe,  all 
rushing  and  jostling  to  make  the  most  of 
the  short  time  in  which  work  may  be 
done  in  this  land  of  the  tropical  sun. 

The  dawn  comes  early.  You  hear  it 
getting  up  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  heralding  its  approach  by  a 
single  discordant,  scraping,  penetrating 
note,  a  cross  between  that  of  a  bagpipe 
and  a  worn-out  violin,  accompanied  by 
strange  thumpings  and  poundings.  It  is 
the  music  of  the  tom-tom  in  the  dis- 
tant bazaar,  celebrating  some  one  of  the 
innumerable  Hindu  festivals.  Then  the 
nearby  oil- mill,  its  clumsy  wooden  shaft 
turned  by  a  pair  of  lean,  half-starved 
bullocks,  begins  to  revolve,  screeching 
unmercifully  in  its  orbit.  Everything  in 
the  compound  commences  to  stir,  for  the 
sun  is  no  dallier  in  these  regions,  and 
who  hopes  to  keep  pace  with  him  must 
not  tarry.  For,  when  that  first  faint 
purple  light  on  the  hillsides  begins  to 
lift,  the  impetuous  bridegroom  will  come 
forth  from  his  tabernacle,  and  the  race 
will  begin. 

Nowhere  else  in  the  world,  perhaps, 
is  one  so  impressed  as  in  India  with 
the  fitness  and  force  of  that  familiar 
figure  used  by  the  Psalmist,  in  which  the 
sun  is  portrayed  as  a  "  bridegroom  com- 
ing out  of  his  chamber,"  and  rejoicing 
"  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race;  "  for 
while  it  might  not  have  occurred  to  the 
uninspired  imagination  to  conceive  of 
him,  anywhere,  in  the  guise  of  a  bride- 


groom, one  is  bound  to  be  struck,  in 
India,  not  only  with  the  superb  dash  of 
his  "  going  forth,"  and  with  the  unlim- 
ited extent  of  his  "  circuit,"  but  with  the 
still  more  conspicuous  fact  that,  when 
the  race  is  once  on,  "  there  is  nothing  hid 
from  the  heat  thereof." 

Five  o'clock  strikes.  The  tom-tom  and 
the  oil-mill  have  played  their  tune  over 
and  over,  and  you  know  it  not  only 
by  heart,  but  by  every  nerve  in  your 
body.  That  gentle  squeak  in  the  pun- 
kah rope,  too,  is  becoming  monotonous. 
The  punkah- wallah,  stretched  at  ease  on 
his  back  in  the  outside  veranda,  fitfully 
jerks  the  rope  suspended  between  his 
useful,  but  now  benumbed,  toes,  while 
his  partner  conjectures  in  low,  but  per- 
fectly audible  tones  as  to  how  much 
longer  you  are  likely  to  slumber.  The 
mosquitoes  sing  a  song  of  rejoicing  that 
the  energies  of  the  punkah  are  waning. 
The  squirrels  in  the  roof  overhead  dis- 
course in  piercing  squeaks  of  the  duty  of 
early  rising.  The  monkeys  in  the  ban- 
yan without  illustrate  that  lying  in  bed 
was  not  the  vice  of  our  ancestors.  The 
eye-flies,  swarming  above  you,  proclaim 
that,  in  their  opinion,  your  eyes  should 
open  to  admit  them.  The  sweeper  in 
the  adjacent  bathroom  clatters  and  bangs 
with  her  chatties.  The  waterman,  filling 
your  tub,  implies  that  it  is  time  for  your 
bath. 

Realizing  the  futility  of  further  resist- 
ance, you  rise,  bathe,  and  dress  quickly, 
and,  appearing  upon  the  veranda,  greet 
the  punkah-wallahs  with  courtesies  not 
quite  so  benevolent  as  the  Anglo-Saxon 
"Good-morning,"  which  has  the  effect  of 
relieving  you  instantly  of  their  presence, 
and  leaves  you  at  leisure,  while  waiting 

263 


264 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


for  your  "chota  hazri,"  to  view  the  land- 
scape o'er. 

And  if  you  scan  the  world  over,  you 
will  find  little  better  worth  looking  at  in 
that  half-light.  On  three  sides,  rising 
from  two  to  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
broad,  flat  plain,  are  hills,  shadowy, 
melting,  mobile  hills,  lying  tender  and 
soft  in  the  purple  light  of  the  Indian 
dawn.  Dotting  their  jungle-clad  sides 
are  small  white  temples,  suggesting,  in  the 
distance,  and  in  the  soft  light,  marble 
colonnades.  Silhouetted  against  the  sky, 
on  the  crest  of  the  highest  hill,  is  an 
ancient  fort,  a  common  feature  in  Indian 
landscapes,  testifying  that  the  scene  now 
before  you  is  a  part  of  the  stage  upon 
which  Chanda  Sahib,  Hyder  Ali,  Tippoo 
Sultan,  the  Tiger  of  Mysore,  and  that 
great  Englishman,  Clive,  once  were 
actors. 

The  hills  slope  gently  down  past  paddy- 
fields  of  the  greenest  green  ever  seen, 
to  a  big  Mofussil  town  that  fills  in  the 
fourth  side  of  the  picture,  and  out  from 
which  runs  a  straight  white  line,  passing 
close  by  the  compound  wall.  It  is  the 
great  highway  on  its  route  due  south  to 
Tuticorin,  a  smooth,  hard,  polished  road 
such  as  Englishmen,  the  world  over, 
know  how  to  build,  a  road  that  makes 
bicycling  a  joyous,  winged  flight,  and 
that  will  some  day,  doubtless,  attract  the 
touring  car  of  the  globe-trotter. 

All  over  the  compound,  from  verandas 
and  "  go-downs,"  forms  are  seen  rising 
from  sleep,  each  one  "  wrapping  the 
drapery  of  his  couch  about  him,"  with 
no  idea,  in  doing  so,  of  conforming  to 
any  standards  urged  upon  the  attention 
of  the  race  by  Mr.  Bryant,  but  for  the 
simpler,  if  less  poetic,  reason  that  these 
draperies  constitute  his  bedding  by  night 
and  his  nether  garment  by  day.  But  do 
not  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that, 
because  the  requirements  of  the  Hindu's 
costume  are  scanty,  his  toilet  is,  there- 
fore, a  perfunctory  matter.  .Follow  him 
to  the  well.  The  chances  are  that  you 
will  never  drink  water  again,  but  you 
will  obtain  knowledge.  On  the  brink  of 


that  great,  yawning  hole  in  the  ground 
known  as  the  compound  well,  whose 
sides  are  of  stone  and  whose  steps  lead 
you  down  to  the  water's  edge,  behold  the 
"  males  "  of  the  compound.  Divested  of 
the  draperies  already  referred  to,  and  in 
attitudes  ranging  all  the  way  from  the 
pose  of  the  "  Disc  Thrower  "  to  that  of 
the  most  resolute  *'  squatter  "  upon  a 
Western  claim,  they  are  lined  up  in  a  row 
from  the  top  of  the  steps  to  the  bottom. 
In  the  hand  of  each  is  a  chatty,  and  one 
and  all  are  engaged  in  the  offices  of  the 
morning  bath.  And  their  tub  is  the  well. 
The  brimming  chatties  are  passed  up 
and  the  empty  ones  down,  legs  are  cur- 
ried, feet  are  scoured,  teeth  are  polished 
with  charcoal  and  stick,  throats  are  gar- 
gled, noses  trumpeted,  and,  in  short,  the 
whole  man  receives  such  a  washing  and 
splashing,  such  a  rubbing  and  scrubbing, 
such  a  molishing  and  polishing,  as  leaves 
nothing  to  be  desired,  except  in  connec- 
tion with  the  well.  This  latter  consider- 
ation, however,  is  one  that  does  not  dis- 
turb the  Hindu,  who,  priding  himself 
upon  being,  externally,  the  cleanest  plat- 
ter in  the  universe,  devotes  but  little 
thought  to  the  inside  of  the  dish. 

His  ablutions  and  those  of  his  col- 
leagues concluded,  he  fills  his  chatty 
once  more  from  the  pure  fountain  be- 
low, lifts  it  high  in  the  air,  throws  his 
head  back,  and  with  unerring  aim,  pours 
the  crystal  libation  in  one  long,  steady 
stream  down  his  open  throat,  skillfully 
poised  to  receive  and  conduct  it  to  his 
germ-proof  interior.  This  done,  his  drap- 
eries are  resumed,  and  he  departs  to  his 
work. 

Suddenly,  as  out  of  a  catapult,  the 
sun  leaps  up  from  behind  the  eastern 
hills,  and  day  is  at  hand. 

The  "  females  "  now  begin  to  wend 
their  way,  chatties  on  hips,  to  the  well, 
each  one  fully  attired,  for  whatever  their 
matutinal  custom  may  be  as  regards 
bathing,  their  mission  to  the  compound 
well  is  not  for  that  purpose.  They  fill 
their  chatties  from  the  same  purling 
stream  in  which  their  lords  have  just 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


bathed,  and  bear  them  aloft  on  their  per- 
fectly poised  heads  to  their  "  go-downs,'.' 
where  this  same  immaculate  fluid  is  used 
for  cleaning  the  household  vessels,  for 
washing  and  boiling  the  rice,  and  for  fill- 
ing the  earthen  water- jars  with  the  day's 
supply  of  drinking  water.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, deemed  sufficiently .  cleansing  for 
washing  the  floors,  the  universal  agent 
employed  in  native  houses  for  that  pur- 
pose being  a  saturated  solution  of  the 
excrement  of  the  cow,  the  most  indispens- 
able antiseptic  and  germicidal  substance 
known  to  the  Hindu. 

In  an  Indian  compound  one's  first  visit 
in  the  morning  is,  usually,  to  the  stables, 
or  stalls,  where  the  horses  are  kept.  Open 
and  accessible  alike  to  air,  rain,  and  rob- 
bers, they  are  protected  by  a  thatched 
roof  from  the  ravages  of  the  sun.  There 
is  no  door  and  no  manger,  but  each  stall 
has  three  sides  and  a  top,  and  a  horse 
within,  if  the  sahib's  income  allows  him 
to  afford  one  in  each.  The  horses  are  of 
different  nationalities,  species,  and  values, 
in  an  ascending  scale  from  the  despised 
"  country-bred,"  which  may  be  bought 
for  a  couple  of  hundred  rupees,  and  sub- 
jected to  all  kinds  of  abuse  by  the  syce 
without  greatly  impairing  its  value;  the 
Pegu,  which  comes  higher,  and  which,  if 
handled  too  roughly,  knows  how  to  show 
the  syce  a  trick  or  two,  unexpectedly ;  the 
Australian  pony,  which,  though  a  peg  or 
two  above  the  "  country-bred  "  and  the 
Pegu,  shows  a  great  aptitude  for  imitat- 
ing their  ways;  the  Australian  cob,  fat, 
sleepy,  and  lazy,  which  seems  to  think 
it  has  done  its  whole  duty  in  costing  a 
round  sum  to  start  with ;  up  to  the  Waler, 
whose  price  may  run  up  into  the  thou- 
sands, and  the  care  of  which  is  ever  the 
first  consideration  with  the  sahib  and 
the  memsahib,  after,  perhaps,  that  of 
the  children. 

All  these  are  alike  subjected  by  the 
syce,  whose  discretion  is  far  in  excess  of 
his  valor,  to  the  indignity,  not  of  a  halter, 
but  of  heel-ropes,  by  which  they  are 
firmly  tied  to  their  stalls  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  kicking  out  of  the  question.  And 


the  result  is,  not  unnaturally,  that  a  horse 
which  has  never  thought  of  kicking  be- 
fore, develops,  under  this  treatment,  a 
conspicuous  talent  for  it,  and  the  syce 
may  consider  himself  lucky  if  a  taste  for 
biting,  as  well,  does  not  add  itself  to  its 
accomplishments  in  due  course.  The 
syce  is,  by  nature,  cruel,  and  by  practice 
becomes  so  habituated  to  the  exercise  of 
his  inborn  gifts,  that  to  witness  the  morn- 
ing rub-down  of  her  horse  is  a  part  of 
"  inspection  "  duty  which  the  memsahib 
cheerfully  omits.  With  the  head  of  the 
animal  firmly  tied  to  the  stall  and  its  feet 
lashed  securely,  be  begins  operations 
with  an  iron  hand  which  has  never  felt 
the  touch  of  a  velvet  glove.  He  rubs  and 
he  scrubs  with  curry  and  comb,  pokes  the 
horse's  ribs,  kicks  its  sides  and  tickles  its 
belly  to  within  an  inch  of  its  life,  threat- 
ening it,  the  while,  with  such  terrors  as 
only  a  syce's  voice  can  foretell,  until  the 
poor  beast,  its  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets,  every  tooth  showing,  and  quiver- 
ing in  every  limb,  shows  only  too  plainly 
what  it  would  do  if  the  ropes  gave  way. 
You  have  only  to  witness  this  scene  be- 
tween the  horse  and  the  syce  to  be  left  in 
no  doubt  as  to  which  of  the  two  is  the 
brute. 

Each  horse  has  its  syce,  whose  first 
duty  it  is  in  the  morning  to  curry  and 
molish  his  beast  until  its  coat  is  like  satin, 
in  proof  whereof  he  is  required  by  the  ex- 
acting memsahib  not  only  to  present  the 
animal  in  shining  condition,  but  also  to 
produce  the  hair  which  has  been  curried 
and  brushed  away,  it  being  well  known  to 
the  initiated  that  for  "  ways  that  are  dark 
and  tricks  that  are  vain,"  the  heathen 
Hindu  is  no  less  "  peculiar  "  than  the 
"  heathen  Chinee."  Accordingly,  the 
syce  is  required  to  place  the  horse's  hair 
in  a  small  heap  on  the  ground  where  the 
memsahib,  or,  if  the  day  be  an  unpropi- 
tious  one,  the  sahib  himself,  can  "  in- 
spect "  it,  compare  its  color  with  that  of 
the  horse,  and,  in  the  event  of  there  being 
an  east  wind,  or  anything  else  wrong 
with  the  sahib,  he  may  obtain  relief  by 
looking  into  the  matter  of  the  syce's  short- 


266 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


comings.  After  this,  the  little  piles  are 
all  carefully  burned,  with,  perhaps,  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  remote  and  in- 
conspicuous ones  which  lend  themselves 
to  easy  removal  while  the  sahib's  back 
is  turned,  and  which  may  thus  be  ren- 
dered available  for  the  next  day's  in- 
spection. 

It  is  understood  that  each  horse 
must  be  furnished  with  clean  bed-straw 
and  a  large  bundle  of  dried  grass  daily, 
which  needs,  also,  to  be  watched  and  in- 
spected, for  the  syce's  wife,  the  grass- 
cutter,  whose  function  it  is  to  provide 
these  accessories,  is,  although  unknown 
to  fame,  a  person  endowed  with  an 
amount  of  creative  genius  sufficient  to 
place  her  in  the  front  rank  of  fiction 
authors,  had  the  lines  fallen  to  her  in  their 
place  instead  of  her  own.  She  can  make 
one  bundle  of  dried  grass,  by  shaking  it 
out,  and  turning  it  over,  and  doing  it  up 
again  upside  down,  and  inserting  a  few 
stones  to  preserve  its  weight,  and  by  the 
judicious  introduction  of  one  or  two  really 
new  elements,  go  further  in  the  produc- 
tion of  dramatic  effects  between  herself 
and  the  memsahib  than  the  average  fic- 
tion writer  could  achieve  with  all  the 
materials  in  the  universe  at  his  command. 

The  most  burning  question,  however, 
in  connection  with  the  horse  is  its  gram. 
This  grain,  a  species  of  pulse,  is  en- 
dowed with  the  thrifty  but  not  altogether 
peaceable  virtue  of  increasing  largely  in 
bulk  in  the  process  of  cooking :  the  syce 
says  twofold,  the  sahib  three,  and  the 
memsahib  four.  It  has,  moreover,  the 
still  more  questionable  endowment  of  be- 
ing edible  for  syces  as  well  as  for  horses, 
and  when  you  take  into  consideration  the 
fact  that  the  syce  does  the  cooking  and 
measuring,  the  memsahib  the  inspecting, 
and  the  sahib  the  objecting,  with  the 
butler  for  referee,  the  complications  aris- 
ing need  scarcely  be  pointed  out.  They 
are  such  as  to  leave  the  memsahib,  usu- 
ally, with  no  resource  but  the  time-sav- 
ing one  of  abusing  the  butler. 

A  striking  feature  of  the  morning  rou- 
tine of  the  compound  is  the  method  of 


extracting  milk  from  the  domestic  cow. 
This  animal,  though  of  the  feminine  gen- 
der, is,  as  is  well  known,  sacred  in  India, 
and  the  attitude  of  the  Hindu  towards  her. 
in  spite  of  her  sex,  is  one  of  extreme  ten- 
derness and  consideration.  It  is  in  sharp 
contrast,  indeed,  to  the  spirit  of  cruelty 
which  he  evinces  towards  the  horse,  the 
care  of  which  he  relegates  to  the  lowest 
pariah  in  the  community,  while  the  cow, 
on  the  other  hand,  always  has  a  caste 
man  for  her  keeper.  I  see  him  approach- 
ing now,  leading  his  sacred  charge  gin- 
gerly by  a  rope.  He,  though  a  high-caste 
Hindu,  affects  the  "simple  life"  openly, 
bv  wearing  a  turban,  chiefly,  for  costume. 
She,  though  ever  so  sacred,  makes  no  pre- 
tense to  holiness  in  her  conduct.  As  he 
moves  forward  she  pulls  back,  straining 
even*  fibre  of  the  by  no  means  invincible 
cord.  He  is  a  tallish  man,  for  a  Hindu. 
erect  in  carriage,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
limitations  of  his  costume,  not  undig- 
nified in  bearing.  She  is  a  handsome 
beast,  tall,  stately,  raw-boned,  impress- 
ive, apt  to  be  white,  sure  to  be  humped, 
and  imported,  as  a  rule,  from  Nellore. 
A  glance  shows  you  that  you  are 
about  to  be  treated,  for  once,  to  that 
unwonted  spectacle,  in  India,  of  a  male 
subdued  by  a  female.  The  man's  —  and 
a  caste  man's,  at  that  —  demeanor  is 
humble.  The  cow's  is  defiant.  He  cos- 
sets her,  coaxes  her,  indicates  tactfully 
which  way  he  would  have  her  go.  She 
shakes  her  head,  tosses  it  scornfully,  in- 
dicates unmistakably  that  she  will  go 
where  she  pleases.  He  tries  persuasion. 
Adjusting  his  lips,  tongue,  and  teeth  in 
a  manner  known  only  to  Hindus,  and  by 
them  employed  only  with  cows,  he  evolves 
a  series  of  seductive  sounds  designed  to 
reduce  her  to  reason,  but  which,  as  is 
not  unheard-of  with  females  in  other 
walks  of  life,  have  the  unfortunate  effect 
of  only  enraging  her  the  more.  She 
makes  a  break  for  the  bungalow,  drag- 
ging the  man  after  her  by  the  rope,  spies 
the  memsahib  "  inspecting,"  is  offended 
that  she  should  wear  skirts  instead  of  a 
tying-cloth,  and  charges,  head  down,  in 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


267 


her  direction,  with  a  resultant  of  screams 
and  confusion  that  brings  every  servant 
in  the  compound  to  the  rescue.  Then 
they  all  (with  the  exception  of  the  mem- 
sahib)  surround  the  cow,  and  with  push- 
ings  and  pullings  and  a  full  chorus  of  the 
soothing  sounds  I  have  mentioned,  and 
with,  perhaps,  a  few  gentle  tail-twistings, 
bring  her,  at  last,  to  the  back  veranda, 
where  she  is  to  be  milked.  Here  again 
the  caste  man's  frame  of  mind  is  one  of 
humble  submission. 

It  is  interesting,  indeed,  to  observe 
how,  under  the  spell  of  religious  or  jother 
inherited  custom,  he  who,  with  one-half 
the  provocation,  would  mete  out  and 
apportion  a  round  of  chastisements  to 
the  females  of  his  own  bosom  and  go- 
down,  never  thinks  of  resorting  to  such 
measures  with  his  cow.  He  gives  her 
time  to  collect  herself  and  to  forget  the 
memsahib's  skirts,  and  approaches  her 
in  a  spirit  of  the  entire  friendliness  of 
which  he  assures  her  by  the  dulcet  tones 
of  his  voice. 

He  has  no  milking-stool,  but  takes  his 
seat  easily  on  the  calves  of  his  legs,  borne 
aloft  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  where  he 
remains  throughout  the  milking  in  an 
attitude  possible  to  the  Westerner  only 
after  long  practice  in  the  gymnasium. 
His  pail,  lightly  upheld  between  lus  bent 
knees,  is  a  tin  cup  holding,  at  most,  a 
quart.  The  cow  declines  to  part  with  a 
drop  of  her  milk  until  her  calf  has  been 
sent  for.  Now  her  offspring  may  be  just 
born,  half-grown,  or  dead,  it  matters  not 
which,  save  that,  in  the  event  of  the  last 
contingency,  she  insists  upon  having  it 
stuffed.  If  quite  new,  the  calf  is  allowed 
a  few  moments'  indulgence  at  the  mater- 
nal udder;  if  half-grown,  it  is  permitted  a 
sniff  at  it;  after  which,  in  both  cases,  it  is 
dragged  away  and  tied  to  its  mother's 
fore  leg,  where  she  caresses  it  through- 
out the  milking.  If  dead,  the  skin  is 
stuffed  with  straw  and  anchored  within 
her  reach,  where  it  appears  to  give  quite 
as  much  satisfaction  as  when  alive. 
These  concessions  accorded,  she  consents 
to  impart  her  milk,  —  a  thin,  colorless 


fluid  which,  in  the  most  liberal  estimate, 
does  not  exceed  a  pint  or  two. 

The  milking  concluded,  the  caste 
man,  who  knows  that  a  pint  of  milk 
or  even  two  will  not  go  far  in  sup- 
plying an  English  menu,  takes  a  look 
round,  and  if  it  appears  that  his  horo- 
scope for  the  day  has  arranged  favor- 
able conjunctions  of  the  rnemsahib  and 
the  butler  in  other  parts  of  the  com- 
pound, he  benevolently  increases  the 
quantity  of  milk  from  a  chatty  previously 
filled  at  the  compound  well  and  deftly 
concealed  in  the  folds  of  his  tying-cloth; 
for,  although  he  is  a  caste  man,  himself, 
and,  therefore,  particular  to  drink  water 
in  which  only  those  of  his  own  caste  have 
bathed,  he  knows  that  the  sahib  and  the 
memsahib  are  not  caste  people,  and,  in- 
deed, do  not  believe  in  it,  wherefore  they 
may,  without  jeopardy  to  their  souls, 
drink  water  in  which  all  the  world  has 
bathed. 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  subject  of  the 
drinking-water  supply,  a  question  even 
more  burning  than  that  of  the  horse's 
grain ;  for,  given  three  hundred  millions 
of  devout  Hindus,  all  sincerely  convinced, 
not  that  "  cleanliness  is  next  to  godli- 
ness," but  that  it  is  godliness,  and  given, 
also,  the  fact  that,  in  India,  ninety-nine 
rivers  out  of  a  hundred  are  dry,  one  can 
see  what  a  tax  there  must  be  on  the  wells. 
You  may  build  round  your  well,  if  you 
will,  a  wall  of  chunam;  you  may  cover 
its  top  with  a  lid,  locked  and  bolted;  you 
may  plaster  it  over  with  threats  of  what 
you  will  do  to  all  trespassers,  but  you 
cannot  get  rid  of  the  stubborn  truth  that 
water  is  scarce  and  bathing  compulsory 
in  India.  You  may  set  up  in  your  back 
veranda,  as  every  one  does,  tripods  of 
bamboo  wound  round  with  straw,  bear- 
ing chatties  filled  to  the  brim  with  char- 
coal and  sand,  through  which  your  water 
is  filtered,  drop  by  drop ;  but  you  cannot 
filter  your  facts. 

The  best  the  memsahib  can  do  is  to 
choose  a  well  distant  enough  for  her  never 
to  see  who  bathes  in  it,  and  then  to  com- 
mand the  butler  to  see  that  the  water- 


268 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


bearer  gets  to  it  first  in  the  morning.  This 
he  will  profess  always  to  do;  but,  since 
the  memsahib's  imagination  is  a  way- 
ward thing,  and  hard  to  control,  and 
since  the  water-bearer  is  a  being  also 
addicted  to  bathing,  she  usually  adds  to 
her  peace  by  first  boiling  the  water  and 
then  filtering  it;  after  which,  to  make 
sure,  she  boils  it  again,  and  then  drinks 
soda  water. 

By  the  time  these  ceremonies  have  all 
been  performed,  the  sun  is  well  on  his 
way  towards  the  "  home  stretch,"  and 
the  memsahib  is  well  on  hers  towards 
distraction  with  the  morning's  "  inspect- 
ing," while  the  whole  compound  is  in  a 
whirl  of  industry  to  get  the  work  done 
before  the  sun  reaches  the  meridian  and 
calls  a  halt  for  refreshments. 

The  "  malas  "  are  sweeping  the  walks 
with  handfuls  of  brush,  the  water-bear- 
ers are  deluging  pots  with  avalanches  of 
water.  The  cook  is  hurrying  home  from 
the  bazaar  with  the  day's  supplies,  his 
wife  in  his  rear  meekly  bearing  his  bun- 
dles. Bullocks  are  dizzily  turning  the 
crank  at  the  well  that  hauls  up  the  buf- 
falo hide  filled  with  water  to  flood  the 
channels  that  lead  to  the  gardens  and 
tanks.  The  dharzee  hastens  in  to  his  seat 
in  the  front  veranda  to  copy  his  mistress's 
latest  costume  from  London.  Native 
barbers,  squatting  upon  the  ground,  are 
shaving  the  heads  of  those  who  have 
leisure.  Women  are  pounding  paddy  and 
grinding  curry-stuffs  between  stones  in 
the  open  doors  of  their  go-downs.  Others, 
sometimes  three  deep,  are  frankly  em- 
ployed in  the  open,  each  with  the  head 
of  the  other,  in  those  entomological  re- 
searches known  as  "  The  Madras  Hunt." 

Jugglers  in  the  drive  in  front  of 
the  bungalow  strive  to  catch  the  eye 
of  the  memsahib  by  performing  their 
tricks.  With  no  better  appliances  than 
a  few  shallow  baskets,  a  dirty  cloth  or 
two,  a  network  of  cords,  and  a  few 
fangless  cobras,  they  contrive,  under  the 
inspiration  of  the  ear-splitting  strains 
from  a  gourd  pipe,  to  turn  the  cobras 
into  doves,  the  doves  into  rupees,  to 


swallow  the  rupees  and  recover  them 
from  their  ears,  to  eat  fire  and  eject  it 
from  nostrils  and  eyes,  to  devour  swords 
without  visible  damage  to  their  internal 
economy,  to  create  mango  trees  out  of 
nothing  and  cause  them  to  blossom  and 
fruit  before  the  memsahib's  unconvinced 
eyes,  to  burn  live  coals  on  a  woman's  bare 
head  (the  memsahib  observes  that  their 
most  murderous  tricks  are  always  done 
on  a  woman),  to  make  balls  jump  up  and 
down  in  the  air  unassisted,  which  they 
appear  to  do  joyfully ;  and,  if  the  mem- 
sahib. betrays  the  slightest  symptom  of 
interest,  to  arrest  her  horrified  attention 
by  doing  the  "  basket  trick."  In  this  they 
tie  up  a  woman  in  a  basket  and  run  the 
basket  through  and  through  with  swords, 
and  when  the  blood  gushes  out  and  the 
woman's  screams  are  about  to  produce 
the  police,  the  top  is  lifted  from  the  empty 
basket  and  the  woman  is  laughing  at  the 
indignant  memsahib  from  behind  the 
hedge  yonder. 

Nor  should  we  forget  the  hawker  who 
appears  about  breakfast  time  upon  the 
veranda.  If  a  Madras  hawker,  he  will 
have  in  his  bundle  the  crude  but  not 
unwelcome  items  of  needles  and  thread, 
pins,  hooks  and  eyes,  stockings  and 
handkerchiefs,  hairpins  and  shoestrings, 
muslins  and  long  cloths  of  which  the 
memsahib  often  has  need.  If  a  Bombay 
hawker,  he  will  fill  every  square  inch  of 
the  veranda  with  brass  from  Benares, 
silver  from  Cutch  and  Madras,  alabaster 
from  Agra,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl, 
turquoise,  and  jade,  curtains  and  rugs 
from  Cashmere,  jewelry  and  precious 
stones  from  Ceylon,  and  embroideries 
from  the  Middle  Ages,  all  of  which  he 
offers  to  the  memsahib  at  exorbitant 
prices,  growing  more  moderate  as  her 
indifference  increases,  until,  at  last,  he 
begs  her  to  take  any  or  all  of  them  at  her 
own  price  rather  than  bring  him  ill  luck 
for  a  whole  season  by  refusing  to  buy  of 
him  on  this,  his  first  call  at  her  bungalow. 

The  road  that  runs  by  the  compound 
wall  is,  by  this  time,  a  scene  of  motley 
confusion.  Upon  it  in  an  unending 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


269 


stream  are  to  be  seen  the  springless,  two- 
wheeled  jutka  of  the  Madrassee,  who, 
seated  in  the  open  front  of  his  vehicle, 
tightly  embraces  with  his  bare  legs  the 
flanks  of  his  madly  galloping  "  country- 
bred  "  steed;  the  heavy,  lumbering  ox- 
cart, laden  with  bags  of  rice,  drawn  by 
the  slow  and  stately  bullocks,  whose 
speed  is  encouraged  but  hardly  acceler- 
ated by  their  drivers'  vehement  tail-twist- 
ing; the  long  line  of  bamboo-covered 
or  thatched-roofed  "bandies,"  or  carts, 
heavily  weighted  with  rice,  ragi,  cholam, 
gram,  cocoanuts,  wheat,  and  what  not, 
on  their  journey  to  the  bazaar ;  the  droves 
of  densely  packed,  slowly  moving,  deeply 
meditating,  miraculously  ugly  female 
buffaloes  on  the  way  to  their  dry  and  arid 
pasture ;  the  faster  moving,  more  comely 
looking,  but  most  vicious -tempered  do- 
mestic cow  pursuing  the  same  route  as 
her  less  prepossessing  but  more  amiable 
sister;  the  smart  native  official  in  his 
English-looking  "  trap,"  clothed  in  a 
little  brief  authority,  and  in  European 
dress,  above  which  his  never  discarded 
turban  adds  the  last  touch  to  a  curiously 
incongruous  picture;  the  English  official 
in  his  shining  white  helmet,  dashing  by 
in  his  high,  well-appointed  dog-cart,  his 
syce  standing  up  behind  and  shouting  as 
only  a  syce  can  to  everything  in  heaven 
and  earth  to  make  way  for  his  mas- 
ter's big,  Australian  Waler;  the  marriage 
company  laden  with  fruits,  sweetmeats, 
and  flowers,  and  joyful  with  tom-toms, 
accompanying  the  bridal  party  home; 
the  funeral  procession  on  its  way  to  the 
burning  ghat,  laden,  also,  with  fruits, 
sweetmeats,  and  flowers  for  the  soul's 
long  journey,  wending  its  way  with  weird- 
est noise  of  drum-beat  and  cymbal,  con- 
ventional wailing  and  woe,  the  stiff,  stark 
body  covered  with  garlands  and  borne 
aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  men,  the  dead 
face  lifted,  fixed  and  unflinching,  to  meet 
the  blazing  eye  of  the  sun ;  and  the  never- 
ceasing  tramp  and  soft,  dull  thud  in  the 
dust  of  the  bare  human  feet  of  the  coolie 
seeking  work  and  the  pilgrim  seeking 
rest.  All  are  hurrying  forward  to  reach 


some  shade,  or  shelter  before  the  sun 
marks  high  noon  and  calls  the  race  off 
for  the  day. 

In  the  back  veranda  maties  and  syces, 
gardeners  and  punkah- wallahs,  are  tum- 
bling over  one  another  in  the  exercise  of 
their  various  functions  and  in  obedience 
to  the  butler's  orders,  preparatory  to 
serving  breakfast,  the  concluding  feature 
of  the  morning's  activities.  And,  al- 
though it  is  by  no  means  so  stately  a 
function  as  dinner,  it  is  reposeful  after 
the  morning  scramble.  The  punkah 
waves  tranquilly  over  the  gracefully  deco- 
rated table.  The  butler  and  maties,  clad 
in  spotless  muslins  and  bright  turbans, 
their  bare  feet  stepping  softly,  voices 
hushed  and  speaking  in  whispers,  are 
soothing  to  tired  nerves.  The  cook,  too, 
is  a  chef  of  no  mean  ability,  though  it  is 
best  not  to  inquire  too  closely  into  his 
methods.  The  chicks  have  been  lowered 
in  the  veranda  to  shut  out  the  sun  and 
the  hawkers,  and  an  atmosphere  of  quiet 
and  peace  begins  to  prevail. 

The  memsahib,  worn  out  with  the  heat 
and  the  morning's  "inspecting,"  takes 
her  seat  wearily  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
Her  conversation  is  domestic,  and  is  un- 
hindered by  the  presence  of  the  butler 
and  maties.  The  sahib,  fresh  from  his 
tub,  after  a  run  with  his  hounds  followed 
by  several  hours  of  hard  "  inspecting  " 
in  his  own  department,  listens  while  she 
recounts  her  morning's  experiences.  She 
speaks  of  the  episode  of  the  cow,  records 
her  doubts  as  to  the  integrity  of  the  milk, 
reveals  her  suspicions  about  the  gram, 
and  the  little  heaps  of  horsehair  in  the 
stalls,  describes  the  tantrums  she  had 
with  the  grass-cutter  over  the  bundles 
of  grass  for  the  horses,  mentions  her 
quarrel  with  the  cook  over  his  bazaar 
account,  condemns  the  carelessness  of 
the  chokra  in  breaking  the  last  tumbler 
but  one,  states  her  conviction  that  the 
kerosene  oil  has  been  extracted  from  the 
lamps  by  other  means  than  combustion, 
and  tells  of  her  horror  at  finding  that, 
after  all  the  boiling  and  filtering,  the 
drinking  water  was  alive  that  morning 


270 


Life  in  an  Indian  Compound 


with  mosquito  larvae,  and  quite  capable 
of  walking  alone  if  so  disposed,  —  all  in 
plain  English  and  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  the  butler's  command  of  that  lan- 
guage was  the  chief  accomplishment 
mentioned  in  the  "  character  "  for  which 
she  engaged  him.  She  makes  fervent 
allusion,  also,  to  those  "  vile  brutes,"  the 
jugglers,  and  to  those  "  nasty  creatures," 
the  hawkers,  to  all  of  which  the  butler, 
while  listening  attentively,  appears  out- 
wardly unobservant. 

The  sahib,  too,  has  had  a  morning  of 
it.  Being  an  Englishman,  he  has  been 
trained  to  "  cross-country "  riding  in 
England,  which  pastime  he  has  imported 
with  himself  into  India  with  as  few  modi- 
fications as  possible.  But  unfortunately 
neither  the  horses  nor  the  country  in  India 
have  been  properly  trained  to  such  sports. 
Instead  of  the  neat  hedges,  trim  fences, 
five-barred  gates,  and  open  fields  of  his 
native  isles,  this  impossible  substitute 
for  a  country  consists  chiefly,  of  jungles, 
paddy-fields,  tank  bunds,  and  prickly 
pear.  The  horses,  far  from  taking  their 
bunkers  easily  and  in  good  form,  seem 
to  be  hopelessly  fixed  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing down  on  their  noses.  And,  worst  of 
all,  in  lieu  of  the  willing  and  well- tamed 
fox  of  the  home  land,  he  is  compelled  to 
make  shift  with  that  unaccountable  crea- 
ture, the  jackal,  which,  unaccustomed  to 
playing  the  game,  and  being,  moreover, 
well  posted  on  the  "  lay  of  the  land,"  has 
that  morning  led  him  and  his  hounds 
a  chase  involving  a  trail  through  dense 
jungles,  a  trip  through  paddy-fields  knee- 
deep  in  water  and  mud,  a  run  round  a 
tank  bund  copiously  bordered  with  ven- 
omous cacti,  and  a  final  dash  to  cover  in 
a  thicket  of  prickly  pear,  —  a  very  irreg- 
ular and  objectionable  finish  from  the 
point  of  view  of  hounds  and  sahib  alike. 


The  sahib  recounts  all  this  to  the 
memsahib,  commenting  freely  upon  the 
character  of  the  country,  the  nature  of 
jackals,  and  the  general  disposition  of 
horses  and  syces  in  India.  He  makes 
frequent  use  in  his  discourse  of  the 
word  "  infernal,"  which  in  no  wise  dis- 
turbs the  serenity  of  the  butler,  who 
is  used  to  it,  and  who  understands  that 
the  word  represents  a  condition  of  things 
introduced  into  the  country  by  the  Eng- 
lish, and  for  which  he  is,  therefore,  not 
responsible.  It  appears,  also,  from  the 
sahib's  remarks  that  the  "  brute  "  crea- 
tion must  have  multiplied  considerably 
since  the  days  when  Noah  went  into  the 
ark.  He  applies  the  word  impartially  to 
his  horse,  to  his  syce,  to  the  jackal,  to 
the  prickly  pear,  and  to  the  country  in 
general,  which  has  the  effect  of  arousing 
a  high  though  suppressed  degree  of  inter- 
est in  the  minds  of  the  butler  and  maties, 
whose  ancestors  were  all  advanced  evo- 
lutionists. 

It  happens,  therefore,  as  a  fitting 
though  painful  finale  to  the  scenes  of 
the  morning  that  the  butler,  becoming 
absorbed  in  the  conversation,  forgets  how 
low  hangs  the  punkah,  and  failing  to 
evade  it  on  its  return  swing,  suddenly 
finds  himself  bareheaded,  a  situation  far 
more  embarrassing  to  a  Hindu  than  to 
be  caught  coatless  would  be  to  a  Euro- 
pean. He  also  has  the  unspeakable  pain 
of  beholding  his  turban  acting  as  a  centre 
piece  for  the  table,  and  as  an  all  too 
capacious  cover  to  the  butter  dish. 

Exit  the  butler,  his  serenity  greatly 
impaired,  to  the  back  veranda ;  the  mem- 
sahib, after  a  time,  in  despair,  to  her 
apartments;  and  the  sahib,  gloomily,  to 
his  office,  where  his  "  tappal  "  awaits 
him.  It  is  best  not  to  inquire  too  particu- 
larly into  what  awaits  his  clerks. 


VOICES 


BY   LUCY   SCARBOROUGH   CONANT 


Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime. 

THERE  is  a  vibration  of  command  in 
the  fine-strung  human  voice.  It  demands 
the  answering  auditory  quality,  thereby 
completing  the  circuit. 

And  yet,  any  articulate  demand  of 
value  cannot  stop  at  the  verge  of  the  sen- 
si  tory  powers.  Its  rhythmical  question- 
ings go  sounding  over  the  waters  of  our 
being,  stirring  the  long  sea-grasses  of  our 
fancy,  that  seem  so  fragile,  and  are  yet 
deep-rooted  and  vigorous.  They  are 
dependent  on  the  sturdy  waves  that  flut- 
ter open  the  petals  of  their  submental 
flowers,  as  the  surges  by  our  shore  unfold 
the  rock-anemone. 

Such  is  the  eternal  curiosity  of  this 
blinded  depth,  that  it  awaits  the  tide  of 
sound  with  the  avidity  and  wistfulness 
of  a  Helen  Keller,  spelling  out  messages 
from  the  touch  of  a  hand. 

Each  new  voice,  to  a  sensitive  listener, 
betrays  the  owner.  By  its  largesse,  capri- 
cious leaps,  sedate  levels,  overflows  of 
laughter,  undertones  of  days  lived  and 
lovable,  promises,  assurances,  and  re- 
serves, you  are  already  far  on  the  road 
to  acquaintance,  when  this  new  sprite 
of  a  voice  knocks  first  at  your  door.  He 
cannot  help  it!  Better  flee  than  attempt 
disguise.  All  that  is  subtle  beneath,  the 
silver  tongue  has  just  hinted.  Whatever 
is  there  of  sad  or  slow-blossoming  he  can 
scarcely  disguise.  We  say,  "Dear  me, 
how  he  has  suffered!"  We  cry,  "Ah, 
there's  a  happy  man  for^you!"  and 
neither  knows  that  he  is  limned  as  clearly 
to  us  through  his  resounding  syllables  as 
the  special  character  of  elm  and  willow 
through  our  window-pane.  In  spite  of 
this,  degrees  and  possibilities  are  still  to 
be  discovered,  and  cynicism  or  a  brave 
heart,  a  fad  or  willful  reserve,  may 
build  the  close-fitted  armor  protecting 


his  depths  even  as  the  barrier  in  certain 
eyes  is  like  a  veil  over  the  soul. 

I  think  Jeanne  d'Arc  listened  for  her 
voices  with  no  deeper  eagerness  than  we 
when  the  newcomer  nears  our  circle.  We 
are  interested  each  in  the  other.  Irre- 
trievably inclosed  in  our  shell  of  beauti- 
ful tissues  and  moving  blood,  the  lonely 
soul  within  the  clay,  informed  of  all  that 
passes,  enlarged  or  restricted  as  that  clay 
may  be  modeled,  is  listening  constantly 
from  that  central  solitude  for  whatever 
may  cheer,  awaken,  or  illuminate. 

The  woodland  beasts  that  crept  around 
Apollo  and  found  voice  for  their  inarticu- 
lacy  in  that  divinity  of  sound,  needed  no 
more  to  be  entreated  than  does  the  hu- 
man when  it  scents  the  divine. 

Certain  voices  level  away  the  steeps  of 
darkness ;  all  is  light.  Like  Vittoria  sing- 
ing against  the  black  pines,  her  voice 
calm  and  full  as  the  white  moon's  calm- 
ness there,  they  shine.  Like  Elsa  above 
Ortrud's  guilty  shadow,  they  are  syllables 
of  light.  Or,  like  bells  touched  in  the  late 
night,  they  are  clear,  round-throated, 
calling  up  the  dawn  across  dim  shadowy 
hollows,  where  cold  mist  hovers  about 
dew-frosted  thyme  and  ivy  by  mills  yet 
silent. 

Voices  of  such  resonant  vibration  have 
absolutely  the  quality  of  the  bell  in  the 
tower,  already  silent,  still  quivering,  but 
filling  the  air  with  a  melodious  humming 
of  bronze  —  the  bees  of  sound  at  work 
at  their  honey-making  about  the  airy 
hive. 

Such  the  voice  of  power.  Not  incom- 
plete, or  una wakened.  However  re- 
stricted once  the  personality  now  seeking 
expression,  we  are  sure  that  no  light  ex- 
perience of  years  must  have  perfected 
chimes  like  these.  Whatever  is  mellow 
in  their  ringing,  or  far-piercing,  or  poig- 

271 


272 


Voices 


nant,  there  the  fire  brought  it,  left  it,  — 
fine  of  the  gods.  Heroes  are  tempered 
therein,  and  the  sober  sound  that  flames 
utter  on  wintry  hearth  is  theirs  and  also 
the  soft  singing  that  apple-boughs  are 
wont  to  break  into  there,  —  of  dead  sum- 
mers when  drought  and  heat  lay  on  the 
land,  and  yet  the  apple  ripened. 

But  one  can  imagine  only  with  diffi- 
culty the  complete  voice.  It  should  range 
throughout  life  and  life's  mysteries,  cru- 
dities, solemnities,  noble  rages,  ignoble 
terrors,  —  and  as  the  sound  races  in  our 
ears,  it  should  be  so  much  larger  a  fancy 
than  our  own,  so  incalculably  dominant, 
that  we,  too,  are  on  foot  and  away,  illim- 
itable ourselves,  at  the  moment.  Con- 
trolled, it  must  be,  yet  thereby  no  stranger 
to  life.  He  that  rides  all  day  from  dawn 
to  the  gray  of  evening  has  heard  many 
a  cross-road  cry  and  many  a  Philomela. 
He  has  faltered  and  fallen.  He  is  knight 
and  rescuer,  slow  plodder  under  storm, 
willing  traveler  beside  ambulant  pilgrim 
or  priest.  Betrayed,  succored,  never  be- 
traying, never  quite  losing  kerchief  or 
shield,  he  wanders  near  at  last,  bringing 
the  world  to  our  ears  through  his  voicing 
of  its  medley. 

"  I  care  not  whether  you  listen,"  says 
the  Voice  Beautiful.  "  Soon  or  late,  you 
cannot  resist  me.  Varied  as  the  Magician 
commanded  am  I.  Perhaps  I  am  fathom- 
ing for  you  a  beauty  deeper  than  that  I 
simulate.  I  am  not  quite  perfection.  I 
am  the  instrument  that  suggests  to  you 
the  ideal ;  through  my  scope  you  dream. 
Are  you  unsouled  like  the  Ice-Queen,  it 
is  for  me  to  unlock  those  crystal  portals 
through  which  your  heart  shall  feel  the 
warmth  of  my  aria.  Surely,  at  times  I 
belong  to  beings  of  no  great  or  peculiar 
power.  I  speak  in  the  sunny  phrases  of 
the  hill-women  when  they  have  basked 
long  on  the  massive  shoulder  of  Italy, 
and  musical  are  the  slow  words  they  let 
fall  as  you  pass.  I  am  the  voice  of  Calve, 
blotted  against  the  great  stage  wings, 
seductive,  velvet.  I  am  the  shepherd 
tongue  that  counts  its  lambs  at  twilight, 
the  pastoral  tongue  of  content.  Sir  Philip 


Sidney  am  I,  in  thirst  and  honor  dying, 
or  the  hundred  Lohengrins  of  life,  those 
young  Swans  that  float  away.  Pilgrims 
and  penitents  have  known  my  voice  as 
theirs.  Many  a  nymph  have  I  inspired; 
many  a  dryad,  leaf-crowned  by  old  Pan, 
has,  with  him,  shared  my  whispering. 
I  range  from  the  reed  of  a  poet  to  the 
bolt  of  a  Jove  of  mankind  —  leader, 
exhorter,  law-giver.  I  croon  with  the 
cow-boy  as  he  holds  the  restive  cattle  by 
his  chant  under  the  stars  on  the  unbarred 
prairies,  where  the  far  mesa  casts  no 
shadow  at  dawn.  When  your  dearest  lie 
down  ta  sleep,  I  arn  that  faint  Good- 
night! When  they  are  drifting  forever 
from  you,  my  own  voice  is  that  last 
breathing  of  your  name.  When  the  priest 
calls  up  the  beauty  of  deed  and  life  of 
one  in  rest  before  him,  my  peace  dwells 
in  his  tone.  For  some  one  of  you  I. be- 
come, at  last,  most  intimate,  most  dear, 
in  the  note  that,  with  you  and  the  Spirit, 
closes  the  chord." 

Get    you    dreams  —  ye    work-a-day ! 
Hark  to  the  Voice !  But  only  by  intuition, 
by  sympathy,  by  holy  love,  may  you  win. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

The  full  power  of  the  Vox  Humana 
calls,  and  at  last  ye  understand,  for  life 
has  taught  you.  But  at  first  ye  under- 
stood not,  though  from  earliest  time  it 
called. 

Curious  the  effect  of  many  voices  in  a 
crowd.  The  sibilance  and  reiteration  of 
similar  sounds  rattle  at  last  in  the  ear, 
hiss  and  subside,  and  rear  again  the 
hydra-heads.  And  suddenly,  a  single 
voice  is  born  out  of  this  tumult.  You  are 
instantly  quite  secure  in  a  little  special 
peaceful  atmosphere  of  your  own  and 
some  one's  else,  produced  entirely  by  the 
key  of  tone  to  which  your  own  sensitive- 
ness is  attuned,  and  which  in  some  mys- 
terious way,  under  all  its  dailiness,  says 
Beautiful!  to  you.  And  the  voice  heard 
from  a  distance,  the  owner  quite  invisible, 
is  the  veritable  voice  reduced  to  its  own 
merits;  no  lift  of  eyebrow,  no  familiar 
flicker  of  the  lips,  no  laughter  below  the 


Voices 


273 


crumpling  eyes.  Swiftly  adaptive  and 
flexible,  the  supple  throat  follows  the 
convolutions  of  its  deft  mind,  and  you 
stand  as  if  with  eyes  closed,  hearing  the 
soul  play  close  to  unseen  lips,  they  trans- 
lating all  sorts  of  hidden  languages  and 
folk-lore  and  loveliness  to  you,  though 
bare  words  themselves  are  unheard. 

There  are  harp  strings  in  the  human 
throat.  Personality  plays  upon  them. 
When  its  hands  are  firm,  white,  and  ac- 
customed, you  shall  hear  marvelous  melo- 
dies. And  if  they  throb  and  thrum  for 
one  alone,  he  shall  know  the  vibration  of 
the  spheres. 

The  young  voice,  a  disembodied  treble 
floating  over  all  that  is  to  be,  as  yet, 
latent,  unborn,  —  is  curiously  clear,  un- 
stirring  and  limpid,  as  if  you  looked  into 
a  spring  so  untroubled  that  it  cast  back 
the  pure  spaciousness  above  quite  undis- 
turbed. It  is  so  untried  that  it  cannot 
vibrate  yet  with  the  strength  of  endeavor 
and  the  pride  of  victory.  There  is  no 
shadow- wing  of  defeat,  retreating  across 
the  sky.  However  passionless  and  irre- 
sponsive these  child-like  vocables,  they 
hold  you  to  an  upper  scale  of  charm,  to 
the  highlands  of  youth,  where  the  young 
lambs  play  and  the  sun  rises  early  and 
has  many  hours  to  run!  Well  may  you 
dream  of  dew  and  freshness,  for  here  is 
the  real  morning  voice. 

But  the  voice  that  is  awakening  and 
trying  its  chords,  running,  half -fearfully, 
on  scales  that  are  swiftly  responsive, 
astoundingly  vigorous,  develops  magical 
assonances,  startling  and  novel  rear- 
rangements of  jaded  harmonies.  When 
such  a  voice  is  not  yet  overlaid  with 
usage,  custom,  weariness,  or  bitterness, 
the  daily  rites  of  dissimulation  and  fact, 
the  accretions  of  other  accents,  other 
minds,  when  it  speaks  in  its  own  clarity 
and  purity  on  a  range  as  yet  slight,  it  is 
most  musical,  most  haunting  in  its  brief 
cadences  and  springing  laughter.  So, 
while  such  a  young  soul  is  unconsciously 
uttering  itself,  all  turn  to  hear,  for  con- 
queror and  conquered  alike  are  thirsty 
for  the  sound. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  2 


However,  the  great  instrument  that  is 
utterly  alive  and  awake  has  a  richness 
comparable  to  nothing  daily.  Only  wild 
and  rare  similes  may  suffice.  Somewhat 
exotic  it  has,  like  the  flash  of  a  Bird  of 
Paradise  in  the  forest.  Or  it  curves  to 
dazzling  extremes  of  color,  like  the  neck- 
lace of  Isabella  d'Este,  —  "  black  amber 
beads  and  gold  and  enamelled  roses," 
luxuriously  sliding  one  against  the  other. 
It  is  Miriam.  It  is  that  Vittoria  of  Co- 
lonna  when  he  of  the  Chapel  was  listen- 
ing to  her.  It  is  Beatrice.  And,  not  least 
of  these  —  Diana  Warwick. 

There  was  once  a  Padre  Giovanni  in 
Rome  who  sang  with  such  charm  and 
potency  that  Jealousy  stilled  that  voice 
to  the  world.  Yet  the  other  soul,  the  evil 
one,  died  too.  What  of  the  voice  of  Jeal- 
ousy still  singing  from  such  depths  of 
hatred  and  murder  within?  But  how 
many  accents  have  perished  through  a 
dying  soul !  What  wrecks  of  men  lie  be- 
low the  shambling  tones,  the  irrational 
vagaries  of  diction  we  hear!  Through 
dry  rot  and  mildew,  parasite  and  slothful 
sap,  they  failed  and,  at  last,  the  great 
wind  in  the  night  broke  them  at  the  wood- 
land border,  strewing  the  lane  with  litter 
for  the  pot,  that  creaked  but  woefully  as 
it  fell. 

Saddest  of  all  is  to  hearken  to  the  voice 
—  young,  and  yet  never  to  be  young 
again  —  passing  below  in  the  night  of  a 
great  city.  Pleading,  sobbing,  half- wild, 
wholly  alone  forever,  it  yet  clings  to  what 
it  has  best  known.  The  poignancy  and 
terror  of  such  silver  weeping  sweep  across 
the  brief  segment  of  dark,  an  answering 
deep  note  soothing,  sustaining,  pleading 
as  well,  while  the  ghostly  duo  fades  into 
that  night  from  which  it  sprang.  It  is  like 
an  apparition  from  Dante's  brain.  And 
that  grave  mind  that  saw  so  deeply  into 
hearts  and  passions  of  men  must  have 
pitied,  had  it  ever  heard  such  sobbing  in 
the  night. 

Golden  is  the  gift  of  Silence,  for  the 
golden  tongue  is  rare.  Rare  the  orator, 
the  speaker,  who  shall  own  both  pearls 
of  diction,  and  well  of  experience.  If  he 


274 


Voices 


croak  or  lisp,  hesitate  or  drawl,  then  his 
jewels  are  set  in  such  clumsy  wise  they 
must,  of  need, -be  reset  in  type,  shining 
then  with  fairer  lustre,  farther  thrown. 
Yet  at  times  he  is  born  to  hold  and  charm 
his  people  with  a  voice  fully  expressive 
of  his  own  powers.  If  he  speak  of  farthest 
Thibet  or  Nyanza,  describe  to  you  the 
flickering  Aurora  or  the  camp-fire  flaming 
on  rough  totems;  if  he  divine  some  accus- 
tomed poet  or  interpret  anew  the  world's 
old  wisdom;  or  if  at  last,  he  chant  so 
clearly  the  laws  of  being,  of  living,  doing, 
and  loving,  that  all  tired  or  hopeless  eyes 
see  suddenly  the  culmination  of  a  Happy 
Age;  if  he  stir  men  to  deeds,  or  shock 
them  from  selfishness ;  arouse  from  sloth, 
shame  the  miser's  hand  from  grip  on 
purse-strings,  lead  some  to  peace  and 
others  to  nobility,  what  shall  be  more 
truly  golden  than  an  organ  such  as  this  ? 
How,  in  the  night,  the  sounds  of  memo- 
ried  voices  go  leaping  through  one's 
brain ! 

Blind  Jean  croons  by  the  espaliered 
pear  in  the  old  Breton  garden.  In  low 
crypts  and  under  naves  where  painted 
glass  turns  gray  walls  to  prismatic  sun- 
light, the  kneeling  women  whisper  softly. 
In  San  Marco,  the  antique  saints  about 
the  domes  hang  above  chants  rising  from 
beside  that  glowing  altar  of  transparen- 
cies, gems  and  gold.  Voices  in  dark  alleys 
caroling.  The  gruff  cries  of  coal-heavers 
below  harbored  ships  at  night.  Fisher- 
men calling  across  the  little  bay,  as  twi- 
light shuts  down  upon  their  furling  sails. 
The  mast-head  cry.  The  tone  of  her  that 
still  is  "  stepping  westward."  Reuben  in 
the  swamp,  calling  the  red  cow  home 
from  redder  sumach.  Beagles  in  dry 
autumn  grass,  and  the  gay  halloo  behind. 
The  shepherd,  brown  upon  his  browner 
moor, — a  faint  touch  on  its  immensity, 
—  his  voice  a  plover  cry  across  it.  And 
the  roundelays  in  harvest  field  or  vine- 
yard. 

"Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  " 
A  few  bees  make  populous  the  brown 
moor.    It  is  no  longer  lonely.    A  single 
thrush  in  the  greenest  hollows  of  the 


woods  makes  the  palisaded  glooms  com-, 
panionable.  It  shall  go  hard  if  you  share 
not  your  rock  by  the  sea  with  one  voice 
of  the  untamed  wing. 

But  the  Voice  Impalpable!  It  is  that 
which  lives  not,  yet  is  immortal,  which 
has  never  quite  died,  having  been  once 
born,  bearing  a  fame  like  that  of  the  arms 
of  Helen,  the  peak  of  JEtna,  the  shoul- 
ders of  Olympian  Hermes,  Hylas  below 
the  trailing  maiden-hair  —  things  that 
sang  not,  yet  are  sung  and  voiced  forever. 
Such  potencies  are  the  springs  of  poets. 
These  are  their  Alps.  The  glacier  of 
Time  stores  all  things  in  its  subterranean 
heart.  But  he  who  watches  far  off  where 
Time's  laggard  stream  drops  the  fresh- 
ness of  its  reservoirs  in  his  own  springs, 
hears  the  Voice  Impalpable  from  those 
dim  caverns,  and  the  very  intoxication  of 
their  antique  wine  hangs  about  the  lips 
that,  in  a  divinity  of  passion,  speak  of 
ideal  loneliness,  or  strength,  or  purity  of 
soaring  line,  or  fables  of  the  elder  world. 
The  real  singers  were  primal  Pan 
and  his  forest  friends.  Polyphemus,  too, 
lamented  by  the  sea,  and  his  rough  voice 
is  beauty  now.  Bacchantes  cried  out, 
ranging  the  forest.  The  Strayed  Reveler 
whispered  under  the  white  portico.  There 
were  voices  in  Athens,  burning  tongues 
in  Rome.  There  was  the  hushed  murmur 
in  the  narrow  dark  crowded  streets  about 
that  first  picture  of  Cimabue.  What  gasp- 
ing words  of  hatred  when  Scotch  Mary's 
breath  was  cloven !  What  sound  was  that 
of  the  long  wolf  howl  by  the  Bastile! 
What  acclamations  rose  from  serf  and 
slave  when  told  of  freedom ! 

Of  the  Voice  Impalpable  is  one  living 
thing,  —  the  Voice  of  Song.  It  is  eternal. 
One  tiniest  rough  scrap  of  clay  has  given 
it  tongue.  For  in  one  of  the  oldest  and 
poorest  streets  of  that  city  in  France  once 
called  Marsalia,  running  above  the 
crowded  port  where  the  beaks  of  great 
ships  hang  above  the  quai,  is  the  shop  of 
Rafael.  He  was  born  in  Amalfi,  in  that 
sunny  town  of  the  great  church  steps  and 
cliff  viale,  built  along  the  islanded  sea 
below  Ravello's  Moorish  Towers  and 


George  Bancroft 


275 


the  steep  salite  where  hill-women  bear 
heavy  burdens  on  their  shoulders.  And 
here,  in  this  alien  town,  in  a  shop  so  re- 
stricted that  one  small  table  by  a  single 
window  must  hold  his  primitive  moulds 
and  tools,  he  has  found  space  to  hang 
a  few  colored  prints  of  his  home,  and 
his  face  will  light  up  when  you  notice 
them. 

He  is  an  artist  of  the  Santons  or  San- 
touns  —  the  clay  images  made  in  thou- 
sands for  the  Christmas  creches  and  sold 
along  the  boulevards  in  the  December 
fair.  But  he  goes  not  to  the  fair  with  his 
work  —  being  an  artist ! 

And  when  you  have  finished  looking 
at  the  curious  little  pots  of  color,  earthy 
in  foundation,  the  tiny  brushes,  moulds, 
clay  models,  and  saints  as  yet  untoned, 
that  litter  the  dim  little  bench,  you  find 
all  the  Santons  arranged  on  shelves,  of 
two  or  even  three  sizes,  from  the  smallest 
pink  baby  Jesus  who  could  lie  so  sweetly 
in  a  tiny  manger,  to  a  swarthy  stalwart 
King,  all  spotted  ermine  and  gold,  clasp- 
ing a  vase  of  treasures.  Here  is  Mary, 


adoring.  Here,  the  countrywoman,  come 
to  admire,  with  her  gift  of  poultry.  There, 
the  wanderer  with  bagpipe  and  swathed 
legs  like  the  Campagna  peasants,  or  a 
cluster  of  angels,  ready  to  suspend  from 
some  neat  wire.  And  there,  that  day, 
stood  the  Voice  of  Song.  He  was  a  little 
shepherd.  You  could  see  he  was  sitting 
on  a  rock  of  the  hillside,  floi'ks  not  far 
away.  The  pipes  were  at  his  childish  lips, 
and  his  little  face  had  so  young  and  fair 
an  aspect  that  you  could  imagine  it  look- 
ing up  into  that  clear  bright  heaven  where 
hung  the  Star  above  Judaea.  To  the  De- 
liverer, the  Expected,  the  Good,  was  he 
piping,  and  yet,  just  the  love  of  the 
double  throat  was  really  at  the  bottom 
of  this  heart;  and  in  that  breathing-out 
of  art  fulfilled,  lay  his  joy  over  the  Un- 
known and  the  Good. 

There  is  a  Paradisal  murmuring  in  the 
voice  that  demands  the  aureole  of  the 
Star.  Bound  on  the  forehead,  it  sancti- 
fies the  lips. 

The  little  Voice  of  Song,  —  it  sleeps 
all  night  below  the  Star. 


GEORGE   BANCROFT 


BY   WILLIAM    M.    SLOANE 


THIS  magisterial  and  critical  life  1  of 
a  great  historian  is  very  welcome.  By 
subtle  touches  and  careful  selection  of 
letters,  the  biographer  has  created  the 
environment  of  the  man,  the  back- 
ground against  which  he  was  seen  by  the 
men  of  his  own  race-stock,  the  move- 
ment of  politics  in  America  during  the 
pregnant  period  of  his  life,  and  the  tri- 
umphant efforts  of  American  diplomacy 
which  he  put  forth. 

The  outer  Bancroft  is  also  well  mod- 
eled in  the  book :  the  slender  elegance  of 

1  The  Life  and  Letters  of  George  Bancroft. 
By  M.  A.  DE  WOLFE  HOWE.  Two  vols.  New 
York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1908. 


his  form;  the  intellectual  features;  the 
manners  and  mannerisms  of  ambitious 
youth ;  the  harmless  but  trying  pose  due 
to  a  foreign-trained  mind  and  receptive 
nature;  the  countenance  that  expressed 
disdain  of  parochialism;  the  rather  un- 
skillful attitude  of  an  apostle  proclaiming 
the  gospel  of  nationality,  democracy,  and 
expansion;  the  irritating  assurance  of  the 
experienced  politician,  a  political  non- 
conformist dispensing  favors  to  the  mem- 
bers of  a  political  sect  foreign  to  eastern 
Massachusetts ;  the  triumphant  historian 
of  American  democracy,  the  citizen  of 
the  world.  All  this  is  in  the  book,  and  its 
impartiality  is  such  that,  weighing  and 


276 


George  Bancroft 


balancing,  the  reader  wonders  a  little 
whether  this  was  or  was  not  a  sincere  and 
lovable  man;  whether  he  was  a  states- 
man or  a  politicaster,  a  great  historian 
or  an  historical  pleader,  not.  to  say 
romancer. 

It  was  not  the  task  of  the  biographer 
to  set  forth  at  length  and  in  bold  outline 
the  characteristics  of  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury in  thought  and  aspirations,  or  the 
reaction  of  the  new  Europe  upon  the  old, 
and  the  reverse.  Yet  we  venture  to  think 
that  no  adequate  judgment  of  Bancroft 
can  be  formed  without  great  emphasis  on 
the  fact  that  he  lived  in  an  epoch  so  close 
to  ours  in  time,  and  yet  so  remote  in  senti- 
ment that  it  is  hard  to  be  comprehended. 
The  century  just  past  was  the  age  of 
Utopias:  the  effort  to  realize  them  was 
earnest,  serious,  incessant.  The  very  con- 
cepts of  liberty,  democracy,  nationality, 
were  Utopian;  the  words  connote  a  state 
of  mind;  experiment,  rather  than  con- 
crete reality,  in  the  means  and  ends,  is 
dominant.  Representation,  discussion, 
extension  of  the  suffrage ;  unity  of  speech, 
institutions,  laws;  natural  boundaries, 
human  perfectibility,  the  average  man, 
patriotism  and  self-denial  for  the  general 
good,  all  these  are  ideals  capable  only  of 
partial  realization.  But  to  our  fathers 
and  forefathers  they  appeared  attainable 
goals,  for  those  generations  were  ideal- 
istic, full  of  faith,  hope,  confidence.  They 
had  seen  a  mighty  deliverance  from  igno- 
rance and  ecclesiasticism,  they  were  con- 
vinced that  regenerate  man  would  make 
a  regenerate  world;  they  did  not  see  the 
reaction  to  unbelief,  self-indulgence,  and 
flippancy  which  gives  us  new  standards 
and  new  sanctions.  From  this  standpoint 
it  is  very  easy  to  misunderstand  Ban- 
croft's life  and  work,  for  he  was  a  man  of 
his  own  age,  with  its  style,  its  aspirations, 
its  methods  of  work;  a  leader  moreover, 
always  a  little  in  advance  of  the  social 
movement. 

Sincerity  of  manner  consorts  but  par- 
tially and  imperfectly  with  the  outward 
appearance  of  the  idealist  and  optimist. 
He  is  himself  convinced,  but  he  is  rather 


deprecatory,  since  there  is  so  little  co- 
operation of  the  will,  either  personal  or 
collective;  his  convictions,  based  on  reli- 
gion and  philosophy,  are  not  convincing 
to  the  materialistic  time-server  and 
muck-raker,  not  even  to  the  majority  of 
conservative,  matter-of-fact  persons,  who 
are  the  overwhelming  majority ;  still  less 
so  to  the  pessimistic  elect  of  students  and 
thinkers.  To  be  at  once  an  idealist  and 
a  man  of  affairs,  dealing  with  selfish  in- 
terest on  every  side,  is  to  challenge  the 
stigma  of  insincerity,  and  Bancroft  was  a 
perfect  illustration  of  such  a  double  activ- 
ity. In  learning  he  aimed  higher  than  he 
could  hit,  in  education  he  saw  a  vision  of 
the  unattainable,  in  his  science  the  facts 
he  so  laboriously  accumulated  were  in- 
terpreted in  the  light  of  imagination,  in 
politics  he  was  not  of  New  England,  but 
of  America,  —  not  of  America,  but  of  the 
civilized  world.  It  is  given  to  very  few 
to  be  alike  patriotic  and  cosmopolitan; 
to  write  history  not  only  for  those  who 
have  lived  it,  but  also  in  the  perspective 
of  philosophical  generalization. 

This  was  the  only  sense  in  which  Ban- 
croft can  be  misinterpreted.  His  ambi- 
tions were  insatiate  but  honorable;  his 
social  aspirations  were  chivalrous  and 
aristocratic;  but,  though  given  to  gal- 
lantry, he  never  forgot  the  democracy 
and  prudery  of  his  Puritan  blood;  the 
means  by  which  he  attained  to  a  certain 
opulence  were  exactly  those  which  were 
practiced  and  approved  by  the  great  of 
his  age,  —  thrift,  office-holding,  judicious 
investment,  and  honorable  marriage. 
Born  under  conditions  severe  and  simple, 
he  affected  and  cultivated,  first,  the  man- 
ners of  the  university  hierarchy,  here  and 
abroad;  then,  those  of  the  opulent  and 
governing  classes  among  whom  he  lived 
in  both  Europe  and  America.  He  was 
not  born  to  this  manner,  and  his  style  was 
the  garb,  not  of  his  spirit,  but  of  his  per- 
son. Many  felt  it  and  remarked  it; envy 
made  it  a  source  of  unkind  criticism. 
What  he  did,  and  professed,  and  wrote, 
was  scrutinized  with  a  search  for  arti- 
ficiality and  pose.  Yet  he  was  neither 


George  Bancroft 


277 


artificial  nor  poseur:  his  life  was  a  con- 
tinuous evolution  of  all  that  is  highest 
in  man;  his  mistakes  were  rectified,  his 
mannerisms  were  shed,  his  learning  was 
fortified  and  enlarged,  his  hold  on  ver- 
ities was  strengthened,  and  his  social 
capacities  were  refreshed  and  broadened 
throughout.  It  was  not  his  fault  that 
others  disliked  the  process,  and  disap- 
proved of  an  inconsistency  which  is  really 
loyalty  to  new  truths  as  they  emerge; 
adaptability,  however,  is  not  necessarily 
insincerity. 

Furthermore,  in  order  that  justice  may 
be  done  to  such  a  man,  attention  must  be 
given  to  the  evolution  of  method  in  writ- 
ing history.  Call  history  literature,  or 
science,  or  discipline,  evolution  as  a  mode 
of  thought  was  discovered  and  cultivated 
by  historians  long  before  natural  science 
proclaimed  it  from  the  house-top  as  a 
novelty.  The  ancients  had  definite  con- 
ceptions of  the  change  from  simplicity  to 
complexity  in  every  department  of  human 
life.  They  did  not,  for  manifest  reasons, 
carry  that  doctrine  into  the  field  of  com- 
parative politics.  Indeed,  the  inception 
of  natural  science  was  due  to  the  observ- 
ation and  classification  of  human  phe- 
nomena. There  was  not  only  man,  but 
there  was  his  home;  how  did  this  habitat 
come  into  existence,  and  what  was  the 
evolution  of  its  form?  So  a  science  of 
nature  emerged  through  use  of  the  com- 
parative method;  out  of  many  haphaz- 
ard questionings  sprang  Vico's  attempt 
at  another  advance,  that  to  historical 
evolution.  He  failed  likewise  in  securing 
any  fruitful  system,  because,  like  his  pre- 
decessors, he  did  not  lay  hold  of  the  com- 
parative method.  Aristotle  had  marked 
the  organic  nature  of  human  society; 
Voltaire,  by  satire,  criticism,  and  doubt, 
discovered  the  unity  of  history.  But  it 
was  not  until  the  opening  of  the  last  cent- 
ury that  to  the  conception  of  organic 
unity  in  separate  societies  was  added  the 
revolutionary  thought  of  organic  unity 
in  the  totality  of  human  association. 

This  was  the  phase  of  historical  phi- 
losophy which  the  young  Bancroft  en- 


countered at  Goettingen.  The  doctrine 
had  both  limit  and  proportion,  as  ten- 
tatively set  forth  by  Heeren,  but  in  the 
writings  of  Herder  and  Hegel  the  tiny 
craft  was  launched  on  a  boundless  ocean 
of  speculation.  Both  were  optimistic 
fatalists,  or,  rather,  teleologists.  They 
falsely  conceived  of  progress  as  both  a 
material  and  a  moral  product:  it  was 
Kant  who  proved  it  to  be  only  the  latter. 
Whoever  may.be  the  adventurer  of  the 
twentieth  century  bold  enough  to  explore 
the  ponderous  tomes  of  philosophy  in 
history,  and  of  history  in  philosophy  con- 
taining the  speculation  of  those  days,  he 
will  give  vast  credit  to  the  young  Ban- 
croft for  emerging  from  all  that  disorderly 
tropical  luxuriance  with  a  clear  head  and 
definite  notions.  The  mystery  in  the  soul 
of  human  society  he  frankly  accepted, 
but  his  thesis  was  sane  and  sound :  that 
in  spite  of  this,  there  is  an  evolution  to  be 
accomplished  by  human  effort;  that  the 
race  persists,  however  men  may  disap- 
pear; that  advance  is  possible,  however 
strong  the  shackles  of  habit,  prejudice, 
and  nature;  that  in  conflict  with  the 
past,  mankind  renews  its  vital  energies. 
This  was  for  him  the  focal  concept  in  the 
study  of  the  past  by  the  comparative 
method. 

The  equipment  for  work  along  such 
lines  demands  a  vast  erudition;  not  the 
unorganized  mass  of  uncouth,  unrelated 
knowledge  under  which  the  universal 
scholar  of  the  eighteenth  and  preceding 
centuries  staggered  along,  scattering  its 
wisps  and  bundles  as  he  marched,  but 
the  classified  orderly  knowledge  pro- 
duced by  all  the  ancillary  sciences  which 
had  come  and  still  were  coming  into  be- 
ing: archeology,  geography,  sociology, 
philology,  mythology,  and  ethnology,  all 
working  by  the  comparison  of  group  with 
group,  age  with  age.  To  the  acquisition 
of  these  results  Bancroft  girded  himself, 
and  throughout  his  long  life  he  was  un- 
tiring in  his  acquisitions.  But  he  did 
more:  he  sought  not  merely  knowledge, 
he  sought  wisdom ;  in  French  phrase,  he 
desired  to  be  not  alone  an  "  erudit  "  but 


278 


George  Bancroft 


a  "  savant."  Accordingly  he  was  a  suc- 
cessful student,  both  theoretically  and 
historically.  He  labored  to  learn  and  he 
labored  to  think.  In  both  respects  he 
commanded  the  admiration  and  respect 
of  his  greatest  contemporaries  in  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  the  larger  Amer- 
ica. "  Er  kennt  Kant  durchaus,"  said 
Trendelenburg  to  an  American  scholar. 
There  is  abundant  evidence  of  his  high 
standing  within  the  covers  of  these  hand- 
some volumes,  patent  to  every  reader. 

These  brief  hints  are  given  with  pro- 
found respect  for  the  most  fundamental 
maxim  of  historical  ethics:  Represent 
every  man  from  his  own  standpoint; 
judge  him,  if  you  like,  from  your  own. 
It  must  be  clear  that  in  no  respect  was 
Bancroft's  standpoint  that  of  his  critics. 
Most  of  them  never  even  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  heights  which  he  stormed.  He 
certainly  did  represent  the  actors  of  his- 
tory from  their  own  standpoint,  but  with 
equal  certainty  he  also  judged  them  from 
his  own,  which  was  not  theirs  nor  that  of 
their  descendants.  And  in  the  wordy  let- 
ters which  ensued,  his  pamphlets,  rejoin- 
ders, rebuttals,  and  sur-rebuttals  were 
weapons  at  least  as  keen  as  were  those 
of  his  opponents.  Such  warfare  leaves 
many  wounds,  many  irritating  bruises 
and  scratches  on  the  self-esteem  of  the 
antagonists.  But  it  does  not  argue  any- 
thing dubious  or  artificial  in  the  defender 
of  a  citadel. 

"  Greift  nur  hinein  ins  voile  Menschen- 
leben."  These  words  were  often  on  Ban- 
croft's lips,  and  they  were  the  explana- 
tion of  his  conduct.  He  had  an  insatiable 
curiosity  about  the  great  facts  of  life. 
The  chart  on  which  he  spread  the  base 
lines  and  correlated  what  he  learned  was 
capacious,  and  he  had  no  series  of  set 
formulas  by  which  he  examined  his  ma- 
terial. The  painstaking  and  almost  pain- 
ful composition,  the  equally  meticulous 
revision  of  his  book,  the  varying  positions 
in  which  at  every  period  of  life  he  placed 
himself,  from  which  to  view  both  the 
details  of  his  book  and  its  unity;  the 
changes,  suppressions,  rearrangements, 


additions,  down  to  the  very  last  edition, 
all  exhibit  the  habit  and  grasp  of  his 
mind;  they  constituted  the  labors  of 
advancing  years,  and  are  creditable  to 
his  candor  and  to  his  versatility.  He  had 
no  timidity  at  any  time  in  the  face  of  then 
accepted  axioms,  so  many  of  which  have 
since  proved  to  be  subtle  assumptions. 
"  I  defy  a  man  to  penetrate  the  secrets 
and  laws  of  events  without  something  of 
faith.  He  may  look  on  and  see,  as  it  were, 
the  twinkling  of  stars  and  planets,  and 
measure  their  distances  and  motions ;  but 
the  life  of  history  will  escape  him.  He 
may  pile  a  heap  of  stones,  he  will  not  get 
at  the  soul." 

When  Ranke  told  him  that  his  his- 
tory was  the  best  book  ever  written  from 
the  democratic  point  of  view,  and  that 
he  must  continue  consistent  in  adhe- 
sion to  his  methods,  he  received  the  dic- 
tum as  the  speaker  intended,  and  with 
polite  attention,  but  without  comment. 
A  few  days  later,  however,  he  wrote,  "  I 
deny  the  charge ;  if  there  is  democracy  in 
the  book  it  is  not  subjective,  but  object- 
ive as  they  say  here,  and  so  has  neces- 
sarily its  place  in  history  and  gives  its 
color  as  it  should."  These  are  comple- 
mentary passages,  and  make  clear  the 
antinomy  which  besets  every  faithful, 
candid  worker  in  the  field  of  history :  to 
secure  the  accurate  record  of  facts  and 
not  to  shirk  the  manifest  judgments 
which  emerge  from  the  connected  tale. 
Meaning  there  is  in  the  pages  of  history, 
but  there  should  be  the  very  least  pos- 
sible of  intention  to  make  a  special  plea 
or  to  exhibit  prejudice  in  weaving  the 
fabric. 

The  conclusion  and  summary  of  the 
biographer,  though  short,  are  compre- 
hensive and  dispassionate.  They  prob- 
ably represent  the  judgments  of  the  hour 
with  all  accuracy.  But  these  judgments 
are,  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  cold  and 
unsympathetic  to  those  who  knew  the 
man ;  to  readers  who  did  not  know  him 
they  give,  as  some  have  told  me,  a  sense 
of  hesitancy.  Some  years  of  daily  inter- 
course with  Bancroft  and  the  circle  of  his 


George  Bancroft 


279 


famous  friends  in  Berlin,  considerable 
acquaintance  with  survivors  of  the  circle 
in  which  he  moved  during  his  residence  in 
New  York,  and  visits  of  some  frequency 
during  his  life  in  Washington  and  New- 
port, such  are  the  claims  of  the  writer  to 
speak  from  the  personal  standpoint;  no 
other  is  possible  for  him.  It  is  with 
this  reserve,  and  with  some  hesitancy, 
that  he  yet  feels  impelled  to  express  a 
certain  sense  of  disappointment  that  the 
total  impression  of  the  book  should,  for 
him,  be  what  it  is. 

The  greatest  men  are  human,  and  the 
publication  of  petty  details  such  as  our 
forbears  were  wont  to  consign  to  oblivion 
has  become  the  engrossing  occupation  of 
hundreds  who  aspire  to  be  historians. 
The  horizon  of  men  is  distinctly  propor- 
tionate to  their  elevation  of  soul.  The 
best  society  knows  its  own  and  debars  the 
rest.  It  would  be  well  for  the  readers  of 
this  biography  to  lay  some  emphasis  on 
the  fact  that  the  doorstep  reputation  of 
most  men  is  quite  different  from  such  an 
one  as  that  which  was  lavishly,  appre- 
ciatively bestowed  upon  Bancroft  by  his 
contemporaries  everywhere,  except  in 
Eastern  Massachusetts,  where  the  elect 
chose  for  some  time  to  regard  him  as  a 
"  sport,"  with  "  fantastic  "  ideas  and 
manners.  This  bias  prolonged  itself.  I 
heard  the  few  cold  words  with  which, 
some  years  ago,  Richter's  portrait  of 
Bancroft  was  announced  as  a  gift  to 
Harvard,  and  marked  the  frosty  indiffer- 
ence of  the  graduate  assemblage  to  the 
circumstance. 

When  New  Jersey  was  erecting  the  bat- 
tle monument  at  Trenton  and  proposed, 
on  the  authority  of  Bancroft's  pages,  to 
inscribe  on  the  base  Lord  George  Ger- 
main's terse  words  about  "that  unhap- 
py affair  "  which  had  "  blasted  all  our 
hopes,"  it  was  a  Boston  historian  who 
dryly  remarked  in  a  letter  that  this  was 
one  of  the  things  Bancroft  thought  ought 
to  have  been  said,  but  there  was  no  proof 
that  it  ever  was  said.  The  phrase  so 
eruditely  dismissed  as  invention  was 
promptly  found  by  a  friendly  fellow 


student  of  the  historian  in  the  pages  of 
the  parliamentary  debates. 

All  literature,  even  history,  is  the  style 
not  merely  of  the  man  but  of  his  age. 
Who  now  reads  the  once  widely-read 
Gibbon?  Specialists  and  critics  only. 
The  storms  which  raged  about  Bancroft's 
research,  and  his  use  of  the  sources,  only 
served  to  show  that  the  age  of  Greco- 
Roman  classicism,  in  which  he  was  born 
and  trained,  was  yielding  in  his  maturer 
life  before  an  age  of  stricter  science. 
What  was  fair  and  true  as  the  currency 
of  one  generation  seemed  dubious  and 
spurious  to  another.  He  was  only  too 
eager  to  change  his  whole  method  of 
representation,  and  did  it. 

It  was  also  possible  that  the  evolution 
of  his  Protestant  faith  —  from  a  type  of 
conservative  Unitarianism  based  on  little 
more  than  a  set  of  metaphysical  distinc- 
tions, to  a  Congregationalism  which,  in 
his  own  phrase,  attested  that  the  "Elder 
Brother,  as  the  link  between  man  and 
God,  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite, 
was  divine  "  —  that  this  progressive  con- 
firmation  of  orthodoxy   and    abandon- 
ment of  liberalism  may  have  subjected 
him   to   misapprehension   among   those 
who  held,  in  an  ultra-Puritan  form,  the 
doctrine  of  immediacy.    This  is  a  pure 
surmise,  but  it  seems  likely ;  and  there  is 
no  odium  so  acrid  as  the  theological,  un- 
less it  be  the  scientific.   However  this  may 
be,  it  is  unquestionably  true  that  those 
of  like  origin  with  himself  were  disposed 
to  think  him  a  deserter,  especially  when 
he  declined  membership  in  a  Unitarian 
union  and  reasserted  that  he  was  a  Con- 
gregationalist.     Bancroft  was  never   in 
sympathy  with  the  pride  of  birth  and 
intellect  which  saw  in  the  history  of  his 
country  a  history  of  Puritan  expansion; 
that  the  sea-board  colonies  were  Calvin- 
istic  in  politics  he  set  forth  in  a  vigorous 
essay,  but  he  appreciated  the  qualities  of 
cavalier  as  well  as  of  roundhead,  of  Scot 
and  Irish  as  well  as  of  East  Anglian,  of 
the  established  churches  as  well  as  of  the 
dissenting  sects.  Their  respective  contri- 
butions to  the  resultant  of  American  con- 


280 


George  Bancroft 


ditions  are  all  woven  in  due  proportion 
on  the  woof  of  his  narrative :  and  justice 
is  done  to  Quaker,  Baptist,  and  Method- 
ist, whatever  the  ecclesiastical  establish- 
ment of  New  England  may  feel,  or  may 
have  felt  rather,  to  the  contrary. 

What  a  commentary  it  is  on  the  force 
of  opinion,  what  an  admission  of  sensi- 
tiveness, that  apology  should  come  un- 
bidden to  the  writer  where  the  note  of 
triumph  should  be  dominant !  Bancroft's 
associates  in  the  days  of  his  maturity 
knew  him  as  a  bold  man,  strong  in  battle 
with  himself  and  with  others ;  the  expres- 
sion pf  his  face  when  at  rest  mirrored  his 
sanguine,  happy  disposition;  possibly  he 
had  little  humor  (most  thought  so),  but 
he  was  both  quizzical  and  witty ;  he  was 
alike  nervous  and  passionate,  but  he  was 
neither  sullen  nor  vindictive ;  controversy 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed,  yet  he  was  sensi- 
tive to  even  worthless  criticism ;  what  ap- 
pears labored  and  florid  in  his  style  was 
largely  due  to  his  writing  English  in  for- 
eign countries;  he  would  spend  many 
minutes  in  his  efforts  to  avoid  a  teuton- 
ism  or  a  gallicism,  and  the  result  was  too 
often  a  loss  of  spontaneity.  Many  chap- 
ters of  his  tenth  volume  were,  after  appar- 
ent completion,  rewritten  seven  times, 
and  each  time  his  joy  in  the  changes 
showed  his  conviction  that  he  had  con- 
quered infelicities  of  expression. 

The  habitual  use  of  foreign  tongues  is 
destructive  of  simplicity  and  directness 
in  the  use  of  our  own.  Widely  as  Mat- 
thew Arnold  traveled  on  the  Continent, 
nothing  but  dire  necessity,  not  even  po- 
liteness, could  force  from  him  a  written 
or  spoken  word  in  any  tongue  save  his 
own.  His  English  style  was  his  very  life. 
The  degree  of  mastery  in  the  great  con- 
tinental tongues  which  Bancroft  pos- 
sessed and  his  delight  in  intellectual  gym- 
nastics, as  well  as  an  innate  consideration 
for  others,  led  him  in  conversation  to  use 
German,  French,  and  even  Italian,  to  an 
extent  which  greatly  disturbed  the  clarity 
both  of  his  thought  and  of  his  expression. 
Yet  he  fairly  reveled  in  the  expansion  of 
horizon  which  accompanied  his  acqui- 


sition and  use  of  modern  languages.  It 
was  a  choice  which  he  had  to  make,  and 
he  made  it  deliberately.  Whatever  the 
result,  there  is  a  definite  meaning  in  all 
his  sentences,  though  it  is  sometimes  ne- 
cessary to  search  for  it;  when  found,  it 
is  generally  poignant  and  sometimes  even 
disconcerting  in  its  trenchancy. 

Our  biographer  accepts  and  empha- 
sizes his  author's  declaration  of  a  desire 
to  write  an  "  epic  of  liberty,"  and  twice 
in  the  book  attention  is  called  to  the 
criticisms  of  Carlyle  and  Ranke  on  the 
performance  of  the  task,  excusing  Ban- 
croft's procedure  with  his  material  by 
the  plea  that  epic  writing  required  epic 
methods.  It  is  a  kindly  purpose  that  the 
biographer  has  in  view,  but  the  excuse  is 
unnecessary.  There  was  not  a  contempo- 
rary, including  both  critics,  who  was  able 
to  dispense  with  the  mosaic  collocation 
of  material,  to  avoid  the  adoption  and 
appropriation  of  compilations  from  man- 
uscript and  oratorical  matter,  or  whose 
aim  it  was  to  furnish  at  once  a  living  text 
and  a  series  of  verified  references.  Car- 
lyle's  misrepresentations  of  the  events  in 
the  French  Revolution  have  been  merci- 
lessly exposed,  and  Ranke's  voluminous 
output  can  be  judged  only  by  the  ex- 
amination of  all  the  manuscripts  he  con- 
sulted, not  by  the  references  he  gives. 
In  all  his  later  works  footnotes  are  con- 
spicuously absent.  The  assembling  of 
detail  is  antiquarian,  the  truth  of  general 
effect  alone  is  historical.  To  produce  the 
latter  is  masterly;  the  former  is  mechan- 
ical investigation,  and  its  reproduction 
for  the  laity  misleads  far  more  frequently 
than  it  guides. 

The  question  of  footnotes  has  been 
undergoing  searching  examination,  and 
the  greatest  writers  of  so-called  scientific 
history  in  our  own  times  have  minimized 
the  use  of  them  to  such  a  degree  that,  in 
the  last  analysis,  they  challenge  the  test 
of  a  historical  product  as  lying  in  the  per- 
sonal character  of  the  author.  They  in- 
dicate their  sources,  but  they  do  not  ex- 
cerpt and  print  them,  because  scraps 
are  not  samples  of  the  whole;  expert  judg- 


Going  Blind 


281 


ments  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  general 
effect  of  the  work.  It  is  only  where 
authors  present  new  facts  which  radi- 
cally affect  or  change  the  view  of  focal 
events  and  heroic  men  that  an  excursus 
on  the  evidence  or  a  series  of  references 
is  essential,  or  even  desirable.  We  cannot 
share  the  biographer's  regret  that  Ban- 
croft at  a  certain  point  abandoned  the 
ostentation  of  elaborate  footnotes.  The 
subject  is  too  broad  for  treatment  here, 
but  let  us  remember  that  a  passing  re- 
mark which  assumes  as  settled  what  is 
very  unsettled,  is  not  conclusive. 

But  this  brief  appreciation  of  the  book 
must  end  where  it  began,  with  hearty 
commendation.  The  points  which  have 
been  examined  concern  largely  personal 
feeling  and  the  matter  of  emphasis.  Our 
author  forgets  no  single  one  of  them, 
and  says  everything  that  should  be  said 
about  his  subject  as  a  statesman  and  a 
man ;  creating,  by  selection  from  original 
papers  and  running  commentary,  both 


atmosphere  and  perspective  for  the  cap- 
able man  of  affairs.  The  art  of  practical 
politics  is  the  art  of  compromise.  Ban- 
croft's procedure  in  public  life  was  essen- 
tially that,  though  he  would  have  been 
shocked  by  any  charge  of  variableness  or 
turning. 

To  live  serenely  is  to  be  adaptable,  and 
this  was  Bancroft's  effort,  though  it  was 
not  without  envious  remark  that  he 
passed  from  stage  to  stage  of  the  social 
hierarchy.  But  his  successes  did  not 
diminish  his  value  as  a  working  citizen, 
they  heightened  it.  Similarly,  as  a  histo- 
rian, his  reputation,  great  in  his  own  day 
and  throughout  the  world,  may  be 
slightly  obscured  in  the  present  genera- 
tion, because  of  vacillating  standards  in 
criticism.  I  have  only  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  it  is  likely  to  shine  forth  after 
local  and  partial  eclipse,  with  undimin- 
ished  brightness,  and  to  emphasize  the 
reasons  for  the  local  obscuration  in  cer- 
tain minds. 


GOING  BLIND 

BY    JOHN   B.    TABB 

BACK  to  the  primal  gloom 

Where  life  began, 
As  to  my  mother's  womb, 

Must  I  a  man 

Return : 
Not  to  be  born  again, 

But  to  remain; 
And  in  the  School  of  Darkness  learn 

What  mean 
"  The  things  unseen." 


» 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


OUR   TOWN 

IN  the  minds  of  many  of  us,  Our  Town 
is  still  the  homely  ideal  of  two  long  cen- 
turies, overgrown  from  year  to  year  with 
the  woodbine  and  honeysuckle  of  pleas- 
ant traditions.  For  example,  we  refuse  to 
realize  that  Main  Street,  once  broad  and 
striped  down  the  middle  with  an  oblong 
island  of  /grass  and  flowers,  has  been  shod 
with  the  brutal  ses  triplex  of  trolley-tracks, 
and  that  a  section  of  new-laid  cobble- 
stones joggles  passing  buggies  with  mod- 
ern vivacity.  I  remember  that  when  they 
abolished  the  former  man-slaughtering 
grade-crossing,  where  the  tall  white  fin- 
gers of  the  gates  swung  down  to  the 
warning  of  a  gong  and  the  nearing  loco- 
motive whistle,  Christopher  Camp,  the 
most  paternal  of  city  fathers,  opposed  the 
innovation  fiercely,  writing  many  letters 
to  the  Springfield  Republican  without 
avail.  He  always  drove  around  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  by  Market  Street,  and  rattled 
joyfully  over  the  tracks  there.  But,  just 
before  Mr.  Christopher  died,  the  railroad 
bridged  that  place  too  —  the  old  man  did 
not  live  to  avoid  it  —  and  the  funeral 
passed  under.  "  It's  good  he  ain't  alive," 
Mrs.  Sally  Clark  said  as  we  drove  to  the 
cemetery. 

Our  Town  owns  a  past  glorious  only 
locally  with  the  memories  of  Indian  wars, 
and  a  big  man  or  two  in  state  affairs,  who, 
we  proudly  feel, "  knew  everybody  "  at  the 
capital.  We  had  one  great  preacher  — 
the  Congregational  Church  set  up  a  tab- 
let in  his  honor  last  year.  Of  course  we 
did  some  things  too  ourselves,  —  built  a 
town-hall  and  a  library,  started  up  mills, 
sold  postage-stamps  —  as  every  town 
must.  But  we  have  always  imagined  our- 
selves somehow  golden  where  the  world 
perhaps  sees  only  dross.  We  are  a  gigan- 
tic Narcissus  hanging  over  the  stealthy 
river  below  the  hills.  And  the  flower  of 
282 


our  metamorphosis  is  already  reflected 
—  to  some  of  us  at  least. 

The  river  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it. 
In  the  centre  of  a  level  rim  of  mountains 
Our  Town  clusters  on  a  round  hill,  run- 
ning down  here  and  there  to  the  broad 
stream  winding  in  shiny  swinging  loops 
through  the  flat  lands.  If  you  go  up  on 
the  hill,  you  see,  over  the  fringe  of  elms, 
a  patchwork  of  cornfields,  sharp  green 
in  the  sun,  row  after  row  of  heavy  green 
tobacco  leaves,  tanning  grass,  nearly  hay 
now,  and  the  lithe  yellow  wheat.  Once 
in  a  while  a  tree  spreading  wide  for  shade. 
Beyond  and  sometimes,  to  your  surprise, 
in  the  midst  of  all,  the  river  again,  curv- 
ing patiently  towards  the  South,  where 
it  seems  to  lie  in  the  gap  of  the  moun- 
tains like  a  polished  cimeter  that  has  done 
its  work.  Although  few  use  the  river, 
except  the  Lumber  Company,  which 
browns  its  surface  in  the  dog-days  with 
logs,  it  is  there.  Our  Town  considers  the 
river  in  a  brotherly  way,  as  a  fishing- 
place,  a  swimming-hole,  or  a  boundary 
between  us  and  the  eastern  towns.  But 
in  the  Spring  the  river  comes  to  us,  bub- 
bling rudely  over  the  meadows  and 
scraping  white  lines  on  our  orchard  trees 
with  its  flotilla  of  debris.  Then  we  behold 
our  reflections  in  the  mottled  waters,  and 
laugh  at  the  curious  distortions. 

Where  the  river  ranges  little  change 
comes  except  the  gradual  shift  of  beach 
and  sand-bar,  but  in  Our  Town  itself 
the  alterations  increase.  One  man  still 
cuts  hay  on  Elm  Street,  where  the  cars 
shake  the  ground  constantly,  and  big 
automobiles  throw  up  their  temporary 
earthworks  of  dust  in  a  moment  and  go. 
He  cuts  hay  there  behind  his  picket-fence 
on  the  big  lot  back  of  which  the  little 
peaked  yellow  house  stands  as  if  it  had 
shrunk  thence  in  terror.  Moreover,  he 
declares  it 's  good  hay,  though  Town  Pro- 
verb saith  that  the  rain  always  rains 


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283 


when  he  cuts  it.  We  all  have  some  hay 
to  shelter  here,  so  to  speak  —  something 
we  like  to  do  because  it  makes  us  feel, 
not  different,  not  traditional,  not  exactly 
as  if  we  affected  old-fashioned  ways,  but 
I  suspect  it  arouses  the  same  sentiment 
which  certain  musty  flowers  and  creased 
ribbons  arouse  in  an  old  lover  as  he  opens 
his  box  to  gloat  once  more.  One  lady 
cuts  her  hay  —  to  use  that  figure  —  by 
going  for  her  mail  every  day  in  the  year. 
A  gentleman,  not  very  old  either,  plays 
bridge  with  the  newest  and  richest  folks 
in  Our  Town,  and  then  goes  to  bed  by 
candle,  disdaining  the  electric  lights  his 
son  has  had  put  in.  Royalists  under  a 
new  regime  they  are  —  who  have  kept 
a  little  of  their  own  realm  to  bow  and 
scrape  in. 

I  do  not  think  we  are  wrinkled  or  dried 
up  in  our  antiquity;  the  river  keeps  us 
from  that,  for  Narcissus  would  not  have 
pined  for  himself  if  he  had  not  been 
interesting.  But  we  honestly  like  what 
we  used  to  be,  and  temper  the  inevitable 
change  as  fast  as  it  comes  with  the  staid 
ripeness  we  feel  sure  Our  Town  possesses. 
We  fought  trolleys,  but  found  that  when 
the  old  horse  died,  these  noisy  breakers- 
in  on  our  country  haunts  "  did  "  pretty 
well.  When  the  girls'  school  landed  in 
the  night,  as  it  were,  and  grew  under  our 
eyes  into  a  college,  we  stretched  our  arms 
conclusively  after  proving  that "  female" 
education  was  pernicious,  —  and  invited 
the  President  to  tea.  So  it  goes.  Natur- 
ally, simply,  though  some  thought  it  was 
wanton  at  first.  The  minister  —  he  was 
born  in  Our  Town  —  preached  on  that 
one  Sunday  and  showed  why. 

I  did  n't  agree  with  him  —  logically. 
But  the  next  night  I  rode  in  the  newest 
and  fastest  motor-car  in  Our  Town,  a 
thing  which  seemed  a  sacrilege  escaped 
from  a  paint-shop  when  it  came.  It  still 
seemed  a  sacrilege  as  we  slewed  past  the 
Curtis  place  under  the  trees,  flared  into 
the  silent  Main  Street,  and  so  out  over 
the  river  on  the  covered  white  bridge; 
then  across  the  meadows  on  the  other 
side.  But  there  I  became  reconciled. 


The  long  hummocky  ridge  of  dark  moun- 
tains lay  to  the  South,  under  the  moon, 
floating  easily  in  the  clouds.  The  musty 
fields  smelled  sweet  of  the  new-cut  grass 
and  the  up-turned  furrow.  Sections  of 
white  state-road  fence  dove  by,  curving 
into  the  culverts  they  guarded.  Once  in 
a  while,  from  somewhere  in  the  throat  of 
the  beast,  came  the  singularly  clear,  in- 
sistent, at  first  tremulous  call,  speaking 
of  road  and  mist  and  of  the  soul  of  the 
country  whereof  Our  Town  lay  glisten- 
ing on  the  hill  — its  heart.  It  may  be  fool- 
ish, it  is  illogical  — I  may  have  been  car- 
ried away  —  but  I  returned  again,  jaded 
and  jostled  and  sleepy,  more  in  love  with 
My  Town  than  before,  though  I'd  been, 

"  Yea,  from  Delos  up  to  Limerick  and  back." 

Delos  was  Our  Town,  and  we  were 
back.  The  automobile  slid  off  somewhere 
into  the  darkness,  and  as  its  red  tail- 
lamp  melted  out,  I  walked  up  the  board- 
walk (that  is  our  hay  crop),  and  watched 
the  moon,  —  foolishly  enough.  Present- 
ly Our  Town  slept.  The  College  clock 
struck  ten. 

THE   POND-PASTURE 

THROUGH  the  open  farm-house  win- 
dow, with  its  old-fashioned  framework, 
cracked  by  sun  and  time  and  freshened 
by  clean  thick  white  paint,  I  looked  into 
the  summer  rain,  falling  fast  and  straight, 
and  vivifying  all  the  green  of  field  and 
woodland,  of  tall  elms  and  oaks,  till  the 
very  moisture  of  the  air  seemed  green. 
Across  the  road,  with  its  wide  irregular 
border  of  grass,  the  low  stone  walls 
hemmed  in  the  different  fields;  the  hill- 
pasture,  the  pasture  where  the  low-bush 
blackberries  ripened  in  a  tangle  of  vines, 
the  pond-pasture,  with  its  row  of  great 
oaks  standing  beside  a  little  circle  of 
water,  gray  in  the  falling  rain,  and  its 
mossy  cart-track  leading  under  the  oaks, 
toward  the  high  blueberry  bushes  and  the 
background  of  young  birch  and  alder. 

All  that  was  outside  the  window.  In- 
side was  the  book,  a  small  brown  volume, 


284 


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one  of  a  dun-clad  set  which  had  claimed 
me  by  their  titles  on  my  first  rapid,  initia- 
tory glance  over  the  bookshelves  a  week 
or  two  before.  The  Conduct  of  Life ; 
Nature  ;  how  they  beckoned  to  the  thin 
half-grown  soul  which  at  fifteen  found 
the  conduct  of  life  already  a  matter  of  un- 
speakable difficulty,  and  nature  a  beauti- 
ful radiance  somewhere  outside  of  it, 
hinting,  in  its  sun  rays,  at  a  golden  clue ! 
Between  the  covers  of  those  brown  vol- 
umes I  had  struggled  and  soared  ever 
since,  fiercely  combatting  passages  which, 
measured  by  the  tiny  rule  of  previous 
readings  and  teachings,  were  surely  un- 
true, clutching  at  others  to  try  to  wrest 
from  them  a  meaning  before  they  van- 
ished from  me  forever,  amazed  and  en- 
chanted at  the  greatness,  here  and  there, 
of  brief,  glorious,  convincing  truths.  And 
more  and  more  there  came  upon  me  the 
sense,  such  as  the  climber  may  have  of 
his  summit,  of  a  region  behind  it  all  in 
which  these  opposites  stood  reconciled, 
from  which  they  all  came  in  one  sense 
and  spirit,  the  great  open  upland  which 
was  the  mind  of  Emerson. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  those  light, 
but  lofty,  allusions  to  idealism,  to  its  pos- 
sibility, its  truth  ?  It  was  not  for  the  first 
time  that  I  met  the  word.  There  was  an- 
other older  brown  book  on  the  shelf  at 
home,  Reid's  Inquiry  into  the  Human 
Mind  on  the  Principles  of  Common  Sense, 
in  which  I  had  browsed  with  much  relish 
of  its  anecdotes  and  arguments  against 
the  idealists.  I  had  heard  of  materialism 
too :  it  had  loomed  up  mightily  convinc- 
ing in  the  account  of  the  early  uncon- 
verted state  of  Charnay  in  Picdola ;  his 
subsequent  conversion  was  a  denouement 
flattened  to  the  ordinary  plane  of  church 
and  Sunday  school,  of  teachings  received 
without  opposition,  but  with  no  result 
save  in  vague  yearnings  toward  an  im- 
proved conduct  of  life.  Could  a  great 
man,  —  for  he  was  great  and  the  adjec- 
tive meant  everything  to  me  in  those  days, 
—  in  our  nineteenth-century  New  Eng- 
land, deliberately  ignore  the  worm  origin 
of  the  silk,  so  repugnantly  convincing  to 


Saintine's  fastidious  count,  and  indiffer- 
ently expose  himself,  like  the  ancient  phi- 
losopher of  Reid's  mocking  anecdotes,  to 
the  ridicule  of  asserting  the  unreality  of 
matter,  yet  getting  out  of  the  way  of  the 
chariot  ?  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

The  rain  had  ceased  and  the  afternoon 
sun  burst  suddenly  out  of  the  clouds.  I 
put  the  book  away  and  ran  out  of  doors, 
across  the  road  and  through  the  bars  into 
the  pond-pasture.  The  birds  had  taken 
up  their  interrupted  song.  The  little 
sheet  of  water  caught  at  once  the  blue  of 
the  sky  and  the  glint  of  the  sun,  and 
danced  in  tiny  wavelets  under  the  fresh 
breeze.  The  bushes  shook  off  in  gusts 
their  weight  of  rain,  and  rose  again 
sparkling  all  over  in  iridescent  drops. 
The  sky  was  swept  blue,  and  the  remain- 
ing clouds  hastened  away,  thinning  at 
the  edges,  as  they  went,  into  silvery  mist. 
Everything  shone  and  triumphed.  Its 
glory  was  a  vision,  the  glory  of  a  moment : 
in  a  little  while  it  would  be  as  if  it  had  not 
been.  Did  it  call  the  mind  to  rejoice,  or 
did  the  mind,  rejoicing,  make  it  ?  Might 
not  the  reality  of  which  we  believed  it  to 
be  composed,  be  itself  a  more  persistent 
vision,  in  my  retina,  in  other  retinas,  in 
the  gaze  of  some  vast  universal  mind  ?  A 
light  shone  from  the  little  brown  book, 
akin  to,  but  beyond  the  glory  of  the  pond- 
pasture.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  lived  in  a 
town,  with  streets  laid  out  and  houses 
built  upon  the  brown  common  surface  of 
the  earth :  from  that  moment  and  hence- 
forth I  was  a  humble  denizen  of  a  uni- 
verse. 

A    BIT    OF    COMPARATIVE    CRIT- 
ICISM 

THE  pleasantest  thing  about  writing 
for  "The  Contributors'  Club"  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  lies  in  the  fact  that  one 
enjoys  such  unblushing  liberty  to  use  the 
personal  pronoun,  "  I,"  and  feels  no  call 
to  dilute  it  into  the  milk-and-water  of 
"  We." 

Now,  at  this  present  juncture,  I  —  and 
not  somebody  else  —  feel  impelled  to 


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285 


indulge  in  a  purely  egoistic  bit  of  com- 
parative criticism,  based  on  no  other 
shred  of  warrant  than  abnormal  indi- 
vidual experience.  My  theme  of  com- 
ment is  suggested  by  the  startling  de- 
scription given  by  the  famous  African 
explorer,  Livingstone,  of  his  peculiar 
sensations  when  suddenly  sprung  upon, 
felled  to  the  ground,  pawed  over,  and 
breathed  upon  by  the  blasting  pants  of 
torrid  breath  from  the  lungs  of  an  enor- 
mous lion. 

He  was  not  —  so  he  insists  —  in  the 
least  terrified.  On  the  contrary,  he  at 
once  insensibly  lapsed  into  a  pleasing, 
half-dreamy  state  of  consciousness  of 
all  that  was  going  on ;  viewing,  however, 
the  whole  transaction  from  an  objective, 
rather  than  a  subjective,  point  of  view, 
as  though  the  tragic  scene  were  entirely 
concerned  with  a  certain  Dr.  Livingstone 
in  whose  personal  fate  he  felt  at  best  a 
merely  intellectual  curiosity,  and  a  not 
at  all  selfishly  biased  interest. 

"  Sheer  absurdity!  "  exclaimed  thou- 
sands of  readers  of  the  narrative.  Liv- 
ingstone's yarn  is  essentially  incredible, 
and  a  simple  slap  in  the  face  to  every 
recognized  law  of  human  nature.  His 
terrible  African  lion  must  have  been  some 
chance  tabby  cat,  astray  from  a  mission- 
ary station.  The  bare  idea  of  his  amus- 
edly contemplating  himself,  when  the 
helpless  victim  of  a  ferocious  carnivorous 
beast,  as  though  he  were  somebody  else ! 
Tell  that  to  the  marines !  —  of  whom 
there  are  on  shore  quite  as  many  as  on 
shipboard. 

Not  content,  moreover,  with  such  mon- 
strous tax  on  human  credulity,  this  self- 
same Livingstone  proceeds  to  expatiate  on 
the  immense  moral  relief  he  later  derived 
form  his  peculiar  experience,  through  its 
philanthropic  bearing  on  a  class  of  seem- 
ingly cruel  transactions  in  the  realm  of 
nature.  The  ways  of  a  cat,  for  example, 
in  lingering  out  the  torture  of  a  palpitat- 
ing little  mouse,  had  always  been  a  sore 
oppression  to  his  heart.  Thenceforth, 
however,  he  had  taken  unspeakable  com- 
fort in  the  conviction  that  the  mouse  in 


the  claws  of  the  cat  was  not  really  suffer- 
ing, any  more  than  he  had  been  in  the 
claws  of  the  lion. 

The  mouse  was  simply  hypnotized. 
The  initial  shock  of  fear  had  acted  as  a 
soothing  anodyne,  practically  benumb- 
ing certain  large  tracts  of  feeling,  but, 
like  opium,  imparting  intensified  vivid- 
ness to  dream-consciousness;  in  fine,  so 
we  suppose  Livingstone  would  have  his 
readers  believe,  translating  the  mouse 
into  a  miniature  Thomas  De  Quincey, 
lacking  only  the  dower  of  literary  gift 
to  write  a  no  less  fascinating  book  than 
Thomas  on  the  peculiar  felicities  of 
opium-eating. 

Now  for  one,  on  the  score  of  kindred 
personal  experience,  I  stand  ready  to 
back  up  Livingstone  in  the  substantial 
accuracy  of  every  statement  he  makes, 
and  even  to  embrace  his  consolatory  doc- 
trine of  the  private  sentiments  of  the 
mouse. 

Some  ten  years  ago,  when  in  India,  I 
drove  out  at  early  dawn  with  a  friend, 
from  the  city  of  Jeypore,  to  visit  one  of 
those  enormous  subterranean  reservoirs 
for  the  storage  of  water,  so  common  in 
that  drought-infested  land.  On  our 
drive  back,  we  had  gone  about  five  miles, 
when  the  road  made  a  semicircular  turn 
around  a  high  rock-precipice,  and  in  an 
instant  our  eyes  were  greeted  with  an 
appalling  sight,  and  our  ears  stunned 
with  a  terrific  roar. 

Before  detailing,  however,  what  this 
formidable  sight  and  roar  came  from,  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  call  a  brief  halt 
at  this  seemingly  climacteric  point  of  my 
story,  for  a  description  of  the  equipage 
we  were  driving  in.  I  do  so  solely  on  the 
admitted  logical  principle  that  "  the 
longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way 
home." 

The  equipage  was  an  open  barouche 
drawn  by  two  horses.  On  the  box  in 
front  sat  a  Hindu  driver  as  nearly  naked 
as  Adam  was  before  the  happy  sugges- 
tion of  the  fig-leaf,  while  on  the  plat- 
form behind  stood  erect  another  Hindu, 
in  the  same  condition  of  "  angel  inno- 


The  Contributors'  Club 


cency."  The  rich  blood-shot  brown  of 
the  skin  of  each  presented  a  color  study 
that  would  have  ravished  the  soul  of 
Titian.  Meanwhile,  inside  the  carriage, 
sat  my  friend  and  myself,  as  blanched 
and  anaemic  in  contrast  as  a  couple  of 
white  potato-blossoms  against  a  brace  of 
resplendent  cardinal  flowers. 

Well,  the  appalling  sight  and  terrific 
roaring  came  from  an  enormous  leopard, 
not  more  than  fifty  feet  from  us.  He  had 
lashed  himself  into  a  frantic  rage,  and 
the  yarr  and  snarl  of  his  bestial  throat 
were  reverberated  from  the  rocks  of  the 
cliffs  in  a  way  fit  to  rip  off  an  avalanche 
of  splintered  shards.  All  the  wild  beasts 
I  had  ever  seen  in  menageries  seemed 
in  comparison  purring  kittens,  and  be- 
sides, there  had  been  iron  bars  between 
them  and  us.  Four  or  five  of  his  terrific 
leaps  and  he  would  be  upon  us.  And  he 
plainly  meant  breakfast. 

Was  I  frightened  ?  Not  for  a  moment. 
I  was  simply  hypnotized,  and  at  once 
thrown  into  a  pleasing,  dreamy  state,  in 
which  visual  imagination  became  pre- 
ternaturally  quickened,  while  no  sense  of 
terror  survived.  The  ferocious  brute  had 
acted  on  my  mind  as  a  soothing  anodyne 
taken  before  a  night  of  threatened  insom- 
nia; and  at  once  a  series  of  agreeable 
pictures  began  to  float  through  my  con- 
sciousness. 

Curiously  enough,  I  saw  and  felt  my- 
self seated  at  the  head  of  a  long,  festive 
dining-table  over  which  I  presided  as 
host,  while  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
table  sat  upright  the  leopard.  On  either 
side  were  ranged  the  two  rows  of  guests. 
As  hospitable  master  of  the  feast,  I  was 
intently  engaged  in  carving  a  large  tur- 
key, and  as  I  would  cut  off  a  sufficient 
portion,  I  would  turn  in  due  order  to 
each  successive  guest  and  courteously 
ask,  "  Which  do  you  prefer,  white  meat 
or  dark  ?  "  All  proceeded  regularly  till 
at  last  the  turn  came  of  the  leopard,  who, 
meanwhile,  had  displayed  none  but  the 
most  urbane  and  irreproachable  table 
manners.  "  And  which  do  you  prefer, 
white  or  dark  ?  "  I  politely  asked.  "Dark 


if  you  please,"  was  his  immediate  answer, 
with  a  gracious  inclination  of  his  head, 
an  answer  which  diffused  a  vague  but 
ineffable  sense  of  peace  through  my 
whole  being,  I  hardly  knew  why. 

Afterwards,  the  data  in  actual  sense- 
impression  of  this  curious  hypnotic 
dream  became  abundantly  clear  to  me. 
They  rooted  of  course  in  the  sudden  ap- 
parition of  the  ferocious  leopard,  and  in 
the  rich  dark  skins  of  our  Hindu  driver 
and  footman  and  their  contrast  with  the 
blanched  and  anaemic  complexions  of 
my  friend  and  myself.  But  no  trace  of 
distinct  recollection  of  any  of  these  start- 
ling items  —  all  the  while,  none  the  less, 
appalling  actualities  of  the  immediate 
outside  world  —  obtruded  itself  on  the 
present  purely  visionary  scene.  All  had 
"suffered  a  sea  change,  into  something 
rich  and  strange."  The  dining-table  was 
real,  the  turkey  real,  the  courteous  ques- 
tion to  each  guest  real ;  and  the  prompt 
reply,  "  Dark  meat  if  you  please!  "  from 
the  gentlemanly  leopard,  was  no  less 
real. 

LA    CIGALE   IN    ECONOMICS 

FOR  a  considerable  time  past,  the 
writer  has  viewed,  with  increased  mis- 
giving, the  tendency  in  modern  ethics 
toward  the  Glorification  of  the  Industrial. 
Not  alone  from  the  headlines  of  penny- 
dreadfuls,  but  from  those  of  our  most 
conservative  and  altruistic  periodicals, 
does  it  stare  at  me  in  large-typed,  not  to 
say  violent,  reproach,  this  spectre,  How 
to  Become  Economically  Precious. 

It  was  not  always  brought  home  to  me 
thus  unkindly.  "  In  my  day  —  "  (how 
thankful  am  I  to  be  no  longer  a  very 
young  person,  and  accordingly  privi- 
leged to  speak  in  such  reminiscent  vein!) 
there  was  none  of  this  inexorable  account- 
ing of  one's  self  as  a  commercial  pro- 
position. A  love  of  beauty,  an  instinct 
for  artistic  and  aesthetic  creation,  was 
not  only  encouraged,  but  enthusiastically 
applauded  by  our  friends  and  doting 
elders,  as  being  the  finishing  touch  to  the 


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287 


**  compleat"  curriculum  of  that  delightful 
period. 

Is  it  to  be  wondered,  therefore,  that 
while  contrasting  the  former  with  our 
latter-day  educative  ideals,  I  am  some- 
times filled  with  a  poignant  and  shudder- 
ing sense  of  Thanksgiving  —  such  as  the 
survivor  doubtless  feels  when  he  sees  the 
engulfing  of  the  friendly  plank  o'er  which 
he  has  just  passed  to  safety  ?  I  have  "  had 
my  day,"  but  I  do  not  repine  thereupon. 

For  —  alas !  rather  from  instinct  than 
from  any  process  of  ratiocination,  I  re- 
alize that  I  am  not  industrially  valu- 
able :  that  from  the  economic  standpoint 
I  am  not  precious.  I  cannot  doubt  my 
status  in  the  great  world  of  commercial 
efficiency  to  be  practically  nil;  my  rai- 
sons  d'etre  meagre  and  unconvincing. 

Moreover,  it  is  with  deep  humiliation 
and  even  with  some  degree  of  alarm  that 
I  have  discovered  the  difficulty  to  be  con- 
genital. I  find  my  very  noblest  efforts  at 
self-improvement  invariably  balked  by  a 
certain  curious  defect  of  temperament; 
an  element  so  fatally  irrelevant  and  mer- 
curial as  to  be  at  odds  with  all  recognized 
methods  of  systematic  accomplishment. 

Routine  is  disquieting  to  me.  Dis- 
quieting, did  I  Say  ?  it  is  distressing ;  it 
is  positively  painful!  According  to  my 
own  diagnosis,  I  am  afflicted  with  what 
may  be  termed  an  inherent  aversion  to 
the  Methodical. 

Think  not,  oh,  kindly  reader!  that  I 
have  not  sorrowed  most  heavily  over  the 
phenomenon.  Times  innumerable  have 
I  expostulated  with  this  erratic  and  ir- 
responsible Self,  wrestling  with  it  (as  it 
were  with  what  good  old  Socrates  would 
style  my  "  daemon  "),  and  imploring  it 
to  get  behind  me,  the  while  I  humbly 
strive  to  become  a  better  industrial  unit. 

But  in  vain.  "  Es  hat  nwht  sollen  sein" 
Poor,  happy-go-lucky,  improvident  Ci- 
gale!  Forever  the  creature  of  glowing 
fancies  —  inveterate  dreamer  of  dreams ! 
Of  a  certainty,  there  is  something  inerad- 
icable in  this  passion  for  the  mystic;  this 
absurd  and  unreasonable  joy  of  living; 
and  for  her  sense  of  humor  —  really,  it 


seems  hardly  respectable  that  it  should 
have  outlived  so  much  of  sorrow  and 
disillusion,  which  by  all  decent  rules 
should  have  killed  it  off  long  ago! 

Occasionally,  it  is  true,  she  has  had 
glimpses  of  a  better  order  of  things. 
Take,  for  example,  those  rare  moments 
of  household  drudgery,  when,  thrilled  by 
the  proud  consciousness  of  fulfilling  ne- 
cessary, if  unpleasant,  workaday  tasks, 
she  experiences  a  delightful  glow  of  self- 
righteousness,  coupled  with  a  proportion- 
ate severity  toward  all  of  her  fellow  mor- 
tals who  may  be  of  a  more  aesthetic  habit 
of  mind. 

"  Idle  dreamers!  slothful  cumberers  of 
the  earth!  clogs  in  the  noble  scheme  of 
commercial  progress! "  she  apostro- 
phizes them,  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  righteous 
denunciation. 

Alas  for  the  pharisaical  cigale,  and  her 
brief  spasm  of  economic  respectability! 

Of  a  sudden,  the  thrush  pours  its  rap- 
turous note  from  the  blue  above,  or  per- 
haps the  smell  of  lilacs,  pure,  cool,  and 
intoxicatingly  sweet,  sweeps  in  upon  the 
wet  spring  air ;  or  the  sunset  bursts  into  a 
glorious  riot  of  gold  and  crimson  flame 
in  the  West.  And  lo!  Instantly  the  old 
thrall  is  upon  her  once  more;  the  old 
heart,  awake  and  eager,  and  wild  again 
in  "its  passionate  joyance  of  life,  and 
color  and  imagination! 

The  duty  that  lies  nearest  is  forgotten. 
The  prosaic  dust-mop  slips "  unnoticed 
to  the  floor;  the  array  of  golden  biscuit 
(tender,  nascent  young  things  of  lovely 
promise)  are  unhesitatingly  abandoned 
to  their  fate.  For  the  cicada  has  flown 
outside,  into  the  open,  and  pauses  there, 
breathless,  ecstatic,  prisoned  by  what 
Ruskin  would  term  an  "iron  glow"  of 
delight.  Wondrous  the  fantasies  she  is 
weaving;  magic  the  dream- vistas  she  be- 
holds! Like  Baudelaire  and  the  child- 
like Verlaine,  she  feels  an  "  unassuage- 
able  nostalgia  for  the  places  she  has  never 
visited!" 

And  only  the  insistent,  voice  of  duty 
recalls  her  at  last  to  mundane  conditions. 
To  the  discarded  dust-mop,  that  must 


288 


The  Contributors'  Club 


now  be  wielded  with  increased  energy 
to  meet  increased  demands;  to  the  bis- 
cuit of  gold  augury — oh,  sorry  spectacle! 
—  become  demoralized  and  shriveled 
to  a  decadent  brown,  long  past  the  psy- 
chological moment  of  triumph. 

An  undesirable  citizeness  she,  for- 
sooth ! 

And  so  the  thing  goes  on,  despite  her 
fervent  contrition,  not  only  seven  times, 
but  seventy  times  seven. 

It  may  be  that  a  new  umbrella  is 
needed,  against  the  fateful  rainy  day. 
But  such  a  luxury  has  to  be  indefinitely 
postponed.  For,  displayed  with  all  pos- 
sible ostentatiousness  in  the  window  of 
the  big  bookstore  she  passes  daily  —  is 
there  not  that  rare  first  edition  of  her 
best-beloved?  (Ah,  if  only  it  were  not 
tree  calf,  besides!) 

Moreover,  there  is  that  matter  of  the 
little  Corot  she  has  already  bespoken  in  a 
moment  of  dire  temptation.  While  next 
week  must  be  managed  that  ticket  to  the 
great  symphony,  whose  divine  strains  are 
as  nectar  to  her  music-hungered  soul. 
No,  La  Cigale  has  no  choice!  These 
things  are  necessities,  and  umbrellas  and 
like  frivolities  must  be  deferred. 

Especially  so,  since  her  earnings  from 
her  Art  constitute  a  mere  pittance  — 
"  next  to  nothing  "  as  she  herself  con- 


fesses, albeit  without  a  thought  of  disloy- 
alty toward  her  loved  work  ("  Du  Meine 
Wonn'  —  oh,  Du  Mein  Schmerz"). 

But  what  if  the  bare  pittance  suffice  ? 
What  if  it  mean  the  nourishment  of  the 
soul  as  well  as  the  body  ?  the  living  of  the 
life  beautiful  and  everlasting? 

On  this  matter,  she  finds  herself  pon- 
dering deeply  of  late.  In  all  humility, 
and  only  when  stirred  to  meek  protest  by 
the  invective  of  some  uncommonly  fiery 
spirit  among  the  sublimated  fourmis,  she 
(in  deprecatory  mood  and  solely  for  the 
sake  of  information)  would  venture  to 
inquire,  — 

Whether,  after  all,  there  is  no  word  to 
be  said  on  behalf  of  the  idealist,  the 
lover  of  art,  and  truth,  and  grace,  for 
their  own  sakes?  The  aesthetically  un- 
employed! Would  society  be  so  rich 
without  them  —  their  aspirations,  their 
vividness,  their  emotions  and  sympathies  ? 
May  they  not  also  serve,  who  only  feel, 
and  love,  and  create  beautiful  things  out 
of  their  glowing  dreams?  Yea,  even 
though  they  constitute  so  negligible  as- 
sets in  the  great  cosmos  of  commer- 
cial efficiency  ? 

The  world  of  visions !  oh,  but  the  long, 
long  time  that  it  shall  last,  after  the  in- 
dustrious and  glorified  fourmis  shall  have 
forever  disappeared  "  beyond  the  veil!  " 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 

SEPTEMBER,  1908 


SOCIAL  RECONSTRUCTION  TO-DAY 


BY   JOHN   MARTIN 


A  RECONSTRUCTION  of  American  so- 
ciety is  proceeding  apace.  We  are  follow- 
ing the  same  policy  with  our  social  struc- 
ture as  with  our  city  homes.  Few  city 
houses  live  to  the  bad  old  age  usual  in 
Europe.  The  initial  construction  is  flim- 
sier; changes  of  taste  and  of  sanitary 
method  are  anticipated;  long  before  the 
walls  crumble  the  old  front  gives  way  to 
the  newest  fashion  in  f  asades,  the  plumb- 
ing is  remodelled,  and  the  decorations  are 
modernized.  So  with  our  society :  though 
it  is  new,  the  design  of  the  founders  is  al- 
ready undergoing  alteration.  Gradually 
the  house  is  being  rebuilt  while  the  family 
remains  in  occupation. 

Until  recently  the  fundamental  assump- 
tion of  American  life  has  been  that  every 
man  had  an  equal  opportunity  with  his 
fellows  to  achieve  economic  independ- 
ence; that  our  society  was  built  upon 
lines  immutably  just  and  wise,  and  that, 
by  the  expedient  of  leaving  every  man  to 
look  after  himself,  the  best  possible  so- 
cial result  was  obtained.  It  has  been 
tacitly  agreed  that  failure  to  make  a  liv- 
ing indicated  some  personal  lack ;  or  that, 
if  social  conditions  were  at  all  to  blame, 
a  fuller  provision  of  schools  and  colleges 
would  make  all  right.  Therefore  educa- 
tion and  relief  have  almost  monopolized 
legacies  and  gifts.  Colleges,  libraries, 
lectures;  hospitals,  dispensaries,  relief 
funds,  —  on  these  have  been  lavished 
generous  millions.  When  the  would-be 
"pious  founder"  looked  for  the  worthy 
cause  on  which  to  spend  his  benevolent 
impulses,  public  opinion  and  the  political 
philosophy  on  which  he  was  reared  prac- 
tically confined  him  to  these  fields. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


The  Sage  foundation,  by  the  terms  of 
its  establishment,  marks  conspicuously  a 
change  of  sentiment;  it  indicates  a  grow- 
ing conviction  that,  without  destroying 
our  social  structure,  it  must  be  repaired 
and  brought  up  to  date.  In  her  statement 
about  the  object  of  the  fund,  the  "im- 
provement of  social  and  living  conditions 
in  the  United  States,"  Mrs.  Sage,  advised 
by  eminent  men,  points  out  that  it  is 
within  the  scope  of  the  foundation  "to 
investigate  and  study  the  causes  of  ad- 
verse social  conditions,  including  ignor- 
ance, poverty,  and  vice,  to  suggest  how 
these  conditions  can  be  remedied  or 
ameliorated,  and  to  put  in  operation  any 
appropriate  means  to  that  end."  "Mrs. 
Sage  wished  some  broad  plan  that  would 
embrace  public  welfare  rather  than  indi- 
vidual betterment,"  says  Mr.  Robert 
de  Forest,  the  able  chairman  of  the  trus- 
tees. The  causes  of  ignorance,  poverty, 
and  vice  are  therefore  assumed  to  be  not 
entirely  individual,  but  partly  social ;  cur- 
able, therefore,  not  only  by  personal  re- 
generation, but  also  by  change  of  environ- 
ment. 

This  is  the  most  conspicuous  among  a 
number  of  indications  that  thoughtful 
and  influential  sections  of  our  society  see 
that  alterations  are  needed  in  our  na- 
tional life;  and  of  the  unavowed,  but 
none  the  less  unequivocal,  abandonment 
of  the  social  philosophy  of  laissez  faire, 
laissez  oiler. 

The  National  Civic  Federation,  with  a 
list  of  officers  and  committeemen  that  in- 
cludes some  of  the  most  powerful  and  re- 
spected names  in  business  and  political 
life,  is  committed  to  attempt  various  re- 


290 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


adjustments  which  a  few  years  ago  these 
officers  would  have  derided.  Primarily, 
the  Federation  works  for  the  settlement 
of  disputes  between  employers  and  em- 
ployees by  pacific  bargaining,  a  purpose 
which  assumes  the  recognition  of  Trade 
Unions  and  their  right  to  the  help  of 
expert  counsel  and  representatives,  and 
marks  a  far  departure  from  the  attitude 
once  universal  amongst  employers.  By 
calling  representatives  of  the  general  pub- 
lic to  its  committees  this  Federation,  the 
creation  of  Mr.  Mark  Hanna,  a  man  who 
incarnated  the  American  business  spirit, 
declares  that  the  business  world  is  begin- 
ning also  to  admit  that  there  is  a  third 
party  to  most  trade  disputes,  a  party 
whose  interests  can  no  longer  be  ignored, 
the  hitherto  disregarded  public. 

The  welfare  department  of  the  Federa- 
tion assumes  further  that  an  employer 
may  owe  to  his  workmen  something  more 
than  the  wages  for  which  the  man  has 
agreed  to  work;  that  lunch-rooms,  baths, 
clean  and  well- ventilated  shops  may  legi- 
timately come  into  the  reckoning.  The 
Federation's  Immigration  department 
and  Municipal  Ownership  commission 
show  a  recognition  even  wider,  on  the  part 
of  these  typical  publicists  and  business 
rulers,  that  perhaps  there  are  gaping 
joints  in  our  social  armor.  Had  the  fed- 
eration leaders  been  dominated  by  the 
business  creed  of  fifty  years  ago,  they 
would  have  dismissed  proposals  to  re- 
strict or  regulate  immigration,  or  to  in- 
vestigate Municipal  Ownership,  with  the 
saw,  "That  government  is  best  that  gov- 
erns least."  Nowadays  such  theoretic 
dogmatizing  has  gone  out  of  fashion.  In- 
vestigation and  discussion  are  under- 
taken on  the  hypothesis  that  only  by  de- 
liberate organization  can  the  best  social 
result  be  secured. 

Likewise  repudiating  the  old  maxims 
of  state  philosophy,  shippers  of  freight 
demand  that  railroad  charges  shall  be 
controlled  by  the  community  represented 
in  legislatures  and  courts.  Even  finan- 
ciers like  Mr.  Jacob  Schiff,  by  requesting 
federal  control  of  railroads  as  an  alter- 


native to  State  legislation,  admit  that  the 
old  ideal  of  free,  untramineled  action  by 
individuals  and  corporations  has  been 
abandoned,  —  an  admission  which  Mr. 
Ingalls,  ex-president  of  the  Big  Four  rail- 
road, in  set  terms  urges  his  colleagues 
to  make.  Hardly  anybody  with  authority 
ventures  nowadays  to  argue,  with  the 
optimism  of  the  Spencerian  period,  that 
the  transportation  business  will  best 
serve  the  community's  interests  if  it  be 
left  to  go  its  own  way. 

In  conformity  with  the  changing  idea 
of  social  responsibility,  the  National  Asso- 
ciation for  the  Prevention  of  Tuberculo- 
sis, composed  of  persons  belonging  to  the 
classes  which,  twenty-five  years  ago,  were 
convinced  of  the  perfection  of  our  social 
arrangements,  is  demanding  further  lim- 
itation of  the  liberty  of  the  consumptive  to 
do  what  he  likes  and  to  go  where  he 
pleases.  A  Public  Health  Defense  League 
recently  chartered,  with  two  thousand 
charter  members, — not  cranks,  but  doc- 
tors, lawyers,  and  the  like,  —  represents 
a  determination  to  push  much  further  the 
limitations  of  individual  freedom  when- 
ever the  public  health  seems  to  be  in- 
volved. The  drastic  quarantine  meas- 
ures that  were  submitted  to  when  yellow 
fever  smote  New  Orleans,  and  the  rigor- 
ous crusade  which  the  stricken  city  waged 
against  the  pestilent  mosquito,  illustrate 
how  completely  the  individual  may  be 
subordinated  to  the  collective  will  in  a 
period  of  danger. 

With  similar  bias  each  year  the  free- 
dom of  the  merchant  to  settle  with  the 
purchaser  individually  about  the  purity 
of  his  goods  is  being  curtailed.  Hardly 
were  the  Federal  Pure  Food  Act  and  the 
Meat  Inspection  Act  of  1906  signed  by 
the  President,  before  drafts  of  state  laws 
in  conformity  with  them  were  in  pre- 
paration, —  and  not  by  faddists,  but  by 
groups  of  responsible  people  such  as  form 
the  National  Wholesale  Grocers'  Asso- 
ciation. For  years  Congress  held  stoutly 
to  the  old  philosophy  of  non-interference, 
but  now  Congress  finds  few  so  mean  as 
to  do  that  philosophy  reverence. 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


291 


To-day  the  United  States  government 
is  constructing  twenty-five  irrigation  pro- 
jects and  spending  a  million  dollars  a 
month  to  reclaim  three  million  acres  of 
land,  and  not  a  voice  of  protest  against 
this  government  activity  in  business  enter- 
prises disturbs  the  silence.  Year  by  year 
the  hours  of  labor,  especially  of  women 
and  children,  are  slowly  being  curtailed 
by  legislation ;  last  session  the  most  dras- 
tic child-labor  bill  in  the  world,  a  measure 
which,  besides  keeping  children  under 
fourteen  at  school,  establishes  an  eight- 
hour  day  for  children  under  sixteen,  and 
forbids  even  their  presence  in  a  factory 
except  between  the  hours*  of  8  A.  M.  and 
5  P.  M.,  passed  the  New  York  Legislature. 
Reluctantly,  but  surely,  the  courts  have 
admitted  the  right  of  the  state  to  provide 
regulations  for  the  greater  safety  and 
comfort  of  factory  and  railroad  employ- 
ees, to  limit  the  hours  of  labor  of  men  in 
mines  and  on  street  railways,  and  to  pre- 
scribe how  employees  shall  in  certain 
cases  be  paid.1  The  theory  of  non- 
interference, which  served  our  fathers 
and  harmonized  with  the  political  philo- 
sophy that  had  grown  up  with  the  coun- 
try, has  been  bit  by  bit  abandoned. 

The  most  penetrating  appeal  for  social 
reconstruction  comes  from  the  White 
House.  In  April,  1907,  when  a  strike  was 
imminent  on  the  western  railroads,  which 
would  have  tied  up  forty-four  lines  with 
half  a  million  employees  and  would  have 
put  half  the  country  in  a  state  of  siege, 
President  Roosevelt  sent  negotiators  who 
demanded  and  secured  a  settlement,  in 
the  name  of  the  community,  by  arbitra- 
tion. When  public  coal-lands  were  drop- 
ping under  unified  control  the  President 
withdrew  millions  of  acres  from  entry. 
He  has  insisted  that  the  coal  and  oil 
under  these  lands  shall  remain  a  federal 
possession.  He  encourages  a  federal 
child-labor  law,  and  the  enforcement 
of  the  Eight-Hour  Law  by  the  govern- 
ment departments.  He  advocates  inherit- 

1  See  "  The  Law  and  Industrial  Inequality," 
by  George  W.  Al^er.  Proceedings  of  N.  Y. 
State  Bar  Association,  January,  1907. 


ance  and  income  taxes,  not  for  raising 
money  to  run  the  government,  but  for  the 
novel  purpose  of  equalizing  fortunes.  He 
fulminates  against  the  outcome  of  free 
enterprise  in  railroad  management.  In 
consultation  with  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men,  he  is  framing  a  federal  pro- 
gramme of  reform  which  will  occupy 
Congress  several  years.  Each  of  its  items 
will  probably  contradict  the  idea  that 
free  play  is  fair  play,  each  will  mock  the 
patriarchs  who  hold  to  the  teachings  of 
the  fathers. 

These  tendencies  toward  social  change 
are  the  more  remarkable  in  that  they  were 
equally  pronounced  in  a  period  of  pro- 
sperity, while  business  was  in  a  fever  of 
activity  and  every  steady  man  could  find  a 
job.  No  temporary  dissatisfaction  with  a 
passing  condition  do  they  indicate,  but  a 
deep-seated  feeling,  extending  even  to  the 
powerful  classes,  that  the  ship  of  state 
needs  overhauling. 

Essentially  the  tendencies  are  not  class 
movements.  Therein  lies  their  signifi- 
cance and  their  hope.  They  contradict 
the  faith  professed  by  the  organized, 
hard-shell  Socialists.  According  to  the 
doctrines  of  these  teachers,  society  tends 
to  a  clear-cut  division  into  two  hostile 
camps,  the  propertyless  and  the  capital- 
ist. Inevitable  economic  development 
makes  the  chasm  between  these  classes 
day  by  day  wider  and  deeper.  Finally 
they  will  confront  each  other,  savage 
and  relentless,  virtue  and  honesty  with 
the  overwhelming  majority,  wealth  and 
wickedness  monopolized  by  a  handful  of 
tyrants.  The  awakened  army  of  the  dis- 
possessed, invincible  when  roused,  will 
then  fight  its  Armageddon,  overthrow 
the  economic  oppressors,  confiscate  the 
wealth  which  these  exploiters  have 
amassed,  and  establish  with  meteoric 
swiftness  a  cooperative  millennium.  Ad- 
ministrative difficulties  do  not  appal  these 
fervid  souls.  They  are  confident  that 
good  intentions  will  solidify  spontaneous- 
ly into  concrete  achievements. 

Plainly,  the  social  reconstruction  actu- 
ally in  process  is  based  on  no  such  con- 


292 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


ception.  It  is  being  planned  and  exe- 
cuted by  men  who  repudiate  the  Social- 
ism thus  expounded. 

If  then  Individualism  is  in  practice  re- 
jected and  doctrinaire  Socialism  is  not 
adopted,  upon  what  social  philosophy 
are  we  proceeding  ?  We  have  left  the  old 
moorings,  — whither  are  we  steering  ?  Or 
are  we  merely  drifting  ?  Is  there  no  lead- 
ing idea  in  the  minds  of  the  lawyers,  busi- 
ness men,  legislators,  and  philanthropists 
who  are  so  busy  altering  the  social  struc- 
ture ?  If  a  house  be  remodeled  without 
architect's  plans,  each  workman  acting 
on  his  own  notion  of  what  is  convenient 
and  lovely,  the  resulting  botchwork  is  a 
horror.  Are  we  running  the  risk  of  a 
similar  result  with  our  social  rebuilding  ? 

Logical  halting-places  upon  the  road 
we  are  traveling  are  not  visible.  Each 
step  leads  inevitably  to  another.  Volun- 
tary arbitration  of  some  labor  disputes 
upon  pressure  frqm  the  White  House, 
leads  easily  to  compulsory  arbitration  of 
all  labor  disputes  under  the  law ;  a  small 
inheritance  and  income  tax,  gently  grad- 
uated, suggests  the  desirability  of  a  bigger 
tax  more  steeply  graduated;  government 
regulation  of  railroad  rates,  involving  the 
control  of  private  property,  proceeds 
smoothly  to  government  ownership  of 
railroads  with  full  responsibility  for  the 
property.  When  coal-lands  are  withheld 
from  settlement,  and  the  ownership  of 
the  fuel  under  them  is  retained  by  the 
government,  the  first  step  is  taken  to- 
ward public  operation  of  the  mines  and 
oil-wells  so  retained.  If  the  nation  con- 
structs, owns,  and  leases  irrigation  works, 
why  should  it  not  a  little  later  proceed  to 
the  ownership  and  leasing  of  the  lands 
which  the  irrigation  has  redeemed  from 
the  desert  ? 

If  the  State  of  New  York  can  spend 
$101,000,000  for  the  enlargement  of  the 
Erie  Canal,  upon  the  demand  chiefly  of 
the  merchants  of  Buffalo  and  New  York 
City,  upon  what  principle  can  it  decline 
to  start  schemes  of  harbor  improvement, 
afforestation,  and  the  like,  in  times  of  de- 
pression, for  the  aid  of  the  unemployed  ? 


Since  freight  is  carried  on  this  canal  free 
of  toll-rates,  why  may  not  passengers  be 
carried  in  city  street-cars  on  the  same 
easy  terms?  Eight  hours  having  been 
made  the  legal  working  day  for  some  men 
and  some  occupations,  what  irrefutable 
argument  remains  to  prevent  the  legal 
eight-hour  day  for  all  men  in  all  occupa- 
tions? If  good  employers  can  be  per- 
suaded by  benevolent  federations  and 
public  opinion  to  spend  freely  on  the 
comfort  of  their  workmen,  cannot  the  bad 
employers  be  brought  into  line  by  the 
irresistible  force  of  a  statute  ?  Since  the 
reduction  by  state  law  of  $50,000  salaries 
paid  by  insurance  companies  is  held  by 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  to 
be  constitutional,  and  is  declared  by  state 
legislatures  to  be  proper  protection  of  the 
interests  of  the  policy-holders,  would  not 
legal  reduction  of  the  $100,000  salary 
paid  by  the  Steel  Trust  be  proper  protec- 
tion of  the  interests  of  the  stockholders  ? 
Since  Federal  and  State  governments  con- 
duct experiment  stations  and  distribute 
seeds,  literature,  and  personal  services 
for  the  special  benefit  of  farmers,  why 
may  they  not  conduct  experiments  with 
cooperative  workshops  for  the  special 
benefit  of  wage-earners  ?  Should  the  ad- 
ministrators of  the  Sage  Fund  prove  that 
some  of  the  causes  of  poverty  and  vice  are 
social,  why  should  not  the  tax-fund,  the 
most  social  of  all  funds,  be  requisitioned 
for  their  removal  ?  If  freight  rates  are  re- 
viewed by  courts  for  the  protection  of 
merchants,  why  may  not  tenement  rents 
be  reviewed  by  courts  for  the  protection  of 
workmen  ?  An  Employers'  Liability  Act, 
by  establishing  the  right  of  the  community 
to  compel  some  employers  to  pay  com- 
pensation for  some  accidents,  smooths 
the  path  for  a  copy  of  the  English  Work- 
men's Compensation  Act,  that  assures  to 
all  workmen  compensation  for  all  acci- 
dents. Already  free  schools  have  led,  in 
New  York  and  other  cities,  to  free  medi- 
cal attendance  and  free  nursing  for  the 
children,  while  free  eye-glasses  and  free 
dental  care  are  now  recommended  by 
some  authorities.  Finally  (not  to  make 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


293 


the  list  tediously  long),  since  excellent 
consular  reports  are  issued  to  aid  manu- 
facturers to  secure  trade,  why  should  not 
special  agents  prepare  and  issue  labor 
gazettes  to  aid  immigrants  and  workmen 
to  secure  jobs  ? 

Most  of  the  social  experiments  to 
which  I  have  referred  are  conducted 
without  reference  to  general  principles. 
Particular  evils  are  attacked  by  particu- 
lar remedies,  and  broad  tendencies  are 
ignored.  Perhaps  there  would  be  more 
alarm  were  some  of  the  acts  correctly 
named.  The  vast  outlay  of  state  money 
on  the  Erie  Canal  and  the  free  use  of 
the  canal  by  everybody  is  rank  commun- 
ism; but  the  merchants  of  the  cities  at 
its  termini  are  not  dismayed.  Communis- 
tic also  is  the  vast  work  of  the  numer- 
ous agricultural  departments,  which  in- 
cludes keeping  a  federal  stud  of  horses  to 
improve  the  breed,  making  world-wide 
explorations  for  new  varieties  of  fruit, 
plants,  and  seeds,  and  the  free  distribu- 
tion of  advice,  of  specimens,  and  of  ex- 
pert help.  The  taxpayer  foots  the  bill. 
Communism  of  this  kind  is  fast  spreading 
and  no  apprehension  is  shown.  So  long 
as  the  acts  are  not  labeled,  they  do  not 
affright  us.  From  one  point  of  view,  this 
neglect  of  generalities  may  be  pardoned. 
It  may  be  claimed  that  the  scientific 
method  is  to  consider  each  case  on  its 
merits,  and  to  judge  whether  the  public 
benefit  outweighs  the  cost.  But  in  nat- 
ural science  the  results  of  a  number  of 
experiments  are  finally  formulated  under 
one  law  which  aids  in  forecasting  the  re- 
sults of  further  experiments,  and  so  in 
social  and  political  science  the  guiding 
rule  may  profitably  be  sought. 

Some  suggestions  of  a  unifying  princi- 
ple are  made.  "The  square  deal"  is  the 
phrase  most  often  sent  through  the  presi- 
dential megaphone.  But  what  is  the 
square  deal  ?  A  crude  conception  of  so- 
cial justice.  And  who  shall  define  social 
justice  ?  Does  it  require  that  the  govern- 
ment shall  forbid  stock-watering  by  rail- 
road magnates  in  order  to  protect  stock- 
holders, while  investors  in  industrial 


stocks  are  left  unguarded  ?  Does  it  de- 
mand that  one-half  of  a  man's  property 
shall  pass  to  the  state  at  his  death,  as  Mr. 
Andrew  Carnegie  advocates,  or  only  the 
trifling  percentage  now  exacted  ?  Does  it 
require  complete  freedom  for  the  sale  of 
crops,  but  strict  limitations  on  the  sale  of 
bonds  ?  Will  it  condemn  the  misbranding 
of  canned  goods,  and  condone  the  mis- 
branding  of  woollen  and  leather  goods  ? 
Will  it,  by  reducing  rates,  appropriate  all 
the  unearned  increment  of  railroads,  and 
allow  the  annual  increment  of  $400,000,- 
000  in  New  York  City  land-values  to  go 
untaxed?  Will  it  compel  coal-owners  to 
pay  wage-scales  demanded  by  the  miners' 
unions,  allow  operators  to  raise  prices,  and 
leave  the  unorganized  workman  and  the 
helpless  consumer  to  foot  the  bloated 
bill?  Does  it  enforce  the  use  of  public 
money  in  combatting  tuberculosis,  and 
forbid  its  use  in  feeding  under-nourished 
children?  As  a  catchword  to  bolster 
a  particular  legislative  proposal,  "the 
square  deal"  is  effective;  as  a  basis  for 
wide  social  readjustments,  it  is  too  in- 
definite and  variable. 

There  is  one  principle  characteristic  of 
modern  life,  and  especially  of  American 
life,  discernible  in  most  of  the  readjust- 
ment that  is  going  forward,  —  the  prin- 
ciple of  organization.  Settlement  of  labor 
disputes  by  arbitration,  regulation  of 
immigration,  national  health  campaigns, 
semi-judicial  control  of  railroad  rates  — 
all  conform  with  the  aim  of  civilization  to 
substitute  order  for  discord,  to  get  the 
maximum  result  with  the  minimum  of 
effort,  by  arranging  to  best  advantage  the 
application  of  the  effort.  Industry  and 
commerce  are  elaborately  organized  to 
prevent  waste;  society  is  feeling  towards 
a  better  organization  of  the  social  rela- 
tions for  the  same  end.  When  employers 
and  workmen,  shippers  and  railroads 
and  competing  corporations  fight  it  out 
between  themselves,  there  is  loss  to  the 
community  and  much  friction.  It  is  being 
dimly  discerned  that,  in  proportion  as  in- 
telligence can  be  substituted  for  the  brute 
power  of  muscles  and  dollars  in  the  set- 


294 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


tlement  of  competing  claims,  the  social 
structure  will  be  stronger.  If  a  labor  dis- 
pute is  determined  by  argument  before 
a  few  men  in  a  court-room,  the  cost  is 
trifling  compared  with  the  cost  of  a  trial 
of  strength  between  the  combined  em- 
ployers and  the  labor  unions,  especially 
when  accompanied  with  street  fights, 
wounds,  and  murder.  When  a  federal 
department  puts  the  results  of  a  world- 
wide investigation  at  the  free  disposal  of 
all  the  citizens,  the  disorder  and  waste  of 
the  multiplication  of  such  investigations 
by  individuals  and  corporations  is  avoid- 
ed. If  each  consumptive  patient  be  left 
to  struggle  with  the  deadly  bacillus  alone, 
the  total  cost  to  society  is  far  greater  than 
when  the  forces  against  the  terrible  little 
enemy  are  organized  over  the  country. 
If  millionaires  or  municipalities  invest 
in  large  housing  schemes,  superseding 
the  petty  speculative  builders  who  have 
,  neither  brains  nor  capital  to  make  the 
best  of  the  possibilities,  rents  can  be 
reduced  and  adequate  profits  earned, 
while  the  community  gains  from  the  sub- 
stitution of  harmonious  blocks  of  build- 
ings for  conglomerate  masses  of  dis- 
cordant structures. 

This  principle  of  order  and  organiza- 
tion is  likely  to  produce  further  wide 
changes.  It  may  sanction  the  organiza- 
tion of  all  workmen  into  unions  or  guilds, 
and  the  corresponding  association  of  em- 
ployers, as  it  has  done  in  New  Zealand, 
in  order  that  it  may  substitute  for  the 
strike  and  the  lock-out  and  the  irregular 
intervention  of  outsiders  in  the  settlement 
of  trade  conflicts  a  legalized  system  of 
conciliation  and  arbitration.  It  may  in- 
sist that  the  teaching  of  trades  shall  be 
systematized,  in  order  that  every  citizen 
may  acquire  skill  at  some  occupation, 
estimates  being  made  of  the  number  of 
recruits  annually  required  by  each  trade, 
and  that  number  being  trained.  Thus 
justice  could  be  done  to  the  wage-earners, 
whose  wages  would  not  be  threatened  by 
an  over-supply  of  workmen,  and  industry 
would  not  be  checked  by  a  dearth  of 
skill. 


A  deliberate  organization  of  society 
will  require  that  the  net  inflow  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  immigrants  who 
come  annually  to  this  western  El  Dorado 
shall  be  directed  to  the  parts  of  the  coun- 
try needing  them,  and  not  be  dumped 
down  in  cities  already  crowded.  It  will 
decline  to  leave  to  the  importunities  and 
necessities  of  steamship  agents  the  deter- 
mination of  the  number  of  foreigners  who 
will  claim  our  welcome.  It  will  urge  us  to 
calculate  how  many  fresh  people  we  can 
absorb,  and  that  number  alone  will  it 
permit  to  enter. 

Possibly  the  greatest  task  of  organiza- 
tion awaiting  solution  is  the  adjustment 
of  the  quantity  of  manufactured  articles 
to  the  requirements.  For  lack  of  organ- 
ization, busy  periods  with  active  demand, 
good  prices,  and  plentiful  employment, 
are  succeeded  by  over-production,  glut- 
ted warehouses,  dropping  prices,  shut- 
downs, and  unemployment.  When  prices 
are  good,  new  mines  are  sunk,  new  mills 
and  factories  erected,  and  fresh  machin- 
ery installed.  No  attempt  is  made  to  cal- 
culate the  natural  requirements  of  each 
trade;  all  is  run  hap-hazard.  A  little 
order  is  being  introduced  by  the  Steel 
Trust  and  other  enormous  combinations, 
and  by  the  labor  organizations.  The  for- 
mer, by  refusing  to  put  up  prices  to  the 
top  notch,  discourage  the  building  of  new 
mills;  the  latter,  by  insisting  on  higher 
wages  in  brisk  times,  increase  the  cost, 
and  temporarily  reduce  the  demand,  thus 
distributing  the  demand  over  a  longer 
period. 

Bound  up  with  this  problem  is  another 
challenge  to  organization  —  the  cure  for 
unemployment.  Figures  are  regularly 
published  after  a  great  strike  or  lock-out 
to  show  the  amazing  sums  lost  to  both 
sides  through  the  stoppage.  What  colos- 
sal sums  are  similarly  lost  during  hard 
times,  when  hundreds  of  factory  boilers 
are  cold  and  tens  of  thousands  of  work- 
men fruitlessly  seek  employment!  To 
the  able  organizers  of  industrial  com- 
binations, the  waste  of  duplicate  plants, 
of  antiquated  factories  running  on  part 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


295 


time,  and  of  superfluous  commercial 
staffs,  are  all  abhorrent.  But  these  organ- 
izers seem  not  to  realize  the  stupendous 
wastes  of  unemployment.  The  states- 
man is  yet  to  come  who  will  make  the 
nation  conscious  of  the  unparalleled  loss 
involved  when  Coxie  armies  are  recruited, 
and  who  will  then  enlist  the  ablest  citi- 
zens in  organizing  to  ensure  steadiness  in 
industry  and  employment.  Collectively, 
we  are  convicted  of  stupidity  until  that 
organization  is  perfected.  It  is  an  indict- 
ment of  our  ability  to  control  our  affairs 
when  double  shifts  one  year  are  followed 
by  shut-downs  the  next  year,  when  fever- 
ish haste  to  fill  orders  is  succeeded  by 
anxious  eagerness  to  secure  orders,  and 
when  the  crowds  who  come  to  our  shores 
attracted  by  the  smiles  of  prosperity  are 
cast  adrift  as  hoboes  in  adversity.  Or- 
ganization is  part  of  the  American  ac- 
cepted creed,  and  the  nation  will  need  to 
go  great  lengths  in  the  practice  of  that 
creed  before  the  social  machinery  is  run- 
ning smoothly. 

A  further  principle  besides  organiza- 
tion, a  principle  equally  important  for  the 
future,  is  discernible  in  the  reconstruc- 
tion that  is  going  forward.  When  Mr. 
Rockefeller  gives  $32,000,000  at  one  time 
for  the  improvement  of  education,  when 
Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie,  light-heartedly 
tosses  ten  millions  to  college  faculties, 
and  when  lesser  gifts,  involving  as  great 
sacrifice  and  good-will  on  the  donors' 
part,  are  reported  almost  daily,  it  is  clear 
that,  either  with  full  consciousness  or 
without  clear  formulation,  a  potent  ideal 
is  working  in  our  society.  Croesus  is 
privileged  to  express  by  golden  gifts  the 
hope  which  many  vaguely  feel.  What  is 
that  hope  ?  What  are  its  characteristics  ? 

First,  it  has  no  definite  religious  basis. 
In  olden  days  the  rich  man's  gifts  and 
legacies,  meant  as  an  entrance  fee  to 
Paradise,  were  put  in  charge  of  the 
church.  The  priest  was  the  trustee,  and 
seats  of  learning  were  adjuncts  to  religion. 
But  most  American  gifts  have  no  religious 
flavor;  their  aims  and  administration  are 
secular.  Though  Mr.  Rockefeller  is  a 


devout  Baptist,  and  a  Baptist  is  president 
of  Chicago  University,  the  work  of  the 
university  is  hardly  touched  by  the  creed 
of  its  founder  and  its  head.  Mr.  Carnegie 
excludes  denominational  colleges  from 
the  benefits  of  his  pension  fund  for  pro- 
fessors, and  the  libraries  he  establishes 
contain  of  course  few  works  on  theology. 
Even  hospitals  and  the  like,  which  are 
given  a  denominational  name,  are  terri- 
bly secular  in  the  operating-rooms  and 
the  sick- wards ;  while  the  charity-organi- 
zation societies  throughout  the  country, 
which  are  more  and  more  attacking 
causes  of  want,  invite  to  membership 
saints  and  sinners  indiscriminately.  Hope 
of  heaven,  fear  of  hell,  desire  to  save  the 
individual  soul,  are  not  the  motives  that 
direct  the  modern  reconstruction. 

Second,  the  actuating  impulse  is  na- 
tional in  scope;  local  and  state  bounda- 
ries are  neglected  by  the  new  builders. 
The  work  of  the  General  Education 
Board,  the  Southern  Education  Board, 
the  Carnegie  Foundations,  the  Sage 
Foundation,  the  National  Child-Labor 
Committee,  the  Anti-Tuberculosis  Com- 
mittee, and  the  rest,  show  a  strengthen- 
ing consciousness  of  national  life  and 
destiny.  Philanthropists  and  statesmen 
think  in  continents.  Workmen  also  be- 
come yearly  more  aware  of  the  unity  of 
the  land.  Through  the  American  Feder- 
ation of  Labor,  and  in  their  international 
trade  unions,  the  organized  laborers  are 
proving  an  ability  to  act  together  over 
areas  thousands  of  miles  apart,  and  to 
comprehend  how  local  interests  may  be 
transcended  by  national  interests. 

Third,  the  spirit  moving  in  the  land  be- 
lieves that  individuals  can  be  improved. 
It  is  not  bound  by  a  despairing  convic- 
tion that  human  nature  is  immutable. 
Education  is  almost  a  fetich  in  America, 
and  especially  with  the  reconstructors. 
To  education  they  devote  their  chief  en- 
thusiasm and  their  most  lavish  gifts;  in 
the  power  of  a  university  training  to  im- 
prove the  quality  of  young  men  and 
maidens  they  place  unquestioning  trust. 
All  their  social  activities  assume  that 


296 


Social  Reconstruction  To-day 


men  and  conditions  are  improvable,  that 
the  last  step  of  progress  has  not  been 
taken,  nor  the  last  word  of  hope  spoken. 
So  fervent  is  the  faith  that  American  life 
can  elevate  those  who  share  it,  that  semi- 
savage  immigrants  by  the  thousand  are 
received  into  the  national  home  with 
hardly  a  doubt  of  our  capacity  to  civilize 
them.  A  fatalistic  trust  that  no  human 
material  can  resist  the  chastening  and 
refining  influence  of  American  institu- 
tions is  universal  in  America. 

All  the  tendencies  I  have  indicated 
may  be  summed  up:  "American  leaders 
are  bent  upon  evolving  a  higher  civiliza- 
tion." A  very  eminent  American  states- 
man, in  discussing  with  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells 
the  gloomy  forecast  in  his  early  book, 
The  Time  Machine,  expressed  a  fear 
that  perhaps  all  our  struggle  for  improve- 
ment would  but  end  in  the  development 
of  the  two  hostile  classes  pictured  in  the 
book :  one  stunted,  brutal,  subterranean, 
the  other  cruel,  luxurious,  and  inhuman, 
living  on  the  slave  labors  of  the  former. 
"Perhaps  it  may  come  to  that,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "but  anyhow  the  fight  is  worth 
while."  Few,  however,  would  find  the 
intoxication  of  battle  sufficient  reward, 
were  defeat  the  likely  outcome.  A  nobler 
prospect  is  heartening  the  fighters. 

Slowly  and  semi-consciously  American 
teachers  and  practical  guides  are  putting 
themselves  in  harmony  with  the  trend 
that  runs  through  all  creation.  The  evo- 
lutionary theory  is  ingrained  in  our  minds 
and  is  taking  effect.  Man,  we  know,  has 
been  developed  from  most  humble  be- 
ginnings. His  descent  can  be  traced 
through  anthropoid  apes,  earlier  mam- 
mals, saurian  reptiles,  fishes,  and  plants, 
back,  back  to  the  protoplasmic  cell. 
Through  incalculable  stretches  of  time 
Nature  has  operated,  patiently  evolving 
one  type  after  another.  Sometimes  a 
branch  of  the  living  tree  stopped  grow- 
ing, but  always  some  other  branch  re- 
mained vigorous,  and  the  upward  ten- 
dency continued.  At  last,  primitive  man 
emerged,  a  rude  creature  hardly  higher 
than  a  brute ;  but  step  by  step  his  powers 


and  tastes,  his  customs  and  social  insti- 
tutions improved,  until  civilization  and 
men  of  genius  graced  the  earth.  From 
the  naked  savage  to  Shakespeare  and 
Washington  mankind  traveled  a  pain- 
ful, precipitous  road.  Acting  generally 
without  deliberate  purpose  to  advance, 
driven  like  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  Na- 
ture's whips,  body  and  sex-hunger,  men 
were  unaware  of  the  destination  toward 
which  they  moved.  But  the  nineteenth 
century  revealed  the  scheme  of  the  uni- 
verse to  be  the  persistent  development  of 
higher  types  of  life.  To  that  end,  man- 
kind can  now  cooperate  with  the  forces 
behind  the  universe.  No  longer  need 
progress  be  haphazard.  Favoring  condi- 
tions purposely  established  will  stimu- 
late the  appearance  of  nobler  types.  Fu- 
ture civilization  may  become  as  much 
superior  to  ours  as  ours  is  superior  to 
the  Kaffir's;  the  average  citizen  as  much 
superior  to  us  as  we  are  superior  to  the 
Esquimaux. 

America  has  special  advantages  over 
European  nations  for  the  establishment 
of  such  a  civilization.  Most  easily  of  all 
lands,  she  can  secure  to  her  citizens  as- 
sured subsistence  for  reasonable  exer- 
tion and  leave  surplus  energies  free  for 
higher  activities.  She  can  take  the  essen- 
tial step  of  the  elimination  of  poverty,  the 
freeing  of  a  great  population  for  the 
first  time  in  history  from  the  possibility 
of  want.  Toward  that  goal  we  are  mov- 
ing by  the  organization  of  our  resources. 
Already  the  problem  of  production  is  well 
nigh  solved.  Enough  is  grown  on  Ameri- 
ca's broad  prairies  and  manufactured  in 
her  mills  and  factories  fully  to  feed  and 
clothe  her  eighty  millions.  But  the  pro- 
blem of  distribution  remains  a  puzzle.  A 
huge  task  of  organization  challenges 
statesmen  and  patriots,  the  task  of  ar- 
ranging our  system  of  industrial  rewards 
so  that  to  every  person  willing  to  work  a 
sufficient  livelihood  from  birth  to  death 
shall  be  guaranteed.  The  Sage  Founda- 
tion for  the  investigation  of  the  causes  of 
poverty  is  a  sign  that  the  challenge  to  the 
task  will  be  accepted. 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


297 


A  second  advantage  which  America 
enjoys  in  setting  out  towards  a  higher 
civilization  is  the  absence,  as  yet,  of  a 
class  idle,  luxurious,  parasitic  by  tradi- 
tion. Fewer  families  than  in  European 
countries  consist  of  rich  drones,  born  to 
affluent  ease,  disdainful  of  effort.  Our 
strongest  men  are  active  by  preference, 
our  social  life  is  still  organized  on  the  as- 
sumption that  work  is  the  noblest  lot  for 
man  or  woman.  Therefore  we  may  en- 
list for  the  crusade  the  strongest  minds 
and  stoutest  hearts.  Already  the  army  is 
forming.  Every  member  of  his  cabinet, 
says  President  Roosevelt,  holds  his  posi- 
tion at  financial  sacrifice,  for  each  mem- 
ber patriotism  and  love  of  honor  are 
stronger  than  the  magnetism  of  the  dol- 
lar. Two  of  our  richest  men  have  ex- 
changed telegrams  of  congratulation 
upon  their  success  in  disposing  of  their 
surplus  wealth  and  have  agreed  that  their 
pleasure  in  rearing  Aladdin  palaces  for 
public  use  is  marred  by  no  pang  at  part- 


ing with  "the  scraps  of  paper"  they  cost. 
From  that  attitude  there  are  but  few 
steps  to  the  voluntary  renunciation  of 
opportunities  for  gathering  the  millions, 
when  it  is  shown  that  the  community  will 
profit  more  by  restraint  in  the  getting 
than  it  will  profit  by  liberality  in  the 
disbursing. 

The  men  and  the  women  who  aim  at  a 
social  betterment  in  both  the  getting  and 
the  spending  of  fortunes  are  the  advance- 
guard  of  the  soldiers  of  the  coming 
change.  Behind  them,  uncommitted  to 
any  wide-reaching  theory,  but  patriotic 
and  zealous  for  an  improved  society, 
there  are  marching  philanthropists,  doc- 
tors, lawyers,  business  men,  and  legis- 
lators, people  of  distinction,  followed  by 
the  swelling  army  of  privates  who  are 
ready  sturdily  to  walk  along  the  road  to 
the  land  of  promise,  the  millions  on  whose 
backs  the  burden  of  our  civilization  rests, 
and  for  whose  children  the  better  order 
will  be  the  greatest  boon. 


BRET  HARTE'S  HEROINES 


BY   HENRY   C.    MERWIN 


IN  Bret  Harte's  stories  woman  is  sub- 
ordinated to  man  just  as  love  is  subor- 
dinated to  friendship.  The  principal 
figure  in  almost  all  the  tragic  tales  is  a 
man.  There  is  no  female  character, 
moreover,  that  appears  and  reappears  in 
one  story  after  another,  as  do  Yuba 
Bill,  Jack  Hamlin,  and  Colonel  Starbot- 
tle;  and,  so  far  as  we  can  judge  from  a 
writer  of  such  reserve,  the  gusto  which 
Bret  Harte  evidently  felt  in  writing  about 
these  worthies  was  not  evoked  to  the 
same  degree  by  any  of  his  heroines. 

And  yet  what  modern  author  has  ex- 
hibited a  more  charming  gallery  of  hero- 
ines, or  has  depicted  the  passion  of  love 
in  so  pure  and  wholesome  a  form!  The 
critic  must  clear  up  his  ideas  about  what 


constitutes  nobility  in  woman,  before  he 
can  fairly  estimate  the  women  described 
by  Bret  Harte.  A  sophisticated  reader 
would  be  almost  sure  to  underestimate 
them.  Even  that  English  critic  who  was 
perhaps  his  greatest  admirer,  makes  the 
remark,  literally  true,  but  nevertheless 
misleading,  that  Bret  Harte  "did  not 
create  a  perfectly  noble,  superior,  com- 
manding woman."  No;  but  he  created, 
or  at  least  sketched,  more  than  one  wo- 
man of  a  very  noble  type.  What  type  of 
woman  is  most  valuable  to  the  world  ? 
Surely  that  which  is  fitted  to  become  the 
mother  of  heroes;  and  to  that  type  Bret 
Harte's  best  women  belong.  They  have 
courage,  tenderness,  sympathy,  the  power 
of  self-sacrifice ;  they  have  even  that  strain 


298 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


of  fierceness  which  seems  to  be  insepara- 
ble, in  man  or  beast,  from  the  capacity  for 
deep  affection.  They  do  indeed  lack  edu- 
cation, and  inherited  refinement.  Bret 
Harte  himself  occasionally  points  out  the 
deficiency  in  this  respect  of  his  pioneer 
women.  "She  brushed  the  green  moss 
from  his  sleeve  with  some  towelling,  and 
although  this  operation  brought  her  so 
near  to  him  that  her  breath  —  as  soft  and 
warm  as  the  Southwest  trades  —  stirred 
his  hair,  it  was  evident  that  this  contig- 
uity was  only  frontier  familiarity,  as  far 
removed  from  conscious  coquetry,  as  it 
was,  perhaps,  from  educated  delicacy." 

And  yet  it  is  very  easy  to  exaggerate 
this  defect.  In  most  respects  the  whole- 
someness,  the  democratic  sincerity  and 
dignity  of  Bret  Harte's  women  (and  of 
his  men  as  well)  give  them  the  substan- 
tial benefits  of  gentle  blood.  Thus  he 
says  of  one  of  his  characters,  "He  had 
that  innate  respect  for  the  secrets  of 
others  which  is  as  inseparable  from  sim- 
plicity as  it  is  from  high  breeding;"  and 
this  remark  might  have  been  put  in  a 
much  more  general  form.  In  fact,  the  es- 
sential similarity  between  simplicity  and 
high  breeding  runs  through  the  whole  na- 
ture of  Bret  Harte's  characters,  and  per- 
haps, moreover,  explains  why  the  man 
who  loved  the  mining  camps  of  Cali- 
fornia fled  from  philistine  San  Francisco 
and  provincial  Boston  to  cosmopolitan 
London. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  defects  of  Bret 
Harte's  heroines  relate  rather  to  the  orna- 
mental than  to  the  indispensable  part  of 
life,  whereas  the  qualities  in  which  they 
excel  are  those  fundamental  feminine 
qualities  upon  which,  in  the  last  analysis, 
is  founded  the  greatness  of  nations.  Bret 
Harte's  women  have  the  independence, 
the  innocent  audacity,  the  clear  common- 
sense,  the  resourcefulness,  typical  of  the 
American  woman,  and  they  have,  besides, 
a  depth  of  feeling  which  is  rather  prime- 
val than  American,  which  certainly  is  not 
a  part  of  the  typical  American  woman  as 
we  know  her  in  the  Eastern  States. 

Perhaps  the  final  test  of    nobility  in 


man  or  woman  is  the  capacity  to  value 
something,  be  it  honor,  affection,  or  what 
you  will,  be  it  almost  anything,  but  to 
value  something  more  than  life  itself,  and 
this  is  the  characteristic  of  Bret  Harte's 
heroines.  They  are  as  ready  to  die  for 
love  as  Juliet  was,  and  along  with  this 
abandon  they  have  the  coolness,  the  inde- 
pendence, the  practical  faculty,  which 
belong  to  their  time  and  race,  but  which 
were  not  a  part  of  woman's  nature  in  the 
age  that  produced  Shakespeare's  "un- 
lessoned"  girl. 

Bret  Harte's  heroines  have  a  strong 
family  resemblance  to  those  of  both 
Turgenieff  and  Thomas  Hardy.  In  each 
case  the  women  obey  the  instinct  of  love 
as  unreservedly  as  men  of  an  archaic  type 
obey  the  instinct  of  fighting.  There  is  no 
question  with  them  of  material  advan- 
tage, of  wealth,  position,  or  even  reputa- 
tion. Such  considerations,  so  familiar  to 
women  of  the  world,  never  enter  their 
minds.  They  love  as  nature  prompts,  and 
having  once  given  their  love,  they  give 
themselves  and  everything  that  they  have 
along  with  it.  There  is  a  magnificent  for- 
getfulness  of  self  about  them.  This  is  the 
way  of  nature.  Nature  never  counts  the 
cost,  never  hoards  her  treasures,  but 
pours  them  out,  to  live  or  die  as  the  case 
may  be,  with  a  profusion  which  makes 
the  human  •  by-stander  —  economical, 
poverty-stricken  man  —  stand  aghast.  In 
Russia  this  type  of  woman  is  frequent- 
ly found,  as  Turgenieff,  and  to  a  lesser 
degree  Tolstoi,  found  her  among  the 
upper  classes,  which  have  retained  a 
primeval  quality  long  since  bred  out  of 
the  corresponding  classes  in  England  and 
in  the  United  States.  For  women  of  the 
same  type  in  England,  Thomas  Hardy  is 
forced  to  look  lower  down  in  the  social 
scale ;  and  this  probably  accounts  for  the 
fact  that  his  heroines  are  seldom  drawn 
from  the  upper  classes. 

Women  of  this  type  sometimes  fail  in 
point  of  chastity,  but  it  is  a  failure  due  to 
impulse  and  affection,  not  to  mere  frivol- 
ity or  sensuality.  After  all,  chastity  is 
only  one  of  the  virtues  that  women  owe  to 


Bret  Ilarte's  Heroines 


themselves  and  to  the  race.  The  chaste 
woman  who  coldly  marries  for  money  is, 
us  a  rule,  morally  inferior  to  the  unchaste 
woman  who  gives  up  everything  for  love. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  Bret 
Harte's  women  do  not  need  this  defense, 
for  his  heroines,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Miggles,  arc  virtuous.  The  only  loose 
women  in  Bret  Harte's  stories  are  the  ob- 
viously bad  women,  the  female  "vil- 
lains" of  the  play,  and  they  are  by  no 
means  numerous.  Joan,  in  *"  The  Argo- 
nauts of  North  Liberty,"  the  wives  of 
"  Brown  of  Calaveras,"  and  of  "  The 
I  (ell -Ringer  of  Angels,"  respectively,  the 
cold-blooded  Mrs.  Decker,  and  Mrs. 
Burroughs,  the  pretty,  murderous,  feline 
little  woman  in  "  A  Mercury  of  the  Foot- 
hills "  —  these  very  nearly  exhaust  the  list. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  Thomas  Hardy  and 
Turge"nieff ,  to  say  nothing  of  lesser  novel- 
ists, it  is  often  the  heroine  herself  who 
falls  from  virtue.  Too  much  can  hardly 
be  made  of  the  moral  superiority  of  Bret 
Harte's  stories  in  this  respect.  It  is  due 
not  simply  to  his  own  taste  and  prefer- 
ence, but  to  the  actual  state  of  society  in 
California,  which,  in  this  respect  as  in  all 
others,  he  faithfully  portrayed.  The  city 
of  San  Francisco  might  have  told  a  dif- 
ferent story ;  but  in  the  mining  and  agri- 
cultural parts  of  the  state  the  standard  of 
feminine  virtue  was  high.  Perhaps  this 
was  due,  in  part  at  least,  to  the  chivalry 
of  the  men,  reacting  upon  the  women,  — 
to  that  feeling  which  Bret  Harte  himself 
called  "the  western- American  fetich  of 
the  sanctity  of  sex,"  and,  again,  "the  in- 
nate Far-Western  reverence  for  women." 

In  all  European  societies,  and  now,  to 
a  lesser  degree,  in  the  cities  of  the  United 
States,  every  man  is,  generally  speaking, 
the  enemy  of  every  young  and  good-look- 
ing woman,  as  much  as  the  hunter  is  the 
enemy  of  his  game.  How  vast  is  the  dif- 
ference between  this  attitude  of  men  to 
women  and  that  which  Bret  Harte  de- 
scribes! The  California  men,  as  he  says 
elsewhere,  "thought  it  dishonorable  and 
a  proof  of  in  com  potency  to  rise  by  their 
wives'  superior  fortune."  They  married 


lor  love  and  nothing  else,  and  their  love 
took  the  form  of  reverence. 

The  complement  of  this  IVi-lin;-,  on  the 
woman's  side,  is  a  maternal,  protecting 
all'ection,  perhaps  the  noblest  passion  of 
which  women  are  c;i|>:il>l<-;  ;m<|  this  is 
the  kind  of  love  lli.il  Bret  Marie's  hero- 

ines  invariably  show.  No  mother  could 
have  watched  over  her  child  more  ten- 
derly than  Cressy  over  her  sweetheart. 
The  cry  that  came  from  the  lips  of  the 
Hose  of  Tuolumne  when  she  flew  to  the 
rescue  of  her  bleeding  lover  was  "the  cry 
of  a  mother  over  her  stricken  babe,  of  a 
tigress  over  her  mangled  cub." 

Let  us  recall  the  picture  of  the  Hose  as 
she  first  appears  in  the  story,  —  sum- 
moned out  of  bed  by  her  father,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  to  help  entertain 
his  troublesome  guest,  the  youthful  poet. 
While  the  two  men  await  her  coming  on 
the  piazza,  the  elder  confides  some  family 
secrets  to  his  young  friend. 

"'But  hush/  said  Mr.  McCloskey  — 
'that's  her  foot  on  the  stairs.  She's 
cummin'.'  She  came.  I  don't  think  the 
French  window  ever  held  a  finer  view 
than  when  she  put  aside  the  curtains  and 
stepped  out.  She  had  dressed  herself 
simply  and  hurriedly,  but  with  a  wo- 
man's knowledge  of  her  best  points,  so 
that  you  got  the  long  curves  of  her 
shapely  limbs,  the  shorter  curves  of  her 
round  waist  and  shoulders,  the  long  sweep 
of  her  yellow  braids,  and  even  the  deli- 
cate rose  of  her  complexion,  without 

knowing  how  it  was  delivered  to  you 

it  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
cheek  of  this  Tuolumne  goddess  was  as 
dewy  and  fresh  as  an  infant's,  and  she 
looked  like  Marguerite,  without  ever  hav- 
ing heard  of  Goethe's  heroine." 

Bret  Harte's  heroines  are  almost  all  of 
the  robust  type.  A  companion  picture  to 
the  Hose  is  that  of  Jinny  in  the  story 
"  When  the  Waters  were  up  at  Jules." 

"  Certainly  she  was  graceful !  Her  tall, 
lithe,  but  beautifully  moulded  figure, 
even  in  its  characteristic  Southwestern  in- 
dolence, fell  into  poses  as  picturesque  as 
they  were  unconscious.  She  lifted  the  big 


300 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


molasses  can  from  its  shelf  on  the  raft- 
ers with  the  attitude  of  a  Greek  water- 
bearer.  She  upheaved  the  heavy  flour 
sack  to  the  same  secure  shelf  with  the  up- 
raised palms  of  an  Egyptian  caryatid." 

Trinidad  Joe's  daughter,  also,  was 
large-limbed,  with  blue  eyes,  black  brows, 
and  white  teeth.  It  was  of  her  that  the 
doctor  said,  "If  she  spoke  rustic  Greek 
instead  of  bad  English,  and  wore  a  cestus 
instead  of  an  ill-fitting  corset,  you'd 
swear  she  was  a  goddess." 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  Bret 
Harte's  nobler  type  of  women,  and  in 
most  cases  of  his  men  also,  was  drawn 
from  the  western  and  southwestern  emi- 
grants. The  "great  West"  furnished  his 
heroic  characters,  —  California  was  only 
their  accidental  and  temporary  abiding 
place.  The  eastern  emigrants  came  by 
sea,  and  very  few  women  accompanied 
them.  The  western  and  southwestern 
emigrants  crossed  the  plains,  and  brought 
their  wives  and  children  along.  These 
people  were  of  the  muscular,  farm  type, 
with  such  health  and  such  nerves  as 
spring  from  an  out-door  life,  from  simple, 
even  coarse  food,  from  early  hours  and 
abundant  sleep.  The  women  shared  the 
courage  of  their  fathers  and  brothers. 
Bret  Harte's  heroines  are  womanly  to 
their  finger-tips,  but  they  have  nerves  of 
steel.  Such  was  Lanty  Foster,  in  whose 
veins  flowed  "the  blood  that  had  never 
nourished  cravens  or  degenerates,  but 
had  given  itself  to  sprinkle  and  fertilize 
desert  solitudes  where  man  might  fol- 
low ;  .  .  .  whose  first  infant  cry  had  been 
answered  by  the  yelp  and  scream  of 
panther;  whose  father's  rifle  had  been 
leveled  across  her  cradle,  to  cover  the 
stealthy  Indian  who  prowled  outside." 

Bret  Harte's  women  show  their  primi- 
tive character  in  their  love-affairs,  in  re- 
spect to  which  they  are  much  like  Shake- 
speare's heroines.  "Who  ever  loved  that 
loved  not  at  first  sight!" 

John  Ashe's  betrothed  and  Ridgway 
Dent  had  known  each  other  a  matter  of 
two  hours  or  so,  before  they  exchanged 
that  immortal  kiss  which  nearly  cost  the 


lives  of  both.  Two  brief  meetings,  and 
one  of  those  in  the  dark,  sufficed  to  win 
for  the  brave  and  clever  young  deputy 
sheriff  the  affections  of  Lanty  Foster.  In 
"  A  Jack  and  Gill  of  the  Sierras,"  a  hand- 
some girl  from  the  East  tumbles  over  a 
precipice,  and  falls  upon  the  recumbent 
hero,  part  way  down,  with  such  violence 
as  to  stun  him.  This  is  hardly  romantic, 
but  the  dangerous  and  difficult  ascent 
which  they  make  together  furnishes  the 
required  opportunity.  Ten  minutes  of 
contiguity  suffice,  and  so  well  is  the  girl's 
character  indicated  by  a  few  masterly 
strokes,  that  the  reader  feels  no  surprise 
at  the  result. 

And  yet  there  is  nothing  that  savors  of 
coarseness,  much  less  of  levity,  in  these 
abrupt  love-affairs.  When  Bret  Harte's 
heroes  and  heroines  meet,  it  is  the  coming 
together  of  two  souls  that  recognize  and 
attract  each  other.  It  is  like  a  stroke  of 
lightning,  and  is  accepted  with  a  prime- 
val simplicity  and  un-self consciousness. 
The  impression  is  as  deep  as  it  is  sudden. 

What  said  Juliet  of  the  anonymous 
young  man  whom  she  had  known  some- 
thing less  than  an  hour  ? 

"  Go,  ask  his  name  :  if  he  be  married 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed." 

So  felt  Liberty  Jones  when  she  ex- 
claimed to  Dr.  Rysdael,  "I'll  go  with  you 
or  I '11  die!" 

It  is  this  sincerity  that  sanctifies  the 
rapidity  and  frankness  of  Bret  Harte's 
love-affairs.  Genuine  passion  takes  no 
account  of  time,  and  supplies  by  one  in- 
stinctive rush  of  feeling  the  experience 
of  years.  Given  the  right  persons,  time 
becomes  as  long  and  as  short  as  eter- 
nity. Thus  it  was  with  the  two  lovers  who 
met  and  parted  at  midnight  on  the  hill- 
top. "There  they  stood  alone.  There  was 
no  sound  of  motion  in  earth  or  woods  or 
heaven.  They  might  have  been  the  one 
man  and  woman  for  whom  this  goodly 
earth  that  lay  at  their  feet,  rimmed  with 
the  deepest  azure,  was  created.  And  see- 
ing this  they  turned  toward  each  other 
with  a  sudden  instinct,  and  their  hands 
met,  and  then  their  lips  in  one  long  kiss." 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


301 


But  this  same  perfect  understanding 
may  be  arrived  at  in  a  crowd  as  well  as  in 
solitude.  Cressy  and  the  Schoolmaster 
were  mutually  aware  of  each  other's  pre- 
sence at  the  dance  before  they  had  ex- 
changed a  look,  and  when  their  eyes  met 
it  was  in  "an  isolation  as  supreme  as  if 
they  had  been  alone." 

Cressy  is  so  real,  so  lifelike,  that  her 
first  appearance  in  the  story,  namely  her 
return  to  school,  after  the  episode  of  a 
broken  engagement,  leaves  the  reader 
firmly  convinced  of  her  previous  exist- 
ence. This  is  what  the  youthful  school- 
master saw  on  that  memorable  morn- 
ing:— 

"In  the  rounded,  untouched,  and  un- 
troubled freshness  of  her  cheek  and  chin, 
and  the  forward  droop  of  her  slender 
neck,  she  appeared  a  girl  of  fifteen ;  in  her 
developed  figure  and  the  maturer  drapery 
of  her  full  skirts  she  seemed  a  woman ;  in 
her  combination  of  naive  recklessness  and 
perfect  understanding  of  her  person  she 
was  both.  In  spite  of  a  few  school-books 
that  jauntily  swung  from  a  strap  in  her 
gloved  hand,  she  bore  no  resemblance  to 
a  pupil;  in  her  pretty  gown  of  dotted 
muslin,  with  bows  of  blue  ribbon  on  the 
skirt  and  corsage,  and  a  cluster  of  roses  in 
her  belt,  she  was  as  inconsistent  and  in- 
congruous to  the  others  as  a  fashion-plate 
would  have  been  in  the  dry  and  dog- 
eared pages  before  them.  Yet  she  carried 
it  off  with  a  demure  mingling  of  the  naivete 
of  youth  and  the  aplomb  of  a  woman,  and 
as  she  swept  down  the  narrow  aisle,  bury- 
ing a  few  small  wondering  heads  in  the 
overflow  of  her  flounces,  there  was  no 
doubt  of  her  reception  in  the  arch  smile 
that  dimpled  her  cheek.  Dropping  a  half 
curtsy  to  the  master,  the  only  suggestion 
of  equality  with  the  others,  she  took  her 
place  at  one  of  the  larger  desks,  and  rest- 
ing her  elbow  on  the  lid  began  quietly 
to  remove  her  gloves.  It  was  Cressy 
McKinstry." 

Poor  Cressy,  like  Daisy  Miller,  was  the 
pathetic  victim  of  circumstances,  chief 
among  which  was  the  lack  of  a  lover 
worthy  of  being  her  husband.  Could  any 


country  in  the  world,  except  our  own, 
produce  a  Cressy!  She  has  all  the 
beauty,  much  of  the  refinement,  and  all 
the  subtle  perceptions  of  a  girl  belonging 
to  the  most  sophisticated  race  and  class ; 
and  underneath  she  has  the  strong,  pri- 
meval, spontaneous  qualities,  the  whole- 
some instincts,  the  courage,  the  steadfast- 
ness of  that  pioneer  people,  that  religious, 
fighting,  much-enduring  people  to  whom 
she  belonged. 

Cressy  is  the  true  child  of  her  father; 
and  there  is  nothing  finer  in  all  Bret 
Harte  than  his  description  of  this  rough 
backwoodsman,  ferocious  in  his  bound- 
ary warfare,  and  yet  full  of  vague  aspira- 
tions for  his  daughter,  conscious  of  his 
own  deficiencies,  and  oppressed  with  that 
melancholy  which  haunts  the  man  who 
has  outgrown  the  ideals  and  conventions 
of  his  youth.  Hiram  McKinstry,  com- 
pared with  the  masterful  Yuba  Bill,  the 
picturesque  Hamlin,  or  the  majestic  Star- 
bottle,  is  not  an  imposing  figure;  but  to 
have  divined  him  was  a  greater  feat  of 
sympathetic  imagination  than  to  have 
created  the  others. 

It  is  characteristic,  too,  of  Bret  Harte 
that  it  is  Cressy's  father  who  is  repre- 
sented as  acutely  conscious  of  his  own  de- 
fects in  education;  whereas  her  mother 
remains  true  to  the  ancestral  type,  deeply 
distrusting  her  husband's  and  her  daugh- 
ter's innovations.  Mrs.  McKinstry,  as 
the  reader  will  remember,  "looked  upon 
her  daughter's  studies  and  her  husband's 
interest  in  them  as  weaknesses  that  might 
in  course  of  time  produce  infirmity  of 
homicidal  purpose  and  become  enervat- 
ing of  eye  and  trigger  finger.  ...  *  The 
old  man's  worritts  hev  sorter  shook  out 
a  little  of  his  sand,'  she  had  explained." 

Alas  that  no  genius  has  arisen  to  write 
the  epic  of  the  West,  as  Hawthorne  and 
Mary  Wilkins  and  Miss  Jewett  have 
written  the  epic  of  New  England!  Bret 
Harte's  stories  of  the  western  people  are 
true  and  striking,  but  his  limitations  pre- 
vented him  from  giving  much  more  than 
sketches  of  them.  They  are  not  presented 
with  that  fullness  which  is  necessary  to 


302 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


make  a  figure  in  fiction  impress  itself 
upon  the  popular  imagination,  and  be- 
come familiar  even  to  people  who  have 
never  read  the  book  in  which  it  is  con- 
tained. Cressy,  like  Bret  Harte's  other 
heroines,  flits  across  the  scene  once  or 
twice,  and  we  see  her  no  more.  Mrs. 
McKinstry  is  sketched  only  in  outline, 
and  yet  she  is  a  strong,  tragic  figure  of  a 
type  now  extinct  or  nearly  so,  as  powerful 
and  more  sane  than  Meg  Merrilies,  and 
much  more  worthy  of  a  permanent  place 
in  literature. 

Bret  Harte's  heroines  include  to  a 
remarkable  degree  almost  everything 
that  was  interesting  in  feminine  Califor- 
nia. Even  the  aborigines  have  a  place. 
The  Princess  Bob  is  an  Indian.  So  is 
the  Mermaid  of  Lighthouse  Point;  and 
in  "  Peter  Atherley's  Ancestors"  we  have 
a  group  of  squaws,  the  youngest  of 
whom  is  thus  touchingly  described:  "A 
girl  of  sixteen  in  years,  a  child  of  six  in 
intellect,  she  flashed  her  little  white  teeth 
upon  him  when  he  lifted  his  tent-flap,  con- 
tent to  receive  his  grave  melancholy  bow, 
or  patiently  trotted  at  his  side,  carrying 
things  he  did  not  want,  which  she  had 
taken  from  the  lodge.  When  he  sat  down 
to  write,  she  remained  seated  at  a  dis- 
tance, looking  at  him  with  glistening 
beady  eyes  like  blackberries  set  in  milk, 
and  softly  scratching  the  little  bare  brown 
ankle  of  one  foot  with  the  turned-in  toes 
of  the  other,  after  an  infantile  fashion." 

Next  in  point  of  time  come  the  Span- 
ish occupants  of  the  soil.  Bret  Harte  has 
not  given  us  such  an  elaborate  portrait  of 
a  Spanish  girl  as  he  has  of  that  fascinating 
and  gallant  young  gentleman  Enrico 
Saltello;  but  there  is  a  charming  sketch 
of  his  sister  Consuelo.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  Consuelo,  fancying  or  pre- 
tending to  fancy  a  prearranged  meeting 
between  her  American  suitor  and  a  cer- 
tain Miss  Smith,  dashes  off  on  the  errat- 
ic Chu  Chu,  and  is  found  by  her  ago- 
nized lover  two  hours  later  reclining  by 
the  roadside,  "with  her  lovely  blue-black 
hair  undisheveled,"  and  apparently  un- 
hurt, but  still,  as  she  declares,  the  victim 


of  a  serious  accident.  Thus  she  replies 
to  her  lover's  tender  inquiries  as  to  the 
nature  of  her  injuries :  — 

'  You  comprehend  not,  my  poor 
Pancho !  It  is  not  of  the  foot,  the  ankle, 
the  arm,  or  the  head  that  I  can  say  "  She 
is  broke!  "  I  would  it  were  even  so.  But,' 
she  lifted  her  sweet  lashes  slowly,  —  *  I 
have  derranged  my  inside.  It  is  an  affair 
of  my  family.  My  grandfather  have  once 
tumble  over  the  bull  at  a  rodeo.  He  speak 
no  more;  he  is  dead.  For  why?  He  has 
derrange  his  inside.  Believe  me,  it  is 
of  the  family.  You  comprehend  ?  The 
Saltellos  are  not  as  the  other  peoples  for 
this.  .  .  .  When  you  are  happy  and  talk 
in  the  road  to  the  Essmith,  you  will  not 
think  of  me,  you  will  not  see  my  eyes, 
Pancho;  these  little  grass'  — she  ran  her 
plump  little  fingers  through  a  tussock  — 
*  will  hide  them ;  and  the  small  animals  in 
black  that  live  here  will  have  much  sor- 
row—  but  you  will  not.  It  ees  better 
so!  My  father  will  not  that  I,  a  Catho- 
lique,  should  marry  into  a  camp-meeting, 
and  live  in  a  tent,  and  make  howl  like  the 
coyote.'  " 

Thackeray  himself  was  not  a  greater 
master  of  dialect  than  Bret  Harte,  and  as 
Thackeray  seems  to  bring  out  the  char- 
acter of  Costigan  by  his  brogue,  so  Bret 
Harte,  by  means  of  her  delightfully 
broken  English,  discloses  the  gentle,  pi- 
quant, womanly,  grave,  non-humorous, 
but  tenderly  playful  character  of  the 
Spanish  senorita.  Consuelo  is  not  the  only 
one.  There  are  Donna  Supelvida  in  "  Ga- 
briel Conroy ;  "  Rosita  Pico,  the  friend 
of  Mrs.  Demorest,  in  "  The  Argonauts  of 
North  Liberty;"  Pepita  Ramirez,  by 
whose  charms  Stephen  Masterton,  the 
Methodist  preacher,  became"  A  Convert 
of  the  Mission,"  and  Carmen  de  Haro,  in 
"  The  Story  of  a  Mine,"  whose  voice  was 
"so  musical,  so  tender,  so  sympathizing, 
so  melodious,  so  replete  with  the  gracious- 
ness  of  womanhood,  that  she  seemed  to 
have  invented  the  language." 

The  Mexican  women  are  represented 
by  the  passionate  Teresa,  who  met  her 
fate,  in  a  double  sense, "  In  the  Carquinez 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


SOS 


Woods,"  finding  there  both  a  lover  and 
her  death;  and  even  the  charming  daugh- 
ter of  a  Spanish  mother  and  an  American 
or  English  father  is  not  missing.  Such 
marriages  were  frequent  among  the  ad- 
venturous Anglo-Saxons  who  had  settled 
in  California  long  before  the  discovery 
of  gold.  It  was  said,  indeed,  that  the 
senoritas  preferred  Americans  as  hus- 
bands, and  this  preference  accounted  in 
part  for  the  bitter  feeling  against  them 
entertained  by  the  Spaniards.  It  was  bad 
enough  that  they  should  acquire  the  land, 
without  capturing  the  women  also.  Jose" 
Castro,  the  military  commander  of  the 
province,  declared,  in  1846,  that  such  in- 
dignities could  not  be  borne  by  Castilian 
blood.  "A  California  Cavaliero  cannot 
woo  a  Senorita,  if  opposed  in  his  suit  by 
an  American  sailor;  and  these  heretics 
must  be  cleared  from  the  land." 

In  "  Maruja  "  we  have  the  daughter 
of  a  New  England  whaling  captain  and 
a  Spanish  woman  of  good  family,  who 
unites  the  best  qualities  of  both  races. 
"Her  eyes  were  beautiful,  and  charged 
with  something  more  than  their  own 
beauty.  With  a  deep  brunette  setting 
even  to  the  darkened  curves,  the  pupils 
were  as  blue  as  the  sky  above  them.  But 
they  were  lit  with  another  intelligence. 
The  soul  of  the  Salem  whaler  looked  out 
of  the  passion-darkened  orbits  of  the 
mother,  and  was  resistless." 

As  to  the  American  women  who  emi- 
grated to  California,  Bret  Harte's  gallery 
contains  a  picture,  or  at  least  a  sketch  of 
every  type.  Of  the  western  and  south- 
western women  mention  has  already  been 
made.  The  South  is  represented  by  Sally 
Dows,  who  appears  not  only  in  the  story 
of  that  name,  but  also  in  "  Colonel  Star- 
bottle's  Client."  Sally  Dows  is  a  "re- 
constructed "  rebel,  a  rebel  indeed  who 
never  believed  in  the  war,  but  who  stood 
by  her  kindred.  She  is  a  charming  young 
woman,  graceful,  physically  and  men- 
tally, coquettish  but  businesslike,  cool 
and  alluring,  and  always  mistress  of  her- 
self and  the  situation.  The  key  to  her 
character  dawns  at  last  upon  her  northern 


lover:  "Looking  at  her  closely  now  he 
understood  the  meaning  of  those  pliant 
graces,  so  unaffected  and  yet  always  con- 
trolled by  the  reasoning  of  an  unbiased 
intellect;  her  frank  speech  and  plausible 
intonations !  Before  him  stood  the  true- 
born  daughter  of  a  long  race  of  politi- 
cians !  All  that  he  had  heard  of  their  dex- 
terity, tact,  and  expediency  rose  here  in- 
carnate with  the  added  grace  of  woman- 
hood." 

In  his  portrayal  of  eastern  women  Bret 
Harte  is  less  successful.  There  was  no 
Yankee  blood  in  his  veins,  and  he  was 
inclined  to  dislike  New  England  people 
and  New  England  ideas.  Moreover,  the 
conventional  well-bred  woman  of  any 
race  or  clime  did  not  interest  him.  Writ- 
ers of  fiction,  as  a  rule,  find  their  material 
in  one  particular  class,  and  in  the  depend- 
ents or  inferiors  with  whom  that  class 
comes  especially  in  contact.  Dickens  is 
the  historian  of  the  London  cockney, 
Thackeray  of  aristocratic  and  literary 
London,  Trollope  of  the  English  county 
families,  and  to  some  extent,  of  English- 
men in  public  life,  Rhoda  Broughton  of 
the  county  families  and  of  academic  so- 
ciety, George  Eliot  of  the  middle  and 
farmer  class,  Thomas  Hardy  of  the 
farmer  and  peasant  class,  Mr.  Howells  of 
the  typical  well-to-do  American  family. 
Bret  Harte,  on  the  other  hand,  drew  his 
material  from  every  class  and  condition 
—  from  the  widow  Hiler  to  Louise 
Macey,  from  Mrs.  McKinstry  to  Cherry 
Brooks;  but  women  did  not  usually  at- 
tract him  as  subjects  for  literature,  unless 
they  were  close  to  nature,  or  else  emanci- 
pated from  custom  and  tradition  by  some 
originality  of  mind  or  character. 

He  could  indeed  draw  fairly  well  the 
accomplished  woman  of  the  world,  such 
for  example  as  Amy  Forester  in  "  A  Night 
on  the  Divide,"  Jessie  Mayfield  in  "  Jeff 
Briggs'  Love  Story,"  Grace  Nevil  in  **  A 
Maecenas  of  the  Pacific  Slope,"  Mrs.  Ash- 
wood  in  "  A  First  Family  of  Tasajara," 
and  Mrs.  Horncastle  in  "  Three  Part- 
ners." But  these  women  do  not  bear  the 
stamp  of  Bret  Harte's  genius. 


304 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


His  army  and  navy  girls  are  better,  be- 
cause they  are  redeemed  from  common- 
placeness  by  their  patriotism.  Miss  Port- 
fire in  "The  Princess  Bob  and  Her 
Friends,"  and  Julia  Cantire  in  "  Dick 
Boyle's  Business  Card,"  represent  those 
American  families,  more  numerous  than 
might  be  supposed,  in  which  it  is  almost  an 
hereditary  custom  for  the  men  to  serve  in 
the  army  or  navy,  and  for  the  women  to 
become  the  wives  and  mothers  of  soldiers 
and  sailors.  In  such  families  patriotism 
is  a  constant  inspiration,  to  a  degree  sel- 
dom felt  except  by  those  who  represent 
their  country  at  home  or  abroad. 

Bret  Harte  was  patriotic,  as  many  of 
his  poems  and  stories  attest,  and  his  long 
residence  in  England  did  not  abate  his 
Americanism.  "Apostates"  was  his 
name  for  those  American  girls  who  marry 
titled  foreigners,  and  he  often  speaks  of 
the  susceptibility  of  American  women  to 
considerations  of  rank  and  position. 

In  "  A  Rose  of  Glenbogie,"  after  de- 
scribing the  male  guests  at  a  Scotch  coun- 
try house,  he  continues:  "There  were 
the  usual  half-dozen  sinartly-frocked  wo- 
men who,  far  from  being  the  females  of 
the  foregoing  species,  were  quite  indis- 
tinctive, with  the  single  exception  of  an 
American  wife,  who  was  infinitely  more 
Scotch  than  her  Scotch  husband."  And 
in  the  "  The  Heir  of  the  McHulisches  " 
the  American  consul  is  represented  as 
being  less  chagrined  by  the  bumptious- 
ness of  his  male  compatriots  than  by  "  the 
snobbishness  and  almost  servile  adapta- 
bility of  the  women.  Or  was  it  possible 
that  it  was  only  a  weakness  of  the  sex 
which  no  Republican  nativity  or  educa- 
tion could  eliminate  ?  "  What  Ameri- 
can has  not  asked  himself  this  same 
question! 

The  only  New  England  woman  of 
whom  Bret  Harte  has  made  an  elaborate 
study,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Thankful  Blossom,  is  that  very  bad  per- 
son; Joan,  in  "  The  Argonauts  of  North 
Liberty."  The  subject  had  almost  a  mor- 
bid fascination  for  him.  As  Hawthorne 
pointed  out  in  The  Scarlet  Letter,  the  man 


or  woman  whom  we  hate  becomes  an  ob- 
ject of  interest  to  us,  almost  as  much  as 
the  person  whom  we  love.  An  acute 
critic  declares  that  Thackeray's  wonder- 
ful insight  into  the  characters  and  feel- 
ings of  servants  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  had  a  kind  of  horror  of  them,  and  was 
morbidly  sensitive  to  their  criticisms  — 
the  more  keenly  felt  for  being  unspoken. 
So  Joan  represents  what  Bret  Harte  hat- 
ed more  than  anything  else  in  the  world, 
namely,  a  narrow,  censorious,  hypocrit- 
ical, cold-blooded  Puritanism.  Her  char- 
acter is  not  that  of  a  typical  New  England 
woman ;  its  counterpart  would  much  more 
easily  be  found  among  the  men;  but  it 
is  a  perfectly  consistent  character,  most 
accurately  worked  out.  Joan  combines  a 
prim,  provincial,  horsehair-sofa  respecta- 
bility with  a  lawless  and  sensual  nature, 
—  an  odd  combination,  and  yet  not  an 
impossible  one.  She  might  perhaps  be 
called  the  female  of  that  species  which 
Hawthorne  immortalized  under  the 
name  of  Judge  Pyncheon. 

Joan  is  a  puzzle  to  the  reader,  but  so 
she  was  to  those  who  knew  her.  Was  she 
a  conscious  hypocrite,  deliberately  play- 
ing a  false  part  in  the  world,  or  was  she  a 
monstrous  egotist,  one  in  whom  the  soul 
of  truth  had  so  died  out  that  she  thought 
herself  justified  in  everything  that  she  did, 
and  committed  the  worst  acts  from  what 
she  supposed  to  be  the  most  excusable 
motives?  Her  intimates  did  not  know. 
One  of  the  finest  strokes  in  the  story  is 
the  dawning  of  suspicion  upon  the  mind 
of  her  second  husband.  "  For  with  all 
his  deep  affection  for  his  wife,  Richard 
Demorest  unconsciously  feared  her.  The 
strong  man  whose  dominance  over  men 
and  women  alike  had  been  his  salient 
characteristic,  had  begun  to  feel  an  inde- 
finable sense  of  some  unrecognized  qual- 
ity in  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had 
once  or  twice  detected  it  in  a  tone  of  her 
voice,  in  a  remembered  and  perhaps  even 
once  idolized  gesture,  or  in  the  accidental 
lapse  of  some  bewildering  word." 

And  yet  it  would  be  unjust  to  say  that 
Bret  Harte  had  no  conception  of  the  bet- 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


305 


ter  type  of  New  England  women.  The 
schoolmistress  in  "The  Idyl  of  Red 
Gulch,"  one  of  the  earliest  and  one  of  the 
best  stories,  is  as  pure  and  heroic  a  maid- 
en, and  as  characteristic  of  the  soil,  as 
Hilda.  The  reader  will  remember  the  de- 
scription of  Miss  Mary  as  she  appeared 
playing  with  her  pupils  in  the  woods: 
"The  color  came  faintly  into  her  pale 
cheek  .  .  .  felinely  fastidious,  and  in- 
trenched as  she  was  in  the  purity  of  spot- 
less skirts,  collars  and  cuffs,  she  forgot  all 
else,  and  ran  like  a  crested  quail  at  the 
head  of  her  brood,  until  romping,  laugh- 
ing, and  panting,  with  a  loosened  braid  of 
brown  hair,  a  hat  hanging  by  a  knotted 
ribbon  from  her  throat,  she  came  "  — 
upon  Sandy,  the  unheroic  hero  of  the  tale. 

In  the  culminating  scene  of  this  story, 
the  interview  between  Miss  Mary  and 
the  mother  of  Sandy's  illegitimate  boy, 
when  the  teacher  consents  to  take  the 
child  with  her  to  her  home  in  the  East 
and  bring  him  up,  although  she  is  still 
under  the  shock  of  the  discovery  of 
Sandy's  relation  to  him,  —  in  this  scene 
the  schoolmistress  exhibits  true  New 
England  restraint,  and  a  beautiful  ab- 
sence of  heroics.  It  was  just  at  sunset. 
"  The  last  red  beam  crept  higher,  suf- 
fused Miss  Mary's  eyes  with  something 
of  its  glory,  flickered  and  faded  and  went 
out.  The  sun  had  set  on  Red  Gulch.  In 
the  twilight  and  silence  Miss  Mary's 
voice  sounded  pleasantly. '  I  will  take  the 
boy.  Send  him  to  me  to-night/  " 

One  can  hardly  help  speculating  about 
Bret  Harte's  personal  taste  and  prefer- 
ences in  regard  to  women.  Cressy  and 
the  Rose  of  Tuolumne  were  both  blondes ; 
and  yet  on  the  whole  he  certainly  pre- 
ferred brunettes.  Even  his  blue-eyed 
girls  usually  have  black  hair.  The  Trea- 
sure of  the  Redwoods  disclosed  from  the 
recesses  of  her  sunbonnet  "  a  pale  blue 
eye  and  a  thin  black  arch  of  eyebrow." 
One  associates  a  contralto  voice  with  a 
brunette,  and  Bret  Harte's  heroines,  so 
far  as  the  subject  is  mentioned,  have  con- 
tralto voices.  Not  one  is  spoken  of  as 
having  a  soprano  voice.  Even  the  slight 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


and  blue-eyed  Tinka  Gallinger  "  sang  in 
a  youthful,  rather  nasal  contralto." 

As  to  eyes,  he  seems  to  have  preferred 
them  gray  or  brown,  a  "tender  gray" 
and  a  "  reddish  brown."  Ailsa  Callen- 
der's  hair  was  "  dark  with  a  burnished 
copper  tint  at  its  roots,  and  her  eyes  had 
the  same  burnished  metallic  lustre  in 
their  brown  pupils."  Mrs.  MacGlowrie 
was  "  a  fair-faced  woman  with  eyes  the 
color  of  pale  sherry." 

A  small  foot  with  an  arched  instep  was 
a  sine  qua  non  with  Bret  Harte,  and  he 
speaks  particularly  of  the  small,  well-shod 
foot  of  the  southwestern  girl.  He  be- 
lieved in  breeding,  and  all  of  his  hero- 
ines were  well-bred,  —  not  well-bred  in 
the  conventional  sense,  but  in  the  sense 
of  coming  from  sound,  courageous,  self- 
respecting,  self-improving  stock.  With- 
in these  limits  his  range  of  heroines  is 
exceedingly  wide,  including  some  that  are 
often  excluded  from  that  category.  He  is 
rather  partial  to  widows,  for  example, 
and  always  looks  upon  their  innocent 
gayeties  with  an  indulgent  eye.  It  was 
thus  that  he  saw  the  widow  of  the  "San- 
ta Ana "  valley  as  she  appeared  at  the 
first  dancing  party  ever  held  in  that  re- 
gion: "The  widow  arrived,  looking  a  lit- 
tle slimmer  than  usual  in  her  closely  but- 
toned black  dress,  white  collar  and  cuffs, 
very  glistening  in  eye  and  in  hair,  and 
with  a  faint  coming  and  going  of  color." 

"The  Blue  Grass  Penelope,"  Dick 
Spindler's  hostess,  and  Mrs.  Ashwood,  in 
"A  First  Family  of  Tasajara,"  are  all 
charming  widows.  Can  a  woman  be  a 
widow  and  untidy  in  her  dress,  and  still 
retain  her  preeminence  as  heroine  ?  Yes, 
Bret  Harte's  genius  is  equal  even  to  that. 
"  Mrs.  MacGlowrie  was  looking  wearily 
over  some  accounts  on  the  desk  before 
her,  and  absently  putting  back  some 
tumbled  sheaves  from  the  shock  of  her 
heavy  hair.  For  the  widow  had  a  certain 
indolent  southern  negligence,  which  in  a 
less  pretty  woman  would  have  been  un- 
tidiness, and  a  characteristic  hook-and- 
eye-less  freedom  of  attire,  which  on  less 
graceful  limbs  would  have  been  slovenly. 


306 


Bret  Harte's  Heroines 


One  sleeve-cuff  was  unbuttoned,  but  it 
showed  the  vein  of  her  delicate  wrist;  the 
neck  of  her  dress  had  lost  a  hook,  but  the 
glimpse  of  a  bit  of  edging  round  the  white 
throat  made  amends.  Of  all  which,  how- 
ever, it  should  be  said  that  the  widow, 
in  her  limp  abstraction,  was  really  uncon- 
scious." 

Red-haired  women  have  been  so  popu- 
lar in  fiction  during  recent  years  that  it 
was  perhaps  no  great  feat  for  Bret  Harte 
in  the  "  Buckeye  Hollow  Inheritance  "  to 
make  a  heroine  out  of  a  red-haired  girl 
and  a  bad-tempered  one  too;  but  what 
other  romancer  has  ever  dared  to  repre- 
sent a  young  and  lovely  woman  as  "  hard 
of  hearing  " !  There  can  be  no  question 
that  the  youngest  Miss  Piper  was  not 
quite  normal  in  this  respect,  although, 
doubtless,  for  purposes  of  coquetry  and 
sarcasm,  she  magnified  the  defect.  In 
her  memorable  interview  with  the  clever 
young  grocery  clerk  (whom  she  after- 
ward married)  she  begins  by  failing  to 
hear  distinctly  the  title  of  the  book  which 
he  was  reading  when  she  entered  the 
store;  and  we  have  this  picture:  "Miss 
Delaware,  leaning  sideways  and  curling 
her  little  fingers  around  her  pink  ear, 
4  Did  you  say  the  first  principles  of  geo- 
logy or  politeness?  You  know  I  am 
so  deaf;  but  of  course  it  couldn't  be 
that/  " 

The  same  heroine  was  much  freckled, 
—  in  fact  her  freckles  were  a  part  of  that 
charm  which  suddenly  overcame  the 
bashful  suitor  of  Virginia  Piper,  whom 
Delaware  was  endeavoring  to  assist  in 
his  courtship.  "Speak  louder,  or  come 
closer,"  she  said.  He  came  closer,  so 
close  in  fact  that  "  her  soft  satin  cheek, 
peppered  and  salted  as  it  was  by  sun 
freckles  and  mountain  air,"  proved  irre- 
sistible; and  thereupon,  abruptly  aban- 
doning his  suit  to  the  oldest,  he  kissed  the 
youngest  Miss  Piper  —  and  received  a 
sound  box  on  the  ear  for  his  temerity  and 
fickleness.  Freckles  become  positive  en- 
hancements of  beauty  under  Bret  Harte's 
sympathetic  touch.  Julia  Porter's  face 
"  appeared  whiter  at  the  angles  of  the 


inouth  and  nose  through  the  relief  of  tiny 
freckles  like  grains  of  pepper." 

Bret  Harte  bestowed  great  care  upon 
the  details  of  the  human  face  and  figure. 
There  are  subtleties  of  coloring,  for  ex- 
ample, that  have  escaped  almost  every- 
body else.  Who  but  Bret  Harte  has  real- 
ly described  the  light  which  love  kindles 
upon  the  face  of  a  woman?  "Yerba 
Buena's  strangely  delicate  complexion 
had  taken  on  itself  that  faint  Alpine  glow 
that  was  more  of  an  illumination  than  a 
color."  And  so  of  Cressy,  as  the  School- 
master saw  her  at  the  dance.  "  She  was 
pale,  he  had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful. 
.  .  .  The  absence  of  color  in  her  usually 
fresh  face  had  been  replaced  by  a  faint 
magnetic  aurora  that  seemed  to  him  half 
spiritual.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
her;  he  could  not  believe  what  he  saw." 

The  forehead,  the  temples,  and  more 
especially  the  eyebrows  of  his  heroines  — 
these  and  the  part  which  they  play  in  the 
expression  of  emotion  —  are  described 
by  Bret  Harte  with  a  particularity  which 
cannot  be  found  elsewhere.  To  cite  a  few 
out  of  many  examples :  Susy  showed  "  a 
pretty  distress  in  her  violet  eyes  and  curv- 
ing eyebrows;  "  and  the  eyebrows  of  the 
princess  "  contracted  prettily  in  an  effort 
to  understand."  Kate  Howard  "  was 
silent  for  a  minute,  with  her  arched  black 
brows  knitted ; "  and  of  the  unfortunate 
Concepcion  de  Aguello  it  is  written :  — 

The    small    mouth    quivered,   as    for    some 

denied  caress, 

And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in  an 
infantile  distress. 

Even  the  eyelashes  of  Bret  Harte's 
heroines  are  carefully  painted  in  the  pic- 
ture. Flora  Dimwood  "  cast  a  sidelong 
glance  "  at  the  hero,  "  under  her  widely- 
spaced  heavy  lasjhes."  The  eyes  and  eye- 
lashes of  that  irrepressible  child,  Sarah 
Walker,  are  thus  minutely  and  pathet- 
ically described :  "  Her  eyes  were  of  a 
dark  shade  of  burnished  copper,  —  the 
orbits  appearing  deeper  and  larger  from 
the  rubbing  in  of  habitual  tears  from  long 
wet  lashes." 

Bret  Harte  has  the  rare  faculty  of  mak- 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


307 


ing  even  a  tearful  woman  attractive.  The 
Ward  of  the  Golden  Gate  "  drew  back 
a  step,  lifted  her  head  with  a  quick  toss 
that  seemed  to  condense  the  moisture  in 
her  shining  eyes,  and  sent  what  might 
have  been  a  glittering  dewdrop  flying 
into  the  loosened  tendrils  of  her  hair." 
The  quick-tempered  heroine  is  seen 
"  hurriedly  disentangling  two  stinging 
tears  from  her  long  lashes; "  and  even  the 
mannish  girl,  Julia  Porter,  becomes 
femininely  deliquescent  as  she  leans  back 
in  the  dark  stage  coach,  with  the  romantic 
Cass  Beard  gazing  at  her  from  his  invisi- 
ble corner.  "  How  much  softer  her  face 


looked  in  the  moonlight!  —  How  moist 
her  eyes  were  — •  actually  shining  in  the 
light !  How  that  light  seemed  to  concen- 
trate in  the  corner  of  the  lashes,  and  then 
slipped  —  flash  —  away !  Was  she  ?  Yes, 
she  was  crying." 

One  might  go  on  indefinitely,  quoting 
from  Bret  Harte's  vivid  and  always  brief 
descriptions  of  feminine  feature  and  as- 
pect; but  doubtless  the  reader  has  not 
forgotten  them,  and  I  can  only  hope  that 
he  will  not  regret  to  have  looked  once 
more  upon  these  familiar  portraits  paint- 
ed in  brilliant,  and,  as  we  believe,  unfad- 
ing colors. 


THE  REGULATION  OF  THE  STOCK  EXCHANGE 

BY   CHARLES   A.    CONANT 


SHALL  American  stock  exchanges  be 
put  under  government  regulation  and 
control  ? 

This  is  a  question  which  began  to  be 
discussed  after  the  panic  of  last  autumn ; 
and  the  discussion  has  been  stimulated 
by  several  recent  failures,  in  which  the 
**  bucketing  "  of  orders  and  cool  appro- 
priation of  customers'  securities  seem  to 
have  been  everyday  occurrences.  Finan- 
cial disaster,  as  on  previous  similar  occa- 
sions, has  involved  a  train  of  losses,  im- 
poverishment, and  suicides,  for  which  the 
blame  has  been  cast  by  many  upon  the 
organization  of  the  stock  exchange,  and 
often  upon  the  entire  system  of  selling 
securities  on  margin  and  selling  products 
for  future  delivery.  And,  as  measures  for 
issuing  "  more  money  "  usually  appear 
in  Congress  in  times  of  stress,  there  has 
appeared  the  usual  crop  of  measures  for 
taxing  or  hampering  transactions  on  the 
exchanges. 

The  question  dealt  with  in  this  article 
is,  how  far  government  regulation  of  the 
exchanges  is  justifiable  or  practicable. 
It  is  not  the  purpose  to  set  forth  fully  here 


the  arguments  in  favor  of  organized  mar- 
kets like  the  stock  and  produce  ex- 
changes. This  I  have  done  in  several 
other  places.1  Briefly  stated,  the  stock 
and  produce  exchanges  form  a  part  of  the 
mechanism  of  modern  industry  which  is 
absolutely  essential  to  its  efficient  opera- 
tion. The  purchase  and  sale  of  products 
for  future  delivery  is  a  form  of  insurance 
against  fluctuations,  without  which  the 
miller  or  cotton  manufacturer  would  be 
exposed  to  all  the  uncertainties  of  the 
market,  and  being  unable  to  know  in  ad- 
vance the  cost  of  his  raw  material,  would 
be  obliged  to  protect  himself  by  charging 
a  wider  margin  of  profit  upon  his  finished 
goods. 

The  stock  market  represents  the  pub- 
lic register  of  values,  where  the  owner  of  a 
share  in  a  joint-stock  enterprise  can  de- 
termine its  value  in  the  average  opinion 
of  all  men  interested  in  the  same  secu- 
rity. It  affords  a  wide  and  convenient 
market,  in  which  he  may  transform  his 
security  at  need  into  cash  at  the  price 

1  Vide  the  author's  Principles  of  Banking, 
pp.  322-356. 


308 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


which  is  indicated  by  the  public  quota- 
tions. The  existence  of  a  stock  market, 
where  large  amounts  of  securities  are 
dealt  in,  is  also  a  safeguard  to  the  money 
market,  by  permitting  securities  to  be 
sent  abroad  in  many  cases  in  lieu  of  gold. 
This  is  accomplished  by  a  slight  lower- 
ing of  the  price  of  securities,  often  with- 
out disturbance  to  the  market  for  mer- 
chandise, which  would  otherwise  have  to 
bear  the  entire  shock  of  changes  in  in- 
terest rates  and  the  demand  for  money. 
Against  such  disturbing  influences  the 
stock  market  acts  as  a  buffer,  lessening 
the  shock  of  movements  which  would 
otherwise  seriously  affect  ordinary  com- 
mercial operations. 

The  bare  fact  that  the  stock  market 
exists  is  in  itself  prima  facie  evidence  of 
its  importance  to  the  organization  of 
modern  finance.  When  it  is  considered 
that  the  total  wealth  of  the  United  States, 
amounting  to  $107,000,000,000,  is  repre- 
sented to  the  amount  of  nearly  one-third, 
or  $35,000,000,000,  by  negotiable  securi- 
ties, it  indicates  that  these  securities  and 
the  markets  on  which  they  are  bought 
and  sold  have  become  a  factor  of  first 
importance  in  economic  life.  It  is  not 
proposed  here,  therefore,  to  discuss  at 
greater  length  the  reason  for  being  of  or- 
ganized markets.  It  is  proposed  rather  to 
discuss  the  question  whether  the  com- 
plete freedom  which  has  prevailed  here- 
tofore in  such  markets  in  this  country 
shall  be  subjected  in  the  future  to  some 
degree  of  restriction  or  regulation. 

Recent  events  have  brought  this  pro- 
blem home,  —  not  merely  to  the  general 
public  who  stand  aloof  from  stock  specu- 
lation or  question  its  wisdom,  but  to  the 
intelligent  speculator  and  investor,  who 
desire  that  their  operations  shall  be  con- 
ducted at  least  under  the  same  rules  of 
honesty  and  fair  play  which  govern  oper- 
ations in  other  markets.  The  New  York 
stock  market,  as  well  as  similar  markets 
throughout  the  country,  has  heretofore 
set  a  high  standard  of  honor,  which  has 
justified  its  members  in  the  boast  that 
many  millions  of  dollars  of  profits  or 


losses  were  accepted  daily  by  mere  word 
of  mouth.  Several  recent  instances  have 
shown,  however,  that  even  where  such 
standards  prevail,  there  are  individual 
lapses  which  it  has  not  been  in  the  power 
of  the  brokers  as  a  body,  under  their 
present  rules  of  practice,  to  prevent. 

Among  the  notable  specific  breaches 
of  good  faith  of  this  kind  have  been  the 
failures  of  two  brokers  who  deliberately 
appropriated  the  securities  of  their  cus- 
tomers, using  them  to  obtain  money  to 
bolster  up  their  own  speculations.  In  one 
case,  where  securities  were  left  with  the 
broker  simply  for  the  purpose  of  trans- 
fer to  a  different  owner,  without  being 
bought  or  sold  under  the  broker's  direc- 
tion, these  securities  were  hypothecated 
for  a  loan  by  the  broker,  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  employ  for  his  own  purposes. 
For  all  practical  purposes,  such  a  use  of 
securities  constitutes  larceny.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  the  secretary  of  the  New 
York  Stock  Exchange  and  individual 
brokers  promptly  proceeded  to  disavow 
a  suggestion  that  such  appropriation  of 
customers'  securities  was  a  common  prac- 
tice. The  weakness  of  the  situation  lies 
in  the  fact  that,  even  if  such  disavowals 
are  true,  there  is  no  way  of  determining 
whether  a  crime  of  this  sort  is  being  com- 
mitted until  after  the  fact.  The  specu- 
lator and  investor  —  even  the  investor  in 
bonds,  paying  for  them  in  full,  who  has 
no  wish  or  intention  to  engage  in  margin- 
al speculations  —  is  at  the  mercy  of  the 
good  faith  of  his  broker,  and  that  good 
faith  depends  upon  the  broker's  general 
reputation,  and  not  upon  any  ascertained 
public  facts,  as  in  the  case  of  bank  reports 
and  insurance  examinations. 

This  larceny  of  securities  is,  of  course, 
only  one  of  many  incidents  which  have 
drawn  attention  to  the  present  legal  status 
of  the  stock  market.  Among  other  points 
may  be  mentioned  the  absence  of  any  law 
or  well-established  principle  by  which 
brokers  are  prohibited  from  being  also 
speculators.  The  more  conservative 
houses  usually  assure  their  clients  that 
their  articles  of  partnership  agreement 


The  Regulation  of  ihe  Stock  Exchange 


309 


prohibit  speculation;  but  here  again  the 
question  depends  upon  the  personal  char- 
acter of  individuals,  subject  to  no  check 
except  their  general  reputation.  And 
where  speculation  does  take  place  on  the 
part  of  brokers,  the  temptation  becomes 
strong,  when  money  is  suddenly  needed 
to  pay  a  loan  which  has  been  called  to 
cover  a  loss,  to  borrow  from  the  conven- 
ient reservoir  of  customers'  securities. 

The  day  seems  to  have  come  for  con- 
sideration of  the  question  whether  the 
present  organization  of  the  stock  ex- 
changes is  such  as  to  insure  public  con- 
fidence, fair  play,  and  absolute  security  to 
honest  clients,  or  whether  some  degree  of 
intervention  by  the  government  to  secure 
these  results  is  required.  Speculation  is 
legitimate,  and  will  go  on  increasing  in 
volume  with  the  growth  in  the  wealth  of 
the  country  and  in  the  quantity  of  nego- 
tiable securities.  To  interfere  with  it 
without  warrant  is  to  tie  a  ball  and  chain 
to  the  limbs  of  national  economic  pro- 
gress. But  more  and  more,  with  the 
growing  complication  of  the  mechanism 
of  finance,  is  growing  up  a  sentiment  for 
such  supervision  of  this  mechanism  as 
shall  insure  its  safe  and  honest  working. 
From  the  smoke  and  dust  of  battle  be- 
tween vested  interests  seeking  economic 
freedom,  and  the  state  seeking  to  protect 
the  individual  against  errors  of  judg- 
ment and  false  statements,  emerges  the 
principle  so  well  stated  by  the  eminent 
capitalist,  Thomas  F.  Ryan,  in  an  article 
in  the  Independent,  that  "It  is  right  that 
competition  between  men  should  be 
brought  within  constantly  narrower  and 
narrower  rules  of  justice.'* 

Four  points  may  be  named  in  which 
improvement  might  be  possible  in  the 
present  organization  of  the  exchanges :  — 

(1)  Definite  assurance  of  absolute  hon- 
esty and  solvency  on  the  part  of  brokers. 

(2)  The  enforcement  of  rules  on  the 
exchanges  which  will  shut  out  securities 
having  any  taint  of  fraud. 

(3)  The  exclusion  from  speculation  of 
persons  of  small  means,  who  are  not  qual- 
ified either  by  their  resources  or  by  their 


knowledge  of  the  subject  to  take  specula- 
tive risks. 

(4)  The  checking  of  improper  manipu- 
lation by  matched  orders  and  similar  de- 
vices for  misleading  the  public. 

Probably  the  wisdom  of  nearly  all  of 
these  prohibitions  would  be  admitted  in 
the  abstract  by  the  candid  broker  or 
speculator,  with  perhaps  some  trifling 
qualifications. 

Absolute  honesty  and  solvency  on  the 
part  of  brokers  are  requirements  which 
no  one  can  oppose.  If  there  is  division  of 
opinion,  it  must  be  over  the  means  of  at- 
taining this  object.  In  this  country,  as 
has  been  stated,  there  is  substantially  no 
test  and  no  safeguard,  except  the  ability 
of  the  broker  to  buy  his  seat  on  the  ex- 
change, and  his  general  reputation.  That 
he  shall  have  a  good  reputation  is,  to  be 
sure,  one  of  the  requirements  of  the  com- 
mittee which  passes  upon  the  admission 
of  members  of  the  exchange.  Persons 
guilty  of  fraudulent  practices,  financial 
blackmail,  and  grossly  false  representa- 
tions, have  been  refused  admission  to  the 
exchange,  and  when  found  guilty  of  such 
practices  after  admission,  have  been  ex- 
pelled and  suspended.  But  these  penal- 
ties usually  come  after  the  fact.  Whether 
there  should  be  some  further  tightening  of 
the  lines,  some  further  elevation  of  the 
standard,  is  a  question  of  degree,  which 
is  involved  with  some  other  questions  af- 
fecting the  capacity  of  the  stock  exchange 
to  establish  sound  rules  and  impartially 
enforce  them. 

In  Europe  solvency  is  insured  in  many 
cases  by  the  liability  of  the  entire  body  of 
brokers  for  one  another.  This  involves  the 
weight  of  personal  self-interest  against 
the  admission  of  any  candidate  who  is 
not  financially  sound,  or  is  of  wobbly  fi- 
nancial morality.  In  France,  where  there 
are  only  seventy  official  brokers,  the  en- 
tire body  is  bound  by  law  to  make  good 
the  obligations  of  individual  members. 

Absolute  honesty  on  the  part  of  mem- 
bers of  American  stock  exchanges  is  of 
paramount  importance  to  the  public,  be- 
cause membership  in  an  exchange  is  the 


310 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


one  safeguard  which  the  American  in- 
vestor has.  It  is  easy  to  warn  him  against 
the  alluring  offers  and  showy  offices  of 
bucket-shop  swindlers,  by  advising  him 
to  find  out  if  the  parties  he  deals  with 
are  members  of  a  stock  exchange.  But 
if  stock-exchange  members  themselves 
"  bucket "  their  orders,  then  their  clients 
are  subject  to  the  same  risks  as  in  dealing 
with  bucket-shops.  The  broker  has  the 
same  motive  for  wishing  his  clients  ill 
luck,  he  takes  the  same  risks  with  his 
own  money,  and  he  is  under  the  same 
temptation  to  sequestrate  his  clients' 
money.  A  system  which  permits  this  to 
be  done,  even  sporadically,  by  men  who 
have  been  given  the  official  stamp  of 
a  stock-exchange  committee,  calls  for 
amendment.  There  is  no  visible  differ- 
ence to  the  outsider  between  the  respon- 
sible and  honest  broker,  and  the  irre- 
sponsible and  dishonest,  if  both  can  ply 
their  trade  without  interference  on  the 
regular  exchanges.  Only  the  man  famil- 
iar with  the  inner  gossip  of  Wall  Street 
will  know  whom  to  trust,  and  he  will 
hesitate  to  back  his  opinion  by  positive 
advice  to  his  friends. 

Discrimination  by  the  exchanges  as  to 
the  character  of  the  securities  admitted 
to  quotation  involves  many  nice  ques- 
tions, but  probably  calls  for  a  little  more 
rigidity  than  has  heretofore  been  exer- 
cised. It  has  long  been  the  honorable 
practice  of  the  exchange  to  exclude  from 
its  lists  securities  which  were  obviously 
fraudulent,  or  which  were  put  afloat  by 
people  of  little  financial  responsibility.  It 
has  been  a  subject  of  criticism,  however, 
that  some  of  the  devious  projects  of  high 
finance,  when  supported  by  stronger 
names  and  larger  capital,  have  not  al- 
ways been  scrutinized  with  the  care  which 
would  indicate  determination  to  protect 
the  public  against  all  forms  of  deception. 

The  problem  of  discriminating  be- 
tween securities  is  a  difficult  one,  because 
all  judgment  is  finite.  What  might  ap- 
pear to  be  a  good  security  to-day  may 
prove  to  be  a  very  poor  one  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  events.  The  narrowing  of  the  list 


of  undesirable  securities  offered  to  the 
public  can  be  secured  only  by  requiring 
more  complete  information  from  corpor- 
ations desiring  their  securities  listed.  Of 
course,  no  system  or  regulation  would  be 
justified  which  limited  securities  dealt  in 
on  the  exchanges  to  those  which  were  of 
a  purely  investment  character.  Specula- 
tion is  the  anticipation  of  the  future.  The 
far-sighted  capitalist  who  presents  an 
enterprise  promising  great  benefits  to  the 
community,  if  successful,  has  the  right  to 
find  a  market  for  his  securities  among 
that  portion  of  the  public  which  is  will- 
ing to  take  a  certain  risk  for  the  sake  of  a 
large  profit.  If  such  securities  were  ex- 
cluded entirely  from  the  regular  stock 
exchange,  they  would  be  dealt  in  under 
fewer  restrictions  and  fewer  pledges  of 
honest  dealing  on  the  curb,  or  elsewhere 
outside  of  the  exchanges.  This  is  one  of 
the  difficulties  which  have  been  encoun- 
tered in  France,  Germany,  and  England, 
in  seeking  to  introduce  greater  conserva- 
tism into  operations  on  the  regular  ex- 
changes. The  poorer  types  of  securities, 
highly  speculative  or  largely  fraudulent, 
have  found  a  market  where  not  even  the 
rules  of  honesty,  fair  play,  and  rigid 
fulfillment  of  contracts  have  prevailed, 
which  prevail  among  brokers  on  the 
regular  exchanges. 

The  one  requirement  which  it  is  in  the 
power  of  the  regular  exchanges  to  en- 
force upon  new  or  speculative  enterprises 
is  reasonable  publicity.  That  such  enter- 
prises have  great  future  possibilities  is  no 
reason  for  concealing  their  balance-sheets. 
Enterprises  which  are  so  much  in  em- 
bryo that  they  should  appeal  only  to  rich 
men  with  money  to  lose  have  no  place  on 
the  exchanges,  even  in  the  more  specula- 
tive classes  of  securities.  It  is  fair  to  say 
that  they  seldom  find  a  place  there,  even 
under  present  practice.  An  enterprise 
which  has  assumed  the  stock-company 
form  is  offered  to  the  public  either  be- 
cause its  promoters  need  capital  for  legit- 
imate development,  or  because  they  de- 
sire to  unload  something  of  doubtful 
value  on  the  public.  Their  willingness 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


311 


to  tell  the  public  the  truth  should  be  in 
some  degree  a  gauge  of  this,  and  a  stock- 
exchange  committee  should  have  the 
moral  courage  and  the  discrimination  to 
enforce  such  a  test. 

The  restriction  of  speculation  to  those 
who  are  competent  to  carry  it  on  is  one  of 
the  most  important  objects  to  be  sought, 
if  any  regulation  is  admitted,  but  is  also 
one  of  the  most  difficult  objects  to  attain. 
Under  the  recent  modifications  of  the 
German  Boerse  law,  only  those  of  suffi- 
cient financial  standing  to  justify  their 
entering  the  speculative  markets  are  al- 
lowed to  do  so.  They  are  taken  from  the 
commercial  register  of  business  houses. 
This  includes  practically  the  whole  mer- 
cantile class;  but  to  engage  in  marginal 
speculation  is  prohibited  to  hand-workers 
and  those  conducting  small  shops,  even 
where  the  latter  are  in  the  commercial  re- 
gister. It  is  doubtful  if  this  frank  distinc- 
tion between  classes  would  be  admissible 
in  this  country;  but  other  means  may  be 
found  of  reaching  the  object  sought.  It 
would  certainly  be  proper  to  provide  that 
a  clerk  occupying  a  fiduciary  position 
should  be  allowed  to  buy  and  sell  on  mar- 
gin only  with  the  written  consent  of  his 
employers,  and  that  any  broker  disre- 
garding this  requirement  should  be  liable 
to  expulsion  from  the  exchange. 

The  checking  of  undue  manipulation 
is  a  highly  desirable  object,  but  is  not 
perhaps  so  important  as  many  persons 
imagine.  Within  certain  limits,  it  might 
even  be  contended  that  manipulation  is 
justifiable.  If  a  financier  or  promoter  has 
a  new  security  which  he  believes  repre- 
sents high  value,  he  does  not  like  to  sit 
with  folded  hands  waiting  for  the  public 
to  discover  its  value.  To  a  certain  extent 
the  measures  which  he  may  take  to  at- 
tract attention  to  the  security  are  in  the 
nature  of  advertising.  Large  selling  or- 
ders, matched  by  large  buying  orders,  at 
a  graded  scale  of  ascending  prices,  bring 
the  stock  to  public  attention  and  make  it 
talked  about.  If  this  was  the  sole  object 
of  manipulation,  and  it  was  applied  only 
to  stocks  whose  real  value  needed  only  to 


be  made  known  to  attract  purchasers, 
then  even  the  rule  of  the  stock  exchange 
against  matched  orders  would  hardly 
need  to  be  invoked  for  the  protection  of 
the  public.  But  in  fact,  as  every  one 
knows,  manipulation  is  often  for  the  pur- 
pose of  "  unloading  "  securities  of  doubt- 
ful value  and  permitting  the  seller  to 
pocket  the  proceeds  of  sales  "  at  the  top," 
and  to  buy  back  again  at  the  price  to 
which  the  stock  descends  after  he  has 
completed  the  process.  Such  manipula- 
tion is  already  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the 
exchange,  but  is  difficult  to  prove.  The 
broker  who  has  a  selling  order  is  not  usu- 
ally the  same  as  the  one  who  has  a  buying 
order,  and  only  rigid  inquiry  by  a  stock- 
exchange  committee,  where  manipulation 
was  apparent  or  suspected,  would  ascer- 
tain the  facts.  There  is  no  doubt,  how- 
ever, that  if  the  stock  exchange  should 
empower  its  committee  to  take  strong 
action  in  a  few  such  cases,  and  the  com- 
mittee should  assert  its  powers,  a  moral 
sentiment  would  be  exercised  against 
manipulation,  which  would  be  almost  as 
complete  as  the  influence  which  now 
obliges  a  broker  or  a  client  to  acknow- 
ledge and  execute  contracts  over  the  tele- 
phone, even  though  they  result  in  heavy 
losses. 

Air  these  evils  are  capable  of  some  de- 
gree of  alleviation  through  the  independ- 
ent action  of  the  stock  exchanges  them- 
selves. If  they  do  not  take  such  action 
to  a  degree  which  meets  the  requirements 
of  public  opinion,  the  question  will  then 
arise  whether  and  how  far  the  govern- 
ment shall  intervene,.  In  all  other  coun- 
tries where  important  exchanges  exist, 
except  in  England,  the  government  does 
intervene  with  a  heavy  hand.  In  France 
the  regular  brokers  have  almost  the  char- 
acter of  government  officials  acting  as  re- 
gisters of  transactions,  rather  than  inde- 
pendent men  of  finance.  In  Germany  an 
effort  was  made  by  the  law  of  1896  to 
stifle  speculation  almost  entirely.  This 
end  was  sought  by  prohibiting  short 
sales;  by  requiring  the  registry  of  per- 
sons engaged  in  speculation,  upon  which 


312 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


it  was  expected  that  clerks,  those  with 
fiduciary  relations,  and  persons  of  small 
means,  would  not  dare  appear;  and  by 
permitting  those  registered  to  escape  lia- 
bility for  losses  by  pleading  the  privilege 
of  the  gambler.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
these  regulations  imposed  severe  restric- 
tions upon  the  German  money  market, 
had  a  share  in  crippling  the  Imperial 
Bank,  and  drove  speculation  into  more 
hazardous  channels.  They  have  finally 
been  materially  modified  by  a  law  of 
April  9,  1908.  It  is  one  of  the  gravest 
dangers  of  seeking  legislation  on  the  sub- 
ject that  it  will  be  unenlightened  and  will 
go  to  the  injurious  extremes  of  the  Ger- 
man law. 

If  government  regulation  were  to  be 
established  in  the  United  States,  it  would 
be  advisable  that  it  should  be  under  fed- 
eral law  rather  than  state  law,  in  order 
not  to  handicap  the  operations  of  one  ex- 
change in  competition  with  those  of  an- 
other. It  might  seem  at  first  blush  that 
no  power  lay  in  the  federal  government 
to  interfere  with  operations  conducted  on 
a  single  exchange,  within  the  limits  of  a 
state.  A  mighty  weapon  was  forged,  how- 
ever, when  it  was  desired  to  stamp  out 
the  circulation  of  the  state  banks  during 
the  Civil  War.  This  was  the  weapon  of 
discriminating  taxation.  If  the  federal 
government  seriously  desired  to  regulate 
operations  on  the  stock  exchanges,  it 
would  probably  be  compelled  to  find  a 
way  by  imposing  a  merely  nominal  tax  on 
the  transfer  of  those  securities  which  con- 
formed to  certain  requirements,  and  im- 
posing a  heavy  tax  upon  those  which 
failed  to  conform  to  these  requirements. 
In  this  little  kernel  of  regulation  by  taxa- 
tion might  be  found  perhaps  the  meat  of 
complete  federal  control  of  corporations. 
Those  which  conformed  to  certain  speci- 
fied requirements  in  the  publication  of 
balance-sheets,  the  examination  of  their 
assets  by  federal  officials,  and  the  keeping 
of  adequate  reserves  and  depreciation 
accounts,  might  be  subjected  to  only  a 
nominal  tax,  while  those  which  failed  to 
comply  with  such  requirements  would 


find  the  transfer  of  securities  to  the  pub- 
lic handicapped  by  heavy  charges. 

The  broker  as  well  as  the  securities  he 
dealt  in  could  be  reached  directly  by  the 
power  of  taxation.  A  heavy  license  could 
be  exacted  from  those  brokers  who  re- 
served the  privilege  of  speculating  on  their 
own  account,  while  taking  orders  from 
others,  while  a  much  lighter  fee  could  be 
collected  from  those  who  acknowledged 
the  propriety  of  separating  the  two  func- 
tions of  broker  and  speculator  by  limit- 
ing themselves  to  taking  outside  orders, 
or  refusing  outside  orders  that  they  might 
speculate.  The  broker,  in  accepting  mon- 
ey from  clients  under  the  usual  implica- 
tions of  honesty  and  solvency,  would  be 
very  properly  a  subject  of  official  regula- 
tion, because  he  occupies  toward  his 
client  a  similar  fiduciary  relation  to  that 
of  the  banker.  Foreign  banking  corpor- 
ations are  forbidden  to  accept  deposits  in 
New  York;  but  brokers,  foreign  or  do- 
mestic, may  accept  them  without  limit, 
with  no  other  responsibility  to  their  cli- 
ents than  the  bankruptcy  courts  or  the 
suicide's  pistol. 

In  order  to  ascertain  whether  the  law 
taxing  certain  securities  was  being  rigidly 
complied  with,  the  power  could  be  exer- 
cised, which  has  been  often  asserted  be- 
fore, of  rigid  inspection  of  the  books  of 
brokers.  Such  inspection  would  reveal 
whether  the  broker  was  conforming  to 
the  requirements  that  he  should  not  hy- 
pothecate or  appropriate  the  securities  of 
customers,  that  he  should  not  indulge  in 
speculation  on  his  own  account  with 
customers'  money,  and  that  he  should 
keep  adequate  margins  against  his  risks. 
Under  cover  of  the  power  of  federal  taxa- 
tion, there  is  apparently  no  limit  to  the 
degree  of  supervision  which  could  be 
exercised.  Most  of  the  securities  dealt  in 
are  those  which  are  subjects  of  interstate 
commerce,  and  which  represent  indus- 
tries themselves  engaged  in  interstate 
commerce ;  but  it  would  not  be  necessary 
to  invoke  "the  commerce  clause"  of  the 
constitution  .to  find  ample  authority  for 
government  intervention  for  the  regula- 


The  Regulation  of  the  Stock  Exchange 


313 


tion  of  the  stock  market.  In  transactions 
in  wheat  or  cotton  futures,  government 
intervention  would  be  less  necessary  in 
some  respects,  but  might  be  availed  of 
to  insure  honesty  in  the  execution  of 
contracts,  the  maintenance  of  adequate 
margins,  and  the  exclusion  from  trading 
of  those  not  qualified  by  resources  or 
character  to  engage  in  it. 

The  requirement  that  brokers  shall 
exact  larger  margins  on  speculative  ac- 
counts is  a  safeguard  which  has  been  sug- 
gested by  Professor  Henry  C.  Emery  and 
others,  and  would  fall  well  within  the 
scope  of  legislation.  The  broker  is  in  a 
sense  a  trustee  for  his  clients  in  the  same 
manner  as  a  bank  for  its  depositors.  He 
has  no  more  right  than  the  bank,  in  lend- 
ing on  securities,  to  lend  more  than  the 
securities  are  worth,  or  so  large  a  propor- 
tion of  their  worth  that  shrinkage  may 
involve  losses  on  some  accounts  which 
would  have  to  be  borne,  in  case  of  failure, 
by  other  accounts.  In  so  far,  therefore, 
as  the  broker  is  a  trustee  for  the  money  of 
others,  he  might  justly  be  required  to 
enforce  upon  his  clients  the  same  rule 
which  is  enforced  against  him  at  the 
bank,  —  that  there  shall  be  a  margin  of 
twenty-five  per  cent  between  the  present 
value  of  the  securities  deposited  and  the 
amount  loaned  upon  them. 

That  some  steps  towards  the  regula- 
tion of  the  exchanges  by  the  government 
will  be  undertaken  in  the  future  is  to  be 
expected,  unless  the  brokers  themselves 
show  their  willingness  and  their  capacity 
to  protect  the  public  as  well  as  could  be 
done  by  drastic  government  regulation. 
Such  control  from  within  is  practically  ex- 
ercised on  the  London  Stock  Exchange, 
where  complaints  are  rare  of  undue  ma- 
nipulation, and  where  the  irresponsible 
small  speculator  seldom  finds  a  welcome. 
The  organization  of  the  London  Ex- 
change, by  requiring  only  fortnightly  set- 
tlements for  cash,  instead  of  daily  settle- 
ments, imposes  more  discrimination  upon 
the  broker  for  his  own  protection.  He 
cannot  afford  to  take  an  order  from  a  per- 
son who  is  irresponsible,  which  may  show 


a  heavy  loss  before  the  rule  of  the  fort- 
nightly settlement  justifies  him  in  calling 
for  cash.  If  every  brokerage  office  in 
New  York  was  governed  by  a  similar 
principle,  —  if  no  account  should  be  ac- 
cepted except  from  a  person  of  known 
responsibility  and  adequate  financial  re- 
sources, —  then  the  suicides  of  small  cus- 
tomers, the  defalcations  of  bank  clerks, 
and  the  ruin  of  farmers  and  shopkeepers 
far  removed  from  New  York  would  be 
reduced  to  a  minimum. 

If  the  brokers,  therefore,  wish  to  avoid 
regulation  by  the  state,  it  lies  with  them 
to  reform  their  organization  from  within. 
The  banks  could  aid  greatly  in  the  work 
if  they  would  cooperate  in  limiting  specu- 
lative loans.  There  is  hardly  a  greater 
menace  to  the  security  of  the  New  York 
money  market  than  the  vaunted  fact  that 
it  is  the  only  strictly  "  call  money  mar- 
ket "  in  the  world.  No  bank  paying  de- 
posits on  demand  has  a  right  to  invest 
nearly  its  entire  assets  in  loans  on  securi- 
ties representing  fixed  capital.  The  indi- 
vidual institution  may  protect  itself  by 
the  drastic  sacrifice  of  securities  when  it 
needs  cash,  but  it  does  so  only  at  the  ex- 
pense of  its  clients  and  with  a  disturbance 
to  the  money  market  and  the  market  for 
securities  which  is  abnormal  and  excess- 
ive. The  Monetary  Commission  recent- 
ly appointed  by  Congress  will  not  fulfill 
its  whole  duty  unless  it  considers  the  rela- 
tion of  the  money  market  to  the  great 
mass  of  unliquid  assets  which  is  piled  up 
by  trust  companies  and  state  banks  upon 
reserves  containing  practically  no  gold, 
and  often  consisting  of  bank  notes,  repre- 
senting only  a  form  of  credit  instead  of  a 
means  of  payment. 

The  problem  of  the  regulation  of  the 
exchanges  is  a  difficult  one,  and  there  is 
danger  that  if  its  solution  is  sought  by 
law,  the  law-makers  will  take  the  bit  in 
their  teeth  and  go  too  far.  Just  this  was 
done  with  the  proposals  submitted  by  the 
German  Commission,  which  became  the 
basis  of  the  drastic  legislation  of  1896.  If 
the  financial  interests  of  New  York  desire 
to  present  the  magnificent  spectacle  to 


314  A  Beckoning  at  Sunset 

the  public  and  to  the  world,  therefore,  of  play   of  those  principles   of  economics 

adopting  by  their  own  voluntary  act  such  which  lie  at  the  basis  of  the  wealth  and 

a  system  for  the  sound  regulation  of  stock  prosperity  of  the  country.    The   action 

exchange  operations  as  has  been  extend-  taken  by  the  governors  of  the  New  York 

ed  by  the  Clearing  House  committee  to  Stock   Exchange  in  some  recent  cases 

bank  operations,  then  they  may  escape  indicates  that  they  are  waking,  in  some 

the  intervention  of  law  to  control  the  free  degree,  to  this  responsibility. 


A   BECKONING  AT  SUNSET 

BY  EDITH  M.  THOMAS 

A  BEAUTY  of  supernal  things 

Went  with  the  dying  sun,  to-night,  — 

The  Beauty  that  rich  longing  brings 
To  be  away,  in  regions  bright. 

A  something  in  my  heart  took  wings, 
And  followed  down  the  ardent  light. 

It  was  the  Beauty  brought  me  near 
To  one  who  loved  it,  long  ago  — 

A  soul,  that,  bending  from  the  sphere, 
Through  Beauty,  now,  itself  would  show. 

Oh,  then,  though  to  no  mortal  ear, 
I  spake  the  words,  "  I  love  you  so!  " 


THE   ODOR   OF  AFFLUENCE 


BY   MARGARET   FAY   COUGHLIN 


THE  Hardens,  with  some  guests  who 
had  driven  over  for  luncheon,  sat  in  their 
great  loggia  which  overlooked  an  Italian 
garden  of  wide  dimensions  and  meagre 
growth.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
the  bells  of  the  village  church,  tolling 
vespers  to  the  Catholic  poor,  whose 
homes  clustered  near  it,  repeated  with 
incongruous  significance  the  historical 
note  of  an  older  world.  The  sound,  in 
Long  Island,  seemed  despairingly  to  re- 
peat old  lessons,  to  hymn,  in  thinner 
tones,  old  weary  warnings.  Miss  Ainger 
had  a  confused  sense  of  being  still  in 
Italy.  But  the  company  were  profoundly 
untroubled  by  any  ideas  of  historical  se- 
quence in  their  surroundings.  They  were 
intent  on  a  mimicry  of  English  country 
life,  and  they  sipped  their  coffee  as  un- 
conscious of  the  contrasts  they  evoked  as 
they  were  of  comical  effect  in  the  good- 
will of  the  garden  to  achieve  antique 
charm  at  the  mandate  of  the  check-book. 
Yet  the  haze  across  the  valley  lent  a  veil 
of  enchantment  to  the  tame  levels  of 
the  scene,  and  the  hard  glint  of  the  sea 
beyond  gave  it  an  accent  of  complete- 


Miss  Ainger  felt  that  she  could,  per- 
haps, adjust  herself  quickly  enough  to  the 
outward  greatness  and  crudeness  of  her 
country ;  it  was  the  inner  correspondence 
that  was  unexpected.  She  got  up  to  put 
her  cup  on  the  table,  and  Allie  Harden, 
who  sat  nearest,  quietly  watched  her  as 
he  leaned,  an  elbow  on  each  arm  of  his 
chair,  listening  to  a  man  who  was  tell- 
ing him  of  a  recent  purchase  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. A  flush  stayed  like  a  rose  in 
each  cheek;  and  she  turned  away  and 
strolled  indoors,  — a  figure  with  an  inde- 
scribable air  of  leisure  and  grace,  trailing 
its  transparent  mourning  over  the  bright 
bricks. 


As  she  disappeared,  Holworthy,  in  the 
group  at  the  farther  end,  answered  a  mur- 
mured question  about  her.  She  had  al- 
ways lived  in  Italy.  Her  father  had  a  post 
over  there,  secretary  to  the  legation  or 
something;  but  Colonel  Ainger  died  some 
years  ago,  and  the  mother,  after  a  long 
illness,  had  died  last  month.  Miss  Ain- 
ger had  come  home  a  fortnight  ago,  to 
find  herself  alone  in  the  world,  with  five 
hundred  a  year  from  some  tiny  real  es- 
tate, "  and  not  a  blamed  cent  besides  " 
—  the  trustees  had  managed  to  get  rid 
of  the  rest. 

At  the  inevitable  comment  why  a  beau- 
tiful woman  of  thirty  had  not  married, 
Holworthy  referred  them,  laughing,  to  a 
youth  with  huge  shoulders  and  a  mop 
of  auburn  hah*,  who  came  up  at  that 
moment  from  the  garage.  He  followed 
Edith  Ainger,  since  her  recent  appear- 
ance on  his  horizon,  like  a  battleship  in 
the  wake  of  a  yacht,  and  he  answered 
now  promptly :  — 

"  She's  got  the  tip  all  right  if  she  wants 
to  marry.  Allie  got  me  out  to  chauf  for 
him  this  morning;  his  car  has  a  weird 
carbureter  —  and  he  was  grumpy  at  the 
maker  and  at  Miss  Ainger  by  turns, 
because  he  has  to  fish  her  a  job  some- 
where. She's  a  school  pal  of  Mrs.  Allie. 
He  handed  it  out  to  me  all  the  way.  He  'd 
rather  his  Uncle  William  took  her  off  his 
hands." 

At  which  there  was  anticipatory  laugh- 
ter, for  Mr.  William  Harden  was  a  dis- 
concerting combination  of  twenty  mil- 
lion dollars  and  a  gravity  as  unbending 
as  a  physical  law. 

"  Well,  uncle  came  down  in  the  motor 
with  them,"  went  on  the  youth  soberly, 
"  and  towards  the  end  of  the  trip  he  had 
to  give  up  his  coat  to  her,  and  he  caught 
love  and  a  cold  in  one  breath." 

315 


316 


The  Odor  of  Affluence 


Holworthy,  who  was  authority  for  all 
the  intricacies  of  interest  in  his  set,  mur- 
mured, — 

"He  better  be  quick  about  it.  Herbert 
Hamilton  knew  her  on  the  other  side ;  and 
at  the  Errols'  last  night  I  don't  think  he 
was  trying  to  persuade  her  to  be  any- 
body's governess." 

"  Hamilton  has  no  money  — 

But  the  athlete  had  gone  to  firtd  his 
divinity. 

In  the  long,  dim  drawing-room,  the 
slender  figure  drooped  at  the  piano  like 
a  muse  of  mourning.  She  was  softly  and 
abstractedly  playing  a  nocturne,  and  the 
boy  went  wistfully  out;  the  desolation 
of  her  face  was  as  poignant  as  it  was 
unconscious. 

Yet  she  was  rather  savoring  her  im- 
pressions than  brooding  over  her  be- 
reavement :  the  sense  of  aloofness  in  the 
easy  good-fellowship  of  her  friend,  as 
they  had  rolled  up  through  half  a  mile  of 
fleckless  driveway  to  the  house,  on  the 
evening  of  her  arrival,  through  young 
trees,  small  shrubbery,  thin  turf  —  em- 
phatically a  new  world.  Half  an  hour 
later,  their  party  of  four  had  drifted  in 
the  twilight  across  the  vast  hall,  with 
soft  rugs  bridging  the  spaces  on  the  mar- 
ble floor,  to  the  great  wainscoted  dining- 
room.  A  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth,  and 
left  the  room,  with  the  shaded  candles  on 
the  table  set  at  the  farther  end,  in  chiar- 
oscuro. The  effect  was  too  pictorially 
dim  to  be  modern,  too  luxurious  to  be 
ancient.  Everywhere  through  the  house 
was  the  evidence  of  an  immense  cash 
expenditure,  a  sort  of  bewildering  mix- 
ture of  loot:  Flemish  tapestries  depend- 
ed from  the  carved  oak  balustrade;  an 
Italian  mantelpiece,  a  sixteenth-century 
marble  of  priceless  value,  finished  the 
drawing-room ;  mutilated  Greek  statues, 
quattrocento  originals,  and  French  cabi- 
nets, —  a  heterogeneous  abundance  un- 
connected by  any  hint  of  personality  or 
preference. 

Her  wardrobe  had  been  inadequate  to 
this  scale  of  things,  and  for  the  tennis 
meet,  next  day,  Helen  had  insisted  on 


loaning  her  guest  a  filmy  embroidered 
shirt.  "And  I've  got  a  little  French 
hat  of  white  chip  with  black  iris  —  I  *ve 
never  worn  it.  You  have  fresh  gloves  ? 
And  white  shoes?  Then  you'll  do." 
She  appeared  greatly  relieved.  "  You  're 
a  dear  not  to  mind.  But  we  '11  meet 
every  one  there,  you  see." 

Miss  Ainger  had  been  presented  at 
most  of  the  courts  of  Europe.  She  knew 
very  well  the  splendor  and  grace  of  elab- 
orate clothes ;  but  for  the  afternoon  at  the 
Country  Club  she  had  had  no  misgivings. 
And  she  wore  her  borrowed  plumage  with 
an  ironical  sense  of  conferring  more  dis- 
tinction on  it  than  Mrs.  Harden  did  on 
her  own  chiffon  splendor. 

A  boy,  who  was  captain  of  something 
athletic,  singled  her  out  with  approval. 
"  Who 's  the  elegant  one  with  the  plain 
wash  togs?  Ginger!  The  way  she  flops 
those  long  lashes  and  then  drags  'em 
up  again."  She  had  turned,  with  much 
amusement,  and  answered  that  all  en- 
chantment was  a  matter  of  distance.  If 
he  would  come  nearer  he  would  find  it 
quite  safe.  He  had  ducked  and  blushed, 
abashed  for  the  first  time,  apparently,  in 
his  robust  life,  and  followed  then  like  a 
lamb  after  flowers.  It  was  later,  through 
the  open  windows  at  bottle-pool,  that  she 
had  heard  a  murmured  "  Allie  says  she 's 
poorer  than  his  cook."  And  the  boy's 
loyal,  "  Allie  's  a  skunk  of  a  host  if  he 
did."  There  had  been  the  portentous 
uncle  of  Allie,  —  and  Herbert  Hamil- 
ton— 

The  slow  notes  ceased  abruptly;  she 
rose  to  escape  the  conflict  of  emotions 
that  crowded  on  her  with  that  name; 
and  her  face  settled  into  new  lines  of 
strength  as  she  walked  across  the  hall  to 
the  nearest  window-seat,  picking  up  a 
book  from  the  table  on  her  way. 

It  chanced  to  be  a  collection  of  short 
stories  by  a  master  hand.  She  read  one 
rapidly  through,  then  turned  the  pages 
more  casually,  glancing  at  a  phrase  here, 
a  paragraph  there.  .**...  A  life  the  very 
interest  of  which  is  exactly  that  it  is 


The  Odor  of  Affluence 


317 


complicated  .  .  .  complicated,"  the  sen- 
tence continued,  "  with  the  idea  of  ac- 
quired knowledge,  and  with  that  of  im- 
bibed modesty,  of  imposed  deference 
upon  differences  of  condition  and  char- 
acter, of  occasion  and  value."  Imposed 
deference  on  differences  of  condition  — 
of  occasion  —  She  put  down  the  book 
and  closed  her  eyes.  A  great  wave  of 
nostalgia  swept  over  her,  for  the  peo- 
ple, the  surroundings,  the  point  of  view 
which  were  forever  as  lost  to  her  as  the 
tragedy  and  beauty  of  that  divine  impov- 
erished Italy  which  had  so  long  been  her 
home. 

"But  I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  a 
high  insistent  voice  exclaimed  above  the 
murmur  of  conversation  outside  the 
window. 

"  She  expects  me  to ;  she  wrote  the  pre- 
cise state  of  the  case  in  her  letter  of  ac- 
ceptance." 

The  women  were  chatting  apart,  while 
the  men  discussed  the  prices  of  the  mar- 
kets of  the  earth ;  and  the  last  voice,  lower 
and  more  earnest,  had  been  Helen's. 

"  Well,  but  you  said  she  turned  down 
Mr.  William  Harden  last  night?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  was  tremendously 
taken  with  her;  she  had  the  evening 
alone  with  him,  and  he  left  suddenly  for 
the  West  this  morning." 

"  What  is  she  thinking  of!"  ejaculated 
a  third.  "  An  offer  like  that,  in  her  pre- 
dicament! " 

The  lady  of  the  predicament  felt  her 
forehead  burn. 

"  I  simply  should  n't  do  anything, 
Helen.  She 's  not  a  relative.  What  does 
she  want  ?  " 

"  Oh!  she  wants  me  to  arrange  for  her 
to  be  somebody's  secretary;  or  Allie  to 
put  himself  under  obligations  to  some 
man  he  hardly  knows,  to  get  her  a  place 
in  an  office.  We  're  always  being  asked 
to  do  things  like  that." 

Edith  got  up  and  went  to  her  room,  the 
roses  in  her  cheeks  blazing  like  whip- 
lashes. She  looked  blindly  about  at  bay 
—  how  could  she  get  out  of  this  ?  And  her 
eyes  fell  on  a  time-table  in  a  pigeon-hole 


of  the  elaborately  equipped  desk.  There 
proved  to  be  no  train  possible  until  7.53 
in  the  morning.  And  in  the  revulsion  of 
her  helplessness  the  whole  scene  of  the 
evening  before  presented  itself  before  her 
bruised  vision.  The  careful  arrangement 
of  the  motor  yesterday,  with  the  billion- 
aire bachelor  and  herself  on  the  back 
seat,  and  Helen's  premature  congratula- 
tions after  dinner  as  she  had  left  her 
guest  to  an  evening  alone  with  him. 

People  loved  money  desperately  in 
Europe,  it  was  never  omitted  from  any 
calculation;  but  here  was  the  same  gross- 
ness  unredeemed  by  the  suave  elegance 
that  makes  magnificent  barbarism  splen- 
did. 

God  help  the  Anglo-Saxon  when  he 
doffs  religion;  it  is  the  only  refinement 
he  truly  understands!  She  wondered 
from  what  source  she  plagiarized  the  ir- 
relevant reflection,  and  caught  sight  of 
her  wide  eyes  and  contemptuous  lips  in 
the  mirror.  She  flung  a  smile  at  the  tragic 
mask;  and  being  of  the  stuff  that  stiffens 
in  the  face  of  disaster,  went  down  at  once 
to  join  the  company  again. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  discovered 
the  small  son  of  the  household  being 
brought  in  from  his  walk  by  his  nurse. 
She  took  him  in  her  arms  as  a  great  tour- 
ing car  swung  around  the  front;  and 
turning  at  the  sound,  she  found  herself 
confronted  with  the  magnate,  who,  like 
the  sun,  was  the  source  of  all  this  redupli- 
cated prosperity. 

I  wonder  if  King  Midas  has  ass's  ears, 
she  thought,  for  it  was  impossible  to  mis- 
take who  he  was.  He  had,  at  any  rate, 
not  stupid  eyes,  since  he  perceived  that 
she  was  not  the  new  governess  of  his 
grandson,  and  he  greeted  her  with  a  de- 
ference that  took  in  at  a  glance  her  per- 
sonal distinction.  On  the  loggia  he  made 
her  sit  by  him. 

"I  wish  you'd  undertake  his  educa- 
tion, Miss  Ainger.  I  never  saw  him  so 
well  behaved." 

She  felt  the  exchange  of  intelligence  in 
the  eyes  of  the  women  as  she  answered, 
smiling,  — 


318 


The,  Odor  of  Affliience 


"I'll  apply  for  the  position,  if  you 
like." 

At  which  Helen  gasped,  "Miss  Ain- 
ger  has  much  better  use  for  her  time, 
father! " 

Edith  continued  to  smile  without  speak- 
ing, and  the  old  man  turned  to  her, 
"taken,"  as  his  brother  had  been,  by 
her  repose.  Even  after  a  party  of  callers 
joined  the  group,  there  remained  the  im- 
pression of  his  approbation.  He  seldom 
spoke;  he  preferred  to  watch  and  listen; 
and  when  he  did  break  silence,  it  was  al- 
ways with  some  concrete  statement  of 
fact  or  preference.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
betrayed  into  a  generalization  in  the 
course  of  the  talk. 

"I  honor  success  wherever  I  find  it, 
and  I  don't  want  people  around  me  who 
have  n't  something  to  show;  if  they  have 
made  good,  if  they  've  succeeded,  I  '11 
help  them." 

There  was  a  respectful  silence,  and 
Edith,  looking  dreamily  across  the  shim- 
mering valley,  murmured,  — 

"But  there 's  such  an  imposing  row  of 
the  unsuccessful ! " 

He  turned  his  hawk  eyes  on  her,  and 
she  glanced  tranquilly  back  under  her 
tender  lashes.  "  Of  poor  immortals  who 
died  unsuccessful,  and  disgraced."  There 
was  an  uneasy  pause.  Was  she  going  to 
instruct  the  great  mind  at  her  elbow? 
"  Socrates  and  Phidias,  Abelard  and 
Dante  —  all  the  way  down  the  line,  don't 
you  know,  all  the  poor  sages  and  poets 
and  the  priests  of  art,"  she  deprecated. 
Her  smile  of  sympathetic  amusement  im- 
plied that  her  host  was,  of  course,  ex- 
travagantly drawing  her  on. 

Mr.  Harden's  face  became  a  sort  of 
pale  plum-color.  He  had  not  heard  names 
like  that  since  he  had  had  to  listen  to 
high-school  essays.  The  boy,  her  adorer, 
struggled  unsuccessfully  with  a  chuckle, 
and  Helen  flung  herself  with  terror  on 
the  silence. 

"Father  means  small  people,  of 
course,  Edith,  not  geniuses." 

"  But  geniuses  are  indistinguishable 
from  small  people  until  posterity  judges," 


protested  Edith  with  horrible  uncon- 
sciousness. She  lifted  her  brows  incredu- 
lously. "  Tribute  to  success  is  —  tribute 
to  the  merely  obvious,  is  n't  it  ?" 

She  was  quite  malicious  of  course,  but 
she  did  not  honestly  know  that  with  these 
people  conversation  of  any  genuine  kind 
was  the  deadliest  form  of  boredom.  They 
avoided  serious  thinking  as  they  did 
disease  germs.  The  boy  at  her  feet  took 
up  the  word  that  was  falling,  without 
sound,  in  an  abyss  of  icy  distrust. 

"That's  it,  Mr.  Harden,  only  I 
would  n't  have  known  how  to  put  it." 

Alexander  Harden  looked  at  the  in- 
genuous, freckled  face  contemptuously. 
He  seemed  to  give  back  the  great  man  his 
poise. 

"  Life,  I  think  you  '11  find,  young  man, 
has  got  to  be  made  to  yield  returns,  and 
pretty  practical  ones." 

"And  blatantly  visible,"  added  the 
boy  sullenly. 

"  Oh!  come,  Ted,"  said  Allie Harden, 
"  you  're  not  strong  on  the  know.  Better 
leave  that  to  Miss  Ainger." 

She  smiled  across  at  him,  amusement 
and  irony  between  her  lashes.  "  Mitte 
fois  merci ! " 

One  of  the  older  women  rattled  open  a 
fan.  "  What  in  the  world  are  you  people 
all  talking  about?" 

In  the  morning,  her  host  had  the  felici- 
tous idea  of  motoring  in  with  his  father, 
and  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  door 
to  take  the  guest  to  the  station.  The  hus- 
band stood  by  with  the  smile  that  seemed 
to  him  to  serve  all  the  courtesies  of  the 
occasion,  and  the  wife  kissed  her  friend 
with  unabashed  insincerity. 

"  It 's  been  delightful  to  have  you. 
You  have  such  an  air  of  the  old  world, 
Edith.  You  've  got  it  in  the  very  tones  of 
your  voice."  She  began  to  shower  com- 
pliments on  her,  and  Edith,  wondering 
why,  reflected  that  they  cost  nothing. 

"  I  'm  ready,"  she  said  impatiently  to 
the  groom,  bowing  her  graceful  good-bys. 

"  We  shall  miss  you  so,"  called  Helen 
after  her. 


The  Odor  of  Affluence 


319 


The  two  day-coaches  were  crowded 
with  commuters,  and  she  walked  half 
through  the  car  before  she  perceived  a 
man  lifting  his  hat  and  signaling  to  her. 
It  was  Herbert  Hamilton. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  stayed 
longer,"  he  said,  after  he  had  settled  her 
near  the  window.  "  Well,  did  they  fix 
you  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Fix  me  ?  "  She  was  still  in  the  grip  of 
shuddering  repulsion. 

"  Yes.  You  let  them  know,  did  n't 
you  ?  You  said  you  would  take  office- 
work  or  anything.  I  hope  I  'm  not  im- 
pertinent," he  added  as  she  continued 
not  to  answer. 

"  We  did  n't  mention  it,"  she  mur- 
mured absently.  She  seemed  to  come  to 
what  he  was  saying  from  an  immense  dis- 
tance. 

"  But  you  said  —  I  thought  that  was 
the  point  of  your  visit,  that  you  were  to 
talk  things  over.  They  could  set  you  on 
the  track ;  they  '  ve  all  no  end  of  money  — 
and  —  and  governesses  —  "  he  stam- 
mered helplessly  before  her  continued 
abstraction. 

"  That  was  in  my  letter  of  acceptance. 
We  did  n't  mention  it,"  she  repeated. 

He  gasped,  and  as  she  continued  to 
smile,  "  By  the  Lord!  "  he  breathed. 

She  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  he  repeated,  "  By  the  Lord!  " 

"  Please  don't,"  she  protested,  "  be- 
cause I  am  almost  physically  nauseated 
myself." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  all  his  heart  in 
his  eyes.  It  was  his  chance ;  he  had  waited 
five  years  for  it,  yet  it  had  come  brutally 
enough  at  last.  He  hesitated,  and  took 
the  plunge. 

"  Edith  —  I  'd  be  devoted  to  you.  I 
wish  you  would  —  could  think  of  it  —  " 
the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 

She  swallowed  hard  and  blinked,  but 
the  reaction  was  too  great.  He  looked 
away,  blinking  himself.  She  hadn't  a 
relative  in  the  world,  the  distinguished, 
graceful  thing ;  and  whatever  paying  work 
she  did  would  be  sure  to  make  her  con- 
spicuous anyway. 


But  the  gust  of  desolation  swept  down 
her  fine  self-possession  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at 
him  with  whimsical  irony  through  her 
blurred  eyes. 

"  There  's  a  phrase  in  The  Lives  of  the 
Saints  that  the  old  sacristan  at  Ranieri 
used  to  recite  for  us,  do  you  remember  ? 
*  and  he  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity/ 
I  've  been  living  in  the  odor  of  affluence, 
and  I  am  still  upset  from  it,  a  sort  of 
moral  mal-de-mer." 

She  was  proudly  ignoring  her  unfallen 
tears.  But  Hamilton  waited,  heartsick, 
for  his  answer. 

"  The  Marquis  di  Ranieri  had  the 
right  of  .way,  yet  you  did  n't  marry 
him.  And  your  dot  would  have  been  big 
enough  then,  —  I  mean,  the  sheer  neces- 
sities of  the  case  would  have  been  cov- 
ered. He  cared  desperately,  and  he  was  a 
decent  chap." 

His  voice  rose  and  fell  with  his  un- 
spoken hope. 

"  The  poor  Marchese  would  marry 
me  still,  without  wisdom  or  prudence, 
Bertie." 

She  let  her  gray  eyes  rest  in  his,  with 
deliberate  sweetness,  and  he  drank  in 
their  lambent  beauty  thirstily,  for  a  long 
moment. 

"  Then  we  —  might  have  —  five  years 
ago-" 

"  Three,"  she  corrected,  and  the  low- 
ered lids  shook  down  crystal  drops. 

"  After  I  saved  the  boat  that  time  ?  " 
he  questioned  in  bewildered  delight. 

"  After  you  went  away  and  the  light 
went  out,"  she  answered,  the  wet  lashes 
veiling  her  confession. 

"  Oh,"  he  groaned,  and  groped  for  her 
hand. 

She  pushed  his  softly  away  and  looked 
steadily  ahead.  If  he  thought  that  she 
was  going  to  let  him  spoil  their  perfect 
moment  by  any  awkward  anticipations ! 
Her  eyes  swept  down  the  car.  No  one 
was  observing  them,  and  she  glanced 
back  at  him  with  quick,  wild  sympathy, 
as  she  took  up  the  other  subject,  tremu- 
lously, with  a  rueful  summarizing,  as  if 


320 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


the  voice  of  Love  had  been  but  an  irre- 
levant parenthesis. 

"  All  the  same,  I  never  thought  to  find 
myself  ranged  against  the  aristocracy, 
any  aristocracy.  I  simply  -believe  in  the 
best,  you  know,  all  along  the  line." 

He  was  much  amused. 


"  My  dear  lady,  aristocracy  over  here 
—  between  democracy  and  plutocracy  it 
has  the  deuce  of  a  time.  But  joy,  Edith, 
and  peace,  they  've  always  been  able  to 
get  along  without  —  affluence." 

"  Don't  speak  that  word,"  she  said. 
"  It 's  outside  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 


EDWIN   LAWRENCE   GODKIN 


BY    JAMES   FORD   RHODES 


OUR  two  great  journalists  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  were  Greeley  and  Godkin. 
Though  differing  in  very  many  respects, 
they  were  alike  in  possessing  a  definite 
moral  purpose.  The  most  glorious  and 
influential  portion  of  Greeley's  career 
lay  between  the  passage  of  the  Kansas- 
Nebraska  act  in  1854  and  the  election  of 
Lincoln  in  1860,  when  the  press  played 
an  important  part  in  the  upbuilding  of 
a  political  party  which  formulated  in  a 
practical  manner  the  anti-slavery  senti- 
ment of  the  country.  Foremost  among 
newspapers  was  the  New  York  Tribune; 
foremost  among  editors  was  Horace 
Greeley.  Of  Greeley  in  his  best  days 
Godkin  wrote:  "He  has  an  enthusiasm 
which  never  flags,  and  a  faith  in  prin- 
ciples which  nothing  can  shake,  and  an 
English  style  which,  for  vigor,  terseness, 
clearness  and  simplicity  has  never  been 
surpassed,  except  perhaps  by  Cobbett."  2 

Greeley  and  Godkin  were  alike  in  fur- 
nishing their  readers  with  telling  argu- 
ments. In  northern  New  York  and  the 
Western  Reserve  of  Ohio  the  weekly 
Tribune  was  a  political  Bible.  "Why  do 
you  look  so  gloomy?"  said  a  traveler, 
riding  along  the  highway  in  the  Western 
Reserve  during  the  old  anti-slavery  days, 
to  a  farmer  who  was  sitting  moodily  on 

1  Lecture  read  before  Harvard  University, 
April  13,  1908. 

2  R.  Ogden's  Life  and  Letters  of  E.  L.  God- 
kin,  i,  265. 


a  fence.  "Because,"  replied  the  farmer, 
"my  Democratic  friend  next  door  got  the 
best  of  me  in  an  argument  last  night.  But 
when  I  get  my  weekly  Tribune  to-morrow 
I'll  knock  the  foundations  all  out  from 
under  him."  3 

Premising  that  Godkin  is  as  closely 
identified  with  the  Nation  and  the  Even- 
ing Post  as  Greeley  with  the  Tribune,  I 
shall  refer  to  a  personal  experience.  Pass- 
ing a  part  of  the  winter  of  1886  in  a  hotel 
at  Thomasville,  Georgia,  it  chanced  that 
among  the  hundred  or  more  guests  there 
were  eight  or  ten  of  us  who  regularly  re- 
ceived the  Nation  by  post.  Ordinarily 
it  arrived  on  the  Friday  noon  train  from 
Savannah,  and  when  we  came  from  our 
mid-day  dinner  into  the  hotel  office,  there, 
in  our  respective  boxes,  easily  seen,  and 
from  their  peculiar  form  recognized  by 
every  one,  were  our  copies  of  the  Nation. 
Occasionally  the  papers  missed  connec- 
tion at  Savannah,  and  our  Nations  did 
not  arrive  until  after  supper.  It  used  to 
be  said  by  certain  scoffers  that  if  a  dis- 
cussion of  political  questions  came  up 
in  the  afternoon  of  one  of  those  days  of 
disappointment,  we  readers  were  mum; 
but  in  the  late  evening,  after  having  di- 
gested our  political  pabulum,  we  were 
ready  to  join  issue  with  any  antagonist. 
Indeed,  each  of  us  might  have  used  the 
words  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  written 

8  Rhodes' s  History  of  the  United  States,  ii, 
72  (C.  M.  Depew). 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


321 


while  he  was  traveling  on  the  continent 
and  visiting  many  places  where  the  Na- 
tion could  not  be  bought:  "All  the  time 
I  was  without  it,  my  mind  was  chaos  and 
I  did  n't  feel  that  I  had  a  safe  opinion  to 
swear  by."  1 

While  the  farmer  of  the  Western  Re- 
serve and  Lowell  are  extreme  types  of 
clientele,  each  represents  fairly  well  the 
peculiar  following  of  Greeley  and  of  God- 
kin,  which  differed  as  much  as  did  the 
personal  traits  of  the  two  journalists. 
Godkin  speaks  of  Greeley 's  "odd  attire, 
shambling  gait,  simple,  good-natured  and 
hopelessly  peaceable  face,  and  long  yel- 
low locks."  2  His  "old  white  hat  and 
white  coat,"  which  in  New  York  were 
regarded  as  an  affectation,  counted  with 
his  following  west  of  the  Hudson  River 
as  a  winning  eccentricity.  When  he  came 
out  upon  the  lecture  platform  with  crum- 
pled shirt,  cravat  awry,  and  wrinkled  coat 
looking  as  if  he  had  traveled  for  a  num- 
ber of  nights  and  days,  such  disorder  ap- 
peared to  many  of  his  western  audiences 
as  nothing  worse  than  the  mark  of  a  very 
busy  man,  who  had  paid  them  the  com- 
pliment of  leaving  his  editorial  rooms  to 
speak  to  them  in  person,  and  who  had 
their  full  sympathy  as  he  thus  opened  his 
discourse :  "You  must  n't, my  friends,  ex- 
pect fine  words  from  a  rough  busy  man 
like  me." 

The  people  who  read  the  Tribune  did 
not  expect  fine  words ;  they  were  used  to 
the  coarse,  abusive  language  in  which 
Greeley  repelled  attacks,  and  to  his  giv- 
ing the  lie  with  heartiness  and  vehem- 
ence.8 They  enjoyed  reading  that  "an- 
other lie  was  nailed  to  the  counter,"  and 
that  an  antagonist  "was  a  liar,  knowing 
himself  to  be  a  liar  and  lying  with  naked 
intent  to  deceive."  4 

On  the  contrary,  the  dress,  the  face, 
and  the  personal  bearing  of  Godkin  pro- 
claimed at  once  the  gentleman  and  culti- 

1  Ogden,  ii,  88.    2  Ibid.,  i,  257. 

3  Parton's  Greeley,  pp.  331,  578;    my  own 
recollections ;  Ogden,  i,  255. 

4  Godkin,  "Random  Recollections,"  Even- 
ing Post,  Dec.  30,  1899. 

VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


vated  man  of  the  world.  You  felt  that  he 
was  a  man  whom  you  would  like  to  meet 
at  dinner,  accompany  on  a  long  walk, 
or  cross  the  Atlantic  with,  were  you  an 
acquaintance  or  friend. 

An  incident  related  by  Godkin  him- 
self shows  that  at  least  one  distinguished 
gentleman  did  not  enjoy  sitting  at  meat 
with  Greeley.  During  the  spring  of  1864 
Godkin  met  Greeley  at  breakfast  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  John  A.  C.  Gray.  William 
Cullen  Bryant,  at  that  time  editor  of  the 
New  York  Evening  Post,  was  one  of  the 
guests,  and,  when  Greeley  entered  the 
room,  was  standing  near  the  fireplace 
conversing  with  his  host.  On  observing 
that  Bryant  did  not  speak  to  Greeley, 
Gray  asked  him  in  a  whisper, "  Don't  you 
know  Mr.  Greeley  ?  "  In  a  loud  whisper 
Bryant  replied,  "No,  I  don't;  he's  a 
blackguard  —  he 's  a  blackguard."  5 

In  the  numbers  of  people  whom  he 
influenced,  Greeley  had  the  advantage 
over  Godkin.  In  February,  1855,  the 
circulation  of  the  Tribune  was  172,000, 
and  its  own  estimate  of  its  readers  half 
a  million,  which  was  certainly  not  ex- 
cessive. It  is  not  a  consideration  be- 
yond bounds  to  infer  that  the  readers  of 
the  Tribune  in  1860  furnished  a  goodly 
part  of  the  1,886,000  votes  which  were 
received  by  Lincoln. 

At  different  times,  while  Godkin  was 
editor,  the  Nation  stated  its  exact  circula- 
tion, which,  as  I  remember  it,  was  about 
10,000,  and  it  probably  had  50,000  readers. 
As  many  of  its  readers  were  in  the  class 
of  Lowell,  its  indirect  influence  was  im- 
mense. Emerson  said  that  the  Nation 
had  "breadth,  variety,  self-sustainment, 
and  an  admirable  style  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression."— "I  owe  much  to  \heNation" 
wrote  Francis  Parkman.  "I  regard  it  as 
the  most  valuable  of  American  journals, 
and  feel  that  the  best  interests  of  the 
country  are  doubly  involved  in  its  suc- 
cess."—  "What  an  influence  you  have! " 
said  George  William  Curtis  to  Godkin. 
"What  a  sanitary  element  in  our  affairs 
the  Nation  is! "  — "To  my  generation," 
5  Ogden,  i,  168. 


322 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


wrote  William  James,  "Godkin's  was 
certainly  the  towering  influence  in  all 
thought  concerning  public  affairs,  and 
indirectly  his  influence  has  certainly 
been  more  pervasive  than  that  of  any 
other  writer  of  the  generation,  for  he  in- 
fluenced other  writers  who  never  quoted 
him,  and  determined  the  whole  current 
of  discussion." — "When  the  work  of  this 
century  is  summed  up,"  wrote  Charles 
Eliot  Norton  to  Godkin,  "what  you  have 
done  for  the  good  old  cause  of  civiliza- 
tion, the  cause  which  is  always  defeated 
but  always  after  defeat  taking  more  ad- 
vanced position  than  before  —  what  you 
have  done  for  this  cause  will  count  for 
much." — "I  am  conscious,"  wrote  Pre- 
sident Eliot  to  Godkin,  "that  the  Nation 
has  had  a  decided  effect  on  my  opinions 
and  my  action  for  nearly  forty  years ;  and 
I  believe  it  has  had  like  effect  on  thou- 
sands of  educated  Americans. "  l 

A  string  of  quotations,  as  is  well  known, 
becomes  wearisome ;  but  the  importance 
of  the  point  that  I  am  trying  to  make  will 
perhaps  justify  one  more.  "  I  find  myself 
so  thoroughly  agreeing  with  the  Nation 
always,"  wrote  Lowell,  "that  I  am  half 
persuaded  that  I  edit  it  myself! "  2  Truly 
Lowell  had  a  good  company:  Emerson, 
Parkman,  Curtis,  Norton,  James,  Eliot, 
—  all  teachers  in  various  ways.  Through 
their  lectures,  books,  and  speeches,  they 
influenced  college  students  at  an  impress- 
ible age ;  they  appealed  to  young  and  to 
middle-aged  men;  and  they  furnished 
comfort  and  entertainment  for  the  old. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  any- 
where in  the  country  an  educated  man 
whose  thought  was  not  affected  by  some 
one  of  these  seven;  and  their  influence 
on  editorial  writers  for  newspapers  was 
remarkable.  These  seven  were  all  taught 
by  Godkin. 

"Every  Friday  morning  when  the 
Nation  comes,"  wrote  Lowell  to  Godkin, 
"I  fill  my  pipe  and  read  it  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  Do  you  do  it  all  yourself  ? 
Or  are  there  really  so  many  clever  men 

1  Ogden,  i,  221,  249,  251,  252;  ii,  222,  231 

2  Letters  of  J.  R.  Lowell,  ii,  76. 


in  the  country  ?  "  s  Lowell's  experience, 
with  or  without  tobacco,  was  undoubtedly 
that  of  hundreds,  perhaps  of  thousands, 
of  educated  men,  and  the  query  he  raised 
was  not  an  uncommon  one.  At  one  time, 
Godkin,  I  believe,  wrote  most  of  "The 
Week,"  which  was  made  up  of  brief  and 
pungent  comments  on  events,  as  well  as 
the  principal  editorial  articles.  The  power 
of  iteration,  which  the  journalist  pos- 
sesses, is  great,  and,  when  that  power  is 
wielded  by  a  man  of  keen  intelligence 
and  wide  information,  possessing  a  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  a  sense  of  humor, 
and  an  effective  literary  style,  it  becomes 
tremendous.  The  only  escape  from  God- 
kin's  iteration  was  one  frequently  tried, 
and  that  was,  to  stop  the  Nation. 

Although  Godkin  published  three  vol- 
umes of  Essays,  the  honors  he  received 
during  his  lifetime  were  due  to  his  work 
as  editor  of  the  Nation  and  the  Evening 
Post ;  and  this  is  his  chief  title  to  fame. 
The  education,  early  experience,  and 
aspiration  of  such  a  journalist  are  natu- 
rally matter  of  interest.  Born  in  1831, 
in  the  County  of  Wicklow  in  the  south- 
eastern part  of  Ireland,  the  son  of  a 
Presbyterian  minister,  he  was  able  to  say 
when  referring  to  Gold  win  Smith,  "I  am 
an  Irishman  but  I  am  as  English  in  blood 
as  he  is." 4  Receiving  his  higher  educa- 
tion at  Queen's  College,  Belfast,  he  took 
a  lively  interest  in  present  politics,  his 
college  friends  being  Liberals.  John 
Stuart  Mill  was  their  prophet,  Grote  and 
Bentham  their  daily  companions,  and 
America  was  their  promised  land.  "To 
the  scoffs  of  the  Tories  that  our  schemes 
were  impracticable,"  he  has  written  of 
these  days,  "our  answer  was  that  in 
America,  barring  slavery,  they  were  actu- 
ally at  work.  There,  the  chief  of  the  State 
and  the  legislators  were  freely  elected  by 
the  people.  There,  the  offices  were  open 
to  everybody  who  had  the  capacity  to 
fill  them.  There  was  no  army  or  navy, 
two  great  curses  of  humanity  in  all  ages. 
There  was  to  be  no  war  except  war  in 

3  Letters  of  J.  R.  Lowell,  i,  368. 

4  Ogden,  i,  1. 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


323 


self-defence.  ...  In  fact,  we  did  not 
doubt  that  in  America  at  last  the  triumph 
of  humanity  over  its  own  weaknesses  and 
superstitions  was  being  achieved,  and  the 
dream  of  Christendom  was  at  last  being 
realized."  1 

As  a  correspondent  of  the  London 
Daily  News  he  went  to  the  Crimea. 
The  scenes  at  Malakoff  gave  him  a  dis- 
gust for  war  which  thenceforth  he  never 
failed  to  express  upon  every  opportunity. 
When  a  man  of  sixty-eight,  reckoning  its 
cost  in  blood  and  treasure,  he  deemed 
the  Crimean  War  entirely  unnecessary 
and  very  deplorable.2  Godkin  arrived 
in  America  in  November,  1856,  and 
soon  afterwards,  with  Olmsted's  Jour- 
ney in  the  Seaboard  Slave  States,  the 
Back  Country  and  Texas,  as  guide-books, 
took  a  horseback  journey  through  the 
South.  Following  closely  Olmsted's  trail, 
and  speaking  therefore  with  knowledge, 
he  has  paid  him  one  of  the  highest 
compliments  one  traveler  ever  paid  an- 
other. "Olmsted's  work,"  he  wrote, "  in 
vividness  of  description  and  in  photo- 
graphic minuteness  far  surpasses  Arthur 
Young's."  3  During  this  journey  he  wrote 
letters  to  the  London  Daily  News,  and 
these  were  continued  after  his  return  to 
New  York  City.  For  the  last  three  years 
of  our  Civil  War,  he  was  its  regular  cor- 
respondent, and,  as  no  one  denies  that 
he  was  a  powerful  advocate  when  his 
heart  was  enlisted,  he  rendered  efficient 
service  to  the  cause  of  the  North.  The 
News  was  strongly  pro-Northern,  and 
Godkin  furnished  the  facts  which  ren- 
dered its  leaders  sound  and  instructive 
as  well  as  sympathetic.  All  this  while  he 
was  seeing  socially  the  best  people  in 
New  York  City,  and  making  useful  and 
desirable  acquaintances  in  Boston  and 
Cambridge. 

The  interesting  story  of  the  founda- 
tion of  the  Nation  has  been  told  a  num- 
ber of  times,  and  it  will  suffice  for  our 
purpose  to  say  that  there  were  forty 

1  Evening  Post,  Dec.  30, 1899  ;  Ogden,  i,  11. 

2  Evening  Post,  Dec.  30,  1899. 

3  Ibid.;  Ogden,  i,  113. 


stockholders  who  contributed  a  capital 
of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  one- 
half  of  which  was  raised  in  Boston,  and 
one-quarter  each  in  Philadelphia  and 
New  York.  Godkin  was  the  editor,  and 
next  to  him  the  chief  promoters  were 
James  M.  McKim  of  Philadelphia  and 
Charles  Eliot  Norton.  The  first  number 
of  this  "weekly  journal  of  politics,  litera- 
ture, science  and  art  "  appeared  on  July 
6,  1865.  Financial  embarrassment  and 
disagreements  among  the  stockholders 
marked  the  first  year  of  its  existence,  at 
the  end  of  which  Godkin,  McKim,  and 
Frederick  Law  Olmsted  took  over  the 
property,  and  continued  the  publication 
under  the  proprietorship  of  E.  L.  God- 
kin  &  Co.  "  The  Nation  owed  its  con- 
tinued existence  to  Charles  Eliot  Nor- 
ton," wrote  Godkin  in  1899.  "  It  was  his 
calm  and  confidence  amid  the  shrieks  of 
combatants  .  .  .  which  enabled  me  to  do 
my  work  even  with  decency."  4 

Sixteen  years  after  the  Nation  was 
started,  in  1881,  Godkin  sold  it  out  to  the 
Evening  Post,  becoming  associate  editor 
of  that  journal,  with  Carl  Schurz  as  his 
chief.  The  Nation  was  thereafter  pub- 
lished as  the  weekly  edition  of  the  Even- 
ing Post.  In  1883  Schurz  retired  and 
Godkin  was  made  editor-in-chief,  having 
the  aid  and  support  of  one  of  the  own- 
ers, Horace  White.  On  January  1,  1900, 
on  account  of  ill  health,  he  withdrew 
from  the  editorship  of  the  Evening  Post,5 
thus  retiring  from  active  journalism. 

For  thirty-five  years  he  had  devoted 
himself  to  his  work  with  extraordinary 
ability  and  singleness  of  purpose.  Marked 
appreciation  came  to  him :  invitations  to 
deliver  courses  of  lectures  from  both  Har- 
vard and  Yale,  the  degree  of  A.  M.  from 
Harvard,  and  the  degree  of  D.  C.  L.  from 
Oxford.  What  might  have  been  a  turn- 
ing-point in  his  career  was  the  offer  in 
1870  of  the  professorship  of  history  at 
Harvard.  He  was  strongly  tempted  to  ac- 

4  Evening  Post,  December  30,  1899  ;  Ogden, 
i,  passim ;  The  Nation,  June  25, 1885,  May  23, 
1902. 

5  Ogden,  ii,  chap.  xiii. 


324 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


rept  it,  but,  before  coming  to  a  decision, 
he  took  counsel  of  a  number  of  friends; 
and  few  men,  I  think,  have  ever  received 
such  wise  and  disinterested  advice  as  did 
Godkin  when  he  was  thus  hesitating  in 
what  way  he  should  apply  his  teaching. 
The  burden  of  the  advice  was  not  to  take 
the  professorship  if  he  had  to  give  up  the 
Nation. 

Frederick  Law  Olmsted  wrote  to  him : 
"If  you  can't  write  fully  half  of  *  The 
Week '  and  half  the  leaders,  and  control 
the  drift  and  tone  of  the  whole  while 
living  at  Cambridge,  give  up  the  profes- 
sorship, for  the  Nation  is  worth  many 
professorships.  It  is  a  question  of  loyalty 
over  a  question  of  comfort."  Lowell 
wrote  to  him  in  the  same  strain:  "Stay 
if  the  two  things  are  incompatible.  We 
may  find  another  professor  by  and  by. 
.  .  .  but  we  can't  find  another  editor  for 
the  Nation"  From  Germany,  John  Bige- 
low  sent  a  characteristic  message:  "  Tell 
the  University  to  require  each  student  to 
take  a  copy  of  the  Nation.  Do  not  pro- 
fess history  for  them  in  any  other  way. 
I  dare  say  your  lectures  would  be  good, 
but  why  limit  your  pupils  to  hundreds 
which  are  now  counted  by  thousands  ?  " 

As  is  well  known,  Godkin  relinquished 
the  idea  of  the  college  connection  and 
stuck  to  his  job,  although  the  quiet  and 
serenity  of  a  professor's  life  in  Cambridge 
contrasted  with  his  own  turbulent  days 
appealed  to  him  powerfully.  t"  Ten  years 
hence,"  he  wrote  to  Norton,  "  if  things 
go  on  as  they  are  now  I  shall  be  the  most 
odious  man  in  America.  Not  that  I  shall 
not  have  plenty  of  friends,  but  my  ene- 
mies will  be  far  more  numerous  and  act- 
ive." Six  years  after  he  had  founded  the 
Nation,  and  one  year  after  he  had  de- 
clined the  Harvard  professorship,  when 
he  was  yet  but  forty  years  old,  he  gave 
this  humorously  exaggerated  account  of 
his  physical  failings  due  to  his  nervous 
strain:  "I  began  the  Nation  young, 
handsome,  and  fascinating,  and  am  now 
withered  and  somewhat  broken,  rheuma- 
tism gaining  on  me  rapidly,  my  com- 
1  Ogden,  ii,  chap.  xi. 


plexion  ruined,  as  also  my  figure,  for  1 
am  growing  stout."  2 

But  his  choice  between  the  Harvard 
professorship  and  the  Nation  was  a  wise 
one.  He  was  a  born  writer  of  para- 
graphs and  editorials.  The  files  of  the 
Nation  are  his  monument.  A  crown  of 
his  laborious  days  is  the  tribute  of  James 
Bryce :  "The  Nation  was  the  best  weekly 
not  only  in  America  but  in  the  world."  3 

Thirty-five  years  of  journalism,  in 
which  Godkin  was  accustomed  to  give 
hard  blows,  did  not,  as  he  himself  fore- 
shadowed, call  forth  a  unanimous  chorus 
of  praise;  and  the  objections  of  intelligent 
and  high-minded  men  are  well  worth 
taking  into  account.  The  most  common 
one  is  that  his  criticism  was  always  de- 
structive; that  he  had  an  eye  for  the  weak 
side  of  causes  and  men  that  he  did  not 
favor,  and  these  he  set  forth  with  unre- 
mitting vigor  without  regard  for  palliat- 
ing circumstances;  that  he  erected  a 
high  and  impossible  ideal  and  judged  all 
men  by  it;  hence,  if  a  public  man  was 
right  eight  times  out  of  ten,  he  would 
seize  upon  the  two  failures  and  so  parade 
them  with  his  withering  sarcasm  that  the 
reader  could  get  no  other  idea  than  that 
the  man  was  either  weak  or  wicked.  An 
editor  of  very  positive  opinions,  he  was 
apt  to  convey  the  idea  that  if  any  one 
differed  from  him  on  a  vital  question  like 
the  tariff  or  finance  or  civil  service  re- 
form, he  was  necessarily  a  bad  man.  He 
made  no  allowances  for  the  weaknesses 
of  human  nature,  and  had  no  idea  that  he 
himself  ever  could  be  mistaken.  Though 
a  powerful  critic,  he  did  not  realize  the 
highest  criticism,  which  discerns  and 
brings  out  the  good  as  well  as  the  evil. 
He  won  his  reputation  by  dealing  out  cen- 
sure, which  has  a  rare  attraction  for  a 
certain  class  of  minds,  as  Tacitus  ob- 
served in  his  History.  "  People,"  he 
wrote,  "  lend  a  ready  ear  to  detraction 
and  spite,"  for  "  malignity  wears  the  im- 
posing appearance  of  independence."  4 

2  Ibid,  ii,  51. 

8  Studies  in  Contemporary  Biography,  P-  3^2- 

*  Tacitus,  History,  i,  1. 


Edwin  Lawrence  GodTdn 


325 


The  influence  of  the  Nation,  therefore, 
—  so  these  objectors  to  Godkin  aver,  — 
was  especially  unfortunate  on  the  intel- 
ligent youth  of  the  country.  It  was  in 
1870  that  John  Bigelow,  whom  I  have 
just  quoted,  advised  Harvard  University 
to  include  the  Nation  among  its  require- 
ments; and  it  is  true  that  at  that  time, 
and  for  a  good  while  afterwards,  the  Na- 
tion was  favorite  reading  for  serious 
Harvard  students.  The  same  practice 
undoubtedly  prevailed  at  most  other  col- 
leges. Now  I  have  been  told  that  the 
effect  of  reading  the  Nation  was  to  pre- 
vent these  young  men  from  understand- 
ing their  own  country;  that,  as  Godkin 
himself  did  not  comprehend  America,  he 
was  an  unsound  teacher  and  made  his 
youthful  readers  see  her  through  a  false 
medium.  And  I  am  further  informed  that 
in  mature  life  it  cost  an  effort,  a  mental 
wrench,  so  to  speak,  to  get  rid  of  this  in- 
fluence and  see  things  as  they  really  were, 
which  was  necessary  for  usefulness  in 
lives  cast  in  America.  The  United  States 
was  our  country ;  she  was  entitled  to  our 
love  and  service ;  and  yet  such  a  frame  of 
mind  was  impossible,  so  this  objection 
runs,  if  we  read  and  believed  the  writing 
of  the  Nation.  A  man  of  character  and 
ability,  who  had  filled  a  number  of  public 
offices  with  credit,  told  me  that  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Nation  had  been  potent  in 
keeping  college  graduates  out  of  public 
life,  that  things  in  the  United  States  were 
painted  so  black  both  relatively  and  ab- 
solutely that  the  young  men  naturally 
reasoned,  "  Why  shall  we  concern  our- 
selves about  a  country  which  is  surely 
going  to  destruction  ?  "  Far  better,  they 
may  have  said,  to  pattern  after  Plato's 
philosopher  who  kept  out  of  politics, 
being  "  like  one  who  retires  under  the 
shelter  of  a  wall  in  the  storm  of  dust  and 
sleet  which  the  driving  wind  hurries 
along."  1 

Such  considerations  undoubtedly  lost 

the  Nation  valuable  subscribers.   I  have 

been  struck  with  three  circumstances  in 

juxtaposition.     At   the   time   of    Judge 

1  Republic. 


Hoar's  forced  resignation  from  Grant's 
cabinet  in  1870,  the  Nation  said,  "  In 
peace  as  in  war  *  that  is  best  blood 
which  hath  most  iron  in't;'  and  much 
is  to  be  excused  to  the  man  [that  is, 
Judge  Hoar]  who  has  for  the  first  time 
in  many  years  of  Washington  history 
given  a  back-handed  blow  to  many  an 
impudent  and  arrogant  dispenser  of 
patronage.  He  may  well  be  proud  of 
most  of  the  enmity  that  he  won  while 
in  office,  and  may  go  back  contented  to 
Massachusetts  to  be  her  most  honored 
citizen." 2  Two  months  later  Lowell 
wrote  to  Godkin,  "  The  bound  volumes 
of  the  Nation  standing  on  Judge  Hoar's 
library  table,  as  I  saw  them  the  other  day, 
were  a  sign  of  the  estimation  in  which 
it  is  held  by  solid  people  and  it  is  they 
who  in  the  long  run  decide  the  fortunes 
of  such  a  journal."  3  But  the  Nation  lost 
Judge  Hoar's  support.  When  I  called 
upon  him  in  1893  he  was  no  longer  tak- 
ing or  reading  it. 

It  is  the  sum  of  individual  experiences 
that  makes  up  the  influence  of  a  journal 
like  the  Nation,  and  one  may  therefore  be 
pardoned  the  egotism  necessarily  arising 
from  a  relation  of  one's  own  contact  with 
it.  In  1866,  while  a  student  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago,  I  remember  well  that, 
in  a  desultory  talk  in  the  English  Litera- 
ture class,  Professor  William  Matthews 
spoke  of  the  Nation  and  advised  the  stu- 
dents to  read  it  each  week  as  a  political 
education  of  high  value.  This  was  the 
first  knowledge  I  had  of  it,  but  I  was  at 
that  time,  along  with  many  other  young 
men,  devoted  to  the  Round  Table,  an 
"  Independent  weekly  review  of  Politics, 
Finance,  Literature,  Society  and  Art," 
which  flourished  between  the  years  1864 
and  1868.  We  asked  the  professor,  "Do 
you  consider  the  Nation  superior  to  the 
Round  Table  ?  "  —  "  Decidedly,"  was  his 
reply.  "  The  editors  of  the  Round  Table 
seem  to  write  for  the  sake  of  writing, 
while  the  men  who  are  expressing  them- 
selves in  the  Nation  do  so  because  their 

2  June  23  ;  Rhodes,  vi,  382. 

3  Ogden,  ii,  66. 


326 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godhin 


hearts  and  minds  are  full  of  their  matter." 
This  was  a  just  estimate  of  the  difference 
between  the  two  journals.  The  Round 
Table,  modeled  after  the  Saturday  Re- 
view, was  a  feeble  imitation  of  the  London 
weekly,  then  in  its  palmy  days,  while  the 
Nation,  which  was  patterned  after  the 
Spectator,  did  not  suffer  by  the  side  of  its 
model.  On  this  hint  from  Professor 
Matthews,  I  began  taking  and  reading 
the  Nation,  and  with  the  exception  of  one 
year  in  Europe  during  my  student  days, 
I  have  read  it  ever  since. 

Before  I  touch  on  certain  specifications 
I  must  premise  that  the  influence  of  this 
journal  on  a  Westerner,  who  read  it  in 
a  receptive  spirit,  was  probably  more 
potent  than  on  one  living  in  the  East. 
The  arrogance  of  a  higher  civilization  in 
New  York,  Boston,  and  Philadelphia  than 
elsewhere  in  the  United  States,  the  term 
"  wild  and  woolly  West "  applied  to  the 
region  west  of  the  Alleghany  Mountains, 
is  somewhat  irritating  to  a  Westerner. 
Yet  it  remains  none  the  less  true  that, 
other  things  being  equal,  a  man  living 
in  the  environment  of  Boston  or  New 
York  would  have  arrived  more  easily 
and  more  quickly  at  certain  sound  politi- 
cal views  I  shall  proceed  to  specify  than 
he  would  while  living  in  Cleveland  or 
Chicago.  The  gospel  which  Godkin 
preached  was  needed  much  more  in  the 
West  than  in  the  East;  and  his  disciples 
in  the  western  country  had  for  him  a  high 
degree  of  reverence.  In  the  biography  of 
Godkin,  allusion  is  made  to  the  small 
pecuniary  return  for  his  work,  but  in 
thinking  of  him  we  never  considered  the 
money  question.  We  supposed  that  he 
made  a  living;  we  knew  from  his  articles 
that  he  was  a  gentleman  and  saw  much 
of  good  society,  and  there  was  not  one  of 
us  who  would  not  rather  have  been  in  his 
shoes  than  in  those  of  the  richest  man  in 
New  York.  We  placed  such  trust  in  him 
—  which  his  life  shows  to  have  been 
abundantly  justified  —  that  we  should 
have  lost  all  confidence  in  human  na- 
ture had  he  ever  been  tempted  by  place 
or  profit.  And  his  influence  was  abid- 


ing. Presidents,  statesmen,  senators,  con- 
gressmen rose  and  fell;  political  adminis- 
trations changed;  good,  bad,  and  weak 
public  men  passed  away;  but  Godkin 
preached  to  us  every  week  a  timely  and 
cogent  sermon. 

To  return  now  to  my  personal  experi- 
ence. I  owe  wholly  to  the  Nation  my 
conviction  in  favor  of  civil  service  re- 
form ;  in  fact,  it  was  from  these  columns 
that  I  first  came  to  understand  the  ques- 
tion. The  arguments  advanced  were  sane 
and  strong,  and  especially  intelligible  to 
men  in  business,  who,  in  the  main,  chose 
their  employees  on  the  ground  of  fit- 
ness, and  who  made  it  a  rule  to  retain 
and  advance  competent  and  honest  men 
in  their  employ.  I  think  that  on  this  sub- 
ject the  indirect  influence  of  the  Nation 
was  very  great,  in  furnishing  arguments 
to  men  like  myself,  who  never  lost  an  op- 
portunity to  restate  them,  and  to  edito- 
rial writers  for  the  western  newspapers, 
who  generally  read  the  Nation  and  who 
were  apt  to  reproduce  its  line  of  reason- 
ing. When  I  look  back  to  1869,  the  year 
in  which  I  became  a  voter,  and  recall 
the  strenuous  opposition  to  civil  service 
reform  on  the  part  of  the  politicians  of 
both  parties,  and  the  indifference  of  the 
public,  I  confess  that  I  am  amazed  at 
the  progress  which  has  been  made.  Such 
a  reform  is  of  course  effected  only  by  a 
number  of  contributing  causes  and  some 
favoring  circumstances,  but  I  feel  cer- 
tain that  it  was  accelerated  by  the  con- 
stant and  vigorous  support  of  the  Nation. 

I  owe  to  the  Nation  more  than  to  any 
other  agency  my  correct  ideas  on  finance 
in  two  crises.  The  first  was  the  "green- 
back craze  "  from  1869  to  1875.  It  was 
easy  to  be  a  hard-money  man  in  Boston 
or  New  York,  where  one  might  imbibe 
the  correct  doctrine  as  one  everywhere 
takes  in  the  fundamental  principles  of 
civilization  and  morality.  But  it  was  not 
so  in  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois,  where 
the  severe  money  stringency  before  and 
during  the  panic  of  1873,  and  the  depres- 
sion after  it,  caused  many  good  and  re- 
presentative men  to  join  in  the  cry  for  a 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


327 


larger  issue  of  greenbacks  by  the  govern- 
ment. It  required  no  moral  courage  for 
the  average  citizen  to  resist  what  in  1875 
seemed  to  be  the  popular  move,  but  it  did 
require  the  correct  knowledge  and  the 
forcible  arguments  put  forward  weekly 
by  the  Nation.  I  do  not  forget  my 
indebtedness  to  John  Sherman,  Carl 
Schurz,  and  Senator  Thurman,  but  Sher- 
man and  Thurman  were  not  always 
consistent  on  this  question,  and  Schurz's 
voice  was  only  occasionally  heard;  but 
every  seven  days  came  the  Nation  with 
its  unremitting  iteration,  and  it  was  an 
iteration  varied  enough  to  be  always 
interesting  and  worthy  of  study.  As  one 
looks  back  over  nearly  forty  years  of  poli- 
tics one  likes  to  recall  the  occasions  when 
one  has  done  the  thing  one's  mature 
judgment  fully  approves;  and  I  like  to 
think  that  in  1875  I  refused  to  vote  for 
my  party's  candidate  for  governor,  the 
Democratic  William  Allen  whose  plat- 
form was  "  that  the  volume  of  currency 
be  made  and  kept  equal  to  the  wants  of 
trade." 

A  severer  ordeal  was  the  silver  ques- 
tion of  1878,  because  the  argument  for 
silver  was  more  weighty  than  that  for 
irredeemable  paper,  and  was  believed  to 
be  sound  by  business  men  of  both  parties. 
I  remember  that  many  representative 
business  men  of  Cleveland  used  to  as- 
semble around  the  large  luncheon  table 
of  the  Union  Club  and  discuss  the  pend- 
ing silver-coinage  bill,  which  received  the 
votes  of  both  of  the  senators  from  Ohio 
and  of  all  her  representatives  except 
Garfield.  The  gold  men  were  in  a  minor- 
ity also  at  the  luncheon  table,  but,  forti- 
fied by  the  Nation,  we  thought  that  we 
held  our  own  in  this  daily  discussion. 

In  my  conversion  from  a  belief  in  a 
protective  tariff  to  the  advocacy  of  one 
for  revenue  only,  I  recognize  an  obliga- 
tion to  Godkin,  but  his  was  only  one  of 
many  influences.  I  owe  the  Nation  much 
for  its  accurate  knowledge  of  foreign  af- 
fairs, especially  of  English  politics,  in 
which  its  readers  were  enlightened  by 
one  of  the  most  capable  of  living  men, 


Albert  V.  Dicey.  I  am  indebted  to  it 
for  sound  ideas  on  municipal  govern- 
ment and  for  its  advocacy  of  many  minor 
measures,  such  for  instance  as  the  In- 
ternational Copyright  Bill.  I  owe  it 
something  for  its  later  attitude  on  Re- 
construction, and  its  condemnation  of 
the  negro  carpet-bag  governments  in  the 
South.  In  a  word,  the  Nation  was  on 
the  side  of  civilization  and  good  political 
morals. 

Confessing  thus  my  great  political  in- 
debtedness to  Godkin,  it  is  with  some 
reluctance  that  I  present  a  certain  phase 
of  his  thought  which  was  regretted  by 
many  of  his  best  friends,  and  which  un- 
doubtedly limited  his  influence  in  the 
later  years  of  his  life.  A  knowledge  of 
this  eccentricity  is,  however,  essential  to 
a  thorough  comprehension  of  the  man. 
It  is  frequently  said  that  Godkin  rarely, 
if  ever,  made  a  retraction  or  a  rectifica- 
tion of  personal  charges  shown  to  be  in- 
correct. A  thorough  search  of  the  Na- 
tion's  columns  would  be  necessary  fully  to 
substantiate  this  statement,  but  my  own 
impression,  covering  as  it  does  thirty- 
three  years'  reading  of  the  paper  under 
Godkin's  control,  inclines  me  to  believe 
in  its  truth,  as  I  do  not  remember  an  in- 
stance of  the  kind. 

A  grave  fault  of  omission  occurs  to  me 
as  showing  a  regrettable  bias  in  a  leader 
of  intelligent  opinion.  January  5,  1897, 
General  Francis  A.  Walker  died.  He 
had  served  with  credit  as  an  officer  during 
our  Civil  War,  and  in  two  thoughtful 
books  had  made  a  valuable  contribu- 
tion to  its  military  history.  He  was  super- 
intendent of  the  United  States  Census  of 
1870,  and  did  work  that  statisticians  and 
historians  refer  to  with  gratitude  and 
praise.  For  sixteen  years  he  served  with 
honor  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of 
Technology  as  its  president.  He  was  a 
celebrated  political  economist,  his  books 
being  (I  think)  as  well  known  in  Eng- 
land as  in  this  country.  Yale,  Amherst, 
Harvard,  Columbia,  St.  Andrews,  and 
Dublin  conferred  upon  him  the  degree 
of  LL.  D.  Withal  he  served  his  city  with 


328 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


public  spirit.  Trinity  Church,  "  crowded 
and  silent  "  in  celebrating  its  last  service 
over  the  dead  body  of  Walker,  witnessed 
one  of  the  three  most  impressive  funerals 
which  Boston  has  seen  for  at  least  six- 
teen years  —  a  funeral  conspicuous  for 
the  attendance  of  a  large  number  of  dele- 
gates from  colleges  and  learned  societies. 

Walker  was  distinctly  of  the  intellectual 
elite  of  the  country.  But  the  Nation  made 
not  the  slightest  reference  to  his  death. 
In  the  issue  of  January  7,  appearing  two 
days  later,  I  looked  for  an  allusion  in 
"  The  Week,"  and  subsequently  for  one 
of  those  remarkable  and  discriminating 
eulogies,  which  in  smaller  type  follow 
the  editorials,  and  for  which  the  Nation 
is  justly  celebrated ;  but  there  was  not  one 
word.  You  might  search  the  1897  volume 
of  the  Nation  and,  but  for  a  brief  refer- 
ence in  the  April  "  Notes  "  to  Walker's 
annual  report  posthumously  published, 
you  would  not  learn  that  a  great  intellec- 
tual leader  had  passed  away.  I  wrote 
to  a  valued  contributor  of  the  Nation, 
a  friend  of  Walker,  of  Godkin,  and  of 
Wendell  P.  Garrison  (the  literary  editor), 
inquiring  if  he  knew  the  reason  for  the 
omission,  and  in  answer  he  could  only 
tell  me  that  his  amazement  had  been  as 
great  as  mine.  He  at  first  looked  eagerly, 
and,  when  the  last  number  came  in 
which  a  eulogy  could  possibly  appear,  he 
turned  over  the  pages  of  the  Nation  with 
sorrowful  regret,  hardly  believing  his  eyes 
that  the  article  he  sought  was  not  there. 

Now  I  suspect  that  the  reason  of  this 
extraordinary  omission  was  due  to  the 
irreconcilable  opinions  of  Walker  and 
Godkin  on  a  question  of  finance.  It  was 
a  period  when  the  contest  between  the  ad- 
vocates of  a  single  gold  standard  and  the 
bimetallists  raged  fiercely,  and  the  con- 
test had  not  been  fully  settled  by  the  elec- 
tion of  McKinley  in  1896.  Godkin  was 
emphatically  for  gold,  Walker  equally 
emphatic  for  a  double  standard.  And 
they  clashed.  It  is  a  notable  example  of 
the  peculiarity  of  Godkin,  to  allow  at  the 
portal  of  death  the  one  point  of  political 
policy  on  which  he  and  Walker  disagreed 


to  overweigh  the  nine  points  in  which 
they  were  at  one. 

Most  readers  of  the  Nation  noticed 
distinctly  that,  from  1895  on,  its  tone  be- 
came more  pessimistic  and  its  criticism 
was  marked  by  greater  acerbity.  Mr. 
Rollo  Ogden  in  his  biography  shows  that 
Godkin's  feeling  of  disappointment  over 
the  progress  of  the  democratic  experi- 
ment in  America,  and  his  hopelessness 
of  our  future,  began  at  an  earlier  date. 

During  his  first  years  in  the  United 
States,  he  had  no  desire  to  return  to  his 
mother  country.  When  the  financial  for- 
tune of  the  Nation  was  doubtful,  he  wrote 
to  Norton  that  he  should  not  go  back  to 
England  except  as  a  "  last  extremity. .  It 
would  be  going  back  into  an  atmosphere 
that  I  detest,  and  a  social  system  that  I 
have  hated  since  I  was  fourteen  years 
old." l  In  1889,  after  an  absence  of 
twenty-seven  years,  he  went  to  England. 
The  best  intellectual  society  of  London 
and  Oxford  opened  its  doors  to  him  and  he 
fell  under  its  charm  as  would  any  Amer- 
ican who  was  the  recipient  of  marked 
attentions  from  people  of  such  distinction. 
He  began  to  draw  contrasts  which  were 
not  favorable  to  his  adopted  country.  "  I 
took  a  walk  along  the  wonderful  Thames 
embankment,"  he  wrote,  "  a  splendid 
work,  and  I  sighed  to  think  how  impos- 
sible it  would  be  to  get  such  a  thing  done 
in  New  York.  The  differences  in  govern- 
ment and  political  manners  are  in  fact 
awful,  and  for  me  very  depressing.  Henry 
James  [with  whom  he  stopped  in  London] 
and  I  talk  over  them  sometimes  '  des 
larmes  dans  la  voix.' "  In  1894,  however, 
Godkin  wrote  in  the  Forum :  "  There  is 
probably  no  government  in  the  world  to- 
day as  stable  as  that  of  the  United  States. 
The  chief  advantage  of  democratic 
government  is,  in  a  country  like  this,  the 
enormous  force  it  can  command  in  an 
emergency."  2  But  next  year  his  pessi- 
mism is  clearly  apparent.  On  January 
12,  1895,  he  wrote  to  Norton:  "You 
see  I  am  not  sanguine  about  the  future 

1  Ogden,  ii,  140. 

2  Problems  of  Modern  Democracy,  209. 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


329 


of  democracy.  I  think  we  shall  have  a 
long  period  of  decline  like  that  which  fol- 
lowed (  ?)  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire, 
and  then  a  recrudescence  under  some 
other  form  of  society."  l 

A  number  of  things  had  combined  to 
affect  him  profoundly.  An  admirer  of 
Grover  Cleveland  and  three  times  a  warm 
supporter  of  his  candidacy  for  the  presi- 
dency, he  saw  with  regret  the  loss  of  his 
hold  on  his  party,  which  was  drifting  into 
the  hands  of  the  advocates  of  free  silver. 
Then  in  December,  1895,  Godkin  lost 
faith  in  his  idol.  "  I  was  thunderstruck 
by  Cleveland's  message  "  on  the  Venez- 
uela question,  he  wrote  to  Norton.  His 
submission  to  the  Jingoes  "  is  a  terrible 
shock."  2  Later,  in  a  calm  review  of  pass- 
ing events,  he  called  the  message  a  "  sud- 
den declaration  of  war  without  notice 
against  Great  Britain."  3  The  danger  of 
such  a  proceeding  he  had  pointed  out  to 
Norton:  Our  "immense  democracy, 
mostly  ignorant  .  .  .  is  constantly  on  the 
brink  of  some  frightful  catastrophe  like 
that  which  overtook  France  in  1870."  4 
In  1896  he  was  deeply  distressed  at  the 
country  having  to  choose  for  president 
between  the  arch-protectionist  McKin- 
ley  and  the  free-silver  advocate  Bryan, 
for  he  had  spent  a  good  part  of  his  life 
combatting  a  protective  tariff  and  advo- 
cating sound  money.  Though  the  Even- 
ing Post  contributed  powerfully  to  the 
election  of  McKinley,  from  the  fact  that 
its  catechism,  teaching  financial  truths 
in  a  popular  form,  was  distributed 
throughout  the  West  in  immense  quan- 
tities by  the  chairman  of  the  Republican 
National  Committee,  Godkin  himself  re- 
fused to  vote  for  McKinley  and  put  in  his 
ballot  for  Palmer,  the  gold  Democrat.5 

The  Spanish-American  war  seems  to 
have  destroyed  any  lingering  hope  that 
he  had  left  for  the  future  of  American  de- 
mocracy. He  spoke  of  it  as  "  a  perfectly 
avoidable  war  forced  on  by  a  band  of  un- 

1  Ogden,  ii,  199.  2  Ibid.,  u,  202. 

3  "Random   Recollections,"   Evening  Post, 


Dec.  30,  1899. 
4  Ogden,  ii,  202. 


5  Ibid.,  ii,214. 


scrupulous  politicians  "  who  had  behind 
them  "  a  roaring  mob."  6  The  taking  of 
the  Philippines  and  the  subsequent  war 
in  these  islands  confirmed  him  in  his 
despair.  In  a  private  letter  written  from 
Paris,  he  said,  "  American  ideals  were 
the  intellectual  food  of  my  youth,  and  to 
see  America  converted  into  a  senseless, 
Old- World  conqueror,  embitters  my 
age."7  To  another  he  wrote  that  his 
former  "  high  and  fond  ideals  about  Am- 
erica were  now  all  shattered."  8  "  Some- 
times he  seemed  to  feel,"  said  his  intim- 
ate friend  James  Bryce,  "  as  though  he 
had  labored  in  vain  for  forty  years."  9 

Such  regrets  expressed  by  an  honest  and 
sincere  man  with  a  high  ideal  must  com- 
mand our  respectful  attention.  Though 
due  in  part  to  old  age  and  enfeebled 
health,  they  are  still  more  attributable 
to  his  disappointment  that  the  country 
had  not  developed  in  the  way  that  he 
had  marked  out  for  her.  For  with  men  of 
Godkin's  positive  convictions,  there  is 
only  one  way  to  salvation.  Sometimes 
such  men  are  true  prophets;  at  other 
times,  while  they  see  clearly  certain  as- 
pects of  a  case,  their  narrowness  of 
vision  prevents  them  from  taking  in  the 
whole  range  of  possibilities,  especially 
when  the  enthusiasm  of  manhood  is  gone. 

Godkin  took  a  broader  view  in  1868, 
which  he  forcibly  expressed  in  a  letter  to 
the  London  Daily  News.  "  There  is  no 
careful  and  intelligent  observer,"  he 
wrote,  "  whether  he  be  a  friend  to  demo- 
cracy or  not,  who  can  help  admiring  the 
unbroken  power  with  which  the  popular 
common  sense  —  that  shrewdness  or 
intelligence,  or  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, I  care  not  what  you  call  it,  which  so 
often  makes  the  American  farmer  a  far 
better  politician  than  nine  tenths  of  the 
best  read  European  political  philosophers 
—  works  under  all  this  tumult  and  con- 
fusion of  tongues.  The  newspapers  and 
politicians  fret  and  fume  and  shout  and 
denounce;  but  the  great  mass,  the  nine- 

6  Ogden,  ii,  238.  7  Ibid.,  ii,  219. 

8  Ibid.,  ii,  237. 

9  Biographical  Studies,  378. 


330 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


teen  or  twenty  millions,  work  away  in 
the  fields  and  workshops,  saying  little, 
thinking  much,  hardy,  earnest,  self-re- 
liant, very  tolerant,  very  indulgent,  very 
shrewd,  but  ready  whenever  the  govern- 
ment needs  it,  with  musket,  or  purse, 
or  vote,  as  the  case  may  be,  laughing 
and  cheering  occasionally  at  public  meet- 
ings, but  when  you  meet  them  individu- 
ally on  the  high  road  or  in  their  own 
houses,  very  cool,  then,  sensible  men, 
filled  with  no  delusions,  carried  away 
by  no  frenzies,  believing  firmly  in  the 
future  greatness  and  glory  of  the  repub- 
lic, but  holding  to  no  other  article  of  faith 
as  essential  to  political  salvation." 

Before  continuing  the  quotation  I  wish 
to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  Godkin's 
illustration  was  more  effective  in  1868 
than  now :  then  there  was  a  solemn  and 
vital  meaning  to  the  prayers  offered  up  for 
persons  going  to  sea  that  they  might  be 
preserved  from  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 
"  Every  now  and  then,"  he  went  on  to 
say,  "as  one  watches  the  political  storms 
in  the  United  States,  one  is  reminded  of 
one's  feelings  as  one  lies  in  bed  on  a 
stormy  night  in  an  ocean  steamer  in  a 
head  wind.  Each  blow  of  the  sea  shakes 
the  ship  from  stem  to  stern,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  tremendous  one  seems  to 
paralyze  her.  The  machinery  seems  to 
stop  work;  there  is  a  dead  pause,  and  you 
think  for  a  moment  the  end  has  come; 
but  the  throbbing  begins  once  more,  and 
if  you  go  up  on  deck  and  look  down  in 
the  hold,  you  see  the  firemen  and  engin- 
eers at  their  posts,  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  anything  but  their  work,  and  as 
sure  of  getting  into  port  as  if  there  was 
not  a  ripple  on  the  water." 

This  letter  of  Godkin's  was  written  on 
January  8, 1868,  when  Congress  was  en- 
gaged in  the  reconstruction  of  the  South 
on  the  basis  of  negro  suffrage,  when  the 
quarrel  between  Congress  and  President 
Johnson  was  acute  and  his  impeach- 
ment not  two  months  off.  At  about  this 
time  Godkin  set  down  Evarts's  opinion 
that  "  we  are  witnessing  the  decline  of 
public  morality  which  usually  presages 


revolution,"  and  reported  that  Howells 
was  talking  "  despondently  like  every- 
body else  about  the  condition  of  morals 
and  manners."  1  Of  like  tenor  was  the 
opinion  of  an  arch-conservative,  George 
Ticknor,  written  in  1869,  which  bears  a 
resemblance  to  the  lamentation  of  God- 
kin's  later  years.  "  The  civil  war  of  '61," 
wrote  Ticknor,  "  has  made  a  great  gulf 
between  what  happened  before  it  in  our 
century  and  what  has  happened  since, 
or  what  is  likely  to  happen  hereafter.  It 
does  not  seem  to  me  as  if  I  were  living  in 
the  country  in  which  I  was  born,  or  in 
which  I  received  whatever  I  ever  got  of 
political  education  or  principles.  Web- 
ster seems  to  have  been  the  last  of  the 
Romans."  2 

In  1868  Godkin  was  an  optimist,  hav- 
ing a  cogent  answer  to  all  gloomy  predic- 
tions; from  1895  to  1902  he  was  a  pessi- 
mist; yet  reasons  just  as  strong  may  be 
adduced  for  considering  the  future  of  the 
country  secure  in  the  later  as  were  urged 
in  the  earlier  period.  But  as  Godkin  grew 
older,  he  became  a  moral  censor,  and  it 
is  characteristic  of  censors  to  exaggerate 
both  the  evil  of  the  present  and  the  good 
of  the  past.  Thus  in  1899  he  wrote  of  the 
years  1857-1860 : "  The  air  was  full  of  the 
real  Americanism.  The  American  gospel 
was  on  people's  lips  and  was  growing  with 
fervor.  Force  was  worshiped,  but  it  was 
moral  force :  it  was  the  force  of  reason,  of 
humanity,  of  human  equality,  of  a  good 
example.  The  abolitionist  gospel  seemed 
to  be  permeating  the  views  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  and  overturning  and  destroy- 
ing the  last  remaining  traditions  of  the 
old-world  public  morality.  It  was  really 
what  might  be  called  the  golden  age  of 
America."  3  These  were  the  days  of 
slavery.  James  Buchanan  was  president. 
The  internal  policy  of  the  party  in  power 
was  expressed  in  the  Dred  Scott  decision 
and  the  attempt  to  force  slavery  on  Kan- 
sas; the  foreign  policy,  in  the  Ostend 

1  Ogden,  i,  301,  307. 

2  Life  and  Letters,  ii,  485. 

8  "Random  Recollections,"  Evening  Post, 
Dec.  30,  1899. 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


331 


Manifesto,  which  declared  that  if  Spain 
would  not  sell  Cuba  the  United  States 
would  take  it  by  force.  The  rule  in  the 
civil  service  was,  "  to  the  victors  belong 
the  spoils."  And  New  York  City,  where 
Godkin  resided,  had  for  its  mayor  Fer- 
nando Wood. 

In  this  somewhat  rambling  paper  I 
have  subjected  Godkin  to  a  severe  test 
by  a  contrast  of  his  public  and  private 
utterances  covering  many  years,  not 
however  with  the  intention  of  accusing 
him  of  inconsistency.  Ferrero  writes  that 
historians  of  our  day  find  it  easy  to  ex- 
pose the  contradictions  of  Cicero,  but 
they  forget  that  probably  as  much  could 
be  said  of  his  contemporaries,  if  we  pos- 
sessed also  their  private  correspondence. 
Similarly,  it  is  a  pertinent  question  how 
many  journalists  and  how  many  public 
men  would  stand  as  well  as  Godkin  in 
this  matter  of  consistency  if  we  possessed 
the  same  abundant  records  of  their  ac- 
tivity ? 

The  more  careful  the  study  of  God- 
kin's  utterances,  the  less  will  be  the  irri- 
tation felt  by  men  who  love  and  believe 
in  their  country.  It  is  evident  that  he  was 
a  born  critic,  and  his  private  correspond- 
ence is  full  of  expressions  showing  that 
if  he  had  been  conducting  a  journal  in 
England,  his  criticism  of  certain  phases 
of  English  policy  would  have  been  as 
severe  as  those  which  he  indulged  in 
weekly  at  the  expense  of  this  country. 
"  How  Ireland  sits  heavy  on  your  soul !  " 
he  wrote  to  James  Bryce.  "  Salisbury 
was  an  utterly  discredited  Foreign  Secre- 
tary when  you  brought  up  Home  Rule. 
Now  he  is  one  of  the  wisest  of  men.  Bal- 
four  and  Chamberlain  have  all  been 
lifted  into  eminence  by  opposition  to 
Home  Rule  simply."  To  Professor  Nor- 
ton :  "  Chamberlain  is  a  capital  specimen 
of  the  rise  of  an  unscrupulous  politician.** 
Again:  "The  fall  of  England  into  the 
hands  of  a  creature  like  Chamberlain  re- 
calls the  capture  of  Rome  by  Alaric."  To 
another  friend :  "I  do  not  like  to  talk 
about  the  Boer  War,  it  is  too  painful.  .  .  . 
When  I  do  speak  of  the  war  my  language 


becomes  unfit  for  publication."  On  see- 
ing the  Queen  and  the  Prince  of  Wales 
driving  through  the  gardens  at  Windsor, 
his  comment  was,  "Fat,  useless  royalty;" 
and  in  1897  he  wrote  from  England  to 
Arthur  Sedgwick,  "  There  are  many 
things  here  which  reconcile  me  to  Amer- 
ica." l 

In  truth,  much  of  his  criticism  of 
America  is  only  an  elaboration  of  his 
criticism  of  democracy.  In  common  with 
many  Europeans  born  at  about  the  same 
time,  who  began  their  political  life  as 
radicals,  he  shows  his  keen  disappoint- 
ment that  democracy  has  not  regenerated 
mankind.  "  There  is  not  a  country  in  the 
world,  living  under  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment," he  wrote,  "  which  has  not  be- 
gun to  complain  of  the  decline  in  the 
quality  of  its  legislators.  More  and  more, 
it  is  said,  the  work  of  government  is  fall- 
ing into  the  hands  of  men  to  whom  even 
small  pay  is  important,  and  who  are  sus- 
pected of  adding  to  their  income  by  cor- 
ruption. The  withdrawal  of  the  more  in- 
telligent class  from  legislative  duties  is 
more  and  more  lamented,  and  the  com- 
plaint is  somewhat  justified  by  the  mass 
of  crude,  hasty,  incoherent  and  unneces- 
sary laws  which  are  poured  on  the  world 
at  every  session.'* 2 

I  have  thus  far  spoken  only  of  the 
political  influence  of  the  Nation,  but  its 
literary  department  was  equally  import- 
ant. Associated  with  Godkin  from  the 
beginning  was  Wendell  P.  Garrison,  who 
became  literary  editor  of  the  journal,  and 
who,  Godkin  wrote  in  1871,  "  has  really 
toiled  for  six  years  with  the  fidelity  of  a 
Christian  martyr  and  upon  the  pay  of  an 
oysterman."  3  I  have  often  heard  the 
literary  criticism  of  the  Nation  called 
destructive  like  the  political,  but,  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  with  less  reason.  Books  for 
review  were  sent  to  experts  in  different 
parts  of  the  country,  and  the  list  of  con- 
tributors included  many  professors  from 
various  colleges.  While  the  editor,  I  be- 

1  Ogdeu,  ii,  30,  136,  213,  214,  247,  253. 

2  Unforeseen  Tendencies  of  Democracy ,  117. 

3  Ogden,  ii,  51. 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


lieve,  retained,  and  sometimes  exercised, 
the  right  to  omit  parts  of  the  review  and 
make  some  additions,  yet  writers  drawn 
from  so  many  sources  must  have  pre- 
served their  own  individuality.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  the  Nation  gave  you 
the  impression  of  having  been  entirely 
written  by  one  man ;  but  whatever  there 
is  more  than  fanciful  in  that  impression 
must  have  arisen  from  the  general  agree- 
ment between  the  editor  and  the  contribu- 
tors. Paul  Leicester  Ford  once  told  me 
that,  when  he  wrote  a  criticism  for  the 
Nation,  he  unconsciously  took  on  the 
Nation's  style,  but  he  could  write  in 
that  way  for  no  other  journal,  nor  did 
he  ever  fall  into  it  in  his  books.  Garri- 
son was  much  more  tolerant  than  is  some- 
times supposed.  I  know  of  his  sending 
many  books  to  two  men,  one  of  whom 
differed  from  him  radically  on  the  negro 
question  and  the  other  on  socialism. 

It  is  only  after  hearing  much  detraction 
of  the  literary  department  of  the  Nation, 
and  after  considerable  reflection,  that  I 
have  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  it 
came  somewhat  near  to  realizing  criti- 
cism as  defined  by  Matthew  Arnold,  thus : 
"  A  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and 
propagate  the  best  that  is  known  and 
thought  in  the  world."  1  I  am  well  aware 
that  it  was  not  always  equal,  and  I  remem- 
ber two  harsh  reviews  which  ought  not 
to  have  been  printed:  but  this  simply 
proves  that  the  editor  was  human  and  the 
Nation  was  not  perfect.  I  feel  safe  how- 
ever in  saying  that  if  the  best  critical  re- 
views of  the  Nation  were  collected  and 
printed  in  book  form,  they  would  show 
an  aspiration  after  the  standard  erected 
by  Sainte-Beuve  and  Matthew  Arnold. 

Again  I  must  appeal  to  my  individual 
experience.  The  man  who  lived  in  the 
middle  West  for  the  twenty-five  years  be- 
tween 1865  and  1890  needed  the  literary 
department  of  the  Nation  more  than  one 
who  lived  in  Boston  or  New  York.  Most 
of  the  books  written  in  America  were  by 
New  England,  New  York,  and  Philadel- 
phia authors,  and  in  those  communities 
1  Essays,  38. 


literary  criticism  was  evolved  by  social 
contact  in  clubs  and  other  gatherings.  We 
had  nothing  of  the  sort  in  Cleveland, 
where  a  writer  of  books  walking  down 
Euclid  Avenue  would  have  been  stared 
at  as  a  somewhat  remarkable  personage. 
The  literary  columns  of  the  Nation  were 
therefore  our  most  important  link  be- 
tween our  practical  life  and  the  literary 
world.  I  used  to  copy  into  my  Index  Re- 
rum  long  extracts  from  important  re- 
views, in  which  the  writers  appeared  to 
have  a  thorough  grasp  of  their  subjects ; 
and  these  I  read  and  re-read  as  I  would 
a  significant  passage  in  a  favorite  book. 
In  the  days  when  many  of  us  were  pro- 
foundly influenced  by  Herbert  Spencer's 
Sociology,  I  was  somewhat  astonished  to 
read  one  week  in  the  Nation,  in  a  review 
of  Pollock's  Introduction  to  the  Science 
of  Politics,  these  words :  "  Herbert  Spen- 
cer's contributions  to  political  and  his- 
torical science  seem  to  us  mere  common- 
places, sometimes  false,  sometimes  true, 
but  in  both  cases  trying  to  disguise  their 
essential  flatness  and  commonness  in  a 
garb  of  dogmatic  formalism."  2  Such  an 
opinion,  evidencing  a  conflict  between 
two  intellectual  guides,  staggered  me,  and 
it  was  with  some  curiosity  that  I  looked 
subsequently,  when  the  Index  to  Peri- 
odicals came  out,  to  see  who  had  the 
temerity  thus  to  belittle  Spencer  —  the 
greatest  political  philosopher,  so  some 
of  his  disciples  thought,  since  Aristotle. 
I  ascertained  that  the  writer  of  the  re- 
view was  James  Bryce,  and  whatever  else 
might  be  thought,  it  could  not  be  denied 
that  the  controversy  was  one  between 
giants.  I  can,  I  think,  date  the  begin- 
ning of  my  emancipation  from  Spencer 
from  that  review  in  1891. 

In  the  same  year  I  read  a  discrimin- 
ating eulogy  of  George  Bancroft,  ending 
with  an  intelligent  criticism  of  his  history 
which  produced  on  me  a  marked  impres- 
sion. The  reviewer  wrote :  Bancroft  falls 
into  "  that  error  so  common  with  the 
graphic  school  of  historians  —  the  ex- 
aggerated estimate  of  manuscripts  or 
2  Vol.  52,  p.  267. 


Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin 


333 


fragmentary  material  at  the  expense  of 
what  is  printed  and  permanent.  .  .  . 
But  a  fault  far  more  serious  than  this  is 
one  which  Mr.  Bancroft  shared  with  his 
historical  contemporaries,  but  in  which 
he  far  exceeded  any  of  them  —  an  utter 
ignoring  of  the  very  meaning  and  sig- 
nificance of  a  quotation  mark."  *  Sound 
and  scientific  doctrine  is  this;  and  the 
whole  article  exhibited  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  our  colonial  and  revolutionary 
history  which  inspired  confidence  in  the 
conclusions  of  the  writer,  who,  I  later 
ascertained,  was  Thomas  Wentworth 
Higginson. 

These  two  examples  could  be  multi- 
plied at  length.  There  were  many  re- 
viewers from  Harvard  and  Yale;  and 
undoubtedly  other  eastern  colleges  were 
well  represented.  The  University  of 
Wisconsin  furnished  at  least  one  con- 
tributor, as  probably  did  the  University 
of  Michigan  and  other  western  colleges. 
Men  in  Washington,  New  York,  and 
Boston,  not  in  academic  life,  were  drawn 
upon;  a  soldier  of  the  Civil  War,  living  in 
Cincinnati,  a  man  of  affairs,  sent  many 
reviews.  James  Bryce  was  an  occasional 
contributor,  and  at  least  three  notable 
reviews  came  from  the  pen  of  Albert  V. 
Dicey.  In  1885,  Godkin,  in  speaking  of 
the  Nation's  department  of  Literature 
and  Art,  wrote  that "  the  list  of  those  who 
have  contributed  to  the  columns  of  the 
paper  from  the  first  issue  to  the  present 
day  contains  a  large  number  of  the  most 
eminent  names  in  American  literature, 
science,  art,  philosophy,  and  law." 2 
With  men  so  gifted,  and  chosen  from  all 
parts  of  the  country,  uniformly  destruc- 
tive criticism  could  not  have  prevailed. 
Among  them  were  optimists  as  well  as 
pessimists,  and  men  as  independent  in 
thought  as  was  Godkin  himself. 

Believing  that  Godkin's  thirty-five 
years  of  critical  work  was  of  great  benefit 
to  this  country,  I  have  sometimes  asked 
myself  whether  the  fact  of  his  being  a 
foreigner  has  made  it  more  irritating  to 
many  good  people,  who  term  his  crit- 

1  Vol.  52,  p.  66.  2  June  25,  1885. 


icism  "  fault-finding"  or  " scolding."  Al- 
though he  married  in  America  and  his 
home  life  was  centred  here,  he  confessed 
that  in  many  essential  things  it  was  a 
foreign  country.3  Some  readers  who  ad- 
mired the  Nation  told  Mr.  Bryce  that 
they  did  not  want  "  to  be  taught  by  a 
European  how  to  run  this  republic."  But 
Bryce,  who  in  this  matter  is  the  most  com- 
petent of  judges,  intimates  that  Godkin's 
foreign  education,  giving  him  detach- 
ment and  perspective,  was  a  distinct  ad- 
vantage. If  it  will  help  any  one  to  a  bet- 
ter appreciation  of  the  man,  let  Godkin 
be  regarded  as  "  a  chiel  amang  us  takin 
notes ;  "  as  an  observer  not  so  philosophic 
as  Tocqueville,  not  so  genial  and  sympa- 
thetic as  Bryce.  Yet,  whether  we  look 
upon  him  as  an  Irishman,  an  English- 
man, or  an  American,  let  us  rejoice  that 
he  cast  his  lot  with  us,  and  that  we  have 
had  the  benefit  of  his  illuminating  pen. 
He  was  not  always  right;  he  was  some- 
times unjust;  he  often  told  the  truth  with 
"  needless  asperity,"  4  as  Parkman  put 
it;  but  his  merits  so  outweighed  his  de- 
fects that  he  had  a  marked  influence  on 
opinion,  and  probably  on  history,  during 
his  thirty-five  years  of  journalistic  work, 
when,  according  to  James  Bryce,  he 
showed  a  courage  such  as  is  rare  every- 
where.5 General  J.  D.  Cox,  who  had 
not  missed  a  number  of  the  Nation  from 
1865  to  1899,  wrote  to  Godkin,  on  hearing 
of  his  prospective  retirement  from  the 
Evening  Post,  "  I  really  believe  that  ear- 
nest men,  all  over  the  land,  whether  they 
agree  with  you  or  differ,  will  unite  in  the 
exclamation  which  Lincoln  made  as  to 
Grant,  'we  can't  spare  this  man  —  he 

fight*-"" 

Our  country,  wrapped  up  in  no  smug 
complacency,  listened  to  this  man,  re- 
spected him  and  supported  him,  and  on 
his  death  a  number  of  people  were  glad 
to  unite  to  endow  a  lectureship  in  his 
honor  in  Harvard  University. 

In  closing,  I  cannot  do  better  than 

3  Ogden,  ii,  116.  *  Ibid.,  i,  252. 

5  Biographical  Studies,  370. 

6  Ogden,  ii,  229. 


334 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


quote  what  may  be  called  Godkin's  fare- 
well words,  printed  forty  days  before  the 
attack  of  cerebral  hemorrhage  which 
ended  his  active  career.  '*  The  election  of 
the  chief  officer  of  the  State  by  universal 
suffrage,"  he  wrote,  "by  a  nation  ap- 
proaching one  hundred  millions,  is  not 
simply  a  novelty  in  the  history  of  man's 
efforts  to  govern  himself,  but  an  experi- 
ment of  which  no  one  can  foresee  the  re- 
sult. The  mass  is  yearly  becoming  more 
and  more  difficult  to  move.  The  old  arts 
of  persuasion  are  already  ceasing  to  be 
employed  on  it.  Presidential  elections  are 
less  and  less  carried  by  speeches  and  ar- 
ticles. The  American  people  is  a  less  in- 
structed people  than  it  used  to  be.  The 
necessity  for  drilling,  organizing,  and 
guiding  it,  in  order  to  extract  the  vote 
from  it  is  becoming  plain;  and  out  of  this 
necessity  has  arisen  the  boss  system,  which 
is  now  found  in  existence  everywhere,  is 
growing  more  powerful,  and  has  thus  far 
resisted  all  attempts  to  overthrow  it." 

I  shall  not  stop  to  urge  a  qualification 
of  some  of  these  statements,  but  will  pro- 


ceed to  the  brighter  side  of  our  case, 
which  Godkin,  even  in  his  pessimistic 
mood,  could  not  fail  to  see  distinctly. 
"  On  the  other  hand,"  he  continued. 
"  I  think  the  progress  made  by  the  col- 
leges throughout  the  country,  big  and 
little,  both  in  the  quality  of  the  instruction 
and  in  the  amount  of  money  devoted  to 
books,  laboratories,  and  educational  fa- 
cilities of  all  kinds  is  something  unparal- 
leled in  the  history  of  the  civilized  world. 
And  the  progress  of  the  nation  in  all  the 
arts,  except  that  of  government,  in  science, 
in  literature,  in  commerce,  in  invention, 
is  something  unprecedented  and  becomes 
daily  more  astonishing.  How  it  is  that 
this  splendid  progress  does  not  drag  on 
politics  with  it  I  do  not  profess  to 
know."  l 

Let  us  be  as  hopeful  as  was  Godkin  in 
his  earlier  days,  and  rest  assured  that  in- 
tellectual training  will  eventually  exert 
its  power  in  politics,  as  it  has  done  in 
business  and  in  other  domains  of  active 
life. 

1  Evening  Post,  Dec.  30,  1899. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 


BY   JAMES   P.    MUNROE 


"  THE  centre  of  population,  now  in 
Indiana,  is  traveling  straight  towards  the 
middle  point  of  Illinois.  The  centre  of 
manufacturing  has  reached  as  yet  only 
eastern  Ohio,  but  is  marching  in  a  bee- 
line  for  Chicago."  This,  the  Illinois 
boast,  is  perhaps  with  somewhat  rare 
coincidence  the  truth ;  and  that  state,  in 
more  than  one  meaning,  is  soon  to  be  the 
controlling  Heart  of  the  United  States. 
Therefore  it  is  of  vital,  as  well  as  of  curi- 
ous interest  for  New  Englanders  —  fast 
becoming  mere  onlookers  in  the  national 
administration  —  to  examine  and,  so  to 
speak,  to  auscultate  this  organ  which  will 
increasingly  regulate  the  body  politic. 


Illinois  drips  fatness.  Its  black,  oozy 
soil  which  eagerly  devours  one's  shoes; 
its  corn  that,  refined  by  selective  pro- 
cesses, almost  exudes  oil;  its  hogs  that 
can  scarcely  see  through  the  deep  folds  of 
their  unctuous  envelope;  its  beefsteaks, 
pork-chops,  and  corn-cakes,  glistening 
from  the  ceaseless  sizzling  of  the  frying- 
pan;  its  very  speech,  with  mouthed  syl- 
lables and  exaggerated  r's,  —  all  are  fat 
with  a  fatness  almost  indecent  to  the  spare 
New  Englander.  Moreover  the  oleagin- 
ous carnival  seems  only  just  begun.  Fer- 
tilizers and  nitrogen-collectors  are  mak- 
ing the  sand-dunes  blossom;  swamp- 
draining  and  well-driving  are  equalizing 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


335 


conditions  of  moisture;  rotation  of  crops 
is  averting  possible  soil-exhaustion ;  while 
scientific  breeding  is  enriching  the  corn 
at  will  and  is  blanketing  the  corn-fed  hog 
with  ever  thicker  layers  of  obesity. 

To  classify  the  huge  industries  of  the 
stockyards  —  ventilated  in  the  press  if  in 
no  other  way  —  as  agriculture,  is  to  place 
Illinois  first  among  the  farming  states. 
To  call  them  manufactures  —  and  the 
people  of  Chicago  generally  do  both  — 
is  to  give  her  the  rank  of  third  among 
industrial  commonwealths.  She  needs  no 
forced  construction  of  words,  however, 
and  she  is  not  dependent  upon  Chicago 
alone,  to  put  her  in  the  forefront  of  man- 
ufacturing communities.  For,  having 
learned  how  to  extract  a  high  caloric  from 
her  low-grade  coals;  having  begun,  in 
dearth  of  other  large  mineral  deposits,  to 
coin  her  clays  into  those  bricks,  tiles,  and 
cements  which,  with  steel,  are  the  essence 
of  modern  building;  possessing  lake, 
river,  steam,  and  electric  transportation 
uninterrupted  by  any  mountain  or  desert 
barriers,  she"  is  creating  enormous  enter- 
prises which  will  soon  place  her  at  the 
very  head. 

Illinois  takes  toll,  too,  upon  most  of  the 
main  highways  of  America.  In  the  wide 
area  between  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  the 
Rocky  Mountains  she  stands  at  the  mid- 
dle point.  The  raw  and  manufactured 
products  of  the  earth  —  north,  south, 
east,  and  west  —  must,  in  our  seething 
traffic,  surge  largely  through  her  terri- 
tory; she  is,  and  from  geographical  ne- 
cessity must  always  be,  the  chief  sluice- 
way for  this  ceaseless  flood  of  things. 
More  than  this,  the  multitudinous  sea  of 
restless  Americans : —  old  ones  and  new 
ones  —  pours  into  and  through  her 
avenues  of  travel.  Unlike  New  York  and 
Boston,  mere  filters  through  which  the 
immigrant  stream  rushes  or  trickles, 
leaving  behind  the  scum  and  dregs  of 
alien  peoples,  Illinois  is  a  smelting-pot  in 
which  the  stronger  and  more  active  for- 
eigners are  fused  with  one  another  and 
with  the  older  stock  into  real  American 
citizenship. 


The  established  population  of  Illinois, 
moreover,  is  already  a  remarkable  alloy 
of  North  and  South;  for,  from  Chicago 
down  to  a  line  passing  irregularly 
through  its  centre,  the  state  is  of  Yankee 
origin,  having  been  settled  mainly  by 
New  England  pioneers;  but  from  the 
Ohio  River  north  to  that  irregular  line, 
the  Illinois  stock  is  distinctively  southern. 
The  "  Egyptians,"  as  they  call  the  na- 
tives of  Cairo,  Thebes,  and  other  gro- 
tesque namesakes  of  Old  Nile,  are  in 
looks,  in  dialect,  in  habits  of  thought,  and 
in  instincts  and  traditions,  markedly  of 
the  South. 

An  immigrant  who  gets  as  far  from 
the  coast  as  Illinois  is  almost  certain  to 
become  Americanized,  since  the  journey 
to  the  Atlantic  is  too  great  to  be  taken 
often,  and  there  can  be,  therefore,  little 
of  that  sailing  back  and  forth  which 
makes  the  immigrant  of  the  seacoast 
cities  frequently  a  denationalized  being, 
severed  from  the  old  world,  but  not  yet 
joined  to  the  new.  But  in  the  smaller 
cities  and  in  the  towns  of  Illinois,  as  well 
as  in  those  of  other  Middle- West  States, 
amalgamation  has  so  far  progressed  that 
one  may  say,  Here  is  social  and  political 
America  as  it  will  be  when  immigration 
shall  have  become  normal,  when  the  un- 
settled spaces  shall  have  been  filled  up, 
when  the  face  of  substantially  the  whole 
country  shall  have  become  thick-sown 
with  towns  joined  to  one  another  and  to 
the  great  cities  by  every  form  of  present 
and  yet  undiscovered  means  of  inter- 
'course. 

Such  is  the  Illinois  of  to-day.  In  prime- 
val times,  however  (that  is,  about  forty 
years  ago),  she  was  as  lean  as  she  now 
is  fat.  The  state  has  not  simply  gained 
materially,  —  she  has  been  regenerated ; 
she  is  a  Cinderella  translated  from  the 
ash-heap  to  the  palace  among  states. 
Less  than  thirty  years  ago  Illinois  was  a 
place  disheartened.  New  Englanders, 
tired  of  attempting  to  raise  crops  on 
stone-heaps,  had  gone  hopefully  out  to 
this  frontier  where  a  pebble  is  a  curiosity. 
Southerners,  set  adrift  by  war  or  averse  to 


336 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


working  with  emancipated  blacks,  had 
come  North  to  make  fortunes  out  of 
corn.  The  Easterners,  however,  still  clung 
to  the  primitive  agricultural  methods  of 
New  England,  while  the  Mississippians 
tried  to  cultivate  cereals  in  the  same  way 
as  cotton.  The  breaking  up  of  so  much 
virgin  land,  moreover,  opened  a  very 
Pandora's  box  of  miasmic  fevers.  A 
people  who  knew  nothing  of  the  habits  of 
the  mosquito  fought  the  "  chills,"  as  they 
indiscriminately  called  the  fevers,  with 
whiskey  and  quinine.  Two-thirds  of  the 
population  of  the  Southern  Illinois  bot- 
tom-lands died,  in  those  pioneer  days,  of 
malaria  and  of  diseases  which  found 
ready  entrance  into  constitutions  weak- 
ened by  its  assaults.  The  chills,  the  bad 
whiskey,  and  the  adulterated  quinine, 
produced  a  type  little  more  ambitious 
than  the  Georgia  "  Cracker."  The  once 
active  Yankee,  weakened  by  malaria, 
depressed  by  the  flat  monotony,  con- 
taminated by  the  shif  tlessness  of  his  poor- 
white  neighbors,  became  even  more  inert 
than  they;  and  thus  was  produced  the 
typical,  hideous  Illinois  landscape  of 
about  1880. 

Treeless  distances  were  broken  only 
by  rare  bits  of  "  timber,"  or  by  hedges 
of  the  melancholy  osage  orange,  planted 
as  breaks  against  the  frightful  winds. 
Roads  that  were  impassable  for  a  third 
of  the  year,  mountainous  with  ruts  for  an- 
other third,  and  whirling  dust-breeders 
during  the  remainder,  sprawled  untidily 
in  miscellaneous  directions.  There  were 
no  bridges 'to  speak  of;  but  there  were 
fearful  mud-fords  called  "  slews,"  into 
which  one  plunged  at  a  terrifying  angle 
from  the  hither  brink,  through  which 
the  natives  urged  the  horses  or  oxen  by 
merciless  beatings  and  incredible  oaths, 
and  out  of  which  it  seemed,  as  in 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  impossible  for  such 
sinners  ever  to  emerge. 

The  so-called  towns,  clinging  here  and 
there  to  the  single-track  railroads,  were 
mere  huddles  of  one-storied  shacks,  pre- 
tending to  be  two-storied  by  the  palpable 
device  of  a  clapboarded  false  front.  At 


long  distances  from  these  towns,  and 
from  one  another,  would  be  found  a 
house,  single-roomed,  with  a  cock-loft, 
and  set  upon  stilts  to  form  a  shelter  for 
the  pigs.  Its  front  steps  were  a  slanting 
board,  like  the  approach  to  a  hen-roost, 
and  it  was  swept  inside  and  out,  above 
and  below,  by  every  blast  from  heaven. 
Outside  the  door,  just  where  the  sink- 
spout  emptied,  would  be  dug  a  shallow 
well,  its  water  so  rich  in  lime  as  actually 
to  taste  of  it,  and  as  a  consequence  so 
hard  that  a  person  who  should  spend 
his  whole  life  in  Illinois  would  be  a  sedi- 
mentary deposit  of  the  dust  and  mud  of 
all  his  days.  Scattered  around  were  a  few 
sheds  to  give  pretense  of  shelter  to  the  ill- 
kept  cattle;  scattered  still  farther  around, 
and  shelterless,  were  agricultural  ma- 
chines, once  costly,  but  now  rusted  and 
practically  useless;  and  spreading  away 
as  far  as  one  could  see  was  an  ocean  of 
the  Illinois  staple,  corn. 

Were  the  harvest  promising,  however, 
along  came  the  chinch-bug,  the  army- 
worm,  or  the  locust,  to  eat  it  clean,  or  the 
prairie  fire  to  burn  it.  Were  it  brought 
actually  to  the  point  of  a  fine  harvest, 
there  would  be  no  demand,  or  the  rickety 
railroads  would  be  so  choked  with  freight 
that  the  grain  could  not  reach  a  market, 
and  must  be  used  for  household  fuel. 
Working  listlessly  in  those  fields  were 
gaunt  men,  shaking  with  "chills;"  in 
that  shanty  were  a  gaunt  woman  and 
many  cadaverous  children,  also  shaking 
with  chills,  the  lives  of  all  of  them  a  seem- 
ingly hopeless  struggle  against  the  ele- 
ments, sickness,  poor  food,  and  the  un- 
certainty of  "  craps." 

So  far  as  they  could  navigate  the  prairie 
and  the  "  slews,"  the  people  were  hos- 
pitable, and  at  harvest-time  the  neighbors 
over  a  wide  circle  would,  in  turn,  help 
each  the  other  with  his  crops.  At  funer- 
als, too,  —  almost  the  sole  diversion,  — 
friends  and  relatives  would  come  from 
far  and  near,  and  would  encamp  for 
a  fortnight  upon  the  bereft,  eating  in 
melancholy  festivity  the  funeral  fried 
meats.  Religion,  like  everything  else, 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


337 


was  rugged  and  strong,  for  the  pains  of 
eternal  damnation  were  far  more  con- 
ceivable than  the  blessings  of  paradise. 
Schools  were  scarce  and  doctors  scarcer. 
In  short,  there  was  found  in  Illinois  at 
that  time  frontier  life  with  none  of  the 
excitement  which  comes  from  the  dangers 
of  exploration,  but  with  all  the  discom- 
fort arising  out  of  remoteness  from  even 
the  rudiments  of  civilized  existence. 

What  has  transformed  the  fever- 
stricken,  mortgage-ridden,  and  poverty- 
blasted  Illinois  of  the  eighties  into  the 
thriving,  hustling  heart  of  the  United 
States?  Two  things:  modern  science, 
and  real,  effective  education.  Draining 
the  fields  and  discovering  the  proximate 
cause  of  malaria  practically  destroyed  the 
chills  and  fever;  extending  and  modern- 
izing railroad  and  steamship  lines  gave 
ready  access  to  the  markets  of  the  world ; 
the  telephone  put  an  end  to  the  horrible 
isolation  and  loneliness  of  the  farm- 
house; the  interurban  trolley-line  made 
pathways  over  the  muddy  prairies  and 
bottomless  "slews;"  cement  manufac- 
turing enabled  the  smallest  hamlet  to 
build  sidewalks  and  even  to  pave  streets ; 
while,  as  for  education,  the  farmers  have 
been  systematically  and  wisely  instructed 
how  to  make  farming  pay. 

This  education  of  the  farmer  has  been 
carried  on  in  at  least  two  ways.  At  the 
time  when  the  face  of  Illinois  was  that  of 
grim  desolation,  certain  shrewd  investors 
—  notably  some  from  Great  Britain  — 
bought  up,  for  the  proverbial  songj  great 
areas  of  these  poorly  tilled  farms  from 
their  ague-stricken  owners,  and  began  to 
cultivate  them  in  wholesale,  scientific 
ways.  So  large  grew  these  foreign  hold- 
ings —  in  some  eases  embracing  the 
greater  part  of  a  county  —  that  the  state 
government  became  alarmed  and  passed 
legislation  forbidding  the  inheritance  of 
land  excepting  by  bona  fide  citizens  of 
Illinois.  These  and  other  extensive  farms, 
however,  all  skillfully  and  very  profitably 
developed,  served,  and  still  serve,  as  well- 
appreciated  object  lessons  to  the  lesser 
owners,  and  have  done  much  to  revolu- 
VOL.  102-  NO.  3 


tionize  the  farming  methods  of  the  entire 
Middle  West. 

The  main  work  of  education,  however, 
has  been  performed  by  the  state,  entering 
the  field  as  a  practical  teacher  of  scientific 
farming.  The  State  University  and  Agri- 
cultural Experiment  Station  together  be- 
gan the  work,  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago, 
of  finding  out  what  might  be  the  best 
crops  for  Illinois,  how  those  crops  could 
most  profitably  be  raised,  in  what  ways 
they  might  be  increased;  and  then,  of 
teaching  all  this  to  the  adult  farmer 
through  farmers'  institutes,  local  experi- 
ment stations,  and  demonstration  trains, 
and  to  the  farmer's  son  through  courses 
in  agriculture  in  the  University. 

The  State  University  cannot  be  ac- 
quitted of  all  ulterior  motive  in  this;  on 
the  contrary,  it  deliberately  developed 
this  sort  of  education  in  order  to  catch  the 
farmers'  votes.  For  years  that  State  Uni- 
versity had  been  going  to  the  capitol, 
humbly  begging  for  ten  thousand  or 
twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  finding  it 
almost  impossible  to  secure  even  that  pit- 
tance from  rural  members  who  could  see 
nothing  for  them,  directly  or  indirectly,  in 
the  University.  But  when  Dr.  Andrew  S. 
Draper  was  made  president,  he  and  some 
of  his  colleagues  among  the  trustees  and 
faculty  determined  to  win  the  farmer  vote 
by  proving  that  the  University  could  put 
millions  of  dollars  into  the  pockets  of  the 
farmers  by  increasing  the  yield  of  corn,  by 
teaching  how  to  utilize  swampy  and  sandy 
lands,  by  improving  the  breeds  of  cattle, 
by  developing  dairying,  etc.  Nobly  the 
University  fulfilled  its  self-imposed  task, 
and  generously  did  the  farmer-legislature 
respond  with  appropriations,  so  that  to- 
day it  gives  millions  where  formerly  it 
begrudged  ten-thousands. 

Other  elements,  of  course,  have  entered 
in.  The  rapid  growth  of  the  University  of 
Chicago  has  spurred  the  country  districts 
into  a  rivalry  most  profitable  to  the  State 
University  at  Urbana ;  and  a  skillful  type 
of  advertising,  appealing  to  the  average 
Westerner's  love  of  bigness,  has  been  used 
with  consummate  skill.  Whatever  the 


338 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


means,  however, — and  they  have  all  been 
honorable,  if  more  breezily  Western  than 
those  to  which  the  East  is  accustomed,  — 
and  whatever  some  of  the  ill  effects  upon 
the  University,  the  results  in  the  state  as 
a  whole  have  been  little  short  of  magical. 
For  the  University,  in  its  campaign  for 
votes  and  funds,  has  not  stopped  at  the 
farmers.  It  has  sedulously  catered,  too, 
in  the  good  meaning  of  that  word,  to  the 
manufacturers.  The  engineering  side  has 
grown  even  faster  than  the  agricultural; 
and  its  schools,  housed  in  a  number  of 
well-designed  buildings,  are  fast  taking 
high  rank.  These  schools  are  making 
themselves  directly  useful  to  the  state, 
among  many  other  ways,  by  conducting 
experiments  upon  the  low-grade  coals  of 
Illinois,  burning  them  with  every  sort  of 
grate-bar,  under  every  conceivable  con- 
dition, and  in  all  kinds  of  mixtures,  in 
order  to  determine  in  what  ways  they  may 
be  made  to  produce  the  most  power  at 
the  least  expense.  They  are  carrying  on 
an  elaborate  series  of  tests  upon  concrete, 
plain  and  reenforced,  to  ascertain  the 
value  of  the  various  mixtures  and  the 
behavior  of  this  new  building  material 
under  all  manner  of  demands.  And  in 
cooperation  with  the  Illinois  Central 
Railroad  and  the  interurban  railways, 
the  University  maintains  two  elaborately 
fitted  dynamometer  cars,  running  them 
for  long  distances,  and  placing  the  re- 
sults at  the  disposition  of  the  state. 

What  have  been  some  of  the  effects, 
from  the  standpoint  of  a  casual  Easterner, 
of  the  enormous  and  comparatively  sud- 
den development  of  this  great,  pivotal 
state  ?  The  characteristic  most  obvious, 
as  has  been  said,  is  that  of  omnipresent 
fatness,  and  of  the  materialistic  attitude 
of  mind  which  such  plenteousness  breeds. 
Fertility,  be  it  of  fields  or  of  beasts,  is 
a  topic  which  never  wearies,  and  which 
makes  one  feel  at  last  that  the  very  sows 
and  cornstalks  are  in  a  conscious  race  for 
fecundity.  The  stockyards  are  proudly 
shown,  not  as  a  triumph  of  modern  inge- 
nuity, but  as  a  spectacle  of  animals  by 
the  acre.  The  increased  oil  of  the  select- 


ively bred  corn  is  exhibited,  not  as  an 
intellectual  conquest  of  the  chemist,  but 
as  a  feeder  of  hogs  still  fatter  than  before. 
Even  the  frenzy  of  the  wheat-pit,  and 
the  fortune-hunting  schemes  which  rob 
the  poor  of  their  savings,  are  attempts  to 
make  money  breed  faster  than  it  has  any 
right,  or  real  power,  to  do. 

The  dominant  note  in  conversation, 
therefore,  is  that  of  gain,  —  gain  in  acre- 
age, gain  in  yield,  gain  in  income ;  and  to 
one  who  looked  no  further  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  mass  of  the  people  are  sor- 
did and  materialistic,  are  mere  worship- 
ers of  the  fast-waxing  dollar.  It  is  this 
superficial  materialism,  with  its  fungus- 
growth  of  hideousness,  that  makes  the 
New  England  traveler  condemn,  in  large 
part,  Chicago.  A  lake-front  unsurpassed 
in  possibilities  of  beauty  is  usurped  by 
the  tracks  and  purlieus  of  an  ill-kept  rail- 
road. Business  streets  that,  ten  years 
after  the  great  fire,  promised  to  be  almost 
grand  in  their  width  and  perspective,  are 
now  mere  smoky  tunnels  under  the  filth- 
dripping  gridirons  of  the  elevated  rail- 
ways. State  Street,  which  then  had  the 
elements  of  a  noble  main  avenue,  af- 
fronts one  with  the  unspeakable  lines  of 
cast-iron  department  stores.  Palaces  on 
certain  avenues  are  cheek-by-jowl  with 
dilapidated  hovels;  the  semi-detached 
villas  farther  out  of  town  are,  many  of 
them,  wretchedly  bedraggled;  and  the 
whole  impression  left  by  large  areas  is 
a  mingling  of  interminable  clothes-lines 
and  flaming,  peeling  bill-boards.  The 
city's  buildings  are  black  with  the  smoke 
blanketing  the  sky;  factories,  each  more 
hideous  than  the  other,  intrude  almost 
everywhere;  and  the  vile  river,  only 
partly  cleansed  by  the  drainage  canal, 
makes  even  suicide  abhorrent.  One  does 
not  hesitate  thus  to  scourge  Chicago,  for 
she  has  no  excuse.  She  cannot  plead 
newness,  for  she  is  no  younger  than 
Cleveland,  which  is  beautiful;  she  can- 
not plead  swiftness  of  growth,  for  the 
magnificent  city  of  Berlin  has  developed 
quite  as  rapidy  as  she. 

Leaving  Chicago,  however,  —  and  the 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


339 


city  has  annexed  so  much  territory  that  it 
takes  an  hour  or  two  to  do  so,  —  and 
getting  out  upon  the  uncontaminated 
prairie,  one  realizes  that  this  vast  area  of 
farms  and  towns  and  small  cities  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  the  Babel  metro- 
polis ;  and  it  is  this  rural  Illinois  which  is 
the  true  flesh  and  blood  of  the  great  heart 
of  the  United  States.  The  Atlantic  sea- 
board states,  with  the  ocean  in  front  of 
them  and  the  mountains  behind  them, 
with  Europe  and  South  America  and  the 
islands  of  the  sea  feeding  them  with  ideas 
more  or  less  new  to  the  United  States, 
will  never  wholly  lose  their  individuality. 
The  Pacific  states,  for  like  reasons,  will 
have  distinctiveness  for  all  time  to  come. 
But  the  enormous  basin  between  the  Ap- 
palachians and  the  Rockies  will,  as  it 
consolidates,  grow,  like  its  monotonous 
plains,  more  and  more  indistinguishable, 
the  one  section  from  the  other,  until  it 
will  think  and  act  and  live  substantially 
as  a  unit,  dominating  by  its  bulk  and  the 
vastness  of  its  homogeneity  the  political 
life  of  the  United  States.  As  the  advance 
type  of  what  this  interior  empire  is  to  be, 
—  indeed  as  the  dominant  pioneer  which 
will  largely  impose  its  own  characteris- 
tics upon  that  extensive  area,  —  Illinois 
should  have  the  careful  study  of  all 
thoughtful  Americans. 

The  first  characteristic  which  strikes 
one  in  the  Illinois  people  is  their  friendli- 
ness. It  is  said  of  the  Australians  that 
the  question  of  ancestry  is  tabooed  in 
polite  society,  lest  investigation  hark  back 
to  Botany  Bay.  While  the  Middle  West- 
erners have  no  such  fear,  while  most  of 
them,  did  they  choose,  could  go  back  to 
the  purest  Southern  and  New  England 
strains,  so  many  of  them  have  come  "  out 
of  the  everywhere  "  that  they  do  not  stop 
to  inquire  who  was  a  man's  grandfather, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  bid  him  welcome 
without  even  waiting  to  be  introduced. 
The  old  hospitality  of  pioneer  days  has 
survived,  and  opens  the  house  without 
apology  for  its  shortcomings,  or  lamenta- 
tions that  it  is  not  more  fit.  This  kind  of 
hospitality,  unfortunately,  is  becoming 


obsolete  in  Massachusetts,  where  to-day, 
in  order  to  see  his  neighbors,  a  man  must 
put  on  evening  dress,  play  bridge,  and 
eat  caterers'  ice-cream. 

A  second  thing  which  impresses  a  New 
Englander  is  the  restlessness  and  abrupt- 
ness born  of  lifelong  "  hustle."  The 
people  of  Illinois  are  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry  to  mind  the  little  niceties  of  etir 
quette;  they  say  the  blunt  thing  because 
it  takes  less  time  than  courtesy ;  their  be- 
havior in  the  hours  of  supposed  relaxa- 
tion is  that  which  the  Massachusetts  man 
keeps  for  his  office,  where  he  has  to  be 
brusque  in  order  to  get  through.  This 
gives  everything  in  Illinois  an  air  of 
ceaseless  business,  and  leads  to  the  un- 
warranted conclusion  that  all  Westerners 
(as  some  of  them  do)  sleep  in  their  work- 
ing clothes. 

A  third  characteristic  of  the  people  of 
the  Middle  West  is  their  large  view  of 
things,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  their 
way  of  looking  at  things  in  the  large.  Be- 
cause of  the  habit  of  ploughing  fields  by 
the  square  mile  and  of  killing  pigs  by  the 
carload,  the  man  of  Illinois  deals  in  com- 
mercial ideas  by  the  yard,  not,  as  East- 
erners do,  by  the  quarter-inch.  He  plays 
for  high  stakes  in  business,  and  if,  as  is 
likely,  he  loses,  he  plays  again.  Whether 
he  is  up  or  whether  he  is  down  seems 
to  matter  little,  provided  he  keeps  in  the 
game.  This  sweeping  habit  of  mind, 
however,  is  fatal  to  fine  analysis;  and 
while,  for  example,  the  Illinois  teacher  is 
ready  to  try  splendid,  comprehensive  ex- 
periments in  the  schools  and  colleges, 
while  he  handles  the  problems  of  educa- 
tion as  Napoleon  handled  strategy,  he  is 
lacking  in  intellectual  discrimination  and 
finesse.  As  a  result  of  this  habit  of  mind, 
most  of  these  Middle  Westerners  seem 
to  the  Easterner  superficial  and  inclined 
to  accept  what  Gelett  Burgess  so  cleverly 
calls  "  Bromidioms  "  for  revelations  of 
new  truth. 

What  strikes  one  most  startlingly, 
however,  in  the  people  of  Illinois  is  their 
lack  of  imagination.  This,  moreover,  is 
a  fundamental  deficiency.  They  are  a 


340 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


plains  people,  with  no  mountains  to  vary 
their  view-point,  no  changes  of  altitude  to 
foster  modifications  of  temperament,  no 
salt  breezes  to  make  their  brains  tingle, 
no  expanse  of  ocean,  no  beetling  cliffs,  no 
roar  of  breakers,  no  play  of  color  upon 
the«sea,  no  awful  ness  of  tempest  on  ocean 
and  on  mountain,  none  of  those  natural 
phenomena  —  except  perhaps  cyclones 
—  which  are  absolutely  essential,  not  only 
to  the  making  of  poets,  but  also  to  the 
developing  of  the  humbler  imaginations 
of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry.  Of  course 
many  of  them  travel,  —  journeying  they 
treat  in  the  same  large  way  as  business, 
thinking  nothing  of  traveling  four  hours 
by  train  to  buy  a  spool  of  thread,  —  but 
the  rank  and  file  of  them  do  not  go  far 
enough  from  home  ever  to  see  the  ocean 
or  to  climb  a  respectable  hill. 

There  is,  therefore,  and  always  must  be, 
over  this  vast  central  United  States  this 
limitation  of  experience  which  places  the 
natives,  figuratively  as  well  as  literally, 
upon  a  lower  plane  than  mountain  and 
coast-dwellers.  They  have  some,  and  will 
have  more,  idealism;  but  it  is  the  ideal- 
ism of  doing  things  on  a  large  scale,  not 
that  of  seeking  to  attain  such  perfection 
as  only  the  highly  developed  imagina- 
tion is  able  to  portray.  Their  ideals  for 
America  are,  and  probably  always  will 
be,  sturdy  but  commonplace,  —  not  like 
those,  therefore,  of  the  men  who  con- 
ceived the  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  framed  the  Constitution. 

Because  of  these  fundamental  quali- 
ties, Mr.  Roosevelt  and  Mr.  Cannon 
(from  Danville,  Illinois)  are  to  these 
Middle  Westerners  the  greatest  and  wis- 
est among  statesmen.  Both  these  leaders 
are  honest,  like  the  average  of  men  in 
Illinois;  both  are  "  hustlers"  like  them; 
the  one  is  nervously  busy,  the  other  is 
shrewdly  canny,  like  them;  both  are 
blunt,  like  them;  both  are  fighters,  as 
those  men  of  Illinois  have  had  to  be; 
both  lack  imagination,  and  therefore 
utter  long-accepted  platitudes  with  the 
sonority  of  new-found  wisdom ;  and,  like 
those  folk  of  the  Middle  West,  both  are 


genuine  democrats,  accepthig  men  for 
what  they  are,  and  liking  them,  not  be- 
cause they  had  good  grandfathers,  but 
because  they  seem  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
good  grandfathers.  Political  leaders  of 
the  Roosevelt  and  Cannon  type  are 
doubtless  to  be,  therefore,  the  very  high- 
est which  we  can  ever  again  reach  in 
statesmanship,  and  democracy  of  the  Illi- 
nois type  is  to  be  the  standard  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

New  England  must  recognize  this,  ac- 
cept it,  and  govern  herself  accordingly. 
She  must  appreciate,  not  only  that  she 
never  again  can  take  that  leading  part  in 
the  councils  of  the  nation  which  she  held 
for  a  hundred  years,  but  also  that  she 
must  never  expect  to  see  the  kind  of  de- 
mocracy which  was  the  ideal  (however 
inadequately  reached)  of  the  Atlantic 
states  when  they  were  the  leaders  of 
America.  The  democracy  of  the  govern- 
ment is  henceforth  to  be  that  of  the  great 
Central  Plain,  a  democracy  much  more 
widespread  but  far  less  fertile  of  great 
men  and  of  high  aspirations  than  was 
that  of  the  first  century  of  our  national 
life.  Mediocrity  is  in  the  political  saddle; 
and  the  business,  therefore,  of  the  edu- 
cational, as  distinguished  from  the  politi- 
cal leader  is  to  provide  that  type  of  com- 
mon schooling  which  shall  tend  to  uplift 
mediocrity  rather  than,  as  is  the  usual 
result  of  our  present  methods,  to  perpetu- 
ate mediocrity,  and  to  discourage  even 
the  gifted  youth. 

Hence  the  role  of  Massachusetts,  with 
her  history,  her  climate  and  topography, 
her  lead  as  the  best  educated  and  the 
most  "  otherwise-minded "  (that  is  to 
say,  the  most  uplifted  above  mediocrity) 
state  of  the  Union,  with  her  inheritance 
of  sea-power  and  her  nearness  to  Europe, 
—  her  special  role  under  the  new  order  is 
to  develop,  through  the  intelligent  educa- 
tion of  the  many  and  through  the  special 
training  of  the  few,  the  exceptional  man, 
whether  in  literature,  art,  science,  state- 
craft, commerce,  or  manufacturing. 

Massachusetts   cannot   compete  with 
the  thousand-acre  farms  of  Illinois,  in  that 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


341 


species  of  agriculture;  but  she  can  hold 
her  own  and  can  excel,  even  with  her  tiny 
holdings,  by  stimulating  that  intensive 
farming  which  makes  an  acre  of  swamp- 
land yield  more  in  point  of  value  than  a 
square  mile  of  prairie.  She  cannot  manu- 
facture in  a  large  way,  as  the  West  and 
South  can,  close  as  both  are  to  the  raw 
material,  and  accustomed  as  the  former 
is  to  dealing  with  large  propositions ;  but 
she  can  make  the  finer  and  the  finest 
things,  most  of  which  now  come  from 
abroad,  but  all  of  which  might  readily  be 
fashioned  within  the  four  boundaries  of 
the  commonwealth. 

Massachusetts  can  solve  the  hard 
problems  of  nurturing  and  training  the 
most  highly  skilled  workmen,  if  she  will 
utilize  the  energy  of  the  men  and  women 
who  are  eager  and  fit  to  make  a  sound 
study  of  that  vital  question.  The  state 
can  produce,  not  only  great  artisans,  but 
great  artists,  if  she  will  but  give  that  en- 
couragement which  has  always  been  es- 
sential to  their  flowering.  And  those  great 
colleges  and  schools  for  which  the  com- 
monwealth is  justly  famous  can  keep 
themselves  at  the  front  as  leaders  and 
inspirers  if  they  will  be  true  to  that  ideal- 
ism which,  from  its  very  founding,  has 
been  the  life  and  soul  of  Massachusetts. 

The  deservedly  large  and  phenom- 
enally growing  state  universities  of  the 
Middle  West  will,  fortunately,  press  these 
Massachusetts  institutions  hard;  but  they 
can  never  catch  up  if  the  education  of  the 
commonwealth  keeps  going  too.  These 
western  universities  will  lose  breath  in 
the  running,  for  two  reasons:  first,  be- 
cause they  must  always  keep  an  eye  upon 
politics  and  must  often  do,  not  what  they 
know  to  be  educationally  right,  but  what 
they  are  certain  the  people  will  demand, 
—  and  that  people,  as  has  been  seen,  are 
governed  by  mediocrity.  Secondly,  be- 
cause these  state  universities  must  dove- 
tail in  with  the  common-school  system 
and  must  admit  practically  every  public- 
school  boy  or  girl  who  can  show  a  very 
moderate  proficiency.  Therefore  no  state- 
supported  university  in  a  democracy  can 


ever  compete  on  equal  terms  with  one 
privately  endowed,  which  has  none  to 
placate  excepting  the  alumni,  and  which 
may  weed  out  its  student  body  just  as  far 
as  it  thinks  necessary  to  maintain  the 
highest  standards  of  efficiency. 

Massachusetts,  however,  has  many 
things  to  learn  of  the  opulent,  optimistic 
Middle  West,  and  it  is  greatly  to  be 
wished  that  every  citizen  of  the  Bay  State 
might  spend  at  least  one  year  of  his 
early  manhood  in  such  a  state  as  Illinois. 
Indeed,  our  educational  system  will  not 
be  complete  until  it  is  made  possible  for 
a  youth  seeking  a  higher  education  to 
take  his  college  and  professional  courses 
partly  in  the  East  and  partly  in  the  West, 
the  leading  institutions  having  put  them- 
selves, for  that  purpose,  on  some  common 
basis  of  scholarship  requirement  and  each 
having  consented  to  give,  like  the  state 
law,  "  due  faith  and  credit "  to  the  edu- 
cational work  of  all  the  others. 

Could  the  great  bulk  of  "  leading  " 
Massachusetts  men  be  induced  to  make 
even  a  temporary  acquaintance  with  the 
spirit  of  the  people  of  the  Middle  West, 
they  would  discover  that  the  Hub  of  the 
Solar  System  has  been  moved,  and  that 
an  attempt  to  make  a  close  corporation, 
capitalized  upon  ancient  prestige,  of  Bos- 
tonianism  is  to  invite  commercial,  indus- 
trial, and  intellectual  dry-rot.  Too  many 
native  Bostonians  are  of  the  mind  of  the 
aristocratic  lady  from  Cambridge  who, 
late  in  life,  was  induced  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  at  Gloucester,  and  who  announced 
to  her  amazed  friends,  on  her  return,  that 
she  had  met  there  quite  a  number  of  ex- 
cellent persons  whose  names  even  she 
never  before  had  heard.  Massachusetts 
men,  too,  were  they  to  go  West  occasion- 
ally, would  learn  the  merits  —  as  well  as 
the  demerits  —  of  "  hustling,"  and  would 
perhaps  acquire  some  of  that  simple, 
hearty  friendliness  which  so  lubricates  the 
machinery  of  social  intercourse. 

There  are,  however,  more  specific  and 
important  things  for  Massachusetts  to 
learn  from  Illinois.  She  ought,  above  all, 
to  adopt  the  well-considered  plan  — 


342 


The  Heart  of  the  United  States 


almost  magical  in  its  effects  —  of  scientifi- 
cally exploiting  her  resources,  and  teach- 
ing her  farmers,  merchants,  manufactur- 
ers, importers,  and  exporters,  what  the 
state  is  capable  of  doing.  It  is  a  trite  say- 
ing that  only  a  few  of  the  possibilities 
of  a  human  being  are  developed  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  a  man's  or  woman's 
life.  It  is  still  more  true,  however,  that 
but  the  merest  beginning  has  been  made 
in  the  development  of  the  resources  of 
Massachusetts  or  of  any  other  state  of 
the  Union. 

The  forests,  in  a  political  division  so 
small  and  so  densely  peopled  as  is 
Massachusetts,  would  seem  hardly  worth 
consideration;  yet,  were  even  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  science  of  forestry  compre- 
hended by  the  farmers,  immense  areas 
of  land,  now  waste,  might  be  made  to 
yield,  every  thirty  or  forty  years,  a  crop 
of  great  value.  The  applications  of  chem- 
istry to  farming  have  so  revolutionized 
this  industry  that  —  including  these  for- 
est areas  —  there  is  scarcely  a  foot  of  the 
bleak  soil  of  Massachusetts  which  might 
not  be  made  profitable.  Her  conforma- 
tion provides  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
little  water-courses,  which,  properly  util- 
ized, might  be  made,  by  electrical  trans- 
mission, large  sources  of  manufacturing 
power. 

The  Bay  State  has  no  coal-beds ;  but 
she  has  enormous  areas  of  peat,  to  util- 
ize which  is  now  a  theoretical,  and  soon 
will  be  a  practical,  possibility.  With 
her  many  cities  and  large  towns,  and 


with  the  growth  of  rapid  transit,  dairy- 
ing, market-gardening,  and  the  raising  of 
fowls  may  be  indefinitely  extended,  with 
increasing  profit  to  both  producer  and 
consumer.  Above  all,  with  a  long  sea- 
board protected  by  encircling  capes  and 
presenting  many  safe  harbors,  with  ample 
water-powers,  with  a  comparatively  dense 
population  providing,  together  with  im- 
migration, an  abundant  supply  of  poten- 
tial workmen,  and  with  her  long  history 
of  manufacturing  prowess,  Massachu- 
setts should  always  remain  great  among 
industrial  states. 

For  such  a  development  of  her  re- 
sources, the  commonwealth  needs  to 
study  and  heed  the  example  of  the  Mid 
die  West :  that  of  educating  her  citizens  in 
the  fundamental  principles  of  production 
and  distribution,  and  in  the  application  of 
those  principles  to  the  requirements  of 
modern  life.  The  world  to-day  is  a  world 
of  applied  science ;  and  the  line  of  devel- 
opment to  be  followed  —  especially  in 
such  states  as  Massachusetts  —  is  that  of 
the  application  of  science  to  agriculture, 
to  manufacturing,  to  commerce,  to  trans- 
portation, and,  not  least,  to  education. 
The  states  of  the  Middle  West  —  many 
of  them  daughters  of  Massachusetts  — 
have  clearly  pointed  out  the  way ;  it  is  for 
Massachusetts  to  profit  by  their  example 
and  to  recover,  in  leadership  along  these 
modern  lines,  the  educational  prestige 
which,  in  the  ancient  and  now  outworn 
paths  of  learning,  she  for  so  many  years 
maintained. 


THE   ENGLISH  WORKING-WOMAN   AND   THE 

FRANCHISE 

BY   EDITH   ABBOTT 


A  NEGLECTED  feature  of  England's 
spectacular  suffrage  movement,  of  inter- 
est from  the  point  of  view  of  industrial  as 
well  as  social  progress,  is  the  campaign 
conducted  by  the  working-women  of  the 
northern  textile  districts.  Differentiated 
alike  from  the  militant  band  of  "Suf- 
fragettes "  and  the  conservative  "  Na- 
tional Union  of  Suffrage  Societies,"  they 
have  formed  an  independent  organiza- 
tion representing  the  Manchester  and 
Salford  Trades  and  Labor  Council,  the 
Lancashire  and  Cheshire  Women's  Tex- 
tile and  Other  Workers'  Representation 
Committee,  and  the  Lancashire  and 
Cheshire  Society  for  Women's  Suffrage, 
—  together  representing  thousands  of 
organized  and  unorganized  working- wo- 


men. 


The  importance  of  their  movement 
does  not  lie  alone  in  the  new  strength  that 
has  been  brought  to  the  cause,  but  in  the 
larger  significance  of  its  bearing  upon  the 
industrial  position  of  women.  We  have 
here  the  "  woman  in  industry  "  emerg- 
ing into  extra-industrial  activities  as  a 
surer  means  to  her  own  uplifting.  It  is 
the  working- woman's  conscious  attempt 
to  improve  her  own  condition  through 
her  own  efforts,  and  shows  a  clear  under- 
standing of  the  exact  difficulties  of  her 
situation,  a  grasp  of  the  means  of  solv- 
ing them,  and  a  power  of  initiative  in  her 
own  behalf  which  holds  a  new  promise 
for  the  future. 

These  women  of  the  north  of  England 
long  ago  worked  out  the  difficult  pro- 
blem of  industrial  organization.  The  his- 
tory of  the  great  trade  unions  of  the  cot- 
ton district  has  been  a  standing  answer 
to  the  charge  that  working-women  can- 
not organize  or  maintain  an  organization 
on  business  principles.  It  is  not  strange, 


therefore,  that  they  should  have  the  fore- 
sight to  perceive  the  growing  closeness  of 
the  relation  between  the  industrial  and 
political  worlds;  nor  that  they  should  be 
broad-minded  enough  to  see  that  there 
are  factors  that  will  go  further  than  trade- 
unionism  to  give  them  a  more  equal  foot- 
ing in  the  industrial  struggle.  These; 
skilled  women-workers  of  England  are 
not  only  industrially  competent  but  polit- 
ically sagacious.  This  is  shown,  for  ex- 
ample, in  an  extract  from  their  appeal  to 
the  industrially  incompetent  and  more 
helpless  working- women  of  the  southern 
districts :  — 

"  In  the  old  days  men  suffered  as 
women  do  now,  but  since  they  got  polit- 
ical power  they  have  altered  all  that; 
they  have  been  able  to  enforce  a  much 
fairer  rate  of  wages.  It  is  the  women  who 
are  sweated  ...  we  who  have  no  labor 
representation  to  protect  us  ...  with- 
out political  power  in  England,  it  is  im- 
possible to  get  industrial  justice  or  a  fair 
return  for  your  labor.  .  .  .  The  cheap 
labor  of  women  is  not  a  local  difficulty 
that  can  be  remedied  by  local  means ;  it 
is  a  national  difficulty,  and  nothing  less 
than  a  national  reform,  giving  women 
the  protection  of  political  power,  can 
make  any  really  effective  change  in  their 
position.  So  we  are  agitating  for  votes 
for  women,  and  we  appeal  to  you  to  join 
our  ranks." 

1  The  history  of  their  earnest  and  digni- 
fied campaign  gives  further  evidence  of 
their  business  ability  and  their  organizing 
power.  In  December,  1905,  they  began 
what  was  then  the  highly  original  policy 
of  trying  to  elect  women's  suffrage  candi- 
dates to  Parliament.  Labor  representa- 
tion had  been  successful  for  labor  inter- 
ests, and  it  was  logical  to  argue  that  the 

343 


344 


The  English  Working-Woman  and  the  Franchise 


women's  claims  would  be  properly  con- 
sidered only  when  they  too  had  repre- 
sentatives of  their  own.  Accordingly,  at 
the  General  Election,  they  announced 
their  intention  of  contesting  the  Borough 
of  Wigan,  an  important  industrial  centre 
near  Manchester,  and  of  appealing  di- 
rectly to  the  working-men  in  behalf  of 
the  enfranchisement  of  working-women. 
They  met  many  difficulties, — even  their 
friends  in  Wigan  told  them  that  they 
could  not  hope  to  poll  a  hundred  votes,  — 
but  they  were  accustomed  to  difficulties. 
They  succeeded  in  raising  the  money 
(and  it  was  no  small  sum)  for  the  neces- 
sary expenses  of  a  parliamentary  cam- 
paign ;  they  succeeded  in  finding  a  man  of 
courage  and  ability  who  was  willing  to 
stand  as  a  "  women's  candidate."  They 
were  obliged,  being  of  no  party,  to  pre- 
pare their  own  leaflets  and  posters,  and 
because  of  their  poverty,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  hold  all  of  their  meetings  out  of 
doors.  But  nothing  discouraged  them, 
and  they  worked  with  the  enthusiasm 
that  goes  hand  in  hand  with  faith  in  a 
great  cause.  They  went  straight  to  the 
working-man.  They  went  to  the  mills, 
the  iron-works,  the  collieries.  They  held 
meetings  at  the  dinner-hour,  and  in  the 
evenings  at  street-corners  all  over  town. 
They  made  but  one  appeal,  "  the  political 
freedom  of  the  poorest  of  the  workers," 
and  to  that  appeal  the  working-man 
could  not  refuse  to  listen.  It  was  a  new 
campaign  —  not  in  behalf  of  a  party,  but 
of  an  idea  —  of  a  great  hope  born  of  a 
great  need.  The  result  of  the  campaign 
was  a  poll  of  2205  votes  for  the  women's 
candidate  out  of  a  total  of  7605.  They 
lost  the  election  only  by  the  appearance 
at  the  last  moment  of  a  third  candidate 
who  stood  in  the  interests  of  denomina- 
tional education.  But  the  result  was  a 
moral  victory,  and  in  their  report  they 
said  they  "  were  touched  and  delighted 
at  the  hearty  sympathy  and  understand- 
ing and  good  fellowship  that  they  met 
with.  They  appealed  to  the  poor  to 
stand  together  and  to  fight  for  the  politi- 
cal power  and  industrial  freedom  of  their 


fellow  workers,  and  they  received  that 
generous  help  that  the  poor  never  refuse 
to  real  enthusiasm  and  sincerity." 

But  the  activity  of  the  working-wo- 
men's committee  did  not  end  with  the 
defeat  at  Wigan.  They  knew  that  they 
had  seen  only  the  beginning  of  a  long 
struggle,  in  which  they  must  appeal  to  the 
working- women  of  the  south  to  join  them, 
and  to  the  working-men  of  the  south  to 
support  them.  A  long  series  of  meetings 
has  been  held  in  London.  In  May,  in 
October,  and  again  in  February  of  the 
past  year,  great  demonstrations  were  or- 
ganized in  Trafalgar  Square,  where  thou- 
sands of  men  and  women  from  White- 
chapel,  Poplar,  Bethnal  Green,  and  other 
poor  districts  of  London,  listened  to  the 
message  that  had  been  sent  to  them  from 
nearly  three  hundred  thousand  working- 
women  in  Lancashire  and  Cheshire.  It 
has  been  very  interesting,  this  preaching 
of  the  gospel  of  women's  freedom  to  the 
unskilled  workers  of  East  London  by  the 
skilled  workers  of  the  industrial  north  — 
distinguished  so  easily  by  their  accent, 
their  manner,  their  dress,  but  more  per- 
haps by  their  earnestness,  —  alike,  how- 
ever, in  that  they  have  the  same  need  and 
the  same  hope. 

Their  printed  address  was  a  very  sim- 
ple one.  "  Fellow  workers,"  it  began, 
"  we  think  it  is  time  that  the  women 
joined  together  to  help  one  another  and 
themselves.  We  are  all  workers.  We 
come  from  weaving-mills,  spinning-mills, 
iron  foundries,  linotype  works.  There 
are  amongst  us  winders,  gassers,  doub- 
lers,  reelers,  shirtmakers,  tailoresses, 
cigarmakers,  clay-pipe  finishers,  chain- 
makers,  pit-brow  workers.  We  are  all 
Lancashire  and  Cheshire  women;  our 
trades  are  different,  but  we  have  learned 
this  fact,  that  our  interests  are  the  same. 
Now  we  ask  you  to  join  with  us,  that 
we  may  all  work  together  to  better  our 
position." 

Meetings  were  held,  too,  in  other  parts 
of  London,  —  in  Hyde  Park  and  in  Bat- 
tersea  Park,  in  Whftet^hapel  and  in  Ber- 
mondsey,  at  Pimlico  Pier  and  at  Wool- 


The  English  Working-Woman  and  the  Franchise 


345 


wich  Arsenal,  at  Hammersmith,  Clap- 
ham,  and  Canningtown,  as  well  as  at 
many  other  places  in  England  and  Scot- 
land. In  addition  to  holding  meetings, 
they  have  organized  petitions  and  depu- 
tations, and  done  effective  work  in  the 
bye-elections.  "  If  the  Government  will 
not  listen  to  the  appeal  of  the  working- 
women,"  they  say,  "  the  women  must 
make  their  appeal  to  the  sense  of  justice 
in  the  nation  itself." 

An  interesting  point  with  regard  to 
these  working- women  and  their  campaign 
is  their  relation  to  the  other  two  organiza- 
tions that  have  been  active  in  the  suffrage 
movement.  For,  to  the  surprise  of  some 
observers,  it  is  the  old  and  conservative 
National  Union  of  Suffrage  Societies, 
rather  than  the  radical  band  of  "  Suf- 
fragettes," with  whom  they  have  worked 
in  closest  sympathy.  Although  individ- 
ual factory  girls  have  from  time  to  time 
gone  to  prison  with  the  members  of  the 
Women's  Social  and  Political  Union,  the 
great  body  of  working- women  follow  their 
leaders  in  preferring  the  more  decorous 
methods  of  the  older  society.  Perhaps  it 
is  because  they  have  learned  through  in- 
herited experience  that  it  is  patient  striv- 
ing rather  than  open  defiance  in  the  face 
of  an  injustice  that  profits  them  more. 
But  it  is  also  because  the  woman  from 
the  Lancashire  mills  cannot  understand 
that  going  to  prison  is  one  way  of  serving 
the  cause,  —  for  prison  to  her  does  not 
mean  martyrdom,  but  disgrace.  There  is, 
too,  the  further  reason  that  she  is  likely 
to  care  very  much  for  appearances.  She 
judges,  as  she  is  so  often  judged,  by  the 
"  outward  sign ; "  and  it  is  she  much  more 
than  her  upper  or  middle-class  sister  who 
insists  that  "  ladies  should  always  be  real 
ladies!" 

So  far  as  the  progress  of  the  suffrage 
movement  is  concerned,  this  campaign 
of  the  Lancashire  and  Cheshire  Com- 
mittees has  brought  a  remarkable  acces- 
sion of  strength.  It  is  not  to  the  point  to 
say  to  these  women  who  have  been  obliged 
to  work  since  the  day  they  were  fourteen, 
that  women's  proper  place  is  at  home,  or 


to  talk  to  them  about  losing  their  woman- 
liness, or  forfeiting  the  protection  and 
chivalry  of  men.  If  the  influence  of  the 
mills  where  they  are  sent  to  work,  where 
their  mothers,  their  grandmothers,  and 
their  great-grandmothers  were  sent  to 
work  before  them,  has  not  made  them 
unwomanly,  they  will  not  be  risking 
much  when  they  become  subject  also  to 
the  influences  of  the  polls. 

Again,  their  position  is  peculiarly  strong 
because  their  need  for  the  franchise  is  so 
pressing.  It  is  not  alone  a  matter  of  ab- 
stract justice  in  their  case,  nor  a  longing 
for  the  larger  privileges  of  citizenship 
which  shall  make  them  alike  self-respect- 
ing and  respected.  With  them  the  ques- 
tion becomes  a  part  of  their  own  hard 
problem  of  existence.  While  they  have  no 
votes,  their  demands  are  given  scant  con- 
sideration at  the  hands  of  their  employ- 
ers. They  look  therefore  to  the  franchise 
as  one  immediate  and  practicable  meas- 
ure which  will  tend  to  establish  greater 
equality  between  their  earnings  and  those 
of  the  men  with  whom  they  work.  For 
the  voteless  working-woman's  position, 
as  one  of  their  Textile  Tracts  points  out, 
is  a  forlorn  and  difficult  one.  "  She  has 
no  social  or  political  influence  to  back 
her.  Her  Trade  Union  stands  or  falls  by 
its  power  of  negotiating ;  it  cannot  hope 
to  have  the  weight  with  employers  that 
the  men's  unions  have,  for  instead  of 
being  a  strong  association  of  voters  .  .  . 
it  is  merely  a  band  of  workers  carrying  on 
an  almost  hopeless  struggle  to  improve 
conditions  of  work  and  wages.  ...  A 
vote  in  itself  is  a  small  thing,  but  the 
aggregate  vote  of  a  great  union  is  a  very 
different  matter." 

The  position  of  these  women  is  unique 
too,  in  that  they  are  obliged  to  pay  out  of 
their  own  hard  earnings  for  labor  repre- 
sentation in  the  House;  for  trade-union 
women  as  well  as  trade-union  men  are 
assessed  for  the  salaries  of  labor  mem- 
bers, —  indeed  the  larger  proportion  of 
the  members  of  the  great  textile  union 
paying  the  parliamentary  levy  are  wo- 
men. But  they  still  remain  unrepresented, 


346 


Chanson  Louis  XIII 


for  they  have  no  voice  either  in  choosing 
the  candidates  or  in  dictating  their  pol- 
icy. There  is  a  special  injustice  in  this, 
because  the  Labor  M.  P.  devotes  him- 
self particularly  to  industrial  legislation, 
which  is  often  of  supreme  importance  to 
these  women,  dealing  frequently  with  the 
conditions  of  their  own  and  their  child- 
ren's work. 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  one  of 
the  greatest  obstacles  in  the  woman's 
path  of  industrial  progress  has  been  her 
own  apathy.  She  is  reproached  by  the 
men  in  her  trade  for  her  lack  of  interest  in 
trade-unionism ;  she  is  reproached  by  the 
philanthropist  for  her  lack  of  ambition  — 
her  seeming  willingness  to  remain  un- 
skilled and  underpaid.  But  in  this  new 
movement  for  the  franchise,  we  have  the 
women  who  are  already  in  the  ranks  of 
the  skilled  workers,  and  who  have  long 
since  proved  their  capacity  for  organiza- 
tion taking  another  great  step  forward. 
They  have  at  last  learned  that  their  in- 
dustrial regeneration  can  come  only 
through  their  own  efforts  and  the  import- 
ance of  this  new  spirit  of  independence, 
this  enlarging  of  the  working- woman's 
sphere  of  activity  to  demand  a  "  voice  in 
the  laws  that  regulate  her  toil,"  would  be 
difficult  to  overestimate. 

One  feels  more  strongly  perhaps  the 
magnificent  promise  of  this  movement 


when  one  has  seen  in  the  great  textile  dis- 
tricts of  England  the  long  processions  of 
women  with  their  shawls  pinned  tightly 
about  their  heads,  passing  to  or  from  the 
mills  in  the  early  morning  and  the  late 
twilight.  These  shawled  women  have 
for  generations  been  passing  everywhere 
in  the  Lancashire  district ;  for  generations 
they  have  inherited  the  burdens  of  life 
with  few  of  its  opportunities.  As  they 
have  worked  patiently  there  for  more  than 
a  hundred  years,  so  they  are  still  working 
patiently,  but  they  are  awake  as  they 
have  never  been  before  to  the  injustice  of 
their  position;  and  this  movement' for  the 
franchise  is  symptomatic  of  a  new  soli- 
darity among  them  which  has  grown  out 
of  a  new  consciousness  of  their  own  needs, 
and  which  brings  with  it  a  new  sense  of 
their  own  power.  When  one  knows  some- 
thing of  the  history  of  these  "  women  in 
industry,"  of  their  share  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  textile  industries,  their  gener- 
ations of  work  under  the  discipline  of 
Lancashire  cold  and  fog,  the  slow  but 
steady  growth  of  their  great  trade  unions, 
one  can  understand  the  earnestness,  the 
moderation,  and  intelligence  that  they 
have  shown  in  this  campaign.  And  al- 
most inevitably  one  believes  that,  when 
this  political  justice  has  been  meted  out 
to  them,  industrial  justice  must  be  swift 
to  follow. 


CHANSON  LOUIS  XIII 

BY  CHARLOTTE  PRENTISS 

NAY,  I  cannot  love  you  so  — 

Now  you  choose  a  dragging  measure 

Full  of  pauses,  stepping  slow 

At  the  flying  heels  of  pleasure. 

Come  from  out  your  high- walled  gloom, 

Let  us  make  a  holiday 

In  the  meadow's  pleasant  room 

Where  the  sliding  shadows  play. 


Chanson  Louis  XIII  347 

Here  in  golden  splendor  high 
Butterfly  loves  butterfly: 
Shall  they  live  and  love  forever? 
Never!  never! 

Still  and  still  you  sigh  and  plead, 
Still  and  still  I  love  you, 
While  the  little  breezes  speed 
Butterflies  above  you. 
Still  you  love  me,  while  the  sun 
Stands  so  high  above  us. 
Butterflies,  when  day  is  done 
Who  will  think  to  love  us? 

While  there's  azure  in  the  sky 

Butterfly  loves  butterfly. 

Fluttered  pinions  in  the  air 

Catch  the  sunlight,  hold  it  there. 

Over  the  soft-lifting  breeze 

Now  the  drooping  branches  sigh  — 

Love  me  now!  Beneath  the  trees 

Spread  the  lightest  couch  of  love, 

But  above 

Let  there  be  no  canopy 

To  obscure  the  shining  skies 

Or  the  shadows,  flitting  by, 

Of  the  dancing  butterflies. 

Still  and  still  you  sigh  and  plead, 
Still  and  still  I  love  you, 
While  the  little  breezes  speed 
Butterflies  above  you. 
Still  you  love  nie,  while  the  sun 
Stands  so  high  above  us. 
Butterflies,  when  day  is  done 
Who  will  think  to  love  us? 


THE   DOCTOR 


BY   WILLIAM    JOHN   HOPKINS 


DOCTOR  OLCOTT  was  on  his  rounds 
with  the  Polar  Bear.  It  was  somewhat 
hard  to  see  how  he  would  have  got  along 
without  that  valuable  fur-bearing  animal, 
for  he  was  giving  no  attention  whatever 
to  his  driving,  and  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  he 
knew  even  what  road  they  were  taking 
together.  He  had  one  leg  out  of  the  low 
buggy,  his  foot  on  the  step,  and  his  mind 
seemed  to  be  wandering  —  taking  a  vaca- 
tion, perhaps ;  although,  judging  from  the 
way  he  was  frowning,  he  was  worried 
about  something.  For  the  good  doctor 
did  worry,  on  occasion,  over  his  patients. 
They  were  not  mere  cases  to  him;  and, 
although  he  was  well  aware  that  it  was 
considered  bad  form  —  and  fatal  to  the 
doctor  concerned  — to  worry  about  them, 
they  were  human  beings  and  his  friends, 
most  of  them,  and  he  did  worry  over 
them.  He  could  n't  help  it.  But  he  did  n't 
seem  to  be  getting  thin  with  his  worry- 
ing. There  were  other  things  to  be  feared 
than  getting  thin. 

The  Polar  Bear  had  it  all  his  own  way, 
and  he  knew  it ;  and  he  jogged  along  with 
his  customary  care,  turning  out  for  any 
carriage  that  they  met,  while  the  occu- 
pant of  that  carriage  hailed  the  doctor 
heartily  and  the  doctor  responded  as 
heartily,  coming  back,  momentarily,  to 
his  surroundings  for  that  purpose.  The 
Polar  Bear  knew  well  enough  where  the 
doctor  was  going,  and  he  was  to  be  trusted 
to  take  him  there  safely  and  to  stop  be- 
fore the  right  gate;  and  then,  if  the  doc- 
tor had  not  come  to  himself  by  that  time, 
to  look  around  inquiringly. 

"Well,  doctor,"  the  look  said,  as  plain- 
ly as  if  he  had  spoken,  "here  we  are! 
Why  don't  you  get  out  ?  It's  your  move." 

Indeed,  he  always  said  it  plainly 
enough.  If  what  he  said  was  not  always 
understood,  it  was  no  fault  of  his. 

348 


So  the  old  white  horse  jogged  on,  drag- 
ging the  buggy,  that  sagged  hopelessly  on 
one  side  under  the  not  inconsiderable 
weight  of  the  doctor.  The  doctor  was 
aware  that  it  sagged  —  permanently  — 
and  that  the  top  was  stained  and  weather- 
beaten.  The  fact  did  not  trouble  him. 
He  was  not  a  city  doctor,  with  fees  which 
would  enable  him  to  keep  an  automobile 
and  a  chauffeur  —  or  a  sanitarium  — 
and  a  sanitarium,  I  should  have  said  — 
and  which  would  have  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  dress  the  part.  He  did  not  re- 
gret the  automobile  and  the  chauffeur, 
nor  the  dress.  He  would  have  found  all 
of  those  but  a  burden;  but  he  had  long- 
ings for  the  sanitarium.  He  would  put 
Miss  Wetherbee  in  it,  and  would  make 
her  work  like  —  like  —  ahem  —  other 
women,  —  Mrs.  Loughery,  for  instance. 
And  he  would  put  Joe  Loughery  in  it,  and 
would  not  let  him  work.  And  there  were 
others.  As  the  doctor  thought  of  it,  he 
sighed. 

The  Polar  Bear  veered  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  turned  his  head  inquiringly,  and 
hesitated  slightly.  The  doctor  came  to 
himself. 

"  No,  no,  Sammy,"  he  said,  "  not  to- 
day. She  has  n't  sent  for  me  to-day.  Go 
on,  Sammy." 

And  the  old  doctor  chuckled  as  the  old 
horse  took  the  middle  of  the  road  again. 
"  You  did  n't  know,  did  you,  Sammy  ? 
And  you  thought  that  Miss  Wetherbee 
might  have  sent  for  me  at  any  time, 
did  n't  you  ?  Well,  so  she  might.  She 
may  even  have  sent  since  we  started.  You 
are  brighter  than  I  am,  Sammy.  I'll 
look." 

And  the  doctor  turned  and  looked 
through  the  little  window  in  the  back  of 
the  buggy.  He  saw  a  great  house  —  al- 
most too  great  a  house  for  one  poor  old 


The  Doctor 


349 


woman ;  for  Miss  Wetherbee  was  a  poor 
old  woman,  in  spite  of  her  being  one  of 
the  richest  in  Old  Harbor  and  inclined  to 
be  miserly  —  a  great  house  that  stood 
nearer  the  street  than  was  the  fashion,  and 
a  board  fence  about  shoulder-high.  And 
the  board  fence  was  surmounted  with 
two  feet  more  of  pickets.  The  pickets 
were  at  just  the  height  to  make  it  most 
trying  for  any  one  walking  by  the  fence 
when  the  sun  was  low,  so  that  such  per- 
sons involuntarily  and  invariably  closed 
their  eyes;  and,  in  consequence,  invol- 
untarily and  invariably  ran  into  Miss 
Wetherbee  emerging  from  her  own  gate. 
It  was  inconvenient;  possibly  as  incon- 
venient for  the  aforesaid  persons  as  it  was 
for  Miss  Wetherbee.  And  it  was  annoy- 
ing to  have  Miss  Wetherbee  berate  you 
for  running  into  her,  when  it  was  rather 
more  than  half  her  own  fault.  She  had 
no  business  to  have  such  a  fence,  espe- 
cially about  sunset.  At  any  other  time  it 
was  well  enough,  for  you  could  see, 
through  it,  the  very  formal  little  garden 
with  its  high  and  full  borders  of  box.  The 
box  alone  was  sufficiently  remarkable, 
every  plant  almost  a  tree. 

The  doctor  saw  all  this.  At  least,  if  he 
did  not  see  the  garden  behind  the  board 
fence,  he  was  conscious  of  it.  And  he  saw 
more  than  this;  for,  leaning  far  out  of  a 
window  just  over  the  door,  was  an  old 
woman.  And  the  old  woman  was  fran- 
tically waving  a  handkerchief  and  calling 
"  Doctor!  Doctor  Olcott!  " 

The  doctor  chuckled  again.  "  You're 
right,  Sammy.  She  has.  But  go  on. 
We'll  stop  on  our  way  home.  That'll 
give  her  time  to  get  well.  If  she  gets  mad 
about  it,  so  much  the  better.  It'll  do  her 
good." 

All  that  Miss  Wetherbee  needed  was 
something  to  do.  Doctor  Olcott  had  told 
her  so,  bluntly ;  and  Miss  Wetherbee  had 
scoffed  at  him  and  as  much  as  called  him 
an  old  fool.  And  Doctor  Olcott  had 
smiled  and  had  gone  away  —  which  was 
not  what  might  have  been  expected.  Yes, 
if  she  got  mad  with  him  now,  why,  so 
much  the  better.  He  sighed  —  but  he 


did  wish  that  he  might  have  that  sanita- 
rium. He  could  make  a  good  beginning 
at  filling  it,  right  away.  For,  besides  Miss 
Wetherbee  and  Joe  Loughery,  there  was 
Mrs.  Houlton. 

Mrs.  Houlton  did  not  have  Miss 
Wetherbee's  complaint.  She  had  no  time 
for  complaining,  even  if  she  had  been  in- 
clined to  it.  Indeed,  a  widow  with  eight 
children  and  next  to  nothing  a  year  has 
barely  time  to  eat  and  not  enough  to  sleep, 
and  Mrs.  Houlton  was  working  herself  to 
death.  There  was  no  manner  of  doubt 
about  that,  and  the  doctor  had  told  her 
so  as  nearly  as  he  dared,  and  that  was 
pretty  near.  And  he  had  urged  her  to 
rest;  completely,  if  possible,  but  if  she 
could  not  do  that,  then  as  much  as  she 
could. 

And  Mrs.  Houlton  had  smiled  at  him 
cheerfully.  "  Don't  you  think  I  ought  to 
have  a  piece  of  the  moon  for  breakfast, 
doctor  ?  "  she  had  asked,  somewhat  ir- 
relevantly. 

And  the  doctor  had  growled  out  some 
reply  about  feeble-minded  persons  doing 
as  they  were  told,  at  which  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton had  laughed  outright. 

Then  the  doctor  had  gone  home,  leav- 
ing Mrs.  Houlton  in  her  kitchen,  darning 
stockings  while  she  got  dinner  for  nine. 
The  stockings  were  mostly  darns ;  and  he 
knew  very  well  that  she  would  sit  up  far 
into  the  night,  after  the  children  were  all 
in  bed,  mending  the  clothes  that  the  eight 
were  to  wear  the  next  day.  So  the  doctor 
swore  softly  to  himself  and  sent  her  some 
work.  She  had  been  asking  for  some 
work  that  she  could  do,  and  she  embroid- 
ered beautifully ;  or  so  the  doctor  thought. 
And,  although  the  doctor  was,  probably, 
no  judge  of  embroidery,  there  was  reason 
to  think  that,  in  this  instance,  he  was 
right.  He  had  asked  her,  in  Miss  Joyce's 
name,  to  embroider  the  table-linen  which 
he  enclosed.  What  should  the  doctor  do 
with  embroidered  table-linen?  He  had 
trouble  enough  in  selecting  the  linen; 
but  he  did  it. 

"  I'll  see  Hattie  to-morrow,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  and  make  it  right  with  her." 


350 


The  Doctor 


And  now  he  remembered,  with  a  shock, 
that  he  had  not  mentioned  the  table-linen 
to  Hattie.  It  would  be  convenient,  in 
some  respects,  if  he  were  married.  He 
would  not  be  buying  table-linen  for  wid- 
ows to  embroider  if  he  were  married; 
and  he  was  more  likely  to  be  wrong,  in 
his  choice  of  the  linen,  than  right.  He 
would  stop  in  at  Hattie's  on  his  way  home, 
and  consult  her;  not  about  his  marriage 
—  and  the  doctor  chuckled  once  more  — 
but  about  the  table-linen.  Doctor  Olcott 
was  in  danger  of  forgetting  Miss  Wether- 
bee.  And  when  he  had  settled  that  little 
matter  of  the  linen  he  might  be  able  to 
get  in  a  word  about  Miss  Harriet  herself 
without  seeming  to  make  a  point  of  it. 
She  was  looking  poorly  —  run  down  and 
tired  out,  no  doubt.  A  vacation  would  do 
her  a  world  of  good.  She  might  manage 
it,  if  she  would. 

Suddenly  the  Polar  Bear  drew  in  to  the 
curb  as  if  he  would  stop.  The  doctor  was 
annoyed. 

"  Damn  it,  Sammy,"  he  said,  without 
looking  up,  "  go  on.  What  you  stopping 
for  ?  "  And  he  slapped  him  with  the  reins. 

Sammy  paid  no  attention  to  the  doc- 
tor's evident  wishes  in  the  matter  of  go- 
ing on,  but  continued  on  his  way  to  the 
curb,  his  spirits  no  more  ruffled  than  his 
thick  fur  by  so  small  a  thing  as  a  slap  of 
the  reins.  He  did  not  lay  it  up  against  the 
doctor.  It  seemed  to  amuse  the  doctor, 
and  it  did  not  hurt  Sammy;  but  Sammy's 
intentions  were  quite  as  evident  as  the 
doctor's,  and  Sammy  was  in  a  position  to 
carry  them  out. 

"  Well,  you  old  skate,"  remarked  the 
doctor  affectionately,  "  if  you  will,  you 
will;  and  there's  an  end  on't."  And  he 
sighed  and  roused  himself  and  looked 
around.  "  Hitty  Tilton  must  want  me," 
he  said.  "  She  would  n't  send  till  the  last 
gun  fired.  But  Sammy  knew." 

And  he  got  out  of  the  buggy  with  some 
difficulty,  and  went  wheezing  into  the 
house;  from  which  he  presently  emerged 
with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction. 

"  You  knew,  Sammy,  did  n't  you  ?  " 
he  said,  as  he  slowly  climbed  in.  "  It's  a 


mystery  to  me  how  you  did,  but  you  cer- 
tainly did.  And  we  settled  Kitty's  hash. 
She'd  have  been  a  sick  old  woman  if  I 
had  n't,  with  the  cold  weather  due  any 
day;  and  pneumonia,  Sammy.  Kitty's 
not  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  as  you  and 
I  are,  Sammy.  But  we  settled  her.  And 
we'll  get  no  thanks  from  her,  either.  But 
we  couldn't  neglect  the  Tilton  girls, 
could  we?  Bless  'em!  They're  the  real 
old  sort."  He  gathered  up  the  reins. 
"  Now  go  on." 

And  the  Polar  Bear  began  to  jog  along 
again.  They  were  a  pair,  the  doctor  and 
his  old  horse.  The  doctor  had  some  such 
thought. 

"  Hurry,  Sammy,  if  it  is  in  you.  We 
shan't  get  around  before  dinner,  at  this 
rate.  But  what  if  we  don't  ?  There's  no- 
body waiting  for  us."  He  sighed.  "  I'm 
beginning  to  wish  there  was,  Sammy. 
But  we  don't  need  anybody,  do  we, 
Sammy,  —  you  and  I,  two  old  skates." 

And  Sammy  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  the  doctor.  They  understood 
each  other.  And  they  went  on  together. 
And  Sammy  stopped  at  one  house  after 
another,  and  from  some  of  the  houses 
Doctor  Olcott  puffed  out  cheerfully, 
wheezing  to  Sammy  that  that  was  that. 
As  if  Sammy  did  not  know  it!  And  from 
other  houses  the  doctor  emerged  slowly, 
and  he  did  not  tell  Sammy  that  that  was 
that,  but  he  took  up  the  reins  in  frowning 
silence. 

So  it  happened  that  the  doctor  was 
weary  in  body  and  soul  by  the  time  the 
Polar  Bear  stopped  before  Miss  Joyce's 
gate.  He  got  slowly  out  of  the  buggy, 
which  gave  under  his  weight  until  the 
body  touched  the  axles  on  one  side;  and 
he  went  puffing  and  wheezing  up  the  long 
walk.  Harriet  saw  him  coming  and 
opened  the  door  herself. 

"  Come  in,  doctor,"  she  said,  as  he 
mounted  the  last  step. 

The  doctor  was  very  short  of  breath. 
"  I'm  —  coming."  He  plumped  down  on 
the  hall  settle  and  wheezed  there  for  a  few 
minutes.  Miss  Harriet  waited.  He  got 
his  breath,  in  time. 


The  Doctor 


351 


"  I  canie  in  to  see  you,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. "  And  I  want  to  tell  you,  while  I 
think  of  it,  Hattie,  that  if  I  expire  sud- 
denly after  getting  into  this  house,  you 
will  be  responsible.  My  death  will  be 
upon  that  smooth  head  of  yours." 

Miss  Harriet  smiled  affectionately. 
Not  many  who  knew  him  could  help  re- 
garding this  rough  old  man  affectionate- 
ly, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  apt  to 
swear  absent-mindedly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  —  always,  doc- 
tor," she  said.  "  But  I  am  quite  well,  I 
think;  that  is"  —she  had  remembered 
suddenly  that  she  had  meant  to  ask 
him  — 

"  Yes, '  that  is,'  "  interrupted  the  doc- 
tor. "  You  are  well  enough,  but  tired  out. 
And  you  must  be  careful,  Hattie.  You 
see,  I'm  selfish,  as  usual.  I  only  want  to 
save  myself  some  work." 

The  tears  came  to  Miss  Harriet's  eyes. 
It  showed  that  the  doctor  was  right,  that 
the  tears  should  come  so  readily.  "  If  all 
selfish  men  were  like  you,  doctor!  "  she 
said.  "  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

There  was  great  satisfaction  in  the  doc- 
tor's voice.  "  That's  a  proper  spirit, 
Hattie.  I  wish  all  my  patients  were  as 
reasonable.  Take  a  vacation  for  a  few 
days.  Go  on  a  spree." 

Miss  Harriet's  laugh  bubbled  out  at 
that.  "  A  spree!  "  she  cried.  "I  —  al- 
most feel  as  though  I  could  —  as  though 
I  wanted  to.  But  what  do  people  do 
when  they  are  on  a  spree  ?  Is  n't  it  cus- 
tomary to  —  drink  ?  " 

Doctor  Olcott  laughed,  too,  a  great 
rumbling  laugh.  "  It  is  n't  necessary," 
he  said,  "  and  it  might  be  dangerous  for 
some.  I  don't  advise  it  —  although  it 
would  do  you  no  harm.  Go  up  to  Boston, 
and  —  and  go  to  some  show  that  will 
make  you  laugh  —  and  put  no  strain  on 
your  brain-cells.  Do  anything  that  comes 
into  your  head,  except  worry." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly, 
"I'll  think  of  it.  I  think  I  will.  And  you 
must  tell  me  more  about  it  —  prime  me 
-before  I  go." 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  doctor,  grumbling, 


"  that  you  could  induce  all  my  patients 
to  take  my  advice  as  well  —  to  follow  my 
prescriptions." 

"  Why,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  "  who  is 
difficult,  now  ?  "  There  was  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Houlton." 

And  Miss  Harriet  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  But  she's  killing  herself.  If  she  does  n't 
take  a  rest  she'll  die." 

"  Forgive  me  for  laughing,  doctor," 
replied  Miss  Harriet.  "  It  was  not  be- 
cause I  did  n't  appreciate  the  gravity  of 
the  situation.  And  won't  she  obey  your 
orders  ?  " 

"  No,"  growled  the  doctor.  "  Obey 
my  orders!  Why,  she  flouts  me  and  my 
orders.  It  makes  me  mad,  so  that  I  say 
things  that  I  should  n't." 

"  Oh,  doctor,  you  don't  swear!  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do.  And  I'm  convinced 
that  she'll  give  me  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  And 
she  laughs  at  me  when  I  am  properly 
mad.  She  just  laughs." 

Miss  Harriet  laughed  again.  "  I  knew 
it!  "  she  cried.  "  I  knew  it.  Have  you 
been  there  this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,"  growled  the  doctor  again.  "  I 
did  n't  dare  to."  And  he  told  her  about 
the  table-linen  that  was  to  be  embroidered. 

"  And  you  aid  and  abet  her  in  evil,"  said 
Miss  Harriet,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  What  else  can  you  expect?  " 

The  doctor  rumbled  in  his  throat. 
Miss  Harriet  could  not  understand  what 
he  said,  except  that  it  was  something 
about  feeble-minded  and  foolish  women. 

"I'll  help  you  about  the  embroider- 
ing," she  said.  "  And  I'll  do  what  I  can 
to  induce  her  to  take  a  rest,  but  I  have 
n't  the  least  expectation  of  success.  She 
has  no  husband  living  —  " 

"  Ought  to  have  one,"  rumbled  the 
doctor.  "  Ought  to  have  one,  to  make 
her  stand  around." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Miss  Harriet,  smiling. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Hattie  ? " 
growled  the  doctor.  "  What  do  you  mean 
by  your  insinuations  ?  If  you  mean  me, 
by  —  ahem  —  Well,  I'd  marry  her  in  a 


352 


The  Doctor 


minute  if  I  thought  she'd  take  orders 
from  ine  any  better.  That  is,  if  she'd 
have  me  —  which  she  would  n't.  Of 
course  she  would  n't.  She's  no  fool." 

Miss  Harriet  was  still  smiling.  "  Try 
it,"  she  said. 

"Try  it!"  cried  the  doctor.  "You 
speak  as  if  it  was  a  cough  medicine  or  a 
tonic.  Well,  by  — er  — well,  if  there's 
no  other  way,  I  will.  By  gad,  Hattie,  I 
will.  And  a  pretty  mess  you've  got  me 
into."  The  doctor  rose.  "  Good-by, 
Hattie.  Don't  forget,  you're  to  go  on  a 
spree." 

And  he  rolled  off  down  the  walk,  while 
Miss  Harriet  stood  at  the  door,  smiling 
after  him. 

Doctor  Olcott  came  into  his  house; 
stopped  to  wheeze  a  while  on  a  chair  in 
the  hall,  then  took  off  his  overcoat, 
sighed,  and  started  up  the  stairs.  It  was 
very  late  in  the  afternoon  and  he  was 
tired.  And,  because  it  was  so  late,  there 
had  been  no  man  to  take  his  horse,  for 
the  doctor  had  but  an  hour  each  day  of 
the  man's  time,  having,  in  general,  no 
use  for  more  of  it.  And,  also  because  it 
was  late,  it  was  as  dark  as  pitch,  so  that 
the  doctor  had  been  obliged  to  feel  about 
for  a  lantern;  and  having  found  it  and 
got  it  lighted,  to  put  up  his  horse  himself. 

Putting  up  the  Polar  Bear,  in  such  a 
case,  was  a  simple  matter  enough,  con- 
sisting only  in  unhitching  him  from  the 
sleigh  —  snow  had  come,  at  last  —  and 
turning  him  into  his  stall,  with  his  har- 
ness on.  The  Polar  Bear  did  not  miss  his 
rub  down;  that  was  a  trivial  matter,  to 
which  he  submitted  with  apparent  con- 
tent when  he  must,  as  it  seemed  to  be  an 
amusement  for  the  man.  The  Polar  Bear 
was  a  tolerant  animal ;  but  it  was,  on  the 
whole,  a  cause  of  gratification  that  there 
was  no  man  to  rub  him  down  to-night, 
for  it  delayed  matters.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  about  that.  And  the 
man  had  thrown  down  some  hay  and  put 
a  measure  of  oats  where  he  knew  enough 
to  look  for  it. 

It  was  superfluous  to  tie   him,  and 


the  doctor  did  not  once  contemplate  it. 
The  Polar  Bear  was  never  tied.  It  saved 
halters.  And  the  doctor  knew  that,  when 
he  got  tired  of  staying  in  his  stall  and  do- 
ing nothing,  he  would  wander  about  the 
barn,  investigating  anything  that  seemed 
likely  to  prove  of  interest  to  a  bored  old 
white  horse.  He  did  not  go  up  to  the  loft, 
principally  because  the  door  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  was  kept  locked ;  and  he  had 
not  learned  to  open  the  sliding  doors. 
The  other  door  was  easy.  For  that  reason 
it  was  never  used,  and  the  padlock  that 
held  it  against  the  experiments  of  the 
Polar  Bear  had  rusted  fast. 

Doctor  Olcott  thought,  with  some  envy, 
of  Sammy,  whom  he  had  left  munching 
his  oats  in  great  content.  The  doctor  was 
hungry,  too,  and  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  sit  down  to  his  supper  with  as  little 
preparation  and  as  free  a  mind  as  Sammy 
had,  who  took  things  as  they  came.  The 
doctor  took  things  as  they  came,  too.  He 
had  to.  But  he  could  not  hope  for  a  free 
mind.  He  sighed  again;  and,  having 
made  what  preparation  seemed  neces- 
sary for  supping  with  himself,  went 
down. 

He  found  the  dining-room,  with  its 
unshaded  lamp,  unusually  dreary.  The 
doctor  did  not  like  unshaded  lamps ;  that 
was  not  the  reason  that  he  had  it.  But 
he  had  talked  to  his  housekeeper  and 
cook  about  it  until  he  had  grown  weary 
of  the  futility  of  talk.  His  housekeeper 
and  cook  was  a  well-meaning  person, 
who  would  have  done  anything  for  the 
doctor  —  anything  in  reason ;  but  this 
was  not  in  reason.  She  had  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  unshaded  lamps  all  her 
life  and  had  not  been  aware  of  any  dis- 
comfort. Why  should  the  doctor  ask  for 
a  shade? 

Of  course,  if  he  had  insisted  upon  it, 
as  he  had  for  his  study-lamp,  with  lan- 
guage that  a  self-respecting  woman  could 
not  listen  to  —  he  had  even  bought  a 
lamp,  especially  for  it,  with  a  porcelain 
shade ;  and  green,  at  that,  with  not  a  sin- 
gle bird  or  flower  on  it.  And  he  had  said 
that  if  she  kept  that  lamp  filled  and 


The  Doctor 


353 


trimmed  she  might  have  what  she  pleased 
in  the  dining-room,  and  be  something  to 
her.  She  had  left  the  room,  at  that,  so 
that  she  was  not  rightly  sure  just  what  it 
was  he  said. 

The  doctor  had  but  just  come  from 
Mrs.  Houlton's.  And  he  had  had  a 
glimpse  into  her  dining-room ;  a  pleasant 
room,  warm  and  snug  and  homelike,  with 
its  shaded  lamp  shedding  a  soft  glow  over 
the  neatly  spread  table  —  and  making  a 
glow  at  the  doctor's  heart,  too.  No  doubt 
his  own  dining-room  seemed  all  the  drear- 
ier for  that  glimpse,  and  his  own  supper 
a  dismal  function  to  be  got  through  with 
as  soon  as  possible.  It  was  all  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton's fault.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the 
doctor's  mind  about  that,  and  he  felt  a 
dull  resentment.  And  there  had  been  the 
noisy  crew  of  Houlton  children,  too, 
"  helping  mother,"  coming  and  going  in 
the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room,  setting 
the  table  —  or  finishing  that  task  —  and 
carrying  things,  all  at  once;  running  into 
one  another  in  the  doorway  and  crying 
out;  Betty  telling  Sally,  in  tones  of  vexa- 
tion, to  "  look  out!  You'll  make  me  spill 
it."  Willie  Houlton,  meanwhile,  his  task 
of  putting  the  napkins  and  bibs  in  their 
places  already  done,  was  practicing  stand- 
ing on  his  hands  against  the  wall,  while 
little  Jimmy  looked  on  in  admiration  that 
would  have  emulated  if  he  had  but  dared. 
The  doctor  himself  had  much  the  same 
feeling.  He  would  have  liked  to  try  it, 
alone  with  Willie,  perhaps  out  in  his  barn ; 
but  what  would  be  thought  of  a  man  of 
his  age  —  and  of  his  build  —  who  es- 
sayed standing  on  his  hands  ? 

Oh,  yes,  it  was  a  noisy  crew,  a  very 
noisy  crew.  But  the  doctor  was  fond  of 
children,  and  there  are  things  more  to  be 
desired  than  quiet — of  a  kind.  And  these 
Houltons  were  a  particularly  lovable  lot 
of  youngsters.  He  had  caught  himself 
smiling  in  a  foolish,  sentimental  sort  of 
way  —  and  Mrs.  Houlton  had  caught 
him  at  it,  too.  And  she  had  come  and 
stood  beside  him,  smiling,  too,  in  exactly 
the  same  sort  of  way;  and,  finally,  she 
had  spoken. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


"  They're  worth  it,"  she  had  said, 
"  don't  you  think,  doctor?  " 

And  then  the  doctor  had  growled  and 
rumbled  something  that  nobody  could 
have  understood  unless  it  was  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton. She  had  looked  up  at  him  and 
laughed. 

That  —  or  something  —  made  him 
mad.  She  was  always  laughing  at  him. 
She  paid  about  as  much  attention  to  his 
orders  as  she  might  to  the  blowing  of  the 
wind.  He  said  so. 

She  said  nothing  for  a  full  minute.  She 
only  stood  and  looked  over  the  teeming 
room,  a  pleasant  light  in  her  eyes.  "  For 
the  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,"  she 
murmured.  "  I  can't,  doctor.  I  can't. 
What  would  they  do  ?  And  what  should 
I  do  ?  I  shall  get  along.  But  I  thank  you, 
from  my  heart,  doctor.  I  am  deeply  grate- 
ful." And  she  looked  up  at  him;  but  she 
did  not  laugh,  this  time. 

The  doctor  understood,  which  may  be 
thought  strange.  Mrs.  Houlton's  speech 
was  not  very  clear,  perhaps. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  with  unneces- 
sary loudness.  "  Mrs.  Houlton,"  he  said, 
"  you're  a  good  woman."  And  he  went 
out  to  Sammy,  who  had  waited  as  patient- 
ly as  could  be  expected  of  a  horse  who 
knew  very  well  that  it  was  supper-time. 

The  doctor  finished  his  plate  of  apple 
sauce  and  his  hunk  of  gingerbread.  They 
did  not  seem  to  merit  such  haste,  for  it 
was  good  apple  sauce  and  excellent  gin- 
gerbread ;  but  the  doctor  seemed  to  be  in 
a  hurry  —  perhaps  it  was  merely  that  he 
wanted  to  escape  from  that  cheerless 
room.  And  he  pushed  back  his  plate, 
and  rose,  sighing,  and  went  at  once  to 
his  study.  The  lamp  was  lighted,  and  it 
cast  a  circle  of  light  over  his  table  and 
the  pipes  and  books  and  papers  that  lit- 
tered it;  and  there  was  a  smaller  circle 
of  light  on  the  ceiling  that  seemed  to  be 
flaring  and  smoking.  The  corners  of  the 
room  and  the  ceiling  beyond  that  small 
circle  were  enveloped  in  a  soft,,  green 
gloom. 

The  doctor  glanced  about,  at  the  piles 
of  books  that  cumbered  the  chairs,  and 


354 


The  Doctor 


at  other  piles  that  showed  dimly,  in  the 
corners,  in  front  of  the  half-emptied  book- 
cases, upon  everything  that  would  hold 
books.  It  was  plainly  a  man's  room. 
That  must  have  been  evident,  upon  sight, 
to  any  woman  —  and  to  any  man  ordi- 
narily observant  and  of  average  intelli- 
gence. But  it  suited  the  doctor,  and  in  its 
apparent  disorder  there  was  the  essence 
of  order.  He  knew  where  everything  was, 
where  to  lay  his  finger  on  any  book  that 
he  wanted.  He  had  said  just  that  to  his 
housekeeper,  and  given  orders  that  they 
were,  on  no  account,  to  be  disturbed. 

"  Yes,"  she  had  replied,  with  a  sniff  of 
disgust,  "  I  guess  that  ain't  so  hard,  to 
know  where  everything  is.  I  know  that, 
myself.  It's  on  the  floor." 

Whereat  the  doctor  had  given  one  of 
his  great  laughs.  But  his  books  were  not 
disturbed. 

He  settled  himself  in  a  great  leather- 
covered  easy  chair  by  the  table,  got  his 
feet  up  on  another  chair, — he  was  never 
comfortable  until  he  had  got  his  knees 
straightened  out,  —  took  up  a  big,  long- 
stemmed  meerschaum  pipe,  and  filled  it 
from  a  yellow  earthenware  jar.  Then  he 
lighted  it,  sighed,  and  began  looking  over 
his  medical  papers  and  enveloping  him- 
self in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

At  exactly  half-past  eight  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  The  doctor  grunted, 
and  his  housekeeper  came  in,  bearing  a 
bottle  of  beer  and  a  glass.  To  her,  the 
doctor's  head  appeared  above  the  back 
of  the  chair,  surrounded  by  a  green  aure- 
ole of  smoke.  But  that  was  quite  usual ; 
and  so  was  her  remark.  She  always  said 
the  same  thing. 

"  Here's  your  beer,  doctor.  Mercy! 
How  smoky  it  is !  "  It  was.  The  corners 
of  the  room  could  not  be  seen  at  all.  "  I 
should  think  you'd  die!  " 

"  Shall,  in  time,"  growled  the  doctor. 
"Not  immortal.  But  I'll  manage  to  stand 
it  for  a  while." 

She  set  the  beer  and  the  glass  by  the 
doctor's  hand.  "  Well,  if  you  can  stand 
it,  /  can't." 

"  Don't  have  to,"  growled  the  doctor 


again.     "  Don't  have  to.    Thank  you. 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  housekeeper; 
and  the  door  closed  softly  behind  her. 
She  was  not  resentful  of  such  shortness, 
any  more  than  the  Polar  Bear  was  resent- 
ful of  the  slapping  of  the  reins,  or  of  the 
doctor's  absent-minded  profanity.  In- 
deed, she  understood  such  shortness  of 
speech  very  well.  She  was  apt  to  be  short 
of  speech,  herself.  She  thought  better  of 
the  doctor  for  it. 

When  the  housekeeper  had  gone,  the 
doctor  laid  down  his  medical  journals 
with  evident  relief. 

"  There,  damn  it,  that's  that,"  he  said. 

And  he  reached  over  to  a  pile  of  books 
that  were  bound  in  full  calf,  and  that 
showed  signs  of  frequent  use. 

"  What  to-night  ?  "  he  said,  musingly. 
His  hand  hovered  over  the  pile  of  books, 
while  he  read  over  the  legends  on  their 
backs.  Then  he  swooped  for  one  of  them. 
"  'Merry  Wives  '  hits  me  to-night.  Mer- 
ry Wives !  "  And  he  chuckled  to  himself 
as  he  got  the  heavy  book  into  his  lap  and 
opened  it. 

Not  until  then  did  he  open  his  beer; 
and,  having  got  it  open,  he  filled  his  pipe 
afresh  and  lighted  it.  Then,  with  a  com- 
fortable snuggle  into  his  chair,  he  settled 
himself  to  read. 

The  doctor  read  until  late  —  very  late, 
for  Old  Harbor ;  but  it  was  the  only  time 
in  the  twenty-four  hours  that  he  had  for 
recreation.  The  sense  of  duty  not  done 
would  creep  in  at  any  other  time,  and  he 
was  not  to  be  grudged  these  few  hours  of 
pleasure.  Indeed,  the  troublesome  sense 
of  duty  left  undone  would  creep  in  even 
at  this  time,  apparently,  for  he  would  stop 
reading,  now  and  then,  rest  his  head 
against  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  puff 
forth  great  clouds  of  smoke,  while  his 
eyes  showed  that  he  was  troubled,  and 
he  frowned  tremendously.  Suddenly  he 
would  realize  what  he  was  doing,  reso- 
lutely put  away  the  thought  which  was 
bothering  him,  and  turn  to  his  reading 
again,  with  a  sound  in  his  throat  that  was 
between  a  grunt  and  a  growl. 


The  Doctor 


355 


The  doctor  must  have  thought  to  some 
purpose,  either  in  those  unconscious 
pauses  which  he  seemed  to  relish  so  little 
or  in  his  sleep,  for  the  next  morning  he 
walked  to  the  barn  with  a  boyish  eager- 
ness that  sat  well  upon  him.  He  found 
Sammy  already  hitched  in  the  sleigh  and 
evidently  waiting  for  him.  Sammy  turned 
his  head,  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  familiar 
step,  and  looked  at  him  solemnly;  then, 
without  waiting  for  the  doctor,  he  backed 
carefully  out  of  the  barn  and  made  the 
half  turn  so  short  that  he  nearly  tipped 
the  sleigh  over. 

"  Good-morning,  Sammy !  "  cried  the 
doctor,  when  the  sleigh  had  finally 
righted  itself.  "  Don't  you  know  that 
sleighs  aren't  buggies?  You'll  break 
my  shafts  if  you  are  n't  more  careful." 

Sammy  looked  rather  sheepish.  The 
doctor  climbed  in,  wheezed  a  moment, 
then  took  up  the  reins.  Sammy  had  not 
waited  for  him  to  do  that,  and  he  was  al- 
ready out  of  the  yard. 

The  doctor  chuckled.  "  Damn  it  all, 
Sammy,  what's  got  into  you?  "  he  said. 
"  Well,  get  along,  you  old  skate  —  old 
ramshackle  skate.  We'll  settle  her  hash, 
won't  we,  Sammy  ?  "  And  he  laughed. 

Sammy  seemed  to  know  where  the  doc- 
tor was  going.  He  did  not  offer  to  stop 
at  any  of  the  usual  places,  but  made 
straight  for  the  Houl tons',  and  drew  up, 
with  a  jerk,  at  the  gate.  The  doctor  got 
out,  chuckling  again,  and  made  his  way 
around  to  the  kitchen  door.  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton  was  singing  softly  while  she  wiped 
the  breakfast  dishes.  The  doctor  paused 
to  listen  for  a  minute,  then  he  opened 
the  door,  without  bothering  to  knock, 
and  went  in. 

The  singing  stopped,  and  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton  looked  up  at  him,  smiling. 

"  Good-morning,  madam,  good-morn- 
ing," said  the  doctor  solemnly. 

Mrs.  Houlton  laughed.  "  Good-morn- 
ing, sir,  good-morning," she  said;  but  she 
did  not  stop  wiping  the  dishes.  "  Won't 
you  sit  down,  sir  ?  If  I  leave  these  dishes 
now,  they  will  get  cold,  and  that  would 
be  a  waste  of  time.  And  then  they  might 


need  your  good  offices,  sir,  which  is  un- 
necessary." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious, 
madam,"  replied  the  doctor,  seating  him- 
self in  a  generous  rocker;  but  he  did  not 
rock.  "  I  would  offer  to  help  with  those 
dishes  if  I  thought  I  should  be  a  help." 

"  Why,  thank  you,  doctor,"  said  Mrs. 
Houlton,  "  but  they  are  almost  done. 
And  why  should  n't  I  be  facetious,  sir,  as 
you  express  it,  if  I  feel  like  it?  Would 
you  have  ine  mournful,  sir  ?  " 

"  Any  way,  any  way,"  muttered  the 
doctor  hastily,  "  so  long  as  I  had  you." 
But  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton did  not  hear  him,  for  she  made  no  re- 
ply, but  turned  away. 

There  fell  a  silence,  which  promised  to 
be  long.  "  The  children  are  at  school," 
said  Mrs.  Houlton,  at  last,  turning  again. 
The  silence,  in  her  opinion,  had  lasted 
long  enough.  "  And  Sophy,  of  course, 
has  gone  to  the  store.  She  has  to  get  there 
before  eight,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  like  Sophy's  being  in  that 
store,"  growled  the  doctor.  "  A  store  is 
no  fit  place  —  no  fit  place." 

"  I  don't  like  it,  either,"  said  Mrs. 
Houlton,  smiling;  "  probably  I  dislike  it 
even  more  than  you  do.  But  it  seemed  to 
be  the  only  thing  to  do.  It  even  struck 
me  as  providential." 

So  the  doctor  had  thought,  at  the  time ; 
but  that  was  in  the  dark  ages.  The  dishes 
were  all  wiped  by  this  time,  and  Mrs. 
Houlton  began  putting  them  away.  Doc- 
tor Olcott  looked  disturbed,  but  he  said 
nothing  for  some  minutes.  He  broke  out 
suddenly,  at  last,  as  was  his  way. 

"  Mrs.  Houlton!  "  he  said.  She  was 
plainly  startled. 

"Goodness  gracious,  doctor!"  she 
said.  "  You'll  make  me  drop  something 
if  you  speak  so  suddenly.  Can't  you 
cough,  or  something,  so  that  a  person  can 
know  when  it's  coming?  " 

There  was  a  rumbling  sound  in  the 
doctor's  throat. 

"  Laughing  at  me  again,  madam  ?  " 
he  cried. 

"  Laughing  at  you  ?  "  she  asked,  smil- 


356 


The  Doctor 


ing.  "  No,  I  wasn't;  but  I  shall,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  Laugh,  madam,  laugh,  if  you  want 
to,"  growled  the  doctor.  "  I  would  laugh, 
too,  if  I  only  knew  what  was  funny." 

But  Mrs.  Houlton  was  not  laughing. 
"  Now,  doctor,"  she  began,  "I  —  "  She 
did  not  finish. 

The  doctor  waited  for  her;  waited  for 
what  seemed  to  him  a  suitable  time. 
"  Well  ?  "  he  said  then.  "  You  were  say- 
ing?- 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Houlton. 
"  Nothing  of  consequence.  I  have  really 
forgotten  what  it  was  I  started  to  say." 

Again  there  was  the  rumbling  sound 
in  the  doctor's  throat.  "  Mrs.  Houlton," 
he  said,  "  I  am  likely  to  have  apoplexy 
at  any  minute  if  —  " 

Mrs.  Houlton  stopped  short,  her  arms 
full  of  dishes.  "Mercy,  doctor!"  she 
cried.  "  Not  really!  "  She  was  alarmed. 

"  I  was  about  to  say,"  Doctor  Olcott 
continued,  "  that  I  might  have  a  stroke 
at  any  minute  if  you  did  n't  treat  what  I 
have  to  say  with  respect."  And  the  doc- 
tor smiled. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Houlton,  smiling,  too. 
She  went  on  to  the  dining-room  with  her 
load  of  dishes. 

"  Mrs.  Houlton,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
some  vehemence,  as  she  returned,  "  will 
you  take  a  rest  ?  "  He  was  rocking  vio- 
lently; which  was  not  what  one  would 
have  expected  of  him.  It  was  a  sign  of 
great  perturbation  of  spirit. 

Mrs.  Houlton  turned  and  faced  him. 
"  Now,  doctor,  how  can  I  ?  I  put  it  to 
you,  Doctor  Olcott,  how  can  I  —  with 
these  children  ?  " 

The  doctor  exploded.  "  Damn  it,  Mrs. 
Houlton,  /  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me. 
That's  for  you  to  manage.  You'll  die  if 
you  don't." 

"  And  I'll  die  if  I  do,. Doctor  Olcott." 
She  had  a  fine  color.  She  was  rather  a 
handsome  woman  as  she  stood  there,  de- 
fying him. 

"  But  I  order  you  to  take  a  rest,  Mrs. 
Houlton.  I  positively  order  it." 

And  Mrs.  Houlton  only  laughed. 


The  doctor  was  purple  in  the  face. 
"Then  I  ani  to  understand  that  you  re- 
fuse to  obey  my  orders  —  the  positive 
orders  of  your  doctor  ?  " 

She  took  up  a  platter  to  put  it  away. 
"  I  certainly  do,  Doctor  Olcott." 

"  Well,  then,  damn  it,  there's  no  other 
way.  Will  you  marry  me,  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton?" 

Mrs.  Houlton  must  have  been  sur- 
prised. She  certainly  seemed  to  be;  for 
she  stopped  very  suddenly  in  her  journey, 
went  very  white,  and  dropped  the  platter 
on  the  floor.  Whereupon  the  platter  did 
as  any  self-respecting  and  well-behaved 
platter  should  have  done,  and  broke  into 
pieces. 

Mrs.  Houlton  stood  leaning  against 
the  door-jamb,  looking  down  at  the  pieces 
of  the  broken  platter.  There  were  a  great 
many  of  them ;  far  too  many  to  think  of 
putting  them  together. 

"  There,  doctor!  "  she  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  none  too  steady,  although  she 
strove  to  speak  lightly.  But  a  new  plat- 
ter of  that  size  —  even  of  the  cheapest  — 
would  cost  —  it  terrified  her  to  think 
what  it  would  cost.  "There,  doctor! 
See  what  you  have  made  me  do ! " 

"  Damn  that  platter !  "  cried  the  doc- 
tor. "  Will  you  marry  me,  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton?" 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  The  platter  is  al- 
ready damned,"  she  said;  "  and  I — I— 

And,  to  the  doctor's  astonishment,  — 
for  Mrs.  Houlton  had  always  seemed  a 
particularly  well-balanced  woman,  and 
he  would  not  have  expected  it  of  her,  — 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
burst  into  tears.  But  the  doctor  was  not 
displeased;  not  displeased  nor  disap- 
pointed, he  found.  He  jumped  to  his  feet, 
with  an  agility  that  was  surprising,  and 
went  to  her. 

"  Now,  what  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  doctor," 
sobbed  Mrs.  Houlton,  "  very  kind,  in- 
deed. But  there  are  the  children  — " 

"  Why,  I  love  children,"  cried  the  doc- 
tor, interrupting.  "  I  love  every  one  of 
'em.  And  I  '11  take  Sophy  out  of  that  store 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


357 


at  once,  if  you  say  so  —  if  you  give  me 
leave.  Sammy  and  I'll  go  right  down 
there  and  take  her  out  now." 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Houlton  —  her  sobs 
had  ceased,  and  she  stood,  looking  down, 
with  wet  eyes  —  "  but  —  I  know  you're 
asking  me  only  to  make  it  easy  for  me, 
and  "  —  the  sobs  broke  out  afresh  — 
"  and  I  —  I  can't  let  you.  I  won't  be 
married  in  charity."  She  flashed  up  at 
him,  at  that. 

The  doctor  laughed  happily.  "  Well, 
then,  I'm  not,"  he  said.  "  I  may  have 
fortified  myself  with  that  idea,  but  I'm 
not.  If  you  could  see  my  house!  I'm 
probably  the  most  selfish  man  in  town  — 
and  the  most  tyrannized  over.  You  know 
my  housekeeper?  Well,  then!  " 


Mrs.  Houlton  did  know  the  doctor's 
housekeeper.  She  smiled.  "You,  self- 
ish! "  she  said. 

"  And  the  fact  is,"  continued  the 
doctor,  following  up  his  advantage  — 
although  it  is  to  his  credit  that  he  did 
not  know  it,  "  the  fact  is,  housekeeper 
or  no  housekeeper,  I  want  you.  I  want 
you." 

Mrs.  Houlton  looked  up  at  the  doctor 
with  a  shy  smile.  "  Well,  then,"  she  said 
softly.  "  Well,  then  —  " 

And  they  forgot  the  broken  platter,  and 
they  forgot  Sammy,  who  was  waiting,  as 
patiently  as  could  be  expected  of  a  bored 
old  white  horse,  for  the  doctor  to  come 
out.  But  the  doctor  was  a  long  time  in 
coming. 


THE   SPANISH  DRAMA   OF  TO-DAY 


BY   ELIZABETH   WALLACE 


THE  Spanish  drama  of  to-day  is  no 
longer  that  of  a  proud  and  prosperous 
people  secure  in  its  imperial  power  and  in 
full  possession  of  its  splendid  faculties, 
as  was  the  Spain  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  But  the  drama  of 
the  days  of  the  great  Lope  de  Vega,  Tirso 
de  Molina,  and  Calderon  partook  so  in- 
timately of,  and  was  founded  so  deeply 
upon,  national  temperament  and  national 
conditions  that  it  has  been  able  to  with- 
stand, to  a  great  extent,  the  assaults  of 
foreign  influence  and  to  preserve  the 
peculiar  stamp  of  sacred  tradition. 

The  great  literary  movements  have 
affected  the  Spanish  drama  in  a  lesser  de- 
gree than  that  in  other  countries.  Roman- 
ticism left  behind  an  enormous  amount  of 
literary  junk,  but  it  drew  the  public  and 
the  stage  closer  together.  Realism  and 
naturalism  were  slow  in  finding  a  wel- 
come, and  it  was  not  until  after  1890  that 
discussion  grew  warm  as  to  the  propriety 
of  depicting  immorality  in  ugly  truthful- 


ness on  the  stage.  This  tardy  influence 
of  Dumas,  Augier,  and  their  school  was 
owing  to  a  variety  of  reasons. 

The  first,  I  take  it,  was  the  manifest 
incompatibility  existing  between  the  very 
spirit  of  the  French  realists  and  the  Span- 
ish national  dramatic  ideals.  The  Span- 
ish national  drama  deals  in  elemental 
passions,  is  poetic  in  language,  melo- 
dramatic in  situations,  and  magnificently 
conventional  in  tone;  while  its  literary 
form  is  more  important  than  its  drama- 
tic structure.  On  the  other  hand,  the  art 
of  conversation,  a  French  art  par  excel- 
lence, has  given  to  the  French  drama  its 
form.  The  modern  prose  dialogue  seeks 
to  hide  any  literary  effort.  Sociability, 
the  soul  of  French  literature,  gives  it  its 
fine  and  subtle  psychology,  witty  and  in- 
genious, but  sometimes  a  little  attenuated. 
As  for  themes,  it  has  found  them,  not  in 
universal,  and  as  it  were  virgin  passions, 
but  in  complex  and  involved  feelings,  in 
the  fevers,  vices,  and  moral  depravations 


358 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


induced  by  the  upheaval  of  an  old  order 
of  things.  Now  the  Spaniard,  though 
characterized  by  a  warm,  unembar- 
rassed, exuberant  southern  sensuality, 
is  nevertheless  essentially  modest.  He 
cannot  look  upon  irregularities  as  serious 
problems,  nor  does  he  like  to  exhibit 
himself  on  the  operating  table,  nor  does 
he  wish  to  theorize  about  himself  in  in- 
tellectual subtleties.  Therefore  he  was 
slow  to  appreciate  the  modern  French 
realistic  play;  in  fact  he  never  did  adopt 
it  in  its  original  and  unadulterated  forms. 

Another  reason  for  the  tardy  effects  of 
French  realistic  influence  lies  in  the  sim- 
ple fact  that  the  Spanish  public  does  not 
read  much.  The  intellectual  classes  who 
were  familiar  with  Flaubert  and  Dumas 
and  Zola  and  the  rest,  understood  and 
appreciated  what  was  of  value  in  realism 
and  in  naturalism;  but  the  mass  of  the 
people  knew  nothing  of  dramatic  impos- 
sibilities, or  of  truth,  or  of  the  new  isms. 
All  they  asked  was  to  be  thrilled  and 
moved  and  stirred  by  the  action  and  the 
melody  of  their  Calderonian  composi- 
tions. 

The  northern  realistic  drama  has  also 
been  doomed  to  unsuccess  in  Spain. 
Aside  from  the  enigmatical  character  of 
some  episodes  and  the  puerility  of  some 
of  the  allegories,  the  dramas  of  Ibsen 
have  interested  the  reading  classes  be- 
cause of  the  vitality,  not  so  much  pas- 
sional as  intellectual,  of  their  subjects. 
But  the  harsh  individualism,  the  intimate 
and  subtle  sentiments  of  self-centred 
men  cannot  be  understood  by  the  Span- 
ish public.  Such  types  as  are  found  in 
Ibsen,  Bjornson,  and  Sudermann  are  un- 
known in  Spain. 

Attempts  have  been  made  to  imitate 
Ibsen.  The  most  notable  is  by  Echegaray 
in  El  hijo  de  Don  Juan,  which  is  a 
Spanish  version  of  Ghosts.  The  author 
states  that  he  has  been  inspired  by  Ibsen, 
but  if  inspiration  means  to  feel  the  spirit 
of  the  original,  then  Echegaray  has  sig- 
nally failed.  In  reading  the  two  plays, 
one  is  struck  by  the  differences  rather  than 
by  the  resemblances.  There  is  nothing  in 


the  Spanish  play  which  reveals  any  strug- 
gle between  duty  and  moral  freedom,  no- 
thing which  touches  on  the  problems  of 
divorce,  of  education,  or  of  social  regen- 
eration. There  is  neither  dispute  of  ideas, 
nor  opposition  of  characters,  nothing  in 
fact  that  makes  up  the  essential  elements 
of  Ibsen's  work.  Echegaray  does  appro- 
priate the  last  incident;  but  it  now  lacks 
significance.  The  morning  sunrise  loses 
its  tragic  brilliancy  because  it  is  not  pre- 
ceded by  the  terrible  night  of  ghosts. 

Neither  has  foreign  symbolism  been 
grafted  on  to  the  Spanish  growth  with 
any  degree  of  success.  The  individuality 
of  Maeterlinck  consists  in  the  fact  that  he 
has  been  able  to  give  to  his  plays  a  total 
effect,  vague,  impossible  to  define,  but 
very  impressive.  In  order  to  produce  this 
effect  he  accumulates  indeterminate  in- 
sinuations, half-uttered  hints,  sentences 
constantly  repeated,  incomprehensible 
trivialities,  flickering  dying  lights,  inco- 
herent episodes,  and  unexpected  horrors. 
From  this  combination  there  results  at 
the  end  a  sort  of  obsession  which  does 
not  come  from  this  or  that  detail,  but 
from  them  all,  as  though  seen  at  one  time. 
Now  the  Spanish  public  rarely  applauds 
at  the  end  of  the  act  the  sum  total  of  emo- 
tions aroused  during  the  act.  It  demands 
every  now  and  then  in  the  course  of  the 
play  a  coup  de  theatre,  and  at  the  end  a 
final  emotion,  in  order  to  resume  and 
condense  all  the  preceding  ones  in  a 
round  of  applause.  The  "  Princesse  Ma- 
leine,"  "Pelleas  and  Melissande,"  "  Les 
Aveugles,"  leave  the  audience  curious 
but  cold.  Another  reason  for  the  failure 
of  foreign  symbolism  is  that  the  Spanish 
public  demands  definiteness  and  action. 
Maeterlinck  is  the  playwright  of  dream- 
land, of  a  dreamland  that  is  spiritual,  im- 
palpable and  colorless.  The  stage,  how- 
ever ideal  and  poetical  it  may  be,  is  after 
all  a  plastic,  material,  tangible  and  highly 
colored  realization.  To  the  Spaniard  the 
two  terms  are  antithetical. 

In  the  drama  of  the  last  ten  years  of 
the  nineteenth  century  we  see  the  persist- 
ence of  ancient  tradition,  the  imitation  of 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


359 


the  great  plays  of  the  Age  of  Gold.  Side 
by  side  with  these  are  the  second-rate 
dramas,  reminiscent  of  the  Romantic 
school.  We  notice  also  the  strong  repug- 
nance to  accept  integrally  a  drama  im- 
itated from  the  French  without  any  veil- 
ing of  the  subject,  without  rude  passions 
in  the  persons,  without  poetical  and  ora- 
torical effusions  in  its  language.  But  we 
also  notice  certain  effects  of  the  foreign 
influence.  Naturalism  is  definitely  taking 
possession  of  the  stage  and  becoming  so- 
ciological ;  there  is  also  an  idealistic  reac- 
tion, with  all  its  ancient  variations,  poet- 
ical drama,  symbolism,  and  mysticism. 
From  all  this  intermixture  of  elements 
there  is  being  evolved  a  new  drama,  more 
real,  more  lofty,  more  spiritual,  more 
adapted  to  human  needs. 

The  exponents  of  this  new  drama  are 
legion,  but  certain  names  and  plays  stand 
out  prominently.  Galdos  with  earnest, 
serious  face  stands  decidedly  in  the  fore- 
ground; Echegaray's  intellectual  figure 
and  distinguished  manner  impose  on  one 
a  little,  and  the  glitter  of  the  Nobel  prize 
dazzles  the  eyes  to  his  true  value,  but  he 
is  well  to  the  front.  Jacinto  Benavente, 
whose  social  manner  and  half  cynical 
smile  promise  hours  of  spicy  conversa- 
tion and  deliciously  satirical  comment, 
stands  respectfully  behind;  while  the 
handsome,  attractive  faces  of  the  two 
brothers,  Serafin  and  Joaquin  Quintero, 
tell  of  unforgettable  evenings  with  joyous 
innkeepers,  pretty  pure-hearted  young 
girls  of  the  people,  and  a  whole  gallery 
of  Dickens  types.  At  one  side,  and  seen 
through  a  mist,  is  the  tragic  face  of 
Ganivet,  whose  one  mystic  drama  was 
almost  the  last  act  of  his  short  life. 

The  great  fame  of  Jose  Echegaray  rests 
upon  his  play  of  "  El  Gran  Galeoto," 
which  was  produced  for  the  first  time  in 
1881  and  is  therefore  almost  a  classic. 
In  this  play  he  reached  the  climax  of  his 
talent,  for  he  accomplished  an  almost  im- 
possible feat.  He  constructed  a  drama  of 
thrilling  interest  in  which  the  principal 
personage  never  appears  upon  the  scene, 
and  yet  he  is  the  one  who  animates  it  with 


life,  who  creates  the  situations,  and  who 
precipitates  the  catastrophe.  This  mov- 
ing spirit  of  the  play,  malevolent,  insidi- 
ous, omnipresent,  —  he  who  filters  slowly 
but  relentlessly  into  the  soul  the  sure 
poison  of  suspicion  and  evil-thinking,  — 
is  not  a  person  but  a  thing,  a  monstrous 
thing  with  a  thousand  tongues,  whose 
deadliest  weapons  are  a  meaning  smile, 
an  uplifted  eyebrow,  a  curious  look,  a 
dubious  nod,  a  forked  sentence.  This 
all-pervading,  ever- vanishing  hero  of  the 
drama  is  the  cruel,  careless  world  hasten- 
ing eagerly  to  cast  the  first  stone,  and 
soon,  tired  of  the  sport,  hurrying  on  to 
find  some  new  excitement,  leaving  death 
and  destruction  in  its  wake. 

Echegaray  has  written  over  sixty  tra- 
gedies, comedies,  and  dramatic  legends. 
His  earlier  works  are  more  or  less  in  the 
romantic  manner,  later  he  came  under 
the  influence  of  the  northern  writers,  with 
what  success  has  already  been  indicated 
in  his  imitation  of  Ibsen's  Ghosts.  The 
result  of  this  inspiration  —  El  hijo  de 
Don  Juan — is  expressive  of  the  quality 
of  Echegaray's  talent.  The  very  fact 
that  he  made  use  of  that  famous  final 
scene  and  sentence,  without  in  any  way 
seeming  to  seize  the  significance  of  the 
whole  drama,  shows  his  intellectual  en- 
thusiasm for  what  is  striking,  brilliant, 
and  dramatic,  without  that  deeper  com- 
prehension of  what  is  fundamental.  This 
is  particularly  well  shown  in  one  of  his 
last  plays,  "  The  Mad  God,"  which  is  a 
sort  of  pathological  study  of  a  man  of 
magnificent  physical  development  who  is 
possessed  by  the  idea  of  human  perfecti- 
bility. His  obsession  becomes  a  madness 
and  he  believes  himself  to  be  God.  There 
is  a  love  episode,  which  complicates  but 
does  not  elevate  the  play  from  being  a 
mere  tour  de  force. 

Echegaray  is  a  wonderful  stage  mecha- 
nician. He  reminds  one  in  his  work  of 
the  complicated  and  clever  creations  of 
Scribe,  but  il  a  les  de  fonts  de  ses  qualites, 
and  he  has  never  again  attained  to  the 
perfection  and  strength  of  "  El,  Gran 
Galeoto." 


360 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


Jacinto  Benavente  in  his  thirty  and 
more  plays  deals  almost  entirely  with 
contemporaneous  life  and  social  foibles. 
The  repartee  and  brilliant  play  of  words 
are  much  more  than  the  situations ;  the 
actors  talk  much  more  than  they  act  or 
think.  Sometimes  he  chooses  for  his  stage- 
setting  the  waiting  room  in  a  fashionable 
dressmaker's  shop,  sometimes  the  ele- 
gant house  of  a  society-worn  family, 
sometimes  a  mechanic's  simple  home. 
He  is  sometimes  gay,  sometimes  satirical, 
and  occasionally  he  falls  into  a  more  se- 
rious vein,  as  in  "  Sacrifices,"  "  The 
Witches'  Sabbath,"  and  "The  Fiery 
Dragon; "  but  his  touch  is  always  light. 
An  idea  of  his  style  may  be  best  obtained 
by  lines  taken  at  random  from  his  most 
successful  plays.  In  "  All  Natural,"  a 
society-worn  young  girl  who  has  fads 
expresses  herself  thus :  — 

Anita.  I  've  always  wanted  to  be  a  nun. 
Is  there  any  convent  near  here? 

Olalla.  Of  course.  The  Sisters  of  Saint 
Eduvigis. 

Anita.    What  do  they  wear  ? 

Olalla.    A  gray  uniform. 

Anita.  I  don't  like  that.  In  France  I 
saw  some  lovely  nuns  in  blue  and  white. 
Do  you  remember  where  it  was,  papa  ? 

The  Marquis.  Yes,  my  dear;  in  a 
comic  opera,  "  The  Gray  Musketeers." 

Luisa,  a  precocious  young  lady  in  "  Sin 
Querer,"  says,  "There's  nothing  a  wo- 
man likes  better  than  to  have  her  hus- 
band present  her  with  a  little  gift  once  in 
a  while;  "  then,  concealing  her  pleasure, 
she  chides  him  affectionately  and  says, 
"  What  made  you  buy  that?  You  know 
we  cannot  afford  it!  " 

The  French  dressmaker  in  "  Modas  " 
says,  with  an  expressive  gesture,  "  Art 
and  matrimony  are  incompatible,  and 
Spanish  actresses  are  so  addicted  to  mat- 
rimony! " 

Augustin,  the  intelligent  young  hus- 
band in  "  Lo  Cursi,"  reads  a  homily  to  his 
newly-made  wife,  Rosario.  "  Your  grand- 
mother was  a  great  lady.  Her  palace  was 


most  severe,  her  servants  all  old,  the  can- 
delabras  of  solid  silver,  —  ah  yes,  that 
was  style.  There  were  neither  electric 
lights,  nor  bells,  nor  telephones,  nothing 
of  all  this  progressive  rubbish  that  is  so 
antipathetic  and  so  cursi.  .  .  .  That 's 
the  modern  spirit;  eager  for  everything, 
it  wants  to  live  in  one  instant  all  the  past 
and  all  the  present.  Look  at  our  houses : 
they  contain  everything  from  Flemish 
tapestries  to  Liberty  silks,  from  the  choir 
in  a  Gothic  cathedral  to  a  flimsy  French 
chair,  —  every  form,  every  style.  And  they 
say  that  modern  life  has  no  character; 
just  as  though  not  having  it  were  not  in 
itself  characteristic." 

The  conventional  but  humorous  Mar- 
quis of  this  same  play  admonishes  Au- 
gustin thus :  "  Rosario  is  your  wife,  and 
you  should  treat  her  always  with  respect. 
Respect  is  the  foundation  of  marriage, 
respect  and  consideration.  I  read  it  in  an 
English  novel." 

Felix,  a  young  novelist  a  la  mode,  says, 
"  What  we  must  do  to-day  is  to  deprecate 
everything  that  does  n't  exist  at  the  pre- 
sent moment,  immortalize  the  ephemeral, 
fix  the  fleeting,  exaggerate  the  diminu- 
tive,—  this  is  art." 

"  Pepita  Reyes  "  is  the  most  popular 
play  that  has  come  from  the  fertile  pen 
of  the  two  brothers  Quintero.  It  is  a 
charming  comedy  in  two  acts,  which  tells 
the  story  of  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  lazy 
and  bibulous  house-porter.  She  has  am- 
bitions to  go  on  the  stage  and  succeeds 
in  carrying  them  out,  being  represented 
in  the  second  act  as  a  Zarzuela  star.  But 
with  the  intoxication  of  success  comes  a 
bitter  taste  of  tragedy.  The  curtain  rises 
on  Morritos,  a  fifteen-year-old  child,  so 
abjectly  poor  that  she  is  reduced  to  be- 
ing the  servant  of  a  house- porter  and  his 
daughter  Pepita.  She  wears  an  expres- 
sion of  chronic  alarm,  for  her  life  is  an  ex- 
citing one,  between  the  blows  of  a  drunk- 
en mother  and  her  insatiable  hunger  for 
penny-dreadfuls.  Her  eyes  are  always 
very  wide  open,  as  though  she  were  con- 
tinually expecting  something  disagree- 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


361 


able  to  happen  to  her.  She  is  devoted  to 
her  yellow  literature  and  to  her  mistress 
Pepita.  There  is  a  delightful  scene  be- 
tween the  two,  when  the  little  seamstress 
and  her  maid  discuss  the  possibilities  of 
the  former's  theatrical  career.  They  are 
sitting  in  the  dingy  porter's  lodge.  Mor- 
ritos  is  peeling  potatoes  and  Pepita  is  at 
her  sewing-machine.  Pepita  is  discour- 
aged. Her  last  customer  refused  to  pay 
for  her  sewing. 

Pepita.  Oh,  the  stage,  the  stage!  If 
it  weren't  for  that  illusion!  But  alas! 
Morritos,  each  day  it's  getting  further 
away! 

Morritos.  You're  a-sayin'  that  to-day 
'cause  you're  all  broke  up.  But  you'll 
see,  the  time's  comin'  sure.  Did  n't  it 
come  fer  me  when  I  skinned  out  from 
home  ?  And  you  bet  that  was  a  regular 
jail,  Pepita,  lots  worse 'n  yours.  My 
daddy,  —  I  mean  mammy's  second  hus- 
band, not  the  one  she  has  now,  but  last 
year's,  —  well,  he  was  always  drunk,  and 
always  had  a  grouch  on  him,  and  he  used 
to  take  after  mammy  with  a  stick,  and 
that  made  her  so  mad  she  used  to  take 
after  me,  and  that  made  me  so  mad  that 
I  used  to  get  after  the  cat  .  .  .  and  that's 
the  way  it  was  all  the  time.  But  when  I 
come  here,  't  ain't  a  year  ago,  I  did  n't 
weigh  eighty  pounds,  and  now  just  look 
at  them  cheeks! 

Pepita.  (cheering  up).  Well,  then, 
Morritos,  would  you  like  to  go  with  me  to 
the  theatre  and  be  my  maid  ? 

Morritos.    Oh,  sure  I  would. 

Pepita.  I'll  be  in  my  dressing-room, 
like  a  queen.  A  room  with  lots  of  electric 
lights  and  looking-glasses.  And  then  the 
authors  will  come,  and  the  manager,  and 
the  reporters,  all  very  polite,  and  they'll 
pay  me  compliments.  And  I'll  call  you 
and  send  you  out  to  the  stage,  and  I'll 
say,  "  Morritos,  go  and  see  what  scene  is 
on."  And  then  you  will  go  and  come 
back  and  tell  me,  and  I'll  hurry,  and  then 
I'll  go  out  and  sing,  and  the  audience 
will  applaud  and  throw  me  flowers,  and 
my  salary  will  be  raised  every  month 


.  .  .  and  I'll  have  my  picture  taken 
every  day. 

Morritos.  Won't  it  be  grand?  And 
I'll  help  to  dress  you! 

Pepita.  I  wish  it  were  going  to  happen 
right  away.  I  was  n't  born  to  be  a  por- 
ter's daughter,  Morritos,  nor  to  sew  any- 
body's clothes.  I  dream  of  the  stage  every 
night,  every  day.  But  what's  the  use! 
Who  could  ever  go  from  this  place  to  the 
theatre?  I  guess  I'm  crazy  to  think  of  it. 
There,  there  is  joy  and  light  and  flowers 
and  money  and  applause,  things  that 
help  one  to  live  .  .  .  while  here  .  .  . 
you  see  what  there  is  here,  Morritos. 

Morritos.  Yes.  Codfish  and  potatoes 
every  day. 

Well,  Pepita  has  her  wish.  She  is 
called  upon  unexpectedly  to  replace  some 
one  who  falls  ill  and  to  sing  a  little  part. 
She  makes  a  hit.  The  flowers  and  the 
applause  and  the  adorers  all  come  true; 
but  there  are  other  things  not  quite  so 
pleasant.  Her  lover  leaves  her;  a  score  of 
worthless,  lazy  relatives  swarm  and  buzz 
about  her,  and  she  is  too  kind-hearted 
and  happy-natured  to  refuse  to  support 
them.  They  determine  that  their  gold 
mine  must  have  no  outsiders  tampering 
with  it,  and  so  they  intercept  letters  from 
the  now  repenting  lover.  Morritos  alone 
remains  faithful,  for  her  dream,  too,  is 
realized  and  she  is  living  a  drama  more 
exciting  than  any  she  ever  read  in  her  be- 
loved dime  novels.  By  her  intervention, 
Pepita  and  her  lover  are  brought  together 
for  a  while  on  the  evening  of  Pepita's 
greatest  triumph.  He  begs  her  again 
to  give  up  her  stage  life.  She  refuses. 
Just  here  she  is  called  away,  and  Victor 
deceives  her  by  promising  to  await  her 
return.  Unusually  moved,  she  does  bet- 
ter than  she  has  ever  done,  and  takes 
the  house  by  storm.  She  returns  to  her 
dressing-room,  followed  by  her  parasitic 
relatives  and  voluble  admirers,  to  find 
that  Victor  has  gone.  She  dismisses 
her  friends  with  smiles,  but  the  curtain 
goes  down  on  a  lonely  little  woman  sob- 
bing in  the  arms  of  the  faithful  Morritos. 


362 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


The  character  of  the  good-for-nothing 
father,  whose  maudlin  sentimentality  in- 
creases in  the  same  ratio  as  his  daughter's 
prosperity,  that  of  the  pretentious  uncle 
who  prates  of  the  purity  of  Art  and  the 
necessity  of  keeping  it  free  from  human 
entanglements,  the  drowsy  fat  old  aunt 
who  is  wide  awake  only  when  the  con- 
versation takes  a  gastronomic  turn  —  all 
these  are  inimitably  drawn,  and  the 
comedy  trips  along  quite  merrily,  until 
our  laughter  is  suddenly  checked  by  the 
shocked  feeling  that  everything  is,  after 
all,  wrong,  and  that  poor  Pepita's  world 
is  out  of  joint. 

I  have  left  Galdos  until  the  last  be- 
cause he  is  by  far  the  greatest  in  the  lofty 
conception  of  his  thoughts,  and  his  suc- 
cess has  been  such  that  his  popularity 
proves  the  high  ideals  of  the  Spanish  peo- 
ple. Benito  Perez  Galdos,  or  Don  Benito, 
as  he  is  affectionately  called,  is  still  in  the 
prime  of  life.  An  indefatigable  worker, 
he  has  produced  over  fifty  novels  and 
plays.  By  far  the  larger  and  all  the  ear- 
lier part  of  his  work  was  in  the  novel. 
His  first  dramatic  effort  was  to  dramatize 
one  of  his  novels,  "  Realidad."  It  was 
not  a  success  and  the  elements  that  caused 
its  failure  were  its  spirit  of  tolerance,  of 
considerate  love,  and  of  charity.  The  cen- 
tral idea  of  the  play  is  to  demonstrate 
that  the  real  is  more  extraordinary  than 
the  imaginary,  that  reality  is  the  great 
inventor,  the  ever  fruitful  and  ever  orig- 
inal master. 

The  author  has  chosen  an  episode 
which  is  as  old  as  human  passion,  and 
has  given  it  a  modern  setting.  We  are 
introduced  into  the  luxurious  home  of  a 
benevolent  and  wealthy  financier  in  Ma- 
drid. His  great  aim  in  life  is  to  reach  per- 
fectibility, to  dominate  himself,  and  to 
rise  into  the  clear  cold  regions  of  a  pas- 
sionless spirituality.  His  wife  is  beautiful, 
with  a  mind  filled  with  ideas  as  charm- 
ing, tenuous,  and  fleeting  as  clouds  in  a 
summer  sky,  an  excitable  imagination, 
and  a  certain  recklessness  of  spirit  that 
makes  her  love  what  is  unknown,  irregu- 


lar, and  extraordinary.  She  has  a  lover, 
an  extravagant,  moody,  erratic  sort  of  a 
poet,  who  at  moments  exults  over  his 
conquest  and  at  others  execrates  himself 
for  having  betrayed  the  wife  of  a  man 
who  has  been  his  benefactor.  This  me- 
nage a  trois  is  surrounded  by  a  circle  of 
friends  and  enemies  who  carry  on  their 
minor  intrigues  and  help  on  the  cata- 
strophe. The  lover,  unable  to  bear  the 
burden  of  financial  ruin  which  threatens 
him,  and  equally  unable,  because  of  some 
tattered  shreds  of  honor  left  him,  to  ac- 
cept the  generous  help  of  the  man  whose 
friendship  he  has  betrayed,  shoots  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  the  wife. 

The  scandal  is  hushed  up,  and  in  the 
last  of  the  five  acts  we  see  husband  and 
wife  face  to  face.  She  is  in  agonizing 
doubt  as  to  whether  he  knows  the  truth  as 
to  her  relations  with  the  dead  Frederico, 
and  he,  knowing  all,  endeavors  to  dom- 
inate certain  very  human  feelings  and 
waits  only  to  have  her  voluntarily  con- 
fess her  sin  to  him.  They  fail  to  meet  on 
a  common  ground.  His  cold  and  lofty 
soul  chills  hers  and  she  cannot  bring  her- 
self to  confess.  Those  who  do  not  know, 
see  a  husband  and  wife  saying  good-night 
to  each  other  in  a  slightly  absent-minded 
way.  But  the  reality  is  that  two  souls 
have  forever  taken  leave  of  each  other, 
and  that  the  divine  moment  for  the  sal- 
vation of  both  is  past,  irretrievably  and 
eternally.  One  will  now  be  frozen  into 
a  lifeless  perfectibility,  and  the  other  will 
nevermore  feel  the  saving  impulse  of 
weeping  repentance  at  the  feet  of  divine 
compassion. 

The  persistence  of  the  traditional  na- 
tional sentiment  was  nowhere  shown  so 
emphatically  as  in  the  utter  failure  of  the 
character  of  the  husband,  Orozco.  So 
far  as  I  know,  Orozco  is  the  first  husband 
in  Spanish  drama  to  pardon  a  guilty  wife, 
the  first  one  to  break  the  Calderonian 
tradition,  —  to  kill  for  honor's  sake. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  pardon  of  Orozco 
which  lowers  or  degrades  his  character. 
There  is  no  cowardice,  or  weakness,  or 
egotism,  nothing  incompatible  with  his 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


363 


manliness.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  in 
this  last  act  of  his  the  nobility,  the  grand- 
eur of  soul  of  a  superior  man.  But  with 
all  this  it  was  enough  that  he  was  the  de- 
ceived husband  who  does  not  kill,  for  the 
whole  world  to  rise  against  him  and  to 
see  in  him  an  anti-national  type.  The 
reluctance  in  accepting  the  intellectual 
Orozco  is  the  most  emphatic  proof  of  the 
criterion  of  the  Spanish  public. 

This  play  was  produced  in  1892.  A 
dozen  or  more  years  later  we  are  to  see 
another  play  by  the  same  author  in  which 
another  national  prejudice  is  assailed, 
family  honor,  and  which  has  been  the 
greatest  success  of  the  last  decade.  Thus 
proving  that  the  public  may  change  in 
sentiment  and  may  be  educated  to  higher 
ideals,  even  by  the  stage. 

Between  this  first  dramatic  effort  and 
his  last  great  success,  his  work  has  shown 
increasing  power.  "  Los  Condenados," 
produced  first  in  1894,  illustrates  the 
author's  ability  to  handle  a  spiritual  and 
religious  theme.  It  is  a  long  play  in  three 
acts,  and  of  faulty  construction.  The 
author  is  too  slow  in  leading  up  to  the 
catastrophe,  and  the  audience  is  wearied 
by  the  long  dialogues.  But  it  is  intensely 
spiritual  and  lofty  in  tone,  essaying  to 
teach  a  lesson  which  is  too  seldom  given 
in  a  positive  age. 

The  plot  itself  is  not  complicated.  The 
action  takes  place  in  a  town  where  the 
typical  Spanish  religious  fervor  predomi- 
nates. A  vagrant,  Jose  Leon,  who  for 
thirty  years  has  been  eommitting  all  the 
sins  in  the  calendar,  at  last  falls  in  love 
with  a  pure  and  good  woman,  Salome. 
Her  unselfish  love  for  him  awakens  in 
his  heart  a  desire  to  have  her  always  with 
him.  Under  the  promise  of  marriage  he 
persuades  her  to  leave  her  home  and  go 
with  him.  She  knows  nothing  of  his  past; 
she  knows  only  that  he  is  unhappy  and 
needs  her  for  his  regeneration.  He  is 
tracked  and  followed  by  justice,  in  the 
person  of  a  revengeful  victim  of  his 
crimes,  and  Salome  is  at  last  forced  to 
believe  in  his  past  wickedness.  Stunned 
by  the  blow,  she  enters  a  convent,  whence 


her  lover  tries  to  carry  her  off  by  force,  so 
great  does  he  feel  the  need  of  her.  His 
design  is  discovered  by  a  holy  woman  in 
whom  devotion  and  humanity  are  hap- 
pily joined,  and  she  permits  him  to  see 
Salome  in  the  convent  garden.  Here 
comes  the  most  dramatic  moment  of  the 
play.  Jose  Leon,  confident  in  his  power 
over  her,  and  yearning  for  her  with  the 
purest  passion  his  guilty  soul  has  ever 
known,  awaits  her  coming.  She  steps 
slowly  out  from  the  cool  shadow  of  the 
convent  walls,  clothed  in  the  conventual 
dress,  her  face  calm,  her  eyes  seeming  to 
see  nothing  near.  Her  lover  approaches 
with  endearing  expressions  and  out- 
stretched arms,  but  she  shrinks  from  him 
and  speaks  to  the  old  nun  in  a  childish, 
trembling  voice,  — 

Salome.  His  eyes  frighten  me.  He  is 
still  living,  as  much  in  life  as  he  used  to 
be —  (Her  voice  grows  awed  and  mystical 
as  she  goes  on,  unheeding  her  lover's  an- 
guished entreaty . )  No  —  you  t  cannot  see 
me.  I  am  now  invisible.  Go  away;  you 
weary  me.  I  am  dead.  I  am  resting.  Un- 
til you  die  as  I  have  done  you  cannot  be 
with  me  in  peace.  You  are  living  and 
weighted  down  with  many  sins. 

Jose  Leon.  My  sins  are  the  chains  that 
I  drag.  You  will  free  me  from  this  dread- 
ful weight! 

Salome.  I?  I  cannot,  alas !  Don't  you 
know  that  God  condemned  us  both  for 
our  dreadful  sins.  We  were  condemned 
—  you,  because  you  betrayed  me,  and  I, 
because  I  betrayed  you.  ...  I  have  cried 
so  much  that  God  has  at  last  told  me  he 
will  pardon  me.  But  while  waiting  I  am 
here  a  prisoner.  This  is  a  sweet  prison, 
in  which  we,  the  dead,  are  so  glad  not 
to  be  alive! 

Jose  Leon  is  at  last  convinced  that 
Salome  is  lost  to  him,  and  in  his  despair 
he  is  more  than  willing  to  confess  all  his 
sins  and  to  give  himself  over  to  justice. 
His  avengers  come  upon  him  at  this  mo- 
ment; but  a  powerful  friend,  touched 
by  his  deep  repentance,  intervenes  and 


364 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


pleads  with  him  to  live,  for  he  can  save 
him.  Jose  asks  that  his  fate  be  left  to  the 
will  of  Salome.  She  says,  — 

"  I  ?  Am  I  to  be  his  judge  ?  "  (Her  face 
lights  up  with  a  mystic  glow.)  "  Then 
—  I  wish  him  to  come  to  me.  I  condemn 
him  to  death." 

The  lesson  which  Galdos  has  striven 
to  give  us  seems  to  be  this :  we  are  all  con- 
demned to  deceit,  dominated  by  a  false 
conventionality  which  drags  us  down 
from  sin  to  sin  and  ever  into  deeper 
depths.  In  order  to  free  ourselves  from 
this  atmosphere  of  untruth  that  sur- 
rounds us  on  all  sides,  we  must  be  sincere, 
and  fling  far  from  us  our  sins.  It  is  thus 
only  that  man  may  be  regenerated ;  only 
when,  by  the  exercise  of  his  will  and  in 
the  enjoyment  of  his  perfect  freedom,  he 
accepts  the  expiation,  does  he  fulfill  the 
law  which  governs  his  spiritual  nature. 
But  this  may  not  be  attained  on  earth; 
in  order  to  possess  it  we  must  go  beyond. 
The  truth  is  beyond  the  border  of  this  life 
and  we  can  reach  it  only  by  crossing  the 
threshold  of  death. 

Nearly  five  years  ago  "  Electra " 
aroused  enthusiastic  approval  and  dis- 
approval throughout  all  Spain.  The  play 
was  first  produced,  as  nearly  all  of  Gal- 
dos's  plays  have  been,  at  the  Teatro 
Espanol  at  Madrid,  and  has  held  the 
boards  ever  since. 

It  was  an  instantaneous  success,  and 
on  the  first  night  the  author  was  called 
before  the  curtain  twelve  times.  It  also 
caused  an  immense  sensation  because 
of  its  apparent  attack  upon  Jesuitical 
methods  of  coercion.  This,  however, 
does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  the  aim  of  the 
author.  The  methods  used  by  Electra' s 
aunt  and  Pantoja  to  attain  their  ends  are 
merely  details.  The  real  interest  of  the 
play  lies  in  the  character  of  Pantoja, 
rather  than  in  that  of  Electra.  He  is  a 
man  whose  intense  egoism  had  in  early 
life  led  him  to  sacrifice  anything  and  any 
one  for  his  own  gratification,  and  whose 
selfishness  in  later  life  led  him  to  sacrifice 
everything  to  his  soul's  welfare.  To  ap- 
pease his  own  conscience,  he  wished  to 


sacrifice  Electra,  confident  that  in  im- 
molating her  he  is  expiating  his  own  sin. 
Not  for  an  instant  does  he  doubt  the 
efficacy  of  this  method,  and  his  anxiety 
for  his  soul's  safety  leads  him  into  men- 
dacity, cruelty,  and  a  ferocious  determi- 
nation that  he  will  be  saved,  cost  what  it 
may  to  others. 

Another  interesting  play  is  "  Alma  y 
Vida,"  produced  in  1902,  a  symbolical 
play  with  an  eighteenth-century  setting, 
in  which,  clothed  in  melodramatic  action, 
decked  out  with  the  Spanish  accompani- 
ments of  soothsayers,  dark  caverns,  ab- 
ductions, rhetorical  speeches,  maledic- 
tions, and  prayers,  there  runs  a  dominant 
note  that  rings  clearly  and  powerfully,  a 
note  that  repeats  unceasingly  the  power 
of  love,  of  spiritual  love,  and  that  life 
without  that  love  is  death.  The  frail 
Duchess  in  the  play  is  the  symbol  of  the 
soul,  Juan  Pablo  of  life;  and  when  the 
two  are  intermingled,  when  exuberant, 
joyous  physical  life  recognizes  the  beauty 
and  power  of  the  spiritual  life,  there  re- 
sults a  completeness  of  joy  that  nothing 
can  shake,  for  it  fears  not  death. 

"  Mariucha,"  the  great  success  of  two 
years  ago,  also  merits  attention,  —  a  social 
study  in  which  there  is  a  call  to  the  youth, 
and  a  lesson  to  the  old;  in  which  it  is 
vividly  shown  that  the  hope  of  Spain  lies 
in  this :  that  the  shackles  of  false  conven- 
tion be  thrown  off,  that  the  generation  of 
to-day  be  given  the  courage  to  walk  up- 
rightly and  in  freedom,  thus  creating  a 
new  world  of  energy  and  of  soul. 

And  so  we  come  to  his  last,  greatest 
success,  which  is  not  only  one  of  the  great- 
est plays  ever  produced  on  the  Spanish 
stage,  but  one  of  the  greatest  in  contem- 
poraneous drama. 

Here  we  again  see  the  striving  to  place 
before  the  public  lofty  themes  and  high 
ideals.  We  sit  before  the  stage,  and  when 
the  curtain  rises  we  are  transported  to  a 
world  of  struggle  and  passion,  but  not  the 
base  struggle  of  fleshly  lusts  and  passions. 
There  is  ever  present  a  spiritual  element 
which  strives  for  the  victory,  and  which 
finally  calms  and  dominates  the  petty 


The  Spanish  Drama  of  To-day 


365 


prejudices,  the  rigid  traditions,  and  the 
false  ideas  which  have  been  contending 
in  bitter  and  hopeless  strife. 

The  author  seems  to  say,  "  Oh,  foolish 
generation,  blind  to  the  radiance  of  truth, 
and  deaf  to  the  harmony  of  the  simple 
and  eternal  verities,  —  why  do  you  grovel 
in  the  mire,  seeking  to  sully  and  to  injure 
and  to  kill  ?  Instead,  look  up  and  see  an 
eternal,  yet  simple,  truth  which  will  make 
all  things  straight." 

In  "El  Abuelo  "  the  action  is  simple.  A 
financially  ruined  nobleman  returns  to 
one  of  his  ancestral  homes,  no  longer  his, 
but  now  in  the  possession  of  a  former 
servitor.  He  is  old,  poor,  and,  worst  of  all, 
unhappy,  for  his  only  son  has  lately  died, 
leaving  behind  him  his  English  wife  from 
whom  he  had  been  estranged  on  account 
of  her  gallant  adventures,  and  two  young 
daughters,  Dolly  and  Nell.  From  papers 
left,  the  grandfather  has  discovered  that 
one  of  the  granddaughters,  he  does  not 
know  which,  is  not  the  child  of  his  son. 
Despite  his  poverty,  he  has  never  lost  a 
jot  of  his  immense  Spanish  pride  and 
dignity,  and  the  blot  on  his  family  name 
is  more  than  he  can  bear.  His  one  care, 
which  now  becomes  an  idee  fixe,  is  to  find 
out  which  one  is  his  own  granddaughter 
and  then  repudiate  the  other.  The  mother 
defies  him  and  refuses  to  tell.  The  situa- 
tion is  painfully  complicated  by  the  fact 
that  he  loves  them  both.  At  one  moment 
he  is  almost  persuaded  that  Nell  has  the 
traits  of  his  noble  house,  and  the  next  in- 
stant he  is  plunged  into  an  abyss  of  doubt 
by  some  fugitive  characteristic  in  Dolly. 
It  is  finally  decided  that  the  old  grand- 
father must  be  cared  for  in  a  retreat,  as  his 
mind  seems  to  be  unbalanced.  Proofs 
are  now  found  that  Nell  is  his  own  and 
Dolly  the  spurious  one.  He  makes  a  last 
appeal  to  Nell;  she  advises  him  to  submit 
and  go  to  the  asylum.  Broken-hearted 
and  despairing,  the  old  man  turns  to  his 
faithful  old  friend,  a  simple  village  priest 
who  has  no  mind  for  subtleties :  — 

El  Conde.   My  heart  is  full  of  trouble 
and  bitterness.    I  have  no  longer  any 


children  —  I  have  no  longer  any  love. 

D.  Pio.  Love  Humanity :  be  like  God 
who  loves  equally  all  his  people. 

El  Conde.  But  that  is  so  lofty.  He 
creates,  he  loves.  He  makes  no  distinction 
of  rank  —  Tell  me,  great  philosopher, 
what  do  you  think  of  honor  ? 

D.  Pio  (confused).  Honor  —  well, 
honor  —  I've  always  thought  honor  was 
something  like  —  decorations  —  We 
speak  of  funeral  honors,  national  honor, 
the  field  of  honor —  In  fact,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  — 

El  Conde.  I  mean  family  honor,  the 
purity  of  the  race,  the  lustre  of  one's 
name.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
to-night  —  and  I  tell  you  this  quite  frank- 
ly —  that  if  we  could  convert  honor  into 
a  material  substance  it  would  be  an  ex- 
cellent thing  with  which  to  fertilize  the 
land. 

D.  Pio  (trying  to  sharpen  his  wits). 
If  honor  is  n't  pure  living,  neighborly 
love,  wishing  no  evil,  not  even  to  our 
enemies,  then  by  the  beard  of  Jupiter,  I 
don't  know  what  it  is. 

El  Conde.  It  seems  to  me,  my  good 
Coronado,  that  you  are  discovering  a  new 
world  —  still  far  away  —  but  you  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  through  the  mist. 

The  Count  fears  pursuit  and  is  about  to 
escape  and  become  a  wanderer  when  he 
hears  the  voice  of  Dolly.  She  has  learned 
of  the  plan  to  confine  him,  and  her  lov- 
ing heart  yearns  to  protect  him.  She  has 
escaped  from  her  mother  and  has  been 
looking  for  her  grandfather  all  the  even- 
ing, for  of  course  she  is  ignorant  of  the 
shameful  secret  of  her  parentage.  When 
she  finds  him  she  clings  to  him.  The  old 
man  feels  his  soul  invaded  and  refreshed 
by  her  unselfish  love;  his  prejudices,  his 
sense  of  family  honor,  his  anger,  his  out- 
raged worldly  dignity,  all  melt  away  un- 
der the  warmth  of  this  loving  heart,  and 
he  exclaims  with  uplifted  hands,  — 

"O  God !  out  of  the  heart  of  the  storm 
come  to  me  thy  blessings.  Now  I  see  that 
human  thoughts,  plans,  and  decisions 
are  as  naught.  They  are  but  rust  which 


366 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


crumbles  and  falls ;  that  which  is  within 
is  that  which  lasts.  My  child  —  God 
has  brought  you  to  me  —  love  is  eternal 
truth." 

In  this  play  of  five  acts  there  is  no  love 
intrigue,  and  the  denouement  is  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  the  Calderonian  concep- 
tion of  honor  as  well  as  to  the  Cervan- 
tesque  prejudice  of  the  ties  of  kinship. 
Neither  is  it  a  work  of  tendencies  or  of 
literary  theories,  nor  is  it  an  analysis  of 
vulgar  passion,  or  a  pathological  study; 
it  is  much  more  than  all  this.  The  au- 


thor has  been  able  to  look  into  the  soul  of 
the  public,  and  he  has  realized  that  the 
true  mission  of  the  dramatic  writer  is  to 
touch  the  chords  to  which  all  hearts  can 
respond.  The  heart  of  the  Spanish  pub- 
lic has  responded  with  quick  enthusiasm 
and  with  warm  sympathy  to  the  clear 
strong  note  of  love  which  rings  persist- 
ently throughout  nearly  all  the  plays  of 
Spain's  greatest  writer.  His  lofty  spirit- 
uality responds  to  a  yearning  in  the  peo- 
ple, a  yearning  which  long  since  was 
classified  as  a  beatitude. 


ENFORCED   RAILROAD   COMPETITION 


BY   RAY   MORRIS 


THE  main  fabric  of  American  railroad 
legislation  rests  on  two  principles,  which 
are  all  but  irreconcilable  with  each  other : 
first,  that  carriers  serving  the  same  or  ad- 
jacent territory  must  compete  with  one 
another;  second,  that  rates  for  like  and 
contemporaneous  service  under  substan- 
tially similar  circumstances  and  condi- 
tions must  be  the  same  to  all  comers,  — 
that  is  to  say,  not  competitive,  —  and  that 
one  city  or  territory  must  not  be  built 
up  at  the  expense  of  another  (long-and- 
short-haul  clause);  a  process  which  is 
directly  and  naturally  the  result  of  com- 
petition. The  Act  to  Regulate  Commerce 
prohibits  pooling,  and  the  Sherman  Anti- 
Trust  Law  apparently  makes  every  kind 
of  trade  agreement  between  persons  en- 
gaged in  the  same  kind  of  business  an  act 
of  conspiracy,  so  that  Congress  has  strong- 
ly affirmed  the  competitive  principle;  yet 
the  1906  revision  of  the  commerce  act 
makes  it  specifically  impossible  for  a 
carrier  to  change  its  rates  without  giving 
thirty  days'  prior  notice  to  the  Interstate 
Commerce  Commission,  unless  the  Com- 
mission exempts  it  by  special  action,  an 
exemption  which  the  commissioners  have 
been  very  loath  to  give.  This  provision  is, 


of  course,  along  lines  the  reverse  of  com- 
petitive, since  a  thirty-day-notice  cut-rate 
to  move  competitive  traffic  is  about  as 
effective  a  device  as  setting  a  tortoise  to 
catch  a  squirrel.  So  the  railroads  are  told 
with  blunt  plainness  that  they  must  com- 
pete, and  are  then  immediately  reminded 
that  they  must  not. 

The  Sherman  Anti-Trust  Law  of  1890 
says  definitely  that  every  person  who 
makes  a  contract  or  engages  in  any  com- 
bination, in  the  form  of  a  trust  or  other- 
wise, in  restraint  of  trade  or  commerce, 
is  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  and  subject  to 
severe  penalties,  which  have  been  made 
cumulative  by  subsequent  court  deci- 
sions; and  eminent  corporation  counsel 
have  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  is 
technically  impossible  for  two  New  York 
grocers  in  the  same  block  to  walk  down 
the  street  together  and  agree  on  the 
price  at  which  they  will  sell  New  Jer- 
sey eggs,  without  rendering  themselves 
liable  to  fine  and  imprisonment,  and  to 
threefold  damages  payable  to  any  other 
grocer  whose  business  is  injured  by  the 
reduction  in  price  agreed  upon.  Thus 
the  doctrine  of  individual  competition 
is  upheld  with  tremendous  vigor,  while 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


367 


trade  agreement,  or  collective  competi- 
tion, is  strongly  repressed. 

Are  we,  as  a  nation,  correct  in  assum- 
ing that  individual  competition  should 
be  enforced  by  law,  —  and,  whether  it 
should  be  or  not,  can  it  be  ?  These  ques- 
tions open  up  a  very  interesting  field  of 
economic  discussion,  which  is  of  particu- 
lar appropriateness  in  1908,  because  we 
are  apparently  on  the  threshold  of  an  era 
of  sharp  competition  between  railroads. 

Broadly  speaking,  there  has  not  been 
any  severe  railroad  competition  in  the 
United  States  in  a  dozen  years,  while 
within  that  period,  with  overflowing  pro- 
sperity, and  transportation  facilities  se- 
verely taxed  by  excess  of  traffic,  has  come 
the  application  of  the  Sherman  Law  to 
railroads,  and  the  creation  of  the  Elkins 
Law  of  1903,  and  the  Rate  Law  of  1906. 
The  clear  legislative  tendency  has  been 
to  incite  the  carriers  to  compete,  but  the 
carriers  have  been  too  busy,  and  have 
remained  indifferent;  now  that  traffic  is 
slack  and  some  of  the  conditions  are  pre- 
sent which  foster  competition,  are  we 
really  sure  that  we  desire  it?  And  is  it 
wise  to  leave  on  the  statute  books  laws  of 
such  severity  to  enforce  competition  that 
no  attempt  is  made  to  enforce  the  laws, 
except  where  some  particular  offense  is 
singled  out  for  chastisement  ?  Ever  since 
the  Northern  Securities  decision,  and  the 
ridiculous  statement  by  the  Attorney 
General  that  the  government  was  not 
going  to  run  amuck,  the  railroad  systems 
and  the  great  corporations  have  been  liv- 
ing on  sufferance;  for  all  the  limitation 
which  can  be  found  in  the  language  of  the 
law,  there  is  scarcely  one  of  them  that 
does  not  possess  the  elements  of  trade 
restraint  through  combination. 

It  might  be  asked,  with  perfect  justice, 
why  we  do  not  at  once  set  about  destroy- 
ing our  entire  industrial  fabric  and  re- 
ducing the  manufacturing  and  transpor- 
tation interests  to  primitive  conditions, 
since  our  national  attitude  toward  the 
principle  of  combination  is  so  rigid;  or, 
if  we  prefer  efficiency  in  manufacturing 
and  transportation  to  inefficiency,  then 


why  we  do  not  so  alter  the  laws  as  to 
admit  the  conditions  that  exist,  and  deal 
with  them  in  a  constructive,  instead  of 
in  a  destructive,  manner.  The  question  is 
a  pertinent  one;  as  Chancellor  Day  ex- 
presses it,  "  This  new  doctrine,  that  you 
can  legislate  unsuccessful  men  into  suc- 
cess by  legislating  successful  men  out  of 
success,  is  a  piece  of  imbecility  that  does 
injustice.to  our  twentieth  century !  "  Yet 
the  whole  fallacy  of  the  Sherman  Law 
originates  in  the  national  reverence  for 
competition,  and  in  the  lack  of  clear 
thinking  on  the  way  competition  works 
out,  in  its  varying  forms.  As  applied  to 
the  railroad  situation  in  the  United  States, 
the  discouraging  fact  about  competition 
legislation  is  that  it  was  given  an  exhaust- 
ive trial  in  England,  fifty  years  ago,  at 
which  time  certain  truths  were  developed 
at  great  cost  which,  so  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned, need  never  have  been  developed 
at  all,  since  we  have  not  noted  the  rela- 
tion of  these  truths  to  our  own  problems, 
but  are  proceeding  independently,  at  still 
greater  cost,  to  develop  the  same  prin- 
ciples in  this  country. 

Charles  Francis  Adams  showed  that 
it  had  always  been  the  theory  in  England 
that  the  railroads  ought  to  compete,  until 
the  commission  of  1872  demonstrated 
that  in  the  forty  years  since  railroads 
began,  English  railroad  legislation  had 
never  accomplished  anything  which  it 
sought  to  bring  about,  nor  prevented 
anything  it  sought  to  hinder.  Thirty- 
three  hundred  useless  enactments  had 
cost  the  companies  eighty  million  pounds, 
but  the  commission  reported  that  com- 
petition between  railroads  existed  only 
to  a  limited  extent,  and  that  it  could 
not  be  maintained  by  legislation.  The 
commission  cited  the  case  of  the  North 
Eastern  Railway,  formerly  composed  of 
thirty-seven  independent,  competing,  and 
more-or-less  bankrupt  companies,  but  in 
1872  (as  to-day)  prosperous  and  giving 
general  satisfaction,  and  found  that  in 
view  of  such  facts  as  this  it  was  clear  that 
amalgamation  had  "  not  brought  with 
it  the  evils  that  were  anticipated,  but 


368 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


that  in  any  event,  long  and  varied  expe- 
rience had  fully  demonstrated  the  fact 
that,  while  Parliament  might  hinder  and 
thwart,  it  could  not  prevent  it,  and  it  was 
equally  powerless  to  lay  down  any  gen- 
eral rules  determining  its  limits  or  char- 
acter." 

The  attitude  of  British  law  toward  the 
broad  question  of  competition  between 
the  railroads  of  that  country  does  .not  find 
particularly  clear  expression  to-day,  but 
the  conservative  work  of  the  Railway  and 
Canal  Commission,  which  owes  its  ex- 
istence to  the  parliamentary  report  just 
referred  to,  and  the  precedent  of  a  long 
line  of  court  decisions,  make  it  quite  ap- 
parent that  the  early  lessons  have  had 
their  effect.  The  working  agreement  re- 
cently proposed  by  the  Great  Northern 
and  Great  Central  companies,  which  had 
competed  extravagantly  in  almost  iden- 
tical territory  in  the  eastern  part  of  Eng- 
land, was  not  opposed  on  any  broad  lines 
of  governmental  policy.  The  arrange- 
ment amounted  to  a  consolidation,  to  be 
brought  about  by  the  simple  device  of 
appointing  the  boards  of  directors  of  the 
two  companies  as  a  joint  committee  to 
manage  both  properties.  This  proposal 
was  contested  chiefly  by  certain  other 
railroads  because  of  its  relation  to  their 
own  special  interests,  and  was  refused 
by  the  Railway  and  Canal  Commission 
(in  which  refusal  the  Commission  was 
upheld  by  the  Court  of  Appeal)  for  the 
purely  technical  reason  that  the  original 
charter  powers  of  the  two  companies 
did  not  provide  for  any  such  agreement. 
A  working  arrangement  has  been  in  force 
for  three  years  between  the  London  & 
North  Western  and  the  Lancashire  & 
Yorkshire,  and  has  been  conspicuously 
successful,  resulting  in  greater  efficiency 
and  economy  of  operation  to  the  railroads 
and  better  service  to  the  public.  Curi- 
ously enough,  though,  when  it  comes  to 
allowing  a  British  railroad  to  control  the 
tram-lines  which  compete  sharply  with 
it  for  suburban  traffic,  the  law  views  the 
matter  entirely  differently.  The  thing  is 
not  even  to  be  thought  of. 


In  this  country,  control  of  street-rail- 
way lines  by  steam  railroads  has  not  yet 
appeared  in  politics  outside  the  State  of 
Massachusetts,  and  only  to  a  limited 
extent  there.  The  device  by  which  the 
New  England  Investment  and  Security 
Company  held  the  Massachusetts  trolley- 
lines  which  the  New  York,  New  Haven 
&  Hartford  bought,  was  sufficiently  ef- 
fective as  a  preventive  of  harmful  com- 
petition, regardless  of  the  somewhat 
technical  question  where  actual  control 
of  these  lines  is  vested.1  But  our  national 
attitude  toward  consolidation  of  steam 
railroads  which  from  their  geographical 
location  are  presumed  to  be  competitors, 
is  perfectly  uncompromising;  so  uncom- 
promising that,  practically  speaking,  it  is 
unenforcible  in  its  entire  purview  —  like 
the  Sunday  liquor  law  in  New  York. 

The  disheartening  thing  about  a  law 
like  this,  whichever  one  of  the  examples 
we  take,  is  the  opportunity  which  it  gives 
government  to  be  unscrupulous.  When 
the  Duke  of  Alva  was  "  pacifying  "  the 
Netherlands,  in  1568,  his  Blood  Council 
defined  treason  so  broadly  and  in  such 
loose  terms  that  the  expressly  stipulated 
privileges  of  the  Knights  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  and  the  constitutional  rights  un- 
der the  terms  of  the  Joyous  Entry,  were 
not  sufficient  to  save  Count  Egmont 
after  Alva  got  his  hands  on  him.  Then, 
as  if  the  intolerable  edicts  of  the  duke's 
council  were  insufficient,  a  writ  was  ac- 
tually issued  from  Rome,  sentencing  all 
the  people  of  the  Netherlands  to  death, 
on  the  heresy  charge.  The  Duke  of  Alva 
did  not  really  intend  to  execute  all  the 
people  in  the  Netherlands,  but  it  was 
very  convenient  for  him  to  have  author- 
ity to  make  such  selections  as  he  chose 
without  undue  formality. 

This  situation  affords  a  pretty  good 
historical  parallel  of  the  possibilities  of 
governmental  procedure  against  railroads 
and  great  industrial  combinations  under 
the  Sherman  Anti-Trust  Law.  There  are 

1  The  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts  de- 
cided last  May,  after  this  paper  was  written, 
that  this  device  was  unlawful  within  that  state. 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


369 


few  indeed  of  the  railroad  systems  of  the 
country  that  really  know  whether  their 
skirts  are  clear  of  the  entanglements  of 
the  law,  as  it  has  at  present  been  con- 
strued; and  it  is  hard  to  see  how  any 
large  industrial  company  can  avoid  being 
a  combination  intrinsically  in  restraint  of 
some  other  man's  trade,  and  hence  illegal. 
To  all  intent,  the  government  can  exer- 
cise the  widest  choice  in  its  selection  of 
victims;  a  condition  which  gives  oppor- 
tunity for  unlimited  favoritism,  and  tends 
to  inject  a  personal  element  into  prose- 
cutions. 

The  futility  of  the  enforced-competi- 
tion  legislation,  when  actually  carried 
out,  needs  but  a  single  instance  — •  the 
Northern  Securities  case.  James  J.  Hill 
controlled  the  Great  Northern  Railway 
and  was  influential  in  the  Northern  Pa- 
cific, but  these  lines  had  no  proprietary 
access  to  Chicago,  coming  no  nearer  to  it 
than  St.  Paul,  and  Ashland,  Wisconsin. 
The  joint  purchase  of  the  Chicago,  Bur- 
lington &  Quincy  by  the  Great  North- 
ern and  the  Northern  Pacific,  in  1901, 
was  really  designed  primarily  to  afford  a 
perpetually  friendly  route  into  Chicago, 
the  absence  of  which  had  handicapped 
the  Hill  lines  in  securing  what  they  con- 
sidered a  full  share  of  transcontinental 
traffic.  To  thwart  this  plan,  Mr.  Harri- 
man  and  his  associates,  as  everybody  re- 
members, began  buying  Northern  Pacific 
in  the  open  market  in  March,  1901,  and 
actually  got  control  of  that  property  by 
a  narrow  margin,  —  the  price  of  stock 
going  from  fifty-eight  dollars  a  share  to 
one  thousand  dollars  during  the  process. 
Both  parties  saw  the  futility  of  cut-throat 
competition,  however,  and  compromised 
the  matter  by  forming  the  Northern  Se- 
curities Company,  which  ultimately  held 
a  very  large  proportion  of  the  capital 
stocks  of  the  Great  Northern  and  North- 
ern Pacific.  The  Northern  Securities 
Company  was  bitterly  opposed  in  the 
Minnesota  courts,  and  was  dissolved  by 
the  United  States  Supreme  Court  in  1904, 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  a  combination 
in  restraint  of  trade. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


Well,  let  us  see  what  happened  then. 
The  Northern  Pacific  was  the  original 
bone  of  contention.  The  device  of  the 
Securities  Company  kept  the  Northern 
Pacific  (and  one  half  of  a  half-control  of 
the  Burlington)  equitably  poised  between 
Hill  and  Harriman;  the  distribution  re- 
quired by  the  dissolution  of  the  Securities 
Company  by  the  Supreme  Court  decision 
was  pro  rata,  and  resulted  in  leaving  an 
absolute  monopoly  of  three  companies 
in  Mr.  Hill's  hands,  — the  Great  North- 
ern (which  he  started  with),  the  North- 
ern Pacific  (with  which  Mr.  Harriman 
went  into  the  Securities  Company),  and 
the  Burlington,  which  had  been  divided 
between  the  Great  Northern  and  the 
Northern  Pacific. 

The  Northern  Securities  decision  was 
widely  heralded  as  a  positive  govern- 
mental affirmation  of  the  principle  of  en- 
forced competition,  —  but  does  it  appear 
that  any  important  reduction  in  mono- 
poly was  effected  thereby  ?  Apart  from 
the  technical  result  of  the  decision,  Mr. 
Hill  got  absolute  control  of  eight  thou- 
sand miles  of  parallel  and  competing  lines 
of  which  he  previously  shared  control 
with  Mr.  Harriman.  His  monopoly  in  the 
American  Northwest  was  strengthened, 
not  weakened. 

The  original  purpose  of  the  Sherman 
Anti-Trust  Law  was  undoubtedly  to  re- 
strain manufacturing,  rather  than  trans- 
portation, combination.  Let  us  see  what 
it  accomplishes  here. 

It  is  a  very  ancient  saying  that  compe- 
tition is  the  life  of  trade,  and  there  are 
few  of  us  who  cannot  recall  some  special 
instance  where  we  have  reason  to  believe 
that,  as  consumers,  we  have  been  bene- 
fited by  competition  or  inefficiently  served 
because  of  the  lack  of  it.  It  is  generally 
possible  to  get  better  horses  and  carriages 
in  a  town  where  there  are  two  livery  sta- 
bles than  in  a  town  where  there  is  only 
one.  The  telegraph  service,  to-day,  is 
unquestionably  better  than  it  was  before 
the  younger  of  the  two  great  companies 
entered  the  field ;  the  efforts  of  a  tremen- 
dous group  of  daily  newspapers  to  make 


370 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


individual  reputations  by  getting  the  first 
news  from  all  parts  of  the  world  have 
enabled  us  to  know  more  about  current 
happenings  in  Sweden  and  Japan  and 
South  Africa,  than  Florence  knew  of  the 
affairs  of  Milan  four  hundred  years  ago. 
In  every  branch  of  manufacturing,  effi- 
ciency and  economy  have  been  carried  to 
lengths  undreamed  of  in  early  days,  sim- 
ply because  they  had  to  be,  if  the  pro- 
ducts were  to  be  marketed  in  competition 
with  similar  products  made  somewhere 
else. 

But  this  competitive  efficiency  was  not 
law-made ;  the  law  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it.  The  law  did  not  require 
Eli  Whitney  to  invent  the  cotton  gin,  nor 
was  it  instrumental  in  producing  the  sew- 
ing machine,  or  the  power-loom,  or  the 
steamboat,  or  the  telephone.  In  the  great 
preliminary  steps  of  economic  develop- 
ment it  was  scarcely  a  spectator,  but  now 
that  this  development  has  been  carried 
on  and  on,  under  conditions  of  constant 
betterment  from  within  and  of  constant 
pressure  from  without,  the  law  fears  that 
the  great  natural  force  of  competition 
which  brought  all  this  about  is  going  to 
vanish  from  the  earth,  and  that  the  col- 
lectivism which  tries  to  put  production 
on  a  basis  of  assured  profit  is  going  so  far 
that  the  great  industrial  combination  will 
have  the  power  to  make  its  own  terms 
with  its  customers,  concerned  not  with 
efficient  service,  but  only  with  the  exac- 
tion of  the  last  farthing.  It  has  a  certain 
justification  for  this  fear  in  the  obvious 
fact  that  in  modern  industrial  develop- 
ment the  chance  of  the  small  individual 
producer  is  constantly  tending  to  become 
less,  and  it  reasons  from  this  that  the  op- 
portunity of  the  consumer  to  buy  cheaply 
is  also  disappearing.  Hence  the  great 
combination  should  be  thwarted  at  every 
turn;  it  should  be  fined  to  death,  or 
taxed  to  death,  or  broken  in  pieces,  and 
its  place  taken  by  a  host  of  lesser  pro- 
ducers, competing  among  themselves,  and 
therefore  necessarily  content  with  small 
profits,  and  keenly  awake  to  the  chance 
to  improve  their  efficiency  and  skill. 


This  is  perhaps  an  acceptable  outline 
of  the  point  of  view  which  underlies  en- 
f  orced-competition  legislation ;  it  is  based 
on  the  entirely  correct  belief  that  com- 
petition, in  one  form  or  another,  is  re- 
sponsible for  most  of  our  economic  de- 
velopment, and  that  we  should  be  badly 
off  without  it.  But  from  this  impregnable 
position  it  proceeds  to  two  lamentable 
fallacies:  first,  that  competition  can  be 
killed  by  combination;  and  second,  that 
it  can  be  maintained  by  legislation! 

Just  as  soon  as  combination  gets  two 
or  three  or  more  competing  streams  of 
industry  diverted  into  the  same  channel 
and  attempts  to  raise  prices  it  invites  fresh 
competitors  into  the  same  field,  and  also 
stimulates  invention  and  resourcefulness 
to  provide  substitutes.  Sometimes  one  of 
these  effects  is  produced;  sometimes  the 
other;  sometimes  both  together.  It  fol- 
lows, therefore,  that  the  successful  com- 
binations are  those  which  use  their  organ- 
ization to  effect  economies  which  keep  the 
distribution  price  of  their  products  just 
a  little  too  low  to  tempt  outsiders.  The 
four  corners  of  the  world  are  tied  so  tight- 
ly together  nowadays  by  steam  and  cable 
that  competition  has  a  long  arm :  Ameri- 
can meat  and  meat-products  compete  in 
Europe,  not  only  with  European  pro- 
ducers but  with  Australia,  New  Zealand, 
and  South  Africa ;  Denmark  and  Devon- 
shire place  their  dairy  products  side  by 
side  in  the  London  market,  with  a  slight 
advantage  in  favor  of  Denmark ;  and  oil 
from  Kansas  and  Texas  must  be  sold  at 
an  extremely  low  figure  in  Calcutta  if  it  is 
to  compete  with  oil  from  Baku.' 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  "  Beef 
Trust"  in  the  last  few  years,  and  a 
considerable  element  of  the  daily  press 
has  actually  maintained  with  bitterness 
that  a  group  of  Chicago  packing-houses 
could  make  prices  for  meat  as  high  as 
they  chose,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  fact 
that  cattle,  sheep,  hogs,  and  chickens  can, 
be  raised  in  every  state  in  the  Union,  and 
that  thousands  of  local  butchers  would 
be  delighted  to  undersell  the  "  trust " 
if  current  prices  were  high  enough  to 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


371 


make  it  profitable.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
this  omnipresent  local  competition  is  felt 
especially  strongly  in  the  provision  busi- 
ness, and  there  is  perhaps  no  other  large 
industry  where  the  margin  of  profit  is 
smaller  in  proportion  to  the  capital  tied 
up.  The  net  profit  which  a  great  packing- 
house derives  from  buying  a  steer,  slaugh- 
tering it,  and  selling  the  meat  and  the 
by-products  is  around  two  dollars,  or  ap- 
proximately four-fifths  of  the  commission 
which  a  banker  gets  for  the  combined 
purchase  and  sale  of  a  bond,1  with  the 
important  difference  that  the  banker  gets 
spot  cash  or  marketable  collateral  to 
cover  his  capital  expenditure,  while  the 
packing-house  pays  spot  cash  for  what  it 
buys,  but  has  to  carry  an  open  account 
unsecured  for  what  it  sells.  Yet  the  gov- 
ernment has  been  so  afraid  of  combina- 
tion in  this  industry,  and  has  taken  such 
vigorous  steps  to  prevent  it,  that  the 
Chicago  packers  no  longer  dare  meet 
together  to  settle  details  of  mutual  help- 
fulness. 

The  very  fact  of  the  ease  with  which 
competition  takes  place  in  the  provision 
business  accounts  for  the  concentration 
of  capital  in  the  gigantic  packing  plants 
at  Chicago,  Kansas  City,  and  Omaha. 
As  in  nearly  every  other  manufacturing 
industry,  concentration  brings  efficiency 
with  it;  every  one  of  the  by-products  can 
be  developed  to  the  highest  commercial 
degree,  and  profits  are  made,  not  by 
raising  prices  but  by  eliminating  waste. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  small,  inde- 
pendent butcher  finds  it  harder  to  make 
a  living  than  he  would  if  the  great  plants 
were  not  able,  by  their  efficient  organiza- 
tion, to  sell  meat  a  thousand  miles  from 
where  it  is  dressed,  at  the  smallest  frac- 
tion above  cost;  but  there  is  nothing  in 
this  situation  to  cause  the  consumer  un- 
easiness. It  is  possible  to  demonstrate 
the  truth  of  this  in  a  striking  manner  by 
means  of  the  industrial  statistics  col- 
lected by  the  Bureau  of  Labor,  not  only 
in  the  provision  industry,  but  in  others 

1  Excluding  rent,  taxes,  and  depreciation  of 
property  in  each  case.  , 


which  may  be  selected  as  highly  organ- 
ized. 

Thus,  if  we  take  the  average  price  of 
cattle  for  the  years  1890  to  1899  as  a  base, 
represented  by  the  figure  100,  and  the 
average  price  of  dressed  beef  for  the  same 
ten  years  at  the  same  base  figure,  the  Bu- 
reau shows  us  that  the  packers,  as  the 
largest  purchasers,  paid  114.2  for  their 
cattle  in  1906,  but  sold  the  beef  for 
101.2  per  cent  of  the  base  price.  This 
is  a  very  striking  demonstration  of  the 
effect  which  a  highly  concentrated  and 
much-attacked  industry  has  had  in  keep- 
ing down  the  price  of  the  finished  pro- 
duct as  compared  with  the  cost  of  the 
material  from  which  this  product  was 
worked  up.  And  the  figures  can  be  car- 
ried further;  for  example,  the  price  of 
sheep  went  from  100,  in  the  years  1890 
to  1899,  to  132.6  in  1906,  while  the  price 
of  mutton  went  from  100  to  120.7,  in  the 
same  period ;  the  price  of  hogs,  from  100 
to  142.2,  while  the  price  of  hams  went 
only  to  125.5,  of  bacon  to  139.9  and  of 
lard  to  135.6.  The  price  of  all  farm  pro- 
ducts (non-concentration  of  capital)  was 
28.6  per  cent  higher  in  1906  than  in  1898; 
the  price  of  beefsteak  (concentration  of 
capital)  rose  only  14.2  per  cent  in  the 
same  period. 

Much  has  been  said  about  the  "  Su- 
gar Trust,"  as  representing  an  oppressive 
economic  system,  and  the  activities  of 
this  trust,  along  with  all  the  others,  are 
supposed  to  have  become  much  more 
baneful  in  the  last  decade  than  in  former 
times.  Note,  then,  that  the  average  price 
of  sugar  was  4.7  per  cent  less  in  1908 
than  it  was  in  1901,  and  3.1  per  cent 
less  in  1906  than  it  was  in  1898.  As 
regards  the  effect  on  prices  which  the 
Standard  Oil  Company  has  brought 
about,  it  is  interesting  to  see  that  the 
price  of  crude  petroleum,  which  the  com- 
pany buys,  was  175.8  in  1906,  as  com- 
pared with  100,  average  of  the  1890  to 
1899  decade,  while  the  price  of  refined  oil, 
which  it  sells,  was  131.8  in  1906.  In  the 
steel  business,  the  price  of  Bessemer  pig 
rose  from  100  to  141.8  during  the  same 


372 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


comparative  period;  the  price  of  rails 
rose  only  to  107.4.  The  reader  will  under- 
stand that  these  figures  do  not  represent 
dollars  and  cents,  but  the  percentage-cost 
of  the  commodity  when  the  prices  from 
1890  to  1899  are  compared  with  those 
for  1906. 

It  would  be  possible  to  cite  many  more 
examples  illustrating  the  tendency  of 
raw  materials  and  manufactured  articles 
representing  no  concentration  of  capital 
to  increase  in  price  faster  than  those  ar- 
ticles produced  by  concentration  of  cap- 
ital and  the  supposed  elimination  of 
competition.  To  take  a  few  illustrations 
at  random:  candles  (concentration,  non- 
competitive)  were  2  per  cent  cheaper  in 
1906  than  in  1890-99;  axes  (non-concen- 
tration, competitive)  were  43.1  per  cent 
dearer;  hides  (raw  material,  competitive) 
rose  in  price  64.7  per  cent;  leather  (con- 
centration of  capital,  reduced  competi- 
tion) increased  20.4  per  cent. 

The  government,  in  its  arraignment 
of  the  Standard  Oil  Company,  admitted 
freely  that  the  combination  has  not  made 
prices  burdensome,  but  argued  that  it 
might  have  made  them  cheaper.  It  seems 
only  necessary  to  ask  why  it  should  have 
made  them  cheaper,  with  the  cost  of  labor 
and  of  raw  materials  tending  almost  uni- 
formly upwards.  The  opinion  may  at 
least  be  hazarded  that  the  Standard  Oil 
Company  would  long  ago  have  been  de- 
feated in  a  battle  against  the  impossible 
if  it  had  attempted  to  force  its  current 
prices  so  high  as  really  to  tempt  competi- 
tion, —  which  is  another  way  of  saying 
that  the  price  of  oil,  if  produced  under 
conditions  of  small  individual  manufac- 
ture, would  not  be  any  less  than  it  now  is. 
As  regards  the  special  advantages  which 
are  charged  against  great  corporations, 
—  rebates,  and  the  power  to  shut  out 
local  competition  by  temporarily  under- 
selling, —  it  is  not  necessary  at  present 
to  discuss  the  rather  technical  question 
whether  these  advantages  are  fair  or  un- 
fair, in  comparison  with  the  ordinary 
trade  methods  of  free  competition.  The 
point  is  that  you  cannot,  as  alleged, 


achieve  greatness  with  these  methods; 
you  must  start  with  greatness  in  order 
to  achieve  the  methods!  When  railroads 
and  steamboats  and  oil  companies  used 
to  drive  one  another  out  of  business  by 
underselling,  it  was  not  necessarily  the 
wickedest  company  which  came  out 
ahead;  it  was  the  best  organized  com- 
pany. 

Now  observe  where  the  Sherman  Law 
has  led  us,  while  we  have  been  digress- 
ing! Does  the  wickedness  of  the  great 
combinations  lie  in  their  efficiency  in  ob- 
taining rebates  (that  is,  wholesale  rates) 
for  transportation  ?  Perhaps  it  did  so  lie, 
prior  to  the  Elkins  Law,  —  it  depends 
largely  upon  one's  definition  of  wicked- 
ness, —  but  rebates  are  essentially  a 
competitive  device,  and  the  enforced- 
competition  doctrine  can  have  no  quar- 
rel with  them.  In  what,  then,  do  the 
great  combinations  so  offend  as  to  bring 
upon  themselves  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust 
Law,  the  law  of  enforced  competition? 
Besides  their  former  ability  to  obtain 
privileged  transportation,  they  have  only 
two  other  advantages  over  the  small 
producer :  one  is  efficiency  —  the  ability 
to  buy  more  advantageously,  to  manu- 
facture at  a  less  cost  per  unit,  to  sell  in 
a  wider  market;  the  other  is  the  power 
to  undersell  local  territory  and  spread  the 
cost  over  world-wide  territory,  or  else 
charge  it  to  profit  and  loss. 

Theoretically,  the  power  to  undersell 
small  competition  and  drive  it  out  of 
business,  is  accompanied  by  the  subse- 
quent power  to  make  prices  far  higher 
than  the  small  competitor  would  have 
made  them;  practically,  it  does  not  work 
that  way,  because  the  effect  of  the  high 
prices  would  be  to  attract  to  the  field  a 
host  of  competitors,  big  and  little,  who 
would  continue  to  charge  the  citadel  of 
the  monopoly  over  the  fallen  bodies  of  the 
vanquished  until  the  monopolistic  am- 
munition gave  out.  The  Bureau  of  La- 
bor unit-costs,  quoted  above,  afford  con- 
crete illustrations  of  the  attitude  of  the 
largest  industrial  organizations  in  the 
country ;  these  organizations  tend  to  keep 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


373 


prices  stable,  but- to  lower,  rather  than 
raise  them,  in  comparison  with  the  cost 
of  the  raw  materials  they  purchase. 

If  the  great  corporations  offend  be- 
cause they  are  efficient,  we  must  logically 
commend  small  enterprise  because  it  is 
inefficient;  if  they  offend  because  they 
undersell,  we  must  praise  the  local  manu- 
facturer who  is  unable  to  undersell. 
Manufactured  articles  we  must  have; 
therefore  we  must  buy  them  from  the 
concern  which  is  inefficient  and  weak, 
since  the  law  forbids  combination  for 
purposes  of  strength  and  of  efficiency. 
Does  anybody  suppose  that  this  is  going 
to  benefit  the  consumer  ? 

Probably  nobody  believes  so,  —  and 
yet  everybody  feels  the  force  of  the  livery- 
stable  argument,  mentioned  above,  or 
recalls  some  similar  instance  where  he  has 
seen  competition  work  wonders,  and  he 
fears  that  the  great  corporation  is  going  to 
remove  competition  from  the  earth.  After 
all,  the  difficulty  between  the  citizen  who 
fears  the  "  trusts,"  and  the  citizen  who 
believes  in  them,  is  largely  a  matter  of 
definitions.  Fundamentally,  it  is  impos- 
sible so  to  define  the  word  trust  as  to 
make  it  akin  to  our  purpose  at  all ;  but  if 
we  spell  it  with  a  capital  and  give  it  the 
duty  which  the  newspapers  assign  to  it, 
we  should  suppose  that  the  timorous  citi- 
zen, and  his  representative,  the  Sherman 
Law,  would  define  it  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

Trust :  a  combination  of  corporations 
which  is  in  restraint  of  trade,  eliminates 
competition,  and  oppresses  the  consumer 
by  charging  him  higher  prices  than  would 
otherwise  prevail. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  courageous  cit- 
izen, who  has  done  some  thinking  on  his 
own  account,  and  is  not  afraid  of  trusts 
at  all,  succeeds  in  locating  the  difference 
between  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and 
the  un-competed-with  livery  stable  by 
creating  for  himself  a  definition  some- 
thing like  this :  — 

Trust :  a  combination  of  corporations  to 
increase  efficiency,  which,  by  means  of  this 
efficiency,  reduces  competition  by  selling 


more  cheaply  than  any  but  the  most  effi- 
cient of  its  competitors  can  sell. 

But  it  may  be  presumed  that  the  Sher- 
man Law,  in  lending  its  support  to  the 
former  rather  than  the  latter  of  these  defi- 
nitions, seeks  to  establish  not  a  weak  and 
futile  competition  but  a  strong  one,  and 
that  it  takes  the  point  of  view  that  a  group 
of  efficient  concerns  seeking  the  same 
market  will  make  the  consumer's  prices 
lower  than  will  a  single  immense  com- 
bination, governed  rather  by  potential 
than  by  actual  competition.  The  theory 
is  an  attractive  one,  but  it  is  hard  to  find 
much  concrete  support  for  it.  George 
Stephenson  said  two  generations  ago, 
when  corporate  development  was  in  its 
infancy,  that  where  combination  was  pos- 
sible, competition  was  impossible,  and 
the  principle  thus  laid  down  has  been  re- 
ceiving new  application  and  expression 
every  year.  It  is  easy  to  find  instances  of 
severe  sporadic  competition  which  has 
served,  for  a  brief  time,  to  bring  selling 
cost  down  to  a  point  below  the  cost  of 
production;  but  such'  a  condition  never 
lasts  long  before  the  weaker  competitor 
is  absorbed  or  driven  to  the  wall,  and 
the  prices  which  the  consumer  derives 
from  this  process  are  so  unstable  that  the 
retailer  hesitates  to  carry  goods  in  stock, 
while  the  recouping  period  which  follows 
a  struggle  is  apt  to  have  its  effect  on  quali- 
ties as  well  as  prices. 

These  remarks  apply  to  industries 
which  are  of  such  nature  that  they  are 
naturally  and  readily  subject  to  competi- 
tion. But  when  the  Sherman  Law  in- 
cludes railroads  in  its  purview,  it  is  at- 
tempting to  deal  with  an  industry  which 
is  naturally  monopolistic.  It  is  more  or 
less  generally  recognized  that  the  effects 
of  competition  fall  short  of  any  usefulness 
in  certain  public-service  enterprises.  No- 
body saves  telephone  bills  by  living  in  a 
city  which  is  served  by  two  or  three  com- 
peting telephone  companies.  Even  if  the 
toll-rate  is  low,  two  or  three  cheap  serv- 
ices cost  more  than  one  dear  one,  and  a 
business  man  must  have  them  all.  This 
is  a  case  where  monopoly  is  convenient  to 


374 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


the  consumer ;  a  street  railway  in  a  crowd- 
ed district  usually  furnishes  a  case  of 
monopoly  which  is  inevitable.  The  clear- 
est thinkers  in  all  countries  now  concede 
that  regulation  furnishes  a  better  solution 
in  safeguarding  the  public  welfare  than 
competition  does,  throughout  a  fairly  long 
list  of  what  are  generally  termed  public- 
service  enterprises.  The  most  conserva- 
tive of  these  thinkers  believe,  probably 
without  so  much  as  raising  the  question 
in  their  own  minds,  that  police  forces  and 
sewer  systems  are  branches  of  the  public 
service  which  can  best  be  provided  for 
by  the  municipality  itself.  It  is  also  quite 
universally  conceded  that  the  control  and 
supply  of  a  city's  drinking  water  ought  to 
be  a  regulated  monopoly  rather  than  a 
competitive  industry.  There  is  difference 
of  opinion  whether  better  service  is  ob- 
tained from  waterworks  owned  by  private 
capital  or  from  waterworks  owned  by  the 
municipality,  but  this  point  is  alien  to  our 
discussion. 

Further  down  on  the  list  come  lighting 
and  heating  plants,  telephones,  and  street 
railways.  We  do  not  want  warfare  be- 
tween the  companies  supplying  us  with 
gas  or  electricity,  involving  fluctuating 
rates  and  large  liability  of  interruptions 
to  service  because  of  wars  and  receiver- 
ships ;  we  want  regular,  undisturbed  serv- 
ice. The  reason  why  competitive  tele- 
phones are  undesirable  has  already  been 
stated.  As  regards  street  railways,  com- 
petition under  any  circumstances  must  be 
of  very  limited  extent,  because  the  com- 
pany first  on  the  ground  will  always  have 
secured  the  best  routes,  at  least  for  a  term 
of  years,  and  it  is  not  generally  either 
feasible  or  desirable  for  two  companies  to 
operate  on  the  same  street.  Where  com- 
petition in  one  form  or  another  does  exist 
between  street  railways  in  the  same  town, 
it  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  transfer 
privileges  will  not  be  liberal,  that  traffic 
will  be  interrupted,  and  that  the  disad- 
vantages attendant  upon  the  operation 
of  a  bankrupt  or  financially  embarrassed 
company  will  tend  to  crop  up  with  con- 
siderable frequency.  Cleveland  has  been 


giving  an  illustration,  for  some  five  years, 
of  the  practical  disadvantages  arising 
from  street-railway  competition  in  a  busy 
city,  these  disadvantages  including  tracks 
torn  up  in  midnight  warfare,  abolition 
of  transfer  privileges  between  competing 
lines,  failure  to  run  through  services  to 
important  points,  such  as  railroad  sta- 
tions, and  the  like. 

It  must  be  said  in  all  frankness  that 
in  former  days,  when  street  railways  were 
given  franchises  freely,  and  very  little  was 
required  of  them,  the  results  to  the  pub- 
lic were  extremely  good,  and  there  is  rea- 
son for  expressing  doubt  that  the  present 
tendency  to  scrutinize  franchise  privileges 
with  extreme  care  and  to  reduce  street- 
railway  fares  by  franchise  contracts  is  go- 
ing to  work  as  well.  The  average  citizen 
would  rather  go  over  the  whole  city  for 
five  cents  than  be  able  to  go  over  only 
half  of  it,  even  if  he  can  get  over  that  half 
for  three  cents ;  and  capital  has  little  in- 
ducement to  build  extensions  to  meet  the 
city's  growth  in  such  places  as  Cleveland, 
Detroit,  or  the  Canadian  cities  and  towns 
where  much  is  being  asked  of  the  street 
railways  and  little  is  being  allowed  them 
in  the  way  of  opportunities  to  earn.  But 
even  in  the  cities  where  the  street  railways 
have  been  most  harassed,  competition 
has  not  been  advanced  in  good  faith  as  a 
permanent  way  of  bringing  about  better 
service,  and  in  cities  where  street  railways 
have  been  able  to  keep  out  of  local  poli- 
tics, nobody  advocates  it  at  all. 

The  steam  railroads  have  given  ample 
demonstration  that  nobody  gets  any  per- 
manent profit  from  cut-throat  competi- 
tion between  them.  In  the  ten  years  when 
the  general  competition  in  this  country 
was  most  severe,  say  from  1870  to  1880, 
the  shipper  might  get  an  exceedingly  low 
rate  on  a  competitive  transaction,  but  was 
quite  sure  to  get  an  exceedingly  high  one 
to  compensate  for  it  on  a  transaction  in 
noncompetitive  territory.  At  all  events, 
he  never  knew  six  months,  or  even  one 
month,  ahead,  what  his  rate  was  going  to 
be,  and  the  uncertainty  attendant  upon 
this  state  of  affairs  worked  a  great  deal  of 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


375 


harm  and  resulted  in  a  thousand  forms 
of  discrimination,  intentional  and  unin- 
tentional, on  the  part  of  the  railroad. 
Moreover,  the  lines  which  felt  the  com- 
petition most  were  in  wretched  physical 
condition,  and  were  unable  to  better 
themselves.  This  was  particularly  true  in 
the  South.  Albert  Fink  pointed  out  that, 
in  the  rate  wars  prior  to  the  formation  of 
the  Southern  Railway  and  Steamship  As- 
sociation, gross  earnings  of  the  southern 
railroads  were  reduced  about  42  per  cent 
below  what  regular  rates  would  have  al- 
lowed ;  an  amount  in  many  cases  equal  to 
the  whole  net  earnings  which  could  have 
been  derived  from  the  competitive  busi- 
ness at  the  regular  rates,  so  that  the  busi- 
ness was  really  unprofitable,  and  the 
roads  were,  in  consequence,  practically 
worthless  to  their  owners.  In  1876  a  com- 
mittee of  the  stockholders  of  the  Central 
Railroad  &  Banking  Company  of  Geor- 
gia reported :  "It  is  conceded  that  the 
property  of  your  stockholders  is  on  the 
brink  of  being  sunk  forever,  and  the 
bankruptcy  of  a  number  of  your  roads  is 
imminent,  if  not  even  now  a  fact."  Of 
course,  roads  in  this  condition  could  not 
afford  to  make  their  facilities  better  or  to 
give  their  country  a  better  service  in  any 
way.  They  had  no  surplus  net  earnings 
for  betterment  work,  and  nobody  wanted 
to  buy  their  securities.  It  was  not  until 
the  great  consolidations  like  the  Southern 
Railway,  the  Atlantic  Coast  Line,  and  the 
Seaboard  Air  Line  got  the  situation  well 
in  hand  that  the  South  began  to  have  a 
decent  railroad  service.  Prior  to  that 
time,  the  best  and  strongest  companies 
always  had  to  compete  with  the  bank- 
rupts; a  process  which  does  no  good  to 
a  well  company  or  a  sick  company,  or  to 
the  territory  which  either  of  them  serves. 
S.  W.  Dunning,  with  his  long  experi- 
ence as  a  close  observer  and  critic  of  rail- 
road affairs,  used  to  say  that  the  people 
who  built  the  West  Shore  Railroad  did 
more  harm  and  caused  greater  destruc- 
tion of  property  than  they  would  have 
done  if  they  had  gone  around  burning 
barns  all  along  the  route ;  and  this  simile 


portrays  pretty  well  the  workings  of  un- 
restricted competition.  The  shipper  gets 
a  high  rate  one  day,  a  low  one  the  next, 
and  confronts  a  constant  tendency  on  the 
part  of  the  hard-beset  railroad  company 
to  "scamp  "  its  work;  the  railroad  com- 
pany works  at  cost  in  one  locality  and  on 
a  basis  of  exorbitant  profit  in  another,  and 
engages  in  a  long  struggle  with  bank- 
ruptcy, while  the  investor  realizes  that  he 
has  made  a  mistake,  and  resolves  to  keep 
out  of  such  enterprises  in  the  future,  or 
else  to  require  an  extremely  high  potential 
return  on  his  investment. 

This,  in  brief,  was  the  effect  upon  rail- 
roads and  upon  the  interests  they  served, 
in  the  period  of  maximum  free  competi- 
tion. The  particular  harmfulness  of  this 
kind  of  competition  to  railroads  arises 
from  the  fact  that  the  capital  invested  in 
them  must  perform  its  work  just  where  it 
is,  no  matter  how  great  the  disadvan- 
tages, so  that  the  bankrupt  that  has  given 
up  trying  to  pay  fixed  charges  has  powers 
of  harmfulness  almost  unlimited.  It  is 
surely  to  our  discredit  as  an  intelligent 
people  that  we  should  try  to  maintain 
this  kind  of  free  competition  by  law! 

The  odd  fact  about  the  present  activity 
in  enforcing  the  Sherman  Law  is  that  it 
comes  at  a  time  when  everybody  has  been 
enabled  to  observe  that,  in  practice,  great 
corporations  and  great  railroad  combina- 
tions do  not  operate  to  force  rates  up. 
People  ought  not  to  be  afraid  of  bigness 
in  concerns  any  longer,  and  they  ought 
not  to  cherish  the  illusion  that  ttyey  really 
want  to  be  served  by  small  concerns  doing 
business  at  a  loss.  The  cheaper  a  given 
service  can  be  performed,  the  less  people 
are  going  to  have  to  pay  for  it,  in  the  long 
run,  and  it  has  been  shown  over  and  over 
again  that  consolidation  means  efficiency, 
and  that  sharp  competition  means  waste; 
also,  that  the  cost  of  killing  the  loser  and 
buying  his  useless  plant  must  be  borne 
by  the  winner's  customers.  Competition 
means  duplication  of  facilities  for  doing 
the  same  work,  and  the  theoretic  econo- 
mic loss  of  this  duplication  is  habitually 
converted  into  a  practical  loss  either  in 


376 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


dollars  or  in  efficiency,  with  a  rapidity 
which  far  outstrips  many  of  the  economic 
processes  that  rejoice  in  our  full  belief 
and  confidence. 

There  has  been  no  more  curious  result 
of  our  enforced-competition  legislation 
—  a  result  surely  not  looked  for  by  the 
lawmakers  —  than  the  unsympathetic  at- 
titude of  the  law  towards  small  dealers 
organized  to  prevent  big  concerns  from 
underselling  them.  Here  we  have  a  tem- 
porary industrial  combination  fighting  a 
permanent  industrial  combination,  and 
the  law  sides  with  the  permanent  one, 
and  finds  the  little  fellows  guilty  of  con- 
spiracy! This  has  been  exemplified  in 
the  opposition  to  the  mail-order  houses 
in  the  West;  in  the  case  of  the  National 
Druggists'  Association,  etc.  In  the  drug 
trade,  the  owners  and  manufacturers  of 
certain  proprietary  medicines  sold  their 
goods  to  jobbers  under  an  agreement  that 
certain  "  aggressive  cutters,"  principally 
large  department  stores,  should  not  be 
allowed  to  receive  these  goods  from  the 
wholesalers  at  any  price.  These  "  ag- 
gressive cutters  "  had  been  accustomed 
to  act  as  wholesalers,  in  buying  very  large 
consignments  at  best  prices,  and  then  sell- 
ing at  retail  at  cost  or  below,  charging 
off  loss  to  the  advertising  account.  The 
sale  of  some  well-known  "  household 
remedy  "  for  seven  cents  or  thirteen  cents 
below  the  prevailing  price  was,  of  course, 
a  strong  drawing  card,  but  the  process 
devastated  the  business  and  the  reputa- 
tions of  the  small  retailers,  who  were  the 
manufacturers'  best  steady  customers.  It 
was  to  protect  these  people  that  the  man- 
ufacturers and  jobbers  agreed,  in  sub- 
stance, to  blacklist  retail  firms  that  would 
not  maintain  prices  as  per  schedule.  Of 
course  this  was  readily  proved  to  consti- 
tute a  combination  in  restraint  of  trade, 
within  the  meaning  of  the  Sherman  Law, 
and  the  manufacturers  were  prosecuted 
by  the  government  and  enjoined  from 
carrying  out  their  agreement.1 

Now,  a  big  department  store  is  not, 
1  William  Jay  Schieffelin,  before  the  Na- 
tional Conference  on  Trusts,  1907. 


technically,  a  combination,  because  it 
does  not  illustrate  amalgamation  of  a 
group  of  industries  which  might  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law  be  regarded  as  natural 
competitors.  But  it  is,  in  point  of  fact,  a 
very  effective  grouping  of  capital,  and  its 
organization  is  such  that  it  possesses 
nearly  all  the  working  characteristics  of 
a  "  trust,"  in  action.  The  law  was  per- 
fectly consistent  in  finding  that  a  group  of 
small  individual  producers  were  banded 
together  in  restraint  of  trade;  but  the 
application  of  the  law,  without  regard  to 
its  theory,  was  to  protect  the  large,  per- 
manent aggregation  of  capital  against 
the  temporary  attack  of  small  concerns 
joined  together  in  what  is  sometimes 
called  antagonistic  cooperation,  for  pro- 
tection against  a  common  foe.  Competi- 
tion was  continually  present,  in  one  form 
or  another,  between  the  units  of  capital 
making  up  the  wholesale  druggists'  com- 
bination; it  was  conspicuously  lacking 
between  the  units  of  capital  making  up 
the  department-store  organization;  yet 
the  technical  position  of  the  department 
store  was  impregnable. 

If  we  agree  that  the  outworking  of  this 
case  was  not  precisely  in  line  with  what 
the  framers  of  the  law  intended,  we  are 
probably  safe  in  concluding  that  the  in- 
tense criminality  of  the  two  grocers  who 
confer  on  the  selling  price  of  eggs,  and  the 
technical  uncertainty  as  to  the  legality  of 
nearly  every  manufacturing  concern  in 
the  country,  formed  by  a  process  of  con- 
solidation, would  also  surprise  the  law- 
makers of  1890.  If  it  is  really  true  that  all 
common  control  of  parallel  railroad  lines 
is  in  restraint  of  trade,  which  of  our  great 
systems  is  exempt  from  disintegration? 
And  suppose  that  this  disintegration 
really  can  be  effected,  —  who  is  the  gainer 
thereby  ?  In  the  days  when  the  coastwise 
steamers  could  beat  the  railroad  trains 
down  the  coast,  because  of  the  handi- 
caps of  bad  connections,  different  gauge, 
and  lack  of  friendly  cooperation,  due  to 
rivalry,  we  had  an  advance  illustration 
of  the  perfect  fulfillment  of  the  laws  of 
enforced  competition. 


Enforced  Railroad  Competition 


377 


Many  conservative  people  will  con- 
cede, without  argument,  the  contention 
that  excessive  competition,  with  its  bank- 
ruptcies, its  discouragement  of  new  en- 
terprises, and  its  constant  incentive  to  dis- 
crimination, is  undesirable;  but  they 
feel,  nevertheless,  that  a  condition  where 
competition  is  entirely  absent  would  be 
worse.  Granting  that  it  would  be,  does 
not  the  weakness  of  the  Sherman  Law 
lie  in  the  fact  that  it  overlooks  the  con- 
stant working  of  potential  competition? 
Apart  from  its  direct  effects,  giving  the 
strongest  inducement  to  industrial  com- 
binations to  keep  prices  at  a  figure  where 
they  will  not  serve  as  a  constant  tempta- 
tion to  new  comers,  potential  competition 
finds  constant  exemplification  in  the  prin- 
ciple of  "  charging  what  the  traffic  witt 
bear."  It  has  often  been  pointed  out  that 
the  common  interpretation  of  this  prin- 
ciple is  wrong.  In  the  language  of  W.  M. 
Acworth,  charging  what  the  traffic  will 
bear  is  not  the  same  thing  as  charging 
what  the  traffic  will  not  bear!  A  certain 
New  England  railroad  has  made  a  rate 
on  pulp-wood  which,  in  itself,  would  bare- 
ly pay  for  coal  and  train-crew's  wages. 
It  does  this  in  order  to  open  up  a  new 
territory,  so  remote  from  the  market  that 
the  pulp-wood  which  it  produces  cannot 
be  sold  at  all  unless  the  railroad  rate  is 
carefully  adjusted  with  this  in  view.  This 
road  does  not  get  its  profit  from  the  pulp- 
wood  traffic;  it  gets  it  from  opening  the 
territory  to  mills,  farms,  and  minor  man- 


ufactures, with  coal  and  materials  to  be 
hauled  in,  and  some  little  general  traffic 
to  be  hauled  out,  besides  the  staple.  It 
has  accomplished  this  by  charging  only 
what  the  traffic  will  bear. 

This  is  a  single  instance  of  countless 
cases  where  railroads  and  industrial  com- 
binations alike  have  to  determine  the  rate 
at  which  they  can  make  the  most  profit; 
and  it  has  again  and  again  been  proved 
that  it  is  better  in  all  industr'es  to  do  a 
tremendous  business  at  a  very  small  mar- 
gin of  profit  than  to  do  a  very  small  busi- 
ness at  a  large  margin  of  profit !  In  par- 
allel efforts  to  reduce  prices  for  the 
consumer,  the  Sherman  Law  has  always 
to  compete  with  the  forces  of  enlightened 
selfishness,  and  enlightened  selfishness  is 
continually  successful,  while  the  Sherman 
Law  has  never  succeeded  at  all! 

It  should  not  be  inferred  from  this  ar- 
gument that  the  writer  believes  that  rail- 
roads and  industrial  combinations  should 
be  free  of  regulation  in  the  public  inter- 
est. Certain  police  powers  are  just  as 
necessary  to  the  national  government  as 
they  are  to  a  municipal  government;  cer- 
tain kinds  of  corporate  conduct,  such  as 
the  practice  of  giving  rebates  to  favored 
shippers,  may  certainly  be  determined  to 
be  contrary  to  public  policy  without  vio- 
lation of  economic  laws.  But  the  attempt 
to  confer  a  public  benefit  by  requiring 
universal  competition  in  place  of  consol- 
idation is  just  as  absurd  in  theory  as  it 
is  unattainable  in  practice. 


THE   MOODS   OF   THE   MISSISSIPPI 


BY   RAYMOND   S.   SPEARS 


THE  Indians  who  knew  the  Mississippi 
River  before  the  advent  of  Joliet  and  La 
Salle  named  the  vast  phenomenon  "  The 
Father  of  Waters."  White  men  who  live 
upon  the  river  or  along  its  swamp-land 
banks  now  know  whence  came  that  ex- 
pressive term.  After  one  has  been  with 
the  stream  long  enough  for  its  novelty  to 
have  worn  away,  acquaintance  and  prox- 
imity do  not  diminish  the  wonder  aroused 
by  the  huge  torrent.  Far  from  it!  One 
learns  to  realize  a  magnificent  presence 
which  is  neither  of  the  stream,  nor  of  the 
banks,  nor  of  the  wide,  low  sandbars,  nor 
of  the  long  sweep  of  the  caving  bends, 
but  which  is  doubtless  the  personification 
of  all  these.  It  was  not  alone  the  physical 
size  and  manifest  strength  of  the  stream 
that  compelled  the  name  "  Father  of  Wa- 
ters," but  the  awesome,  overwhelming, 
unbending  grandeur  of  the  wonderful 
spirit  ruling  the  flow  of  the  sands,  the 
lumping  of  the  banks,  the  unceasing 
shifting  of  the  channel,  and  the  send  of 
the  mighty  flood. 

Until  the  white  man  at  last  directed  his 
analytical  faculties  toward  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  unwritten  code  of  laws  govern- 
ing the  rise  and  fall,  the  sweep  and  send, 
the  flow  and  rush  of  the  torrent,  expres- 
sion of  the  river  wonders  found  egress  in 
myths  and  speculations,  traditions  and 
romance,  as  those  who  have  read  the  lives 
of  Hennepin,  Joliet,  Marquette,  La  Salle, 
and  lesser  men,  may  remember.  Then 
came  the  trained  enthusiasm  and  tireless 
vigilance  of  keen  observers.  Charles 
Ellet  paved  the  way  for  Humphreys  and 
Abbott,  and  in  the  report  made  by  the 
two  latter  one  finds  the  spirit  of  the  river 
almost  reduced  to  cubic  feet  and  bald 
statements  of  hydraulic  laws.  "  Every 
important  fact  connected  with  the  vari- 
ous physical  conditions  of  the  river  and 

378 


the  laws  uniting  them  being  ascertained, 
the  great  problem  of  protection  against 
inundation  was  solved."  That  was  writ- 
ten in  August,  1861. 

For  thirty  years  men  had  groped  with 
learned  effort  among  the  mysteries  of 
river-floods,  tides,  discharges,  causes,  and 
effects,  as  exemplified  by  the  Mississippi. 
Countless  thousands  of  facts  were  brought 
together,  studied,  weighed,  grouped,  and 
placed  in  wonderfully  orderly  array,  so 
convincingly  that  it  seemed  the  river  mys- 
tery had  been  reduced  to  black  and  white, 
with  copious  indexes.  Twenty  years  later, 
the  greatest  riverman  of  all,  Eads,  ran 
amuck  among  the  theories  and  deduc- 
tions. For  one  thing,  he  declared  the  folly 
of  levees  parallel  to  the  river  current.  He 
came  as  near  knowing  the  river  as  any 
one  can.  He  walked  along  its  bottom  un- 
der a  diving-bell;  he  traveled  on  its  sur- 
face; he  sat  upon  the  bank  and  studied 
the  wanderings  of  the  torrent  day  after 
day.  He  knew  its  dangers,  for  he  had 
landed  as  a  youth  in  St.  Louis,  penniless, 
having  been  "  burned  out "  on  a  river 
steamer.  The  time  came  when  he  erected 
the  first  human  structure  that  compared 
with  the  mighty  waters  in  vastness,  — 
the  Eads  Bridge  at  St.  Louis.  Then,  at 
his  own  risk,  he  tamed  the  shoals  at  The 
Passes. 

The  Indians  measured  the  river  with 
their  eyes.  They  knew  its  width,  but  not 
its  length.  Better,  perhaps,  than  any 
one  else  has  since  known,  they  were  ac- 
quainted with  the  terror  of  the  great  fluc- 
tuations of  the  river  heights.  Tradition 
does  not  preserve  the  stories  of  Indian  ad- 
venture with  the  floods,  but  in  the  bot- 
toms, notably  in  the  Yazoo  Swamps,  are 
mute  evidences  of  the  spring  rise  of  pre- 
historic years.  Here  and  there  are  mounds 
on  whose  tops,  buried  by  the  mould  of 


The  Moods  of  the  Mississippi 


379 


centuries,  are  bones,  flint  implements,  and 
fire-remains.  There  the  Indian  families 
took  refuge  above  the  overflow  against 
which  they  had  provided  by  heaping  up 
hills  of  refuge,  mindful  of  the  spring 
floods.  White  men  have  fenced  off  with 
dirt  hundreds  of  miles  of  bottom-lands, 
seeking  to  protect  them  from  the  over- 
flow; but  back  in  the  swamps  to  this  day, 
one  finds  the  people  building  their  homes 
on  the  high  places.  Some  even  keep  skiffs, 
rafts,  and  houseboats  at  their  cotton  plan- 
tations in  order  to  have  an  ark  of  refuge 
when  a  levee  breaks  or  is  topped  by  the 
waters. 

People  who  live  far  from  the  Missis- 
sippi banks,  in  the  depths  of  the  swamp- 
lands, watch  the  water- flow  in  their  near- 
est bayous  or  rivers  or  delta  streams  with 
anxiety  born  of  long  and  unhappy  expe- 
rience. Down  on  the  Atchafayala,  one 
finds  people  who  read  the  waters  better 
than  sailors  read  the  wind.  Every  morn- 
ing the  "  swamp  angel "  goes  to  the 
bayou  bank  and  gazes  long  at  the  water. 
Perhaps  the  bank  is  twenty  feet  high,  and 
the  water  red.  He  knows  then  that  Red 
River  has  the  Mississippi  "  eddied  "  — 
that  Red  River  is  higher  than  the  Missis- 
sippi. Perhaps  the  water  rises  day  by  day, 
week  after  week,  and  continues  to  be  red 
in  shade.  Then  the  water-gazer  detects  a 
change.  The  red  shade  becomes  a  tinge 
lighter,  and  there  is  a  difference  in  the 
send  and  lunge  of  the  waters. 

"  Hi-i-i!  "  the  swamp  man  exclaims, 
"  Ole  Mississip's  a-risin'!  " 

Little  by  little  the  Mississippi  waters 
overcome  the  Red  River  ones.  Red  River 
is  "  eddied,"  backed  up  by  the  superior 
flow  of  the  great  stream.  The  time  comes 
when  the  bayou  is  as  yellow  as  the  Mis- 
sissippi, and  is  rising  under  the  impulse 
of  waters  from  Wisconsin,  Ohio,  and 
Pennsylvania,  instead  of  a  flow  across  the 
plains  from  the  Rockies.  There  are  men 
who  claim  to  detect  an  Ohio  rise  by 
the  look  of  the  waters  in  the  swamps  of 
Louisiana. 

When  Atchafayala  is  bank-full,  the 
water  pours  to  right  and  left  into  the 


swamps  over  the  "  low  lands."  The  high 
land  and  low  land  of  the  Mississippi  bot- 
toms is  one  of  the  most  surprising  of 
Mississippi  features.  At  New  Orleans 
one  hears  of  a  ridge  between  the  city  and 
Lake  Pontchartrain.  A  man  from  a  hill 
country  has  a  vision  of  a  massy  height  of 
land,  with  gullies  and  steep  places  and  far 
views.  But  that  ridge  which  is  historic  in 
the  annals  of  Louisiana  rises  about  three 
feet  eight  inches  above  the  surrounding 
lowlands.  They  measure  their  hills  and 
valleys  with  six-inch  rules  in  the  lower 
regions  of  the  bottoms.  I  was  going  down 
Atchafayala  a  few  years  ago,  when  an  old 
fisherman  asked  me  to  take  particular 
notice  of  a  highland  on  the  left  bank  half 
a  mile  down  stream. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  that  land's  four 
inches  higher  than  any  other  land  for 
iwenty  miles  along  'Chaff elli!  I'm  going 
to  build  a  house  there,  yassuh!  " 

For  days  after  the  whole  of  the  sur- 
rounding region  was  under  water,  this 
height  of  land  was  above  the  level.  Back 
there,  fifty  miles  from  the  Mississippi, 
and  as  far  from  any  height  of  land  above 
the  overflow,  the  swamp  people  watch  for 
the  long  flood  wave  which  rolls  down  the 
Mississippi  in  memorable  years,  as  some 
people  watch  for  droughts,  others  for 
financial  panics,  and  still  others  for  flights 
of  grasshoppers  or  visitations  of  boll- 
weevils. 

At  no  other  time  is  the  Mississippi  so 
impressive  and  majestic  as  during  "  high 
water."  When  the  river  is  out  of  its  banks 
near  the  crest  of  the  levees,  excitement 
and  dread  is  in  the  heart  of  every  low- 
lander.  If  anything  happens,  the  blow 
will  fall  on  him.  At  "such  times,  every 
man  has  his  duty  to  perform.  Cattle, 
horses,  and  hogs  are  driven  to  the  high- 
lands, —  perhaps  rafted  across  the  sipe 
water  to  Crowley's  ridge,  or  driven  swim- 
ming by  canoe  men  from  knoll  to  knoll, 
to  safety  above  overflows.  Everything  is 
made  as  ready  as  can  be  against  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  levee  breaking  —  against 
the  dreaded  crevasse.  Men  walk  the 
levee,  Winchester  in  hand,  along  regular 


380 


The  Moods  of  the  Mississippi 


sentry  beats  day  and  night,  watching  and 
listening  for  the  noise  of  flowing  water. 
If  a  little  stream  once  breaks  through  the 
levee,  it  will  quickly  wear  away  a  hole, 
and  the  hole,  if  not  filled  in  time,  may 
widen  to  a  break  half  a  mile  wide,  through 
which  the  flood  waters  would  flow,  inun- 
dating and  killing  countless  cotton  plants, 
besides  tearing  up  and  ruining  square 
miles  of  land. 

Muskrats,  crawfish,  rotten  sticks,  and 
men  are  the  makers  of  crevasses.  Where 
the  river  flows  between  two  levees,  and 
the  high  water  is  coming  higher,  threaten- 
ing both  east  and  west  bottoms,  human 
nature  says, "  Thou  shalt  die  ere  I  die!  " 
Hence  the  Winchesters.  If  one  can  break 
away  the  levee  opposite,  the  flood  pres- 
sure will  be  relieved,  on  the  home  levee. 

There  is  another  notable  spectacle  to 
be  seen  at  the  highest  of  a  flood.  When, 
the  water  comes  close  to  the  levee-top, 
and  the  levee  protects  a  thickly  populated 
lowland,  sacks  are  filled  with  dirt  and 
piled  on  the  levee.  If  hands  are  scarce, 
the  white  men  get  on  their  horses,  ride 
out  and  herd  the  stout  negroes,  and  per- 
haps miles  of  levee  are  banked  higher  by 
these  not-too-willing  workers.  Thus  at 
Helena,  Arkansas,  one  spring,  the  citi- 
zens of  that  city  held  back  the  flood  that 
was  two  feet  higher  than  the  permanent 
levee-top,  by  piling  on  earth-filled  sacks. 

In  whatever  direction  one  may  turn  his 
attention,  the  Mississippi  overshadows 
all  the  bottom-lands.  What  winter  is  to 
the  mountains,  droughts  to  the  plains, 
blights  and  fungi  to  the  market-gardener, 
and  frosts  to  the  orange-grower,  floods 
are  to  the  people  of  the  Mississippi  low- 
lands. From  the  mountains  of  southwest 
Virginia  to  the  Red  River  raft,  people 
date  their  traditions  from  the  flood  years, 
-  the  tide  of  1867,  the  flood  of  1903. 

The  manifestations  of  the  river  strength 
are  so  many  that  the  white  men,  like  the 
Indians,  cannot  regard  it  as  a  mere  phe- 
nomenon. "  He's  shore  comin'  this 
mohnin' !  "  a  shanty-boater  says,  watch- 
ing the  surge  of  a  river  rise  swaggering 
down  some  wide  crossing.  **  He's  feelin' 


purty  ca'm  an'  decent,  yassuh ! "  the  same 
man  will  remark  when  the  river  is  hold- 
ing steady  at  the  nine-foot  stage,  say,  on 
a  quiet  October  afternoon. 

In  the  hearts  of  the  river  people  —  the 
shanty-boater,  the  riverside  dwellers,  and 
the  people  of  the  lonely  bends  —  one 
finds  clear  manifestations  of  the  spirit  of 
the  river.  The  old  river  man  takes  his 
moods  from  the  river.  When  the  river  is 
ugly  and  rising — when,  for  instance, 
there  are  about  750  grains  of  sediment  to 
the  cubic  foot  of  water,  and  the  river  is  at 
a  45-foot  stage  —  the  face  of  the  river 
man  clouds  and  his  tongue  becomes  tart 
and  surly.  But  when  there  are  only  about 
250  grains  of  sediment  to  the  cubic  foot  of 
water,  and  the  stage  is  down  to  7  or  8  feet 
above  low- water  mark,  the  river  man  is 
likely  to  be  in  a  cheerful  mood,  "  singing 
like  a  blackbird." 

The  ice  and  drift  are  the  ugliest  of  river 
phenomena.  No  man  on  the  river  is  cheer- 
ful when  the  ice  comes  grinding  down 
from  the  Ohio  or  Upper  Mississippi.  One 
might  think  a  sunshiny  February  day 
would  bring  good  cheer  and  gentleness  to 
a  heart,  but  not  so  on  the  river.  That  is 
one  of  the  harshest  of  river  facts.  At 
Rosedale,  Mississippi,  a  few  years  ago,  — 
to  illustrate,  —  a  man  started  across  the 
river  in  a  skiff.  Ice  was  flowing  by,  but 
the  fleets  seemed  scattered  and  harmless 
as  they  poured  by  to  the  music  of  bird 
songs  in  the  radiance  of  spring  sunshine. 
The  man  was  more  than  half-way  across, 
when  a  great  mass  of  ice  came  circling 
around  and  around  in  the  fleet  toward 
him.  He  saw  it  coming,  —  saw  the  tree 
trunks  grinding  around,  and  heard  the 
ice-pack  screaming.  The  ice  closed  in  on 
him,  surrounded  him  in  spite  of  his  stout- 
est pulling  at  the  oars,  twisted  his  boat 
into  fragments,  and  then  sucked  him 
down,  screaming,  into  the  mass.  A  minute 
later  the  frozen  whirlpool  flung  apart, 
and  the  fragments  scattered  and  bobbed 
serenely  in  the  afternoon  sunlight. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  river  never  is 
more  buoyant  and  cheering  to  those  close 
to  it,  than  when  the  settled  gloom  of  win- 


The  Moods  of  the  Mississippi 


381 


try  cold,  sleet,  and  night  is  upon  it.  Just 
when  the  human  soul  is  oppressed  by  the 
sadness  and  terror  of  a  lonely  bend,  some- 
thing comes  dancing  down  the  murk,  and 
with  an  exclamation  of  inexplicable  joy, 
the  river  man  reaches  for  his  fiddle  or 
banjo  and  begins  to  sing  —  not  a  boister- 
ous, reveling  song,  but  some  strange  in- 
cantation, some  weird,  exhilarating  chant 
whose  inspiration  is  found  in  the  breadths 
and  depths  and  murks  of  a  Mississippi 
night. 

One  can  express  the  Mississippi  River 
in  cubic  feet.  In  the  morning,  on  Decem- 
ber 3, 1901,  the  gauge-reading  at  Helena, 
Arkansas,  was  1.5  feet.  The  area  of  the 
cross  section  of  the  river  water  was  51,- 
100  square  feet.  The  mean  velocity  of 
the  current  was  2.19  feet  per  second.  The 
discharge  per  second  was  112,000  cubic 
feet.  That  afternoon,  a  subtle  change 
had  come  over  the  stream.  It  is  expressed 
by  a  gauge  reading  of  1.53  feet,  a  velocity 
of  only  1.93  feet  per  second,  and  a  dis- 
charge of  99,000  cubic  feet  per  second. 
The  river,  was  higher,  but  flowing  slower 
—  loafing  along,  as  one  might  say. 

The  same  phenomenon  is  observable 
when  the  river  is  high.  Thus,  on  March 
23,  1903,  the  gauge-reading  at  Helena 
was  50.4  feet.  The  area  of  the  cross-sec- 
tion was  210,500  square  feet.  The  veloc- 
ity of  the  current  was  6.71  feet  per  second. 
The  discharge  per  second  was  1,413,000 
cubic  feet.  On  the  24th,  the  water  was  .28 
feet  higher,  the  cross  section  was  1500  feet 
greater,  but  the  discharge  was  43,000 
cubic  feet  less  per  second  because  the 
velocity  was  .25  feet  slower  per  second. 

The  river  is  never  twice  alike.  There 
are  a  dozen  different  velocities  for  each 
tenth  of  an  inch  gauge-reading.  Some- 
times the  river  rises  fast,  sometimes  slow- 
ly. It  may  drop  twice  as  fast  at  one  time 
as  at  another.  Sometimes  the  flow  seems 
to  "bank  up"  in  a  bend,  and  again  the 
current  sucks  along  apparently  unre- 
sisted.  The  seeing  .eyes  of  the  river  men 
see  the  ugliness  of  a  coming  flood-wave  in 
the  look  of  a  crossing  or  reach.  Again, 
they  catch  the  gentleness  of  the  slacking 


and  loafing  waters  by  the  wash  of  an  eddy 
under  a  wide  sand-bar. 

Whether  one  gazes  upon  the  river  with 
the  eye  of  a  mathematician  or  of  a  poet, 
the  result  is  the  same.  One  finds  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  great  creature  whose 
moods  one  may  partly  express  in  cubic 
feet  and  velocities,  and  partly  in  words 
descriptive  of  psychological  phenomena. 
Complete  expression  of  the  subject  seems 
out  of  question. 

In  due  course,  perhaps  humanity  will 
add  to  its  means  of  description.  For  some 
time  past  there  has  been  an  effort  to  ex- 
press the  river  in  terms  of  mere  dollars 
and  cents.  One  is  bound  to  say  that  the 
endeavor  has  not  been  without  success. 
Thus,  the  Mississippi  River  Commission 
has  received  and  expended  "in  specific 
appropriations"  by  Congress,  $52,179,- 
555.51.  To  this  might  be  added  many 
scores  of  millions  put  in  by  state  and 
private  endeavor.  Possibly,  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  vast  amount  may  be  better 
understood  if  one  mentions  the  fact  that 
in  Lake  Providence  Reach  $3,863,741.51 
was  spent  in  an  effort  to  gain  a  navigable 
depth  of  9  feet  of  water  through  the  shift- 
ing sands.  About  7  feet  was  actually 
secured.  On  Ashbrook  Neck,  on  about  a 
mile  of  river,  $655,878.56  has  been  spent 
to  prevent  a  cut-off  —  a  short  cut  across 
a  narrow  strip  of  land  —  which  would 
change  the  regimen  of  the  river. 

To  the  money  already  expended,  it  is 
now  expected  a  sufficient  sum  will  be 
added  to  discover  how  much  it  will  cost 
to  "tame  and  control"  the  largest  and 
most  uncertain  river  in  America. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  fact  regarding  the 
attempts  to  make  a  tame  and  navigable 
stream  of  the  Mississippi  more  interest- 
ing than  the  one  that  contractors  and 
boomers  demand  that  the  river  itself  be 
controlled,  at  a  least  possible  cost  of 
$200,000,000.  Between  New  Orleans  and 
Cape  Girardeau  there  are  hundreds  of 
miles  of  caving  banks  and  rolling  waves 
of  sands  to  be  mattressed  and  jettied,  in 
order  to  secure  a  permanent  depth  of  14 
feet  throughout  the  channel's  course.  A 


382 


The  Moods  of  the  Mississippi 


canal  dug  down  the  river  lowlands  would 
reduce  the  distance  from  over  1000 
miles  to  less  than  600  miles.  The  cost  of 
dredging  a  canal  down  the  bottoms,  put- 
ting in  the  twenty-five  or  thirty  necessary 
locks  and  rights  of  way,  would  amount, 
all  told,  to  less  than  $75,000,000.  The 
canal  would,  at  one  stroke,  solve  the 
question  of  draining  the  St.  Francis  and 
Tensas  bottoms.  It  would  reduce  the  cost 
of  maintaining  a  navigable  channel  of  14 
feet  permanent  depth  from  $10,000,000 
a  year  to  less  than  $1,500,000,  and  it 
would  cut  the  time  required  to  secure  a 
14-foot  channel  from  an  uncertain  num- 
ber of  years  to  two  or  three  years. 

The  fact  that  the  Mississippi  Valley 
demands  the  taming  of  the  Mississippi 
itself  can  be  traced  to  the  river's  own 
lawless  challenge  flaunted  in  the  face  of 
humanity  time  out  of  mind.  The  people 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley  are  at  heart  not 
so  anxious  for  a  deep-water  way  and  for 
the  sight  of  ocean-going  steamers  at  the 
wharves  of  St.  Louis,  Vicksburg,  Mem- 
phis, and  other  river  towns,  as  they  are 
for  the  sight  of  the  river  humbled  and 
humiliated  and  in  shackles. 

The  Mississippi  is  the  greatest  irritant 
in  the  United  States.  Its  fickleness,  con- 
scious power,  and  taunting  eddies  bring 
oaths  to  the  lips  of  the  most  respectable 
and  law-abiding  residents  along  its  lower 
course.  The  greatest  admirers  of  the 
river,  the  people  who  sing  its  praises  with 
the  most  emphasis,  are  the  ones  who  go 
off  on  a  tangent  of  temper  quickest  when 


they  find  a  new  caving  of  river-bank 
headed  toward  the  newest  and  most  ex- 
pensive levee,  built  to  protect  great  plan- 
tations, while  just  across  the  stream  arise 
worthless  bluffs  and  useless  sand-bars. 
Talk  to  a  Mississippi  River  man,  — 
shanty-boater,  pilot,  raftsman,  plantation 
owner,  or  city  merchant,  —  and  he  will 
brag  about  the  river  wonders.  Its  bigness 
charms  him,  and  makes  him  feel  large 
and  elated.  Bring  him  around  to  his  own 
experiences  with  it,  and  suddenly  a  shade 
of  resentment  crosses  his  face,  as  he  re- 
calls a  shanty-boat  wrecked  by  a  cyclone, 
a  steamboat  snagged,  a  raft  torn  up  in 
some  bend,  a  plantation  under-cut  and 
washed  away,  or  a  season's  trade  spoiled 
by  an  overflow  and  crevasse. 

"We  love  the  river,  damn  it!"  is  a 
literal  expression. 

The  river  is  a  constant  invitation  to 
battle,  and  there  is  to-day  no  more  re- 
markable or  suggestive  spectacle  any- 
where than  that  of  millions  of  people 
making  ready  to  clinch  with  the  influence 
they  call  "Ole  Mississip'!" 

The  river  is  no  mere  problem  in  mathe- 
matics; it  cannot  be  expressed  in  terms 
of  poetry ;  its  complete  history  is  beyond 
the  ken  of  man.  It  is  a  mystery  of  long- 
ing and  power,  striving  through  the  ages 
toward  the  consummation  of  some  ti- 
tanic ambition  for  quiet  flowing,  down  a 
beautiful,  gently-sloping  valley  among 
the  wide  vistas  of  an  orderly  continent. 
This  is,  perhaps,  as  close  to  the  meaning 
of  the  river  as  one  can  come. 


THESE   ENCHANTED   WOODS 


BY   ETHEL   ROLT   WHEELER 


Enter  these  enchanted  woods 
You  who  dare. 

I  SAT  on  the  edge  of  the  pine  wood 
which  stretched  in  a  gradual  slope  up  the 
hill.  I  was  completing  a  sketch  of  a  clump 
of  pine-needles,  etching  them  in  with 
ink,  and  putting  an  aura  of  peacock-blue 
about  them,  —  an  experiment  which, 
while  recalling  the  drawings  of  Japanese 
artists,  conveyed  the  sense  of  vague  mys- 
tery peculiar  to  our  western  landscape. 
I  was  well  satisfied  with  the  work  I  had 
done  in  Surrey:  the  woods  themselves 
seemed  shaped  in  happiest  circumstance, 
and  pictures  encountered  me  at  every 
step,  while  the  atmosphere  at  that  time 
of  year  —  it  was  late  summer  —  pos- 
sessed some  special  quality  of  revelation, 
so  that  as  a  rule  I  was  able  to  pierce  with- 
out effort  to  the  very  spirit  of  the  scene. 
What  was  most  delightful  to  me,  how- 
ever, was  the  feeling  that  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  an  aesthetic  discovery,  on  the 
threshold  of  an  artistic  experience;  that 
the  pine  woods  held  a  secret  which  per- 
haps it  would  be  mine  to  surprise  and  in- 
terpret. Once,  in  a  sun-burst  of  radiance 
that  turned  the  ground  metallic  with  cop- 
per and  bronze,  I  thought  I  had  caught 
it ;  and  once  again,  in  a  terrible  twilight 
alive  with  strange  noise;  but  the  senses 
were  not  quick  enough  to  respond,  to 
focus  the  impression,  and  the  moment 


That  day,  as  I  sat  half -mechanically 
etching  in  the  pine-needles,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  mystery  was  again  not  far 
away.  It  was  a  gray  day,  a  little  cold  and 
breathless,  with  that  pause  and  strain  in 
the  air  which  suggests  the  concentration 
of  vast  forces.  The  gloom  between  the 
trees  became  a  tangible  shadow,  and  the 
needle-strewn  ground  turned  stone-color. 
It  was  only  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 


and  I  wondered  if  a  storm  threatened.  I 
began  putting  my  things  together  when 
my  eye  was  caught  by  a  dark  napping 
movement  coming  down  the  hill  between 
the  trees :  then  I  realized  that  it  must  be 
that  chap  Connell,  in  the  long,  odd-look- 
ing cape  he  always  affected.  He  was  a 
tall  young  fellow,  strongly  and  loosely 
built,  but  thin ;  with  black  hair,  rather  ab- 
surdly long,  and  extraordinary  dark  eyes 
set  in  a  pale,  handsome  face.  He  would 
have  been  striking  in  any  costume,  but  I 
confess  the  slight  eccentricity  in  his  dress 
—  his  green  ties  and  soft  hats  —  rather 
prejudiced  me  against  him;  and  though 
we  had  been  lodging  in  the  same  village 
during  the  summer,  we  were  no  more  than 
casual  acquaintances.  An  insignificant 
fellow  like  myself  can  wear  almost  any- 
thing without  attracting  notice;  but  I 
thought  it  rather  bad  form  in  Connell  to 
force  attention  to  his  already  remarkable 
appearance.  He  was  coming  down  to- 
ward me  quickly,  with  a  scared  face,  and 
when  he  reached  me  he  merely  nodded, 
threw  himself  on  the  ground  quite  close, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  I  went 
on  putting  up  my  materials,  indifferent  to 
his  presence,  and  after  a  while  he  twisted 
himself  round  and  sat  staring  at  me  in- 
tently. It  was  an  interesting  face,  —  I 
had  never  before  realized  how  interest- 
ing; the  brows  had  the  architecture  and 
shadow  of  thought  and  imagination,  and 
the  eyes  unusual  depth  and  strangeness. 

"I've  found  a  good  subject  for  you  to 
sketch,  a  little  way  up  the  hill,"  he  said 
in  a  rather  strained  voice.  "  Can  you 
come  and  look  at  it  now  ?  I  don't  want 
you  to  miss  it." 

"  All  right,"  I  said.  "  I  can  leave  my 
paraphernalia  under  a  bush.  It' s  getting 
too  dark  to  do  much  more  to-day." 

He  chafed  a  little  as  I  leisurely  finished 

383 


384 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


my  packing.  There  was  a  curious  eager- 
ness about  him. 

We  began  climbing  the  hill.  We  were 
seven  or  eight  miles  from  the  village 
where  we  both  lodged,  and  I  had  never 
been  up  this  hill  before.  Under  the  trees 
it  was  much  clearer  than  I  had  expected ; 
the  light  was  like  a  medium  of  liquid  gray 
that  mellowed  and  enriched  the  sombre 
coloring  of  bole  and  foliage,  and  em- 
phasized detail  to  its  finest  edge.  The 
days  that  give  at  the  same  time  full  tones 
with  minute  intricacies  are  rare,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  regret  that  I  had  not 
brought  my  paint-box,  when  my  atten- 
tion was  caught  by  a  building  we  were 
approaching  right  among  the  trees.  It 
was  some  way  off  yet  and  its  outline  con- 
fused by  the  pine-stems,  but  a  long  fa9ade 
of  stone  was  distinguishable,  with  stone 
embrasures  and  a  stone-pillared  entrance 
arch. 

"  What  a  curious  situation  for  a 
house!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  No  road  to  it,  no 
carriage  drive,  no  path  even,  —  and  the 
pines  growing  almost  against  the  win- 
dows! " 

"  You  see  it  too,  then,"  said  Connell 
in  a  low  voice.  "  Come  a  little  farther, 
where  you  can  get  a  better  view." 

He  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and  then 
paused.  If  this  was  ConnelPs  picture,  it 
was  certainly  one  of  extreme  beauty.  For 
composition,  for  color,  he  had  chosen  a 
unique  spot,  an  inspired  moment.  There 
was  an  enchanting  delicacy  in  the  inter- 
section of  lines  made  by  the  pine-stems 
growing  up  the  bank  and  barring  faintly 
the  stone  of  the  house;  the  detail  of  the 
building,  the  battlements,  the  stone  de- 
vice above  the  porch,  the  carvings  of  the 
stone  embrasures,  had  the  intricacy  and 
definition  that  distance  gives  when  there 
is  a  clear  light  between.  I  took  out  my 
notebook  which  I  always  carried  in  my 
pocket,  and  began  sketching  in  the  scene 
with  pencil.  But  color  was  wanted  to  do 
justice  to  the  picture ;  and  I  tried  rapidly 
to  memorize  the  veiled  radiance  of  the 
stone,  that  threw  into  sombre  dusk  of  a 
new  depth  and  quality  the  smoky  blue  of 


the  pine  foliage  and  the  rusty  yellows  of 
the  foreground.  The  house  shone  with 
pale  light  in  a  circle  of  dim  rich  gloom, 
and  I  foresaw  the  difficulty  of  making  this 
light  convincing  on  canvas;  the  lumin- 
ous lichens  on  the  pillars  of  the  porch,  the 
weather-worn  surface  of  the  stone,  which 
gave  opportunity  to  impalpable  reflec- 
tions and  contrasts,  —  these  accounted 
only  partly  for  the  vaguely  diffused  glow, 
which  held  the  eye  by  its  strangeness. 

While  I  was  sketching,  Connell  re- 
mained silent,  looking  at  the  house. 

"Do  you  know  Henri  Le  Sidaner's 
pictures  ?  "  I  asked,  "  those  moonlit 
blanks  of  wall  that  suggest  so  convin- 
cingly the  life  inside  —  a  life  that  by 
reason  of  its  simplicity  is  allied  to  the 
mysteries?  I  would  like  to  give  this 
house  in  my  picture  the  same  quality  of 
suggestion,  but  it  suggests  something 
different,  something  more  complex, — 
wonder,  —  terror,  —  " 

"  The  unknown,"  said  Connell  slowly. 
"  Le  Sidaner  reaches  the  spirit,  the  es- 
sence of  exquisite  familiar  things;  but 
this  house  holds  —  do  you  not  feel  ?  — 
some  transcending  secret." 

"  I  would  like  to  convey  that  impres- 
sion," I  answered.  "  I  would  like  to  paint 
it  as  it  appears  to  me  now,  —  a  thing  of 
romance,  of  dream,  extraordinarily  real, 
and  yet  not  exactly  material.  I've  been 
looking  for  this  all  the  summer,"  I  added. 
"  I  knew  it  was  in  the  woods  some- 
where." 

."  You  knew"  Connell  repeated,  "  you 
knew,  —  and  I  fancied  that  I  alone  —  " 
He  startled  me,  he  was  so  serious. 

"  Have  you  been  up  to  the  house  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  I  won't  go  any  nearer,  — •  I 
want  to  keep  this  impression  intact." 

"  I  have  been  —  up  to  the  house,"  he 
replied. 

"What  is  it?  Some  open-air-cure 
place?  The  shell  of  an  Elizabethan 
manor  ?  " 

"  It  won't  hurt  your  conception  if  you 
come  a  little  bit  nearer,"  said  Connell; 
"  it  will  be  better,  —  I  want  you  to  — 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  answered,  thinking 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


385 


his  manner  strange;  "  but  niind,  you'll 
be  responsible  if  I  lose  the  inspiration." 

We  got  a  less  clear  view  as  we  went  on, 
owing  to  the  conformation  of  the  ground 
and  the  sudden  crowding  of  the  pine- 
stems,  but  a  step  or  two  farther  brought 
the  building  full  in  sight.  I  went  a  few 
paces  nearer,  —  then  stopped  abruptly. 
There  was  nothing  in  front  of  me  but 
the  pine-stems  growing  up  a  slope,  and 
the  stone-colored  ground;  fa^'ade,  win- 
dows, battlements,  pillars,  archway,  — 
all  had  vanished. 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  senses,  —  so 
vivid,  so  actual  had  been  the  illusion.  I 
turned  to  Connell  in  amazement.  "  Yes, 
I've  lost  it  too,"  he  said. 

"  Look  here,  Connell,  —  you're  play- 
ing a  joke  on  me.  You've  manoeuvred 
a  flank  movement,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  I  thought  we  were  making  straight 
for  the  house,  but  you've  turned  us  off 
somewhere.  However,  it 's  getting  late, 
and  if  we  're  to  explore  the  place  at  all, 
we  must  hurry  up." 

"  There  's  no  house,  there's  no  place," 
said  Connell  in  a  low  voice,  speaking 
rapidly;  "we  saw  what  you  said,  —  a 
thing  of  faery,  of  romance,  of  dream,  — 
a  little  bit  of  one  of  the  great  kingdoms 
that  interpenetrate  the  material  world 
suddenly,  inexplicably  made  visible,  —  " 

I  hardly  listened  to  what  he  said.  I  was 
bitterly  disappointed.  I  had  been  fooled, 
—  fooled  by  a  mere  optical  illusion.  Na- 
ture does  sometimes  play  these  cruel 
tricks  upon  us.  How  could  I  paint  my 
picture  when  I  knew  my  subject  to  be  a 
phantom,  dependent  on  a  fortuitous  ar- 
rangement of  light  and  shadow,  —  a  de- 
ception induced  by  the  slope  of  the  hill 
and  the  pine-stems?  And  yet,  what  a 
stupendous  deception  it  had  been,  con- 
vincing alike  in  its  details  and  in  its  com- 
pleteness ! 

"  So  much  for  the  truth  of  our  sense- 
impressions!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  My  pic- 
ture 's  ruined,  of  course.  We'd  better  go 
home.  It's  getting  colder." 

"  Let    me    see    your    sketch,"    said 
Connell. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


I  handed  him  the  book. 

"You  drew  exactly  what  you  saw? 
You  added  nothing  from  imagination  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered. 

"  And  yet  you  maintain  that  this  pal- 
ace, definite  in  every  minutest  particular, 
proportioned,  finished,  perfect,  was  a 
mere  illusion  ?  " 

"I'm  forced  to  suppose  so.  I  confess 
I  can't  explain  in  the  least  how  the  effect 
was  produced.  True,  the  ground  is  not 
unlike  the  color  of  stone,  and  the  crooked 
pine-stems  might  in  the  distance  take  the 
shape  of  carved  windows,  —  but  — 

Connell  interrupted  me.  "  I  know 
what  you  will  say,  —  but  this  barely 
touches  the  fringe  of  the  problem.  This 
only  asserts  that  the  light,  the  atmosphere, 
the  color,  were  sympathetic.  This  only 
means  that  we  were  attuned  to  vibrations 
that  in  ordinary  circumstances  would 
have  failed  to  reach  us,  that  we  were 
made  partners  in  a  mystery  that  would 
otherwise  have  passed  us  by." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  I  remarked 
abruptly. 

"  And  yet  you  said  that  you  knew  that 
this  palace  was  somewhere  in  the  woods, 
—  you  said  you  had  been  looking  for  it. 
Like  me,  you  have  been  expecting  to 
surprise  the  hidden  secret,  —  to  glimpse 
the  vision,  the  revelation — " 

"  Are  you  trying  to  make  out  that  the 
'palace '  as  you  call  it,  was  a  thing  of 
actual  existence  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  actual  existence.  Not  of  ma- 
terial existence,  as  we  understand  matter, 
though  doubtless  it  was  built  of  some 
subtler  form  of  matter,  or  it  would  have 
eluded  us  altogether.  It 's  not  unusual  for 
a  moment  to  overstep  the  sense-limita- 
tions, and  the  interpenetration  of  various 
planes  of  being  is  common  knowledge. 
As  a  rule,  we  crash  unconsciously  through 
all  the  crystal  loveliness  of  our  surround- 
ing worlds,  and  trample  upon  their  divine 
blooms.  But  sometimes  our  eyes  are 
opened  —  " 

"  This  is  merely  fanciful,"  I  began. 

"  The  poets  have  seen!  "  cried  Con- 
nell with  passion,  "  and  experience  has 


386 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


been  the  scaffolding  for  their  dream 
structures.  Do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's *  Lost  Bower '  was  a  mere  imagin- 
ation? It  transcended  the  loveliness  of 
the  world  she  knew ;  but  for  a  time  it  was 
definitely  about  her. 

"  Mystic  Presences  of  power 
Had  upsnatched   me   to   the   Timeless,   then 
returned  me  to  the  Hour. 

Can  you  deny  that  our  palace  produced 
an  impression  deeper,  stronger,  more 
mysterious  than  the  ordinary  sights  that 
meet  our  eyes  ?  Your  sketch  is  inspired, 
every  line  of  it  alive  with  magic,  with 
what  is  to  us  incalculable,  unaccountable ; 
because  you  have  seen  through  the  veil, 
have  captured  the  beyond  —  " 

I  shook  my  head.  "  You're  not  an  art- 
ist, Connell.  My  sketch  is  nothing  but  a 
clever  impression.  What  you  say  is  in- 
teresting, and  I've  heard  something  of 
the  theory  that  thoughts  are  things,  if 
that's  what  you're  driving  at.  But  why 
seek  so  far-fetched  an  explanation  ?  We 
happened  to  be  in  an  impressionable 
mood,  and  our  active  imaginations,  work- 
ing upon  this  mirage  arranged  by  nature, 
produced  the  illusion  that  deceived  us 
both." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  you  think  that  way," 
said  Connell.  "  I  wanted  your  help  — 
badly." 

"  You  can  have  that  in  any  case,"  I 
answered. 

"  You  mean  it  ?  "  said  Connell.  "  After 
all,  you  saw  the  thing,  you  drew  it,  your 
real  self  is  convinced,  though  reason  may 
hang  out  its  paltry  denials.  Anyhow  you 
are  interested  enough  to  explore  further." 

"  What  is  there  to  explore?  " 

"The  palace,"  said  Connell;  "the 
inside." 

I  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  "  Pine- 
needles  and  pine-roots,"  I  murmured. 

"  For  years,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  I 
have  been  seeking  this  experience,  this 
opportunity.  I  have  read,  I  have  studied, 
I  have  meditated,  —  and  now  you  and  I 
stand  on  the  threshold  of  actual  know- 
ledge. I  must  go  on,  —  by  myself  if  neces- 
sary, —  go  through  the  archway  of  the 


palace  into  the  courtyard  beyond,  into 
a  realm  untrodden,  unknown,  —  " 

"  But  you  forget,  —  our  palace  has 
vanished  into  air,  into  thin  air." 

"  It  can  be  materialized,  —  sufficiently 
materialized  at  least  for  us  to  enter  it. 
I  must  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 
I  must  obtain  certainty,  absolute  cer- 
tainty, —  I  must  grasp  the  essence  of 
beauty  that  burns  in  poets'  dreams." 

I  did  not  think  him  mad.  In  this  age 
the  regions  of  the  possible  have  been  so 
indefinitely  extended  that  no  one  may 
venture  to  proclaim  their  confines.  We 
have  learned  to  receive  at  least  with 
courtesy  the  most  incredible  ideas.  The 
time  has  gone  by  for  educated  people  to 
approach  the  mystical  and  the  occult  with 
cheap  sneers.  Personally,  though  I  could 
not  explain  the  emotion  and  unrest  in- 
duced in  me  by  the  phantom  palace,  I 
held  it  an  effect  of  imagination  working 
on  circumstance ;  but  I  was  willing  to  al- 
low that  something  might  possibly  be 
said  for  Connell's  contention.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  he  said  a  great  deal  for  it  as  we 
walked  home  together  through  the  pine 
woods.  He  talked  well,  in  a  low  voice, 
with  large  and  ample  gesture,  pausing 
sometimes  in  the  twilight  to  emphasize 
his  points :  a  strange  figure,  his  head  un- 
covered, his  eyes  shining.  Much  of  his 
talk  was  above  and  beyond  me,  but  it  was 
alive,  and  full  of  suggestion,  —  indeed 
the  very  landscape  seemed  mobile  under 
its  influence.  When  he  spoke  of  Eastern 
symbolisms,  the  pine  trees  clumped  into 
the  forms  of  faintly  gleaming  Buddhas, 
their  myriad  arms  of  power  stretching 
beneath  clouds  of  heavy  smoke ;  we  were 
walking  among  the  shrines  of  forces, 
magnetic,  terrible.  When  he  touched 
upon  the  unending  flux  of  matter,  a  wave 
of  motion  seemed  suddenly  to  overwhelm 
the  wood,  and  the  pines  began  march- 
ing and  countermarching  in  interminable 
procession,  multiplying  down  far  vistas. 
When  he  spoke  of  the  fairylands  created 
out  of  the  core  of  weariness  and  disillu- 
sion, I  almost  apprehended  threads  of 
opalescence  floating  in  the  gloom.  And 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


387 


when  he  spoke  of  the  Supreme,  the  blue 
of  night  grew  with  a  solemnity  that  was 
tragic  to  a  soul  suddenly  unprepared  to 
meet  it. 

Connell  certainly  had  the  poetic  gift  in 
a  high  degree,  the  gift  of  evoking  images, 
of  awakening  emotions,  and  during  our 
walk  he  quite  carried  me  off  my  feet.  We 
took  up  again  a  more  normal  relation- 
ship when  he  came  with  me  to  my  cot- 
tage for  a  meal  of  bread  and  cheese.  He 
looked  rather  haggard  under  the  lamp, 
and  his  rapid  walk  and  gesticulation  had 
disheveled  his  appearance  a  little:  his 
hair  was  tossed  and  his  green  tie  astray. 
His  excitement  struck  me  as  somewhat 
feverish,  and  I  determined  to  keep  watch 
over  his  movements,  for  there  might  be 
danger  in  the  absorbing  fascination  of 
the  subjects  that  attracted  him.  The 
phantom  in  the  wood,  the  vision,  what- 
ever it  was,  had  set  his  emotional  nature 
aflame,  and  no  longer  under  the  spell  of 
his  eloquence  I  observed  with  some  mis- 
giving the  passion  of  his  gestures  and 
the  unnatural  brightness  of  his  eyes. 

He  ate  hardly  anything;  he  refused  to 
smoke.  After  supper,  while  I  was  lighting 
my  pipe,  he  remarked,  "I'm  afraid  I've 
wandered  a  good  deal  from  the  subject  of 
this  afternoon's  adventure.  But  my  point 
is  this :  if  I  find  a  way  of  making  the  pal- 
ace material,  —  will  you  come  inside  with 
me?" 

"  How  will  you  find  a  way  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  a  question  of  vibration,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "as  this  universe  is  built  upon 
vibrations,  so  are  all  the  universes  be- 
yond. Light,  heat,  sound,  electricity,  de- 
pend upon  waves  and  rhythms;  look  at 
wireless  telegraphy — the  whole  gamut  of 
life  upon  this  planet  is  but  the  beating 
pulse  of  the  Word.  Even  mechanical  vi- 
brations set  up  a  living  current,  as  the 
Thibetans  understand  when  they  make 
their  prayer- wheels.  And  it  is  well-known 
that  music  builds  form." 

"  How  does  this  bear  upon  the  sub- 
ject?" 

"I'm  horribly  discursive,  —  incoher- 
ent as  well,  I  fear.  Has  it  never  occurred 


to  you  to  consider  the  vibrations  of  a  pine 
wood  ?  Millions  and  millions  of  needles, 
quivering  year  in,  year  out,  to  the  faintest 
breath  of  wind,  —  strings  struck  by  the 
storm  into  infinitudes  of  harmony,  —  an 
instrument  delicate  and  multitudinous 
beyond  all  conceiving?  If  vibrations,  if 
music  create  form,  imagine  the  struc- 
tures of  splendor  that  must  inhabit  a 
pine  wood!  " 

"  You  imply  that  the  palace  we  saw  — 
like  the  vision  of  Abt  Vogler  —  was  built 
out  of  sound  vibrations  ?  " 

"  No.  Our  palace  was  too  largely  in- 
fused with  some  intense  emotional  qual- 
ity to  have  been  built  by  mechanical 
means." 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  have  n't  studied  the 
magical  tradition  at  all  ?  "  asked  Connell. 
I  shook  my  head.  "  Then  you  don't 
know  much  about  the  power  of  incanta- 
tion —  vibration  again  —  a  succession  of 
sounds  and  rhythms  framed  to  pene- 
trate to  planes  beyond  ours  ?  It 's  a  dan- 
gerous study,  for  you  may  chance  upon 
some  word  of  might  that  may  bring  down 
upon  you  forces  that  will  shrivel  you  to 
dust.  But  I  have  learned  to  walk  warily 
in  this  path.  And  as  by  incantation  one 
can  call  up  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,  so 
by  incantation  I  intend  to  call  up  once 
again,  and  to  enter,  the  palace  in  the 
wood." 

"  I  don't  approve  of  this  meddling  with 
things  we  know  nothing  about,"  I  said 
bluntly.  "  I  daresay  there  's  a  good  deal 
in  occultism  and  magic,  —  I'm  inclined 
to  think  there  is,  —  but  most  of  us  have 
n't  reached  a  stage  when  it's  safe  to  make 
risky  experiments.  If  that  palace  in  the 
woods  was  the  effect  of  magic,  well,  it 
came  to  us  unsought,  and  was  indeed  the 
most  exquisite  piece  of  beauty  I  have  ever 
seen;  but  it  is  a  very  different  matter  to 
go  out  and  try  to  evoke  a  vision  by  means 
of  forces  of  which  we  know  absolutely 
nothing." 

"  Our  ignorance  is  not  so  profound  as 
all  that,"  said  Connell.  "  When  you  think 
of  it,  incantation  is  a  common  enough 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


thing  in  daily  life,  though  not  always  re- 
cognized, and  all  poetry  that  is  real  poetry 
is  incantation,  magic,  —  the  awakening 
of  raptures  and  ecstasies  by  inspired 
rhythms  and  sounds.  There  are,  however, 
other  ways;  for  vibrations  attract  to 
themselves  subtle  forms  of  matter,  which 
they  ensoul.  But  I  need  n't  enter  into 
this,  since  you  don't  sympathize." 

Indeed  I  thought  it  better  to  turn  the 
conversation  to  saner  subjects,  and  soon 
after  this  Connell  took  his  leave.  We 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  next  day 
in  the  pine  wood,  I  to  demonstrate  that 
our  palace  was  a  mere  coincidence  of  soil 
and  root,  and  he  to  prove  if  possible  that 
it  was  a  dream  made  solid.  But  in  vain 
we  sought  to  recover  the  spot  whence  the 
illusion  had  been  obtained;  sought  in 
vain  to  trace  anything  resembling  the  out- 
lines of  a  house  among  the  confused  pine- 
stems.  The  wood  which  yesterday  had 
seemed  athrob  with  vitality  and  tense 
with  meaning,  was  to-day  empty,  lan- 
guid, commonplace.  We  who  yesterday 
had  believed  ourselves  thrilled  by  the 
breath  of  genuine  inspiration  were  to- 
day a  couple  of  tricked  idiots  wasting  our 
time  in  trying  to  recapture  a  transitory 
effect  of  light. 

Connell  had  taken  my  sketch-book, 
and  having  apparently  obtained  his  bear- 
ings, he  began  tracing  on  a  flat  piece  of 
ground  among  the  pine-needles,  with  a 
pine-branch  he  had  sharpened,  certain 
geometrical  diagrams  covering  some  ten 
feet  in  circumference.  He  stripped  and 
sharpened  other  pine-branches  which  he 
set  up  within  the  circle. 

I  watched  him  idly.  "  What  are  you 
doing  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  To-night  it  will  be  full  moon,"  he 
answered.  "  To-night  I  am  going  to  make 
my  experiment." 

"It  involves  the  use  of  these  bits  of 
stick?" 

I  suppose  my  tone  offended  him.  "  I 
don't  care  to  explain,"  he  said. 

I  could  make  some  guess  at  his  object. 
He  was  anxious,  evidently,  to  mark  a  par- 
ticular spot  with  exactitude,  and  little  as 


I  knew  of  the  subject,  I  had  no  doubt  that 
within  the  circle  he  was  drawing  an  in- 
tricacy of  magical  figures.  This  mystery- 
mongering  was  distasteful  to  me;  never- 
theless, as  he  drew  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  these  traceries  were  affecting  me 
with  a  kind  of  mesmeric  influence.  Con- 
nell's  long  stooping  figure  and  flapping 
cloak,  which  should  have  appeared  mere- 
ly grotesque,  seemed  somehow  tragic,  and 
I  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Come  away,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
leave  all  this.  It  isn't  healthy.  You've 
been  living  too  long  by  yourself,  —  brood- 
ing too  much.  You've  been  dabbling  in 
forbidden  lore.  You  ought  to  leave  the 
country  altogether,  and  mix  awhile  in  a 
crowd.  I  '11  go  with  you  if  you  like.  Let's 
take  the  next  train  up  to  London.  We'll 
get  a  snack  at  a  restaurant  somewhere 
and  look  in  at  the  Empire  —  " 

He  disengaged  himself  gently.  "  And 
yesterday,"  he  said,  "  you  saw  the  vis- 
ion." 

It  was  ridiculous,  but  he  made  me  feel 
ashamed  of  myself, — as  if  I  had  intruded 
with  some  unpardonable  triviality  into 
a  sacred  place.  Indeed,  I  had  made  the 
proposal  partly  in  self-defense,  because 
I  could  not  shake  myself  free  of  the  im- 
pression that  some  unguessed  meaning 
underlay  the  illusion  that  had  tricked 
us.  I  half  expected  and  half  feared  the 
recurrence  of  the  phantom,  and  my 
glances  kept  seeking  the  place  where  I 
supposed  it  had  stood ;  but  the  slopes  con- 
tinued empty  of  all  suggestion.  Under 
such  circumstances  the  imagination  is 
unnaturally  stimulated  and  is  apt  to 
create  deceiving  shapes;  and  I  felt  that 
if  I  stayed  much  longer  in  the  wood,  I 
should  see  things,  without  being  able  to 
distinguish  if  they  were  of  my  own  fancy, 
or  had  individual  existence. 

"  Come  along,  Connell,  there  's  a  good 
fellow,"  I  urged.  "  Anyhow,  suppose  we 
go  back  to  my  diggings  for  a  quiet  smoke 
and  chat  — 

"  Please  leave  me,"  said  Connell. 
"I'm  sorry  to  have  bothered  you  at  all 
with  my  talk  and  theories,  —  and  I  'm 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


better  alone.  To  be  frank,  I  think  you're 
rather  a  disturbing  influence  here.  Do 
you  mind  leaving  me  ?  " 

His  tone  was  too  gentle  for  me  to  take 
offense ;  besides,  I  had  got  to  have  a  liking 
for  the  man.  His  strangeness,  which 
struck  the  outsider  as  an  affectation,  was 
in  reality  of  the  very  fibre  of  his  character ; 
there  was  indeed  a  ring  of  absolute 
sincerity  in  all  he  said  and  did,  together 
with  some  quality  of  sweetness  that  made 
strong  appeal  to  friendship.  But  what 
most  attracted  was  the  sense  he  conveyed 
of  that  indescribable  thing  we  call  genius. 
His  talk  was  more  than  clever  talk,  it  had 
inspiration,  —  he  could  fire  the  mind  and 
sway  the  emotions,  and  suggest  in  flash- 
ing juxtaposition  new  facets  of  beauty 
and  of  truth.  I  liked  him,  I  liked  him 
very  much.  So  I  took  no  offense  at  his 
words,  but  hung  about  a  while,  expecting 
him  to  join  me.  At  last  it  struck  me  as 
undignified  to  be  waiting  so  long  on  his 
good  pleasure,  and  I  turned  my  steps 
homeward.  I  walked  slowly,  thinking  he 
would  catch  me  up ;  for  nearly  an  hour  I 
sat  on  an  open  hill  watching  the  sunset; 
then,  determining  to  delay  no  longer,  I 
plunged  once  more  into  the  pine  woods, 
and  made  for  home. 

But  once  inside  my  cottage,  I  was 
seized  with  an  extraordinary  unrest.  I 
tried  to  concentrate  my  attention  on  the 
evening  paper,  —  in  vain;  I  engaged  my 
garrulous  landlady  in  conversation,  — 
in  vain:  I  saw  nothing  but  Council's 
cloaked  figure  flapping  among  the  pine- 
stems  which  seemed  to  be  shifting  cease- 
lessly in  intricate  diagrams.  After  sup- 
per I  became  so  uneasy  that  I  went  round 
to  Connell's  lodgings  to  assure  myself 
of  his  safety.  He  had  not  come  back. 
Surely  he  was  not  waiting  till  moon-rise  to 
carry  out  any  mad-brained  scheme  ?  In- 
stinctively, without  reflection,  I  turned 
my  steps  away  from  the  village.  It  was 
ten  o'clock,  and  dark;  still,  it  might  be 
possible  to  trace  the  path  through  the 
woods.  I  did  not  stop  to  consider  the 
absurdity  of  such  an  expedition,  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  missing  Connell,  the  use- 


lessness  of  my  joining  him.  I  was  pos- 
sessed of  an  unreasoning  anxiety  on  his 
account,  and  my  only  thought  was  to  find 
him.  This  desire  so  took  hold  of  me  that 
I  rushed  along  blindly,  almost  unaware 
of  obstacles  and  difficulties;  but  soon 
such  headlong  progress  became  imprac- 
ticable. Where  the  foliage  overhead  was 
thick,  I  had  to  grope  my  way,  and  though 
I  am  courageous  by  nature  the  darkness, 
the  loneliness,  the  unnatural  stillness  in- 
spired me  with  terror.  This  night  was 
not  as  other  nights.  There  were  unknown 
forces  lurking  round,  —  whether  male- 
ficent or  beneficent  I  had  no  means  of 
guessing;  and  my  whole  will  was  bent  on 
stifling  perception,  lest  I  should  surprise 
some  sight  transcending  experience  in 
beauty  or  horror.  This  wild  effort  of 
shutting  out  from  consciousness  some- 
thing that  pressed  nearer  and  nearer,  with 
sounds  almost  audible  and  shape  almost 
visible,  made  my  walk  a  nightmare;  but 
I  stumbled  on,  covering  the  ground  some- 
how, till  a  deathly  paleness  struck  dimly 
through  the  woods.  Then,  with  a  sense  of 
overwhelming  relief,  I  realized  that  the 
moon  would  not  be  long  in  rising. 

As  I  crossed  the  valley,  the  wooded  hill 
that  had  contained  the  phantom  palace 
took  filmy  definition.  The  landscape  be- 
yond the  valley's  length  expanded  into 
distances  so  remote  that  I  felt  as  if  my 
power  of  vision  had  been  miraculously 
augmented.  My  sight  went  over  soft  in- 
tricacies of  misty  silver  to  horizons  be- 
yond horizons,  and  all  the  vagueness 
spoke  with  a  tender  meaning,  so  that  there 
was  no  point  too  far  to  be  beyond  my 
reading  of  its  implications.  So  alien  an 
experience  cut  me  away  suddenly  from 
common  humanity,  isolated  me  in  a  white 
silence,  and  the  horror  of  loneliness  pos- 
sessed me.  My  nature  called  out  for 
companionship,  for  Connell,  —  I  seemed 
to  be  dissipating  in  the  vastness,  and 
struggled  in  vain  to  recover  my  accus- 
tomed limitations. 

Then  from  those  spheres  beyond  the 
reach  of  our  senses,  there  struck  a  chord 
of  notes,  penetrating  in  sweetness,  a  pil- 


390 


These  Enchanted  Woods 


lar  of  sound  attaining  heights  and  depths 
unapprehended  by  normal  hearing,  em- 
bracing subtleties  of  interval  too  delicate 
to  be  discriminated  by  our  ordinary 
coarse  perceptions.  It  seemed  as  if  every 
tone  in  the  whole  stretch  of  creation  had 
been  touched:  and  the  harmony  was  so 
complete,  the  range  so  vast,  that  the  body 
quivered  as  if  caught  in  the  wind  of  some 
stupendous  revolution. 

I  could  not  bear  the  burden  of  such 
amplitude ;  so  exquisite  a  perfection  hurt 
past  enduring;  and  instinctively  I  sought 
cover  beneath  the  trees,  to  cage  me  from 
these  crushing  expansions. 

Then,  floating  down  the  hill,  came  a 
voice,  ConneU's  voice,  in  a  chant,  rising 
and  falling  with  rhythmic  monotony,  now 
low,  now  loud,  entreating  and  command- 
ing, curiously  human  amid  all  its  strange- 
ness. The  sense  of  his  presence  helped 
me  to  recover  my  balance  a  little,  and  I 
hastened  my  climbing,  led  by  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  Then  when  I  had  nearly 
reached  him  in  the  centre  of  his  circle,  I 
stopped,*  gasping. 

There  stood  the  palace  on  the  slope,  a 
thing  shining  and  radiant  beyond  thought 
or  dream.  The  moon  herself  seemed  to 
be  burning  in  the  structure,  and  the  bar- 
ring pine-stems  were  melted  to  transpar- 
ence by  the  intense  light.  The  weather- 
worn stone  of  window  and  battlement 
and  archway,  caressed  by  faint  shadows, 
spiritualized  to  attenuation,  was  instinct 
with  life;  a  tracery  of  rose-stems  clipped 
the  fissures,  and  a  few  pink  roses  blos- 
somed in  the  glow.  Impossible  to  doubt 
the  actuality  of  this  building,  impossible 
to  deny  the  power  of  unknown  forces  that 
lurked  behind  its  walls,  impossible  to  re- 
sist the  call  of  its  beauty  and  its  terror.  If 
the  thing  remained  standing,  if  Connell 
succeeded  in  making  his  way  to  the  en- 
trance, if  he  dared  the  dreadful  step  of 
crossing  the  threshold  into  the  unknown, 
I  determined  that  I  would  not  be  behind; 
we  might  be  shattered  to  dust  or  blasted 
to  ashes,  but  the  experience  must  be 
braved,  the  adventure  culminated. 

Again  came  that  infinite  chord  of  notes 


upon  the  air,  but  this  time  quite  near, 
striking  with  deafening  vibrations  upon 
the  senses,  till  the  nerves  almost  snapped 
under  the  strain,  and  consciousness  itself 
was  nearly  overwhelmed.  Then  a  flight 
of  shadows  began  chasing  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  palace  as  if  the  moon  were 
being  obscured  by  driving  clouds. 

In  a  passing  gleam  I  caught  the  wild- 
ness  of  ConneU's  face,  and  stepped  into 
the  circle. 

"Connell!"  I  cried,  "Connell!" 

He  gripped  my  hand.  "  Come!  "  he 
whispered. 

We  had  hardly  proceeded  more  than 
a  few  steps  when  the  whole  wood  rattled 
with  all  the  winds  of  heaven  suddenly  let 
loose.  We  were  plunged  in  a  chaos  of 
noise,  —  of  roaring  and  hisses  and 
shrieks,  of  shouting  and  wild  laughter,  — 
voices  that  were  not  of  the  storm,  that 
were  not  of  the  earth.  The  ground  itself 
became  unstable,  and  seethed  with  a 
whirling  mass  of  atoms,  while  branches 
from  a  tossing  ocean  above  came  crash- 
ing through  the  air  amid  flying  forms. 
Still  we  struggled  on,  the  darkness  in- 
creasing, the  house  now  lost  and  now  visi- 
ble amid  the  confusion.  But  it  endured. 
At  last  only  a  strip  of  slightly  rising 
ground  divided  us  from  our  goal.  Lashed 
and  blinded  by  the  storm,  bewildered  by 
its  fury,  scarce  able  to  stand  against  its 
force,  the  palace  yet  loomed  vaguely  be- 
fore us  in  all  its  vastness,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  lights  flashed  now  and  again  across 
the  windows  and  through  the  shadows  of 
the  arch. 

And  now,  so  close  to  this  manifestation 
of  the  unknown,  unreasoning  terror  came 
upon  me  again  with  irresistible  force. 
Something  awful  in  its  appearance  sub- 
dued me  with  a  groveling  sense  of  weak- 
ness, something  sinister  in  its  aspect 
struck  a  tremor  through  my  frame.  The 
wind  had  decreased  a  little  in  violence, 
and  I  tried  to  make  myself  heard  of 
Connell.  "  Enough  of  this  madness!"  I 
uttered  hoarsely.  He  turned  upon  me  a 
rapt  face.  "  You  shall  not  go!  "  I  cried, 
gripping  his  arm.  He  moved  forward, 


Saint  R.  L.  S. 


391 


dragging  me  with  him.  At  every  step,  the 
terror  increased  upon  me;  I  felt  that  I  was 
approaching  forces  so  tremendous  that 
imagination  quailed  before  them.  They 
drew  me  as  by  a  magnet,  and  I  knew 
that  in  another  moment  we  must  both 
be  swept  into  the  vortex.  Exerting  all  my 
strength,  I  tried  to  draw  Connell  back, 
but  he  was  taller  and  stronger  than  I, 
in  a  state  of  exaltation ;  and  he  shook  me 
off  easily.  I  swung  from  him,  stumbled, 
caught  my  foot  in  some  undergrowth  and 
fell,  a  great  flash  of  lightning  almost 
blinding  me,  followed  by  the  swirl  of  a 
cloudburst  and  a  roar  of  thunder  break- 
ing in  my  very  ears. 

I  must  have  lain  there  a  long  time;  con- 
sciousness came  with  a  sense  of  aching 
limbs.  At  first  I  could  not  remember  why 
I  was  lying  out  on  a  brier-patch  in  the 
pine  woods,  wet  to  the  skin;  then  slowly 


memory  returned.  With  sore  pain  I  strug- 
gled to  my  feet,  —  the  sun  was  up,  re- 
vealing a  scene  of  devastation.  Along  the 
rim  of  the  pine  wood,  where  last  night  the 
palace  had  been,  whole  series  of  pine  trees 
were  torn  up  by  their  roots;  the  ground 
where  I  had  lain  was  strewn  by  pine- 
branches  and  heaped  with  eddies  and 
whirls  of  pine-needles.  But  where  was 
Connell? 

That  question  has  never  been  an- 
swered. In  high  fever  as  I  was,  I  searched 
the  woods  for  hours,  and  when  my 
strength  failed  me  I  gave  the  alarm,  and 
the  whole  country  was  scoured.  But  he 
was  never  found.  I  had  expected  that 
he  would  not  be.  For  I  knew  that 
Connell  had  dared  the  experiment,  had 
culminated  the  adventure,  had  passed 
through  the  archway  into  the  unknown 
beyond. 


SAINT  R.  L.  S. 

BY  SARAH  N.   CLEGHORN 

SULTRY  and  brazen  was  the  August  day 

When  Sister  Stanislaus  came  down  to  see 
The  little  boy  with  the  tuberculous  knee. 

And  as  she  thought  to  find  him,  so  he  lay: 

Still  staring,  through  the  dizzy  waves  of  heat, 
At  the  tall  tenement  across  the  street. 


But  did  he  see  that  dreary  picture?     Nay, 
In  his  mind's  eye  a  sunlit  harbor  showed, 
Where  a  tall  pirate  ship  at  anchor  rode. 

Yes,  he  was  full  ten  thousand  miles  away.  - 

(The  Sister,  when  she  turned  his  pillow  over, 
Kissed   Treasure  Island,  on  its  well-worn  cover.) 


ON  THE  FRENCH  SHORE  OF  CAPE  BRETON 


BY   HARRY   JAMES   SMITH 


SUMMER  comes  late  along  the  Cape 
Breton  shore;  and  even  while  it  stays 
there  is  something  a  little  diffident  and 
ticklish  about  it,  as  if  each  clear  warm 
day  might  perhaps  be  the  last. 

Though  by  early  June  the  fields  are  in 
their  first  emerald,  there  are  no  flowers 
yet.  The  little  convent  girls  who  carry 
the  banners  at  the  head  of  the  Corpus 
Christi  procession  at  Augette  wear 
wreaths  of  artificial  lilies  of  the  valley 
and  marguerites  over  their  white  veils, 
and  often  enough  their  teeth  chatter  with 
cold  before  the  completion  of  the  long 
march,  —  out  from  the  church  portals 
westward  by  the  populous  street,  then  up 
through  the  steep  open  fields  to  the  old 
calvary  on  top  of  the  hill,  then  back  to  the 
church  along  the  grass-grown  upper  road, 
far  above  the  roofs,  in  full  view  of  the 
wide  bay. 

Despite  some  discomforts,  the  proces- 
sion is  a  very  great  event;  every  house 
along  the  route  is  decked  out  with  bunting 
or  flags  or  a  bright  home-made  carpet, 
hung  from  a  window.  Pots  of  tall  gera- 
niums in  scarlet  bloom  have  been  set  out 
on  the  steps ;  and  numbers  of  little  ever- 
green trees,  or  birches  newly  in  leaf,  have 
been  brought  in  from  the  country  and 
bound  to  the  fences.  Along  the  roadside 
are  gathered  all  the  Acadians  from  the 
neighboring  parishes,  devoutly  gay>  en- 
chanted with  the  pious  spectacle.  The 
choir,  following  after  the  richly  canopied 
Sacrament  and  swinging  censers,  are 
chanting  psalms  of  benediction  and 
thanksgiving;  banners  and  flags  and  veils 
flutter  in  the  wind ;  the  harbor,  ice-bound 
so  many  months,  is  flecked  with  dancing 
white- caps  and  purple  shadows:  surely 
summer  cannot  be  far  off. 

"  When  once  the  ice  has  done  passing 
down  there,"  they  say,  —  "  which  may 

392 


happen  any  time  now  —  you  will  see ! 
Perhaps  all  in  a  day  the  change  will  come. 
The  fog  that  creeps  in  so  cold  at  night 
—  it  will  all  be  sucked  up;  the  sky  will 
be  clear  as  glass  down  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  water.  Ah,  the  fine  season  it  will 
be!" 

That  is  the  way  summer  arrives  on  the 
Acadian  shore :  everything  bursting  pell- 
mell  into  bloom;  daisies  and  buttercups 
and  August  flowers  rioting  in  the  fields, 
lilacs  and  roses  shedding  their  fragrance 
in  sheltered  gardens;  and  over  all  the 
world  a  drench  of  unspeakable  sunlight. 

You  could  never  forget  your  first 
sight  of  Augette  if  you  entered  its  nar- 
row harbor  at  this  divine  moment.  Steep, 
low  hills,  destitute  of  trees,  set  a  singu- 
larly definite  sky-line  just  behind;  and 
the  town  runs  —  dawdles,  rather  —  in 
a  thin,  wavering  band  for  some  miles 
sheer  on  the  edge  of  the  water.  Eight  or 
ten  wharves,  some  of  them  fallen  into 
dilapidation,  jut  out  at  intervals  from 
clumps  of  weatherbeaten  storehouses; 
and  a  few  small  vessels,  it  may  be,  are 
lying  up  alongside  or  anchored  idly  off 
shore.  Only  the  occasional  sound  of  a 
creaking  block  or  of  a  wagon  rattling  by 
on  the  hard  roadway  breaks  the  silence. 

Along  the  street  the  houses  elbow  one 
another  in  neighborly  groups,  or  straggle 
out  in  single  file,  separated  by  bits  of  de- 
clivitous white-fenced  yard;  and  to  the 
westward,  a  little  distance  up  the  hill,  sits 
the  square  church,  far  outvying  every 
other  edifice  in  size  and  dignity,  glisten- 
ing white,  with  a  tall  bronze  Virgin  on 
the  peak  of  the  roof,  —  Our  Lady  of  the 
Assumption,  the  special  patron  of  the 
Acadians. 

But  what  impresses  you  above  all  is  the 
incredible  vividness  of  color  in  this  land- 
scape: the  dazzling  gold-green  of  the 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton 


393 


fields,  heightened  here  and  there  by  lu- 
minous patches  of  foam-white  where  the 
daisies  are  in  full  carnival,  or  subdued 
to  duller  tones  where,  on  uncultivated 
ground,  moss-hummocks  and  patches  of 
rock  break  through  the  investiture  of 
grass.  The  sky  has  so  much  room  here 

O  «/ 

too :  the  whole  world  seems  to  be  adrift  in 
azure ;  the  thin  strip  of  land  hangs  poised 
between,  claimed  equally  by  firmament 
and  the  waters  under  it. 

In  the  old  days,  they  tell  us,  Augette 
was  a  very  different  place  from  now. 
Famous  among  the  seaports  of  the  Do- 
minion, it  saw  a  continual  coming  and 
going  of  brigs  and  ships  and  barquen- 
tines  in  the  South  American  fish  trade. 

"  But  if  you  had  known  it  then !  "  they 
say.  "  The  wharves  were  as  thick  all  the 
length  of  the  harbor  as  the  teeth  of  a 
comb;  and  in  winter,  when  the  vessels 
were  laid  up,  —  eh,  mon  Dieu!  you 
would  have  called  it  a  forest,  for  all  the 
masts  and  spars  you  saw  there.  No  in- 
deed, it  was  not  dreamed  of  in  those 
days  that  Augette  would  ever  come  to 
this!" 

So  passes  the  world's  glory !  An  air  of 
tender,  almost  jealous  reminiscence  hangs 
about  the  town ;  and  in  its  gentle  decline 
into  obscurity  it  has  kept  a  sort  of  dignity, 
a  self-possession,  a  certain  look  of  wis- 
dom and  experience,  which  in  a  sense 
make  it  proof  against  all  arrows  of  out- 
rageous Fortune. 

Back  from  the  other  shore  of  the  har- 
bor, jutting  out  for  some  miles  into  Ched- 
abucto  Bay,  lies  the  Cape.  You  get  a 
view  of  it  if  you  climb  to  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  —  a  broad  reach  of  barrens,  fretted 
all  day  by  the  sea.  Out  there  it  is  what 
the  Acadians  call  a  bad  country.  About 
the  -sluice-like  coves  that  have  been  eaten 
into  its  rocky  shore  are  scrambling  groups 
of  fishermen's  houses;  but  aside  from 
these  and  the  lighthouse  on  the  spit  of 
rocks  to  southward,  the  region  is  unin- 
habited, —  a  waste  of  rock  and  swamp- 
alder  and  scrub-balsam,  across  which  a 
single  thread  of  a  road  takes  its  circuitous 
way,  dipping  over  steep  low  hills,  turning 


out  for  gnarls  of  rock  and  patches  of 
gleaming  marsh,  losing  itself  amid  dense 
thickets  of  alder,  then  emerging  upon 
some  bare  hilltop,  where  the  whole  meas- 
ureless sweep  of  sea  and  sky  fills  the 
vision. 

When  the  dusk  begins  to  fall  of  an  au- 
tumn afternoon  —  between  dog  and  wolf, 
as  the  saying  goes  —  you  could  almost 
believe  in  the  strange  noises  —  the  rum- 
blings, clankings,  shrill  voices  — -  that  are 
to  be  heard  above  the  dull  roar  of  the  sea 
by  belated  passers  on  the  barrens.  Some 
people  have  seen  death-fires  too,  and  a 
headless  creature,  much  like  a  horse,  gal- 
loping through  the  darkness;  and  over 
there  at  Fougere's  Cove,  the  most  remote 
settlement  of  the  Cape,  there  were  knock- 
ings  at  doors  through  all  one  winter  from 
hands  not  human.  The  Fougeres  —  they 
were  mostly  of  one  tribe  there  —  were 
driven  to  desperation;  they  consulted  a 
priest;  they  protected  themselves  with 
blessed  images,  with  prayers  and  holy 
water ;  and  no  harm  came  to  them,  though 
poor  Marcelle,  who  was  a  jeune  fille  of 
marriageable  age,  was  prostrated  for  a 
year  with  the  fright  of  it. 

This  barren  territory,  where  nothing 
grows  above  the  height  of  a  man's  shoul- 
der, still  goes  by  the  name  of  "  the 
woods  "  —  les  bois  —  among  the  Aca- 
dians. "  Once  the  forest  was  magnificent 
here,"  they  tell  you,  —  "  trees  as  tall  as 
the  church  tower ;  but  the  great  fire  swept 
it  all  away;  and  never  has  there  been  a 
good  growth  since.  For  one  thing,  you 
see,  we  must  get  our  firewood  from  it 
somehow." 

This  fact  accounts  for  a  curious  look  in 
the  ubiquitous  stubby  evergreens:  their 
lower  branches  spread  flat  and  wide  close 
on  the  ground, — that  is  where  the  snow 
in  winter  protects  them,  —  and  above 
reaches  a  thin,  spire-like  stem,  trimmed 
close,  except  for  new  growth  at  the  top,  of 
all  its  branches.  It  gives  suggestion  of  a 
harsh,  misshapen,  all  but  defeated  exist- 
ence; the  adverse  forces  are  so  tyrannical 
out  here  on  the  Cape,  the  material  of  life 
so  sparse. 


394 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  ' 


I  remember  once  meeting  a  little  fune- 
ral train  crossing  the  barrens.  They  were 
bearing  the  body  of  a  young  girl,  Anna 
Bejean,  to  its  last  rest,  five  miles  away  by 
the  road,  in  the  yard  of  the  parish  church 
amongst  the  wooden  crosses.  The  long 
box  of  pine  lay  on  the  bottom  of  a  coun- 
try wagon,  and  a  wreath  of  artificial  flow- 
ers and  another  of  home-dyed  immor- 
telles were  fastened  to  the  cover.  A  young 
fisherman,  sunburned  and  muscular,  was 
leading  the  horse  along  the  rough  road, 
and  behind  followed  three  or  four  carts, 
carrying  persons  in  black,  all  of  middle 
age  or  beyond,  and  silent. 

Yet  in  the  full  tide  of  summer  the  bar- 
rens have  a  beauty  in  which  this  charac- 
teristic melancholy  is  only  a  persistent 
undertone.  Then  the  marshes  flush  rose- 
pink  with  lovely  multitudes  of  calopo- 
gons  that  cluster  like  poising  butterflies 
amongst  the  dark  grasses;  here  too  the 
canary-yellow  bladderwort  flecks  the 
black  pools,  and  the  red,  leathery  pitcher- 
plant  springs  in  sturdy  clumps  from  the 
moss-hummocks.  And  the  wealth  of  color 
over  all  the  country !  —  gray  rock  touched 
into  life  with  sky-reflections ;  rusty  green 
of  alder  thickets,  glistening  silver-green  of 
balsam  and  juniper ;  and  to  the  sky-line, 
wherever  it  can  keep  its  hold,  the  thin, 
variegated  carpet  of  close-cropped  grass, 
where  creeping  berries  of  many  kinds 
grow  in  profusion.  Flocks  of  sheep  scam- 
per untended  over  the  barrens  all  day, 
and  groups  of  horses,  turned  out  to  shift 
for  themselves  while  the  fishing  season 
keeps  their  owners  occupied,  look  for  a 
moment,  nose  in  the  air,  at  the  passer, 
kick  up  their  heels,  and  race  off. 

As  you  turn  back  again  toward  Augette 
you  catch  a  glimpse  of  its  glistening  white 
church,  miles  distant  in  reality,  but  look- 
ing curiously  near,  across  a  landscape 
where  none  of  the  familiar  standards  of 
measure  exist.  You  lose  it  on  the  next 
decline;  then  it  flashes  in  sight  again,  and 
the  blue,  sun-burnished  expanse  of  water 
between.  It  occurs  to  you  that  the  whole 
life  of  the  country  finds  its  focus  there: 
christenings  and  first  communions,  mar- 


riages and  burials,  —  how  wonderfully 
the  church  holds  them  all  in  her  keeping ; 
how  she  sends  out  her  comfort  and  her 
exhortation,  her  reproach  and  her  eternal 
hope  across  even  this  bad  country,  where 
the  circumstances  of  human  life  are  so 
ungracious. 

But  it  is  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when, 
in  response  to  the  quavering  summons  of 
the  chapel  bell,  the  whole  countryside 
gives  up  its  population,  that  you  get  the 
clearest  notion  of  what  religion  means  in 
the  life  of  the  Acadians.  From  the  door- 
way of  our  house,  which  was  close  to  the 
road  at  the  upper  end  of  the  harbor,  we 
could  see  the  whole  church-going  pro- 
cession from  the  outlying  districts.  The 
passing  would  be  almost  unbroken  from 
eight  o'clock  on  for  more  than  an  hour 
and  a  half:  a  varied,  vivacious,  friendly 
human  stream.  They  came  in  hundreds 
from  the  scattered  villages  and  hamlets  of 
the  parish,  —  from  Petit  de  Grat  and 
Little  Anse  and  Pig  Cove  and  Gros  Nez 
and  Point  Rouge  and  Cap  au  Guet,  eight 
or  nine  miles  often  enough. 

First,  those  who  went  afoot  and  must 
allow  plenty  of  time  on  account  of  age: 
bent  old  fishermen,  whose  yellowed  and 
shiny  coats  had  been  made  for  more 
robust  shoulders ;  old  women,  invariably 
in  short  black  capes,  and  black  bonnets 
tied  tight  under  the  chin,  and  in  their 
hands  a  rosary  and  perhaps  a  thumb- 
worn  missal.  Then  troops  of  children, 
much  endimanche,  —  one  would  like  to 
say  "  Sundayfied,"  —  trotting  along  nois- 
ily, stopping  to  examine  every  object  of 
interest  by  the  way,  extracting  all  the 
excitement  possible  out  of  the  weekly 
pilgrimage. 

A  little  later  the  procession  became 
more  general:  young  and  old  and  mid 
die-aged  together.  In  Sunday  boots  that 
creaked  loudly  passed  numbers  of  men 
and  boys,  sometimes  five  or  six  abreast, 
reaching  from  side  to  side  of  the  street, 
sometimes  singly  attendant  upon  a  con- 
scious young  person  of  the  other  sex. 
The  wagons  are  beginning  to  appear  now, 
scattering  the  pedestrians  right  and  left 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton 


395 


as  they  rattle  by,  bearing  whole  families 
packed  in  little  space;  and  away  across 
the  harbor,  you  see  a  small  fleet  of  brown 
sails  putting  off  from  the  Cape  for  the 
nearer  shore. 

Outside  the  church,  in  the  open  space 
before  the  steps,  is  gathered  a  constant- 
ly growing  multitude,  a  dense,  restless 
swarm  of  humanity,  full  of  gossip  and 
prognostic,  until  suddenly  the  bell  stops 
its  clangor  overhead;  then  there  is  a  surg- 
ing up  the  steps  and  through  the  wide 
doors  of  the  sanctuary ;  and  outside  all  is 
quiet  once  more. 

The  Acadians  do  not  appear  greatly 
to  relish  the  more  solemn  things  of  re- 
ligion. They  like  better  a  religion  de- 
murely gay,  pervaded  by  light  and  color. 

"  Elle  est  tres  chic,  notre  petite  eglise, 
n'est-ce  pas  ?  "  was  a  comment  made  by 
a  pious  soul  of  my  acquaintance,  eager  to 
uphold  the  honor  of  her  parish. 

Proper,  mild-featured  saints  and  smil- 
ing Virgins  in  painted  robes  and  gilt 
haloes  abound  in  the  Acadian  churches ; 
on  the  altars  are  lavish  decorations  of  ar- 
tificial flowers  —  silver  lilies,  paper  roses, 
red  and  purple  immortelles ;  and  the  ceil- 
ings and  pillars  and  wall-spaces  are  often 
done  in  blue  and  pink,  with  gold  stars; 
such  a  style,  one  imagines,  as  might  ap- 
peal to  our  modern  St.  Valentine.  The 
piety  that  expresses  itself  in  this  inoffen- 
sive gayety  of  embellishment  is  more  akin 
to  that  which  moves  universal  humanity 
to  don  its  finery  o'  Sundays,  —  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God, — than  to  the  som- 
bre, death-remembering  zeal  of  some 
other  communities.  A  kind  religion  this, 
one  not  without  its  coquetries,  gracious, 
tactful,  irresistible,  interweaving  itself 
throughout  the  very  texture  of  the  com- 
mon life. 

Last  summer,  out  at  Petit  de  Grat, 
three  miles  from  Augette,  where  the  peo- 
ple have  just  built  a  little  church  of  their 
own,  they  held  a  "  Grand  Picnic  and 
Ball  "  for  the  raising  of  funds  with  which 
to  erect  a  glebe  house.  The  priest  au- 
thorized the  affair,  but  stipulated  that 
sunset  should  end  each  day's  festivities, 


so  that  all  decencies  might  be  respected. 
This  parish  picnic  started  on  a  Monday 
and  continued  daily  for  the  rest  of  the 
week,  —  that  is  to  say,  until  all  that  there 
was  to  sell  was  sold,  and  until  all  the 
youth  of  the  vicinity  had  danced  their 
legs  to  exhaustion. 

An  unoccupied  shop  was  given  over 
to  the  sale  of  cakes,  tartines,  doughnuts, 
imported  fruits,  syrup  drinks  (unauthor- 
ized beverages  being  obtainable  else- 
where), to  the  vending  of  chances  on 
wheels  of  fortune,  target-shooting,  dice- 
throwing,  hooked  rugs,  shawls,  couver- 
tures,  knitted  hoods,  and  the  like;  and 
above  all  the  hubbub  and  excitement 
twanged  the  ceaseless,  inevitable  voice  of 
a  graphophone,  reviving  long-forgotten 
rag-time. 

Outside,  most  conspicuous  on  the  tree- 
less slope  of  hill,  was  a  "  pavilion  "  of 
boards,  bunting-decked,  on  which,  from 
morn  till  eve,  rained  the  incessant  clump- 
clump  of  happy  feet.  For  music  there  was 
a  succession  of  performers  and  of  instru- 
ments: a  mouth-organ,  a  fiddle,  a  con- 
certina, each  lending  its  particular  qual- 
ity of  gayety  to  the  dance;  the  mouth- 
organ,  shrill,  extravagant,  whimsical, 
failing  in  richness;  the  concertina  rich, 
noisy,  impetuous,  failing  in  fine  shades; 
the  fiddle,  wheedling,  provocative,  but 
a  little  thin.  And  besides  —  the  fiddle  is 
not  what  it  used  to  be  in  the  hands  of  old 
Fortune. 

Fortune  died  a  year  ago,  and  he  was 
never  appreciated  till  death  snatched  him 
from  us :  the  skinniest,  most  ramshackle 
of  mankind,  tall,  loose-jointed,  shuffling 
in  gait;  at  all  other  times  than  those  that 
called  his  art  into  play,  a  shiftless,  hang- 
dog sort  of  personage,  who  would  always 
be  begging  a  coat  of  you,  or  asking  the 
gift  of  ten  cents  to  buy  him  some  tobacco. 
But  at  a  dance  he  was  a  despot  unchal- 
lenged. Only  to  hear  him  jig  off  the 
Irish  Washerwoman  was  to  acknowledge 
his  preeminence.  His  bleary  eyes  and 
tobacco-stained  lips  took  on  a  radiance, 
his  body  rocked  to  and  fro,  vibrated  to 
the  devil-may-care  rhythm  of  the  thing, 


396 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton 


while  his  left  foot  emphatically  rapped 
out  the  measure. 

Until  another  genius  shall  be  raised  up 
amongst  us,  Fortune's  name  will  be  held 
in  cherished  memory.  For  that  matter,  it 
is  not  likely  to  die  out,  since,  on  the  day 
of  his  death,  the  old  reprobate  was  mar- 
ried to  the  mother  of  his  seven  children, 
—  baptized,  married,  administered,  and 
shuffled  off  in  a  day. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  any  of  us, 
somehow,  that  Fortune  might  be  as  trans- 
itory and  impermanent  as  his  patron  god- 
dess herself.  We  had  always  accepted 
him  as  a  sort  of  ageless  thing,  a  living 
symbol,  a  peripatetic  moral,  coming  out 
of  Petit  de  Grat,  and  going  about,  to- 
bacco in  cheek,  fiddle  under  arm,  as  ir- 
responsible as  mirth  itself  among  the  sons 
of  men.  God  rest  him!  Another  land- 
mark gone. 

And  old  Maximen  Foret,  too,  from 
whom  one  used  to  take  weather-wisdom 
every  day  —  his  bench  out  there  in  the 
sun  is  empty.  Maximen's  shop  was  just 
across  the  street  from  our  house  —  a  long, 
darkish,  tunnel-like  place  under  a  steep 
roof.  Tinware  of  all  descriptions  hung  in 
dully  shining  array  from  the  ceiling;  bar- 
rels and  a  rusty  stove  and  two  broad  low 
counters  occupied  most  of  the  floor  space, 
and  the  atmosphere  was  charged  with  a 
curious  sharp  odor  in  which  you  could 
distinguish  oil  and  tobacco  and  mo- 
lasses. The  floor  was  all  dented  full  of 
little  holes,  like  a  honeycomb,  where 
Maximen  had  walked  over  it  with  his 
iron-pointed  crutch;  for  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  cripple.  But  you  rarely  had 
any  occasion  to  enter  the  smelly  little 
shop,  for  no  one  ever  bought  much  of 
anything  there  nowadays. 

Instead,  you  sat  down  on  the  sunny 
bench  beside  the  old  man  —  Acadian  of 
the  Acadians  —  and  listened  to  his  tire- 
less, genial  babble  —  now  French,  now 
English,  as  the  humor  struck  him. 

"  It  go  mak'  a  leetle  weat'er,  m'sieu'," 
he  would  say.  "  I  t'ink  you  better  not  go 
fur  in  the  p'tit  caneau  t'is  day.  Dere  is 
squall  —  la-bas  —  see,  dark  —  may  be 


t'unner.  Dat  is  not  so  unlike,  dis  mont'. 
Oh,  w'at  a  hell  time  for  de  hays!  " 

For  everybody  who  passed  he  had  a 
greeting,  even  for  those  who  had  hastened 
his  business  troubles  through  never  pay- 
ing their  accounts.  To  the  last  he  never 
lost  his  faith  in  their  good  intentions. 

"  Dose  poor  devil  fishermen,"  he 
would  say,  "  however  dey  mak'  leeve, 
God  know.  You  t'ink  I  mak'  'em  go  wid 
notting  ?  It  ain't  lak  dat  wit'  me  here  yet, 
m'sieu'.  Dey  pay  some  day,  when  le  bon 
Dieu,  he  send  dem  some  feesh;  dat's 
sure  sure." 

If  it  happened  that  anybody  stopped 
on  business,  old  Maximen  would  hobble 
to  the  door  and  tug  violently  at  a  bell-rope. 

"  Cr-r-r-line!  Cr-r-r-line!  "  he  would 
call. 

"  Tout  d'  suite ! "  answered  a  shrill 
voice  from  some  remoter  portion  of  the 
edifice;  and  a  moment  later  an  old  wo- 
man with  straggling  white  hair,  toothless 
gums,  and  penetrating,  humorous  eyes, 
deepset  under  a  forehead  of  infinite 
wrinkles,  would  come  shuffling  up  the 
pebble  walk  from  the  basement. 

"  Me  voila !  "  she  would  ejaculate, 
panting.  "  Me  oP  man,  he  always  know 
how  to  git  me  in  a  leetle  minute,  he?  " 

On  Sundays  Caroline  and  Maximen 
would  drive  to  chapel  in  a  queer,  heavy, 
antiquated  road-cart  that  had  been  built 
especially  for  his  use,  hung  almost  as  low 
between  the  axles  as  a  chariot. 

"  We  go  mak'  our  respec'  to  the  bon 
Dieu,"  he  would  laugh,  as  he  took  the 
reins  in  hand  and  waited  for  Celestine, 
the  chunky  little  mare,  to  start,  —  which 
she  did  when  the  mood  took  her. 

The  small  shop  is  closed  and  begin- 
ning to  fall  to  pieces.  Maximen  has  been 
making  his  respects  amid  other  surround- 
ings for  some  four  or  five  years,  and 
Caroline,  at  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth  of 
lonely  waiting,  followed  after. 

"  It  seem  lak  I  need  t'e  oP  man  to  look 
out  for,"  she  used  to  say.  "  All  t'e  day 
I  listen  to  hear  t'at  bell  again.  'Tout 
d  'suite! '  I  used  to  call,  no  matter  what 
I  do  —  maybe  over  the  stove  or  pound- 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


397 


ing  my  bread;  and  den,  'Me  voila,  mon 
homme!  '  I  would  be  at  t'e  shop,  ready 
to  help." 

I  suppose  that  wherever  a  man  looks 
in  the  world,  if  he  but  have  the  eyes  to 
see,  he  finds  as  much  of  gayety  and  pa- 
thos, of  failure  and  courage,  as  in  any 
particular  section  of  it;  yet  so  much  at 


least  is  true:  that  in  a  little  community 
like  this,  so  removed  from  the  larger, 
more  spectacular  conflicts  of  life,  so  face 
to  face,  all  the  year,  with  the  inveterate 
and  domineering  forces  of  nature,  one 
seems  to  discover  a  more  poignant  relief 
in  all  the  homely,  familiar,  universal  epi- 
sodes of  the  human  comedy. 


ON   THE  SLOPES   OF   PARNASSUS 


BY    AGNES   REPPLIER 


"  Perhaps  no  man  ever  thought  a  line  super- 
fluous when  he  wrote  it.  We  are  seldom  tire- 
some to  ourselves."  —  DR.  JOHNSON. 

IT  is  commonly  believed  that  the  ex- 
tinction of  verse  —  of  verse  in  the  bulk, 
which  is  the  way  in  which  our  great- 
grandfathers consumed  it  —  is  due  to  the 
vitality  of  the  novel.  People,  we  are  told, 
read  rhyme  and  metre  with  docility,  only 
because  they  wanted  to  hear  a  story,  only 
because  there  was  no  other  way  in  which 
they  could  get  plenty  of  sentiment  and 
romance.  As  soon  as  the  novel  supplied 
them  with  all  the  sentiment  they  wanted, 
as  soon  as  it  told  them  the  story  in  plain 
prose,  they  turned  their  backs  upon 
poetry  forever. 

There  is  a  transparent  inadequacy  in 
this  solution  of  a  problem  which  still  con- 
fronts the  patient  reader  of  buried  mas- 
terpieces. Novels  were  plenty  when  Mr. 
William  Hayley's  Triumphs  of  Temper 
went  through  twelve  editions,  and  when 
Dr.  Darwin's  Botanic  Garden  was  re- 
ceived with  deferential  delight.  But  could 
any  dearth  of  fiction  persuade  us  now  to 
read  the  Botanic  Garden  f  Were  we  ship- 
wrecked in  company  with  the  Triumphs 
of  Temper,  would  we  ever  finish  the  first 
canto?  Novels  stood  on  every  English 
book-shelf  when  Fox  read  Madoc  aloud 
at  night  to  his  friends,  and  they  stayed 
up  —  so  he  says  —  an  hour  after  their 
bed-time  to  hear  it.  Could  that  miracle 


be  worked  to-day  ?  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with 
indestructible  amiability,  re-read  Madoc 
to  please  Miss  Seward,  who,  having 
"  steeped  "  her  own  eyes  "  in  transports 
of  tears  and  sympathy,"  wrote  to  him 
plainly  that  it  carried  "  a  master-key  to 
every  bosom  which  common  good  sense 
and  anything  resembling  a  human  heart 
inhabit."  Scott,  unwilling  to  resign  all 
pretensions  to  a  human  heart,  tried  hard 
to  share  the  Swan's  emotions,  and  failed. 
"  I  cannot  feel  quite  the  interest  I  would 
like  to  do,"  he  patiently  confessed. 

If  Southey's  poems  were  not  read  as 
Scott's  and  Moore's  and  Byron's  were 
read  (give  us  another  Byron,  and  we  will 
read  him  with  fifty  thousand  novels 
knocking  at  our  doors !) ;  if  they  were  not 
paid  for  out  of  the  miraculous  depths  of 
Murray's  Fortunatus's  purse,  they  never- 
theless enjoyed  a  solid  reputation  of  their 
own.  They  are  mentioned  in  all  the  let- 
ters of  the  period  (save  and  except  Lord 
Byron's  ribald  pages)  with  carefully 
measured  praise,  and  they  enabled  their 
author  to  accept  the  laureateship  on  self- 
respecting  terms.  They  are  at  least  —  as 
Sir  Leslie  Stephen  reminds  us  —  more 
readable  than  Glover's  Leonidas,  or  Wil- 
kie's  Epigoniad,  and  they  are  shorter,  too. 
Yet  the  Leonidas,  an  epic  in  nine  books, 
went  through  four  editions;  whereupon 
its  elate  author  expanded  it  into  twelve 
books;  and  the  public,  undaunted,  kept 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


on  buying  it  for  years.  The  Epigoniad  is 
also  in  nine  books.  It  is  on  record  that 
Hume,  who  seldom  dallied  with  the  poets, 
read  them  all  nine,  and  praised  them 
warmly.  Mr.  Wilkie  was  christened  the 
"  Scottish  Homer,"  —  which  was  very 
pleasant  for  him,  —  and  he  bore  that 
modest  title  until  his  death.  It  was  the 
golden  age  of  epics.  The  ultimatum  of 
the  modern  publisher:  "  No  poet  need 
apply!  "  had  not  yet  blighted  the  hopes 
and  dimmed  the  lustre  of  genius.  ' '  Every- 
body thinks  he  can  write  verse,"  ob- 
served Sir  Walter  mournfully,  when 
called  upon  for  the  hundredth  time  to 
help  a  budding  aspirant  to  fame. 

With  so  many  competitors  in  the  field, 
it  was  uncommonly  astute  in  Mr.  Hay- 
ley  to  address  himself  exclusively  to  that 
sex  which  poets  and  orators  call  "  fair." 
There  is  a  formal  playfulness,  a  ponder- 
ous vivacity  about  the  Triumphs  of  Tem- 
per, which  made  it  especially  welcome  to 
women.  In  the  preface  of  the  first  edition 
the  author  gallantly  laid  his  laurels  at 
their  feet,  observing  modestly  that  it  was 
his  desire,  however  "  ineffectual,"  "  to 
unite  the  sportive  wildness  of  Ariosto  and 
the  more  serious  sublime  painting  of 
Dante  with  some  portion  of  the  enchant- 
ing elegance,  the  refined  imagination, 
and  the  moral  graces  of  Pope ;  and  to  do 
this,  if  possible,  without  violating  those 
rules  of  propriety  which  Mr.  Cambridge 
has  illustrated,  by  example  as  well  as  by 
precept,  in  the  Scribleriad,  and  in  his 
sensible  preface  to  that  elegant  and 
learned  poem." 

Accustomed  as  we  are  to  the  confusions 
of  literary  perspective,  this  grouping  of 
Dante,  Ariosto,  and  Mr.  Cambridge  does 
seem  a  trifle  foreshortened.  But  our  an- 
cestors had  none  of  that  sensitive  shrink- 
ing from  comparisons  which  is  so  char- 
acteristic of  our  timid  and  thin-skinned 
generation.  They  did  not  edge  off  from 
the  immortals,  afraid  to  breathe  their 
names,  lest  it  be  held  lese  majeste;  they 
used  them  as  the  common  currency  of 
criticism.  Why  should  not  Mr.  Hayley 
have  challenged  a  contrast  with  Dante 


and  Ariosto,  when  Miss  Seward  assured 
her  little  world  —  which  was  also  Mr. 
Hayley's  world  —  that  he  had  the  "  wit 
and  ease"  of  Prior,  a  "  more  varied  vers- 
ification" than  Pope,  and  "  the  fire  and 
the  invention  of  Dryden,  without  any  of 
Dryden's  absurdity  "  ?  Why  should  he 
have  questioned  her  judgment  when  she 
wrote  to  him  that  Cowper's  Task  would 
*'  please  and  instruct  the  race  of  common 
readers,"  who  could  not  rise  to  the  beau- 
ties of  Akenside,  or  Mason,  or  Milton,  or 
of  his  (Mr.  Hayley's)  "exquisite  Tri- 
umphs of  Temper  "  ?  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  when  she  sorrowed  lest  his  "  in- 
ventive, classical,  and  elegant  muse " 
should  be  "  deplorably  infected  "  by  the 
growing  influence  of  Wordsworth;  but 
that  peril  past,  he  rose  again,  the  bright 
particular  star  of  a  wide  feminine  horizon. 
Mr.  Hayley's  didacticism  is  admirably 
adapted  to  his  readers.  The  men  of  the 
eighteenth  century  were  not  expected  to 
keep  their  tempers ;  it  was  the  sweet  pre- 
rogative of  wives  and  daughters  to  smooth 
the  roughened  current  of  family  life. 
Accordingly  the  heroine  of  the  Triumphs, 
being  bullied  by  her  father,  —  a  fine  old 
gentleman  of  the  Squire  Western  type,  — 
maintains  a  superhuman  cheerfulness, 
gives  up  the  ball  for  which  she  is  already 
dressed,  wreathes  her  countenance  in 
smiles,  and 

with  sportive  ease 
Prest  her  Piano-forte's  favourite  keys. 

The  men  of  the  eighteenth  century  were 
all  hard  drinkers.  Therefore  Mr.  Hayley 
conjures  the  "  gentle  fair  "  to  avoid  even 
the  mild  debauchery  of  siruped  fruits. 

For  the  sly  fiend,  of  every  art  possest, 
Steals  on  th'  affection  of  her  female  guest ; 
And,  by  her  soft  address,  seducing  each, 
Eager  she  plies  them  with  a  brandy  peach. 
They  with  keen  lip  the  luscious  fruit  devour, 
But  swiftly  feel  its  peace -destroying  power. 
Quick  through  each  vein  new  tides  of  frenzy 

roll, 

All  evil  passions  kindle  in  the  soul ; 
Drive  from  each  feature  every  cheerful  grace, 
And  glare  ferocious  in  the  sallow  face  ; 
The  wounded  nerves  in  furious  conflict  tear, 
Then  sink  in  blank  dejection  and  despair. 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


399 


All  this  combustle  —  to  use  Gray's  favor- 
ite word  —  about  a  brandy  peach !  But 
women  have  ever  loved  to  hear  their  little 
errors  magnified.  In  the  matter  of  poets, 
preachers,  and  confessors,  they  are  sure 
to  choose  the  denunciatory. 

Dr.  Darwin,  as  became  a  scientist  and 
a  skeptic,  addressed  his  ponderous  Bo- 
tanic Garden  to  male  readers.  It  is  true 
that  he  offers  much  good  advice  to  wo- 
men, urging  upon  them  especially  those 
duties  and  devotions  from  which  he,  as  a 
man,  was  exempt.  It  is  true  also  that, 
when  he  first  contemplated  writing  his 
epic,  he  asked  Miss  Seward  —  so,  at 
least,  she  says  —  to  be  his  collaborator ; 
an  honor  which  she  modestly  declined, 
as  not "  strictly  proper  for  a  female  pen." 
But  the  peculiar  solidity,  the  encyclo- 
paedic qualities,  of  this  masterpiece  fitted 
it  for  such  grave  students  as  Mr.  Edge- 
worth,  who  loved  to  be  amply  instructed. 
It  is  a  poem  replete  with  information,  and 
information  of  that  disconnected  order  in 
which  the  Edgeworthian  soul  took  true 
delight.  We  are  told,  not  only  about 
flowers  and  vegetables,  but  about  electric 
fishes,  and  the  salt  mines  of  Poland; 
about  Dr.  Franklin's  lightning-rod,  and 
Mrs.  Darner's  bust  of  the  Duchess  of 
Devonshire ;  about  the  treatment  of  para- 
lytics, and  the  mechanism  of  the  common 
pump.  We  pass  from  the  death  of  Gen- 
eral Wolfe  at  Quebec  to  the  equally 
lamented  demise  of  a  lady  botanist  at 
Derby.  We  turn  from  the  contemplation 
of  Hannibal  crossing  the  Alps  to  consider 
the  charities  of  a  benevolent  young  wo- 
man named  Jones. 

Sound,  Nymphs    of   Helicon!    the    trump  of 

Fame, 

And  teach  Hibernian  echoes  Jones's  name  ; 
Bind  round  her  polished  brow  the  civic  bay, 
And  drag  the  fair  Philanthropist  to  day. 

Pagan  divinities  disport  themselves  on 
one  page,  and  Christian  saints  on  another. 
St.  Anthony  preaches,  not  to  the  little 
fishes  of  the  brooks  and  streams,  but  to 
the  monsters  of  the  deep,  —  sharks,  por- 
poises, whales,  seals,  and  dolphins,  that 
assemble  in  a  sort  of  aquatic  camp-meet- 


ing on  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  and 
"  get  religion "  in  the  true  revivalist 
spirit. 

The  listening  shoals  the  quick  contagion  feel, 
Pant  on  the  floods,  inebriate  with  their  zeal  ; 
Ope  their  wide  jaws,  and  bow  their  slimy 

heads, 
And  dash  with  frantic  fins  their  foamy  beds. 

For  a  free-thinker,  Dr.  Darwin  is  curi- 
ously literal  in  his  treatment  of  hagiology 
and  the  Scriptures.  His  Nebuchadnezzar 
(introduced  as  an  illustration  of  the 
**  Loves  of  the  Plants  ")  is  not  a  bestial- 
ized  mortal,  but  a  veritable  beast,  like 
one  of  Circe's  swine,  only  less  easily 
classified  in  natural  history. 

Long  eagle  plumes  his  arching  neck  invest, 
Steal  round  his  arms,  and  clasp  his  sharpened 

breast ; 

Dark  brindled  hairs  in  bristling  ranks  behind, 
Rise  o'er  his  back,  and  rustle  in  the  wind ; 
Clothe  his  lank  sides,  his  shrivelled  limbs  sur- 
round, 
And  human    hands    with    talons    print    the 

ground. 

Lolls  his  red  tongue,  and  from  the  reedy  side 
Of  slow  Euphrates  laps  the  muddy  tide. 
Silent,  in  shining  troups,  the  Courtier  throng 
Pursue  their  monarch  as  he  crawls  along ; 
E'en  Beauty  pleads  in  vain  with  smiles  and 

tears, 
Not  Flattery's  self  can  pierce  his  pendant  ears. 

The  picture  of  the  embarrassed  cour- 
tiers promenading  slowly  after  this  royal 
phenomenon,  and  of  the  lovely  inconsid- 
erates  proffering  their  vain  allurements,  is 
so  ludicrous  as  to  be  painful.  Even  Miss 
Seward,  who  held  that  the  Botanic  Gar- 
den combined  "  the  sublimity  of  Michael 
Angelo,  the  correctness  and  elegance  of 
Raphael,  with  the  glow  of  Titian,"  was 
shocked  by  Nebuchadnezzar's  pendant 
ears,  and  admitted  that  the  passage  was 
likely  to  provoke  inconsiderate  laughter. 

The  first  part  of  Dr.  Darwin's  poem, 
The  Economy  of  Vegetation,  was  warmly 
praised  by  critics  and  reviewers.  Its 
name  alone  secured  for  it  esteem.  A  few 
steadfast  souls,  like  Mrs.  Schimmelpen- 
ninck,  refused  to  accept  even  vegetation 
from  a  skeptic's  hands ;  but  it  was  gener- 
ally conceded  that  the  poet  had  "  en- 
twined the  Parnassian  laurel  with  the 


400 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


balm  of  Pharmacy  "  in  a  very  creditable 
manner.   The  last  four  cantos,  however, 

—  indiscreetly  entitled  "  The  Loves  of 
the  Plants,"  —  awakened  grave  concern. 
They  were  held  unfit  for  female  youth, 
which,    being   then   taught   driblets   of 
science  in  a  guarded  and  muffled  fashion, 
was  not  supposed  to  know  that  flowers 
had  any  sex,  much  less  that  they  prac- 
tised polygamy.  The  glaring  indiscretion 
of  their  behavior  in  the  Botanic  Garden, 
their  seraglios,  their  amorous  embraces, 
and    involuntary    libertinism,    offended 
British  decorum,  and  —  what  was  worse 

—  exposed  the  poem  to  Canning's  pun- 
gent ridicule.    When  the  "  Loves  of  the 
Triangles  "  appeared  in  the  Anti-Jacobin, 
all  England  —  except  Whigs  and  patriots 
who  never  laughed  at  Canning's  jokes  — 
was   moved   to  inextinguishable  mirth. 
The  mock  seriousness  of  the  introduction 
and  argument,  the  "  horrid  industry  "  of 
the  notes,  the  contrast  between  the  pen- 
siveness  of  the  Cycloid  and  the  innocent 
playfulness  of  the  Pendulum,  the  solemn 
head-shake  over  the  licentious  disposition 
of  Optics,  and  the  description  of  the  three 
Curves  that  requite  the  passion  of  the 
Rectangle,  are  all  in  Dr.  Darwin's  most 
approved  and  ornate  style. 

Let  shrill  Acoustics  tune  the  tiny  lyre, 
With  Euclid  sage  fair  Algebra  conspire  ; 
Let  Hydrostatics,  simpering  as  they  go, 
Lead  the  light  Naiads  on  fantastic  toe. 

The  indignant  poet,  frigidly  vain,  and 
immaculately  free  from  any  taint  of  hu- 
mor, was  as  much  scandalized  as  hurt  by 
this  light-hearted  mockery.  Being  a  dic- 
tator in  his  own  little  circle  at  Derby,  he 
was  naturally  disposed  to  consider  the 
Anti-Jacobin  a  menace  to  genius  and  to 
patriotism.  His  criticisms  and  his  pre- 
scriptions had  hitherto  been  received  with 
equal  submissiveness.  When  he  told  his 
friends  that  Akenside  was  a  better  poet 
than  Milton,  — "  more  polished,  pure  and 
dignified,"  —  they  listened  with  respect. 
When  he  told  his  patients  to  eat  acid 
fruits  with  plenty  of  sugar  and  cream, 
they  obeyed  with  alacrity.  He  had  a  taste 
for  inventions,  and  first  won  the  acquaint- 


ance of  Mr.  Edgeworth  by  showing  him 
an  ingenious  carriage  of  his  own  contriv- 
ance, which  was  designed  to  facilitate  the 
movements  of  the  horse,  and  enable  it  to 
turn  with  ease.  The  fact  that  Dr.  Darwin 
was  three  times  thrown  from  this  vehicle, 
and  that  the  third  accident  lamed  him  for 
life,  in  no  way  disconcerted  the  inventor 
or  his  friends,  who  loved  mechanism  for 
its  own  sake,  and  apart  from  any  given 
results.  Dr.  Darwin  defined  a  fool  as  one 
who  never  in  his  life  tried  an  experiment. 
So  did  Mr.  Day  of  Sandford  and  Merton 
fame,  who  experimented  in  training  ani- 
mals, and  was  killed  by  an  active  young 
colt  that  had  failed  to  grasp  the  system. 

The  Botanic  Garden  was  translated 
into  French,  Italian,  and  Portuguese,  to 
the  great  relief  of  Miss  Seward,  who 
hated  to  think  that  the  immortality  of 
such  a  work  depended  upon  the  preserva- 
tion of  a  single  tongue.  "  Should  that 
tongue  perish,"  she  wrote  proudly,  "trans- 
lations would  at  least  retain  all  the  host 
of  beauties  which  do  not  depend  upon 
the  felicities  of  verbal  expression." 

If  the  interminable  epics  which  were 
so  popular  in  these  halcyon  days  had 
condescended  to  the  telling  of  stories,  we 
might  believe  that  they  were  read,  or  at 
least  occasionally  read,  as  a  substitute 
for  prose  fiction.  But  the  truth  is  that 
most  of  them  are  solid  treatises  on  moral- 
ity, or  agriculture,  or  therapeutics,  cast 
into  the  blankest  of  blank  verse,  and 
valued,  presumably,  for  the  sake  of  the 
information  they  conveyed.  Their  very 
titles  savor  of  statement  rather  than  of  in- 
spiration. Nobody  in  search  of  romance 
would  take  up  Dr.  Grainger's  Sugar 
Cane,  or  Dyer's  Fleece,  or  the  Rev.  Rich- 
ard Polwhele's  English  Orator.  Nobody 
desiring  to  be  idly  amused  would  read 
the  Vales  of  Weaver,  or  a  long  didactic 
poem  on  The  Influence  of  Local  Attach- 
ment. It  was  not  because  he  felt  himself 
to  be  a  poet  that  Dr.  Grainger  wrote  the 
Sugar  Cane  in  verse,  but  because  that 
was  the  'form  most  acceptable  to  the  pub- 
lic. The  ever  famous  line,  — 

Now  Muse,  let 's  sing  of  rats ! 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


401 


which  made  merry  Sir  Joshua's  friends, 
is  indicative  of  the  good  doctor's  struggles 
to  employ  an  uncongenial  medium.  He 
wanted  to  tell  his  readers  how  to  farm 
successfully  in  the  West  Indies,  how  to 
keep  well  in  a  treacherous  climate,  what 
food  to  eat,  what  drugs  to  take,  how  to 
look  after  the  physical  condition  of  negro 
servants,  and  guard  them  from  prevalent 
maladies.  These  were  matters  on  which 
the  author  was  qualified  to  speak,  and 
on  which  he  does  speak  with  all  a  phy- 
sician's frankness;  but  they  do  not  lend 
themselves  to  lofty  strains.  Whole  pages 
of  the  Sugar  Cane  read  like  prescriptions 
and  dietaries  done  into  verse.  It  is  as 
difficult  to  sing  with  dignity  about  a  dis- 
ordered stomach  as  about  rats  and  cock- 
roaches; and  Dr.  Grainger's  determina- 
tion to  leave  nothing  untold  leads  him  to 
dwell  with  much  feeling,  but  little  grace, 
on  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  tropics. 

Musquitoes,  sand-flies,  seek  the  sheltered  roof, 
And  with  fell  rage  the  stranger  guest  assail, 
Nor  spare  the  sportive  child ;  from  their  re- 
treats 
Cockroaches  crawl  displeasingly  abroad. 

The  truthfulness  and  sobriety  of  this  last 
line  deserve  commendation.  Cockroaches 
in  the  open  are  displeasing  to  sensitive 
souls;  and  a  footnote,  half  a  page  long, 
tells  us  everything  we  could  possibly 
desire  —  or  fear  —  to  know  about  these 
insects.  As  an  example  of  Dr.  Grainger's 
thoroughness  in  the  treatment  of  such 
themes,  I  quote  with  delight  his  approved 
method  of  poisoning  alligators. 

With  Misnian  arsenic,  deleterious  bane, 
Pound  up  the  ripe  cassada's  well-rasped  root, 
And  form  in  pellets  ;  these  profusely  spread 
Round  the  Cane-groves  where  skulk  the  ver- 
min-breed. 

They,  greedy,  and  unweeting  of  the  bait, 
Crowd  to  the  inviting  cates,  and  swift  devour 
Their  palatable  Death ;  for  soon  they  seek 
The  neighbouring  spring ;  and  drink,  and  swell 
and  die. 

Then  follow  some  very  sensible  remarks 
about  the  unwholesomeness  of  the  water 
in  which  the  dead  alligators  are  decom- 
posing, —  remarks  which  Mr.  Kipling 
has  unconsciously  parodied. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


But  'e  gets  into  the  drinking  casks,  and  then 
o'  course  we  dies. 

The  wonderful  thing  about  the  Sugar 
Cane  is  that  it  was  read, — nay,  more, 
that  it  was  read  aloud  at  the  house  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  and  though  the  audi- 
ence laughed,  it  listened.  Dodsley  pub- 
lished the  poem  in  handsome  style;  a 
second  edition  was  called  for ;  it  was  re- 
printed in  Jamaica,  and  pirated  (what 
were  the  pirates  thinking  about?)  in 
1766.  Even  Dr.  Johnson  wrote  a  friendly 
notice  in  the  London  Chronicle,  though 
he  always  maintained  that  the  poet  might 
just  as  well  have  sung  the  beauties  of  a 
parsley-bed  or  of  a  cabbage-garden.  He 
took  the  same  high  ground  when  Boswell 
called  his  attention  to  Dyer's  Fleece  : 
"  The  subject,  Sir,  cannot  be  made  poet- 
ical. How  can  a  man  write  poetically  of 
serges  and  druggets  ?  " 

It  was  not  for  the  sake  of  sentiment  or 
story  that  the  English  public  read  The 
Fleece.  Nor  could  it  have  been  for  the 
sake  of  information,  for  farmers,  even  in 
1757,  must  have  had  some  musty  alma- 
nacs, some  plain  prose  manuals  to  guide 
them.  They  could  never  have  waited  to 
learn  from  an  epic  poem  that 

the  coughing  pest 

From  their  green  pastures  sweeps  whole  flocks 
away ; 

or  that 

Sheep  also  pleurisies  and  dropsies  know  ; 

or  that 

The  infectious  scab,  arising  from  extremes 
Of  want  or  surfeit,  is  by  water  cured 
Of  lime,  or  sodden  stave-acre,  or  oil 
Dispersive  of  Norwegian  tar. 

Did  the  British  woolen-drapers  of  the 
period  require  to  be  told  in  verse  about 

Cheyney,  and  bayse,  and  serge,  and  alepine, 
Tammy,  and  crape,   and  the  long  countless 

list 
Of  woolen  webs  ? 

Surely  they  knew  more  about  their  own 
dry  goods  than  did  Mr.  Dyer.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  British  parsons  read  Mr.  Pol- 
whele's  English  Orator,  for  the  sake  of 
his  somewhat  confused  advice  to  preach- 
ers: — 


402 


On  the  Slopes  of  Parnassus 


Meantime  thy  Style  familiar,  that  alludes 
With  pleasing'  Retrospect  to  recent  Scenes 
Or  Incidents  amidst  thy  Flock,  fresh  graved 
On    Memory,    shall     recall     their    scattered 

Thoughts, 

And  interest  every  Bosom.     With  the  Voice 
Of  condescending  Gentleness  address 
Thy  kindred  People. 

It  was  Miss  Seward's  opinion  that  the 
neglect  of  Mr.  Polwhele's  "  poetic  writ- 
ings "  was  a  disgrace  to  literary  England, 
from  which  we  conclude  that  the  rever- 
end author  outwore  the  patience  of  his 
readers.  "  Mature  in  dulness  from  his 
earliest  years,"  he  had  wisely  adopted  a 
profession  which  gave  his  qualities  room 
for  expansion.  What  his  congregation 
must  have  suffered  when  he  addressed  it 
with  "  condescending  gentleness,"  we 
hardly  like  to  think;  but  free-born  Eng- 
lishmen, who  were  so  fortunate  as  not  to 
hear  him,  refused  to  make  good  their  loss 
by  reading  the  English  Orator,  even  after 
it  had  been  revised  by  a  bishop.  Miss 
Seward  alone  was  faithful  among  the 
faithless,  in  return  for  which  devotion 
she  was  hailed  as  a  "  Parnassian  sister  " 
in  six  benedictory  stanzas. 

Still  gratitude  her  stores  among, 
Shall  bid  the  plausive  poet  sing  ; 

And,  if  the  last  of  all  the  throng 
That  rise  on  the  poetic  wing, 

Yet  not  regardless  of  his  destined  way, 

If  Seward's  envied  sanction  stamps  the  lay. 

The  Swan,  indeed,  was  never  without 
admirers.  Her  Louisa;  a  Poetical  Novel  in 
four  Epistles,  was  favorably  noticed;  Dr. 
Johnson  praised  her  ode  on  the  death  of 
Captain  Cook;  and  no  contributor  to  the 
Bath  Easton  vase  received  more  myrtle 
wreaths  than  she  did.  "  Warble  "  was 
the  word  commonly  used  by  partial  crit- 
ics in  extolling  her  verse.  "  Long  may  she 
continue  to  warble  as  heretofore,  in  such 
numbers  as  few  even  of  our  favorite  bards 
would  be  shy  to  own."  Scott  sorrowfully 
admitted  to  Miss  Baillie  that  he  found 
these  warblings  —  of  which  he  was  the 
reluctant  editor  —  "  execrable;  "  and 
that  the  despair  he  used  to  feel  on  receiv- 
ing Miss  Seward's  letters  gave  him  a  hor- 
ror of  sentiment;  but  for  once  it  is  im- 


possible to  sympathize  with  Sir  Walter's 
sufferings.  If  he  had  never  praised  the 
verses,  he  would  never  have  been  called 
upon  to  edit  them ;  and  James  Ballantyne 
would  have  been  saved  the  printing  of  an 
unsalable  book.  There  is  no  lie  so  little 
worth  the  telling  as  that  which  is  spoken 
in  pure  kindness  to  spare  a  wholesome 
pang. 

It  was,  however,  the  pleasant  custom 
of  the  time  to  commend  and  encourage 
female  poets,  as  we  commend  and  en- 
courage a  child's  unsteady  footsteps.  The 
generous  Hayley  welcomed  with  open 
arms  these  fair  competitors  for  fame. 

The  bards  of  Britain  with  unjaundiced  eyes 
Will  glory  to  behold  such  rivals  rise. 

He  ardently  flattered  Miss  Seward,  and 
for  Miss  Hannah  More  his  enthusiasm 
knew  no  bounds. 

But  with  a  magical  control, 
Thy  spirit-moving  strain 
Dispels  the  languor  of  the  soul, 
Annihilating  pain. 

"  Spirit-moving  "  seems  the  last  epithet 
in  the  world  to  apply  to  Miss  More's 
strains;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
public  took  her  seriously  as  a  poet,  and 
encouraged  her  high  estimate  of  her  own 
powers.  After  a  visit  to  another  lambent 
flame,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  she  writes  with 
irresistible  gravity :  — 

"  Mrs.  B.  and  I  have  found  out  that 
we  feel  as  little  envy  and  malice  towards 
each  other,  as  though  we  had  neither  of 
us  attempted  to  '  build  the  lofty  rhyme; ' 
although  she  says  this  is  what  the  envious 
and  the  malicious  can  never  be  brought 
to  believe." 

That  the  author  of  The  Search  after 
Happiness  and  the  author  of  A  Poetical 
Epistle  to  Mr.  Wilberforce  should  loudly 
refuse  to  envy  each  other's  eminence 
sounds  like  a  satire  on  the  irritable  race 
of  poets.  There  is  nothing  to  equal  it  for 
magnanimity,  except  perhaps  a  passage 
in  one  of  Miss  Seward's  letters,  in  which 
she  avows  that  she  is  fairly  bewildered 
by  the  rival  claims  of  feminine  genius,  — 
by  the  "  classic  elegance  "  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld's  verse,  the  "  striking  imagery  " 


Unbuilding  a  Building 


403 


of  Miss  More's,  the  "  wit  and  attic  spirit " 
of  Mrs.  Thrale,  or  **  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  creations  "  of  Helen  Williams. 
It  was  a  fruitful  period. 

Finally,  there  stepped  into  the  arena 
that  charming  embodiment  of  the  female 
muse,  Mrs.  Hemans ;  and  the  manly  heart 
of  Protestant  England  warmed  into  hom- 
age at  her  shrine.  From  the  days  she 
"  first  carolled  forth  her  poetic  talents 
under  the  animating  influence  of  an  af- 
fectionate and  admiring  circle,"  to  the 
days  when  she  faded  gracefully  out  of 
life,  her  "  half-etherealized  spirit "  rous- 
ing itself  to  dictate  a  last "  Sabbath  Son- 
net," she  was  crowned  and  garlanded 
with  bays.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  fair 
to  see,  —  Fletcher's  bust  shows  real  love- 
liness, —  and  it  was  Christopher  North's 
opinion  that  "  no  really  ugly  woman  ever 
wrote  a  truly  beautiful  poem,  the  length 
of  her  little  finger."  Then  she  was  sin- 
cerely pious,  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd 
reflected  faithfully  the  opinions  of  his  day 
when  he  said  that  "  without  religion,  a 
woman 's  just  an  even-down  deevil."  The 
appealing  helplessness  of  Mrs.  Hemans' s 
gentle  and  affectionate  nature,  the  nar- 


rowness of  her  sympathies,  and  the  limi- 
tations of  her  art  were  all  equally  accept- 
able to  critics  like  Gifford  and  Jeffrey, 
who  held  strict  views  as  to  the  rounding 
of  a  woman's  circle.  Even  Byron  heartily 
approved  of  a  pious  and  pretty  woman 
writing  pious  and  pretty  poems.  Even 
Wordsworth  flung  her  lordly  words  of 
praise.  Even  the  youthful  Shelley  wrote 
her  letters  so  eager  and  ardent  that  her 
very  sensible  mamma,  Mrs.  Browne,  re- 
quested him  to  cease.  And  as  for  Scott, 
though  he  confessed  she  was  too  poetical 
for  his  taste,  he  gave  her  always  the  hon- 
est liking  she  deserved.  It  was  to  her  he 
said,  when  some  tourists  left  them  hur- 
riedly at  Newark  Tower,  "  Ah,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  they  little  know  what  two  lions 
they  are  running  away  from."  It  was 
to  her  he  said,  when  she  was  leaving 
Abbotsford,  "  There  are  some  whom  we 
meet,  and  should  like  ever  after  to  claim 
as  kith  and  kin;  and  you  are  one  of 
them." 

Who  would  not  gladly  have  written 
The  Siege  of  Valencia,  and  The  Vespers 
of  Palermo,  to  have  heard  Sir  Walter  say 
these  words  ? 


UNBUILDING  A  BUILDING 


BY   WINTHROP   PACKARD 


I  TORE  down  an  old  house  recently, 
rent  it  part  from  part  with  my  two  hands 
and  a  crowbar,  piling  it  in  its  constitu- 
ents, bricks  with  bricks,  timber  on  tim- 
ber, boards  with  boards. 

Any  of  us  who  dare  love  the  iconoclast 
would  be  one  if  we  dared  sufficiently,  and 
in  this  work  I  surely  was  an  image-break- 
er, for  the  old  house  was  more  than  it 
seemed.  To  the  careless  passer,  it  was  a 
gray,  bald,  doddering  old  structure  that 
seemed  trying  to  shrink  into  the  ground, 
untenanted,  unsightly,  and  forlorn.  I 
know,  having  analyzed  it,  that  it  was  an 


image  of  New  England  village  life  of  the 
two  centuries  just  gone,  a  life  even  the 
images  of  which  are  passing,  never  to 
return. 

As  I  knocked  the  old  place  down,  it 
seemed  to  grow  up,  more  vivid  as  it 
passed  from  the  roadside  of  the  visible 
to  the  realm  of  the  remembered.  You 
may  think  you  know  a  house  by  living  in 
it,  but  you  do  not;  you  need  to  unbuild  it 
to  get  more  than  a  passing  acquaintance. 
And  to  unbuild  a  building  you  need  to  be 
strong  of  limb,  heavy  of  hand,  and  sure 
of  eye,  lest  the  structure  upon  which  you 


404 


Unbuilding  a  Building 


have  fallen  fall  upon  you;  nor  do  business 
mottoes  count,  for  you  begin  not  at  the 
bottom,  but  at  the  top,  or  near  it. 

Up  in  the  attic  among  the  cobwebs, 
stooping  beneath  the  ancient  rafters, 
dodging  crumbly  bunches  of  pennyroyal 
and  hyssop,  hung  there  by  hands  that 
have  been  dust  these  fifty  years,  you  poise 
and  swing  a  forty-pound  crowbar  with  a 
strong  uplift  against  the  roof -board,  near 
where  one  of  the  old-time  hand-made, 
hammer-pointed,  wrought-iron  nails  en- 
ters the  oak  timber.  The  board  lifts  an 
inch  and  snaps  back  into  place.  You 
hear  a  handful  of  the  time-and-weather- 
worn  shingles  jump  and  go  sputtering 
down  the  roof.  You  hear  a  stealthy 
rustling  and  scurrying  all  about  you. 
Numerous  tenants  who  pay  no  rent  have 
heard  the  eviction  notice,  for  the  house  in 
which  no  men  live  is  the  abode  of  many 
races.  Another  blow  near  another  nail, 
and  more  shingles  jump  and  flee,  and 
this  time  a  clammy  hand  slaps  your  face. 
It  is  only  the  wing  of  a  bat,  fluttering  in 
dismay  from  his  crevice.  Blow  after  blow 
you  drive  upon  this  board  from  beneath, 
till  all  the  nails  are  loose,  its  shingle-fet- 
ters outside  snap,  and  with  a  surge  it 
rises,  to  fall  grating  down  the  roof,  and 
land  with  a  crash  on  the  grass  by  the  old 
door-stone. 

The  morning  sun  shines  in  at  the 
opening,  setting  golden  motes  dancing, 
and  caressing  rafters  that  have  not  felt 
its  touch  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
and  you  feel  a  little  sob  of  sorrow  swell 
in  your  heart,  for  the  old  house  is  dead, 
beyond  hope  of  resurrection.  With  your 
crowbar  you  have  knocked  it  in  the 
head. 

Other  boards  follow  more  easily,  for 
now  you  may  use  a  rafter  for  the  fulcrum 
of  your  iron  lever  and  pry  where  the  long 
nails  grip  the  oak  too  tenaciously,  and  it 
is  not  long  before  you  have  the  roof  un- 
boarded.  And  here  you  may  have  a  sur- 
prise and  be  taught  a  lesson  in  wariness 
which  you  will  need  if  you  would  survive 
your  unbuilding.  The  bare  rafters,  solid 
oak,  six  inches  square,  hewn  from  the 


tree,  as  adze-marks  prove,  are  halved 
together  at  the  top  and  pinned  with  an 
oak  pin.  At  the  lower  end,  where  they 
stand  upon  the  plates,  they  are  not  fas- 
tened, but  rest  simply  on  a  V-shaped 
cut,  and  when  the  last  board  is  off  they 
tumble  over  like  a  row  of  ninepins  and 
you  may  be  bowled  out  with  them  if  you 
are  not  clever  enough  to  foresee  this. 

As  with  the  roof- boards,  so  with  the 
floors  and  walls.  Blows  with  the  great 
bar,  or  its  patient  use  as  a  lever,  separate 
part  from  part,  board  from  joist,  and 
joist  from  timber,  and  do  the  work,  and 
you  learn  much  of  the  wisdom  and  fool- 
ishness of  the  old-time  builder  as  you  go 
on.  Here  he  dovetailed  and  pinned  the 
framework  so  firmly  and  cleverly  that 
nothing  but  human  patience  and  inge- 
nuity could  ever  get  it  apart;  there  he  cut 
under  the  ends  of  splendid  strong  floor 
joists  and  dropped  them  into  shallow 
mortises,  so  that  but  an  inch  or  two  of 
the  wood  really  took  the  strain,  and  the 
joist  seemed  likely  to  split  and  drop  out, 
of  its  own  weight.  You  see  the  work  of 
the  man  who  knew  his  business  and  used 
only  necessary  nails,  and  those  in  the 
right  places;  and  the  work  of  that  other, 
who  was  five  times  as  good  a  carpenter 
because  he  used  five  times  as  many  nails ! 

You  learn,  too,  how  the  old  house  grew 
from  a  very  humble  beginning  to  an 
eleven-room  structure  that  covered  a  sur- 
prising amount  of  ground,  as  one  genera- 
tion after  another  passed  and  one  owner 
succeeded  another.  In  this  the  counsel  of 
the  local  historian  helps  you  much,  for 
he  comes  daily  and  sits  by  as  you  work, 
and  daily  tells  you  the  story  of  the  place, 
usually  beginning  in  the  middle  and 
working  both  ways;  for  the  unbuilding 
of  a  building  is  a  great  promoter  of  socia- 
bility. Fellow  townsmen  whom  you  feel 
that  you  hardly  know  beyond  a  rather 
stiff  bowing  acquaintance  hold  up  their 
horses  and  hail  you  jovially,  even  getting 
out  to  chat  a  while  or  lend  a  hand,  each 
having  opinions  according  to  his  lights. 
Strickland,  whose  prosperity  lies  in  swine, 
sees  but  one  use  for  the  old  timbers. 


Unbuilding  a  Building 


405 


"My!"  he  says,  "what  a  hog-pen  this 
would  make!"  Downes  is  divided  in  his 
mind  between  hen-houses  and  green- 
houses, and  thinks  there  will  be  enough 
lumber  and  sashes  for  both.  Lynde  sus- 
pects that  you  are  going  to  establish 
gypsy  camps  wholesale,  while  Estey,  car- 
penter and  builder,  and  wise  in-the  work- 
ing of  wood,  knows  that  you  are  lucky 
if  the  remains  are  good  enough  for  fire- 
wood. 

Little  for  these  material  aspects  cares 
the  historian,  however,  as  he  skips  gayly 
from  one  past  generation  to  another,  wav- 
ing his  phantoms  off  the  stage  of  memory 
with  a  sweep  of  his  cane,  and  poking 
others  on  to  make  their  bow  to  the  man 
with  the  crowbar,  who  thus,  piecing  the 
narrative  out  with  his  own  detective  work 
in  wood,  rebuilds  the  story.  It  was  but  a 
little  house  which  began  with  two  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  and  two  attic  cham- 
bers, built  for  Stoddard  who  married  the 
daughter  of  the  pioneer  land-owner  of  the 
vicinity,  and  it  nestled  up  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  big  house,  sharing  its  pro- 
sperity and  its  history.  No  doubt  the 
Stoddards  were  present  at  the  funeral 
in  the  big  house,  when  stern  old  Parson 
Dunbar  stood  above  the  deceased,  in  the 
presence  of  the  assembled  relatives,  and 
said  with  Puritanical  severity,  "  My 
friends,  there  lies  the  body,  but  the  soul 
is  in  hell!" 

The  dead  man  had  failed  to  attend  the 
parson's  sermons  at  the  old  First  Congre- 
gational Church,  near  by,  a  church  that 
with  successive  pastors  has  slipped  from 
the  Orthodoxy  of  Parson  Dunbar  to  the 
most  modern  type  of  present-day  Unita- 
rianism. 

A  later  dweller  in  the  old  house  lives  in 
local  tradition  as  publishing  on  the  bul- 
letin board  in  the  church  vestibule  his  in- 
tention of  marriage  with  a  fair  lady  of  the 
parish,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  day. 
Another  fair  lady  entering  the  church  on 
Sunday  morning  pointed  dramatically  at 
the  notice,  saying  to  the  sexton,  "Take 
that  notice  down,  and  don't  you  dare  to 
put  it  up  again  till  I  give  the  word." 


The  sexton,  seeming  to  know  who  was 
in  charge  of  things,  took  it  down  and  it 
was  not  again  posted  for  two  years.  The 
marriage  then  took  place.  A  few  years 
later  the  wife  died,  and  after  a  brief  period 
of  mourning  another  notice  was  posted 
announcing  the  marriage  of  the  widower 
and  the  lady  who  had  forbidden  the 
banns  of  his  first  marriage.  The  second 
marriage  took  place  without  interference, 
and  they  lived  happily  ever  after,  leaving 
posterity  in  doubt  whether  the  incident 
in  the  church  vestibule  was  the  climax  in 
a  battle  royal  between  the  two  ladies  for 
the  hand  of  the  man  who  dwelt  in  the  old 
house,  or  whether  the  man  himself  had 
loved  not  wisely  but  too  many. 

Another  dweller  in  the  old  house  was 
a  locally  celebrated  singer  who  for  years 
led  the  choir  and  the  music  in  the  old 
church,  having  one  son  whom  a  wealthy 
Bostonian  educated  abroad,  "becoming," 
said  the  historian  sagely,  "a  great  tenor 
singer,  but  very  little  of  a  man."  These 
were  days  of  growing  importance  for  the 
old  house.  Two  new  rooms  were  added 
to  the  ground-floor-back  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  tacking  long  spruce  rafters 
to  the  roof,  making  a  second  roof  over  the 
old  one,  leaving  the  old  roof  with  boards 
and  shingles  still  on  it.  Thus  there  grew  a 
roof  above  a  roof,  —  a  shapeless  void  of 
a  dark  attic, — and  below,  the  two  rooms. 

The  use  of  the  spruce  rafters  and  hem- 
lock boarding  marks  a  period  in  build- 
ing little  more  than  a  half-century  gone. 
About  this  time  the  house  acquired  a 
joint  owner,  for  a  local  lawyer  of  consid- 
erable importance  joined  his  fortunes  and 
his  house  to  it,  bringing  both  with  him. 
This  section,  two  more  rooms  and  an 
attic,  was  moved  in  from  another  part  of 
the  town  and  attached  very  gingerly,  by 
one  corner,  to  one  corner.  It  was  as  if 
the  lawyer  had  had  doubts  as  to  how  the 
two  houses  might  like  each  other,  and  had 
arranged  things  so  that  the  bond  might  be 
broken  with  as  small  a  fracture  as  pos- 
sible. This  "new"  part  may  well  have 
been  a  hundred  years  old  at  the  time,  for, 
whereas  the  original  house  was  boarded 


406 


Unbuilding  a  Building 


with  oak  on  oak,  this  was  boarded  with 
splendid  clear  pine  on  oak,  marking  the 
transition  from  the  pioneer  days  when  all 
the  timber  for  a  house  was  obtained  from 
the  neighboring  wood,  through  the  time 
when  the  splendid  pumpkin  pines  of  the 
Maine  forests  were  the  commonest  and 
cheapest  sources  of  lumber,  to  our  own, 
when  even  poor  spruce  and  shaky  hem- 
lock are  scarce  and  costly.  In  the  same 
way  you  note  in  these  three  stages  of 
building  three  types  of  nails.  First  is  the 
crude  nail  hammered  out  by  the  local 
blacksmith,  varying  in  size  and  shape, 
but  always  with  a  head  formed  by  split- 
ting the  nail  at  the  top  and  bending  the 
parts  to  the  right  and  left.  These  parts 
are  sometimes  quite  long,  and  clinch  back 
into  the  board  like  the  top  of  a  capital  T. 
Then  came  a  better  nail  of  wrought  iron, 
clumsy  but  effective ;  and,  later  still,  the 
cut  nail  in  sole  use  a  generation  ago. 
That  modern  abomination,  the  wire  nail, 
appears  only  in  repairs. 

Thus  the  old  house  grows  from  four 
rooms  to  eight,  with  several  attics,  and 
the  singer  and  lawyer  pass  off  the  scene, 
to  be  followed  by  the  Baptist  deacon  who 
later  seceded  and  became  a  Millerite, 
holding  meetings  of  great  fervor  in  the 
front  room,  where  one  wall  used  to  be  cov- 
ered with  figures  which  proved  beyond  a 
doubt  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  at 
hand,  and  where  later  he  and  his  fellow 
believers  appeared  in  their  ascension 
robes.  He  too  added  a  wing  to  the  old 
house,  three  rooms  and  another  attic,  and 
when  I  had  laid  bare  the  timbers  of  this 
the  historian  rose,  holding  both  hands 
and  his  cane  toward  heaven,  and  orated 
fluently. 

''There!"  he  said,  "  that's  Wheeler!  I 
knew  it  was,  for  the  old  deeds  could  n't  be 
read  in  any  other  way.  They  told  me  it 
was  built  on  by  the  Millerite,  but  I  knew 
better.  This  was  moved  up  from  the 
Wheeler  farm,  and  it  was  a  hundred  years 
old  and  more  when  it  came  up,  sixty  years 
ago.  I  knew  it.  Look  at  those  old  cap- 
posts!" 

I  dodged  the  cane  as  it  waved,  and 


took  another  look,  for  it  was  worth  while. 
There  were  the  corner  posts,  only  seven 
feet  high,  but  ten  inches  square  at  the 
bottom,  solid  oak,  swelling  to  fourteen 
inches  at  the  top,  with  double  tenants  on 
which  sat  the  great  square  oak-plates, 
dovetailed  and  pinned  together,  and 
pinned  again  to  the  cap.  A  hundred  and 
fifty  years  old  and  more  was  this  addi- 
tion, which  the  Millerite  had  moved  up 
from  the  Wheeler  farm  and  built  on  for 
his  boot-shop;  yet  these  great  oak  cap- 
posts  marked  a  period  far  more  remote. 
They  were  second-hand  when  they  went 
into  the  Wheeler  building,  for  there  were 
in  them  the  marks  of  mortising  that  had 
no  reference  to  the  present  structure. 
Some  building,  old  a  century  and  a  half 
ago,  had  been  torn  down  and  its  timbers 
used  for  the  part  that  "had  been 
Wheeler." 

Thus  the  old  house  grew  again  as  it  fell, 
and  the  old-time  owners  and  inhabitants 
stepped  forth  into  life  once  more.  Yet  I 
found  traces  of  other  tenants  that  paid 
neither  rent  nor  taxes,  yet  occupied  apart- 
ments that  to  them  were  commodious 
and  comfortable.  In  the  attic  were  the 
bats,  but  not  they  alone.  Snuggled  up 
against  the  chimney  in  the  southern 
angle,  right  under  the  ridge-pole,  was  a 
whole  colony  of  squash-bugs  which  had 
wintered  safely  there  and  were  only  wait- 
ing for  the  farmer's  squash  vines  to  be- 
come properly  succulent.  A  bluebottle 
fly  slipped  out  of  a  crevice  and  buzzed  in 
the  sun  by  the  attic  window.  Under 
every  ridge-board  and  corner-board,  al- 
most under  every  shingle,  were  the  co- 
coons and  chrysalids  of  insects,  thousands 
of  silent  lives  waiting  but  the  touch  of  the 
summer  sun  to  make  them  vocal. 

On  the  ground  floor,  within  walls,  were 
the  apartments  of  the  rats,  their  empty 
larders  choked  with  corn-cobs  showing 
where  once  had  been  feasting,  their  bed 
chambers  curiously  upholstered  with  rags 
laboriously  dragged  in  to  senseless  confu- 
sion. The  field  mice  had  the  floor  above. 
Here  and  there  on  the  plates,  between 
joists,  and  over  every  window  and  door, 


Unbuilding  a  Building 


407 


were  their  nests,  carefully  made  of  wool, 
chewed  from  old  garments  and  made 
fine,  soft,  and  cosy.  Their  larders  were 
full  of  cherry-stones,  literally  bushels  on 
bushels  of  them,  each  with  a  little  round 
hole  gnawed  in  it  and  the  kernel  extracted. 
As  the  toil  of  the  human  inhabitants  year 
after  year  had  left  its  mark  on  the  floors 
of  the  house,  worn  thin  everywhere,  in 
places  worn  through  with  the  passing  and 
repassing  of  busy  feet,  so  had  the  genera- 
tions of  field  mice  left  behind  them  mute 
witnesses  of  patient,  enormous  labor. 
From  the  two  cherry  trees  in  the  neigh- 
boring yard  how  many  miles  had  these 
shy  little  people  traveled,  unseen  of  men, 
with  one  cherry  at  a  time,  to  lay  in  this 
enormous  supply! 

Within  the  chimneys  were  the  wooden 
nests  of  chimney  swifts,  glued  firmly  to 
the  bricks;  under  the  cornice  was  the  pa- 
per home  of  a  community  of  yellow  hor- 
nets; and  under  the  floor  where  was  no 
cellar,  right  next  the  base  of  the  warm 
chimney,  were  apartments  that  had  been 
occupied  by  generations  of  skunks.  Each 
space  between  floor  joists  and  timber  was 
a  room.  In  one  was  a  huge  clean  nest  of 
dried  grass,  much  like  that  which  red 
squirrels  build  of  cedar  bark.  Another 
space  had  been  the  larder,  for  it  was  full 
of  dry  bones  and  feathers;  others  were 
for  other  uses,  all  showing  plainly  the 
careful  housekeeping  of  the  family  in  the 
basement. 

I  looked  long  and  carefully,  as  the  work 
of  destruction  went  on,  for  the  pot  of  gold 
beneath  the  floor,  or  the  secret  hoard 
which  fancy  assigns  to  all  old  houses;  but 
not  even  a  stray  penny  turned  up.  Yet  I 
got  several  souvenirs.  One  of  these  is  a 


nail  in  my  foot  whereby  I  shall  remember 
my  iconoclasm  for  some  time.  Another  is 
a  curiously  wrought  wooden  scoop,  a  sort 
of  butter- worker,  the  historian  tells  me, 
carved,  seemingly,  with  a  jackknife  from 
a  pine  plank.  A  third  is  a  quaint,  lum- 
bering, heavy,  hand-wrought  fire-shovel 
which  appeared  somewhat  curiously.  Re- 
entering  a  room  which  I  had  cleared  of 
everything  movable,  I  found  it  standing 
against  the  door-jamb.  Fire-shovels  have 
no  legs,  so  I  suppose  it  was  brought  in. 
However,  none  of  the  neighbors  has  con- 
fessed, and  I  am  content  to  think  it  be- 
longed in  the  old  house  and  was  brought 
back,  perhaps  by  the  Baptist  deacon  who 
"  backslided  "  and  became  a  Millerite.  It 
has  been  rusted  by  water  and  burned  by 
fire,  and  I  don't  believe  even  Sherlock 
Holmes  could  make  a  wiser  deduction. 

As  I  write,  a  section  of  one  of  the  old 
"Wheeler"  cap-posts  is  crumbling  to 
ashes  in  my  fireplace.  It  was  of  solid  oak , 
of  a  texture  as  firm  and  grainless  almost 
as  soapstone.  No  water  had  touched  this 
wood,  I  know,  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  perhaps  for  almost  a  hundred 
added  to  that.  For  hours  it  retained  its 
shape,  glowing  like  a  huge  block  of 
anthracite,  and  sending  forth  a  heat  as 
great  but  infinitely  more  kindly  and  com- 
forting. Toward  the  last  the  flames  which 
came  from  it  lost  their  yellow  opaqueness 
and  slipped  fluttering  upward  in  a  trans- 
parent opalescence  which  I  never  before 
saw  in  fire.  It  was  as  if  the  soul  of  the  old 
house,  made  out  of  all  that  was  beautiful 
and  kindly  in  the  hopes  and  longings  of 
those  who  built  it  and  lived  in  it,  stood 
revealed  a  moment  in  its  shining  beauty 
before  it  passed  on. 


THE   SCARCITY  OF   SKUNKS 


BY   DALLAS   LORE   SHARP 


THE  ragged  quilt  of  snow  had  slipped 
from  the  shoulders  of  the  slopes,  the  gray 
face  of  the  maple  swamp  showed  a  flush 
ef  warmth,  and  the  air,  out  of  the  south 
to-day,  breathed  life,  the  life  of  buds  and 
catkins,  of  sappy  bark,  oozing  gum,  and 
running  water  —  the  life  of  spring;  and 
through  the  faintly  blending  breaths,  as  a 
faster  breeze  ran  down  the  hills,  I  caught 
a  new  and  unmistakable  odor,  single, 
pointed,  penetrating,  the  sign  to  me  of  an 
open  door  in  the  wood-lot,  to  me,  indeed, 
the  Open  Sesame  of  spring. 

"When  does  the  spring  come?  And 
who  brings  it?"  asks  the  watcher  in  the 
woods.  "To  me  spring  begins  when  the 
catkins  on  the  alders  and  the  pussy-wil- 
lows begin  to  swell,"  writes  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs, "when  the  ice  breaks  up  on  the 
river  and  the  first  sea-gulls  come  prospect- 
ing northward."  So  I  have  written,  also; 
written  verses  even  to  the  pussy-willow, 
to  the  bluebird,  and  to  the  hepatica,  as 
spring's  harbingers ;  but  never  a  line  yet 
to  celebrate  this  first  forerunner  of  them 
all,  the  gentle  early  skunk.  For  it  is  his 
presence,  blown  far  across  the  February 
snow,  that  always  ends  my  New  England 
winter  and  brings  the  spring.  Of  course 
there  are  difficulties,  poetically,  with  the 
wood-pussy.  I  don't  remember  that  even 
Whitman  tried  the  theme.  But,  perhaps, 
the  good  gray  poet  never  met  a  spring 
skunk  in  the  streets  of  Camden.  The 
animal  is  comparatively  rare  in  the 
densely  populated  cities  of  New  Jersey. 

It  is  rare  enough  here  in  Massachu- 
setts; at  least,  it  used  to  be;  though  I 
think,  from  my  observations,  that  the 
skunk  is  quietly  on  the  increase  in  New 
England.  I  feel  very  sure  of  this  as  re- 
gards the  neighborhood  immediate  to  my 
farm. 

This  is  an  encouraging  fact,  but  hard 

408 


to  be  believed,  no  doubt.  I,  myself,  was 
three  or  four  years  coming  to  the  convic- 
tion, often  fearing  that  this  little  creature, 
like  so  many  others  of  our  thinning 
woods,  was  doomed  to  disappear.  But 
that  was  before  I  turned  to  keeping  hens. 
I  am  writing  these  words  as  a  naturalist 
and  nature-lover,  and  I  am  speaking  also 
with  the  authority  of  one  who  keeps  hens. 
Though  a  man  give  his  life  to  the  study 
of  the  skunk,  and  have  not  hens,  he  is 
nothing.  You  cannot  say,  "Go  to,  I  will 
write  about  my  skunks."  There  is  no 
such  anomaly  as  professional  nature- 
loving,  as  vocational  nature- writing.  You 
cannot  go  into  your  woods  and  count 
your  skunks.  Not  until  you  have  kept 
hens  can  you  know,  can  you  even  have 
the  will  to  believe,  the  number  of  skunks 
that  den  in  the  dark  on  the  purlieus  of 
your  farm. 

That  your  neighbors  keep  hens  is  not 
enough.  My  neighbors'  hens  were  from 
the  first  a  stone  of  stumbling  to  me.  That 
is  a  peculiarity  of  next-door  hens.  It 
would  have  been  better  if  my  neighbors 
had  had  no  hens.  I  had  lately  moved 
among  these  half-farmer  folk,  and  while 
I  found  them  intelligent  enough,  I  imme- 
diately saw  that  their  attitude  toward 
nature  was  wholly  wrong.  They  seemed 
to  have  no  conception  of  the  beauty  of 
nature.  Their  feeling  for  the  skunk  was 
typical :  they  hated  the  skunk  with  a  per- 
fect hatred,  a  hatred  implacable,  illogical, 
and  unpoetical,  it  seemed  to  me,  for  it 
was  born  of  their  chicken-breeding. 

Here  were  these  people  in  the  lap  of 
nature,  babes  in  nature's  arms,  knowing 
only  to  draw  at  her  breasts  and  gurgle,  or, 
the  milk  failing,  to  kick  and  cry.  Mother 
Nature !  She  was  only  a  bottle  and  rub- 
ber nipple,  only  turnips  and  hay  and  hens 
to  them.  Nature  a  mother  ?  a  spirit  ?  a 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


409 


soul?  fragrance?  harmony?  beauty? 
Only  when  she  cackled  like  a  hen. 

Now  there  is  something  in  the  cackle 
of  a  hen,  a  very  great  deal,  indeed,  if  it 
is  the  cackle  of  your  own  hen.  But  the 
morning  stars  did  not  cackle  together,  and 
there  is  still  solemn  music  in  the  universe, 
music  that  is  neither  an  anvil  nor  a  barn- 
yard chorus.  Life  ought  to  mean  more 
than  turnips,  more  than  hay,  more  than 
hens  to  these  rural  people.  It  ought,  and 
it  must.  I  had  come  among  them.  And 
what  else  was  my  coming  but  a  divine 
providence,  a  high  and  holy  mission?  I 
had  been  sent  unto  this  people  to  preach 
the  gospel  of  the  beauty  of  nature.  And  I 
determined  that  my  first  text  should  be 
the  skunk. 

All  of  this,  likewise,  was  previous  to  the 
period  of  my  hens. 

It  was  now  my  second  February  upon 
the  farm,  when  the  telltale  wind  brought 
down  this  poignant  message  from  the 
wood-lot.  The  first  spring  skunk  was 
out !  I  knew  the  very  stump  out  of  which 
he  had  come  —  the  stump  of  his  winter 
den.  Yes,  and  the  day  before,  I  had  actu- 
ally met  the  creature  in  the  woods,  for  he 
had  been  abroad  now  something  like  a 
week.  He  was  rooting  among  the  exposed 
leaves  in  a  sunny  dip,  and  I  approached 
to  within  five  feet  of  him,  where  I  stood 
watching  while  he  grubbed  in  the  thaw- 
ing earth.  Buried  to  the  shoulders  in  the 
leaves,  he  was  so  intent  upon  his  labor 
that  he  got  no  warning  of  my  presence. 
My  neighbors  would  have  knocked  him 
over  with  a  club,  —  would  have  done  it 
eagerly,  piously,  as  unto  the  Lord.  What 
did  the  Almighty  make  such  vermin  for, 
anyway  ?  No  one  will  phrase  an  answer; 
but  every  one  will  act  promptly,  as  by 
command  and  revelation. 

I  stood  several  minutes  watching,  be- 
fore the  little  wood-pussy  paused  and 
pulled  out  his  head  in  order  to  try  the 
wind.  How  shocked  he  was!  He  had 
been  caught  off  his  guard,  and  instantly 
snapped  himself  into  a  startled  hump, 
for  the  whiff  he  got  on  the  wind  said  dan- 
ger !  —  and  nigh  at  hand !  Throwing  his 


pointed  nose  straight  into  the  air,  and 
swinging  it  quickly  to  the  four  quarters, 
he  fixed  my  direction,  and  turning  his 
back  upon  me,  tumbled  off  in  a  dreadful 
hurry  for  home. 

This  interesting,  though  somewhat 
tame,  experience,  would  have  worn  the 
complexion  of  an  adventure  for  my  neigh- 
bors, a  bare  escape,  —  a  ruined  Sunday 
suit,  or,  at  least,  a  lost  jumper  or  overalls. 
I  had  never  lost  so  much  as  a  roundabout 
in  all  my  life.  My  neighbors  had  had  in- 
numerable passages  with  this  ramping 
beast,  most  of  them  in  the  dark,  and 
many  of  them  verging  hard  upon  the 
tragic.  I  had  small  patience  with  it  all.  I 
wished  the  whole  neighborhood  were 
with  me,  that  I  might  take  this  harmless 
little  wood-pussy  up  in  my  arms  and 
teach  them  again  the  first  lesson  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,  and  of  this  earthly 
Paradise,  too,  and  incidentally,  put  an 
end  forever  to  these  tales  of  Sunday 
clothes  and  nights  of  horror  and  banish- 
ment in  the  barn. 

As  nobody  was  present  to  jee,  I  did  not 
pick  the  wood-pussy  up.  I  did  not  need 
to  prove  to  myself  the  baselessness  of 
these  wild  misgivings;  nor  did  I  wish, 
without  good  cause,  further  to  frighten 
the  innocent  creature.  I  had  met  many  a 
skunk  before  this,  and  nothing  of  note 
ever  had  happened.  Here  was  one,  taken 
suddenly  and  unawares,  and  what  did  he 
do  ?  He  merely  winked  and  blinked  va- 
cantly at  me  over  the  snow,  trying  vainly 
to  adjust  his  eyes  to  the  hard  white  day- 
light, and  then  timidly  made  off  as  fast  as 
his  pathetic  legs  could  carry  him,  fetching 
a  compass  far  around  toward  his  den. 

I  accompanied  him,  partly  to  see  him 
safely  home,  but  more  to  study  him  on 
the  way,  for  my  neighbors  would  demand 
something  else  than  theory  and  poetry  of 
my  new  gospel :  they  would  require  facts. 
Facts  they  should  have. 

I  had  been  a  long  time  coming  to  my 
mind  concerning  the  skunk.  I  had  been 
thinking  years  about  him;  and  during 
the  previous  summer  (my  second  here 
on  the  farm)  I  had  made  a  careful  study 


410 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


of  the  creature's  habits,  so  that  even  now 
I  had  in  hand  material  of  considerable 
bulk  and  importance,  showing  the  very 
great  usefulness  of  the  animal.  Indeed,  I 
was  about  ready  to  embody  my  beliefs 
and  observations  in  a  monograph,  setting 
forth  the  need  of  national  protection  —  of 
a  Committee  of  One  Hundred,  say,  of 
continental  scope,  to  look  after  the  pre- 
servation and  further  introduction  of  the 
skunk  as  the  friend  and  ally  of  man,  as 
the  most  useful  of  all  our  insectivorous 
creatures,  bird  or  beast. 

What,  may  I  ask,  was  this  one  of  mine 
doing  here  on  the  edge  of  the  February 
woods?  He  had  been  driven  out  of  his 
winter  bed  by  hunger,  and  he  had  been 
driven  out  into  the  open  snowy  sunshine 
by  the  cold,  because  the  nights  (he  is 
nocturnal)  were  still  so  chill  that  the  soil 
would  freeze  at  night  past  his  plough- 
ing. Thus  it  chanced  at  high  noon  that  I 
came  upon  him  grubbing  among  my 
soft,  wet  leaves,  and  grubbing  for  nothing 
less  than  obnoxious  insects! 

My  heart  warmed  to  him.  He  was 
ragged  and  thin  and  even  weak,  I  thought, 
by  the  way  he  staggered  as  he  made  off. 
It  had  been  a  hard  winter  for  men  and 
for  skunks,  particularly  hard  for  skunks 
on  account  of  the  unbroken  succession  of 
deep  snows.  This  skunk  had  been  frozen 
into  his  den,  to  my  certain  knowledge, 
since  the  last  of  November. 

Nature  is  a  severe  mother.  The  hunger 
of  this  starved  creature !  To  be  put  to  bed 
without  even  the  broth,  and  to  be  locked 
in,  half  awake,  for  nearly  three  months. 
Poor  little  beastie!  Perhaps  he  hadn't 
intelligence  enough  to  know  that  those 
gnawings  within  him  were  pain.  Perhaps 
our  sympathy  is  all  agley.  Perhaps.  But 
we  are  bound  to  feel  it  when  we  watch 
him  satisfying  his  pangs  with  the  pestif- 
erous insects  of  our  own  wood-lot. 

I  saw  him  safely  home,  and  then  re- 
turned to  examine  the  long  furrows  he 
had  ploughed  out  among  the  leaves.  I 
found  nothing  to  show  what  species  of 
insects  he  had  eaten,  but  it  was  enough  to 
know  that  he  had  been  bent  on  bugs  — 


gypsy-moth  eggs,  maybe,  on  the  under- 
side of  some  stick  or  stone,  where  they 
had  escaped  the  keen  eye  of  the  tree- 
warden.  We  are  greatly  exercised  over 
this  ghastly  caterpillar.  But  is  it  ento- 
mologists, and  national  appropriations, 
and  imported  parasites,  that  we  need  to 
check  the  ravaging  plague  ?  These  things 
might  help,  doubtless;  but  I  was  intend- 
ing to  show  in  my  monograph  that  it  is 
only  skunks  we  need ;  it  is  the  scarcity  of 
skunks  that  is  the  whole  trouble  —  and 
the  abundance  of  cats. 

My  heart  warmed,  I  say,  as  I  watched 
my  one  frail  skunk  here  by  the  snowy 
woodside,  and  it  thrilled  as  I  pledged  him 
protection,  as  I  acknowledged  his  right  to 
the  earth,  his  right  to  share  life  and  lib- 
erty and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  with 
me.  He  could  have  only  a  small  part  in 
my  life,  doubtless,  but  I  could  enter 
largely  into  his,  and  we  could  live  in  am- 
ity together  —  in  amity  here  on  this  bit 
of  the  Divine  earth,  anyhow,  if  nowhere 
else  under  heaven. 

This  was  along  in  February,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  set  my  hens. 

A  few  days  later,  in  passing  through 
the  wood-lot,  I  was  surprised  and  de- 
lighted to  see  three  skunks  in  the  near 
vicinity  of  the  den,  and  evidently  resi- 
dents of  the  stump.  "Think!"  I  ex- 
claimed to  myself,  "think  of  the  wild 
flavor  to  this  tame  patch  of  woods !  And 
the  creatures  so  rare,  too,  and  beneficial ! 
They  multiply  rapidly,  though,"  I 
thought,  "and  I  ought  to  have  a  fine  lot 
of  them  by  fall.  I  shall  stock  the  farm 
with  them." 

This  was  no  momentary  enthusiasm. 
In  a  book  that  I  had  published  some 
years  before  I  had  stoutly  championed 
the  skunk.  "  Like  every  predatory  crea- 
ture," I  wrote,  "  the  skunk  more  than 
balances  his  debt  for  corn  and  chickens 
by  his  destruction  of  obnoxious  vermin. 
He  feeds  upon  insects  and  mice,  destroy- 
ing great  numbers  of  the  latter  by  digging 
out  the  nests  and  eating  the  young.  But 
we  forget  our  debt  when  the  chickens 
disappear,  no  matter  how  few  we  lose. 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


411 


Shall  we  ever  learn  to  say,  when  the  red- 
tail  swoops  among  the  pigeons,  when  the 
rabbits  get  into  the  cabbage,  when  the 
robins  rifle  the  cherry-trees,  and  when 
the  skunk  helps  himself  to  a  hen  for  his 
Thanksgiving  dinner  —  shall  we  ever 
learn  to  love  and  understand  the  fitness 
of  things  out-of-doors  enough  to  say, 
*  But  then,  poor  beastie,  thou  maun 
live'?" 

Since  writing  those  warm  lines  I  had 
made  further  studies  upon  the  skunk,  all 
establishing  the  more  firmly  my  belief 
that  there  is  a  big  balance  to  the  credit 
of  the  animal.  Meantime,  too,  I  had 
bought  this  small  farm,  with  a  mowing- 
field  and  an  eight-acre  wood-lot  on  it; 
with  certain  liens  and  attachments  on 
it,  also,  due  to  human  mismanagement 
and  to  interference  with  the  course  of 
Nature  in  the  past.  Into  the  orchard,  for 
instance,  had  come  the  San  Jose*  scale; 
into  the  wood-lot  had  crawled  the  gypsy- 
moth  —  human  blunders !  Under  the 
sod  of  the  mowing-land  had  burrowed 
the  white  grub  of  the  June-bugs.  On  the 
whole  fourteen  acres  rested  the  black 
shadow  of  an  insect  plague.  Nature  had 
been  interfered  with  and  thwarted.  Man 
had  taken  things  into  his  own  clumsy 
hands.  It  should  be  so  no  longer  on 
these  fourteen  acres.  I  held  the  deed  to 
these,  not  for  myself  nor  my  heirs,  but  for 
Nature.  Over  these  few  acres  the  winds 
of  heaven  should  blow  free,  the  birds 
should  sing,  the  flowers  should  grow,  and 
through  the  gloaming,  unharmed  and 
unaffrighted,  the  useful  skunk  should 
take  his  own  sweet  way. 

This  last  summer  had  been  a  season 
remarkable  for  the  ravages  of  the  June- 
bug.  The  turf  in  my  mowing  went  all 
brown  and  dead  suddenly  in  spite  of  fre- 
quent rains.  No  cause  for  the  trouble 
showed  on  the  surface  of  the  field.  You 
could  start  and  with  your  hands  roll  up 
the  tough  sod  by  the  yard,  as  if  a  clean- 
cutting  knife  had  been  run  under  it  about 
an  inch  below  the  crowns.  It  peeled  off 
under  your  feet  in  great  flakes.  An  ex- 
amination of  the  soil  brought  to  light  the 


big  fat  grubs  of  the  June-bugs,  millions 
of  the  ghastly  monsters !  They  had  gone 
under  the  grass,  eating  off  the  roots  so 
evenly  and  so  thoroughly  that  not  a 
square  foot  of  green  remained  in  the 
whole  field. 

It  was  here  that  the  skunk  did  his 
good  work  (I  say  "  the  skunk,"  for  there 
was  only  one  on  the  farm  that  summer, 
I  think).  I  would  go  into  the  field  morn- 
ing after  morning  to  count  the  holes  he 
had  made  during  the  night  in  his  hunt 
for  the  grubs.  One  morning  I  got  over  a 
hundred  holes,  all  of  them  dug  during 
the  previous  night,  and  each  hole  re- 
presenting certainly  one  grub,  possibly 
more ;  for  the  skunk  would  hear  or  smell 
his  prey  at  work  in  the  soil  before  at- 
tempting to  dig. 

A  hundred  grubs  for  one  night,  by  one 
skunk!  It  took  me  only  a  little  while  to 
figure  out  the  enormous  number  of  grubs 
that  a  fair-sized  family  of  skunks  would 
destroy  in  a  summer.  A  family  of  skunks 
would  rid  my  farm  of  the  pest  in  a  single 
summer  and  make  inroads  on  the  grubs 
of  the  entire  community. 

Ah!  the  community!  the  ignorant, 
short-sighted,  nature-hating  community ! 
What  chance  had  a  family  of  skunks  in 
this  community?  And  the  fire  of  my 
mission  burned  hot  within  me. 

And  so  did  my  desire  for  more  skunks. 
My  hay  crop  was  short,  was  nil,  in  fact, 
for  the  hayfield  was  as  barren  of  green  as 
thehenyard.  I  had  to  have  it  ploughed 
and  laid  down  again  to  grass.  And  all 
because  of  this  scarcity  of  skunks. 

Now,  as  the  green  of  the  springing 
blades  began  to  show  through  the  melting 
snow,  it  was  with  immense  satisfaction 
that  I  thought  of  the  three  skunks  under 
the  stump.  That  evening  I  went  across 
to  my  nearest  neighbor's  and  had  a  talk 
with  him  over  the  desirability,  the  neces- 
sity indeed,  of  encouraging  the  skunks 
about  us.  I  told  him  a  good  many  things 
about  these  animals  that,  with  all  his 
farming  and  chicken-raising,  he  had 
never  known. 

But  these  rural  folk  are  quite  difficult. 


412 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


Perhaps  it  is  demanding  too  much  of 
them.  For,  after  all,  it  takes  a  naturalist, 
a  lover  of  the  out-of-doors,  to  appreciate 
the  beautiful  adjustments  in  nature.  A 
mere  farmer  can  hardly  do  it.  One  needs 
a  keen  eye,  but  a  certain  aloofness  of  soul 
also,  for  the  deeper  meaning  and  poetry 
of  nature.  One  needs  to  spend  a  vacation, 
at  least,  in  the  wilderness  and  solitary 
place,  where  no  other  human  being  has 
ever  come,  and  there,  where  the  animals 
know  man  only  as  a  brother,  go  to  the 
school  of  the  woods  and  study  the  wild 
folk,  one  by  one,  until  he  discovers  them 
personally,  temperamentally,  all  their 
likes  and  dislikes,  their  little  whimseys, 
freaks,  and  fancies  —  all  of  this,  there, 
far  removed  from  the  cankering  cares  of 
hens  and  chickens,  for  the  sake  of  the 
right  attitude  toward  nature. 

My  nearest  neighbor  had  never  been  to 
the  wilderness.  He  lacked  imagination, 
too,  and  a  ready  pen.  Yet  he  promised 
not  to  kill  my  three  skunks  in  the  stump; 
a  rather  doubtful  pledge,  perhaps,  but  at 
least  a  beginning  toward  the  new  earth  I 
hoped  to  see. 

Now  it  was  perfectly  well  known  to  me 
that  skunks  will  eat  chickens  if  they  have 
to.  But  I  had  had  chickens  —  a  few 
hens  —  and  had  never  been  bothered 
by  skunks.  I  kept  my  hens  shut  up,  of 
course,  in  a  pen  —  the  only  place  for  a 
hen  outside  of  a  pie.  I  knew,  too,  that 
skunks  like  honey,  that  they  had  even 
tampered  with  my  hives,  reaching  in  at 
night  through  the  wide  summer  en- 
trances and  tearing  out  the  brood  combs. 
But  I  never  lost  much  by  these  depreda- 
tions. What  I  felt  more,  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  wild  bees  and  wasps  and 
ground-nesting  birds,  by  the  skunks. 

But  these  were  trifles!  What  were  a 
few  chickens,  bees,  yellow-jackets,  and 
even  the  occasional  bird's-nest,  against 
the  hay-devouring  grubs  of  the  June-bug! 
And  as  for  the  characteristic  odor  that 
drifted  in  now  and  again  with  the  evening 
breeze,  that  had  come  to  have  a  pleasant 
quality  for  me,  floating  down  across  my 
two  wide  acres  of  mowing. 


February  passed  gently  into  March, 
and  my  chickens  began  to  hatch.  Every 
man  must  raise  chickens  at  some  period 
of  his  life,  and  I  was  starting  in  for  my 
turn  now.  Hay  had  been  my  specialty 
heretofore,  —  making  two  blades  grow 
where  there  had  been  one  very  thin  one. 
But  once  your  two  acres  are  laid  down, 
and  you  have  a  stump  full  of  skunks, 
near  by,  against  the  ravages  of  the  June- 
bugs,  then  there  is  nothing  for  you  but 
chickens  or  something,  while  you  wait.  I 
got  Rhode  Island  Reds,  fancy  exhibition 
stock,  —  for  what  is  the  use  of  chickens  if 
you  cannot  take  them  to  the  show  ? 

The  chickens  began  to  hatch,  little 
downy  balls  of  yellow,  with  their  pedi- 
grees showing  right  through  the  fuzz. 
How  the  sixty  of  them  grew !  I  never  lost 
one.  And  now  the  second  batch  of  sitters 
would  soon  be  ready  to  come  off. 

Then  one  day,  at  the  morning  count, 
five  of  one  hen's  brood  were  gone!  I 
counted  again.  I  counted  all  the  other 
broods.  Five  were  gone! 

My  nearest  neighbor  had  cats,  barn 
cats,  as  many  as  ten,  at  the  least.  So  I 
got  a  gun.  Then  more  of  my  chickens 
disappeared.  I  could  count  only  forty- 
seven. 

I  shifted  the  coop,  wired  it  in,  and 
stretched  a  wire  net  over  the  top  of  the 
run.  Nothing  could  get  in,  nor  could  a 
chicken  get  out.  All  the  time  I  was  wait- 
ing for  the  doomed  cat. 

A  few  nights  after  the  moving  of  the 
coop  a  big  hole  was  dug  under  the  wire 
fence  of  the  run,  another  hole  under  the 
coop,  and  the  entire  brood  of  Rhode 
Island  Reds  was  taken. 

Then  I  took  the  gun  and  cut  across  the 
pasture  to  my  neighbor's. 

"  Hard  luck/'  he  said.  "  It 's  a  big 
skunk.  Here,  you  take  these  traps,  and 
you'll  catch  him;  anybody  can  catch  a 
skunk."  - 

And  I  did  catch  him.  I  killed  him,  too, 
in  spite  of  the  great  scarcity  of  the  crea- 
tures. Yet  I  was  sorry,  and,  perhaps,  too 
hasty ;  for  catching  him  near  the  coop  was 
no  proof.  He  might  have  wandered  this 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


413 


way  by  chance.  I  should  have  put  him  in 
a  bag  and  carried  him  down  to  Valley 
Swamp  and  liberated  him. 

That  day,  while  my  neighbor  was  gone 
with  his  milk  wagon,  I  slipped  through 
the  back  pasture  and  hung  the  two  traps 
up  on  their  nail  in  the  can-house. 

I  went  anxiously  to  the  chicken-yard 
the  next  morning.  All  forty  came  out  to 
be  counted.  It  must  have  been  the 
skunk,  I  was  thinking,  as  I  went  on  into 
the  brooding-house,  where  six  hens  were 
still  sitting. 

One  of  the  hens  was  off  her  nest  and 
acting  queerly.  Her  nest  was  empty !  Not 
a  chick,  not  a  bit  of  shell!  I  lifted  up 
the  second  hen  in  the  row,  and  of  her 
thirteen  eggs,  only  three  were  left.  The 
hen  next  to  her  had  five  eggs;  the  fourth 
hen  had  four.  Forty  chickens  gone,  count- 
ing them  before  they  were  hatched,  all  in 
one  night! 

I  hitched  up  the  horse  and  drove 
thoughtfully  to  the  village,  where  I  bought 
six  skunk- traps. 

"  Goin*  skunkin'  some,  this  spring," 
the  store  man  remarked,  as  he  got  me  the 
traps,  adding,  "  Well,  they  's  some  on 
'em.  I  Ve  seen  a  scaacty  of  a  good  many 
commodities,  but  I  never  yet  see  a  scaacty 
o'  skunks." 

I  did  n't  stop  to  discuss  the  matter, 
being  a  trifle  uncertain  just  then  as  to  my 
own  mind,  but  hurried  home  with  my  six 
traps.  Six  I  thought  would  do  to  begin 
with,  though  I  really  had  no  conception 
of  the  number  of  cats  (or  skunks)  it  had 
taken  to  dispose  of  the  three  and  one- 
third  dozens  of  eggs  (at  three  dollars  a 
dozen !)  in  a  single  night. 

Early  that  afternoon  I  covered  each 
sitting  hen  so  that  even  a  mouse  could 
not  get  at  her,  and  fixing  the  traps,  I  dis- 
tributed them  about  the  brooding-house 
floor;  then,  as  evening  came  on,  I  slipped 
a  shell  into  each  barrel  of  the  gun,  took  a 
comfortable  perch  upon  a  keg  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  and  waited. 

I  had  come  to  stay.  Something  was 
going  to  happen.  And  something  did 
happen,  away  on  in  the  small  hours  of 


the  morning,  namely  —  one  little  skunk. 
He  walked  into  a  trap  while  I  was  dozing. 
He  seemed  pretty  small  hunting  then,  but 
he  looms  larger  now,  for  I  have  learned 
several  more  things  about  skunks :  I  have 
learned  that  forty  eggs,  soon  to  hatch, 
are  just  an  average  meal  for  the  average 
half-grown  skunk. 

The  catching  of  these  two  thieves  put 
an  end  to  the  depredations,  and  I  began 
again  to  exhibit  in  my  dreams,  when  one 
night,  while  sound  asleep,  I  heard  a 
frightful  commotion  among  the  hens.  I 
did  the  hundred-yard  dash  to  the  chicken- 
house  in  my  unforgotten  college  form,  but 
just  in  time  to  see  the  skunk  cross  the 
moonlit  line  into  the  black  woods  ahead 
of  me. 

He  had  wrought  dreadful  havoc  among 
the  thoroughbreds.  What  devastation  a 
skunk,  singlehanded,  can  achieve  in  a 
pen  of  young  chickens  beggars  all  de- 
scription. 

I  was  glad  that  it  was  dead  of  night, 
that  the  world  was  at  home  and  asleep 
in  its  bed.  I  wanted  no  sympathy.  I 
wished  only  to  be  alone,  alone  in  the 
cool,  the  calm,  the  quiet  of  this  serene 
and  beautiful  midnight.  Even  the  call  of 
a  whip-poor-will  in  the  adjoining  pas- 
ture worried  me.  I  desired  to  meditate, 
yet  clear,  consecutive  thinking  seemed 
strangely  difficult.  I  felt  like  one  dis- 
turbed. I  was  out  of  harmony  with  this 
peaceful  environment.  Perhaps  I  had 
hurried  too  hard,  or  I  was  too  thinly 
clothed,  or  perhaps  my  feet  were  cold  and 
wet.  I  only  know  that,  as  I  stooped  to  un- 
twist a  long  and  briery  runner  from  about 
my  ankle,  there  was  great  confusion  in 
my  mind,  and  in  my  spirit  there  was 
chaos.  I  felt  myself  going  to  pieces  — •  I, 
the  nature-lover!  Had  I  not  advocated 
the  raising  of  a  few  extra  hens  just  for 
the  sake  of  keeping  the  screaming  hawk 
in  air  and  the  wild  fox  astir  in  our  scanty 
picnic  groves?  And  had  I  not  said  as 
much  for  the  skunk  ?  Why,  then,  at  one 
in  the  morning  should  I,  nor  clothed,  nor 
in  my  right  mind*  be  picking  my  bare-foot 
way  among  the  tangled  dewberry  vines 


414 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


behind  the  barn,  swearing  by  the  tranquil 
stars  to  blow  the  white-striped  carcass 
of  that  skunk  into  ten  million  atoms  if 
I  had  to  sit  up  all  the  next  night  to 
doit? 

One  o'clock  in  the  morning  was  the 
fiend's  hour.  There  could  be  no  risk  in 
leaving  the  farm  for  a  little  while  in  the 
early  evening,  merely  to  go  to  the  bean 
supper  over  at  the  chapel  on  the  Corner. 
So  we  were  dressed  and  ready  to  start, 
when  I  spied  a  hen  outside  the  yard,  try- 
ing to  get  in. 

Hurrying  down,  I  caught  her,  and  was 
turning  back  to  the  barn,  when  I  heard  a 
slow,  faint  rustling  among  the  bushes 
behind  the  hen-house.  Tiptoeing  softly 
around,  I  surprised  a  large  skunk  mak- 
ing his  way  slowly  toward  the  hen-yard 
fence. 

I  grabbed  a  stone  and  hurled  it,  jump- 
ing, as  I  let  it  drive,  for  another.  The 
flying  missile  hit  within  an  inch  of  the 
creature's  nose,  hard  upon  a  large  flat 
rock  over  which  he  was  crawling.  The 
impact  was  stunning,  and  before  the 
old  rascal  could  get  to  his  groggy  feet,  I 
had  fallen  upon  him  —  literally  —  and 
done  for  him. 

But  I  was  very  sorry.  I  hope  that  I 
shall  never  get  so  excited  as  to  fall  upon 
another  skunk,  —  never! 

I  was  picking  myself  up,  when  I  caught 
a  low  cry  from  the  direction  of  the  house 
—  half  scream,  half  shout.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  the  voice  of  my  wife,  I 
thought.  Was  something  the  matter? 

"Hurry!"  I  heard.  But  how  could  I 
hurry  ?  My  breath  was  gone,  and  so  were 
my  spectacles,  while  all  about  me  poured 
a  choking,  blinding  smother.  I  fought 
my  way  out. 

"Oh,  hurry!" 

I  was  on  the  jump;  I  was  already 
rounding  the  barn,  when  a  series  of  ter- 
rified shrieks  issued  from  the  front  of  the 
house.  An  instant  more  and  I  had  come. 
But  none  too  soon,  for  there  stood  the 
dear  girl,  backed  into  a  corner  of  the 
porch,  her  dainty  robes  drawn  close 
about  her,  and  a  skunk,  a  wee  baby  of 


a  skunk,  climbing  confidently  up  the 
steps  toward  her. 

"Why  are  you  so  slow!  "  she  gasped. 
"  I've  been  yelling  here  for  an  hour!  — 
Oh!  do  — don't  kill  that  little  thing,  but 
shoo  it  away,  quick!  " 

She  certainly  had  not  been  yelling  an 
hour,  nor  anything  like  it.  But  there  was 
no  time  for  argument  now,  and  as  for 
shooing  little  skunks,  I  was  past  that.  I 
don't  know  exactly  what  I  did  say,  though 
I  am  positive  that  it  was  n't  "  shoo."  I 
was  clutching  a  stone,  brought  with  me 
from  behind  the  hen-yard,  and  letting  it 
fly,  I  knocked  the  little  creature  into  a 
harmless  bunch  of  fur. 

The  family  went  over  to  the  bean  sup- 
per and  left  me  all  alone  on  the  farm.  But 
I  was  calm  now,  with  a  strange,  cold  calm- 
ness born  of  extremity.  Nothing  more 
could  happen  to  me;  I  was  beyond  fur- 
ther harm.  So  I  took  up  the  bodies  of  the 
two  creatures,  and  carried  them,  together 
with  some  of  my  late  clothing,  over  be- 
yond the  ridge  for  burial.  Then  I  re- 
turned by  way  of  my  neighbor's,  where  I 
borrowed  two  sticks  of  blasting-powder 
and  a  big  cannon  fire-cracker.  I  had 
watched  my  neighbor  use  these  explosives 
on  the  stumps  in  a  new  piece  of  meadow. 
The  next  morning,  with  an  axe,  a  crow- 
bar, shovel,  gun,  blasting-powder,  and 
the  cannon-cracker,  I  started  for  the 
stump  in  the  wood-lot.  I  wished  the  can- 
non-cracker had  been  a  keg  of  powder.  I 
could  tamp  a  keg  of  powder  so  snugly 
into  the  hole  of  those  skunks! 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  morning, 
tender  with  the  half-light  of  breaking 
dawn,  and  fresh  with  dew.  Leaving  my 
kit  at  the  mouth  of  the  skunk's  den,  I  sat 
down  on  the  stump  to  wait  a  moment, 
for  the  loveliness  and  wonder  of  the  open- 
ing day  came  swift  upon  me.  From  the 
top  of  a  sapling,  close  by,  a  chewink  sent 
his  simple,  earnest  song  ringing  down  the 
wooded  slope,  and,  soft  as  an  echo, 
floated  up  from  the  swampy  tangle  of 
wild  grape  and  azalea,  the  pure  notes  of  a 
wood  thrush,  mellow  and  globed,  and  al- 
most fragrant  of  the  thicket  where  the 


The  Scarcity  of  Skunks 


415 


white  honeysuckle  was  in  bloom.  Voices 
never  heard  at  other  hours  of  the  day 
were  vocal  now;  odors  and  essences  that 
vanish  with  the  dew  hung  faint  in  the  air ; 
shapes  and  shadows  and  intimations  of 
things  that  slip  to  cover  from  the  common 
light,  stirred  close  about  me.  It  was  very 
near  —  the  gleam !  the  vision  splendid ! 
How  close  to  a  revelation  seems  every 
dawn!  And  this  early  summer  dawn, 
how  near  a  return  of  that 

time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth  and  every  common  sight 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 

From  the  crest  of  my  ridge  I  looked  out 
over  the  tree-tops  far  away  to  the  Blue 
Hills  still  slumbering  in  the  purple  west. 
How  huge  and  prone  they  lie !  How  like 
their  own  constant  azure  does  the  spirit  of 
rest  seem  to  wrap  them  round !  On  their 
distant  slopes  it  is  never  common  day, 
never  more  than  dawn,  for  the  shadows 
always  sleep  among  their  hollows,  and  a 
haze  of  changing  blues,  their  own  pecul- 
iar beauty,  hangs,  even  at  high  noon,  like 
a  veil  upon  them,  shrouding  them  with 
largeness  and  mystery. 

A  rustle  in  the  dead  leaves  down  the 
slope  recalled  me.  I  reached  instinctively 
for  the  gun,  but  stayed  my  hand.  Slowly 
nosing  his  way  up  the  ridge,  came  a  full- 
grown  skunk,  his  tail  a-drag,  his  head 


swinging  close  to  the  ground.  He  was 
coming  home  to  the  den,  coming  leisure- 
ly, contentedly,  carelessly,  as  if  he  had  a 
right  to  live.  I  sat  very  still.  On  he  came, 
scarcely  checking  himself  as  he  winded 
me.  How  like  the  dawn  he  seemed !  — 
the  black  of  night  with  the  white  of  day 
—  the  furtive  dawn  slipping  into  its  den ! 
He  sniffed  at  the  gun  and  cannon- cracker, 
made  his  way  over  them,  and  calmly  dis- 
appeared beneath  the  stump. 

The  chewink  still  sang  from  the  sap- 
ling, but  the  tame  broad  day  had  come. 
I  stayed  a  little  while,  looking  off  still  at 
the  distant  hills.  We  had  sat  thus,  my 
six-year-old  and  I,  only  a  few  days  before, 
looking  away  at  these  same  hills,  when 
the  little  fellow,  half  questioningly,  half 
pensively  asked,  "  Father,  how  can  the 
Blue  Hills  be  so  beautiful  and  have  rattle- 
snakes ?  " 

I  gathered  up  the  kit,  gun  and  cannon- 
cracker,  and  started  back  toward  home, 
turning  the  question  of  hills  and  snakes 
and  skunks  over  and  over  as  I  went  along. 
Over  and  over  the  question  still  turns: 
How  can  the  Blue  Hills  be  so  beautiful  ? 
The  case  of  my  small  wood-lot  is  easier : 
beautiful  it  must  ever  be,  but  its  native 
spirit,  the  untamed  spirit  of  the  original 
wilderness,  the  free  wild  spirit  of  the 
primeval  forest,  shall  flee  it,  and  vanish 
forever,  with  this  last  den  of  the  skunks. 


THE   PROVINCE   OF  BURMA 


BY   JAMES   MASCARENE   HUBBARD 


THE  fact  that  an  Englishman,  how- 
ever humble  his  origin,  may  make  it  the 
aim  of  his  life  to  become  the  ruler  of  men 
and  may  attain  that  aim,  is  one  which 
distinguishes  this  age  from  all  that  pre- 
cede it.  The  goal  is  reached,  not  through 
the  accident  of  birth,  through  military 
prowess,  or  popular  election,  but  simply 
because  the  man  has  proved  his  fitness 
for  the  position.  Some  thirty  years  ago 
six  young  men,  four  being  the  sons  of 
clergymen,  came  to  India  as  government 
clerks.  In  January,  1908,  they  had  won 
their  way  to  a  rank  next  to  that  of  the 
viceroy,  being  the  rulers  of  six  provinces 
having  a  population  of  over  160,000,000. 

Any  "  natural-born  subject "  of  King 
Edward,  provided  that  he  has  a  sound 
body  and  is  of  good  moral  character, 
may  become  a  candidate  for  the  In- 
dian civil  service.  An  appointment  is  se- 
cured simply  by  passing  successfully  an 
examination  in  several  ancient  and  mod- 
ern languages  and  literatures,  mathe- 
matics, natural  science,  history,  moral 
and  mental  philosophy,  political  science, 
and  Roman  and  English  law.  Some  idea 
may  be  formed  of  the  nature  of  this  ex- 
amination from  the  following  examples 
of  the  subjects  and  papers  set  in  1904. 

"  The  comparative  influence  of  Educa- 
tion and  Heredity  in  the  forming  of  char- 
acter," was  the  subject  of  an  essay  to  be 
written.  A  question  in  moral  philosophy 
was,  "  Explain  and  criticise  from  a  mod- 
ern standpoint  Plato's  views  as  to  the 
duty  of  the  State  in  regard  to  the  moral 
and  religious  education  of  its  citizens." 
In  political  science  a  comment  was  asked 
for  on  James  Russell  Lowell's  statement, 
"  Laws  of  the  wisest  human  device  are, 
after  all,  but  the  sheath  of  the  sword  of 
Power."  In  zoology,  "  State  any  facts 
that  you  know  concerning  the  structure, 

416 


life-history,  and  habits  of  the  Indian  ele- 
phant." In  English  literature,  "  Point 
out  the  resemblances  and  differences  in 
the  allegories  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight 
and  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress."'  In 
Latin  literature,  "  '  Spain  furnished  some 
of  the  leaders  of  Roman  literature  in  the 
first  century  A.  D.'  Who  were  these  lit- 
erary Spaniards  ?  What  was  their  social 
position  ?  In  what  kinds  of  literature  did 
they  excel  ?  "  In  modern  history,  "  Ex- 
plain and  criticise  the  foreign  policy  of 
Nicholas  I.  How  far  was  he  the  typical 
Russian  autocrat?  "  Chemistry,  "  Give 
an  account  (with  sketches  of  plant)  of  one 
of  the  modern  methods  now  employed  in 
the  manufacture  of  chlorine." 

If  the  young  candidate  is  successful,  he 
will  be  on  probation  for  a  year,  and  then 
will  be  required  to  pass  a  final  examina- 
tion on  the  code  and  history  of  India  and 
the  principal  vernacular  language  of  the 
province  to  which  he  is  to  be  assigned. 
In  case  this  is  Burma  we  are  enabled 
to  follow  his  career  by  means  of  the  re- 
cently published  work,  The  Province  o} 
Burma,  of  the  well-known  traveler  and 
lecturer,  Mr.  Alleyne  Ireland.  It  is  the 
first  part  of  a  report  prepared  on  behalf 
of  the  University  of  Chicago  on  "  Colo- 
nial Administration  in  the  Far  East." 
Its  object,  as  stated  in  the  preface,  is  to 
make  "  a  clear  exposition  of  the  differ- 
ent systems  which  have  been  devised  by 
Great  Britain,  the  United  States,  Hol- 
land, and  France  for  the  solution  of  ad- 
ministrative problems  of  closely  identical 
character." 

The  systems  which  fall  within  the 
range  of  the  inquiry  are  the  Crown  Col- 
ony system  in  the  Straits  Settlements 
and  Hong  Kong,  the  Residential  system 
in  the  Federated  Malay  States,  the  In- 
dian Provincial  system  in  Burma,  the 


The  Province  of  Burma 


417 


Chartered  Company  system  in  British 
North  Borneo,  the  Autocratic  system  in 
Sarawak,  the  French  system  in  Indo- 
China,  the  Dutch  system  in  Java,  and 
the  American  system  in  the  Philippine 
Islands." 

Mr.  Ireland's  preparation  for  this 
work  was  a  preliminary  examination  of 
the  material  available  in  the  libraries 
of  the  government  officers  in  London. 
Then  two  years  and  a  half  were  spent  in 
visiting  each  of  the  nine  dependencies 
on  which  he  was  to  report,  that  he  might 
study  on  the  spot  their  administrative 
problems.  He  also  went  with  the  same 
purpose  to  India,  China,  and  Japan,  the 
countries  which  represent  the  ultimate 
forces  by  whose  mutual  action  the  future 
of  the  Far  East  will  be  moulded  to  a  great 
extent.  During  this  time,  it  may  be  added, 
he  contributed  some  valuable  articles  to 
the  London  Times,  giving  his  impres- 
sions of  the  countries  visited,  with  special 
reference  to  the  manner  in  which  they 
are  governed.  The  three  following  years 
were  occupied  in  arranging  and  digest- 
ing the  material  gained  during  his  jour- 
neys and  from  his  examination  of  some 
six  thousand  volumes,  covering  more 
than  a  million  pages,  of  government  doc- 
uments, as  well  as  histories,  biographies, 
travels,  and  reminiscences. 

He  begins  with  Burma,  possibly  because 
it  is  the  best  organized  of  all  the  dependen- 
cies, and  represents  the  highest  stage  yet 
reached  of  colonial  administration.  After 
a  sketch  of  the  physical  features  of  the 
country  and  the  history  of  its  acquisition 
by  the  British,  he  treats  of  the  adminis- 
tration in  every  particular,  from  the  duties 
of  the  lieutenant-governor  to  those  of 
the  village  headman,  of  the  revenue  and 
financial  systems,  education,  trade  and 
labor,  forestry,  and  public  works.  The 
information  is  given  almost  wholly  by 
reprints  of  or  extracts  from  official  reports 
and  other  public  documents.  No  attempt, 
accordingly,  has  been  made  to  give  the 
work  a  literary  form  that  shall  attract  the 
general  reader,  nor  is  there  any  extended 
treatment  of  antiquarian  or  archaeolog- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  3 


ical  subjects  or  of  natural  history  or  lan- 
guages. There  is  neither  criticism  of 
methods,  nor  detailed  comments  on  them, 
nor  comparison  with  those  of  other  coun- 
tries. All  this  is  reserved  for  the  conclud- 
ing volumes  of  the  report.  His  present 
object  is  simply  "  to  give  an  accurate  and 
fairly  comprehensive  presentation  of  the 
facts  "  relative  to  Burma.  As  a  manual 
of  instruction,  therefore,  for  all  who  are 
called  upon  to  bear  any  part  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  dependent  Eastern  people, 
it  is  invaluable. 

With  Mr.  Ireland  as  our  guide,  let  us 
endeavor  to  form  some  idea  of  the  way 
in  which  the  English  govern  this  Cin- 
derella of  the  Indian  provinces,  as  it  has 
been  termed.  The  administrative  head 
is  the  lieutenant-governor,  who  is  ap- 
pointed by  the  governor-general  of  In- 
dia and  usually  holds  his  office  for  a  term 
of  five  years.  His  legislative  council  con- 
sists of  nine  members,  five  of  whom  as  a 
rule  belong  to  the  civil  service;  the  re- 
mainder are  chosen  from  the  non-official 
community.  The  chief  executive  officers 
under  him  are  the  commissioners  of  the 
eight  divisions  of  the  province,  which  are 
further  subdivided  into  thirty-six  districts 
under  the  charge  of  deputy-commission- 
ers. These  are  the  Englishmen  who  are 
in  the  closest  contact  with  the  natives. 
They  act  as  magistrates,  judges,  collect- 
ors, and  registrars,  besides  discharging 
the  various  miscellaneous  duties  which 
fall  to  the  representative  of  the  supreme 
government.  A  large  part  of  their  time, 
therefore,  is  occupied  in  visiting  the  dif- 
ferent towns  and  villages  of  their  district, 
for  it  is  a  fundamental  principle  of  the 
British  rule  that  one  at  least  of  its  higher 
officials  shall  personally  know  the  lead- 
ing men  in  every  settlement,  and  shall  be 
ready  to  hear  all  complaints  and  appeals 
for  justice  from  the  humblest  of  the 
people. 

Attention  may  be  called  here  to  the 
fact  that  the  successful  English  candidate 
for  the  civil  service,  on  his  arrival  in  the 
province  to  which  he  is  assigned,  is  not 
deemed  ready  for  active  duties,  but  is  in 


418 


The  Province  of  Burma 


training  for  the  first  two  years,  that  he  may 
have  some  experience  of  the  people  and 
gain  some  insight  into  the  traditions  of 
administration.  Naturally,  one  of  the  best 
ways  to  get  this  experience-  and  insight 
will  be  for  him  to  accompany  a  deputy- 
commissioner  on  one  of  his  tours.  As  they 
pass  from  village  to  village,  —  for  nine- 
tenths  of  the  people  live  in  villages,  —  the 
newcomer  will  be  impressed  with  the  fact 
that  the  chief  and  most  important  part  of 
his  companion's  duties  is  the  appoint- 
ment and  oversight  of  the  headman  who 
is  over  every  village,  or  in  some  instances 
group  of  small  neighboring  villages.  This 
method  of  local  government  is  not  an  in- 
novation, but  is  a  continuation  of  the 
"  village  system  which  in  Burma  as  in 
India  has  been  the  basis  of  the  indige- 
nous administration  from  time  imme- 
morial." 

This  headman  is  one  who  lives  among 
his  people  and  must  know  all  that  is 
going  on  about  him.  A  printed  Village 
Manual,  from  which  Mr.  Ireland  gives 
some  interesting  extracts,  defines  his 
duties  in  the  clearest  possible  manner. 
He  is  the  magistrate  to  try  all  small  of- 
fenses, as  theft,  breach  of  peace,  drunk- 
enness, and,  most  significant  in  an  East- 
ern land,  "  doing  any  obscene  act  in  a 
public  place,  singing,  reciting,  or  utter- 
ing any  obscene  song,  ballad  or  words  to 
the  annoyance  of  others  in  or  near  a  pub- 
lic place."  He  is  collector  of  taxes,  sees 
that  the  roads  are  kept  open,  and  pre- 
vents the  illicit  manufacture  or  sale  of 
opium  or  intoxicants.  An  important  part 
of  his  duty  is  to  see  that  a  certain  simple, 
but  very  effective,  sanitary  code  is  obeyed ; 
as  for  instance :  "  The  headman  shall  not 
allow  any  latrine  or  cesspit  in  any  house, 
enclosure  or  land  in  any  village  under  his 
control  to  be  kept  in  a  filthy  or  insanitary 
condition."  There  are  also  rules  for  the 
prevention  of  cattle  disease. 

If  any  headman  is  inefficient  or  neglect- 
ful of  his  duties,  the  deputy-commissioner 
appoints  another  man  in  his  place.  An 
indication  of  their  faithfulness  as  a  rule  is 
the  fact  that  the  population  of  Burma  has 


increased  with  marvelous  rapidity  since 
the  British  control,  —  its  increase  indeed 
is  greater  than  that  of  any  other  province 
of  India.  Had  the  population  of  the 
United  States  increased  in  like  propor- 
tion during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  it 
would  number  now  at  least  120,000,000. 
Immigration,  it  should  be  noted,  has  had 
little  or  no  part  in  Burma's  increase, 
which  is  due  wholly  to  natural  causes, 
primarily  the  sanitary  condition  of  the 
villages.  In  1904  the  percentage  of  deaths 
was  below  that  of  any  other  part  of  India. 

There  are  forty  towns  in  the  province, 
which  are  governed  by  committees,  of 
whom  about  a  fifth  are  elected,  the  others 
holding  their  seats  ex  qfficio  or  by  nomi- 
nation. Out  of  537  members  of  these 
municipal  committees  in  1903,  only  158 
were  Europeans.  The  duties  of  these 
bodies  are  carefully  defined  in  the  Mu- 
nicipal Act  of  1898,  in  which  there  is  to 
be  found  a  special  provision  against  graft, 
the  punishment  for  which  is  imprison- 
ment or  fine,  or  both  in  some  instances. 
If  the  committee  of  any  town  is  incom- 
petent or  neglects  its  duties  or  exceeds  its 
powers,  the  commissioner  or  deputy-com- 
missioner can  supersede  it. 

The  oversight  of  the  schools,  in  the 
towns  and  the  villages,  is  another  very 
important  part  of  the  work  of  the  English 
official  whom  we  are  supposed  to  be  ac- 
companying on  his  tour  of  inspection. 
According  to  the  government  orders,  the 
district  officer  is  "  responsible  for  the 
state  of  education  generally  in  his  dis- 
trict, and  the  Education  Department  is 
the  instrument  in  his  hand  for  carrying 
out  this  responsibility."  This  department 
consists  of  a  director  and  about  one  hun- 
dred inspectors,  including  some  head- 
masters of  the  higher  government  schools. 
Among  the  special  objects  to  which  his 
attention  should  be  directed  is  the  disci- 
pline and  moral  training  of  the  scholars, 
and  "  the  cleanliness  of  person  and  dress 
in  both  teachers  and  pupils."  In  the 
primary  schools  the  instruction  is  in  the 
vernacular  tongue,  in  accordance  with 
the  Indian  educational  policy,  that  "  a 


The  Province  of  Burma 


419 


child  should  not  be  allowed  to  learn 
English  as  a  language  until  he  has  made 
some  progress  in  the  primary  stages  of 
instruction  and  has  received  a  thorough 
grounding  in  his  mother  tongue."  In  the 
village  schools  the  aim  is  to  give  to  the 
children  a  preliminary  training  which 
will  make  them  intelligent  cultivators, 
and  their  reading-books  deal  with  topics 
associated  with  rural  life.  In  addition  to 
instruction  in  the  common  branches  of 
learning,  there  is  provision  for  the  teach- 
ing of  seventeen  different  industries,  as 
blacksmithing,  carpentry,  cane  and  bam- 
boo-work, and  lace-making  (for  girls 
only). 

To  encourage  the  higher  education 
there  are  some  ninety  scholarships,  of 
which  six  are  "  female  medical  scholar- 
ships." There  are  also  training  schools 
for  teachers,  with  nearly  six  hundred 
students  in  1905.  An  interesting  feature 
in  the  educational  system  is  a  staff  of  itin- 
erant teachers  whose  special  aim  is  the 
"  spreading  primary  education  in  the  dis- 
tricts." In  the  towns  the  committees  have 
the  care  of  the  schools,  and  in  the  govern- 
ment instructions  "  the  principle  laid 
down  is  that  indigenous  primary  educa- 
tion has  the  first  claim  on  the  public 
funds."  It  is  encouraging  to  note  in  this 
connection  that  the  appropriation  for 
public  instruction  in  Rangoon  increased 
from  $4000  in  1901  to  $34,000  in  1905. 

In  the  light  of  these  facts  the  conclu- 
sions reached  in  the  Report  on  the  Census 
of  1901  are  not  surprising.  From  the  re- 
turns it  appears  that  "  in  point  of  educa- 
tion as  a  whole,  the  Burmese  outstrip  all 
the  other  indigenous  people  with  270  lit- 
erates in  every  thousand  of  their  number. 
In  male  education  too  they  are  far  ahead 
of  the  other  communities.  It  can  almost 
be  said  that  every  second  Burman  boy  or 
man  is  able  to  read  and  write,  for  the  pro- 
portion of  literates  per  thousand  of  the 
sex  is  no  less  than  490."  There  can  be 
little  doubt  that  the  proportion  is  greater 
to-day,  so  deep  is  the  interest  in  educa- 
tion. This  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  in 
the  ten  years  ending  in  1905  the  number 


of  girls'  schools  had  increased  from  242 
to  619,  and  the  number  of  pupils  from 
9869  to  54,787. 

Another  phase  of  the  British  influence 
on  an  Eastern  people  will  be  seen  by  ac- 
companying on  his  tour  of  inspection  a 
deputy-commissioner  of  one  of  the  dis- 
tricts of  the  Shan  States  region.  This  is 
practically  the  whole  eastern  part  of  the 
province,  and  up  to  1886  consisted  of 
forty-three  semi-independent  principali- 
ties under  the  suzerainty  of  the  King  of 
Burma.  For  at  least  thirty  years  before 
the  British  occupation,  constant  civil  war 
between  the  states  had  prevailed,  and 
universal  ruin  was  the  result.  One  of  the 
capitals,  Mone,  "  which  within  living 
memory  had  ten  thousand  households 
was  reduced  to  seventeen  huts."  Natur- 
ally, these  civil  wars  had  disorganized 
society,  and  a  great  number  of  the  Shans 
lived  by  robbery,  or  "  dacoity,"  to  use  the 
Hindu  term.  As  this  consisted  often  in 
raids  upon  the  people  on  the  plains  under 
British  rule,  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
in  the  interest  of  the  peaceful  and  indus- 
trious Burmese  to  put  an  end  to  this  con- 
dition of  mis-rule  and  to  establish  a  stable 
government  in  these  states.  This  was 
done  with  little  opposition  on  the  part  of 
the  Shans,  and  the  States  became  a  part 
of  the  province.  The  result  in  less  than 
ten  years  is  indicated  in  a  speech  of  the 
lieutenant-governor,  Sir  Frederic  Fryer, 
at  a  durbar  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
Southern  States:  "  As  I  rode  up  from  the 
plains  to  your  pleasant  hills  I  was  im- 
pressed by  indications  of  order  and  wealth 
on  every  side.  Even  at  this  late  time  of 
the  year  the  road  was  crowded  with 
traders ;  the  fields  showed  signs  of  careful 
cultivation ;  the  villages  through  which  I 
passed  seemed  populous  and  well  cared 
for.  .  .  .  The  increase  of  trade  has  been 
really  marvelous.  No  single  case  of  da- 
coity or  other  organized  crime  has  been  re- 
ported during  the  year."  To  this  we  may 
add  that  the  forty-three  princes,  who  still 
hold  their  position  as  rulers,  have  recently 
sent  a  joint  petition  to  the  British  gov- 
ernment asking  for  the  construction  of 


420 


The  Province  of  Burma 


a  railway  for  the  development  of  their 
states. 

A  similar  condition  to  that  which  once 
prevailed  among  the  Shans  characterized 
the  Chin  Hills,  a  region  lying  on  the  west- 
ern frontier  of  the  province.  Here  raids 
and  blood  feuds  were  so  frequent  that 
every  village  was  fortified  by  gates  and 
surrounded  and  defended  by  cactus  and 
stiff  thorn-hedges,  palisades,  stone  breast- 
works, and  rifle-pits.  "  No  one  was  safe," 
writes  one  who  had  lived  among  them  in 
those  days;  "  the  women  worked  in  the 
fields  guarded  by  the  men;  no  one  ever 
knew  when  raiders  from  many  villages 
at  feud  with  theirs  were  lying  along  the 
paths,  and  pickets  kept  guard  night  and 
day  on  the  approaches  to  the  villages." 
Here  again  the  necessity  of  protecting  the 
plains  from  the  constant  raids  of  the  Chin 
tribes  was  the  cause  of  the  British  occu- 
pation of  the  Hills,  and  in  1896  a  con- 
dition of  complete  peace  was  established 
throughout  the  region.  What  this  condi- 
tion was  in  1900  we  may  learn  from  the 
statement  of  Commissioner  Sir  George 
Scott:  "  Raids  are  unknown,  and  scarce- 
ly any  crimes  are  committed,  so  that  the 
Chin  Hills  are  actually  more  secure  than 
many  parts  of  Lower  Burma.  Roads,  on 
which  Chin  coolies  now  readily  work, 
have  been  constructed  in  all  directions. 
The  rivers  have  been  bridged.  The 
people  have  taken  up  the  cultivation  of 
English  vegetables,  and  the  indigenous 
industries  have  been  largely  developed. 
British  officers  now  tour  about  with  es- 
corts of  only  four  or  five  men  where 
formerly  they  could  only  go  with  col- 
umns." 

If  it  be  asked,  What  was  the  general 
policy  of  the  British  government  which 
has  brought  about  this  marvelous  change 
in  so  short  a  time,  the  answer  is  this : "  To 
interfere  as  little  as  possible  with  the  cus- 
toms of  the  people  and  their  system  of 
tribal  government;  to  prevent  bloodshed 
and  internal  feuds;  to  advise  the  chiefs 
and  tribesmen,  and  to  build  up  a  sound 


primitive  form  of  government;  to  punish 
severely  all  crimes  committed  against 
government  servants  and  property;  to 
demand  tribute  from  all  the  tribes  as  a 
token  of  their  fealty  to  the  British  Gov- 
ernment." 

These  are  perhaps  the  most  salient 
methods  by  which  the  English  have 
sought  to  solve  the  peculiar  government- 
al problems  presented  by  an  Eastern 
people.  There  is  much  in  Mr.  Ireland's 
report  on  which  we  have  not  touched, 
as  his  account  of  the  judicial  and  finan- 
cial administration,  the  public  works  and 
forestry  departments,  not  because  of  its 
lack  of  interest,  but  because  of  its  gen- 
erally technical  character.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  note,  however,  in  respect  to 
finance,  that  nearly  half  of  the  expend- 
iture for  1905  was  for  irrigation,  the 
building  of  roads  and  railways,  and  other 
public  works.  As  regards  what  has  been 
accomplished  in  developing  the  wealth  of 
the  land,  a  single  illustration  will  suffice. 
A  railway  passes  for  one  hundred  miles 
through  almost  continuous  rice-fields, 
where,  fifteen  years  ago,  there  was  a 
dense,  uninhabited  forest.  This  develop- 
ment would  be  more  rapid  and  greater 
were  Burma,  as  it  should  be,  independ- 
ent of  India.  Now  a  considerable  part 
of  its  revenues  is  devoted  to  the  promo- 
tion of  Indian  interests  with  which  it  has 
no  concern. 

One  thing,  it  should  be  noted  in 
conclusion,  has  contributed  vastly  to  the 
success  of  the  English  in  Burma,  and 
that  is  the  absence  of  caste,  for  caste  is 
the  greatest  obstacle  to  righteous  gov- 
ernment and  progress  in  India.  To  this 
absence  largely  may  be  attributed  the 
fact  that  the  unrest  which  prevails  in 
some  parts  of  that  country  is  unknown 
in  Burma.  The  people  live  contentedly 
under  their  foreign  rulers.  It  is  a  peace 
—  not  the  result  of  force,  for  I  cannot 
find  out  that  there  is  a  single  British 
soldier  in  the  whole  province;  but  the 
peace  of  pure  contentment. 


THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  PLAYGOERS 


BY   BRANDER   MATTHEWS 


IT  is  one  of  the  many  disadvantages 
of  the  divorce  between  literature  and  the 
theatre  which  was  visible  in  English  from 
the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century 
to  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth,  that 
there  grew  up  an  uncomfortable  tra- 
dition of  considering  the  drama  as  a  de- 
partment of  literature  which  could  exist 
without  any  connection  with  the  actual 
stage.  Historians  of  literature  even  went 
so  far  as  to  accept  as  drama,  and  to 
criticise  as  drama,  poems  in  dialogue 
composed  in  total  disregard  of  the  the- 
atre. Sometimes  they  ventured  to  com- 
pare these  so-called  plays  —  which  were 
strangely  unreal,  in  that  they  assumed  a 
form  not  expressive  of  the  actual  intent 
of  their  author  —  with  the  masterpieces 
of  the  dramatic  poets  who  had  carefully 
adjusted  their  great  dramas  to  the  theat- 
rical conditions  of  their  own  days. 

The  composers  of  these  "closet- 
dramas"  did  not  see  that  a  play  not  in- 
tended to  be  played  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms,  and  they  did  not  suspect  —  what 
every  true  dramatist  has  always  felt  — 
that  the  proof  of  a  play  is  in  the  perform- 
ance. They  were  poets  of  more  or  less 
prominence  who  wanted  to  claim  praise 
without  facing  the  peril  of  the  ordeal  by 
fire  in  front  of  the  footlights.  They  de- 
spised the  acted  drama  because  it  had  to 
appeal  to  the  mob,  to  the  vulgar  throng. 
Their  sentiments  are  voiced  by  the  Poet 
in  the  "  Prologue  on  the  Stage"  of 
Goethe's  Faust :  — 

Speak  not  to  me  of  yonder  motley  masses, 
Whom  just  to    see   puts   out  the    fire    of 

Sony ! 
Hide  from  my  view  the  surging  crowd   that 


And  in  its  whirlpool  forces  us  along ! 
No,  lead  me   where    some   heavenly   silence 


The  purer  joys  that  round  the  poet  throng. 


This  attitude  may  not  be  unbecoming 
in  the  lyric  poet,  who  has  but  to  express 
his  own  emotions ;  but  it  is  impossible  Is. 
a  true  dramatic  poet,  who  feels  that  what 
he  has  wrought  is  not  complete  until  he 
has  seen  it  bodied  forth  by  actors  on  the 
stage  before  the  motley  masses  and  the 
surging  crowd,  and  until  he  has  been  able 
to  test  its  effect  upon  the  throng  itself. 
The  true  dramatic  poet  would  never  hesi- 
tate to  adopt  Moliere's  statement  of  his 
own  practice : "  I  accept  easily  enough  the 
decisions  of  the  multitude,  and  I  hold  it 
as  difficult  to  assail  a  work  which  the 
public  approves  as  to  defend  one  which 
it  condemns."  But  however  much  even 
the  lyric  poet  may  detach  himself  from 
the  surging  crowd  and  despise  the  motley 
masses,  even  he  must  not  forget  his  read- 
ers absolutely ;  it  is  only  at  his  peril  that 
he  can  neglect  the  duty  of  being  read- 
able. Taine  declared  that  Browning  had 
been  guilty  of  this  fault  in  The  Ring  and 
the  Book,  wherein  he  "never  thinks  of 
the  reader,  and  lets  his  characters  talk 
as  though  no  one  was  to  read  their 
speeches." 

What  may  be  only  a  fault  in  the  lyric 
poet  becomes  a  crime  in  the  dramatic 
poet,  who  can  never  claim  the  right  of 
solitary  self-expression  which  the  lyrist 
may  assert.  The  drama  has  for  its  basis 
an  appeal  to  the  whole  public  and  not  to 
any  coterie  of  dilettanti.  "  Since  we  write 
poems  to  be  performed,  our  first  duty 
ought  to  be  to  please  the  court  and  the 
people  and  to  attract  a  great  throng  to 
their  performance."  So  said  Corneille, 
declaring  frankly  the  doctrine  of  every 
genuine  dramatic  poet.  "  We  must,  if  we 
can,  abide  by  the  rules,  so  as  not  to  dis- 
please the  learned  and  to  receive  univer- 
sal applause;  but,  above  all  else,  let  us 
win  the  voice  of  the  people." 

421 


422 


The  Playwright  and  the  Playgoers 


The  great  dramatists  of  every  period 
when  the  drama  was  flourishing  would 
unhesitatingly  echo  this  declaration  of 
Corneille.  They  might  refrain  from  the 
discourteous  assertion,  but  they  would 
surely  hold  the  "  closet-drama  "  to  be  a 
pretentious  absurdity,  appropriate  only 
to  weaklings  unwilling  to  grapple  with 
the  difficulties  of  the  actual  theatre.  By 
then*  own  splendid  experience  they  had 
learned  how  greatly  the  artist  may  profit 
by  a  resolute  struggle  with  limitations 
and  obstacles;  and  they  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  contempt  for  the  timorous 
poets  who  have  shrunk  from  the  profit- 
able effort.  And  as  the  result  of  this 
choice  of  the  easier  path  by  the  craven 
bards,  they  fail  to  reach  the  goal  toward 
which  they  like  to  think  they  are  going. 
The  poems  in  dialogue,  due  to  a  refusal 
to  take  thought  of  the  theatre  and  of  the 
throng,  are  very  rarely  successful  even  in 
the  library.  The  closet-dramas  are  all  of 
them  unactable;  most  of  them  are  un- 
readable ;  and  many  of  them  are  unspeak- 
able. Although  many  poets  of  distinction 
have  condescended  to  the  composition  of 
plays  not  intended  to  be  played,  —  Mil- 
ton, for  one,  and  Byron,  and  Browning, 
—  their  distinction  is  not  due  to  these 
closet-dramas;  and  their  fame  would  be 
as  high  if  they  had  refrained  from  these 
poems  in  dialogue. 

True  dramatic  poets  —  Sophocles, 
Shakespeare,  Moliere — have  always  been 
willing  to  take  thought  of  the  players  by 
whom  then*  plays  were  to  be  performed, 
of  the  playhouses  in  which  their  plays 
were  to  be  presented,  and  of  the  playgoers 
whom  they  hoped  to  attract  in  motley 
masses.  Consciously,  to  some  extent,  and 
unconsciously  more  often,  they  shaped 
the  stories  they  were  telling  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  actual  performance 
customary  on  the  contemporary  stage. 
Whether  they  knew  it  or  not,  their  great 
tragedies  and  their  great  comedies  as  we 
have  them  now,  are  what  they  are,  partly 
because  of  the  influence  of  the  several 
actors  for  whom  they  created  their  chief 
characters,  partly  because  the  theatre  to 


which  they  were  accustomed  was  of  a  cer- 
tain size  and  had  certain  peculiarities, 
and  partly  because  the  spectators  they 
wished  to  move  had  certain  prejudices 
and  certain  preconceptions  natural  to 
their  nation  and  their  era.  This  is  why 
there  is  profit  in  an  attempt  to  consider 
the  several  influences  which  the  actor, 
the  theatre,  and  the  audience,  may  exert 
on  the  dramatist,  —  influences  felt  by 
every  dramatic  poet,  great  or  small,  in 
every  period  in  the  long  evolution  of  the 
drama. 

The  strongest  pressure  upon  the  con- 
tent of  the  drama  of  any  special  period, 
and  of  any  special  place,  is  that  of  the  con- 
temporary audience  for  whose  delight  or 
for  whose  edification  it  was  originally  de- 
vised. How  any  author  at  any  time  can 
tell  his  story  upon  the  stage  depends  upon 
the  kind  of  stage  he  has  in  view ;  but  what 
kind  of  story  he  must  tell  depends  upon 
the  kind  of  people  he  wants  to  interest. 
As  Dryden  declared  in  one  of  his  epi- 
logues :  — 

They  who  have  best  succeeded  on  the  stage 
Have  still  conformed  their  genius  to  the  age. 

And  this  couplet  of  Dryden's  recalls 
the  later  lines  of  Johnson :  — 
The  drama's  laws  the  drama's  patrons  give, 
And  those  who  live  to  please,  must  please  to 
live. 

In  other  words,  the  dramatic  poet  is  not 
independent  of  his  hearers,  as  the  lyric 
poet  may  be,  since  he  can  never  be  satis- 
fied with  mere  self-expression.  His  work 
depends  for  its  effect  upon  his  hearers, 
and  he  has  to  take  them  into  account, 
under  penalty  of  blank  failure.  He  must 
give  them  what  they  want,  even  if  he 
gives  them  also  what  he  wants.  The  au- 
thor of  a  drama  cannot  labor  for  himself 
alone;  he  has  to  admit  the  spectators  as 
his  special  partners.  There  is  ever  a  tacit 
agreement,  a  quasi-contract,  between  the 
playwright  and  the  playgoers.  As  the  in- 
genious and  ingenuous  Abbe  d'Aubignac 
asserted,  more  than  two  centuries  ago, 
when  he  was  laying  down  laws  for  the 
drama :  "  We  are  not  to  forget  here  (and 
I  think  it  one  of  the  best  Observations  I 


The  Playwright  and  the  Playgoers 


423 


have  made  upon  this  matter)  that  if  the 
subject  is  not  conformable  to  the  Man- 
ners as  well  as  the  Opinions  of  the  spec- 
tators, it  will  never  take."  And  a  later  re- 
mark of  his  proved  that  he  possessed  the 
prime  requisite  of  a  dramatic  critic,  in 
that  he  had  worked  out  his  principles  not 
only  in  the  library,  but  also  in  the  theatre 
itself.  "  For  if  there  be  any  Act  or  Scene 
that  has  not  that  conformity  to  the  Man- 
ners of  the  spectators,  you  will  suddenly 
see  the  applause  cease,  and  in  its  place 
a  discontent  succeed,  though  they  them- 
selves do  not  know  the  cause  of  it." 

Just  as  the  theatre  for  which  Sophocles 
wrote  differed  in  almost  every  way  from 
the  theatre  for  which  Shakespeare  wrote, 
so  the  audience  that  the  Greek  poet  had 
to  please  —  if  he  was  to  win  the  awarded 
prize  —  was  very  unlike  the  audience 
that  the  English  poet  had  to  please  —  if 
he  was  to  make  his  living  as  a  professional 
playwright.  There  is  not  a  wider  differ- 
ence between  the  theatre  of  Louis  XIV's 
time,  wherein  Moliere' s  comedies  were 
first  produced,  and  the  cosmopolitan  mod- 
ern playhouses  wherein  Ibsen's  dramas 
are  now  and  again  performed,  than  there 
is  between  the  courtiers  and  the  burghers 
of  Paris,  whom  the  melancholy  French 
humorist  had  to  amuse,  and  the  narrow- 
minded  villagers  of  Grimstad,  whom  Ib- 
sen seems  to  have  had  always  before  him 
as  the  individual  spectators  he  wished  to 
startle  out  of  their  moral  lethargy. 

Even  though  the  playwright  has  ever 
to  consider  the  playgoers,  their  opinions 
and  their  prejudices,  he  is  under  no  un- 
due strain  when  he  does  this,  and  the 
most  of  his  effort  is  unconscious,  since  he 
is  always  his  own  contemporary,  sharing 
in  the  likes  and  dislikes  of  the  men  of  his 
own  time,  the  very  men  whom  he  hopes 
to  see  flocking  to  the  performances  of  his 
plays.  Sophocles  did  not  need  to  take 
thought  what  would  be  displeasing  to  the 
thousands  who  sat  around  the  hollow 
slope  of  the  Acropolis ;  he  was  an  Athen- 
ian himself;  and  yet,  no  doubt,  he  acted 
always  on  the  advice  Isocrates  used  to 
give  to  his  pupils  in  oratory,  who  were 


told  to  "  study  the  people."  Shakespeare 
did  not  have  to  hold  himself  in  for  fear  of 
shocking  the  energetic  Elizabethans;  he 
was  himself  a  subject  of  the  Virgin  Queen, 
one  of  the  plain  people,  with  an  instinct- 
ive understanding  of  the  desires  of  the 
playgoers  of  his  age.  As  M.  Jusserand 
has  acutely  asserted,  the  English  play- 
going  public  of  Shakespeare's  time  de- 
manded "  nourishment  suited  to  its  tastes, 
which  were  spontaneous  and  natural; 
it  imposed  these  on  the  playmakers;  it 
loved,  like  all  peoples,  to  see  on  the  stage, 
made  more  beautiful  or  more  ugly,  that  is 
to  say,  more  highly  colored,  what  it  found 
in  itself  embryonically,  what  it  felt  and 
could  not  express,  what  it  could  do  and 
yet  knew  not  how  to  narrate."  Strikingly 
contrasted  as  are  Sophocles  and  Shake- 
speare, they  are  not  more  unlike  than 
the  respective  audiences  they  sought  to 
gratify. 

Moliere  was  able  to  choose  themes  to 
interest  his  contemporaries,  because  he 
was  himself  a  Frenchman  sympathizing 
with  the  sentiments  of  his  time,  and 
trained  by  the  same  heredity  as  the  spec- 
tators of  his  plays.  He  is  himself  the  su- 
perb example  of  the  truth  of  Nisard's  as- 
sertion: "  in  France  the  man  of  genius  is 
he  who  says  what  everybody  knows ;  he 
is  only  the  intelligent  echo  of  the  crowd ; 
and  if  he  does  not  wish  to  find  us  deaf  and 
indifferent,  he  must  not  astonish  us  with 
his  personal  views  —  he  must  reveal  us 
to  ourselves."  And  as  Moliere  is  the  type 
of  the  urban  and  urbane  French  dramatic 
poet,  guided  by  the  social  instinct,  ever 
dominant  in  France,  so  is  Ibsen  rather 
a  rural  type,  forever  preaching  individ- 
ualism to  the  dwellers  in  the  tiny  seashore 
village  where  he  spent  his  youth,  and  giv- 
ing little  thought  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
larger  world  where  he  had  lived  since  his 
maturity.  Although  cosmopolitan  audi- 
ences have  appreciated  Ibsen's  power 
and  skill,  it  was  not  for  cosmopolitan  au- 
diences that  he  wrote  his  social  dramas, 
but  for  the  old  folks  at  home  in  Norway 
whom  he  wanted  to  awaken  morally  and 
mentally.  And  here,  in  his  memory  of  the 


424 


The  Playwright  and  the  Playgoers 


feelings  and  failings  of  the  men  and  wo- 
men among  whom  he  grew  to  manhood, 
we  can  find  the  obvious  explanation  of 
that  narrow  parochialism  which  is  some- 
times revealed  most  unexpectedly  in  more 
than  one  of  his  plays. 

A  certain  knowledge  of  the  people  to 
whom  the  playwright  belonged  and  for 
whom  he  wrote  is  a  condition  precedent 
to  any  real  understanding  of  his  plays. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  a  study  of  the 
drama  of  any  period  or  of  any  place  can- 
not fail  to  supply  interesting  information 
about  the  manners  and  customs,  the 
modes  of  thought  and  the  states  of  feel- 
ing, of  the  people  of  that  country  at  that 
time.  For  example,  the  mediaeval  drama 
seems  to  have  had  its  earliest  develop- 
ment in  France,  and  perhaps  for  this  rea- 
son all  over  Europe  one  mystery  is  very 
like  another  mystery,  whether  it  is  French 
or  English,  Italian  or  German;  but  one 
of  the  variations  from  monotony  is  to  be 
found  in  the  scene  between  Joseph  and 
Potiphar's  wife,  which  the  English  redac- 
tors preferred  to  treat  in  outline  only  or 
omitted  altogether,  but  which  the  French 
compilers  delighted  to  elaborate  and  to 
amplify  for  the  greater  joy  of  their  com- 
patriots. To  this  day  the  French  are  will- 
ing to  laugh  at  the  humorous  side  of  con- 
jugal infidelity,  whereas  we  who  speak 
English  are  unwilling  to  take  this  other 
than  seriously.  Here  we  can  see  reason 
why  many  an  amusing  French  farce  has 
failed  to  please  in  New  York  and  in  Lon- 
don. 

The  lack  of  popular  attention  and  ap- 
proval, about  which  Terence  often  com- 
plained loudly,  was  due  to  his  incompat- 
ibility with  the  only  audiences  which 
Rome  then  knew.  He  proportioned  his 
intrigues  and  polished  his  dialogue  to 
please  spectators  accustomed  to  coarse 
buffoonery.  Terence  was  born  out  of 
time;  and  he  might  have  been  a  really 
successful  writer  of  comedies  had  he  lived 
in  the  Italian  Renascence,  when  he  could 
hope  for  an  audience  of  scholars  swift  to 
enjoy  his  finish  and  his  felicity  of  phrase. 
As  it  was,  Terence  refused  to  gratify  the 


tastes  of  the  populace  of  his  own  time; 
and  he  had  to  confess  failure.  The  more 
practical  Lope  de  Vega  accepted  the 
audiences  of  his  day  for  what  they  were — 
less  violent  than  Terence's,  but  quite  as 
robust  and  willful  as  Shakespeare's;  and 
the  Spanish  playwright  made  the  best  of 
the  situation,  disclosing  his  marvelous  in- 
ventiveness and  his  splendid  productivity 
in  countless  pieces  of  every  type.  In  his 
apologetic  poem  on  the  "New  Art  of 
Writing  Plays  "  he  pretended  that  he  com- 
posed these  pieces  more  or  less  against 
his  own  better  knowledge  of  the  true 
rules  of  the  drama,  and  that  before  he  sat 
down  to  write  he  was  careful  to  put  Ter- 
ence and  Plautus  out  of  the  room ;  but  he 
was  probably  too  completely  his  own  con- 
temporary, too  much  a  man  of  his  time 
and  of  his  race,  to  have  been  forced  to  any 
great  sacrifice  of  his  artistic  code.  He 
seems  to  have  felt  no  awkward  restraint 
from  his  desire  to  please  his  public;  and 
apparently  he  was  able  to  express  him- 
self fully  and  freely  in  his  plays,  even  if 
he  also  took  care  to  have  them  conform 
to  the  likings  of  the  populace  of  Madrid. 
So  Shakespeare  took  care  to  have  his 
plays  conform  to  the  likings  of  the  popu- 
lace of  London;  and  he  also  was  able  to 
use  them  for  the  amplest  self-expression. 
Here  we  observe  once  more  how  it  is  that 
the  true  artist  accepts  the  conditions  im- 
posed on  him,  whatever  they  may  be,  and 
that  he  is  often  able  to  turn  a  stumbling- 
block  into  a  stepping-stone  to  higher 
things. 

Even  if  a  Greek  dramatic  poet  could  by 
his  prophetic  power  have  foreseen  the 
potency  of  modern  romantic  love,  he 
could  never  have  dared  a  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  because  the  contemporary  spec- 
tators would  have  failed  to  understand 
the  emotion  which  is  its  mainspring.  And 
on  the  other  hand,  the  Greek  dramatic 
poets  dealt  with  many  a  motive  with 
which  the  modern  audience  can  have  no 
sympathy.  For  us  the  beautiful  pathos  of 
Alcestis  is  spoiled  by  the  contemptible 
alacrity  with  which  the  husband  allows 
his  devoted  wife  to  die  for  him,  although 


The  Playwright  and  the  Playgoers 


425 


his  conduct  did  not  seem  at  all  reprehen- 
sible to  the  Greeks,  who  held  so  exalted 
an  opinion  of  the  value  of  the  young  male 
citizen  to  the  state,  that  they  saw  no  im- 
propriety in  his  accepting  his  wife's  lovely 
sacrifice  of  herself.  The  Antigone  turns 
also  on  a  Greek  sentiment  very  remote 
from  our  modern  feeling,  a  sentiment 
which  has  to  be  explained  to  us  before  we 
can  grasp  its  significance  or  understand 
its  importance  to  the  noble  heroine.  And 
again  in  the  Medea,  the  wrathful  hero- 
ine's slaughter  of  her  children,  to  revenge 
herself  for  their  father's  abject  desertion 
of  her,  seems  to  us  repugnant. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  adduce  many 
another  example  of  the  effect  exerted  on 
the  dramatist  by  the  racial  point  of  view. 
For  instance,  in  Sudermann's  strong  dra- 
ma Heimat,  known  to  us  by  the  name  of 
the  heroine,  Magda,  the  unbending  rigor 
of  the  aged  father  and  his  violent  harsh- 
ness are  almost  repulsive  to  us  in  America 
where  we  are  not  accustomed  to  yield  so 
blind  a  deference  to  the  head  of  the  family 
as  the  old  colonel  insists  upon  in  Ger- 
many. But  there  is  no  need  to  multiply 
these  examples,  since  we  all  know  the 
divergent  attitudes  of  different  peoples 
toward  the  social  organization.  In  this 
divergence  we  can  find  the  explanation 
why  more  than  one  fine  play  is  little 
known  outside  the  land  of  its  birth.  The 
best  of  French  comedies  of  the  nineteenth 
century  is  Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier  of 
Augier  and  Sandeau ;  and  although  it  has 
been  translated  into  English,  'or  adapted, 
more  than  once,  it  has  failed  to  interest 
our  audiences,  because  it  is  intensely 
French  both  in  theme  and  in  treatment. 
Its  appeal  is  essentially  local;  and  the 
veracity  of  its  interpretation  of  characters 
fundamentally  French  has  prevented  its 
acceptance  in  Great  Britain  and  the 
United  States.  The  more  truthfully  a  dra- 
matist produces  the  life  about  him,  the 
more  sincerely  he  presents  the  special 
types  his  countrymen  will  most  surely 
appreciate;  the  more  he  subordinates 
plot  and  situation  to  the  revelation  of 
character,  the  less  likely  he  is  to  see  his 


plays  successful  outside  of  his  own  lan- 
guage. The  ingenious  plots  of  the  invent- 
ive Scribe,  in  which  the  characters  were 
only  puppets  in  the  hands  of  the  play- 
wright, were  performed  all  over  the 
world,  while  the  rich  and  solid  comedies 
of  Augier  have  rarely  been  exported  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  France. 

Mr.  Bronson  Howard  once  declared 
that  there  were  certain  themes  peculiar  to 
each  nation,  upon  which  the  dramatists 
of  that  nation  could  play  infinite  varia- 
tions, secure  always  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  basis  of  their  stories  would  be  in- 
teresting to  their  special  audiences.  He 
illustrated  his  remark  by  drawing  atten- 
tion to  the  numberless  French  plays 
dealing  with  the  topic  of  marital  infelic- 
ity, and  to  the  numberless  British  plays 
dealing  with  the  topic  of  caste.  And  he 
suggested  that  here  in  the  United  States 
the  spectators  were  ever  eager  to  see  on 
the  stage  plays  dealing  with  the  topic 
of  business,  the  organization  of  affairs, 
and  the  making  of  money. 

From  Mr.  Bronson  Howard's  own  ex- 
perience may  be  taken  an  illustration  of 
one  of  the  minor  differences  between 
American  audiences  and  British.  In  his 
play,  The  Banker's  Daughter,  the  young 
artist  to  whom  the  heroine  is  engaged 
when  the  piece  begins,  and  whom  she 
then  thinks  she  loves,  even  when  she  mar- 
ries another  man  to  save  her  father,  has 
to  be  killed  off,  so  that  she  may  find  her- 
self absolutely  free  to  give  her  true  love  to 
her  devoted  husband.  Therefore  one  act 
took  place  in  Paris,  and  a  noted  French 
swordsman  was  introduced  to  force  a 
quarrel  on  the  young  painter  and  to  kill 
him  in  a  duel.  Although  the  duel  is  no 
longer  possible  in  the  Eastern  States,  our 
audiences  know  that  it  still  exists  in 
France,  and  we  are  familiar  with  the  feuds 
of  the  southwest  and  with  the  street- 
shooting  of  the  mining  camps.  But  when 
Mr.  Howard's  play  was  adapted  for  Lon- 
don, with  its  characters  localized  as  Brit- 
ish subjects,  his  English  collaborator  pro- 
tested against  the  duel,  on  the  ground 
that  a  British  audience  would  not  accept 


426 


The  Playwright  and  the  Playgoers 


it.  If  the  young  artist  was  to  become  an 
Englishman,  then  he  would  laugh  at  the 
suggestion  of  crossing  swords.  So  the  art- 
ist ceased  to  be,  and  in  his  place  there 
was  a  young  soldier;  and  the  act  in  Paris 
took  place  at  the  British  Embassy,  where 
the  officer  had  to  appear  in  uniform. 
There  the  French  swordsman  insulted 
him  and  his  uniform,  and  in  his  person 
the  whole  army  of  the  Queen,  until  the 
British  audience  fairly  longed  to  see  the 
Englishman  knock  the  Frenchman  down. 
And  when  he  was  goaded  at  last  to  this 
violence,  the  British  audience  could  not 
object  to  his  giving  the  swordsman  "  the 
satisfaction  of  a  gentleman." 

This  shows  the  difference  between  two 
audiences  speaking  the  same  language; 
and  another  illustration  will  serve  to 
show  the  difference  that  may  exist  be- 
tween two  audiences  in  contrasting  quar- 
ters of  the  same  American  city.  When 
Mr.  Clyde  Fitch's  Barbara  Frietchie  was 
produced  at  the  Criterion  Theatre  in  New 
York  (where  the  best  seats  sell  for  two 
dollars),  the  Southern  heroine,  in  her 
quarrel  with  her  Northern  lover,  tore  the 
stars  and  stripes  into  tatters  —  only  to 
sew  the  flag  together  later  that  she  might 
be  shot  beneath  its  folds.  But  when  this 
play  was  taken  to  the  Academy  of  Music 
(where  the  best  seats  sell  for  fifty  cents), 
the  heroine  was  no  longer  allowed  to 
destroy  the  national  flag,  for  fear  that  an 
act  so  unpatriotic  would  forever  alienate 
from  her  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators 


in  that  playhouse  of  the  plain  people,  less 
sophisticated  than  the  audience  of  the 
other  theatre  frequented  by  the  more  cul- 
tivated classes  of  the  community.  This 
anecdote  is  not  well  vouched  for,  and  may 
not  be  a  fact.  But  perhaps  it  is  just  as 
significant,  even  if  it  is  only  an  inven- 
tion. 

These  may  seem  but  trifles,  after  all; 
and  such  no  doubt  they  are.  But  they 
serve  to  show  which  way  the  wind  blows ; 
and  they  help  us  to  see  how  dependent  the 
dramatist  is  upon  the  sympathy  of  the 
spectator.  The  strength  of  the  drama  lies 
in  the  breadth  of  its  appeal.  It  fails  of  its 
purpose  unless  it  has  something  for  all,  — 
for  young  and  for  old,  for  rich  and  for 
poor,  for  men  and  for  women,  for  the  edu- 
cated and  for  the  uneducated.  Of  all  the 
arts,  the  drama  is  essentially  the  most 
democratic,  for  it  cannot  exist  without 
the  multitude.  It  has  been  called  "a 
function  of  the  crowd."  It  cannot  hope 
for  success  when  it  seeks  to  attract  only  a 
caste,  a  coterie,  a  clique;  it  must  be  the 
art  of  the  people  as  a  whole,  with  all  their 
divergencies  of  cultivation.  And  this  it 
has  been  whenever  it  achieved  its  noblest 
triumphs,  —  in  Greece,  when  Sophocles 
and  Euripides  followed  JEschylus;  in 
England,  when  Shakespeare  succeeded 
Marlowe;  in  Spain,  when  Lope  de  Vega 
and  Calderon  worked  side  by  side;  and 
in  France,  when  Moliere  came  as  a  con- 
necting link  between  Corneille  and  Ra- 
cine. 


THAT   SLEEP   OF  DEATH 

BY  HENSHAW  WARD 

"  YOUR  bed  of  earth  is  made.   Come,  leave  the  show." 
Death  calls !   My  yearning  eyes  must  turn  away 
From  earth's  entrancing  stage,  from  God's  great  play 
Where,  lit  by  daring  souls  in  shining  row, 
The  pageants  of  achievement  come  and  go; 
Where  peace  meets  war  in  strife,  and  kings  obey, 
And  science  thunders  while  old  creeds  decay, 
And  spectral  plagues  are  laid,  and  empires  grow. 

I  may  not  see  the  marriage  of  two  seas 

That  God  disjoined,  nor  from  her  Russian  tomb 

Dead  Freedom  burst  alive.   Turn,  eyes !   Bend,  knees ! 

I  fear  no  dreams,  nor  dark,  nor  any  doom, 

Yet  cannot  for  this  loss  my  soul  appease : 

There  is  no  stage  within  the  sodded  gloom. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


HESTERNUS  TO  HIS  PUBLISHER 

SIR  :  This  is  a  fine  morning,  and  I  am 
in  a  confessional  humour.  You  will  learn, 
not  without  a  flicker  of  interest,  that  T 
have  been  brooding  all  my  life  over  the 
thought  of  my  magnum  opiis,  under  your 
imprint.  But  the  whole  tyranny  of  things 
has  been  against  it  and  me.  I  shall  never 
do  it  now;  nor  will  it  ever  be  done  by 
another,  mark  me,  upon  that  lordly, 
lover-like  plan  of  mine.  By  historiology, 
criticism,  or  mere  humanistic  eclecticism, 
—  call  the  small  tool  by  what  big  name 
you  will,  —  I  was  fain  to  gather  out  of  the 
dust  of  the  crowded  English  seventeenth 
century  "  this  or  that  down-trodden 
name,"  and  augment  the  sum  of  perfec- 
tions which  men  like  to  remember.  Long 
ago  I  loosened  my  hold  on  "  the  spacious 
times  of  great  Elizabeth;"  these  have 


candles  and  incense  enough  by  now.  My 
knee,  Sir,  was  given  to  the  fallible  years, 
the  years,  say,  between  the  chase  after 
the  Spanish  Infanta  and  the  Boyne  fight. 
Take  away  the  incomparable  lyrics,  the 
philosophies  and  the  statecraft  of  that 
great  era,  and  still,  for  its  intense  drama 
and  its  individualism,  it  is  as  wine  to 
the  historic  sense.  Only  the  Italian  Re- 
nascence can  match  it  for  play  of  color, 
although  the  little  English  afterglow  is 
very  innocent  and  misgiving  beside  that. 
You  know  me  for  an  out-and-out 
partisan  and  reactionary.  It  is  not  for 
me  "to  spell  oliver  with  a  great  O,"  nor 
to  rise  to  The  Immortal  Memory  whom 
he  made  possible.  And  so  my  landmarks 
were  always  the  Composition  Papers 
and  the  Calendars  for  Compounding; 
and  Clarendon;  and  Wood;  and  Ful- 
ler; and  Lloyd,  Winstanley,  Fanshawe, 

427 


428 


The  Contributors'  Club 


Burton,  Symonds,  North,  Howell,  Eve- 
lyn, and  the  thousand  minor  memoirs, 
the  calfskin  booklets  in  their  tipsy 
types,  where  so  much  dead  ingenuity, 
so  much  live  loveliness,  bear  witness 
to  those  stormy  years.  Dear  to  me  have 
been  that  vanished  London  and  Oxford. 
Who  has  sought,  if  not  I,  the  places  of 
execution  and  of  exile,  the  smoothed 
trenches,  the  sweet  far -scattered  village 
churches  where  my  friends,  my  wild 
flocks,  lie  folded  ?  Have  I  not  pored  by 
night  and  by  day  over  their  clean-sanded 
manuscripts,  here  all  hard  thought  or 
thought -packed  music,  and  there  a  loose 
skurry  as  of  little  goats  pursuing  their 
tails  ?  Who  has  gloried  so  in  their  burn- 
ing vitality,  and  gone  so  blind  to  all  their 
sins  ? 

They  are  the  gods  I  have  prayed  to, 
and  the  boon-companions  I  have  missed. 
They  should  have  had  such  a  dedication 
from  me  as  not  even  Mr.  Saintsbury  has 
conceived :  such  an  abject,  compromising, 
irrevocable  dedication!  Thus:  Patribus 
laetissimis  curatoris  labor  el  cor.  If  I 
judge  them  rightly,  they  love  compliment 
yet;  they  must  prick  up  their  love-locked 
ears,  and  stand  nose  in  air,  sniffing  that 
once  familiar  homage  of  which  they  have 
been  defrauded.  While  I  have  slept,  Car- 
olians  and  Jacobeans  have  won  rehabili- 
tation in  ever  so  many  quarters.  Jewel 
after  jewel  has  been  dug  up  and  reset, 
and  some  day  my  whole  mine  will  be  ri- 
fled. I  can  but  take  it  out  in  growling. 
Forty  thousand  brothers 

Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  — 

so  much  is  flat!  But  hardly  may  my  pro- 
crastinating foot  think  to  track  them  in 
Poets'  Paradise.  I  have  been  long  away : 
explanations  are  difficult.  And  as  every 
man-jack  of  them  still  wears  a  sword, 
I  shall  feel  that  unconsummated  labor 
et  cor  on  the  side  of  my  faithless  head. 
A  very  proper  ending,  too!  Only  the 
pith  of  the  matter  will  really  have  been 
that  I  grew  discerning  as  I  grew  old; 
that  I  loved  them  less  when  I  planned  the 
broad  authentic  book,  and  more,  when 
at  last  I  came  to  consider  no  modern 


public  half  good  enough  for  them,  and 
folded  up  their  names  in  lavender  in  the 
sacristy  of  a  jealous  heart.  Because  they 
are  like  children,  they  will  whack  me, 
nevertheless,  for  coming  on  a  visit,  and 
bringing  no  sweets. 

Meanwhile,  it  has  been  my  game  in  this 
world  to  remember  them,  and  those  last 
tumults  and  graces  of  chivalry  which 
subsided  with  them.  Sir,  it  has  been  no 
more  than  a  FoDowing  of  my  Geny  to 
seek  their  Company  on  every  Usual!  or 
Emergent  Occasion,  and  to  be  theirs  sin- 
gularly and  intirely,  beyond  Expresses, 
and  therein  Most  Happy!  I  know  no- 
thing, ancient  or  modern,  to  beat  them  for 
a  certain  play  of  sympathy  in  mental  con- 
ception, and  for  romance  that  somehow 
attaches  itself  to  every  outward  result. 
For  a  visible  symbol  of  this  sympathy  and 
romance  (much  as  a  blue  moth  hovers 
over  a  blue  wood -violet)  we  have  the  very 
clothes  they  wore.  Human  dress  was  in 
its  perfection  about  1645  A.  D.  If  one 
wishes  a  pageant  of  colour  and  form, 
divorced  from  all  that  is  teasing  or  fan- 
tastic, he  has  but  to  think  of  the  saffron 
velvet,  the  slashed  cloth-of-silver,  the 
lilac  camlett  with  points,  the 
Black  armour,  falling  lace,  and  altar-lights 
at  morn, 

of  which  Vandyck  has  given  us  the  frag- 
mentary and  unshadowed  record. 

The  historical  eye  is  as  a  gourmand  at 
a  feast,  summoning  up  the  unique  Type : 
those  long,  dark  faces,  careworn  and 
impudent;  those  firm,  sensitive  hands; 
those  lean  bodies,  so  gayly  alert,  as  if 
consciously  made  for  the  saddle  and  the 
march,  and  not  for  chairs;  and  the  wo- 
men, in  their  fragrance  of  personality, 
the  delicate  proud  women  of  "the 
Warres,"  long  laid  away  under  exquisite 
epitaphs  cut  in  alabaster.  What  aston- 
ishing, what  endearing  people,  these, 
above  all,  of  "the  Warres!"  Who  will 
catalogue  them,  expound  them,  and  give 
us  their  secret  ? 

Every  deed  had  character,  and  every 
word  had  beauty.  There  were  geniuses 
and  heroes,  there  were  scamps  and  no- 


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429 


bodies  out  for  King  Charles;  but  how 
coines  it  that  those  nobodies  suddenly  do 
and  say,  as  by  miracle,  such  adorable 
things  ?  Every  judgment-hall,  prison-cell, 
scaffold,  stake,  and  battlefield  heard  un- 
forgettable words.  The  English  had  all 
the  emotions  then,  and  had  them  in 
their  heights  and  depths.  But  they  did 
not  sneer;  they  did  not  dawdle;  they  had 
fury  and  enthusiasm,  and  fight  to  spare. 
A  biography  of  that  time  is  either  a 
tender  idyll  or  a  mad  extravaganza.  For 
wonder  and  pity,  wildness  and  melan- 
choly, few  stories  can  match  those  of 
John  Morris  of  Pontefract,  John  Smith 
the  standard-captor,  or  the  younger  Fran- 
cis Windebank.  And  again,  we  have  the 
Lucas  and  the  Lisle  who  cast  a  light 
upon  bygone  Colchester;  and  the  young 
Pudsey  slain  at  Bristol,  to  whose  meadow 
grave,  over  fifty  years  after,  his  aged 
sweetheart  was  carried,  as  she  desired, 
in  her  bridal  veil;  and  the  young  Villiers 
who  fell  with  his  back  to  the  Kingston 
oak,  the  "nine  mortall  Woundes  in  his 
Beautiful  Bodie,"  recorded,  and  idol- 
atrously  mourned,  by  contemporaries. 
Was  there  ever  in  the  world  so  lovely  a 
letter  as  "trothful"  Anthony  Payne's 
to  Lady  Grace  Grenville,  with  its  news 
that  he  was  "  bringing  home  the  greate 
Hearte  that  is  colde  to  Kilkhampton 
vault?  .  .  .  and  oh,  my  Lady!  how 
shall  I  brooke  your  weeping  Face  ?  " 

"A  sense  of  humor,"  says  a  modern 
moralist,  "saves  us  from  a  cartload  of 
things,  especially  from  grumbling!"  And 
that  priceless  solvent  of  humor  was  the 
most  noticeable  of  Cavalier  assets.  I 
have  always  thought  it  an  economic 
cruelty  that  none  of  it,  not  a  scraping 
nor  shaving,  fell  to  the  Cavaliers'  King, 
and  that  this  one  circumstance,  as  much 
as  anything, 

—  cast  the  kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould ! 

There  was  much  banter  and  "jollying" 
in  those  days,  in  quantity  and  in  quality 
a  good  deal  like  the  best  American  talk; 
and  like  that,  too,  it  covered  affection, 
rather  than  malice.  Think  of  Denham's 


plea  for  Wither's  life  and  maintenance, 
"  in  order  that  T  may  not  be  sett  up  for 
the  Worst  Poet  in  England;"  of  plain 
Falkland's  smiling  pride  in  the  company 
of  plain  "little  Sid"  Godolphin,  "where  I 
am  ever  the  properer  Man ; "  of  Charles 
the  Second's  psychological  summary  in 
regard  to  plots:  "Odds  fish,  Brother 
James !  wo  'd  they  kill  me  to  make  you 
King?"  Yes,  they  were  funny,  as  a 
harassed  generation  has  to  be. 

Black  spirits  or  white,  these  Ma- 
lignants  thought  and  wrought  with  all 
the  definite  obsolete  manliness  of  men. 
Awestruck  Roundhead  religiousness  may 
well  have  rolled  its  eyes  at  their  almost 
laughing  hold  on  mysticism  and  the 
supernatural.  Saints  like  Derby,  devils 
like  Buckingham  and  Rochester,  aver- 
age gentlemen  like  Carnarvon  and  Cher- 
bury  and  Carew,  lived  hard  and  died 
humbly,  not  ashamed  of  contrition,  and 
ran  forward  into  eternity  as  schoolboys 
bound  for  the  holidays  at  home.  To 
their  lovers,  their  like  never  was  nor 
will  be.  It  is,  to  one  horny -hearted 
"researcher,"  proof  enough  of  the  real- 
ity of  a  favorite  dreamlike  past,  that  one 
may  hang  over  the  annals  of  it,  as  it 
were  cum  luctu  et  ploratu.  It  is  an  appli- 
cation of  the  excellent  backhanded  argu- 
ment for  human  immortality  that  one 
clamors  so  to  find  a  certain  company 
again,  cum  gaudio  et  jucunditate  in  sem- 
piternum  I 

No,  Sir:  as  a  publisher,  you  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  me.  But  I  have 
advisedly  fired  phrases  and  feelings  at 
my  friend,  and  now,  having  done  so,  do 
heartily  bid  you  Farewell. 

"  NOW   WHO  SHALL  ARBI- 
TRATE ?  " 

I  OWE  it  to  myself  to  state  that  this  is 
my  first  plunge  into  the  Atlantic.  I  am 
generally  content  to  sit  on  the  shore  and 
watch  other  people  splashing  about,  but 
I  know  that  I  can  trust  the  editor  to  haul 
me  out  if  I  prove  that  I  cannot  swim. 

In  bringing  a  difference  of  opinion  be- 


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tween  my  wife  and  myself  to  the  Club 
for  arbitration  I  feel  that  I  am  submitting 
the  question  to  an  impartial  jury.  I  do 
not  apologize  for  the  personal  flavor  of 
my  grievances,  for  the  problem  is  one  of 
universal  interest,  and  touches  the  anti- 
quated controversy  concerning  the  rela- 
tive values  of  woman's  intuition  and 
man's  logic. 

I  will  call  my  wife  Cynthia,  in  order 
that  she  may  not  recognize  herself  should 
her  eye  chance  to  fall  on  words  so  un- 
worthy of  her  notice.  Cynthia  and  I  each 
have  but  a  single  complaint  against  the 
other,  —  a  pretty  good  record  as  married 
people  go,  or  don't  go,  nowadays.  She 
says  I  have  no  penetration,  and  I  in  turn 
quote  her  favorite  George  Meredith  at 
her,  and  exclaim,  "  Destroyed  by  subtle- 
ties these  women  are!  " 

She  claims  to  be  the  unique  possessor 
of  a  pair  of  invisible  antennae,  with  which 
she  can  feel  impressions  and  touch  the 
intangible. 

Now  when  I  meet  a  person  for  the  first 
time  I  size  him  up  by  his  conversation  — 
which  reveals  his  ideas  and  standards  — 
and  by  his  general  bearing  —  which  tells 
me  whether  he  is  a  gentleman  or  a 
mucker.  Not  so  Cynthia.  These  obvi- 
ous methods  are  not  for  her. 

In  my  business  I  am  thrown  with  all 
sorts  of  men,  mostly  good,  honest  fel- 
lows, —  gentlemen  I  call  them,  —  and  I 
often  bring  one  of  them  home  to  lunch ; 
and  then  when  I  see  Cynthia  at  dinner  I 
ask  her  what  she  thinks  of  my  friend. 

"  Did  n't  you  like  Robinson?"  I  ask 
encouragingly.  "  He's  a  bully  chap,  hon- 
est as  daylight." 

She  merely  raises  her  eyebrows. 

"  My  dear  Jack,  I  do  not  question  Mr. 
Robinson's  integrity,  —  but  have  you 
never  noticed  how  his  teeth  are  set  in  his 
gums  ?  No  gentleman  ever  has  teeth  like 
that,  —  they  are  sometimes  worse,  but 
never  just  like  that." 

I  feel  myself  to  be  a  coarse  clod  not  to 
have  noticed  Robinson's  teeth,  but  tak- 
ing heart  I  next  bring  home  my  friend 
Brown,  —  a  man  of  perfect  refinement 


according  to  my  gross  standards,  and 
with  a  set  of  teeth  which  Cynthia  duly 
disposes  of  as  "  too  good  to  be  true." 

"  Well,  how  about  Brown  ?  "  I  tenta- 
tively inquire.  "  Don't  you  think  he  is  a 
gentlemanly  fellow?  " 

"  Why  yes,  he  is  a  little  like  a  gentle- 
man," she  replies;  "but  his  hair,  Jack! 
it  grows  just  the  way  the  hair  of  clerks 
in  shoe-stores  grows,  —  right  up  out  of 
his  head.  It's  common." 

"  Aye,  madam,  it  is  common,"  I  cry 
with  Hamlet,  and  without  him  I  add, 
"It  is  very  common  indeed  for  hair  to 
grow  right  up  out  of  one's  head ; "  and  I 
feel  myself  to  have  been  very  clever,  in 
spite  of  Cynthia's  pitying  smile. 

Jones  is  then  brought  to  the  bar  of 
judgment  and  is  banished  to  the  limbo 
apparently  reserved  for  my  particular 
friends,  because,  forsooth,  he  answers 
Cynthia's  offer  of  salad  with  the  words, 
"  Thank  you,  not  any." 

Gray  committed  social  suicide  by  say- 
ing, "  Pardon  me,"  instead  of,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  —  apparently  an  unpar- 
donable offense  in  itself;  and  White, 
my  trump  card,  proved  himself,  if  not  a 
knave,  at  least  a  fool,  by  referring  casu- 
ally to  a  man  of  our  acquaintance  as  "  a 
gentleman  whom  we  all  know." 

In  my  masculine  stupidity,  I  asked 
Cynthia  one  day  to  call  on  my  partner's 
wife,  —  a  very  pretty  and  cultivated 
woman;  at  least  so  I  thought  till  Cyn- 
thia laid  invisible  tentacles  on  her. 

"Why,  my  poor  Jack,"  she  said  after 
her  call,  "  did  you  never  see  that  Mrs. 
Black  is  simply  veneered  ?  She  's  not 
solid  mahogany  at  all.  Her  'cultyour'  as 
she  calls  it,  keeps  peeling  off  and  showing 
the  raw  material  underneath.  Why, 
when  her  husband  introduced  me  to  her 
she  shook  hands  and  simply  said,  'Mrs. 
Green,'  and  added  that  she  was  glad  to 
see  me  in  her  home."  As  I  did  not  show 
due  horror  at  this  faux  pas,  Cynthia  con- 
tinued, "She  has  evidently  been  told  that 
perfect  ladies  make  three  distinct  words 
of  'notatalP  instead  of  running  them  all 
together  as  most  of  us  do,  and  that  it  is 


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431 


dictionary  elegance  to  speak  of  one's 
'nevew.'  Perhaps  you  would  have  been 
imposed  upon  by  those  trademarks  of 
acquired  cultivation,  but  I  should  have 
liked  her  much  better  if  she  had  remained 
the  nice,  simple  little  country  girl  nature 
intended  her  to  be." 

"Well,  but  her  husband,  now,"  I  be- 
gan. "  There's  no  pretense  about  him." 

"  Not  a  bit!  "  my  wife  rejoined  with 
misleading  heartiness.  "  He  wears  just 
the  kind  of  ring  that  railroad  conductors 
always  wear,  and  he  says  'culch-er' 
quite  frankly,  and  swallows  in  the  middle 
of  the  word;  besides,  no  one  that  tries 
to  cover  up  his  mouth  with  his  hand 
when  he  laughs  could  possibly  be  called 
pretentious." 

At  last  in  desperation  I  brought  home 
a  man  whose  business  path  sometimes 
crosses  mine.  He  has  not  the  strictest 
sense  of  honor,  nor  the  highest  regard  for 
truth,  nor  the  most  refined  brand  of 
humor  when  he  is  with  his  own  sex.  In 
fact,  he  is  a  man  whom  other  men  call  a 
cad,  yet  he  is  not  without  personal  attrac- 
tions, chief  among  which  is  an  enviable 
sense  of  ease  in  whatever  circle  he  finds 
himself,  —  particularly  if  that  circle  be 
largely  feminine.  This  specimen  I  cau- 
tiously submitted  to  Cynthia's  all-seeing 
eye. 

"  There!  "  she  exclaimed  almost  be- 
fore the  door  had  slammed  after  him, 
"  that  is  a  gentleman!  Oh  Jack,  don't 
you  feel  the  difference  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  a  man  like  that  can  say  things  that 
in  some  people  would  be  —  well,  almost 
questionable  —  and  yet  in  him  they're 
all  right  just  because  he  has  that  inde- 
finable something — " 

But  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "  He 
has  that  definable  something  which 
makes  every  man  who  knows  him  dis- 
trust him,"  I  began;  but  I  heard  her 
murmuring,  "Unconscious  jealousy," 
and  I  knew  that  my  words  would  be 
wasted. 

"  The  truth  is,  my  dear  Cynthia,"  I 
said  in  a  fatherly  tone,  but  without  caring 
to  meet  her  eye,  "you  are  like  all  of  your 


sex,  absolutely  illogical.  A  man  knows  a 
gentleman  when  he  sees  him  even  if  his 
teeth  do  grow  out  of  his  gums  and  his 
hair  out  of  his  head.  Men  are  better 
judges  of  human  nature  than  women." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  seri- 
ously place  a  man's  clumsy  reasoning 
above  a  woman's  delicate  intuitions  ?  " 
Cynthia  asked  incredulously. 

"  I  do,"  I  responded  heartily.  We 
seemed  to  be  on  the  edge  of  a  bona  fide 
quarrel. 

"  '  Now  who  shall  arbitrate  ? '  "  quoth 
Cynthia.  "  *  Ten  men  love  what  I  hate.'" 
When  she  wishes  to  annoy  me  particu- 
larly she  quotes  Browning  at  me. 

"  I  have  decided  to  submit  the  question 
to  a  Club  I  know  of,"  I  answered  grandly. 
"  It  is  composed  of  ladies  of  cultyour  and 
gentlemen  of  culch-er."  Then,  with  a 
sudden  stroke  of  genius,  I  added,  "  You 
have  probably  never  heard  of  the  Club ; 
your  invisible  antennae  don't  reach  so  far. 
It's  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic." 

DOGBERRY  IN  THE  COLLEGE 
CLASSROOM 

NEIGHBOUR  DOGBERRY  maintained 
that  "to  write  and  read  comes  by  nature "" 
—  but  everybody  knows  that  he  sought  to 
be  writ  down  an  ass.  Nowadays  college 
classes  in  rhetoric  and  literature  have 
their  Dogberrys  who  trust  to  natural  in- 
spiration and  whose  unconscious  humors 
ought  to  be  "condemned  into  everlasting 
redemption."  Not  long  ago  there  arose 
in  Freshman  English  some  discussion  of 
the  Baconian  theory.  Among  other  rea- 
sons it  was  suggested  that  it  was  improb- 
able that  Bacon  could  have  written 
Shakespeare's  plays  because  Bacon's 
known  works  are  deficient  in  humor.  A 
month  later,  when  it  was  necessary  "to 
examination  these  men,"  Dogberry's  pen 
and  inkhorn  "set  down  this  excommuni- 
cation : "  "  Bacon  had  no  sense  of  humor. 
If  he  should  come  to  life  now,  he  would 
think  it  no  joke  to  be  saddled  with  the 
authorship  of  Shakespeare's  plays."  It 
was  his  classmate,  Verges,  who  turned  an 


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innocent  comment  on  the  imperfections 
of  some  of  the  "pirated"  quartos  into  the 
assertion,  "Shakespeare's  quartos  are 
practically  worthless,  as  they  were  mostly 
written  by  pirates."  Nobody  to-day 
would  be  rash  enough  to  declare  that  ig- 
norance of  Biblical  allusions  is  confined 
to  any  one  class  of  college  undergradu- 
ates, but  it  was  surely  Dogberry  who  tried 
to  explain  Falstaff's  phrase,  "if  to  be 
fat  be  to  be  hated  then  Pharaoh's  lean 
kine  are  to  be  loved,"  by  answering,  "I 
don't  know  what  the  'lean  kine'  refers 
to,  but  faro  is  a  dangerous  gambling 
game."  Only  the  other  day  another  Dog- 
berry, asked  to  state  differences  between 
Byron's  story  of  "The  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon"  and  the  history  of  the  real  Bonni- 
vard,  replied,  "Byron's  prisoner  regained 
complete  liberty,  but  the  real  Bonnivard 
was  released  from  prison  only  to  be  mar- 
ried four  times." 

But  though  Dogberry  often  proves 
"the  most  senseless  and  fit  man"  for 
English  Literature,  he  is  perhaps  "most 
desartless"  in  the  field  of  rhetoric.  "Un- 
less we  are  careful,"  he  once  wrote, 
"Yale's  bygone  athletic  prowess  will  in 
the  future  become  a  thing  of  the  past." 
Local  tradition  has  handed  down  this  ex- 
cerpt from  a  Freshman  theme  on  "The 
Decay  of  Faith :"  "And  now  we  are  de- 
prived of  the  hope  of  a  future  life,  Hell 
being  a  myth."  Frequently  Dogberry's 
metaphors  are  as  "odorous"  as  his  com- 


parisons, as  once  when  he  wrote,  "Pro- 
fessor Blank's  indulgent  eye  and  friendly 
hand  have  gained  a  firm  footing  in  the 
hearts  of  all  undergraduates." 

Familiarity  with  Dogberry  in  the  class- 
room may,  indeed,  at  times  breed  doubt 
as  to  the  value  of  college  training,  but 
there  is  ignoble  satisfaction  in  discovering 
Dogberry's  tender  burgeons  already  ex- 
panding in  the  kindly  light  of  the  prepar- 
atory school.  A  June  college  entrance  ex- 
amination that  required  some  discussion 
of  the  reasons  for  terming  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  a  "  tragi-comedy  "  brought  forth 
these  responses :  "  The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice is  really  a  tragedy,  for  did  not  Shy- 
lock  have  to  become  a  Christian"?  — 
"Shy lock  did  n't  know  whether  he  pre- 
ferred his  daughter  or  his  ducats  —  that 
was  tragic  —  if  he  had  preferred  his 
daughter  that  would  have  been  comic;" 
—  "For  whom  had  Shy  lock  saved  his 
money  except  for  his  daughter,  and  for 
her  to  desert  him  under  the  circumstances 
was  worse  than  unnatural  —  it  was  a 
tragedy."  But  after  all,  why  should  not 
the  college  instructor  turn  gratefully  from 
the  sometimes  too  palpable  hits  of  the 
real  wits  of  his  classroom  to  the  bird- 
bolts  of  harmless  Dogberry s?  What 
matters  it  if  they  have  committed  false 
report,  have  spoken  untruths,  and  have 
verified  unjust  things!  It  would  be  "flat 
burglary  as  ever  was  committed  "  to  con- 
clude that  "  they  are  lying  knaves." 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 

OCTOBER,  1908 


EDUCATION  AND  THE  SOCIALISTIC  MOVEMENT 

BY    JOHN   BATES   CLARK 


IN  a  noteworthy  address  delivered  at 
Princeton  University,  President  Cleve- 
land expressed  the  hope  that  our  higher 
institutions  of  learning  would  range 
themselves  like  a  wall  barring  the  pro- 
gress of  revolutionary  doctrines.  If  one 
may  judge  by  appearances,  this  hope  has 
not  been  realized.  There  may  be  a 
smaller  percentage  of  educated  persons 
than  of  uneducated  ones  in  the  ranks  of 
radical  socialism.  Those  ranks  are  most 
readily  recruited  from  the  body  of  ill- 
paid  workingmen;  but  there  are  enough 
highly  educated  persons  in  them  to  prove 
that  socialism  and  the  higher  culture  are 
not  incompatible;  and  a  question  that  is 
well  worth  asking  and,  if  possible,  an- 
swering, is,  What  is  likely  to  be  the 
permanent  attitude  of  a  scientific  mind 
toward  the  claims  of  thoroughgoing  so- 
cialism? Will  it  be  generally  conserv- 
ative or  the  opposite  ?  Will  there  be  an 
alliance  between  intelligence  and  discon- 
tented labor  —  the  kind  of  union  that 
was  once  cynically  called  a  "  coalition 
of  universities  and  slums  "  ?  If  so,  it  will 
make  a  formidable  party. 

It  is  clear,  in  the  first  place,  that  the 
scientific  habit  of  thought  makes  one 
hospitable  to  new  ideas.  A  man  who 
cultivates  that  habit  is  open  to  conviction 
where  an  ignorant  person  is  not  so.  He 
is  accustomed  to  pursue  the  truth  and 
let  the  quest  lead  him  where  it  will.  He 
examines  evidence  which  appears  to  have 
force,  even  although  the  conclusion  to 
which  it  leads  may  be  new  and  unpleas- 
ant. 

Now,  at  the  very  outset  of  any  inquiry 
about  socialism,  there  appear  certain  un- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  4 


disputed  facts  which  create  a  prima  facie 
case  in  its  favor;  and  the  first  of  them 
is  the  beauty  of  the  ideal  which  it 
presents:  humanity  as  one  family;  men 
working  together  as  brethren,  and  enjoy- 
ing, share  and  share  alike,  the  fruits  of 
their  labor  —  what  could  be  more  at- 
tractive? There  will  be  an  abundance 
for  every  one,  and  as  much  for  the  weak 
as  for  the  strong;  and  there  will  be  no 
cause  for  envy  and  repining.  There  will 
be  fraternity  ensured  by  the  absence  of 
subjects  of  contention.  We  shall  love  our 
brethren  because  we  shall  have  no  great 
cause  to  hate  them ;  such  is  the  picture. 
We  raise  just  here  no  question  as  to  the 
possibility  of  realizing  it.  It  is  a  promised 
land  and  not  a  real  one  that  we  are  talk- 
ing about,  and  for  the  moment  we  have 
given  to  the  socialists  carte  blanche  to  do 
the  promising.  The  picture  that  they 
hold  up  before  us  certainly  has  traits  of 
beauty.  It  is  good  and  pleasant  for 
brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity  and 
in  abundance. 

Again,  there  is  no  denying  the  imper- 
fections of  the  present  system  both  on  its 
ethical  and  on  its  economic  side.  There 
is  enormous  inequality  of  conditions  — 
want  at  one  extreme  and  inordinate 
wealth  at  another.  Many  a  workingman 
and  his  family  are  a  prey  to  irregular 
employment  and  continual  anxiety.  For 
such  persons  what  would  not  a  leveling 
out  of  inequalities  do  ?  To  a  single  cap- 
italist personally  a  billion  dollars  would 
mean  palaces,  yachts,  and  a  regiment  of 
retainers.  It  would  mean  a  redoubling  of 
his  present  profusion  of  costly  decora- 
tions, clothing,  and  furnishings,  and  it 


434 


Ediication  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


would  mean  the  exhausting  of  ingenuity 
in  inventing  pleasures,  all  of  which,  by  a 
law  of  human  nature,  would  pall  on  the 
man  from  mere  abundance.  What  would 
the  billionaire  lose  by  parting  with  ninety- 
nine  one-hundredths  of  his  wealth  ?  With 
the  modest  ten  millions  that  would  be 
left  he  could  have  every  pleasure  and 
advantage  that  money  ought  to  purchase. 
What  would  not  the  sum  he  would  sur- 
render do  for  a  hundred  laborers  and 
their  families?  It  would  provide  com- 
forts for  something  like  half  a  million 
persons.  It  would  give  them  means  of 
culture  and  of  health,  banish  the  hunger 
spectre,  and  cause  them  to  live  in  mental 
security  and  peace.  In  short,  at  the  cost 
of  practically  nothing  for  one  man,  the 
redistribution  we  have  imagined  would 
translate  half  a  million  persons  to  a  com- 
fortable and  hopeful  level  of  life. 

Again,  the  growth  of  those  corpora- 
tions to  which  we  give  the  name  of 
"  trusts  "  has  lessened  the  force  of  one 
stock  argument  against  socialism,  and 
added  a  wholly  new  argument  in  its  favor. 
The  difficulty  of  managing  colossal  enter- 
prises formerly  stood  in  many  minds  as 
the  chief  consideration  against  national- 
ization of  capital  and  industry.  What 
man,  or  what  body  of  men,  can  possibly 
be  wise  and  skillful  enough  to  handle 
such  operations  ?  They  are  now,  in  some 
instances,  in  process  of  handling  them, 
and  those  who  wish  to  change  the  present 
order  tell  us  that  all  we  have  to  do  is 
to  transfer  the  ownership  of  them  to  the 
state,  and  let  them  continue  working  as 
they  do  at  present.  We  have  found  men 
wise  enough  to  manage  the  trusts,  and 
probably,  in  most  cases,  they  are  honest 
enough  to  do  so  in  the  interest  of  the 
stockholders.  On  the  question  of  honesty 
the  socialist  has  the  advantage  in  the 
argument,  for  he  will  tell  us  that  with  the 
private  ownership  of  capital  made  im- 
possible by  law,  the  temptation  to  dis- 
honesty is  removed.  If  the  socialistic 
state  could  be  warranted  free  from 
"graft/'  this  would  constitute  the  largest 
single  argument  in  its  favor. 


It  is,  indeed,  not  the  same  thing  to 
manage  a  myriad  of  industries  as  to  man- 
age a  single  one,  because  certain  nice 
adjustments  have  to  be  made  between 
the  several  industries,  and  we  shall  see 
what  this  difficulty  signifies;  but  as  we 
are  looking  only  at  prima  facie  claims, 
we  will  give  to  the  argument  from  the 
existence  of  trusts  all  the  force  that  be- 
longs to  it. 

As  the  difficulty  of  nationalizing  pro- 
duction has  been  reduced,  the  need  of  it 
has  been  increased,  for  the  trusts  are 
becoming  partial  monopolies,  able  to 
raise  prices,  reduce  wages,  cheapen  raw 
materials,  and  make  themselves,  if  they 
shall  go  much  farther  in  this  line,  alto- 
gether intolerable.  Indeed,  the  single 
fact  of  the  presence  of  private  monopoly, 
and  the  lack  of  any  obvious  and  sure  plan 
of  successfully  dealing  with  it,  has  been 
enough  to  convert  a  multitude  of  intelli- 
gent men  to  the  socialistic  view. 

Here,  then,  is  a  list  of  arguments  mak- 
ing an  effective  case  for  socialism:  the 
beauty  of  its  ideal,  the  glaring  inequali- 
ties of  the  present  system,  the  reduction 
of  the  difficulty  of  managing  great  indus- 
tries through  public  officials,  the  growing 
evils  of  private  monopoly,  and  the  pre- 
ference for  public  monopoly  as  a  mode 
of  escape.  They  captivate  a  multitude  of 
persons,  and  it  is  time  carefully  to  weigh 
them.  It  is  necessary  to  decide  whether 
the  promises  of  the  socialistic  state  are 
to  be  trusted.  Would  the  ideal  mate- 
rialize ?  Is  it  a  substantial  thing,  within 
reachable  distance,  or  is  it  a  city  in  the 
clouds  ?  If  it  is  not  wholly  away  from  the 
earth,  is  it  on  the  delectable  mountains 
of  a  remote  millennium  ?  Is  it  as  wholly 
desirable  as  it  at  first  appears  ? 

There  are  some  considerations  which 
any  educated  mind  should  be  able  to 
grasp,  which  reduce  the  attractiveness  of 
the  socialistic  ideal  itself.  Shall  we  trans- 
form humanity  into  a  great  band  of 
brethren  by  abolishing  private  property  ? 
Differences  of  wealth  which  now  excite 
envy  would,  of  course,  be  removed.  The 
temptation  to  covetousness  would  be  re- 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


435 


duced,  since  there  would  not  be  much 
to  covet.  There  would  be  nothing  a  man 
could  do  with  plunder  —  unless  he  could 
emigrate  with  it.  Would  "  hatred  and 
all  uncharitableness  "  be  therefore  com- 
pletely absent,  or  would  they  be  present 
in  a  form  that  would  still  make  trouble  ? 

Even  though  there  would  be  no  differ- 
ences of  possessions  between  man  and 
man,  there  would  be  great  differences  in 
the  desirability  of  different  kinds  of 
labor.  Some  work  is  safe  and  some  is 
dangerous.  Some  is  agreeable  and  some 
is  disagreeable.  The  artist,  the  author, 
the  scientist,  the  explorer,  and  the  in- 
ventor take  pleasure  in  their  work;  and 
that  is  not  often  to  be  said  of  the  stoker, 
the  grinder  of  tools,  the  coal-miner,  or  the 
worker  in  factories  where  explosives  or 
poisons  are  made.  It  is  not  to  be  said  of 
any  one  who  has  to  undergo  exhausting 
labor  for  long  hours.  In  industries  man- 
aged by  the  state  there  would  be  no  prac- 
ticable way  of  avoiding  the  necessity  of 
assigning  men  to  disagreeable,  arduous, 
unhealthful,  or  dangerous  employments. 
Selections  of  men  for  such  fields  of  labor 
would  in  some  way  have  to  be  made,  and 
those  selected  for  the  undesirable  tasks 
would  have  to  be  held  to  them  by  public 
authority.  Well  would  it  be  if  the  men  so 
consigned,  looking  upon  the  more  fortu- 
nate workers,  were  not  good  material  for 
an  army  of  discontent.  Well  would  it  be 
if  their  discontent  were  not  turned  into 
suspicion  of  their  rulers  and  charges  of 
favoritism  in  personal  treatment.  There 
would  not  be,  as  now,  an  abstraction 
called  a  "  system,"  on  which,  as  upon  the 
camel's  back,  it  would  be  possible  to 
load  the  prevalent  evils.  Strong  in  the 
affections  of  the  people  must  be  the  per- 
sonnel of  a  government  that  could  sur- 
vive the  discontent  which  necessary  ine- 
qualities of  treatment  would  excite. 
Would  the  government  be  likely  to  be 
thus  strong  in  popular  affection?  We 
may  judge  as  to  this  if  we  look  at  one 
further  peculiarity  of  it. 

The  pursuit  of  wealth  now  furnishes 
the  outlet  for  the  overmastering  ambition 


of  many  persons.  In  the  new  state,  the 
desire  to  rise  in  the  world  would  have 
only  one  main  outlet,  namely,  politics. 
The  work  of  governing  the  country,  and 
that  of  managing  its  industries,  would  be 
merged  in  one  great  official  body.  The 
contrast  between  rulers  and  ruled  would 
be  enormously  heightened  by  this  con- 
centration of  power  in  the  hands  of  the 
rulers,  and  by  the  further  fact  that  the 
ruled  would  never  be  able,  by  means  of 
wealth,  to  acquire  an  offset  for  the  advan- 
tages of  office-holding.  The  desire  for 
public  position  must  therefore  be  intens- 
ified. 

There  would  be  some  prizes  to  be 
gained,  in  a  worthy  way,  by  other  kinds 
of  service,  such  as  authorship,  invention, 
and  discovery;  but  the  prizes  which 
would  appeal  to  most  men  would  be 
those  of  officialdom.  Is  it  in  reason  to 
suppose  that  the  method  of  securing  the 
offices  would  then  be  better  than  it  is  at 
present?  Would  a  man,  under  the  new 
regime,  work  quietly  at  his  task  in  the 
shoe-shop,  the  bakery,  or  the  mine,  wait- 
ing for  the  office  to  which  he  aspired  to 
seek  him  out,  or  would  he  try  to  make 
terms  with  other  men  for  mutual  assist- 
ance in  the  quest  of  office  ?  Would  rings 
be  less  general  than  they  are  now  ?  Could 
there  fail  to  be  bosses  and  political  ma- 
chines ?  Would  theTammanys  of  the  new 
order,  then,  be  an  improvement  on  the 
Tammanys  of  the  old  order  ?  To  the  sober 
second  thought  which  mental  training 
ought  to  favor,  it  appears  that  the  claim 
of  the  socialistic  state  to  a  peculiar  moral 
excellence  brought  about  by  its  equality 
of  possessions  needs  a  very  thorough 
sifting. 

Without  making  any  dogmatic  asser- 
tions, we  may  say  that  there  would 
certainly  have  to  be  machines  of  some 
sort  for  pushing  men  into  public  offices, 
and  that  these  would  have  very  sinister 
possibilities.  They  would  be  opposed  by 
counter  machines,  made  up  of  men  out 
of  office  and  anxious  to  get  in.  "I  am 
able  to  see,"  said  Marshal  MacMahon, 
when  nearing  the  end  of  his  brief  presi- 


436 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


dency  of  the  French  Republic,  "  that 
there  are  two  classes  of  men,  —  those  who 
command  and  those  who  must  obey." 
If  the  demarcation  were  as  sharp  as  that 
in  actual  society,  and  if  the  great  prizes 
in  life  were  political,  brief  indeed  might 
be  the  tenure  of  place  by  any  one  party, 
and  revolutions  of  more  than  South 
American  frequency  might  be  the  normal 
state  of  society.  One  may  look  at  the 
ideal  which  collectivism  presents,  with  no 
thought  of  such  dangers;  but  it  is  the 
part  of  intelligence  at  least  to  take  ac- 
count of  them. 

Besides  the  fact  that  some  would  be  in 
office  and  others  out,  and  that  some  would 
be  in  easy  and  desirable  trades  and  others 
in  undesirable  ones,  there  would  be  the 
further  fact  that  some  would  live  in  the 
city  and  some  in  the  country,  and  that 
the  mere  localizing  of  occupations  would 
afford  difficulty  for  the  ruling  class  and 
be  a  further  cause  of  possible  discontent. 
But  a  much  more  serious  test  of  the  ca- 
pacity of  the  government  would  have  to 
be  made  in  another  way.  Very  nice  ad- 
justments would  have  to  be  made  be- 
tween agriculture  on  the  one  hand,  and 
manufactures  and  commerce  on  the 
other;  and  further  adjustments  would 
have  to  be  made  between  the  different 
branches  of  each  generic  division.  All 
this  would  be  done,  not  automatically  as 
at  present,  by  the  action  of  demand  and 
supply  in  a  market,  but  by  the  voluntary 
acts  of  officials.  Here  is  the  field  in 
which  the  wisdom  of  officials  would  be 
overtaxed.  They  might  manage  the  mills 
of  the  steel  trust,  but  it  would  trouble 
them  to  say  how  many  men  should  be 
employed  in  that  business  and  how  many 
in  every  other,  and  of  the  men  in  that 
generic  branch,  how  many  should  work 
in  Pittsburg  and  how  many  in  the  mines 
of  Michigan  and  Minnesota. 

A  fine  economic  classic  is  the  passage 
in  which  Bishop  Whately  describes  the 
difficulty  of  provisioning  the  City  of  Lon- 
don by  the  action  of  an  official  commis- 
sariat, and  contrasts  it  with  the  perfec- 
tion with  which  this  is  now  done  without 


such  official  control.  Individuals,  each 
of  whom  seeks  only  to  promote  his  own 
interest,  work  in  harmony,  prevent  waste, 
and  secure  the  city  against  a  lack  of  any 
needed  element.  Far  greater  would  be 
the  contrast  between  satisfying  by  public 
action  every  want  of  a  nation,  and  doing 
this  by  the  present  automatic  process; 
and  yet  crude  thought  even  calls  com- 
petition "  chaotic,"  and  calls  on  the 
state  to  substitute  an  orderly  process. 
Into  that  particular  error  discriminating 
thought  will  not  readily  fall. 

Difficulties  which  a  discerning  eye  per- 
ceives, and  an  undiscerning  one  neglects, 
thus  affect  the  conclusion  that  is  reached 
as  to  whether  a  socialistic  plan  of  indus- 
try could  or  could  not  be  made  to  work. 
Ignorance  does  not  so  much  as  encounter 
the  real  difficulties  in  the  case,  but  lightly 
assumes  that  the  plan  would  work,  and  is 
eager  to  try  it.  I  am  not,  here  and  now, 
claiming  that  the  difficulties  cited  posi- 
tively prove  that  the  scheme  would  not 
work.  Granting  now,  for  the  sake  of 
further  argument,  that  it  could  be  made 
to  work,  —  that  on  the  political  side  it 
would  proceed  smoothly  and  peaceably, 
and  that  on  the  economic  side  it  would 
run  on  no  fatal  rocks,  —  would  it  give 
a  material  result  worth  having  ? 

Here  is  a  chance  for  a  wider  range 
of  difference  between  the  conclusions  of 
different  minds.  There  are  three  specific 
consequences  of  the  socialistic  plan  of  in- 
dustry, each  of  which  is  at  least  possible; 
and  a  prospect  that  all  of  them  would 
occur  together  would  suffice  to  deter 
practically  every  one  from  adhering  to 
this  plan.  Estimates  of  the  probability  of 
these  evils  will  vary,  but  that  each  one  of 
the  three  is  possible,  is  not  to  be  denied. 
Of  these  results,  the  first  is,  on  the  whole, 
the  gravest.  It  is  the  check  that  socialism 
might  impose  on  technical  progress.  At 
present  we  see  a  bewildering  succession 
of  inventions  transforming  the  industries 
of  the  world.  Machine  after  machine 
appears  in  rapid  succession,  each  displac- 
ing its  predecessor,  working  for  a  time 
and  giving  way  to  still  better  devices. 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


437 


The  power  of  man  over  nature  increases 
with  amazing  rapidity.  Even  in  the  rela- 
tively simple  operations  of  agriculture,  the 
reaper,  the  thresher,  the  seeder,  and  the 
gang-plough  enable  a  man  to-day  to  do 
as  much  work  as  could  a  score  of  men  in 
the  colonial  period  of  American  history. 
In  manufacturing,  the  gain  is  greater; 
and  in  transportation,  it  is  indefinitely 
greater.  The  progress  goes  on  without 
cessation,  since  the  thing  which  guaran- 
tees it  is  the  impulse  of  self-preservation. 
An  employer  must  improve  his  mechan- 
ism if  his  rivals  do  so.  He  must  now  and 
then  get  ahead  of  his  rivals  if  he  is  to 
make  any  profit.  Conservatism  which 
adheres  to  the  old  is  self-destruction,  and 
a  certain  audacity  affords  the  nearest 
approach  to  safety.  From  this  it  comes 
about,  first,  that  forward  movements  are 
made  daily  and  hourly  in  some  part  of 
the  field;  and,  secondly,  that  with  every 
forward  movement  the  whole  procession 
must  move  on  to  catch  up  with  its  new 
leader. 

Now,  it  is  possible  to  suppose  that 
under  socialism  an  altruistic  motive  may 
lead  men  to  make  inventions  and  discov- 
eries. They  may  work  for  the  good  of 
humanity.  The  desire  for  distinction  may 
also  impel  them  to  such  labors,  and  non- 
pecuniary  rewards  offered  by  the  state 
may  second  this  desire.  The  inventive 
impulse  may  act  even  where  no  reward  is 
in  view.  Men  will  differ  greatly  in  their 
estimates  of  the  amount  of  progress  that 
can  be  gained  in  this  way ;  but  the  thing 
that  may  be  affirmed  without  danger  of 
denial  is,  that  the  competitive  race  abso- 
lutely compels  progress  at  a  rate  that  is 
inspiringly  rapid,  and  that  there  is  much 
uncertainty  as  to  the  amount  of  progress 
that  would  be  secured  where  other  mo- 
tives are  relied  on.  Officialdom  is  gen- 
erally unfavorable  to  the  adoption  of 
improved  devices,  even  when  they  are 
presented;  its  boards  have  frequently 
been  the  graveyards  of  inventions,  and 
there  is  no  blinking  the  uncertainty  as  to 
whether  a  satisfactory  rate  of  improve- 
ment could  be  obtained  where  the  meth- 


ods of  production  should  be  at  the  mercy 
of  such  boards.  The  keener  the  intelli- 
gence the  more  clearly  it  will  perceive 
the  importance  of  progress,  and  the  im- 
measurable evil  that  would  follow  any 
check  upon  it ;  the  more  also  it  will  dread 
every  cause  of  uncertainty  as  to  the 
maintenance  of  the  present  rate  of  im- 
provement. 

An  important  fact  concerning  competi- 
tive industry  is  the  ease  with  which  new 
technical  methods  translate  themselves, 
first  into  temporary  profits  for  employers, 
and  then  into  abiding  returns  for  other 
classes.  The  man  who  introduces  an 
efficient  machine  makes  money  by  the 
means  until  his  competitors  get  a  similar 
appliance,  after  which  the  profit  vanishes. 
The  product  of  the  machine  still  enriches 
society,  by  diffusing  itself  among  the 
people  in  the  shape  of  lower  prices  of 
goods.  The  profit  from  any  one  such 
device  is  bound  to  be  temporary,  while 
the  gain  that  comes  from  cheap  goods  is 
permanent.  If  we  watch  some  one  indus- 
try, like  shoemaking  or  cotton-spinning, 
we  find  profits  appearing  and  vanishing, 
and  appearing  again  and  vanishing  again. 
If  we  include  in  our  vision  the  system  as  a 
whole,  we  find  them  appearing  now  in 
one  branch  of  industry,  now  in  another, 
and  now  in  still  another,  shifting  forever 
their  places  in  the  system,  but  always 
present  somewhere.  Steel,  cotton,  wool, 
machinery,  or  flour,  takes  its  turn  in  af- 
fording gains  to  its  producer,  and  these 
gains  constitute  the  largest  source  of  ad- 
ditions to  capital.  These  natural  profits 
in  themselves  burden  nobody.  Not  only 
is  there  in  them  no  trace  of  exploitation 
of  labor,  but  from  the  very  start  the  in- 
fluence that  yields  the  profit  improves 
the  condition  of  labor,  and  in  the  end 
labor,  as  the  greatest  of  all  consumers, 
gets  the  major  benefit.1 

1  A  fuller  treatment  of  this  subject  would 
take  account  of  the  incidental  evils  which  in- 
ventions often  cause,  by  forcing  some  persons 
to  change  their  employments,  and  would  show 
that  these  evils  were  once  great  but  are  now 
smaller  and  destined  to  diminish. 


438 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


Now,  an  important  fact  is  that  such 
profits  based  on  improved  technical  pro- 
cesses naturally,  and  almost  necessarily, 
add  themselves  to  capital.  The  employer 
wishes  to  enlarge  his  business  while  the 
profits  last  —  "to  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines."  He  has  no  disposition  to 
spend  the  income  which  he  knows  will  be 
transient,  but  has  every  disposition  to 
enlarge  the  scale  of  his  operations  and 
provide  a  permanent  income  for  the 
future.  Easily,  naturally,  painlessly,  the 
great  accretions  of  capital  come;  mainly 
by  advances  in  technical  operations  of 
production. 

In  the  socialistic  state  all  the  incomes 
of  the  year  would  be  pooled.  They  would 
make  a  composite  sum  out  of  which 
every  one's  stipend  would  have  to  be 
taken.  There  would  be  no  special  and 
personal  profit  for  any  one.  The  gains 
that  come  from  improved  technique 
would  not  be  distinguishable  from  those 
that  come  from  other  sources.  Every  one 
would  be  a  laborer,  and  every  one  would 
get  his  daily  or  weekly  stipend;  and  if 
capital  had  to  be  increased,  —  if  the 
needs  of  an  enlarging  business  had  to  be 
provided  for  at  all,  —  it  could  only  be 
done  by  withholding  some  part  of  that 
stipend.  It  would  be  an  unwelcome  way 
of  making  accumulations.  It  would  mean 
the  conscious  acceptance  by  the  entire 
working  class  of  a  smaller  income  than 
might  otherwise  be  had.  If  one  has  heroic 
confidence  in  the  far-seeing  quality  and 
in  the  generous  purpose  of  the  working 
class,  he  may  perhaps  think  that  it  will 
reconcile  itself  to  this  painful  self-denial 
for  the  benefit  of  the  future;  but  it  is 
clear  that  there  are  large  probabilities  in 
the  other  direction.  There  is  danger  that 
capital  would  not  be  thus  saved  in  suffi- 
cient quantity,  and  that,  if  it  were  not  so, 
no  power  on  earth  could  prevent  the 
earning  capacity  of  labor  from  suffering 
in  consequence.  From  mere  dearth  of 
capital  the  socialistic  state,  though  it 
were  more  progressive  than  we  think, 
would  be  in  danger  of  becoming  poorer 
and  poorer. 


There  is  another  fact  concerning  the 
present  system  which  a  brief  study  of 
economics  brings  to  every  one's  attention, 
and  which  has  a  very  close  connection 
with  the  outlook  for  the  future  of  labor- 
ers. It  is  the  growth  of  population.  The 
Malthusian  doctrine  of  population  main- 
tains that  increased  wages  are  followed 
by  a  quick  increase  in  the  number  of  the 
working-people,  and  that  this  brings  the 
wages  down  to  their  former  level.  On 
its  face  it  appears  to  say  that  there  is  not 
much  hope  of  permanent  gains  for  labor, 
and  it  was  this  teaching  which  was 
chiefly  responsible  for  giving  to  political 
economy  the  nickname  of  the  "  dismal 
science."  It  is  true  that  the  teachings  of 
Malthus  contain  a  proviso  whereby  it  is 
not  impossible  under  a  certain  condition 
that  the  wages  of  labor  may  perma- 
nently increase.  Something  may  raise 
the  standard  of  living  more  or  less  per- 
manently, and  this  fact  may  nullify  the 
tendency  of  population  to  increase  un- 
duly. Modern  teachings  make  the  ut- 
most of  this  saving  proviso,  and  show  that 
standards  have  in  fact  risen,  that  fam- 
ilies of  the  well-to-do  are  smaller  than 
those  of  empty-handed  laborers,  and  that, 
with  advancing  wages  based  on  enlarged 
producing  power,  the  workers  may  not 
see  their  gains  slipping  from  their  hands 
in  the  old  Malthusian  fashion,  but  may 
hold  them  more  and  more  firmly.  Pro- 
gress may  cause  further  progress. 

Now,  socialism  proposes  to  place  fam- 
ilies in  a  condition  resembling  that  in 
which,  in  American  history,  the  natural 
growth  has  been  most  rapid,  the  condi- 
tion, namely,  in  which  children  are  main- 
tained without  cost  to  parents,  as  they 
were  when  they  lived  on  farms  and  were 
set  working  at  an  early  age.  If  this 
should  mean  that  the  old  Malthusian  law 
would  operate  in  the  socialistic  state, 
the  experiment  would  be  hopelessly 
wrecked.  If  the  state  provides  for  child- 
ren from  their  birth  to  the  end  of  their 
lives,  the  particular  influence  that  puts 
a  check  on  the  size  of  families  will  be  ab- 
sent. One  may  not  affirm  with  positive- 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


439 


ness  that  the  worst  form  of  Malthusian- 
ism  would  actually  operate  under  social- 
ism; nothing  but  experiment  will  give 
certain  knowledge  in  this  particular;  but 
what  a  little  discernment  makes  perfectly 
certain  is,  that  there  would  be  danger  of 
this. 

Quite  apart,  then,  from  political  un- 
certainties, three  coordinate  influences 
on  the  purely  economic  side  must  be 
taken  full  account  of  by  anybody  who 
would  intelligently  advocate  the  nation- 
alizing of  production.  They  are:  first, 
the  probable  check  on  technical  progress ; 
secondly,  the  difficulty  encountered  in 
enlarging  capital ;  and  thirdly,  the  possi- 
ble impetus  to  the  growth  of  population. 
If  the  first  two  influences  were  to  work 
without  the  other,  socialism  would  mean 
that  we  should  all  slowly  grow  poor  to- 
gether; and  if  the  third  influence  were 
also  to  operate,  we  should  grow  poor 
very  rapidly. 

We  have  not  proved,  as  if  by  incon- 
testable mathematics,  that  socialism  is 
not  practicable  and  not  desirable.  We 
have  cited  facts  which  lead  a  majority 
of  persons  to  believe  this.  The  unfavor- 
able possibilities  of  socialism  bulk  large 
in  an  intelligent  view,  but  positive  proof 
as  to  what  would  happen  in  such  a  state 
can  come  only  through  actual  experience. 
Some  country  must  turn  itself  into  an 
experimental  laboratory  for  testing  the 
collective  mode  of  production  and  dis- 
tribution, before  the  world  can  definitely 
know  what  that  process  would  involve. 
In  advance  of  this  test,  there  is  a  line  of 
inquiry  which  yields  a  more  assured  con- 
clusion than  can  any  estimate  of  a  state 
which,  as  yet,  is  imaginary.  It  is  the 
study  of  the  present  industrial  system 
and  its  tendencies.  When  we  guess  that 
the  collective  management  of  all  produc- 
tion by  the  state  would  fail  to  work,  and 
would  lead  to  poverty  even  if  it  suc- 
ceeded in  working,  we  are  met  by  those 
who  guess  it  would  succeed  and  lead  to 
general  abundance;  and  they  will  cer- 
tainly claim  that  their  guesses  are  worth 
as  much  as  ours.  As  to  the  tendencies 


of  the  present  state,  and  the  outlook  they 
afford,  it  is  possible  to  know  much  more. 
The  testimony  of  facts  is  positive  as  to 
some  things,  and  very  convincing  as  to 
others. 

No  one  is  disposed  to  deny  the  daz- 
zling series  of  technical  improvements 
which  the  rivalries  of  the  present  day  en- 
sure. There  is  not  only  progress,  but  a 
law  of  progress;  not  only  the  product- 
ive power  that  we  are  gaining,  but  the 
force  that,  if  allowed  to  work,  will  for- 
ever compel  us  to  gain  it.  There  is  no 
assignable  limit  to  the  power  that  man 
will  hereafter  acquire  over  nature.  Again 
and  again,  in  the  coming  years  and  cent- 
uries, will  the  wand  of  inventive  genius 
smite  the  rock  and  cause  new  streams  of 
wealth  to  gush  forth;  and,  as  already 
said,  much  of  this  new  wealth  will  take 
naturally  and  easily  the  form  of  capital. 
It  will  multiply  and  improve  the  tools 
that  labor  works  with;  and  a  fact  which 
science  proves  is  that  the  laborer,  quite 
apart  from  the  capitalist,  thrives  by  the 
operation.  He  gets  higher  and  higher 
pay  as  his  method  of  laboring  becomes 
more  fruitful.  It  is  as  though  he  were 
personally  bringing  for  his  own  use  new 
streams  front  the  rock;  and  even  though 
this  worker  were  striking  a  landlord's 
rock  with  a  capitalist's  hammer,  the  new 
stream  could  not  fail  to  come  largely  to 
himself. 

Mere  labor  will  have  increasing  power 
to  create  wealth,  and  to  get  wealth,  as  its 
methods  improve  and  its  tools  more  and 
more  abound.  This  will  not  transform 
the  workingman's  whole  life  in  a  day  — 
it  will  not  instantly  place  him  where  the 
rubbing  of  a  lamp  will  make  genii  his 
servants,  but  it  will  give  him  to-morrow 
more  than  he  gets  to-day,  and  the  day 
after  to-morrow  still  more.  It  will  en- 
able his  own  efforts  to  raise  him  surely, 
steadily,  inspiringly,  toward  the  condi- 
tion of  which  he  dreams.  It  will  throw 
sunshine  on  the  future  hills  —  substan- 
tial and  reachable  hills,  though  less  bril- 
liant than  pictured  mountains  of  cloud- 
land. 


440 


Education  and  the  Socialistic  Movement 


Well  within  the  possibilities  of  a  gen- 
eration or  two  is  the  gain  that  will  make 
the  worker  comfortable  and  care-free. 
Like  the  village  blacksmith,  he  may  "  look 
the  whole  world  in  the  face  "  with  inde- 
pendence, but  with  no  latent  enmity. 
Manly  self-assertion  there  may  be,  with 
no  sense  of  injury.  The  well-paid  laborer 
may  stand  before  the  rich  without  envy, 
as  the  rich  will  stand  before  him  without 
pity  or  condescension.  It  may  be  that 
the  condition  described  by  Edward  At- 
kinson, in  which  it  "  will  not  pay  to  be 
rich  "  because  of  the  cares  which  wealth 
must  bring,  may  never  arrive.  It  will  al- 
ways be  better  to  have  something  than  to 
have  nothing;  but  it  may,  at  some  time, 
be  better  to  have  relatively  little  than  to 
have  inordinately  much;  and  the  worker 
may  be  able  to  come  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  state  in  which,  for  him,  comforts 
are  plentiful  and  anxieties  are  scarce. 
Amid  a  vast  inequality  of  mere  posses- 
sions, there  may  be  less  and  less  of  in- 
equality of  genuine  welfare.  Many  a 
man  with  a  modest  store  may  have  no 
wish  to  change  lots  with  the  multimil- 
lionaire. For  comfortable  living,  for  high 
thinking,  and  for  the  finer  traits  of  hu- 
manity, the  odds  may  be  in  his  favor. 

In  such  a  state  there  might  easily  be 
realized  a  stronger  democracy  than  any 
which  a  leveling  of  fortunes  would  bring. 
Pulling  others  down  that  we  may  pull 
ourselves  up  is  not  a  good  initial  step  in 
a  regime  of  brotherhood ;  but  raising  our- 
selves and  others  together  is  the  very  best 
step  from  the  first  and  throughout.  And 
the  fraternity  which  comes  in  this  way  is 
by  far  the  finer,  because  of  inequality  of 
possessions.  If  we  can  love  no  man  truly 
unless  we  have  as  much  money  as  he  has, 
our  brotherly  spirit  is  of  a  very  peculiar 
kind,  and  the  fraternity  that  would  de- 
pend on  such  a  leveling  would  have  no 
virility.  It  would  have  the  pulpy  fibre  of 
a  rank  weed,  while  the  manlier  brother- 
hood that  grows  in  the  midst  of  inequal- 
ity has  the  oaken  fibre  that  endures.  The 
relatively  poor  we  shall  have  with  us,  and 
the  inordinately  rich  as  well;  but  it  is  in 


the  power  of  humanity  to  project  its  fra- 
ternal bonds  across  the  chasms  which 
such  conditions  create.  Though  there  be 
thrones  and  principalities  in  our  earthly 
paradise,  they  will  not  mar  its  perfection, 
but  will  develop  the  finer  traits  of  its 
inhabitants. 

This  state  is  the  better  because  it  is 
not  cheaply  attained.  There  are  diffi- 
culties to  be  surmounted,  which  we  have 
barely  time  to  mention  and  no  time  to 
discuss.  One  of  the  greatest  of  these  is 
the  vanishing  of  much  competition.  The 
eager  rivalry  in  perfecting  methods  and 
multiplying  products,  which  is  at  the 
basis  of  our  confidence  in  the  future, 
seems  to  have  here  and  there  given  place 
to  monopoly,  which  always  means  apathy 
and  stagnation.  We  have  before  us  a 
struggle  — a  successful  one,  if  we  rise 
to  the  occasion  —  to  keep  alive  the  essen- 
tial force  of  competition;  and  this  fact 
reveals  the  very  practical  relation  which 
intelligence  sustains  to  the  different  pro- 
posals for  social  improvement.  It  must 
put  us  in  the  way  of  keeping  effective  the 
mainspring  of  progress  —  of  surmount- 
ing those  evils  which  mar  the  present 
prospect.  Trained  intelligence  here  has 
its  task  marked  out  for  it :  it  must  show 
that  monopoly  can  be  effectively  at- 
tacked, and  must  point  out  the  way  to  do 
it  —  a  far  different  way  from  any  yet 
adopted.  Our  people  have  the  fortunes 
of  themselves,  their  children,  and  their 
children's  children,  in  their  own  hands. 
Surely,  and  even  somewhat  rapidly,  may 
the  gains  we  have  outlined  be  made  to 
come  by  united  effort  guided  by  intelli- 
gent thought. 

It  requires  discernment  to  estimate 
progress  itself  at  its  true  value.  John 
Stuart  Mill  made  the  remark  that  no 
system  could  be  worse  than  the  present 
one,  if  that  system  did  not  admit  of  im- 
provement. This  remark  could  be  made 
of  any  system.  However  fair  a  social 
state  might  at  the  outset  appear,  it 
would  be  essentially  bad  if  it  could 
never  change  for  the  better.  The  soci- 
ety in  which  efficient  methods  supplant 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ? 


441 


inefficient  ones,  and  in  which  able  direct- 
ors come  naturally  into  control  of  pro- 
duction, ensures  a  perpetual  survival  of 
excellence,  and  however  low  might  be 
the  state  from  which  such  a  course  of 
progress  took  its  start,  the  society  would 
ultimately  excel  any  stationary  one  that 
could  be  imagined.  A  Purgatory  actu- 
ated by  the  principle  which  guarantees 
improvement  will  surpass,  in  the  end,  a 
Paradise  which  has  not  this  dynamic 
quality.  For  a  limited  class  in  our  own 
land  —  chiefly  in  the  slums  of  cities  — 
life  has  too  much  of  the  purgatorial  qual- 
ity; for  the  great  body  of  its  inhabitants 
the  condition  it  affords,  though  by  no 
means  a  paradise,  is  one  that  would  have 


seemed  so  to  many  a  civilization  of  the 
past  and  to  many  a  foreign  society  of 
to-day.  On  its  future  course  it  is  start- 
ing from  a  high  level,  and  is  moved  by 
a  powerful  force  toward  an  ideal  which 
will  some  day  be  a  reality,  and  which  is 
therefore  inspiring  to  look  upon,  even  in 
the  distance. 

Like  Webster,  we  may  hail  the  advanc- 
ing generations  and  bid  them  welcome 
to  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  our  own, 
and  promises  to  grow  fairer  and  fairer 
forever.  That  this  prospect  be  not  im- 
periled —  that  the  forces  that  make  it  a 
reality  be  enabled  to  do  their  work  —  is 
what  the  men  of  the  future  ask  of  the 
intelligence  of  to-day. 


IS  AN  HONEST  NEWSPAPER   POSSIBLE? 


BY   A   NEW   YORK   EDITOR 


CAN  a  newspaper  tell  its  readers  the 
plain,  unflattering  truth  and  pay  its  way  ? 
All  the  truth  they  are  entitled  to  know, 
that  is;  for  a  good  many  things  occur 
which  are  none  of  the  public's  business, 
and  these  a  newspaper  cannot  discuss 
without  grossly  infringing  private  rights. 
It  seems  a  large  statement  to  make,  and 
six  years  ago  it  would  not  have  been  true, 
but  there  are  the  most  hopeful  indica- 
tions that  we  have  now  a  sufficient  public 
thirst  for  truth  to  guarantee  a  market  for 
such  a  newspaper. 

A  newspaper  is  a  business  enterprise. 
In  view  of  the  cost  of  paper  and  the  size 
of  each  issue,  tending  to  grow  larger, 
every  copy  is  printed  at  a  loss.  A  one- 
cent  newspaper  costs  six  mills  for  paper 
alone.  In  other  words,  the  newspaper 
cannot  live  without  its  advertisers.  It 
would  be  unfair  to  say  that  there  are 
no  independent  journals  in  the  United 
States;  there  are  many;  but  it  must  al- 
ways be  remembered  that  the  advertisers 
exercise  an  enormous  power  which  only 


the  very  strongest  can  refuse  to  recog- 
nize. 

If  a  newspaper  has  such  a  circulation 
that  complete  publicity  can  be  secured 
only  by  advertising  in  its  columns,  what- 
ever its  editorial  policy  may  be,  the  ques- 
tion is  solved.  Nevertheless,  within  the 
past  three  years  the  department  stores 
have  combined  to  modify  the  policy  of 
at  least  three  New  York  daily  news- 
papers. One  of  the  most  extreme  and 
professedly  independent  of  these  news- 
papers, always  taking  the  noisiest  and 
most  popular  line,  with  the  utmost  ex- 
pressed deference  to  labor  unions,  with- 
drew its  attack  upon  the  traction  com- 
panies during  the  time  of  the  Subway 
strike,  on  the  threatened  loss  of  its  de- 
partment-store advertising.  It  has  never 
dared  to  criticise  such  a  store  for  dis- 
missing employees  who  attempted  to 
form  a  union.  In  other  words,  this  paper 
is  not  independent,  and  in  the  last  an- 
alysis is  governed  by  its  advertisers. 

But  suppose  a  paper  with  an  exhaust- 


442 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ? 


ive  news-service,  which  should  publish 
editorials  sound  economically,  attractive 
in  form,  easily  read  and  understood  by 
the  man  in  the  street,  treating  all  classes 
fairly,  with  always  a  single  eye  on  that 
true  liberty  which  can  be  secured  only 
by  eternal  vigilance.  A  glance  at  some 
half-dozen  representative  daily  papers  of 
New  York  will  illustrate  what  is  wanted, 
by  the  mere  process  of  elimination;  while 
the  comparison  will  broaden  the  point 
of  view.  It  should  always  be  premised 
that  a  newspaper  possesses  a  soul  of  its 
own,  something  more  than  the  aggre- 
gate result  of  all  the  work  of  all  the 
men  who  work  on  its  staff.  The  paper's 
tradition  alone  will  modify  the  product 
of  any  man  who  writes  for  it,  save  only 
one  whose  personality  is  so  dominant  as 
to  give  the  paper  something  of  his  own 
character,  like  Greeley  with  the  Tribune, 
or  Bowles  with  the  Springfield  Republi- 
can. 

A  typical  New  York  newspaper,  taken 
from  a  number  lying  before  me  as  I 
write,  has  at  least  the  potentiality  of  be- 
ing a  very  good  morning  daily.  Its  for- 
eign news  is  exceptionally  ample,  and 
apparently  well  handled  at  the  sending 
end.  It  is,  however,  very  badly  edited, 
giving  every  indication  that  the  news  here 
is  consigned  to  the  hands  of  some  one 
who  has  not  had  the  indispensable  pre- 
paration of  residence  and  work  abroad. 
There  is  obvious  inability  to  translate 
European  thought  into  American  terms. 
The  home  news  is  fairly  well  handled, 
but  not  better  than  that  of  the  paper's 
competitors.  The  editorial  policy  is  emi- 
nently fair.  It  is  considerate  to  adversa- 
ries, chary  of  personalities,  and  evident- 
ly inspired  by  definite  and  fairly  sound 
economic  principles.  What  is  lacking, 
both  in  the  news  and  editorial  depart- 
ments, is  the  note  of  authority.  The 
main  editorials  and  the  feeble  financial 
article  are  all  futile  argument.  They 
might  do  tolerably  well  if  there  were 
some  single  directing  mind  to  coordinate 
each  separate  editorial  writer's  work, 
but  apparently  there  is  nothing  of  the 


kind.  The  consequence  is  that  the  edi- 
torials, like  the  foreign  cables,  look  as  if 
they  had  been  put  in  with  a  shovel.  The 
editorials  have  one  distinct  merit,  how- 
ever, which  will  be  worth  considering  fur- 
ther on.  They  are  mercifully  short. 

Another  specimen,  which  may  be  pro- 
nounced without  hesitation  by  far  the 
most  interesting  of  the  morning  dailies, 
bristles  with  accreted  peculiarities  of  its 
own.  The  news  is  handled  with  the 
single  idea  of  making  it  thoroughly  read- 
able, and,  moreover,  readable  by  exacting 
critics.  Some  of  the  reporting  is  of  a 
very  high  quality  indeed.  The  reader  lays 
down  the  paper  with  an  almost  guilty 
feeling  that  he  has  wasted  his  time  over 
a  column  and  a  half  of  brilliant  nonsense 
about  an  event  with  a  news-value  of  ten 
lines.  The  most  striking  vice  of  the  edi- 
torials at  first  glance  is  that  they  are  al- 
together too  long.  This  remark  applies 
to  the  financial  article,  good  as  it  is,  and 
carrying,  as  the  rest  of  the  paper  does, 
the  indispensable  note  of  authority.  The 
paper  unfortunately  mars  itself  by  its 
persistence  in  a  bad  tradition.  It  has 
acquired  enmities  throughout  its  exist- 
ence, and  apparently  when  once  acquired 
these  are  never  for  a  moment  forgotten. 
Most  public  men  require  the  personal 
method  at  some  time  in  their  career,  but 
this  treatment  should  be  done  in  the' 
interest  of  the  public  question  in  hand, 
and  not  weakened  by  any  trace  of  per- 
sonal malice.  The  example  before  us, 
however,  cannot  speak  of  any  one  of 
scores  of  public  men  without  a  sneer. 
The  result  is  a  cheaply  cynical  tone, 
much  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  newspaper 
which,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  is 
inferior  to  few  published  in  the  English 
language.  One  consequence  of  this  pre- 
judice is  that  the  just  suffer  with  the  un- 
just. The  reformer,  who  is  often  a  hum- 
bug and  usually  a  bore,  is  condemned 
unheard  because  some  of  his  kind  are 
always  in  line  for  the  pillory. 

In  point  of  honesty  of  purpose  and 
high  ideal,  one  of  the  evening  newspa- 
pers occupies  a  position  of  its  own.  It  is 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible? 


443 


most  conscientiously  edited,  and  appeals 
strongly  to  what  unfortunately  must  ever 
be  a  limited  intellectual  class.  Its  con- 
tributors take  their  work  very  seriously, 
which  is  as  it  should  be.  They  take  them- 
selves very  seriously  also,  which  is  bad 
policy  anywhere,  and  almost  suicidal  in 
a  city  where  the  sense  of  humor  has  be- 
come a  vice.  Nevertheless  the  economics 
and  ethics  of  the  editorial  page  are  ad- 
mirable. Here  again  the  editorials  are 
too  long,  while  the  tendency  to  preach 
is  frequently  apparent.  It  is  not  an  un- 
natural result,  but  it  is  scarcely  calcu- 
lated to  sell  the  newspaper. 

Fortunately  the  machine  newspaper  is 
passing  out  of  existence,  and  the  one 
specimen  left  lives  upon  its  once  great 
reputation.  Its  home  news  is  not  badly 
done,  and  is  often  presented  in  a  more 
readable  way  than  that  of  some  of  its 
competitors.  Its  foreign  correspondence 
is  sometimes  above  the  usual  news-serv- 
ice of  that  kind,  is  attractively  written, 
and  up  to  a  very  fair  standard  of  news- 
value.  Its  editorial  page  is  simply  the 
endorsement  of  the  policy  of  one  party 
machine.  There  is  not  an  editorial  in  it 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end  which  any- 
body would  feel  obliged  to  read.  There 
is,  moreover,  the  vice  of  taking  a  column 
or  more  to  present  an  attenuated  thought 
in  a  commonplace  fashion.  The  still 
graver  sin  is  the  presence  in  the  news 
columns  of  matter  which  would  only 
appear  among  the  advertisements  of  an 
independent  newspaper,  if  it  appeared 
at  all.  The  financial  page  is  beneath 
contempt. 

Much  more  dangerous,  because  much 
more  widely  read,  is  the  last  remaining 
specimen  of  uncompromising  "  yellow." 
Its  news  is  extremely  poor.  It  consists 
of  the  bare  Associated  Press  service 
warmed  up  into  cheaply  sensational 
forms;  with  a  minimum  of  special  re- 
porting, presented  with  the  maximum 
of  splash.  Noisy  methods  in  fact  are 
used  to  such  an  extent  that  the  thing 
becomes  one  continuous  -shriek.  Every 
item  of  news  is  accompanied  by  its  own 


yell,  with  such  a  resultant  confusion  of 
noise  that  nothing  really  makes  itself 
heard.  The  editorials  are  occasionally 
able,  and  almost  always  utterly  without 
scruple  or  principle.  The  appeal  to  class 
hatred,  the  anti-British  sentiment  of  the 
Irish,  the  anti-capitalist  sentiment  of  the 
labor-unionist,  the  hatred  of  the  orderly 
administration  of  justice,  always  latent 
in  the  ignorant  and  discontented,  all 
these  are  used  in  a  way  which  would  dis- 
grace the  most  rabid  Parisian  political 
journal,  without  a  tithe  of  the  French 
paper's  literary  merit.  The  comic  de- 
partment is  made  much  of,  and  the  car- 
toons, while  quite  as  unscrupulous  as  the 
rest  of  the  paper,  are  often  true  and  con- 
stantly amusing. 

That  such  a  condition  as  this  is  not 
hopeless  is  shown  by  the  career  of  a 
morning  issue  formerly  of  the  same  yel- 
low type,  but  now  in  a  very  fair  way  to 
reform.  Its  news  is  really  well  handled, 
and  is  moreover  condensed  without  los- 
ing its  readable  qualities.  The  editorials 
also  come  nearer  the  ideal  than  those  of 
other  newspapers  of  a  more  pretentious 
character.  There  has  been  a  tendency 
to  lengthen  them  lately,  which  is  to  be 
regretted,  and  the  editorial  attitude  on 
Wall  Street  is  not  merely  a  serious  mis- 
take in  policy,  but  shows  an  abounding 
ignorance  of  economics  in  which  only 
the  proprietor  of  the  paper  could  possibly 
afford  to  indulge.  Still  the  production 
as  a  whole  is  good,  and  in  a  fair  way  to 
become  better. 

A  last  example  is  also  the  best-handled 
business  proposition  in  the  New  York 
newspaper  group.  The  one  object  in 
fact  is  to  sell  the  paper.  The  news  is  dis- 
played to  considerable  advantage.  It  is 
collected  with  expenditure  and  enter- 
prise. The  shipping  news  is  unequaled 
anywhere.  The  whole  is  set  out  in  a  form 
which  the  most  ignorant  can  understand, 
and  it  has  some  qualities  occasionally 
which  are  by  no  means  despicable.  It  isi 
in  the  editing  that  the  chief  vice  lies.  The 
whole  paper  is  an  appeal  to  an  essentially 
ignorant  class,  because  that  class  will 


444 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ? 


buy  more  papers  and  will  consequently 
warrant  more  advertising.  This  is  the 
respectable  competitor  of  the  yellow  jour- 
nal. It  writes  down  to  the  level  of  self- 
satisfied  ignorance,  deliberately  and  for 
the  money  in  it.  Its  editorial  page  is  a 
flabby,  popularity-hunting  appeal,  with- 
out conviction  or  dignity.  The  editorials 
are  not  worth  the  name.  They  convey 
the  impression  that  the  writer  is  trying 
to  say  exactly  what  he  has  been  told  to 
say,  irrespective  of  his  own  beliefs,  and 
is  moreover  so  afraid  of  breaking  his 
instructions  that  he  does  not  dare  even  to 
use  vigorous  English.  It  need  hardly  be 
said  that  the  paper  will  cater  to  any  fad 
likely  to  secure  popularity,  while  posing 
always  as  the  ideal  family  newspaper. 
There  has  been  a  compulsory  alignment 
to  decency  in  the  advertising  department 
lately,  but  some  of  the  advertisements, 
notably  those  of  swindling  stock-tipsters, 
are  a  disgrace  to  a  self-respecting  news- 
paper. 

What  is  the  broad  lesson  to  be  drawn 
from  these  concrete  examples?  What  is 
the  one  general  deduction  from  all  these 
particulars?  It  is  that  no  newspaper  of 
the  New  York  group  (and  we  have  taken 
the  half-dozen  with  any  pretense  to  wide 
popular  appeal)  unites  the  two  indispen- 
sable qualities  of  popularity  and  author- 
ity. Here  we  have  heard  at  least  one 
voice  crying  in  the  wilderness,  one  smoth- 
ered under  a  blanket  of  self-conscious 
rectitude,  one  choked  with  childish  spite 
and  petulance,  one  crying  out  an  old 
man's  perversity,  and  two  crying  a  mes- 
sage from  the  devil  or  no  message  at  all. 
But  our  newspaper  must  have  real  tech- 
nical merit.  It  must  make  itself  widely 
heard.  It  must  speak  as  one  with  author- 
ity, putting  certain  axiomatic  principles 
of  economics  and  morals  as  assumed  and 
sealed,  written  forever  on  the  two  tables 
of  stone. 

The  newspaper-reading  public  is  large- 
ly of  newspaper  creation.  People  read 
the  newspaper  for  what  they  expect  to 
find  in  it.  Even  up  to  the  time  of  the 
life-insurance  revelations,  everybody  was 


fairly  contented  with  the  editorial  cer- 
tainty that  we  were  the  wisest,  richest, 
most  powerful,  most  intelligent,  most 
prosperous,  best  governed,  and  greatest 
people  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Pro- 
vided the  national  vanity  was  tickled, 
and  the  occasional  absolutely  necessary 
pill  was  sugar-coated,  public  opinion  was 
satisfied. 

It  is  exactly  this  sort  of  stuff  which  has 
made  the  present  problem  so  important 
and  so  difficult.  Except  for  obvious  party 
purposes,  it  is  only  recently  that  news- 
papers have  begun  to  point  out  the  ex- 
treme extravagance  and  incompetence  of 
our  triple  form  of  government,  munici- 
pal, state,  and  federal.  Our  inability  to 
enforce  the  laws  we  make  is  only  a  little 
less  ridiculous  than  some  of  the  laws 
themselves.  We  have  begun  to  find  this 
out,  and  at  present  the  wisest,  richest, 
el  cetera,  is  engaged  in  the  dignified  occu- 
pation of  thumping  the  table  because  it 
has  bumped  its  childish  head  against  it. 

There  is  nothing  which  is  not  in- 
stantly and  statistically  demonstrable  in 
the  statement,  that,  so  far  as  the  great 
majority  of  our  voting  population  is 
concerned,  the  only  teacher  in  America 
to-day  is  the  newspaper.  In  our  census 
returns,  something  like  sixty  per  cent  of 
the  population  makes  no  statement  as  to 
its  religious  opinions,  or  denies  the  pos- 
session of  them  altogether.  The  average 
man  is  in  fact  not  a  regular  attendant  at 
church,  and  certainly  not  in  such  degree 
that  he  can  depend  upon  his  religious 
instructors  for  guidance  in  right  princi- 
ples. 

What  our  colleges  are  asked  to  do  is 
to  turn  out  young  men  who  can  start  out 
to  earn  money  as  soon  as  possible.  We 
lack  leisure  for  that  refined  and  satisfy- 
ing scholarship  to  which  we  owe  most  of 
what  is  best  in  our  literature.  A  glance 
at  the  ethics  of  our  legal  profession,  at 
its  endless  abuses,  its  premium  on  dis- 
honesty, and  its  hopeless  inefficiency  in 
the  respect  which  makes  delay  a  denial 
of  justice,  will  disclose  the  object  of  a 
great  part  of  our  so-called  higher  educa- 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ? 


445 


tion.  We  demand  something  "  practical" 
from  our  colleges,  and  we  translate  the 
word  in  the  universal  term  of  dollars  and 
cents. 

And  yet  we  have  a  people  to  deal  with 
who  are  thirsting  for  the  truth.  Any  man 
with  a  message  can  obtain  a  hearing.  It 
is  not  the  people's  fault  if  he  is  often  more 
ignorant  than  they  are,  and  merely  a 
little  noisier.  They  want  to  learn.  They 
can  be  approached  in  mass  in  various 
ways.  One  way  is  the  public  meeting. 
Another  is  the  popular  newspaper. 

I  say  popular  advisedly,  because  we 
live  in  a  country  where  we  decide  all 
questions,  however  abstruse  and  tech- 
nical, by  counting  noses.  It  is  our  con- 
stitutional privilege,  and  if  we  have 
adopted  a  system  which  regards  the  nose 
as  more  important  than  the  brain  behind 
it,  the  only  problem  is  how  to  make  the 
best  of  our  materials.  We  have  to  remem- 
ber that  we  are  dealing  with  a  voting 
population  which,  in  the  fundamentals  of 
logical  reasoning,  knowledge  of  constitu- 
tional law,  and  strict  training  in  ethics, 
is  about  as  ignorant  as  could  well  be 
imagined  in  a  country  with  any  com- 
pulsory system  of  education  at  all. 

This  is  of  course  an  extremely  unpopu- 
lar thing  to  say,  and  often  the  newspaper 
editor,  instead  of  saying  it,  must  con- 
tent himself  with  paying  general  compli- 
ments. If  his  proprietors  do  not  choose 
to  face  facts,  he  does  his  full  duty  in 
avoiding  friction. 

In  the  past  ten  years  nature  has  blessed 
our  soil  abundantly.  We  have  won  the 
cheap  glory  of  the  Spanish  war.  We  have 
seen  an  enormous  increase  in  oppor- 
tunities for  investment,  and  especially 
in  speculative  projects.  Up  to  the  last 
few  months  we  have  had  excellent  wages, 
with  regular  work  made  possible  in  al- 
most all  callings.  These,  and  many  other 
considerations  like  them,  have  tended  to 
develop  the  worst  and  most  dangerous 
case  of  national  swelled  head  known  in 
history. 

The  reasoning  that  because  something 
happened  first  it  was  the  cause  of  what 


happened  afterwards,  is  used  with  cumu- 
lative effect  in  giving  us  a  good  conceit  of 
ourselves.  It  is  superficially  good  edi- 
torial policy  to  ascribe  all  our  blessings 
to  the  result  of  our  combined  wisdom  and 
common  sense.  We  are  therefore  told, 
with  a  frequency  which  is  becoming  al- 
most cloying,  that  we  licked  the  Spanish 
because  such  wonderful  people  as  we 
are  could  lick  anybody.  In  the  same 
diplomatically  shallow  way,  we  are  told 
that  our  wasteful  methods  of  exacting 
everything  from  the  soil  and  putting  as 
little  as  possible  back,  are  wise,  in  view 
of  the  illimitable  resources  of  a  country 
which  we  have  not  only  inhabited  but, 
presumably,  created. 

Short-sighted  friends  of  the  editor  warn 
him  not  to  tell  the  people  the  truth 
about  themselves.  The  American  people 
are  sensitive  to  criticism.  If  an  intelligent 
foreigner  comes  here,  the  first  thing  we 
ask  him  is  what  he  thinks  of  America. 
We  ask  for  a  criticism,  but  we  want  and 
expect  a  compliment.  If  he  does  not 
at  once  give  us  more  of  the  windy  diet 
we  are  accustomed  to,  we  say  what  we 
think  of  him.  We  draw  the  just  inference 
that  he  is  jealous  of  our  superior  merits. 
We  even  make  our  one  unanswerable, 
but  ill-bred,  retort  to  a  criticism  we  have 
asked  for :  we  say  that  if  he  thinks  there 
is  anything  better  elsewhere,  he  had  bet- 
ter return  to  his  own  country. 

And  yet  the  people  want  to  be  told  the 
truth,  and  God  knows  they  never  needed 
it  so  much.  We  may  accuse  certain  mag- 
azines of  muck-raking.  It  is  a  popular 
phrase  with  a  large  number  of  people 
who  never  heard  of  the  second  part  of 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress;  who  think  the 
Man  with  the  Muck-rake  appears  in  the 
first  part,  and  who  do  not  know  in  the 
least  what  the  parable  signifies.  And  yet, 
with  all  their  excesses,  these  magazines 
are  doing  very  tangible  good.  They  are 
not  shouting  for  mob  rule ;  they  are  ask- 
ing for  the  enforcement  of  the  law.  We 
have  carried  disobedience  to  law,  civil, 
criminal,  religious,  and  moral,  to  a  fine 
point  of  perfection. 


446 


Is  an  Honest  Newspaper  Possible  ? 


Yet  we  must  not  tell  the  every-day 
American  citizen  that  he  is  alternately 
hysterical  and  criminally  indifferent.  One 
of  his  teachers  out  in  Oregon  proposes 
that  there  should  be  a  "  referendum,**  or 
popular  vote,  as  a  last  appeal  from  the 
decisions  of  the  highest  courts  in  the 
country.  This  is  to  say  that,  after  a 
question  has  been  decided  by  the  trained 
jurist,  weighing  the  most  delicate  points 
of  equity,  constitutionality,  common  law, 
and  abstract  justice,  there  must  be  an 
appeal  to  a  voting  mob,  not  one  member 
of  which  would  be  fitted  to  pass  upon  the 
case  at  all.  The  reasoning  is  logical. 
Public  opinion  can  settle  simple  little 
questions  like  national  currency  or  bank- 
ing. Why  not  leave  matters  of  this  kind 
in  the  same  safe  hands  ?  It  is  the  expe- 
dient of  a  well-known  cycle  of  newspapers 
published  from  New  York,  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, Chicago,  and  elsewhere.  The  man 
whose  opinion  would  not  be  taken  on  the 
problem  of  whitewashing  his  neighbor's 
back  fence  is  told  inferentially  what  a 
clever  fellow  he  is,  and  how  adequate  is 
his  intelligence  for  the  settlement  of  every 
question,  however  difficult. 

One  most  important  gain  up  the  line 
of  intelligence  and  independence  in  the 
past  ten  years  has  been  so  broad  that  it 
almost  escapes  notice.  The  newspapers 
are  largely  responsible,  but  as  the  process 
has  been  to  some  extent  unconscious, 
they  need  not  receive  too  much  credit. 
Less  than  ten  years  ago,  what  was  called 
"  party  regularity  '*  was  the  standard  for 
voters.  Exceptions  were  called  mug- 
wumps, sore-heads,  cranks,  and  anything 
else,  to  indicate  a  person  who  arrogantly 
persisted  in  doing  his  own  thinking.  The 
ideal  in  fact  was  the  voter  who  "  cast  his 
first  vote  for  Lincoln  "  and  had  voted  the 
straight  Republican  ticket,  irrespective 
of  its  composition,  in  every  election,  fed- 
eral, state,  and  municipal,  since  1860. 
It  was  the  Democrat  with  a  like  idea  of 
his  responsibilities  as  a  citizen  who  did 
more  to  establish  Tammany  Hall  than 
all  the  floaters  who  ever  colonized  the 
East  Side. 


Of  course  such  a  voter  was  exactly 
what  the  corrupt  party  boss  wanted,  but 
it  is  only  in  the  past  decade  that  teaching 
has  borne  fruit  in  those  great  protectors 
of  the  public  pocket,  the  independent 
newspaper  and  the  split  ballot.  It  might 
almost  be  said  that,  where  party  regu- 
larity was  the  rule,  there  is  now  but 
one  out-and-out  machine  newspaper  re- 
maining in  New  York.  The  rest  are  no 
doubt  broadly  of  one  camp  or  another. 
But  there  are  plenty  of  Republicans  the 
Press  does  not  like,  and  it  says  so;  and 
the  Times  does  not  hesitate  to  tell  its 
readers  to  vote  for  Hughes  in  preference 
to  an  undesirable  Democrat. 

Here  is  an  admirable  evidence  of  the 
public  demand  for  the  truth,  and  of  the 
growth  of  that  demand  in  the  past  few 
years.  No  doubt  the  exposures  in  the 
magazines  have  helped,  but  it  is  the 
independent  voter  who  is  killing  the 
bosses.  They  are  paralyzed  when  they 
are  no  longer  in  a  position  to  "deliver 
the  goods.'*  The  old  "  party-regularity  " 
voter  ensured  that  one  boss  or  the  other 
would  stay  in  power.  After  that,  it  was 
only  a  matter  of  a  simple  and  corrupt  deal 
between  the  two  bosses. 

It  should  be  plain  that  what  the  public 
wants  is  an  independent  newspaper.  The 
reader  will  tolerate,  and  like,  any  amount 
of  teaching  tactfully  and  modestly  of- 
fered. He  will  not  be  preached  at  or  bul- 
lied. It  is  really  rather  a  matter  of  di- 
recting public  thought  up  right  lines  than 
of  indicating  new  and  experimental  pol- 
icies. The  newspaper,  indeed,  should  be 
critical  rather  than  constructive.  Our 
constitution  provides  for  three  distinct 
functions  of  government,  —  legislative, 
judicial,  and  executive;  and  it  is  the  duty 
of  what  is  correctly  called,  in  England, 
the  fourth  estate  of  the  realm,  to  provide 
the  fourth  necessity,  healthy  criticism 
for  all  three. 

It  follows  that  a  newspaper  may  criti- 
cise a  verdict  or  a  decision  of  the  courts, 
but  must  not  meddle  with  the  proper  and 
lawful  handling  of  a  case  on  trial.  In 
this  respect  nothing  could  do  more  good 


Chicago  Spiders 


447 


than  a  term  of  imprisonment  for  the  next 
editor  who  constitutes  his  readers  a  jury 
on  a  criminal  case  pending  before  the 
courts,  and  publishes  their  verdict  on  his 
paper's  evidence.  Can  one  imagine  any- 
thing that  would  more  surely  defeat  the 
ends  of  justice?  In  the  same  way,  the 
newspaper  should  watch  where  corrupt 
legislation  can  be  defeated,  in  order  to 
drag  it  out  into  that  dry  light  where  the 
air  is  always  too  strong  for  its  lungs.  The 
legislators  must  do  the  rest,  and  it  is  the 
business  of  the  newspaper  to  hold  them 
to  their  duty. 

In  like  manner,  the  fullest  publicity  is 
one  of  the  most  valuable  checks  upon  the 
acts  of  any  executive  officer.  We  know 
that  the  balance  was  most  delicately  ad- 
justed by  the  framers  of  the  Constitution, 
and  in  this  department  there  is  a  con- 
tinual tendency  to  usurp  the  functions  of 
the  other  two.  Nothing  could  be  better 
for  political  morals  than  the  way  in  which 
newspapers  have  emphasized  the  correct 
attitude  of  Governor  Hughes  in  confining 
himself  strictly  to  his  business,  holding 
the  other  departments  of  our  constitu- 


tional government  strictly  responsible  for 
theirs. 

Here,  then,  is  what  the  public  wants: 
a  newspaper  which  treats  its  reader  not 
as  a  child  or  a  sage,  neither  as  a  hero  nor 
as  a  fool,  but  as  a  person  of  natural  good 
instincts  and  average  intelligence,  amen- 
able to  reason,  and  one  to  be  taught  tact- 
fully to  stand  upon  his  own  feet,  rather 
than  to  take  his  principles  ready-made 
from  his  teacher.  What  an  ideal!  A 
paper  which  gives  the  senator  and  the 
shop-girl  what  they  both  want  to  read 
and  are  the  better  for  reading.  A  comic 
cut,  if  its  moral  lesson  is  true,  is  an  edi- 
torial with  the  blessing  of  God. 

Only  millionaires  can  start  newspa- 
pers. It  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all  ways  to 
avoid  dying  rich.  It  should  be  possible, 
however,  to  take  a  newspaper  of  standing, 
and  remodel  it  gradually  up  these  lines. 
The  market  for  excellence  is  inexhaust- 
ible, and  this  country  is  plainly  begin- 
ning to  see  the  sterling  market-value  of 
common  honesty.  Allied  with  brains  and 
common  sense,  it  is  the  mainspring  of 
moral  progress. 


CHICAGO  SPIDERS 


BY   CHARLES   D.    STEWART 


BEING  a  spider  in  Chicago  is  a  very 
unsatisfactory  vocation.  In  the  evening, 
when  it  is  time  to  take  down  the  old  web 
and  put  up  the  new,  a  spider  will  gather 
a  section  into  a  ball  or  skein  that  is  posi- 
tively black,  and  kick  it  out  behind  him 
into  the  street  below  as  if  he  were  dis- 
gusted with  such  a  grimy  mess.  It  is  so 
bulky  with  dirt  that  a  small  piece  of  web 
makes  a  large  armful  for  him.  And  after 
the  new  one  has  been  spread  for  an  hour 
or  two,  its  sticky  filaments  are  so  coated 
with  particles  of  atmosphere  that  it  will 
hardly  catch  anything  else.  Only  by  go- 
ing through  a  sort  of  jumping-jack  per- 


formance can  a  Chicago  spider  manage 
to  make  a  fly  stick. 

Whether  a  country  spider,  with  a 
whole  garden  fence  at  his  disposal,  takes 
down  his  old  web,  I  do  not  know,  though 
it  would  seem  that  there  he  could,  by 
merely  moving  a  foot  or  two,  save  him- 
self all  the  work;  but  in  Chicago,  where 
corner  locations  are  the  most  valuable,  — 
especially  the  corners  of  windows  where 
house  flies  long  to  enter,  —  and  where 
each  corner  is  preempted  by  a  particular 
spider,  the  taking  down  of  the  old  web  is 
necessary  to  the  greatest  daily  profit.  It 
pays  better  than  to  move. 


448 


Chicago  Spiders 


A  Chicago  spider  can  take  down  a  web 
and  put  up  another  in  about  twenty  min- 
utes—  and  from  this  I  am  anxious  to 
have  the  reader  infer  that  the  daily  pre- 
sence of  a  great  number  of  them  does 
not  mean  a  neglected  window.  If  any  one 
thinks  his  household  guiltless  in  this  re- 
gard, let  him  observe  his  own  window 
closely.  I  daresay  he  will  find  this  story 
sumptuously  illustrated. 

Before  I  was  laid  on  a  bed  by  a  win- 
dow and  tied  down  as  firmly  as  any  Gul- 
liver by  Chicago  pygmies,  most  of  whom 
belonged  to  the  tribe  of  Typhus,  I  would 
have  considered  it  poor  employment  for 
any  man  to  enter  into  the  affairs  of  crea- 
tures so  much  smaller  than  himself.  But 
they  did  shrewd  things  before  my  eyes 
every  day,  and  when  I  began  to  under- 
stand, I  became  interested ;  and  thus,  for 
three  weeks,  I  found  myself  bound  out 
to  the  trade. 

It  was  the  jumping-jack  trick  that  I 
first  discovered  and  appreciated.  The 
spider,  sitting  patiently  at  the  focus  of 
his  elastic  wheel  with  all  legs  on  the  lines, 
is  in  telegraphic  communication  with 
every  part  of  it ;  and  now  let  a  fly  so  much 
as  flutter  a  filament,  and  the  spider  jumps 
up  and  down  as  if  he  were  trying  to  shake 
the  whole  structure  from  its  moorings. 
This  bounces  the  fly  till  he  has  his  feet 
solidly  on  the  line,  and  perhaps  tangled 
in  other  lines.  After  taking  this  precau- 
tion, the  spider,  if  he  has  been  lucky,  runs 
out  and  ties  up  his  victim  in  the  usual 
bundle,  ready  to  carry.  He  does  up  a  fly 
like  a  turkey  trussed  and  ready  for  the 
table. 

To  one  who  has  had  a  motionless  and 
half-forgotten  spider  in  his  eye  for  an 
hour  or  so,  this  sudden  exhibition  of 
vigor  in  jumping  up  and  down  is  start- 
ling. He  does  it  as  if  he  were  in  a  great 
fit  of  temper.  From  this  practice  it  is 
evident  that  he  cannot  depend  upon  the 
web  alone  to  catch  the  prey,  and  hold  it 
long  enough  for  him  to  get  out  to  it.  The 
web  is  not  merely  a  stationary  snare,  like 
a  tree  with  birdlime  on  it,  but  a  contriv- 
ance that  may  be  operated  personally  by 


the  spider  as  a  trap.  The  structure, 
being  elastic,  works  up  and  down  when 
he  jumps,  so  that  each  row  of  lines  tra- 
verses at  least  the  distance  between  it 
and  the  next  row  of  lines.  Thus,  despite 
the  open  spaces  between  them,  he  is  virt- 
ually in  possession  of  the  whole  plane  of 
space,  for  anything  with  air-disturbing 
wings  can  hardly  pass  through  it  with- 
out sending  in  an  alarm  and  being 
caught.  All  spiders,  I  suppose,  know 
this  trick  of  the  trade;  but  a  Chicago 
spider  must  stick  to  his  post  and  prac- 
tice it  in  every  case.  If  he  did  not,  his 
daily  catch  would  be  all  soot  and  no 
flies. 

The  same  spiders  did  not  occupy  the 
window  throughout  the  three  weeks ;  but 
with  the  exception  of  one  red  spider  who 
came  along  and  seemed  very  doubtful 
about  setting  to  work,  they  were  all  of 
one  kind,  big  and  little.  This  auburn- 
hued  spider  was  more  slender  and  shapely 
—  not  so  fat  and  commercial-looking  as 
the  others.  There  were  little  spiders  who 
spun  little  webs  of  such  fineness  that  they 
were  visible  only  when  the  sun  fell  just 
right  on  the  glinting  new  gossamer;  and 
for  over  a  week  a  very  big  fellow,  with  a 
yellow  hieroglyph  on  him  like  gold  bul- 
lion on  the  back  of  a  priest,  held  sway  in 
webs  a  foot  across.  He  sat  with  his  back 
toward  the  room,  whereas  most  of  them 
made  a  practice  of  keeping  their  under 
sides  toward  the  window.  In  this,  there 
seems  to  be  a  difference  in  practice;  but 
all  of  them  sit  upside  down  —  head 
downwards  —  invariably. 

I  discovered,  to  my  own  satisfaction  at 
least,  why  a  spider  sits  in  his  web  upside 
down.  A  spider  has  eight  legs,  besides  a 
very  short  pair  in  front  which  are  more 
like  arms;  but  in  truth  a  spider's  legs  are 
all  fingers,  and  he  needs  as  many  as  pos- 
sible to  handle  his  prey.  Were  he  to  sup- 
port himself  right-side-up  in  grappling 
with  a  victim,  it  would  require  four  of  the 
legs  merely  to  hold  him  in  that  position, 
for  he  would  have  to  grasp  more  than  one 
thread ;  but  he  can  hang  head-downwards 
with  only  the  one  hind  pair  of  legs,  and 


Chicago  Spiders 


449 


have  all  the  rest  free  to  handle  the  prey 
before  him.  His  hind  pair  of  legs  extend 
almost  straight  behind  him  for  the  pur- 
pose of  being  his  sole  support  in  such 
cases ;  and  because  he  is  built  in  this  way, 
in  order  to  cope  successfully  with  other 
insects,  the  upside-down  attitude  is  his 
easiest  way  of  staying  on  watch.  It  is  his 
most  restful  position. 

One  of  the  big  spiders  was  one  day 
surprised  by  a  chrysalis  that  fell  down 
from  some  place  into  his  web.  It  turned 
out  to  be  a  very  windfall  of  fortune,  for 
the  luscious  larva  was  quite  to  his  taste. 
At  least,  he  examined  it  thoroughly,  and 
kept  it,  as  if  he  were  satisfied  with  what 
he  found  inside  of  the  cocoon.  It  was  al- 
most as  long  as  himself,  and  he  showed 
great  dexterity  in  turning  it  about  and 
examining  it  in  all  positions  with  his  six 
free  legs,  holding  it  before  him  as  he 
hung  head-downwards.  A  spider  can 
handle  himself  in  all  positions  with  equal 
facility,  and  when  he  is  surprised  he  will 
suddenly  turn  head-upward  as  he  surveys 
the  web,  and  keep  that  position  for  a 
while.  But  when  all  is  quiet  on  the 
Potomac,  he  turns  upside-down  again 
and  takes  his  ease. 

I  read  in  a  book  review  that  the  male 
spider  is  said  to  dance  in  order  to  please 
his  inamorata.  I  have  seen  such  a  per- 
formance, and  would  describe  it  as  fol- 
lows. One  of  the  spiders  retreats  back- 
ward an  inch  or  two  from  the  other ;  he 
pauses  there  a  moment  and  advances; 
and,  when  the  two  are  face  to  face,  they 
go  through  certain  antics,  both  of  them, 
with  their  front  legs.  It  is  exactly  as  if 
one  were  to  interlock  his  fingers  loose- 
ly and  then  twiddle  them.  After  this 
twiddling  of  legs,  the  visitor  backs  up, 
pauses,  and  comes  forward  again;  and 
they  will  keep  up  this  performance  for 
quite  a  while.  Whether  this  is  flirtation 
I  do  not  know;  much  less  do  I  un- 
derstand the  code.  And  whether  it  is 
dancing  or  not  depends  upon  —  the  fig- 
ure of  speech. 

These  spiders,  according  to  the  diction- 
ary, are  geometrical  or  garden  spiders; 
VOL.  102 -NO.  4 


but  the  ones  with  whom  I  was  person- 
ally acquainted  saw  nothing  more  ver- 
dant than  a  rubber  plant  and  one  smoke- 
blasted  tree.  This  ailing  tree  was  the 
only  survivor  in  those  parts,  and  so  its 
twiggery  had  to  accommodate  the  spar- 
rows of  a  large  territory  every  evening; 
it  was  little  more  than  a  community  perch 
or  convention  tree,  and  it  had  more  spar- 
rows on  it  than  leaves.  Regularly  they 
would  come  home  to  Bedlam  at  night, 
and  they  would  seem  much  excited  over 
the  return  to  nature.  As  to  the  spiders, 
they  were  garden  spiders  in  the  sense 
that  Chicago  is  the  Garden  City. 

Before  proceeding  further,  I  must  ex- 
plain that  this  comment  on  the  secrets 
of  the  craft  is  merely  by  way  of  intro- 
ducing the  reader  to  a  particular  spider, 
who  had  an  admirable  adventure.  I 
shall  come  to  him  later  on.  I  should 
confess  that  I  do  not  know  spiders  an- 
atomically or  microscopically,  but  only 
personally :  —  I  know  only  that  about  a 
spider  which  he  knows  himself,  namely, 
his  trade.  This,  I  think,  is  worth  de- 
scribing, step  by  step. 

It  will  be  best  to  take  a  Chicago  spi- 
der who  is  building  in  the  upper  corner 
of  a  window,  for  here  is  a  set  of  condi- 
tions which  are  uniform  throughout  the 
country,  and  which  every  one  is  familiar 
with.  The  spider,  having  found  this  un- 
occupied place,  walks  on  the  window- 
frame  away  from  the  corner  and  stops  at 
the  right  distance  for  the  size  of  his  web, 
which  depends  upon  the  size  of  the  spi- 
der. The  corner  of  the  window-frame 
offers  the  foundation,  or  outline,  for  two 
sides  of  his  web;  but  he  must  himself 
complete  the  circumference  within  which 
to  spread  his  work.  Now,  a  line  stretched 
from  where  he  stands,  on  the  top  frame, 
to  a  point  on  the  side  frame,  will  give  him 
a  triangle;  and  he  must  project  this  line 
transversely  through  the  air. 

This  is  easily  done.  Pressing  the  end 
of  the  line  to  the  window- frame,  he  takes 
hold  of  it  with  one  hind  leg  and  runs 
along  with  it  to  the  corner,  spinning  it  out 
as  he  goes ;  and  he  holds  the  line  out  with 


450 


Chicago  Spiders 


his  hind  leg  like  a  boy  flying  a  kite.  He 
must  hold  it  well  out  and  keep  it  taut,  for 
it  must  not  touch  the  wood  anywhere 
along  its  length.  Having  reached  the  cor- 
ner, he  turns  and  runs  down  the  side 
frame;  and  now  it  is  as  if  the  kite  were 
going  up  in  the  air.  As  he  runs  down- 
ward from  the  corner,  paying  out  the 
line,  it  opens,  fanwise,  from  the  upper 
frame;  and  when  it  has  formed  the  tri- 
angle he  stops  and  fastens  that  end. 

This  is  to  be  his  main  cable  which 
must,  on  that  side,  support  the  ends  of 
all  the  lines.  And  these  inner  lines  are 
to  be  stretched  with  considerable  tension. 
For  such  a  heavy  strain  the  single  strand 
is  not  enough,  so  he  now  runs  back  and 
forth  along  its  length  and  keeps  paying 
out  till  he  has  augmented  it  with  several 
plies  of  filament  —  a  cable.  It  is  now 
strong  enough,  but  as  the  tension  on  it 
is  to  be  sidewise  it  is  not  rigid  enough ; 
it  would  bow  inwards  as  he  stretched  the 
web  from  it,  and  so  it  needs  a  few  small 
guy-lines,  or  stays,  to  brace  it.  These 
stays  he  fastens  farther  out  on  the  wood, 
or  to  points  on  the  glass  itself.  He  could, 
in  fact,  as  far  as  his  abilities  are  con- 
cerned, fasten  every  line  of  his  web  to 
the  glass ;  but  the  wind  would  blow  it 
against  the  pane  and  interfere  with  its 
workings.  Therefore  he  makes  the  cable 
to  stretch  it  to,  a  little  distance  from  the 
window. 

The  outline  or  foundation  is  now  done. 
Inside  this  triangular  circumference  he 
has  now  to  make  the  spokes  of  his  wheel 
before  stretching  upon  them  the  circular 
lines.  In  like  manner  as  he  put  up  the 
main  cable,  he  runs  a  single  line  across 
this  triangular  space,  about  the  middle  of 
it.  Having  this  line  stretched,  he  climbs 
to  the  middle  of  it  and  there  stops,  for 
this  is  to  be  the  centre  of  his  wheel.  In 
stretching  this  diametrical  line  he  has  real- 
ly made  two  spokes  at  one  operation ;  but 
now  he  must  pursue  a  different  method, 
making  one  spoke  at  a  time.  If  he  were 
to  try  to  keep  up  this  way  of  making  two 
spokes  at  a  time,  fastening  a  line  at  one 
side  and  running  around  the  circumfer- 


ence to  the  opposite  side  to  fasten  it  there, 
his  line  would  become  entangled  with 
the  one  stretched  before;  it  would  stick, 
and  he  could  not  raise  the  new  line  to 
the  middle  of  the  other  where  it  ought 
to  cross.  Therefore  he  must  now  work 
from  the  middle  outwards,  stretching  one 
spoke  at  a  time.  He  fastens  the  end  of 
the  spoke  he  is  about  to  spin  to  the 
middle  of  this  diametrical  line,  takes  this 
new  line  in  his  hind  leg  in  order  to  hold 
it  free  of  the  other  as  he  climbs  it,  and 
thus  he  gets  the  spoke  to  the  window- 
frame.  Then  he  proceeds  with  it  along 
the  window-frame  a  short  distance,  the 
second  line  opening  out,  fanwise,  from 
the  first;  and  when  it  has  opened  to  the 
proper  angle  he  fastens  it  down  to  the 
wood.  He  then  descends  the  new  one  and 
repeats  the  operation;  and  so  he  keeps 
on,  always  using  the  one  he  stretched 
last  to  return  upon  and  bring  out  an- 
other, and  always  holding  the  new  line 
clear  and  taut  as  he  pays  it  out,  exactly 
like  a  boy  flying  a  kite.  It  must  not  touch 
and  tangle.  And,  like  the  boy,  he  runs 
along  at  a  good  gait  as  if  he  had  no  time 
to  lose. 

By  this  simple  method,  the  spokes  are 
all  put  in;  and  it  is  very  easy  according 
to  his  system.  It  is  worth  considering, 
however,  that  he  is  always  very  fortunate 
in  coming  out  so  nearly  uniform  in  the 
spacing  of  his  spokes,  —  and  this  in  an 
irregular  triangle  upon  which  the  spokes 
must  fall  at  all  sorts  of  distances  in  order 
to  be  equally  spaced.  He  seems  to  be  an 
expert  in  division.  But  it  is  not  the  out- 
side of  his  space  that  he  can  measure  off 
in  an  automatic  way,  for  there  the  dis- 
tances are  not  uniform.  I  think  he  must 
accomplish  it  all  by  watching  the  new 
line  open  fanwise  from  the  middle,  and 
so  I  regard  him  as  a  sort  of  surveyor 
with  a  good  eye  for  angles.  The  wheel 
part  is  now  done,  and  he  has  to  weave 
on  it  the  circling  strands. 

He  takes  his  place  at  the  middle  of  the 
wheel,  and  keeping  his  head  always  to- 
ward the  centre,  he  steps  sidewise  from 
spoke  to  spoke,  fastening  the  thread  to  a 


Chicago  Spiders 


451 


spoke,  drawing  it  across  to  the  next  one 
at  the  right  tension,  dabbing  it  down  to 
fasten  it,  and  so  on,  round  and  round. 
And  he  works  with  considerable  speed. 

But  this  mode  of  operation  cannot  be 
kept  up  to  the  end.  When  he  has  worked 
out  a  short  distance  from  the  centre,  the 
radiating  spokes  are  too  far  apart  for 
him  to  straddle  across.  Here  he  changes 
the  method.  Instead  of  straddling  across, 
he  goes  out  on  a  single  spoke,  fastens  his 
thread  to  it,  comes  in  and  crosses  to  the 
next  spoke  by  means  of  the  line  that  he 
stretched  on  his  last  trip  around.  He 
then  goes  out  on  the  next  spoke,  carry- 
ing the  line  in  his  hind  leg,  and  fastens 
it,  —  and  he  always  handles  it  with  his 
leg,  so  that  there  is  no  surplus  spun 
out,  and  it  has  the  right  tension.  Thus 
he  continues  till  his  wheel  is  big  enough, 
always  using  his  last  circle  as  a  bridge 
from  spoke  to  spoke  as  he  adds  the  next 
surrounding  circle.  This  part,  when  done, 
is  really  a  spiral. 

The  garden  spider,  in  making  a  web 
that  fulfills  the  ideal,  puts  in  this  spiral 
I  have  just  described  with  the  lines  very 
far  apart  —  very  open.  He  then  starts 
at  the  circumference  and  fills  it  in  finer, 
working  round  and  round  toward  the 
middle.  This  first  spiral  may  be  consid- 
ered his  scaffold.  As  we  see,  it  was  con- 
structed under  certain  drawbacks;  but 
now  that  he  has  so  much  put  in  coarsely, 
he  can  walk  round  and  round  with  more 
footing,  and  work  with  less  trouble. 

When  the  web  seems  finished,  one 
thing  yet  remains  to  be  done.  Where  the 
spokes  have  each  been  fastened  to  the 
centre,  there  is  a  mass  of  fibre,  the  tag- 
ends  of  the  whole  job,  which  would  be 
in  his  way  as  he  sat  in  the  middle  of  the 
web.  He  takes  this  out  neatly,  leaving  a 
hole.  Had  he  taken  this  out  before  the 
spiral  was  put  on,  the  whole  wheel  would, 
of  course,  have  collapsed.  He  throws  the 
fibre  into  the  street  below,  and  takes  his 
place  over  the  hole  with  his  legs  holding 
the  lines  around  him;  and  now  it  is  time 
for  Providence  to  send  a  fly. 

The  spider  does  his  work  behind  his 


back,  as  it  were;  he  cannot  see  what  he 
is  doing;  and  yet  in  certain  of  his  op- 
erations he  must  make  strokes  that  are 
instantly  accurate  and  "to  the  point." 
This  would  call  for  some  miraculous 
knowledge  of  location  —  which  he  has 
not;  and  his  way  of  meeting  the  problem 
is  interesting.  In  that  division  of  his 
work,  which  consists  in  stretching  the 
cable  and  spokes,  his  problem  is  simple; 
it  is  merely  the  fastening  of  sticky  threads 
to  the  window-frame,  a  surface  which  is 
firm  and  flat.  As  it  is  flat,  he  does  not 
need  to  strike  a  fine  particular  point  on 
it;  and  as  it  is  perfectly  stable,  he  simply 
presses  the  line  down  firmly  behind  him 
as  it  comes  from  his  spinneret.  But  in 
stretching  the  spiral  from  spoke  to  spoke 
of  the  web  itself,  he  must  strike  a  certain 
point  on  his  line  against  a  particular  point 
on  the  web,  in  order  to  have  the  right 
tension;  he  must  unite  them  firmly  at 
that  point  and  do  it  at  a  dab.  It  is  a  fine 
point  to  find;  and  to  do  such  work  be- 
hind him,  against  a  yielding,  air-blown 
filament,  is  quite  a  different  matter  from 
pressing  his  line  to  a  flat,  firm  surface. 
He  proceeds,  accordingly,  on  the  same 
principle,  but  takes  it  another  way  about. 
Instead  of  merely  dabbing  down  the  line 
he  is  spinning,  he  seizes  with  a  hind  leg 
the  line  to  which  he  wishes  to  make  a 
fastening  and  presses  that  against  a  par- 
ticular part  of  himself  ;  that  is,  he  raises 
the  spoke  and  touches  it  firmly  to  the 
point  where  the  new  line  is  spinning  out. 
Thus  the  spiral  is  put  in.  The  whole 
extraneous  difficulty  is  transmuted  into 
a  mere  matter  of  self-knowledge  —  like 
finding  one's  mouth  in  the  dark. 

During  this  part  of  the  work  he  does 
not  need  to  use  one  leg  to  prevent  en- 
tanglement, the  parallel  spans  being 
shorter  and  more  widely  separate  from 
the  beginning;  and  it  is  lucky  for  him 
that  he  can  now  spare  that  member,  for 
in  the  operations  of  putting  in  the  spiral 
his  multitude  of  legs  are  busy  indeed. 
One  is  seizing  the  spoke  and  dabbing  it 
to  his  spinneret;  one  is  pressing  on  the 
new-spun  line,  as  if  to  regulate  the  ten- 


452 


Chicago  Spiders 


sion;  the  others  are  stepping  about  lively 
in  order  to  accommodate  his  body  to  the 
advancing  work  —  and  altogether  it  is 
as  rapid  and  unobservable  as  the  flight 
of  knitting-needles.  But  once  it  is  caught 
by  the  eye,  the  mystery  of  his  accuracy 
is  small,  and  its  ingenuity  is  great.  But 
the  very  fact  that  he  has  to  descend  to 
mere  ingenuity,  in  lieu  of  instinct,  which 
can  perform  miracles,  presents  him  to 
us  as  a  humble  spinner,  and  human.  I 
think  it  is  a  person  of  little  promise  who 
can  look  through  his  web  and  not  find 
that  this  display  of  window- work,  spread 
out  between  us  and  the  universe,  is  a 
sort  of  trap  for  the  mind,  tending  to  keep 
it  within  bounds. 

The  large  spiders,  so  far  as  I  have  ob- 
served, are  the  most  careless  workmen. 
In  some  of  their  webs  the  geometrical 
design  could  hardly  be  perceived  were  it 
not  for  the  radiating  spokes;  and  these 
are  not  straight,  but  drawn  to  this  side 
and  that  by  the  connecting  lines.  And 
these  lines,  that  ought  to  be  the  spiral, 
have  been  put  in  any  way  at  all,  as  if  one 
at  a  time,  here  and  there;  and  moreover 
they  have  been  put  in  loosely  and  then 
tightened  to  the  spoke  with  other  little 
guy-lines,  so  that  they  have  the  shape  of 
a  Y.  The  web  seems  to  be  not  only 
patched,  but  all  patchwork  from  the  start. 
It  has  the  wheel  shape  in  it,  however, 
and  the  same  principles  are  employed 
throughout;  in  fact,  there  is  more  indi- 
viduality and  a  greater  display  of  me- 
chanical science  in  such  a  web  than  in 
one  that  conforms  to  the  ideal.  It  takes 
a  better  mechanic  to  patch  a  job  than  to 
follow  specifications  to  a  successful  con- 
clusion. The  little  spiders  do  the  most 
perfect  work,  strikingly  geometrical,  with 
the  lines  of  the  spiral  exactly  parallel. 
I  once  picked  from  a  bush  a  withered 
leaf  that  had  curled  up  at  the  end,  and 
in  this  space,  smaller  in  extent  than  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar,  was  a  spider's  web 
perfect  in  every  detail. 

Other  webs  would  differ  from  this  win- 
dow-web; but  the  difference  would  not 
be  in  the  web  proper  so  much  as  in  the 


outrigging  or  foundation  for  it.  In  truth, 
the  most  interesting  part  of  a  spider's 
work  is  not  in  the  geometrical  part  that 
excites  our  first  wonder,  but  in  his  ways 
of  devising  the  irregular  circumference, 
the  making  use  of  vantage  points,  the 
solving  of  problems  peculiar  to  each  set 
of  surroundings.  Here  is  individual  work, 
separate  planning  to  suit  each  case,  the 
application  of  principles  rather  than 
automatic  and  uniform  procedure  —  the 
work  of  a  mechanic. 

The  opportunities  for  studying  nature 
in  a  "flat  "  are  growing  every  day.  The 
renaissance  of  colonial  architecture,  with 
the  small  window  panes,  allows  the  spi- 
ders to  cultivate  the  whole  field  of  glass. 
A  spider  soon  learns  all  about  glass;  a  fly 
never.  The  spider  works  with  it  famil- 
iarly; he  even  uses  its  surface  to  moor 
the  stays  of  his  cable;  but  the  fly  buzzes 
and  butts  his  head  against  it,  utterly 
unable  to  learn  that  the  invisible  can 
have  existence.  The  invention  of  glass 

O 

was  a  godsend  to  spiders,  and  a  sorry 
thing  for  flies. 

There  is  much  more  to  the  trade  of 
building  a  web,  but  so  technical  in  detail 
that  it  would  have  to  be  considered  at 
much  length  in  order  to  arrive  at  the 
ultimate  mechanical  reasons  (something 
I  have  yet  to  see  done  in  nature  study). 
A  thing  superficially  perceived  or  half 
explained  might  as  well  not  be  explained 
at  all.  Much  "nature  study"  consists 
in  these  mere  semblances  of  explan- 
ations —  incomplete  perceptions.  The 
most  profitable  work  in  this  line,  I  think, 
would  be  the  work  of  the  skilled  me- 
chanic, rather  than  the  poetic  "  nature 
student "  or  the  mere  microscopic  ob- 
server; for  this  shrewd  stealing  of  secrets, 
both  by  observation  and  basic  reasoning, 
has  been  his  lifelong  attitude  in  filching 
his  own  trade  from  others,  as  well  as 
from  nature.  And  as  to  the  writing  of 
it,  the  simple  and  luminous  expression 
of  such  things  calls  for  the  very  highest 
and  completest  set  of  mental  faculties. 
Contrary  to  the  popular  notion,  the  crea- 
tion of  ^so-called  "atmospheric"  impres- 


Chicago  Spiders 


453 


sion  in  literature  is  much  easier,  and  of 
a  lower  order  of  intellect,  than  to  convey 
in  familiar  words  exactly  what  was  done, 
and  why.  This  also  takes  imagination. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  it  was  not  my  in- 
tention, in  writing  this,  to  record  all  that 
I  learned  of  the  trade  so  far  as  I  ad- 
vanced, but  rather  to  make  public  a  tragi- 
comedy that  was  enacted  in  spider  life. 
To  recount  all  that  I  observed  would  be 
robbing  the  reader  of  his  privilege  of 
discovering  things  for  himself,  —  even 
denying  him  the  right  to  look  out  of  his 
own  window,  —  which  is  one  of  the  things 
I  protest  against.  I  have  told  this  much 
because  it  was  necessary  thus  to  intro- 
duce, in  their  proper  persons,  the  two 
characters  of  the  play. 

It  was  drawing  on  toward  evening. 
The  day  had  been  — simply  another 
day;  a  wilderness  of  roofs  in  a  soft-coal 
mist,  a  turbid  patch  of  sky,  and  the  peo- 
ple below  moving  monotonously  past  like 
cattle  in  a  canyon.  The  street  near  by 
became  darker  with  the  stream  of  people 
hurrying  home  from  store  and  factory; 
Chicago  had  let  out.  The  worn-out  tree 
was  receiving  back  the  sparrows,  and 
every  twig  was  a  perch.  I  was  tired  of  all 
this ;  there  was  nothing  interesting  about 
it;  and  so  from  trying  to  see  something 
out  of  the  window  I  turned  again  to  look 
at  it,  for  it  was  time  for  the  spiders  to  go 
to  work. 

The  corner  nearest  me,  which  had  to 
be  renovated  of  its  dusty  and  damaged 
web,  belonged  to  a  medium-sized  spider; 
and  promptly  he  came  forth  to  the  work. 
Another  corner  was  held  —  I  cannot  say 
occupied  —  by  a  set  of  legs  on  a  very  old 
web.  A  spider,  with  all  his  skill  in  taking 
down  a  web,  moves  away  and  leaves  his 
dirt  behind  him.  Not  only  this,  but  he 
has  a  habit,  when  he  has  his  new  set  of 
legs,  of  leaving  the  old  ones  on  the  web ; 
and  there  they  remain,  occupying  the 
position  that  he  last  held.  They  do  not 
come  off  him  singly,  but  in  a  complete  set, 
like  a  truck  that  has  been  removed  from 
a  car.  And  it  is  wonderful  how  long  a 
web  will  withstand  the  weather  and  bear 


this  grisly  semblance  of  a  spider  with 
each  leg  set  on  a  line.  This  particular 
set  of  sere  and  yellowish  legs  danced  in 
every  breeze,  and  seemed  even  more 
active  than  when  they  had  a  spider  to 
operate  them.  I  often  wished  that  some 
enterprising  spider  would  come  along 
and  take  it  all  down;  but  none  ever  did. 
From  watching  to  see  whether  this  would 
happen,  I  turned  my  attention  to  the 
medium-sized  spider  as  he  cleared  his 
space.  Finally,  he  had  his  old  web  all 
down  and  disposed  of;  and  the  new  one 
was  put  up  with  "  neatness  and  dispatch." 

When  the  web  was  seemingly  done,  the 
spider  spent  a  little  while  on  the  window- 
frame  among  his  guy-lines  —  possibly 
making  things  still  more  taut.  There  now 
appeared  suddenly  on  the  top  of  the 
frame,  at  the  opposite  corner  of  the  web, 
a  big  able-bodied  spider.  He  was  much 
larger  than  the  other  —  let  us  call  them 
David  and  Goliath.  He  stopped  short 
at  the  edge  of  the  web  as  if  pausing  to 
look  across  at  the  owner  and  make  up 
his  mind.  The  other  spider  stopped  work 
suddenly,  as  if  looking  back  at  him.  I 
immediately  suspected  that  here  was  a 
situation,  and  so  I  watched  closely ;  there 
seemed  to  be  spider- thinking  going  on. 
The  big  spider  stepped  deliberately  on 
the  web,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  dash, 
went  out  on  it.  He  had  no  more  than 
reached  the  middle  when  he  was  snapped 
back  to  where  he  came  from,  and  thrown 
against  the  upper  frame  of  the  window 
as  if  he  had  been  shot  from  a  rubber 
sling  — •  and  the  web  was  gone.  In  that 
instant,  the  smaller  spider  had  cut  the 
main  cable.  David's  elastic  sling  had 
not  only  thrown  Goliath  back  where  he 
belonged,  but  had  knocked  him  against 
the  frame  and  slapped  him  in  the  face 
for  his  impudence. 

The  big  spider,  we  can  only  conclude, 
meant  harm  —  either  robbery  or  bodily 
injury  —  and  the  other  spider  knew  it. 
But  this  does  not  explain  what  we  like 
always  to  see  in  nature  —  an  object  in 
everything.  What  was  the  beneficent 
object?  It  was  not  a  provision  on  the 


454 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


part  of  instinct  to  enable  the  spider  to 
save  its  web  from  the  robber,  for  the  web 
was  utterly  sacrificed.  As  to  the  loss  of 
property,  the  little  spider  might  just  as 
well  have  run  away  and  let  the  big  one 
have  it.  And  as  to  the  little  spider  sav- 
ing its  life,  it  might  as  well  have  run  at 
once,  for  a  spider  can  pursue  another  any- 
where, even  if  there  is  no  web.  To  me 
it  seemed  to  be  a  pure  case  of  "  You 
won't  get  the  best  of  me."  Does  Na- 
ture, in  her  wise  regard  for  the  needs  of 
all  her  creatures,  make  provision  for  the 
satisfaction  of  transcendental  justice? 

It  looked  like  an  original  act  of 
thought  —  the  presence  of  mind  of  a 
good  mechanic  who  understands  his  ma- 
chine. I  have  often  wondered,  on  the 
theory  that  it  might  have  been  a  way  of 
saving  the  smaller  spider's  life,  whether 
the  big  spider  was  injured;  and  if  the 


smaller  spider  had  simply  run  away  and 
left  his  web,  would  not  the  other  have 
been  satisfied  with  it,  and  not  bothered 
to  pursue  him  ?  Why  this  provision  of 
instinct  —  if  it  was  mere  instinct? 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was  not  my- 
self in  a  condition  to  look  into  the  physi- 
cal state  of  Goliath  and  see  whether  he 
was  disabled.  I  was  so  taken  up  with 
the  tragi-comic  view,  the  human  phase 
of  it,  that  I  did  not  even  think  of  these 
other  things.  In  fact  I  was  so  delighted 
over  the  victory  that,  weak  as  I  was,  and 
bound  down  as  by  cords  made  of  my 
own  tendons,  I  raised  myself  up  and  in- 
wardly exclaimed  —  Foiled ! 

Spiders  are  interesting  companions  — 
under  conditions.  And  the  outcome  of 
all  one's  observations  is  finally  a  question 
—  Is  it  God  that  is  doing  these  things,  or 
is  it  a  spider? 


A  NATIONAL  FUND  FOR  EFFICIENT  DEMOCRACY 

BY   WILLIAM   H.    ALLEN 


AMERICA'S  greatest  legacies  are  her 
greatest  disappointment  —  religion,  edu- 
cation, democracy!  We  extol  them;  we 
make  sacrifices  for  them ;  we  misuse  and 
misunderstand  them.  Although  their 
common  aim  is  equal  opportunity,  not 
one  means  equal  opportunity  to  the  child 
ten  years  out  of  school.  Not  one  approxi- 
mates in  action  the  picture  drawn  by 
teacher,  preacher,  publicist.  The  church 
complains  of  growing  irreligion.  Gov- 
ernment admits  that  it  has  not  been 
democratic.  Educational  institutions,  ac- 
cording to  their  most  honored  leaders, 
have  given  in  large  measure  misedu- 
cation;  have  been  neither  universal  nor 
free;  and,  so  far  as  their  programme  is 
executed,  create  special  privilege  for  the 
educated,  train  for  caste,  and  fail  to  edu- 
cate for  religion  and  democracy.  Where- 
fore leaders  —  religious,  educational,  po- 


litical —  find  themselves  condoning  "  sins 
by  society,"  and  unequal  opportunities 
abhorrent  to  their  faith  and  inconsistent 
with  their  platform. 

Three  causes  of  our  disappointment 
have  not  heretofore  been  faced  by  Ameri- 
can leaders  of  thought.  (1)  Religion  and 
education  have  not  seen  that  an  efficient 
democracy  is  an  indispensable  element  in 
making  their  dreams  come  true.  (2)  Re- 
ligion and  education,  like  democracy, 
have  concerned  themselves  with  purpose 
and  personality,  to  the  exclusion  of 
method,  act,  and  condition.  (3)  Church, 
school,  and  government  are  without  a 
social  programme  that  embraces  the  aims 
of  religion,  education,  and  democracy, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  supplies  the  tech- 
nique necessary  to  successful  progressive 
execution  of  that  programme.  To  un- 
derstand and  remove  these  three  causes 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


455 


is  America's  —  and  humanity's  —  para- 
mount need. 

The  chief  obstacle  to  consistent  religious 
and  educational  effort  is  a  disappoint- 
ing democracy. 

A  democracy  of  equal  opportunity  is 
the  promise  of  both  religion  and  educa- 
tion. The  triumph  of  what  history  calls 
right  inspires  the  American  boy,  not 
because  patriotism  is  bred  only  by  war 
stories,  but  because  those  stories  deal  with 
the  widening  of  opportunity.  He  is  inter- 
ested again  in  the  conflict  of  religions, 
because  the  picture  in  his  mind  is  that 
of  the  triumph  of  unrestricted  opportun- 
ity over  caste  opportunity.  Finally,  that 
thing  about  education  which  makes  the 
soul  expand  is  not  additional  earning 
power  or  additional  knowledge,  but  equal 
opportunity  for  one's  fellow  man. 

Modern  institutions  are  instructing  fa- 
vored men  to  have  what  Bernard  Shaw 
calls"  enormous  social  appetites."  While 
religious  and  educational  leaders  endorse 
this  appetite  and  promise  one  and  all 
ultimately  "  a  developed  sense  of  life,'* 
they  continue  to  regard  democracy  as  the 
beneficiary  of  their  effort  and  not  their 
co-worker  or  their  benefactor.  This  mis- 
take explains  their  indirect  attention  to 
the  working  of  democracy.  If  government 
remits  taxes  on  church  and  private-school 
property,  it  is  for  its  own  sake  and  not 
for  church  or  school.  If  wrongs  are  done 
by  government,  teachers  and  preachers 
truly  believe  that  the  quickest  remedy  is 
more  education  and  more  religion,  not 
more  attention  to  government. 

This  indirect  concern  for  government 
is  due  partly  to  the  confusion  of  school 
with  education  and  church  with  religion. 
During  the  Dark  Ages,  the  priest-student 
was  a  veritable  pillar  of  fire  by  night. 
When  there  was  no  force  working  for  re- 
ligion except  monastery  and  church,  and 
when  there  was  no  teaching  or  studying 
except  in  monastery  and  university,  it 
was  natural  that  the  place  where  light  was 
sought,  and  whence  light  radiated,  should 
epitomize  religion  and  education.  But 


in  these  days  of  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines, of  social  clubs,  trade-unions,  travel 
and  congestion,  of  university  extension 
by  lecture,  correspondence  and  mov- 
ing pictures,  of  trade-schools  and  busi- 
ness discipline,  commercial  science  and 
instructional  philanthropy,  educational 
processes  outside  educational  institutions 
are  more  numerous,  more  continuous, 
and  farther-reaching  than  educational 
processes  within  school  walls.  Likewise, 
religion  manifests  itself  in  infinitely  more 
ways  outside,  than  inside,  church  organ- 
izations. With  these  outside  educational 
processes  and  religious  forces,  govern- 
ment has  more  direct  and  more  nu- 
merous relations  than  has  either  church 
or  school. 

Since  government  is  organized  action 
of  one  hundred  per  cent  of  a  community, 
wherever  government  is  busy  manufac- 
turing sickness,  industrial  incapacity, 
miseducation,  crime,  and  inequality,  its 
product  accumulates  faster  than  the  pro- 
duct of  church  and  school  working  with 
divided  forces  and  deficient  tools  upon 
part  of  the  population  part  of  the  time. 
Therefore  the  gravity  of  a  situation,  in 
which,  in  practically  every  city  of  the 
country,  organized  society  is  paying  more 
men  and  women  to  do  anti-social  work 
than  church  and  philanthropy  are  paying 
to  do  social  work.  Organized  society  is 
putting  obstructions  in  the  way  of  en- 
lightened and  religious  life  for  adults  by 
the  score,  where  church,  school,  and  pri- 
vate philanthropy  directly  uplift  one. 

In  October,  1908,  the  city  government 
of  New  York  will  vote  its  budget  for 
1909.  Through  that  budget,  one  hun- 
dred per  cent  of  the  population  would,  if 
it  followed  precedent,  give  the  seal  of  its 
approval  to  padded  payrolls  and  to  dis- 
honest and  wasteful  contracts  involving 
directly  more  individuals  than  will  attend 
church  during  1909.  Comptroller  Metz 
declares  that  wherever  a  city  employee 
spends  or  receives  money  for  the  city, 
present  methods  encourage  dishonesty. 
Fifteen  thousand  teachers  are  crowding 
upon  six  hundred  thousand  children  a 


456 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


curriculum  declared  by  principals  to  be 
misfitted  to  the  children's  strength  and 
future  work;  and  the  great  machine 
grinds  on  year  after  year,  doing  less  for 
all  than  might  be  done  for  the  same 
money,  actually  injuring  thousands,  and 
thereby  manufacturing  problems  for 
church  and  school  and  government  that 
will  require  generations  to  solve.  The 
police  department  has  nine  thousand 
men  disciplined  in  the  tradition  that  they 
are  entitled  to  accept  contributions  from 
the  woman  of  the  street,  the  saloon- 
keeper, the  motorist,  and  other  offenders, 
in  exchange  for  permission  to  attack  the 
"  integrity  of  democracy  "  by  violating 
law. 

Tent  evangelists  and  prison  chaplains 
convert  in  ten  years  fewer  men  and 
women  than  society's  jails  push  into 
crime  in  one  year.  The  pulpit  of  New 
York  State,  following  Governor  Hughes's 
lead,  for  days  vituperated  race-track  gam- 
bling; not  one  single  legislative  vote  was 
changed;  the  conditions  that  produced 
a  corrupt  lobby  remain  the  same;  and 
the  significant  truth  stands  out,  that  to 
reduce  its  taxes,  the  self-conscious  moral- 
ity of  rural  New  York  bribed  its  own 
legislators  to  vote  for  gambling. 

Last  winter,  I  had  occasion  to  see 
in  working  contrast  one  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association  and  its  neighbor, 
the  white-slave  agent.  I  went  out  with  a 
representative  of  the  Woman's  Municipal 
League,  who  had  recently  interviewed  a 
very  wealthy  man  in  the  hope  of  securing 
financial  aid  to  protect  immigrant  girls 
from  organized  exploitation.  This  very 
wealthy  man  could  not  help  because  he 
was  "  confining  his  gifts  exclusively  to  re- 
ligious work."  Yet,  as  I  wrote  to  a  friend 
of  his  the  next  morning,  there  were  with- 
in a  mile  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association  more  young  men  inside,  and 
going  to  and  from,  brothels  than  there 
were  at  the  same  time  in  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association  building;  more 
young  men  on  the  street  giving  the  loca- 
tion of  such  houses  and  the  description 
and  names  of  their  inmates  than  were 


giving  instruction  in  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association  building;  more 
officers  of  the  law  encouraging  its  viola- 
tion than  executive  officers  in  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association  building. 
Why  does  not  this  man  see  that  the 
policeman  and  the  teacher  and  taught 
among  those  young  men  were  actively 
obstructing  the  work  of  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association  and  manufacturing 
social  forces  stronger  than  that  one 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association? 
The  recent  temporary  change  in  that 
quarter  was  brought  about  neither  di- 
rectly nor  indirectly  by  church  or  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association. 

Like  democracy,  religion  and  education 
have  concerned  themselves  with  purpose 
and  personality  to  the  exclusion  of  meth- 
od, act,  and  condition. 

Recent  illumination  of  this  truth  by  an 
eloquent  southern  preacher  aroused  the 
pulpit  and  press  of  Georgia  against  its 
nefarious  convict-lease  system.  From  the 
text,  "  The  Cross  and  the  Convict,"  the 
Rev.  John  E.  White  drew  evidence  that 
the  church  in  Georgia  had  in  the  past 
failed  to  understand  the  message  from 
the  Cross,  because  it  had  failed  to  un- 
derstand the  convicts  and  their  crosses. 
Squarely  upon  the  religious  conscience  of 
pulpit  and  pew  he  placed  responsibility 
for  a  system  that  treats  the  convict  "  as 
an  asset,  not  a  liability  —  as  a  benefit, 
not  a  burden."  Whether  the  leased  con- 
vict is  punished,  abused,  educated,  re- 
formed, or  confirmed  in  crime,  is  a  ques- 
tion of  fact  that  can  be  ascertained  only 
by  watching  the  convict  and  society's 
treatment  of  him.  When  democracy  fails 
to  analyze  the  results  of  that  treatment, 
it  encourages,  and  actually  commits 
crime,  whatever  the  theology  or  the  ped- 
agogy of  pulpit  and  college  chair. 

Purposes  and  personalities  have  mo- 
nopolized attention,  not  because  acts  and 
results  are  uninteresting,  but  because 
leader  and  follower  alike  have  found  it 
difficult  to  get  the  truth  as  to  acts  and 
results.  Most  history  reads  differently 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


457 


when  attention  is  centred  on  acts  rather 
than  on  personalities.  Less  than  six 
months  before  Boston's  efficient  Finance 
Commission  uncovered  acts  and  results 
so  flagrant  as  to  provoke  the  envy  of 
Tammany  Hall,  two  of  the  nation's 
foremost  statisticians  assured  me  that 
Boston  "  has  had  no  corruption  for  half 
a  century." 

Under  the  Low  administration  in  New 
York  City,  the  reputable  commissioner  of 
parks  for  Manhattan  permitted  lunches 
and  dinners  to  be  charged  to  "  profit  and 
loss  "  and  "  repairs,"  and  to  be  withheld 
from  the  public  record  of  park  expenses. 
Throughout  two  reform  administrations, 
as  before  and  after,  political  derelicts 
were  appointed  in  the  office  of  commis- 
sioners of  accounts,  the  commissioners 
certifying  men  on  their  pay-roll  who  did 
not  work  for  them  but  were  attached  to 
the  mayor's  office.  In  the  room  imme- 
diately below  that  in  which  New  York's 
reform  mayors  sat,  licenses  were  issued 
in  their  name,  as  before  and  after  reform, 
for  push-carts,  pool-rooms,  dogs,  and  so 
forth,  by  a  system  which  would  never 
show  if  five  dollars  was  written  on  the 
stub  of  a  five-hundred-dollar  receipt. 
The  money  wasted  during  either  reform 
administration  in  New  York  City  would 
stamp  out  tuberculosis  from  the  nation 
and  leave  enough  money  to  exterminate 
typhoid  and  legalized  corruption.  After 
Mr.  Low's  defeat,  an  honest  graft  poli- 
tician was  congratulated  on  the  return 
of  prosperity.  He  answered,  "  You  are 
sadly  mistaken,  my  friend.  I  never  hope 
to  make  so  much  money  again  as  during 
the  reform  administration.  Then  I  could 
deal  with  the  man  at  the  bottom  for  fifty 
cents  or  five  dollars,  where  now  I  must 
divide  with  the  man  at  the  top." 

A  year  ago,  the  Mayor  of  New  York 
pledged  himself  to  explain  publicly  in- 
creases in  the  budget  of  1908  over  that  of 
1907,  aggregating  $13,500,000.  His  can- 
dor won  applause  from  press  and  public. 
Only  one  office  in  New  York  knew  that 
uninformed  good  intention  had  missed 
nine  out  of  ten  opportunities  to  tell  the 


whole  truth.  Instead  of  an  increase  of 
$60,000  for  the  department  of  correction 
"  because  of  increased  cost  of  supplies," 
the  actual  increase  was  $173,500,  only 
$37,500  going  to  supplies.  For  the  Bor- 
ough of  Manhattan,  the  increase  was  not 
$134,000,  as  the  mayor  reported,  but 
$204,000,  of  which  only  $33,000  was  "for 
maintaining  asphalt  pavements."  One 
official  with  numerous  academic  degrees, 
who  by  his  bearing,  manner,  and  prompt- 
ness gives  the  impression  of  fitly  repre- 
senting his  constituents,  received  an  in- 
crease of  $175,000;  later  he  was  found 
to  be  wasting  fifty  per  cent  of  the  money 
spent  through  his  Bureau  of  Highways, 
and  spending  $20,000  to  clean  a  public 
building  that  private  contractors  offered 
"  to  keep  as  it  had  been  kept  for  $1800, 
and  to  keep  it  clean  for  $3600."  Health 
and  tenement  work  in  that  borough  was 
crippled  for  want  of  funds. 

Discrepancies  between  result  and  ap- 
pearance are  not  limited  to  politicians, 
or  to  great  cities.  Did  not  Holyoke  find 
that  one  reason  school  children  were 
neglected  was  that  tools  worth  23  cents 
were  costing  $15.00?  The  New  York 
State  Auditor  finds  counties  and  towns 
paying  more  in  proportion  to  official 
transactions  than  do  cities  for  waste, 
favoritism,  and  graft.  Non-political  mo- 
tives do  not  assure  beneficial  acts.  A 
New  Yorker  prominently  identified  with 
school  and  church  recently  resigned  from 
an  important  post  after  testifying  that  al- 
though he  drew  $12,000  a  year,  he  could 
not  prove  that  he  had  given  twelve  days 
to  the  city ;  because  he  was  not  proved 
corrupt,  a  religious  journal  heralded  his 
"  vindication."  A  hospital  managed  by 
volunteers  of  unblemished  character  but 
informed  too  late,  has  charged  kerosene 
and  nurses'  aprons  to  "  construction  of 
new  hospitals." 

A  well-known  mission  supported  by 
small  contributions  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  States  has  for  nearly  a  year  occu- 
pied premises  under  conditions  that  make 
ignorance  as  culpable  as  knowledge  of 
the  fact  that  the  rent  should  go  to  the 


458 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


city,  and  should  not  be  used  to  corrupt 
city  officials  and  cause  delay  in  public 
work.  Because  its  managers  do  not  know 
its  acts,  another  private  institution,  whose 
directorate  contains  several  of  the  first 
men  whose  names  would  come  to  mind 
when  gifts  to  religion  and  education  are 
mentioned,  has  been  trying  to  persuade 
a  city  official  to  pay  it  for  service  rendered 
by  other  charitable  agencies,  —  this,  too, 
when  it  reports  private  gifts  to  cover  that 
same  service. 

Unless  absolute  dishonesty  or  gross 
misrepresentation  can  be  shown,  although 
extravagance  or  inefficiency  may  exist, 
the  society  that  passes  upon  minor  char- 
ities will  not  express  disapproval,  —  be- 
cause it  does  not  compare  cost  with 
results.  Strong  enough  for  fifty  years  to 
have  reformed  Tammany  Hall,  Trinity 
Church  Corporation,  by  investing  income 
and  capital  differently,  might  have  saved 
thousands  of  lives,  released  millions  of 
dollars  for  education  and  religion,  and 
secured  for  New  York  City's  government 
efficient  and  honest  habits  of  thought  and 
action.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  its  definition 
will  yet  include  acts,  methods,  and  con- 
ditions. 

There  is  no  better  illustration  of  our 
accepting  "  the  will  for  the  deed  "  than 
our  attitude  toward  philanthropy.  Be- 
cause we  have  looked  at  the  donor  rather 
than  the  recipient,  we  have  forgotten  that 
candor  with  regard  to  the  deed  need  not 
lessen  our  gratitude  for  the  will.  A  tes- 
tator leaves  $187,000,  to  be  spent  by  a 
department  which  fails  to  collect  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  due  the  city, 
spends  hundreds  of  thousands  waste- 
fully,  and  distributes  among  political  fa- 
vorites important  privileges  that  should 
bear  income.  If  we  refuse  to  appraise 
such  giving,  it  is  because  we  think  of  the 
beautiful  motive,  not  of  the  result. 

The  worst  disclosures  of  the  past  de- 
cade referred  to  immoral  and  anti-social 
acts  that  were  committed,  unrestrained 
because  undiscovered,  during  the  guber- 
natorial administration  of  that  same 
president  whose  would-be  successor  has 


called  him  the  standard-bearer  of  the 
new  morality.  The  personal  morality 
of  the  once-governor  of  New  York  has 
not  changed;  the  nature  of  the  offenses 
committed  has  not  changed ;  the  attitude 
of  the  average  man  toward  those  acts 
has  not  changed;  the  only  new  element 
in  the  situation  is  evidence,  —  the  fact, 
the  where,  and  the  when,  of  the  acts 
themselves.  What  mankind  lacks  most 
is  not  morals,  or  attitudes,  or  platitudes, 
or  higher  education,  but  technique  for 
utilizing  what  we  now  have  and  now 
know. 

Church,  school,  and  government  are  with- 
out a  social  programme  that  embraces 
the  aims  of  religion,  education,  and  de- 
mocracy, and  at  the  same  time  supplies 
the  technique  necessary  to  successful, 
progressive  execution  of  that  pro- 
gramme. 

Socialist  leaders  are  elated  because  one 
of  our  great  capitalists  is  said  to  have 
remarked  that  only  the  socialists  have  a 
constructive  programme.  Yet  socialism, 
like  religion,  education,  and  democracy, 
cannot  tell  us  how  to  take  the  next  step, 
because  it  does  not  know  what  we  are 
doing  now;  it  cannot  tell  us  where  we 
would  be  in  five  years,  if  their  pro- 
gramme were  adopted,  because  it  does 
not  know  where  we  are  now.  I  recently 
asked  Professor  S.  N.  Patten  what  would 
happen  if  religious  leaders  were  to  be 
granted  % all  they  now  ask.  He  replied, 
"  A  religious-industrial  war."  If,  over 
night,  the  whole  country  became  devoutly 
Methodist,  Episcopalian,  Salvationist,  or 
Scientist,  the  greater  part  of  the  industrial 
and  social  problems  would  still  stare  us 
in  the  face;  education  and  democracy 
would  still  be  out  of  reach;  typhoid  fever 
would  thrive;  misgovernment  would  still 
manufacture  vice,  crime,  and  incapacity. 

Again,  if  universal  education,  accord- 
ing to  our  present  definition,  were  to  be- 
come a  reality  over  night,  religious  pro- 
blems would  still  remain,  corruption 
would  still  need  restraint,  and  sickness 
need  prevention ;  it  is  not  the  uneducated 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


459 


or  unchurched  who  furnish  illustrative 
material  for  five  political  platforms  at- 
tacking corporate  dishonesty.  If  all  pub- 
lic offices  were  to  be  filled  to-morrow 
with  either  the  most  devout  or  the  most 
educated,  religion,  education,  and  demo- 
cracy would  still  stumble  and  manufac- 
ture obstructions  in  their  own  way.  If 
conscious  wrongdoing  were  to  cease,  the 
greater  evil  of  unconscious,  anti-social 
action,  and  uninformed,  blundering  lead- 
ership would  still  remain.  Leadership  by 
preachers,  by  great  teachers,  and  by 
enthusiastic  believers  in  democracy,  we 
have  tried.  Every  time  that  leadership 
has  failed,  because  unequipped  to  deal 
with  relations  of  man  to  man  that  need 
evidence,  right  methods,  and  skilled 
attention. 

Educators  change  methods,  not  be- 
cause evidence  is  produced  that  a  pre- 
vious method  failed  to  give  adequate 
results,  but  because  some  new  pedagogi- 
cal theory  seems  attractive.  It  is  not  even 
known  how  many  children  in  the  United 
States  ought  to  be  in  school,  or  how  many 
suffer  from  easily  removable  physical 
defects.  We  are  epidemically  borrowing 
European  ideas  of  vocational  training 
without  having  located  the  defects  of  our 
own  methods.  It  takes  twenty-five  years 
to  learn  what  might  be  learned  in  twelve 
months  if  educators  applied  to  themselves 
efficiency  tests  for  comparing  what  they 
get  done  with  what  they  try  to  do. 
Whether  children  should  be  promoted 
by  subject  or  by  grade,  whether  children 
are  marching  in  lock-step,  whether  there 
is  lack  of  freedom  of  speech  in  educa- 
tional circles,  are  questions  of  fact  to  be 
determined  by  noting  pupils'  progress 
and  teachers'  words  rather  than  by  dis- 
cussing curriculum  and  essays  on  free- 
dom. Noting  requires  technique. 

Religious  work  rarely  undergoes  effi- 
ciency tests.  Many  who  have  tried  the 
institutional  church  say  that  it  has  failed. 
Yet  expensive  institutional  churches  are 
still  being  erected.  Not  one  of  the  great 
social  movements  that  have  character- 
ized the  past  generation  can  be  attributed 


solely,  or  even  in  greater  part,  to  church 
activity;  whether  churches  have  helped 
or  hindered  no  one  can  now  prove.  The 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association  is 
beginning  to  teach  leaders  to  compare 
results  with  effort  and  with  opportunity. 
Comparison  requires  technique. 

Not  having  applied  to  their  own  work 
methods  of  discovering  deficiencies  and 
opportunities,  it  is  natural  that  church 
and  school  should  have  failed  to  develop 
the  technique  essential  to  the  definition 
and  execution  of  a  social  programme. 
Not  having  trained  the  "  fact  sense," 
they  cannot,  of  course,  tell  us  where  we 
are  or  what  we  need.  They  are,  with  re- 
spect to  government,  in  the  position  of  a 
student  who  was  assigned  to  investigate 
a  city  department;  instead  of  submit- 
ting facts,  his  report  was  a  necklace  of 
"  ought,"  "  must,"  "  should,"  "  should 
not,"  "  favoritism,"  "  outrage,"  "  injust- 
ice," and  the  like. 

The  finding  out  what  democracy  ought 
to  know  about  itself,  what  it  does,  what 
it  fails  to  get  done;  the  continuing  edu- 
cation of  democracy;  the  consistent  ap- 
plication of  religious  and  educational 
principles  for  the  welfare  of  democracy, 
are  matters  of  technique.  If  that  tech- 
nique is  to  be  effective,  three  things  are 
needed:  (1)  A  current  record  of  what 
society  is  doing.  (2)  Current  interpreta- 
tion of  what  society  needs,  does,  leaves 
undone.  (3)  Current  aggressive  action 
to  utilize  the  information  that  comes  from 
currently  interpreting  the  current  record 
of  organized  society's  current  acts. 

Purpose  of  municipal  research  educative, 

not  detective. 

To  supply  these  three  means,  the  Bu- 
reau of  Municipal  Research  was  organ- 
ized in  1906.  Its  aim  at  the  outset  was 
educative,  not  detective.  Infinitely  more 
interested  in  pointing  out  what  is  needed 
than  what  is  wrong,  it  realizes  that  the 
great  problem  of  democracy  is  not  the 
control  of  the  officer,  but  the  education  of 
the  citizen.  It  began,  not  by  laying  down 
principles  of  government  or  discussing 


460 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


men,  but  by  studying  the  needs  of  the 
community  and  its  official  acts.  It  would 
educate  democracy  in  facts  about  de- 
mocracy's acts  and  methods,  democracy's 
need,  and  democracy's  opportunity. 
While  its  initial  efforts  have  been  concen- 
trated in  New  York  City,  its  influence 
has  been  felt  through  the  nation,  notably 
among  editors,  city  officials,  and  civic 
leaders.  It  believes  that  its  test  of  muni- 
cipal improvement,  by  way  of  fact  and 
method,  has  demonstrated  the  need  of  a 
great  educational  foundation  that  might 
be  known,  perhaps,  as  the  Blank  Founda- 
tion for  Promoting  Municipal  Welfare,  or 
for  Attaining  Efficient  Democracy. 

Three  years,  $150,000,  and  scientific 
method,  have  accomplished  results  sur- 
passing all  dreams  of  those  who  outlined 
its  programme.  So  convincing  are  these 
results  that  onlookers  who  said  three 
years  ago, "  The  tiger  will  never  change 
its  stripes,"  are  now  saying,  "You  could 
hardly  do  this  in  cities  where  the  tiger 
marks  are  less  obvious."  Although  many 
phases  of  municipal  administration  have 
not  yet  been  studied,  there  is  hardly  an 
obstacle  to  efficiency  and  honesty  that 
has  not  been  encountered  and  overcome 
by  light.  The  real-estate  bureau  that 
eluded  all  graft  charges  is  being  reorgan- 
ized to  prevent  either  graft  or  one  hun- 
dred per  cent  profits  for  land  sold  the  city 
at  private  sale.  W7hile  its  own  staff,  con- 
sisting of  three  investigators  in  1907  and 
forty  in  the  summer  of  1908,  can  of  itself 
do  no  inconsiderable  educational  work, 
the  Bureau  gauges  its  effectiveness,  not 
by  what  its  own  staff  accomplishes,  but 
by  what  the  city's  staff  of  seventy  thou- 
sand, and  through  them  the  city's  popula- 
tion of  four  million,  are  enabled  to  accom- 
plish because  of  its  educational  effort. 

Methods  that  manufacture  corruption 
and  inefficiency,  and  that  for  fifty  years 
defied  political  reform,  are  giving  way  to 
methods  by  which  seventy  thousand  em- 
ployees must  tell  the  truth  about  what 
they  do  when  they  do  it,  about  what  they 
spend  when  they  spend  it,  in  clear,  legible 
form,  so  that  the  community  can  learn 


what  it  has  failed  to  get  done  that  it  set 
out  to  accomplish.  The  central  control- 
ling office,  known  as  the  Department  of 
Finance,  heretofore  unable  to  tell  whether 
revenues  due  were  collected  or  whether 
prices  paid  were  wasteful,  is  being  reor- 
ganized from  top  to  bottom,  so  that  it 
will  be  easier  henceforth  for  city  em- 
ployees to  be  honest  than  dishonest,  to 
be  efficient  than  inefficient. 

Budget  architecture  is  radically  chang- 
ing. No  longer  will  taxpayers'  hearings 
be  a  farce  and  the  budget  a  mass  of 
guesses  and  misrepresentations.  •  At  a 
meeting  recently  of  representatives  of 
fifty  real-estate  organizations,  enthusiasm 
was  aroused  by  the  promise  of  a  budget 
exhibit  which,  through  diagram,  chart, 
and  photograph,  should  show  the  alter- 
natives presented  by  the  various  depart- 
mental estimates.  Several  had  in  mind 
only  that  the  total  of  taxes  should  be 
reduced  ten  or  twenty  millions.  One  or 
two  leaders,  however,  saw  that  the  owners 
of  real  estate  will  be  injured  by  an  in- 
efficient tenement-house  department,  or 
an  ineffective  battle  against  infection,  or 
inadequate  police  protection.  They  can 
be  interested  this  year  and  they  can  make 
their  wishes  felt,  because  for  the  first 
time  estimates  will  show  approximately 
what  city  officials  propose  to  do  with  the 
money  requested  for  next  year,  and  what 
needs  recognized  by  the  community  pub- 
lic officials  have  no  programme  for  meet- 
ing. For  the  first  time  taxpayers  will  be 
heard  upon  a  tentative  budget,  embody- 
ing the  recommendations  of  the  Board 
of  Estimate  and  Apportionment.  In  this 
connection,  important  reports  describe 
methods  and  needs  of  health,  water,  park, 
finance,  and  other  departments. 

Men  who  want  to  serve  their  city  are 
stepping  out  into  the  open  and  success- 
fully appealing  to  the  general  public, 
where  previously  they  were  at  a  disad- 
vantage in  trying  to  be  "  practical "  in 
the  dark.  Men  who  previously  throve 
on  community  ignorance  realize  that  cor- 
ruption and  inefficiency  cannot  bear  the 
light  of  day,  and  are  joining  the  ranks  of 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


461 


those  who  cherish  the  respect  of  mankind 
more  than  personal  profit.  Tammany 
officials,  when  interested,  make  excellent 
collaborators.  The  Commissioners  of  Ac- 
counts, for  thirty  years,  through  reform 
and  Tammany  administrations  alike,  a 
whitewashing  body  that  condoned  and 
glossed  over  wasteful  and  corrupt  acts, 
have  become,  as  a  direct  result  of  the  Bu- 
reau's work,  a  great  educational  agency 
whose  work  will  undoubtedly  be  regarded 
by  our  successors  as  the  greatest  achieve- 
ment of  Mayor  McClellan's  administra- 
tion. 

Thus,  after  years  of  futile  struggle 
through  politics  against  organized  cor- 
ruption and  inefficiency,  New  York  finds 
itself  with  an  official  staff  disciplined  to 
find  and  to  tell  the  truth,  whose  service 
can  be  invoked  at  any  time  by  the  hum- 
blest citizen,  and  whose  results  can  be 
used,  through  taxpayers'  suits  and  ap- 
peals to  the  governor,  to  remove  offend- 
ing officials,  and  to  institute  methods  that 
will  substitute  efficiency  for  incompetence, 
and  honesty  for  corruption.  One  borough 
president  has  been  removed  for  gross  in- 
competence. Another  is  soon  to  be  tried 
for  incompetence,  falsifying  records,  and 
charging  assessment  improvements  to 
the  wrong  owner.  A  third  hurried  to 
Europe  to  avoid  trial.  A  fourth  is  now 
under  investigation  with  results  which  it 
is  too  early  to  prophesy. 

Civic  bodies  are  seeing  that  there  is 
a  potency  in  blazing  light  produced  by 
facts  as  to  conditions  and  acts,  which 
bears  a  striking  similarity  to  the  light 
that  religion  and  education  have  wanted 
to  be. 

For  democracy  —  auto-study,  auto-inter- 
pretation, auto-suggestion. 

While  the  Bureau  of  Municipal  Re- 
search has  attacked  the  problem  of  de- 
mocracy from  the  standpoint  of  the  city, 
the  same  technique  will  be  found  indis- 
pensable in  studying  rural,  state,  and 
national  government.  In  a  short  time  the 
General  Education  Board,  working  pri- 
marily through  colleges  and  the  small 


fraction  of  adult  population  that  goes  to 
college,  has  been  able  to  utilize  the  in- 
come on  forty  millions,  and  undoubtedly 
could  now  with  a  good  conscience  accept 
five,  ten,  or  fifty  millions  more  for  its 
field.  What,  then,  must  be  the  scope  of 
an  educational  work  that  includes  not 
only  the  minds  of  one  hundred  per  cent  of 
our  population,  but  their  efforts  through 
government  to  achieve  democracy! 

The  fund  required  is  not  impossi- 
ble, because  by  spending  efficiently  one 
thousand  for  the  education  of  a  com- 
munity as  to  its  own  needs  and  oppor- 
tunities, we  can  influence  that  commun- 
ity's expenditure  of  a  million,  including 
its  school  funds.  This  year,  the  Bureau 
of  Municipal  Research  is  spending  about 
$100,000  to  establish  methods  that  tell 
the  truth,  to  establish  accountability  by 
furnishing  evidence,  and  to  put  a  pre- 
mium on  efficient  action.  The  Charter 
Revision  Commission  used  its  diagrams 
showing  what  New  York  City  is  trying 
to  do,  and  what  mechanism  it  uses.  The 
Joint  Legislative  Committee  to  investi- 
gate city  finances,  and  the  referee  ap- 
pointed to  ascertain  the  city's  indebted- 
ness, have  asked  the  Bureau  to  cooperate 
in  their  official  inquiries.  Because  of  its 
efforts,  New  York  City  is  spending  this 
year,  with  greater  intelligence  than  ever 
before,  and  with  greater  results  than  ever 
before,  over  $300,000,000. 

Auto-study,  auto-instruction,  auto-sug- 
gestion! Think  what  democracy  could 
do  if  all  government  employees  and  all 
government  methods  were  headed  and 
kept  moving  toward  equal  opportunity! 
What  could  not  church,  school,  and 
private  philanthropy  accomplish  if  gov- 
ernment did  its  part  as  teacher  and 
preacher!  Government  will  do  its  part, 
if  a  surprisingly  small  amount  of  energy 
is  given  to  educational  and  scientific 
municipal  research. 

Relating  a  central  fund  to  localities  and 
to  other  funds. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  proper 
division  between  a  central  foundation  and 


462 


A  National  Fund  for  Efficient  Democracy 


progressive  citizens  in  various  localities, 
would  be  for  the  central  foundation  to 
make  the  standards  and  train  the  men, 
while  the  localities  use  the  standards  and 
employ  the  men.  At  present,  it  is  harder 
to  find  the  men  than  to  raise  money  for 
municipal  research  in  Boston,  Buffalo, 
Philadelphia,  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  or 
Atlanta.  This  programme  would  neces- 
sitate on  the  part  of  a  central  fund  con- 
tinuous investigation,  because  standards 
of  investigating  government  acts  cannot 
be  made  out  of  books,  nor  can  investi- 
gators be  trained  by  lectures. 

The  division  of  field-work  with  medical 
and  scientific  research  is  illustrated  by 
an  investigation  made  several  years  ago 
into  the  causes  of  infant  mortality  by 
the  Rockefeller  Institute  of  Medical  Re- 
search. Those  studies  are  very  import- 
ant; they  cost  a  great  deal  of  money; 
they  earned  the  title  "  scientific."  Yet  for 
years  the  City  of  New  York,  and  every 
other  city  in  the  country,  ignored  that 
information,  and  babies  died  by  thou- 
sands for  want  of  its  application.  The 
saving  of  babies  began  in  earnest  when 
the  government  of  New  York  City,  and 
of  Chicago  and  Cincinnati,  took  the  re- 
sults of  that  investigation  into  tenement 
homes  to  babies  themselves.  What  the 
nurse  does,  and  what  happens  to  the  baby, 
are  the  province  of  municipal  research. 

Games  of  chance  by  individuals  are  no 
more  dangerous,  and  no  more  immoral, 
than  works  of  chance  by  organized  so- 
ciety. Flipping  a  coin  to  see  who  pays  the 
fare,  or  who  wins  a  post-office  appoint- 
ment, is  gambling  no  more  truly  than 
for  organized  society  to  determine  a  pol- 
icy with  respect  to  personality  or  theory, 
rather  than  with  respect  to  demonstrable 
facts  drawn  from  its  own  experience. 

Given  technique  necessary  to  record 
and  interpret  current  experience,  demo- 
cracy will  be  progressively  constructive. 
Witness  Glencoe,  the  Chicago  suburb 
where  motorists  scrupulously  observe  the 
law  and  the  dictates  of  their  consciences. 
On  every  street  corner  is  a  bump,  built 
low  enough  to  make  legal  speed  compati- 


ble with  comfort,  but  high  enough  to 
make  illegal  speed  dangerous  for  machine 
and  occupant.  The  citizens  of  Glencoe 
cannot  afford  to  watch  their  street  cross- 
ings all  day  and  all  night.  They  cannot 
even  afford  to  police  each  corner.  They 
can  afford  the  bumps  which  remind 
potential  law-breakers  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment of  the  prevailing  public  conscience 
and  of  the  conditions  of  public  safety  and 
welfare. 

So  an  educational  fund  of  five,  ten,  or 
fifty  millions  can  never  hope  to  make 
volunteers  enough,  or  police  enough,  to 
watch  every  official  act.  It  can,  how- 
ever, secure  the  adoption  of  methods  for 
recording  what  is  done  when  it  is  done 
that  will  present  a  bump  to  prospect- 
ive law-breakers,  incompetent  men,  and 
watchful  civic  leaders  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment where  public  welfare  is  involved. 
To  keep  these  bumps  in  repair  will  cost 
relatively  little.  By  means  of  them  all 
travelers  on  democracy's  road  will  receive 
warning  of  the  community's  point  of  view 
and  of  the  community's  interest,  so  that 
at  their  own  peril  and  in  blazing  light 
they  commit  anti-social  acts. 

Municipal  research  will  always  be  neces- 
sary. 

It  is  possible  to  forecast  the  develop- 
ment of  the  proposed  foundation,  for  its 
programme  will  apply  just  at  well  one 
hundred  years  from  now  as  to-day.  So 
long  as  a  thousand  men  have  a  thousand 
minds,  their  relations  to  each  other  will 
produce  problems  and  create  new  con- 
ditions. So  long  as  mankind  acts,  there 
will  be  results,  there  will  be  defects,  there 
will  be  needs  not  yet  met.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable that  the  time  will  ever  come, 
even  with  universal  education,  universal 
religion,  and  universal  acceptance  of  de- 
mocracy's ideal,  when  to-morrow  cannot 
be  made  better  than  to-day,  and  when 
forces  will  not  need  direction  away  from 
below  and  behind  toward  above  and  be- 
yond. There  will  always  be  majorities 
likely  to  err  in  judgment,  and  needing 
facts  as  to  lines  of  development  in  order 


The -Ferry  Bells 


463 


that  they  may  choose  wisely.  There  will 
always  be  a  shortest  way  to  realize  an 
educational  or  religious  ideal.  There 
will  always  be  a  choice  between  ineffi- 
ciency and  efficiency,  between  waste  and 
conservation  of  energy.  Democracy  will 
always  be  ignorant  as  to  the  conse- 
quences of  its  last  acts  until  those  acts 
have  been  counted,  analyzed,  and  inter- 
preted. Social  legislation,  such  as  prohi- 
bition, will  always  require  investigation 
as  to  whether  the  law  is  actually  being 
enforced,  and  what  are  the  comparative 
economic  and  social  effects  of  enforce- 
ment and  violation. 


Whichever  way  right  lies,  we  can  reach 
it  quicker  if  we  acquire  the  habit  of  de- 
manding facts  with  regard  to  where  we 
are.  Whether,  for  example,  we  are  to 
socialize  capital  by  owning  it  or  by  con- 
trolling it,  no  one  can  now  foretell. 
Clear  it  is,  however,  that  our  next  step 
to-day,  to-morrow,  and  a  century  hence, 
will  be  a  safer,  more  intelligent  step  in 
proportion  as  we  know  the  facts  with  re- 
gard to  the  forces  that  have  brought  us 
to  the  point  from  which  we  view  to-mor- 
row. Potentially,  the  greatest  producer, 
recorder,  interpreter,  and  user  of  social 
fact  is  an  efficient  democracy. 


THE   FERRY  BELLS 


BY   WALTER   MANLY   HARDY 


WHEN  I  joined  our  local  historical 
association  something  like  six  months 
ago,  I  did  it  not  so  much  because  I  cared 
for  the  association  and  its  one  yearly 
meeting  in  the  library  rooms,  as  because 
my  friend  Captain  Barnabas  Crosby 
counted  it  a  prime  honor  to  win  new  ad- 
herents to  the  society,  and  by  joining  I 
could  bring  much  peace  and  satisfaction 
to  his  kindly  soul.  At  the  time  I  con- 
sented it  was  still  some  days  before  the 
meeting,  but  we  went  up  to  the  room  and 
I  signed  the  book.  I  had  hardly  done  so 
when  the  captain  was  called  away,  and, 
much  to  his  regret,  I  was  left  to  look 
through  the  collection  alone. 

Since  ours  is  a  seaport  town,  where 
nearly  every  family  once  boasted  from 
one  to  six  captains  of  the  purest  deep- 
water  variety,  I  was  not  surprised  to  find 
that  the  collection  contained  quite  as 
many  South  Sea  weapons,  whale's  teeth, 
and  lily  irons,  as  sedate  warming-pans, 
tin  kitchens,  and  kindred  on-shore  im- 
plements. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  and  other 
trinkets  that  I  came  across  two  heavy 


bronze  bells,  hung  in  a  stout  oak  frame 
before  one  of  the  windows.  A  card,  done 
in  a  strong  but  scrawly  hand,  stated  that 
they  were  the  Ferry  Bells,  said  to  have 
been  cast  by  Paul  Revere  and  bought 
and  erected  by  the  towns  and  the  county 
above  the  two  landings  of  the  present 
ferry ;  that  they  were  at  one  time  lost  but 
later  were  returned  to  their  places.  Their 
weights  were  given  as  eighty  and  sixty 
pounds.  Below,  and  in  the  fine  hand- 
writing of  a  woman,  was  inscribed,  "  It 
was  considered  by  all  that  their  tones 
were  particularly  sweet  and  beautiful." 
So  these  were  the  Ferry  Bells!  Putin 
place  shortly  after  the  visitation  by  the 
British  in  1812,  —  a  fact  no  doubt  ac- 
counting for  their  presence  on  the  river, 
—  they  had  done  duty  through  nearly  all 
the  intervening  years,  until  steam  drove 
out  the  picturesque  old  ferryman  and 
took  away  their  usefulness.  Whether  it 
was  my  memory  of  them  when,  as  a  boy, 
I  used  to  hear  them,  or  their  age  and  the 
inscription  that  attracted  me,  I  do  not 
know,  but  at  any  rate  I  soon  found  my- 
self deeply  interested,  and  wished  more 


464 


The  Ferry  Bells 


than  once  that  the  Captain  were  back 
again  to  tell  me  about  them. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  meeting, 
that  I  found  him  in  the  mood,  and  even 
then  he  was  so  taken  up  with  affairs,  he 
being  still  much  of  a  ladies'  man  and  this 
one  of  the  great  days,  that  after  three 
times  asking  him  I  gave  him  up.  But 
when  we  were  coming  away  and  I  had 
all  but  decided  to  let  the  matter  drop,  he 
unexpectedly  began  to  talk. 

"Ye  can't  do  nuthin'  'bout  tellin'  a 
story  when  there  's  wpmen  around  ye; 
they're  the  wust  things  when  a  man's 
tellin'  a  story  that  ever  was,  he  don' 
know  —  he  don'  know  what  to  say." 

Meanwhile  we  were  walking  rapidly. 
"  But  about  those  bells,"  he  began  sud- 
denly, "  you  just  wait  till  we  git  to  the 
shop  an'  then  we'll  see!  " 

I  should  have  mentioned  before  that 
the  Captain,  although  no  longer  actively 
engaged  on  the  deep,  is  still  the  master  of 
a  large  and  at  times  a  very  busy  sail-loft, 
—  a  place  where  he  and  I  have  had  some 
of  our  longest  and  pleasantest  talks,  — 
and  it  was  to  this  that  we  repaired. 

"  Now  let's  us  see,"  said  he,  after  we 
had  climbed  the  two  nights  of  stairs  and 
had  got  comfortably  planted,  each  in  an 
old  chair,  among  the  ruins  of  blackened 
cordage  and  of  what  had  once  been  white 
sails,  and  the  Captain  had  begun  to  fill 
his  pipe.  "  Let 's  us  see!  "  he  remarked 
again,  while  he  fumbled  for  a  match. 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  know  just  where  to 
begin  about  them  bells;  seem's  if  they 
did  n't  do  much  of  anything  till  quite  a 
spell  —  not  till  I  got  to  be  quite  a  lad, 
anyway.  Of  course  the  town  an'  the 
county  gut  'em  an'  hung  'em  there,  an' 
that  was  about  all  I  can  remember  'bout 
'em.  Seem's  if  it  all  beginned  with 
Tom  Darby.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  him  ? 
Well,  sir,  your  Uncle  Ithal  brought  him 
here  in  the  ship  Masterman  —  the  E.  P. 
Masterman.  He  was  the  greatest  regular 
sailor  man,  this  Darby,  with  a  regular 
sailor  name,  that  you  ever  see.  An'  smart! 
He  was  about  the  smartest  critter  ever 
was.  He'd  a  face  that  looked  jus'  as  if  it 


had  been  rubbed  in  tar,  an'  he'd  climb 
any  thin'  short  of  a  rainbow.  An'  comical, 
too!  I  'member  I  was  just  a  lad  an' 
tryin'  to  saw  some  wood.  The  saw  was 
pinchin'  an'  she  stuck  on  me.  'Long  he 
comes, —  he  might  ha'  been  nineteen  or 
twenty,  but  he  looked  a  man  to  me  — 
folks  seemed  to  grow  up  quicker  in  them 
days,  too.  He  comes  along,  an*  '  Guess 
she  needs  to  be  set  some,'  says  he;  '  ain't 
wide  enough  fer  ye! '  An'  he  yanks  her 
out  'n  the  scarf,  an'  what  does  he  do  but 
he  tuk  out  his  key  to  his  sea-chist  an'  he 
turns  up  the  ring  of  it  an'  sets  her  with 
that!  Then  he  starts  in  to  try  her. 

"  '  How  does  she  go  ?  '  says  I.  — '  Go ! 
Goes  like  a  hog  to  war! '  says  he.  That's 
the  first  time  I  ever  heard  anybody  say 
that! 

"  Well,  sir,  him  an'  my  cousin  Ben  got 
to  goin'  together  while  the  vessel  was  dis- 
chargin*.  Ben  he  was  n't  the  same  then 
as  he  was  after,  bless  you,  no !  he  wan't 
'tall  the  same;  he  had  a  change  of  heart 
arterwards,  an'  he  wan't  never  agin  like 
he  was;  got  converted  an'  turned  right 
around ;  but  them  days  he  was  considable 
of  a  boy.  He  done  his  full  sheer  to  lots  o' 
things,  an'  this  here  Tom  Darby  was  a 
reg'lar  black  jack  to  most  any  kind  o' 
deviltry. 

"  Well,  sir,  both  of  'em  signed  to  go 
with  your  unclev  An'  the  night  before 
the  Masterman  sailed  them  two  went  over 
'crost  the  river  together.  What  high  jinks 
they  done  over  there  I  don't  know,  but 
comin'  back  they  missed  the  bo't,  an* 
while  they  was  waitin'  there  this  Tom 
Darby  he  says,  '  Ben,  what  let 's  steal?' 
Says  he,  *  I  'most  allays  steals  somethin' 
'most  ev'ry  port  I  go.'  He  was  standin' 
right  under  the  old  oak  cross-beam,  an' 
'ginst  Ben  could  think  of  anything  to  say, 
he  looked  up  an'  he  seen  that  bell.  *  By 
God! '  says  he,  *  that's  what  I'll  steal! ' 
An'  mos'  'fore  no  time  he  was  up  an'  had 
the  fid  out'n  the  shackles. 

"  She  weighed  sixty  pound,  that  bell, 
but  he  was  an  ox  for  stren'th,  an'  he  got 
her  down  an'  wropped  his  co't  all  up 
rounst  her,  an'  started  to  take  her  over. 


The  Ferry  Relk 


465 


" 4  What  you  got  in  your  co't  ?  '  says 
oF  Heath,  what  run  the  ferry. 

"  '  Got  my  pet  cat,'  says  Darby; '  darn 
her,  she  kicks  so  I'm  most  'fraid  she'll 
leave  me  yet! ' 

"  They  gut  her  'crost  this  side  an' 
just  up  abreast  our  bell,  when  somehow 
'nother,  I  don't  know  how,  she  come  some 
kind  of  a  roll  on  him  an'  'ker-lank!' 
goes  her  oP  tongue.  Ben  he  tol'  me  after 
he  was  just  about  scart  to  death. 

*'  'Who  rung  my  bell  ?  '  says  ol'  Heath. 
— *  I  did,'  says  Tom;  *  she  ain't  so  good- 
toned  as  the  other  one.'  That  was  jus' 
like  him,  awful  quick  he  was.  'Fore  oP 
Heath  was  half-way  crost  the  river  agin, 
he  had  down  the  eighty-pounder,  an' 
him  an'  Ben  was  makin'  for  the  ship 
with  'em. 

"  She  laid  jus'  below  the  ferry  with  her 
jibboom  stickin'  right  up  over  it  same's 
they  do  nowadays.  Ben  he  said  there 
wa'n't  nobody  on  deck,  an'  they  gut  'em 
onto  the  rail,  an'  then  I  remember  jus'  as 
plain  as  can  be  what  he  said  Tom  told 
him.  '  Ben,'  says  he,  '  you  git  fer  home/ 
says  he;  '  ten  men  can  steal  a  church, 
but  the  Devil  himself  dars  n't  hev  no 
extry  hands  helpin'  hide  it.' 

"  I  'member  next  mornin'  jus'  as  well. 
There  was  the  grettest  time  ever  you  did 
see.  Some  folks  was  runnin'  an'  others 
was  a-lookin'  at  them  cross-bars,  an'  oP 
Heath  he  got  a  gret  extry  long  pict-pole 
an'  he  was  jobbin'  away  off  the  ferry-slip 
like  his  life  depended  on  it.  He  'lowed 
they  was  throwed  overboard. 

"  Whiles  he  was  doin'  that  an'  they  was 
all  runnin'  around  wild,  they  s'picioned 
somehow  that  Tom  Darby  he  done  it, 
an'  first  thing  we  knowed  they  hed  the 
police  down  there  an'  they  ketched  him. 
An'  then  they  begun  to  hunt.  I  don'  know 
as  ever  I  see  a  full-growed  ship  so 
everlastingly  an'  'tarnally  over-rid  with 
downright  clod-hoppers  as  that  one  was. 
I  was  there  same's  the  rest  of  'em,  young- 
ster fashion,  divin'  round  water-butts 
an'  stickin'  my  head  in  everywhere  I'd 
no  business.  So  was  the  parson  an'  the 
doctor  an'  seem 's  'ough  every  livin'  bein' 

VOL.102 -NO.  4 


in  the  place.  Your  uncle  he  tolt  'ein  to 
do  their  damnedest,  only  he  give  'em  jus' 
so  long  a  time,  'cause  he  was  goin'  out 
with  the  tide  —  an'  I  swear  they  done  it. 
The  E.  P.  Masterman  come  the  nighest 
to  bein'  a  total  wreck  that  day  that  ever 
she  did  in  all  her  life.  They  even  digged 
the  cables  out'n  their  places,  an'  they 
clum  half-way  up  the  masts,  an'  some  o' 
'em  they  did  say  they  tried  to  scrape  her 
bottom,  but  I  don'  know  'bout  that.  They 
busted  open  sea-chists  an'  tea-chists  an' 
unskewered  the  hatches,  an'  I  swear  'fore 
night 't  was  wuth  a  week's  wages  to  have 
red  of  'em.  But  ne'er  a  bell  did  they  find ! 
So  fin'ly  they  damned  her  an'  they  guv 
her  up,  an'  they  had  to  give  up  Tom 
Darby  too! 

"  Ben  he  tolt  me  they  had  n't  gut  much 
more'n  out  into  mid-stream,  'fore  Tom 
he  says  to  the  Cap'n,  '  Cap'n,'  says  he, 
'  you'll  hear  them  bells  ringin'  'fore  we 
git  out  to  sea.' 

"  An'  where  do  you  s'pose  them  bells 
was  hid  ?  " 

Captain  Barnabas  leaned  forward  with 
his  hand  raised. 

"  I  guess  I  give  it  up,"  I  said. 

"  '  Well,  you'd  better,"  said  he.  "  One 
of  'em  —  one  of  'em  "  (lifting  his  voice) 
"  was  hid  in  the  r'yal,  in  the  fore-r'yal  — 
furled  in  !  Yes,  sir,  furled  in  !  an'  almost 
clearn  to  the  mast-head !  Sixty  pound  in 
weight  —  an'  in  the  night  I  An'  the  other 
was  headed  up  in  the  middle  of  a  berril 
of  pork!  God!  man,  but  he  was  a  ter- 
ror!" And  Captain  Barnabas  relaxed, 
and  rubbed  his  hand  where  he  had 
struck  it  on  his  chair. 

"  Well,  sir,  them  bells  went  to  sea.  An' 
when  they  got  to  Havana  your  uncle  he 
said  how  them  bells  had  gut  to  go  back, 
back  home  where  they  belonged;  for, 
s'z  'e,  '  I've  gut  chartered  to  go  some 
further  south  an'  there's  no  tellin'  when 
I'll  be  gittin'  along  or  what '11  happen 
to  me,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  them  bells 
an'  box  'em  an'  send  'em  home  by  Cap'n 
Silas  Bartram.'  Cap'n  Silas  he  was  on 
the  old  brig  Traveler  —  went  in  her  for 
years,  until  he  died,  I  guess,  an'  he  hap- 


466 


The  Ferry  Bells 


pened  to  be  layin'  right  'long  side  of  'em 
an'  homeward  bound.  So  they  gut  a  box 
an'  packed  'em  an'  bound  it  with  strap 
iron,  an'  'fore  the  Cap'n  sailed  they 
boated  it  over  an'  put  'em  aboard  of  'im. 

"  After  that  your  uncle  he  went  south ; 
but  he  wan't  gone  so  long  as  he  expected 
to  be;  guess  he  made  fair  weather  of  it  or 
something;  but  Cap'n  Silas  he  run  the  ol' 
Traveler  right  into  one  of  the  cussedest 
gales  o'  wind  down  there  some'eres  that 
ever  you  did  see;  an*  he  used  her  all  up. 
He  lost  most  of  his  foremast  an'  tore  his 
sails  off'n  him  an'  I  don't  know  what  he 
did  n't  do.  He  was  more  'n  three  weeks 
to  a  month  gittin*  into  one  o'  them  Gulf 
ports.  Then  he  had  to  refit  an'  patch 
up,  an'  what  with  havin'  trouble  about 
his  cargo,  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  we 
never  seen  him  up  here  till  the  E.  P. 
Masterman  was  clean  home  ahead  of 
him,  an'  at  work  dischargin' ! 

"  Well,  sir,  when  they  warped  Uncle 
Silas  into  the  dock  they  all  of  'em  come 
a-runnin'  to  see  them  bells.  It  seemed 
's  if  I  never  seed  sech  a  crowd.  I  thought 
they'd  break  the  wharf t  down.  But  they 
did  n't.  They  fetched  a  taycle  an'  Silas 
he  opened  her  up  fas'  's  he  could,  an' 
bimeby  they  gut  a  hitch,  an'  'bout  more'n 
four  time's  many's  could  git  fair  holt 
tried  to  help  h'ist  her  out  ont'  the  landin'. 
I  made  up  my  mind  I  was  goin'  to  see 
them  bells  soon's  anybody  ef  I  had  to  let 
one  land  on  top  o'  me,  an'  they  pretty 
nigh  did.  I  gut  my  head  out  between  two 
men's  legs  an'  I  seen  'em  bust  her  open 
with  a  pick-handspike  an'  an  axe,  an' 
when  they  took  the  covers  off,  what  do 
you  s'pose  she  was  lined  with  ?  Tobacco ! 
Yes,  sir,  gret,  long  yeller-brown  leaves, 
an'  pretty,  too.  They  begun  to  dig  down 
an'  they  Tsep'  diggin'  down,  an'  says  I, 
'  Looks  like  rocks  more'n  anything  else 
to  me.'  But  they  kep'  diggin'  an'  diggin'. 
An*  what  do  you  s'pose  they  found? 
Stones,  man!  stones!  nothin'  but  just 
black  rocks!  That  damn  Tom  Darby 
he'd  stole  them  bells  the  secont  time! 

"  An'  then  was  n't  there  a  time  though! 
They  went  to  your  uncle  an'  he  said  that 


the  last  he  knew  of  Tom  he  left  the  ship 
at  some  southern  port.  So  all  anybody 
got  out  of  it  was  the  tobacco.  I  saved 
some  of  it  for  years,  an'  't  was  good  too,  I 
guess,  only  I  wan't  smokin'  them  days. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  never  see  Tom  Darby 
agin.  Ben  he  gut  converted,  an'  though 
he  kep'  on  goin'  to  sea,  he  was  lots  dif- 
f'rent  after  that.  It  must  have  been  ten 
or  a  dozen  years  afterwards,  an'  I  was 
goin'  to  sea  myself,  'fore  anybody  ever 
heerd  more  about  them  bells.  My  first 
trip  I  went  south  on  the  Masterman  'long 
o'  your  uncle,  an'  Ben  he  went  first  mate. 
He  gut  me  the  chance,  you  see.  We  was 
tied  up  in  Baltimore  when  Ben  come 
down  aboard.  *  Lud ! '  says  he,  —  he 
alwers  used  to  say  that,  — '  My  Lud ! ' 
he  says, '  I've  just  seen  Tom  Darby,  an' 
he  was  drunker  'n  a  fool ! ' 

"  *  Did  he  say  anything  about  them 
bells  ?  '  says  your  uncle. 

"  '  Well,  he  said  somethin'  'bout  'em,' 
says  he,  *  but  't  won't  do  no  good.' 

"  He  said  he  stole  'em  durin'  his  watch 
in  the  night  an'  hid  'em  'way  up  forrards, 
an'  when  he  got  'em  into  port  (he 
would  n't  no  ways  tell  what  one,  though 
I  guess  Ben  pressed  him  pretty  hard),  he 
rows  ashore  somewheres  abreast  of  the 
anchorage  an'  hides  'em  both.  Drunk  as 
he  was,  he  would  n't  tell  the  name  of 
the  port,  but  for  the  rest  he'd  laugh 
an'  tell  it  all  as  straight  as  H.  He 
said  he  seen  up  ashore  there  a  big 
whitewashed  buildin'  of  some  manner 
or  'nother,  what  looked  to  him  's  if  it 
might  be  a  fact'ry.  Every  now  an'  then 
he  see  folks,  quite  a  lot  o'  folks,  walkin' 
round,  an'  then  he'd  be  hearin*  bells  ring 
like  sixty,  an'  er  course  he  dassent  ask 
nobody,  but  he  made  out  to  hisself  some- 
how 't  was  an  anchor  fact'ry,  er  a  bell 
foundry,  er  some  dod-blasted  thing  er 
'nother.  P'raps 't  wa  'n't  nothin'  more  'n 
a  schoolhouse,  but  anyway  like  's  not 
they  might  buy  old  junk,  an'  havin'  bells 
they  might  want  some  more. 

"So  he  planned  first  time  he  got 
shore  leave  to  sack  them  bells  up  there 
an'  sell  'em,  since  that  was  the  most 


The  Ferry  Bells 


467 


likeliest-lookin'  place  he  could  make  out 
handy.  Bimeby  he  gits  ashore  in  the 
place,  an'  first  thing  he  doos  is,  he  gits 
a  jug  o'  rum  an'  starts  right  out  in 
the  heat  o'  the  day,  like  any  cussed  Yan- 
kee, a-bilin'  up  one  o'  them  milk-white, 
eye-blindin'  ro'ds,  makin'  fer  them  bells 
an'  drinkin'  rum  to  stop  his  thirst  at 
ev'ry  ten  rods.  He  had  'em  hid,  it  seems, 
under  a  thick  bush  with  briers  all  over 
it,  right  alongside  this  ro'd  an'  runnin' 
up  to  what  he  struck  out  to  be  his  foun- 
dry o'  some  sort. 

"  Well,  between  the  heat  an'  the  sun 
an'  the  ro'd  an'  the  rum,  poor  Tom  he 
gut  worse  an'  worse,  till  bimeby  he  was 
clearn  seas  over,  an'  there  's  not  much 
doubts  about  that.  He  toF  Ben  that  he 
most  suttenly  believed  he  crawled  under 
more'n  four  hundred  diff'rent  brier 
bushes  'fore  he  found  the  right  one;  but 
he  finds  'em  at  last,  an*  he  gits  'em  out 
onto  the  ro'd  an'  starts  a-luggin'  of  'em 
along,  givin'  'em  turns  like,  fust  one, 
then  t'other,  up  the  hill.  Bimeby  he 
gut  'em  both  in  one  place  where  it  was 
in  the  shade  for  a  while,  an'  he  takes  an 
extry  big  drink  o'  rum  an'  down  he  lays 
between  the  two  of  'em,  an'  he  never 
knowed  nothin'  more  for  he  did  n't  know 
how  long. 

"  Bimeby  he  waked  up.  An'  first 
thing  he  see  was  a  great  big  man  with  a 
great  gol-darn  big  petticoat  co't  on  that 
come  clearn  down  to  the  ground  all 
round,  an'  with  one  of  these  ere  furrin 
bell-cord  torsel  fixin's  hitched  round  his 
middle,  balder 'n  a  badger,  an'  lookin' 
right  down  in  his  face,  standin'  right  fair 
an'  square  in  front  o'  him. 

"  '  "  Cripes!  "  says  I,'  says  he;  "«  'e 
may  be  the  police  an'  he  may  be  the 
Devil,  I  do'  know  which,"  an'  I  grabbed 
my  jug  an'  run  to  beat  hell ! 

'  '  I  never  seen  them  bells  sence,'  says 
he,  'an'  that's  the  God's  honest  truth; 
hope  to  die  ef  't  aint ! '  says  he. 

"  An'  he  says  to  Ben,  '  Ef  ye  find  'em 
ye  c'n  hev  'em,  but  I  won't  tell  ye  where 
I  lost  'em,  damned  ef  I  will ! ' 

"  Nothin'  more  could  Ben  git   out  'n 


him.  We  went  ashore  twice  to  try  to  find 
him,  but  I  think  's  likely  he  'd  shipped 
aboard  some  vessel  an'  was  gone  off.  He 
was  an  awful  smart  feller,  that  Tom,  but 
he  would  drink  rum." 

Captain  Barnabas  stopped  and  re- 
flected. 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  get  the 
bells  finally?"  said  I. 

"I'm  comin'  to  it,"  said  he,  drawing 
a  match  along  the  floor;  "  gut  to  light  my 
pipe  first." 

"  Ye  see,"  said  he,  "  we  went  south 
with  the  old  Masterman  an'  yer  uncle. 
First  we  went  to  Martinique,  an'  then  we 
sorter  banged  round  till  we  come  to  a 
port  —  I  could  tell  ye  the  name's  well's 
not,  only  I  promised  onct  I  would  n't  an' 
I  might's  well  stick  it  out  I  s'pose  —  but 
anyways  it  don't  make  no  diffunce.  We 
gut  down  to  this  here  port,  an'  just  'bout 
sundown  Ben  an'  I  was  out  on  deck 
washin'  up  fer  supper.  'T  was  a  nice 
pleasant  night  an'  mostly  calm,  with  just 
a  little  shore  air,  an'  right  off  abreast  of 
us  was  quite  big  hills  runnin'  up  with 
buildin's  on  'em.  All  of  a  sudden  we 
heard  bells  a-ringin'.  Up  on  that  highest 
hill  was  a  big  white  sort  of  buildin'  't  I 
had  n't  noticed  much  afore;  an'  it  seems 
they  had  a  kinder  piece  o'  wall  set  up 
with  holes  in  it,  reg'lar  arches,  an'  in 
them  arches  was  lots  o'  bells.  An'  there 
was  fellers  stood  there  an'  hit  'em.  Seems 
by  the  sound  that  they  begun  on  the  big 
ones  low  down  at  first,  but  bimeby  they 
commenced  on  the  little  ones  up  top.  We 
was  so  near  land  you  could  hear  'em 
jus'  's  if  they  was  aboard. 

"  Fust  thing  I  knew  Ben  he  went  int' 
the  air  'bout  two  feet.  *  Lud ! '  he  says, 
*  my  Lud !  do  you  listen  —  listen ! '  he 
says.  '  Do  you  hear  that  ?  ' 

"  '  I  hear  'em;  I  ain't  deef ! '  I  says. 

"  '  Shut  up  !  Listen  !  '  says  he. 
'  Them's  my  bells!  Lud!  but  they  are! ' 

"Ben  he  was  a  great  hand  for  music, 
but  I  ain't,  an'  I  'xpect  he  could  hear 
better'n  I  could ;  but  I  put  my  ear  right 
down  to  it  an'  by  thunder !  seemed  to  me 
I  could  ketch  somethin'  that  sounded 


468 


The  Ferry  Bells 


like  home.    I  swan  I  could  make  her 
out!     Ben  he  was  wild. 

"  '  For  Heaven's  sake,  hold  onto  your- 
self,' says  I ;  *  we  got  to  go  slow.' 

"  '  Let's  tell  the  cap'n  an'  we'll  go  up 
an'  git  'em,'  says  he. 

"  I'd  never  been  south,  but  I  knowed 
some  things  aforetime,  an'  I  wan't  for 
jumpin'  hit'  the  fire  so  suddent. 

"  '  No,  you  don't  tell  nobody,  not  yit,' 
says  I. 

"  '  That's  the  very  place,'  says  Ben, 
puttin'  his  glass  on  it,  '  an'  them's  the 
very  fellers,  like  Tom  Darby  saw! ' 

"  '  But  it  ain't  no  anchor  fact'ry  up 
there  on  that  hill,'  says  I,  '  an'  it  ain't  no 
bell  foundry  way  up  so  fur  from  the 
water  an'  'thouten  no  chimbley! ' 

"  Bimeby  it  seemed  to  strike  the  two 
of  us  all  to  onct  —  darned,  if  it  wan't 
a  church!  an'  all  chock-a-block  ram- 
bang-spanging  full  o'  them  priests!  — 
monks,  that's  what  they  call  'em!  Part 
of  it  was  covered  sort  of  with  trees,  you 
know,  an'  we  never  got  wind  of  it  before. 
Well,  sir,  they  lived  there,  an'  slep'  there, 
an'  they  had  their  meals  there,  jus' 
same's  you  would  aboard  ship  —  I've 
seen  lots  of  'em  sence  down  round  the 
Med'terranean. 

"  Ben  he  was  all  took  aback.  *  Ef 
them's  priests,'  he  says,  *  we  can't  do 
nothin'  with  'em;  I  guess  we  lost  our 
bells,'  says  he. 

"  *  Why  not  go  take  'em  ?  '  says  I. 

"  '  Could  n't  do  that,'  says  he;  '  that 
'ouldbestealin'!' 

"  '  But  they  don't  belong  to  them,' 
says  I.  But  he  would  n't  hev  it  no  other 
way.  Ben  he  was  awful  square-rigged. 
He  felt  bad  as  anythin'  'cause  he  had  a 
hand  in  losin'  'em,  but  he  could  n't  steal 
'em  back  agin. 

"  Well,  sir,  that  night  it  shut  in  dark  as 
anythin',  but 't  was  nice  an'  warm.  Mine 
was  the  middle  watch  an'  I  was  all  alone, 
'cause  we  was  in  port,  you  see.  Right 
after  mine  come  Swain  Pendleton's 
watch.  Swain  he  was  the  ship's  clock; 
he  could  wake  up  any  hour  in  the  night 
he  sot.  I  went  to  Swain  an'  I  says  to  him, 


'  Swain,  can  you  make  out  to  wake  up 
when  your  watch  comes  ?  '  —  '  Guess  I 
kin ! '  says  he.  —  '  Well,'  I  says,  *  ef  you 
miss  me  an'  the  dinghy  when  you  come 
on  deck,  don't  you  sing  out.'  Swain  he 
knew  I  was  young,  an'  he  just  spit  an' 
grinned  an'  did  n't  make  no  remarks. 

"  When  it  come  time  fer  my  watch 
I  jus'  come  up  an'  took  a  look  around  an' 
seen  all  was  well,  an'  then  I  slips  over 
the  side  an'  int*  the  dinghy  an'  starts 
scullin'  'er  fer  the  shore.  There  was  one 
of  them  big  blanket  clouds  movin'  back, 
an'  't  was  gittin'  fair  starlight,  least  so'st 
shapes  they  made  themselves  out  quite 
a  ways.  I  rowed  me  into  a  little  cove  an' 
fixed  the  dinghy  so'st  she  would  'n'  git 
ketched  ner  grind,  an'  then  I  clim  up. 
It  seemed  to  be  just  dead  grass  an'  brier 
bushes  mostly,  but  bimeby  I  struck  a 
reg'lar  garden-place,  an'  after  that  a  nice 
gravel  walk.  I  gut  my  shoes  off  so's  I 
could  go  quiet  an'  not  make  no  noise,  an' 
that  path  took  me  right  where  I  wanted 
to  be.  There  was  the  church  an'  all  the 
fixin's  round  it,  an'  that  wall  with  the 
bells  on  it  right  side  the  walk  —  walk 
run  all  around  it!  I  was  scart  for  fear 
they  had  a  dog,  but  seems  mos'  likely 
they  did  n't  hev  none.  I  crep'  up  to  the 
wall,  an'  't  was  built  with  sort  o'  steps  at 
the  ends,  sorter  like  the  end  o'  a  Dutch 
house,  only  they  was  diffrent.  I  know  I 
thinks,  *  Now,  Barney,  you  got  to  make 
out  whether  them  bells  is  yourn  before 
you  goes  to  takin'  'em.'  I  remembered 
that  onct  Ben  tolt  me  that  both  on  'em 
had  somethin'  on  'em,  dates  an'  bein' 
cast  by  P.  Revere  an'  Mason's  signs  on 
the  big  one.  'Bout  the  fust  thing  I  gut 
my  hand  on  was  one  of  them  little  lizards, 
but  I  gut  up  there  easy  enough  an'  bime- 
by I  felt  round,  an'  by  gracious!  them 
was  our  bells !  I  could  make  out  a  P  an' 
a  R,  an'  down  unnerneath  on  the  big  one 
suthin'  dimon'wise,  like  the  square  an' 
compasses.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
felt  good  then! 

"  Then  come  the  trick  o'  gittin'  them 
down.  Seems  they  had  sort  o'  leather 
lanyards  to  them  top  bells  to  ring  'em 


The  Ferry  Bells 


469 


by,  an*  when  I  went  to  git  int'  the  arch 
'long  with  'em,  —  sort  o'  double  arch, 
seems  like,  —  I  come  the  nighest  to  trip- 
pin'  over  one  o'  those  an'  settin'  her  goin' 
ever  you  see.  I  grabbed  holt  the  tongue 
just  in  time.  But  I  meneged  with  them 
leetle  leather  ropes  to  tie  my  co't  round 
one  clapper,  an'  my  shirt'  round  t'other, 
an'  then  I  starts  in  to  git  'em  loose.  An' 
what  do  you  think  they  was  made  fast 
with  ?  What  do  you  s'pose  now  ?  " 

"Chains?"  said  I. 

"  No,  sir!  Raw  hog's  hide  with  the 
brustles  on,  an'  dried!  Yes,  sir.  I 
brought  some  of  it  clearn  home  with  me 
to  show.  'T  would  take  the  aidge  right 
off'n  a  knife. 

"  Thinks  I,  *  I'll  take  the  biggest  one 
first,  an'  then  if  any  thin'  should  happen, 
why,  I'll  save  that  much,  anyway/  It 
was  strainin'  work,  but  I  coopered  him 
after  awhile  an'  gut  him  clearn  down  an' 
int'  the  bo't. 

"  Then  I  gut  holt  o'  the  small  one  and 
fetched  him  down  ont'  the  ground  an' 
was  just  startin'  to  put  my  shoes  on  ag'in, 
'cause  I  could  walk  on  the  grass  aidge 
jus'  's  well  an'  not  make  no  noise,  —  an' 
when  a  man  was  lo'ded  them  pebbles 
tjiey  cut  in  somethin'  devilish,  —  I  was 
jus'  a  beginnin',  when  I  heard  somebody 
a-comin',  scrunch  —  scrunch  —  scrunch; 
you  could  hear  him  comin'  on  them 
gravels,  an'  slow,  too. 

"  '  What  fer  Huldy's  sake  did  I  do  to 
start  him  out  ?  '  thinks  I. 

"I  squeezed  all  up  close  'ginst  that 
wall,  but  he  kep'  comin'  right  down  that 
path  t'words  me.  He  gut  clearn  to  the 
end  of  the  wall,  an'  then  all  of  a  sudden 
he  went  the  other  side.  I  felt  better  some 
then,  an*  I  jus'  started  to  take  a  long 
breath,  when  round  he  comes,  right  round 
my  end  of  it  an'  up  ag'in  me.  '  It's  now 
or  never,'  thinks  I,  an'  I  jus'  drawed  off 
an'  hit  him  the  gol-darnedest  bing  in  the 
head  prob'ly  he'll  ever  git  in  this  world. 
He  went  over  like  he  was  shot,  an'  I 
grabbed  my  other  shoe  an'  gafted  onto 
the  oP  bell  quick's  I  could,  an'  then  I 
put  her  for  heaven's  sake,  one  shoe  off, 


an*  one  shoe  on,  down  the  hill.  Seems 's 
if  ev'ry  step  I  punched  a  post-hole,  an*  I 
was  clean  blowed  for  two  hours  after; 
but  I  gut  alongside  at  last,  an'  Swain  he 
helped  me  to  take  'em  aboard.  We  hid 
'em  under  some  oF  sail  an'  then  I  turned 
in  an'  went  to  sleep. 

"  Come  to  git  up,  there  was  a  pretty 
how-de-do.  Somebody  had  moved  that 
sail  an'  found  my  bells,  an'  Cap'n  he  gut 
after  Ben,  an'  Ben  he  tolt  all  he  knowed, 
an'  Swain  he  would  n't  tell  but  he  might 
jus'  as  well  hev,  an'  it  was  a  pretty  mess. 
Cap'n  said  it  wan't  right  an'  he  would  n't 
hev  no  sech  doin's  aboard  a  vessel  o' 
hisn,  an'  Ben  he  was  faced  right  around 
an'  beggin'  fer  to  hev  'em  stay.  When 
I  come  aft  I  'spected  to  git  hell.  Cap'n 
he  never  says  a  word  more'n  Good-morn- 
in'.  Bimeby  he  says,  '  Barney,  you  go 
git  shaved,  an'  tell  Ben  to.'  An*  then  I 
see  trouble  all  right. 

"  Well,  sir,  'fore  nine  o'clock  he  had 
me  an'  Ben  an'  Swain  an'  himself  —  we 
all  bein'  from  home,  you  know  —  all 
ashore  an'  up  to  the  consul's  office.  Con- 
sul he  turned  out  to  be  a  man  your  uncle 
knowed,  named  Hill,  born  an'  brought 
up  right  on  our  river;  awful  nice  man 
he  was,  too,  son  of  old  Judson  Hill.  He 
gut  a  perlice  off'cer,  or  some  sort  what 
had  power,  an'  we  drove  off  for  that 
monersterry,  as  they  called  it.  I  could  n't 
help  goin',  an'  thinks  I,  '  Barney,  your 
jig  's  up.  When  they  hears  about  that 
feller  you  basten  in  the  eye,  you'll  be 
an  awful  brown  goose  sure  pop.'  I  had 
n't  said  a  single  word  about  that.  Your 
uncle  an'  the  consul  an'  the  perlice  off'cer 
they  talked  Spanish  all  right  'mongst  'em, 
but  Ben  an'  Swain  an'  me  we  had  to  git 
along  same's  we  allers  did. 

"  There  was  a  fat  little  priest  met  us 
at  the  door  an'  invited  us  in  through  a 
long  hall  —  buildin'  all  stone,  you  know, 
an'  jus'  as  clean  an'  cool.  I  tell  ye  it  was 
fine.  Ef  I  had  n't  ben  so  scart  I  should 
ha'  enj'yed  it  lots  more'n  I  did.  We  went 
through  this  hall  an'  into  a  gret,  big, 
high-studded,  han'some  room,  seats  all 
along  each  side  an'  a  table  at  the  end. 


470 


The  Ferry  Bells 


'T  was  one  of  the  nicest  rooms  seems  to 
me  I  ever  see.  We  set  down  in  there  an' 
then  we  see  picters  all  up  on  the  wall,  an' 
on  the  ceilin',  too  —  saints,  an'  them 
things.  I  was  so  uncomferble  though  that 
bimeby  I  goes  to  the  cap'n  an'  begins  to 
tell  him.  Seems  he  knowed  all  'bout  it 
from  the  perlice;  they'd  been  talkin' 
'bout  it,  only  I  could  n't  understand. 

"  At  last  two  old  priests  come  in  — 
fine-lookin'  men  they  was,  too,  an'  moved 
'bout  jus'  's  still,  an'  the  perlice  he  inter- 
duced  them  to  the  consul  an'  your  uncle. 
They  talked  Spanish,  an'  then  they  all 
went  out  an'  left  me  an'  Ben  an'  Swain. 
We  looked  at  the  picters,  an'  a  little  priest 
come  in  an'  tried  to  tell  us  about  'em; 
but  it  was  a  sort  o'  one-sided  game.  I 
wisht  most  damnably  I  could  ask  him  ef 
the  feller  was  dead,  'cause  I  was  worried 
most  to  death;  an'  ev'ry  new  one  I  see, 
I'd  keep  lookin'  to  see  if  his  eye  was  all 
blacked  up  or  like  that.  I  'member, 
thinks  I,  '  I  swear  I'll  never  hit  another 
man's  long  as  I  live/  an'  I  don'  know  as 
I  hev  since. 

"  After  a  while  a  bell  rung,  an'  pretty 
soon  the  cap'n  an'  the  others  come  back, 
an'  right  in  after  them  come  much  as  a 
dozen  priests,  all  dressed  just  alike  an* 
ev'ry  one  shaved  on  top,  an'  they  all  set 
down  as  solemn  as  could  be  ag'inst  the 
wall  over  abreast  of  us.  'Bout  the  last 
one  of  'em  had  his  head  all  done  up  in  a 
cloth,  one  of  the  meekest-lookin'  little 
critters  ever  I  did  see.  I  swear  I  felt  sorry 
fer  him,  I  certingly  did. 

"  Well,  sir,  we  had  a  reg'lar  council  o' 
war.  First  your  uncle  he  'd  git  up  an'  talk 
Spanish,  just  as  polite  an'  quiet,  you 
know,  as  he  could  be.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man—  I  allers  said  that;  cert'nly  he  was 
if  there  ever  was  one.  And  then  the  old 
head-father,  a  gret,  tall,  splendid-lookin' 
man,  he  would  git  up,  an'  first  he  talked 
Spanish  an'  then  he  talked  some  Eng- 
lish. He  said  he  had  n't  a  doubt  but  the 
bells  belonged  to  us;  he  found  'em  there 
in  the  ro'd  with  the  drunken  sailor  beside 
'em,  an'  when  he  run  away,  not  knowin' 
what  to  do  with  'em,  an'  havin'  a  good 


an'  godly  use  for  'em,  —  a  godly  use  for 
'em,  he  said,  —  he  took  'em  an'  had  his 
arches  enlarged  an'  added  'em  to  his 
bells.  Had  he  a  known  who  was  the  right- 
ful owner,  he  would  er  been  pleased  to 
have  given  'em  up  at  any  time.  He  was 
sorry  he  could  n't  have  been  of  assistance 
before.  An'  finally  he  hoped  that  the 
manner  in  which  they  went  might  not  be 
the  beginnin'  of  any  ways  of  lastin'  harm 
to  any  one  of  us.  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber the  look  on  his  face  when  he  said  that 
last.  'Fore  he  got  through  he  thanked  us 
for  the  use  of  them  durin'  the  years  he 
had  had  'em.  He  was  a  fine  man;  they 
can  talk  to  me  all  they  want,  but  he  was 
fine,  yes,  sir,  he  was  fine  all  the  way 
through. 

"  And  how  do  you  suppose  it  turned 
out  ?  "  asked  Captain  Barnabas,  raising 
his  voice.  "  Well,  sir,  it  seems  that  poor 
little  feller  wan't  after  me  at  all.  No, 
sir!  It  seemed  he  had  the  stomick-ache, 
or  some  such  thing,  an'  he  got  up  an' 
was  walkin'  round  an'  sayin'  his  prayers 
there  in*  the  dark,  to  kinder  ease  hisself 
o'  the  pain,  an'  I  believe  he  did  n't  even 
know  what  hit  him,  an'  I  guess  they'd 
never  found  out  if  they  hadn't  missed 
them  bells.  'Fore  they  gut  through,  the 
Cap'n  he  come  over  an'  said  he'd  like  to 
have  me  shake  hands  with  the  little  feller 
an'  tell  him  I  was  sorry.  So  I  gut  up 
there  an'  took  holt  o'  his  hand  before  the 
whole  of  'em,  an'  I  says,  says  I, '  Mister, 
I'm  awful  sorry  I  punched  your  head.' 
I  wan't  so  very  old  then,  you  know;  but 
your  uncle  he  plagued  me  for  more'n 
twenty  years  afterward  about  that  speech ; 
but  that's  just  what  I  said,  the  very 
words. 

"  Well,  sir,  they  made  us  stay  to  dinner 
and  we  had  some  wine  an'  they  give  us 
some  to  take  back  aboard  of  ship  with 
us,  an'  I  believe, — I  believe,"  repeated 
Captain  Barnabas, "  that  I  had  one  of  the 
best  times  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  When 
we  come  away  your  uncle  asked  the 
priest  that  did  the  talkin'  if  we  could  n't 
give  them  somethin'  for  the  church,  an* 
he  said  we  might.  So  he  took  out  an'  give 


A  Song  of  Far  Travel                                      471 

him  ten  dollars  in  gold.   An'  I  'member  alive.  You  see  when  they  went  out  of  use, 

I  had  just  two  five-dollar  gold  pieces,  an'  he  an'  I,  we  bought  'em,  an'  we  presented 

I  took  one  of  them,  an'  I  give  him  that,  'em  to  the  s'ciety,  an'  he  felt  so  kinder 

too."  bad  to  think  he  was  mixed  up  with  losin' 

"  And  you  brought  the  bells  back  with  'em  an'  the  like  that  he  never  wanted 

you?"  to  say  much  at    all   about   'em,  never 

"  Yes,  sir !  safe  an'  sound,  an'  every-  anything  about  the  past  or  nothin' ;  but 

body  tickled  to  death  to  see  'em.   They  there's  some  folks  I  take  it  he  would  n't 

hung  there  more'n  twenty  year  longer,  mind  knowin'. 

an'  just  as  good   to-day   as   ever   they  "  And  now,"  said  Captain  Barnabas, 

was."  slowly  striking  out  his  pipe,  "  let's  us  go 

"  And  about  that  card  ?  "  up  to  the  house  an'  see  what  ma 's  got 

"  Well,  Ben  put  that  on  when  he  was  fer  supper." 


A  SONG   OF  FAR  TRAVEL 

BY   LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY 

MANY  a  time  some  drowsy  oar 
From  the  nearer  bank  invited, 
Crossed  a  narrow  stream,  and  bore 
In  among  the  reeds  moon-lighted, 
There  to  leave  me  on  a  shore 
No  ferryman  hath  sighted. 

Many  a  time  a  mountain  stile, 
Dark  and  bright  with  sudden  wetting, 
Lured  my  vagrant  foot  the  while 
'Twixt  uplifting  and  down-setting,  — 
Whither?    Thousand  mile  on  mile 
Beyond  the  last  forgetting. 

Long  by  hidden  ways  I  wend, 
(Past  occasion  grown  a  ranger); 
Yet  enchantment,  like  a  friend, 
Takes  from  death  the  tang  of  danger: 
Hardly  river  or  road  can  end 
Where  I  need  step  a  stranger! 


THE   RELIGION   OF   BEAUTY  IN   WOMAN 


BY   JEFFERSON   B.    FLETCHER 


I  SUSPECT  that  my  title  may  lead  to  a 
false  impression.  It  seems  to  promise 
something  of  the  ecstatic  kind  on  which 
John  Ruskin  used  to  discourse.  But  real- 
ly I  mean  the  phrase,  religion  of  beauty 
in  woman,  with  prosaic  literalness.  I 
mean  that  in  the  Renaissance,  in  the 
later  fifteenth  century  and  after,  there 
developed  actually  a  kind  of  divine  wor- 
ship of  beauty,  and  more  especially  of 
beautiful  women.  This  "  new  religion  " 
had  its  Peter,  the  rock  on  which  it  was 
foucded,  in  Cardinal  Pietro  Bembo;  its 
messiah,  in  Plato;  its  first  and  greatest 
commandment,  in  platonic  love.  The 
term  platonic  love  has  been  spoiled  for 
us.  We  smile  at  its  mention.  To  our 
downright  common  sense,  platonic  love 
is  wooden  iron :  it  is  either  too  nice  to  be 
platonic,  or  too  platonic  to  be  nice.  Even 
in  the  Renaissance  it  too  often  meant 
something  silly  or  worse.  Bembo  him- 
self was  no  unspotted  prophet;  and  some 
of  the  female  "  saints "  of  the  "  new 
religion  "  were  as  sepulchres  but  thinly 
whited.  Yet  a  creed  with  such  apostles 
as  Castiglione,  Michelangelo,  Vittoria 
Colonna,  Margaret  of  France,  Philip 
Sidney,  Edmund  Spenser,  John  Donne, 
is  not  lightly  to  be  scoffed  away. 

The  creed  took  form  in  Italy.  Plato's 
idealism  is  behind  it;  but  it  is  the  passion 
for  beauty  of  the  Renaissance  itself,  and 
no  mere  metaphysical  system,  that  gives 
fervor  to  the  mood,  is  the  soul  within 
the  doctrine.  The  Italian  of  the  Renais- 
sance, however,  was  also  an  exceedingly 
concrete  person;  to  parody  Meredith,— 

His  sense  was  with  his  senses  all  mixed  in. 

He  meant  by  beauty,  for  all  Plato, 
sensuous  beauty,  the  beauty  he  could 
touch,  see,  hear,  smell,  taste.  From  his 
passionate  sensuousness  derived  his  su- 

472 


premacy  in  the  plastic  arts,  the  pictorial- 
ism  of  his  poetry,  and  its  deficiency 
in  imaginative  suggestion.  Taking  for 
granted  that  we  are  as  much  in  love  with 
the  sensuously  beautiful  thing  as  he  is, 
he  spares  us  no  detail  of  it.  In  a  pastoral 
allegory,  the  Nymphal  of  Admetus,  Boc- 
caccio describes  seven  charming  nymphs, 
one  after  another.  They  differ  in  type 
only  as  the  superlatively  beautiful  differs 
from  the  supremely  beautiful ;  yet  we  are 
treated  to  a  complete  list  of  specifications 
for  each.  We  feel  at  last  like  judges  at  a 
strange  beauty-show.  But  Boccaccio  was 
justified  of  his  own  generation,  and  of 
some  five  generations  more.  Early  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  about  1430,  Lorenzo 
Valla,  who  loved,  like  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw, 
to  epater  le  bourgeois,  wrote  in  Latin  a 
dialogue  On  Pleasure,  or  Concerning  the 
True  Good.  Pleasure,  he  says,  is  the  true 
good ;  virtue  for  its  own  sake  is  an  empty 
word.  And  the  most  pleasure-giving 
things  are  health  and  beauty,  —  espe- 
cially beauty:  for  the  more  health  we 
have,  the  less  we  know  it;  but  the  pos- 
session of  beauty  is  a  conscious  joy  for- 
ever. And  of  all  beauty  best  is  the  beauty 
of  women.  "  What,"  he  asks, "  is  sweeter, 
what  more  delectable,  what  more  ador- 
able, than  a  fair  face  ?  "  And  since  beauty 
is  not  of  the  face  merely,  he  would  have 
beautiful  women  in  summer  go  lightly 
clad,  or  clad  not  at  all.  It  is  an  artist  of 
the  beautiful  that  speaks,  not  a  volup- 
tuary ;  only  the  man  that  hath  no  beauty 
in  himself  will  misconceive  him.  "  He 
that  rejoices  not  in  beauty,  is  blind  either 
of  soul  or  of  body;  and  if  he  have  eyes, 
they  should  be  put  out,  for  he  knows  not 
how  to  use  them." 

This  absorbing  passion  for  feminine 
beauty  reveals  itself  everywhere.  With 
Fra  Lippo's  wistful  girl-faces  it  invades 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


473 


religious  painting,  before  dominated  by 
the  hieratic,  inaccessible,  scarcely  hu- 
man, type  of  Byzantine  symbolists.  And 
from  Fra  Lippo  to  Titian,  Italian  reli- 
gious art  is  mostly  a  vision  of  fair  women, 
labeled  saints,  madonnas,  what  you  will, 
but  conceived  and  valued  as  fair  women. 
On  April  15,  1485,  as  Burckhardt  re- 
lates, an  interesting  thing  happened. 
There  was  found  in  a  marble  sarcopha- 
gus on  the  Appian  Way  the  body  of  a 
young  Roman  girl,  so  marvelously  em- 
balmed that  she  seemed  alive.  Her  eyes 
were  half  open;  her  lips  parted  as  if  smil- 
ing; her  cheeks  rosy.  The  body  was  laid 
in  state  in  a  palace  on  the  Capitol.  All 
flocked  to  look,  painters  among  the  rest ; 
"  for,"  says  the  chronicler,  "  she  was 
more  beautiful  than  can  be  said  or  writ- 
ten, and,  were  it  said  or  written,  it  would 
not  be  believed  by  those  who  had  not 
seen  her."  Very  likely  all  this  did  not 
happen  quite  as  it  is  reported  for  us; 
but  that  does  not  matter.  The  interesting 
thing  is,  that  whereas  their  grandfathers 
would  have  worshiped  this  seeming  re- 
surrection as  miracle,  or  anathematized 
it  as  witchcraft,  these  artists  of  the  Re- 
naissance prostrated  themselves  before  a 
miracle  indeed  —  the  miracle  of  a  pretty 
woman ! 

While  Italian  hearts  were  warming  to 
this  particular  kind  of  miracle,  two 
things  came  to  pass  which  focused  their 
diffused  sentiment  to  a  practical  end,  and 
justified  this  practical  end  to  the  intelli- 
gence. I  mean  the  rehabilitation  of 
Plato,  and  the  social  emancipation  of 
women. 

Plato  had  not  been  without  influence, 
indeed,  during  the  earlier  Christian  pe- 
riod or  the  Middle  Ages.  From  Augustine 
to  Gerson,  on  the  contrary,  his  thought 
had  impregnated  Christian  doctrine.  But 
from  the  ninth  century  to  the  fifteenth, 
the  authority  of  his  rival,  Aristotle,  was 
absolute,  dwarfing  every  other  human 
authority  whatsoever.  Aristotle  was  not 
only,  as  Dante  hailed  him,  "  master  of 
them  that  know,"  he  was  also  preceptor 
of  them  that  would  be  saved.  To  recon- 


cile faith  and  reason,  Thomas  Aquinas 
found  it  sufficient  to  reconcile  faith  and 
Aristotle.  Aristotle  was  the  adopted  doc- 
tor evangelicus  of  the  Christian  Church; 
Plato  remained  a  mere  pagan  philoso- 
pher. 

First  to  protest  against  this  mediaeval 
order  of  precedence  is  Francis  Petrarch. 
In  his  Triumph  of  Fame,  Plato  walks 
before  Aristotle :  — 

I  turned  me  to  the  left,  and  Plato  saw, 
Who  in  that  troop  came  nearest  to  the  goal 
Towards  which  they  strive  who  gifted  are  of 

God. 
Next  Aristotle  full  of  genius  high.  .  .  . 

And  elsewhere  Petrarch  notes  that  Plato 
appeals  to  princes  and  potentates,  Aris- 
totle to  the  vulgar  herd:  Ego  arbitror 
quod  inter  duos,  quorum  alterum  prin- 
cipes  proceresque,  alterum  universa  plebs 
laudat. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  the  issue  thus 
raised  became  an  all-absorbing  inter- 
est. The  centre  of  dispute  was  Florence; 
and  Plato's  partisans  were,  in  the  first 
instance,  prominent  Greeks  drawn  there 
by  the  patronage  of  Cosmo  de'  Medici, 
or  attendant  upon  their  Emperor  John 
Palseologos,  when  he  came  to  discuss 
with  the  Roman  Pope  a  possible  har- 
monization of  East  and  West  in  faith. 
Out  of  the  interest  in  Plato,  revived  by 
these  Greeks,  grew  the  so-called  Pla- 
tonic Academy  of  Florence,  of  which  the 
leading  spirits  were  Marsilio  Ficino  and 
young  Giovanni  Pico  della  Mirandola. 
These  two  men  devoted  their  learning 
and  talents  to  the  reconciliation  of  faith 
and  reason;  but  for  them  no  longer 
Aristotle,  but  Plato,  sums  all  that  reason 
can.  Plato's  triumph  is  complete;  he  is 
now  the  doctor  evangelicus  whom  Ficino 
preaches  in  the  Church  of  the  Angels  in 
Florence.  "  Within  this  church  we  would 
expound  the  religious  philosophy  of  our 
Plato.  We  would  contemplate  divine 
truth  in  this  seat  of  Angels.  Enter  in, 
dear  brethren,  in  the  spirit  of  holiness." 
And  Ficino's  later  patron,  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  adds  the  practical  sanction, 
"  Without  the  Platonic  discipline,  no 


474 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


one  can  be  either  a  good  citizen,  or  a 
good  Christian." 

But  Plato's  doctrines  were  given  a 
markedly  mystic  significance  by  these 
Florentines,  fresh  from  the  Church 
Fathers,  vitally  interested  in  the  meta- 
physics of  love  of  Dante  and  his  circle, 
drawn,  above  all,  to  the  dreamy  specula- 
tions of  the  half -oriental  Plotinus.  These 
side  influences  tended  to  make  para- 
mount in  their  new  religion  that  element 
of  platonism  which  finds  chief  utterance 
in  the  Symposium :  that  love  is  the  su- 
preme force,  cosmic,  moral,  religious; 
that  there  are  two  loves,  heavenly  and 
earthly,  the  one  a  desire  of  the  beauty  of 
sense,  the  other  a  desire  of  the  beauty 
above  sense;  and  that,  as  sensuous 
beauty  is  the  shadow  of  super-sensuous, 
or  spiritual,  beauty,  therefore  by  follow- 
ing the  shadow  we  may  ultimately  attain 
to  the  reality  behind  the  shadow,  and  in 
an  ecstasy  possess  divine  beauty  itself. 

Thus  fatally,  as  if  by  preestablished 
harmony,  this  whole  body  of  exotic  doc- 
trine came  to  sanction  and  codify  the 
mastering  instinct  of  these  beauty-loving 
Florentines,  avatars  in  so  many  respects 
of  Plato's  own  people.  But  like  the 
Greeks  themselves,  the  Florentines,  much 
as  they  might  speculate  upon  the  su- 
premacy of  abstract  beauty,  the  beauty 
visible  only  to  the  mind's  eye,  actually 
responded  how  much  more  sincerely, 
passionately,  to  concrete  beauty,  beauty 
visible  to  the  eye  of  sense.  To  a  few,  in 
moments  of  speculative  exaltation,  this 
earthly  beauty  might  dissolve  away  to  the 
shadow  their  creed  declared  it  to  be;  but 
to  most  of  them,  in  effect,  the  visible, 
tangible,  audible  shadow  was  the  reality 
they  loved,  whether  purely  or  impurely. 
Yet  contemplation  of  beauty,  living  with 
beauty,  as  a  moral  tonic,  a  discipline  of 
excellence,  might  indeed  be  sincerely 
realized  and  fervently  advocated,  even  by 
men-of-the- world  for  whom  mystic  pas- 
sion for  a  supersensuous  ideal  was, 
though  not  necessarily  mere  shamming, 
yet  an  emotional  state  of  which  they 
were  by  temperament  incapable  alto- 


gether, or  capable  only  in  rare  passing 
moods. 

Any  one  conversant  with  the  character 
of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  for  instance, 
would  hardly  credit  him  with  more  than 
a  verbal  comprehension  of  any  mystic 
passion.  I  do  not  mean  because  he  was  a 
man  of  loose  morals :  a  man  may  feel,  as 
well  as  see,  the  better,  and  yet  follow  the 
worse.  I  mean  that  Lorenzo's  tempera- 
ment was  too  exclusively  Latin,  too  clear- 
sighted, logical,  positive.  Yet  we  have  no 
reason  to  doubt  his  sincerity  when  he 
urged  the  moral  efficacy  of  love  against 
any  who  might  censure  his  love-poetry 
as  vain  and  amatorious  writing.  **  I  be- 
lieve," he  says,  "  that  so  far  from  being 
reprehensible,  love  is  a  necessary  and 
indeed  certain  evidence  of  force,  of  gen- 
tleness, of  dignity  of  character,  and  is 
more  than  all  else  occasion  of  leading 
men  on  to  things  high  and  excellent,  and 
of  bringing  into  action  powers  latent  in 
our  souls.  For  whoever  diligently  seeks 
the  true  definition  of  love,  finds  it  to  be 
not  other  than  the  desire  of  beauty.  And 
if  this  be  so,  necessarily  all  things  de- 
formed and  ugly  displease  him  who 
loves."  Excellent  next  to  the  love  of  God, 
he  continues,  is  that "  rare  kind  of  love  " 
which  is  of  one  person  and  for  always. 
And  such  love  cannot  be  unless  the  be- 
loved "  possess,  humanly  speaking,  high- 
est perfection;  and  unless  there  be  met 
together  in  her,  besides  physical  beauty, 
a  lofty  intelligence,  modest  and  refined 
habits  and  ways,  elegant  mien  and  man- 
ners, suavity  in  address  and  winning 
speech,  love,  constancy,  and  faith." 

Lorenzo  seems  to  say  long,  very  long, 
little  more  than  Goethe  said  short  in 
Das  Ewigweibliche 
Zieht  uns  hinan. 

There  is,  however,  an  important  differ- 
ence. For  Goethe  the  potency  of  the 
Ewigweibliche  is  all  in  "  love,  constancy, 
and  faith ;  "  for  the  rest,  his  Gretchen  is 
a  simple,  unlettered  village-girl.  Such  a 
priestess  of  love  did  not  exist  for  the 
despot  of  Florence  and  his  fellow-plato- 
nists.  As  little  would  ancient  Romans 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


475 


have  thought  of  choosing  a  vestal  from 
the  kitchen.  For  the  Renaissance,  das 
Ewigweibliche  came  at  times  perilously 
near  being  translatable  into  the  Ever- 
ladylike.  "  Love,  constancy,  and  faith  " 
are  part  of  her  theoretical  equipment; 
but  in  Lorenzo's  list,  they  tail  off  his 
specifications  rather  weakly  after  his 
emphasized  particularity  anent  the  social 
graces,  the  perfections  of  the  inner  circle, 
the  salon.  Petrarch  was  prophetic  when 
he  said  that  Plato  was  the  philosopher 
for  "  princes  and  potentates; "  in  the 
Renaissance  the  priestess  of  platonic  love 
was  the  fine  lady.  She  was  the  Ever- 
womanly;  the  rest  were  practicable  fe- 
males. The  young  platonist,  Edmund 
Spenser,  under  the  exigencies  of  the 
pastoral  manner,  called  his  "  Rosalind  " 
a  shepherdess  and  a  "  widow's  daughter 
of  the  glen; "  but,  lest  we  forget  even  for 
a  moment,  his  confidential  editor  makes 
haste  to  reassure  us  that  the  convenances 
have  not  really  been  violated.  "  He  call- 
eth  Rosalind  the  Widowes  daughter  of 
the  glenne,  that  is  of  a  country  Hamlet 
or  borough,  which  I  thinke  is  rather 
sayde  to  coloure  and  concele  the  per- 
son, then  simply  spoken.  For  it  is  well 
knowen,  even  in  spighte  of  Colin  and 
Hobbinoll,  that  shee  is  a  Gentlewoman 
of  no  meane  house,  nor  endewed  with 
anye  vulgare  and  common  gifts,  both  of 
nature  and  manners:  but  such  indeede, 
as  neede  nether  Colin  be  ashamed  to 
have  her  made  knowen  by  his  verse,  nor 
Hobbinol  be  greved  that  so  she  should  be 
commended  to  immortalitie  for  her  rare 
and  singular  vertues." 

If  we  are  curious  to  know  just  what  the 
Renaissance  thought  of  when  it  described 
a  lady  as  not  "  endewed  with  anye  vul- 
gare and  common  gifts,  both  of  nature 
and  manners,"  there  are  at  hand  dozens 
of  contemporary  books  to  enlighten  us. 
The  sixteenth  century  was  indefatigable 
in  its  eagerness  to  define,  to  form,  and  to 
inform  its  lady  worthy  to  be  loved.  It 
measured  her  from  top  to  toe;  it  put 
the  right  words  into  her  mouth ;  it  scaled 
to  a  hair-line  the  boundary  between 


coquetry  and  cocotterie.  Among  others, 
Messer  Angelo  Firenzuola  sets  her  phys- 
ical type  with  accuracy.  (I  condense 
for  convenience  from  Burckhardt's  sum- 
mary.) "  Her  hair  should  be  a  soft  yel- 
low, inclining  to  brown ;  the  forehead  just 
twice  as  broad  as  high ;  skin  transparent, 
not  dead  white;  eyebrows  dark,  silky, 
most  strongly  marked  in  the  middle,  and 
shading  off  toward  the  ears  and  nose; 
the  white  of  the  eye  faintly  touched  with 
blue,  the  iris  not  actually  black,  but  soft 
deep  brown ;  the  lids  white,  and  marked 
with  almost  invisible  tiny  red  veins;  the 
hollow  round  the  eye  of  the  same  color 
as  the  cheek;  the  ear,  of  a  medium  size, 
with  a  stronger  color  in  the  winding  than 
in  the  even  parts,  with  an  edge  of  the 
transparent  ruddiness  of  the  pomegran- 
ate; the  nose  to  recede  gently  and  uni- 
formly in  the  direction  of  the  eyes ;  where 
the  cartilage  ceases,  there  may  be  a 
slight  elevation,  but  not  so  marked  as  to 
make  the  nose  aquiline;  the  lower  part 
to  be  less  strongly  colored  than  the  ears, 
but  not  of  a  chilly  whiteness,  and  the 
middle  partition  above  the  lips  to  be 
lightly  tinted  with  red ;  the  mouth  small- 
ish, neither  projecting  to  a  point,  nor 
quite  flat,  with  lips  not  too  thin,  and  fit- 
ting neatly  together;  except  in  speaking 
or  laughing  never  more  than  six  upper 
teeth  should  be  displayed.  As  points  of 
finesse  may  pass  a  dimple  in  the  upper 
lip,  a  certain  fullness  of  the  lower  lip,  a 
tempting  smile  in  the  left  corner  of  the 
mouth."  And  so  on;  for  our  connoisseur 
continues  his  minuscular  analysis  incor- 
rigibly to  the  bitter  end,  —  and  with 
gravity,  for  to  him  there  are  sermons  in 
looks. 

Others  delineate  with  similar  particu- 
larity the  spiritual  woman.  Count  Baldas- 
sare  Castiglione  is  the  most  worth  lis- 
tening to;  for  it  is  his  gentleman  and  his 
lady,  as  characterized  in  the  Libra  del 
Cortegiano,  that  European  high  life  in 
the  sixteenth  century  labored  to  repro- 
duce and  in  some  measure  did  reproduce. 
According  to  Castiglione,  the  soul  of  gen- 
tility in  man  or  woman  is  grazia,  grace. 


476 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


At  bottom,  grace  is  the  trained  instinct 
which  can  do  or  say  difficult  things  with 
apparent  ease.  In  the  lady,  grace  in- 
volves moreover  una  certa  mediocrita  dif- 
ficile, "  a  certain  golden  mean  of  unap- 
proachableness,"  perhaps.  Her  demeanor 
should  spell  the  maxim  — 

Be  bolde,  be  bolde,  and  everywhere  be  bolde 

Be  not  too  bolde ! 

No  timid  shrinking  Gretchen  she,  but 
skilled  in  "  a  certain  pleasing  affability," 
and  adept  in  ragionamenti  d'amore, "  con- 
versings  of  love,"  which  "  every  gentle 
sir  uses  as  means  to  acquire  grace  with 
ladies  .  .  .  not  only  when  impelled  by 
passion,  but  often  as  well  to  do  honor 
to  the  lady  with  whom  he  speaks,  it 
seeming  to  him  that  the  pretence  of  lov- 
ing her  is  a  testimony  of  her  worthiness 
to  be  loved."  So  gently  courted,  she  will, 
while  she  can, "  seem  not  to  understand ; " 
or,  that  ruse  failing,  will  "  take  all  as  a 
merry  jest."  Singing,  playing,  dancing, 
—  all  the  parlor  accomplishments  must 
be  in  her  repertory  of  fascination;  but 
she  must  not  be  forthputting  in  them, 
rather,  after  a  not  excessive  pressing, 
should  yield  "  with  a  certain  coyness  " 
(con  una  certa  timidita). 

Enough:  we  begin  to  recognize  her, 
this  fine  lady  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 
She  is  a  work  of  art,  of  a  subtle  artistry 

That  nature's  work  by  art  can  imitate. 

The  natural  woman  is  to  her  as  the 
rough-hewn  block  to  the  finished  statue. 
She  could  apprehend  with  enthusiasm 
Keats's  apothegm,  "  Beauty  is  truth;  " 
but  she  would  have  shrugged  her  pow- 
dered shoulders  at  the  complementing, 
"  Truth  beauty."  In  her  pragmatic  way 
shs  identified  truth  with  tact.  No  doubt 
the  ladies  of  Castiglione's  generation  had 
quite  too  robust  nerves  to  be  altogether 
precious  dolls.  We  hear  how  Isabella  of 
Este  used  to  put  on  the  gloves  with  her 
pretty  cousin,  Beatrice,  and  once  with 
a  clever  counter  floored  her.  Despite 
Castiglione's  protest  against  such  "  stren- 
uous and  rough  mannish  sports,"  the 


term  "  virago  "  was  not  yet  one  of  con- 
tumely :  Britomart  the  bold  had  her  vo- 
taries as  well  as  Amoret  the  amiable;  but 
none  the  less,  eighteenth-century  Belinda 
is  already  in  sight,  —  Belinda,  whose 
"  little  heart "  but  turns  to  thoughts  of 
beaux,  and  whose 

Awful  Beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms 
to  conquer  —  Sir  Fopling  Flutter! 

It  was  a  recognition,  just  if  partial,  of 
this  manifest  tendency  in  the  Renaissance 
"  religion  of  beauty,"  artificial  beauty, 
that  drew  from  moral  John  Ruskin  many 
a  tirade.  "  All  the  Renaissance  princi- 
ples of  art  tended,"  he  exclaims,  "  as  I 
have  before  often  explained,  to  the  setting 
Beauty  above  Truth,  and  seeking  for  it 
always  at  the  expense  of  truth.  And  the 
proper  punishment  of  such  pursuit  — 
the  punishment  which  all  the  laws  of  the 
universe  rendered  inevitable  —  was,  that 
those  who  thus  pursued  beauty  should 
wholly  lose  sight  of  beauty.  .  .  .  The 
age  banished  beauty,  so  far  as  human 
effort  could  succeed  in  doing  so,  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  the  form  of  man. 
To  powder  the  hair,  to  patch  the  cheek, 
to  hoop  the  body,  to  buckle  the  foot,  were 
all  part  and  parcel  of  the  same  system 
which  reduced  streets  to  brick  walls,  and 
pictures  to  brown  stains.  One  desert  of 
ugliness  was  extended  before  the  eyes  of 
mankind ;  and  their  pursuit  of  the  beauti- 
ful, so  recklessly  continued,  received  un- 
expected consummation  in  high-heeled 
shoes  and  periwigs,  —  Gower  Street  and 
Gaspar  Poussin."  This  is  perhaps  like 
judging  apples  ripe  by  apples  rotten;  yet 
it  does  nevertheless  put  finger  on  a  rot- 
ten spot  in  the  Renaissance  passion  for 
beauty. 

But  I  digress  too  far.  In  my  effort  to 
picture  the  ideal  "  beauty  "  of  the  period 
as  she  was,  and  as  she  threatened  to 
become,  I  have  forgotten  our  present 
concern  with  her,  namely,  how  her  emer- 
gence acted  upon  the  platonic  cult,  and 
how  she  in  turn  was  reacted  upon  by  that 
cult. 

The  story  of  her  emergence  itself  can 
here  only  be  hinted  at.  The  woman  of 


The  Religion  of  Reauty  in  Woman 


477 


the  earlier  fifteenth  century,  even  in 
Italy,  was,  so  far  as  social  activity  went, 
still  in  the  kindergarten  stage.  Luther, 
who  in  this  respect  remained  obstinately 
old-fashioned,  expressed  the  earlier  Ital- 
ian view  of  her  whole  duty,  when  he  said 
in  his  Table  Talk,  "  Take  women  out  of 
the  household,  and  they  are  good  for 
nothing.  .  .  .  Woman  is  born  to  keep 
house,  it  is  her  lot,  her  law  of  nature." 
Unhappily  for  such  masculine  ruling, 
however,  woman  has  shown  at  several 
periods  of  her  history  a  disposition  — 
and  a  faculty  —  for  overruling  this  par- 
ticular law  of  her  nature.  She  has  uni- 
formly appealed  to  another  law,  equally 
of  her  nature,  which  went  into  operation 
with  Adam.  "The  woman  tempted  me;" 
and  so  Adam  yielded  to  the  woman  — 
against  his  better  judgment.  So  long  as 
Luther  can  keep  his  woman  in  the  house- 
hold, that  "  law  of  nature  "  of  hers  is 
safe.  Luther  also  is  safe,  —  as  a  bird  is 
safe  from  a  serpent  inexperienced  in 
fascination.  But  the  instinct  and  the 
power  are  there,  and  on  provocation  may 
grow  dangerous. 

In  this  fifteenth-century  Italy,  woman's 
provocation  came  in  the  form  of  the 
higher  education,  the  awakening  and 
training  of  that  "  ingegno  grande"  that 
"  lofty  intelligence,"  which  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici  found  so  essential  to  the  ideal 
loved  one.  The  wisdom  of  the  serpent 
was  once  more  to  subjugate  man.  The 
new  learning,  based  as  it  was  upon  belles 
letlreSy  appealed  to  girlish  minds.  The 
old  scholastic  regime  of  logic  and  dia- 
lectic, if  it  reached  them  at  all,  hardened 
and  unsexed  them ;  but  the  new  literature 
warmed  their  imaginations,  touched  their 
sympathies,  lubricated  their  tongues. 
Tales  of  precocious  maids  becoming, 
while  still  in  their  teens,  accomplished 
orators,  poets,  scholars  in  Latin,  even  in 
Greek,  go  the  rounds  of  Italy.  Teachers, 
pleased  and  flattered,  egg  on  their  pupils 
to  emulation.  The  femme  savante  ap- 
pears. If  she  is  high-born  and  rich  and 
ambitious,  she  sets  up  her  salon.  There 
she  can  meet  men  on  equal  terms,  for  wit 


and  learning;  and,  if  she  happens  to  be 
a  pretty  woman  also  —  well,  Luther  and 
all  his  "  laws  of  nature  "  cannot  put  her 
back  into  the  household  to  stay.  The  odd 
thing  is  that  these  very  humanists,  who 
were  so  largely  responsible  for  letting 
woman  out  of  the  household,  were  all  the 
while  theoretically  urging  the  necessity 
of  keeping  her  in  there.  One  of  the  fore- 
most of  them,  Leo  Battista  Alberti  of 
Florence,  in  his  famous  Treatise  on  the 
Family,  draws  his  ideal  girl-bride  meekly 
making  obeisance  to  her  husband.  "  She 
told  me,"  this  lordly  personage  remarks, 
"  that  she  had  learned  to  obey  her  father 
and  mother;  and  had  received  their  in- 
junction always  to  obey  me ;  and  accord- 
ingly was  prepared  to  do  whatever  I 
might  command."  Yet  it  was  good  Leo 
Battista  and  his  kind  who  were  respon- 
sible for  Beatrice,  the  girl-let-out-of-the- 
household,  answering  Benedick's  pathetic 
"  Do  you  not  love  me  ?  "  with  her  "  Why, 
no;  no  more  than  reason.  ...  I  would 
not  deny  you;  but,  by  this  good  day,  I 
yield  upon  great  persuasion;  and  partly 
to  save  your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  were 
in  a  consumption." 

Now,  by  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, Beatrice  was  become  for  Italy  a 
fact,  the  paramount  fact,  socially  speak- 
ing. In  the  person  of  Castiglione's  Emilia 
Pia  —  first  cousin  moral  of  Beatrice  — 
mad  and  merry  wit  rules  it  over  the 
brilliant  group  in  the  salon  at  TJrbino; 
she  and  Signer  Gasparo  "  never  meet 
but  there's  a  skirmish  of  wit  between 
them."  To  such  clever  women,  sure  of 
themselves  and  so  daring  much,  the  new 
Renaissance  literature  is  being  dedicated 
and  devoted.  Their  influence  is  in  all  and 
over  all,  making  for  social  Tightness  and 
mostly  —  it  is  fair  to  say  —  for  righteous- 
ness. There  is  no  longer  question  of  their 
right  to  influence  men,  but  only  what  to 
do  with  that  influence,  how  to  direct  it, 
and  to  what  end.  And  Pietro  Bembo, 
elegant  and  poet,  theologian  and  wit,  is 
ready  with  an  answer,  blending  meta- 
physics with  gallantry,  with  a  spice  of 
anti-matrimonial  cynicism.  This  last, 


478 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


this  odium  attaching  to  marriage,  came 
to  the  Renaissance  from  several  quarters 
of  influence :  from  the  practical  and  theo- 
logical arguments  of  the  Fathers,  espe- 
cially Ambrose  and  Augustine,  against 
marriage ;  from  the  fanatic  asceticisms  of 
morbid  Eastern  anchorites,  and  their 
monkish  disciples  in  the  West;  from  the 
fantastic  code  of  the  thirteenth-century 
chivalric  love,  with  its  statute  as  redacted 
by  Chaplain  Andrew,  —  Dicimus  enim 
et  stdbilito  tenore  firmamus  amorem  non 
posse  inter  duios  jugales  suas  extendere 
vires :  "  we  say  and  legally  resolve  that 
love  cannot  extend  its  dominion  over  two 
joined  in  matrimony ; "  from  the  inter- 
minable line  of  travesties  on  marriage 
from  Jean  de  Meung  to  Eustache  Des- 
champs ;  from  the  idealism  of  Cavalcanti 
and  Dante,  and  the  sentimentalism  of 
Petrarch ;  from,  finally,  Plotinus  of  Alex- 
andria, next  revered  after  Plato,  who, 
without  exactly  condemning  marriage, 
yet  commends  as  the  higher  love  that 
which  rests  in  passionless  contemplation 
of  womanly  beauty. 

But  although  Plotinus  emphasizes  the 
virtue  of  such  contemplative  love,  he  is 
far  from  making  feminine  beauty  its  prin- 
cipal object.  His  conception  of  beauty, 
on  the  contrary,  is  more  abstract  even 
than  Plato's.  Nor  were  the  earlier  Flor- 
entine platonists,  Ficino,  Pico,  Benivi- 
eni,  and  the  rest,  thinking  of  feminine 
beauty  as  the  supreme  beauty  this  side 
heaven.  Lorenzo  carefully  distinguished 
between  Plato's  divine  love,  which  is  the 
highest  good,  and  love  for  a  human 
creature,  which  is  a  good  only  after  a 
finite  manner  of  speaking.  But  Cardinal 
Bembo,  in  his  Gli  Asolani,  definitively 
identifies  platonic  love  with  love  of  ladies, 
finds  man's  summum  bonum,  as  Brown- 
ing put  it  playfully,  "  in  the  kiss  of  one 
girl."  In  Bembo's  philosophy  there  was 
indeed  much  virtue  in  a  kiss. 

In  a  fair  garden  of  the  Queen  of  Cyprus 
at  Asolo,  three  high-born  maidens  and 
as  many  youths  while  away  the  hour  of 
siesta  with  talk  of  love.  As  the  custom 
was,  they  elect  one  of  the  maidens  to  pre- 


side over  their  debate.  One  of  the  youths, 
Perottino,  as  "  devil's  advocate,"  attacks 
love,  adducing  many  plausible  reasons 
why  love  should  be  held  dangerous  and 
hurtful,  occasion  of  many  ills.  Where- 
upon another  youth,  Gismondo,  defends 
love,  matching  each  and  every  allegation 
of  ill  by  a  joy  won  through  loving ;  so  that, 
whereas  Perottino  concluded  love  to  be 
wholly  bad,  Gismondo  proves  love  to  be 
wholly  good.  Both  cannot  be  right;  so  the 
queen  calls  upon  Lavinello,  the  third 
youth,  to  break,  if  possible,  the  deadlock. 
Love,  he  replies,  is  good  or  bad  according 
to  its  object;  the  object  of  the  love  which 
is  good  is  beauty  alone.  True  beauty  man 
perceives  through  eye  and  ear  and  mind ; 
through  these  come  those  immortal  har- 
monies which  delight  and  do  not  pall. 
The  desire  which  is  not  of  such  beauty, 
is  but 

Expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame. 

Such  is  the  practical  gist  of  Bembo's 
elegant  sermon,  —  stripped  of  the  graces 
of  style,  of  poetry,  of  eloquence,  lavished 
by  the  courtly  churchman.  It  was  this 
gist  that  these  cultivated,  enthusiastic, 
ambitious  ladies  of  the  Renaissance  took 
to  heart,  and  made  practical  trial  of. 
Bembo's  book  was  to  them  what  La 
Nouvelle  Heloise  was  to  the  ladies  of 
French  salons  three  centuries  later,  —  a 
more  intimate  bible.  And  presently  they 
were  to  hear  the  "  Matthew  Arnold  "  of 
that  day  actually  substituting  this  new 
gospel  according  to  Peter  of  Venice  for 
the  old  gospel  of  Peter  of  Galilee. 

Bembo's  Gli  Asolani  was  published 
in  1505.  During  the  winter  of  that  year 
the  conversation  was  supposed  to  take 
place  which  Castiglione  records  in  his 
Libro  del  Cortegiano.  The  book  is  an 
epitome  of  the  cultivated  life,  touching 
and  illustrating  every  function  of  that 
life  from  boudoir  and  drawing-room  to 
cabinet  and  throne.  Last  of  all,  and  high- 
est function  of  all,  is  naturally  religion. 
And  here,  at  the  close  of  the  book,  where 
we  might  expect  an  exhortation  to  Chris- 
tian love,  we  find  instead  an  apostrophe 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


479 


to  platonic  love.  Bembo  himself  is  the 
officiating  priest;  and  when  at  the  last 
he  comes  down  from  the  ecstatic  vision 
he  has  himself  evoked,  he  is  like  Moses 
returned  from  Sinai :  "  He  seemed  as  if 
transported  and  spellbound,  and  stood 
inute  and  immobile,  his  eyes  turned 
heavenward,  as  if  he  were  distraught; 
until  the  Lady  Emilia  .  .  .  took  him  by 
the  hem  of  his  garment,  and  plucking 
it  gently,  said,  *  Have  a  care,  Messer 
Pietro,  lest  with  these  thoughts  your  own 
spirit  be  reft  away  from  the  body/  — 
'  Madam,'  replied  Messer  Pietro,  '  nor 
would  that  be  the  first  miracle  which  love 
hath  worked  in  me.'  " 

Here  in  a  single  situation  is  the  key- 
note of  nearly  all,  —  in  truth  a  discordant 
note,  sounding,  or  pretending  to  sound, 
high  piety  and  light  gallantry  at  once 
and  in  one.  Ruskin  is  in  so  far  right: 
the  Renaissance  religion  of  beauty  started 
wrong.  Whatever  truth  may  lie  in  the 
notion  of  the  platonic  "  ladder  of  love," 
the  way  towards  the  supra-mundane  is 
unlikely  to  pass  through  the  salon  of  la 
grande  mondaine. 

Still,  however  crossed  at  birth  by  a 
malignant  spirit  of  levity,  there  is  truth 
and  beauty  in  Castiglione' s  ideal  itself. 
"  Who  does  not  know,"  he  asks,  "  that 
women  cleanse  our  hearts  of  all  evil  and 
low  thoughts,  of  cares,  of  troubles,  and 
of  those  heavy  dejections  that  follow  in 
the  train  of  these?  And  if  we  consider 
well,  we  shall  recognize  also,  that  in 
respect  to  tne  knowledge  of  high  things, 
so  far  from  turning  away  men's  minds, 
women  rather  awaken  them."  Upon  this 
faith  as  a  corner-stone  Castiglione  builds 
his  theory  of  the  state.  God  has  deputed 
the  government  of  peoples  to  princes; 
princes  should  lean  upon  wise  counsel- 
ors, mature  enough  in  years  to  have  out- 
lived their  own  misguided  passions,  but 
fresh  in  spirit  to  feel  and  follow  the  per- 
fecting influence  of  beauty.  The  func- 
tion of  women  in  society,  therefore,  is 
by  their  beauty,  of  body  and  mind  con- 
joined, to  lead  upward  and  onward  such 
men.  The  Middle  Ages,  the  age  of  Aris- 


totle, had  called  woman  confusio  hominis, 
the  "  confusion  of  man ;  "  the  Renais- 
sance, the  age  of  Plato,  now  hailed  her  in 
effect  as  illuminatio  Dei,  "  the  illumina- 
tion of  God."  So  Michelangelo :  — 

From  highest  stars  above 
Downward  a  radiance  flows, 
Drawing  desire  to  those ; 

And  here  men  call  it  love. 

It  was  as  if  the  mood  of  such  men,  like 
a  prism,  refracted  the  figure  of  Mary, 
dearer  divinity  of  mediaeval  Christendom, 
into  many  gracious  and  beneficent  living 
images,  before  each  one  of  which  men 
might  kneel  and  say,  as  Michelangelo 
himself  to  Vittoria  Colonna,  — 

Rough-cast,  first  was  I  born  .  .  . 

F  rom  that  rough  cast  of  me,  this  better  Me 

From  thee  had  second  birth,  thou  high  pure 

one. 
She  sustains  him :  — 

Blest  spirit,  who  with  ardent  earnestness, 
My  heart,  aging  towards  death,  keepest  in  life. 

To  her  he  prays :  — 

Lord  of  me,  at  the  last  hour 

Reach  out  unto  me  thy  two  pitiful  arms ; 

Take  me  from  myself,  and  make  me  one  to 

please  thee. 
Through  her  is  salvation :  — 

Blessed  the  soul  where  runs  no  longer  time 
Through  thee  permitted  to  contemplate  God. 

But  on  few  descended  the  "  radiance 
of  the  stars  "  as  on  this  magnificent  old 
man,  so  voicing  his  spiritual  love  at  past 
sixty-three.  Castiglione  had  indeed  said 
"  that  old  men  can  love  blamelessly  and 
more  happily  than  young;  by  this  word 
*  old  '  meaning  indeed  not  decrepit,  nor 
when  the  bodily  organs  are  so  weak  that 
the  soul  cannot  longer  exercise  its  func- 
tions through  them,  but  when  wisdom 
in  us  is  in  its  fulness."  Michelangelo 
justifies  the  opinion;  and  so,  from  the 
other  side,  does  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  whose 
illumination  from  his  Star,  Stella,  is  shot 
through  with  the  smoky  passions  of  un- 
disciplined youth.  For  long  he  cannot 
find  peace  in  the  platonic  —  or  shall  we 
say  sisterly  —  love  Stella  offers  him :  — 
Service  and  Honour,  Wonder  with  Delight, 

Fear  to  offend,  will  worthy  to  appear, 


480 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


Care  shining  in  mine  eyes,  Faith  in  my  sprite  : 

These  things  are  left  me  by  my  only  Dear. 

But  thou,  Desire !  because  thou  wouldst  have 

all, 
Now  banisht  art :  but  yet,  alas,  how  shall  ? 

Yet  he  too  at  the  last  professes  conversion 
in  his  sonnet,  — 

Leave  me,    0  love,    whick   reachest   but  to 
dust! 

Beyond  question,  few  converts  to  the 
Renaissance  religion  of  beauty  stood  on 
the  heights  with  Michelangelo  and  Sid- 
ney. Most  of  these  —  most  professional 
poets,  at  any  rate  —  remained  in  the  com- 
fortable valleys  of  patronage.  For  in- 
stance, Dr.  John  Donne  writes  to  Lucy 
Harrington,  Countess  of  Bedford :  — 

You  have  refined  me,  and  to  worthiest  things . . . 

Yet  to  that  deity  which  dwells  in  you, 

Your  virtuous  soul,  I  now  not  sacrifice ; 

These  are  petitions,  and  not  hymns ;  they  sue 

But  that  I  may  survey  the  edifice. 

In  all  religions  as  much  care  hath  been 
Of  temples'  frames,  and  beauty,  as  rites 
within. 

How  different  is  this  gallant  metaphori- 
cal piety  from  Michelangelo's  quiet  in- 
tensity !  And  Dr.  Donne's  list  of  "worthi- 
est things  "  to  which  he  has  been  "  re- 
fined "  —  "  virtue,  art,  beauty,  fortune  " 
—  leads  by  its  apparent  order  of  climax 
to  the  disquieting  doubt  that "  Madam  " 
has  been  to  him  less  Saint  Beauty  than 
Saint  Bounty.  Indeed,  too  many  a  poet 
of  the  sixteenth  century  was  a  pilgrim  to 
the  latter's  shrine;  his  platonic  patron 
saint  achieved  sainthood  only  in  the  de- 
gree of  her  good  works  —  toward  him. 
Poets  had  to  live;  paying  public  there 
was  none;  so  they  borrowed  from  patrons 
and  repaid  with  thanks  keyed,  as  with 
these  of  Donne's,  to  the  emphasis  of 
spiritual  love.  Especially  adapted  for  such 
amorous  notes-of-hand  was  the  sonnet  as 
Petrarch  wrote  it,  —  a  form  brief,  inge- 
nious, pointed,  pithy,  a  style  all  tender, 
obsequious,  yet  within  bounds,  delicate,  a 
passion  which  flattered  without  compro- 
mising, in  fine,  a  strictly  legal  currency 
for  all  compliment,  or,  in  the  platonic 
manner  of  speaking,  a  hymnal  for  the 


"  new  religion  in  love."  Strange  to  say, 
the  aptest  description  of  Petrarch's  love- 
poetry  as  conceived  by  the  salon  is  by  un- 
couthly  pedantic  Gabriel  Harvey,  Spen- 
ser's friend :  "  Petrarch  was  a  delicate 
man,  and  with  an  elegant  judgment  gra- 
ciously confined  Love  within  the  terms 
of  Civility."  His  poetry  is  "  the  grace 
of  Art,  a  precious  tablet  of  rare  conceits, 
and  a  curious  frame  of  exquisite  work- 
manship; nothing  but  neat  Wit,  and 
refined  Elegance."  Do  we  not  hear,  and 
see,  the  petit  maitre  of  the  salon !  Petrarch 
wrote  of  himself,  — 

And  I  am  one  who  find  a  joy  in  tears. 
His  mendicant  followers  reduced  his 
stock  of  sentiment  to  sweet  water,  cook- 
ing this  into  sonnets  of  sugar-candy; 
and  too  many  a  "  Sacharissa  "  was  by 
nature,  as  well  as  by  name,  as  Dr.  John- 
son said,  "derived  from  sugar."  Until 
John  Cleveland  might  well  cry  out,  — 

For  shame,  thou  everlasting  wooer  .  .  . 
For  shame,  you  pretty  female  elves, 
Cease  thus  to  candy  up  yourselves  ! 

The  platonic  religion  of  beauty  far 
from  died  out  with  the  Renaissance.  It 
was  given  finical  propagation  during  the 
early  seventeenth  century  throughout 
Europe.  Preciously  modish  in  the  Hotel 
de  Rambouillet,  it  was  thence  grafted 
afresh  upon  English  high  society  by 
Henrietta  Maria,  full  alumna  of  the 
French  school.  In  Italy,  meanwhile,  it 
had  degenerated  into  the  silly  institution 
of  the  cicisbeOy  or  platonic  "  servant," 
who  was  attached  to  every  fashionable 
matron.  Byron  has  drawn  his  portrait 
in  Beppo : 

..."  Cavalier  Servente  "  is  the  phrase 
Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
This  supernumerary  slave  who  stays 
Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress, 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 
His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess ; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call, 
And  carries  fan  and  tippet,  gloves  and  shawl. 

The  cicisbeo  was  regularly  picked  out, 
along  with  the  husband,  by  the  lady's 
family;  and  was  supposed  to  exercise  a 
kind  of  spiritual  influence  over  her,  un- 


The  Religion  of  Beauty  in  Woman 


481 


tainted  by  the  material  bondage  of  matri- 
mony. 

As  was  natural,  the  platonic  fashion 
spread  downward  from  the  court.  Mo- 
liere's  precieuses  ridicules  and  femmes 
savantes  are  of  the  bourgeoisie.  We  catch 
echoes  of  the  cicisbeo  even  in  England, 
and  as  late  as  Sheridan.  "  You  know," 
protests  innocent  young  Lady  Teazle  to 
insinuating  Joseph  Surface,  "  I  admit 
you  as  a  lover  no  farther  than  fashion 
requires."  —  "True,"  replies  Joseph, — 
"a  mere  Platonic  cicisbeo,  what  every 
wife  is  entitled  to."  —  "  Certainly,"  as- 
sents the  ingenuous  lady, "  one  must  not 
be  out  of  the  fashion." 

The  breaking  down  of  such  fashions 
was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  many  reac- 
tions against  the  artificial  and  unnatural, 
which,  taken  together,  we  call  the  Roman- 
tic Movement.  Castiglione's  Cortegiano 
was  the  gospel  of  the  Renaissance  religion 
of  beauty;  the  gospel  of  the  Romantic 
religion  of  passion  was  Rousseau's  La 
Nouvelle  Heloise.  Rousseau  swept  away 
the  whole  code  of  gallant  fencing,  of  supra- 
sensuous  ecstasies,  of  artificial  courtesies ; 
he  took  his  lovers  out  of  doors,  out  of 
over-heated  salons,  not  into  smug  gar- 
dens of  trimmed  box  and  simpering  mar- 
bles, but  into  the  presence  of  real  nature, 
and  real  human  nature,  even  if  a  little 
overwrought;  and  the  fine  fantastical 
French  ladies  and  their  beribboned  gal- 
lants sighed  over  his  pages  and,  even 
while  remaining  fine  fantastical  ladies 
VOL.  102 -NO.  4 


and  beribboned  gallants,  at  least  played 
at  being  ingenuous  children  of  nature. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the 
development  from  these  play  children  of 
nature,  these  masqueraders  in  fetes  ga- 
lantes,  of  the  real  child  of  nature,  the 
ideal  woman- type  of  the  Romanticists. 
It  would  be  interesting  again  to  set  be- 
side the  Renaissance  belle,  mistress  of 
herself  and  men,  shaving  her  forehead  to 
appear  intellectual,  and  graduating  Con- 
noisseur in  Hearts, — to  set  beside  her  the 
Romantic  heroine,  Virginie,  Dorothea, 
Gretchen,  Cythna,  Haidee,  and  all  their 
sisters  of  drama  and  fiction,  —  innocent 
children,  artless  and  helpless,  who  can 
only  love,  and,  when  their  love  is  hurt, 
can  only  pine  away  with  it,  like  Shelley's 
Sensitive  Plant.  One  might  also  show 
reaction  on  reaction,  and  illustrate  the 
child-woman  of  Goethe  growing  into  the 
"  interesting  matron,"  la  femme  de  trente 
ans,  of  Balzac  and  George  Sand ;  or  illus- 
trate occasional  reversion  in  our  own 
time  to  the  platonic  ideal  itself,  as  in  the 
apostrophe  of  Jane  in  Uami  des  Femmes 
of  Dumas  fils.  "  Let  us  forget  earth," 
she  sighs,  "  let  us  realize  heaven;  let  us 
share  our  thoughts,  our  joys,  our  griefs, 
our  aspirations,  our  tears,  so  that  in  this 
unfleshly  communion  of  minds  and  souls 
there  may  be  in  our  eyes  pride,  in  our 
heart-throbs  purity,  in  our  speech  chas- 
tity, in  our  consciences  calm."  So  his- 
tory —  and  women  —  repeat  themselves. 
But  all  this  would  be  another  story. 


THE  FARMERS'  UNION  AND  THE  TOBACCO  POOL 


BY   JOHN   L.    MATHEWS 


KENTUCKY  has  been  having  an  experi- 
ence unique,  costly,  tragic,  and  probably 
to  some  extent  valuable,  with  the  farmers 
engaged  in  the  chief  agricultural  industry 
of  the  state  —  growing  tobacco.  Some 
80,000  of  them,  representing  probably 
400,000  of  the  population  of  the  state, 
have  been  engaged  in  a  union  demonstra- 
tion for  the  purpose  of  securing  higher 
pay.  The  result  has  been  in  some  sec- 
tions anarchy,  in  all  great  distress.  For- 
tunately, the  movement  in  this  case  has 
not  been  among  the  growers  of  a  neces- 
sary article  of  food.  A  strike  of  farmers 
to  increase  the  price  of  bread,  could  it 
be  carried  out  with  the  success  and  with 
the  features  which  have  accompanied  the 
trouble  in  Kentucky,  would  throw  the 
entire  nation  into  turmoil.  Flour  and 
bread  going  up  instantly  would  cause  a 
readjustment  of  all  wages  and  of  all 
prices,  so  that  for  a  considerable  term  of 
years  the  consequences  would  continue 
to  be  felt.  If  80,000  farmers  in  each  of  the 
wheat  states  could  be  for  one  or  two  years 
as  thoroughly  organized  as  these  tobacco- 
growers  have  been  in  Kentucky,  com- 
mercial and  civil  chaos  would  result. 

On  first  thought,  it  appears  impossible 
that  any  such  movement  should  ever  be- 
come general  enough  thus  to  affect  the 
whole  people.  But  the  farmer  is  becom- 
ing a  keen  citizen.  Educated,  more  or 
less  wisely,  by  the  cheaper  magazines 
and  the  newspapers,  to  the  methods 
and  aggressions  of  the  so-called  trusts, 
awakened  to  a  knowledge  of  the  skill 
and  impunity  with  which  some  capitalists 
break  both  civil  and  moral  law,  he  is 
apparently  becoming  less  devoted  to  his 
old  ideal  of  the  law,  and  more  inclined  to 
try  these  new  ventures  for  himself.  We 
have  a  multitude  of  indications  of  this 
on  every  hand.  The  new  constitutions, 
482 


such  as  that  of  Oklahoma,  are  designed 
to  allow  him  wide  latitude.  In  Texas,  in 
Illinois,  and  in  many  other  states,  he  has 
had  passed  anti-trust  laws  which  specifi- 
cally exempt  the  farmer  from  their  terms. 
In  Montana,  Idaho,  and  Utah,  the  wool- 
growers  have  combined  to  raise  the  price 
of  their  wares,  and  with  considerable  suc- 
cess. In  the  South,  the  cotton-growers, 
under  the  able  leadership  of  Mr.  Harvie 
Jordan,  have  held  together  for  higher 
prices  and  for  reduced  acreage.  They 
have  pointed  out  clearly  to  the  farmer 
that,  if  it  costs  him  7  cents  a  pound  to 
raise  cotton,  and  he  raises  ten  bales  to 
sell  at  10  cents,  he  will  make  3  cents 
a  pound,  or  $150  cash  profit;  whereas 
if  he  raises  only  five  bales,  and  the  price 
goes  to  15  cents,  he  will  have  a  profit  of 
8  cents  a  pound,  or  $200  cash  profit; 
he  will  only  have  done  half  as  much 
work,  and  will  have  hah9  his  land  left  on 
which  to  grow  other  things.  This  sound 
reasoning  holds  many  acres  out  of  the 
cotton  crop  —  until  cotton  goes  so  high 
that  every  farmer  hastily  plants  all  his 
acreage  in  the  hope  of  getting  the  extra 
profit  on  his  whole  farm.  Then  comes 
the  big  drop,  the  price  about  equals  the 
cost  of  production,  the  "  pool "  has  failed, 
and  the  work  is  all  to  do  again. 

The  farmers'-union  movement  has 
reached  the  point  of  establishing  regular 
warehouses  capitalized  by  farmers,  in 
which  the  union  man  may  hold  his  goods, 
drawing  cash  against  them  at  the  bank, 
refusing  to  sell  at  the  cheap  prices  which 
prevail  at  harvest,  and  holding  them  until 
the  later,  higher  price  comes  on.  And 
there  has  grown  up  out  of  all  this  a 
still  stronger  movement,  which  has  its 
headquarters  now  at  Indianapolis,  called 
the  equity  movement,  intended  to  unite 
the  farmers  of  the  entire  nation  in  a 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


483 


movement  for  more  equitable  living,  in 
which  the  chief  element  is  to  secure  a 
higher  price  for  farm  products.  This 
equity  movement  —  the  American  So- 
ciety of  Equity  is  its  official  style  —  has 
developed  the  method  of  "pooling  crops" 
to  the  highest  point  that  it  has  yet  at- 
tained. 

This  method  of  pooling  has  now 
arrived  at  a  test  of  a  peculiar  charac- 
ter, in  which  there  has  been  pooled  a 
crop  which  is  by  nature  limited  to  a 
small  area  of  production,  and  which  is 
by  financial  manipulation  limited  to  a 
small  market  for  sale.  That  is,  a  trust 
having  arisen  in  New  York  which  was 
able  to  control  the  output,  and  there- 
fore to  make  prices  to  suit  itself,  the 
farmers  have  answered  this  trust  by 
forming  under  the  equity  society  a  union 
of  their  own,  and  going  on  a  strike  for 
higher  prices.  Combining  the  methods 
of  labor  union  and  capitalistic  organiza- 
tion, they  have  chosen,  not  to  fight  the 
trust  under  the  laws  of  the  state,  nor 
to  attempt  to  build  up  its  commercial 
rivals,  but  to  battle  with  it  in  the  open, 
fight  it  to  a  standstill,  and  compel  it 
to  dicker  with  their  organization  as  an 
equal.  The  public  is  not  considered  in 
their  arrangements.  They  have  made  no 
plans  for  humanity  in  general.  If  there 
is  a  good  thing  in  this  crop  they  intend 
to  share  it,  and  they  wish  to  teach  the 
trust  that  they  have  the  power.  The 
result  cannot  for  a  moment  be  in  doubt. 
The  movement  in  the  end  will  fail.  But 
in  the  mean  time  it  has  thrown  so  much 
light  upon  the  farmer  as  a  union  man, 
and  on  the  possibility  of  his  striking,  as 
to  be  worth  study. 

The  union  to  which  I  refer  is  the 
Burley  Tobacco  Society,  in  Kentucky. 
It  is  organized  to  oppose  the  exactions 
of  the  American  Tobacco  Company  of 
New  Jersey. 

Tobacco  is  grown  in  several  distinct 
districts  in  Kentucky,  and  there,  as  else- 
where, each  district  has,  by  reason  of  soil 
or  climate,  a  virtual  monopoly  of  its  own 
type.  Down  in  the  southwestern  corner, 


in  the  so-called  Black  Patch,  embracing 
several  counties  of  Tennessee,  a  dark  and 
heavy  leaf  is  grown  and  fire-cured  for  the 
foreign  trade.  This  is  bought  by  govern- 
ment, or  so-styled  "  regie "  buyers. 
North  of  this  is  a  heavy  leaf  stemmed 
for  the  British  trade.  North  and  east  of 
this  is  the  region  in  which  a  dark  air- 
cured  leaf  is  grown  for  domestic  uses. 
East  of  this,  embracing  all  Blue  Grass 
and  extending  to  Maysville,  is  the  Burley 
district,  in  which  is  grown  the  famous 
red  and  white  Burley  tobacco.  Burley 
tobacco  is  a  light  fine-fibred  leaf,  which 
has  to  a  large  degree  the  property  of 
absorbing  licorice  and  other  adulterants. 
It  is  therefore  used  for  making  sweet 
chewing  tobaccos,  —  plug,  twist,  and 
fine-cut  Because  of  its  peculiar  fitness 
for  this,  the  tobacco  companies  have  for 
forty  of  fifty  years  made  use  of  it  in  this 
way,  and  the  popular  brands,  which  are 
assets  of  no  mean  value,  are  based  upon 
the  public  taste  for  this  manipulated 
Burley. 

Formerly  Burley  was  grown  only  in 
the  hill  counties,  and  not  at  all  in  the 
Blue  Grass.  Under  those  conditions,  with 
some  dozens  of  concerns  making  and 
selling  chewing  tobaccos,  competition  for 
the  best  grades  was  keen;  the  farmers 
used  their  best  skill  in  developing  the 
weed,  and  prices  ranged  high,  so  that 
22  cents  was  no  unusual  "  round  price  " 
for  a  crop.  A  round  price,  be  it  said,  is 
an  average  price  for  all  the  leaves,  lugs, 
trash,  bright  leaves,  and  tips,  which  make 
up  a  crop.  It  embraces  several  sub-prices 
which  may  run  from  10  cents  for  fliers 
and  trash  (at  a  22-cent  round)  to  30  cents 
for  the  best  bright-red  leaves.  At  such 
prices  the  farmers  of  the  hill  counties 
were  able  to  make  rich  living.  But  in  the 
course  of  time  two  things  happened.  In 
Kentucky  the  high  price  of  Burley  tempt- 
ed the  Blue  Grass  farmers;  they  planted 
the  weed  and  found  it  would  grow  in 
their  wonderful  soil,  and  produce  twice 
as  much  per  acre  as  on  the  hills.  Forest 
after  forest  was  felled  to  give  the  new 
land  to  tobacco,  and  the  production  rose 


484 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


faster  than  the  demand.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  formed  in  the  eastern 
financial  market  one  coalition  after  an- 
other, each  with  an  additional  amount 
of  watered  stock,  until  the  result  was  the 
American  Tobacco  Company,  an  im- 
mensely too-heavy  concern,  paying  rich 
dividends  on  a  huge  volume  of  water, 
and  controlling  more  than  80  per  cent 
of  the  Burley  output. 

To  produce  Burley  in  the  rich  Blue 
Grass  cost  so  much  less  than  the  current 
price,  and  the  output  was  coming  so 
much  more  abundantly  than  it  was  need- 
ed, that  this  big  concern  began  putting 
down  the  price  —  a  thing  it  was  easily 
able  to  do  —  by  refusing  to  pay  more 
than  a  set  sum  for  the  crop.  In  this  way 
it  reduced  the  price  to  6.5  cents  a  pound 
and  proposed  to  reduce  it  further  to  5.5 
cents,  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  minimum 
price  which  would  supply  the  demand 
it  had  for  Burley  without  encouraging 
the  farmer  to  grow  more,  and  would 
leave  the  trust  the  difference  between 
this  and  the  sale  price  (forty  cents)  as 
margin  for  profit.  It  did  not,  however, 
seek  a  truly  normal  price;  but  artificially 
stimulated  production  by  paying  to  one 
or  more  favored  farmers  in  each  county 
about  double  the  regular  price,  in  order 
to  arouse  the  same  gambling  instinct 
among  their  neighbors  that  the  winning 
of  a  lottery  prize  arouses. 

Almost  all  tobacco  in  Kentucky  is 
grown  upon  the  share-tenant  system,  and 
is  the  "  money  crop  "  of  those  who  grow 
it.  That  is,  instead  of  working  a  whole 
farm  as  a  business  proposition,  conserv- 
ing the  soil,  practicing  advanced  methods 
of  rotation,  and  studying  the  markets  to 
discover  what  may  be  grown  on  the  land 
to  return  the  highest  value,  the  farmer 
sets  aside  his  tobacco-land  to  raise  his 
money,  and  uses  the  rest  of  the  land  for 
running  support.  A  few  acres  of  corn,  a 
little  rye,  a  little  wheat,  — the  traditional 
crops, — and  a  more  or  less  thin  stand  of 
blue  grass,  —  these  make  up  in  the  hill 
counties  the  burden  of  the  poorly-tilled 
soil.  Out  of  300  acres,  perhaps  90  acres 


will  be  suited  for  tobacco.  The  tobacco 
so  drains  this  that  it  can  be  used  for  the 
crop  only  once  in  six  years,  and  during 
the  other  five  generally  lies  idle,  or  is  set 
in  clover.  Thus  a  300-acre  farm  has,  in 
a  given  year,  15  acres  of  tobacco,  which 
will  keep  entirely  employed  the  families 
of  two  tenants.  To  them  the  landlord  fur- 
nishes houses,  stock,  and  tobacco -barns, 
corn-land,  gardens,  pasturage,  money  ad- 
vance for  living,  and  the  tools  to  work 
the  crop.  In  return,  he  takes  half  the 
produce  of  the  corn-land  —  which  is  very 
little  —  and  half  the  tobacco. 

There  is  land  in  the  hill  counties 
that  produces  1000  pounds  to  the  acre 
in  Burley.  The  average,  however,  is  not 
over  800  pounds.  The  crop  is  the  hardest 
of  all  crops  to  grow,  requiring  about  123 
days'  labor  from  the  tenant,  and  in  busy 
times  the  assistance  of  all  his  family  and 
some  hired  help.  One  man  can  grow  only 
about  four  acres,  and  then  requires  help 
for  "  worming,"  "  suckering,"  topping, 
and  harvesting. 

The  crop  is  begun  with  a  forcing-bed 
in  early  spring,  and  often  is  not  mar- 
keted for  sixteen  months.  At  10  cents 
a  pound  it  returns  to  the  landlord,  in  the 
hill  counties,  $40  to  the  acre,  or  $600  as 
the  money  return  from  a  300-acre  farm 
in  a  year.  Out  of  this  he  pays  interest, 
taxes,  insurance,  and  upkeep  on  two  ten- 
ant houses,  several  tobacco-barns  (worth 
about  $800  each),  and  the  tenants'  stock- 
barns;  pays  taxes  and  interest  on  his 
idle  75  acres  of  tobacco-land ;  pays  inter- 
est on  perhaps  $500  which  he  has  ad- 
vanced to  his  tenant;  renews  tools,  and 
meets  certain  other  expenses.  The  ten- 
ant hires  help,  works  in  the  field  himself, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  year  has  raised  his 
own  corn  and  hogs,  has  worked  hard 
and  continuously,  has  paid  out  perhaps 
$250  for  help,  insurance,  paris  green  for 
spraying,  and  other  necessities,  and  has 
at  the  end  $300,  or  a  cash  profit  of  $50, 
for  his  year's  work.  Sometimes  he  has  not 
this,  but  remains  in  debt  to  his  landlord. 
At  6.5  cents  a  pound  Burley  cannot  be 
grown  under  decent  living  conditions  in 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


485 


such  counties  as  Mason,  which  produces 
now  7,000,000  pounds  a  year. 

In  Blue  Grass  there  is  no  such  sad 
tale.  At  10  cents  a  pound,  on  land  pro- 
ducing 2000  pounds  to  the  acre,  so  easily 
tilled  that  a  tenant  can  handle  twice  as 
much  as  on  the  hills,  the  return  to  the 
landlord  may  amount  to  $100  an  acre, 
on  land  which  may  bear  tobacco  every 
fourth  year  and  which  in  the  intervening 
years  bears  abundant  crops  of  clover, 
grass,  or  rye.  The  tenant  who  handles  ten 
acres  may  receive  $1000,  out  of  which  he 
may  have  $500  clear.  And,  at  that,  many 
tenants  have  bought  the  costly  Blue 
Grass  land  for  themselves.  The  price  of 
6.5  cents  just  about  meets  the  cost  of 
production  in  this  region,  and  means 
beggary  for  the  hills. 

Pooling  tobacco  in  Kentucky  started 
down  in  the  Black  Patch,  or  received  its 
greatest  impetus  there.  The  regie  buyers 
•combined,  or  were  formed  into  a  combi- 
nation by  their  superiors,  and  the  Patch 
was  districted,  each  man  being  given  an 
exclusive  territory,  and  no  farmer  being 
allowed  to  sell  to  any  one  but  his  own 
buyer.  In  this  way  a  set  price  as  low  as 
four  cents  was  made,  and  the  farmer  had 
no  option  but  to  take  it;  no  option,  at 
least,  that  was  open  to  the  farmer  not 
rich  enough  to  ship  his  crop  to  Bremen 
and  seek  European  competition. 

In  this  situation  a  group  of  canny 
planters  formed  a  tight  little  corporation 
of  $200  capital,  for  the  avowed  pur- 
pose of  holding,  handling,  buying,  and 
selling  tobacco.  They  induced  about  a 
thousand  of  their  neighbors  —  there  are 
forty  thousand  dark-tobacco  growers  in 
the  Patch  —  to  pledge  their  crops  with 
them,  and  they  planned  to  hold  this 
much  off  the  market  and  compel  the 
regie  buyers  to  pay  a  higher  price  for  it. 
This  proving  popular,  they  soon  had 
five  thousand  pledges.  Then  they  —  or 
interests  closely  allied  with  them  —  or- 
ganized a  band  of  Ku-Klux,  called  Night 
Riders,  who,  first  by  so-called  "  peace 
armies,"  and  then  by  raiding  at  night 
all  who  resisted,  frightened  or  forced  — • 


during  the  next  three  years  —  all  the 
forty  thousand  to  sign. 

The  tight  little  corporation  thus  had 
a  monopoly  of  the  dark  tobacco.  It 
forced  the  regie  buyers  to  pay  a  price 
raised  by  slow  degrees  to  11  cents  round, 
exacted  large  commissions  and  profits, 
—  as  much  as  1500  per  cent  a  year  on 
the  capital,  —  and  now  controls  the 
Black  Patch  absolutely.  All  its  pledges 
expire  in  January,  1909,  and  the  situa- 
tion will  then  become  anarchistic.  The 
success  of  this  Black  Patch  plan  was  en- 
tirely due  to  the  employment  of  Night 
Riders,  who  correspond  to  the  profes- 
sional "  sluggers  "  of  a  labor  union,  or 
the  hired  assassins  of  a  Black-Hand 
league.  Both  Kentucky  and  Tennessee 
were  at  the  time  suffering  from  weak 
state  administrations,  neither  Governor 
Beckham  nor  Governor  Patterson  caring 
to  endanger  his  political  fences  by  risking 
the  enmity  of  the  Night  Riders  and  their 
friends.  So,  with  a  series  of  horrors  such 
as  no  city  union  has  ever  equaled,  these 
Ku-Klux  swept  over  the  Patch,  burning 
cities,  destroying  homes,  burning  barns, 
shooting  men  and  women,  until  from 
very  terror  the  great  majority  of  planters, 
unable  to  secure  state  protection,  joined 
the  association  and  pledged  their  to- 
bacco to  the  little  corporation.  In  this 
way  it  came  to  handle  nearly  100,000,000 
pounds  in  a  year,  and,  absolutely  con- 
trolling the  market,  forced  the  price  up 
step  by  step  until  it  now  has  reached  11 
cents.  This  is  a  very  high  price  for  dark 
tobacco.  It  can  be  maintained  only  so 
long  as  the  association  is  held  together. 
As  this  is  not  a  voluntary  association,  but 
a  private  trust,  into  alliance  with  which 
the  individuals  have  been  herded  by  an 
army,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  expira- 
tion of  40,000  pledges  in  January  next 
will  see  the  Patch  plunged  into  trouble 
and  both  association  and  Night  Riders 
fighting  for  life. 

Kentucky  is,  however,  no  longer  under 
the  Beckham  rule.  Governor  Willson, 
who  was  honored  with  a  doctorate  by 
Harvard  last  June,  is  a  man  of  different 


480 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


fibre.  He  has  covered  every  county  in 
which  the  Night  Riders  have  appeared, 
or  threatened  to  appear,  with  militia,  and 
is  bending  every  effort  to  restore  law  and 
order,  and  to  end  this  species  of  anarchy. 

The  partial  success  of  the  Black-Patch 
combination  stirred  up  the  Burley  plant- 
ers to  form  a  pool  of  then*  own.  It  is 
remarkable  in  this,  that  while  it  was  the 
hard-driven  hill-county  men  who  began 
the  agitation,  it  was  the  prosperous  land- 
lords of  the  Blue  Grass  who  took  the  lead 
and  carried  out  the  plans ;  for  these  own- 
ers of  rich  plantations  have  been  more 
bitter  over  the  decimation  of  their  abund- 
ance than  the  others  over  the  passing  of 
their  livelihood. 

The  movement  of  the  Burley  Pool  took 
shape  in  the  formation  of  the  Burley 
Tobacco  Society,  an  organization  allied 
with  the  American  Society  of  Equity, 
and  working  under  its  general  plan.  J. 
Campbell  Cantrill,  state  president  of  the 
Equity  Society,  took  the  lead  in  directing 
the  organization;  and  Clarence  Lebus, 
a  speculator  in  tobacco,  became  president 
of  the  new  concern.  The  two  societies 
worked  in  common.  A  plan  was  devised 
by  which  the  Burley  Society  in  each 
county  should  make  a  pool  of  all  the 
1906  crop,  and  should  hold  it  off  the 
market  until  the  price  went  up  so  high 
that  it  could  be  sold  at  a  round  price 
of  15  cents  a  pound.  The  Equity  Society 
aided  this,  not  only  by  agitation  but  by 
organizing  local  warehouses  in  which  the 
pool  crops  could  be  stored,  so  that  money 
could  be  raised  on  them.  About  50,000,- 
000  pounds,  perhaps  a  third  of  the  1906 
crop,  was  thus  pledged  and  held.  Some 
of  this  was  held  in  common.  That  is, 
in  some  counties  all  the  tobacco  was 
entered  at  the  round  price  of  15  cents, 
and  thereafter,  whenever  any  was  sold, 
the  money  was  divided  pro  rata  among 
the  whole  county  membership.  In  other 
counties,  individual  lots  were  held  sepa- 
rately, but  all  for  the  same  round  price. 

The  headquarters  of  the  pool  were  es- 
tablished at  Winchester,  Kentucky,  and 
there  in  a  big  warehouse  were  gathered 


the  samples  or  types,  one  sample  repre- 
senting each  hogshead  in  the  pool  — 
45,000  or  50,000  in  all.  This  1906  to- 
bacco was  a  bad  crop,  but  the  supply 
was  large,  and  the  end  of  the  year  found 
the  tobacco  companies  well  supplied,  and 
Burley  selling  at  from  7  to  8  cents. 
The  pool  remained  unsold.  The  Burley 
Society  had  pledged  itself  to  advance  one- 
half  the  held  price,  or  7.5  cents  on  every 
pound,  to  the  farmers,  and  this  made  the 
success  of  the  scheme,  for  there  was  as 
much  in  this  advance  as  there  was  in 
marketing  the  tobacco,  and  the  farmer 
took  a  gambling  chance  for  more.  How- 
ever, the  financing  arrangements  did  not 
always  succeed;  but  the  local  bankers 
in  many  counties  advanced  5  cents  a 
pound  or  more  on  warehouse  receipts, 
and  as  a  general  thing  the  members  of 
the  pool  were  satisfied. 

In  1907  there  was  planted  an  unusually 
large  acreage  of  Burley,  the  pool-growers 
planting  their  usual  crops,  and  outsiders 
going  in  more  heavily.  The  agitation  by 
the  Equity  Society  and  the  Burley  So- 
ciety was  kept  up,  until  one  after  an- 
other the  farmers  came  under  the  shelter 
of  the  association,  and  about  115,000,000, 
or  possibly  125,000,000,  pounds  were 
pledged. 

Meanwhile  the  Equity  Society  had 
been  playing  at  politics.  In  order  to 
strengthen  its  position,  it  had  gone  into 
the  legislature  and  secured  several  new 
laws.  It  is  a  curious  commentary  on  the 
hopes  of  the  farmers,  that  these  were  not 
directed  toward  destroying  the  Amer- 
ican Tobacco  Company,  or  intended  to 
hurt  any  other  trust.  They  were,  on  the 
contrary,  trust-empowering ;  designed  to 
provide  for  the  development  of  a  secure 
trust  in  agricultural  products  which 
would  be  as  safe  within  the  law  as  the 
Tobacco  Company  without  it.  The  con- 
stitution of  Kentucky  makes  it  manda- 
tory upon  the  legislature  to  enact  laws 
making  it  an  offense  for  any  persons  or 
corporations  to  combine  or  pool  any  ob- 
jects to  enhance  their  price.  The  legisla- 
ture, however,  being  strongly  affected  by 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


487 


the  agricultural  population,  passed  a  bill 
providing  that  persons  "  engaged  in  agri- 
culture "  might  combine  or  pool  "  pro- 
ducts of  agriculture  grown  by  themselves, 
in  order  to  secure  a  better  price  for  them." 

It  provided  further  that  such  persons 
might  pledge  their  crops  to  an  agent, 
or  to  the  pool  as  agent,  and  that  it 
should  be  an  offense  for  any  person  to 
persuade  any  pledged  member  to  with- 
draw from  the  pool  or  to  buy  any  pledged 
or  pooled  tobacco  except  through  the 
regular  officers  of  the  pool.  Securely 
intrenched  in  these  unconstitutional 
statutes,  the  Burley  Society  continued  its 
campaign.  It  made  no  attack  on  the 
trust,  nor  the  trust  on  it,  for  by  a  pe- 
culiar working  it  was  certain  that  neither 
had  any  real  cause  to  oppose  the  other. 

This  was  because  the  new  pool  was 
strangling  all  competition  to  the  Ameri- 
can Tobacco  Company.  The  trust  con- 
trols about  eighty  per  cent  of  the  sales 
of  tobacco  manufactured  from  Burley. 
The  other  twenty  per  cent  is  controlled 
by  a  large  number  of  small  independents. 
There  was  one  of  these  independents  in 
Lexington,  who,  up  to  the  time  of  the 
pool,  was  prospering  extremely.  The  low 
grades  of  Burley  —  trash  and  poor  lugs 
—  were  then  selling  at  about  2  to  4  cents 
a  pound.  The  plug  and  twist  and  smok- 
ing tobaccos  made  from  them  were  selling 
at  about  25  to  34  cents  a  pound  whole- 
sale. Star  navy,  the  standard  of  price, 
was  at  42  cents.  This  Lexington  manu- 
facturer had  gone  wisely  about  his  busi- 
ness, and  finding  he  could  go  twice  as 
far  on  cheap  grades  as  on  expensive,  he 
had  bought  lugs  and  trash  and  fliers,  and 
had  built  up  a  trade  in  cheap  tobaccos. 
He  had  spent  $150,000  in  advertising, 
and  was  doing  a  business  of  $500,000  a 
year.  He  was  typical  of  an  increasing 
class.  His  method  was  to  go  into  a  city 
where  the  trust  sold  perhaps  $50,000 
worth  in  a  year,  and  work  his  trade  up 
to  about  $2000  a  year.  Then,  keeping 
it  at  that  figure,  he  would  begin  some- 
where else,  and  in  this  way  built  up  a 
widespread  popularity.  The  trust  could 


not  afford  to  stand  a  loss  on  their  big 
trade  to  knock  out  his  little  one. 

In  such  competition  there  was  hope 
for  the  Burley  people.  A  lot  of  inde- 
pendents, properly  encouraged,  would 
soon  have  established  free  bidding  in 
the  markets,  and  the  Tobacco  Company 
would  no  longer  have  been  able  to  con- 
trol the  price.  These  independents,  how- 
ever, soon  found  they  were  to  have  no 
credit  with  the  pool,  and  no  help  from  it. 
Instead  of  doing  what  it  might  well  have 
done,  — set  aside  certain  grades  for  their 
use,  or  made  them  a  concession  of  a  cer- 
tain percentage  to  increase  their  chances 
against  the  big  monopoly,  —  it  held 
strictly  to  one  price  and  one  treatment 
for  all.  It  made  the  round  price  15  cents, 
with  lugs  a  little  less,  and  high  grades 
a  little  more. 

The  American  Tobacco  Company 
does  its  chief  business  on  star  navy  plug 
and  on  certain  other  chewing  and  smoking 
brands  which  require  high-priced  leaf. 
It  was  able,  however,  to  substitute  a  great 
deal  of  lower-class  leaf  and,  by  doctoring, 
still  fill  orders.  So  in  the  open  market  it 
bid  the  low  grades  higher  and  higher 
until,  as  the  winter  of  1907  approached, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  had  of  any  grade 
for  less  than  13  or  14  cents.  Meanwhile 
the  high  grades,  which  should  have 
fetched  up  to  26  cents,  went  begging,  and 
when  they  were  offered,  the  trust  gath- 
ered them  in  at  about  16.  Harder  and 
harder  this  worked  upon  the  independ- 
ents. The  1907  crop  was  coming  in,  but 
the  pool  would  sell  none  of  the  cheap 
grades  it  contained  until  all  the  1906  was 
off.  That  in  the  pool  had  hardly  begun 
to  move.  In  Louisville  the  "  breaks  " 
were  almost  empty.  Large  forces  of 
office-hands  and  warehouse  employees 
usually  busy  at  that  season  were  laid  off. 
Business  was  stagnating.  The  free  Bur- 
ley,  outside  the  pool,  was  coming  in  loose 
leaf  to  Lexington,  and  there  the  American 
Tobacco  Company  was  taking  it  in,  bid- 
ding up  the  low  grades  above  the  reach 
of  the  independents,  and  taking  the  high 
grades  at  the  same  low  figures. 


488 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


This  could  not  go  on  and  let  the  inde- 
pendents live.  One  by  one  they  were 
crushed  out  of  business.  In  June,  1908, 
when  the  open  market  was  barren  of 
tobacco,  the  trust  was  buying  16-cent 
grades  of  1906  tobacco  from  the  pool, 
the  higher  grades  were  still  unsold,  and 
there  remained  100,000,000  pounds  of 
1907  pooled  tobacco  of  all  grades,  which 
could  not  be  sold  till  all  of  1906  was 
off.  The  independent  manufacturer  at 
Lexington,  on  whom  the  neighborhood 
should  have  depended  for  competition 
and  stable  prices,  had  closed  up  his  fac- 
tory and  quit.  His  investment  was  a  loss. 
That  trade  which  had  cost  $150,000  in 
advertising  was  now  nothing.  The  farm- 
ers' trust  was  as  oppressive  and  as  ruth- 
less as  that  which  it  was  fighting. 

With  the  1906  crop  unsold,  and  1907 
coming  in  (and  of  this  latter  perhaps 
25,000,000  pounds  of  pledged  leaf  was 
secretly  or  openly  sold  away  from  the 
pool),  the  Burley  and  Equity  societies 
began  an  active  campaign  which  has 
produced  a  result  unique  in  America. 
They  decided  to  go  on  strike  and  to  grow 
no  more  Burley  till  they  had  sold  what 
was  on  hand.  This  was  not  an  educa- 
tional campaign  to  induce  the  farmers  to 
make  more  profitable  use  of  their  land. 
It  was  simply  a  strike.  In  the  beginning 
all  who  could  be  so  induced  were  per- 
suaded to  "  sign  off "  the  number  of 
acres  they  would  not  grow.  Upon  mem- 
bers of  the  society  this  was  mandatory. 
Many  outsiders  who  had,  thanks  to  the 
pool,  sold  off  their  own  crops  at  14  or  15 
*  cents,  felt  that  it  was  no  more  than  fair 
to  sign  off  a  year  and  give  the  pool  a 
chance  to  unload.  To  others  the  pool 
leaders  made  this  statement  (which  I 
quote  in  substance  as  I  heard  J.  Camp- 
bell Cantrill  deliver  it  in  a  court  house 
at  New  Castle,  Henry  County,  to  a  crowd 
of  tenant-farmers):  — 

"  You  who  are  in  the  pool,  I  tell  you 
to  sit  idle  this  year.  You  will  get  rich 
doing  nothing.  You  have  two  crops  of 
Burley  in  the  pool.  If  you  sell  them 
for  15  cents  each,  there  will  be  25  cents 


coming  back  to  you,  and  if  you  are  idle 
there  will  be  three  years  to  divide  it 
over.  That  will  be  8  cents  a  pound  a 
year.  But  if  you  grow  tobacco  this  year 
the  pool  will  be  thrown  on  the  market, 
and  you  will  get  only  4,  or  maybe  6, 
cents  a  pound  for  each  year.  Three  years 
at  6  cents  is  18  cents.  Two  years  at  15, 
less  cost  of  the  pool,  is  25.  You  will  have 
more  profit  if  you  sit  idle  than  if  you 
work.  But  you  who  are  not  in  the  pool, 
let  me  say  to  you  that  if  you  grow  tobacco 
enough  to  threaten  our  market,  when 
your  crop  is  almost  ready  we  will  dump 
175,000,000  pounds  of  pooled  tobacco 
on  the  market  for  what  we  can  get.  The 
market  will  drop  to  2  cents  or  less,  and 
you  will  not  get  enough  for  yours  to  pay 
to  haul  it  to  market.  Now  take  your 
choice.  Stand  idle  and  help  us  —  or  we 
will  ruin  you." 

It  was  a  gloomy  prospect.  Kentucki- 
ans  were  divided.  Some  thought  that  by 
growing  they  could  get  high  prices ;  some 
feared  just  such  a  catastrophe  as  Can- 
trill  had  predicted.  January  and  Feb- 
ruary of  this  year  were  periods  of  such 
tension  in  Kentucky  as  preceded  the 
actual  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War.  Busi- 
ness was  suspended,  and  the  entire  atten- 
tion of  the  Burley  region  was  centred 
on  the  problem  of  "  no  crop  for  1908." 

Through  January  and  February,  ex- 
citement over  this  movement  grew  stead- 
ily more  intense ;  yet  it  was  impossible  to 
estimate  how  large  an  area  would  actu- 
ally be  "  cut  out  "  from  the  crop.  As  the 
time  for  burning  plant-beds  approached, 
the  tale  of  night-riding  in  the  Black 
Patch  began  to  be  told  more  and  more 
through  Burley.  Emissaries  from  the 
Patch  traveled  in  the  Blue  Grass  country 
and  made  speeches.  Cantrill  and  other 
leaders,  while  decrying  such  outbreaks, 
made  speeches  which  contained  the  seed 
of  the  idea,  and  while  telling  the  farmers 
not  to  indulge  in  violence,  at  the  same 
time  suggested  that  they  could  not  be 
blamed  for  using  a  little^force.  In  some 
counties,  meetings  of  farmers  became  tre- 
mendously dramatic,  as  when,  in  Henry 


The  Farmers9  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


489 


County,  old  Judge  Ben  F.  Hill,  after 
reading  the  Bill  of  Rights  to  his  con- 
stituents, assembled  in  the  court  house, 
declared  that  he  would  uphold  to  the 
last  ditch  the  right  of  every  man  to  grow 
a  crop  if  he  so  desired. 

Governor  Willson,  who  had  his  hands 
full  with  the  violence  in  the  Patch, 
announced  that  he  would  send  militia 
to  any  section  where  trouble  threat- 
ened. The  whole  state  was  on  tiptoes, 
fearful,  hesitant,  —  and  then  the  plant- 
bed  season  came,  and  with  it  came  the 
night-riding.  The  leaders  of  the  Bur- 
ley  movement  were  gentlemen  of  cul- 
ture and  refinement  —  in  their  business 
methods,  as  well  as  in  daily  life.  They 
therefore  tended  naturally  to  the  meth- 
ods of  the  Wall  Street  financier,  and 
fought  the  trust  that  way.  But  the  pleb- 
iscite was  composed  of  common,  hard- 
working, .often  uncultured  and  unin- 
telligent, working-men.  They  adopted 
naturally  the  methods  of  the  labor  union. 
Slugging  became  the  order  of  the  day. 
Though  there  was  no  concerted  uprising 
in  Burley,  there  were  sporadic  outbreaks 
from  county  to  county.  A  farmer  who 
had  prepared  to  grow  a  crop  was  called 
to  his  door  at  midnight  by  his  neighbors 
and  shot  to  death.  Barns  were  burned, 
plant-beds  scraped,  houses  set  afire,  to- 
bacco destroyed,  and  in  a  week  Burley 
was  an  armed  camp,  filled  with  militia 
sent  by  a  determined  governor. 

Nevertheless  the  harm  was  done.  The 
certainty  that  sooner  or  later  his  neigh- 
bors would  punish  him  had  persuaded 
nearly  every  farmer  to  give  up  his  crop. 
Here  and  there  through  Blue  Grass  some 
wealthy  planter  hired  armed  guards  and 
set  them  over  his  fields,  but  in  the  main 
districts  not  a  crop  of  tobacco  was  set  out. 
In  all  the  Burley  there  is  being  raised 
this  year  just  about  16,000,000  pounds 
of  Burley  tobacco  —  a  tenth  of  a  crop. 
That  is  almost  entirely  in  the  outlying 
counties,  such  as  Henry,  where  the  organ- 
ization is  not  complete,  where  the  farms 
are  more  scattered,  or  where  some  deter- 
mined man  has  taken  a  stand  for  law  and 


order.  Sixteen  million  pounds  of  Burley 
will  not  begin  to  supply  the  demand  this 
year,  and  the  Burley  pool  will  find  its 
market.  Before  the  spring  of  1910,  when 
the  1909  crop  comes  up  for  sale,  the 
American  Tobacco  Company  must  have 
taken  the  old  crops  off  their  owners' 
hands.  Fifteen-cent  Burley  will  have  been 
achieved. 

And  to  what  end  ?  Such  a  price  can- 
not be  artificially  maintained.  The  taste 
for  Burley  products  has  been  fostered  by 
companies  now  in  the  American  Tobacco 
Company.  There  are  a  thousand  ways 
for  them  to  wean  the  public  from  that 
taste.  They  can  vary  the  method  of  man- 
ufacture and  make  those  brands  unpop- 
ular, while  substituting  something  else 
for  them.  They  can  use  only  the  cheaper 
Burleys  and  leave  the  costly  leaves  un- 
touched. They  can  gradually  introduce 
other  varieties  of  weed  into  their  plug, 
until  they  have  entirely  supplanted  Bur- 
ley.  They  can  experiment  and  develop 
other  fields  where  Burley  or  something 
like  it  can  grow.  And  this  they  can  afford 
to  do  if  they  can  get  their  tobacco  event- 
ually at  seven  or  eight  cents  a  pound, 
which  means  to  them  a  saving  of  ten 
million  dollars  a  year  over  the  15-cent 
price. 

If  they  do  not  make  any  such  move, 
but  continue  to  buy  Burley,  paying  for 
the  pooled  tobacco  what  it  commands, 
and  getting  the  rest  in  the  open  market, 
what  then?  The  Blue  Grass  region  in 
Kentucky  alone  can  easily  double  its 
production  of  Burley,  and  if  it  is  to  have 
such  a  bonanza  price  it  will  quickly  do 
so.  The  present  shortage  of  labor  will  be 
overcome  by  importing  Italian  or  other 
immigrant  workmen,  and  the  market 
will  be  flooded  with  Burley  produced  in 
this  way.  If  the  members  of  the  Equity 
Society  prove  more  patriotic  and  more 
unselfish  than  the  average  of  mankind, 
and  refrain  from  growing  a  larger  acre- 
age, in  order  to  keep  the  supply  down, 
their  neighbors,  who  are  not  members, 
will  promptly  take  advantage  of  this  and 
plant  the  more.  And  it  is  absurd  to  sup- 


490 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


pose  that  even  in  Kentucky,  the  state  of 
the  Ku-Klux,  of  the  toll-gate  raids,  and 
of  innumerable  feuds,  the  lawless  pre- 
vention of  tobacco-growing  can  continue. 
Governor  Willson  while  he  remains  in 
office  will  enforce  order.  And  his  suc- 
cessor, whoever  he  may  be,  must  either 
follow  that  programme  or  plunge  the- 
state  into  a  condition  of  civil  disorder 
horrible  to  imagine.  The  hill  counties  of 
the  state  will  continue  to  produce  their 
extreme  quantities  of  Burley.  They  can- 
not increase.  But  the  production  will 
rise  from  160,000,000  to  240,000,000  or 
more,  under  such  an  abnormal  condition 
as  a  price  buoyed  by  pooling. 

No  market  can  stand  such  an  over- 
production. The  crash  will  come  very 
quickly,  and  the  farmers  will  be  worse 
off  than  before,  with  their  tobacco  a  drug 
on  the  market. 

Of  course  in  the  end  the  affair  must  be 
taken  in  hand  sensibly  and  solved  some 
other  way.  The  American  Tobacco  Com- 
pany may  be  violating  the  laws  of  the 
state.  It  certainly  violates  laws  which 
exist  in  other  states.  But  there  is  no  law 
which  can  be  passed  which  will  prevent 
the  monopolizing  of  a  restricted  business 
by  a  concern  of  this  nature.  Certain 
measures  can  be  taken  to  mitigate  this 
monopoly.  Independent  concerns  can 
be  fostered  by  law,  and  encouraged  by 
the  Equity  Society,  so  as  to  assure  a  grow- 
ing competition.  Laws  can  be  passed  so 
regulating  the  sale  of  tobacco  that  many 
of  the  existing  abuses  will  be  remedied. 
No  law  can  be  passed  and  maintained 
which  will  compel  the  monopoly  to  pay 
more  than  it  is  willing  to  pay  for  its  crop. 
But  much  can  be  done  toward  reducing 
the  overproduction  which  enables  it  to 
cut  prices;  and  this  can  be  done  in  the 
way  of  educating  the  farmer  to  better 
uses  of  his  land. 

It  would  seem  that  nothing  could  be 
simpler  than  to  solve  such  a  problem. 
"  Grow  something  else,"  the  world  at 
large  says  to  the  hill-farmer.  And  if  all 
the  hills  turned  to  something  else,  the 
shortage  of  Burley  would  send  the  price 


promptly  up  again.  But  growing  some- 
thing else  is  not  so  easy  as  it  seems.  The 
way  to  it  is  barred  by  ignorance  —  igno- 
rance of  many  things.  Set  by  lifelong 
tradition  in  the  habit  of  tobacco-growing, 
the  farmer  points  to  his  tenant-houses,  his 
tobacco-barns,  and  his  implements,  and 
declares  that  all  his  capital  is  invested 
in  this  business.  He  asserts  that  his  ten- 
ant knows  how  to  grow  nothing  else  with 
profit  in  it,  that  the  traditional  wheat  and 
rye  will  not  support  life  here.  And  this  is 
true.  But  a  tobacco-barn  makes  a  stock- 
barn  with  very  little  alteration.  Kentucky 
land  raises  fine  corn,  and  Kentucky  corn 
and  grass  and  clover  are  as  good  for 
fattening  fine  stock  as  are  those  of  Iowa. 
Chicago  and  Cincinnati  are  near  mar- 
kets, and  this  business  alone  ought  to 
spell  prosperity  to  many  hill  counties. 

But  the  hill  farmers  are  very  poor 
farmers.  All  the  horrors  of  soil-exhaus- 
tion and  erosion  which  were  described 
at  the  President's  Conference  of  Govern- 
ors are  here  shown  in  their  worst  state. 
Shallow  ploughing  —  three  inches  or  so — 
followed  by  the  scattering  of  a  little  fer- 
tilizer in  the  rows,  the  rotation  of  perhaps 
two  crops,  and  the  abandonment  of  old 
fields  to  wash  away  with  the  torrential 
rains  —  these  leave  the  farmer  poorer 
and  his  land  more  exhausted  every  year. 
Stock  well  handled,  land  deeply  sub- 
soiled  and  ploughed  in  with  the  rich 
fertilizer  of  the  stock-barn,  long  rotation 
of  crops,  such  as  is  practiced  on  the  best 
Illinois  land,  the  introduction  of  such 
market  crops  as  potatoes,  onions,  and 
beans,  and  the  terracing  or  sodding  of 
the  steepest  hillsides  and  planting  with 
hardy  pecans,  walnuts,  fruit,  or  grapes 
—  these  things  will  transform  the  hill 
counties  of  the  Burley  region  and  render 
them  independent  of  any  trust. 

And  in  the  end  that  is  part  of  the  work 
which  Kentucky  must  do  for  its  people. 
Either  through  some  outside  organiza- 
tion, or  through  a  state  commission,  it 
must  educate,  must  spread  the  work  of 
its  agricultural  experiment  stations,  until 
the  hill  counties,  as  well  as  Blue  Grass, 


The  Farmers'  Union  and  the  Tobacco  Pool 


491 


are  conserving  their  soil  and  enriching 
themselves  in  crops  of  stable  and  perma- 
nent value.  It  would,  indeed,  be  an 
economic  saving  if  some  law  could  be 
passed  by  which  the  state  itself,  or  the 
counties,  could  assist  its  tobacco-farmers 
in  getting  their  new  start,  loaning  to 
them  on  their  land  to  furnish  needed  new 
equipment,  in  order  that  the  change  may 
be  sooner  brought  about. 

Aside  from  that,  there  is  room  for  con- 
siderable modification  in  the  anti-trust 
laws  and  in  the  laws  governing  the  sale 
of  tobacco.  The  regie  combination  which 
began  the  trouble  was  caused  by  a  desire 
to  eliminate  "  nested  "  tobacco,  or  the 
insertion  of  poor  leaves  in  a  hogshead 
of  good  by  the  connivance  of  prizer  and 
sampler.  If  the  prizer  and  the  sampler 
were  bonded  and  held  liable  for  the  de- 
livery, and  if  the  state  were  to  assume  the 
liability  when  the  prizer  and  sampler 
were  found  guiltless,  and  if  this  were 
provided  for  by  a  slight  insurance  fee 
charged  at  the  prizing,  there  would  have 
been  no  need  for  such  combination.  And 
if  the  South  Carolina  law  forbidding 
combination  to  avoid  competitive  bid- 
ding on  agricultural  products  had  been 
in  force,  the  regie  combination  could  not 
have  existed. 

I  do  not,  however,  believe  that  any 
law  can  be  passed  which  will  prevent  the 
monopolizing  of  a  restricted  crop,  as  the 
American  Tobacco  Company  has  mo- 
nopolized Burley.  Independent  concerns 
can  be  fostered  by  law  and  encouraged 
by  such  organizations  as  the  Burley 
Tobacco  Society  to  insure  some  compe- 
tition, but  the  monopoly  will  dodge  this 
in  some  underhand  way.  As  we  have 
said,  the  monopoly  cannot  be  compelled 
to  pay  more  than  it  is  willing  to  pay 
for  its  crop.  It  is  only  by  shifting  to  some 
other  crop  that  the  state  can  create  the 
shortage  that  will  increase  the  price ;  and 
even  then  the  monopoly  need  not  neces- 
sarily give  the  larger  figure,  since  it  is  the 
only  buyer.  Just  as  hemp  was  given  up 


by  the  Kentucky  farmers  forty  years  ago, 
so  they  must  solve  this  problem  by  giving 
up  Burley. 

It  is,  however,  unprofitable  for  us  to 
go  further  into  the  hypothetical  future 
of  the  Kentucky  tobacco  regions.  I 
have  described  their  troubles  in  full,  in 
order  to  illustrate  what  may  happen 
when  the  producers  of  a  given  crop,  or  a 
large  number  of  them,  make  up  their 
minds  to  stand  together.  Agricultural 
colleges  are  turning  out  every  year  a 
better  educated  class  of  farmers.  News- 
papers, books,  and  magazines  are  carry- 
ing education  into  the  farthest  part  of  the 
country.  The  average  wheat-grower  is 
no  longer  part  of  a  lump  —  he  is  a  busy 
and  intelligent  citizen.  He  has  seen  com- 
bination tried  in  many  ways.  The  time 
may  easily  come  when  the  right  agitator 
will  be  able  for  a  year  or  for  two  years  to 
hold  a  great  number  of  wheat-growers 
together  in  a  union. 

It  is  as  impossible  to  police  the  coun- 
try at  large  as  it  is  to  police  Kentucky. 
It  is  easier  to  organize  a  band  to  en- 
force some  popular  movement  than  to 
organize  a  home-defense  squad  to  resist 
it.  Night-riding  over  the  entire  wheat 
belt  is  no  more  an  impossible  supposi- 
tion than  night-riding  over  all  Kentucky. 
There  is  a  wide  margin  between  the 
farmers'  price  and  the  selling  price  for 
tobacco,  so  that  the  purchaser  has  as  yet 
hardly  felt  the  doubling  of  the  farmers' 
price.  But  in  wheat  the  margin  is  small. 
A  combination  to  put  up  wheat  to  $1.25, 
or  to  exact  $1  on  the  farm,  wherever  that 
might  be,  would  be  felt  quickly  by  the 
whole  country.  It  would  send  flour  soar- 
ing. It  could  not  be  maintained  except 
by  violence.  In  the  end  it  would  collapse. 
But  the  quondam  success  of  the  pooling 
movement  in  the  Kentucky  tobacco  dis- 
trict suggests  that  the  time  is  past  when 
the  agriculturist  should  be  left  out  of  the 
anti-trust  laws,  or  when  we  should  con- 
sider him  as  exempt  from  the  union-labor 
agitation. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE   THEATRICAL  MANAGER 


BY    LORIN    F.    DELAND 


IT  is  a  great  relief  to  the  average  man 
to  find  a  scapegoat.  When  hard  work 
produces  only  unsatisfactory  results,  how 
easy  to  charge  up  the  blame  to  the  other 
fellow !  When  theories  fail,  how  pleasant 
to  shift  the  responsibility  for  the  disaster ! 

This  desire  to  shift  responsibility  is 
very  obvious  just  now  in  the  way  in  which 
a  certain  public  is  railing  at  the  low 
state  of  dramatic  art ;  and  just  because  it 
feels  the  situation  so  keenly  it  has  found 
its  scapegoat  in  the  theatrical  manager. 
Upon  this  low  person,  so  unerringly 
portrayed  in  the  facetious  pages  of  the 
weekly  press,  with  his  immaculate  shirt- 
front,  his  diamond  studs,  his  cigar  in  the 
corner  of  his  mouth,  his  feet  on  his  desk, 
a  disgusted  public  visits  its  wrath.  He 
is  the  cause  of  the  degradation  of  dra- 
matic art. 

Surely  the  charge  is  warranted!  He 
"runs  "  the  theatre,  he  engages  the  actors, 
he  selects  the  attractions,  he  even  dic- 
tates the  undress  of  the  actresses.  His 
fault  ?  Why,  obviously !  He  is  a  coarse, 
grasping  money-getter!  Out  upon  him 
for  a  blasphemer  of  art !  And  even  as  the 
anathema  is  uttered,  one  can  see  that 
manager  reach  for  his  pen  and  sign  up 
the  most  vulgar  show  of  the  season. 
Verily,  he  is  a  fellow  of  the  baser  sort. 

As  one  of  the  "baser  sort"  myself,  I 
undertake  his  defense.  And  my  plea  is 
all  contained  in  six  words:  You  have 
arraigned  the  wrong  person  !  Let  me  ex- 
plain. We  low-browed  fellows  depend  for 
existence  on  public  patronage.  We  must 
give  the  public  what  it  wants.  Such  giv- 
ing is  our  license  for  existence;  if  we  fail 
to  do  it,  we  are  soon  out  of  management, 
for  money  is  made  and  lost  quickly.  Un- 
fortunately, the  public  does  not  always 
know  what  it  wants;  that  is  the  thorn  in 
the  managerial  side.  Its  demand  may 
492 


be  formulated,  but  often  it  is  an  inarticu- 
late and  unapprehended  craving.  Yet 
the  manager  must  discover  and  satisfy 
that  craving.  The  obligation  is  so  inex- 
orable that  the  mere  fact  that  a  manager 
is  continuing  in  business  from  season  to 
season  is  itself  the  proof  that  he  is  giving 
the  public  what  it  wants.  And  this  is 
rarely  what  it  needs! 

But  what  does  it  want  ?  What  will  it 
patronize  ?  There  is  nothing  on  earth  the 
anxious  manager  desires  to  know  so  much 
as  this.  It  is  just  possible  that  he  does  not 
enjoy  furnishing  porcine  pabulum,  but  on 
the  other  hand  he  cannot  afford  to  throw 
pearls  into  the  trough.  And  so  each  man- 
ager asks  himself,  as  he  sits  at  his  desk 
to  plan  the  productions  of  a  new  season, 
"What  do  they  want?  " 

To  get  close  to  the  situation,  let  us  look 
at  the  great  table  on  which  the  game  is 
played,  and  at  the  size  of  the  stakes. 
Nine-tenths  of  all  the  plays  seen  in  our 
leading  cities  are  directed,  cast,  staged, 
financed,  and  sent  out  from  New  York. 
It  is  but  a  short  time  since  a  single  finan- 
cial interest  in  that  city  controlled  indi- 
rectly over  five  hundred  theatres.  The 
business  is  in  few  hands,  and  often  a 
number  of  houses  are  interlaced  in  a 
chain  or  circuit,  with  or  without  partner- 
ship. The  play  produced  in  New  York 
may  remain  for  one  year  on  Broadway ; 
then  it  may  go  with  the  star  for  a  season 
to  the  leading  cities ;  then  it  is  sent  for  one 
or  two  seasons  with  a  road  company  to 
the  smaller  cities  and  towns;  finally,  for 
several  years  it  may  be  leased  to  the  stock 
houses.  Thus  it  is  not  for  one  season 
alone  that  the  manager  plans  his  produc- 
tion, and  his  future  stake  ranges  from  the 
losses  of  one  year  to  the  prospective  pro- 
fits of  five. 

All  this  but  emphasizes  the  importance 


A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


493 


of  the  decision  he  is  required  to  make. 
Upon  his  answer  to  the  question  "What 
will  the  public  patronize?"  depends  his 
failure  or  success  for  this  season,  and  per- 
haps his  continued  existence  as  a  theatri- 
cal manager.  It  is  a  very  anxious  man, 
then,  who  sits  down  at  that  desk  in  New 
York,  and  his  anxiety  is  not  without  war- 
rant. Perhaps  there  is  no  better  time  to 
study  him,  for  those  who  hold  the  man- 
ager responsible  for  the  degradation  of 
dramatic  art,  than  at  this  juncture  while 
he  is  planning  his  new  production,  weigh- 
ing every  evidence  of  public  appreciation, 
testing  each  point;  perhaps,  even,  desir- 
ous of  giving  better  art  than  is  now  given, 
but  coming  up  at  every  turn  before  the 
solid  wall  of  fact,  —  that  he  must  give 
what  a  majority  of  the  public  will  patron- 
ize, or  face  the  alternative  of  bankruptcy. 
And  obviously,  before  any  artistic  duty, 
must  come  the  fundamental  duty  of  the 
man  and  the  citizen  that  he  pay  his 
bills. 

Here,  then,  is  the  manager's  task:  he 
must  read  human  nature  with  the  skill  of 
the  philosopher;  he  must  feel  the  public 
pulse  with  the  solicitude  of  the  physician ; 
he  must  put  his  ear  to  the  ground  with 
the  sharpened  faculties  of  the  Indian.  He 
tries  to  do  all  this.  Specifically  he  sepa- 
rates men  into  classes  and  analyzes  each 
class.  In  attempting  such  an  analysis 
ourselves,  let  us  begin  by  dividing  theat- 
rical audiences  into  three  classes. 

In  the  first  class  we  will  put  the  people 
of  Bad  Taste.  They  divide  naturally  into 
two  groups  —  the  taste  that  is  morally 
bad,  and  the  taste  that  is  aesthetically 
bad.  We  must  consider  them  separately, 
for  though  we  place  them  in  one  class, 
they  are  really  wide  apart.  Of  the  first 
group,  little  need  be  said;  their  cultiva- 
tion is  not  a  mere  negative  quantity ;  it  is 
positive;  their  taste  is  vicious  and  de- 
praved. They  live  on  "penny  shockers" 
and  dime  novels;  they  crave  "sensa- 
tions." In  the  morning  they  buy  a  yellow 
journal  for  a  cent;  they  demand  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death,  and  its  col- 
umns rarely  disappoint  them.  In  the 


evening  they  pay  fifteen  cents  to  go  to  the 
theatre.  They  see  The  Queen  of  the 
Highbinders,  or  The  King  of  the  Opium 
Ring,  or  The  Queen  of  the  White  Slaves. 
Alternating  with  these  Bowery  dramas, 
in  deference  to  the  patronage  of  an  en- 
tirely different  element,  represented  in 
the  second  group,  are  plays  of  more  hon- 
est calibre,  wherein  primitive  virtue  in 
rugged  setting  is  finally  triumphant  over 
raw  and  well-dressed  vice.  A  blind  man 
can  detect  the  character  of  the  audience, 
because  these  children  of  the  people  ex- 
press pleasure  and  pain  in  a  language 
peculiarly  their  own.  You  have  heard 
the  noisy  laughter  which  voices  pleasure ; 
the  house  physician  of  any  public  hospi- 
tal will  tell  you  how  they  express  pain. 
To  feel  is  to  express,  and  the  theatre  is 
vocal  with  the  recognition  of  each  dra- 
matic situation.  Every  imagination  is 
combustible  at  a  different  temperature, 
but  this  eagerness  to  express  feeling  is  al- 
most spontaneous  combustion. 

In  each  large  city  there  is  one  of  these 
theatres;  in  a  city  of  a  dozen  theatres 
there  would  be  two  or  three  such  play- 
houses. In  their  best  condition  they  have 
a  "family"  patronage  of  persons  who 
come  every  week  under  the  subscription 
system.  In  these  family  theatres  the 
Bowery  melodrama  is  rarely  seen,  but  in 
its  place  appeal  is  made  more  directly  to 
the  feminine  element  by  such  plays  as  No 
Mother  to  Guide  Her,  Why  Working 
Girls  Sin,  and  Deserted  at  the  Altar. 
These  are  the  theatres  which  I  place  in 
the  second  group  of  the  Bad-Taste  class 
as  being  aesthetic  but  not  moral  offenders. 
Indeed,  so  far  are  they  from  moral  ob- 
liquity that  they  are  almost  kindergar- 
tens of  ethical  culture.  They  teach  by 
object  lessons.  I  am  reminded  of  what 
one  young  girl  who  visited  such  a  theatre 
confided  to  a  settlement-house  worker  as 
they  walked  home  together.  She  was 
much  impressed  by  the  gentleness  and 
sweetness  of  the  ingenue,  and  she  said, 
"Oh,  ain't  she  just  grand,  that  little  girl! 
If  I  talked  that  way  to  my  mother,  maybe 
she  would  n't  get  so  mad  with  me."  And 


494 


A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


she  tried  it  on  her  mother  to  good  effect, 
as  I  afterwards  learned. 

It  should  be  noted  that  these  theatres 
are  projected  to  cater  to  this  particular 
class  in  the  community.  There  is  less 
financial  risk  in  their  operation  than  in 
the  ordinary  theatre,  because  their  clien- 
tele, though  restricted  in  size,  is  sharply 
denned  in  taste  and  desire,  and  hence 
there  is  no  conjecture  about  what  they 
want.  They  have  a  keen  appetite  for 
entertainment,  and  evince  no  hesitating 
loyalty  in  their  support  of  their  theatre. 
As  a  steady  investment,  by  and  large, 
such  a  theatre  I  believe  earns  higher  pro- 
fits than  any  other.  If  the  theatres  in  a 
dozen  leading  cities  were  combined  and 
classified,  it  probably  would  be  found 
that  these  lower-priced  houses  have  the 
highest  earning  capacity. 

At  the  other  extreme,  in  the  third  class, 
we  will  put  the  people  of  Good  Taste, 
represented,  let  us  say  for  the  purposes 
of  this  argument,  by  such  a  constituency 
as  the  readers  of  this  magazine.  You, 
then,  gentle  reader,  are  one  of  this  class. 
If  you  would  realize  how  small  is  your 
class  in  the  calculations  of  the  theatre 
manager,  ask  yourself  how  many  theatres 
you  attend  in  your  own  city.  Take  Bos- 
ton as  an  example.  There  are  eighteen 
theatres  in  Boston,  but  you  attend  only 
six  of  them.  And  where  do  you  sit  when 
you  go  to  the  theatre  ?  Almost  invariably 
in  the  first  ten  rows  of  the  orchestra. 
And  the  friends  whom  you  see  and  recog- 
nize —  where  are  they  ?  They  are  to  be 
found  in  these  same  ten  rows,  unless  it  is 
the  opera,  or  some  unusual  occasion  at 
high  prices.  You  see  how  small  is  your 
class,  and  how  financially  unimportant 
on  the  treasurer's  "  count-up  "  sheet. 

But  who  fill  the  fourteen  or  more  rows 
of  orchestra  behind  these  ten  rows  ?  Who 
occupy  the  wide  tiers  of  the  first  balcony  ? 
Whose  are  the  dark  forms  that  crowd  the 
cavernous  recesses  of  the  second  balcony 
till  the  line  of  bent  heads  stretches' up  to 
the  dome  of  the  theatre?  And  finally, 
who  supplies  the  audiences  for 'those 
other  theatres  which  as  yet  we  have-not 


considered,  but  which  constitute  at  least 
one-half  of  the  total  number  in  any  city  ? 
The  theatre  manager  can  tell  you;  it  is 
the  great  No-Taste  class,  fifteen  times 
as  large  as  the  Good-Taste  class,  four 
times  as  large  as  the  Bad-Taste  class, 
a  body  which  comprises  three-fourths  of 
all  theatregoers,  and  which  alone  fills 
one-half  of  all  our  theatres.  It  is  to  this 
great  army  that  the  manager  must  look 
to  pay  his  bills  under  the  present  system, 
and  he  does  not  dare  to  produce  a  play 
which  will  not  interest  this  middle  class  I 

Here,  then,  are  the  conditions  which, 
like  fetters  upon  the  manager's  wrists, 
bind  him  to  the  broad  rock  of  artistic 
mediocrity,  the  safe  meeting-ground  of 
the  uncultivated  in  all  walks  of  life. 
These  are  the  restrictions  which  prevent 
your  having  more  of  that  higher  dramatic 
art  which  you  would  so  much  enjoy. 
Before  you  can  have  the  play  that  you 
want,  you  must  wait  till  a  drama  is  writ- 
ten so  universal  in  its  theme,  so  compel- 
ling in  its  appeal,  so  instinctive  in  its 
understanding  of  the  human  heart,  that 
not  only  you,  but  the  marcelled  sales-lady 
of  the  department  store,  will  be  drawn 
to  the  theatre  to  see  it. 

There  are  such  plays,  but  oh,  how 
few  of  them!  The  Music  Master  is  a 
recent  example.  They  are  like  grains  of 
wheat  in  a  field  of  chaff.  Meanwhile,  the 
more  subtle  fancies  of  the  playwright, 
the  dramas  in  which  he  can  play  with 
themes  that  tempt  his  imagination,  and 
weave  the  spells  his  fancy  loves,  are  all 
laid  aside.  Although  you,  dear  reader, 
would  care  for  them,  they  must  remain 
unwritten  because  our  lady  of  the  pom- 
padour has  not  as  yet  sufficient  cultiva- 
tion to  appreciate  them. 

And  now,  what  is  the  remedy  for 
this  condition  of  dramatic  anaemia  ?  The 
first  prescription  is  a  familiar  formula, — 
"  Elevate  the  masses!  Let  the  people 
of  Bad  Taste  and  the  people  of  No  Taste 
be  taught  to  appreciate  and  demand 
better  plays."  I  wonder  if  the  golden 
age  will  ever  come  when  this  plan  can  be 
carried  out.  To  me  it  seems  as  futile  in 


A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


495 


practice  as  it  is  logical  in  theory.  "  You 
may  lead  a  horse  to  water,"  says  the 
proverb,  "  but  you  cannot  make  him 
drink."  You  may  give  your  higher  art 
in  the  most  attractive  setting,  with  ex- 
cellent scenery  and  appointments,  and 
at  no  advance  in  price,  but  the  theatre- 
goers of  No  Taste  will  not  patronize  it. 
They  balk,  they  shy,  and  finally  bolt  for 
the  playhouse  which  makes  no  demands 
upon  gray  matter.  It  is  useless  to  sugar- 
coat  the  pill;  they  have  taken  such  pills 
before,  and  they  know  that  the  after- 
taste is  bad.  They  abhor  subtlety,  and 
have  no  use  for  anything  subjective. 
They  want  the  objective,  —  the  heavy- 
handed  objective,  —  and  they  don't  com- 
plain if  it  is  fired  over  the  footlights  out 
of  a  cannon.  They  are  very  sure  that  they 
know  what  they  want,  and  in  this  self- 
analysis  they  are  lamentably  right. 

It  is  not  easy  to  dissent  from  this  the- 
ory of  the  higher  dramatic  education  of 
the  masses,  for  it  is  widely  held  and  is  the 
solution  of  such  close  students  of  dra- 
matic affairs  as  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones. 
But  an  experience  of  four  years  in  trying 
to  raise  the  standard  of  a  popular-priced 
stock  theatre  has  made  me  skeptical,  and 
changed  my  enthusiastic  partner  into  a 
pessimist.  We  entered  the  field  full  of 
hope.  Starting  on  a  rather  low  level, 
and  carefully  avoiding  the  temptation  to 
hasten  the  process,  we  made  no  change 
of  bill  for  a  time.  Then,  with  the  small- 
est appreciable  gradation  from  week  to 
week,  we  began  the  upward  ascent.  It 
was  unnoticed  at  first.  Things  went 
swimmingly.  We  could  almost  see  the 
"  uplift."  But  one  fine  day  the  audience 
woke  up  from  its  trance,  and  looked  at 
the  play-bill.  It  was  Barrie's  Profes- 
sor's Love  Story.  Now,  they  had  no  use 
for  an  aged  professor's  romance,  and 
they  were  not  accustomed  to  doing  busi- 
ness with  J.  M.  Barrie.  They  had  been 
decoyed,  trapped,  ambushed  —  and  they 
knew  it !  By  the  end  of  the  week  the  pro- 
fessor and  his  love  story  were  badly  frost- 
bitten. In  the  language  of  the  vernacu- 
lar, the  play  did  not  "  build."  But  we 


had  started  with  an  unlimited  fund  of 
patience,  and,  like  Robert  Bruce's  spi- 
der, we  dropped  back  merely  to  begin 
another  upward  movement.  Alas,  the 
result  was  the  same.  Letters  poured  in 
from  indignant  patrons.  I  wish  that  some 
of  these  missives]  might  be  reproduced 
here  without  violating  faith;  but  it  is  per- 
haps sufficient  to  say  that  higher  drama- 
tic education  received  a  severe  blow,  and 
our  box-office  statements  taught  us  a 
lesson  that  we  did  not  soon  forget. 

We  found  some  consolation,  however, 
in  the  discovery  that  Shakespeare  would 
be  allowed  to  go  unchallenged.  The 
"  Bard  of  Avon  "  was  not  on  the  black 
list,  and  six  of  his  plays  which  we 
produced  drew  crowded  houses.  This 
exception  of  Shakespeare  is  interesting. 
It  is  rather  more  of  an  acceptance  of  his 
plays  than  a  demand  for  them,  but  the 
result,  financially,  is  equally  satisfactory. 
At  first  sight,  it  would  seem  to  disprove 
the  claim  that  a  certain  degree  of  culti- 
vation is  essential  to  an  appreciation  of 
the  highest  dramatic  art.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  whatever  law  governs  the  case  is 
laid  on  lines  of  universal  experience,  for 
Shakespeare  draws  even  better  in  the 
towns  than  in  the  cities.  This  widespread 
acceptance  of  the  great  dramatist  is  a 
strong  argument  with  those  who  claim 
the  possibility  of  higher  dramatic  educa- 
tion for  the  masses.  It  was  easy  to  point 
to  our  box-office  receipts  on  the  six  plays 
mentioned,  and  say  that  there  was  no 
need  to  despair  when  true  merit  was  in- 
stantly recognized  and  appreciated  like 
this. 

But,  to  my  thinking,  the  patronage  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  by  the  apostles  of 
the  heavy-handed  objective  is  only  an 
instance  of  the  American  craze  for  edu- 
cation. It  is  an  American  point  of  sensi- 
tiveness to  be  posted  on  the  things  that 
one  is  generally  supposed  to  know.  As 
Sara  Bernhardt  says  "  Ze  Americain 
always  arrives  1 "  He  must  be  "  in  "  at 
the  finish,  whether  it  is  a  social  function, 
a  physical  test,  or  a  question  of  know- 
ledge. The  average  theatregoer  accepts 


496 


A  Plea  for  the  Tlieatrical  Manager 


a  Shakespearean  play  as  he  would  accept 
a  theory  of  creation.  He  neither  appre- 
hends its  merit  nor  comprehends  its  con- 
struction. He  simply  admires  because 
every  one  tells  him  he  ought  to  admire. 
He  has  not  even  laid  hold  of  the  great 
dramatist's  coat-tails,  but  is  being  drawn 
along  with  the  suction  of  a  mighty  wind 
of  traditional  approbation.  Had  we  been 
able  to  present  Hamlet  as  an  unknown 
play  under  the  title  of  A  Prince  of 
Denmark,  however  well  mounted  and 
capably  acted,  I  cannot  believe  that  the 
public  would  have  cared  sixpence  for  it. 
The  seats  would  have  been  full  of  absen- 
tees, and  Hamlet  might  have  exclaimed 
with  truth,  "  The  air  bites  shrewdly;  it 
is  very  cold." 

We  were  able  to  detect  this  same  edu- 
cational impulse  in  the  increased  attend- 
ance at  certain ."  book  "  plays  which  we 
produced.  It  is  proper  that  the  up-to- 
date  American  should  be  acquainted 
with  the  characters  of  Charles  Dickens : 
he  must  recognize  why  one  man  is  called 
a  Uriah  Heep,  and  another  a  Pecksniff; 
he  certainly  would  be  happier  if  refer- 
ences to  Mr.  Micawber  conveyed  any 
clear  impression  to  his  mind.  So  he  goes 
to  see  Little  Em'ty.  It  is  "  reading  with- 
out tears."  It  is  education  while  you 
wait.  It  accomplishes  a  great  saving  of 
time,  for  it  kills  two  birds  with  one  stone; 
he  has  the  entertainment  at  the  theatre, 
and  he  .masters  a  whole  book  of  charac- 
ters with  whom  forever  after  he  may 
claim  a  bowing  acquaintance.  At  his 
side  are  others  who  come  to  refresh  their 
memories,  and  to  meet  the  old  favorites 
of  their  youth.  There  is  sentiment  in  it 
truly,  but  there  is  also  a  back-door  to 
education  in  every  such  play,  and  thou- 
sands seek  admission  at  this  entrance 
rather  than  through  the  main  door  of 
amusement. 

Speaking  of  plays  brings  up  the  ques- 
tion of  their  selection.  This  is  the  man- 
ager's fateful  duty,  and  it  is  here  that  he 
most  clearly  reveals  whether  he  is  fit  for 
his  post.  Two  fundamentals  need  to  be 
considered,  —  the  quality  of  the  play,  and 


the  character  of  the  audience.  In  esti- 
mating the  power  of  the  play,  it  is  im- 
portant that  one  should  detect  with  accu- 
racy the  value  and  sincerity  of  each  motif, 
the  vitality  and  consistency  of  each  char- 
acter, and  the  vibrating  intensity  of 
every  situation  or  climax  as  it  develops. 
In  considering  the  character  of  the  audi- 
ence the  rule  is,  "  Put  yourself  in  their 
place."  But,  obviously,  to  choose  wisely 
for  another,  one  must  be  able  to  see  that 
other's  point  of  view.  In  our  own  case, 
this  last  condition  demanded  that  we 
should  woo  the  second  balcony  at  close 
range,  and  some  interesting  experiences 
came  in  the  wooing. 

We  played  daily  matinees,  and  each 
matinee  drew  its  own  distinctive  audi- 
ence. The  Monday  matinee  always 
brought  us  from  seventy-five  to  one 
hundred  of  the  steam-laundry  workers 
of  the  city,  they  being  by  their  hours 
compelled  to  choose  between  Monday 
afternoon  and  Wednesday  evening.  It 
was  interesting  to  sit  with  them  and 
hear  their  comments.  I  recall  one  play 
in  which  there  was  a  squalid  kitchen 
scene  with  a  very  dirty,  slovenly  woman. 
One  girl  nudged  her  companion  and  said 
with  unabashed  admiration,  "  Gee,  ain't 
it  just  natural!  " 

At  another  time  it  was  one  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  which  evidently  failed  to 
satisfy,  for  I  heard  the  disgusted  com- 
ment, —  "  When  are  they  going  to  put 
on  something  worth  going  to?  I  hate 
all  these  uptown  plays.  They're  too 
stiff  for  me!  No  love  in  them  at  all!  " 
One  of  the  characters  was  "  The  Ban- 
ished Duke."  They  were  in  some 
doubt  as  to  the  pronunciation,  but  one 
or  two  called  it  "  duck,"  and  this 
seemed  to  be  accepted  as  correct.  After 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  they  disputed  as 
to  the  heroine's  pronunciation  and  in- 
flection of  certain  words,  and  each  one 
was  soon  imitating  the  inflection  she 
liked  best.  One  woman  was  evidently 
studying  the  fashions,  and  the  gown  of 
the  leading  lady  gave  her  exquisite  joy. 
She  clutched  her  neighbor's  arm  and  said, 


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497 


"  Tell  me,  for  the  love  of  God,  how  she 
gets  in  and  out  of  that  dress.  I'm  after 
making  one  for  Annie."  So  Bad  Taste 
finds  the  theatre  a  school  of  aesthetics  as 
well  as  of  ethics. 

The  recital  of  such  incidents  might  be 
continued  almost  indefinitely.  To  esti- 
mate the  full  influence  of  the  theatre  on 
some  of  these  bleak  and  unlovely  lives, 
one  needs  to  know  the  sacrifices  that  are 
made  in  order  to  obtain  the  coveted  fif- 
teen cents  each  week  for  the  play.  The 
things  that  cost  us  dearly  are  the  things 
that  have  power  to  mould  us,  because 
they  are  bought  by  sacrifices.  I  knew  of 
one  family  where  the  effort  of  the  whole 
week  was  to  save  the  money  for  Katie  to 
go  to  the  theatre.  Katie  was  a  girl  of 
twenty-four  years,  with  the  mind  of  a 
mature  woman  and  the  body  of  a  six- 
year-old  child.  The  family  was 'woefully 
poor,  but  the  mother  made  every  sacrifice 
to  eke  out  the  fifteen  cents  each  week, 
and  rarely  did  I  fail  to  find  Katie  on 
Thursday  afternoons  in  the  second  bal- 
cony. It  was  her  one  joy  in  life.  "  Ain't 
it  all  beautiful?  "  she  said  one  day;  "  I 
just  settles  down  to  enjoy  life."  And  then 
for  two  hours  and  a  half  she  was  lost  to 
her  world  of  misery,  and  lived  with  heroes 
and  heroines. 

But  we  are  wandering  from  the  sub- 
ject of  how  to  educate  the  masses  to 
appreciate  higher  dramatic  art.  I  am 
afraid  that  we  shall  in  truth  wander  far 
into  the  twentieth  century  ere  the  light 
dawns.  When  it  comes  to  lifting  up  the 
great  army  of  No-Taste  theatre-goers, 
I  fear  that  some  of  us  will  ourselves  be 
lifted  up  from  this  mundane  sphere  be- 
fore we  obtain  an  enlightened  drama 
with  an  expository  school  of  American 
acting.  But  here  is  the  question:  Are 
we  going  to  do  without  cake  because  that 
great  army  headed  by  the  butcher,  the 
baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker,  pre- 
fers to  eat  bread?  Shall  we  have  no 
beauty  which  they  cannot  appreciate 
equally  with  us  ?  Must  we  wait  on  their 
higher  development  before  we  can  in- 
dulge the  taste  that  is  our  heritage? 
VOL.  102  -NO.  4 


Shall  we  have  no  food  for  our  hungry 
sestheticism  because  they  have  indiges- 
tion? Such  a  proposition  seems  to  me 
as  unfair  as  to  claim  that,  because  the 
majority  of  passengers  on  an  ocean  liner 
travel  in  the  steerage,  there  need  be  no 
first  cabin.  The  man  of  Bad  Taste  cares 
little  for  the  plays  of  the  No-Taste  the- 
atre; if  one  stops  to  reflect,  why  should 
not  the  man  of  Good  Taste  care  equally 
little  for  them  ? 

And  this  brings  me  to  the  only  solu- 
tion, as  it  seems  to  me,  of  the  present 
situation.  If  we  are  to  have  higher  dra- 
matic art  in  this  country,  with  all  the 
advantages  which  the  exposition  of  such 
art  would  bring,  it  must  come  through 
a  plan  of  segregating  the  classes  on  the 
line  of  mental  and  aesthetic  appreciation. 
There  are  a  few  who  have  a  genuine 
interest  in  the  drama  as  an  art.  In  all 
seriousness  they  are  asking  for  a  higher 
aim  and  better  standard  of  work  in  some 
theatre.  The  demand  is  legitimate,  and 
the  question  arises,  Why  should  not  this 
class  have  its  own  theatre,  just  as  the 
Bad  Taste  of  the  community  has  its  two 
or  three  theatres  in  every  large  city  ?  If 
Bad  Taste  supports  its  theatres  and  No 
Taste  supports  its  theatres,  why  should 
not  Good  Taste  show  an  equal  loyalty 
to  its  ideals  ?  Can  there  not  be  a  theatre 
with  this  higher  aim  in  at  least  one  of  our 
American  cities  ?  The  city  of  Boston,  for 
example,  maintains  eighteen  theatres;  in 
that  long  list  is  there  not  one  theatre  that 
may  safely  dare  to  cater  to  Good  Taste 
rather  than  to  popular  mediocrity  ? 

It  is  for  the  persons  who  can  appre- 
ciate such  a  theatre  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion. Their  support  alone  can  make  the 
plan  feasible.  Will  they  stand  for  their 
high  ideals  as  loyally  as  the  "  ten- twenty- 
thirty  "  patrons  now  support  their  two 
or  three  theatres  ?  Let  us  frankly  admit 
that  in  the  latter  case  there  exists  a  more 
active  demand  for  entertainment  of  this 
nature.  Hard  toil  and  daily  worry  crave 
the  relaxation  of  "amusement.  Absence 
of  cultivation  greatly  restricts  the  number 
of  possible  pleasures,  and  the  play-house 


498 


A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


of  the  people,  with  its  heavy-handed 
ethics,  becomes  a  very  Godsend  in  a 
community  where  the  bar-room  and  the 
lighted  streets  at  night  are  the  only  enjoy- 
able alternatives.  It  unites  the  members 
of  the  family  in  their  pleasure-taking, 
and  it  preaches  many  a  sermon  in  para- 
ble. Let  us  beware  of  "  elevating  "  such 
drama  above  the  easy  grasp  of  its  devoted 
admirers.  It  is  all  merely  entertainment, 
and  we  welcome  it  without  a  word  of 
regret. 

But  we  have  a  right  to  demand  that 
the  drama  which  is  offered  to  persons  of 
cultivation  shall  be  treated  not  as  mere 
entertainment,  but  as  an  art.  We  require 
that  literature,  architecture,  painting, 
music,  and  sculpture  shall  furnish  us 
instruction  and  inspiration.  Why  should 
we  insult  the  drama  by  treating  it  always 
as  mere  amusement  ?  Why  should  not  a 
sign  of  theatrical  cultivation  in  the  most 
prosperous  nation  of  the  world  be  as 
much  in  evidence  as  its  Bad  Taste?  If 
the  light  could  be  kindled  in  but  one 
American  city,  it  might  serve  as  an  ex- 
ample and  an  inspiration  to  other  com- 
munities. 

And  when  that  light  is  kindled,  what 
shall  we  see?  What  will  it  reveal  to  us 
that  we  do  not  now  enjoy?  Let  us  be 
specific,  that  all  may  know  where  we 
stand.  Just  what,  then,  do  we  mean  by 
"  a  higher  aim  and  better  standard  of 
work  "  in  the  theatre  ?  What  is  the  end 
to  be  attained,  and  what  must  the  loyal 
member  of  the  Good-Taste  class  do  as 
his  share  in  the  work  of  attaining  it  ? 

The  answer  cannot  be  epitomized,  but 
I  will  try  to  reply  briefly.  First,  we  shall 
have  acting  that  is  not  done  by  one  star 
shining  resplendent  against  a  background 
of  weak  support.  The  plays  will  not  be 
carefully  chosen  because  they  are  one- 
part  plays  and  give  one  performer  a 
chance  to  show  his  or  her  unique  gifts. 
They  will  not  be  excised  so  that  no 
advantage  —  not  even  a  "  laugh,"  and 
certainly  no  applause  —  can  possibly 
come  to  any  but  the  star.  The  actors  will 
not  be  driven  down  stage  that  the  star 


may  always  face  the  audience,  or  ban- 
ished into  corners  so  that  the  centre 
may  be  perpetually  reserved  for  him.  In 
short,  the  play  and  its  presentation  will 
not  be  cut  and  trimmed  and  fitted  to 
the  actor's  gifts  and  the  actor's  vanity. 
Instead,  there  will  be  a  well-balanced 
company,  disciplined,  and  thoroughly 
in  earnest.  They  will  be  in  spirit  with 
the  work,  or  they  will  have  no  part  in  it. 
Personal  whims,  and  the  eccentricities 
of  "  temperament,"  will  be  tolerated  only 
up  to  the  point  where  every  one  is  faith- 
fully working  for  the  whole  success  as 
distinguished  from  any  mere  personal 
triumph.  There  will  be  no  hard-and-fast 
"  lines  "  of  business,  but  every  play  will 
be  cast  to  the  best  advantage  of  the 
whole  company,  and  every  actor  will 
"  play  as  cast." 

It  will  not  be  an  easy  task  at  first  to 
induce  the  best  actors  to  appear  with- 
out featured  head-lines,  to  submit  to  dis- 
cipline of  this  sort,  and  to  act  as  a  com- 
pany, for  company  glory,  with  true  esprit 
de  corps;  but  I  know  whereof  I  speak 
when  I  say  that  it  can  be  done.  I  be- 
lieve that  such  a  company  can  be  assem- 
bled, and  under  proper  leadership  I  am 
confident  that  eventually  it  can  be  imbued 
with  the  right  spirit.  It  is  the  old  formula 
of  team-play,  and  the  results  are  the 
same  whether  it  is  an  army  in  the  field, 
an  orchestra  in  the  concert-room,  a  crew 
on  the  river,  or  a  company  of  highly- 
organized,  over-sensitive  dramatic  artists 
in  a  play. 

So  much  for  the  acting;  now  as  to  the 
plays.  It  is  a  fact  that  there  is  a  lament- 
able dearth  of  good  new  plays.  But  it 
is  also  true  that,  except  in  very  rare 
instances,  no  play  is  given  a  chance  of 
presentation  unless  presumably  it  will 
appeal  to  the  average  theatre-going  per- 
son. That,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  is 
an  absolute  requirement.  The  average 
theatre-goer  likes  humor,  and  so  the 
number  of  laughs  in  the  play  is  adver- 
tised in  the  papers;  he  abhors  gloom,  so 
there  must  be  a  happy  ending,  regardless 
of  probability  or  consequences.  It  is  to 


A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


499 


this  sort  of  human  nature  that  our  play- 
wrights must  hold  up  the  mirror  if  they 
are  to  obtain  a  hearing. 

Think  of  it!  The  great  drama,  of  really 
great  power,  must  "  end  prettily."  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  at  times  when  our  purse 
was  not  empty  we  dared  to  violate  this 
rule.  We  presented  the  American  adap- 
tation of  Beyerlein's  Zapfenstreich,  al- 
though for  two  years  the  repeated  and 
urgent  warnings  of  our  agents  and  ad- 
visers wer^  wholly  against  the  play.  "  It 
never  succeeds !  "  "  They  won't  like  it ! " 
"It's  over  their  heads!"  "It  ends 
badly !  "  —  So  said  those  who  knew. 
But  we  gave  Boston  its  first  and  only 
sight  of  Taps,  and  it  played  to  crowded 
houses.  Had  we  been  operating  the 
theatre  merely  for  financial  profit,  we 
should  not  have  dared  to  produce  it. 
Yet,  to  our  astonishment,  we  found  in 
this  one  case  that  art  paid!  I  could 
name  a  score  of  plays  that  come  in  this 
same  class  —  dramas  which  the  readers 
of  this  magazine  would  enjoy  far  more 
than  the  plays  which  labor  through  four 
acts  to  exploit  some  popular  star.  But  no 
manager  is  giving  them,  because  the 
theatre  cannot  rise  higher  than  the  level 
of  its  box-office  support. 

Some  of  these  great  plays  we  may 
hope  to  see  to  the  accompaniment  of 
powerful  acting,  if  we  will  join  earnestly 
in  the  demand  for  better  dramatic  art. 
But  as  every  privilege  carries  with  it 
some  responsibility,  so  it  will  be  the  duty 
of  each  one  of  us  to  support  such  a  the- 
atre, when  it  does  come,  with  something 
more  than  expressions  of  approval.  We 
may  not  have  funds  to  subscribe,  yet 
surely  we  can  do  more  than  buy  tickets 
to  occasional  performances.  We  must 
see  to  it  that,  so  far  as  we  can  compel  it, 
such  a  theatre  shall  not  fail  of  hearty 
support  from  every  intelligent  person  in 
the  community.  Interest,  to  be  of  value, 
must  express  itself  at  the  ticket-window. 
Let  it  be  our  mission  to  awaken  that 
interest. 

The  establishment  of  such  a  theatre, 
apart  from  the  pleasure  to  those  who 


build  it,  will  be  a  strong  educational 
movement  in  dramatic  art.  Let  us  re- 
member that  education  costs  money,  and 
that  as  a  people  we  have  endowed  con- 
servatories of  music  and  museums  of 
art  without  a  question  as  to  the  necessity 
for  doing  so.  Dramatic  art,  such  as  we 
are  considering,  cannot  be  wholly  de- 
pendent on  box-office  receipts  in  New 
York  or  Boston,  any  more  than  it  is  to- 
day in  Paris  or  Vienna.  There  it  is  the 
work  of  government ;  here  it  must  be  the 
work  of  private  individuals  —  of  those 
who  care.  I  believe  that  we  can  have  this 
better  art  as  soon  as  we  give  evidence  that 
we  will  support  it  with  the  same  earnest- 
ness with  which  the  theatre  as  an  institu- 
tion is  supported  by  its  less  exacting 
patrons. 

In  other  words,  we  must  light  what 
Ruskin  calls  the  "  lamp  of  sacrifice." 
Not  by  occasional  support,  not  by  merely 
visiting  the  theatre  when  we  have  nothing 
better  to  do,  shall  we  become  worthy  of 
a  nobler  and  more  spiritual  dramatic  art. 
Loyalty  to  ideals  demands  sacrifice,  and 
it  is  no  sacrifice  to  attend  a  theatre  when 
we  want  to  see  the  play.  We  can  afford 
to  waive  our  demand  that  a  particular 
play  shall  give  us  pleasure,  if  its  present- 
ation is  true  to  the  principles  for  which 
we  plead.  We  must  support  our  theatre 
through  its  failures,  for  they  are  inevit- 
able, and  despite  its  mistakes,  for  they 
are  equally  so,  asking  only  that  the  effort 
as  a  whole  shall  foster  and  develop  that 
higher  dramatic  art  which  we  have  at 
heart.  We  must  be  patient,  and  we  must 
wait.  Not  to  be  blinded  by  popular  ap- 
proval nor  disheartened  by  popular  dis- 
taste, not  to  desire  any  success  which  is 
not  built  on  true  merit,  and  to  be  lenient 
with  faulty  details  so  long  as  the  general 
conception  and  effect  are  right  —  these 
are  parts  of  the  price  we  must  pay  for 
an  ennobled  stage. 

Already  there  are  signs  of  the  coming 
of  such  a  theatre.  The  New  Theatre  in 
New  York  is  an  established  fact,  and  its 
direction  has  been  entrusted  to  a  man 
of  discriminating  taste  and  imaginative 


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A  Plea  for  the  Theatrical  Manager 


insight,  who  will  not  be  satisfied  with  any- 
thing but  the  best.  The  experiment  is 
not  starting,  however,  under  wholly  ideal 
conditions,  for  the  ambition  of  New 
York  has  found  expression  in  a  too  large 
auditorium,  and  this  same  ambition  will 
find  it  hard  to  admit  later  that  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  old.  world  cannot  be  du- 
plicated in  a  comparatively  short  time. 
Not  even  the  art  of  France  could  create 
a  Comedie  Fran9aise  to-day  if  it  did  not 
exist.  But  nevertheless  a  most  interest- 
ing experiment  is  being  made,  from  which 
it  may  safely  be  inferred  that  some  better 
art  will  result. 

Looking  beyond  New  York,  we  have 
had  the  suggestive,  even  if  somewhat 
unfortunate,  experiment  for  four  months 
in  the  New  Theatre,  Chicago,  under  the 
management  of  Victor  Mapes.  San 
Francisco  is  reported  as  finding  time,  in 
the  midst  of  her  strenuous  rebuilding, 
seriously  to  consider  a  movement  along 
these  lines.  Philadelphia  has  been  hold- 
ing meetings  and  subscribing  money. 
And  here  in  Boston  we  have  been  try- 
ing to  gain  practical  experience  for  such 
work  by  four  years  of  theatre  operation 
—  serving  an  apprenticeship  which  will 
be  found  valuable  if  the  time  ever  comes 
when  its  lessons  can  be  applied  to  the 
larger  problem. 

I  have  said  that  such  dramatic  art  as 
we  are  now  considering  must  be  inde- 
pendent, for  a  time  at  least,  of  box-office 
receipts.  This  is  not  because  of  a  con- 
ceded lack  of  patronage,  but  because 
such  art  demands  a  very  small  theatre 
for  its  proper  expression.  Theatres  to- 
day are  constructed  with  a  watchful  eye 
to  their  seating  capacity,  regardless  of 
the  admitted  facAhat  natural  acting  can 
never  be  brought J;p  perfection  in  a  play- 
house where  a  part  of  the  audience  is 
very  far  from  the  stage.  But  the  theatre 
of  to-day  is  frornjfirst  to  last  a  money- 
making  institution,  and  its  gallery  gods, 
six  hundred  or  more,  must  be  propitiated, 
for  their  dimes  count.  So  the  actors  raise 
their  voices  and  the  stage  manager 
broadens  every  effect,  for  both  must  carry 


over  the  intervening  distance  up  to  the 
furthest  curve  of  the  dome. 

We  do  not  realize  how  this  money- 
making  attitude  has  steadily  enlarged 
our  theatres  and  wrought  havoc  to  dra- 
matic art,  for  the  change  has  been  grad- 
ual. Over  a  century  ago,  when  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre  in  London  was  doomed 
to  enlargement,  Sarah  Siddons  com- 
plained that  no  longer  would  it  be  pos- 
sible to  have  good  acting  in  that  theatre, 
for  the  increased  size  of  the  auditorium 
put  a  stop  to  it.  Yet  the  old  Haymarket 
in  its  enlarged  size  was  smaller  than  any 
theatre  in  Europe  to-day,  and  must  have 
been  ridiculously  small  compared  to  the 
modern  American  playhouse.  And  re- 
member that  this  was  tragedy  which  Mrs. 
Siddons  was  acting  —  not  comedy. 

It  would  seem  to  be  a  lamentable 
corollary,  that  as  the  number  of  seats  is 
reduced  the  price  per  seat  must  advance. 
But  the  small  theatre  which  I  hope  to  see 
built  some  day,  with  a  fine  company  of 
artists  on  its  stage,  will  be  able  to  main- 
tain itself,  if  at  all,  upon  the  ordinary 
theatre  price  of  one  dollar  and  a  half  for 
the  best  orchestra  seat.  And  I  believe 
that  the  performances  in  this  theatre, 
under  proper  management,  will  soon  be 
able  to  justify  the  experiment  of  the  re- 
duced size,  —  an  experiment  which  no 
theatre-manager  who  depends  on  box- 
office  receipts  can  as  yet  regard  with 
anything  but  horror. 

And  so  we  come  back  to  the  question 
with  which  we  started, —  who  is  to 
blame  for  the  present  deplorable  con- 
dition of  dramatic  art  ?  Is  it  the  theatrical 
manager  ?  Not  if  his  first  duty  is  to  pay 
his  bills.  Who  then  ?  Behold,  the  very 
man  who  asks  the  question  is  himself  the 
man  who  must  answer  it.  Who  is  to 
blame  ?  "  Why,  I  am !  I,  who  want  good 
art,  but  am  not  willing  to  pay  the  price; 
I,  who  have  ideals  but  no  self-sacrifice, 
convictions  but  not  courage,  obligations 
without  impulses." 

And  ^unfortunately,  in  a  world  con- 
stituted as  ours  is,  if  you  will  not  pay  the 
piper  you  cannot  have  the  dance. 


LIFE 

BY  EDITH  WHARTON 

NAY,  lift  me  to  thy  lips,  Life,  and  once  more 
Pour  the  wild  music  through  me  — 

I  quivered  in  the  reed-bed  with  my  kind, 
Rooted  in  Lethe-bank,   when  at  the  dawn 
There  came  a  groping  shape  of  mystery 
Moving  among  us,  that  with  random  stroke 
Severed,  and  rapt  me  from  my  silent  tribe, 
Pierced,  fashioned,  lipped  me,  sounding  for  a  voice, 
Laughing  on  Lethe-bank  —  and  in  my  throat 
I  felt  the  wing-beat  of  the  fledgeling  notes, 
The  bubble  of  godlike  laughter  in  my  throat. 

Such  little  songs  she  sang, 

Pursing  her  lips  to  fit  the  tiny  pipe, 

They  trickled  from  me  like  a  slender  spring 

That  strings  frail  wood-growths  on  its  crystal  thread, 

Nor  dreams  of  glassing  cities,  bearing  ships. 

She  sang,  and  bore  me  through  the  April  world 

Matching  the  birds,  doubling  the  insect-hum 

In  the  meadows,  under  the  low-moving  airs, 

And  breathings  of  the  scarce-articulate  air 

When  it  makes  mouths  of  grasses  —  but  when  the  sky 

Burst  into  storm,  and  took  great  trees  for  pipes, 

She  thrust  me  in  her  breast,  and  warm  beneath 

Her  cloudy  vesture,  on  her  terrible  heart, 

I  shook,  and  heard  the  battle. 

But  more  oft, 

Those  early  days,  we  moved  in  charmed  woods, 
Where  once,  at  dusk,  she  piped  against  a  faun, 
And  one  warm  dawn  a  tree  became  a  nymph 
Listening;  and  trembled;  and  Life  laughed  and  passed. 
And  once  we  came  to  a  great  stream  that  bore 
The  stars  upon  its  bosom  like  a  sea, 
And  ships  like  stars;  so  to  the  sea  we  came. 
And  there  she  raised  me  to  her  lips,  and  sent 
One  wild  pang  through  me;  then  refrained  her  hand, 
And  whispered :  "  Hear  —  "  and  into  my  frail  flanks, 
Into  my  bursting  veins,  the  whole  sea  poured 
Its  spaces  and  its  thunder;  and  I  feared. 


502  Life 

We  came  to  cities,  and  Life  piped  on  me 

Low  calls  to  dreaming  girls, 

In  counting-house  windows,  through  the  chink  of  gold, 

Flung  cries  that  fired  the  captive  brain  of  youth, 

And  made  the  heavy  merchant  at  his  desk 

Curse  us  for  a  cracked  hurdy-gurdy;  Life 

Mimicked  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and  we  passed. 

We  climbed  the  slopes  of  solitude,  and  there 
Life  met  a  god,  who  challenged  her  and  said: 
"Thy  pipe  against  my  lyre!  "     But  "  Wait!  "  she  laughed, 
And  in  my  live  flank  dug  a  finger-hole, 
And  wrung  new  music  from  it.     Ah,  the  pain! 

We  climbed  and  climbed,  and  left  the  god  behind. 
We  saw  the  earth  spread  vaster  than  the  sea, 
With  infinite  surge  of  mountains  surfed  with  snow, 
And  a  silence  that  was  louder  than  the  deep; 
But  on  the  utmost  pinnacle  Life  again 
Hid  me,  and  I  heard  the  terror  in  her  hair. 

Safe  in  new  vales,  I  ached  for  the  old  pang, 
And  clamoured  "  Play  me  against  a  god  again!  " 
"  Poor  Marsy as-mortal  —  he  shall  bleed  thee  yet," 

She  breathed  and  kissed  me,  stilling  the  dim  need. 
But  evermore  it  woke,  and  stabbed  my  flank 
With  yearnings  for  new  music  and  new  pain. 
"  Another  note  against  another  god!'* 
I  clamoured;  and  she  answered:  "Bide  my  time. 
Of  every  heart-wound  I  will  make  a  stop. 
And  drink  thy  life  in  music,  pang  by  pang. 
But  first  thou  must  yield  the  notes  I  stored  in  thee 
At  dawn  beside  the  river.    Take  my  lips." 

She  kissed  me  like  a  lover,  but  I  wept, 
Remembering  that  high  song  against  the  god, 
And  the  old  songs  slept  in  me,  and  I  was  dumb. 

We  came  to  cavernous  foul  places,  blind 
With  harpy-wings,  and  sulphurous  with  the  glare 
Of  sinful  furnaces  —  where  hunger  toiled, 
And  pleasure  gathered  in  a  starveling  prey, 
And  death  fed  delicately  on  young  bones. 

"  Now  sing!  "  cried  Life,  and  set  her  lips  to  me. 
"  Here  are  gods  also.     Wilt  thou  pipe  for  Dis  ?  " 


fife  503 


My  cry  was  drowned  beneath  the  furnace  roar, 
Choked  by  the  sulphur- fumes;  and  beast-lipped  gods 
Laughed  down  on  me,  and  mouthed  the  flutes  of  hell. 

"  Now  sing!  "  said  Life,  reissuing  to  the  stars; 
And  wrung  a  new  note  from  my  wounded  side. 

So  came  we  to  clear  spaces,  and  the  sea. 

And  now  I  felt  its  volume  in  my  heart, 

And  my  heart  waxed  with  it,  and  Life  played  on  me 

The  song  of  the  Infinite.     "  Now  the  stars,"  she  said. 

Then  from  the  utmost  pinnacle  again 

She  poured  me  on  the  wild  sidereal  stream, 

And  I  grew  with  her  great  breathings,  till  we  swept 

The  interstellar  spaces  like  new  worlds 

Loosed  from  the  fiery  ruin  of  a  star. 

Cold,  cold  we  rested  on  black  peaks  again, 

Under  black  skies,  under  a  groping  wind; 

And  life,  grown  old,  hugged  me  to  a  numb  breast, 

Pressing  numb  lips  against  me.     Suddenly 

A  blade  of  silver  severed  the  black  peaks 

From  the  black  sky,  and  earth  was  born  again, 

Breathing  and  various,  under  a  god's  feet. 

A  god!    A  god!     I  felt  the  heart  of  Life 

Leap  under  me,  and  my  cold  flanks  shook  again. 

He  bore  no  lyre,  he  rang  no  challenge  out, 

But  Life  warmed  to  him,  warming  me  with  her, 

And  as  he  neared  I  felt  beneath  her  hands 

The  stab  of  a  new  wound  that  sucked  my  soul 

Forth  in  a  new  song  from  my  throbbing  throat. 

"  His  name  —  his  name?"  I  whispered,  but  she  poured 
The  music  faster,  and  I  grew  with  it, 
Became  a  part  of  it,  while  Life  and  I 
Clung  lip  to  lip,  and  I  from  her  wrung  song 
As  she  from  me,  one  song,  one  ecstasy, 
In  indistinguishable  union  blent, 
Till  she  became  the  flute  and  I  the  player. 
And  lo!  the  song  I  played  on  her  was  more        • 
Than  any  she  had  drawn  from  me;  it  held 
The  stars,  the  peaks,  the  cities,  and  the  sea, 
The  faun's  catch,  the  nymph's  tremor,  and  the  heart 
Of  dreaming  girls,  of  toilers  at  the  desk, 
Apollo's  challenge  on  the  sunrise  slope, 


504  The  Heroine 

And  the  hiss  of  the  night-gods  mouthing  flutes  of  hell  — 

All,  to  the  dawn-wind's  whisper  in  the  reeds, 

When  Life  first  came,  a  shape  of  mystery, 

Moving  among  us,  and  with  random  stroke 

Severed,  and  rapt  me  from  my  silent  tribe. 

All  this  I  wrung  from  her  in  that  deep  hour, 

While  Love  stood  murmuring:  "Play  the  god,  poor  grass!  " 

Now,  by  that  hour,  I  am  a  mate  to  thee 
Forever,  Life,  however  spent  and  clogged, 
And  tossed  back  useless  to  my  native  mud! 
Yea,  groping  for  new  reeds  to  fashion  thee 
New  instruments  of  anguish  and  delight, 
Thy  hand  shall  leap  to  me,  thy  broken  reed, 
Thine  ear  remember  me,  thy  bosom  thrill 
With  the  old  subjection,  then  when  Love  and  I 
Held  thee,  and  fashioned  thee,  and  made  thee  dance 
Like  a  slave-girl  to  her  pipers  —  yea,  thou  yet 
Shalt  hear  my  call,  and  dropping  all  thy  toys 
Thou 'It  lift  me  to  thy  lips,  Life,  and  once  more 
Pour  the  wild  music  through  me  — 


THE   HEROINE 

BY   HARRY   JAMES   SMITH 

Miss  Flora  Belle  Wickles  was  steno-  her  desk  —  was  short  and  squarish;  she 

grapher  at  Whiteside  &  Johnson's,  the  had  freckles,  and,  much  against  her  will, 

wholesale  grocers;  and  her  father  was  she  had  to  wear  glasses,  black-rimmed 

hostler  at  the  Bon  Ton  Livery  Stables;  and  bowed.  But  an  unconquerable  soul, 

and  Joe  Kinney,  who  desired  to  marry  such  as  Flora  Belle's,  may  triumph  over 

her,  and  had  been  refused,  worked  in  a  many  obstacles. 

repair  shop,  and  his  fingers  were  almost  Flora  Belle  had  a  way  of  telling  her- 

always  black,  and  he  was  very  "  uncul-  self,  with  a  certain  grim  satisfaction,  that 

tured."  if  things  had  been  different,  she  would 

And  as  if  here  were  not  quite  enough  not  have  had  to  be  a  stenographer  at 

to  crush  out  the  hope  Miss  Wickles  cher-  Whiteside    &   Johnson's.    She  was  an 

ished  of  one  day  being  a  personage,  an  unusual  girl,  and  knew  it.  In  school  she 

unkindly  fate  had  denied  her  even  the  had  taken  prizes  over  and  over  again  for 

compensating    charm    of    rare    beauty,  excellence  in  declamation;  and  that  she 

Flora  Belle,  or  Florabel,  or  Flo  Rabelle,  had   considerable   dramatic   talent   had 

or    Flor-Abelle  —  you    could    find    the  been  made  clear  to  every  one  when  her 

name  written  in  any  of  these  ways,  and  graduating  class  in  the  Grammar  School 

I  do  not  know  how  many  besides,  on  the  had  presented  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

odd  scraps  of  paper  that  floated  about  by  Shakespeare.    To  Flora  Belle    had 


The  Heroine 


505 


been  assigned  a  merely  supernumerary 
part  (just  because  she  wore  glasses  — 
she  knew  it  perfectly  well  —  and  her 
father  was  a  hostler);  but  at  the  last 
minute  the  pink  and  white  ninny  who 
had  studied  the  role  of  Portia  was  seized 
by  a  fit  of  nervous  hysterics,  and  the 
whole  performance  was  careening  toward 
disaster.  Then  who  but  Flora  Belle 
Wickles  should  step  forth! 

"  I  have  got  every  line  of  the  part," 
she  announced  simply,  "  and  have  often 
rehearsed  it  at  home,  just  for  my  own 
pleasure." 

Of  course  they  let  her  try  it;  and  she 
went  through  without  a  single  slip; 
and  afterwards  several  of  those  girls 
had  kissed  her;  and  the  English  teacher 
had  said  to  her,  — 

"  Miss  Wickles,  we  shall  hear  from  you 
again,  some  day,  I  am  sure.  You  are 
truly  gifted." 

And  Flora  Belle  had  gone  home  to  the 
tenement  she  lived  in,  over  the  livery 
stable,  sternly  resolved  to  be  somebody 
some  day. 

But  how?  Six  years  had  passed, 
and  the  question  was  still  unanswered. 
Whiteside  &  Johnson's  received  her 
every  morning,  and  every  night  she 
returned  with  a  dull  discontent  to  the 
tenement  over  the  livery  stable;  and 
however  eagerly  she  might  peer  into  the 
future,  she  did  not  see  anything  ahead 
but  the  same  stupid  round,  over  and 
over.  How  was  one  to  become  a  person- 
age on  such  a  pitiful  stage  as  that  ?  To 
be  sure,  there  was  Joe  Kinney;  but  the 
very  thought  of  marrying  a  repairist  dis- 
tressed her.  Joe  was  allowed  to  come 
round  to  see  her,  and  take  her  out  for 
little  times  now  and  then,  but  only  on 
the  explicit  understanding  that  his  suit 
was  hopeless. 

To  those  who  are  well-read  in  such 
matters,  that  would  have  been  one  indi- 
cation of  the  highly-colored  imaginings 
that  possessed  her  soul;  and  there  was 
another,  too:  an  inveterate  habit  she 
had  of  devoting  herself,  during  every 
leisure  minute  of  her  office-day,  to  the 


creation  of  some  article  or  other  of  per- 
sonal adornment.  When  spring  was  com- 
ing on,  for  example,  it  was  likeliest  to  be 
an  elaborate  embroidery  hat,  kept  by  in 
a  spare  drawer  of  her  desk,  and  brought 
out  at  the  first  moment  of  relaxation. 
The  embroidery  hat  was  far  from  be- 
coming to  Flora  Belle.  Indeed,  it  did 
but  add  a  grim  irony  to  the  plainness  of 
her  features;  and  the  same  criticism  must 
be  passed  upon  her  habit  of  wearing  col- 
lars that  were  too  high,  belts  that  were 
too  tight,  shoes  that  were  too  small.  By 
such  means,  the  gracelessness  of  her 
stocky  person  was  only  enhanced. 

Even  that  stupid,  uncultured  Joe 
Kinney  had  got  some  notion  of  this 
truth;  and  once  he  so  little  qualified  his 
valor  with  discretion  as  to  bring  it  to  her 
notice.  They  had  been  starting  out' to- 
gether, one  summerlike  Sunday  after- 
noon in  May,  for  a  trip  to  Magnolia  Park, 
a  few  miles  outside  the  city. 

"  I  dunno  as  I'm  so  tumble  hot  for  it," 
observed  the  repairist  dubiously.  He 
gave  a  dogged  shake  to  his  head,  and 
wrinkled  up  one  side  of  his  face,  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

"Hot  for  what?"  returned  Flora 
Belle,  somewhat  superciliously,  and  by 
her  tone  providing  the  phrase  with  quo- 
tation marks  of  scorn,  —  for  she  did  not 
approve  of  street-slang. 

But  she  knew  what  he  meant,  and  gave 
him  no  chance  to  answer  her. 

"Is  it  anybody's  business  what  I 
choose  to  wear  ?  "  she  demanded  sharply. 
"  Who's  going  to  find  fault?  " 

"  Sure  —  that's  all  right,"  agreed  Joe 
bluntly.  "  It's  your  own  funeral." 

"  Look  here,  Joe  Kinney,"  she  direct- 
ed. "  I  suppose  it's  my  hat." 

Joe  nodded  stolidly. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  it?  " 

There  were  no  disguises  in  Joe's  hab- 
its of  utterance.  "  Oh,  there  ain't  nothing 
the  matter  with  the  hat,  as  I  can  see," 
he  said,  —  "  only  I  don't  think  you're 
made  for  them  kind.  You  see  —  it  ain't 
as  if  you  was  exactly  —  " 

She  cut  him  off  with  a  whirlwind  of 


506 


The  Heroine 


bitterness.  "  Oh,  I  know.  You  need  n't 
trouble  yourself  to  explain.  You  mean 
I'm  not  pretty,  like  some  of  your  wax 
dolls  that  don't  know  enough  to  put  on 
rubbers  when  it's  wet.  Well,  if  you  pre- 
fer them  so  much,  why  don't  you  go  and 
chase  them  ?  It  won't  offend  me  in  the 
least,  Mr.  Kinney ;  and  you  need  n't 
bother  to  come  back  again,  —  do  you 
understand  ?  " 

That  was  a  very  unreasonable  and  ill- 
tempered  speech,  certainly,  to  have  come 
from  the  lips  of  our  Flora  Belle,  especially 
when  it  was  clear  that  Joe  had  meant 
nothing  but  friendliness ;  but  you  see  she 
had  been  touched  in  an  excessively  ten- 
der spot.  For  some  reason  or  other,  she 
could  not  bear  to  admit  that  she  was 
plain-looking.  Her  glass  was  her  most 
detested  counselor;  and  she  was  always 
contriving  to  study  her  reflection  there 
under  special  conditions,  such  as  a  sub- 
dued light,  or  an  exceptionally  favorable 
angle;  and  by  these  means  she  had  al- 
most cheated  herself  into  the  belief  that 
Flo  Rabelle  was  not  altogether  the  base- 
less fabric  of  a  vision. 

Flo  Rabelle  — it  was  thus  that  she 
most  commonly  denominated  her  alter 
ego  —  was,  indeed,  strikingly  beautiful. 
She  was  brilliant  and  witty;  rapt  circles 
of  intelligent  faces  hung  upon  her  words. 
And  she  was  a  performer  of  many  start- 
ling and  picturesque  deeds  of  bravery. 

Flo  Rabelle  was  concerned  almost 
daily  with  such  scenes  as  the  following: 

"  Suppose  all  of  a  sudden  the  cry, 
'  Fire,  Fire ! '  should  be  heard  —  what 
would  you  do?"  —  And  Miss  Wickles 
would  proceed  to  figure  out  a  complete 
schedule  of  action.  In  imagination  she 
even  heard  people  telling  about  it  later : 
"  Then,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  panic,  the 
clear,  low,  self-contained  voice  of  Flo 
Rabelle  was  heard,  commanding  order. 
The  effect  was  electrical.  Every  one 
turned  to  her  for  directions.  *  You  attend 
to  this,'  she  ordered,  calm  as  a  general, 
'  you,  that.'  A  magnificent  display  of 
courage  and  brains!  " 

Or  again,  it  would  be  a  child  caught 


from  the  very  muzzle  of  a  runaway  auto, 
and  returned  to  its  amazed  and  grateful 
parents.  "  Who  was  that  striking-look- 
ing young  girl,"  they  would  ask  breath- 
lessly, "  that  risked  her  life  for  our  little 
one,  and  then  disappeared,  as  mysteri- 
ously as  she  came  ?  "  —  and  the  answer 
would  be  heard:  "  That  is  Flo  Rabelle." 
-  "  What,"  they  would  exclaim,  "  the 
famous  Flo  Rabelle,  who  has  done  so 
many  acts  of  daring!  God  bless  her! ' 
—  And  later  — 

Well,  Miss  Wickles  had  plenty  of 
dreams,  as  you  see,  of  a  career  brilliantly 
dramatic;  and  though  there  seemed 
small  enough  likelihood  of  their  ever 
coming  true,  she  cherished  them  jeal- 
ously ;  and  her  picture  hats,  and  her  tight 
belts,  and  her  despite  for  the  crude  over- 
tures of  that  Joe  Kinney,  and  her  experi- 
ments in  name-mintage  were  all  of  a 
piece. 

Now  it  happened  that  on  this  very 
afternoon  of  the  final  rupture  (as  she 
termed  it)  with  the  uncultured  repairist, 
she  decided  to  take  two  of  her  small 
sisters  for  a  little  jaunt  in  the  country  — 
in  fact,  out  to  Magnolia  Park.  I  think  it 
was  only  benevolence  that  prompted  her 
to  this  act.  Probably  the  thought  never 
occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  she  might 
encounter  Joe  there  in  the  company  of 
one  of  those  wax  dolls,  and  that  this 
would  be  one  way  of  letting  him  see  for 
himself  that  she  did  not  care.  It  does  not 
matter  greatly  anyway,  since,  as  the  issue 
will  show,  Flora  Belle  was  destined  never 
to  reach  the  park  that  day. 

It  was  the  first  afternoon  of  reaj  sum- 
mer heat  —  one  of  those  premature  July 
days  that  come  sometimes  in  mid-May, 
almost  before  the  leaves  are  fully  out, 
and  which  are  the  hardest  of  all  to  bear 
because  no  one  is  yet  prepared  for  them. 
Crowds  were  fleeing  out  of  the  city.  The 
trolley-cars  were  packed  to  capacity;  and 
so  suddenly  had  come  the  heat,  that  more 
than  half  the  available  traction  was  still 
by  the  regulation  closed  cars  of  winter. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  latter  that  Flora 
Belle  had  secured  a  place,  close  to  the 


The  Heroine 


507 


front  window,  with  a  small  sister  on 
either  hand.'  Though  not  excessively 
crowded,  the  car  was  frightfully  uncom- 
fortable: the  upholstered  seats,  the  low 
ceiling,  the  limited  apertures,  seemed  to 
shut  in  the  heat  about  one,  oppressive, 
stifling  beyond  endurance.  The  majority 
of  the  passengers  were  women,  and  their 
gayly-decked,  broad-brimmed  hats  were 
oddly  out  of  keeping  with  the  flaccid, 
heat-wilted  faces  underneath. 

Flora  Belle  was  listlessly  observing  the 
motorman  through  the  dirty  front  glass. 
His  face  was  very  red,  except  for  a  mot- 
tling of  white  at  the  temple  and  behind 
his  ear;  and  the  sweat  was  running  in 
little  streams  down  his  neck  and  cheeks. 

"  What  if  suddenly  he  should  be  over- 
come ?  "  mused  she;  and  at  once  she  was 
all  alertness  and  attention.  A  thrilling 
scene  presented  itself !  Quick  as  thought 
she  would  be  upon  her  feet,  and  with  a 
gesture  of  confidence  quiet  the  frenzied 
passengers ;  then  she  would  step  over  the 
prostrate  form  of  the  motorman,  and 
seizing  the  crank  — 

But  the  conductor!  —  She  looked  at 
him.  No,  he  would  jump.  He  was  a  soft, 
lily-faced  thing. 

She  began  to  study  the  manner  in 
which  the  motorman  managed  the  car, 
—  how  the  left-hand  crank  controlled 
the  power :  round  to  the  right,  clockwise, 
full  current;  to  the  left,  shut  off.  Yes, 
she  could  do  that.  She  watched  the  appli- 
cation of  the  brake,  and  the  rapping  of 
the  gong  with  the  right  foot.  The  whole 
episode  was  taking  substance  in  her 
imagination. 

They  were  just  reaching  the  first 
downward  slope  of  a  long  hill  at  the  foot 
of  which  was  a  railroad  crossing  at  grade ; 
and  at  this  very  instant  a  freight  train 
of  some  sixty  or  more  cars  was  crawling 
into  sight  from  the  west.  It  would  be  at 
the  crossing  in  a  few  seconds. 

Her  heart  gave  a  wild  leap.  The  story 
was  complete  —  if  only  —  and  she  looked 
almost  vindictively  at  the  motorman, 
who  was  standing  there  so  imperturbably 
at  his  post,  just  as  if  he  were  not,  by  that 


very  fact,  shutting  out  Flo  Rabelle  from 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime. 

And  then  —  even  as  she  looked  —  the 
thing  she  was  dreaming  of  came  suddenly 
to  pass.  Without  a  hint  of  a  warning, 
without  a  turn  of  the  head  or  a  gesture 
or  a  cry,  the  motorman  crumpled  down, 
and  lay  in  an  unconscious  heap  on  the 
floor  of  the  car. 

There  was  a  shrill  scream  of  fright 
from  the  passengers.  The  conductor  dis- 
appeared. The  car  gave  a  reeling  lurch 
as  it  took  the  slight  turn  at  the  head 
of  the  second  incline;  leaped  forward; 
plunged  down  the  hill  at  a  speed  that 
was  appalling.  Terror  took  hold  of  the 
occupants.  A  few  started  blindly  to  their 
feet,  and  staggered  toward  the  rear  door. 
Some  covered  their  eyes. 

The  story  had  come  true.  Flora  Belle 
Wickles  gave  one  incredulous  glance 
about  her,  scarce  able  to  accept  the  evi- 
dence of  her  senses.  But  yes  —  it  had 
come  true.  It  was  acting  itself  out  — 
here  —  in  real  life.  She  was  a  part  of  it. 
She  was  the  heroine. 

The  heroine  leaped  to  her  feet. 

"Silence!"  was  the  command,  cut- 
ting, relentless,  as  a  knife.  "  Keep  your 
seats!  " 

The  next  instant,  with  the  self-posses- 
sion of  life-long  practice,  she  was  at  the 
front  of  the  car  —  one  hand  on  the  power- 
lever,  the  other  grasping  the  brake.  The 
broad  roadway  flew  toward  her;  on  each 
side  the  fences  slid  past  like  thin  strips 
of  tape,  dizzily  unreeling.  Below  —  still 
distant  —  she  saw  the  grade  crossing, 
which  the  engine  had  just  reached. 

But  Flo  Rabelle  knew  no  fear.  She 
was  certain  of  her  ability  to  stop  the  car ; 
and  she  desired  that  no  dramatic  aspect 
of  the  situation  be  neglected. 

Her  first  act  was  calmly  to  throw  off 
the  power.  That  was  easily  done  — 
accomplished  precisely  as  her  observa- 
tions had  instructed  her.  It  was  almost 
too  easy.  .Even  at  that  moment  of  su- 
preme action,  Flo  Rabelle  longed  for  a 
greater  task  than  merely  to  shove  a 
crank  in  an  anti-clockwise  direction. 


508 


The  Heroine 


Then —  not  too  violently  —  she  gave 
a  turn  to  the  brake.  She  felt  its  first  bite 
on  the  spinning  wheels  underneath.  She 
did  not  hurry.  There  was  still  plenty  of 
distance  between  her  and  the  crossing. 
She  would  not  jar  or  upset  her  human 
freight,  —  would  not  act  clumsily.  She 
pushed  the  thing  through  another  wide 
arc.  The  car  was  slowing  down  comfort- 
ably. She  remembered  about  the  gong 
and  put  her  foot  to  it.  It  made  a  magnifi- 
cent clangor  —  over  and  over  again  — 
announcing  to  all  the  world  that  a  con- 
trol sure  and  efficient  was  at  the  helm. 

The  rest  was  only  child's  play.  At  a 
distance  of  some  forty  yards  from  the 
crossing  —  where  the  lazy  freight  was 
still  trailing  its  slow  length  —  the  car 
came  to  a  full  stop. 

Flo  Rabelle  meditated  whether  to  turn 
and  make  a  bow,  or  merely  to  stand 
quietly,  unassumingly,  where  she  was. 
But  she  had  no  chance  to  decide  the 
matter,  for  at  the  same  instant  eager  arms 
clutched  her  from  every  direction;  she 
was  pulled  and  patted  and  embraced  and 
kissed  and  wept  over.  While  three  or  four 
men  removed  the  unconscious  motorman 
to  a  neighboring  shed,  Flo  Rabelle  was 
dragged  by  a  clamorous  mob  into  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  —  "  How  did  you  do 
it  ?  "  —  "  Oh,  you  brave  girlie !  —  you 
brave  girlie!"  —  "How  can  we  ever 
thank  you?  "  —  "  Oh,  was  n't  she  sim- 
ply wonderful  ?  "  —  "  What  presence  of 
mind!"  —  "Oh,  the  dear,  brave  little 
creature!"  —"Who  is  she,  anyway? 
Does  nobody  know  ?  "  — 

Surely  nothing  could  be  more  hand- 
somely real  than  that;  and  yet  it  was 
just  at  this  moment  that,  for  the  first  time, 
there  came  to  her  a  shock  of  unreality. 
What  was  it  all  about,  anyway?  She 
stared  at  the  freight  train,  dragging  its 
caboose  across  the  highway.  She  stared 
at  the  motionless  car  in  front  of  her,  emp- 
tied now  of  all  its  human  cargo.  Some- 
thing unbelievable,  preposterous,  non- 
sensical about  the  whole  situation  thrust 
itself  into  her  mind,  and  she  laughed  out- 


right —  inappropriately  enough,  for  that 
matter  —  in  the  face  of  her  insatiate  ad- 
mirers. 

Ah,  but  you  should  have  seen  the 
newspaper  accounts  that  followed!  The 
Citizen  gave  it  a  whole  half-page,  the 
next  morning,  with  a  four-by-five  cut  of 
the  "  Plucky  Little  Stenographer  "  who 
had  saved  fifty-five  lives  from  annihila- 
tion. —  "  Thrilling  Act  of  Heroism  "  bla- 
zoned the  headlines.  —  "  Amazing  Cool- 
ness and  Self-Command" — "Grateful 
Three-Score  Raise  Handsome  Purse." 
—  "  "T  will  Educate  Two  Tiny  Sisters,' 
Says  Pretty  Flora  Belle  Wickles." 

The  four-by-five  cut  was  masterly. 
The  likeness  was  idealized  just  enough 
for  effective  journalistic  presentation.  It 
included  the  embroidery  hat.  It  ex- 
cluded the  black-bowed  glasses.  It  pen- 
ciled the  eyebrows;  arched  the  line  of 
the  mouth.  It  supplied  a  grace  here, 
reduced  a  defect  there,  —  offered,  in 
short,  a  perfect  portrait  of  Flo  Rabelle. 

The  Wickleses,  big  and  little,  especially 
the  Tiny  Two,  reveled  in  the  sudden 
glory  that  had  come  upon  their  house. 
The  story  was  repeated,  and  copies  of 
the  Citizen  and  the  News  brought  forth 
for  display  a  dozen  times  an  afternoon. 
At  Whiteside  &  Johnson's  Flora  Belle 
heard  nothing  else  talked  of  for  days. 
A  reporter  from  the  News  came  there  to 
interview  her,  and  the  two  were  closeted 
together  for  a  long  time  in  Mr.  White- 
side's  private  office,  —  while  heads 
wagged  on  all  sides. 

Miss  Miggs,  whose  desk  was  next  to 
Miss  Wickles,  asserted  that  Flora  Belle 
was  receiving  love-letters  and  offers  in 
marriage  every  day  from  all  over  the 
country.  She  managed  to  read  a  part  of 
one,  she  said,  without  Miss  Wickles 
knowing  she  was  looking,  and  it  was  just 
the  most  adorable  thing  you  ever  saw.  It 
was  from  a  palmist,  and  his  picture  was 
at  the  top;  and  he  was  the  handsomest 
man !  —  "  Though  for  that  matter,  I  don't 
know  as  I'd  want  to  marry  a  palmist, 
would  you  ? — And  Flora  Belle  would  n't 
either,  I  guess,  because  she  just  tore 


The  Heroine 


509 


it  up,  like  she  was  mad,  and  threw  it 
in  the  waste-basket. 

"  *  What  you  so  huffed  about,  Miss 
Wickles?'  says  I;  and  she  says,  'The 
slush  some  people  can  write ! '  and  not 
another  word  could  I  get  out  of  her." 

Miss  Miggs  thought  Miss  Wickles  a 
little  queer  anyway;  most  girls  that  had 
a  set  of  brains  like  hers  were  more  or  less 
that  way.  "  I  don't  know  's  I  envy  the 
man  that  marries  her,"  said  Miss  Miggs. 
"  Her  ideas  are  so  absolutely  different- 
from  most  folks'." 

As  for  Flora  Belle  herself,  she  was  in- 
volved, during  these  famous  days,  in  a 
psychological  maze  of  the  most  intricate 
and  baffling  nature.  She  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  explained  to  you  the  singular 
processes  that  were  going  forward  stead- 
ily, silently,  irresistibly,  in  the  depths  of 
her  soul.  She  was  not  in  control  of^them; 
they  went  of  themselves,  and  brought 
her  to  the  most  unexpected  of  issues. 

For  a  few  hours  —  days,  perhaps  — 
she  had  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of  dizzy  joy. 
She  had  demonstrated  Flo  Rabelle.  The 
confidence  she  had  so  long  and  so  ardent- 
ly cherished  that  there  was  something 
more  in  her  than  a  mere  office-drudge 
—  it  had  been  no  delusion.  She  had  be- 
come a  personage. 

But,  oddly  enough,  that  joy  supported 
her  only  a  brief  time.  She  felt  it  begin  to 
slip  from  her  —  struggled  to  hold  it  — 
and  failed.  The  more  people  talked, 
gaped,  and  admired,  the  less  she  seemed 
to  relish  it.  After  all  —  she  kept  asking 
herself  —  what  had  she  really  done? 
Endowed  with  what  Miss  Miggs  had 
termed  "  a  set  of  brains,"  she  was  com- 
pelled to  use  them;  and  she  could  not 
help  perceiving  a  discrepancy,  and  a 
rather  disturbing  one,  between  the  actual 
occurrence  and  the  newspaper  romancing 
that  had  grown  up  about  it  in  a  night. 

For  hours,  in  the  silence  of  her  bed- 
room, after  the  little  Wickleses  were  all 
asleep,  she  had  pored  over  the  four-by- 
five  portrait  —  first  with  intense,  unrea- 
soning gratification;  finally  with  a  sort 
of  fierce  resentment.  That  was  not  her. 


It  looked  no  more  like  her  than  it  did 
like  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough.  They 
had  not  even  had  the  decency  to  leave 
her  her  glasses.  Not  that  she  had  any 
fancy  for  the  abominable  things ;  but  for 
all  that,  they  were  a  part  of  her.  She  was 
not  good  enough  for  them  to  present  as 
she  was.  They  must  make  her  different ; 
work  her  over;  improve  her. 

How  utterly  foolish  most  people  were, 
anyway,  mused  Flora  Belle,  as  her  cyni- 
cism grew  more  pronounced.  Just  be- 
cause she  had  happened  actually  to  do  a 
thing  she  had  always  been  perfectly  cap- 
able of  doing,  now  they  would  begin  to 
cackle  about  her,  and  pat  her  on  the  back, 
and  raise  a  purse,  and  send  her  slushy 
letters.  As  if  she  were  not  the  identical 
Flora  Belle  of  the  older  obscure  days,  no 
better,  no  worse,  than  when  nobody  had 
even  so  much  as  asked  her  name.  Well, 
their  notice  had  come  too  late  to  hood- 
wink or  mislead  her  now! 

Thus,  long  before  the  Wickleses  had 
ceased  to  bring  out  copies  of  the  Citizen, 
or  the  gossip  at  Whiteside  &  Johnson's 
had  subsided,  Flora  Belle  was  stricken 
with  a  disenchantment  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before.  Life  had  quite  lost 
its  zest  for  her.  She  wished  that  she  had 
never  done  that  thing;  that  she  were  still 
the  simple,  blithe-hearted,  unknown  girl 
she  had  always  been  until  that  accursed 
day.  Once  —  long  ago  —  friendship  — 
admiration  —  love  —  had  meant  some- 
thing. 

Staunch,  faithful  Joe !  She  found  her- 
self thinking  of  him  now  with  an  odd 
tenderness,  almost  longing!  How  frank 
he  had  been;  how  outspoken;  how  hon- 
est, —  taking  her  for  what  she  was ;  not 
afraid  to  speak  openly  of  her  faults  — 
and  they  were  faults.  She  knew  it;  down 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  had  always 
known  it. 

Ten  days  must  have  passed  since  the 
hideous  Rescue  of  Three-Score;  and  she 
had  not  seen  Joe  once  in  all  that  time; 
and,  what  was  more,  she  felt  almost 
positive  that  she  should  never  see  him 
again  unless  she  sent  for  him;  for  it  was 


510 


The  Heroine 


clear  that  he  had  taken  what  she  had 
said  about  a  final  rupture  just  as  she  had 
said  it,  —  and  she  had  not  really  meant 
it  quite  that  way ;  at  least  —  all  she  had 
meant  was  — 

Impulsively,  without  stopping  to  find 
a  justification  for  such  precipitate  action, 
—  could  it  be  some  vague,  inarticulate 
fear  lest  Joe  be  already  casting  his  affec- 
tions upon  a  wax  doll  ?  —  she  dashed 
him  off  a  note :  — 

Would  you  feel  like  walking  home 
with  me  to-night  at  half -past  five  ? 

F.  B.  W. 

gave  it  into  the  custody  of  a  special  mes- 
senger, and  waited,  in  a  tumult  of  expect- 
ancy, for  the  close  of  the  day. 

Joe  was  there  at  the  door.  She  gave 
her  hand  to  him.  Looking  down  with  a 
kind  of  lurking  defiance  into  her  eyes, 
he  squeezed  it.  She  withdrew  it  with  a 
clinging  reluctance  that  tallied  strangely 
with  her  rather  non-committal  "  Good- 
evening —  Mr.  Kinney." 

They  turned  down  a  quiet  side  street. 
There  was  a  silence  of  perhaps  a  min- 
ute's duration.  Flora  Belle,  who  had 
rarely  been  embarrassed  in  her  life,  was 
painfully  so  just  now.  Joe  appeared  to 
be  waiting  for  an  explanation  of  her  note ; 
and  she  had  none  that  she  could  offer 
with  a  very  good  grace.  She  had  not 
supposed  that  it  would  be  necessary  to 
explain  it.  She  had  imagined  he  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  come.  But  he  was 
striding  along  with  a  stolid,  almost  sul- 
len gait,  his  eyes  directly  ahead  of  him, 
his  lips  set  in  determined  inexpressive- 
ness.  She  gave  him  an  inquiring  glance; 
but  he  avoided  it,  and  with  increasing 
disquietude  —  even  a  little  frightened, 
though  she  could  not  say  why  —  she 
speechlessly  kept  pace  with  him. 

Finally,  with  something  like  savage 
abruptness,  he  turned  upon  her. 

"  I  read  about  what  you  done,"  he 
announced  bluntly. 

Flora  Belle  made  no  comment.  She 
tried  to  smile,  but  failed  utterly.  Her 
features  seemed  fixed,  as  if  cast  in  a 


mould.    All  she    could  do   was  to  wait 
helplessly  for  Joe  to  go  on. 

"  I  seen  all  about  the  fuss  they  made, 
too,"  he  resumed. 

Flora  Belle  nodded  mechanically.  She 
felt  accused,  somehow,  and  guilty.  She 
counted  the  flagstones  under  her  feet  — 
twenty-two  —  till  he  spoke  again. 

"  Of  course  they'd  go  an'  do  that," 
said  Joe.  "People  are  such  blamed  fools." 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  dogged  defiance, 
and  brought  out  the  thing  he  had  been 
trying  to  prepare  the  way  for.  "I  don't 
see  as  you  done  anything  so  wonderful." 

Flora  Belle  experienced  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  release,  of  expansion,  of  wild,  up- 
lifting joy.  She  breathed  again  —  for 
the  first  time,  it  seemed  to  her,  in  years. 

"  Oh,  Joe,"  she  said  shyly,  "  it's  so 
nice  of  you  to  say  that." 

His  face  lifted  with  amazement. 
"  Why!  "  he  said.  "  I  thought  you'd  be 
sore's  a  goat.  Only  all  it  was,  I  did  n't 
want  you  to  go  an'  think  I  was  that 
perticular  kind  of  a  fool." 

"  You're  just  splendid,  Joe,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  Pooh!  "  asserted  Joe  protectingly, 
"  you  could  a'  done  those  sort  o'  things 
every  day  o'  your  life  if  you  only  wunst 
got  the  chance.  Anybody  who  knowed 
you  would  a'  knowed  that." 

Upon  a  quick  impulse  of  gratitude,  she 
rested  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  coat- 
sleeve;  and  he  clapped  his  big  left  hand 
—  black-stained  for  all  its  scrubbing  — 
over  them,  with  rude  tenderness,  and 
held  it  there  an  instant. 

"  Joe,"  she  said  softly,  "  I'm  sorry 
about  that  other  thing.  I  did  n't  mean  it. 
I  know  I'm  not  so  very  pretty  —  at  least 
not  in  a  certain  way  —  and  I'm  not  sure 
embroidery  hats  are  so  awfully  becoming 
to  me;  and  perhaps  I  won't  wear  them 
very  often,  if  you'd  rather  I  would  n't." 

Joe  patted  her  hand  affectionately. 
"  Now  that's  what  I  call  a  plucky  little 
girl,"  he  said;  "  but  you  can  wear  'em 
as  often  as  you  want  to,  for  all  o'  me." 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  need  of 
saying  very  much  more  just  then. 


CURIOSITIES   OF  DIPLOMATIC  LIFE 


BY   HERBERT  H.    D.    PEIRCE 


EVERY  diplomatic  officer  encounters 
many  appeals  for  advice  and  assistance 
of  one  sort  or  another,  not  only  from  his 
own  compatriots  but  often  from  foreign- 
ers, sometimes  simply  curious,  and  some- 
times pathetic  and  deeply  appealing. 
The  appeals  which  the  American  diplo- 
mat receives  from  his  own  nationals  are 
perhaps  more  frequent  than  those  made 
to  similar  officials  of  other  nations,  for 
the  reason  that  it  is  generally  understood 
by  citizens  of  other  countries  who  find 
themselves  in  distressed  circumstances  in 
foreign  lands,  that  the  medium  of  gov- 
ernmental relief,  if  such  can  be  extended, 
is  the  consular,  not  the  diplomatic,  officer 
of  their  country. 

Most  governments  permit  their  con- 
sular officers  to  extend  some  measure  of 
relief  to  such  of  their  nationals  as  become 
stranded  in  a  foreign  country  and  desire 
to  return  to  their  own  homes.  Our  own 
principle  of  individual  independence,  a 
principle  which  has  done  much  to  foster 
that  spirit  of  self-reliance  which  plays  so 
large  a  part  in  the  national  character,  is 
opposed  to  anything  that  might  encour- 
age citizens  in  the  belief  that  in  distress 
they  can  confidently  apply  to  the  govern- 
ment for  relief;  and,  conformably  to  this 
spirit  of  our  institutions,  neither  our  di- 
plomatic nor  our  consular  officers  are 
provided  with  means  of  pecuniary  relief 
for  American  citizens  who  may  become 
stranded  abroad,  however  much  they  may 
desire  to  return  to  their  own  land,  except, 
under  certain  circumstances,  in  the  case 
of  American  seamen.  As  a  consequence, 
both  the  diplomatic  and  the  consular 
officers  of  the  United  States  frequently 
find  themselves  confronted  with  cases  of 
such  an  appealing  nature  that,  in  com- 
mon charity,  they  cannot  refrain  from 
offering  relief  from  their  own  pockets. 


Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  the 
American  who  by  adverse  circumstances 
is  stranded  abroad,  longing  for  nothing 
so  much  as  to  return  to  his  or  (harder 
still)  her  native  land;  speaking  at  most 
but  little  of  the  language  of  the  country; 
debarred  both  by  nationality  and  by  lan- 
guage from  either  earning  a  livelihood 
or  seeking  any  but  the  most  humiliating 
charity;  willing  but  unable,  in  a  foreign 
country,  to  exercise  those  means  of  bread- 
winning  which  in  America  might  be  rea- 
sonably relied  upon  for  support.  In  the 
face  of  such  an  appeal,  what  can  the 
diplomatic  officer  do  but  lend  his  aid  to 
send  the  applicant  home  ?  Nor  are  such 
cases  rare.  They  constitute  a  consider- 
able tax  upon  the  slender  remuneration 
of  the  office.  A  generous  charity  toward 
his  own  nationals,  tempered  only  by  his 
personal  means  and  due  circumspection 
to  provide  against  that  imposition  which 
is  ever  alert  to  impose  on  the  unwary, 
becomes,  therefore,  one  of  the  functions 
of  the  American  diplomat. 

It  is,  however,  no  part  of  the  purpose 
of  this  article  to  rehearse  the  harrowing 
details  of  life's  harsh  discipline  to  the 
needy,  but  rather  to  relate  some  curious 
phases  of  those  conditions  which  bring 
persons  to  an  American  legation  for  as- 
sistance by  advice  or  for  pecuniary  aid. 

That  meanest  of  social  parasites,  the 
bogus-claim-agent,  meanest  because  he 
preys,  not  upon  the  rich,  but  above  all 
upon  those  struggling  poor  who  strive 
to  keep  head  above  water  in  that  sea 
of  overwhelming  expense,  the  imagined 
social  requirements  of  a  position  which 
their  means  are  inadequate  to  maintain, 
—  this  wretched  bloodsucker  plies  his 
nefarious  calling  in  every  land. 

One  bitter  winter's  night  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, early  in  my  first  service  as  charge 

511 


512 


Curiosities  of  Diplomatic  Life 


d'affaires,  there  came  to  me  a  poor 
colonel  of  infantry,  whose  meagre  pay 
would  hardly  suffice  to  put  bread  in  the 
mouths  of  his  numerous  family  and 
maintain  with  decency  his  rank  in  the 
Russian  army. 

The  well-brushed  but  threadbare  uni- 
form, the  tarnished  lace,  the  boots  well 
polished  but  split,  all  proclaimed  the 
struggle,  while  the  thin  hand  he  gave  me 
and  the  sallow  sunken  cheek  betrayed 
the  physical  privation.  He  had  traveled 
from  his  post,  some  seven  hundred  miles 
distant,  full  of  expectation,  to  ask  inform- 
ation of  me  regarding  the  alleged  for- 
tune of  a  mythical  millionaire  in  one  of 
our  southern  states,  by  whose  reputed 
death  a  claim-agent,  to  whom  he  had 
paid  a  hardly-spared  bonus  for  the  in- 
formation, had  told  him,  he  had  become 
his  heir.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  fall  of 
the  poor  gentleman's  countenance  as  I 
explained  to  him  the  improbability  of 
the  truth  of  his  information.  Needless  to 
say,  my  inquiries  proved  my  predictions 
correct.  How  dastardly  the  act  of  the 
vampire  who  had  sucked  from  him  his 
poor  savings  and  entailed  upon  him  the 
expense  of  the  long  journey! 

There  is  a  story  of  a  vast  fortune,  the 
existence  of  which  an  American,  dying 
in  a  Spanish  prison,  revealed  to  a  priest, 
which  periodically  comes  to  light,  —  al- 
ways with  a  demand  for  a  bonus  before 
the  secret  can  be  divulged,  —  with  such 
regularity  of  reappearance,  though  with 
slight  differences  in  dress,  that  it  is 
known  in  the  Department  of  State  as 
"  the  Spanish  story." 

Marital  relations  are  a  prolific  cause 
of  appeal  to  the  American  diplomat.  It 
is  dangerous  ground,  of  course,  but  the 
diplomatic  officer  must  patiently  listen 
to  the  recital  of  rights  and  wrongs  on 
both  sides,  and  finally  do  what  he  best 
may  to  promote  domestic  harmony.  The 
marriage  laws  of  the  different  civilized 
countries  differ  materially,  and  indeed 
perhaps  there  is  no  question  of  so- 
called  "  private  international  law,"  un- 
less it  be  that  of  citizenship,  which  plays 


a  larger  part  in  the  whole  question  of 
what  is  known  as  the  international  "  con- 
flict of  laws."  An  American  citizen  mar- 
ried to  a  foreigner  might,  under  certain 
circumstances,  find  his  status  in  this 
regard  quite  different  in  his  own  country 
and  in  that  of  his  wife. 

A  naturalized  American  of  Russian 
birth  who  had,  for  sufficient  reason,  pro- 
cured a  divorce  from  his  first  wife,  had 
married,  as  his  second  venture,  a  Rus- 
sian lady  of  the  Orthodox  faith.  Now,  the 
Russian  Church  and  State,  while  they 
grant  divorce,  do  not  easily  recognize  the 
remarriage  of  divorced  people.  Indeed, 
these  two  people  certainly  could  not  have 
been  legally  married  in  Russia.  Both 
knowing  the  facts,  they  went  to  another 
country  and  there  became  man  and  wife 
by  English  law.  Relations  becoming 
strained,  they  both  came  to  me,  the  hus- 
band to  induce  me  to  get  the  marriage 
dissolved,  as  invalid  under  Russian  law, 
and  the  wife  to  insist  upon  her  husband 
being  held  to  his  proper  obligations  under 
our  laws.  By  dint  of  salutary  advice,  I 
brought  matters  to  a  satisfactory  agree- 
ment, which  however  proved  to  be  of 
brief  duration;  for,  shortly  afterwards, 
the  wife  appeared  before  me  to  request 
my  good  offices  to  get  the  marriage  dis- 
solved as  invalid  under  Russian  law;  and 
she  had  hardly  gone  when  the  husband 
appeared  to  demand  recognition  of  his 
marital  rights  under  our  laws,  his  wife 
having  left  him  and  being  engaged  in  an 
attempt  to  remove  the  furniture  from 
the  house  as  her  property. 

Princess ,  peace  be  to  her  and  to 

her  name, — a  name  associated  with  some 
of  the  highest  dignities  of  the  Empire, 
but  which  I  will  not  repeat  in  this  place, 
for  obvious  reasons,  —  held  weekly  a  sa- 
lon in  St.  Petersburg  where  one  met  the 
very  elect  of  every  walk  in  Russian  life, 
and  to  which  none  might  obtain  access 
without  the  passport  of  culture  and  good 
breeding.  She  had  long  passed  the  period 
of  feminine  charm  when  I  knew  her, 
except  that  she  remained  grande  dame 
in  the  highest  acceptation  of  the  phrase. 


Curiosities  of  Diplomatic  Life 


513 


Her  dress,  though  somewhat  eccentric, 
was  of  a  character  to  emphasize  the  dig- 
nity of  a  truly  noble  bearing.  No  one 
understands  this  better  than  the  Russian 
lady  of  high  birth;  she  can  even  smoke 
her  ever-burning  cigarette  with  an  air  of 
supreme  dignity. 

As  I  sat  one  evening  at  work  in  my 
study,  my  servant  brought  me  the  card 
of  a  gentleman,  well  known  in  the  Im- 
perial Court,  who  awaited  me  in  the 
salon.  My  visitor  handed  me  a  note  from 

Princess ,  which  requested   me   to 

come  to  see  her  at  once,  at  a  certain 
house,  not  her  own,  on  a  matter  of  great 
importance.  Laying  the  note  down  upon 
the  table  near  me,  I  begged  my  visitor 
to  say  to  the  Princess  that  I  would  go 
to  her  as  quickly  as  I  could  make  some 
necessary  changes  in  my  toilet.  The  mo- 
ment I  put  it  down  he  seized  the  note  and 
tore  it  into  a  thousand  pieces,  which  he 
crammed  into  his  pocket,  explaining  with 
breathless  haste  that  the  matter  would 
permit  of  no  delay,  and  begging  me  to  go 
with  him  at  once.  A  short  drive  brought 
us  to  a  house  I  frequently  passed  in 
my  daily  comings  and  goings,  and  here 
a  sign  to  the  concierge  and  an  evident 
signal  at  the  doorbell  caused  the  door 
to  be  quickly  opened.  As  it  closed  be- 
hind me,  I  found  myself  in  an  apart- 
ment filled  with  white-frocked  monks  of 
the  Roman  church,  an  unusual  enough 
sight  in  Orthodox  Russia,  where,  of  all 
religions,  that  of  Rome  is  looked  upon 
with  most  suspicion.  By  a  tortuous  and 
narrow  passage,  my  guide  led  me  to  a 
back  room  illuminated  only  by  a  single 
lamp,  and  this  heavily  shaded,  except 
for  a  square  opening  in  the  lamp-shade 
emitting  a  comparatively  brilliant  stream 
of  light  in  the  darkened  room  in  which 
sat  my  summoner,  clothed  in  her  habitual 
flowing  black  robe.  Upon  my  entrance 
she  rose  and,  still  standing  in  the  stream 
of  light,  introduced  to  me  a  young  man  of 
a  well-known  family  who,  she  dramatic- 
ally informed  me,  had  committed  what 
in  Russia  is  regarded  as  a  high  political 
crime,  though  under  our  system  it  would 
VOL.  102  -NO.  4 


be  regarded  as  the  exercise  of  a  natural 
right.  He  had  been  concealed  from  the 
police  for  thirty  days  in  that  same  apart- 
ment. Now  an  opportunity  offered  for 
sending  him  out  of  Russia  through  Fin- 
land, and  her  purpose  in  requesting  my 
presence  was  to  ask  from  me  an  Ameri- 
can passport  in  his  favor.  Of  course  it 
was  utterly  impossible  to  comply  with 
such  a  demand,  and,  very  shortly  after, 
my  new  acquaintance  took  his  departure 
in  company  with  a  party  of  these  Car- 
melite monks. 

The  penalty  for  the  political  crime  of 
which  he  was  confessedly  guilty  was 
deportation  to  Siberia  for  life.  My  sym- 
pathies were  therefore  keenly  aroused, 
although  it  was  quite  impossible  for  me 
to  assist  him;  and  it  was  with  no  small 
feeling  of  anxiety  that  I  saw  him  depart 
upon  his  journey,  which  might  Very  likely 
be  interrupted  by  the  police  with  dis- 
astrous results.  Very  shortly  afterward 
my  friend  the  Princess  was  taken  seri- 
ously ill  and  died.  I  never  saw  her  again, 
and  it  was  not  until  five  years  later  that 
I  learned,  by  chance,  that  the  young 
political  offender  had  escaped  safely. 

Some  of  the  applicants  in  Russia  pre- 
sented interesting  claims.  One,  a  native 
of  Vermont,  told  me  that  he  had  come  so 
far  from  the  home  of  his  Yankee  birth  to 
play  in  the  Roumanian  gypsy  orchestra  in 
one  of  the  restaurants  in  St.  Petersburg. 
Another,  who  received  each  year  a  special 
form  of  recommendation  to  the  authori- 
ties as  a  "  ward  of  the  United  States/' 
was  a  true  Sioux  Indian  who  had  come 
to  Russia  in  Buffalo  Bill's  "  Wild  West 
Show,"  and  had  been  left  behind  owing 
to  his  love  for  Russian  "  fire-water." 
Physically,  he  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
race  of  which  his  features  and  bearing 
were  the  very  type;  and,  with  the  mass 
of  coarse  black  hair  hanging  down  on 
the  massive  shoulders  from  beneath  the 
broad  sombrero,  it  was  curious  to  find 
him  transplanted  into  Russian  soil  and 
speaking  the  language  of  that  country 
about  as  well  as  he  did  English. 

It  is  a  just  interpretation  of  our  coun- 


514 


Curiosities  of  Diplomatic  Life 


try's  liberal  laws,  based  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  right  of  the  individual  to 
change  his  national  allegiance  at  will, 
that  abandonment  of  country  and  per- 
manent residence  in  a  foreign  land,  with- 
out intention  to  return  to  the  United 
States  to  reside,  and  to  perform  there 
those  duties  of  citizenship  which  should 
be  performed  for  the  state  in  return 
for  the  advantages  and  protection  which 
citizenship  confers,  should  be  construed 
as  indicating  a  purpose  to  abandon 
citizenship  itself.  For,  that  the  mere 
claim  of  nationality,  and  demand  for  the 
national  protection  abroad,  should  give 
to  the  individual  immunity  from  those 
claims  upon  him  which  the  citizens  or 
subjects  of  the  country  of  his  residence 
must  meet,  and  that  at  the  same  time  he 
should  be  enabled  to  avoid,  by  his  ab- 
sence, his  duties  and  obligations  to  his 
own  country,  is  a  one-sided  arrangement, 
out  of  consonance  with  the  true  and  un- 
derlying principles  of  the  mutual  rights 
and  obligations  of  communities  and  in- 
dividuals. Moreover,  there  has  been  no 
little  abuse  of  our  naturalization  laws  by 
foreigners,  who,  desiring  to  escape  mili- 
tary service  in  the  country  of  their  ori- 
gin, emigrate  to  America  just  before  they 
can,  by  their  laws,  be  called  upon  for 
such  service,  and,  remaining  just  long 
enough  in  our  country  to  obtain  their 
papers  as  American  citizens,  return  to 
the  land  of  their  birth,  with  no  intention 
of  ever  coming  back  to  the  United  States, 
but  demanding  of  our  government  im- 
munity, by  virtue  of  their  newly  acquired 
allegiance,  from  all  of  those  obligations 
which  the  country  of  their  residence  re- 
quires of  its  nationals,  while  enjoying  all 
the  advantages  of  its  social  organization 
and  escaping  the  performance  of  every 
duty  to  their  new  allegiance. 

Such  an  abuse  was,  of  course,  never 
contemplated  in  framing  our  immigra- 
tion laws,  nor  in  defining  the  principle 
of  the  inalienable  right  of  the  individual 
to  change  his  allegiance.  It  is  a  simple 
measure  of  self-protection  for  our  govern- 
ment to  say  that,  while  it  does  not  under- 


take to  deprive  any  citizen  of  his  lawful 
rights,  it  is  fair  to  assume  that,  when  he 
abandons,  permanently,  his  residence  in 
this  country,  thereby  avoiding  all  those 
duties  of  citizenship  which  the  state  may 
justly  require,  he  has  abandoned,  in  real 
truth,  American  allegiance. 

Yet,  as  no  general  precept  can  meet 
every  case,  this  just  and  equitable  inter- 
pretation of  our  laws  works  hardships  in 
some  cases,  which  come  with  pathetic 
appeal  to  the  attention  of  the  American 
diplomat.  A  combination  of  untoward 
circumstances  may  leave  a  whole  family 
stranded  in  a  foreign  country.  The  death 
of  the  parents  may  throw  the  children, 
altogether  unprepared,  upon  their  own 
resources,  and,  with  the  most  earnest 
longing  to  return  to  America,  they  may 
be  unable  to  find  the  means  to  do  so. 
Each  year  cuts  them  off  more  entirely 
from  home  ties,  and  makes  the  possibility 
of  their  earning  a  living  in  America  more 
remote,  and  yet  there  remains  the  same 
intense  desire  to  claim  and  retain  Amer- 
ican citizenship.  I  remember  several 
such  families  in  Russia,  who  had  come 
out  with  their  parents  at  the  time  of  the 
building,  by  American  contractors,  of  the 
railway  between  Moscow  and  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  who,  their  parents  having  died, 
leaving  them  penniless,  had  become  Rus- 
sian in  everything  but  in  name  and  in 
their  intense  sentiment  of  patriotism  to- 
ward the  country  they  could  only  dimly 
remember  from  childhood. 

Of  stranded  Americans  in  Russia,  I 
recall,  among  many  others,  the  case  of  a 
troupe  of  eleven  colored  "  vaudeville  " 
performers,  whose  manager  had  left  them 
in  the  lurch.  To  assist  so  many  at  one 
and  the  same  time  was  quite  beyond  the 
means  at  my  personal  disposal,  so  I  was 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  a  benevo- 
lent society,  to  which  I  was  a  subscriber, 
to  borrow  aid  for  them.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  be  able  to  recall  that  these  people 
repaid  the  loan  voluntarily  and  without 
any  steps,  on  my  part,  to  require  it. 

Needless  to  say,  the  diplomatic  officer 
encounters  his  full  share  of  impostors. 


Curiosities  of  Diplomatic  Life 


515 


My  last  in  this  line  was  an  amiable  and 
adroit  humbug,  but  he  did  a  fair  day's 
work  for  every  krone  I  gave  him,  and, 
but  for  his  final  abuse  of  my  confidence, 
I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  suffered  in 
anything  but  the  imposition  on  my  cre- 
dulity, and  this  so  cleverly  done  as  to 
amuse  rather  than  annoy  me. 

He  came  just  as  I  was  getting  settled 
in  my  house  in  Christiania;  my  garden 
was  full  of  the  boxes  in  which  my  furni- 
ture had  been  packed,  and  which  must  be 
broken  up  and  stored  before  the  rapidly 
approaching  winter  set  in.  He  represent- 
ed himself  to  be  a  discharged  American 
seaman,  but  without  papers  —  as  such 
sea- tramps  often  are — or  other  means  of 
identification  than  his  knowledge  of  City 
Point,  South  Boston,  —  which  seemed 
accurate  enough,  —  where  he  represented 
himself  to  have  been  born,  although,  as 
he  said,  he  had  been  at  sea  most  of 
his  life.  Curiously  enough,  though  he 
knew  City  Point  so  well,  he  knew  no- 
thing about  Boston  or  even  South  Bos- 
ton. He  could  not  tell  me  even  where 
the  State  House  stands,  nor  what  it 
looks  like.  Yet  he  spoke  English  without 
other  accent  than  that  which  is  common 
enough  in  certain  parts  of  our  country, 
a  slight  Irish  brogue.  The  sole  wish 
of  his  heart  was  to  get  back  once  more 
to  City  Point,  to  his  dear  old  mother, 
whom  he  would  never,  never  leave  again, 
once  he  was  at  her  side.  Giving  him  a 
crown  for  his  supper  and  night's  lodging, 
I  told  him  to  call  on  me  the  next  day. 

Meanwhile,  I  arranged  with  a  steam- 
ship line  to  give  my  American  sailor 
transportation  to  Boston,  for  a  sum  with- 
in my  means,  and  engaged  him  to  work 
for  me  at  fair  wages  until  sailing  day.  I 
never  got  better  labor  for  the  wages  than 
this  delightful  humbug  gave  me.  The 
day  before  the  sailing  of  his  steamer  he 
disappeared,  but  the  ship  had  hardly  left 
port  when  he  turned  up  again  with  a 
story  of  unavoidable  detention.  Two 
weeks  later,  another  was  to  sail,  and 
again  I  arranged  for  his  passage,  still 
employing  his  services  about  the  place, 


where  his  diligence  and  intelligent  labor 
accomplished  wonders  in  getting  things 
to  rights.  Sailing  day  came  again,  and 
again  my  American  was  missing;  but  the 
following  day  up  he  bobbed  with  a  story 
of  a  row  and  arrest  by  the  police,  —  a 
story  which,  on  investigation,  proved  to 
be  pure  fiction. 

I  yielded  to  his  importunities  to  give 
him  a  little  more  work,  and  set  him  at 
splitting  kindling  in  the  cellar. 

The  next  morning,  my  servant  came 
to  me,  saying,  "  If  the  Minister  pleases, 
the  American  is  drunk."  —  "  Well,  send 
him  away,"  said  I.  —  "I  can't,  sir.  He 
will  not  go;  I  did  lock  him  in  the  wine- 
cellar."  —  "  Why  ?  Why  did  you  lock  a 
drunken  man  in  my  wine-cellar  ?  " —  "  I 
did  find  him  in  the  wine-cellar,  drunk. 
He  did  get  in  with  a  false  key.  It  is  here," 
handing  me  a  regular  burglar's  skeleton 
key.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
hand  him  over  to  the  police,  who  in 
formed  me  that  he  was  a  Swede  and 
"  wanted  "  in  Stockholm  on  a  criminal 
charge. 

There  comes  to  me  frequently,  at  this 
Legation,  a  poor  demented  old  man,  who 
fancies  that  he  has  some  grievance 
against  the  Norwegian  Government.  He 
clearly  is  not  an  American  citizen,  but 
he  alleges  that  he  served  in  the  Confed- 
erate Army.  He  carries  always  the  same 
bundle  of  papers,  which  I  have  read 
many  times,  and  which  have  no  sort  of 
bearing  on  the  claim  that  he  thinks  they 
establish. 

As  I  try  to  make  him  comprehend  this, 
he  dives  down  into  all  his  pockets,  fishing 
out  other  equally  irrelevant  scraps,  until 
every  chair  is  the  repository  for  some  of 
these  poor  worthless  bits  of  paper.  He 
stands  and  looks  at  them  all  with  despair- 
ing eyes,  then  puts  his  hand  to  his  head, 
saying,  "  There  is  something,  but  I  can't 
remember.  My  head  is  bad."  It  is  a  sad 
and  oft-repeated  scene.  All  I  can  do  is 
to  give  him  a  little  charity  and  send  him 
away. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  curiosities 
of  diplomatic  life,  taken,  at  random,  out 


516 


Competition 


of  my  experience.  Many  others  crowd  in 
upon  my  memory,  but  the  foregoing  will 
serve  to  show  how  varied  are  the  ap- 
peals for  assistance,  in  one  form  and 
another,  which  come  to  the  American 
diplomat. 

Of  the  tragedies  of  life  which  one  en- 
counters, where  often  a  few  dollars  would 
go  so  far  to  relieve  distress,  I  have  said 
but  little.  One  often  longs  for  means 
to  dispense  a  more  generous  charity. 


Our  national  government  could  hardly 
undertake  to  provide  such  means,  and  it 
is  only  a  few  of  our  diplomatic  officials 
whose  circumstances  enable  them  ade- 
quately to  meet  all  the  calls  upon  them. 
But  the  relief  of  worthy  Americans  in 
distress  abroad,  through  our  embassies 
and  legations,  offers  a  wide  field  for  pri- 
vate charity,  which  would  be  subject  to 
but  little  if  any  imposition,  in  view  of  the 
ability  of  the  officials  to  investigate. 


COMPETITION 


BY   HENRY   HOLT 


THE  public  questions  now  receiving 
most  attention  in  America  —  those  of 
the  labor  trusts  and  the  capital  trusts  — 
are  at  bottom  questions  of  competition. 

The  topic  is  of  peculiar  importance  to 
us,  for  it  is  universally  admitted  that 
competition,  in  both  making  money  and 
spending  it,  is  fiercer  here  than  elsewhere. 
Our  average  man,  and  perhaps  still  more 
our  average  woman,  wants  to  outdo  her 
neighbor  in  clothes,  housing,  equipage, 
entertainment  —  everything  that  money 
can  be  wasted  on;  and  the  competition 
to  make  all  that  money  is  as  fierce  as 
the  competition  to  spend  it.  This  is 
largely  because  we  are,  as  the  London 
Nation  justly  calls  us,  "  inordinately  free 
from  the  conventions,  restraints,  distrac- 
tions, and  hypocrisies  of  the  older  civ- 
ilizations." 

For  comparison  we  need  glance  at  Eng- 
lish conditions  alone:  those  in  Europe 
generally  are  enough  like  them. 

When  an  Englishman  gets  comfort- 
ably rich,  he  is  apt  to  think  of  a  place  in 
the  country,  and  a  local  magistracy,  and 
a  seat  in  Parliament;  but  in  America 
wealth  is  seldom  cared  for  as  giving  an 
opportunity  to  serve  the  community  or 
to  gain  political  honors. 

Rank,  too,  —  not  merely  the  title  that 


a  rich  man  may  hope  to  gain,  but  rank 
derived  through  ancestry,  and  embed- 
ded in  history  and  the  system  of  things, 
—  is  a  constant  reminder  that  wealth  is 
not  for  him  the  highest  earthly  good.  The 
aristocratic  conditions  also  carry  much 
tradition  and  habit  of  culture  and  refine- 
ment, and,  it  does  not  seem  fanciful  to 
believe,  thus  afford  the  main  attrac- 
tion that  keeps  relatively  so-  many  more 
Englishmen  than  Americans  away  from 
wealth-seeking,  and  in  pursuit  of  the 
things  of  the  spirit. 

The  English  church,  too,  has  a  great 
influence  in  this  direction,  not  only  be- 
cause its  endowments  attract  men  from 
competitive  pursuits,  but  also  because 
of  the  leisure  it  gives  for  other  pursuits. 

The  American  attaches  little  honor  to 
political  position,  because  our  democracy 
so  frequently  —  is  it  too  much  to  say  so 
generally  ?  —  gives  such  position  to  men 
with  small  claim  to  honor;  we  have  no 
established  church ;  and  though  we  have 
a  real  aristocracy,  it  is  only  in  a  derived 
sense,  for  it  does  not  rule,  and  the  gen- 
eral public  knows  nothing  about  it;  the 
public  knows  only  our  sham  aristocracy 
of  wealth. 

True,  our  unexampled  diffusion  of  edu- 
cation fits  more  men  than  elsewhere  to 


Competition 


517 


enter  into  the  competition  above  manual 
labor;  but  high  ambition  is  the  infirmity 
of  only  noble  souls;  not  one  man  in  a 
thousand  cares  for  the  triumphs  of  art, 
or  letters,  or  politics,  or  even  of  war.  Yet 
every  man  is  a  snob,  and  there  is  no 
American  country  paper  now  without  its 
social  column  —  even  out  in  California 
and  Oregon  the  papers  copy  the  so- 
called  society  news  from  the  New  York 
papers ;  and  in  them  our  American  demo- 
crat sees  almost  entirely  the  names  of 
people  he  has  heard  of  as  rich,  seldom 
the  name  of  anybody  he  has  heard  of  as 
anything  else. 

In  short,  wealth  and  its  results  are  the 
only  good  yet  conspicuous  on  the  aver- 
age American  horizon.  Hence  our  utterly 
unexampled  rage  of  competition  for  it. 
The  American  view  of  the  subject  was 
well  illustrated  by  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
great  captains  of  industry,  who  lately 
said,  "  My  husband  hesitated  between 
taking  his  present  position  and  going  to 
the  Senate.  If  he  had  gone  to  the  Senate, 
it  would  have  wrecked  his  career." 

Now,  in  this  fierce  competition,  the 
sentiments  regarding  it  are  paradoxical 
to  a  degree  that  is  hardly  short  of  amus- 
ing. Nearly  everybody  is  half  the  time 
crying  out  against  competition,  and  the 
other  half  demanding  it.  Workingmen 
try  to  suppress  it  in  labor,  and  to  enforce 
it  in  commerce;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
leaders  of  the  industrial  world  are  trying 
to  secure  it  in  labor,  and  to  get  rid  of  it  in 
commerce;  while  the  leaders  of  the  regu- 
lative or  political  world  are  trying  heart- 
ily to  maintain  it  in  commerce,  and  are 
comparatively  indifferent  to  it  in  labor. 

Yet  there  is  a  consistency  pervading 
all  these  seemingly  paradoxical  condi- 
tions: each  man  tries  to  get  rid  of  com- 
petition in  what  he  sells,  and  secure  it  in 
what  he  buys.  The  workingman  sells 
labor,  and  wants  no  competition  in  it: 
so  he  forms  his  labor  trust,  and  tolerates 
all  the  other  labor  trusts;  he  buys  com- 
modities, and  wants  all  possible  compe- 
tition in  them :  so  he  attacks  the  capitalist 
trusts.  The  captain  of  industry  buys 


labor:  so  he  wants  all  possible  competi- 
tion in  it,  and  therefore  disapproves  the 
labor  trusts;  he  sells  commodities,  and 
therefore  wants  no  competition  in  them : 
so  he  forms  his  own  trust,  and  tolerates 
the  other  capitalist  trusts.  The  legislator, 
administrator,  jurist,  sells  neither  labor 
nor  commodities,  and  buys  both:  so  he 
favors  competition  in  both,  but  tempers 
his  advocacy  of  it  in  labor,  by  a  tender- 
ness for  the  labor  vote. 

But  while  the  statesman,  so  far  as  he 
is  a  patriot,  is  above  competition,  so  far 
as  he  is  a  politician  he  knows  it  in  per- 
haps its  widest  and  intensest  form,  and 
against  it  makes  his  political  trusts :  the 
great  national  parties  have  many  features 
in  common  with  the  trusts  —  especially 
the  Republican  party  in  relation  to  the 
tariff;  and  though  the  state  and  county 
organizations  do  not  generally  control 
plunder  enough  to  justify  close  trust 
organization,  the  city  political  gangs  do, 
and  generally  are  trusts,  Tammany  being 
one  of  the  best  organized  trusts  in  the 
world. 

Even  the  professional  classes  are  not 
without  organization  against  competi- 
tion. The  musicians'  trusts  are  as  selfish, 
and  apparently  as  foolish,  as  the  hod- 
carriers'  trusts;  and  even  the  bar  asso- 
ciations and  the  medical  societies,  while 
their  real  object  is  the  intellectual  and 
ethical  advance  of  their  professions,  can- 
not entirely  escape  some  incidental  part 
in  the  virtually  universal  defenses  against 
competition  —  cannot  escape  acting  in 
some  respects  as  trusts. 

Outside  of  all  these  classes  is  the  large 
one  of  exchangers  of  commodities,  who 
generally  deal  in  too  great  a  variety  of 
articles  to  be  tempted  into  trusts  of  their 
own.  Yet  they  are  all  interested  in  trans- 
portation, and  therefore  naturally  object 
to  railroad  trusts  and  teamsters'  trusts. 
To  other  trusts  they  are  comparatively 
indifferent,  but  as  individuals  they  com- 
pete as  actively  as  anybody. 

As  competition  is  attempted  every- 
where, it  must  have  its  merits;  but  as  it 
is  also  everywhere  guarded  against,  it 


518 


Competition 


must  have  its  evils,  and  so  distinct  are 
these  evils  that  Mr.  S.  A.  Reeve,  the 
author  of  the  only  book  on  its  general 
aspects  which  I  know  of,  apparently 
thinks  that  to  them  are  to  be  attributed 
most  of  the  sufferings  that  civilized  hu- 
manity endures.  With  Henry  George  and 
Edward  Bellamy,  he  belongs  to  a  school 
—  or  section  outside  of  the  schools  — 
which  I  am  never  sure  that  I  understand, 
or  that  it  does;  but  if  I  understand 
him,  he  holds  that  competition  does  not 
naturally  inhere  in  production,  but  is 
bred  solely  by  exchange  and  other  activi- 
ties not  directly  productive;  and  as  a 
member  of  the  noble  army  of  panacea- 
makers,  he  offers,  as  his,  the  abolition  of 
merchandizing,  banking,  and  many  other 
activities.  But  just  how  his  panacea  is 
to  be  administered,  he  shows  no  more 
clearly  than  do  the  other  inventors  of 
schemes  for  the  millennium. 

Competition  is  certainly  not  an  inven- 
tion of  the  devil,  unless  the  whole  order 
of  nature  is  the  invention  of  the  devil: 
all  educated  people  know  that  competi- 
tion was  ingrained  in  nature  long  before 
there  was  merchandizing,  or  manufactur- 
ing, or  individual  tinkering,  or  savage 
hunting  and  fishing,  or  savages,  or  beasts, 
or  birds,  or  fishes,  or  gastropods,  or 
amcebas.  The  very  plants,  when  proba- 
bly there  were  no  living  things  but  plants, 
competed  fiercely,  and  they  compete 
still,  for  light  and  heat  and  moisture. 
To-day  they  are  even  competing  for  ter- 
ritory, with  streams  and  ponds,  and 
actually  filling  them  up  and  obliterating 
them.  They  compete  with  men  for  the 
possession  of  the  tropic  zone,  and  have 
often  beaten  them;  and  I  know  a  case 
within  a  dozen  miles  of  Chicago  where 
they  competed  with  an  ice  company  for 
the  possession  of  a  stream,  and  forced  it 
to  use  a  little  steamer  with  a  sort  of  mow- 
ing machine  attached.  They  limited  the 
area  of  the  company's  activities,  and,  for 
all  I  know,  drove  it  off  altogether,  though 
now  a  mightier  competitor  than  either  — 
the  steel  corporation  —  has  taken  pos- 
session of  the  territory. 


When  animal  life  began,  the  very 
amcebas,  the  lucky  ones  and  lively  ones 
and  wise  ones,  floated  into  the  best  places, 
and  kept  the  unlucky  ones  and  lazy  ones 
and  stupid  ones  out.  When  tadpoles  and 
fish  were  evolved,  there  began  a  mighty 
gobbling  up  of  the  weak  by  the  strong; 
later,  reptiles  —  big  lizards  with  wings, 
and  birds  with  teeth  —  kept  up  the  game, 
and  made  it  livelier,  perhaps,  than  ever 
before  or  since,  even  down  to  the  days 
of  Standard  Oil.  Some  time  along  there, 
began  the  most  interesting  of  all  compe- 
titions, —  the  one  out  of  which  has  been 
evolved  all  that  men  most  care  for,  and 
perhaps  all  that  is  most  worth  their  car- 
ing for,  —  the  competition  because  of  sex. 
In  the  struggle  of  brutes  for  mates,  it  was 
often  competition  in  mere  force;  but 
there  was  also  higher  competition,  in  the 
glowworm's  light,  and  the  bird's  song 
and  plumage.  When  man  was  evolved,  it 
grew  higher  and  higher,  until  the  com- 
petition of  love  became  subject  for  art, 
and  now  does  more  than  anything  else 
to  fill  the  opera  houses  and  picture  gal- 
leries, and  fiction  and  poetry,  and  the 
very  souls  of  the  world;  and  not  only 
does  art  find  in  competition  its  mightiest 
theme,  but  art  itself  is  a  field  of  compe- 
tition and  struggle  against  competition, 
from  rival  primadonnas  down  to  the 
musical  unions  already  cited. 

There  is  nothing,  from  the  deepest 
mine  to  the  tallest  church,  —  or  even  the 
tallest  skyscraper,  —  from  the  dollars  a 
man  pays  his  valet  to  the  devotion  he 
pays  his  lady-love,  that  is  not  informed 
through  and  through  by  competition. 
One  is  often  tempted  to  regard  it  as  the 
motive  power  of  the  world.  But  it  is 
not :  it  is  only  an  incident  of  the  motive 
powers  —  often  an  exaggerated  and  de- 
structive one,  often  not  rising  above  the 
dignity  of  a  foolish  one. 

Nevertheless,  with  the  evolution  of 
intelligence,  there  has  appeared  a  new  set 
of  factors :  sympathy,  mercy,  justice,  have 
begun  to  restrain  and  narrow  competi- 
tion, to  shape  popular  opinion,  and  even 
to  express  themselves  in  law.  This  new 


Competition 


519 


stage  of  the  matter  to-day  absorbs  a  wide 
share  of  men's  interests  and  even  of 
their  enthusiasms ;  and  these,  like  all  new 
enthusiasms,  reach  many  extremes.  Of 
these,  later. 

With  competition  everywhere  else,  the 
idea  of  wiping  it  out  of  industry  must, 
at  best,  be  a  counsel  of  perfection,  and 
at  worst  the  idea  of  making  industry 
cease.  Rarely,  if  at  all,  can  there  be  an 
effort  which  is  to  be  paid  for,  that  does 
not  tend  to  compete  with  every  other 
effort  which  is  to  be  paid  for.  Any  man 
who  heaves  coal  competes  with  every 
other  man  who  heaves  coal,  and  more- 
over he  tends  to  lower  the  wages  in  coal- 
heaving,  —  so  that  coal-heavers  will  tend 
to  leave  that  profession  and  compete  in 
others. 

These  tendencies  are  not  always  real- 
ized in  practice,  because  the  individual 
effort  is  too  small  to  overcome  inertia 
and  friction,  or  even  to  be  measured  by 
our  currency  and  other  instruments.  But 
when  such  efforts  "  happen  "  to  accu- 
mulate in  any  one  direction,  the  effect  of 
the  aggregate  is  sometimes  important. 

As  a  rule,  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of 
competition  is,  as  already  intimated,  to 
get  rid  of  work.  Does  not  the  most 
beneficent  of  inventions  inevitably  com- 
pete with  all  connected  vested  interests  ? 
Can  the  merchant  who  sells  the  best 
goods  at  the  lowest  prices,  continue  with- 
out competing  with  all  others  and  getting 
the  biggest  business?  Do  not  the  men 
in  the  most  unselfish  pursuits  inevitably 
compete  for  the  best  places  in  them? 
Does  not  the  most  self-sacrificing  physi- 
cian compete  for  the  best  practice  ?  Does 
not  even  the  most  self-sacrificing  clergy- 
man compete  for  the  best  congregation  ? 
Neither  may  have  the  end  in  view,  but  if 
he  puts  forth  the  best  in  him,  is  not  the 
end  inevitably  forced  upon  him  ? 

So  unescapable  is  competition,  that  we 
find  it  cropping  up  in  spite  of  the  best 
efforts  to  suppress  it.  For  instance:  the 
very  able  and  philanthropic  chairman  of 
the"»United  States  Steel  Corporation  be- 
came impressed  with  the  idea  that  steady 


prices  would  be  a  good  thing;  in  this  idea 
he  was  correct  —  as  correct,  for  instance, 
as  anybody  who  thinks  that  a  clear  com- 
plexion is  a  good  thing.  But  circum- 
stances are  frequent  where  a  clear  com- 
plexion cannot  be  had,  and  where  efforts 
to  suppress  eruption  must  end  in  dis- 
aster. So  in  the  economic  world,  the 
unevenness  in  men's  judgments  —  their 
making  too  much  of  one  commodity  and 
too  little  of  another —  renders  steadiness 
of  price  impossible,  even  the  fixing  of  a 
normal  price  impossible  except  through 
competition. 

The  only  rational  price  (if  the  versed 
reader  will  be  patient  with  a  little  A 
B  C)  is  that  where  the  demand  will  just 
absorb  the  supply;  and  this  price  will 
be  found  only  by  buyers  competing 
for  product  when  demand  is  good,  and 
by  sellers  competing  for  custom  when 
demand  is  slack.  This  of  course  makes 
high  prices  in  good  times,  and  low  prices 
in  bad  times;  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of 
high  prices  and  low  prices  is  to  get  rid 
of  good  times  and  bad  times;  the  only 
way  to  get  rid  of  good  times  and  bad 
times  is  to  get  rid  of  crazes  and  panics; 
and  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of  crazes  and 
panics  is  to  get  rid  of  intemperance  in 
both  hope  and  fear.  But  temperance  is 
as  remarkable  by  its  absence  from  sun- 
dry schools  of  philanthropists  as  from  the 
community  in  general;  nothing  is  more 
characteristic  of  that  virtue  than  the 
ability  to  wait,  and  nothing  is  more 
characteristic  of  the  philanthropists  than 
to  try  to  go  faster  than  natural  law. 

Last  fall,  when  competition  began  bub- 
bling to  raise  the  safety-valve  of  prices, 
the  benevolent  Steel  Corporation  smil- 
ingly seated  itself  upon  the  valve,  and  the 
competition  had  to  break  out  somewhere 
else.  Among  other  evil  consequences,  the 
company  got  many  more  orders  at  the 
prevailing  prices  than  it  could  fill.  If 
they  had  raised  prices,  and  so  lowered 
the  demand  to  equal  the  supply,  the  cus- 
tomers least  in  need,  or  least  able  profit- 
ably to  use  steel,  would  have  dropped 
out,  and  the  neediest  and  ablest  would 


520 


Competition 


have  been  supplied;  the  most  important 
demands  would  have  been  satisfied,  and 
nobody  would  have  felt  a  right  to  com- 
plain. Instead  of  this,  each  order  was 
filled  in  part,  the  most  important  and 
necessary  enterprises  were  left  unfin- 
ished along  with  the  least  important  and 
the  mistaken  ones;  nobody  was  satisfied ; 
complaints  were  loud;  and  some  of  the 
railroad  companies  met  to  devise  their 
own  rail-factories. 

But  in  thus  suppressing  the  natural 
and  salutary  effects  of  competition,  the 
Steel  Corporation  itself  entered  into 
competition — and  an  injurious  and  un- 
natural competition,  —  with  the  weaker 
companies:  for,  as  it  would  not  raise 
prices,  the  weaker  companies  could  not 
avail  themselves  of  the  good  times  to 
strengthen  themselves  against  bad  times, 
and  against  the  natural  tendency  of  any 
great  competitor  to  gobble  up  little  com- 
petitors in  bad  times.  That  such  was  the 
deliberate  intention  of  the  Steel  Cor- 
poration, however,  I  do  not  believe:  for 
I  have  faith  in  the  philanthropic  inten- 
tions of  its  chairman. 

But  the  story  is  not  ended :  when  the 
bad  times  came  later  last  fall,  in  his  desire 
to  keep  prices  even,  he  exercised  his 
wonderful  powers  of  persuasion  to  pre- 
vent the  other  manufacturers  from  going 
into  the  natural  competition  of  lowering 
prices,  and  so  the  steel  industries  were 
kept  idle  or  partly  idle  for  many  months, 
until  they  could  bear  the  strain  no  longer, 
and  the  steel  company  itself  had  to  lower 
prices,  right  on  top  of  a  declaration, 
the  last  of  many,  that  it  was  not  going 
to. 

This  is  the  most  recent,  and  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable,  of  the  great  illus- 
trations of  the  utter  impossibility,  as 
men  are  now  constituted  and  industries 
now  organized,  of  avoiding  competition. 

It  is  plainly  impossible  that  a  feature 
so  ingrained  in  nature  and  human  nature 
should  be  wholly  bad.  Now,  wherein  is 
it  good,  and  wherein  is  it  bad?  Like 
everything  else  —  food,  wine,  money, 
even  such  ethereal  things  as  literature. 


art,  or  love,  or  religion  itself — it  is  good 
within  bounds,  and  bad  in  excess. 

Where  are  the  bounds  ?  As  in  every- 
thing else,  at  waste  —  waste  of  strength, 
character,  time,  or  resources. 

Of  course  the  problem  of  what  is  waste 
and  what  reasonable  expenditure,  is  a 
difficult  one,  but  that  does  not  cancel  the 
duty  of  solving  it. 

Everybody  who  reads  these  words 
knows  that,  within  bounds,  competition 
tends  (if  union  leaders,  or  "  wealthy  male- 
factors," or  philanthropists,  will  let  it) 
to  keep  prices  reasonable  —  where,  as 
already  said,  they  preserve  the  equation 
of  supply  and  demand;  to  keep  quality 
good,  and  supply  abundant  and  access- 
ible; that  in  advertising,  it  spreads  a  good 
deal  of  useful  intelligence,  though  mixed 
with  a  good  deal  that  is  superfluous  and 
even  false;  and  that  in  drumming,  it  is  a 
great  convenience  and  saving  to  dealers 
generally,  and  keeps  the  country  hotels 
and  railroad  accommodations  a  great 
deal  better  than  they  otherwise  would  be. 

A  benefit  not  as  obvious  as  those,  is  its 
elimination  of  the  unfit  from  industry. 
There  are  always  hanging  on  to  the  out- 
skirts  of  business,  a  lot  of  incapable  men 
who  are  pestering  and  impeding  the  rest 
of  the  world  with  poor  goods,  poor  serv- 
ice, unfulfilled  engagements,  bankrupt- 
cies, and  prices  broken  by  forced  sales. 
The  elimination  of  such  people,  and 
confining  business  to  the  more  capable, 
is  a  good  service  to  the  community.  And 
it  is  even  a  good  service  to  the  eliminated 
men:  for  they  are  much  better  off  under 
the  guidance  of  the  capable  than  in  en- 
during the  responsibilities,  anxieties,  and 
privations  inseparable  from  depending 
on  the  discharge  of  duties  beyond  them. 
Competition,  then,  so  far  as  it  regulates 
prices,  increases  products  and  services, 
and  eliminates  inefficiency,  is  an  unmixed 
good. 

And  here  we  approach  the  other  side. 
The  competition  which  drives  out  the 
incapable  is  a  very  different  matter  from 
the  competition  which  drives  out  the 
capable.  Effective  competition  of  course 


Competition 


521 


destroys  competition  elsewhere,  and  so 
far  as  that  is  done  by  increasing  goofJs 
and  services,  the  good  produced  exceeds 
the  good  destroyed,  and  the  world  is  still 
the  gainer.  But  when  the  destruction 
through  competition  is  an  end  in  itself  — 
when  one  man,  without  improving  pro- 
duct or  service,  sacrifices  values  and 
efforts  merely  to  destroy  another  man's 
competition,  he  wastes  good  for  the  sake 
of  destroying  still  more  good. 

These  facts  are  obscured  because  such 
competition  may  bring  benefit  —  though 
probably  only  a  specious  benefit — to  the 
aggressor;  but  it  can  at  best  bring  the 
benefit  only  at  the  cost  of  his  victims  and 
the  public,  and  at  the  sacrifice,  in  the 
aggressor  himself,  of  that  for  which  no 
money  can  compensate :  for  there  is  sure 
to  be  a  moral  waste.  I  know  very  directly 
of  a  capable  and  prosperous  man  in 
Pennsylvania  who  was  driven  out  of  busi- 
ness by  the  Standard  Oil  Company,  and 
touching  whom  one  of  the  Oil  magnates 
remarked,  "  Oh,  he  was  easy  game." 
And  this  case  is  said  to  be  one  of  many. 
It  is  generally  understood  that  probably 
the  most  effective  literary  onslaught  ever 
made  on  the  Standard  Oil  Company  was 
by  an  author  whose  father  was  one  of  the 
victims. 

To  continue  with  the  unfavorable  side : 
ruinous  competition  in  prices  still  exists, 
though  hardly  to  the  extreme  of  fifty  or 
sixty  years  ago,  when  frequently  oppos- 
ing stage  lines  carried  their  passengers 
free,  and  steamboats  sometimes  not  only 
carried  them  free,  but  even  threw  in 
meals.  We  do  not  often  hear  of  anything 
like  that  now,  though  in  my  own  trade 
I  occasionally  hear  rumors  of  school- 
books  given  away,  and  ruinous  prices 
paid  prominent  authors;  and  perhaps 
any  man  in  any  trade  may  hear  similar 
rumors  in  it.  But  whatever  foundation 
there  may  be  for  such  rumors,  there 
seems  to  have  developed  a  sense  of  shame 
regarding  such  proceedings  that  makes 
men  slower  than  they  were  a  generation 
or  two  ago  to  indulge  in  them  openly. 

On  its  unfavorable  side,  too,  competi- 


tion, instead  of  stopping  at  cheapen- 
ing by  simpler  processes  and  legitimate 
accounts,  tends  to  inferior  materials  and 
labor.  Though  in  ordering  large  works 
or  large  supplies,  the  practice  is  universal 
of  trying  to  get  the  benefits  of  reasonable 
competition  by  seeking  bids,  people  have 
of  late  grown  so  afraid  of  excessive  com- 
petition that  the  right  to  reject  the  low- 
est bids  is  reserved,  though  not  always 
exercised.  Moreover,  competition  tends 
frightfully  to  run  to  waste,  and,  later, 
paying  for  this  waste  tends  to  make  prices 
high,  quality  inferior,  and  commodities 
scant  and  inaccessible. 

One  of  the  worst  wastes  is  in  advertis- 
ing :  everybody  uses  soap,  and  no  amount 
of  advertising  can  make  people  use  mate- 
rially more;  and  yet  those  who  use  the 
finer  kinds  probably  pay  more  for  hav- 
ing it  dinned  into  them  to  use  a  cer- 
tain brand,  than  they  pay  for  the  soap 
itself. 

I  want  to  use  another  illustration  from 
my  own  trade.  No  apology  should  be 
needed  for  a  writer  thus  illustrating  from 
his  own  trade,  if  he  happens  to  have  one; 
and  the  more  I  see  of  the  conditions,  the 
more  I  incline  to  believe  that  he  should 
have  one,  and  that  writing  should  not  be 
a  trade.  If  it  ever  ceases  to  be  one, 
however,  it  will  be  when  trades  are  less 
infested  by  foolish  competition.  But 
the  interesting  question  of  literature 
being  a  trade  is  "  another  story,"  and 
possibly  may  be  the  subject  of  another 
essay.  But  one  would  hardly  be  required 
to  justify  the  writer  who  has  a  trade,  in 
illustrating  from  it:  for  there  he  is  surer 
than  anywhere  else  of  the  first  essential 
of  good  writing  —  knowing  what  he  is 
writing  about.  The  second  illustration 
I  want  to  make  from  my  trade  is  in  the 
fact  that  the  country  probably  pays  more 
for  having  its  elementary  schoolbooks 
argued  and  cajoled  and  bribed  into  use, 
than  for  the  books  themselves.  Leaving 
the  bribery  out,  the  same  is  probably  true 
of  high-school  books;  and  the  increas- 
ing amount  of  interviewing,  explanation, 
comparison,  and  argument  regarding  col- 


522 


Competition 


lege  books,  is  rapidly  making  it  true  of 
them. 

But  excessive  expenses  in  competition 
are  worse  than  wasteful  and  demoraliz- 
ing: they  are  aggressive,  and  provoke 
retaliations  equally  objectionable.  The 
competition  in  economized  production, 
faithful  service,  reasonable  prices,  and 
reasonable  and  truthful  publicity,  is  sim- 
ply incidental  to  each  man's  doing  his 
best  for  himself;  but  beyond  this  point 
it  begins  to  mean  each  man's  doing  his 
worst  for  his  neighbor.  Incidental  com- 
petition contains  what  truth  there  is  in 
the  aphorism  that  competition  is  the 
life  of  trade ;  but  aggressive  competition 
means  war,  waste,  and  death. 

Perhaps  the  most  trying  paradox  in 
competition  is  that  it  forces  the  wise 
man  to  play  the  fool  when  his  competi- 
tors do,  or  suffer  for  his  wisdom.  When 
he  is  thus  between  Scylla  and  Charyb- 
dis,  what  ought  he  to  do?  I  knew  a 
man  who,  in  a  peculiar  condition  of  his 
business,  when  a  collateral  business  was 
making  inroads  on  it,  was  often  met  by 
the  proposition  from  those  whose  custom 
he  needed,  "  If  you  won't  concede  so 
and  so,  I  know  a  man  who  will."  His 
answer  was,  "  That  if  I  don't  make  a 
fool  of  myself,  some  competitor  will,  is 
not  a  convincing  argument.  I'll  wait  till 
he  does,  and  the  fools  put  themselves  out 
of  the  race."  And  wait  he  did,  and  his 
example  prevented  many  other  men  from 
making  fools  of  themselves,  and  did 
much  to  relieve  his  trade  from  a  peculiar- 
ly unfair  and  abnormal  competition. 

In  competition,  the  call  to  do  the  brave 
thing  arises  because  competition  is  war. 
But  in  war  it  is  often  braver  not  to  fight 
than  to  fight,  and  the  bravest  fighting 
has  not  been  in  aggression,  but  in  self- 
defense  —  little  Holland  against  gigantic 
Spain.  And  where  is  the  bully  now? 
Though  non-resistance  is  ideal  ethics, 
it  should  be  fundamentally  understood 
that  ideal  ethics  apply  only  to  an  ideal 
world,  and  that  often  the  attempt  to  intro- 
duce them  into  a  practical  world  is  not 
only  futile,  but  wasteful  and  destructive. 


As  already  hinted,  the  point  at  which 
competition  becomes  abnormal,  forced, 
and  aggressive,  is  when  it  is  wasteful  — 
when  the  cost  of  feeding  it  reduces  profits 
below  the  average  rate.  But  it  is  super- 
ficial to  estimate  profits  as  money  alone : 
social  considerations  and  the  gratifica- 
tion of  personal  predilection  are  all  profits 
in  the  broad  sense.  For  "  profits  "  sub- 
stitute satisfactions,  and  the  general 
proposition  holds. 

This  seems  to  hark  forward  to  an  ideal 
—  that  it  is  for  the  greatest  good  of 
the  greatest  number  that  all  men's  for- 
tunes, estimated  in  satisfactions,  should 
be  equal;  and  perhaps  the  most  pro- 
nounced individualist  would  not  object 
to  that  as  an  ideal,  but  his  contention 
would  be  that  it  is  only  by  the  freest 
opportunity  for  individual  development 
that  men's  fortunes  can  become  equal; 
and  individual  development  is  compe- 
tition. 

The  wastes  of  exaggerated  competition 
of  course  prompt  the  question  whether 
men  would  not  be  better  off  if,  instead 
of  competing,  they  were  cooperating  —  if 
instead  of  fighting  each  other,  even  inci- 
dentally, they  were  helping  each  other. 
As  far  as  human  nature  has  yet  been 
evolved,  the  change  is  not  possible  to 
any  great  extent,  and  the  question  is  too 
complicated  to  admit  of  an  answer  in  the 
present  state  of  human  intelligence.  Yet 
there  are  some  little  bits  of  experience 
in  the  cooperation  of  small  groups,  and 
also  in  occasional  middle  conditions 
where  purposed  competition  has  ceased, 
though  cooperation  has  hardly  begun. 
But  they  are  conditions  of  unstable  equi- 
librium which  must  soon  disappear. 

I  would  illustrate  this  point,  too,  from 
my  own  trade,  despite  my  having  done 
so  already  in  the  Atlantic.1  Such  a  con- 
dition prevailed  in  the  upper  walks  of  the 
publishing  business  from  about  1865  to 
1875,and  contained  several  features  that 
may  not  be  altogether  uninteresting. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  a  brief  real- 
ization  of  the   ideals   of    philosophical 
1  November,  1905,  p.  589. 


Competition 


523 


anarchism  —  self -regulation  without  law. 
There  was  no  international  copyright  to 
protect  an  American  publisher's  property 
in  an  English  book;  yet  an  intelligent 
self-interest,  among  a  perhaps  exception- 
al body  of  men,  performed  the  functions 
of  law.  By  mutual  consent,  when  a  pub- 
lisher had  a  contract  with  an  English 
author  for  a  book,  or  even  in  the  absence 
of  a  contract,  when  a  publisher  made  the 
first  announcement  of  an  intention  to 
print  an  English  book,  no  other  American 
publisher  of  standing  would  print  it  in 
opposition.  This  usage  was  called  the 
courtesy  of  the  trade,  and  for  about  ten 
years  that  courtesy  was  seldom  violated. 
Moreover,  the  courtesy  was  extended  to 
the  relations  of  publishers  with  American 
authors.  During  that  period,  no  pub- 
lisher of  standing  would  any  more  try 
to  get  away  another's  client  than  a  law- 
yer of  standing  would  try  to  get  away 
another's  client,  or  a  physician  another's 
patient.  And  under  those  conditions  the 
trade  prospered  more,  on  the  whole,  than 
it  has  under  contrary  conditions. 

If  that  absence  of  direct  purpose- 
ful competition  could  have  been  main- 
tained, the  prosperity  could  have  been 
maintained.  But  it  depended,  as  I  have 
intimated,  upon  the  trade  happening 
to  be,  at  that  time,  in  the  hands  of 
men  of  exceptional  character;  and  the 
results  of  peaceful  ways  were,  as  has 
been  the  case  in  all  history,  tempting  to 
the  outside  barbarian.  If  the  Harpers 
were  making  money  for  the  author  and 
themselves  out  of  a  book  by  George 
Eliot,  the  Appletons  or  the  Scribners 
would  not  print  it;  but  soon  an  enter- 
prising printer  in  the  West  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  law  to  prevent  his 
printing  it  in  a  cheaper  edition,  or  to 
compel  him  to  pay  royalty  to  the  author ; 
and  print  he  did,  right  and  left.  His 
example  was  soon  followed  by  others, 
and  the  peaceful  and  profitable  condi- 
tions of  philosophical  anarchism  were 
once  more  demonstrated  impossible  of 
duration  in  the  present  state  of  human 
nature.  As  always  when  men  have  tried 


to  get  along  without  law,  law  had  to  be 
resorted  to,  and  the  International  Copy- 
right Law  of  1891  was  the  result. 

It  is  interesting  further  to  note  that 
the  spirit  of  aggressive  competition  which 
grew  up  after  the  period  of  philosophical 
anarchy  filled  the  business  with  waste  in 
advertising,  over-bidding  for  authors,  and 
over-concession  of  discounts  and  credits 
to  customers;  until,  a  few  years  ago, 
the  competition  reached  extremes  which 
were  at  last  realized  to  be  wasteful  and 
ruinous,  and  are  gradually  being  cur- 
tailed. But  the  curtailments  have  made 
almost  as  great  demands  on  courage,  and 
on  the  capacity  to  see  future  advantages 
in  present  sacrifices,  as  were  required  to 
make  possible  the  decade  of  philosophical 
anarchism ;  and  the  evolution  of  another 
period  of  non-competitive  peace,  econo- 
my, and  mutual  courtesy  will  probably 
be  as  slow  as  the  evolution  of  human 
nature. 

And  yet  during  that  Arcadian  period, 
or  rather  at  about  its  falling  away,  there 
were  many  to  claim  that  the  established 
publishers  were  in  a  combine  or  trust 
(though  the  actual  word  was  not  then 
current),  and  that  the  only  way  a  man 
could  enter  the  business  was  the  preda- 
tory way.  Yet  in  a  libel  suit  instituted 
by  one  of  the  predatory  people  against 
the  Evening  Post,  for  calling  him  a  pirate, 
I  heard  a  successful  publisher  on  the 
witness  stand  declare  that  he  had  entered 
the  business  about  the  beginning  of  the 
period  referred  to,  had  never  reprinted 
another  publisher's  book,  and  had  never 
been  the  object  of  aggression  by  another 
publisher,  but  on  the  contrary  had  always 
been  treated  by  the  others  with  courtesy, 
and  often  had  the  benefit  of  their  experi- 
enced advice. 

It  should  be  further  observed  that  dur- 
ing this  absence  of  purposeful  competi- 
tion, incidental  competition  was  inevit- 
ably going  on  all  the  while.  At  no  time 
under  my  observation  was  there  more 
emulation  in  economy  of  method  and 
quality  of  product.  During  that  period 
was  established  the  great  advance  in  the 


524 


Competition 


quality  of  bookmaking  which  distin- 
guishes the  American  books  of  to-day 
from  our  crude  products  before  the 
middle  sixties. 

So  far,  then,  as  inferences  regarding 
the  whole  industrial  field  can  be  drawn 
from  a  brief  and  exceptional  experience 
in  a  relatively  insignificant  portion  of  it, 
and  that  a  portion  with  some  strong  char- 
acteristics outside  of  pure  industrialism, 
it  would  be  a  fair  inference  to  conjec- 
ture that  all  forms  of  industry  will  gain 
in  peace  and  prosperity  from  such  ad- 
vances in  human  nature  as  will  do  away 
with  purposeful  and  aggressive  competi- 
tion, and  that  the  incidental  competition 
of  emulation  in  methods  and  product  will 
still  be  great  enough  to  develop  the  effort 
on  which  progress  must  depend. 

These  truths  regarding  the  industrial 
world  were  long  since  realized  by  the 
superior  minds  in  the  professional  world. 
The  high-class  medical  practitioner  does 
not  try  to  get  away  his  colleagues'  pa- 
tients; does  not  make  his  charges  lower 
than  those  of  other  physicians;  derives 
no  profit  from  his  discoveries,  but  throws 
them  open  to  the  world;  does  not  tout 
for  practice,  and  make  his  customers  pay 
the  expenses  of  the  touting;  never  dis- 
regards the  call  of  mercy;  and  tempers 
his  fees  to  the  shorn  lamb,  or  rather  lets 
the  lamb  go  unshorn.  High-class  law- 
yers, too,  have  restricted  their  competi- 
tion to  rendering  the  best  service  they 
know  how,  and  have  refrained  from  di- 
rect efforts  to  get  each  others'  clients,  and 
even  from  advertising  for  clients.  Now 
it  could  not  have  been  merely  what  are 
usually  termed  moral  considerations  that 
long  ago  evolved  these  codes  of  profes- 
sional ethics.  These  men  have  been  in- 
telligent enough  to  realize  that  undue 
competition  must  in  the  long  run  be  no 
more  productive  than  dog  eating  dog, 
and  that  peace  and  dignity  are  better 
worth  having  than  superfluous  money. 

The  commercial  world  may  be  slowly 
feeling  its  way  toward  such  conditions, 
but  even  in  the  professional  world  they 
are  as  yet  but  conditions  of  unstable 


equilibrium;  lately  our  terrible  American 
commercialism,  and  love  of  ostentation 
and  luxury  and  apparent  equality,  have 
been  doing  much  to  send  professional 
ethics  to  the  dogs.  This,  however,  should 
not  be  laid  entirely  to  the  mere  spirit  of 
competition;  it  must  be  laid  largely  to 
the  moral  breakdown  that  has  followed 
the  weakening  of  the  old  religious  sanc- 
tions, and  that  will  last  until  we  get  some 
new  sanctions  from  our  increasing  know- 
ledge of  nature. 

But  the  professional  world  and  the 
publishing  world  have  not  been  alone  in 
attempts  to  avoid  the  evils  of  competition. 
For  some  years  past,  people  in  trade 
after  trade  have  found  that  they  were 
competing  until  they  were  making  no 
money.  Everywhere  excessive  enterprise 
or  excessive  avarice,  and  excessive  lack 
of  foresight  and  character,  were  defeat- 
ing themselves.  At  last,  many  of  the 
leaders  of  the  respective  trades  began 
to  meet  to  agree  upon  prices,  discounts, 
sometimes  number  of  drummers,  and,  for 
all  I  know,  amount  of  advertising.  But 
there  was  too  much  "  enterprise,"  or  too 
little  character,  to  make  the  agreements 
last:  honest  men  held  up  prices  while 
knaves  undersold  them. 

It  was  at  length  realized  that  the  only 
effective  plan  was  to  put  a  whole  industry 
under  a  central  control.  Hence  the  trust. 
This  tended  not  only  to  stop  waste,  but 
to  economize  management  and  office 
administration;  and  it  was  urged  that 
part  of  these  great  economies  could  be 
given  to  the  public  through  reductions 
in  prices. 

This  was  the  view  of  people  who  had 
things  for  sale.  But  the  vast  majority 
who  had  nothing  for  sale,  and  the  dema- 
gogues who  sought  the  votes  of  this  ma- 
jority, called  these  agreements  schemes 
to  benefit  each  particular  trade  at  the 
expense  of  the  community  —  and  said 
that,  competition  being  destroyed,  the 
public  would  be,  in  the  matter  of  price, 
at  the  mercy  of  the  combine.  And,  de- 
spite the  wise  and  economical  features 
of  such  arrangements,  the  Sherman  law 


Competition 


525 


and  its  progeny  have  made  them  illegal. 
The  crude  new  legislation  has  seldom 
attempted  to  attack  the  evils  in  such  a 
way  as  to  leave  room  for  the  possible 
benefits ;  and  has  been  largely  futile  and 
destructive.  As  a  sample,  it  is  now  pro- 
moting the  destruction  of  the  bookstores : 
I  am  just  mourning  the  fall  of  one  of 
the  oldest  and  best,  in  my  little  univer- 
sity town  in  Vermont.  The  department 
stores  are  killing  the  booksellers  by  sell- 
ing the  most  popular  new  books  at  cost, 
and  less  than  cost,  for  the  sake  of  at- 
tracting custom  for  other  things.  When 
the  publishers  got  together  and  tried  to 
stop  this,  their  counsel  told  them  that 
the  Sherman  law  would  not  permit  them 
to  do  it  by  limiting  competition  among 
themselves,  but  would  permit  them  to 
try  to  limit  it  among  others,  by  refusing 
to  sell  to  dealers  who  cut  prices.  But  the 
courts  have  recently  decided  that  even 
this  aid  to  the  merchandizing  of  culture 
has  been  restricted  by  our  sapient  law- 
makers to  copyright  books:  Homer  and 
Shakespeare  are  beyond  the  pale  of  their 
assistance. 

The  law  of  Illinois  exempts  day-labor- 
ers from  the  tutelage  it  imposes  on  the 
book-trade.  In  other  words,  it  has  ex- 
empted from  its  provisions  the  trust 
whose  actions  have  been  the  most  ex- 
treme, and  have  been  most  enforced  by 
extreme  methods  —  such  as  withholding 
the  general  supplies  of  food  and  fuel; 
obstructing  transportation;  and  boycott, 
violence,  and  murder.  Moreover,  the 
demagogues  are  agitating  for  the  labor 
trust's  exemption  from  the  United  States 
Trust  laws ;  and  since  the  Supreme  Court 
has  pronounced  against  the  boycott,  the 
labor  trusts  are  also  agitating  for  legisla- 
tion to  make  them  superior  to  the  effect 
of  the  decision, — superior  to  everybody 
else,  —  to  permit  them  to  restrict  com- 
petition by  unlimited  coercion. 

And  for  some  of  this  legislation  there 
is  not  the  excuse  of  difficulty.  The  Illi- 
nois law  is  probably  as  bad  a  case  of 
demagoguery  and  class  legislation  as  was 
ever  enacted. 


My  writing  of  that  paragraph  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  sneezing  of  one  of  my 
boys  who  has  hay  fever.  The  growing 
paternalization  of  our  government,  as 
illustrated  in  some  features  of  the  pure 
food  act,  has  prevented  my  obtaining 
for  him  the  medicine  which  cured  one 
of  his  parents  and  one  of  his  grand- 
parents. 

Will  people  ever  learn  that  legislation 
is  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous  of  the 
arts,  and  that  it  is  best,  where  not 
clearly  impracticable,  to  leave  the  cure 
of  social  ills  to  the  courts  ?  There,  not 
only  is  the  experience  of  the  race  digested 
and  applied  by  learning  and  training, 
but  it  is  applied  only  to  the  case  in  hand, 
instead  of  (to  give  the  metaphor  a  twist 
or  two)  being  sent  out  crude  and  un- 
broken to  run  amuck. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  men 
could  make  more  by  helping  one  another 
than  by  fighting  one  another;  but,  as 
already  said,  in  any  state  of  human 
nature  that  we  can  foresee,  the  applica- 
tion of  non-competitive  or  cooperative 
policies  to  the  commercial  world  cannot 
in  strictness  be  a  practical  question. 
When  we  imagine  Utopias,  as  always 
when  we  try  to  go  very  far  beyond  our 
experience,  we  land  in  paradoxes  and 
contradictions;  and  when  we  try  to 
realize  Utopias  in  the  present  state  of 
morality,  we  class  ourselves  with  the 
ignorant  or  the  purblind.  Attempts  to 
realize  ideals  that  are  merely  imagined 
have  probably  been  the  most  wasteful 
and  destructive  of  all  human  efforts. 

Yet  often,  as  in  mathematics,  much  is 
gained  for  practical  questions  by  reason- 
ing from  impossible  hypotheses,  so  long 
as  we  regard  them  as  impossible.  We 
can  at  least  ask  a  more  or  less  skeptical 
question  or  two  regarding  Utopia.  For 
instance,  if  no  time  is  to  be  wasted  in 
competition,  what  are  the  advertisers, 
drummers,  revenue  officers  excluding 
foreign  products,  and  other  people  now 
performing  waste  labor,  going  to  do  for 
a  living  ?  It  seems  reasonable  to  assume 


526 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


that  they  will  simply  produce  two-fold  — 
four-fold  —  useful  things  that  the  world  is 
now  doing  without.  And  perhaps  some- 
thing even  wiser  than  that  —  there  may 
not,  after  all,  be  produced  so  many  more 
things :  for  in  Utopia  competition  in  con- 
suming useless  things  will  have  disap- 
peared. Nobody  will  have  useless  clothes, 
food,  wines,  jewels,  equipages,  servants, 
simply  because  his  competitors  have 
them  —  each  man  will  be  content  with 
what  he  reasonably  needs;  and  in  a  co- 
operative world,  he  will  spend  his  then 
superfluous  powers  in  cooperating  with 
the  efforts  of  his  less  able  neighbors  to 
get  needed  things. 

Yet  more  —  in  Utopia  men  will  have 
time  to  devote  their  efforts  to  the  indus- 
try we  now  most  conspicuously  neglect 
—  saving  our  souls:  there  will  be  time 
for  geniuses  to  write  their  best,  and  restore 
literature,  instead  of  hurrying  and  over- 
working for  superfluous  and  even  hurtful 
things;  and  time  for  ordinary  men  to 
read  and  think;  to  listen  to  music,  and 
make  it;  to  look  at  pictures,  and  do  a 
little  with  cameras  and  water-colors  on 
our  own  account;  to  enjoy  architecture, 


and  learn  enough  of  it  to  have  some 
intelligent  say  about  making  our  own 
homes ;  time  to  potter  over  our  gardens ; 
time  to  travel ;  and  even  time  to  go  fish- 
ing, at  least  with  Isaak.  A  woman  to 
whom  I  read  this  said,  "  And  we'll  have 
time  to  have  time."  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  she  lived  in  New  York. 

More  important  still,  in  the  non-com- 
petitive Utopia,  there  will  be  time  to  keep 
well,  time  to  die  at  a  decent  old  age,  and 
time  to  go  decently  to  each  other's  fun- 
erals. But  before  that,  and  most  import- 
ant of  all,  there  will  be  time  to  prevent 
our  having  to  feel,  when  we  do  go  to 
funerals,  perhaps  the  bitterest  regret  of 
all:  "  If  I  only  had  had  more  of  that 
friend  while  he  was  here !  " 

But  all  this  is  Utopia.  Each  man  has 
his  own  way  to  Utopia,  and  wise  men 
know  that  they  will  not  in  one  lifetime 
get  far  on  any  way.  But  they  also  know, 
and  know  it  better  each  day,  that  there 
are  ways  in  that  direction;  and  that, 
while  the  competition  incidental  to  hon- 
est emulation  tends  to  keep  those  ways 
open,  the  competition  born  of  greed  and 
envy  tends  to  keep  them  closed. 


THE  NEW  NATIONALIST   MOVEMENT   IN   INDIA 

BY    JABEZ   T.   SUNDERLAND 


THE  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 
may  well  interest  Americans.  Lovers  of 
progress  and  humanity  cannot  become 
acquainted  with  it  without  discovering 
that  it  has  large  significance,  not  only  to 
India  and  Great  Britain,  but  to  the  world. 
That  the  movement  is  attracting  much 
attention  in  England  (as  well  as  awaken- 
ing some  anxiety  there,  because  of  Eng- 
land's connection  with  India)  is  well 
known  to  all  who  read  the  British  periodi- 
cal press,  or  follow  the  debates  of  Parlia- 
ment, or  note  the  public  utterances  from 
time  to  time  of  Mr.  John  Morley  (now 


Lord  Morley),  the  British  Secretary  of 
State  for  India. 

What  is  this  new  Indian  movement? 
What  has  brought  it  into  existence? 
What  is  its  justification,  if  it  has  a  justi- 
fication ?  What  does  it  portend  as  to  the 
future  of  India,  and  the  future  relations 
between  India  and  Great  Britain? 

In  order  to  find  answers  to  these  ques- 
tions we  must  first  of  all  get  clearly  in 
mind  the  fact  that  India  is  a  subject  land. 
She  is  a  dependency  of  Great  Britain,  not 
a  colony.  Britain  has  both  colonies  and 
dependencies.  Many  persons  suppose 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


527 


them  to  be  identical;  but  they  are  not. 
Britain's  free  colonies,  like  Canada  and 
Australia,  though  nominally  governed  by 
the  mother  country,  are  really  self-ruling 
in  everything  except  their  relations  to 
foreign  powers.  Not  so  with  dependen- 
cies like  India.  These  are  granted  no 
self-government,  no  representation;  they 
are  ruled  absolutely  by  Great  Britain, 
which  is  not  then*  "  mother  "  country, 
but  their  conqueror  and  master. 

As  the  result  of  a  pretty  wide  acquain- 
tance in  England,  and  a  residence  of 
some  years  in  Canada,  I  am  disposed  to 
believe  that  nowhere  in  the  world  can  be 
found  governments  that  are  more  free, 
that  better  embody  the  intelligent  will  of 
their  people,  or  that  better  serve  their 
people's  many-sided  interests  and  wants, 
than  those  of  the  self-ruling  colonies  of 
Great  Britain.  I  do  not  see  but  that  these 
colonies  are  in  every  essential  way  as 
free  as  if  they  were  full  republics.  Proba- 
bly they  are  not  any  more  free  than  the 
people  of  the  United  States,  but  it  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that  they  are  as  free. 
Their  connection  with  England,  their 
mother  country,  is  not  one  of  coercion ;  it 
is  one  of  choice;  it  is  one  of  reverence  and 
affection.  That  the  British  Government 
insures  such  liberty  in  its  colonies,  is  a 
matter  for  congratulation  and  honorable 
pride.  In  this  respect  it  stands  on  a  moral 
elevation  certainly  equal  to  that  of  any 
government  in  the  world. 

Turn  now  from  Britain's  colonies  to 
her  dependencies.  Here  we  find  some- 
thing for  which  there  does  not  seem  to  be 
a  natural  place  among  British  political 
institutions.  Britons  call  their  flag  the 
flag  of  freedom.  They  speak  of  the 
British  Constitution,  largely  unwritten 
though  it  is,  as  a  constitution  which 
guarantees  freedom  to  every  British  sub- 
ject in  the  world.  Magna  Charta  meant 
self-government  for  the  English  people. 
Cromwell  wrote  on  the  statute  books  of 
the  English  Parliament, "  All  just  powers 
under  God  are  derived  from  the  consent 
of  the  people."  Since  Cromwell's  day 
this  principle  has  been  fundamental, 


central,  undisputed,  in  British  home  pol- 
itics. It  took  a  little  longer  to  get  it  recog- 
nized in  colonial  matters.  The  American 
Colonies  in  1776  took  their  stand  upon 
it.  "  Just  government  must  be  based  on' 
the  consent  of  the  governed."  "  There 
should  be  no  taxation  without  represen- 
tation." These  were  their  affirmations. 
Burke  and  Pitt  and  Fox  and  the  broader- 
minded  leaders  of  public  opinion  in  Eng- 
land were  in  sympathy  with  their  Amer- 
ican brethren.  If  Britain  had  been  true  to 
her  principle  of  freedom  and  self-rule  she 
would  have  kept  her  American  colonies. 
But  she  was  not  true  to  it,  and  so  she  lost 
them.  Later  she  came  very  near  losing 
Canada  in  the  same  way.  But  her  eyes 
were  opened  in  time,  and  she  gave  Can- 
ada freedom  and  self-government.  This 
prevented  revolt,  and  fastened  Canada  to 
her  with  hooks  of  steel.  Since  this  experi- 
ence with  Canada  it  has  been  a  settled 
principle  in  connection  with  British  colo- 
nial as  well  as  home  politics,  that  there  is 
no  just  power  except  that  which  is  based 
upon  the  consent  of  the  governed. 

But  what  are  we  to  do  with  this  princi- 
ple when  we  come  to  dependencies  ?  Is 
another  and  different  principle  to  be 
adopted  here  ?  Are  there  peoples  whom 
it  is  just  to  rule  without  their  consent? 
Is  justice  one  thing  in  England  and  Can- 
ada, and  another  in  India?  It  was  the 
belief  that  what  is  justice  in  England  and 
Canada  itf  justice  everywhere  that  made 
Froude  declare,  "Free  nations  cannot 
govern  subject  provinces." 

Why  is  England  in  India  at  all  ?  Why 
did  she  go  there  at  first,  and  why  does  she 
remain?  If  India  had  been  a  compara- 
tively empty  land,  as  America  was  when 
it  was  discovered,  so  that  Englishmen 
had  wanted  to  settle  there  and  make 
homes,  the  reason  would  have  been  plain. 
But  it  was  a  full  land;  and,  as  a  fact, 
no  British  emigrants  have  ever  gone  to 
India  to  settle  and  make  homes.  If  the 
Indian  people  had  been  savages  or  bar- 
barians, there  might  have  seemed  more 
reason  for  England's  conquering  and 
ruling  them.  But  they  were  peoples  with 


528 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


highly  organized  governments  far  older 
than  that  of  Great  Britain,  and  with  a 
civilization  that  had  risen  to  a  splendid 
height  before  England's  was  born.  Said 
Lord  Curzon,  the  late  Viceroy  of  India, 
in  an  address  delivered  at  the  great  Delhi 
Durbar  in  1901 :  "  Powerful  Empires 
existed  and  flourished  here  [in  India] 
while  Englishmen  were  still  wandering 
painted  in  the  woods,  and  while  the  Brit- 
ish Colonies  were  a  wilderness  and  a 
jungle.  India  has  left  a  deeper  mark 
upon  the  history,  the  philosophy,  and  the 
religion  of  mankind,  than  any  other  ter- 
restrial unit  in  the  universe."  It  is  such  a 
land  that  England  has  conquered  and  is 
holding  as  a  dependency.  It  is  such  a 
people  that  she  is  ruling  without  giving 
them  any  voice  whatever  in  the  shaping 
of  their  own  destiny.  The  honored  Ca- 
nadian Premier,  Sir  Wilfred  Laurier,  at 
the  Colonial  Conference  held  in  London 
in  connection  with  the  coronation  of 
King  Edward,  declared,  "  The  Empire 
of  Rome  was  composed  of  slave  states; 
the  British  Empire  is  a  galaxy  of  free  na- 
tions." But  is  India  a  free  nation?  At 
that  London  Colonial  Conference  which 
was  called  together  for  consultation  about 
the  interests  of  the  entire  Empire,  was 
any  representative  invited  to  be  present 
from  India  ?  Not  one.  Yet  Lord  Curzon 
declared  in  his  Durbar  address  in  Delhi, 
that  the  "  principal  condition  of  the 
strength  of  the  British  throne  is  the  pos- 
session of  the  Indian  Empire,  and  the 
faithful  attachment  and  service  of  the 
Indian  people."  British  statesmen  never 
tire  of  boasting  of  "our  Indian  Empire;  " 
and  of  speaking  of  India  as  "  the  bright- 
est jewel  in  the  British  crown."  Do  they 
reflect  that  it  is  virtually  a  slave  empire  of 
which  they  are  so  proud ;  and  that  this  so- 
called  brightest  jewel  reflects  no  light  of 
political  freedom? 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  so  dangerous, 
or  so  evil  in  its  effects,  as  irresponsible 
power.  That  is  what  Great  Britain  exer- 
cises in  connection  with  India  —  abso- 
lute power,  with  no  one  to  call  her  to 
account.  I  do  not  think  any  nation  is  able 


to  endure  such  an  ordeal  better  than  Brit- 
ain, but  it  is  an  ordeal  to  which  neither 
rulers  of  nations  nor  private  men  should 
ever  be  subjected ;  the  risks  are  too  great. 
England  avoids  it  in  connection  with  her 
own  rulers  by  making  them  strictly  re- 
sponsible to  the  English  people.  Canada 
avoids  it  in  connection  with  hers  by  mak- 
ing them  responsible  to  the  Canadian 
people.  Every  free  nation  safeguards 
alike  its  people  and  its  rulers  by  making 
its  rulers  in  everything  answerable  to 
those  whom  they  govern.  Here  is  the 
anomaly  of  the  British  rule  of  India. 
Britain  through  her  Indian  government 
rules  India,  but  she  does  not  acknowledge 
responsibility  in  any  degree  whatever  to 
the  Indian  people. 

What  is  the  result?  Are  the  interests 
and  the  rights  of  India  protected  ?  Is  it 
possible  for  the  rights  of  any  people  to  be 
protected  without  self-rule  ?  I  invite  my 
readers  to  go  with  me  to  India  and  see. 
What  we  find  will  go  far  toward  furnish- 
ing us  a  key  to  the  meaning  of  the  present 
Indian  Nationalist  Movement. 

Crossing  over  from  this  side  to  London, 
we  sail  from  there  to  India  in  a  magni- 
ficent steamer.  On  board  is  a  most  in- 
teresting company  of  people,  made  up 
of  merchants,  travelers,  and  especially 
Englishmen  who  are  either  officials  con- 
nected with  the  Indian  Government  or 
officers  in  the  Indian  army,  who  have 
been  home  on  furlough  with  their  fami- 
lies and  are  now  returning.  We  land  in 
Bombay,  a  city  that  reminds  us  of  Paris 
or  London  or  New  York  or  Washington. 
Our  hotel  is  conducted  in  English  style. 
We  go  to  the  railway  station,  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  buildings  of  the  kind  in 
the  world,  to  take  the  train  for  Calcutta, 
the  capital,  some  fifteen  hundred  miles 
away.  Arrived  at  Calcutta  we  hear  it 
called  the  City  of  Palaces;  nor  do  we 
wonder  at  the  name.  Who  owns  the 
steamship  line  by  which  we  came  to 
India?  The  British.  Who  built  that 
splendid  railway  station  in  Bombay? 
The  British.  Who  built  the  railway  on 
which  we  rode  to  Calcutta  ?  The  British. 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


5*9 


To  whom  do  these  palatial  buildings  be- 
long? Mostly  to  the  British.  We  find 
that  Calcutta  and  Bombay  have  a  large 
commerce.  To  whom  does  it  belong? 
Mainly  to  the  British.  We  find  that  the 
Indian  Government,  that  is,  British  rule 
in  India,  has  directly  or  indirectly  built 
in  the  land  some  29,000  miles  of  railway ; 
has  created  good  postal  and  telegraph 
systems,  reaching  nearly  everywhere; 
has  established  or  assisted  in  establishing 
many  schools,  colleges,  hospitals,  and 
other  institutions  of  public  benefit;  has 
promoted  sanitation,  founded  law  courts 
after  the  English  pattern,  and  done  much 
else  to  bring  India  into  line  with  the  civ- 
ilization of  Europe.  It  is  not  strange  if 
we  soon  begin  to  exclaim,  "  How  much 
are  the  British  doing  for  India!  How 
great  a  benefit  to  the  Indian  people  is 
British  rule!  "  And  in  an  important  de- 
gree we  are  right  in  what  we  say.  British 
rule  has  done  much  for  India,  and  much 
for  which  India  itself  is  profoundly  grate- 
ful. 

But  have  we  seen  all  ?  Is  there  no  other 
side?  Have  we  discovered  the  deepest 
and  most  important  that  exists  ?  If  there 
are  signs  of  prosperity,  is  it  the  prosperity 
of  the  Indian  people,  or  only  of  their 
English  masters?  If  the  English  are  liv- 
ing in  ease  and  luxury,  how  are  the  people 
of  the  land  living?  If  there  are  railways 
and  splendid  buildings,  who  pay  for 
them  ?  and  who  get  profits  out  of  them  ? 
Have  we  been  away  from  the  beaten 
tracks  of  travel?  Have  we  been  out 
among  the  Indian  people  themselves,  in 
country  as  well  as  in  city  ?  Nearly  nine- 
tenths  of  the  people  are  ryots,  or  small 
farmers,  who  derive  their  sustenance 
directly  from  the  land.  Have  we  found 
out  how  they  live  ?  Do  we  know  whether 
they  are  growing  better  off,  or  poorer? 
Especially  have  we  looked  into  the  causes 
of  those  famines,  the  most  terrible  known 
to  the  modern  world,  which  have  swept 
like  a  besom  of  death  over  the  land  year 
after  year,  and  which  drag  after  them 
another  scourge  scarcely  less  dreadful, 
the  plague,  their  black  shadow,  their 
VOL.  102  -NO.  4 


hideous  child?  Here  is  a  side  of  India 
which  we  must  acquaint  ourselves  with, 
as  well  as  the  other,  if  we  would  under- 
stand the  real  Indian  situation. 

The  great,  disturbing,  portentous,  all- 
overshadowing  fact  connected  with  the 
history  of  India  in  recent  years  is  the  suc- 
cession of  famines.  What  do  these  fam- 
ines mean?  Here  is  a  picture  from  a 
recent  book,  written  by  a  distinguished 
British  civilian  who  has  had  long  service 
in  India  and  knows  the  Indian  situation 
from  the  inside.  Since  he  is  an  English- 
man we  may  safely  count  upon  his  pre- 
judices, if  he  has  any,  being  not  upon  the 
side  of  the  Indian  people,  but  upon  that 
of  his  own  countrymen.  Mr.  W.  S.  Lilly, 
in  his  India  and  Its  Problems,  writes  as 
follows :  — 

"  During  the  first  eighty  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  18,000,000  of  people 
perished  of  famine.  In  one  year  alone  — 
the  year  when  her  late  Majesty  assumed 
the  title  of  Empress  —  5,000,000  of  the 
people  in  Southern  India  were  starved  to 
death.  In  the  District  of  Bellary,  with 
which  I  am  personally  acquainted,  —  a 
region  twice  the  size  of  Wales,  —  one- 
fourth  of  the  population  perished  in  the 
famine  of  1876-77.  I  shall  never  forget 
my  own  famine  experiences:  how,  as  I 
rode  out  on  horseback,  morning  after 
morning,  I  passed  crowds  of  wandering 
skeletons,  and  saw  human  corpses  by  the 
roadside,  unburied,  uncared  for,  and  hah* 
devoured  by  dogs  and  vultures;  how,  sad- 
der sight  still,  children,  'the  joy  of  the 
world,'  as  the  old  Greeks  deemed,  had 
become  its  ineffable  sorrow,  and  were  for- 
saken by  the  very  women  who  had  borne 
them,  wolfish  hunger  killing  even  the 
maternal  instinct.  Those  children,  their 
bright  eyes  shining  from  hollow  sockets, 
their  flesh  utterly  wasted  away,  and  only 
gristle  and  sinew  and  cold  shivering  skin 
remaining,  their  heads  mere  skulls,  their 
puny  frames  full  of  loathsome  diseases, 
engendered  by  the  starvation  in  which 
they  had  been  conceived  and  born  and 
nurtured  —  they  haunt  me  still."  Every 
one  who  has  gone  much  about  India  in 


530 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


famine  times  knows  how  true  to  life  is 
this  picture. 

Mr.  Lilly  estimates  the  number  of 
deaths  in  the  first  eight  decades  of  the 
last  century  at  18,000,000.  This  is 
nothing  less  than  appalling,  —  within  a 
little  more  than  two  generations  as  many 
persons  perishing  by  starvation  in  a  single 
country  as  the  whole  population  of  Can- 
ada, New  England,  and  the  city  and  state 
of  New  York,  or  nearly  half  as  many  as 
the  total  population  of  France!  But  the 
most  startling  aspect  of  the  case  appears 
in  the  fact  that  the  famines  increased  in 
number  and  severity  as  the  century  went 
on.  Suppose  we  divide  the  past  century 
into  quarters,  or  periods  of  twenty-five 
years  each.  In  the  first  quarter  there  were 
five  famines,  with  an  estimated  loss  of  life 
of  1,000,000.  During  the  second  quarter 
of  the  century  there  were  two  famines, 
with  an  estimated  mortality  of  500,000. 
During  the  third  quarter  there  were  six 
famines,  with  a  recorded  loss  of  life  of 
5,000,000.  During  the  last  quarter  of 
the  century,  what?  Eighteen  famines, 
with  an  estimated  mortality  reaching  the 
awful  totals  of  from  15,000,000  to  26,000,- 
000.  And  this  does  not  include  the  many 
more  millions  (over  6,000,000  in  a  single 
year)  barely  kept  alive  by  government 
doles. 

What  is  the  cause  of  these  famines,  and 
this  appalling  increase  in  their  number 
and  destructiveness  ?  The  common  an- 
swer is,  the  failure  of  the  rains.  But 
there  seems  to  be  no  evidence  that  the 
rains  fail  worse  now  than  they  did  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  Moreover,  why  should 
failure  of  rains  bring  famine  ?  The  rains 
have  never  failed  over  areas  so  extensive 
as  to  prevent  the  raising  of  enough  food 
in  the  land  to  supply  the  needs  of  the 
entire  population.  Why  then  have  people 
starved  ?  Not  because  there  was  lack  of 
food.  Not  because  there  was  lack  of  food 
in  the  famine  areas,  brought  by  railways 
or  otherwise  within  easy  reach  of  all. 
There  has  always  been  plenty  of  food, 
even  in  the  worst  famine  years,  for  those 
who  have  had  money  to  buy  it  with,  and 


generally  food  at  moderate  prices.  Why, 
then,  have  all  these  millions  of  people 
perished?  Because  they  were  so  inde- 
scribably poor.  All  candid  and  thorough 
investigation  into  the  causes  of  the  fam- 
ines of  India  has  shown  that  the  chief 
and  fundamental  cause  has  been  and  is 
the  poverty  of  the  people,  —  a  poverty  so 
severe  and  terrible  that  it  keeps  the  ma- 
jority of  the  entire  population  on  the  very 
verge  of  starvation  even  in  years  of  great- 
est plenty,  prevents  them  from  laying  up 
anything  against  times  of  extremity,  and 
hence  leaves  them,  when  their  crops  fail, 
absolutely  undone  —  with  nothing  be- 
tween them  and  death,  unless  some  form 
of  charity  comes  to  their  aid.  Says  Sir 
Charles  Elliott,  long  the  Chief  Commis- 
sioner of  Assam,  "  Hah"  the  agricultural 
population  do  not  know  from  one  half- 
year's  end  to  another  what  it  is  to  have  a 
full  meal."  Says  the  Honorable  G.  K. 
Gokhale,  of  the  Viceroy's  Council, 
"  From  60,000,000  to  70,000,000  of  the 
people  of  India  do  not  know  what  it  is  to 
have  their  hunger  satisfied  even  once  in 
a  year." 

And  the  people  are  growing  poorer  and 
poorer.  The  late  Mr.  William  Digby,  of 
London,  long  an  Indian  resident,  in  his 
recent  book  entitled*  "Prosperous" 
India,  shows  from  official  estimates  and 
Parliamentary  and  Indian  Blue  Books, 
that,  whereas  the  average  daily  income 
of  the  people  of  India  in  the  year  1850 
was  estimated  as  four  cents  per  person  (a 
pittance  on  which  one  wonders  that  any 
human  being  can  live),  in  1882  it  had 
fallen  to  three  cents  per  person,  and  in 
1900  actually  to  less  than  two  cents  per 
person.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  people 
reduced  to  such  extremities  as  this  can 
lay  up  nothing?  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
when  the  rains  do  not  come,  and  the 
crops  of  a  single  season  fail,  they  are 
lost  ?  And  where  is  this  to  end  ?  If  the 
impoverishment  of  the  people  is  to  go 
on,  what  is  there  before  them  but  grow- 
ing hardship,  multiplying  famines,  and 
increasing  loss  of  life  ? 

Here  we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  real  India. 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


631 


It  is  not  the  India  which  the  traveler  sees, 
following  the  usual  routes  of  travel,  stop- 
ping at  the  leading  hotels  conducted  after 
the  manner  of  London  or  Paris,  and  min- 
gling with  the  English  lords  of  the  coun- 
try. It  is  not  the  India  which  the  British 
"  point  to  with  pride,"  and  tell  us  about 
in  their  books  of  description  and  their 
official  reports.  This  is  India  from  the 
inside,  the  India  of  the  people,  of  the 
men,  women,  and  children,  who  were 
born  there  and  die  there,  who  bear  the 
burdens  and  pay  the  taxes,  and  support 
the  costly  government  carried  on  by  for- 
eigners, and  do  the  starving  when  the 
famines  come. 

What  causes  this  awful  and  growing 
impoverishment  of  the  Indian  people? 
Said  John  Bright,  "  If  a  country  be  found 
possessing  a  most  fertile  soil,  and  capable 
of  bearing  every  variety  of  production, 
and,  notwithstanding,  the  people  are  in 
a  state  of  extreme  destitution  and  suffer- 
ing, the  chances  are  there  is  some  fun- 
damental error  in  the  government  of  that 
country." 

One  cause  of  India's  impoverishment 
is  heavy  taxation.  Taxation  in  England 
and  Scotland  is  high,  so  high  that  Eng- 
lishmen and  Scotchmen  complain  bit- 
terly. But  the  people  of  India  are  taxed 
more  than  twice  as  heavily  as  the  people 
of  England  and  three  times  as  heavily  as 
those  of  Scotland.  According  to  the  latest 
statistics  at  hand,  those  of  1905,  the  an- 
nual average  income  per  person  in  India 
is  about  $6.00,  and  the  annual  tax  per 
person  about  $2.00.  Think  of  taxing  the 
American  people  to  the  extent  of  one- 
third  their  total  income !  Yet  such  taxa- 
tion here,  unbearable  as  it  would  be, 
would  not  create  a  tithe  of  the  suffering 
that  it  does  in  India,  because  incomes 
here  are  so  immensely  larger  than  there. 
Here  it  would  cause  great  hardship,  there 
it  creates  starvation. 

Notice  the  single  item  of  salt- taxation. 
Salt  is  an  absolute  necessity  to  the  people, 
to  the  very  poorest;  they  must  have  it  or 
die.  But  the  tax  upon  it  which  for  many 
years  they  have  been  compelled  to  pay 


has  been  much  greater  than  the  cost  value 
of  the  salt.  Under  this  taxation  the  quan- 
tity of  salt  consumed  has  been  reduced 
actually  to  one-half  the  quantity  declared 
by  medical  authorities  to  be  absolutely 
necessary  for  health.  The  mere  sugges- 
tion in  England  of  a  tax  on  wheat  suffi- 
cient to  raise  the  price  of  bread  by  even 
a  half-penny  on  the  loaf,  creates  such  a 
protest  as  to  threaten  the  overthrow  of 
ministries.  Lately  the  salt-tax  in  India 
has  been  reduced,  but  it  still  remains 
well-nigh  prohibitive  to  the  poorer 
classes.  With  such  facts  as  these  before 
us,  we  do  not  wonder  at  Herbert  Spencer's 
indignant  protest  against  the  "  grievous 
salt-monopoly  "  of  the  Indian  Govern- 
ment, and  "the  pitiless  taxation  which 
wrings  from  poor  ryots  nearly  hah*  the 
products  of  the  soil." 

Another  cause  of  India's  impoverish- 
ment is  the  destruction  of  her  manufac- 
tures, as  the  result  of  British  rule.  When 
the  British  first  appeared  on  the  scene, 
India  was  one  of  the  richest  countries  of 
the  world ;  indeed  it  was  her  great  riches 
that  attracted  the  British  to  her  shores. 
The  source  of  her  wealth  was  largely 
her  splendid  manufactures.  Her  cotton 
goods,  silk  goods,  shawls,  muslins  of 
Dacca,  brocades  of  Ahmedabad,  rugs, 
pottery  of  Scind,  jewelry,  metal  work, 
lapidary  work,  were  famed  not  only  all 
over  Asia  but  in  all  the  leading  markets 
of  Northern  Africa  and  of  Europe.  What 
has  become  of  those  manufactures  ?  For 
the  most  part  they  are  gone,  destroyed. 
Hundreds  of  villages  and  towns  of  India 
in  which  they  were  carried  on  are  now 
largely  or  wholly  depopulated,  and  mil- 
lions of  the  people  who  were  supported 
by  them  have  been  scattered  and  driven 
back  on  the  land,  to  share  the  already 
too  scanty  living  of  the  poor  ryot.  What 
is  the  explanation  ?  Great  Britain  wanted 
India's  markets.  She  could  not  find  en- 
trance for  British  manufactures  so  long 
as  India  was  supplied  with  manufactures 
of  her  own.  So  those  of  India  must  be 
sacrificed.  England  had  all  power  in  her 
hands,  and  so  she  proceeded  to  pass  tariff 


532 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


and  excise  laws  that  ruined  the  manu- 
factures of  India  and  secured  the  market 
for  her  own  goods.  India  would  have 
protected  herself  if  she  had  been  able,  by 
enacting  tariff  laws  favorable  to  Indian 
interests,  but  she  had  no  power,  she  was 
at  the  mercy  of  her  conqueror. 

A  third  cause  of  India's  impoverish- 
ment is  the  enormous  and  wholly  unnec- 
essary cost  of  her  government.  Writers 
in  discussing  the  financial  situation  in 
India  have  often  pointed  out  the  fact 
that  her  government  is  the  most  expen- 
sive in  the  world.  Of  course  the  reason 
why  is  plain:  it  is  because  it  is  a  govern- 
ment carried  on  not  by  the  people  of  the 
soil,  but  by  men  from  a  distant  country. 
These  foreigners,  having  all  power  in 
their  own  hands,  including  power  to  cre- 
ate such  offices  as  they  choose  and  to  at- 
tach to  them  such  salaries  and  pensions 
as  they  see  fit,  naturally  do  not  err  on  the 
side  of  making  the  offices  too  few  or  the 
salaries  and  pensions  too  small.  Nearly 
all  the  higher  officials  throughout  India 
are  British.  To  be  sure,  the  Civil  Service 
is  nominally  open  to  Indians.  But  it  is 
hedged  about  with  so  many  restrictions 
(among  others,  Indian  young  men  being 
required  to  make  the  journey  of  seven 
thousand  miles  from  India  to  London  to 
take  their  examinations)  that  they  are 
able  for  the  most  part  to  secure  only  the 
lowest  and  poorest  places.  The  amount 
of  money  which  the  Indian  people  are 
required  to  pay  as  salaries  to  this  great 
army  of  foreign  civil  servants  and  ap- 
pointed higher  officials,  and  then,  later, 
as  pensions  for  the  same,  after  they  have 
served  a  given  number  of  years  in  India, 
is  very  large.  That  in  three-fourths  if  not 
nine- tenths  of  the  positions  quite  as  good 
service  could  be  obtained  for  the  govern- 
ment at  a  fraction  of  the  present  cost,  by 
employing  educated  and  competent  In- 
dians, who  much  better  understand  the 
wants  of  the  country,  is  quite  true.  But 
that  would  not  serve  the  purpose  of  Eng- 
land, who  wants  these  lucrative  offices  for 
her  sons.  Hence  poor  Indian  ryots  must 
sweat  and  go  hungry,  and  if  need  be 


starve,  that  an  ever-growing  army  of  for- 
eign officials  may  have  large  salaries  and 
fat  pensions.  And  of  course  much  of  the 
money  paid  for  these  salaries,  and  prac- 
tically all  paid  for  the  pensions,  goes  per- 
manently out  of  India. 

Another  burden  upon  the  people  of 
India  which  they  ought  not  to  be  com- 
pelled to  bear,  and  which  does  much  to 
increase  their  poverty,  is  the  enormously 
heavy  military  expenses  of  the  govern- 
ment. I  am  not  complaining  of  the  main- 
tenance of  such  an  army  as  may  be  nec- 
essary for  the  defense  of  the  country.  But 
the  Indian  army  is  kept  at  a  strength 
much  beyond  what  the  defense  of  the 
country  requires.  India  is  made  a  sort  of 
general  rendezvous  and  training  camp 
for  the  Empire,  from  which  soldiers  may 
at  any  time  be  drawn  for  service  in  dis- 
tant lands.  If  such  an  imperial  training- 
camp  and  rendezvous  is  needed,  a  part 
at  least  of  the  heavy  expense  of  it  ought 
to  come  out  of  the  Imperial  Treasury. 
But  no,  India  is  helpless,  she  can  be  com- 
pelled to  pay  it,  she  is  compelled  to  pay  it. 
Many  English  statesmen  recognize  this 
as  wrong,  and  condemn  it;  yet  it  goes 
right  on.  Said  the  late  Sir  Henry  Camp- 
bell-Banner man :  "  Justice  demands  that 
England  should  pay  a  portion  of  the  cost 
of  the  great  Indian  army  maintained  in 
India  for  Imperial  rather  than  Indian 
purposes.  This  has  not  yet  been  done, 
and  famine-stricken  India  is  being  bled 
for  the  maintenance  of  England's  world- 
wide empire."  But  there  is  still  worse 
than  this.  Numerous  wars  and  cam- 
paigns are  carried  on  outside  of  India, 
the  expenses  of  which,  wholly  or  in  part, 
India  is  compelled  to  bear.  For  such 
foreign  wars  and  campaigns  —  cam- 
paigns and  wars  in  which  the  Indian 
people  had  no  concern,  and  for  which 
they  received  no  benefit,  the  aim  of 
which  was  solely  conquest  and  the  exten- 
sion of  British  power  —  India  was  re- 
quired to  pay  during  the  last  century  the 
enormous  total  of  more  than  $450,000,- 
000.  How  many  such  burdens  as  these 
can  the  millions  of  India,  who  live  on  the 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


533 


average  income  of  $6  a  year,  bear  with- 
out being  crushed  ? 

Perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  the  causes 
of  the  impoverishment  of  the  Indian  peo- 
ple is  the  steady  and  enormous  drain  of 
wealth  from  India  to  England,  which  has 
been  going  on  ever  since  the  East  India 
Company  first  set  foot  in  the  land,  three 
hundred  years  ago,  and  is  going  on  still 
with  steadily  increasing  volume.  Eng- 
land claims  that  India  pays  her  no  "  tri- 
bute." Technically,  this  is  true;  but, 
really,  it  is  very  far  from  true.  In  the 
form  of  salaries  spent  in  England,  pen- 
sions sent  to  England,  interest  drawn  in 
England  on  investments  made  in  India, 
business  profits  made  in  India  and  sent 
to  England,  and  various  kinds  of  exploit- 
ation carried  on  in  India  for  England's 
benefit,  a  vast  stream  of  wealth  ("  tri- 
bute" in  effect)  is  constantly  pouring 
into  England  from  India.  Says  Mr.  R. 
C.  Dutt,  author  of  the  Economic  His- 
tory of  India  (and  there  is  no  higher 
authority),  "  A  sum  reckoned  at  twenty 
millions  of  English  money,  or  a  hundred 
millions  of  American  money  [some  other 
authorities  put  it  much  higher],  which  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  is  equal  to  half 
the  net  revenues  of  India,  is  remitted  an- 
nually from  this  country  [India]  to  Eng- 
land, without  a  direct  equivalent.  Think 
of  it!  One-half  of  what  we  [in  India]  pay 
as  taxes  goes  out  of  the  country,  and  does 
not  come  back  to  the  people.  No  other 
country  on  earth  suffers  like  this  at  the 
present  day;  and  no  country  on  earth 
could  bear  such  an  annual  drain  without 
increasing  impoverishment  and  repeated 
famines.  We  denounce  ancient  Rome 
for  impoverishing  Gaul  and  Egypt,  Sicily 
and  Palestine,  to  enrich  herself.  We  de- 
nounce Spain  for  robbing  the  New  World 
and  the  Netherlands  to  amass  wealth. 
England  is  following  exactly  the  same 
practice  in  India.  Is  it  strange  that  she  is 
converting  India  into  a  land  of  poverty 
and  famine?" 

But  it  is  only  a  part  of  the  wrong  done 
to  India  that  she  is  impoverished.  Quite 
as  great  an  injustice  is  her  loss  of  liberty, 


—  the  fact  that  she  is  allowed  no  part  in 
shaping  her  own  political  destiny.  As  we 
have  seen,  Canada  and  Australia  are  free 
and  self-governing.  India  is  kept  in  ab- 
solute subjection.  Yet  her  people  are 
largely  of  Aryan  blood,  the  finest  race  in 
Asia.  There  are  not  wanting  men  among 
them,  men  in  numbers,  who  are  the 
equals  of  their  British  masters,  in  know- 
ledge, in  ability,  in  trustworthiness,  in 
every  high  quality.  It  is  not  strange  that 
many  Englishmen  are  waking  up  to  the 
fact  that  such  treatment  of  such  a  people, 
of  any  people,  is  tyranny :  it  is  a  violation 
of  those  ideals  of  freedom  and  justice 
which  have  been  England's  greatest 
glory.  It  is  also  short-sighted  as  regards 
Britain's  own  interests.  It  is  the  kind  of 
policy  which  cost  her  her  American  Colo- 
nies, and  later  came  near  costing  her 
Canada.  If  persisted  in,  it  may  cost  her 
India. 

What  is  the  remedy  for  the  evils  and 
burdens  under  which  the  Indian  people 
are  suffering  ?  How  may  the  people  be 
relieved  from  their  abject  and  growing 
poverty  ?  How  can  they  be  given  prosper- 
ity, happiness,  and  content? 

Many  answers  are  suggested.  One  is, 
make  the  taxes  lighter.  This  is  doubtless 
important.  But  how  can  it  be  effected 
so  long  as  the  people  have  no  voice  in 
their  own  government?  Another  is,  en- 
act such  legislation  and  set  on  foot  such 
measures  as  may  be  found  necessary  to 
restore  as  far  as  possible  the  native  in- 
dustries which  have  been  destroyed.  This 
is  good;  but  will  an  alien  government, 
and  one  which  has  itself  destroyed  these 
industries  for  its  own  advantage,  ever  do 
this  ?  Another  is,  reduce  the  unnecessary 
and  illegitimate  military  expenses.  This 
is  easy  to  say,  and  it  is  most  reasonable. 
But  how  can  it  be  brought  about,  so 
long  as  the  government  favors  such  ex- 
penses, and  the  people  have  no  power  ? 
Another  thing  urged  is,  stop  the  drain  of 
wealth  to  England.  But  what  steps  can 
be  taken  looking  in  this  direction  so 
long  as  India  has  no  power  to  protect 
herself?  It  all  comes  back  to  this:  the 


534 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


fundamental  difficulty,  the  fundamental 
evil,  the  fundamental  wrong,  lies  in  the 
fact  that  the  Indian  people  are  permit- 
ted to  have  no  voice  in  then*  own  gov- 
ernment. Thus  they  are  unable  to  guard 
their  own  interests,  unable  to  protect 
themselves  against  unjust  laws,  unable  to 
inaugurate  those  measures  for  their  own 
advancement  which  must  always  come 
from  those  immediately  concerned. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  of  a  government 
farther  removed  from  the  people  in  spirit 
or  sympathy  than  is  that  of  India.  There 
has  been  a  marked  change  for  the  worse 
in  this  respect  within  the  past  twenty-five 
years,  since  the  vice-regal  term  of  Lord 
Ripon.  The  whole  spirit  of  the  govern- 
ment has  become  reactionary,  increas- 
ingly so,  reaching  its  culmination  in  the 
recent  administration  of  Lord  Curzon. 
The  present  Indian  Secretary,  Lord  Mor- 
ley,  has  promised  improvement;  but,  so 
far,  the  promise  has  had  no  realization. 
Instead  of  improvement,  the  situation 
has  been  made  in  important  respects 
worse.  There  have  been  tyrannies  within 
the  past  two  years,  within  the  past  three 
months,  which  even  Lord  Curzon  would 
have  shrunk  from.  There  is  no  space  here 
to  enumerate  them. 

Fifty  years  ago  the  people  were  con- 
sulted and  conciliated  in  ways  that 
would  not  now  be  thought  of.  Then 
the  government  did  not  hesitate  to  hold 
before  the  people  the  ideal  of  increasing 
political  privileges,  responsibilities,  and 
advantages.  It  was  freely  given  out 
that  the  purpose  of  the  government  was 
to  prepare  the  people  for  self-rule.  Now 
no  promise  or  intimation  of  anything  of 
the  kind  is  ever  heard  from  any  one  in 
authority.  Everywhere  in  India  one  finds 
Englishmen — officials  and  others — with 
few  exceptions  —  regarding  this  kind  of 
talk  as  little  better  than  treason.  The 
Civil  Service  of  India  is  reasonably  effi- 
cient, and  to  a  gratifying  degree  free  from 
peculation  and  corruption.  But  the  gov- 
ernment is  as  complete  a  bureaucracy  as 
that  of  Russia.  Indeed  it  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that,  as  a  bureaucracy,  it  is  as 


autocratic,  as  arbitrary  in  its  methods,  as 
reactionary  in  its  spirit,  as  far  removed 
from  sympathy  with  the  people,  as  de- 
termined to  keep  all  power  in  its  own 
hands,  as  unwilling  to  consult  the  popu- 
lar wishes,  or  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  the 
most  enlightened  portion  of  the  nation, 
even  when  expressed  through  the  great 
and  widely  representative  Indian  Na- 
tional Congress,  as  is  the  Russian  bu- 
reaucracy. Proof  of  this  can  be  furnished 
to  any  amount. 

It  is  said  that  India  is  incapable  of 
ruling  herself.  If  so,  what  an  indictment 
is  this  against  England!  She  was  not 
incapable  of  ruling  herself  before  Eng- 
land came.  Have  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  of  English  tutelage  produced  in 
her  such  deterioration  ?  As  we  have  seen, 
she  was  possessed  of  a  high  civilization 
and  of  developed  governments  long  be- 
fore England  or  any  part  of  Europe  had 
emerged  from  barbarism.  For  three  thou- 
sand years  before  England's  arrival, 
Indian  kingdoms  and  empires  had  held 
leading  places  in  Asia.  Some  of  the 
ablest  rulers,  statesmen,  and  financiers  of 
the  world  have  been  of  India's  produc- 
tion. How  is  it,  then,  that  she  loses  her 
ability  to  govern  herself  as  soon  as  Eng- 
land appears  upon  the  scene?  To  be 
sure,  at  that  time  she  was  in  a  peculiarly 
disorganized  and  unsettled  state;  for  it 
should  be  remembered  that  the  Mogul 
Empire  was  just  breaking  up,  and  new 
political  adjustments  were  everywhere 
just  being  made,  —  a  fact  which  accounts 
for  England's  being  able  to  gain  a  polit- 
ical foothold  in  India.  But  everything 
indicates  that  if  India  had  not  been  inter- 
fered with  by  European  powers,  she 
would  soon  have  been  under  competent 
governments  of  her  own  again. 

A  further  answer  to  the  assertion  that 
India  cannot  govern  herself  —  and 
surely  one  that  should  be  conclusive  — 
is  the  fact  that,  in  parts,  she  is  governing 
herself  now,  and  governing  herself  well. 
It  is  notorious  that  the  very  best  govern- 
ment in  India  to-day  is  not  that  carried 
on  by  the  British,  but  that  of  several  of 


The  New  Nationalist  Movement  in  India 


535 


the  native  states,  notably  Baroda  and 
Mysore.  In  these  states,  particularly 
Baroda,  the  people  are  more  free,  more 
prosperous,  more  contented,  and  are 
making  more  progress,  than  in  any  other 
part  of  India.  Note  the  superiority  of 
both  these  states  in  the  important  matter 
of  popular  education.  Mysore  is  spend- 
ing on  education  more  than  three  times 
as  much  per  capita  as  is  British  India, 
while  Baroda  has  made  her  education 
free  and  compulsory.  Both  of  these 
states,  but  especially  Baroda,  which  has 
thus  placed  herself  in  line  with  the  lead- 
ing nations  of  Europe  and  America  by 
making  provision  for  the  education  of  all 
her  children,  may  well  be  contrasted 
with  British  India,  which  provides  edu- 
cation, even  of  the  poorest  kind,  for  only 
one  boy  in  ten  and  one  girl  in  one  hun- 
dred and  forty-four. 

The  truth  is,  not  one  single  fact  can  be 
cited  that  goes  to  show  that  India  cannot 
govern  herself,  —  reasonably  well  at  first, 
excellently  well  later,  —  if  only  given  a 
chance.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  form 
an  Indian  Parliament  to-day,  composed 
of  men  as  able  and  of  as  high  character 
as  those  that  constitute  the  fine  Parlia- 
ment of  Japan,  or  as  those  that  will  be 
certain  to  constitute  the  not  less  able 
national  Parliament  of  China  when  the 
new  constitutional  government  of  that 
nation  comes  into  operation.  This  is  only 
another  way  of  saying  that  among  the 
leaders  in  the  various  states  and  provinces 
of  India  there  is  abundance  of  material 
to  form  an  Indian  National  Parliament 
not  inferior  in  intellectual  ability  or  in 
moral  worth  to  the  parliaments  of  the 
Western  world. 

We  have  now  before  us  the  data  for 


understanding,  at  least  in  a  measure,  the 
meaning  of  the  "  New  National  Move- 
ment in  India."  It  is  the  awakening  and 
the  protest  of  a  subject  people.  It  is  the 
effort  of  a  nation,  once  illustrious,  and 
still  conscious  of  its  inherent  superiority, 
to  rise  from  the  dust,  to  stand  once  more 
on  its  feet,  to  shake  off  fetters  which  have 
become  unendurable.  It  is  the  effort  of 
the  Indian  people  to  get  for  themselves 
again  a  country  which  shall  be  in  some 
true  sense  their  own,  instead  of  remaining, 
as  for  a  century  and  a  half  it  has  been,  a 
mere  preserve  of  a  foreign  power,  — 
in  John  Stuart  Mill's  words,  England's 
"cattle  farm."  The  people  of  India 
want  the  freedom  which  is  their  right,  — 
freedom  to  shape  their  own  institutions, 
their  own  industries,  their  own  national 
life.  This  does  not  necessarily  mean 
separation  from  Great  Britain;  but  it 
does  mean,  if  retaining  a  connection  with 
the  British  Empire,  becoming  citizens, 
and  not  remaining  forever  helpless  sub- 
jects in  the  hands  of  irresponsible  mas- 
ters. It  does  mean  a  demand  that  India 
shall  be  given  a  place  in  the  Empire 
essentially  like  that  of  Canada  or  Aus- 
tralia, with  such  autonomy  and  home  rule 
as  are  enjoyed  by  these  free,  self-govern- 
ing colonies.  Is  not  this  demand  just? 
Not  only  the  people  of  India,  but  many 
of  the  best  Englishmen,  answer  unequiv- 
ocally, Yes!  In  the  arduous  struggle 
upon  which  India  has  entered  to  attain 
this  end  (arduous  indeed  her  struggle 
must  be,  for  holders  of  autocratic  and 
irresponsible  power  seldom  in  this  world 
surrender  their  power  without  being 
compelled)  surely  she  should  have  the 
sympathy  of  the  enlightened  and  liberty- 
loving  men  and  women  of  all  nations. 


THE    CLOSED  DOOR 

BY   MARY   BURT   MESSER 

How  you  have  known  her  and  not  known  her:  in  the  midst  of  love  unutterably 

sweet,  how  you  have  believed  her  yours. 
She  is  yours,  so  much  —  no  more ! 
Have  you  never  seen  that  look  of  hers  as  she  stood  poised  for  a  moment,  —  rapt, 

inscrutable,  saying  to  love  —  love  even  —  whither  I  go  you  cannot  come  ? 
—  Unfathomable  human  soul, 
Yielding  its  tenderness,  its  pity, 
Its  perfect  and  exquisite  companionship, 
Yielding  to  the  dear  ties  of  earth  — 
But  now  as  you  turn  to  her, 
Touching  her  brown  familiar  hair, 
Far  off  —  so  far  that  the  sound  is  almost  inaudible  — 
A  door  is  faintly  closed. 


THE  HEART  OF  A  BLUE  STOCKING 


BY   LUCY    MARTIN    DONNELLY 


OF  all  the  pleasures,  I  do  not  know  a 
sweeter  than  the  sense  that  comes  to  me 
so  poignantly  a  few  times  in  the  year,  of 
the  charm  of  my  own  way  of  life.  On 
such  occasions  the  round  of  Every  Day 
takes  to  itself  all  the  airs  of  romance,  and 
the  sun  sets  above  my  little  quiet  world 
with  dramatic  importance. 

My  round  is  an  academic  one.  College 
bells  ring  me  up  in  the  morning  in  my 
room,  tiny  as  a  nun's  cell;  the  first  sight 
out  of  my  windows  is  of  gray  halls  and 
towers;  my  dress  is  the  black  stuff  gown 
that  students  have  worn  beyond  memory, 
and  for  insignia  I  put  on  their  tri-cor- 
nered  hood;  my  way  lies  all  day  long 
through  lecture-rooms  and  cloisters;  my 
occupation  is  with  ink  and  pens  and 
books  and  papers.  The  evening  over- 
takes me  in  my  study,  and  on  many  a 
night  I  have  burned  the  oil  low  in  my 

536 


lamp  as  I  read  a  folio  or  quarto  to  its  end. 
For  I  have  no  pleasure  in  your  modern 
ways  and  little  books.  I  would  read  in 
the  great  tradition  —  by  candles  —  if  I 
could,  and  I  think  a  huge  tome  none  too 
big  an  armful  for  a  student.  Yellowed 
pages,  oddities  in  spelling,  bindings  em- 
browned by  time  and  lettered  crook- 
edly in  a  gilt  somewhat  bedimmed  and 
rubbed  out  at  the  corners,  all  weave  for 
me  illusions  of  scholarship. 

I  am  so  old-fashioned,  perhaps,  be- 
cause I  am  a  woman,  permitted  very  late 
in  the  ages  to  partake  of  "  the  sweet  food 
of  academic  tuition."  It  has  for  me,  I 
daresay,  a  flavor  not  sensible  to  manly 
palates.  They  have  tasted  too  often  and 
too  greedily  of  the  figurative  apple,  any 
longer  to  be  very  conscious  of  its  deli- 
ciousness. 

Not  that  I  am  uninformed,  deprecat- 


The  Heart  of  a  Blue  Stocking 


537 


ory  Reader,  —  if  such  you  be,  —  of  the 
very  antique  origin  of  Blue  Stockings. 
The  little  girl  in  the  old  library  is  of 
course  legendary,  bending  over  moulder- 
ing books  and  teaching  herself  difficult 
alphabets  with  a  sweet  ardor  for  learning. 
So,  too,  is  the  Queen  who  loved  a  Greek 
tragedy  well  enough  to  rise  in  an  early 
Tudor  dawn  to  read;  the  Great  Lady  of 
an  hundred  or  two  years  later  who  prized 
a  Latin  history  as  a  first  gift  from  a  lover 
of  pedantic  humor;  and  yet  the  third, 
who  understood  the  Platonic  and  Epicu- 
rean philosophy  —  "  judging  very  well  of 
the  defects  of  the  latter  "  —  and  was 
thoroughly  versed  in  the  Seven  Errors  of 
Hobbes. 

I  feel  all  the  sentiment  in  the  world 
(let  me  parenthesize)  for  Stella's  phi- 
losophy; indeed,  I  impugn  the  learning 
of  no  lady;  but  for  nicety  of  argument 
I  must  pronounce  these  great  examples 
of  bookishness,  one  and  all,  "  Reading 
Ladies,"  and  not,  in  the  honorable  old 
phrase,  "  Ladies  Collegiate."  The  dis- 
tinction I  know  to  be  essential.  The 
Reading  Lady  loves  a  book;  the  Lady 
Collegiate  loves  a  university.  A  strange 
passion  for  a  lady !  To  forswear  gardens 
and  parlors  for  mere  grassy  quads  and 
academic  porticoes;  to  exchange  silks 
for  the  never-changing  fashion  of  a 
scholar's  rusty  serge,  and  trinkets  for 
goose-quills  and  inkpots;  to  prefer  the 
bookish  scent  of  libraries  to  roses,  per- 
haps; to  devote  her  days  to  learned  dis- 
course, and  her  evenings  to  the  solitary 
meditation  recommended  the  student; 
this,  in  a  word,  is  the  discipline  to  which 
the  Lady  Collegiate  vows  herself.  Its 
harshnesses  Reading  Ladies  have  not 
the  heart  for;  I  have  met  gentlewomen 
fleeing  in  dismay  beyond  academic 
bounds,  and  have  come  upon  piles  of 
their  abandoned  books.  These,  I  take  it, 
are  the  due  prize  of  a  militant  Blue 
Stocking. 

For  I  know  her  well,  gentle  Reader. 
I  have  stood  her  friend.  As  you  have 
already  guessed,  I  am  of  her  race  and 
sympathies.  In  fact,  from  the  tender  age 


when  first  I  crept  to  school,  carrying  my 
satchel  of  books  like  my  brother,  my 
destiny  has  been  written  with  hers  in 
some  not-too-learned  configuration;  and 
I  have  often  reflected  that,  in  happy 
metaphor,  I  should  be  said  to  have  lived 
my  life  in  the  schoolroom.  By  an  easy 
logic,  then,  I  am  no  friend  to  those  who 
mark  a  mere  dozen  years  or  so  spent 
there  with  glances  at  clock  and  calendar, 
and  mockery  of  Dry-as-Dust  and  Sums 
and  Grammar.  For  my  part,  I  like  the 
swing  of  a  fine  old  conjugation  —  it  often 
echoes  me  as  far  as  Alexandria;  and 
though  I  am  not  by  temperament  mathe- 
matically inclined,  I  have  lived  my  time 
under  the  ferule  and  ciphered  a  black- 
board full  of  figures  —  and  the  like  fan- 
tastics  —  with  pleasurable  self-respect. 

If,  however,  I  have  an  academic  van- 
ity, it  is  to  see  the  whole  world  hang 
round  me  day  after  day  on  parti-colored 
maps,  and  on  important  occasion  to 
turn  about  a  globe  of  the  heavens,  fol- 
lowing with  my  finger  the  celestial  paths 
of  suns  and  planets.  I  love,  too,  the  proud 
talk  of  the  schoolroom.  Nowhere  else 
does  the  converse  fall  so  frequently  on 
heroes,  gods,  and  emperors.  Nowhere 
else,  moreover,  are  their  renowned  tasks 
and  wearinesses  so  much  one's  own. 
Memorable  to  me  at  least  is  the  labor  I 
endured  as  a  slim  schoolgirl  in  the  build- 
ing of  Caesar's  bridge;  the  fatigue  of 
Cyrus's  forced  marches;  the  temptation, 
not  yielded  to  in  the  heroic  season  of 
youth,  to  march  down  comfortably  and 
gorgeously  to  the  sea  with  the  hosts  of 
Xerxes. 

But  the  school  —  the  college  —  that 
raised  my  imagination  to  these  great 
ideas,  did  not,  to  my  mind  and  according 
to  popular  fallacy,  prepare  me  for  "  life 
in  the  world."  On  the  contrary !  They 
taught  me  to  live  with  the  great  and  to 
enjoy  an  adventure  every  day.  After  my 
taste  to  bite  the- dust  in  Homeric  warfare, 
practice  a  mediaeval  courtesy,  or  live 
hours  long  enlightened  in  "  The  Age  of 
Reason."  Through  the  schoolroom,  in 
a  word,  history  and  mythology  parade; 


538 


The  Heart  of  a  Blue  Stocking 


on  its  tables  the  whole  feast  of  experi- 
ence is  spread.  There  you  are  offered 
no  single  portion  of  homely  fare;  there 
no  shallow  goblet;  but  you  drink,  like 
an  old-world  god,  from  inexhaustible 
cups. 

There  is  a  dignity,  I  think,  in  thus 
imbibing  knowledge;  and  pedantry  itself 
is  but  the  sweet  intoxication  of  the  stu- 
dent's mind.  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  un- 
learn the  name  of  Anchises'  nurse,  or  of 
Archemon's  stepmother,  or  forget  how 
long  Acestes  lived,  or  how  much  wine  he 
gave  the  Phrygians.  In  all  of  which,  it 
seems,  the  greatest  spirits  have  been  at 
one  with  me,  and  kings  themselves,  when 
they  could  no  longer  be  scholars,  have 
wished  to  turn  schoolmasters :  Alexander 
the  Great,  and  James  of  both  Scotland 
and  England,  and,  I  daresay,  many  an- 
other, had  he  but  taken  occasion  to  con- 
fess his  royal  will. 

So  it  is  that  I  choose  to  linger  my  life 
away  —  in  fancy  or  reality  —  in  a  dozen 
universities.  (For  from  old  habit  and 
with  no  more  than  the  prindpia  —  the 
rudiments  —  of  philosophy,  I  can  hale 
myself  from  the  wide  campus  of  a  west- 
ern world  to  an  Athenian  garden,  or  take 
my  place  on  the  bench  of  an  old  English 
classroom.)  I  have  too  long  inhaled 
learning  to  breathe,  though  myself  not 
learned,  in  unscholarly  atmosphere.  I 
could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  jostle 
strangers  in  the  street  when  I  might  walk 
out  with  important  professor  or  gay 
student;  nor,  after  all  the  years,  humble 
my  mind  to  dwell  in  a  house  instead  of  a 
hall.  Custom  has  bred  me  to  pace  daily 
corridors  bordered  by  effigies  of  the  Cae- 
sars, and  to  hear  my  hours  rung  out  by 
bells  swung  in  a  high  gray  tower.  With 
changing  mood  I  drink  in  the  peace  of  a 
cloister  garden,  or  affect  the  bustle  and 
flurry  of  examinations.  Academic  plati- 
tudes are  become  familiar  and  comfort- 
able to  me ;  academic  wit  is  more  elegant 
to  my  taste  than  is  worldly.  I  love  a  mot 
with  a  pedantic  point  to  it,  a  humor  not 
unburdened  by  the  weight  of  authority. 
Even  a  university  bulletin-board  has 


for  me  the  official  charm  of  a  great  tra- 
dition, and  names  lightly  subscribed  to 
notices  fluttering  there  often,  as  on  the 
crabbed  paper  before  me,  live  to  become 
immortal. 

"The  following  students  have  regis- 
tered for  a  course  in  practical  philosophy 
and  ethics  to  be  given  in  the  winter 
semester  of  this  year. 

"  I.  KANT. 

"  Koenigsberg,  Oct.  3,  1773." 

I  should  add  that  I  never  see  a  student 
sitting  at  a  window  without  remember- 
ing how  Erasmus  would  bend  over  his 
book  in  the  old  quad  at  Queen's;  nor 
ever  mount  the  platform  of  my  lecture- 
room  without  an  emotion,  because  of 
Galileo's  that  I  know  to  be  rotting  away 
in  Padua. 

Sometimes,  I  confess,  the  walls  of  my 
college  seem  to  be  narrowing  round  me. 
My  affections  would  stretch  beyond, 
would  sun  themselves  a  little  in  the 
warmth  outside.  Of  a  night  I  have  been 
haunted  by  a  student's  terrors:  I  have 
dreamed  that  scholars  were  jugglers 
playing  a  game  with  ideas  instead  of 
balls;  or  have  figured,  with  all  the  lively 
horror  of  a  vision,  as  the  absurd  Latin- 
prating  pedant  in  an  old  comedy  I  was 
reading  when  I  fell  asleep.  So  on  waking 
I  have  imaged  myself  —  not  without 
awkwardness  —  on  an  adventure  unaca- 
demic. 

0 'tis  not  fit 

That  all  the  sweetness  of  the  world  in  one, 
The  youth  and  virtue  that  would  tame  wild 

tigers 

And  wilder  people  that  have  known  no  man- 
ners, 
Should  live  thus  cloistered  up. 

I  have  felt,  too,  the  wish  for  a  world  that 
is  not  forever  fleeting  —  vanishing  from 
me  through  a  Gothic  archway  to  let  in  a 
troop  of  strange  young  smiling  creatures. 
For  they,  I  know,  in  their  turn,  will  pass 
through  the  same  cycle,  and  in  their  turn 
will  leave  me  to  shiver  a  little  in  my  clois- 
ter under  a  cold  moon. 
Not  that  I  would  follow  the  endless 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


539 


procession  out  through  the  gate !  I  have 
ventured  abroad  in  my  time,  only  to 
make  haste  back  under  collegiate  shelter. 
While  the  old  strongholds  of  the  World 
of  Ideas,  the  "  Homes  of  Wisdom,"  are 


to  be  maintained  against  the  assaults  of 
the  World  of  Affairs,  it  is  not  for  a  mili- 
tant Blue  Stocking,  faint  though  her 
strength  may  be,  to  surrender  an  antique 
loyalty. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  EGYPT 


BY   JAMES   MASCARENE   HUBBARD 


"  EGYPT  contains  more  marvelous  things 
than  any  other  country,  things  too 
strange  for  words."  This  statement  of 
Herodotus  is  as  true  in  some  respects 
to-day  as  when  he  made  it,  more  than 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Compare  the 
present  condition  of  the  land  with  that 
which  existed  in  1876.  Then  Ismail 
Pasha,  a  pinchbeck  Pharaoh,  as  he  has 
been  aptly  termed,  was  the  ruler.  The 
main  characteristic  of  his  reign  and  the 
cause  of  his  deposition,  namely,  his  ex- 
travagant expenditure,  was  due,  strange 
though  the  statement  may  seem,  to 
our  Civil  War.  When  he  ascended  the 
throne  in  1863,  the  value  of  the  annual 
crop  of  Egyptian  cotton,  of  which  the 
greater  part  was  the  Khedive's  personal 
property,  had  suddenly  increased  five- 
fold ;  that  is,  was  worth,  instead  of  twenty- 
five  million,  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  million  dollars.  It  should  be  added 
that  it  fell  back  within  two  years  to  the 
old  value  as  suddenly  as  it  rose. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this 
extraordinary  increase  of  Ismail's  riches 
turned  his  head  and  occasioned  his  fi- 
nancial crimes  and  follies.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  debt  of  Egypt,  which  in  1863 
was  in  round  numbers  fifteen  million 
dollars,  in  1876  was  five  hundred  mil- 
lion. For  all  practical  purposes,  with  the 
exception  of  eighty  millions  spent  on  the 
Suez  Canal,  this  vast  sum  was  squan- 
dered. Ismail's  private  funds  and  the 
resources  of  his  subjects  being  alike  ex- 
hausted, Egypt  was  declared  bankrupt, 


and  the  dual  control  of  France  and  Eng- 
land began. 

What  was  the  condition  of  his  people 
at  that  time?  It  is  probably  true  that, 
as  regards  natural  conditions,  there  is 
no  people  in  the  world  more  favorably 
situated  than  the  Egyptian  peasants  or 
fellaheen.  They  live  in  an  equable  cli- 
mate, and  have  a  soil  of  inexhaustible 
fertility,  which  is  tilled  with  extraordi- 
nary ease.  Yet  to  secure  a  harvest 
requires,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year, 
such  constant  labor  and  watchfulness 
that  the  fellah,  with  this  healthy  spur  to 
active  exertion,  has  never  sunk  to  the 
condition  of  the  tropical  savage,  from 
whom  all  anxiety  for  food  is  taken  by  a 
too-indulgent  Nature.  The  desert  which 
hems  in  his  fields  is  his  safeguard  and 
protection.  Without  hostile  neighbors 
or  foreign  foes,  therefore,  he  is  peaceful, 
and  free  from  restless  ambitions  for  con- 
quest. A  still  more  important  factor  of 
his  happiness  is  the  fact  that  the  vast 
majority  of  the  fellaheen  are  of  one  race 
and  religion.  He  does  not  suffer  from 
those  ceaseless  disturbances  arising 
from  the  mutual  hatred  of  people  of 
different  nationality  and  belief,  such  as 
have  made  the  villages  of  Macedonia 
and  Armenia  the  scenes  of  fratricidal 
strife  for  centuries.  His  wants  are  few 
and  simple,  and  do  not  extend  beyond 
what  his  fields  and  flocks,  and  above  all 
his  bounteous  river,  can  give  him  in 
abundance.  The  purely  natural  condi- 
tions, then,  are  more  nearly  perfect  than 


540 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


can  be  found  in  any  other  part  of  the 
world.  Given  a  wise,  just,  and  humane 
government,  and  there  is  no  peasant's  lot 
so  enviable  as  that  of  the  Egyptian 
fellah. 

How  then  was  he  affected  in  the  matter 
of  taxation  by  his  Khedive's  extravagant 
expenditures  and  ever-pressing  need  of 
money  ?  In  addition  to  the  land-tax,  the 
fellah  himself  was  taxed,  his  wife  and 
children,  his  crop  and  cattle  in  the  field 
and  again  at  the  market,  his  license  as 
tradesman  or  workman,  and  the  product 
of  his  work,  his  cart,  his  boat,  —  even  the 
loan  which  he  had  contracted  to  pay  his 
taxes,  was  taxed.  When  Lord  Cromer,1 
then  Sir  Evelyn  Baring,  came  to  Egypt 
in  1877  as  English  Commissioner  of  the 
Debt,  he  made  a  list  of  thirty-seven  such 
petty  taxes  of  the  most  harassing  nature, 
and  doubted  if  the  list  was  complete. 
This  would  not  be  unendurable  provided 
a  certain  fixed  sum  had  to  be  paid.  But 
when  the  claims  of  the  treasury,  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  province,  the  head  of  the 
village,  and  the  tax-collector,  had  been 
satisfied,  the  unfortunate  fellah  had  paid 
perhaps  three  times  as  much  as  could 
be  rightly  demanded  of  him.  The  fiscal 
history  of  Ismail's  reign  is  simply  a  re- 
cord of  increased  taxation,  forced  loans, 
and  arbitrary  requisitions.  Shortly  after 
his  accession,  twenty-five  per  cent  was 
added  to  the  land-tax ;  and  four  times  at 
least  in  the  next  twelve  years  this  tax  was 
raised  by  amounts  varying  from  ten  to 
fifty  per  cent. 

Nor  was  this  increase  of  the  regular 
taxes  all.  "  Every  day  some  new  tax," 
writes  Lady  Duff-Gordon  in  1868.  A  de- 
cree is  issued,  for  instance,  that  every 
artisan  shall  immediately  pay  twenty- 
five  piastres  for  the  privilege  of  contin- 
uing his  work  at  his  trade.  As  there 
was  no  fixed  amount,  so  there  was  no 
regular  time  for  collecting  the  taxes.  The 
collector  might  appear  during  the  har- 
vest when  the  cultivator  presumably  had 

1  Modern  Egypt.  By  the  EARL  OF  CROMER 
[SiR  EVELYN  BARING].  Two  vols.  New  York : 
The  Macmillan  Go.  1908. 


money,  or  at  any  other  time  of  the  year. 
If  in  the  summer,  the  growing  corn  was 
sold  at  perhaps  half  its  value,  and  there 
were  recorded  cases  of  corn  sold  for  fifty 
piastres  an  ardeb  (five  and  a  half  bushels) 
"  which  was  delivered  in  a  month's  time, 
when  it  was  worth  one  hundred  and 
twenty  piastres  an  ardeb."  If  the  tax  col- 
lector appeared  in  the  winter  or  spring, 
the  peasant  was  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  the  village  money-lender,  from  whom 
he  borrowed,  often  at  the  rate  of  sixty 
per  cent  per  annum. 

Toward  the  close  of  these  dark  days, 
as  the  needs  of  the  Khedive  became  more 
pressing,  all  pretense  of  lawful  methods 
of  raising  money  was  cast  aside.  "  The 
taxes  are  now  .being  collected  in  ad- 
vance," writes  a  resident.  "  The  people 
are  being  terribly  beaten  to  get  next  year's 
taxes  out  of  them,"  writes  another.  For 
the  ordinary  methods  of  extorting  pay- 
ment under  these  circumstances  were 
imprisonment,  —  that  is,  being  chained 
neck,  hands,  and  feet  with  a  string  of 
malefactors;  or  being  beaten  with  a  rhi- 
noceros-hide whip,  the  courbash,  on  the 
soles  of  the  feet,  until  the  money  was  pro- 
duced. It  was  the  common  boast  of  the 
fellah  that  he  received  so  many  lashes 
before  he  paid. 

There  was  still  more  that  Ismail  could 
take  from  the  poor  taxpayer  when  his 
last  piastre  had  gone  —  his  labor.  The 
corvee,  or  system  of  forced  labor  at  the 
demand  of  the  government,  in  itself  is 
neither  new,  nor  confined  to  Egypt,  nor 
necessarily  unjust.  In  its  simplest  form 
it  is  represented  by  the  New  England 
farmer  working  on  the  highways.  This 
work  corresponds  hi  Egypt  to  the 
strengthening  of  the  embankments,  the 
cleaning  of  canals  and  digging  of  ditches 
to  secure  the  proper  flooding  of  the  fields 
during  the  high  Nile,  and  their  drainage 
when  the  river  falls.  From  time  immemo- 
rial the  rural  population  has  been  called 
out  to  do  this  work,  which  is  absolutely 
essential  to  the  existence  of  the  coun- 
try. As  late  as  1885,  two  hundred  and 
thirty-four  thousand  men  were  called  out 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


541 


to  work  for  one  hundred  days  in  the 
year. 

But,  in  addition  to  the  corvee  for  labor 
upon  the  irrigation  works,  there  were 
innumerable  requisitions  for  labor  for 
other  things.  Unlimited  numbers  of  the 
fellaheen  might  be  dragged  away  from 
their  villages  at  any  time  for  any  purpose, 
public  or  private,  legitimate  or  illegiti- 
mate, upon  which  the  Khedive  chose  to 
employ  them.  His  private  estates,  repre- 
senting about  one-fifth  of  the  arable  land, 
were  cultivated  to  a  great  extent  by  forced 
labor.  "  At  one  time  there  were  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  men,  women, 
and  children  driven  forth  with  whips 
from  their  villages  to  perform  wageless 
work  on  the  Khedive's  roads  through  his 
property  to  the  cotton-fields  and  sugar 
plantations."  In  one  of  her  "  Letters 
from  Egypt,"  Lady  Duff-Gordon  writes, 
"  All  this  week  the  people  have  been 
working  night  and  day  cutting  their  un- 
ripe corn,  because  three  hundred  and  ten 
men  (a  third  of  the  male  population)  are 
to  go  to-morrow  to  work  on  the  railway 
below  Siout.  This  green  corn,  of  course, 
is  valueless  to  sell  and  unwholesome  to 
eat.  So  the  magnificent  harvest  of  this 
year  is  turned  to  bitterness  at  the  last 
moment.  From  the  whole  province 
twenty-five  thousand  men  were  taken 
on  this  occasion  to  work  for  sixty  days 
without  food  or  pay.*' 

But  the  poor  fellaheen  dreaded  the 
conscription  far  more  than  the  corvee. 
The  conscript  was  led  away  in  chains 
under  the  blows  of  the  courbash,  and 
amid  precisely  the  same  violent  expres- 
sions of  grief  on  the  part  of  his  relatives 
as  usually  attend  a  funeral.  If  he  ever 
returned  to  his  home  (which  was  doubt- 
ful in  any  case,  for  there  were  no  laws 
regulating  military  service,  and  impos- 
sible if  he  was  sent  to  the  Sudan,  which 
was  equivalent  to  perpetual  exile),  he 
was  generally  mutilated  or  smitten  with 
some  fatal  disease.  No  wonder,  then, 
that,  even  in  childhood,  multitudes  of  the 
people  maimed  or  blinded  themselves 
that  they  might  escape  the  conscription. 


Justice,  as  we  understand  the  word, 
was  absolutely  unknown  to  the  Egyptian 
peasant  in  those  dark  days.  In  the  time 
of  the  flood,  the  canals  were  first  tapped 
for  the  estates  of  the  Khedive,  then  for 
the  pashas  and  village  sheikhs,  and  last 
of  all  for  the  peasants.  Times  innumer- 
able did  they  return  to  their  villages  from 
their  month-long  labor  on  the  corvee,  to 
find  that  their  fields  had  been  neglected 
and  their  hopes  of  a  harvest  ruined. 
Bribery  was  universal.  Each  grade  in 
the  public  service  gave  "  bakhshish  "  to 
the  one  above,  and  recouped  itself  with 
interest  from  the  one  below.  The  miser- 
able fellah,  being  at  the  bottom  of  the 
scale,  had  in  the  end,  therefore,  to  bear 
the  whole  burden. 

At  the  close  of  Ismail's  reign,  two- 
thirds  of  the  cultivated  land  had  passed 
out  of  the  possession  of  the  peasant 
proprietor.  The  Khedive  had  acquired, 
in  great  part  by  arbitrary  seizure,  one 
million  acres.  Most  of  the  remainder, 
through  forced  sales  and  expropriations, 
had  become  the  property  of  the  foreign 
usurers.  Stripped  of  his  possessions, 
then,  subject  to  be  chained,  whipped, 
and  sent  far  away  from  his  home  to 
dig  canals  and  build  roads,  or  to  serve 
in  the  army  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
Khedive,  such  was  the  condition  of  the 
fellah  under  Ismail.  And  though  of  all 
peasants,  probably,  he  is  the  most  at- 
tached to  his  home,  yet  to  escape  his 
cruel  oppressor  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
abandon  his  hut  on  the  river-bank  and 
to  take  refuge  in  the  neighboring  Sahara. 
"  Whole  villages  are  deserted,"  writes 
Lady  Duff-Gordon,  "and  thousands  have 
run  away  into  the  desert  between  this 
and  Assouan.  The  hands  of  the  gov- 
ernment are  awfully  heavy  on  them." 

I  might  multiply  indefinitely  these  in- 
stances of  the  wretchedness  and  misery 
of  this  people,  suffering  not  from  war, 
famine,  or  pestilence,  or  the  deserved 
penalty  for  rebellion,  but  simply  from 
evil  rulers.  One  more  will  be  sufficient ; 
and  is  the  condition  of  a  people  better 
indicated  than  in  the  songs  of  the  child- 


542 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


ren?  Listen  then  to  the  Egyptian  boys 
and  girls  of  thirty  years  ago,  at  work  in 
the  fields  and  singing  in  responsive 
chorus :  — 

Boys  —  They  starve  us,  they  starve  us. 
Girls  —  They  beat  us,  they  beat  us. 
Boys  —  But  there  's  Some  One  above. 
Girls  —  Who  will  punish  them  well. 

The  Egypt  of  to-day,  what  is  its  con- 
dition ?  As  regards  its  financial  situation, 
its  public  debt  remains  about  the  same  in 
amount,  but  with  a  much  smaller  inter- 
est charge.  The  annual  deficit  lasted  till 
1888;  but  from  that  time  the  revenue 
has  exceeded  the  expenditure,  and  in 
1906  the  aggregate  surplus  amounted  to 
one  hundred  and  thirty-seven  million 
five  hundred  thousand  dollars,  although 
eighty  million  dollars  had  been  spent  on 
railways,  irrigation,  and  public  buildings. 
A  general  reserve  fund  of  over  fifty-five 
million  dollars  has  been  created.  All  this 
has  been  accomplished,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  direct  taxation  has  been  de- 
creased by  a  little  less  than  ten  million 
dollars  a  year.  The  nation  which  was 
bankrupt  in  1876  has  now  a  financial 
standing  in  the  world  "  only  second  to 
that  of  France  and  England."  The  cul- 
tivated area  has  nearly  doubled  in  extent, 
while  the  value  of  the  irrigation  works 
is  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  introduction 
of  perennial  irrigation  into  a  tract  of  four 
hundred  thousand  acres  in  Middle  Egypt, 
by  means  of  the  Assouan  Dam,  has  in- 
creased its  selling  value  one  hundred  and 
fifty  million  dollars.  More  than  a  million 
peasants  own  farms  of  less  than  five 
acres,  and  to  maintain  them  in  their  hold- 
ings, as  well  as  to  enable  them  to  pur- 
chase seed  and  manure,  an  Agricultural 
Bank  has  been  established  which  has 
loaned  forty-five  million  dollars  in  small 
sums  to  the  fellaheen.  To  spread  a  know- 
ledge of  scientific  cultivation,  agricul- 
tural and  horticultural  societies  have 
been  formed. 

We  have  seen  that  the  amount  of 
the  fellah's  taxes  has  been  decreased. 
But  this  is  not  all.  "  The  poorest  peas- 
ant in  the  country,**  says  Lord  Mil- 


ner,  "  is  now  annually  furnished  with 
a  tax-paper,  which  shows  him  exactly 
what  he  has  to  pay  to  the  government, 
and  at  what  seasons  the  installments  are 
due.  The  dates  of  these  installments, 
moreover,  which  vary  in  different  pro- 
vinces, have  been  arranged  so  as  to  cor- 
respond as  nearly  as  possible  with  the 
seasons  when  the  cultivator  realizes  his 
produce,  and  is  therefore  in  the  best 
position  to  discharge  his  debt  to  the 
State.'* 

But  a  better  and  more  concise  descrip- 
tion of  the  changed  condition  of  the  Egyp- 
tian cannot  be  found  than  that  given  by 
the  one  who  of  all  men  knows  him  best, 
Lord  Cromer.  "  A  new  spirit  has  been 
instilled  into  the  population  of  Egypt. 
Even  the  peasant  has  learned  to  scan 
his  rights.  Even  the  Pasha  has  learned 
that  others  beside  himself  have  rights 
which  must  be  respected.  The  courbash 
may  hang  on  the  walls  of  the  Moudirieh, 
but  the  Moudir  no  longer  dares  to  em- 
ploy it  on  the  backs  of  the  fellaheen.  For 
all  practical  purposes,  it  may  be  said  that 
the  hateful  corvee  system  has  disap- 
peared. Slavery  has  virtually  ceased  to 
exist.  The  halcyon  days  of  the  adven- 
turer and  the  usurer  are  past.  Fiscal  bur- 
thens have  been  greatly  relieved.  Every- 
where law  reigns  supreme.  Justice  is  no 
longer  bought  and  sold.  Nature,  instead 
of  being  spurned  and  neglected,  has  been 
wooed  to  bestow  her  gifts  on  mankind. 
She  has  responded  to  the  appeal.  The 
waters  of  the  Nile  are  now  utilized  in  an 
intelligent  manner.  Means  of  locomotion 
have  been  improved  and  extended.  The 
soldier  has  acquired  some  pride  in  the 
uniform  which  he  wears.  He  has  fought 
as  he  never  fought  before.  The  sick  man 
can  be  nursed  in  a  well-managed  hos- 
pital. The  lunatic  is  no  longer  treated 
like  a  wild  beast.  The  punishment 
awarded  to  the  worst  criminal  is  no 
longer  barbarous.  Lastly,  the  school- 
master is  abroad,  with  results  which  are 
as  yet  uncertain,  but  which  cannot  fail 
to  be  important." 

This  transformation  of  the  bankrupt, 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


543 


impoverished  Egypt,  with  a  rapidity 
without  a  parallel  in  history,  into  one 
of  the  most  prosperous  regions  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  wretched  fellah  into  a 
man,  —  to  quote  the  testimony  of  Mus- 
tapha  Fehmy  Pasha,  the  Egyptian  pre- 
mier, given  at  the  great  farewell  demon- 
stration to  Lord  Cromer  in  Cairo,  — 
"  who  enjoys  happy  days  owing  to  the 
improvement  in  his  moral  and  material 
condition,"  to  what  is  it  due?  Again, 
history  will  be  searched  in  vain  for  any- 
thing similar  to  the  way  in  which  the 
country  has  been  governed  for  the  past 
twenty-five  years.  The  dual  control  of 
the  finances  by  France  and  England, 
necessitated  by  Ismail's  suspension  of 
payments  of  treasury  bills,  lasted  till  the 
Arabi  Pasha  rebellion,  which  England 
alone  crushed,  France  refusing  to  take 
any  part  in  the  military  operations.  Since 
the  battle  of  Tel-el-Kebir  in  1882,  Eng- 
land has  exercised  sovereign  power.  But 
it  is  not  a  sovereignty  like  that  over 
India.  It  is  rather  a  "  power  behind  the 
throne."  The  Khedive,  with  a  native  min- 
istry and  legislative  council,  still  rules; 
and  the  Sultan  is  his  supreme  lord,  to 
whom  he  pays  annual  tribute.  The  one 
new  and  significant  thing  is  the  presence 
of  English  troops:  But  they  number  only 
four  thousand  six  hundred  and  sixty, 
while  the  well-equipped  and  efficient 
native  army,  a  product  of  the  British 
rule,  is  twenty  thousand  strong.  The 
situation  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  Great 
Powers  consented  to  the  British  occu- 
pation only  on  the  understanding  that  it 
was  temporary,  and  that  there  should  be 
no  organic  changes  in  the  government. 
Hence  the  British  were  forced  to  adopt 
then*  Indian  policy  of  ruling  through  the 
existing  institutions  and  forms  of  admin- 
istration. The  way  in  which  this  sover- 
eignty was  to  be  exercised  is  definitely 
stated  by  Lord  Granville,  in  a  memor- 
able dispatch  addressed  to  the  Great 
Powers  on  January  3,  1883 :  — 

"  Although,  for  the  present,  a  British 
force  remains  in  Egypt  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  public  tranquillity,  her  Majesty's 


Government  are  desirous  of  withdrawing 
it  as  soon  as  the  state  of  the  country,  and 
the  organization  of  proper  means  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  Khedive's  authority, 
will  admit  of  it.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
position  in  which  her  Majesty's  Govern- 
ment is  placed  towards  his  Highness, 
imposes  upon  them  the  duty  of  giving 
advice  with  the  object  of  securing  that 
the  order  of  things  to  be  established  shall 
be  of  a  satisfactory  character,  and  shall 
possess  the  elements  of  stability  and  pro- 
gress." 

It  is  true  of  course  that  it  was  distinctly 
understood  that  on  important  matters 
the  advice  given  must  be  followed,  and 
the  presence  of  the  English  troops  is 
intended  to  ensure  this.  But  the  unprece- 
dented fact  remains  that,  from  the  be- 
ginning, the  English  exercised  their  sov- 
ereignty by  advice-giving  or,  as  Lord 
Milner  puts  it,  through  influence. 

It  is  certainly  very  remarkable  that  the 
man  on  whom  the  chief  burden  of  giving 
advice  lay  for  nearly  twenty-four  years, 
and  to  whom  belongs  the  chief  credit  for 
what  has  been  accomplished,  has  been 
able  to  tell  the  story  of  the  regeneration 
of  the  country.  Lord  Cromer's  Modern 
Egypt  not  only  is  one  of  the  most  note- 
worthy books  of  the  time  from  a  literary 
and  historical  point  of  view,  but  it  is  a 
contribution  of  inestimable  value  to  the 
science  of  statesmanship.  In  this  "  accu- 
rate narrative  of  some  of  the  principal 
events  which  have  occurred  in  Egypt  and 
in  the  Soudan  since  the  year  1876,"  he 
shows  in  a  most  graphic  manner  the 
difficulties  with  which  he  and  the  British 
"  advisers "  attached  to  the  different 
departments  of  the  government  had  to 
contend.  These  difficulties  fall  into  two 
classes,  of  which  the  first  arose  from  the 
fact  that  "  one  alien  race,  the  English, 
have  had  to  control  and  guide  a  second 
alien  race,  the  Turks,  by  whom  they  are 
disliked,  in  the  government  of  a  third 
race,  the  Egyptians.  To  these  latter,  both 
the  paramount  races  are  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent unsympathetic."  These  difficulties, 
however,  are  not  peculiar  to  Egypt,  as 


544 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


are  those  of  the  other  class,  which  arise 
from  the  diplomatic  obligations  under 
which  the  country  is  governed.  These 
obligations  are  founded  upon  treaties, 
known  as  the  "  Capitulations,"  the  earli- 
est of  which  dates  back  to  the  sixteenth 
century.  They  were  primarily  intended 
to  make  it  possible  for  Christians  to  re- 
side and  trade  in  the  territories  of  the 
Porte,  by  protecting  them  against  the 
ill-usage  to  which,  as  defenseless  strang- 
ers of  an  alien  faith,  they  would  other- 
wise have  been  exposed.  They  are  of 
such  a  comprehensive  nature,  and  are  so 
far-reaching  in  their  application  in  Egypt, 
that  "  all  its  most  important  laws  are 
passed,  not  by  any  of  its  inhabitants  or 
by  any  institutions  existing  within  its  own 
confines,  but  by  the  governments  and 
legislative  institutions  of  sixteen  foreign 
Powers.  It  has  also  to  be  borne  in  mind 
that  unanimity  amongst  all  the  foreign 
Powers  is  necessary  before  any  law  can 
come  into  force."  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  in  a  few  words  the  obstacle  to 
reform  and  progress  created  by  this  fact. 
"  Hampered  at  every  turn  by  the  privi- 
leges "  are  Lord  Cromer's  words  describ- 
ing the  situation,  and  they  must  suffice. 
Nor  can  I  do  better  than  let  him  describe 
the  various  duties  and  responsibilities 
which  fell  to  his  lot:  — 

"  I  never  received  any  general  instruc- 
tions for  my  guidance  during  the  time  I 
held  the  post  of  British  Consul-General 
in  Egypt,  and  I  never  asked  for  any  such 
instructions,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  use- 
less for  me  to  do  so.  My  course  of  action 
was  decided  according  to  the  merits  of 
each  case  with  which  I  had  to  deal. 
Sometimes  I  spurred  the  unwilling  Egyp- 
tian along  the  path  of  reform.  At  other 
times,  I  curbed  the  impatience  of  the 
British  reformer.  Sometimes  I  had  to 
explain  to  the  old-world  Mohammedan 
the  elementary  differences  between  the 
principles  of  government  in  vogue  in  the 
seventh  and  in  the  nineteenth  centuries. 
At  other  times,  I  had  to  explain  to  the 
young  Gallicised  Egyptian  that  the  prin- 
ciples of  an  ultra-Republican  Govern- 


ment were  not  applicable  in  their  entirety 
to  the  existing  phase  of  Egyptian  society, 
and  that,  when  we  speak  of  the  rights  of 
man,  some  distinction  has  necessarily  to 
be  made  in  practice  between  a  European 
spouting  nonsense  through  the  medium 
of  a  fifth-rate  newspaper  in  his  own 
country,  and  man  in  the  person  of  a 
ragged  fellah,  possessed  of  a  sole  gar- 
ment, and  who  is  unable  to  read  a  news- 
paper in  any  language  whatsoever.  I 
had  to  support  the  reformer  sufficiently 
to  prevent  him  from  being  discouraged, 
and  sufficiently  also  to  enable  him  to 
carry  into  execution  all  that  was  essential 
in  his  reforming  policy.  I  had  to  check 
the  reformer  when  he  wished  to  push  his 
reforms  so  far  as  to  shake  the  whole 
political  fabric  in  his  endeavor  to  over- 
come the  tiresome  and,  to  his  eyes,  often 
trumpery  obstacles  in  his  path.  I  had 
to  support  the  supremacy  of  the  Sultan 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  oppose  any 
practical  Turkish  interference  in  the 
administration,  which  necessarily  con- 
noted a  relapse  into  barbarism.  I  had  at 
times  to  retire  into  my  diplomatic  shell, 
and  to  pose  as  one  amongst  many  repre- 
sentatives of  foreign  Powers.  At  other 
times,  I  had  to  step  forward  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  Sovereign  whose  soldiers 
held  Egypt  in  their  grip.  I  had  to  main- 
tain British  authority  and,  at  the  same 
time,  to  hide  as  much  as  possible  the  fact 
that  I  was  maintaining  it.  I  had  to  avoid 
any  step  which  might  involve  the  crea- 
tion of  European  difficulties  by  reason 
of  local  troubles.  I  had  to  keep  the 
Egyptian  question  simmering,  and  to 
avoid  any  action  which  might  tend  to 
force  on  its  premature  consideration,  and 
I  had  to  do  this  at  one  time  when  all,  and 
at  another  time  when  some,  of  the  most 
important  Powers  were  more  or  less 
opposed  to  the  British  policy.  ...  To 
sum  up  the  situation  in  a  few  words,  I 
had  not,  indeed,  to  govern  Egypt,  but 
to  assist  in  the  government  of  the  country 
without  the  appearance  of  doing  so  and 
without  any  legitimate  authority  over 
the  agents  with  whom  I  had  to  deal." 


The  Progress  of  Egypt 


545 


His  success  was,  of  course,  largely  due 
to  his  diplomatic  tact  and  great  ability. 
But  there  were  two  other  things  of  greater 
importance  which  contributed  to  it.  One 
of  these  was  his  making  the  welfare  of 
Egypt  the  one  absorbing  aim  of  his 
official  life.  The  significance  of  this  was 
far  greater  to  the  Egyptian  than  to  the 
European,  for  it  was  almost  impossible 
for  the  Egyptian  to  conceive  "  that  any 
foreigner  would  do  otherwise  than  push 
the  presumed  interests  of  his  own  coun- 
trymen." So  when  Lord  Cromer  at  the 
outset  of  his  career  showed  that  he  sought 
not  English,  but  Egyptian,  interests,  a 
confidence  was  inspired  in  him  which 
was  never  shaken.  The  other  secret  of 
his  success  was  that  which  has  contrib- 
uted most  to  his  countrymen's  success 
in  the  East,  character.  Here  again  it 
will  be  better  to  let  him  state  the  fact 
in  a  passage  which  deserves  immortal- 
ity :- 

"  It  always  appeared  to  me  that  the 
first  and  most  important  duty  of  the 
British  representative  in  Egypt  was,  by 
example  and  precept,  to  set  up  a  high 
standard  of  morality,  both  in  his  public 
and  private  life,  and  thus  endeavor  to 
raise  the  standard  of  those  around  him. 
If  I  have  in  any  way  succeeded  in  this 
endeavor;  if  I  have  helped  to  purge 
Egyptian  administration  of  corruption; 
if  it  is  gradually  dawning  on  the  Egyptian 
mind  that  honesty  is  not  only  the  most 
honorable  but  also  the  most  paying  pol- 
icy, and  that  lying  and  intrigue  curse  the 
liar  and  intriguer  as  well  as  his  victim,  — 
I  owe  the  success,  in  so  far  as  public  mat- 
ters are  concerned,  to  the  cooperation  of 
VOL.  102 -NO.  4 


a  body  of  high-minded  British  officials, 
who  have  persistently  held  up  to  all  with 
whom  they  have  been  brought  in  contact 
a  standard  of  probity  heretofore  unknown 
in  Egypt;  and,  in  so  far  as  social  life  is 
concerned,  I  owed  it,  until  cruel  death 
intervened  to  sever  the  tie  which  bound 
us  together,  mainly  to  the  gentle  yet 
commanding  influence  of  her  who  first 
instigated  me  to  write  this  book." 

A  most  important  thing  which  the 
recent  history  of  Egypt  teaches  is  that 
the  establishment  of  a  high  standard  of 
morality  among  the  rulers  of  the  non- 
Christian  peoples  is  one  of  the  surest 
guarantees  of  prosperity  and  peace.  The 
dishonesty  of  Ismail  ruined  his  people 
and  brought  Europe  to  the  verge  of  war. 
With  an  honest  government  came  pro- 
sperity and  the  universal  peace-making, 
an  entente  cordiale  between  France  and 
England.  The  Christian  and  the  non- 
Christian  nations  are  now  drawing  so 
close  to  one  another,  and  such  intimate 
commercial  and  diplomatic  relations  are 
being  cemented  between  them,  that  it  is 
evident  there  must  be  one  common  moral 
standard.  Surely  it  is  the  grandest  privi- 
lege as  well  as  the  highest  duty  of  the 
Christian  nations  to  bring  this  about  by 
example  and  influence.  This  is  what 
England's  representative  in  Egypt  strove 
to  do.  In  his  farewell  speech  —  which 
was  translated  into  Arabic,  and  sold  by 
thousands  in  the  streets  of  Cairo  the  day 
it  was  delivered,  making  a  profound  im- 
pression on  the  people  —  he  emphasized 
this  fact.  "  My  policy,"  he  said,  "  may 
be  summed  up  in  very  few  words.  It  has 
been  to  tell  the  truth." 


THE   OLD  REGIME 


BY   ELSIE   SINGMASTER 


IT  was  the  opening  day  of  the  Millers- 
town  school,  already  two  weeks  after  the 
usual  time.  The  Virginia  creeper  along 
the  pike  was  scarlet,  the  tall  corn  in  the 
Weygandt  fields  —  tree-high,  it  seemed 
to  the  youngest  children  —  rustled  in 
the  cool  September  wind,  and  above, 
the  blue  sky  arched,  immeasurably  dis- 
tant. It  seemed  good  to  be  getting  back 
to  winter  tasks.  The  fields  and  hills  were 
not  quite  so  friendly  as  they  had  been  a 
week  before. 

For  generations  there  had  been  a  wild 
scramble  for  seats  on  the  first  day  of 
school.  The  earliest  comers  had  first 
choice,  and  the  triumph  of  having  secured 
a  "  back  seat  "  was  not  entirely  shattered 
by  the  later  and  punitive  shifting  which 
befell  them. 

No  one  but  the  teacher  could  unlock 
the  front  door.  There  was  another  way 
to  get  in,  however,  through  the  dark 
cellar,  where  at  recess  Oliver  Kuhns 
played  "  Bosco,  the  Wild  Man,  Eats  'em 
Alive,"  as  his  father  had  done  before 
him,  then  up  through  a  trap-door  to  the 
schoolroom.  Lithe,  swarthy  Oliver  was 
usually  first,  then  the  two  Fackenthals 
and  Billy  Knerr  and  Jimmie  Weygandt 
and  Coonie  Schnable.  Coonie  might  be 
found  bartering  his  seat  to  a  later  comer 
on  as  good  terms  as  he  could  make. 

This  morning,  as  usual,  it  was  the  rear 
seats  which  were  at  a  premium.  Ollie 
Kuhns  flung  himself  into  one,  and  the 
next  three  boys  followed.  Then  there 
were  no  more  "  back  seats."  A  wail 
arose.  Coonie  Schnable,  the  stingy, 
offered  five  cents  and  was  jeered  at; 
Jimmie  Weygandt  offered  five  cents  and 
a  new  knife  and  was  more  courteously 
denied. 

"  You  don't  need  a  back  seat,"  Oliver 
assured  Jimmie.    "  But  if  Coonie  sits 
546 


where  Teacher  can   see  him,   he  gets 
licked  like  sixty." 

Coonie  grew  pale  under  his  summer's 
tan. 

"  He  don't  like  my  Pop,  nor  none  of 
my  family,"  he  said. 

"  My  Pop  says  he  used  to  lick  them 
till  they  couldn't  stand,"  offered  Ollie 
cheerfully.  "  But  he  learned  them.  My 
Pop  would  'a'  had  him  back  this  long 
time  if  the  others  would." 

The  older  of  the  Fackenthals  took 
from  his  pocket  a  short  tin  tube.  Plas- 
tered on  it  was  a  ball  of  putty. 

Little  Ollie  laughed.  He  threw  him- 
self back  in  his  seat,  his  feet  on  the  desk. 
It  was  only  seven  o'clock  and  the  teacher 
would  not  be  there  till  eight. 

"  You  just  try  once  a  putty-blower!  " 
he  warned.  "  You  will  easy  see  what  you 
will  get!  " 

Twenty  years  before,  the  children's 
fathers  and  mothers  had  gone  to  "  pay- 
school."  It  was  before  the  establishment 
of  the  public-school  system,  and  the  pay- 
school  was  kept  by  Jonathan  Appleton, 
of  New  England  origin  and  Harvard 
training.  Why  he  had  come  to  Millers- 
town  no  one  knew.  It  never  occurred 
to  Millerstown  that  he  might  have  dis- 
played his  learning  to  better  advantage 
in  a  larger  and  more  cultivated  town. 
They  regarded  the  thirty  dollars  a  month 
which  he  was  able  to  earn,  as  a  princely 
salary  for  a  man  who  spent  his  summers 
in  idleness  and  knew  nothing  about  farm- 
ing. Jonathan  seemed  to  like  Millers- 
town,  —  at  least  he  stayed  for  twenty 
years,  and  married  a  Millerstown  girl, 
little  Annie  Weiser,  who  adored  him. 

"  You  might  'a'  had  Weygandt,"  her 
mother  mourned.  "  For  what  do  you 
take  up  with  a  school-teacher  *  " 

Little  Annie  only  smiled  rapturously. 


The  Old  Regime 


547 


To  her  Jonathan  was  almost  divine,  and 
her  marriage  a  beatitude.  Like  most 
perfect  things,  it  was  also  short-lived. 
Two  years  after  they  were  married, 
Annie  died. 

In  another  year,  Jonathan  lost  his 
position.  By  that  time  the  Millerstown 
school  was  free,  and  to  the  minds  of  many 
Millerstonians  there  was  good  reason  for 
changing. 

"  Here  is  Jonas  Moser,"  said  William 
Knerr.  "  He  is  a  Millerstown  boy.  He 
has  gone  for  three  years  already  to  the 
Normal.  He  has  all  the  new  ways.  They 
have  there  such  a  model  school,  where 
they  learn  them  all  kinds  of  teaching. 
The  Normal  gets  money  from  the  state. 
We  pay  our  taxes.  I  think  we  should 
have  some  good  of  this  tax-paying.  We 
did  n't  pay  nothing  for  Teacher's  school- 
ing. And  he  is  pretty  near  a  outlander." 

"  Boston  is  n't  outland!  "  said  Oliver 
Kuhns.  "  And  Teacher  "  (Appleton  was 
to  retain  the  title,  if  not  the  position,  till 
the  day  of  his  death)  "  Teacher  is  a  good 
teacher.  He  learned  all  of  us." 

"  He  whips  too  much." 

Oliver  laughed.  "  I  bet  he  whipped 
me  more  than  all  the  rest  put  together, 
and  it  never  did  me  no  harm.  I  am  for 
having  an  English  teacher  like  him. 
Jonas  Moser  don't  talk  right  yet,  if  he 
is  a  Normal.  I  don't  want  my  children 
taught  Dutch  in  the  school." 

Appleton  laughed  when  he  heard  they 
were  talking  of  electing  Jonas  Moser. 

"  Nonsense!  "  he  said.  "  Why,  Jonas 
Moser  can't  teach.  His  idioms  are  as 
German  as  when  he  left,  his  construc- 
tions abominable,  his  accent  execrable." 

"  But  they  say  he  has  methods,"  said 
Oliver  uneasily.  "  They  taught  him  in 
such  a  model  school." 

"  Methods!  "  mocked  Appleton.  "  A 
true  teacher  needs  no  methods." 

"  Yes,  but  —  but  —  "  Oliver  stam- 
mered. Jonas  Moser  was  leaving  no  stone 
unturned  to  win  votes.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  learned  electioneering  also  at  the 
Normal.  "  But  could  n't  you  say  you 
had  anyhow  one  method  ?  He  has  books 


about  it.  He  brought  them  to  the  school- 
board." 

"  Nonsense!  "  said  Appleton. 

When  he  found  that  they  had  elected 
Moser,  he  was  at  first  incredulous,  then 
scornful.  He  said  that  he  was  going 
away.  But  he  did  not  go.  Perhaps  he 
was  too  old  or  too  tired  to  find  another 
position.  It  might  have  been  Annie's 
grave  which  kept  him  there. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  Jonas 
Moser  resigned,  half  of  Millerstown 
wanted  Appleton  back.  But  there  was 
another  Millerstown  boy  ready  to  grad- 
uate at  the  normal  school,  who  claimed 
his  turn  and  got  it.  He  resigned  at  the 
end  of  a  month,  giving  his  health  as  an 
excuse.  It  was  true  that  he  looked  white 
and  worn.  Unfortunately  for  the  child- 
ren's disciplining,  he  did  not  tell  what 
anarchy  had  reigned.  It  might  have  been, 
however,  that  the  school-board  suspected 
it. 

"  We  will  now  try  a  Normal  from 
away,"  said  William  Knerr.  "These 
children  know  those  what  we  have  had 
too  well." 

Presently  Appleton's  scorn  was  suc- 
ceeded by  humility.  He  applied  for  his 
old  position  and  was  refused.  It  would 
have  been  an  acknowledgment  of  defeat 
to  take  him  back.  He  grew  excited, 
finally  almost  vituperative. 

"  Your  school  is  a  pandemonium,"  he 
shouted,  his  black  eyes  gleaming  above 
his  long,  white  beard.  "  The  children 
are  utterly  undisciplined.  They  learn 
nothing.  They  are  allowed  to  speak  your 
bastard  German  in  the  schoolroom. 
They  have  no  manners.  You  have  tried 
seven  teachers.  Each  one  has  been  worse 
than  the  last." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  the  children  ain't 
beaten  black  and  blue,"  said  William 
Knerr  sullenly. 

"Beaten  black  and  blue!"  repeated 
the  old  man.  "  Oliver  Kuhns,  did  I  ever 
beat  you  black  and  blue  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Oliver  heartily. 

"  Or  you,  James  Fackenthal  ?  " 

"  No,  sir."    James    Fackenthal  was 


548 


The  Old  Regime 


burgess  and  he  sometimes  consulted 
with  Appleton  about  the  interpretation 
of  the  borough  ordinances. 

"Or  you,  Caleb?" 

"  No,  sir." 

Then  he  whirled  round  upon  Knerr. 

"  And  you  I  never  whipped  half 
enough." 

It  was,  to  say  the  least,  not  conciliatory. 
The  eighth  "  Normal "  was  elected. 

After  the  ninth  had  come  and  gone, 
they  engaged  a  tenth,  who  was  to  come 
in  September.  On  the  opening  day,  he 
did  not  appear.  Instead  came  a  letter. 
He  had  decided  to  give  up  teaching  and 
go  into  the  life-insurance  business. 
Oliver  Kuhns  pointed  out  the  fact  that 
the  letter  was  dated  from  the  town 
whither  the  last  teacher  had  gone. 

"  I  guess  he  could  n't  recommend 
Millerstown,"  Oliver  said. 

"  I  know  another  one,"  said  William 
Knerr.  "  He  lives  at  Kutztown.  I  am 
going  to-morrow  to  see  whether  I  can  get 
him." 

Oliver  Kuhns  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I  make  a  move  that  we  have  Teacher 
come  back  to  open  the  school,  and  stay 
anyhow  till  the  Normal  comes,"  he  said. 

Ten  minutes  later,  he  was  rapping  at 
Appleton's  door. 

Appleton  had  been  reading  by  candle- 
light and  his  eyes  blinked  dully. 

"  The  school  board  wants  you  to  come 
back,"  said  Oliver  tremulously.  "  You 
shall  open  school  in  the  morning.  We 
are  tired  of  the  Normals.  We  want  you 
shall  learn  our  children  again." 

The  old  man  took  off  his  spectacles 
with  a  wide  sweep  of  his  arm.  Oliver 
seemed  to  see  the  ferrule  in  his  hand. 

"  I  shall  be  there.  But  I  do  not  learn 
the  children,  Oliver,  I  teach  them.  Write 
it  on  your  slate,  Oliver,  twenty  times." 

Oliver  went  off,  grinning.  The  old 
man  could  joke.  He  had  expected  him 
to  cry. 

The  teacher  was  up  as  early  as  the 
children  the  next  morning.  He  dressed 
with  care,  looking  carefully  at  one  shirt 
after  the  other.  Finally  he  chose  one 


whose  rents  would  be  hidden  by  his  coat 
and  waistcoat.  Then  he  donned  his  high 
hat. 

All  Millerstown  saw  him  go,  his  coat- 
tails  flying  in  the  breeze,  his  hat  lifted 
whenever  he  caught  the  eye  of  curious 
watcher  behind  house-corner  or  syringa- 
bush. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Kuhns!  — 
How  do  you  do,  Miss  Kurtz?  —  Not 
coming  to  school,Miss  Neuweiler  ?  "  Such 
ridiculous  affectation  had  always  been 
his.  He  had  called  the  girls  "Miss" 
before  they  were  out  of  short  dresses. 

The  children,  too,  saw  him  coming; 
not  Oliver  and  the  Fackenthals  or  Billy 
Knerr,  because  they  did  not  dare  to 
leave  the  seats  they  had  chosen,  but  the 
rest  of  the  boys  and  all  the  girls. 

"  His  coat-tails  go  flipperty-flop  in  the 
wind,"  giggled  little  Katy  Gaumer.  "  We 
never  had  no  teacher  with  a  beard  be- 
fore." 

"  He  looks  like  a  Belscnickle,"  laughed 
Louisa  Kuhns.  "  I  ain't  going  to  learn 
nothing  from  such  a  teacher." 

Thus  had  they  been  accustomed  to 
discuss  the  various  "  Normals." 

Ollie  bade  Louisa  sharply  to  be  still. 

"  You  ain't  going  to  behave  that  way 
for  this  teacher,"  he  said.  Then  he 
swung  his  feet  down  to  the  floor,  de- 
scribing a  wide  arc  through  the  air.  The 
other  three  boys  did  the  same,  and  there 
ensued  a  wild  scramble  from  window  to 
seat. 

"This  is  my  seat!" 

"  No,  my  things  are  already  on  it." 

"  My  books  are  in  that  there  desk." 

"  It  don't  belong  to  neither  of  you." 

"  Give  me  my  pencil-box." 

"  This  is  my  slate!  " 

The  roar  of  sound  had  not  lessened 
when  the  door  opened  behind  them. 
They  did  not  hear  him  come  in,  they 
would  probably  not  have  heeded  if  they 
had.  Then,  suddenly,  Coonie  Schnable, 
quarreling  with  a  little  girl  over  a  pencil- 
box,  was  bumped  firmly  into  a  seat,  and 
Daniel  Wenner  into  another.  By. that 
time,  after  a  moment  of  wild  rushing 


The  Old  Regime 


549 


about,  peace  reigned.  Each  seat  was 
occupied  by  a  child,  every  voice  was 
silent,  every  eye  fixed  upon  the  front  of 
the  room. 

This  was  a  new  way  of  opening  school ! 
Usually  the  Normals  had  said  gently, 
"  Now,  children,  come  to  order."  They 
had  never  begun  by  seizing  pupils  by 
the  collar! 

Teacher  walked  to  the  front  of  the 
room,  and  laid  his  hat  on  his  desk.  He 
was  smiling  pleasantly,  and  though  he 
trembled  a  little,  the  light  of  battle  was 
in  his  eye. 

"  Good-morning,  children." 

With  one  accord,  they  responded 
politely.  None  of  them  had  been  taught 
the  manners  which  he  had  "  learned  " 
their  parents,  but  perhaps  they  had  in- 
herited them. 

Teacher  did  not  allow  a  minute  for  the 
respectful  silence  to  be  broken. 

"  We  will  have  the  opening  exercises. 
We  shall  sing,  — 

"  Oh,  the  joys  of  childhood,  roaming1  through 

the  wildwood, 
Running1  o'er  the  meadows,  happy  and  free. 

"  And  remember  to  say  joys,  j-o-y-s,  not 
*  choys:  Who  starts  the  tune  ?  " 

"  We  did  n't  sing  last  year  because 
the  boys  always  yelled  so,"  volunteered 
Louisa  Kuhns,  anxious  to  be  even  with 
Oliver. 

"  To  the  corner,  Louisa,"  said  Teacher 
grimly.  "  Next  time  you  want  to  speak, 
raise  your  hand." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  a  pupil  had 
obeyed  such  an  order  as  that.  Neverthe- 
less, Louisa  found  her  way  without  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Now,  who  can  start  this  tune  ?  " 

A  hand  went  up  timidly. 

"  I  guess  I  can,  Teacher." 

"  Very  well,  then,  Katy.   Ready." 

Teacher  stood  and  watched  them 
while  they  sang.  Then  he  read  a  chapter 
from  the  Bible.  His  predecessors,  having 
respect  for  Holy  Writ,  had  long  since 
omitted  that  part  of  the  opening  exer- 
cises. There  was  not  a  sound  till  he  had 
finished. 


**  Oliver  Kuhns,  are  you  in  the  first 
class?" 

Ollie  raised  a  respectful  hand. 

"  Please,  Teacher,  my  Pop  is  Oliver. 
I  am  Ollie.  Yes,  I  am  in  the  first  class." 

"  In  what  reader  are  you  ?  " 

"  We  are  nearly  through  the  Sixth 
Reader." 

"  We  will  go  back  to  the  beginning. 
Second  class,  where  are  you  ?  " 

Katy  Gaumer  lifted  her  hand. 

"  We  are  in  the  middle  of  the  Fourth." 

"  You  also  will  go  back  to  the  begin- 
ning. Third  class,  come  up  to  the  recita- 
tion benches  and  take  a  spelling  lesson." 

Teacher  opened  the  third-class  spelling 
book  at  random. 

"Elephant,"  he  began.  "Tiger." 
He  laid  the  book  down.  "  Why  don't 
you  write  ?  " 

The  class  sat  as  though  paralyzed. 

"  We  are  n't  that  far,"  ventured  Katy. 

"  It  is  the  second  lesson  in  the  book," 
said  the  teacher.  "Go  to  your  seats  and 
prepare  it." 

It  was  a  sad  morning  for  the  Millers - 
town  school.  In  the  bottoms  of  their 
haughty  hearts  the  children  still  cher- 
ished a  faint  desire  to  do  well.  Apple- 
ton's  angry  amazement  at  their  ignorance 
mortified  them.  They  felt  dimly,  also, 
that  he  was  grieved,  not,  like  the  Nor- 
malites,  because  he  had  to  teach  such 
unruly  children,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
children  themselves.  There  was  not  a 
sound  in  the  room,  except  the  impatient 
movement  of  a  foot  when  the  correct 
answer  would  not  come. 

After  recess  Katy  Gaumer  raised  her 
ever-ready  hand. 

"  Please,  Teacher,  I  think  we  know 
our  lessont." 

"  Lesson,  Katy.  You  may  come  out." 

A  diligent  scratching  responded  to 
"  elephant "  and  "  tiger." 

**  Jagu  —  "  began  the  teacher,  then 
suddenly  paused,  his  face  pale.  At  the 
door  stood  a  strange  young  man.  Behind 
him  came  William  Knerr  and  Oliver 
Kuhns.  William  advanced  bravely  into 
the  room,  Oliver  remained  miserably  at 


550 


The  Old  Regime 


the  door.  If  he  had  only  told  Teacher 
that  he  was  only  engaged  temporarily! 
But  he  had  not  dreamed  that  William 
Knerr  would  find  a  teacher  so  soon. 

Appleton  saw  that  resistance  was  use- 
less. At  William  Knerr's  first  word,  he 
passed  the  spelling-book  politely  to  the 
young  man,  and  walked  toward  the 
door. 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,  Teacher,"  said 
Oliver,  as  he  and  William  Knerr  went 
out. 

Teacher  turned  to  look  back.  He 
seemed  to  take  the  measure  of  the  Nor- 
mal with  a  glance  of  his  keen  black 
eyes. 

"  May  I  stay  and  visit  your  school  ?  " 
he  asked  humbly. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  young  man, 
jauntily.  What  an  unprogressive  school- 
board  this  must  be,  who  would  tolerate 
such  a  teacher,  even  as  a  substitute! 
"  Do  you  teach  Phonetic  Spelling  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Teacher,  as  he  sat 
down.  "  Just  plain  spelling." 

"  Oh! "  said  the  young  man.  He  saw 
also  that  the  copy  had  been  put  on  the 
board  in  a  fine  Spencerian  hand.  That 
would  have  to  be  corrected.  His  Model 
School  taught  the  vertical  system. 

"  Elephant,"  he  began. 

"  We  have  already  spelled  elephant," 
said  Katy  Gaumer  saucily.  "  And  tiger." 

The  Normal  smiled  at  Katy.  He  had 
determined  to  make  the  children  love 
him. 

"  Jagu  —  "  he  began.  But  it  seemed 
that  jaguar  was  not  to  be  pronounced. 
A  ball  of  something  soft  and  wet  sailed 
past  the  Normal's  head.  He  pretended 
not  to  see.  Inwardly  he  was  debating 
whether  the  moral  suasion  recommended 
by  his  text-book  was  the  proper  method 
to  apply.  He  decided  to  ignore  this 
manifestation. 

"  Jagu  —  "  There  was  a  wild  clatter 
from  the  corner  of  the  room.  A  pencil- 
box  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 

"  Jagu  —  "  began  the  Normal  again. 

There  was  another  crash.  The  Nor- 
mal saw  with  mingled  relief  and  regret 


that  the  old  white-bearded  man  had 
slipped^out. 

"  Boys !  "  he  cried  nervously. 

"  Boys ! "  mocked  some  one  in  the 
room. 

The  Normal  started  down  the  aisle, 
realizing,  not  without  some  fright,  that 
the  time  for  moral  suasion  was  past.  He 
thought  it  was  Oliver  Kuhns  who  had 
dropped  one  of  the  pencil-boxes. 

"  Go  home,"  he  commanded  sternly. 

The  children  were  startled  into  abso- 
lute silence.  Hitherto,  even  the  Normals 
had  tried  to  keep  then*  inability  to  control 
the  school  from  the  knowledge  of  Mil- 
lerstown.  This  one  would  send  them  out 
to  publish  his  shame.  Billy  Knerr 
laughed. 

"  Go  home  with  him,"  commanded 
the  teacher. 

There  was  a  wild  roar  of  sound.  Every 
child  was  shouting,  the  little  girls  and  all. 
Oliver  and  Billy  sat  firmly  in  their  seats. 
They  did  not  propose  to  be  cheated  of 
any  sport. 

"Boys!"  began  the  Normal.  Then 
he  became  desperate,  incoherent.  "  If 
you  don't  go  out,  I'll  get  somebody  in 
here  who  will  go  out." 

There  was  another  shout,  and  the 
boys  sat  still. 

"  Well,  stay  where  you  are,  then,"  the 
Normal  commanded.  "  But  you  must 
obey  me." 

He  wished  that  the  old  man  would 
come  back.  There  was  something  about 
the  stern  glitter  in  his  eye  which  made  it 
seem  impossible  that  he  could  ever  have 
tolerated  such  wild  uproar  as  this.  He 
did  not  guess  that  the  old  man  was  still 
within  call.  If  he  had  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, he  might  have  seen  him,  sitting  on 
a  low  limb  of  the  apple-tree,  grimly 
waiting. 

It  is  not  necessary,  and  it  would  be 
painful,  to  describe  the  last  half-hour  of 
the  morning  session  of  the  Millerstown 
school.  Those  who  have  plied  putty- 
blowers  and  thrown  paper  wads  and 
dropped  pencil-boxes  and  given  cat-calls 
will  be  able  to  picture  the  scene  for  them- 


The  Old  Regime 


551 


selves.  Others  will  not  credit  the  most 
accurate  description.  When  the  Normal 
went  down  the  path  at  noon,  he  was 
consulting  a  time-table.  Unfortunately 
for  any  plans  of  escape,  William  Knerr 
met  him,  and  instead  of  going  to  the 
station,  he  went  over  to  the  hotel  for  his 
dinner. 

"  He  is  coming  back,"  said  Ollie 
Kuhns. 

As  Ollie  prophesied,  the  Normal  did 
come  back.  But  he  did  not  come  alone. 
William  Knerr  was  with  him,  and  the 
burgess  and  Danny  Koser  and  Caleb 
Stemmel,  all  members  of  the  school 
board,  and,  all  but  William,  bachelors, 
ignorant  of  the  ways  of  children. 

The  Millerstown  school  was  not  to  be 
thus  overawed.  Billy  Knerr  behaved 
well  enough,  for  his  father's  eye  was  upon 
him;  but  a  frenzy  seemed  to  possess 
the  others.  What  did  Oliver  Kuhns  care 
for  the  burgess  and  Danny  Koser? 
They  were  neither  his  mother  nor  his 
father.  What  did  Katy  Gaumer  care  for 
Caleb  Stemmel?  There  was  a  chuckle 
from  the  back  of  the  room,  and  a  quick 
turning  of  Directors'  heads.  Every  eye 
was  upon  a  book.  Perhaps,  thought 
the  Directors,  they  had  imagined  the 
chuckle. 

The    Normal    announced    that    they 


would  continue  the  lesson  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

"  Elephunt,"  he  began,  forgetting  his 
normal-school  training. 

"  It  is  el-e-p/wzni,"  corrected  Katy 
Gaumer. 

"  Tiger"  said  the  Normal  in  a  ter- 
rible voice.  There  came  a  howl  from 
the  back  of  the  room.  It  sounded  as 
though  the  beast  himself  had  broken 
loose. 

The  Normal  laid  down  the  book. 

"  Learn  your  own  children,"  he  said 
hotly.  "I  resign." 

He  walked  down  the  aisle  and  out  the 
door. 

The  laughing  children  looked  at  one 
another. 

"  He  walked  in  one  piece  away," 
squealed  Katy  Gaumer,  in  delightful  • 
Pennsylvania  German  idiom,  so  long 
unforbidden  in  the  Millerstown  school. 
Then  Katy  looked  up  at  the  Directors, 
who  gaped  at  one  another.  Perhaps  she 
wanted  to  show  how  quickly  feminine 
decision  can  cut  the  knot  of  a  masculine 
tangle,  or  perhaps,  woman-like,  she  wel- 
comed a  firm  hand  after  months  of 
liberty. 

"  Teacher 's  setting  in  the  apple-tree," 
she  said.  "  I  can  see  his  coat-tails  go 
flipperty-flop." 


THE   BEATITUDES   OF  A   SUBURBANITE 


BY   JOHN   PRESTON   TRUE 


To  begin  with,  I  am  a  Suburbanite. 
"  A  Commuter  "  is  the  idiom  in  New 
York.  How  and  why  I  became  such  does 
not  matter.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  my 
home  is  ten  miles  from  the  city,  a  two-and- 
a-half -story  house  on  eleven  thousand  feet 
of  land,  which  includes  a  duodecimo  edi- 
tion of  a  garden.  And  to  Madame  I  said 
one  day,  — 

"  I  mean  to  keep  bees." 

Now,  be  it  known  that  I  never  had  been 
intimately  acquainted  with  a  beehive  in 
my  life.  "  Hives  "  of  another  sort  I  had 
known,  and  disapproved  of,  in  toto.  But 
a  beehive  from  earliest  youth  had  been 
associated  with  an  idea  of  opulence:  its 
product  a  luxury  not  unattainable,  but  an 
extravagance;  its  ways  a  mystery.  In  the 
little  mountain  village  of  my  early  days, 
no  friend  kept  bees.  There  was  a  hive  or 
two:  square-looking  white  monuments 
rising  marmot-like  above  a  sea  of  orchard 
grass,  which  helped  to  keep  intact  the 
orchard  fruits.  "  Beware  the  Bee  "  was 
written  largely  there,  and  to  this  day  I 
know  not  whether  the  apples  in  those  par- 
ticular orchards  were  sweet  or  sour. 

At  certain  times,  farmers  from  beyond 
the  circling  hills  drove  sedately  into  town 
and  sold  honey  to  the  village  folk :  large, 
rounded,  pale-looking  slabs  of  comb,  de- 
liciously  sweet,  with  now  and  then  a  cell 
filled  with  pungent  pollen  that  stung  the 
tongue.  Occasionally,  too,  a  dead  bee, 
like  a  fly  in  amber.  And  the  rareness  of 
their  coming  placed  their  ware  at  once  a 
degree  above  the  ordinary,  and  thus  be- 
gan the  creation  of  the  sentiment  of  the 
unattainable  that  in  later  years  hung 
around  it  still.  So,  after  I  had  added  to 
my  small  estate  raspberries,  blackberries, 
strawberries,  cherries,  imperial  gages, 
grafted  pears,  and  had  gathered  a  couple 
of  bushels  of  Niagara  grapes,  I  looked 

552 


about  me  for  other  worlds  to  conquer; 
and  thus  began  the  obsession  of  the  bee. 
That  would  be  the  crowning  luxury  of 
all. 

For  a  year  or  two  I  thought  of  it,  but 
silently.  No  —  once  each  year  I  did  ex- 
press the  wish  that  it  might  be  done,  then 
relapsed  into  silence.  Eleven  thousand 
feet  of  land  with  a  house  on  it  and  no 
fence  or  hedge  to  divide  it  from  neighbors 
was  not  best  suited  to  the  plan.  Also,  the 
village  was  a  veritable  nursery  of  child- 
ren: the  house  with  only  one  was  rare; 
twenty  rods  away  was  one  with  nine. 
So,  after  I  made  that  definite  statement 
to  Madame  it  developed  that  she  did 
not  regard  it  seriously.  But  that  came 
later.  Meanwhile,  I  had  been  reading  up : 
namely,  John  Burroughs,  Root's  ABC 
of  Bee-Keeping,  et  cetera,  but  skipping 
Maeterlinck.  That,  I  inferred,  meant 
the  poetry  of  the  thing,  and  just  now  I 
wanted  a  shorthand  version  of  prose; 
and  thus  equipped,  I  hied  me  to  a  bee- 
man. 

Where?  Why,  right  in  the  busiest 
heart  of  the  city !  Two  stories  up,  with 
a  swarm  of  carpenter-shops,  blacksmith- 
shops,  and  other  mechanics  round  about, 
there  was  a  line  of  hives  on  a  ledge  out- 
side the  open  windows,  from  which  a 
steady  stream  of  bees  poured  across  the 
housetops  toward  the  distant  country; 
while  the  shop  itself  was  piled  ceiling- 
high  with  hives,  finished  and  unfinished, 
and  a  couple  of  them  full  of  bees  ready 
for  shipment,  bumbling  behind  a  wire 
net.  Here  and  there,  aimlessly,  a  bee  of 
golden  hue  wandered  about  the  room 
above  the  heads  of  workmen,  salesmen, 
customers,  and  no  one  gave  him  thought. 
To  a  beginner  that  was  distinctly  en- 
couraging. It  had  such  a  friendly,  com- 
radeship aspect,  in  that  busy  hive  of 


The  Beatitudes  of  a  Suburbanite 


553 


workers,  to  see  the  harmony  between 
them.  So  I  explained  my  plans,  received 
approval,  and  bought  a  swarm  of  Ital- 
ians with  a  wing-clipped  queen.  Also 
a  "  smoker,"  and  some  other  things. 
Then  I  went  home  gleefully  and  told  the 
household  —  and  Madame  was  struck 
dumb !  However,  't  was  an  accomplished 
fact. 

In  due  time,  the  hive  appeared,  by  ex- 
press, and  was  carried  up  into  the  front 
attic.  The  expressman  seemed  unusually 
glad  to  make  delivery.  He  had  no  faith. 
I  had,  in  abundance ;  and  with  a  bit  and 
brace  I  bored  a  line  of  holes  through  the 
house- wall,  level  with  the  floor  of  the  hive 
when  on  the  attic  floor.  My  thought  was, 
to  fit  in  a  short  wooden  tunnel  from  holes 
to  hive-entrance,  shove  the  hive  up  to  it, 
rip  off  the  wire  net  that  was  nailed  over 
the  front  of  the  hive,  and  with  another 
shove  make  swift  connection. 

This  tunnel  was  indeed  an  important 
feature  of  the  scheme.  Being  in  an  attic, 
the  housewall  had  no  inner  line  of  board- 
ing, and  of  course  the  bare  joists  jutted 
out  in  rows  from  the  outer  wall  for  their 
whole  width.  The  space  between  them 
was  too  narrow  to  permit  the  hive  to  be 
shoved  clear  in  against  the  wall,  and  it 
would  be  a  convenience  often  to  have 
some  free  space  all  around  the  hive  in  any 
case.  The  alternative  was  a  covered  way, 
leading  from  the  entrance  holes  in  the 
wall  back  to  the  front  door  of  my  hive. 
Now,  that  front  door,  as  is  the  case  in 
modern  hives,  was  as  wide  as  the  hive  it- 
self, and  perhaps  three-fourths  of  an  inch 
high.  I  never  accurately  measured  the 
latter  dimension.  If  I  found  a  stranger 
thus  measuring  my  front  door  unauthor- 
ized I  should  be  apt  to  make  pointed  in- 
quiries, and  I  respected  the  dignity  of  my 
bees.  Thus,  by  guess-work  I  had  built  a 
wooden  box  as  wide  as  the  hive-front, 
several  inches  high,  and  tapering  some 
inches,  enough  to  pass  in  between  the 
joists  to  the  wall,  and  thereby  establish 
communication  between  the  hive  and  the 
outer  air.  The  bees  could  pass  freely  in 
and  out  at  their  honey-gathering,  and  — 


theoretically  —  could  not  get  out  into  the 
attic  where  I  was.  But  even  an  electric 
wire  sometimes  fails  of  insulation,  much 
to  the  shocking  of  the  unwary. 

All  went  well  with  the  installation  up  to 
a  certain  stage.  Then  —  the  wire  net  re- 
fused to  rip.  I  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  don  a  home-made  veil  of  mosquito- 
netting,  and  with  wire-cutter  and  nippers 
I  worked  at  that  net  till  at  last  I  got  it 
slashed  across  and  at  least  partly  crum- 
pled up.  Then  that  hive  just  boiled  over! 
Out  of  the  gash  in  the  net,  which  also 
in  its  obstinacy  prevented  close  connec- 
tion, a  thousand  bees  poured  in  a  yellow 
stream.  Some  made  toward  the  light  of 
the  window,  others  made  toward  me;  and 
as  I  was  then  gloveless,  't  was  a  difficult 
moment.  Hundreds  of  young  bees  were 
running  over  the  front  of  the  hive,  and 
congesting  against  the  wall  of  the  house 
along  the  rough  studding,  and  what  could 
be  done  must  be  done  quickly.  With  swift 
hands  I  clutched  that  wire  net  and 
crushed  it  down,  and  at  last  got  the  hive 
close  enough  to  the  tunnel  to  stop  the 
overflow.  Then  I  rested  a  minute,  and 
took  thought.  Those  in  the  hive  still  had 
found  their  way  to  outer  air,  and  so  knew 
the  way  back  to  hive.  The  rest  would  be 
taught  by  them. 

The  older  bees  in  plenty  were  about 
the  window,  and  were  getting  out  proper- 
ly via  the  little  "bee-escape  "  which  I  had 
inserted  in  the  netting  of  the  screen.  The 
younger  ones  were  huddling  together  on 
the  wall ;  they  must  be  saved.  So,  still  in 
faith  of  booklore,  I  went  for  them  bare- 
handed, armed  with  a  pasteboard  scoop 
hastily  made  from  a  box,  and  with  that  I 
shoveled  them  up  by  scores,  carried  them 
to  the  window,  and  shook  them  off,  to  find 
their  way  with  the  rest.  It  was  now  sun- 
down, and  I  had  fully  twenty  thousand 
bees,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  which  had  thus 
been  handled  by  me  barehanded,  and  at 
last  I  received  my  first  sting.  One  of  my 
ears  impinged  against  my  head-net  for  a 
minute.  An  old  bee  impinged  right  there 
at  the  psychological  moment.  Possibly 
my  ears  are  perceptibly  longer  than  my 


554 


The  Beatitudes  of  a  Suburbanite 


estimate  of  them.  The  result  was  painful. 
I  concluded  to  call  the  job  done,  for  the 
day. 

On  the  whole,  the  hive  settled  down 
quietly  to  work.  But  there  was  a  leak 
in  the  fitting,  somewhere.  At  intervals, 
a  bee  would  appear,  dazed  from  wander- 
ing under  the  floor  of  the  room,  would 
rise  through  a  crack  and  make  for  the 
window.  It  was  disconcerting,  especially 
if  one  was  feminine.  There  was  no  tell- 
ing which  particular  crack  or  part  of  a 
crack  in  the  flooring  might  not  at  any 
moment  erupt  a  bee.  So  the  room  be- 
came unpopular  save  to  the  enthusiast 
responsible.  That  tunnel  was  to  blame, 
and  back  of  that,  the  crumpled  net  of  the 
original  bee-man,  which  evidently  had 
caused  an  undiscovered  aperture  some- 
where below.  Eventually  I  ripped  out 
the  whole  tunnel  and  built  it  over  again. 
Then  things  were  on  a  peace  footing  for 
a  while. 

They  swarmed,  one  day,  —  an  abortive 
swarm.  I  discovered  them  high  up  in  the 
lofty  maple  in  front  of  the  house,  just  as 
I  was  starting  off  in  the  dusk  of  early 
morn,  on  my  bicycle,  for  a  fishing  trip. 
Confident  in  the  fact  that  the  queen  was 
wing-clipped  and  so  not  present,  I  kept 
on.  The  cluster  of  bees  was  still  there 
early  the  next  morning,  but  much  smaller ; 
and  presently  it  melted  away  as  they  gave 
it  up  and  returned  to  the  hive.  It  was  a 
warning,  however,  of  what  might  be,  so 
once  more  I  donned  my  armor  of  head- 
net,  sweater,  rubber  gloves ;  and  with  a  lit- 
tle preliminary  smoking  and  waiting,  a  la 
book,  I  lifted  off  the  upper  part  of  the 
hive  —  where  the  comb  honey  is  made, 
(technically  called  the  "  super  ")  —  and 
proceeded  to  lift  out  the  brood-combs,  one 
by  one,  while  the  bees  hummed  angrily 
around  my  head,  thousands  remaining, 
however,  clinging  fast  to  the  combs. 
Then,  with  scissors,  I  cut  out  the  queen- 
cells,  and  thus  nipped  in  the  bud  any  real 
swarming  for  some  time  to  come,  and  re- 
stored the  hive  to  its  usual  condition.  The 
bees  in  the  room,  of  course,  found  their 
way  back  to  hive  via  the  bee-escape  in 


the  window,  as  before.  Three  of  them 
first  found  the  way  to  my  left  ear. 

This  was  on  Saturday.  On  Sunday 
friends  came  up  from  another  city  in  their 
auto,  for  a  visit.  As  we  sat  on  the  piazza 
that  ear  of  mine  was  a  local  attraction, 
a  landmark.  To  the  hand,  it  felt  as  big  as 
a  dinner-plate,  and  an  inch  thick.  Cov- 
ered with  wet  plaster,  it  was  a  whited 
sepulchre  giving  no  indication  of  the 
burning  wrath  within.  Then  down  from 
the  hive  above  came  one  of  those  elder 
bees  and  drove  straight  at  my  head.  I 
dodged,  and  smote  him,  and  he  curled 
up  on  the  floor.  But  soon  came  another, 
and  another,  till  I  found  it  expedient  to 
put  on  my  head-net;  for  those  bees  were 
the  honey-gatherers,  and  not  to  be  re- 
garded lightly.  And  there  I  sat  for  an 
hour  or  more,  with  from  two  to  a  dozen 
angry  bees  poised  on  a  level  with  my 
eyes,  now  and  then  making  a  dash  and 
buzzing  away  in  futile  rage;  while,  back 
on  the  piazza,  my  friends  sat  and  laughed 
and  laughed.  The  bees  never  went  near 
them!  I  was  the  centre  of  their  enmity; 
though  they  did  take  time  to  attack  our 
little  girl  once  or  twice,  driving  her  into 
the  house.  They  kept  up  their  feud 
with  me  for  several  weeks,  till  I  lost  all 
patience,  armed  myself  with  a  narrow 
shingle,  and  swatted  the  next  bee  that 
came  within  reach.  In  a  day  or  two  I  thus 
ended  the  careers  of  a  dozen  or  more,  and 
with  them  the  feud  ended. 

Winter  came,  and  with  a  hint  from  the 
paper  wasp  I  cased  the  hive  in  news- 
papers, an  inch  thick,  leaving  the  entrance 
open  to  the  outer  air.  What  honey  they 
had  made  was  in  the  main  hive,  although 
a  comb  or  two  had  been  started  in  the 
super.  So  they  thus  wintered,  a  long, 
cold  winter,  often  zero  in  that  room.  It 
still  was  doubtful  whether  my  fad  was 
not  a  failure,  and  Madame  was  still  dis- 
approving. Then  summer  came. 

With  the  first  flowers  the  bees  became 
in  evidence.  To  forestall  matters  a  little, 
never  before  did  we  have  such  a  splendid 
crop  of  plums  and  crab-apples  as  we  had 
that  summer;  due,  I  became  convinced, 


The  Beatitudes  of  a  Suburbanite 


555 


to  the  fertilizing  visits  of  those  bees  from 
flower  to  flower;  and  I  failed  not  to  re- 
mind Madame  of  that  as  she  gazed  con- 
tentedly at  her  hundreds  of  jars  of  pre- 
serves and  apple-jelly,  in  the  fall.  But 
she  still  was  scornful  of  bees  and  all  their 
ways. 

In  June,  in  fact,  they  swarmed  in  ear- 
nest. In  a  stream  they  poured  out  and 
massed  on  a  limb  fifty  feet  up  from  the 
ground,  a  swarm  as  large  as  a  bushel  mea- 
sure I  was  ill  that  day,  and  in  any  case 
thought  I  had  no  use  for  another  swarm 
(I'm  wiser  now!),  so  sent  a  message  to  a 
neighbor  that  he  might  have  it  if  he  could 
get  it.  Madame,  meanwhile,  was  utterly 
scandalized  at  such  immoral  conduct. 
She  regarded  itt  through  some  oblique 
train  of  reasoning,  as  a  family  disgrace 
to  have  bees  that  would  swarm  in  the 
front  yard,  above  the  public  street.  It 
was  unheard  of  in  her  annals.  It  would 
make  our  name  a  byword  and  reproach ! 
And  she  refused  to  be  comforted. 

The  man  came,  by  proxy,  his  chauffeur 
whizzing  up  in  a  hurry  in  an  auto,  and 
for  the  next  hour  or  two  we  had  as  inter- 
esting a  view  from  our  screened  piazza 
as  one  might  care  to  see.  The  chauffeur 
was  more  eager  than  wise.  Instead  of 
clipping  the  limb  and  lowering  the  mass 
with  a  cord  he  shook  the  bees  off,  and 
down  they  came  slithering  through  the 
twigs,  thus  breaking  the  formation,  and 
back  they  all  went  to  the  limb  again. 
Twenty  times  at  least  he  did  this,  descend- 
ing each  time  clear  to  the  ground  to  learn 
results  —  that  witless  wight!  till  at  last  a 
lucky  shake  sent  down  the  queen,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  A  hive 
was  set  over  her,  and  most  of  the  bees  in 
due  time  went  in  to  her  and  were  carried 
away.  Then  the  rest  settled  down  to 
work;  but  first,  I  went  through  the 
hive  again  for  queen-cells.  One  swarm 
they  must  have.  After  that,  it  was  my 
turn. 

Under  the  wire-net  cap  of  the  hive  I 
could  see  the  bees  were  busy  in  the  super. 


Vague  reports  of  possible  honey  in  the 
fall  judiciously  were  allowed  to  filter  out. 
"  Speech  sweeter  than  honey  in  the 
comb  "  became  a  figure  of  speech  in  daily 
rhetoric.  Finally  I  brought  home  another 
super  and  slipped  it  on  under  the  first 
one.  The  bees  still  went  up  to  the  top 
one,  and  had  not  finished  work  there  in 
the  fall.  Long  since  I  had  slid  in  a  sheet 
of  zinc,  full  of  holes  too  small  for  drone 
or  queen  to  pass  through,  thus  letting  in- 
to the  comb-boxes  only  workers.  Now  I 
slipped  in  between  the  supers  a  board 
with  a  bee-escape  in  it,  and  next  day  there 
was  not  a  bee  left  in  the  upper  super. 
Then  I  opened  the  hive. 

With  an  air  of  unconcern,  as  of  every- 
day affairs,  I  came  downstairs  and  placed 
on  the  dining-table  a  pound  of  honey, 
filled  to  the  very  edge,  not  one  empty  cell 
therein.  The  finished  result! 

There  was  admiration,  of  course.  Due 
praise  was  becomingly  received;  but  it 
was  veiled  with  a  certain  household  air  of 
reserve,  as  of  suspended  judgment.  The 
very  air  conveyed  the  subtle  suggestion 
— "  one  pound  of  honey  is  all  very  well ; 
but  was  it  worth  while  ?  "  Next  week  I 
produced  another.  Like  wax  before  the 
fire,  the  reserve  began  to  melt.  We  have 
now  finished  the  sixteenth  pound;  and 
many  weeks  ago  all  hints  that  we  would 
better  give  away  that  hive  came  to  a  sud- 
den end.  It  is  now  March,  and  I  lately 
opened  the  top  of  the  hive  to  see  how  mat- 
ters were  therein.  A  bee  promptly  came 
up  to  look  into  the  matter  from  her  point 
of  view.  Her  attitude  was  energetic,  and 
she  wore  an  aspect  of  being  hasty-minded. 
I  made  a  snap-judgment  that  all  was 
well,  and  closed  the  hive  without  delay  — 
and  carried  down  the  seventeenth  box 
for  the  Sunday's  dinner. 

So  much  for  bees  in  an  attic. 

And  as  a  curious  commentary  on  the 
absorption  of  humanity  in  its  own  affairs, 
I  will  add  that  not  six  families  in  the  town 
are  even  now  aware  that  I  am  keeping 
bees  at  all. 


IN  ENGLAND'S  PENNSYLVANIA 


BY  ARTHUR  GRANT 

"  Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the  apostle."  —  Evangeline. 

Buckinghamshire  beyond  the  tiny  Thame 
that  flowed  so  gently  on  to  meet  the  great- 
er river  of  a  still  greater  capital.  From 
an  old  seventeenth-century  farmhouse, 
around  which  the  golden  grain  had  been 
garnered,  I  rambled  into  a  land  of  beech- 
crowned  hills,  storied  churches,  and 
ancient  Elizabethan  manor-houses.  Just 
over  yon  sleepy  down-like  hills  to  the 
southeast,  where  at  nightfall  one  can 
sometimes  see  the  gleam  of  distant  lamp- 
lit  London,  lies  the  Perm-land  of  Eng- 
land. To  me  it  had  all  the  charm  of  an 
undiscovered  country  over  the  hills  and 
far  away.  For  my  Penn-land  rambles  I 
always  started  from  Amersham,  some- 
times over  the  hills  to  Penn  itself,  now  by 
way  of  Beaconsfield  to  Stoke  Pogis,  or  at 
another  time  by  Chalfont  St.  Giles  to 
Jordans.  Amersham,  I  may  add,  was 
practically  more  distant  to  me  at  my 
remote  farmhouse  among  the  hills  than 
it  is  to  the  literary  pilgrim  who  starts 
from  London. 

I  have  frequently  praised  the  lanes  of 
Hertfordshire,  but  they  do  not  surpass 
those  of  South  Buckinghamshire.  The 
road  from  Amersham  to  Penn  winds 
through  beech  woods,  within  which  there 
are  signs  of  violets  and  wood-sorrel, 
reminiscent  of  spring.  The  dog-rose,  the 
bracken,  and  the  gorse  are  always  present, 
and  here  and  there  clumps  of  pines  add 
strength  to  the  character  of  the  landscape. 
On  the  border  of  a  wood  I  passed  the 
church  of  the  village  of  Penn  Street,  a 
modern  church  with  a  steeple,  unusual  in 
a  locality  where  square  embattled  towers 
are  the  rule.  It  is  a  picturesque  village 
with  its  little  alehouse,  "The  Squirrel," 
suggestive  of  beechnuts,  and  another  that 
bears  the  suggestive  name  of  the  "Hit  or 
Miss."  My  path  leads  me  past  Penn 


PENN    VILLAGE,    STOKE    POQIS,    AND 
CHALFONT 

WHEN  Charles  the  Second  insisted  on 
William  Penn's  new  territory  of  Sylvania 
on  the  virgin  shores  of  America  being 
called  Pennsylvania,  he  coined  one  of  the 
sweetest  place-names  in  colonial  history. 
Unlike  Boston  and  Plymouth,  and  many 
other  historic  names  common  to  both 
countries,  the  name  of  Pennsylvania  may 
not  be  found  on  the  map  of  England ;  but 
I  love  to  think  of  the  little  tableland  of 
beechen  woods  in  South  Buckingham- 
shire, extending,  say,  from  Penn  Village 
to  Jordans  and  the  Chalfonts  and  from 
Amersham  to  Stoke  Pogis,  as  the  Pennsyl- 
vania of  England.  It  is  a  stretch  of  thick- 
ly wooded  country,  dear  to  every  lover  of 
English  history  and  literature,  associated 
with  Milton,  Hampden,  Gray,  Waller, 
Burke,  Isaac  Disraeli,  and,  in  our  own 
time,  Lord  Beaconsfield.  Above  all,  this 
particular  district  is  revered  by  every 
American  as  the  ancestral  home  of  the 
Penns,  and  as  containing  the  sacred  soil 
in  which  the  great  Founder  of  Pennsyl- 
vania was  laid  to  rest  after  his  labors. 

From  the  windows  of  my  home  in  Scot- 
land I  daily  look  across  the  Water  of 
Leith  to  the  Pentland  Hills,  while  "  the 
river  at  my  garden's  end  "  flows  on  past 
Scotia's  capital,  only  to  rest  when  it 
reaches  the  waters  of  the  misty  Forth. 
But 

There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands 
beyond  Forth, 

to  the  south  as  well  as  to  the  north,  and 
thus  it  was  during  a  glorious  September 
holiday  that  I  feasted  my  eyes  every 
morning  on  the  sunlit  Chiltern  Hills  of 
556 


In  England's  Pennsylvania 


557 


House,  a  red  brick  mansion-house,  all 
ivy-clad  gables  and  chimneys,  one  gable 
bearing  the  date  1536.  One  of  the  de- 
lights connected  with  rambles  in  England 
is  that  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  places 
you  stumble  across  manor-houses  that,  in 
themselves  or  on  account  of  the  families 
with  which  they  are  associated,  have  be- 
come famous  in  England's  history.  So  it 
is  with  this  old  manor-house.  The  Penns 
became  extinct  in  the  elder  branch  by  the 
death  of  Roger  Penn  in  1735,  when  the 
estate  passed  by  the  marriage  of  his  sister 
and  heir  to  Sir  Nathaniel  Curzon,  Baro- 
net. Later  still,  a  Curzon  married  the 
daughter  of  Admiral  Howe,  and  to  this 
circumstance  the  present  family  owes  its 
triple  name,  representing  the  Penns,  Cur- 
zons,  and  Howes.  With  the  Penns  we  are 
more  immediately  interested.  The  Howes 
not  only  link  Penn  House  with  the  ad- 
miral, but  also  with  General  Howe,  who 
was  with  Wolfe  at  Quebec,  and  who  is 
still  better  known  in  connection  with  the 
War  of  Independence.  In  our  own  time 
the  alliance  of  a  daughter  of  America 
with  the  brilliant  cadet  of  the  Curzon 
family,  who  became  vice-roy  and  his 
wife  vice-reine  of  India,  occurs  to  one's 
mind  as  with  reverent  foot  we  tread  this 
interesting  corner  of  England's  Pennsyl- 
vania. 

From  Penn  Bottom  the  path  ascends 
to  the  weather-beaten  village  of  Penn  it- 
self, on  the  top  of  the  hill.  Penn  Church 
is  a  plain  old  structure  of  rubble  and 
flint,  originally  early  English  in  style  and 
dating  from  1213.  The  chancel  added  in 
1736  contains  the  only  stained-glass  win- 
dow, filled  in  during  the  following  year. 
This  parish  church,  however,  is  interest- 
ing in  other  memorials  of  the  dead,  mural 
monuments  by  Chantoy,  old  hatchments, 
and  ancient  brasses.  The  pilgrim  who 
has  no  access  to  family  archives  can  here 
muse  over  the  historic  names  of  Penn, 
Howe,  and  Curzon.  It  should  be  stated 
that  William  Perm's  father,  Admiral 
Penn,  belonged  to  a  branch  of  the  Penn 
family  which  removed  to  Wiltshire.  They 
had  hived  off  from  the  old  stock.  Ad- 


miral Penn  himself  was  buried  at  St.  Mary 
Redclyffe,  Bristol.  But  the  old  district 
had  a  magnetic  attraction  for  his  family, 
and  thus  it  happens  that  some  of  the 
grandchildren  of  William  Penn  are  bur- 
ied here,  while  his  son,  Thomas  Penn  of 
Stoke  Pogis,  and  his  descendants  are  bur- 
ied in  the  church  of  the  famous  Elegy.  In 
the  south  chancel  chapel  at  Penn  still  re- 
main splendid  brasses  fixed  on  blue  stone. 
One  is  a  finely  cut  brass  to  the  memory  of 
John  Pen  of  Pen  who  died  in  1597,  aged 
63.  He  and  his  lady  are  dressed  in 
Elizabethan  court  dress.  Other  brasses 
are  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  a  later 
John  Pen,  his  wife  Sarah,  five  sons  and 
five  daughters,  dating  from  1641,  and  to  a 
William  Pen  and  Martha  his  wife,  a  son, 
and  two  daughters,  also  of  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

From  Penn  to  Stoke  Pogis  is  only  some 
seven  or  eight  miles,  —  nine,  perhaps,  if 
you  follow  the  windings  of  the  highways 
and  byways  of  this  sylvan  country.  The 
church  and  churchyard  of  Stoke  Pogis 
can  never  be  described  too  often. 
Throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
England  there  are  many  more  beautiful 
shrines.  One  thinks,  for  example,  of 
the  noble  chancel  of  the  Holy  Trin- 
ity Church  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  where 
Shakespeare  lies :  the  great  and  beautiful 
church  of  St.  Mary  Redclyffe,  in  which 
Admiral  Penn  was  interred ;  and  the  par- 
ish church  of  Berkhampstead  just  across 
the  border  into  Hertfordshire,  where  the 
poet  Cowper's  father  was  rector,  and  in 
the  pastoral  house  of  which  the  gentle 
bard  was  born.  But  Gray  has  thrown 
around  this  old  parish  church  a  spell  that 
is  all  its  own.  Stoke  Pogis  has  no  long- 
drawn  isles,  nor  fretted  vaults,  where 
pealing  anthems  swell  the  note  of  praise. 
Rather  has  it  old-fashioned  pews  in  which 
the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverleys  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  might  gently  slumber  while 
the  eighteenth-century  divines,  as  Gray 
puts  it,  were  "chopping  logic."  Such  a 
delightful  nook  is  Gray's  own  pew  in  the 
southwest  corner  of  the  churchJ  Such, 
too,  is  the  great  pew  of  the  Penn  family, 


558 


In  England's  Pennsylvania 


with  its  rows  of  Queen  Anne  chairs  — 
the  Penn  chairs  they  are  called  —  and  its 
modern  Gothic  corridor  leading  to  Stoke 
Park.  It  was  while  I  was  seated  in  Gray's 
pew  that  I  observed  a  slab  recording  the 
fact  that  in  a  vault  in  this  church  are  de- 
posited the  remains  of  Thomas  Penn  of 
Stoke  Park,  son  of  William  Penn,  founder 
of  Pennsylvania.  Thomas  Penn,  it  ap- 
peared, had  returned  to  the  bosom  of  the 
Church  of  England.  He  visited  Pennsyl- 
vania in  1732,  and  was  presented  with  an 
address  by  the  Assembly.  In  1760  he 
purchased  Stoke  Park.  The  classic  mod- 
ern mansion  was  built  by  John  Penn, 
grandson  of  the  great  governor,  and  it 
was  he  also  who  erected  the  monument 
to  Gray  in  the  meadow  beyond  the 
churchyard.  The  last  of  the  Perms  of 
Stoke  was  buried  at  Stoke  Pogis  in  1869. 
It  is  pleasing  to  think  that  Thomas  Penn 
spent  his  declining  years  only  some  six 
miles  distant  from  the  sacred  spot  where 
rests  his  illustrious  father,  beside  the  old 
Quaker  meeting-house  among  the  beech- 
en  woods  of  Jordans. 

Situated  as  I  was  in  North  Bucking- 
hamshire, I  preferred  to  visit  Jordans,  not 
from  Stoke  Pogis,  but  by  way  of  Chalfont 
St.  Giles,  so  that  I  might  pass  Milton's 
cottage;  for  was  not  John  Milton  one  of 
the  links  in  the  chain  that  bound  William 
Penn  to  this  comer  of  Buckinghamshire  ? 
My  practice  in  making  these  literary  pil- 
grimages is  to  find  out  "the  foot-path 
way,"  and  stick  to  it.  In  Scotland  these 
paths  are  practically  non-existent,  and  so 
I  appreciate  the  more  the  luxury  of  wan- 
dering from  village  to  village  through  the 
fields.  From  Amersham  to  Chalfont  the 
foot-path  is  parallel  to  the  King's  high- 
way, following  the  course  of  a  lowland 
stream,  a  gently-flowing,  clear-bottomed 
chalk-stream,  called  the  Misbourne, 
lined  with  water-cress  and  sedge.  Near 
Stratton  Chase  I  passed  a  mill  whose  mill- 
stream  was  alive  with  white  ducks,  and 
from  there  I  obtained  my  first  glimpse 
of  the  square  embattled  church  tower 
of  Chalfont  St.  Giles.  The  village  consists 
of  a  single  street  of  old-timbered,  green- 


lichened  cottages,  old-fashioned  ale- 
houses and  signposts,  with  the  inevitable 
duck-pond.  A  great  elm  halfway  down 
the  village  street  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
an  ancient  tree  even  in  Milton's  time. 
At  the  church  I  was  so  shadowed  by  an 
old  verger  that  I  have  but  a  dim  impres- 
sion of  its  features,  dim  as  the  faded  fres- 
coes on  its  walls.  In  visiting  such  church- 
es the  indefinable  charm,  the  holy  calm, 
the  awe-inspiring  beauty  vanish  entirely 
when  an  officious  official  turns  the  build- 
ing into  a  mediaeval  museum;  but  when 
the  door  of  the  porch  is  open,  or  when  I 
have  only  to  lift  the  latch  of  the  wire 
screen  intended  to  keep  the  birds  from 
entering  and  building  their  nests  in  the 
sanctuaries  of  the  Lord,  when  I  may  step 
silently  and  alone  to  the  altar-rails,  then 
I  bless  the  vicar  of  the  parish  for  this 
sweet  solitude,  this  haven  of  rest,  this 
"  haunt  of  ancient  peace."  Yet  Charles 
Lamb,  in  that  most  sympathetic  essay  on 
the  Quakers,  would  have  it  that  theirs 
was  the  greater  peace,  the  silence  of  com- 
munion, spirit  with  spirit,  seated  together 
at  their  meeting-house.  '  *  To  pace  alone," 
he  says,  "to  pace  alone  in  the  cloisters, 
or  side  aisles  of  some  cathedral,  time- 
stricken  ...  is  but  a  vulgar  luxury 
compared  with  that  which  those  enjoy, 
who  come  together  for  the  purposes  of 
more  complete,  abstracted  solitude."  I 
shall  return  to  this  charming  paper  when 
I  come  to  record  my  visit  to  Jordans. 

Leaving  the  churchyard  on  his  way  to 
Jordans,  the  pilgrim  must  needs  pass 
Milton's  cottage  on  his  left  at  the  south 
end  of  the  village  of  Chalfont  St.  Giles. 
One  room  only  is  open  to  the  public,  but 
in  that  room  I  could  sit  undisturbed  and 
think  of  him  who  was  the  great  Puritan 
poet  of  England,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
poet,  next  to  Shakespeare  and  Spenser, 
whose  works  glow  with  all  the  richness  of 
the  Elizabethans,  fifty  years  after  their 
time.  There  is  little  to  distinguish  Mil- 
ton's cottage  from  many  another  in  the 
district,  but  it  must  have  been  a  delight- 
ful retreat  from  the  plague-haunted  me- 
tropolis. Milton  knew  the  lanes  of  Buck- 


In  England9 s  Pennsylvania 


559 


inghamshire.  They  had  already  inspired 
his  verse  when,  as  a  young  man  at  Horton 
some  thirteen  miles  distant,  he  wrote  his 
"  L' Allegro"  and  "II  Penseroso;"  and  so 
when  Ell  wood  the  Quaker  took  the  "pret- 
ty box  for  him  in  Giles  Chalfont,"  Milton 
was  doubtless  revisiting  familiar  ground 
in  the  best  of  company,  familiar,  and  yet 
with  this  terrible  difference,  that  to  him, 
like  his  own  Samson,  the  sun  was  now 
"  dark  and  silent  as  the  Moon  when  she 
deserts  the  night."  The  faithful  Ellwood 
lived  close  at  hand,  the  Penningtons  occu- 
pied Chalfont  Grange,  and  with  them 
dwelt  the  beautiful  Gulielma  Maria 
Springett,  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Springett,  whose  widow  had  married 
Isaac  Pennington.  It  was  this  charming 
circle  that  young  William  Penn  entered 
and  there  met  his  future  wife.  Hepworth 
Dixon  in  his  picturesque  way  has  happily 
described  the  scene  in  his  biography  of 
Penn. 

"Guli  was  fond  of  music.  Music  was 
Milton's  second  passion.  In  the  cottage 
of  the  poet,  in  the  Grange  of  the  philo- 
sopher, how  one  can  fancy  the  hours  flying 
past,  between  psalms  of  love,  high  con- 
verse from  the  lips  of  the  inspired  bard, 
old  stories  of  the  Revolution  in  which  the 
elder  people  had  each  had  a  prominent 
share,  and  probably  the  recitation  of 
favorite  passages  from  that  stupendous 
work  which  was  to  crown  the  blind  and 
aged  poet,  and  become  one  of  the  grand- 
est heirlooms  of  mankind !  It  was  to  these 
favored  friends  that  Milton  first  made 
known  that  he  had  been  engaged  in  writ- 
ing *  Paradise  Lost;'  and  it  was  also  in 
their  society  that  Ellwood  suggested  to 
him  the  theme  of  his  *  Paradise  Re- 
gained/ Immortal  Chalfont!" 

As  you  enter  the  low-roofed  room  with 
its  great  cross-beam,  you  wonder  how 
much  of  the  old  atmosphere  is  left,  the 
atmosphere  of  the  dainty  Priscilla,  for 
Guli  belonged  to  the  same  charming  sis- 
terhood as  Longfellow's  ancestress.  The 
porch  has  gone,  but  you  can  look  out 
from  Milton's  latticed  window  into  the 
little  garden  beyond.  At  the  back  of  the 


iron  grate  in  the  great  open  fireplace,  a 
Scottish  thistle,  oddly  enough,  is  the  chief 
ornament.  A  few  Chippendale  chairs, 
small  oak  stools,  a  table  and  bookcase 
containing  various  editions  of  Milton's 
works,  and  other  Miltoniana,  constitute 
the  furnishings  of  the  Poet's  Room  at  the 
present  day.  A  small  book-closet  off  this 
room,  with  its  tiny  window  and  shelves 
contemporary  with  the  age  of  the  cottage, 
seems  somehow  to  suggest  more  of  the 
poet  than  the  well-kept  little  museum. 
What  books  were  stored  on  those  shelves 
would  be  an  interesting  speculation.  How 
eagerly  we  would  scan  their  titles  if  we 
could,  just  as  in  a  later  age  the  literary 
pilgrim  to  Abbotsford,  in  passing  through 
the  library  and  study,  loves  to  run  his  or 
her  eyes  along  the  screened  bookshelves 
and  to  identify  here  and  there  the  old 
"classics"  from  which  in  his  "Notes" 
the  good  Sir  Walter  used  to  quote  so  co- 
piously. But  to  return.  One  loves  to 
think  that  Guli  (or  should  we  not  say 
"Miss  Springett"?)  sometimes  sat  in 
this  room,  waiting  perhaps  until  young 
William  Penn  called  to  escort  her  back 
to  the  Grange.  All  this  is  so  delightfully 
English  that  we  would  fain  forget  the 
other  side  of  the  story,  the  cruel  persecu- 
tions that  were  helping  to  drain  Old  Eng- 
land of  its  best  blood  and  to  build  up  a 
New  England  across  the  Atlantic.  Leav- 
ing the  cottage,  I  lingered  for  a  moment  in 
the  little  garden  in  which  grapes  and  to- 
matoes ripened  in  the  warm  September 
sunshine,  amid  the  resplendent  autumnal 
glories  of  sunflowers,  asters,  and  dahlias. 


JOBDANS    AND   WILLIAM    PENN!    AN 
APPRECIATION 

To  the  memories  of  Penn,  Stoke  Pogis, 
and  Chalfont,  I  was  now  to  add  that  of 
Jordans,  the  innermost  sanctuary,  shall  I 
say,  of  England's  Pennsylvania.  The 
earlier  Penns  are  sleeping  beneath  their 
Elizabethan  memorials  in  old  Penn 
Church;  the  later  Penns,  Squires  of  Stoke 


500 


In  England's  Pennsylvania 


Park,  built  themselves  a  lordly  manor- 
house  and  sought  to  share  with  the  poet 
Gray  the  immortality  of  Stoke  Pogis;  but 
Jordans  differs  from  either.  As  a  shrine, 
it  is  unique  in  its  simplicity,  this  little 
meeting-house  and  burying-ground  with 
its  plain  headstones.  Yet  here  rests  Wil- 
liam Penn,  "the  apostle,"  as  Longfellow 
lovingly  calls  him;  here  too  rest  Guli 
Penn,  the  gentle  Ellwood  to  whom  the 
Friends  owe  this  burying-ground,  the  per- 
secuted Penningtons,  and  all  that  goodly 
company  of  heroes  and  heroines,  mar- 
tyrs in  the  cause  of  truth  and  peace. 

Leaving  Chalfont  St.  Giles,  the  road 
winds  past  old  farm-houses  whose  roofs, 
in  relief  against  the  sky,  curve  like  switch- 
backs. These  wonderful  lanes  with  their 
high  hedges  are  still  my  companions. 
Here  is  one  of  holly,  gay  with  clusters  of 
berries,  reminding  one  in  these  late  au- 
tumn days  that  Christmastide  is  not  so 
very  far  off;  and  now  the  road  widens 
out  into  sun-bathed  grassy  open  spaces 
decked  with  bracken  and  with  the  last  of 
the  trailing  bridal-like  garlands  of  wild 
clematis,  so  happily  named  "traveler's 
joy."  Beyond  the  hedgerows,  as  usual 
in  this  pleasant  land,  the  landscape  is 
bounded  by  the  glorious  vista  of  woods. 

Suddenly,  on  my  left,  as  I  descended 
into  a  cuplike  hollow  in  this  tableland. 
I  came  upon  the  historic  meeting-house. 
There  was  no  mistaking  it,  a  plain  old- 
fashioned  building  embosomed  in  beech 
woods,  lonely  save  for  Jordans  farm- 
house, which  I  had  just  passed.  Owing  to 
the  fall  in  the  ground,  there  was  ample 
stabling  accommodation  underneath  the 
meeting-house  for  the  Friends,  who,  in 
those  seventeenth  and  eighteenth-century 
days,  must  perforce  ride  many  a  long  mile 
before  they  could  reach  this  secluded 
spot.  It  was  not  so  long  since  there  was 
not  a  single  headstone  in  this  primitive 
burying-ground.  From  1671  the  Quakers 
slept  in  nameless  graves.  Perm's  bio- 
grapher, Dixon,  says  that  when  he  visited 
Jordans  in  1851  with  Granville  Penn,  the 
great  grandson  of  the  state-founder,  they 
had  some  difficulty  in  identifying  the  par- 


ticular spot  "where  heaves  the  turf  "  over 
his  sacred  remains.  Mr.  Dixon  adds  that 
Granville  Penn  "is  disposed  to  mark  the 
spot  by  some  simple  but  durable  record, 

—  a  plain  stone  or  block  of  granite;  and 
if  this  be  not  done,  the  neglect  will  only 
hasten  the  day  on  which  his  ancestor's 
remains  will  be  carried  off  to  America 

—  their  proper  and  inevitable  home!" 
Twelve  years  later,  at  the  heads  of  such 
graves  as  had  been  identified  were  placed 
the  simple  memorial  stones,  with  name 
and  date  of  burial  only,  that  we  see  to- 
day.  Penn  still  rests  at  Jordans.   Made 
welcome  by  the  kindly  caretaker,  I  lin- 
gered long  in  the  old  meeting-room,  por- 
ing over  the  old-world  names  recorded  on 
its  walls.  These  names  included  a  list  of 
some  385  burials  between  1671  and  1845. 
The  first  entry  I  looked  for  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"Penn,  William,  Esquire,  1718,  the 
illustrious  founder  of  Pennsylvania,  died 
at  his  residence  at  Ruscombe,  near  Twy- 
ford,  Berks,  4th  day  [Wednesday]  30th  of 
5th  mo.  [July]  1718  aged  74,  buried  at 
Jordans,  3rd  day  [Tuesday]  5th  of  6th 
mo.  [August]  1718  when  some  30  Quaker 
ministers  attended  the  funeral  including 
Thomas  Story  and  a  vast  concourse  of 
Friends  and  others." 

Story  was  the  faithful  friend  of  his  later 
years.  Gulielma's  name  was  recorded 
under  date  1693.  Our  gentle  Guli  had 
died  at  the  age  of  50,  "one  of  ten  thou- 
sand," broken  in  spirit.  Weary  and  heavy- 
laden,  the  sorrows  of  her  husband,  which 
she  insisted  in  sharing,  had  brought 
her  to  a  premature  grave.  At  least  two 
other  Gulielmas  are  inscribed  on  this  roll, 
one  a  daughter  who  died  in  1689,  and 
the  other  a  Gulielma  Pitt  who  died  in 
1746.  The  names  of  the  Penningtons  and 
the  Ellwoods  complete  the  revered  circle 
that  sat  around  John  Milton  in  the  old 
Chalfont  days.  Less-known  names  are 
the  Zacharys  and  the  Lovelaces,  surely 
more  Cavalier  than  Quaker;  and  as  illus- 
trating the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth- 
century  fashion  of  adopting  the  old  He- 
brew nomenclature,  I  could  not  refrain 


In  England's  Pennsylvania 


561 


from  noting  the  record  of  the  burials  of 
the  Sutterfield  family,  of  Abraham  and 
Rebecca  Sutterfield,  whose  children  had 
been  named  respectively  Josuah,  Luke, 
Abiah,  Kezia,  Jacob,  and  Luke  (the 
second  of  the  name).  Rebecca  Sutter- 
field !  How  Hawthorne  could  have  woven 
a  Puritan  romance  around  such  a  name ! 

"  Every  Quakeress,"  says  Charles 
Lamb,  "is  a  lily;  and  when  they  come 
up  in  bands  to  their  Whitsun-conferences, 
whitening  the  easterly  streets  of  the  Me- 
tropolis, from  all  parts  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  they  show  like  troops  of  the 
Shining  Ones."  So  thought  our  most  be- 
loved of  English  essayists  as  he  met  them 
amid  the  bustle  of  London ;  but  Jordans, 
though  so  near  the  metropolis,  reckoned 
by  miles,  —  some  twenty  or  thereabout, 
—  is  yet  "far  from  the  madding  crowd," 
and,  as  you  rest  on  one  of  the  homely 
benches  of  the  meeting-house,  you  can- 
not but  feel  how  charmingly  Lamb  inter- 
preted the  undefinable  glamourie  of  this 
place.  "You  go  away  with  a  sermon  not 
made  with  hands  .  .  .  you  have  bathed 
with  stillness.  O  when  the  spirit  is  sore 
fretted,  even  tired  to  sickness  of  the  jang- 
lings,  and  nonsense-noises  of  the  world, 
what  a  balm  and  a  solace  it  is,  to  go  and 
seat  yourself,  for  a  quiet  half-hour,  upon 
some  undisputed  corner  of  a  bench, 
among  the  gentle  Quakers!"  Reader,  if 
thou  wouldst  experience  this  peace,  a 
peace  that  truly  and  literally  passeth 
understanding,  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Jordans. 

Nothing  could  be  more  striking  than 
the  contrast  between  the  career  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  and  this  his  last  resting-place. 
The  story  of  his  life  is,  to  a  great  extent, 
the  history  of  the  later  Stuart  period.  It 
was  full  of  contrasts.  Penn  played  many 
parts.  He  combined  the  man  of  thought, 
the  idealist,  the  poet,  with  the  man  of 
action.  The  son  of  one  of  England's 
greatest  admirals  (for  Sir  William  Penn's 
services  to  his  country  have  never  had  full 
justice  done  to  them),  the  founder  of  a 
great  colony,  the  patrician,  courtier,  per- 
sonal friend  of  King  James  the  Second, 
VOL.  102  -NO.  4 


William  Penn  was  yet  withal  a  man  who, 
through  all  his  long  career  as  leader  and 
protector  of  the  Quakers,  never  ceased  to 
be  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake,  a 
man  who  often  had  no  certain  dwelling- 
place  save  the  prison-house.  How  very 
human  were  the  relations  between  father 
and  son.  Admiral  Sir  William  Penn  (we 
cannot  call  him  the  old  admiral,  for  he 
died  after  a  full*  and  strenuous  life  at  the 
age  of  forty-nine)  had  built  up  hopes  of 
a  brilliant  future  for  his  son.  William, 
however,  was  a  serious-minded  youth, 
somewhat  of  a  visionary.  At  fifteen,  he 
was  entered  as  a  gentleman  commoner  at 
Christ  Church,  Oxford;  but  the  spell  fell 
upon  him  early  in  life,  and  when  Charles 
the  Second  in  1660  ordered  that  surplices 
should  once  more  be  worn  at  divine  serv- 
ice, young  Penn,  joined  by  some  kin- 
dred spirits,  attacked  the  surpliced  stu- 
dents, and  tore  the  prelatic  vestments 
over  their  heads.  Oxford,  however,  was 
not  Edinburgh,  nor  Penn  a  Jenny  Ged- 
des,  and  so,  instead  of  another  revolution, 
all  that  happened  was  that  the  admiral's 
young  hopeful  was  expelled  from  college. 
A  mere  matter  of  temperament,  some  will 
say,  but  it  hurt  Sir  William  to  the  quick. 
Contrast  the  feeling  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  for  example,  who  rejoiced  "to 
see  the  return  of  the  comely  Anglican 
order  in  old  Episcopal  Norwich." 

Sir  William  next  sent  his  son  to  France. 
He  returned,  't  is  true,  with  the  polished 
manners  of  a  gentleman,  but  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and,  to  his  father's  great  grief, 
it  was  not  long  before  young  Penn  decid- 
ed to  throw  preferment  to  the  winds  and 
to  link  his  fortunes  with  that  humble  sect, 
the  Quakers.  Notwithstanding  his  ultra- 
Puritanism,  he  retained  the  distinguished 
manners  of  a  cavalier,  or  of  what  was 
then  called  "a  gentleman  of  quality." 
Samuel  Pepys  thus  notes  his  return  from 
France:  "Mr.  Pen,  Sir  William's  son,  is 
come  back  from  France,  and  come  to 
visit  my  wife;  a  most  modish  person 
grown,  she  says,  a  fine  gentleman." 
Pepys,  who  missed  nothing,  noticed  that 
there  was  something  wrong  between  the 


562 


In  England 's  Pennsylvania 


admiral  and  his  son.  "All  things,  I  fear, 
do  not  go  well  with  them.  They  look  dis- 
contentedly, but  I  know  not  what  ails 
them."  Later,  he  understood  that  these 
were  religious  differences  "which  I  now 
perceive  is  one  thing  that  hath  put  Sir 
William  so  long  off  the  hookes."  At  last 
the  secret  is  out.  Writing  in  his  diary 
under  date  December  29,  1667,  Pepys 
says,  "At  night  comes  Mrs.  Turner  to 
see  us;  and  there,  among  other  talk,  she 
tells  me  that  Mr.  William  Pen,  who  is 
lately  come  from  Ireland,  is  a  Quaker 
again,  or  some  very  melancholy  thing; 
that  he  cares  for  no  company,  nor  comes 
into  any,  which  is  a  pleasant  thing,  after 
his  being  abroad  so  long."  It  was  said 
that  the  admiral  was  to  have  been  raised 
to  the  peerage,  and  well  he  deserved  the 
honor,  but  William  was  his  heir,  and  the 
Quaker  would  have  no  such  "worldly 
title  or  patent." 

We  are  glad  to  know  that  father  and 
son  were  reconciled  before  Sir  William's 
death,  and  that,  knowing  the  perils  with 
which  young  Penn  would  be  beset  in  an 
age  that  could  not  tolerate  dissent,  the 
admiral  on  his  deathbed  asked  the  Duke 
of  York  to  protect  his  son  so  far  as  he 
consistently  could.  The  duke,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  Lord  High  Admiral, 
while  Sir  William  was  Vice-Admiral  of 
England ;  hence  the  bond  of  friendship 
between  these  two  men,  that  never  was 
broken.  How  faithfully  James  carried 
out  the  dying  man's  request  is  now  a 
matter  of  history.  Indeed,  the  intimacy 
between  Charles  II,  James  II,  and  the 
Penns,  father  and  son,  is  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  episodes  in  their  annals. 
No  one  can  say  that  William  Penn  had 
not  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  What 
he  said,  he  said ;  and  to  know  that  the  last 
of  the  Stuart  kings  were  faithful  friends 
of  Penn  the  Quaker  reveals  a  trait  of 
character  in  these  two  men  that  should 
not  be  forgotten.  But  while  Penn's  access 
to  the  royal  presence  enabled  him  to  do 
much  towards  softening  the  sufferings  of 
the  persecuted  Quakers,  it  was  the  cause 
of  his  own  later  troubles,  when  over  and 


over  again  the  cry  arose  that  Penn  was 
a  Papist  and  Jesuit. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  naming 
of  Pennsylvania  by  Charles  II,  after  the 
.  admiral.  More  interesting,  too,  than  any 
romance  is  the  history  of  that  settlement. 
Well  might  Penn  exclaim,  as  he  does,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  "Oh,  how  sweet  is  the 
quiet  of  these  parts,  freed  from  the  anx- 
ious and  troublesome  solicitations,  hur- 
ries, and  perplexities  of  woeful  Europe!" 
Sweet  indeed!  to  be  away  from  the  big- 
otry of  the  old  world,  a  world  that  could 
not  distinguish  between  Quakers  and 
Papists,  a  world  that  could  accuse  the 
man  who  tore  the  surplices  at  Oxford  of 
being  a  Jesuit !  Nothing  illustrates  more 
strikingly  Penn's  extraordinary  versatil- 
ity and  manifold  gifts,  than  his  wonder- 
ful letter  to  the  Free  Society  of  Traders 
of  Pennsylvania,  dated  August  16,  1683, 
in  which  he  describes  the  fertility  of  his 
province,  the  serenity  of  its  climate,  its 
natural  resources,  its  fauna,  and  the  no- 
bility of  its  aboriginal  inhabitants.  When 
he  leaves  again  for  England  in  1684,  it  is 
thus  he  apostrophizes  Philadelphia :  — 

"And  thou  Philadelphia,  the  virgin 
settlement  of  this  province,  named  before 
thou  wert  born,  what  love,  what  care, 
what  service,  and  what  travail,  has  there 
been  to  bring  thee  forth  and  preserve  thee 
from  such  as  would  abuse  and  defile 
thee! 

"Oh,  that  thou  mayest  be  kept  from 
the  evil  that  would  overwhelm  thee;  that 
faithful  to  the  God  of  thy  mercies,  in  the 
life  of  righteousness  thou  mayest  be  pre- 
served to  the  end !  My  soul  prays  to  God 
for  thee,  that  thou  mayest  stand  in  the 
day  of  trial,  that  thy  children  may  be 
blessed  of  the  Lord,  and  thy  people 
saved  by  his  power.  My  love  to  thee  has 
been  great,  and  the  remembrance  of  thee 
affects  my  heart  and  mine  eye.  —  The 
God  of  eternal  strength  keep  and  pre- 
serve thee  to  His  glory  and  peace." 

How  we  seem  to  see  in  these  lines  the 
workings  of  Penn's  mind.  In  seeking  to 
give  written  expression  to  his  feelings 
towards  Philadelphia,  Penn  models  his 


In  England's  Pennsylvania 


563 


apostrophe  on  the  words  of  the  Master 
Himself.  Knowing  the  character  of  the 
man,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  sin- 
cerity. 

Over  and  over  again  the  great  colonist 
longed  to  return  to  his  retreat  at  Penns- 
bury,  Pennsylvania,  and  was  as  often 
prevented  by  arrestments  on  the  old 
charges,  and  so  it  was  not  until  1699  that 
he  made  his  second  voyage.  He  returned 
to  England  in  1701,  in  connection  with 
proposed  changes  in  the  government  of 
North  America.  Penn  never  saw  his 
colony  again.  Troubles  at  home,  that 
told  on  his  health,  showered  fast  upon 
him.  In  1712  he  was  seized  with  apoplec- 
tic fits,  and  on  July  30,  1718,  he  died,  as 
the  memorial  on  the  wall  there  shows, 
and  left  behind  him  an  imperishable 
name. 

But  I  have  lingered  all  too  long  at  Jor- 
dans,  too  long  at  least  for  a  September 
day,  if  I  wish  to  be  home  before  night- 
fall. In  the  gloaming,  as  I  pass  through 
Amersham  once  more,  a  single  bell  is 
tolling  for  evensong,  and  very  impressive 
the  parish  church  looks  with  its  chancel 
only  alight.  I  cannot  remain  to  the  serv- 
ice, for  I  have  still  to  retrace  my  steps  to 
the  distant  farmhouse  among  the  hills. 
It  was  a  peaceful  impression  that  I  car- 


ried away  with  me.  The  song  of  the  aged 
Simeon,  so  appropriately  incorporated  in 
the  Order  for  Evening  Prayer  in  that 
time-hallowed  liturgy,  seemed  somehow 
to  become  associated  in  my  mind  with 
the  passing  of  William  Penn.  During  his 
lifetime  the  Quakers  had  experienced 
their  de  profundis.  They  had  sounded 
the  depths.  They  had  passed  through 
the  valley.  They  were  now  climbing  the 
sunny  side  of  the  hill,  on  whose  slopes 
Charles  Lamb  saw  "the  Shining  Ones; " 
and  so  in  1718  their  apostle  also  might 
now  depart  in  peace,  for  his  eyes  had 
seen  their  salvation  "prepared  before  the 
face  of  all  people." 

Since  these  thoughts  and  memories 
prompted  this  paper,  I  have  returned  to 
my  home  in  Scotland;  but  sometimes, 
when  the  half-moon  dimly  lights  the 
southern  horizon  and  brings  out  in  relief 
a  row  of  beeches  whose  tapering  branch- 
es point  towards  the  sky;  sometimes,  at 
such  an  hour,  I  fancy  that  these  Pentland 
Hills  of  mine  are  the  distant  Chilterns, 
and  that  my  beeches  are  akin  to  those 
that  shelter  the  graves  of  the  Penns  and 
Penningtons,  the  beeches  that  Thomas 
Gray  loved  so  well,  "  dreaming  out  their 
old  stories  to  the  winds." 


EVENING  IN  LOUDOUN 

BY   JAMES   BRANNIN 

THE  day  is  late: 

One  bird  is  on  the  tree. 

The  breezes  wait, 

And  then,  half-silently, 

Make  tremble  the  young  leaves;  can  you  still  see 

Some  fading  gold  about  the  western  gate? 

Outside  is  dark, 

A  foul  and  wasted  world. 

The  last  pale  spark 

Of  beauty  dead;  the  curled 

Black  flag  of  greed,  and  all  those  banners  furled 

Men  died  for  otherwhiles !  —  Hush !  —  hush  —  and  hark ! 

Our  little  soul 

Of  vernal  music  sings! 

Where  is  the  goal 

Whither  so  soon  he  wings? 

Let  him  go  bathing  in  his  happy  springs; 

There  in  the  east  is  Dian's  aureole! 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 

A    PLEA   FOR  THE   UNACTED  nothing  more  than  lead  us,  through  a  nar- 

DRAMA  r°W  ant*  v*c*ous  ^de,  to  a  conclusion  as 

worthless  as  it  is  incontestable.  The  pro- 
Ax  article' by  an  eminent  scholar  in  a  priety  of  the  dialogue-form —  by  which  I 
recent  number  of  the  Atlantic,  in  which  mean  the  virtual  restriction  of  the  text  to 
the  closet-drama  is  assailed  with  a  vigor  a  succession  of  speeches  with  the  speak- 
characteristic  of  the  writer  and  a  severity  ers'  names  prefixed  —  in  non-theatrical 
peculiar  to  the  times,  moves  me  to  say  a  and    non-dramatic   literature    is    estab- 
word  in  defense  of  that  most  hapless  and  lished  by  the  Gorgias,  the  De  Senectuie, 
friendless  of  discredited  types.  the  Imaginary  Conversations,   and   the 
If  we  define  a  drama  as  a  composition  Ethics  of  the  Dust ;  no  one  could  think  of 
intended  for  performance  at  a  theatre,  it  withholding  from  the  closet-drama  a  priv- 
is  easy  to  draw  the  inference  that  a  com-  ilege  which  is  conceded  without  question 
position  not  so  designed  is  no  genuine  to  things  so  infinitely  farther  removed 
drama;  but  the  chain  of  reasoning  does  from  the  stage  as  philosophy,  criticism, 
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565 


politics,  and  science.  The  right  to  divide 
a  closet-drama  into  sections  and  subsec- 
tions can  hardly  be  impugned,  when  the 
same  right  is  granted  to  the  novel  and  the 
history;  and  the  right  to  call  these  divi- 
sions acts  and  scenes,  though  perhaps  a 
little  less  evident,  is  a  matter  of  verbal 
propriety  rather  than  of  literary  conduct, 
and  is  strongly  countenanced,  moreover, 
by  the  analogy  of  words  like  lyric,  canto, 
tragedy,  comedy,  in  which  musical  terms 
are  confidently  applied  to  poems  whose 
connection  with  music  is  obsolete  or 
nominal. 

When  we  have  put  on  one  side  what 
is  unimportant  or  indisputable,  the  real 
question  may  be  stated  thus :  Is  the  sum- 
mary and  vital  portrayal  of  action  and 
passion,  familiar  to  all  upon  the  stage, 
legitimate  and  proper  in  a  work  designed 
merely  for  the  study  ?  Or,  in  other  words, 
Is  it  proper  for  a  work  to  possess  the  psy- 
chological quality  and  the  literary  tech- 
nique of  a  stage-play  without  possessing 
also  its  theatrical  technique?  The  pre- 
sumption is  clearly  in  favor  of  the  af- 
firmative decision.  Morality  apart,  the 
right  of  literature  to  adopt  any  form  or 
material  which  it  can  render  interesting 
to  its  readers  is  incontestable.  In  writing 
for  the  closet,  moreover,  the  dramatist  is 
appealing  to  no  sequestered  or  special- 
ized audience ;  he  addresses  the  common, 
the  conceded,  the  universal  audience,  the 
audience  that  is  open  to  everything  and 
everybody,  the  audience  sought  by  his- 
torians and  journalists  and  novelists  and 
philosophers.  Why  should  one  man  for- 
feit his  normal  and  inherent  right  of  writ- 
ing for  the  study  only,  because  another 
man  chooses  to  write  for  the  stage  instead 
of  the  study,  and  a  third  man  chooses  to 
write  for  the  stage  and  the  study  alike  ? 
Why  assert  that  a  thing  is  unauthorized 
to  perform  one  function  because  it  is 
incompetent  to  perform  another?  Why 
claim  that  a  work  is  unlawful  in  the  closet 
because  it  is  useless  on  the  stage  ?  What 
really  invites  question,  though  I  myself  do 
not  question  it,  is  the  propriety  of  adapt- 
ing a  literary  work,  not  to  the  established 


literary  audience  and  literary  practice, 
but  to  a  medley  of  men  two-thirds  of 
whom  stand  outside  of  the  proper  con- 
stituency of  literature,  and  to  a  form  of 
presentation  under  which  the  materials 
are  certain  to  be  narrowed  and  liable  to 
be  depraved. 

A  dramatic  performance,  like  the  cuts 
in  a  book,  is  nothing  more  than  a  means 
of  interpreting  and  illustrating  a  written 
composition ;  and  it  is  just  as  illogical  to 
limit  the  portrayal  of  action  and  passion 
in  literature  to  those  forms  which  are  sus- 
ceptible of  reproduction  on  the  stage  as  it 
would  be  to  limit  its  portrayal  of  land- 
scape to  those  forms  which  are  capable  of 
reproduction  by  drawing.  Shall  we  affirm 
that  nothing  is  right  in  one  art  which  is 
incapable  of  effective  translation  into  an- 
other ?  Because  all  poetry  was  originally 
sung,  and  because  "Sweet  and  Low"  and 
"Crossing  the  Bar"  have  been  felicitous- 
ly set  to  music,  shall  we  declare  that  no 
poetry  shall  be  written  which  is  insus- 
ceptible of  conversion  into  song  ?  As  well 
say  that  no  English  shall  be  written  which 
is  incapable  of  adequate  translation  into 
French. 

I  have  defined  the  essence  of  dramatic 
work  to  consist  in  the  summary  and  vital 
portrayal  of  action  and  passion.  One  is 
prompted  to  ask  if  there  is  anything  in 
these  qualities  of  compression  and  vigor, 
or  anything  in  the  choice  of  action  and 
passion  as  materials,  which  is  inconsist- 
ent with  the  ends  or  spirit  of  pure  or 
"mere5*  literature,  anything  which  pure 
or  "mere"  literature,  in  other  forms  of 
work  than  the  drama,  has  not  often 
sought  to  its  credit,  and  found  to  its 
advantage.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  re- 
cord my  belief  that  if  by  some  unkind- 
ness  of  destiny  —  say,  for  instance, 
the  inability  of  the  human  voice  to  be 
heard  farther  than  a  dozen  feet  —  the 
theatre  had  become  impossible,  the  pres- 
sure of  human  nature  and  the  evolu- 
tion of  literature  along  its  own  lines, 
would  have  developed  a  form  correspond- 
ing in  essentials  to  the  existent  literary 
drama.  Would  any  one  have  questioned 


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the  propriety  of  a  form  so  developed? 
Would  any  one  have  contended  that  the 
transformation  of  narrative  into  literary 
drama  was  the  result  of  anything  more,  or 
anything  worse,  than  the  lawful  exercise 
of  that  faculty  of  exclusion  and  selection 
which  is  the  condition  and  foundation  of 
literature?  There  remains  only  the  plain 
question,  Does  the  existence  of  the  stage 
render  unlawful  a  form  which,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  stage,  would  be  legitimate  ? 

If  any  one  supposes  that  the  literary 
technique  of  the  drama  is  of  no  value 
aside  from  its  theatrical  technique,  —  in 
other  words,  if  he  fancies  that  the  drama- 
tist who  does  not  write  for  the  stage  might 
as  well  write  novels,  —  I  have  only  to 
ask  him  to  make  a  simple  experiment: 
let  him  imagine  the  shudder  with  which 
he  would  recoil  from  the  proposition  to 
transform  into  novels  the  great  plays 
which  he  has  never  seen,  never  expects  to 
see,  and  perhaps  does  not  even  want  to 
see,  represented  behind  footlights. 

The  opponents  of  the  closet-drama 
would  probably  contend  that  the  reader 
is  as  much  interested  as  the  spectator  in 
the  suppression  of  the  obnoxious  form ;  in 
other  words,  that  adaptation  to  the  stage 
is  the  condition  of  adaptation  to  the 
study.  How  far  is  such  a  contention  val- 
id ?  The  stage  excludes  what  is  dull  and 
flat;  and  if  it  excluded  only  what  was  dull 
and  flat,  the  obligation  to  conform  to  its 
will  might  be  a  wholesome,  though  I 
should  still  hold  that  it  was  an  arrogant 
and  arbitrary,  restraint  on  the  liberty  of 
authorship.  But  the  stage  is  not  satisfied 
with  rejecting  the  tedious  and  the  point- 
less. It  must  shut  out  everything,  inter- 
esting or  dull,  powerful  or  weak,  which 
cannot  be  instantly  comprehended  by  a 
person  of  average  or  less  than  average  in- 
telligence; it  must  shut  out  everything, 
interesting  or  dull,  powerful  or  weak, 
which  cannot  be  expressed  in  words  or 
action;  and  it  must  shut  out  everything, 
of  any  grade  of  force  or  interest,  which 
runs  counter  to  the  prejudices  of  an  un- 
reasoning audience. .  Standards  of  this 
kind  necessitate  the  rejection  of  matter 


that  is  interesting  and  powerful ;  and  the 
extinction  of  this  interest  and  power  is 
the  consequence  and  the  penalty  of  the 
dictum  that  nothing  is  fit  for  the  library 
which  is  not  also  fit  for  the  theatre.  If  the 
standards  of  dramative  effectiveness  for 
the  study  and  the  stage  are  diverse,  if 
each  has  its  peculiar  power  and  beauty, 
why  should  not  each  have  its  own  plays, 
its  own  public,  and  its  own  writers  ?  From 
this  point  of  view,  the  closet-drama  be- 
comes no  longer  a  licensed  bystander  or 
tolerated  supernumerary,  but  an  active 
and  needful  coadjutor  in  the  rounding 
out  of  a  complete  psychology  and  litera- 
ture, a  necessary  supplement  and  coun- 
terpoise to  the  rigid  and  remorseless  ex- 
clusiveness  of  an  institution  as  hostile  to 
some  forms  of  stimulus  and  power  as  to 
every  form  of  feebleness  and  torpor. 

There  are  persons,  no  doubt,  who  will 
refuse  to  believe  that  a  play  unfit  for  the 
stage  can  possess  any  real  dramatic  virtue. 
It  may  be  good  narrative,  good  poetry, 
good  pleasantry,  good  philosophy ;  but  it 
cannot  be  a  drama  if  it  will  not  act.  Let 
us  look  at  one  or  two  instances.  Le 
Gendre  de  M.  Poirier  —  I  am  indebted 
for  this  illustration  to  the  learned  article 
which  inspired  this  protest  —  failed  in 
England  and  America;  The  Duchess  of 
Malfi  and  The  Silent  Woman  are  no 
longer  successful  upon  the  English  stage. 
No  one,  I  imagine,  would  deny  the  dra- 
matic quality  to  any  one  of  these  eminent 
productions;  they  were  all  successful  in 
the  right  environment.  The  source  of  the 
failures  has  been  in  the  first  case  a  local, 
in  the  second  and  third  a  temporal,  dis- 
ability; that  is,  a  want  of  adaptation  to 
place  or  time.  Now  if  a  local  or  temporal 
disability  may  prevent  the  success,  in  cer- 
tain quarters  or  periods,  of  a  genuine  and 
powerful  drama,  why  may  not  a  techni- 
cal disability  operate  to  the  same  effect, 
without  restriction  of  time  or  place,  on  a 
drama  equally  genuine  and  powerful  ? 

The  stage  asks  for  so  much  besides  dra- 
matic power  that  the  absence  of  dramat- 
ic power  cannot  reasonably  be  inferred 
from  the  failure  of  a  work  to  suit  the 


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567 


stage.  The  theatre  demands  that  a  work 
shall  occupy  so  many  hours,  that  it  shall 
contain  so  many  acts,  that  it  shall  be 
adapted  to  a  stage  of  given  size  and  shape, 
that  its  action  shall  be  straitened  to  fit  the 
poverty,  or  stretched  to  meet  the  afflu- 
ence, of  the  costumer's  or  scene-painter's 
resources,  that  comic  relief  shall  be  pro- 
vided, that  a  dozen  or  score  of  require- 
ments shall  be  met  which  have  no  con- 
nection with  the  real  dramatic  virtue  of 
the  work.  Does  the  possession  of  the 
faculty  of  dramatic  insight,  or  the  gift  of 
racy  dialogue,  presuppose  a  willingness  to 
comply  with  these  requirements?  May 
there  not  exist  a  class  of  authors  endowed 
with  the  dramatic  faculty,  by  which  I 
mean  the  instinct  which  seizes  and  re- 
cords the  stronger  emotions  evoked  by 
the  interaction  of  human  beings,  to  whom 
the  overcoming  of  such  technical  disabili- 
ties may  seem  an  office  at  once  too  labor- 
ious and  too  trifling  to  attract  or  to  re- 
quite the  bestowal  of  their  power?  Do 
such  men  cease  to  be  dramatists  in  refus- 
ing to  become  playwrights  ? 

I  have  left  myself  no  space  for  the  dis- 
cussion with  which  a  treatment  of  the 
subject  should  properly  close,  —  a  re- 
view of  the  actual  value  and  achievement 
of  the  closet-drama.  There  is  only  room 
to  remark  that,  drawing  examples  from 
English  literature  alone,  a  list  of  plays 
beginning  with  Comus  and  ending  with 
Atalanta  in  Calydon  would  afford  some 
employment  to  the  objector. 

LO!  THE  POOR  ADJECTIVE 

IN  the  old  happy  days  of  barbarism, 
when  the  rude  pioneers  of  American  lit- 
erature, Hawthorne,  Lowell,  Holmes, 
Emerson,  and  the  others  of  that  unre- 
strained, inartistic  generation,  were  turn- 
ing out  their  rough-hewn  tales  and  essays, 
we  used  to  be  taught  that  the  parts  of 
speech  were  nine  in  number,  and  that  they 
all  had  their  part  to  play  in  language. 
It  is  different  now.  To  be  sure  the  parts 
of  speech,  though  somewhat  changed  in 
definition  and  arrangement,  are  still  with 


us,  but  the  old  equality  is  gone.  One  class 
of  words  the  subtle  rhetoricians  of  our 
day  have  exalted  with  rapturous  adula- 
tion, another  they  have  made  a  by-word 
and  a  reproach. 

What  have  the  poor  adjectives  done, 
I  wonder,  that  our  sophisticated  literati 
should  shudder  at  their  mention,  and 
speak  of  them  with  stinging  words  like 
these :  — 

"The  worst  feature  of  all  inexperi- 
enced writers  is  their  abominable  adjec- 
tivity."  "Use  the  adjective  sparingly  if 
at  all.  It  is  not  the  '  Word  of  Power.'  A 
thing  is  better  described  by  a  statement 
of  what  it  does  than  by  the  attribution 
to  it  of  qualities.  Speak  in  verbs,  that  is, 
rather  than  in  adjectives.  Examine  the 
works  of  the  writers  who  move  you.  You 
will  find  that  they  write  in  words  of  mo- 
tion, in  verbs." 

This  is  the  spirit  of  the  time:  on  all 
sides,  in  the  school  composition  and  rhe- 
toric, as  well  as  in  the  authoritative  jour- 
nal of  criticism,  this  reiterated  exhorta- 
tion is  being  dinned  into  the  ears  of  the 
growing  generation  of  authors.  "Use  the 
adjective  sparingly  if  at  all.  Speak  in 
verbs!"  and  the  typical  magazine  hack- 
writer, trying  desperately  to  break  into 
the  man-of-letters  class,  exterminates  as 
vermin  the  chance  attributive  that  strays 
into  his  first  rough  draft.  But  was  it  al- 
ways so  ?  Has  the  adjective  always  been 
too  soft  in  temper  for  the  master's  fine, 
sure  hand,  —  the  tool  of  none  but  bun- 
gling 'prentices  ?  I  remember  some  lines 
by  a  poet  of  considerable  importance  in 

his  day :  — 

Him  the  almighty  power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the   ethereal 

sky 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Here  there  are  one  or  two  adjectives  used 
not  without  effect.    Or  again  (I  quote 
from  an  even  better-known  poet),  — 

Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His   cloistered  flight,  ere   to  black   Hecate's 

summons 
The    shard-borne    beetle,    with    his    drowsy 

hums, 


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Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall 

be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

It  seems  almost  as  if  the  poets  had 
rather  a  fancy  for  the  adjective,  as  if  they 
believed  that  its  careful  but  liberal  use 
brought  to  their  verse  an  added  fullness 
of  sound,  a  richness  of  association.  But 
this  is  hardly  fair.  Classics  though  they 
are,  Milton  and  Shakespeare  are  not  the 
models  to  be  copied  by  a  pupil  in  the  art 
of  writing,  for  the  phrases  that  swell  in 
harmony  with  the  majesty  of  a  great 
argument,  in  lesser  hands,  when  the 
surge  of  genius  is  lacking,  ring  false  and 
hollow. 

Let  us  turn  then  to  the  modern  mas- 
ters of  style,  whom  the  half-scoffing  poet 
has  characterized  as  men,  "  who,  having 
nothing  much  to  say,  said  it  supremely 
well."  The  description  is  inadequate, 
for  some  of  them  rub  elbows  with  the 
immortals,  but  it  is  not  unsuggestive,  for 
however  much  we  may  marvel  at  the 
beauty  and  finish  of  their  work,  we  never 
doubt  that  they  like  us  are  men,  —  men 
whom  we  may  try  to  equal,  not  without 
hope  of  success.  They  are  our  true  mod- 
els in  technique;  let  us  see  how  they  have 
treated  the  adjective. 

Foreigner  though  he  was,  De  Maupas- 
sant may  justly  be  called  the  literary 
father  of  many  of  our  cleverest  workmen. 
Note  his  "  scanty  use  of  the  adjective  " 
in  this  description:  — 

"  Les  crapauds  a  tout  instant  jetaient 
par  1'espace  leur  note  courte  et  metal- 
lique,  et  des  rossignols  lointains  melaient 
leur  musique  egrenee  qui  fait  rever  sans 
faire  penser,  leur  musique  legere  et  vi- 
brante,  faite  pour  les  baisers,  a  la  seduc- 
tion du  clair  de  lune." 

No  one  can  call  the  prose  of  Mr.  Henry 
James  slipshod  or  Corinthian.  Here  is  a 
characteristic  passage  from  The  Am- 
bassadors :  — 

"  The  place  itself  was  a  great  impres- 
sion —  a  small  pavilion,  clear-faced  and 
sequestered,  an  effect  of  polished  parquet, 
of  fine  white  panel  and  spare  sallow  gilt, 
of  decoration  delicate  and  rare,  in  the 


heart  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain, 
and  on  the  edge  of  a  cluster  of  gardens 
attached  to  old  noble  houses." 

Mr.  James  could  not  possibly  have 
overlooked  all  those  adjectives  in  the 
proofs.  No  more  could  Mr.  Walter  Pater 
when  he  revised  this  sentence :  — 

"  In  him  first  appears  the  taste  for 
what  is  bizarre  or  recherche  in  landscape; 
hollow  places  full  of  the  green  shadow  of 
bituminous  rocks,  ridged  reefs  of  trap- 
rock  which  cut  the  water  into  quaint 
sheets  of  light;  all  the  solemn  effects  of 
moving  water;  you  may  follow  it  spring- 
ing from  its  distant  source  among  the 
rocks  on  the  heath  of  the  Madonna  of 
the  Balances,  passing  as  a  little  fall  in- 
to the  treacherous  calm  of  the  Madonna 
of  the  Lake,  next,  as  a  goodly  river, 
below  the  cliffs  of  the  Madonna  of  the 
Rocks,  washing  the  white  walls  of  its 
distant  villages,  stealing  out  in  a  network 
of  divided  streams  in  La  Gioconda  to 
the  seashore  of  Saint  Anne  —  that  deli- 
cate place,  where  the  wind  passes  like 
the  hand  of  some  fine  etcher  over  the 
surface,  and  the  untorn  shells  are  lying 
thick  upon  the  sand,  and  the  tops  of  the 
rocks,  to  which  the  waves  never  rise,  are 
green  with  grass  grown  fine  as  hair." 

No!  Those  adjectives  cannot  have 
been  left  there  by  mistake,  and  I  fancy 
that  each  author,  as  he  read  his  passage 
over,  allowed  himself  the  vanity  of  think- 
ing it  not  so  bad.  Perhaps  he  had  never 
been  taught  the  necessity  of  using  adjec- 
tives "  sparingly  if  at  all."  Perhaps  in  his 
own  blundering  way,  ignorant  of  our 
worthy  professors  of  rhetoric,  he  studied 
the  problem  of  diction  in  experiment  after 
experiment,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  all  parts  of  speech  become  abomin- 
able in  incompetent  hands,  yet  each  has 
its  peculiar  excellence  and  all  are  essen- 
tial to  balanced  prose. 

Surely  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  not 
that  the  adjective  is  in  itself  a  thing  of 
evil,  but  that  it  has  come  into  discredit 
through  the  fascination  it  exercises  over 
the  beginner.  He  has  but  one  resource 
whenever  he  thinks  it  necessary  to  color 


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569 


the  tedious  flatness  of  his  style :  he  slaps 
in  an  adjective;  and  it  is  the  reaction 
from  his  reckless  misuse  that  lies  behind 
the  general  suspicion  of  this  class  of 
words.  It  is  well  to  advise  the  schoolboy 
to  use  fewer  adjectives  (for  he  generally 
dumps  them  on  his  page  by  the  barrow- 
load);  it  is  well  to  tell  him  to  use  more 
verbs  (for  that  is  where  he  is  sure  to  be 
weak).  But  such  advice  is  too  sweeping 
for  even  the  least  experienced  of  mature 
writers,  and  even  the  schoolboy  should 
be  told  that  adjectives  have  their  virtues, 
and  verbs  themselves  have  drawbacks. 
The  schoolgirl  composition,  sodden  with 
"  verys,"  "  sweets,"  and  "  nices,"  is  a 
terrible  thing,  but  is  it  any  worse  than 
the  New  Narrative,  monotonous  for  all 
its  sound  and  fury,  which  runs  from  be- 
ginning to  end  at  about  this  level.  — 

"  Beverly  raged  into  the  cafe  and  flung 
himself  into  the  seat  opposite  Mme. 
Blanc.  He  glimpsed  the  menu,  then 
flashed  a  glance  around  the  room.  A 
waiter  rushed  forward.  '  Coffee  and 
rolls ! '  he  bellowed.  The  waiter  cowered 
against  a  side  table,  shattering  the  glass- 
ware. Beverly  guffawed,  then,  shooting 
a  look  at  his  vis-a-vis,  '  Madame,'  he  in- 
sinuated. She  brightened.  *  Gar£on! ' 
She  hesitated.  *  Gar9on !  —  bring  me,' — 
she  took  the  plunge,  —  *  bring  me  also 
coffee  and  rolls!  '  " 

MONEY   AND   THE   MAN 

THE  following  is  the  result  of  an  in- 
vestigation undertaken  in  consequence 
of  a  conversation  between  the  writer  and 
the  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  some 
five  years  ago.  It  was  on  the  perennial 
question  of  the  relative  compensation  of 
college  professors  and  other  people.  The 
irreducible  element  in  many  such  com- 
parisons is  the  personal  equation  —  the 
kind  of  men  who  take  up  the  different 
callings.  This  can  be  brought  to  a  mini- 
mum if  you  can  compare  men  who  have 
been  classified  together  as  of  the  same 
intellectual  ability,  by  some  severe  and 
extended  test. 


The  writer  has  had  exceptional  oppor- 
tunities to  get  the  facts  concerning  the 
ten  per  cent  who  stood  highest  at  gradu- 
ation of  a  large  class  at  one  of  our  largest 
universities.  The  surviving  members  of 
this  contingent  can  be  grouped,  at  ap- 
proximately twenty  years  after  gradua- 
tion, into  three  classes,  which,  after 
eliminating  one  or  two  exceptional  cases, 
are  exactly  equal  in  number.  The  first 
group  have  taught  continuously  since 
graduation,  except  for  some  time  spent  in 
post-graduate  study.  The  second  group 
never  taught,  except  temporarily  as  a 
pot-boiler  in  a  few  cases,  but  studied  and 
began  the  practice  of  some  other  activity 
which  they  have  followed  ever  since.1 
The  third  group  all  began  teaching,  but 
changed  to  some  other  occupation.  It 
also  happens  that  exactly  the  same  num- 
ber of  men  in  the  class  (none  of  whom 
were  in  the  first  tenth  in  scholarship) 
studied  for  the  ministry  and  followed  that 
profession  to  the  time  in  question.  The 
writer  was  well  enough  acquainted  with 
all  of  these  men  to  ask  them  in  confidence, 
with  the  understanding  that  nothing 
should  be  published  which  could  dis- 
close anything  concerning  any  individual, 
the  exact  figures  regarding  their  income. 
The  teachers  and  clergymen  were  asked 

(a)  the  amount  of  salaries,  including  esti- 
mated rental  of  residence  which  formed 
part  of  the  compensation  in  some  cases; 

(b)  the  amount  earned  by  outside  teach- 
ing, writing,  wedding-fees,  and  the  like. 
The  others  were  asked  for  the  net  in- 
come, reduced  as  far  as  possible  to  the 
same  basis  as  that  of  the  salaried  men. 

All  answered  cheerfully  except  three. 
One  of  these,  a  clergyman,  died  just  at 
the  time,  but  his  salary  was  published  in 
the  obituary.  The  others  are  hi  well- 
known  positions  of  which  the  salary  is  a 
matter  of  common  report,  so  that  the 
possibility  of  error  will  not  affect  the 
averages  as  they  are  given  below  in 
round  hundreds. 

All  of  group  1,  consisting  of  those  who 
1  One  journalist,  one  manufacturer,  the  rest 
physicians  and  lawyers. 


570 


The  Contributors'  Club 


have  taught  all  their  lives,  are,  or  were  at 
the  time,  college  professors.  All  held 
what  are  considered  first-class  positions 
—  some  full  professors  at  small  colleges, 
some  assistant  professors  at  universities, 
and  one  even  holds  one  of  those  $5000 
positions  which  the  Philistine  mind  asso- 
ciates with  college  professors  in  general, 
but  of  which  there  are  really  perhaps 
fifty  in  the  United  States.  All  are  well- 
known  men  in  their  lines,  who  have  done 
sound  and  successful  work.  All  have 
their  names  in  Who's  Who,  except  one 
who  happens  never  to  have  published  a 
book. 

Including  our  $5000  man  (whose  abil- 
ity might  be  bringing  him  several  times 
that  in  some  other  line),  the  average  sal- 
ary is  $2700.  The  average  for  the  others 
is  $2300.  An  interesting  fact  which  ap- 
pears from  the  reports  is  that  all  but  one 
of  these  (who  was  appointed  just  before 
a  cut  in  salary  at  his  institution  which 
would  have  brought  him  to  the  same 
figure)  had  for  some  years,  just  at  the 
time  they  were  "  raising  "  their  families, 
if  they  had  any,  exactly  the  same  sum  — 
$2000.  This  would  thus  appear  to  be  the 
normal  for  a  first-class  man  (without  any 
"lime-light"  qualities)  through  the  years 
of  his  best  work. 

The  average  earned  outside  of  this 
salary  by  all  but  one  man  —  who  in  a 
special  way,  which  may  be  regarded  as 
exceptional,  has  earned  more  than  all  of 
the  others  together — is  $200;  in  the  ma- 
jority of  cases  obtained  by  marketing  at 
reduced  rates  more  or  less  of  the  time  of 
that  much-envied  summer  vacation. 

The  average  for  group  2,  consisting 
mainly  of  doctors  and  lawyers,  is  almost 
exactly  $6000.  The  variations  are  not 
excessive  in  either  direction;  no  one  re- 
porting more  than  $10,000,  or  less  than 
$3500. 

The  third  group  is  necessarily  some- 
what miscellaneous,  and  there  are  some 
cases  made  abnormal  by  such  things  as 
ill-health  and  school-board  politics,  and 
two  of  them  are  teaching  again  now;  but 
those  who  made  a  square  "about-face," 


and  stuck  to  it,  averaged  $2100  before 
the  change,  and  at  the  time  of  reporting 
were  not  far  behind  group  2 ;  the  average 
was  $5300.  The  clergymen  show  the 
greatest  variations  (details  of  which  could 
not  be  given  without  revealing  the  indi- 
viduals), but  the  average  for  salaries  (in- 
cluding rent  of  parsonages)  was  $3300, 
and  of  outside  earnings  $300.  This  may 
help  to  correct  the  popular  impression 
that  educators  are  better  paid  than 
clergymen.  Let  any  one  compare  in  any 
community,  from  New  York  City  to  the 
country  village,  the  annual  income  of  the 
best-paid  clergyman  with  that  of  the  best- 
paid  educator,  or  those  of  the  best-paid 
two  or  three,  or  half-dozen,  of  each  class. 
During  the  long  incubation  of  this 
matter,  the  writer  has  discussed  it  with 
a  large  number  of  men,  from  many  of 
whom  he  has  had  confidential  statements 
of  their  income,  and  he  is  convinced  that 
the  figures  shown  are  fairly  representa- 
tive. He  has  plenty  of  theories  as  to  why 
things  are  as  they  are,  but  these  have  no 
place  in  an  article  which  is  necessarily 
anonymous.  The  results  are  given  for 
what  they  are  worth,  and  the  reader  can 
draw  his  own  conclusions. 

A   SPEED    LIMIT   FOR   LOVE 

I  OFTEN  wonder  what  the  loving  par- 
ents of  our  land  would  do  in  the  way  of 
lamentation  if  facts  could  be  adduced  in 
their  own  families  to  prove  the  reason- 
ableness of  fiction.  In  modern  magazine 
literature  the  short-story  form,  which  was 
never  intended  to  trace  the  rough  and 
tortuous  course  of  love,  is  consecrated 
wholly  to  that  difficult  service.  The  re- 
sult is  —  if  I  may  refer  without  malice  to 
the  plots  of  a  few  late  stories  —  that  all 
our  love-making  arises  suddenly  out  of 
nowhere,  and  runs  to  its  consummation 
at  marvelous  speed.  A  lady  of  family, 
and  presumably  of  sense,  is  stranded  in 
mid-desert  by  her  extinct  automobile. 
Whereupon  (the  author  allows  himself 
one  brave  touch  of  naturalism)  she  sits 
down  to  weep.  The  form  of  a  solitary 


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571 


man  appears  out  of  the  waste.  They  walk 
together  toward  the  settlements  for  the 
matter  of  two  days,  saying  little,  but 
thinking  much,  —  though  we  are  not  let 
into  the  matter  of  their  thought,  —  as 
subsequent  events  go  to  prove.  Arrived 
within  sight  of  habitation,  the  rescuer 
submits  to  the  fate  reserved  for  all  heroes 
in  fiction,  and  makes  the  inevitable  pro- 
posal. She  accedes  with  an  alacrity  that 
would  be  expressed  outside  a  sentimental 
piece  only  by  the  boys'  exclamation, 
" You  bet!" 

The  movement  of  the  story  ends  here, 
and  with  it  our  intoxication.  Reason  be- 
gins to  clamor.  And  so  we  are  told  in  a 
final  sentence. that  the  man  is  not  a  tramp 
of  the  desert,  but,  like  the  woman  he  has 
won,  the  flower  of  fashion,  and  the  pole 
of  an  enormous  system  of  wealth. 

In  short,  fiction  would  have  us  believe 
not  only  that  love  springs  into  full  bloom 
at  first  sight,  but  that  marriage  usually 
follows  before  dew-fall.  And  since  our 
heroes  and  heroines  are  always  men  and 
women  of  quality,  —  wealthy,  cultured, 
self-possessed,  —  the  dangerous  and  un- 
seemly haste  represented  by  their  actions 
must  be  the  prevalent  style  of  courtship 
in  the  very  best  circles  of  our  society. 
How  then,  oh  how,  must  it  be  with 
the  chambermaid  and  the  serving-man? 
Biddy,  the  cook,  is  precipitately  wooed, 
won,  and  married,  all  in  the  course  of  a 
minute!  Were  I  a  father,  and  thought 
such  things  could  be,  and  if  my  children 
had  only  a  modest  endowment  of  discre- 
tion, I  know  I  should  keep  them  under 
surveillance  day  and  night ;  and  like  Tris- 
tram Shandy's  father,  pass  my  natural 
lifetime  composing  a  system  of  education 
for  them. 

The  trouble  begins,  as  I  said,  with  the 
misuse  of  the  short-story  form.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  mediaeval  painting,  which  knew 
not  the  use  of  perspective,  and  so  repre- 
sented a  scene  that  in  nature  would  occu- 
py three  dimensions,  by  images  which, 
frown  and  squint  as  you  will,  can  be  seen 
only  as  in  two.  Now  love,  as  I  under- 
stand it  (though  I  confess  it  is  one  poor 


weak  intelligence  against  the  many),  is  a 
thing  of  three  dimensions,  and  a  fourth, 
and  many  others  subtly  felt,  and  needing 
to  be  subtly  indicated  by  the  artist.  In- 
stead of  being  rendered  flat,  in  a  panel,  it 
should  be  let  loose  in  space  and  be  bathed 
round  with  air,  —  to  use  the  painter's 
terms,  —  or,  in  terms  of  narrative,  be  sub- 
ject to  the  free  circulation  of  time.  The 
art  does,  indeed,  provide  a  simple  medi- 
um for  this  in  the  introductory  paragraph, 
which  aims  to  include  what  is  there  at  the 
beginning  of  the  story.  But  readers  are 
impatient  of  these  delays  and  require  that 
they  be  held  down  to  a  minimum.  In 
consequence,  the  product  is  an  enormity 
from  the  standpoint  of  truth,  but  a  grand 
success  judged  from  its  result,  —  excite- 
ment. Like  mediaeval  saints,  we  gaze  and 
adore,  our  imagination  supplying  all  that 
lacks.  And  so  we  shall,  I  suppose,  until 
the  coming  of  the  new  renaissance,  when 
old  things  shall  pass  away,  and  the  short 
story  shall  be  reformed. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  life  must  be  a  sad 
and  dismal  discipline  alike  for  the  writers 
who  create  this  kind  of  love-affair,  and 
for  the  folk  who  take  their  ideas  of  the 
tender  passion  from  such  masters.  I  my- 
self confess  to  a  feeling  of  tedium  in  the 
perusal  of  a  three-volume  novel.  But  I 
would  willingly  resort  to  one  for  the  treat 
of  a  good  old-fashioned  courtship  as  they 
are  said  actually  to  have  occurred  when 
our  grandmothers  were  of  marriageable 
age ;  and  as  they  did  —  if  personal  bias 
must  come  out  at  last  —  when  I  went 
a-sparkin'.  Then  John  would  "drop  in" 
from  the  neighboring  farm  and  sit  with 
the  family  on  the  front  porch,  talking  of 
crops  and  markets,  births,  deaths,  and 
marriages,  until  a  late  bedtime;  although 
the  new  polish  on  his  boots  made  all 
disguise  of  no  avail,  and  proclaimed  that 
he  had  come  for  a  very  different  pur- 
pose. 

At  last  all  would  retire  but  Katie. 
And  then  John's  boots,  that  had  erst  been 
tucked  somewhat  awkwardly  beneath  his 
chair,  would  produce  themselves,  dra- 
matically, and  begin  to  flash  in  the  moon- 


572 


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light.  They  two  would  then  withdraw  to 
the  front  gate,  so  convenient  to  lean  upon, 
or  to  the  kitchen :  and  what  they  said  only 
the  moon  heard,  or  the  cat,  yawning  be- 
neath the  stove. 

Perhaps  they  were  so  dull  in  the  busi- 
ness that  what  they  said  was  not  worth 
hearing,  —  nothing  at  all  to  the  point. 
Indeed  it  would  seem  so,  for  the  same 
performance,  so  far  as  we  can  follow  it 
(to  the  coup  d'amour,  when  the  boots  be- 
gan to  flash,  and  they  sauntered  toward 
the  gate),  was  repeated  night  after  night 
for  a  year ;  until,  sometimes,  only  the  ad- 
vances of  a  rival  would  occasion  a  percep- 
tible change  in  their  relations,  and  bring 
behind  it  the  long-expected  announce- 
ment. Be  it  so.  They  had  the  ampler  op- 
portunity to  think.  At  all  events,  we  may 
be  sure  they  did  nothing  hasty  and  rash. 
And  if  the  modern  lover  who,  according 
to  the  stories,  finishes  the  whole  experi- 
ence in  a  day,  is  still  unable  to  see  the  ad- 
vantage of  this  protraction,  let  him  recall 
the  thoughts  of  his  one  day,  and  reflect 
how  it  would  be  to  enjoy  such  thoughts 
for  a  year ! 

I  think  I  should  protest  with  the  loud- 
est against  old-fogyism.  But  if  our  short- 
story  literature  of  love  is  a  true  tran- 
scription of  the  love  of  real  life,  then  I  am 
happy  to  be  ranked  among  the  ancients, 
knowing  that  my  superannuation  insures 
me  against  this  dreadful  kind  of  mortal- 
ity, —  the  crowding  of  years  into  a  day, 
and  of  all  the  joys  we  have  worth  remem- 
bering into  an  hour. 

THE   SPIRIT   OF   LEISURE 

THE  interpretation  of  leisure,  it  may 
be  submitted,  is  very  particularly  an  in- 
dividual affair,  and  the  capacity  to  create 
and  enjoy  it  must  exist,  like  a  sense  of 
humor,  in  one's  self. 

But  humor  can  be  taken  on  the  fly ;  and 
leisure,  that  state  of  arrested  energy, 
seems  a  province  set  aside  from  the  dusty 
highways  —  a  castle  in  Spain  far  above 
the  plains  and  foothills,  where  we  hope 
some  day  to  sit  at  ease  like  the  high  gods 


and  look  back  at  the  paths  our  tired  feet 
found  so  hard  to  climb.  We  mean  to 
conquer  —  finally  to  reach  it,  and  oh, 
the  preparation  we  spend  ourselves  in 
making!  We  travel  heavily,  breathlessly; 
for  there  is  nothing  more  strenuous  than 
the  pursuit  of  the  thing  which  pursuit 
kills.  It  is  like  a  bird  whose  incompar- 
able voice,  faintly  heard,  lures  one  on, 
whose  wings  flash  an  invitation  from  a 
sweeping  flight,  and  which,  after  the  long 
chase,  snared  and  netted,  finally  lies  in 
one's  hand,  a  little  pulseless  bunch  of 
feathers,  forever  mute. 

The  bird,  you  see,  is  singing  in  your 
own  heart,  and  if  you  wish  a  willing  cap- 
tive whose  wings  will  never  beat  about 
the  bars,  it  is  crumbs  you  must  give  it 
and  —  with  all  tenderness  and  sym- 
pathy —  companionship. 

But  it  is  hard  to  do  this,  hard  to  take 
the  time!  It  means  losing  some  of  the 
"march  movement,"  some  of  the  event- 
ful rush ;  falling  out  of  the  procession  and 
burning  one's  candle  in  the  search  for  a 
primrose,  say,  when  orchids  flutter  their 
amazing  beauty  for  the  allure  and  effort 
of  the  pilgrim. 

For  orchids  spell  so  much  that  the 
primrose  does  n't  to  other  people,  if  not 
to  one's  self;  and  we  can  always  go  back 
to  the  primroses  another  day.  We  really 
think  we  will !  It  is  the  promise  we  give 
ourselves  as  we  go  "  roundabout  "  to  our 


It  may  be  advanced  that  the  age  we 
live  in  is  n't  a  contemplative  one.  One 
need  not  fight,  perhaps,  for  the  spoils  of 
war,  but  one  must  go  with  the  throng  — 
caught  in  as  an  atom,  if  that  pleases  bet- 
ter, rather  than  as  a  struggling  unit.  If 
one  stands  aside  for  a  moment  or  two, 
the  threads  are  lost  and  the  task  of  pick- 
ing them  up  again  becomes  almost  im- 
possible. And  we  want  —  the  most  of 
us  —  to  understand  the  web  of  the  day's 
weaving;  to  be,  if  we  can,  one  of  those 
who  bring  their  gifts  to  make  the  pattern. 
It"  is  born  in  us,  this  desire  to  be  one's 
self;  but  so  is  the  impulse  to  travel  on  the 
"thousand  lines,"  sharing  the  common- 


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573 


places,  the  ambitions,  the  experiences, 
which  are  the  common  heritage,  and  from 
which  no  absolute  divorce  is  possible. 

And  why  should  we  wish  it?  The 
complexity  of  life  could  offer,  if  one 
chose,  the  surest  refuge  for  one's  self,  the 
most  epicurean  distillation  of  fragrances 
and  singing,  rising,  if  we  listen  with  a 
finer  ear,  from  the  dust  and  perplexity 
of  daily  life.  Perhaps  only  the  hundredth 
person  feels  and  hears  it.  For  we  are  very 
apt,  in  communing  with  our  beloved  ego, 
to  celebrate  ourselves  as  Maurice  Barres 
did,  leaning  from  a  tower  to  overlook 
"  swarming  barbarians  "  happy  in  their 
turbulence  and  mediocrity.  "  I  will 
dream  no  more  of  you,"  says  Barres, 
"  and  you  shall  haunt  me  no  longer.  I 
mean  to  live  with  the  part  of  myself 
that  is  untainted  by  ignoble  occupations. 
.  .  .  Delicious  to  comprehend,  to  de- 
velop one's  self,  to  vibrate,  to  create  a 
harmony  between  the  ego  and  the  world, 
to  fill  one's  self  with  images  vague  and 
profound." 

"  To  create  a  harmony  between  the 
ego  and  the  world  "  —  it  is  the  riddle  of 
the  Sphinx,  the  keystone  of  the  arch ;  and 
this  task  of  delicate  adjustment,  of  subtle 
resolvement,  is  what  makes  "  no  day  .  .  . 
uneventful  save  in  ourselves  alone."  If 
we  stop  at  home,  in  the  house  that  is  not 
rented,  but  is  ours  alone,  the  moment 
of  insight  comes  and  stills  the  voice  that 
has  so  insistently  whispered,  "  Round- 
about! " 

Wordsworth,  of  all  the  poets,  has  most, 
as  Watson  has  said  in  one  of  his  ex- 
quisite quatrains,  — 

—  for  weary  feet  the  gift  of  rest. 

Does  n't  it  come  to  you  when  you  read 
his  sonnets,  like  the  unhurrying  ripple  of 
water  flowing  smoothly  to  the  sea  ?  You 
catch  the  note  that  you  long  to  echo  for 
yourself. 

And  it  is  not  for  sadness  that  the  con- 
templative spirit  makes.  It  is  rather  for 
a  refinement  of  ego  —  a  spiritualizing 
touch  that,  in  the  quiet  moment,  lifts  one 
to  some  individual  peak  of  Darien  and 
gives  the  fleeting  view  of  life  and  thought 


as  through  a  spectrum,  transfused  and 
transfigured. 

Very  few  of  us  "  possess  our  soul ; "  but 
to  invite  it,  is  a  different  matter,  and 
there  are  so  many  ways !  Not  always  — 
or,  rather,  not  to  all  temperaments  — 
rest  is  the  requirement,  the  other  name 
for  leisure.  One  can  find,  and  envy,  the 
repose,  the  real  leisure,  of  an  invited  soul 
more  frequently  in  people  performing 
some  task  with  the  fingers  that  leaves  the 
mind  free,  than  in  that  dolce  far  niente 
state  of  indolence  that  spells  leisure  to  the 
uninitiated.  A  woman  in  a  low  chair  by 
a  window  opening  on  garden  greenness, 
sewing  a  long  seam  with  steady  stitches  of 
her  needle  in  and  out,  can  seem  to  one's 
fancy  as  measuring  a  rhythm  of  her  own 
thoughts  —  the  inner  music  of  a  leisure 
to  which  her  occupation  attunes  her. 
And  in  the  same  way  a  gardener  among 
his  flowers,  digging  the  soil,  planting  the 
seed,  is  often,  one  can  imagine,  pervad- 
ed in  spirit  by  the  very  essence  of  the 
thing  that  the  idle  man,  watching  him, 
never  attains. 

One  may  say  that  all  this  is  a  matter  of 
temperament.  Leisure  may  come,  also, 
by  way  of  quiescence.  Amiel's  words, 
"Reverie  is  the  Sunday  of  thought,"  in- 
dicate such  a  process  —  the  sublimation 
of  unregarded  hours  for  this  rare  mo- 
ment of  fruition.  It  comes  and  it  goes, 
and  we  long  to  recreate  it,  just  as  we 
long  for  spring;  for,  like  spring,  it  vivifies 
and  vitalizes  impulses  and  desires,  and 
gives  courage  to  the  long  Wander jahre  of 
life. 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  — 

There  are  those  who  do  not  seek  it  — 
painfully  many!  People  in  the  grip  of 
great  wealth,  or  greater  poverty;  in  the 
equally  strong  and  demanding  grasp  of  a 
dominating  genius. 

"Why  don't  you  rest  sometimes?"  a 
friend  said  to  the  French  philosopher  Ar- 
nauld.  "Rest,"  said  the  tireless  French- 
man, "why  should  I  rest  here ?  Have  n't 
I  an  eternity  to  rest  in  ?  " 

With  so  stern  a  creed  few  of  us  would 


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agree,  for  to  most  of  us  —  even  if  we  deny 
ourselves  the  moment  of  leisure,  frag- 
mentary and  snatched  from  busy  hours 
—  there  exists  a  hope  as  we  build  our 
tower,  "of  some  eventual  rest  a- top  of 
it." 

It  is  the  lure  that  makes  us  keep  on 
building,  though  each  tale  of  bricks  we 
cement  into  place  dwarfs  and  starves  a 
little  longer  the  soul  we  are  willing  — 
later  —  to  give  its  chance.  It  is  the 
tragedy  of  our  country  and  its  people  that 
the  chance  the  builder  works  for  never 
comes,  and  the  tower  becomes  too  often 
one  of  silence;  an  immolation  of  spirit 
and  body  hideously  complete. 

All  of  us  know  the  cry,  —  it  is  sordid 
and  sad;  sadder  than  the  tears  they 
have  n't  shed:  "I  wanted  to  make  good, 
to  finish  my  work  and  then  enjoy  life;  to 
be  at  leisure  to  be  happy;  but  the  time 
has  never  come!" 

"The  slumber  of  the  body,"  says  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  "seems  to  be  but  the 
waking  of  the  soul,"  and  no  student  of 
psychology  can  controvert  the  possibility. 
There  are  moments  when  one  may  in- 
deed become  aware  of  "the  voice  below 
the  voice,"  articulate  and  entreating  for 
its  own.  And  so,  a  study  now  and  then 
of  one's  self,  of  one's  starving  overman  — 
or  underman !  —  is  not  to  be  counted  as 
selfish.  Does  it  not  tend  rather,  in  the  last 
analysis,  to  make  us  understand  with 
more  charity  the  vagaries  of  others? 
does  it  not  reveal  abysses  of  weakness  in 
ourselves,  and  perhaps  point  the  stead- 
fast shining  of  some  great  star  by  which ' 
we  may  steer  our  way  ? 

And  in  this  leisure  what  a  vista  of 
treasure  silence  offers  —  as  subtly  com- 
municable in  its  profound  and  voiceless 
medium  as  speech.  It  is  a  cathedral  still- 
ness of  the  soul,  and  has  its  own  anthem 
of  harmony. 

Such  fleeting  moments,  pauses  in  the 
rush  of  life,  crystallize  to  those  who 
experience  them,  far  more  than  the  se- 
quence of  crowded  days.  They  are  the 
green  spots  of  the  desert  where  one  may 
have 


—  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  well  amid  the  Waste. 

All  who  have  experienced  it  know  the 
feeling,  intangible,  elusive,  like  the  pre- 
sence of  a  rare  guest  whose  spell  lingers 
on  the  "inner  eye"  and  whose  voice 
echoes,  — 

I,  too,  once  lived  in  Arcady  ! 


THE   NEW  ART   HEROINE 

WHO  that  walks  abroad  does  not  know 
her,  the  not  always  beautiful  but  alto- 
gether fascinating  young  person  to  whom 
this  epithet  applies  ?  None  but  the  blind 
escape  the  fair!  She  smiles  at  you  alike 
from  posters  in  the  streets,  and  from  the 
walls  of  this  season's  Academy ;  she  beck- 
ons you  with  alluring  grace  toward  the 
newest  vaudeville,  and  with  more  mod- 
est garb,  and  demure  and  downcast  face, 
plays  the  saint  in  stone  over  a  church 
door.  Her  sinuous  arms  hold  out  your 
electric-light  bulb,  and  hold  up  your  new 
art  mantelpiece ;  she  languishes  upon  the 
covers  of  your  magazines,  and  curls  with 
the  nonchalance  of  petted  indulgence 
about  your  cold-cream  jar  or  your  ink- 
well or  your  soup-tureen.  Humani  nihil 
a  se  alienum  I  Indeed,  you  cannot  avoid 
her,  except  in  a  desert,  for  though  you 
take  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  flee  to 
the  uttermost  parts,  where  you  think  the 
new  art  is  not  known,  even  there  Anglo- 
Saxon  enterprise  will  be  before  you,  — 
and  the  New  Art  Heroine,  its  priestess 
and  avatar,  will  offer  you  a  box  of 
Quattro-Cento  Breakfast  Food,  or  tell 
you  that  she  uses  only  the  Rossetti  Hair 
Restorer. 

What  a  disproportionate,  radiantly  im- 
possible creature  she  is!  An  exotic,  an 
anachronism,  she  is  as  far  removed  from 
the  actual  modern  girl  we  know,  of  level 
gaze,  healthy  bloom,  and  merry  heart,  as 
she  is  from  the  classic  ideal  of  perfect  pro- 
portions and  high  serenity,  —  which  is 
very  far  indeed.  She  is  wholly  inconsist- 
ent, all  contradiction,  belonging  to  no 
country,  but  drawing  upon  all  ages  and 
all  climes  for  her  charms.  English  Burne- 


The  Contributors'  Club 


575 


Jones  gave  her  her  slender  height,  Italian 
Botticelli  her  dreamy  sensuous  face,  Ger- 
man Overbeck  clad  her  forever  in  medi- 
aeval costume.  She  has  Titian  hair,  a 
Leonardo  smile,  and  the  gray-green  eyes 
that  Rossetti  loved.  In  disposition,  too, 
she  seems  to  have  something  of  French 
subtlety  and  of  English  bluntness,  of  the 
languorous  warmth  of  the  South  coun- 
tries and  the  cold  fierceness  of  the  North, 
—  a  combination  that  gives  her,  to  say 
the  least,  the  charm  of  the  unexpected. 

In  my  youth  I  adored  the"  New  Art 
Heroine,  partly  because  of  these  incon- 
gruous attractions,  and  partly  because  of 
the  air  of  mystery  and  unsatisfied  longing 
that  hung  about  her.  At  that  fast-becom- 
ing-remote period,  too,  she  was  not  often 
to  be  met  with,  and  then  only  in  the  most 
exclusive  society,  so  that  my  vanity  was 
flattered  by  the  acquaintance.  Never  to 
be  found,  in  those  days,  in  anything  so 
open  to  the  vulgar  admiration  as  the 
magazines,  she  lurked  evasively  in  poetry 
and  unpopular  paintings  and  unsuccessful 
novels.  Occasionally  my  worshipful  eyes 
chanced  upon  her  in  a  picture-gallery  or 
a  stray  print;  and  the  hope  of  meeting 
with  her  inspired  excursions  into  all  sorts 
of  poetry-books  and  romances.  Her 
story  was  never  a  happy,  and  often  not  a 
creditable  one;  but  what  more  glorious 
destiny  for  a  heroine  than  to  be  endowed 
with  lofty  lineage,  strange  beauty,  and  a 
scornful  disposition,  to  be  wildly  beloved 
and  loving,  and  doomed  to  suffer ! 

A  hint  of  her  charms  was  sufficient 
reward  for  hours  of  arid  reading,  and 
placed  the  author  at  once  on  my  in- 
dex of  immortals.  It  was  really  on 
her  account  that  I  first  read  Tenny- 
son; for  she  was  Guinevere  and  Enid 
and  Elaine  the  fair,  and  no  less  the 
wily  lissome  Vivien,  and  Iseult  of  the  fair 
hands;  Mariana,  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 
Maud  —  ah,  but  all  of  Tennyson !  His 
landscapes  are  settings  for  her,  —  his 
groves  of  straight-stemmed  trees,  his  cas- 
tles and  pleasaunces,  the  isle  of  the  lotos- 
eaters,  the  little  walled  gardens,  all  sug- 
gest her  presence,  whether  she  is  actually 


there  or  not.  And  I  became  for  a  while  a 
devotee  of  William  Morris,  because  he 
was  hers.  He  made  her  his  Guinevere 
and  his  Brunhilde ;  for  her  he  dyed  wool 
into  strange  tints,  and  wrought  strange 
tapestries  and  built  strange  furniture.  It 
was  not  his  fault,  —  poor  idealizing  art- 
ist! —  if  the  people  who  bought  his 
stuffs  and  sat  in  his  chairs  were  plump 
and  smug  Philistines.  The  "inexpressive 
She"  was  their  mistress  in  the  spirit. 

Somehow,  I  preferred  adoration  from  a 
distance  to  a  closer  intimacy,  and  I  per- 
versely refused  allegiance  to  the  especial 
divinity  of  Rossetti  and  his  brethren.  It 
was  their  exaggeration  of  the  distinguish- 
ing traits  of  the  type  that  cooled  me  from 
rhapsody  to  analysis.  A  freakish  whisper 
of  common  sense  checks  me  on  the  verge 
of  enthusiasm,  and  I  see  in  the  Pre-Ra- 
phaelite girl 

"  A  creature  quite  too  fair  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 

She  is  something  too  long  and  limber,  a 
hint  too  full-lipped  and  honey-feminine, 
to  be  companionable  in  one's  hours  of 
ease.  One  might  be  expected  to  live  up  to 
her  attitudes;  and  at  best  she  makes  a 
wearisome  demand  upon  one's  admira- 
tion. Can  you  imagine  a  lover  to  match 
with  her  ?  Certainly  no  earth-born  man 
with  a  business;  arid  I  confess,  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  man  is  beyond  my  flights! 
Rossetti's  is  a  manless  world.  I  have  my 
private  doubts,  too,  as  to  the  goodness  of 
the  Blessed  Damosel.  Her  divine  mel- 
ancholy looks  not  a  little  like  the  sulks, 
and  the  unsympathetic  might  pronounce 
her  devout  abstraction  to  be  laziness. 

From  the  obscure  but  fervent  worship 
of  the  few  to  the  easy  admiration  of  the 
many,  is  not  a  far  cry,  provided  the  few 
have  lusty  lungs.  With  Maeterlinck  and 
Maurice  Hewlett  to  lead  the  literary 
cheering,  she  has  reached  the  top  of  the 
vogue.  Curious,  that  the  heroine  of  sub- 
tle delights  should  have  become  the  art- 
fashion  of  this  materialistic  age!  Yet  is  it 
not  characteristic  of  our  seething,  cross- 
current, much-alive  time?  We  are  cos- 
mopolitan ;  the  type  of  our  cosmopolitan- 


576 


The  Contributors'  Club 


ism  is  this  polyglot  creature,  at  home 
everywhere  and  calling  no  place  home. 
We  have  conquered  the  material  world; 
she  stands  as  our  confession  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  material  well-being,  yearning  for 
the  unattainable,  and  restless  under  the 
goad  of  "almost."  The  modern  imagina- 
tion, weary  with  the  succession  of  normal 
experiences  rich  enough  in  themselves, 
craves  the  union  of  them  all  in  one  mad- 
dening whirl  of  sensation.  The  fastidi- 
ous and  pampered  modern  taste  scorns 
healthy  moderation  and  demands  a  flavor 
of  olives  in  everything.  Like  the  Roman 
emperor  who  demanded  hot  ice,  it  strives 
to  bring  extremes  together  in  embrace,  — 
to  create  a  novel  and  undreamed-of  love- 
liness by  touching  beauty  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  blight.  Sweet  and  tender  piety  is 
infected  and  made  irrational  by  a  mor- 
bid, though  picturesque,  introspection. 
Having  achieved  all  things  in  the  range 
of  sublunar  ambition,  we  revert  to  our 
childish  grievance,  and  cry  for  the  moon. 
Yet  in  glorifying  this  same  type  we  pass 
judgment  on  ourselves ;  for  the  level  eyes 
and  lurking  smile  must  be  read  as  disil- 
lusionment and  self-distaste. 

When  a  fashion  is  artistic,  there's 
beauty  in  civilization;  but  when  art  is  the 
fashion,  I  tremble  for  both!  The  slang  of 
trade  and  the  jargon  of  art  become  con- 
fused and  indistinguishable,  —  and  signs 
are  not  lacking  that  art  and  trade  are, 
by  the  same  token,  mixed.  A  dry-goods 
clerk  not  long  ago  urged,  almost  com- 
manded, me  to  buy  buttons  of  a  partic- 
ular pattern,  because  "they're  exactly 
what  you  want,  madam.  That's  the  Last 
Novoo  design,  the  very  latest!"  And  I 
have  heard  more  than  one  craftsman  ex- 
press his  pride  in  his  work  with  the 


phrase,  "Now  I  call  that  a  stylish  thing. 
New  arty,  don't  you  know!" 

But  for  the  present  at  least,  the  New 
Art  Heroine  is  having  it  all  her  own  way, 
from  pictures  to  door-knobs.  The  New 
Art  of  design  looks  to  her  for  inspiration 
and  method  as  well ;  its  key  is  the  dainty 
parallelism  of  her  slender  form,  curve  an- 
swering to  long  curve.  She  is  its  type  and 
symbol,  and  the  ideal  for  whom  all  deeds 
are  done.  "Art  is  long,"  —  and  our  wall- 
papers grow  flowers  seven  feet  tall.  If 
you  are  led  by  the  truly  informed,  you 
will  build  a  new  art  house  and  lay  out  a 
new  art  garden,  regardless  of  your  age  or 
sex,  height  or  weight,  or  previous  condi- 
tion of  culture.  You  will  sit  at  a  new  art 
table  and  dine  off  new  art  china;  read  the 
newest  ideas  in  interior  decoration  from 
the  new  art  magazines,  and  at  last,  repos- 
ing under  eiderdown  puffs  of  new  art  de- 
sign, close  your  weary  eyes  upon  the  new 
art  appointments  of  your  room. 

Some  of  us,  I  fancy,  would  cut  a  sorry 
picture  if  our  staid  and  respectable  per- 
sonalities should  be  set  in  the  midst  of 
new  art  surroundings.  Or,  and  it  is 
within  the  possibilities,  the  surroundings 
might  perhaps  look  a  trifle  affected  and 
prettyfied.  Certain  it  is  that  the  new  art 
house  is  not  homelike.  In  their  efforts  to 
escape  conventionality,  some  have  fallen 
into  the  grasp  of  a  conventionality  that  is 
yet  worse,  for  it  is  both  unnatural  and 
uncomfortable.  Is  there  not  a  little  smack 
of  Philistinism  in  such  hatred  of  it,  such 
eagerness  to  avoid  it  ?  It  is  rather  cheer- 
ing, in  this  tyranny  of  the  artisan-crafts- 
man, to  reflect  that  there  is  a  minority  of 
good  souls  still  living,  who  with  perfect 
amiability  cling  to  the  cozy,  unaspiring 
ugliness  of  their  early  days. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 

NOVEMBER,  1908 


EXECUTIVE  AGGRESSION 


BY   GEORGE   W.   ALGER 


THERE  is  no  present  fact  in  the  actual 
workings  of  American  governmental  ma- 
chinery which  is  more  obvious  than  the 
great  increase  in  power  and  influence  of 
executive  authority,  and  the  correspond- 
ing decline  of  that  of  the  law-maker.  This 
involves  a  great  change  from  the  con- 
ditions which  existed  when  our  national 
life  began.  The  colonial  governor  was 
the  hated  representative  of  the  Crown. 
His  every  act  was  watched  with  suspicion 
and  jealousy  by  the  legislatures  which  re- 
presented the  people,  and  stood  between 
them  and  royal  tyranny.  This  attitude 
continued  long  after  the  freedom  of  our 
country  had  been  established,  and  the 
governor  had  become  the  elect  of  the  peo- 
ple rather  than  the  choice  of  the  Crown. 
The  authority  of  the  governor  was  limited 
not  only  by  law,  but  by  public  opinion, 
because  the  old  fear  of  executive  despot- 
ism still  continued  and  died  hard. 

In  our  national  life  the  historians  tell 
us  that  the  very  existence  of  a  federal 
executive,  separate  and  uncontrolled  by 
Congress,  was  due  to  a  mistake,  to  a  then 
current  misconception  of  the  British  Con- 
stitution, and  to  the  adoption  by  us  of 
what  Mr.  Bagehot  describes  as  the  "liter- 
ary theory"  of  that  Constitution,  rather 
than  its  fact.  Roger  Sherman,  in  the  Con- 
stitutional Convention,  suggested  that 
"the  executive  magistracy  is  nothing  more 
than  an  institution  for  carrying  the  will  of 
the  legislature  into  effect;  that  the  person 
or  persons  occupying  that  office  ought  to 
be  appointed  by,  and  to  be  accountable 
to,  the  legislature  only,  which  was  the 
depository  of  the  supreme  will  of  the 
people.  As  they  were  the  best  judges 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


of  the  business  which  ought  to  be  done 
by  the  executive  department,  he  wished 
the  number  might  not  be  fixed,  but  that 
the  legislature  should  be  at  liberty  to  ap- 
point one  or  more  as  experience  might 
dictate."  Roughly  speaking,  this  was 
and  is  the  English  system,  under  which 
there  is  no  separation  of  executive  and 
legislative  functions,  but  the  government 
is  responsible  for  the  enactment  of  new 
laws  and  the  enforcement  of  old  ones. 

Owing  to  a  misapprehension  of  what 
the  English  system  was,  Sherman's  sug- 
gestion was  not  followed ;  but  the  failure 
to  accept  his  proposition  was  not  due  to 
any  dissent  in  the  convention  from  Sher- 
man's notion  of  what  were  the  essential 
functions  of  the  executive,  and  the  rela- 
tively greater  importance  of  the  legisla- 
tive, branch  of  government. 

It  is  quite  the  fashion  to-day  to  look 
back  to  the  era  of  such  opinions,  to  con- 
sider the  jealously  limited  authority  of 
the  early  colonial  governors  and  the  orig- 
inal concept  of  the  functions  of  the  fed- 
eral executive,  as  expressed  by  Sherman, 
and  contrast  them  with  the  current  prac- 
tice and  opinions  as  to  these  offices  to-day. 

There  has  been  a  great  increase  in  the 
power  and  influence  of  executive  officers 
since  the  days  when  the  memory  of  the 
crown  governors  was  fresh  in  the  minds 
of  people,  when  the  first  president  was 
suspected  of  a  desire  to  be  a  king.  In  the 
past  decade  that  growth  of  power  has 
been  most  marked.  Governors  are  taking 
in  state  matters  positions  of  authority 
which  would  have  been  impossible  a  cent- 
ury ago.  The  president  exercises  a  power 
to-day  over  the  affairs  of  the  nation  which 


578 


Executive  Aggression 


neither  Congress  nor  the  people  would 
have  tolerated  in  George  Washington. 

These  changes,  these  developments  of 
executive  power,  have  been  made  with- 
out any  substantial  change  in  our  state 
constitutions  and  with  none  in  that  of 
the  nation.  The  letter  of  the  law  re- 
mains. Nominally,  the  system  is  as  our 
fathers  made  it.  In  practice,  it  is  essen- 
tially a  different  thing.  This  variance  be- 
tween our  principles  and  our  practice  has 
not  developed  unnoticed.  It  has  been 
observed  and  has  been  often  discussed. 
This  growth  of  executive  authority  has 
not  taken  place  without  opposition  from 
minds  familiar  with  the  history  of  our 
Constitution. 

Critics  whose  voices  have  at  times  been 
raised  in  protest  against  it  have  described 
it  as  executive  aggression.  The  phrase 
itself  implies  hostility.  It  implies  usurp- 
ation of  ungranted  power.  Presumably 
what  those  who  use  the  phrase  mean  is 
that,  notwithstanding  the  clear  language 
of  state  and  national  constitutions  which 
describe  and  define  the  power  of  exe- 
cutive, legislative,  and  judicial  officers; 
despite  the  power  of  the  legislatures  to 
assert  and  to  maintain  their  own  pre- 
rogatives ;  despite  the  great  and  peculiar 
power  of  our  courts  to  declare  the  con- 
stitutional limitations  of  executive  au- 
thority, the  governor  in  the  state  and  the 
president  in  the  nation  are  exercising 
power  in  excess  of  that  conferred  by  the 
constitutions  made  by  the  people. 

If  this  charge  related  solely  to  some  one 
person,  if  it  were  merely  that  some  one 
particular  governor  had  succumbed  to 
the  itch  for  power,  if  it  were  only  that  the 
President  now  in  office  had  been  guilty, 
as  his  opponents  have  often  charged,  of 
dictating  legislation,  of  domineering  over 
Congress,  and  of  talking  about  his  poli- 
cies and  purposes  with  a  directness  and 
frankness  which  would  have  made  the 
early  congresses  gasp  and  stare,  it  would 
be  less  important.  But  it  is  a  common  and 
general  charge,  and  has  been  made  in 
recent  years  against  almost  every  govern- 
or who  has  accomplished  anything  and 


who  has  left  office  with  a  record  of  public 
service. 

Within  certain  narrow  limits,  this  mat- 
ter of  executive  aggression  is  a  legal 
question.  Again  and  again,  in  solemn 
conclave,  the  Bar  has  discussed  it,  and 
asserted  and  reasserted  the  constitutional 
requirements  that  executive,  legislative, 
and  judicial  functions  must  be  kept  sepa- 
rate. Learned  lawyers  familiar  with  the 
letter  of  the  law  and  with  the  ancient 
theory  of  the  division  of  governmental 
power,  have  sounded  a  dignified  note  of 
warning  against  executive  poachings  of 
power.  Many  addresses  on  specific  in- 
stances of  such  alleged  usurpations  have 
been  made  by  distinguished  jurists,  but 
for  some  reason  these  protests  seem  to 
have  had  little  effect  either  on  executive 
conduct  or  upon  the  public  mind. 

The  cases  of  executive  aggression,  how- 
ever, involving  an  actual  overstepping  of 
constitutional  boundaries,  have  been 
few,  and  when  they  have  occurred  their 
seriousness  has  often  been  exaggerated. 
What  we  have  to  consider  is  not  so  much 
a  matter  of  law  as  one  of  public  opinion. 
It  is  the  change  in  the  attitude  of  the 
people  toward  the  executive  office,  and 
the  enormous  increase  in  the  power  of 
the  executive  which  has  resulted  from  it. 

The  criticisms  from  the  jurists  have 
considered  rather  the  letter  of  the  law 
than  the  spirit  of  the  people,  and  have 
generally  taken  the  form  of  a  more  or  less 
acrimonious  arraignment  of  some  partic- 
ular executive  for  some  particular  act  of 
alleged  transgression,  as  though  in  him 
and  his  Teachings  for  power  lay  the  whole 
source  and  origin  of  the  supposed  offense. 
Some  of  these  critics  are  distinguished 
statesmen  and  well-known  lawyers,  and 
it  is  with  considerable  hesitation  that  I 
venture  to  suggest  that  such  criticisms 
fail  to  take  into  consideration  the  real 
cause  of  the  conditions  against  which  they 
protest,  a  cause  which  seems  apparent  on 
taking  a  broader  field  of  observation. 

The  pith  of  this  executive  aggression 
business  is  in  the  fact  that  the  people  have 
come  to  expect  something  to-day  of  the 


Executive  Aggression 


579 


executive,  which  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  they  did  not  expect  or  require.  Con- 
sider our  actual  practice.  When  we  elect 
a  president,  we  elect  a  man  whom  the 
majority  believes  to  be  wise  enough,  and 
strong  enough,  to  rule  the  nation.  We 
expect  him  to  carry  into  effect  policies 
which  he  deems  advantageous  to  the 
common  weal,  by  causing  Congress  to 
pass  his  measures,  using  upon  Congress 
such  compulsion  as  may  be  necessary  to 
have  it  accept  his  purposes.  We  expect 
the  president  and  his  officers  to  initiate 
constructive  legislation,  and  to  attend  to 
getting  it  made  into  law.  We  even  ex- 
pect him  to  decide  what  particular  laws 
are  to  be  enforced  by  his  law  officers. 

Because  we  expect  that  when  he  is 
elected  he  will  do  all  these  things,  we  are 
before  election  interested  in  knowing  his 
ideas,  what  policies  he  has,  and  what  laws 
he  proposes  to  enforce.  If,  after  election, 
he  fails  to  accomplish  the  things  he  has 
told  us  about  before  election,  if  Congress 
rejects  his  measures,  if  he  does  not  put  his 
policies  into  law,  if  he  enforces  unpopular 
law,  he  need  not  try  to  shift  the  blame  to 
others.  It  is  he,  not  Congress,  who  has 
failed  us.  If  he  fails  to  get  congressional 
support,  he  'has  simply  shown  himself  in-% 
efficient.  We  may  elect  senators  and  re- 
presentatives, but  it  is  the  tendency  to 
hold  the  president  responsible  for  what 
they  do.  We  expect  him  to  exercise  do- 
minion, not  only  over  Congress,  but  over 
the  law  itself.  We  expect  him  to  use 
executive  wisdom  in  selecting  what  laws 
shall  be  enforced,  and  in  deciding  not  to 
enforce  bad  laws.  We  make  much  the 
same  kind  of  demand  upon  our  gov- 
ernors in  the  states. 

Does  this  statement  of  our  expectations 
seem  exaggerated  ?  Does  it  represent  only 
the  demands  of  the  foolish  or  of  those  un- 
familiar with  our  institutions  and  ignorant 
of  the  exact  legal  limitations  of  execu- 
tive authority  ?  Is  it  too  much  to  say,  for 
example,  that  we  expect  the  president  or 
the  governor  to  decide  what  laws  shall  be 
enforced  and  what  let  alone,  although  his 
oath  of  office  gives  him  no  such  discre- 


tion ?  Take  a  practical  illustration  of  the 
spirit  which  demands  this  form  of  execu- 
tive aggression,  an  expression  coming  not 
from  an  ignorant  source,  but  from  one  of 
the  most  conservative  and  law-wise  of 
New  York  papers,  one  famous  for  print- 
ing all  the  news  that  is  fit  to  print. 

In  an  editorial  calling  the  President 
to  task  for  what  it  describes  as  his  "ill- 
judged  zeal"  in  enforcing  the  Sherman 
Anti-Trust  act,  it  said  recently,  "  He  is 
the  only  public  man  who  has  declared 
that  he  would  enforce  the  law  although  he 
was  aware  of  its  defects.  How  much  bet- 
ter would  have  been  his  position,  and  the 
country's  position,  if  he  had  asked  indul- 
gence in  the  non-enforcement  of  the  law 
until  it  was  fit  to  be  enforced."  What  the 
paper  wants  the  President  to  do  is  to  com- 
mit what  it  describes  as  "a  technical  ne- 
glect of  his  official  oath,"  by  refusing  to 
enforce  a  law  which  the  newspaper,  the 
President  himself,  and  a  great  many 
other  people  think  is  hopelessly  crude  and 
illogical,  but  which  thousands  of  fervent 
souls  consider  an  enactment  paralleled 
only  by  the  Ten  Commandments.  Any 
newspaper  reader  would  have  little  diffi- 
culty in  finding  editorials  similar  in  spirit 
to  the  one  just  quoted. 

The  theory  of  responsibility  which  puts 
upon  the  executive  the  duty  to  exercise 
executive  common  sense  in  selecting  the 
laws  which  "deserve  to  be  enforced,"  is 
not  unrecognized  even  in  quarters  from 
which  strenuous  opposition  would  seem 
most  to  be  expected :  that  is,  the  legisla- 
ture itself.  A  rather  bleak,  elderly  little 
lawyer  with  heavy  glasses  was  addressing 
one  of  the  committees  of  the  New  York 
Legislature  some  six  years  ago.  He  was 
complaining  bitterly  about  the  hardships 
of  a  factory  law,  whose  provisions  he  as- 
sured the  much  bored  committee  pressed 
heavily  upon  a  certain  large  Buffalo  plant 
which  he  represented.  In  the  midst  of  his 
argument  one  of  the  senators  interrupted 
him.  "Let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Has 
the  Commissioner  of  Labor  been  unrea- 
sonable in  the  way  he  has  enforced  it  on 
you  ?  "  The  lawyer  wiped  his  glasses  and 


580 


Executive  Aggression 


smiled  deprecatingly.  "Why,  he  hasn't 
prosecuted  us,  sir."  "Has  he  prosecuted 
anybody  so  far  as  you  know?"  persisted 
his  questioner.  "Why,  no,  not  so  far  as  I 
know,  but  the  law  is  there,  and  —  "  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me,"  interrupted  the 
senator,  in  a  voice  swelling  with  indigna- 
tion, "that  you  have  been  wasting  half  an 
hour  of  this  committee's  time  on  a 
statute  which  has  occasioned  you  abso- 
lutely no  grievance  —  which,  so  far  as  you 
know,  has  n't  been  unreasonably  or  un- 
justly enforced  against  anybody?" 

This  question  to  all  practical  purposes 
closed  the  debate.  The  little  man  with 
the  glasses  endeavored  to  stem  the  tide 
running  strongly  against  him  by  futile  re- 
marks about  the  law  being  on  the  statute 
books,  that  it  might  be  enforced,  and  so 
forth,  until  the  chairman  mercifully  fin- 
ished him  by  intimating  that  they  had  a 
long  calendar  and  must  now  take  up 
Senate  Bill  No.  263. 

Into  my  sympathetic  ears  the  little  man 
later  poured  his  opinion  of  the  commit- 
tee. A  few  of  his  phrases  were  quite 
choice,  and  I  retailed  some  of  them  later 
to  the  Socratic  senator  who  had  been 
the  subject  of  them.  He  listened  good- 
humoredly .  * '  Theoretically  he  was  right,' ' 
he  admitted,  "  but  where  should  we  be  if 
we  spent  our  time  repealing  all  the  dead- 
letter  statutes?" 

The  senator  who  saw  no  special  reason 
for  repealing  a  bad  law  provided  it  was 
not  enforced,  doubtlessly  considered  him- 
self a  practical  man.  He  expected  the 
governor's  representative,  the  commis- 
sioner of  labor,  to  use  common  sense  in 
enforcing  the  laws  which  were  his  to  en- 
force. If  the  law  proved  to  be  an  unrea- 
sonable one  and  not  "practical,"  he  ex- 
pected the  executive  through  this  com- 
missioner to  use  discretion  and  common 
sense  again  by  letting  it  alone.  If  this 
common  sense  was  being  used,  —  if  no 
one  was  being  prosecuted,  —  then  there 
was  no  urgent  need  that  the  law  should  be 
repealed.  Hence,  while  in  theory  it  ought 
to  be  repealed,  practically  there  was  no 
need  that  a  busy  legislature,  struggling 


with  a  long  calendar  of  proposed  new 
laws,  should  be  troubled  with  it.  The 
senator  was  expressing  the  new  political 
theory,  which  slowly  but  certainly  is 
growing  up  in  this  country,  and  which  is 
in  direct  conflict  with  the  old  constitu- 
tional theory  of  divided  and  coordinate 
powers.  It  may  be  described  as  the  the- 
ory of  executive  common  sense,  a  theory 
the  application  of  which  doubles  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  executive  by  diminish- 
ing that  of  the  legislature  almost  to  the 
vanishing  point. 

When  the  legislature  itself  recognizes 
this  theory,  and  in  instances  like  this  af- 
firms the  right  and  duty  of  the  executive 
to  select  the  laws  which  ought  to  be  en- 
forced; when  the  people  demand  from 
the  executive  that  he  use  a  strong  hand 
upon  the  makers  of  laws  to  compel  them 
to  enact  such  new  laws  as  he  desires; 
when  the  public  in  almost  every  contro- 
versy between  the  state  governor  and  the 
legislature,  or  between  the  president  and 
Congress,  is  to  be  found  lined  up  in  sup- 
port of  the  executive  and  clamorous  for 
the  submission  of  the  legislative  branch 
to  the  will  of  the  executive,  what  does  it 
all  mean  ?  What  has  brought  this  change 
.about? 

To  a  very  marked  extent  this  change 
is  due  to  our  American  methods  of  legis- 
lation. We  are  a  practical  people,  and 
have  confronting  us  a  distinctly  practical 
problem  which  presents  itself  to  us  in 
about  this  fashion.  Our  legislatures,  most 
of  which  have  bi-annual  sessions,  pass 
every  two  years  some  25,000  separate 
laws.  In  1906-07,  for  example,  there  were 
passed  by  Congress  and  state  legisla- 
tures 25,446  acts  and  1576  resolutions. 
At  a  conservative  estimate,  twenty  thou- 
sand of  these  were  local  laws,  affecting 
separate  cities  and  towns  and  having  no 
general  scope  whatever,  or  were  special 
bills  relating  to  private  interests  only. 
In  England  in  the  entire  nineteenth  cen- 
tury there  were  enacted  some  twenty-one 
thousand  special  and  local  bills.  In 
America  our  legislatures  pass  as  many 
of  these  laws  every  two  years.  In  1906 


Executive  Aggression 


581 


and  1907,  while  our  American  legisla- 
tures were  turning  out  these  twenty-five 
thousand  laws  and  fifteen  hundred  reso- 
lutions, the  attention  of  the  British  Par- 
liament was  concentrated  upon  114 
public  acts  and  general  laws. 

Sixty  years  ago  England  laid  the 
foundations  of  a  scientific  plan  for  hand- 
ling local  and  private  bills.  There  had 
been  political  corruption  in  the  granting 
of  franchises  in  England,  as  well  as  in  our 
own  country,  in  the  early  days  of  railroad 
development.  The  unscrupulous  who 
sought  unjust  advantages  and  special 
privileges  through  legislation,  applied  to 
Parliament  then,  much  as  they  apply  to 
our  state  legislatures  now.  The  Stand- 
ing Orders  adopted  in  1847  in  England 
afford  a  method  of  dealing  with  local  and 
private  measures,  by  which  an  investi- 
gation closely  akin  to  a  judicial  trial  by 
a  parliamentary  tribunal  is  made  of  each 
of  these  bills,  on  fullest  advance  notice  to 
every  public  and  private  interest  which 
its  enactment  might  affect.  Under  this 
plan,  corruption  has  lost  the  secrecy 
which  gives  it  its  main  opportunity,  and 
the  undivided  time  of  Parliament  itself 
is  devoted  to  more  important  public  mat- 
ters. In  1907,  substantially  the  entire 
law-making  work  of  Parliament  itself  is 
embodied  in  56  general  public  acts, 
contained  in  293  printed  pages.  In  the 
same  year,  the  State  of  New  York  en- 
acted 754  laws,  occupying  2500  pages. 

The  legislative  methods  of  that  state 
are  characteristic  American  methods. 
Every  municipality  in  New  York,  for  ex- 
ample, goes  to  the  legislature  for  every 
amendment  to  its  local  charter.  When 
Buffalo  wants  a  Polish  interpreter  for  a 
police  court,  when  Yonkers  wants  to 
raise  the  salary  of  its  city  judge,  when 
Cohoes  wants  to  build  a  bridge,  or  Dun- 
kirk to  build  sewers,  when  Fulton  wants 
some  new  fire-hose  for  its  fire  department, 
or  Little  Falls  wants  to  raise  the  pay  of 
its  police,  when  Albany  wants  to  fix  the 
salary  of  a  deputy  superintendent  of  an 
almshouse,  they  go  to  the  legislature  of 
the  state  and  ask  for  a  law. 


What  does  an  assemblyman  or  senator 
from  New  York  City  know  about  the  ne- 
cessity for  a  Polish  interpreter  in  a  Buf- 
falo police  court,  or  for  hose  in  the  fire 
department  of  Fulton?  Why  should  he 
know  anything  about  such  remote  mat- 
ters? The  prevailing  American  method 
of  legislation,  however,  expects  him  to 
vote  upon  such  things.  In  American  leg- 
islatures, not  only  bills  of  this  kind, 
but  bills  creating  franchises  for  corpora- 
tions, granting  special  privileges,  estab- 
lishing private  interests,  are  introduced 
by  the  hundred  and  passed  by  the  score, 
without  advance  publicity  of  any  kind  or 
a  semblance  of  careful  investigation.  Is  it 
extraordinary  that,  with  their  legislatures 
constantly  occupying  themselves  with 
matters  which  are  no  part  of  the  real  busi- 
ness of  the  public,  the  public  look  else- 
where when  seeking  to  have  that  business 
performed  ?  that  they  look  to  the  govern- 
or and  his  advisers,  rather  than  to  the  leg- 
islature itself;  and  look  to  him,  not  only 
to  initiate  needed  general  laws,  but  by  his 
personal  authority  and  his  veto  to  dam 
the  swelling  flood  of  special  and  local 
bills  as  well? 

The  constant  complaint  of  the  reformer 
is,  that  the  people  pay  too  little  attention 
to  the  doings  of  the  representatives  who 
make  the  laws.  Is  it  possible  for  the  peo- 
ple of  a  state  to  follow,  with  interest  or 
with  profit,  the  work  of  a  legislature  oc- 
cupied for  the  most  part  with  bills  of 
this  kind  ?  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that 
the  public  recognizes  its  inability  to  focus 
its  mind  on  these  things,  and  turns  the 
whole  matter  of  legislation  over  to  the  su- 
pervision of  the  governor  ?  It  has  been 
said,  not  without  a  show  of  reason,  that 
unless  there  be  a  return  to  the  old  prin- 
ciple of  local  self-government,  the  only 
practical  alternative  for  the  people  is  a 
benevolent  despotism  by  the  governor, 
—  an  elective  despot. 

Among  the  forgotten  books  of  political 
philosophy,  there  is  one  which,  perhaps 
more  than  any  other,  should  be  remem- 
bered in  America  —  because  it  is  the 
philosophy  which  stood  at  the  beginning 


582 


Executive  Aggression 


of  the  American  Revolution;  a  philoso- 
phy, the  attempt  to  apply  which  was  one 
of  the  great  causes  of  that  Revolution. 
This  book  was  Bolingbroke's  The  Idea  of 
a  Patriot  King.  In  that  work,  written  at 
a  time  when  parliamentary  government 
was  at  its  lowest  ebb,  and  English  politics 
a  sink  of  corruption;  when  rotten  bor- 
oughs flourished  and  the  votes  of  unre- 
presentative representatives  had  to  be 
bought  on  every  important  measure;  Bo- 
lingbroke  advocated  the  control  of  Par- 
liament, and  of  the  legislative  affairs  both 
of  England  and  her  colonies,  by  the  strong 
hand  of  a  patriot  king.  Bolingbroke  be- 
lieved that  the  vigorous  use  of  the  royal 
prerogative  by  a  patriot  king  ruling  with 
wisdom,  and  controlling  by  a  strong  hand 
Parliament  and  the  affairs  of  the  nation, 
would  afford  a  practical  solution  for  the 
evils  created  by  a  corrupt,  inefficient,  un- 
representative, and  factional  parliament. 
America  did  not  accept  this  doctrine  then. 
The  idea  of  a  patriot  king  collapsed  un- 
der George  III.  His  attempt  to  put  this 
philosophy  into  effect  was  among  the 
causes  of  the  Revolution  which  separated 
us  from  Great  Britain. 

One  of  the  great  contributions  of  Amer- 
ica to  British  freedom  came  through 
our  refusal  to  accept  this  new  political 
doctrine.  The  patriot-king  theory  disap- 
peared in  England  after  the  Revolution. 
A  cure  for  the  conditions  which  the  pa- 
triot king  and  his  prerogative  proposed 
to  cure,  was  found  in  a  reformed  Parlia- 
ment and  a  better  system  of  representa- 
tion. Those  who  seek  a  practical  solution 
for  our  present  legislative  difficulties  in 
an  extraordinary  increase  of  the  influence 
of  the  executive  over  the  affairs  of  the 
state  and  the  nation,  are  offering  us  the 
patriot-king  theory  in  a  new  form.  If  we 
do  not  really  want  it,  we  must  recognize 
the  reasons  which  give  that  theory  an 
apparent  justification  in  America  to-day, 
and  destroy  the  doctrine  by  destroying 
the  causes  which  have  brought  it  into 
existence. 

Unconsciously,  by  instinct  rather  than 
by  direct  reasoning,  the  people  are  realiz- 


ing that  our  law-making  machinery  has 
broken  down;  that,  in  their  methods  of 
legislation,  our  legislatures  are  to-day 
struggling  with  the  impossible.  The 
American  voter  realizes  moreover  the  ab- 
solute impossibility  that  any  average  citi- 
zen who  has  any  business  of  his  own  to 
attend  to,  can  know  anything  about  these 
special  and  local  bills  which,  under  preva- 
lent crude  and  clumsy  methods,  clog  the 
calendars  of  the  legislatures.  We  realize 
that  in  our  respective  states  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  of  our  legislators  is  en- 
grossed in  mulling  over  these  bills  and 
passing  them  by  the  score,  when  on  the 
final  vote  not  one  legislator  in  ten  has  any 
real  understanding  of  either  the  propriety 
or  the  necessity  of  their  enactment.  We 
realize  that  the  time  misspent  upon  these 
measures  is  necessarily  taken  away  from 
the  consideration  of  general  public  acts 
dealing  with  the  common  interests  of  all 
of  us;  and  that,  because  of  this  enormous 
volume  of  special  legislation,  the  statute 
books  tend  to  get  filled  with  bad  laws, 
bad  because  ill-considered  and  hastily 
passed,  —  because  in  this  confused  mud- 
dle of  hasty  law-making,  the  law-makers 
themselves  lose  the  sense  of  responsibil- 
ity. It  is  physically  impossible  for  us  to 
watch  all  these  bills,  or  to  watch  the  men 
who  make  a  business  of  passing  them. 
What  are  we  to  do  ? 

The  answer  which  we  make  perhaps 
unconsciously  is  this :  Let  us  put  it  all  up 
to  the  governor  or  president.  Let  us  elect 
a  good  governor.  Let  us  elect  a  pres- 
ident we  can  trust,  and  turn  over  to  him 
the  whole  business  of  managing  this  ma- 
chinery of  law-making  in  our  behalf. 

In  this  way  and  for  this  reason,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  we  are  re- 
moulding our  institutions.  In  spite  of 
our  American  Constitution,  in  spite  of 
our  traditions  of  divided  powers,  we  are  to 
a  large  extent  trying,  in  practice,  the  es- 
tablished English  principle  by  which,  as 
that  best  of  foreign-born  Americans,  Mr. 
Bryce,  puts  it,  "The  Executive  is  primar- 
ily responsible  for  legislation  and,  to  use 
a  colloquial  expression,  'runs  the  whole 


Executive  Aggression 


583 


show,'  —  the  selection  of  topics,  the  pre- 
paration of  bills,  their  piloting  and  their 
passage  through  Parliament."  The  Eng- 
lish system  recognizes  no  theoretical  sepa- 
ration between  executive  and  legislative 
functions.  The  Government  is  at  once  the 
source  of  the  country's  general  legislative 
plans,  its  law-maker,  and  its  enforcer  of 
law.  We,  in  turn,  are  in  practice  tending 
toward  a  similar  scheme  of  actual  gov- 
ernment. In  practice,  we  have  reversed 
the  theoretical  course  of  legislation.  We 
expect  the  president  and  the  governor  to 
initiate  legislation  to  meet  general  public 
requirements,  and  that  those  general  pub- 
lic acts  shall  come,  not  from  the  legis- 
lature, but  from  the  executive  and  his  ad- 
visers. We  expect  in  the  enforcement  of 
law,  moreover,  that  the  executive  will  ig- 
nore laws  which  are  not  fit  to  be  enforced. 
We  have  adopted  this  plan  because  we 
realize  that  the  thing  which  stands  be- 
tween us  and  legislative  chaos  is  execu- 
tive aggression.  That  which  to-day  pro- 
tects us  from  legislatures  as  good  as  we 
deserve  is  an  executive  better  than  we  de- 
serve. We  have  asked  for  that  executive 
aggression,  and  we  cannot  consistently 
complain  when  we  get  it.  Until  the 
method  and  scope  of  our  legislation 
changes,  we  shall  need  it. 

The  condition  which  makes  executive 
aggression  has  other  phases  not  less 
important.  Certain  conservative  minds 
are  complaining,  for  example,  of  what 
is  called  "federal  aggression."  With  our 
state  legislatures  struggling  with  bills 
regulating  the  local  affairs  of  cities  and 
towns,  there  has  been  and  can  be  no  gen- 
eral progress  toward  uniformity  of  laws 
among  the  states,  a  uniformity  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  success  of  interstate 
business,  which  yearly  increases  enor- 
mously in  volume.  Because  there  is  no 
progress  toward  uniformity  of  state  law, 
the  people  are  asking  that  the  federal 
Constitution  be  stretched  so  that  we  may 
get  that  uniformity  through  national  law. 
What  hostile  critics  describe  to-day  as 
federal  aggression  is  in  a  large  measure 
the  attempt  by  federal  law  to  meet  that 


demand  for  uniformity  of  law  which  the 
state  legislatures  have  neglected  and  ig- 
nored. 

The  continuance  of  inefficient  meth- 
ods of  law-making  is  moreover  one  of  the 
most  conspicuous  sources  of  a  certain 
lawlessness  which,  we  can  but  admit,  char- 
acterizes us  as  a  people.  In  a  country 
where  laws  are  made  on  the  wholesale 
plan  by  bad  methods,  in  enormous  quan- 
tities, in  great  haste,  the  respect  of  the 
people  for  law  as  law  is  bound  to  dimin- 
ish and  at  times  to  disappear. 

The  same  cause  which  tends  to  pro- 
mote executive  aggression  tends  more- 
over to  make  that  aggression  increase, 
rather  than  decrease,  in  scope  and  func- 
tion, by  making  the  individual  legislator 
a  cipher,  by  taking  from  his  work  dignity 
and  importance,  and  thereby  causing  the 
office  itself  to  be  filled  by  third-rate  men . 

As  I  was  conversing  some  time  ago 
with  two  intelligent,  well-educated  voters, 
residents  of  a  county  adjoining  the  city 
of  New  York,  one  of  them  expressed  re- 
gret at  the  failure  of  his  party  to  reelect 
a  local  assemblyman.  To  my  suggestion 
that  the  man  had  proved  himself  stupid 
in  office,  and  that  his  failure  to  be  re- 
elected  was  no  great  loss  to  the  Assembly, 
they  replied,  "He  knew  enough  to  vote 
'  Yes '  for  what  the  governor  wanted,  and 
that  was  all  he  had  to  know."  That  was 
what  the  office  of  assemblyman  for  their 
district  meant  to  them. 

This  point  of  view  has  many  adher- 
ents. The  legislature  tends  to  become  a 
body  whose  functions,  so  far  as  the  public 
generally  is  concerned,  are  to  pass  local 
bills,  and  on  public  measures  to  register 
the  policies  and  legislative  plans  of  the 
executive.  To  find  intelligent  and  inde- 
pendent men  who  will  care  to  accept  leg- 
islative office  under  such  conditions  is 
growing  harder  each  year,  a  fact  which 
adds  still  more  to  the  importance  of  the 
executive  as  the  real  source  from  which 
constructive  legislation  is  to  emanate. 

The  English  Constitution,  as  some  one 
has  said,  consists  not  of  documents  but 
of  certain  ideas  on  political  principles 


584 


Executive  Aggression 


shared  by  the  vast  majority  of  thinking 
Britons.  On  our  own  side  of  the  water,  we 
have  written  constitutions  perfectly  clear 
in  their  general  scheme,  which  declare 
the  separation  of  powers,  executive,  leg- 
islative, and  judicial.  But  instead  of  this 
distribution  being  one  of  our  fixed  politi- 
cal ideas,  there  are  now  cross  currents  of 
conflicting  opinions.  Those  who  believe 
in  practicing  the  theory  of  the  Constitu- 
tion at  any  cost  to  the  country,  are  at 
war  with  those  who  believe  in  getting  the 
right  thing  done  at  any  cost  to  the  theory 
and  regardless  of  possible  future  conse- 
quences. The  chief  executives  in  the  state 
and  nation  stand  at  a  point  where  these 
cross  currents  meet.  No  more  embarrass- 
ing position  can  be  imagined  than  that  of 
the  president  or  governor  who  tries  to  keep 
a  clear  course  between  those  who  think 
that  he  should  be  nothing  but  a  business 
manager,  and  those  who  insist  that  he 
should  be  the  general  executive  officer 
and  a  working  majority  of  the  board  of 
directors  as  well. 

A  still  further  embarrassment  comes  to 
him  from  the  empirical  standards  of  the 
press.  For  the  newspapers,  plainly  re- 
flecting public  opinion,  ally  themselves  at 
times  with  one  school  and  at  times  with 
the  other,  and  make  the  whole  matter  of 
executive  conduct  one,  not  of  law,  but  of 
good  taste.  The  newspaper  which  to-day 
scolds  the  President  for  refusing  to  usurp 
the  function  of  Congress  by  practically 
repealing  the  Sherman  law  "until  it  is 
fit  to  be  enforced,"  presumably  would  see 
nothing  illogical  to-morrow  in  calling  him 
an  arrogant  despot  in  case  he  should  de- 
clare the  Pure  Food  act,  for  example,  un- 
fit to  be  enforced,  and  should  notify  Con- 
gress that  the  law  would  remain  a  dead 
letter  until  a  better  one  was  enacted. 
Judged  either  by  law  or  by  logic,  the  ex- 
ecutive aggression  involved  would  be  no 
greater  in  one  case  than  in  the  other.  The 


mere  fact  that  one  course  of  conduct 
would  please  the  newspaper,  and  the 
other  would  not,  is  but  a  suggestion  of  a 
government  by  newspaper,  —  a  different 
form  of  aggression,  which,  however,  does 
not  lack  advocates. 

Those  who  talk  about  executive  ag- 
gression as  though  its  origin  were  the  mere 
itch  for  power  of  individuals  placed  in 
temporary  positions  of  authority,  would 
do  well  to  study  the  real  source  of  the 
tendency  by  which  they  are  sometimes 
justly  alarmed.  Public  opinion,  tired  of 
legislative  inefficiency  and  irresponsibil- 
ity, has  developed  a  fancy  for  despotism 
in  its  demand  upon  the  executive  to  get 
things  done.  Until  we  reform  our  meth- 
ods of  legislation,  this  seems  likely  to 
continue.  So  long  as  our  present  methods 
remain  in  vogue,  executive  interference 
in  legislative  matters  bids  fair  to  continue, 
not  in  defiance  of  public  opinion,  but  with 
its  very  general  assent,  approval,  and  sup- 
port. 

There  are  those  who  desire  a  return  to 
the  theory  of  the  Constitution,  but  who 
do  not  see  that  any  appreciable  progress 
can  be  made  by  mere  general  abuse  of 
executive  officers  for  so-called  aggression, 
while  ignoring  the  present  reason  and 
practical  justification  of  that  aggression. 
The  return  to  the  theory  can  be  accom- 
plished when  common  sense  has  been 
restored  to  the  purposes  and  methods  of 
legislation.  When  that  has  been  done,  ex- 
ecutive usurpation  will  disappear.  The 
public  opinion  which  now  supports  and 
encourages  it  will  then  refuse  even  to  to! 
erate  it.  The  return  to  the  Constitution, 
the  old  American  theory  of  di viced 
powers  and  duties,  is  desirable,  but'  it 
can  be  accomplished  in  no  other  wi.y; 
for  we  are  a  practical  people,  and  if  \.Te 
are  to  have  theories,  we  insist  that  they 
shall  be  theories  which  work. 


ON  BEING  A  DOCTRINAIRE 


BY   SAMUEL   McCHORD    CROTHERS 


THE  question  is  sometimes  asked  by 
those  who  devise  tests  of  literary  taste, 
"If  you  were  cast  upon  a  desert  island 
and  were  allowed  but  one  book,  what 
book  would  you  choose  ?  " 

If  I  were  in  such  a  predicament  I  should 
say  to  the  pirate  chief  who  was  about  to 
maroon  me,  "My  dear  sir,  as  this  island 
seems,  for  the  time  being,  to  have  been 
overlooked  by  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie,  I 
must  ask  the  loan  of  a  volume  from  your 
private  library.  And  if  it  is  convenient 
for  you  to  allow  me  but  one  volume  at  a 
time,  I  pray  that  it  may  be  the  Una- 
bridged Dictionary." 

I  should  choose  the  Unabridged  Dic- 
tionary, not  only  because  it  is  big,  but 
because  it  is  mentally  filling.  One  has  the 
sense  of  rude  plenty  such  as  one  gets 
from  looking  at  the  huge  wheat-elevators 
in  Minneapolis.  Here  are  the  harvests  of 
innumerable  fields  stored  up  in  little 
space.  There  are  not  only  a  vast  number 
of  words,  but  each  word  means  some- 
thing, and  each  has  a  history  of  its  own, 
and  a  family  relation  which  it  is  interest- 
ing to  trace. 

But  that  which  I  should  value  most  on 
my  desert  island  would  be  the  opportun- 
ity of  acquainting  myself  with  the  fine  dis- 
tinctions which  are  made  between  differ- 
ent human  qualities.  It  would  seem  that 
the  aggregate  mind  which  made  the  lan- 
guage is  much  cleverer  than  we  usually 
suppose.  The  most  minute  differences 
are  infallibly  registered  in  telltale  words. 
There  are  not  only  words  denoting  the 
obvious  differences  between  the  good  and 
the  bad,  the  false  and  the  true,  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  ugly,  but  there  are  words 
which  indicate  the  delicate  shades  of 
goodness  and  truth  and  beauty  as  they 
are  curiously  blended  with  variable  quan- 
tities of  badness  and  falseness  and  ugli- 


ness. There  are  not  only  words  which 
tell  what  you  are,  but  words  which  tell 
what  you  think  you  are,  and  what  other 
people  think  you  are,  and  what  you  think 
they  are  when  you  discover  that  they  are 
thinking  that  you  are  something  which 
you  think  you  are  not. 

In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth  there  is 
no  such  word  as  "fail,"  but  the  diction- 
ary makes  up  for  this  deficiency.  It  is 
particularly  rich  in  words  descriptive  of 
our  failures.  As  the  procession  of  the  vir- 
tues passes  by,  there  are  pseudo-virtues 
that  tag  on  like  the  small  boys  who  follow 
the  circus.  After  Goodness  come  Goodi- 
ness  and  Goody-goodiness ;  we  see  Sanc- 
tity and  Sanctimoniousness,  Piety  and 
Pietism,  Grandeur  and  Grandiosity,  Sen- 
timent and  Sentimentality.  When  we  try 
to  show  off  we  invariably  deceive  our- 
selves, but  usually  we  deceive  nobody 
else.  Everybody  knows  we  are  showing 
off,  and  if  we  do  it  well  they  give  us  credit 
for  that. 

A  scholar  has  a  considerable  amount  of 
sound  learning,  and  he  is  afraid  that  his 
fellow-citizens  may  not  fully  appreciate 
it.  So  in  his  conversation  he  allows  his 
erudition  to  leak  out,  with  the  intent  that 
the  stranger  should  say,  "What  a  modest, 
learned  man  he  is,  and  what  a  pleasure  it 
is  to  meet  him."  Only  the  stranger  does 
not  express  himself  in  that  way,  but  says, 
"What  an  admirable  pedant  he  is,  to 
be  sure."  Pedantry  is  a  well-recognized 
compound:  two-thirds  sound  learning 
and  one-third  harmless  vanity. 

Sometimes  on  the  street  you  see  a  man 
whom  you  take  for  an  old  acquaintance. 
You  approach  with  outstretched  hand 
and  expectant  countenance,  but  his  stony 
glare  of  non-recognition  gives  you  pause. 
The  fact  that  he  does  not  know  you  gives 
you  time  to  perceive  that  you  do  not 

585 


586 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


know  him  and  have  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. A  superficial  resemblance  has  de- 
ceived you.  In  the  dictionary  you  may 
find  many  instances  of  such  mistakes  in 
the  moral  realm. 

One  of  the  most  common  of  these  mis- 
takes in  identity  is  the  confusion  of  the 
Idealist  and  the  Doctrinaire.  An  ideal- 
ist is  defined  as  "one  who  pursues  and 
dwells  upon  the  ideal,  a  seeker  after  the 
highest  beauty  and  good."  A  doctrinaire 
may  do  this  also,  but  he  is  differentiated 
as  "one  who  theorizes  without  sufficient 
regard  for  practical  considerations,  one 
who  undertakes  to  explain  things  by  a 
narrow  theory  or  group  of  theories." 

The  Idealist  is  the  kind  of  man  we 
need.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  are.  He  is  one 

Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect 
Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain. 

If  a  more  perfect  society  is  to  come,  it 
must  be  through  the  efforts  of  persons 
capable  of  such  visions.  Our  schools, 
churches,  and  all  the  institutions  of  a 
higher  civilization  have  as  their  chief  aim 
the  production  of  just  such  personalities. 
But  why  are  they  not  more  successful? 
What  becomes  of  the  thousands  of  young 
idealists  who  each  year  set  forth  on  the 
quest  for  the  highest  beauty  and  truth  ? 

The  answer  is  that  many  persons  who 
set  out  to  be  idealists  end  by  becoming 
doctrinaires.  They  identify  the  highest 
beauty  and  truth  with  their  own  theo- 
ries. After  that  they  make  no  further  ex- 
cursions into  the  unexplored  regions  of 
reality,  for  fear  that  they  may  discover 
their  identification  to  have  been  incom- 
plete. 

The  Doctrinaire  is  like  a  mason  who 
has  mixed  his  cement  before  he  is  ready 
to  use  it.  When  he  is  ready  the  cement 
has  set,  and  he  can't  use  it.  It  sticks  to- 
gether, but  it  won't  stick  to  anything  else. 
George  Eliot  describes  such  a  predica- 
ment in  her  sketch  of  the  Reverend  Amos 
Barton.  Mr.  Barton's  plans,  she  says, 
were,  like  his  sermons,  "  admirably  well 
conceived,  had  the  state  of  the  case  been 
otherwise." 


By  eliminating  the  "state  of  the  case," 
the  Doctrinaire  is  enabled  to  live  the 
simple  life — intellectually  and  ethically. 
The  trouble  is  that  it  is  too  simple.  To 
his  mind  the  question,  "Is  it  true?"  is 
never  a  disturbing  one,  nor  does  it  lead 
to  a  troublesome  investigation  of  matters 
of  fact.  His  definition  of  truth  has  the 
virtue  of  perfect  simplicity:  "A  truth 
is  that  which  has  got  itself  believed  by 
me."  His  thoughts  form  an  exclusive 
club,  and  when  a  new  idea  applies  for  ad- 
mission it  is  placed  on  the  waiting  list. 
A  single  black-ball  from  an  old  member 
is  sufficient  permanently  to  exclude  it. 
When  an  idea  is  once  in,  it  has  a  very 
pleasant  time  of  it.  All  the  opinions  it 
meets  with  are  clubable,  and  on  good 
terms  with  one  another.  Whether  any  of 
them  are  related  to  any  reality  outside 
their  own  little  circle  is  a  question  that 
it  would  be  impolite  to  ask.  It  would  be 
like  asking  a  correctly  attired  member 
who  was  punctilious  in  paying  his  club 
dues,  whether  he  had  also  paid  his  tailor. 
To  the  Doctrinaire  there,  seems  some- 
thing sordid  and  vulgar  in  the  anxiety  to 
make  the  two  ends  —  theory  and  prac- 
tice —  meet.  It  seems  to  indicate  that 
one  is  not  intellectually  in  comfortable 
circumstances. 

The  Doctrinaire,  when  he  has  con- 
ceived certain  ideals,  is  not  content  that 
they  should  be  cast  upon  the  actual  world, 
to  take  their  chances  in  the  rough-and- 
tumble  struggle  for  existence,  proving 
their  right  to  the  kingdom  by  actually 
conquering  it,  inch  by  inch.  He  cannot 
endure  such  tedious  delays.  He  must 
have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  ideals 
instantly  realized.  The  ideal  life  must  be 
lived  under  ideal  conditions.  And  so, 
for  his  private  satisfaction,  he  creates  for 
himself  such  a  world,  into  which  he 
retires. 

It  is  a  world  of  natural  law,  as  he  un- 
derstands natural  law.  There  are  no 
exceptions,  no  deviation  from  general 
principles,  no  shadings-off,  no  fascinating 
obscurities,  no  rude  practical  jokes,  no 
undignified  by-play,  no  "  east  windows  of 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


587 


divine  surprise,"  no  dark  unfathomable 
abysses.  He  would  not  allow  such  things. 
In  his  world  the  unexpected  never  hap- 
pens. The  endless  chain  of  causation  runs 
smoothly.  Every  event  has  a  cause,  and 
the  cause  is  never  tangled  up  with  the  ef- 
fect, so  that  you  can't  tell  where  one  be- 
gins and  the  other  ends.  He  is  intellectu- 
ally tidy,  and  everything  must  be  in  its 
place.  If  something  turns  up  for  which  he 
can't  find  a  place,  he  sends  it  to  the  junk 
shop. 

When  the  Doctrinaire  descends  from 
the  homogeneous  world  which  he  has  con- 
structed, into  the  actual  world  which,  in 
the  attempt  to  get  itself  made,  is  becom- 
ing more  amazingly  heterogeneous  all  the 
time,  he  is  in  high  dudgeon.  The  exist- 
ence of  these  varied  contradictorinesses 
seems  to  him  a  personal  affront. 

It  is  just  as  if  a  person  had  lived  in 
a  natural-history  museum,  where  every 
stuffed  animal  knew  his  place,  and  had 
his  scientific  name  painted  on  the  glass 
case.  He  is  suddenly  dropped  into  a  trop- 
ical jungle  where  the  wild  animals  act 
quite  differently.  The  tigers  won't  "stay 
put,"  and  are  liable  to  turn  up  just  when 
he  does  n't  want  to  see  them. 

I  should  not  object  to  his  unprepared- 
ness  for  the  actual  state  of  things  if  the 
Doctrinaire  did  not  assume  the  airs  of  a 
superior  person.  He  lays  all  the  blame 
for  the  discrepancy  between  himself  and 
the  universe  on  the  universe.  He  has  the 
right  key,  only  the  miserable  locks  won't 
fit  it.  Having  formed  a  very  clear  concep- 
tion of  the  best  possible  world,  he  looks 
down  patronizingly  upon  the  common- 
place people  who  are  trying  to  make  the 
best  out  of  this  imperfect  world.  Having 
large  possessions  in  Utopia,  he  lives  the 
care-free  life  of  an  absentee  landlord. 
His  praise  is  always  for  the  dead,  or  for 
the  yet  unborn;  when  he  looks  on  his 
contemporaries  he  takes  a  gloomy  view. 
That  any  great  man  should  be  now  alive, 
he  considers  a  preposterous  assumption. 
He  treats  greatness  as  if  it  were  a  disease 
to  be  determined  only  by  post-mortem 
examination. 


One  of  the  earliest  satires  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  Doctrinaire  is  to  be  found  in 
the  book  of  Jonah.  Jonah  was  a  prophet 
by  profession.  He  received  a  call  to 
preach  in  the  city  of  Nineveh,  which  he 
accepted  after  some  hesitation.  He  de- 
nounced civic  corruption  and  declared 
that  in  forty  days  the  city  would  be 
destroyed.  Having  performed  this  pro- 
fessional duty,  Jonah  felt  that  there  was 
nothing  left  for  him  but  to  await  with 
pious  resignation  the  fulfillment  of  his 
prophecy.  But  in  this  case  the  unex- 
pected happened:  the  city  repented  and 
was  saved.  This  was  gall  and  wormwood 
to  Jonah.  His  orderly  mind  was  offended 
by  this  disarrangement  of  his  schedule. 
What  was  the  use  of  being  a  prophet  if 
things  did  not  turn  out  as  he  said  ?  So  we 
are  told  "it  displeased  Jonah  exceedingly 
and  he  was  very  angry."  Still  he  clung  to 
the  hope  that,  in  the  end,  things  might 
turn  out  badly  enough  to  justify  his  pub- 
lic utterances.  "So  Jonah  went  out  of 
the  city,  and  sat  on  the  east  side  of  the 
city,  and  there  made  him  a  booth,  and 
sat  under  it  in  the  shadow,  till  he  might 
see  what  would  become  of  the  city." 

Poor  grumpy  old  Jonah.  Have  we  not 
sat  under  his  preaching,  and  read  his 
editorials,  and  pondered  his  books,  full  of 
solemn  warnings  of  what  will  happen  to 
us  if  we  do  not  mend  our  ways  ?  We  have 
been  deeply  impressed,  and  in  a  great 
many  respects  we  have  mended  our  ways, 
and  things  have  begun  to  go  better.  But 
Jonah  takes  no  heed  of  our  repentance. 
He  is  only  thinking  of  those  prophecies 
of  his.  Just  in  proportion  as  things  begin 
to  look  up  morally,  he  gets  low  in  his 
mind  and  begins  to  despair  of  the  Re- 
public. 

The  trouble  with  Jonah  is  that  he  can 
see  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  see  that 
only  in  one  way.  He  cannot  be  made  to 
appreciate  the  fact  that  "the  world  is  full 
of  a  number  of  things,"  and  that  some  of 
them  are  not  half  bad.  When  he  sees  a 
dangerous  tendency  he  thinks  that  it  will 
necessarily  go  on  to  its  logical  conclusion. 
He  forgets  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 


588 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


the  logic  of  events,  which  is  different  from 
the  logical  processes  of  a  person  who  sits 
outside  and  prognosticates.  There  is  one 
tendency  which  all  tendencies  have  in 
common,  —  that  is,  to  develop  counter 
tendencies. 

There  is,  for  example,  a  tendency  on 
the  part  of  the  gypsy-moth  caterpillar  to 
destroy  utterly  the  forests  of  the  United 
States.  But  were  I  addressing  a  thought- 
ful company  of  these  caterpillars  I  should 
urge  them  to  look  upon  their  own  future 
with  modest  self-distrust.  However  well 
their  programme  looks  upon  paper,  it 
cannot  be  carried  out  without  opposition. 
Long  before  the  last  tree  has  been  van- 
quished, the  last  of  the  gypsy  moths  may 
be  fighting  for  its  life  against  the  enemies 
it  has  made. 

The  Doctrinaire  is  very  quick  at  gen- 
eralizing. This  is  greatly  to  his  credit. 
One  of  the  powers  of  the  human  mind 
on  which  we  set  great  store  is  that  of  en- 
tertaining general  ideas.  This  is  where  we 
think  we  have  the  advantage  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  brute  creation.  They  have 
particular  experiences  which  at  the  time 
are  very  exciting  to  them,  but  they  have 
no  abstract  notions  —  or  at  least  no  way 
of  expressing  them  to  us.  We  argue  that 
if  they  really  had  these  ideas  they  would 
have  invented  language  long  ago,  and  by 
this  time  would  have  had  Unabridged 
Dictionaries  of  their  own.  But  we  hu- 
mans do  not  have  to  be  content  with  this 
hand-to-mouth  way  of  thinking  and  feel- 
ing. When  we  see  a  hundred  things  that 
strike  us  as  being  more  or  less  alike,  we 
squeeze  them  together  into  one  mental 
package,  and  give  a  single  name  to  the 
whole  lot.  This  is  a  great  convenience, 
and  enables  us  to  do  thinking  on  a  large 
scale.  By  organizing  various  impressions 
into  a  union,  and  inducing  them  to  work 
together,  we  are  enabled  to  do  collective 
bargaining  with  the  universe. 

If,  for  example,  I  were  asked  to  tell 
what  I  think  of  the  individuals  inhabiting 
the  United  States,  I  should  have  to  give  it 
up.  Assuming  a  round  eighty  million  per- 
sons, all  of  whom  it  would  be  a  pleasure 


to  meet,  there  must  be,  at  the  lowest 
computation,  seventy-nine  million,  nine 
hundred  thousand,  three  hundred  and 
seventy-five  people  of  whose  characters 
I  do  not  know  enough  to  make  my 
opinion  of  any  value.  Of  the  remaining 
fragment  of  the  population,  my  know- 
ledge is  not  so  perfect  as  I  would  wish. 
As  for  the  whole  eighty  million,  suppose 
I  had  to  give  a  single  thought  to  each 
person :  I  have  n't  enough  cogitations  to 
go  around. 

What  we  do  is  to  stop  the  ruinous 
struggle  of  competing  thoughts  by  re- 
cognizing a  community  of  interests  and 
forming  a  merger,  under  the  collective 
term  "American."  Then  all  difficulties 
are  minimized.  Almost  all  our  theorizing 
about  human  affairs  is  carried  on  by 
means  of  these  symbols.  Millions  of  dif- 
ferent personalities  are  merged  in  one 
mental  picture.  We  talk  of  a  class  even 
more  readily  than  we  talk  of  an  individ- 
ual. 

This  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  we  do  not 
take  these  generalizations  too  seriously. 
The  mistake  of  the  Doctrinaire  lies,  not  in 
classifying  people,  but  in  treating  an  in- 
dividual as  if  he  could  belong  to  only  one 
class  at  a  time.  The  fact  is  that  each  one 
of  us  belongs  to  a  thousand  classes.  There 
are  a  great  many  ways  of  classifying  hu- 
man beings,  and  as  in  the  case  of  the  con- 
struction of  tribal  lays,  "every  single  one 
of  them  is  right,"  so  far  as  it  goes.  You 
may  classify  people  according  to  race, 
color,  previous  condition  of  servitude, 
height,  weight,  shape  of  their  skulls,  their 
incomes,  or  their  ability  to  write  Latin 
verse.  You  may  inquire  whether  they 
belong  to  the  class  that  goes  to  church 
on  Sunday,  whether  they  are  vaccination- 
ists  or  anti-vaccinationists,  whether  they 
like  Bernard  Shaw,  whether  they  are  able 
to  read  a  short  passage  from  the  Consti- 
tution of  the  United  States,  whether  they 
have  dyspepsia  or  nervous  prostration  or 
only  think  they  have,  or,  if  you  will,  you 
make  one  sweeping  division  between  the 
sheep  and  the  goats,  and  divide  mankind 
according  to  location,  as  did  the  good 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


589 


Boston  lady  who  was  accustomed  to 
speak  of  those  who  lived  out  of  sight  of 
the  Massachusetts  State  House  as  "New 
Yorkers  and  that  kind  of  people." 

Such  divisions  do  no  harm  so  long  as 
you  make  enough  of  them.  Those  who  are 
classed  with  the  goats  on  one  test  ques- 
tion will  turn  up  among  the  sheep  when 
you  change  the  subject.  Your  neighbor 
is  a  wild  radical  in  theology  and  you  look 
upon  him  as  a  dangerous  character.  Try 
him  on  the  tariff  and  you  find  him  con- 
servative to  a  fault. 

I  have  listened,  of  a  Monday  morning, 
to  the  essay  in  a  ministers'  meeting  on  the 
problem  of  the  "Unchurched."  The  pic- 
ture presented  to  the  imagination  was  a 
painful  one.  In  the  discussion  that  fol- 
lowed, the  class  of  the  unchurched  was 
not  clearly  differentiated  from  the  other 
unfortunate  class  of  the  unwashed.  In  the 
evening  I  attended  a  lecture  by  a  learned 
professor  who,  as  I  happened  to  know, 
was  not  as  regular  in  church  attendance 
as  he  should  be.  As  I  listened  to  him,  I 
said  to  myself,  "Who  would  have  sus- 
pected that  he  is  one  of  the  Un- 
churched?" 

Fortunately  all  the  disabilities  pertain- 
ing to  the  Unwashed  and  Unchurched 
and  Uncultivated  and  Unvaccinated  and 
Unskilled  and  Unbaptized  and  Unem- 
ployed, do  not  necessarily  rest  upon  the 
same  person.  Usually  there  are  palliating 
circumstances  and  compensating  advan- 
tages that  are  to  be  taken  into  account. 
In  a  free  country  there  is  a  career  for  all 
sorts  of  talent,  and  if  one  fails  in  one 
direction  he  may  reach  great  dignity  in 
another.  I  may  be  a  mere  nobody,  so  far 
as  having  had  ancestors  in  the  Colonial 
Wars  is  concerned,  and  yet  I  may  be 
high  up  in  the  Knights  of  Pythias.  A 
good  lady  who  goes  to  the  art  class  is 
able  to  talk  of  Botticelli.  But  she  has  no 
right  to  look  down  upon  her  husband  as 
an  inferior  creature  because  he  supposes 
that  Botticelli  is  one  of  Mr.  Heinz's 
fifty-seven  kinds  of  pickles.  He  may 
have  some  things  which  she  has  not,  and 
they  may  be  fully  as  important. 


The  great  abuse  of  the  generalizing 
faculty  comes  in  arraying  class  against 
class.  Among  the  University  Statutes  of 
Oxford  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  one  di- 
rected against  this  evil.  Dire  academic 
punishments  were  threatened  to  students 
who  made  "odious  comparisons  of  coun- 
try to  country,  nobility  to  ignobility, 
Faculty  to  Faculty."  I  sympathize  deeply 
with  rules  against  such  "unhonest  gar- 
rulities." It  is  a  pity  they  cannot  be  en- 
forced. 

The  mischief  comes  in  reducing  all 
differences  to  the  categories  of  the  In- 
ferior and  Superior.  The  fallacy  of  such 
division  appears  when  we  ask,  Superior 
in  what?  Inferior  in  what?  Anybody 
can  be  a  superior  person  if  he  can  only 
choose  his  ground  and  stick  to  it.  That 
is  the  trick  that  royal  personages  have 
understood.  It  is  etiquette  for  kings  to 
lead  the  conversation  always.  One  must 
be  a  very  stupid  person  not  to  shine 
under  such  circumstances. 

Suppose  you  have  to  give  an  audience 
to  a  distinguished  archaeologist  who  has 
spent  his  life  in  Babylonian  excavations. 
Fifteen  minutes  before  his  arrival  you 
take  up  his  book  and  glance  through  it 
till  you  find  an  easy  page  that  you  can 
understand.  You  master  page  142.  Here 
you  are  secure.  You  pour  into  the  aston- 
ished ear  of  your  guest  your  views  upon 
the  subject.  Such  ripe  erudition  in  one 
whose  chief  interests  lie  elsewhere  seems 
to  him  almost  superhuman.  Your  views 
on  page  142  are  so  sound  that  he  longs  to 
continue  the  conversation  into  what  had 
before  seemed  the  more  important  matter 
contained  on  143.  But  etiquette  forbids. 
It  is  your  royal  prerogative  to  confine 
yourself  to  the  safe  precincts  of  page  142, 
and  you  leave  it  to  his  imagination  to 
conceive  the  wisdom  which  might  have 
been  given  to  the  world  had  it  been  your 
pleasure  to  expound  the  whole  subject  of 
archaeology. 

I  had  myself,  in  a  very  humble  way, 
an  experience  of  this  kind.  In  a  domes- 
tic crisis  it  was  necessary  to  placate  a 
newly  arrived  and  apparently  homesick 


590 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


cook.  I  am  unskilled  in  diplomacy,  but 
it  was  a  case  where  the  comfort  of  an 
innocent  family  depended  on  diplomatic 
action.  I  learned  that  the  young  woman 
came  from  Prince  Edward  Island.  Up 
to  that  moment  I  confess  that  Prince  Ed- 
ward Island  had  been  a  mere  geographi- 
cal expression.  All  my  ideas  about  it 
were  wrong,  I  having  mixed  it  up  with 
Cape  Breton,  which  as  I  now  know  is 
quite  different.  But  instantly  Prince 
Edward  Island  became  a  matter  of  in- 
tense interest.  Our  daily  bread  was  de- 
pendent on  it.  I  entered  my  study  and 
with  atlas  and  encyclopedia  sought  to 
atone  for  the  negligence  of  years.  I 
learned  how  Prince  Edward  Island  lay 
in  relation  to  Nova  Scotia,  what  were  its 
principal  towns,  its  climate,  its  railroad 
and  steamboat  connections,  and  acquired 
enough  miscellaneous  information  to 
adorn  a  five-minutes  personally  con- 
ducted conversation.  Thus  freshly  fur- 
nished forth,  I  adventured  into  the 
kitchen. 

Did  she  take  the  boat  from  George- 
town to  Pictou  ?  She  did.  Is  n't  it  too  bad 
that  the  strait  is  sometimes  frozen  over  in 
winter  ?  It  is.  Some  people  come  across 
on  ice  boats  from  Cape  Traverse ;  that 
must  be  exciting  and  rather  cold.  She 
thought  so  too.  Did  she  come  from  Char- 
lottetown  ?  No.  Out  Tignish  way  ?  Yes ; 
half  way  from  Charlottetown  to  Tignish. 
Queen's  County  ?  Good  apple  country  ? 
Yes,  she  never  saw  such  good  apples  as 
they  raise  in  Queen's  County.  When  I 
volunteered  the  opinion  that  the  weather 
on  Prince  Edward  is  fine,  but  change- 
able, I  was  received  on  the  footing  of  an 
old  inhabitant. 

I  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  go  to  the 
limits  of  my  knowledge.  I  had  still  sever- 
al reserve  facts,  classified  in  the  Encyclo- 
pedia under  the  heads,  Geology,  Ad- 
ministration, and  Finance.  I  had  estab- 
lished my  position  as  a  superior  person 
with  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  Prince 
Edward  Island.  If  the  Encyclopedia  it- 
self had  walked  into  the  kitchen  arm  in 
arm  with  the  Classical  Dictionary,  she 


could  not  have  been  more  impressed.  At 
least,  that  is  the  way  I  like  to  think  she 
felt.  It  is  the  way  I  feel  under  similar 
circumstances. 

One  watches  the  Superior  Person  lead- 
ing a  conversation  with  the  admiration 
due  to  Browning's   Herve  Kiel,  when, 
As  its  inch   of  way  were  the  wide  sea's  pro- 
found, 

he  steered  the  ship  in  the  narrow  channel. 
It  is  well,  however,  for  one  who  under- 
takes such  feats  to  make  sure  that  he 
really  has  an  inch  of  way;  it  is  none  too 
much. 

In  these  days  it  is  so  easy  for  one  to  get 
a  supply  of  ready-made  knowledge  that 
it  is  hard  to  keep  from  applying  it  indis- 
criminately. We  make  incursions  into 
our  neighbor's  affairs  and  straighten 
them  out  with  a  ruthless  righteousness 
which  is  very  disconcerting  to  him,  espe- 
cially when  he  has  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  our  acquaintance  till  we  came  to  set 
him  right.  There  is  a  certain  modesty  of 
conscience  which  would  perhaps  be  more 
becoming.  It  comes  only  with  the  realiza- 
tion of  practical  difficulties.  I  like  the  re- 
mark of  Sir  Fulke  Greville  in  his  account 
of  his  friend,  Sir  Philip  Sidney:  " Since 
my  declining  age  it  is  true  I  had  for  some 
years  more  leisure  to  discover  their  im- 
perfections than  care  and  industry  to 
mend  them,  finding  in  myself  what  all 
men  complain  of :  that  it  is  more  easy  to 
find  fault,  excuse,  or  tolerate,  than  to 
examine  or  reform." 

The  idea  that  we  know  what  a  person 
ought  to  do  and  especially  what  he  ought 
not  to  do,  before  we  know  the  person  or 
how  he  is  situated,  is  one  dear  to  the  mind 
of  the  Doctrinaire.  If  his  mind  did  n't 
naturally  work  that  way  he  would  n't  be 
a  Doctrinaire.  He  is  always  inclined  to 
put  duty  before  the  pleasure  of  finding 
out  what  it  is  all  about.  In  this  way, 
he  becomes  overstocked  with  a  lot  of  un- 
related duties  for  which  there  is  no  home 
consumption,  and  which  he  endeavors  to 
dump  on  the  foreign  market.  This  makes 
him  unpopular. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  insist  that 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


591 


everybody  should  mind  his  own  business ; 
that  is  too  harsh  a  doctrine.  One  of  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  a  good  neighbor 
is  to  give  neighborly  advice.  But  there  is 
a  corresponding  right  on  the  part  of  the 
advisee,  and  that  is  to  take  no  more  of 
the  advice  than  he  thinks  is  good  for  him. 
There  is  one  thing  that  a  man  knows 
about  his  own  business  better  than  any 
outsider,  and  that  is  how  hard  it  is  for 
him  to  do  it.  The  adviser  is  always  telling 
him  how  to  do  it  in  the  finest  possible 
way,  while  he,  poor  fellow,  knows  that  the 
paramount  issue  is  whether  he  can  do  it 
at  all.  It  requires  some  grace  on  the  part 
of  a  person  who  is  doing  the  best  he  can 
under  extremely  difficult  circumstances 
to  accept  cheerfully  the  remarks  of  the 
intelligent  critic. 

Persons  who  write  about  the  wild  ani- 
mals they  have  known  are  likely  to  be 
contradicted  by  persons  who  have  been 
acquainted  with  other  wild  animals,  or 
with  the  same  wild  animals  under  other 
circumstances.  How  much  more  diffi- 
cult is  it  to  give  a  correct  and  exhaustive 
account  of  that  wonderfully  complex 
creature,  man. 

One  whose  business  requires  him  to 
meet  large  numbers- of  persons  who  are 
all  in  the  same  predicament,  is  in  danger 
of  generalizing  from  a  too  narrow  experi- 
ence. The  teacher,  the  charity-worker, 
the  preacher,  the  physician,  the  man  of 
business,  each  has  his  method  of  profes- 
sional classification.  Each  is  tempted  to 
forget  that  he  is  not  in  a  position  from 
which  he  can  survey  human  nature  in  its 
entirety.  He  sees  only  one  phase  end- 
lessly repeated.  The  dentist,  for  example, 
has  special  advantages  for  character- 
study,  but  he  should  remember  that  the 
least  heroic  of  his  patients  has  moments 
when  he  is  more  blithe  and  debonair 
than  he  has  ever  seen  him. 

It  takes  an  unusually  philosophical 
mind  to  make  the  necessary  allowances 
for  its  own  limitations.  If  you  were  to 
earn  your  daily  bread  at  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  and  your  sole  duty  was  to  exhort 
your  fellow  men  to  "step  lively,"  you 


would  doubtless  soon  come  to  divide 
mankind  into  three  classes,  namely,  those 
who  step  lively,  those  who  do  not  step 
lively,  and  those  who  step  too  lively.  If 
Aristotle  himself  were  to  cross  the  bridge, 
you  would  see  nothing  in  the  Peripatetic 
Philosopher  but  a  reprehensible  lack  of 
agility. 

At  the  railway  terminus  there  is  an 
office  which  bears  the  inscription,  "Lost 
Articles."  In  the  midst  of  the  busy  traf- 
fic it  stands  as  a  perpetual  denial  of  the 
utilitarian  theory  that  all  men  are  gov- 
erned by  enlightened  self-interest.  A  very 
considerable  proportion  of  the  traveling 
public  can  be  trusted  regularly  to  forget 
its  portable  property. 

The  gentleman  who  presides  over  the 
lost  articles  has  had  long  experience  as  an 
alienist.  He  is  skeptical  as  to  the  reality 
of  what  is  called  mind.  So  far  as  his 
clients  are  concerned,  it  is  notable  for  its 
absence.  To  be  confronted  day  after  day 
by  the  absent-minded,  and  to  listen  to 
their  monotonous  tale  of  woe,  is  disen- 
chanting. It  is  difficult  to  observe  all  the 
amenities  of  life  when  one  is  dealing  with 
the  defective  and  delinquent  classes. 

When  first  I  inquired  at  the  Lost  Art- 
icle window,  I  was  received  as  a  man 
and  brother.  There  was  even  an  attempt 
to  show  the  respect  due  to  one  who  may 
have  seen  better  days.  I  had  the  feeling 
that  both  myself  and  my  lost  article  were 
receiving  individual  attention.  I  left  with- 
out any  sense  of  humiliation.  But  the 
third  time  I  appeared  I  was  conscious  of 
a  change  in  the  atmosphere.  A  single 
glance  at  the  Restorer  of  Lost  Articles 
showed  me  that  I  was  no  longer  in  his 
eyes  a  citizen  who  was  in  temporary  mis- 
fortune. I  was  classified.  He  recognized 
me  as  a  rounder.  "There  he  is  again," 
he  said  to  himself.  "Last  time  it  was  at 
Rockingham  Junction,  this  time  it  is 
probably  on  the  Saugus  Branch;  but  it 
is  the  same  old  story,  and  the  same  old 
umbrella." 

What  hurt  my  feelings  was  that  nothing 
I  could  say  would  do  any  good.  It  would 
not  help  matters  to  explain  that  losing 


592 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


articles  was  not  my  steady  occupation, 
and  that  I  had  other  interests  in  life.  He 
would  only  wearily  note  the  fact  as  an- 
other indication  of  my  condition.  "That's 
the  way  they  all  talk.  These  defectives 
can  never  be  made  to  see  their  conduct  in 
its  true  light.  They  always  explain  their 
misfortunes  by  pretending  that  their 
thoughts  were  on  higher  things." 

The  Doctrinaire  when  he  gets  hold  of  a 
good  thing  never  lets  up  on  it.  His  favor- 
ite idea  is  produced  on  all  occasions.  It 
may  be  excellent  in  its  way,  but  he  sings 
its  praises  till  we  turn  against  it  as  we 
used  to  do  in  the  Fourth  Reader  Class, 
when  we  all  with  one  accord  turned 
against  "Teacher's  Pet."  Teacher's  Pet 
might  be  dowered  with  all  the  virtues, 
but  we  of  the  commonalty  would  have 
none  of  them.  We  chose  to  scoff  at  an 
excellence  that  insulted  us. 

The  King  in  Hamlet  remarked,  — 

"  There  lives  within  the  very  flame  of  love 
A  kind  of  wick,  or  snuff,  that  will  abate  it ; 
And  nothing  is  at  a  like  goodness  still ; 
For  goodness,  growing  to  a  pleurisy, 
Dies  in  his  own  too-much." 

The  Doctrinaire  can  never  realize  the 
fatal  nature  of  the  "too-much."  If  a 
little  does  good,  he  is  sure  that  more  will 
do  better.  He  will  not  allow  of  any  abate- 
ments or  alleviations ;  we  must,  if  we  are 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  him,  be  doing 
the  whole  duty  of  man  all  the  time.  He 
will  take  our  own  most  cherished  princi- 
ples and  turn  them  against  us  in  such  an 
offensive  manner  that  we  forget  that  they 
are  ours.  He  argues  on  the  right  side 
with  such  uncompromising  energy  that 
we  have  to  take  the  wrong  side  to  main- 
tain our  self-respect. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  believe  in,  it  is 
fresh  air.  I  like  to  keep  my  window  open 
at  night,  or,  better  still,  to  sleep  under  the 
stars.  And  I  was  glad  to  learn  from  the 
doctors  that  this  is  good  for  us.  But  the 
other  day  I  started  on  a  railway  journey 
with  premonitory  signs  of  catching  cold. 
An  icy  blast  blew  upon  me.  I  closed  the 
car  window.  A  lady  instantly  opened  it.  I 
looked  to  see  what  manner  of  person  she 


was.  Was  she  one  who  could  be  touched 
by  an  illogical  appeal  ?  or  was  she  wholly 
devoted  to  a  cause? 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  assure  me 
that  she  was  a  Doctrinaire,  and  capable 
only  of  seeing  the  large  public  side  of  the 
question.  What  would  it  avail  for  me  to 
say,  "Madam,  I  am  catching  cold,  may  I 
close  the  window?" 

"Apostate  man!"  she  would  reply, 
"did  I  not  hear  you  on  the  platform  of 
the  Anti-Tuberculosis  Association  plead 
for  free  and  unlimited  ventilation  with- 
out waiting  for  the  consent  of  other  na- 
tions ?  Did  you  not  appear  as  one  who 
stood  four  square  'gainst  every  wind  that 
blows,  and  asked  for  more?  And  now, 
just  because  you  are  personally  incon- 
venienced, you  prove  recreant  to  the 
Cause.  Do  you  know  how  many  cubic 
feet  of  fresh  air  are  necessary  to  this 
car?" 

I  could  only  answer  feebly,  "  When  it 
comes  to  cubic  feet  I  am  perfectly  sound. 
I  wish  there  were  more  of  them.  What 
troubles  me  is  only  a  trifling  matter  of 
two  linear  inches  on  the  back  of  my  neck. 
Your  general  principle,  Madam,  is  ad- 
mirable. I  merely  plead  for  a  slight  re- 
laxation of  the  rule.  I  ask  only  for  a  mere 
pittance  of  warmed-over  air." 

Perhaps  the  most  discouraging  thing 
about  the  Doctrinaire  is  that  while  he  in- 
sists upon  a  high  ideal,  he  is  intolerant  of 
the  somewhat  tedious  ways  and  means 
by  which  the  ideal  is  to  be  reached.  With 
his  eye  fixed  on  the  Perfect,  he  makes  no 
allowance  for  the  imperfectness  of  those 
who  are  struggling  toward  it.  There  is 
a  pleasant  passage  in  Hooker's  Ecclesi- 
astical Polity  in  which  I  find  great  com- 
fort: "  That  which  the  Gospel  of  Christ 
requireth  is  the  perpetuity  of  virtuous 
duties,  not  the  perpetuity  of  exercise  or 
action,  but  disposition  perpetual,  and 
practise  as  often  as  times  and  opportuni- 
ties require.  Just,  valiant,  liberal,  tem- 
perate and  holy  men,  are  they  which  can 
whensoever  they  will,  and  will  whenso- 
ever they  ought,  execute  whatever  their 
several  perfections  impart.  If  virtues  did 


On  Being  a  Doctrinaire 


593 


always  cease  when  they  cease  to  work, 
there  would  be  nothing  more  pernicious 
to  virtue  than  sleep." 

The  judicious  Hooker  was  never  more 
judicious  than  in  making  this  observa- 
tion. It  is  a  great  relief  to  be  assured  that 
in  this  world,  where  there  are  such  in- 
cessant calls  upon  the  moral  nature,  it  is 
possible  to  be  a  just,  valiant,  liberal, 
temperate,  and  holy  man,  and  yet  get  a 
good  night's  sleep. 

But  your  Doctrinaire  will  not  have  it 
so.  His  hero  retains  his  position  only 
during  good  behavior,  which  means  be- 
having all  the  time  in  an  obviously  heroic 
manner.  It  is  not  enough  that  he  should 
be  to  "  true  occasion  true,"  he  must  make 
occasions  to  show  himself  off. 

Now  it  happens  that  in  the  actual  world 
it  is  not  possible  for  the  best  of  men  to 
satisfy  all  the  demands  of  their  fidgety 
followers.  In  the  picture  of  the  battle  be- 
tween St.  George  and  the  dragon,  tne  at- 
titude of  St.  George  is  all  that  could  be 
desired.  There  is  an  easy  grace  in  the  way 
in  which  he  deals  with  the  dragon  that  is 
greatly  to  his  credit.  There  is  a  mingling 
of  knightly  pride  and  Christian  resigna- 
tion over  his  own  inevitable  victory,  that 
is  charming. 

St.  George  was  fortunate  in  the  moment 
when  he  had  his  picture  taken.  He  had 
the  dragon  just  where  he  wanted  him. 
But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  if  some  one  had 
followed  him  with  a  kodak,  some  of  the 
snap-shots  might  have  been  less  satis- 
factory. Let  us  suppose  a  moment  when 
the  dragon 

Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 
It  is  a  way  that  dragons  have  when  they 
are  excited.  And  what  if  at  that  moment 
St.  George  dodged  ?  Would  you  criticise 
him  harshly  for  such  an  action  ?  Would 
it  not  be  better  to  take  into  considera- 
tion the  fact  that  under  such  circum- 
stances his  first  duty  might  not  be  to  be 
statuesque  ? 

When  in  the  stern  conflict  we  have 
found  a  champion,  I  think  we  owe  him 
some  little  encouragement.  When  he  is 
doing  the  best  he  can  in  a  very  difficult 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


situation,  we  ought  not  to  blame  him  be- 
cause he  does  not  act  as  he  would  if  there 
were  no  difficulties  at  all.  "Life,"  said 
Marcus  Aurelius,  "is  more  like  wrestling 
than  dancing."  When  we  get  that  point 
of  view  we  may  see  that  some  attitudes 
that  are  not  graceful  may  be  quite  effect- 
ive. It  is  a  fine  thing  to  say 

Dare  to  be  a  Daniel, 
Dare  to  stand  alone, 
Dare  to  have  a  purpose  true 
And  dare  to  make  it  known. 

But  if  I  had  been  a  Daniel,  and  as  the 
result  of  my  independent  action  had 
been  cast  into  the  den  of  lions,  I  should 
feel  as  if  I  had  done  enough  in  the  way  of 
heroism  for  one  day,  and  I  should  let 
other  people  take  their  turn.  If  I  found 
the  lions  inclined  to  be  amiable,  I  should 
encourage  them  in  it.  I  should  say,  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  do  not  mean  to  in- 
trude. If  it 's  the  time  for  your  afternoon 
nap,  don't  pay  any  attention  to  me.  After 
the  excitement  that  I  've  had  where  I 
came  from,  I  should  like  nothing  better 
than  to  sit  down  by  myself  in  the  shade 
and  have  a  nice  quiet  day  of  it." 

And  if  the  lions  were  agreeable,  I 
should  be  glad.  I  should  hate  to  have  at 
this  moment  a  bland  Doctrinaire  look 
down  and  say,  "That  was  a  great  thing 
you  did  up  there,  Daniel.  People  are 
wondering  whether  you  can  keep  it  up. 
Your  friends  are  getting  a  mite  impatient. 
They  expected  to  hear  by  this  time  that 
there  was  something  doing  down  there. 
Stir  'em  up,  Daniel!  Stir  'em  up!" 

Perhaps  at  this  point  some  fair-minded 
reader  may  say,  "Is  there  not  something 
to  be  said  in  favor  of  the  Doctrinaire  ?  Is 
he  not,  after  all,  a  very  useful  character  ? 
How  could  any  great  reform  be  pushed 
through  without  his  assistance?" 

Yes,  dear  reader,  a  great  deal  may  be 
said  in  his  favor.  He  is  often  very  useful. 
So  is  a  snow-plough,  in  mid-winter,  al- 
though I  prefer  a  more  flexible  imple- 
ment when  it  comes  to  cultivating  my 
early  peas. 

There  is  something  worse  than  to  be  a 


594 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


Doctrinaire  who  pursues  an  ideal  without 
regard  to  practical  consideration;  it  is 
worse  to  be  a  Philistine  so  immersed  in 
practical  considerations  that  he  does  n't 
know  an  ideal  when  he  sees  it.  If  the 
choice  were  between  these  two  I  should 
say,  "Keep  on  being  a  Doctrinaire.  You 
have  chosen  the  better  part."  But  fortu- 
nately there  is  a  still  more  excellent  way. 
It  is  possible  to  be  a  practical  idealist 
pursuing  the  ideal  with  full  regard  for 
practical  considerations.  There  is  some- 


thing better  than  the  conscience  that 
moves  with  undeviating  rectitude  through 
a  moral  vacuum.  It  is  the  conscience 
that  is  "to  true  occasion  true."  It  is  a 
moral  force  operating  continuously  on 
the  infinitely  diversified  materials  of  hu- 
man life.  It  feels  its  way  onward.  It  takes 
advantage  of  every  incident,  with  a  noble 
opportunism.  It  is  the  conscience  that 
belongs  to  the  patient,  keen-witted,  open- 
minded,  cheery  "  men  of  good  will,"  who 
are  doing  the  hard  work  of  the  world. 


MRS.   DIXON'S   CULTURE   COURSE 


BY   ELIZABETH    JORDAN 


Miss  RUTH  HUTTON,  editor  of  The 
Woman's  Friend,  surveyed  the  card  with 
the  strong  disfavor  which  an  untimely  in- 
terruption awakens  in  an  exceedingly 
busy  person.  Wholly  unawed  by  this  at- 
mosphere of  disapproval,  Tim,  her  small 
office-boy,  stood  awaiting  her  decision, 
gazing  noncommittally  into  space  the 
while. 

"Go'n  ter  see  'er?"  he  finally  in- 
quired, when  the  silence  and  inaction 
seemed  to  call  for  a  dispassionate  jog. 
"She  says  't  ain't  business;  it 's  only  per- 
sonal. /  yd  see  'er,"  he  added  helpfully, 
"/would!" 

Advice  from  Tim  was  unusual,  but 
Miss  Hutton  was  too  absorbed  to  notice 
this  surprising  departure  from  his  wonted 
professional  indifference.  She  looked 
sadly  at  the  pile  of  manuscripts  on  her 
desk,  then  through  the  windows  at  the 
heavy  rain  which  had  held  out  such  false 
promise  of  a  long  day  of  uninterrupted 
reading,  glanced  at  the  card  once  more, 
and  let  her  gaze  return  to  her  newly  con- 
stituted advisory  counsel. 

"I  suppose  I  '11  have  to,"  she  conceded, 
reluctantly,  "  since  she  has  come  in  this 
downpour.  Tell  her  I  'm  very  busy,  but 
that  I  can  give  her  a  few  minutes." 


He  was  gone  before  she  had  finished, 
and  IVftss  Hutton  returned  to  her  manu- 
scripts with  the  grim  determination  to 
make  use  of  every  odd  moment  the  fates 
accorded.  She  had  hardly  come  to  the 
end  of  a  paragraph,  however,  before  the 
boy  was  back,  and  close  behind  him  was 
a  little  figure,  so  quaint,  so  unexpected, 
and  withal  so  appealing,  that  Miss  Hut- 
ton's  eyes  brightened  as  she  rose  to  greet 
it.  Even  Tim  showed  an  appreciation  of 
the  unusual  quality  of  the  caller,  to  which 
he  testified  by  offering  her  a  chair  —  a 
courtesy  which  no  amount  of  training  had 
made  habitual  with  him.  Then  he  linger- 
ingly  departed,  with  several  backward 
glances. 

That  the  visitor  was  shy,  badly  dressed, 
and  awkward  in  her  carriage,  were  the 
editor's  first  impressions.  But  her  face 
was  so  striking,  so  exquisite,  that  it  won 
the  other's  interest  before  a  word  had 
been  spoken.  She  was  clad  in  black,  so 
recently  donned  that  she  might  have  put 
it  on  for  the  first  time  just  before  enter- 
ing. The  black  veil  she  pushed  back 
from  her  forehead  was  covered  with 
large,  round,  shiny  spots.  Her  black 
gloves  were  new,  and  the  unfilled  kid 
tips  drooped  accusingly  at  the  ends  of 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


595 


her  fingers.  Her  black  gown  testified  too 
eloquently  to  the  provincial  hands  that 
had  made  it.  As  its  wearer  deprecating- 
ly  seated  herself,  after  a  hesitating  little 
bow,  Miss  Hutton  observed  that  her  nar- 
row shoulders  were  bent  forward,  as  if 
many  burdens,  borne  for  years,  had 
rounded  them.  Her  thin,  soft  hair  was 
almost  white. 

As  she  took  in  these  details  with  the 
quick  appraisal  natural  to  her  profession, 
Miss  Hutton's  glance  rested  again  with 
interested  wonder  on  her  caller's  face.  It 
was  too  worn,  too  old,  too  deeply-lined 
to  be  beautiful,  as  it  had  evidently  once 
been.  But  its  expression  and  withered 
charm  largely  redeemed  the  bad  taste  of 
the  woman's  garments,  the  lack  of  grace 
in  her  carriage,  even  the  gaucherie  of  her 
address. 

"  You  are  the  editor,  ain't  you  ?  "  The 
voice  of  the  caller  was  the  voice  of  the 
far  West,  branded,  as  it  were,  with  that 
section's  rolling  r's.  "I  got  to  be  sure 
before  I  say  another  word,  for  my  busi- 
ness is  private." 

She  looked  into  Miss  Hutton's  eyes  as 
she  spoke,  with  a  wistful,  childlike  appeal 
that,  clashing  as  it  did  with  her  evident 
force  of  character  and  usual  independ- 
ence, touched  the  editor  oddly.  She  her- 
self was  but  thirty;  her  visitor  seemed 
fifty,  at  least.  Yet  the  younger  woman 
was  dimly  conscious  of  a  flattering  trust 
and  dependence  in  the  other's  attitude 
toward  her,  offered  not  through  personal 
humility,  but  as  a  tribute  to  her  work,  her 
experience,  and  her  standing  in  her  pro- 
fession. The  caller's  next  words  con- 
firmed this  impression. 

"  I  am  one  of  them  *  constant  readers  ' 
your  magazine  talks  about,"  she  con- 
tinued, ingratiatingly.  "  I  'm  Mrs.  Joel 
Dixon.  I  've  read  your  stories,  too  — 
lots  of  'em,  an'  "  (this  last  with  un- 
compromising directness)  "  I  like  some 
of  'em!  I  seen  in  your  magazine  how 
many  women  write  to  you  for  advice, 
and  what  good  advice  you  give  'em;  so 
when  my  turn  come  an'  I  had  to  have 
advice,  I  come  straight  to  you.  I  said  to 


myself,  '  She  knows,  'n'  she  '11  help  me. 
I'd  ruther  go  to  her  than  to  anybody 
else.'  So  here  I  am." 

Miss  Hutton  was  touched. 

"Thank  you.  I  hope  I  can  help,"  she 
said,  gently.  "You  may  be  sure  I  will 
try." 

The  black-gloved  hand  of  her  visitor 
dropped  on  her  own  for  a  moment  in 
quick  recognition  of  the  promise,  and 
was  then  withdrawn  shyly,  in  sudden, 
acute  self -consciousness. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  she  said  quietly, 
but  with  a  sort  of  proud  delight.  "  An'  I 
knew  you  'd  look  jest  like  you  do,  from 
your  stories.  I  come  three  thousand 
miles  to  talk  to  you,  an'  it 's  goin'  to  be 
worth  while." 

Miss  Hutton  experienced  a  sudden  dis- 
heartening sense  of  responsibility. 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed,  trying  to 
pass  the  matter  off  lightly;  "  that  sounds 
rather  serious.  I  hope  I  '11  be  up  to  it. 
But  if  I  'm  not,  I  can  at  least  tell  you  who 
is,  I  think." 

The  other  woman  nodded. 

"That's  it,"  she  corroborated.  "I 
don't  want  nothing  from  you  except 
advice.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  to  go 
to  an'  what  to  do,  an'  that 's  all.  I  'm  a 
woman  that  don't  know  a  thing.  I  got 
to  know  everything,  an'  I  got  to  know 
it  quick.  How  '11  I  begin  ?  " 

Miss  Hutton's  sense  of  responsibility 
deepened,  while  her  interest  increased. 
Moreover,  though  it  seemed  heresy  to 
doubt  those  eyes,  that  maternal  face,  she 
was  not  yet  wholly  certain  of  her  caller's 
sincerity.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  regarded  the  speaker  searchingly  and 
in  silence,  while  the  latter  looked  at  her 
eagerly,  expectantly,  like  a  hopeful  child 
waiting  to  enter  a  pleasant  garden  whose 
key  was  in  the  hand  of  a  kindly  cus- 
todian. It  was  a  full  minute  before  Miss 
Hutton  spoke.  Then  she  said  sympa- 
thetically, — 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  a  little  more 
—  going  somewhat  into  detail  ?  I  'm 
afraid  I  don't  grasp  the  situation  fully, 
and  I  can't  advise  you  until  I  do." 


596 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


The  visitor's  vivid  eyes  brightened. 
She  leaned  forward  eagerly,  brushing 
aside  the  manuscripts  on  the  desk  to  make 
place  for  her  thin  elbows,  and  resting  her 
chin  on  her  hands.  Then  she  began  to 
speak  rapidly,  looking  straight  before  her 
into  space.  It  was  as  if  she  was  saying 
something  she  had  rehearsed  many  times. 
Possibly  she  was. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  want  t'  do,"  she 
cried  urgently  —  "  tell  you  everything. 
That 's  what  I  come  for.  I  could  n't  write 
it  all  in  letters.  It 's  just  this  way.  We 
was  poor,  me  an'  my  husband,  an'  now 
we  're  rich.  That  don't  count  for  much,  I 
know.  Riches  makes  their  own  excuses 
for  mistakes ;  'nd  then  we  've  lived  in  lit- 
tle places,  too,  so  nothin'  mattered.  But 
my  husband  went  into  politics,  an'  now 
we  're  comin'  to  Washington  in  Novem- 
ber to  live  there.  That's  different. 
There  's  style  there.  I  got  to  make  my- 
self all  over,  an*  I  ain't  got  but  seven 
months  to  do  it  in.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  a 
minute.  What  must  I  do  ?  'Nd  how  do  I 
begin?" 

Miss  Hutton  smiled  with  some  amused 
relief.  After  all,  it  was  not  a  tragedy,  as 
she  had  feared,  but  a  not  uncommon 
American  condition,  which  many  Amer- 
ican women  have  faced  with  varying  de- 
grees of  victory.  When  she  spoke  her 
voice  showed  her  alleviated  mood.  It  had 
something  of  the  cajoling  quality  one 
uses  to  quiet  an  impatient  child. 

"You  mustn't  hope  to  do  it  all  at 
once,  of  course,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shake  of  the  head.  "It  can  be  done,  but 
it's  not  an  affair  of  weeks,  or  months. 
You  can  make  a  good  start  — " 

But  Mrs.  Joel  Dixon  had  dropped  her 
arms  on  the  desk  and  had  thrust  forward 
a  face  transfigured  by  excitement. 

"I  tell  you,  I  got  to,"  she  cried,  hoarse- 
'ly.  "Now.  In  seven  months.  That's 
what  I  come  to  you  for.  Don't  I  know  I 
could  read  an'  study  an'  work  if  I  had 
years  to  do  it  in  ?  It 's  got  to  be  done 
before  November.  Everything  depends 
on  it."  She  stopped,  gulped,  and  ended 
desperately,  throwing  her  cards  on  the 


table,  as  it  were.  "  My  home  depends 
on  it.  My  —  my  husband  depends  on  it. 
He 's  gettin'  ashamed  of  me.  I  got  to  keep 
up  with  him.  I  got  to  have  culture!  " 

Miss  Hutton  sat  up  and  stared  at  her. 

"  You  mean  —  "   She  hesitated. 

The  other  woman  nodded.  Then  sud- 
denly, uncontrollably,  she  began  to  cry. 
She  was  too  proud  to  hide  her  face.  For  a 
moment  the  big  drops  rolled  down  her 
cheeks,  as  she  fumbled  vaguely  in  her 
pocket  for  her  handkerchief. 

"  I  'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  sobbed 
at  last.  "  I  don't  often  make  a  fool  of  my- 
self like  this.  But  he  thinks  I  don't  know 
nothing.  He  thinks  I  ain't  educated.  An' 
I  ain't  —  that 's  the  truth.  And  he  says  I 
ain't  got  manners  for  society  —  an'  that 's 
true,  too.  He  's  read  about  women  that 
makes  mistakes  an'  gets  laughed  at,  an' 
hurts  their  husbands.  He  says  men  get 
along  somehow,  but  women  makes  the 
trouble.  He  thinks  I  ought  'a  stay  home. 
But  I  can't.  We  ain't  got  no  children  an' 
I  'd  —  I  'd  die  away  from  Joe.  Besides, 
—  well  —  there 's  a  woman  in  Washing- 
ton he  knows  —  " 

She  had  found  her  handkerchief,  and 
now  sobbed  into  it.  Miss  Hutton  felt  sick 
at  heart.  It  was  a  tragedy,  after  all,  and 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  miracle  must 
be  worked  to  save  the  happiness  of  this 
woman.  It  was  not  necessary  to  ask  any 
more  questions.  She  had  the  whole  story, 
told  and  untold,  and  she  looked  with  a 
grotesque  awe  into  the  heart  that  held 
just  Joel  Dixon.  No  other  thing,  or  per- 
son, in  all  this  wide,  selfish  world.  She 
thought  with  great  concentration. 

"How  much  money  have  you?  "  she 
asked  abruptly.  "  I  mean,  how  much  of 
your  own,  to  spend  on  this  experiment  ?  " 

Mrs.  Joel  Dixon  gave  her  eyes  a  con- 
clusive dab  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  He  give  me  five  thousand  dollars 
when  I  come,"  she  replied,  "  an'  said  to 
get  clo's,  an'  send  for  more  if  I  wanted  it. 
He  says  I  can  go  to  Yurrup  if  I  want  to." 

"  He  does  n't  know  what  you  are 
after  ?  what  you  wish  to  get  in  other  di- 
rections ?  " 


Mrs.  Dixon9  s  Culture  Course 


597 


"  No,  he  don't.  I  '11  get  what  I  want 
first.  Then  I  '11  tell  him." 

"  Can  you  stay  in  New  York  all  the 
time,  from  now  until  November?  And 
work  every  minute  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dixon's  wet  eyes  began  to  shine 
again. 

"  I  can,"  she  remarked  with  quiet 
fierceness.  "  I  expect  to." 

Miss  Hutton  sat  up  and  drew  her 
papers  together  with  an  air  of  swift  de- 
cision. 

"  Then  you  shall  begin,"  she  said. 
"  I  '11  turn  you  over  to  a  corps  of  dress- 
makers, beauty  specialists,  masseurs, 
educators,  and  etiquette  authorities  that 
would  make  Mr.  Dixon's  head  swim  if  he 
knew  of  them.  I  won't  promise  that  all 
worldly  wisdom  will  have  been  taken  up 
by  you  at  the  end  of  seven  months,  but  I 
give  you  my  word  that  you  will  be  so 
transformed  in  dress,  manner,  carriage, 
and  general  information,  that  Mr.  Dixon 
will  never  get  by  that  to  anything  else. 
Tim,  bring  me  the  telephone  book." 

Mrs.  Joel  Dixon  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  she  cried,  elated- 
ly. "I  knew  you  could  do  anything!  " 

Miss  Hutton  laughed. 

"  /  'm  not  going  to  do  it,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "  You  are.  And  you  '11  find 
it 's  not  so  easy.  You  will  get  discouraged 
very  often,  but  you  must  stand  to  your 
guns.  You  've  two  things  to  keep  you  at 
it.  Your  husband  and  that  Washington 
woman.  You  must  n't  give  up." 

Mrs.  Dixon's  lips  set  in  a  straight  line. 

"  I  '11  keep  at  it,  fast  enough,"  she  re- 
marked poignantly.  "  But  I  dunno  what 
I  can  ever  do  to  pay  you  back,"  she 
added. 

Miss  Hutton  turned  in  her  office-chair 
and  regarded  her. 

"  You  can  never  do  anything  to  pay 
me  back,"  she  said,  coolly  and  crisply. 
"  That  must  be  distinctly  understood. 
This  is  not  a  financial  arrangement.  I  '11 
do  my  best  because  I  'm  interested  and 
want  to  see  you  win;  and  because,  as 
you  say,  you  are  one  of  our  '  constant 
readers/  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  put  you 


into  the  hands  of  the  right  people,  and 
make  bargains  which  will  prevent  them 
from  robbing  you.  For  the  rest,"  —  she 
smiled  as  a  sudden  thought  struck  her, 
—  "if  you  want  to  do  something  for  me 
you  may  ask  me  to  dinner  the  first  even- 
ing Mr.  Dixon  spends  with  you  here  in 
New  York.  I  would  like  to  see  him 
trying  to  live  up  to  you!  " 

The  following  weeks  were  weeks  of 
such  feverish  activity  in  the  life  of  Mrs. 
Joel  Dixon  that  she  confided  to  Miss 
Hutton,  at  moments,  as  she  made  her 
way  through  the  complicated  maze  of  so- 
ciety ways  and  manners,  her  conviction 
that  she  and  her  mundane  aspirations 
would  soon  find  rest  in  an  uncritical 
grave  in  her  native  state. 

On  the  whole,  however,  she  remained 
fairly  cheerful  and  undaunted,  —  a  con- 
dition which  testified  eloquently  to  the 
strength  of  her  nervous  system  and  the 
intrepidity  of  her  soul.  She  was  in 
the  hands  of  six  specialists,  each  un- 
aware of  her  identity,  each  believing 
that  only  a  social  bee  was  buzzing  in 
her  plain  little  bonnet,  and  each  pleas- 
antly convinced  that  in  her  own  in- 
dividual efforts  lay  eventual  success  or 
failure.  She  was  comfortably  but  unos- 
tentatiously established  in  an  apartment 
in  a  small  uptown  family  hotel ;  and  here 
Miss  Hutton,  whose  interest  in  her  deep- 
ened as  time  passed,  dropped  in  once  or 
twice  a  week,  to  put  her  through  her 
paces,  and  to  offer  congratulations,  sym- 
pathy, or  support,  as  her  action  and  form 
demanded.  To  this  first  friend,  still  her 
only  disinterested  one,  Mrs.  Dixon  clung 
with  a  devotion  and  dependence  that  con- 
trasted oddly  with  the  grim  determination 
with  which  she  met  all  the  other  inter- 
ests of  her  temporarily  complicated  life, 
To  Miss  Hutton,  too,  she  still  brought  all 
her  problems,  and  it  amused  and  touched 
that  astute  young  person  to  discover  that 
her  lightest  word  on  any  subject  carried 
more  weight  with  her  protegee  than  the 
combined  decisions  of  all  her  teachers. 
"  Teachers,"  Mrs.  Dixon  called  them  in- 
discriminately, whether  their  instruction 


598 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


had  to  do  with  the  elemental  rules  of  Eng- 
lish grammar,  as  in  the  case  of  Miss  Vir- 
ginia Jefferson,  or  the  correct  placing  of  a 
new  puff  on  a  head  which  was  rapidly  be- 
coming a  model  example  of  the  coiffeur's 
art.  Sometimes  her  questions,  like  those 
of  a  child,  were  not  easy  to  answer.  Once, 
when  Miss  Hutton  had  come  upon  her 
unexpectedly  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  mani- 
cure establishment,  she  broached  one  of 
these. 

"  I  went  to  Sherry's  yesterday  for 
afternoon  tea,"  she  confided,  as  she  lent 
her  hands  to  the  manicure's  efforts  and 
her  ears  to  Miss  Jefferson's  possible 
pounce  upon  a  malapropism.  Miss  Jef- 
ferson was  a  nice  girl,  whose  task  was  to 
be  with  Mrs.  Dixon  night  and  day,  listen- 
ing to  her  grammar  with  the  interested 
attention  of  one  whose  livelihood  depend- 
ed upon  detecting  and  correcting  its 
lapses.  It  may  be  added  that  Miss  Jef- 
ferson's occupation  was  somewhat  stren- 
uous. 

"  Mrs.  Dean  took  me,"  continued  the 
victim,  "  and  I  seen  —  " 

"  Saw! "  said  Miss  Jefferson,  who 
seemed  prepared  for  this  lapse. 

"  Saw,"  repeated  Mrs.  Dixon  thought- 
fully. "  I  saw  lots  of  the  women  put 
their  elbows  on  the  tables.  Why  were 
they  doin'  that  ?  Mrs.  Dean  won't  let  me 
do  it,  and  I  ain't  —  " 

"  Have  n't,"  from  Miss  Jefferson. 

"  Have  n't  had  'em  on  for  weeks.  But 
if  it  was  wrong  like  she  says  - 

"  As  she  said." 

"  As  she  said"  (a  trifle  emphatically), 
"  why  was  —  " 

"  Were,  were." 

"  Were,  were  they  doin'  it?  " 

Miss  Hutton  explained  feebly  that  pos- 
sibly the  assemblage  represented  those 
unfortunates  not  favored  with  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Dean's  high  standards,  but  here 
she  was  promptly  set  right.  Through  fre- 
quent attendance  at  concerts,  theatres, 
and  tea-rooms,  in  the  care  of  Miss  Jeffer- 
son or  the  indefatigable  Mrs.  Dean,  who 
had  her  social  graces  under  cultivation, 
their  victim  had  learned  to  know  by  sight 


many  of  society's  prominent  belles  and 
matrons. 

"  Mrs.  Mayo  talked  so  loud  at  the 
theatre  last  night,"  Mrs.  Dixon  resumed, 
"  that  the  folks  in  her  box  could  n't  hear 
the  play.  The  folks  in  the  next  box  was 
just  as  bad.  Now,  Mrs.  Dean  don't  let 
me  say  a  word  except  between  the  acts. 
An'  mighty  few  then  —  she  's  so  busy 
talking  herself.  Miss  Eva  Twombly  had 
her  knees  crossed  all  through  the  Sym- 
phony Concert  last  Saturday,  an'  she 
swung  her  foot  the  hull  time,  for  I 
watched.  If  I  crossed  my  knees  and 
swung  my  feet  in  public  any  more,  I  guess 
Mrs.  Dean  would  drop  dead.  What  do 
you  s'pose  she  'd  say  ?  " 

Miss  Hutton  endeavored  to  rise  to  the 
occasion,  though  without  enthusiasm. 

"  I  suppose  she  'd  say,"  she  hazarded 
frankly,  "  that  you  had  n't  yet  reached 
the  point  where  you  can  do  anything 
you  please,  and  that  those  other  women 
have." 

Miss  Jefferson,  who  was  hovering 
about  her  victim  with  an  interest  almost 
painfully  acute,  came  to  Miss  Button's 
assistance. 

"  It  really  does  n't  do  to  use  one's 
manners  all  at  once,"  she  contributed. 
"  Why,"  she  went  on  reflectively,  "  when 
I  graduated  at  the  convent  I  had  the  most 
perfect  manners  of  any  girl  in  my  set,  but 
I  had  to  drop  most  of  them  the  first  year. 
They  embarrassed  people  too  much." 

Mrs.  Joel  Dixon  looked  dazed,  as  well 
she  might. 

"  Wh  —  why  did  they  ?  "  she  stam- 
mered. 

Miss  Jefferson  explained. 

"  Nobody  else  had  any,  you  see,"  she 
observed  affably,  "  and  the  contrast  wor- 
ried them.  They  felt  that  they  had  to  live 
up  to  me,  and  I  could  see  it  was  a  strain. 
So  I  came  down  to  them,  and  we  were  all 
more  comfortable." 

She  strolled  away  to  pay  the  bill  after 
this  oracular  utterance,  leaving  Mrs. 
Dixon  in  a  mental  fog  which  Miss  Hut- 
ton  did  not  attempt  to  dissipate.  She 
did  her  best,  however,  to  respond  to  the 


Mrs.  Dixon' s  Culture  Course 


599 


look  of  grieved  inquiry  in  her  protegee's 
eyes. 

"  Why  do  I  have  to  learn  things,  then, 
if  no  one  does  'em  ?  "  Mrs.  Dixon  in- 
quired trenchantly,  and  with  considerable 
point. 

"  Do  exactly  as  Mrs.  Dean  tells  you," 
Miss  Hutton  advised,  sympathetically. 
"  Then  you  will  be  prepared  for  any  oc- 
casion and  —  er  —  later,  you  can  use 
your  own  judgment  as  to  whether  you  will 
use  your  manners  every  day,  or  put  them 
away  in  camphor  balls  occasionally,  like 
the  rest." 

She  was  glad  to  be  interrupted  here  by 
the  cheerful  shrieks  of  two  young  buds, 
who,  seated  at  opposite  ends  of  the  room, 
were  carrying  on  a  private  conversation 
regardless  of  this  handicap.  She  ob- 
served, however,  that  though  Mrs.  Dixon 
lent  herself  politely  to  a  change  of  topic, 
the  thoughtful  expression  did  not  mate- 
rially lift  from  her  brow. 

As  the  weeks  passed,  it  became  plain 
that,  however  confused  her  mental  pro- 
cesses might  be,  Mrs.  Dixon  was  making 
astonishing  progress.  Her  new  dressmak- 
er had  done  all  that  was  expected  of  her, 
and  the  physical-culture  instructor  had 
so  ably  supplemented  her  efforts  that 
Mrs.  Dixon  not  only  had  beautiful 
clothes,  but  had  learned  how  to  wear 
them.  Miss  Hutton  hardly  recognized  in 
the  slender,  exquisitely  gowned  and  coif- 
f  ured  woman  who  called  at  her  office  one 
day  in  May,  the  pathetic  little  pilgrim  of 
two  months  before.  As  usual,  Mrs.  Dixon 
had  her  problem.  One  whose  destiny  lies 
temporarily  in  the  hands  of  specialists  is 
frequently  pained  by  marked  differences 
of  opinion  among  these  ultimate  arbiters. 
In  Mrs.  Dixon's  case  these  differences 
concerned  many  things. 

"  You  see,"  she  explained  to  Miss  Hut- 
ton  after  greetings  had  been  exchanged, 
"  Mrs.  Dean  an'  Mrs.  Harwood  are 
mixin'  me  all  up.  Mrs.  Dean  told  me  I 
mus'  read  Alice-for-Short  this  week,  so  's 
I  could  converse  about  it,  an'  Mrs,  Har- 
wood said  I  must  read  The  Care  of  the 
Teeth,  so  I  'd  learn  how  to  take  better 


care  of  what  I  got  left.  I  ain't  got  time  for 
both,  so  I  'm  readin'  The  Teeth  because 
that 's  really  important,  as  Mrs.  Har- 
wood says ;  an'  Mrs.  Dean  was  so  hurt  I 
thought  she  was  goin'  to  leave.  Now, 
which  was  the  one  to  read  ?  " 

Miss  Hutton  hesitated,  then  effected  a 
masterly  compromise. 

"  I  'd  read  some  of  each,  if  I  were 
you,"  she  advised,  "  and  finish  them  next 
week.  For  purposes  of  conversation  it 's 
really  better  to  be  half  through  a  novel. 
That  gives  the  person  you  are  talking  to  a 
glorious  chance  to  tell  you  all  the  rest  and 
spoil  the  plot." 

Mrs.  Dixon  brooded  darkly  over  this. 

"  An'  how  'm  I  goin'  to  know,"  she  de- 
manded gloomily,  "  when  you  folks  are 
serious  and  when  you  ain't  ?  Of  course," 
she  added  quickly,  "  I  can  tell  when  you 
laff ;  but  when  you  say  things  that  sound 
queer  and  don't  laff,  how  can  I  tell  ?  " 

Miss  Hutton  dodged  this  esoteric 
problem. 

"  What  else  are  you  doing  ?  "  she  asked 
with  interest.  "  How  do  you  divide  your 
days  to  get  into  them  all  you  have  to 
do?" 

Her  protegee  reflected.  Seated  in  her 
high-backed  chair  and  holding  herself 
with  dignity  and  erectness,  her  bent 
shoulders  straightened,  her  head  well  up, 
her  complexion  clear,  her  wrinkles  disap- 
pearing, her  gown  the  work  of  the  clever 
hands  of  Fifth  Avenue's  most  audacious 
filcher  of  Parisian  ideas  for  her  "  con- 
fections," her  lavender  hat  breathing  of 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  she  was  transformed 
and  she  knew  it.  The  consciousness  gave 
her  a  new  dignity  and  self-possession, 
quaint  but  pleasing. 

"  Mrs.  Dean  has  me  read  a  leadin' 
New  York  newspaper  every  morning," 
she  began  thoughtfully,  "  so  I  do  that  in 
bed  after  my  bath,  an'  while  I  'm  havin' 
breakfast.  Then  Mrs.  Dean  comes  an' 
we  talk  over  the  news  an'  happenens.  She 
certainly  does  tell  me  th'  most  enterestin' 
things  about  society  an*  whut  's  goin'  on. 
It 's  a  noo  world.  Then  the  massoose 
comes  an'  the  manicure,  an*  the  hair- 


600 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


dresser,  an'  when  they  're  gone  it 's  din- 
ner-time—  I  mean  luncheon.  After 
lunch  I  take  a  nap  to  gain  flesh.  Mrs. 
Harwood  says  I  got  to  gain  fifteen  pounds 
to  make  my  figger  right.  Then  we  go  for 
a  drive  in  the  Park  an'  look  at  the  other 
women.  Of  course  Miss  Jefferson  is  with 
me  the  hull  time,  an'  whenever  I  open  my 
mouth  she  just  about  jumps  down  it,  cor- 
rectin'  my  mistakes." 

Mrs.  Dixbn  paused  and  sighed  heavily. 
It  was  plain  that  in  Miss  Jefferson  and 
her  efforts  were  combined  the  severest 
ordeal  and  the  slowest  progress  of  the  ex- 
perience. Miss  Hutton's  silence  was  sym- 
pathetic. 

"  That 's  very  important,  you  know," 
she  remarked  at  last. 

Mrs.  Dixon's  bright  eyes  flashed. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  know  it,"  she  corrob- 
orated. "  You  don't  think  I  'd  stand  it 
a  minute  if  't  wan't  important.  But  I  do 
stand  it.  I  got  to."  Her  voice  fell  into 
silence,  and  her  eyes  took  on  a  far-away 
look.  "  I  got  to  have  culture,"  she  then 
said,  with  bitter  doggedness. 

Miss  Hutton  hastened  to  divert  her 
mind  from  a  too  trying  sense  of  responsi- 
bility. 

"  When  do  you  read  ?  "  she  asked. 

With  another  sigh  Mrs.  Joel  Dixon 
took  up  the  chronicle  of  the  daily  routine 
of  a  strenuous  life. 

"  When  we  get  back  from  our  drive," 
she  resumed  dully,  "I  read  till  five 
o'clock  with  Mrs.  Dean.  She  comes 
again  then,  an'  she  stays  till  after  dinner. 
She  gives  me  my  lessons  then,  on  the 
Elements." 

Miss  Hutton  looked  puzzled. 

"  The  Elements?  "  she  queried,  knit- 
ting her  brows. 

"  The  Elements,  yes  —  the  Elements 
of  Knowledge,  Mrs.  Dean  calls  'em. 
Who  are  our  best  authors,  an'  what  have 
they  written,  an'  bridge,  an'  our  fav'rite 
composers,  an'  Wagner,  an'  the  modern 
drama,  an*  does  it  mean  anything.  We 
talk  about  them  all  through  supper  — 
dinner  I  mean,  when  she  ain't  telling  me 
which  fork  an'  how  to  keep  my  shoulders 


up,  an'  not  to  forget  my  napkin,  an'  to 
eat  slow  as  if  I  was  n't  hungry.  Then  at 
night  we  go  to  see  a  play,  or  hear  a  con- 
cert or  something.  I  certainly  would  en- 
joy that  if  the  woman  would  leave  me 
alone  to  listen  to  the  music  an'  —  an'  — 
think  of  home." 

The  cheery  voice  faltered  a  little,  and 
Mrs.  Dixon's  eyes  dropped  under  the 
other's  quick  look  of  inquiry.  Then  she 
rushed  on  rapidly.  "  But  she  don't.  It 's 
*  Strauss  wrote '  this,  and  *  Wagner 
wrote '  that,  an'  '  pronounce  Debussey 
again,'  till  I  'm  just  about  sick." 

Miss  Hutton  regarded  her  with  re- 
proachful eyes. 

"  I  believe  you  're  weakening,"  she 
cried,  subtly.  "  I  believe  you  're  getting 
ready  to  throw  it  all  up.  Is  that  what  you 
came  to  say  ?  " 

With  a  supreme  effort,  the  little  woman 
pulled  herself  together. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  she  said,  bringing  her 
teeth  together  with  a  decisive  click.  "  It 
ain't  nothin'  of  the  sort.  I  just  come  to 
have  the  satisfaction  of  speakin'  right  out 
plain  to  some  one  for  once,  without  get- 
ting stopped  an'  corrected.  I  just  want 
to  say  that  I  'm  so  sick  of  that  parcel  of 
women  up  to  my  rooms  that  I  have 
horrid  dreams  about  'em  at  night.  I  feel 
better  now  since  I  've  said  it.  But  I  ain't 
goin'  to  give  up,  now  nor  never.  I  'm 
agoin'  to  do  what  I  started  to  do,  if  it 
kills  me." 

Miss  Hutton  applauded  this  Spartan 
standpoint.  "  And  really  you  like  some 
of  it;  you  know  you  do,"  she  reminded 
her  caller,  with  vivacious  sympathy. 
"  The  drives,  the  theatres,  the  music,  the 
new  life,  the  excitement  —  it 's  all  worth 
while.  And  think  of  how  you  are  improv- 
ing. For  you  are." 

Mrs.  Joel  Dixon  leaned  forward  and 
looked  searchingly  into  the  eyes  which 
sustained  this  arraignment  without  a 
flicker. 

"  Am  I  ?  "  she  asked,  almost  under  her 
breath,  as  if  afraid  to  pronounce  the 
words.  "  Honest,  now?  That 's  what  I 
really  come  to  ask.  Am  I  ?  I  know  you  'd 


Mrs.  Dixon's  Culture  Course 


601 


tell  me  the  truth.  I  know  I  know  more, 
but  does  it  show  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to 
know.  Have  I  got  any  culture  ?  Do  I  act 
as  if  I  had?" 

Miss  Hutton  gave  her  back  a  look  as 
straight  as  her  own. 

"  Mrs.  Dixon,"  she  said  steadily,  "  I 
have  just  told  you  that  you  have  im- 
proved tremendously.  In  looks,  in  dress, 
in  carriage,  you  are  a  very  different 
woman,  and  it  has  all  been  done  in  less 
than  three  months.  The  other  things,  — 
the  reading,  the  general  knowledge, 
take  more  time.  People  spend  their  lives 
acquiring  culture.  You  must  not  be  too 
impatient.  I  told  you  that  in  the  be- 
ginning." 

Mrs.  Dixon  rose,  droopingly,  and  then, 
in  quick  remembrance,  straightened  her 
slender  shoulders  and  lifted  her  head 
high.  Until  she  spoke  she  had  quite  the 
air  of  a  well-set-up  woman  of  the  world. 

"  Well,"  she  said  lingeringly,  "  I  guess 
I  '11  go  home  now  an'  take  my  physical 
culture  exercises.  I  forgot  'em  this  morn- 
ing. And  it 's  real  good  of  you  to  take  so 
much  int'rest."  • 

Then,  with  a  sudden  complete  change 
of  manner  and  tone,  she  raised  her  hand 
in  languid  farewell  greeting.  "  Good-by," 
she  drawled.  "  Thanks  so  much.  Such 
a  nice  chat;  "  and  with  a  swish  of  silk 
petticoats  she  was  gone,  leaving  Miss 
Hutton  gasping.  The  thing  was  a  trifle 
exaggerated,  and  the  twinkle  in  Mrs.  Dix- 
on's  brilliant  bird-like  eyes,  which  she 
could  not  quite  control,  showed  that  she 
knew  it  was.  But  it  was  Mrs.  Dean  to  the 
life,  the  superior  and  elegant  Mrs.  Dean, 
as  all  her  friends  knew  her. 

Another  month  brought  another  crisis 
in  Mrs.  Dixon's  life.  Mrs.  Dean  was  to 
take  her  to  a  dinner  —  a  small  but  ele- 
gant affair,  given  by  a  family  lingering 
late  in  town  and  sufficiently  devoted  to 
Mrs.  Dean  to  give  her  "  pupil  "  an  even- 
ing, a  meal,  and  an  object  lesson.  In 
high  excitement  Mrs.  Dixon  sought  Miss 
Hutton  on  the  eve  of  this  festivity.  As  to 
clothes  and  conduct  she  had  been  suffi- 
ciently, almost  exhaustively,  coached  by 


Mrs.  Dean,  who  was  also,  of  course,  to 
grace  the  festive  board.  It  was  a  more  dif- 
ficult problem  she  had  for  Miss  Button's 
solution.  Her  speech,  in  the  interval,  had 
acquired  that  improvement  which  is  in- 
dicated by  instantaneous  correction  of 
errors. 

"  When  I  meet  'em  —  them,"  she  asked 
pathetically,  "  shall  I  act  as  if  I  knew 
everything  and  then  let  'em  —  them  find 
out  I  don't,  or  shall  I  tell  'em  —  them  I 
don't,  and  let  'em  —  them  get  over  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  say  a  word  that  you  don't  have 
to  say,"  cautioned  Miss  Hutton  candidly. 
"  Act  your  best,  listen  intelligently,  talk 
very  little,  and  don't  speak  at  all  unless 
you  are  sure  of  what  you  say.  Fill  in 
the  pauses  with  smiles.  Your  smile  is 
charming." 

Mrs.  Dixon  walked  over  to  the  office 
mirror,  grinned  into  it,  and  regarded  the 
result  with  unlifted  gloom. 

"  Mrs.  Dean  knows  the  men  I  'm  going 
to  set  —  sit  between,"  she  remarked 
drearily,  when  she  returned  to  her  friend 
after  this  grotesque  moment  of  self-com- 
munion. "  One  of  'em  —  them  is  west- 
ern. We  can  talk  about  home.  He  's  a 
mining  man,  an'  I  guess  I  ain't  —  have 
not  listened  to  Joe  Dixon  talking  mines 
at  every  meal  I  've  et  —  eaten  for  twenty- 
five  years  without  learning  something 
about  mines,  too.  Him  an'  me  —  he  and 
I  will  get  on  all  right.  But  the  other  man 
is  a  nauthor,  an'  why  they  put  him  next 
to  me,"  ended  Mrs.  Dixon  with  a  wail, 
"I'm  sure  I  dunno  —  I  can't  guess." 

It  was  plain  that  she  was  in  a  panic 
over  the  prospect  of  her  first  formal  din- 
ner "  in  society,"  but  Miss  Hutton  finally 
succeeded  in  soothing  her  agitation. 

"  They  's  —  there  's  to  be  music  right 
after  dinner,"  she  remarked  at  last,  cheer- 
ing perceptibly  at  the  thought,  "  so  we 
won't  have  to  talk  none  —  any  then." 

Miss  Hutton  sailed  for  Europe  ten  days 
later,  not,  however,  without  having 
learned  that  the  little  dinner  was  a  suc- 
cess and  that  already  there  was  talk  of 
another,  at  which  Mrs.  Dixon  herself  was 


602 


Mrs.  Dixon' s  Culture  Course 


to  preside  as  hostess.  Such  rapid  and 
dashing  plunges  into  the  social  maelstrom 
seemed  hardly  wise,  but  she  realized  that 
time  was  limited,  and  that  Mrs.  Dixon 
was  undoubtedly  pressing  matters  for- 
ward with  characteristic  impatience.  She 
was  gone  three  months,  and  when  she 
returned,  her  first  caller,  quite  appropri- 
ately, was  Mrs.  Joel  Dixon.  She  was  su- 
perbly gowned,  and  she  swept  into  the 
office  with  an  easy  grace  and  an  assurance 
which  made  Miss  Hutton  open  her  eyes. 
Then  she  looked  at  her  caller's  face  and 
they  widened  still  more,  for  it  was  ra- 
diant, glowing,  blushing,  ecstatic,  love- 
lit  —  the  face  of  a  girl-bride.  Close  be- 
hind her  slender  figure,  with  eyes  in 
which  astonished  admiration  was  still  the 
principal  element,  loomed  a  huge,  un- 
gainly masculine  bulk,  with  a  certain 
rugged  strength  in  the  massive  head 
and  square  jaw,  but  loose-jointed,  rather 
awkward,  and  wholly  ill  at  ease.  With 
a  little  delighted  gurgle  and  flutter  Mrs. 
Dixon  ushered  this  half-Caliban  into  the 
office. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hutton,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  this  is  my  husband.  This  is  Joel  —  Mr. 
Dixon.  I  want  you  to  meet  him,  and 
there  's  only  to-day,  because  we  're  going 
back  West  to-night.  And  oh,  Miss  Hut- 
ton,"  —  this  last  in  a  rapt  staccato  of 
rapture,  of  gratitude,  —  "  we  've  lost  all 
our  money.  We  're  poor  again.  We  don't 
have  to  live  in  Washington.  We  don't 
have  to  go  into  society.  We  're  going  back 
home  ! " 

So  might  those  last  four   words  be 


spoken  by  the  exile  from  Italy  after  a  life- 
time in  the  desert;  nay,  even  so  by  the 
Christian  seeing  the  peace  of  the  Eternal 
City  before  him  at  the  end  of  life's  long 
wait.  Unexpected,  unbidden,  the  tears 
rushed  to  Miss  Hutton's  eyes.  Still  full, 
they  turned  toward  Mr.  Dixon.  Slowly 
he  nodded  as  he  shook  hands,  and 
then,  as  if  feeling  that  the  situation  de- 
manded something  more  from  him,  he 
said  quietly,  — 

"  We  got  to  begin  all  over.  Takes  it 
well,  don't  she?  That's  pluck." 

Miss  Hutton  shook  her  head. 

"  I  should  call  it  by  a  bigger  name," 
she  answered  softly. 

Mr.  Dixon  regarded  his  wife,  the  look 
of  dazed  wonder  and  admiration  deepen- 
ing in  his  eyes.  It  was  plain  that  he 
found  it  difficult  to  keep  them  off  her. 

"  It 's  pretty  tough,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  after  her  developing  this  way,  to  have 
to  take  it  all  out  home  and  bury  it. 
Tough,  I  call  it,"  he  repeated,  with 
much  firmness.  "  She  ought  to  shine  in 
society." 

His  wife,  who  had  been  regarding  him 
adoringly,  spoke  up  at  this. 

"  Joel  Dixon,"  she  said  crisply,  "  any 
shining  I  'd  have  done  anywhere  would 
have  been  for  you.  I  guess  it  won't  be 
lost  on  you,  if  it 's  all  done  now  in  our 
own  home;  will  it?  That,"  she  added 
shyly,  "  is  the  way  /  'd  rather  have  it." 

Her  look  and  her  bearing  as  she  spoke 
were  things  she  had  not  learned  from 
Mrs  Dean  —  but  that  lady  might  have 
been  proud  to  claim  them. 


THE    COLLEGE    OF   DISCIPLINE   AND   THE   COL- 
LEGE  OF  FREEDOM 

BY   HENRY   S.   PRITCHETT 


THE  college,  as  distinguished  from  the 
university,  is  America's  most  distinctive 
educational  institution.  It  is  unusual  in 
educational  organization  in  the  fact  that 
it  receives  young  men  at  an  age  when  in 
most  countries  professional  training  is  al- 
most in  sight,  and  for  four  years  retains 
them  in  a  school  which  confessedly  does 
not  train  for  a  profession  or  for  a  specific 
calling,  but  aims  at  the  general  develop- 
ment of  character  and  intellect.  The  Ger- 
man youth  enters  the  university  on  the 
average  only  one  year  older  than  the 
American  boy  of  to-day  enters  the  college. 

Until  thirty  years  ago,  the  college  was 
not  only  our  most  distinctive  school  of 
learning,  but  it  was  the  crown  of  our 
educational  organization.  Professional 
schools  of  law  and  medicine  and  theology 
existed,  but  in  most  cases  independently 
of  the  college,  and  were  not  articulated 
with  it  even  when  controlled  by  the  col- 
lege board  of  trustees.  The  college  was 
the  school  which  stood  for  scholarly 
ideals  and  methods. 

A  great  change  has  come  in  three 
decades.  With  the  establishment  of  the 
Johns  Hopkins  University,  the  growth  of 
the  state  universities,  and  the  increasing 
influence  in  education  of  Americans  who 
had  enjoyed  European  study,  the  univer- 
sity idea  was  transplanted  to  America.  It 
has  shown  in  three  decades  an  extraordin- 
ary growth,  measured  by  the  number  of 
universities  and  the  facilities  for  study 
and  research.  One  of  the  most  significant 
results  is  the  influence  of  the  university 
idea  upon  the  American  college,  and  the 
growing  need  for  a  more  consistent  edu- 
cational organization  which  shall  coordi- 
nate secondary  school,  college,  and  uni- 
versity. Sir  W.  H.  Preece,  in  a  recent 
address  before  the  Royal  Society  of  Arts, 


says,  "  In  America  a  national  coordin- 
ated system  will  be  evolved  which  will 
make  the  United  States  the  best  secularly 
educated  country  in  the  world,  and  its  edu- 
cational policy  thoroughly  organized." 
I  believe  that  these  hopeful  words  are 
likely  to  come  true,  but  it  is  evident  that, 
before  that  time,  much  must  be  done  to 
clarify  the  present  educational  confusion. 
This  is  the  educational  problem  of  the 
next  twenty  years,  and  we  are*  just  now 
squarely  facing  it. 

In  the  course  of  that  examination  and 
reorganization,  that  which  we  have  come 
to  know  as  the  American  college  is  to  be 
subjected  to  a  sharper  scrutiny  than  it  has 
ever  been  called  upon  to  undergo.  It  will 
be  necessary  to  show  clearly  just  what  the 
college  undertakes  to  do,  and  what  its  ef- 
ficiency is  in  the  doing  of  it.  Next,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  show  in  just  what  way  the 
college  shall  relate  itself  to  the  secondary 
school  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  the  univer- 
sity on  the  other.  The  university  has  been 
grafted  on  the  college  without  very  thor- 
ough consideration  of  its  influence  on  the 
college,  or  the  influence  of  the  college  on 
it.  In  the  same  way  the  college  has  exact- 
ed admission  requirements  with  little 
regard  to  the  interests  of  the  secondary 
schools.  This  may  have  been  an  almost 
unavoidable  phase  of  the  growth  of  edu- 
cation in  a  new  country.  It  cannot  re- 
main indefinitely.  The  college  not  only 
must  know  what  it  seeks  to  do  and  show 
a  fair  coefficient  of  efficiency,  but  it  must 
relate  itself  to  the  general  system  of  edu- 
cation of  the  state  and  of  the  nation. 

Furthermore,  it  is  misleading  to  speak 
of  one  set  of  colleges  as  private  institu- 
tions, and  of  another  set  as  public  ones. 
There  are  no  private  colleges  or  universi- 
ties. Harvard,  Yale,  and  Columbia  are 

603 


604 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom 


as  truly  public  institutions  as  are  Wiscon- 
sin, California,  and  Michigan.  The  first 
group  is  sustained  by  tuition  fees  and  the 
income  from  endowments;  the  second 
group,  mainly  by  taxation.  All  are  public 
institutions  in  the  sense  of  common  re- 
sponsibility to  the  general  educational  ef- 
fort of  state  and  nation.  All  colleges  alike 
must  face  the  questions :  What  is  the  func- 
tion of  the  college  ?  Is  it  discharging  that 
function  efficiently  ?  Does  it  fit  consist- 
ently into  one  general  educational  organ- 
ization ? 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  reasons 
which  now  press  for  answers  to  these 
questions  arise  out  of  economic  and 
administrative  considerations.  In  these 
thirty  years  the  cost  of  conducting  a  col- 
lege has  risen  enormously,  but  the  cost  of 
maintaining  a  university  is  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  estimates  of  a  generation 
ago.  Somehow  we  must  decide  what  is 
a  college  and  what  a  university,  for  eco- 
nomic reasons  if  for  no  other. 

The  administrative  reason  has  only 
recently  begun  to  make  itself  felt.  Col- 
leges have,  for  a  large  part  of  our  educa- 
tional history,  been  conducted  as  isolated 
enterprises.  That  day  has  gone  by.  The 
college  must  for  the  future  find  its  place 
in  a  general  system  of  education. 

While  these  considerations  are  those 
which  produced  the  present  scrutiny  of 
the  college,  the  final  settlement  of  its  place 
in  American  education  is  not  likely  to 
rest  wholly  on  economic  or  administra- 
tive grounds,  although  these  influences 
will  have  increasing  effect  upon  its  future. 
In  the  college  one  finds  more  clearly 
expressed  than  elsewhere  certain  funda- 
mental theories  concerning  the  education 
and  training  of  human  beings,  and  the 
final  place  of  the  college  in  an  educational 
organization  will  rest  mainly  on  the 
weight  given  to  one  or  another  of  these 
fundamental  educational  theories. 

All  schools  of  general  culture  which, 
like  the  American  college,  have  looked 
both  to  the  development  of  character  and 
to  the  training  of  the  mind,  have  been 
evolved  under  the  influence  of  two  dis- 


tinct educational  ideals  —  one  the  ideal 
of  discipline,  the  other  that  of  freedom. 

The  first  conception  is  the  older.  Men 
learned  early  in  the  history  of  civilization 
that  every  human  being  born  into  this 
world  must  first  learn  to  obey,  if  later  he 
is  to  command;  must  first  control  him- 
self, if  later  he  is  to  lead  others.  The  con- 
ception of  discipline  as  a  means  to  edu- 
cation is  universal;  it  has  existed  since 
schools  began;  it  will  always  exist,  be- 
cause it  is  rooted  in  our  universal  human 
experience. 

The  ideal  of  freedom  was  a  later  devel- 
opment of  educational  experience.  Long 
after  men  were  familiar  with  the  educa- 
tional value  of  discipline,  they  came  to 
realize  that  in  the  education  of  men,  as 
in  the  development  of  nations,  the  highest 
type  of  character,  like  the  finest  order  of 
citizenship,  is  developed  under  conditions 
of  freedom;  that  the  virtue  which  blos- 
soms under  the  clear  sky  has  a  finer  fra- 
grance than  that  which  develops  in  the 
cloister;  that  the  finest  efforts  of  educa- 
tion, like  the  ripest  fruits  of  civilization, 
are  to  be  sought  where  the  realization  of 
human  freedom  is  most  perfect. 

For  two  thousand  years,  from  the 
schools  of  Athens  and  Rome  to  those  of 
Berlin  and  Boston,  schools  which  seek  to 
deal  with  the  general  training  of  youth 
have  differentiated  in  accordance  with 
their  adherence  to  one  or  another  of  these 
fundamental  ideals,  or  in  accordance  with 
their  effort  to  combine  the  two.  The  dif- 
ferences which  exist  to-day  among  the 
stronger  American  colleges  as  to  what  the 
college  ought  to  do,  as  well  as  the  reasons 
which  are  advanced  for  a  separation  of 
the  college  from  the  high  school  on  one 
side  and  from  the  university  on  the  other, 
rest  on  the  relative  weight  which  is  at- 
tached to  the  educational  ideal  of  disci- 
pline or  to  the  educational  ideal  of  free- 
dom. And  the  place  which  the  college  is 
ultimately  to  have  will  be  fixed  by  the  de- 
cision whether  it  is  to  represent  squarely 
the  ideal  of  discipline,  the  ideal  of  free- 
dom, or  both. 

It  is  also  to  be  remembered  that  each 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom  605 


of  these  educational  ideals  has  its  rela- 
tions to  the  development  both  of  charac- 
ter and  of  intellect,  and  each  may  be  in- 
terpreted differently  according  as  one 
views  it  from  the  standpoint  of  the  indi- 
vidual, or  from  the  standpoint  of  the  so- 
cial order  in  which  he  moves.  Personal 
discipline  and  social  discipline,  individ- 
ual freedom  and  the  freedom  which  can 
be  had  only  by  social  organization,  are  all 
involved  in  the  scheme  of  general  educa- 
tion, but  it  is  rare  to  have  all  of  these 
phases  simultaneously  under  the  view  of 
the  same  eyes.  Specializing ,in  education 
began  at  the  beginning  in  the  very  con- 
ceptions of  the  fundamental  processes  by 
which  education  was  to  be  effected. 

In  actual  practice,  American  colleges 
represent  to-day  all  the  combinations  and 
the  compromises  of  these  two  concep- 
tions. At  one  extreme  are  colleges  organ- 
ized to  prescribe  fixed  lines  of  conduct 
and  specified  courses  of  study;  at  the 
other  are  colleges  so  planned  as  to  spread 
out  before  the  eyes  of  the  eighteen-year- 
old  boy  an  almost  endless  variety  of 
sports  and  of  studies  from  which  he  may 
choose  at  will.  In  the  first  group,  the 
ideal  of  discipline  is  paramount,  with  the 
emphasis  on  the  interests  of  organized 
society;  in  the  second,  the  ideal  of  free- 
dom is  dominant,  and  the  interests  and 
development  of  the  individual  direct  the 
line  of  vision. 

There  are  perhaps  no  better  illustra- 
tions of  the  consistent  working  out  of  the 
ideals  of  discipline  and  freedom  than  tjie 
two  great  colleges,  West  Point  and  Har- 
vard, for  each  of  which  I  have  an  unusual 
admiration  and  a  sincere  affection  (hav- 
ing sent  a  boy  through  each).  They  re- 
present more  consistently  than  most  col- 
leges distinct  educational  policies,  and 
for  this  reason,  as  well  as  for  their  nation- 
wide influence,  they  furnish  unusual  les- 
sons for  the  guidance  of  other  colleges. 
The  one  is  a  college  of  discipline  by  virtue 
of  a  policy  largely  fixed  by  the  traditions 
of  army  service;  the  other  a  college  of 
freedom  —  a  response  in  large  measure 
to  the  leadership  of  a  great  man. 


In  the  one  are  assembled  some  four 
hundred  and  fifty  boys ;  in  the  other,  some 
two  thousand  three  hundred.  The  two 
groups  of  students  enter  their  respective 
institutions  at  practically  the  same  age, 
and  are  widely  representative  of  alert 
American  youth.  The  student  in  the  one 
case  becomes  part  of  an  organization 
whose  ideal  is  discipline;  the  other  enters 
a  regime  whose  watchword  is  individual 
freedom.  In  the  one,  the  boy  of  eighteen 
is  ordered  to  comply  with  a  rigid  regime 
which  for  four  years  undertakes  to  ar- 
range for  each  day,  and  almost  for  each 
hour,  his  work  and  his  play,  and  the 
amount  of  money  he  may  spend;  in  the 
second,  he  is  invited  to  choose  from  a 
numerous  list  of  studies  and  of  sports  as 
he  will. 

The  strict  discipline  of  the  one,  no  less 
than  the  perfect  freedom  of  the  other,  is, 
of  course,  tempered  by  the  cross  currents 
which  run  in  all  human  affairs.  The 
West  Point  plebe  soon  discovers  that  the 
austere  economy  of  cadet  life  is  mitigated 
by  an  underground  arrangement  through 
which  New  York  tradesmen  extend  a 
practically  unlimited  credit,  to  be  harvest- 
ed on  the  far  distant  graduation  day  —  a 
process  which  makes  the  problem  of  how 
to  live  on  your  income  not  materially  dif- 
ferent at  the  two  colleges. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Harvard  fresh- 
man who,  with  the  aid  of  an  anxious  par- 
ent, undertakes  to  select  five  courses  from 
an  apparently  inexhaustible  supply,  finds 
his  freedom  seriously  limited  at  the  outset 
by  a  certain  evident  tendency  on  the  part 
of  teachers  and  students  to  crowd  the 
most  desirable  courses  into  the  hours  be- 
tween nine  and  one.  Moreover,  if  the  boy 
has  athletic  tastes,  he  is  likely  to  get  a 
warning  from  the  coach  to  avoid  after- 
noon classes  and  laboratory  exercises,  a 
consideration  which  may  limit  the  free- 
dom of  choice  in  a  surprising  manner, 
and  sometimes  turns  the  honest  freshman 
from  a  course  in  elementary  chemistry 
to  one  on  the  history  of  the  Fine  Arts. 

The  West  Point  cadet,  once  entered 
upon  his  work,  finds  his  studies  absolute- 


606 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom 


ly  determined  for  him.  Whether  he  will 
or  not,  he  must  take  an  assigned  measure 
of  mathematics,  science,  modern  lan- 
guages, drawing,  history,  and  dancing 
(this  last  is  a  good  required  study  in  any 
college).  He  becomes  a  member  of  a  sec- 
tion of  perhaps  ten.  The  assigned  lesson 
will  cover  each  day  certain  pages  of  a 
text-book.  At  the  call  of  the  instructor  he 
must  rise,  put  his  heels  together,  begin 
with  the  formula,  "  I  am  required  to  re- 
cite, etc.;"  and  is  most  successful  when 
he  repeats  the  exact  language  of  the  text- 
book which  is  his  guide.  He  must  be 
ready  every  day,  and  his  standing  in  com- 
parison with  every  other  man  in  his  class 
is  posted  at  the  end  of  each  week,  made 
out  io  the  fractional  part  of  a  per  cent. 
The  hours  for  work  and  play  are  fixed, 
and  he  may  not  go  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  West  Point  reservation.  Through  the 
whole  four-year  course  runs  consistently 
the  ideal  of  personal  discipline. 

His  courses  once  chosen,  the  Harvard 
freshman  finds  himself  one  of  a  group  of 
twenty  or  five  hundred,  according  to  the 
subject.  If  he  occupies  his  place  with 
fair  regularity,  he  may  work  earnestly  or 
very  little.  There  is  no  day-by-day  de- 
mand upon  him  such  as  the  West  Point 
cadet  must  expect.  With  occasional  tests 
during  the  term  —  generally  not  difficult 
—  and  an  examination  at  the  end,  which 
a  mark  of  sixty  per  cent  will  pass,  the 
subject  is  credited  to  him  as  a  completed 
"Study.  Meanwhile  the  opportunities  for 
reaalj'ng,  for  individual  study,  for  fellow- 
ship, anfrLfor  amusement,  are  unlimited. 
Individual  freedom  is  the  keynote  of  his 
college  life.  \ 

It  is  sometimes  ui^ed  that  West  Point 
exists  to  train  men  for  a  particular  pro- 
fession, and  that,  therefore,  its  work  as  a 
college  is  not  comparable  \  with  that  of 
other  colleges.  There  is  a  \jneasure  of 
truth  in  this  statement,  but  it  iav  very  easy 
to  overestimate  the  significance  which 
should  be  given  it.  West  Points  is  not  a 
school  aiming  to  fit  men  for  a  giv^en  tech- 
nical calling.  It  aims  to  give,  alonger  with  a 
certain  military  training,  a  general  edu- 


cation which  shall  count  both  for  char- 
acter and  for  intellect.  In  the  essential 
things  which  they  seek  to  accomplish, 
West  Point  and  Harvard  strive  toward 
the  same  ends.  Whether  a  man  enter  the 
life  of  the  army  or  some  calling  in  civil 
life,  success  will  depend  in  each  case  upon 
moral  and  intellectual  efficiency.  Each 
college  seeks  to  develop  in  its  students 
moral  purpose  and  the  ability  to  think 
straight.  The  difference  is  that,  in  seek- 
ing to  attain  these  ends,  one  institution 
proceeds  under  the  dominating  ideal  of 
discipline,  the  other  under  that  of  free- 
dom. 

West  Point  has  never  been  a  strictly 
technical  school,  and  it  would  be  a  mis- 
fortune for  the  academy  and  for  the  coun- 
try if  this  should  come  about.  It  has  been 
in  fact  a  military  college,  in  which  men 
are  fitted  successfully  for  many  stations 
both  in  military  and  civil  life.  It  has 
lived  more  consistently  than  most  institu- 
tions in  conformity  to  the  particular  ideal 
in  education  for  which  it  stands,  although 
until  the  last  thirty  years  all  colleges 
shared  to  a  large  extent  the  disciplinary 
conception  of  education.  The  general 
likeness  of  the  educational  results  at  the 
academy  to  those  of  other  good  colleges 
is  shown  in  the  history  of  its  graduates. 
Deductions  concerning  the  efficiency  of 
colleges,  as  determined  by  a  roll  of  distin- 
guished graduates,  are  to  be  received  with 
extreme  caution.  In  any  such  survey  we 
are  strongly  inclined  to  that  side  of  the 
argument  which  pictures  the  American 
college  as  the  regenerator  of  our  social 
order.  We  count  the  successes,  but  not 
the  failures.  We  point  to  Mr.  Roosevelt 
of  Harvard,  Mr.  Taft  of  Yale,  and  Mr. 
Hughes  of  Brown,  as  examples  of  college 
leadership  in  public  life,  but  we  rarely 
strike  a  balance  by  charging  to  the  col- 
lege such  leaders  as  Mr.  Boies  Penrose  of 
Harvard,  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Platt  of  Yale, 
or  Mr.  Abraham  Ruef  of  California.  All 
that  one  can  say  is  that,  taken  by  and 
large,  the  work  of  the  graduates  of  West 
Point,  in  all  the  walks  of  life  during  the 
last  hundred  years,  has  compared  well  in 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom 


607 


civic  worth  with  that  of  the  men  of  other 
colleges. 

There  was  one  critical  epoch  in  our  na- 
tional life  which  furnished  a  very  inter- 
esting comparison,  and  which  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to  speak  well  for  that  feat- 
ure of  West  Point  education  which  arises 
out  of  the  close  community  life  and  the 
bringing  together  of  boys  from  all  parts 
of  the  Union.  In  the  troubled  days  which 
marked  the  first  efforts  at  reconstruction 
after  the  Civil  War,  three  West  Point 
graduates,  Grant,  Sherman,  and  Scho- 
field,  by  virtue  of  their  military  com- 
mands, took  definite  positions  as.  to  the 
methods  by  which  the  seceded  states  were 
to  be  brought  back  into  the  Union. 
Eventually  the  matter  went  to  Congress, 
and  the  plan  which  finally  prevailed  was 
due  mainly  to  two  college  graduates,  one 
in  the  Senate,  the  other  in  the  House  — 
Charles  Sumner  of  Harvard,  and  Thad- 
deus  Stevens  of  Dartmouth.  I  think  it  is 
fairvto  say  that,  looking  back  after  forty 
years,  the  general  judgment  of  thinking 
men  is  that  the  reconstruction  policy  of  the 
West  Point  graduates  was  not  only  more 
just  and  merciful,  but  also  politically 
wiser,  than  that  of  Sumner  and  Stevens. 

Both  of  these  colleges  are  noble  agen- 
cies for  the  education  of  men;  both  have 
sent  into  our  national  life  graduates  who 
have  done  honor  alike  to  their  institutions 
and  to  their  country.  The  remembrance 
of  this  fact  ought  to  help  toward  educa- 
tional liberality.  It  serves  to  remind  us 
that,  after  all,  we  have  no  specifics  in  edu- 
cation ;  that  men  come  into  a  larger  us§- 
fulness,  and  into  a  finer  intellectual  and 
spiritual  life,  by  many  paths.  Discipline 
and  freedom  both  play  their  parts  in  the 
evolution  of  the  best  human  character, 
and  we  may  therefore  not  wonder  that  in- 
stitutions varying  so  widely  in  ideals  and 
in  methods  have  alike  achieved  a  high 
measure  of  success,  and  have  won  a 
place  of  singular  honor  and  regard  in  the 
nation's  estimate. 

Colleges,  like  all  human  organisms  de- 
signed for  moral  and  spiritual  training, 
stand  between  the  tendency  to  take  the 


color  of  their  environment,  both  good  and 
bad,  and  the  conscious  duty  to  stand 
against  certain  tendencies  of  the  society 
in  which  they  exist.  This  is  only  another 
way  of  saying  that  colleges  have  a  duty 
both  to  society  and  to  the  individual 
student  and  teacher.  In  the  college  of 
discipline,  the  tendency  is  to  emphasize 
the  duty  to  society,  as  represented  by  the 
organization,  at  the  expense  of  the  indi- 
vidual; in  the  college  of  freedom,  the 
tendency  is  to  emphasize  the  rights  of  the 
individual  at  the  expense  of  social  organ- 
ization. The  one  view  loses  sight  of  the 
fact  that  discipline,  to  be  effective,  must  in 
the  long  run  be  self-discipline;  the  other 
tends  to  overlook  the  truth  that,  in  civil- 
ization, freedom  for  the  individual  is  a 
function  of  the  observance  of  social 
restraints.  As  a  result,  both  the  college 
of  discipline  and  the  college  of  freedom 
are  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  prevailing 
American  tendency  to  superficiality,  but 
for  exactly  opposite  reasons :  the  first  on 
account  of  the  multiplicity  of  standards, 
and  the  latter  on  account  of  the  lack  of 
definite  standards. 

In  the  college  of  discipline,  the  stand- 
ards tend  to  become  so  numerous  that 
the  process  of  living  up  to  them  becomes 
disciplinary  rather  than  educational. 
This  arises  out  of  the  qualities  of  human 
nature.  Once  give  to  a  group  of  men  the 
power  to  select  the  things  which  other 
men  ought  to  do  or  ought  to  learn,  and 
the  difficulties  of  moderation  are  great. 
In  government,  over-legislation,  and  in 
education,  an  overcrowded  curriculum,  is 
the  almost  universal  result. 

In  nearly  all  schools  with  prescribed 
courses  there  has  gone  on  for  years  a  pro- 
cess of  adding  to  the  list  of  studies  until 
the  student  is  asked  to  absorb  more  in 
four  years  than  he  can  possibly  digest  in 
that  time.  This  regime  is  intensified  at 
West  Point  by  two  facts  peculiar  to  its 
organization  —  the  low  entrance  require- 
ments, and  the  lack  of  instructors  who  are 
masters  of  their  subjects,  able  not  only 
to  hear  recitations,  but  to  impart  intellec- 
tual enthusiasm. 


608 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom 


The  West  Point  plebe  enters  at  prac- 
tically the  same  age  as  the  Harvard  fresh- 
man, but  under  much  lower  entrance  re- 
quirements. Consequently,  the  students 
in  the  first  year  are  in  nearly  all  cases 
repeating  studies  they  have  already  had. 
This  fact  plays  an  important  part  in  the 
process,  for  it  enables  the  poor  plebe  to 
catch  his  breath  and  adapt  himself  in  the 
course  of  his  first  year  to  the  system  of 
recitations,  under  which  huge  text-books 
are  devoured  with  little  regard  to  the 
element  of  time  as  a  factor  in  intellectual 
digestion. 

West  Point  is  also  at  a  disadvantage  in 
comparison  with  other  good  colleges  in 
the  lack  of  trained  teachers.  Instructors 
are  chosen  more  generally  than  formerly 
from  young  commissioned  officers,  them- 
selves graduates  —  a  system  of  intellect- 
ual inbreeding  from  which  all  American 
colleges  suffer  in  greater  or  less  degree. 
They  serve  only  a  few  years,  and  have  in 
many  cases  only  a  superficial  knowledge 
of  the  subjects  they  teach,  however  ener- 
getically they  may  bend  to  their  tasks. 
There  is  no  more  pathetic  sight  in  educa- 
tion than  that  afforded  by  the  army  or 
navy  officer  who  burns  the  midnight  oil 
in  the  effort  to  keep  one  day  ahead  of  the 
lesson  which  his  class  is  to  recite.  The  in- 
struction given  by  such  a  teacher  is 
necessarily  of  the  routine  and  text-book 
sort,  with  little  of  the  inspiration  gained 
under  a  true  teacher.  All  these  factors  — 
the  overcrowding  of  the  curriculum,  the 
lack  of  experienced  teachers,  the  extreme 
devotion  to  details  —  unite  to  make  the 
exercises  formal  and  academic,  and  to 
banish  opportunities  for  individual  culti- 
vation in  laboratories,  in  books,  or  in  con- 
ference with  a  cultivated  mind.  The  pro- 
cess tends  strongly  toward  intellectual 
superficiality,  for  in  such  teaching  the 
fundamental  concepts  and  principles  are 
sacrificed  for  details  which  do  not  linger 
in  the  mind  long  after  examination  time. 
And  no  human  being  is  quicker  than  the 
college  boy  to  appropriate  to  himself  the 
lesson  involved  in  the  teaching  of  a  sub- 
ject by  one  who  is  not  a  master  of  it.  The 


deduction  which  he  makes  is  that  if  a 
man  is  ordered  to  do  a  thing,  he  can  do  it 
whether  he  understands  it  or  not.  This 
process  may  be  disciplinary,  but  it  is 
scarcely  educational. 

Every  American  will  sympathize  with 
the  idea  that  the  national  military  college 
should  have  the  closest  possible  touch 
with  the  army,  and  should  breath  the 
spirit  of  the  service.  It  will  be,  however, 
a  misfortune,  alike  for  the  army  and  for 
education,  if  the  theory  is  once  accepted 
that  this  contact  cannot  be  maintained 
consistently  with  high  educational  ideals 
and  scholarly  leadership. 

There  are  two  aspects  of  army  service 
which  have  hitherto  received  in  our  coun- 
try small  consideration.  The  first  is,  that 
modern  warfare  is  an  applied  science  and 
those  who  undertake  it  successfully  are 
members  of  a  learned  scientific  profes- 
sion. Secondly,  the  habits  and  routine  of 
army  life  in  time  of  peace  are  precisely 
those  which  tend  to  impair  the  profes- 
sional efficiency  of  officers,  to  destroy 
initiative  and  the  capacity  to  take  re- 
sponsibility. 

These  facts  require  that  the  members  of 
the  military  profession  shall  be  first  of  all 
trained  men,  and  secondly  that  the  ten- 
dencies to  inefficiency  shall  be  counter- 
acted by  some  intellectual  and  profession- 
al stimulus.  The  traditions  of  discipline 
are  so  ingrained  in  the  military  service 
that  in  time  of  peace  the  disposition  to 
regulate  every  detail,  giving  to  subordin- 
ate officers  little  opportunity  for  inde- 
pendent action,  becomes  inexorable.  The 
military  profession  is  at  a  disadvantage  in 
comparison  with  other  great  professions 
in  the  fact  that,  in  the  ordinary  duties  of 
army  service,  there  is  little  to  stimulate 
study  or  to  develop  interest  in  military 
science.  In  these  respects  the  naval  serv- 
ice has  advantages.  Only  experts  can 
enter  it,  and  ships  at  least  go  to  sea  and 
manoeuvre  in  squadrons,  if  they  do  not 
fight. 

The  essential  problem,  therefore,  with 
modern  nations  in  the  maintenance  of  an 
army  is  to  train  a  body  of  efficient  men  to 


The  College  of  Discipline  and* the  College  of  Freedom 


609 


the  military  profession,  and  having  done 
this,  to  preserve  their  alertness,  initiative, 
and  efficiency  in  time  of  peace,  in  the  face 
of  the  system  of  minute  regulations  and 
infinite  detail  which  inevitably  envelops 
the  service.  This  problem  is  fundamental, 
for  it  is  the  man  who  thinks  straight,  and 
who  has  the  initiative  to  take  responsibil- 
ity, who  wins  battles. 

It  seems  clear  that  the  greatest  factor 
in  the  solution  of  this  problem  is  the 
stimulus  to  intellectual  activity  which  of- 
ficers receive  in  their  education.  The 
establishment  of  the  general  staff  and  the 
staff  colleges  is  an  effort  in  this  direc- 
tion, but  the  basis  of  the  officer's  profes- 
sional efficiency  as  a  member  of  a  learned 
profession  lies  in  the  intellectual  inspira- 
tion and  the  interest  in  his  profession 
which  his  West  Point  education  gives 
him.  In  this  stimulus  is  to  be  found  the 
most  effective  antidote  for  the  deadening 
effect  of  routine,  and  the  demoralizing  in- 
fluence of  minute  regulations.  There  is, 
therefore,  no  college  in  which  the  inspira- 
tion of  good  teaching,  and  the  preserva- 
tion of  scholarly  enthusiasm,  mean  more 
than  in  the  national  military  college.  And 
these  are  in  no  wise  inconsistent  with  the 
traditions  and  ideals  of  military  science. 
In  the  Military  Academy  of  forty  years 
ago  were  a  number  of  the  great  teachers 
of  America.  The  intellectual  side^pf  the 
West  Point  education  should  always  be 
under  the  leadership  of  such  men. 

If  the  currents  which  run  toward  super- 
ficiality in  the  college  of  discipline  are 
sometimes  strong,  it  is  certain  that  those 
which  flow  in  this  direction  in  the  college 
of  freedom  are  sometimes  even  swifter. 

The  fundamental  objection  to  a  re- 
gime of  complete  freedom  for  eighteen- 
year-old  boys,  independent  of  some  test  of 
their  capacity  to  use  it,  lies  to  my  think- 
ing in  the  lack  of  standards  which  under 
these  conditions  prevail  among  students, 
and  the  exaggerated  tendencies  toward 
superficiality  which  are  thereby  not  only 
invited,  but  practically  assured.  Two 
features  of  the  college  of  to-day  are  spe- 
cially significant  of  the  practical  outcome 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


of  these  tendencies  in  the  undergraduate 
college  under  the  conditions  of  free  elec- 
tion. These  are  the  decadence  of  schol- 
arly ideals,  and  the  growth  of  secondary 
agencies  for  getting  boys  through  college 
with  a  minimum  of  study. 

If  the  college  is  to  serve  as  a  means  for 
the  general  education  of  men,  it  is  of 
course  unlikely  that  any  large  percentage 
of  college  youths  should  turn  out  to  be 
scholars.  But  so  long  as  the  college  stands 
primarily  for  'scholarly  ideals,  the  con- 
ditions in  it  should  be  such  that  the  ninety 
per  cent  who  are  not  scholars  should  re- 
spect and  admire  the  ten  per  cent  who 
are.  Such  a  condition  holds  in  Oxford 
and  Cambridge.  To  say  that  it  does  not 
exist  in  our  larger  American  colleges  is  to 
put  the  case  mildly.  The  captain  of  the 
football  team  has  more  honor  in  the  col- 
lege community  than  any  scholar  may 
hope  for.  It  is  a  serious  indictment  of  the 
standards  of  any  organization  when  the 
conditions  within  it  are  such  that  success 
in  the  things  for  which  the  organization 
stands  no  longer  appeal  effectively  to  the 
imaginations  of  those  in  it. 

The  old-time  college  conception  of  cul- 
ture was  narrow.  It  has  rightly  given  way 
before  the  enlarging  intelligence  of  man- 
kind. Nevertheless  it  did  furnish  stand- 
ards by  which  not  only  teachers  and 
scholars  were  able  to  orient  themselves 
with  respect  to  intellectual  ideals,  but  so- 
ciety as  well.  Is  not  the  time  perhaps  ripe 
for  a  broader  and  truer  definition  of  cul- 
ture in  education  ? 

So  few  standards  are  to-day  left  in  the 
college  which  gives  itself  completely  to 
the  regime  of  individual  freedom  that  the 
world  has  but  scant  data  to  judge  of  its 
educational  efficiency.  The  minimum  in- 
tellectual equipment  which  a  college  edu- 
cation ought  to  furnish  to  a  youth  should 
enable  him  to  do  two  things :  first,  to  turn 
his  mind  fully  and  efficiently  to  the  solu- 
tion of  a  given  problem.  In  the  second 
place,  it  should  give  him  the  analytic 
point  of  view,  the  ability  to  discriminate. 
Whether,  judged  on  this  basis,  our  col- 
leges show  to-day  a  fair  coefficient  of  edu- 


610 


The  College  of  Discipline  and  the  College  of  Freedom 


cational  efficiency,  I  do  not  undertake  to 
say,  but  I  should  like  to  see  some  esti- 
mate of  it  attempted. 

The  by-products  of  an  organization 
are  sometimes  the  most  distinctive  tests 
of  its  efficiency.  There  is,  to  my  thinking, 
no  more  striking  evidence  of  the  tenden- 
cies to  superficiality  which  have  devel- 
oped in  our  larger  colleges  than  the  agen- 
cies which  have  grown  up  about  them 
for  getting  boys  into  college,  and  for  pass- 
ing them  through  it  with  the  minimum 
amount  of  work.  By  the  more  successful 
and  profitable  coaching  agencies,  this 
process  has  been  reduced  to  an  art.  Such 
parasites  weaken  the  character-making 
and  the  scholarly  side  of  college  life,  and 
have  to  the  legitimate  work  of  a  college 
much  the  same  relation  that  a  lobby  has 
to  a  legislative  body. 

It  is  a  delicate  thing  to  determine  how 
much  freedom  is  good  for  an  individual 
or  a  nation.  We  must  also  admit  that 
freedom  means  the  right  to  be  weak  as 
well  as  the  right  to  be  strong ;  the  ability 
to  be  foolish  as  well  as  to  be  wise.  In 
education,  as  in  government,  modera- 
tion becomes  difficult  once  a  group  of 
men  undertakes  to  set  bounds  to  free- 
dom. There  is  probably  no  attribute  of 
the  Almighty  which  men  find  so  difficult 
to  understand,  or  to  imitate,  as  the  abil- 
ity to  let  things  alone,  the  power  not  to 
interfere. 

And  yet  it  is  perfectly  clear  that  some 
individuals,  and  some  nations,  have  had 
more  freedom  than  they  knew  what  to  do 
with,  and  such  individuals  and  such  na- 
tions have  generally  ended  by  becoming 
not  only  less  efficient,  but  less  free.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  eighteen-year-old  American  boy 
has  yet  demonstrated  his  fitness  for  so 
large  a  measure  of  freedom  as  is  involved 
in  the  free  elective  system.  Groups  of 
boys  whom  I  have  studied  under  such 
conditions  have  generally  recalled  Words- 
worth's phrase :  — 

Some  souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who   have   felt   the   weight    of  too    much 
liberty. 


The  special  function  of  the  college 
seems  to  me  to  be,  not  to  hold  up 
exclusively  the  ideal  of  discipline  or  of 
freedom,  but  to  serve  as  a  transition 
school  in  which  the  boy  grows  out  of 
one  into  the  other.  This  conception  of 
the  college  seems  to  me  justified  on  the 
grounds  of  individual  rights,  social  inter- 
est, and  the  efficiency  of  educational  or- 
ganization. 

The  process  of  transition  from  the 
tutelage  of  the  boy  to  the  freedom  of  the 
man  is  one  of  the  difficult  questions  in 
civilized  life.  No  -method  of  solving  it 
is  perfect,  or  is  adapted  to  every  boy. 
German  boys  go  from  the  strict  regime 
of  the  gymnasium  to  the  freedom  of 
the  university.  They  are  older  than  the 
boys  who  enter  American  colleges,  and 
are  far  better  educated  than  they.  The 
cost  of  the  process  is  reflected  in  the 
saying  current  in  the  universities,  that 
one- third  of  the  students  fail,  one-third  go 
to  the  devil,  but  the  remaining  third  gov- 
ern Europe.  It  seems  clear  that,  under 
any  system  which  makes  the  transition 
from  discipline  to  freedom  abrupt,  many 
are  taken.  The  special  function  of  the 
college  would  seem  to  be  to  make  this 
transition  less  expensive.  Otherwise  there 
seems  little  reason  for  departing  from  the 
German  plan  of  a  strong  secondary 
school  leading  directly  to  the  university. 

It  seems  clear  that  a  college  must  take 
account  of  its  duty  to  the  social  order  in 
which  it  exists,  as  well  as  to  the  individ- 
ual. It  is  not  enough  for  the  college  to  re- 
flect indiscriminately  the  strength  and  the 
weakness  of  the  nation.  It  must  stand 
against  the  current  of  superficiality  and 
commercialism  which  are  our  national 
weaknesses.  It  is  difficult  to  see  how  this 
duty  to  society  is  to  be  carried  out  by  the 
college  unless  there  be  admitted  some 
relation  between  the  amount  of  freedom 
accorded  to  a  boy  and  his  ability  to  use  it. 

Until  very  recently,  the  college  was  at 
the  top  of  our  educational  fabric.  It  had 
no  direct  relation  to  professional  educa- 
tion. So  long  as  this  was  true,  the  change 
in  our  standards  operated  simply  to  raise 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


611 


the  college  standards.  So  long  as  there 
was  nothing  beyond  it,  this  went  on  with- 
out much  questioning.  For  the  future,  the 
college  is  to  be  a  part  of  a  general  system 
of  education;  and  the  university,  with  its 
professional  schools  and  its  schools  of  re- 
search, is  to  rest  upon  it.  In  no  other  form 
of  educational  organization  is  the  college 
likely  permanently  to  survive. 

If  the  college  is  to  be  a  school  of  free 
choice,  it  can  scarcely  take  its  students 
earlier  than  the  present  age,  eighteen  and 
a  half.  This  brings  the  youth  too  late 
to  the  university.  The  picture  of  the  uni- 
versity resting  on  a  four-year  college, 
which  in  turns  rests  on  a  four-year  high 
school,  reminds  one  forcibly  of  Chicago 
in  the  early  days  when  the  houses  were 
boosted  up  on  posts.  The  arrangement 
fitted  a  passing  phase  of  municipal 
growth. 

The  pressure  of  economic,  no  less  than 
educational,  influences  will  demand  a 
solution  of  American  educational  organi- 
zation more  efficient,  better  proportioned, 
and  less  wasteful  of  time,  than  that  in- 
volved in  a  regime  which  delivers  men 
to  the  university  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three. 


In  the  reorganization  which  will  sooner 
or  later  come,  the  college  years  seem  to 
me  likely  to  be  those  between  sixteen  and 
twenty,  rather  than  between  eighteen  and 
twenty-two.  Under  such  an  arrangement 
the  college  will  take  account  both  of  disci- 
pline and  of  freedom.  Its  professors  will 
be,  first  of  all,  teachers,  and  its  function 
will  be  to  lead  boys  out  of  the  rule  of  the 
school  into  the  freedom  of  the  university ; 
out  of  the  tutelage  of  boyhood  into  the 
liberty  of  men.  If  the  college  does  not 
fill  this  function,  it  will  in  the  end  be 
squeezed  out  between  the  reorganized 
secondary  school  and  the  fully  developed 
university. 

Meantime  we  may  well  be  grateful 
both  for  the  college  of  discipline  and  for 
the  college  of  freedom.  These  are  great 
words,  and  each  stands  for  an  idea  in 
education  which  we  cannot  afford  to  for- 
get. Perhaps  it  might  be  well  to  inscribe 
over  the  gate  of  the  college  of  discipline 
and  that  of  the  college  of  freedom  the 
sentence  which  surmounts  the  Worcester 
Courts :  "  In  Obedience  to  the  Law  is 
Liberty"  —  in  the  first  case  the  emphasis 
to  be  laid  on  one  part  of  the  sentence, 
and  in  the  other  case  on  another  part. 


DEMOCRACY  AND   THE  EXPERT 


BY   JOSEPH   LEE 


THE  giving  of  a  course  of  popular 
lectures  at  the  Harvard  Medical  School 
is  a  matter  of  public  importance,  and 
marks,  as  I  believe,  a  new  era,  not  only 
in  the  history  of  medicine,  but  in  the  his- 
tory of  democracy.  In  giving  these  lec- 
tures, the  School  has  definitely  adopted 
the  policy  of  educating  the  people  on 
the  subject  of  disease,  and  has  thereby 
taken  a  radical  departure  from  the  tra- 
ditional attitude  of  the  medical  profes- 
sion. The  main  service  that  the  school 
has  thus  rendered  has  not  been  in  the 


saving  of  lives  of  persons  who  might  other- 
wise have  resorted  to  the  popular  Amer- 
ican expedient  of  consulting  the  fence  or 
the  newspaper  for  revelations  concerning 
their  physical  welfare,  nor  even  in  setting 
the  example  of  an  effective  way  of  such 
saving  of  life  and  health.  I  believe  that 
the  great,  and  what  I  think  will  some  time 
be  called  epoch-making,  service  that  the 
Harvard  Medical  School  has  performed 
by  becoming  a  pioneer  in  this  new  direc- 
tion is  in  the  fact  that  such  a  proceeding 
on  their  part  means  the  taking  of  a  long 


612 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


first  step  in  making  up  the  old  standing 
quarrel  between  democracy  and  the  ex- 
pert. 

That  such  a  quarrel  exists  is  sufficiently 
recognized.  Unwillingness  to  trust  and 
adequately  reward  the  expert  is  one  of  the 
standing  reproaches  against  democracy. 
It  is  more  than  a  mere  shortcoming;  it 
seems  often  to  amount  to  a  positive  en- 
mity, to  a  dislike  of  fitness  as  such,  to  a 
perverse  preference  for  the  incompetent. 
We  sometimes  seem  to  delight  in  humil- 
iating true  accomplishment,  and  in  en- 
trusting our  business  to  quacks. 

Especially  is  this  the  case  in  public  af- 
fairs, as  to  which  democracy  has  its  full- 
est swing.  If  a  man  has  devoted  years 
to  special  study  of  a  matter  that  comes 
before  a  legislative  committee,  that  very 
fact  goes  far  to  disqualify  him  as  a  wit- 
ness. Successful  appeal  will  be  very  apt 
to  be  made  from  him  to  "  common 
sense,"  or  to  "  the  judgment  of  business 
men,"  which  phrases  are  among  the  ordi- 
nary pet  names  for  ignorant  prejudice 
and  incompetence.  Genuine  achieve- 
ment is  habitually  passed  over  in  favor 
of  something  "  equally  as  good,"  —  pure 
gold  for  tinsel.  We  have  made  ourselves 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  world  by  our 
easy  credulity  toward  any  political  quack 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  flatter  our 
conceit.  We  are  more  easily,  and  more 
contentedly,  fleeced  by  sharpers,  pois- 
oned by  quacks,  and  ruined  by  shyster 
lawyers,  than  any  people  on  earth.  We 
allow  ourselves  to  be  governed  by  dis- 
honest and  impudent  pretenders,  and 
sometimes  to  be  led  in  war  by  braggart 
and  not  always  courageous  charlatans. 
Our  unwillingness  to  pay  our  judges  such 
salaries  as  will  command  the  highest  legal 
ability  costs  us  millions  of  dollars  every 
month,  through  the  preposterous  length 
of  court  proceedings,  the  not  infrequent 
perversion  of  justice,  and  the  general 
lowering  of  standard  in  the  whole  ad- 
ministration of  the  law  which  inevitably 
results. 

And  the  worst  of  it  all  is  that  our  fault 
is  not  merely  a  mental  one :  it  has  a  moral 


quality  in  it,  and  the  loss  accordingly  is 
not  merely  a  material  but  a  moral  one. 
Our  easy  victimizing  results  not  wholly 
from  mental  incapacity  to  distinguish 
between  the  true  and  the  counterfeit.  It 
arises  partly  from  a  certain  meanness  in 
which  democracy  is  seen  at  its  very 
worst;  from  jealousy,  from  the  sneaking 
envy  of  the  incapable  or  uneducated  man 
toward  those  of  better  training  or  greater 
ability  than  himself.  That  a  mounte- 
bank like  General  Butler  came  to  be 
chosen  representative  of  a  Massachusetts 
district  in  Congress,  in  preference  to  a 
citizen  of  the  known  worth  and  capac- 
ity of  Judge  Hoar,  was  not  because  any- 
body was  deceived  as  to  the  comparative 
merits  of  the  men,  but  partly  because 
Hoar  was  no  flatterer,  and  partly  because 
of  the  very  fact  that  every  voter  felt  in  his 
bones  that  he  was  the  superior  man.  No 
man  felt  uneasy  in  the  presence  of  But- 
ler's virtue. 

Democracy's  attitude  toward  the  ex- 
pert is  a  mean  and  foolish  attitude.  No 
greater  service  can  be  rendered  to  the 
democratic  cause  than  that  which  shall 
cleanse  it  of  this  fault.  Generous,  whole- 
hearted, enthusiastic  recognition  of  su- 
perior ability  and  training,  a  reverent 
appreciation  of  high  character  and  high 
attainment,  and  a  capacity  to  trust  and 
value  these  as  they  deserve:  these  are 
virtues  which  democracy  cannot  set  itself 
too  resolutely  to  attain,  nor  can  it  value 
too  highly  any  lesson  that  will  assist  it 
in  their  cultivation. 

But  the  need  of  such  enlightenment 
has,  as  I  have  said,  been  long  and  clearly 
recognized.  What  has  not  been  recog- 
nized is  the  fact  that  the  fault  has  not 
been  altogether  upon  one  side,  that  for 
the  making  up  of  the  quarrel  it  is  neces- 
sary, not  only  that  democracy  should  ex- 
perience a  change  of  heart,  but  that  the 
expert  should  recognize  that  he  also  has 
something  to  learn  and  to  amend.  Indeed 
the  bottom  fact  of  all,  and  one  which"  has 
hitherto  received  no  recognition  what- 
ever, is  that  the  fault  of  the  expert  has 
been  the  deeper  and  the  more  respons- 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


613 


ible  of  the  two.  If  democracy  has  sinned 
against  the  expert,  the  expert  has  sinned 
more  deeply  against  democracy ;  and  his 
sin  has  been  of  such  a  nature  as  to  consti- 
tute an  offense  not  only  against  demo- 
cracy, but  also  against  good  manners 
and  good  sense,  and  against  the  eternal 
principles  of  truth.  It  is  primarily  from 
this  fault  on  the  part  of  the  expert  that 
the  whole  quarrel  has  arisen,  and  no 
fundamental  and  lasting  reconciliation 
can  take  place  until  this  fault  is  cured. 

What  has  been  through  all  the  ages 
the  expert's  attitude  toward  the  common 
people?  What  has  been  the  customary 
answer  of  the  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the 
man  of  science,  when  asked  for  proofs  or 
explanations,  when  questioned  as  to  the 
sources  of  his  knowledge  or  the  basis  of 
his  claim  to  public  confidence  ?  What  is 
at  the  present  time,  or  at  least  what  has 
been  until  very  recently,  the  answer  of 
our  railroad  presidents  when  the  surviv- 
ing members  of  the  public  have  inquired 
as  to  the  reasons  for  the  slaughter  of  their 
friends  and  relatives,  or  the  ruin  of  their 
business  through  illegal  favoritism  ?  Has 
not  the  expert's  answer  in  all  ages  been 
practically  the  same  ?  "  Keep  off,  ye  pro- 
fane." "  Seek  not  to  penetrate  mysteries 
too  high  for  you."  "Meddle  not  with 
matters  above  your  sphere."  * '  Aspire  not 
beyond  thy  goose,  O  tailor."  "  Shoe- 
maker, stick  to  your  last."  "  A  little 
learning  is  a  dangerous  thing." 

No  layman,  we  are  assured,  can  hope 
io  understand  the  secrets  of  the  railroad 
business.  One  great  specialist  has  as- 
serted that  few  even  of  the  railroad  men 
themselves  can  understand  it.  Any  at- 
tempt on  the  part  of  the  public  to  pene- 
trate the  causes  of  these  slaughters  and 
discriminations  is  presumptuous  inter- 
ference. It  is  better  to  pay  with  a  thank- 
ful heart  our  annual  tribute  of  killed  and 
maimed  and  burned,  of  ruined  business, 
than  to  unsettle  by  unskillful  interference 
such  mighty  and  such  delicate  concerns. 
Just  so  were  the  military  snobs  in  Thack- 
eray's time,  with  the  greatest  military 
expert  then  living,  the  Iron  Duke,  at  their 


head,  assuring  everybody  that  flogging, 
even  to  the  death,  was  a  necessary  inci- 
dent to  the  maintenance  of  an  army,  and 
that  the  lay  intellect  had  best  not  meddle 
with  things  beyond  its  depth.  "  Go  your 
way  and  be  thankful  that  there  are  those 
who  know  better  than  you,  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  deal  with  matters  such  as 
these."  And  as  we  retreat,  dumbfounded, 
abashed,  some  Kipling  or  Carlyle  rushes 
out  from  beneath  the  shrine  and  barks  at 
us,  shrieking  that  we  are  "  mostly  fools," 
and  rendering  other  expert  opinions  as  to 
our  mental  capacity,  mingled  with  as- 
sertions that  any  man  with  sufficient  im- 
pudence .to  make  the  claim,  and  master 
of  the  more  brutal  arts  of  leadership,  is 
our  natural  king. 

To  such  an  attitude,  what  ought  the 
people  to  respond  ?  Assuming  that  we  on 
our  side  keep  our  temper,  what,  in  all 
meekness  and  humility,  and  with  every 
desire  to  recognize  the  expert's  real  su- 
periority, is  it  possible  for  us  to  answer  ? 
You  say  that  democracy  does  not  appre- 
ciate the  expert,  does  not  trust  him  as  he 
deserves.  But  how  can  we  trust  him  if 
the  only  ground  on  which  human  confi- 
dence can  be  based  —  if  all  opportunity 
of  understanding  —  is  taken  from  us  ? 
How  can  we  properly  appreciate  those 
who  declare  that  appreciation  —  the  set- 
ting of  a  price  —  as  to  the  things  in  which 
they  deal  is  a  feat  beyond  our  strength  ? 
Our  very  attempt  to  appreciate  or  to 
understand  is,  we  are  made  to  feel,  pre- 
sumptuous and  profane.  Is  democracy 
so  greatly  to  be  blamed  if  it  has  re- 
plied, — 

"Great  sir,  exalted  brother  of  the  Sun 
and  Moon,  I  salute  and  bow  to  thee.  Far 
be  it  from  such  as  I  to  assume  to  pene- 
trate these  mysteries  or  to  set  a  price  on 
them.  They  are,  as  thou  hast  said,  far 
beyond  the  humble  comprehension  of  thy 
servant.  And  as  touching  this  matter  of 
the  disputed  toll,  or  of  my  wife  that  thou 
hast  slain,  I  now  will  trouble  thee  no 
more;  but  I  will  place  in  charge  of  these 
my  railroads —  for  in  truth  they  are  mine 
as  being  created  under  my  franchise, 


614 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


built  largely  by  my  money,  and  as  my  life 
and  fortune  are  daily  entrusted  to  them 
—  I  will  put  in  charge  of  these,  I  say,  and 
also  of  other  interests  hitherto  entrusted 
to  other  great  magicians  like  thyself,  cer- 
tain humble  men  whose  words  and  whose 
dealings  I  can  understand,  leaving  to  thee 
and  to  thy  august  fraternity  the  untrou- 
bled pursuit  of  those  loftier  studies  for 
which,  by  your  sublime  attainments,  ye 
are  fitted." 

In  this,  or  in  some  such  way,  demo- 
cracy, it  would  seem,  is  constrained  to 
answer  if  it  is  to  accept  the  expert's  own 
interpretation  of  the  nature  of  his  ac- 
quirements and  of  the  people's  capacity 
for  valuing  these.  In  the  way  of  the  only 
alternative  —  that  of  humble  acceptance 
of  the  expert  on  his  own  terms  —  certain 
difficulties  arise.  In  the  first  place,  there 
is  a  practical  difficulty.  Democracy  — 
the  world,  in  fact  —  is  not  altogether  with- 
out experience  of  experts,  and  of  those 
claiming  to  be  such.  And  this  experience 
has  not  in  all  instances  been  reassuring. 
Time  was  when  the  specialist  was  met 
with  the  sort  of  faith  that  he  requires  of 
us.  For  many  centuries  men  submitted 
to  the  bandage  over  their  eyes  when  they 
approached  the  sanctum  or  the  labora- 
tory. But  more  recently  it  has  come  to 
light,  at  first  by  slow  degrees,  but  now 
fully  and  conclusively,  that  something  of 
the  supposed  necessity  for  such  observ- 
ance arose,  not  from  respect  for  sacred 
mysteries,  but  rather  from  a  tender  re- 
gard for  the  frail  constitution  and  delicate 
susceptibilities  of  humbug.  The  augurs 
have  been  seen  snickering  to  one  another 
too  often,  and  sound  reasons  for  their 
doing  so  have  been  too  frequently  re- 
vealed, to  admit  of  a  continuance  of  our 
earlier  and  more  childlike  faith. 

Nor  has  disillusion  affected  our  opin- 
ion only  of  the  quacks.  Certain  expe- 
riences have  raised  inevitable  question 
even  of  the  soundness  of  the  sound.  It 
has  sometimes  turned  out  that  even  the 
genuine,  instructed,  sincere  practitioner 
has  not  been  leading  us  upon  the  right 
road,  as  tested  by  the  mere  human  crite- 


rion of  results.  It  has  sometimes  even 
seemed  as  though  it  were  inevitably  the 
man  who  is  not  an  expert  —  the  outsider, 
the  amateur  —  to  whom  we  have  to  look 
for  the  larger  achievements,  so  far  at  least 
as  the  great  steps  of  progress  are  con- 
cerned. 

The  common  people  have  seen  with 
interest  the  country  gentleman,  Oliver 
Cromwell,  largely  self-taught  so  far  as 
military  knowledge  was  concerned,  give 
the  professionals  some  lessons  in  the 
art  of  war.  They  have  seen  legal  proced- 
ure remodeled  by  the  layman  Bentham, 
and  medicine  revolutionized  by  the  biolo- 
gist Pasteur.  And  they  have  seen  the  ex- 
perts in  these  two  latter  instances  kicking 
and  struggling  in  a  very  panic  of  profes- 
sional resentment  against  any  acceptance 
of  the  newer  light.  More  recently  they 
have  seen  the  crusade  for  the  prevention 
of  tuberculosis  —  indeed,  a  great  part  of 
the  advance  of  preventive  medicine  — 
led  by  laymen,  and  have  witnessed  the 
slow  and  reluctant  acceptance  by  the 
medical  profession  of  the  teachings  of 
outsiders  in  regard  to  the  mental  element 
in  disease.  They  have  seen  reason  even 
to  suspect  that,  in  the  highest  profession 
of  all,  the  very  priesthood  has  not  always 
furnished  such  safe  guidance  in  spiritual 
affairs  as  have  the  prophets,  always  from 
among  the  laity,  to  whom  they  are  so 
invariably  opposed. 

The  doctrine  of  the  expert  in  gov- 
ernment—  the  ancient  faith  that  wis- 
dom in  affairs  of  state  is  definitely  im- 
parted to  the  king,  or,  as  Plato  taught, 
is  the  especial  possession  of  the  trained 
and  intellectual  classes  —  has  suffered 
in  popular  esteem  by  comparison  of  the 
old  regime  in  Europe  with  the  new.  It 
has  been  further  shaken  by  the  exhibi- 
tion recently  afforded  by  Russia,  the 
extremest  example  of  what  unreserved 
trust  in  the  governmental  expert,  not 
merely  trained  from  childhood  to  his  bus- 
iness, but  especially  bred  and  selected  for 
it,  is  able  to  accomplish.  Nor  is  it  pos- 
sible to  remain  uninfluenced  by  contem- 
plation of  the  effects  that  the  King  of  Bel- 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


615 


giuin  has  been  able  to  produce  in  those 
portions  of  his  dominions  along  the  Con- 
go River  whose  fortune  it  has  been  to 
be  left  wholly  to  his  expert  guidance  and 
control.  What  town  meeting,  what  as- 
sembly of  a  primeval  horde,  —  nay,  what 
herd  of  buffalo  or  pack  of  wolves,  —  ever 
mismanaged  its  affairs  as  these  most 
supreme  and  fully  trained  and  trusted  of 
experts  have  mismanaged  theirs  ? 

The  expert  himself,  it  will  be  seen,  has 
placed  certain  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the 
faith  which  he  demands.  And  then,  sup- 
posing us  possessed  of  such  faith,  to  whom 
does  it  attach  ?  How  can  we  tell  the  true 
expert  from  the  counterfeit  ?  Even  super- 
natural guidance  presupposes  a  capacity 
in  the  believer  for  recognizing  a  miracle 
when  he  sees  one.  Clearly  the  professing 
expert's  claim  is  not  sufficient.  In  the 
absence  of  a  sign  from  Heaven,  the  sign 
over  your  door  does  not  suffice. 

Plato  has  well  stated  the  expert's  view 
of  the  matter  in  saying  that  when  you 
want  to  take  ship  for  Delos  you  hire,  not 
a  shoemaker  or  some  other  amiable  citi- 
zen, but  a  pilot;  to  which  the  democrat  is 
constrained  to  answer,  "  Most  true,  O 
Plato ;  but  forgive  me  if  I  suggest  that  it  is 
I  that  am  going  to  Delos,  and  that  the 
necessity  is  thereby  placed  upon  me  to 
judge  of  the  pilot's  capacity  to  take  me 
there;  that  I  am  therefore,  by  this  neces- 
ity,  constrained  to  seek  such  evidence  as 
may  be  convincing  to  my  own  humble 
and  limited  intelligence,  both,  upon  the 
one  hand,  as  to  whether  the  pilot  is  a  pilot 
in  truth,  and  also,  upon  the  other,  as  to 
whether  he  intends  to  take  me  to  Delos 
and  to  no  other  place.  You  will,  perhaps, 
remember  my  cousin  who  took  ship,  in- 
deed, for  Delos,  but  was  landed  in  Crete, 
and  my  aunt  who,  having  made  a  similar 
arrangement,  was  never  landed  at  all. 
Forgive  me,  therefore,  if,  with  your  kind 
permission,  I  make  a  few  trifling  inquir- 
ies, such  as  in  this  matter  seem  to  me  to 
be  necessary,  before  I  go  aboard." 

It  is  not  because  of  perversity,  but  by 
necessity,  that  democracy  refuses  to  be 
blindfolded,  that  it  objects  to  the  notice, 


"  Leave  your  brains  in  the  umbrella  stand 
when  you  come  in."  —  "  Excuse  me,  sir, 
but  they  are  the  only  brains  I  have.  If 
I  am  not  to  use  my  mind,  whose  shall  I 
use,  and  by  the  use  of  whose  judgment 
shall  I  decide  to  use  it?" 

But  the  practical  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  the  blind  faith  that  the  expert  requires 
of  us  are  as  nothing  compared  to  those 
raised  by  the  terms  in  which  the  demand 
itself  is  put.  In  the  last  analysis,  the  ex- 
pert's claim  is  a  claim  to  the  exemption  of 
himself,  and  the  subjects  with  which  he 
deals,  from  the  ordinary  jurisdiction  of 
the  human  mind.  His  attitude  toward  the 
common  people  has  been  not  merely  that 
they  do  not  understand  because  they  have 
not  had  time  to  give  to  his  particular  sub- 
ject, but  that  they  are  constitutionally  in- 
capable of  understanding  it.  It  has  been 
not  merely,  "You  do  not  know,"  but, 
"  You  cannot  know.  The  things  I  deal 
with  are  of  a  sort  from  the  comprehension 
of  which  you  are  by  nature  excluded.  No 
amount  of  study  on  your  part,  no  explan- 
ation on  mine,  would  be  of  any  use." 

Explanation,  indeed,  has  consistently 
been  regarded  as  worse  than  useless.  Ac- 
cording to  the  tradition  of  the  learned, 
the  common  people  are  still  profane. 
"  Neither  meddle  nor  mell  with  things 
above  your  sphere."  "  The  belly  and  its 
members :  —  it  is  yours  to  be  hands  and 
feet;  seek  not  either  to  govern  or  digest." 

And  any  knowledge  of  the  inner  mys- 
teries that  the  layman  may  seem  to 
acquire  is  necessarily  false  and  spurious. 
What  looked  to  you  like  knowledge  is,  by 
a  reversal  of  the  fable  of  the  fairy  gold, 
turned  to  dross  when  once  you  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  sanctuary. 

To  the  anxious  inquirer,  being  no  ex- 
pert but  a  mere  stockholder  troubled  in 
his  conscience  about  the  source  of  the 
dividends  he  receives,  the  mill  treasurer 
responds,  "  Your  question  is  a  vain  and 
foolish  one.  We  have  no  machines  made 
low  for  the  use  of  children ;  the  idea  is  pre- 
posterous and  absurd."  —  "  But,  most 
wise,  august,  and  financially  respectable 
Sir,  I  have  seen  such  machines.  They  cer- 


616 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


tainly  are  machines;  they  are  too  low  for 
grown  people  to  use;  they  are  used  by 
children ;  and  the  superintendent  told  me 
that  they  were  intended  for  such  use.  You 
see  my  difficulty."  To  this  the  expert, 
"  The  things  you  saw  may  have  looked  to 
you  like  machines,  and  the  creatures  using 
them  like  children;  and  you  may  have 
thought  the  machines  were  low  ones.  But 
we  who  are  learned  in  this  business  know 
that  you  could  not  have  seen  these  things. 
What  you  really  saw,  indeed,  it  is  not 
permitted,  nor  even  possible,  to  reveal. 
At  least  know  this:  mill  management  is 
a  mystery,  deep  and  dangerous,  whose 
whole  structure  would  be  imperiled  by 
the  touch,  even  by  the  approach,  of  the 
profane." 

In  fact,  the  essence  of  the  expert's  posi- 
tion, in  the  final  analysis,  is  that  expert 
knowledge  is  of  a  different  kind  from 
other  knowledge :  that  it  is  peculiar,  eso- 
teric; that  it  partakes,  in  short,  of  the 
miraculous.  It  is  regarded,  not  as  the  pro- 
duct of  the  purely  human  faculties,  but 
as  revealed,  conferred  by  some  sort  of 
initiation  or  laying  on  of  hands  which  has 
raised  the  acolyte  into  a  sphere  which  the 
outsider  can  never  hope  to  penetrate.  The 
plea  is  a  plea  to  the  jurisdiction.  It  is  a 
denial  of  the  catholicity  and  sovereignty 
of  the  human  mind. 

This  attitude,  indeed,  is  not  deliberate- 
ly assumed.  It  is  unconsciously  accepted 
by  the  expert  of  to-day  as  he  finds  it  em- 
bodied in  time-honored  tradition.  It  de- 
scends from  the  days  when  all  learning 
savored  in  the  popular  imagination  some- 
thing of  magic  and  the  black  art,  and 
when  the  scholar  himself  was  not  quite 
sure  whether  the  matters  he  was  dealing 
with  were  lawful;  from  the  time  when 
the  chemist  was  the  alchemist,  when  it 
was  considered  only  the  normal  accom- 
paniment of  scientific  attainment  that 
the  Devil  and  Doctor  Faustus  should  be 
on  such  intimate  terms,  and  when  even 
the  craftsman's  skill  was  called  his  mys- 
tery. It  comes  down,  indeed,  from  a  time 
anterior  even  to  that,  from  a  time  when 
all  experts  were  assumed  as  a  matter  of 


course  to  be  possessed  of  inspiration  of 
some  sort,  either  from  below  or  from 
above,  whether  as  king  or  judge  or  ora- 
cle or  priest  or  wizard  or  medicine  man. 
Of  this  traditional  expert  attitude  the 
doctor  may,  I  think,  be  taken  as  the 
typical  exponent.  He  is  the  expert  of  the 
experts.  He  appears,  to  the  present  day, 
with  the  tall  cap  still  visible  above  his 
brows  and  the  long  pictured  robe  trail- 
ing behind,  as  immortalized  by  Moliere. 
He  comes  before  us  not  quite  in  the  day- 
light of  ordinary  ascertainable  truth,  but 
still  something  in  the  manner  of  the 
Ghost  in  Hamlet,  trailing  clouds  of  mys- 
tery suggestive  of  some  superhuman  as- 
sociation. It  is  perhaps  natural  that  the 
doctor  especially  should  derive  his  tradi- 
tions from  the  sorcerer  and  the  medicine 
man;  that  there  should,  accordingly,  still 
linger  about  him  something  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  magic,  of  necromancy,  a  flavor 
of  incantation,  "  of  charm,  of  lamen, 
sigil,  talisman,  spell,  crystal,  pentacle, 
magic  mirror,  and  geomantic  figure;  of 
periapts,  and  abracadabras;  of  mayfern 
and  vervain ;  "  a  reminiscence  of 
Your  toad,  your  crow,  your  dragon,  and  your 

panther, 
Your  sun,  your  moon,  your  firmament,  your 

adrop, 

Your  Lato,  Azoch,  Zernich,  Chibrit,  Heautarit, 
With  all  your  broths,  your  menstrues,  your 

materials, 
Would  burst  a  man  to  name. 

The  doctor  has,  in  its  intensest  form, 
the  traditional  contempt  of  the  specialist 
for  the  layman's  knowledge  and  capacity. 
"  A  little  knowledge  dangerous  ?  It  is  all 
but  fatal."  "  Open  your  mouth  and  shut 
your  eyes,  and  I  '11  give  you  something  to 
make  you  —  better;  wise  you  cannot 
hope  to  be."  Even  the  plainest -facts  of 
medicine  are  perilous  stuff,  too  heavily 
charged  with  potentialities  for  the  lay- 
man to  be  permitted  to  deal  with  them. 
A  woman  who  is  trusted  to  look  in  her 
children's  faces,  to  see  whether  they  look 
heavy-eyed,  seem  listless,  whether  their 
color  is  clear  and  their  temper  what  it 
ought  to  be,  is  often,  even  to  the  present 
day,  discouraged  from  using  a  clinical 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


617 


thermometer.  Of  course,  there  are  excel- 
lent reasons.  A  mother  must  not  be  too 
fussy.  She  will  begin  to  worry  about  the 
children  if  she  is  permitted  to  take  their 
temperature.  She  may,  it  is  true,  be  safe- 
ly allowed  to  observe  those  other  more 
subtle  symptoms  about  which  a  person 
might  well  imagine  things;  but  when  it 
comes  to  seeing  which  scratch  on  a  glass 
tube  a  column  of  mercury  has  got  oppo- 
site to,  then  the  danger  signal  is  hung 
out.  That  is  too  difficult  a  task  for  her 
mere  maternal  mind  to  cope  with. 

There  are,  as  I  have  said,  excellent 
reasons  for  such  warning  off.  There  is 
also  a  real  reason,  though  one  not  con- 
scious on  the  doctor's  part,  namely,  that 
there  still  lingers  in  the  medical  mind  a 
feeling  that  a  medical  instrument  is  an  in- 
strument of  art,  with  a  little  of  the  quality 
of  enchantment  still  clinging  to  it,  not  to 
be  handled  by  laymen  without  incurring 
the  punishment  of  those  who  approach 
forbidden  secrets.  What  if,  by  her  un- 
skillful use,  she  should  unwittingly  raise 
the  genie  of  the  thermometer  ?  Or  what 
if,  by  using  it  at  all,  she  should  find  that 
there  is  nothing  magic  about  it,  and  so 
should  come  to  doubt  the  talismanic  char- 
acter of  other  instruments,  to  question 
the  supernatural  element  in  the  whole 
of  medical  science  and  therapeutics  ?  If 
it  were  a  man,  the  case  would  not  be  quite 
so  bad,  but  woman  is  the  last  and  most 
persistent  of  believers.  In  her,  illusion 
still  survives.  Let  us  not  unsettle  her 
belief. 

The  dissent  on  the  part  of  democracy 
from  the  traditional  expert  attitude  is,  as 
I  have  indicated,  deeper  than  a  question 
of  manners,  or  even  than  one  of  common 
sense.  The  issue  is  not  superficial;  it  is 
not  the  result  of  misunderstanding;  nor 
does  it  arise  from  practical  considerations 
alone.  It  is  radical,  fundamental,  and 
inevitable. 

The  cardinal  doctrine  of  democracy  — 
the  thing  for  which  it  stands,  on  its  intel- 
lectual side  —  is  faith  in  the  human  mind. 
Democracy  believes  that  the  thing  to  be 
forever  trusted  and  followed  in  this  world 


is  the  human  reason;  that  guidance  in 
human  affairs  is  to  be  sought  not  prim- 
arily in  tradition,  in  special  revelation, 
or  in  any  mysteries,  or  from  any  sources 
whatsoever,  that  are  not  germane  to  the 
human  intellect,  and  that  do  not  hold 
their  credentials  from  it.  This  is  the 
democratic  principle  of  equality,  the  fun- 
damental article  of  the  democratic  faith. 
Not,  as  glib  and  superficial  critics  so 
readily  assume,  equality  in  virtue,  or  in 
ability,  in  fortune,  in  strength  or  weight, 
in  stature  or  in  color ;  not  equality  in  any 
outward  or  measurable  respect;  not  an 
arithmetical  equality  at  all,  not  quantita- 
tive; not  a  question  of  amount,  but  of 
kind. 

The  democratic  belief  in  equality  is 
the  belief  that  all  men  alike  are  subject 
to  the  moral  law  of  obedience  to  their  own 
best  thought,  that  the  supreme  authority 
declares  itself,  not  from  the  outside  but 
from  within.  Theologically  expressed,  it 
is  the  belief  that  God  speaks  in  every  hu- 
man soul,  and  that  it  is  not  in  the  power 
of  man  to  overrule  his  word  or  supersede 
his  authority.  It  is  the  faith  announced 
by  Elijah  when  he  declared  that  God 
spoke  not  in  the  wind  nor  in  the  earth- 
quake nor  in  the  fire,  but  in  the  still  small 
voice;  the  faith  whose  greater  prophet 
proclaimed  that  the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
is  within  you.  This  faith  in  the  inner 
voice  —  faith  in  equality  in  the  sense 
that  all  men  are  equally,  because  abso- 
lutely, responsible  to  the  best  thought 
of  their  own  unbribed  intelligence  —  is 
democracy  on  its  intellectual  side;  just 
as  fraternity,  or  the  love  and  reverence 
for  the  divine  element  in  every  man,  is 
the  sentiment  of  democracy,  and  as  the 
pursuit  of  liberty,  the  striving  that  the  di- 
vine nature  in  each  may  have  its  way  — 
make  ye  smooth  the  way  of  the  Lord  — 
is  its  active  expression. 

Democracy  cannot  recognize  limits  to 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  human  mind  not 
prescribed  by  the  nature  of  the  mind 
itself.  It  believes  in  the  authority,  and 
in  the  obligation,  of  the  human  intellect 
to  read  the  universe  unexpurgated,  as 


618 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


it  stands,  unterrified  by  the  notices  of 
"  private  way,  dangerous,"  that  individ- 
uals, however  august,  may  have  taken 
upon  themselves  the  liberty  to  set  up. 

And  the  thing  to  be  forever  recognized 
in  this  matter  is,  that  democracy  is  eter- 
nally in  the  right  and  the  expert  in  the 
wrong.  The  attitude  of  the  expert  is  es- 
sentially a  false  attitude.  It  is  false  with 
the  most  irreconcilable  kind  of  falseness. 
It  is  contrary  not  only  to  particular  truths 
but  to  the  nature  of  truth  itself.  There 
are  not  two  kinds  of  knowledge  in  this 
world,  but  only  one;  and  there  is,  corre- 
spondingly, but  one  way  in  which  know- 
ledge can  be  attained.  One  man  may 
have  more  mind  than  another  or  a  better 
mind,  or  he  may  put  his  mind  to  a  better 
use.  But  no  man  has  a  different  kind  of 
mind.  There  is  in  human  acquirement 
no  jumping-off  place  where  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  human  intellect  comes  to 
an  end  and  some  other  jurisdiction  takes 
its  place.  Columbus  sails  farther  than 
others,  but  it  is  upon  the  same  ocean  and 
by  grace  of  the  same  wind.  Democracy's 
dissent  from  the  traditional  expert  posi- 
tion is  based  upon  the  eternal  principles 
of  truth,  and  from  that  dissent  no  man 
who  has  received  the  democratic  faith 
can  ever  truthfully  recede. 

This  democratic  creed  of  ours  does  not 
preclude  trust  in  the  expert.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  the  only  creed  that  makes  truly 
possible  that  or  any  other  kind  of  trust. 
What  it  does  prescribe  is  the  basis  of  our 
faith.  It  requires  that  whatever  trust  we 
place  in  the  expert,  or  in  any  other  source, 
shall  result  from  our  trust  in  our  own  rea- 
son and  shall  derive  whatever  strength  it 
has  from  that.  Whomever  else  you  hold 
of,  you  hold  ultimately  of  the  king.  If  the 
expert  is  to  have  a  standing  in  the  world 
as  it  really  is,  it  must  be  through  discard- 
ing all  pretensions  to  esoteric  knowledge 
and  appealing  solely  to  that  common  hu- 
man intelligence  which  he  has  hitherto 
despised. 

And  with  the  making  of  such  appeal  the 
expert's  ancient  quarrel  with  democracy 


will  disappear.  Democracy  has  no  anti- 
pathy to  specialization  as  such,  no  inhe- 
rent unwillingness  to  accept  the  fact  that, 
as  we  cannot  all  do  everything,  we  must 
recognize  the  superiority  of  each  in  his 
own  domain ;  that,  when  you  keep  a  dog 
to  bark,  you  should  not  bark  yourself. 

It  is  true  that  the  function  of  the  ex- 
pert will  always  be  a  subordinate  func- 
tion; that,  though  he  can  help  you  to 
carry  out  your  purpose,  the  purpose  must 
be  forever,  intimately  and  concretely, 
your  own.  His  employment  must  always 
be  to  specific  ends  which  you  have  pre- 
scribed, and  not  for  general  purposes ;  and 
even  within  the  specific  end  the  trust  is 
always  revocable.  The  one  act  of  sover- 
eignty that  the  mind  cannot  perform  is  to 
abdicate. 

There  are,  also,  certain  rules  of  evi- 
dence, not  technical,  nor  arbitrarily  as- 
sumed, but  such  as  are  imposed  by  the 
nature  of  the  mind  itself.  As  a  rule,  we 
prefer  to  judge  of  your  performance  by 
its  fruits,  that  being  the  method  by  which, 
as  it  happens,  the  human  mind  is  most 
susceptible  of  being  perfectly  convinced. 
Whistler,  with  characteristic  petulance, 
repudiates  all  judgment  of  the  artist  but 
by  his  fellow-artists.  We  have  no  quar- 
rel with  such  judging;  on  the  contrary, 
there  is  much  that  is  commendable  in  a 
professional  standard,  and  we  outsiders 
can,  when  necessary,  permit  ourselves  to 
be  guided  by  it.  But  such  reliance  is  not 
always  safe.  You  cannot  always  choose 
your  architect  by  the  standard  of  archi- 
tects, your  messenger  boy  by  the  stand- 
ard of  messenger  boys,  your  cook  by 
the  standard  of  cooks.  Opinion,  like  the 
building  which  the  architect  erects,  can- 
not wholly  support  itself;  it  must  rest  at 
some  point  on  the  solid  ground.  Do  the 
buildings  actually  stand  up?  Do  the 
messages  get  delivered?  Are  the  pud- 
dings, after  all.  such  as  one  can  eat  ?  It 
has,  unfortunately,  sometimes  happened 
that  a  whole  profession  has  got  off  upon  a 
side  track,  each  one  calling  to  his  neigh- 
bor that,  as  all  are  traveling  together,  all 
must  still  be  on  the  road.  Let  the  artists 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


619 


by  all  means  judge  of  one  another's  work. 
But  if  the  picture  does  not  restore  my 
soul,  of  what  use  is  it  to  me  ? 

But,  whatever  the  rules  of  evidence,  the 
main  question  is  not  of  the  rules,  but  of 
the  tribunal  for  whose  use,  and  by  whose 
authority,  the  rules  are  made. 

Let  the  expert  and  all  others  remember 
that,  whatever  the  rules,  it  is  for  me  and 
not  for  you  to  make  them.  It  is  I  who  am 
making  the  judgment,  and  the  evidence 
must  be  such  as  to  satisfy  the  court.  We 
of  the  democratic  faith  hold  ourselves 
responsible,  and  utterly  responsible,  not 
only  for  the  ends  we  seek,  but  for  our 
choice  of  means.  Not  that  we  shall 
choose  right,  but  that  we  shall  choose  in 
accordance  with  the  only  guide  we  have ; 
that  we  shall  trust,  and  utterly  trust,  the 
judgment  of  the  one  supreme  tribunal, 
and  shall  permit  no  divided  jurisdiction. 
It  may  be  difficult  for  me  to  understand 
•the  matter,  but  except  so  far  as  I  do  un- 
derstand I  cannot  judge,  and  therefore 
am  not  at  liberty  to  follow. 

And  in  all  this  question  of  when  and 
how  to  trust,  and  whom  to  follow,  though 
judging  may  in  any  given  case  be  difficult, 
there  is  one  comparatively  simple  test, 
and  one  that  democracy  very  generally 
applies.  Does  he  recognize  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  court  ?  Does  he  appeal  to  your 
intelligence  or  against  it?  Does  he  say, 
"  Use  your  mind,  enter,  examine,  test, 
and  draw  your  own  conclusions  "  ?  or 
does  he  say,  "  This  is  a  great  mystery;, 
keep  out.  Seek  not  to  understand"  ? 
According  to  this  test  the  expert  has 
been  tried,  and  has  been  found  wanting. 
He  is,  so  far,  in  contempt  of  court;  and 
it  is  this  contempt  that  is  the  cause  of  his 
quarrel  with  democracy. 

It  has  been  this  false  attitude  on  the 
part  of  the  real  expert  that  has  given  the 
quack  his  opportunity;  and  he  has  been 
quick  to  see  and  take  advantage  of  it. 
Just  where  the  honest  practitioner  has 
made  his  one  false  step,  the  charlatan  has 
put  forward  his  single  claim  to  stand  on 
solid  ground.  He  has  won  what  share 
he  possesses  of  the  public  confidence  by 


appealing,  or  at  least  pretending  to  ap- 
peal, to  the  only  thing  there  is  in  this 
world  to  which  an  honest  appeal  can  be 
made,  —  the  natural,  unbiased  judgment 
of  the  human  mind.  "  Magnetism  ex- 
plained." "  The  mysteries  of  medical 
science  laid  bare."  "  Come  and  examine 
our  processes."  "Read  our  testimonials." 
"  Send  for  a  booklet."  "  If  I  could  take 
you  over  my  factory."  The  quack  does, 
it  is  true,  make  use  of  mystery  and  of  the 
fascination  of  the  unknown.  Indeed,  he 
uses  such  means  to  the  utmost.  But 
through  it  all  he  pretends  always  to  ap- 
peal to  reason.  He  never  denies  the  peo- 
ple's right  to  judge,  but  on  the  contrary 
affirms  and  seems  to  rely  upon  it.  His 
constant  profession  is  eagerness  to  in- 
struct, implying  at  least  a  potential  ability 
in  the  public  to  understand.  People  have 
turned  from  the  true  physician  to  the 
quack,  not  wholly  from  love  of  quackery 
and  humbug,  but  because  of  his  apparent 
truth  in  this  one  respect;  because  in  this 
important  matter  of  trusting  or  not  trust- 
ing the  human  intelligence,  the  true  doc- 
tor has  been  the  quack,  and  the  quack  has 
assumed  to  occupy  the  true  position. 

Let  the  expert  once  frankly  submit 
himself  to  the  judgment  of  the  lay  intelli- 
gence and  he  will  not  find  us  exacting  as 
to  the  sort  of  testimony  he  presents.  We 
will  put  ourselves  in  his  hands,  relying  on 
hearsay  evidence,  or  on  the  opinion  of  the 
profession  if  need  be,  provided  only  that 
our  faith  is  not  inhibited  by  pretensions 
that  we  must  regard  as  false.  The  people 
permit  Lincoln,  in  a  supreme  crisis  of 
their  affairs,  to  spend  their  money  as  to 
him  seems  best,  and  accept  the  fact  that 
Grant  must  sometimes  act  as  he  finds 
necessary  without  taking  them  into  his 
confidence.  They  can  even  trust  against 
the  evidence,  as  their  pathetic  faith  in  the 
cook,  the  steamboat  captain,  even  in  rail- 
road management,  —  a  faith  that  no  ex- 
perience seems  able  to  overthrow,  —  suf- 
ficiently attests.  Let  us  once  be  assured 
that  the  solid  ground  on  which  we  are  ac- 
customed to  walk  extends  unbroken  into 
your  sanctum,  without  pitfall  or  jump- 


620 


Democracy  and  the  Expert 


ing-off  place,  and  our  faith  will  go  forth 
to  you  unchecked. 

Especially  may  a  profession  possessing 
a  standard  for  its  own  members  that  will 
lead  some  of  them  to  face  death  rather 
than  suffer  an  unverified  conclusion  as  to 
the  cause  of  a  disease,  confidently  entrust 
its  fortunes  to  the  verdict  of  the  public 
heart. 

And  now,  if  there  is  anything  of  truth 
in  my  diagnosis  of  the  underlying  cause 
of  the  estrangement  between  the  expert 
and  democracy,  is  it  not  evident  that 
these  popular  lectures  at  the  Harvard 
Medical  School  do  constitute  in  truth  an 
epoch-making  event  ?  Here  we  have  the 
specialist  in  his  most  specialized  form, 
the  expert  of  experts  and  magician  of 
magicians,  the  high  priest  and  guardian 
of  the  innermost  circle,  the  very  medicine 
man  himself,  drawing  aside  the  curtain, 
throwing  wide  the  portals  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, haranguing  in  the  very  market 
place,  expounding  sacred  mysteries  in 
language  that  the  people  can  understand, 
appealing  to,  seeking  to  convince,  the  lay 
intelligence.  Here,  at  last  and  indeed,  is 
Saul  among  the  prophets.  And  notable, 
in  my  opinion,  will  be  the  order  of  the 
prophesying  which  it  will  henceforth  be 
our  privilege  to  hear.  If  a  little  learning 
is  in  truth  a  dangerous  thing,  we  are  now 
going  to  find  it  out.  For  learning  in 
smallest  doses,  and  upon  the  most  im- 
mediately dangerous  of  all  subjects,  is 
henceforward  to  be  administered  broad- 
cast and  by  those  as  coming  from  whose 
hands  it  is  bound  to  have  its  maximum 
effect. 

And  is  it  not  evident  also  what  the  re- 
sult must  be  ?  Is  it  not  clear  that  the 
effect  on  the  expert  of  such  a  change  of  at- 
titude must  be,  not  his  deposition  but  his 
inauguration,  his  coming  into  his  own? 
He  is  now  to  stand  before  the  world,  for 
the  first  time  in  history,  in  a  true  and 
not  a  false  position.  With  the  withdrawal 
of  the  old  false  claim  to  an  imaginary 


superiority,  based  on  the  possession  of  a 
kind  of  knowledge  that  does  not  exist, 
there  will  flow  out  to  him  for  the  first  time 
the  full  sustaining  tide  of  genuine  public 
confidence  and  recognition.  In  place  of 
the  pious  supposition  that  as  he  pretends 
so  much  he  must  probably  know  some- 
thing of  the  subject  with  which  he  deals, 
he  will  now  receive,  as  has  never  been 
permitted  to  him  before,  that  real  spon- 
taneous appreciation  of  which  wages  are 
the  sacrament  and  symbol.  It  is  such 
true  mutual  relations,  reaching  freely  and 
in  reality  from  mind  to  mind,  that  consti- 
tute the  expert's  true  character  and  posi- 
tion, that  make  his  function  possible. 
Compared  with  those  that  have  hitherto 
existed,  the  experts  that  we  are  to  see 
will  be  what  grass  grown  in  the  open  field 
is  to  that  raised  in  a  cellar  or  under  a 
board-walk. 

But  in  this  matter  it  is  the  greater,  the 
spiritual,  values  that  we  are  mainly  deal- 
ing with.  And  among  these  the  greatest 
arise  from  what  we  are  permitted  to  give, 
not  from  what  we  receive.  To  the  expert 
the  greatest  gain  will  be,  not  from  the  in- 
creased respect  in  which  he  will  be  held, 
but  in  his  new  respect  for  his  fellow  citi- 
zens, both  as  customers  from  whose  free 
assessment  of  his  services  his  true  stand- 
ing is  derived,  and  as  fellow  servants 
whose  claims,  so  far  as  they  render  true 
service,  through  mastery  each  in  his  par- 
ticular line,  are  precisely  similar  to  his 
.  own.  While  the  greatest  gain  of  all  will 
be  that  of  the  common  citizen  of  the  de- 
mocracy, a  gain  of  which  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  quacks  —  of  the  Hearsts  and 
Morans  in  politics,  the  Butlers  and 
Bankses  in  war,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
motley  company  —  will  be  but  a  symp- 
tom or  by-product;  the  gain  in  being 
permitted  heartily  to  reverence  high  at- 
tainment without  being,  or  fearing  to  be, 
untrue  to  democracy's  abiding  conviction 
of  the  authority  and  integrity  of  the  hu- 
man mind. 


THE  SOUL  OF  NIPPON 1 

A  MEDLEVAL  LEGEND   OF  JAPAN 

BY   JOSEPH   I.    C.    CLARKE 

AT  winter  dusk  upon  the  hillside  cold, 

While  shivering  trees  made  moan, 

Went  Hojo  Tokiyori  all  alone. 

Free  of  his  Regent  robes  and  zone  of  gold, 

Free  of  all  trappings  of  imperial  state, 

Plain  garbed  as  Buddhist  priest,  he  bent  his  head 

Before  the  icy  winds  that  beat 

Upon  him  as  he  upward  strode. 

Rough  and  stony  was  the  road; 

Across  the  rim  of  waters  Fuji's  crest 

Rose  dim  and  blue  against  the  paling  West. 

Bare  lay  the  frosted  valley  at  his  feet, 

And  faint  and  far  upon  the  plain  below, 

The  lights  of  Kamakura  shed  their  glow. 

He  turned  and  gazed  and  grimly  said,  — 

"No  royal  palace  is  the  home  of  truth, 
So  now  I  dare  what  every  mortal  fears  — 
The  judgment  of  a  man  by  his  compeers  — 
The  test  that  men  still  flinch  from  till  they  die. 
For  if  I'd  still  hold  rule  supreme,  be  great 
Of  deed  and  mind, 

Myself  must  learn  what  man  't  is  guards  my  gate; 
Must  learn  what  man  am  I. 
And  haply  in  the  hollows  of  the  wind, 
The  mighty  soul  of  Nippon  I  shall  find." 

Closer  he  drew  his  robe  of  ashen  gray, 

And  faced  once  more  the  darkening,  upward  way. 

On,  on  he  trod  'neath  cloud-veiled  stars  till  dawn, 

His  spirit  to  the  soul's  high  levels  drawn, 

And  begged  for  food  or  sleeping  place 

From  poor  and  rich,  from  good  and  base. 

1  Under  the  title  Trees  in  Jars,  this  legend  forms  the  basis  of  a  chant  used  in  the  classic 
Japanese  No  dance,  which,  with  its  Chorus,  robed  actors  and  musicians,  strikingly  suggests  the 
beginnings  of  the  Greek  drama.  Tokiyori  was  a  Shikkin,  or  Regent,  of  the  Hojo  family,  real 
rulers  of  Japan  under  the  sacred  but  secluded  and  powerless  Mikado.  They  flourished  in  the 
thirteenth  century  A.  D.  The  Regent  was  Shogun,  or  chief  general,  as  well,  unless  he  delegated 
that  power. 


The  Soul  of  Nippon 

And  ever  learned  he  more  from  friend  and  foe 

The  subtle  things  that  dynasts  seek  to  know 

Of  wit  or  warning  against  overthrow. 

Often  in  lordly  hall  or  peasant's  cot, 

In  words  of  praise  or  slight, 

With  deepened  shadows  or  excess  of  light, 

Saw  his  own  picture  drawn,. and  knew  it  not. 
"Yea,  words  are  plenty:  wisdom  rare,"  said  he. 
"  My  name  of  common  tongues  the  sport, 

The  shuttlecock  of  good  and  ill  report; 

Yet  in  it  all  no  sunrise-ray  there  be. 

O  Soul  of  Nippon,  speak  thou  unto  me!" 

From  fruitless  searchings  by  the  Eastern  strands, 

Through  winter  days,  and  toiling  sore, 

Back  by  Shinano's  wild  volcanic  lands 

The  weary  Tokiyori  bore, 

Till  lost  in  Kozeki  on  an  eve  of  storm, 

It  seemed  he  could  no  farther  go. 

The  night  had  fall'n,  and  with  it  came  the  snow, 

In  blinding  flakes  and  dancing  whirls  of  white, 

And  numb  his  hands  and  feet  began  to  grow, 

When,  as  through  tattered  shojis,  came  a  gleam  — 

Dim  as  a  blurred  star  in  a  dream  — 

And  groping  toward  it  painfully, 

He  paused,  and  cried,  "  Pray  shelter  me." 

Back  slid  the  shoji,  and  a  gaunt  old  man 
Came  out,  and  looked  upon  the  farer's  face. 
His  smile  of  welcome  died,  and  in  its  place 
Came  awe  and  shame;  then,  halting,  he  began,  — 
"Most  reverend  —  and  noble  —  we  are  poor; 
A  famine-hut  that  dogs  would  not  endure. 
Cross  yonder  hill,  and  richer  folk  you'll  find." 

And  Tokiyori  silent  faced  the  wind. 

Now  came  the  aged  good  wife  raging  forth, 
Her  anger  rising  more  and  more. 
"Sano  gan  Zymo,"  said  she,  "  where 's  the  worth 
Of  being  born  a  samurai, 
Thus  to  debase  the  honor  of  your  door? 
On  night  like  this  to  turn  a  man  away 
When  we  should  open  to  a  beast?" 


The  Soul  of  Nippon  623 

"Before  him,  wife,  a  lordlike  priest," 
Old  Sano  muttered,  "we  should  die  of  shame." 


"Were  he  the  Regent,"  cried  the  dame, 
"You  should  not  let  him  go 

To  die  amid  the  wind  and  snow. 

Who  knows  but  this  our  life  of  bitter  need 

Comes  from  God's  finger,  pointing  to  no  deed 

Of  godlike  charity  to  light  our  path? 

We  little  have:  the  strange  priest  nothing  hath. 

Run:  bid  him  back,  my  lord,  to  warmth  and  rest. 

Say:  'Come,  most  reverend,  we'll  share  our  best!" 

Within  the  hut  around  the  little  fire, 

Sat  Tokiyori  with  the  man  and  wife, 

Sharing  their  scanty  millet  dish, 

And,  ever  as  the  embers  'gan  expire, 

A  little  tree  flung  on  them  gave  them  life  — 

Three  little  trees  with  large  and  fair  good-wish. 

First  'twas  a  dwarfish  pine  tree  long  of  days, 
And  next  a  tiny  plum  tree  kings  would  praise, 
And  last  a  dainty  cherry  fed  the  blaze. 

Said  Tokiyori,  "You  are  poor  indeed, 

Yet  you  are  burning  trees  you've  grown  in  jars, 

Which  only  rich  ones  can  afford." 

And  Sano,  stooping  still  the  flames  to  feed, 

Made  answer  smiling,  "Truly,  Reverend  lord, 

Not  with  my  low  estate  do  they  accord: 

But  in  these  scarecrow  tatters  you  behold 

One  brave  among  the  samurai  of  old, 

And  one  from  whom,  while  in  the  Shogun's  wars, 

His  tyrant  neighbors  took  his  lands  by  force 

And  left  him  but  this  hut,  his  battle-horse, 

And  these  three  little  trees. 

Yet  grieve  not,  priest,  their  tender  beauty  fled, 

For  where  can  costly  wood  the  better  burn 

Than  on  the  hearth  where  warms  man's  love  for  man? 

And  flower  and  leaf  return  to  God  the  best 

In  lighting  up  the  welcome  of  a  guest; 

Yea,  since  it  is  the  gift  of  God  to  live, 

The  greatest  joy  in  living  is  to  give." 

"The  greatest  joy  is  giving,"  Tokiyori  said. 


624  The  Soul  of  Nippon . 

"And  love  is  giving  all,"  said  Sano's  dame. 

"Love,"  smiled  old  Sano,  "is  life's  fire  and  flame, 
And  evermore  my  heart  grows  warm  and  light 
That  when  I  bade  you  forth  in  wind  and  snow, 
My  goodwife  breathed  the  voice  of  Bushido, 
That  teaches  when  a  stranger  's  at  the  door 
The  face  that  looks  thereout  should  aye  be  bright, 
Nor  poor  need  be  the  welcome  of  the  poor. 
'Were  he  the  Regent,  take  him  in/  she  cried." 

"And  if  he  were?"  asked  Tokiyori  low. 

"  Ah,  for  the  Shogun,"  Sano  cried  aloud, 
"  I  hold  my  life  when  all  is  lost  beside. 
My  old  white  horse  still  lives  to  bear  me  proud 
To  battle  at  my  lord  the  Shogun's  call. 
My  two-hand  sword,  tho*  rusty,  hangs  him  there, 
Ready  when  forth  my  horse  and  I  shall  fare 
For  Tokiyori,  greatest  lord  of  all." 

And  Tokiyori  smiled:  —  "Lo,  now  I  know." 

From  Kamakura  soon  came  call  to  war, 

The  war-drums  rattling  loud  through  all  the  ways. 

And  warriors  trooped  from  near  and  far  — 

Veterans  many  from  old  fields  hard-won, 

And  youths  who  yet  no  shining  deed  had  done. 

And  all  in  clanking  panoply  of  fight, 

From  cot  and  castle,  and  from  field  and  town, 

Came  lightfoot  o'er  the  hills  before  the  night, 

And  poured  through  all  the  valleys  to  the  plain, 

With  cries  and  cheers, 

Till  morning  flared  its  red-gold  arrows  down 

Upon  a  hundred  thousand  swaying  spears. 

Sat  Tokiyori  on  his  battle-steed, 
His  great  soul  shining  in  his  searching  eyes. 
About  him  daimios,  armed  and  spurred, 
And  shomios  ready  or  to  strike  or  bleed, 
Or  challenge  death  in  any  noble  guise, 
All  watchful  waiting  for  his  word. 

Then,  as  the  silent  waters  break 

With  sudden  wind-stroke  into  weltering  sound, 

He  spake: — 


The  Soul  of  Nippon  625 

"  Now  know  I  Nippon  hath  but  one  great  soul. 
That  soul  hath  answered  to  its  Shogun's  call, 
And  whither  hence  the  tide  of  war  shall  roll, 
Before  it  every  foe  must  fall. 
Long  did  I  seek  what  now  I  know. 
It  came  to  me  mid  wind  and  snow, 
And  in  this  host  the  proof  shall  stand  forth  clear:  — 
A  gaunt  old  man  upon  an  old  white  horse, 
His  sword  two-handed,  and  his  eyes  like  flame, 
His  armor  rusty  and  his  garments  coarse,  — 
Sano  gan  Zymo  is  his  name: 
Find  him,  and  bring  him  here." 

Lo,  from  far  off,  amid  the  silent  host, 

Came  Sano  with  his  tottering  beast, 

His  heart  scarce  beating,  eyes  in  wonder  lost, 

The  old  horse  trailing  at  his  bridle-rein. 
"  Salute  the  Shogun:  bow!  "     But  Sano  muttered  fain, — 
"  This  is  no  Shogun,  but  a  reverend  priest." 

"  Nay,  soul  of  Nippon,"  answered  Tokiyori  low, 
"  You  sheltered  me  from  wind  and  snow. 

For  me  you  burned  your  costly  trees  in  jars, 

And  pledged  your  life  unto  the  Shogun's  wars. 

'T  was  Tokiyori  warmed  him  in  your  room, 

And  saw  the  soul  of  Nippon  in  your  eyes. 

Your  stolen  lands  I  solemnly  restore, 

And  ere  we  march,  I  give  to  you  a  prize :  — 

Reign  lord  of  Sakurai  where  cherries  bloom, 

Of  Matsuida  where  the  pine  tree  grows, 

And  fair  Umeda  where  the  plum  tree  blows." 

"  Sano,  Meditashi !  "     Hark,  a  storm  of  cheers. 
"  Hojo,  banzai !   live,  lord,  ten  thousand  years." 

And  kneeling  spellbound,  answering  through  tears 
That  still  would  flow, 
Old  Sano  faltering  said,  — 
"  Great  fighting  lord,  until  this  old  gray  head 
Is  laid  in  earth,  command  my  arm,  my  life, 
And  never  shall  I  swerve. 
I  did  but  what  is  law  of  Bushido  — 
To  give,  to  love,  to  serve. 
Praised  be  the  Shogun! — honored,  too,  my  wife!" 

And  Tokiyori  rode  to  battle  with  a  smile. 
VOL.  102  -NO.  5 


ON   LEARNING  TO  WRITE 


BY   HAVELOCK   ELLIS 


WE  do  not  always  realize  that  learn- 
ing to  write  is  partly  a  matter  of  instinct. 
This  is  so  even  of  that  writing  which,  as 
children,  we  learn  in  copybooks  with  en- 
graved maxims  at  the  head  of  the  page. 
There  are  some,  indeed,  probably  the 
majority,  who  quickly  achieve  the  ability 
to  present  a  passable  imitation  of  the 
irreproachable  model  presented  to  them. 
There  are  some  who  cannot.  I  speak  as 
one  who  knows,  for  I  recall  how  my  first 
schoolmaster,  a  sarcastic  little  French- 
man, irritated  by  my  unchastenable  hand, 
would  sometimes  demand  if  I  wrote 
with  the  kitchen  poker,  or  again  assert 
that  I  kept  a  tame  spider  to  run  over 
the  page ;  while  a  later  teacher,  who  was 
an  individualist  and  more  tolerant,  yet 
sometimes  felt  called  upon  to  murmur,  in 
a  tone  of  dubious  optimism,  "  You  will 
have  a  hand  of  your  own,  my  boy;  you 
will  have  a  hand  of  your  own."  In  such 
cases,  it  is  not  lack  of  docility  that  is  in 
question,  but  a  categorical  imperative  of 
the  nervous  system  which  the  efforts  of 
the  will  may  indeed  bend  but  cannot 
crush. 

Yet  the  writers  who  cheerfully  lay 
down  the  laws  of  style  seldom  realize  this 
complexity  and  mystery  enwrapping 
even  so  simple  a  matter  as  handwriting. 
No  one  can  say  how  much  atavistic 
recurrence  from  remote  ancestors*  how 
much  family  nervous  habit,  how  much 
wayward  yet  deep-rooted  personal  idio- 
syncrasy, deflect  the  child's  patient  ef- 
forts to  imitate  the  copperplate  model 
which  is  set  before  him.  The  son  often 
writes  like  the  father,  even  though  he 
may  seldom  or  never  see  his  father's 
handwriting;  brothers  write  singularly 
alike,  though  they  may  have  been  taught 
by  different  teachers  and  even  in  differ- 
ent continents.  It  has  been  noted  of  the 

626 


ancient  and  distinguished  family  of  the 
Tyrrells  that  their  handwriting  in  the 
parish  books  of  Stowmarket  remained 
the  same  throughout  many  generations. 
I  have  noticed  in  a  relative  of  my  own, 
peculiarities  of  handwriting  identical  with 
those  of  an  ancestor  two  centuries  ago, 
whose  writing  he  certainly  never  saw. 
The  resemblance  is  often  not  that  of 
exact  formation,  but  of  general  air  or 
underlying  structure.  One  is  tempted  to 
think  that  often,  in  this  as  in  other  mat- 
ters, the  possibilities  are  limited,  and  that 
when  the  child  is  formed  in  his  mother's 
womb  Nature  casts  the  same  old  dice, 
and  the  same  old  combinations  inevitably 
tend  to  recur.  But  that  notion  scarcely 
fits  all  the  facts,  and  our  growing  know- 
ledge of  the  infinite  subtlety  of  heredity, 
of  its  presence  even  in  the  most  seemingly 
elusive  psychic  characters,  indicates  that 
the  dice  may  be  loaded  and  fall  in  accord 
with  harmonies  we  can  seldom  perceive. 
The  part  in  style  which  belongs  to 
atavism,  to  heredity,  to  unconscious  in- 
stinct, is  probably  very  large.  It  eludes 
us  to  an  even  greater  extent  than  the 
corresponding  part  in  handwriting,  be- 
cause the  man  of  letters  may  have  none 
among  his  ancestors  who  sought  expres- 
sion in  style,  so  that  only  one  Milton 
speaks  for  a  mute  inglorious  family,  and 
how  far  he  speaks  truly  remains  a  matter 
of  doubt.  We  only  divine  the  truth  when 
we  know  the  character  and  deeds  of  the 
family.  There  could  be  no  more  instruct- 
ive revelation  of  family  history  in  style 
than  is  furnished  by  Carlyle.  There  had 
never  been  any  writer  in  the  Carlyle  fam- 
ily, and  if  there  had,  Carlyle,  at  the  time 
when  his  manner  of  writing  was  formed, 
would  scarcely  have  sought  to  imitate 
him.  Yet  we  could  not  conceive  this 
stern,  laborious  plebeian  family  of  Low- 


On  Learning  to  Write 


627 


land  Scots  —  with  its  remote  Teutonic 
affinities,  its  coarseness,  its  narrowness, 
its  assertive  inarticulative  force  —  in  any 
more  fitting  verbal  translation  than  was 
given  it  by  this  its  last  son,  the  pathetic 
little  figure  with  the  face  of  a  lost  child, 
who  wrote  in  a  padded  room  and  turned 
the  rough  muscular  and  reproductive  ac- 
tivity of  his  fathers  into  more  than  half  a 
century  of  eloquent  chatter  concerning 
Work  and  Silence,  so  writing  his  name  in 
letters  of  gold  on  the  dome  of  the  British 
Museum. 

It  is  easy  indeed  to  find  examples  of  the 
force  of  ancestry,  even  remote  ancestry, 
overcoming  environment  and  dominating 
style.  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  were  both 
Elizabethans  who  lived  from  youth  up- 
wards in  London,  and  even  moved  to 
some  extent  almost  in  the  same  circles. 
Yet  all  the  influences  of  tradition  and  en- 
vironment which  sometimes  seem  to  us  so 
strong,  sufficed  scarcely  to  spread  even 
the  faintest  veneer  of  similarity  over  their 
style,  and  we  could  seldom  mistake  a  sen- 
tence of  one  for  a  sentence  of  the  other. 
We  always  know  that  Shakespeare,  with 
his  gay  extravagance  and  redundancy, 
his  essential  idealism,  came  of  a  peo- 
ple that  had  been  changed  in  character 
from  the  surrounding  stock  by  a  Celtic 
infolding.  We  never  fail  to  realize  that 
Bacon,  with  his  instinctive  gravity  and 
temperance,  the  suppressed  ardor  of  his 
aspiring  intellectual  passion,  his  tempera- 
mental naturalism,  was  rooted  deep  in 
that  East  Anglian  soil  which  he  had  never 
so  much  as  visited.  In  Shakespeare's 
veins  there  dances  the  blood  of  the  men 
who  made  the  Mabinogion  ;  we  recognize 
Bacon  as  a  man  of  the  same  countryside 
which  produced  the  forefathers  of  Emer- 
son. Or  we  may  consider  the  mingled 
Breton  and  Gascon  ancestry  of  Renan,  in 
whose  brain,  in  the  very  contour  and  mel- 
ody of  his  style,  the  ancient  bards  of  Brit- 
tany have  joined  hands  with  the  tribe  of 
Montaigne  and  Brantome.  Or,  to  take 
one  more  example,  we  can  scarcely  fail  to 
recognize  in  the  style  of  Hawthorne  the 
glamour  of  which  the  latent  aptitude  had 


been  handed  on  by  ancestors  who  dwelt 
on  the  borders  of  Wales. 

In  these  examples,  hereditary  influence 
can  be  clearly  distinguished  from  merely 
external  and  traditional  influence.  Not 
that  we  need  imply  a  disparagement  of 
tradition.  In  tradition,  we  can  never  for- 
get, we  have  the  basis  of  all  the  sciences, 
of  much  that  is  essential  in  the  arts;  it 
is  the  foundation  of  civilized  progress. 
Speech  itself  is  a  tradition  and  not  a 
science  or  an  art,  though  both  may  be 
brought  to  bear  on  it;  it  is  a  naturally 
developed  convention,  and  in  that  indeed 
it  has  its  universal  applicability  and  use. 
We  realize  how  far  speech  is  from  being 
either  an  art  or  a  science  by  comparing 
it  with  music,  which  is  both.  Speech  is 
only  the  crude  amorphous  material  of 
music.  To  regard  speech,  even  poetic 
speech,  as  a  pure  art  like  music,  is  an  idle 
and  unprofitable  employment.  On  its 
formal  side,  whatever  its  supreme  signifi- 
cance as  the  instrument  and  medium  of 
expression,  speech  is  a  natural  conven- 
tion, an  accumulated  tradition. 

Even  tradition,  however,  is  often  sim- 
ply the  corporeal  embodiment,  as  it  were, 
of  heredity.  Behind  many  a  great  writ- 
er's personality  there  stands  tradition, 
and  behind  tradition,  the  race.  That  is 
well  illustrated  in  the  style  of  Addison. 
This  style  —  with  a  resilient  fibre  under- 
neath its  delicacy,  and  yet  a  certain  free- 
dom as  of  conversational  familiarity  — 
has  as  its  most  easily  marked  structural 
signature  a  tendency  to  allow  the  preposi- 
tion to  'lag  to  the  end  of  the  sentence 
rather  than  to  come  tautly  before  the  pro- 
noun with  which  in  Latin  it  is  combined. 
In  a  century  in  which  the  Latin-French 
elements  of  English  became  developed, 
as  in  Gibbon  and  Johnson,  to  the  utmost, 
the  totally  different  physiognomy  of 
Addison's  prose  was  singularly  conspicu- 
ous, and  to  the  scientists  of  a  by-gone  age 
it  seemed  marked  by  carelessness,  if  not 
by  license;  at  the  best  by  personal  idio- 
syncrasy. Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
know  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Addi- 
son, as  his  name  alone  indicates,  was  of 


628 


On  Learning  to  Write 


the  stock  of  the  Scandinavian  English, 
and  the  Cumberland  district  to  which  he 
belonged  is  largely  Scandinavian;  the 
adjoining  peninsula  of  Furness,  which 
swarms  with  similar  patronymics,  is  in- 
deed one  of  the  most  purely  Scandinavian 
spots  in  England.  Now,  in  the  Scandina- 
vian languages,  and  in  the  English  dia- 
lects based  upon  them,  the  preposition 
comes  usually  at  the  end  of  the  sentence, 
and  Scandinavian  structural  elements 
form  an  integral  part  of  English,  even 
more  than  Latin-French;  for  it  has  been 
the  part  of  the  latter  rather  to  enrich  the 
vocabulary  than  to  mould  the  structure 
of  our  tongue.  So  that,  instead  of  intro- 
ducing a  personal  idiosyncrasy,  or  per- 
petrating a  questionable  license,  Addison 
was  continuing  his  own  ancestral  tradi- 
tions, and  at  the  same  time  asserting  an 
organic  prerogative  of  English  speech. 
It  may  be  added  that  Addison  reveals 
his  Scandinavian  affinities,  not  merely  in 
the  material  structure,  but  in  the  spiritual 
quality  of  his  work.  This  delicate  sym- 
pathetic observation,  the  vein  of  gentle 
melancholy,  the  quiet,  restrained  humor, 
meet  us  again  in  Norwegian  literature 
to-day. 

When  we  put  aside  these  ancestral  and 
traditional  influences,  there  is  still  much 
in  the  writer's  art  which,  even  if  personal, 
we  can  only  term  instinctive.  This  may  be 
said  of  that  music  which,  at  their  finest 
moments,  belongs  to  all  the  great  writers 
of  prose.  Every  writer  has  his  own  mu- 
sic, though  there  are  few  in  whom  it  be- 
comes audible  save  at  rare  and  precious 
intervals.  The  prose  of  the  writer  who 
can  deliberately  make  his  own  personal 
cadences  monotonously  audible  all  the 
time  grows  wearisome;  it  affects  us  as  a 
tedious  mannerism.  This  is  a  kind  of 
machine-made  prose  which,  indeed,  it  re- 
quires a  clever  artisan  to  produce.  But 
great  writers,  though  they  are  always 
themselves,  only  attain  the  perfect  music 
of  their  style  under  the  stress  of  a  stimu- 
lus adequate  to  arouse  it.  Their  music  is 
the  audible  translation  of  emotion,  and 
arises  when  the  waves  of  emotion  are 


stirred.  It  is  not,  properly  speaking,  a 
voluntary  effect.  We  can  only  say  that  the 
winds  of  the  spirit  are  breathed  upon 
the  surface  of  style,  and  they  lift  it  into 
rhythmic  movement.  And  for  each  writer 
these  waves  have  their  own  special  rate  of 
vibration,  their  peculiar  shape  and  inter- 
val. The  rich,  deep,  slow  tones  of  Bacon 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  haunt- 
ing, long-drawn  melody,  faint  and  tremu- 
lous, of  Newman;  the  high,  metallic,  fal- 
setto ring  of  De  Quincey's  rhetoric  is  far 
away  from  the  pensive,  low-toned  music 
of  Lafcadio  Hearn. 

Imitation,  as  Tarde  and  Baldwin  have 
taught  us  to  realize,  is  a  part  of  instinct. 
When  we  begin  to  learn  to  write,  it  rarely 
happens  that  we  are  not  imitators,  and 
for  the  most  part,  unconsciously.  The 
verse  of  every  young  poet,  however  orig- 
inal he  may  afterwards  grow,  usually  has 
plainly  written  across  it  the  rhythmic  sig- 
nature of  some  greater  master  whose  work 
chances  to  be  abroad  in  the  world;  once 
it  was  usually  Tennyson,  then  Swin- 
burne, now  some  still  later  poet;  the  same 
thing  happens  with  prose,  but  the  rhythm 
of  the  signature  is  less  easy  to  hear. 

As  a  writer  slowly  finds  his  own  centre 
of  gravity,  the  influence  of  the  rhythm  of 
other  writers  ceases  to  be  perceptible  ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  it  coincides  with  his  own 
natural  movement  and  tempo.  That  is  a 
familiar  fact.  We  less  easily  realize,  per- 
haps, that  not  only  the  tunes,  but  the 
notes  that  they  are  formed  of,  in  every 
great  writer  are  his  own.  In  other  words, 
he  creates  even  his  vocabulary.  That  is  so 
not  only  in  the  more  obvious  sense  that 
out  of  the  mass  of  words  that  make  up  a 
language  every  writer  uses  only  a  limited 
number,  and  even  among  these  has  his 
words  of  predilection.  It  is  in  the  mean- 
ings he  gives  to  words,  to  names,  that  a 
writer  creates  his  vocabulary.  All  lan- 
guage is  metaphor;  even  the  simplest 
names  of  the  elementary  things  are  meta- 
phors based  on  resemblances  that  sug- 
gested themselves  to  the  primitive  men 
who  made  language.  It  is  not  otherwise 
with  the  aboriginal  man  of  genius  who 


On  Learning  to  Write 


629 


uses  language  to  express  his  new  vision  of 
the  world.  He  sees  things  charged  with 
energy,  or  brilliant  with  color,  or  soaked 
in  perfume  that  the  writers  who  came  be- 
fore him  had  overlooked,  and  to  designate 
these  things  he  must  use  names  which 
convey  the  qualities  he  has  perceived. 
Guided  by  his  own  new  personal  sensa- 
tions and  perceptions,  he  creates  his 
metaphorical  vocabulary.  If  we  examine 
the  style  of  Montaigne,  so  fresh  and 
personal  and  inventive,  we  see  that  its 
originality  lies  largely  in  its  vocabulary, 
which  is  not,  like  that  of  Rabelais,  man- 
ufactured afresh,  but  has  its  novelty  in  its 
metaphorical  values,  such  new  values 
being  tried  and  tempered  at  every  step 
to  the  measure  of  the  highly  individual 
person  behind  them,  who  thereby  exerts 
his  creative  force.  In  our  own  days, 
Huysmans,  who  indeed  saw  the  world  at 
a  more  eccentric  angle  than  Montaigne, 
with  unflinching  veracity  and  absolute 
devotion,  set  himself  to  the  task  of  creat- 
ing his  own  vocabulary,  and  at  first  the 
unfamiliarity  of  its  beauty  estranges  us. 
We  grow  familiar  in  time  with  the  style 
of  the  great  authors,  and  when  we  read 
them  we  translate  them  easily  and  uncon- 
sciously, as  we  translate  a  foreign  lan- 
guage we  are  familiar  with;  we  under- 
stand the  vocabulary  because  we  have 
learned  to  know  the  special  seal  of  the 
creative  person  who  moulded  the  vocabu- 
lary. But  at  the  outset  the  great  writer 
may  be  almost  as  unintelligible  to  us  as 
though  he  were  writing  in  a  language  we 
had  never  learned.  In  the  not  so  remote 
days  when  Leaves  of  Grass  was  a  new 
book  in  the  world,  few  who  looked  into  it 
for  the  first  time,  however  honestly,  but 
were  repelled,  and  perhaps  even  violently 
repelled.  I  remember  that  when,  as  a 
youth,  Swinburne's  Poems  and  Ballads 
first  reached  me,  I  saw  only  picturesque 
hieroglyphics  to  which  I  had  no  key; 
while  a  few  months  later  I  wished  to  have 
the  book  always  in  my  hands  and  to  shout 
aloud  its  lines.  Until  we  find  the  door  and 
the  clue,  the  new  writer  remains  obscure. 
Therein  lies  the  truth  of  Lander's  saying 


that  the  poet  must  himself  create  the  be- 
ings who  are  to  enjoy  his  Paradise. 

For  most  of  those  who  deliberately 
seek  to  learn  to  write,  words  seem  gener- 
ally to  be  felt  as  of  less  importance  than 
the  art  of  arranging  them.  It  is  thus  that 
the  learner  in  writing  tends  to  become  the 
devoted  student  of  grammar  and  syntax. 
That  is  indeed  a  tendency  which  always 
increases.  Civilization  develops  with  a 
conscious  adhesion  to  formal  order,  and 
the  writer  —  writing  by  fashion  or  by  am- 
bition, and  not  by  divine  right  of  creative 
instinct  —  follows  the  course  of  civiliza- 
tion. It  is  an  unfortunate  tendency,  for 
those  whom  it  affects  conquer  by  their 
number.  As  we  know,  writing  that  is  real 
is  not  learned  that  way.  Just  as  the  solar 
system  was  not  made  in  accordance  with 
the  astronomer's  laws,  so  writing  is  not 
made  by  the  laws  of  grammar.  Astro- 
nomer and  grammarian  alike  can  only 
come  in  at  the  end,  to  give  a  generalized 
description  of  what  usually  happens  in 
the  respective  fields  it  pleases  them  to 
explore.  When  a  new  comet,  cosmic  or 
literary,  enters  their  sky,  it  is  their  de- 
scriptions which  have  to  be  readjusted, 
not  the  comet.  There  seems  to  be  no 
more  pronounced  mark  of  the  decadence 
of  a  people  and  its  literature  than  a  servile 
and  rigid  subserviency  to  rule.  It  can 
only  make  for  ossification,  for  anchylosis, 
for  petrification,  all  the  milestones  on 
the  road  of  death.  In  every  age  of  demo- 
cratic plebeianism,  where  each  man 
thinks  he  is  as  good  a  writer  as  the 
others,  and  takes  his  laws  from  the  others, 
having  no  laws  of  his  own  nature,  it  is 
down  this  steep  path  that  men,  in  a  flock, 
inevitably  run. 

We  may  find  an  illustration  of  the  ple- 
beian anchylosis  of  advancing  civiliza- 
tion in  the  minor  matter  of  spelling.  The 
laws  of  spelling,  properly  speaking,  are 
few  or  none,  and  in  the  great  ages  men 
have  understood  this  and  boldly  acted  ac- 
cordingly. They  exercised  a  fine  personal 
discretion  in  the  matter,  and  permitted 
without  question  a  wide  range  of  varia- 
tion. Shakespeare,  as  we  know,  even 


630 


On  Learning  to  Write 


spelled  his  own  name  in  several  differ- 
ent ways,  all  equally  correct.  When  that 
great  old  Elizabethan  mariner,  Sir  Martin 
Frobisher,  entered  on  one  of  his  rare  and 
hazardous  adventures  with  the  pen,  he 
created  spelling  absolutely  afresh,  in  the 
spirit  of  simple  heroism  with  which  he 
was  always  ready  to  sail  out  into  strange 
seas.  His  epistolary  adventures  are  cer- 
tainly more  interesting  than  admirable, 
but  we  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
the  distinguished  persons  to  whom  these 
letters  were  addressed  viewed  them  with 
any  disdain.  More  anaemic  ages  cannot 
endure  creative  vitality  even  in  spelling, 
and  so  it  comes  about  that  in  periods 
when  everything  beautiful  and  hand- 
made gives  place  to  manufactured  arti- 
cles made  wholesale,  uniform,  and  cheap, 
the  same  principles  are  applied  to  words, 
and  spelling  becomes  a  mechanic  trade. 
We  must  have  our  spelling  uniform,  even 
if  uniformly  bad.  Just  as  the  man  who, 
having  out  of  sheer  ignorance  eaten  the 
wrong  end  of  his  asparagus,  was  thence- 
forth compelled  to  declare  that  he  pre- 
ferred that  end,  so  it  is  with  our  race  in 
the  matter  of  spelling.  Our  ancestors,  by 
chance  or  by  ignorance,  tended  to  adopt 
certain  forms  of  spelling;  and  we,  their 
children,  are  forced  to  declare  that  we 
prefer  those  forms.  Thus  we  have  not 
only  lost  all  individuality  in  spelling,  but 
we  pride  ourselves  on  our  loss  and  mag- 
nify our  anchylosis.  In  England  it  has  be- 
come impossible  to  flex  our  stiffened  men- 
tal joints  sufficiently  to  press  out  a  single 
letter,  in  America  it  is  equally  impossible 
to  extend  them  enough  to  admit  that  let- 
ter. It  is  convenient,  we  say,  to  be  rigid 
and  formal  in  these  things,  and  therewith 
we  are  content;  it  matters  little  to  us  that 
we  have  thereby  killed  the  life  of  our 
words,  and  only  gained  the  conveniency 
of  death.  It  would  be  likewise  conven- 
ient, no  doubt,  if  men  and  women  could 
be  turned  into  rigid  geometrical  diagrams 
on  Euclidian  principles,  as  indeed  our 
legislators  sometimes  seem  to  think  that 
they  already  are;  but  we  should  pay  for 
our  conveniency  with  all  the  infinite  va- 


riations, the  beautiful  sinuosities,  that 
had  once  made  up  life. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  in  the 
much  greater  matter  of  style,  we  have  paid 
heavily  for  the  attainment  of  our  slavish 
adherence  to  mechanical  rules,  however 
convenient,  however  inevitable.  The 
beautiful  incorrection,  as  we  are  now  com- 
pelled to  regard  it,  that  so  often  marked 
the  great  and  even  the  small  writers  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  has  been  lost,  for 
all  can  now  write  what  any  find  it  easy 
to  read,  what  none  have  any  consuming 
desire  to  read.  But  when  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  wrote  his  Religio  Medici,  it  was 
with  an  art  made  up  of  obedience  to  per- 
sonal law  and  abandonment  to  free  in- 
spiration which  still  ravishes  us.  It  is  ex- 
traordinary indeed  how  far  incorrection 
may  be  carried  and  yet  remain  complete- 
ly adequate  even  to  complex  and  subtle 
ends.  Pepys  wrote  his  Diary  at  the  out- 
set of  a  life  full  of  strenuous  work  and 
not  a  little  pleasure,  with  a  rare  devotion 
indeed,  but  with  a  concision  and  careless- 
ness, a  single  eye  on  the  fact  itself  and  an 
extraordinary  absence  of  self-conscious- 
ness, which  rob  it  of  all  claim  to  possess 
what  we  conventionally  term  style.  Yet 
in  this  vehicle  he  has  perfectly  conveyed 
not  merely  the  most  vividly  realized  and 
delightfully  detailed  picture  of  a  past  age 
ever  achieved  in  any  language,  but  he 
has,  moreover,  painted  a  psychological 
portrait  of  himself  which  for  its  serenely 
impartial  justice,  its  subtle  gradations, 
its  bold  juxtapositions  of  color,  has  all 
the  qualities  of  the  finest  Velasquez. 
There  is  no  style  here,  we  say,  merely 
the  diarist  writing  with  careless  poignant 
vitality  for  his  own  eye;  and  yet  no  style 
that  we  could  conceive  would  be  better 
fitted,  or  so  well  fitted,  for  the  miracle 
that  has  here  been  effected. 

One  asks  one's  self  how  it  was  that  this 
old  way  of  writing,  as  a  personal  art,  gave 
place  to  the  new  way  of  writing,  as  a 
more  impersonal  pseudo-science,  rigidly 
bound  by  formal  and  artificial  rules.  The 
answer,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  existence  of  a  great  new  current  of 


On  Learning  to  Write 


631 


thought  which  began  mightily  to  stir  in 
men's  minds  at  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  it  was  during  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  in  both  England  and 
France,  that  the  new  devitalized  though 
more  flexible  prose  appeared,  with  its 
precision  and  accuracy,  its  conscious  or- 
derliness, its  deliberate  method.  But  only 
a  few  years  before,  over  France  and 
England  alike,  a  great  intellectual  wave 
had  swept,  imparting  to  the  mathemat- 
ical and  geometrical  sciences,  to  astro- 
nomy, physics,  and  the  allied  studies,  an 
impetus  that  they  had  never  received 
before  on  so  great  a  scale.  Descartes  in 
France  and  Newton  in  England  stand 
out  as  the  typical  representatives  of  the 
movement.  If  that  movement  had  to  ex- 
ert any  influence  on  language  —  and  we 
know  how  sensitively  language  reacts  to 
thought  —  it  could  have  been  manifested 
in  no  other  way  than  by  the  change  which 
actually  took  place.  And  there  was  every 
opportunity  for  that  influence  to  be  ex- 
erted. This  sudden  expansion  of  the 
mathematical  and  geometrical  sciences 
was  so  great  and  novel  that  interest  in  it 
was  not  confined  to  a  small  band  of  men 
of  science;  it  excited  the  men  in  the 
street,  the  women  in  drawing-rooms;  it 
was  indeed  a  woman,  a  bright  and  gay 
woman  of  the  world,  who  translated  New- 
ton's great  book  into  French.  Thus  it 
was  that  the  new  qualities  of  style  were 
invented  not  merely  to  express  new  quali- 
ties of  thought,  but  because  new  scientific 
ideals  were  moving  within  the  minds  of 
men.  A  similar  reaction  of  thought  on 
language  took  place  at  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  when  an  attempt 
was  made  to  vitalize  language  once  more, 
and  to  break  the  rigid  and  formal  moulds 
the  previous  century  had  constructed. 
The  attempt  was  immediately  preceded 
by  the  awakening  of  a  new  group  of  sci- 
ences, but  this  time  the  sciences  of  life, 
the  biological  studies  associated  with 
Cuvier  and  Lamarck,  with  John  Hunter 
and  Erasmus  Darwin. 

To  admire  the  old  writers,  one  may 


add,  because  for  them  writing  was  an  art 
to  be  exercised  freely  and  not  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  follow  after  the  ideals  of  the  ab- 
stract sciences,  is  by  no  means  to  imply 
contempt  for  that  decorum  and  order- 
liness without  which  all  written  speech 
must  be  ineffective  and  obscure.  The 
great  writers  in  the  great  ages  have  al- 
ways observed  this  decorum  and  orderli- 
ness. But  in  their  hands  such  observance 
was  not  a  servile  and  rigid  adherence  to 
external  rules,  but  a  beautiful  conven- 
tion, an  instinctive  fine  breeding,  such  as 
is  naturally  observed  in  human  inter- 
course when  it  is  not  broken  down  by 
intimacy  or  by  any  great  crisis  of  life  or 
of  death. 

The  freedom  of  art  by  no  means  in- 
volves the  easiness  of  art.  It  may  rather, 
indeed,  be  said  that  the  difficulty  increases 
with  freedom,  for  to  make  things  in  ac- 
cordance with  patterns  is  ever  the  easiest 
task.  The  problem  is  equally  arduous  for 
those  who,  so  far  as  their  craft  is  con- 
scious, seek  an  impersonal,  as  for  those 
who  seek  a  personal,  idea  of  style.  Flau- 
bert sought  —  in  vain,  it  is  true  —  to  be 
the  most  objective  of  artists  in  style,  and 
to  mould  speech  with  heroic  energy  in 
shapes  of  abstract  perfection.  Nietzsche, 
one  of  the  most  personal  artists  in  style, 
sought  likewise,  in  his  own  words,  to  work 
at  a  page  of  prose  as  a  sculptor  works  at  a 
statue.  Though  the  result  is  not  perhaps 
fundamentally  different  whichever  ideal 
it  is  that,  consciously  or  instinctively,  is 
followed,  the  personal  road  of  style  is 
doubtless  theoretically  the  soundest,  — 
usually  also  that  which  moves  most  of  us 
more  profoundly.  The  great  prose  writ- 
ers of  the  Second  Empire  in  France  made 
an  unparalleled  effort  to  carve  or  paint 
impersonal  prose,  but  its  final  beauty  and 
effectiveness  seem  scarcely  equal  to  the 
splendid  energy  it  embodies.  Jules  de 
Goncourt,  his  brother  thought,  literally 
died  from  the  mental  exhaustion  of  his 
unceasing  struggle  to  attain  an  objective 
style  adequate  to  express  the  subtle  tex- 
ture of  the  world  as  he  saw  it.  Yet,  while 
the  Goncourts  are  great  figures  in  literary 


632 


On  Learning  to  Write 


history,  they  have  pioneered  no  new  road, 
nor  are  they  of  the  writers  whom  men 
continuously  love  to  read. 

Yet  the  great  writers  of  any  school  bear 
witness,  each  in  his  own  way,  that  deeper 
than  these  conventions  and  decorums  of 
style,  there  is  yet  a  law  which  no  writer 
can  escape  from,  a  law  which  he  must 
needs  learn  but  can  never  be  taught. 
That  is  the  law  of  the  logic  of  thought.  All 
the  conventional  rules  of  the  construction 
of  speech  may  be  put  aside  if  a  writer  is 
thereby  enabled  to  follow  more  closely 
and  lucidly  the  form  and  process  of  his 
thought.  It  is  the  law  of  that  logic  that  he 
must  forever  follow,  and  in  attaining  it 
alone  find  rest.  He  may  say  of  it  as  de- 
voutly as  Dante,  "  E  la  sua  voluntade  e 
nostra  pace.''  All  progress  in  literary 
style  lies  in  the  heroic  resolve  to  cast  aside 
accretions  and  exuberances,  all  the  con- 
ventions of  a  past  age  that  were  once 
beautiful  because  alive,  and  are  now  false 
because  dead.  The  simple  and  naked 
beauty  of  Swift's  style,  sometimes  so  keen 
and  poignant,  rests  absolutely  on  this 
truth  to  the  logic  of  thought. 

The  twin  qualities  of  flexibility  and  in- 
timacy are  of  the  essence  of  all  progress 
in  the  art  of  language,  and  in  their  pro- 
gressive achievement  lies  the  attainment 
of  great  literature.  If  we  compare  Shake- 
speare with  his  predecessors  and  con- 
temporaries, we  can  scarcely  say  that  in 
imaginative  force  he  is  vastly  superior 
to  Marlowe,  or  in  intellectual  grip  to 
Jonson,  but  he  immeasurably  surpasses 
them  in  flexibility  and  in  intimacy.  He 
was  able  with  an  incomparable  art  to 
weave  a  garment  of  speech  so  flexible 
in  its  strength,  so  intimate  in  its  trans- 
parence, that  it  lent  itself  to  every  shade 
of  emotion  and  the  quickest  turns  of 
thought.  When  we  compare  the  heavy 
and  formal  letters  of  Bacon,  even  to  his 
closest  friends,  with  the  Familiar  Letters 
of  the  vivacious  Welshman,  Howell,  we 
can  scarcely  believe  that  the  two  men 
were  contemporaries,  so  incomparably 
more  expressive,  so  flexible  and  so  in- 
timate, is  the  style  of  Howell.  All  the 


writers  who  influence  those  who  come 
after  them  have  done  so  by  the  same 
method.  They  have  thrown  aside  the  awk- 
ward and  outworn  garments  of  speech, 
they  have  woven  a  simpler  and  more  fa- 
miliar speech,  able  to  express  subtleties  or 
audacities  that  before  seemed  inexpressi- 
ble. That  has  been  done  in  English  verse 
by  Cowper  and  Wordsworth,  in  English 
prose  by  Addison  and  Lamb.  When,  as 
in  the  case  of  Carlyle  or  Browning,  a 
great  writer  creates  a  speech  of  his  own 
which  is  too  clumsy  to  be  flexible  and  too 
heavy  to  be  intimate,  he  may  arouse  the 
admiration  of  his  fellows,  but  he  leaves 
no  traces  on  the  speech  of  the  men  who 
come  after  him. 

No  doubt  it  is  possible  for  a  writer  to  go 
far  through  the  exercise  of  a  finely  atten- 
tive docility.  By  a  dutiful  study  of  what 
other  people  have  said,  by  a  refined 
cleverness  in  catching  their  tricks,  and 
avoiding  their  subtleties,  their  profundi- 
ties, and  their  audacities,  by,  in  short,  a 
patient  perseverance  in  writing  out  cop- 
per-plate maxims  in  elegant  copybooks, 
he  can  become  at  last,  like  Stevenson,  the 
idol  of  the  crowd.  But  the  great  writer 
can  only  learn  out  of  himself.  He  learns 
to  write  as  a  child  learns  to  walk.  For  the 
laws  of  the  logic  of  thought  are  not  other 
than  those  of  the  logic  of  physical  move- 
ment. There  is  stumbling,  awkwardness, 
hesitation,  experiment,  —  before  at  last 
the  learner  attains  the  perfect  command 
of  that  divine  rhythm  and  perilous  poise 
in  which  he  asserts  his  supreme  human 
privilege.  But  the  process  of  his  learning 
rests  ultimately  on  his  own  structure  and 
function,  and  not  on  others'  example. 

The  ardor  and  heroism  of  great  achieve- 
ment in  style  never  grow  less  as  the  ages 
pass,  but  rather  tend  to  grow  more.  That 
is  so  not  merely  because  the  hardest  tasks 
are  left  for  the  last,  but  because  of  the 
ever  increasing  impediments  placed  in 
the  path  of  style  by  the  piling  up  of  me- 
chanical rules  and  rigid  conventions.  It 
is  doubtful  whether,  on  the  whole,  the 
forces  of  life  really  gain  on  the  surround- 
ing inertia  of  death.  The  greatest  writers 


The  Seekin'  of  Ike 


633 


must  spend  the  blood  and  sweat  of  their 
souls,  amid  the  execration  and  disdain 
of  their  contemporaries,  in  breaking  the 
old  moulds  of  style  and  pouring  their 
fresh  life  into  new  moulds.  From  Dante 
to  Carducci,  from  Rabelais  to  Zola,  from 
Chaucer  to  Whitman,  the  giants  of  letters 
have  been  engaged  in  this  life-giving  task, 
and  behind  them  the  forces  of  death 
swiftly  gather  again.  Here  there  is  al- 
ways room  for  the  hero.  If  all  progress 
lies  in  an  ever  greater  flexibility  and  in- 
timacy of  speech,  a  finer  adaptation  to 
the  heights  and  depths  of  the  mobile  hu- 
man soul,  the  task  can  never  be  finally 
completed.  Every  writer  is  called  afresh 
to  reveal  new  strata  of  life.  By  digging  in 
his  own  soul  he  becomes  the  discoverer  of 
the  soul  of  his  family,  of  his  nation,  of  the 
race,  of  the  heart  of  humanity.  For  the 
great  writer  finds  style  as  the  mystic  finds 
God,  in  his  own  soul.  It  is  the  final  utter- 


ance of  a  sigh,  which  none  could  utter  be- 
fore him,  which  all  can  utter  after. 

After  all,  it  will  be  seen,  we  return  at 
last  to  the  point  from  which  we  started. 
Style  is  in  a  very  small  degree  the  deliber- 
ate and  designed  creation  of  the  man  who 
therein  expresses  himself.  The  self  that 
he  thus  expresses  is  a  bundle  of  inherited 
tendencies  that  came,  the  man  himself  can 
never  entirely  know  whence.  It  is  by  the 
instinctive  stress  of  a  highly  sensitive  or 
slightly  abnormal  constitution,  that  he  is 
impelled  to  distill  these  tendencies  into 
the  alien  magic  of  words.  The  stilus 
wherewith  he  strives  to  write  himself  on 
the  yet  blank  pages  of  the  world  may  have 
the  obstinate  vigor  of  a  metal  rod,  or  the 
wild  and  quavering  waywardness  of  an 
insect's  wing,  but  behind  it  lie  forces  that 
extend  into  infinity.  It  moves  us  because 
it  is  itself  moved  by  pulses  which,  in  vary- 
ing measure,  we  also  have  inherited. 


THE   SEEKIN'   OF  IKE 


BY   EDITH    FULLERTON   SCOTT 


THE  hot  August  sun  beat  fiercely  down 
upon  Missy's  turbaned  head  as  she  bent 
over  the  tubs,  but  she  scrubbed  away  un- 
mindful of  the  heat.  She  had  no  time  to 
fret  about  the  weather.  Summer  board- 
ers pay  well  for  their  laundry,  and  must 
not  be  kept  waiting  for  it.  Because  she 
took  pride  in  her  work,  and  was  prompt 
in  returning  it,  she  had  earned  for  herself 
a  reputation  for  absolute  reliability  which 
brought  to  her  many  customers.  In  fact, 
she  could  not  accommodate  them  all. 
Other  colored  persons  might  slacken 
their  energies  during  the  revival  season, 
but  Missy,  having  got  religion  years  ago, 
had  put  it  into  daily  practice,  which  is 
more  than  most  of  us  do,  and  she  firmly 
believed  in  working  out  her  salvation,  so 
she  resisted  the  trend  of  her  easy-going 
race  which  makes  holiday  on  the  slightest 


pretext.  But  though  Missy  was  busily  at 
work,  her  mind  was  not  altogether  on  it. 
Once  in  a  while  she  would  straighten  up, 
shade  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  peer 
over  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  yard, 
where,  stretched  full  length  under  a 
mimosa  tree,  lay  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  He  's  seekin  hard,  Queen  Esther," 
she  said  in  a  low  but  jubilant  tone.  "  He 
ain't  teched  yet  de  coffee  an'  biscuit,  nor 
de  watermillion  you  done  sot  daown  by 
him  dis  long  time.  Fo'  de  Lawd  I 's 
hopin'  he  's  gwine  ter  come  t'rough." 

"  Daddy  's  right  mungy,  mammy," 
complained  Queen  Esther,  who  sat  on  the 
doorstep  nursing  a  rag-baby  nearly  as 
large  as  herself.  "  Ain't  he  ne'r  gwine  ter 
speak  ter  me  no  mo'  ?  " 

"  Naow,  don'  you-all  be  peste'ous, 
honey.  Daddy  ain't  ne'r  fel'  de  call  er  de 


634 


The  Seekin'  of  Ike 


Sperret  befo',  an'  he 's  wrestlin'  right 
much  wid  ol'  Satan,  who 's  tryin'  ter 
keep  him  from  grace.  Jes'  wait  twell  he 
gets  happy  —  den  he  '11  spo't  an'  spo't 
wid  you." 

Many  remarkable  conversions  had  re- 
sulted from  the  ministrations  of  the  visit- 
ing evangelist  at  present  holding  forth  in 
Mathews  County.  He  had  spent  a  week 
in  turn  at  each  of  the  four  colored  Baptist 
churches  in  the  vicinity,  the  congrega- 
tions of  them  all  following  him  in  a  body 
from  one  edifice  to  another,  until  now  he 
had  arrived  at  the  last  on  the  list,  the  one 
of  which  Missy  was  a  pillar,  though  alas ! 
her  husband,  Ike,  had  hitherto  given 
more  thought  to  his  physical  comfort 
than  to  his  spiritual  well-being.  This  had 
been  a  matter  of  deep  grief  to  Missy,  but 
she  was  confident  now  that  the  time  was 
ripe  for  his  repentance,  and  Brother 
Green  encouraged  her  in  this  belief. 

"  Mis'  Williams,"  he  had  said  to  her 
only  the  evening  before  at  the  close  of  the 
service  of  prayer  and  praise,  "  I  've  been 
'sputin'  de  Word  fo'  twenty  years,  an*  I 
ain't  ne'r  see  de  grace  er  Gawd  flow  so 
free  an'  easy  as  hit  do  jes'  naow.  Hit 's 
pourin'  out  in  a  flood,  an'  de  wussest  sin- 
ner can't  escape  from  hit.  I  reckon  Ike 
will  come  t'rough  washed  whiter  dan 
snow." 

As  Missy  swashed  the  clothes  up  and 
down  in  the  suds,  she  thought  of  the 
preacher's  words,  and  she  hoped  that  he 
would  prove  a  true  prophet.  "  Seek  and 
ye  shall  find,"  was  the  command  and 
promise.  For  more  than  three  weeks  Ike 
had  certainly  devoted  his  entire  attention 
to  carrying  out  the  injunction,  and  Missy, 
to  make  sure  of  his  receiving  the  reward, 
had  aided  and  abetted  him  by  shielding 
him  from  all  distractions,  getting  up  an 
hour  or  two  earlier  every  morning  so  that 
she  might  do  his  share  of  the  work  on 
their  small  farm,  and  keeping  from  him 
all  annoyances  lest  they  disturb  his  medi- 
tations. Each  day  she  looked  for  the 
sprouting  of  the  seed  of  righteousness 
which  her  hopes  saw  planted  in  his  har- 
rowed soul,  but  though  he  was  faithful  in 


attendance  at  the  Big  Meeting  he  had  not 
yet  boldly  taken  his  stand  with  the  ran- 
somed, and  here  it  was  Thursday  —  in 
three  days  more  the  evangelist  would  be 
gone  and  Ike  might  never  again  turn  his 
feet  into  the  narrow  way.  She  sighed, 
and,  as  if  in  answer,  a  low  moaning  smote 
her  ears.  She  lifted  her  head  and  lis- 
tened. 

"He's  fightin'!  De  adve'su'y  is  at- 
tackin'  him !  Daddy  's  got  him  by  de 
neck!  Glory  be!  He's  cert'nly  beatin' 
him!" 

"  Beatin'  who  ?  "  asked  Queen  Esther, 
looking  wildly  about  her. 

"  Dat  ol'  black  devil!  Listen!  He  's 
singin' !  He  's  on  de  Lawd's  side  an'  de 
Lawd  's  on  his'n!  " 

Ike  Williams  had  not  moved,  but  his 
lips  were  parted  and  in  melodious  ca- 
dence there  came  through  them  a  volume 
of  sound  which  resolved  into  a  chant  with 
variations :  — 

"  De  king  an'  some  of  his  wicked  men, 
Put  Dan-i-el  daown  in  de  lion's  den. 
De  Lawd  looked  daown,  an'  Dan-i-el  saw, 
An'  de  angel  ritched,  broke  de  ol'  lion's  jaw 
Ain't  dat  a  witness  fo'  man  Lawd  ?  " 

Missy  placed  her  hands  on  her  hips, 
swayed  back  and  forth,  and  unobtrusive- 
ly joined  in  the  chorus : "  Well,  ain't  dat  a 
witness  fo'  mah  Lawd  ?  " 

Three  times  they  sang  this  refrain,  and 
then,  as  Ike  lapsed  into  silence,  Missy 
with  renewed  vigor  resumed  her  washing. 

"See,  Queen  Esther,  how  I  soaps  each 
spot  an'  rubs  hit  on  de  boa'd  twell  hit 's 
clean  gone,  an'  dat  pertickler  spot  can't 
ne'r  come  back.  Dat 's  jes'  like  de  Lawd 
do.  He  done  take  an'  washes  away  in  de 
waters  er  babtism  all  our  ugly  sins.  He 
does  dis  fo'  us  mis'ble  sinners  'dout 
money  an'  'dout  price." 

Queen  Esther  dug  her  black  toes  into 
the  ground  and  said  nothing.  Missy's 
impressiveness  awed  her,  but  did  not  in- 
terest her.  She  began  to  croon  softly  to 
her  doll,  but  the  sound  of  wheels  attracted 
her  attention,  and  she  pointed  out  to  her 
mother  a  buggy  which  was  coming  up  the 
road. 


The  Seekin9  of  Ike 


635 


"  Hyar  's  de  doctor,  mammy!  I  reck- 
on he  's  atter  daddy." 

"  Sh-h!  Daddy  can't  go."  She  wiped 
the  white  flecks  of  soap  from  her  arms 
and  hands,  dried  them  on  her  apron,  and, 
with  a  backward  glance  at  prostrate  Ike, 
hurried  to  the  front  of  the  house. 

"  Good-mornin',  Missy !  Where 's  Ike  ? 
I  've  been  lookin'  for  him  all  the  week." 

"  Yasser,  I  know,  suh.  He  was  pow'fu' 
sorry  ter  hev  ter  disapp'int  you-all,  but  he 
ain't  been  fit  ter  do  no  work  fo'  a  right 
long  time." 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  Is  he  sick  ?  I  '11 
have  a  look  at  him." 

He  started  to  get  out  of  the  carriage, 
but  Missy  hastened  to  reassure  him. 

"Don't  bother  yo'se'f,  suh.  He  's  tole'- 
ble  well,  but  I  needs  him  ter  he'p  me. 
He  '11  sholy  come  on  Monday,  ef  you-all 
kin  wait  fo'  him." 

There  was  a  pleading  look  in  her  eyes, 
and  the  doctor  forebore  questioning  her 
further. 

"  Well,  Monday  will  do,  but  surely 
then.  Joe's  Pete  will  take  the  place  if  Ike 
does  n't  show  up." 

He  drove  away,  and  remarked  to  his 
companion,  a  guest  from  the  North,  — 

"  It 's  just  as  I  supposed.  The  fever 
has  caught  Ike  at  last,  and  he  's  seekin'. 
He  understands  horses,  and  I  '11  have  to 
wait  for  him.  You  can't  get  the  niggers 
to  work  durin'  the  Protracted  Meetin'. 
This  is  the  season  we  have  to  watch  our 
hen-houses,  for  gettin'  religion  and  steal- 
in'  chickens  go  together." 

Queen  Esther  came  running  to  meet 
her  mother. 

"  Daddy  's  feelin'  some  better,  mam- 
my!  "  she  cried.  "  He  's  eatin'." 

"  Eatin' !  "  Missy  quickened  her  steps, 
filled  with  forebodings.  Had  he  given  up 
trying  ?  She  watched  him  dismally  as  he 
disposed  of  his  refreshments  until  only  the 
rind  remained.  She  had  taken  his  fasting 
as  a  good  omen  —  an  indication  that  the 
flesh  was  under  subjugation.  His  back 
was  turned  toward  her  so  she  could  not 
see  whether  he  had  lost  his  rapt  expres- 
sion, and  he  was  unconscious  of  her  ob- 


servation. Suddenly  he  threw  his  arms 
up  over  his  head  and  there  burst  from 
him ;  — 

"  Dey  put  St.  John  in  a  kettle  er  oil, 
His  clo'es  an'  body  fo'  ter  spoil. 
But  de  Lawd  he  looked  daown,  jes  de  same 
An'  de  angel  ritched,  an'  put  out  de  flame. 
Well !  ain't  dat  a  witness  f o'  mah  Lawd  ?  " 

Missy's  heart  swelled  with  thanksgiv- 
ing. He  had  not  given  up !  He  was  mak- 
ing progress.  She  added  her  voice  to  his, 
and  even  Queen  Esther  felt  the  stirring 
of  the  waters  and  piped  in  a  pleasing 
treble,  "  Ain't  dat  a  witness  fo'  mah 
Lawd?" 

But  Ike  was  oblivious  to  all  around  him. 
Presently  he  fell  face  forward  on  the 
ground,  and  Missy,  beside  herself  with 
delight,  took  this  as  conclusive  proof  that 
he  was  putting  to  rout  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness. She  hung  the  wash  up  to  dry,  and, 
cautioning  Queen  Esther  to  be  quiet, 
went  into  the  cabin  to  her  ironing,  getting 
out  of  the  way  first  some  already  damp- 
ened clothes  of  her  own  family's  —  a 
stiff-bosomed  shirt  of  Ike's,  a  white  dress 
for  herself,  and  one  for  Queen  Esther. 
The  time  was  near  at  hand  when  they 
would  have  use  for  their  choicest  raiment. 

She  went  through  her  work  that  after- 
noon as  though  in  a  dream.  Ike  had 
wandered  off  into  the  woods  by  himself, 
and  her  thoughts  followed  him.  Her  vivid 
fancy  pictured  him  in  a  hand-to-hand  en- 
counter with  the  devil,  and  occasionally 
she  brought  her  iron  down  with  a  thump 
as  she  imagined  the  telling  blows  Ike's 
strong  right  arm  was  dealing. 

It  was  late  when  Ike  returned,  walking 
with  slow  and  solemn  mien.  He  glanced 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  and  gave 
no  sign  of  noticing  Missy  and  Queen 
Esther,  who,  arrayed  in  white,  sat  out- 
side on  the  bench  by  the  door  ready  to 
welcome  him.  He  went  on  into  the  kitch- 
en, and  Missy,  peeping  in  through  the 
window,  hugged  herself  in  ecstasy  when 
he  ignored  the  supper  she  had  left  spread 
for  him  on  the  table  and  passed  on  into 
the  bedroom  where  she  had  laid  out  in 
state  his  wedding-suit.  Smoothing  down 


636 


The  Seekin'  of  Ike 


her  ruffles,  she  composed  herself  to  wait, 
and,  as  the  church  bell  rang  out,  sum- 
moning the  worshipers,  he  made  his 
appearance,  resplendent  in  his  best,  high 
hat  and  all,  and  gravely  marched  down 
the  road  with  Missy  and  Queen  Esther 
meekly  following  in  his  train. 

Missy  gazed  at  him  admiringly. 

"  Look  at  him  in  his  Jim  Swinger  coat ! 
Ain't  you-all  got  a  han'sum  daddy?" 
she  whispered  to  Queen  Esther,  but  re- 
ceived in  reply  only  an  absent-minded 
nod,  for  the  royal  personage  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  attempt  to  convince  herself 
that  her  unaccustomed  shoes  with  the 
ravishing  squeak  did  not  hurt  the  feet 
that  they  so  adorned. 

The  service  had  just  begun  when  they 
reached  the  meeting-house.  They  walked, 
a  dignified  procession,  up  the  aisle  to  a 
vacant  pew  near  the  front,  and  Brother 
Green,  from  his  post  of  vantage  on  the 
platform,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance 
and  piously  clasped  his  hands  together, 
thereby  signifying  his  holy  satisfaction. 
When  the  hymn-singing  and  prayers 
were  over,  Brother  Jeffrey,  the  evangel- 
ist, launched  into  his  exhortation. 

"  Mah  breddren,  an'  mah  sisters,  an' 
eve'y  HI  chil'  hyar  ter  night,  I  hopes  you- 
all  is  safe !  I  hopes  an'  prays  you  is !  Safe 
in  de  arms  er  Jesus !  Hit 's  a  mighty 
ca'm  an'  pleasant  refuge.  Hell-fiah  can't 
ne'r  tech  you  dere.  Hell-fiah !  Hit 's  ten 
times  hotter  dan  dem  brick-kilns  I  passed 
comin'  daown  hyar  dis  evenin'.  Ten 
times  hotter !  Dat  's  a  right  smart  fiah ! 
Dere  ain't  no  water  kin  squench  hit.  An' 
ef  you-all  wallow  in  sin  dat  's  what  you- 
all  will  hev  ter  suffer  twell  Kingdom 
Come.  Hev  you-all  e'er  t'ought  'bout 
dat  ?  I 's  askin'  ef  you  is  callatin'  how 
long  you  '11  hev  ter  stay  in  hell  ef  you  go 
slidin'  —  slidin'  —  slidin'  —  daown  de 
bro'd  path  dat  lands  you  dere  ?  Slidin  's 
easy,  but  what  'bout  climbin'  ?  You  '11 
hev  ter  stay  "  —  here  his  voice  sank  to  a 
sepulchral  whisper  —  "  twell  eve'y  tiny 
picayune  grain  er  sand  has  been  toted  off 
oP  Mother  Earth  by  jes'  one  turtle-dove, 
who  kin  tote  only  one  grain  eve'y  seven 


years  —  not  eve'y  minute,  one,  but  one 
eve'y  seven  years !  "  He  paused  to  allow 
his  hearers  fully  to  realize  the  horrible 
prospect,  and  before  he  could  go  on  Ike 
Williams  had  jumped  from  his  seat  and 
stood  before  him  shouting,  and  waving 
his  arms  in  vehement  emphasis,  — 

"I'm  free!  I'm  free!  I've  taken 
mah  feet  from  de  mire  an'  clay  an'  placed 
dem  on  de  Rock  er  Ages !  I  've  come 
t'rough !  I  'm  happy !  I  'm  happy !  " 

Instantly  the  congregation  crowded 
around  him.  One  after  another  seized 
him  by  the  hand  and  shook  it  to  show 
that  they  were  rejoicing  with  him,  while 
Missy  stood  beside  him,  very  proud  and 
thankful,  with  Queen  Esther  hanging  on 
to  her  skirts  and  hiding  in  them  as  much 
as  possible  of  herself.  She  did  not  like 
the  confusion,  and  she  felt  disgruntled  be- 
cause, though  she  rose  repeatedly  on  her 
toes,  the  noise  was  so  great  that  she  could 
not  hear  the  lovely  squeak. 

The  infection  spread.  Others,  who  had 
been  slow  in  getting  religion,  now  made 
profession  of  their  finding  grace,  and  one 
comely  young  woman  with  a  baby  in 
her  arms  worked  herself  up  into  such 
a  frenzy  that  she  tossed  the  pickaninny 
across  the  aisle  to  any  one  that  would 
catch  it  —  fortunately  some  one  did  — 
and  proceeded  to  leap  into  the  air  so 
alarmingly  that  it  took  the  united  efforts 
of  two  strong  men  to  hold  her.  Brother 
Jeffrey  could  not  finish  his  discourse,  but 
when  the  meeting  broke  up  for  the  night 
he  expressed  himself  as  well  content  with 
its  result. 

The  next  three  days  were  deliriously 
happy  ones  for  Queen  Esther.  The  sun 
of  Missy's  affection  beamed  upon  her 
spouse  as  it  had  never  done  before,  and 
in  its  warm  effulgence  were  included  lib- 
erty and  enjoyment  for  Queen  Esther. 
She  had  been  under  restrictions  for  so 
long  that  she  reveled  in  the  absence  of 
them,  and  she  attached  herself  to  her  fa- 
ther, who  played  with  her  and  told  her 
stories,  and  was  his  old  cheery  self, 
though  she  had  been  afraid  that  he  would 
always  be  mungy. 


The  Seekin9  of  Ike 


637 


Ike  found  the  halo  of  sanctification  be- 
coming and  comfortable.  It  agreed  with 
him  to  lie  in  bed  late,  and  then  to  sit 
around  all  day  with  nothing  to  do  but 
receive  the  congratulations  of  friends  and 
kindred,  with  a  pipe  to  while  away  the 
hours,  and  three  good  meals  to  strengthen 
him.  It  really  seemed  too  good  to  last  — 
and  it  was! 

Monday  morning  he  was  rudely  awak- 
ened from  his  matutinal  slumbers  by  a 
forcible  shake  and  a  strident  salutation, 
which  had  been  foreign  to  his  ears  of  late, 
and  yet  which  had  a  familiar  sound. 

"  See  hyar,  you!  What  you-all  doin' 
lyin'  in  bed  dis  time  er  day  ?  Don'  I  toP 
you  las'  night  de  doctor  's  lookin'  fo'  you 
ter  his  house  dis  mornin'  ?  Get  up !  " 

Ike  opened  his  eyes  and  they  gazed 
reproachfully  into  those  of  his  wife. 

"  Why,  Missy!  Yo'  's  mekin'  a  mis- 
take! I  ain't  gwine  ter  do  dat  kin'  er 
work  no  mo'." 

"  Huh?  What  's  dat?  I  reckon  you- 
all  got  a  idea  I  'm  gwine  ter  suppo't  you! 
You-all  sholy  do  try  me !  You  put  off  de 
oP  man  when  you  was  babtized  yester- 
day, an'  I  was  mighty  glad.  Ef  you  reck- 
on dat  I  'm  gwine  ter  stan'  yo'  ol'  fool 
ways  now  dat  you  is  borned  ag'in,  you  '11 
know  mo'  dan  dat  'fo'  you  get  many  years 
older.  I  don'  wan'  no  lazy  niggah  hyar  no 
mo'." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  determin- 
ation in  her  tone,  but  Ike,  though  his 
courage  was  ebbing,  tried  to  stem  the  tor- 


rent which  was  threatening  his  sinecure. 
He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow  and  made 
serious  remonstrance :  — - 

"Missy,  I  ain't  shifless!  But  —  I 
feels  de  call  ter  'spute  de  Word.  You 
sholy  don'  wan'  me  ter  tek  charge  er  cattle 
when  pe'ishin'  human  bein's  is  waitin' 
f  o'  me  ter  he'p  dem  fight  der  devil  ?  " 

Missy  turned  a  contemptuous  shoul- 
der. 

"  I  reckon  de  devil  would  n't  ne'r  miss 
de  souls  you  'd  keep  him  from  gettin' . 
Dere  's  preachers  'nuff  ter  'spute  de 
Word  'dout  you-all.  I 's  concerned  in 
keepin'  mah  word  an'  dat 's  'bout  all  you 
kin  do.  Naow  I  'm  gwine  ter  fix  up  you- 
all's  brekkus  so 's  you  kin  go  ter  der 
doctor's  like  I  done  prommus.  Ef  you 
ain't  ready  in  fifteen  minutes  you  'd  bet- 
ter not  come  at  all !  " 

**  Ef  you  feels  dat  way  'bout  hit,  co'se 
I  '11  come,"  said  Ike  resignedly. 

Women  are  so  inconsistent.  Missy  was 
always  worrying  before  he  had  a  halo, 
and  now  that  he  had  earned  one  she 
would  not  let  him  wear  it.  He  heavily 
reflected  that  his  holiday  time  was  over, 
for,  having  sought  until  he  had  found,  he 
could  never  repeat  the  experience  of 
seekin'  and  enjoy  the  privileges  that  go 
with  it.  If  he  could  only  have  held  out 
for  three  days  more  that  pleasure  would 
have  been  his  to  look  forward  to  for  an- 
other year.  Dejectedly  he  clapped  his 
broad-brimmed  farm  hat  on  his  head  and 
went  in  to  his  cornbread  and  coffee. 


SOME  MORAL  ASPECTS  OF  THE  PROBLEM  PLAY 


BY   LOUIS   W.    FLACCUS 


IF  a  reporter  is  sent  to  interview  a  man, 
it  is  essential  that  he  get  hold  of  the  right 
man,  ply  him  with  the  proper  methods, 
and  sound  him  on  the  proper  subjects. 
It  is  much  the  same  with  us.  Some  sort  of 
definition  of  the  problem  play  must  be 
arrived  at  if  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  is 
to  be  avoided.  We  must  state  definitely 
what  it  is  about  the  problem  play  we  wish 
to  get  at,  and  fit  method  to  purpose. 

The  stage  has  done  this  much  for  us : 
we  can  tell  a  problem  play  when  we  see 
it.  Most  of  us  would  agree  in  classing  as 
problem  plays  the  majority  of  Ibsen's  and 
Shaw's,  and  such  plays  as  Sudermann's 
Ehre  and  Blumenboot,  Hauptmann's 
Vor  Sonnenaufgang,  Maeterlinck's  Mon- 
na  Vanna,  Tolstoy's  Power  of  Dark- 
ness, Henry  Arthur  Jones's  Hypocrites. 
But  why  group  these  plays  together? 
Surely  not  because  they  are  alike  in 
aesthetic  credo,  make-up,  and  style.  Na- 
turalistic, mystical,  analytic,  they  are  set 
to  different  keys,  have  a  different  twang 
about  them.  Differences  so  radical  make 
an  aesthetic  definition  of  the  problem 
play  a  thing  of  much  toil  and  little  profit. 
It  is  not  worth  the  risk  of  losing  the  rich- 
ness of  my  theme ;  therefore,  I  shall  dwell 
on  the  aesthetic  only  in  so  far  as  it  bears 
on  the  moral. 

It  is  in  the  sphere  of  morality  that  we 
must  look  for  what  is  common  to  problem 
plays.  Understand  me  rightly.  To  define 
such  plays  as  plays  dealing  with  immoral 
situations  or  as  leaving  a  bad  taste  in 
one's  mouth,  is  simple,  absurd,  unjust. 
Nor  do  I  mean  to  refer  to  the  moral  ef- 
fect they  have  on  people.  The  problem  of 
the  salutary  effect  of  exhibiting  moral  rot- 
tenness on  the  stage  is  one  of  some  prac- 
tical importance,  and  we  are  all  familiar 
with  the  time-worn  pros  and  cons,  —  the 
"  strong  meat  and  children  "  argument, 

638 


Tolstoy's  "  simplicity "  plea,  and  the 
"  degeneracy  "  refrain  of  Max  Nordau. 
It  is  not  effects,  but  aims  we  wish  to  get 
at.  Problem  plays  stand  for  a  peculiar 
attitude  toward  the  problem  of  conduct, 
and  it  is  our  purpose  to  get  at  that  atti- 
tude by  a  "  catch-as-catch-can"  method. 

A  glance  at  the  development  of  the 
problem  play  will  help  us  to  get  our  bear- 
ings. The  problem  play  is  essentially  a 
modern  product.  It  gives  hi  art  what  is 
given  in  countless  other  ways :  a  sense  of 
the  complexity  and  reality  of  life.  Com- 
pare our  plays  with  the  stilted  favorites  of 
a  former  generation,  Virginius,  for  ex- 
ample. But  it  is  not  merely  in  naturalness 
of  costume,  dialogue,  and  art  form,  that 
this  keener  sense  of  reality  shows  itself. 
Mysticism  expresses  it  quite  as  strongly. 
Maeterlinck's  is  a  search  for  reality,  a 
reality  too  deep  for  words,  the  undertow 
of  life.  Again,  modern  art  reveals  in 
technique  and  motif  a  greater  apprecia- 
tion of  the  complexity  of  life. 

Nowhere  does  this  keener  sense  of  the 
reality  and  complexity  of  life  stand  out  as 
it  does  in  the  problem  play.  There  it  ex- 
presses itself  in  two  demands.  First,  art 
is  to  be  real  in  the  sense  of  being  vital.  It 
is  to  get  beneath  the  surface-play  and 
pageantry  of  life ;  it  is  to  use  life-materials 
as  the  basis  for  life-meanings.  Second,  art 
is  to  do  full  justice  to  the  complex  and 
confused  character  of  life,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  make  a  serious  try  at  getting 
"  rhyme  and  reason  "  out  of  this  jumble 
of  experiences.  That  accounts  for  much 
that  is  puzzling  in  the  plays  named.  The 
average  theatre-goer  does  n't  quite  know 
what  to  make  of  such  characters  as  Peer 
Gynt,  Brand,  or  Werle.  That  does  n't 
mean  that  there  is  confused  character- 
drawing:  it  means  simply  that  the  pro- 
blem-play writer  regards  life  as  an  ex- 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


639 


ceedingly  complex  affair,  so  delicate  and 
subtle  a  matter  that  it  calls  for  an  infinite 
refining  of  method.  It  means  further  that 
he  is  keenly  aware  of  the  puzzling  and 
problematic  character  of  life,  and  that  he 
means  to  raise  more  questions  than  he 
can  answer. 

Every  problem  play  exhibits  the  four 
characteristics  named:  a  sense  that  life 
is  real  and  that  art  ought  to  be  vital,  a 
sense  that  life  is  complex,  a  demand  for 
some  sort  of  unity,  and  a  leaning  towards 
the  problematic.  In  this  definition  I  have 
given  aesthetic  considerations  a  wide 
berth,  for  I  am  husbanding  with  an  eye 
to  a  harvest  of  moral  significance.  It  is 
easy  to  see  how  the  four  things  named 
figure  in  moral  problems.  In  such  pro- 
blems we  find  the  greatest  complexity, 
the  most  urgent  need  of  a  solution,  and 
the  smallest  hope  of  ever  arriving  at  one. 
There  you  cannot  shirk  the  task  of  unify- 
ing. Try  to  escape  it  by  a  moral  tour  de 
force,  and  you  will  be  forced  back  into  it 
by  a  subtle  dialectic  of  unrest.  And  still 
the  puzzling  and  problematic  always  re- 
main in  questions  of  duty. 

A  further  step  in  our  definition  of  the 
problem  play  suggests  itself.  What  is 
more  natural  than  to  trace  the  charac- 
teristics given  to  one  final  principle  and 
key  to  the  moral  significance  of  problem 
plays?  And  where  should  we  expect 
greater  evidence  of  such  a  principle  than 
in  plays  whose  very  warp  and  woof  is 
conflict,  —  conflict  of  passions,  of  ideals, 
conflict  in  myriad  forms  ? 

Where  does  this  ultimate  moral  mean- 
ing of  the  problem  play  lie  ?  It  lies  in  this, 
that  every  problem  play  is  the  launching 
of  an  individual  point  of  view;  a  self- 
conscious  criticism  of  life,  its  values  and 
ideals.  In  one  sense,  every  play  is  a  criti- 
cism of  life.  Think  of  the  moral  content 
of  King  Lear.  Think  also  of  the  moral 
conflicts  it  presents.  But  such  a  play  is 
not  a  problem  play :  the  moral  content  is 
spontaneous,  the  natural  yield  of  a  seri- 
ous and  richly  gifted  mind.  In  a  play  like 
Hamlet  the  morally  significant  is  held  in 
solution  in  a  plot  that  has  all  the  richness 


and  loose  texture  of  life  itself;  it  means 
nothing  but  depth  of  feeling,  sincerity  of 
art,  a  firm  grip  on  the  forces  of  life.  In 
problem  plays,  on  the  other  hand, (the 
moral  content  is  not  spontaneous;  it  is 
willed  as  such.  So  much  we  may  get 
either  from  the  plays,  or  on  the  rebound 
in  the  utterances  of  the  playwrights. 
Take  a  play  like  Ghosts.  There,  much  of 
the  dialogue  is  logical  sword-play.  Such 
are  the  conversations  on  ideals  between 
Mrs.  Alving  and  Pastor  Manders.  Often 
the  characters  merely  voice  the  author's 
views  on  a  variety  of  subjects.  With  what 
amusing  perverseness  Bernard  Shaw  airs 
his  views  on  vivisection,  capital  punish- 
ment, socialism,  in  his  plays !  The  same 
sort  of  inartistic  patchwork  is  found  in 
many  of  Sudermann's  plays.  It  gives  but 
a  poor  idea  of  the  view  of  life  I  wish  to 
emphasize. 

With  Ibsen  —  master  of  all  masters 
in  his  field  —  such  illumination  of  life 
does  not  mean  the  popping  up  of  a  light 
here  or  there,  a  logical  flash  in  the  pan : 
it  means  a  steady  glow  etching  in  sharp- 
est outline  the  problems  of  life.  Where 
could  there  be  found  a  better  example  of 
logic  biting  into  the  very  substance  of  a 
play  than  in  Ibsen's  An  Enemy  of  the 
People,  with  its  problem  of  the  conflict 
between  the  compact  majority  and  the 
pioneer?  The  quizzing  attitude  is  vital 
to  the  characters.  It  is  the  general  pro- 
blematic attitude,  rather  than  the  discus- 
sion of  single  problems,  that  characterizes 
problem  plays  of  the  best  type.  With  the 
lesser  men  the  aim  is  too  obviously  a 
moral  brief  or  an  exhibition  of  ingenuity. 
The  "  dramatic  triangle  "  figures  so  pro- 
minently in  many  plays  because  it  is  such 
an  excellent  way  of  getting  people  into 
a  tangle.  Moral  problems  change  from 
generation  to  generation;  the  problem- 
play  writer  aims  to  get  to  the  principle  of 
conflict,  which  remains  the  same,  how- 
ever it  may  play  itself  off. 

That  the  problem  play  means  a  self- 
conscious  criticism  of  life  is  brought  home 
forcibly  by  the  utterances  of  the  writers 
of  such  plays.  They  wish  to  be  taken 


640 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


seriously  as  social  critics.  Perhaps  they 
over-emphasize  the  effect  of  art  upon  life. 
Very  likely  they  do.  But  that  does  n't 
matter ;  it  is  what  they  mean  their  plays  to 
be  that  counts.  Of  course,  they  think  of 
their  social  mission  in  different  terms. 
Augier  and  Dumas  thought  it  their  busi- 
ness to  "  save  souls,"  as  Dumas  put  it. 
Sudermann  and  Hauptmann  keep  close 
to  the  social  movements  of  the  day ;  Ibsen 
tells  us  that  the  past,  and  the  past  as  it 
lives  in  the  present,  with  all  their  hollow- 
ness  and  falseness,  are  like  a  museum, 
open  to  us  for  instruction.  An  interesting 
side-light  is  thrown  on  An  Enemy  of  the 
People  in  this  passage  from  a  letter  of  his 
to  Lucie  Wolf:  "  But  I  maintain  that  a 
fighter  in  the  intellectual  vanguard  can 
never  collect  a  majority  around  him." 
Again,  he  writes  to  Bjornson  in  1867,  "  I 
have  taken  life  very  seriously.  Do  you 
know  that  I  have  separated  myself  from 
my  own  parents,  from  my  own  family, 
because  a  position  of  half-understanding 
was  unendurable  to  me?"  What  is  this 
but  the  life-equivalent  of  much  in  Brand  ? 
Shaw  frequently  expresses  the  belief  that 
the  dramatist  is  a  social  critic  and  moral 
irritant.  He  calls  himself  "  a  critic  of  life 
as  well  as  of  art."  He  says,  "For  art's  sake 
alone  I  would  not  face  the  toil  of  writing  a 
single  sentence."  Most  instructive  is  his 
idea  of  the  artist  philosopher.  In  him  the 
great  creative  forces  of  life  have  become 
self-conscious ;  he  is  the  organ  by  which 
nature  understands  herself.  It  is  not 
enough  to  picture  life  as  one  huge  pan- 
tomime, as  Dickens  did,  or  to  appre- 
hend the  world,  as  Shakespeare  did.  De- 
scription is  not  philosophy.  Of  Shake- 
speare, Shaw  says:  "The  author  has 
much  to  show  and  little  to  teach."  It  is 
the  mission  of  art  to  build  up  in  men  a 
consciousness  of  the  great  world  forces 
and  life  problems.  This  is  brought  out  in 
the  following :  — 

"This  is  the  true  joy  of  life,  the  being 
used  for  a  purpose  recognized  by  your- 
self as  a  mighty  one;  the  being  thorough- 
ly worn  out  before  you  are  thrown  in  the 
scrap  heap;  the  being  a  force  of  nature 


instead  of  a  feverish  little  clod  of  ailments 
and  grievances  complaining  that  the 
world  will  not  devote  itself  to  making  you 
happy.  And  also  the  only  real  tragedy  in 
life  is  the  being  used  by  personally-mind- 
ed men  for  purposes  which  you  recognize 
to  be  base.  All  the  rest  is,  at  worst,  mere 
misfortune  and  mortality;  this  alone  is 
misery,  slavery,  hell  on  earth ;  and  the  re- 
volt against  it  is  the  only  force  that  offers 
a  man's  work  to  the  poor  artist,  whom 
our  personally-minded  rich  people  would 
willingly  employ  as  pander,  buffoon, 
beauty-monger,  sentimentalizer,  and  the 
like." 

The  dramatist  is  to  put  before  men  vi- 
sions of  new  truth.  His  works  "catch  the 
glint  of  the  unrisen  sun."  It  is  a  mistake 
to  eye  such  views  too  critically.  If  it  is 
true  that  nature  becomes  self-conscious 
in  the  artist,  she  seems  to  have  become 
especially  wide  awake  in  Shaw,  but  rather 
in  the  sense  of  intense  self-awareness  than 
in  that  of  a  mastery  of  her  own  processes. 
It  is  not  only  in  Ibsen  and  Ibsen's  kin 
that  we  must  look  for  this  aim  at  a  world- 
view  with  its  fusion  of  critic  and  pioneer. 
It  is  to  be  found  in  Tolstoy's  gospel  of  re- 
generation through  work,  sympathy,  and 
self-denial.  Maeterlinck's  subtle  thought 
plays  about  such  problems  as  justice, 
fate,  human  destiny.  Much  as  his  world- 
view  differs  from  Ibsen's,  it  exhibits  in  its 
own  way,  and  quite  as  perfectly,  the  sense 
of  the  reality  and  complexity  of  life,  the 
demand  for  unity,  and  the  leaning  to- 
wards the  problematic.  His  attitude  is 
easier  to  apprehend  than  to  describe.  The 
first  thing  that  will  strike  you  in  his  plays 
is  a  subtle  suggestion  of  the  unreality  of 
the  material  world.  It  is  only  a  sugges- 
tion, but  there  it  is  in  his  penchant  for 
the  vague,  the  unlocalized.  His  world  is 
largely  a  world  of  colors  and  sounds,  a 
restless  world,  striking  consciousness 
with  a  note  as  monotonous  and  haunting 
as  the  wash  of  the  sea.  And  yet  this 
strangely  intangible  world  is  luminous 
with  meaning,  a  meaning  caught  by  men 
and  women  such  as  Maeterlinck  pic- 
tures, strange  men  and  women,  lacking 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


641 


something  of  the  robustness  of  men  of 
flesh  and  blood,  but  delicately  tuned  to 
the  throbbing  rhythm  of  life:  men  of 
intuitions,  premonitions,  faint  soul-stir- 
rings, of  a  clairvoyance  that  strikes  into 
the  meaning  of  things. 

I  cannot  do  justice  to  Maeterlinck's 
world- view,  but  let  me  point  out  in  what 
way  it  is  morally  significant.  If  use  is 
made  of  this  spiritual  mysticism  in  the 
handling  of  a  moral  problem,  the  result 
will  be  a  problem  play  like  Monna  V'anna. 
There  you  have  the  conflict  between  the 
substantial  but  somewhat  clumsy  con- 
ventional point  of  view  and  a  spiritual 
reinterpretation  delicately  feeling  its  way. 
Maeterlinck  is  just  as  emphatic  an  in- 
dividualist as  Ibsen  or  Shaw.  With  them, 
it  is  a  matter  of  pointing  out  how  a  cer- 
tain institution  or  convention  is  absurd, 
socially  destructive.  There  is  little  of  this 
churning  logic  in  Maeterlinck.  With  him, 
it  is  a  matter  of  suggesting  a  new  point  of 
view  that  takes  all  the  meaning  and  value 
out  of  the  current  social  view,  —  devital- 
izes it. 

One  further  step  must  be  taken.  This 
social  criticism  is  of  a  peculiar  type,  and 
may  be  described  as  the  play  of  individ- 
ual moral  conviction  on  moral  conven- 
tion. This  phrase  hits  off  the  moral  signi- 
ficance of  the  problem  play.  It  is  my  pur- 
pose to  discuss  in  a  more  or  less  random 
way  some  of  the  many  ways  in  which  this 
theme  plays  itself  off. 

But  what  is  moral  convention?  To 
speak  of  moral  currency  unfortunately 
suggests  the  clipping  off  of  whatever  of 
moral  opinion  is  not  marketable.  On  the 
whole,  the  term  common-sense  moral- 
ity seems  best.  Common-sense  morality 
stands  for  a  number  of  definite,  normal 
experiences,  and,  as  such,  figures  as  the 
point  to  which  the  captive  balloon  of 
moral  theories  is  attached.  Three  things 
go  to  make  it  up,  each  illustrating  one 
phase  of  conduct. 

First,  there  are  a  number  of  institutions 
and  social  habits,  firmly  fixed  and  work- 
ing almost  automatically.  Such  are :  the 
state,  the  family,  the  whole  mass  of  char- 
VOL.  102  -NO.  5 


itable  and  educational  institutions.  Here 
we  have  perfectly  definite  social  values, 
and,  based  on  these  values,  perfectly  de- 
finite obligations.  Here  society  states  its 
claim  on  the  individual  in  blunt,  emphat- 
ic terms;  for  there  are  certain  things  so 
vital  to  society  that  they  cannot  be  left  to 
the  option  of  individual  feeling.  That, 
for  example,  is  why  there  are  sanitary 
measures  and  contracts. 

The  second  thing  that  goes  to  make  up 
common-sense  morality  may  be  charac- 
terized by  the  term  public  opinion.  It  is  a 
mass  of  approved  sentiment  connected 
with  social  institutions.  As  such,  it  gives 
meaning,  point,  permanence,  and  an 
ideal  backing  to  such  institutions.  Take 
the  institution  of  marriage.  It  is  largely, 
of  course,  a  matter  of  law  and  definite 
usage.  Something  again  must  be  left  to 
the  discretion  of  individual  feeling,  but 
much  is  given  over  to  the  guidance  of 
a  conservative,  well-established  mass  of 
feeling,  thought,  and  conviction.  Were  it 
not  for  this  great  steadying  force  of  pub- 
lic opinion,  society  would  swing  vio- 
lently between  two  equally  undesirable 
extremes. 

The  third  element  in  common-sense 
morality  may  be  called  free,  detached 
moral  sentiment.  Unlike  the  second,  it 
shows  a  tendency  to  cut  loose  from  ac- 
credited institutions;  it  may  even  attack 
public  opinion  and  its  ideals.  It  tries  its 
hand  at  framing  ideals.  It  is  not  our  aim 
to  trace  the  many  forms  this  detached 
moral  sentiment  takes.  Very  often  it  de- 
generates to  a  sort  of  idle,  vapory  day- 
dreaming. It  exposes  itself  then  to  the 
keenest  shafts  of  the  problem-play  writer. 

Such  is  common-sense  morality :  insti- 
tutions, public  opinion,  and  free,  detached 
sentiment.  As  such  it  is  attacked  by  the 
problem-play  writer,  whose  art  is  intense- 
ly individual  and  marked  by  an  earnest- 
ness at  once  destructive  and  constructive, 
and  whose  personality  expresses  itself 
largely  as  intense  moral  conviction.  It  is 
this  play  of  moral  conviction  on  moral 
convention  that  gives  point  and  substance 
to  every  problem  play.  Of  course,  both 


642 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


method  of  attack  and  point  attacked 
vary.  Rapier  thrust,  clubbing,  long-range 
shot,  goading,  and  pricking:  such  are 
some  of  the  methods.  Each  one  of  the 
three  parts  of  common-sense  morality  of- 
fers points  of  attack.  Widowers'  Houses 
and  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  protest 
against  certain  institutions  and  habits. 
In  many  of  Ibsen's  plays,  and  also  in  the 
divorce  plays  of  the  French  playwrights, 
marriage  in  its  present  form  is  attacked. 
Again,  it  is  not  hard  to  find  examples  of 
attack  on  organized  moral  sentiment  and 
public  opinion.  The  deadening  respecta- 
bility of  such  sentiment  is  satirized  in  Pil- 
lars of  Society  and  in  Man  and  Superman. 
Jones's  Hypocrites  affords  an  excellent 
illustration.  His  attack  goes  straight  to 
the  mark  of  a  solid  mass  of  sentiment 
which  gives  support  to  certain  undesir- 
able social  habits.  Examples  of  an  on- 
slaught on  free  moral  sentiment  are  easy 
to  find.  Idle  dreaming  is  satirized  in  Peer 
Gynt  and  Brand.  The  character  of  Werle 
in  The  Wild  Duck  is  meant  to  show  the 
dangerous  side  of  this  quixotic  idealism. 
Romanticism,  with  its  flourish  of  false 
sentiment,  disgusts  Shaw  because  it  does 
not  connect  with  the  real  problems  of 
life. 

We  are  now  ready  for  some  of  the 
variations  of  our  theme.  One  thing  more 
must  be  said  of  common-sense  morality : 
it  is  always  in  the  making,  always  on 
the  move.  The  rate  of  change,  however, 
varies.  Sentiment,  organized  or  not, 
changes  more  rapidly  than  institutions 
do.  The  latter  disappear  very  slowly  even 
when  all  the  meaning  is  taken  out  of 
them.  It  is  like  a  man  staying  on  when 
there  is  no  reason  for  his  staying,  and  he 
knows  perfectly  well  that  he  wants  to  go. 

In  the  matter  of  this  slowly  changing 
mass  of  social  habits  and  values,  the 
problem-play  writer  assumes  that  indi- 
vidual conviction  shapes  and  directs  it  to 
a  higher  moral  point  of  view.  This  is 
what  makes  the  problem  play  so  intensely 
interesting,  for  in  it  we  find  the  moral 
consciousness  in  action,  in  vital  electrify- 
ing contact  with  life.  There  personal  val- 


ues clash  with  conventional  values,  and 
the  clutch  at  victory  expresses  itself  in  a 
great  many  different  ways:  as  frontal 
attack,  deploying  of  forces,  skirmishing, 
diplomatic  sparring.  This  distinguishes 
the  problem  play  from  the  doctrinaire 
play,  for  the  latter  stands  for  what  the 
former  attacks.  What  is  dogmatism  other 
than  a  kind  of  individual  convention? 
How  different  is  the  quizzing,  picking-to- 
pieces,  tentative  attitude  of  the  problem- 
play  writer!  Sometimes  this  insecurity 
expresses  itself  as  self-satire,  as  in  Ibsen's 
Wild  Duck;  sometimes  as  a  confused  in- 
terplay of  views,  as  in  the  last  act  of 
Monna  Vanna. 

The  "I  beg  to  differ"  attitude  of  the 
problem-play  writer  toward  common- 
sense  morality  takes  two  forms :  discoun- 
tenancing the  old,  and  suggesting  the  new. 
That  means  clearing  away  of  social  rub- 
bish. It  means  challenging  of  titles  and 
weighing  of  claims.  It  means  finding  the 
problem  in  the  solution. 

One  of  the  problems  most  frequently 
met  with  in  problem  plays  is  the  happi- 
ness problem  of  current  habits  and  ideals. 
Such  a  problem  would  naturally  appeal 
to  a  poet,  for  he  above  all  men  is  intensely 
aware  of  the  emotional  resonances  of  life. 
Ordinarily  with  him  the  problem  of  hap- 
piness is  an  acutely  personal  problem.  It 
amounts  to  keeping  one's  skin  whole  and 
agreeably  toning  one's  experiences.  Much 
of  lyrical  poetry  shows  this  clearly.  Of 
one  of  the  old  Greek  lyrical  poets  it  has 
been  said  that  with  him  everything  — 
landscape,  stormy  sea,  drenching  rain, 
and  driving  snow  —  leads  to  the  same 
goal,  the  bowl  and  its  jolly  pleasures. 
Poetry  of  a  loftier  strain  refines  on  the 
problem.  With  the  problem-play  writer 
the  whole  matter  of  happiness  is  given  a 
peculiar  turn.  There  is  not  much  spon- 
taneity in  his  art,  and  he  is  not  interested 
primarily  in  the  sensuous  side  of  life.  We 
rarely  hear  the  natural  cry  for  individual 
happiness  as  it  rings  through  the  experi- 
ences of  a  Maggie  Tulliver.  Again,  when 
the  self-defeating  character  of  pleasure  is 
dwelt  on,  as  i  .  Peer  Gynt,  it  is  dealt  with 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


643 


as  part  of  a  different  problem,  that  of  per- 
sonality. It  is  the  social  side  of  the  happi- 
ness problem  that  interests  the  problem- 
play  writer. 

Let  us  now  look  into  some  of  these 
social  phases  of  the  happiness  problem 
which  are  discussed  in  problem  plays. 
One  thing  is  assumed :  that  common-sense 
morality  is  and  ought  to  be  a  great  source 
of  social  happiness.  It  is  a  commonplace 
to  say  that  at  present  it  is  unsatisfactory 
in  that  respect.  Part  of  the  work  of  the 
problem-play  writer  will  consist  in  point- 
ing impressively  the  effects  on  happiness 
of  unsound  or  defective  institutions  and 
conventions.  Hauptmann,  in  Die  Weber, 
arraigns  certain  industrial  abuses  in  Sile- 
sia, and  tips  his  arraignment  with  the  pa- 
thetic appeal.  A  frequent  attack  is  that 
on  social  oppression  in  general.  This  is 
typical  material  for  the  problem  play,  for 
there  we  find  the  needed  touch  of  the 
problematic,  due  to  the  play  of  class  pre- 
judices and  a  clannish  way  people  have 
of  slurring  over  the  interests  of  other 
classes.  That  is  what  makes  the  discus- 
sion at  once  imperative  and  tonic. 

Social  oppression  of  one  class  by  an- 
other is  shown  to  produce  unhappiness, 
directly  in  the  class  oppressed,  indirectly 
in  the  class  doing  the  exploiting.  Plays  like 
Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,  and  many  of 
Pinero's  plays,  deal  with  the  festering  sore 
of  social  vice.  How  startling  the  problem 
when  the  responsibility  is  placed  where  it 
ought  to  be  placed,  on  unfavorable  social 
conditions!  The  slaves  of  greed  and  so- 
cial pariahs  are  no  less  wretched.  To  see 
a  play  like  Sudermann's  Sodom's  Ende  is 
to  look  at  life  with  a  little  less  disregard  of 
problems  reaching  into  the  life  of  the  un- 
favored and  unsheltered.  Social  oppres- 
sion is,  according  to  the  problem-play 
writer,  largely  the  result  of  effete  institu- 
tions, ill-judged  class  privileges,  and  the 
like.  If  problem  plays  dealt  merely  with 
these  obvious  phases  of  the  happiness 
problem,  there  would  be  [nothing  note- 
worthy about  them.  But  they  push  on  to 
the  more  intricate  and  problematic.  They 
show  how  oppression  reacts  unfavorably 


on  character  and  happiness-chances.  It 
develops  such  traits  as  brutality,  sordid- 
ness  of  motive,  deception,  helpless  de- 
pendence. Where  one  class  has  the  whip- 
hand,  it  is  but  natural  for  the  other  to 
cringe.  Sudermann's  Ehre  reveals  these 
less  obvious  miseries  of  the  oppressed 
class,  a  misery  exhibited  most  sharply 
in  the  pathetic  way  in  which  the  moral 
standards  of  the  oppressed  are  a  distorted 
reflection  of  those  of  their  oppressors. 

In  still  another  way  is  the  undesira- 
bility  of  social  rottenness  made  clear.  It 
corrupts  and  makes  wretched  the  oppress- 
ing class  also.  It  develops  short-sighted- 
ness, arrogance,  brutality,  and  parasitic 
habits.  No  society  can  prosper  when 
burdened  with  parasitic,  unproductive 
classes.  Such  plays  as  Ghosts,  Schmetter- 
lingschlacht,  Maskerade,  show  how  loose- 
ness of  living  at  the  expense  of  the  de- 
gradation of  another  saps  social  vigor  and 
results  in  general  unhappiness. 

An  even  more  significant  side  of  the 
social-happiness  problem  is  brought  out 
in  the  way  in  which  the  matter  of  social 
hypocrisy  is  dealt  with.  Ordinarily  we 
give  to  hypocrisy  a  stagey,  Pecksniffian 
touch.  We  do  not  think  of  socially  organ- 
ized hypocrisy,  or  of  hypocrisy  bred  in 
the  bone.  It  is  just  these  subtle  forms 
of  hypocrisy  that  the  problem-play  writer 
dwells  on.  He  tears  off  the  several  masks, 
such  as  smug  respectability,  time  and 
place-serving,  unprogressiveness,  and  the 
rest.  (Pillars  of  Society,  An  Enemy  of  the 
People,  Heimat,  Maskerade.) 

Much  of  this  hypocrisy  is  the  upshot  of 
outworn  or  ill- working  institutions.  It  is 
the  way  the  weak  have  of  countering  to 
oppression  by  the  strong.  From  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  down,  the  sweep  of  the  peasant's 
cap  has  been  measured  by  the  length  of 
the  nobleman's  sword,  and  there  was  as 
little  sincerity  in  the  former  as  there  was 
force  in  the  latter.  That  social  institu- 
tions often  produce  hypocrisy  in  this  way 
is  a  well-known  fact.  Sudermann,  in  his 
Ehre,  has  shown  how  the  caste  system 
produces  sordidness, evasion,  deceit;  how 
it  demoralizes  the  individual,  and  how 


644 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


that  brings  unhappiness.  Most  instruct- 
ive, however,  is  the  social  hypocrisy  that 
expresses  itself  as  respectability,  solidity. 
It  results  when  social  pressure  is  strong 
enough  to  produce  outer  conformity,  but 
not  equal  to  the  task  of  shaping  individ- 
ual conviction.  In  that  case,  there  will  be 
either  a  double  game  with  shifting  and 
trickery,  or  conformity  to  what  has  lost  its 
meaning.  The  problematic  lies  in  this, 
that  conformity  to  social  standards  may 
be  valuable  or  dangerous.  On  the  one 
hand,  it  gives  a  certain  stability  to  con- 
duct; it  safeguards  us  against  many  a 
squall  of  emotionalism.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  tends  to  stifle  moral  initiative, 
and  often  leads  to  social  hypocrisy,  indi- 
viduality working  underground.  This 
smug  respectability  is  dangerous  because 
it  blights  individual  conviction,  the  princi- 
ple of  social  progress.  It  tends  to  pre- 
serve what  has  been  outlived,  and  like  a 
crazy  collector  prizes  things  fit  only  for 
the  scrap-heap.  At  first  glance  such  con- 
formity to  the  social  cult  seems  to  favor 
individual  happiness  by  saving  much  an- 
noyance and  thought.  Unfortunately, 
however,  the  habit  of  conformity  outlasts 
its  justification;  to  be  helplessly  com- 
fortable in  one  set  of  conditions  means  to 
be  wretched  under  changed  conditions. 
Society  is  always  on  the  move,  and  the  in- 
dividual is  always  the  standard  bearer. 
This  view  is  what  makes  the  problem 
play  so  intensely  interesting. 

Let  me  refer  to  one  more  happiness 
problem,  that  of  the  destructive  effects 
of  certain  ways  of  acting  and  thinking.  It 
is  inconvenient  to  separate  the  two,  for 
they  play  into  each  other's  hands.  Such 
habits  are  more  common  than  one  might 
think.  Ill-judged  marriage-laws,  the  bar- 
ter-and-sale  marriage  Ibsen  scores,  the 
absinthe  habit,  such  are  examples.  Com- 
mon-sense morality,  clumsy  at  best, 
misses  much  of  the  effect  on  happiness  of 
habits  such  as  these.  It  is  here  that  the 
problem  play  comes  forward  with  scien- 
tific material  which  enables  it  to  touch  on 
moral  aspects  more  firmly  and  incisively. 
It  makes  much  of  the  connection  between 


alcoholism  and  disease  and  insanity,  and 
of  the  fact  that  alcoholism  interferes  with 
social  productiveness.  Again,  the  doc- 
trine of  heredity  is  made  much  of.  Con- 
trol of  one's  impulses  means  so  much 
more  when  the  next  generation  may  have 
to  pay  the  reckoning.  The  problem  of 
inherited  handicaps  always  appealed  to 
Ibsen.  It  lends  a  sinister  as  well  as  a  pa- 
thetic touch  to  the  fate  of  Dr.  Rank,  in  A 
Doll's  House.  With  some  of  Ibsen's  fol- 
lowers the  tracing  of  such  pathological 
conditions  becomes  almost  an  obsession. 
Hauptmann's  earlier  plays  deal  with  the 
problem  of  hereditary  taint  on  its  most 
unpleasant  side.  Very  often  the  idea  of 
conflicting  claims  is  introduced,  as  in 
Hauptmann's  College  Crampton.  This 
problematic  element  is  the  saving  salt  of 
problem  plays.  There  is  a  subtle  sugges- 
tion that  there  might  be  some  validity  in 
another  point  of  view. 

It  is  perhaps  not  at  once  obvious  how 
the  discussion  of  these  single  happiness 
problems  bears  on  what  is  characteristic 
of  problem  plays :  the  play  of  conviction 
on  moral  convention.  The  connection 
lies  in  the  fact  that  what  we  call  common- 
sense  morality  plays  a  double  and  by  no 
means  consistent  part.  In  one  sense,  it 
steadies  and  supports.  Not  only  that,  but 
it  is  the  great  forming  force  that  shapes 
individual  opinions.  As  such,  it  saves  a 
man  many  a  trying  experiment  in  values, 
and  it  puts  at  his  disposal  a  general  hap- 
piness fund.  It  is  quite  true  that  common- 
sense  morality  is  an  imperfect  happi- 
ness arrangement,  and  is  on  that  account 
scored  heavily  in  problem  plays.  But  the 
real  point  of  attack  lies  elsewhere.  Moral 
convention  discourages  personal  initia- 
tive and  non-conformity,  and  therefore 
raises  and  perpetuates  unhappiness  in 
many  forms.  Its  slowness  of  gait,  its 
wrongheadedness,  its  intolerance,  —  all 
these  things  must  irritate  a  man  of  force 
and  enterprise.  Add  to  this  the  fact  that, 
as  society  develops,  the  happiness  impulse 
assumes  more  and  more  individual  forms. 
This,  then,  is  the  problematic  in  the  pro- 
blem, that  moral  convention  harbors  two 


Some  Moral  Aspects  of  the  Problem  Play 


645 


contradictory  tendencies.  One  favors  in- 
dividual happiness,  the  other  interferes 
with  such  happiness  by  conventionalizing 
the  individual.  The  problem-play  writer 
realizes  that  on  a  happiness  platform  the 
problem  of  conviction  and  convention 
cannot  be  solved.  He  sees  too  much  of 
the  tangles  of  life  to  have  much  faith 
in  the  untwisting  and  logical  smoothing- 
out  at  which  the  moral  theorist  tries  his 
hand. 

The  problem  ultimately  becomes  one 
of  personality  and  its  conflict  with  com- 
mon-sense morality.  That  is  the  vital 
problem,  but  quite  as  hopeless  as  the 
other.  First  of  all,  we  may  ask  how  the 
individual  is  related  to  the  environment 
that  shapes  him.  The  problem  play,  with 
its  liking  for  the  complex  and  the  pro- 
blematic, makes  the  most  of  this  problem. 
It  is  presented  now  as  the  problem  of  the 
hammer  and  anvil,  now  as  that  of  the  pot- 
ter and  clay.  The  matter  of  hereditary 
influence  always  interested  Ibsen.  In  one 
of  his  letters,  he  suggests  that  character  is 
the  point  of  intersection  of  all  sorts  of  in- 
fluences; hence  often  the  tragedy  of  life. 
It  is  because  of  this  that  a  man  is  often  as 
a  house  divided  against  itself. 

What  makes  the  problem  so  difficult 
is  this,  that  much  of  custom  and  conven- 
tion lives  in  us  as  a  deadening  force. 
Personality  to  the  problem-play  writer 
means  freeing  one's  self  from  this  force, 
asserting  the  truly  individual  point  of 
view.  Set  formulas,  machine-made  mo- 
rality, blight  personality.  Think  of  Ib- 
sen's bitter  satire.  It  is  the  problem  of 
the  spark  and  the  clod.  No  man  has  in- 
sisted more  on  character  than  Ibsen  has 
done.  Be  a  person  and  respect  others  as 
persons :  this  formula  is  worked  out  in  a 
wealth  of  detail.  The  same  may  be  said 
with  regard  to  such  plays  as  Heimat  and 
Die  Versunkene  Glocke. 

In  this  matter  of  character-building 
convention  fails  much  as  it  did  in  the  mat- 
ter of  happiness.  The  forceful  man  must 
stand  alone.  He  is  more  or  less  out  of 
touch  with  society,  for  society,  with  the 
admirable  but  somewhat  narrow  econ- 


omy of  a  good  manager,  emphatically  dis- 
courages personality  beyond  the  point  of 
solid  social  income.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
problem-play  writer  the  problem  of  char- 
acter is  not  in  this  sense  a  matter  of 
pounds  and  pence.  And  yet  it  is  to  the 
best  interests  of  society  to  allow  a  certain 
amount  of  non-conformity,  and  to  en- 
courage forceful  variation  from  estab- 
lished standards.  On  this  condition  only 
is  moral  progress  possible.  As  Shaw  puts 
it,  "Every  step  in  morals  is  made  by  chal- 
lenging the  validity  of  the  existing  con- 
ception of  perfect  propriety  in  conduct." 
The  individual  will  is  the  saving  prin- 
ciple of  morality.  It  supplies  the  tension 
and  driving  force  necessary  to  social  ad- 
vance. 

Here  again  we  come  upon  the  eternal 
question  mark  of  the  problem  play.  Is 
character-building  a  purely  individual  af- 
fair ?  Is  self-culture  worth  while  ?  Self- 
expression  does  not  mean  license;  to 
realize  the  Gyntish  self  is  to  realize  no 
self  at  all,  to  be  a  creature  betwixt  and 
between,  not  good  enough  for  heaven  and 
not  bad  enough  for  hell.  In  Brand  self- 
expression  takes  another  tack.  It  is  the 
ruthless  ideal  of  no  compromise  that 
holds  him  captive.  But  personality  is 
after  all  a  social  affair,  and  it  is  the  pecul- 
iar combination  of  individualism  and  an 
individualized  social  ideal  that  makes  the 
problem  of  personality  such  a  perplexing 
one  in  problem  plays.  Directly  connected 
with  this  is  the  stress  laid  by  such  men  as 
Ibsen  and  Tolstoy  on  the  worth  of  self- 
sacrifice,  renunciation.  It  furnishes  the 
keynote  to  many  of  Ibsen's  later  plays. 
It  is  represented  as  a  necessary  element 
in  strength  of  character.  At  the  same  time 
faith  in  one's  self  enters  into  strength  of 
character.  This  takes  us  to  the  problem- 
atic in  the  problem.  The  ideals  of  self- 
culture  and  social  service  conflict.  There 
are  turmoil,  confusion,  and  clash  here  as 
elsewhere. 

This  then  is  the  true  moral  meaning  of 
the  work  of  the  problem-play  writer*  He 
exhibits  life  as  one  huge  problem,  a 
problem  to  which  there  can  be  no  solu- 


646  The  Secret  Thing 

tion  other  than  a  constant  leavening  of  His  office  is  to  keep  fresh  and  clear  and 

social  habits  and  ideals  by  individual  con-  ever-flowing  the  living  water  of  individ- 

viction.   He  is  like  a  priest  who  lifts  the  ual  conviction   that  is  to  cleanse  and 

veil  of  mystery  to  show  us  a  veil  beyond,  purify  the  morality  of  custom  and  con- 

His  revelation  is  a  revelation  of  mystery,  vention. 


THE   SECRET  THING 

BY   FANNIE   STEARNS   DAVIS 

I  SOUGHT  to  sing  the  secret  of  my  heart; 

But  it  escaped,  me  like  a  wild-winged  bird, 

And  to  the  lonely  Heavens  did  depart, 

Until  a  faint  lost  note  was  all  I  heard. 

And  no  one  else  on  all  the  earth  could  hear 
What  I  had  deemed  so  marvelously  clear. 

I  sought  to  tellrthe  secret  of  my  heart, 
Whispering  low,  to  one  who  loved  me  well. 
But  like  a  breath  of  dawn  I  felt  it  start 
And  pass  before  one  precious  symbol  fell. 

And  she  I  loved  so  only  looked  at  me. 

"  What  fragrant  wind  was  that?  Oh,  sweet!  "  said  she. 

So  I  shall  keep  it  hid  eternally. 
It  is  so  filmy,  exquisite,  and  wild; 
And  yet  so  bright  and  eloquent  and  free. 
Full  many  a  barren  day  it  has  beguiled. 

But  if  none  else  its  loveliness  may  see 

Think  not  I  play  the  miser  willingly! 


,5 

CLOSING  THE   COUNTRY  HOME 

.,  .  ,-J 
BY  ZEPHINE   HUMPHREY 


THIS  is  the  age  of  the  country  home, 
and  we  who  are  children  of  the  age  pride 
ourselves  not  a  little  on  what  we  call  our 
return  to  nature,  our  devotion  to  field  and 
wood.  True  it  is  that  new  houses  spring 
up  in  green  valleys  every  year,  that  old 
farmhouses  are  taken  over  and  trans- 
formed, that  the  mountains  are  ringed 
with  worshipers  from  June  until  Octo- 
ber. True  it  is  that  our  book-shelves 
abound  in  manuals  of  the  garden,  of  bird 
and  flower,  and  that  no  self-respecting 
one  of  us  would  venture  forth  in  the  sum- 
mer meadows  without  an  opera-glass. 
We  are  very  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  our 
outdoor  enthusiasm,  and,  though  it  occurs 
to  us  sometimes  to  laugh,  genially  poking 
fun  at  one  another  for  our  excessses  in 
the  field,  we  never  seem  to  doubt  in  the 
least  the  fundamental  nature  of  our  love, 
or  its  perfect  desirability  in  the  scheme  of 
things  at  large.  Perhaps  this  assurance 
is  just  as  well ;  no  enthusiasm  certainly  is 
worth  a  straw  without  it.  And  the  na- 
ture-enthusiasm is  good  for  soul  and 
body,  heart  and  brain,  of  those  who  ac- 
knowledge it.  But  there  is  another  side  to 
the  matter,  commanded  by  the  point  of 
view  of  the  country  itself  and  the  country 
people,  and  this  side  is  worth  considera- 
tion if  our  love  is  really  earnest. 

The  increase  of  country  homes  is  work- 
ing a  very  radical  change  in  the  life  of 
the  country. 

A  certain  valley  I  have  in  mind,  hidden 
among  the  mountains,  remote  and  silent, 
a  gentle  spot,  yet  not  untouched  with 
sublimity  in  its  grandly  encircling  hills. 
Meadow  and  woodland,  pasture  and 
stream,  are  brooded  upon  by  a  potent 
spell  which  serves  to  bind  all  hearts  to  the 
place  in  a  devotion  which  is  seldom 
equaled  outside  the  realm  of  purely  hu- 
man affection.  The  people  who  go  there 


in  the  summer,  returning  year  after  year 
for  long  lifetimes,  are  bound  in  a  bro- 
therhood close  and  peculiar,  so  that, 
when  they  chance  to  encounter  one  an- 
other on  the  city  streets  during  the  win- 
ter, pleasure  leaps  up  in  their  eyes,  and 
they  turn  aside  and  forget  other  claims  on 
the  spot.  The  place  has  laid  its  still  influ- 
ence commandingly  over  the  depths  of 
many  scattered  lives.  Little  by  little,  the 
land  is  bought  up  for  summer  cottages, 
or  old  farmhouses  are  made  over,  and 
the  summer  colony  spreads. 

Time  was  when  the  social  life  of  this 
valley  was  blithe  and  vigorous,  the  in- 
digenous social  life,  native  as  rocks  and 
trees.  Old  inhabitants  shake  their  heads, 
looking  wistfully  back  through  the  years. 
"Those  were  good  days  when  the  Craw- 
fords  lived  here,  when  Silas  Wilkins  was 
alive,  when  we  had  the  village  orchestra 
and  the  Shakespeare  Club."  What  is  it 
that  has  so  fatally  happened  to  occasion 
that  hopeless  past  tense?  Silas  Wilkins 
has  died,  to  be  sure,  and  no  one  could 
help  that  mortal  accident.  But  the  Craw- 
fords  have  sold  their  farm  to  some  people 
from  New  York,  the  Perkins  family  has 
decamped  in  favor  of  a  Boston  arrival, 
and  Miss  Lucy  Jones  has  ceded  her  cot- 
tage for  an  artist's  studio. 

In  the  summer  all  is  abundant  good 
cheer.  The  houses  and  cottages  brim 
with  glad  life  along  the  winding  country 
roads  and  in  the  little  village.  Horses  and 
carriages  climb  the  hills,  picnic  parties 
explore  the  glens,  diligent  walkers  tramp 
"  round  the  square,"  in  the  thoroughly 
conscientious  fashion  of  the  "summer 
boarder."  There  is  a  certain  informal  de- 
gree of  social  life  manifest  in  tea  on  the 
lawn,  in  games  at  the  tiny  club-house,  in 
tennis  tournaments.  A  series  of  enter- 
tainments each  year,  "for  the  benefit  of 

647 


648 


Closing  the  Country  Home 


the  library,"  lays  claim  on  the  quite  un- 
usual talents  of  the  summer  residents, 
resulting  in  concerts  of  wonderful  music, 
in  masterly  readings  from  the  great  poets, 
in  exhibitions  of  pictures  which  later  will 
adorn  the  walls  of  the  New  York  Acad- 
emy. "What  a  great  thing  it  is  for  the 
valley,"  many  a  visitor  has  exclaimed, 
"that  all  these  people  should  have  settled 
here!" 

A  natural  first  conclusion  that,  inevit- 
able to  the  urban  mind ;  but  one  has  only 
to  linger  a  little  into  the  edges  of  the  win- 
ter to  pause  and  question  its  ultimate 
soundness.  This  winter  season  is  one 
which  we  fair-weather  sojourners  com- 
placently ignore.  Our  country  year  is  but 
half  a  year,  three  seasons  at  the  most. 
What  happens  after  we  close  our  houses 
and  return  to  our  "sweet  security  of 
streets,"  we  have  not  the  least  idea.  That 
the  moon  has  to  consider  and  deal  with  a 
strange  shadowed  half,  which  is  just  as 
much  a  part  of  its  being  as  its  familiar 
earthward  face,  is  a  proposition  which  no 
earth-child  can  realize  very  acutely. 

That  something  threatens  we  appre- 
hend in  those  great  days  of  late  October 
when,  hurriedly  packing,  we  glance  out 
through  our  windows  at  bare-stripped 
hills,  purple-black  beneath  flying  clouds, 
at  gaunt  woods  "in  the  stormy  east- wind 
straining,"  at  armies  of  scurrying  leaves. 
But  we  do  not  linger  to  put  to  the  test  our 
shivering  apprehensions.  The  wistful 
eyes  of  the  country  people  might  tell  us 
a  story  if  we  cared  to  listen.  How  they 
dread  the  winter !  Their  preparations  for 
it  are  grave  and  carefully  deliberate,  be- 
ginning in  the  middle  of  autumn,  lest 
something  be  forgotten,  or  lest  the  time 
prove  too  short  and  frost  overtake  the 
farmhouse  unawares. 

"It 's  a  regular  campaign  you  have  to 
plan,  is  n't  it  ?"  I  said  to  a  farmer's  wife, 
as  I  dropped  in  to  see  her  one  November 
day,  and  was  ushered  into  the  kitchen. 
All  the  rooms  in  the  front  of  the  house 
were  closed  off,  and  the  front  door  was 
locked  for  the  winter. 

"Yes,"  she  sighed,  "we  have  to  change 


all  around,  you  see,  and  huddle  close  to- 
gether. My  husband  and  Ij|sleep  in  that 
little  room  off  the  kitchen,  with  the  two 
youngest  children,  and  the  others  sleep 
just  above;  the  stove-pipe  goes  through 
then*  room.  Even  then,  we  often  suffer 
with  cold.  I  don't  know  as  you'll  hardly 
believe  me,  but  one  night  last  winter  I 
left  a  fire  banked  up  in  the  stove  and  the 
tea-kettle  on  the  griddle,  and  in  the 
morning  the  coals  were  still  there,  but  the 
kettle  was  froze  solid." 

"It  is  n't  the  cold  that  I  dread  most, 
though,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment, 
"it 's  the  awful  loneliness.  There  's  so 
few  people  left  in  the  valley  now  after  the 
first  of  November.  You  see  how  it  is  a 
little  yourself,  stayin'  so  late  this  year. 
There  's  nothin'  lonesomer  than  a  closed 
house,  an'  on  some  roads  there  ain't  no- 
thin'  else  hardly  but  closed  houses.  My ! 
how  I  hate  to  drive  by  'em  in  a  winter 
twilight.  I  think  there  ought  to  be  a  law 
to  oblige  city  people  to  keep  lights  burn- 
in'  in  their  country  homes  all  winter. 
Don't  you  suppose"  —  this  with  a  sud- 
den appealing  turn  —  "  you  are  ever 
goin'  to  want  to  stay  with  us  all  through 
the  year?" 

Was  I  ever  going  to  want  to,  I  won- 
dered, as  I  walked  home  after  this  inter- 
view. Yes,  I  wanted  to  even  then  with  at 
least  one-half  of  my  heart.  The  solemn 
November  beauty  is  greater  to  me  than 
all  the  light-hearted  abundance  of  sum- 
mer; the  lure  of  the  winter  is  stirring.  If 
only  my  comrades  would  stay  with  me! 
If  only !  There  I  betrayed  the  need  com- 
mon to  all  our  humanity,  urban  or  rural, 
and  quickened  my  steps  to  pass  the 
closed  houses,  and  shivered,  and  was  sad. 
The  inestimable  benefit  accruing  to  our 
valley  from  my  summer  home  and  those 
of  my  friends  seemed  suddenly  not  so 
evident  to  me  as  I  had  always  supposed 
it  to  be.  If  I  were  the  valley,  I  know  full 
well  that  I  should  prefer  the  old  order 
of  things,  with  houses  open  all  the  year 
round  and  filled  with  stout-hearted  coun- 
try people  who  loyally  took  storm  and 
sunshine  with  me  and  gave  me  their 


Closing  the  Country  Home 


649 


whole  endeavor,  who  wove  a  strong  so- 
cial life  in  my  midst  and  made  me  a  part 
of  the  world. 

Think  what  it  is  that  we  do  in  fact,  we 
"lovers  of  the  country!"  As  soon  as  the 
way  is  conveniently  smooth  for  our  deli- 
cate feet  in  the  spring,  we  sweep  in,  usurp- 
ing all  the  best  sites,  buying  up  the  best 
farm-land.  All  authority  we  blandly  as- 
sume, even  controlling  the  social  life,  as 
by  divine  right  forsooth.  The  country 
people  are  shy  and  proud.  Seeing  us  so 
abundantly  willing  to  manage  the  affairs 
of  the  valley,  they  decamp  before  us.  Any 
least  condescension  they  recognize,  — 
in  our  efforts  to  "make  ourselves  one 
with  them,"  to  "draw  them  out,"  —  and 
they  retire  into  the  hollows  of  their  hills, 
perturbed  and  obstinate.  Even  the  villa- 
gers, those  who  have  traveled  and  know 
the  ways  of  the  world,  never  open  out 
their  lives  fully  to  us,  so  that  the  barrier 
disappears  and  we  are  no  longer  "city 
folks"  to  them,  but  just  plain  everyday 
"folks."  The  relation  between  us  is 
not  the  genuine,  unstudied  one  of  fel- 
low townsmen,  but  at  best  a  conscious 
adaptation. 

For  the  truth  of  the  matter  always  is 
that  we  are  not  fellow  townsmen.  No 
real  valley-dwellers  are  we  who  take  the 
sweet  of  its  life  and  leave  its  bitter  doubly 
pungent.  We  speak  of  "our  valley," 
"our  hills,"  "our  woods;"  but  they  are 
not  in  the  very  least  ours,  the  claim  is 
presumptuous.  They  are  His  who  made 
them,  of  course,  supremely;  and,  after 
that,  they  are  theirs  who  live  rounded 
lives  in  their  midst. 

To  these  latter  should  fall  all  rights  of 
controlling  growth  and  change.  The  lit- 
tle valley  of  my  affection  has  long  desired 
a  railroad.  The  reasons  are  many  and 
excellent:  to  facilitate  transportation  of 
farm  produce,  to  spare  horse  and  man  in 
the  piercing  winter  cold,  to  make  inter- 
course possible  between  scattered  farms 
(a  country  railroad  often  runs  on  the  trol- 
ley principle  of  stops),  to  communicate  a 
little  of  the  pulse  of  the  world.  Nothing 
less  than  new  life  would  be  the  gift  of  that 


road  to  the  valley.  Yet  —  "Never!"  ex- 
claim the  owners  of  country  homes,  with 
one  voice,  and  a  determination  based  on 
the  tax-list  and  reasonably  sure  of  itself. 
Based  on  aesthetic  considerations,  too,  of 
course,  and  quite  conscientious.  Shall 
the  lovely  valley  be  defiled,  its  sanctity 
invaded?  There  is,  however,  a  sanctity 
of  hunger  in  the  human  heart  which  is  a 
more  august  and  reverend  thing  than  any 
valley  solitude,  and  this  the  railroad  of 
our  abhorrence  would  honor  and  sub- 
serve. The  decision  is  certajnly  not  ours 
to  make,  yet  we  do  make  it  and  enforce 
it,  and  the  railroad  is  not  yet. 

One  wishes  that  the  social  reformers 
would  turn  their  attention  from  city  slums 
for  a  while  and  give  the  country  their 
thoughtful  consideration.  There  is  great 
possibility  and  great  need  for  readjust- 
ment here.  Life  in  the  country  ought  to 
be  all  that  is  sweet  and  wholesome  and 
glad.  Wordsworth  realized  this  obliga- 
tion and  wrote  of  his  high-souled  farmers. 
But  Crabbe,  for  all  his  lesser  genius, 
looked  more  squarely  into  the  face  of  fact, 
and  sadly  set  forth,  — 
The  Village  Life,  and  every  care  that  reigns 
O'er  youthful  peasants  and  declining  swains. 

Ye  gentle  souls,  who  dream  of  rural  ease, 
Whom  the  smooth  stream  and  smoother  son- 
net please, 

Go !  if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share, 
Go  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there. 

No,  alas!  it  is  not  there.  The  average 
country  life  is  not  a  life  of  happiness. 
Hard  work  and  poverty  chain  the  body  — 
and  with  the  body  the  mind  —  to  a  hope- 
less, monotonous  round.  It  is  enough  to 
kill  the  spirit  to  see  no  possible  end  to 
one's  task,  nor  any  varying.  An  impious, 
tragic  distortion  of  values  results  from 
this  lifelong  absorption  in  material  things, 
so  that  all  the  finer  issues  of  life,  those  for 
which  the  soul  was  created,  come  to  be,  if 
not  ignored  altogether,  scorned  at  least 
and  neglected.  To  the  average  country 
person  a  dreamer  is  a  contemptible  fail- 
ure. Books  and  music  have  their  place, 
but  a  scanty  one,  in  the  cracks  of  the  day, 
or  at  its  weary  end.  It  actually  transpires 


650 


Closing  the  Country  Home 


at  last  that  the  shell  of  life  has  all  the  im- 
portance, and  the  kernel  shrivels  and  is 
cast  away. 

They  have  their  vague  misgivings  of 
course,  these  fettered  farmer-folk  (no 
wronged  soul  can  utterly  fail  of  indignant 
protest),  and  therefore  their  eyes  are  wist- 
ful. But  the  finer  issues  of  life  are  per- 
haps after  all  a  community  product,  a  di- 
vine result  of  comradeship,  of  love  and 
faith  and  intercourse,  an  urban  growth 
rather  than  a  rural.  Scattered,  lonely, 
separate  lives  cannot  well  attain  it.  This 
theory  contradicts  the  poets,  and  that  is 
another  tragic  and  impious  act.  But 
etymology  bears  it  out.  The  one  word 
civilization  itself  tells  the  whole  of  the 
story. 

They  say  that  the  state  in  which  lies 
the  valley  to  which  I  have  referred  is 
steadily  degenerating,  that  crime  is  on 
the  increase.  That  should  be  a  shocking 
matter  of  concern  to  all  of  us  who  love  the 
state  and  have  our  summer  homes  there. 
What  shall  be  done?  "A  return  to  the 
soil"  is  everywhere  cried  as  the  remedy, 
and  perhaps  we  think  we  are  meeting  the 
need  in  the  May  to  November  return  we 
make,  in  our  "fancy  farming."  But  half- 
way methods  never  succeed,  and  ours  is 
no  real  return.  What  the  valley  needs  is 
the  whole  allegiance  of  the  best  of  its  na- 
tive sons,  who  shall  abide  in  it  and  work 
its  weal  instead  of  selling  their  houses  and 
setting  forth  to  see  if  they,  too,  cannot  be- 
come "  city  folks; "  and  of  its  sons  by 
adoption  also,  for  there  is  room  in  the 
valley  for  all  who  will  come  and  work  for 
it  honestly. 

Just  here  comes  in  the  great  oppor- 
tunity of  the  country  home.  Work-room 
or  play-ground  —  that  is  the  question  on 
which  the  whole  issue  depends:  which 
is  the  valley  to  the  owner  of  the  country 
home  ?  At  least  it  is  certainly  true  that 
no  lover  who  is  worth  his  nectar  fails  to 
devote  himself  heart  and  soul  to  the  good 
of  his  beloved;  and,  if  our  love  for  the 
country  be  real,  we  will  see  to  it  that 
the  country  profits,  not  suffers 'in  the 
slightest  way,  by  our  presence  in  it. 


All  this  reasoning  seems  to  point  to  one 
logical  conclusion :  that  the  country  home 
be  kept  open  through  the  year.  After 
what  has  been  said  of  the  urban  birth  of 
the  finer  issues  of  life,  the  conclusion 
sounds  like  a  condemnation ;  and  indeed 
the  lure  of  "the  friendly  town"  is  as 
strong  as  that  of  "the  open  road "  to  us  of 
the  modern  world.  But,  if  we  all  stayed 
in  the  country  together,  those  of  us  who 
have  country  homes,  there  would  be  a 
real  community  life,  a  civilization  of  num- 
bers. The  country  people  would  swell 
our  ranks,  —  or  we  should  swell  theirs, 
which  is  the  truer  and  assuredly  the  more 
gracious  way  of  putting  the  case,  —  and 
the  valley  would  have  one  established 
life,  one  purpose,  and  one  hope.  The 
good  old  days  might  come  again,  or  — 
since  of  course  they  never  do  —  better 
ones  perhaps.  The  wistfulness  might 
leave  the  eyes  of  the  farmer-folk  and  their 
hunger  be  appeased  by  the  constant  pre- 
sence of  their  kind.  Crime  is  often 
enough  but  a  desperate  effort  at  self- 
defense  against  the  arch-foe  ennui,  a  mis- 
erable refuge.  What  if  we  of  the  country 
homes  leave  the  path  open  by  our  deser- 
tion, our  positive  infliction  of  loneliness 
through  our  negative  absence?  It  is  a 
point  to  consider. 

Nor  need  we  suppose  that  our  sacrifice 
(complacent  creatures  that  we  are!) 
would  be  any  greater  than  our  gain  if  we 
stayed  in  the  country  all  winter.  A  com- 
radeship very  close  and  informal  would 
grace  our  long  seclusion.  Apart  from  the 
hurry  and  rush  of  the  city,  we  should  have 
time  to  know  one  another,  to  build  up 
a  real  society  based  on  eternal  things. 
Around  "  our  neighborly  open "  fires, 
abroad  on  snow-shoes  or  skates  together, 
sharing  the  fight  with  the  elements,  we 
should  have  intercourse  real  and  sub- 
stantial, worth  everything  else  in  life. 
Our  books,  too,  —  how  we  should  revel 
in  them,  by  the  hour,  by  the  day,  with  the 
snow  falling  softly  outside,  and  the  wind 
in  the  chimney !  And  the  crisp  morning's 
work  at  easel  or  desk,  and  the  long  cosy 
evenings!  Surely  the  life  would  be  good. 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


651 


As  for  the  beauty,  do  we  understand 
what  we  forego  when  we  turn  away  and 
leave  the  valley  to  winter  ?  Days  of  daz- 
zling blue  and  white  —  a  white  world  of 
silence,  beneath  a  blue  sky  in  which  the 
stars  await  only  the  swift  going  down  of 
the  sun  to  blaze  forth,  hanging  in  space. 
Soft  gray  days  of  whirling,  muffling 
flakes ;  dark,  fierce  days  of  rushing  winds. 
Winter  woods  to  explore,  winter  brooks 
to  follow,  and  winter  ponds  to  skim. 
The  greatest  season  of  all  the  year  is  this 
King  Winter,  and  we  will  have  none 
of  it. 

Then  there  is  the  first  approach  of 
spring,  that  most  exquisite  surprise.  The 
earliest  comers-back  of  us  are  never  in 
time  for  this  revelation;  it  belongs  to 
February.  We  feel  it  in  our  city  streets 
and  respond  to  it  with  a  leap  of  the  heart ; 
but  what  it  must  mean  to  be  touched  by  it 
some  gusty  morning  across  snowy  fields, 


and  to  burst  out  of  our  winter  prison, 
rejoicing  utterly! 

It  is  only  a  question  mooted,  this  of  the 
duty  and  present  failure  of  the  country 
home.  I  who  write  have  no  more  mind  to 
relinquish  my  city  apartment  than  my 
old  farmhouse.  But  one  has  spells  now 
and  then  of  debating,  not  what  he  has  a 
mind  for,  so  much  as  what  effect  he  is  pro- 
ducing by  his  line  of  conduct;  and  when 
one  of  these  virtuous  moods  is  upon  me, 
my  heart  misgives  me  for  my  little  valley. 
It  lies  at  a  distance  among  the  hills.  The 
deep  snows  wrap  it,  the  silence  broods, 
the  evening  lamps  shine  too  far  apart  to 
be  aware  of  one  another.  Along  the  roads 
and  in  the  village  closed  houses  stand 
in  cheerless  gloom,  forbidding  presences. 
Loneliness,  dreariness,  and  desertion,  — 
while  here  hive  we  in  our  cosy  city,  safe 
and  warm  and  happy  together.  The  con- 
trast gives  one  pause. 


"RESTORING"  WORKS  OF  ART 


BY   FRANK   JEWETT   MATHER 


A  NEW  YORK  picture-dealer  was  re- 
cently arrested  for  procuring  forgeries  of 
the  paintings  of  George  Inness,  Homer 
Martin,  and  others.  Being  a  true  son  of 
our  times  and  knowing  the  dilatory  course 
of  litigation,  he  promptly  made  his  de- 
fense before  the  first  reporter  handy. 
Repudiating  energetically  the  charge  of 
forgery,  he  admitted  readily  that  he  had 
had  certain  American  paintings  "re- 
touched." It  was  a  service  that  clients 
expected,  nay  required,  of  a  merchant. 
To  illustrate  the  nature  of  the  retouching 
process,  he  described  a  case  in  point.  A 
monochrome  sketch,  the  mere  prepara- 
tion for  a  picture,  by  Alexander  Wyant, 
passed  first  into  the  hands  of  a  fellow 
artist  and  then  into  the  trade.  It  was  skill- 
fully "retouched,"  and  came  out  a  fin- 
ished landscape,  with  Wyant's  familiar 


delicacy  and  range  of  color.  The  widow 
(of  the  artist — not  of  the  retoucher,  who 
is  still  productive  at  this  writing)  was 
prevailed  upon,  so  the  story  runs,  to  affix 
Wyant's  signature,  a  reprehensible  but 
still  a  common  way  of  dignifying  sketches 
post  mortem.1  Then,  shall  we  say?  the 
improved  landscape  became  part  of  a 
well-known  collection  of  American  paint- 
ings, and  brought  a  good  price  in  a  fa- 
mous sale.  For  the  authenticity  of  the 
anecdote  I  cannot  vouch.  What  is  really 
noteworthy  about  it  transcends  issues  of 
veracity;  the  vicissitudes  of  this  sketch 
seemed  to  a  successful  dealer  to  be  mere- 

1  Many  of  the  studio  sketches  of  the  late 
George  Inness,  which  were  sold  at  auction  a 
few  years  ago,  bore  a  palpable  imitation  of  his 
signature  which  had  presumably  been  affixed 
by  authority  of  his  executors. 


652 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


ly  of  a  usual  kind,  implying  no  reproach 
anywhere.  It  is  a  pretty  serious  consider- 
ation for  all  who  collect,  or  simply  love, 
works  of  art,  that  under  the  still  more 
specious  name  of  restoration  many  beau- 
tiful works  in  all  fields  of  the  arts  are 
literally  disappearing;  or  worse,  the  in- 
auspicious skill  of  the  modern  restorer  is 
coolly  masquerading  as  the  masterpieces 
that  were. 

Now,  for  the  practical  purposes  of  the 
lover  of  art,  the  distinction  between  the 
simple  forger,  the  retoucher  as  defined 
above  by  an  expert,  and  the  over-zealous 
restorer,  is  pretty  nearly  negligible.  All, 
with  varying  motives,  practice  a  kindred 
deception;  all  present  their  own  work  as 
that  of  another  and  greater.  A  casuist 
may  be  pleased  to  observe  that  the  forger 
deceives  the  public,  but  not  himself;  that 
the  retoucher  may  take  a  certain  dubious 
moral  comfort  in  the  substratum  of  genu- 
ine work  under  his  own  confections,  and 
that  the  restorer,  while  misleading  the 
public,  may  honestly  deceive  himself  also 
by  the  flattering  conviction  that  he  has 
given  a  fine  picture,  if  in  garbled  form,  a 
new  lease  of  life.  Such  considerations 
would  justify  a  Dante  in  relegating  de- 
ceased practitioners  of  these  allied  crafts 
to  diverse  profundities  and  altitudes  of 
the  nether  or  probationary  afterworlds. 
For  the  connoisseur  and  student  of  the 
history  of  art  such  moral  considerations 
are  largely  nugatory.  Except  for  the  pos- 
sibility of  removing  repaint,  it  is  much  the 
same,  whether  a  clean  canvas,  a  slight 
sketch,  or  a  much-damaged  old  picture, 
underlies  the  specious  integument.  In 
each  and  every  case  there  has  been  falsi- 
fication of  artistic  evidence,  substitution 
of  the  handling  of  an  artisan  for  that  of 
the  artist.  The  rest  is  merely  a  question 
of  degree,  and  the  best  we  can  say  for 
the  chartered  repainter,  as  compared 
with  his  subterranean  colleagues,  is  that 
he  openly  practices  what  may  be  called 
an  indispensable  profanation  for  the  sake 
of  a  higher  good. 

To  this  contention  that  old  pictures 
must  live  on,  John  Ruskin  retorted,  Vol- 


taire-like, that  he  did  not  see  the  neces- 
sity. Better,  he  insisted,  that  a  fine  work 
of  art  should  be  left  reverently  to  the  in- 
evitable processes  of  decay.  Again  and 
again  he  inveighed  against  the  vandalism 
that  would  add  to,  or  take  away  from, 
a  masterpiece.  He  has  pointed  out  that 
in  every  stage  of  disintegration  fine  handi- 
craft retains  its  essential  beauty.  Pre- 
serve it  we  cannot,  without  making  it  less 
fine;  save  it  from  such  desecration  we 
may  and  should,  so  long  as  one  scrap  of 
crumbling  stone  or  pigment  reveals  the 
hand  and  mind  of  the  artist.  Of  this  doc- 
trine, one  can  only  say  that  it  would  be 
more  gracious  in  a  Premillenarian  than  in 
a  believer  in  the  persistency  of  the  present 
universe.  When  we  -indulge  so  fairly 
superstitious  a  respect  for  the  perishing 
thing  of  beauty,  we  do  so  at  the  expense 
of  posterity.  It  would  greatly  lighten  the 
task  both  of  amateurs  and  museum  offi- 
cials if  they  might  adopt,  on  Mr.  Ruskin's 
authority,  the  essentially  Bourbon  motto, 
apres  moi  le  deluge.  Yet  I  doubt  if  the 
Sage  of  Coniston  himself  would  have 
maintained  the  severity  of  his  teaching 
had  he  been  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
imminent  ruin  of  one  of  his  favorite  pic- 
tures. In  fact,  Tintoretto's  Paradise, 
about  which  Ruskin  has  written  so  nobly, 
was  found  a  few  years  ago  to  be  in  rapid 
decay.  The  great  canvas  was  giving  way 
at  many  points,  and  it  was  probable  that 
within  another  fifty  years  nothing  would 
be  left  but  tatters  stained  with  dried  and 
meaningless  pigment.  Advocates  of  the 
intangibility  of  masterpieces  would  have 
had  no  course  open  except  to  notify  the 
world  of  the  progress  of  dissolution,  thus 
inciting  art-lovers  to  pay  their  last  re- 
spects betimes.  Fortunately  the  city  of 
Venice  took  a  less  sentimental  view  of  its 
duty.  The  damaged  remains  of  the  Para- 
dise have  been  transferred  to  another 
canvas  which  should  safely  bear  its  pre- 
cious charge  for  centuries  to  come.  I 
think  that  nobody  will  deny  that  this  was 
a  case  of  necessary  repair. 

In  many  other  instances  the  choice  is 
between  repairing  a  fine  object  or  losing  it 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


653 


utterly.  Take  the  many  early  paintings 
which  were  done  in  tempera  on  a  pre- 
pared panel.  In  the  course  of  time, 
through  the  warping  of  the  wood,  or, 
worse  yet,  through  furnace  heat  or  damp, 
the  thin  film  of  plaster  upon  which  such  a 
picture  was  painted  begins  to  crack  and 
come  away.  Minor  damage  of  this  sort 
may  be  arrested  by  simple  means,  but  if 
the  chalky  preparation  is  generally  loos- 
ened, the  picture  must  be  transferred  from 
wood  to  canvas  or  be  lost.  The  process  of 
transfer  is  a  delicate  and  often  a  disas- 
trous one.  The  question,  then,  becomes 
simply,  Is  it  better  to  have  a  fine  thing 
damaged,  or  not  to  have  it  at  all  ?  Be- 
tween two  visits  to  a  hillside  oratory  near 
Florence,  I  witnessed  the  actual  disinte- 
gration of  a  fine  Lorenzo  Monaco.  At  the 
first  visit  the  picture,  a  Crucifixion,  was 
apparently  in  fair  shape,  though  a  close 
inspection  revealed  the  long  and  deep  fis- 
sures that  bespeak  inner  decay.  On  our 
return  a  few  weeks  later  two  palms' 
breadth  of  the  paint  had  scaled  away, 
leaving  more  scar  than  picture,  and  on  the 
stone  pavement  lay  the  curling  fragments 
of  what  had  been  an  exquisite  bit  of  tem- 
pera enamel.  And  this  is  only  a  sensa- 
tional example  of  the  end  in  store  for  all 
paintings  that  are  sufficiently  let  alone. 
Oil  paintings  have  their  peculiar  and 
wasting  maladies,  upon  which  doleful 
topic  I  need  not  now  dwell. 

With  many  other  works  of  art  the  case 
is  the  same :  we  must  keep  them  in  repair 
or  lose  them.  Pottery  of  all  sorts  is  more 
readily  broken  when  already  damaged 
or  incomplete.  Fissured  wood-carving  is 
more  exposed  to  changes  of  temperature 
than  to  warp  and  worms  that  consume. 
Even  slight  fractures  in  marble  offer  a 
way  to  disintegrating  frost  and  rain.  To 
multiply  examples  is  needless.  Moreover, 
many  objects  of  art  fortunately  remain 
still  in  use  in  the  places  for  which  they 
were  originally  contrived.  One  cannot 
apply  the  doctrine  of  laisser-faire,  for  ex- 
ample, to  tapestries  that  have  begun  to 
ravel  and  yield,  to  fine  rugs  trodden  or 
burned  through  in  spots,  to  stained  glass 


that  is  beginning  to  admit  wind  and 
weather.  Furniture  too  must  be  kept  in 
a  condition  to  support  a  sitter,  metal  in 
service  must  be  cleaned  even  at  the  risk 
of  destroying  a  patina.  Unless  we  are 
prepared  to  send  all  crippled  works  of  art 
forthwith  to  the  lazar-house  —  and  there 
are  those  who  rightly  dread  more  than 
neglect  the  surgery  practiced  in  art  mu- 
seums —  we  must  be  willing  to  tolerate 
a  common-sense  amount  of  repair. 

And  repair  often  involves  restoration,  I 
hasten  to  add,  for  the  impatient  reader 
who  will  be  calling  me  back  to  my  sub- 
ject. In  many  cases  something  must  be 
added  in  order  to  preserve  that  which  re- 
mains of  the  original  work.  The  nature  of 
that  something  is  the  real  point  at  issue. 
The  word  restoration,  to  a  genuine  lover 
of  art  the  most  offensive  in  the  language, 
implies  that  this  added  something  is  to  be 
precisely  like  the  original.  The  Italian 
word  repristinare  —  restore  to  its  original 
brilliancy  —  conveys  an  even  more  ill- 
omened  association.  And,  indeed,  the 
avowed  aim  of  most  restoration  has  been 
to  make  the  object  under  repair  look  as 
if  it  had  just  come  from  the  hand  of  the 
artist.  Obviously  there  could  be  no  more 
fatal  ambition.  In  the  first  place,  the 
original  appearance  of  any  work  of  art 
not  indued  with  an  inalterable  enamel  is 
merely  matter  of  conjecture.  The  mo- 
ment a  restorer  begins  to  add  work  of  his 
own,  which  he  honestly  believes  to  be 
like  the  original,  he  is  under  strong  temp- 
tation to  change  portions  of  the  original 
material  which  have  the  defect  of  not  har- 
monizing with  his  own  additions.  It  is 
notorious,  for  example,  that  in  repairing 
the  mosaics  of  the  Florence  Baptistery, 
some  eighty  years  ago,  the  spaces  from 
which  the  glass  cubes  had  fallen  were 
filled  with  plaster  and  the  design  carried 
out  thereon  in  paint.  But  since  these 
patches  by  no  means  harmonized  with 
the  brilliancy  of  the  adjoining  mosaic, 
large  portions  of  it  also  were  smeared  with 
paint.  In  other  words,  the  authentic  mo- 
saic in  sight  was  actually  greatly  dimin- 
ished in  the  name  of  restoration,  and 


654 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


much  of  the  composition  willfully  brought 
down  to  the  level  of  the  repairs.  Happily 
nothing  was  done  that  could  not  be  set 
right,  and  in  our  own  times  a  consider- 
ate repair  has  saved  what  was  left  of  this 
beautiful  ceiling.  But  often  such  devasta- 
tion is  irrevocable.  It  is  known,  for  ex- 
ample, that  within  recent  years,  certain 
masterpieces  of  the  Dutch  genre  school, 
in  the  Louvre,  have  been  drastically 
cleaned.  One  must  fear  that  the  delicate 
films  of  colored  varnish  with  which  these 
pictures  were  finished  were  actually 
swept  away  by  alcohol  heedlessly  applied. 
In  any  case,  the  authorities  were  so  trou- 
bled by  the  raw  appearance  of  the  cleaned 
pictures  that  they  ordered  them  to  be  cov- 
ered once  more  with  a  yellow  varnish. 
They  replaced,  that  is,  with  a  false  patina 
the  genuine  patina  of  time.  One  can 
hardly  regret  that  the  occurrence,  and  the 
resultant  criticism,  left  the  Louvre  admin- 
istration in  so  sensitive  a  state  of  nerves 
that  it  has  since  declined  to  permit  the 
most  harmless  cleaning  of  one  or  two  very 
dirty  paintings. 

A  most  lamentable  application  of  this 
vicious  notion,  that  a  picture  may  be  re- 
stored to  its  original  state,  was  made  upon 
no  less  a  masterpiece  than  Leonardo  da 
Vinci's  Last  Supper.  From  an  early  pe- 
riod the  master's  paint  began  both  to 
fade  and  peel.  Without  repeated  repair, 
including  a  certain  amount  of  repainting, 
the  Last  Supper  would  long  ago  have 
been  counted  among  lost  masterpieces. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  its  custodians  had 
been  contented  with  simple  repair,  we 
might  have  had  this  great  work  in  not 
much  worse  condition  than  the  average 
of  old  mural  paintings.  Unhappily,  in  the 
year  1726,  the  artist  Michelangelo  Bel- 
lotti,  being  distressed  by  the  faded  condi- 
tion of  the  Cenacolo,  offered  the  monks  a 
recipe  "of  an  oily  nature"  by  the  applica- 
tion of  which  the  colors  might  be  revived. 
The  monks  not  only  permitted  the  hein- 
ous experiment,  but  were  so  delighted 
with  the  results  that  they  groomed  the 
picture  once  a  year  thereafter.  When  Mr. 
Edmund  Rolfe,  of  Heacham  Hall,  Nor- 


folk, took  notes  in  Milan,  in  1761,  the  an- 
nual unction,  being  still  in  force,  had  been 
perpetrated  no  less  than  thirty-five  times. 
To  this  brazen  sacrilege,  rather  than  to 
the  bad  methods  of  Leonardo,  or  the  rav- 
ages of  time  and  damp,  we  doubtless  owe 
the  present  vanishing  condition  of  the 
most  famous  painting  of  the  Renaissance. 

Such  examples  show  the  absolutely 
disastrous  effect  of  following,  in  repair  or 
restoration,  that  purely  phantom  thing, 
the  original  appearance.  I  repeat  that 
the  word  restoration  has  done  infinite 
harm.  If  at  all  times  those  artisans  who 
bear  the  proud  title  of  restorers,  and  af- 
fect the  mystery  of  miracle-workers,  had 
been  forced  to  accept  the  humble  and 
accurate  designation  of  repairers,  or,  say, 
picture-tinkers,  their  work  might  have 
been  kept  within  useful  limits.  As  it  is, 
we  have  had  to  do  for  generations  with 
an  excited  professional  pride  that  burns 
to  wreak  itself  upon  the  unprotected  mas- 
terpieces of  old  time.  If  museum  direct- 
ors would  publish  their  diaries,  the  list 
of  applications  from  incompetents,  or 
almost  worse,  from  famous  art-doctors, 
would  be  appalling.  It  is  said  rather 
cynically  that  the  surgical  faculty  must 
have  cases,  and  that  under  statistical 
scrutiny  clinical  records  would  show  a 
far  higher  percentage  of  operations  than, 
say,  a  similar  number  of  cases  of  equal 
gravity  in  private  practice.  Upon  such 
statistics,  lay  opinion  is  evidently  of  no 
weight.  But  I  may  safely  say  that  no 
young  house  surgeon  is  more  resigned  to 
the  appearance  of  a  rare  and  interesting 
lesion  in  a  patient,  than  the  average  pro- 
fessional restorer  to  those  symptoms  that 
condemn  a  noted  picture  to  his  manipu- 
lation. 

Of  course  no  profession  has  a  monopo- 
ly of  self-seeking  at  others'  expense.  One 
reads  even  of  critics  who  have  had  such 
foibles.  The  gentlemanly  blackmail,  for 
example,  that  Continental  art  criticism 
levies  upon  the  living  artist,  is  morally  as 
indefensible  as  the  worst  ministrations  of 
the  quacks  to  whom  infirm  works  of  art 
are  so  often  committed.  Yet,  since  the 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


655 


whole  community,  and  posterity  as  well, 
suffer  especially  and  irretrievably  from 
the  undue  pretensions  of  the  restorer,  we 
do  well  to  choose  him  for  especial  con- 
demnation. How  far  the  mania  may  go, 
can  be  imagined  from  the  fact  that  archae- 
ologists, not  mere  restorers,  mind  you, 
have  actually  endeavored  to  rebuild  his- 
toric structures,  not  as  they  were,  but  as 
in  the  opinion  of  current  science  they 
ought  to  have  been.  In  France  and  Eng- 
land particularly,  in  the  name  of  style,  a 
uniformity  that  was  not  even  dreamed  of 
by  the  Middle  Ages  themselves  has  been 
imposed  upon  mediaeval  buildings.  Beau- 
tiful old  work,  because  it  was  not  "of  the 
period,"  forsooth,  has  been  ruthlessly  re- 
placed by  modern  copies  out  of  the  books. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  the 
archaeology  of  centuries  to  come  will  re- 
joice in  these  regularized  Romanesque 
and  Gothic  monuments  —  will  welcome 
the  abundance  of  sculptured  stone  that  is 
of  no  period  at  all,  being  the  attempt  of 
nineteenth-century  scholars  and  artisans 
to  facsimile  that  which  is  really  inimi- 
table. 

One  may  well  leave  these  pedants,  who 
would  set  right  not  merely  their  own, 
but  all  past  ages,  to  the  irony  of  Anatole 
France  and  the  forthright  anathema  of 
Ruskin.  It  is  enough  to  have  shown  that 
the  worst  enemies  of  art  are  frequently 
those  who  are  reckoned,  and  even  paid,  to 
be  its  friends  and  faithful  custodians.  I 
need  hardly  argue  that  no  intrinsically 
beautiful  thing,  be  it  old  repair  or  addi- 
tion to  a  fine  work  of  art,  should  be  de- 
stroyed except  to  reveal  thereby  a  still 
finer  thing.  The  splendid  frames  with 
which  the  Renaissance  adorned  so  many 
Gothic  altarpieces  are  a  part  of  their  his- 
tory. Who  are  we  that  we  should  sub- 
stitute our  own  false  Gothic  for  the  pious 
and  genuine  homage  of  a  more  artistic 
age  than  ours  ?  Even  old  repaint  when  of 
a  certain  age  and  quality  should,  it  seems 
to  me,  be  let  alone.  Why  should  we  care 
to  efface  the  architectural  background 
which  Lorenzo  di  Credi  added  to  a  panel 
of  Fra  Angelico  ?  Did  the  Munich  Gal- 


lery really  do  Diirer,  or  us,  a  service 
when  it  wiped  out  of  the  panels  depict- 
ing the  Paumgartner  brothers,  the  hel- 
mets, horses,  and  landscapes  added  by 
Fisscher?1 

These  cases  of  early  repaint  with  a 
kind  of  artistic  value  of  its  own  call  for  a 
delicate  and  liberal  exercise  of  judgment. 
Each  question  must  be  settled  on  its  own 
merits.  Yet  the  general  principle  holds, 
that  additions  which  constitute  a  part  of 
the  history  of  the  object,  being  the  hom- 
age of  a  later  to  an  earlier  artist,  should 
usually  be  respected.  They,  too,  are  a 
part  of  that  human  record  which  we  call 
art.  Being  spontaneous,  they  are  on  a 
very  different  basis  from  the  work  of  the 
professional  restorer.  Only  a  foolishly 
pedantic  collector,  for  example,  would 
remove  the  settings  which  the  goldsmiths 
of  the  English  and  French  sovereigns 
added,  incongruously  if  you  will,  to  splen- 
did Chinese  porcelains.  In  short,  the  right 
appraisal  of  these  matters  requires  a  keen 
sense  of  intrinsic  values,  and  a  disposition 
to  prefer  to  the  assertion  of  our  own  con- 
noisseurship  the  preservation  of  any  even 
humble  product  of  the  past.  When  one 
recalls  the  havoc  that  has  been  wrought 
in  England,  merely  that  each  cathedral 
might  sit  squarely  into  its  presumed  class 
as  "pure"  Early  English,  Decorated,  or 
what  not,  one  marvels  that  no  apostle  of 
consistency  has  contrived  to  do  away  with 
that  unpardonable  accretion  to  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  Henry  the  Seventh's  Chapel. 

So  far  we  have  taken  our  subject  in  the 

1  Note  that  the  beauty  of  Diirer's  enamel 
had  been  hopelessly  impaired  between  the  old 
repainting  and  the  modern  skiuning-.  With 
Fisscher's  additions  the  pictures  were,  if  less 
Diireresque,  actually  finer  works  of  art  than 
they  are  now,  as  technically  restored  to  their 
original  condition.  In  many  cases  old  repaint, 
even  when  it  involves  some  travesty  of  the 
real  design,  may  be  preferable,  not  merely  to 
modern  repaint,  but  even  to  a  marred  original 
surface  which  cannot  be  uncovered  without 
further  injury.  It  may  well  be  counted  a 
shame  to  have  repainted  a  picture  in  the  first 
instance,  but  it  may  be  even  more  foolish  and 
less  pardonable  to  make  a  bad  job  worse  by 
drastic  cleaning. 


656 


Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


spirit  of  denial,  and  I  think  we  are  agreed 
that  works  of  art  may  and  should  be  re- 
paired to  keep  them  from  impending  or 
eventual  deterioration,  but  should  not  be 
restored  in  the  spirit  of  renovation.  We 
have  suggested,  too,  that  repairs,  in  the 
interest  of  sincerity,  should  look  not  like 
but  unlike  the  original  texture  to  which 
they  are  applied.  Although  this  seems  to 
me  self-evident,  a  mere  vindication  of  the 
right  of  the  observer  to  know  whose  work 
he  is  inspecting,  it  will  be  a  startling  no- 
tion to  practically  all  restorers  and  to 
many  collectors  and  museum  officials.  In 
all  time  past  the  effort  has  been  to  conceal 
the  fact  of  restoration.  If  a  more  rational 
practice  has  gradually  made  its  way,  the 
reform  has  been  forced  by  the  inconven- 
ience of  the  system  of  dissimulation  to 
students.  In  the  field  of  sculpture,  for 
example,  it  has  become  usual  to  exhibit 
incomplete  statues  as  such,  and  when 
restorations  must  be  made  to  use  another 
stone.  I  cannot  forget  that  in  our  own 
times  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles  has  been 
set  upon  a  nondescript  pair  of  shanks,  — 
"made  in  Germany,"  I  believe,  —  but  at 
least  the  sacrilege  has  been  noted  and  con- 
demned. Repairs  upon  potteries  and  por- 
celains are  now  usually  made  on  the  sen- 
sible plan  of  leaving  the  addition  visible. 
This  is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  these 
textures  and  colors  are  virtually  inimit- 
able, perhaps  more  to  the  feeling  that 
only  students,  for  whom  a  cheap  and 
ostensible  repair  suffices,  deal  with  such 
objects.  Broadly  speaking,  the  principle 
of  frank  repair  is  gaining  ground  and 
seems  likely  to  prevail,  except  in  the  case 
of  painting.  There  ancient  darkness  is 
only  beginning  to  yield  to  light.  To  show 
strikingly  the  case  against  old-style  re- 
storation, let  me  take  —  and  it  shall  be 
absolutely  the  last  of  the  horrible  exam- 
ples —  a  very  recent  instance,  where  a 
modern  picture  in  premature  decrepitude 
was  most  skillfully  rejuvenated. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  Meis- 
sonier's  alleged  masterpiece,  Friedland 
1807,  passed  from  the  Hilton  estate  to  the 
Metropolitan  Museum  in  a  fairly  ruinous 


condition.  Whether  it  had  been  success- 
ively overpainted  upon  the  wet  pigment, 
or  had  merely  hung  above  a  steam-radia- 
tor, whatever  the  cause,  the  originally 
sleek  surface  of  the  picture  resembled 
the  sun-dried  bottom  of  a  drained  pond. 
Deep  cracks  cut  it  up  into  sections  about 
the  size  of  a  dime.  And  it  was  not  merely 
a  question  of  looks,  for  without  repair 
these  isolated  fragments  would  have 
gradually  fallen  away.  The  thoroughness 
of  the  restoration  that  ensued  may  be  di- 
vined from  the  fact  that  it  is  now  practi- 
cally impossible  to  tell  where  this  cobweb 
of  deep  cracks  lay  upon  the  picture. 
Through  the  courtesy  of  the  restorer,  I 
have  seen  photographs  of  portions  of  the 
surface  before  the  restoration,  and  I  may 
estimate  that  something  between  a  tenth 
and  a  twentieth  of  the  visible  paint  has 
been  added  since  the  picture  came  into 
the  Museum.  Now,  one  need  not  grieve 
unduly  over  the  incident.  If  such  a  tour 
de  force  were  to  be  perpetrated,  better  it 
were  done  upon  the  relatively  neutral  and 
unsympathetic  surface  of  a  Meissonier 
than,  say,  upon  that  of  an  Alfred  Stevens. 
Certainly  the  last  thought  in  my  mind  is 
to  blame  my  friend,  the  late  assistant  di- 
rector of  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  for 
acting  conscientiously  tinder  the  tradi- 
tions of  his  profession.  Not  personalities, 
but  principle,  are  in  question.  In  fact, 
I  cite  the  case  only  because  it  suggests 
so  strikingly  the  fundamental  difference 
between  deceptive  restoration  and  the 
frank  repair  here  advocated.  Restored, 
the  Friedland  looks  like  a  picture  fresh 
from  the  easel  —  a  pious  deception,  that 
is,  has  been  practiced  upon  the  public; 
repaired,  it  would  look  like  a  picture  that 
had  been  badly  cracked.  The  network 
would  be  filled  with  an  unobtrusive  tone 
that  would  prevent  further  deterioration 
of  the  surface,  and  while  diminishing  the 
unsightliness  of  the  damage,  would  show 
plainly  through  what  vicissitudes  the 
picture  had  passed. 

Repairs  upon  works  of  art,  in  a  word, 
should  neither  be  so  unlike  the  original 
surface  as  to  be  offensive,  nor  yet  so  like 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


657 


as  to  be  deceptive.  This,  it  seems  to  me, 
should  be  almost  the  golden  rule  for 
every  custodian  of  the  art  of  the  past. 

What  seems  to  me  ideal  repair  is  exem- 
plified in  the  noble  frescoes  of  Piero  della 
Francesca,  at  Arezzo.  Take  the  most  fa- 
mous, the  Battle  of  Constantine.  Large 
portions  of  the  plaster  had  come  away. 
One  saw  headless  riders,  horses  in  wide- 
ly separated  sections,  helmets  above 
bodies  which  had  disappeared.  There 
was  every  temptation  to  restore  the  com- 
position radically,  replacing  all  the  miss- 
ing parts.  This,  in  fact,  has  been  done  to 
about  half  the  important  mural  paint- 
ings of  Italy,  to  the  great  confusion  of  the 
evidence.  Instead,  the  repairer  of  this 
masterpiece  in  San  Francesco  cautiously 
cleaned  the  painting,  and  filled  the  gaps 
with  tinted  plaster.  Thus  he  arrested  the 
crumbling  of  the  pictured  wall,  but  left 
Piero's  finest  composition  honestly  for 
what  it  is  —  a  magnificent  fragment.  It 
was  a  service  only  second  to  that  of  the 
donor,  who  commissioned  the  paintings 
more  than  four  hundred  years  ago. 

We  should  examine  this  case  of  con- 
siderate repair  very  carefully,  for  it  may 
suggest  principles  that  should  govern 
quite  different  cases.  Let  us  admit  that, 
in  a  composition  without  the  sweep  and 
movement  of  this  famous  battle-piece,  the 
big  blotches  of  plaster  might  seem  intol- 
erably ugly.  Pietro's  battle  refuses  to  be 
damped  or  confused  by  any  amount  of 
patchwork  that  many  another  picture 
could  not  bear.  Well,  the  thing  then 
would  be  to  adjust  the  tone  of  the  repairs 
more  delicately  to  that  of  the  adjoining 
original  color.  Or  it  might  even  be  that  a 
certain  amount  of  actual  restoration,  as  a 
last  resource,  might  be  advisable.  Evi- 
dently the  cavalier  methods  appropriate 
to  a  fresco  should  not  be  applied  to  a 
tiny  easel  picture  of  the  Dutch  school.  In 
every  case  where  mere  repair  becomes 
so  ugly  as  to  prevent  the  enjoyment  of 
a  work  of  art,  we  must  have  recourse  to 
a  degree  of  restoration,  but  again  to  a 
restoration  that  frankly  avows  its  true 
character. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


We  repair  a  work  of  art,  let  me  repeat, 
for  purely  utilitarian  reasons,  to  save  it 
from  being  lost.  But  at  a  certain  point 
aesthetic  considerations  may  fairly  com- 
pel us  to  combine  repair  with  a  cautious 
restoration.  Both  are  tolerable  only  as 
they  are  evident;  and  since  both  are  blem- 
ishes, they  are  admissible  only  in  view  of 
some  contravening  advantage.  In  broken 
pottery,  for  instance,  the  loss  of  continu- 
ity of  form  is  so  unpleasant  that  we  must 
usually,  even  where  repair  is  not  otherwise 
urgent,  carry  out  the  original  form  of  the 
vase,  completing  perhaps  a  pattern  inex- 
plicable in  the  fragmentary  condition. 
On  the  same  principle,  a  picture  may  not 
remain  defective  beyond  a  certain  point. 
An  art  critic  once  had  in  his  temporary 
possession  a  Madonna  and  Child,  cov- 
ered with  very  dark  varnish,  besides 
much  dirt.  The  investigation  he  had  un- 
dertaken required  a  careful  preliminary 
cleaning  of  the  panel.  But,  alas,  the  rag 
that  thinned  the  dirt  removed  also  the 
face  of  the  Child  —  a  recent  and  miser- 
ably executed  restoration.  Just  what  the 
critic  did  to  revive  the  massacred  inno- 
cent the  story  does  not  tell,  but  I  think  it 
rather  obvious  that  in  such  a  case  repaint- 
ing is  defensible.  Or  take  the  case  in  a 
less  complicated  form.  We  know  that  the 
Leda  of  Correggio  was  decapitated  by  a 
fanatical  prince.  I  think  the  severest 
purist  would  not  accept  above  that  beau- 
tiful body  merely  the  patch  of  blank  can- 
vas required  to  stay  the  damage.  Nor  do 
I  think  it  ill  done  that  the  restored  head  is 
Correggiesque.  The  requirement  of  sin- 
cerity would  have  been  satisfied  by  leav- 
ing it  evident  that  the  head  was  painted, 
not  on  the  original  canvas,  but  on  a 
patch,  and  this  might  have  been  done 
without  real  detriment  to  the  effect  of  this 
most  lovely  composition. 

In  every  case  we  must  depend  on  the 
tact  and  taste  of  the  restorer,  or  better,  of 
the  owner  or  trustee  of  the  work  of  art. 
The  great  safeguard  will  always  be  the 
habit  of  letting  the  added  work  be  seen 
and  judged  on  its  merits.  What  seems  to 
me  a  peculiarly  judicious  restoration  is 


658 


Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


found  in  the  fresco  by  Piero  della  Fran- 
cesca,  which  we  have  already  considered. 
It  has  been  noted  how  the  bare  plaster 
cuts  the  forms  of  horses  and  riders  with- 
out any  real  diminution  of  the  impress- 
iveness  of  the  work.  But  there  was  in  the 
centre  of  the  composition  a  bit  of  river 
landscape  which  originally  led  the  eye  far 
back  to  a  low  horizon.  Here  the  river  was 
arrested  in  midcourse  by  a  great  scar,  and 
most  of  the  horizon  had  disappeared. 
The  crumbling  of  the  same  stretch  of 
plaster  had  carried  away  the  central  por- 
tion of  a  tree,  leaving  an  unsightly  gap 
between  the  fork  and  the  crown.  Here 
the  damage  had  destroyed  an  effect  of 
depth,  disguising  the  obvious  intention  of 
the  artist.  So  the  restorer  drew  in  the 
missing  horizon,  indicated  the  upper 
course  of  the  river,  and  roughly  connected 
the  parted  sections  of  the  tree.  He  pru- 
dently made  no  attempt  to  imitate  the 
matchless  bit  of  remaining  landscape 
foreground.  His  work  is  so  sketchy  that 
it  could  never  for  a  moment  be  mistaken 
for  a  bit  of  the  original.  But  it  is  enough 
to  open  up  the  vista,  and  relieve  the  im- 
agination from  the  malaise  of  following 
up  a  river  only  to  run  aground  on  raw 
plaster. 

At  first  blush,  this  practice  of  showing 
restorations  candidly  will  be  abhorrent 
to  the  profession.  For  many  generations 
restorers  have  been  encouraged  to  pride 
themselves  upon  their  facility  in  aping  the 
manner  of  the  great  masters.  The  result 
is  that  we  to-day  can  rarely  say  Titian, 
for  example,  but  Titian  cum  X,  Y,  Z, 
according  to  the  number  of  posthumous 
collaborators  posterity  has  imposed  upon 
him.  The  reform,  which  has  already  in- 
cluded many  categories  of  objects  of  art, 
will  be  extended  to  painting  only  when 
collectors  and  museum  officials  shake  off 
the  dilettantism  which  prefers  doctored 
pictures  to  those  that  have  been  honest- 
ly put  in  order.  Professional  restorers, 
however,  need  not  fear  that  their  craft 
will  thereby  cease  to  be  a  delicate  one. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  more  rather  than 
less  will  be  required  of  them.  To  mini- 


mize repaint,  to  contrive  that  it  shall  be 
seen  on  scrutiny  and  yet  remain  inoffens- 
ive, this  is  a  task  not  less  difficult  than  to 
pretend  to  paint  like  Velasquez  or  Rem- 
brandt. If  any  one  thinks  it  is  easier 
to  repaint  freely  than  to  stay  one's  hand, 
let  him  consult  that  peerless  repairer 
and  restorer  of  old  pictures,  Cavaliere 
Cavenaghi  of  Milan.  Under  the  new  dis- 
pensation, as  under  the  old,  the  restora- 
tion of  painting  of  any  precious  quality 
would  require  the  most  sensitive  care. 
So  far  as  color  is  concerned,  I  take  it  a 
restorer  of  the  future  would  work  —  upon 
the  smaller  and  more  delicate  pictures, 
I  mean —  quite  in  the  manner  of  the  art- 
ist restorer  of  to-day.  The  difference 
would  appear  chiefly  at  the  end  of  the 
task.  Whereas  the  old-style  restorer 
seeks,  by  imitating  the  precise  texture  of 
the  original,  to  dissimulate  his  additions, 
the  new-style  restorer  will,  by  leaving  pre- 
cisely these  subtle  differences  of  texture, 
denote  his  work  candidly.  A  greater  dif- 
ference, one  not  of  procedure  but  of  spirit, 
may  be  the  fact  that  the  future  restorer 
will  eschew  the  name  as  eagerly  as  cer- 
tain learned  professors  do  their  academic 
designations.  He  will  style  himself  proud- 
ly a  repairer,  will  regard  restoration  as  a 
last  deplorable  resource,  and  will  restore 
grudgingly  one  work  of  art,  where  a  hun- 
dred are  cheerfully  rehandled  to-day. 

Who  is  to  produce  this  ideally  conscien- 
tious artisan  ?  Who  is  to  take  the  subject 
of  preserving  works  of  art  out  of  the 
witches'  kitchen,  in  which  it  lurks  to-day, 
into  the  light  of  common  prudence  and 
common  sense,  and,  I  may  add,  common 
honesty?  Evidently  we  can  count  little 
upon  the  dealers,  who  will  continue  to 
find  their  account  in  selling  sleekly  re- 
painted wraiths  of  fine  pictures  and  cob- 
bled treasures  of  all  sorts.  Collectors  and 
museum  officials,  however,  among  whom 
a  disinterested  love  of  art  surely  should 
prevail,  not  to  mention  a  reverence  for 
antiquity,  and  a  bent  for  sincerity,  might 
carry  this  reform  almost  single-handed. 
Much,  too,  might  be  done  by  a  kind  of 
consensus  of  artists  and  art-lovers.  But 


"Restoring"  Works  of  Art 


such  a  public  opinion  must  first  become 
intelligent  to  be  of  much  avail.  So  long 
as  we  find  so  many  real  enthusiasts,  both 
artists  and  laymen,  who,  with  a  fairly 
Ruskinian  obscurantism,  oppose  reason- 
able repair  and  cleaning  of  their  favorite 
works  of  art,  little  effective  influence  can 
be  brought  to  bear  from  that  quarter.  We 
must  trust,  in  this  as  in  similar  forms  of 
education,  to  a  gradual  diffusion  of  sound 
information  and  doctrine  on  the  subject. 
Are  not  the  directors  and  curators  of  our 
museums  our  natural  leaders  in  this  mat- 
ter, and  could  they  do  a  better  service  than 
to  put  on  record  the  principles  of  repair 
and  restoration  which  prevail  in  their 
several  institutions  ?  From  the  mere  com- 
parison of  practice  and  principle  much 
good  would  come. 

Mystery  has  been  the  bane  of  the 
subject  in  the  past:  it  has  caused,  or 
at  least  permitted,  the  ruin  of  countless 
works  of  art  by  those  who  were  solemnly 
appointed  to  be  their  custodians.  Who 
could  more  gracefully  break  this  un- 
happy tradition  of  silence  than  those 
who  are  the  trustees  of  our  artistic  patri- 
mony? Most  of  the  museums  publish 
bulletins.  Why  not  include  in  these  jour- 
nals, as  matter  of  current  news,  the  more 
important  restorations  and  repairs  ?  Now 
this  is  done  spasmodically  by  way  of 
defending  an  official  under  attack,  or  of 
smoking  out  an  esteemed  colleague  who 
is  thought  to  have  done  amiss.  If  it  were 


done  regularly  and  dispassionately,  it 
would  constitute  an  effective  means  of 
education  in  a  neglected  but  surely  im- 
portant branch  of  the  history  and  appre- 
ciation of  art. 

As  for  the  restorers,  we  ask  of  them  sim- 
ply a  more  sparing  use  of  the  hand  and  a 
more  generous  and  constant  employment 
of  the  head  and  heart.  Their  most  useful 
and  honorable  profession  can  only  gain 
in  repute  through  such  a  change.  A  sen- 
sible patient  willingly  pays  a  great  physi- 
cian, in  order  not  to  be  dosed  or  sent 
incontinently  to  the  latest  invalid's  para- 
dise ;  and  a  wise  collector  prefers  to  pay 
rather  for  what  the  repairer  leaves  un- 
done than  for  what  he  does.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  masterpieces  from  every  land 
pour  into  Cavaliere  Cavenaghi's  studio. 
What  he  does  is  sufficiently  remarkable, 
but  his  great  and  deserved  reputation  is 
based  quite  as  much  on  what  one  is  sure 
he  could  never  do.  The  repairers  of  an- 
cient buildings  frequently  record  their 
services  in  memorial  tablets,  where  may  be 
read  in  varying  phrase,  usually  in  stately 
Latin,  that  such  an  one  "restored,"  "re- 
built," "adorned,"  with  many  another 
ambitious  word.  More  rarely  one  finds 
simply  the  homely  verb  consolidavit  — 
"he  made  it  firm."  The  conscientious 
repairer  of  works  of  art  could  ask  for  no 
greater  prestige  than  to  write  consolidavit, 
with  his  initials,  on  every  beautiful  object 
that  passes  through  his  reverent  hands. 


THE   CHEERFUL  FEAST  OF  SAN    MICHELE 


BY   JAMES   EDMUND   DUNNING 


As  I  came  into 'the  portineria  of  our 
house  in  the  Via  Lorenzo  Mascheroni,  I 
found  Isabella  talking  with  the  portinaio. 
I  heard  her  tell  him  that  the  padrone  of 
our  new  house  in  the  neighboring  Via 
Venti  Settembre  was  a  delightful  gentle- 
man, who  was  going  to  let  us  move  into 
the  larger  apartment  we  had  taken  with 
him,  a  full  month  before  the  beginning  of 
our  term.  Hence,  we  must  transport  to 
the  new  place  at  once. 

"But  it  is  impossible  to  make  a  san- 
michele  for  the  signora,"  he  answered, 
"  until  San  Michele  comes,  on  the  twen- 
ty-ninth of  the  month  of  September." 

"Nothing  is  impossible!"  exclaimed 
Isabella,  in  her  decisive  way. 

"  Davvero,  of  a  truth !  "  he  responded 
grimly,  —  so  grimly  that,  on  the  way  up 
in  the  elevator  a  few  minutes  later,  Isa- 
bella told  me  she  thought  I  had  tipped 
the  man  more  liberally  than  his  worth. 

"But  what  is  a  san-michele  ?  "  I  asked, 
partly  to  change  the  subject  and  partly  to 
fortify  my  knowledge  of  the  matter. 

"  A  san-michele,"  said  Isabella,  "  is 
moving  your  things  from  one  house  to  an- 
other. They  call  it  that,  because  the  of- 
ficial moving  day  is  September  twenty- 
ninth,  which  is  the  saint  day  of  San 
Michele  himself.  After  dinner  you  can 
take  me  over  to  see  if  the  new  house  is  in 
readiness.  It  was  to  be  finished  to-night 
by  six  o'clock." 

"  Also  by  luck,  perhaps,"  said  I. 

"  I  should  think,"  retorted  Isabella 
with  severity,  "  that  you  had  learned 
something  from  the  portinaio" 

"  Appreciation,  possibly,"  I  replied.  I 
do  not  think  she  liked  it. 

After  dinner  we  went  around  into  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre.  The  August  even- 
ings in  Italy  do  not  darken  before  nine 
o'clock,  and  there  was  plenty  of  light  for 

660 


us  to  find  our  way  into  the  confusion  of 
the  littered  court,  and  up  the  boarded 
staircase  to  our  own  floor.  The  workmen 
had  gone,  and  left  the  rather  greasy  care- 
taker in  charge  of  the  place.  I  did  not 
call  Isabella's  attention  to  the  fact  that 
our  front  door  was  not  yet  hung.  We  en- 
tered our  apartment.  The  floors  had  not 
been  scraped.  The  walls  had  not  been 
papered.  The  electric-lighting  fixtures 
had  not  been  put  in.  Only  a  little  of  the 
woodwork  had  been  painted.  None  of 
the  glass  had  been  set  into  the  window 
panes.  The  faucets  were  not  in  the  bath- 
room. The  kitchen  was  entirely  glutted 
with  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  rubbish 
which  had  been  swept  daily  for  several 
months  from  the  other  end  of  the  house 
in  that  convenient  direction.  The  dining- 
room  door  had  not  yet  arrived,  but  in  its 
place  there  was  a  rough  board  barrier, 
half-nailed  and  half-locked  into  place, 
through  the  wide  crevices  in  which  we 
were  able  to  see  that  behind  it  had  been 
stored  everything  and  all  the  things  which 
should  have  been  in  their  proper  places, 
but  were  not. 

"The  steam-radiators  were  in,  though," 
I  remarked,  as  Isabella  led  me  indig- 
nantly down  the  dusky  staircase. 

"  I  noticed  it,"  she  responded.  I  do  not 
remember  that  we  referred  to  the  matter 
again. 

During  the  following  three  weeks  our 
time  was  fully  occupied  with  avoiding  the 
eyes  of  our  portinaio  and  visiting  the  new 
apartment.  Each  evening  after  dinner  we 
went  there  in  hope,  and  returned  in  an 
anger  which,  as  the  month  of  August  drew 
toward  a  close,  took  on  the  sombre  as- 
pect of  despair.  The  window  panes  were 
put  in,  and  some  of  the  doors  were  hung. 
But  the  floors  were  not  scraped,  and 
when,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  September, 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


661 


we  surveyed  our  prospective  living,  where 
a  solitary  paper-hanger  was  singing  lone- 
somely  to  himself  and  making  occasional 
dabs  at  the  expectant  walls,  our  gorge  did 
rise.  It  rose  in  the  person  of  Isabella, 
who  is  the  custodian  of  our  family  gorge. 
I  might  even  say  she  was  its  originator. 
Some  of  the  workmen,  with  an  hour  and 
a  half  of  good  light  yet  left  them,  were 
hanging  about  the  courtyard,  sucking 
their  last  pipes  dreamily. 

"  Listen! "  said  Isabella,  going  up  to 
them  like  a  muslin  storm-cloud.  "To- 
morrow is  San  Michele." 

"  Davvero,"  responded  the  head  man 
calmly.  He  was  a  slender,  clean-shaven 
Venetian,  —  a  handsome  fellow  with  an 
insolent  smile  beyond  which  nothing 
seemed  able  to  pass. 

"  Our  appartamento  is  not  yet  ready," 
continued  Isabella. 

"  Davvero  !  "  he  agreed. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  manage  it  ?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  Chi  sa,  signora!  "  said  he,  and  gave  a 
graceful  jump  of  the  shoulders.  "  Who 
knows  ?  I  do  not  know.'* 

"  But  you  could  paper  three  rooms  be- 
fore dark  this  evening,"  she  protested. 

He  took  out  his  pipe,  and  bestowed  on 
Isabella  a  slow  and  indulgent  glance  of 
superior  toleration. 

"  Che  Americana  I "  he  exclaimed,  and 
chuckled  gently. 

Isabella  drew  one  of  her  ominous  deep 
breaths,  —  I  believe  she  learned  them 
from  a  correspondence  course  with  a  uni- 
versity in  a  city  in  the  northern  part  of 
New  York,  —  and  let  fly  at  the  Vene- 
tian. Her  Italian  when  aroused  was  what 
a  certain  congressman  of  our  acquaint- 
ance would  have  described  as  torrential 
in  volume  and  terrible  in  execution.  She 
discoursed  directly  upon  the  target.  She 
circled  above  her  prey  with  a  hawk-like 
choice  of  expletive,  not  to  say  explosive, 
and  pounced  down  on  him  with  a  strong 
and  poignant  use  of  the  subjunctive 
which  made  me  writhe  in  pity  and  in  ad- 
miration. She  swore  by  Bacchus  with  the 
easy  familiarity  of  an  old  and  tried  ac- 


quaintance. If  she  breathed  between,  I 
did  not  note  it.  There  was  no  end  to  her 
vocabulary.  When  she  ceased,  it  was  as 
if  by  preference  and  not  necessity. 

"Ecco!"  That  was  her  last  word. 
The  Venetian  paper-hanger  once  more 
removed  his  pipe,  and  this  time  bowed 
quite  politely. 

"  Very  well,  signora,"  he  said.  "  We 
will  see  to-morrow." 

"  No!  "  fairly  shouted  Isabella.  "  We 
will  not  see  to-morrow.  To-morrow 
morning  will  be  San  Michele.  You  must 
finish  to-night." 

I  saw  he  was  tiring  of  her,  but  before  he 
could  so  express  himself  she  wheeled  on 
me  with  her  most  fearful  air  of  determin- 
ation. 

"  Go  back  to  the  house  with  me  at 
once,"  she  said.  We  went.  She  offered  no 
explanations  and  I  asked  none.  When  we 
arrived  she  sent  the  cook  into  the  cantina 
in  the  basement  and  asked  her  to  bring 
up  all  the  bottled  wine  we  had,  excepting 
only  champagne.  When  this  had  been 
done,  —  seven  bottles  of  fine  old  Faler- 
nian,  red  and  white,  brought  to  me  from 
Naples,  —  she  ordered  the  cook  out  to 
buy  several  flasks  of  common  red  wine, 
and  back  we  went  again  to  the  undone 
apartment  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre. 
With  her  arms  full  of  bottles  Isabella  re- 
turned to  the  attack. 

"Now  then!"  said  Isabella,  to  the  Ve- 
netian. He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe,  and  glanced  critically  at  the  sun, 
still  well  up. 

"Hi,  ragazzo  1 "  he  called  to  a  sham- 
bling boy  who  lay  in  a  heap  of  sand  across 
the  court.  "Go  around  to  the  farmacia 
and  bring  a  corkscrew."  Then  he  turned 
to  his  men  with  a  magnificent  air. 
"Avanti,  signori  I  "  he  said.  Five  min- 
utes later  they  were  hanging  paper  like 
fiends,  if  fiends  do  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
rolls  fairly  faded  from  sight  and  flowed 
upon  the  walls.  Down  from  the  remain- 
ing unglazed  windows  there  came  to  us, 
seated  in  the  court,  the  clink  of  bottles 
and  the  aroma  of  my  old  Falernian.  Can- 
dle-light flickered  up  and  down. 


662 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


"It  is  a  wondrous  rich  wine,  Isabella," 
I  said,  a  little  ruefully.  "  You  remember 
it  was  the  liquor  best  loved  by  Petronius." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Isabella.  "  Petro- 
nius also  was  a  diplomat!  " 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  we  tipped  the 
caretaker  who  had  kept  the  doors  open 
for  us,  and  went  out  into  the  street.  The 
house  was  papered  from  end  to  end !  It 
was  with  difficulty  that  we  induced  the 
Venetian  head-man  to  leave  us  at  our 
door.  His  remarks  were  eloquently  ful- 
some. 

"  Now  to-morrow  morning  early,"  re- 
marked the  triumphant  queen  of  my 
heart  and  home,  as  we  picked  our  way 
into  an  already  dismantled  chamber  and 
prepared  for  the  rest  she  had  earned,  "  to- 
morrow morning  early  we  will  make  our 
san-michele.  The  portinaio  has  promised 
to  be  ready  for  us  at  seven,  with  five  good 
men  to  help  him." 

At  seven  o'clock  next  morning  the 
portinaio  was  not  in  evidence,  nor  were 
his  five  good  men.  His  wife  in  the  por- 
tineria  had  a  vague  and  irritating  air 
when  questioned  upon  his  whereabouts. 

"It  is  San  Michele,  and  he  is  very 
busy,"  she  said. 

"But  he  has  to  move  our  things  into  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre!"  cried  Isabella. 

"  But  the  other  signora  is  a  signora 
contessa"  explained  the  woman. 

"  Ah,  —  then  there  is  another  sig- 
nora ! "  exclaimed  Isabella. 

"  Naturalmente  I "  declared  the  por- 
tinaio's  wife  with  clear  philosophy. 
"  There  always  is." 

We  began  preparing  our  goods,  to  be 
ready  for  the  men  when  they  did  come. 
At  eight  they  had  not  appeared.  At  nine 
we  agreed  that  they  might  be  along  at  any 
moment.  This  expectation  was  still  in 
force  at  eleven,  at  which  hour,  having  sat 
uneasily  on  our  various  bundles  and 
trunks  and  boxes  and  barrels  in  turn, 
Isabella  began  showing  signs  of  a  deep 
and  absorbing  indignation.  I  admit  I 
shared  it  to  some  extent.  I  went  out  into 
the  street  with  the  idea  of  picking  up  the 
first  half-dozen  men  I  came  across  and 


impressing  them  into  service  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day. 

"  You  can  tell  them  about  your  old 
Falernian,"  suggested  Isabella  humor- 
ously as  I  departed. 

I  did  tell  them. 

The  streets  in  our  quarter  of  the 
town  were  crowded  with  humanity  in  all 
sorts,  and  with  attendant  vehicles  and 
animals  of  every  shape  and  size.  Hand- 
carts went  by  with  household  goods  piled 
as  high  as  three  or  four  times  the  length 
of  the  conveyance.  Upright  pianos  were 
wedged  in  with  mattresses,  and  kitchen 
stoves  with  sets  of  books.  Sweating 
men  and  straining  horses  were  tugging 
this  mass  through  all  the  neighboring 
squares.  Nearly  everybody  was  yelling 
at  everybody  else.  In  two  or  three  places 
insecure  loads  were  toppling  over  toward 
the  crash  of  destruction,  saved  only  by 
the  hoarse  shouts  of  groups  of  men  danc- 
ing around  them  in  the  way  in  which  I 
suppose  the  more  depraved  of  the  can- 
nibal tribes  habitually  caper  about  their 
frying  victims.  Imported  roustabouts 
from  the  docks  at  Genoa,  and  mercen- 
aries from  Como  and  the  Lakes,  were 
chattering  in  their  several  dialects  in  a 
vain  effort  to  make  their  curses  intelligi- 
ble to  the  abounding  Milanese.  At  one 
corner  I  found  a  young  fellow  standing 
stock-still,  and  gazing  down  unhappily  at 
the  ruins  of  a  large  Japanese  vase  which 
had  got  the  better  of  him.  Farther  on, 
a  melancholy  housemaid,  with  her  mud- 
dy yellowish  hair  streaking  her  wooden 
Swiss  face,  was  struggling  with  a  great 
cage  in  which  a  profane  parrot  of  gigantic 
proportions  was  making  a  determined  ef- 
fort to  commit  suicide.  Here  and  there 
along  the  asphalt  lay  old  shoes,  scraps  of 
newspapers,  bits  of  cloth,  revolver  car- 
tridges, leaves  from  books,  sheet-music, 
old  periodicals,  receipted  bills,  kitchen 
litter,  and  countless  other  signs  of  the 
times.  Along  the  stolid  rows  of  stone 
apartment  houses  there  was  a  general 
look  of  open  windows  and  reckless  unre- 
serve. And  I  got  no  men  to  come  and 
move  our  things.  The  two  or  three  I 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


663 


asked  to  do  so  answered  me  with  special 
violence.  I  returned  to  the  Via  Masche- 
roni. 

On  my  way  the  city  clocks  struck  noon. 
On  the  instant  of  the  first  stroke  the  mad 
procession  streaming  past  me  stopped.  I 
suddenly  found  myself  the  only  animate 
thing  in  the  whole  Magenta  quarter. 
Men  flung  themselves  into  the  nearest 
shady  place  and  dropped  into  an  amazing 
slumber.  Even  the  horses  on  the  carts 
hung  their  heads  and  lost  themselves. 
Looking  back  from  the  last  square  before 
I  reached  our  door,  I  could  see  the  streets 
in  all  directions  clogged  with  household 
gods,  tilted  at  all  angles  and  exposed  with 
utter  shame  to  the  public  view,  with  a 
narrow  lane  down  the  centre  for  the  pas- 
sage of  the  trams. 

A  certain  terrible  suspicion  which  came 
to  me  in  that  moment  was  confirmed  in 
fact,  as  I  turned  into  the  broad  entrance 
to  our  house.  There,  his  five  stalwarts 
prone  about  him  like  Roman  soldiers  on 
the  tented  field,  lay  our  portinaio.  A 
violent  attack  of  sleep  had  come  upon 
him.  No  one  moved  as  I  passed  by,  and 
I  went  on  to  report  to  Isabella. 

"As  to  the  portinaio"  I  said,  "an  at- 
tack — " 

"I  am  aware  of  it!  "  she  interrupted. 
"  I  have  had  an  interview  with  him.  He 
is  to  come  to  us  at  two  o'clock." 

"I  hope  he  will,"  said  I. 

"He  will!"  declared  Isabella,  with 
conviction. 

We  ate  a  cold  lunch,  the  gas-stove  hav- 
ing been  disconnected  the  night  before. 

I  have  never  known  what  Isabella  said 
to  the  portinaio.  She  seldom  allows  me  to 
enter  into  these  things.  My  reputation  is 
that  of  an  easy-going  dreamer,  with  no 
disposition  for  encounter.  No  one  re- 
spects me,  because  I  make  it  a  rule  never 
to  scold.  Everybody  likes  Isabella,  be- 
cause she  will  tolerate  no  retort.  People 
try  to  please  her  to  avoid  certain  results. 
It  is  like  what  you  do  when  you  have  to 
take  a  house  next  to  an  oil-tank  or  a  pow- 
der factory.  Without  the  slightest  ex- 
pectation of  inheriting  the  earth,  Isabella 


gets  full  value  from  the  portion  of  the 
other  heirs. 

Toward  half-past  two  our  piano  went 
downstairs  like  an  ebony  centipede.  Stag- 
gering legs  stuck  out  from  all  around  it. 
Isabella  gave  a  few  explicit  directions  to 
the  portinaio,  and  led  me  away  to  the 
new  house  to  aid  her  in  superintending 
the  arrival  of  our  furniture.  We  passed 
under  our  old  windows  just  in  time  to  see 
the  men  lowering  the  best  wardrobe 
through  one  of  them,  with  a  piece  of 
clothes-line.  Isabella  gasped  but  said 
nothing,  and  I  did  not  raise  any  of  the 
several  obvious  questions  that  occurred 
to  me.  I  had  in  mind  a  situation  that 
might  arise  if  the  lowering  shades  of  night 
found  us  half  moved  out  and  half  moved 
in! 

At  the  new  apartment  the  workmen, 
who  had  suddenly  put  in  a  most  unex- 
pected appearance  and  in  surprising 
numbers,  grumbled  vigorously  at  us  for 
interfering  with  their  plans  for  a  long 
day's  work.  I  have  never  seen  men  so 
eager  for  their  chosen  labor.  The  least 
interruption  irritated  them.  Some  of 
them  I  recognized,  though  with  difficulty, 
as  among  those  who  previous  to  the 
eleventh  hour  had  striven  with  the  most 
leisurely  regard  for  themselves  and  the 
clock.  The  men  scraping  the  floors  an- 
nounced that  they  would  stop  immediate- 
ly and  leave  the  premises  if  we  put  a  stick 
of  furniture  in  their  way.  We  compro- 
mised on  two  glasses  of  chianti  for  all 
hands,  and  putting  the  heavier  pieces  in 
the  outer  hall  and  along  the  stairs.  Our 
methods  of  arbitration  must  have  been 
communicated  to  others,  for  within  the 
next  hour  I  was  called  on  to  serve  chianti, 
and  meekly  did  serve  it,  to  not  less  than 
fourteen  workmen  of  various  trades  who 
came  down  from  upper  floors  and  tried 
to  call  our  men  out  on  some  pretext,  the 
exact  terms  of  which  I  did  not  learn. 

About  five  o'clock  I  heard  excited 
words  below,  and  found  Isabella  in 
earnest  argument  with  a  man. 

"He  is  from  the  landlord,"  she  said. 
"  The  landlord  sends  notice  that  we  must 


664 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


not  leave  our  furniture  on  the  stairs.  Is 
that  in  our  lease  ?  " 

"  Probably,"  I  replied.  "  Everything 
else  is  in  it.  Leave  me  alone  with  him  for 
a  moment.  You  might  go  up  and  see  how 
things  are  going." 

I  think  I  paid  him  fifteen  francs.  At  all 
events,  we  had  just  concluded  a  peace, 
when  a  nervous  little  man,  in  whose  as- 
pect I  thought  I  detected  a  distinct  bris- 
tle, quite  sprang  through  the  entrance 
into  the  courtyard. 

"  O  signore,"  he  spluttered,  "  I  am 
Signer  Raghetti,  the  new  tenant  in  your 
old  apartment  in  the  Via  Mascheroni,  and 
since  the  rising  of  the  sun  this  morning 
my  family  —  my  gentilissima  famiglia  — 
has  been  waiting  for  you  to  get  out  in 
order  that  we  might  get  in.  Why  is 
this?  Perche  e  questo I  Perche,  perche, 
per-r-r-r-che I  Why  is  this!  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  signore,"  I  said.  "I 
will  have  to  ask  my  wife." 

"  Ma  che !  "  he  cried,  in  a  sort  of  ex- 
plosion. "  Why  do  you  not  ask  me  what 
I  am  going  to  do  with  my  gentilissima 
famiglia  this  night !  Is  it  that  we  are  go- 
ing to  sleep  in  the  streets  ?  Or  perhaps," 
—  what  he  really  said  was  "  Forse  I  " 
with  a  remarkable  emphasis  of  utter 
scorn,  —  "  perhaps  you  think  that  I  am 
going  to  answer  you  that  we  can  sleep  in 
the  Park.  Perhaps  in  the  Albergo  Popo- 
lare!  Ma  no!  Ma  no!  My  gentilissima 
famiglia  is  not  to  sleep  in  the  Nuovo 
Parco,  neither  in  the  Albergo  Popolare. 
My  gentilissima  famiglia  will  throw  your 
furniture  out  of  the  windows  in  another 
hour,  and  be  rid  of  you.  M a  che  I  It  is 
truly  a  porcheria  I  " 

Now  in  Italy  you  cannot  with  dignity 
take  "  porcheria  "  from  any  one  less  than 
a  real  nobleman,  the  number  of  whom  is 
dying  out.  I  do  not  know  exactly  what 
the  word  means ;  but  its  general  direction 
is  such  that  I  immediately  called  Isabella 
and  requested  her  to  deal  with  our  ex- 
citable successor  of  the  Via  Mascheroni. 
All  that  I  saw  from  the  rear  window 
through  which  I  watched  the  battle  was 
that  our  bristling  successor  lowered  his 


mane  the  instant  Isabella's  gaze  fell  on 
him,  that  he  bowed  profoundly,  protested 
effusively,  smiled  affably,  pressed  his 
heart  eloquently,  held  his  hat  deferen- 
tially, and  backed  out  of  the  courtyard 
like  a  debutante  at  a  drawing-room.  Go- 
ing to  the  front  of  the  house  I  saw  him 
standing  in  the  street  to  look  back  at  our 
doorway,  and  rubbing  his  forehead  in 
evident  disturbance  of  mind. 

Meantime  our  things  were  streaming 
in.  By  seven  o'clock  we  were  fairly  well 
moved.  Yet  much  remained,  the  men 
showed  signs  of  quitting  work,  and 
neither  Isabella  nor  I  dared  go  over  to 
investigate  the  state  of  things  in  our  rear 
and  run  the  risk  of  meeting  the  new 
tenant  on  his  own  ground  and  supported 
by  his  own  wife.  I  promised  the  crew  an 
extra  tip  and  a  glass  of  wine  apiece,  and 
got  them  to  turn  to  in  the  early  twilight 
for  a  final  attack  on  what  was  left.  Isa- 
bella and  I  sat  in  the  new  kitchen  and  lis- 
tened while  one  load  after  another  came 
laboriously  up  the  darkening  stairs. 

"  We  shan't  get  settled  to-night,"  she 
said.  "There  are  no  electric  lights  ready 
yet,  and  we  must  go  to  the  Hotel  Cavour 
and  do  the  rest  of  the  work  to-morrow." 

Still  the  work  went  on.  The  men 
heartened  under  the  wine  and  the  pro- 
spect of  higher  pay.  Now  and  then  there 
came  a  crash  as  something  fragile  was 
cast  ruthlessly  into  a  corner. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Isabella  wearily. 
"I  have  passed  the  line  of  spoken  pro- 
test." 

At  nine  o'clock  the  procession  was  not 
yet  at  its  end.  More  loads  kept  coming 
over  from  the  Via  Mascheroni,  and  were 
debarked  and  hauled  and  worried  up 
the  now  shadowy  staircase  and  into  our 
apartment,  the  rooms  of  which  seemed 
to  have  contracted  since  we  made  the 
lease. 

"  It  may  be  the  light,  or  the  lack  of  it," 
I  said  to  Isabella  out  of  a  lurking  and 
perplexed  uneasiness  of  spirit,  "  but  the 
house  seems  very  much  smaller  now  we 
have  begun  getting  furniture  into  it.  I 
.  don't  see  where  we  can  put  it  ah1." 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


665 


"Order  will  come  out  of.it  to-mor- 
row," she  responded.  "  I  did  n't  realize, 
though,  that  we  had  collected  so  many 
things." 

By  half-past  nine  there  was  no  light 
left.  The  portinaio  groped  his  way  out  to 
us  and  asked  for  a  candle. 

"  Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  signora,"  he 
said,  as  Isabella  found  the  light  for  him, 
"  we  are  now  totalmente  finite  excepting 
the  second  piano." 

"T-h-e  WHAT!  "  cried  Isabella  shrilly. 

"  The  second  piano,  signora,"  he  said, 
and  added  with  an  ingratiating  smile, 
"  Perhaps  the  gentilissima  signora  would 
permit  us  to  bring  that  over  at  a  good 
hour  to-morrow  morning.  The  other 
piano  is  already  in  the  drawing-room, 
supposing  the  signora  and  the  signore 
should  care  for  a  little  music  this  even- 
ing." 

Isabella  stood  straight  up.  She  stood 
farther  up  than  usual,  holding  the  candle 
in  her  hands.  For  an  instant  she  gave  me 
a  fearful  look. 

"  Come  with  me,  please,"  she  said, 
"  and  prepare  yourself  for  the  worst  thing 
that  has  ever  happened  to  you,  —  in  all 
your  life ! " 

She  led  the  way  out  of  the  kitchen  and 
into  the  fore  part  of  the  house.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  follow  her  rapid  course,  and  the 
candle  held  before  her  left  no  real  light 
whatever.  The  portinaio  and  I  made  the 
best  way  we  could.  I  felt  that  the  rooms 
were  crowded. 

Presently  Isabella,  having  traversed 
the  entire  house,  halted  in  the  ante- 
chamber. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  made  a  mistake,"  I 
said  as  I  came  up  to  her.  "  The  rooms 
seem  filled  to  suffocation." 

"  Robert,"  she  replied,  "  you  are  right 
about  the  mistake.  And  the  rooms  are 
filled  to  suffocation.  One  of  the  main 
reasons  why  they  are  filled  to  suffocation 
is  that  this  unspeakable  portinaio  and  his 
partners  in  crime  have  moved,  not  only 
all  our  furniture,  but  as  much  as  they 
could  find  of  the  furniture  of  that  other 
tenant!" 


"  Signer  Raghetti  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Signor  Raghetti!"  said  Isabella. 
"  He  must  have  put  his  furniture  into  the 
house  before  ours  was  gone,  and  this  is 
the  result  of  his  enterprise." 

"  The  result  is  full  of  possibilities,"  I 
remarked.  I  could  feel  myself  getting  hot 
in  a  slow,  irresistible  wave  from  my  heels 
to  my  head.  "When  Signor  Raghetti 
gets  up  in  the  morning  from  wherever  he 
has  gone  to  sleep,  he  will  experience  the 
surprise  of  his  life." 

"  Portinaio"  said  Isabella,  very  quiet- 
ly, —  almost  tragically,  —  in  the  tone 
most  frequently  assumed  by  very  great 
stage  personages  in  the  last  act,  "  you 
may  go  away.  We  do  not  need  the 
second  piano,  and  we  do  not  need  you. 
To-morrow  we  shall  send  you  what  we 
have  to  pay  you  and  the  gentlemen  who 
have  assisted  you.  You  need  not  call  for 
it.  We  shall  be  glad  not  to  give  you  fur- 
ther trouble.  Buona  sera !  " 

"  Buona  sera,  signora  e  signore"  he 
answered,  clearly  bewildered  at  the  situa- 
tion, at  Isabella's  manner,  and  at  the 
sense  of  some  mysterious  untoward  thing 
which  he  had  done.  Isabella  went  speech- 
less out  to  the  kitchen,  leaving  me  alone 
with  him  in  the  dark. 

"  Scusi,  signore"  he  whispered,  rather 
terrified,  "  but  the  signora  does  not  seem 
to  be  appassionata  of  my  labor.  I  do  not 
think  she  is  fond  of  my  work  to-day. 
What  is  it  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  said  weakly.  I  did  not 
see  how  any  one  man  could  tell  him  in 
any  one  short  sitting.  "  Buona  sera" 

He  stumbled  down  the  staircase,  mut- 
tering thunderously  to  himself.  From  the 
front  window  out  of  which  I  leaned  for 
air  while  waiting  for  Isabella,  I  heard 
him  discoursing  to  his  mates. 

"  //  signore"  he  declared,  "he  is 
much  polite.  He  is  sempre  allegro.  What- 
ever happens,  it  is  always  'niente*  with 
him,  and  a  couple  of  lire  in  your  hand  at 
the  door  next  morning.  But  the  signora, 
—  um-m-m !  For  me,  I  do  not  find  her  — 
sympathetic.  '  What  is  it  has  happened  ? ' 
I  have  said  to  them,  up  there  in  their 


666 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


accursed  appartamento.  And  the  signora, 
she  has  looked  at  me  with  a  look  that  was 
a  terrible  thing.  But  the  signore,  when  I 
asked  him,  said,  'Niente,'  like  a  true  gen- 
tleman. I  tell  you  it  is  the  signore  who  is 
much  polite  in  that  house!  " 

"Much!"  said  the  crew,  like  a  chorus. 

I  did  not  repeat  this  to  Isabella.  She 
put  out  her  candle,  and  together  we  went 
down  the  black  hole  of  the  stairs  and  so 
on  to  the  Hotel  Cavour.  At  every  corner 
I  expected  to  meet  the  bristling  aspect  of 
Signor  Raghetti,  hunting  us  down  with 
the  troops  at  his  back,  or  at  least  the  civil 
guard. 

We  had  supper  at  the  hotel,  and  felt 
a  little  more  cheerful.  The  morning 
seemed  less  like  a  thing  to  flee  away  from. 
I  heard  Isabella  laughing  nervously.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  floor  and  struggling  in- 
ertly with  her  shoes. 

"  I  was  thinking/*  she  said,  "  that  it 
was  only  yesterday  at  about  this  time  that 
I  was  giving  you  a  most  sage  explanation 
of  why  they  call  a  thing  like  this  a  san- 
michele!" 

"You  might  bestow  a  thought,  just  for 
remembrance,  on  Signor  Raghetti,"  I 
remarked.  "  You  know  I  shall  have  to 
meet  him  to-morrow." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  Isabella 
smartly,  "he  has  already  been  met.  I  had 
the  hotel  porter  arrange  to  move  back  his 
goods  for  us  early  in  the  morning.  We 
will  go  over  and  see  him  as  soon  as  we  are 
out  of  bed." 

We  were  out  of  bed  early,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  Signor  Raghetti  when  we  had 
had  our  breakfast.  We  went  straight  to 
the  house  in  the  Via  Mascheroni,  deter- 
mined to  be  noble  about  the  business, 
and  hoping  that  his  sentiments,  if  he  had 
any  left,  would  rise  in  a  reasonable  degree 
of  majesty  to  meet  our  own. 

"  He  probably  took  his  family  to  a 
hotel  as  we  did,"  said  Isabella.  "  All  the 
better  people  do  that  at  this  season,  no 
doubt." 

There  are  few  things  so  desolating  as 
to  walk  up  to  a  door  that  once  opened  to 
your  touch,  and  find  it  barred  by  the 


hands  of  strangers.  Even  the  semi-bar- 
barous flat-dweller  has  that  much  soul  in 
him.  We  had  had  good  times  in  that 
place.  I  rang,  —  not  my  usual  loud  and 
peculiar  signal,  but  coldly  and  with  great 
reserve. 

"Now,  I  will  do  the  talking,"  cau- 
tioned Isabella.  "Leave  him  to  me.  You 
take  these  things  too  seriously." 

We  entered.  The  entrance  hall  seemed 
furnished  —  even  full.  Beyond,  in  my 
old  position  at  the  head  of  the  dining- 
room  table,  we  found  Signor  Raghetti 
over  his  coffee,  with  the  Corriere  della 
Sera  before  him.  Fragments  of  talk  from 
the  other  parts  of  the  house  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  the  gentilissima  famiglia  had 
not  suffered  great  disaster  at  our  hands. 
The  apartment,  or  as  much  of  it  as  we 
could  see,  was  completely  and  handsome- 
ly fitted  out.  Signor  Raghetti  was  what  I 
should  consider  quite  properly  termed 
"  affability  itself." 

"Why,  what  lovely  furniture!"  ex- 
claimed Isabella,  driven  half  out  of  her 
wits  by  the  situation.  "Is  —  is  it  yours  ? " 

"Pardon,  signora!"  said  he,  with  a  dis- 
tinct rising  inflection. 

Isabella  began  explaining.  Signor 
Raghetti  forgot  his  coffee.  Even  had  he 
not  forgotten  it,  he  could  not  have  drunk 
a  drop.  He  laughed  himself  twice  around 
the  dining-room  and  in  and  out  of  three 
different  chairs.  He  called  in  his  gentilis- 
sima famiglia  one  after  another,  and 
made  Isabella  repeat  the  whole  story  for 
each  of  them.  Suddenly  he  grew  quite 
solemn. 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  ask 
me,"  declared  Isabella  desperately. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "It  will  be  molto 
interessante  to  know  that.  Who  does  own 
the  furniture  that  was  moved  into  your 
new  appartamento  by  mistake  last  night  ? 
Only  this  we  know,  —  that  we  came  in 
here  while  you  were  going  out,  and  we 
saw  many  loads  of  other  goods  in  the 
courtyard  as  evening  arrived.  It  is  pos- 
sible — "  Signor  Raghetti  choked  alarm- 
ingly. 

"Anything  is  possible!"  declared  Isa- 


The  Cheerful  Feast  of  San  Michele 


667 


bella,  in  the  tone  of  intense  feminine  dis- 
gust. 

"Davvero"  gasped  Signer  Raghetti. 
"  Anything  is  possible  at  San  Michele." 

I  led  Isabella  out.  As  the  door  closed 
us  into  the  corridor  which  before  we  had 
trod  as  inquilini  under  lease,  instead  of 
visitors  on  sufferance,  subject  to  the 
scrutiny  of  the  portineria  and  the  signs 
which  tell  you  to  leave  your  bicycle  out- 
side the  iron  gate,  —  as  we  went  away 
from  there  we  could  hear  Signer  Raghetti 
roaring  gleefully  behind  us.  Silently  we 
went  around  into  the  Via  Venti  Settem- 
bre,  dodging  belated  cargoes  of  goods  that 
still  wheeled  through  the  city.  From  the 
doorway  of  the  house  we  heard  the  sound 
of  a  terrific  argument  going  on  above. 
The  low-pitched  growls  of  several  porters 
formed  the  background  for  a  shrill  and 
soaring  tenor,  inquiring  pointedly  who 
had  misdelivered  his  furniture.  Isabella 
signaled  me  with  her  eyes,  and  I  nodded 
assent  to  anything.  She  tiptoed  into  the 
portineria  and  left  our  keys  with  the  cus- 
todian, whose  mouth  opened  in  awestruck 
explanations  of  the  neighboring  row,  but 
closed  down  into  an  intelligent  smile  upon 
the  swift  production  of  a  silver  five-franc 
piece. 

We  went  out  into  the  street.  For  a  mo- 


ment Isabella  listened  shudderingly  to  the 
mighty  clamor  in  our  flat,  then  led  the 
way  on  into  the  city. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  "September  is  the 
very  nicest  month  on  the  Lake  of  Como. 
I  think  we  might  go  up  this  afternoon  and 
try  a  week  at  Cadenabbia." 

"  There  is  an  express  at  half-past 
ten,"  said  I.  "We  can  catch  that  if  we 
hurry." 

"Then  hurry!  "  she  responded,  —  and 
we  caught  the  express. 

That  afternoon  we  had  tea  in  the  little 
garden  of  the  Hotel  Brittania,  sitting  un- 
derneath the  shade  of  the  rose  trees,  and 
looking  out  across  the  brownish  purple  of 
the  lake  to  where  the  creamy  houses  of 
Bellagio  shimmered  in  the  strong  fall  sun. 
The  wavelets  lapped  softly  on  the  gray 
walls  of  the  road  before  us,  and  from  off 
the  water  there  came  the  muffled,  hollow 
ring  of  the  boatmen's  oars,  straining 
rhythmically  in  their  locks.  The  city  and 
its  troubles  seemed  very  far  away. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing,"  said  I. 
"  Whose  was  that  furniture  the  portinaio 
moved  in  with  ours  ?  " 

"  Cfhi  sa,  who  knows!  "  said  Isabella 
flippantly,  while  she  pried  the  chocolate 
from  the  top  of  a  pasty  cake.  "  Who 
knows  but  San  Michele!  " 


ANTHROPOMANIA 


BY   WILBUR .  LARREMORE 


•  THE  purpose  expressed  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  Massachusetts  to  form  "a  govern- 
ment of  laws  and  not  of  men  "  is  but  a 
single  facet  of  the  democratic  ideal.  De- 
mocracy's aim  is  an  entire  social  system 
in  which  the  average  man  shall  be  swayed 
by  ideas,  not  personalities.  What  are  the 
surface  indications  of  progress,  and  what 
is  the  real  outlook  ? 

The  writer  vividly  remembers  his 
shock,  as  a  very  young  man,  when  a  fel- 
low tourist  at  the  English  Lakes,  —  an 
English'  Unitarian  of  good  parts  and  wide 
culture,  — upon  mention  happening  to  be 
made  of  Edinburgh  Castle,  dashed  from 
high  level  of  discourse  upon  historical  and 
literary  associations  down  to  a  cockney 
rhapsody  over  the  magnificent  view  he 
had  had  of  the  Prince  and  Princess  of 
Wales,  when  they  chanced  to  be  visiting 
the  castle  at  the  same  time  as  himself. 
With  years  of  mental  discretion  there  has 
come  a  tolerance  for  the  companion's 
point  of  view.  There  are  few  Britons  who 
have  declined  a  peerage ;  usually  an  Eng- 
lishman of  genius  will  regard  the  social 
overtures  of  a  lord  as,  at  least,  those  of 
an  equal.  Albeit  our  cultured  Unitarian 
was  pleased  with  the  rattle  and  tickled 
with  a  straw  of  snobbishness,  his  attitude 
signified  British  social  solidarity.  And 
the  influence  of  that  society,  based  upon 
an  aristocracy  which  is  constantly  recruit- 
ed from  the  best,  has  been  potent  both 
as  an  inspiration  and  a  steadying  re- 
straint. 

Indulgent  acceptance  of  European 
snobbishness  becomes  the  easier  in  view 
of  the  wide  interest  bestowed  on  our  own 
mushroom  "400,"  and,  indeed,  on  any 
person  who  offers  the  slightest  pretext  for 
notoriety.  Take  up  almost  any  periodi- 
cal, American  or  English,  and  you  will 
find  names,  names,  names;  faces,  faces, 


faces.  There  are  many  publications  that 
enjoy  wide  circulation  wholly  through 
catering  to  the  hunger  for  personalities, 
and  this  often  without  pruriency  or  scan- 
dal-mongering.  Persons  of  unusual  gifts 
and  staying  power  are  kept  standing  in 
type.  Any  individual  who,  by  accident  or 
unusual  opportunity,  is  connected  with 
an  event  of  note,  is  trumpeted  and  thrown 
upon  the  screen;  and,  as  in  earlier  stages 
of  civilization  a  man's  family  were  put 
to  death  with  him  in  punishment  for  his 
crime,  now  they  share  his  day  of  snap- 
shot glory,  even  to  the  babe  in  arms. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  the  verse  — 
And  the  individual  withers  and  the  world  is 
more  and  more  — 

is  true.  The  individual  of  the  present  day 
is  drawn  into  social  and  industrial  com- 
binations, and  the  tiny  screw  loses  its 
identity  in  the  vast  machine.  There  is  an- 
other and  a  deeper  sense  in  which  the 
very  reverse  is  the  truth.  In  earlier  stages 
of  development,  the  individual  has  the 
identity  of  the  drop  in  the  bucket.  The 
tribe,  the  family,  are  everything;  aggress- 
ive individuality  is  frowned  upon ;  change 
is  abhorred.  The  most  minute  acts  of  life 
are  regulated  by  rule,  departure  from 
which  is  a  sacrilege.  Lafcadio  Hearn  has 
graphically  depicted  the  survival  of  this 
stage  of  evolution  in  Japan  down  almost 
into  the  present  era. 

Under  our  system  of  industrialism, 
there  go  with  the  stress  of  competition, 
and  the  magnitude  and  complexity  of  in- 
stitutions, a  constantly  increasing  inde- 
pendence and  variety  of  personal  exist- 
ence, and  institutions  themselves  are 
created  and  directed  by  individuals 
called  to  their  stations  by  natural  selec- 
tion. Individual  genius,  whether  as  in- 
ventor, organizer,  or  executive,  is  the 
most  important  factor  in  modern  life,  and 


Anthropomania 


the  gaping  interest  in  any  personality 
emerging,  no  matter  how  fortuitously, 
from  the  ruck,  in  one  sense  is  an  aggra- 
vation of  legitimate  outwatch  for  new 
leaders. 

The  trait  that  we  shall  term  *  'anthro- 
pomania,"  however,  crops  out  in  many 
different  forms,  and  is  displayed  in  the 
attitude  toward  men  of  genius,  as  well  as 
toward  the  random  hero  of  the  hour. 

The  case  of  an  enthusiastic  but  inex- 
pert philatelist  who  paid  eighty  dollars 
for  a  canceled  postage-stamp,  only  to 
learn  that  it  was  a  forgery,  illustrates 
what  Walt  Whitman  has  called  "the 
mania  for  owning  things."  Purchases 
of  spurious  works  of  celebrated  artists 
represent  this  crude  craving  with  the 
admixture  of  anthropomania.  It  would 
of  course  be  affectation  for  a  connoisseur 
to  claim  that  no  part  of  his  satisfaction 
is  derived  Trom  the  great  names  signed 
to  the  canvases  in  his  gallery.  There  is 
a  not  illegitimate  element  of  pleasure  in 
having  as  one's  own  a  collection  of  works 
upon  which  a  consensus  of  skilled  judg- 
ment has  set  the  seal  of  approval. 

On  the  other  hand,  famous  names,  as 
names,  become  a  commercial  asset  be- 
cause of  the  passion  of  owning  anything 
that  is  conventionally  desirable,  whether 
it  happen  to  have  intrinsic  worth,  or  be 
merely  the  object  of  a  passing  fad.  Utter 
philistines  will  pay  goodly  sums  for  paint- 
ings for  which  in  their  hearts  they  care 
less  than  for  the  blue-ribbon  collies  ac- 
quired from  similar  motives.  There  is 
generated  in  the  popular  mind  an  inter- 
est in  celebrated  artists  independent  of 
the  quality  of  their  work;  and  this  not 
only  leads  to  the  forgery  of  "  Innesses  " 
and  "Wyants"  and  "Murphys,"  but 
diverts  attention  from  pictures  without 
the  sign-manual  of  fame,  but  whose  merit 
might  render  them  delights  of  homes  that 
cannot  afford  masterpieces.  Exaggera- 
tion of  the  personal  element,  therefore, 
interferes  with  the  spread  of  aesthetic  ap- 
preciation, and  delays  the  "arrival"  of 
men  of  genuine  gifts. 

The  condition  of  the  dramatic  art  in 


America  displays  the  effect  of  anthropo- 
mania in  very  aggravated  form.  Thirty 
years  ago  there  were  constantly  perform- 
ing in  the  city  of  New  York,  two  theat- 
rical stock  companies,  either  of  which 
would  nowadays  pass  for  an  exception- 
ally brilliant  "all-star"  cast,  and  there 
were  other  regularly  attached  companies 
only  less  capable.  The  rise  of  the  baleful 
"star  system  "  has  changed  all  this.  The 
player,  not  the  play,  is  the  thing,  evoking 
an  endless  series  of  one-character  pieces, 
without  literary  quality,  and  often  framed 
merely  as  an  expression  of  the  star's  ec- 
centricities. The  aim  of  the  average  actor 
is  not  to  develop  versatile  ability,  but  to 
display  some  mannerism  which  will  make 
a  "hit"  and  serve  as  a  basis  for  stellar  as- 
pirations. Women  reeking  with  notoriety 
from  the  divorce  court,  men  who  have 
been  victors  in  the  prize  ring,  and  with  no 
other  qualifications,  have  gone  upon  the 
stage  and  —  to  the  shame  of  the  public, 
more  than  their  own  —  have  drawn  their 
crowds.  The  abuse  has  been  carried  so 
far  that,  fortunately,  signs  of  reaction  are 
appearing. 

Over-devotion  to  biographical  litera- 
ture is  a  significant  symptom.  The  every- 
day facts  of  the  lives  of  celebrated  men 
appeal  to  one  with  much  the  same  kind  of 
interest  as  table-talk  about  friends  and 
neighbors;  and  inveterate  addiction  to 
biography  is  a  dangerous  form  of  an- 
thropomania, because  its  victim  may 
cherish  the  delusion  that  he  is  necessarily 
"improving  his  mind." 
A  book 's  a  book,  although  there  's  nothing 
in  't. 

The  utilitarian  advantage  of  biograph- 
ical study  is  much  exaggerated.  The  as- 
sumption that  the  best  preparation  for 
grasping  success  is  closely  to  scan  suc- 
cessful careers,  is  groundless,  because 
men  prevail,  not  through  imitation,  but 
in  proportion  to  their  originality.  The 
general  lesson  from  almost  any  triumph- 
ant life  is  that  its  liver  knew  himself  and 
knew  his  opportunity  when  he  saw  it. 

It  is,  of  course,  true  that  a  compara- 
tively insignificant  event  may  afford  hints 


Anthropomania 


for  thought,  and  that  all  biographies  have 
value  as  a  supplement  to  the  study  of 
mankind  by  observation.  Many  biograph- 
ical works  are  indispensable  as  side- 
lights of  history.  The  story  of  the  lives  of 
literary  men  may  be  essential  for  critical 
estimate  of  their  works.  Conceding  all 
this,  and  even  more,  on  the  score  of  legit- 
imate "  cakes  and  ale,"  it  must  still  be 
said  that  educated  people  permit  bio- 
graphy to  absorb  a  disproportionate  share 
of  the  time  that  can  be  devoted  to  litera- 
ture, impelled  by  the  same  appetite  that 
leads  the  masses  to  consume  sensational 
"write-ups"  in  the  newspapers. 

One  could  view  with  more  compla- 
cency the  sea  of  faces  in  periodicals,  on 
bill-boards,  and  painted  on  the  rock- 
ribbed  hills,  if  more  discrimination  were 
shown  in  the  use  of  personalities.  We 
know  that,  at  its  present  stage,  demo- 
cracy is  so  indifferent  to  abstractions  that 
the  Referendum  has  made  practically  no 
progress  among  us.  It  is  impossible  in 
the  average  community  to  obtain  an  in- 
telligent, or  even  a  numerically  large,  vote 
upon  constitutional  amendments  that  are 
submitted  to  the  people.  Popular  in- 
terest remains  languid  even  as  to  grave 
measures  of  reform  until  they  are  cham- 
pioned by  a  striking  human  figure,  such 
as  that  of  Mr.  Jerome,  who,  in  his  cam- 
paign for  reelection  as  district-attorney 
of  the  City  of  New  York,  so  fired  the 
imagination  that  he  accomplished  a  mir- 
acle of  discriminative  suffrage. 

It  is  proper  to  laud  the  hero  in  connec- 
tion with  his  cause,  but  why  should  he 
also  be  used  as  an  advertising  factotum  ? 
A  line  of  commendation  from  the  Pres- 
ident of  the  United  States,  though  he 
were  as  illiterate  as  Andrew  Jackson,  or 
as  brimming  with  health  as  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  would  make  the  fortune  of  any 
book  of  poems,  or  any  patent  medicine. 
Prominent  men  as  retail  trade-marks, 
with  occasional  interspersions  of  vaude- 
ville actresses  in  the  same  capacity,  con- 
stitute one  of  the  most  obtrusive  Amer- 
ican features.  In  England,  the  royal 
family  and  noble  lords  and  ladies  serve 


as  sponsors  for  ales  and  chow-chow  and 
lingerie.  Here,  the  commercial  strain  is 
largely  upon  our  statesmen,  and  the  hor- 
ror of  it  may  well  give  a  sensitive  man 
pause  upon  the  threshold  of  a  public 
career. 

Bagehot  has  said  that  "a  constitutional 
statesman  is  in  general  a  man  of  common 
opinions  and  uncommon  abilities."  It 
might  be  suggested  that  the  reason  for 
drumming  in  eminent  politicians  as  ex- 
emplars of  opinion  on  works  of  literature 
or  art,  is  that  they  represent  average  ap- 
preciation, and,  therefore,  are  persuasive 
decoys  for  patronage.  The  motive  on  the 
part  of  the  masses  who  are  impressed, 
however,  is  not  a  distaste  for  anything 
save  commonplace  guides,  but  rather  an 
application  of  the  fanciful  assumption 
pervading  Carlyle's  lectures  on  hero 
worship,  that  any  great  man  has  in  him 
the  potentiality  of  all  kinds  of  greatness. 

Even  when  the  human  figure  does  sym- 
bolize an  idea,  it  is  grasped  only  in  the 
rough,  often  with  adventitious  elements 
derived  from  his  personality;  and  the 
symbol  himself  becomes  the  spoiled  child 
of  the  tendency  that  heroized  him. 

Andrew  Jackson  unquestionably  em- 
bodied a  great  social  and  political  princi- 
ple. He  represented  in  the  concrete  the 
philosophical  democracy  of  Jefferson, 
which,  in  the  period  of  half  a  century,  had 
permeated  the  popular  mind.  Democracy 
was  the  inevitable  phase  of  social  evolu- 
tion, as  it  meant  the  leveling  of  artificial 
privilege  and  the  widening  of  the  area  of 
competition  and  natural  selection.  The 
masses,  however,  carried  the  principle  to 
absurd  lengths  of  radicalism.  As  a  sub- 
stantial policy  there  was  developed  the 
greatest  curse  of  American  politics  after 
slavery  —  "the  spoils  system,"  or  de- 
mocracy run  mad.  It  is  unjust,  as  is  fre- 
quently done,  to  saddle  upon  Jackson  the 
brunt  of  responsibility  for  the  prostitu- 
tion of  the  civil  service.  Utterances  of  his 
previous  to  the  period  of  his  presidency 
have  been  quoted  in  which  he  condemned 
the  practice  of  rewarding  party  service 
with  public  office.  His  way  to  become  the 


A  nthropomania 


671 


exponent  of  the  popular  clamor  was,  how- 
ever, smoothed  by  his  peculiar  blend  of 
personal  passion  with  public  conscien- 
tiousness, and  his  devout  conviction  that 
John  Quincy  Adams,  who  had  appointed 
many  of  the  removed  incumbents,  came 
to  the  executive  chair  through  a  cor- 
rupt bargain.  This  consideration,  indeed, 
counted  with  the  rank  and  file,  but  more 
fundamental  was  the  conviction  that  a 
permanent  office-holding  class  was  incon- 
sistent with  and  a  menace  to  democracy ; 
that  an  equality  of  opportunity  in  the 
scramble  for  place  was  simple  justice. 

On  the  surface  the  "  Jeffersonian  sim- 
plicity "  lapsed  into  the  "  Jacksonian  vul- 
garity," and  there  arose  a  deliberate  cult 
of  blue  jeans  and  bad  manners. 

Extremes  met,  and  the  exemplar  of 
democracy  in  its  most  fanatical  form  be- 
came a  czar.  The  multitude  made  him  its 
fetish  and  worshiped  his  very  infirmities. 
Standing  for  the  conception  of  general 
equality,  he  could  actually  do  whatever 
he  chose,  without  marring  his  idolhood. 
Several  of  the  important  policies  he 
fathered  have  stood  the  test  of  history, 
but  among  our  most  offensive  traditions 
are  the  excesses  of  his  absolutism,  dra- 
matically culminating  in  the  resolution 
that  his  imperious  will  forced  through  the 
Senate  in  1837,  to  expunge  from  its  jour- 
nal a  censure  previously  passed  upon 
him. 

Notwithstanding  differences  in  birth, 
breeding,  and  education,  the  resemblance 
in  character  and  temperament  between 
President  Jackson  and  President  Roose- 
velt is  very  strong,  and  the  popular  atti- 
tude toward  the  later  is  much  the  same  as 
toward  the  earlier  "metrical  instrument 
of  public  opinion." 

Again,  an  elemental  democratic  senti- 
ment found  its  human  exemplar.  After 
an  agitation  extending  over  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  against  the  enslav- 
ing power  of  corporate  wealth,  the  masses 
of  the  people,  enlightened  to  the  situation 
and  dangerously  in  earnest,  have  made  it 
clear  that  aggregations  of  capital  —  what- 
ever their  form  —  shall  be  controlled  by 


law.  Mr.  Roosevelt,  in  genuine  sympa- 
thy with  the  culminating  crusade,  has 
preached  its  doctrines,  always  fervently, 
sometimes  fanatically.  In  the  mind's  eye 
of  the  people,  he  has  come  to  stand  for 
the  movement  itself,  and  no  one  since 
Jackson  has  enjoyed  a  more  unshakable 
popular  grip. 

Again,  the  excesses  of  an  impulsive, 
autocratic  nature  have  been  hailed  as  vir- 
tues by  public  sentiment  that  could  grasp 
the  policy  of  controlling  the  corporations 
and  "trusts  "  only  generally  and  vaguely. 
Not  being  a  profound  constitutional  law- 
yer, he  has  advanced  not  a  few  Utopian 
measures  of  relief.  "  Old  Hickery  "  never 
did  a  more  grotesquely  outrageous  thing 
than  President  Roosevelt's  arrogation  of 
the  right  to  rebuke  judges  of  federal  courts 
for  rendering  decisions  that  did  not  agree 
with  his  ideas  of  propriety.  This  is  the 
phase  of  "Rooseveltism"  which  history 
will  probably  most  severely  condemn;  in 
its  degree  it  calls  for  the  same  kind  of 
criticism  which  Carl  Schurz  passed  upon 
Jackson : — 

"His  autocratic  nature  saw  only  the 
end  he  was  bent  upon  accomplishing, 
and  he  employed  whatever  means  ap- 
peared available  for  putting  down  all  ob- 
stacles in  his  path.  Honestly  believing 
his  ends  to  be  right,  he  felt  as  if  no  means 
that  would  serve  them  could  be  wrong. 
He  never  understood  that,  if  constitu- 
tional government  is  to  be  preserved,  the 
legality  of  the  means  used  must  be  looked 
upon  as  no  less  important  than  the  right- 
fulness  of  the  ends  pursued." 

Popular  infatuation  made  it  the  easier 
for  Mr.  Roosevelt  to  indulge  the  defect  of 
his  qualities  —  to  sacrifice  dignity,  and 
impair  the  weight  of  his  influence,  by  pos- 
ing as  universal  oracle  and  next  friend  of 
all  the  world. 

In  one  episode  of  Theodore  Roose- 
velt's life,  anthropomania,  in  display- 
ing its  own  tendency  for  evil,  demon- 
strated his  essential  sanity  and  moral 
soundness.  Mr.  Roosevelt  has  known 
many  legitimately  proud  moments,  and 
none  greater  than  the  evening  of  election 


672 


Anthropomania 


day  in  1904,  when,  being  assured  of  en- 
thusiastic choice  by  the  people  to  an 
office  originally  attained  through  accident, 
he  announced  that  he  should  consider  the 
period  he  had  already  served  as  the  equi- 
valent of  a  first  elective  term  and  would 
not  be  a  candidate  for  renomination. 
This  was  following  the  precedent  set 
by  Washington,  not  in  letter,  but  accord- 
ing to  its  broad  spirit.  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
popularity  grew  during  his  second  term, 
which  was  no  sooner  started  than  de- 
mands began  to  be  heard  for  the  retrac- 
tion of  his  pledge.  This  spirit  waxed  so 
strong  that  in  the  end  he  held  the  nom- 
ination for  the  succession  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand,  and  was  compelled  to 
great  firmness  in  saving  himself  from  his 
friends.  Nothing  will  contribute  more  to 
rendering  his  official  life  illustrious  than 
the  circumstances  of  his  leaving  it.  And 
popular  idolatry  was  directed  toward  in- 
ducing a  gentleman  to  break  his  word  of 
honor,  and  pass  into  history  as  a  servile 
lover  of  place,  instead  of  as  an  inspirer 
of  lofty  political  ideals. 

The  present  effort  to  point  out  some  of 
the  salient  manifestations  of  anthropo- 
mania  is  offered  not  in  any  spirit  of  pes- 
simism. 

Carl  Schurz,  treating  of  Jackson's 
aggrandizement  of  the  executive  depart- 
ment, uses  the  following  language,  and 
again  a  similar  criticism  in  its  degree 
would  apply  to  Mr.  Roosevelt,  with  the 
difference  that  his  usurpatory  disposi- 
tion was  directed  against  the  Judiciary, 
rather  than  Congress :  — 

"  But  if  a  President  of  the  United  States 
ever  should  conceive  such  a  scheme  (of 
setting  up  a  personal  despotism),  he  would 
probably  resort  to  the  same  tactics  which 
Jackson  employed.  He  would  assume  the 
character  of  the  sole  representative  of  all 
the  people;  he  would  tell  the  people  that 
their  laws,  their  rights,  their  liberties, 
were  endangered  by  the  unscrupulous 
usurpations  of  the  other  constituted  au- 
thorities; he  would  try  to  excite  popular 
distrust  and  resentment,  especially  against 
the  legislative  bodies;  he  would  exhibit 


himself  unjustly  and  cruelly  persecuted 
by  those  bodies  for  having  vigilantly  and 
fearlessly  watched  over  the  rights  and  in- 
terests of  the  people ;  he  would  assure  the 
people  that  he  would  protect  them  if  they 
would  stand  by  him  in  his  struggle  with 
the  conspirators,  and  so  forth.  These 
are  the  true  Napoleonic  tactics,  in  part 
employed  by  the  first,  and  followed  to  the 
letter  by  the  second,  usurper  of  that 
name." 

The  imputation  of  "  Caesarism,"  or  of 
imperfect  loyalty  to  republican  institu- 
tions, either  to  Jackson  or  to  Roosevelt, 
would,  however,  be  absurd.  They,  no 
less  than  Lincoln  and  Cleveland,  were 
sincere  public  moralists  and  sincere  pa- 
triots. Mere  Boulangerism  is  an  Amer- 
ican impossibility.  Our  hero-worship 
needs  a  discriminating  curb,  not  to  be  set 
radically  right. 

Our  text  was  taken  from  the  constitu- 
tion of  Massachusetts,  and  the  Bay  State 
has  preeminently  lived  up  to  its  own  pre- 
cept. There,  the  separation  of  national, 
state,  and  local  issues,  with  independent 
voting,  has  been  quite  substantially  ac- 
complished. Massachusetts,  more  than 
most  states,  has  withstood  democratic 
zealotism.  It  is  one  of  the  very  few 
states  that  did  not  substitute  an  elective 
for  an  appointive  judiciary.  Its  roll  of 
governors,  United  States  senators  and 
judges,  is  almost  unbrokenly  one  of  es- 
pecial fitness  as  well  as  exalted  character. 

New  York,  whose  political  history 
strongly  contrasts  with  that  of  Massachu- 
setts, has,  during  recent  years,  given  many 
indications  of  progress  toward  govern- 
ment by  ideas,  and  none  has  been  more 
convincing  than  the  indorsement  by  its 
people  of  the  administration  of  Governor 
Hughes.  He  was  nominated,  with  some 
misgivings  concerning  his  "taking  quali- 
ties," as  the  exponent  of  legal  control  of 
public  corporations.  A  strong  justifica- 
tion of  democratic  faith  has  been  offered 
by  his  success  in  this  direction,  —  notably 
in  compelling  the  passage  of  the  law  cre- 
ating the  Public  Service  Commissions,  — 
with  the  correlative  circumstance  that  he 


Anthropomania 


673 


vetoed  an  arbitrary  attack  on  corpora- 
tions, in  the  so-called  "Two-Cent-Fare 
Bill,"  without  any  inroad  upon  his  popu- 
larity. 

The  tangible  accomplishments  of  Gov- 
ernor Hughes  were  largely  confined  to 
the  first  year  of  his  term,  the  only  con- 
spicuous reform  during  his  second  year 
being  the  repeal  of  the  "Racing  Bill." 
The  adoption  of  this  anti-betting  law  by 
a  recalcitrant  legislature,  will,  however, 
in  connection  with  the  series  of  important 
statutes  for  the  control  of  corporations, 
have  an  abiding  influence,  because  it 
accentuated  the  policy  which  Governor 
Hughes  has  uniformly  pursued.  He  was 
adversely  criticised  by  many  who  had 
simply  the  success  of  the  particular  meas- 
ure at  heart,  for  not  offering  personal 
inducements  which  would  have  brought 
comparatively  easy  success.  But  his  con- 
sistent action  in  appealing  solely  to 
thoughtfulness  and  to  the  moral  sense, 
and  so  indirectly  coercing  the  legislature, 
has  led?  to  a  striking  triumph  of  popular 
reason. 

Sedulously  ignoring  the  emotional,  and 
avoiding  the  spectacular,  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances has  nevertheless  rendered 
Governor  Hughes  an  imposing  figure. 
He  has,  moreover,  under  the  exigencies  of 
the  situation,  and  being  a  clever,  versatile 
man,  developed  "magnetic"  attributes. 
He  has  become  an  effective  popular 
orator,  with  qualities  of  grace,  pungency, 
and  humor,  adding  to  the  earnest  force 
of  the  man  behind  the  words.  It  may 
safely  be  said,  however,  that  into  his 
success  no  element  of  anthropomania  has 
entered,  and  his  career  as  governor,  like 
the  career  of  Mr.  Cleveland  before  him, 
constitutes  an  important  contribution  to 
the  advancement  of  the  Massachusetts 
idea. 

On  the  national  scale,  it  is  significant 
of  the  subsidence  of  anthropomania  that 
there  was  no  serious  movement  to  make 
the  hero  of  Manila  Bay  the  candidate  of 
either  of  the  great  parties  for  the  presi- 
dency. It  is  also  highly  significant  that, 
while  Mr.  Roosevelt  retains  his  hold  of 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


the  popular  heart,  criticism  of  his  grave 
faults  has  constantly  grown  more  wide- 
spread and  telling;  and  this  because  of 
the  greater  diffusion  of  higher  education 
to-day  than  in  the  time  of  Jackson. 

But,  although  much  may  be  expected 
in  America  through  incidental  effects  of 
diffused  culture,  it  is  believed  that  young 
persons  should  further  be  directly  ad- 
monished that  the  proper  study  of  man- 
kind is  not  man.  The  primary  interest  of 
mankind  should  be  in  ideas,  principles, 
tendencies,  with  man  only  as  incidental 
and  illustrative.  The  overshadowing  im- 
portance of  the  human  figure  is  a  survi- 
val of  the  anthropomorphism  of  savage 
and  barbarous  stages,  of  the  abject  hero- 
worship  of  the  ages  of  absolute  mon- 
archy and  militarism.  While  a  certain 
vigilance  for  the  recognition  of  genius 
and  leadership  is  not  to  be  discouraged, 
the  absorbing  interest  in  personalities  is 
unsuited  to  democratic  conditions.  It 
should  be  deliberately  restrained,  not 
only  as  to  the  living,  but  as  to  the  dead. 

Li  his  paper  on  John  Milton,  Mr.  Au- 
gustine Birrell,  after  describing  the  poet's 
personal  habits,  which  included  smoking 
a  pipe  before  going  to  bed,  remarks,  "It 
is  pleasant  to  remember  that  one  pipe  of 
tobacco.  It  consecrates  your  own."  One 
would  be  indeed  a  surly  purist  not  to 
relish  this  touch  of  genial  humanness,  and 
it  has  been  endeavored  throughout  the 
present  article  to  avoid  that  very  round- 
head fanaticism,  which  Mr.  Birrell,  for 
all  his  reverential  sympathy,  cannot  help 
showing  characterized  the  great,  blind 
bard.  In  a  different  spirit,  however,  it 
may  be  recalled  that  in  the  exhibit  of  the 
United  States  Department  of  Justice,  at 
the  Chicago  Exposition  of  1903,  there 
were  solemnly  installed,  among  famous 
documents  and  archives,  an  ancient  shav- 
ing brush  and  cup,  said  to  have  been  used 
by  John  Marshall.  The  monument  of  the 
great  Chief  Justice  is  all  about  us,  in  a 
constitution  that  was  made  to  "march," 
in  a  "  paper- theorem"  transmuted  into 
a  living  government.  Circumsp.ce  I  To 
treasure  the  dilapidated  toilet  articles  of 


674 


The  Empty  House 


such  a  man  is  puerile  absurdity  of  relic- 
worship. 

Americans  laugh  contemptuously  at  the 
parade  of  statues  of  kings  and  princelets 
in  European  cities,  but,  under  the  enter- 
prise of  ancestor- worship  with  a  political 
"  pull,"  we  shall  soon  have  to  pluck  the 
beam  from  our  own  eye.  In  the  streets 
and  squares  of  New  York  are  statues  of 
men  who  in  the  perspective  of  history  are 
little  removed  from  nonentity;  and  the 
same  is  true  of  other  American  cities.  If 
this  abuse  of  public  commemoration  be 
suffered  to  continue,  in  fear  of  outbreaks 
of  righteous  iconoclasm,  there  may  well  be 
inscribed  on  many  a  pedestal:  "Cursed 
be  he  who  moves  my  graven  image." 

With  perfect  respect  for  the  opinions 


of  those  who  differ  from  him,  the  writer 
ventures  to  suggest  that  the  Hall  of  Fame, 
inaugurated  at  one  of  the  universities  of 
New  York,  is  servilely  imitative  of  tradi- 
tional shrines  of  the  Old  World,  and  that 
it  is  not  soundly  educative,  either  for  stu- 
dents or  for  the  public.  You  cannot  meas- 
ure fame  with  a  yard-stick.  Rightful  title 
to  niches  in  the  pantheon  will  always  be 
a  question  of  opinion,  and  of  opinion 
shifting  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Already 
childish  bickerings  have  arisen  over  the 
bestowal  of  the  tangible  crowns  of  im- 
mortality. The  memory  and  achieve- 
ments of  our  greatest  men  need  no  such 
ukase  in  order  for  proper  appreciation. 
The  real  effect  of  the  institution  is  to 
sanction  and  intensify  anthropomania. 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

I 

BY  FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

I  SEEMED  to  see  thy  spirit  leave  the  clay 

That  was  its  mortal  tenement  of  late; 

I  seemed  to  see  it  falter  at  the  gate 
Of  the  New  Life,  as  seeking  to  obey 
Some  inner  law,  yet  doubtful  of  the  way 

Provided  for  its  passage,  by  that  fate 

Which  makes  birth  pain,  and  gives  to  death  such  state 
And  dignity,  when  soul  withdraws  its  sway. 

A  tremor  of  the  pale  and  noble  brow, 

A  tightening  of  the  lips,  and  thou  wast  gone — 

Gone  whither  ?  Ah,  the  hush  of  death's  abyss ! 

All  tenantless  thy  beauteous  form  lay  now 
As  the  cicada's  fragile  shell  outgrown, 

Or  as  the  long-forsaken,  lonely  chrysalis. 


SELF-GOVERNMENT  IN  PUBLIC   SCHOOLS 


BY   BERTHA   H.   SMITH 


ONE  day,  about  four  years  ago,  some 
boys  in  a  western  high  school  were  testing 
the  laws  of  gravitation  by  heaving  rocks 
over  the  edge  of  a  bluff  on  which  the 
school  was  located.  It  chanced  that  the 
laws  of  gravitation  were  in  good  working 
order  that  day,  and  the  rocks  went 
straight  down,  and  through  the  roof  of 
a  tiny  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  The 
widow  who  lived  in  the  cottage,  not  being 
interested  in  the  experiments,  bemoaned 
the  damage  to  her  roof,  and  went  straight- 
way to  the  principal  of  the  school  to  re- 
port the  offenders. 

The  boys  were  called  together  and  told 
how  carelessness  of  this  sort  affects  the 
reputation  of  the  school,  and  a  committee 
was  appointed  from  their  number  to  de- 
termine what  reparation  should  be  made 
to  the  woman  in  the  cottage.  The  imme- 
diate result  was  that  the  boys  raised  a  sub- 
scription among  themselves  ano^had  the 
roof  repaired. 

But  there  was  another,  and  a  far  more 
important,  result  of  this  little  episode. 
Then  and  there  was  inaugurated  a  sys- 
tem of  self-government  among  the  pupils 
at  that  school  which  has  proved  a  force 
second  to  none  in  the  efficiency  of  the 
school.  From  a  commercial  high  school 
with  an  enrollment  of  five  or  six  hundred 
students,  the  school  has  changed  to  a 
polytechnic  school  of  two  thousand.  But 
with  each  year  the  work  of  the  self-gov- 
ernment committee  has  broadened  and 
strengthened  until  self-government  has 
become  a  vital  principle  underlying  every 
activity  from  the  study-room  to  the  athle- 
tic field. 

The  system  did  not  spring  full-fledged 
into  being.  It  has  evolved.  After  the  boys 
had  made  good  in  the  matter  of  the  rocks 
and  the  roof,  another  conference  was 
called  and  a  committee  appointed  to  re- 


lieve the  teachers  of  yard-duty.  The  boys 
were  told  that  the  yard  was  theirs  and 
that  if  anything  went  wrong  it  was  their 
wrong  to  right.  And  the  principal  of  the 
school  was  the  sort  of  man  who  believes 
that  the  only  way  to  do  a  thing  is  to  do  it; 
and  from  that  day  no  teacher  has  ever 
stood  watch  over  the  boys  in  the  yard. 
They  were  made  to  feel  absolute  respons- 
ibility for  good  conduct  on  the  school 
grounds.  And  by  the  end  of  the  year  the 
success  of  the  plan  was  so  pronounced 
that  the  pupils  were  asked  to  attack  the 
problem  of  governing  the  entire  school. 

A  problem  it  was,  indeed,  particularly 
when  the  school  was  moved  to  a  fine  new 
building  with  halls  extending  over  an  en- 
tire city  block,  with  scores  of  class-rooms, 
a  large  auditorium  where  frequent  assem- 
blies are  held,  a  gymnasium,  and  all  the 
departments  and  equipment  of  a  modern 
polytechnic  high  school.  Order  must  be 
maintained  in  the  halls,  in  the  study-room 
during  an  assembly,  on  the  playground, 
and  going  to  and  from  school,  without 
interference  on  the  part  of  teachers. 
Only  during  recitations  must  the  teacher 
be  responsible  for  order,  and  even  then 
any  disorder  is  reported  to  the  committee 
for  correction. 

Back  in  the  first  days,  when  the  boys 
were  beginning  to  prove  themselves,  the 
girls  were  given  the  care  of  the  lunching 
places.  Gradually  their  responsibility 
was  increased  until  a  committee  of  girls 
took  place  alongside  the  committee  of 
boys,  one  having  complete  jurisdiction 
over  the  girls,  the  other  over  the  boys. 
The  committees,  consisting  of  a  boy  and 
a  girl  from  each  class,  are  elected  by  the 
pupils,  eligibility  being  merely  a  question 
of  scholarship.  Previous  deportment  cuts 
no  figure,  and  it  has  happened  that  boys 
known  as  ringleaders  in  all  sorts  of  mis- 

675 


676 


Self-Government  in  Public  Schools 


chief  have  been  elected  even  to  the  presi- 
dency of  self-government  committees.  On 
one  occasion  the  election  of  a  mischiev- 
ous boy  was  deliberately  plotted,  in  the 
hope  that  a  semester  of  lax  discipline 
would  follow.  What  did  follow  was  a 
term  of  the  most  severe  discipline  the 
school  had  known,  and  it  is  needless  to 
say  the  boy  was  not  reflected.  During 
his  term  of  office  the  boy  kept  out  of  all 
mischief,  and  knowing  the  ways  of  his 
kind  and  the  boys  who  were  likely  to  be 
implicated  in  any  wrongdoing,  he  could 
lay  finger  on  the  offender  every  time.  Al- 
ways he  dealt  punishment  with  justice, 
but  without  mercy;  and  when  he  went 
back  into  the  ranks  he  did  so  with  a 
somewhat  chastened  spirit. 

In  so  large  a  school,  every  sort  of  ques- 
tion of  discipline  arises.  There  is  steal- 
ing, there  is  selfishness  of  every  kind, 
there  is  bullying  and  browbeating  on  the 
part  of  older  and  stronger  boys,  and  the 
fear  of  force  and  influence  on  the  part  of 
the  weaker,  beside  all  the  petty  annoy- 
ances, from  note-scribbling  to  the  kick- 
ing of  tin  cans  down  the  aisle  during 
class.  As  homes  are  becoming  less  and 
less  homes  in  the  real  sense,  the  responsi- 
bility of  moulding  the  character  of  boys 
and  girls  is  being  more  and  more  shifted 
to  the  public  schools;  and  perhaps  at  no 
time  in  the  history  of  public  schools  has 
school  discipline  required  more  judg- 
ment, more  firmness,  or  more  tact,  than 
to-day.  And  the  habitual  optimist  may 
score  a  point  when,  instead  of  reverting 
to  the  pedagogic  principle  of  "No  lickin', 
no  lamin',"  there  is  put  in  practice  the 
democratic  dogma  of  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people. 

The  authority  of  these  self-government 
committees  does  not  stop  short  of  actual 
suspension,  although  in  taking  this  last 
step  the  principal  is  invariably  con- 
sulted. But  the  greatest  strength  of  self- 
government  work  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
offender  is  tried  before  a  jury  of  his  peers. 
It  is  not  some  unsympathetic,  middle- 
aged  person,  who  has  forgotten  he  was 
ever  young  and  lawless,  who  sits  in  judg- 


ment, but  a  roomful  of  the  offender's 
school-fellows  —  possibly  some  of  his  or 
her  best  friends.  And  the  question  that 
naturally  arises  is  whether  these  boys  and 
girls  are  big  enough  and  broad  enough  to 
lay  aside  all  prejudice  and  personal  feel- 
ing, and  deal  impartially  with  the  individ- 
ual. The  best  answer  is  a  report  of  a 
meeting  of  the  girls'  self-government 
committee  held  the  last  day  of  the  week 
before  the  close  of  school. 

A  girl  was  called  to  answer  for  contin- 
ued disorder  in  the  study  room,  and  the 
cutting  of  many  classes  during  the  week. 
A  note  to  some  boy,  afterward  hastily 
torn  and  thrown  on  the  floor,  was  the  clue 
that  led  to  the  discovery  that  the  girl  was 
in  mischief  in  the  study-room  when  she 
should  have  been  at  her  English  and 
mathematics.  It  was  a  roomful  of  her 
friends  that  she  had  to  face  when  the  pre- 
sident called  her  forward  to  answer  to 
the  charges.  She  had  been  many  times 
before  the  committee  for  disorder.  She 
was  guilty  now,  and  had  little  to  say  for 
herself.  She  was  sent  to  the  hall,  while 
another  offender  was  made  to  tell  why 
she  had  stolen  flowers  from  a  teacher's 
desk,  and  reminded  that  taking  even  so 
small  a  thing  as  a  flower  was  really  theft. 
She,  too,  was  guilty,  and  had  little  to  say 
for  herself  to  this  jury  of  her  fellows. 

When  both  had  been  sent  from  the 
room,  the  committee  discussed,  with  per- 
fect calmness,  the  two  cases.  The  chief 
offender  was  a  particular  favorite,  but  it 
was  pointed  out  that  her  behavior  had 
been  bad  for  a  long  time,  that  every  effort 
had  been  made  to  help  her,  but  that 
neither  the  counsel  of  friends  selected  to 
talk  with  her,  nor  lighter  punishments, 
had  had  any  effect.  It  had  been  deemed 
useless  to  leave  the  matter  to  her  parents, 
as  she  was  known  to  be  petted  and  spoiled 
at  home  and  left  entirely  to  her  own  will 
in  all  things.  At  last  it  was  decided  that 
since  she  had  shown  no  disposition  to 
yield  either  to  persuasion  or  punishment, 
she  should  be  allowed  to  remain  in  school 
on  but  one  condition  —  that  of  absolutely 
good  behavior. 


Self-Government  in  Public  Schools 


677 


She  was  then  recalled,  and  the  presi- 
dent, one  of  her  friends,  told  her,  gently 
but  earnestly,  that  her  offenses  were  so 
serious  as  to  merit  an  extreme  sentence. 
She  was  required  to  make  up  fifteen  hours 
in  study  during  the  final  days  of  school, 
and  would  return  the  next  term  with 
a  suspended  sentence  of  suspension  — 
which  means  that  each  week  she  must 
bring  to  the  committee  a  report  of  satis- 
factory work  from  her  teachers,  and  in 
the  event  of  being  once  more  reported  for 
disorder  or  unsatisfactory  work,  suspen- 
sion would  follow. 

The  girl  who  took  the  flowers  was  se- 
verely reprimanded,  and  was  given  six- 
teen hours  to  make  up  during  the  week 
when  the  air  was  full  of  the  excitement  of 
commencement  and  class  days.  These 
sentences  from  their  playmates  were 
harder  to  bear  than  a  reprimand  from  a 
teacher,  with  whom  the  pupil  is  not  asso- 
ciated in  a  social  way.  And  it  is  doubtful 
if  any  set  of  grown-ups  —  for  example,  a 
body  of  teachers  —  could  reach  a  higher 
plane  of  abstract  justice,  independent  of 
personal  feeling,  than  did  those  thirty  or 
forty  girls. 

Nor  does  self-government  have  a  ten- 
dency to  develop  prigs.  While  the  boys 
and  girls  maintain  a  considerable  dignity 
at  all  times  in  the  discharge  of  their  du- 
ties, at  other  times  they  are  just  boys  and 
girls  like  the  rest.  Under  stress  of  youth- 
ful spirit,  they  have  even  been  known  to 
forget  for  the  moment  that  as  goats  they 
were  in  any  wise  different  from  the  sheep. 
On  one  occasion  the  boys  of  the  school 
were  much  disturbed  by  the  appearance 
of  a  several- weeks-old  moustache  in  their 
midst.  The  wearer  of  it  was  repeatedly 
requested  to  shave  it,  but  he  always  re- 
fused. At  last  the  boys  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  half  of  the  offending  mous- 
tache was  shaved  off,  in  spite  of  the  own- 
er's protests.  The  shorn  one  lost  no  time 
in  bringing  his  father  to  the  principal. 
Now,  the  principal  had  been  a  boy  him- 
self, and  he  knew  the  offense  that  an- 
other boy's  moustache  can  give.  He  also 
knew  that  if  he  had  been  robbed  of  his 


first  moustache  he  would  never  have 
stopped  until  he  had  whipped  every  boy 
connected  with  the  robbing.  He  told  the 
boy  and  his  father  to  name  the  punish- 
ment for  the  others,  and  while  they,  thus 
disarmed,  went  home  to  decide  what  it 
should  be,  he  made  inquiry  as  to  the  au- 
thors of  the  mischief.  To  his  surprise,  he 
learned  that  almost  every  boy  was  a 
member  of  the  self-government  commit- 
tee. Even  when  he  called  them  together 
to  discuss  the  matter,  they  could  not  see 
that  they  had  done  wrong.  Nor,  down  in 
the  principal's  heart,  which  is  still  part 
boy's,  could  he.  But  since  the  boy,  whose 
dear  first  moustache  was  gone,  chose  to 
take  the  matter  seriously,  something  must 
be  done.  The  boys  offered  to  make  pub- 
lic apology.  The  shorn  one  refused  to 
hear  it.  Nor,  after  much  consideration, 
could  he  decide  that  the  world  contained 
any  solace  for  griefs  like  his,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  return  to  school  and  let  the  mat- 
ter pass.  But  the  boys,  realizing  that  they 
had  lowered  the  dignity  of  their  office,  re- 
signed in  a  body  from  the  self-government 
committee.  It  was  the  greatest  sacrifice 
they  could  make,  and  they  made  it  man- 
fully. But  the  vindication  of  their  fall 
from  grace,  and  the  appreciation  of  the 
stuff  they  were  made  of,  came  at  the  next 
election,  when  every  boy  was  reinstated, 
one  being  elected  to  the  presidency, 
which  he  filled  with  rare  tact  and  dig- 
nity. 

"The  self-government  system,"  says 
John  H.  Francis,  the  principal  of  this 
school  —  the  Los  Angeles  Polytechnic 
High  School  —  "is  more  difficult  than 
the  old  system  of  government  by  teach- 
ers. You  must  first  secure  the  belief  of 
the  pupils  that  the  committee  is  abso- 
lutely square,  and  it  is  difficult  to  make 
either  pupils  or  parents  believe  that  pu- 
pils can  rise  above  their  own  prejudices 
and  favoritism.  And  it  is  difficult  to  make 
parents  believe  pupils  have  sufficient 
judgment  to  pass  upon  questions  of  gov- 
ernment. 

"It  is  difficult  to  get  pupils  on  the  com- 
mittee who  have  the  personality  that  will 


678 


Self-Government  in  Public  Schools 


command  respect  and  obedience.  After 
you  get  them  you  must  stay  pretty  close 
to  them  to  see  that  they  do  rise  absolutely 
above  any  favoritism,  and  see  that  their 
judgment  is  at  least  fair;  and  after  that 
you  must  stand  back  of  what  they  do  in 
a  way  that  will  hold  both  the  committee 
and  the  rest  of  the  school,  and  keep  par- 
ents satisfied.  If  the  committee  failed, 
that  would  discourage  its  members.  If 
the  parents  felt  everything  was  left  to  the 
committee,  they  would  criticise.  It  de- 
volves upon  the  teacher  or  principal  to 
maintain  a  proper  balance. 

"But  self-government  is  the  best  solu- 
tion of  the  question  of  school  discipline. 
With  self-government  introduced  into  the 
sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth  grades,  these 
higher  grades  could  control  the  whole 
school.  Pupils  should  be  made  to  feel 
that  they  are  the  citizens  of  the  schools, 
that  the  efficiency  and  the  reputation  of 
their  schools  are  for  them  as  much  as  for 
their  teachers.  The  public  school  is  the 
place  to  develop  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  citizenship,  and  it  is  not  doing 
what  it  should  along  this  line.  If  teach- 
ers and  principals  had  the  right  kind  of 
ideals  they  could  revolutionize  the  social 
world. 

"Self-government  gives  the  student  a 
responsibility  that  is  strengthening.  Pu- 
pils inclined  to  be  trashy  and  irresponsi- 
ble have  entered  upon  the  work  of  the 
committee  with  a  seriousness  that  was 


the  first  indication  of  real  character. 
Among  the  better  class  of  students,  it  has 
developed  a  manliness  and  personality 
in  the  boys,  and  tact  and  dignity  in  the 
girls  that  are  little  short  of  miraculous. 
The  experience  and  the  knowledge  of 
human  nature  which  they  derive  from  it 
are  an  invaluable  asset  in  their  equipment 
for  life." 

The  success  of  the  self-government  sys- 
tem in  this,  the  largest  high  school  on  the 
Pacific  coast,  has  aroused  interest  among 
educators  throughout  the  country.  The 
example  has  been  followed  by  another 
high  school  in  Los  Angeles,  and  the  same 
principle  is  being  applied  to  a  rather  more 
limited  extent  in  the  Central  High  and 
Central  Manual  Training  High  Schools 
of  Philadelphia,  and  one  St.  Louis  school. 
Not  since  the  birch  switch  and  hickory 
rod  were  relegated  to  the  limbo  of  un- 
utterable barbarities  has  anything  come 
so  near  a  solution  of  the  vexed  question  of 
school  discipline.  And  while  the  best  re- 
sults of  the  self-government  system  will 
always  be  obtained  in  schools  where  the 
principal  or  teacher  back  of  the  student 
committees  is  of  the  sort  that  could  read- 
ily enforce  law  and  order  by  the  strength 
of  his  personality,  in  any  circumstances  its 
effectiveness  would  probably  equal  that 
of  other  means,  and  the  by-product  of 
experience  is  a  clear  gain  to  the  students 
who  have  an  active  part  in  the  self-gov- 
ernment work. 


AUTOMOBILE   SELFISHNESS 


BY   SETH   K.   HUMPHREY 


I  HAVE  a  locomotive,  built  of  steel, 
which  I  run  upon  the  public  highways 
wherever  I  please.  I  have  been  running 
it  for  six  years.  My  locomotive  is  of 
only  twenty-five  horse-power,  and  weighs 
little  more  than  a  ton;  thirty  miles  an 
hour  is  a  fast  pace  for  it,  and  I  try  hard 
to  keep  it  down  to  twenty,  —  to  fifteen, 
or,  on  a  pinch,  ten,  where  the  legal  pace 
is  twelve,  or  eight,  —  and  I  '11  have  you 
know  that  I  pass  for  an  unusually  careful 
driver  by  virtue  of  this  fine  observance  of 
law  and  the  rights  of  the  ninety  per  cent 
who  cannot  indulge  in  private  locomo- 
tives. Really,  mine  is  a  very  modest 
equipment  in  size,  power,  and  speed. 
Forty  horse-power  is  just  past  the  ple- 
beian, among  road  locomotives.  Nothing 
less  than  a  sixty-horse,  twice  as  heavy  as 
my  little  car,  costing  as  much  as  a  church, 
and  guaranteed  to  do  a  mile  a  minute 
without  turning  a  hair,  takes  patrician 
rank;  and  who  could  expect  a  road- 
engine  so  magnificent  to  hold  itself  down 
to  a  paltry  twenty  miles  —  especially 
when  no  spotter  is  looking?  None,  cer- 
tainly, except  the  undisciplined  among 
those  who  are  not  in  the  sport. 

Dear  me!  how  we  have  pulled  away 
from  the  old  days  when  the  gay  four-in- 
hand,  prancing  up  the  street  at  nine 
miles  an  hour,  sent  the  pedestrian  scurry- 
ing to  the  curb,  there  to  gaze  at  the  dizzy 
toy,  —  with  envy,  perhaps,  if  socially  am- 
bitious beyond  his  purse  (bother  the  dolt 
for  living  in  a  slow  age  —  he  could  have 
indulged  by  mortgaging  his  house  and 
standing  off  the  grocer) ;  or,  if  of  bucolic 
turn,  with  an  undefined  sense  that  his 
peaceful  and  necessary  use  of  the  com- 
mon highway  had  been  wantonly  dis- 
turbed by  a  display  beyond  his  attain- 
ment, interest,  and  appreciation.  But 
had  he  only  known  what  was  coming 


upon  him  and  his  kind  within  a  few  short 
years! 

We  certainly  have  progressed  —  if  the 
utterly  changed  relation  of  the  people  to 
their  highways  may  be  called  progress. 
What  is  a  highway  ?  A  public  thorough- 
fare, divided  for  convenience  into  parallel 
spaces  for  vehicles  and  pedestrians,  ex- 
cept that,  at  every  crossing,  vehicle  and 
pedestrian  come  upon  common  ground. 
And  there's  the  rub.  Are  the  fortunate 
few  in  high-speed  steel  locomotives  fit 
companions  to  share  this  common 
ground  with  the  rest  of  humanity  afoot  ? 

The  automobile  principle  —  the  sub- 
stitution of  machine  power  for  horse- 
power upon  the  highways  —  stands  for 
a  distinct  advance  in  transportation 
methods.  But  the  development  of  this 
principle  has  been  abnormal.  Instead  of 
producing  a  machine  which  shall  lighten 
the  burdens  of  both  man  and  horse  and 
serve  the  bulk  of  mankind,  without  seri- 
ously disturbing  the  rights  of  any,  ninety- 
seven  per  cent  of  automobile  effort  has 
been  upon  an  expensive  speed-wagon  for 
the  well-to-do.  There  are  two  essentials 
in  automobiling  as  now  developed:  first, 
a  speed  comparable  with  that  of  trolley 
and  steam-cars,  —  the  ability  to  cover  dis- 
tances by  road  never  dreamed  of  with 
the  horse;  and  second,  the  right  of  way 
upon  the  common  highways,  —  a  luxury 
which  forces  upon  the  real  owners  of 
the  highway,  the  public,  a  serious  cur- 
tailment of  its  privileges,  with  absolutely 
no  compensating  feature.  The  automo- 
bile of  to-day  is  not  a  substitute  for  the 
horse;  it  is  a  substitute  de  luxe  for  the 
trolley  and  the  steam-cars.  The  automo- 
bilist  pays  for  his  speed;  his  right  of  way 
he  takes  without  price  from  a  public  that 
has  never  been  able  to  give  definition  to 
its  vague  but  deep-seated  protest. 

679 


680 


Automobile  Selfishness 


This  condition  has  come  upon  us  grad- 
ually, but  a  given  condition  is  precisely 
the  same  in  its  relation  to  the  human 
family,  whether  brought  about  by  slow 
or  sudden  process.  Our  view  of  a  condi- 
tion is,  however,  marvelously  affected  by 
the  rate  of  change.  The  human  mind  is 
not  sensitive  to  long-distance  compari- 
sons; the  old  picture  grows  dim  as  the 
new  one  comes  on,  —  and  luckily,  too, 
else  we  would  all  die  of  our  emotions 
when  contemplating  the  changes  which 
long  years  so  stealthily  bring  upon  us. 
This  argues  that,  by  the  gentleness  of 
its  approach,  the  new  condition  upon 
the  highways  may  have  caught  napping 
some  most  sacred  notions  concerning 
popular  rights,  —  possibly  liberties,  — 
for  to-day  the  dear  people  certainly  do 
their  "pursuit  of  happiness"  looking 
fearfully  sidewise.  Our  poor,  unretent- 
ive  minds  can  be  made  to  comprehend 
the  great  change  of  the  past  ten  years 
only  by  resort  to  this  artifice:  eliminate, 
in  imagination,  the  intervening  time,  but 
leave  the  skeleton  of  facts  to  come  upon 
us  in  a  night,  —  bring  ten  years  ago 
down  to  to-day,  and  awake  to-morrow 
into  our  own  to-day. 

So,  suppose,  to-day,  children  on  their 
way  to  school,  tossing  balls,  and  racing 
about  oblivious  of  crossings  and  curves; 
their  elders  walking  the  highway  in  city 
and  country,  without  fear  in  their  hearts, 
but  all  yielding  cheerfully  to  their  own 
best  friend,  the  trolley-car,  space  clearly 
marked  by  two  steel  bands  upon  a  com- 
paratively few  highways;  "sharp  turn  in 
the  road"  meaningless  to  them,  "con- 
cealed corner  "  not  yet  invented.  Then 
suppose,  to-day,  the  appearance  through- 
out the  country  of  a  proclamation  some- 
thing like  this :  — 

"Dear  People:  This  is  to  announce 
that  we,  representing  nearly  ten  per  cent 
of  all  the  people,  have  at  much  expense 
possessed  ourselves  of  road-locomotives 
of  high  power  and  speed,  which,  begin- 
ning to-morrow,  we  shall  run  in  great 
numbers  upon  all  the  highways,  as  our 
private  pleasure  vehicles.  The  advent  of 


these  swift  machines  will,  obviously,  ne- 
cessitate radical  changes  in  your  use  of 
the  highways ;  hence,  this  friendly  note  of 
warning.  Use  the  roadways  as  little  as 
possible,  and  then  with  circumspection. 
Instruct  your  children  in  this  new  danger 
that  will  attend  them  at  every  turn ;  cau- 
tion them  against  such  earnestness  in 
play  as  will  for  a  moment  put  them  off 
their  eternal  guard.  Instill  in  their  young 
minds  an  abiding  fear  of  the  common 
highway.  And  you,  elders,  approach 
every  street-crossing  with  your  thought 
upon  our  road-engines.  Look  both  ways : 
if  the  road  is  clear,  proceed,  but  take  no 
chances.  When  in  doubt,  wait  on  the 
curb.  Many  unfortunate  accidents  are 
bound  to  result  from  your  inexperience, 
but  time  will,  we  hope,  eventually  reduce 
the  casualties  to  the  class  known  as  *  un- 
avoidable.' Remember,  all  of  you,  that 
the  price  of  safety  is  eternal  vigilance,  — 
and  nothing  induces  more  faithful  vigil 
than  a  chronic  sense  of  danger." 

Now  let  the  imagination  run  over  into 
that  promised  "to-morrow."  Would 
these  machines  have  started  ?  Of  course 
not.  But  they  are  all  running  to-day. 
And  is  there  one  admonition  in  this  pro- 
clamation to  which  the  non-automobiling 
public  has  not,  by  slow  degrees,  bent  its 
patient  neck  ? 

That  automobilists  are  killed  in  auto- 
mobile accidents  argues  little  against  the 
sport.  Participants  in  any  sport  expect 
casualties.  Yachtsmen  are  sometimes 
drowned;  men  and  women  on  the  links 
have  been  struck  down  by  golf-balls ;  in- 
deed, people  have  tripped  over  croquet 
wickets  and  broken  their  necks ;  and  it  is 
recorded  that  one  old  lady,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  bridge  whist,  swallowed  her 
dainty  scoring  pencil  with  fatal  result. 
Please  observe,  however,  that  all  these 
people  die  at  their  own  games.  The  gen- 
eral public  is  non-participant ;  its  attitude 
toward  their  misfortunes  is  one  of  in- 
different pity.  But  if  yachtsmen  habitu- 
ally ran  down  fishing-smacks,  or  light- 
ships, or  coal  barges,  the  public  would 
rise  up  against  yachting.  A  golf-ball 


Automobile  Selfishness 


681 


might  stray  from  the  links  and  kill  a 
meditative  passer-by  once,  but  not  twice, 
without  provoking  a  stern  demand  for  a 
re-laying  of  that  particular  golf  course. 
Yet  so  insidiously  has  the  sport  of 
automobiling  crept  in  upon  the  public 
consciousness  that  the  frequent  killing  of 
non-participants  serves  only  to  spur  the 
surviving  non-participants  to  greater  de- 
grees of  caution.  Even  in  the  realm  of 
commerce  a  dangerous  business  is  sternly 
compelled  to  limit  its  casualties  to  par- 
ticipants. A  powder  mill  may  blow  up 
with  all  its  employees,  get  a  paragraph  in 
the  papers,  and  rebuild;  but  if  some  of 
its  fragments  do  damage  in  a  neighboring 
village,  there's  a  great  hue  and  cry,  and 
that  powder  mill  must  rebuild  farther 
away.  Such  is  the  public  temper  as  to 
the  rights  of  non-participants,  toward 
every  sport  and  business  except  the  sport  of 
automobiling.  The  introduction  into  pub- 
lic parks  of  an  expensive  sport  for  the 
few,  dangerous  to  all,  would  be  instantly 
suppressed  by  law  and  public  sentiment, 
—  while  the  common  highway  is  freely 
used  for  an  exclusive  sport  which,  in  its 
present  uncontrolled  state,  will  continue 
to  furnish  its  list  of  "  unavoidable  "  casu- 
alties so  long  as  men  and  women  are 
prone  to  forget,  and  children  are  pos- 
sessed of  immature  judgment. 

But  even  these  "  unavoidable  "  acci- 
dents are  incidental.  The  sense  of  inse- 
curity which  they  create,  the  apprehens- 
ive craning  of  necks  up  and  down  the 
highway,  the  new  vigil  that  has  become  a 
part  of  daily  life,  —  these  constitute  the 
main  burden  that  the  automobile  has  put 
upon  every  man,  woman,  and  child  who 
use  the  streets.  The  quiet  delights  of  the 
country  road,  with  horse  or  wheel,  have 
been  killed  by  the  fiends  who  "  open  her 
up  wide  in  the  country,  —  nobody  there, 
you  know."  The  absurdity  of  it  is  that 
the  non-participating  public  has  meekly 
set  itself  to  the  study  of  ways  and  means 
to  avoid  being  killed,  instead  of  branding 
the  sport  as  an  impossibility  in  the  light 
of  all  precedent.  It  is  natural  that  all 
should  use  ordinary  precaution  to  avoid 


collision  with  the  traffic  which  serves  all, 
—  horses,  trolleys,  fire-engines,  and  even 
engine-propelled  vehicles  in  the  general 
service;  but  one  will  search  in  vain  for  a 
reason  why  ninety  per  cent  of  the  people 
should  be  put  upon  their  everlasting 
guard  against  a  luxurious  pastime  in 
which  they  cannot  participate. 

How  has  this  anomalous  condition 
come  about?  Luckily  for  automobilists, 
the  trolley  preceded  them  upon  the  high- 
way; and  so  gradual  was  the  advent  of 
automobiles  that  the  unthinking  public 
failed  to  distinguish  the  difference  be- 
tween making  due  allowance  for  its  own 
necessary  carriers  upon  a  few  principal 
roads,  and  dodging  the  unnecessary  car- 
riers of  the  few  upon  every  road  in  the 
land.  Then,  too,  the  automobile  first 
came  in  vogue  in  Europe,  where  every- 
day people  are  trained  to  regard  the  over- 
riding pleasures  of  their  betters  with 
more  or  less  fortitude.  Its  acceptance 
there  unquestionably  gave  it  entree  here 
subject  to  less  careful  scrutiny  than  it 
otherwise  would  have  had  to  meet.  In 
these  two  respects  the  preparation  of  the 
public  mind  has  been  on  psychological 
rather  than  on  logical  lines. 

In  this  manner  automobiling  has  devel- 
oped, with  speed  as  its  prime  requisite, 
and  speed  as  its  most  objectionable  feat- 
ure. What  is  the  public  going  to  do 
about  it  ?  Let  custom  slowly  dissolve  the 
memory  of  a  once  pleasanter  relation 
with  the  highways?  But  mere  custom 
should  not  be  allowed  to  obscure  the  fun- 
damental principle  that  the  few  shall  not 
infringe  upon  the  rights  of  the  many.  It 
is  now  the  public's  duty  to  revert  to  first 
principles,  and  adjust  automobiling  to 
the  miscellaneous  traffic  upon  the  road- 
ways, regardless  of  the  unwarranted 
privileges  which  custom  has  seemingly 
granted. 

Express  trains  run  sixty  miles  an  hour, 
on  tracks  from  which  other  forms  of 
traffic  are  rigidly  excluded;  experience 
has  determined  that  twenty-five  miles  is 
the  limit  of  safety  for  trolley  cars,  upon 
their  well-defined  portion  of  the  highway. 


682 


Automobile  Selfishness 


Based  on  these  premises,  fifteen  miles  an 
hour  is  not  an  unreasonably  low  maxi- 
mum speed  for  any  vehicle,  public  or 
private,  which  runs  an  unmarked  course 
upon  the  roadway  itself;  a  generous  pub- 
lic might  allow  eighteen  miles.  In  cities 
and  towns,  ten  miles  an  hour  is  an  equally 
liberal  speed  limit. 

One  can  almost  hear  the  wail  of  the 
automobilists  that  these  limits  are  much 
below  the  requirements  of  safety.  They 
are,  as  safety  upon  the  highway  is  now 
reckoned.  The  present  factors  of  safety 
are  agility,  eternal  vigilance,  and  good 
judgment;  the  automobile  accidents  due 
to  youth,  old  age,  and  sudden  confusion, 
are  mourned  as  "  unavoidable."  But 
the  public  cannot  recover  its  pleasurable 
use  of  the  highways,  and  its  peace  of 
mind,  until  these  "  unavoidable  "  acci- 
dents cease  to  occur;  and  the  speed  limits 
at  which  these  will  cease  to  occur  are  far 
below  the  speed  limits  required  by  the 
present  loose  notions  of  "  safety."  "  But, 
in  the  country"  they  cry,  "  in  the  coun- 
try the  roads  are  used  hardly  at  all !  " 
Quite  true.  The  impending  prospect  of  a 
machine  coming  at  the  rate  of  thirty  or 
forty  miles  an  hour,  though  it  comes  but 
once  a  day,  will  keep  a  winding  country 
road  clear  of  all  whom  necessity  does  not 
compel  to  travel  upon  it.  The  country 
places,  both  here  and  abroad,  have  suf- 
fered from  -the  speeding  automobile 
vastly  more  than  the  cities.  Cowper 
wrote,  "  God  made  the  country,  and  man 
made  the  town,"  in  ignorance  of  the  auto- 
mobile's most  unpleasant  habit. 

How  shall  these  limits  be  enforced? 
Ordinances  are  unavailing;  police-traps 
serve  to  check  automobile  speeds  over 
the  traps,  and  increase  speeds  outside 
the  traps.  Laws,  moral  suasion,  threats, 
and  penalties,  are  all  wasted  attempts  to 
regulate  the  average  automobilist.  Now, 
why  not  try  a  mechanically  sure  way, 
—  regulate  his  machine  by  an  auto- 
matic attachment,  sealed  and  beyond  his 
control  ?  Such  a  device  should  have  two 
functions,  to  cover  the  requirements  of 
country  and  city,  respectively :  — 


First,  arrange  that  at  a  speed  of 
eighteen  miles  an  hour  it  shall  automat- 
ically shut  off  the  source  of  power;  this 
would  effectively  enforce  the  maximum 
speed  limit. 

Second,  arrange  that  at  a  speed  of  ten 
miles  —  or  at  any  other  rate  of  speed  de- 
termined upon  by  town  or  city  author- 
ities —  it  shall  automatically  display 
colored  signals  on  both  sides  of  the  car, 
in  full  view  of  passers-by;  and  make  the 
display  of  these  signals  a  misdemeanor 
within  the  prescribed  districts.  This  de- 
vice would  bring  the  offending  automo- 
bilists as  fully  under  the  public  eye  as 
are  any  other  disturbers  of  the  peace  on 
the  streets,  and  render  them  as  easily 
subject  to  complaint  and  conviction. 

Under  this  rigid  control,  what  would 
happen  to  automobiling  ?  Those  individ- 
uals who  must  get  over  the  country  at 
high  speed  would  be  relegated  to  the 
guarded  routes  of  travel  from  which  they 
should  never  have  been  allowed  to  escape, 
—  and  the  pleasure  of  those  who  wish  to 
tour  in  orderly  fashion  would  be  corre- 
spondingly enhanced;  cars  of  rational 
power  and  cost  would  multiply,  and  be 
run  by  rational  people;  automobiling 
would  be  killed  as  a  frenzied  sport,  and 
rejuvenated  as  a  healthful  pastime. 
More  than  all  this,  every  one  using  the 
roadways  would  know  for  a  certainty 
that  nowhere  could  an  automobile  bear 
down  upon  him  at  more  than  twice  the 
speed  of  a  brisk  horse-trot;  and  if  on 
the  city  streets  he  were  to  submit  to  the 
impositions  of  automatically  proclaimed 
law-breakers,  the  fault  would  be  all  his 
own. 

Drastic  measures,  you  say  ?  Not  at  all. 
In  naming  conditions  the  public  is  not 
asking  a  favor,  —  it  is  granting  a  conces- 
sion to  a  comparatively  few  individuals. 
These  individuals  could  not  have  made 
as  good  a  bargain  with  the  public  ten 
years  ago,  had  the  possibilities  of  the 
automobile  been  foreseen;  and  it  would 
be  absurd  to  claim  that  the  public's  rights 
in  the  highway  have  been  diminished  by 
its  tardiness  in  asserting  them. 


CASTRO'S   COUNTRY 


BY   HENRY   SEIDEL   CANBY 


I  HAVE  often  heard  my  best  friend  in 
Caracas  say  that  Venezuela  was  a  coun- 
try of  contrasts.  My  own  experience  in 
that  fascinating  dictatorship  was  not  of 
great  duration.  I  did  not  even  belong  to 
that  class  of  tourists  for  scientific  pur- 
poses which  Dr.  Paul,  in  his  recent  com- 
munication to  our  government,  maintains 
has  been  treated  with  such  consideration. 
We  went,  in  fact,  in  search  of  a  summer's 
recreation.  Our  friends  called  it  mere 
midsummer  madness  to  visit  the  tropics 
at  that  season.  But  we  entered  the  re- 
public at  so  interesting  a  climax  of  its 
troublous  affairs,  and  we  were  fortunate 
onlookers  upon  so  much  that  even  the 
scientific  tourist  must  usually  miss,  that, 
ever  since,  the  Caraquenians  and  Castro 
have  seemed  personal  and  intimate.  We 
left  with  the  impression,  not  since  altered, 
that  Venezuela's  proper  epithet  is  the  land 
of  extremes. 

La  Ghtayra  and  the  Army  of  the 
Restoration 

Even  if  one  neglects  the  way-station 
island  of  Cura9ao,  a  tropical  Holland 
which  exhausts  one's  adjectives,  the  ex- 
tremes begin  before  foot  is  set  on  Vene- 
zuelan soil.  The  northern  shore  of  South 
America  is  a  vast  rampart  flung  off  from 
the  Andes,  and  walling  Caracas  from  the 
foreigner  with  bills  and  battleships  by 
six  thousand  feet  of  mountain  barrier. 
Charles  Kingsley,  in  Westward  Ho,  did 
justice  to  its  magnificence,  but  he  wrote 
from  pictures  of  the  inner  eye.  The 
advertising  folders  of  the  Red  D  line  de- 
scribe it,  too,  if  I  remember  rightly,  but 
in  language  no  warmer  than  is  used  to 
paint  the  ordinary  "Switzerland  of  Amer- 
ica." Consequently,  when,  in  the  dark 
before  dawn,  I  stepped  on  deck  to  the 
swing  of  an  off-shore  ground  swell,  and 


saw  a  black  and  impenetrable  cloud-mass 
looming  high  above  us  in  the  southern 
heavens,  mountains  so  vast  as  to  reach 
half-way  to  the  zenith  seemed  the  last  of 
probable  explanations. 

Dawn  comes  quickly  at  8°.  A  faint 
gray  stole  through  the  east.  Suddenly 
lines  of  fire,  dim,  then  brighter,  began  to 
trace  out  buttresses,  peaks,  the  curves 
of  gigantic  slopes,  cliffs  that  shone  rosily 
far  above  in  the  dawn,  and  lost  them- 
selves in  the  clouds.  The  eye  traveled 
upward  through  mountain  vapors,  and 
saw  above  them  clear  starlight,  and 
vast,  ominous,  impending,  a  great  peak, 
still  based  in  the  clouds,  still  in  the 
night,  while,  moment  by  moment,  the 
underworld  was  dressing  itself  in  all  the 
colors  of  a  tropic  day.  I  hurried  to  my 
stateroom  to  pull  Giovanni  from  his 
berth.  When  we  returned  a  minute  later, 
the  ship  was  swinging  in  a  sapphire  sea 
at  the  foot  of  what  seemed  the  wall  of 
the  world. 

La  Guayra  clung  in  squalid  ranks 
to  the  scratched  red  of  the  first  slope  of 
the  Andes,  and  the  old  gray  peak  of  La 
Silla,  a  mile  and  a  half  above,  streamed 
the  tiniest  wisp  of  cloud,  a  white  pen- 
nant in  a  spotless  heaven. 

Of  La  Guayra,  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain wall,  one  hesitates  to  write.  The 
name  appears  so  frequently  in  the  news- 
papers that  much  may  be  expected  of  its 
describer.  And  yet,  ordinarily,  there  is 
very  little  to  describe.  The  tourists  who 
stop  off  there  for  a  day  or  so  on  their 
palatial  winter  cruises  must  bear  away  a 
disappointing  impression  of  South  Amer- 
ica. They  can  bear  away  little  more  (al- 
ways excepting  the  Andes)  than  the  long 
unkempt  mole  with  tramp  steamers  and 
smuggling  schooners  under  its  wing,  nar- 
row, cobbled  streets,  full  of  a  population 

683 


684 


C astro9 s  Country 


that  one  remembers  as  white-clad,  dusky- 
faced,  and  sour  in  expression,  streets 
made  picturesque  by  the  burros  who  pace 
softly  beneath  their  enormous  loads,  each 
following  his  brother's  tail,  and  the  fore- 
most led  by  a  pensive  Indian  youth  with 
shy  eyes  and  furtive  tread.  That,  I  think, 
is  all  they  could  carry  from  La  Guayra, 
except  the  smells,  which  are  best  left 
where  they  are. 

But  this  August  day  when  we  entered 
the  harbor  was,  by  the  merest  chance,  the 
day  after  the  arrival  of  Castro's  army 
from  the  Orinoco,  where,  under  the  il- 
lustrious Gomez,  they  had  some  weeks 
before  totally  defeated  the  revolutionary, 
Matos,  in  a  bloody  engagement,  in  which 
some  fifteen  hundred  lives  had  been  lost 
and  Castro's  dictatorship  in  Venezuela 
made  secure.  Our  first  intimation  of  the 
excitement  came  before  we  had  reached 
the  aforesaid  cobbled  streets.  As  we  sat 
on  deck  a  drum  struck  up  on  shore  in  the 
savage  rhythm  they  use  in  the  Venezuelan 
army,  a  loud  beat,  then  a  whirring  rattle. 
On  the  beach  we  saw  an  almost  endless 
line  in  single  file  winding  along  the  water- 
front and  up,  through  the  blazing,  intol- 
erable heat,  for  La  Guayra  is  a  furnace, 
up  the  corkscrew  road  to  Caracas  over 
the  mountains.  Every  hundredth  man, 
or  thereabouts,  in  the  thin,  white  line  car- 
ried a  yellow  banner,  and  the  sun  flashed 
in  diamond  points  from  their  guns.  It 
was  the  Army  of  the  Restoration,  as  the 
newspapers  called  it  for  the  next  weeks. 
A  crueler  sight  was  seldom  to  be  seen. 
No  northerner,  no  white  man,  could  have 
marched  over  those  mountains  in  the 
intolerable  white,  wet  heat  of  noon,  and 
lived.  The  officers  (who,  however, 
seemed  all  to  be  black)  rode  up  with  us 
that  afternoon  in  a  first-class  compart- 
ment! 

We  sauntered  up  the  shady  side  of  a 
noisy  street,  with  a  toothless,  jet-black 
Trinidad  negro  for  guide,  until  we  turned 
into  a  delicious  open  square  shaded  with 
heavy  trees  garnished  with  orchids,  and 
there  found  the  rest  of  the  army.  Up  to 
that  instant,  and  although  we  knew  how 


serious  had  been  the  struggle  on  the  Ori- 
noco, we  had  spoken  of  the  revolution 
in  the  jesting  tone  familiar  to  American 
comic  papers.  But  never  again!  As  I 
remember,  there  were  some  hundreds  of 
men  and  many  women  stretched  out  in 
this  little  park.  All  the  men  were  ill,  most 
were  wounded.  Fine  bronzed  peons,  with 
horrible,  festering  holes  in  legs  or  arms, 
unbandaged,  often,  I  fear,  untreated; 
skeletons,  yellower  than  nature  and  shak- 
ing with  fever;  every  form  of  sickness, 
wound,  and  misery  was  in  that  mock  hos- 
pital. A  veteran,  perhaps,  would  have 
looked  pityingly  and  passed  on,  but  to  us, 
softlings  of  a  long  peace,  it  was  the  first 
realization  of  war.  I  shall  not  forget  one 
gigantic  half-breed  Indian,  his  head  on 
the  breast  of  a  young  and  really  beautiful 
Indian  girl,  his  useless  leg  writhing  on  the 
grass ;  and  still  less  a  poor  devil  stretched 
on  the  hot,  hard  pavement  (for  the  misery 
was  not  all  in  the  park),  covered  with  a 
poncho,  and  breathing  his  last  of  fever. 

An  hour  later,  and  three  miles  away,  we 
stopped  by  a  full  military  band  playing 
briskly  on  the  sidewalk  of  the  little  resort 
of  Maciuto,  and,  looking  through  iron 
pickets,  saw  a  breakfast  party  beneath  a 
tree  which  shaded  the  table  with  an  um- 
brella of  blossoming  vines.  Castro,  the 
little  general,  was  there,  sipping  cham- 
pagne and  toying  with  pates,  so  they  told 
us  at  the  gate.  The  contrast  was  painful ! 

Cipriano  Castro 

It  was  in  Maciuto  that  we  first  met 
Castro  face  to  face.  The  village  is  a  little 
winter  resort  near  La  Guayra,  embow- 
ered in  impossibly  luxuriant  foliage  and 
tucked  upon  a  beach  under  the  moun- 
tains. It  was  gay  once,  but  was  hard  hit 
by  the  revolution.  Our  Caracas  friend, 
the  general's  daughter,  told  us  that  bul- 
lets kept  zipping  across  the  plaza  at  their 
last  wintering  there  and  made  the  stay 
over-exciting.  But  the  Venezuelans  take 
such  accompaniments  of  war  very  lightly. 
It  was  this  same  senorita  who,  returning 
with  her  brother  from  the  opera  to  her 
home  upon  the  outskirts  of  Caracas,  al- 


Castro's  Country 


685 


most  trod  upon  three  armed  men  hiding 
beside  a  path.  "Hush!  Can't  you  see 
that  we  are  an  ambush!"  whispered  one 
of  them.  Probably  it  is  Castro's  partiality 
for  La  Victoria,  where  one  can  dance  la 
danza  all  night,  take  one's  shoes  off,  and 
enjoy  liberties  forbidden  by  the  formali- 
ties of  the  seacoast,  that  has  most  injured 
Maciuto.  But  on  that  morning  Castro 
was  there.  He  came  over  to  the  baths 
where  we  were  drying  off  in  the  shade 
after  a  plunge  inside  the  coral  reefs.  A 
dozen  notabilities  trailed  after  him,  but  so 
little  did  I  suspect  the  yellow  little  man, 
in  his  gray  frock-coat,  of  greatness,  that 
it  was  only  his  preoccupation  with  the 
white  skin  of  Giovanni  that  checked  a 
request  for  a  match. 

He  was  one  of  the  yellowest  men  I 
have  ever  seen,  a  color  due  to  a  tinctur- 
ing of  negro,  or  of  Indian  blood,  or  both. 
He  reminds  you  of  certain  Balkan  nobles, 
whose  carefully  correct  dress  only  half 
conceals  the  barbarian.  For  Castro  is  im- 
maculate, and,  at  the  same  time,  if  you 
can  trust  the  eye,  savage.  It  is  this  com- 
bination of  traits  which  explains  much  of 
his  diplomacy.  We  never  met  him,  al- 
though his  inspection  that  day  at  the 
baths  of  the  two  musios  who  had  come  to 
his  country  in  August  was  long  enough  to 
constitute  an  introduction.  Our  friends 
were  all  godos,  that  is  conservatives,  and 
in  Caracas  the  godos,  who  are  the  older, 
and  the  more  cultivated,  families,  do  not 
know  the  "government"  socially.  Un- 
fortunately their  relationship  politically 
and  financially  often  has  to  be  a  close  one. 
So  we  never  met  Castro,  and  our  friends 
refused  even  to  take  us  to  Miraflores  — 
that  beautiful  villa  built  of  loot,  stolen 
from  one  looter  by  another,  and  now  the 
dictator's  residence  in  Caracas  — for  fear 
of  social  complications.  But  we  saw  him 
many  times,  and  heard  whispered  anec- 
dotes so  many  and  so  racy  that  a  special 
article  would  hardly  contain  them.  One 
view  of  the  general  was  when,  beneath 
festoons  of  colored  paper  and  canvas  le- 
gends in  pompous  Spanish  announcing 
Hail  to  the  Restorer,  he  drove  through 


very  lukewarm  crowds  into  his  capital, 
beside  him  Gomez,  the  real  fighter  of  the 
last  war,  black  —  well,  dark  brown,  but  a 
perfect  Nubian  warrior  in  spite  of  his 
frock-coat.  An  hour  later  (this  was  upon 
the  day  the  army  arrived  in  Caracas),  we 
drifted  in  the  wake  of  a  crowd  into  the 
sola  of  a  great  house,  and  f oiind  ourselves 
in  the  presence  of  Gomez,  a  very  much 
bored  Gomez,  standing  straight  as  a  royal 
palm  while  a  local  poet  read  to  him  an 
interminable  ode!  Castro,  perhaps,  they 
were  hailing  otherwhere. 

Once  again  we  saw  both  chiefs  in  a 
notable  fashion,  but  the  vice-president 
must  fade  from  our  narrative  as  he  has 
from  the  administration,  although  I  sus- 
pect that  he  will  be  heard  from  if  the 
Dutch  really  mean  business  at  Cura9ao, 
and  probably  not  on  Castro's  side. 
This  last  time  was  at  a  remarkable 
social  gathering.  It  was  called  a  "pic- 
nic," and  the  engraved  card  of  my  invita- 
tion so  announces  it.  Really  it  was  what 
we  should  call  a  garden  party.  The  host 
was  the  Bank  of  Venezuela,  the  financial 
backbone  of  Venezuela,  which  somehow 
has  outlived  revolutions  and  kept  the 
country  on  a  gold  standard ;  an  institution 
run  by  the  godos,  and  indicative  of  what 
some  Venezuelans  could  do  if  they  had  a 
real  government,  say  a  despotism,  with  a 
man  who  would  not  loot  at  the  head. 

The  occasion  politically  was  most  im- 
portant. Castro  had  conquered  Matos,  a 
godo,  and  a  very  rich  one.  Castro  was  on 
*  top,  and  was  probably  going  to  stay  there. 
The  godos,  as  nearly  as  we  could  judge  the 
situation,  had  wisely  decided  to  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  hence  the  picnic,  in  which 
society  with  a  good  grace  congratulated 
Castro  on  beating  one  of  their  own  mem- 
bers. The  papers,  and  indeed  the  people, 
talked  about  little  else  for  weeks.  But  for 
an  outsider  its  social  aspects  were  more 
interesting  than  its  political.  Cultivated 
people,  after  all,  are  much  alike  the  world 
over;  and  at  the  balls,  teas,  and  dinners 
to  which  our  Venezuelan  hosts  had  taken 
us  in  these  gay  weeks,  the  Caraqueuians 
we  had  met  were  like  charming  folk  every- 


686 


Castro's  Country 


where,  although  with  delightful  idiosyn- 
crasies. But  at  the  picnic  "the  govern- 
ment" was  also  present.  I  have  already 
hinted  that  in  Venezuela,  or  at  least  in 
Caracas,  a  tendency,  which  has  been  evi- 
dent in  our  own  country,  has  gone  so  far 
that  there  are  two  distinct  social  castes 
above  the  mob,  —  "society,"  and  those 
who  enter  politics.  Now,  much  of  Cas- 
tro's "government"  had  but  recently 
arrived  from  the  state  of  Los  Andes, 
his  birthplace,  which  is  about  as  far  in 
point  of  time  from  civilized  Caracas  as 
Pittsburg  from  New  York  before  the  rail- 
roads. Also  the  government  was  whitish, 
yellowish,  brownish,  and,  often,  undeni- 
ably black! 

The  picnic  was  held  in  a  paradise.  I 
do  not  trust  myself  to  write  of  the  most 
beautiful  places  in  Venezuela.  They  en- 
courage a  riot  of  adjectives.  This  was  a 
hacienda  some  miles  from  Caracas,  in  a 
valley  of  sugar-cane  and  coffee  planta- 
tions, between  lofty  mountain  ridges 
which  led  up  to  the  great  pyramid  of  La 
Silla.  Gray  and  violet  mountains,  intense 
white  clouds  which  are  ever  marching 
with  the  trade  winds  across  their  summits, 
emerald  sugar-cane,  dark  green  forests 
covering  the  coffee  bushes,  and  in  their 
midst  a  gray,  four-square  hacienda,  with 
broad  loggia  on  three  sides,  where  they 
were  dancing;  to  the  right,  a  garden  full 
of  palms  and  strange,  gorgeous  flowers; 
to  the  left,  a  dense  mango  grove,  beneath 
whose  shade  we  breakfasted  at  little 
tables,  on  bouillon,  pates,  and  sweet, 
warm  champagne.  All  Caracas,  the  for- 
eign ministers,  and  our  two  unplaceable 
selves  had  accepted  and  come.  Principal- 
ly we  danced  in  the  loggia,  first  to  the  ex- 
cellent national  band,  then  to  a  string 
orchestra  full  of  guitaritasy  whose  pecul- 
iar runs  send  thrills  through  your  leg 
muscles.  I  have  never  traveled  in  Spain, 
where,  I  suppose,  is  the  home  of  the 
dance,  but  I  have  never  seen  such  devo- 
tion to  dancing  as  in  these  descendants  of 
Spaniards.  This  was  noon,  at  8°  from 
the  equator,  in  August,  and,  though  up 
three  thousand  feet,  it  was  just  a  bit  hot. 


Yet  they  danced,  young  and  old,  waltzes, 
quadrilles,  and  the  native  dance,  the 
jeropa,  as  if  the  devil  were  in  their  toes. 

The  ladies  of  the  government  were 
the  most  gorgeous  of  tropical  butterflies. 
They  wore  all  the  colors  at  the  same  time 
and  jewels  in  profusion,  but  you  seldom 
looked  further  than  the  paint  and  pow- 
der. I  had  seen  a  darky  girl  in  Porto  Rico 
powdered  until  she  looked  like  a  rusk, 
but  she  was  at  rest!  These  gaudy  Span- 
ish, Spanish-Indian,  Spanish-Negro  crea- 
tures were  pinked,  and  scarleted,  and 
whited  on  face,  throat,  and  neck,  until  the 
original  color  appeared  only  on  the  upper 
arms;  and  after  they  had  danced  for  an 
hour  one  thought  of  the  delta  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi in  the  old  green  geography !  And 
so  we  all  danced,  painted  and  unpainted 
alike,  and  only  the  unbelievably  flores- 
cent  description  in  the  next  morning's 
paper  can  give  an  adequate  conception  of 
what  the  Caraquenians  thought  of  it. 

In  the  shade  of  the  house  the  foreign 
ministers  and  older  Venezuelans  talked, 
possibly  politics,  but  probably  not.  On 
the  loggia  the  politics  of  Venezuela  was 
performing.  I  know  no  other  word.  They 
were  dancing  the  waltz,  which  in  Vene- 
zuela has  a  peculiar  time  all  its  own  and 
most  engaging,  when  I  first  caught  sight 
of  General  Cipriano  Castro  ricocheting 
from  couple  to  couple,  his  collar  wilted, 
his  gray  frock-coat  damp,  and  a  wild  light 
in  his  eyes.  Caraquenians  looked  horri- 
fied and  tried  to  keep  out  of  his  way,  but 
could  not.  The  spirit  of  the  dance  was 
unchained  in  him.  As  we  watched,  he 
dropped  his  partner,  waved  to  the  musi- 
cians, who  stopped  and  then  began  on  a 
quaint  air.  Castro  ran  down  the  length  of 
the  loggia,  separating  rudely  the  dancers 
into  two  lines.  He  ran  back,  and,  with  a 
coat-tail  in  each  hand,  began  jigging 
ridiculously  to  the  music,  swaying  right 
and  left  like  an  automatic  toy.  The 
dance,  some  one  whispered,  was  la  danza, 
a  rustic  entertainment  forgotten  in  Car- 
acas. Some  of  those  in  the  lines  knew  it 
well,  and  responded  to  Castro's  swings 
and  waggings  by  equivalent  scrapes  and 


Castro's  Country 


687 


jigs.  But  most  did  not,  and  confusion 
followed.  The  little  man  fairly  screamed 
with  wrath.  His  face  grew  yellower  and 
yellower.  He  seized  women  by  their  bare 
arms,  jerked  them,  whirled  them,  left  the 
imprint  of  his  fingers  on  their  arms,  and 
fear  on  their  faces.  It  was  fear. 

I  was  exploding  with  laughter,  for 
this  absolute  lack  of  self-control  was  as 
funny  as  it  was  significant.  "For  God's 
sake,  don't  let  him  see  you  laugh! 
He'll  put  you  in  Maracaibo!"  said 
an  English  voice  in  my  ear.  Perhaps 
he  would  have.  I  had  just  met  Senor 

,  who  was  still  limping  from  a  year  in 

the  shackles  of  that  underground  prison. 
But  he  would  as  likely  as  not  have  gotten 
Giovanni  by  mistake,  for,  although  we 
are  in  no  sense  alike,  the  Caraquenians 
could  go  no  further  than  Usted,  you,  and 
el  oltrOy  the  other,  in  distinguishing  us ! 

Whenever  I  read  a  pronunciamento  of 
Castro's,  or  hear  of  the  progress  of  his 
diplomacy,  I  think  of  three  things:  his 
uncontrolled  rage  and  unspeakable  rude- 
ness in  that  danza  ;  the  ridiculous  bom- 
bast of  the  Venezuelan  papers  in  describ- 
ing his  achievements  on  that  and  on  more 
bloody  days ;  and  the  story  of  a  peon  in 
his  army  who  was  found  dead  after  the 
battle  on  the  Orinoco,  with  fifteen  hun- 
dred empty  shells  in  his  pit.  A  danger- 
ous man,  Castro.  A  boaster,  who  has  no 
self  control,  and  who  will  fight.  Of  his 
principles,  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak. 

We  saw  no  more  of  Castro  personally, 
but  heard  much.  I  wish  that  I  felt  compe- 
tent to  draw  out  the  significance,  for  the 
present  situation,  of  the  opinions  which 
many  qualified  to  know  gave  us  at  that 
time.  But  only  a  student  of  the  country  can 
do  more  than  gossip  about  the  politics  of 
Venezuela.  I  knew,  and  know,  enough  to 
agree  with  a  recent  writer  in  The  Outlook 
that  they  begin  and  end  with  Castro. 
Some  anecdotes  of  him  remain  from  those 
conversations,  and  seem  to  have  unusual 
bearing  on  his  conduct  then  and  since. 
The  story,  perhaps,  is  already  familiar, 
of  his  first  appearance  in  Caracas,  as 
a  representative  from  the  state  of  Los 


Andes :  how  he  took  his  seat  in  the  capi- 
tol,  pulled  on  a  pair  of  white  gloves, 
pulled  off  his  shoes,  and  put  them  on  the 
desk  before  him.  Less  familiar,  but  cer- 
tainly true,  is  it  that  after  he  had  made 
himself  president  by  force  of  arms,  he 
and  some  fifty  or  sixty  Andinos,  women 
of  dubious  character  many  of  them,  occu- 
pied the  Yellow  House,  the  official  presi- 
dential residence,  and  sat  down  all  fifty 
or  sixty  of  them  to  breakfast  every  noon. 
When  his  followers  were  in  need  of 
money,  "Little  Chief,"  they  would  come 
to  him  saying,  "give  me  five  pesos." 

Mme.  Castro,  who  seems  more  civil- 
ized, came  later,  and  cleaned  out  the 
brood,  offering  a  revolver,  so  they  say,  to 
her  husband,  which  he  might  use  on  her. 
or  mend  his  ways.  He  mended  them,  but 
it  seems  they  were  like  the  Venezuelan 
roads,  one  mending  suffices  for  a  genera- 
tion. They  were  building  a  pavilion  in 
the  suburbs  "for  the  general's  pleasures" 
that  summer !  It  was  last  winter,  I  think, 
that  Mme.  Castro  had  gotten  an  automo- 
bile, probably  for  consolation,  and  had 
rendered  undrivable  the  El  Paraiso  road, 
which  is  the  only  possible  motoring 
stretch  in  Venezuela,  and  almost  the  only 
drive.  I  wonder  if  she  has  quelled  the 
pride  of  the  famous  "American  Mule," 
who  stood  a  hand  higher  than  the  biggest 
of  the  native  horses,  and  used  to  pull  the 
little  street  car  up  the  grade  to  the  Plaza 
Bolivar.  From  recent  reports  it  appears 
that  she  must  have  given  up  the  subduing 
of  Castro. 

That  was  a  Venezuelan  picnic;  delight- 
ful, for  the  Venezuelans  have  the  instinct 
for  hospitality;  useful,  for  the  godos  and 
Castro  have,  outwardly,  pulled  together 
since;  and  peculiar.  We  met  there  some 
of  the  finest  gentlemen,  of  native  stock, 
that  it  has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  en- 
counter. And  on  the  way  home  we  passed 
three  officers  of  the  Army  of  the  Restora- 
tion, beating  with  sticks  and  swords  a 
horse  whose  blood  was  already  streaming 
down  its  flanks!  Extremes  again!  And 
Castro,  barbarian,  sensualist,  tyrant, 
who  for  so  many  years  has  kept  himself 


688 


Castro's  Country 


in  the  saddle  and  by  skillful  diplomacy 
checked  or  checkmated  every  nation  that 
has  played  the  game  with  Venezuela, 
combines  in  himself  the  greatest  extremes 
of  all. 

Outside  of  Caracas 

The  interior  of  Venezuela  is  so  vast,  so 
unknown,  so  full  of  possibilities,  that  an 
epic  sweep  would  be  required  of  its  de- 
scriber.  My  own  knowledge  consists 
merely  of  impressions  of  the  infinitesimal 
portion  of  the  whole  which  is  easily  acces- 
sible from  the  capital,  impressions  such 
as  could  be  gained  from  a  few  horseback 
trips,  a  remarkable  view,  and  a  hundred 
miles  or  so  on  the  railroad. 

The  view  was  from  the  top  of  that  coast 
range  of  the  Andes  which  walls  Caracas 
from  the  sea.  We  climbed  there  (against 
the  protest  of  our  friends)  one  early 
morning,  following  the  Spanish  paved 
road,  which  went  back  to  the  days  when 
"the  Spanish  main"  meant  something; 
or,  where  time  and  shiftlessness  had  de- 
stroyed every  vestige,  and  this  was  most 
of  the  way,  taking  to  paths  cut  by  the 
sharp  hoofs  of  burros  deep  into  the  red 
soil.  The  crest  of  the  main  range, 
above  which  La  Silla  still  towered,  was  it- 
self some  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea 
at  its  base !  It  was  grassy,  cool  with  the 
trade  winds,  and  odorous  with  violets, 
which  go  swinging  down  in  bunches  on 
great  staffs  over  the  shoulders  of  the  na- 
tives, to  be  sold  in  the  Caracas  flower 
market. 

At  the  very  top  there  is  an  ancient 
ruined  fort,  and  there  we  came,  all  unpre- 
pared, upon  one  of  the  great  prospects  of 
the  world.  For  to  the  north  we  looked 
down,  down,  almost  straight  down  for  the 
whole  of  the  six  thousand  feet,  upon  the 
infinitely  blue  floor  of  the  Caribbean  Sea 
spread  inimitably  to  the  horizon,  the 
clouds  above  it  mere  white  puffs  below 
us,  the  ships  black  specks  beneath  them. 
And  when  our  eyes  were  dazzled  with 
the  beauty  of  the  great  turquoise  plain 
curving  into  its  horizons,  to  the  south 
range  upon  range  of  mountains  rose  one 


above  another,  until  two  blue  peaks,  so 
we  fancied,  looked  down  upon  the  end- 
less llanos  and  the  Orinoco. 

But  this  was  fancy  only,  for  the  mys- 
terious llanos,  whence  everything  curi- 
ous and  strange  —  beast-skin  and  bird- 
feather —  in  the  Caracas  markets  came, 
by  all  maps  must  have  been  far  beyond 
our  eyesight,  and  of  them  I  know  nothing 
at  first  hand.  These  brown  mountain 
ranges,  which  make  up  northern  Ven- 
ezuela, seemed  to  contain,  however,  be- 
tween the  pairs  of  them,  narrow  valleys. 
Later  on  we  toured  those  of  Caracas  and 
Valencia  on  the  so-called  German  rail- 
way, which,  by  eighty-six  tunnels  and  one 
hundred  and  twenty-eight  trestles,  crosses 
from  one  valley  to  the  other,  connecting 
at  Valencia  with  an  English  road  running 
at  right  angles  down  to  the  sea  and  Puerto 
Cabello,  a  seaport  some  hundred  miles 
west  of  La  Guayra. 

Extremes,  again,  characterized  this 
rural  Venezuela.  First,  we  followed  a 
valley,  green  and  rich  beyond  descrip- 
tion; then  crossed  a  desolate  pass  which 
wound  among  barren  mountains;  then 
another  valley,  where  the  train  ran  be- 
side great  shady  forests  of  bucare  trees, 
with  the  light  green  coffee  bushes  rust- 
ling like  a  green  tide  beneath  them  and 
graceful  arms  of  bananas  rising  at  reg- 
ular intervals  above  the  surface.  Next, 
we  passed  the  same  scene,  but  gone  to 
tropical  wilderness,  the  coffee  overgrown 
with  a  thousand  shrubs,  the  bananas 
broken  down  beneath  vine  lariats  —  and 
this,  so  they  told  us,  was  the  plantation 
of  one  of  Castro's  exiles!  Valencia,  from 
the  railroad,  seemed  a  pleasant,  well- 
built  town  as  we  ran  through  it;  but  in 
its  midst  was  a  fine  stone  bridge,  whose 
central  arches,  shattered  by  the  revolu- 
tionists, were  to  be  crossed  only  upon 
slender  planks !  And  to  the  south  a  short 
train  ride  brings  you  to  the  beginning  of 
the  country  where  there  are  no  railroads 
and  only  partial  maps. 

At  Valencia  we  left  the  German  corri- 
dor car  for  an  English  compartment,  and 
entered  upon  a  perfect  extravaganza  of 


Castro's  Country 


689 


scenic  extremes.  The  road  had  to  make 
its  way  through  the  coast  range  and  down 
to  the  sea.  This  was  accomplished  by  a 
rack-and-pinion  descent  down  a  long  in- 
cline, and  then  a  steep  grade  through  a 
narrow  gorge  which  led  to  the  coast. 
Down  this  precipitous  ravine  we  ran, 
between  walls  clothed  in  a  magnificent 
tropical  forest;  above  us  vast  trees  looped 
with  ropes  of  vines,  tufted  with  parasites, 
and  gay  with  brilliant  birds;  beneath  us 
a  brawling  stream  of  hot  water,  pouring 
from  some  volcanic  cleft  higher  up  in  the 
mountains.  Then,  in  one  curve,  we  left 
the  ravine,  the  forest,  the  boiling  stream, 
skirted  a  bit  of  dazzling  beach  with  blue 
sea  beyond,  and  entered  the  most  pestif- 
erous mangrove  swamp  the  mind  of  man 
can  imagine.  The  tide  was  low,  and  on 
the  mud,  which  steamed  in  the  heat,  be- 
neath the  crooked  and  filthy  limbs  of  the 
mangroves,  thousands  of  crabs  scuttled 
over  the  slime. 

It  was  a  fitting  introduction  to  Puerto 
Cabello,  a  muddy,  unhealthy  town  reek- 
ing with  damp  heat.  A  town  with  a 
hotel  in  front  of  which  egrets  and  rose- 
ate spoonbills  roost  in  an  impossible 
traveler's  palm,  which  looks  like  the 
fan  of  a  giant,  while  the  back  rooms 
are  built  to  open  upon  a  bit  of  en- 
closed coral  reef  with  the  surf  breaking 
over  it!  A  town  with  stagnant  water  in 
many  of  its  streets,  and  huts  squalid  be- 
yond description!  A  town  whose  popu- 
lace seems  to  be  mainly  without  occupa- 
tion, and  almost  without  clothes,  while 
in  the  harbor  enormously  expensive 
dredging  machines,  bought  for  the  graft, 
lie  rotting  and  unused.  A  town  succintly 
described  by  the  American  consul  whom 
we  found  stretched  in  a  steamer-chair,  a 
graphophone  on  one  side,  a  negro  boy 
with  a  fan  on  the  other.  "This  place," 
said  he,  "is — !!!!!!!  If  you  eat  fruit, 
you  get  dysentery.  If  you  don't,  you  get 

yellow  fever.   What  in is  a  man  to 

do  ?  "  Armed  with  two  sets  of  pajamas, 
two  tooth-brushes,  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, and  a  bottle  of  claret,  we  had  many 
adventures  by  night  in  Puerto  Cabello, 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


which,  unfortunately,  are  inconsequen- 
tial to  this  narrative,  but  we  formed  much 
the  same  opinion  of  the  town.  In  sum- 
mer, at  least,  Puerto  Cabello  is  the  quint- 
essence of  one  Venezuelan  extreme. 

Social  Caracas 

The  society  of  Caracas  is  at  the  same 
time  provincial  and  cosmopolitan,  a  com- 
bination which  any  one  will  grant  should 
be  charming.  The  various  powers  have 
accredited  diplomats  of  the  first  order  to 
Caracas,  not  so  much  on  account  of 
the  importance  of  Venezuela,  as  because 
their  services  are  so  frequently  needed  in 
the  disputes  for  which  the  country  has 
become  famous.  These  ministers  and 
their  families  give  to  Caraquenian  society 
an  air  of  the  great  world,  and  a  variety 
out  of  keeping  with  the  insignificant  size 
of  the  city  itself.  It  is  a  small  society  in  a 
small  city,  and  an  aristocratic  one.  The 
native  portion  carries  on  a  successful  so- 
cial war  with  Castro's  government,  which 
controls  it  politically  and  often  financially. 
Its  wealth  is  considerable,  although  the 
vicissitudes  of  recent  years  have  ruined 
many  of  its  members.  Even  the  notorious 
Matos,  who  belonged  to  this  caste,  though 
defeated,  and  in  exile  in  Cura9ao,  was  liv- 
ing, when  we  delivered  to  his  family  a 
letter  smuggled  from  Venezuela,  in  one  of 
the  most  considerable  houses  of  "the 
upper  side,"  as  they  call  that  half  of 
Willemstad  which  lies  across  the  har- 
bor. The  aristocracy  of  this  society  is 
emphasized  by  the  Caracas  mob,  the 
fearfully  numerous  lowest  class,  un- 
washed, idle,  almost  unclothed,  living  on 
cheap  fruits  or  beans,  and  mingling  the 
blood  of  three  races  in  a  product  which  is 
a  foil  to  the  few  gentry  who  live  among 
them. 

The  "good  families  "  of  Caracas  live  in 
houses  which  would  baffle  Morgiana  her- 
self to  separate  from  those  of  the  bad  fam- 
ilies. That  greatest  of  levelers,  the  earth- 
quake, which  seldom  leaves  Caracas  long 
unshaken,  sets  one  story  as  a  standard 
for  all.  Thus  a  long  succession  of  low, 
stuccoed  fronts  faces  the  street,  each  front 


690 


Castro's  Country 


relieved  solely  by  a  great  door,  and  one  or 
two  windows,  enclosed  in  a  basket  of  iron 
work,  from  which  the  senoritas  see  the 
world.  There  is  an  old  Caracas  song 
which  says,  "If  you  wish  to  catch  a  hus- 
band you  must  fish  for  him  from  the  win- 
dow." And  riding  past  the  windows  is  a 
chief  amusement  with  young  Caracas 
bloods.  This  is  how  you  do  it.  At  about 
five  you  mount  your  mule  (don't  start 
—  no  horse  was  ever  better  bred)  and 
amble  in  the  single  foot  del  pais  through 
the  proper  streets,  seeing  to  it  that  your 
silver-mounted  lariat  jingles  against  the 
silver  trappings  of  your  bridle.  The 
charm  of  the  affair  is  that  the  iron  bars 
act  as  chaperones,  and  nowhere  but  at 
the  windows  and  in  the  dance  itself  can 
the  Caraquenian  senorita  speak  alone 
with  a  man.  But  though  faces  differ,  the 
windows,  in  general  appearance,  do  not, 
and  difficulties  of  location  are  materially 
aided  by  the  Caracas  custom  of  naming 
the  corners  instead  of  the  streets,  so  that 

Senor ,  for  instance,  is  said  to  live 

between  The  Parrot  and  The  Cocoa 
Palm,  or,  as  in  one  actual  instance,  the 

—  family  between  Heaven  and  Hell. 

If  one  finds  one's  house  and  enters  the 
great  door,  there  is  a  very  different  story. 
Most  Caracas  houses  are  planned  like 
those  of  Pompeii,  consisting  of  a  series  of 
large,  high-ceilinged  rooms  opening  upon 
a  patio  which  rises  in  a  mass  of  palms, 
fern  trees,  and  flowers  to  the  height  of  the 
red-tiled  roofs  surrounding.  Often  a  thin 
netting  is  cast  over  the  whole  patio,  and 
a  dozen  or  so  brilliantly  colored  birds  fly 
and  sing  in  the  palm  branches,  while 
white  egrets  stalk  over  the  pavement  be- 
low. Our  house  was  one  of  the  few  in 
Caracas  with  an  alia,  a  second  story, 
which,  in  this  case,  was  like  a  ship's 
bridge  looking  down  on  the  patio.  There 
were  our  bedrooms,  and  our  porch  with 
its  bookcases  into  which  everything  print- 
ed must  go  at  night  lest  the  cockroaches, 
inches  across,  should  eat  them ;  and  there 
^ve  sat  in  the  morning,  sipping  delectable 
coffee,  and  watching  the  endless  sweep  of 
the  white  clouds  across  the  peaks  of  the 


gray  mountains  above  us.  It  was  warm 
enough  to  do  this  in  pajamas,  and  cool 
enough,  except  at  noonday,  for  tennis  or 
such  exercise.  One  can  ask  little  vainly, 
except  energy,  from  the  climate  of 
Caracas. 

The  patio  is  the  place  for  balls  and  teas, 
and  there  one  dances  on  stone  or  brick, 
while  beneath  the  loggia  the  long  table  is 
spread  with  cakes  of  all  kinds,  perhaps 
"choke  cats  "  (I  am  not  sure  of  the  Span- 
ish) ,  which  explode  into  powder  when  you 
bite.  At  the  street  front  is  the  drawing- 
room,  or  sola,  where  the  family  assemble 
when  they  are  "at  home."  In  the  older 
houses  this  room  is  heavily  hung  with 
old-fashioned  pictures,  the  windows  are 
thickly  curtained  in  the  style  of  the  70's, 
and  on  the  carpeted  floor  several  furni- 
ture families  are  assembled,  each  in  its  al- 
lotted place :  a  marble-topped  table  and  a 
circle  of  plush  chairs  here,  a  walnut  table 
and  its  circle  of  walnut  chairs  there.  In 
such  a  sala  we  sat  on  the  plush  family 

while  Senorita ,  in  black  with  a  red 

rose  in  her  hair,  sang  to  the  guitarita*  — 

"A  San  Antonio  Bendito 
Tres  cosas  pido : 
Salvacidn  y  dinero 

Y  un  buen  marido." 

"I  asked  of  St.  Antonio  three  things,  my 
salvation,  money,  and  a  good  husband." 
Answers  St.  Antonio,  "Caramba!  How 
can  he  be  a  good  one  if  he  has  to  be  a 
man!" 

On  one  evening  of  the  week  it  is  comme 
il  faut  to  go  to  the  Plaza  Bolivar,  an  excel- 
lent public  square,  shaded  by  mahogany 
trees,  and  sit  near  the  £ne  equestrian 
bronze  of  Bolivar  to  hear  the  military 
band,  the  only  public  institution  in  Ven- 
ezuela, except  Castro,  which  seems  to  be 
thriving.  The  girls,  carefully  chaperoned, 
sit  in  a  long  row,  the  men  of  the  party 
stand  behind  their  chairs,  and  before 
them  sometimes  walk  the  dandies  of 
Caracas,  but  more  often  stand  and  stare 
point-blank  at  the  ladies,  with  a  rudeness 
which  is  as  remarkable  as  the  absolute 
unconcern  with  which  it  is  endured. 
Later  your  friends  will  probably  take  you 


Castro's  Country 


691 


to  La  India,  an  old  cafe  and  a  good  one, 
where  they  have  the  finest  chocolate  in 
the  world.  Indeed,  one  never  knows  the 
possibilities  of  chocolate  until  one  has 
stopped  in  Venezuela;  and  the  coffee  is 
almost  as  remarkable.  But  one  Venezue- 
lan drink  is  not  so  agreeable  to  a  modest 
northern  palate,  and  that  is  the  raw  rum 
which,  at  eleven  or  twelve  on  a  hot  morn- 
ing, is  the  proper  drink  at  the  Caracas 
cafe. 

I  wish  that  I  could  retail  some  of  the 
stories  of  Venezuelan  life  heard  in  La 
India,  —  of  the  prominent  official  (per- 
haps still  alive)  who  loaded  his  loot  in 
coin  on  a  launch  which  he  filled  to  the 
gunwales,  and  drove  her  across  the  open 
sea  to  a  refuge  in  Cura9ao;  of  the  melan- 
choly succession  of  American  ministers 
who  disgraced  us  in  Caracas  in  the  days 
when  the  spoils  system  was  at  its  worst : 
X,  who  drank  from  finger-bowls  and  kept 
his  neighborhood  moist  with  tobacco 
juice;  Y,  who  suffered  from  the  delirium 
tremens ;  Z,  whose  wife,  at  dinner-parties, 
used  her  napkin  for  a  handkerchief.  But 
Caracas  gossip  requires  a  book  for  itself. 

The  major  part  of  this  gossip  consists 
of  highly  colored  episodes  in  which  Cara- 
quenians  have  suffered  in  life,  limb,  or 
property  from  the  government;  and  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  of  this  charming 
Caracas  society  unless  the  dark  as  well  as 
the  light  is  kept  in  mind.  It  was  the  so- 
ciety of  a  town  in  Latin  Europe  that  we 
met  there,  —  courteous,  pleasure-loving, 
fond  of  saint's-day's  jestas,  fine  clothes, 
dancing,  gossiping,  and  gallantry ;  yet  set 


upon  a  crater  in  which  the  lava  of  mixed 
bloods,  poverty,  greed,  and  crime  flaunt- 
ing the  rhetoric  of  patriotism,  is  always 
overflowing. 

Neither  liberty,  property,  nor  life  is 
secure  in  Venezuela.  And  there  is  a 
good  deal  that  is  pathetic  about  these 
Caraquenians,  living  in  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  countries  in  the  world,  liv- 
ing comfortably  in  the  few  good  years, 
exiled  or  imprisoned  in  the  lean  ones,  or, 
if  fortune  favors,  spending  in  Paris  what 
they  have  saved,  yet  with  an  unshakable 
love  for  la  patria,  a  name  as  often  on  their 
lips  as  in  their  absurd  newspapers.  Two 
extremes,  the  sombre  endurance  of  the 
Spaniard,  the  mercurial  spirits  of  the 
other  Latins,  seem  to  meet  in  them. 
Robbed,  abused,  imprisoned,  they  are 
exiled,  but  seldom  emigrate.  In  New 
York  they  have  their  especial  hotel,  and 
in  Cura9ao  their  own  cafe.  The  fortunes 
of  their  country  always  seem  to  be  their 
own.  "Caracas  has  been  very  sad,"  said 
an  old  Venezuelan  to  me  on  the  way  to 
Porto  Rico,  with  a  peculiarly  personal  in- 
terest in  the  welfare  of  the  capital.  And 
"Caracas  has  been  sad,  but  now  it  is 
very  gay,"  were  almost  the  first  English 
words  I  heard  when  I  arrived  there.  If  it 
were  not  for  Castro  and  the  ominous  de- 
generation of  the  Caracas  mob,  it  might 
be  a  patria  to  be  proud  of  as  well  as  to 
love.  But  until  the  little  chief  falls  before 
a  rifle  bullet,  or  departs  for  Paris  to  spend 
his  enormous  gains,  the  good  Caraque- 
nian  will  be  safest  anywhere  but  at 
home. 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE 


A  HISTORY  of  English  literature l  in  sev- 
eral large  volumes,  published  under  the 
auspices,  and  bearing  the  name,  of  Cam- 
bridge University,  and  edited  in  chief  by 
the  master  of  one  of  its  oldest  colleges,  a 
man  celebrated  for  his  history  of  English 
dramatic  literature,  is  an  undertaking  fit- 
ted to  excite  the  liveliest  and  most  hope- 
ful anticipations.  Cambridge,  the  nurs- 
ing mother  of  Milton  and  Tennyson, 
should  represent,  with  her  sister  Oxford, 
the  soundest  literary  traditions.  Cam- 
bridge, possessing  some  of  the  most  pre- 
cious manuscripts  of  the  early  mediaeval 
period,  should  rejoice  to  set  forth  the  pro- 
ductions of  that  period  in  the  fairest  light; 
Cambridge,  which  has  long  boasted  so 
considerable  a  scholar  as  Skeat,  the  ed- 
itor of  a  monumental  edition  of  Chaucer, 
should  be  able  to  command,  not  only  his 
services,  and  those  of  the  Master  of  Peter- 
house,  but  those  of  the  best  scholars,  in 
England  and  the  allied  fields  of  Great 
Britain,  America,  the  colonies,  Germany, 
Scandinavia,  and  France,  and  of  writers 
fitted  to  illustrate,  if  not  to  adorn,  what- 
ever subjects  they  might  touch.  True,  it 
ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  scholars 
of  the  eminence  of  Skeat  and  Ward  are 
not  numerous,  even  in  England ;  that  the 
possession  of  knowledge,  and  the  ability 
to  awaken  and  sustain  interest,  are  not 
always  united  in  the  same  person;  and 
that  even  a  renowned  university  may  not 
be  able,  within  a  moderate  time,  to  com- 
mand the  activity  of  the  most  capable 
pens.  Then,  too,  it  must  be  considered 

1  The  Cambridge  History  of  English  Litera- 
ture. Edited  by  A.  W.  WARD,  Litt.  D.,  F.  B.  A., 
Master  of  Peterhouse;  and  A.  R.  Waller, 
M.  A.,  Peterhouse.  Vol.  I,  From  the  Beginnings 
to  the  Cycles  of  Romance ;  Vol.  II,  The  End  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  New  York :  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons.  Cambridge,  England  :  University  Press. 
1907,  1908. 


that  many  portions  of  English  literature, 
and  even  whole  tracts,  have  been  vigor- 
ously studied  for  only  a  few  decades,  and 
not  always  by  scholars  of  thorough  train- 
ing and  enlarged  minds,  but  in  some 
cases  by  gatherers  of  minute  and  unre- 
lated facts,  or  by  hasty  generalizes. 

Another  serious  difficulty  confronts 
the  projectors  of  such  an  enterprise  — 
that  of  defining,  in  their  own  thought,  the 
body  of  readers  they  shall  cater  for.  Shall 
they  aim  at  the  more  general  public  of 
intelligent  laymen,  or  shall  they  address 
persons  who  are  already  in  some  degree 
specialists  ?  If  the  former,  they  must  pre- 
suppose but  little ;  if  the  latter,  they  may 
take  a  good  deal  for  granted.  Or  shall 
they  adopt  a  more  difficult  and  glorious 
course,  marshaling  facts  and  presenting 
conclusions  so  convincingly  and  agree- 
ably as  to  captivate  alike  the  professional 
and  the  general  reader?  It  is  this  last 
conception  of  their  office  which  would 
seem  to  have  actuated  the  editor  of  the 
magnificent  history  of  French  literature, 
Petit  de  Julleville,  and  to  have  inspired 
his  colleagues  in  the  undertaking. 

The  history  of  French  literature  just 
mentioned  is  so  admirable  that  it  will 
serve  as  a  convenient  standard  by  which 
to  test  the  volumes  before  us.  Though, 
like  its  English  counterpart,  it  is  a  work 
of  collaboration,  all  the  writers  seem  not 
only  to  be  moved  by  a  common  purpose, 
but  to  possess  in  common  a  certain  cen- 
tral body  of  knowledge,  and  even  —  per- 
haps because  they  are  all  educated 
Frenchmen,  and  hence  all  well  trained  in 
the  technique  of  composition  —  a  kind 
of  corporate  style,  always  rich  in  sub- 
stance, unpretentious,  urbane,  limpid, 
vigorous,  vivacious,  yet  restrained,  al- 
though now  this,  now  the  other  quality 
may  be  more  in  evidence.  Hence  the 
French  work  succeeds  in  being  eminently 


The  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature 


readable  —  a  result  due  in  part  to  the 
masterly  organization  of  the  material ;  as 
this,  again,  depends  in  part  upon  the 
limitation  of  the  field.  For  the  French- 
man, though  he  must  have  been  tempted 
to  include  both  Latin  and  Proven9al 
writings  in  his  scope,  eschews  them  all 
and  confines  himself  strictly  to  literature 
in  French.  Nor  does  he  neglect  to  pro- 
vide good  store  of  choice  illustrations, 
mostly  photographs  of  manuscripts,  il- 
luminated or  otherwise,  or,  in  the  later 
volumes,  portraits  and  specimens  of 
handwriting.  The  writers  chosen  to  per- 
form a  task  so  delicate,  difficult,  and  hon- 
orable are  among  the  first  scholars  in 
France  in  their  respective  fields.  Finally, 
he  who  was  the  foremost  student  of  medi- 
aeval French  letters  of  his  period  intro- 
duced, in  a  score  of  pages,  the  first  two 
volumes  with  a  just  and  striking  estimate 
of  Old  French  literature,  as  the  general 
editor  was  to  begin  the  third  volume  with 
a  paper  summing  up  the  characteristics 
of  the  Renaissance. 

In  the  work  which  we  are  now  con- 
sidering, these  features  are  lamentably 
absent,  or  present  only  in  a  lower  degree. 
There  is  no  general  survey  of  the  quali- 
ties of  mediaeval  English  literature,  or  of 
mediaeval  literature  in  general.  The  con- 
tributing scholars  are,  with  several  nota- 
ble exceptions,  not  those  whom  all  the 
world  knows  of,  or  all  experts  unite  to 
honor.  There  are  no  facsimiles  or  picto- 
rial illustrations  of  any  kind.  The  field  of 
English  literature  is  extended  to  include 
not  only  Scottish  literature  and  the  Latin 
writers  in  England,  but  also  such  topics 
as  the  introduction  of  printing  into  Eng- 
land, and  the  early  work  of  the  press, 
English  scholars  of  Paris,  and  English 
and  Scottish  education.  There  are  as 
many  styles  as  there  are  authors,  —  this 
it  would  be  easy  to  forgive,  —  but  few  of 
these  styles  deserve  unrestricted  praise. 
And  then,  if  the  whole  truth  must  be  told, 
not  all  the  contributors  are  persons,  we 
will  not  say  of  ripe  scholarship,  but  even 
of  accurate  and  ordered  knowledge. 

A  few  particulars  will  serve  to  point 


these  strictures.  The  want  of  any  ab- 
stract and  brief  chronicle  of  the  whole 
subject  dealt  with  in  these  two  volumes 
—  literature  in  the  British  Isles  in  the 
Middle  Ages  —  is  a  fact  easily  verified,  as 
is  likewise  the  absence  of  illustrations. 
There  is  a  chapter  devoted  to  Chaucer, 
of  course,  but  it  iS  signed  neither  by  Skeat 
nor  by  Furnivall,  the  first  of  living  Chau- 
cerians ;  one  on  Alfred,  and  on  the  Latin 
literature  before  his  time,  but  not  by 
Plummer,  or  Stevenson,  or  Sedgefield,  or 
Sweet;  one  on  the  writings  between  Al- 
fred and  the  Conquest,  including  legends 
of  the  Holy  Rood  and  homilies,  but  not 
by  Napier.  We  mention  only  authorities 
living  in  England,  but  the  names  of 
American  and  German  scholars  of  repute 
might  easily  be  introduced  to  swell  the 
list. 

The  English  work,  though  it  omits  a 
treatment  of  the  mystery  plays,  is,  in 
round  numbers,  one-third  larger  than  its 
French  predecessor,  which  finds  a  place 
for  the  mediaeval  drama.  Nearly  one- 
fourth  of  the  second  volume  is  taken  up 
with  things  Scottish,  though  of  things 
Irish  there  is  scarcely  a  trace.  As  to  style, 
we  too  often  find  mere  enumerations,  in- 
stead of  stimulating  or  satisfying  inter- 
pretations. We  can  scarcely  predicate 
style  of  passages  like  these:  "Among 
the  sources  used  are  Pliny,  Solinus, 
Eutropius,  Marcellinus  Comes,  Gildas, 
probably  the  Historia  Brittonum,  a  Pas- 
sion of  St.  Alban,  and  the  Life  of  St. 
Germamis  of  Auxerre  by  Constantius  " 
(i,  90).  "  In  the  third  book  we  proceed 
as  far  as  664.  In  this  section  the  chief 
actors  are  Oswald,  Aidan,  Fursey,  Cedd, 
and  Wilfrid"  (same  page).  "Among 
them  we  find  Gifica  (Gibicho),  Breca, 
Finn,  Hnaef,  Saeferth  (Sigeferth?)  and 
Ongentheow,  who  have  been  mentioned 
above,  as  well  as  Attila,  Gormenric, 
Theodric  "  (i,  38).  Well  may  one  of  the 
contributors  to  this  volume  say,  "  The 
muse  of  history  needs,  for  her  highest 
service,  the  aid  of  the  imagination." 

Occasionally  we  get  writing  as  bad  as 
this  (ii,  171) :  "  afforded,  both  in  respect 


694 


The  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature 


of  form  and  of  matter,  excellent  material 
for  translating  for  many  a  year  until,  in 
fact,  the  clipped  wings  had  had  time  to 
grow  again."  An  allusive  style,  occa- 
sionally employed  to  relieve  the  dullness 
which  will  creep  in,  has  its  own  peculiar 
perils :  the  writer  last  quoted  thus  blends 
two  Shakespearean  reminiscences  near 
the  close  of  the  second  volume:  "  It  has 
been  sometimes  urged  that  the  fifteenth 
century  ...  is  an  uninviting,  barren 
waste,  in  which  it  were  idle  and  unpro- 
fitable to  spend  one's  time  when  it  can  be 
fleeted  carelessly  in  'the  demesnes  that 
here  (sic)  adjacent  lie,  belonging,'  "  —  as 
the  writer  considerately  explains  —  "to 
the  stately  pleasure  houses  of  Chaucer 
and  the  Elizabethans."  There  are  thus 
styles  and  styles;  but  few  among  them 
have  those  conspicuous  merits  which  are 
displayed  in  every  number  of  The  Spec- 
tator or  The  Saturday  Review. 

Before  commenting  upon  certain  posi- 
tive errors  which  here  and  there  occur, 
we  may  note  the  careless  proof-reading, 
especially  in  the  first  volume,  extending 
to  the  references  in  the  index.  These 
blunders  are  often  ludicrous,  though 
generally  of  a  sort  to  be  easily  corrected 
by  the  reader.  Thus,  for  example :  "  the 
gleemen  of  [or]  minstrels  who  played  on 
the  harp  "  (i,  3) ;  "  in  1674  [674]  Bene- 
dict Biscop  had  built  the  monastery  of 
St.  Peter  "  (i,  98);  "  the  following  tablet 
[table]  .  .  .  shows  the  relations  of  the 
various  MSS.""  (i,  123);  "had  Harold 
won,  instead  of  lust  [lost],  the  battle  of 
Hastings"  (i,  166);  "  that  none  deserved 
better  posterity  [of  posterity]  than  he 
who  wrote  a  faithful  record  "  (i,  180) ; 
"  Changes'  in  Delusion"  [Declension] 
(i,  433,  running  title) ;  "  the  language  in 
its  state  of  translation  [transition]  af- 
forded special  opportunity  for  these  ir- 
regularities (i,  390) ;  "  sayings  of  the  phi- 
loshers  "  (ii,  239). 

One  may  pardon  oddities  or  affecta- 
tions in  the  language  employed,  such  as 
the  use  of  "  fitt "  —  why  not  "  fytte  "  — 
(i,  61),  "scop"  (i,  70),  "Crist"  (passim), 
and  even  Cristabel  (i,  164),  the  over- 


working of  "  aureate  "  (ii,  109,  and  often 
subsequently),  the  use  of  "  horseplayful " 
(ii,  207),  or  "  erst-friar  "  (ii,  294).  One 
may  overlook  the  Johnsonian  magnilo- 
quence of  clauses  like  the  following  (ii, 
294) :  "  which  assumes  a  fundamental 
homogeneity  in  mediaeval  method,  in 
most  respects  incongruent  with  the  liter- 
ary intention  of  the  new  learning."  One 
may  smile  at  the  artful  aid  of  apt  allit- 
eration in  ii,  293 :  "  His  was  not  the 
heavy-headed  fancy  of  a  moribund  me- 
diaevalism."  But  one  must  not  condone 
blunders  which  a  fair  measure  of  atten- 
tion would  render  impossible. 

To  be  specific:  John  S.  Westlake, 
M.  A.,  Trinity  College,  informs  us  (i, 
128)  that  JSlfric  was  born  about  955,  and 
that  the  poem  entitled  Judith  was  written 
about  918,  or  perhaps  earlier  (i,  158); 
yet  he  is  quite  capable  of  saying  (i,  157), 
"It  is  noteworthy  that  ^Elfric  himself 
had  written  a  homily  on  Judith.  This 
homily  must  have  been  written  earlier, 
and,  perhaps,  it  influenced  the  writer  of 
Judith  to  choose  her  as  a  national  type." 
This  is  pretty  chronology :  a  homily  writ- 
ten by  a  man  born  in  955  influences  the 
author  of  a  poem  which  nobody  dates 
later  than  918.  The  same  authority  tells 
us  (i,  151)  that  Judith  and  The  Battle  0} 
Maldon  "  deal  with  the  struggle  against 
the  same  foe."  As  the  foe  in  the  Judith  is 
an  Assyrian,  and  in  The  Battle  of  Maldon 
a  Danish,  army,  we  hesitate  before  ac- 
cepting the  statement  unqualifiedly. 

Nor  is  it  much  otherwise  with  Miss 
M.  Bentinck  Smith,  M.  A.,  Headmistress 
of  St.  Leonard's  School,  St.  Andrews. 
In  discussing  the  poems  of  the  Janian 
manuscript,  she  very  properly  records  her 
belief  (i,  50)  that  these  poems  are  not 
all  by  one  author.  She  assigns  Genesis  B 
to  the  second  half  of  the  ninth  century 
(i,  51),  and  three  others  (i,  53)  to  the  end 
of  the  ninth  century.  Yet  she  assumes 
the  existence  of  a  Csedmonian  school 
(i,  69)  on  the  hypothesis  that  Csedmon 
"  composed  similar,  though,  perhaps, 
shorter  pieces,  which  may  have  been 
worked  upon  later  by  more  scholarly 


The  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature 


695 


hands"  —  the  more  scholarly  hands 
which  produced  the  poems  of  the  Janian 
manuscript.  It  will  be  observed  that  she 
dates  none  of  these  poems  earlier  than 
850.  Now,  Cynewulf  "wrote  towards 
the  end  of  the  eighth  century  "  (i,  56) . 
"  Yet "  —  here  the  consecutiveness  of  her 
thinking  manifests  itself  —  "the  work  of 
Cynewulf  and  his  school  marks  an  ad- 
vance upon  the  writings  of  the  school  of 
Csedmon  "  (i,  69),  and  she  proceeds  to 
show  in  what  respects  it  marks  such  an 
advance.  The  same  writer  refers  (i,  47) 
to  the  poem  of  Beowulf,  "  an  exhortation 
to  do  great  deeds  so  that  in  Walhalla  the 
chosen  warrior  may  fare  the  better;  " 
but  there  is  no  mention  of  Walhalla  in 
the  Beowulf,  —  is  there  anywhere  in  Old 
English  literature?  —  and  the  passage 
in  question  merely  reads,  probably  with 
no  reference  to  a  future  life,  "  Let  him 
who  may  win  glory  ere  he  die;  thus  shall 
it  be  best  for  a  warrior  when  life  is  past." 

Other  writers,  while  not  committing 
such  positive  errors,  attribute  to  an  author 
what  the  latter  has  merely  drawn  from 
some  earlier  source.  The  BlicJcling  Hom- 
ilies are  credited  (i,  127)  with  the  pic- 
ture of  Heaven  as  a  place  where  there  is 
"youth  without  age;  nor  is  there  hunger 
nor  thirst ;  nor  wind  nor  storm  nor  rush  of 
waters ;  "  but  this  is  not  original  with  the 
BlicJcling  Homilies.  ^Elfric  is  described  (i, 
133)  as  exemplifying  by  Oswald  the  ideal 
English  King;  but  the  story  of  Oswald 
there  told  comes  from  Bede.  The  poem 
of  the  Menologium  gets  the  credit  for  pre- 
serving some  of  the  Old  English  names 
of  the  months,  though  they  are  found  a 
couple  of  centuries  earlier  in  Bede's  De 
Temporum  Ratione.  "  As  early  as  709 
Aldhelm  .  .  .  had  depicted  the  glories 
of  the  celibate  life"  (i,  256);  but  had 
they  never  been  depicted  before  ? 

Other  opinions  strike  one  as  exaggera- 
tions. "The  Nut  Browne  Maid  (in  itself 
sufficient,  in  form  and  music  and  theme, 
to  'make  the  fortune  '  of  any  century)  " 
(ii,  486).  "  Nowhere  else  [than  in  the 
Andreas]  are  to  be  found  such  superb 
descriptions  of  the  raging  storm"  (i,  59). 


Contradictions  between  various  chap- 
ters will  hardly  surprise  us.  To  one 
writer,  the  Ruthwell  Cross  is  possibly  of 
the  eighth  century  (i,  12) ;  to  another, 
of  the  tenth  (i,  62).  On  pages  33  and 
46  of  the  first  volume  there  are  two  dif- 
ferent views  of  the  orthodoxy  of  lona. 
To  Saintsbury  (ii,  244),  "  there  is  prob- 
ably no  period  in  the  last  seven  hundred 
years  which  yields  a  lover  of  English 
poetry  so  little  satisfaction  as  the  fifteenth 
century;  "  but  he  is  overruled  by  one  of 
the  general  editors,  who  declares  (ii,  487) 
that  this  same  period  "  can  well  hold  its 
own  in  the  history  of  our  literature  as 
against  the  centuries  that  precede  or  fol- 
low it."  It  may  be  objected  that  such 
differences  of  opinion  are  inevitable ;  but 
why,  then,  do  they  not  appear  in  Petit  de 
Julleville's  history  of  French  literature  ? 

Proportion  is  not  always  observed  in 
these  volumes.  Stephen  Hawes  manages 
to  secure  eighteen  pages,  while  the  whole 
history  of  Old  and  Middle  English  pro- 
sody get  scarcely  more  than  seven;  yet 
"  most  of  his  lines  are  inartistic  and  un- 
musical "  (ii,  268) ;  "  his  writings  abound 
in  long  digressions,  irrelevances,  debates, 
appeals  to  authority,  needless  repetitions, 
prolix  descriptions  "  (ii,  263) ;  and  "  in 
choice  of  theme,  in  method  of  exposition, 
and  in  mode  of  expression,  Hawes  has 
a  limited  range"  (ii,  259).  He  exhibits 
"  confused  metre,  slipshod  construction, 
bizarre  diction  "  (ii,  271).  In  a  word,  he 
writes  like  this  (ii,  264) :  — 

Her  redolente  wordes  of  swete  influence 
Degouted  vapoure  moost  aromatyke, 
And  made  conversyon  of  complacence ; 
Her  depared  and  her  lusty  rethoryke 
My  courage  reformed,  that  was  so  lunatyke. 

Yet  he  is  honored  with  eighteen  pages. 
These  and  similar  exceptions  being 
taken,  it  is  a  pleasure,  and  it  is  simple 
justice,  to  declare  that  there  is  a  golden 
face  to  the  shield.  Henry  Bradley  writes 
on  changes  in  the  language  to  the  days 
of  Chaucer;  Ker  brilliantly  on  metrical 
romances;  Saintsbury  competently,  and 
always  interestingly,  on  Chaucer.  Gum- 
mere  is  at  home  in  his  peculiar  field  of  the 


696 


Another  Source  of  "Paradise  Lost" 


ballad ;  Manly,  by  his  bold  analysis,  has 
earned  his  right  to  be  heard  on  Piers 
Plowman;  Macaulay,  the  first  editor  of 
Gower's  complete  works,  should  know 
that  author  better  than  he  has  been 
known  in  centuries;  Gregory  Smith  is 
probably  as  well  informed  as  any  one 
living  on  the  earlier  Scottish  literature; 
Sandys' s  History  of  Classical  Scholarship 
guarantees  his  ability  to  describe  the 
Latin  literature  of  England  from  John 
of  Salisbury  to  Richard  of  Bury;  no 
one  will  dispute  the  qualifications  of  the 
Templar,  Gollancz,  to  set  forth  the  quali- 
ties of  the  various  poems  by  the  author 
of  Sir  Gawayne ;  and  W.  Lewis  Jones, 
in  dealing  with  the  Latin  chroniclers, 
has  the  advantage  of  utilizing  the  labors 
of  such  men  as  Stubbs,  Brewer,  and 
Thomas  Arnold.  The  writing  of  Miss 
Clara  L.  Thomson  and  Miss  Alice  D. 
Greenwood  is  quite  up  to  the  average  in 
the  two  volumes,  and  the  latter' s  char- 
acterization of  Malory's  M orte  d' Arthur 
(ii,  381-338)  is  one  of  the  masterpieces 
of  the  book. 

These  two  volumes,  it  need  hardly  be 
said,  contain  a  large  store  of  ordered, 
and,  with  rare  exceptions,  reliable  inform- 


ation; the  bibliographies,  though  they  do 
not  sufficiently  teach  their  own  use  for 
lack  of  critical  estimates,  are  copious, 
and  every  way  welcome;  and  the  indexes, 
barring  some  inaccuracies  in  the  first 
volume,  are  satisfactory. 

What  is  chiefly  wanting  is  what,  in  the 
present  state  of  English  scholarship,  it 
would  doubtless  be  impossible  to  supply 
—  a  plan  rigorous  in  its  exclusions,  hav- 
ing regard  to  subjects  or  classes  of  litera- 
ture, so  far  as  might  be  consistent  with 
the  towering  personality  of  certain  au- 
thors, and  mindful  of  proportion  and 
consistency  throughout;  a  band  of  schol- 
ars, with  severe  training  and  common 
ideals,  enthusiastic,  reflective,  imagina- 
tive, masters  of  language,  and  loyal  to  the 
voice  of  a  director  who  should  represent 
their  own  intellectual  conscience.  It  will, 
we  fear,  be  a  long  day  before  this  coun- 
sel of  perfection  shall  be  realized  in  any 
such  measure  as  in  France;  and  mean- 
while we  can  only  be  thankful  to  those 
who  have  blazed  the  way,  and  who,  while 
showing  their  successors  some  pitfalls  to 
be  avoided,  have  also  left  them  much 
which  it  will  be  their  wisdom  to  emu- 
late, and,  if  it  may  be,  to  surpass. 


ANOTHER   SOURCE   OF  "PARADISE   LOST 


BY   N.   DOUGLAS 


CHARLES  DUNSTER  (Considerations  on 
Milton's  Early  Reading,  etc.,  1810)  traces 
the  prima  stamina  of  Paradise  Lost  to 
Sylvester's  Du  Bartas.  Masenius,  Ced- 
mon,  Vondel,  and  other  older  writers 
have  also  been  named,  and  discussed 
with  more  or  less  partiality,  in  this  con- 
nection, while  the  majority  of  Milton's 
English  commentators  —  and  among 
foreigners  Voltaire  and-  Tiraboschi  — 
are  inclined  to  regard  the  Adamus  Exul 
of  Grotius,  or  Andreini's  sacred  drama  of 
Adamo,  as  the  prototype.  This  latter  can 


be  consulted  in  the  third  volume  of  Cow- 
per's  Milton  (1810).  The  matter  is  still 
sub  judice,  and  in  view  of  the  number  of 
recent  scholars  who  have  interested  them- 
selves in  it,  I  am  somewhat  surprised 
that  up  to  the  present  moment  no  notice 
has  been  taken,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
of  an  Italian  article  which  goes  far  to- 
wards settling  this  question  and  prov- 
ing that  the  chief  source  of  Paradise 
Lost  is  the  Adamo  Caduto,  a  sacred 
tragedy  by  Serafino  della  Salandra.  The 
merit  of  this  discovery  belongs  to  Fran- 


Another  Source  of  "Paradise  Lost" 


697 


cesco  Zicari,  whose  paper,  "Sulla  sco- 
verta  dell'  originate  italiano  da  cui  Milton 
trasse  il  suo  poema  del  paradise  per- 
duto,"  is  printed  on  pages  245  to  276  in 
the  1845  volume  of  the  Naples  Album 
scientifico  -  artistico  -  letterario  now  lying 
before  me.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  letter 
addressed  to  his  friend  Francesco  Ruffa, 
a  native  of  Tropea  in  Calabria.1 

Salandra, 'it  is  true,  is  named  among 
the  writers  of  sacred  tragedies  in  Todd's 
Milton  (1809,  vol.  ii,  p.  244),  and  also  by 
Hayley,  but  neither  of  them  had  the  curi- 
osity, or  the  opportunity,  to  examine  his 
Adamo  Caduto ;  Hayley  expressly  says 
that  he  has  not  seen  it.  More  recent 
works,  such  as  that  of  Moers  (De  fonti- 
bus  Paradisi  Amissi  Miltoniani,  Bonn, 
1860),  do  not  mention  Salandra  at  all. 
Byse  (Milton  on  the  Continent,  1903) 
merely  hints  at  some  possible  motives  for 
the  Allegro  and  the  Penseroso. 

As  to  dates,  there  can  be  no  doubt  to 
whom  the  priority  belongs.  The  Adamo 
of  Salandra  was  printed  at  Cosenza  in 
Calabria  in  1647.  Richardson  thinks 
that  Milton  entered  upon  His  Paradise 
Lost  in  1654,  and  that  it  was  shown,  as 
done,  in  1665;  D.  Masson  agrees  with 
this,  adding  that  "it  was  not  published 
till  two  years  afterwards."  The  date 
1665  is  fixed,  I  presume,  by  the  Quaker 
Elwood's  account  of  his  visit  to  Milton 
in  the  autumn  of  that  year,  when  the 
poet  gave  him  the  manuscript  to  read; 
the  two  years'  delay  in  publication  may 
possibly  have  been  due  to  the  confusion 

1  Zicari  contemplated  another  paper  on  this 
subject,  but  I  am  unaware  whether  this  was 
ever  published.  The  Neapolitan  Minieri-Riccio, 
who  wrote  his  Memorie  Storiche  in  1844,  speaks 
of  this  article  as  having  been  already  printed  in 
1832,  but  does  not  say  where.  This  is  corro- 
borated by  N.  Falcone  (Biblioteca  storica-topo- 
grafica  della  Calabria,  2d  ed.,  Naples,  1846, 
pp.  152-154),  who  gives  the  same  date,  and 
adds  that  Zicari  was  the  author  of  a  work  on 
the  district  of  Fuscaldo.  He  was  born  at  Paola 
in  Calabria,  of  which  he  wrote  a  (manuscript) 
history,  and  died  in  1846.  In  this  Milton 
article,  he  speaks  of  his  name  being  "  unknown 
in  the  republic  of  letters."  I  can  find  no  further 
details  of  his  life, 


occasioned  by  the  great  plague  and  fire 
of  London. 

The  castigation  bestowed  upon  Lauder 
by  Bishop  Douglas,  followed,  as  it  was, 
by  a  terrific  "back-hander"  from  the 
brawny  arm  of  Samuel  Johnson,  induces 
me  to  say  that  Salandra's  Adamo  Caduto, 
though  extremely  rare,  —  so  rare  that 
neither  the  British  Museum  nor  the  Paris 
Bibliotheque  Nationale  possesses  a  copy, 
—  is  not  an  imaginary  book ;  I  have  had 
it  in  my  hands  and  examined  it  at  the 
Naples  Biblioteca  Nazionale;  it  is  a  small 
octavo  of  251  pages  (not  including  twenty 
unnumbered  ones,  and  another  one  at  the 
end  for  correction  of  misprints);  badly 
printed  and  bearing  all  the  marks  of  gen- 
uineness, with  the  author's  name  and 
the  year  and  place  of  publication  clearly 
set  forth  on  the  title-page.  I  have  care- 
fully compared  Zicari's  references  to  it, 
and  quotations  from  it,  with  the  original. 
They  are  correct,  save  for  a  few  insig- 
nificant verbal  discrepancies  which,  so 
far  as  I  can  judge,  betray  no  indication 
of  an  attempt  on  his  part  to  mislead  the 
reader,  such  as  using  the  word  tromba 
(trumpet)  instead  of  Salandra's  term 
sambuca  (sackbut). 

And  if  further  proof  of  authenticity  be 
required,  I  may  note  that  the  Adamo 
Caduto  of  Salandra  is  already  cited  in  old 
bibliographies  like  Toppi's  Biblioteca 
Napoletana  (1678),  or  that  of  Joannes 
a  S.  Antonio  (Biblioteca  universa  Fran- 
ciscana  etc.,  Madrid,  1732-1733,  vol.  Hi. 
page  88).  It  appears  to  have  been  the 
only  literary  production  of  its  author,  who 
was  a  Franciscan  monk  and  is  described 
as  "Preacher,  Lector  and  Destinator  of 
the  Reformed  Church  of  Basilicata." 

We  may  take  it,  then,  that  Salandra 
was  a  real  person,  who  published  a  mys- 
tery called  Adamo  Caduto  in  1647;  and 
I  will  now,  without  further  preamble,  ex- 
tract from  Zicari's  article  as  much  as  may 
be  sufficient  to  show  ground  for  his  con- 
tention that  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  is  a 
transfusion,  in  general  and  in  particular, 
of  this  same  mystery. 

Salandra's  central  theme  is  the  Urn- 


698 


Another  Source  of  " Paradise  Lost'' 


verse  shattered  by  the  disobedience  of 
the  First  Man,  the  origin  of  our  unhap- 
piness  and  sins.  The  same  with  Milton. 
Salandra's  chief  personages  are  God 
and  His  angels;  the  first  man  and  wo- 
man; the  serpent;  Satan  and  his  angels. 
The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra,  at  the  opening  of  his  poem 
(the  prologue),  sets  forth  his  argument 
and  dwells  upon  the  creative  omnipotence 
and  his  works.  The  same  with  Milton. 
Salandra  then  describes  the  council  of 
the  rebel  angels,  their  fall  from  Heaven 
into  a  desert  and  sulphurous  region,  their 
discourses.  Man  is  enviously  spoken  of, 
and  his  fall  by  means  of  stratagem  de- 
cided upon;  it  is  resolved  to  reunite  in 
council  in  Pandemonium  or  the  Abyss, 
where  measures  may  be  adopted  to  the 
end  that  man  may  become  the  enemy  of 
God  and  the  prey  of  Hell.  The  same 
with  Milton. 

Salandra  personifies  Sin  and  Death, 
the  latter  being  the  child  of  the  former. 
The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra  describes  Omnipotence  fore- 
seeing the  effects  of  the  temptation  and 
fall  of  man,  and  preparing  his  redemp- 
tion. The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra  depicts  the  site  of  Paradise 
and  the  happy  life  there.  The  same  with 
Milton. 

Salandra  sets  forth  the  miraculous  cre- 
ation of  the  universe  and  of  man,  and  the 
virtues  of  the  forbidden  fruit.  The  same 
with  Milton. 

Salandra  reports  the  conversation  be- 
tween Eve  and  the  Serpent;  the  eating  of 
the  forbidden  fruit  and  the  despair  of  our 
first  parents.  The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra  describes  the  joy  of  Death 
at  the  discomfiture  of  Eve;  the  rejoicings 
in  Hell;  the  grief  of  Adam;  the  flight  of 
our  first  parents,  their  shame  and  re- 
pentance. The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra  anticipates  the  intercession 
of  the  Redeemer,  and  the  overthrow  of 
Sin  and  Death ;  he  dwells  upon  the  won- 
ders of  the  Creation,  the  murder  of  Abel 
by  his  brother  Cain,  and  other  human 
ills;  the  vices  of  the  Antediluvians,  due 


to  the  fall  of  Adam ;  the  infernal  gift  of 
war.  The  same  with  Milton. 

Salandra  describes  the  passion  of 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  comforts  which 
Adam  and  Eve  receive  from  the  angel 
who  announces  the  coming  of  the  Mes- 
siah; lastly,  their  departure  from  the 
earthly  paradise.  The  same  with  Milton. 

So  much  for  the  general  scheme  of  both 
poems.  And  now  for  a  few  particular 
points  of  resemblance,  verbal  and  other- 
wise. 

The  character  of  Milton's  Satan,  with 
the  various  facets  of  pride,  envy,  vindict- 
iveness,  despair,  and  impenitence  which 
go  to  form  that  harmonious  whole,  are 
already  clearly  mapped  out  in  the  Luci- 
fero  of  Salandra.  For  this  statement, 
which  I  find  correct,  Zicari  gives  chapter 
and  verse,  but  it  would  take  far  too  long 
to  set  forth  the  matter  in  this  place.  The 
speeches  of  Lucifero,  to  be  sure,  read 
rather  like  a  caricature,  —  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  Salandra  was  writing  for 
lower-class  theatrical  spectators,  and  not 
for  refined  readers,  —  but  the  elements 
which  Milton  has  utilized  are  already 
there. 

Here   is   a   verbal   coincidence:  — 

Here  we  may  reign  secure     .     .     . 
Better  to  reign  in  Hell  than  serve  in  Heaven. 
—  MILTON  (i,  258). 
.     .     .     Qul  propria  voglia, 
Son  capo,  son  qul  duce,  son  lor  Prence. 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  49). 
And  another :  — 

.     .     .  Whom  shall  we  find 
Sufficient  ?     .     .     .     This  enterprise 
None  shall  partake  with  me. 

—  MILTON  (ii,  403,  465). 
A  chi  bastera  1'anima  di  voi  ? 
.     .     .     certo  che  quest1  aff are 
A  la  mia  man  s'aspetta. 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  64). 

Milton's  Terror  is  partially  taken  from 
the  Megera  of  the  Italian  poet.  The 
"grisly  Terror"  threatens  Satan  (ii,  699), 
and  the  office  of  Megera,  in  Salandra's 
drama,  is  exactly  the  same  —  that  is, 
to  threaten  and  chastise  the  rebellious 
spirit,  which  she  does  very  effectually 
(pages  123  to  131).  The  identical  mon- 


Another  Source  of  "  Paradise  Lost" 


sters  —  Cerberus,  Hydras,  and  Chimseras 
—  are  found  in  their  respective  abodes, 
but  Salandra  does  not  content  himself 
with  these  three;  his  list  includes  such 
a  mixed  assemblage  of  creatures  as  owls, 
basilisks,  dragons,  tigers,  bears,  croco- 
diles, sphynxes,  harpies,  and  panthers. 
Terror  moves  with  dread  rapidity :  — 

.-    .     .     and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides.  —  MILTON  (ii,  675). 

and  so  does  Megera  •  — 

In  atterir,  in  spaventar  son     .     .     . 
Rapido  si  ch'  ogni  ripar  e  vano. 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  59). 

Both  Milton  and  Salandra  use  the 
names  of  the  gods  of  antiquity  for  their 
demons,  but  the  narrative  epic  of  the 
English  poet  naturally  permitted  of  far 
greater  prolixity  and  variety  in  this  re- 
spect. A  most  curious  parallelism  exists 
between  Milton's  Belial  and  that  of 
Salandra.  Both  are  described  as  luxuri- 
ous, timorous,  slothful,  and  scoffing,  and 
there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Mil- 
ton has  taken  over  these  mixed  attributes 
from  the  Italian.1 

The  words  of  Milton's  Beelzebub  (ii, 
368):  — 

Seduce  them  to  our  party,  that  their  god 
May  prove  their  foe     .     .     . 

are  copied  from  those  of  the  Italian 
Lucifero  (p.  52): — 

.     .     .  Facciam 

Acci6,  che  1'  hnom  divenga 

A  Dio  nemico     .     .     . 

Regarding  the  creation  of  the  world, 
Salandra  asks  (p.  11):  — 

Qual  lingua  pu6  di  Dio, 

Benche  da  Dio  formato 

Lodar  di  Dio  le  meraviglie  estreme  ? 

which  is  thus  echoed  by  Milton  (vii,  112): 

.     .     .     to  recount  almighty  works 
What  words  or  tongue  of  Seraph  can  suffice  ? 

1  This  is  one  of  the  occasions  in  which  Zicari 
appears,  at  first  sight,  to  have  stretched  a  point 
in  order  to  improve  his  case,  because,  in  the 
reference  he  gives,  it  is  Behemoth,  and  not 
Belial,  who  speaks  of  himself  as  cowardly  (im- 
belle).  But  in  another  place  Lucifer  applies 
this  designation  to  Belial  as  well. 


There  is  a  considerable  resemblance 
between  the  two  poets  in  their  descrip- 
tions of  Paradise  and  of  its  joys.  In  both 
poems,  too,  Adam  warns  his  spouse  of 
her  frailty,  and  in  the  episode  of  Eve's 
meeting  with  the  serpent,  there  are  no 
less  than  four  verbal  coincidences.  Thus 
Salandra  writes  (page  68) :  — 

Ravviso  gli  animal,  ch'  a  schiera  a  schiera 

Gia  fanno  humil  e  reverente  inclino     .     .     . 

Ravveggio  il  bel  serpente  avvolto  in  giri ; 

0  sei  bello 

Con  tanta  varieta  che  certo  sembri 

Altro  stellato  ciel,  smaltata  terra. 

0  che  sento,  tuparli  ? 

and  Milton  transcribes  it  as  follows  (ix, 
517-554):  — 

.     .     .  She  minded  not,  as  used 
To  such  disport  before  her  through  the  field 
From  every  beast,  more  duteous  at  her  call .  .  . 
Curled  many  a  wanton  wreath  in  sight  of  Eve. 
His  turret  crest  and  sleek  enamelled  neck  .  .  . 
What  may  this  mean  ?   Language  of  man  pro- 
nounced 
By  tongue  of  brute  ? 

Altogether,  Zicari  has  observed  that 
Rolli,  although  unacquainted  with  the 
Adamo  Caduto,  has  sometimes  inadvert- 
ently hit  upon  the  same  words  in  his 
Italian  translation  of  Milton  which  Sa- 
landra had  used  before  him. 

Eve's  altered  complexion  after  the  eat- 
ing of  the  forbidden  fruit  is  noted  by  both 
poets :  — 

Torbata  ne  la  faccia  ?     Non  sei  quella 
Qual  ti  lasciai  contenta     .     .     . 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  89). 
Thus  Eve  with  countenance  blithe  her  story 

told; 

But  in  her  cheek  distemper  flushing  glowed. 
—  MILTON  (ix,  886), 

only  with  this  difference,  that  the  Italian 
Eve  adds  an  unnecessary  half-lie  by  way 
of  explaining  the  change:  — 

.  .  .  Forse  cangiata  (del  che  non  mi  avveggio) 
Sono  nel  volto  per  la  tua  partenza.  —  (p.  89.) 

In  both  poems  Sin  and  Death  reap- 
pear on  the  scene  after  the  transgression. 

The  flight  of  Innocence  from  earth; 
the  distempered  lust  which  dominates 
over  Adam  and  Eve  after  the  Fall;  the 
league  of  Sin  and  Death  to  rule  hence- 


700 


Another  Source  of  "Paradise  Lost" 


forward  over  the  world;  the  pathetic  la- 
ment of  Adam  regarding  his  misfortune 
and  the  evils  in  store  for  his  progeny ;  his 
noble  sentiment,  that  none  can  withdraw 
himself  from  the  all-seeing  eye  of  God  — 
all  these  are  images  which  Milton  has 
copied  from  Salandra. 

Adam's  state  of  mind,  after  the  fall,  is 
compared  by  Salandra  to  a  boat  tossed 
by  impetuous  winds  (p.  228) :  — 

Qua!  agitato  leg-no  d'Austro,  e  Noto, 
Instabile  incostante,  non  hai  pace, 
Tu  vivi  pur     .     .     . 

which  is  thus  paraphrased  in  Milton 
(ix,  1122):- 

.  High  winds  worse  within 
Began  to  rise  .  .  .  and  shook  sore 
Their  inward  state  of  mind,  calm  region  once 
And  full  of  peace,  now  tossed  and  turbulent. 

Here  is  a  still  more  palpable  adapta- 
tion :  — 

.     .     .  So  God  ordains  : 
God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine. 

—  MILTON  (iv,  636). 
.  Un  voler  sia  d'  entrambi, 
E  quel'  uno  di  noi,  di  Dio  sia  tutto. 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  42). 

After  the  Fall,  according  to  Salandra, 
vacillb  la  terra  (1),  geme  (2),  e  pianse  (3), 
rumoreggiano  i  tuoni  (4),  accompagnati 
da  grandini  (5);  e  dense  nevi  (6),  (pages 
138,  142,  218).  Milton  translates  this 
as  follows:  Earth  trembled  from  her 
entrails  (1),  and  nature  gave  a  second 
groan  (2);  sky  loured  and,  muttering 
thunders  (4),  some  sad  drops  wept  (3), 
the  winds,  armed  with  ice  and  snow  (6) 
and  hail  (5).  (Paradise  Lost,  ix,  1000, 
x,  697). 

Here  is  another  translation :  — 
.     .     .    inclino  il  cielo 

Giu  ne  la  terra,  a  questa  il  Ciel  innalza. 

—  SALANDRA  (p.  242). 

And  Earth  be  changed  to  Heaven,  and  Heaven 
to  Earth.  —  MILTON  (vii,  160). 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  do  Zicari's 
work  over  again,  as  this  would  entail  a 
complete  translation  of  his  long  article  (it 
contains  nearly  ten  thousand  words),  to 
which,  if  the  thing  is  to  be  done  properly, 
must  be  appended  Salandra's  Adamo,  in 
order  that  his  quotations  from  it  can  be 


tested.  I  will  therefore  refer  to  the  orig- 
inals those  who  wish  to  go  into  the  sub- 
ject more  fully,  warning  them,  en  passant, 
that  they  may  find  the  task  of  verification 
more  troublesome  than  it  seems,  owing 
to  a  stupid  mistake  on  Zicari's  part.  For 
in  his  references  to  Milton,  he  claims 
(page  252)  to  use  an  1818  Venice  trans- 
lation of  the  Paradise  Lost  by  Rolli. 
Now  Rolli's  Paradiso  Perduto  is  a  well- 
known  work  which  was  issued  in  many 
editions  in  London,  Paris,  and  Italy 
throughout  the  eighteenth  century.  But 
I  cannot  trace  this  particular  one  of 
Venice,  and  application  to  many  of  the 
chief  libraries  of  Italy  has  convinced 
me  that  it  does  not  exist,  and  that  1818 
must  be  a  misprint  for  some  other  year. 
The  error  would  be  of  no  significance  if 
Zicari  had  referred  to  Rolli's  Paradiso 
by  the  usual  system  of  cantos  and  lines, 
but  he  refers  to  it  by  pages,  and  the  pagi- 
nation differs  in  every  one  of  the  editions 
of  Rolli  which  have  passed  through  my 
hands.  For  my  sins,  as  the  Italians  say, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  hit  upon  the  pre- 
cise one  which  Zicari  had  in  mind,  and 
if  future  students  are  equally  unfortun- 
ate, I  wish  them  joy  of  their  labors.1 

These  few  extracts,  however,  willjsuf- 
fice  to  show  that,  without  Salandra's 
Adamo,  the  Paradise  Lost,  as  we  know 
it,  would  not  be  in  existence;  and  that 
Zicari's  discovery  is  therefore  one  of 
primary  importance  for  English  letters, 
although  it  would  be  easy  to  point  out 
divergencies  between  the  two  works  — 
divergencies  often  due  to  the  varying 
tastes  and  feelings  of  a  republican  Eng- 
lishman and  an  Italian  Catholic,  and  to 
the  different  conditions  imposed  by  an 
epic  and  a  dramatic  poem.  Thus,  in  re- 
gard to  this  last  point,  Zicari  has  already 
noted  (page  270)  that  Salandra's  scenic 
acts  were  necessarily  reproduced  in  the 
form  of  visions  by  Milton,  who  could  not 

1  Let  me  take  this  opportunity  of  expressing 
my  best  thanks  to  Baron  E.  Tortora  Brayda, 
of  the  Naples  Biblioteca  Nazionale,  who  has 
sacrificed  his  time  to  help  me,  and  has  taken 
an  infinity  of  trouble  in  this  matter. 


Another  Source  of  " Paradise  Lost" 


701 


avail  himself  of  the  mechanism  of  the 
drama  for  this  purpose.  Milton  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  traveler,  scholar,  and 
politician;  but  it  will  not  do  for  us  to 
insist  too  vehemently  upon  the  probable 
mental  inferiority  of  the  Calabrian  monk, 
in  view  of  the  high  opinion  which  Milton 
seems  to  have  had  of  his  talents.  Imita- 
tion is  the  sincerest  form  of  flattery.  The 
Adamo  Caduto,  of  course,  is  only  one  of  a 
series  of  similar  works  concerning  which 
a  large  literature  has  now  grown  up,  and 
it  might  not  be  difficult  to  prove  that 
Salandra  was  indebted  to  some  previous 
writer  for  those  words  and  phrases  which 
he  passed  on  to  the  English  poet. 

But  where  did  Milton  become  ac- 
quainted with  this  tragedy?  It  was  at 
Naples,  according  to  Cowper  (Milton, 
vol.  iii,  page  206),  that  the  English  poet 
may  first  have  entertained  the  idea  of 
"the  loss  of  paradise  as  a  subject  pecul- 
iarly fit  for  poetry."  He  may  well  have 
discussed  sacred  tragedies,  like  those  of 
Andreini,  with  the  Marquis  Manso.  But 
Milton  had  returned  to  England  long 
before  Salandra's  poem  was  printed ;  nor 
can  Manso  have  sent  him  a  copy  of  it, 
for  he  died  in  1645,  —  two  years  before 
its  publication,  — and  Zicari  is  thus  mis- 
taken in  assuming  (page  245)  that  Mil- 
ton became  acquainted  with  it  in  the 
house  of  the  Neapolitan  nobleman.  Un- 
less, therefore,  we  take  for  granted  that 
Manso  was  intimate  with  the  author 
Salandra  —  he  knew  most  of  his  literary 
countrymen  —  and  sent  or  gave  to  Mil- 
ton a  copy  of  the  manuscript  of  Adamo 
before  it  was  printed,  or  that  Milton  was 
personally  familiar  with  Salandra,  we 
may  conclude  that  the  poem  was  for- 
warded to  him  from  Italy  by  some  other 
friend,  perhaps  by  some  member  of  the 
Accademia  degli  Oziosi  which  Manso  had 
founded. 

A  chance  therefore  seems  to  have  de- 
cided Milton:  Salandra's  tragedy  fell 
into  his  hands  and  was  welded  into  the 
epic  form  which  he  had  designed  for 
Arthur  the  Great,  even  as,  in  later  years, 
a  chance  question  on  the  part  of  Elwood 


led  to  his  writing  Paradise  Regained.1 
For  this  poem  there  were  not  so  many 
models  handy  as  for  the  other,  but  Mil- 
ton has  written  too  little  to  enable  us  to 
decide  how  far  its  inferiority  to  the  earlier 
epic  is  due  to  this  fact,  and  how  far  to 
the  inherent  inertia  of  its  subject-matter. 
Little  movement  can  be  contrived  in  a 
mere  dialogue  such  as  Paradise  Re- 
gained ,  it  lacks  the  grandiose  mise-en- 
scene  and  the  shifting  splendors  of  the 
greater  epic;  the  stupendous  figure  of 
the  rebellious  archangel,  the  true  hero 
of  Paradise  Lost,  is  here  dwarfed  into  a 
puny,  malignant  sophist;  nor  is  the  final 
issue  in  the  later  poem  even  for  a  moment 
in  doubt,  —  a  serious  defect  from  an  artis- 
tic point  of  view.  Jortin  holds  its  peculiar 
excellence  to  be  "artful  sophistry,  false 
reasoning,  set  off  in  the  most  specious 
manner,  and  refuted  by  the  Son  of  God 
with  strong  unaffected  eloquence:" 
merits  for  which  Milton  needed  no  origi- 
nal of  any  kind,  as  his  own  lofty  religious 
sentiments,  his  argumentative  talents, 
and  long  experience  of  political  pam- 
phleteering, stood  him  in  good  stead. 
Most  of  us  must  have  wondered  how  it 
came  about  that  Milton  "could  not  en- 
dure to  hear  Paradise  Lost  preferred  to 
Paradise  Regained"  in  view  of  the  very 
apparent  inferiority  of  the  latter.  If  we 
had  known  what  Milton  knew,  namely, 
to  how  large  an  extent  Paradise  Lost  was 
not  the  child  of  his  own  imagination  and 
therefore  not  so  precious  in  his  eyes  as 
Paradise  Regained,  we  might  have  un- 
derstood, though  never  shared,  his  pre- 
judice. 

Certain  parts  of  Paradise  Lost  are 
drawn,  as  we  all  know,  from  other  Ital- 
ian sources,  from  Sannazario,  Ariosto, 
Guarini,  Bojardo,  and  others.  Zicari,  who, 
it  must  be  said,  has  made  the  best  of  his 
case,  will  have  it  that  the  musterings  and 
battles  of  the  good  and  evil  angels  are 
copied  from  the  Angeleide  of  Valvasone 

1  Thou  hast  said  much  of  Paradise  Lost,  but 
what  hast  thou  to  say  of  Paradise  Found  ?  He 
made  no .  answer,  but  sat  some  time  in  a 
muse.  .  .  . 


Another  Source'  of  "  Paradise  Lost " 


published  at  Milan  in  1590.  But  G,  Poli- 
dori,  who  has  reprinted  the  Angeleide 
in  his  Italian  version  of  Milton  (London, 
1840),  has  gone  into  this  matter  and 
thinks  otherwise.  These  devil-and-angel 
combats  were  a  popular  theme  at  the 
time,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  the 
English  poet  should  copy  continental 
writers  in  such  descriptions,  which  neces- 
sarily have  a  common  resemblance.  The 
Marquis  Manso  was  very  friendly  with 
the  poets  Tasso  and  Marino,  and  it  is 
also  to  be  remarked  that  entire  passages 
in  Paradise  Lost  are  copied,  totidem  ver- 
bis,  from  the  writings  of  these  two,  Manso 
having  no  doubt  drawn  Milton's  atten- 
tion to  their  beauties.  In  fact,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  Manso's  notorious 
enthusiasm  for  the  warlike  epic  of  Tasso 
may  first  of  all  have  diverted  Milton 
from  purely  pastoral  ideals  and  inflamed 
him  with  the  desire  of  accomplishing  a 
similar  feat,  whence  the  well-known  lines 
in  Milton's  Latin  verses  to  this  friend, 
which  contain  the  first  indication  of  such 
a  design  on  his  part.  Even  the  familiar 
invocation,  "Hail,  wedded  Love,"  is 
bodily  drawn  from  one  of  Tasso's  letters. 
(See  Newton's  Milton,  1773,  vol.  i,  pages 
312  and  313.) 

It  has  been  customary  to  speak  of  these 
literary  appropriations  as  "imitations;" 
but  whoever  compares  them  with  the 
originals  will  find  that  many  of  them  are 
more  correctly  termed  translations.  The 
case,  from  a  literary-moral  point  of  view, 
is  different  as  regards  ancient  writers, 
and  it  is  surely  idle  to  accuse  Milton,  as 
has  been  done,  of  pilferings  from  JSschy- 
lus  or  Ovid.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
robbing  the  classics.  They  are  our  liter- 
ary fathers,  and  what  they  have  left  be- 
hind them  is  our  common  heritage;  we 
may  adapt,  borrow,  or  steal  from  them  as 
much  as  will  suit  our  purpose;  to  ac- 
knowledge such  "thefts"  is  sheer  ped- 
antry and  ostentation.  But  Salandra 
and  the  rest  of  them  were  Milton's  con- 
temporaries. It  is  certainly  an  astonish- 
ing fact  that  no  scholar  of  the'  stamp'of 
Thyer  was  acquainted  with  the  Adamo 


Caduto  ;  and  it  says  much  for  the  isola- 
tion of  England  that,  at  a  period  when 
poems  on  the  subject  of  paradise  lost 
were  being  scattered  broadcast  in  Italy 
and  elsewhere,  —  when,  in  short,  all 
Europe  was  ringing  with  the  doleful  his- 
tory of  Adam  and  Eve,  —  Milton  could 
have  ventured  to  speak  of  his  work  as 
"Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or 
rhyme," — an  amazing  verse  which,  by 
the  way,  is  literally  transcribed  out  of 
Ariosto  ("Cosa,  non  detta  in  prosa  mai, 
ne  in  rima").  But  even  now  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  British  public  with  the  pro- 
ductions of  continental  writers  is  super- 
ficial and  spasmodic,  and  such  was  the 
ignorance  of  English  scholars  of  this  ear- 
lier period,  that  Birch  maintained  that 
Milton's  drafts,  to  be  referred  to  present- 
ly, indicated  his  intention  of  writing  an 
opera  (!);  while  as  late  as  1776  the  poet 
Mickle,  notwithstanding  Voltaire's  au- 
thority, questioned  the  very  existence  of 
Andreini,  who  has  written  thirty  different 
pieces. 

Some  idea  of  the  time  when  Salandra's 
tragedy  reached  Milton  might  be  gained 
if  we  knew  the  date  of  his  manuscript 
projects  for  Paradise  Lost  and  other  writ- 
ings which  are  preserved  at  Cambridge. 
R.  Garnett  (Life  of  Milton,  1890,  page 
129)  supposes  these  drafts  to  date  from 
about  1640  to  1642,  and  I  am  not  suf- 
ficiently learned  in  Miltonian  lore  to 
controvert  or  corroborate  in  a  general 
way  this  assertion.  But  the  date  must 
certainly  be  pushed  further  forward  in 
the  case  of  the  skeletons  for  Paradise  Lost, 
which  are  modeled  to  a  great  extent  upon 
Salandra's  Adamo  of  1647,  though  other 
compositions  may  also  have  been  present 
before  Milton's  mind,  such  as  that  men- 
tioned on  page  234  of  the  second  volume 
of  Todd's  Milton,  from  which  he  seems 
to  have  drawn  the  hint  of  a  "prologue 
spoken  by  Moses." 

Without  going  into  the  matter  exhaust- 
ively as  it  deserves,  I  will  only  say  that 
from  these  pieces  it  is  clear  that  Milton's 
primary  idea  was  to  write,  like  Salandra, 
a  sacred  tragedy  upon  this  theme,  and 


Another  Source  of  "  Paradise  Lost 


703 


not  an  epic.  These  drafts  also  contain  a 
chorus,  such  as  Salandra  has  placed  in 
his  drama,  and  a  great  number  of  mutes, 
who  do  not  figure  in  the  English  epic,  but 
who  reappear  in  the  Adamo  Caduto  and 
all  similar  works.  Even  Satan  is  here 
designated  as  Lucifer,  in  accordance  with 
the  Italian  Lucifero,  and  at  the  end  of 
one  of  Milton's  drafts  we  read  "at  last 
appears  Mercy,  comforts  him,  promises 
the  Messiah,  etc.,"  which  is  exactly  what 
Salandra's  Misericordia  (Mercy)  does  in 
the  same  place. 

Milton  no  doubt  kept  on  hand  many 
loose  passages  of  poetry,  both  original 
and  borrowed,  ready  to  be  worked  up 
into  larger  pieces;  all  poets  are  smoth- 
ered in  odd  scraps  of  verse  and  lore 
which  they  "fit  in"  as  occasion  requires; 
and  it  is  therefore  quite  possible  that 
some  fragments  now  included  in  Para- 
dise Lost  may  have  been  complete  before 
the  Adamo  Caduto  was  printed.  I  am 
referring,  more  especially,  to  Satan's  ad- 
dress to  the  sun,  which  Philips  says  was 
written  before  the  commencement  of  the 
epic.  Admitting  Philips  to  be  correct,  I 
still  question  whether  this  invocation  was 
composed  before  Milton's  visit  to  Naples ; 
and  if  it  was,  the  poet  may  well  have 
intended  it  for  some  other  of  the  multi- 
tudinous works  which  these  drafts  show 
him  to  have  been  revolving  in  his  mind, 
or  for  none  of  them  in  particular. 

De  Quincey  rightly  says  that  Addison 
gave  the  initial  bias  in  favor  of  Paradise 
Lost  to  the  English  national  mind,  which 
has  thenceforward  shrunk,  as  Addison 
himself  did,  from  a  dispassionate  contem- 
plation of  its  defects;  the  idea  being,  I 
presume,  that  a  "  divine  poem  "  in  a 
manner  disarmed  rational  criticism.  And, 
strange  to  say,  even  the  few  faults  which 
earlier  scholars  did  venture  to  point  out 
in  Milton's  poem  will  be  found  in  that  of 
Salandra.  There  is  the  same  superabun- 
dance of  allegory ;  the  same  confusion  of 


spirit  and  matter  among'the  supernatural 
persons;  the  same  lengthy  astronomical 
treatise;  the  same  personification  of  Sin 
and  Death ;  the  same  medley  of  Christian 
and  pagan  mythology;  the  same  tedious 
historico-theological  disquisition  at  the 
end  of  both  poems. 

For  the  rest,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
we  have  outgrown  our  fastidiousness  on 
some  of  these  points.  Theological  fervor 
has  abated,  and  in  a  work  of  the  pure 
imagination,  as  Paradise  Lost  is  now  — 
is  it  not  ?  —  considered  to  be,  there  is 
nothing  incongruous  or  offensive  in  an 
amiable  commingling  of  Semitic  and 
Hellenic  deities  after  the  approved  Ital- 
ian recipe ;  nor  do  a  few  long  words  about 
geography  or  science  disquiet  us  any 
more :  Milton  was  not  writing  for  an  un- 
civilized mob,  and  his  occasional  displays 
of  erudition  will  represent  to  a  cultured 
person  only  those  breathing  spaces  so  re- 
freshing in  all  epic  poetry.  That  Milton's 
language  is  saturated  with  Latinisms 
and  Italianisms  is  perfectly  true.  His 
English  may  not  have  been  good  enough 
for  his  contemporaries,  but  it  is  quite 
good  enough  for  us.  That  "grand  man- 
ner" which  Matthew  Arnold  claimed  for 
Milton,  that  sustained  pitch  of  kingly 
elaboration  and  fullness,  is  not  wholly  an 
affair  of  high  moral  tone;  it  results  in 
part  from  the  humbler  ministrations  of 
words  happily  chosen,  —  from  a  felici- 
tous alloy  of  Mediterranean  grace  and 
Saxon  mettle.  For,  whether  consciously 
or  not,  we  cannot  but  be  influenced  by  the 
color-effects  of  mere  words,  that  arouse 
in  us  definite  but  indefinable  moods  of 
mind.  To  complain  of  the  foreign  phrase- 
ology and  turns  of  thought  in  Paradise 
Lost,  would  be  the  blackest  ingratitude 
nowadays,  seeing  that  our  language  has 
become  enriched  by  steady  gleams  of 
pomp  and  sumptuous  amplitude  due,  in 
large  part,  to  the  peculiar  lustre  of  Mil- 
ton's comely  importations. 


SNUFF-BOXES 

BY   HOLBROOK  WHITE 


AT  an  auction  the  other  day,  in  Paris, 
a  small  Louis  XVI  snuff-box,  without 
jewels,  but  enriched  with  miniature  land- 
scapes by  Van  Blarenbergh,  fetched  the 
large  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars.  No 
particular  association  was  attached  to  the 
box.  The  price  was  paid  for  it  as  a  piece 
of  fine  workmanship  of  the  period. 

Interest  in  these  trinklets  does  not  de- 
pend on  a  knowledge  of  their  exact  his- 
tory. Fancies  and  suggestions,  pungent 
as  was  ever  the  powder  they  inclosed, 
play  about  them.  The  fopperies  and  the 
coquetries  of  "snuff-box  time  "  start  into 
life  at  the  snapping  of  a  corn.  It  is  sur- 
prising that  in  these  days  when  we  are 
inebriated,  if  not  cheered,  by  the  "music 
of  to-morrow,"  some  genius  has  not  given 
us  a  Snuff-box  Suite.  There  are  great  pos- 
sibilities in  a  tone-poem  written  around 
this  Van  Blarenbergh  box,  for  instance. 
Melodies  lurk  in  its  substance.  To  the 
ear  of  the  mind  it  sings. 

You  can  hear  the  rustle  of  brocades; 
the  click  of  red-heeled,  diamond-buckled 
shoes  upon  marble  floors ;  the  tap  of  canes 
on  stairs  and  terraces;  the  sound  of  lutes, 
touched  softly  au  claw  de  luney  in  gardens 
already  musical  with  fountains;  ripples 
of  laughter  from  bowers  and  yew  alleys ; 
snatches  of  gay  chansons  caught  from 
boats  that  float  up  winding  rivers,  in  a 
landscape  as  enchanting  as  that  of  fairy 
tales.  There  are  passages  pitched  in 
another  key  —  echoes  of  tempestuous 
days;  an  insistent  clamor  of  women  and 
children  for  bread ;  a  roar  of  sullen  mobs ; 
a  sinister  rumble  of  carts;  the  sound  of 
many  feet  mounting  wooden  steps  — 
some  firm  and  unafraid,  some  halting 
and  timid ;  a  horrid  silence,  then  laughter 
more  horrid.  The  last  movement  of  the 
tonal  poem  might  consist  of  prolonged 
chords,  indicative  of  "repose  in  a  mu- 

704 


seum  cabinet,"  with  perhaps  something 
in  the  way  of  sounding  brass  and  tink- 
ling cymbals  to  hint  at  that  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

Sylvain  Pons  was  the  first  collector  of 
snuff-boxes.  So  Balzac  tells  us,  —  and 
who  should  know  more  about  it  than 
Balzac? 

Since  the  day  of  Cousin  Pons,  amiable 
hobby-rider,  the  collectors  have  increased 
to  a  multitude;  as  insatiable  a  crowd  as 
those  relatives  of  his,  though  possibly 
more  intelligent. 

Considering  the  number  and  the  greed 
of  all  these  traffickers  far  from  shy,  we 
wonder  that  no  more  of  the  bits  of  artistry 
have  come  down  to  us.  Innumerable  as 
the  flakes  of  last  year's  snow,  they  have 
melted  away  about  as  completely.  With 
the  remnant  of  Judah,  they  lift  up  their 
voice,  "For  we  are  left  but  a  few  of 
many."  Everybody  carried  one,  be  he 
dandy  or  grave-digger.  Their  fashion 
changed  as  often  as  that  of  coat-buttons 
and  cravats.  Nothing  short  of  wireless 
telegraphy  would  have  served  to  keep  the 
provincial  beaux  informed  as  to  the  latest 
productions.  Indeed,  it  required  no  small 
agility  on  the  part  of  London  swells  to 
"catch,  ere  it  changed,  the  snuff-box  of 
the  minute." 

The  Spectator  comments,  one  morning, 
on  the  experience  of  a  lawyer,  who,  in 
traveling  over  his  circuit,  observed  the 
style  of  periwig  to  be  becoming  more  and 
more  antiquated  at  every  stage  of  his 
journey,  till  in  the  remote  districts  he 
might  well  have  supposed  himself  back 
in  the  reign  of  King  Charles.  So  Beau 
Brummel  might  calculate  degrees  of  lon- 
gitude from  the  meridian  of  fashion  at 
St.  James,  by  the  style  of  the  snuff-boxes 
extended  to  him,  in  his  "progresses." 

One  courtier  of  Queen  Anne  owned  a 


Snuff-Boxes 


705 


box  for  every  day  in  the  year.  What  de- 
lectable half -hours  he  must  have  spent, 
as  he  tarried  over  his  choice  of  that  array ! 
What  nicety  of  taste  he  must  have  em- 
ployed in  the  selection  of  a  pattern  that 
answered  best  the  demands  of  his  engage- 
ments! 

We  could  not  enjoy  ourselves  in  that 
way  to-day,  — there  is  not  time  enough. 
The  days  must  have  been  longer  then  — 
much  longer. 

A  man  could  not  be  too  fastidious  in 
the  matter.  We  have  it  upon  the  author- 
ity of  Brummell  himself  that  snuff-boxes 
must  observe  their  seasons ;  and  we  have 
heard  from  a  higher  authority  even  than 
he,  that  "things  by  season  seasoned  are 
to  their  true  perfection."  One  would  not 
care  to  pass  among  the  politicians  at  the 
Coffee-house  the  trifle  in  pink  enamel 
and  brilliants  that  one  played  with  so 
prettily  in  Ardelia's  boudoir.  The  French 
nobleman  who  asked  for  a  moment's 
respite  on  the  scaffold,  in  which  to  enjoy 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  could  hardly  choose  to 
look,  just  then,  on  his  favorite  box,  beset 
with  the  sapphires  whose  radiant  color 
matched  the  blue  of  Clotilde's  eyes. 
There  are  occasions  and  causes,  why  and 
wherefore,  in  all  things  —  even  in  snuff- 
boxes. 

They  tell  of  Beau  Nash  that,  in  the  hey- 
day of  his  Bath  glory,  he  received  fine 
boxes  enough,  as  presents,  to  furnish  out 
a  shop.  There  appears  to  have  been  a 
prodigious  number  of  them  required  to 
satisfy  the  gift-giving  mania.  Letters  and 
memoirs  of  the  period  make  it  plain  that 
everybody  was  continually  presenting, 
or  being  presented  with,  a  snuff-box.  No 
matter  what  the  occasion  —  christening 
or  coronation  —  it  was  a  chance  to  flour- 
ish the  usual  gift ;  till  a  man  might  review 
the  events  of  his  life  in  the  company  of 
his  boxes. 

In  an  account  of  the  money  expended 
at  the  coronation  of  George  IV,  we  read 
the  entry,  "For  snuff-boxes  to  foreign 
ministers,  £8205  15  5." 

Talleyrand  said  once  that  snuff-taking 
was  a  necessary  habit  for  politicians,  be- 
VOL.  102 -NO.  5 


cause  it  gave  them  time  for  thought  in 
case  of  awkward  questions,  and  enabled 
them  to  hide  the  expression  of  their  faces 
at  critical  moments.  Some  of  those  "for- 
eign ministers"  must  have  made  pretty 
constant  use  of  the  snuff-box  gifts  at  the 
court  of  George  IV.  We  could  not  expect 
to  find  any  one  of  those  boxes  in  existence. 
They  met  the  fate  that  Falstaff  feared, 
"scoured  to  nothing  with  perpetual  mo- 
tion." 

The  greatest  gentleman  in  Europe, 
himself,  cuts  a  sorry  figure  in  one  snuff- 
box episode :  when  Beau  Brummell,  fallen 
at  last  into  abject  misery,  sent  a  box 
filled  with  his  favorite  snuff  to  the  King, 
hoping  for  some  manner  of  kind  recog- 
nition, "  and  the  King  took  the  snuff,  and 
had  not  the  grace  to  notice  his  old  com- 
panion, favorite,  rival,  enemy,  superior." 
In  their  prime,  they  caught  the  light 
bravely  from  the  candles  of  palace  halls, 
fashionable  assembly  rooms,  and  great 
ladies'  saloons,  these  beaux  and  boxes; 
but  what  with  battering  years  and  man's 
inconstancy,  old  age  was  apt  to  find  them, 
box  and  beau  alike,  somewhat  hardly 
circumstanced  — 

Un-hinged,  un-jewelled,  and  un-owned  ! 
The  "  nice  conduct "  of  his  snuff-box 
was  as  much  a  matter  of  solicitude  to  Sir 
Fopling  Flutter  as  the  fetching  manoeu- 
vres of  her  fan  to  Lady  Modish.  To  rap 
the  box  with  hauteur,  to  open  the  cover 
with  nonchalance,  to  lift  the  pinch  of 
powder  daintily,  to  inhale  it  discreetly, 
to  flick  a  fallen  grain  from  a  lace  ruffle 
debonairly,  —  all  this  was  not  to  be  ac- 
quired in  a  day.  It  required  infinite  pains 
to  master  the  exercise,  but  the  satisfac- 
tion in  performing  it  well  was  ineffable. 
There  were  subtle  nuances  to  be  ob- 
served in  the  offering  of  one's  box  to 
others,  which  called  for  the  cunning  of  a 
diplomatist.  A  degree  of  affability  to  be 
used  with  the  Duke  of  Highairs  would 
be  absurd  with  Sir  Plume,  and  simply 
scandalous  with  plain  Jack  Knowall.  And 
there  were  party  manoeuvres  as  well.  If 
Lady  Froth  must  studiously  patch  her 
face  on  the  Tory  side,  you  may  be  sure 


706 


Snuff 'Boxes 


my  Lord  Smart  was  careful  that  his 
snuff-box  was  of  the  precise  Whig  size 
and  fashion. 

The  Taller,  receiving  a  curious  letter, 
one  day,  from  some  fop  with  whom  he 
has  no  acquaintance,  decides,  "I'll  call 
at  Bubbleboy's  shop,  and  find  out  the 
shape  of  the  fellow's  snuff-box,  by  which 
I  can  settle  his  character." 

One  of  the  most  interesting  boxes  we 
have  seen  is  an  old  English  song-book, 
bound  in  leather,  with  a  divided  brass 
clasp ;  one  half  the  clasp  serving  to  secure 
the  leaves  of  the  book,  the  other  half 
fastening  a  metal  receptacle  for  snuff. 
Here,  surely,  was  an  ingenious  weapon 
for  the  killing  of  time. 

Imagine  the  satisfaction  of  a  snuff- 
taking  scholar  who  could  possess  a  li- 
brary of  such  volumes! 

A  full  assurance  given  by  books ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  box. 

A  person  of  discrimination  would  adjust 
the  quality  of  the  snuff  in  each  box  to  the 
matter  of  the  book,  so  that  the  contents 
of  the  one  should  corroborate  the  con- 
tents of  the  other.  A  borrower  from  his 
shelves  would  never  be  disconcerted  by  a 
pinch  of  biting  rappee  from  the  volume 
of  Sir  John  Suckling's  Poems,  or  violet- 
scented  grains  from  Hobbes's  Leviathan. 
And  then  the  pleasing  capacity  of  some  of 
those  boxes,  — such,  for  instance,  as  could 
be  fitted  to  the  huge  folios  on  the  lower 
shelf,  Clarendon  or  Thomas  Aquinas! 

A  snuff-box  for  Polyphemus  himself! 

One  could  dip  into  it  at  the  close  of 
every  sentence,  yet  rest  assured  that  there 
was  enough  of  the  heartening  stimulant 
to  accompany  one  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter ;  and  at  the  same  time  be  agreeably  re- 
minded that  the  chapters  did  not  "go  all 
the  way."  It  would  be  no  small  thing, 
after  groping  through  such  a  region  of 
inky  darkness,  to  emerge  into  the  clear 
shining  of  that  brass  box. 

As  for  my  Lord  Fripperling,  he 
mightily  preferred  the  box  which  re- 
joiced in  a  mirror  set  in  the  lid.  A  look- 
ing-glass supplied  him  with  "  the  best 
company  in  the  world,"  and  with  the  only 


reflections  in  which  he  ever  indulged. 
Moreover,  he  found  these  toys  vastly  be- 
coming. A  sparkling  boite  d'or  in  a  white 
hand  shadowed  by  ruffles  of  paint  d'Alen- 
pon,  added  the  last  touch  of  elegance. 

Naturally,  the  style  of  his  snuff-box 
became  a  matter  of  tremendous  moment 
to  his  lordship.  He  might  be  in  a  fog  as 
to  what  Blenheim's  "  famous  victory  " 
was  "  all  about,"  but  he  knew  that  this 
"  Campaign,"  about  which  a  Mr.  Ad- 
dison  writ  a  poem,  "  monstrous  good, 
egad ! "  had  caused  a  rise  in  the  price  of 
snuff-boxes. 

That  was  not  a  small  matter,  to  be  sure. 
No  material  was  too  costly  to  use  in  their 
making.  Jade,  amber,  lapis-lazuli,  were, 
in  turn,  the  fashion.  Jewels  were  lav- 
ished on  them.  Eminent  goldsmiths  and 
miniature  painters  of  renown  put  their 
handiwork  into  them.  Petitot  himself 
produced  some  of  his  marvelous  enamels 
for  this  very  purpose.  Horace  Walpole 
esteemed  the  snuff-box  bearing  the  por- 
trait of  Madame  de  Sevigne  as  one  of 
his  choice  treasures,  along  with  Wolsey's 
hat  and  a  Crusader's  lance.  Museums 
rejoice  in  them ;  and  there  is  even  a 
church  in  England  that  numbers  in  its 
inventory  of  plate,  among  chalices  and 
candlesticks,  "  one  gold  snuff-box." 
That  is  what  may  be  called  making  a 
good  end.  But  perhaps  this  particular 
box  had  always  enjoyed  a  cloistered  ex- 
istence, twinkling  gravely  in  dim  aisle 
and  dimmer  chapel,  from  the  hands  of 
some  devout  old  canon,  who,  in  dying, 
bequeathed  to  the  church  his  most  valued 
earthly  possession. 

Some  collections  include  specimens 
of  Chinese  snuff-bottles,  —  they  took 
their  snuff  with  a  difference,  —  beautiful 
pieces  of  work  in  chalcedony  or  agate, 
with  carven  jade  stoppers.  A  tiny  spoon 
for  scooping  out  the  "titillating  dust" 
accompanied  the  bottle.  Snuff-spoons 
were  used  in  England,  too,  at  one  time, 
as  appears  from  an  old  comedy  in  which 
mention  is  made  of  "  Tunbridge  wooden 
box  with  wooden  spoon ; "  but  the  dandy 
did  not  take  kindly  to  the  idea.  Tun- 


Snuff-Boxes 


707 


bridge  was  one  of  many  centres  of  fashion 
that  contributed  to  the  snuff-box  host,  — 
a  terrestrial  galaxy  whose  stars  were  held 
to  differ,  one  from  another,  in  glory,  as 
did  the  comparatively  unconsidered  stars 
in  the  heavens  above. 

No  less  a  person  than  the  Emperor 
Joseph  II  summed  up  a  comparison  of 
the  musicians  of  his  day  with  the  remark 
that  Mozart  was  like  the  Parisian  snuff- 
box, Haydn  like  the  box  made  in  Eng- 
land. Happily  the  compositions  of  Haydn 
and  Mozart  survived  that  period,  so  that 
if  we  are  curious  as  to  the  relative  value 
of  English  snuff-boxes  arid  the  articles 
de  Paris,  we  need  only  comprehend  and 
compare  the  music  of  the  "  Creation," 
the  "  Requiem,"  and  the  "  Magic  Flute." 

Louis  le  Grand,  who  stooped  to  most 
of  the  follies  of  his  time,  did  not  adopt 
the  snuff-taking  habit,  but  his  indiffer- 
ence in  no  wise  affected  the  fashion. 
In  that  society  which  made  the  ancien 
regime  what  it  stands  for  to  us,  the 
quintessence  of  brilliancy,  elegance,  and 
esprit,  the  snuff-box  played  its  part.  It 
was,  oddly  enough,  the  subject  of  one  of 
Voltaire's  earliest  attempts  at  verse- 
making  :  — 

Adieu,  adieu,  poor  snuff-box  mine  ; 
Adieu  ;  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again  ; 

a  flippant  impromptu  dashed  off  when 
he  was  but  a  schoolboy,  on  a  day  when 
his  box  had  been  confiscated  by  the 
master.  The  lines  were  considered  so 
clever  —  the  story  goes  —  that  the  box 
was  restored  to  him  as  a  special  favor; 
exactly  the  result  aimed  at  by  the  writer. 
But  these  trinkets,  paraded  as  a  piece  of 
finery  by  boy  and  dandy,  became  no- 
thing less  than  a  consolation  of  age. 

Voltaire  grown  old,  had  he  been  called 
upon  to  absent  himself  a  while  from  the 
felicity  of  his  snuff-box,  might  have 
written  "  Stanzas  of  Adieu "  abound- 
ing in  wit,  but  the  verses  would  have 
breathed  a  real,  not  a  sentimental,  sigh 
for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  box. 

That  grande  dame,  proud  old  duchesse 
or  marquise,  who  lives  for  us  in  the  me- 
moirs of  the  splendid  time,  considered 


the  snuff-box  an  essential  part  of  her 
toilet.  Seated  in  state,  with  knitting- 
work  and  box  at  hand,  she  was  ready  to 
relish,  with  equal  zest,  the  exchange  of 
snuff  and  epigrams  with  a  gallant  from 
court,  and  the  moralizing  with  an  abbe 
out  of  the  country,  on  the  vanity  of  hu- 
man affairs,  —  how 

Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  their  snuff-boxes,  come  to  dust. 

If  it  were  given  us  to  choose,  as  a  "  re- 
membrancer," a  single  one  from  among 
the  many  associated  with  great  names, 
perhaps  it  would  be  the  sociable  box  that 
used  always  to  stand  on  a  corner  of  the 
card-table,  when  Lamb's  friends  gath- 
ered to  enjoy  one  of  his  Wednesday- 
evenings  "  at  home."  A  fondness  for  the 
Scotch  rappee  in  that  box,  Hazlitt  in- 
timates, recommended  a  person  to  the 
notice  of  its  owner.  Lamb  desired  a  man 
to  "  like  something,  heartily,  even  snuff; " 
and  his  practice  was  at  one  with  his 
theory  in  the  matter  of  the-  snuff.  His 
sister  agreed  with  him  in  this  taste,  as 
well  as  in  those  more  engaging.  It  is 
remembered  of  the  kindly  little  lady  that, 
in  old  age,  she  used  to  go  a-visiting  her 
friends  with  three  or  four  empty  snuff- 
boxes in  her  pocket,  which  always  be- 
came miraculously  full  before  she  left. 

Stout  defenders  of  the  faith,  in  the 
matter  of  tobacco,  have  been  numerous 
in  the  ranks  of  the  fair  sex,  from  the 
voluble  Mrs.  Glass  "  that  sells  snuff  at 
the  sign  o'  the  Thistle,  in  the  Strand," 
to  Ladies  of  Quality,  like  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  herself. 

Early  in  our  literary  excursions  we 
come  upon  the  latter,  "  dishevelled, 
hideous,  covered  with  snuff,"  and,  there- 
after, that  is  our  Lady  Mary.  Pages 
of  description  concerning  her  youthful 
beauty  and  all-conquering  charm  move 
us  not  a  jot.  We  know  the  Lady  of  the 
Snuff-box.  Others  there  are,  not  a  few, 
who  have  been  so  linked  with  their  snuff- 
boxes by  some  chance  expression  in 
prose  or  verse,  that  in  our  minds  they  are 
as  inseparable  as  Ephraim  and  his  idols. 
Johnson's  friend,  Bennet  Langton,  has 


708 


Snuff-Boxes 


been  described  somewhere  as  a  tall, 
slender  man,  who  usually  sat  with  his  legs 
twisted  around  each  other,  fingering  his 
gold  snuff-box,  with  a  sweet  smile  on  his 
face.  So  he  sits  —  and  eternally  will  sit 
—  in  our  imagination  ! 

There  is  Reynolds,  who,  because  of  a 
haunting  line  by  Goldsmith,  seems  to  us 
forever  shifting  his  trumpet,  and  forever 
taking  snuff.  Unfortunately,  some  of  his 
great  portraits,  "  embrowned  by  time," 
persist  in  looking  "  snuffy  "  to  us.  There 
is  Gibbon;  so  everlastingly  opening  and 
shutting  his  tabatiere,  that  the  drums  and 
trumpets  of  declining  Rome  seem  to  be 
accompanied  by  a  running  fusillade  of 
small  arms  in  the  shape  of  snuff-boxes; 
while  the  grandiose  rapping  of  his  box- 
cover  is  so  insistently  referred  to,  that  it 
has  come  to  assume  the  importance  of  the 
knocking  at  the  gate  in  Macbeth. 

There  is  something  about  this  prelim- 
inary ceremony  of  tapping,  that  savors 
of  an  invocation,  a  summoning  of  the 
genie  of  the  box.  We  recall  the  awful 
effect  it  had  upon  Peter  Bell's  much-en- 
during beast;  the  "  appalling  process  " 
yet  to  be  explained  to  a  curious  world. 
The  creature  had  conducted  himself 
with  the  utmost  propriety,  but  no  sooner 
did  Peter  knock  on  the  lid  of  his  tobac- 
co-box, than 

making  here  a  sudden  pause, 
The  ass  turned  round  his  head,  and  grinned. 
Who  can  doubt  that  Peter  had  "  started 
a  spirit "  ?  If,  to  make  an  ass  speak,  there 
must  needs  be  an  angel  in  the  path,  we 
may  be  sure  that  some  kind  of  visitation 
is*<  necessary  to  make  him  grin. 

We  must  not  forget  here  that  virago, 
Mme.  Schwellenberg,  who  was  the  tor- 
ment of  Fanny  Burney's  life  at  the  court ; 
whenever  she  rapped  on  her  snuff-box, 
those  two  pet  frogs  of  hers  croaked  in 
answer,  and  Fanny  thought  it  only  lu- 
dicrous. It  seems  to  us  to  lean  too  much 
in  the  direction  of  ways  that  are  dark. 
We  are  inclined  to  believe  that  Schwel- 
lenberg was  as  much  of  a  witch  as  she 
looked  to  be,  and  that  those  repulsive 
creatures  over  which  she  gloated  were 


victims  of  her  malign  spells.  That  knock- 
ing on  her  snuff-box  was  a  communica- 
tion with  the  magician  who  was  the  slave 
of  the  box,  at  whose  threatened  coming 
the  unhappy  animals  naturally  croaked 
in  alarm.  Could  Fanny  but  have  become 
possessed  of  the  magic  spell,  she  might 
have  seen  those  frogs  rise  up  Prince 
Charming  and  the  lovely  Eldorinda. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  true  that  some 
innocent-looking  snuff-boxes  have  been 
opened  with  as  direful  results  as  were 
ever  related  of  the  horror-hiding  vessels 
in  Arabian  tales. 

It  was  by  no*happy  chance  that  tobacco, 
when  introduced  into  France,  was  given 
the  name  herbe  de  la  reine,  in  honor  of 
Catherine  de  Medici.  The  results  of  that 
painstaking  lady's  experiments  were 
long  in  evidence.  Even  into  the  eight- 
eenth century  the  practice  continued  of 
"  removing,"  gently  but  expeditiously, 
such  individuals  as  became  distasteful 
yet  persisted  in  the  habit  of  living.  Is  my 

lord  the  Comte  de  B interfering  in 

your  little  intrigue  ?  Send  him  a  present 
of  a  jeweled  box  containing  tabac  de 
mitte  fleurs.  He  will  not  offend  you  to- 
morrow. 

Saint-Simon  tells  the  story  of  a  Conde 
who  thought  it  no  more  than  a  fine  joke 
to  empty  the  contents  of  his  snuff-box 
into  the  glass  of  champagne  which  he 
handed  to  a  companion,  his  good  friend, 
at  a  banquet.  The  friend  drank,  sick- 
ened, and  died  in  terrible  agony.  That  is 
what  it  meant  to  be  "  a  Conde  "  in  snuff- 
box time! 

One  marvels  that  the  ghost  of  his 
grandfather — the  Great  Conde — did  not 
knock  an  awful  summons  on  that  supper- 
room  door,  and  then  enter  when  the 
candles  burned  blue,  and  the  guests  sat 
trembling,  to  strike  with  his  sword  the 
empty  snuff-box  from  the  hand  of  his 
worthless  descendant. 

A  pleasant  custom  of  exchanging  boxes 
was  fashionable  for  a  while,  yet  was  never 
regarded  with  much  favor  by  prudent 
folk.  It  might  answer  if  one  revolved  in 
the  circle  of  Esterhazy  and  all  his  quality, 


Snuff-Boxes 


709 


whose  hands  dropped  jewels  as  a  vine 
drops  fatness;  otherwise,  there  was  risk 
of  falling  in  with  individuals  who  con- 
sidered an  unfair  exchange  no  robbery,  — 
whose  attitude  suggested,  "  Stand  and 
deliver." 

As  for  the  **  little  horn  snuff-box " 
belonging  to  the  old  monk  of  Calais,  we 
have  ceased  to  be  very  much  impressed 
with  that.  Our  fathers,  we  know,  re- 
garded its  story  with  fond  emotion;  and 
when  they  read  how  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Sterne  guarded  the  box  as  tenderly  as  he 
guarded  his  religion  "  in  the  justlings 
of  the  world,"  their  tears  "  gushed  out," 
quite  like  the  reverend  gentleman's  own. 
Boxes  of  horn  engraved  with  the  names 
"  Yorick"  and  "Lorenzo"  were  manu- 
factured in  enormous  quantities  at  Ham- 
burg, and  were  eagerly  bought  by  the 
sentimentalists  of  the  day,  —  a  day  when 
everybody  was  a  sentimentalist. 

We  are  no  longer  with  "poor  Yorick." 
We  hold  with  Dr.  Johnson,  who,  when 
his  fair  friend  confesses  that  she  is  "  very 
much  affected  "  by  the  pathos  in  Sterne's 
books,  says,  smiling,  "  Because,  dearest, 
you  are  a  dunce." 

The  good  doctor  was  an  inveterate 
snuff-taker,  but  his  box  was  never  in  evi- 
dence, because  his  pocket  was  his  box. 
That  unhappy  habit,  we  read,  was  a 
source  of  some  uneasiness  to  his  friends, 
as,  indeed,  it  might  well  be.  It  was  not 
in  "  Goldie's  "  nature  to  endure  placidly 
a  deluge  from  that  pocket,  on  the  days 
when  he  was  wearing  the  peach-blossom 
velvet  coat. 

Frederick  the  Great  was  another 
mighty  man  of  valor,  —  taking  some- 
times cities,  but  always  snuff.  For  him, 
also,  boxes  were  far  too  trifling.  He  re- 
quired great  jars  of  the  stuff  to  be  set  on 
the  mantelpieces  of  his  rooms ;  the  man- 


ner of  his  dealing  wherewith  must  have 
been  that  of  Lamb's  "  Old  Bencher," 
who  took  his  refreshment  not  by  pinches, 
but  by  a  palmful  at  once. 

Queen  Charlotte  —  Burney's  Queen 
Charlotte  —  was  almost  a  match  for  him. 
Poor  Fanny  wore  herself  out  in  the  en- 
deavor to  keep  her  patroness's  boxes 
filled.  The  handiwork  at  which  the  royal 
lady  toiled  so  steadfastly  was  called, 
by  courtesy,  embroidery,  but  the  silken 
stitches  were  buried  under  avalanches  of 
rappee.  Fielding,  too,  was  a  lusty  snuff- 
boxer,  by  what  we  read;  howbeit  he  at- 
tained not  unto  the  first  three. 

We  must  confess  to  a  depressing  con- 
viction that  many  writers  of  that  age  so- 
called  of  "sensibility," were  anything  but 
men  of  feeling.  When  Clarissa  is  a  long 
time  dying,  when  the  sighs  of  the  "Cap- 
tive" load  the  air,  and,  stretched  on  the 
ground,  Alexis  mourns  Pastora  dead,  — 
in  these  long-drawn  agonies,  it  is  not  a 
rain  of  tears  that  stains  the  authors'  man- 
uscripts, but  a  patter  of  snuff.  It  is 
fatiguing,  this  constant  drizzle  of  dingy 
powder ! 

We  fancy  it  falling  softly,  endlessly,  like 
the  ashes  of  a  volcanic  mountain;  fill- 
ing crevices,  leveling  inequalities,  build- 
ing mounds,  burying  the  landscape.  If 
the  deluge  had  not  been  checked  in  time, 
there  would  have  been  Herculaneums  to 
uncover,  Pompeiis  to  disinter. 

Among  the  treasures  discovered  in  that 
unearthing,  we  should  have  welcomed, 
with  peculiar  pleasure,  these  playthings 
of  Brummell  and  the  rest,  —  the  snuff- 
boxes whose  loss  we  now  lament,  to- 
gether with  the  tans,  and  the  buckles, 
the  canes  and  the  bonbonnieres,  those 

infinite  small  things 

That  ruled  the  hour  when  Louis  Quinze  was 
king. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB 


ON   THE    FOLLY    OF    LEARNING 
NOBLE   VERSE 

THESE  remarks  are  not  intended  for 
the  young.  To  them  I  say,  as  wise  older 
folk  said  to  me  long  ago,  "Store  your 
mind  with  poetry  now  while  your  memory 
is  fresh  and  strong;  pack  it  with  stanzas, 
quatrains,  lines;  poetry  will  be  a  refuge  in 
time  of  trouble;  it  will  comfort  you  when 
you  are  lame  and  blind  and  decrepit;  you 
cannot  learn  too  much." 

That  may  all  be  true.  The  trouble 
comes  before  you  are  lame  and  blind  and 
decrepit:  when  you  are  able  to  walk 
vigorously  forth  upon  the  face  of  nature, 
and  would  be  able  to  rejoice  your  eyes 
upon  it  all,  were  you  not  haunted  by  a 
spectral  pack  of  noble  verses  that  bay 
aloud  upon  the  trail  of  beauty  and  drive 
her  in  swift  flight. 

More  specifically,  my  complaint  is  this : 
When  I  find  myself  standing  upon  the 
borderland  of  loveliness,  of  wide  green 
meadows,  quick  with  spring,  before  my 
own  eye  and  ear  can  respond  to  color  and 
melody, —  presto !  come  half-remembered 
lines  of  some  dead  poet  and  snatch  away 
my  own  delight,  changing  my  impres- 
sions to  his. 

I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way, 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring-. 
And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring. 

So  aptly  does  this  fit  mood  and  situation 
that  one  follows  the  melodious  verse, 
only  to  be  led  to  an  alien  scene,  forget- 
ful of  cherry-blossom,  dandelion,  and  the 
tender  red  of  oak-leaves  near  at  hand, 
searching  for  the  poet's  oxlips,  bluebells, 
and  lush  eglantine.  Lush  eglantine,  for- 
sooth! I  cannot  listen  properly  to  our 
own  bobolink,  so  persistently  does  Shel- 
ley's skylark  fly  in  my  way  with 

Profuse  strains  of  un(?)premeditated  art. 
The  verse  is  good,  but  my  bobolink  is 

710 


better,  yet  I  may  not  hear  him  for  the 
thick-oncoming  similes.  Even  so,  my 
west  wind  is  not  mine  but  the  poet's,  and, 
though  I  say  to  him,  "  You  had  your  west 
wind  in  your  day  and  gloried  in  it;  please 
give  me  back  my  own,"  he  makes  no  an- 
swer. So  falls  ever  the  veil  of  others'  im- 
pressions, shadow  by  shadow,  blur  by 
blur,  between  me  and  the  charm  of  the 
moment. 

They  have  different  ways,  these  thiev- 
ing poets,  of  robbing  you  of  your  own. 
Byron's  verse  clutches  you  by  the  shoul- 
der, vehement,  insistent,  with  all  the 
author's  desire  to  draw  attention  to  itself. 
The  glory  of  the  old  world  you  may  not 
make  yours ;  does  he  not  loom  high  upon 
Alpine  peaks,  demanding  to  be  show- 
man ?  Has  he  not  made  a  corner  in  ruins, 
refusing  to  let  you  in,  save  on  his  own 
terms?  You  enter  the  Coliseum:  his 
hand  is  at  your  throat;  you  approach 
Santa  Croce :  he  buttonholes  you  at  the 
door.  Many  an  hour  have  I  waited  for 
his  watchdog  to  bay  beyond  the  Tiber, 
but  he  never  has.  Why  need  he,  when  the 
poet  bays  so  loud  within  your  weary  ears  ? 

I  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 
has  haunted  me,  not  only  upon  the  spot, 
but  in  many  others,  absurdly  changing 
to  a  Bridge  of  .Size.  It  can  easily  mono- 
polize Brooklyn  Bridge  as  you  gaze  New 
Yorkwards :  — 

I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  an  enchanter's  wand. 

Through  Europe  you  drag  the  ball  and 
chain  of  his  verse,  and  you  need  not  think 
you  may  escape.  O  Byron,  Byron,  very 
bandit  of  poets,  making  me  stand  and 
deliver,  if  you  were  going  to  take  my  all, 
could  you  not  give  me  in  exchange  some- 
thing that  rings  true  and  is  true  ?  Trying 
to  make  music  of  your  line,  — 

I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie,  — 
has  spoiled  the  Coliseum  for  me.     How 
did  it  happen,  sir,  that  you  saw  moulder- 


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711 


ing  towers  and  arches  among  the  pure 
Greek  level  lines  of  the  Acropolis  ? 
Where,  if  I  may  change  from  comma  to 
question-mark  the  punctuation  of  a  fa- 
mous verse  of  yours,  — 

Where  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  goodnight 

carol  more  ? 

Such  music  must  be  a  special  privilege 
reserved  for  English  lords.  There  are 
moments,  however,  when  you  give  more 
than  you  take :  — 

And  yet,  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe. 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  art  thou ! 
and, — 

O  Rome,  my  country,  city  of  the  soul, 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires,  — 

and  lend  melody  to  many  a  wandering 
footstep  in  Greece  and  Italy. 

In  different  fashion  Wordsworth  steals 
upon  you,  quietly  picking  your  mind  of 
your  own  perceptions,  and  making  the 
scene  before  you  seem  not  itself  but  a  pale 
reflection  of  some  other  known  long  ago. 
Who  can  discover  hepatica  and  wind- 
flower  because  of  his 

Host  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze, 

in  immortal  beauty?  His 

Flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one, 

have  led  me  many  a  time  far  afield  from 
my  proper  destination. 

Yet,  blessed  be  he  who  takes  away 
small  coin  to  give  you  of  great  hidden 
treasure.  Wordsworth's 

Heights 
Clothed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  withering  fern 

are  good  for  the  soul  to  climb ;  his 

Still,  sad  music  of  humanity 
loftier  music  than  one  would  hear  with- 
out him. 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows 

Like  harmony  in  music, 

partly  through  the  influence  of  verse  like 
his. 

A  bit  of  reflection  of  this  kind  had  al- 
most reconciled  me  to  my  own  memory, 
when  I  suddenly  realized  that  it  is  a  ter- 
rible thing  to  be  at  the  mercy,  not  only  of 


your  own,  but  of  your  friends'.  It  was  an 
almost  perfect  moment,  out  among  trail- 
ing branches  of  young  leaves  dropping 
sunshine  on  the  grass,  when  my  friend, 
still  my  friend,  but  with  a  difference, 
quoted,  — 

"  What  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ?  " 
I  have  not  yet  forgiven,  and,  alas,  I  can- 
not forget,  I  who  had  been  trying  hard 
not  to  remember  Sir  Launfal.  Rarer  than 
any  day  in  June  is  the  friend  who  can 
keep  from  recalling  to  you  that  most  per- 
sistent of  poems,  which  has  set  all  sum- 
mer days  forever  jingling  to  one  tune. 
Ah,  what  escape  is  there  from  this  lidless- 
eyed  demon,  memory!  Hers  are  many- 
pointed  weapons,  and,  like  arrow-pricks, 
they  come  thick  and  fast.  The  prey  of  a 
forgotten  anapest,  at  the  mercy  of  a  dart- 
ing iamb,  —  for  me  there  is  no  protection 
from  the  insidious  thrusts  of  noble  verse. 
How  am  I  ever  to  escape  from  Shelley's 
abominable 

Little  lawny  islet 

By  anemone  and  vi'let 

Like  mosaic  paven  ? 
Do  Wordsworth's  verses,  — 

There  's  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
There  's  something  in  a  huge  balloon,  — 

bring  any  real  consolation  in  years  of 
decrepitude  ?  I  wonder  if  the  immortals 
are  not  sorry,  in  the  calm  of  heaven,  to 
think  that,  in  their  hand-organ  moments, 
they  added  to  the  discordant  noises  of 
earth  ?  Nothing  but  death,  I  am  assured, 
can  free  me  from  that  hoard  of  verse, 
which,  in  the  guileless  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  for  good  and  bad  alike,  I  stored 
away  against  a  time  of  need.  My  heart 
grows  hot  in  protest,  but  suddenly  I  real- 
ize that  there  is  no  earthly  use  in  saying 
these  things.  Nobody  commits  poetry  to 
memory  any  longer  in  these  days.  What 
a  pity  !  What  an  unspeakable  pity  ! 


LA  TOUSSAINT  AT  ROUGEVILLE 

To  be  sure,  it  is  really  not  Rougeville; 
that  is  only  its  pen-name,  so  to  speak. 
Neither  is  it  to  be  confused  with  Baton 


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The  Contributors   Club 


Rouge,  the  Red  Stick,  on  the  Great  Mis- 
sissippi. Rouge ville  stretches  itself  lazily 
and  lankly  along  the  red  banks  of  a  slug- 
gish Louisiana  stream.  It  prides  itself  on 
its  age,  its  charm,  —  they  do  sometimes 
go  together,  —  and  its  uniqueness.  The 
stranger  might  regard  it  as  very  like  all 
other  Louisiana  Creole  towns,  but  the 
initiated  know  this  not  to  be  true.  All 
sorts  of  wild  assertions  are  made  regard- 
ing its  antiquity,  which  you  are  not  ex- 
pected to  challenge;  and  if,  concerning 
its  singular  charm,  you  have  opinions 
contrary  to  the  universal  idea,  leave 
Rougeville,  or  forever  hold  your  peace. 

For  many,  many  Novembers,  as  time 
goes  in  the  New  World,  has  it  celebrated 
its  Toussaints.  There  was  a  serpent  of 
discontent  in  Eden,  and  there  are  not 
lacking  the  irreverent  who  say  it  would 
be  meet  for  the  always  moribund  Rouge- 
ville to  reckon  its  years  by  All  Saints,  the 
Feast  of  the  Dead. 

In  your  fanciful  superiority  you  may 
look  down  upon  it,  American  City  of 
Braggadocio,  because  forsooth  it  lacks 
trolley-cars  and  other  examples  of  mod- 
ern rush ;  but,  my  dear  City  Disdain,  very 
likely,  while  buffaloes  and  Indians  still 
roamed  your  plains  Rougeville  had  its 
name  on  the  explorer's  map ;  was  making 
history;  was  referred  to  in  treaties;  and 
was  a  point  to  be  made  by  travelers  — 
great  travelers  such  as  Louis  Juchereau 
de  St.  Denis  and  Pike  of  the  Peak. 

You,  M'sieur  Fanfaron,  ridicule  not 
its  men  of  affairs  because  their  trousers 
and  their  business  methods  are  not  co- 
eval with  yours.  Remember :  a  century 
before  your  burly  fathers  felled  the  trees 
of  your  deafening  metropolis*  its  Mes- 
sieurs were  polished  men  of  the  world, 
engaged  in  trans-continental  financial 
schemes;  as  see  St.  Denis's  accounts 
with  the  India  Company  in  the  parish 
vaults. 

You,  my  Mam'selle  Fanfaronnade, 
who  have  whirled  through  Yurrup,  smile 
not  at  the  gentle  dame  who  has  never 
been  beyond  the  confines  of  her  native 
parish.  Without  offense,  my  maid  Amer- 


ican, with  profit  may  you  observe  her 
demeanor  on  the  street,  in  her  petit  par- 
loir,  or  dispensing  her  gracious  hospital- 
ity. I  had  almost  said  simple,  but  simple 
it  cannot  be  with  the  Creole  chatelaine 
and  her  court-bouillon  (which  belies  its 
name),  gumbo-file,  bisque,  panse-fard, 
daube-glacis,  boudin-de-sang,  and  other 
wonderful  concoctions. 

If  its  men  and  women  of  to-day  are 
not  to  be  lightly  considered,  what  shall  be 
said  of  its  illustrious  dead !  For  the  pride, 
the  glory  of  Rougeville  is  its  old  cemetery. 
If  you  were  a  stranger  within  the  gate 
of  this  archaic  village,  and  should  in  an 
unguarded  moment  express  doubt  of  its 
antiquity,  you  would  be  forthwith  hur- 
ried to  the  vaults  of  the  parish  court- 
house and  thence  to  the  graveyard.  Cour- 
age, gentle  guest;  you  would  probably 
sustain  no  greater  injury  than  a  bramble 
scratch  from  the  cemetery,  or  a  cold  on 
your  chest  from  the  damp  vault. 

In  its  city  of  the  dead  you  would  find 
no  lofty  shafts,  no  costly  monuments; 
but,  what  is  more  esteemed,  a  venerable 
iron  cross,  rising  out  of  a  rude  stone 
mound.  Upon  its  brass  plate  is  inscribed 
in  French  the  fact  that  here  reposes  the 
body  of  the  Honorable  Dame  (mark  the 
words)  Marie,  etc.  Consider,  ye  scoffers, 
almost  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  epi- 
taph of  a  grand  lady  wished  that  she 
might  rest  in  peace  here  in  this  place. 
Surely  in  all  this  broad,  untried  hemi- 
sphere, with  prescience,  there  could  not 
have  been  selected  a  spot  more  silent, 
more  serene,  less  apt  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  grasping  hand  of  progress. 

Observe  the  many  iron  crosses.  Note 
the  names :  Le  Due,  Chevalier,  the  many 
de's !  What  does  it  signify  but  that,  ere 
your  city  was,  the  forbears  of  modern 
(perish  the  thought!)  Rougeville,  men 
and  women  of  quality,  chevaliers  and 
dames,  toiled  not  neither  did  they  spin. 
Aye,  no  common  dust  are  these,  the  dead 
of  early  Rougeville. 

Epochs  are  marked  by  the  character 
of  the  monuments.  There  are  the  17 — s 
with  their  iron  crosses;  those  days  of 


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713 


Spanish  and  Indian  wars.  Mayhap  that 
explains  the  always  expressed  wish  that 
the  dead  may  rest  in  peace. 

Two  score  years  of  the  18 — s  have 
vaulted  brick  structures,  whose  tin  and 
slate  faces  vouchsafe  to  tell  in  French 
that  certain  ones,  whose  names  still  mul- 
tiply within  the  parish,  were  born  and 
died  on  certain  dates. 

Marble  slabs  in  the  fifties  and  sixties, 
still  in  French,  sing  the  praises  and  pro- 
claim the  virtues  of  the  dead  of  that  day. 
Here  is  one  somewhat  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary. It  marks  the  resting  place  of  an 
infant  "  decede  a  I' age  de  5  mois"  —  so 
it  reads.  "Passant,  priez  pour  lui!  II" 
pleads  the  stone,  and  the  exclamations 
are  the  marble's  very  own. 

In  the  seventies  the  French  epitaphs 
disappear.  The  "Americain"  language, 
as  it  is  called,  has  conquered.  In  the 
eighties,  the  arrogant  granite  shafts  begin 
further  to  Americanize  the  place.  Bah! 
Bah!  These  penetrating,  desecrating 
Americain  ideas. 

The  last  rare  days  of  October,  the  cem- 
etery is  an  animated  scene,  if  one  may 
so  speak.  Thither  repair  the  matrons  of 
the  town  with  their  serving-women,  and 
such  weeding  of  walks!  Such  white- 
washing of  sepulchres!  Such  holocausts 
of  brambles!  Such  sanding  of  enclos- 
ures! Such  laying  of  gleaming  oyster- 
shells! 

When  November  dawns,  the  village 
mothers  and  daughters,  like  the  good 
women  of  old,  hasten  to  the  tombs,  not 
with  spices  and  ointments,  but  with  trays 
of  sweet-smelling  blossoms  and  precious 
ornaments.  Where  one  can  afford  it, 
there  is  the  gorgeous  garland  of  artificial 
flowers,  from  New  Orleans,  yes,  but  im- 
ported from  Paris!  Besides,  there  are 
silver  lambs,  golden  angels,  white  doves, 
or  even  the  miniature  of  the  dead,  en- 
cased in  heavy  glass  with  dangling  fringe 
of  black  or  white  beads.  Those  of  mod- 
erate circumstances  must  be  content  with 
wreaths  of  painted  tin  blossoms.  The  deft 
have  manufactured  brilliant  wax  and 
feather  bouquets.  Those  of  melancholy 


tastes  indulge  in  hair  wreaths,  presum- 
ably of  the  tresses  of  the  dead.  The 
wooden  crosses  of  the  very  poor  are  hung 
with  black  or  white  paper  flowers.  There 
is  an  occasional  tight  round  bouquet  with 
an  encircling  expanse  of  scalloped  white 
paper.  Other  tastes  run  to  cedar  or  ar- 
bor-vitse  wreaths,  crosses,  or  stars.  Now 
and  then  one  comes  upon  a  huge  collec- 
tion of  flowers  of  every  hue  and  variety 
sewed  upon  a  flat  background  of  foliage- 
covered  pasteboard. 

But  ah !  alas !  the  innovations !  It  is 
the  sacrilegious  American  idea !  Some  — 
it  is  mostly  the  young,  the  silly  —  go  so 
far  as  to  decry  all  artificial  ornaments, 
even  the  beautiful  imported  decorations. 
It  is  for  the  natural  that  they  clamor. 
Yes,  so  it  is !  Pots  of  geraniums  and  ferns, 
which  some  affect,  that  is  not  so  foolish. 
But  ridiculous  as  it  is,  there  are  the  ex- 
travagant who  go  to  the  length  of  order- 
ing flowers  from  New  Orleans  florists! 
Think  of  it!  Flowers  that  wither  in  the 
day !  Three  dollars  for  the  dozen !  Some 
have  even  ceased  to  sand  their  enclos- 
ures, and  prefer,  or  so  they  assert,  the 
green  grass !  the  Bermuda  and  the  coco ! 
Bah!  the  nonsense!  It  is  no  wonder  that 
the  ghosts  walk  not  any  more  on  the 
Hallowe'en. 

In  the  afternoon  of  La  Toussaint  all 
the  world  betakes  itself  to  the  cemetery, 
either  in  the  procession  of  the  pious,  or  to 
make  the  pilgrimage  of  the  tombs;  to  ad- 
mire, to  criticise,  to  chatter;  perchance,  if 
devout,  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  the  dead. 
From  all  over  the  parish  have  they  come. 
Such  unexpected  meetings!  Such  warm 
greetings !  Verily,  in  the  midst  of  death 
there  is  life.  What  more  propitious  time 
for  un  soup p on  of  gossip!  If  one  beholds 
the  tomb  of  a  wife,  what  more  natural 
than  to  mention  that  the  widower  is  look- 
ing about  a  bit!  How  the  weedy  grave 
of  a  husband  inspires  one  to  hint  that 
the  insurance,  too,  is  running  to  weeds! 
Really,  such  neglect !  and  Mary  is  too  ex- 
travagant! The  little  marble  lamb  over 
there  reminds  one  that  its  mother  awaits 
the  arrival  of  its  successor.  Poor  thing! 


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Did  you  not  know?  The  stern  father's 
last  resting  place  recalls  that  the  daugh- 
ter's wedding,  that  he  so  long  opposed, 
comes  off  soon.  Truly  ?  The  robe  is  at 
Madame  Mode's! 

The  dusk  falls!  The  throng  melts 
away!  A  few  stragglers  linger  on  in  the 
gloom ;  a  pair  or  two  of  lovers ;  a  belated 
group  hurrying  to  get  around;  the  re- 
cently bereaved  remaining  to  weep  and 
pray. 

Under  the  live-oaks  the  darkness  set- 
tles. Only  the  flowers  and  the  dead  re- 
main. Next  year,  oh  yes !  it  is  true !  some 
who  most  glowed  with  beauty  and  vigor 
to-day  will  be  here;  some  whose  hands 
were  busiest  this  year  will  be  idle  next; 
and  to  some,  who  were  careless  specta- 
tors, it  will  become  a  sacred  spot.  It  is 
ever  so;  and  the  next  Toussaint  will  be 
even  as  this :  the  flowers,  the  crowds,  the 
gossips,  the  lovers,  the  mourners,  and  al- 
ways the  dead. 

IMPROVISED   WORDS 

WHEN  I  have  the  time  and  the  proper 
place  for  doing  it,  I  shall  write  an  ad- 
dendum for  my  dictionary,  have  it  neatly 
typewritten,  and  paste  it  right  after  the 
Z's,  but  before  the  Foreign  and  Abbrev- 
iated Phrases,  Geographical  and  Proper 
Names,  etc.  It  is  n't  the  sort  of  thing 
one  can  write  in  the  city,  unless  one  has  a 
second- story-back  library,  with  a  big  bay 
window,  and  walnut  furniture,  and  heavy 
crimson  curtains  with  tassels  all  along  the 
edge.  My  own  library  is  very  small,  and 
has  frivolous  white  woodwork  and  green 
wicker  chairs  and  net  curtains,  without 
the  least  flavor  of  dignity  or  of  labor. 
Therefore  I  must  wait  —  since  that  sec- 
ond-story-walnut-crimson-curtained re- 
treat is  not  mine — until  I  can  go  to  the 
country ;  and  .there,  under  the  influence 
of  rows  of  hollyhocks  and  a  noble  white- 
paling  fence,  not  a  picket  missing,  I  can 
compose  my  addendum  with  a  peaceful 
mind. 

There  is  hardly  a  family  but  has  some 
expressive  improvised  word.  In  my  own 


family  "  humbly  "  reigns  supreme.  This 
is  not  the  adverb  of  current  usage,  but 
an  adjective,  and  a  cross  between  "  hum- 
ble "  and  "  homely;  "  and  it  was  first 
used  to  describe  our  washwoman,  who 
takes  such  pride  in  her  humbleness,  and 
is  of  such  a  superlative  weatherbeaten 
homeliness,  that  she  needed  something 
special  to  express  her  personality.  To 
all  of  our  queries  concerning  missing  col- 
lars and  handkerchiefs  and  rents  in  the 
new  sheets,  she  replies  with  a  meekness 
that  is  wholly  unnatural,  "I'm  sure  I 
counted  them,  mum,"  she  murmurs, 
"  but  I'll  look  at  home  if  you  say  so. 
And  as  for  them  tore  places,  I  ask  you 
kindly  to  take  the  worth  of  'em  out  of 
my  pay."  Which  of  course  we  cannot. 
We  cannot  even  answer  sharply  one  who 
speaks  thus  disarmingly.  As  for  her 
homeliness,  —  it  is  not  that  she  is  sickly 
or  bedraggled,  as  are  so  many  women 
of  her  class,  but  her  nose  is  impossibly 
tilted,  her  eyes  are  crossed,  her  hair  is 
jerked  back  from  her  forehead  and 
skewered  into  an  absurd  knot  the  size  of 
a  walnut,  and  she  has  no  eyebrows! 
"  Humbly  "  she  is,  and  as  "humbly  Mrs. 
Wheeler  "  she  will  be  known  in  our  fam- 
ily, while  the  brother  who  invented  the 
word  quite  puffs  himself  up  about  it,  and 
quotes  as  precedent  the  paragraph  —  is 
it  from  "  Alice  "  ?  —  "  For  if  his  mind 
had  inclined  ever  so  little  to  fuming  he 
would  have  said  fuming  furious,  and  if 
his  mind  had  inclined  ever  so  little  to 
furious  he  would  have  said  furious  fum- 
ing ;  but  since  he  had  a  perfectly  balanced 
mind,  he  said  'frumious.'  " 

"  Streely  "  is  a  contribution  from  a 
New  York  friend,  and  signifies  most  in- 
telligibly a  sort  of  stringy  unkemptness, 
peculiar  to  one's  back  hair  after  a  day's 
shopping,  or  to  thin  muslin  curtains  that 
have  hung  too  long  at  the  windows.  A 
lawn  gown  of  last  season's  vintage  after 
two  days'  wear  at  the  seashore  is  the  most 
streely  thing  imaginable,  and  I  have 
seen  at  small  country  stations  various 
old  gentlemen  whose  whiskers,  long  and 
straggling,  were  decidedly  streely. 


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715 


Another  improvised  word  was  pro- 
vided by  a  negro  maid  from  the  far 
South.  She  was  sitting  on  the  porch  with 
the  baby  when  there  passed  one  of  these 
much  be-ruffled,  be-coiffed,  and  be- 
hatted  young  women  who  cannot  help 
betraying  in  their  walk  and  carriage  the 
consciousness  of  their  frills.  Sary  eyed 
the  butterfly  disgustedly  and  said,  "  Well, 
you  sho  do  see  some  pow'ful  uppy  peo- 
ple in  dishyer  place !  Lookatdat!  Mos' 
too  uppy  to  tread  on  de  pavement  I  I  be 
boun'  she  ain'  i'on  all  dem  ruffles  her- 
se'f ."  And  the  word  has  stayed  with  me 
as  a  delightful  and  expressive  addition  to 
my  vocabulary.  It  cannot  be  used  out- 
side of  intimate  conversation,  but  when 
you  have  labeled  any  one  as  "  uppy  " 
the  dullest-minded  understands.  I  have 
some  relatives  who  are  overwhelmingly 
uppy.  They  have,  I  may  say,  climbed 
high  into  the  family  tree,  which  they  con- 
sider as  an  eminence  from  which  to  look 
down  on  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  there 
—  relatives  I  Every  one  could  write  a 
book  on  relatives. 

Quite  in  line  with  "  uppy  "  is  "  ob- 
sniptious," indicating  a  sort  of  conscious 
aristocracy  that  expresses  itself  always  in 
formal  terms ;  that  resides,  but  does  not 
live;  that  becomes  ill,  but  is  never  taken 
sick;  that  takes  its  departure,  but  never 
leaves ;  that  goes  to  modistes  instead  of 
dressmakers;  that  has  trades-people  in- 
stead of  grocers  and  butchers ;  whose  life, 
in  short,  consists  in  trying  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  a  spade  is  nothing  but  an  agri- 
cultural implement.  Oh,  "  obsniptious  " 
is  a  delicious  word !  I  never  felt  that  I 
had  quite  expressed  my  feelings  against 
Barnes  Newcome,  until  I  could  disdain- 
fully label  him  as  "obsniptious." 

Out  in  Western  Pennsylvania  there  is 
another  expressive  improvised  word 
which  pictures  to  the  last  hem  of  her 
gingham  apron  the  Martha  who  is  eter- 
nally troubled  about  little  things.  This 
is  "persnickerty."  The  woman  who  lives 
with  her  dust-brush  and  whose  doormats 
are  a  threat  to  her  visitors,  or  the  man 
who  must  untie  every  knot  of  the  string 


about  his  parcels,  and  wind  it  into  a  ball 
and  then  fold  and  put  away  the  wrap- 
ping paper,  is  persnickerty.  Truth  forces 
me  to  say  that  I  believe  women  are  more 
apt  to  be  persnickerty  than  men,  even 
though  they  do  tell  a  tale  of  one  young 
man  in  my  native  village  who  refused  to 
go  to  a  midnight  fire  until  he  was  com- 
pletely and  properly  dressed,  with  neck- 
tie adjusted  and  boots  brushed.  He  was 
the  most  persnickerty  soul  I  ever  heard 
of,  man  or  woman. 

Another  good  Pennsylvania  word,  and 
very  full  of  meaning,  is  to  "  neb,"  signi- 
fying to  pry,  to  thrust  one's  self  in  where 
one  is  not  needed  and  not  wanted,  to  mix 
into  other  people's  affairs.  "  Such  for 
a  person  to  neb  in !  "  exclaimed  my 
worthy  York  marketwoman  when  the 
man  at  the  stall  opposite  tried  to  attract 
my  attention  from  her  "  smeirkaase  "  to 
his.  Yes,  "  to  neb  "  shall  go  into  my 
addendum  and  have  a  prominent  place. 

The  last  two  words  have  more  or  less 
common  usage  over  a  wide  section,  but 
not  long  ago  I  heard  a  word  used  to  de- 
scribe a  young  man  who  had  been  a  rather 
stodgy,  embarrassed  presence  at  a  lively 
party  of  young  people  in  a  very  lively  lit- 
tle city  of  Maryland.  "  I  thought  David 
seemed  very  tod,"  said  one  of  the  chape- 
rons. "  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Oh,  awkward,  bashful,  heavy,"  she 
said,  and  then  laughed.  "  I  don't  know 
where  the  word  started,"  she  explained, 
"  but  it  is  one  we  use  a  great  deal  around 
here  to  express  any  one  who  seems  so- 
cially stupid."  The  more  I  thought  about 
it,  the  better  I  liked  it;  "  tod  "  —  it  does 
sound  dull  and  heavy,  does  n't  it  ?  But 
I  believe  the  use  of  it  in  that  sense  is 
confined  very  closely  to  that  particular 
locality,  for  nowhere  else  have  I  heard  it. 

A  little  more  dubious  as  to  the  exact 
shade  of  significance,  but  certainly  al- 
luring to  the  ear,  is  "  pang- wangle."  It 
expresses  —  well,  what  does  it  express  ? 
—  a  cheeriness  under  minor  discomforts, 
a  humorous  optimism  under  small  mis- 
fortunes, though  indeed  these  seem  dig- 
nified definitions  for  so  informal  a  word. 


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"  I  just  pang- wangled  home  in  the  rain," 
says  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  know  he  got 
there  drenched,  but  good-tempered.  "  We 
went  pang-wangling  off  to  the  theatre 
last  night,"  says  my  nearest  neighbor; 
and  I  feel  pretty  certain  they  had  been 
blue  over  something  and  felt  the  need  of 
some  small  gayety.  It  would  do  us  all 
good  if  we  pang-wangled  a  bit  more,  I 
think. 

A  very  meaning  word  is  the  South- 
erner's "  honing."  "  My,  honey,  I've 
just  been  honing  to  see  you!  "  It  is  not 
so  stilted  as  "  I've  been  longing,"  and  it 
is  much  more  emphatic  than  "  I've  been 
wanting."  It's  a  warm,  affectionate, 
intimate  word,  —  honing.  Let  me  put  it 
into  the  addendum,  well  toward  the  front, 
for  I  love  the  sound  of  it. 

These  words  are  not  slang.  They  are 
not  exactly  —  as  one  high-brow  friend 
informed  me  —  "  low  colloquialisms." 
They  have  a  place  in  language,  and  they 
add  considerably  to  its  color.  Just  you 
wait  until  (under  the  influence  of  that 
row  of  hollyhocks  and  that  noble  picket 
fence)  my  addendum  is  finished!  Then 
let  the  purists  squirm! 

EDUCATION   FOR   OLD    AGE 

No,  I  do  not  mean  education  in  old 
age.  The  story  of  Cato's  late  application 
to  the  study  of  Greek  literature  has  al- 
ready been  sufficiently  celebrated,  and 
every  one  who  starts  a  new  science  or  a 
new  language  after  his  hair  has  turned 
gray  knows  that  he  has  numerous  prece- 
dents to  encourage  him.  What  I  have  in 
my  mind  is  the  deplorable  state  in  which 
so  many  of  the  elders  find  themselves 
because  they  have  never  been  trained  — ; 
or  have  never  trained  themselves  —  to 
make  the  best  of  the  condition  they  have 
now  reached.  Here  is  the  great  gap  in  our 
system  of  education.  The  boy  is  taught 
in  preparation  for  the  duties  of  manhood, 
and  the  adult  is  periodically  instructed, 
every  seventh  day  at  least,  with  a  view  to 
his  being  taken  by  surprise  as  little  as 
possible  when  he  enters  the  life  beyond 


the  grave;  but  it  seems  to  be  assumed 
that  this  latter  transition  will  invariably 
be  made  not  later  than  the  sixtieth  year, 
or,  if  not,  that  one's  closing  days  are 
bound  to  be  merely  a  continuation  of 
one's  prime  —  both  of  which  assumptions 
are,  as  Euclid  would  have  said,  absurd. 

Actually,  the  territory  through  which 
every  old  man  has  to  travel  is  as  truly  a 
strange  country  as  was  any  previous  sec- 
tion of  his  journey  when  he  crossed  the 
bridge  into  it  from  the  stage  before.  He 
has  gathered  experience,  no  doubt,  but 
experience  of  what  ?  Of  how  best  to  com- 
port himself  in  circumstances  differing 
widely  from  any  in  which  he  will  ever  be 
placed  again.  The  whole  problem  is 
seriously  modified;  the  man  himself  is 
changed  and  changing,  and  the  situation 
to  which  he  has  now  to  adjust  himself  is 
largely  unfamiliar.  Life  itself  has  been 
defined  as  adaptation  to  environment, 
and  the  best  part  of  our  education  aims 
at  making  us  "  at  home  "  in  our  new  sur- 
roundings when  we  graduate  from  child- 
hood into  manhood,  or  take  up  the  work 
of  a  profession.  But  there  is  no  "  fitting 
school  "  for  old  age.  Those  who  would 
have  the  best  right  to  become  teachers  in 
such  a  school  evade,  as  a  rule,  the  respon- 
sibility of  instructing  the  candidates  for 
the  freshman  class.  If  they  write  at  all, 
it  is  either  to  entertain  us  with  remin- 
iscences of  their  childhood  and  active 
career,  or  else  to  reveal  the  secret  of  then- 
longevity.  They  render  us  a  service,  of 
course,  in  explaining  by  what  hygienic 
regimen  one  may  escape  the  perils  that 
beset  the  path  to  old  age,  but  it  would  be 
more  useful  still  to  suggest,  not  so  much 
how  the  goal  may  be  reached,  as  how  it 
may  be  made  worth  reaching. 

It  would  be  unseemly  and  impertinent 
for  a  writer  who  is  yet  what  the  news- 
papers call  "  comparatively  young  "  — 
a  generous  term  which,  I  suspect,  often 
implies  very  much  the  same  thing  as 
"  comparatively  old  "  —  to  attempt  to 
give  lessons  on  behavior  to  men  who  are 
his  seniors  by  two  or  three  decades.  But 
even  the  middle-aged  onlooker  may  be 


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111 


allowed,  I  hope,  to  record  his  observa- 
tions for  a  warning  to  himself  and  his  own 
contemporaries.  For  my  main  point  is, 
that  if  we  postpone  concerning  ourselves 
about  this  matter  until  old  age  actually 
comes  upon  us,  we  shall  be  too  late.  It  is 
an  insurance  policy  that  we  are  really 
contemplating,  and  we  must  begin  paying 
in  our  premiums  long  before  we  need  to 
draw  anything  out.  I  am  not  suggesting 
that  the  prospect  of  old  age  should  be 
made  a  bogey  for  our  strenuous  period; 
that  while  we  are  strong  and  active  we 
should  darken  our  spirits  by  apprehen- 
sions of  the  gradual  decay  of  our  vital 
forces.  It  is  not  a  dread  of  old  age  that  I 
am  inculcating,  but  a  recognition  of  its 
peculiar  characteristics ;  a  conviction  that 
we  are  not  making  adequate  preparation 
for  it  if  we  provide  only  for  its  financial 
needs  and  neglect  the  accumulation  of 
other  resources. 

No  one  who  has  read  Sir  Martin 
Conway's  The  Alps  from  End  to  End 
will  forget  his  account  of  the  appalling 
"  mountain  fall  "  which,  in  1881,  over- 
whelmed the  village  of  Elm  in  Canton 
Glarus.  When  the  Plattenbergkopf  crum- 
bled into  pieces  and  swept,  in  a  devas- 
tating whirlwind  of  rocks  and  dust,  up 
the  opposite  hill,  there  were  some  who 
escaped  alive;  but  not  those  who  tried  to 
carry  with  them  part  of  their  treasures, 
or  those  who  paused  to  give  a  helping 
hand  to  the  sick  and  infirm.  "  Ruin," 
says  the  writer,  "  overtook  the  kind  and 
the  covetous  together."  I  am  no  cynic, 
but,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  unhappiness  in 
their  closing  years  is  rarely  the  lot  of  men 
whose  care  for  the  welfare  of  others  has 
not  been  either  considerably  below  or 
considerably  above  the  average.  Brutal 
greed  or  sensuality  has  its  nemesis  in 
loneliness  and  desolation;  in  the  con- 
spicuous lack  of  "  honor,  love,  obedience, 
troops  of  friends."  But  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  among  the  most  pitiable  exam- 
ples I  have  met  of  a  cheerless  and  forlorn 
old  age  have  been  veterans  —  I  had  al- 
most written,  veteran  saints  —  who  have 
devoted  the  main  energies  of  their  lives 


to  the  moral  and  social  uplifting  of  their 
fellows. 

In  both  cases,  I  believe,  the  mischief  is 
due  to  excessive  narrowness  of  interest  in 
middle  age.  If  the  activities  of  this  pe- 
riod, whether  self-indulgent  or  self-deny- 
ing, could  be  continued  without  interrup- 
tion to  the  end,  there  would  be  no  final 
stage  of  depression.  But  when  the"  lover 
of  pleasure  "  can  no  longer  respond  with 
avidity  to  the  delights  of  the  senses,  his 
ignorance  of  any  other  sources  of  satis- 
faction leaves  him  a  prey  to  ennui ;  and  in 
the  same  way,  when  the  enthusiastic  cam- 
paign against  evil  or  the  eager  concen- 
tration of  effort  upon  good  works  ceases 
to  fill  out  the  normal  daily  programme, 
the  leisure  that  remains  is  a  burden  to  be 
endured,  instead  of  a  privilege  to  be  en- 
joyed. 

We  must  further  remember  that  in  old 
age  everything  has  to  be  taken  in  small 
installments.  No  continuous  sleep  the 
night  through,  but  several  short  naps  at 
intervals  during  the  twenty-four  hours; 
no  heavy  meals,  but  frequent  light  re- 
pasts; no  sustained  application  to  one 
definite  task,  but  a  rapid  shifting  of  atten- 
tion from  one  pursuit  to  another.  This 
means  that  it  is  a  mistake  to  depend  a 
great  deal  upon  any  single  method  of 
speeding  the  tedious  hours.  If  our  incli- 
nations are  studious,  we  are  apt  to  think 
that  surely  books  will  supply  all  the  pro- 
vision that  can  be  needed  against  senile 
weariness.  In  this  anticipation  we  as- 
sume, quite  contrary  to  reason,  that  we 
shall  carry  with  us  into  the  future  all  the 
physical  and  mental  apparatus  of  to-day. 
We  forget  that  then  both  eye  and  brain 
will  reach  the  fatigue-point  much  sooner. 
"  I  never  thought  that  a  time  would  come 
when  I  should  grow  tired  of  reading," 
was  the  lament  made  to  me  in  his  old 
age  by  a  man  of  exceptional  intellectual 
power.  He  was  of  a  fairly  catholic  taste 
in  literature,  but,  even  so,  he  discovered 
that  the  refreshment  to  be  gained  from 
books  was  not  unlimited,  and  that  a 
bountiful  diet  turned  easily  to  satiety. 
What  a  comfort  it  would  have  been  to 


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him  then  if  twenty  or  thirty  years  before 
he  had  begun  the  cultivation  of  a  few 
hobbies ! 

I  referred  at  the  outset  to  the  in- 
stances of  men  who  have  addressed  them- 
selves in  old  age  to  some  new  intel- 
lectual undertaking.  But  these  are,  and 
must  be,  the  exceptions.  To  most  people 
old  age  brings  such  a  decay  of  the  spirit 
of  enterprise,  such  a  reluctance  to  essay 
untried  paths,  that  it  is  hard  to  take  up 
even  a  new  parlor  game.  Almost  as  won- 
derful as  Cato's  octogenarian  Greek,  was 
Bentley's  beginning  to  smoke  at  seventy, 
and  Keble's  learning  whist  in  the  late 
sixties.  Many  of  the  most  recreative  hob- 
bies —  the  use  of  any  musical  instru- 
ment for  example  —  require  a  technical 
apprenticeship  which  puts  it  out  of  the 
question  for  the  average  man  to  over- 
come the  drudgery  of  their  rudiments 
when  he  has  no  longer  the  plasticity  of 
youth  to  his  credit.  If  profit  is  to  be  made 
of  the  opportunities  of  artistic  enjoyment 
of  any  kind,  it  must  be  through  the  fore- 
sight of  earlier  years  in  laying  up  a  store 
against  the  evil  day. 

Something  may  also  be  said  of  the 
protection  against  loneliness  that  is  to  be 
gained  by  refusing  to  outlaw  one's  self 
from  the  interests  and  ideals  of  the 
younger  generations.  Cheerful  society  is 
one  of  the  best  of  tonics  for  old  people, 
and  there  is  only  one  infallible  prescrip- 
tion for  securing  it.  The  pitiful  com- 
plaint that  "  no  one  comes  to  see  me  " 
is  most  commonly  heard  from  those  who 
have  neglected  to  keep  themselves  in 
touch  with  their  juniors.  The  man  whose 
thoughts  are  not  wholly  concerned  with 
the  past,  but  who  is  alert  to  sympathize 
with  the  newer  life  of  the  day,  will  seldom 
be  left  to  meditate  alone.  The  visits  that 
he  receives  will  bless  both  him  that  gives 
and  him  that  takes :  they  will  not  be  paid 
him  out  of  charity,  but  because  he  has 
much  to  say  that  it  is  a  stimulus  to  hear. 
"Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams"  — 
when  that  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  the  young 
men  who  see  visions  will  eagerly  seek  the 
inspiration  of  their  company. 


BUSINESS   LAW   IN   THE   NATU- 
RAL  WORLD 

THE  staid  and  worthy  Bachelor  of 
whom  I  write  does  not  belong  to  that 
branch  of  the  human  family  that  calls 
every  city  home.  He  neither  travels  nor 
is  anxious  to  travel.  It  matters  nothing 
to  him  whether  the  Mauretania  crosses  in 
four  days  or  ten,  and  he  is  not  interested 
in  bills  before  Congress  for  trans-con- 
tinental roads  for  motor-cars.  His  ac- 
counts of  journeying  would  be  the  "short 
and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  and  a 
Baedeker  is  to  him  that  necessary  vol- 
ume perused  by  all  maiden  aunts  and 
stern  parents  in  magazine  short  stories, 
to  the  end,  on  the  author's  part,  that  the 
hero  and  heroine  may  lay  unmolested 
plans.  But  once  in  a  while,  in  the  press  of 
business,  he  makes  a  flying  trip  from 
Boston  to  New  York  or  Philadelphia, 
and  nourishes  his  sense  of  beauty,  and 
his  appreciation  of  scenery,  upon  what 
can  be  secured  in  this  brief  experience. 

"Just  open  the  mind,"  he  said  content- 
edly to  himself,  not  long  ago,  "and  in  this 
beautiful  world  even  a  short  time  will 
suffice  to  secure  lasting  impressions  of 
loveliness."  This  is  his  best  early  Eliza- 
bethan manner  of  conducting  a  conver- 
sation with  himself  on  important  occa- 
sions, and  he  rolled  out  the  mellifluous 
sentence  cheerfully  in  the  gloom  of  the 
car  still  standing  in  the  dark  train-shed 
at  the  South  Station.  He  was  really  so 
unused  to  travel-holidays  that  even  the 
stuffy  chair-car  held  possibilities  of  rest 
and  refreshment.  He  strewed  his  belong- 
ings about,  and  got  out  his  cap  and  a 
dozen  newspapers  and  magazines.  This 
he  did  to  appear  like  other  rushing  busi- 
ness men,  and  not  like  one  exulting 
within  himself  at  the  chance  to  look  out 
of  window  for  six  or  seven  straight  hours, 
with  no  one  to  comment  or  cavil.  Double 
windows,  doubly  dirty,  could  not  dim 
anticipation. 

The  train  moved.  The  dingy  and 
dejected  outskirts  of  Boston  gave  place 
to  pleasant  suburban  vistas.  But  now 


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719 


began  the  real  traveling  experience  of 
this  provincial  and  "  behind-the-ages  " 
American.  To  his  amazement  and  con- 
sternation, the  scenery  began  to  assume 
an  entirely  unfamiliar  aspect.  No  longer 
unobtrusively  peace-begetting  and  rural, 
it  unexpectedly  began  to  take  on  human 
life  and  interest.  It  appealed  from  barn- 
roof  and  fence,  from  meadow  and  cliff, 
from  brookside  and  pasture :  it  implored, 
it  coaxed,  it  threatened,  it  coerced,  it  in- 
vited, it  allured,  it  gesticulated,  it  ejacu- 
lated. It  became  vital,  monstrous,  alarm- 
ing; it  thrust  out  predatory  hands;  it 
obtruded  muscular  shoulders;  it  leered, 
it  mocked.  It  marched  gigantic,  benign 
in  Quaker  garb ;  it  rode  caparisoned,  of 
warlike  mien ;  it  laughed  uproariously,  it 
danced  bewitchingly,  it  posed  fashion- 
ably —  always  gigantic,  insistent,  over- 
whelming. 

Now,  it  took  on  a  knowing,  man-of- 
the-world,  just-between-ourselves  atti- 
tude. It  laid  aside  its  Protean  aspect 
and  assumed  the  position  of  guide,  phil- 
osopher, and  friend.  Frankly,  as  man  to 
man,  it  presented  the  inferential  state- 
ment that  the  wages  of  sin  is  a  mighty 
good  time,  in  such  disarming  fashion  that 
he  who  skurried  by  in  a  railway  train 
might  read,  and,  reading,  haste  to  en- 
dure and  pity  and  embrace. 

Then,  conscience-smitten,  fearful  of 
having  gone  too  far,  it  became  repentant, 
tender.  It  pleaded  for  reformation  from 
tenement  roofs  and  tin  sheds,  and  set 
forth  burning  words  of  Holy  Writ  with  as 
much  violence  as  it  had  previously  used 
to  proclaim  the  virtues  of  whiskey  and 
beer  and  tobacco;  although  on  the  side 
of  a  cattle-shed,  this  was  all  meant,  evi- 
dently, for  the  Bachelor,  who  recalled 
the  words  of  that  ingenuous  expounder 
of  Scripture  —  Luther,  was  n't  it  ?  — 
who  wrote  of  a  certain  text,  "this  was 
manifestly  not  intended  for  oxen,  seeing 
that  oxen  cannot  read."  It  dealt  only 
with  the  Bachelor;  it  presumed  him  at 
last  touched  and  responsive. 

Farther  on,  a  herd  of  cows  loomed 
through  the  train  smoke,  Brobdignagian, 


gentle,  painted  to  awful  life-likeness, 
reminiscent  of  boyhood  days  and  home 
and  mother,  while  beyond,  a  huge  green 
frog  cast  goggle  eyes  into  the  mists  of 
memory.  These  were  aided  in  their  win- 
ning appeal  to  childhood's  days  of  in- 
nocence, by  the  unnaturally  resplend- 
ent kitchen-range,  and,  a  score  of  miles 
away,  by  the  cook  of  the  Bachelor's  early 
home,  waiting  to  fry  a  cake  that  set  his 
mouth  watering.  Sorrowfully  he  felt, 
owing  to  disproportionate  size,  as  unable 
to  attempt  its  consumption  as  was  Alice 
before  she  partook  of  the  little  bottle 
marked  "drink  me."  But  his  drooping 
spirit,  realizing  that  all  this  was  for  his 
soul's  good,  revived  under  the  domestic 
influences  which  now  began  to  invade  the 
bill-boards. 

His  weary  mind  sought  solace.  Had 
he  not  sounded  the  depths  of  iniquity  ? 
Had  he  not  dressed  and  smoked  and 
drunk  as  a  wild  young  man  under  the 
malign  tutelage  of  the  scenery?  Had 
he  not  repented,  been  converted,  gone 
back  in  thought  to  boyhood  and  its  ten- 
der associations,  that  he  might  "  begin 
again,"  because  of  the  uplifting  and  en- 
nobling influence  of  the  scenery?  Had 
the  scenery  not  invaded  his  mind,  en- 
croached on  his  soul,  thrust  upon  him 
its  companionship,  led  him  in  ways  that 
are  dark,  and  rescued  him  in  the  nick  of 
time,  when  he  had  approached  it  as  a 
solid,  middle-aged  bachelor  of  settled 
habits,  a  church  member  in  good  and 
regular  standing?  This  it  had  done. 
Ought  it  not  therefore  to  carry  on  its 
work,  and  having  dragged  him  from  the 
error  of  his  ways,  ought  it  not  to  allure 
him  into  paths  of  domesticity?  Surely. 
Therefore  the  Bachelor,  recognizing  that 
there  is  justice  in  all  things,  having  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  withdrawn  from  the 
pit,  gave  his  mind  to  be  instructed  in  fire- 
side virtues  and  joys. 

Home,  sweet  home;  verily,  a  noble  re- 
covery had  the  scenery  made.  It  now  told 
him,  in  enticing  language,  where  to  buy 
his  land  and  put  up  his  cheap  domicile ; 
it  furnished  it,  for  nothing  down  and  so 


720 


The  Contributors9  Club 


much  a  week,  with  rustless  screens,  chew- 
ing gum,  and  patent  breakfast  foods.  It 
joyously  reassured  him  about  the  coal 
bill.  It  cajoled  him  with  a  lawn-mower, 
and  set  him  to  planting  seeds  and  raising 
chickens.  And  at  last,  its  suspicions  as  to 
his  horrible  past  being  quite  allayed,  it 
took  it  for  granted  that  all  was  now  well 
with  him,  that  his  feet  were  set  in  the 
paths  of  rectitude,  and  that  he  was  fitted 
to  be  entrusted  with  responsibility.  It  then 
inquired,  breathlessly,  hopefully,  sym- 
pathetically, in  very  large  letters,  "Have 
you  a  baby  ?"  and  offered  to  provide  the 
milk.  What  more  could  the  father  of  a 
family  ask  than  that?  For  the  Bachelor 
had  fully  entered  upon  his  new  role,  and 
he  climbed  from  the  train  at  Philadel- 
phia a  pitiable  pulp  of  emotion. 

A  well-behaved  and  serious  bachelor 
when  he  left  Boston,  the  Rake's  Progress, 
with  the  scenery  for  guide,  had  dragged 
him  through  an  exciting  and  checkered 
career,  had  filled  his  life  with  experiences 
dark  and  bright,  and  had  left  him  at  last 
a  man  of  family  cares  and  responsibili- 
ties. It  was  difficult  for  him  to  find  him- 
self again.  How,  in  the  anxiety  over  his 
new  incubator,  his  bright  green  lawn- 
mower,  and  his  bursting  flower-beds,  the 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward 
and  domestic  regeneration,  could  he  re- 
call the  relatively  unimportant  fact  that 
he  had  come  from  Boston  to  Philadel- 
phia with  the  sober  intention  of  selling 
leather  banding?  The  old-fashioned 
landscape,  with  its  primitive  appeal  of 
greening  willows  and  reddening  maples, 


with  its  simplicities  of  young  grass  and 
awakening  brooks,  its  stretches  of  silver 
water  under  the  cool  paleness  of  the  blue 
spring  sky  —  these  things  had  all  but 
passed  into  the  region  of  forge tfulness. 

Who  would  look  twice  at  an  emerald- 
ringed  pasture  stone,  with  its  unobtrusive 
silence  of  gray  dignity,  when  he  could 
see  that  same  rock  articulate,  vociferate, 
aflame  with  righteous  indignation,  done 
in  appropriate  red  paint?  Who  would 
care  for  the  unbroken  expanse  of  a  field 
of  vernal  loveliness,  when  that  same  field 
could  be  made,  by  the  addition  of  ju- 
diciously distributed  lumber,  into  an  area 
of  comprehensive  and  worldly  instruc- 
tion? Certainly  not  the  present  day 
traveler,  so  long  accustomed  to  the  ex- 
citement of  cataloguing  all  those  things 
which  minister  to  the  body's  material 
wants.  He  no  longer  craves  the  healing 
and  serenity  for  the  weary  mind  which 
used  to  come  to  him  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  wide,  quiet  reaches  of  gray,  pool- 
gemmed,  green-splashed  marshes;  from 
uninvaded  woods  and  wilderness.  There 
Beauty,  fled  forever  from  the  cities,  was 
wont  to  reveal  her  shy  face  to  those  who 
loved  and  sought  her  silent  comradeship, 
or  even  to  those  who,  like  this  disap- 
pointed traveler,  sometimes  were  able  to 
cast  longing,  loving  glances  at  her  dim 
retreats  from  the  windows  of  a  rushing 
train. 

The  scenery  is  no  longer  the  still 
haunt  of  an  unbodied  dream;  it  has  be- 
come a  grave  and  unavoidable  moral 
issue.  Hinc  illse  lacrimae. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 

DECEMBER,  1908 
THE  BAYONET-POKER. 


BY   SAMUEL   McCHORD   CROTHEKS 

*        .«      '|         ft 


As  I  sit  by  my  Christmas  fire  I  now  and 
then  give  it  a  poke  with  a  bayonet.  It  is 
an  old-fashioned  British  bayonet  which 
has  seen  worse  days.  I  picked  it  up  in  a 
little  shop  in  Birmingham  for  two  shil- 
lings. I  was  attracted  to  it  as  I  am  to  all 
reformed  characters.  The  hardened  old 
sinner,  having  had  enough  of  war,  was  a 
candidate  for  a  peaceful  position.  I  was 
glad  to  have  a  hand  in  his  reformation. 
.-«  To  transform  a  sword  into  a  pruning- 
/nook  is  a  matter  for  a  skilled  smith,  but 
to  change  a  bayonet  into  a  poker  is  within 
the  capacity  of  the  least  mechanical.  All 
that  is  needed  is  to  cause  the  bayonet  to 
forsake  the  murderous  rifle-barrel  and 
cleave  to  a  short  wooden  handle.  Hence- 
forth its  function  is  not  to  thrust  itself 
into  the  vitals  of  men,  but  to  encourage 
combustion  on  winter  nights. 

The  bayonet-poker  fits  into  the  philo- 
sophy of  Christmas,  at  least  into  the  way 
I  find  it  easy  to  philosophize.  It  seems  a 
better  symbol  of  what  is  happening  than 
the  harps  of  gold  and  the  other  beautiful 
things  of  which  the  hymn-writers  sing, 
but  which  ordinary  people  have  never 
seen.  The  golden  harps  were  made  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  produce  celes- 
tial harmony.  They  suggest  a  scene  in 
which  peace  and  good  will  come  magic- 
ally and  reign  undisturbed.  Everything 
is  exquisitely  fitted  for  high  uses.  It  is 
not  so  with  the  bayonet  that  was,  and 
the  poker  that  is.  For  it  peace  and  good 
will  are  afterthoughts.  They  are  not  even 
remotely  suggested  in  its  original  consti- 
tution. And  yet,  for  all  that,  it  serves 
excellently  as  an  instrument  of  domestic 
felicity. 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  6 


The  difficulty  with  the  Christmas  mes- 
sage is  not  in  getting  itself  proclaimed, 
but  in  getting  itself  believed;  that  is,  in 
any  practicable  fashion.  Every  one  recog- 
nizes the  eminent  desirability  of  estab- 
lishing more  amicable  relations  between 
the  members  of  the  human  family.  But 
is  this  amiable  desire  likely  to  be  fulfilled 
in  this  inherently  bellicose  world  ? 

The  argument  against  Christmas  has 
taken  a  menacingly  scientific  form.  A 
deluge  of  cold  water  in  the  form  of  unwel- 
come facts  has  been  thrown  upon  our  en- 
thusiasm for  humanity. 

''Peace  on  earth,"  it  is  said,  "is  against 
Nature.  It  flies  in  the  face  of  the  pro- 
cesses of  evolution.  You  have  only  to 
look  about  you  to  see  that  everything  has 
been  made  for  a  quite  different  purpose. 
For  ages  Mother  Nature  has  been  keep- 
ing house  in  her  own  free-and-easy  fash- 
ion, gradually  improving  her  family  by 
killing  off  the  weaker  members,  and  giv- 
ing them  as  food  to  the  strong.  It  is  a 
plan  that  has  worked  well  —  for  the 
strong.  When  we  interrogate  Nature  as 
to  the  'reason  why'  of  her  most  marvel- 
ous contrivances,  her  answer  has  a  grim 
simplicity.  We  are  like  little  Red  Rid- 
ing-Hood when  she  drew  back  the  bed- 
curtains  and  saw  the  wolfish  countenance. 
—  '  What  is  your  great  mouth  made  for, 
grandmother?'  — 'To  eat  you  with,  my 
dear.' 

"  To  eat,  while  avoiding  the  unpleasant 
alternative  of  being  eaten,  is  a  motive  that 
goes  far  and  explains  much.  The  haps 
and  mishaps  of  the  hungry  make  up  nat- 
ural history.  The  eye  of  the  eagle  is  de- 
veloped that  it  may  see  its  prey  from  afar 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


its  wings  are  strong  that  it  may  pounce 
upon  it,  its  beak  and  talons  are  sharp- 
ened that  it  may  tear  it  in  pieces.  By 
right  of  these  superiorities,  the  eagle 
reigns  as  king  among  birds. 

"  The  wings  of  the  eagle,  the  sinews  of 
the  tiger,  the  brain  of  the  man,  are  pri- 
marily weapons.  Each  creature  seizes  the 
one  that  it  finds  at  hand,  and  uses  it 
for  offense  and  defense.  The  weapon  is 
improved  by  use.  The  brain  of  the  man 
has  proved  a  better  weapon  than  beak  or 
talons,  and  so  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
man  is  lord  of  creation.  He  is  able  to  de- 
vour at  will  creatures  who  once  were  his 
rivals. 

"  By  using  his  brain,  he  has  sought  out 
many  inventions.  The  sum-total  of  these 
inventions  we  call  by  the  imposing  name 
Civilization.  It  is  a  marvelously  tem- 
pered weapon,  in  the  hands  of  the  strong 
races.  Alas,  for  the  backward  peoples 
who  fall  beneath  it!  One  device  after 
another  has  been  added  for  the  exterm- 
ination of  the  slow-witted. 

"  Even  religion  itself  assumes  to  the 
anthropologist  a  sinister  aspect.  The 
strong  nations  have  always  been  religious. 
Their  religion  has  helped  them  in  their 
struggle  for  the  mastery.  There  are  many 
unpleasant  episodes  in  history.  Spiritual 
wealth,  like  material  wealth,  is  often  pre- 
datory. 

"  In  the  book  of  Judges  there  is  a  curi- 
ous glimpse  into  a  certain  kind  of  reli- 
giousness. A  man  of  Mt.  Ephraim  named 
Micah  had  engaged  a  young  Levite  from 
Bethlehem-Judah  as  his  spiritual  ad- 
viser. He  promised  him  a  modest  salary : 
ten  shekels  of  silver  annually,  and  a  suit 
of  clothes  and  his  board.  *  And  the  Levite 
was  content  to  dwell  with  the  man,  and 
the  young  man  was  as  one  of  his  sons. 
And  Micah  consecrated  the  Levite,  and 
the  young  man  became  his  priest,  and 
was  in  the  house  of  Micah.  Then  said 
Micah,  Now  know  I  that  the  Lord  will 
do  me  good,  seeing  I  have  a  Levite  to 
my  priest.' 

"  This  pleasant  relation  continued  till 
a  freebooting  party  of  Danites  appeared. 


They  had  discovered  a  bit  of  country 
where  the  inhabitants  '  dwelt  in  security, 
after  the  manner  of  the  Zidonians,  quiet 
and  secure;  for  there  was  none  in  the 
land,  possessing  authority  that  might  put 
them  to  shame  in  any  thing,  and  they 
were  far  from  the  Zidonians.'  It  was 
just  the  opportunity  for  expansion  which 
the  children  of  Dan  had  been  waiting 
for,  so  they  marched  merrily  against  the 
unprotected  valley.  On  the  way  they 
seized  Micah's  priest.  'And  they  said 
unto  him,  Hold  thy  peace,  lay  thine  hand 
upon  thy  mouth,  and  go  with  us,  and  be 
to  us  a  father  and  a  priest :  is  it  better 
for  thee  to  be  priest  unto  the  house  of 
one  man,  or  to  be  priest  unto  a  tribe  and 
a  family  in  Israel  ?  And  the  priest's  heart 
was  glad,  and  he  took  the  ephod,  and  the 
teraphim,  and  the  graven  image,  and 
went  in  the  midst  of  the  people.' 

"  Of  course,  Micah  did  n't  like  it,  and 
called  out,  'Ye  have  taken  away  my 
gods  which  I  made  and  the  priest,  and 
are  gone  away,  and  what  have  I  more  ?' 
The  Danites  answered  after  the  manner 
of  the  strong,  'Let  not  thy  voice  be 
heard  among  us,  lest  angry  fellows  fall 
upon  you  and  thou  lose  thy  life,  with  the 
lives  of  thy  household.  And  the  child- 
ren of  Dan  went  their  way :  and  when 
Micah  saw  that  they  were  too  strong  for 
him,  he  turned  and  went  back  unto  his 
house.' 

"  Is  not  that  the  way  of  the  world  ?  The 
strong  get  what  they  want  and  the  weak 
have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Micah,  when 
he  turned  back  from  a  hopeless  conflict, 
was  a  philosopher,  and  the  young  Levite 
when  he  went  forward  was  a  pietist.  Both 
the  philosophy  and  the  piety  were  by-pro- 
ducts of  the  activity  of  the  children  of 
Dan.  They  sadly  needed  the  priest  to 
sanctify  the  deeds  of  the  morrow  when 
4  they  took  that  which  Micah  had  made, 
and  the  priest  which  he  had,  and  came 
unto  Laish  unto  a  people  quiet  and 
secure ;  and  smote  them  with  the  edge  of 
the  sword ;  and  they  burnt  the  city  with 
fire.  And  there  was  no  deliverer,  be- 
cause it  was  far  from  Zidon  and  they  had 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


723 


no  dealings  with  any  man ;  and  it  was  in 
the  valley  that  lieth  by  Beth-rehob.' 

"  The  wild  doings  in  the  little  valley 
that  lieth  by  Beth-rehob  have  been  re- 
peated endlessly.  Whittier  describes  the 
traditional  alliance  between  Religion 
and  sanguinary  Power:  — 

Feet  red  from  war  fields  trod  the  church  aisles 

holy, 
With  trembling  reverence,  and  the  oppressor 

there 

Kneeling1  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly, 
Crushed  human  hearts   beneath  the  knee  of 

prayer. 

"  When  we  inquire  too  curiously  about 
the  origin  of  the  things  which  we  hold 
most  precious,  we  come  to  suspect  that 
we  are  little  better  than  the  receivers  of 
stolen  goods.  How  could  it  be  otherwise 
with  the  descendants  of  a  long  line  of 
freebooters  ?  How  are  we  to  uphold  the 
family  fortunes  if  we  forsake  the  means 
by  which  they  were  obtained?  Are  we 
not  fated  by  our  very  constitutions  to  con- 
tinue a  predatory  life?" 

There  are  lovers  of  peace  and  of  just- 
ice to  whom  such  considerations  appeal 
with  tragic  force.  They  feel  that  moral 
ideals  have  arisen  only  to  mock  us,  and  to 
put  us  into  hopeless  antagonism  to  the 
world  in  which  we  live.  In  the  rude  play 
of  force,  many  things  have  been  devel- 
oped that  are  useful  in  our  struggle  for 
existence.  But  one  faculty  has  developed 
that  is  destined  to  be  our  undoing  —  it 
is  Conscience.  Natural  history  does  not 
give  any  satisfactory  account  of  it.  It 
runs  counter  to  our  other  tendencies.  It 
makes  us  miserable  just  when  we  are 
getting  the  advantage  of  others.  Now, 
getting  the  advantage  of  others  we  had 
understood  was  the  whole  of  the  exciting 
game  of  life.  To  plot  for  this  has  marvel- 
ously  sharpened  human  wit.  But  Con- 
science, just  at  the  critical  moment,  cries, 
"For  shame!"  It  is  an  awkward  situa- 
tion. Not  only  the  rules  of  the  game,  but 
the  game  itself,  are  called  in  question. 

As  a  consequence,  many  conscientious 
persons  lose  all  the  zest  of  living.  The 
existing  world  seems  to  them  brutal,  its 


order,  tyranny;  its  morality,  organized 
selfishness;  its  accepted  religion,  a  shal- 
low conventionality.  In  such  a  world  as 
this,  the  good  man  stands  like  a  gladiator 
who  has  suddenly  become  a  Christian.  He 
is  overwhelmed  with  horror  at  the  bloody 
sports,  yet  he  is  forced  into  the  arena  and 
must  fight.  That  is  hisjbusiness,  and  he 
cannot  rise  above  it. 

I  cannot,  myself,  take  such  a  gloomy 
view  of  the  interesting  little  planet  on 
which  I  happen  to  find  myself.  I  take 
great  comfort  in  the  thought  that  the 
world  is  still  unfinished,  and  that  what 
we  see  lying  around  us  is  not  the  com- 
pleted product,  but  only  the  raw  material. 
And  this  consolation  rises  into  positive 
cheer  when  I  learn  that  there  is  a  chance 
for  us  to  take  a  hand  in  the  creative  work. 
It  matters  very  little  at  this  stage  of  the 
proceedings  whether  things  are  good  or 
bad.  The  question  for  us  is,  What  is 
the  best  use  to  which  we  can  put  them  ? 
We  are  not  to  be  bullied  by  facts.  If  we 
don't  like  them  as  they  are,  we  may  re- 
mould them  nearer  to  our  heart's  desire. 
At  least  we  may  try. 

Here  is  my  bayonet.  A  scientific  gentle- 
man, seeing  it  lying  on  my  hearth,  might 
construct  a  very  pretty  theory  about  its 
owner.  A  bayonet  is  made  to  stab  with. 
It  evidently  implies  a  stabber.  To  this 
I  could  only  answer,  "My  dear  sir,  do  not 
look  at  the  bayonet,  look  at  me.  Do  I 
strike  you  as  a  person  who  would  be 
likely  to  run  you  through,  just  because  I 
happen  to  have  the  conveniences  to  do  it 
with  ?  Sit  down  by  the  fire  and  we  will 
talk  it  over,  and  you  will  see  that  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  What  the  Birming- 
ham manufacturer  designed  this  bit  of 
steel  for  was  his  affair,  not  mine.  When 
it  comes  to  design,  two  can  play  at  that 
game.  What  I  use  this  for,  you  shall  pre- 
sently see." 

Now,  here  we  have  the  gist  of  the  mat- 
ter. Most  of  the  gloomy  prognostications 
which  distress  us  arise  from  the  habit  of 
attributing  to  the  thing  a  power  for  good 
or  evil  which  belongs  only  to  the  person. 
It  is  one  of  the  earliest  forms  of  su- 


724 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


perstition.  The  anthropologist  calls  it 
"  fetichism,"  when  he  finds  it  among 
primitive  peoples.  When  the  same  no- 
tion is  propounded  by  advanced  thinkers, 
we  call  it  "  advanced  thought."  We  at- 
tribute to  the  Thing  a  malignant  purpose 
and  an  irresistible  potency,  and  we 
crouch  before  it  as  if  it  were  our  master. 
When  the  Thing  is  set  going,  we  observe 
its  direction  with  awestruck  resignation, 
just  as  people  once  drew  omens  from  the 
flight  of  birds.  What  are  we  that  we 
should  interfere  with  the  Tendencies  of 
Things  ? 

The  author  of  The  Wisdom  of  Solomon 
gives  a  vivid  picture  of  the  terror  of  the 
Egyptians  when  they  were  "shut  up  in 
their  houses,  the  prisoners  of  darkness, 
and  fettered  with  the  bonds  of  a  long 
night,  they  lay  there  exiled  from  eter- 
nal providence."  Everything  seemed  to 
them  to  have  a  malign  purpose.  *  *  Wheth- 
er it  were  a  whistling  wind,  or  a  melodi- 
ous noise  of  birds  among  the  spreading 
branches,  or  a  pleasing  fall  of  water 
running  violently,  or  a  terrible  sound  of 
stones  cast  down,  or  a  running  that  could 
not  be  seen  of  skipping  beasts,  or  a  roar- 
ing voice  of  most  savage  wild  beasts,  or  a 
rebounding  echo  from  the  hollow  moun- 
tains ;  these  things  made  them  swoon  for 
fear.  For,"  says  the  author,  "fear  is 
nothing  else  than  a  betraying  of  the  suc- 
cours that  reason  offers." 

We  have  pretty  generally  risen  above 
the  primitive  forms  of  this  superstition. 
We  do  not  fear  that  a  rock  or  tree  will 
go  out  of  its  way  to  harm  us.  We  are  not 
troubled  by  the  suspicion  that  some 
busybody  of  a  planet  is  only  waiting  its 
chance  to  do  us  an  ill  turn.  We  are  in- 
clined to  take  the  dark  of  the  moon  with 
equanimity. 

But  when  it  comes  to  moral  questions 
we  are  still  dominated  by  the  idea  of  the 
fatalistic  power  of  inanimate  things.  We 
cannot  think  it  possible  to  be  just  or 
good,  not  to  speak  of  being  cheerful, 
without  looking  at  some  physical  fact 
and  saying  humbly,  "By  your  leave." 
We  personify  our  tools  and  machines, 


and  the  occult  symbols  of  trade,  and  then 
as  abject  idolaters  we  bow  down  before 
the  work  of  our  own  hands.  We  are  awe- 
struck at  their  power,  and  magnify  the 
mystery  of  their  existence.  We  only  pray 
that  they  may  not  turn  us  out  of  house 
and  home,  because  of  some  blunder  in 
our  ritual  observance.  That  they  will 
make  it  very  uncomfortable  for  us,  we 
take  for  granted.  We  have  resigned  our- 
selves to  that  long  ago.  They  are  so  very 
complicated  that  they  will  make  no  al- 
lowance for  us,  and  will  not  permit  us  to 
live  simply  as  we  would  like.  We  are 
really  very  plain  people,  and  easily  flur- 
ried and  worried  by  superfluities.  We 
could  get  along  very  nicely  and,  we  are 
sure,  quite  healthfully,  if  it  were  not  for 
our  Things.  They  set  the  pace  for  us, 
and  we  have  to  keep  up. 

We  long  for  peace  on  earth,  but  of 
course  we  can't  have  it.  Look  at  our 
warships  and  our  forts  and  our  great 
guns.  They  are  getting  bigger  every 
year.  No  sooner  do  we  begin  to  have  an 
amiable  feeling  toward  our  neighbors 
than  some  one  invents  a  more  ingenious 
way  by  which  we  may  slaughter  them. 
The  march  of  invention  is  irresistible, 
and  we  are  being  swept  along  toward  a 
great  catastrophe. 

Wre  should  like  very  much  to  do  busi- 
ness according  to  the  Golden  Rule.  It 
strikes  us  as  being  the  only  decent  meth- 
od of  procedure.  We  have  no  ill  feeling 
toward  our  competitors.  We  should  be 
pleased  to  see  them  prosper.  We  have  a 
strong  preference  for  fair  play.  But  of 
course  we  can't  have  it,  because  the  Cor- 
porations, those  impersonal  products  of 
modern  civilization,  won't  allow  it.  We 
must  not  meddle  with  them,  for  if  we  do 
we  might  break  some  of  the  laws  of  polit- 
ical economy,  and  in  that  case  nobody 
knows  what  might  happen. 

We  have  a  great  desire  for  good  govern- 
ment. We  should  be  gratified  if  we  could 
believe  that  the  men  who  pave  our  streets, 
and  build  our  schoolhouses,  and  admin- 
ister our  public  funds,  are  well  qualified 
for  their  several  positions.  But  we  can- 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


725 


not,  in  a  democracy,  expect  to  have  expert 
service.  The  tendency  of  politics  is  to 
develop  a  Machine.  The  Machine  is  not 
constructed  to  serve  us.  Its  purpose  is 
simply  to  keep  itself  going.  When  it  once 
begins  to  move,  it  is  only  prudent  in  us  to 
keep  out  of  the  way.  It  would  be  tragical 
to  have  it  run  over  us. 

So,  in  certain  moods,  we  sit  and  grum- 
ble over  our  formidable  fetiches.  Like  all 
idolaters,  we  sometimes  turn  iconoclasts. 
In  a  short-lived  fit  of  anger  we  smash 
the  Machine.  Having  accomplished  this 
feat,  we  feel  a  little  foolish,  for  we  don't 
know  what  to  do  next. 

The  hope  of  the  world  does  not  lie  in 
this  direction.  The  fortunate  fact  is  that 
there  are  those  who  are  neither  idolaters 
nor  iconoclasts.  They  do  not  worship 
Things,  nor  fear  them,  nor  despise  them, 
—  they  simply  use  them. 

In  the  Book  of  Bar uch  there  is  inserted 
a  letter  purporting  to  be  from  Jeremiah 
to  the  Hebrew  captives  in  Babylon.  The 
prophet  discourses  on  the  absurdity  of 
the  worship  of  inanimate  things,  and  inci- 
dentally draws  on  his  experience  in  gar- 
dening. An  idol,  he  says,  is  "like  to  a 
white  thorn  in  an  orchard  that  every  bird 
sitteth  upon."  It  is  as  powerless,  he  says, 
to  take  the  initiative  "as  a  scarecrow  in  a 
garden  of  cucumbers  that  keepeth  no- 
thing." In  his  opinion,  one  wide-awake 
man  in  the  cucumber  patch  is  worth 
all  the  scarecrows  that  were  ever  con- 
structed. "Better  therefore  is  the  just 
man  that  hath  no  idols." 

What  brave  air  we  breathe  when  we  join 
the  company  of  the  just  men  who  have 
freed  themselves  from  idolatry!  Listen 
to  Governor  Bradford  as  he  enumerates 
the  threatening  facts  which  the  Pilgrims 
to  New  England  faced.  He  mentions  all 
the  difficulties  which  they  foresaw,  and 
then  adds,  "It  was  answered  that  all 
great  and  honorable  actions  were  accom- 
panied with  great  difficulties,  and  must 
be  enterprised  with  answerable  cour- 
ages." 

What  fine  spiritual  audacity!  Not 
courage,  if  you  please,  but  courages. 


There  is  much  virtue  in  the  plural.  It 
was  as  much  as  to  say,  "All  our  eggs  are 
not  in  one  basket.  We  are  likely  to  meet 
more  than  one  kind  of  danger.  What  of 
it  ?  We  have  more  than  one  kind  of  cour- 
age. It  is  well  to  be  prepared  for  emer- 
gencies." 

It  was  the  same  spirit  which  made 
William  Penn  speak  of  his  colony  on  the 
banks  of  the  Delaware  as  the  "Holy  Ex- 
periment." In  his  testimony  to  George 
Fox,  he  says,  "He  was  an  original  and  no 
man's  copy.  He  had  not  learned  what  he 
said  by  study.  Nor  were  they  notional 
nor  speculative,  but  sensible  and  practi- 
cal, the  setting  up  of  the  Kingdom  of  God 
in  men's  hearts,  and  the  way  of  it  was  his 
work.  His  authority  was  inward  and  not 
outward,  and  he  got  it  and  kept  it  by  the 
love  of  God.  He  was  a  divine  and  a  nat- 
uralist, and  all  of  God  Almighty's  mak- 
ing." 

In  the  presence  of  men  of  such  moral . 
originality,  ethical  problems  take  on  a 
new  and  exciting  aspect.  What  is  to  hap- 
pen next  ?  You  cannot  find  out  by  noting 
the  trend  of  events.  A  peep  into  a  re- 
sourceful mind  would  be  more  to  the  pur- 
pose. That  mind  perceives  possibilities 
beyond  the  ken  of  a  duller  intelligence. 

I  should  like  to  have  some  competent 
person  give  us  a  History  of  Moral  Pro- 
gress as  a  part  of  the  History  of  Inven- 
tion. I  know  there  is  a  distrust  of  Inven- 
tion on  the  part  of  many  good  people  who 
are  so  enamored  of  the  ideal  of  a  simple 
life  that  they  are  suspicious  of  civiliza- 
tion. The  text  from  Ecclesiastes,  "God 
made  man  upright;  but  they  have 
sought  out  many  inventions,"  has  been 
used  to  discourage  any  budding  Edisons 
of  the  spiritual  realm.  Dear  old  Alexan- 
der Cruden  inserted  in  his  Concordance 
a  delicious  definition  of  invention  as  here 
used:  "Inventions:  New  ways  of  making 
one's  self  more  wise  and  happy  than  God 
made  us." 

It  is  astonishing  how  many  people 
share  this  fear  that,  if  they  exert  their 
minds  too  much,  they  may  become  better 
than  the  Lord  intended  them  to  be.  A 


726 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


new  way  of  being  good,  or  of  doing  good, 
terrifies  them.  Nevertheless  moral  pro- 
gress follows  the  same  lines  as  all  other 
progress.  First  there  is  a  conscious  need. 
Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention. 
Then  comes  the  patient  search  for  the 
ways  and  means  through  which  the  want 
may  be  satisfied.  Ages  may  elapse  before 
an  ideal  may  be  realized.  Numberless 
attempts  must  be  made,  the  lessons  of 
the  successive  failures  must  be  learned. 
It  is  in  the  ability  to  draw  the  right  infer- 
ence from  failure  that  inventive  genius  is 
seen. 

"It  would  be  madness  and  inconsist- 
ency," said  Lord  Bacon,  "to  suppose  that 
things  which  have  never  yet  been  per- 
formed can  be  performed  without  using 
some  hitherto  untried  means."  The  in- 
ventor is  not  discouraged  by  past  failures, 
but  he  is  careful  not  to  repeat  them 
slavishly.  He  may  be  compelled  to  use 
-  the  same  elements,  but  he  is  always  trying 
some  new  combination.  If  he  must  fail 
once  more,  he  sees  to  it  that  it  shall  be  in 
a  slightly  different  way.  He  has  learned 
in  twenty  ways  how  the  thing  cannot  be 
done.  This  information  is  very  useful  to 
him,  and  he  does  not  begrudge  the  labor 
by  which  it  has  been  obtained.  All  this  is 
an  excellent  preparation  for  the  twenty- 
first  attempt,  which  may  possibly  reveal 
the  way  it  can  be  done.  When  thousands 
of  good  heads  are  working  upon  a  pro- 
blem in  this  fashion,  something  happens. 

For  several  generations  the  physical 
sciences  have  offered  the  most  inviting 
field  for  inventive  genius.  Here  have  been 
seen  the  triumphs  of  the  experimental 
method.  There  are,  however,  evidences 
that  many  of  the  best  intellects  are  turn- 
ing to  the  fascinating  field  of  morals.  In- 
deed, the  very  success  of  physical  re- 
search makes  this  inevitable. 

When  in  1783  the  brothers  Montgol- 
fier  ascended  a  mile  above  the  earth  in  a 
balloon  there  was  a  thrill  of  excitement, 
as  the  spectators  felt  that  the  story  of 
Daedalus  had  been  taken  from  the  world 
of  romance  into  the  world  of  fact.  But, 
after  all,  the  invention  went  only  a  little 


way  in  the  direction  of  the  navigation  of 
the  air.  It  is  one  thing  to  float,  and  an- 
other thing  to  steer  a  craft  toward  a  de- 
sired haven.  The  balloon  having  been 
invented,  the  next  and  more  difficult 
task  was  to  make  it  dirigible.  It  was  the 
same  problem  that  had  puzzled  the  in- 
ventors of  primitive  times  who  had  dis- 
covered that,  by  making  use  of  a  proper 
log,  they  could  be  carried  from  place  to 
place  on  the  water.  What  the  landing 
place  should  be  was,  however,  a  matter 
beyond  their  control.  They  had  to  trust 
to  the  current,  which  was  occasionally 
favorable  to  them.  In  the  first  exhilara- 
tion over  their  discovery  they  were  doubt- 
less thankful  enough  to  go  down  stream, 
even  when  their  business  called  them  up 
stream.  At  least  they  had  the  pleasant 
sensation  of  getting  on.  They  were  obey- 
ing the  law  of  progress.  The  uneasy 
radical  who  wanted  to  progress  in  a  pre- 
determined direction  must  have  seemed 
like  a  visionary.  But  the  desire  to  go  up 
stream  and  across  stream  and  beyond 
seas  persisted,  and  the  log  became  a  boat, 
and  paddles  and  oars  and  rudder  and  sail 
and  screw-propeller  were  invented  in 
answer  to  the  ever-increasing  demand. 

But  the  problem  of  the  dirigibility  of  a 
boat,  or  of  a  balloon,  is  simplicity  itself 
compared  with  the  amazing  complexity 
of  the  problems  involved  in  producing 
a  dirigible  civilization.  It  falls  under 
Bacon's  category  of  "things  which  never 
yet  have  been  performed."  Heretofore 
civilizations  have  floated  on  the  cosmic 
atmosphere.  They  have  been  carried 
about  by  mysterious  currents  till  they 
could  float  no  longer.  Then  their  wreck- 
age has  furnished  materials  for  history. 

But  all  the  time  human  ingenuity  has 
been  at  work  attacking  the  great  pro- 
blem. Thousands  of  little  inventions  have 
been  made,  by  which  we  gain  temporary 
control  of  some  of  the  processes.  We  are 
coming  to  have  a  consciousness  of  human 
society  as  a  whole,  and  of  the  possibility 
of  directing  its  progress.  It  is  not  enough 
to  satisfy  the  modern  intellect  to  devise 
plans  by  which  we  may  become  more 


The  Bayonet-Poker 


727 


rich  or  more  powerful.  We  must  also  tax 
our  ingenuity  to  find  ways  for  the  equit- 
able division  of  the  wealth  and  the  just 
use  of  power.  We  are  no  longer  satisfied 
with  increase  in  the  vast  unwieldy  bulk 
of  our  possessions,  —  we  eagerly  seek  to 
direct  them  to  definite  ends.  Even  here 
in  America  we  are  beginning  to  feel  that 
"  progress "  is  not  an  end  in  itself. 
Whether  it  is  desirable  or  not,  depends  on 
the  direction  of  it.  Our  glee  over  the  cen- 
sus reports  is  chastened.  We  are  not  so 
certain  that  it  is  a  clear  gain  to  have  a 
million  people  live  where  a  few  thousand 
lived  before.  We  insist  on  asking,  How 
do  they  live  ?  Are  they  happier,  healthier, 
wiser  ?  As  a  city  becomes  bigger,  does  it 
become  a  better  place  in  which  to  rear 
children  ?  If  it  does  not,  must  not  civic 
ambition  seek  to  remedy  the  defect  ? 

The  author  of  Ecclesiastes  made  the 
gloomy  comment  upon  the  civilization  of 
his  own  day : "  I  returned,  and  saw  under 
the  sun,  that  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift, 
nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  neither  bread 
to  the  wise,  nor  yet  riches  to  men  of 
understanding,  nor  yet  favour  to  men  of 
skill."  In  so  far  as  that  is  true  to-day, 
things  are  working  badly.  It  is  quite  with- 
in our  power  to  remedy  such  an  absurd 
situation.  We  have  to  devise  more  efficient 
means  for  securing  fair  play,  and  for  en- 
forcing the  rules  of  the  game.  We  want 
to  develop  a  better  breed  of  men.  In  or- 
der to  do  so,  we  must  make  this  the  first 
consideration.  In  proportion  as  the  end 
is  clearly  conceived  and  ardently  desired, 
will  the  effective  means  be  discovered  and 
employed. 

Why  has  the  reign  of  peace  and  good 
will  upon  earth  been  so  long  delayed? 
We  grow  impatient  to  hear  the  bells 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 


Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand. 

The  answer  must  be  that  "  the  valiant 
man  and  free"  must,  like  every  one  else, 
learn  his  business  before  he  can  expect  to 
have  any  measure  of  success.  The  kind- 
lier hand  must  be  skilled  by  long  practice 
before  it  can  direct  the  vast  social  me- 
chanism. 

The  Fury  in  Shelley's  Prometheus  Un- 
bound described  the  predicament  in  which 
the  world  has  long  found  itself :  — 

The  good  want  power  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want ;  worse  need  for 

them. 
The  wise  want  love,  and  those  who  love  want 

wisdom  ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 

This  is  discouraging  to  the  unimagin- 
ative mind,  but  the  very  confusion  is  a 
challenge  to  human  intelligence.  Here 
are  all  the  materials  for  a  more  beautiful 
world.  All  that  is  needed  is  to  find  the 
proper  combination.  Goodness  alone  will 
not  do  the  work.  Goodness  grown  strong 
and  wise  by  much  experience,  is,  as  the 
man  on  the  street  would  say,  "  quite  a 
different  proposition."  Why  not  try  it  ? 

We  may  not  live  to  see  any  dramatic 
entrance  of  the  world  upon  "  the  thou- 
sand years  of  peace,"  but  we  are  living 
in  a  time  when  men  are  rapidly  learning 
the  art  of  doing  peacefully  many  things 
which  once  were  done  with  infinite  strife 
and  confusion.  We  live  in  a  time  when 
intelligence  is  applied  to  the  work  of 
love.  The  children  of  light  are  less  con- 
tent than  they  once  were  to  be  outranked 
in  sagacity  by  the  children  of  this  world. 
The  result  is  that  many  things  which 
once  were  the  dreams  of  saints  and  sages 
have  come  within  the  field  of  practical 
business  and  practical  politics.  They  are 
a  part  of  the  day's  work.  A  person  of 
active  temperament  may  prefer  to  live  in 
this  stirring  period,  rather  than  to  have 
his  birth  postponed  to  the  millennium. 


THE   POOR 


A   CHRISTMAS   STORY 


BY   HENRY    C.   ROWLAND 


"...  So  if  there  are  fairies,"  said 
Richard,  "why  shouldn't  there  be  a 
Santa  Claus  ?  It's  no  harder  to  be  Santa 
Claus  than  fairies." 

"  But  there  are  not  truly  fairies," 
Evelyn  protested. 

"  You  can't  be  sure,"  said  the  boy. 
"Ellen  has  seen  them  in  Ireland;  and 
Olsen,  one  of  the  sailors  on  the  yacht, 
has  seen  them  in  Norway ;  and  last  sum- 
mer one  of  our  half-breeds  at  the  camp 
told  me  that  he  had  seen  wood-fairies  and 
a  loup-garou." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  could  not  make  out  'xactly,  because 
this  packer,  Rene,  spoke  such  funny 
French,  quite  different  from  ours.  I 
think  it  was  some  very  dangerous  animal 
that  you  could  n't  kill,  no  matter  how 
much  you  shot  it.  But  I  believe  in  fairies 
most  because  Uncle  Dick  told  me  so,  and 
he  never  tells  lies  to  amuse  children." 

"  Do  you  s'pose  that  he  would  tell  us 
about  them  now  ?  "  asked  the  little  girl 
wistfully. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Richard.  "  Chun- 
dra  Khan  told  me  that  he  was  feeling  very 
ill.  This  blizzard  brings  out  your  fever 
when  you've  lived  for  a  long  time  in 
India." 

Evelyn  walked  to  the  window  and 
pressed  her  face  against  the  glass.  In  the 
garden  below,  the  fine  powdery  snow  was 
swirling  in  beautiful  curving  drifts  across 
the  paths  and  around  the  strawed  shrubs 
and  big  marble  urns.  One  could  dimly 
see  the  gray  outlines  of  the  stable  and 
garage. 

"  It  is  very  dull  for  Christmas  Eve," 
said  Evelyn. 

Richard  looked  up  from  the  wonderful 
cathedral  which  he  was  building  on  the 

728 


floor.  At  the  same  moment  there  came 
into  the  room  a  pretty  French  governess, 
who  threw  up  her  hands  at  sight  of  his 
edifice. 

"  Oh,  lala  la  !  "  she  cried.  "  Que  tu  es 
habile,  cheril  But  Chundra  Khan  has 
come  to  ask  if  you  would  not  like  to  go 
and  see  his  master?" 

"  Good !  "  cried  Richard,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "  Come  on,  Evelyn;  perhaps 
he  will  tell  us  about  the  fairies." 

The  two  children  hurried  from  the 
play-room,  down  the  heavily  carpeted 
hall  and  broad  marble  stairway,  through 
an  antechamber,  to  one  of  the  guest  suites 
of  the  palatial  house.  Outside  the  door 
was  a  very  tall  Hindu  with  an  ascetic, 
benevolent  face  beneath  a  snowy  turban. 

"Good  afternoon,  Chundra  Khan," 
said  Richard. 

"  Hazrat  salamat"  said  the  man,  with 
a  kindly  smile  and  the  salutation  of  his 
caste.  He  opened  the  door,  and  the 
children  entered  a  cheerful  morning-room 
where  a  big-framed  man  with  a  gaunt, 
swarthy  face  was  resting  on  a  chaise- 
longue. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dears,"  he  said, 
in  a  deep  voice. 

The  two  children  greeted  him  politely. 
"  We  were  just  talking  of  you,  Uncle 
Dick,"  said  Richard.  "  I  was  telling 
Evelyn  that  you  said  that  there  were 
fairies." 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Dick,  "  that  is  true. 
There  are  fairies." 

Richard  glanced  triumphantly  at  the 
little  girl,  who  did  not  appear  to  be  con- 
vinced. Uncle  Dick,  watching  them  both 
from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  looked 
for  a  moment  intently  at  the  boy,  then 
turned  to  his  servant. 


The  Poor 


729 


"  (ret  the  ball,"  he  said  in  Hindustani. 
Chundra  Khan  slipped  from  the  room 
and  returned  immediately  with  some  ob- 
ject wrapped  in  a  black  scarf.  At  a  nod 
from  his  master  he  drew  up  a  tabourette 
and  placed  upon  it  a  little  hollowed  cup 
of  ebony  in  which  there  rested  a  crystal 
globe  the  size  of  a  tennis-ball. 

"  Look  into  this  ball,  my  dears,"  said 
Uncle  Dick,  "  and  you  will  see  a  fairy 
picture." 

Chundra  Khan  stepped  softly  to  the 
window  and  lowered  the  dark  shade.  The 
luminous  shadows  deepened  in  the  glow- 
ing heart  of  the  crystal  sphere.  The 
children  leaned  forward,  gazing  into  its 
depths.  They  had  looked  but  a  few  mo- 
ments when  Richard's  eyes  suddenly 
lightened  and  he  pushed  his  face  nearer 
to  the  globe. 

"  How  pretty,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  see 
them,  Evelyn  ?  " 

"  See  what  ?  "  asked  the  little  girl. 

"A  lot  of  brown  people  bathing  in  a 
river.  There  are  flights  and  flights  of 
wide  steps,  and  the  people  keep  going  up 
and  down.  Most  of  them  have  turbans 
like  Chundra  Khan.  How  thin  they 
are  —  " 

"  Benares,  perhaps,"  muttered  Uncle 
Dick,  and  Chundra  Khan  nodded  with 
his  kindly  smile. 

"I  don't  see  a  thing  !  "  said  Evelyn 
sharply.  She  pushed  Richard's  head  aside 
with  her  own,  and  the  boy  readily  gave 
her  his  place. 

"Now  it's  gone,"  he  said.  "No,  here 
it  comes  again —  No,  it's  something  else 
—  how  pretty !  —  it's  all  green  —  trees, 
trees,  trees,  all  blowing  in  the  wind,  with 
blue  sky  behind,  and  big  white,  fluffy 
clouds  —  Why,  there's  a  waterfall  —  it's 
getting  more  clear,  and  the  spray  makes 
a  rainbow  —  Look,  Evelyn  —  "  he  drew 
back  his  head. 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  the  little  girl.  "I  can't 
see  a  thing;"  her  voice  was  petulant. 
"  Where  do  you  look  ?  " 

But  Richard  was  staring  fixedly  at 
something  across  the  room. 

"  What  do  you  see,  my  boy  ?  "  asked 


his  uncle  who  was  watching  him  in- 
tently. 

"It's  very  odd .  I  thought  I  saw  Chun- 
dra Khan  pointing  out  the  window,  but 
there  is  Chundra  Khan  behind  you.  Or, 
perhaps,  it  wasn't  Chundra  Khan;  but 
I  am  sure  there  was  somebody."  He 
looked  into  the  globe. 

Uncle  Dick  glanced  at  the  Hindu. 

"  Apparently  the  lad  can  see  for  him- 
self," he  said  in  Hindustani.  "  Did  you 
make  him  a  telescope  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  need,  Sahib.  He  can 
use  his  Kamic  sight.  I  have  made  one 
for  the  little  girl,  but  she  is  less  gifted." 

"  I  see  a  lady  walking  under  some 
palm  trees,"  said  Richard.  "  Now  it's 
getting  milky  —  " 

Again  Evelyn  pushed  him  away,  stared 
for  a  moment,  then  got  up  suddenly  and 
walked  to  the  window  without  a  word. 

"  Put  the  ball  away,  Chundra  Khan," 
said  Uncle  Dick. 

Richard,  with  an  uncomfortable  sense 
that  Evelyn  was  hurt  and  angry,  walked 
over  to  where  she  stood  in  the  big  bay- 
window  looking  up  Fifth  Avenue.  The 
fierce  gusty  wind  was  driving  the  fine 
snow  in  frantic  eddies ;  serried  drifts  were 
heaping  themselves  across  street  and 
sidewalk ;  the  Park  opposite  was  a  swim- 
ming void  of  pearly  gray. 

"  It 's  good  weather  for  Santa  Claus, 
Evelyn,"  said  Richard. 

The  little  girl  sniffed.  "  I  don't  believe 
those  beggars  opposite  think  so,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  Where  ?  Oh,  there  in  the  niche  of 
the  wall  ?  " 

Evelyn  shrugged  and  walked  away,  but 
Richard  stood  with  his  eyes  fastened  on 
the  snow-bound  waifs  across  the  street. 
There  was  a  woman  with  two  children, 
one  on  either  side,  huddled  beneath  her 
scanty  cape.  In  front  of  them  lay  a 
huge  bundle  which,  apparently,  they  had 
been  carrying,  until  forced  to  stop  and 
rest.  An  eddy  of  wind  had  drifted  the 
snow  in  over  them  until  they  were  turned 
into  a  shapeless  mound. 

An    automobile     ploughed,    panting, 


730 


The  Poor 


through  the  drifts.  A  gentleman,  his 
fur-lined  overcoat  buttoned  to  his  ears, 
valiantly  breasted  the  savage  gusts  of 
wind.  At  his  heels  leaped  two  Irish  ter- 
riers, who  swam  joyously  through  the 
deep  drifts  and  snapped  at  the  swirling 
snowflakes.  They  discovered  the  crouch- 
ing figures  and  set  up  a  furious  barking. 
The  gentleman  looked  around,  but  did 
not  stop. 

Richard  turned  slowly  to  his  uncle. 

"  Those  people  must  be  very  tired  to 
sit  in  that  cold  place,"  he  remarked. 

"Poor  people  are  often  tired,  Richard." 

"  They  must  be  very  cold." 

"  That  is  also  one  of  the  penalties  of 
being  poor.*' 

"  Perhaps  they  are  hungry." 

"  That  goes  with  the  other  two,"  said 
Uncle  Dick. 

"  Oh,  they  are  used  to  it,"  said  Evelyn 
scornfully. 

"  It  does  not  seem  fair,"  said  Richard, 
"  for  people  to  be  sitting  cold  and  hun- 
gry and  tired  on  Christmas  Eve  in  front 
of  houses  like  this."  He  looked  at  his 
uncle  and  his  face  grew  crimson.  "Uncle 
Dick  —  ?" 

"Yes,  Richard?" 

"  Will  you  lend  me  twenty  dollars  until 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"Certainly.  Chundra  Khan,  get  twenty 
dollars  from  my  pocket-book." 

The  Hindu  walked  into  the  other  room 
and  returned  with  a  roll  of  bills. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Dick,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "  Aunt  Eliza  gives  me  a  twenty-dol- 
lar gold  piece  every  Christmas.  I  was 
going  to  buy  a  dachshund  pup,  but  this 
is  more  important.  Will  you  do  me  a 
favor,  Chundra  Khan  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  Sahib." 

"  Take  this  money  across  the  street 
and  give  it  to  that  woman  and  wish  her  a 
merry  Christmas.  Don't  forget  to  wish 
her  a  merry  Christmas,  Chundra  Khan. 
That  is  more  important  than  the  money." 

"  Bahut  achcha,  Protector  of  the  Poor, 
I  will  not  forget." 

Richard  walked  slowly  to  the  window. 
Uncle  Dick  glanced  at  the  Hindu. 


"  He  has  the  Sight,  and  he  has  the 
pure,  unselfish  heart,"  said  he  in  Hin- 
dustani. "  He  is  nearly  ready  for  his 
Guru." 

"  In  my  poor  opinion  he  is  ready  now, 
Sahib,"  said  Chundra  Khan. 

When  Richard  sat  down  to  his  supper 
he  looked  curiously  at  the  creamy  milk 
and  the  appetizing  broth  of  chicken  and 
rice. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is  like  to  be  very 
hungry,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  and  to 
know  that  you  are  going  to  be  hungrier 
every  minute  and  that  there  is  nothing  to 
eat."  His  imagination  was  unequal  to 
the  problem,  and  as  a  means  toward  its 
solution  he  decided  to  try  going  without 
his  supper.  He  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"  I  shall  not  eat  anything  to-night, 
Mademoiselle,"  said  he. 

At  first  the  governess  thought  that  it 
was  only  a  whim,  but  when  she  discovered 
that  the  boy's  mind  was  resolved,  there 
was  a  conflict  of  two  wills,  and  to  her 
amazement  the  French  woman  discov- 
ered that  of  her  charge  to  be  the  stronger. 

"  But  you  must  eat,  cheril  "  she  cried. 
"  You  will  be  ill." 

She  plied  him  with  arguments  and  en- 
treaties, but  the  boy  was  obdurate.  The 
governess  became  alarmed.  One  does 
not  permit  experiments  of  such  a  kind 
upon  the  health  of  the  sole  heir  to  a 
hundred  million  dollars.  Also  she  was 
puzzled,  for  Richard  had  never  proved 
disobedient. 

"  I  will  not  be  ill,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
answered  wearily,  "and  I  do  not  mean 
to  be  entete.  It  is  only  that  I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  the  poor,  and 
that  there  are  a  good  many  to-night  who 
will  have  to  go  to  bed  hungry  because 
there  is  nothing  to  eat,  and  I  wish  to  see 
how  it  feels." 

Later  in  the  evening  Richard  went  to 
the  window  of  one  of  the  drawing-rooms 
in  the  front  of  the  house.  "  Do  not  turn 
on  the  lights,  James,"  he  said  to  the  foot- 
man. With  his  face  against  the  pane,  he 
stared  out  into  the  night.  It  had  stopped 


The  Poor 


731 


snowing,  the  sky  had  cleared,  but  the 
wind  was  blowing  gustily.  Where  the 
avenue  was  cut  by  a  side  street  a  blast  of 
wind  swirled  the  powdery  snow  about  an 
arc-light.  Two  battered-looking  men  with 
shovels  lurched  past  and  melted  into  the 
gloom.  Their  cowering  shoulders  showed 
the  chill  striking  to  the  core,  and  at  the 
corner  they  seemed  to  shrink  when  met 
by  the  freezing  gale  from  the  river. 
"  They  are  very  cold,"  thought  Richard; 
"  perhaps  they  are  hungry  too."  A  third 
figure  came  lurching  out  of  the  darkness. 
Directly  opposite  he  paused  and  shook 
his  fist  at  the  house,  then  shambled  on. 
"  I  wonder  why  he  did  that,"  thought 
Richard,  and  turned  away  with  a  heavy 
heart. 

He  made  a  brave  effort  at  cheerf ulness 
when  he  hung  up  his  stocking  before 
going  to  bed,  but  it  was  a  failure.  "  It 
was  the  sight  of  those  poor,"  thought  the 
governess  to  herself.  "  He  is  so  sensitive, 
cher  petit  gosse."  She  had  brought  him 
some  milk  and  begged  him  to  drink  it  be- 
fore going  to  sleep ;  when  he  had  courte- 
ously but  firmly  declined  to  do  so,  she  left 
the  pitcher  on  his  little  bedstand  and 
wished  him  good-night.  After  she  had 
gone,  Richard  lay  awake,  thinking.  "  It 
gives  you  a  queer  feeling  in  your  stomach 
to  go  without  supper,"  he  thought. 
"  How  awful  it  must.be  when  you  have 
not  had  any  luncheon  either;  but  there 
must  be  a  great  many  of  the  poor  that 
way.  Perhaps  they  are  cold  —  hungry 
and  cold.  I  s'pose  that  makes  it  worse." 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  see  for 
himself.  "  I  want  to  know  exactly  how 
they  feel,"  he  thought,  "  so  that  when 
I'm  grown  up  and  rich  I  won't  forget." 
He  pulled  the  light  fleecy  blankets  from 
off  him  and  threw  them  on  the  floor.  The 
cold-air  ventilator  of  his  room  was  open, 
and  in  a  few  minutes,  as  he  was  getting 
drowsy,  a  shudder  brought  him  back  to 
wakef ulness.  "  It  keeps  you  from  sleep- 
ing to  be  cold,"  he  thought;  "  it's  worse 
than  the  hunger  part."  Presently  he 
shivered  off  into  a  semi-consciousness 
only  to  wake  with  a  start.  "It's  like 


trying  to  sleep  standing  up,"  he  thought. 
"  It  does  n't  seem  to  rest  you  when 
you're  cold.  So  this  is  the  way  they  feel. 
I'm  glad  to  know.  How  awful  it  must 
be  to  be  poor — and  then  of  course  you're 
dirty  too,  and  that  must  be  the  worst  of 
all." 

The  cold  air  was  circulating  through 
his  room.  His  teeth  chattered  a  little. 
"I  s'pose  you're  apt  to  catch  cold  — 
but  so  are  the  poor.  I  s'pose  it's  foolish," 
—  he  drew  in  his  limbs  and  thought 
longingly  of  the  warm  blankets  within 
reach  of  his  hand,  — "but  I'll  do  it 
this  one  night  if  it  kills  me."  He  lay 
a  shuddering  little  heap  while  the  drow- 
siness fought  against  the  chill  which  be- 
gan to  bite  deeper.  "  If  you've  felt  it 
yourself  you're  not  so  apt  to  forget  what 
it's  like." 

Fantastic  ideas  began  to  swim  through 
his  head ;  he  half  roused,  tense,  but  with 
mind  confused.  The  delicious  feeling 
of  sleepy  comfort  and  warmth  was  en- 
tirely lacking.  "  I  believe  I'd  rather  stay 
awake  altogether  —  how  deep  the  snow 
is!"  Again  his  thoughts  were  becom- 
ing confused,  when  a  most  extraordinary 
thing  occurred. 

For  the  horrid  sensation  of  shivering 
tension  disappeared,  and  there  came  in 
its  place  a  feeling  of  bodily  lightness.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  rising  from 
the  bed  —  and  then  he  discovered  that 
he  was  wide  awake  and  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Something  brushed 
his  elbow,  and  he  looked  around  to  see 
Chundra  Khan  smiling  down  upon  him. 
The  room  was  lit  by  a  soft,  delicious  glow. 

"  How  very  odd !  What  has  happened, 
Chundra  Khan  ?"  asked  Richard. 

"  We  are  going  for  a  journey,  Little 
Brother,"  said  the  Hindu.  As  he  spoke 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  Made- 
moiselle came  in.  It  did  not  strike 
Richard  as  strange  that  he  should  have 
seen  her  before  she  had  opened  the  door, 
but  it  did  strike  him  as  very  strange 
when  she  walked  to  his  bed  without  pay- 
ing the  slightest  heed  to  the  Hindu  or 
himself. 


732 


The  Poor 


"  Dear  little  heart,"  he  heard  her  whis- 
per in  French.  "  He  would  suffer  like 
the  poor."  She  gathered  up  the  blankets 
and  began  to  spread  them  softly  on  the 
bed. 

"But  I  am  here,  Mademoiselle!" 
cried  Richard. 

"And  you  are  there  also,  Little 
Brother,"  said  Chundra  Khan,  in  his 
rich  voice.  "  There  is  your  heavy  body 
asleep  in  the  bed  —  what  we  call  in  In- 
dia your  Sthula  Sharira.  That  which 
you  are  in  now  is  a  much  nicer  body, 
your  Kamic  body.  It  cannot  be  hurt  nor 
suffer  from  heat  and  cold  and  hunger, 
and  it  is  so  fine  that  nothing  can  stop  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  Richard,  "  I  know  that 
body.  It  is  the  one  we  go  around  in  when 
we  dream.  Then  this  is  a  dream." 

"  No,  Little  Brother,  this  is  no  dream. 
This  is  much  more  real  than  all  that  hap- 
pens in  that  uncomfortable  heavy  body. 
It  is  when  you  are  in  that  body  that  you 
cannot  always  remember  the  things 
which  have  happened  when  you  were  in 
this  one.  Now  let  us  go." 

Chundra  Khan  took  his  hand,  and  they 
moved  toward  the  wall.  There  was  a  feel- 
ing as  of  pushing  through  thick  vapor, 
and  Richard  looked  down  and  saw  the 
street  directly  under  him.  Yet,  although 
startled  and  giddy,  he  felt  no  actual  fear 
of  falling.  A  sense  of  lightness  in  this 
wonderful  new  body  seemed  to  hold  him 
up. 

Chundra  Khan  looked  at  him  and 
smiled.  "  That  is  right,  Little  Brother," 
he  said.  "  People  who  are  not  used  to 
this  body  often  expect  to  fall,  and  the  re- 
sult is  that  they  do  fall.  They  are  not  hurt, 
of  course,  but  they  are  badly  frightened 
and  rush  back  into  their  heavy  bodies, 
and  then  awake  and  think  that  they  have 
dreamed  of  falling." 

The  air  about  them  was  full  of  moving 
shapes,  but  most  of  these  were  vague  and 
misty  and  wrapped  in  a  vapor  of  con- 
stantly changing  colors.  Some  were  mov- 
ing fast,  but  most  were  floating  idly  here 
and  there.  Richard  asked  what  they 
were. 


"  The  greater  part  of  them  are  people 
whose  heavy  bodies  are  asleep,  and  these 
are  their  light  bodies,  but  too  wrapped 
up  in  their  own  thoughts  to  notice  what  is 
going  on  about  them.  Now,  Little  Bro 
ther,  we  are  free  to  go  where  we  choose. 
No  land  is  too  far  for  us  to  visit,  nothing  is 
hidden  from  our  eyes.  We  can  go  to  any 
part  of  this  earth,  or,  if  you  had  rather,  I 
will  take  you  to  the  beautiful  and  wonder- 
ful country  where  people  go  when  they 
are  set  free  from  their  earth-bodies  and 
remain  until  they  are  fit  for  the  heaven- 
wOrld,  which  we  Hindus  call  Devachan." 

They  had  settled  slowly  to  the  ground, 
and  were  now  standing  on  the  sidewalk 
near  the  spot  where  Richard  had  seen  the 
poor  woman  in  the  afternoon. 

The  snow  was  swirling  all  about  them, 
but  they  could  not  feel  the  wind  nor  was 
there  the  slightest  sense  of  cold.  Richard 
looked  down  the  long  straight  wind- 
swept avenue,  with  its  double  row  of  lights 
and  its  stately  line  of  palaces,  then 
glanced  at  the  little  niche  in  the  wall 
which  had  sheltered  the  woman  and 
children. 

"  Some  other  night,  Chundra  Khan," 
said  he,  "  perhaps  you  will  take  me  there, 
but  to-night  I  want  to  see  —  the  poor." 

"  So  be  it,  Little  Brother.  Then  let  us 
go." 

They  rose  rapidly  from  the  ground 
until  well  clear  of  the  housetops,  then 
moved  swiftly  toward  the  East  Side  of  the 
city.  Once  they  passed  close  over  the 
top  of  the  tall  chimney  of  a  power-house, 
and  for  an  instant  Richard  looked 
straight  down  and  saw  the  lurid  glare  of 
the  flame  as  it  licked  up  and  swirled  about 
him.  He  shrank  away  in  terror. 

"You  must  be  of  good  heart,  Little 
Brother,"  cautioned  the  Hindu.  "  No- 
thing can  hurt  you,  but  if  you  become 
terrified  there  is  danger  that  you  may 
find  yourself  back  in  your  heavy  body." 

After  that  the  boy  was  careful,  though 
several  times  frightened ;  once  when  some 
dark  body  with  an  evil  face  swept  down 
upon  them  from  the  heights.  At  a  stern 
word  from  Chundra  Khan  it  flew  into  a 


The  Poor 


733 


thousand  fragments  and  dissipated  in  a 
cloud  of  vapor. 

They  reached  the  district  of  tenements, 
—  tall,  drab  buildings  where  the  poor  are 
herded.  In  front  of  one  of  these  they 
halted,  poised  in  mid-air  outside  its  gray 
walls. 

"  Here  are  the  poor,"  said  Chundra 
Khan,  "  nested  like  vermin.  Think  of 
the  room  inside,  Little  Brother;  try  to 
look  beyond  the  walls  themselves  and  you 
will  find  that  they  melt  away." 

Richard  looked,  focusing  his  eyes 
beyond  the  wall,  which  suddenly  faded, 
leaving  open  to  his  vision  a  bare,  dirty 
room  packed  with  people.  To  the  boy's 
clairvoyant  sight  the  room  itself  ap- 
peared to  hold  an  atmosphere  of  thick, 
viscid  slime,  which  oozed  sluggishly  about 
the  person  of  any  who  moved.  There  were 
bearded  men  and  squalid  women,  and 
children  with  pitiful  bones  and  the  faces 
of  meagre  demons.  Some  of  the  folk 
were  asleep,  others  huddled  close  to- 
gether. A  bottle  passed  from  hand  to 
hand.  All  about  the  place  there  hovered 
brutal  shapes  with  faces  of  indescribable 
wickedness,  gloating  on  the  misery  of 
those  within.  Richard  drew  back  with  a 
shudder,  and  the  drab  outer  wall  sprang 
into  form  again. 

"Those  are  not  the  poor,  Chundra 
Khan!"  he  cried.  "  That  is  a  pack  of 
devils." 

"  Poverty  makes  devils  of  the  weak, 
Little  Brother." 

"  But  what  could  you  do  for  such  crea- 
tures ?  " 

"  Love  in  time  redeems  us  all,  Little 
Protector  of  the  Poor." 

They  dropped  a  story  lower.  "  Here 
are  some  poor  of  another  kind,"  said 
Chundra  Khan.  "  A  glorious  heaven- 
world  waits  for  such  as  these." 

Again  Richard  focused  his  eyes  to 
look  beyond  the  wall.  He  saw  another 
bare  room  and  three  children  asleep  in 
a  bed.  They  were  huddled  close,  and  the 
smallest,  who  was  in  the  middle,  breathed 
hoarsely  and  at  times  coughed.  A  gaunt 
man  was  fumbling  with  numb  fingers  at 


three  little  stockings  which  hung  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  His  ragged  overcoat  was 
spread  over  the  children,  and  at  times 
a  shiver  shook  his  bony  frame.  In  a 
corner  of  the  room  stood  a  snow-shovel. 

"  This  man,"  said  Chundra  Khan, 
"  is  one  of  the  ten  thousand  who  were 
turned  out  of  work  by  the  hard  times.  It 
was  he  whom  you  saw  look  up  and  shake 
his  fist  as  he  passed  the  window." 

"  Why  did  he  do  that,  Chundra  Khan  ?  " 

"Because,  Little  Brother," -- the 
Hindu's  voice  was  very  gentle,  —  "  it 
was  by  your  father's  order  that  the  works 
were  closed  where  he  earned  a  living  for 
himself  and  his  children." 

Richard  shuddered.  The  man  drew 
from  his  ragged  pocket  a  little  china  doll, 
looked  at  it,  and  smiled.  He  dropped  it 
into  the  larger  stocking,  but  it  slipped 
through  a  hole  in  the  heel,  fell  to  the  floor, 
and  broke  in  two.  He  snatched  up  the 
fragments  with  a  hoarse  little  cry,  held 
them  in  his  huge  hand,  and  stared  at 
them  stupidly.  "  Broke ! "  Richard 
heard  him  mutter  in  a  husky  voice. 
"Broke  in  two! "  The  tattered  sleeve  was 
drawn  across  the  deep-set  eyes.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  quite  overcome  by 
the  catastrophe,  then  with  a  piece  of 
string  he  tied  up  the  hole  in  the  stocking 
and  dropped  in  the  broken  fragments. 
Into  the  second  stocking  he  put  a  little 
rubber  ball,  into  the  third  a  pocket  knife. 
After  that  he  took  from  his  pocket  six 
caramels.  One  of  these  he  half  raised  to 
his  mouth,  and  a  sudden  wolfish  flame 
glowed  in  his  eyes. 

"  He  has  had  nothing  to  eat  since  morn- 
ing," said  Chundra  Khan.  "  He  bought 
these  trifles  for  his  children  and  he  could 
not  wait  his  turn  on  the  *  bread  line  '  be- 
cause the  youngest  child  was  sick  and 
in  need  of  broth." 

One  of  the  children  began  to  speak. 
"  Cold,  daddy,"  it  muttered.  The  father 
started  guiltily,  dropped  the  candies  into 
the  stockings,  then  slipped  off  his  coat 
and  spread  it  on  the  bed.  He  ripped  a 
piece  of  ragged  carpet  from  the  floor, 
wrapped  it  about  his  head  and  shoul- 


734 


The  Poor 


ders,  crouched  in  a  corner,  and  his  chin 
dropped  upon  his  chest. 

"  It  is  too  awful — too  awful,  Chundra 
Khan!  "  moaned  Richard. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  Hindu. 

There  rose  suddenly  on  the  flaws  of  the 
gusty  wind  the  pealing  of  chimes.  From 
all  parts  of  the  city  the  church  bells  took 
up  the  joyous  medley  and  carried  it  to  the 
cold,  glittering  sky.  But  gradually,  when 
the  clamor  had  almost  reached  its  height, 
there  swelled  another  sound  before  which 
these  mortal  noises  dwindled  and  were 
lost.  It  rumbled  deep  and  throbbing, 
and  Richard,  in  sudden  awe,  looked  up 
at  Chundra  Khan. 

The  Hindu  was  standing  with  bowed 
head. 

"  A  Saviour  of  the  World,"  said  he. 
"  This  is  his  night." 

From  the  uttermost  depths  of  the  hea- 
ven above,  and  up  from  the  heart  of  the 
very  earth,  there  breathed  the  deepening 
chorus  of  a  mighty  chant.  With  it  came 
flooding  in  from  each  unfathomable 
dimension  of  space  a  glorious,  radiant 
light,  multi-colored,  all-illumining,  which 
shone  through  the  walls  of  the  houses 
until  the  entire  world  glowed  like  some 
wondrous,  translucent  body. 

Grander  and  grander  rolled  the  celes- 
tial anthem ;  brighter  and  brighter  blazed 
the  lovely  harmony  of  colors.  Then 
slowly  the  music  throbbed  away.  The 
radiance  faded  in  pulsing  waves.  The 
winter's  night  rested  again  upon  the  city. 

"  Where  now,  Little  Brother  ?  "  asked 
the  Hindu. 

They  had  visited  many  quarters,  seen 
more  misery  than  the  child's  full  heart 
could  hold,  while  his  soul  had  drawn  back 
quivering  from  horrors  which  his  Kama- 
Manas  revealed  to  him  with  age-old 
understanding. 

"  We  must  find  my  father,  Chundra 
Khan!  "  he  moaned.  "  We  must  find  my 
father !  He  is  rich  —  he  cannot  know 
of  all  this  suffering  —  or  if  he  knows 
he  cannot  understand.  We  must  make 
him  understand.  We  must  make  him  see 


it  as  it  is,  as  we  see  it,  as  the  poor  them- 
selves see  it.  Let  us  find  my  father." 

The  Hindu  smiled.  "  But  you  forget, 
Little  Protector  of  the  Poor,  that  in  your 
light  body  your  father  could  neither  see 
you  nor  hear  your  voice.  How  could  you 
hope  to  make  him  understand  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  Chundra  Khan  — 
but  I  want  to  try." 

For  an  instant  Chundra  Khan  seemed 
to  hesitate;  then  he  said,  "  Come,  Lit- 
tle Brother,  we  will  find  your  father." 

They  rose  lightly  until  well  above  the 
housetops,  then  wafted  westward  over 
the  city.  The  Hudson  River,  flowing 
black  and  cold  between  its  snow-covered 
banks,  was  almost  under  them  when  they 
came  dropping  down  from  the  heights 
to  stand  before  the  gate  of  an  exquisite 
little  palace  standing  in  a  tiny  garden  on 
the  upper  Riverside  Drive. 

"  Your  father  is  here,"  said  the  Hindu. 
"  Let  us  go  in.  Nobody  can  see  us  in  our 
Kamic  bodies,  but  neither  can  they  hear 
us,  nor  feel  the  touch  of  our  hands,  so 
your  task  will  not  be  easy,  Little  Brother 
of  my  Soul." 

They  entered,  drifting  gently  through 
the  stone  walls,  which  gave  before  them 
like  a  cloud  of  steam.  As  they  did  so, 
Richard  became  suddenly  conscious  of 
a  terrible  depression.  The  keen,  clear 
atmosphere  of  the  outer  world  was  re- 
placed by  some  viscid  and  oppressive  ele- 
ment in  which  the  boy  felt  himself  help- 
lessly entangled.  His  faculties,  which 
had  been  so  sharp  and  clear,  seemed 
dulled  and  clouded.  He  saw  vaguely,  and 
as  though  he  were  looking  through  swirls 
of  multi-colored  smoke,  that  there  was  a 
supper-party  in  progress;  he  heard  in  a 
muffled  way  the  thick  chatter  of  men's 
and  women's  voices,  the  dull  tinkle  of 
wine-glasses,  with  the  clink  of  silver  on 
porcelain.  The  persons  of  the  people  at 
the  table  were  vague  and  ill-defined,  some 
being  more  distinct  than  others.  Fortu- 
nately for  him,  his  untrained  faculties 
could  not  perceive  many  of  the  objects 
which  were  visible  to  Chandra  Khan, 
but  he  was  nearly  overcome  by  a  terrible 


The  Poor 


735 


sensation  of  repulsion  which  was  almost 
fear. 

"What  is  it,  Chundra  Khan?"  he 
gasped,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "  What 
is  this  horrid  stuff  around  us?  I  can 
scarcely  move  or  speak  or  think." 

"It  is  what  we  Hindus  call  kdma- 
manic  matter,  little  Brother,  and  is  given 
off  from  the  minds  of  these  people  who 
are  eating  and  drinking  here,"  answered 
the  Hindu.  "  You  will  have  to  fight  your 
way  through  it  as  best  you  can.  In  this 
light  world  of  ours,  thoughts  take  form 
and  color,  but  these  thoughts  are  such 
shifting,  selfish,  unshaped  things  as  to 
be  only  a  bog  of  desires.  Shall  we  leave 
this  place  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  think  that 
my  father  is  over  there.  I  must  try  to 
speak  to  him." 

He  fought  his  way  across  the  room. 
Now  and  then  a  vague,  unpleasant  figure 
drifted  before  him,  and  once  an  evil, 
leering  face  was  thrust  into  his;  but  the 
boy,  although  badly  frightened,  did  not 
flinch.  "Get  out  of  my  way!"  he  com- 
manded fiercely ; ' '  you  are  only  a  thought, 
and  an  ugly  one  at  that!  " 

His  feet  dragged  heavily,  and  the  ooz- 
ing, lurid  air-slime  stifled  him,  but  he 
struggled  on.  In  a  sudden  clearing  of 
the  atmosphere,  he  saw  the  room  more 
plainly :  there  were  bunches  of  mistletoe 
and  garlands  of  holly  here  and  there;  in 
the  middle  of  the  table  was  a  bowl  of 
gardenias,  and  as  he  looked  at  it  he 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  his  father's  face 
directly  opposite.  With  infinite  labor, 
Richard  dragged  himself  around  the 
table  until  at  last  he  stood  by  his  father's 
side. 

"  Father !  "  he  gasped,  in  the  sound- 
less voice  of  his  other  world,  "  father  — 
it  is  I  — Richard!" 

Vague  as  the  man's  face  appeared 
through  its  swimming  mass  of  colored 
vapor,  Richard  could  see  that  it  held  no 
consciousness  of  his  presence.  He  tried 
again  to  speak,  but  his  words  seemed  to 
be  caught  and  entangled  in  the  turbid 
atmosphere.  He  was  dimly  conscious  that 


an  orchestra  was  playing  in  an  alcove 
behind  him;  also  that  his  father  was 
talking  to  a  woman  on  his  left  who  ap- 
peared to  be  the  hostess. 

Summoning  all  of  his  strength,  the 
boy  made  another  effort.  "  Father!  "  he 
cried,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  poor ! 
The  poor!  Can't  you  hear  me,  daddy? 
It  is  Richard!  Richard!  " 

For  an  instant  he  thought  that  his  mes 
sage  had  been  received,  for  his  father 
slightly  moved  his  head.  But  the  woman 
spoke  to  him  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
laugh,  and  then  the  fog  seemed  to  close 
in  again,  and  with  it  came  the  sensation 
of  a  crowd  of  people  pressing  in  from 
every  side.  Richard  felt  as  though  he 
were  being  shoved  and  pushed  this  way 
and  that  by  dim,  vague  forms  which 
swirled  and  eddied  in  fumes  of  constantly 
changing,  muddy  colors.  Sometimes  these 
crowding  figures  dissolved  before  his  eyes 
to  mix  with  the  turbid  atmosphere. 
Others  would  stare  for  a  moment  into 
his  face  with  empty  eyes,  babbling  in 
foolish  voices.  A  few  writhed  past,  laugh- 
ing vacantly,  as  an  echo  laughs.  Some 
glared  red  and  angry  with  blotched  faces 
and  swollen  veins;  yet,  repulsive  as  was 
the  whole  stirring  horde,  Richard  felt  no 
fear  of  it,  but  rather  an  utter  disregard 
which  was  scarcely  even  contempt.  In 
some  vague  way  he  seemed  to  realize  that 
these  shapes  had  no  personalities  of  their 
own,  but  were  merely  reflections  of  the 
selfish,  greedy,  silly  thoughts  and  words 
and  feelings  of  the  people  at  the  supper- 
table. 

But,  whatever  they  were,  they  inter- 
fered with  what  he  had  set  himself  to  do, 
and  with  a  fierce  determination  he  pushed 
himself  against  his  father's  elbow. 

"  Father!  father!  "  he  cried,  "  do  not 
listen  to  all  of  this  chatter!  Think  of 
the  poor,  father !  It  is  Christmas  night ! 
Think  of  the  men  who  have  no  work! 
Think  of  their  little  children  who  are 
hungry!  " 

His  face  was  close  to  his  father's,  and 
for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Richard  that 
he  had  made  himself  heard.  A  sudden 


73(> 


The  Poor 


light  shone  from  his  father's  eyes,  and. he 
stared  straight  in  front  of  him.  Then  the 
woman  at  his  side  leaned  toward  him  and 
asked  some  question,  and  Richard  heard 
him  give  a  short  laugh  and  answer,  "  The 
poor."  At  this  the  woman  seemed  to  pro- 
test, pouring  out  a  torrent  of  words  while 
a  lurid,  angry  color  eddied  about  her. 

"  The  poor ! "  shrieked  Richard.  "  The 
poor,  father!  The  poor!  "  But  even  as 
he  spoke,  he  felt  the  sudden  tug  of  some 
violent  force  which  was  dragging  him  bod- 
ily away.  Stronger  and  stronger  it  grew, 
this  terrific  power  which  he  felt  instinct- 
ively to  be  tearing  him  from  his  world  of 
lightness  and  clear  thought,  drawing  him 
back  even  in  the  moment  of  his  victory, 
as  he  could  tell  from  the  growing  light 
which  kindled  in  his  father's  eyes. 

"  The  poor,  father  !  The  poor  !  "  he 
shrieked,  and  as  he  did  so  a  sense  of 
heaviness,  of  distance,  surged  through 
him  with  the  shock  of  a  physical  pain. 
It  was  as  though  he  were  entangled  in 
the  toils  of  some  great  mesh  which  gave 
beneath  his  struggles,  but  would  not  let 
go.  His  voice,  even  his  mind,  was  smoth- 
ered in  the  limitations  of  the  heavy  body, 
and  as  he  fought  to  overcome  this  rapidly 
growing  heaviness  he  seemed  to  see  a 
smile  of  triumph  in  the  gleaming  eyes  of 
the  woman. 

"Chundra  Khan!  "  he  cried.  "  Chun- 
dra  Khan  —  I'm  going  —  I'm  going. 
Help  —  Help !  Chundra  Khan ! " 

Richard  suddenly  awoke.  His  govern- 
ess was  leaning  over  his  bed. 

"  Cheri"  she  was  saying  softly,  "  it  is 
only  a  nightmare." 

The  boy  roused  himself  and  looked 
about  the  room. 

"  Where  is  Chundra  Khan  ?  Ah,  then 
it  was  this.  I  am  back  in  my  heavy 
body.  You  brought  me  back,  Made- 
moiselle !  Oh,  why  did  you  do  it  ?  Why 
could  n't  you  have  waited  ?  Another  mo- 
ment, just  another  little  moment,  and 
think  what  it  would  have  meant  to  the 
poor!"  He  burst  into  tears. 

His  governess  kept  him  in  bed  the  fol- 


lowing day,  and  there  he  examined  his 
Christmas  presents  with  polite  but  list- 
less interest.  The  doctor  came  and  pro- 
nounced him  quite  well,  but  forbade  any 
more  experiments  in  the  matter  of  diet. 
At  noon  his  father  looked  in  to  see  him. 

"  Merry  Christmas,  old  chap,"  said  he. 

"Merry  Christmas,  father,"  said  Rich- 
ard. 

"  Santa  Claus  treat  you  pretty  well  ?  " 

"  Father,"  said  Richard,  "  last  night 
when  you  were  at  supper  in  that  house 
on  the  Riverside  Drive  — 

"Eh  —  what  ?    What 's  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  there,"  said  Richard  calmly. 
"  It  was  really  this  morning  —  about 
three  o'clock,  I  should  think;  but  when, 
you  have  been  out  all  night  you  don't 
think  about  it's  being  morning,  do  you, 
daddy?" 

"  But,  my  boy  —  what  are  you  talking 
about?  You  have  not  been  out  of  this 
room." 

Richard  made  a  little  gesture  with  his 
hand.  "  I  was  in  my  light  body,"  said 
he,  "  but  I  was  there.  It  was  a  little  house 
of  gray  stone  with  a  garden  in  front  of  it. 
There  were  bunches  of  mistletoe  in  the 
dining-room  and  a  basin  full  of  gardenias 
in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  some  musi- 
cians in  the  alcove  who  were  playing  so 
loud  that  you  had  to  shout.  I  could  not 
see  the  people  very  well  because  the  air 
was  so  thick  with  selfish  thoughts  — 

The  eyes  of  the  millionaire  were  start- 
ing from  his  head.  He  started  to  speak, 
then  checked  himself  to  listen. 

"  I  was  trying  to  tell  you  about  £he 
poor,  father  —  the  men  whom  you  laid 
off  from  work.  Oh,  daddy,  if  you  only 
knew ! "  The  tears  gushed  from  Rich- 
ard's eyes.  "Take  them  back!"  he 
sobbed.  "Take  them  back,  daddy  dear." 

"I  have  never  denied  it,  Dick,"  said 
the  millionaire,  "  but  I  have  got  to  be- 
lieve in  it  after  this.  The  thought  of 
what  it  would  cost  to  take  back  all  of  this 
labor  suggested  Richard,  and  my  mental 
image  was  so  strong  that  in  some  way 
it  impressed  itself  on  the  boy's  brain. 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


787 


He  is  a  sensitive  little  chap.  But  the  most 
extraordinary  part  of  it  is  that  he  re- 
ceived, not  only  the  thought  itself,  but 
also  a  picture  of  all  of  my  immediate  sur- 
roundings, —  the  room,  the  music,  the 
flowers  on  the  table  —  even  the  location 
of  the  house  itself!  " 

"  That  is  very  interesting,"  said  Uncle 
Dick  dryly. 

"  Interesting !  It 's  uncanny !  It  sends 
the  shivers  down  my  spine !  In  the  boy's 
mind  it  was  mixed  up  with  a  lot  of  dream 
stuff  about  Chundra  Khan,  and  the  poor 
starving  in  attics,  and  celestial  music,  and 
I  don't  know  what!  But  the  part  which 
concerned  myself  was  absolutely  cor- 
rect!" 

"  Then  why  not  the  rest  of  it?  " 


The  millionaire  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  That's  too  deep  for  a  practical  business 
man.  But  I  will  acknowledge  that  there 
may  have  been  some  reason  which  we 
cannot  explain  behind  it  all.  I  do  not 
believe  that  such  things  happen  for 
nothing,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  do  not." 

"  Nor  I.  We  will  not  say  anything 
about  this.  People  would  laugh,  or  think 
that  I  had  gone  a  little  mad.  But  the 
men  come  back  to  work.  There  is  some 
reason  for  my  having  impressed  all  that 
was  in  my  mind  upon  the  mind  of  my 


son! 


"  Perhaps,"  said  Uncle  Dick,  in  his  dry 
voice,  "it  was  the  other  way  about." 
But  Chundra  Khan  said  nothing. 


THE   NEW  VIEW   OF   CHARITY 


BY   EDWARD   T.    DEVINE 


IN  our  midst  are  the  waste  products 
of  civilization.  Here  are  orphans  and  ne- 
glected children,  sick  and  disabled  men 
and  women,  friendless  and  homeless 
aged,  physically  and  morally  handicapped 
persons,  insane  and  feeble-minded,  in- 
ebriates and  vagrants,  deserted  families, 
stranded  wrecks  of  humanity :  some  very 
forlorn  and  of  forbidding  appearance, 
some  very  attractive  and  personally  above 
reproach.  What  are  we  to  do  with  these 
families,  these  individuals,  these  aged 
infirm,  these  innocent  children?  Family 
affection  has  supplied  one  part  of  the 
answer ;  and  the  state,  from  the  element- 
ary obligation  to  maintain  order,  has 
supplied  another  part;  but  there  has  re- 
mained a  large  part  for  charity.  The 
orphan  asylum,  the  foster  home,  the  re- 
formatory, the  cruelty  society,  the  hos- 
pital, dispensary,  and  day-nursery,  the  re- 
lief society,  fresh-air  agency,  wood-yard, 
sewing  bureau,  are  the  answer  which  the 
community  has  made,  and  wisely  made, 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  6 


to  this  immediate  imperative  question 
thrust  upon  us  by  the  very  existence  of 
obvious  and  undeniable  suffering  and 
misery.  It  is  the  old  view  that  distress 
should  be  relieved.  We  need  have  no 
quarrel  with  that  view.  The  world's  ad- 
vance is  "  spiral,  on  a  flat,"  like  that  of 
the  inebriate  or  the  worm,  and  we  do 
well  to 

Cherish  the  promise  of  its  good  intents 
And  warn  it,  not  one  instinct  to  efface 
Ere  reason  ripens  for  the  vacant  place. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  the  reason- 
ing process  of  the  carping  critic  who 
admits,  when  driven  into  a  corner,  the 
soundness  of  the  view  that  distress  is  to 
be  relieved,  and  yet  has  only  patronizing 
and  grudging  approval,  or  perhaps  open 
sarcasm,  for  the  people  who  give  their 
money  and  their  time  to  this  necessary 
work.  It  is  indeed  something  to  have 
attained  clearly  to  this  old  view.  Old  as 
humanity,  permanent  as  the  hills,  beauti- 
ful as  the  rarest  quality  of  the  human 


738 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


soul,  is  this  instinct  to  help  others  who  are 
in  trouble.  Courtesy  is  but  one  form  of  it. 
Consideration  for  others  demands  charity 
in  a  case  of  need,  as  it  demands  polite- 
ness in  the  parlor,  and  loyalty  on  a  field 
of  battle  or  in  the  presence  of  calumny 
against  a  friend. 

I  do  not  condemn  charitable  founda- 
tions, relief -funds,  agencies  for  the  relief 
of  suffering.  Not  only  do  I  not  condemn 
them ;  I  withhold  from  them  no  meed  of 
praise.  It  has  been  my  duty  to  help  to 
create  them,  to  aid  in  securing  their  per- 
petuation and  endowment,  to  bring  them 
to  the  favorable  attention  of  the  giving 
public,  to  withstand  attacks  upon  them, 
to  interpret  their  spirit,  and  to  justify 
their  ends.  And  this  I  have  done,  not  as 
an  unwelcome  duty,  but  with  pleasure 
and  satisfaction,  for  I  have  looked  upon 
them  as  necessary  and  beneficial ;  and  on 
the  whole,  as  compared  with  municipal 
enterprises,  or  business  enterprises,  or  re- 
ligious enterprises,  or  educational  enter- 
prises, they  are  exceedingly  well  managed 
institutions. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  been  devoting 
much  time  these  past  few  years  to  trying 
to  develop,  and  to  cooperating  with  others 
to  develop,  a  somewhat  different  view 
of  charity  from  that  which  is  represented 
by  our  existing  charitable  institutions. 
It  is  then*  original  purpose  to  relieve 
distress  —  one  in  one  way,  and  another 
in  another;  one  for  one  kind  of  distress, 
and  another  for  another  kind;  one  to  deal 
with  a  particular  class,  and  another  to 
promote  cooperation  among  diverse  char^ 
ities  and  to  prevent  overlapping;  one  to 
improve  the  condition  of  the  poor,  and 
another  to  organize  charity ;  but  one  and 
all,  whatever  higher  vision  may  have 
animated  the  founders,  and  whatever  ex- 
periments in  various  directions  may  have 
been  made  here  and  there,  are  mainly 
engaged  in  relieving  distress,  in  helping 
individuals  to  find  a  way  out  of  distress ; 
and  doing  this  increasingly  in  such  a  way, 
and  with  such  safeguards,  as  to  pre- 
vent, if  possible,  their  falling  again  into 
a  dependent  condition.  This  has  been 


organized  charity  at  its  best.  This  was 
Robert  M.  Hartley's  permanent  im- 
provement of  the  condition  of  the  poor. 
This  was  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell's  treat- 
ment of  character,  through  investigation, 
cooperation,  and  personal  service.  For 
this  the  Widows'  Society,  and  the  Uni- 
ted Hebrew  Charities,  and  the  Society  of 
Saint  Vincent  de  Paul,  and  the  other  re- 
lief agencies,  in  their  greatest  efficiency, 
have  striven.  It  is  an  altogether  noble 
conception.  And  yet,  as  I  have  just  said, 
we  have  been  engaged  in  making  clear 
the  outlines  of  another  view.  We  have 
rounded  another  corner.  We  have  seen 
that,  although  consistent  with  the  modern 
social  spirit,  it  is  not  a  complete  expression 
of  it;  and  we  have  discovered  that  the 
relief  of  distress,  however  intelligent,  and 
the  prevention  of  dependence  in  the  indi- 
vidual case  by  personal  influence,  and  the 
most  thorough  inquiry  into  the  causes 
of  individual  need,  do  not  exhaust  the 
benign  aspects  of  that  charity  in  whose 
name  we  work  and  plan  for  the  common 
good. 

This  newer  view  upon  which  we  have 
been  placing  emphasis  is,  in  a  word,  that 
there  are  social  as  well  as  individual 
causes  of  misery,  of  dependence,  of  pov- 
erty, and  of  crime.  We  have  learned  to 
look  to  bad  housing  conditions,  dark  and 
unsanitary  tenements,  indecent  halls  and 
yards,  insufficiency  of  room  to  live  in,  to 
play  in,  to  grow  in  —  we  have  learned  to 
call  these,  even  as  we  called  drink  and 
dishonesty,  causes  of  distress.  We  have 
learned  to  look  to  conditions  directly  af- 
fecting health :  infection  in  water,  in  milk, 
in  food,  in  the  dust  of  the  streets,  in  wall- 
paper, and  the  unfumigated  cracks  and 
crevices  of  our  flats  and  apartments,  in 
neglected  plumbing  and  the  very  air  that 
we  have  contaminated,  and  to  call  these 
also  causes  of  poverty,  through  the  un- 
dermining of  health  and  vigor.  We  have 
learned  to  look  to  our  schools,  and  to 
ask,  in  the  name  of  charity  as  well  as  of 
education,  whether  they  are  training  for 
that  efficiency  which  will  prevent  poverty, 
and  for  the  strengthening  of  character. 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


739 


We  have  learned  to  look  our  public  serv- 
ants squarely  between  the  eyes  —  mayor, 
commissioner,  warden,  policeman,  and 
all  the  rest —  and  demand,  not  yet  always 
successfully,  such  return -for  their  wages 
as  will  mean  a  lessening  of  the  need 
for  charity.  We  have  learned  from  the 
specialists  in  one  field  the  evils  of  child- 
labor;  and  from  those  in  another  the  con- 
sequences of  long  hours  in  women's  work ; 
and  from  those  in  another  the  con- 
nection between  unprotected  machinery 
and  unpoliced  railways,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  widowhood,  orphanage,  and  their 
resulting  dependence  on  the  other.  We 
have  learned  that  there  is  a  vital  relation 
between  the  standard  of  living,  deter- 
mined not  by  any  one  family,  but  by  the 
community  group  to  which  one  belongs, 
demanding  a  certain  minimum  income 
to  maintain  that  standard  in  decency  and 
comfort,  and  the  decisions  which  must 
be  reached  by  relief  societies  and  charit- 
able individuals  who  assume  responsibil- 
ity for  the  relief  of  distress. 

Such,  then,  are  some  of  the  elements 
in  the  newer  view  of  charity  which  has 
been  occupying  our  attention:  housing, 
preventable  disease,  inefficiency  resulting 
from  defective  education,  corrupt  and 
inefficient  government,  child-labor,  ex- 
cessive and  unreasonable  toil  by  women, 
industrial  accidents,  a  low  standard  of 
living.  They  are  all  social  rather  than  in- 
dividual. It  is  for  this  reason  that  we 
have  all  but  transformed  our  charitable 
societies  into  agencies  to  investigate  and 
improve  social  conditions;  that  the  Sage 
Foundation  is  established  and  endowed 
for  this  identical  purpose;  that  the  New 
York  Charity  Organization  Society  has 
created  a  special  department,  freed  from 
all  responsibility  for  charity  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense,  to  do  what  it  can  in  the  same 
direction ;  that  numerous  committees  and 
associations  are  established  to  work  at 
one  or  another  bad  condition  which 
they  choose  for  their  special  attack;  and 
that  the  progressive  charitable  society  — 
whatever  its  name  or  particular  function 
may  have  been  —  necessarily,  under  the 


pressure  of  an  awakening  social  con- 
science, has  become,  in  addition,  a  society 
for  the  development  of  accurate  know- 
ledge as  to  what  our  social  conditions 
really  are. 

Dealing  always  with  the  family  at  the 
margin,  with  those  who  have  no  surplus 
savings,  or  energy,  or  efficiency,  to  pro- 
tect them  from  the  immediate  conse- 
quences of  bad  conditions,  the  charitable 
societies  come  first  to  a  realization  of 
what  those  conditions  are.  An  illness,  an 
accident,  a  failure  in  justice,  may  be  a 
regrettable  incident  in  the  lives  of  others, 
but  among  the  poor  it  is  the  quick 
stroke  of  fate,  meaning  disaster  and  de- 
pendence. At  the  margin  there  are  few 
complications.  In  their  nakedness,  in 
their  true  character,  these  effects  of  bad 
conditions  are  written  swiftly  into  the 
records  of  the  societies  that  have  to  do 
with' destitution.  Too  long,  many  of  us 
must  confess  in  contrition,  our  work  was 
done  perfunctorily,  with  no  vision  of  the 
essential  causes,  the  social  causes;  but 
now  we  have  seen,  and  the  sum-total  of 
our  impressions  —  that  is  the  new  view 
of  charity ;  that  is,  for  us,  the  incarnation 
of  the  social  spirit.  It  is  our  belief,  not 
that  the  creation  of  a  favorable  environ- 
ment will  of  itself  transform  character, 
but  that  the  normal  man,  who  is  now 
crushed,  will,  under  favorable  conditions, 
rise  unaided,  and  that  poverty  and  desti- 
tution will  know  him  no  more.  The  trag- 
edy of  our  present  situation  is  that  people 
whose  original  endowment  is  quite  as 
good  as  the  average  are  overborne  by 
adverse  conditions,  conditions  which  in- 
dividually they  cannot  control  and  of 
which  they  are  the  victims.  The  improve- 
ment of  social  conditions  is  a  policy  to  be 
advocated,  and  carried  through,  in  the 
interests  of  the  normal  man.  It  is  by  no 
means  exclusively  the  concern  of  charity, 
though  charity  speaks  from  knowledge 
gained  by  its  neglect.  How  much  of  pov- 
erty would  disappear  with  the  destruc- 
tion of  bad  social  conditions  we  do  not 
know,  for  we  do  not  know  how  many  of 
those  who  fail  are  victims  of  bad  condi- 


740 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


tions,  and  how  many  are  in  some  way 
deficient.  To  find  that  out,  we  shall  need 
to  correct  the  conditions  which  we  know 
to  be  injurious,  and  then  discover  how 
much  of  our  present  need  for  charity  re- 
mains. 

The  programme  of  social  work  to  which 
this  newer  view  of  charity  logically  brings 
us  is,  first  of  all,  a  health-programme.  It 
calls  for  a  department  of  school  hygiene, 
to  discover  and  correct  the  physical  de- 
fects of  school  children.  After  a  new  re- 
formatory for  boys  had  been  in  operation 
a  few  months,  the  superintendent  called 
in  a  dentist,  who  reported  that  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  boys  had  seriously  defect- 
ive teeth.  In  response  to  an  inquiry  as 
to  how  many  boys  there  were  in  the  in- 
stitution when  the  examination  was  made, 
the  superintendent  replied,  one  hundred 
and  sixty.  No  doubt  nearly  all  these  boys 
had  been  in  the  public  schools.  Possibly 
the  criminal  bacillus,  if  they  have  one, 
could  not  have  been  discovered  by  thor- 
ough physical  examination  in  the  school, 
but  the  decay  in  the  teeth  could  have  been 
discovered,  and  should  have  been  dis- 
covered and  corrected. 

The  programme  of  social  work  calls  for 
safe  and  decent  homes,  with  light  and  ah*, 
better  tenements  for  those  who  stay  in 
the  cities,  country  homes  for  all  who  can 
afford  to  seek  them  and  have  the  good 
sense  to  do  it.  It  demands  that  we  deal 
with  congestion,  whether  we  rely  upon 
philanthropic  investment  by  large  sums 
in  the  outlying  suburbs,  or  upon  legal 
limitation  of  the  number  of  factories  that 
may  be  operated  in  the  industrially  con- 
gested districts,  or  upon  both  combined, 
and  other  remedies. 

The  social  programme  calls,  and  calls 
loudly,  for  playgrounds  and  parks.  It 
demands  the  conquest  of  infectious  dis- 
ease. The  shortening  of  life,  the  resulting 
burden  of  dependence  and  suffering,  the 
loss  of  income,  the  increased  expenses 
which  are  still  due  to  diseases  which  are  the 
result  of  social  neglect,  account  for  a  large 
part  of  our  charitable  tasks.  That  is  not, 
however,  the  whole  of  the  indictment. 


For  every  family  which  preventable  dis- 
ease brings  to  the  actual  point  of  asking 
for  charity,  there  are  scores  who  are 
brought  in  that  direction,  brought  to  a 
loss  of  savings,  brought  to  a  lower  stand- 
ard of  living,  brought  to  hardship  and 
privation,  brought  to  less  desirable  rooms 
in  a  meaner  neighborhood,  brought  to  the 
loss  of  chances  for  educating  their  child- 
ren, brought  through  many  stages  on  a 
downward  journey,  even  if  they  escape 
the  last  bitter  degradation  of  an  appeal 
to  charity  and  a  potter's  field.  The  social 
programme  is  a  health-programme  —  not 
to  save  the  money  of  the  charitable,  but  to 
save  the  life  and  vigor,  the  economic  inde- 
pendence, and  the  prosperity,  of  the  nor- 
mal man.  If  we  could  but  eliminate  this 
one  "  bad  condition,"  deaths  and  illness 
from  the  diseases  now  universally  classed 
as  preventable,  we  should  keep  many  a 
family  from  the  margin.  The  charitable 
societies  know  this,  because  they  deal  with 
them  there  at  the  margin,  where  they  have 
come  because  of  social  neglect. 

The  social  programme  calls  for  the  total 
and  immediate  abolition  of  child-labor  in 
mine  and  factory,  in  store  and  office,  in 
messenger  and  newspaper  service,  in  tene- 
ment home,  and  wherever  else  the  em- 
ployment of  children  becomes  their  ex- 
ploitation. Quite  possibly,  even  on  the 
farms,  especially  where  there  is  anything 
like  gang-labor,  there  are  such  tempta- 
tions; but,  certainly,  in  all  industrial 
and  mining  operations,  child-labor  means 
physical,  mental,  and  moral  destruction ; 
and  in  the  interests  of  the  normal  man, 
the  workingman  of  the  next  generation, 
we  wish  to  protect  his  childhood,  that  it 
may  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  convenience 
and  profit  of  the  employer,  or  the  greed 
and  ignorance  of  the  parent,  or  the  eco- 
nomic advantage  of  the  buyer  of  his 
wares. 

The  social  spirit  insists  upon  honest 
and  efficient  government.  Such  work,  if 
I  may  choose  my  illustrations  from  my 
own  city  of  New  York,  as  the  State 
Charities  Aid  Association  has  long  done 
for  the  protection  and  improvement  of 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


741 


the  public  hospitals  and  institutions;  such 
work  as  the  Tenement  House  Committee 
has  done  for  eight  years  in  reference  to 
tenement-house  legislation  and  its  enforce- 
ment; such  work  as  the  Public  Education 
Association  is  doing,  and  such  greatly 
increased  work  as  it  ought  to  do,  in  con- 
nection with  the  system  of  public  schools ; 
such  work  as  the  Bureau  of  Municipal  Re- 
search has  undertaken  in  developing  the 
facts  about  the  actual  work  of  our  munic- 
ipal departments,  and  as  the  City  Club 
is  doing,  and  is  likely  to  do,  to  increase 
the  efficiency  of  municipal  government  — 
these  are  parts  of  a  comprehensive  social 
programme,  to  the  absence  of  which,  in 
the  past,  charity  bears  mournful  testi- 
mony; to  the  imperative  need  for  which, 
charitable  societies  are  perhaps  now  most 
alive,  one  interesting  indication  of  this 
being  the  extent  to  which  these  several 
kinds  of  civic  work  have  drawn  upon  the 
personnel  of  the  charitable  societies  for 
their  executives  and  assistants. 

The  programme  of  social  work  which  I 
have  outlined,  rather  by  illustration  and 
suggestion  than  completely,  offers  an 
alternative  —  the  only  tolerable  alterna- 
tive —  to  socialism.  I  do  not  suggest  that 
this  is  its  chief  attraction;  but  to  those 
who  in  their  hearts  fear  socialism,  who 
think  that  they  discern  in  the  sky  portent- 
ous signs  of  a  coming  storm,  I  would 
suggest  that  their  wise  course  is  not  to 
seek  the  services  of  an  "  accelerator  of 
public  opinion,"  or  to  put  forth  elaborate 
and  weighty  rejoinders  to  the  theories 
of  a  past  generation,  but  rather,  in  sin- 
cerity and  singleness  of  purpose,  with  the 
financial  resources  at  their  command, 
and  with  the  energy  and  sound  judgment 
which  they  would  bring  to  bear  upon  a 
difficult  business  problem,  to  cooperate 
in  the  removal  of  those  adverse  condi- 
tions in  our  present  industrial  and  social 
system  upon  which  all  that  is  in  the  least 
convincing  in  the  socialist's  indictment 
depends. 

Our  indictment  against  particular  so- 
cial conditions  is  no  less  severe  than  that 
of  the  socialist.  We  have  our  evidence, 


we  are  willing  that  it  should  be  subjected 
to  the  laws  of  evidence.  We  can  prove 
that  unsanitary  tenements  are  numerous, 
that  they  are  injurious  and  unneces- 
sary. We  can  show  that  accidents  and 
disease  are  more  common  than  is  reason- 
able, in  view  of  the  discoveries  of  science 
and  the  demonstrations  of  preventive  hy- 
giene. We  can  show  children  doing  the 
work  of  men,  and  it  needs  no  physiologist 
to  demonstrate  that  it  is  uneconomic,  un- 
charitable, and  inhuman.  We  can  show 
conditions  in  courts  and  jails  and  prisons 
that  in  themselves  will  account  for  the 
persistence  of  crime.  And  we  can  con- 
vince any  men  and  women  of  brains,  of 
wealth,  of  influence,  and  of  latent  power 
for  the  common  welfare,  that  upon  none 
of  these  things  do  their  welfare  and  their 
success  depend.  These  things  of  which 
we  complain  yield  profits,  but  they  are 
the  profits  of  exploitation  and  greed,  not 
the  profits  of  business  enterprise  and 
commercial  honor.  No  industry  essential 
to  the  common  good  rests  upon  child- 
labor,  unrequited  accidents,  an  indecent 
standard  of  living.  The  plane  of  com- 
petition may  be  drawn  above  the  line  of 
those  conditions  which  mean  misery  and 
degradation.  If  it  were  not  so,  we  should 
all  become  socialists ;  but  it  is  so.  Those 
who  have  faith  in  the  wholesomeness  of 
modern  industry,  who  believe  that  when 
the  thieves  and  cheats  have  been  hounded 
out  of  business,  business  can  still  go  on ; 
that  when  the  sharp  practices,  some  of 
which  are  more  severely  condemned  now 
than  they  were  a  few  years  ago,  are  elimi- 
nated, the  general  aspect  of  business  will 
be  virtually  unchanged,  —  in  other  words 
that  it  is  now  fundamentally  sound  and 
honest,  —  should  surely,  eagerly,  and 
from  conviction,  help  to  gauge  these  ad- 
verse conditions,  to  understand  them  and 
to  change  them.  The  programme  of  social 
work  is  their  work,  rather  than  the  work 
of  those  who  wish  to  see  the  whole  struc- 
ture changed. 

If  now  we  may  take  one  more  peril- 
ous step  —  around  another  corner  —  it 
will  bring  us  again  to  the  individual  who 


742 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


is  in  trouble;  the  constant  object  of  vision 
in  the  older  view  of  charity.  We  come 
back,  let  us  hope,  with  a  clearer  insight 
because  our  eyes  have  been  for  a  time 
on  more  distant  views. 

With  the  eye  of  prophecy,  we  see  our 
applicant  for  charity  in  an  environment 
freed  from  the  burdens  of  bad  housing 
and  over-crowding,  of  preventable  dis- 
ease, of  child-labor,  and  excessive  toil  for 
women ;  in  an  environment  in  which  there 
is  well-distributed  and  regular  employ- 
ment, with  a  reasonable  amount  of  leis- 
ure, a  protected  childhood,  a  rational 
standard  of  living,  well-regulated  facto- 
ries, well-regulated  homes  and  well-regu- 
lated communal  life,  —  no  Utopian  mil- 
lennium at  all,  just  the  conditions  which 
we  now,  on  the  basis  of  our  own  expe- 
rience and  knowledge,  may  assert  with- 
out sentimentality  or  exaggeration  to 
be  entirely  practicable  for  all  mankind. 
Would  there  remain  any  field  for  charity 
and  for  what  we  call  social  work  ?  Cer- 
tainly there  would.  The  field  that  would 
remain  is  precisely  that  which  charity  in 
all  these  past  years,  reversing  the  natural 
order,  wrongly  conceiving  what  was  the 
next  step  ahead,  has  sought  to  occupy. 
Precisely  the  admirable  plan  outlined  by 
Richard  C.  Cabot,  in  an  address  before 
the  New  York  School  of  Philanthropy  in 
1906,  would  then  be  applicable.1 

We  have  said  that  the  programme  of 
social  work,  the  changing  of  adverse 
social  conditions,  is  essentially  a  pro- 
gramme in  the  interest  of  the  normal 
man,  and  that,  if  these  bad  conditions 
could  be  removed,  the  man  who  is  not 
by  nature  or  by  inheritance  a  dependent 
would  rise  from  the  misery  into  which 
extraordinary  misfortune  and  social  ne- 
glect have  brought  him.  This  is  the  les- 
son of  Simon  N.  Patten's  New  Basis  of 
Civilization.  "  When  a  social  worker," 
he  says,  "  accepts  this  creed,  he  soon 
finds  that  regeneration  is  prevented, 

1  "  Social  Work  :  The  Diagnosis  and  Treat- 
ment of  Character  in  Difficulties."  BY  RICH- 
ARD C.  CABOT:  Charities  and  the  Commons, 
November  2, 1907. 


not  by  defects  in  personality,  but  by  de- 
fects in  the  environment,  and  that  the 
subjective  tests  of  character  to  which  he 
has  been  accustomed  must  be  replaced 
by  objective  standards  which  test  the 
environment.  We  need  not  work  for 
regeneration;  it  will  of  itself  flow  from 
sources  we  neither  create  nor  control.  But 
we  do  need  to  work  for  the  removal  of 
external  conditions  which  by  suppress- 
ing and  distorting  human  nature  give  to 
vice  the  power  that  virtue  should  pos- 
sess." 

A  little  earlier  Dr.  Patten  had  ex- 
pressed this  faith  in  other  words :  "  The 
depraved  man  is  not  the  natural  man; 
for  in  him  the  natural  is  suppressed  be- 
neath a  crushing  load  of  misfortunes, 
superstitions,  and  ill-fitting  social  condi- 
tions." "  It  is,  without  doubt,"  he  says, 
"  more  difficult  than  was  once  believed 
to  lift  a  man  with  normal  faculties  to  a 
higher  plane  of  existence;  but  it  is  far 
easier  than  we  have  thought  to  raise  a 
man  below  the  general  level  of  humanity 
up  to  it.  There  are  no  differences  be- 
tween him  and  his  normal  neighbors 
which  cannot  be  rapidly  obliterated.  He 
does  not  lack  their  blood,  but  their  health, 
their  vigor,  then*  good  fortune,  their  cul- 
ture, and  then-  environment." 

It  is  obvious  that  in  all  this  Dr.  Patten 
is  thinking  of  normal  persons,  normal, 
that  is  to  say,  in  all  except  these  external 
things  which  he  has  enumerated  and 
which  we  have  previously  been  consid- 
ering as  involved  in  the  adverse  social 
conditions  which  we  wish  to  change.  It 
is  equally  obvious  that  Dr.  Cabot,  in  his 
definition  of  social  work  as  the  study  of 
character  under  adversity,  is  not  think- 
ing of  such  persons,  but  of  those  who  are 
really  deficient  in  character.  He  con- 
siders that  one  hundred  families  reported 
by  a  relief  society,  in  which  there  was 
practically  no  mental  or  moral  deficiency, 
were  not,  properly-speaking,  cases  for  a 
social  worker  at  all;  that  disease,  which 
has  caused  two-thirds  of  the  destitution 
in  those  families,  is  the  concern  of  the 
physician;  and  that  a  low  wage,  which 


The  New  View  of  Charity 


743 


was  responsible  for  the  other  third,  is  a 
matter  resting  between  capital  and  labor, 
organized  or  unorganized.  "  The  social 
worker,  I  maintain,"  says  Dr.  Cabot, 
"  should  be  chiefly  an  educator,  a  nur- 
turer,  stimulator,  developer,  and  director 
of  human  souls,  particularly  in  that  group 
of  persons  whose  character  or  tempera- 
ment has  brought  them  into  some  sort  of 
trouble." 

When  our  programme  of  social  work 
shall  have  been  carried  into  effect,  when 
the  environment  is  transformed  by  the 
abolition  of  the  bad  conditions  which  now 
undermine  health  and  destroy  life,  which 
make  rational  domestic  life  impossible 
and  embitter  the  working  hours,  then 
social  work  will  be  what  Dr.  Cabot 
describes  it  to  be.  We  can  then  study 
the  individual,  and  shall  know  that  any 
difficulties  which  he  may  still  have,  come 
from  bad  inheritance  which  we  may  be 
able  to  help  him  to  overcome,  from  faults 
of  character  which  we  may  find  some 
way  to  correct.  In  the  mean  time  we  can- 
not safely  assume  any  such  deficiency. 
The  chances  are  against  it.  The  chances 
are  that  we  shall  frequently  find  only  such 
hygienic  and  economic  causes  of  distress 
as  Dr.  Cabot  rules  out  of  court.  Until 
we  establish  justice  among  men,  until 
we  insure  the  opportunity  for  an  inde- 
pendent, normal  life  for  all  normal  men, 
we  need  not  be  surprised,  when  we  set 
ourselves  up  as  experts  in  the  diagnosis 
and  treatment  of  character,  if  we  find 
queer  things  in  its  distribution  among 
men. 

The  new  view,  then,  to  which  we  would 
come,  the  right  view,  is  but  a  glimpse  at 
the  end  of  all  these  vistas,  a  glimpse  not 
of  the  individual  alone,  nor  of  the  social 
conditions  alone,  but  of  the  relation  be- 
tween them  in  the  field  of  social  work; 
of  the  place  for  individual  diagnosis  and 
treatment  in  an  environment  which  has 
measurably  approached  our  ideal.  There 
is  room  for  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
whether  the  emphasis  should  be  placed 
on  the  individual  or  on  the  environment. 
It  has  been  my  inclination  to  throw  the 


emphasis  on  the  improvement  of  con- 
ditions, because  it  has  seemed  to  me  a 
waste  of  effort  to  try  to  improve  the  char- 
acter of  those  who  are  not  deficient  in 
character,  to  work  at  retail  at  what  is 
essentially  a  wholesale  transaction,  to 
bail  with  a  spoon  when  we  may  open  the 
sluiceways,  to  rely  on  isolated  personal 
effort  with  individuals  to  accomplish 
what  it  can  never  accomplish,  what  can 
be  accomplished  only  by  the  resources 
of  legislation,  of  taxation,  of  large  ex- 
penditure, or  by  changes  in  our  educa- 
tional system,  or  in  our  penal  system, 
or  in  our  taxing  system,  or  even  in  our 
industrial  system.  And  yet,  after  all,  our 
environment  has  already  changed  in 
many  respects  for  the  better.  Notwith- 
standing our  blunders  and  neglect,  we  are 
doing  better;  and  the  incontrovertible 
proof  lies  in  our  diminishing  death-rate. 
Social  conditions  need  to  be  changed  in 
many  ways,  but  they  are  better  than  they 
were. 

Strictly  from  the  social  point  of  view, 
we  should  give  far  more  attention  to  the 
individual  —  an  attention  of  a  different 
kind.  Man,  from  the  standpoint  of  an- 
thropology, as  a  thinking  and  working 
animal,  may  be  studied,  as  we  study 
housing  and  bacteria.  We  should  have  in 
our  charitable  societies  a  psychological 
diagnosis  of  applicants.  District  agents 
and  visitors  should  become  and  be  re- 
cognized as  experts,  as  some  of  them 
already  are,  in  the  understanding  and 
management  of  the  weaknesses  and  per- 
versions of  character.  Some  families  are 
normal  except  for  their  misfortunes  and 
their  environment,  and  that  is  one  of 
the  very  things  to  discover.  Others  are 
deficient,  and  a  quick  discovery  of  such 
deficiencies  would  lead  to  an  earlier 
course  of  such  treatment  as  might  give 
greatest  hope  of  removing  them.  Still 
others  are  not  merely  deficient,  but  de- 
fective, that  is,  they  have  some  incur- 
able defect,  and  more  prompt  recognition 
of  this  would  also  be  advantageous. 

This  view  then  —  this  return,  if  the 
reader  prefers,  to  a  very  old  view  — 


744 


God's  Hour-Glass 


brings  our  applicant  again  into  the  centre 
of  vision;  brings  him,  however,  at  least 
potentially  freed  from  the  crushing  bur- 
den of  an  adverse  environment,  brings 
him  as  one  entitled  to  our  compassion 
because  of  some  deficiency  of  mind  or 
body,  some  definite  thing  for  us  to  do, 
something  which  the  man  in  trouble  can- 
not do  for  himself  even  though  he  may 
have  every  chance  from  childhood. 

The  social  worker  who,  with  a  con- 
science void  of  offense  because  he  has 
done  what  he  can  to  create  such  social 
conditions  as  will  give  every  man  a  just 
and  reasonable  chance,  assuming  that 
in  such  an  environment  every  normal 
man  will  be  expected  to  determine  for 
himself  what  he  will  do  with  his  oppor- 
tunity, comes  at  last  to  the  individual  of 
deficient  strength,  and  finds  here  his 
chance  for  personal  service,  for  profes- 
sional service.  He  is  in  the  position  of 
the  physician  who  has  contributed  some- 
thing also  to  preventive  medicine.  I  be- 


hold charity,  gracious,  clear-eyed,  free- 
handed, warm  of  heart,  seeking  out  these 
helpless  children  of  men  to  do  them  good. 
She  has  traveled  a  long  journey  in  her 
search  for  the  remedies  for  the  specific 
evils  which  have  brought  her  grievous 
burdens,  but  this  last  burden,  a  legacy 
from  the  slowly  remediable  mistakes  of 
the  past,  is  not  grievous.  If  men  need 
help  because  only  of  what  they  cannot 
do,  and  no  longer  ask  aid  because  of 
the  harm  their  brothers  do,  whether  in 
malice  or  in  ignorance,  then  to  give  that 
help  is  no  burden,  but  a  delight. 

This  view  of  charity  is,  I  grant,  the 
oldest  of  all  views,  the  view  of  the  an- 
cient Hebrew,  that  charity  and  justice  are 
one;  the  view  of  the  Apostle  that  char- 
ity abideth,  with  faith  and  hope,  and  is 
greater  than  they;  greater  for  this  rea- 
son, above  all,  that,  wherever  she  jour- 
neys and  whatever  her  achievements,  she 
never  loses  sight  of  the  individual  man, 
woman,  or  child. 


GOD'S   HOUR-GLASS 

BY  R.  VALANTINE  HECKSCHER 

MAN  is  the  Hour-glass  of  God! 
And  grain  by  grain  his  being  flows 
Out  of  the  globe  of  surface  shows 

Into  the  globe  below  the  sod! 

Clear  of  the  sunken  sands  of  strife, 
God  turns  below  the  body's  bowl  — 
And  so  upturns  Man's  crystal  soul 

Brimmed  with  the  golden  grains  of  life! 


RACES  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 


BY   WILLIAM   Z.   RIPLEY 


THE  population  of  Europe  may,  in  a 
rough  way,  be  divided  into  an  East  and 
a  West.  The  contrast  between  the  two 
may  be  best  illustrated,  perhaps,  in  geo- 
logical terms.  Everywhere  these  popula- 
tions have  been  laid  down  originally  in 
more  or  less  distinct  strata.  In  the 
Balkan  States  and  Austria-Hungary,  this 
stratification  is  recent  and  still  distinct; 
while  in  western  Europe  the  several 
layers  have  become  metamorphosed  by 
the  fusing  heat  of  nationality  and  the 
pressure  of  civilization.  But  in  both  in- 
stances these  populations  are  what  the 
geologist  would  term  sedimentary.  In 
the  United  States,  an  entirely  distinct 
formation  occurs;  which,  in  continua- 
tion of  our  geological  figure,  may  best  be 
characterized  by  the  term  eruptive.  We 
have  to  do,  not  with  the  slow  processes 
of  growth  by  deposit  or  accretion,  but 
with  violent  and  volcanic  dislocation. 
We  are  called  upon  to  survey  a  lava-flow 
of  population,  suddenly  cast  forth  from 
Europe  and  spread  indiscriminately  over 
a  new  continent.  In  Europe  the  popu- 
lations have  grown  up  from  the  soil. 
They  are  still  imbedded  in  it,  a  part  of  it. 
They  are  the  product  of  their  immediate 
environments :  dark  in  the  southern  half, 
blonde  at  the  north,  stunted  where  the 
conditions  are  harsh,  well  developed 
where  the  land  is  fat.  Even  as  between 
city  and  country,  conditions  have  been 
so  long  fixed  that  one  may  trace  the  re- 
sults in  the  physical  traits  of  the  inhabit- 
ants. It  was  my  endeavor  some  years 
ago,  in  The  Races  of  Europe,  to  describe 
these  conditions  in  detail.  But  in  Amer- 
ica the  people,  one  may  almost  say,  have 
dropped  from  the  sky.  They  are  in  the 
land,  but  not  yet  an  integral  part  of  it. 
The  population  product  is  artificial  and 
exotic.  It  is  as  yet  unrelated  to  its  phys- 


ical environment.  A  human  phenome- 
non unique  in  the  history  of  the  world  is 
the  result. 

Judged  solely  from  the  standpoint  of 
numbers,  the  phenomenon  of  American 
immigration  is  stupendous.  We  have 
become  so  accustomed  to  it  in  the  United 
States  that  we  often  lose  sight  of  its 
numerical  magnitude.  About  25,000,000 
people  have  come  to  the  United  States 
from  all  over  Europe  since  1820.  This 
is  about  equal  to  the  entire  population 
of  the  United  Kingdom  only  fifty  years 
ago,  at  the  time  of  our  Civil  War.  It  is, 
again,  more  than  the  population  of  all 
Italy  in  the  time  of  Garibaldi.  Other- 
wise stated,  this  army  of  people  would 
populate,  as  it  stands  to-day,  all  that 
most  densely  settled  section  of  the  United 
States  north  of  Maryland  and  east  of  the 
Great  Lakes,  —  all  New  England,  New 
York,  New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania,  in 
fact. 

This  horde  of  immigrants  has  main- 
ly come  since  the  Irish  potato  famine 
of  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  The 
rapid  increase  year  by  year  has  taken  the 
form,  not  of  a  steady  growth,  but  of  an 
intermittent  flow.  First  came  the  people 
of  the  British  Isles  after  the  downfall  of 
Napoleon,  2000  in  1815  and  35,000  in 
1819.  Thereafter  the  numbers  remain 
about  75,000  yearly,  until  the  Irish  fam- 
ine, when,  in  1852,  368,000  immigrants 
from  the  British  Isles  landed  on  our 
shores.  These  were  succeeded  by  the 
Germans,  largely  moved  at  first  by  the 
political  events  of  1848.  By  1854  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  Teutons,  mainly  from 
northern  Germany,  had  settled  in 
America.  So  many  were  there  that  am- 
bitious plans  for  the  foundation  of  a  Ger- 
man state  in  the  new  country  were  ac- 
tually set  on  foot.  The  later  German 

745 


746 


Races  in  the  United  States 


immigrants  were  recruited  largely  from 
the  Rhine  provinces,  and  have  settled 
further  to  the  northwest,  in  Wisconsin 
and  Iowa ;  the  earliest  wave  having  come 
from  northern  Germany  to  Ohio,  Indi- 
ana, and  Missouri.  The  Swedes  began  to 
come  after  the  Civil  War.  Their  immigra- 
tion culminated  in  1882  with  the  influx 
of  about  50,000  in  that  year.  More  re- 
cent still  are  the  Italians,  beginning  with 
a  modest  20,000  in  1876,  rising  to  over 
200,000  arrivals  in  1888,  and  constituting 
an  army  of  300,000  in  the  single  year  of 
1907:  and  accompanying  the  Italian  has 
come  the  great  horde  of  Slavs,  Huns, 
and  Jews. 

Wave  has  followed  wave,  each  high- 
er than  the  last,  —  the  ebb  and  flow  be- 
ing dependent  upon  economic  conditions 
in  large  measure.  It  is  the  last  great 
wave,  ebbing  since  last  fall,  which  has 
most  alarmed  us  in  America.  This 
gathered  force  on  the  revival  of  prosperity 
about  1897,  but  it  did  not  attain  full 
measure  until  1900.  Since  that  year  over 
six  million  people  have  landed  on  our 
shores,  —  one-quarter  of  the  total  immi- 
gration since  the  beginning.  The  new- 
comers of  these  eight  years  alone  would 
repopulate  all  the  five  older  New  Eng- 
land'States  as  they  stand  to-day;  or,  if 
properly  disseminated  over  the  newer 
parts  of  the  country,  they  would  serve  to 
populate  no  less  than  nineteen  states  of 
the  Union  as  they  stand.  The  new-comers 
of  the  last  eight  years  could,  if  suitably 
seated  in  the  land,  elect  thirty-eight  out 
of  the  present  ninety-two  Senators  of  the 
United  States.  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
thoughtful  political  students  stand  some- 
what aghast  ?  In  the  last  of  these  eight 
years  — 1907  —  there  were  one  and  one 
quarter  million  arrivals.  This  number 
would  entirely  populate  both  New  Hamp- 
shire and  Maine,  two  of  our  oldest  states, 
with  an  aggregate  territory  approximate- 
ly equal  to  Ireland  and  Wales.  The  arriv- 
als of  this  one  year  would  found  a  state 
with  more  inhabitants  than  any  one  of 
twenty-one^  of  our  other  existing  com- 
monwealths which  could  be  named. 


Fortunately,  the  commercial  depression 
of  1908  has  for  the  moment  put  a  stop  to 
this  inflow.  Some  considerable  emigra- 
tion back  to  Europe  has  in  fact  ensued. 
But  this  can  be  nothing  more  than  a 
breathing  space.  On  the  resumption  of 
prosperity,  the  tide  will  rise  higher  than 
before.  Each  immigrant,  staying  or  re- 
turning, will  influence  his  friends,  his 
entire  village;  and  so  it  will  be,  until  an 
economic  equilibrium  has  been  finally 
established  between  one  continent  where 
labor  is  dearer  than  land,  and  the  other 
where  land  is  worth  more  than  labor; 
between  governments  where  freedom,  in 
theory  at  least,  takes  precedence  over 
privilege,  and  states  where  vested  polit- 
ical and  social  rights  are  still  paramount. 

It  is  not  alone  the  rapid  increase  in  our 
immigration  which  merits  attention.  It  is 
also  the  radical  change  in  its  character,  in 
the  source  from  whence  it  comes.  Where- 
as, until  about  twenty  years  ago,  our 
immigrants  were  drawn  from  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  Teutonic  populations  of  north- 
western Europe,  they  have  swarmed 
over  here  in  rapidly  growing  proportions 
since  that  time  from  Mediterranean, 
Slavic,  and  Oriental  sources.  A  quarter 
of  a  century  ago,  two-thirds  of  our  im- 
migration was  truly  Teutonic  or  Anglo- 
Saxon  in  origin.  At  the  present  time,  less 
than  one-sixth  comes  from  this  source. 
The  British  Isles,  Germany,  Scandina- 
via, and  Canada  unitedly  sent  us  90  per 
cent  of  our  immigrants  in  the  decade  to 
1870;  82.8  per  cent  in  1870-80;  75.6  per 
cent  in  1880-90;  and  only  41.8  per  cent 
in  1890-1900.  Since  then,  the  proportion 
has  been  very  much  smaller  still.  Ger- 
many used  to  contribute  one-third  of  our 
new-comers.  In  1907  it  sent  barely  one- 
seventh.  On  the  other  hand,  Russia, 
Austria-Hungary,  and  Italy,  which  pro- 
duced about  1  per  cent  of  the  total 
in  1860-70,  jointly  contributed  50.1  per 
cent  in  1890-1900.  Of  the  million  and  a 
quarter  arrivals  in  1907,  almost  900,000 
came  from  these  three  countries  alone.  I 
have  been  at  some  pains  to  reclassify  the 
immigration  for  1907,  in  conformity  with 


Races  in  the  United  States 


747 


the  racial  groupings  of  the  Races  o)  Eu- 
rope; disregarding,  that  is  to  say,  mere 
linguistic  affiliations,  and  dividing  on  the 
basis  of  physical  types.  The  total  of  about 
one  and  one-quarter  million  arrivals  was 
distributed  as  follows :  — 

330,000  Mediterranean  Race  (one-quarter) 

194,000  Alpine  Race  (one-sixth) 

330,000  Slavic       "      (one-quarter) 

194,000  Teutonic  "      (one-sixth) 

146,000  Jewish  (mainly  Rus.  I    (one.eighth) 

In  that  year,  330,000  South  Italians 
took  the  place  of  the  250,000  Germans 
who  came  in  1882,  when  the  Teutonic 
immigration  was  at  its  flood.  One  and 
one-half  million  Italians  have  come 
since  1900;  over  one  million  Russians; 
and  a  million  and  a  half  natives  of  Aus- 
tria-Hungary. We  have  even  tapped  the 
political  sinks  of  Europe,  and  are  now 
drawing  large  numbers  of  Greeks,  Ar- 
menians, and  Syrians.  No  people  is  too 
mean  or  lowly  to  seek  .an  asylum  on  our 
shores. 

The  net  result  of  this  immigration  has 
been  to  produce  a  congeries  of  human 
beings,  unparalleled  for  ethnic  diversity 
anywhere  else  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  most  complex  populations  of  Europe, 
such  as  those  of  the  British  Isles,  North- 
ern France,  or  even  the  Balkan  States, 
seem  ethnically  pure  by  contrast.  In 
some  of  these  places  the  soothing  hand 
of  time  has  softened  the  racial  contrasts. 
There  are  certain  water  holes,  of  course, 
like  Gibraltar,  Singapore,  or  Hong  Kong, 
to  which  every  type  of  human  ani- 
mal is  attracted,  and  a  notably  mongrel 
population  is  the  result.  But  for  ethnic 
diversity  on  a  large  scale,  the  United 
States  is  certainly  unique. 

Our  people  have  been  diverse  in  or- 
igin from  the  start  to  a  greater  de- 
gree than  is  ordinarily  supposed.  Vir- 
ginia and  New  England,  to  be  sure, 
were  for  a  long  time  Anglo-Saxon  un- 
defiled;  but  in  the  other  colonies  there 
was  much  intermixture,  such  as  the 
German  in  Pennsylvania,  the  Swedish 
along  the  Delaware,  the  Dutch  in  New 


York,  and  the  Scotch  Highlander  and 
Huguenot  in  the  Carolinas.  Little  cen- 
tres of  foreign  inoculation  in  the  early 
days  are  discoverable  everywhere.  On 
a  vacation  trip  recently,  in  the  extreme 
northeastern  corner  of  Pennsylvania,  my 
wife  and  a  friend  remarked  the  frequency 
of  French  names  of  persons,  and  then  of 
villages,  of  French  physical  types,  and  of 
French  cookery.  On  inquiry  it  turned 
out  that  many  settlements  had  been  made 
by  French,  migrating  after  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.  Their  descendants  still  give  a 
Gallic  tone  to  the  district.  Many  such 
colonies  could  be  named,  —  the  Dutch 
along  the  lake  shore  of  western  Michigan, 
the  Germans  in  Texas,  and  the  Swiss 
villages  in  Wisconsin,  —  none  of  them 
recent,  but  constituting  long-established 
and  permanent  elements  in  the  popula- 
tion. 

.  Concerning  New  York  City,  Father 
Jognes  states  that  the  Director-Gen- 
eral told  him  of  eighteen  languages 
spoken  there  in  1644.  For  the  entire 
thirteen  colonies  at  the  time  of  the  Revo- 
lution, we  have  it  on  good  authority  that 
one-fifth  of  the  population  could  not 
speak  English ;  and  that  one-half  at  least 
was  not  Anglo-Saxon  by  descent.  Upon 
such  a  stock,  it  is  little  wonder  that  the 
grafting  of  these  twenty-five  million  im- 
migrants promises  to  produce  an  extraor- 
dinary human  product. 

For  over  half  a  century  more  than 
one-seventh  of  our  aggregate  popula- 
tion has  been  of  actually  foreign  birth. 
This  proportion  of  actual  foreigners  of 
all  sorts  varies  greatly,  however,  as  be- 
tween the  different  states.  In  Minne- 
sota and  New  York,  for  example,  at  the 
present  time,  the  foreign-born,  as  we  de- 
note them  statistically,  constitute  about  a 
fourth  of  the  whole  population ;  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, the  proportion  is  about  one- 
third;  occasionally,  as  in  North  Dakota 
in  1890,  it  approaches  one-half  (42  per 
cent).  It  is  in  the  cities,  of  course,  that 
this  proportion  of  actual  foreigners  rises 
highest.  In  New  York  City  there  are  over 
two  million  people  born  in  Europe,  who 


748 


Races  in  the  United  States 


have  come  there  hoping  to  better  their 
lots  in  life.  Boston  has  an  even  higher 
proportion  of  actual  foreigners,  but  the 
relatively  larger  numbers  of  those  speak- 
ing English,  such  as  the  Irish,  renders 
the  phenomenon  less  striking.  Never- 
theless, within  a  few  blocks,  in  a  colony 
of  28,000  people,  there  are  no  less  than 
twenty-five  distinct  nationalities.  In  this 
entire  district,  once  the  fashionable  quar- 
ter of  Boston,  out  of  the  28,000  inhabit- 
ants, only  1500  in  1895  had  parents  born 
in  the  United  States. 

The  full  measure  of  our  ethnic  divers- 
ity is  revealed  only  when  one  aggre- 
gates the  actually  foreign-born  with  their 
children  born  in  America,  —  totalizing, 
as  we  call  it,  the  foreign-born  and  the 
native-born  of  foreign  parentage.  This 
group  thus  includes  only  the  first  genera- 
tion of  American  descent.  Oftentimes 
even  the  second  generation  may  remain 
ethnically  as  undefiled  as  the  first;  but 
our  positive  statistical  data  carry  us  no 
further.  This  group  of  foreign-born  with 
its  children  constitutes  to-day  upwards  of 
one-third  of  our  total  population;  and, 
excluding  the  negroes,  it  equals  almost 
one-half  (46  per  cent)  of  the  whole  white 
population.  This  is  for  the  country  as  a 
whole.  Considered  by  states  or  cities,  the 
proportion  is,  of  course,  much  higher. 
Baltimore,  one  of  our  purest  American 
cities,  had  40  per  cent  of  foreigners 
with  their  children  in  1900.  In  Boston, 
the  proportion  leaps  to  70  per  cent;  in 
New  York  to  80  per  cent ;  and  it  reaches 
a  maximum  in  Milwaukee,  with  86  per 
cent  thus  constituted.  Imagine  an  Eng- 
lish city  of  the  size  of  Edinburgh  with 
only  about  one  person  in  eight  English 
by  descent  through  only  a  modest  two 
generations.  To  this  condition  must  be 
added  the  probability  that  not  over  one- 
half  of  that  remnant  of  a  rear-guard 
can  trace  its  descent  on  American  soil  as 
far  back  as  a  third  generation.  Were  we 
to  eliminate  these  foreigners  and  their 
children  from  our  city  populations,  it  has 
been  estimated  that  Chicago,  with  to-day 
a  population  of  over  two  millions,  would 


dwindle  to  a  city  of  not  much  over  one 
hundred  thousand  inhabitants. 

One  may  select  great  industries  prac- 
tically given  over  to  foreigners.  Over 
ninety  per  cent  of  the  tailors  of  New  York 
City  are  Jews,  mainly  Russian  and  Pol- 
ish. In  Massachusetts,  the  centre  of  our 
staple  cotton  manufacture,  out  of  ninety- 
eight  thousand  employees,  one  finds  that 
only  thirty-nine  hundred,  or  about  four 
per  cent,  are  native-born  Americans;  and 
most  of  those  are  of  Irish  or  Scotch- 
Irish  descent  two  generations  back.  All 
of  our  day  labor,  once  Irish,  is  now 
Italian;  our  fruit- venders,  once  Italian, 
are  now  becoming  Greek;  and  our  coal 
mines,  once  manned  by  peoples  from  the 
British  Isles,  are  now  worked  by  Hun- 
garians, Poles,  Slovaks,  or  Finns. 

A  special  study  of  the  linguistic  condi- 
tions in  Chicago  well  illustrates  our  racial 
heterogeneity.  Among  the  people  of  that 
great  city,  —  the  second  in  size  in  the 
United  States,  —  fourteen  languages  are 
spoken  by  groups  of  not  less  than  ten 
thousand  persons  each.  Newspapers  are 
regularly  published  in  ten  languages ;  and 
church  services  are  conducted  in  twenty 
different  tongues.  Measured  by  the  size 
of  its  foreign  linguistic  colonies,  Chicago 
is  the  second  Bohemian  city  in  the  world, 
the  third  Swedish,  the  fourth  Polish, 
and  the  fifth  German  (New  York  being 
the  fourth).  There  is  one  large  factory  in 
Chicago  employing  over  four  thousand 
people,  representing  twenty-four  distinct 
nationalities.  Rules  of  the  establishment 
are  regularly  printed  in  eight  languages. 
In  one  block  in  New  York,  where  friends 
of  mine  are  engaged  in  college  settlement 
work,  there  are  fourteen  hundred  people 
of  twenty  distinct  nationalities.  There 
are  more  than  two- thirds  as  many  native- 
born  Irish  in  Boston  as  in  the  capital  city, 
Dublin.  With  their  children,  mainly  of 
pure  Irish  blood,  they  make  Boston  in- 
dubitably the  leading  Irish  city  in  the 
world.  New  York  is  a  larger  Italian  city 
to-day  than  Rome,  having  five  hundred 
thousand  Italian  colonists.  It  contains 
no  less  than  eight  hundred  thousand 


Races  in  the  United  States 


749 


Jews,  mainly  from  Russia.  Thus  it  is 
also  the  foremost  Jewish  city  in  the 
world.  Pittsburg,  the  centre  of  our  iron 
and  steel  industry,  is  another  tower  of 
Babel.  It  is  said  to  contain  more  of  that 
out-of-the-way  people,  the  Servians,  than 
the  capital  of  Servia  itself. 

Such  being  the  ethnic  diversity  of  our 
population,  the  primary  and  fundamental 
physical  question  is,  whether  these  racial 
groups  are  to  coalesce  to  form  ultimately 
a  more  or  less  uniform  American  type ;  or 
whether  they  are  to  continue  their  sepa- 
rate existences  within  the  confines  of  one 
political  unit.  Will  the  progress  of  time 
bring  about  intermixture  of  these  diverse 
types  ?  or  will  they  remain  separate,  dis- 
tinct, and  perhaps  discordant,  elements 
for  an  indefinite  period,  like  the  warring 
nationalities  of  Austria-Hungary  and  the 
Balkan  States  ?  An  answer  may  best  be 
pursued  by  a  serial  discussion,  first,  of 
those  factors  which  tend  to  favor  inter- 
mixture, and  thereafter,  of  those  forces 
which  operate  to  prevent  it. 

The  extreme  and  ever-increasing  mo- 
bility of  our  American  population  is  evi- 
dently a  solvent  force  from  which  pow- 
erful results  may  well  be  expected  in  the 
course  of  time.  This  is  rendered  pecul- 
iarly potent  by  the  usual  concomitant, 
that  this  mobility  is  largely  confined  to 
the  male  sex.  The  census  of  1900  showed 
that  nearly  one-quarter  of  our  native-born 
whites  were  then  living  in  other  states 
than  those  of  their  birth.  Kansas  and 
Oklahoma  are  probably  the  most  extreme 
examples  of  such  colonization.  Almost 
their  entire  population  has  been  trans- 
planted, often  many  times,  moving  by 
stages  from  state  to  state.  The  last  census 
showed  that  only  53  per  cent  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  former  commonwealth  were 
actually  natives  of  Kansas.  An  analysis 
of  the  membership  of  its  legislature,  some 
years  ago,  revealed  that  only  9  per  cent 
were  born  within  the  confines  of  the 
state.  Even  in  the  staid  commonwealth 
of  Iowa,  only  about  one-third  of  the 
American-born  population  is  native  to 
the  state. 


Restlessness  has  always  been  charac- 
teristic of  our  original  stock.  Even  the 
farmers,  in  other  countries  more  or  less 
yoked  to  the  soil,  are  here  still  on  the 
move:  traveling  first  westward,  and  now 
southward,  seeking  new  outlets  for  their 
activities.  And  from  the  same  rural  class 
also  is  drawn  the  steady  influx  to  the  great 
cities  and  industrial  centres,  which  is  so 
marked  a  feature  of  our  time.  Rural  New 
England  has  been  depopulated  by  this 
two-fold  migration,  westward  and  city- 
ward, leaving  almost  whole  counties  in 
which  the  inhabitants  to-day  number  less 
than  a  century  ago.  By  the  same  process 
during  the  ten  years  prior  to  1890,  the 
little  state  of  Vermont  parted  with  more 
than  one-half  of  her  population  by  emi- 
gration ;  Maine  sent  forth  one- third,  and 
other  states  as  far  away  as  Virginia  and 
Ohio,  parted  with  almost  as  many.  It  has 
been  estimated  of  the  city  of  Boston,  an 
industrial  centre  of  over  half  a  million  in- 
habitants, that  the  old,  native-born  Bos- 
tonians  of  twenty  years  ago  now  number 
less  than  sixty-four  thousand. 

Our  immigrants  at  first  do  not  feel  the 
full  measure  of  this  American  restless- 
ness. The  great  inflowing  streams  of 
human  beings  at  New  York,  Boston,  and 
Philadelphia,  like  rivers  reaching  the 
ocean,  tend  to  deposit  their  sediment  at 
once  on  touching  our  shores.  At  the  out- 
set the  foreigners  are  immobile  elements 
of  population,  congesting  the  slums  of 
the  great  cities.  But  with  the  men  par- 
ticularly, —  the  Jews  alone  excepted,  — 
the  end  is  not  there.  As  among  the 
Italians,  Greeks,  and  Scandinavians,  they 
are  apt  to  return  shortly  to  the  father- 
land and  then  to  come  back,  this  time 
with  a  wider  appreciation  of  their  real 
opportunities.  After  this  second  arrival, 
they  scatter  far  more  widely.  Instead  of 
bunching  near  the  steamship  landing- 
stages,  they  range  afield.  With  their 
children  this  mobility  may  become  even 
more  marked.  Cheap  railroad  fares,  the 
demand  for  harvest  labor  in  the  west, 
the  contract  labor  on  railways  and[irriga- 
tion  works,  all  tend  to  stimulate  this 


750 


Races  in  the  United  States 


movement.  It  is  the  mobility  of  our 
older  Anglo-Saxon  population  which  has 
kept  the  nation  unified  over  a  vast  and 
highly  varied  area  until  the  present  time; 
and  it  will  be  such  mobility,  kept  alive 
by  the  exigencies  of  our  changing  eco- 
nomic life,  which  will  help  to  stir  up  and 
mix  together  the  various  ingredients  of 
our  population  as  they  arrive  in  future. 
A  second  influence  making  for  racial 
intermixture  is  the  ever-present  inequal- 
ity of  the  sexes  among  these  foreigners. 
This  is  most  apparent  when  they  first 
arrive,  about  70  per  cent  of  them  being 
males.  Few  nationalities  in  these  days 
bring  hither  whole  families,  as  did  the 
Anglo-Saxon  and  German  people  a  gen- 
eration ago.  The  Bohemians,  indeed, 
seem  to  do  so,  as  well  as  many  of  the 
immigrants  practically  driven  out  from 
Europe  by  political  persecution.  Thus, 
in  1905,  Russia  sent  fifty  thousand  wo- 
men-folk, —  more  than  came  from  Eng- 
land, Sweden,  and  Germany  combined; 
and  Austria-Hungary  sent  seventy-eight 
thousand,  or  thrice  the  number  of  women 
contributed  by  England,  Ireland,  and 
Germany.  But  of  the  main  body,  the 
large  majority  are  men.  This  vanguard 
of  males  tends  generally  to  be  followed 
by  more  women  later,  after  an  initial 
period  of  trial  and  exploration.  Among 
the  Italians  the  proportion  of  men  to 
women,  once  six  to  one,  has  now  fallen  to 
about  three  to  one.  Having  established 
themselves  in  America,  what  are  these 
men  to  do  for  wives  ?  In  all  classes -mat- 
rimony is  man's  natural  estate.  These 
migrant  males  may  write  home  or  go 
home  and  find  brides  among  their  own 
people;  or  they  may  seek  their  wives  in 
America.  This,  probably,  the  majority 
of  them  do;  and,  of  course,  the  large  ma- 
jority naturally  prefer  to  marry  within 
their  own  colony  of  fellow  countrymen. 
But  suppose,  in  the  first  place,  this  colony 
is  predominantly  male,  or  constitutes  a 
small  outpost,  isolated  among  a  popula- 
tion alien  or  semi-alien  to  its  members ; 
what  is  to  be  done  except  to  choose  a 
wife  where  one  is  to  be  had  ? 


An  odd  consequence  of  the  ambition  of 
these  foreign-born  men  to  rise,  tending 
inevitably  to  break  down  racial  barriers, 
is  that  they  covet  an  American-born  wife. 
The  woman  always  is  the  conservative 
element  in  society,  and  tends  to  cling  to 
old  ways  long  after  they  have  been  dis- 
carded by  the  men.  The  result  is  that,  in 
the  intermixture  of  various  peoples,  it  is 
commonly  the  man  who  marries  up  in  the 
social  scale.  Being  the  active  agent,  he 
inclines  to  choose  from  a  social  station 
higher  than  his  own.  There  were  in  the 
United  States,  in  1900,  about  fifteen  mil- 
lion people  born  of  foreign-born  parents, 
wholly  or  in  part.  About  five  million  of 
these  had  one  parent  foreign-born  and  one 
native-born,  that  is  to  say  with  one  parent 
drawn  from  the  second  generation  of  the 
immigrant  stream.  And  in  two-thirds  of 
these  mixed  marriages,  it  was  the  father 
who  was  foreign-born,  the  mother  being 
native-born.  This  law  has  been  verified 
by  many  concrete  investigations,  as  well  as 
by  means  of  general  statistical  data.  It  is 
the  same  law  which,  contrary  to  general 
belief,  leads  most  of  the  infrequent  mar- 
riages across  the  color  line  to  take  the 
form  of  a  negro  husband  and  a  white 
wife. 

For  certain  states,  as  Michigan  for  in- 
stance, registration  statistics  are  reliable. 
These  again  show  that  over  two-thirds  of 
the  mixed  marriages  have  foreign-born 
grooms  and  native-born  brides.  At  the 
United  Hebrew  Charities  in  New  York 
City  many  thousand  cases  of  destitution 
among  foreign-born  women  arise  from 
the  desertion  of  the  wife  with  her  old- 
fashioned  European  ways  by  the  husband 
who  has  out-distanced  her  in  adaptation 
to  the  new  life.  This  law  is  well  borne 
out  in  the  growing  intermarriage  between 
the  Irish  and  the  Italians.  The  Irish, 
from  their  longer  residence  in  America, 
are  obviously  of  a  higher  social  grade. 
The  ambitious  young  Italian  fruit- vender, 
or  the  Jewish  merchant  who  has  "made 
good,"  being  denied  a  wife  among  his  own 
people  (there  being  too  few  to  go  around), 
then  wooes  and  wins  an  Hibernian  bride. 


Races  in  the  United  States 


751 


Religion  in  this  instance  is  no  bar,  both 
being  Catholics. 

In  a  similar  fashion,  in  New  England, 
where  Germans  are  scarce  and  where 
Irish  abound,  it  is  usually  the  German 
man  who  marries  into  an  Irish  family. 
The  same  thing  seems  to  be  true  even 
in  New  York,  where  the  German  colony 
is  very  large.    When  intermarriage  be- 
tween the  two  peoples  occurs,  six  times 
out  of  seven  it  is  the  Irish  woman  who 
bears  the  children.    In  this  connection, 
the  important  role  in  ethnic  intermixture 
played  by  the  Irish  women  deserves  men- 
tion.   One  reason  is  surely  their  relative 
abundance.    In  our  Boston  foreign  col- 
ony, with  every  other  nationality  largely 
represented  by  men,  there  is  a  surplus 
of  fifteen  hundred  Irish  females.    But  a 
second  reason,  also,  is  the  superior  adapt- 
ability and  spirit  of  comradeship  of  the 
Irish  woman.    The  Irish  everywhere  are 
good  "  mixers."  Thus  endowed,  with  her 
democratic  spirit  and  lack  of  notion  of 
caste,  the  Irish  or  Irish-American  wo- 
man  bids  fair  to  be  a  potent  physical 
mediator  between  the  other  peoples  of  the 
earth.    One  may  picture  this  process  of 
racial  intermixture  going  further,  especi- 
ally in  those  parts  of  the  country  where 
the  more  ambitious  native-born  males 
have  emigrated  to  the  West  or  to  the 
large  cities.    The  incoming  foreigners, 
steadily  working  upward  in  the  economic 
and  social  scale,  and  the  stranded,  down- 
ward-tending   American    families,    per- 
haps themselves  of  Irish  or  Scotch-Irish 
descent,  may  in  time  meet  on  an  even 
plane. 

The  subtle  effects  of  change  of  environ- 
ment, religious,  linguistic,  political  and 
social,  is  another  powerful  influence  in 
breaking  down  ethnic  barriers.  The  spir- 
it of  the  new  surroundings,  in  fact,  is  so 
different  as  to  prove  too  powerfully  dis- 
integrating an  influence.  In  the  moral 
and  religious  fields  this  is  plainly  notice- 
able, and  often  pathetic  in  its  results. 
The  religious  bonds  are  often  entirely 
snapped.  This  is  discernible  among  the 
Jews  everywhere.  As  one  observer  put  it 


to  me,  "  Religion  is  supplanted  by  so- 
cialism and  the  yellow  journal."  Large 
numbers,  more  often  of  the  young  men, 
break  loose  entirely  and  become  agnostics 
or  free-thinkers.  The  Bohemians  are 
notorious  in  this  regard.  This  is  accom- 
panied by  a  breakdown  of  patriarchal 
authority  in  the  family;  and  with  it,  in 
the  close  contacts  of  city  life,  the  barriers 
of  religion  against  intermarriage  visibly 
weaken. 

Differences  of  language  are  also  less 
powerful  dividing  influences  than  one 
would  think,  especially  in  the  great 
cities.  One  not  infrequently  hears  of 
bride  and  groom  not  being  on  speaking 
terms  with  one  another.  A  friend  of 
mine  tells  me  of  a  pathetic  instance  of  a 
Czech-German  marriage,  in  which  the 
man  rather  late  in  life  painfully  acquired 
some  knowledge  of  German,  but  as  he 
grew  old  it  slipped  away  from  him;  so 
that,  at  last,  the  aged  couple  were  driven 
to  the  use  of  signs  for  daily  intercourse. 

Despite  the  best  efforts  of  parents  to 
keep  alive  an  acquaintance  with  the 
mother  tongue,  it  tends  to  disappear  in 
the  second  generation.  To  be  sure,  at  the 
present  time,  no  less  than  about  one  in 
every  sixteen  of  our  entire  population, 
according  to  the  Census  of  1900,  cannot 
even  speak  the  English  language.  Such 
ignorance  of  English  of  course  tends 
more  strongly  to  persist  in  isolated  rural 
communities.  The  Pennsylvania  German 
who,  after  over  two  hundred  years  of 
residence  in  America,  can  say,  "  Ich  habe 
mein  Haus  ge-painted  and  ge-white- 
washed"  is  a  case  in  point.  It  is  averred 
that,  in  some  of  the  Polish  colonies  in 
Texas,  even  the  Negroes  speak  Polish; 
as  Swedish  is  used  in  Minnesota  and  the 
Dakotas,  German  in  the  long-standing 
Swiss  colonies  in  Wisconsin,  and  French 
among  the  French  Canadians  in  New 
England.  On  Cape  Cod  in  Massachu- 
setts, many  rural  schools  are  forced  to 
have  a  separate  room  for  the  non-Eng- 
lish-speaking pupils.  But  the  desire,  and 
even  the  economic  necessity  of  learning 
English,  is  overwhelming  in  its  potency. 


752 


Races  in  the  United  States 


In  the  transitional  period  of  acquir- 
ing English,  the  dependence  of  the  pa- 
rents upon  the  children  entirely  reverses 
the  customary  relationship.  Even  young 
children,  having  learned  to  speak  Eng- 
lish in  the  public  schools,  are  indispen- 
sable go-betweens  for  all  intercourse  with 
the  public;  and  as  a  result  they  relegate 
the  parents  to  a  subordinate  position 
before  the  world.  Census  enumerators 
and  college-settlement  workers  agree  in 
citing  instances  where  the  old  people  are 
commanded  to  "shut  up,"  not  to  inter- 
fere in  official  conversations;  or  in  the 
familiar  admonition  "  not  to  speak  until 
spoken  to."  The  decadence  of  family 
authority  and  coherence  due  to  this  cause 
is  indubitable.  Thus  it  comes  about  that, 
already  in  the  second  generation,  the  bar- 
riers of  language  and  religion  against 
ethnic  intermixture  are  everywhere  break- 
ing down.  The  English  tongue  readily 
comes  into  service;  but,  unfortunately,  in 
respect  of  religion  the  traditional  props 
and  safeguards  are  knocked  from  under, 
without  as  yet,  in  too  many  instances, 
suitable  substitutes  of  any  sort  being 
provided.  From  this  fact  arises  the  in- 
sistence of  the  problem  of  criminality 
among  the  descendants  of  our  foreign- 
born.  This  is  a  topic  of  vital  importance, 
but  somewhat  foreign  to  the  immediate 
subject  of  this  paper. 

Among  the  influences  tending  to  hinder 
ethnic  intermixture,  there  remains  to  be 
mentioned  the  effect  of  concentration  or 
segregation  of  the  immigrants  in  com- 
pact colonies,  which  remain  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  as  truly  outposts  of  the 
mother  civilization  as  was  Carthage  or 
Treves.  This  phenomenon  of  concentra- 
tion of  our  foreign-born,  not  only  in  the 
large  cities  but  in  the  northeastern  quar- 
ter of  the  United  States,  has  become  in- 
creasingly noticeable  with  the  descending 
scale  of  nationality  among  the  more  re- 
cent immigrants.  The  Teutonic  peoples 
have  scattered  widely,  taking  up  land  in 
the  West.  They  have  indeed  populated 
the  wilderness.  But  the  Mediterranean, 
Slavic  and  Oriental  peoples  heap  up  in 


the  great  cities;  and  with  the  exception 
of  settlers  in  Chicago,  seldom  penetrate 
far  inland.  Literally  four-fifths  of  all  our 
foreign-born  citizens  now  abide  in  the 
twelve  principal  cities  of  the  country, 
which  are  mainly  in  the  East.  We 
thought  it  a  menace  in  1890  that  40 
per  cent  of  our  immigrants  were  to  be 
found  in  the  North  Atlantic  States.  But 
in  the  decade  to  1900,  four-fifths  of  the 
new-comers  were  settled  there ;  the  result 
being,  in  the  latter  year,  not  40  but  ac- 
tually 80  per  cent  of  the  foreign-born 
of  the  United  States  residing  in  this  al- 
ready densely  populated  area.  Four-fifths 
of  the  foreign-born  of  New  York  State, 
and  two-thirds  of  those  in  Illinois,  are 
now  packed  into  the  large  towns. 

To  be  sure,  this  phenomenon  of  urban 
congestion  is  not  confined  to  the  foreigner. 
Within  a  nineteen-mile  radius  of  the  City 
Hall  in  New  York  dwells  51  per  cent  of 
the  population  of  the  great  state  of  New 
York  together  with  58  per  cent  of  the 
population  of  the  adjoining  state  of  New 
Jersey.  But  the  consequences  of  conges- 
tion are  more  serious  among  the  foreign- 
born,  heaped  up  as  they  are  in  the  slums 
and  purlieus.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the 
middle  and  far  West  the  proportion  of 
actual  foreign-born  has  been  steadily 
declining  since  1890.  Cities  like  Cincin- 
nati or  Milwaukee,  once  largely  German, 
have  now  become  Americanized.  In  the 
second  and  third  generations,  not  re- 
cruited as  actively  as  before  by  constant 
arrivals,  the  parent  stock  has  become 
visibly  diluted ;  and  in  the  rural  northwest, 
as  the  older  Scandinavians  die  off,  their 
places  are  being  supplied  by  their  Amer- 
ican-born descendants,  with  an  admix- 
ture, but  to  a  lesser  degree  than  before, 
of  raw  recruits  from  the  old  countries. 

This  phenomenon  of  concentration 
obviously  tends  to  promote  the  survival 
of  racial  stocks  in  purity.  In  a  dense 
colony  of  ten  or  fifty  thousand  Italians  or 
Russian  Jews,  there  need  be  little  contact 
with  other  nationalities.  The  English 
language  may  intrude,  and  the  old  estab- 
lished religion  may  lose  its  potency;  but 


Races  in  the  United  States 


753 


so  far  as  physical  contacts  are  concerned, 
the  colony  may  be  self-sufficient.  Pro- 
fessor Buck  found  in  the  Czech  colony  in 
Chicago  that,  while  forty-eight  thousand 
children  had  both  parents  Bohemian, 
there  were  only  seven  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  who  had  only  one  parent  of 
that  nationality.  Had  there  been  only  a 
small  colony,  the  number  of  mixed  mar- 
riages would  have  greatly  increased. 
Thus  the  Irish  in  New  York,  according 
to  the  Census  of  1885,  preponderantly 
took  Irish  women  to  wife;  but  in  Balti- 
more at  the  same  time,  where  the  Irish 
colony  was  small,  about  one  in  eight 
married  native-born  wives. 

These  facts  illustrate  the  force  of  the 
influences  to  be  overcome  in  the  pro- 
cess of  racial  intermixture.  Call  it 
what  you  please,  —  "  consciousness  of 
kind,"  or  "  race  instinct,"  —  there  will 
always  be,  as  among  animals,  a  dis- 
position of  distinct  types  to  keep  sepa- 
rate and  apart.  Among  men,  however, 
this  seldom  assumes  concrete  form  in  re- 
spect of  physical  type.  Marriage  appears 
to  be  rather  a  matter  of  social  concern. 
There  is  no  physical  antipathy  between 
different  peoples.  Oftentimes  the  attrac- 
tion of  a  contrasted  physical  type  is 
plainly  discernible.  The  barriers  to  in- 
termarriage between  ethnic  groups  are 
more  often  based  upon  differences  in 
economic  status.  The  Italian  "  Dago  " 
is  looked  down  upon  by  the  Irish,  as  in 
turn  the  Irishman  used  to  be  character- 
ized by  the  Americans  as  a  "  Mick,"  or 
"  Paddy."  Any  such  social  distinctions 
constitute  serious  handicaps  in  the  matri- 
monial race;  but  on  the  other  hand,  as 
they  are  in  consequence  largely  artificial, 
they  tend  to  disappear  with  the  demon- 
stration of  economic  and  social  efficiency. 

Our  attention  heretofore  has  been  di 
rected  to  a  discussion  of  the  influences 
making  for  or  against  a  physical  merger 
of  these  diverse  peoples.  It  may  now  be 
proper  to  inquire  how  much  of  this  in- 
termixture there  really  is.  Does  it  afford 
evidence  of  tendencies  at  work,  which 
may  in  time  achieve  momentous  results  ? 
VOL.  102 -NO.  6 


The  first  cursory  view  of  the  field 
would  lead  one  to  deny  that  the  phe- 
nomenon was  yet  of  importance.  The 
potency  of  the  forces  tending  to  restrict 
intermarriage  seems  too  great.  But  on 
the  other  hand,  from  such  concrete  sta~ 
tistical  data  as  are  obtainable,  it  would 
seem  that  a  fair  beginning  has  already 
been  made,  considering  the  recency  of 
the  phenomenon.  The  general  figures 
of  the  Federal  Census  are  valueless  in 
this  connection.  Although  they  indicate 
much  intermarriage  of  the  foreign-born 
with  the  native-born  of  foreign  parentage, 
the  overwhelming  preponderance  of  this 
is,  of  course,  confined  to  the  same  ethnic 
group.  The  immigrant  Russian  Jew  or 
young  Italian  is  merely  mating  with  an- 
other of  the  same  people,  born  in  America 
of  parents  who  were  direct  immigrants. 
The  bride  in  such  a  case  is  as  truly  Jew- 
ish or  Italian  by  blood  as  the  groom,  al- 
though her  social  status  and  economic 
condition  may  be  appreciably  higher. 
But  evidence  of  true  intermixture  across 
ethnic  lines  is  not  entirely  lacking.  No 
less  than  56,000  persons  are  enumerated 
in  the  Federal  Census  as  being  of  mixed 
Irish  and  German  parentage;  and  of 
these  13,400  were  in  New  York  State 
alone.  German-English  intermarriages 
are  about  as  frequent,  numbering  47,600. 
Irish  and  French  Canadian  marriages 
numbered  12,300,  according  to  the  same 
authority.  Three  times  out  of  five,  it  is 
the  French-Canadian  man  who  aspires 
to  an  Irish  bride.  In  the  Northwest,  the 
Irish  and  Swedes  are  said  to  be  evincing 
a  growing  fondness  for  one  another.  For 
the  newer  nationalities,  the  numbers  are, 
of  course,  smaller. 

Some  idea  of  the  prevalence  of  mixed 
marriages  is  afforded  by  the  specialized 
census  data  of  1900.  Take  one  national- 
ity, the  Italians,  for  example.  There  were 
484,207,  in  all,  in  the  United  States.  Of 
these  nearly  one-half,  or  218,810,  had 
both  parents  Italian.  Marriages  of  Italian 
mothers  and  American-born  fathers  pro- 
duced 2747;  while,  conformably  to  the 
law  already  set  forth,  no  less  than  23,076 


754 


Races  in  the  United  States 


had  Italian  fathers  and  native-born 
mothers.  There  still  remained  12,523 
with  Italian  fathers,  and  mothers  of  some 
other  non- American  nationality;  and 
3911  with  Italian  mothers,  and  fathers 
neither  American  nor  Italian-born.  Thus 
of  the  484,000  Italian  contingent,  nearly 
one-tenth  proved  to  be  of  mixed  descent. 
For  the  city  of  Boston,  special  inquiry 
showed  that  236  Italians  in  a  colony  of 
7900  were  of  mixed  parentage,  with  pre- 
dominantly Irish  tendencies. 

Mixed  marriages  are,  of  course,  rela- 
tively infrequent;  but  at  all  events,  as  in 
these  cases,  they  constitute  a  beginning. 
Sometimes  they  occur  oftener,  especially 
in  the  great  centres  of  population  where 
all  are  herded  together  in  close  order. 
Thus  in  a  census,  made  by  the  Federation 
of  Churches  in  New  York,  of  the  oldest 
part  of  the  city  south  of  Wall  and  Pine 
streets  to  the  Battery,  out  of  three  hun- 
dred and  seven  families  completely  can- 
vassed, it  appeared  that  forty-nine  were 
characterized  by  mixed  marriages.  This 
proportion  of  one  in  six  is  certainly  too 
high  for  an  average;  but  it  is  nearly 
equaled  by  the  rather  unreliable  data 
afforded  by  the  mortality  statistics  of  Old 
New  York  for  1906,  showing  the  parent- 
age of  decedents.  This  gave  a  propor- 
tion of  one  to  eight  as  of  mixed  descent. 
How  many  of  those  called  mixed  were 
only  offspring  of  unions  of  first  and  sec- 
ond generations  of  the  same  people  is  not, 
however,  made  clear.  Some  good  au- 
thorities, such  as  Dr.  Maurice  Fischberg, 
do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that,  even  for  the 
Jews,  as  a  people,  there  is  far  more  in- 
termarriage with  the  Gentile  population 
than  is  commonly  supposed.  In  Boston, 
the  most  frequent  form  of  intermarriage 
perhaps  is  between  Jewish  men  and  Irish 
or  Irish-American  women. 

A  few  general  observations  upon  the 
subject  of  racial  intermixture  may  now  be 
permitted.  Is  the  result  likely  to  be  a 
superior  or  an  inferior  type  ?  Will  the  fu- 
ture American  two  hundred  years  hence 
be  better  or  worse,  as  a  physical  being, 
because  of  his  mongrel  origin?  The 


greatest  confusion  of  thinking  exists  upon 
this  topic.  Evidence  to  support  both  sides 
of  the  argument  is  to  be  had  for  the  seek- 
ing. 

For  the  continent  of  Europe,  it  is 
indubitable  that  the  highly  mixed  popu- 
lations of  the  British  Isles,  of  Northern 
France,  of  the  Valley  of  the  Po,  and  of 
Southern  Germany,  are  superior  in  many 
ways  to  those  of  outlying  or  inaccessible 
regions  where  greater  purity  of  type  pre- 
vails. But  the  mere  statement  of  these 
facts  carries  proof  of  the  partial  weakness 
of  the  reasoning.  Why  should  not  the 
people  of  the  British  Isles,  of  Northern 
France,  and  of  the  Po  Valley  be  the  best 
in  Europe  ?  Have  they  not  enjoyed  every 
advantage  which  salubrity  of  climate  and 
fertility  of  soil  can  afford?  Was  it  not, 
indeed,  the  very  existence  of  these  advant- 
ages which  rendered  these  garden  spots 
of  the  earth  very  Meccas  of  pilgrimage  ? 
Viewed  in  a  still  larger  way,  is  it  not 
indeed  the  very  beneficence  of  Nature  in 
these  regards  which  has  induced,  or  per- 
mitted, a  higher  evolution  of  the  human 
species  in  Europe  than  in  any  of  the 
other  continents?  The  races  certainly 
began  even.  Why  then  are  the  results  for 
Europe  as  a  whole  so  superior  to-day  ? 
Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  I  am  sure,  would 
have  been  ready  with  a  cogent  reason. 
What  right  have  we  to  dissociate  these 
concomitantly  operative  influences  of 
race  and  environment,  and  ascribe  the 
superiority  of  physical  type  to  the  effect 
of  intermixture  alone  ?  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  does  not  the  whole  evolutionary 
hypothesis  compel  us  to  accept  some 
such  favorable  conclusion?  What  leads 
to  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  unless  there 
be  the  opportunity  for  variation  of  type, 
from  which  effective  choice  by  selection 
may  result.  And  yet  most  students  of 
biology  agree  in  holding  that  the  crossing 
of  types  must  not  be  too  violently  ex- 
treme. Nature  proceeds  in  her  work  by 
short  and  easy  stages. 

At  this  point  the  opportunity  for  the 
students  of  heredity,  like  Galton,  Pear- 
son, and  then-  fellow  workers,  appears. 


Races  in  the  United  States 


755 


What,  for  instance,  is  the  order  of  trans- 
mission of  physical  traits  as  between  the 
two  parents  in  any  union  ?  We  have  seen 
how  unevenly  assorted  much  of  the  inter- 
mixture in  the  United  States  tends  to  be. 
If,  as  between  the  Irish  and  the  Italians, 
who  are  palpably  evincing  a  tendency  to 
mate  together,  it  is  commonly  the  Italian 
male  who  seeks  the  Irish  wife;  and  if, 
as  Pearson  avers,  inheritance  in  a  line 
through  the  same  sex  is  pre-potent  over 
inheritance  from  the  other  sex ;  what  in- 
teresting possibilities  of  hereditary  phys- 
ical differences  may  result! 

An  interesting  query  suggested  by  the 
results  of  scientific  breeding  and  the  study 
of  inheritance  among  lower  forms  of  ani- 
mal life,  is  this:  What  chance  is  there 
that,  out  of  this  forcible  dislocation  and 
abnormal  intermixture  of  all  the  peoples 
of  the  civilized  world,  there  may  emerge 
a  physical  type  tending  to  revert  to  an  an- 
cestral one,  older  than  any  of  the  present 
European  varieties  ?  The  law  seems  to  be 
well  supported  elsewhere,  that  crossing 
between  highly  evolved  varieties  or  types 
tends  to  bring  about  reversion  to  the  orig- 
inal stock.  The  greater  the  divergence 
between  the  crossed  varieties,  the  more 
powerful  does  the  reversionary  tendency 
become.  Many  of  us  are  familiar  with 
the  evidence :  such  as  the  reversion  among 
sheep  to  the  primary  dark  type;  and  the 
emergence  of  the  old  wild  blue  rock- 
pigeon  from  blending  of  the  fan-tail  and 
pouter  or  other  varieties.  The  same  law 
is  borne  out  in  the  vegetable  world,  the 
facts  being  well  known  to  fruit-growers 
and  horticulturists.  The  more  recently 
acquired  characteristics,  especially  those 
which  are  less  fundamentally  useful,  are 
sloughed  off;  and  the  ancestral  features 
common  to  all  varieties  emerge  from 
dormancy  into  prominence.  Issue  need 
not  be  raised,  as  set  forth  by  Dr.  G.  A. 
Reid,  as  to  whether  the  result  of  cross- 
breeding is  always  in  favor  of  reversion, 
and  never  of  progression.  But  interesting 
possibilities  linked  up  with  this  law  may 
be  suggested. 

All  students  of  natural  science  have 


accepted  the  primary  and  proven  tenets  of 
the  evolutionary  hypothesis, — or  rather, 
let  us  say,  of  the  law  of  evolution.  And 
all  alike  must  acknowledge  the  subjec- 
tion of  the  human  species  to  the  opera- 
tion of  the  same  great  natural  laws  ap- 
plicable to  all  other  forms  of  life.  It  would 
have  been  profoundly  suggestive  to  have 
heard  from  Huxley  on  a  theme  like  this. 
We  are  familiar,  in  certain  isolated  spots 
in  Europe,  the  Dordogne  in  France  for 
example,  with  the  persistence  of  certain 
physical  types  without  change  from  pre- 
historic times.  The  modern  peasant  is 
the  proven  direct  descendant  of  the  man 
of  the  stone  age.  But  here  is  another 
mode  of  access  to  that  primitive  type,  or 
even  an  older  one,  running  back  to  a  time 
before  the  separation  of  European  varie- 
ties of  men  began.  Thus,  to  be  more 
specific,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the 
primitive  type  of  European  was  brunette, 
probably  with  black  eyes  and  hair  and 
a  swarthy  skin.  Teutonic  blondness  is 
certainly  an  acquired  trait,  not  very  re- 
cent, to  be  sure,  judged  by  historic  stand- 
ards, but  as  certainly  not  old,  measured 
by  evolutionary  time.  What  probability 
is  there  that  in  the  unions  of  rufous  Irish 
and  dark  Italian  types  a  reversion  in  fa- 
vor of  brunetteness  may  result  ?  Anthro- 
pologists have  waged  bitter  warfare  for 
years  over  the  live  issue  as  to  whether 
the  first  Europeans  were  long-headed  or 
broad-headed ;  that  is  to  say,  Negroid  or 
Asiatic  in  derivation.  May  not  an  inter- 
esting and  valuable  bit  of  evidence  be 
found  in  the  results  of  racial  intermix- 
ture, as  it  is  bound  to  occur  in  the  United 
States  ? 

A  relatively  unimportant,  yet  theoret- 
ically very  interesting,  detail  of  the  sub- 
ject of  racial  intermixture  is  suggested  in 
Westermarck's  brilliant  History  of  Hit- 
man Marriage.  It  is  a  well-known  statis- 
tical law  that,  almost  the  world  over, 
there  are  more  boys  than  girls  born  into 
the  world.  The  normal  ratio  of  births 
is  about  one  hundred  and  five  males  to 
one  hundred  females.  Students  have  long 
sought  the  reasons  for  this  irregularity; 


756 


Races  in  the  United  States 


but  nothing  has  yet  been  proved  con- 
clusively. Westermarck  brings  together 
much  evidence  to  show  that  this  propor- 
tion of  the  sexes  at  birth  is  affected  by 
the  amount  of  in-breeding  in  any  social 
group,  the  crossing  of  different  stocks 
tending  to  increase  the  percentage  of 
female  births.  Thus,  among  the  French 
half-breeds  and  mulattos  in  America, 
among  mixed  Jewish  marriages,  and  in 
South  and  Central  America,  female  births 
may  at  times  even  overset  the  difference 
and  actually  preponderate  over  male 
births.  The  interest  of  this  topic  lies  in 
the  fact  that  it  is  unique  among  social 
phenomena  in  being,  so  far  as  we  know, 
independent  of  the  human  will.  It  is  the 
expression  of  what  may  truly  be  denomi- 
nated natural  law. 

Westermarck's  general  biological  rea- 
soning is  that,  inasmuch  as  the  rate  of 
increase  of  any  animal  community  is 
dependent  upon  the  number  of  pro- 
ductive females,  a  sort  of  accommoda- 
tion takes  place  in  each  case  between 
the  potential  rate  of  increase  of  the 
group  and  its  means  of  subsistence,  or 
chance  of  survival.  More  females  at 
birth  is  the  response  of  Nature  to  an  in- 
creasingly favorable  environment  or  con- 
dition. In-and  in  breeding  is  undoubt- 
edly injurious  to  the  welfare  of  any 
species.  As  such,  according  to  Wester- 
marck, it  is  accompanied  by  a  decline  in 
the  proportion  of  females  born.  This  is 
the  expression  of  Nature's  disapproval 
of  the  practice ;  while  intermixture  tends, 
contrariwise,  to  produce  a  relative  in- 
crease of  the  female  sex.  Certain  it  is 
that  an  imposing  array  of  evidence  can  be 
marshaled  to  give  color  to  the  hypothesis. 
Our  suggestion  at  this  point  is  that  here, 
in  the  racial  intermixture  just  now  be- 
ginning in  the  United  States,  and  sure 
to  assume  tremendous  proportions  in  the 
course  of  time,  will  be  afforded  an  oppor- 
tunity to  study  man  in  his  relation  to  a 
great  natural  law,  in  a  way  never  before 
rendered  possible.  Statistical  material  is 
at  present  too  meagre  and  vague;  but  one 
may  confidently  look  forward  to  such  an 


improvement  in  this  regard  that  an  in- 
viting field  of  research  will  be  laid  bare. 

The  significance  of  the  rapidly  increas- 
ing immigration  from  Europe  in  recent 
years  is  vastly  enhanced  by  other  social 
conditions  in  the  United  States.  A  power- 
ful process  of  social  selection  is  apparent- 
ly at  work  among  us.  Racial  heteroge- 
neity, due  to  the  direct  influx  of  foreigners 
in  large  numbers,  is  aggravated  by  their 
relatively  high  rate  of  reproduction  after 
arrival ;  and,  in  many  instances,  by  their 
surprisingly  sustained  tenacity  of  life, 
greatly  exceeding  that  of  the  native-born 
American.  Relative  submergence  of  the 
domestic  Anglo-Saxon  stock  is  strongly 
indicated  for  the  future.  "  Race  suicide," 
marked  by  a  low  and  declining  birth-rate, 
as  is  well  known,  is  a  world-wide  social 
phenomenon  of  the  present  day.  Nor  is  it 
by  any  means  confined  solely  to  the  so- 
called  upper  classes.  It  is  so  notably  a 
characteristic  of  democratic  communities 
that  it  may  be  regarded  as  almost  a  direct 
concomitant  of  equality  of  opportunity 
among  men.  To  this  tendency,  the 
United  States  is  no  exception;  in  fact, 
together  with  the  Australian  common- 
wealths, it  affords  one  of  the  most  strik- 
ing illustrations  of  present-day  social 
forces. 

Owing  to  the  absence  of  reliable  data, 
it  is  impossible  to  state  what  the  ac- 
tual birth-rate  of  the  United  States  as  a 
whole  may  be.  But  for  certain  com- 
monwealths the  statistical  information  is 
ample  and  accurate.  From  this  evidence 
it  appears  that  for  those  communities,  at 
least,  to  which  the  European  immigrant 
resorts  in  largest  numbers,  the  birth-rate 
is  almost  the  lowest  in  the  world.  France 
and  Ireland  alone  among  the  great  na- 
tions of  the  earth  stand  lower  in  the  scale. 
This  relativity  is  shown  by  the  following 
table,  giving  the  number  of  births  in  each 
case  per  thousand  of  population. 

Birth-Bate  (approximate) 

Hungary  40 

Austria  37 

Germany  36 

Italy  35 


Races  in  the  United  States 


757 


Holland  33 
England ;  Scotland  ) 
Norway ;  Denmark  J 

Australia;  Sweden  27 

Massachusetts  I  Michigan  25 

Connecticut ;  Rhode  Island  24 

Ireland  23 

France  22 

New  Hampshire  20  (?) 

This  crude  birth-rate  of  course  is  sub- 
ject to  several  technical  corrections,  and 
should  not  be  taken  at  its  full  face  value. 
Moreover,  it  may  be  unfair  to  generalize 
for  the  entire  rural  West  and  South  from 
the  data  for  densely  populated  communi- 
ties. And  yet,  as  has  been  observed,  it  is 
in  our  thickly  settled  eastern  states  that 
the  newer  type  of  immigrant  tends  to 
settle.  Consequently,  it  is  the  birth-rate 
in  these  states,  as  compared  with  that  of 
the  new-comer,  upon  which  racial  sur- 
vival will  ultimately  depend. 

The  birth-rate  in  the  United  States  in 
the  days  of  its  Anglo-Saxon  youth  was 
one  of  the  highest  in  the  world.  The  best 
of  authority  traces  the  beginning  of  its 
decline  to  the  first  appearance  about  1850 
of  immigration  on  a  large  scale.  Our 
great  philosopher,  Benjamin  Franklin, 
estimated  six  children  to  a  normal  Ameri- 
can family  in  his  day.  The  average  at  the 
present  time  is  slightly  above  two.  For 
1900  it  is  calculated  that  there  are  only 
about  three-fourths  as  many  children  to 
potential  mothers  in  America  as  there 
were  forty  years  ago.  Were  the  old  rate  of 
the  middle  of  the  century  sustained,  there 
would  be  fifteen  thousand  more  births 
yearly  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts  than 
now  occur.  In  the  course  of  a  century  the 
proportion  of  our  entire  population  con- 
sisting of  children  under  the  age  of  ten 
has  fallen  from  one-third  to  one-quarter. 
This,  for  the  whole  United  States,  is  equi- 
valent to  the  loss  of  about  seven  million 
children.  So  alarming  has  this  phenome- 
non of  the  falling  birth-rate  become  in  the 
Australian  colonies  that,  in  New  South 
Wales,  a  special  governmental  commission 
has  voluminously  reported  upon  the  sub- 
ject. It  is  estimated  that  there  has  been 
a  decline  of  about  one-third  in  the  fruit- 


fulness  of  the  people  in  fifteen  years.  New 
Zealand  even  complains  of  the  lack  of 
children  to  fill  her  schools.  The  facts  con- 
cerning the  stagnation,  nay,  even  the  re- 
trogression, of  the  population  of  France, 
are  too  well  known  to  need  description. 
But  in  these  other  countries  the  problem 
is  relatively  simple,  as  compared  with  our 
own.  Their  populations  are  homogene- 
ous, and  ethnically,  at  least,  are  all  subject 
to  these  social  tendencies  to  the  same 
degree.  The  danger  with  us  lies  in  the 
fact  that  this  low  and  declining  birth-rate 
is  primarily  confined  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
contingent.  The  immigrant  European 
horde,  at  all  events  until  recently,  has 
continued  to  reproduce  upon  our  soil  with 
well-sustained  energy. 

Baldly  stated,  the  birth-rate  among  the 
foreign-born  in  Massachusetts  is  about 
three  times  that  of  the  native-born.  Child- 
less marriages  are  one-third  less  frequent. 
This  somewhat  exaggerates  the  contrast 
because  of  differing  conditions  as  to  age 
and  sex  in  the  two  classes.  The  difference, 
nevertheless,  is  very  great.  Kuczynski  has 
made  detailed  investigations  as  to  the  re- 
lative fecundity  of  different  racial  groups. 
The  fruitfulness  of  English-Canadian 
women  in  Massachusetts  is  twice  that  of 
the  Massachusetts-born ;  of  the  Germans 
and  Scandinavians,  it  is  two  and  one-half 
times  as  great;  of  the  French  Canadians, 
it  is  thrice;  and  of  the  Portuguese,  four 
times.  Even  among  the  Irish,  who  are 
characterized  now-a-days  everywhere  by 
a  low  birth-rate,  the  fruitfulness  of  the 
women  is  fifty  per  cent  greater  than  for 
the  Massachusetts  native-born.  The  rea- 
sons for  this  relatively  low  fecundity  of 
the  domestic  stock  are,  of  course,  much 
the  same  as  in  Australia  and -in  France, 
But  with  us,  it  is  as  well  the  "  poor  white" 
among  the  New  England  hills  or  in  the 
Southern  States  as  the  town-dweller, 
who  appears  content  with  few  children  or 
none.  The  foreign  immigrant  marries 
early  and  children  continue  to  come  until 
much  later  in  life  than  among  the  native- 
born.  It  may  make  all  the  difference  be- 
tween an  increasing  or  declining  popula- 


758 


Races  in  the  United  States 


tion  whether  the  average  age  of  marriage 
is  twenty  years  or  twenty-nine  years. 

The  contrast  for  supremacy  between 
the  Anglo-Saxon  stock  and  its  rivals  may 
be  stated  in  another  way.  Whereas  only 
about  one-ninth  of  the  married  women 
among  the  French-Canadians,  Irish,  and 
Germans  are  childless,  the  proportion 
among  the  American-born  and  the  Eng- 
lish-Canadians is  as  high  as  one  in  five. 
A  century  ago  about  two  per  cent  of  bar- 
ren marriages  was  the  rule.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  serious  students  contemplate 
the  racial  future  of  Anglo-Saxon  Amer- 
ica with  some  concern  ?  They  have  seen 
the  passing  of  the  American  Indian  and 
the  buffalo;  and  now  they  query  as  to 
how  long  the  Anglo-Saxon  may  be  able 
to  survive. 

On  the  other  hand,  evidence  is  not 
lacking  to  show  that  in  the  second  gene- 
ration of  these  immigrant  peoples,  a  sharp 
and  considerable,  nay  in  some  cases  a 
truly  alarming,  decrease  in  fruitfulness 
occurs.  The  crucial  time  among  all  our 
new-comers  from  Europe  .has  always 
been  in  this  second  generation.  The  old 
customary  ties  and  usages  have  been 
abruptly  sundered ;  and  new  associations, 
restraints,  and  responsibilities  have  not 
yet  been  formed.  Particularly  is  this  true 
of  the  forces  of  family  discipline  and  re- 
ligion, as  has  already  been  observed.  Un- 
til the  coming  of  the  Hun,  the  Italian,  and 
the  Slav,  at  least,  it  has  been  among  the 
second  generation  of  foreigners  in  Amer- 
ica, rather  than  among  the  raw  immi- 
grants, that  criminality  has  been  most 
prevalent ;  and  it  is  now  becoming  evident 
that  it  is  this  second  generation  in  which 
the  influence  of  democracy  and  of  novel 
opportunity  makes  itself  apparent  in  the 
sharp,  decline  of  fecundity.  In  some  com- 
munities the  Irish- Americans  have  a  lower 
birth-rate  even  than  the  native-born.  Dr. 
Engelmann,  on  the  basis  of  a  large  prac- 
tice, has  shown  that  among  the  St.  Louis 
Germans,  the  proportion  of  barren  mar- 
riages is  almost  unprecedentedly  high. 
Corroborative,  although  technically  in- 
conclusive, evidence  from  the  Registra- 


tion Reports  of  the  State  of  Michigan  ap- 
pears in  the  following  suggestive  table, 
showing  the  nativity  of  parents  and  the 
number  of  children  per  marriage  annu- 
ally in  each  class. 

Children 

German  father ;  American-born  mother  2.5 
American-born  father ;  German  mother  2.3 
German  father;  German  mother  6. 

American-born  father;   American-born 

mother  l.g 

I  have  been  at  some  pains  to  secure  per- 
sonal information  concerning  the  foreign 
colonies  in  some  of  our  large  cities,  not- 
ably New  York.  Dr.  Maurice  Fishberg 
for  the  Jews,  and  Dr.  Antonio  Stella  for 
the  Italians,  both  notable  authorities, 
confirm  the  foregoing  statements.  Among 
the  Italians  particularly,  the  conditions 
are  positively  alarming.  Peculiar  social 
conditions  influencing  the  birth-rate,  and 
the  terrific  mortality  induced  by  over- 
crowding, lack  of  sanitation,  and  the  un- 
accustomed rigors  of  the  climate,  make  it 
doubtful  whether  the  Italian  colony  in 
New  York  will  ever  be  physically  self- 
sustaining.  Thus  it  appears  that  forces 
are  at  work  which  may  check  the  rela- 
tively higher  rate  of  reproduction  of  the 
immigrants,  and  perhaps  reduce  it  more 
nearly  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  level. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  vitality  of  these 
immigrants  is  surprisingly  high  in  some 
instances,  particularly  where  they  attain 
an  open-air  rural  life.  The  birth-rate 
stands  high,  and  the  mortality  remains 
low.  Such  ar^  the  ideal  conditions  for 
rapid  reproduction  of  the  species.  On 
the  other  hand,  when  overcrowded  in  the 
slums  of  great  cities,  ignorant  and  poverty- 
stricken,  the  infant  mortality  is  very  high, 
largely  offsetting,  it  may  be,  the  high 
birth-rate.  The  mortality  rate  among  the 
Italians  in  New  York  is  said  to  be  twice 
as  high  as  in  Italy.  Yet  some  of  these 
immigrants,  such  as  the  Scandinavians, 
are  peculiarly  hardy  and  enduring.  Per- 
haps the  most  striking  instance  is  that  of 
the  Jews,  both  Russian  and  Polish.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Census  of  1890,  their  death- 
rate  was  only  one-half  that  of  the  native- 


Races  in  the  United  States 


759 


born  American.  For  three  of  the  most 
crowded  wards  in  New  York  City,  the 
death-rate  of  the  Irish  was  36  per  thou- 
sand; for  the  Germans,  22;  for  natives  of 
the  United  States,  45 ;  while  for  the  Jews 
it  was  only  17  per  thousand.  By  actuarial 
computation  at  these  relative  rates,  start- 
ing at  birth  with  two  groups  of  one  thou- 
sand Jews  and  Americans  respectively,  the 
chances  would  be  that  the  first  half  of  the 
Americans  would  die  within  47  years; 
while  for  the  Jews  this  would  not  occur 
until  after  71  years.  Social  selection  at 
that  rate  would  be  bound  to  produce 
very  positive  results  in  a  century  or  two. 
At  the  outset,  confession  was  made 
that  it  was  too  early  as  yet  to  draw  posi 
tive  conclusions  as  to  the  probable  out- 
come of  this  great  ethnic  struggle  for 
dominance  and  survival.  The  great  heat 
and  sweat  of  it  is  yet  to  come.  Wherever 
the  Anglo-Saxon  has  fared  forth  into  new 
lands,  his  supremacy  in  his  chosen  field, 
whatever  that  may  be,  has  been  manfully 
upheld.  India  was  never  contemplated 
as  a  centre  for  settlement;  but  Anglo- 
Saxon  law,  order,  and  civilization  have 
prevailed.  In  Australia,  where  nature  has 
offered  inducements  for  actual  coloniza- 
tion, the  Anglo-Saxon  line  is  apparently 
assured  of  physical  ascendency.  But  the 
great  domain  of  Canada,  greater  than  one 
can  conceive  who  has  not  traversed  its 
northwestern  empire,  is  subject  to  the 
same  physical  danger  which  confronts  us 
in  the  United  States,  —  actual  physical 
submergence  of  the  English  stock  by  a 


flood  of  continental  European  peoples. 
And  yet,  after  all,  is  the  word  "  danger  " 
well  considered  for  use  in  this  connection  ? 
What  are  the  English  people,  after  all, 
but  a  highly  evolved  product  of  racial 
blending  ?  To  be  sure,  all  the  later  crosses, 
the  Saxons,  Danes,  and  Normans,  have 
been  of  allied  Teutonic  origin  at  least. 
Yet,  encompassing  these  racial  pheno- 
mena with  the  wide,  sweeping  vision  of 
Darwin,  Huxley,  or  Wallace,  dare  we 
deny  an  ultimate  unity  of  origin  to  all  the 
peoples  of  Europe  ?  Our  feeble  attempts 
at  ethnic  analysis  cannot  at  the  best  reach 
further  back  than  to  secondary  sources. 
And  the  primary  physical  brotherhood 
of  all  branches  of  the  white  race,  nay, 
even  of  all  the  races  of  men,  must  be  ad- 
mitted on  faith,  —  not  the  faith  of  dog- 
ma, but  the  faith  of  scientific  probability. 
It  is  only  in  their  degree  of  physical  and 
mental  evolution  that  the  races  of  men 
are  different. 

Great  Britain  has  its  "white  man's 
burden"  to  bear  in  India  and  Africa; 
we  have  ours  to  bear  with  the  Amer- 
ican Negro  and  the  Filipino.  But  an 
even  greater  responsibility  with  us,  and 
with  the  people  of  Canada,  is  that  of  the 
"  Anglo-Saxon's  burden,"  - —  so  to  nourish, 
uplift,  and  inspire  all  these  immigrant 
peoples  of  Europe  that,  in  due  course 
of  time,  even  if  the  Anglo-Saxon  stock 
be  physically  inundated  by  the  engulfing 
flood,  the  torch  of  its  civilization  and 
ideals  may  still  continue  to  illuminate 
the  way. 


ENTER  "HERE  KAPELLMEISTER 


BY   WILLIAM   E.    WALTER 


THE  old  word  Kapellmeister  sticks  in 
Teutonic  music,  even  if  it  has  lost  much 
of  its  original  significance.  Thousands 
of  batons  have  beaten  the  air  with  ever- 
progressive  energy  since  old  Sebastian 
Bach  used  to  plod  along  to  the  Thomas- 
schule  to  try  the  new  cantata  he  had 
written  since  breakfast.  The  master  of 
His  Serene  Highness's  little  band,  who  ac- 
cepted his  dole  with  becoming  gratitude, 
has  grown  mightily  into  a  lordly  person, 
whose  comings  and  goings  are  followed 
with  eager  interest  by  a  great  public; 
whose  income  matches  that  of  many  a 
princeling,  in  bygone  days  a  patron  of  the 
divine  art;  whose  instrument  is  a  band 
of  a  hundred  fiddlers,  wind-blowers,  and 
drum-beaters ;  a  despot  in  his  own  realm, 
before  whom  all  his  subjects  bow  in  sub- 
missive obedience. 

When  ladies  wore  wide-reaching  hoops 
and  towering  coiffures,  when  gentlemen 
in  their  tailoring  rivaled  birds  of  para- 
dise, when  coaches  were  hung  on  straps, 
and  wonderful  fiddles  were  being  made, 
the  Heir  Kapellmeister  of  His  Serene 
Highness,  the  Grand  Duke  of  Kalbs- 
braten-Pumpernickel,  was  a  man  of  rare 
versatility,  untiring  industry,  and  admir- 
able humility.  The  organist  in  the  Court 
Church,  he  wrote  the  music  he  played, 
toccatas,  fugues,  and  preludes  by  the 
dozen.  The  choir-master,  he  composed 
most  of  the  cantatas,  masses,  and  an- 
thems. The  leader  of  His  Serene  High- 
ness's  orchestra, — the  symphonies,  over- 
tures, suites,  and  chamber  music  heard 
at  the  evening  concert  were  usually  the 
offspring  of  his  fertile  brain.  Between 
times  he  taught  the  fiddle,  clavier,  and 
harpsichord  to  the  children  of  his  patron, 
wrote  music  for  special  festive  occasions, 
and  now  and  then,  merely  to  show  that 
he  was  not  idling,  he  would  make  a 

760 


new  setting  for  an  opera  book  by  Metas- 
tasio. 

Let  us  take  a  day  of  his  life.  In  the 
blackness  of  a  northern  winter  morning 
he  crawls  out  of  his  warm  feather-bed  into 
the  chill  of  an  unheated  room,  and  with 
his  nightcap  still  tight  over  his  ears,  his 
fingers  stiff  with  cold,  he  sets  music  to 
an  Ode  by  the  Court  Poet  in  celebration 
of  the  beauties  of  Her  Serene  Highness's 
lap-dog, — an  ancient  and  dilapidated 
beast,  but  a  most  important  personage. 
This  done,  he  calls  his  musicians  and 
singers  and  rehearses  it  for  the  evening 
concert.  Then  he  is  off  to  the  church  to 
start  a  new  cantata  for  next  Sunday's 
service  and  rehearse  it.  Next  come  les- 
sons, perhaps;  then  a  bit  of  work  on  his 
new  opera  or  symphony;  and  finally,  in 
the  evening,  the  great  event  of  the  day, 
the  court  concert.  In  the  dim  soft  light 
of  candles,  he  is  seated  at  his  harpsichord 
at  the  end  of  the  salon.  About  him  are  his 
band  of  ten,  fifteen,  or,  perhaps,  as  the 
occasion  is  particularly  notable,  twenty 
players,  and  his  singers.  The  audience 
is  Their  Serene  Highnesses  and  their 
court,  and  with  nervous  patience  Herr 
Kapellmeister  watches  for  the  Serene 
Nod  which  is  the  signal  to  begin.  The 
Nod  is  given,  and,  beating  time  with  his 
right  hand  and  filling  in  the  accompani- 
ment on  the  harpsichord  with  his  left, 
Herr  Kapellmeister  reveals  to  the  dis- 
tinguished company  his  latest  master- 
piece, on  which  the  ink  is  hardly  dry. 
At  the  end,  he  is  permitted  to  kiss  the 
Graciously  Serene  Hand.  Perhaps,  if  Her 
Serene  Highness  is  particularly  serene,  he 
is  bidden  to  sit  at  the  foot  of  the  supper 
table,  an  honor  his  children  cherish  the 
memory  of.  Then  back  to  his  feather- 
bed, to  be  out  again  before  dawn  to  write 
by  candle-light  a  ballet,  perhaps,  to  be 


Enter  " Herr  Kapellmeister" 


761 


danced  in  honor  of  the  birthday  of  His 
Serene  Highness's  belle  amie. 

A  century  and  a  half  later,  the  bewil- 
dered Shade  of  this  humble  servitor  of 
art  is  placed  in  a  huge,  glaring  concert- 
hall  where  (vide  posters  outside)  Herr 
Einzweiunddrei,  the  distinguished  con- 
ductor, is  to  give  his  own  peculiarly  mov- 
ing and  temperamental  reading  of  that 
monumental  tone-poem,  "  The  Family 
Dinner,"  the  dernier  cri  of  the  Music  of 
the  Future.  (We  use  the  language  of  the 
Passionate  Press  Agent.)  The  Shade  sees 
tier  rising  on  tier  of  seats,  filled  with 
women  in  gay  clothes  and  men  extraor- 
dinarily sombre.  There  are  two,  three 
thousand  of  them.  At  one  end  of  the  hall 
is  a  vast  platform  on  which,  likewise  in 
rising  tiers  of  seats,  are  as  many  musi- 
cians as  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Kalbsbra- 
ten-Pumpernickel  had  men  in  its  army. 

A  door  at  the  side  of  the  stage  opens. 
A  hush  falls  on  the  multitude,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  thunder  of  welcoming  ap- 
plause as  Herr  Kapellmeister  Einzwei- 
unddrei walks  in  with  the  haughty  step 
of  conscious  greatness  and  takes  his  place 
on  the  podium.  Is  there  a  Graciously 
Serene  Highness  to  give  the  signaling 
nod  to  begin  ?  Were  he  there,  he  would 
be  but  one  of  the  crowd.  A  new  master 
has  come,  for  Herr  Kapellmeister  Ein- 
zweiunddrei, after  accepting  the  welcome 
of  the  audience  with  dignified  conde- 
scension, turns  his  back  on  it,  beats  a 
sharp  rat-tat-tat  on  his  music-stand  with 
his  baton,  and  then,  if  silence  is  not 
immediate,  turns  and  glares  at  his  ad- 
mirers as  if  he  would  spank  them  all, 
individually  and  collectively.  The  latent 
threat  brings  quiet.  Breathless  ushers 
slam  the  doors  in  the  faces  of  late-comers, 
the  baton  is  raised,  and  —  but  why  at- 
tempt to  describe  the  effect  of  this  tone- 
poem  on  the  primitive  ears  of  the  Eight- 
eenth-Century Shade  ? 

And  does  Herr  Kapellmeister  Ein- 
zweiunddrei wait  anxiously  for  a  sum- 
mons to  kiss  the  hand  of  a  Serene  High- 
ness? He  is  hardly  in  his  green-room 
before  he  is  surrounded  by  a  throng  of 


eager,  palpitating  women  who  are  in  a 
seventh  heaven  of  delight  does  he  vouch- 
safe them  a  smile  and  a  word.  And  a 
seat  at  the  foot  of  a  supper-table  ?  The 
whole  table  is  his  if  he  will  but  have  it. 
And  a  feather-bed  in  a  cold  room?  A 
costly  fur  coat,  a  costly  automobile,  and 
a  costly  apartment  in  a  costly  house,  are 
a  part  of  the  rewards  of  the  Shade's  de- 
scendant if  he  will  have  them;  but  more 
often  than  not,  he  limits  himself  to  the 
fur  coat.  Herr  Einzweiunddrei  is  usu- 
ally of  a  thrifty  and  saving  turn  of  mind, 
and  the  feather-bed  tradition  is  still  strong 
within  him. 

It  is  indeed  a  far  cry  from  the  Kapell- 
meister of  the  eighteenth  century  to  the 
Kapellmeister  of  to-day.  They  have,  of 
course,  one  trait  in  common.  Both  are 
musicians.  Sometimes,  alas!  they  may 
have  another.  Both  may  be  composers, 
but  with  this  difference :  the  ancient  man 
was  first  a  composer,  and  then  a  con- 
ductor. Force  of  circumstances  compelled 
him  to  be  a  conductor,  for,  as  all  con- 
ductors were  composers,  how  could  he 
ever  reveal  to  the  world  his  works  if  he 
did  not  conduct  them  himself  ?  But  the 
modern  man  has  no  such  excuse.  He  is 
a  conductor,  pure  and  simple,  and  if  he 
composes,  it  is  usually  against  the  wishes 
of  his  employers.  Yet,  even  in  this  respect, 
there  remains  a  strong  similarity  between 
them.  Kapellmeistermusik  to-day,  if  dif- 
ferent, is  no  better  than  Kapellmeister- 
musik of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago; 
and  what  grand  ducal  and  princely  li- 
brary in  Europe  has  not  reams  of  dead, 
gone,  and  forgotten  manuscript  rotting 
in  the  dust  of  a  century  and  a  half  ?  As 
it  was  then,  so  is  it  now,  and  so,  it  seems, 
it  must  be  hereafter;  yet  we  who  have  to 
listen  to  it  will  often  wish  that  Herr  Ein- 
zweiunddrei, when  he  composes,  had  the 
primitive  ears  of  his  ancestor  in  art. 

Beethoven's  imperious  rappings  of 
Fate  did  more  than  usher  in  the  first 
movement  of  his  Fifth  Symphony.  They 
breached  a  hole  in  the  confining  walls 
which  kept  the  conductor  a  time-beating 
prisoner,  and  through  it  he  saw  a  sun- 


762 


Enter  " Herr  Kapellmeister" 


lit  vista  of  smiling  prospects,  full  of  pro- 
mise of  the  day  when  he  could  scorn  the 
metronome  and  all  it  implies.  Tempo 
was  to  become,  in  the  words  of  a  distin- 
guished conductor  of  to-day,  a  "  matter 
between  man  and  his  God,"  and  the 
composer  must  grin  and  bear  it.  Formal 
music  for  formal  beauty's  sake  had  ceased 
with  Mozart  and  Haydn.  Conductors 
could  not  go  far  wrong  with  it,  for  the 
orchestras  were  small  and  simple,  and 
the  time  strict  and  easy  to  beat.  The 
conductor  usually  sat  at  the  harpsichord, 
filling  in  the  accompaniment,  and  now 
and  then  with  his  right  hand  indicating 
the  changes  of  time.  But  with  Beethoven 
came  a  new  element,  and  in  his  music 
the  Herr  Einzweiunddrei  of  to-day  was 
born. 

Music  was  found  to  have  a  heart  as  well 
as  a  lovely  face,  and  straightway  a  new 
and  strange  task  confronted  the  Kapell- 
meister. He  must  not  merely  portray 
the  beauty  of  form  which  had  been  all 
but  self-evident,  but  he  must  reveal  and 
interpret  the  emotions  which  lie  behind 
it,  and  are  now  a  part  of  it.  Then  came 
the  men  who  discovered  instrumental 
color,  who,  when  they  had  not  the  tools 
with  which  to  supply  it,  invented  them,  — 
Berlioz,  Liszt,  and  Wagner.  After  them 
came  others  who,  finding  that  Mozart 
had  exhausted  the  formal  beauty  of 
music,  that  Beethoven  had  drained  the 
cups  of  sorrow  and  gladness,  of  despair 
and  hope,  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  that 
Berlioz,  Liszt,  and  Wagner  had  con- 
sumed all  the  colors  that  could  be  mixed 
on  the  orchestral  palette,  turned  to  oth- 
er directions,  orchestrated  philosophical 
tracts,  mystical  and  symbolical  plays, 
cities,  towns,  and  countries,  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  "  Family  Dinner,"  which  is 
one  of  Herr  Einzweiunddrei's  specialties. 
With  each  step  forward  came  more  or- 
chestra. With  each  step  forward  came 
new  demands,  mental  and  physical,  on 
Herr  Kapellmeister,  until,  by  a  process 
of  which  he  and  the  public  were  almost 
unconscious,  he  was  able  one  day  to 
rise  in  his  might  and  exclaim,  "  La  mu- 


sique,  c'est  moi  1 "  and  all  the  world  ap- 
plauded. 

It  may  be  that  the  glamour  of  romance 
will  not  keep  his  memory  green  as  it  has 
those  of  the  Caffarellis  and  Farinellis,  the 
Rubinis  and  Marios  of  the  past,  and  as  it 
probably  will  those  of  the  de  Reszkes  and 
Carusos  of  the  present.  It  may  be  that 
he  will  never  have  the  adulation  given 
to  the  Malibrans  and  Frezzolinis,  the 
Grisis  and  Linds,  the  Pattis  and  Melbas 
of  the  lyric  stage.  It  may  be  that  he  will 
never  scale  the  giddy  heights  of  fame 
attained  now  and  then  by  a  pianist  like 
Paderewski,  and  a  fiddler  like  Paganini. 
But  one  thing  is  certain.  Whatever  tra- 
dition, myth,  and  the  obituary  editor  of 
the  daily  newspaper  may  do  with  him 
after  he  is  dead  and  gone,  while  he  is 
in  life  he  is  now,  and  probably  forever 
will  be,  master  of  them  all.  Whether  his 
field  is  a  little  obscure  municipal  theatre 
in  the  German  provinces,  or  one  of  the 
great  opera  houses  of  the  world;  whether 
he  is  at  the  head  of  a  great  permanent 
orchestra,  or  is  a  wandering  star  who 
travels  from  city  to  city  exhibiting  his 
prowess  with  the  baton,  his  word  is  law 
wherever  he  is,  and  none  is  so  big  as  to 
dispute  it.  Tenor  and  soprano,  alto  and 
bass,  and  the  entire  army  of  virtuosi,  bow 
humbly  before  him  when  he  shakes  his 
shaggy  mane  and  glares  with  his  omni- 
potent eye.  Composers  sit  on  his  door- 
steps, waiting  to  thrust  their  latest  work 
into  his  hand.  His  musicians  are  his 
"  children  "  —  when  his  temper  is  un- 
ruffled;  otherwise  they  are  "shoemakers," 
"  cattle,"  and  Schweinerei.  If  he  is  sub- 
ject to  any  one,  it  is  to  his  wife;  and  as 
to  the  Kapellmeister's  wife,  some  day  an- 
other Daudet  may  come  to  celebrate  her. 

The  process  by  which  the  star  con- 
ductor of  to-day  is  evolved  is  long  and 
tedious.  He  may  be  no  Wunderkind  to  en- 
rapture a  public  with  his  precocity.  There 
is  no  royal  road  to  his  greatness  except 
that  road  which  is  made  royal  by  hard 
labor.  To  be  sure,  when  he  has  all  but 
arrived,  the  end  of  the  journey  may  be 
hastened  by  the  use  of  certain  factors 


Enter  " Herr  Kapellmeister" 


763 


which  will  hardly  come  under  the  head- 
ing of  "  Music; "  but,  first  of  all,  he  must 
build  his  edifice  of  success  on  a  solid  foun- 
dation of  musical  routine,  secured  only 
by  years  of  drudgery.  The  time  was,  and 
not  so  many  years  ago,  when  most  con- 
ductors rather  drifted  into  that  branch 
of  the  art.  They  started  their  careers  as 
virtuosi, — pianists,  violinists,  'cellists;  or 
they  rose  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  orches- 
tra ;  or  they  were  pushed  forward  by  some 
influential  composer  in  whose  music  they 
had  become  specialists ;  such  is  the  history 
of  nearly  all  the  great  men  of  the  baton 
we  now  have  with  us.  But  conditions  are 
changing  rapidly,  and  the  famous  Herr 
Kapellmeister  of  to-morrow  has  been 
dedicated  to  his  career  in  his  youth,  and 
his  whole  work  has  been  directed  to  the 
single  aim  of  making  him  a  conductor. 

His  early  training  differs  little  from  that 
of  the  lad  who  is  to  become  a  virtuoso 
of  some  instrument,  except  that  no  one 
instrument  monopolizes  his  attention. 
The  musician's  beast  of  burden,  the 
patient  piano,  he  studies,  of  course,  and 
he  studies  at  least  one  other  instrument, 
the  violin,  or  'cello,  the  horn,  or  one  of 
the  wood-winds,  for  some  day  he  must 
play  in  an  orchestra  and  get  that  part  of 
his  routine.  Theory  and  composition  he 
must  study,  too,  and  here  his  greatest 
danger  lies.  He  may  imagine  himself  a 
composer;  and,  while  being  a  poor  com- 
poser does  not  necessarily  involve  spoil- 
ing a  good  conductor,  his  position  enables 
him  to  inflict  his  compositions  on  the  pub- 
lic, and  he  is  too  often  perniciously  active 
in  this  direction.  Bitter  experience  has 
taught  us  that  a  few  good  composers  are 
good  conductors.  Bitterer  experience  has 
taught  us  that  fewer  good  conductors  are 
good  composers. 

In  course  of  time  he  has  mastered  the 
rudiments  of  his  profession.  He  can  give 
a  respectable  performance  of  a  not  too 
difficult  concerto  for  piano.  Perhaps  he 
can  do  the  same  with  the  violin  or  what- 
ever other  instrument  he  has  chosen  to 
supplement  the  piano.  He  can  transcribe 
to  the  piano  at  sight  any  manuscript 


orchestral  score,  so  that  he  will  under- 
stand it  fairly  well  if  the  auditor  does  not. 
He  has  played  enough  in  an  orchestra  to 
know  what  is  sufficient  for  his  purpose 
of  the  routine  of  such  work,  and  while 
doing  so  he  may  have  been  under  the 
baton  of  some  great  man  whose  "  read- 
ings "  of  the  masterpieces  he  has  duly 
observed  and  noted.  Then  he  is  ready 
for  the  next  step.  He  will  go  to  this  same 
great  man,  or  to  some  one  else  equally 
illustrious,  to  "study  scores,"  particularly 
to  learn  the  "traditions;  "  or  he  may  go 
to  several :  to  Herr  This  for  Beethoven, 
Herr  That  for  Brahms,  and  Herr  Such- 
a-One  for  Wagner,  each  of  these  being 
a  noted  authority  in  these  several  com- 
posers. Perhaps  he  may  enter  a  class  of 
conducting  which  has  been  organized  by 
a  distinguished  Kapellmeister  who  al- 
lows his  pupils  to  practice  on  his  orches- 
tra every  now  and  then.  But  whatever 
the  method  adopted,  sooner  or  later  he 
is  ready  for  his  real  apprenticeship  to 
begin. 

He  may  preface  this  by  hiring  an 
orchestra  in  one  of  the  large  cities,  and 
giving  an  interminable  concert  with  an 
impossible  programme  of  all  schools  and 
periods,  just  to  show  the  metal  that  is  in 
him.  It  is  possible,  nay,  probable,  that  if 
he  be  an  ambitious  composer  as  well  as 
a  budding  Kapellmeister,  he  will  have 
some  of  his  own  compositions  on  the  pro- 
gramme. He  knows  that  his  invited 
guests  will  be  kind,  when  speaking  to 
him,  and  if  the  critics  in  their  notices 
are  not  kind,  they  are  dolts.  Now  and 
then,  at  long  intervals,  a  genius  or  quasi- 
genius  appears,  who  gets  a  fairly  good 
berth  by  means  of.  his  concert,  but  as  a 
rule  his  career  starts  when  he  is  ap- 
pointed assistant  conductor  in  some  minor 
opera  house.  The  title  is  euphemistic. 
He  is  really  a  chorus-master.  He  drills 
the  chorus,  coaches  the  singers  in  their 
parts,  and  presides  at  the  piano  when  the 
real  Kapellmeister  is  holding  piano  re- 
hearsals. Now  and  then  he  may  be 
allowed  to  conduct  a  "  hurdy-gurdy  " 
opera  of  the  early  Italian  school,  but  no- 


764 


Enter  " Herr  Kapellmeister" 


thing  of  importance  is  intrusted  to  him. 
The  Kapellmeister  will  take  good  care 
of  that,  especially  if  his  assistant  has 
talent. 

.  Let  us  hope  that  the  rapidity  of  his  rise 
will  depend  upon  his  talent  for  music  and 
talent  for  work;  but  often,  it  must  be 
admitted,  it  depends  as  much  on  his  tal- 
ent for  intrigue.  However  that  may  be, 
we  see  him  go  up  slowly,  but  surely,  as 
assistant  conductor  through  third-  and 
second-rate  opera  houses,  third-  and 
second-rate  orchestras  and  singing  soci- 
eties, until  the  happy  day  comes  when  he 
finds  himself  a  Hofkapellmeister,  it  may 
be  in  the  little  grand  duchy  of  Kalbs- 
braten-Pumpernickel,  but  Hofkapell- 
meister none  the  less.  There  he  is  at  the 
parting  of  the  ways.  On  the  one  hand  is 
a  life  of  comfortable  and  obscure  medio- 
crity with  a  modest  but  certain  pension 
for  his  old  age.  On  the  other  hand  are  the 
glare  and  glitter  of  a  career  which  may 
bring  wealth  and  fame,  and  surely  will 
involve  ceaseless  struggles,  intrigues  with- 
out end,  and  petticoat  politics  such  as 
the  British  War  Office  has  not  dreamed 
of.  Women  are  a  powerful  factor  in 
music. 

If  he  decides  to  turn  his  back  on  the 
humdrum,  pleasant  life  of  the  little  capi- 
tal where  he  is  a  personage,  to  follow  the 
strenuous  career  of  a  star  conductor,  there 
is  much  for  him  to  do.  Above  all  else, 
he  must  make  himself  known,  and,  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  omnivorous 
paragrapher,  he  must  plan  to  be  a  little 
different  from  his  colleagues.  Novelty  is 
the  best  asset  he  can  have,  after  talent  — 
and  his  best  chance  for  advancement  now 
lies  in  the  public  press.  He  may  write 
music,  music  which  requires  a  little 
larger  orchestra  than  was  ever  gathered 
together  before  him.  He  may  write  books, 
essays,  critiques,  brochures,  on  musical 
and  quasi-musical- subjects,  and,  by  in- 
jecting a  little  more  acid  into  his  opinions 
than  others  have,  get  the  required  pub- 
licity in  this  fashion.  He  may  discover  in 
his  grand  ducal  library  the  music  of  his 
predecessor  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 


proclaim  it  to  the  world  as  surpassing 
that  of  Bach  or  Mozart.  That  will  cer- 
tainly make  talk,  and  there  are  always 
those  who  will  endorse  an  opinion  de- 
rogatory of  those  whose  fame  time  has 
made  secure.  He  may  discover  a  new 
genius  whose  music  is  more  cacophon- 
ous, therefore  greater,  than  any  ever 
written;  and  he  will  haunt  those  won- 
derful and  fearful  festivals  of  new  music 
that  are  held  in  Germany  every  spring, 
where,  if  his  enterprise  is  great,  he  will 
soon  conduct  some  of  it,  and  perhaps  be 
the  founder  of  his  composer's  cult.  A 
poor  creature  is  that  composer  to-day 
who  has  not  his  cult  to  proclaim  his 
genius,  and  it  is  very  good  business  for  a 
young  conductor  to  father  such  a  move- 
ment. He  may  even  have  some  deftly  de- 
vised chroniques  scandaleuses  told  of  him. 
The  favor  of  a  great  lady  still  casts  a 
romantic  light  over  the  fortunate  man, 
and  may  be  regarded  distinctly  as  an 
asset. 

And  while  he  is  doing  one,  two,  or  all 
of  these  things,  he  is  cultivating  his  own 
individuality.  He  may  not  be  entirely 
conscious  of  it,  for  his  ambition  —  or 
obsession  —  has  made  it  a  habit,  but  he 
is  doing  it  none  the  less.  His  manner 
before  an  audience,  for  example :  temper- 
ament and  constitution  of  mind  deter- 
mine it  in  the  rough,  practice  makes 
perfect.  So  we  have  the  conductor  who 
is  ascetic  in  manner  and  sparing  in  gest- 
ure ;  the  conductor  who  rages  like  a  Ber- 
serker; the  conductor  who  weaves  love- 
ly arabesques  in  the  air,  with  beautiful 
hands  and  expansive  white  cuffs;  the 
conductor  who  will  rouse  the  envy  of  any 
virtuoso  in  ground  and  lofty  tumbling; 
the  conductor  of  military  stolidity;  the 
conductor  of  rhapsodic  lyricism ;  the  con- 
ductor who  uses  a  yard-stick  for  a  baton; 
the  conductor  who  uses  none.  All  these 
peculiarities  in  their  perfection  mean 
work,  and  much  of  it. 

Nor  is  his  preparation  for  his  career 
finished  even  now.  There  are  his  "  read- 
ings "  of  the  classics  which,  after  all,  are 
the  back-bone  of  music.  In  these,  our 


Enter  " Herr  Kapellmeister" 


765 


Kapellmeister  is  an  interpreter  of  either 
the  objective  or  the  subjective  school.  A 
sufficient  definition  of  these  adjectives  in 
music  is  yet  to  be  made,  but  they  sound 
well  and  are  much  used.  Perhaps  the 
difference  is  that  the  objective  conductor 
is  more  careful  of  the  wishes  of  the  dead- 
and-gone  composer  than  his  subjective 
brother,  and  sticks  to  the  text  more  closely. 
At  any  rate,  our  conductor  is  one  or  the 
other,  and  if  he  does  not  present  himself 
as  a  peculiarly  authoritative  interpreter 
of  Beethoven  or  Brahms,  Mozart  or 
Schumann,  he  is  sure  to  take  some  works 
by  these  masters  which  he  turns  into  what 
are  flippantly  known  as  battle-horses.  He 
discovers  in  them  some  hitherto  undis- 
covered beauty  or  meaning,  and  by  a  twist 
in  the  tempo  here,  and  the  raising  of  an 
inner  voice  there,  he  sets  the  critical  big- 
wigs talking  about  him,  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference whether  for  or  against,  and  pos- 
sibly —  0  terque,  quaterque  beatus !  —  he 
creates  a  "  tradition." 

And  now,  his  apprenticeship  finished, 
all  that  is  needed  is  the  opportunity,  and 
that  will  not  be  lacking.  Good  conduct- 
ors are  too  few  for  any  to  go  begging. 
He  is  lifted  from  the  obscurity  of  the  Ger- 
man provinces  into  the  welcome  glare  of 
the  metropolis.  He  is  invited  here  and 
there  to  be  "  guest."  London  hears  of 
him  and  "  discovers  "  him.  Paris  follows 
in  the  footsteps  of  London,  and  then  our 


Herr  Kapellmeister  looks  longingly  across 
the  stormy  Atlantic  to  the  Land  of  Pro- 
mise and  Dollars,  a  field  that  lies  fallow 
waiting  for  his  artistic  plough,  a  land 
whose  dollar  is  four  times  the  value  of 
a  reichsmark,  and  much  more  plentiful. 
The  call  is  sure  to  come,  for  America  is 
curious  if  not  artistic,  and  if  it  does  not 
accept  him  at  his  own  artistic  worth,  and 
at  that  which  Germany  has  placed  on  him 
(and,  strangely  enough,  this  sometimes 
happens),  what  matters  it  ?  Who  goes  to 
barbarous,  money-grubbing  America  ex- 
cept for  money  ? 

The  music  of  Richard  Strauss  is  not 
further  away  from  the  music  of  Karl 
Ditters  von  Dittersdorf  than  the  Kapell- 
meister of  to-day  is  from  the  Kapell- 
meister we  have  seen  doing  his  daily 
stint  of  music  for  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel,  when  Ditters 
was  held  a  revolutionary  genius  because 
his  music  melted  Phaethon's  wings.  The 
modern  conductor  is  the  superman  of 
music.  He  looks  down  with  benign  con- 
tempt on  all  others  who  practice  the  art, 
for  they  are  all  his  servants,  —  singers, 
executants,  and  composers.  He  has  no 
rival,  nor  has  he  fear  of  one.  Only  one 
tiny  speck  is  to  be  seen  on  his  horizon. 
What  if  the  time  should  come  when  we 
should  have  mechanical  orchestras,  one 
in  every  home,  to  be  paid  for  on  the  in- 
stallment plan  ? 


AND   SON 


BY   CAROLINE   BRETT   McLEAN 


ON  opening  his  "  shop  "  one  morning, 
Paudeen  saw  the  face  of  a  little  boy  at  the 
window  of  a  room  in  the  building  oppo- 
site. A  placard  setting  forth  that  the 
room  was  "  To  let"  had  been  in  the  win- 
dow for  so  long  that  Paudeen  had  come 
to  think  the  room  would  never  find  a 
tenant.  He  had  not  seen  the  moving  in, 
night  being  the  favorite  time  for  flitting 
in  that  neighborhood,  but  there  was  the 
little  boy  looking  across  at  him,  — a  very 
little  boy  he  must  be,  for  only  his  head 
was  visible  above  the  sash.  Paudeen  did 
not  care  particularly  for  little  boys  —  ex- 
cept just  one.  The  little  boys  he  knew 
were  apt  to  run  after  him,  and  call  him 
"  crazy  Paudeen,"  and  throw  things  at 
him.  The  exception,  the  one  he  did  care 
for,  would  never  throw  things  at  any  one 
or  call  him  names,  even  if  he  were  a 
crippled  little  old  cobbler  reputed  to  be 
crazy  because  he  talked  to  some  one  that 
nobody  else  ever  saw,  and  acted  as  if  that 
someone  was  always  beside  him. 

He  went  inside  now,  after  scrutinizing 
the  new-comer.  Shoes  in  various  stages 
of  dilapidation  awaited  his  attention. 
But  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  begin  his 
day's  work.  A  little  stool  stood  close  to 
his  bench.  The  stool  was  empty,  and  to 
ordinary  eyes  it  had  always  been  empty ; 
but  Paudeen  always  saw  it  occupied  by 
a  little  fair-haired  boy  who  looked  up  at 
him  as  he  worked,  and  whose  hair  he 
stroked  many  times  an  hour.  He  stooped 
over  the  stool  now,  and  his  hand  went 
through  the  motion  of  hair-stroking. 
Paudeen  really  felt  a  curly  crop  of  hair 
beneath  his  fingers,  although  there  was 
only  empty  space  there. 

"There's  a  little  boy  moved  in  forninst 
us,"  he  said.  "  There  he's  now  at  the 
winda,  jus'  yer  own  size  about.  But  we 
won't  want  him  round,  will  we  ?  We  don't 

766 


want  to  play  wid  no  little  boys;  we're 
contint  to  be  wid  oursel's,  are  n't  we  ?  " 

The  little  boy  he  talked  to  had  never 
wanted  to  play  with  other  little  boys.  He 
had  been  too  little  when  he  went  away  to 
want  anything  like  that.  It  was  years  since 
he  had  gone  away,  he  and  his  mother, 
when  they  had  been  scarcely  a  couple  of 
hours  in  the  new  land  where  there  was  a 
chance  for  every  one,  and  where  Paudeen 
was  to  wax  rich  and  great,  and  the  little 
boy  was  to  be  "  gintleman." 

After  the  railway  accident,  Paudeen 
was  not  so  well  able  to  work  as  he  had 
been  before.  But  that  did  not  matter; 
he  had  no  one  to  work  for  now.  He  had 
no  more  dreams  of  becoming  rich.  So 
long  as  he  earned  enough  for  his  every- 
day needs,  that  was  all  he  wanted,  and, 
crippled  as  he  was,  he  still  could  do  that. 

And  after  a  while  the  little  boy  came 
back  to  him.  It  was  then  people  began 
to  call  him  "  crazy  Paudeen."  Paudeen 
did  not  care  what  they  called  him.  He 
was  very  happy.  His  dreams  of  becoming 
rich  and  great  did  not  come  back  with 
the  little  boy.  Nothing  like  that  mattered 
any  more.  The  little  boy  had  everything 
he  wanted  now,  without  the  need  of  exer- 
tion on  Paudeen's  part.  He  had  been  a 
very,  very  little  boy  when  he  went  away ; 
when  he  came  back  he  was  bigger,  five  or 
six  years  old,  maybe.  Paudeen  knew  that 
he  would  never  grow  any  older,  would 
never  outgrow  the  little  stool  he  had  made 
for  him  in  the  first  days  of  his  coming; 
that  the  curly  head  would  never  grow 
beyond  reach  of  his  hand  as  he  sat  at  his 
bench,  working.  And  this  made  Paudeen 
very  happy,  too. 

Every  morning  before  he  started  to 
work,  Paudeen  went  to  a  box  that  stood 
in  a  corner  over  against  his  bench  and  set 
the  contents  of  it  out  on  a  shelf  built  above 


And  Son 


767 


it.  He  proceeded  to  do  so  now.  He  took 
from  the  box  many  pairs  of  little  shoes 
and  laid  them  all  out  on  the  shelf  above. 
Then  he  placed  them  in  careful  order. 
Looking  at  the  array  of  shoes,  one  could 
see  the  progress  of  the  little  boy's  growth. 
First  came  a  pair  of  softest  material, 
snowy  white,  into  which  Paudeen  could 
scarcely  insert  one  finger,  — obviously  the 
very  first  foot  covering ;  and  on  down  to 
a  pan*  of  stout  little  shoes  such  as  a 
sturdy  boy  of  six  might  wear.  Into  the 
fashioning  of  those  little  shoes  Paudeen 
had  put  his  utmost  skill.  When  they  were 
set  out  in  order,  he  began  his  day's  work. 

He  talked  happily  to  the  little  boy  be- 
side him  that  day,  as  was  his  wont,  but 
his  eyes  often  wandered  to  the  window 
opposite  at  which  the  strange  little  boy 
stood.  Paudeen  had  never  known  a  little 
boy,  except  the  one,  to  be  quiet  so  long. 
There  was  no  sign  of  any  other  occupant 
of  the  room.  Once  Paudeen  leaned  for- 
ward to  wipe  his  window-pane,  so  that 
he  might  see  more  clearly,  and  then  re- 
strained himself. 

"  We  don't  care  nothin'  for  no  other 
little  boys,  do  we,"  he  asked.  "  We're 
contint  to  be  wid  oursel's,  aren't  we? 
But  he  stands  the  quietest  of  any  little 
fella  iver  I  seen,"  he  added  to  himself  in 
a  different  tone.  Somehow  Paudeen  was 
sorry  because  the  little  boy  stood  so  very 
quiet. 

A  little  after  six  o'clock  a  strange  wo- 
man came  along  the  street  and  went  into 
the  building  opposite,  and  the  boy's  face 
disappeared  from  the  window. 

"  P'r'aps  his  mother  does  have  to  go 
out  workin'  and  lave  him  alone,"  Pau- 
deen commented. 

In  the  morning  his  first  glance  was 
across  the  street.  The  little  boy  was  al- 
ready at  the  window. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  laves  him  iv'ry  day  ?  " 
he  said  to  himself.  "  That  'ud  be  hard 
on  the  little  fella.  I  won't  niver  have  to 
lave  you,"  he  said  happily  to  the  little  boy 
who  kept  him  company,  "  an'  you  won't 
niver  lave  me  ayther,  will  you?"  he  as- 
serted. 


That  day  Paudeen  cleaned  his  window 
on  both  sides.  The  little  boy  across  the 
street  watched  him  interestedly  while  he 
did  it.  It  was  a  very  narrow  back  street, 
with  little  traffic.  Probably  the  little  boy 
took  as  much  note  of  Paudeen  as  Pau- 
deen did  of  him ;  there  was  so  very  little 
else  to  watch. 

"  I  ben  goin'  to  clane  that  winda  iv'ry 
day  for  a  month,"  Paudeen  said  half 
apologetically  to  the  little  boy  on  the 
stool.  "It  half  blinded  me  to  look  out  o' 
it."  He  did  not  want  to  have  him  think 
that  he  had  cleaned  the  window  in  order 
to  see  the  little  boy  across  the  street  more 
plainly. 

However,  before  the  window-cleaning 
was  accomplished,  Paudeen  found  him- 
self nodding  and  smiling  across  the  street 
quite  openly.  The  strange  little  boy  did 
not  respond,  a  fact  which  disconcerted 
Paudeen  to  quite  a  remarkable  degree, 
until  he  remembered  that  the  opposite 
window  was  very  dingy,  too;  perhaps  the 
little  boy  had  not  seen  him  nod  and  smile. 

Either  Paudeen  opened  his  shop  earlier 
than  usual  the  next  day,  or  the  stranger 
woman  was  later  in  starting  for  her  work. 
She  emerged  from  the  building  opposite 
as  Paudeen  loitered  in  his  doorway, 
drinking  in  the  comparatively  fresh  air  of 
the  morning.  He  stepped  half-way  across 
the  pavement  and  put  himself  in  her  way. 

"  The  little  fella  '11  be  lonesome  bein' 
be  himsel'  all  day." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  without  any 
surprise.  She  was  stout  and  red-faced, 
with  massive  arms  and  shoulders,  but  her 
countenance  was  not  unkindly. 

"  Then  he'll  just  have  to  be  lonesome," 
she  said,  with  a  sharpness  that,  however, 
had  a  note  of  apology  in  it.  "It's  the  best 
I  can  do  for  him.  People  that  you  work 
for  won't  be  bothered  with  a  young  'un 
round.  I  just  have  to  lock  him  in  all  day." 

"If  ye'd  lave  him  so  that  he  could  run 
in  an'  out,  I'd  —  I'd  be  havin'  an  eye  on 
him,"  suggested  Paudeen  diffidently. 

The  woman  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  without  a  word  turned  and 
went  back  into  the  building.  In  a  few 


768 


And  Son 


minutes  she  reappeared,  leading  the  little 
boy  by  the  hand. 

"  He  won't  be  a  bit  o'  trouble,  and 
there's  his  dinner."  She  thrust  a  news- 
paper-covered bundle  into  Paudeen's 
hand.  "I  got  to  hustle,"  she  announced, 
"  or  I'll  be  late." 

She  was  half-way  up  the  street  before 
Paudeen  recovered  from  the  amazement 
such  swift  action  had  thrown  him  into. 
He  looked  ruefully  after  her  disappear- 
ing form.  Between  "  havin'  an'  eye  " 
on  the  little  boy,  and  having  to  look  after 
him  all  day,  there  was  a  wide  difference. 
The  little  boy  stood  very  still  —  he  had 
a  wonderful  faculty  for  standing  still, 
exhibiting  neither  curiosity  nor  strange- 
ness. 

"We'd  best  go  in,"  Paudeen  said  at 
last,  reluctantly. 

The  little  boy  docilely  followed  him 
in. 

A  tiny  room  where  Paudeen  slept  and 
ate  led  off  the  "  shop."  Into  this  he 
disappeared  for  a  moment,  and  when  he 
returned  the  strange  little  boy  was  sitting 
on  the  stool  that  stood  beside  his  bench, 
looking  about  him  with  big,  dark,  solemn 
eyes. 

Paudeen  stood  still.  He  had  received 
a  shock.  Of  course,  two  little  boys  could 
not  occupy  the  one  seat,  and  the  little  boy 
who  had  occupied  it  for  years  was  gone. 
Paudeen  looked  all  about  the  room  as 
if  he  expected  to  see  him  hiding  in  some 
corner ;  but  no,  only  the  strange  little  boy 
was  there. 

"  He  did  n't  want  no  other  little  boy  in 
his  place,"  Paudeen  said  to  himself  in 
dismay.  "Mebbe  if  I  was  to  ask  the 
little  fella  not  to  sit  there  —  " 

But  there  was  really  nowhere  else  for 
the  little  boy  to  sit.  Something  like  anger 
came  into  Paudeen's  eyes  as  he  looked 
at  him,  this  stranger  who  had  ousted  the 
little  boy  who  rightfully  belonged  there. 
But  in  a  moment  the  anger  died  away. 

"  'T  was  me  own  fault  for  askin'  him, 
an*  I  need  n't  be  wantin'  to  blame  the 
little  fella.  He'll  come  back  when  he 
goes.  We  niver  wanted  no  other  little 


boys  round,  did  we  ?"  he  asked,  reverting 
to  his  usual  habit  of  speaking  aloud, 
and  his  voice  grew  all  of  a  sudden  joyous. 
He  was  almost  glad  now  that  the  little 
boy  had  not  stayed  while  this  other  little 
boy  was  here.  It  proved  so  conclusively 
the  assertion  he  was  fond  of  making,  that 
they  "  did  n't  want  no  other  little  boys 
around." 

And  because  the  little  boy  to  whom 
they  belonged  was  not  here,  for  the  first 
time  in  years  Paudeen  started  his  day's 
work  without  setting  out  that  row  of 
little  shoes  on  the  shelf.  But  he  found 
that,  while  he  could  temporarily  sustain 
the  little  boy's  absence,  he  could  not  work 
without  that  array  of  little  shoes  before 
his  eyes.  So,  presently,  he  got  up  and  set 
them  out,  and  the  strange  little  boy 
watched  him  with  big  solemn  eyes. 

Paudeen  found  that  day  very  long.  He 
was  lonesome  for  the  little  boy  who  had 
gone.  Sometimes  he  would  forget,  and 
his  hand  would  go  out  in  search  of  the 
curly  head,  and  when  his  fingers  encoun- 
tered the  soft,  smooth  hair  of  the  stranger, 
he  would  come  to  himself  with  a  start. 
He  could  not  even  make  believe  that  this 
quiet  little  boy  was  the  one  who  always 
sat  beside  him.  They  were  so  totally  dif- 
ferent. The  eyes  of  his  own  little  boy 
were  the  color  of  the  sky  on  a  summer's 
day,  and  his  face  was  like  the  inside  of 
a  rose-leaf,  and  his  mouth  was  always 
laughing.  The  eyes  of  this  little  boy  were 
as  dark  as  the  darkest  night,  and  there 
was  no  color  in  his  face  at  all,  and  his 
mouth  was  closed  in  a  tight  little  line. 
Paudeen  tried  to  talk  to  him,  but  the  little 
boy  might  have  been  dumb  for  all  the 
response  he  made,  and  finally  Paudeen 
gave  it  up. 

Six  o'clock  came  at  last,  and  with  it  the 
big  woman.  She  seemed  to  fill  up  the 
narrow  little  room  with  her  voice  and  her 
presence. 

"  Dave  been  a  good  boy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  has  n't  been  no  trouble  at  all, 
ma'am,"  said  Paudeen  politely.  He  could 
be  polite  now.  It  was  worth  having  the 
little  boy  go  away  for  the  joy  of  his  com- 


And  Son 


ing  back.  In  anticipation  Paudeen  was 
experiencing  that  joy. 

The  big  woman  laughed  massively. 

"  I'll  wager  he  did  n't  open  his  lips  all 
day,  that's  him  all  over.  Sometimes  I  tell 
him  he  has  n't  a  tongue,  and  then  he'll 
put  it  out  for  me  to  see." 

"  He  did  n't  do  no  talkin',"  Paudeen 
admitted. 

"  Is  he  yours,  ma'am  ?  "  he  asked  after 
a  pause.  It  had  suddenly  struck  him  that 
there  seemed  no  point  of  connection  be- 
tween the  big  woman  and  the  pale  little 
boy. 

The  big  woman  laughed  again. 

"Lord,  no!  I  had  enough  sense  never 
to  get  married.  His  mother  scrubbed 
alongside  o'  me  for  two  years,  and  when 
she  died  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe 
his  good-for-nothing  father  when  he  said 
he'd  pay  me  his  board  reg'lar  if  I  took 
him.  He  paid  me  three  weeks  and  then 
he  lit  out,  and  I  can't  find  where  he's 
gone  to,  so  I  just  been  keepin'  him,  but 
course  I'll  not  be  able  to  keep  him  all 
the  time.  Come  along,  Dave,"  she  added, 
"  we'll  be  goin'  home." 

"  Poor  little  fella!"  Paudeen  said  to 
himself  as  he  watched  their  progress 
across  the  street.  He  was  glad  to  see  that 
the  big  woman  held  the  tiny  fingers  not 
ungently. 

But  although  his  seat  was  now  unoccu- 
pied, the  little  boy  did  not  come  back. 
Paudeen  called  to  him,  wandering  from 
one  room  to  the  other.  But  the  little  boy 
did  not  hear  him,  and  he  finally  went 
desolately  to  bed.  In  the  morning  the 
little  boy  would  have  returned. 

But  in  the  morning  he  was  not  there 
either. 

"  He  need  n't  be  mindin'  so  much  me 
havin'  the  little  fella.  I  was  jus'  sorry 
for  him,"  Paudeen  said,  almost  with  a 
sob,  as  he  looked  about  the  room  that 
was  still  empty. 

When  presently  he  opened  the  outer 
door,  he  found  Dave  standing  there,  a 
newspaper  parcel  under  his  arm. 

"  Did  she  lave  ye  here  ag'in,"  Paudeen 
almost  shouted,  taking  in  the  meaning  of 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  6 


that  newspaper  parcel.  "  I  won't  mind 
ye  anny  more,  not  all  day,"  he  added  in 
a  subsiding  tone.  "  I  don't  mind  havin' 
an  eye  on  ye,  but  all  day  —  " 

Dave  looked  up  at  him  with  solemn 
eyes  and  was  silent.  In  an  access  of  wrath 
Paudeen  started  across  the  street.  He 
might  perhaps  find  the  big  woman  still 
in  her  room.  But  the  door  was  locked, 
and  Paudeen  returned  to  find  Dave  as 
inscrutable  as  ever. 

"Ye  can  come  in  for  to-day,  but  only 
for  to-day,  mind,"  Paudeen  exclaimed. 
"  Ye  see,"  he  added  deprecatingly,  before 
the  gaze  of  the  solemn  eyes,  "he  does  n't 
like  me  takin'  up  wid  no  other  little  boys. 
If  it  was  jus'  meself,  I  would  n'  mind, 
but  he  does  n't  like  it.  Ye  would  n't  like 

to  think  that  yer  mo some  one  ye 

liked  awful  well,  thought  more  of  some 
other  little  boy  than  they  thought  of 
you  ?  I  guess  that's  what  he  must  think, 
goin'  away  like  that,"  said  Paudeen, 
troubled. 

Paudeen  did  not  try  to  talk  to  Dave 
that  day,  and  Dave  was  as  silent  as  he 
had  been  on  the  preceding  day,  but  he 
took  a  greater  interest  in  his  surroundings, 
and  once  or  twice  left  his  seat  to  wander 
about  the  room.  Paudeen  took  little  not- 
ice of  these  excursions.  He  was  thinking 
that  those  last  two  days  had  been  almost 
as  long  and  as  lonely  as  had  been  the 
days  before  the  little  boy  came  back. 

Six  o'clock  brought  the  big  woman, 
seeming  more  than  ever  to  fill  up  the  room 
with  her  voice  and  her  presence.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  Paudeen  that  he  would 
have  any  hesitation  in  letting  her  know 
that  he  would  not  again  look  after  the 
little  boy,  but  he  found  himself  hesitating, 
and  finally  saying  deprecatingly,  — 

"  I  was  n't  manin'  to  have  the  little 
fella  all  the  time  —  jus'  to  have  an  eye  on 
him  now  an'  thin,  ye  know." 

"  Did  you  think  that  I'd  leave  my  door 
unlocked  and  let  him  run  in  and  out  ?  " 
said  the  big  woman,  unruffled.  "I'm  not 
goin'  to  do  that.  He  gives  you  no  trouble 
sittin'  here  where  you  can  have  your  eye 
on  him  all  the  time." 


770 


And  Son 


"  But  he  —  he  does  n't  like  it,"  Pau- 
deen  began. 

"  Does  n't  matter  what  he  likes,"  cut 
in  the  big  woman  decisively,  evidently 
under  the  impression  that  he  was  refer- 
ring to  Dave.  "  Nobody  can  have  what 
they  like  in  this  world — me,  nor  you,  nor 
nobody." 

And  to  Paudeen's  surprise  he  found 
that  he  could  make  no  answer.  The 
big  woman's  robust  assertiveness  over- 
whelmed him. 

Every  morning  thereafter  either  he 
found  Dave  waiting  for  the  door  to  be 
opened,  or  the  big  woman  would  fetch 
him  across  afterwards,  his  lunch  wrapped 
up  in  newspaper.  The  big  woman  never 
omitted  that. 

Because  he  had  talked  to  one  no- 
body else  could  see  had  been  primarily 
the  reason  why  Paudeen  was  dubbed 
"  crazy."  He  did  not  talk  now,  when 
there  was  a  palpable  somebody  to  talk  to. 
He  drooped  over  his  work  and  was  al- 
most as  silent  as  Dave  himself.  Only  in 
the  night-time,  when  he  was  alone,  he 
found  voice  to  entreat  with  tears  the  little 
boy  who  had  gone  away. 

"  Ye  know  I  don't  care  nothin'  for  no 
other  little  boy.  I  don't  want  no  other 
little  boy  round.  She  brings  him,"  he 
would  say  over  and  over  again.  But  the 
little  boy  did  not  come  back. 

As  the  days  went  on,  Dave  began  to 
make  himself  more  at  home.  He  was 
still  almost  uniformly  silent,  but  he  would 
move  about  the  shop  while  Paudeen 
worked.  With  unfailing  regularity,  Pau- 
deen still  set  out  on  the  shelf  the  row  of 
little  shoes,  a  proceeding  which  greatly 
interested  Dave.  As  each  pair  was  taken 
from  the  box,  something  that  was  like 
pleasure  would  cross  the  solemn  little 
face.  From  his  seat  on  the  stool  close  up 
to  Paudeen's  bench,  he  would  gaze  at 
them  for  hours.  But  Paudeen,  in  his  long- 
ing for  the  little  boy  who  had  gone  away, 
had  no  thought  and  no  eyes  for  the  little 
boy  who  was  with  him. 

Presently  a  little  comfort  came  to  him. 
With  a  view  to  compelling  him  to  pay 


what  he  owed  her  for  Dave's  keep,  the 
big  woman  had  been  prosecuting  a  search 
for  his  errant  father,  but  without  success. 

"  I  can  get  no  trace  o'  him,"  she  an- 
nounced one  night  on  her  return  from 
work.  "I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  hear 
o'  him  again.  I'm  tryin'  to  get  a  place 
where  I  can  work  in,  get  board  and 
lodgin'  an'  all.  Just  as  soon  as  I  get  a 
place,  Dave '11  have  to  go  to  a  home." 

Thereafter  Paudeen  looked  forward 
to  the  prospect  of  the  big  woman  getting 
a  place  to  "  work  in"  with  an  even  greater 
eagerness  than  she  herself  did.  Once  the 
strange  little  boy  was  gone  entirely  out 
of  the  neighborhood,  the  little  boy  who 
had  gone  away  would  have  no  further 
cause  for  resentment  and  would  surely 
come  back. 

One  day,  when  Dave  had  been  coming 
about  three  weeks,  Paudeen  had  occa- 
sion to  leave  him  alone  in  the  shop  for 
a  few  minutes.  When  he  returned,  he 
found  Dave  sitting  on  the  box  that  stood 
under  the  shelf,  one  of  the  shoes  that 
stood  last  in  the  row  beside  him,  the  other 
in  his  hand.  It  was  evidently  his  inten- 
tion to  put  them  on;  his  own  shoes,  not 
originally  intended  for  him,  a  couple  of 
sizes  too  large  and  in  an  advanced  stage 
of  dilapidation,  lay  on  the  floor  where 
he  had  kicked  them  off;  his  tiny  toes 
showed  through  the  rents  in  his  stocking. 

He  held  up  the  shoe  as  Paudeen  en- 
tered. "  Mine,"  he  said  distinctly. 

Paudeen  grew  very  angry.  He  was 
beside  the  box  in  an  instant,  and  catch- 
ing Dave  by  the  arm  pulled  him  to  the 
floor. 

"  No,  they're  not  yours,"  he  said 
loudly.  "D'ye  want  iv'rything  ?  They're 
not  yours,  they're  his."  His  quick  anger 
was  already  fading,  but  he  repeated 
"They're  his,"  very  loudly  several  times. 
The  little  boy  to  whom  the  shoes  be- 
longed, if  within  hearing,  might  stand  in 
need  of  appeasement  at  seeing  his  pro- 
perty thus  claimed. 

"  I  did  n't  mane  to  be  rough/'  Pau- 
deen said  presently,  apologetically,  "  but 
ye  know  them  shoes  don't  belong  to  ye. 


And  Son 


771 


Put  yer  own  on  again,  there's  a  boy." 
He  picked  up  the  sorry  specimens.  "  I 
did  n't  mane  to  be  rough  wid  ye,"  he  re- 
peated contritely. 

Dave  made  no  answer.  He  sat  down 
on  the  stool  and  began  to  put  on  his 
shoes.  Paudeen  went  down  on  his  knees 
to  assist  him,  and  when  he  got  up,  he 
patted  the  smooth  little  head  quite  in  the 
same  manner  as  he  had  been  wont  to  pat 
the  curly  pate  of  the  little  boy  who  had 
gone  away. 

Then  he  resumed  his  work,  but  some- 
how he  could  not  work.  His  eyes  went 
many  times  from  the  clumsy  broken 
shoes  which  covered  the  little  feet  of  the 
boy  beside  him  to  that  whole  beautiful 
pair  on  the  shelf,  and  his  imagination 
began  to  run  riot.  Autumn  would  soon 
be  herewith  its  rains  and  its  frosts.  Those 
broken  shoes  would  be  no  protection  to 
the  little  feet.  He  saw  them  red  and  swol- 
len with  cold.  Supposing  it  were  the  little 
boy  who  had  gone  away  who  was  so 
badly  in  need  of  shoes,  while  those  over 
there  stood  idle? 

"  There'll  be  no  harm  in  seein'  if 
they'd  fit  him,'*  Paudeen  muttered  after 
a  long  while. 

They  fitted  beautifully,  quite  as  if  they 
had  been  made  for  him.  Probably  Dave 
had  never  had  a  pair  of  wholly  new  shoes 
in  his  life  before.  For  some  minutes  after 
they  were  put  on,  he  sat  looking  at  them 
very  gravely,  then  he  rose  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room,  at  first 
slowly  and  with  his  usual  gravity,  but 
presently  with  a  consequential  little  strut; 
and  finally  he  came  and  stood  before 
Paudeen  and  a  smile  broke  over  his  face, 
a  wonderful,  transfiguring  smile  that  lit 
up  the  whole  solemn  little  countenance. 
After  a  surprised  moment,  Paudeen 
smiled  back  responsively.  Turning  to 
the  shelf,  Dave  said, — 

"  Them's  mine,  an'  them's  mine." 
With  a  tiny  forefinger  he  pointed  to  each 
separate  pair  of  shoes;  "an'  them  was 
mine  when  I  was  a  little  teeny,  weeny 
baby ; "  the  tiny  finger  pointed  to  the  first 
snowy  white  pair. 


And  then  a  wonderful  thing  happened. 
All  at  once  the  old  happiness  came  back 
in  a  flood  to  Paudeen.  The  little  boy 
with  eyes  the  color  of  the  sky  on  a  sum- 
mer day  and  the  rose-leaf  face,  and  this 
pale  little  boy  with  the  big  dark  orbs, 
now  alight  with  the  spirit  of  childhood, 
seemed  to  be  one  and  the  same,  and  in 
some  way,  quite  inexplicable,  had  always 
been  one  and  the  same.  Paudeen  smiled 
delightedly. 

"  Course  them's  all  yours,"  he  said. 

That  night  the  big  woman  paid  him  a 
second  visit  after  she  had  taken  Dave 
home,  to  report  that  she  had  got  a  place. 

"I'll  have  to  see  about  gettin'  the 
young  un  into  a  home  at  once,"  she  said. 

"  Ye  don't  need  to  bother  about  a  home 
for  him ;  I  'm  goin'  to  keep  him,"  Paudeen 
answered  calmly. 

"  You  keep  him  ?  Why,  you  don't  make 
hardly  enough  to  keep  yourself  with  yer 
cobblin'." 

"  Cobblin' ! "  cried  Paudeen  disdain- 
fully. "  D'ye  think  I'm  goin'  to  be  cob- 
blin' all  me  life.  I'll  be  out  o'  here  pretty 
near  as  soon  as  yerself." 

The  big  woman  was  frankly  amazed. 

"They  be  sayin'  that  yer  crazy,"  she 
said  hesitatingly. 

Paudeen  laughed  shrilly.  "That's  all 
they  know,"  he  cried.  "  What  did  I  want 
to  be  slaviii'  for  wid  jus'  meself  to  keep. 
This  was  all  very  well  when  I  did  n't 
want  to  make  no  money.  But  I'd  have 
ye  know  that  I  was  counted  the  cliverest 
shoemaker  in  the  County  Dublin,  and  if 
me  body's  a  little  twisted,  me  hands  is 
as  soople  as  iver.  Da  vie '11  be  a  gintle- 
man." 

"  Then  yer  goin'  to  keep  him  ?  " 

"  Course,  I'm  goin'  to  keep  him," 
cried  Paudeen,  exasperated.  "  Ye  can 
just  lave  him  in  the  mornin'  for  good." 

"  Oh,  I'm  willin'  to  leave  him,"  said  the 
big  woman  relievedly.  "If  yer  not  able 
to  keep  him,  you  can  put  him  in  a 
home." 

"  If  I'm  not  able  to  keep  him ! "  scoffed 
Paudeen  after  her  retreating  figure. 

For  all  the  old  dreams  had  come  back. 


772 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


Paudeen  looked  disdainfully  about  the 
dark  little  basement  room  which  had  so 
long  contented  him.  In  his  mind's  eye, 
he  saw  shining  plate-glass  windows,  be- 
hind which  stood  row  upon  row  of  the 
fine  ordered  work  he  knew  himself  cap- 
able of  doing.  And  his  name  should  be 
on  those  shining  windows,  his  name  and 
another. 

In  the  morning  when  Dave  came  in, 
he  found  Paudeen  with  a  little  pot  of 
black  paint  beside  him  and  a  brush  in 
his  hand.  He  had  finished  painting  some 
letters  on  a  piece  of  thin  white  board. 


Holding  the  board  at  arm's  length,  he 
was  gazing  at  it  admiringly. 

"  What  d  'ye  think  o'  that,  Davie  ?  " 
he  chuckled. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Dave. 

"  I  was  forgettin'  that  ye  can't  read 
yit.  Listen,  and  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  - 
P-a-y-d-e-n,  that's  me,  an'  S-u-n, 
that's  you.  Paudeen  &  Son.  As  soon  as 
the  paint's  dry  I'll  tack  it  up  outside,  an' 
when  we  move  to  a  reel  shop,  we'll  have 
our  names  on  the  big  glass  windas  in 
goold  letters  a  foot  long.  Paudeen  & 
Son,  that's  me  an'  you,  alanna." 


THE   LAST  TWO  YEARS  IN  ITALY 


BY   HOMER   EDMISTON 


I  SHALL  have  to  begin  somewhat  further 
back  than  two  years,  in  order  to  make 
my  statements  intelligible  to  most  of  my 
readers,  who  are  not  provided  by  our 
daily  press  with  means  of  keeping  in 
touch  with  Italian  affairs.  It  is  obviously 
impossible  to  refer  to  books,  or  even 
to  periodicals,  for  a  description  of  the 
changing  scene  of  politics  and  society. 

Professor  A.  Lawrence  Lowell's  Gov- 
ernments and  Parties  in  Continental  Eu- 
rope gives  a  good  account  of  the  static 
form  of  Italy's  constitution,  and  a  brief 
historical  view  of  its  working  under  the 
exigencies  of  party  government.  But  this 
book,  besides  that  it  is  now  thirteen  years 
old,  contains  little  information  about  that 
most  vital  part  of  a  country's  history, 
the  inter-relation  of  social  and  political 
forces.  King  and  Okey's  Italy  of  To-day, 
published  in  1901,  though  written  from 
the  point  of  view  of  extreme  English 
Liberalism,  is  on  the  whole  a  fair  and 
accurate  treatment  of  the  subject,  and 
gives  enough  of  the  history  of  the  present 
kingdom  to  make  the  presentation  com- 
plete. But  even  the  reader  of  King  and 
Okey  has  much  to  learn  before  he  can 


understand  actual  conditions.  When  they 
wrote,  the  reign  of  Victor  Emmanuel 
III,  a  wise,  laborious,  and  upright  ruler, 
had  only  just  begun.  He  has  done  much 
for  his  country,  and,  surely,  seven  years 
make  a  vast  difference  in  the  life  of  a 
country  so  vigorous  and  progressive  as 
modern  Italy.  Statistics  for  the  past  few 
years  show  an  astonishing  growth  in 
commerce  and  manufactures.  Also  in  the 
higher  arts  of  civilization,  especially  in 
literature,  music,  and  natural  science,  she 
seems  in  a  fair  way  to  regain  something 
of  her  ancient  preeminence  and  renown. 
Relations  between  Church  and  State 
have  greatly  improved;  and,  in  purely 
secular  politics,  important  changes  have 
taken  place  since  the  last  general  election 
in  November  of  1904. 

I  allow  myself  briefly  to  recall  certain 
leading  points  in  Italian  history  of  the 
past  thirty  years.  The  old  party  of  the 
Right,  consisting  originally  of  Conserv- 
atives whom  the  splendid  leadership  of 
Cavour  had  transformed  to  a  sort  of  Con- 
stitutional Liberals,  remained  in  power 
until  1876;  and  individual  statesmen 
trained  in  his  school,  Ricasoli,  La  Mar- 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


773 


mora,  Lanza,  and  Sella,  proved  them- 
selves to  be  his  not  unworthy  successors. 
Of  them,  it  may  be  said,  in  short,  that,  in 
hard  and  perilous  times,  and  often  with- 
out time  for  reflection  or  experiment,  they 
established  the  new  kingdom  on  a  basis 
which  experience  has  shown  to  be  mainly 
sound.  Even  the  system  of  local  govern- 
ment, the  faultiest  part  of  the  whole  Ital- 
ian constitution,  is  probably  more  to  be 
ascribed  to  centrifugal  tendencies  due  to 
long  centuries  of  local  autonomy,  than, 
as  is  commonly  done,  to  the  political  un- 
wisdom of  the  founders. 

The  Right,  under  the  above-mentioned 
leaders,  manifested  both  the  strength 
and  the  weakness  that  belong  to  con- 
servative government  in  general.  They 
were  honest,  able,  and  patriotic,  and 
guided  the  newly  built  ship  of  state  as 
none  others  could  have  done.  But,  like 
so  many  other  conservatives,  they  were 
hopelessly  out  of  touch  with  the  people. 
In  fact,  they  illustrated  the  general  princi- 
ple that  no  social  class  need  be  expected, 
except  under  pressure,  to  legislate  wisely 
for  another.  The  Right  struggled  long 
and  faithfully,  and  at  last  successfully,  to 
make  receipts  and  expenditures  balance. 
But  in  the  mean  time,  mistaking  the 
complaints  of  the  tax-burdened  masses 
for  mere  popular  clamor,  they  undertook 
no  measures  of  reform,  nor  did  they  try 
to  readjust  an  iniquitous  incidence  of 
taxation. 

When  the  democratic  Left  came  into 
power  in  1876,  it  in  turn  illustrated  an- 
other principle  of  wide  application,  that 
the  first  leaders  of  a  popular  party  are 
likely  to  be  much  more  interested  in 
place-hunting  and  the  exploitation  of 
offices  than  in  looking  after  the  interests 
of  their  constituents.  Ever  since,  with 
few  and  brief  intervals,  the  Left,  in  so 
far  as  it  can  be  called  a  consistent  polit- 
ical party,  has  remained  in  office.  And 
for  eleven  years  after  its  first  accession, 
almost  uninterruptedly,  its  leader,  and 
therefore  also  Prime  Minister  of  the 
kingdom,  was  Agostino  Depretis,  a  man 
whose  sole  political  qualifications  were 


a  certain  sagacity  in  interpreting  the 
popular  will,  or  rather  humor,  and,  as 
it  is  very  well  put  by  King  and  Okey, 
"  a  profound  knowledge  of  human  vice 
and  frailty." 

Italy  had  been  exhausted,  morally  as 
well  as  physically,  by  the  struggle  for 
union  and  independence.  The  Right,  out 
of  office  and  bereft  of  its  great  leaders, 
degenerated  so  rapidly  and  completely 
that  it  could  offer  no  consistent  opposi- 
tion. "  With  Minghetti's  unhappy  assist- 
ance," to  quote  again  from  King  and 
Okey,  "Depretis  made  a  coalition  with 
a  section  of  the  Right,  and  created  a 
party  without  a  programme,  that  lived 
from  hand  to  mouth  on  parliamentary 
manoeuvres,  and  nursed  a  shameless 
corruption,  which  ate  out  all  that  was 
wholesome  in  Italian  politics.  The  civil 
service  became  a  machine  to  secure  a 
ministerial  majority.  Constituencies  were 
bought  with  local  railways  and  public 
works,  with  every  direct  or  indirect  form 
of  bribery.  .  .  .  Depretis,  it  is  true, 
widened  the  franchise  and  abolished  some 
of  the  more  odious  taxes.  But  it  is  to  this 
period  that  Italy  still  mainly  owes  the 
worst  features  of  her  later  politics." 

It  is  unnecessary  for  my  present  pur- 
pose to  trace  the  course  of  events  from 
the  death  of  Depretis  in  1887  down  to 
the  year  1904,  which  I  have  chosen  as 
my  point  of  departure.  Francesco  Crispi 
succeeded  Depretis  in  the  premiership, 
remaining  in  power  until  1892.  Recalled 
three  years  later,  because  it  was  thought 
that  he  alone  could  deal  with  the  troubles 
in  Sicily,  he  completely  failed  to  meet  the 
situation.  The  disastrous  Abyssinian  war 
soon  followed,  whether  by  his  fault  or  not 
there  is  still  great  diversity  of  opinion. 
At  any  rate  he  had  to  bear  the  blame,  and 
was  driven  from  office  for  good  and  all. 
Short-lived  ministries  followed  one  an- 
other in  quick  succession,  until,  in  1903, 
Giolitti  succeeded  upon  the  death  of 
Zanardelli. 

Giovanni  Giolitti,  who  has  been  Prime 
Minister  almost  ever  since,  is  a  charac- 
teristic product  of  the  Italian  public  life 


774 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


of  to-day.  He  was  born  in  Piedmont, 
sixty-six  years  ago,  in  the  humblest 
condition.  His  boyhood  and  youth  were 
passed  in  a  struggle  with  poverty;  but, 
having  managed  to  get  a  scanty  educa- 
tion, he  secured  a  government  appoint- 
ment as  clerk  in  the  Treasury.  Approv- 
ing himself  competent  and  laborious,  he 
was  steadily  promoted  until,  in  1889,  be- 
ing of  course  member  of  Parliament,  he 
was  made  Minister  of  the  Treasury  under 
Crispi;  and  having  meanwhile  acquired 
an  expert  knowledge  of  partisan  tactics 
and  the  arts  of  electioneering,  his  rise  to 
party  leadership  was  only  a  matter  of 
time;  after  having  been  made  Prime 
Minister  for  the  first  time  in  May,  1892, 
he  was  driven  by  the  Bank  scandals  of 
the  following  year  into  obscurity  and  even 
into  exile.  And,  although  there  is  no  ques- 
tion of  his  personal  honesty  in  this  and  all 
other  matters,  it  would  seem  that  this  re- 
tribution was  not  altogether  undeserved. 
However,  he  was  soon  back  in  Parlia- 
ment and  public  office. 

Of  Giolitti  it  may  be  said  in  brief 
that,  although  a  pedantic  bureaucrat, 
as  is  not  unnatural  considering  his  early 
career,  and  without  constructive  states- 
manship, he  is  not  by  any  means  a 
merely  unprincipled  demagogue.  He  has 
a  real  desire  to  serve  his  country,  and 
his  administration  of  the  last  two  years 
proves  abundantly  that  he  has  some 
statesmanlike  qualities.  But,  as  so  often 
happens  in  such  cases,  his  egotism  was 
developed  by  his  long  struggle  with  ad- 
versity to  a  degree  that  has  enabled  it  to 
overcome  his  patriotism.  Of  none  of  his 
political  principles  is  he  so  sure  as  of  his 
eagerness  to  be  prime  minister.  To  win 
elections  and  to  secure  his  other  political 
ends,  he  is  not  above  resorting  to  bribery, 
and  even  to  violent  intimidation. 

In  the  early  autumn,  then,  of  1904, 
with  Giolitti  in  office  as  Premier  and 
Home  Secretary,  and  Parliament  not  in 
session,  the  whole  country  was  startled 
by  the  announcement  that  a  strike,  begun 
at  Monza,  had  been  made  general  at 
Milan,  Italy's  greatest  industrial  centre; 


and  that  this  was  due  to  no  industrial 
conditions,  but  was  a  protest  of  all  labor- 
ing men  against  the  wanton  slaughter  by 
the  military  of  their  brother  workmen  in 
the  mines  of  Sardinia  and  the  fields  of 
Castelluzzo.  And  closer  inquiry  proved 
that  the  action  of  the  soldiers  was  quite 
without  cause  or  even  excuse.  The  strike 
spread  rapidly  to  Genoa,  Turin,  Venice, 
Florence,  and  Naples.  There  was  little 
or  no  disorder ;  but  at  Milan,  though  not 
in  the  other  cities,  the  newspapers  had  to 
confess,  when  they  reappeared  after  five 
days'  suspension,  that  trade  and  industry 
had  been  completely  paralyzed  in  the 
mean  while.  The  Deputies  of  the  extreme 
Left,  Radicals,  Republicans,  and  Social- 
ists, made  common  cause,  and  after  they 
had  vainly  agitated  for  an  immediate  re- 
convention  of  Parliament,  which  had  ad- 
journed until  November  25,  determined 
to  use  obstructionary  tactics  at  the  coming 
session.  And  although  the  "  evolution- 
ary "  Socialists  and  Radicals  repudiated 
this  part  of  the  programme,  there  was  no 
question  that  the  others  could  make 
trouble  if  they  wanted  to.  It  may  have 
been  chiefly  this  consideration  that  de- 
termined Giolitti  to  call  for  a  dissolution 
and  a  general  election,  more  especially 
since,  as  prime  minister,  he  had  the  elec- 
tion machinery  in  his  hands.  The  King 
accepted  the  dissolution  and  decreed  that 
the  election  should  take  place  on  No- 
vember 6. 

Giolitti  had,  of  course,  disclaimed  all 
responsibility  for  the  rash  and  criminal 
action  of  the  military  in  the  previous 
September,  and  had  asseverated  his  in- 
tention of  forbidding  the  military  au- 
thorities to  interfere  in  disputes  between 
capital  and  labor.  But  it  is  most  import- 
ant to  note  here  that  it  was  in  the  report 
to  His  Majesty  made  at  this  time,  and 
published  along  with  the  royal  decree  in 
the  Official  Gazette,  that  he  astonished 
even  his  own  party  by  announcing  as  a 
part  of  his  programme  for  the  next  ses- 
sion the  resumption  by  the  state  of  the 
operation  of  the  railroads,  then  under  the 
control  of  private  companies  whose  con- 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


775 


tracts  terminated  June  15, 1905.  Besides 
that  the  measure,  which  has  since  been 
carried  into  effect,  has  been  thoroughly 
justified  by  success,  this  private  manage- 
ment was  so  scandalously  inefficient  that 
the  announcement  was  unquestionably  a 
good  electioneering  move. 

This  election,  perhaps  the  most  im- 
portant, as  it  was  certainly  the  most  in- 
teresting, that  the  kingdom  has  ever 
known,  was  signalized  by  the  entrance 
of  the  Clericals  into  politics,  I  mean  as  a 
separate  political  factor.  Pius  IX,  in- 
terposing his  non  possumus  to  every  over- 
ture of  Victor  Emmanuel  and  his  minis- 
ters, some  of  which  he  might  greatly  have 
profited  by,  and  which  will  never  be  of- 
fered again,  had  forbidden  the  faithful  to 
take  any  part  in  the  usurping  government. 
This  policy  was  formally  promulgated, 
as  the  veto  non-expedit,  by  the  Sacred 
Penitentiary  in  1883,  wherein,  however, 
it  was  significantly  provided  that  all  the 
circumstances  must  be  taken  into  ac- 
count before  such  participation  could  be 
regarded  as  a  sin.  In  accordance  with  this 
veto,  Leo  XIII,  in  1 895,  forbade  Catholics 
to  vote,  by  a  formal  decree,  and  he  seems 
to  have  been  obeyed  by  the  great  majority 
of  those  in  close  communion  with  the 
Church.  But  the  present  Pope,  as  Pa- 
triarch of  Venice  and  Cardinal  Sarto,  in 
consequence  of  his  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  people,  had  always  been  out- 
spokenly opposed  to  such  a  policy.  Con- 
scientious laymen  also  were  weary  of  a 
system  which  kept  them  from  the  polls 
where  they  might,  as  loyal  Churchmen, 
have  voted  against  the  Divorce  bill,  and 
in  favor  of  religious  instruction  in  the 
public  schools. 

Giolitti  and  his  followers,  thoroughly 
alarmed  by  the  growth  of  the  Socialist 
vote,  saw  that  here  was  an  opportun- 
ity too  good  to  be  lost.  A  combination 
was  made  with  the  Clerical  party,  by 
which  fusion  candidates  were  put  into  the 
field,  not  a  few  of  whom  were  high  Cleri- 
cals, and  who  were  all  supported,  nearly 
or  quite  unanimously,  by  the  Catholic 
press.  The  Archbishop  of  Florence  con- 


ducted an  active  campaign  in  behalf  of 
the  fusionists  in  his  diocese,  and  in  some 
districts  all  the  conservative  elements 
united  with  the  Clericals  against  the 
Socialists  and  other  "  subversives."  The 
result  was  a  complete  victory  for  the  allies. 
In  Florence  and  Venice,  and  even  in 
industrial  Milan  and  Turin,  all  of  their 
candidates  were  returned.  In  Rome  and 
Bologna,  they  were  only  partially  suc- 
cessful. 

Returned  to  power  under  these  con- 
ditions, even  so  practiced  a  parliament- 
arian as  Giolitti  could  estimate  only  un- 
certainly how  many  votes  he  should  have 
at  his  disposal.  At  first,  as  for  instance 
when  the  Speaker  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  was  elected,  and  the  bill  for  the 
civil  list  presented,  he  had  a  comfortable 
majority.  But  within  a  few  months,  that 
is,  in  February  and  March,  1905,  his 
railway  bill  got  him  into  trouble.  This 
would  have  been  hard  to  formulate  and 
steer  through  the  Chamber  in  any  case, 
because  it  provided  for  resumption  of 
the  railways  by  the  government,  and  for 
all  the  details  of  organization  and  control. 
Giolitti  had,  apparently  against  his  own 
better  judgment,  allowed  the  introduc- 
tion of  two  articles  providing  severe 
punishments  for  railway  employees  who 
should  form  a  compact  looking  to  the 
damage,  interruption,  or  suspension  of 
the  train  service. 

In  the  opinion  of  many  impartial 
persons,  these  provisions  were  both  un- 
necessary and  unjust,  while  among  the 
Socialists  and  laborers  they  aroused  a 
storm  of  indignation.  And  experience 
having  shown  that,  in  public  services 
where  there  are  a  great  many  regulations 
rarely  or  never  carried  out,  obstruction 
is  just  as  effective  and  much  pleasanter 
than  striking,  besides  meaning  no  loss 
of  wages,  so  in  this  case,  rules  about  the 
condition  of  engines  and  carriages,  the  re- 
gistration of  baggage,  and  so  forth,1  were 
so  scrupulously  regarded  that  most  of 
the  trains  never  got  off  at  all.  Sixty-four 
trains  running  out  of  Rome  were  sus- 
pended, and  the  others  ran  from  one  hour 


776 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


to  twelve  hours  late.  Giolitti,  who  as 
Home  Secretary  had  to  bear  the  blame, 
became  so  ill  that  he  could  not  attend 
the  sessions.  But  his  Minister  of  Public 
Works,  Tedesco,  gave  notice  that  his 
chief  would  neither  withdraw  the  offens- 
ive clauses  nor  bring  pressure  to  bear  on 
the  men.  Public  indignation  grew  until 
the  men  themselves  were  on  the  point 
of  yielding,  when  suddenly  Tedesco  an- 
nounced Giolitti' s  resignation  on  account 
of  ill  health.  Unfriendly  critics  did  not 
fail  to  point  out  that  this  was  the  fourth 
time  that  ill  health  had  been  invoked  to 
save  the  Premier  from  an  embarrassing 
political  situation.  At  all  events,  the  King 
accepted  his  resignation  and  the  railway 
obstructionists  yielded.  After  many  vicis- 
situdes, and  after  being  once  compelled 
to  resign  the  royal  mandate,  Alessandro 
Fortis,  Giolitti's  nominee,  succeeded  in 
forming  a  coalition  ministry  in  April, 
1905. 

The  new  ministry,  whose  speedy  dis- 
solution was  freely  predicted  at  the  time, 
managed  to  hold  together  until  the  sum- 
mer adjournment.  But  trouble  began 
soon  after  the  reopening  of  the  session 
in  the  autumn.  The  so-called  modus  vi- 
vendi  with  Spain,  involving  the  abolition 
of  Italian  duties  on  Spanish  wines,  was 
promptly  rejected  by  the  Chamber,  with 
censure  of  the  three  members  of  the  Cab- 
inet, Ferraris,  Rava,  and  Tittoni,  who 
were  responsible  for  it.  But  as  this  cen- 
sure was  coupled  with  a  statement  that 
the  Chamber  still  retained  confidence  in 
the  Ministry  as  a  whole,  Fortis,  in  the 
face  of  a  previous  declaration  that  he 
would  stand  or  fall  with  his  colleagues, 
weakly  consented  to  supply  their  places. 
But  it  was  only  after  a  crisis  of  forty  days, 
and  just  before  Parliament  adjourned 
for  its  Christmas  recess,  that  he  succeeded 
in  presenting  himself  to  the  House  with 
seven  of  the  new  and  three  of  the  old 
ministers. 

After  the  session  had  resumed,  the 
first  week  in  January,  1906,  this  new 
ministry  lasted  only  a  few  days.  Assailed 
on  every  hand,  and  having  no  consistent 


policy  to  set  forth,  Fortis  challenged 
Baron  Sidney  Sonnino,  the  leader  of  the 
Centre,  to  sum  up  and  present  the  hostile 
arraignment.  Sonnino  accepted  the  gage, 
and  in  a  carefully  prepared  speech  un- 
sparingly reviewed  the  history  of  the  Gio- 
litti and  Fortis  ministries  since  the  last 
general  election.  In  truth,  he  had  little 
difficulty  in  making  up  a  formidable  list 
of  promises  unfulfilled  and  crying  public 
needs  incompetently  dealt  with.  Fortis, 
though  one  of  the  ablest  of  debaters,  could 
make  only  a  weak  defense,  and  Giolitti's 
apology  came  even  more  haltingly  off. 
The  usual  motion,  to  approve  the  decla- 
rations of  the  Prime  Minister  and  proceed 
to  the  order  of  the  day,  was  lost  by  a  ma- 
jority of  thirty-three.  Fortis  and  his  col- 
leagues at  once  resigned. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  the  King  sum- 
moned Sonnino  to  form  a  new  ministry, 
and  he  accepted  the  charge.  But  while 
everybody  knew  that  it  must  be  a  coali- 
tion ministry,  because  the  opposition  to 
Fortis  had  come  from  all  shades  of  polit- 
ical opinion,  no  one  expected  such  a  coali- 
tion as  was  actually  sprung  on  the  House 
and  country.  Guicciardini  as  Minister 
of  Foreign  Affairs,  Luzzatti  as  Minister 
of  the  Treasury,  and  others,  were  well- 
known  Liberal  Conservatives  whose  ap- 
pointment occasioned  no  surprise.  But 
Sacchi,  the  Minister  of  Justice,  and  Pan- 
tano,  the  Minister  of  Agriculture,  were 
an  astonishment  and  a  scandal  to  many. 
Both  were  extreme  Radicals  with  decid- 
edly republican  leanings,  and  the  latter 
had  been  Sonnino' s  bitter  personal  and 
political  foe.  But  more  than  this,  Sacchi, 
being  a  zealous  supporter  of  the  Divorce 
bill,  was  an  offense  to  the  Clericals  and 
to  many  others  whom  it  was  not  the  part 
of  political  prudence  to  antagonize.  Nor 
had  the  country  yet  forgotten  that,  just 
after  the  assassination  of  the  late  King, 
Pantano  had  publicly  suggested  that  now 
was  a  good  chance  to  overthrow  the  mon- 
archy and  become  a  republic.  Neither 
brought  anything  to  the  new  government 
but  weakness  and  suspicion.  And  it  was 
not  long  before  Sacchi  outraged  the  moral 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


111 


sense  of  the  whole  nation  by  pardoning 
a  notorious  murderess. 

Of  Sonnino  himself,  who  assumed  the 
portfolio  of  the  Interior,  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  no  living  Italian  has  deserved 
better  of  his  country.  In  the  dark  days 
between  1892  and  1896,  when  Italy  was 
on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  when  friends 
and  enemies  alike  could  see  nothing  ahead 
but  repudiation,  he  saved  the  national 
credit  in  a  way  that  must  remind  Amer- 
icans of  Alexander  Hamilton.1  By  the 
sternest  parsimony  and  by  merciless  tax- 
ation, aided  by  his  own  extraordinary 
administrative  genius,  he  placed  his  coun- 
try on  her  present  sound  financial  basis 
and  laid  the  foundations  of  future  pro- 
sperity, at  the  same  time  teaching  his 
countrymen  the  much-needed  lesson  that 
if  they  must  needs  have  a  great  army 
and  navy,  expensive  public  buildings 
and  such  extravagances,  they  must  also 
pay  the  bills.  But  teachers  of  such  hard 
lessons  never  make  themselves  personally 
popular,  and,  besides,  Sonnino  was  not 
now  Minister  of  Finance  or  of  the  Treas- 
sury,  but  Home  Secretary.  Being  a  pro- 
found student  of  social  and  economic 
problems,  especially  in  the  south,  he  was 
in  a  way  eminently  qualified  for  this  posi- 
tion. But  the  Home  Minister  comes  into 
closer  contact  with  the  people  than  any 
other,  and  Baron  Sonnino,  though  re- 
spected universally  for  his  great  abilities 
and  for  his  severe  and  high  rectitude,  has 
none  of  the  sympathetic  qualities  that 
would  endear  him  to  a  people  so  respons- 
ive as  the  Italians.  He  is  too  proud  and 
too  tactless  even  to  avoid  giving  unneces- 
sary offense.  Add  to  this  that,  as  a  leader 
of  his  party  in  the  Chamber,  he  was  an 
unready  debater  in  a  house  full  of  quick- 
witted rhetoricians,  and  it  will  be  seen 
that  even  he  contributed  some  elements 
of  weakness  to  his  own  ministry. 

In  matter  of  fact,  his  government  lasted 

1  Baron  Sonnino  was,  first,  Minister  of  Fi- 
nance, and  afterwards  Minister  of  the  Treasury, 
for  a  time  performing  the  duties  of  both  of- 
fices, in  the  Crispi  Ministry  that  lasted  from 
December  15,  1893,  to  March  4,  1896. 


less  than  four  months,  that  is,  until  May 
28,  1906.  His  absurd  association  with 
Sacchi  and  Pantano,  and  his  own  defects 
as  a  parliamentary  leader,  soon  involved 
him  in  difficulties,  as  did  also  his  haughty 
and  uncompromising  spirit.  After  the 
last  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  for  example, 
taking  warning  from  the  misuse  of  the 
money  subscribed  for  the  sufferers  in  the 
Calabrian  earthquake,  he  very  wisely  ap- 
pointed the  Duke  of  Aosta  as  treasurer 
of  the  relief -funds.  But  when  some  Nea- 
politan deputies  complained  that  this 
was  a  reflection  on  the  honesty  of  their 
constituents,  he  retorted  that  Neapolitan 
honesty  was  a  thing  he  was  quite  willing 
to  reflect  upon,  —  an  unnecessary  piece 
of  candor  that  cost  him  a  number  of  votes 
on  the  critical  division.  His  opponents, 
consolidated  under  Giolitti,  waited  for 
their  opportunity,  and  voted  him  down 
when  he  had  unwisely  staked  his  for- 
tunes on  an  unimportant  issue. 

Giolitti  was  summoned  by  the  King  to 
form  a  new  ministry,  and  made,  as  I  have 
been  credibly  informed,  the  express  stip- 
ulation that  there  should  not  be  a  general 
election,  except  by  limitation,  until  he 
gave  the  word.  He  himself  became  Min- 
ister of  the  Interior  (Home  Secretary), 
and  Tittoni,  ablest  of  the  younger  Italian 
diplomats,  was  recalled  from  the  em- 
bassy at  London,  to  be  made  Minister 
of  Foreign  Affairs.  This  ministry  has 
been  in  power  ever  since,  and  even  its 
opponents  are  compelled  to  admit  that 
its  services  have  been  very  considerable. 
During  the  last  two  years,  and  beginning 
before  that  time,  Italy's  commerce  and 
manufactures  have  increased  by  leaps 
and  bounds,  and  the  budgets  have  shown 
a  large  balance  to  the  good.  Tittoni  has 
improved  relations  with  Austria,  and  in 
other  ways  safeguarded  Italy's  position 
in  European  politics.  For  that  position 
of  late  years  had  been  none  of  the  most 
secure. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
Triple  Alliance  between  Germany,  Italy, 
and  Austria,  at  the  time  it  was  formed 
in  1882,  was  designed  in  part  to  protect 


778 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


Italy  against  France,  in  those  years  an 
outspokenly  malevolent  neighbor.  But 
relations  with  France,  especially  since 
Loubet's  visit  in  1904,  have  gone  on 
steadily  improving.  Italy  has  also  be- 
come a  sort  of  silent  third  in  the  good 
understanding  between  France  and  Eng- 
land. In  fact,  at  the  Algeciras  Confer- 
ence, Italy's  moral  support  went  to  the 
side  of  France  and  England  rather  than 
to  Germany,  her  ally.  But  the  Marquis 
Venosta,  her  representative,  an  astute 
and  seasoned  diplomat  of  the  old  school, 
conducted  his  negotiations  with  such 
address  that,  although  the  German  press 
raged  and  fumed,  the  Berlin  Foreign 
Office  could  find  nothing  against  which  to 
enter  a  diplomatic  protest.  Wherefore,  in 
case  of  a  European  war,  say  between  Eng- 
land and  Germany,  Italy,  as  one  of  her 
statesmen  has  put  it,  might  find  herself 
compelled  to  choose  between  her  friends 
and  her  allies.  And  it  is  generally  believed 
that  she  has  given  her  partners  to  under- 
stand that  they  need  not  expect  her  help 
in  any  individual  quarrel. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Triple  Alliance 
is  still  of  service  to  Italy  precisely  for 
the  reason  that,  much  of  the  old  hostil- 
ity between  Italians  and  Austrians  still 
remaining,  it  makes  Austria  formally, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  really,  her  ally. 
There  is  accordingly  no  serious  opposi- 
tion in  Italy  to  maintaining  it,  nor  to  keep- 
ing up  the  strong  army  and  navy  which 
it  implies.  But  the  army  and  navy  have 
not  merely  the  incentive  of  making  the 
country  an  acceptable  ally.  A  year  ago  in 
May,  Admiral  Mirabello,  the  Minister  of 
Marine,  in  proposing  the  naval  estimates, 
which  were  accepted,  declared  it  to  be 
Italy's  policy  to  maintain  a  stronger 
fleet  than  any  other  power  whose  coast- 
line is  exclusively  Mediterranean.  This, 
of  course,  could  mean  only  Austria. 

In  home  politics,  unquestionably  the 
most  important  development  of  recent 
times  has  been  the  entrance  of  the  Cler- 
icals into  politics,  their  coalition  with  the 
Moderate  Liberals,  to  which  I  have  al- 
ready referred,  and  the  consequent  de- 


clension, I  mean  politically,  of  the  Social- 
ists. There  are  only  three  or  four  Clerical 
deputies  in  the  Chamber  itself,  but  Gio- 
litti,  since  many  of  his  seats  were  won  by 
their  aid  in  1904,  must  govern  himself 
accordingly,  and  two  members  of  his  new 
Cabinet,  Tittoni  and  Gianturco,  be- 
longed to  the  Clerical  Right.  There  can, 
in  my  opinion,  be  no  doubt  that  in  con- 
solidating the  Moderate  Liberals  and 
Clericals  against  the  Socialists,  he  has 
rendered  a  real  service  to  the  country, 
as  well  as  strengthened  his  own  political 
position. 

I  have  already  related  how,  in  the 
general  election  of  November,  1904, 
there  were  in  many  colleges  open  coali- 
tions between  the  Moderates  and  Cler- 
icals, which  were  unopposed,  nay,  in  some 
cases  actively  encouraged,  by  the  ecclesi- 
astical authorities.  The  non-expedit  could 
hardly  be  maintained  in  practice  after 
this,  and  judging  from  the  acts  and  utter- 
ances of  Pius  X  before  his  election,  he 
personally  was  willing  enough  to  see  it 
go.  At  any  rate,  on  June  20,  1905.  he 
addressed  an  Encyclical  to  the  Italian 
Bishops  in  which  the  non-expedit  was 
practically,  though  not  formally,  abol- 
ished. Grave  reasons,  said  His  Holiness, 
deterred  him  from  abrogating  the  law. 
But  reasons  equally  weighty,  deduced 
from  the  welfare  of  society,  might  demand 
that  in  special  cases  it  be  suspended,  es- 
pecially when  his  venerable  brothers,  the 
Italian  Bishops,  considered  it  necessary. 
In  fact,  in  April,  1907,  the  non-expedit 
was  formally  suspended  for  Girgenti,  at 
the  request  of  her  bishop.  But  it  has  been 
a  dead  letter  ever  since  the  Encyclical, 
whether  with  or  without  formal  suspen- 
sion. And  after  the  Encyclical  was  pub- 
lished, the  Giornale  d*  Italia  of  Rome 
printed  a  long  series  of  interviews  on  the 
subject  with  public  men  of  every  shade 
of  political  opinion  from  extreme  Con- 
servatives to  Socialists.  They  all  agreed, 
with  remarkable  unanimity,  that  the 
Pope's  action  would  be  for  the  good  of 
Italian  politics,  because  thereafter  a  large 
and  most  respectable  class  of  citizens 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


779 


would  be  openly  and  honestly  repre- 
sented. 

I  have  said  above  that  Giolitti  did  well 
by  his  country  in  consolidating  Moderate 
Liberals  and  Clericals  against  the  Social- 
ists. By  this  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the 
Socialists  might  not  become  a  useful  fact- 
or in  public  life.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
precisely  the  laboring  classes,  whom  they 
are  supposed  to  represent,  and  who  are 
building  up  modern  industrial  Italy,  that 
are  actually  unrepresented  in  Parliament. 
Indeed,  it  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that, 
in  Italy,  Socialism  has  been  almost  in- 
dependent of  the  proletariat.  Its  leaders 
have  come  from  the  middle  classes,  who 
are  its  natural  foes,  and  from  the  "  in- 
tellectuals." A  number  of  reasons  can 
be  given  for  this,  —  revolutionary  habits 
of  mind  inherited  from  the  Risorgimento, 
and  not  yet  outlived;  illiteracy,  total  or 
partial,  among  the  lower  classes ;  the  ab- 
sence of  a  compact  liberal  party;  but 
chiefly,  perhaps,  too  much  "  higher  edu- 
cation," with  its  natural  consequence  of 
overcrowding  in  the  learned  professions. 

Italy  has,  according  to  the  most  recent 
census,  24,196  lawyers,  or  seven  and  a 
half  in  every  thousand  of  the  entire 
population  (the  percentage  is  only  one 
and  a  half  in  university-ridden  Prussia), 
22,168  physicians,  and  813  dentists.  Un- 
employed professional  men  find  an  easy 
outlet  for  their  discontent,  and  sometimes 
emolument  and  political  honors,  in  agi- 
tation on  behalf  of  the  down-trodden 
poor,  including  such  persons  as  under- 
paid teachers  and  employees  of  the  higher 
class.  Hence  it  results  that,  although 
there  are  a  few  less  than  257,000  regis- 
tered proletariat  electors,  the  Socialist 
party  has  shown  a  voting  strength  of  more 
than  325,000 ;  also  that,  in  the  last  gen- 
eral elections,  out  of  thirty-three  Socialist 
deputies  returned,  twenty-eight  were  uni- 
versity men  of  the  middle  class,  and  not 
a  few  of  them  well-to-do,  three  were  of 
the  lower  middle  class,  and  only  two  were 
workmen.  Nevertheless,  though  unre- 
presented to  this  extent  in  Parliament, 
the  laboring  classes  take  only  a  languid 


interest  in  that  part  of  the  Socialist  pro- 
gramme which  calls  for  manhood  suffrage. 
Nor  is  it  at  all  likely  that,  until  they  are 
much  better  educated  than  at  present, 
manhood  suffrage  would  send  many 
more  deputies  of  their  own  class  to  the 
Chamber;  or,  that  such  deputies,  if 
elected,  would  do  their  cause  much  good, 
or  add  weight  to  the  national  coun- 
cils. 

Undoubtedly  the  laboring  classes  have 
many  and  serious  grievances.  The  in- 
cidence of  taxation  weighs  heavily  upon 
them,  as  there  are  very  high  duties  on  salt, 
sugar,  and  coffee,  and  octroi  imposts  on 
articles  of  food  and  drink  are  levied  by 
all  municipalities  of  any  size.  Nor,  in 
spite  of  the  favorable  budgets  of  the  last 
few  years,  has  the  government  reduced 
any  tariff  except  that  on  petroleum.  But 
although  the  Socialist  party  contains  ele- 
ments that  may  some  time  go  to  the  mak- 
ing of  a  good  and  serviceable  labor  party, 
its  present  enfeebled  condition  is  cause 
for  satisfaction.  Though  its  motives  are 
oftentimes*  good,  its  principles  are  just  as 
often  bad.  It  has  gone  so  much  to  school 
to  the  quasi-philosophical  socialism  of 
Marx  and  to  the  other  German  sects,  that 
its  openly  avowed  theories,  much  more, 
I  believe,  than  its  inner  motives,  are  un- 
social and  anti-Christian  to  a  degree. 

The  spectacle  of  Christian  Socialism  in 
England,  which  has  shown  itself  so  pow- 
erful at  the  recent  Lambeth  Conference, 
is  strange  to  the  Italian  mind.  Two  en- 
thusiastic young  Romans,  devout  Catho- 
lics, who  lately  presented  themselves  to 
the  Socialist  leaders,  and,  as  Christians, 
demanded  enrollment  and  active  service, 
were  coolly  informed  that  they  had  come 
to  the  wrong  shop.  That  the  Church 
itself,  with  its  long  record  as  oppressor 
and  the  abettor  of  oppression,  and  with  its 
present  hostility  to  the  Christian  Demo- 
cratic movement,  is  largely  to  blame  for 
this  unhappy  opposition,  the  more  out- 
spoken Catholics  are  quite  willing  to  ad- 
mit. Meanwhile  the  Socialists,  along  with 
the  other  Secularists,  have  been  crush- 
ingly  defeated  in  the  Chamber  on  the 


780. 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


subject  of  religious  education.  The  result 
of  this  important  vote,  taken  last  Febru- 
ary, was  to  leave  religious  instruction 
where  it  was  before.  If  municipal  boards 
abolish  it  in  the  public  schools,  parents 
may  demand  that  it  be  given,  in  the 
school  building,  but  out  of  school  hours, 
by  priests  or  other  persons,  who  are  re- 
munerated from  the  public  funds. 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  last  two  years 
have  been  peaceful  and  prosperous,  and 
signalized  by  no  violent  political  changes. 
A  law  has  been  passed  that  will  raise  the 
salaries  of  many  thousand  deserving  gov- 
ernment employees.  The  railway  service 
has  been  greatly  improved,  and  the  next 
few  years  will  see  the  construction  of 
many  new  lines  that  are  already  demanded 
by  the  volume  of  home  and  foreign  trade. 
The  national  defense  has  been  provided 
for  after  many  years  of  waiting,  though  it 
seems  that  the  naval  defenses  have  been 
exaggerated  and  the  military  slighted. 
But  the  very  peace  and  harmony  that  now 
characterize  the  political  and  parliament- 
ary situation  are,  in  themselves,  a  dis- 
quieting phenomenon.  All  effective  oppo- 
•  sition  seems  to  have  disappeared.  The 
protests  even  of  the  extreme  Left  have 
become  feeble  and  perfunctory,  while  the 
opposition  elements  in  the  Centre  have 
been  absorbed  into  Giolitti's  huge  major- 
ity. In  fact,  as  the  Corriere  della  Sera 
of  Milan  has  observed,  in  an  admirable 
article  on  the  present  situation,  the 
strength  of  the  Giolitti  ministry  is  parlia- 
mentary rather  than  governative,  a  cir- 
cumstance that  makes  his  virtual  dicta- 
torship a  subject  for  alarm.  For  example, 
toward  the  end  of  the  last  session  the 
Chamber  rejected  a  bill,  formulated  by 
Rava,  the  Minister  for  Public  Instruc- 
tion, for  increasing  the  salaries  of  uni- 
versity professors.  But  Rava,  though 
thoroughly  discredited  in  this  and  other 
ways,  is  retained  in  office  because  his 
chief  is  strong  enough  to  protect  him. 
There  are  rumors,  not  generally  credited, 
of  a  dissolution  and  general  election  next 
spring.  As  an  Italian  chamber  is  elected 
for  a  term  of  five  years,  the  present  one 


does  not  expire  by  limitation  until  the 
autumn  of  1909. 

I  have  already  dealt  with  some  religious 
matters  in  so  far  as  they  are  connected 
with  Italian  politics.  The  religious  and 
ecclesiastical  history  of  Italy  for  the  two 
years  just  ended  possesses  an  extraordi- 
nary interest,  but  for  the  most  part  con- 
cerns the  rest  of  the  world  as  much  as 
Italy  itself.  The  Syllabus  Lamentabili  of 
July,  1907,  directed  against  the  scien- 
tific criticism  of  the  Bible;  the  Encyclical 
Pascendi  in  condemnation  of  the  Modern- 
ists; the  excommunication  of  Loisy  and 
others,  are  known  and  have  been  dis- 
cussed all  over  the  civilized  world.  How- 
ever, not  only  does  the  political  situation, 
as  between  the  Papacy  and  the  Kingdom, 
give  a  special  character  in  Italy  to  acts 
of  ecclesiastical  authority,  but,  in  addi- 
tion to  this,  the  Papacy,  as  Gregorovius 
pointed  out,  in  spite  of  the  world-wide 
range  of  its  power,  has  always  been  an 
Italian  institution.  It  is  false  to  reproach 
the  Italians  with  being  an  irreligious 
people,  as  is  so  often  done  by  foreign 
writers,  merely  because  their  own  reli- 
gious notions  and  practices  are  different 
from  what  they  find  in  Italy.  But  it  is 
true,  and  it  is  probably  what  these  writers 
usually  mean,  that  the  Italians  were  never 
Christianized  anywhere  near  so  thorough- 
ly as  were  the  Teutonic  tribes  of  northern 
Europe.  The  continuance  of  pagan  cults 
and  pagan  memories,  the  persistence  of 
the  ancient  Roman  Imperium  under  the 
form  of  the  Roman  hierarchy,  and  the 
tradition,  unbroken  in  spite  of  all  that 
is  thought  and  said  to  the  contrary,  of 
classical  civilization,  were  obstacles  never 
entirely  overcome  in  the  evangelization  of 
Italy. 

The  historical  consequences  of  this 
condition  in  mediaeval  and  early  modern 
times  readily  suggest  themselves.  One  of 
the  consequences  in  our  own  times  I  take 
to  be  this,  that  it  is  hard  nowadays  to  ex- 
cite the  Italian  against  the  Church  except 
as  a  political  factor;  which  means  that, 
now  that  he  thinks  himself  secure  from  it 
politically,  it  is  hard  to  excite  him  against 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


781 


it  at  all.  Even  if  he  be  indifferent  or  un- 
believing, as  so  many  of  the  educated 
classes  are,  the  long  unbroken  tradition 
of  cult  and  observance,  in  many  cases 
older  than  Christianity  itself,  the  might 
and  majesty  of  the  Church  and  its  ancient 
renown,  have  a  powerful  hold  upon  him 
in  spite  of  his  intellectual  attitude. 

These  facts  must  be  borne  in  mind 
when  we  consider  the  subject  of  Modern- 
ism in  Italy.  That  the  Italian  clergy  and 
laity,  and  the  best  of  them,  have  been 
strongly  influenced  by  this  movement 
there  can  be  no  doubt  whatever.  The  con- 
demnation of  the"  Christian  Democrats," 
and  subsequently  of  their  leader,  Don 
Romolo  Murri,  and  the  decree  of  the 
Holy  Office  that  placed  Fogazzaro's  77 
Santo  on  the  Index,  are  well-known  facts. 
It  may  not  be  so  well  known  that,  in  the 
summer  of  1907,  after  the  promulgation 
of  the  Syllabus  Lamentabili,  five  Italian 
priests  addressed  anonymously  an  open 
letter  to  the  Pope,  entitled  Quello  che 
vogliamo  (What  We  Want),  protesting 
in  the  plainest  and  most  vigorous  terms 
against  his  violation  of  freedom  of  thought 
and  conscience,  and  reproaching  him 
with  reversing  the  enlightened  policy  of 
his  predecessor.  And  more  importantly, 
on  October  28,  1907,  a  month  after  the 
publication  of  the  Encyclical  Pascendi, 
appeared,  also  anonymously,  //  Pro- 
gramma  dei  Modernisti  (The  Modern- 
ists' Programme),  a  reply  to  the  Encycli- 
cal, and  generally  supposed  to  be  the 
work  of  priests.1 

The  mere  fact  of  such  a  reply,  com- 
ing from  a  Roman  Catholic  source,  in 
itself  gave  this  document  a  special  im- 
portance. And  this  effect  was  enhanced 
by  all  the  qualities  that  such  a  com- 
position ought  to  show,  —  learning, 
moderation,  dialectical  skill,  and  respect 

1  "  Supposed  to  be  "  is  the  expression  used 
by  the  French  translator,  but  I  think  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  the  fact.  In  Part  III  the  authors 
refer  to  their  early  scholastic  education,  after 
receiving  which  they  forced  themselves  to  learn 
the  language  and  understand  the  thoughts  of 
the  modern  world. 


for  the  person  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff. 
The  authors  had  no  difficulty  in  vindi- 
cating the  Modernists  from  the  Encycli- 
cal's accusation  of  agnosticism  and  ir- 
religion,  nor  in  proving  that  the  persons 
responsible  for  it,  whom  with  studious 
irony  they  always  imply  not  to  be  the 
Pope,  had  no  adequate  conception  of  the 
critical  and  philosophical  problem.  And 
following  the  lead  of  their  master,  the 
great  and  saintly  Newman,  who,  as 
Tyrrell  has  shown,  was  the  father  of  all 
Modernist  thought,  they  maintain  that 
throughout  the  ages,  especially  when  the 
Greek  Fathers  brought  Christian  theo- 
logy into  harmony  with  Neo-Platonism, 
and  also  when  St.  Thomas  reasserted  it 
in  terms  of  Aristotelian  philosophy,  the 
Church  has  constantly  adjusted  her 
teaching  to  the  language  of  contemporary 
thought. 

Of  course,  the  authors  of  the  Pro- 
gramme, and  all  who  had  in  any  way  col- 
laborated in  it,  were  excommunicated. 
In  the  diocese  of  Rome  the  book  was 
interdicted  under  pain  of  mortal  sin  de- 
clared against  those  who  bought  it,  sold 
it,  or  kept  it  in  their  possession.  On  the 
morning  after  it  was  published,  emissa- 
ries were  sent  to  all  the  churches  in  Rome 
where  there  were  suspected  priests,  in  the 
hope  that  some  of  them,  in  consequence 
of  the  excommunication,  might  reveal 
their  identity  by  omitting  to  say  mass.  But 
in  the  whole  city  that  morning  there  was 
not  a  single  mass  less  than  usual.  Then 
the  Cardinal  Vicar  telegraphed  to  the 
bishops  of  all  dioceses  where  there  were 
priests  under  suspicion,  instructing  them 
to  adopt  similar  measures.  But  even  this 
inquisition  yielded  no  results.  The  Pro- 
gramme has  been  translated  into  Eng- 
lish, French,  and  German,  and  the  Italian 
edition  has  long  since  been  exhausted. 

I  have  said  above  that  it  is  hardito 
arouse  the  Italian  against  the  Church,  ex- 
cept politically ;  hard  it  is,  indeed,  but  not 
impossible.  And  this  difficult  feat  the  in- 
transigent party  now  in  control  seems  to 
have  accomplished.  They  have  followed 
up  their  worse  than  useless  persecutions 


782 


The  Last  Two  Years  in  Italy 


in  a  way  that  has  grieved  their  friends  and 
delighted  their  enemies.  To  select  one 
or  two  instances,  Mgr.  Fracassini,  a  cau- 
tious and  orthodox  thinker,  who  was  ap- 
pointed by  Leo  XIII  to  a  place  on  the 
Biblical  Commission,  was  suddenly  de- 
posed about  a  year  ago  from  his  post  as 
Rector  of  the  Seminary  at  Perugia,  at 
first  on  such  grounds  as  that  he  was  the 
friend  of  Murri  and  Loisy,  and  allowed 
his  students  to  read  //  Santo;  and  after- 
wards, when  the  archbishop  had  indig- 
nantly protested,  the  further  reason  was 
given  that  his  teaching  of  Scripture  was 
not  in  conformity  with  the  desires  of  the 
Pope.  More  recently,  Don  Salvatore  Mi- 
nocchi  of  Florence,  a  learned  Hebrew 
scholar,  delivered  a  lecture,  which  he  had 
submitted  to  the  ecclesiastical  authorities, 
upholding  the  familiar  view  that  the  ac- 
counts in  Genesis  of  the  Creation,  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  and  the  Fall,  were  orig- 
inally Babylonian  myths  that  were  taken 
over  by  the  Hebrew  writer,  purged  of 
polytheistic  error,  and  transformed  into 
a  teaching  of  the  Unity  of  God.  He  was 
cited  to  appear  before  the  Archbishop  of 
Florence,  and  having  refused  to  sign  a 
declaration  of  his  belief  in  the  literal, 
historical  truth  of  those  narratives,  was 
suspended  from  the  priesthood.  At  about 
the  same  time  the  editors  of  the  Rinnova- 
mento  of  Milan,  a  liberal  theological  jour- 
nal, were  put  under  the  major  excom- 
munication. 

How  numerous  these  Modernists  are, 
it  is  of  course  impossible  to  say.1  But  it 
is  quite  certain  that  there  are  a  good  many 
of  them,  both  of  clergy  and  laity,  and  that 
they  are  even  more  powerful  in  character 
and  intelligence  than  in  numbers.  Some 
high-placed  ecclesiastics,  notably  Cardi- 
nals Capecelatro  and  Bonomelli,  are  well 
known  for  their  charitable  attitude  to- 

1  I  use  this  term  in  a  wide  and  vague  sense, 
including  all  who  are  in  sympathy  with  modern 
critical  and  historical  theology.  Thus  it  takes 
in  many  who  would  stop  far  short  of  the  ex- 
treme critical  position  of  Loisy.  Modernism  is 
not  a  party,  but  only  a  league  of  sympathy 
among  minds  that  are  moving  in  the  same  gen- 
eral direction. 


ward  modern  thought.  And  in  spite  of 
popular  indifference,  traditional  rever- 
ence for  the  Church,  and  its  perfected 
discipline,  threatening  signs  of  the  times 
are  not  wanting.  The  authors  of  the 
Programme  attribute  the  violence  of  the 
Curia  against  the  new  theology  in  part  to 
the  fact  that  its  members  are  not  at  all 
sure  of  the  tenability  of  the  old.  Analo- 
gously, their  violence  in  launching  ex- 
communications against  persons  may  be 
partly  due  to  lack  of  confidence  in  their 
own  power.  At  any  rate  their  gross  and 
cruel  violations  of  liberty  of  thought  and 
conscience  have  aroused  indignation  and 
resentment,  even  among  the  apathetic 
Romans.  I  know  it  to  be  a  fact  that  many 
of  the  most  cultivated  and  intelligent 
Roman  laymen  were  recently  on  the  point 
of  publicly  expressing  their  sympathy 
with  Modernists,  and  defying  the  excom- 
munication. It  is  hard  to  say  what  might 
not  happen  in  the  event,  not  at  all  un- 
likely, of  the  election  of  a  liberal  and 
progressive  Pope. 

Meanwhile  Pius  X,  in  spite  of  his  com- 
plete subservience  to  the  party  of  reac- 
tion, has  accomplished  a  noteworthy  re- 
form in  the  administrative  and  judicial 
procedure  of  the  Church  by  his  decree 
dated  June  29,  1908.  Considered  sum- 
marily, this  decree  in  the  first  place  re- 
duces to  order  the  Roman  Congregations, 
which,  since  they  were  first  instituted  by 
Paul  III  and  systematized  by  Sixtus  V, 
have,  in  respect  of  their  functions  and  at- 
tributions, developed  numerous  inconsist- 
encies, inequalities,  and  anachronisms; 
and  in  the  second  place,  by  taking  from 
the  Congregations  all  judicial  compe- 
tence, and  bestowing  this  upon  the  Courts 
of  the  Rota  and  the  Segnatura,  which  are 
thus  restored  to  their  antique  splendor 
and  importance.  It  establishes  the  dis- 
tinction now  generally  observed  between 
judicial  and  administrative  procedure. 
Speaking  more  particularly,  it  is  to  be 
remarked  that  the  importance  of  the 
Congregation  of  the  Consistory  is  greatly 
increased,  while  that  of  the  Congregation 
of  the  Propaganda  is  greatly  diminished. 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education 


783 


The  dioceses  in  Great  Britain,  Holland, 
Luxembourg,  the  United  States,  Can- 
ada, and  Newfoundland,  formerly  re- 
garded as  missionary  jurisdictions,  will 
be  taken  away  from  the  Propaganda  and 
put  into  direct  relations  with  the  Holy 
See. 

Especially  in  Great  Britain,  Holland, 
the  United  States,  and  Canada,  the  dio- 
ceses have  long  since  been  thoroughly 
organized,  and  their  bishops  have  not 
infrequently  complained  that  they  were 
treated  as  if  they  were  in  charge  of  un- 
civilized communities.  Catholics  in  these 
countries  will  therefore  have  the  satis- 
faction of  being  on  an  equal  footing  with 
their  fellow  subjects  of  the  Roman  obe- 
dience in  other  parts  of  the  world.  How- 
ever, as  a  writer  in  the  Journal  des  Debats 
(July  23)  acutely  observes,  this  increased 
self-importance  will  not  be  without  its 
compensations.  The  procedure  of  the 


Propaganda  is  both  quick  and  gratu- 
itous, while  that  of  the  Holy  See  is  slow, 
expensive,  and  beset  with  formalities. 
But  it  is  only  just  to  add  that  the  pre- 
sent decree  relieves  petitioners  of  the 
Curia  of  the  necessity  of  employing  cer- 
tain intermediate  agents  and  procurators, 
of  whose  expensive  services  they  were 
formerly,  whether  laymen  or  ecclesias- 
tics, individuals  or  communities,  com- 
pelled to  avail  themselves. 

But  I  must  content  myself  with  this  bare 
mention  of  a  reform  which  reflects  much 
credit  on  the  present  Pontiff  and  his  ad- 
visers, and  by  which  they  have  promoted 
the  cause  of  justice  and  good  government. 
As  the  decree  does  not  take  effect  until 
the  present  month  of  November,  and  as 
certain  regulations  and  dispositions  gov- 
erning matters  of  detail  have  not  yet 
been  published,  I  shall  return  to  this 
same  subject  in  a  future  article. 


THE  ORGANIZATION   OF  HIGHER  EDUCATION 


BY   HENRY   S.   PRITCHETT 


ALL  associations  of  men  which  seek  to 
deal  with  social,  intellectual,  and  spirit- 
ual forces,  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being  between  the  tendency  to  over-or- 
ganization on  the  one  hand,  and  the  lack 
of  effective  organization  on  the  other.  It 
is  clear  that  organization  must  play  in 
such  associations  a  somewhat  different 
role  from  that  which  it  fills  in  certain 
other  agencies,  such  as  those  of  business, 
for  example.  As  we  study  the  history  of 
churches  and  of  parties,  we  are  often 
impressed  with  the  fact  that  the  period 
of  their  greatest  efficiency  as  moral  and 
social  agencies  came  in  the  days  before 
organization  had  run  away  with  the  living 
causes  which  gave  them  birth.  Schools, 
colleges,  and  universities,  like  churches 
and  parties,  are  simply  human  organiza- 
tions seeking  to  deal  with  spiritual  and 


intellectual  forces.  They,  no  less  than 
religious  and  political  organizations, 
stand  in  danger  of  the  narrowness  and 
rigidity  which  comes  from  formal  ad- 
ministration. Human  nature  is  quite  the 
same,  whether  one  considers  priests,  poli- 
ticians, or  pedagogues.  For  each  organ- 
ization tends  to  run  away  with  the  deeper 
underlying  purpose  which  gave  it  birth. 
Devotion  to  church  is  confused  with  reli- 
gion, devotion  to  party  with  statesman- 
ship, and  devotion  to  educational  routine 
takes  the  place  of  true  teaching. 

Nevertheless,  in  great  continuing  move- 
ments, such  as  the  education  of  a  nation, 
organization  is  indispensable.  In  no  other 
way  can  continuity  and  efficiency  be  had. 
Not  only  is  this  true,  but  organization 
which  is  wise,  which  respects  fundamen- 
tal tendencies  and  forces,  which  separates 


784 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education 


incongruous  phases  of  activity,  may  not 
only  add  to  the  efficiency  of  a  national 
educational  effort,  but  may  offer  a 
larger  measure  of  freedom  than  can  be 
hoped  for  in  chaotic  and  unrelated  efforts 
to  accomplish  the  same  ends.  Isolation 
and  lack  of  cooperation  are  no  less  dead- 
ening than  unthinking  obedience  to  es- 
tablished routine.  The  practical  pro- 
blem in  a  civilized  nation  is  to  establish 
such  an  educational  organization  as  will 
secure  relation  between  the  different 
kinds  of  schools,  while  at  the  same  time 
preserving  fair  freedom  of  action  and  of 
development. 

This  conception  of  an  educational  sys- 
tem has  come  as  the  result  of  many  cent- 
uries of  evolution.  In  the  older  Euro- 
pean countries,  schools  of  one  kind  and 
another  began,  developed,  and  were 
gradually  related  the  one  to  the  other  in 
a  common  educational  system.  In  the 
most  advanced  European  states,  as  for 
example  Germany,  the  national  system 
of  education  aims  to  deal  with  the  in- 
dividual citizen  from  the  time  of  his  first 
entrance  into  a  school  up  to  the  comple- 
tion of  his  vocational  or  professional 
training.  While  these  schools  have  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  the  accepted  system 
of  education  recognizes  certain  clear  di- 
visions corresponding  to  distinctive  peri- 
ods in  the  life  of  the  child  or  of  the  youth. 
The  schools  which  are  intended  to  corre- 
spond to  these  periods  articulate,  they 
do  not  overlap.  The  system  of  education 
consists,  therefore,  of  a  continuous  series 
of  schools  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest, 
and  a  school  of  given  name  does  practi- 
cally the  same  work  in  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom. 

In  the  United  States  we  are  younger. 
The  pioneer  stage  of  national  develop- 
ment is  so  near  to  us  in  time  that  many 
of  its  habits  still  rule  in  social  and  polit- 
ical matters.  This  is  particularly  true  in 
education.  We  can  scarcely  claim  as  yet 
to  have  a  system,  at  least  in  higher  edu- 
cation; or,  if  there  is  the  beginning  of 
a  system,  the  inharmonies  in  it  are  more 
striking  than  the  agreements. 


To  illustrate.  The  college  is  our  oldest 
school  of  higher  learning.  In  the  United 
States  to-day  there  are  nearly  one  thou- 
sand institutions  which  call  themselves 
colleges.  The  work  offered  by  these  insti- 
tutions varies  from  that  of  a  true  college 
articulating  with  the  standard  high  school 
and  offering  four  years  of  fruitful  study, 
to  that  of  institutions  so  low  in  grade 
that  their  courses  of  study  do  not  equal 
those  of  a  good  high  school. 

This  confusion  is  the  result  of  a  num- 
ber of  causes,  among  which,  especially 
significant,  are  the  newness  of  our  edu- 
cational development,  the  lack  of  any 
intelligent  supervision  of  higher  educa- 
tion, and  the  tendency  of  colleges  in  the 
past  to  remain  isolated  schools  unrelated 
to  the  general  system  of  education.  The 
first  of  these  is  a  perfectly  natural  phase 
of  our  extraordinary  national  and  indus- 
trial growth.  Our  institutions  of  learn- 
ing have  grown  up  under  the  most  di- 
verse conditions.  The  astonishing  thing 
is  that  they  have  grown  in  such  numbers. 
The  essential  thing  to  recognize  to-day  is 
that  the  pioneer  days  are  over ;  and  that 
the  problem  before  us  now  is,  not  the 
building  of  more  colleges,  but  the  strength- 
ening of  those  which  exist,  and  the  bring- 
ing of  some  measure  of  educational  unity 
into  our  whole  system  of  education. 

The  absence,  in  nearly  all  states  of  the 
Union,  of  any  form  of  supervision  over 
higher  education  is  a  singular  feature  of 
our  educational  history.  The  University 
of  the  State  of  New  York  (which  is  a 
board,  not  an  institution)  represents  al- 
most the  only  effective  agency  in  any 
state  in  the  Union  which  has  the  power 
to  supervise,  or  even  to  criticise,  institu- 
tions devoted  to  higher  education  and  to 
professional  training.  In  the  State  of 
New  York  the  term  college  has  a  definite 
meaning;  and  an  institution,  whether  for 
academic  or  professional  training,  must, 
before  it  can  confer  degrees,  comply  with 
certain  standards,  and  must  have  certain 
facilities  for  education.  In  most  states  of 
the  Union,  at  least  until  very  recently, 
any  body  of  men,  who  chose  to  do  so  for 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education, 


785 


any  purpose  whatever,  could  incorporate 
under  the  general  laws  and  organize  what 
they  called  a  college,  a  medical  school, 
or  a  law  school,  to  be  conducted  accord- 
ing to  their  own  standards  or  ambitions, 
and  without  any  relation  to  the  general 
system  of  education.  Under  these  con- 
ditions, denominational,  professional, 
local,  and  personal  rivalries  have  led  to 
the  establishment  of  more  so-called  col- 
leges and  professional  schools  than  the 
country  can  possibly  support.  These 
may  legally  confer  all  the  degrees  of 
higher  learning  which  the  strongest  and 
most  scrupulous  college  can  offer,  —  a 
right  they  are  not  slow  to  make  use  of. 
The  District  of  Columbia  has  been  pro- 
lific in  paper  colleges  which  scatter  de- 
grees far  and  wide,  the  distribution  be- 
ginning usually  with  the  members  of  their 
own  faculties.  Among  the  colleges  char- 
tered by  the  State  of  Maryland  about 
1900  is  the  "  Medico-  Chirurgical  and 
Theological  College  of  Christ's  Institu- 
tion." The  charter  gave  the  school  the 
right  to  grant  all  kinds  of  degrees,  and 
it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  organizers 
a  few  weeks  later  were  able  to  attach  to 
their  names  all  the  academic  titles.  The 
Fifth  Annual  Catalogue  contained  the 
following  on  its  first  page :  "  Fifth  Annual 
Announcement  and  Catalogue,  edited  by 
the  Rev.  Dr.  P.  Thomas  Stanford,  A.  M., 
M.D.,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Ph.D.,  Vice-Presi- 
dent." 

The  absence  of  any  rational  super- 
vision, or  even  of  any  provision  for  fair 
criticism  or  review,  of  our  higher  institu- 
tions of  learning  is,  in  part,  due  to  the 
attitude  of  the  colleges  themselves.  In  the 
past,  even  the  older  and  stronger  colleges 
have  been  disposed  to  resent  any  official 
inquiry  into  their  organizations,  or  into 
their  methods  of  conduct.  College  pro- 
fessors have  been  not  a  little  inclined  to 
look  down  on  those  who  supervised  state 
schools.  Such  places  have  been  con- 
sidered inferior  in  importance  to  that  of 
a  college  president  or  professor.  This  is 
partly  due  to  the  political  prestige  (using 
that  term  in  a  large  sense)  which  the 
VOL.  102  -NO.  6 


college  president  enjoys  in  the  support 
of  a  large  constituency.  The  superin- 
tendent of  education  has  at  his  back  no 
great  body  of  alumni  and  students.  He 
is  not  in  the  public  eye  in  the  same  way 
as  the  college  president.  Nevertheless 
these  places  are  of  the  highest  educational 
value,  and  they  should  be  made  worthy 
of  the  best  men.  What  college  president 
has  done  for  education  in  America  what 
Horace  Mann  did  for  it?  Furthermore, 
the  good  college  has  everything  to  gain 
by  a  scrutiny  of  higher  education  if 
carried  out  by  able  men  under  a  system 
free  of  political  interference.  The  time 
has  come  when,  in  all  states,  those  who 
stand  for  sincerity  in  education  should 
demand  the  passage  of  laws  safeguarding 
the  degree-giving  power,  and  providing 
an  agency  for  the  expert  oversight  of 
higher  education  as  well  as  of  elementary 
and  secondary  education.  Universities 
and  colleges  are  to  all  intents  educational 
trusts.  They  have  the  same  advantages 
to  gain  from  fair  and  wise  oversight  on 
the  part  of  the  state  which  other  trusts 
have  to  gain  by  such  oversight. 

Underlying  all  other  causes  which  tend 
to  confusion  in  higher  education  is  the 
fundamental  one  that  American  colleges 
have  been  in  the  past  conducted  as  sepa- 
rate units,  not  as  factors  in  a  general  edu- 
cational system.  Devotion  to  education 
has  meant  generally  devotion  to  the  for- 
tunes of  a  single  institution.  There  has 
been  little  effort  to  coordinate  colleges 
with  other  institutions  of  higher  learning 
or  with  the  general  system  of  education. 
To  the  want  of  a  general  educational 
consciousness  more  than  to  any  other 
cause  is  due  the  confusion  which  to-day 
reigns  among  our  higher  institutions  of 
learning. 

It  seems  clear  that  the  work  of  the  next 
two  decades  in  American  education  is 
to  be  a  work  of  educational  reorganiza- 
tion; and  this  reorganization  must  in- 
clude elementary  and  secondary  educa- 
tion as  well  as  higher  education,  for  the 
problem  of  national  education  is  really 
one  problem,  not  a  series  of  isolated  and 


786 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education 


unrelated  problems.  To-day  our  schools, 
from  the  elementary  school  to  the  uni- 
versity, are  inefficient,  superficial,  lack- 
ing expert  supervision.  They  are  dis- 
jointed members  of  what  ought  to  be  a 
consistent  system.  The  work  of  reorgan- 
ization is  so  enormous  that  one  is  almost 
at  a  loss  to  answer  the  practical  question, 
Where  should  such  reorganization  begin  ? 
The  answer  to  this  question  must  come, 
in  the  end,  from  the  intelligent  leadership 
of  teachers  themselves,  and  from  the  co- 
operation of  teachers  in  all  parts  of  our 
system  of  national  education.  I  venture 
to  point  out  certain  considerations  which 
seem  to  me  to  be  essential  as  forming  the 
ground-work  from  which  improvement 
and  progress  must  proceed. 

It  is,  I  believe,  admitted  by  those  who 
are  most  familiar  with  the  conditions  of 
schools  throughout  the  United  States 
that  the  weakness  and  inefficiency  of  the 
elementary  and  secondary  schools  arise 
primarily  from  two  sources:  first,  the 
effort  to  teach  too  many  things  to  the 
neglect  of  the  fundamental  mental  train- 
ing; and,  second,  the  lack  of  competent 
teachers.  In  other  words,  the  elementary 
and  secondary  schools,  like  the  institutions 
of  higher  learning,  have  attempted  to 
teach  too  many  subjects,  to  the  neglect  of 
the  fundamental  intellectual  training 
which  is  common  to  all  education.  The 
remedy  for  this  lies  in  a  return  to  a  more 
simple  and  thorough  curriculum,  and  in  a 
variation  of  the  school  type.  We  cannot 
teach  all  subjects  in  one  school,  but  we 
can  provide  a  wide  variety  of  schools  each 
of  which  may  do  its  own  work  thoroughly. 

It  is  clear  that  the  lack  of  efficient 
teaching  is  one  of  the  most  expensive  na- 
tional weaknesses;  and  that  the  ineffi- 
ciency of  our  school  system  is,  in  great 
measure,  due  to  this  lack  is  evident.  For 
example,  mathematics  is  a  subject  which 
has  been  a  standard  study  in  our  schools 
from  the  beginning.  Students  who  pass 
through  our  high  schools  and  enter  col- 
lege spend  in  the  nine  years  correspond- 
ing to  the  period  covered  by  the  German 
gymnasium,  seventy-five  per  cent  more 


of  the  time  of  instruction  on  mathematics, 
and  yet  receive  a  training  vastly  inferior 
to  that  of  the  gymnasium. 

Progress  has  been  made  in  the  last 
two  years  toward  equipping  a  larger 
number  of  competent  teachers.  The 
growth  of  the  Teachers'  Colleges  in  con- 
nection with  the  universities  is  a  most 
notable  gain.  Before  the  matter  can  be 
rightly  solved,  public  opinion  must  be 
educated  to  appreciate  the  dignity  and 
importance  of  the  teacher's  work,  and  the 
absolute  necessity  for  such  strengthening 
of  the  security  and  recompense  of  the 
teacher  as  will  attract  to  that  calling  able 
men  and  women  in  large  numbers. 

It  is  clear  also  that  the  elementary  and 
secondary  system  of  education  must,  in 
its  reorganization,  meet  the  present-day 
demand  for  industrial  training.  Our 
public-school  system  did  not  undertake 
originally  vocational  training.  In  the 
modern  industrial  state,  that  training 
is  a  part  of  public  education;  and  one 
very  serious  problem  to  be  met  in  the 
reorganization  of  education  is  the  pro- 
vision for  vocational  schools,  and  their 
relation  to  the  elementary  school  sys- 
tem. 

It  is  not  possible  at  this  day  to  out- 
line a  complete  system  of  such  schools. 
Clearly,  the  vocational  school  will  vary 
with  the  locality,  and  will  minister  to 
local  conditions.  The  experience  of  other 
nations  would,  however,  seem  to  indi- 
cate that  elementary  schools  will  con- 
tinue to  be  devoted  to  the  general  educa- 
tion of  children  up  to  the  age  of  fourteen 
years,  but  that  their  last  two  years  will 
see  the  introduction  of  certain  industrial 
exercises  and  studies.  The  vocational 
schools,  resting  on  the  elementary  schools, 
are  likely  to  be  two-year,  and  in  some 
cases  three-year,  high  schools.  The  high 
school,  devoted  to  general  training,  is 
under  such  conditions  likely  also  to  tend 
toward  a  similar  length  of  curriculum. 
In  a  word,  the  curriculum  and  the  length 
of  time  spent  in  the  high  school  would  be 
materially  modified  by  an  increased 
efficiency  in  the  lower  schools,  and  by 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education 


787 


the  effort  to  meet  the  demands  of  voca- 
tional training. 

These  transformations  in  the  lower 
schools  which  time  is  sure  to  bring,  de- 
mand the  earnest  attention  of  those  en- 
gaged in  higher  education. 

The  method  of  transfer  from  the  sec- 
ondary school  to  the  college  is  one  of  pri- 
mary importance.  It  is  generally  admitted 
that,  at  present,  neither  the  admission  by 
certificate  nor  that  by  examination  is 
effectively  serving  education  or  the  in- 
terests of  students. 

Admission  by  certificate  is  necessarily 
a  very  indefinite  thing  in  the  absence  of 
a  rigid  and  impartial  supervision  of  sec- 
ondary schools.  One  great  source  of 
weakness  in  American  schools  would  be 
removed  by  the  adoption  of  the  plan 
generally  in  use  in  foreign  schools  and  in 
Canada,  under  which  the  examinations 
for  promotion  from  one  grade  to  the 
next  are  conducted  by  the  supervisor  of 
education,  not  by  the  teacher.  The  pres- 
sure brought  upon  teachers  to  promote 
ill-prepared  pupils  is  thereby  elimin- 
ated, and  this  pressure  is  a  fruitful  source 
of  demoralization  in  American  public 
schools. 

Admission  to  college  by  examination 
has  unquestionably  served  a  useful  pur- 
pose in  American  education,  but  it  has 
also  tended  to  make  admission* to  col- 
lege assume  the  form  of  doing  certain 
"  stunts  "  rather  than  the  attainment  of  a 
certain  grade  of  intellectual  culture.  Its 
effect  upon  the  secondary  schools  has 
been  most  disastrous  from  the  standpoint 
of  true  education. 

This  result  has  no  doubt  been  partly 
due  to  the  attempt  to  recognize  a  large 
variety  of  subjects  as  college  entrance 
requirements.  Under  such  a  regime,  a 
boy  is  naturally  inclined  to  glean  a  point 
for  admission  wherever  it  can  be  most 
easily  picked  up.  This  tendency,  coupled 
with  the  low  passing  mark  accepted  for 
admission,  has  worked  for  increased  su- 
perficiality in  the  preparation  of  boys 
entering  college.  As  a  result,  in  the  col- 
leges admitting  by  examination  only,  a 


minority  of  the  students  enter  without 
conditions.  From  the  report  of  the  com- 
mittee on  admissions  of  Harvard  College, 
it  appears  that  in  the  last  freshman  class, 
out  of  607  entering,  352,  or  58  per  cent, 
had  entered  below  the  requirements  for 
admission. 

The  question  of  the  right  coordination 
of  the  college  with  the  secondary  school 
is  one  which  should  have  at  this  time  the 
most  earnest  consideration  on  the  part 
of  teachers,  both  in  the  college  and  in  the 
secondary  school.  The  first  practical  step 
would  seem  to  be  to  secure  uniformity 
in  this  matter  throughout  the  country. 
For  this  reason  the  Carnegie  Foundation 
has  adopted  a  definition  of  a  college 
which  involves  the  placing  of  the  college 
upon  the  standard  four-year  high  school. 
Great  progress  is  making  throughout  the 
whole  country  toward  uniformity  in  this 
matter.  Once  this  is  attained,  the  ques- 
tion whether  the  dividing  point  between 
college  and  high  school  should  be  changed 
can  be  effectively  taken  up,  and  this  ques- 
tion is  one  which  is  immediately  involved 
in  the  consideration  of  any  plan  of  na- 
tional education. 

Within  the  last  three  decades  the  field 
of  the  high  school  has  been  so  enlarged 
that  its  last  two  years  cover  to-day  the 
studies  formerly  given  in  the  first  two 
years  of  college.  This  has  not  been  ac- 
complished by  an  increase  of  efficiency  in 
the  lower  grades.  The  boy  who  formerly 
entered  college  at  sixteen  now  enters  at 
eighteen. 

The  whole  subject  of  administration 
of  higher  education,  no  less  than  the  de- 
termination of  the  functions  of  the  col- 
lege itself  and  its  future,  are  contained 
in  the  inquiry  whether  the  boy  shall 
enter  college  at  sixteen  or  at  eighteen. 

Is  our  system  of  higher  education  to 
consist  of  a  secondary  school  surmounted 
by  the  college,  and  this  in  turn  surmount- 
ed by  the  university  with  its  graduate  and 
professional  schools?  Then  assuredly 
the  college  must  deliver  students  to  the 
university  at  an  earlier  age  than  twenty- 
two  and  a  half  years,  which  is  the  present 


788 


The  Organization  of  Higher  Education 


practice.  The  German  boy  enters  the 
university  to-day  from  the  gymnasium 
fully  two  years  younger  than  the  Amer- 
ican boy  enters  the  American  university 
from  the  college.  No  nation  will  endure 
so  serious  a  handicap  as  this  organization 
of  education  would  involve. 

Just  what  function  does  the  college, 
which  is  our  most  distinctive  institution, 
fill  ?  Is  it  a  school  for  youths  where  both 
discipline  and  freedom  are  to  play  a  part, 
a  school  in  which  the  youth  is  brought 
out  of  the  tutelage  of  the  boy  into  the 
freedom  of  the  man  ?  or  is  it  a  school  for 
men  in  which  they  choose  as  they  will  the 
studies  and  the  pleasures  of  the  college 
life  ?  If  the  first  ideal  is  that  which  is  to 
form  the  college,  then  the  college  years 
may  well  be  those  between  sixteen  and 
twenty ;  if  the  latter,  eighteen  is  full  young 
for  such  unrestricted  freedom. 

It  seems  clear  that  those  who  deal  with 
American  education  must  choose  be- 
tween these  two  distinctive  conceptions 
of  what  the  college  is  to  be.  If  the  first 
conception  is  to  become  general,  then 
we  may  justly  impose  the  university  on 
the  college,  forming  a  consistent  system 
of  higher  education,  and  insuring  the 
permanent  preservation  of  the  American 
college.  If  the  latter  conception  of  the 
college  is  to  prevail,  either  two  years  must 
be  gained  in  preparatory  education,  or 
else  the  college  must  become,  as  it  is  now 
tending  to  become,  a  sort  of  parallel  to 
the  university,  a  school  for  the  few  and 
not  for  the  many. 

I  venture  to  add  that  the  needs  of  ele- 
mentary education,  the  demands  for  in- 
dustrial training,  the  claims  of  the  pro- 
fessional schools,  and  the  economic  neces- 
sities of  the  situation,  all  seem  to  point 
to  a  solution  of  an  educational  organiza- 
tion in  which  the  college  would  deliver 
its  students  to  the  university,  or  to  busi- 
ness life,  at  twenty  rather  than  at  twenty- 
two. 

Finally,  those  who  have  to  deal  with 
education,  and  with  its  organization, 
must  make  clear  the  distinction  between 
college  and  university.  Economic  con- 


siderations, no  less  than  educational 
efficiency,  demand  that  the  present  con- 
fusion should  be  cleared  away. 

I  question  whether  we  have  yet  realized 
the  effect  of  this  confusion  upon  the 
American  college  in  the  transformation  of 
teaching  and  of  teachers.  The  old-time 
college  teacher  was  a  man  who  had,  above 
all  else,  intellectual  enthusiasm  and  intel- 
lectual sympathy;  his  learning  touched 
many  fields,  and  all  with  a  sympathetic 
and  friendly  spirit;  and  his  work  con- 
sisted largely  of  bringing  into  the  lives, 
and  into  the  intellectual  appreciation  of 
his  students,  his  own  sense  of  learning 
and  of  civilization  and  of  social  relations. 
For  this  work  there  was  needed,  not 
primarily  a  man  of  research,  but  a  man 
of  large  comprehension,  of  wide  interests, 
of  keen  sympathies,  and  of  discriminating 
touch.  We  seldom  choose  teachers  to- 
day on  such  grounds.  The  primary  re- 
quisite is  that  the  teacher  shall  be  a  man 
of  research,  that  he  shall  have  indicated 
in  some  special  direction  his  ability  to 
advance  human  knowledge,  or  at  least 
his  readiness  to  make  that  attempt. 
When  we  choose  a  teacher  on  this  basis 
alone,  we  surrender  the  essential  reason 
for  which  the  college  exists;  for  if  the 
college  is  to  serve  as  a  place  for  the  de- 
velopment of  character,  for  the  blossom- 
ing of  the  human  spirit  and  of  the  hu- 
man intellect,  it  will  become  this  only 
under  the  leadership  of  men  who  have 
in  their  own  lives  shown  the  fruitage  of 
such  development,  and  who  have  them- 
selves broad  sympathies  and  quick  appre- 
ciations. 

I  am  the  last  man  to  wish  the  spirit  of 
research  dulled.  We  need  in  our  uni- 
versities, above  all  else,  the  nurture  of 
this  spirit.  What  I  wish  to  emphasize  is 
this :  the  college  and  the  university  stand 
for  essentially  different  purposes.  These 
distinctions  are  almost  lost  sight  of  in  the 
confusion  of  our  educational  organiza- 
tion. Research  is  a  word  to  conjure  with, 
but  in  the  last  two  decades  more  sins  have 
been  committed  in  its  name  against  good 
teaching  than  we  are  likely  to  atone  for 


To  R.  P.  C.                                               789 

in  the  next  generation.    We  must,  if  we  to  discriminate  between  good  teaching 

are  to  retain  the  college  as  a  place  for  and  poor  teaching,  we  shall  get  far  on  the 

general  culture,  and  the  university  as  a  way  to  distinguish  between  true  scien- 

place  for  the  promotion  of  scholarly  re-  tific  research  and  its  imitation,  an  inquiry 

search    and    for    professional    training,  which  will  be  as  greatly  to  the  advantage 

honor  the  college  teacher  for  his  own  of  our  graduate  schools  and  universities 

work's  sake,  and  honor  no  less  the  inves-  as  the  first  can  be  to  our  colleges.    In 

tigator  in  his  own  field.   These  two  fields  both  college  and  university  we  need  to 

overlap ;  but  in  the  college  the  primary  turn  our  faces  resolutely  toward  simplic- 

f unction  is  one  thing,  in  the  institution  ity,  sincerity,  thoroughness ;  to  get  a  clear 

for  research,  another.  conception  of  what  we  are  undertaking, 

Let  me  add  one  other  word  in  this  con-  and  to  call   institutions  of  learning  by 

nection.    If  we  will  seriously  undertake  their  true  names. 


TO  R.   P.   C. 

(With  a  Baton) 
BY  GRACE  HAZARD   CONKLING 

THIS  wand  that  tapers  slenderly 

From  ebony  to  ivory 

Can  call  from  brass^and  wood  and  strings 

Beauty  that  is  the  soul  of  things. 

With  this  divining-rod,  among 

Old  woes  and  wonders  long  unsung 

Thy  hand  shall  grope,  instinct  to  feel 

What  springs  of  music  to  unseal. 

For  thee  —  as  when  a  master  nods  — 

Shall  sigh  again  the  ancient  gods; 

Returning  o'er  their  starry  track, 

Thy  summoned  heroes  shall  come  back; 

For  thee  shall  sound  the  hardihood 

Of  Mime's  hammer  in  the  wood, 

And  clearly  down  its  glades  forlorn 

The  challenge  of  young  Siegfried's  horn; 

Thy  violins  shall  call  and  sing 

Like  birds  in  Siegmund's  House  of  Spring, 

Or  cry  the  heartbreak  and  the  stress 

Of  Tristan's  tragic  tenderness; 

Thy  gesture  shall  bewitch  the  sky 

With  wild  Valkyries  streaming  by; 

Again  dark  Wotan  with  a  word 

Shall  splinter  the  new-welded  sword, 


790  To  R.  P.  C. 

Shall  still  the  battle's  clang  and  shock 
And  ring  with  flame  Briinnhilde's  rock; 
And  when  on  sobbing  muted  horns 
Gray  prophecies  of  the  gray  Noras 
Foretell  the  coming  twilight  doom, 
Across  the  menace  and  the  gloom 
Thy  wand  of  magic  shall  not  fail 
To  fling  the  radiance  of  the  Grail. 

When  gods  and  heroes  understand 
And  answer  to  thy  beckoning  hand, 
Can  I  —  if  thou  shalt  set  the  time  — 
Refuse  to  answer  thee  in  rhyme, 
Withhold  the  uncourageous  song 
My  soul  has  sheltered  overlong? 

As  though  a  hidden  mountain  spring  — 
Small  dreaming  inarticulate  thing  — 
Enchanted  broad  awake,  should  hear 
The  ocean's  diapason  near, 
And  chime  of  breakers  on  the  sand 
Thrill  o'er  the  phantom  hills  inland 
(Nor  recognize  the  organ-sound 
Of  the  soft- thundering  pines  around), 
Then  —  music-startled  out  of  sleep  — 
Should  feel  its  tiny  pulses  leap, 
And  up  the  sheer  blue  heights  of  air 
Against  the  very  sun  should  dare 
Lift  its  frail  praise  and  bid  rejoice 
Its  thin  and  silver-dropping  voice  — 
So  shall  that  sealed  and  secret  spring 
That  is  my  soul  —  find  voice  to  sing, 
By  thy  enchantment  made  aware 
How  the  deep  calls  along  the  air. 
Thy  orchestra  awake  in  the  sun, 
At  highest  heave  and  farthest  run, 
Shall  fling  me  leagues  on  leagues  away 
The  magic  of  its  poignant  spray; 
And  I  far  inland  on  that  breath 
Shall  taste  Life  bittersweet  —  and  Death; 
Shall  send  my  song  fluttering  alone 
Where  the  sea  calls  unto  its  own  — 
A  sea-bird  beating  far  from  me 
Home  to  the  breakers  —  home  to  sea. 


READING  THE   SNOW 


BY   RAYMOND   S.    SPEARS 


A  LIGHT  fall  of  snow  on  a  strong  crust  is 
a  thrilling  page,  furnishing  narrative  on 
narrative,  with  conclusions  in  many  in- 
stances transcribed  in  the  Book  of  Doom. 
Fluffy,  ephemeral,  matchless  in  its  pre- 
cision, and  endless  in  its  detail,  the  snow 
page  displays  the  ways  and  whims  of 
the  great  and  small,  of  the  thrifty  and  of 
the  careless,  of  the  roving  hunters,  of  the 
home-abiding  rodents ;  in  fact,  acting  the 
part  of  a  good  newspaper,  with  partiality 
for  the  runners  and  walkers,  while  on 
rare  occasions  taking  a  short  paragraph 
from  the  higher  realms  of  the  sky-fliers, 
quite  like  newspapers  which  men  make  of 
wood-pulp,  plastered  with  ink.  One  might 
carry  the  analogy  a  step  further.  There 
are  snows  which  are  as  brief-lived  as  an 
evening  paper,  flashing  before  the  eye 
an  edition  of  world-news,  but  burying  it 
under  other  editions  with  fresher  news. 
Then  there  are  staid  snows,  whose  re- 
cords are  so  valuable  that  one  finds  pleas- 
ure in  consulting  back  numbers.  Thus 
my  brother  once  observed  a  skunk  track 
in  a  Thanksgiving  snow.  In  April  he 
found  the  same  track  in  raised  letters, 
proving  beyond  doubt  that  this  skunk  had 
something  to  say,  and  had  said  it.  In 
this  instance  it  called  vivid  attention  to 
the  fact  that  there  are  editions  and  edi- 
tions of  snow.  Every  layer  of  snow  falling 
in  the  forest  isVritten  upon  by  fisher  and 
ermine,  mink  and  mouse,  squirrel  and 
rabbit,  and  by  all  the  other  creatures 
which  roam  the  deep  woods  in  winter. 

In  the  Adirondacks  one  finds  more 
red-squirrel  tracks  than  any  other  kind. 
Rabbits,  deer-mice,  fox,  ruffed  grouse, 
porcupines,  and  ermines  follow  in  de- 
creasing abundance.  Then  come  the 
rarer  prints  of  deer,  mink,  marten,  fisher, 
otter,  and  bears,  the  treasures  of  snow 
classics.  It  is  something  to  be  able  to  re- 


cognize the  track  of  a  cat  or  dog;  there 
are  some  less  varied  trail-stories  than 
those  of  a  field-  or  woods-roaming  house- 
cat;  but  to  go  on  with  the  study,  learn- 
ing to  recognize  the  muskrat,  the  weasel, 
the  fox,  and  the  other  animals  by  their 
footprints  in  the  snow,  and  then  to 
divine  what  the  creatures  had  in  their 
minds  by  these  same  tokens,  that  is,  in- 
deed, very  much. 

In  reading  the  trail  of  a  wild  animal  in 
the  forest,  one  is  brought  close  to  the 
heart  of  the  trail-maker;  how  close  de- 
pends upon  the  reader.  One  may  glance 
at  the  trail,  decide  that  "  It's  only  some 
little  animal!"  and  pass  on,  seeking  a 
livelier  tale;  or  he  may  stop,  take  the  first 
methodical  step,  and  find  out  which  ani- 
mal made  it» 

Here  is  a  moment  when  one  brings  all 
his  previous  knowledge  of  nature  to  bear 
upon  one  point.  Two  dots  in  a  thin  layer 
of  snow  upon  a  hard  crust  may  be  the 
starting-point  of  a  long  and  wonderful  dip 
into  stream  and  forest  lore.  One  sees  the 
prints  of  two  little  paws;  the  heels  came 
down  lightly,  while  the  claws  dug  into  the 
crust  under  the  snow,  and  when  the  ani- 
mal sprang  forward,  the  toes  tossed  a  few 
crystals  back  across  the  heel-marks.  Two 
footprints  are  almost  side  by  side,  the 
toes  of  one  foot  beside  the  heel- marks  of 
the  other.  Something  more  than  two 
inches  long  and  a  third  as  wide,  the  foot- 
print is  in  itself  a  little  problem,  as  close 
inspection  will  show.  For  instance,  in 
each  of  the  two  footprints  one  may  find 
distinct  traces  of  seven  or  eight  claws, 
perhaps  ten  little  scratches  in  the  crust. 
As  the  claws  show  the  way  the  animal 
traveled,  it  is  worth  while  to  follow  up 
the  line  of  tracks,  the  italic  colons  (:)  so  to 
speak.  Such  a  line  of  tracks  one  may  find 
almost  anywhere:  in  forest  depths,  in 

791 


792 


Reading  the  Snow 


fields,  in  brier  patches,  traversing  a  pass 
on  a  wooded  ridge,  or  along  a  flat  land 
beside  some  stream  or  pond.  Sometimes 
the  track  enters  a  barn,  or  circles  around 
a  hen-coop.  Usually,  however,  it  is  seen 
beside  a  stream,  running  up  to  brush 
and  drift  piles,  dipping  under  cakes  of 
ice,  and  at  some  point  the  trailer  will  find 
where  the  animal  walked,  like  a  cat.  Per- 
haps the  walk  will  call  vivid  attention  to 
the  remarkable  fact  that  while  the  animal 
ran,  it  apparently  used  only  two  paws. 
But  a  moment  of  consideration  will  show 
that  the  seven  or  ten  scratches  in  each 
footprint  meant  that  two  paws  used  each 
impression,  that  the  animal's  fore-paws 
landed,  leaped,  and  went  on,  after  which 
the  hind-paws  struck  in  the  same  place 
and  sprang  ahead. 

Now,  one  must  follow  that  track  to  the 
end,  if  need  be,  to  learn  the  maker's 
name.  The  end  may  be  in  a  hole  in  the 
ice,  in  which  case  it  is  not  difficult  to  sur- 
mise that  the  trail-maker  was  a  mink. 
But  there  are  other  animals  which  make 
a  similar  track:  least  weasels,  ermines, 
martens,  and  fishers,  for  instance.  They 
vary  much  in  size,  the  least  weasel  hav- 
ing a  paw  less  than  an  inch  long,  while 
the  fisher  or  pekan  has  a  hind-foot  nearly, 
sometimes  quite,  five  inches  long.  The 
trail  and  its  course  indicate  the  name 
of  the  maker,  usually  beyond  doubt,  at 
a  glance.  Beside  a  stream  it  is  probably 
a  mink;  it  is  still  a  mink,  though  on  a 
mountain-top  in  marten  country,  if  the 
animal  slides  down  an  incline  on  the 
snow.  There  is  a  "  look  "  to  the  track, 
too,  which  a  practiced  eye  recognizes,  an 
appearance  which  even  a  partially  trained 
eye  may  distinguish,  should  a  crossing 
of  the  mink  track  and  a  marten  track, 
say,  be  discovered. 

There  is  always  this  problem  of  identi- 
fying the  track  of  an  animal.  It  is  some- 
times easy;  frequently  one  will  find  a 
track  which  it  is  not  possible  to  identify 
surely,  an  old  track,  much  defaced  by 
snow,  thaw,  or  evaporation,  being  un- 
recognizable long  before  its  last  trace 
visible  to  the  eye  is  destroyed.  Few  trails 


survive  a  fall  of  six  inches  of  snow,  even 
in  a  wide,  windless  forest.  Yet  a  bear 
track  made  in  loose  snow,  or  a  fox  track, 
say,  made  in  wet  snow,  will  remain  weeks 
and  even  months.  The  new  snow,  how- 
ever, is  a  new  page  which  is  soon  filled 
with  natural  history. 

When  one  has  learned  to  know  the 
fresh  trail  of  one  animal,  say  that  of  a 
mink  or  fox,  a  far  stride  toward  reading 
the  snow  has  been  taken.  If  one  takes 
that  trail  and  follows  its  wanderings  for 
even  an  hour,  the  delight  of  discovery 
will  quicken  the  observer.  The  "  same- 
ness "  of  nature  is  in  the  eye  of  the  un- 
learned and  unobserved  only.  No  two 
fox  trails  were  ever  exactly  alike.  In 
fact,  every  fox  has  its  own  character,  its 
own  habits,  and  each  day  its  own  di- 
vergencies from  all  the  other  days  of  its 
life.  A  folding  four-foot  rule  discloses 
variations  in  the  length  of  steps.  I  have 
seen  around  a  trap  the  tracks  of  a  fox 
which  averaged  three  inches  apart;  step- 
ping off  down  grade,  they  will  some- 
times pace  twenty-eight  inches  to  a  step. 
On  a  stiff  snow  into  which  they  break 
only  a  line,  make  a  bare  impression,  an 
eighteen  or  twenty-inch  stride  is  common. 
Mere  measurements  disclose  significant 
facts.  Thus,  when  a  fox  suddenly  changes 
its  stride  from  sixteen  or  eighteen  inches 
to  six  or  eight  inches  as  it  approaches  a 
nub  of  the  thin  snow  on  a  knoll,  it  can 
mean  but  one  thing,  a  mouse-nest  may  be 
under  that  nub.  Again,  one  finds  a  fox 
track  leading  back  and  forth  through  a 
swamp,  from  side  to  side.  The  steps  are 
twelve  or  sixteen  inches  long;  the  fox  is 
a  wild  still  hunter,  seeking  rabbits  or 
grouse. 

Measuring  tracks  is  a  pretty  practice- 
It  is  a  profitable  task  for  the  determined 
student  of  snow-reading,  worth  all  the 
backaches  and  cold  fingers  the  stooping 
and  jotting  down  of  the  figures  produce. 
A  careless  way  is  to  measure  two  or  three 
rods  of  track,  count  the  footprints,  and 
take  the  average;  but  when  one  reads  in 
his  notes,  "Fox  tracks,  wet  snow,  24  ft. 
12  strides  with  right  paws,  12  with  left — 


Reading  the  Snow 


793 


varied  from  14  to  28  inches,"  though  far 
better  than  no  measurements  at  all,  they 
are  unsatisfactory.  The  figures  should 
tell  whether  they  were  growing  shorter, 
longer,  or  merely  happened  to  vary  so 
much.  A  short  stride  commonly  means 
"  going  slow,"  along  stride,  "  going  fast." 

On  Little  Black  Creek  there  is  a  hunt- 
ers' camp.  As  near  many  an  Adirondack 
camp,  there  were  last  winter  trails  of  an 
ermine  leading  in  all  directions  from  this 
little  bark-roof  shack.  The  ermine  likes  a 
camp.  It  builds  a  nest  under  the  floor,  and 
hunts  mice  among  the  bark  layers ;  I  have 
seen  a  bark  roof  rain  mice  when  a  weasel 
was  hunting  in  it.  An  ermine  crossed  the 
old  sleigh-road,  and  I  measured  some 
jumps : "  Inches,  29,  32,  34,  24, 26, 24, 21, 
14,  20,  15,  etc."  This  was  up  and  down 
hummocks,  and  had  no  particular  sig- 
nificance, save  that  the  average  jump  was 
about  23.9  inches.  But  along  the  side  of 
the  road,  after  the  ermine  had  been  hunt- 
ing in  a  brush  heap,  the  figures  read: 
"  Inches,  8j,  6,  11,  10,  8,  4."  On  the  left 
side  of  the  track  was  a  broken  line  in  the 
snow,  showing  that  something  had  been 
dragged  through  it.  At  the  end  of  the 
4-inch  jump,  the  animal  dropped  some- 
thing on  the  snow,  and  then,  picking  it  up, 
started  on  again;  "  Inches,  12, 17, 14, 10, 
9,  8,  9j,  11,  7,  6,  14,  14,  9,  8  (new  hold), 
7  (hit  some  twigs,  new  hold),  8,  7,"  etc. 
Here  the  decreasing  length  of  the  jumps 
showed  that  the  animal  was  losing  its 
grip  on  its  burden,  which  it  finally  took 
into  a  hole  in  the  snow  out  of  sight. 

Discovering,  by  measuring  the  tracks, 
whether  an  animal  is  going  fast  or  slow 
is  another  long  step  toward  reading  the 
snow.  Of  course,  it  is  not  possible  to 
tell  always  by  the  distance  it  jumps  whe- 
ther an  animal  is  going  fast,  yet  it  is  fair- 
ly certain  that  the  farther  it  jumps,  the 
faster  it  goes.  The  exceptions  are  long 
jumps  made  to  clear  brooks,  or  other  ob- 
structions, or  perhaps  to  try  the  muscles. 

Probably  the  first  time  one  lays  a  rule 
to  the  pad-marked  snow,  an  inkling  of 
the  thought  of  the  animal  will  slip  into 
the  mind  of  the  observer.  Certainly,  after 


one  has  measured  a  dozen  trails,  the 
perception  will  quicken  with  most  grati- 
fying speed.  If  one  follows  an  ermine 
trail,  for  example,  little  differences  of  ap- 
pearance will  quickly  be  observed.  These 
differences  may  tell  much. 

My  brother  and  I  were  snow-shoeing 
along  an  Adirondack  ridge  well  back  in 
the  forest.  It  was  an  ideal  morning  for 
observing  tracks,  for  there  were  four  feet 
of  snow,  with  a  crust  that  would  almost 
bear  a  man's  weight  without  snow-shoes, 
on  top  of  which  was  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
of  fluffy  snow.  We  discovered  a  weasel 
trail  just  below  the  ridge-crest.  The  track 
was  fresh,  and  led  straight  away  through 
the  woods,  as  ermines  usually  go  when 
they  are  traveling.  Around  camps,  they 
wander  back  and  forth.  The  measure- 
ments showed  "  Inches,  23,  23,  13,  16J, 
20,  26i,  33J,  35,  23j,  12£,  30  (and  up  13 
inches),  15J,  26,  22,  30,  28,  19,  24,"  etc. 
It  was  the  ordinary  hunting  gait  of  the 
animal.  One  jump,  the  longest  observed, 
was  41  inches.  But  there  were  particu- 
lar features  which  measurements  did  not 
show.  Ordinarily,  the  ermines  and  many 
others  of  the  mustelidae  strike  the  ground 
with  their  fore-paws,  and  land  in  the  same 
print  with  their  hind-paws.  But  this  one 
did  not  do  that.  It  "  sprawled,"  so  that 
all  four  prints  were  plainly  seen,  there 
being  intervals  of  nearly  three  inches  be- 
tween them.  The  hind-paws  nearly  al- 
ways over-reached  the  fore-paws,  making 
"  gain-speed  "  tracks,  as  woodsmen  say. 

For  four  days  the  woods-going  had 
been  very  bad.  Hard  showers  had  swept 
over  the  mountains,  wetting  down  the 
snow,  keeping  all  the  animals  "  close." 
Rabbits,  squirrels,  foxes,  weasels,  and  all 
the  other  creatures  were  compelled  to 
remain  inactive.  Then  came  the  freeze 
of  zero  weather,  bright  sunshine,  and  the 
crust.  We  men  felt  the  exuberance  of  the 
release  from  inactivity — so  did  other  ani- 
mals. The  weasel's  track  showed  how  it 
rejoiced  in  the  release.  Away  it  leaped 
exuberantly,  but  not  jumping  any  farther 
than  usual,  save  now  and  then  a  spring 
of  40  inches,  or  thereabouts.  But  sheer 


794 


Reading  the  Snow 


muscular  delight  in  the  freedom  of  "  good 
going"  was  shown  at  every  jump  in  the 
careless  landing  of  the  feet,  and  once 
with  a  beautiful  and  striking  display  of 
strength.  The  ordinary  jump  of  a  weasel 
is  a  curve,  very  graceful  and  "  full  of  life." 
This  ermine  ran  apparently  with  the  exu- 
berance of  the  day  in  its  heart,  but  mere 
running  was  not  enough.  Suddenly,  in- 
stead of  jumping  in  a  curve  with  a  high 
trajectory,  as  it  had  been  doing,  it  dug  its 
claws  into  the  crust  and  shot  straight 
along  the  surface  of  the  snow.  Its  knees 
dragged  in  the  quarter  of  an  inch  of  snow 
throughout  the  29  inches  of  the  jump,  the 
impression  being  faint  over  one  very  shal- 
low depression  and  almost  to  the  crust 
over  a  slight  elevation.  It  had  shot  straight 
ahead,  like  a  projectile,  apparently  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  try  its  strength. 
This  was  one  of  the  "  finds"  a  trail-hunt- 
er delights  to  make.  Almost  any  track  will 
disclose  a  "treasure"  of  similar  value. 

On  this  same  ridge,  but  on  the  other 
side,  a  red  squirrel's  track  showed  a 
squirrel  trait  of  mind.  The  little  fel- 
low was  running  with  wide  jumps,  one 
of  47  inches,  for  instance.  Its  tracks 
were  sprawled  out  only  less  remark- 
ably than  the  weasel's.  One  track  cov- 
ered a  length  of  10  inches  and  a  width 
of  more  than  3  inches.  The  tracks  led 
from  tree  to  tree,  apparently  for  the 
fun  of  romping  around  on  the  crust 
and  in  the  sunshine.  In  going  from  one 
tree  to  another,  however,  it  sprang  over 
a  hummock  beyond  which  it  could  not 
see.  Beyond  the  hummock  was  a  de- 
pression in  the  snow,  and  the  squirrel 
landed  in  it,  8  inches  below  the  level  of 
the  surrounding  snow.  The  squirrel  was 
surprised,  manifestly,  experiencing  the 
same  uncomfortable  surprise  that  a  man 
feels  who  goes  down  another  step  in  the 
dark  after  he  thinks  he  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  The  squirrel  sprang  straight 
up,  and  then,  having  whipped  the  snow 
in  four  places  with  its  tail,  started  on 
again.  It  had  been  jumping  from  30  to 
40  inches,  but  the  first  leap  onward  after 
the  surprise  was  15  inches,  and  to  the 


nearest  tree  the  jumps  were  only  20 
inches  or  less,  but  made  quickly,  as  flung 
snow  showed.  If  one  cares  to  bring  im- 
agination into  the  study  of  natural  his- 
tory, it  might  be  permissible  to  imagine 
a  squirrel  grunting  when  it  landed  at 
the  bottom  of  that  depression. 

Every  trail  becomes  a  chapter  full  of 
meaning  when  the  significance  of  long 
jumps,  short  jumps,  sprawling  paws,  slips, 
and  other  indications,  is  recognized.  A 
trail  in  the  snow  is  a  true  record  of  an 
animal's  life,  so  true  and  impeccable  that 
men  who  kill  deer  in  the  deep,  crusted 
snow,  watch  and  fear  their  own  back 
tracks,  dreading  the  coming  of  game 
wardens.  If  men  are  afraid  in  the  woods, 
what  must  it  be  for  the  wild  life  ?  The 
trail  tells  the  story,  and  the  trail  which 
indicates  fearlessness  is  a  relief  to  the  stu- 
dent. There  are  a  few  animals  that  are 
fearless,  though  all  are  more  or  less  cau- 
tious. In  this  respect,  the  ermines,  mar- 
tens, and  fishers  are  especially  dashing 
and  brave.  They  wander  through  the 
woods  by  night  or  day,  confident  in  their 
own  strength  and  agility,  hard  fighters 
all  of  them.  But  their  fearlessness  is 
always  contrasted  with  the  terror  which 
they  excite  among  creatures  of  their  size. 
That  terror,  and  more,  is  ever  present  in 
the  hearts  of  other  small  forest-dwellers. 

For  instance,  witness  the  track  of  an 
Adirondack  rabbit  (Great  Northern  Hare, 
Lepus  Americanus) .  The  track  came 
through  the  swamp  near  Big  Rock.  Over- 
head were  dense  balsam  tree- tops,  and  on 
all  sides  were  hummocks.  The  hare 
wanted  to  cross  the  Stillwater  on  Little 
Black  Creek.  Its  course  through  the 
swamp  for  rods  showed  jumps  of  de- 
creasing length,  from  more  than  three  feet 
to  less  than  two.  There  were  a  score  of 
jumps  averaging  twenty- two  inches  which 
came  to  the  moon  shadow  of  a  balsam 
at  the  edge  of  the  ice.  There  the  animal 
jumped  and  landed  facing  its  back  track, 
and  there  it  remained  perfectly  motion- 
less till  the  warmth  of  its  paws  had  had 
time  to  thaw  the  snow. 

Apparently  all  was  quiet;  no  fox  or 


[leading  the  Snow 


795 


fisher  appeared  on  the  back  track,  no 
great,  soft-winged  owl  swept  among  the 
evergreen  tops.  Then  the  rabbit  ventured 
to  start  across  the  open  space  on  the  ice 
of  the  Stillwater.  It  sprang  while  facing 
the  swamp  from  which  it  had  come,  turned 
in  mid-air,  and  landed  31  inches  beyond, 
facing  toward  the  other  side.  Then  came 
jumps  toward  the  further  side:  "  Inches, 
53,  50,  54, 73, 49,  84  (7  feet),  69, 79, 48,  52, 
59,  44,  70,  59,  36,  32."  At  the  end  of  the 
32-inch  jump,  the  animal's  feet  slipped 
as  it  sprang,  and  it  landed  with  its  head 
toward  the  Stillwater  —  toward  its  back 
track  once  more.  Evidently,  however, 
the  slip  startled  it,  for  when  it  landed 
23  inches  beyond,  it  at  once  sprang  again, 
34  inches,  landing  facing  the  swamp  it 
had  started  toward,  and  then  in  the  next 
jump  turned  in  mid-air  and  landed  once 
more  facing  the  Stillwater  it  had  just 
crossed.  The  alders  and  a  shadowing  bal- 
sam were  now  overhead.  Satisfied  that 
no  pursuer  was  on  its  trail,  it  cautious- 
ly entered  the  swamp,  and  in  its  shade, 
forgot  the  dread  venture  in  the  moonlight. 
Their  tracks  show  that  timid  animals 
all  fear  the  forest  openings.  A  deer  will 
sometimes  walk  back  and  forth  along  the 
edge  of  a  clearing  for  a  hundred  rods, 
taking  short  steps,  and  stopping  at  fre- 
quent intervals,  before  venturing  to  go 
out  and  eat  the  apples  from  a  wild  tree.  A 
bear  track,  described  by  my  brother,  ap- 
proached a  tramway  through  the  woods. 
"  He  came  with  his  usual  length  of  stride 
to  the  top  of  a  rise  of  ground  which  at 
that  point  flanks  the  old  road.  Here  he 
slackened  his  pace,  as  the  shorter  steps 
indicated.  Probably  he  stopped  once  or 
twice  in  his  tracks,  but  that  was  not  fully 
evident.  When  he  came  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  narrow  chopping,  although  it  was 
well  grown  up  to  briers  and  young 
hardwoods,  his  step  shortened  until  he 
placed  one  foot  ahead  of  the  other  at  a 
distance  of  one  inch.  Thus  the  wise  old 
brute  crept  along  for  about  four  yards. 
Undoubtedly  he  halted  here  more  than 
once.  At  the  end  of  these  carefully  taken 
steps,  he  came  to  a  little  descent  in  the 


ground,  and  down  this  he  walked  with 
his  ordinary  length  of  stride.  But  at  the 
foot  of  this  he  seemed  to  become  sud- 
denly aware  of  his  recklessness,  and  once 
more,  for  about  three  yards,  he  carefully 
planted  one  foot  just  before  the  other. 
Then  he  relaxed  his  intense  attention  and 
two  more  rods  brought  him  to  his  jump 
across  the  ditch  to  the  old  wooden  tram.'* 

A  fox  shows  the  same  dread  of  an  open- 
ing. One,  for  instance,  came  to  the  Apple 
Tree  Clearing,  an  opening  in  the  woods 
that  is  five  rods  long  and  three  rods  wide 
at  the  widest.  For  some  reason  the  fox 
decided  to  cross  the  open,  though  it  might 
easily  have  gone  around.  Beginning  to 
run  two  rods  from  the  edge,  it  raced  with 
increasing  jumps  over  the  snow,  gallop- 
ing, with  its  paws  one  behind  the  other. 
The  jumps  across  the  clearing  were,  in 
inches,  78,  70,  60,  72,  80,  93,  74,  78,  72, 
56,  74,  etc.  Between  the  last  two  landing- 
places  there  was  an  oddity  in  that  the  fox, 
as  it  passed  over,  dropped  a  paw  on  a 
little  hummock,  with  a  light  touch,  for 
what  reason  I  could  not  tell.  Familiarity 
with  the  history  of  that  little  opening  led 
me  to  think  that  a  trapper  had  put  a 
chunk  of  bait  somewhere  in  it,  with 
poisoned  pills  of  lard  around  it  for  the 
fox.  The  fox,  however  much  tempted, 
had  its  suspicions,  and  its  longest  jump, 
93  inches,  cleared  the  faint  impression 
left  by  an  old  snow-shoe  trail  through  the 
clearing.  I  should  like  to  know  what  that 
fox  thought  afterwards  of  the  tracks  I 
made  when  measuring  its  tracks.  In 
measuring  I  took  the  distance  from  the 
leading  paw  of  each  jump.  The  paws 
were  put  on  the  snow  nearly  equi-distant. 
The  lengths  spanned  by  the  various  im- 
pressions made  at  each  jump  were  33,  33, 
31,  29  inches,  etc.,  the  29-inch  track  being 
the  gathering  for  the  80-inch  jump,  and 
the  36-inch  track  representing  the  landing 
from  the  93-inch  spring.  In  general, 
the  longest  jumps  of  animals  are  preceded 
by  a  comparatively  short  jump  or  two, 
and  are  followed  by  a  short  jump. 

Usually,  when  a  fox  approaches  a 
man's  trail,  of  whatever  age,  in  the  woods 


796 


Reading  the  Snow 


it  displays  much  anxiety.  In  dozens  of 
fox  tracks  crossing  old  snow-shoe  tracks, 
I  have  never  seen  an  instance  where  a  fox 
stepped  in  the  snow-shoe  track.  But  they 
follow  sleigh-roads  for  rods  at  a  time. 
Sometimes,  however,  a  fox  fails  to  notice 
the  snow-shoe  track  till  it  is  almost  under 
paw.  This  startles  the  fox,  and  it  invari- 
ably springs  back  and  runs  several  jumps 
away  from  the  suspicious  depression  and 
odor  in  the  snow.  A  fox  thus  startled  will 
sometimes  run  toward  the  track  three  or 
four  jumps,  but,  losing  its  nerve,  turn 
back,  afraid  even  to  jump  over  the  trail. 
Usually,  after  two  or  three  attempts,  the 
fox  will  clear  the  man-track,  doubtless 
jumping  pretty  high. 

Fear  is  the  most  impressive  character- 
istic of  animal  trails ;  it  is  easily  seen  when 
one  has  mastered  the  rudiments  of  the 
snow  language.  It  takes  keener  observa- 
tion to  see  other  workings  of  the  animal 
mind,  but  an  old  trapper  becomes  mar- 
velously  adept  in  reading  trails.  I  fol- 
lowed a  fisher  track  with  one  for  a  consid- 
erable distance.  The  snow  was  deep  and 
loose,  making  snow- shoeing  very  tiresome. 
The  fisher  (pekan,  mustella  pennanti)  usu- 
ally plunges  along  with  jumps  from  three 
to  four  feet  long.  A  very  impressive  track 
it  makes,  giving  one  the  idea  of  great 
strength  in  reserve.  But  in  the  deep,  loose 
snow,  this  fisher  became  tired.  It  ran 
half  a  mile,  then  walked  a  hundred  yards, 
and  walking  is  the  summit  of  degradation 
for  the  racers  of  the  weasel  tribe. 

"  See  how  mad  he  is!  "  the  trapper  re- 
marked; and  sure  enough,  when  my  at- 
tention had  been  called  to  it,  the  track 
did  show  "  mad."  Breasting  the  snow, 
flipping  its  paws,  and  waving  its  tail  from 
side  to  side,  the  fisher  ploughed  along,  at 
last  beginning  to  run  again,  writing  its 
anger  at  the  bad  going  in  the  fluffy  snow, 
by  flipping  the  snow  in  all  directions  at 
every  step  and  jump. 

When  contrasted  with  a  porcupine's 
trail,  through  the  same  kind  of  snow,  the 
fisher's  characteristics  stand  out  plainly. 
The  porcupine  walks  slowly  through  the 
soft  snow.  Its  wide,  heavy  body  ploughs 


a  trench,  sometimes  six  inches  deep,  with 
levees  on  either  side.  It  puts  its  heels  flat 
on  the  snow,  plantigrade,  which  many 
other  animals  seldom  or  never  do.  Plod- 
ding along,  in  no  hurry,  on  its  way  from 
a  rock-den  to  a  hemlock  or  birch  tree, 
its  trail  is  the  most  careless  of  all  in  the 
woods.  Its  steps  measure  in  inches,  "10, 
11, 11, 12, 10, 11, 10J,  10J,  10, 11,"  etc.,  the 
steps  of  its  fore-paws  being  of  different 
length  from  those  of  its  hind-paws,  and 
the  steps  of  the  right  side  different  from 
those  on  the  left,  with  the  result  that  the 
porcupine's  is  the  crookedest  trail  to  be 
found  in  the  woods.  Apparently  it  never 
thinks  of  walking  or  going  in  a  straight 
line  as  other  animals  do.  Moreover,  it 
drags  its  toes  as  it  lifts  its  paws,  and 
comes  down  heel  first,  making  in  some 
respects  the  most  interesting  of  woods 
trails.  In  Wisconsin  the  porcupine  is 
protected  by  law,  for  it  is  the  one  animal 
in  the  woods  which  a  lost  and  starving 
man  can  kill  with  a  club.  Its  spines  pro- 
tect it  from  most  aggression,  till  the  fisher 
comes  upon  it.  The  fisher  kills  and  eats 
porcupines,  in  spite  of  the  armor,  which 
is  one  reason  why  woodsmen  take  delight 
in  the  fisher.  They  consider  the  lithe, 
strong-jawed  fighter  more  admirable  than 
the  armor- plated  hulk. 

When  one  has  studied  trails  in  the  snow 
for  a  time,  the  animals  cease  to  be  mere 
foxes  and  fishers  and  rabbits.  One  learns 
to  recognize  certain  individuals ;  then  in- 
deed is  one  a  silent  spectator  of  the  pa- 
geant of  forest  nature.  Once,  when  living 
in  a  logging  camp  between  the  hauling 
and  driving  seasons,  I  knew  a  great  hare. 
He  was  the  biggest  rabbit  I  ever  saw. 
When  he  fled  from  me,  he  crossed  the 
open  hardwood,  disdaining  the  thick 
balsam  swamps,  and  when  I  saw  that 
fact  in  his  10-foot  jumps,  I  was  glad  I 
couldn't  kill  him.  Then  there  was  a 
fisher,  with  a  runway  perhaps  thirty  miles 
long,  a  great  circle  which  it  did  not  leave. 
An  otter,  too  —  but  to  go  on  seems  need- 
less. One  may  even  have  an  unseen, 
much  loved,  and  decidedly  worth-while 
acquaintance  in  a  deer-mouse. 


CIVIC   RIGHTEOUSNESS  VIA  PERCENTAGES 


BY    RAYMOND    L.    BRIDGMAN 


A  NEW  promise  of  success  has  come  to 
the  reformers  of  municipal  governments. 
It  has  come  through  a  new  application  of 
statistics,  and  its  potency  lies  in  the  ap- 
plication of  percentage  of  result  to  ex- 
pense in  the  different  cities,  whereby  com- 
parison between  different  departments 
becomes  possible,  down  to  small  details. 
It  has  come  in  local  form,  but  the  idea  is 
national,  and  it  is  a  fair  presumption  that 
the  idea  will  speedily  have  national  stand- 
ing. Its  local  application  has  manifested 
itself  in  two  states  only,  —  Ohio  and 
Massachusetts.  In  Ohio  the  working-out 
of  comparisons  has  not  been  made  in  the 
document  published  in  such  a  way  as  to 
be  easily  understood  by  the  average  stu- 
dent of  municipal  management.  But  the 
only  report  published  by  Massachusetts 
is  presented  in  such  admirable  form  that 
it  is  in  itself  a  most  encouraging  promise 
that  a  large  measure  of  reform  in  munic- 
ipal management  will  be  attained  through 
the  comparisons  of  percentages  of  ex- 
penditures to  results  obtained. 

Two  assumptions  which  may  be  ac- 
cepted as  facts  for  the  purpose  of  the  ar- 
gument, and  which  perhaps  are  facts,  lie 
at  the  beginning  of  the  study  of  the  case. 
One  is  that  the  greatest  political  evil  of  the 
times  in  the  United  States,  and  the  great- 
est problem,  is  that  of  municipal  govern- 
ment. The  other  is  that  the  present  tend- 
ency of  the  people  of  the  United  States 
to  herd  into  cities  will  continue,  so  that 
the  problem  of  city  administration  will 
soon  concern  directly  more  than  half  of 
the  people  of  the  United  States,  and  that 
the  proportion  will  continue  to  increase 
indefinitely. 

This  Massachusetts  report  referred  to 
is  entitled  "  The  Cost  of  Municipal 
Government  in  Massachusetts."  It  is  is- 
sued by  the  Bureau  of  Statistics  of  Labor, 


Charles  F.  Gettemy  Chief,  and  is  a  work 
of  exceptional  value,  and  one  of  higher 
excellence  than  usual  in  the  scope  and 
detail  of  the  statistical  work  which  is  pre- 
sented. This  is  the  first  report  of  the  sort 
ever  published  in  this  country,  perhaps 
in  the  world,  and  it  is  of  such  a  pioneer 
character  as  to  make  it  appear  as  if  it 
must,  by  the  very  force  of  its  method  and 
application  to  municipal  problems,  be 
followed  in  all  its  essential  characteris- 
tics by  every  other  state  of  the  Union, 
especially  by  all  those  with  one  or  more 
large  cities. 

Regarding  the  tendency  of  the  people 
of  the  United  States  to  congregate  in 
cities,  the  report  gives  these  facts  among 
others:  In  1800  the  population  of  the 
United  States  was  5,308,483,  and  only 
five  cities  had  a  population  of  over  10,000, 
namely,  New  York,  with  60,515;  Phil- 
adelphia, with  41,220;  Baltimore,  with 
26,514 ;  Boston,  with  24,937 ;  and  Charles- 
ton, with  18,824,  —  a  total  of  172,010,  or 
3.24  per  cent  of  the  population.  In  1900, 
the  population  was  76,303,387,  and  the 
population  of  places  of  8000  people  or 
more  (comparison  of  10,000  is  not  given) 
was  24,992,199,  or  32.75  per  cent  of  the 
whole,  and  there  were  545  places  of  that 
population.  Massachusetts  furnishes  a 
striking  illustration  of  the  tendency  to 
gather  in  cities.  As  late  as  1875  the  per- 
centage of  people  in  towns  of  5000  and 
less  was  32.83,  but  in  1905  it  had  dropped 
to  14.28.  In  the  former  year  the  percent- 
age of  persons  in  places  of  30,000  or  over 
was  38.30,  but  in  1905  it  was  57.77.  The 
director  of  the  United  States  Census  is 
quoted  as  predicting  that  in  1910  there 
will  be  90  per  cent  of  the  people  of 
Massachusetts  living  in  places  of  8000  or 
more  population.  This  tendency  is  gene- 
ral to  the  country.  Hence  comes  the  im- 

797 


798 


Civic  Righteousness  via  Percentages 


portance  to  our  political  system  of  solving 
the  problem  of  honest  and  efficient  city 
administration  for  the  physical,  moral, 
and  intellectual  welfare  of  the  children 
who  must  grow  up  under  city  govern- 
ment. 

Brief  mention  of  official  acts  preceding 
and  leading  up  to  this  movement  which 
has  resulted  in  this  encouraging  promise 
in  Massachusetts  for  the  entire  United 
States,  was  made  by  Dr.  Edward  M. 
Hartwell,  secretary  of  the  department  of 
statistics  of  the  city  of  Boston,  at  a  con- 
ference of  municipal  auditing  officers 
which  met  at  the  Hotel  Bellevue  in  Bos- 
ton, Saturday,  January  18, 1908.  In  1878 
Minnesota  established  the  office  of  state 
examiner  to  look  after  county  accounts, 
and  to  prescribe  uniform  methods  of  keep- 
ing them,  and  the  latter  power  was  ex- 
tended to  state  institutions.  In  1879  Mas- 
sachusetts put  certain  county  accounts 
under  the  supervision  of  the  savings  bank 
commissioners.  In  1887  the  same  state 
established  the  office  of  controller  of 
county  accounts.  In  1889  North  and 
South  Dakota  established  the  office  of 
state  examiner.  Wyoming  did  the  same 
in  1890.  But  the  state  examiners  had  no 
right  to  supervise  city  accounts,  save  that 
in  1891  the  Minnesota  examiner  was 
given  partial  supervision  over  the  ac- 
counts and  financial  reports  of  St.  Paul, 
and  in  1903  the  same  duties  were  ex- 
tended over  Minneapolis. 

Credit  for  the  first  suggestion  of  uni- 
formity in  municipal  accounts  is  given 
to  Professor  John  R.  Commons,  then 
at  the  University  of  Indiana,  who  ad- 
vanced the  idea  in  an  article  on  "  State 
Supervision  of  Cities,"  in  the  Annals  of 
the  American  Academy  of  Political  and 
Social  Science,  in  May,  1895.  In  July, 
1896,  a  similar  idea  was  treated  in  The 
Quarterly  Journal  of  Economics  by  Mr. 
F.  R.  Clow,  under  the  heading  "  Sug- 
gestions for  the  Study  of  Municipal  Fi- 
nance." In  1898,  when  President  Carroll 
D.  Wright,  now  of  Clark  College  in 
Worcester,  was  the  head  of  the  national 
department  of  labor,  Congress  passed  a 


law  for  an  annual  publication  of  statis- 
tics of  cities;  and  the  man  most  active 
in  this  movement  was  Secretary  Maltbie 
of  the  Reform  Club  of  New  York  City, 
now  a  member  of  the  Public  Service 
Commission  of  the  same  city.  The 
statistics  were  to  cover  cities  of  30,000 
population  and  over.  In  the  draft  of  a 
model  municipal  corporations  act,  made 
in  1898  by  a  committee  of  the  National 
Municipal  League,  was  a  recommenda- 
tion for  uniform  methods  of  accounting 
for  cities. 

The  committee  suggested  schedules 
for  trial.  In  1900,  Mr.  Harvey  Chase,  a 
member  of  the  committee,  put  the  idea 
in  practice  in  rearranging  the  accounts 
of  the  auditor  of  Newton,  Massachusetts. 
Credit  for  the  suggestions  is  given  to 
Professor  Rowe,  of  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  who  was  on  the  municipal 
programme  committee  of  the  National 
Municipal  League.  These  schedules  have 
been  utilized  in  Baltimore  and  Cam- 
bridge, and  reform  ideas  in  this  direction 
have  been  adopted  in  Chicago,  Minneapo- 
lis, Rochester,  Pawtucket,  and  New  Bed- 
ford. Ohio  passed  a  law  in  1902  for 
uniformity  in  municipal  accounts  and  re- 
ports, and  Dr.  Hartwell  quotes  it  as  in 
force  in  1904  in  over  70  cities,  88  coun- 
ties, 700  villages,  1600  townships,  and 
2800  school  districts.  All  New  York  cities, 
except  New  York  City  and  Buffalo,  must 
report  to  the  Secretary  of  State  on  uni- 
form schedules,  which  are  about  the  same 
as  those  of  the  National  Municipal 
League.  So  the  idea  has  been  gaining 
ground  among  the  students  of  statistical 
science. 

The  Massachusetts  law  was  passed  in 
1906,  and  the  report  mentioned  above  is 
the  earliest  product  under  it.  In  Europe 
the  idea  has  been  in  practice  much  long- 
er in  several  countries.  The  Massachu- 
setts law  requires  each  city  and  town  to 
furnish  annually  to  the  Chief  of  the  Bu- 
reau of  Statistics  of  Labor  "a  return  for 
such  city  or  town  containing  a  summar- 
ized statement  of  all  revenues  and  all 
expenses  for  the  last  fiscal  year  of  that 


Civic  Righteousness  via  Percentages 


799 


city  or  town;  a  detailed  statement  of  all 
receipts  and  all  disbursements  of  the  last 
fiscal  year,  arranged  upon  uniform  sched- 
ules prepared  by  the  Chief  of  the  Bureau 
of  Statistics  of  Labor;  statements  of  the 
income  and  expense  for  each  public  in- 
dustry maintained  or  operated  by  such 
city  or  town,  and  of  all  the  costs  there- 
for, expenditures  for  construction  and  for 
maintenance  and  operation  being  sepa- 
rately stated;  a  statement  of  the  public 
debt  of  said  city  or  town,  showing  the 
purpose  for  which  each  item  of  the  debt 
was  created  and  the  provisions  made  for 
the  payment  thereof,  and  a  statement  of 
all  current  assets  and  all  current  liabili- 
ties of  such  city  or  town  at  the  close  of  its 
fiscal  year." 

How  important  this  statistical  work  of 
the  cities  is  for  their  welfare,  is  set  forth  by 
Professor  Charles  J.  Bullock,  of  Harvard 
University,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
Special  Taxation  Commission  of  Massa- 
chusetts in  1907:  — 

"  From  his  point  of  view  the  city  au- 
ditor or  accountant  is  conducting  a  sci- 
entific experiment  station.  From  his  point 
of  view,  your  public  official  respons- 
ible for  a  system  of  accounting  is  con- 
ducting a  laboratory  in  which  are  being 
worked  out  the  data  from  which  both 
the  practical  man  and  the  scientific  ob- 
server must  get  the  data  that  are  essential 
for  the  solution  of  some  of  the  greatest 
problems  of  the  age.  So  that,  while  this 
movement  is  to  be  commended  as  of  great 
practical  value  for  the  improvement  of 
the  financial  standing  of  our  cities,  it  has 
far-reaching  importance  when  we  look 
upon  it  as  a  movement  for  gathering  data 
essential  to  enable  the  student  of  modern 
social  conditions  to  determine  whither 
our  civilization  is  tending,  and  whether 
it  is  likely  to  prove  a  failure  or  a  success." 

Regarding  the  conditions  which  have 
hitherto  prevailed,  what  Chief  Gettemy 
says  about  Massachusetts  is  doubtless 
applicable  to  municipal  accounting  all 
over  the  country,  as  a  rule.  Here  is  the 
discreditable  fact,  as  he  puts  it :  "  The 
student  of  municipal  finance  has  hitherto 


been  confronted  with  utter  chaos  when- 
ever he  has  attempted  to  make  com- 
parisons of  the  important  facts  of  a  se- 
lected number  of  cities  or  towns  for  the 
purpose  of  ascertaining  whether  any  sig- 
nificant deductions  might  be  drawn  from 
them.  There  has  been  no  uniformity  in 
classification  of  accounts,  and  in  many 
cases  no  book-keeping  worthy  of  the 
name."  Recommendations  are  made  of 
legislation  to  correct  glaring  evils,  and 
four  of  the  six  points  are  applicable  in 
any  city  in  the  country :  that  all  financial 
transactions  should  pass  through  the 
treasurer's  office,  and  be  recorded;  that 
expenses  of  the  departments  should  agree 
when  checked  up  with  recapitulations; 
that  all  municipal  trust  funds  should  be 
administered  by  a  common  board  of 
trustees;  and  that  a  uniform  fiscal  year 
should  be  established. 

In  such  a  report,  as  was  to  have  been 
expected,  headings  are  given  for  classify- 
ing the  different  branches  of  a  munici- 
pality's financial  transactions,  but  these 
may  be  left  to  the  special  student.  What 
is  of  consequence  to  the  average  citizen 
who  is  interested  in  good  government  is 
to  notice  how  the  percentages  of  expense 
in  the  different  departments  have  been 
worked  out,  so  that  each  city  in  the  state 
can  be  compared  with  any  other  in  re- 
spect to  any  detail.  There  are  thirty- 
three  cities  in  the  state,  and  they  are 
ranked  according  to  population,  with 
statements  of  the  totals  of  their  expenses 
for  the  year  under  consideration,  their 
valuation,  the  rate  of  tax  per  $1000,  the 
per  capita  of  current  expense,  and  the 
percentage  of  the  total  expense  to  the 
valuation.  For  instance,  Boston  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  list  for  current  ex- 
pense per  capita,  with  $26.69,  while  it  is 
at  the  foot  of  the  list  in  percentage  of 
current  expense  to  valuation,  the  figure 
being  1.25  against  2.15  for  Chelsea,  the 
highest;  and  the  last  figure  was  based  on 
conditions  before  the  great  fire.  That 
shows  that  Boston's  liberal  expense, 
compared  with  the  $9.58  of  Chicopee,  at 
the  foot  of  the  list,  which  has  a  percent- 


800 


Civic  Riyhteoustiess  'uia  Percentages 


age  of  1.92  of  expense  to  valuation,  does 
not  bear  nearly  as  hard  upon  the  tax- 
payers as  the  seemingly  lighter  rate  of 
Chicopee,  and  is  really  the  lightest  in  the 
state.  Another  table  shows  the  per  capita 
of  debt  in  the  cities,  Boston  leading  with 
$111.90,  and  Somerville  having  the  low- 
est, or  $20.55. 

But  a  still  more  practical  table  for  the 
critic  of  a  city  administration  is  that 
which  shows  the  percentage  division  of 
expenses  between  the  municipal  depart- 
ments. Here  the  total  one  hundred  per 
cent  of  expenses  is  divided  under  the 
following  heads :  general  administration, 
police  department,  fire  department,  pro- 
tection of  life  and  property  other  than 
police  and  fire,  public  health  and  sani- 
tation, highways  and  bridges,  charities 
and  corrections,  education,  libraries  and 
reading-rooms,  recreation,  and  soldiers' 
benefits.  The  average  for  all  of  the  thirty- 
three  cities  is  given,  as  well  as  the  items 
severally  for  every  city  by  itself. 

A  still  further  searching  analysis  is 
given  in  a  table  in  which  the  aggregate 
per  capita  expenditure  for  each  city  as  a 
whole  is  taken  and  separated  into  the 
amounts  which  have  been  spent  respect- 
ively for  the  departments  named  under 
the  classification  above.  In  addition,  there 
is  given  the  rank  among  the  thirty-three 
cities  which  is  held  by  each  city  in  re- 
spect to  each  particular  item.  Again,  the 
amounts  which  are  spent  for  the  general 
administration  of  each  city  are  analyzed 
further,  so  that  the  total  one  hundred 
per  cent  is  separated  into  its  proportions 
for  legislative  expenses,  executive,  finan- 
cial, other  general  departments,  city  hall 
and  other  property  not  classified,  election 
and  registration,  printing  and  stationery, 
and  miscellaneous. 

Then  the  Metropolitan  Park  District, 
which  includes  cities  and  towns  in  the 
suburbs  of  Boston,  as  well  as  Boston 
itself,  is  analyzed  from  the  park  point 
of  view.  Again,  the  total  current  ex- 
penses of  general  administration,  not  per- 
centages but  actual  amounts,  are  given 
for  the  cities  side  by  side,  so  comparisons 


are  under  the  eye  in  a  moment  for  the  en- 
tire state.  Still  further,  current  expenses 
for  protection  of  life  and  property  are 
given  with  a  detailed  analysis  which  in- 
cludes the  areas  of  the  several  cities  and 
their  population,  so  that  the  relative  con- 
gestion of  population  comes  in  as  a  vis- 
ible factor  in  the  expenditure  for  police 
and  fire  service.  Expenses  for  militia  and 
armories  enter  also  into  the  showing.  In 
the  same  way  the  expenditures  for  con- 
servation of  the  public  health  are  given, 
with  the  population  for  1906,  the  square 
miles  of  area,  the  population  per  square 
mile,  the  per  capita  expense  for  the  cause, 
the  sum  spent,  the  cost  of  the  city  phy- 
sician, the  inspection  of  school  children, 
contagious  diseases,  hospitals,  quaran- 
tine and  pest-houses,  and  the  inspection 
departments. 

Further  on  are  shown  the  expense 
for  operation  and  maintenance  of  sewers, 
and  the  cost  of  refuse  and  garbage  dis- 
posal, and  in  another  table,  the  details 
of  inspection  of  buildings,  inspection 
of  plumbing,  inspection  of  wires,  sealing 
of  weights  and  measures,  inspection  of 
meat  and  provisions,  and  inspection  of 
milk  and  vinegar.  Highway  expenditures 
are  analyzed  into  general  supervision, 
engineering  department,  street-repairing, 
street-paving,  street-cleaning,  street-light- 
ing, and  street-sprinkling,  and  eight  other 
items  of  detail.  So  it  is  with  the  depart- 
ment of  charities  and  corrections, — differ- 
ent departments  set  out  in  detail.  Educa- 
tional expenses  show  salaries,  text- books, 
repairs  of  houses,  and  so  on.  There 
is  much  more,  all  worked  out  carefully, 
and  there  is  a  large  amount  more  for 
comparisons  of  the  cities,  and  then  the 
321  towns  are  treated  in  a  brief  way,  but 
still  with  much  detail,  comparisons  being 
especially  made  easy  between  towns  of 
about  the  same  population. 

Considering  the  great  difficulties  un- 
der which  the  report  was  prepared,  the 
utter  chaos  prevailing  between  the  mu- 
nicipalities and  their  manner  of  keeping 
their  accounts,  and  the  fact  that  many 
snarls  were  untangled  before  compari- 


Civic  Righteousness  via  Percentages 


801 


sons  could  be  made,  and  considering  also 
the  vast  mass  of  computations  for  com- 
parison and  percentages  which  had  to 
be  made  after  the  figures  were  put  into 
a  form  for  comparison,  the  report  is  sure 
to  attract  attention  by  students  of  city 
management.  It  promises  to  be  worth  its 
cost  and  the  unspeakable  worry  and  in- 
genuity which  it  required  for  its  prepara- 
tion. 

Now  see  where  it  leaves  the  science  of 
municipal  statistics.  Here  has  been  an 
evolution  extending  over  more  than  thirty 
years.  It  has  received  the  contributions 
of  both  statisticians  and  publicists.  It 
has  been  growing  in  state  and  nation.  It 
has  risen  from  simple  forms  to  this  highly 
complex  one.  Now  it  stands  forth  in  this 
system  of  comparisons  by  percentages  in 
all  the  details  of  municipal  management 
which  are  concerned  in  a  dispute  regard- 
ing good  government.  Science  in  this 
field  has  come  to  a  basis  of  practical  poli- 
tics, and  now  it  would  seem  as  if  an  abun- 
dant fruitage  must  necessarily  follow. 

Here  are  two  elements  of  successful 
government  under  a  democracy  which  are 
made  possible,  —  publicity  and  respons- 
ibility. For  the  first  time,  in  a  broad, 
practical  way  for  all  the  cities  of  the  state, 
—  and  for  every  state  and  for  the  entire 
nation,  as  soon  as  this  example  is  followed, 
—  there  is  publicity  in  such  a  way  as  to 
arouse  popular  interest.  It  is  now  so  easy 
to  check  up  the  work  of  any  mayor,  board 
of  aldermen,  street  commissioner,  school 
superintendent,  or  any  other  official  who 
has  a  responsible  position,  that  the  aver- 
age citizen  can  see  easily  and  intelligently 
what  the  situation  is.  Two  lines  of  com- 
parison will  be  possible.  The  official  or 
the  department  can  be  compared  with 
its  own  past.  Facts  will  show  at  once 
whether  this  official  is  more  or  less  ex- 
pensive than  his  predecessor.  It  will  ap- 
pear whether  the  department  is  extrava- 
gant, measured  by  itself;  and  whether  it 
is  running  as  economically  as  it  has  been 
running,  compared  with  the  growth  of 
population.  Again,  the  department  can 
be  compared  with  every  other  city,  near 
VOL.  102  -  NO.  6 


or  far.  If  the  administration  is  honest, 
economical,  efficient  in  every  detail,  mak- 
ing a  dollar  go  as  far  as  possible  and 
returning  to  the  taxpayers  a  full  equiva- 
lent for  every  dollar  taken  from  them, 
then  the  administration  gets  credit  in  a 
way  which  has  not  been  possible  hitherto. 
With  no  general  standard  for  compari- 
son, the  people  of  a  municipality  have 
not  had  a  sufficient  test  to  enable  them 
to  judge  whether  or  not  they  were  being 
served  as  they  should  be,  and  the  heads 
of  the  administration  have  been  equally 
without  a  comprehensive  guide.  But 
with  a  general  average  for  every  city  in 
the  state,  there  stands  forth  at  once  a 
criterion  by  which  the  taxpayer  measures 
the  efficiency  of  his  own  city  government. 
If  the  comparison  is  good,  then  full  credit 
is  given. 

This  appeal  to  the  public  approval  is 
likely  to  figure  perhaps  more  than  the 
reforming  statisticians  have  supposed. 
It  is  a  current  complaint  of  municipal 
government  that  our  best  citizens  will 
not  share  in  it  because  they  are  so  ham- 
pered that  they  can  do  nothing,  and  get 
no  credit  for  merit  if  they  have  it.  It  is 
true  that  the  publication  of  percentages 
of  comparison  does  not  change  the  sys- 
tem of  administration,  but  it  does  give 
the  most  practical  and  most  effective 
publicity  for  an  honest  and  competent 
administration  which  could  be  desired. 
Honesty  and  efficiency  are  sure  to  show 
themselves  in  the  long  run.  If  here  is  a 
city  department  which  stands  No.  1  of 
all  the  cities  in  the  United  States  in  its 
accomplishment  in  results  for  the  dollars 
expended,  then  every  municipal  admin- 
istrator in  the  United  States,  and  many 
citizens  besides,  will  know  the  fact,  and 
the  man  who  has  made  the  record  possi- 
ble will  get  credit  for  his  ability  and  his 
honesty.  In  every  case,  merit  is  bound  to 
receive  its  just  reward,  so  far  as  justice 
can  be  reflected  in  the  statistical  statement 
of  results  and  can  be  brought  into  com- 
parison with  other  cities.  Here  is  a  new 
force  which  will  bring  better  men  into 
the  public  service,  and  will  spur  them  on 


802 


Civic  Righteousness  via  Percentages 


to  give  the  people  the  best  possible  ad- 
ministration. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  percentages  of 
comparison,  other  things  being  equal, 
will  play  the  detective  upon  every  dis- 
honest and  inefficient  municipal  depart- 
ment head.  Where  the  spoils  system  is  in 
full  sway,  where  offices  are  the  plunder 
of  victory  at  the  polls,  and  the  man  at  the 
head  knows  little  or  nothing  of  the  de- 
tails of  his  business,  comparison  with  de- 
partments managed  on  the  merit  system, 
by  honest  and  competent  men,  working 
for  an  honorable  reputation  with  even 
more  zeal  than  they  work  for  their  sala- 
ries, will  expose  the  dishonesty  and  ineffi- 
ciency. Imperative  demands  will  be  made 
by  the  taxpayers  for  a  change.  Explana- 
tions which  are  not  based  on  a  real  dif 
ference  of  conditions  sufficient  to  justify 
the  bad  showing  of  the  percentages,  will 
not  be  accepted  in  the  long  run,  however 
successful  a  local  ring  may  be  for  a  cam- 
paign or  two.  Revolt  is  sure  to  come,  and 
the  dishonest  and  incompetent  officials 
will  be  driven  from  office. 

Publicity  of  itself  has  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing officials  feel  more  responsible.  Even 
though  there  is  no  dishonesty,  and  where 
the  efficiency  is  sufficient  to  prevent  a 
revolt,  yet  the  fact  that  credit  for  merit  is 
shown  in  the  percentages  of  succeeding 
years  will  stimulate  an  official  to  see  if 
his  own  record  cannot  be  made  better. 
Honorable  pride  will  be  stimulated  by 
the  certainty  that  if  he  does  well  his 
people  and  the  people  of  other  cities  will 
have  the  truth  advertised  to  them.  The 
statistics,  under  the  administration  of  the 
law,  are  automatic,  constant  year  after 
year,  and  impartial.  The  light  of  pub- 
licity will  shine  about  every  department 
as  it  has  not  hitherto  shone,  and  as  it 
could  not  possibly  shine  with  the  chaos 
of  accounting  systems;  and  it  will,  of  it- 
self, tend  to  make  municipal  government 
better. 


Still  further  for  the  encouragement  of 
the  pessimistic,  this  new  system  of  com- 
parison by  percentages  must  inevitably 
result  in  stirring  up  public  interest  in 
municipal  affairs.  It  will  be  much  easier 
than  ever  before  to  get  some  clear  idea  of 
the  management  of  city  government.  The 
average  taxpayer  can  see  what  his  city  is 
costing,  compared  with  some  other  he 
knows.  He  will  become  interested  in  run- 
ning down  accounts  when  they  are  straight 
and  without  mystery.  He  will  feel  as  if  he 
could  follow  the  official  in  his  policy,  and 
the  official  will  none  the  less  feel  that  the 
taxpayer  has  his  eye  upon  him.  This 
added  watchfulness  will  raise  the  public 
intelligence  in  public  affairs,  with  a  cor- 
responding elevation  of  the  efficiency  of 
the  service  and  a  higher  standard  of  what 
the  service  should  be. 

Now,  all  this  advance  does  not  con- 
cern the  scheme  of  government  at  all.  It 
does  not  involve  any  charter  amendments. 
It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  various 
theories  of  one  chamber  or  two,  with  more 
or  less  power  and  responsibility  for  the 
mayor,  school  committee,  and  heads  of 
departments.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  suffrage,  with  systems  of  balloting  or 
any  phase  of  election  laws.  It  does  not 
touch  theories  of  taxation  or  sanitation, 
or  education,  or  labor  and  capital,  or  any 
other  side  upon  which  the  problem  of 
municipal  maladministration  is  attacked. 
It  is  simply  a  matter  of  reducing  finances 
to  a  form  favorable  for  comparison,  and 
letting  the  system  do  its  perfect  work. 
It  does  not  seem,  perhaps,  at  first  glance, 
as  if  much  relief  could  come  from  such 
an  unpromising  source.  But  a  study  of 
the  case  shows  that  it  has  large  and  sub- 
stantial promise,  and  it  is  quite  possible 
that  the  evils  of  our  notorious  city  gov- 
ernments will  be  relieved  from  an  un- 
suspected quarter.  But  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  it  takes  men  to  reform. 
Figures  will  never  do  it  of  themselves. 


ACROSS  THE   CREEK 


BY   LUCY  PRATT 


ROMULUS  walked  down  Goose  Alley 
pondering  deeply.  A  well-filled  long- 
seated  wagon  had  just  rolled  past  him, 
and  some  familiar  faces  had  flown  by. 

"  Been  a  missiona'yin',  I  s'pose,"  he 
meditated;  "look  ter  me  like  de  chil'ren 
at  de  Ins'tute  's  been  a  missiona'yin'." 

He  sauntered  on  in  the  early  evening 
light,  his  mental  comments  running 
smoothly. 

"  Well,  co'se  it's  all  right  ter  go  mis- 
siona'yin' ef  yer  selec's  de  right  pussons 
ter  missiona'y  on.  I  ain't  sayin'  't  ain't 
puffeckly  right  fer  'em  ter  do  it,  an'  co'se 
I'se  glad  ter  see  dey  is  doin'  it,  an'  de 
only  question  I'd  ax  'em  anyway,  is 
where  dey  been.  Gaze  ef  dey  been  down 
ter  Brudder  Jerden's  on  de  crick,  I  kin 
tell  'em  now  Brudder  Jerden  doan'  need 
'em.  But  ef  dey  's  been  down  ter  ole 
Mose  'n'  A'bella  Stroud,  w'y,  dat's  'tirely 
dif'rent,  caze  Mose  'n'  A'bella  does  need 
'em.  I  kin  think  o'  some'n'  else  where 
needs  'em,  too,  an'  't  am'  Brudder  Jerden 
ner  Mose  ner  A'bella  nudder.  No,  suh, 
it's  old  Uncle  'Nezer  Smiff  over  yonder 
crossen  de  crick." 

Romulus  strolled  on  until  his  eye  fell 
suddenly  on  a  well-known,  lively,  tum- 
bling group  just  before  him  in  the  road. 

"  Well,  now,  ef  I  ain't  happen  ter  be 
lookin'  I  s'pose  I  'd  'a'  walked  right  over 
yer!  "  he  declared  warmly.  "  An'  ef  I'd 
'a*  walked  right  over  yer,  where  yer 
reckon  yer'd  be  now?  Huh?  I  say  ef 
I'd  'a*  walked  right  over  yer,  where  yer 
reckon  yer'd  be  now?  " 

The  group  below  did  not  appear  eager 
to  contemplate  the  possibilities,  and 
Romulus  stopped  and  took  one  sweeping 
and  comprehensive  look  around  him. 

"  Well,  't  would  n'  'a'  been  'nough  of 
yer  lef  ter  r'ally  speak  of  't  all,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  But  sence  yer  is  jes*  manage 


ter  'scape  ez  yer  has,  I  say  sence  yer 
is  jes'  manage  ter  'scape,  w'y,  I'se  got 
sump'n'  ter  tell  yer,  an'  ef  yer  wants  ter 
hyeah  it  yer  kin  jes'  foller  me  twell  I  gits 
raidy  ter  speak  'bout  it." 

They  fell  in  just  behind  him  in  a  strag- 
gling but  amiable  procession,  apparently 
ready  to  follow  across  the  continent,  if 
it  were  necessary,  and  Romulus  strode  on 
in  silence.  Past  the  small  but  tidy  door- 
yards  of  Goose  Alley  they  made  their  way 
until  a  familiar  porch  appeared  in  view, 
and  then  Romulus  stopped,  turning 
around  once  more. 

"Come  awn,"  he  urged.  "I'se  gwine 
wait  twell  I  gits  dere  befo'  I  begins  tellin' 
it." 

But  finally  they  were  there,  and  Romu- 
lus had  seated  himself  comfortably  on 
the  porch,  the  others  grouped  around  him 
and  looking  at  him  with  a  respect  em- 
phasized a  bit  by  the  pervading  air  of 
mystery. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  began  finally,  "  co'se 
you  chil'ren  where 's  hyeah  now  is  a 
po'tion  o'  de  class  I'se  been  a  teachin' 
fer  ser  many  evenin's,  ain't  yer  ?  "  They 
admitted  that  they  probably  were  a  por- 
tion of  that  particularly  mentioned  class. 

"  Ya'as,"  agreed  Romulus,  "  I  reckon 
yer  all  has  been  members  o'  de  class. 
An*  ef  yer's  been  yere  regr'lar  an'  paid 
'tention  way  yer  ought,  w'y,  I  'spec  yer 
'mount  o'  learning  is  much  mo*  'n  't  was 
w'en  yer  fus'  come,  ain't  it?"  They 
hardly  seemed  ready  to  speak  positively 
on  that  supposition,  but  various  mild 
grunts  testified  to  a  general  feeling  in 
the  affirmative. 

"  Well,  co'se  't  is,  an'  ef  't  ain't,  w'y, 
't  oughter  be.  9T  oughter  be  much  mo', 
an*  co'se  't  is,  ez  I  say,  ef  yer's  paid  'ten- 
tion way  yer  ought.  Well,  now  de  nex* 
question  is  —  doan't  yer  p'raps  reckon 


804 


Across  the  Creek 


we's  been  pay  in'  almos'  ter  much  'ten- 
tion  ter  learnin',  ter  de  neglec'  o'  some 
udder  matters  where  p'raps  we'd  oughter 
be  thinkin'  'bout,  too.  Co'se  yer  doan't 
want  ter  be  all  learnin' !  " 

They  looked  aware,  at  least,  of  this 
threatening  danger. 

<:  No,  co'se  yer  doan't  want  ter  be  all 
learnin',  caze  ef  yer 's  all  learnin',  w'y, 
look  ter  me  like  it's  trouble  ahaid  fer 
yer  den  sho'  —  same's  ef  yer  ain'  no 
learnin'.  W'y,  I'se  'quainted  wid  a 
gen'leman  once,  an'  he  ain'  nuthin'  but 
learnin'.  Did  n'  know  nuthin'  else  no- 
how! Jes'  completely  zgm'rant  on  eve'y 
single  thing  'cep'  learnin'!  Well,  co'se 
't  would  'a'  been  all  right  fer  'im  ef 
'tain'  come  no  call  fer  'im  ter  use  nuthin' 
'cep'  'is  learnin',  but  trouble  wuz  it  come 
a  call  fer  'im  one  day  on  a  matter  where 
wa'n't  'sociated  wid  learnin'  in  de  ve'y 
leas'.  Ya'as,  an'  dat's  de  trufe  I'se  tell- 
in'  yer,  too.  He's  a  settin'  by  de  winder 
one  day  wid  'is  books  'n'  papers  —  w'en 
some'n'  come  along  down  de  road  a 
holl'in'  fire.  But  natchelly  de  gen'le- 
man wuz  mo'  intrusted  in  'is  books  'n' 
papers  'n  he  wuz  in  de  fire,  so  he  jes' 
kep'  on  a  study  in'  twell  he  hyeah  'em 
holl'in'  fire  ag'in,  an'  nex'  he  knew  dey's 
a  holl'in'  at  'im  dat  it's  de  ve'y  house 
he's  a  settin'  in  where 's  afire.  Well, 
natchelly  de  gen'leman  did  n'  know  w'at 
ter  do  den  nudder,  caze  ez  I  tole  yer, 
he  did  n'  know  nuthin'  'cep'  learnin',  so 
co'se  all  he's  thinkin'  'bout  wuz  'is  books 
'n'  papers.  So  'stid  o'  jumpin'  up  an' 
hoppin'  right  outen  de  winder  same  ez 
anybuddy  wid  good  all  'roun'  sense  would 
'a'  done,  w'y,  he  jes'  set  dere  a  holl'in', 
'Oh,  my  books  'n'  papers!  Oh,  my 
books  'n'  papers ! '  twell  natchelly  de  fire 
kep'  on  a  spreadin'  an'  nex'  thing  he 
knows,  w'y,  co'se  he's  afire  hisself,  an' 
still  he  kep'  on  settin'  dere  a  holl'in, 
'  Oh,  my  books  'n'  papers!  Oh,  my 
books  'n'  papers!  '  Well,  co'se  it's  only 
one  thing  lef '  fer  'em  ter  do,  an'  dey  did'n 
r'ally  like  ter  do  it  nudder,  but  ter  save 
'im  —  dey's  jes'  'blige  ter  shoot  'im." 

There  was  an  effective  pause  while  the 


full  strength  of  the  story's  moral  sank 
thoroughly  in. 

"  Well,  now,  co'se  I  doan'  mean  by 
dat,"  continued  Romulus  reasonably, 
"  dat  ef  yer  puts  yer  mine  'ntirely  on 
learnin'  yer 's  mos'  sho'  ter  git  shot ;  no, 
I  ain't  r'ally  mean  dat;  w'at  I  mean  is, 
't  ain'  sense  ter  put  yer  mine  'tirely  on 
learnirf  ez  is  prove  by  de  gen'leman  where 
got  shot.  But  't  is  sense  ter  give  a  IFF 
mo'  all  roun'  'tention  ter  mos'  eve'y  thing 
in  gen'al,  an'  ez  de  gen'leman  over  't  de 
Ins'tute  said,  ter  edjercate  'de  haid,  de 
heart,  an'  de  han' ! '  Now,  we 's  alraidy 
tukken  up  de  haid  an'  mos'  finish  it,  nex' 
we's  gwine  tek  up  de  heart!  " 

"  Wat's  we  gwine  do  wid  de  heart?  " 
came  a  modest  query. 

"  Did  yer  speak,  Theopholus  ?  Did 
yer  ax  w'at's  we  gwine  do  wid  de  heart  ? 
Well,  jes'  look  eroun*  yer  an'  see  de 
way  udder  folks  ack  w'en  dey  starts  in 
ter  train  de  heart.  Fus'  dey  begins  ter 
ack  r'al  kine  an'  p'lite  w'en  dey  passes 
each  udder  on  de  road,  an'  nex'  dey  go 
'long  an'  do  up  dey  wuk  'thout  continyul 
fussin'  'n'  quar'lin'  'bout  it,  an'  nex'  dey 
goes  ter  church  puffeckly  regerlar  even 
ef  it  doan'  seem  ter  do  'em  de  leas'  good, 
an'  nex',  w'y,  p'raps  dey '11  start  off  a 
missiona'yin'  on  de  po'  an'  de  sick.  Well, 
yer  kin  see  fer  yerselfs  it's  mo'  sense  ter 
give  a  li'F  mo'  all  'roun'  'tention  ter  mos' 
eve'ything  like  dat  'n 't  is  ter  jes'  put  eve'y 
minute  continyully  on  yer  haid.  So,  ez 
I  said,  we's  gwine  tek  up  de  heart,  an' 
we's  gwine  start  right  in  now  by  gwine 
missiona'yin' !  " 

This  definite  announcement  caused 
an  unmistakable  wave  of  interest  mixed 
with  curiosity  to  sweep  over  the  small 
surrounding  company,  and  Romulus 
proceeded  even  more  definitely. 

"  Dat's  jes'  ez  true  ez  any  word 
I'se  ever  spoke,"  he  continued  warmly; 
"we  's  gwine  start  right  in  by  gwine 
missiona'yin'  now  I  Ter-night!  An'  we's 
gwine  begin  our  jus*  missiona'y  visit  wid 
old  Uncle  'Nezer  Smiff.  You  know  who 
I'se  talkin'  'bout,  doan't  yer — ole  Uncle 
'Nezer  Smiff  crossen  de  crick  ?  " 


Across  the  Creek 


805 


"  Where  yer  mean  —  crossen  de  crick  ? 
Ole  Uncle  'Nezer  Smiff  crossen  de 
crick?  " 

"  Dat's  w'at  I  say,  an'  dat's  jes'  w'at 
I  mean.  Ole  Uncle  'Nezer  Smiff  crossen 
de  crick.  Now,  listen  at  me,  kin  yer  start 
right  now,  soon's  I  kin  git  a  hymn-book 
an'  an  axe,  an'  any  udder  piece  o'  proper- 
ty where 's  customa'y  fer  missiona'yin' ? 
Gaze  co'se  fus'  we  mus'  sing  'im  a  song 
an'  den  we  mus'  chop  'im  some  wood,  an' 
de  reason  is  I'se  right  over  by  Uncle 
'Nezer's  house  dis  mawnin'  an'  I  seen 
he's  gittin'  kine  o'  behine  on  'is  wuk,  an' 
dat's  w'y  I  come  ter  'cide  on  Uncle 
'Nezer,  anyway." 

"  /  ain'  gwine  chop  no  wood  fer  no 
Uncle  nobuddy,"  came  a  sulky  growl 
from  the  very  heart  of  the  surrounding 
group. 

Just  a  silver  thread  from  a  slow,  lazy 
moon  was  visible  away  off  on  the  horizon, 
and  the  light  was  faint.  But  Romulus's 
ears  were  well  trained. 

"  Wuz  dat  you  speakin',  Benj'mun?  " 
he  inquired,  "  an'  did  yer  say  yer  ain' 
gwine  chop  no  wood  fer  no  Uncle  no- 
buddy  ?  Well,  look  ter  me  like  yer  spoke 
wid  mo'  sense  dat  time  'n  yer  mos' 
gen'ly  does,  Benj'mun,  caze  trufe  is  I 
ain't  de  ve'y  leas'  idea  o'  tekkin'  yer 
anyway,  counten  yer  bein'  bofe  under- 
size  'n'  mean-favored,  ez  well  ez  'pearin' 
worse  'n  usual  w'en  yer  starts  in  ter 
speak.  Furdermo',  I  could  n'  tek  mo  'n 
two  free  of  yer  under  no  sucumstances 
't  all,  so  p'raps  yer  better  begin  'n'  ax 
whedder  yer  kin  go,  stid  o'  settin'  up 
dere  an'  sayin'  yer  ain't." 

There  followed  a  quick  succession  of 
meek  petitions. 

"  Well,  now  dat's  'nough  fer  ax'm', 
too !  Now,  ef  yer  '11  set  up  so  I  kin  see 
yer,  I'se  gwine  mek  de  s'lection  an'  tell 
yer  jes'  who  kin  go." 

There  was  not  a  breath  to  be  heard. 
Romulus  eyed  the  distant  silver  thread 
on  the  horizon  critically,  and  then  eyed 
the  waiting  group. 

"  Yer  may  go,  Theopholus,"  he  an- 
nounced; "yer  may  go,  Browser,  yer 


may  go,  Keenie.  An'  dat's  all,  caze  I'se 
gwine  ca'y  yer  over  'n  de  boat.  I  could 
p'raps  tek  one  mo'  ef  't  wa'n't  fer  de  axe 
'n'  de  hymn-book,  but  co'se  we  doan't 
want  no  drownin's  or  capsizin's,  so  dat 's 
all  —  scusin'  de  axe  'n'  de  hymn-book." 

But  there  came  the  voice  of  woe  un- 
utterable. 

"  Please  cyan't  yer  tek  me  ?  Oh, 
p-lease  cyan't  yer  tek  me  p-place  o'  de 
axe  'n'  de  hymn-book  ?  " 

"  Well,  now  doan't  set  up  dere  cryin 
'bout  it,"  came  the  amiable  objection, 
"  caze  cryin'  doan't  gen'ly  do  no  good, 
an'  'side  fum  dat,  look  ter  me  like  yer's 
talkin'  foolishness,  too.  How  is  yer  gwine 
tek  de  place  o'  de  axe,  Tibe'ius  Mo'se, 
jes'  answer  me  dat.  Or  furdermo',  how 
is  yer  gwine  tek  de  place  o'  de  hymn- 
book!" 

Tiberius  looked  feebly  conscious  of  his 
shortcomings,  and  Romulus  concluded 
with  the  plain  facts  of  the  case.  "  Yer 
could  n'  do  it,  Tibe'ius,  not  ef  yer  wuz 
ter  practice  all  night  fer  it,  but  I'll  tell 
yer  jes'  w'at  yer  kin  do,  sence  yer  seem 
ter  feel  ser  bad  'bout  it,  yer  kin  go  ef 
yer  '11  promise  right  now  yer  won't  move 
once  fum  time  yer  start  twell  yer  git 
back,  an'  ef  yer  won't  tek  up  de  leas' 
bit  o'  room  in  de  boat." 

Tiberius  complied  eagerly  with  the 
conditions,  and  Romulus  turned  to  leave 
them.  "  De  ones  whose  names  I'se 
called  kin  jes'  set  yere  twell  I  come  back." 

When  he  returned,  several  minutes 
later,  there  was  no  comment  made  on  the 
fact  that  he  carried  two  axes  as  well  as 
a  hymn-book,  so  he  commented  briefly 
on  the  fact  himself.  "  I  'cided  ef  we  's 
gwine  ter  r'ally  git  much  done  we  's 
'blige  ter  ca'y  two  axes,  anyway.  Co'se  I 
kin  see  we's  mos'  likely  ter  sink  de  boat 
's  well  ez  drown  'n'  capsize,  wid  de  load 
we's  tekkin',  but 't  ain'  no  time  ter  start 
no  argament  'bout  it  nudder." 

The  four  chosen  ones  evidently  had 
no  idea  of  starting  an  argument,  but 
briskly  clambering  down  the  steps  behind 
Romulus,  who  carried  an  axe  over  each 
shoulder,  Theopholus  followed  next  in 


806 


Across  the  Creek 


line,  with  the  hymn-book,  and  the  pro- 
cession moved  impressively  down  the 
alley  toward  the  Institute  gates  —  while 
the  less  favored  members  of  the  company 
disappeared  silently  into  the  darkness. 

Through  the  gates  they  wound,  on  to 
the  broad,  hard  road  and  across  the 
grounds,  winding  with  the  winding  road 
past  brightly  lighted  buildings  and  on 
to  a  long,  smooth  stretch  of  grass  that 
rolled  down  to  the  waters  of  the  creek. 
In  the  distance  the  Hampton  Roads 
flashed  with  lights,  and,  as  Romulus 
stepped  down  to  the  wharf,  he  stopped 
for  a  moment,  looking  down  at  the  dimly 
flowing  waters  of  the  creek  and  then  out 
at  the  larger  flashing  of  the  Roads. 

"  Cert'nly  is  a  pretty  night,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  now  we  ain'  gwine  have  no 
playin'  w'ile  we's  gittin'  in  de  boat!" 

Judging  from  the  serious,  almost 
funereal  aspect  of  his  surrounding  at- 
tendants, this  word  of  warning  seemed  a 
bit  misplaced,  but  they  took  it  without 
comment  or  complaint. 

"  Se'  down,  Theopholus,  doan't  yer 
move,  Tibe'ius;  now,  is  yer  all  raidy?" 

Out  into  the  little,  dimly-flashing 
stream  they  moved,  and  Romulus,  with- 
out further  conversation,  bent  silently 
over  his  oars,  while  four  small  dark  faces 
gazed  as  silently  from  the  flickering, 
shadowy  water  to  the  sky  above. 

But  the  voice  of  authority  sounded 
once  more  as  the  boat  washed  up  lightly 
on  the  other  side  —  and  then  again  they 
were  traveling  silently  on  under  the 
night  sky,  ragged  bushes  and  trees  on 
either  side  of  them,  the  axes  over  Romu- 
lus's  shoulders  sending  out  occasional 
little  glancing  gleams  of  light  —  still 
traveling  on. 

Finally  the  leader  turned  impressively, 
clearing  his  throat  and  pointing  mysteri- 
ously to  a*  dully  "gleaming  light  in  the 
distance. 

"  Yer  see  dat  light  ?  ""he  queried,  "  caze 
dat's  jes'  de  ve'y  spot  where  Uncle  'Nezer 
lives,  an*  we's  a  gwine  dere  right  now. 
Jes'  foller  me." 

And   they   stood  before    the    leaning 


cabin,  and  breathed 1  a  gentle,  general 
sigh  of  relief.  Then,  suddenly,  the  dully 
gleaming  light  which  had  beckoned  them 
on  went  out. 

"  Sho' !  Well,  doan'  make  no  diffunce 
—  we  kin  do  de  missiona'yin'  jes'  zackly 
de  same.  Jes1  joller  me!  " 

Around  the  cabin  he  led  them,  point- 
ing effectively  once  more  at  something 
which  loomed  boldly  up  in  the  moonlight. 
"  Yer  see  dat  woodpile  ?  "  he  demanded. 
He  deposited  his  axes  on  the  ground. 
"  Co'se  it's  easy  'nough  ter  see  it.  Well, 
Tibe'ius,  you  kin  climb  up  dere  an'  han* 
down,  an'  Keenie  'n'  Theopholus  you  kin 
start  right  off  a  choppin',  an'  Browser 
you  kin  se'  down  on  de  steps  jes'  long 
'nough  ter  pick  out  a  hymn  ter  sing  'im 
'fo'  we  go  —  an'  ef  any  of  yer  needs 
'sistance  or  'ncouragement,  w'y,  jes' 
call  on  me." 

Tiberius,  on  the  woodpile,  was  hand- 
ing down,  Theopholus  and  Keenie  were 
chopping  recklessly,  Browser  was  picking 
out  the  hymn  with  the  aid  of  a  match, 
and  Romulus  was  keeping  up  a  generally 
encouraging  oversight,  when  there  came 
a  shrill,  terrified  squawk  from  the  wood- 
pile. 

"Good  Lawd,  man!"  expostulated 
Romulus,  startled  out  of  all  dignity, 
while  Browser  jumped  excitedly  from 
his  seat,  dropping  his  match,  "  w'at  you 
reckon  you  doin',  anyway,  wid  sech  a 
noise  ez  dat!  W'y,  yer  like  ter  mos' 
scyare  a  man  ter  deaf,  ain't  yer!  " 

A  terrified  white  hen  was  bounding 
lamely  down  from  the  woodpile,  and  the 
missionaries  were  looking  on  with  faces 
of  expressionless  wonder. 

"  Well,  now  I  guess  it's  trouble  ahaid 
fer  yer  sho'!"  declared  Romulus  hotly; 
"  wid  yer  smashin*  'n'  banging  eroun' 
up  dere  yer's  lame  de  chick'n!  " 

The  chicken  squawked  again  faintly  in 
feeble  agreement,  and  hopped  down  from 
the  woodpile  and  up  to  the  back  steps, 
where  she  stopped,  and  with  her  feathers 
sticking  out  in  shocked  dismay  regarded 
the  missionaries  with  looks  of  sad  re- 
proof. 


Across  the  Creek 


807 


"  Well,  look  ter  me  like  yer  's  cripple 
'er,  anyway,"  maintained  Romulus, "  but 
't  ain'  gwine  do  no  good  ter  stan'  dere 
lookin'!  Jes'  go  right  'long  wid  yer 
choppin'  an'  I  '11  see  ef  p'raps  I  kin  'ply 
some  remedy  to  'er." 

Just  then  there  was  a  faint  fumbling 
at  the  back  door,  and  as  it  swung  open 
slowly,  old  Uncle  Ebenezer  Smith  himself 
moved  out  on  to  the  step,  and  then 
stopped,  regarding  the  moonlit  scene. 
At  his  feet,  below,  the  chicken  still  gazed 
sorrowfully  ahead. 

Romulus  looked  up  with  a  graceful 
smile  and  a  fluent  explanation,  and  the 
old  man,  still  looking  around  inquiringly, 
finally  regarded  the  two  choppers  at  the 
woodpile,  who,  now  thoroughly  in  the 
spirit  of  their  part,  were  swinging  their 
axes  wildly. 

"  Come  over  ter  'sist  me  wid  my 
wuk?"  the  old  man  inquired,  with  meek 
anxiety  in  his  eyes.  "  Well,  cert'nly  wuz 
good  of  yer,  cert'nly  wuz  ve'y  good,  but 

—  but  laws,  boy,  yer's — choppin'  up 
my  bes'  rockin'  cheer!  " 

The  axes  came  down  with  final,  falter- 
ing thuds,  while  Uncle  Ebenezer  stepped 
down  into  the  yard  and  ruefully  regarded 
the  ruins  of  his  chair. 

"  Ya'as  —  co'se  I  understan'  yer  wuz 
'tendin'  it  all  fer  de  bes',"  he  admitted 
dismally  to  the  conciliatory  Romulus, 
"  but  I  pitch  dat  cheer  up  on  de  wood- 
pile dis  ve'y  day  fer  mendin'." 

There  was  a  rustle  from  the  steps,  and 
a  white  hen  skipped  down  into  the  yard 

—  lamely,  haltingly. 

"Befo'  de  Lawd!"  breathed  Uncle 
Ebenezer, "  w'at's  de  matter  wid  'Gusta  ? 
Is  yer  cripple  'er  ?  "  He  bent  over  the 
wilted-looking  bird,  and,  lifting  her  up 
and  placing  her  securely  on  the  step  again, 
moved  back  and  regarded  her  silently. 
The  others,  grouped  silently  around  the 
woodpile,  regarded  her,  too,  and  Augus- 
ta, with  the  same  sad  look  of  reproof  in 
her  eye,  looked  back  at  her  audience 
without  flinching. 

"  I'se  name  'er  fer  Miss  'Gusta  Mer'l 

—  Miss  'Gusta  Mer'l  fum  de  No'th," 


finally  began  Uncle  Ebenezer  in  gentle 
tones  of  reminiscence,  "  an'  it's  allays 
been  my  pu'pose  ter  train  'er  up  into 
a  puffeckly  'sponsible  an'  hon'rable 
fam'ly  chick'n." 

Augusta,  blinking  sadly  on  the  step, 
looked  her  part  to  perfection. 

"  Dat's  jes'  de  way  I  allays  has  train 
'er,"  went  on  Uncle  Ebenezer,  "an'  now 
look  at 'er!" 

Augusta  bore  it  without  a  flicker. 

"  Well,  all 't  is,"  he  continued,  "  look 
ter  me  like  yer's  mos'  completely  ruin 
'er,  eider  fer  a  providin'  chick'n  or  fer 
a  fam'ly  'sociate." 

Augusta  looked  sadly  but  forgivingly 
at  the  speaker. 

"  An'  all  counten  yer  roostin'  on  de 
woodpile,  'Gusta !  "  he  went  on  in  sor- 
rowful, direct  address.  "  Yer  know  I  al- 
lays tole  yer  it  wuz  a  unstiddy  place  ter 
res',  an'  yer'd  'a'  gain  in  de  en'  ef  yer'd 
tukken  my  'vice  an'  come  inside  way  I 
axed  yer.  But 't  was  allays  sump'n  aw- 
ful venturesome  'bout  yer,  too,  'Gusta, 
awful  venturesome  'n'  exper'mental ;  an' 
not  only  dat,  but  cert'nly  is  true  yer's 
allays  be'n  jes'  a  HT  'clined  ter  be  strong 
'n'  unyieldin'  in  yer  dispersition.  Well, 
yer  kin  see  it  ain't  brought  yer  nuthin* 
but  trouble.  Jes'  look  at  yer  now !  'T  ain' 
no  brightness  lef  in  yer,  ner  sociability 
nudder,  an'  nuver  will  be  ag'in  long's  yer 
live!" 

Augusta  apparently  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  with  a  sudden  shrill  squawk 
of  woe  unutterable,  she  hopped  dis- 
tractedly from  the  step. 

"  Hole  awn  now,  'Gusta,"  came  the 
soothing  advice,  "  hole  awn  now  —  Say, 
look  ter  me  —  "  his  tones  came  fraught 
with  conscious  helplessness  and  absolute 
resignation  —  "  look  ter  me  like  de  steps 
is  afire  now!  " 

Romulus,  dimly  recalling  a  hymn-book 
and  a  lighted  match,  dashed  wildly  for- 
ward to  a  blazing  pile  of  shavings  which 
was  merrily  kindling  the  thin,  rickety 
steps,  and  his  followers  dashed  in  con- 
fusion after  him.  Uncle  Ebenezer  merely 
stood  back  resignedly  watching,  and  ap- 


808 


Across  tJie  Creek 


parently  entirely  ready  for  whatever 
might  come  next.  Augusta,  huddling 
dejectedly  at  his  feet,  watched  too,  in  the 
same  spirit  of  hopeless  resignation. 

Finally,  when  the  last  danger  had  been 
averted  and  the  missionaries  were  looking 
back  at  Uncle  Ebenezer  and  then  down 
at  the  blackened  steps,  he  spoke  again 
in  words  which  he  considered  to  be  both 
just  and  reasonable. 

"  Co'se  I  s'pose  yer  come  ter  len'  me 
yer  'sistance,"  —  he  stopped  and  hastily 
surveyed  the  scene  around  him,  and  then 
he  looked  deprecatingly  at  Romulus; 
"  but  w'at  has  yer  done  ?  Yer's  chop  up 
my  bes'  rocker,  yer's  cripple  my  fam'ly 
chick'n,  an'  yer's  set  my  house  afire. 
Pshaw,  man,  dat  ain't  no  kindness  ter 
nobuddy!" 

Romulus  himself  was  a  bit  lost  for  a 
response,  but  his  attempt  was  at  least 
brave. 

"  We  —  we  could  sing  yer  a  hymn  jes' 
'fo'  leavin',"  he  suggested  haltingly  but 
politely. 

"  I  doan'  guess  Icyare  'bout  no  hymn," 
returned  Uncle  Ebenezer,  politely  too. 
"  I's  mos'  'fraid  it  mought  some  'ow 
turn  inter  trouble." 

As  they  wound  around  the  corner  of 


the  moonlit,  leaning  cabin,  their  last  fare- 
wells still  echoing  faintly  but  bravely  in 
the  stillness,  Uncle  Ebenezer  and  Augusta 
waited  side  by  side, — then  turned  their 
heads  warily,  cautiously,  and  watched 
them  till  they  were  out  of  sight. 

Down  on  the  shore  Romulus  was  sunk 
deep  in  meditation.  Finally  he  turned 
his  head  slowly,  looked  down  at  four  dim 
dark  faces  below  him,  and  then  as  slowly 
stepped  into  the  boat. 

"  Well,  it's  prove  ter  yer  one  thing," 
he  began,  glancing  from  the  dark  faces 
out  to  the  sweeping,  flashing  waters  of 
the  Roads,  "  an'  dat  is  de  'mount  of  it  is, 
it  teks  learnin'  ter  do  de  ve'y  leas'  thing 
an'  do  it  'thout  messin'  'n'  splotchin'  over 
it.  Jes'  looker  w'at  yer  done  ter-night! 
W'y  it  meks  me  feel  'shame  ter  even  think 
of  it!  Well,  I  hope  dat's  prove  ter  yer 
dat  it  teks  mo'  learnin'  ter  do  missiona'y- 
in'  an'  do  it  right  'n  anybody  settin'  in  dis 
yere  boat  's  got  yit.  An'  dat  ain't  all, 
nudder.  Look  ter  me  like  it  teks  ser  much 
learnin'  dat  't  ain't  many  where 's  fit  ter 
'tempt  it,  anyway." 

He  pushed  off  with  a  long,  light  sweep 
of  the  arm,  and  the  boat  moved  out  into 
the  shadowy,  flowing  waters  of  the  creek. 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  AS  A    WRITER  OF  TRAGEDY 


BY    FREDERICK    B.    R.    HELLEMS 


THE  concord  with  which  Mr.  Stephen 
Phillips  was,  on  the  publication  of  his 
Poems,  acclaimed  a  true  singer  was  only 
less  striking  than  the  later  clashing  of  po- 
lemics over  his  merits  as  a  writer  of  trag- 
edy ;  and  even  the  most  hopeful  searcher 
after  convincing  literary  verdicts  would 
rise  from  the  several  score  of  reviews  on 
my  table  with  a  despairing  impression  of 
the  futility  of  criticism.  Accordingly,  in 
a  rather  pessimistic  frame  of  mind,  one 
blustering  afternoon  in  late  September, 
I  sat  down  to  read  once  more  Paolo  and 
Francesca  with  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Doubt- 
less this  comparison  has  been  instituted, 
more  or  less  carefully,  by  every  lover  of 
poetry;  for  the  features  of  resemblance 
are  so  numerous  and  striking  that  they 
must  challenge  the  attention  of  even  the 
casual  reader. 

Both  plays  belong  to  the  earlier  act- 
ivity of  their  respective  authors ;  in  both, 
the  story  is  frankly  drawn  from  the  open 
treasury  of  older  literature ;  in  the  former, 
as  in  the  latter,  the  scene  is  "  the  eternal 
Italy  of  passion,  the  time  is  the  deathless 
spring  of  young  desire;  "  in  either  trag- 
edy two  youthful  beings,  who  forget  the 
world  and  all  beside,  pay  the  penalty,  or 
win  the  guerdon,  of  a  lover's  death,  and 
the  play  ends  "  with  a  long  deep  sigh 
like  the  last  breeze  of  an  Italian  even- 
ing; "  in  short,  there  is  almost  as  close 
a  parallel  as  one  could  hope  to  find.  In 
following  the  parallel  one  must  not  for- 
get that  Mr.  Phillips  expressly  deprecates 
comparison  with  the  Elizabethans,  who 
sought  for  multiplicity  of  effect,  whereas 
he  aims  at  unity;  but  even  over  his  pro- 
test some  relative  estimate  will  be  made 
by  every  devotee  of  the  drama,  and,  in 


the  right  spirit,  it  is  essentially  worth  the 
making. 

How,  then,  does  the  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca emerge  from  the  experiment  ?  The 
real  answer  can  come  only  from  the  in- 
dividual reader;  but  I  cannot  escape  the 
conviction  that,  if  he  will  read  as  I  did, 
doing  his  best  to  put  aside  all  precon- 
ceptions and  yielding  himself  naturally 
to  the  pages  in  his  hands  and  the  general 
impression  thereby  produced,  he  will 
close  the  two  plays  with  the  feeling  that,  if 
there  is  not  equality  of  concrete  achieve- 
ment, there  is  at  least  real  kinship  of  spirit. 
Nay,  I  even  fancy  that  not  a  few  readers 
will  feel  the  tugging  at  the  heartstrings 
just  a  little  stronger  at  the  last  words  of 
Giovanni  than  at  the  closing  speech  of  the 
Prince.  If  there  "  never  was  a  story  of 
more  woe  than  this  of  Juliet  and  her 
Romeo,"  yet  by  its  side  may  stand  the 
story  of  Paolo  and  Francesca,  who  wooed 
and  loved  unwillingly,  whom  we  leave 
looking  like  children  fast  asleep.  Natur- 
ally, there  arises  the  objection  that  the 
experiment  would  be  proposed,  and  the 
conclusion  reached,  only  by  a  cloistered 
bookman.  In  this  objection,  however,  I 
could  not  quite  acquiesce;  for  I  must 
believe  that  a  comparison  in  the  theatre 
would  lead  to  no  materially  different  de- 
cision. Mr.  Irving's  production  of  the 
modern  play  I  have  never  heard;  but  no 
unprejudiced  auditor  will  ever  forget  or 
deny  his  emotions  when  Mr.  George 
Alexander,  approaching  the  litter  with  its 
bitter  lading  of  youth  and  beauty,  in 
whose  company  we  have  lived  a  fated 
hour,  says  very  gently,  — 

Not  easily  have  we  three  come  to  this  — 
We  three  who  now  are  dead.     Unwillingly 
They  loved,  unwillingly  I  slew  them.     Now 
I  kiss  them  on  the  forehead  quietly. 

809 


810 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


In  my  own  experience  I  noted  the  same 
deep  and  general  hush  that  I  had  felt 
shed  itself  over  a  Greek  audience  some 
six  years  before,  at  the  not  dissimilar 
close  of  the  Antigone,  which  was  pre- 
sented by  the  students  of  the  University 
of  Athens.  Of  course  the  surface  is  only 
the  surface;  but  the  heart  is  the  heart, 
and  this  tugging  at  its  strings  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  judging  a  tragedy.  The 
further  I  followed  the  thoughts  suggested 
by  the  comparison,  the  more  I  was 
strengthened  in  the  belief  that  Mr.  Phil- 
lips was  worth  knowing.  Shortly  after- 
wards the  Faust  was  placed  in  my  hands, 
and  I  have  ventured  to  make  a  simple 
estimate  of  Mr.  Phillips's  actual  achieve- 
ments and  of  the  grounds  for  hope  or  fear 
as  to  his  future.  With  this  modest  aim 
before  me,  I  have  essayed  a  review  of  the 
six  plays  hitherto  published,  taking  up 
in  order  our  author's  choice  of  tragic  ma- 
terial, treatment  of  plot  and  dramatic 
motive,  depiction  of  character,  poetic 
diction,  and  scenic  presentment. 


ii 

If  we  first  cast  a  general  glance  over  the 
dramas,  we  find  that  three  of  them  may 
be  called  tragedies  of  love,  one  a  tragic 
masque,  the  fifth  a  dramatic  character 
study,  while  the  latest  is  frankly  an  adapt- 
ation of  Goethe's  masterpiece.  In  the 
earliest  of  the  love- tragedies  Mr.  Phillips 
has  gone  to  Dante  for  his  story,  and  has 
chosen  that  aspect  of  the  myriad-faced 
problem  wherein  the  love  of  the  principal 
characters  appears  as  a  phase  of  Fate, 
"  that  god  behind  all  gods."  From  the 
moment  when  Paolo  enters  out  of  sun- 
light, leading  Francesca,  until  in  the 
gloomy  hall  the  bodies  are  reverently 
covered  over,  we  feel  that  in  most  solemn 
sooth  "  his  kiss  was  on  her  lips  e'er  she 
was  born."  Their  love  was  as  inevitable 
as  life  or  death.  Indeed,  it  was  at  one 
with  the  love  in  the  old  Empedoclean  or 
new  Haeckelian  scheme  of  the  universe, 
the  love  that  operates  from  the  primor- 
dial atom  to  the  enthralling  of  the  earth 


by  the  sun,  from  the  lowest  protozoan  to 
the  loftiest  soul  of  man  with  its  godlike 
uprushing  toward  pure  truth  and  pure 
beauty.  Despite  our  conventions,  we 
realize  that  the  love  of  these  twain  does 
raise  them  above  themselves;  and  the 
glorious  allegorizing  of  Plato  in  the 
Phcedrus  and  Symposium,  along  with 
Dante's  kindred  vision,  is  immediately 
recalled  by  the  scene  in  which  we  hear 
the  glowing  prayer  of  Paolo :  — 

Let  me  with  kisses  burn  this  body  away, 
That  our  two  souls  may  dart  together  free. 
I  fret  at  intervention  of  the  flesh, 
And  I  would  clasp  you  —  you  that  but  inhabit 
This  lovely  house. 

Howbeit,  love  of  the  spirit  with  absolutely 
no  fretting  intervention  of  the  flesh  is  as 
impossible  for  us  in  our  mortal  houses  as 
it  is  undesirable,  until  we  rise  to  other 
levels;  and  it  is  strictly  in  accord  with 
cosmic  order,  as  well  as  cosmic  passion, 
that  youth  goes  toward  youth.  For  their 
contravention  of  our  recognized  moral 
order  they  meet  a  punishment  that  is  no 
punishment  but  merely  one  more  ground 
for  Heine's  decision  that "  Die  Liebe  mit 
dem  Tode  verbunden  ist  uniiberwind- 
lich." 

In  The  Sin  of  David  the  central  con- 
ception of  love  is  the  same.  Thus  Lisle 
says  to  Miriam,  in  words  that  still  carry 
an  echo  from  Plato  and  Dante,  — 

No !  for  a  revelation  breaks  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  unlocked  the  loveliness  of  earth, 
Leading  me  through  thy  beauty  to  all  beauty. 
Thou  hast  admitted  me  to  mystery, 
Taught  me  the  different  souls  of  all  the  stars ; 
Through  thee  have  I  inherited  this  air, 
Discovered  sudden  riches  at  ray  feet, 
And   now   on  eyes   long  blinded  flames  the 
world. 

Here  again  unquenchable  love  is  brought 
into  conflict  with  the  moral  order,  this 
time  with  the  scarlet  taint  of  blood-guilti- 
ness; for  Lisle,  maddened  by  Miriam's 
moonlit  beauty,  sends  her  husband  to  cer- 
tain death,  and  watches  him  ride,  dying, 
into  the  night.  Upon  this  pair  of  lovers, 
even  after  they  are  sheltered  in  happy 
wedlock,  breaks  a  storm  of  real  punish 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


811 


ment  in  the  loss  of  an  idolized  child.  Ne- 
mesis with  terrible  grimness  has  caught 
up  the  earlier  words  of  Lisle,  and  sending 
more  than  mere  death,  "  strikes  at  his 
heart,  his  hope,  his  home." 

In  Herod  the  face  of  love  is  different. 
The  Judaean  soldier-king,  who  has  lived 
forever  half  in  lightning,  half  in  gloom, 
is  possessed  by  a  consuming  passion  for 
his  queen,  whom  he  has  wooed  amid  the 
crashing  of  cities.  Mariamne,  however, 
in  whose  veins  there  runs  the  blood  of  all 
the  Maccabees,  loves  her  stormy,  bril- 
liant husband  mainly  for  his  impetuous 
power :  — 

Those  eyes  that  dimmed  for  me  flamed  in  the 

breach ; 
And    you    were    scorched    and    scarred   and 

dressed  in  spoils, 
Magnificent  in  livery  of  ruin. 

Stronger  than  her  love  for  Herod,  al- 
though it  is  of  the  sort  which  "  not  time, 
absence,  or  age  could  ever  touch,"  is  the 
love  she  bears  her  brother,  who  is  more 
than  flesh  and  blood  to  her,  the  incarna- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  her  ancient  race,  the 
crown  of  its  past  and  hope  of  its  future. 

0,  thou  art  holy,  child ; 
About  thee  is  the  sound  of  rushing  wings, 
And  a  breathing  as  of  angels  thro'  thy  hair. 

So,  when  Herod,  in  submission  to  what 
seems  to  be  irresistible  political  need, 
causes  the  brother  to  be  slain,  her  great 
love  is  quenched  in  a  greater  grief. 

Herod,  that  love  I  did  conceive  for  you, 
And  from  you,  it  was  even  as  a  child  — 
More  dear,  indeed,  than  any  child  of  flesh, 
For  all  its  blood  was  as  a  colour  of  dreams, 
And  it  was  veined  with  visions  delicate. 
Then  came  a  sudden  labour  ere  my  time  — 
Terrible  travail  —  and  I  bring  it  forth, 
Dead,  dead.   And  here  I  lay  it  at  your  feet. 

Then  the  goads  of  grief  and  jealousy 
skillfully  utilized  by  Herod's  scheming 
mother  and  sister  drive  him  to  the  deed 
which  fulfills  the  astrologer's  prediction 
that  Herod  should  kill  the  thing  that  most 
he  loved;  for  the  dead  brother  demands 
his  sister's  death.  Finally,  beneath  the 
weight  of  sin  and  sorrow  the  king's  mind 
is  maddened,  and  amid  the  wild  foam  of 


insanity  he  "  clasps  only  this  rock,  that 
Mariamne  lives."  As  to  wealth  and  do- 
minion and  power,  he  has  achieved  more 
than  his  wildest,  dreams;  but  he  has"  ran- 
somed outward  victory  with  inward  loss," 
and  his  last  words  before  being  bound  in 
catalepsy  are  a  heartrending  cry  that  he 
will  recreate  his  beloved  out  of  endless 
yearning.  If  Paolo  seems  to  be  punished 
for  his  love,  if  the  punishment  of  Lisle  is 
real  and  heavy  indeed,  Herod  may  be 
numbered  with  Othello  and  the  few  others 
whose  retribution  has  become  a  part  of 
the  world's  moan  of  pain. 

In  Ulysses  we  have  still  another  phase 
of  love;  but  it  no  longer  fills  the  stage  as 
in  the  preceding  plays.  It  is  true  that  the 
storied  fidelity  of  Penelope  and  the  sacred 
hunger  of  her  soul  are  sung  once  more 
in  beautiful  lines;  and  the  drama  ends 
effectively  with  husband  and  wife  in  silent 
embrace  by  the  brightening  hearth,  while 
the  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  heard  repeat- 
ing the  song,  — 

And  she  shall  fall  upon  his  breast 
With  never  a  spoken  word. 

Howbeit,  the  love  of  the  wanderer  for 
Penelope,  deep  and  abiding  though  it 
proves,  is  not  all  that  Calypso  reads  into 
it  before  she  bids  the  Ithacan  leave  her 
island ;  it  is  essentially  a  part  of  his  long- 
ing for  home,  one  of  the  thousand  calls 
ringing  in  his  ears  and  summoning  him 
across  the  deep.  As  to  dramatic  mot- 
ive, the  punishment  of  the  suitors  and  the 
portrayal  of  the  character  of  the  wave- 
worn,  steadfast,  wily  king  play  quite  'as 
large  a  part  as  the  love  between  husband 
and  wife. 

In  Nero,  love  is  only  an  incident,  the 
emperor's  relations  with  Poppa3a  being 
treated  as  a  feature  of  the  conspiracy 
against  Agrippina,  a  part  of  the  policy 
of  "  matching  the  mistress  'gainst  the 
mother  —  the  noon  of  beauty  against  the 
evening  of  authority."  The  drama  is 
primarily  an  exposition  of  the  develop- 
ment of  an  "  aesthete  made  omnipotent," 
of  a  dreamy,  pampered  youth,  with  a  sur- 
face of  polish  and  specious  intentions, 


812 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


who  changes  into  a  crazy  author-actor- 
musician  with  all  the  world  for  his  theatre. 
In  opposition  to  him  is  drawn  the  imperi- 
ous woman,  who  would  give  life  to  even 
the  driest  of  annals ;  and  if  there  is  a  cen- 
tral tragic  point  in  the  play  it  is  her  mur- 
der, which  has  been  acquiesced  in  rather 
than  promoted  by  the  demented  son. 
For  this,  however,  he  pays  a  wild  atone- 
ment by  giving  her  flaming  Rome  for  a 
funeral  pyre;  and  the  curtain  falls  as  Nero 
faints  at  the  conclusion  of  his  apostrophe 
to  her  spirit  and  the  flames  that  appease 
its  rage. 

As  to  Faust  there  is  little  need  of 
words.  Here  is  matter  for  the  dramatic 
poets  of  all  ages;  each  changing  era  of 
thought  will  justify  a  new  presentation 
of  this  eternal  theme.  At  some  not  very 
distant  day  we  may  have  a  Faust  al- 
most as  different  from  Goethe's  as  his 
was  different  from  the  mediaeval  puppet- 
show  to  which  we  trace  its  origin.  The 
great  new  play  may  be  no  better;  but  it 
will  be  fundamentally  different.  If  we 
are  honest,  we  must  admit  that  the  sage 
of  Weimar,  despite  his  efforts  to  con- 
vince us  that  Faust  worked  out  his  own 
salvation,  is  ultimately  driven  to  "  sal- 
vation by  grace."  This  solution  was 
proper  enough  at  one  stage  in  occidental 
development ;  but  it  will  hardly  be  accept- 
able much  longer.  It  is  too  mediaeval  and 
formal.  In  our  Faust  of  the  future,  the 
problem  will  be  the  same,  but  the  solu- 
tion must  be  along  the  lines  the  younger 
Goethe  doubtless  intended.  On  earth 
the  skein  is  tangled;  and  on  earth,  not  in 
heaven,  must  it  be  unraveled.  This  is  no 
presumptuous  arraignment  of  one  of  the 
world's  greatest  classics;  it  is  simply  an 
obvious  assertion  that  man's  attitude  to- 
ward the  fundamental  moral  problems 
of  the  universe  is  not  fixed  beyond  the 
possibility  of  movement.  In  the  months 
intervening  since  the  announcement  of 
Mr.  Phillips's  new  play,  I  had  hoped  that 
he  might  essay  the  Olympian  task  of 
treating  this  inexhaustible  theme  in  a 
new  spirit;  but  he  and  Mr.  Carr  have 
preferred  the  lowlier,  easier  work  of  add- 


ing to  the  innumerable  adaptations  of 
the  greatest  drama  in  German  literature. 
Utilizing  this  brief  review  to  recall  the 
tragedies,  we  can  hardly  fail  to  conclude 
that  in  the  first  three  outlined  above  Mr. 
Phillips  has  chosen  thoroughly  suitable 
material,  unless  we  are  all  to  desert  to 
Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  allow  the  "  sen- 
timentalists "  to  weep  alone.  In  the  story 
of  Ulysses  there  is  appropriate  and  even 
beautiful  material  for  a  tragic  masque, 
which  is  practically  what  Mr.  Phillips 
has  given  us.  In  Nero,  I  think,  there 
is  stuff  for  a  certain  sort  of  tragedy,  al- 
though not  for  the  sort  our  author  has 
written;  but  of  this  I  shall  speak  again. 
Faust  is  an  undying  theme  with  un- 
limited possibilities. 

in 

With  this  dramatic  material  our  au- 
thor's treatment  of  plot  is  naturally  con- 
nected very  closely.  In  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca,  for  instance,  in  view  of  the  long 
precedent  literary  tradition  attaching  to 
these  names,  Mr.  Phillips  had  little  room 
left  for  choice  save  as  between  so-called 
idealizing  and  realistic  treatments.  That 
he  is  to  be  congratulated  on  choosing  the 
former,  several  critics  have  denied ;  but  if 
these  had  stumbled  upon  the  same  chance 
for  comparison  as  was  thrust  upon  me 
by  a  kindly  fortune,  I  cannot  but  fancy 
that  a  few  of  them  would  have  modified 
their  decision.  It  happened  by  the  sheer- 
est luck  that  the  last  play  I  attended  in 
Paris,  the  week  before  seeing  Paolo  and 
Francesca  presented  in  London,  was 
Marion  Crawford's  realistic  version  of 
the  same  story.  History  was  adhered  to 
with  brain-satisfying  accuracy,  and  Ma- 
dame Bernhardt,  although  I  had  seen  her 
when  she  appeared  to  better  advantage, 
acted  with  genuine  power;  but  the  con- 
trast between  that  presentation  and  Mr. 
George  Alexander's  production  of  the 
less  historical  version  by  Mr.  Phillips 
would  have  given  pause  to  the  most  ag- 
gressive advocates  of  realism.  The  Pari- 
sian play  was,  after  all,  only  a  tragedy  of 
blood  flowing  across  a  picture  of  muddy 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


813 


passion,  which  all  the  witchery  of  the 
supremely  gifted  actress  and  the  magic 
of  the  incomparable  scenic  presentment 
could  not  raise  above  the  commonplace; 
whereas,  on  the  London  stage,  was  a 
tragedy  of  human  souls  with  a  back- 
ground of  ineluctable  Fate.  Even  when 
one  admits  the  existence  of  certain  vul- 
nerable points,  this  background  saves  the 
plot,  and  the  final  impression  is  one  of 
inevitability. 

Passing  to  Ulysses,  we  may  borrow 
from  Aristotle.  "  A  certain  man  is  ab- 
sent from  home  for  many  years;  he  is 
jealously  watched  by  Poseidon,  and  left 
desolate.  Meanwhile  his  home  is  in  a 
wretched  plight  —  suitors  are  wasting 
his  substance  and  plotting  against  his 
son.  At  length,  tempest-tossed,  he  ar- 
rives and  reveals  his  true  self;  he  attacks 
his  enemies,  destroys  them,  and  is  him- 
self preserved.  This  is  the  essence  of  the 
plot ;  the  rest  is  episode."  Even  the  play's 
warmest  admirers,  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynne 
for  instance,  are  inclined  to  slight  the 
question  of  plot  and  to  emphasize  other 
aspects,  such  as  "the  beauty  of  sight  and 
sound,  the  grace  of  gesture,  the  melody 
of  verse,  the  glory  of  splendid  words;  " 
or,  "the  fire  and  force,  that  lift  out  of  the 
commonplace  a  common  motive  or  a 
common  thought."  There  is  a  weakness 
as  to  impelling  and  unifying  dramatic 
motive,  which  the  noble  forms  of  Athena 
and  Poseidon  may  cloak,  but  cannot  al- 
together hide ;  and  the  weakness  may  as 
well  be  admitted  without  contention. 

As  to  The  Sin  of  David,  it  is  safe  to 
assume  that  any  reader  will  repeat  in  large 
part  whatever  verdict  he  has  passed  upon 
the  question  of  plot  in  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca,  which  it  resembles  in  so  many  ways ; 
although  there  is  one  important  weakness, 
which  will  be  considered  in  connection 
with  the  author's  treatment  of  Lisle's 
character. 

When  we  come  to  the  Herod,  how- 
ever, we  find  ourselves  in  a  position  to 
decide  definitely  that  Mr.  Phillips  can 
construct  a  plot.  It  is  true  that  he  was 
once  more  using  material  from  an  open 


source,  and  that  other  plays  had  been 
written  on  the  same  subject ;  but,  even  so, 
there  was  more  room  for  stretching  of  the 
wings,  and  our  poet  has  achieved  a  notable 
flight.  Early  in  the  first  act  the  author 
sets  before  us  the  masterful  passion  of 
Herod  for  his  bride,  which  is  the  central 
theme;  the  critical  position  of  Judaea 
before  the  all-engulfing  tide  of  Roman 
conquest;  the  menace  of  Aristobulus's 
existence  to  Herod's  supremacy  over  a 
discontented  people,  whom  he  alone  can 
save;  the  almost  idolatrous  devotion  of 
Mariamne  to  her  brother ;  and  the  jealous 
intriguing  of  Cypros  and  Salome.  Across 
the  scene  there  flit  the  whispered  pro- 
phecies of  a  coming  king,  —  reminding 
us  of  Christ  in  Hades,  —  who  shall  rule 
in  gentleness  and  take  terror  from  the 
grave.  For  one  clear,  if  awful,  moment 
we  are  allowed  to  pierce  the  veil  of  the 
future,  when  Cypros  repeats  the  astrolo- 
ger's prediction,  — 

Herod  shall  famous  be  o'er  all  the  world, 
But  he  shall  kill  that  thing-  which  most  he 
loves. 

Just  before  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  when 
Mariamne  discovers  that  Herod  has 
brought  about  her  brother's  death,  we 
see  a  little  more  clearly  beyond  the  veil. 
In  the  second  act  Herod  is  led  by  a 
complex  of  motives,  convincing  in  the 
sum,  to  order  the  death  of  the  wife  whose 
murdered  love  he  cannot  revive.  "  Fate 
is  upon  him  with  the  hour,  the  word." 
To  make  more  deeply  pathetic  his  help- 
lessness before  Fate  and  Mariamne,  we 
are  shown  his  mastery  over  the  Judsean 
mob,  and  his  promotion  by  Caesar  to 
undreamed-of  power.  In  the  third  act, 
where  some  ambitious  reviewers  have 
complained  of  a  lack  of  action,  the  drama 
"  lies  in  the  fateful  suspense  that  hangs 
over  the  issue;  in  the  shifting  tempestu- 
ous movements  of  the  half-mad  king's 
mind,  and  the  echo  which  they  find  in  the 
corresponding  movements  of  hope  and 
confidence,  alarmed  sympathy,  constern- 
ation, dismay,  and  finally  solemn  resigna- 
tion, in  the  minds  of  his  hearers." 


814 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


With  the  whole  play  before  an  intelligent 
reader,  I  do  not  see  how  he  could  possibly 
dissent  from  the  following  verdict  of  one 
of  the  keenest  and  most  open-minded  lit- 
erary judges  in  England,  writing  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Senex : "  "  The  plot 
is  so  contrived  that  all  the  action  passes 
after  the  manner  of  French  tragedy,  and 
with  no  great  violence  done  to  probabil- 
ity, in  a  single  scene  —  the  hall  of  audi- 
ence in  Herod's  palace  in  Jerusalem. 
An  Elizabethan  breadth  and  daring  of 
imaginative  treatment,  with  a  Greek 
parsimony  of  characters  and  issues,  and 
a  French  observation  of  the  unities  at 
least  of  place,  —  such  are  the  main 
structural  characteristics  of  the  new 
tragedy;  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
they  make  it  from  the  outset  quite  unlike 
any  other  modern  English  work  of  stage- 
craft." 

In  Nero  the  plot,  to  voice  a  candid 
personal  opinion,  is  not  handled  with  any 
real  mastery.  That  a  character-study  can 
be  made  a  great  play,  has  been  shown 
by  Hamlet  and  other  examples;  but  there 
is  almost  as  much  difference  between  the 
treatments  of  Shakespeare  and  Mr. 
Phillips  as  there  is  between  the  characters 
of  the  Danish  prince  and  the  Roman 
emperor.  In  the  Elizabethan  play  the 
drama  grows,  in  the  modern  it  is  forced, 
—  a  feeling  from  which  one  rarely  es- 
capes, even  under  the  charm  of  the  au- 
thor's many  beautiful  passages  and  skill- 
ful scenic  auxiliaries.  What  plot  there  is 
must  find  its  centre  in  Agrippina,  and 
perhaps  the  mere  adopting  of  her  name 
for  the  drama  would  have  made  us  less 
captious  in  our  criticism.  Racine  was 
wise  enough  to  call  his  play  on  the  period 
Britannicus  ;  but  in  the  drama  of  Mr. 
Phillips  the  character-study  deals  pri- 
marily with  the  eponymous  persona  while 
the  plot-interest  centres  about  another. 
If  Agrippina  had  been  given  just  a  trifle 
more  prominence  and  her  name  had  ap- 
peared as  the  title,  we  should  have  felt 
that  the  play  had  a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end;  whereas  even  the  most 
friendly  critics  must  confess  that  the 


present  play  hardly  fulfills  this  modest 
requirement.  We  are  not  through  with 
Nero  when  he  apostrophizes  burning 
Rome.  In  the  play  of  the  same  name  by 
Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  these  words  are 
spoken  by  Seneca,  — 

If  any  were  to  make  a  tragedy 
Of  these  events,  how  would  it  pass  or  please 
If  Nero  lived  on  at  the  end  unpunished, 
Triumphing  still  o'er  good  ? 

And  despite  Thrasea's  rejoinder  that  "the 
god  that  mends  all  comes  not  in  pat  at  his 
cue,  as  a  machine,"  we  feel  that  Seneca 
was  right.  Pagans  or  Puritans,  we  will 
have  Nemesis  or  the  avenging  God;  we 
do  not  ask  that  virtue  be  happy,  or  even 
that  natural  evil  be  chastised ;  but  withal 
those  of  us  least  poetical  in  our  justice  do 
demand  that  abnormal  vice  shall  not  be 
flaringly  triumphant  at  the  end.  More- 
over, in  the  case  of  Nero  history  has  re- 
corded his  punishment;  and,  in  fact,  the 
punishment  of  such  a  character  in  such 
an  environment  is  inevitable.  It  would 
seem  that  a  great  tragedy  on  the  pic- 
turesque actor-emperor  could  be  written 
as  a  sort  of  Greek  play  in  which  all  the 
overweening  pride  of  the  Ahenobarbi 
should  be  punished  in  Nero  by  his  fantas- 
tic madness  and  abject  death;  or  that  a 
successful  tragedy  could  be  constructed, 
on  the  lines  of  a  modern  drama,  half 
way  between  Mr.  Phillips's  Nero  and  a 
French  study  of  pathology,  terminating 
on  the  wild  avenging  night  that  brings 
death  to  the  tyrant  madman  with  the 
truly  tragic  figure  of  Acte  by  his  side. 

Of  the  plot  of  Faust,  we  need  speak 
only  in  so  far  as  Mr.  Phillips  and  his 
collaborator  have  modified  their  orig- 
inal. Much  of  Goethe's  text  has  long 
been  discarded  on  the  ordinary  stage, 
nor  can  we  make  serious  complaint 
about  many  of  the  omissions.  The  mani- 
fest striving  of  our  present  adapters  is 
toward  simplicity  and  unity. 

In  the  Prologue,  on  a  range  of  moun- 
tains between  heaven  and  earth,  Mephis- 
topheles  obtains  permission  to  win  the 
soul  of  Faust  if  he  can.v  Into  the  first  act 
are  condensed  the  appearance  of  the 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


816 


Earth-Spirit,  the  conversation  with  Wag- 
ner, the  phial  scene,  the  invocation  of 
the  Spirit  of  Evil,  the  compact  with  Me- 
phistopheles,  the  latter's  conference  with 
the  earnest  student,  and  the  visit  to  the 
witches'  cavern. 

In  the  first  scene  of  the  second  act  the 
foolery  in  Auer bach's  Keller  is  connected 
with  the  Margaret  episode,  the  students 
being  represented  as  friends  of  Valen- 
tine, who  is  leaving  for  the  war.  From 
the  drinking  bout,  Faust  and  Mephis- 
topheles  go  to  watch  the  faithful  re- 
turning from  mass,  and  they  meet  Mar- 
garet, who  has  been  praying  to  the  Virgin 
for  her  brother's  safety.  The  next  three 
scenes  follow  the  old  version  more  closely, 
although  with  many  omissions  and  minor 
changes;  also  with  one  unimportant  but 
annoying  inconsistency,  which  we  have 
not  space  to  discuss.  In  the  fifth  scene 
Mephistopheles  urges  Faust  to  "  finish 
what  is  begun,"  and  gives  him  the  potion. 
The  sixth  scene  closes  with  the  entry  of 
Faust  into  Margaret's  dwelling.  In  Act 
III  the  order  of  events  is  decidedly  modi- 
fied. From  the  gossip  of  the  village  girls 
at  the  fountain,  Margaret  turns  to  the 
church,  where  she  is  tormented  at  her 
prayers  by  the  mockery  of  Mephistophe- 
les. Outside  the  cathedral  the  student 
friends  converse  about  Margaret's  guilt. 
Valentine  comes  proudly  in  at  the  head 
of  his  troop,  to  be  told  of  his  sister's 
shame.  Faust  and  his  ally  appear  and  the 
duel  occurs,  followed  by  the  heart-break- 
ing interview  between  brother  and  sister. 
Act  IV  contains  a  brief  Brocken  scene, 
wherein  Faust  is  shown  Helen,  Cleopatra, 
and  Messalina.  Just  as  he  is  yielding, 
however,  the  witch  who  presented  the 
rejuvenating  potion  in  Act  I  causes  him 
to  see  Margaret  in  her  misery  with  her 
dead  babe  at  her  feet.  The  second  scene 
takes  us  to  the  prison  cell  and  deathbed 
of  Margaret. 

At  this  point  comes  the  great  depart- 
ure from  Goethe,  and,  in  my  humble 
opinion,  an  absolutely*  fatal  mistake.  No 
man  can  ever  forget  the  impressive 
ending  of  the  first  part  of  Faust.  The 


voice  from  above  declares  that  Margaret 
is  saved ;  Mephistopheles  disappears  with 
Faust;  the  dying  voice  from  within  is 
heard  faintly  calling  the  lover's  cherished 
name.  There  is  final  tragedy.  But  this 
will  not  do  for  Mr.  Phillips  and  Mr.  Carr. 
Faust  declares  that  he  will  follow  his  lost 
love : — 

Margaret,  Margaret !  after  thee  I  come 
And  rush  behind  thee  in  thy  headlong  flight. 

Then  the  hero  and  the  arch-fiend  argue, 
in  four  pages  of  really  fine  verse,  about  the 
former's  fate.  Finally,  while  Margaret  is 
seen  at  the  feet  of  Raphael,  Mephistophe- 
les claims  his  wager  won;  but  an  angel 
from  the  Prologue  declares  that  Faust 
has  been  ennobled  by  a  higher,  holier 
love  springing  from  his  sin.  During  his 
speech  "  angels  are  seen  bearing  the  soul 
of  Faust  upward  towards  Margaret."  In 
the  last  two  lines  Mephistopheles  says, 
with  almost  touching  patness  and  piety : 
Still  to  the  same  result  I  war  with  God : 
I  will  the  evil,  I  achieve  the  good. 

In  the  name  of  Life,  what  mockery  is  this  ? 
When  the  voice  from  above  declares  that 
Margaret  is  saved,  we  believe,  because 
our  own  hearts  have  decided  that  she  was 
no  more  guilty  than  a  trampled  flower. 
But  what  about  Faust  ?  Goethe  tried,  at 
any  rate,  to  make  him  expiate  his  sin 
by  service  and  suffering;  bitter  years  of 
struggle  and  writhing  upward  preceded 
the  end ;  even  the  angels  admit  the  limita- 
tions of  their  saving  power :  — 

Wer  immer  strebend  sich  bemiiht, 
Den  konnen  wir  erlosen. 

But  our  new  Faust  is  suddenly  trans- 
ported to  heavenly  joys  in  a  moment  of 
wild  agony  and  self-reproach,  which,  for 
all  the  evidence  before  us,  is  much  more 
likely  to  be  the  drunkard's  morning  mis- 
ery than  the  dawning  of  a  new  spiritual 
day  within  his  heart.  It  is  as  idle  to  put 
the  assurance  on  the  authoritative  lips  of 
an  accredited  angel  as  it  is  to  have  it  sup- 
ported by  the  Devil ;  we  are  left  absolutely 
unconvinced  and  rebellious.  This  man  has 
chosen  the  easiest  of  preys ;  has  dragged 
a  maiden  to  a  grave  of  shame;  has  been 
responsible  for  the  murder  of  her  mother, 


810 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


the  drowning  of  her  child,  the  death  of  her 
brother;  and  he  shall  be  saved  because 
of  the  nobility  of  her  self-immolation,  be- 
cause of  a  bitter  repentance  enduring 
at  least  a  moment,  and  a  grandiloquent 
declaration  that  still  he  fights  upward 
and  battles  to  the  skies.  It  may  be 
transcendent  mastery  of  dramatic  effect ; 
it  may  be  exalted  emotion-mongering; 
but  it  is  alien  to  the  best  spirit  of  the  age 
in  which  we  live,  it  is  contrary  to  the 
eternal  verities.  Faust  must  live  and  suf- 
fer and  serve  his  fellow  men.  If  the  final 
solution  is  to  be  in  heaven  rather  than  on 
earth,  if  he  is  to  find  rest  in  the  unfathom- 
able grace  of  God,  it  must  be  after  he  has 
wrought  some  little  alleviation  in  the 
groping  misery  of  mankind. 


IV 


Over  the  historic  question  of  the  rela- 
tive importance  of  plot  and  character,  we 
need  delay  only  long  enough  to  note  that 
the  great  dramatist  will  make  the  two 
interpenetrate  and  fuse  until  they  be- 
come one,  and  the  question  disappears. 
In  this  welding,  I  think,  we  must  con- 
cede that  Mr.  Phillips  has  not  betrayed 
a  weak  hand.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a 
shade  less  difficult  to  bring  about  a  satis- 
fying union  of  plot  and  character  if  the 
author  chooses  to  represent  the  figure 
we  call  Fate  ever  hanging  over  the  stage, 
than  if  he  chooses  to  insist  on  the  per- 
sistent but  perishing  distinction  between 
tragedies  of  character  and  tragedies  of 
Fate,  and  endeavors  to  dispense  with  the 
appearance  of  this  ultimate  force. 

Mr.  Phillips  has  been  true  enough  to  his 
Greek  training  to  elect  in  all  frankness  the 
former  course,  and  has  thereby  incurred 
the  charge  of  putting  only  "  wire-con- 
trolled "  puppets  upon  the  stage.  To  this 
charge  the  obvious  answer  is  that  they 
are  no  more  "  wire-controlled "  than 
we  are,  who  prate  so  soundingly  about 
being  masters  of  our  fate.  In  criticism, 
as  in  everyday  life,  one  must  adopt  a 
common-sense  compromise  between  an 
academic  freedom  of  the  will  and  an  iron- 


bound  determinism.  If  Francesca,  who 
had  just  spread  out  her  hands  to  the 
warm  sun,  could  have  wedded  Paolo, 
they  must  still  have  known  sorrow,  for 
that  is  the  lot  of  mortals ;  but  their  lives 
would  have  been  different,  to  say  the 
least,  although  they  would  have  been  just 
as  truly  subject  to  environment.  And 
in  his  treatment  of  Herod,  Mr.  Phillips 
seems  deliberately  to  suggest  his  appre- 
ciation of  the  truth  that  drama  must  not 
be  a  mere  study  of  character,  but  of  the 
action  of  time  and  hap  and  place  upon 
character  fitted  for  other  deeds;  for,  in 
the  purest  of  Greek  irony,  our  author  has 
placed  the  following  passage  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  catastrophe :  — 

Herod.  The  towered  world ; 

And  we,  we  two  will  grasp  it,  we  will 

burst 
Out  of  the  East  unto  the  setting 

sun. 

Mariamne.    Thou  art  a  man. 
Herod.  With  thee  will  be  a  god ; 

Now  stand  we  on  the  hill  in  red 

sunrise. 

Mariamne.    Now  hand  in  hand  into  the  morn- 
ing. 
Herod.  Ever 

Upward  and  upward  —  ever  hand 
in  hand. 

Here  is  the  pity  of  it.  This  seems  a  living 
possibility,  which  Herod  slays  by  the  same 
stroke  with  which  he  slays  Aristobulus; 
and  whereas,  under  conceivable  circum- 
stances, he  might  have  moved  into  the 
morning  with  Mariamne  at  his  side,  he  is 
engulfed  in  a  fearsome  night,  groping 
vainly  for  a  vanished  hand.  And  yet, 
even  while  we  see  this  possibility,  we  un- 
derstand that  he  could  not  have  dwelt  in 
the  morning  to  the  end ;  for  his  character 
and  his  fate  were  too  closely  allied. 

In  The  Sin  of  David,  on  the  other  hand, 
one  discovers  a  real  weakness,  inasmuch 
as  there  has  been  set  forth  absolutely 
nothing  in  Lisle's  character  or  actions  to 
prepare  us  for  his  instantaneous  concep- 
tion of  a  love  that  he  was  bound  to  regard 
as  alike  unhallowed  and  impossible. 
Here,  certainly,  plot  and  character  have 
not  been  welded.  The  explanation  is 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


817 


probably  to  be  found  in  the  change  from 
David  to  Lisle,  due  to  the  interference  of 
the  English  arbiter  of  dramatic  morals. 
If  David  had  been  in  question,  we  should 
have  been  thoroughly  prepared  for  his 
prompt  surrender  to  his  passion;  but  in 
the  case  of  Lisle  there  is  a  distinct  jar, 
and,  since  this  is  the  turning-point  of  the 
whole  drama,  the  defect  is  a  serious  one. 

In  Faitst,  Ulysses,  and  Nero  the  pro- 
blem hardly  presents  itself;  for  in  the 
two  first-named  both  plot  and  character 
are  fixed  in  the  hearer's  mind  before  the 
curtain  rises,  and  the  third,  as  we  have 
said,  is  essentially  a  character-study. 

On  the  whole,  the  major  personages  are 
adequately  depicted.  We  have  neither 
photographic  realism  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  mere  impressionistic  adumbration  on 
the  other.  Miriam,  for  instance,  is  a  real 
woman,  set  before  us  in  clear,  essential 
portraiture,  even  if  we  are  not  told  the 
color  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  daughter  of  France,  born 
in  the  sun's  lap,  transferred  to  the  drear 
fenland  at  her  father's  death  and  to  the 
guardianship  of  the  benumbing  Puritan, 
who,  after  wedding  her  without  wooing, 
"  locks  her  spirit  up  and  keeps  the  key." 
Her  misery  is  faithful  to  the  loathed  yoke 
until  the  appearance  of  Lisle.  Even  after 
his  coming  she  is  willing  to  struggle;  but 
the  ruthless  husband,  confusing  a  dili- 
gent wife  and  quiet  house  with  unnat- 
ural sacrifice  and  self-starvation,  drives 
her  to  her  fate.  The  very  hour  of  surren- 
der is  "  a  deep  inheriting,  and  as  the 
solemn  coming  to  a  kingdom."  In  her 
new  abode,  this  time  a  home,  she  is  the 
spirit  of  motherhood.  All  that  "  wanders 
in  her  and  is  wild,"  having  broken  in  one 
wave  on  Lisle,  has  been  gathered  up  with 
all  else  that  is  in  her  to  be  poured  out  in 
love  for  her  child  and  the  father  of  her 
child.  With  the  boy's  taking  off  comes 
rebellion  against  the  causeless  theft,  and 
a  prayer  for  heaven's  ire  sooner  than 
heaven's  indifference.  This  is  followed 
by  the  thought  that  she  is  being  punished 
for  having  rushed  into  Lisle' s  arms  in 
headlong  passion. 
VOL.  102 -NO.  6 


Finally,  her  husband  confesses  his 
crime,  and  the  wracked  heart  rebels 
against  his  sin  and  her  contagion;  the 
body  that  wooed  him  to  murder  con- 
ceived her  boy,  adjudged  to  death  before 
his  birth.  Her  agony  begets  a  gradual 
calm,  the  calm  of  hopelessness.  **  O I  am 
stone  to  human  life  henceforth."  In  this 
mood  she  notes  in  her  husband  the  eyes 
that  shone  from  her  dead  boy's  face,  and 
Lisle  grasps  the  opportunity  to  suggest 
that  by  the  loss  of  their  beloved  they  have 
paid  the  penalty  of  fleshly  sin;  that  now 
may  begin  a  marriage  everlasting,  whose 
sacrament  shall  be  their  deep  and  mutual 
wound,  whose  witnesses  the  shadowy 
throngs.  Then  the  same  woman  we  came 
to  know  in  the  first  act,  craving  light  and 
love,  clasps  the  plea  he  offers  and  falls  on 
the  heart  of  the  man  who  five  years  ago 
had  led  her  from  gloom  to  sunshine.  But 
in  the  dreary  fenland  we  met  her,  and  in 
a  sort  of  spiritual  fenland  we  bid  her 
farewell;  for  we  know  that  ever  in  her 
heart  will  be  the  cry,  "  I  want  the  little 
hands  and  feet  of  him."  About  her  in  the 
future  will  flit  irrecoverable  dreams,  with 
memory  and  repentance,  —  never  deep, 
confident  happiness  again. 

That  the  character  of  Lisle  is  adequate- 
ly drawn,  few  would  maintain ;  but  Mir- 
iam attests  that  our  author  can  depict  a 
woman.  A  review  of  Herod  would  be  still 
more  convincing  as  to  his  ability  to  de- 
pict a  man  who  is  fitted  to  be  a  hero  of 
tragedy.  In  the  characters  of  Miriam  and 
the  Judsean  king,  Mr.  Phillips  was  less 
bound  than  in  the  major  personages  of 
his  other  plays,  and  his  success  with  these 
must  in  fairness  be  remembered  against 
his  failures.  Indeed,  as  to  this  particular 
point  one  finds  much  encouragement  in 
the  Roman  play;  for  the  author's  treat- 
ment of  the  emperor  and  of  Agrippina 
shows  a  touch  that  is  growing  in  skill,  if 
not  in  strength. 

In  the  minor  characters  it  can  hardly 
be  maintained  that  he  has  achieved  equal 
success,  although  Antinous  in  his  inso- 
lence and  splendor,  Lucrezia  with  her 
thwarted  woman  thoughts,  and  Poppsea 


818 


Stephen  Phillips  ay  a  Writer  of  Trayedy 


with  the  merciless  calculation  of  her 
witching  beauty,  stand  forth  to  challenge 
any  sweeping  condemnation.  The  fact 
is  that  Mr.  Phillips,  in  his  desire  to  avoid 
multiplicity  of  effect,  has  deliberately  min- 
imized the  importance  of  his  minor  per- 
sonages, and  has  depicted  them  accord- 
ingly, so  that  with  the  three  characters 
named  above  to  attest  his  power  it  would 
be  thoroughly  unsafe  to  decide  that  he 
will  not  achieve  more  satisfactory  results 
in  the  future.  That  there  is  room  for  im- 
provement should  be  frankly  conceded; 
for  our  ideal  tragedy,  without  sacrificing 
the  stamp  of  perfect  unity,  may  include  a 
number  of  important  personages  strongly 
portrayed  and  contributing  to  the  main 
action. 


In  entering  upon  the  field  of  Mr. 
Phillips's  language  and  verse,  we  find 
fewest  differences  of  opinion.  It  is  true 
that  an  occasional  line  is  dismally  prosaic. 
For  instance,  in  the  new  play,  as  a  trans- 
lation of  "  Schnell  und  unbegreiflich 
schnelle,"  said  of  the  circling  earth,  we 
have  "  Swift,  beyond  understanding 
quite,"  probably  because  the  line  has  to 
rhyme  with  night;  and  in  the  earlier  plays 
it  has  been  easy  for  the  reviewers  to  point 
out  similar  defects.  We  actually  encoun- 
ter one  tall  statement  that  he  is  "careless 
and  slipshod  in  his  literary  methods ; "  but 
even  the  more  acrimonious  fault-finders 
concede  the  faint  praise  that  he  is  a  suc- 
cessful "  phrase-maker."  And  with  that 
one  word  who  shall  quarrel  ?  It  is  strange 
to  find  so  often  the  pseudo-philosophical 
delusion  that  limpid  language  and  glow- 
ing imagery  and  polished  verse  are  a 
small  part  of  poetic  drama;  yet  from 
many  of  our  critics  one  would  be  forced 
to  conclude  that  these  are  non-essential 
trappings,  and  that  Shakespeare,  for  in- 
stance, would  still  be  Shakespeare  if 
stripped  thereof.  In  the  nature  of  things, 
poetic  drama  cannot  live  without  these 
three  elements ;  for  here,  at  least,  the  rai- 
ment is  a  part  of  the  body,  and  the  more 
lustrous  and  luminous  the  raiment,  the 


greater  must  be  the  body's  vitality  and 
beauty. 

One  criticism,  however,  is  both  pertinent 
and  instructive :  that  he  is  greater  as  a  poet 
than  as  a  dramatist.  Herein  he  seems  to 
follow  a  long  line  of  honorable  predeces- 
sors, from  JSschylus  to  Shakespeare ;  for 
the  law  of  progress  seems  to  be  that  tragic 
poets  shall  be  poets  before  developing 
into  great  writers  of  tragedy.  "Their  lips 
must  have  power  to  sing  before  their 
hands  have  skill  to  paint  or  carve  figures 
from  life."  In  whatever  points  the  au- 
thor of  Marpessa  might  fail  when  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  composition  of  tragedy,  he 
could  not  fail  to  write  poetry ;  and  from 
the  opening  act  of  the  Rimini  drama  to 
the  closing  speech  in  Nero  our  expecta- 
tion is  not  disappointed.  In  Faust,  some 
of  the  translations  fall  short  of  our  de- 
mands. The  vigorous  curse,  for  instance, 
lacks  the  spear-like,  penetrating  power  of 
the  original,  and  the  haunting  spinning- 
wheel  song  sinks  to  verse  like  this: — 

Gone  is  my  peace,  and  with  heart  so  sore 
I  shall  find  it  again  nevermore. 
If  he  he  not  near  me,  the  world  is  a  grave 
And  bitter  as  is  the  sea-wave. 

My  bosom  is  aching  for  him  alone  — 

Might  I  make  him  my  very  own  ! 

Might  I  kiss  but  his  lips  till  my  mouth  were 

fire, 
And  then  on  his  kisses  expire  ! 

On  the  whole,  however,  it  would  be 
fair  to  say  that  in  the  latest,  as  in  the 
earlier  plays,  complete  lucidity  of  meaning 
is  expressed  in  varied  beauty  of  language 
and  verse.  It  is  true  that  he  is  most  suc- 
cessful in  the  lyric  moments;  but  he  is 
scarcely  less  effective  in  the  moments 
which  are  otherwise  highly  impassioned, 
and  his  weakness  is  discovered  chiefly  in 
the  lighter  portions  of  the  dialogue.  In 
other  words,  while  he  has  not  yet  achieved 
complete  mastery  he  is  weak  where  weak- 
ness is  least  fatal,  and  strong  wherever 
strength  is  most  indispensable.  This  gen- 
eral conclusion  as  to  his  poetic  diction 
is,  I  think,  indisputable,  so  we  need  not 
bring  forward  any  considerable  number 
of  illustrative  excerpts.  When  a  metrical 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


819 


passage  makes  itself  a  beautiful  concom- 
itant of  one's  thoughts  on  a  great  theme, 
it  is  safe  to  speak  of  it  as  high  poetry,  and 
what  one  of  the  readers  of  our  plays  will 
think  of  the  passing  of  a  young  life  from 
a  sheltered  haven  to  sorrow's  sea  without 
recalling  such  lines  as  these  ? 

And  yet,  Nita,  and  yet  —  can  any  tell 

How  sorrow  first  doth  come  ?  Is  there  a  step, 

A  light  step,  or  a  dreamy  drip  of  oars  ? 

Is  there  a  stirring  of  leaves,  or  ruffle  of  wings  ? 

For  it  seems  to  me  that  softly,  without  hand, 

Surely  she  touches  me. 

Or  who  will  think  of  death's  part  in  life 
without  recalling  the  stimulating  rejec- 
tion by  Ulysses  of  Calypso's  offer  of  im- 
mortality ? 

I  would  not  take  life  but  on  terms  of  death, 
That  sting  in  the  wine  of  being,  salt  of  its 

feast. 

To  me  what  rapture  in  the  ocean  path 
Save  in  the  white  leap  and  the  dance  of  doom? 

0  death,  thou  hast  a  beckon  to  the  brave, 
Thou  last  sea  of  the  navigator,  last 
Plunge  of  the  diver,  and  last  hunter's  leap. 

Again,  there  are  few  more  poignant  ex- 
clamations than  this  of  Herod,  when  his 
dazed  mind  half  grasps  the  possibility 
that  there  has  been  mischance  to  Mari- 
amne :  — 

1  '11  re-create  her  out  of  endless  yearning, 
And  flesh   shall   cleave    to  bone,  and   blood 

shall  run. 

Do  I  not  know  her,  every  vein?  Can  I 
Not  imitate  in  furious  ecstasy 
What  God  hath  coldly  made  ?  I'll  re-create 
My  love  with  bone  for  bone,  and  vein  for  vein. 
The  eyes,  the  eyes  again,  the  hands,  the  hair, 
And  that  which  I  have  made,  O  that  shall 

love  me. 

In  striking  contrast  to  the  brokenness  of 
this  cry  stands  Acte's  flowing  description 
of  Poppaea,  which  will  always  be  worth 
quoting  once  more  on  the  theme  of  soul- 
less beauty :  — 
A  woman  without  pity,  beautiful. 
She  makes  the  earth  we  tread  on  false,  the 

heaven 

A  merest  mist,  a  vapour.  Yet  her  face 
Is  as  the  face  of  a  child  uplifted,  pure  ; 
But  plead  with  lightning  rather  than  those 

eyes, 

Or  earthquake  rather  than  that  gentle  bosom 
Rising  and  falling  near  thy  heart.  Her  voice 


Comes  running  on  the  ear  as  a  rivulet ; 
Yet  if  you  hearken,  you  shall  hear  behind 
The  breaking  of  a  sea  whose  waves  are  souls 
That  break  upon  a  human-crying  beach. 
Ever  she  smileth,  yet  hath  never  smiled, 
And  in  her  lovely  laughter  is  no  joy. 
Yet  hath  none  fairer  strayed  into  the  world 
Or  wandered  in  more  witchery  through  the  air 
Since  she  who  drew  the  dreaming  keels  of 

Greece 
After  her  over  the  Ionian  foam. 

In  the  foregoing,  and  more  clearly  in 
several  other  passages,  one  catches  now 
and  then  an  echo  from  some  of  the  great 
teachers  at  whose  feet  our  poet  has  sat 
in  patient  learning;  but  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  sign  of  the  mere  copyist.  In- 
deed, in  this,  as  in  his  dramatic  structure 
and  atmosphere,  he  represents  exactly 
the  laudable  attitude  described  by  Swin- 
burne as  "  that  faithful  and  fruitful  dis- 
cipleship  of  love  with  which  the  highest 
among  workmen  have  naturally  been 
always  the  first  to  study,  and  the  most 
earnest  to  follow,  the  footsteps  of  their 
greatest  predecessors."  It  would  be  well 
if  this  form  of  discipleship  were  more 
widely  in  vogue  with  aspiring  dramatists; 
and  the  serious  critic  will  be  little  in- 
clined to  speak  harshly  of  this  feature  of 
our  author's  style. 


VI 

As  to  scenic  presentment,  we  need  de- 
tain our  reader  only  a  moment.  In  the 
composition  of  the  plays,  as  has  been 
pointed  out,  Mr.  Phillips  wisely  kept  the 
actor  and  the  spoken  word  constantly  in 
mind.  In  fact,  so  eminent  and  kindly  a 
critic  of  Herod  as  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells 
said  that  in  reading  the  play  he  had  an  un- 
comfortable sense  as  of  the  presence  of  a 
third  party,  which  upon  closer  examina- 
tion of  his  consciousness  appeared  to  be 
the  actor.  That  this  becomes  a  real  de- 
fect very  few  will  be  convinced.  In  any 
event,  such  a  criticism  leads  us  to  expect 
that  an  author  so  attentive  to  the  acted 
play  would  be  strong  in  scenic  present- 
ment. This  expectation  Mr.  Phillips  un- 
questionably justifies.  The  Italian  pa- 


820 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


lazzo,  the  royal  home  of  Odysseus,  — 
perhaps,  as  actually  presented,  adhering 
too  faithfully  to  golden  Mycenae  to  be 
quite  accurate  for  gaunt  Ithaca,  —  the 
Judaean  hall  of  audience,  and  the  im- 
perial scenes  at  Rome  offer  a  striking 
spectacle  to  the  eye.  The  countless  pre- 
sentations of  Goethe's  Faust  have  natu- 
rally made  it  very  easy  to  achieve  stu- 
pendous and  finished  spectacular  effects, 
and  the  devices  in  Mr.  Phillips's  new  play 
at  once  recall  and  comply  with  the  in- 
junction of  the  director  in  the  "  Prolog 
im  Himmel :  "  — 

Drum  sclionet  mir  an  diesem  Tag 
Prospekte  nicht  und  nicht  Maschinen. 

In  The  Sin  of  David,  too,  the  original 
plan  would  have  presented  a  staging  akin 
to  its  fellows  and  fundamentally  different 
from  the  final  form.  Throughout  the 
plays,  beautiful  architecture,  rich  and 
tasteful  robes,  effective  grouping  of  fig- 
ures, and  similar  features,  appeal  most 
winningly  to  the  audience.  Mr.  Phillips 
had  the  initial  advantage  of  a  cultured 
taste  and  an  actor's  experience;  but  he 
had  also  the  invaluable  cooperation  of 
two  such  masters  of  stage  management  as 
Mr.  George  Alexander  and  Mr.  Beer- 
bohm  Tree,  so  that  comment  becomes 
rather  superfluous.  The  stage  effects  are 
invariably  as  happy  and  brilliant  as 
modern  scenic  art  and  long  experience 
can  make  them.  In  truth,  the  danger  is 
that  they  may  be  too  successful,  and  I 
have  fancied  that  a  little  of  the  weakness 
of  Nero  may  be  due  to  scenic  temptation. 

In  passing,  we  may  recall  that  if  Mr. 
Phillips  has  been  fortunate  in  his  stage 
managers,  he  has  been  not  less  fortunate 
in  having  the  Benson  school  of  actors  to 
deliver  some  of  his  best  blank  verse. 
While  poor  staging  may  inflict  a  serious 
wound  on  a  drama,  poor  acting  deals 
the  death  blow,  leaving  only  a  corpse  for 
the  bookmen  to  galvanize  into  a  merely 
literary  existence.  A  poetic  drama  must 
be  well  staged  and  well  acted,  or,  in  a 
certain  sense,  it  remains  poetry  rather 
than  drama. 


VII 

Herewith  it  would  seem  that  this  article 
must  conclude  without  any  serious  fore- 
boding ;  for  the  writer,  while  emphasizing 
certain  defects,  has  admitted  that  Mr. 
Phillips  can  choose  excellent  dramatic 
material,  that  he  can  weave  a  strong  plot, 
that  he  can  make  a  character  live,  that 
he  can  write  beautiful  verse,  and  that  he 
is  a  thorough  master  of  stagecraft.  Mani- 
festly little  remains  save  apparently  un- 
important details;  but  it  is  exactly  from 
these  trifles  that  one's  foreboding  may 
spring.  For  instance,  great  tragedians 
have  often  used  some  such  device  as 
oracle,  dream,  or  prophecy  to  declare  the 
future  with  unmistakable  significance, 
and  the  dramatic  effect  is  frequently 
strong,  occasionally  tremendous;  but  Mr. 
Phillips  resorts  thereto  with  dangerous 
freedom.  In  Paolo  and  Francesca,  we 
have  the  vaticinations  of  Angela  and 
the  reiterated  warnings  of  Lucrezia;  in 
Ulysses,  the  decision  of  the  Olympian 
council;  in  Herod,  the  prediction  of  the 
astrologer;  in  The  Sin  of  David,  it  is  the 
self-righteous  prayer  of  Lisle  after  he 
condemns  Joyce  to  death;  in  Nero,  it  is 
again  an  astrologer.  Moreover,  in  addi- 
tion to  utilizing  these  more  or  less  gene- 
ral predictions,  Mr.  Phillips  fairly  toys 
with  the  future  at  every  turn.  Thus  he 
drops  lurking  suggestions  such  as  we  find 
in  the  avowal  of  Francesca :  — 

I  have  wept  but  on  the  pages  of  a  book, 
And  I  have  longed  for  sorrow  of  my  own. 

So  Herod  hints  at  his  coming  fate  when 
he  says :  — • 

And  I,  if  she  were  dead,  I  too  would  die, 
Or  linger  in  the  sunlight  without  life. 

In  the  same  category  belongs  the  abrupt 
decision  of  Ulysses :  — 

I  'd  go  down  into  hell,  if  hell  led  home ! 

Most  striking  instance  of  all,  he  inserts 
in  an  early  part  of  Faust  a  parting  scene 
between  Valentine  and  Margaret :  — 

Beneath  War's  thunder  skies  where'er  I  go 
I  '11  thinVof  thee  the  whitest  flower  of  all. 


Stephen  Phillips  as  a  Writer  of  Tragedy 


821 


This  is  followed  by  a  toast  drunk  with  his 
student  friends:  "Well  then,  here's  to 
my  sister  Margaret;  and  he  who  has  the 
worth  to  win  her  shall  then  toast  the 
purest  maid  in  our  city."  And  examples 
could  be  multiplied  without  end.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  this  tossing  about  of  the 
ball  of  the  future  is  always  employed 
skillfully,  even  artistically;  but  its  con- 
stant recurrence  in  six  consecutive  plays 
is  not  without  disturbing  significance. 

Still  more  minute  points  give  rise  to 
thought,  as  the  repeated  sympathy  of 
atmospheric  conditions  with  the  psy- 
chological situation,  or  the  fact  that 
Marpessa,  Francesca,  and  Miriam  are 
obviously  created  by  the  same  hand. 
Again,  Giovanni  speaks  of  a  second  wed- 
ding when  Paolo  and  Francesca  are  united 
in  death;  and  Lisle  speaks  of  a  second 
wedding  when  he  and  Miriam  are  re- 
united after  their  punishment.  One  may 
concede  unhesitatingly  the  non-essenti- 
ality of  most  of  these  points  and  still  feel 
that  they  are  discomforting.  Inexhausti- 
bility is  a  large  part  of  the  difference  be- 
tween talent  and  genius,  and  inexhausti- 
bility is  exactly  what  these  detailed  con- 
siderations do  not  suggest.  That  they 
afford  grounds  for  anything  more  sub- 
stantial than  a  foreboding,  few  would 
care  to  maintain ;  but  from  the  foreboding 


I,  for  one,  cannot  escape.  Furthermore, 
it  is  disquieting  to  recall  that  his  earliest 
play  is  decidedly  his  best,  even  if  there 
are  signs  of  improvement  in  particular 
phases.  Nor  can  the  failure  to  essay  a 
new  Faust,  instead  of  acquiescing  in  an 
adaptation,  increase  the  hopefulness  of 
his  admirers.  That  Mr.  Phillips  has 
never  gone  into  novel  fields  for  his  sub- 
jects need  not  concern  us.  An  author 
may  produce  immortal  works  without 
seeking  the  glaringly  new  or  startlingly 
strange,  as  Greek  tragedy  alone  would 
prove;  but  in  each  new  treatment  of  an 
old  theme  we  have  a  right  to  expect  some 
profound  criticism  of  life,  some  lifting 
of  a  tiny  corner  of  the  great  veil. 

Finally,  there  has  grown  up  within  me 
an  unreasoned  fear  that  our  author  has 
deserved  and  found  almost  too  ready  a 
success,  that  he  may  not  get  his  full  share 
of  the  buffeting  of  life.  While  nobody  will 
question  the  value  of  "  shelter  to  grow  ripe 
and  leisure  to  grow  wise,"  there  is  a 
strange  potency  in  the  dust  and  the  heat, 
and  I  find  myself  tempted  to  pray  that 
the  gods  will  be  kind  to  him  by  treating 
him  unkindly.  Howbeit,  my  forebodings 
are  at  bitter  war  with  my  hopes;  for  the 
future  of  Mr.  Phillips  is  of  real  moment 
for  poetic  drama,  perhaps  the  highest 
form  of  literature. 


THE  PLAY 

BY   M.  A.  DEWOLFE   HOWE 

THROUGH  countryside  and  teeming  towns 
The  troupes  of  heroes,  trulls,  and  clowns, 
Captains  and  dames  of  high  degree, 
Live  out  their  farce,  their  tragedy. 
Half  players  in  this  world-wide  show, 
Half  lookers-on,  't  is  ours  to  go 
Bewildered,  wondering  what  the  scene 
And  all  its  pageantry  may  mean; 
Crudely  commingled,  bad  and  good, 
Nothing  complete,  naught  understood. 

Are  we  then  doomed  till  death  to  gaze 
Distraught  on  life's  chaotic  plays? 
Are  there  no  spectacles  more  fair? 
Yes,  in  those  blest  dominions  where 
The  flying  strands  of  life  are  caught 
By  magic,  and  by  art  are  wrought 
To  fabrics  for  the  still  delight 
Of  eyes  that  shine  with  spirit  sight. 
Here  from  the  soul  spring  questionings 
Straight  to  the  inmost  heart  of  things. 
Here  all  the  sons  of  Shakespeare  dwell 
And  all  the  daughters  of  Rachel. 
To  every  baffled  fugitive 
From  life's  disorder  still  they  give 
Laughter  and  tears,  —  and  grace  to  see 
The  truth  in  life's  epitome. 


GHOSTS 


BY    FRANK   CRANE 


IN  Ibsen's  drama,  Ghosts,  Mrs.  Alving 
exclaims,  " Ghosts!  When  I  heard  Re- 
gina  and  Oswald  in  there,  I  seemed  to 
see  ghosts  before  me.  I  almost  think 
we're  all  of  us  ghosts,  Pastor  Manders. 
It 's  not  only  what  we  have  inherited 
from  our  father  and  mother  that '  walks  ' 
in  us.  It's  all  sorts  of  dead  ideas,  and  life- 
less old  beliefs,  and  so  forth.  They  have 
no  vitality,  but  they  cling  to  us  just  the 
same,  and  we  can't  get  rid  of  them. 
Whenever  I  take  up  a  newspaper  I  seem 
to  see  ghosts  gliding  between  the  lines. 
There  must  be  ghosts  all  the  country 
over,  as  thick  as  the  sands  of  the  sea. 
And  then  we  are,  one  and  all,  so  pitifully 
afraid  of  the  light!" 

It  is  with  ghosts  as  with  men :  some  are 
good  and  some  are  bad,  —  and  the  good 
die  young.  Modern  pragmatism,  with  its 
steely  and  philistine  science,  has  invaded 
shadow-land  and  massacred  the  inno- 
cents, the  gentle  and  harmless  creduli- 
ties of  childhood  and  ignorance;  but  the 
fiercer  kind,  the  old  man-eaters,  still  keep 
their  caves  and  issue  forth  to  raven  among 
souls.  The  kindly  fee-faw-fums  of  child- 
hood, how  many  delicious  shivers  we 
owe  them ;  the  Things  that  stood  behind 
doors,  that  trooped  into  the  church  when 
the  congregation  went  out,  that  lurked 
in  closet  corners  and  under  the  bed,  that 
rustled  and  swished  and  creaked  and 
tapped  in  the  dim  chamber  when  we  lay 
awake  at  night!  They  have  all  gone  — 
with  Santa  Glaus.  And  we  miss  them, 
for  fear  is  a  condiment,  like  Cayenne 
pepper;  a  little  is  an  excellent  relish.  The 
zest  of  war  is  its  dash  of  fear,  and  men 
flee  clubdom  to  hunt  mountain  lions,  and 
sail  the  uncertain  sea  for  that  tingle  of 
the  nerves  the  solid  earth  cannot  give; 
and  those  who  hardly  rise  to  these  perils 
may  read  of  them  in  The  Three  Musket- 


eers and  Treasure  Island.  When  we  see 
how  barren  of  the  charm  of  awe  is 
modern  life,  from  the  nursery,  where  they 
read  science-primers,  to  religion,  where 
they  have  banished  the  interesting  devil, 
we  almost  envy  the  Spiritualists,  those 
gourmets  in  palatable  creeps. 

And  now  for  the  deadlier  revenants, 
those  "dead  ideas  and  lifeless  beliefs" 
that  yet  walk,  and  chill  and  paralyze  this 
garish  world. 

It  is  a  curious  and  startling  fact,  that 
we  are  governed,  not  so  much  by  real  con- 
victions, as  by  the  ghost  of  dead  convic- 
tions. 

This  is  true  in  the  great  issues  of  our 
worship,  our  art,  and  our  work;  and 
descends  also  to  the  capillary  details  of 
our  talk,  our  manners,  and  our  dress. 
The  enthusiastic  soul  of  youth  enters 
upon  a  world  ruled  by  dead  powers.  It 
is  the  dead  who  live,  and  the  living  go 
about  to  do  their  will.  Education,  cult- 
ure, and  religion,  for  the  most  part  are 
engaged  in  riveting  the  chains  of  ghosts 
upon  us.  Only  here  and  there  do  a  few 
perceive  that  true  education,  genuine 
culture,  and  the  religion  of  Jesus  should 
rescue  us  from  this  dumb  dominion  and 
give  us  life. 

Let  us  begin  with  so  trivial  a  thing  as 
dress,  in  tracing  the  marks  of  ghost-fin- 
gers; and,  avoiding  the  "  bromidic  " 
criticism  of  woman's  clothing,  let  us  con- 
sider man's  attire,  commonly  supposed 
to  be  so  rational.  WThy  does  the  being 
we  call  a  "  gentleman  "  wear  around  his 
neck  a  band  of  spotless  whiteness  and  un- 
bearable stiffness,  at  his  wrists  similar  in- 
struments of  torture,  and  before  his  chest 
a  rigidly  starched  linen  plate  ?  No  one 
outside  of  a  madhouse  would  call  these 
articles  of  apparel  agreeable.  There  is  for 
the  custom  no  reason  at  all  drawn  from 


824 


Ghosts 


comfort,  hygiene,  or  usefulness.  There 
is,  however,  the  ghost  of  a  dead  reason. 
Once  upon  a  time  a  "gentleman"  was 
presumed  to  do  no  work,  and  he  dressed 
to  show  it,  by  putting  on  these  visible  signs 
that  he  never  soiled  his  hands,  sweated 
his  neck,  or  bent  his  noble  back.  It  mat- 
ters not  that  we  no  longer  believe  in  this 
definition  of  a  gentleman :  we  did  believe 
it  once;  its  ghost  rules  on.  No  man  is 
bold  enough  to  appear  in  society  without 
this  impossible  harness.  Only  a  profes- 
sional humorist,  like  Mark  Twain,  or 
some  one  who  wishes  to  pose  as  a  mild 
lunatic,  dares  rebel.  Addison  said  that 
the  man  who  would  clothe  himself  ac- 
cording to  common  sense  would  find 
himself  in  jail  within  a  week. 

Once  gentlemen  wore  sword-belts  and 
gauntlets:  these  have  disappeared;  but 
their  ghosts  still  guide  all  tailors,  and  two 
useless  buttons  are  invariably  sewn  upon 
each  cuff,  and  two  others  at  the  back  of 
the  frock-coats,  of  all  afternoon  males. 

Somewhere  about  1753  a  hatter  named 
John  Hetherington,  of  London,  made 
and  wore  the  first  tall  hat,  now  known 
as  the  silk,  full-dress,  plug,  or  stove-pipe 
hat.  A  horse  saw  him  and  ran  away. 
The  owner  of  the  horse  sued  Hethering- 
ton, but  lost  his  case,  the  judge  doubtless 
holding  that  an  Englishman  has  an  un- 
alienable  right  to  dress  as  ugly  as  he 
can.  One  time  there  was  a  king  who  had 
a  deformed  knee;  he  abandoned  the 
small-clothes  which  revealed  the  weak- 
ness of  the  royal  leg,  and  took  to  long 
trousers.  Hetherington  and  the  king 
have  long  since  gone  to  their  reward,  but 
their  ghosts  still  ride  civilized  man,  one 
at  one  end,  and  one  at  the  other,  from 
Paris  to  Tokio;  and  Lord-a-mercy !  we 
dare  n't  even  laugh  at  the  spectacle ! 

Let  us  now  enter  the  schoolroom,  and 
note  the  print  of  the  dead  hand  on  the 
youthful  mind.  The  two  studies  which 
are  emphasized  as  essential  in  most  col- 
leges are  Latin  *and  geometry.  It  is 
amusing  to  see  the  "reasons"  gravely  put 
forth  by  college  professors  for  retaining 
these  subjects  in  the  curriculum.  They 


feel  some  tremendous  pressure,  and, 
never  dreaming  that  it  is  the  strong  gray 
hands  of  a  ghost,  they  exercise  their  wits 
to  the  utmost  to  make  their  ghost  pro- 
pulsion seem  the  force  of  reason.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  was  at  one  time  an 
excellent  reason.  Not  so  very  far  in  the 
past,  Latin  and  Greek  were  the  only 
languages  having  a  grammar  or  a  litera- 
ture. Hence  to  know  Latin  was  naturally 
the  mark  of  a  scholar.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  such  a  day  is  long  past.  There 
is  a  better  body  of  English,  French,  and 
German  literature  now  than  the  Latins 
ever  had,  and  these  languages  have  also 
their  laws  of  accidence  and  canons  of 
style.  Any  youth  will  be  profited  vastly 
more  by  studying  Goethe,  Moliere,  and 
Shakespeare,  than  by  grubbing  fossils 
from  the  quarries  of  Horace  and  Csesar. 
But  the  difficulty  with  this  argument  is 
that  it  is  simply  real  and  alive ;  and  what 
chance  does  a  poor  living  thing  have  in 
combating  a  venerable  ghost  ?  You  can- 
not fight  a  ghost,  your  sword  goes  right 
through  him.  He  does  not  argue,  he  just 
is  —  and  there  you  are!  Consequently 
we  may  expect  yet  many  a  year  to  send 
boys  to  study  mummies  as  a  training  for 
dealing  with  men. 

The  case  lies  much  the  same  with 
mathematics.  We  have  but  to  go  back 
two  or  three  generations  to  find  an  era 
where  the  only  exact  science  was  mathe- 
matics. Our  forefathers  of  the  time  of 
Cotton  Mather  did  not  study  physics, 
geology,  botany,  zoology,  and  astro- 
nomy, because  there  were  no  such 
things;  at  least,  none  sufficiently  defi- 
nite to  teach  children.  At  that  time  a 
knowledge  of  mathematics,  as  of  Latin, 
indicated  the  learned  person.  It  is  that 
old  dead  reason  whose  ghost  still  throttles 
the  academic  mind.  It  compels,  and  will 
compel,  the  suffering  Wellesley  girl  to 
master  her  trigonometry  as  a  part  of  her 
education.  She  might  as  well  wrestle  with 
chess  problems  or  word-squares.  But 
how  shall  plain  sense  grapple  with  a  view- 
less monster  of  a  dead  reason  that  hath 
not  body  or  parts  ?  Dead  languages  and 


Ghosts 


825 


mathematics  linger  as  the  vermiform 
appendix  of  our  educational  system. 

When  you  approach  politics  you  still 
hear  the  trailing  garments  of  dead  rea- 
sons. Why  are  the  states  so  curiously 
shaped,  with  no  possible  relation  to  the 
character  of  the  population,  or  to  political 
or  commercial  utility  ?  Why  does  Rhode 
Island  have  as  many  senators  as  New 
York  or  Texas?  Why  is  one  county  in 
Illinois  formed  like  a  shoestring  and  an- 
other like  a  piece  of  pie  ?  There  are  no 
reasons,  but  there  are  perfectly  effective 
ghosts  of  dead  reasons. 

Turn  to  the  business  world  which  we 
assume  to  be  so  practical,  and  take  but  a 
single  instance  out  of  many  where  the  dead 
past  persists  in  trammeling  the  future. 
Why  are  all  railroads  built  on  the  stand- 
ard gauge  of  four  feet,  eight  and  one- 
half  inches  ?  The  makers  of  the  first  lo- 
comotives, according  to  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells, 
thought  only  of  putting  their  machines 
upon  the  tramways  already  in  existence. 
"  And  from  that  followed  a  very  interest- 
ing and  curious  result.  These  tram-lines 
naturally  had  exactly  the  width  pre- 
scribed by  the  strength  of  one  horse. 
By  mere  inertia,  the  horse-cart  gauge, 
nemine  contradicente,  established  itself 
in  the  world,  and  everywhere  the  train 
is  dwarfed  to  a  scale  that  limits  alike  its 
comfort,  power,  and  speed.  Because  there 
is  so  much  capital  engaged,  and  because 
of  the  dead  power  of  custom,  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  there  will  ever  be  any  change  in  this 
gauge.  Before  every  engine,  as  it  were, 
trots  the  ghost  of  a  superseded  horse, 
refuses  to  trot  faster  than  fifty  miles  an 
hour,  the  limit  of  average  speed  with 
safety,  and  shies  and  threatens  cata- 
strophe at  every  curve.  Still,  it  might  be 
worse.  If  the  biggest  horses  had  been 
Shetland  ponies,  our  railway  carriages 
now  would  be  wide  enough  to  hold  only 
two  persons  side  by  side,  and  would  have 
a  maximum  speed  of  twenty  miles  an 
hour.  There  is  hardly  a  reason,  aside 
from  this  antiquated  horse,  why  the  rail- 
way coach  should  not  be  nine  or  ten  feet 
wide,  that  is,  the  width  of  the  smallest 


room  in  which  people  can  live  in  comfort, 
and  furnished  with  all  the  equipment  of 
comfortable  chambers." 

Perhaps  our  eyes  have  now  become 
accustomed  enough  to  the  dark  to  enable 
us  to  see  another  and  more  terrible  spectre, 
a  certain  grim  and  venerable  shade, 
monarch  of  centuries,  king  of  kings,  to 
whom  every  year  or  so  living  men  make 
a  great  feast  of  human  flesh,  who  wrings 
tribute  from  the  poor,  and  receives  the 
homage  of  the  proud ;  a  huge  polyp  ghost, 
fat  to  bursting  on  blood  and  tears,  stupid, 
serene,  unshakable,  with  many  long, 
pale  arms  full  of  suckers,  winding  about 
the  throne,  picking  first-born  morsels 
from  the  home,  sucking  treasuries,  gob- 
bling up  peasants  as  a  tapir  swallows 
pismires,  poisoning  legislators  till  they 
go  mad  and  vote  him  ships  and  men  and 
money,  secreting  an  inky  stuff  called 
patriotism  that  covers  a  nation  of  souls 
for  him  to  eat  at  leisure;  a  merry  ghost, 
as  hell  and  destruction  are  merry,  to  the 
music  of  trumpet  and  drum ;  a  handsome 
ghost,  as  harlots  are  handsome,  with  plume 
and  color  and  glitter;  a  noble,  kingly, 
majestic,  most  damnable  ghost,  the  sum 
and  plexus  of  all  villainies  —  the  ghost 
of  Caesar !  We  swear  lightly  by  him  some- 
times, as  we  profane  the  name  of  Deity 
or  uplift  to  common  speech  the  name  of 
the  Sunken  One,  and  say, "  Great  Caesar's 
ghost!  "  Let  us  explicate  this  oath. 

The  traveler  visiting  Rome  is  wont  to 
meditate  upon  its  departed  glory.  Where- 
at the  powers  of  the  air  laugh,  for  Rome 
never  dominated  the  world  in  life  as  she 
has  in  death ;  Rome  died  merely  in  order 
to  get  a  better  clutch  on  humanity's 
throat.  The  bronze  and  marble  piled  up 
by  Hadrian  to  make  his  villa  by  Tivoli 
are  swept  away  by  the  besom  of  time; 
the  fragile  syringa  he  brought  from  the 
East  and  planted  there  alone  remains 
faithful  to  his  memory.  The  Forum  shows 
but  a  few  gnawed  bones  of  those  build- 
ings that  once  were  the  splendor  of  the 
whole  earth;  and  before  the  huge  and 
hollow-eyed  Coliseum  one  might  stand 
and  apostrophize  in  the  words  a  French- 


826 


Ghosts 


man  wrote  upon  the  shoulder-blade  of  a 
skeleton :  — 

Squelette,  qu'as  tu  fait  de  I'Sme? 
Flambeau,  qu'as  tu  fait  de  ta  flamrae  ? 
Gage  de'serte,  qu'as  tu  fait 
De  ton  bel  oiseau  qui  chantait  ? 
Volcan,  qu'as  tu  fait  de  ta  lave  ? 
Qn'as  tu  fait  de  ton  maitre,  esclave  ? 

But,  alas!  history  shows  us  all  too 
clearly  what  the  skeleton  of  Rome  did 
with  its  soul,  and  in  what  new  channels 
runs  the  lava  that  filled  this  now  cold 
crater.  Hardly  was  life  extinct  in  the 
visible  empire  when  the  soul  moved  like 
a  hermit  crab  into  the  mediaeval  Church ; 
for  barbarians  it  hunted  heretics,  for  the 
lost  legions  it  substituted  monks;  for  pil- 
lage, waste,  and  war-lust  it  found  an  ad- 
mirable recompense  in  the  Inquisition. 
The  ghost  of  Caesar  infused  itself  into  the 
idea  of  Temporal  Dominion. 

Even  more  tenacious  has  been  the 
hold  of  Caesar's  ghost  in  politics.  There 
are  two  forms  under  which  the  idea  of 
world-government  presents  itself:  one, 
the  dead  notion  of  empire,  the  thing  for 
which  Caesar  stood,  the  very  name  of  the 
man  still  clinging  on  in  the  words  Czar 
and  Kaiser,  and  the  name  of  his  idea  re- 
maining in  the  word  Emperor ;  the  other, 
the  living  idea  of  Federation.  When  we 
have  come  to  understand  the  nature  of 
ghost-rule  we  wonder  no  longer  at  some 
political  phenomena  otherwise  absolutely 
incomprehensible.  Why,  for  instance, 
does  each  nation  now  strive  for  the  chi- 
mera of  military  preparedness  ?  Germany, 
England,  and  Japan  levy  an  intolerable 
tax  of  money  and  blood  to  maintain  their 
armies ;  the  nations  are  in  perpetual  tra- 
vail to  bring  forth  battleship  after  battle- 
ship. A  certain  element  in  the  United 
States  urges  billion-dollar  fleets.  If  you 
go  to  the  bottom  of  the  reason  of  all  this, 
you  find  no  reason  at  all,  or  a  silly  one. 
For  it  is  manifestly  impossible  for  any 
one  nation  to  conquer  all  the  others. 
You  ask  yourself  why  one  international 
fleet  and  army  could  not  be  supported, 
to  be  at  the  command  of  one  interna- 
tional court,  thus  to  settle  all  disputes 


and  enforce  all  decisions.  The  answer 
plainly  is  that  this  question  is  mere  liv- 
ing, mortal  common  sense,  and  hence  a 
puny  thing  to  put  against  the  age-old, 
dead  ghost-principle  of  empire.  So  the 
world  runs  down  its  darkened  grooves; 
kings,  kaisers,  emperors,  and  czars  strut 
about  surrounded  by  gay  cock-feather 
generals,  and  Tommy  Atkins  sells  his 
birthright  for  a  red  coat;  yellow  journals 
strive  to  fan  a  San  Francisco  schoolhouse 
quarrel  into  a  conflagration  of  war;  and 
the  old  polyp  in  his  shadow-cave,  having 
slept  off  his  late  gorge  in  Manchuria  and 
the  Transvaal,  is  licking  his  tentacles 
and  feeling  about  for  fresh  food.  When 
Campbell-Bannerman  some  time  ago 
suggested  a  reduction  of  the  armaments 
of  the  world,  his  words  were  received 
with  good-natured  gibes  by  the  press  of 
Europe ;  then  great  Caesar's  ghost  stirred 
and  said,  "I  thought  I  heard  the  cock 
crow.  But  it  was  surely  a  midnight  fowl. 
The  dawn  is  yet  far  off." 

Those  ghosts  die  hard,  yet  they  too  die. 
The  Divine  Right  of  Kings,  in  its  dying 
spasms  of  1793  and  1848,  mangled  many 
an  innocent  onlooker.  The  Divine  Right 
of  Property  will  doubtless  die  with  not 
less  deadly  struggles;  trusts  and  labor 
unions  gird  themselves  already,  for  the 
killing.  It  is  a  blind  wrestling,  neither 
party  being  aware  that  its  real  enemy  is 
not  the  other,  but  the  cruel  arms  of  the 
dead  past  which  seek  to  strangle  both. 

We  enter,  then,  upon  a  hag-ridden 
world.  Upon  the  pale  brow  of  the  school- 
boy sit  the  ravens  of  Latin  and  Geome- 
try, and  when  we  would  drive  them  away 
they  flap  their  wings  and  croak,  "  Never- 
more! "  Ghosts  make  our  clothes;  the 
words  we  speak  are  not  signs  of  our 
thought,  but  signs  of  dead  men's  thought. 
The  most  cultured  person  is  the  deadest 
in  manner.  We  go  to  church,  not  to 
pray,  but  to  repeat  dead  men's  prayers. 
Artists,  musicians,  writers,  fight  their  way 
through  swarms  of  extinct  ideas.  Long 
gray  arms  reach  out  of  the  past  and  en- 
fold the  minister  in  the  pulpit,  and,  wav- 
ing, hypnotize  the  occupants  of  the  pews. 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


827 


Viewless  but  potent  monsters  brood  above 
the  senate,  and  threaten  any  live  being 
who  may  occupy  the  White  House. 
Ghosts,  ghosts,  ghosts,  thick  as  leaves, 
fall  from  the  past  to  cover  us,  to  smother 
us  in  their  rotting  mould. 

Whoever  cares  for  life  must  struggle. 
Strait  is  the  gate  to  life,  and  narrow  is  the 
way,  and  few  there  be  that  find  it.  Obey, 
yield  to  the  ghosts,  and  you  get,  not  life, 
but  a  substitute  for  life.  All  around  us 
are  the  dead,  a  numberless,  walking  host, 
whose  laughter  plays  like  foam  upon  its 
sea-murmur  of  sorrow. 

Meantime  there  are  souls  who  demand 
life  at  any  price.  Better  scorn  and  isola- 
tion and  to  live  my  own  life,  than  ban- 
quets and  a  pedestal  and  a  soul  sold  to 
the  Gray  Ones.  Better  Gethsemane 
and  the  stigmata,  with  a  flood  of  white 
life  that  surges  up  to  submerge  a  cross, 
than  the  plaudits  of  dry,  dead  throats, 


incense  from  burnt  enthusiasms,  and  at 
last  a  heartful  of  crushed  convictions 
sunk  under  a  mausoleum.  These  pil- 
grims emigrate,  not  from  Southampton 
to  Plymouth,  but  from  the  old  world  of 
inertia  and  its  ghost-kings  to  the  new 
world  of  individualism  and  soul-freedom. 
They  sing  a  Marseillaise  strange  to  the 
dream-wrapped  world.  They  are  drawn 
to  the  Nazarene  by  a  weird  new  tie.  They 
remember  that  the  thing  that  slew  Him 
was  not  badness  but  the  organized  power 
of  Pharisaism,  the  ghost  of  a  dead  good- 
ness. They  note  that  He  called  his  sheep 
"  by  name,"  one  by  one,  and  not  in 
flocks;  that  He  made  no  organization, 
but  appealed  to  the  unit;  that  his  pro- 
gramme was  no  sort  of  scheme,  abso- 
lutist or  socialistic,  but  was  like  a  lump 
of  leaven  hid  in  the  meal ;  that  He  bade 
men  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,  and 
spoke  insistently  of  life,  life,  life. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  ADULT  MINOR 


BY  KENTON   FOSTER   MURRAY 


"  He  is  of  age ;  ...  he  shall  speak  for  him- 
self." —  JOHN  ix,  21. 

SHAKESPEARE,  in  opening  his  play  of 
King  Richard  II,  makes  that  monarch 
address  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  as  "  Old 
John  of  Gaunt,  time-honored  Lancas- 
ter." The  person  thus  described  as  ven- 
erable was  fifty-eight  years  of  age  in  1398, 
when  the  words  are  supposed  to  have 
been  spoken.  The  line  is  not  one  of  the 
poet's  inaccuracies.  People  were  then 
considered  old  at  a  time  now  regarded  as 
merely  the  ripeness  of  middle  age;  and  if, 
perchance,  they  survived  to  three-score, 
they  were  hailed  as  patriarchs. 

Relying  upon  some  early  Oslerian 
theory,  the  ancient  Romans  held  that  the 
burden  of  years  had  so  impaired  the  men- 
tality of  the  average  citizen  at  sixty  as  to 
make  him  unfit  to  vote,  and  after  that 


age  his  elective  franchise  was  withdrawn 
—  at  least,  in  the  best  days  of  the  Repub- 
lic. Hippocrates,  the  sage  of  Greece,  set 
the  end  of  youth  at  twenty-eight.  Aris- 
totle, a  little  later,  put  the  beginning  of 
old  age  at  thirty-five. 

These  ancient  and  mediaeval  instances 
are  useful  as  showing  how  the  world's 
subsequent  progress  has  retarded  the 
descent  of  human  beings  into  old  age, 
decay,  and  death.  Men  live  much  longer 
now  than  they  lived  then,  and  better ;  and 
without  other  evidence  than  mere  age,  we 
never  decide  them  to  be  mentally  inca- 
pacitated. 

What,  it  is  proper  to  ask,  has  the  ad- 
vance of  enlightenment  accomplished  in 
the  meanwhile  toward  the  shortening  of 
the  time  required  for  the  average  youth 
to  arrive  at  full  manhood,  the  golden  mo- 


A  Plea  for  the  AduU  Minor 


ment  when  he  is  acknowledged  by  law 
to  be  competent  to  manage  his  own  af- 
fairs and  to  participate  in  those  of  the 
state  ?  An  examination  of  the  record  will 
disclose  surprisingly  little  gain,  on  the 
whole,  in  this  important  respect. 

The  phenomenon  has  not  received  the 
attention  it  deserves.  There  is  perhaps 
nothing  wherein  political  and  le^al  devel- 
opment has  exhibited  more  sluggishness 
than  in  fixing  the  point  at  which  the  citi- 
zen emerges  from  "  infancy  "  into  ma- 
turity. Attempts  to  explain  the  incon- 
sistency by  citing  differences  in  climate, 
or  varying  degrees  of  enlightenment,  fail 
under  analysis.  A  sample  effort  of  this 
sort  is  seen  in  Mrs.  Elsie  Clews  Parsons' s 
remarkable  book,  The  Family,  in  which 
the  following  theory  is  elaborated  by  go- 
ing all  the  way  into  the  monkey  tribes  for 
substantiation :  — 

"  Among  mankind,  as  among  the  lower 
animals,  the  duration  and  nature  of  pa- 
rental care,  in  general,  more  or  less  cor- 
respond to  the  period  and  degree  of  im- 
maturity characteristic  of  the  offspring, 
which,  in  turn,  more  or  less  correspond 
to  the  nature  of  the  environment.  Where 
the  forms  of  food  and  shelter  in  use  are 
supplied,  for  the  most  part,  directly  by 
nature,  such  as  roots,  seeds,  berries, 
fruits,  shell-fish,  etc.,  and  caves,  trees, 
rude  huts  of  bark  or  wood,  children  from 
seven  to  ten  years  old,  or  even  younger,  in 
some  cases  soon  after  they  are  weaned, 
may  begin  to  provide  for  themselves. 
Where,  on  the  other  hand,  the  habits  of 
satisfying  physical  wants  are  more  or 
less  elaborate,  depending  upon  speed, 
strength,  endurance,  cunning,  foresight, 
self-control,  persistence,  in  hunting,  fish- 
ing, cultivating  the  soil,  handicraft,  cattle- 
raising,  or  trade,  offspring  may  be  econo- 
mically dependent  upon  parents  up  to  all 
ages  from  ten  to  twenty.  With  the  growth 
of  knowledge  and  of  specialization,  the 
production  of  certain  social  values,  as  in 
all  the  so-called  learned  professions  of 
to-day,  for  example,  requires  ever-in- 
creasing degrees  of  intelligence  and  train- 
ing. This  class  of  producers  may  even 


have  to  depend  on  parental  support  or  its 
substitutes  until  the  age  of  twenty-six  or 
twenty-eight." 

If  we  are  to  become  unable  to  shift  for 
ourselves  until  twenty-six  or  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  as  knowledge  and  special- 
ization advance,  and  if  we  must  bow  to 
Dr.  Osier's  wisdom  along  with  that  of 
Mrs.  Parsons,  the  theorists  will  soon  re- 
duce our  average  period  of  full-blown 
and  unimpaired  maturity  to  twelve  or 
fourteen  years !  Of  course,  it  is  not  cer- 
tain that  Mrs.  Parsons  would  accept  Dr. 
Osier's  theory,  or  that  Dr.  Osier  would 
accept  hers.  The  public  can  accept  one 
about  as  easily  as  the  other,  or  both 
about  as  easily  as  either. 

It  takes  no  longer  to  become  self-sup- 
porting in  the  "  learned  professions  "  now 
than  it  ever  did.  There  has  never  been 
any  limit  to  the  amount  of  preparation 
possible  —  though  it  is  easy  enough  to 
overdo  the  preparation  to  such  an  extent 
that,  like  Mr.  Casaubon  in  MiddLemarch^ 
a  person  is  helpless  when  the  moment 
comes  to  turn  the  preparation  into  ac- 
complishment. Men  who,  enjoying  ample 
means,  remain  in  college  perfecting  their 
preparation  until  twenty-six  or  twenty- 
eight  years  old,  are  not  properly  classed 
as  unable  to  earn  a  living  sooner.  If  pos- 
sessed of  common  sense  and  thrown  on 
their  own  resources  before  finishing  their 
mapped-out  scnemes  of  study,  they  could 
sustain  themselves,  perhaps  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  their  cherished  plans,  but 
possibly  with  greater  material  success. 

The  tiny  street-Arab  will  master  the 
complications  of  existence  in  an  enlight- 
ened civilization  as  quickly  as  the  little 
savage  will  master  the  simplicity  of  sav- 
age existence,  and  more  quickly  than  the 
youth  of  the  lower  orders  under  feudal- 
ism mastered  the  intermediate  difficulties 
of  feudal  existence.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
ancient  and  modern  civilizations,  broadly 
contrasted,  support  the  postulate  that 
the  higher  the  plane  of  enlightenment, 
the  lower  the  age  at  which  intellectual 
competence  is  recognized,  in  whole  or  in 
part. 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


Compare  the  complex  and  brilliant 
Athenian  civilization,  which  enfranchised 
the  youth  early,  with  the  gloomy  and 
fruitless  Spartan  civilization,  which  held 
the  youth  in  bondage.  Compare  the  laws 
encouraging  the  French  youth  of  to-day 
with  the  laws  hampering  the  Russian 
youth  of  the  same  age.  Compare  the  pon- 
derous civilization  of  China,  where  a 
man  does  not  reach  full  legal  stature 
until  his  thirtieth  birthday,  with  the 
sprightly  and  efficient  civilization  of 
Japan,  where  twenty  is  full  legal  age. 
And  finally,  to  seek  in  our  own  recent 
history  an  example  to  controvert  Mrs. 
Parsons,  observe  the  fact  that  we  have 
fixed  the  voting  age  of  the  Filipinos  at 
twenty-three  years,  whereas  our  own  vot- 
ing age  is  two  years  less.  If  our  states- 
men had  reasoned  that  the  youth  in  the 
simpler  civilization  arrives  at  maturity  of 
intelligence  sooner,  they  would  have  put 
the  voting  age  of  the  Filipino  at  less  than 
twenty-one  instead  of  more. 

Major  Charles  R.  Woodruff,  of  the 
medical  corps  of  the  United  States  Army, 
has  received  commendation  from  the  ma- 
jority of  disinterested  critics  for  sharply 
attacking  the  system  by  which  young  men 
are  kept  in  subordinate  positions  in  our 
military  service.  He  advocates  reducing 
the  retiring  age  to  fifty-five,  and  making 
promotion  much  more  rapid  than  it  is  at 
present.  Major  Woodruff's  argument  is 
that  if  a  man  follows  too  long,  he  deterio- 
rates in  self-reliance  and  initiative,  both 
of  which  are  essential  in  posts  of  military 
command.  In  substantiation  of  the  claim, 
the  major  points  to  the  fact  that  most  of 
the  improvements  in  the  army  are  the 
ideas  of  young  officers.  If  this  is  true  in 
military  life,  why  is  it  not  likewise  true  in 
other  kinds  of  life  ? 

The  civilizations  of  the  world  have  all 
had  about  the  same  opinion  as  to  the  age 
at  which  government  has  the  right  to  call 
on  the  citizen  for  military  service,  thus 
recognizing  physical  maturity  and  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  discretion ;  but  the  age  at 
which  governments  have  recognized  the 
right  of  the  citizen  to  claim  the  advan- 


tages of  full  mental  maturity  has  tended 
to  be  earlier  as  civilization  has  developed. 
No  modern  Caucasian  nation  insists  upon 
such  a  long  period  of  preparation  for  full 
manhood  as  the  ancient  Hebrews  and 
Spartans  —  thirty  years ;  and  the  only 
modern  power  of  the  first  rate  that  com- 
pels its  citizens  to  wait  until  they  are 
twenty-five  years  old  to  exercise  the  privi- 
lege of  the  ballot  is  Russia,  the  least  en- 
lightened of  all  the  great  powers.  Russia 
is  on  a  par  with  Turkey  in  this  respect, 
except  that  Turkey  is  more  liberal  in 
protecting  the  property  rights  of  women, 
and  in  permitting  marriage  without  pa- 
rental consent  after  the  contracting  par- 
ties have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion. 
The  Mohammedan  marriage  laws  set 
forth  that  "  when  a  child  has  attained  to 
puberty  and  discretion,  the  power  of 
parents  is  at  an  end,  and  he  is  free  to 
join  himself  to  whomsoever  he  pleases." 
In  Russia,  parental  consent  is  always 
necessary. 

As  we  go  into  the  remote  past,  our  in- 
formation is  less  definite ;  but  most  of  that 
which  is  available  appears  to  be  against 
Mrs.  Parsons's  assumption.  Taking  the 
early  Hebrew  civilization,  in  which  the 
machinery  of  life  was  very  simple,  we  find 
Benjamin,  the  youngest  son  of  Jacob, 
referred  to  as  "a  little  child  "  when  he 
was  thirty  years  old  (Genesis,  xliv,  20). 
Johns,  in  Babylonian  and  Assyrian  Laws, 
Contracts,  and  Letters,  says,  — 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  determine  when 
children  ceased  to  be  under  the  paternal 
power.  Betrothed  daughters  remained 
in  their  father's  house;  so  did  married 
sons  sometimes.  Whether  the  birth  of  a 
child,  making  the  young  man  himself  a 
father,  freed  him  as  head  of  a  family,  or 
whether  it  was  entering  a  house  of  his 
own,  we  cannot  yet  say." 

It  is  when  we  come  to  study  the  Eng- 
lish and  American  record  that  the  lack 
of  progress  in  shortening  legal  and  politi- 
cal infancy  is  most  surprisingly  revealed. 
In  many  other  enlightened  countries  of 
to-day,  the  laws  on  this  subject  represent 
a  distinct  improvement  upon  the  laws 


830 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


existing  in  the"same  countries  on  the  same 
subject  within  the  past  few  centuries  or 
generations. 

In  France,  as  late  as  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  full  legal  age  of 
males  for  matrimony  was  not  reached 
until  thirty.  France  **  changed  all  that  " 
with  the  Revolution.  In  most  of  the  states 
composing  the  German  Empire,  the  citi- 
zen had  to  be  twenty-four  to  be  of  full 
age,  until  after  the  Franco-Prussian  war ; 
now  the  full  age  in  the  majority  of  these 
states  is  twenty-one,  and  twenty-four  in 
the  minority.  Within  the  past  generation, 
Spain  has  lowered  the  voting  age  of  her 
citizens  from  twenty-five  to  twenty-one 
years.  Citizens  receive  the  franchise  at 
twenty  years  of  age  in  Japan,  Hungary, 
and  Switzerland,  with  corresponding 
civil  rights.  In  Mexico,  the  United  States 
of  Colombia,  Nicaragua,  Uruguay,  and 
Peru,  the  citizen  can  qualify  to  vote  at 
eighteen.  In  Peru,  it  is  curious  to  note,  he 
votes  at  eighteen  if  married,  and  at  twen- 
ty-one if  unmarried;  while  in  Uruguay 
he  votes  at  eighteen  if  married,  and  at 
twenty  if  unmarried.  This  recalls  the  old 
Spartan  practice  of  curtailing  a  man's 
political  privileges  if  he  remained  a 
bachelor  after  thirty-five. 

Countries  in  which  men  do  not  reach 
full  legal  age,  civil  and  political,  until 
a  later  time  than  in  the  United  States  and 
England,  are  Argentina,  where  the  full 
age  is  twenty-two;  Holland,  where  it  is 
twenty-three ;  Austria,  where  it  is  twenty- 
four;  Russia,  Norway,  Sweden,  Italy, 
Portugal,  Turkey,  and  Chile,  in  all  of 
which  it  is  twenty-five;  and  China,  where 
it  is  thirty. 

As  in  the  United  States  and  England, 
the  political  and  civil  maturity  of  the  citi- 
zen is  acknowledged  at  twenty-one  by 
France,  Spain,  Belgium,  Greece,  Rou- 
mania,  Brazil,  Bolivia,  Ecuador,  Vene- 
zuela, Servia,  and  most  of  Germany; 
except  that  in  Belgium,  Bolivia,  and  Rou- 
mania,  a  man  must  be  twenty-five  years 
of  age  to  marry  against  the  parental  will. 
An  interesting  feature  of  Brazilian  law 
is  that  which  gives  persons  the  manage- 


ment of  their  own  earnings  from  litera- 
ture or  military  service  after  they  have 
reached  years  of  discretion  (fourteen  in 
Brazil).1 

The  civilization  of  England  and  the 
United  States,  in  many  ways  the  highest 
in  the  world,  makes  legal  infancy  as 
long  now  as  it  was  in  the  remotest  an- 
cestral generations  to  which  history  can 
trace  the  stock.  This  almost  rivals  the 
performance  of  China  in  retaining  thirty 
years  as  full  legal  age  from  the  time  of 
Confucius  until  the  present. 

We  inherited  our  twenty-one-year  quali- 
fication from  England,  and  England  — 
according  to  Blackstone  —  got  it  from 
the  Saxon  tribes  that  came  over  from  the 
mainland  of  Europe.  Our  present  age 
of  full  legal  manhood,  therefore,  is  one 
of  the  few  features  of  our  institutions 
which  have  been  unchanged  for  over  a 
thousand  years.  Perhaps  it  would  not 
be  too  much  to  say  that  this  is  the  only 
vital  feature  in  our  civilization,  except 
monogamy,  that  has  undergone  no  sweep- 
ing alteration  during  all  those  centuries. 

Reflection  upon  the  immense  superior- 
ity of  our  own  means  of  conveyance  and 
communication  to  those  existing  in  the 
ancient  and  mediaeval  world,  and  even  in 
the  modern  world  until  the  nineteenth 
century  was  nearly  half  over,  together 
with  the  slightest  appreciation  of  the 
modern  systems  of  transportation  and 
transmission,  the  development  of  print- 
ing, and  the  growth  of  newspaper,  library, 
and  school,  should  easily  establish  the 
claim  that  the  inhabitants  of  enlightened 
nations,  and  of  our  own  especially,  be- 
come sophisticated  now  sooner  than  they 
did  in  the  generations  before  man  had 
worked  out  his  "  many  inventions  "  of 
the  present  epoch.  But,  though  the  Athe- 
nian or  the  Roman  youth  was  not  in- 
vested with  full  legal  manhood  before 

1  The  remark  is  pertinent  that  no  one  of 
the  standard  encyclopaedias  in  the  English  lan- 
guage contains  an  adequate  discussion  of  the 
subject  of  full  legal  age,  or  gives  definite  data 
with  regard  to  that  age  in  the  various  nations 
of  the  modern  world. 


A  Plea  far  the  Adult  Minor 


881 


twenty-five,  he  enjoyed  partial  legal  man- 
hood at  a  much  earlier  age  than  that 
which  constitutes  one  of  the  great  fetiches 
of  modern  American  civilization,  the 
sacred  twenty-one,  to  which  we  cling 
with  a  fatuousness  truly  Chinese. 

In  Athens,  at  the  apogee  of  her  culture 
and  glory,  when  she  possessed  perhaps 
the  highest  intellectual  enlightenment  in 
the  history  of  the  world,  the  young  man 
was  released  from  parental  authority  at 
nineteen,  a  year  before  he  could  be 
drafted  for  military  service;  whereas,  our 
law  makes  the  citizen  liable  to  conscrip- 
tion as  a  soldier  three  years  before  the 
age  of  legal  maturity  in  civil  life.  At  nine- 
teen the  Athenian  was  allowed  certain 
voting  privileges,  albeit  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  speak  in  public  assemblies  until 
some  years  later,  and  could  not  hold  office 
until  thirty.  The  American  at  nineteen 
may  speak  anywhere,  though  he  may  not 
vote ;  and  we  let  him  teach  school  before 
he  can  vote,  whereas  the  Athenian  was 
prohibited  from  being  a  schoolmaster 
before  forty.  In  duller  Sparta,  the  young 
man  was  accorded  no  political  or  pers- 
onal independence  until  he  had  reached 
thirty.  The  kings  had  to  be  over  thirty, 
and  the  senators  over  sixty.  In  Crete  the 
full  legal  age  was  twenty-seven,  applying 
equally  to  marriage,  military  service,  and 
participation  in  politics. 

Roman  young  men  assumed  the  toga 
virilis  at  seventeen,  when  they  were  qual- 
ified for  marriage,  military  service,  and 
limited  political  functions,  full  legal  rights 
being  postponed  till  twenty-five.  The 
Roman  was  never  entirely  freed  from 
parental  control  except  by  parental  de- 
mise, but  in  that  event  his  proportionate 
civil  rights  were  about  as  far  in  advance 
of  those  of  the  twentieth-century  Amer- 
ican male  "  infant "  at  a  corresponding 
age,  as  are  the  rights  of  a  "  minor  "  in 
modern  Scotland,  where  a  youth  from 
fourteen  to  twenty-one  can  legally  make 
contracts  for  other  things  than  necessi- 
ties of  life,  conduct  business  on  his  own 
account,  and  be  declared  a  bankrupt, 
precisely  as  if  he  were  twenty-one. 


The  English  or  American  minor  is 
usually  destitute  of  business  rights,  ex- 
cept that  he  may  contract  for  "  necessi- 
ties," or  contract  in  accordance  with  legal 
compulsion,  or  will  a  certain  amount  of 
personal  property,  after  a  certain  age. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  gainsaid  that  the  aver- 
age citizen  of  the  United  States  to-day 
is  as  far  advanced  intellectually  at  eight- 
een, in  proportion  to  the  general  develop- 
ment of  knowledge,  as  was  the  average 
citizen  of  twenty-one  when  the  nation 
sprang  into  existence  in  the  closing  quar- 
ter of  the  eighteenth  century.  Some  of 
the  profoundest  thinkers  maintain  that 
the  general  progress  of  mankind  has  been 
as  great  within  the  past  one  hundred 
years  as  it  was  during  all  history  previous 
thereto.  Those  years  have  seen  wonder- 
ful awakenings  in  the  legal  and  political 
treatment  of  women.  Our  own  country 
has  gone  to  excess  in  giving  full  political 
and  legal  citizenship  to  millions  of  slaves 
without  exacting  the  slightest  prepara- 
tion for  the  responsibilities  which  such 
full  citizenship  implies.  Yet  the  young 
American  male  of  Caucasian  blood,  the 
product  of  thirty  or  forty  generations 
which  enjoyed  constantly-increasing  ad- 
vantages of  acquisition  and  development, 
must  wait  as  long  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury to  become  a  legal  man  as  did  any  of 
his  ancestors,  however  remote,  in  the 
American  or  English  line.  He  is  still  an 
"  infant "  until  he  is  twenty-one  years 
old ;  and  an  infant  is  regarded  by  Amer- 
ican law  as  practically  incompetent  and 
irresponsible  except  for  evil.  In  the  legal 
text-books  we  find  the  chapter  on  "  In- 
fants "  followed  first  by  the  chapter  on 
"Idiots,"  and  then  by  the  chapter  on 
"  Lunatics." 

The  young  American  woman  has  had 
the  better  of  her  brother  in  this  respect; 
for  in  a  number  of  states  the  full  legal 
majority  of  women  has  been  placed  by 
statute  at  eighteen  years.  The  absence 
of  the  very  political  equality  for  which 
the  "  suffragettes  "  clamor  has  been  co- 
incident with  the  extension  of  the  civil 
rights  of  the  American  woman  faster  than 


832 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


those  of  the  politically  more  potent  male; 
though  a  few  states  have  given  women 
the  privilege  of  voting  in  all  elections,  and 
many  states  have  accorded  it  to  them  in 
some  elections. 

Most  of  the  world's  sovereigns  arrive 
at  full  age  at  eighteen,  from  three  to  seven 
years  before  any  of  their  subjects  are  al- 
lowed to  vote  or  manage  their  own  busi- 
ness or  earnings.  Though  nearly  every 
monarchy,  in  line  with  ancient  precedent, 
permits  its  rulers  to  assume  all  the  royal 
powers  and  duties,  however  great,  at  an 
earlier  age  than  that  at  which  the  citizens 
of  this  republic  are  suffered  to  transact 
business  for  themselves  or  to  vote,  there 
is  a  peculiar  lack  of  harmony  in  the 
theories  of  nations,  monarchical  or  re- 
publican, as  to  the  proper  age-qualifi- 
cation for  offices  of  less  than  royal  au- 
thority. In  France,  a  man  is  not  eligible 
to  serve  in  a  legislative  body  until  he  is 
forty  years  old,  cannot  act  as  a  juror  until 
he  is  thirty,  must  be  from  twenty-five  to 
thirty-five  (according  to  the  importance 
of  his  jurisdiction)  to  be  a  judge,  and 
must  be  twenty-five  to  be  even  a  notary. 
England  qualifies  a  citizen  for  Parliament, 
so  far  as  age  is  concerned,  at  twenty-one, 
but  insists  upon  a  higher  limit  for  priests 
and  bishops  of  her  established  church.  In 
the  United  States,  no  citizen  may  be  a 
representative  in  Congress  before  twenty- 
five,  or  a  senator  before  thirty ;  while  the 
President  must  be  thirty-five.  It  would 
appear  that  if  Great  Britain  does  not  find 
it  necessary  to  protect  Parliament  by  a 
special  age-limit,  the  United  States  might 
get  along  without  one  in  Congress.  Of 
what  particular  advantage  is  it  to  France 
that  her  national  legislature  excludes  all 
aspirants  who  have  not  "come  to  forty 
year"?  Is  her  Chamber  of  Deputies 
calmer,  or  more  efficient,  than  America's 
House  of  Representatives  or  than  Great 
Britain's  House  of  Commons? 

Looking  deeper  into  this  inconsistency 
in  the  reasoning  of  the  nations  with  re- 
gard to  age-qualification  for  public  office, 
the  investigator  discovers  that  in  Ger- 
many one  cannot  enter  the  Reichstag  be- 


fore twenty-five ;  that  in  Austria  one  can- 
not enter  the  Reichsrath  before  thirty; 
that  in  Belgium  one  cannot  serve  in  the 
Chamber  until  twenty-five,  or  in  the  Sen- 
ate until  thirty;  that  in  Italy  and  Rou- 
mania  one  must  be  twenty-five  to  be 
eligible  to  the  Chamber,  and  forty  to  be 
eligible  to  the  Senate;  that  one  cannot 
serve  in  the  Swedish  legislature  before 
thirty-five;  that  in  Spain  and  Portugal 
one  must  be  twenty-five  to  enter  the 
Chamber,  and  thirty-five  to  enter  the 
Senate;  that  one  must  be  thirty  to  hold 
important  public  office  in  Holland,  Den- 
mark, Greece,  Servia,  or  Turkey.  Latin 
America  reveals  equally  irreconcilable 
differences.  For  instance,  the  Venezue- 
lan may  hold  office  at  twenty-one,  the 
year  he  acquires  the  franchise ;  the  Mexi- 
can acquires  the  franchise  earlier  than 
the  Venezuelan,  but  cannot  hold  office 
until  twenty-five  and  in  some  cases  thirty ; 
in  Argentina  the  citizen  votes  at  twenty- 
two,  but  cannot  hold  office  until  thirty; 
in  Ecuador,  Paraguay,  Uruguay,  and 
Peru  he  votes  at  the  same  age  as  in  Vene- 
zuela or  earlier,  but  cannot  hold  office 
until  from  four  to  seven  years  later. 

Inasmuch  as  it  is  not  apparent  that  an 
advanced  age  for  holding  office,  as  re- 
quired in  most  of  the  countries  of  the  Old 
World  and  the  New,  gives  them  any  bet- 
ter public  service  than  that  of  England, 
whose  sons  are  permitted  to  hold  office 
as  soon  as  they  can  get  it  after  reaching 
twenty-one,  it  naturally  follows  that  Eng- 
land might  lower  the  age  of  full  legal 
manhood  without  threatening  the  safety 
of  the  franchise,  or  impairing  the  sta- 
bility of  business  and  property. 

Few  persons  ever  have  any  sense  or 
character  if  they  do  not  develop  both  by 
the  time  they  are  eighteen.  This  is  a 
strong  assertion,  but  it  will  bear  the  test, 
allowing  for  the  marvelous  advance  in 
educational  facilities  and  for  the  broad 
fact  that  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  must 
be  the  basis  of  enlightened  law.  Not 
many  who  are  unfit  to  vote  or  to  manage 
their  personal  affairs  at  eighteen  are  in- 
telligent enough  to  do  so  at  twenty-one; 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


833 


certainly  the  difference,  such  as  it  is,  does 
not  warrant  the  law  in  holding  back  the 
entire  population  three  years.  Yet  our 
law  still  defines  an  infant  as  "a  person 
under  twenty-one  years  of  age." 

Barring  occasional  instances  in  which 
banks  have  obtained  by  charter  the  right 
to  honor  an  infant's  check,  we  have  the 
anomaly  that  a  financial  institution  can- 
not legally  suffer  any  person  under  twen- 
ty-one to  withdraw  funds  deposited  by 
such  a  person,  even  if  there  is  not  the 
scintilla  of  a  doubt  that  the  depositor  per- 
sonally earned  the  money.  If  a  state  can 
feel  that  it  is  proper  to  authorize  some 
banks  to  honor  infants'  checks,  why 
should  not  the  state  expand  the  special 
privilege  into  a  general  one,  and  decree 
that  all  minors  above,  say,  seventeen  shall 
have  the  same  power  as  persons  over 
twenty-one  to  withdraw  funds  which  they 
have  themselves  deposited  in  a  bank? 
The  very  fact  that  financial  institutions 
are  in  some  cases  being  empowered,  when 
they  urgently  ask  the  privilege,  to  cash 
infants'  checks  against  infants'  deposits, 
is  conclusive  demonstration  that  state 
legislators  are  beginning  to  recognize  the 
injustice  of  the  present  iron-bound  com- 
mon-law definition  of  infancy,  and  to  ad- 
mit that  the  mature  minor  is  entitled  to 
relief. 

Further  recognition  of  the  wrong 
wrought  by  the  common  law  as  to  in- 
fancy appears  in  statutes,  in  some  of  our 
states,  requiring  courts  to  deliver  small 
bequests  directly  to  minors  if  the  latter 
have  come  to  years  of  discretion  and  seem 
to  possess  it.  Under  the  common  law,  a 
man  or  a  woman  twenty  years  old  can- 
not inherit  fifty  dollars  without  the  ap- 
pointment of  a  legal  guardian  to  handle 
the  money.  The  necessary  court  fees  and 
the  guardian's  legal  percentage,  or  the 
fees  alone  in  the  event  of  the  guardian's 
serving  without  compensation,  amount  to 
an  almost  confiscatory  tax  on  small  be- 
quests to  minors.  Cases  have  been  known 
in  which  the  fees  and  costs  left  nothing 
whatever  for  the  unfortunate  infant  to 
inherit.  And  this  legalized  piracy  has 
VOL.  102 -NO.  6 


been  excused  under  the  hoary  pretense 
of  protecting  those  who  are  theoretically 
incompetent  to  protect  themselves!  Be- 
cause there  is  a  presumption  that  the 
minor  might  suffer  loss  by  investing  the 
money  injudiciously,  the  money  has  been 
benevolently  assimilated  into  the  public 
treasury  and  the  private  pockets  of  clerks 
and  guardians. 

Most  foreign  nations  are  more  liberal 
than  this  in  permitting  the  emancipation 
of  minors.  Under  the  common  law  of 
England  and  the  United  States  there  is 
no  complete  emancipation  until  a  per- 
son is  twenty-one,  except  by  statutes 
which  have  been  passed  in  some  states. 
France  makes  emancipation  automat- 
ically complete  in  the  event  of  marriage, 
and  permits  emancipation  by  special 
process  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  Italy,  Bel- 
gium, and  Roumania  allow  it  at  the  same 
age  as  France,  while  in  Greece  it  is  al- 
lowed still  earlier.  Servia  authorizes 
emancipation  at  seventeen;  Switzerland, 
Norway,  Hungary,  Mexico,  Russia,  and 
a  number  of  other  countries,  authorize 
it  at  eighteen;  Canada,  at  nineteen;  Aus- 
tria, Holland,  San  Salvador,  and  some 
others,  at  twenty. 

As  the  case  stands  to-day,  in  this  coun- 
try, not  even  the  emancipation  of  an  adult 
infant  by  the  parents  can  give  validity 
to  the  infant's  contracts  which  would  not 
otherwise  be  valid ;  nor  does  the  marriage 
of  a  man  under  twenty-one,  though  the 
marriage  itself  be  entirely  legal,  emanci- 
pate the  husband.  In  a  few  states  such  a 
husband  is  partially  emancipated  by 
marriage,  but  in  none  is  such  emancipa- 
tion complete.  Under  the  common  law, 
and  in  most  of  the  states,  we  have  the 
phenomenon  of  infant  husbands  bound 
by  the  debts  legally  contracted  by  their 
wives  before  marriage !  A  woman  in  some 
states,  as  has  been  said,  is  not  an  infant 
after  she  is  eighteen,  and  we  may  discover 
an  infant  husband  with  a  wife  of  no 
greater  age  who  possesses  full  legal  rights. 
Suppose  a  man  of  twenty,  in  any  of  these 
states,  to  have  a  wife  of  nineteen:  the 
husband,  at  an  age  when  Solomon  was 


834 


A  Plea  for  the  Adult  Minor 


absolute  ruler  over  Israel  at  the  height  of 
its  glory,  is  an  infant  in  law ;  and  the  wife, 
though  younger,  is  of  full  legal  age.  She 
can  manage  her  own  property  to  suit  her- 
self;  he  must  let  his  property  be  managed 
by  parent  or  guardian.  An  infant  above 
seventeen  in  the  United  States  may  be 
executor  of  an  adult's  will,  yet  cannot 
make  a  legally-binding  contract  unless 
for  necessities  or  to  carry  out  obligations 
already  put  upon  him  by  law,  as  in  the 
case  of  accomplished  marriage  or  a  bond 
given  to  cover  a  fine.  The  infant  is 
regarded  as  irresponsible  and  helpless  in 
business  and  politics,  but  above  the  age 
of  seven  he  may  be,  and  above  the  age  of 
fourteen  he  often  is,  punished  for  crime 
by  any  penalty  to  which  a  criminal  of  full 
legal  age  is  liable.  If  the  infant  is  appar- 
ently aware  of  the  gravity  and  conse- 
quence of  his  criminal  act,  he  is  subject 
to  the  same  law  as  a  person  over  twenty- 
one.  A  man  of  eighteen  committing  mur- 
der is  no  less  liable  to  the  death  sentence 
than  a  man  of  forty.  Why  not  accord  to 
the  minor  who  realizes  and  f  infills  his  re- 
sponsibility in  honorable  and  wholesome 
endeavor,  the  rights  and  privileges  of  a 
person  of  twenty-one?  Why  should  the 
rule  work  only  one  way  ? 

Upon  the  logical  assumption  that  the 
ballot  ought  to  be  given  to  a  man  of  seven- 
teen or  eighteen  who  can  meet  the  fran- 
chise tests  in  the  various  states  with  the 
exception  of  that  which  requires  him  to 
be  twenty-one,  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion 
that  to  lower  the  age-limit  several  years 
would  release  in  our  political  life  a  power- 
ful new  force  whose  influence  would  be 
mightily  revivifying.  This  argument 
is  not  to  be  indifferently  brushed  aside. 
The  tonic  .effect  of  increasing  in  large 
measure  the  voting  strength  of  that  part 
of  the  electorate  to  which  the  ballot  is  a 
treasured  novelty,  a  cause  of  pride,  and  a 
mark  of  manhood  like  the  Roman's  toga 
virilis,  would  be  felt  in  all  the  arteries  of 
the  nation's  political  system.  Better  and 
brighter  and  cleaner  political  blood  would 
course  through  the  country's  veins.  Polit- 
ical independence  and  initiative  would 


receive  new  impetus,  because  youth  is 
usually  less  subservient  to  prejudice,  and 
more  susceptible  to  exalted  motives,  than 
the  later  ages  of  men. 

President  Woodrow  Wilson  of  Princeton 
University  has  declared  that  the  great- 
est need  of  our  national  life  is  warmer 
encouragement  of  idealism.  There  is 
danger  in  getting  too  matter-of-fact. 
Money  kings  like  the  late  Marshall  Field 
know  what  they  are  about  when  they 
withhold  full  inheritance  until  their  heirs 
shall  have  left  youth  and  early  man- 
hood behind.  These  shrewd  founders  of 
financial  dynasties  count  on  the  likelihood 
that  life  will  then  have  lost  its  romance 
and  fire,  and  that  the  traits  of  acquisitive- 
ness and  retentiveness  will  have  developed 
to  their  utmost.  The  policy  is  successful 
in  further  swelling  fortunes  already  in- 
flated beyond  reason;  therefore,  the  pol- 
icy is  harmful  to  the  body  politic.  It 
would  be  infinitely  better  for  the  country 
to  have  these  mighty  accumulations  re- 
duced by  impulsive  youth  than  to  have 
them  augmented  by  cynical  middle  age 
or  multiplied  by  emotionless  senility. 
The  states  may  soon  have  to  outlaw  the 
dangerous  device  of  treating  heirs  of  full 
age  and  sanity  as  if  they  were  infants  or 
imbeciles,  whose  money  must  be  held  in 
trust  to  protect  them  from  their  own 
weak  minds. 

The  national  Constitution  offers  no 
obstacle  to  the  shortening  of  political  in- 
fancy. The  voting  age  is  fixed  by  the 
states;  the  only  reference  to  it  in  the 
Federal  fundamental  law  is  in  the  amend- 
ment which  prescribes  reduced  congres- 
sional representation  as  a  penalty  for  de- 
nial of  the  ballot  to  male  citizens  above 
the  age  of  twenty-one. 

Desirable  as  we  might  consider  such  an 
increase  in  the  political  vitality  of  state 
and  nation  as  would  follow  reduction  of 
the  period  of  political  infancy,  the  argu- 
ment for  removing  the  business  disabili- 
ties of  the  discreet  minor,  or  "  adult  in- 
fant," is  still  stronger.  Speaking  broadly, 
it  may  be  called  unanswerable.  The  legal 
incapacitation  of  millions  of  citizens  of 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


835 


character,  education,  and  intelligence  in 
the  United  States  of  America  in  the  twen- 
tieth century,  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  these  citizens  happen  to  be  one,  two, 
or  three  years  under  an  age  fixed  at  a 
guess  by  wild  Saxon  tribes  a  thousand 
years  ago,  is  an  anomaly  and  an  ana- 
chronism. There  is  no  excuse  for  the 
absurd  condition  which  makes  such  citi- 
zens in  this  country  the  inferiors,  legally, 
of  citizens  of  equal  age  in  Scotland. 

To  recognize  in  law  the  qualifications 
which  exist  in  fact,  the  rights  which  are 
acknowledged  by  reason,  would  be  to 
perform  a  simple  act  of  justice  already 
amazingly  delayed,  and  would  both 
steady  and  stimulate  our  youth  at  an 
impressionable  period  by  giving  them 
that  sense  of  responsibility  which  is  the 
most  potent  developer  of  true  manhood 
and  citizenship.  The  step  would  be  in 
line  with  the  progressive  spirit  of  the 
age,  and  it  is  urgently  suggested  by  the 


broadening  horizon  of  modern  enlight- 
enment. 

The  regular  legislatures  can  do  much 
for  the  relief  of  the  minor  by  giving  him 
business  and  property  emancipation. 
Constitutional  conventions  can  give  him 
political  justice  —  and  hardly  a  year 
passes  without  a  constitutional  conven- 
tion in  some  part  of  the  land.  The  Amer- 
ican state  whose  lawmakers  will  set  the 
example  of  reducing  the  years  of  adult 
infancy  will  contribute  much  to  the  in- 
crease of  its  own  dynamic  force,  and  will 
do  the  country  a  service  of  inestimable 
value.  It  is  in  the  power  of  the  lawmaker 
to  accomplish,  at  the  one  point,  results 
almost  as  important  as  the  scientist  has 
accomplished  at  the  other.  The  scientist 
has  prolonged  human  life  both  physi- 
cally and  mentally.  He  has  made  its  cap- 
able years  begin  sooner  and  end  later. 
Now  let  the  legislator  adjust  his  statutes 
to  meet  this  vital  fact. 


THE   FAME   OF  POE 


BY  JOHN   MACY 


No  man  more  truly  than  Poe  illustrates 
our  conception  of  a  poet  as  one  who 
treads  the  cluttered  ways  of  circumstance 
with  his  head  in  the  clouds.  Many  an- 
other impoverished  dreamer  has  dwelt  in 
his  thoughts,  apart  from  the  world's 
events.  And  of  nearly  all  artists  it  is  true 
that  their  lives  are  written  in  their  works, 
and  that  the  rest  of  the  story  concerns 
another  almost  negligible  personality.  In 
the  case  of  Poe  the  separation  between 
spiritual  affairs  and  temporal  is  unusu- 
ally wide.  His  fragile  verse  is  pitched 
above  any  landscape  of  fact;  his  tales 
contain  only  misty  reflections  of  com- 
mon experience;  and  the  legendary  pers- 
onage which  he  has  become  is  a  creature 
inspired  in  other  imaginations  by  his 
books,  and  not  a  faithful  portrait  of  the 


human  being  who  lived  in  America  be- 
tween 1809  and  1849.  The  contrast  be- 
tween his  aspirations  and  his  earthly  con- 
ditions, between  the  figure  of  romance 
he  would  fain  have  been  and  the  man  in 
authentic  records  stripped  of  myth  and 
controversy,  is  pitiful,  almost  violent. 

This  poet  with  a  taste  for  palaces  and 
Edens  lived  in  sprawling  cities  that  had 
not  yet  attempted  magnificence.  This 
bookish  man,  whom  one  images  poring 
over  quaint  and  curious  volumes  of  for- 
gotten lore,  owned  no  wonderful  library, 
not  even  such  a  "working"  collection 
as  a  literary  man  is  supposed  to  require, 
but  feasted  on  the  miscellaneous  riches 
that  fell  now  and  then  upon  the  arid  desk 
of  the  hack  reviewer.  This  inventor  of 
grotesque  plots  had  no  extraordinary 


836 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


adventures,  none  certainly  that  make 
thrilling  anecdote.  Capable  of  Chester- 
fieldian  grace  of  style,  and  adept  in  the 
old-fashioned  southern  flourish  of  man- 
ner, he  left  few  "polite"  letters,  and  those 
few  are  undistinguished.  To  follow  Poe's 
course  by  the  guide  of  literary  landmarks 
is  to  undertake  a  desolate  journey. 

As  his  artistic  self  is  apart  from  things, 
so  it  is  apart  from  men.  In  his  criticisms, 
it  is  true,  he  is  found  in  open  and  some- 
what controversial  relations  with  the  writ- 
ers of  his  time  and  vicinity.  As  editor,  he 
had  dealings  with  the  world  of  authors 
and  journalists.  But  his  acquaintance 
among  the  "Literati "  includes  no  man  of 
letters  who  is  now  well  remembered,  and 
implies  no  possibility  of  flashing  exchange 
between  his  imagination  and  another  as 
brilliant.  He  never  met  his  intellectual 
equal  in  the  flesh,  except  Lowell,  whom 
he  saw  only  once.  Irving  in  Sunny  side 
was  not  nearer  than  Irving  in  Spain.  Not 
a  friend  was  qualified  to  counsel  or  en- 
courage Poe  in  his  work;  not  a  neigh- 
bor in  art  was  competent  to  inspire  him. 
He  was  the  flower  of  no  group  of  writers, 
but  stands  alone,  original,  aloof,  all  but 
exotic. 

The  isolation  of  Poe  from  the  best 
minds  of  his  day  is  not  well  understood 
by  those  who  have  not  a  correct  geo- 
graphical conception  of  America  in  1840. 
One  of  the  most  authoritative  English 
reviews  expressed  surprise  that  a  recent 
book  on  Boston  omitted  from  the  chapter 
devoted  to  litterateurs  the  name  of  Poe, 
who  was  born  in  Boston  and  was  the 
finest  of  American  poets.  The  intellect- 
ual life  of  the  only  Greater  Boston  that 
has  produced  literature  was  as  remote 
from  Poe  as  was  Victorian  London,  and 
he  was  the  only  important  critic  in  Amer- 
ica who  understood  the  relative  magni- 
tudes of  those  two  centres  of  light.  His 
caustic  opinions  about  the  Bostonians, 
which  seem  more  discerning  to  us  than 
they  did  to  our  New  England  fathers, 
are  witness  to  his  detachment  from  the 
only  considerable  movement  in  American 
literature  of  those  dim  provincial  times. 


Whatever  influence  contemporaneous 
thought  exerted  on  Poe  came  from  books 
and  not  from  men,  not  from  experience 
with  the  world.  Though  a  few  reflections 
of  his  contacts  with  life,  such  as  the  Eng- 
lish school  in  "William  Wilson,"  are  to 
be  made  out  in  his  stories,  and  though  in 
some  of  his  essays  a  momentary  admira- 
tion or  hostility  of  a  personal  nature 
slipped  a  magnifying  lens  beneath  his 
critical  eye,  yet  the  finger  of  circumstance 
is  seldom  on  his  pages,  the  echoes  of 
human  encounter  are  not  heard  in  his 
art. 

The  nature  of  Poe's  disseverance  from 
life  is  one  of  the  strangest  in  the  annals 
of  unworldly  men  of  books.  He  was  not 
among  those  who,  like  Lamb,  transfigure 
petty  and  dull  experience,  or  those  who 
combat  suffering  with  blithe  philosophies 
like  Stevenson ;  he  was  not  a  willful  her- 
mit; nor  was  he  among  those  invalids 
who,  in  constrained  seclusion,  have  leisure 
for  artistry  and  contemplation.  He  was 
a  practical  editor  in  busy  offices.  He  no 
doubt  thought  of  himself,  Mr.  Poe,  as  ur- 
bane and  cosmopolitan.  He  had  knocked 
about  the  world  a  little.  For  a  while  he 
was  in  the  army.  He  was  effective  and  at 
ease  upon  the  lecture  platform.  He  med- 
itated rash  adventures  in  foreign  lands 
until  he  apparently  came  to  believe  that 
he  had  really  met  with  them.  At  his  best, 
he  was  reserved  and  well  bred,  aware  of 
his  intellectual  superiority.  Sometimes, 
perhaps  when  he  was  most  cast  down 
and  hard  driven,  he  met  the  world  with 
a  jaunty  man-of-the-world  swagger.  Af- 
ter he  left  the  Allans,  he  was  on  the 
outskirts  of  social  groups,  high  or  low. 
His  love  for  elegant  society  unfitted  him 
for  vagabondage.  His  lack  of  worldly 
success,  if  no  other  limitation,  forbade 
his  entering  for  more  than  a  visit  the 
circles  of  comfort  and  good  breeding. 
But  no  matter  what  his  mood  or  what 
his  circumstance,  it  did  not  affect  the 
quality  of  his  work  or  the  nature  of  his 
subjects.  When  he  wrote  he  dropped  the 
rest  of  himself. 

And,  with  respect  to  him,  artistic  bio- 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


837 


graphy  may  well  follow  his  example,  and 
documentary  biography  may  confess  its 
futility.  No  biographer  thus  far  has 
succeeded  in  making  very  interesting  the 
narrative  portions  of  Poe's  career.  It  is 
a  bare  chronicle  of  neutral  circumstance, 
from  which  rises,  the  more  wonderful, 
an  achievement  of  highly-colored  ro- 
mance, poetry  of  perfect,  unaccountable 
originality,  and  criticism  the  most  pene- 
trating that  any  American  writer  has 
attained. 

Perhaps  it  is  his  criticism,  an  air  of 
maturity  and  well-pondered  knowledge 
of  all  the  literatures  of  the  Orient  and 
the  Occident,  which  makes  it  seem  the 
more  singular  that  he  owed  nothing  to 
universities  and  scholarly  circles.  The 
Allans  took  him  to  England  when  he  was 
six  years  old  and  put  him  in  a  school 
where  he  learned,  it  is  fair  to  suppose,  the 
rudiments  of  the  classics  and  French. 
He  went  one  term  to  the  University  of 
Virginia,  and  a  few  months  to  West  Point. 
Though  one  institution  was  founded  by 
Jefferson  and  the  other  by  the  United 
States  government,  it  is  no  very  cynical 
irreverence  to  withhold  from  them  grati- 
tude on  Poe's  behalf.  The  most  signifi- 
cant record  of  his  life  at  "the  Univers- 
ity "  is  that  which  shows  him  browsing 
idly  in  the  library.  His  most  profitable 
occupation  at  West  Point  was  writing 
lampoons  of  the  instructors  and  prepar- 
ing the  volume  of  verses  for  which  he 
collected  subscriptions  from  his  fellow 
cadets.  He  was  not  at  either  institution 
long  enough  to  receive  whatever  of  cult- 
ure and  instruction  it  had  to  offer.  He 
was  self-taught.  He  read  poetry  when 
he  was  young,  and  began  to  write  it.  As 
a  military  cadet  he  had  precocious  and 
arrogant  critical  opinions.  At  twenty- 
four  he  appears  with  a  neat  manuscript 
roll  of  short  stories  under  his  arm,  which 
cause  the  judges  of  a  humdrum  maga- 
zine contest  to  start  awake. 

From  this  time  to  the  end  he  was  a 
hard-working  journalist  and  professional 
story-teller.  He  pursued  his  work  through 
carking,  persistent  poverty,  amid  the  dis- 


tractions of  inner  restlessness  and  out- 
ward maladjustments.  His  poverty  was 
not  merited  punishment  for  indolence 
or  extravagance.  He  was  industrious, 
entitled  to  better  wage  than  he  received. 
He  was  not  an  obscure  genius,  waiting 
for  posterity  to  discover  him,  but  was 
popular  in  his  own  day.  His  books,  how- 
ever, had  no  great  sale,  for  his  pieces 
appeared  in  the  magazines,  some  of  them 
more  than  once,  and  the  demand  for  his 
work  was  thus  satisfied  with  more  profit 
to  the  magazine  publishers  than  to  the 
author. 

He  lived  laborious  days  and  he  lived 
in  frugal  style.  He  spent  no  money  on 
himself,  but  handed  his  earnings  to  his 
mother-in-law.  Whatever  else  was  sinful 
in  the  sprees  which  have  been  over-elab- 
orated in  the  chronicles,  their  initial  cost 
was  not  great.  When  he  went  into  debt, 
the  lust  he  hoped  to  gratify  with  the 
money  was  the  insane  desire  to  found  a 
good  magazine.  His  appetites  were  mainly 
intellectual.  His  wildest  dissipation  was 
the  performance  of  mental  acrobatics  for 
the  applause  that  he  craved. 

He  spent  weeks  making  good  his  chal- 
lenge to  the  world  to  send  him  a  crypto- 
gram that  he  could  not  decipher.  When 
he  reviewed  a  book,  he  examined  it  to 
the  last  rhetorical  minutia.  Griswold's 
opinion,  that  "he  was  more  remarkable 
as  a  dissector  of  sentences  than  as  a 
commenter  upon  ideas,"  is  a  mean  way 
of  saying  that  he  was  given  to  patient 
scrutiny.  Mrs.  Browning  put  it  more 
generously  when  she  said  that  Poe  had 
so  evidently  "read  "  her  poems  as  to  be 
a  wonder  among  critics.  Poe  had  a  mania 
for  curious,  unusual  information.  His 
knowledge  was  so  disparate  and  inaccu- 
rate that  several  critics  in  sixty  years  have 
discovered,  with  the  aid  of  specialists,1 
that  he  lacked  the  thoroughness  which  is 

1  A  special  student  of  one  abstruse  subject 
assures  me  that,  in  that  subject,  Poe  is  the 
only  modern  writer  of  general  culture  who 
knows  what  he  is  talking  about.  As  this  spe- 
cialist has  not  yet  published  his  researches,  I 
will  not  say  what  the  subject  is. 


838 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


now  habitual  with  all  who  undertake  to 
write  books.  But  Poe's  knowledge,  such 
as  it  was,  implies  much  reading.  And 
much  reading  and  much  writing  are  im- 
possible to  an  idle,  dissipated  man. 

This  clear-headed,  fine-handed  artist 
is  present  and  accounted  for  at  the  au- 
thor's desk.  His  hours  off  duty,  abund- 
antly and  confusedly  recorded,  do  not 
furnish  essential  matter  for  large  books. 
If  one  enters  without  forewarning  any 
life  of  Poe,  one  feels  that  a  mystery  is 
about  to  open.  There  seem  to  be  clues 
to  suppressed  matters,  suspicious  lacunae. 
The  lives  are  written,  like  some  novels, 
with  hintful  rows  of  stars.  A  shadowy 
path  promises  to  lead  to  a  misty  mid- 
region  of  Wen*.  But  Weir  proves  to  be 
a  place  that  Poe  invented.  He  himself 
was  the  first  foolish  biographer  of  Poe. 
The  real  Poe  (to  take  an  invidious  ad- 
jective from  the  titles  of  a  modern  kind 
of  biography)  is  a  simple,  intelligible, 
and  if  one  may  dare  to  say  it,  a  rather 
insignificant  man.  To  make  a  hero  or  a 
villain  of  him  is  to  write  fiction. 

The  craving  for  story  has  been  at  work 
demanding  and  producing  such  fiction. 
The  raw  materials  were  made  in  Amer- 
ica and  shipped  to  France  for  psycholog- 
ical manufacture.  The  resulting  figure  is 
an  irresponsible  genius  scribbling  im- 
mortality under  vinous  inspiration,  or 
turning  neuropsychopathic  rhymes.  Be- 
fore paranoia  was  discovered  as  a  source 
of  genius,  wine  received  all  the  credit. 
But  Poe  could  not  write  a  line  except 
when  his  head  was  clear  and  he  was  at 
the  antipodes  of  hilarity.  The  warmth  of 
Bohemia,  boulevard  mirth,  however  stim- 
ulating to  the  other  mad  bards  of  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  never  fetched  a 
song  from  him.  He  was  a  solemn,  un- 
convivial,  humorless  man,  who  took  no 
joy  in  his  cups.  If  on  occasion  he  found 
companions  in  riot,  they  were  not  cafe 
poets.  Once,  when  the  bottle  was  pass- 
ing, and  there  were  other  poets  present, 
he  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  say  that 
he  had  written  one  poem  that  would  live 
("The  Raven'*),  but  this  expression  of 


pride  does  not  seem  unduly  bacchanalian. 
One  could  wish  that  the  delights  of  stein- 
on-the-table  friendship  had  been  his. 
He  needed  friends  and  the  happier  sort 
of  relaxation.  But  what  record  is  there 
of  the  New  York  wits  and  journalists 
visiting  Fordham  of  an  evening  to  in- 
dulge in  book-talk  and  amicable  liquor  ? 
The  chaste  dinners  of  the  Saturday  Club 
in  Boston  were  ruddy  festivals  of  mutual 
admiration  beside  anything  that  Poe 
knew. 

The  unromantic  fact  is  that  alcohol 
made  Poe  sick  and  he  got  no  consolation 
from  it.  But  before  this  fact  was  widely 
understood,  long  before  there  was  talk 
of  neuropsychology  and  hydrocephalus, 
when  even  starvation  was  not  clearly  reck- 
oned with,  it  was  known  in  America  that 
Poe  drank.  This  fact  became  involved 
with  a  tradition  which  has  descended 
in  direct  line  from  Elizabethan  puri- 
tanism  to  nineteenth-century  America. 
According  to  this  tradition,  poets  who 
do  nothing  but  write  poetry  are  frivolous 
persons  inclined  to  frequent  taverns.  The 
New  England  poets,  to  be  sure,  were  not 
revelers,  but  they  were  moral  teachers 
as  well  as  poets.  The  American,  knowing 
them,  saw  Poe  in  contrast,  as  the  Eng- 
lishwoman in  the  theatre  contrasted  the 
ruin  of  Cleopatra  with  "the  'ome  life  of 
our  own  dear  Queen."  And  Poe,  always 
unfortunate,  offers  a  confirmatory  half- 
fact  by  beginning  to  die  in  a  gutter  in 
Baltimore  —  a  fact  about  which  Holmes, 
the  physician,  can  make  a  not  unkindly 
joke.  Besides,  what  can  be  expected  of 
a  poet  who  is  said  to  have  influenced 
French  poets  ?  We  know  what  the  French 
poets  are,  because  they  also  wrote  novels 
—  or  somebody  with  about  the  same 
name  wrote  them.  Alas  for  Poe  that,  in 
addition  to  his  other  offences  against  re- 
spectability, he  should  have  got  a  French 
reputation  and  become,  not  only  a  son  of 
Marlowe,  but  a  son  of  Villon  and  brother 
of  Verlaine.1 

1  The  biographer's  province  may  extend  far 
enough  into  literary  criticism  to  note  a  curious 
confusion  of  literary  judgments  with  bio- 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


839 


And  Poe,  meanwhile,  with  these  bril- 
liant but  somewhat  defamatory  reputa- 
tions, lived,  worked,  and  died  in  such 
intellectual  solitude  that  Griswold  could 
write  immediately  after  his  death  that  he 
left  few  friends.  It  is  the  unhappy  truth. 
Those  who  promptly  denied  it,  Graham 
and  Willis,  showed  commendable  good 
nature,  but  were  both  incapable  of  being 
Poe's  friends  in  any  warm  sense.  Wheth- 
er they  were  at  fault  or  Poe,  the  fact  is 
that  Poe  distrusted  one  and  was  con- 
temptuous of  the  other. 

What  writer  besides  Poe,  whose  life 
is  copiously  recorded  and  who  lived  to 
have  his  work  known  in  three  nations, 
has  left  no  chronicles  of  notable  friend- 
ships ?  Think  how  the  writers  of  England 
and  France,  with  some  exceptional  out- 
casts, lived  in  circles  of  mutual  admira- 
tion! Think  how  in  America  the  New 
Englanders  clustered  together,  how  even 
the  shy  and  reserved  Hawthorne  was 
rescued  from  a  solitude  that  might  have 
been  morbid  for  the  man  and  damaging 
to  his  work,  by  the  consciousness  that  in 
Cambridge  and  Concord,  in  the  rear  of 
Fields's  shop,  were  cultivated  men  who 
delighted  to  talk  to  him  about  his  work, 
whose  loyalty  was  gently  critical  and 
cherishing.  Lafcadio  Hearn  —  who  has 
been  compared  to  Poe  —  had  friends 
whom  he  could  not  alienate  by  any  freak 
of  temper.  And  those  friends  encouraged 
him  to  self-expression  in  private  letter 
and  work  of  art. 

Some  such  encouragement  Poe  re- 
ceived from  J.  P.  Kennedy,  a  generous 

graphic.  Colonel  Higginson,  in  his  Life  of 
Longfellow,  says  that "  Poe  took  captive  the  cul- 
tivated but  morbid  taste  of  the  French  public." 
The  words  "  but  morbid  "  are  not  only  a  singu- 
lar indictment  of  France,  but  a  more  singular 
indictment  of  America,  for  Poe  took  captive  the 
American  reading  public  before  France  heard 
of  him.  Let  us  deliver  Poe's  work,  if  we  can- 
not deliver  his  life,  from  provincial  contro- 
versy. But  even  his  work,  accepted,  individual, 
indisputable,  is  troubled  by  another  biographic 
question  —  his  debt  to  one  Chivers.  Chivers 
could  not  write  poetry.  Poe  could.  The  debt 
is  evident. 


friend  of  young  genius,  and  from  the 
journalist,  F.  W.  Thomas,  whose  admir- 
ation for  Poe  was  affectionate  and  abid- 
ing. But  among  his  intimates  were  few 
large  natures,  few  sound  judgments,  to 
keep  him  up  to  his  best.  Long  after  his 
death,  Poe  was  honored  in  Virginia  as  a 
local  hero.  The  perfervid  biography  of 
him  by  Professor  Harrison,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  contrives  to  include 
all  the  great  names  and  beautiful  associa- 
tions of  the  Old  Dominion.  But  during 
his  life  Poe  was  not  a  favorite  of  the  best 
families  of  Richmond.  As  well  think  of 
Burns  as  the  child  of  cultivated  Edin- 
burgh, or  of  Whitman  as  the  darling  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  At  the  height  of  his  career 
in  New  York,  between  the  appearance 
of  "The  Raven"  and  the  time  when  pov- 
erty and  illness  claimed  him  irrecovera- 
bly, Poe  appears  as  a  lion  in  gatherings 
of  the  literati.  But,  among  them,  his  only 
affectionate  friends  were  two  or  three 
women. 

To  the  intellectual  man  who  has  no 
stalwart  friends,  who  consumes  his 
strength  in  a  daily  struggle  against  pov- 
erty and  burns  out  his  heart  in  vain  pride, 
there  remains  another  refuge,  a  home 
warmed  with  family  loyalty,  full  of  happy 
incentive  to  labor,  able  perhaps  to  co- 
operate with  the  genius  of  the  household. 
Such  refuge  was  not  given  to  Poe.  No 
man  ever  had  a  more  cheerless  place  in 
which  to  set  up  his  work-table.  His  wife 
was  a  child  when  he  married  her,  and  was 
still  young  when  she  died  of  lingering 
consumption.  His  aunt  and  mother-in- 
law,  who  no  doubt  did  her  best  with  the 
few  dollars  which  "Eddie"  put  into  her 
hands,  was  an  ignorant  woman  and  prob- 
ably had  no  idea  what  the  careful  rolls  of 
manuscript  were  about,  beyond  the  fact 
that  they  sometimes  fetched  a  bit  of 
money.  Poe  would  have  been  excusable 
if  he  had  sought  and  found  outside  his 
home  some  womanly  consolation  of  a 
finer  intellectual  quality  than  his  wife 
and  aunt  were  able  to  afford.  His  writ- 
ings are  graced  with  poetic  feminine 
spirits  that  suggest  vaguely  the  kind  of 


840 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


soul  with  which  he  would  have  liked  to 
commune.  But  he  never  found  such  a 
soul.  He  made  several  hysterical  quests 
after  swans,  but  they  turned  out  geese, 
if  not  to  him,  certainly  to  the  modern  eye 
that  chances  to  fall  on  their  own  memo- 
rials of  the  pursuit.  None  was  of  distin- 
guished mind,  and  all  were  either  inno- 
cent or  prudent.  If  Poe,  with  his  Gascon 
eloquence  and  compelling  eye,  rushed 
the  fortress  of  propriety,  nothing  serious 
came  of  the  adventure  and  nothing  seri- 
ous remains,  —  only  trivial  gossip,  silly 
correspondence,  and  quite  gratuitous  de- 
fences. It  is  a  Barmecide  feast  for  hun- 
gry scandal. 

What  has  just  been  written  may  seem 
a  negative  and  deprecating  comment  on 
Poe's  story.  But  it  gives  truly,  I  be- 
lieve, the  drab  setting  in  which  his  work 
gleams.  And  by  depressing  the  high 
false  lights  that  have  been  hung  about 
his  head,  we  make  more  salient  the  vir- 
tue that  was  properly  his,  the  proud  inde- 
pendence of  mind,  the  fixity  of  artistic 
purpose,  the  will  which  governed  his 
imagination  and  kept  it  steadily  at  work 
in  a  poor  chamber  of  life,  creating  beau- 
tiful things.  However  much  or  little  we 
admire  Poe's  work,  we  must  understand 
as  a  fact  in  biography  that,  from  the  first 
tales  with  which  he  emerged  from  ob- 
scurity to  the  half  philosophical  piece 
with  which,  the  year  before  his  death, 
he  sought  to  capture  the  universe  and 
astound  its  inhabitants,  his  writings  are 
the  product  of  an  excellent  brain  actuated 
by  the  will  to  create.  He  was  a  finical 
craftsman,  patient  in  revision.  He  did 
not  sweep  upward  to  the  heights  of  elo- 
quence with  blind,  undirected  power.  He 
calculated  effects.  His  delicate  instru- 
ment did  not  operate  itself  while  the 
engineer  was  absent  or  asleep.  Deliber- 
ate, mathematical,  alert,  he  marshaled 
his  talents;  and  when  he  failed,  failed  for 
lack  of  judgment,  not  for  want  of  in- 
dustry. 

To  labor  for  an  artistic  result  with  cool 
precision  while  hunger  and  disease  are 
in  the  workshop;  to  revise,  always  with 


new  excellence,  an  old  poem  which  is  to 
be  republished  for  the  third  or  fourth 
time  in  a  cheap  journal ;  to  make  a  manu- 
script scrupulously  perfect  to  please  one's 
self,  —  for  there  is  to  be  no  extra  loaf  of 
bread  as  reward,  the  market  is  indiffer- 
ent to  the  finer  excellences,  —  this  is  the 
accomplishment  of  a  man  with  ideals 
and  the  will  to  realize  them.  Let  the 
most  vigorous  of  us  write  in  a  cold  garret 
and  decide  whether,  on  moral  grounds, 
our  persistent  driving  of  our  faculties  en- 
titles us  to  praise.  Let  us  be  so  hungry 
that  we  can  write  home  with  enthusiasm 
about  the  good  breakfast  in  a  bad  New 
York  boarding-house;  and  after  it  is  all 
over,  let  us  imagine  ourselves  listening 
earthward  from  whatever  limbo  the 
moralists  admit  us  to,  and  hearing  a 
critic  say  that  we  have  been  untrue,  not 
only  to  ourselves,  but  to  our  art.  For  so 
Dr.  Goldwin  Smith's  ethical  theory  of 
art  disposes  of  Poe,  Poe  who  was  never 
untrue  to  his  art  in  his  slenderest  story, 
or  lazy-minded  in  his  least  important 
criticism. 

This  confident  man,  who  will  measure 
the  stars  with  equal  assurance  by  the 
visions  of  poetry  and  the  mathematics 
of  astronomy,  and  set  forth  the  whole 
truth  of  the  universe  in  even,  compact 
sentences  such  as  no  man  can  make 
by  accident,  lacks  bedclothes  to  cover  a 
dying  wife  —  except  the  army  overcoat 
which  he  had  got  at  West  Point  sixteen 
years  before.  Says  Trollope,  the  most 
self-possessed  day-laborer  in  literature, 
"The  doctor's  vials  and  the  ink-bottle 
held  equal  places  in  my  mother's  rooms. 
I  have  written  many  novels  under  many 
circumstances;  but  I  doubt  very  much 
whether  I  could  write  one  when  my 
whole  heart  was  by  the  bedside  of  a  dying 
son.  Her  power  of  dividing  herself  into 
two  parts,  and  keeping  her  intellect  by 
itself,  clear  from  the  troubles  of  the  world 
and  fit  for  the  duty  it  had  to  do,  I  never 
saw  equalled.  I  do  not  think  that  the 
writing  of  a  novel  is  the  most  difficult 
task  which  a  man  may  be  called  upon  to 
do;  but  it  is  a  task  that  may  be  supposed 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


841 


to  demand  a  spirit  fairly  at  ease.  The 
work  of  doing  it  with  a  troubled  spirit 
killed  Sir  Walter  Scott." 

If  Poe's  work  consisted  of  brilliant 
fragments,  disconnected  spurts  of  genius, 
the  relation  between  his  labors  and  his 
life  as  it  is  usually  conceived  would  be 
easy  to  trace.  His  biography  furnishes 
every  reason  why  his  work  should  be  ill 
thought  and  confused;  it  does  not  suffi- 
ciently credit  him  with  sturdy  devotion  to 
his  task.  That  must  be  his  merit  as  a  man, 
and  the  ten  volumes  establish  it.  His 
tales  may  be  "morbid,"  and  his  verses 
"  very  valueless."  They  required,  to  pro- 
duce them,  the  sanest  intelligence  con- 
tinuously applied. 

On  Poe's  uneventful  and  meagre  life 
there  has  been  built  up  an  apocryphal 
character,  the  centre  of  controversies  kept 
awhirl  by  as  strange  a  combination  of 
prejudices  and  non-literary  interests  as 
ever  vexed  an  author's  reputation.  Some 
of  the  controversies  he  made  himself  and 
bequeathed  to  posterity,  for  he  was  a 
child  of  Hagar.1  But  the  rest  have  been 
imposed  on  him  by  a  world  that  loves  art 
for  talk's  sake.  Since  he  was  a  Virginian 
by  adoption  and  in  feeling,  he  has  been 
tossed  about  in  a  belated  sectionalism. 
Southerners  have  scented  a  conspiracy  in 
New  England  to  deprive  him  of  his  dues, 
even  to  keep  him  out  of  the  Hall  of  Fame 
because  he  was  not  a  northerner.  Eng- 
lishmen and  Frenchmen,  far  from  the 
documents,  have  redeemed  his  reputa- 
tion from  the  neglect  and  miscompre- 
hension of  the  savage  nation  where  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  born.  Only 
last  year  Mrs.  Weiss's  "  Home  Life  of 
Poe  "  threatened  to  become  an  interna- 
tional issue.  It  was  to  certain  British 
admirers  of  Poe  the  banal  and  slander- 
ous voice  of  America  against  the  greatest 

1  As  late  as  1895,  fifty  years  after  the  event, 
Thomas  Dunn  English,  writing  from  the  un- 
controversial  atmosphere  of  the  House  of 
Representatives  to  Griswold's  son,  showed  that 
he  still  regarded  as  alive  a  quarrel  almost  as 
comic  as  Whistler's  quarrel  with  Ruskin, 
though  far  less  witty. 


of  American  writers.  As  has  been  said, 
the  very  newest  fashion  in  biography, 
the  pathological,  makes  Poe  a  star  case 
and  further  confuses  the  facts.  Echoes 
of  neuropathological  criticism  find  their 
way  to  American  Sunday  papers  which 
serve  Poe  up  as  a  neurotic,  with  melan- 
choly portraits  and  ravens  spreading 
tenebrous  wings  above  the  columns  of 
type. 

If  Poe's  spirit  has  not  forgotten  that  in 
its  earthly  progress  it  perpetrated  hoaxes, 
courted  Byronic  fame,  advertised  itself 
as  an  infant  prodigy,  made  up  advent- 
ures in  Greece  and  France  which  its 
earthly  tenement  did  not  experience,  took 
sardonic  delight  in  mystifying  the  pub- 
lic, it  must  see  a  kind  of  grim  justice  in 
the  game  the  world  is  playing  with  its 
reputation.  Nevertheless,  it  is  unfitting 
that  a  man  who  did  little  worth  remem- 
bering but  write  books,  who  lived  in 
bleak  alleys  and  dull  places,  should  be 
haled  up  and  down  the  main  streets  of 
gossip ;  that  a  poet  who  was,  as  one  of  his 
critics  says,  all  head  like  a  cherub,  should 
have  volumes  written  about  his  physical 
habits. 

The  reason  for  Poe's  posthumous  mis- 
fortune it  is  worth  while  to  examine,  for 
an  understanding  of  it  is  necessary  as 
an  introduction  to  any  of  the  lives  of 
Poe,  and  it  lies  at  the  very  heart  of  the 
institution  of  biography.  We  have  seen 
that  Poe  was  a  friendless  man.  Griswold 
so  affirmed  just  after  Poe  had  left,  amid 
shadowy  circumstances,  a  life  that  was 
none  too  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  moralist 
nor  clear  to  the  eye  of  the  world.  And 
Griswold  proved  his  assertion,  for  he  was 
by  his  own  declaration  not  Poe's  friend, 
and  yet  he  was  the  appointed  biographer 
and  editor  of  the  collected  works.  There 
is  no  other  relation  so  strange,  so  unfort- 
unate, in  literary  history  as  this, 

Griswold  was  an  editor  and  antholo- 
gist of  no  mean  ability.  Upon  one  of 
his  collections  of  poetry  —  now  an  inter- 
esting museum  of  antiquity  where  archae- 
ologists may  study  the  literature  of  an- 
cient America  —  Poe  made  acerbating, 


842 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


and  no  doubt  discriminating,  comments 
in  a  lecture.  The  report  of  the  lecture 
angered  Griswold.  Poe's  printed  com- 
mentary is  favorable,  and  we  do  not  know 
just  what  he  said  in  the  lecture.  He  apo- 
logized to  Griswold,  for  he  was  alert  to 
the  advantage  of  his  own  appearance  in 
later  clusters  of  literary  lights  which  Gris- 
wold might  assemble.  Once,  after  an  ab- 
sence from  his  office  in  Graham's  Mag- 
azine, he  returned  to  find  Griswold  at  his 
desk.  He  resigned  immediately,  so  the 
story  goes,  in  one  of  his  costly  outbursts 
of  pride.  Yet  he  thought  Griswold  was 
his  friend.  He  borrowed  money  from 
him,  and  when,  the  year  before  his  death, 
he  left  New  York  for  Richmond  he  wrote 
to  Griswold  appointing  him  literary  execu- 
tor. Griswold's  letter  in  which  he  accept- 
ed the  office  must  have  been  friendly,  for 
there  is  something  like  unwitting  testi- 
mony on  this  point.  When  Poe  read  the 
letter  in  Richmond,  a  young  girl,  Susan 
Archer  Weiss,  was  with  him  and  noted 
that  he  was  pleased. 

After  Poe's  death  Griswold  published 
a  severe  but  not  untrue  article  in  the 
Tribune,  the  famous  article  signed  "  Lud- 
wig."  Willis  and  Graham  came  to  Poe's 
defense  in  good  spirit.  Griswold,  rather 
piqued  than  chastened,  prefixed  to  the 
third  volume  of  Poe's  work  his  memoir, 
since  unnecessarily  suppressed.  And  long 
afterward  appeared  his  letter  to  Mrs. 
Whitman,  written  just  after  the  Tribune 
article.  In  that  letter  he  says,  "  I  was  not 
his  friend,  nor  was  he  mine."  Therein  lies 
Griswold's  perfidy,  and  not  in  the  memoir 
itself.  For  when,  coming  from  one  of  the 
later  lives  of  Poe,  one  turns  in  a  heat  of 
indignation  to  Griswold,  one  finds  nothing 
very  bad  and  little  that  is  untrue.  Griswold 
merely  emphasized  the  wrong  things,  and 
in  so  doing  he  became  a  monster  among 
biographers.  Through  him,  the  Muse  of 
Biography  violated  one  of  the  important 
laws  of  her  dominion.  This  law  pre- 
scribes that  the  best  of  a  man's  life  shall 
be  told  fully,  and  told  first. 

When  a  man  dies,  his  letters  and 
papers  are  put  into  the  hands  of  one 


who  loves  and  admires  him,  or  who  at 
least  has  no  reluctance  to  celebrate  him. 
The  work  of  the  first  biographer  is 
thrown  to  the  world,  where  it  under- 
goes scrutiny  and  correction.  The  mark 
of  commentators  in  time  turns  it  gray, 
but  the  original  ground  is  white.  The 
thousands  of  human  stories  together  make 
a  vast  whiteness.  In  the  midst  of  this 
background  a  black  official  portrait,  even 
though  the  blackness  be  lines  of  fact, 
becomes  a  libel.  The  Devil's  Advocate 
occupies  the  place  where  God's  Advocate 
is  expected  to  speak.  If  the  champion  tells 
a  dark  tale,  people  think  the  truth  must  be 
darker  still,  for  does  not  the  champion 
put  the  best  possible  face  on  his  hero  ? 
Proper  tone  is  impossible  to  restore.  In- 
justice is  done  irrevocably.  What  the 
friend  admits  the  world  doubly  affirms. 

The  life-story  that  grows  brighter  with 
time  is  very  rare.  Joan  of  Arc  is  meta- 
morphosed from  a  witch  to  a  saint. 
Machiavelli  is  proved  after  centuries  to 
have  been  not  very  "  machiavellian." 
Bacon,  another  upholder  of  legal  auto- 
cracy, is  seen  at  last  to  have  been  a  just 
and  generous  man,  and  not  the  figure 
which  rising  Puritanism  made  of  him  at 
the  moment  of  his  death  and  its  triumph. 
But  these  are  restorations  of  characters 
that  flourished  before  the  age  when  offi- 
cial biographies  are  looked  for  within  a 
year  or  two  of  a  man's  death.  Of  the 
recently  dead  we  are  not  yet  scientific 
enough  to  tell  the  whole  truth.  The  rights 
of  friendship  are  recognized,  and  its  duties 
taken  for  granted.  If  its  support  is  with- 
drawn the  structure  is  awry.  One  has  only 
to  remember  Henley's  protest  against 
Balfour's  Stevenson,  Purcell's  life  of 
Cardinal  Manning,  and  Froude's  Car- 
lyle,  to  be  reminded  how  strong  is  the  ob- 
ligation upon  the  friend,  or  the  one  hold- 
ing the  friend's  office,  not  to  emphasize 
the  hero's  blemishes. 

Yet  Henley  said  nothing  against  Ste- 
venson except  that  Balfour's  portrait 
was  too  sugary  to  be  a  true  image  of  a 
man.  Purcell  only  showed  that  Manning 
played  politics,  disliked  Newman,  and 


The  Fame  of  Poe 


843 


was  anxious  about  what  posterity  should 
think  of  him.  Froude,  so  far  as  we  can 
discover,  now  that  we  no  longer  make 
Carlyle  an  object  of  that  kind  of  hero- 
worship  which  he  thought  was  good  for 
us,  said  nothing  damaging  at  all.  He 
only  protested  too  much  in  his  prefaces 
that  he  was  doing  the  right  thing  to 
draw  Carlyle  as  he  was.  Yet,  as  late  as 
1900,  I  heard  an  editor  of  Carlyle  say 
that  Froude  had  blackened  the  Maister. 

Such  men  as  Carlyle  and  Stevenson 
and  Manning  settle  back  amid  any  bio- 
graphic disturbance.  They  knock  ma- 
licious or  incompetent  biographers  off 
their  feet,  and  burst  the  covers  of  little 
books.  It  is  the  poor  fellow  with  an  un- 
heroic  soul  that  the  biographer  can  con- 
fine and  distort.  It  is  the  man  of  a  mid- 
dling compound  of  virtue  and  sin  who 
can  be  sent  down  for  a  half  century  of 
misrepresentation  by  the  hand  of  a 
treacherous  friend.  Biography,  especi- 
ally when  it  deals  with  the  artist  who  has 
no  part  in  the  quarrels  of  creeds  and 
politics,  is  wont  to  bear  its  hero  along 
"  with  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead 
flowerets."  Griswold  startles  the  peace- 
ful traffic  by  turning  and  running  against 
the  current  of  convention. 

Later  biographers  have  not  served 
Poe  by  falling  foul  of  Griswold.  For 
he  had  the  facts  and  is  an  able  pro- 
secuting attorney.  And  much  harm  has 
been  done,  too,  by  emotional  souls  who, 
as  Mark  Twain  says  of  Dowden's  Shel- 
ley, "  hang  a  fact  in  the  sky  and  squirt 
rainbows  at  it."  The  error  of  Griswold, 
and  of  Poe's  defenders,  is  an  error  of 
spirit,  the  delusion  that  Griswold's 


"charges  "  are  momentous.  After  Gris- 
wold the  story  of  Poe  becomes  a  weaving 
and  tangling  of  very  small  threads  of 
fact.  Every  succeeding  biographer  has  to 
take  his  cue  from  a  powerful  man  who 
cannot  be  disregarded;  and  each  bio- 
grapher, in  order  as  a  faithful  chronicler 
to  do  his  part  to  straighten  the  story  out, 
must  put  rubbish  in  his  book.  Even 
Mr.  Woodberry,  whose  Life  is  incom- 
parably the  best,  shows  the  constraint  im- 
posed on  him  by  wearisome  problems, 
and  loses  his  accustomed  vitality  and  his 
essential  literary  enthusiasm.1 

It  is  too  much  to  hope  that  the  nebular 
Poe  will  be  dispelled  and  the  Poe  of  con- 
troversy be  laid.  Perhaps  one  should  not 
hope  for  this,  because  it  may  be  that, 
even  as  the  Shakespeare  myth  is  a  neces- 
sary concomitant  of  the  poet's  greatness, 
the  mythic  Poe  is  a  measure  of  his  fame, 
and  to  attempt  to  destroy  it  may  have  the 
undesirable  effect  of  seeming  to  belittle 
Poe.  Nevertheless  Poe's  centennial  year, 
falling  in  an  age  of  grown-up  judgments, 
affords  a  good  occasion  for  the  world  to 
cease  confounding  his  magnificent  fame 
with  petty  inquisitions  and  rhetorical  de- 
fenses. If  sudden  cessation  is  impossi- 
ble, we  can  at  least  hope  that  more  and 
more  the  trivialities  of  his  life  may  recede, 
and  the  supreme  triumph  of  his  art  stand 
forth  unvexed  and  serene. 

1  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  see  the  revised 
edition  of  Mr.  Woodberry 's  Life  of  Poe  before 
sending  this  paper  to  press.  No  one  -who  has 
not  labored  through  the  Poe  bibliography  can 
appreciate  how  fine  and  sound  is  Mr.  Wood- 
berry's  work  of  twenty-five  years  ago.  No 
doubt  the  revision  has  resulted  in  an  ulti- 
mately satisfactory  life  of  Poe. 


RHYME   OF  THE  VOYAGER 

BY   EVELYN   PHINNEY 

Lady.  SHIPS  that  crowd  in  the  offing,  what  do  ye  bring  to  ine? 

Voices  of  ships.    We  bring  the  soul  of  a  sailor  in  from  sea. 

Lady.  Tell  me  what  of  the  voyage?  journeyed  he  near  or  far? 

Voices  of  ships.    Farther  he  sailed  than  lands  or  oceans  are  I 

Where  our  adventure  ended,  onward  he  clove  his  track; 
On  till  the  round  road  led  the  wanderer  back. 

Still  in  his  dreams  he  murmurs  of  countries  vast  and  free. 
Lady.  Ships,  O  what  can  that  sailor  be  to  me? 

Voices  of  ships.    Still  in  his  dreams  he  wanders,  as  they  who  endless  roam ; 
Calling,  as  call  the  dying,  on  his  home. 

Lady.  Mariners  none  I  own  to,  nor  hold  the  sea  for  kin. 

Voices  of  ships.     Yet  would  that  fevered  stranger  bide  within. 

Lady.  My  task  to  set  my  household  and  make  my  hearth  to  shine. 

Voice  of  ships.      Lady,  prepare  thy  lintage  and  thy  wine. 

And  see  thou  scant  not  welcome,  nor  regulate  thy  dole. 
Lady,  that  wayworn  traveler  —  yt  is  thy  soul ! 

See  him  disowned  and  outcast,  and  driven  from  thy  door: 
Yet  he  returns  I  —  wilt  thou  refuse  him  more  ? 


A  BEGGAR'S   CHRISTMAS 


A   FABLE 


BY    EDITH   WYATT 


ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  beggar- 
maid  named  Anitra,  who  lived  in  a  cellar 
in  the  largest  city  of  a  wealthy  and  fabu- 
lous nation. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  country  was 
passing  through  an  era  of  great  commer- 
cial prosperity,  it  contained  such  large 
numbers  of  beggars,  and  the  competition 
among  them  was  so  keen,  that  on  Christ- 
mas Eve  at  midnight,  Anitra  found  her- 
self without  a  single  cent. 

She  turned  away  from  the  street-cor- 
ner, where  she  had  been  standing  with  her 
little  stack  of  fortune-cards,  and  hurried 
through  the  alleys  to  the  shelter  of  her 
cellar.  These  fortune-cards  of  hers  were 
printed  in  all  languages;  and,  had  the 
public  but  known,  it  could  not  go  wrong 
among  them,  for  every  single  card  pro- 
mised good-luck  to  the  chooser.  But,  in 
spite  of  all  this  tact  on  Anitra' s  part,  and 
her  complete  dependence  upon  universal 
chivalry,  qualities  which  are  woman's 
surest  methods  of  success  in  the  real  world, 
in  the  wealthy  and  fabulous  kingdom  she 
now  found  herself  not  only  hungry,  rag- 
ged, and  penniless,  but  also  without  a  roof 
over  her  head.  For  when  she  reached  her 
cellar-door  it  was  nailed  shut :  and,  as  she 
had  not  paid  her  rent  for  a  long  time,  she 
knew  she  could  not  persuade  her  fabulous 
landlord  to  open  it  for  her. 

She  walked  away,  holding  her  little 
torn  shawl  fast  around  her,  and  shaking 
her  loose  black  hair  around  her  cheeks  to 
try  to  keep  them  warm.  But  the  cold  and 
the  damp  struck  to  her  very  bones.  Her 
little  feet  in  their  ragged  shoes  and  stock- 
ings were  as  numb  as  clubs;  and  she 
limped  along,  scarcely  able  to  direct 
them,  to  know  where  she  was  going,  or 
to  know  anything  in  fact,  except  that 


she  would  freeze  to  death  if  she  stood 
still. 

Soon  she  reached  a  large  dark  build- 
ing with  a  broad  flight  of  steps  and  a 
pillared  entrance.  Nobody  seemed  to  be 
guarding  it,  and  she  managed  to  creep 
up  the  steps  and  in  between  the  pillars 
out  of  the  snow. 

Behind  the  pillars  rose  enormous  closed 
doors.  Under  the  doors  shone  a  chink  of 
light.  Anitra  stooped  down  and  put  her 
hand  against  the  crack.  There  was  a  little 
warmth  in  the  air  sifting  through.  She 
laid  her  whole  body  close  against  the 
opening.  That  pushed  the  doors  inward 
slightly,  and  she  slipped  inside  the  en- 
trance. 

She  was  in  a  tremendous  gilded,  carven, 
and  pillared  hall  of  great  tiers  of  empty 
seats  and  far  dark  galleries,  all  dimly 
lighted  and  all  garlanded  with  wreaths 
of  mistletoe  and  holly.  For  a  long  time 
she  sat  on  the  floor  with  her  head  thrown 
back  against  the  door,  staring  quietly 
about  her,  without  moving  a  hair  for 
fear  of  being  driven  away.  But  no  one 
came.  The  whole  place  was  silent. 

After  about  an  hour,  she  rose  softly, 
and  stepped  without  a  sound  along  the 
dark  velvet  carpet  of  the  centre  aisle  and 
up  a  flight  of  steps  at  the  end,  to  a  great 
gold  throne  with  cushions  of  purple  vel- 
vet and  ermine.  She  rested  her  wrists  on 
the  gold  ledge  of  the  seat,  and  with  a  little 
vault  she  jumped  up  on  the  cushions. 
They  were  warm  and  soft.  She  curled  up 
among  them,  and  pulled  her  little  shawl 
over  her,  meaning  to  jump  down  the  in- 
stant she  heard  the  least  noise.  And 
while  she  was  listening  she  fell  fast  asleep. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  cool  gray 
light  of  the  December  daybreak  falling 

845 


846 


A  Beggar's  Christmas 


through  the  long  windows,  over  all  the 
gold-carven  pillars  and  high  beams  and 
arches,  all  the  empty  seats  and  dark  vel- 
vet cushions  and  high  garlands  of  holly. 

She  held  her  breath.  Three  men,  who 
had  plainly  not  seen  her,  had  entered  at 
a  side-door.  She  recognized  them  all 
from  their  pictures  in  the  papers.  They 
were  the  aged  Minister,  the  middle-aged 
Chancellor,  and  the  young  King  of  the 
kingdom.  The  King  carried  a  roll  of 
parchment  in  his  hand  and  seemed  very 
nervous,  and  the  Chancellor  was  speak- 
ing to  him  about "  throwing  the  voice,"  as 
they  all  came  up  the  centre  aisle,  and  then 
straight  up  the  steps,  toward  the  throne. 

Dumb  with  fright,  Anitra  raised  her 
head  from  the  cushions.  The  three  men 
suddenly  saw  her.  The  young  King 
started  and  dropped  the  parchment,  the 
Chancellor  stumbled  and  nearly  fell,  and 
the  aged  Minister  darted  toward  her. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  cried 
angrily. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Anitra,  sitting  up, 
with  her  shawl  held  tightly  around  her, 
and  her  little  ragged  shoes  dangling  from 
the  throne. 

F."  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  the  Chancellor 
suspiciously,  staring  at  her.  He  was  very 
short-sighted. 

"  Nobody,"  said  Anitra. 

"  She  is  just  a  stray  who  has  got  in  here 
somehow,"  said  the  Minister  rather  kind- 
ly. "  Run  away,  my  child,"  he  added, 
giving  her  a  coin.  "  Can't  you  see  the 
King  wants  to  practice  his  speech  here, 
now?" 

But  the  Chancellor  seemed  to  be  con- 
sidering. "  Do  you  know,"  he  said  softly 
to  the  Minister,  as  the  King,  who  had 
picked  up  the  parchment,  stood  absorbed, 
whispering  his  speech  over  to  himself, 
"  an  idea  has  struck  me.  I  don't  know 
but  that  we  might  let  her  stay  there  till 
the  reporters  come  to  photograph  the  new 
hall.  It  would  look  rather  well,  you  know, 
if  something  like  this  should  get  into  the 
papers,  *  Mighty  Monarch  Finding  Stray 
Asleep  on  Throne,  on  Christmas  Morn, 
Refuses  to  Break  Slumbers.' " 


The  old  Minister  looked  a  little  doubt- 
ful. "  You  can't  tell  what  she  might  say 
afterwards,"  he  said. 

"  We  can  easily  arrange  that,"  replied 
the  Chancellor;  and  he  turned  towards 
Anitra  and  said  sternly,  "If  we  let  you 
stay  here  will  you  promise  not  to  say  one 
word  to  anyone  about  the  matter  or  about 
anything  you  see  or  hear  in  this  hall,  with- 
out our  permission  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Anitra  readily. 

"  Consider  what  you  are  saying,  my 
child,"  said  the  Minister  mildly.  "  Do 
you  know  this  means  that  if  you  say  one 
word  the  administration  dislikes  you  will 
be  hung  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Anitra  in  misery. 
"  How  could  I  know  that  ?  " 

"You  should  not  have  promised  so 
rashly,"  said  the  Chancellor.  "  But  now 
that  it  is  done,  we  will  trust  that  every- 
thing will  fall  out  so  that  it  will  not  be 
necessary  to  hang  you." 
p|"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  said 
Anitra. 

"  Simply  remain  here  now,  just  as  you 
were  when  we  came  in,  except  with  your 
eyes  shut,"  said  the  Chancellor, "  and  then 
when  we  tell  you  to  do  so,  go  down  and 
sit  on  the  throne-steps  until  the  audience- 
hall  is  filled  with  all  the  populace  who 
are  coming  to  see  the  new  audience-cham- 
ber, and  to  listen  to  the  judgments  of  the 
King,  on  Christmas  Day.  If  anybody 
asks  you  how  you  came  to  be  here,  you 
might  mention  the  fact  that  you  had 
strayed  in  from  the  cold,  and  tell  about 
the  royal  clemency  shown  in  permitting 
you  to  remain.  Then,  at  the  end  of  the 
day,  if  you  have  done  as  you  should,  you 
can  go  out  with  the  rqpt  of  the  people." 

"  Go  to  sleep  again,  now,"  said  the 
aged  Minister,  "  just  as  you  were  when 
we  came  in." 

Anitra  put  her  head  down  on  the 
cushion  again,  but  she  could  not  sleep, 
for  the  King  began  to  read  his  proclama- 
tion at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  so  that  it  could 
be  heard  in  the  furthest  galleries,  where 
the  Chancellor  stood  and  kept  calling, 
"  Louder!  Louder!  "  The  speech  was 


A  Beggar's  Christmas 


847 


all  about  the  wealth  and  prosperity  and 
happiness  and  good  fortune  of  the  king- 
dom, and  how  no  one  needed  to  be  hun- 
gry or  cold  or  poor  in  any  way,  because 
there  was  such  plenty. 

When  the  King  had  finished,  he  said 
rather  crossly  to  the  Chancellor,  "  Well, 
are  you  suited  ?  " 

The  Chancellor  expressed  his  content, 
and  they  talked  over  the  prisoners  who 
were  to  be  judged,  which  ones  were  to  be 
hanged,  and  which  ones  were  to  be  par- 
doned, till  the  Chancellor  had  to  hurry 
away  to  attend  to  some  other  matters. 
The  King  left  moodily  soon  afterwards. 
The  Chancellor's  opinions  and  methods 
were  often  obnoxious  to  him ;  but  he  dis- 
liked greatly  to  wound  or  oppose  him  in 
any  way.  He  had  been  an  old  and  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  King's  father,  and  be- 
sides he  was  very  powerful  in  the  country. 

All  this  time  Anitra  had  kept  her  eyes 
closed;  and  she  now  lay  still,  while 
strange  footsteps  sounded  on  the  marble 
floors  and  she  heard  the  reporters  com- 
ing to  photograph  the  new  audience- 
hall,  heard  them  asking  the  aged  Minister 
why  she  was  there,  and  heard  him  telling 
them  about  the  early  visit  of  the  King  to 
inspect  the  new  audience-chamber,  and 
his  wish  that  the  slumber  of  the  beggar- 
girl  should  not  be  disturbed  till  the  ar- 
rival of  the  audience  made  it  absolutely 
necessary.  Then  she  heard  them  tip- 
toeing away  to  a  little  distance,  heard 
their  fountain-pens  scratching  and  their 
cameras  clicking  through  the  empty  gal- 
leries, and  at  last  she  heard  them  going 
away. 

"  Now  you  can  jump  down,  and  run 
around  for  a  little  while,"  said  the  Minis- 
ter, waiting  a  minute  before  following 
them.  "Some  of  the  Democratic  papers 
will  have  extras  out,  by  three  o'clock  this 
afternoon,  with  photographs  of  you 
asleep  on  the  throne,  and  there  will  be 
editorials  in  the  Republican  papers  about 
the  King's  tact  and  grace  in  the  matter." 

Although  Anitra  wished  to  answer  that 
she  was  too  faint  from  hunger  to  jump 
down  and  run  around,  she  made  no  reply 


for  fear  of  being  hung.  But  she  slipped 
down  from  the  throne,  and  sat  on  the 
throne-step,  on  the  tread  nearest  the  floor, 
in  the  hope  of  not  being  seen  and  ques- 
tioned by  the  entering  audience,  for  some 
time  at  least. 

For  it  was  ten  o'clock  now.  The  great 
doors  had  swung  wide  open  and  a  tre- 
mendous crowd. of  people  surged  into  the 
hall, — men,  women,  and  children,  laugh- 
ing, talking,  exclaiming  over  the  beauty 
of  the  new  audience-chamber,  and  won- 
dering what  would  happen  to  the  three 
murderers  the  King  would  judge  that  day. 
It  was  a  prosperous,  well-dressed  city 
crowd,  and  it  poured  in  till  it  had  filled 
the  hall,  the  galleries,  the  aisles,  and  the 
stah-cases,  and  till  the  latest  comers  had 
even  climbed  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
others,  to  the  window-sills  and  the  ledges 
of  the  wainscoting.  With  the  rest  came 
two  old,  wrinkled,  clumsy  shepherds 
from  the  country,  with  staffs  in  then* 
hands  and  sheepskins  on  then*  backs, 
and  sharp,  aged  eyes  looking  out  from 
under  their  shaggy  eyebrows,  as  though 
they  could  watch  well  for  wolves.  Al- 
though they  came  among  the  last,  they 
somehow  made  their  way  up  to  the  very 
front  of  the  hall.  Except  for  these  old 
shepherds  and  Anitra,  all  the  people  wore 
then*  very  best  clothes.  The  sun  sparkled 
over  everything.  Outside,  the  Christmas 
bells  rang,  and  Anitra  looked  at  it  all, 
and  listened  to  it  all,  and  hoped  she  would 
not  faint  with  hunger,  and  wondered 
whether  she  could  go  through  the  day 
without  saying  something  the  Chancellor 
would  dislike  and  being  hung  for  it. 

The  people  in  the  first  row  stared  hard 
at  her,  and  one  usher  wished  to  put  her 
out  because  she  was  sitting  inside  the 
red  velvet  cordon  intended  to  separate 
the  royal  platform  from  the  populace. 
But  another  usher  came  hurrying  up  to 
say  that  he  had  received  official  orders 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  to  be  permitted 
to  remain  just  where  she  was. 

Before  any  one  in  the  first  row  had 
time  to  ask  her  how  she  came  to  be  there 
inside  the  red  velvet  cordon,  the  heralds 


848 


A  Beggar's  Christmas 


blew  on  the  trumpets,  and  everybody 
turned  to  see  the  entrance  of  the  prison- 
ers. 

They  were  a  man,  a  woman,  and  a 
boy.  The  woman  was  a  cotton-spinner, 
Elizabeth,  a  poor  neighbor  of  Anitra's, 
who  had  left  a  fatherless  child  of  hers 
upon  a  doorstep  where  it  died.  The  boy 
was  a  Moorish  merchant's  son,  Joseph, 
who  had  stabbed  another  boy  in  a  street- 
brawl.  The  man  was  a  noble,  Bernard- 
ino, who  had  killed  his  adversary  in  a 
duel.  The  turnkeys  marched  on  either 
side  of  the  prisoners  and  marshaled 
them  into  then*  seats  on  the  platform. 

No  one  in  the  court  knew  about  Eliza- 
beth or  the  Moorish  boy  Joseph,  or 
paid  any  attention  to  them,  except  that 
Joseph's  father  stood  with  haggard  eyes 
close  to  the  cordon,  and  he  looked  at  his 
son  and  his  son  looked  back  at  him  with 
a  deep  glance  of  devotion  when  the  pris- 
oners marched  by  to  judgment.  Six  or 
seven  rows  back  in  the  audience  sat 
Elizabeth's  little  sister,  and  when  the 
prisoners  were  standing  at  the  bar,  she 
leaned  far  forward  and  threw  a  little 
sprig  of  holly  down  at  Elizabeth's  feet, 
and  Elizabeth  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

But  there  was  a  great  buzz  in  the 
crowd  when  Bernardino,  the  nobleman, 
marched  by.  He  was  well  known  at 
court.  His  best  friends  sat  together,  and 
they  cheered,  and  there  was  constant  ap- 
plause as  he  passed,  and  he  bowed 
grandly  to  everybody. 

Then  there  was  another  flourish  of 
trumpets,  and  the  pages  and  ladies-and- 
lords-in- waiting  and  knights  and  cham- 
berlains came  in,  and  the  Minister  and 
the  Chancellor,  and  last  of  all  the  young 
King.  The  whole  room  rang  with  ap- 
plause and  cheers.  All  the  heralds  blew 
on  the  bugles.  The  bells  rang  and  the 
young  King  took  his  seat  on  the  throne 
between  the  Minister  and  the  Chancellor, 
and  waited  till  the  audience-chamber 
was  still. 

The  herald  came  forward  and  cried, 
"Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!  Bernardino,  Duke 
of  Urba,  Lord  of  Rustica,  come  into 


the  Court!"  Bernardino,  with  his  fur 
cape  swinging  from  his  broad  shoulders 
and  his  plume  tossing,  stepped  forward 
from  the  bar,  and  his  trial  began.  The 
King  heard  evidence  upon  one  side  and 
heard  evidence  upon  the  other  for  a  long, 
long  time :  and  at  last  he  pardoned  Ber- 
nardino. The  bells  rang,  and  the  trumpets 
sounded  again,  and  Bernardino's  friends 
went  nearly  wild  with  joy.  And  Bernard- 
ino kissed  the  King's  hand  and  walked 
down  the  throne-steps  a  free  man. 

Only,  the  two  aged  clumsy  shepherds 
turned  and  looked  at  eachother,  as  if 
they  felt  some  contempt  for  what  was 
happening.  And  while  Anitra  watched 
them,  as  she  thought  how  hungry  she 
was,  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were 
far  younger  than  she  had  noticed  at  first. 
They  apneared  to  be  about  fifty  years 
old. 

Bernardino's  trial  had  occupied  a 
great  length  of  time ;  and  just  after  it  was 
over,  and  the  applause  and  tumult  after 
the  decision  had  died  down,  and  the 
herald  had  called,  "Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez! 
Joseph,  son  of  the  merchant  Joseph,  come 
into  the  Court!  "  then  Anitra  noticed 
that  every  one  was  looking  at  her,  and 
whispering.  She  saw  papers  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  knew  that  the  extras 
the  King  had  spoken  of  must  have  come 
out. 

Everybody  was  so  entertained  and  pre- 
occupied with  comparing  the  newspaper 
pictures  of  Anitra  with  Anitra  herself, 
and  with  reading,  "  Mighty  Monarch 
Finding  Stray  on  Throne  on  Christmas 
Morn  Refuses  to  Break  Slumbers,"  that 
Joseph's  trial  seemed  to  slip  by  almost 
without  public  notice. 

Only,  Joseph's  father  hung  on  every 
word.  The  King  heard  evidence  upon 
one  side  and  heard  evidence  upon  the 
other  for  a  long,  long  time,  and  every 
few  minutes,  on  account  of  the  buzz  about 
Anitra's  being  permitted  to  sleep  on  the 
throne,  the  herald  would  be  obliged  to 
ask  for  silence  in  the  audience-chamber. 
For  no  one  knew  Joseph,  and  no  one 
cared  about  his  fate  except  in  so  far  as 


A  Beggar's  Christmas 


849 


there  was  a  general  feeling  that  a  murder 
committed  by  a  Moor  was  more  danger- 
ous than  a  murder  committed  by  any- 
body else.  So  that  toward  the  end,  when 
the  evidence  seemed  to  show  more  and 
more  that  Joseph  had  fought  only  to  de- 
fend himself,  the  court  was  more  silent, 
and  there  was  a  certain  tenseness  in  the 
air.  The  King  turned  white.  He  con- 
demned Joseph  to  death ;  but  he  did  not 
look  at  him,  he  looked  away.  Joseph 
stood  proudly  before  him,  without  mov- 
ing an  eyelash,  without  moving  a  muscle. 
Joseph's  father  looked  as  proud  as  his 
son.  But  his  face  had  changed  to  the  face 
of  an  old  man,  and  in  his  eyes  burned  the 
painful  glance  of  a  soul  enduring  an  in- 
justice. 

Every  one  else  seemed  to  be  satisfied, 
however.  Only,  the  two  aged,  clumsy 
shepherds  turned  and  lookeji  at  each 
other  as  though  they  felt  a  cei  ain  con- 
tempt for  what  was  happening.  And 
while  Anitra  watched,  as  she  thought  how 
hungry  she  was,  it  seemed  to  her  that  they 
were  not  aged  at  all.  They  appeared  to 
be  about  forty  years  old. 

Then  the  herald  called,  "  Oyez!  Oyez! 
Oyez !  Elizabeth,  spinner  of  cotton,  come 
into  the  Court!  "  And  everything  turned 
so  black  before  Anitra  that  she  could 
hardly  see  Elizabeth  come  out  and  stand 
before  the  King.  For  she  loved  Elizabeth 
and  Elizabeth's  sister,  and  she  knew  that 
Elizabeth  had  deserted  her  baby  when 
she  was  beside  herself  with  sickness  and 
disgrace  and  poverty,  and  she  knew  that 
the  father  who  had  deserted  her  and  de- 
serted the  baby  was  one  of  those  trump- 
eters of  the  King,  who  had  just  been 
blowing  the  blasts  of  triumph  for  him,  to 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  court. 

Then  the  King  heard  evidence  upon 
one  side,  and  heard  evidence  upon  the 
other.  But  almost  everything  was  against 
Elizabeth;  though  the  King  in  his  mercy 
changed  her  sentence  from  death  to  im- 
prisonment and  disgrace  for  her  whole 
life.  Every  one  applauded  his  clemency. 
But  the  little  sister  sobbed  and  cried  like 
a  crazy  thing,  though  Elizabeth  raised 
VOL.  102  -NO.  6 


her  chin  and  smiled  bravely  at  her,  to 
comfort  her. 

The  shepherds  turned  and  looked  at 
each  other  with  a  glance  of  contempt  for 
what  was  happening.  And  now  they 
were  not  aged  or  clumsy  at  all.  They 
were  strong,  straight  young  men,  more 
beautiful  than  anything  else  Anitra  had 
seen  hi  her  whole  life;  and  they  looked 
at  her  beautifully  as  though  they  were 
her  brothers. 

Then  the  heralds  all  came  out  and 
blew  upon  the  trumpets  to  announce  the 
King's  proclamation ;  and  the  King  read 
about  all  the  wealth  and  prosperity  and 
peace  and  good  fortune  and  happiness 
and  plenty  of  the  nation;  and  every 
minute  Anitra  grew  more  and  more  faint 
with  hunger. 

When  the  proclamation  was  done  the 
people  screamed  and  shouted.  The 
Christmas  bells  rang.  The  fifes  and 
bugles  sounded.  Everybody  cheered  the 
King,  and  the  King  rose  and  responded. 
Then  everybody  cheered  the  Chancellor, 
and  he  bowed  and  responded.  Then 
everybody  cheered  the  aged  Minister, 
and  he  bowed  and  responded.  Then 
there  were  cries  of  "  Long  Live  Ber- 
nardino! "  and  the  bugles  were  sounded 
for  him;  and  he  bowed  and  responded. 
And  then  some  one  called  "Long  Live 
Anitra  the  Beggar-girl !  "  And  there  was 
an  uproar  of  cheers  and  bugles  and  ap- 
plause and  excitement. 

Anitra  rose  and  stood  upon  the  throne- 
steps.  But  she  looked  only  at  the  shep- 
herds, who  were  more  beautiful  than  any- 
thing else  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  whole 
life,  and  who  looked  at  her  beautifully 
as  though  they  were  her  brothers.  She 
thought,  "I  must  have  died  some  day  at- 
any  rate.  So  I  will  die  to-day  and  speak 
the  truth." 

When  the  audience-chamber  was  still 
she  said,  "  I  am  Anitra  the  Beggar-girl. 
But  I  do  not  praise  the  King  for  his 
kindness,  for  though  he  let  me  stay  on 
his  throne  he  is  letting  me  die  of  hunger. 
And  I  do  not  praise  the  King  for  his  just- 
ice, for  in  his  court  the  man  who  deserts 


850 


The  Contributors*  Club 


his  child  and  his  child's  mother  walks 
free,  and  the  woman  who  deserts  her 
child  must  die  in  prison.  And  in  his 
court  the  King  pardons  one  man  and 
condemns  another  for  exactly  the  same 
fault." 

Then  the  two  shepherds  walked  up  the 
steps  of  the  throne.  Everything  was 
still.  Not  a  bell  rang.  Not  a  trumpet 
blew.  But  as  the  shepherds  walked,  the 
audience-chamber  seemed  to  vanish 
away;  and  all  around,  beyond  the  pil- 
lared arches,  and  beyond  the  prosperous 
people,  stood  all  the  poor  people,  all  the 
hungry  people,  all  the  unjustly-paid  and 
overworked  and  sick  and  struggling 
people  in  the  nation.  And  in  the  judges 
and  the  judged,  and  the  prosperous  peo- 
ple and  the  poor  people,  there  rose  like 
the  first  quiver  of  dawn  a  sense  simply  of 
what  was  really  true  for  each  one  and  for 
every  one. 

The  younger  shepherd  said,  "In  this 
Court  to-day  stand  those  who  are  more 
strong  than  all  the  triumphs  of  the  world. 
We  are  the  Truth  and  Death." 

And  as  he  spoke,  all  thought  of  judg- 
ment and  of  condemnation  and  pardon 


and  patronage  vanished  away;  and  in 
everybody's  soul  the  thought  simply  of 
what  was  really  true  for  each  one  and  for 
every  one  opened  like  the  clear  flower  of 
daybreak. 

Not  a  bell  rang.  Not  a  trumpet  blew. 
"We  are  the  Truth  and  Death,"  re- 
peated the  older  shepherd. 

And  the  thought  simply  of  what  was 
really  true  for  each  one  and  for  every  one, 
and  the  thought  that  all  were  common 
fellow  mortals  thrilled  through  every- 
body's soul  more  keenly  and  more  fully 
than  the  light  of  morning  and  the  tones 
of  all  the  trumpets  of  the  world. 

After  that,  the  shepherds  did  not  again 
turn  and  glance  at  each  other  as  though 
they  felt  a  contempt  for  what  was  hap- 
pening. For  from  that  time  on,  every- 
thing was  done  in  the  Court  only  with  the 
thought  of  what  was  really  true  for  each 
one  and  for  every  one,  and  the  thought 
that  all  were  fellow  mortals;  and  before 
the  next  Christmas,  there  were  no  beggars 
at  all  in  the  fabulous  nation.  And  the 
Truth  and  Death,  there,  always  looked  at 
everybody  beautifully,  as  though  they 
were  their  brothers. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


SCROOGE  S   GHOST 

No,  I  don't  mean  Marley's  ghost.  I 
know  what  I  'm  talking  about.  It 's 
Scrooge's  ghost  I  mean.  And  of  all  the 
spirits  that  go  wandering  up  and  down 
this  earth,  on  the  nights  approaching 
Christmas,  I  don't  believe  there  is  one 
that  will  feel  more  genuine  and  well- 
earned  pleasure,  in  the  place  where  he 
used  to  keep  his  heart,  than  the  ghost  of 
old  Scrooge  of  the  firm  of  Scrooge  & 
Marley. 

For  what  does  he  see,  every  year 
as  the  holiday  season  comes  round,  but 
hundreds  of  people  who,  for  the  eleven 


months  previous,  have  been  harrowing 
their  souls  with  desperate  struggles  after 
righteousness,  in  company  with  the  mar- 
ried heroes  and  heroines  of  modern  fic- 
tion, now  taking  down  from  their  shelves 
their  well-worn  copies  of  Dickens's 
Christmas  Stones,  and  settling  themselves 
for  a  solid  evening's  enjoyment  —  before 
a  wood-fire,  we  will  hope  —  re-reading 
for  the  fourth  or  fifth  or  twentieth  time 
the  inimitable  Christmas  Carol? 

And  what  happens  to  every  blessed  one 
of  them  ? 

They  go  through  the  same  tension  of 
feeling,  as  Scrooge,  with  the  Ghost  of 
Christmas  Yet  to  Come,  sees  the  terrible 


The  Contributors'  Club 


851 


results  that  must  follow  from  his  narrow, 
selfish,  sordid  life,  as  they  did  at  the  first 
reading,  before  they  knew  it  would  turn 
out  all  right;  and  they  experience  the 
same  relief  and  joy  that  he  did,  to  realize 
that  it  is  n't  too  late,  that  there  is  still  a 
chance  —  a  glorious  chance  to  add  to 
the  happiness  of  every  person  with  whom 
they  come  in  contact. 

And  what  happens  next  ? 

Maybe  they  were  good  fellows  to  start 
with.  They  undoubtedly  were ;  but  there 
is  a  possibility  that  down  in  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts  they  know  that  they  might 
still  be  improved  a  trifle;  perhaps  they 
are  a  little  more  self-centred,  a  little  less 
open  and  frank,  not  so  thoroughly  mel- 
low and  gracious,  as  in  youth  they  had 
thought  to  find  themselves  in  middle 
life. 

But  bless  Scrooge's  ghost,  who  stands 
smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands  at  their 
well-tailored  elbows.  Does  n't  he  see 
what  his  own  vicarious  sufferings  have 
done  for  them,  and  does  n't  he  glow  with 
pleasure,  or  whatever  answers  for  a  glow 
to  a  ghost,  when  he  notices  that  they  are, 
every  man  of  them,  a  little  more  genial 
the  next  day  with  the  office-boy  and  the 
janitor  and  the  street-car  conductor,  and, 
most  notable  of  all,  —  with  the  uninter- 
esting elderly  maiden  cousin,  who  has 
come  on  the  annual  visit  that  tries  the 
patience  and  hospitality  of  every  member 
of  the  household  ? 

And  the  good  work  does  n't  stop  there. 

Scrooge's  ghost  can  see  it  all :  how  the 
ripples  of  kindly  feeling  keep  on  widening, 
and  how  his  own  influence  is  at  the  centre 
of  the  circle! 

He  knows  what  makes  the  office-boy 
turn  a  somersault,  after  "the  boss"  has 
gone  into  his  sanctum,  the  next  morning; 
and  how  the  office-boy's  mother  takes 
more  pride  in  him  than  ever  that  noon,  as 
she  notes  a  certain  new  air  of  confidence 
and  ambition  in  the  lad.  Scrooge's  ghost 
knows,  too,  why  the  janitor  holds  up  his 
not  too  manly  head  with  a  little  more  dig- 
nity than  usual;  and  why  the  street-car 
conductor  helps  off  the  fidgety  spinster 


with  real  gallantry,  after  the  courtly  gen- 
tleman, who  always  does  such  things  in  a 
natural  way,  has  bidden  him  "Good- 
morning,"  with  a  true  ring  of  comrade- 
ship in  his  voice;  and  why  the  maiden 
cousin,  realizing  suddenly  that  she  is  a 
gracious  lady  and  not  a  disappointed, 
cross-grained  old  woman,  blooms  with 
something  of  the  radiance  of  unquench- 
able youth  in  her  face. 

Who  —  but  Scrooge's  ghost,  indeed  — 
can  tell  how  far  all  of  these  influences 
reach,  and  how  many  hearts  are  quick- 
ened by  the  impulse  going  out  from  one  of 
these  readers,  sitting  so  cozily  in  his  quiet 
study,  reading  the  old  story,  with  its  ever- 
living  gospel  ? 

And  how  many  old  fogies,  like  myself , 
for  instance,  do  you  suppose  there  are, 
who  re-read  The  Christmas  Carol  every 
December  ?  And  how  many  new  readers 
does  it  have  ? 

Scrooge's  ghost  alone  can  answer  that 
question,  also ;  but  I  am  at  least  certain  of 
this,  —  that  not  one  of  the  readers  puts 
down  the  book  without  a  little  additional 
sense  of  warmth  about  his  heart,  and 
without,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
meeting  all  his  neighbors  the  next  day 
with  a  little  more  geniality  in  his  voice 
and  smile,  than  if  he  had  n't  read  it. 

And  so  I  aver,  and  I  defy  any  one  to 
prove  to  the  contrary,  that  there  won't  be 
a  happier  ghost  wandering  up  and  down 
this  good  old  earth,  this  good  old  Christ- 
mas-time, than  the  ghost  of  Scrooge  — 
Scrooge,  I  say,  of  the  firm  of  Scrooge  & 
Marley! 

OUR  VENETIAN   LAMP 

IT  was  made  in  the  fashion  of  the  lamps 
of  Saint  Mark's,  a  flat  disk  of  bronze 
openwork  holding  a  cup  of  dull  red  glass 
for  olive  oil,  with  a  pineapple-shaped 
pendant  below,  all  hung  by  wrought 
bronze  chains.  When  we  looked  at  it 
first,  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  bring 
into  our  New  England  home  something 
of  the  dim  glory  of  the  old  cathedral, 
glowing  faintly,  like  the  inside  of  some 


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The  Contributors'  Club 


ancient  jewel,  with  the  clear  small  light 
of  its  sacred  lamps  just  breaking  its 
lasting  twilight.  Doubtless  we  thought, 
too,  of  the  impression  that  it  would  make 
upon  our  village,  which  has  newly  awak- 
ened to  a  sense  of  the  aesthetic.  There 
were  a  few  dollars  left  after  purchasing, 
in  a  little  shop  behind  the  cathedral,  the 
lace  doylies  which  have  lately  caused  so 
deep  a  sensation  among  our  neighbors, 
and  we  eagerly  purchased  the  bronze 
lamp.  Our  vote,  made  up  of  two  voices, 
is  almost  never  a  tie. 

It  was  a  curious  walk  that  we  took  to 
get  it,  along  the  side  of  green  canals,  over 
miniature  carved  bridges,  led  by  the 
undying  charm  of  Old  Venice:  not  the 
Venice  of  the  Grand  Canal,  overrun  by 
foreign  folk,  desecrated  by  steamboats, 
but  the  ancient  city,  whose  sequestered 
life  still  goes  on  in  her  piazzette  and  in 
tiny  shops  peeping  out  from  under  dark- 
browed  houses.  To  her  belong  white- 
haired  cobblers,  busily  tapping  in  their 
tiny  spaces  six  feet  by  five;  brown,  wrin- 
kled, ageless  dames  guarding  tiny  stores 
of  peaches,  cherries,  plums,  in  almost  im- 
perceptible markets..  It  seemed  to  us,  as 
we  bargained  for  the  lamp  in  a  dusky 
little  shop  all  agleam  with  bronze  and 
things  of  brass,  that  a  glimpse  of  it  would 
at  any  moment  summon  before  us  the 
beauty  of  fading  colors  and  fretted  out- 
lines in  this  city  of  the  sea. 

How  we  packed  it,  with  its  chains, 
the  curving,  bulky  pendant,  so  beautiful 
when  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  so  impos- 
sible in  a  trunk ;  how  it  wrinkled  our  gar- 
ments and  made  holes  in  them,  I  leave  to 
the  imagination  of  the  reader.  All  seemed 
of  small  account  when  we  saw  it  hang- 
ing in  our  hall,  where  it  lent,  we  thought, 
a  grace  of  other  worlds  and  earlier  days 
—  though  it  was  palpably  new  —  to  a 
rigid  American  stairway,  and  a  wall-pa- 
per a  bit  antique  without  being  therefore 
lovely.  It  gave  an  air  of  permanence  to 
the  place,  even  to  the  oaken  coat-hanger 
which  had  been  put  up  by  feminine  hands 
and  which  invariably  came  down  with 
the  coat.  What  though  our  fingers  were 


often  sticky  with  olive  oil,  as  we  dived 
vainly  with  a  pair  of  inadequate  tin 
pincers  for  the  floating  wicks  that  would 
not  float?  A  dimly  red,  religious  light 
pervaded  our  hall,  and,  if  we  tried  hard 
enough,  it  transported  us  to  Venice. 

The  dim  light  had  its  disadvantages, 
nor  did  it  always  lead  caller  or  hostess 
into  a  religious  mood.  Incoming  and  out- 
going guests  sometimes  collided,  and  it 
fostered  in  us  an  already  marked  tend- 
ency to  call  people  by  wrong  names. 
Sometimes  it  went  out  altogether,  and 
our  friends  stepped  from  our  lighted  sit- 
ting-room into  total  darkness,  kicked  our 
little  mahogany  table,  and  ran  into  the 
umbrella-stand.  The  climax  of  trouble, 
however,  came  in  the  insane  tendency 
developed  by  all  comers  t;o  run  into  our 
lamp.  No  June  bug  is  more  persistent  in 
bumping  into  electric-light  bulbs  than 
were  one  and  all  in  heading  for  our  sa- 
cred flame;  and  lard  oil  —  for  olive  oil 
had  been  pronounced  too  expensive,  and 
we  never  let  our  aesthetic  longings  betray 
us  into  rashness  in  our  village  —  dropped 
upon  more  than  one  head,  more  than  one 
hat.  The  clergyman  went  all  too  near, 
and  drops  of  oil  not  sacred  fell  upon  his 
head ;  an  editor  —  and  we  esteem  editors 
not  less  than  clergymen  —  bore  away 
unsightly  drippings  upon  a  silk  hat  too 
gallantly  waved;  young  girls  who  were 
calling  developed  unexpected  statures,  — 
we  could  have  sworn  when  it  was  hung 
that  our  lamp  swung  higher  than  any  hu- 
man head.  This  thing  of  bronze  seemed 
to  grow  sensitive,  vibrated  to  impassioned 
farewells,  and  spilled  over,  as  our  girl 
friends  sometimes  did.  Yet  we  toiled  over 
it  gladly,  —  though  wicks  floated  to  the 
bottom,  and  matches  broke  and  tumbled 
in,  and  the  silly  pincers  would  not  work. 
Our  maid,  possibly  because  she  was  a 
Scotch  Presbyterian,  sternly  refused  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  object,  ex- 
cept once  when  we  found  her  secretly 
engaged  with  it  in  the  kitchen :  she  had 
scoured  all  the  manufactured  look  of  age 
away  from  it  with  sapolio. 

Then  little  Tommy  came  to  spend  a 


The  Contributors'  Club 


853 


few  days  with  us.  I  can  see  him  now,  with 
his  golden  curls,  white  suit,  and  Roman 
silk  stockings,  as  he  stood  upon  the  stairs 
and  swung  the  pretty  lamp  and  laughed 
aloud.  A  new  stair  carpet  was  the  result. 
Tommy  went  away,  and  we  returned  to 
the  quiet  of  our  little  home,  and  to  our 
sacred  gloom,  which  was  now  partly  of 
the  mind.  We  had  grown  a  bit  nervous 
in  our  musings ;  our  low  questions,  — 
"Does  n't  it  fairly  make  you  see  the  green 
water  in  the  canals?"  or,  "Can't  you 
hear  the  gondolas  gliding  along  ?  "  —  were 
likely  to  be  interrupted  by  a  shriek:  "Is 
that  thing  spilling  over?" 

The  crowning  achievement  of  our 
Venetian  lamp  came  one  July  night  when 
we  were  awaiting  two  distinguished 
guests.  It  was  burning  softly,  enveloping 
our  whole  cottage  in  an  artistic  atmo- 
sphere, and  we  congratulated  ourselves, 
as  we  walked  up  and  down  in  fresh  white 
gowns,  on  how  greatly  our  distinguished 
guests  would  appreciate  it.  The  house 
was  spotless:  did  we  not  always  try  to 
keep  it  so  ?  But  was  an  added  touch  of 
polish  too  much  for  such  visitors  ? 

At  9.30  we  remembered  that  the  mat- 
tress for  the  cot  must  be  brought  down- 
stairs, our  house  —  alas  that  I  must  con- 
fess the  secrets  of  our  housekeeping!  — 
having,  in  reality,  room  for  but  one  distin- 
guished guest,  it  being  thus  necessary  for 
one  hostess  to  sleep  in  the  library.  The 
maid,  like  a  sensible  woman,  had  gone  to 
bed ;  had  she  been  awake  she  would  have 
saved  us  from  this,  as  from  many  another 
folly.  A  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  us,  for 
we  are  as  fertile  in  inventive  processes  as 
the  Swiss  Family  Robinson  or  Robinson 
Crusoe,  though  our  devices  do  not  always 
work  out  with  that  automatic  regularity 
to  the  advantage  of  the  planner.  The 
mattress,  neatly  curled,  should  roll  down- 
stairs. What  is  intelligence  for,  if  not  to 
save  trouble?  We  started  it;  it  leaped, 
sprang  like  a  sentient  thing,  turned  a 
somersault,  stood  upright,  flung  itself 
upon  the  lamp,  which,  as  if  touched  to 
life,  responded  to  the  challenge,  vital  en- 
ergy quivering  along  its  speaking  chains. 


And  now  ensued  a  mortal  combat,  to 
which  only  the  pen  of  a  Victor  Hugo  could 
do  justice.  It  was  such  a  fight  as  would 
have  occurred  if  his  memorable  runaway 
cannon  had  indeed  gone  overboard  into 
the  water  and  there  had  encountered  the 
octopus  of  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.  Tenta- 
cles leaped  out  from  the  lamp ;  the  mat- 
tress hit  back  with  all  the  power  of  its 
uncoiled  strength;  the  swinging  bronze 
bulb  responded  with  a  blow,  pouring  out 
—  alas,  no  dragon  of  fairy  story  could 
hurl  forth  from  its  throat  anything  worse 
than  lard  oil ! 

The  distinguished  guests  arrived  at 
this  moment  to  find  floor,  ceiling,  mat- 
tress, stairs,  bespattered  with  oil.  Vil- 
lainous wicks  from  that  villainous  recep- 
tacle were  lodged  upon  our  best  umbrel- 
las, and  even  upon  the  backs  of  our  necks, 
and  greasy  fragments  of  red  glass  were 
flung  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  dining- 
room  floor  and  out  upon  the  walk. 

It  was  after  the  distinguished  guests 
were  gone,  after  the  kalsominers  and  the 
carpet-man  had  finished,  that  we  took  our 
Venetian  lamp  and  a  gardening  trowel 
and  went  to  the  far  corner  of  our  green 
yard,  where  already  many  precious  things 
lie  buried.  There  we  dug  a  hole.  There 
the  Venetian  lamp  lies  buried,  by  Fluff, 
who  died  in  the  prime  of  cathood,  by  her 
two  kittens,  who  perished  at  five  days  old, 
by  the  baby  bluebird  that  Rex  caught, 
and  by  the  squirrel,  brought  home  from  a 
snowbank,  wounded  to  the  death,  to  fade 
away  upon  our  hands.  Some  future  in- 
vestigator, thousands  of  years  hence,  may 
dig  it  up,  and  exclaim  over  the  beauty  of 
taste  of  the  aborigines.  Perhaps  he  can 
afford  aesthetic  sensations;  we  cannot. 

SOMETHING    SAVED 

ALTHOUGH  I  am  not  so  very  old,  not 
yet  forty,  I  am  quite  old  enough  to  have 
been  ineffaceably  impressed  with  the 
transitoriness  of  things.  The  thick  woods 
through  which  as  a  child  I  straggled 
home  from  school,  browsing  on  young 


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The  Contributors1  Club 


beech-leaves,  ground-nuts,  and  crinkle- 
root,  are  now  but  a  ragged  fringe  of  shab- 
by trees.  The  great  beeches  at  whose  feet 
I  was  sure  of  finding  the  earliest  hepaticas 
were  long  ago  reduced  to  ashes,  and  the 
hepaticas,  lacking  their  shelter,  have  died 
out.  Even  the  hardy  little  spring  beauties 
have  become  homeless  wanderers,  fleeing 
across  the  road  to  the  farther  fence  cor- 
ner, and  camping  there  in  bewilderment, 
with  little  chance  of  reaching  the  as  yet 
unmarred  belt  of  woodland  across  the  un- 
protected pasture.  It  is  not  merely  the 
shifted  point  of  view  of  maturity  that 
makes  the  brook  where  we  fished  more 
shallow  and  the  hill  where  we  coasted  less 
high  and  steep.  The  great  apple  trees, 
nine  feet  in  girth,  from  which  the  swing 
and  hammocks  hung,  are  gone,  never  to 
be  replaced.  The  buckboard  which  bore 
us  so  buoyantly  over  miles  and  miles  of 
country  road  went  to  the  junk-heap  long 
ago,  and  the  little  Morgan  mare  who 
pulled  it  is  dead. 

Already  is  apparent  the  first  threat  of 
the  abandonment  of  the  old  home,  a 
change  to  which  all  the  other  changes  are 
as  slight  shadows  to  the  falling  of  night 
itself. 

I  have  seen  this  happen  to  many  of 
my  friends.  I  know  the  tragedy  of  it 
to  the  core  —  the  inevitable  sacrifice  of 
the  precious,  worthless  Things.  Rubbish- 
heap,  fire,  corner  auction,  unappreciative 
friends,  moth-  and  mouse-infested  stor- 
age, — the  last  but  an  ineffectual  delay,  — 
these  are  the  destinies  of  the  Things  that 
we  have  lived  with.  Perishable  and  trans- 
itory even  while  they  had  our  familiar 
care,  they  become  positively  evanescent 
when  deprived  of  it.  And  with  them,  I 
cannot  but  feel,  goes  some  outlying  por- 
tion of  myself.  /  have  not  changed.  The 
subjective  part  of  my  childhood  is  still  in- 
tact in  my  soul.  I  could  re-live  it  to-mor- 
row if  I  had  the  Things  to  do  it  with.  But 
Things  are  not  as  indestructible  as  souls. 
I  have  heard  people  complain  that  their 
friends  "changed,"  but  I  have  not  found 
it  so,  even  in  the  "great  change  "  of  death. 
Personalities  are  stable  and  immutable  in 


comparison  with  Things.  I  have  little 
sympathy  with  Pierre  Loti  when  he 
makes  pathos  of  Jean's  little  ribboned 
hat  existing  after  the  death  of  the  stalwart 
young  soldier.  It  is  when  the  little  relic 
fades  and  moulders  before  the  eyes  of  the 
lonely  old  mother  that  its  pathos  enters, 
as  it  always  does,  with  the  perishability 
of  Things. 

So  strongly  have  I  felt  this  that  when  I 
read,  a  few  weeks  ago,  that  the  old  Nutter 
House  at  Portsmouth  was  being  restored 
to  the  precise  condition  and  appearance 
which  it  possessed  in  "Tom  Bailey's" 
childhood,  I  experienced  a  thrill  of  joy 
and  triumph  quite  disproportionate  to 
any  obvious  personal  interest  in  the 
matter.  Truly,  now,  the  old  house  will 
"prove  a  tough  nut  for  the  destructive 
gentleman  with  the  scythe  and  hour- 
glass," and  the  seaward  gable  may  well 
defy  the  east  wind  for  generations  to 
come. 

I  shall  never,  in  all  likelihood,  have  a 
chance  to  visit  it,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well. 
Very  likely  the  rehabilitation  is  more 
complete  in  my  fancy  than  it  is  in  fact.  It 
is  hardly  likely  that  the  six  black-silk  eye- 
patches,  with  their  elastic  strings,  "still 
dangle  from  a  beam  in  the  attic,"  waiting 
for  Tom  Bailey  to  get  into  difficulties 
again ;  and  the  most  scrupulous  and  de- 
voted Memorial  Association  could  not  put 
Gypsy  back  in  her  old  stall.  But  when 
I  read  that  all  is  "restored  in  accord- 
ance with  Aldrich's  own  descriptions," 
it  is  so  I  see  it.  Nor  that  only,  for  the  ill- 
starred  little  Dolphin  rocks  beside  the 
mouldering  wharf,  and  Sailor  Ben's  ship- 
shape sky-blue  cottage  with  its  painted 
portholes  is  as  real  as  the  stage  —  specifi- 
cally mentioned  as  extant  to-day  —  upon 
which  Pepper  Whitcomb  played  so  disas- 
trously the  part  of  the  young  Tell. 

It  was  in  a  battered  old  volume  of  Our 
Young  Folks  that  I  met  Tom  Bailey, 
when  we  were  both  too  young  to  have  de- 
tected any  differing  validity  in  literature 
and  life.  My  name  was  n't  "Wiggins  or 
Spriggins,"  and  we  did  in  very  truth 
"get  on  famously  together"  and  become 


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855 


" capital  friends  forever."  None  of  the 
boys  ever  minded  my  being  a  girl.  Like  a 
certain  little  flesh-and-blood  playmate, 
they  voted  me  "as  good  as  a  boy,"  and 
even  Gypsy  relaxed  in  my  favor  her  dis- 
crimination against  the  sex. 

Those  were  great  days,  in  spite  of  the 
awful  Sundays  at  the  Nutter  House  and 
Conway's  threatening  presence  at  the 
Temple  Grammar  School.  Shall  I  ever 
forget  the  night  we  burned  the  old  stage- 
coach, and  the  snow  fights  on  Slatter's 
Hill  ?  Certainly  not  while  I  can  think  that 
the  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight  crim- 
son-spotted yellow  birds,  "not  counting 
those  split  in  two  where  the  paper  was 
badly  joined,"  are  still  ready  to  take 
flight  in  a  little  boy's  dreams  from  the 
walls  of  the  hall  room  over  the  front 
door. 

No,  I  would  not  choose  to  visit  the 
Aldrich  Memorial  if  I  could;  I  should 
surely  look  for  Kitty  Collins  in  the  kitch- 
en, and  expect  Miss  Abigail  to  descend 
the  old  staircase  and  offer  me  a  dose  of 
hotdrops.  But  there  were  happy  tears  in 
my  eyes  when  I  learned  what  the  Me- 
morial Association  had  decided  upon. 
Here  is  one  old  home  which  will  not  be 
dismantled,  here  at  last  are  Things  which 
will  be  held  from  passing,  Things  that 
give  me  back  a  bit  of  my  childhood  and 
the  playmate  who  shared  it. 

ON  BEING   A   SCAPEGOAT 

THE  plea  for  the  black  sheep,  in  a 
recent  Atlantic,  has,  by  a  not  unnatural 
sequence  of  suggestion,  emboldened  me 
to  enter  a  plea  for  the  scapegoat.  The 
most  anomalous  of  creatures,  the  scape- 
goat is  the  prey  of  those  who  care  most 
for  it ;  it  is  the  paradox  of  natural  history, 
the  most  beloved  yet  the  most  persecuted 
of  domestic  pets. 

According  to  Old  Testament  history, 
upon  the  scapegoat  were  laid  the  sins  of 
the  people,  and  then  the  animal  was  al- 
lowed to  escape  into  the  wilderness.  The 
scapegoat  of  to-day  differs  slightly  from 
the  historical  one,  for  the  burden  borne 


is  not  quite  the  same  and,  most  tragic 
fact,  there  is  no  final  escape  into  the  wil- 
derness. She  (note  the  feminine)  finds 
iaid  upon  herself  not  the  sins  so  much  as 
the  blame  for  the  sins  of  the  people;  she 
is  not  regarded  as  guilty,  but  she  is  made 
to  suffer  for  the  ill-doing  of  others  simply 
because  she  is  the  very  incarnation  of  vir- 
tue. The  connection  will  not  seem  ob- 
scure, I  trust,  if  I  remark  here  that  I  am 
a  scapegoat.  Because  I  can  listen  with 
decent  attention  to  another  person's  mon- 
ologues, I  am  obliged  to  hear  the  denun- 
ciations that  rightfully  belong  to  others, 
who  have  erred  in  greater  or  less  degree. 
Since  I  can  understand  the  entire  deplor- 
able significance  of  certain  misdemean- 
ors, mistakes,  or  even  crimes,  I  am  sub- 
jected to  scoldings,  while  the  real  offender 
goes  free,  gloriously  free  from  the  torrents 
of  complaint  that  fall  upon  my  innocent 
head. 

If  these  things  happened  in  my  own 
home,  I  could  protect  myself;  but,  alas, 
they  happen  when  I  am  visiting  and  can- 
not cut  short  the  lamentations  of  my 
hostess.  By  nature  I  love  peace  and  quiet, 
I  covet  approbation,  I  do  not  enjoy  the 
language  of  rebuke,  yet  my  invariable 
summer  experience  is  one  of  castigation.  I 
am  still  writhing  under  the  flagellation  I 
received  from  my  great-aunt  because  Mrs. 
White  did  not,  upon  her  hands  and  knees, 
scrub  the  kitchen  floor.  Anathemas  be- 
yond description  were  uttered  to  me,  with 
such  thoroughness  that,  in  order  to  have 
escaped  them,  I  would  gladly  have  done 
the  scrubbing  myself,  and  given  my  aunt 
an  unequaled  floral  offering. 

Last  year  I  visited  my  cousin.  I  was 
barely  inside  the  house  when  she  took  me 
to  the  pillory,  where  I  heard  all  about  her 
husband's  growing  indifference  to  her 
wishes,  about  her  son's  idleness,  her 
daughter's  extravagance,  the  extortionate 
charges  of  the  dressmaker,  and  the  inso- 
lent incompetence  of  Bridget.  One  of  the 
punishments  of  non-conformists  was  to 
have  their  ears  cut  off.  Oh,  that  I  were  an 
early  Puritan !  The  next  day,  my  cousin's 
husband  confided  to  me,  with  copious 


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groanings  of  spirit,  the  fact  that  his  wife 
is  growing  more  and  more  querulous.  I 
dread  the  day  when  the  children  find 
their  tongues. 

Then  there  was  the  drought  this  sum- 
mer. Surely  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  yet  every  man  and  woman  who 
spoke  of  it  to  me  uttered  a  most  violent 
arraignment  which  would  have  been 
much  better  suited  to  the  crops  that  need- 
ed it. 

At  home  we  have  a  neighbor,  an  at- 
tractive mother  of  children.  She  has  the 
ruling  voice  in  family  affairs,  and  this 
supremacy  has  induced  her  to  take  sing- 
ing lessons.  Her  hour  for  practice  is  after 
ten  at  night.  The  other  neighbors  do  not 
sing,  but  they  are  vociferous  in  their  com- 
plaints. To  me  they  confide  their  wrath 
about  this  nocturnal  music,  in  exasper- 
ated, abusive  language,  so  my  sufferings 
are  more  than  trebled.  Not  one  of  these 
fault-finders  will  defy  the  lady's  practices 
to  her  face ;  they  prefer  to  make  the  scape- 
goat hear  their  condemnations  of  selfish, 
thoughtless,  noisy  citizens. 

So  it  is,  day  after  day.  From  the  ravages 
of  little  Benny  in  our  neighbor's  rasp- 
berry patch  to  the  shocking  decadence 
of  the  latest  novel,  the  sins  of  society  are 
denounced  in  my  presence,  while  I,  a  very 
craven,  sit  still.  I  have  thought  of  many 
methods  of  saving  myself.  I  could  turn 
and  rend  my  oppressor  by  summoning  a 
richly- varied  vocabulary  of  vituperation ; 
I  could  invent  a  mechanical  scapegoat 
which  would  have  an  engaging  air  of 
sympathy;  I  could  teach  a  phonograph 
how  to  scold  in  the  most  ideally  drastic 
manner,  and  rent  it  at  so  much  an  hour 
with  a  cylinder  of  maledictions  for  each 
one  of  the  most  notable  iniquities :  abuse 
of  a  person  guilty  of  discourtesy  on  a 
street-car;  complaint  about  a  deceiving 
dressmaker ;  censure  for  a  dull  preacher ; 
invective  against  corrupt  politicians; 
thoroughgoing  denunciation  of  the 
younger  generation. 

Best  of  my  schemes  is,  I  think,  some- 
thing that  has  been  dimly  becoming  clear 
to  me  during  hours  of  gloom.  It  is  a  plan. 


in  this  era  of  great  philanthropies,  to 
found  a  new  society,  one  which  will  devote 
itself  to  a  service  never  before  attempted 
in  the  history  of  civilization.  This  society 
shall  be  called  "  A  Society  for  Visiting 
the  Sins  of  Sinners  upon  the  Sinners 
Themselves." 

THE  LITTLE  CHURCH  OF  THOSE 
THAT  STUMBLE  AND  RISE 

THERE  is  a  church  loved  by  its  mem- 
bers with  a  passion  transcending  all  other 
affection  which  humanity  may  show 
toward  the  creeds  which  it  professes.  For 
this  church  is  the  only  one  above  all 
creeds.  Its  religion  is  as  universal  and  as 
intimate  as  the  heart  of  man  itself.  Its 
animating  spirit  is  too  profound  and 
cloistered  too  deeply  within  the  con- 
sciousness of  its  communicants  for  them 
to  rear  temples  to  it  in  the  light  of  com- 
mon day.  Its  delicate,  emulous  spires  are 
builded  within  the  streets  of  the  Forbid- 
den City,  the  city  of  the  soul.  To  most 
it  is  too  shy  a  spiritual  habitation  ever  to 
be  named ;  but  to  some,  who  more  plainly 
hear  the  silent  cry  of  the  human  heart,  it 
is  known  as  The  Little  Church  of  those 
that  Stumble  and  Rise. 

It  is  at  once  the  most  catholic  and  the 
most  vigorous  of  all  faiths.  In  it  believer 
and  unbeliever  bear  an  equal  yoke.  Its 
charity  is  so  broad  that  it  never  bars  its 
holy  bread  and  wine  from  one  who  has 
once  tasted  of  them.  At  the  same  time  no 
other  order  lays  so  strait  an  exactment 
upon  its  professors.  For,  as  its  ideals  are 
self-imposed,  so  no  contrition  under  other 
laws  can  be  so  poignant  as  the  agony  of 
him  who  knows  that  he  has  broken  its 
faith. 

Unlike  the  case  with  special  denomina- 
tions, no  man  can  ever  say  just  when  he 
becomes  a  member  of  this  nebulous 
church.  Nor  can  he  at  any  time  through- 
out life  be  confident  of  his  membership 
therein.  It  is  only  at  the  end  of  life  that 
one  may  be  able  to  say  with  Paul,  "I  have 
fought  the  good  fight,  I  have  kept  the 
faith."  Its  members'  hearts  are  bruised 


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with  repeated  failures,  and  they  have 
learned  past  forgetting  the  bitter  lesson 
of  their  own  uncertainty  of  strength. 

But  if  he  may  not  say  till  the  end  of  life 
that  he  has  "kept  the  faith,"  still  no  one 
of  these  utterly  abandons  hope  before 
the  end  of  life.  The  basal  animus  of  the 
little  nameless  church  is  the  unquench- 
able resolve  to  arise  from  each  stumble 
and  press  on.  This  is  the  heroic  aspect 
of  humanity.  Only  in  this  attempt  to 
reunite  with  the  divine  does  the  pitiable 
race  of  man  show  a  divine  attribute. 

The  greatest  names  among  its  mem- 
bers are  those  of  the  world's  greatest  sin- 
ners. Paul,  the  man  of  the  world  who 
fought  his  passions  to  the  end,  Peter,  who 
repeatedly  gave  way  to  weakness ;  Wilde, 
Verlaine,  and  Dowson,  who  "were  faith- 
ful in  their  fashion; "  Webster,  who  fell, 
like  Wolsey,  from  great  honors;  Renan 
and  Ingersoll,  who  toiled  in  search  of 
truth  like  soldiers  detached  from  their 
commands  and  stumbling  down  darken- 
ing roads,  Beecher,  the  maligned,  Heine, 
the  apostate  Jew,  —  all  these  are  on  its 
thrilling  roll,  together  with  the  names  of 
those  pure  and  saintly  women  who  have 
been  too  humble  and  contrite  in  heart  to 
guess  their  own  spiritual  beauty.  The 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  serv- 
ant of  this  faith  is  his  sympathy  for  the 
sinning,  knowing  himself  to  be  no  strong- 
er, and  his  prayer  is  that  of  the  publican, 
—  "God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner." 

The  rewards  of  service  in  The  Little 
Church  of  those  that  Stumble  and  Rise 
are  as  secret  as  the  mental  growth  which 
brings  them.  In  reality  they  are  nothing 
other  than  this  growth  itself.  The  hidden 
structure  of  character,  built  up  day  by 
day,  of  little  acts,  unexpressed  longings, 
inexpressible  yearnings,  may  in  one  mo- 
ment be  shattered  and  dashed  to  the 
ground;  only  its  foundation  remains,  the 
dumb  but  unshakable  grappling  of  the 
soul  to  the  hand  which  heaven  holds  out 
to  it.  What  reward  is  this,  that  one  is 
given  continually  "  to  strive,  but  never  to 
arrive"?  It  is  that  strange  wage  which 
the  weary  hospital  nurse  seeks  who  pins 


upon  the  wall  of  her  little  room  the  sen- 
tence, "Give  me  the  wages  of  going  on 
and  not  to  die."  It  is  that  strange  wage, 
sublime  in  its  utter  disassociation  from 
all  earthly  standards  of  reward,  which  the 
broken  spirit  finds  in  its  painful,  faltering 
progress  toward  the  goal  itself  has  set. 
Earth  has  nothing  of  its  own  to  which 
these  seemingly  empty  rewards  are  com- 
parable, and  nothing  so  beautiful  as  the 
hidden  faith  which  drives  its  possessor 
persistently  to  desire  them. 

We  have  spoken  of  this  church  as  one 
whose  membership  includes  all  human- 
ity; in  this  sense  it  is  indeed  great;  but  in 
its  more  intimate  aspect  it  is  always  a 
"little"  church,  for  no  man  knoweth,  or 
can  know,  that  any  beside  him  is  worship- 
ing at  its  secret  shrine.  Only  in  rare  in- 
stances does  the  stuff  of  souls,  transcend- 
ing speech,  pass  silently  from  one  to 
another,  proclaiming  that  another  breaks 
the  sacramental  bread  and  drinks  the 
ghostly  wine  of  The  Little  Church  of 
those  that  Stumble  and  Rise. 

THE    EMANCIPATION    OF    THE 
MIDDLE-AGED 

THERE  is  one  kind  of  emancipation 
that  is  never  very  jubilantly  received.  Yet 
it  is  emancipation  of  a  peculiarly  com- 
fortable quality.  No  woman  ever  remem- 
bers the  exact  date  when  the  order  for  re- 
lease arrived,  but  some  day  she  knows 
with  sudden  thankfulness  that  she  is  free. 
She  goes  shopping  one  morning  and  sees 
a  joyous  bevy  of  attractive  young  persons 
obviously  absorbed  in  filling  the  role  of 
pretty  girl.  And  she  sighs  with  relief 
and  blesses  the  years  that  have  begun  to 
crowd  rather  thickly  around  her  fireside. 
They  bring  such  blessed  immunity. 

For  the  pretty  girls,  and  all  the  faithful 
endeavorers  to  be  pretty,  are  anxiously 
adjusting  and  readjusting  their  furs  every 
other  minute ;  and  all  the  minutes  between 
are  spent  in  delicately  drawing  their  veils 
a  fraction  of  an  inch  lower,  or  patting 
away  a  wrinkle  or  two  from  the  collars  of 
their  blouses,  or  putting  their  shoulders 


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forward  or  backward  as  the  case  may  be, 
that  their  coats  may  hang  faultlessly  and 
express  a  drooping  elegance  or  a  buoyant 
litheness.  The  very  backs  of  their  heads, 
the  swing  of  their  skirts,  the  angle  —  or 
curve  —  of  then*  elbows,  the  click  of  their 
heels,  betray  a  consciousness  of  their  re- 
sponsibilities, a  consuming  anxiety  lest  a 
hairpin  or  a  skirt-fold  or  a  shoe-lace  may 
be  behaving  lawlessly.  And  if  this,  thing 
should  come  to  pass,  it  would  be  a  cata- 
clysmic calamity.  No  less !  For  some  one 
might  notice  the  fatal  misadjustment. 
Some  one?  Nay,  every  one!  The  very 
shop  windows  would  mock  and  torture 
with  inquisitorial  gaze.  (We  believe  this 
with  searing  conviction  when  we  are 
young.) 

The  older  woman  remembers  it  all,  — 
how  well !  Until  that  day  which  she  can 
never  remember,  when  Time  set  her  free 
without  saying  anything  about  it  till  after- 
ward, she,  too,  had  been  bond-slave  to  the 


duty  of  being  pretty.  But  these  tense  days 
be  overpast  forever.  A  tranquil  incon- 
spicuousness  Time  hath  vouchsafed  her. 
Oh,  the  peace  of  knowing  that  a  cinder 
may  light  upon  her  cheek  —  even  upon 
her  nose  —  without  blighting  her  entire 
future;  that  if  her  most  cherished  tailor 
skirt  is  splashed  with  mud,  this  is  not  a 
blot  on  the  family  escutcheon,  and  that 
even  the  occasional  wearing  of  goloshes 
does  not  necessarily  mean  that  she  must 
dwell  in  Coventry  henceforward. 

And  when  she  reaches  that  state  which 
is  even  more  loftily  calm,  that  high  phi- 
losophy which  teaches  her  to  recover  her 
balance  after  slipping  on  a  muddy  cross- 
ing without  immediately  losing  it  again  at 
the  unmistakable  sound  of  a  titter  —  then 
that  serene  woman-spirit  may  be  said  to 
have  attained  Nirvana,  and  thereafter 
even  the  most  scathing  allusions  to  the 
grapes  that  are  sour  cannot  disturb  her 
invincible  content. 


AP 
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